{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_37930/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_37930","id":"gutenberg_37930","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37930","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Roby, John, 1793-1850"],"text":"Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Judith Wirawan, Linda Cantoni\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: JOHN ROBY.\n\n_From a Daguerreotype by Beard._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nLEGENDARY AND POETICAL REMAINS\n\nOF\n\nJOHN ROBY,\n\nAUTHOR OF \"TRADITIONS OF LANCASHIRE.\"\n\n\nWITH\n\nA SKETCH OF HIS LITERARY LIFE AND CHARACTER.\n\nBY HIS WIDOW.\n\n\nLONDON:\n\nLONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS.\n\n1854.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe poetry and tales constituting the main part of the present volume,\nneed no apology or introduction. Most of them were finished for\npublication by the author.[A]\n\nBut in reference to the biographical sketch which precedes them, a few\nwords will not be out of place.\n\nA life so private afforded but few materials. Incidents of early days,\ntending to illustrate the bent and development of his powers, are\nderived from memoranda in Mr. Roby's own handwriting, or from\nwell-remembered conversations. The absence of that unconscious\nself-portraiture, which a man's own letters present, will be found\nsupplied, to some extent, by short reminiscences, kindly furnished by\nfriends. The memoir is not offered as a complete biography. It is simply\nan outline of a literary life, and of a character; the one as varied in\nits aspect, as the other was uniform in its tenor. That part of the life\nwhich fell under the writer's own observation, has of necessity been\ndwelt on most at length, and she fears lest too much prominence may at\ntimes have been given to what is personal to herself, and the double\nlife be thus too strongly shown. Yet the shadow that brings out the\nprincipal object will scarcely be censured. No one can feel so deeply as\nherself the inadequacy of her talents to the subject. To one\nqualification alone she may lay claim, without fear of the charge of\npresumption, \"that of the seeing heart,\" without which it has been truly\nsaid, \"no _true_ seeing for the head is so much as possible.\"\n\nThe writer will esteem herself happy if, with all the imperfections of\ndetail, she shall, in a measure, have succeeded in her aim. That aim has\nbeen to gather up, with a loving reverence, the scattered products of\nher husband's pen, by which the reader may estimate his powers, and to\npresent a faithful mental portrait of one, with whom the pursuit of\nliterature was no bar to the discharge of ordinary duties, and whose\ngifts were the Lares and Penates of his own fireside,--one who, as time\nadvanced, learned the secret of self-renunciation and spiritual\nobedience, and having \"left this life for a better,\" still, lives \"in\nmemory here,\" as a man of genius and a Christian.\n\n December, 1853. E. R. R.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n Page\n BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF JOHN ROBY 1\n\n MUSIC.\n AIR FROM A MODERN CONCERTO 121\n SHEW PITY, LORD 122\n\n LYRICS.\n LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF FRIENDS FROM ENGLAND 127\n PREFACE TO A LADY'S ALBUM 129\n TO ---- 132\n STANZAS 133\n STANZAS FOR MUSIC 134\n THE FAIRIES' SONG 136\n STANZAS FOR MUSIC 137\n STANZAS FOR MUSIC 138\n STANZAS FOR MUSIC 139\n STANZAS 140\n SONG 141\n THE FRIEND 143\n LINES TO A LADY WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD NEVER SEEN 145\n THE BIRCH 147\n ASTROLOGY 148\n THE FIRST REVELATION 149\n AN EVENING HYMN 151\n\n THE DUKE OF MANTUA: A Tragedy 153\n\n LEGENDS.\n MOTHER RED CAP; OR, THE ROSICRUCIANS 247\n THE DEATH PAINTER; OR, SKELETON'S BRIDE 305\n THE CRYSTAL GOBLET, a Tale of the Emperor Severus 339\n\n APPENDIX 375\n\n\n\n\n WEEP NO MORE, WOFUL SHEPHERDS, WEEP NO MORE,\n FOR LYCIDAS YOUR SORROW IS NOT DEAD,\n SUNK THOUGH HE BE BENEATH THE WATERY FLOOR;\n SO SINKS THE DAY-STAR IN THE OCEAN BED,\n AND YET ANON REPAIRS HIS DROOPING HEAD,\n AND TRICKS HIS BEAMS, AND WITH NEW-SPANGLED ORE\n FLAMES IN THE FOREHEAD OF THE MORNING SKY;\n SO LYCIDAS SUNK LOW, BUT MOUNTED HIGH,\n THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT OF HIM THAT WALK'D THE WAVES,\n WHERE OTHER GROVES, AND OTHER STREAMS ALONG,\n WITH NECTAR PURE HIS OOZY LOCKS HE LAVES,\n AND HEARS THE UNEXPRESSIVE NUPTIAL SONG,\n IN THE BLEST KINGDOMS MEEK OF JOY AND LOVE.\n THERE ENTERTAIN HIM ALL THE SAINTS ABOVE,\n IN SOLEMN TROOPS AND SWEET SOCIETIES,\n THAT SING, AND SINGING IN THEIR GLORY MOVE,\n AND WIPE THE TEARS FOR EVER FROM HIS EYES.\n\n MILTON.\n\n\n\n\nSKETCH\n\nOF\n\nTHE LITERARY LIFE AND CHARACTER\n\nOF\n\nJOHN ROBY.\n\n\nWhen an author's name is chiefly known by a work connected with any\nparticular locality, our natural expectations are gratified in finding\nthat personal or family associations drew his attention to the subject.\nThis was the case with the author of \"The Traditions of Lancashire.\"\nBorn in a neighbourhood where the faint legends of the olden time were\nyet floating, he himself belonged to the district whose memorials he\nperpetuated. He was attached to his native county, proud of her wild\nscenery, of her old historic associations, and of the energetic,\nwell-defined character of her sons. His family name was not unknown in\nher annals. One of his ancestors, Captain Roby, who was born in an old\nmansion, long since pulled down, in the township of Roby, near\nLiverpool, was distinguished by his courage and gallant conduct during\nthe civil wars of the seventeenth century, at the time when the north\nwas the scene of operations.\n\nJOHN ROBY was born at Wigan, the 5th of January 1793. From his father,\nNEHEMIAH ROBY, who was for many years master of the grammar-school at\nHaigh, he inherited a fine constitution and unbending principles of\nhonour and integrity. From the family of his mother, MARY ASPULL, he\nderived the quick impressible temperament of genius and that love of\nhumour which so conspicuously marks the Lancashire character.\n\nDestitute of home companions of his own age, being by many years the\nyoungest of the family, he often suffered from an oppressive sense of\nloneliness. One of his strongest characteristics was an intense yearning\nfor sympathy, however concealed in after-life, from the general eye, by\nthe exuberance of his natural spirits. This led him to seek\ncompanionship with inanimate things, which he invested with a\nsympathetic existence. A reflected light proceeding from the surface of\nwater in a butt at the back of the house, which frequently played on the\nupper wall of the staircase, was one of these friendly objects. Ignorant\nof the cause, he would watch for its coming, and sit for hours in\ncommunion with the strange and beautiful appearance. It was to him a\nfair and mysterious visitant, who came in pure benevolence to cheer his\nsolitude. Indicative of the dramatic bent of his mind was another of his\nresources. He was accustomed to cut out little paper figures of men and\nwomen, which he would carry to bed and place under his pillow. As soon\nas the light was withdrawn he delighted himself in conversations with\nhis paper friends, losing his sense of loneliness in their ideal\ncompanionship.\n\nAnother thing contributed to deepen his unsatisfied longing for\nsympathy. His father revered the sterner virtues, and sacrificed to them\nwhatever he apprehended might tend to enervate his son's character. In\nconformity with this theory of training, even the maternal kiss was\nforbidden. Only once did he remember feeling the soft pressure of his\nmother's lips on his cheek, though frequently and fervently did he long\nto feel it again. In after-life, even down to its close, when rejoicing\nin the sunshine of confiding and playful affection, he would refer with\ntears in his eyes to the lonely and unfondled years of childhood. For\nthe sake of both, deeply was it to be regretted, that a mother's love of\nher latest born, one of the strongest of human affections, should be\ndenied its natural expression, repressed as a duty, till it was subdued\nand its very existence scarcely suspected.\n\nHis thirst for knowledge was early and strongly manifested. If his\ninquiries were neglected or evaded, he would insist on an intelligible\nreply. Having been once told, not to be so inquisitive, \"'Inquisitive'\nwants to know\" was ever after his form of urgent appeal. Characteristic\nof this disposition was an incident which occurred when he was a child\nin petticoats. One fine afternoon 'Inquisitive' was seated in a low\nchair by his mother's side, conning his lesson. He loved not a task from\nwhich he gained no idea; the spelling of _t-h-e_, _the_, _f-o-r_,\n_for_, was wearisome, and, as an expedient to rid himself of it, he\nfeigned sleep: his father entering the room remarked, \"John is asleep:\nthis warm afternoon has made him drowsy.\" The mother knew the pranks of\nchildhood, and quietly replied, \"He is only sleeping dog's sleep.\" There\nwas a new idea: up started the little head in a moment with the inquiry,\n\"What is dog's sleep, mother?\" Even at that early age, when a question\nsuggested itself, he could not rest till he had arrived at a\nsatisfactory answer; often and long would he ponder over some little\nthing that puzzled him, and on which he could gain no information from\nothers beyond the unsatisfactory reply \"Why, _so it is_.\"\n\nAs he grew up into boyhood surrounded by objects to which tradition had\nassigned her marvellous stories, they sank silently into his\ncompanionless and sensitive spirit. In his immediate vicinity were Haigh\nHall, and Mab's Cross, the scenes of Lady Mabel's sufferings and\npenance--the subject of one of his earliest tales. Almost within sight\nof the windows through which, with the dreamy gaze of childhood, he\nfirst looked on earth and sky, lay the fine range of hills of which\nRivington Pike is a spur. Never will be forgotten the pleasure with\nwhich, fifty years afterwards, during the last summer of his life, when\ntravelling past that neighbourhood, he pointed out the roof and chimneys\nof his birthplace, the well-remembered hills as they lay with the\nbeautiful light of the afternoon sun upon them, Hoghton Tower crowning\nits woody steep, and other spots at once the haunts of early days and\nthe scenes of the legends he afterwards so beautifully re-imbodied.\n\nHis various talents were very early called forth. While yet a child he\nwas accustomed, at first occasionally, and then regularly, to take the\norgan at the Countess of Huntingdon's Chapel, Wigan, during the Sunday\nservice. His ear was exquisitely true, and his voice also excellent;\nbut, used too freely at the period of its change, it never afterwards\nfully regained its tone.\n\nHis first attempt at drawing was made when he was a very little fellow.\nA lady with whom he was a special favourite--Miss Leigh, sister of the\nlate Sir Robert Holt Leigh--had one day, to his great delight, been\nshowing him some sketches, when, after he had looked at them, she placed\nthe drawing of a cow before him, saying,\n\n\"Now cannot you draw that cow?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I never did such a thing,\" was his reply;\n\n\"Try,\" her wise rejoinder.\n\nWith some persuasion the volatile child was induced to attempt the task.\nThe pencil was poised--his attention concentrated on the subject--his\nhand began to follow the eye, and with oft-repeated delight he beheld\nthe form grow rapidly under his touch; so that whether his teacher or\nhimself was the more pleased, it would be difficult to say. This was a\nprecious lesson to him, which he did not forget. It was so firmly\nrooted, that, in after-life, he never doubted success in anything he\nthought proper to attempt. Years after, in 1849, when writing to a\nfriend whom he wished to encourage to mental effort, he referred to this\ntime, when the little word \"Try\" was the \"Open Sesame\" of the \"Arabian\nNights\" to him.\n\nHe cared little for ordinary companions, never so happy as when he could\nsteal away from them, into the company of such of the other sex as were\nmuch older than himself, and listen for hours to song and music. He\nalways considered he was more indebted for the formation of his habits\nand the development of his character and talents, as in the instance\nabove, to woman's discriminating encouragement, than to anything else;\nand, for weal or for woe, hers was an influence to which he was ever\npeculiarly sensitive.\n\nThe education he received appears to have been rather desultory. The dry\nand spiritless mode of conveying instruction in those days had neither\nattractions for his taste, nor power over his mind. As he advanced into\nyouth, and \"macadamised his own road,\" various branches of the natural\nsciences, history, antiquities, and the fine arts, nearly absorbed his\nattention. A course of mathematical study would probably have been the\nbest discipline for him at this time, as a balance to the spontaneous\ndevelopment of his imagination. He afterwards pursued it with great\nenjoyment, though to no considerable extent; and, late in life, he\nproposed a resumption of the study to the companion of his\npursuits--one of the many plans so suddenly and so mournfully cut short.\n\nWhen he entered on life, and the duties of his profession, that of a\nbanker, early left him master of many leisure hours, the use of the\npencil was a favourite recreation. His artistic perceptions must have\nbeen very early developed. He was acquainted with a gentleman a\nprofessed virtuoso, and a collector of those fine old drawings and\nsketches which are the first rough thoughts of the painter, or the\nplayful offspring of his lighter moments. In an unpublished MS. he thus\ndescribes in the third person his own first introduction to the beauties\nof the old masters:--\n\n\"A new faculty seemed dawning upon him. He felt their glorious power\nexalting, refining, the sense by the wondrous potency of art; rendering\nthe forms and hues seen by the imagination visible to the bodily as to\nthe mental eye; and expressing in a tangible shape what had before\nexisted only in the hidden recesses of the soul. He saw for the first\ntime a few of the random sketches, the first bright thoughts of these\ngreat men, struck out like sparks from the glowing embers of fancy. The\nfire and freedom of such rude scratches were pointed out; and he could\nsee with a painter's eye the beauty of a line, the combination and the\narrangement, the first shadowy thoughts of the artist emerging from\nchaos into form.\" That he possessed even then, to a considerable extent,\nthe artist's power as well as his perception, may be inferred from an\nanecdote of those days which forms the conclusion of the passage:--\n\n\"The professor of _vertu_ was expatiating one day, to a group of\nbystanders, on the merits of some little gem of a drawing he had just\npurchased. He pointed out the beauties with great gusto, fully\nimpressing his auditory with a sense of the profound knowledge and\nsuperiority of his own discrimination. The novice leaned over, and,\nyoung as he was, enjoyed the dissertation vastly. In a while he ventured\nto make a remark: the man of art turned round, and with a look of\ncontempt, intended to extinguish the youthful aspirant, said, 'We don't\nallow you to be a judge, sir.' Abashed, he shrank back; but the wound\nrankled, and he determined to have lusty revenge. He sketched on paper,\nwith great freedom and carelessness, the subject of an old etching,\nimitating as nearly as possible the style he had previously seen. By the\njudicious application of tobacco-juice, soot, bistre, ochre, and a\nlittle grease, so as to make the picture a perfect pattern of dirt,--a\nrent, a puncture, a piecing here and there, to show the care with which\nit had been preserved,--he succeeded in making, as he thought, a\ntolerable imitation, and with great glee gallanted off the prize to his\npreceptor. The connoisseur at once pronounced the few bold strokes,\nevery one of which 'told,' to be those of a master; and his pupil had\nmuch difficulty in evading his inquiries, as to where he had met with\nit, and whether there were any more to be had.\" His success was\ncomplete; but neither love of triumph, nor gratified vanity, tempted\nhim to divulge the secret, and thereby mortify his acquaintance: he was\nsatisfied with the result of the experiment, nor did he ever after\nrepeat it.\n\nHis first attempt at composition was called forth by a friend, who put\ninto his hand a copy of a periodical which, at that time, offered prizes\nfor the best essays on prescribed subjects, to be sent in by young\npersons under a specified age. It was suggested to him, that he should\ntake one of the subjects, and see what he could make of it. He at first\nhesitated; but, recalling the magic power of the little word \"TRY,\" he\nsat down to the task, and composed an essay:--\"To show what obligations\nparents and children are under to tutors and governesses, and how far it\nis their duty, from gratitude and interest, to behave towards them with\nfriendship and respect.\" It was considered worthy of the prize, as\nappears from a copy of Blair's Class-book,--in the fly-leaves of which\nthe essay is preserved,--bearing in the customary gilt letters the\ninscription,\n\n \"PRESENTED TO MASTER JOHN ROBY, AGED FIFTEEN.\n A REWARD OF MERIT.\"\n\nNow fairly aware of his powers, to the pleasures of the pencil were\nadded those of the pen. As might be expected, Poetry, Essay, Tale, were\nall tried, read at first to juvenile companions, as extracts he had met\nwith. Why should early authorship, like early love, be a thing we shrink\nfrom avowing, even to the nearest of our friends? It is because, when\nwe write truthfully and earnestly, we lay bare our very soul; and the\navowal in this, as in the other case, becomes an exposure of one's inner\nself.\n\nDebating and Philosophical societies ere long attracted him, and he\nevidently exerted a leading influence on his companions. He took a\nprominent part in their projects and reunions. \"Sucking in knowledge\nlike a sponge,\" as he afterwards said, he was as ready to impart it. A\nsilver snuff-box,--still prized as a relic of his eighteenth or\nnineteenth year,--bearing the following inscription,\n\n \"THE GIFT OF THE PHILOSOPHIC SOCIETY, WIGAN,\n TO THEIR\n ESTEEMED LECTURER AND WORTHY MEMBER,\n MR. J. ROBY,\"\n\nattests the nature of his early pursuits, and the estimation in which he\nwas then held by his associates.\n\nThe local press was another channel for the exercise of his talents; and\nit appears by a letter from the editor of the \"Chester Courant,\"\npreserved with other relics of early days, that some of his\ncontributions to the paper, during a short residence in that city,\nattracted the notice of the London papers, and were copied into their\ncolumns,--a fact on which the worthy editor rather prided himself, while\nhe congratulated his unknown correspondent. From a memorandum book in\nhandwriting of an early date, containing \"Subjects for Consideration,\"\nwe transcribe one page to indicate favourite directions of thought:--\n\n\"The oxydation of metals, by passing the electric spark through them.\n\n\"The faculty which the eye possesses of accommodating its focal distance\nto objects placed at different distances.\n\n\"The sound which proceeds from the shock of the particles of the air,\nagainst those of water in motion. Vide Thomson's Ann. Phil. p. 187.\n\n\"Fresh-discovered property of the syphon.\"\n\nHe had now found, in part at least, that companionship and sympathy for\nwhich he had so earnestly longed, and his spirit gave itself up to\ndelighted converse with its fellows, and to the pursuits of literature\nand art:\n\n \"All the glowing future, one\n Wide atmosphere of light.\"\n\nHis preference even from childhood of cultivated female society, while\nhis reverence for woman and his standard of her excellence were equally\nhigh, also contributed to keep the tone of his mind pure and his life\nstainless. The dawn of existence thus brightened into the full morning\nof youth: and if those who now fondly look back upon him with affection\nand pride, may bless GOD for such a youth, it is owing, under His\nblessing, to the love of art, knowledge, and woman's intelligent\nsociety.\n\nYet his own estimate of his character at that period should not be lost\nsight of. When referring to this time, in terms of thankfulness for\nhaving been kept from outward evil, he ever owned that as yet he was\nwithout the guidance of the true Christian principle--love to GOD; \"that\n'the light of the glorious Gospel,' which alone is the true 'lamp unto\nour path,' had not yet shone into his spirit. _He lived only to\nhimself_; and though, soaring through natural bias to loftier pursuits,\nthus kept from the grovelling propensities of youth, yet, in a religious\npoint of view, _his heart_ was, equally with that of others, the barren\nwilderness, _destitute of fruit to the glory of Him who created it_, and\nwho demands our 'heart, and soul, and strength,' in His service.\" So\njudged a mature self-knowledge, on looking back to the first years of\nmanhood. Were introspection always as faithful, might not the same\nconclusion be oftener reached?\n\nHitherto the little bark had sped with no cross wind, no disturbing\ncurrent, no shadow on her sail. Love came: still life's glad waters were\nunruffled--all sunshine and repose. But the storm soon gathered, and\nlife's first romance was destined to close in gloom. It will be readily\nsupposed, that, with the impassioned temperament of genius, he gave\nhimself up without reserve to the power of a _first-love_; and, with the\nadhesiveness which Phrenology so largely assigned to him, the permanence\nof his attachment promised to equal its intensity. For a time, \"the\ncourse of true love,\" _did_ \"run smooth;\" but at length a coldness he\ncould not account for, but which had for some time pained him, led on\nhis part to remonstrance. It was resented, and the interview ended in\nmutual displeasure. Riding home,--not in the happiest mood,--his horse\nstumbled and threw him. For a few days he lay, unable to travel, in a\nhouse near the spot where he had been thrown. Humbler and wiser thoughts\nprevailed; and the first use he made of his recovered power of moving,\nwas to return and seek another interview. Reconciliation followed, and\nhe left happy and reassured. But, the evening after his arrival at home,\na short, cold, and haughty epistle, brought him by private hand, forbade\nhis future visits. Stung to the quick by what appeared heartlessness, if\nnot duplicity, he resolved to forget his idol for ever; and looked\naround for a worthier object in whose affection he might lose his sense\nof injury and regret. It was not till his faith was plighted to another\nthat he discovered the _undated_ note was written previously to his last\nvisit, shortly after their angry parting, but owing to his absence from\nhome not sooner delivered. Honour forbade any allusion to this\ncircumstance to the object of the second attachment, to whom he\nconsidered himself sacredly engaged, but the blow struck home. A severe\nillness, during which his life was despaired of, supervened; and, though\nan elastic nature recovered, it still retained traces of this \"maddening\nmisery.\" More than thirty years afterwards he could not refer to these\npassages of his history without a shudder, and intense, though\ncontrolled, feeling. Some peculiarities referable to this source\nremained through life. Henceforth a discord ran through all the melodies\nof existence, and ever and anon reproduced itself in the creations of\nimagination.\n\nMr. Roby first appeared before the world as a poet. In 1815 he published\n\"Sir Bertram, a poem in six cantos.\" Elegant and melodious\nversification, exquisite word-painting, and a marked tendency to the use\nof the supernatural, are its chief characteristics. Though not published\nbefore, there is every reason to believe it was composed some time\npreviously, during the happy season of hopeful, if not formally\nrequited, love. Here are no traces to be found of that one sorrow. It\nwas the pouring forth of song from a poetic spirit, that as yet knew not\nthe power of the minor key. Another poem quickly followed, entitled\n\"Lorenzo, a tale of Redemption.\" It met with a limited sale: the\nversification was heavy, unlike anything else he ever wrote, and the\nsubject was unsuited to his powers. The now venerable poet Montgomery,\nwho had just published his own \"Greenland,\" gave the young author the\nbenefit of his judicious criticism, a kindness difficult to perform;\nbut, judging by a letter from him of the date of July, 1817, he knew\nwell how to combine candour and courtesy. The subsequent productions of\nhis disciple proved that his valuable suggestions were not thrown away.\n\nIn 1816 Mr. Roby married Ann, the youngest daughter of James and Dorothy\nBealey, of Derrikens near Blackburn. Of her many excellencies he ever\nspoke in the highest terms, and she must have been, from the testimony\nof all who had the pleasure of knowing her, as well as from that of her\nhusband, one of the best and gentlest of women, the most affectionate\nand anxious of mothers. They had nine children, three of whom died in\ntheir infancy.\n\n\"The Duke of Mantua,\" a tragedy, which appeared in 1823, was Mr. Roby's\nnext publication. It went through three or four editions in a short\ntime, and was pronounced by the critics, \"worthy of a place among our\nbest closet plays.\" It has been long out of print, and is included in\nthe present volume.\n\nIn the course of the summer, he made an excursion in Scotland. He\nvisited \"the bonnie braes of Yarrow,\" in company with Hogg, the Ettrick\nShepherd. His account of the day so pleasantly spent, is a good specimen\nof his early prose style:--\n\n \"I went with Hogg the other morning on a '_Voyage pittoresque_' up\n the Yarrow. It was a delicious Claude-looking day--the sky filled\n with a warm hazy brightness. Every cloud stole as softly up the\n firmament, as if some creature 'of the immaterial air' melting\n into the blue ether. None of those sudden lights--those breaks\n through a hard and almost impenetrable pile of clouds--an\n Apennine or Andes poised in the middle air, dividing the\n landscape into vast enclosures--masses of shadow, deep, awful,\n and abrupt--or moving patches, of a wild and unnatural\n brightness.\n\n \"We set out from Selkirk pretty early, intending to reach St.\n Mary's before noon. We loitered lazily up the stream, imbibing\n the keen freshness of the morning. The mists were just rolling\n from the green hills, when, on passing the bridge, we turned to\n our left, entering upon the beautiful road, leading through the\n Duke of Buccleugh's grounds, to Altrieve and St. Mary's Loch. The\n Yarrow and the Ettrick unite about two miles above Selkirk.\n Following the course of the former, we soon spied the ruins of\n Newark Castle, the scene of Sir Walter's 'Lay of the Last\n Minstrel.' It is a massive square tower, now unroofed, surrounded\n by an outward wall, and defended by round flanking turrets.\n During the minority of the present Duke, the castle was\n dilapidated; the wooden beams, and such stones as could be\n removed, were employed in building a miserable farm-house in its\n vicinity.\n\n \"I felt wishful to obtain a closer inspection of this fine old\n specimen of border antiquity; more especially on learning that\n Mungo Park--born at Foulshiels, a small farm within a stone's\n throw of the castle--had left his autograph somewhere within its\n walls. We soon procured admittance, and on climbing the ruined\n staircase, entered a large roofless apartment on the second\n story, where, sure enough, we found, without much trouble, the\n name of our enterprising, but unfortunate, countryman, written,\n two or three times, in a large clerk-like hand with _red chalk_.\n Hogg seemed as well pleased as if he had found a 'poss,' and\n rummaged his galligaskins for a hideous bit of scrawl, that he\n had several times brought forth from its dark den, during our\n journey, when any thing particularly inspiring had urged its\n momentary liberation. A poem perhaps, another exquisite 'Kilmeny'\n or 'Mary Lee' in embryo, undergoing its appointed period of\n incubation. I made no inquiries, but continued undisturbed in the\n great business of exploration. In a short time I heard him\n bundling down the steps, to take a morning's gossip with the\n keeper. It was not long ere I found myself amply repaid for any\n sense of deprivation I might have endured, by discovering\n another flourish with the identical red chalk, and evidently by\n the same hand. It was a stanza--four lines of poetry by Mungo\n Park!--If thou hast any touch of feeling--any mark of\n kindred--any spark of rarer sympathy--imagine, if thou canst, my\n delight,--the fervour, the intensity of my rapture. They fixed\n indelibly, and almost involuntarily on my memory;--there they now\n exist, and probably will continue until every faculty, every\n function, be obliterated.\n\n \"The following is a true copy, spelling and all. The orthography\n of poor Park was not of the purest kind:--\n\n 'Within these walls where obscene birds of night\n Whistle and shriek alternate round,\n Soft music _floted_ once, whilst with delight\n The distant shepherd caught the dying sound.'\n\n \"I do not think they show marks of quotation. I hope and believe\n they are original; at least, I am pretty certain they have not\n before been noticed.\n\n \"I soon roused the skulkers: a vigorous hurrah was the first\n intimation they had of the enemy being so near their camp. Bang\n went the first door I came to, and there I found my friend and\n his, cantie over a cup of the best mountain, and deep in the\n heart of a thrifty controversy about sheep, their ailments and\n cures. It was 'an awfu downcome; they stared at each other\n without perfectly understanding the nature of my announcement. On\n a repetition, 'Eh, Mr. Bogle, but ye're gone clean blate,' was\n the rejoinder, 'Ha' ye seen a ghaist!' With some difficulty I\n made them reluctantly comprehend two very important matters, to\n wit, my meaning, and a request that they would give me their\n sweet company awhile. But how they did shout, and rub their\n sleeves at the discovery; we looked as funny at one another as\n three ambassadors at a congress. It was as good as the\n development of a state secret. The best of it is, that it will be\n a little fortune to the keeper, and a dowry to his weans.\n Henceforth pilgrimages will be made to the shrine, vieing with\n Loch Katrine and the pass of Aberfoil in the number of its\n votaries and the ardour of its worshippers.\n\n \"We bade good bye to Newark, and awa' up the braes o' Yarrow,\n shouting and laughing with the wild echoes of the flood, to the\n great dismay of sundry bare-legged Naiads and goddesses, peeping\n ever and anon through 'covert green and woodland dell.'\n\n \"My companion had to make a call at his tailor's, who inhabits\n the low house nigh to the Ford.--A very strange personage this,\n but of an infinite humour, and pomposity of demeanor.\n\n \"It was the very man whom Blackwood accused in one of his 'magi,'\n of regularly buying two copies of that work, and reading both,\n from beginning to end, imagining them to be diverse and distinct\n from each other. He was mightily affronted at this insinuation,\n and duly wrote, and concocted a letter;--such a curiosity as was\n never before seen, since the world whistled. I recollect being\n indulged with a sight of it in the 'back-shop.' He utterly\n disclaimed taking two copies of the magazine, under any such\n erroneous impression. The true reason was, that wife and bairns\n had such an 'ettling for the beuk' that he had no comfort on the\n occasion, and was often obliged to run for it--to creep behind a\n stone dike or into a hedge bottom, in the hope of getting free\n from their importunities, and even then he was in no wise safe\n from interruption,--some kind neighbour or another would scent\n him out, and be 'aye licken his fingers frae the dish.' Taking\n two copies set all to rights, and each party enjoyed their meal\n in peace. He was dreadfully puzzled about the different 'Horae'\n scattered through the numbers, and consulted the minister about\n their reference to certain matters then abroad, but to which he\n thought no decent respectable publication, like Blackwood, should\n have alluded.\n\n \"We journeyed on to Altrieve, where Hogg has a quiet domicile\n within sight of St. Mary's banks, and Dryhope tower, where 'the\n flower of Yarrow lived and died.' It was high dinner hour when we\n arrived. A hearty welcome--a dish of boiled trout fresh from the\n Lake, and et ceteras _ad lib._, gave a _gout_ and a relish to the\n succeeding conceptions and concoctions, over which Mrs. Hogg\n presided,--while the exhilarating influence of high animal\n spirits, and a 'wee drappie' of the elixir of the mountain, threw\n a vivid hue and a glowing atmosphere around every theme on which\n we dilated.\n\n \"Hogg is a kind-hearted creature, a man of the rarest genius,\n compounded out of the most heterogeneous elements, as if nature\n in one of her freaks had determined to evince the omnipotence of\n her power, over the most untractable, and unpromising\n materials,--to mould even the stubborn, and unyielding forms over\n which she broods, into combinations of the most exquisite\n symmetry, and delicacy of texture.\n\n \"I reckon Hogg's achievements on a par with the most wonderful\n records of human capability extant. A shepherd's boy, as uncouth\n and ungifted as any of his tribe--apparently without a glimmer,\n or an idea of the beautiful or sublime, any further than as it\n might have relation to a dry bed and a comfortable meal--scarcely\n able to write his name at a very advanced period of growth. Now\n he blazes forth, a bright intelligence amongst the lights of the\n age. Really his works deserve to form part and parcel of our\n national literature, at once a monument to his glory and an\n inextinguishable record of the operations of that genius, who\n setteth no bounds to her habitation, nor suffereth control.\"\n\nThe literary leisure of the next six years was occupied in collecting\nmaterials for the Traditions of Lancashire, and by the creative power of\nimagination, weaving them into tales of romantic interest. Mr. Roby\nreceived the most courteous assistance from several of the\nrepresentatives of the noble houses, whose early history he elucidated;\nparticularly from the Earl and late Countess of Crawford and Balcarres,\nand also from the late Earl of Derby (1853).\n\nThe commencement of the year 1827 was marked by one of those home\nevents, which, though nothing to the world, make sad change in the\nfire-side circle. Mr. Roby's second boy, named after his brother, the\nlate Rev. William Roby, of Manchester, was at this time about three\nyears of age. Possessed of unusual loveliness and remarkable sensibility\nfor so young a child, he had won upon his parents' hearts, and on that\nof his father to a remarkable degree. The moment he entered the house,\nhe would call for his darling boy, and place him on his knee at the\npiano, while the little listener, if not interrupted, would remain for\nhours rapt in delight. He could not be happy while the child was out of\nhis sight. After a very brief illness, this beautiful boy was called\naway from the world. His father's heart was wrung, long did he mourn\nhim; and he never dared again to love a child with such idolatry. An\ninfant, a few months' old, had before been laid in the family grave, and\non the stone covering their remains, Mr. Roby had the following lines\nengraven:--\n\n \"Farewell sweet babes! Upon a mother's breast\n Ye pass'd life's hour of fretfulness and pain:\n Death bids you on his colder bosom rest,\n Herald of bliss;--unutterable gain!\n His touch was life!--in robes of triumph drest,\n Sinless and spotless now--a Saviour's death\n The fountain opened--washed from every stain\n Each spirit, ere its last faint quivering breath--\n As o'er its eyeballs burst eternal day,\n Left its first cherub smile to linger on its clay.\"\n\nA third infant was laid beside them in 1832, and there now repose _his\nown_ loved and most precious remains, and to these last, as to those for\nwhom they were originally intended, may the closing lines be applied.\nThe smile last seen on that beloved face is one with which it may well\nawake on the morning of the resurrection.\n\nMr. Roby visited the English Lakes that year. A manuscript book of notes\nand sketches remains, and both pen and pencil attest the quickness and\ncorrectness of the observer. On ordinary objects he looked with an eye\npractised in gaining general information, and on Nature with that of the\nartist. In looking over the sketches one cannot but remark how very\nlittle change years have made in that district. Not only the majestic\nobjects of Nature, the accessories of man's placing also, stood then\nprecisely as they do now. The Druid's Circle near Keswick seems the only\nexception; the fir trees which then waved their dark branches above the\ngrey stones are gone. Grange, reposing at the foot of Borrowdale, with\nits beautiful bridge, dark clear stream, and everlasting mountains a\nclose back-ground. The Bowder stone[B], its ladder and cottage, and the\nsharply-defined perpendicular strata rising above all, are unchanged.\nThe sketches of a quarter of a century ago might be those of last year.\nThe very buildings seem identically the same in every part. Nature\nstamped them picturesque as they were set down in her sacred recesses,\nand they have not dared to throw off the spell. A few extracts from the\nnote-book will exemplify the style of observation. The aspect of the\ndistrict; the manners of its inhabitants; individual peculiarities\nwhatever of men or things; natural productions, and above all, the\never-varying forms of beauty, with which nature in such a region clothes\nherself,--none of these escaped his observant and admiring eye.\n\n \"Kendal, Aug. 21. 1827.\n\n \"Dialect. Kendal mode of calling a person up, '_Shoot on him_\n there.' First view of Windermere. Writing on Inn Windows--This\n perishable and frail tablet more durable than man's existence.\n Mountains--The same outline, the same aspect has met the eye of\n man for thousands of years.... On the Lake--View from the north\n side of Curwen's Island, light and shadow disposed as if\n according to art--broad lights upon the rich colours. Corn-fields\n &c. near--summits of hills dark blue, cutting against the sky,\n angular and sharp. Island follows the universal law--north by\n west, rugged and mountainous; south, undulating and flat.\"\n\n Grasmere was at that time the abode of the gifted and excentric\n Hartley Coleridge. He was standing at Jonathan's door when the\n tourists drove up. They soon made acquaintance with him, and it\n was not long ere they were deep in discussion on the subject of\n Kant's Philosophy, the Rosicrucian System, &c. &c.\n\n \"The repose of Grasmere; pleasures of retirement. No pleasure but\n to those who possess an innate repose and a mind full of\n susceptibilities for these beautiful impressions. The bold\n dragoon and his wife, who took a house here about three months\n since, for seven years,--are now heartily tired of it.\n Confounding of phrases--to say a man _is_ a genius, great\n mistake--rather say a man _has_ genius, or rather genius has\n _him_. Often disappointed in our approach to 'reputed geniuses.'\n A clever man not always a man of genius. Idiom and dialect\n diffused over a man's very form and face, habits, and character.\n Tone of voice acquired by contact. Strong voices of the females\n generally in the north. Quite a literary air about Grasmere.\n Proof sheets lying about the public-house. Hartley Coleridge\n engaged in writing the article 'Poetry' in the 'Encyclopedia\n Metropolitana.'\" The notice of Grasmere concludes with a then\n unpublished song by H. Coleridge--\"'I have lived, and I have\n loved,'\" with the autograph of the Poet.\n\n \"Keswick Lake. Sun-set. Colour of the mountains blue, a band\n between the fiery sky, and the fiery reflection in the lake.\n Cloudy morning. Skiddaw still has his night-cap on. Clearing\n towards seven, determine to mount. Pass Skiddaw's cub, Latrigg.\n Hills tumbled about in great disorder, compared to a large\n painted sheet of canvass thrown down horizontally and propped up\n in different places underneath with pointed sticks of various\n lengths. Eye soon accustoming itself to the size of objects\n thereby diminishing their bulk to its own previous conceptions.\n Every now and then obliged to find an object, of a known size, in\n order to feel the vast dimensions of these objects of unknown\n magnitude.... Gaining the summit, an envious cloud sweeping round\n the hill. Double echoes apparently from grouse shooters. Cloud\n rapidly approaches, falls between us and the distant prospect\n like a curtain. Completely enveloped. Sit down wrapped in my\n cloak under the lee-side of a huge heap of stones, and wait in\n expectation of the cloud clearing off for nearly an hour. Quietly\n read 'Otley's Guide,' Geology of the Mountains. Symptoms of a\n break in the cloud, mist still continues. Guide relates the\n dangers and perils of ascents and descents in a mist, even to\n those well acquainted with the path.... During these amusing and\n exhilarating narratives the mist breaks in partial\n openings--Wonderful bursts of prospect through the clouds. Solway\n Frith--the Sea--Wigton, Cockermouth, Bassenthwaite Lake. A vessel\n on the Solway, by telescope, a brig.\n\n \"Hermitage near Derwentwater Lake. Major Pocklington built and\n endowed it for any person who would live there in entire\n seclusion, locked up for seven years; after this apprenticeship\n he might, if he thought proper, have his liberty, and an annuity\n of 100_l._ a year. No one has yet been found to fulfil this\n engagement, and the place built twenty or thirty years ago.\n\n \"Borrowdale. Lead mine on very steep hill. Gryphite lies in\n sops. Old levels worked out. At fault; cannot yet find any;\n trying near the summit of the hill. Immense productiveness at\n times. Supposed to have been once in a state of fusion. Evident\n marks of this. No date of its discovery. Tradition tells us, that\n a tree being blown down bared the first vein. Used for marking\n sheep only in all probability at the first. Maps of the county\n might be printed on pocket-handkerchiefs. Dine at Rossthwaite:\n another party arrive, folly of not being content with what the\n house affords....\n\n \"Patterdale. Met a young sheep dog.--One leg tied up to prevent\n his scampering after the sheep too far--dog education; not beat\n young dogs, it breaks their spirits and spoils them. May this\n hint apply to the education of two-legged cubs? Beautiful and\n fertile valleys running up into so many gorges of the\n mountains.... Musty egg at breakfast. Irishman swearing not a hen\n in all England that laid fresh eggs.... Kirkstone pass. Savage\n sublimity of the road. Kirkstone like the gable end of a house\n peeping above. Saxifraga Nivalis.... High moor between the lakes\n and Kendal. Grand view of Langdale Pikes twenty miles off, like\n immense buttresses or towers, supporting a long line of rocks.\"\n Of all the beautiful objects in that district none excited Mr.\n Roby's admiration as those two magnificent rocks. His enthusiasm\n for them was unbounded.\n\nThe first series of the Traditions of Lancashire appeared in 1829, in\ntwo volumes, illustrated by plates engraved by Finden, from drawings by\nPickering; and wood-cuts by Williams, after designs by Frank Howard. The\nmatter, the embellishments, and the spirited publishers, Messrs Longman\nand Co., were alike worthy of each other. The reception of the work\nequalled Mr. Roby's most sanguine expectations; for though the price,\ndemy 8vo., 2_l._ 2_s._, royal 8vo., with proofs and etchings, 4_l._\n4_s._, made it rather a book for a gentleman's library than for general\ncirculation, a second edition was called for within twelve months. The\nfollowing note from Sir Francis Palgrave, no incompetent judge, was a\ngratifying estimate of the work as forming part of our national\nliterature:--\n\n \"26, Duke-street, Westminster,\n 26th October, 1829.\n \"Sir,\n\n \"I am greatly obliged to you for the very interesting volumes\n which you have had the kindness to send me.\n\n \"As compositions, the extreme beauty of your style, and the skill\n which you have shown in working up the rude materials, must\n entitle them to the highest rank in the class of works to which\n they belong.\n\n \"Are there any peculiar traditions in or about Cartmel, where, as\n you probably know, the Britons continued till a comparatively\n late period? You have made such a valuable addition, not only to\n English literature, but to English topography by your\n collection--for these popular traditions form, or ought to form,\n an important feature in topographical history--that it is to be\n hoped you will not stop with the present volumes.\n\n \"I have the honor to remain,\n Sir,\n With great respect,\n Your obedient and faithful servant,\n \"FRANCIS PALGRAVE.\"\n\nThe second series, consisting also of two volumes, uniform with the\nfirst, was published in 1831, and met with similar success. Both series\nwere reviewed in the most cordial manner by the leading periodicals of\nthe day; more than once quoted, and characterized by Sir Walter Scott,\nhimself a host, as an elegant work. (_See Introduction to the\nBetrothed._)\n\nWhen composing, Mr. Roby usually wrote with his family around him; the\nonly restraint he laid upon them, was the prohibition of whispering;\nfrom conversation carried on in the ordinary tone he could wholly\nabstract himself. Seated in a favourite rocking-chair, that common\nnorthern luxury, wrapped in a loose study-gown, he wrote for hours with\nrapidity and pleasure. When invention flagged, and he had to seek an\nidea, he would fold his arms, and gently rock for a few minutes, then\nwith the air of a person who had found what he sought, return to the\npage with renewed spirit. Though undisturbed by familiar sounds, which,\nindeed, he appeared not to perceive, so completely was he absorbed in\nhis ideal world, he yet required all things in order around him before\nhe commenced; objects indiscriminately scattered conveying disturbance\nthrough the eye, or even an open door, would so effectually dissipate\nhis thoughts, as to prevent him from writing. His practice was to make\nhimself master of the historical ground-work of the tale, and as far as\npossible of the manners and customs of the period, and then to commence\ncomposition, with Fosbroke's \"Encyclopedia of Antiquities\" at hand, for\naccuracy of costume, &c. He always gave the credit of his style, which\nthe Westminster Review termed \"a very model of good Saxon,\" to his\nnative country, the force and energy of whose dialect arises mainly from\nthe prevalence of the Teutonic element. \"The thought digs out the word,\"\nwas a favourite saying, when the exact expression he wanted did not at\nonce occur. To his fine ear for musical sound he was much indebted for\nthe flowing ease of his diction.\n\nThough constituting what is denominated light literature, much careful\nresearch was required in the composition of the tales. The aspect of the\ncountry in those distant times, the costume and customs of the day, were\nparticulars in which he was scrupulously exact. To secure this\ntruthfulness of detail, long investigations were often needed, even\nwhere perhaps they would be little suspected: but always confident that\nhe should succeed at last, he spared no pains in ascertaining the most\nminute particular, and this very persuasion of success contributed to\nsecure it. By some means or other he invariably commanded the\ninformation in due time. Amusing instances of this sometimes occurred.\nOnce, when out of the reach of any work of reference, he was completely\nat fault for the blazonry of a particular banner, used five hundred\nyears ago. He did not despair, but left the matter in blank,\nexpecting--though he would have been puzzled to tell whence--the\nwished-for information would be forthcoming. And so it was: casually\nlooking at a review, it so happened that the very thing he wanted was\ndescribed with more than ordinary minuteness.\n\nHis inexhaustible creative power is conspicuous; about two hundred\ndifferent characters are introduced, no one of whom reminds the reader\nof another, nor is invention wanting for abundant diversity of incident\nand adventure, heroic and comic. A gentleman who had been reading the\nTraditions for the first time, recently remarked, that for invention he\nscarcely knew any writer Mr. Roby's equal. It is perhaps worthy of\nnotice, that all the characters are creations, not one an idealized\nportrait.\n\nAnother charm is the fine mould in which his heroines are cast. There is\na delicacy, a nobility, or high-minded spirit of self-sacrifice about\nthe more prominent, which, while leaving the characters perfectly\ndistinct, sustains throughout a high ideal of woman. Not one bad\ncharacter figures as a woman; the only approach to such is in tales of\nwitchcraft, where, indeed, the Arch Evil One, rather than his poor\nvictim, is the criminal, as though he would not even bring the idea of\nevil athwart the favourite vision of his imagination. It may be deemed\nnot adhering to nature, thus to omit an object she, alas! too often\npresents; but who would blame the artist for the faultless beauty of his\ncreations? The sculptor may display his skill, by representing the\ncontortions of deformity, but not his highest ideal; may show how clever\na copyist with the chisel he can be, but not how deeply he has drunk of\nthe inspiration common to all art, how near he has approached to the\nFountain of all Beauty. The clearness of his conceptions, and the way in\nwhich he threw himself into his characters, are evinced by the dramatic\naction of even the shortest story. While writing he appeared actually to\nfeel as he would have done, had he been in the situations he described;\nhe felt the perplexity, the sense of danger, and the exultation of\nescape; for the time he seemed to have a double life, at once sharing\nthe existence of his hero, and sympathizing as a spectator. It was in a\ntone that he would have used, had she been a living being, that he said\nof one of his heroines, under very peculiar circumstances of danger[C],\n\"_I could not_ let her perish.\" His plan was to commence his tale, bring\nhis characters into strange or perilous situations, realize their danger\nin its full extent, without the slightest idea of how he should\nextricate them; and then, when the means of escape presented themselves\nto his imagination, he would work on, delighted with the suggestion,\ntill to his great regret the tale was finished. He knew when to leave\noff, but it cost him something to do so; it was like parting company\nwith friends.\n\nThe short vivid descriptions of scenery scattered throughout, are not\noften equalled. By a few strokes of the pen, not only a perfect picture\nof the permanent objects of a locality is placed before the reader's\neye, but also the temporary lights and shadows which are thrown on the\nlandscape by the ever-shifting skies; the very feeling of the air does\nnot escape him. Each tale is in fact a cabinet picture, combining\nhistory and landscape. In the foreground the traditionary group appears\nin vivid action; beyond, a far-receding distance, faint in the noon-tide\nhaze, or perchance a wood, with its broad shadows, and burst of sunlight\nacross the next glade. An artist might paint from his descriptions. In\nthe case of one of the most effective engravings, that of Rivington\nPike, the drawing was made after the artist had read the tale; the\naccessories of light and shade, and in the original, of colour also,\ndoubtless owe something of their character to this circumstance.\n\nIn his power of depicting the supernatural, Mr. Roby stands pre-eminent;\nand this not only in little weird touches, that come upon the reader he\nknows not how, waking a chord within which makes him feel that he has\nkindred with mysteries more than the eye sees, or the ear hears--but in\nlong-sustained intercourse with beings who people the unseen world, and\nwho seem at certain times, and in certain places, to press upon mortal\nspirits even to recognition, more, even to hallowed or unhallowed\ncommunion. As if there were, time and space concurring, points of\njuncture for the two worlds. The ease with which he carries his reader\nalong with him, even in spite of the anti-spiritual prejudices of the\npresent age, cannot be better exemplified than in the tale to which\nreference has just been made, Rivington Pike, which has been said by a\nGerman reviewer to be, \"the only authentic tale of demoniacal possession\nthe English have.\" The composition of the story had a powerful effect on\nthe writer himself. He sat up writing longer than usual after the rest\nof the family had retired. It was midnight when he had finished; and so\ncompletely had the scenes he had been describing, taken possession of\nhis own mind, that he dared not stir from his seat, nor did he, till\nMrs. Roby, surprised at his remaining down stairs so long after his\naccustomed time, entered the room; the sight of a familiar face broke\nthe spell, and dissipated the visionary alarm.\n\nThe purity of the morality is such as befits a Christian writer, and\nthere is throughout the work a spirit of reverence for things sacred,\nand of deference to the supreme source of illumination, which is not\nalways to be found in our lighter literature. The reader, charmed and\ndelighted, is carried away from ordinary scenes into a world of romance.\nNevertheless in that ideal land he finds the same laws of morality which\ngovern his daily life--the same God looked up to, as the disposer of all\nthings, the Father at once to be loved and obeyed; and he may go back to\nhis duties in common life, without one moral idea having been deranged,\nor one principle disturbed.\n\nIt was at one time Mr. Roby's intention to follow up the \"Traditions of\nLancashire\" with similar illustrations of the early history of the\ncounty of York. Subjects were chosen, and a few tales written, which\nappeared in Blackwood's and Frazer's magazines. One, though not of this\nseries, which was published in Frazer, February 1837, under the title of\n\"The Smuggler's Daughter,\" was proposed to be dramatised. The parts were\ncast, Mrs. Yates or Mrs. Keeley was to have taken that of the heroine,\nand Mr. Buckstone and Mr. O. Smith were to have engaged in others. From\nthe correspondence on the subject, it appears that Mr. Buckstone's\nattention being demanded by other and rather perplexing affairs, the\nrepresentation of the \"Smuggler's Daughter\" was delayed till after the\nappearance of the story in the Magazine, and at last suffered to fall to\nthe ground.\n\nA book containing sketches of the different localities he intended to\nillustrate, and memoranda of the traditions attached to them, made\nduring excursions into Yorkshire for this purpose, show the spirit with\nwhich he entered on his task, and it is much to be regretted that\nanything should have been allowed to set it aside. About this time he\ncommenced the study of botany in good earnest. In the same book are\nnotes of a first botanical tour, a few extracts from which may not be\nuninteresting: they are certainly characteristic. While pursuing the\ndetails of science, he was in no danger of falling under the poet's\nmalediction on him,\n\n \"Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes.\"\n\nThey appear to have been written on the spot, whenever any fresh object\npresented itself.\n\n \"Off to Wetherby.--Resolve to dissipate the mind. Round Hey.\n Trees, &c., all green, yet how beautifully diversified--cool,\n warm, half tints--Dr. Johnson, chaise traveller. What is that\n purple tuft?--Elegant! _Vicia cracca_.... What is that like a\n diminutive fir tree? _Equisetum_, quite a puzzle for a beginner;\n never mind, learn soon. Clover, I know; but where can it be\n classed? Honeysuckle too--rushes and all, I suppose, though they\n would puzzle to find a flower. Clouds, the soul of landscape.\n What sky most beautiful? Never see a dandelion, but thoughts the\n most intense that never die.--Where slumbering--where the great\n reservoir?\" No flower had the power to revive early associations\n like this. His first recollections of it, were as growing in a\n field near his father's house where he played in infancy. \"Yellow\n flowers among the green wheat: Cherlock. Limestone district.--How\n delightful any occupation that keeps the mind from preying on\n itself. Want of employment similar to hunger.--Gastric juice eats\n the stomach if no food.... What a delicious smell! Butterfly\n orchis.... Foxglove unknown in some of the southern counties,\n here how luxuriant! Localities of plants, soil, &c., wants\n explanation. Poppy, sand, coltsfoot, clay. Furze, Linnaeus.\n Flowers, all made after one model, never change the generic\n characters in whatever part of the world; proof, where there no\n other, of an all-wise designer.... Briony, spiral spring. _Orchis\n morio_. Something about this tribe mysterious. Children in a\n field playing, _enjoyment_. With what different eyes do I now\n look on nature. What should possess me to learn botany, all my\n life laughing at it. Arrangement, bump of order I suppose.\n Distant view of the wolds. York Minster--what a host of\n recollections!... _Iris pseudacorus_. Inoculated even the\n post-boy. The operation, the power of mind over mind, what is it?\n Country churches. People would write much better books if they\n would take individualities, instead of generalities, to\n sermons.... The numbers three and five, how predominant in\n botany. _Geum urbanum_.--Lutford. Jackasses on a common--patience\n personified. Why should _Jack_ be a diminutive, a lowering of any\n thing. Jack snipe, _Osmunda regalis_.--Windmills always associate\n with country quiet; the monotonous turn of the sails. Retreat.\n Lunatics: mankind all so in one respect or another, but a great\n difference. Lunatics lose their reasoning powers, and jumble\n ideas,--take those for real which are only reflection and memory,\n while those counted sane, with correct ideas, act diametrically\n opposite to their knowledge.... Gravel-field, famous place for\n plants. Set out. Roman antiquities--a Roman burying place\n evidently,--continually digging out broken urns of baked clay,\n very fragile.... Cats without tails, a breed of them here;\n supposed originally from the Isle of Man. Style of face in\n different parts. Query, Is it caught? Lower part of the mouth\n formed by its owner.\" The notes continue, but are almost\n exclusively botanical.\n\nIn the spring of 1837, Mr. Roby made a rapid tour on the Continent, the\nnotes and illustrative sketches of which were published in two volumes\nby Messrs. Longman and Co., under the title of \"Seven Weeks in Belgium,\nSwitzerland, Lombardy, Piedmont, Savoy, &c.\" His quickness, and\nclearness of observation, and power of placing before the reader's eye,\nin a few words, the objects which met his own, render the book\ndelightful and refreshing to those whom duty detains at home. Notes were\ntaken on the spot, and but slightly amplified, so that the narrative has\nall the freshness of a youthful description of a day's pleasure. If the\nroad branches off in two directions, and the driver hardly knows which\nto take, the reader himself feels puzzled, and thinks with apprehension\nof the nearness of the sun to the horizon, and the miles yet to be\ntraversed; if the traveller is sailing down the lake listlessly drinking\nin the beauty around him, the reader, too, feels the calm repose of the\nstill expanse of waters, and the softened grandeur of the panorama of\nmountains. Even \"the dry hard names\" of rare plants--music to the\nbotanist--followed as they are here by their more familiar synonyms,\nenhance the charm of the book: we look up from the sunny surface of the\nglacier to the crimson flowers of the _Azalea procumbens_ (trailing\nAzalea) starring the barren rock. Graphic description alternates with\npersonal adventure and amusing anecdote, marked alike by vivacity of\nstyle, and the buoyant spirit of the author. Charming as a narrative of\ncontinental travel, it at the same time has been said, \"as a guide book\nto the continent,\" to be \"the best that was ever written,\"--the\nsight-seer, the lover of scenery, and the botanist may use it to equal\nadvantage. It shows how much may be secured by a really active and\ninquisitive mind, in a few weeks, while the full particulars respecting\npassports, routes, distances, moneys, exchanges, &c., puts the reader in\nthe way of enjoying as much himself, when it falls to his lot to take\nthe same route. The pictures of nature are in Mr. Roby's own effective\nstyle. The start from the Custom-house, termed by the \"Literary Gazette\"\n\"a Calcott picture in a few lines,\" is an instance. \"It was a calm grey\nmorning, the population were hardly astir, the river with its\nwilderness of masts seemed hardly awake; and the very water having been\nsuffered to rest untroubled for a space, looked dull and drowsy.\" The\nimpressions made by the first sight of Alpine scenery on a mind like\nhis, are, as it may be expected, vividly told. It was of this part of\nthe work, that a lady, who had been familiar with good English scenery\nall her life, and did justice to it both by pen and pencil, remarked,\n\"That book taught me to look at mountains.\"\n\nIn 1840 Mr. Roby again visited the Continent by a different route,\nadhering to his custom of making notes and sketches of what he saw. At\nthe close of the same year his attention was engaged by the preparation\nof a new edition of the \"Traditions of Lancashire,\" in a less expensive\nform, so as to bring it within the reach of general readers. It was\npublished in three volumes by Colburn, as the first of a series of\nPopular Traditions of England.\n\nMr. Roby's delight was as great in imparting as in imbibing knowledge,\nand he took a warm interest in all institutions for its diffusion. The\nprincipal literary occupation of the next four years appears to have\nbeen the preparation and delivery of lectures in connexion with\nsocieties of this kind, in which his native county so eminently abounds.\nHis early efforts, while yet residing at Wigan, and the welcome\nreception they met with, have been before noticed; quite as acceptable\nwere the matured results of reading and research now offered to larger\nand more mixed audiences. In the early autumn of 1838 he gave a course\nof ten lectures in the theatre, Rochdale, in aid of the Philosophic and\nLiterary Society of that town, on botany; comprising both classification\nand physiology, illustrated by large diagrams painted in distemper. They\nwere afterwards delivered at Manchester, accompanied by some beautiful\nexperiments, made with the aid of Dr. Warwick's oxy-hydrogen microscope,\nkindly superintended by that gentleman, and subsequently at the\nCollegiate Institution, Liverpool.\n\nThe subjects of other lectures were various. A course of four, on\nTradition, as connected with, and illustrating history, antiquities, and\nRomance, were delivered at Rochdale. Drawings executed in a bold style\nin black and red chalks, many of them thrown off at the time,\nillustrated either the localities where the various legends had birth,\nor the costumes, style of building, &c. of the period. One set of\nlectures which the writer has been so happy as to find fully written\nout, manifests not only his taste for art, but his knowledge of its\nprinciples. They are on painting, embracing light and shade,\ncomposition, colour, and perspective; and when delivered, were copiously\nillustrated, occasionally by pictures of the old masters in his\npossession. He was never more at home, than when ministering to the\ninstruction or gratification of others. His talents, information,\nacquisitions of various kinds, whatever he might happen to possess, that\ncould at all contribute to the purpose, were put in requisition; and\nwhen the idea he wished to convey, or illustrate, was caught by his\naudience, or in private by his listening friends, his countenance became\nradiant with pleasure; the belief that he had been of use in any way to\nothers, was one of his highest gratifications.\n\nAmong his MSS. are some lectures on architecture, commencing with the\nrude huts of barbarous tribes, and then proceeding to the structures, as\nfar as they are known, of the ancient nations. Gothic architecture finds\nits place in the fifth lecture; but from the abruptness with which it\nbreaks off in the middle of a sentence, it appears that the lectures\nwere not completed. There are also, memoranda and rough diagrams for\ndistinct lectures on baronial architecture.\n\nA friend of Mr. Roby's, who was also for many years a neighbour, has\nkindly favoured the writer with the following recollections of some of\nhis lectures.\n\n \"The cheerful alacrity with which on several occasions Mr. Roby\n yielded to the solicitations of his fellow-townsmen, by giving\n gratuitous lectures to assist their Institution, was evidence of\n his often-expressed wish to raise his less fortunate countrymen\n in the scale of intellectual and social life. I often came in\n contact with him in connexion with the Rochdale Literary and\n Philosophic Society, for which he gave several lectures on\n Tradition, Botany, and some other subjects. His lectures on the\n Linnaean system of Botany, and another series on the Physiology of\n Plants, given before our society, were of the very first\n character; displaying an amount of research, and a power of\n analysis, combined with most felicitous modes of illustration,\n rarely meeting in the same individual. The colored drawings used\n on these occasions, executed by himself and his son, would have\n done honour to any artist. Such was the popularity of the two\n botanical courses, that, by request, they were repeated in\n Manchester, and some other neighbouring towns. In illustrating\n the lectures on Tradition, the rapidity with which he could throw\n off the gable or window of an old manor-house or any object of a\n similar character, was, to me, perfectly marvellous--a few\n touches, and the effect was produced.\"\n\nThe most popular of the lectures were those on the peculiarities of the\nLancashire dialect. They were delivered to crowded audiences at several\nliterary institutions, connected with different large towns in the\ncounty. In a tolerably full abstract, given by the \"Preston Pilot,\" and\nin the original notes, there is ample proof of the highly interesting\ncharacter of these lectures. Ethnological inquiries, full of attraction\nto the lovers of that science, formed the introduction, while, to a\nLancashire audience, the charm of the whole must have been irresistible,\nand have furnished an entertainment second only to \"Mathews at Home.\"\nThe fund of anecdote, the rich racy humour which sparkled through the\nlecture, the inimitable wit of \"Tummus and Meary,\" and the equally\ninimitable tones of the voice which then gave it utterance, are still\nfresh in the recollection of many. Had the lectures been fully written\nout, they would have made a charming little Christmas book, fascinating\nalike from the information contained, and the mirth it would provoke.\nThe anecdotes are all indicated in the notes by the principal word or\nsentence, and go far to prove what the lecturer asserted, that a\nLancashire man would at any time equal an Irishman in wit.\n\nThese lectures were last delivered at Preston, in March, 1844. Having\ncommenced the series, Mr. Roby, with characteristic determination,\npersisted in carrying it through, though suffering from a severe attack\nof influenza, which he kept at bay by force of will. Immediately on his\nreturn home his health gave way. Mischief had been going on for years,\nbut the activity of his mind, and that indomitable spirit, which would\nbear extreme suffering before it complained, even to itself, had\nprevented his heeding any indications of disease, till it had pervaded\nthe whole system. The disorder baffled medical skill; change of scene\nwas tried in vain: as months rolled on his sufferings increased; and,\nthough still striving to attend to professional duties, he was utterly\nunfit to cope with care and anxiety of any kind. Physical pain rendered\nhim incapable of deriving pleasure from any of those sources which had\nheretofore afforded such rich enjoyment. Society, art, intellectual\npursuits, became not only insipid but distasteful, and with this\nsuffering a new element mingled, deep mental distress. Holy Writ speaks\nof such a thing as the heart not being \"right in the sight of God,\" and\na fearful consciousness that such was his own case, now became as \"the\narrow of the Almighty, the poison whereof drinketh up the spirit.\" An\nincreasingly vivid apprehension of the just claims of the Being who\ndemands of His creatures, the love of \"heart and mind, and soul, and\nstrength,\" a deepening insight into his own nature, augmented the\ntorturing sense of his own deficiency. In a life without reproach, spent\nin the discharge of duty, and in refined and ennobling pursuits, there\nwas nothing on which self-observation, while it looked at the outward,\ncould detect a stain. Life had hitherto been too busy, time too fully\nand pleasantly occupied, to afford leisure for self-inspection; but now\nthe ordinary routine of pursuit had been broken, and involuntary\nretirement induced; the eye was turned within, and the result was a\nconviction that GOD had not thus been loved with heart, and soul, and\nstrength; and the spirit which had so long been partially under the\npower of great principles, now awoke to feel that it must incorporate\nthem with its very life--or die. Little wonder that, on a spirit whose\nsensibilities were at once quick and strong, and on whom impressions\nonce made were singularly permanent, such discoveries should work agony\nso intense, or that those who understood not the cause of the distress,\nshould think that reason herself was giving way. Such has often been\nsaid of others, who were passing through the same crisis of their mental\nhistory, not inaptly termed \"the everlasting No!\" His mind had too much\nplay to lose its balance. A more stolid mind, or a brain like \"the\ngentle\" Cowper's, predisposed to malady, would in all probability have\ngiven way, as month after month, year after year, rolled away and\nbrought no relief. It was a suffering no friends could soothe; his\nmental conformation peculiar,--none seemed to meet its emergencies.\nBodily disease no doubt aggravated mental agony, but as\n\n \"No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels\"\n\n So\n\n \"No cure for such, till GOD who makes them heals.\"\n\nFor a long time the only relief of which his mind was susceptible, arose\nfrom his acquaintance with one in some respects similar to his own, one\nwhich understood his sufferings perfectly, for it had known the same\nboth in kind and in degree. The moral element in each, which recoiled\nfrom the divine requirements, must have taken precisely the same form of\naction. Beautiful, even from the very contrasts it presented, was the\ntrue and faithful friendship that ensued, between minds sympathising in\none point of overpowering interest, though in training and pursuits\nwidely dissimilar; and warm was the gratitude with which he ever held in\nremembrance those unwearied efforts to pour consolation into his\ntortured spirit.\n\nTo trace the mental history for three or four years, from the\ncommencement of the illness, would be too painful, even were the subject\nnot too sacred. Increasing physical disease, wearing trial of other\nkinds, asked for a spirit vigorous and happy in the Christian's\nstrength, to bear up against them; but instead of that the mind had at\nthe same time woes of its own to sustain. Left to feel as it had never\nbefore felt, its own inwrought sinfulness and utter helplessness, it was\nborne down, crushed, only rising again to suffer anew, and again to\nsink. If the promises of GOD shone out as the stars in a cloudy night,\nit was only a momentary gleam, and dense darkness covered the face of\nheaven as before. Most touching are some private papers and letters,\nwritten during this period. In the former, particularly, intense\nyearning for the consciousness of a personal share in the Saviour's\nlove, earnest longings to be able with appropriating faith to say \"_My_\nFather,\" are expressed with an emphasis, that renders them an embodiment\nof mental suffering in all its reality and severity. Afterwards, when\nthe time of trial was past, and he could look back on it and trace its\neffects, he frequently remarked, that he believed no other than the\nsevere discipline he then underwent, could have brought a spirit like\nhis to entire self-renunciation. Cant or religious pretence was alike\nrepugnant to his nature, and to his cultivated taste; but in those days\nof suffering he gained such insight into himself, as led him, pure as\nhis outward life had been, fully to appropriate the strongest\nexpressions, by which the scriptures indicate the sinfulness of human\nnature. He then recognised in this period of mental conflict and\ndistress, the direct acting of the Spirit of GOD, revealing those things\nwhich \"the natural man knoweth not.\" What were dimly apprehended\nbefore, as little more than objects of intellectual belief--the extent\nof the moral derangement of his own nature, the mystery of personal\nconnexion with the atonement of our Lord Jesus Christ--had now become\nmatters of cordial faith. Thus, raised by His power into a full\nparticipation of those things, only to be understood by such\nparticipation, his became a new existence. The secret spring of daily\nactions was changed. Never living entirely without the _fear_ of GOD as\na _controlling_ principle, he now became sensible of _love_ to Him as an\n_impelling_ principle, causing him to seek to serve Him to whom he owed\nso much, and to follow His will in all the pursuits of life.\n\nHaving so long tried in vain the various measures prescribed by the best\nmedical advice, both at home, and in different places he visited, Mr.\nRoby turned as a last resource to the Water Cure. He went to Malvern in\nthe spring of 1847; looking up, as he afterwards said, to those\nbeautiful hills, as he approached them, with the thought \"I shall never\nwalk there--I am only coming to die.\" Encouragement being given him, to\nexpect ultimate recovery, and finding the process of cure would be very\nslow, he at once broke up his establishment at Rochdale, and fixed his\nresidence for the time at Malvern. His own medical attendant considered\nhim past hope when he left the north; nor was it in the power of\nmedicine to effect a cure. When he commenced the trial of Hydropathy,\nDr. Gully pronounced the sheath of every nerve to be in a state of\nactive inflammation. Almost every aliment he took increased the\nirritation; medicine only added fuel to the flame. He pursued the water\ntreatment vigorously for some months, before he perceived any benefit,\nand to his own indomitable perseverance in following the prescribed\ndirections he owed, under the blessing of GOD, his surprising\nrestoration. A remarkably good constitution, unimpaired by excesses of\nany kind, gave every advantage to remedial measures in combating\ndisease, and in the end his case proved an instance of the perfect\nsuccess of those measures.\n\nDistinct as was his mental suffering in its true cause from the physical\nmalady, they aggravated each other, and in recovery their mutual action\nwas observable. Faith and Hope by slow degrees gained strength; the\nspirit insensibly grew calmer, the SON of GOD was seen walking on the\nwaves, and the tempest was hushed. The burning anxiety within now\nquenched in the sense of reconciliation with GOD, \"My Father\" being at\nlast the delighted cry of the spirit; there was no longer a latent\nimpediment to the complete restoration of health.\n\nThe first palpable symptom of general improvement, was the gradual\nreturn of his love for botany, and pleasure in the pursuit. This was\nnurtured by his excellent wife, who, with a delight which can only be\nimagined by those who have watched the returning health of some beloved\none, induced him to make a botanical object for their daily drives. The\nFlora of the neighbourhood contained many rare plants only known to\nhim, through Sowerby's figures or dried specimens. By degrees, amendment\nbecame more decidedly marked, his native flow of spirits began to\nreturn, though at first feebly: and she who through those years of\nsuffering--a period almost as painful to the patient's friends as to\nhimself--had nursed him with the tenderest care, and unwearied\naffection, now realized the sentiment of the poet,\n\n \"Sweet when the winter of disease is past,\n And the glad spring of health returns at last,\n On a loved cheek long bloomless, to behold\n Its first faint leaf the trembling rose unfold.\n * * * * *\n * * * * *\n \"Oh, doubly blest, who then can trusting view\n The buoyant step, the vigour-beaming hue;\n And love's fond cares recall'd, with joy divine\n Can whisper to his heart,--That work is mine!\n\n \"_Lines addressed to Mr. Wedgewood by Dr. Thomas Brown, Late\n Prof. Mor. Phil. in the Univers. of Edinb._\"\n\nShe had her reward--she lived long enough to see the object of her\naffectionate solicitude restored to health, the powers of mind and body\nreturning in full force, and was then herself prostrated by an illness\nbefore which her constitution gave way. She died peacefully and happily,\nin the faith and hope of the Gospel, just as a new year was opening with\nall its promise on others. A blow so sudden and unexpected, was\nbewildering; the companion of years was gone, the bereaved one was\nalone, and in new scenes. His efforts at cheerfulness in the society of\ncasual acquaintance, compared with the mastery feeling would gain over\nhim, when he entered into the home society of nearer friends, attested\nthe severity of this new trial. But happily for the mourner, he could\nrecur to the calm and peace of those last moments, they seemed to be to\nhim, the most precious of earthly recollections.\n\nHe once more turned to his pen, and sought a healthy solace for his\nlonely hours in mental occupation, first obtaining leave of his\nphysician, who assured him that the wish to write, intimated he might do\nso with safety. During the ensuing summer and autumn he gave what\nleisure the imperative claims of \"the cure,\" permitted, to literary\noccupation of various kinds. But still _home_ was not the same, there\nwas a kind of dislocation in the social life (if the expression may be\nallowed) he could not write as he was wont to do. He persevered, and as\nmonths rolled on regained his usual facility of composition. A tale of\nconsiderable length, founded on the characteristics of modern life,\noccupied him during the winter. Though lacking the romance of the olden\ntime, it was not deficient in stirring incident and spirited dialogue.\nIt appeared in \"Hogg's Weekly Instructor,\" from May to August 1850.\n\nThe following lines, composed after he had recommenced writing, are\namong the few which, bearing a date, allow of insertion in the right\nplace. They are now garnered among life's precious things, having been\naddressed to a family group of whom the writer of this sketch was one:\n\n \"Ye came across my path\n In life's dark lonely way,\n A gleam upon its dreary track,\n A bright but transient ray;\n Or like some vivid meteor-light,\n Which dazzling, leaves a deeper night!\n\n \"Or like an evening gleam\n Athwart some stormy sky,\n On rocks, woods, waves the radiance breaks\n In glory and in joy.\n Ere all is wrapt in doubt and gloom,\n And darkness falls o'er daylight's tomb.\n\n \"Like memories of the past,\n When life's young morn was bright;\n And all the glowing future, one\n Wide atmosphere of light.\n Ere gathering clouds the skies o'erspread\n And early hope's brief sunshine fled.\n\n \"'Twere better ne'er to taste\n Of pleasure's thrilling draught,\n Than the parch'd, fever'd, thirsty lip\n To leave ere it be quaff'd!\n 'Twere better launch on Lethe's stream,\n Than bliss to feel a bygone dream.\n\n \"To meet,--and meet no more!\n One look and then to sever;\n To feel 'tis but a parting glance\n And then 'Farewell' for ever!\n As from bright tints deep shades we borrow,\n Joys past but deepen present sorrow.\n\n \"All earthly joy must fade,\n All earthly bliss decay,\n Life but the sunshine and the shower\n Of some brief \"April day:\"\n Till death like night's grim shadow steals,\n And all the unknown at once reveals!\n\n \"And earthly idols, all\n Must perish if too dear;\n We ne'er should seek enduring bliss\n Could we but find it here.\n Our dearest, tenderest ties must break,\n Hopes wither oft, and friends forsake.\n\n \"And though your presence now\n A vision of the past;\n And those bright laughing sunny hours\n Too joyous were to last;\n Yet like the perfume of the flower\n More fragrant in the twilight hour,\n\n \"So though unseen,--beheld\n In memory's milder light,\n More tender and more hallow'd seem\n Forms too remote for sight.\n In memory's softer hues enshrin'd\n What cherish'd hopes are left behind!\n\n \"And though we meet no more,\n Though destined far apart,\n The fond remembrance lingers long\n That lingers in the heart;\n A breath, a touch, the chord may thrill,\n And all the past our bosom fill.\n\n \"Adieu! whate'er betide\n On life's unstable sea,\n In darkness or in light the Power\n Unseen your solace be.\n In joy or woe, whate'er His will,\n His hand your guide, your safety still!\n\n \"Great Malvern, May 1848.\"\n\nTo test Mr. Roby's power of language in a sportive mood, the first\nletter and last word in each line of the following acrostic were given\nhim one evening. The order of the rhymes as well as of the initial\nletters was to remain unchanged. On the following morning he produced\nthe lines completed. The Ivy Rock was a favourite haunt in a ravine on\nthe hills.\n\n \"Malvern the birth-place of English Poetry.\n The vision of Pierce Plowman from THE IVY ROCK.\"[D]\n\n \"The minstrel seer look'd out _afar_,\n His eye was keen, his glance was _long_;\n Eve deck'd her brow with one fair _star_\n In glory oft to hear his _song_.\n Visions of after-years bursting to _life_,\n Yon wide plain swept in shadows huge and _dim_\n Records of woe, and dread, and coming _strife_!\n On that lone rock, while mute his evening _hymn_\n Calm silence sate;--and through the live-long _night_\n Kindled his rapt eye in prophetic _light_.\n\n \"Malvern, March 21, 1849.\"\n\nIn the summer of 1849, Mr. Roby again married. The loved, and almost\nidolized head of a happy home, he appeared, as he had never before to\nthose who only knew him in his bereaved life, breathing an atmosphere of\nhappiness, and diffusing it around him, till even the sorrowful grew\nbright with smiles, and\n\n \"Souls by nature pitch'd too high,\n By suffering plunged too low,\"\n\nwere lifted up again into the untroubled joy of childhood. It was\nimpossible the traveller should retain his mantle of grief with such\nfervid sunshine around him. The enthusiasm of his nature gathered new\nforce from the buoyancy of recovered health, and found its own element\nin the exquisite woodland scenery lying among the recesses of the\nCotswold hills. To those who know these woods, or have once seen them in\nthe tender luxuriance of very early summer, this term is not too strong.\nThe rich botanical treasures they presented, were many of them new to\nhim. The writer cannot forget the intense pleasure with which he\ndiscovered among the last year's beech leaves, and held up to view, the\nbeautiful _Epipactis grandiflora_ (white helleborine), which he had only\nonce before seen, his companion, never. Nor the delight with which on\nanother occasion he hailed the long-sought _Listera nidus avis_\n(birds-nest ophrys), now found for the first time in its native habitat.\nNor did he lose the general impression of nature in scientific details.\nThe beautiful effects of light and shadow, the peculiar blue air tint of\nthe beech woods, every thing that went to form the perfect whole, seemed\nindividually to fill his spirit with exquisite pleasure. And as, in that\nevening's wandering through the Cranham woods, with friends whose\nspirits were kindred--looking down the hanging wood, through a\nlengthening vista, the evening mist was seen creeping on, its hues\nchanging gradually from soft rose-colour to deep purple, the novel and\nalmost unearthly beauty of the scene was such, that all caught his\nrapture, and felt that never before had any thing so vividly imaged the\nparadise of the spirit-world. It might have been the painter's\nconception of Bunyan's land of Beulah.\n\nThe early autumn of the year was spent among the Cumberland mountains.\nFurnished with a botanical tin, pressing-book, and sketch-book--the\nprovision for the day slung at the saddle-bow, some delightful\nexcursions of about five-and-twenty miles a day were made. Nothing could\nbe more congenial with his buoyant, independent spirit, than the freedom\nof these mountain rambles--professional guides dispensed with, he always\nsquire of dames, and horses too. Starting early in the morning, dining\none day on the mountain's brow, the next in the recesses of Borrowdale,\namid the haunts of the rarer ferns, or under the shadow of Honister\nCrag, in the silence of the mountain solitudes; and then with the\ndeclining sun, treasure-laden, wending our homeward way as the evening\nshadows crept on, until,\n\n \"Every leaf was lost\n In the dark hedges,\"\n\nand the road lengthened itself out as if interminably, till at last the\nlights twinkled cheeringly as Keswick came in sight.\n\nWhile thus with youth renewed--for certainly Hydropathy in Mr. Roby's\ncase seemed to effect more than the mere removal of disease--life became\none long holiday of enjoyment, it was also a period of earnest work.\n\n \"Like as a star,\n That maketh not haste\n And taketh not rest,\"\n\nhe\n\n \"Was ever fulfilling\n His GOD-given hest.\"\n\nWith no claims of a secular profession upon him, and with a spirit\nchastened and hallowed by suffering, he devoted his energies to\nliterature principally, but at the same time he was prompt to use his\npowers in any way for the good of his fellow-men. Impressed more deeply\nthan ever with the conviction that in the faith, and practice of\nChristianity alone, lie the true happiness and virtue of our race; and\nthat in the exercise of his talents, man's only adequate aim is to be\nfound in the service of GOD, he sought by a more constant infusion of\nChristian principles, in the productions of his pen, to give a\ncorresponding tone to the minds of his readers; thus working\n\n \"As ever in his great Task-master's eye.\"\n\nBearing in mind a truth burnt in by affliction, how entirely he owed\nlife and immortality to a Saviour's love, he \"loved much\" in return, and\nfound in that love, a motive for unsparing labour. During his stay at\nKeswick, he was placed in circumstances which called upon him to\nconduct the worship of a few poor people from Sabbath to Sabbath. That\nself-distrust which so eminently characterised him before GOD, was\nimmediately roused. The pleasure he had known in swaying large\naudiences, in striking out from listening countenances the sympathetic\nflash, recurred to his mind, and he feared, lest in holy things\nself-seeking should intrude; \"I am so afraid of running before I am\nsent,\" was the remark made in confidence, where each feeling of the soul\nwas uttered as it rose. But the call was clear and distinct, the voice\nof \"the Master\" was heard and obeyed. Sad and strange would it have been\nif the tongue so eloquent for the gratification of his fellow-men, had\nbeen silent when their highest welfare was to be promoted--if that voice\nraised at man's request for his passing pleasure, had been dumb for God.\nAnd doubtless the light of the spirit-world, which even when we only\ncatch it dimly reflected from the mantles of the ascending ones,\nresolves into\n\n \"The baseless fabric of a vision,\"\n\nthe objects of earthly ambition, has now confirmed the judgment passed\nby the faithful spirit, whose simple aim while here, was to \"_do the\nwill_\" of his Father in heaven.\n\nThe Religious Tract Society's Monthly Messenger, for September of that\nyear, No 63, was from his pen. It had an extensive circulation, and a\nslight fact relative to it, that has recently come to light, is doubly\ninteresting when it is borne in mind, how intensely the writer of the\nTract had suffered, and how deep in consequence was his sympathy with\nall mental distress. A poor woman in the south of England was so weighed\ndown with family troubles, that she came one day to the resolution of\nending them that night, by throwing herself into a river which ran hard\nby her dwelling. Before evening, a gentleman who was not aware of the\nstate of her affairs, put into her hands a copy of the tract referred\nto. The inquiry with which it was headed, \"Are you fit to die?\" arrested\nher attention. She felt she was not fit to die, and her resolution was\nshaken--she deferred, at least for that night, fulfilling her intention.\nThe conviction of her unfitness for another world deepened; she was led\nto seek forgiveness and renewal of spirit--she found the way of peace,\nand the last thing heard of her, was that her worldly circumstances also\nwere prospering. It may be worth observing, that probably the tract had\nthe more point, entered more into the heart of the reader, from the fact\nof its having been written with an individual strongly before the\nauthor's mind. A young woman, whose life was rapidly going in confirmed\nconsumption, while she was utterly unaware of her danger, had excited\nhis deepest interest. Merry, buoyant, well disposed towards every one\nand every thing, except the subject of religion; her dislike or fixed\naversion to which went beyond all bounds. The tract was written, but\nbefore it was published he had lost all traces of her.\n\nMost conspicuous during this journey was his untiring industry combined\nwith the variety of his pursuits, no one of which seemed to interfere\nwith another. The industrious botanist, and equally industrious artist,\nyet found leisure for careful reading, and the use of the pen. Every\nmoment had its occupation; the rainy days were devoted to literary work\nor the finishing of sketches, broken by a quiet game of chess. While at\nBowness Mr. Roby enjoyed one high gratification, a few details of which,\nthough given in a private letter, may be inserted without apology, as\nthe subject is of general interest.\n\n \"Saturday, Sept. 30th.\n\n \"We have seen Wordsworth to-day. As we accompanied friends of my\n husband's (the Rev. J. H. and Mrs. Addison, of Birthwaite Abbey)\n who happened to owe Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth a morning visit, we\n did not feel intruders. As usual the day was brilliant, we had a\n delightful row up the lake, the trees on the islands had the rich\n scarlet and russet tints of autumn, while those on the shore\n still retained their soft green, making the edges of the lake\n perfectly verdant. A flight of snow that fell yesterday covered\n the tops of the mountains which came out in the full sunshine,\n pure white against the brightest of blue skies. Past the lake, we\n rowed up the Rotha as far as it is practicable, and there leaving\n the boats,--cloaks as well--moored to the margin of the stream,\n we took a beautiful path, through private grounds, on the left of\n the river, passing Fox How, from whence I bring you an ivy relic,\n to Rydal Mount. _Mr._ Wordsworth, (as of course he is here,) was\n just sitting down to dinner; he came out and begged us to stay in\n the drawing-room, or in the grounds if we preferred it, till\n dinner was over. We chose to stroll about, which gave time for a\n sketch. After a short time, Mr. Wordsworth came and took us into\n the drawing-room to see Mrs. W. He was not so tall as I had\n expected, probably the effect of years; his voice somewhat\n indistinct, gave indications of old age, not so his ideas or\n expressions. The lower part of his face is deeply furrowed; but\n when sitting with his back to the light, animated in\n conversation, every thing is lost in its glowing expression,\n except his noble expanse of forehead. He chatted away on literary\n matters with my husband, evidently with hearty pleasure. They\n talked of a distinguished living writer; of his style, Mr.\n Wordsworth remarked, that every sentence seemed finished by\n itself, which was never the case with our best writers--that\n reviewing had an injurious effect on the style of a literary man,\n the reviewer has ever to be saying something that will tell,\n every sentence must be striking.\n\n \"Allusion was made to a new neighbour; Wordsworth observed that\n she was clever, but apt to be imposed on; he confessed that on\n the whole, he was sorry she had come there, on account of her\n habit of not going to a place of worship: the example might do no\n harm in London, Manchester, and those large places, where people\n did not know their next-door neighbour, but here it was\n different, and no good she could do would be equal to the harm of\n her example; 'but,' he added, 'I like her benevolence, and\n forgive many things for that.' One other remark he made must not\n be forgotten; speaking of a writer whom he considered not a safe\n guide on account of his prejudices, he said, 'He is so prejudiced\n he does not know when he lies.'\n\n \"Altogether the visit was one of high delight. There was so much\n more enthusiasm about him, than from the philosophic cast of his\n poems I had expected. The genial glow of his manner, the warmth\n of his shake of hands at parting, and especially the quick\n pleasure with which he turned round to his wife whenever she made\n a remark, and the affectionate tone in which, when he did not\n catch it, he would inquire, 'What did you say, Mary'? quite won\n my heart. He impressed us, too, as a Christian living in\n obedience to, and communion with Heaven. His personal character\n seemed to come out with a completeness one would hardly have\n believed possible in our interview. I shall understand and love\n all he has written, the better for this visit.\"\n\nReturning homewards, Mr. Roby made several visits among his family and\nfriends. Little was it thought when one gratification and another were\ndeferred owing to the lateness of the season till the _next_ visit, that\nthis was the _last_. The cordiality and pleasure with which he was\nwelcomed, left a delightful recollection of Lancashire and Yorkshire\nhospitality. The country had not yet lost all its beauty, the rich\nAutumn tints of October were still lingering on the Bolton Woods: the\nWharfe gave forth his peculiar music as he rushed along his rocky bed in\nthe open meadow, or dashed madly over the fearful Strid, till even those\naccustomed to gaze drew back from the fascination. One day was devoted\nto York, the metropolis of his native North. His familiarity with the\nremains of antiquity so pre-eminently abounding in that city, and his\nenthusiasm equal to his knowledge, rendered him one of the best of\nCiceroni. Ever vivid will be the impressions of that day; the grandeur\nof the Minster, as the South Front, with its beautiful marygold window\ncomes suddenly into view at the end of the old narrow street; the\nsolemnity which seemed to pervade the very atmosphere within; the seven\nsisters memorialized in those unique chaste lights which bear their\nname--and never was the light of Heaven intercepted by aught so soft, so\nsubdued, so meet for a Temple of the Most High, with no distraction from\nhigher thought in its beauty--and the incomparable west windows, where\nthe tracery is so light, and the colouring so gorgeous, that it seems as\nif the stone work were melting into gems. And how was all that glory\nheightened as it was reflected back from his spirit, the true home of\nthe beauty which the material can only symbolize.\n\nThe Red Tower, the scene of one of his published tales; the site of the\nRoman Praetorium, the scene of another; the unrivalled Museum gardens,\nwith their Roman and Gothic remains, the Multangular Tower and St.\nMary's Abbey, the city walls, &c., &c., all that could be seen in one\nday, by the help of good walking, and unflagging spirits, contributed to\nour enjoyment. What could not be brought in, was left for future years,\nso fondly reckoned on, when a stay of weeks or months in the city was to\nallow all its recesses to be explored, and the spirit of the place to be\nthoroughly imbibed. Yet beyond all comparison with the other pleasures\nof the day, great as they were, was the enjoyment in a manner created by\nhis intense delight in the present, and in the plans for the\nfuture;--yet of that future \"if the Master will,\" was ever on his lips.\nThe hour that came \"as a thief in the night,\" found him watching.\n\nBy Christmas, Mr. Roby had settled down at Malvern, and commenced his\nwinter's work. His habit was to devote the first hour or half hour after\nbreakfast, to religious reading, selecting such works as bore on\npersonal or devotional, rather than on theoretic or polemical subjects.\nAmong the last he read, were some new favorites:--Hodge's \"Way of Life,\"\nand his \"Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans;\" Alleine's \"Heaven\nOpened,\" and Sheppard's \"Devotional Thoughts.\" \"Milner's Sermons,\" which\nhad long held the highest place in his estimation, were frequently in\nhand. The rest of the forenoon was given to literary occupation, as were\nthe evenings when not spent in society. The only interruption to this\nquiet course of life, was the delivery of his Lectures on Botany; (which\nhad been given two months previously at Northampton,) before the\nWorcestershire Natural History Society, in January, 1850. This would\nscarcely be worthy of mention, were it not for a circumstance which\narose out of the engagement. While arranging the diagrams preparatory to\nthe delivery of the last lecture, Mr. Roby incautiously stepped too near\nthe back of the platform, which was protected only by a curtain, his\nleft foot slipped, and the right leg was bent back from the knee on\nwhich the whole weight of the body was consequently thrown. He had,\nhowever, the self-command to go through the lecture without in the least\nbetraying what he suffered, except by the lameness involuntarily shown\nwhen he had occasion to move in order to point out the different\nillustrations; but the agony he endured was intense, and he reached home\nsick and faint from its long continuance. His power of bearing pain\noften excited surprise and admiration in those who witnessed it, so\ncomplete in his case was the \"power of the soul over the body.\" It was\nmental, not bodily, anguish that he dreaded. Mr. Roby never quite\nrecovered from the effects of this accident, though, contrary to the\nexpectation of those who were acquainted with the extent of the injury,\nby the time he left Malvern in June, they were not perceptible in his\nwalk. The muscles, however, had not fully regained their play, the act\nof kneeling was difficult and painful; mounting gaps and fences in his\nbotanical rambles still more so; he was ever fearful of a stray stone,\nfeeling that a trifle might occasion a fall: and this, it is\napprehended, must have increased his peril on the awful morning of the\n18th of June.\n\nIn spite of pain, he worked hard during the winter and spring. He\nfinished a series of papers, containing a popular introduction to\nBotany; wrote two reviews, one for the Literary Gazette on Dr. Addison's\nrecent work on Consumption; the other, for Hogg's Weekly Instructor, on\na work which had just appeared by the author of \"Dr. Hookwell,\" entitled\n\"Dr. Johnson, his Religious Life and Death.\" But his principal\noccupation was the composition of a series of tales, intended to\nillustrate the influence of Christianity in successive periods. At this\nhe laboured incessantly. The consecration of his talents in any way\ntheir nature admitted to the service of HIM whom with George Herbert he\ndelighted to call \"My Master,\" was the mainspring of his untiring\nenergy. And when only once the voice of affection suggested that he was\nworking too hard, he replied, as though with a presentiment of the\nsudden coming on of night to him, to the effect that he had not long to\nwork, adding, \"I must not sit still and see the stream run by.\" He\nprepared six of the tales (deferring one for the fourth century till he\nhad received a copy of a work which a friend had promised on the\nDruidical Worship), thus bringing the series down to the close of the\nseventh century, when superstitious rites and observances began to\noverspread Christendom. At the end of the closing tale he glances at the\ngathering darkness, and thus concludes with the last words he ever wrote\nfor the press:--\"In our next we shall trace some of those mysterious\ndispensations,--inscrutable to us, but doubtless among the 'all things'\nwhich work together for good, and 'for the furtherance of his gospel.'\"\nIt is not surprising that these words, little noticed when first\nlistened to, on the completion of the story, should, when seen again a\nfew weeks after the sad catastrophe, seem like words of comfort which\naffection had unconsciously traced against the day of need. Little more\nwas accomplished besides sketching out future occupation for the pen in\nold and new directions. An instance of the latter now vividly recurs to\nmind: seeing Tieck's Phantasien one morning on a friend's table, he\nborrowed it, to ascertain if a translation of the tales would suit a\npurpose he had in view, and to try how two minds could work together.\nThe experiment was perfectly successful. Very slightly acquainted with\nthe language himself, the tale was read off to him in what English, or\nsometimes half Germanized English, was at command: the rough-hewn\nthought was instantly apprehended in all its beauty and meaning by the\nlistener, and given back, in his own polished style, rather \"a\ntransfusion than translation.\" The pleasure was unexpectedly cut short\nin the midst of a tale, after the second or third evening, and it was\nwith a feeling, even then recognised as akin to foreboding, that the\nunfinished volume was returned to the friend whose sudden departure from\nMalvern thus put an end to the delightful occupation.\n\nAs the spring advanced, and the effects of the accident were so much\ndiminished as to allow of the free exercise of walking, Mr. Roby renewed\nhis botanical rambles, generally in the society of friends; and very\npleasant were these little parties that wound over the hill-top or\nthrough the woody lanes and green meadows of Herefordshire, in search of\nplants to supply his own and his friends' desiderata, or those of the\nLondon Botanical Society, of which he was a member. And, quick as was\nhis eye for rare plants, it caught even more quickly those beautiful\neffects on the landscape which the changeful skies of spring so often\nproduce, making a perfect picture of an old farm-stead a broken\nforeground, contrasting with the soft retiring distance or the gently\nswelling slopes, where beneath the trees scarcely yet in leaf the wind\nflowers bowed as the breeze passed over them.\n\nPerhaps the crowning botanical pleasure of the season was his lighting\nupon the beautiful _Pinguicula vulgaris_ (common Butterwort) in a spongy\nplace on the hill. He seemed the very personification of happiness, as\nhe hastened home, with buoyant step and sparkling eye, to one whose\ndesire to see, equalled his own to show, this pride of our bogs. Often\nin the preceding autumn at the Lakes had the pale green star-like tuft\nof leaves called forth eloquent praises of its beauty, and corresponding\nregrets that the time of its flowering was over for the season. The\nLancashire Asphodel was the one other flower which he most regretted not\nbeing able to show, as its withered spikes indicated again and again\nwhere it had bloomed.\n\nSpring was deepening into summer, when Mr. Roby made arrangements for a\njourney into Scotland. Furnished, through the kindness of a friend, with\nintroductions to the best society in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh,\nwith the prospect of the meeting of the British Association, and the\nanticipation of renewing mountain rambles, he looked forward to the\nsummer with raised expectations.\n\nIn approaching the last few hours the writer feels the alternative lies\nbetween making the slightest possible reference to them, or casting\nherself on the reader's sympathy and indulgence, and using details which\nwere written three years since, with near friends, rather than the\npublic, before her mind. Thrown suddenly into circumstances where the\nsway of grief was broken by constantly recurring necessity for thought\nand action, the mind was excited and over-strained to incessant exertion\nrather than stunned, and under the prolonged excitement, it could go\nagain over scenes which it is now too much a coward to encounter. She,\ntherefore, hopes there is no error in adopting the course now pursued,\nand embodying the private MS. in the general narrative.\n\nWe left Malvern for Egremont June 7th. The ten days passed there were\noccupied with the interests of the two boys whom their father was\nanxious to see set out in life. When he came in tired with a long\nmorning spent in Liverpool, after a few moments' rest, he would turn to\na sketch that had been in progress during his absence, and, fatigue all\nvanishing, would call for pencil and colours, take his seat at the\nwindow, and go on with the drawing. It was a great favourite of his. Of\nall the pleasures with which life was replete, none delighted him more\nthan this, both working on the same picture, without betraying by any\nwant of unity in the design or harmony in the colouring, that two minds\nhad been engaged. _That drawing_ alas! which he fondly called \"the best\nyet,\" lies in the ill-fated wreck.\n\nPleasant, and yet painful, are the memoirs of evening rambles along the\nbeach watching the vessels as they came and went. One elegant yacht,\nwhich his artist eye detected among the numerous craft, is well\nremembered: he fixed her form in his mind, and destined her for \"the\ndrawing\"--one of the many unfulfilled purposes.\n\nThe last sabbath came, and it was a day of peace. We worshipped GOD\ntogether; that hymn of Dr. Watts', so great a favourite of his from its\ntouching contrasts,--\n\n \"Give me the wings of Faith to rise,\" &c.\n\nopened the last service. As we walked home in the evening we felt\nmentally invigorated: he seemed more than ever penetrated with a sense\nof consecration to the service of GOD, and we communed of how, in our\ncoming sojourn amid new scenes, He might best be served. \"He will make\nit plain, He will point out our work for us,\" was my beloved husband's\nclosing remark.\n\nAt three o'clock p.m. on Monday 17th June we embarked on board the\nsteamer Orion for Scotland, hoping to reach Glasgow by ten, and\nEdinburgh by one o'clock the next day. Nothing could be calmer than the\nsea, and we walked for hours on the deck, watching any vessel that came\nin sight, and catching at intervals distant glimpses of the coast. Our\nfavourite spot was a narrow ledge at the stern immediately behind the\nwheel. It just gave us footing, and enabled us to look over and watch\nthe track left by the vessel as she cut rapidly through the waves. The\nwhite foam, the various shades of pale green, darkening as we seemed to\nlook down into the depths of the ocean, recalled descriptions of the\nglaciers, and the correctness of the supposed resemblance my husband\nconfirmed from his own recollections.\n\nEvening wore on--we took our last meal together on deck. The Isle of Man\ncame in sight; a sketch was taken for his approbation; and the bright\nsmile that rewarded it is sunshine even now. All recollections of him\nare happy: the animation and hope with which he repeatedly expressed his\nbelief that his daughter's health, which was not firm, would be\ncompletely established by the voyage; the quiet satisfaction of his\nmanner as we sat enjoying the present, sometimes glancing forward to the\nmorrow, all bespoke happiness. Indeed, all the characteristics of a\nhappy life seemed to meet in those few hours. There was the earnestness\nand the tenderness of affection: there was, too, its playfulness. There\nwas the thought of still holier things: strong was the wish he expressed\nthat we could have been at the lowly meeting for prayer, which was\nannounced the night before for that evening. There was the love and\nadmiration of nature, as the glories of sunset deepened behind the Manx\nmountains, and from his post of observation he again and again, in his\nown earnest and animated manner, called me to his side.\n\nChess--that recreation which seemed ever to have the effect on his mind\nwhich exercise out of doors has on the jaded frame--was then resorted\nto; and having found an antagonist, he went down into the saloon for a\ngame. As we were passing the light-house at the northern extremity of\nthe Isle of Man, which he had expressed a great wish to see, I called\nhim up. After watching it for a minute he went down again, remarking the\ngame would soon be finished.\n\nIn order that neither lady should be left alone, particularly as one was\nin delicate health, it was arranged that he should take a berth in the\ngentlemen's cabin, and his daughter and I have a small cabin to\nourselves, our cabin and his being as near as possible.\n\nThe last lady who remained above besides myself was the niece of Dr.\nBurns. We had very agreeable conversation. She had taken the trip many\ntimes, and I anticipated the pleasure my husband would have, when we met\nat the breakfast-table in the morning, in making so pleasant and\nintelligent an acquaintance.\n\nWhen we parted for the night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, I went\ndown into the saloon to make a few arrangements for the morning, and,\nhalf afraid lest a sudden diversion of his ideas should lose my husband\nthe honour of victory, was just beginning some little apology for the\ninterruption, when he looked up with a smile, that said, \"you are no\ninterruption,\" and replied \"I am coming directly.\" I returned on deck\nonly for a short time, when, thinking it better to retire, and finding\nbeds were making up in the saloon for the night, I called the steward\nand committed his dressing case to his keeping. Oh, that I had waited!\nbut had I, I should have lost that blessed promise of speedy re-union as\nthe last words I ever heard from him.\n\nMy husband had more than once said to me, \"Do not undress,\" and to that,\nunder the providence of God, I believe Lilla and I owed our safety. I\nfell asleep about twelve o'clock. When the shock came, and the working\nof the engines, which even in one's sleep was heard, suddenly ceased, we\nwere instantly aroused; and, looking at my watch to see the hour, in\norder to have some known fact by which to collect oneself, I found it\nwas a quarter past one a.m. I jumped down from the berth, and, after\nhastily swallowing a little brandy and water that happened to be in the\ncabin, to check the sudden sick feeling of fright, put on bonnet and\ncloak, and went on deck to learn what was the matter, first calling at\nmy husband's cabin door to see if he were there. The gentlemen assured\nme he was up and gone, and knowing, as I did, his intention of not\nundressing, and his quick habit of movement, I was satisfied that I\nshould find him on deck. He was not there, at least not on the\nafter-deck, where we had been together. All hands had evidently rushed\nto the fore-part of the vessel, whence the alarm came, and doubtless he\nhad gone there at once, to ascertain what was the matter before he\nalarmed us. Persons on deck said we were too near land, had run\na-ground, but should be off presently. The light at the harbour was\ndistinctly seen rather behind us, to our right; as was the high ground\nabove Port Patrick, apparently a very little distance off; while the fog\nconcealed the promontory right a-head of us, against which we must have\ndashed in a few moments, had we not struck at the time we did. I went\ndown again to tell Lilla that they said there was no danger, but at the\nsame time assisted her to throw a few things hastily on, and then went\non deck. In the meantime my husband had not come to us. I went to his\ncabin door again, to ask if he were there; but the inmates were in such\nconfusion they could give me no answer. Returning up the gang-way again,\nI met the steward, and stood some minutes under the lamp, while he\nlooked down his way-bill, to ascertain that I was right in my husband's\nnumber. He assured me that we should get off. On deck once again, I\nperceived that the vessel inclined much more, that the fore-part had\nsunk considerably: the noise and confusion were all there. The\nafter-deck was comparatively free from persons; a few, indeed, were\ntrying to lower one of the boats. We walked about, looking for my\nhusband, who was, I have now no doubt, entangled among the crowd of\npersons in the fore-part, where most of the two hundred on board had\nrun. He must have been almost the first on deck; others rushed after him\nin that direction: a rope--the slightest thing catching the weak\nleg--would throw him down, and, with the noise and confusion, which at\nany time would have been bewildering, it must have been impossible for\nhim to disentangle himself. What hindered me from running down into the\ncrowd to look for him, I know not, unless it were the persuasion that\nhe would instinctively come to the spot where we had been together, as I\nhad done; the expectation each moment that he would come seemed to fill\nmy mind: it never once occurred to me that he might be in greater danger\nthan ourselves. Only the conviction that the will of God was done can\nprevent the mind from agonizing longings for that night to come over\nagain, were it a thousand times, for the merest chance of trying to save\nhim.\n\nThe vessel was perceptibly going down in the fore-part, when the captain\njumped on the skylight, and assured the passengers that if they could\nremain in the vessel they would be saved. This seemed probable, as the\nshore boats were seen in the twilight putting towards us; but, alas! we\nwere now too rapidly sinking to allow of their near approach. The vessel\nlurched gradually towards the shore. We had placed ourselves on the part\nwhich, from the position of the ship, would be longest above water, with\nthe foot resting on the ledge, where we had so happily stood in the\nafternoon. It enabled us to grasp a rope which came down from the\nmizen-mast to the edge of the vessel, and there awaited her going down,\nwhich I now saw was inevitable. We felt the power of God could save us,\nif such were His will, or His mercy receive us to Himself: it was not a\nnew thing to approach Him, or to resign ourselves into His hands; it was\nno strange God, but our long-loved Father in Heaven, before whom we\nwere about to appear. So we rested with calm confidence on that most\nblessed assurance, \"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,\"\nand committed ourselves to our Saviour's hands.\n\nIn a few minutes, a sudden hissing excited fears of an explosion, and we\nsank immediately, the hot water rushing up to us as we went down. Rising\nagain, before my head was above water, I felt something at the back of\nmy hand: I instinctively grasped it--it was a rope. A moment after I was\non the surface. I exchanged the rope for a spar, and turning round my\nhead to ask for Lilla, found, to my inexpressible joy, she was close\nbehind me, just as we had sunk. This cheered us both with hope of\neventual safety. But where was one far dearer? I grasped with my left\nhand one of those fenders made of netted cords, which are used to\nprevent ships coming into too close contact with each other, or with the\nharbour; but it was hard work to keep up. We encouraged each other, and,\nrecollecting that the human body is lighter than the same bulk of water,\nwe tried to float; but this was no easy matter. The number of persons\nstruggling in the water agitated it, and in the endeavour to keep it out\nof the ears by raising the head, the equilibrium was disturbed, and the\nfeet sank, and with that the dread of going down again came. By the\nstopping of my watch at half-past one, it afterwards appeared that a\nquarter of an hour elapsed between the striking of the vessel and her\ngoing down, and probably nearly as long passed between our rising and\nour being picked up by the shore boats. It was a work of some difficulty\nand time, when they came up, to extricate us from the ropes: our\nbenumbed limbs and weakened frames rendered us incapable of making any\neffort ourselves. \"Never mind, you are come among Christian people,\" was\nthe boatman's exclamation, when he had taken me into the boat, and never\nwas truer word spoken. The heart-felt sympathy and substantial kindness\nwe received from all classes could not have been exceeded, and can\nhardly be imagined. It is impossible to speak too strongly of the\ngoodness and care of kind Mrs. Hannay, who first received us, and whose\nhusband formed and superintended the admirable arrangements by which so\nmany were saved. Placed in bed, and hot cordials being administered, the\nwarmth gradually returned to our benumbed limbs, and we felt _we_ were\nrestored to life. Dear Lilla began to indulge hope that her papa was\nsaved too; but I felt he was with GOD, he was so spiritually near; and\nwhen the ring he usually wore was brought me, the agony of that moment\nonly confirmed what I knew too well before. Even the catastrophe,\nfearful as it was, could scarcely be called unexpected; I felt that what\nI had been looking for had come, for we had both felt we were too happy\nfor this world. He had himself often exclaimed \"how will all this end?\nit cannot last.\" It was a mournful but a blessed thing to gaze again on\nthat beloved face, with all the glow of health upon it, and more than a\nplacid, a bright smile--but to part from it thus! Even yet I cannot\nassociate death in the ordinary sense with it.\n\nThe first words of comfort, when we knew the extent of our loss, were\nfrom the Rev. A. Urquhart and his sister; and precious were their\nsympathy and manifold kindness. The most deeply grateful feelings will\never be associated with the thought of the Rev. S. Balmer, in whose\nhospitable manse we remained for many days, while Mrs. Balmer nursed us\nas a sister. There was another bond between us, besides that of our\ncommon humanity,--that of Christianity. We felt that we were not with\nstrangers, but with friends who shared every feeling, that we were all\nlooking from the same point of view, and recognising the same hand.\nThere were personal links too--fellow-sufferers came in to whom my\nbeloved husband's works were known. On the shelves of the manse library\nwere those of my own venerable relative, the late Dr. Ryland, of\nBristol; and Lilla found that her mamma's brother-in-law, the late Rev.\nJ. Ely, of Leeds, had been known to our host. Trifling as such things\nwere, they brought a feeling akin to comfort. There is a gratification\nin mentioning the names of friends to whom so much is owing, and it\nwould be ungrateful not to add that of Mr. and Mrs. Hunter Blair of\nDunskaie, whose proffered kindnesses were more than the desirableness of\nremaining near the shore would allow us to accept.[E] Truly were we\n\"_an hungered, and ye gave us meat_; we were _thirsty, and ye gave us\ndrink_, we were _strangers, and ye took us in; naked, and ye clothed\nus_; we were _sick, and ye visited us_.\" Be the blessing of \"those that\nwere ready to perish\" upon them.\n\nFor no kindness is gratitude so deeply felt as for that which aided the\nheart's cherished wish to have those remains, so loved and so precious,\nremoved from beside that ever moaning sea, where they could never have\nbeen thought of, without all the horrors of that scene recurring too. To\nhis own family grave, in the burial-ground of the Independent Chapel,\nRochdale, they were borne on Saturday the 22d; followed by members of\nhis family, and about forty gentlemen of the town and neighbourhood, who\nthus spontaneously expressed their sense of his loss. _There_ now rests\n\"all that could die\" of the man of high intellect, of the loved and\nhonoured, the loving and confiding husband.\n\nFarewell! a brief farewell! nay, no farewell to _thee_--_thou_ art not\nsevered from us. Spirit as thou art, thou still comest to live and blend\nwith ours in the dim twilight, and when the hum of the world is busy\naround us. And when we bow in prayer to the Father of Spirits, we feel\nthat we are come not only to \"Jesus the Mediator,\" but to \"the spirits\nof just men made perfect,\" and we worship together in company. Farewell,\nthen, only thou beloved form, whose radiant smile seemed to tell there\nhad been no gathering of the darkness of death, only a stepping from\nmortal into immortal LIFE; and farewell, even to thee, only for a\nseason, for we know that \"them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with\nhim.\" We shall yet see thee again, and dwell with thee in eternal\nre-union, in a world where the very memory of thy loss shall have\nvanished, for \"there shall be no more sea.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe foregoing brief sketch, little more than the enumeration of ordinary\nevents and literary pursuits, would alone convey a very inadequate idea\nof one whose character was peculiarly his own. One of the many\ndefinitions by which it has been attempted to analyse the subtle nature\nof genius is \"the power of interpreting nature.\" In the case of Mr.\nRoby, it took the form of art, and he laboured in her train, whether\nwith pen or pencil, rather than in the service of science. Looking over\nthe face of nature, he would catch her slightest hints, and transfer to\nhis paper--not just what met the ordinary gaze, but--a picture. As if\nnature by her scattered rocks and wandering clouds, gave him in rude\nsymbolic language, her thought of beauty, and as he with initiated eye,\nread the meaning, there presently grew under his pencil the full\ninterpretation, a silent poem, which every passer by might more or less\ncomprehend, and enjoy.\n\nAnd were it the _voice_ of nature that met his ear, that voice whose\nfloating music so few perceive, it had as ready an interpreter. When in\nthe social circle, or in the busy street, the inner sense caught the\ninarticulate sounds, he would note them down, and present to others the\nmelody which had charmed himself.\n\nAnd eloquently would nature speak to him of truths pertaining to\nhumanity; felicitously were they apprehended and expressed, he lingering\nmeanwhile till she had taught all her meaning.\n\n \"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!\"\n\nsaid Shakespeare. The conception of a similar scene, and, no doubt, the\nunrecognised remembrance of this line, suggested,\n\n \"How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps.\"\n\nThere a copyist would have stopped, but _he_ was in close communion with\nnature, listened himself to her teachings, and learned more.\n\n \"How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps,\n Fair image woman of thy maiden breast\n Unmoved by love. Anon some vagrant breath\n Ruffles its surface, and its pure still light\n In tremulous pulses heaves;--brighter, perchance,\n The feverish glitter, but its rest is o'er!\"\n _Duke of Mantua._\n\nThe descriptions of nature in his writings are part of this ministry of\ninterpretation. All see, but who, beside the gifted, can either by pen\nor pencil\n\n \"stay\n Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape,\"\n\npermitting not\n\n \"the thin smoke to escape,\n Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day.\"\n WORDSWORTH'S _Sonnets_.\n\nOur great Maker gives to some men general excellence of parts, so as to\nsecure success in whatever pursuit they follow; others are more\nexquisitely moulded, and receive from His hand that peculiar and\nindestructible form of genius, which no external circumstances can\naffect. It was that general superiority of abilities, which would alone\nhave secured Mr. Roby eminence in any walk of life he had chosen; but\nthe mechanical routine of monetary transactions could not prevent the\nartist's eye from guiding his pencil, render the ear deaf to the latent\nmelody, or hinder for a moment the genius stamped as creative by its\nMaker from peopling the old ruins of the Past with living forms of\nbeauty or of terror. Education could no more train mere excellence of\nparts to this, than any process of progressive development raise the\nlower orders of creation into the higher.\n\nCombined with the poetic fancy was a character of high moral tone, a\ndisposition, generous, open-hearted, and impetuous, sensitive, and\nconfiding; irresistibly drawn towards the supernatural, yet as prone to\nhumour. That fine purity of feeling which marked his writings, was\nequally a personal quality. His sense of honour was quick, as his\nstandard was high. Naturally he would have preferred death itself to the\nslightest shade of dishonour on his name. Faithful to the command\nimplied in the inspired delineation of the upright man, it might be\ntaken for the description of his own course,--\"he that sweareth to his\nown hurt and changeth not.\" Incapable himself of mean or sordid action,\nhe never anticipated it in others; unselfish to a degree, he perhaps\ncalculated too much on the same generosity of feeling in the world. The\neditor of the Gentleman's Magazine, in a notice, which appeared in\nOctober 1850, alludes to \"his well-known liberality to literary men,\" a\nreference amply confirmed by other incidental testimony; but though\nliterary acquaintances were often the topic of home conversation, he\nnever spoke of any kindness it had been in his power to show them. It\nwas the highest luxury he knew, thus to mitigate the perplexities or\nwants of others, but it was only by accident that his family would\ndiscover it. Even when he dropped money into a poor man's hand, he\nwould hurry away as if he had done something wrong, and wanted to forget\nit.\n\nAnother phase of the same disposition, was the generous pleasure with\nwhich he regarded the gifts or acquirements of others. Most cordially\ndid he recognise talent of any kind, no matter in whom, or under what\nform it appeared. He was as free from envious or jealous feeling as from\ncommon selfishness. This arose from a fine nature,--which embraced as\nkindred spirits those from whom morbid self-love might have shrunk as\nrivals--not from an overweening or even just sense of his own\nsuperiority: in that he was unusually deficient.\n\nIn truth his want of self-valuation, almost of appreciation of his own\npowers, was very noticeable. He would exercise his talents, as a bird\ndoes its power of song, for very pleasure, but without any thought of\ndisplay. \"I know,\" he would say, \"that many others cannot do the things\nI do, but I do not feel as if I had done anything worth thinking of, it\nfalls so far below the point I wish to reach.\" His delight in giving\npleasure supplied this want of the Phrenologist's _Self-esteem_, as\nregarded others, but to himself, the lack of it, joined to his extremely\nsensitive disposition, was in fact a destitution of defensive armour;\nhence it was in the power of minds far inferior to his own to torture\nhim. A similar deficiency was the absence of that worldly wisdom, which\nin combination with a fine and generous disposition, is so valuable to\nits possessors. The deprivation of it occasioned a transparent\nsimplicity of character, which again left him too often at the mercy of\ncoarse ungenerous natures.\n\nThat intense yearning for sympathy, which was noticed as a\ncharacteristic of his childhood, followed him through life, and seemed\nto increase with his years. His many resources, though capable of\nyielding the purest pleasure, could not fill the void. They concealed\nthe longing from observers, but left the heart often aching. Frank and\nconfiding himself, he looked for the same frankness in others. The\nslightest reserve chilled and wounded him, and threw him back on\nhimself. \"An unkind word or look,\" he would frequently say, \"nay a\nchilling one, from those I respect and esteem, is misery to me.\" His\nhappiness was indeed a delicate thing, for though the writer can say she\nnever knew any one made happy with so little effort--the very _wish_ to\nmake him so, evinced, was enough--yet she often felt, and trembled to\nfeel, how intensely miserable it was in the power of any one he loved,\nto make him.\n\nHis natural vivacity concealed another feature of his character from the\ngeneral eye, which was yet discernible by those who studied him. \"Spare\nme,\" said he one day to a lady, half jocosely, \"I am so shy.\" \"You shy!\"\nshe exclaimed, protesting against the possibility of such a thing. He\nquietly acquiesced, and let it pass. \"You would not think that I was\nnaturally shy,\" said he a few days after to a friend who had been\npresent, with whom he was now engaged in a pleasant little disquisition\non psychology, and who, he afterwards allowed, knew more of his real\ncharacter from a few months' acquaintance than any one had done before.\n\"Yes I should,\" was her unhesitating reply. \"Why, how should you think\nso!\" he exclaimed in astonishment. \"Your attitudes and movements betray\nit. I do not say as Robert Hall did of an acquaintance, that you seem\nbegging pardon of all men for being in existence, but you do often seem\nbegging pardon of your company for being in their presence, when they\nare only too happy to have your society. You would creep into a\nnutshell, rather than be where you thought you were not wanted.\"\n\nNot an uncommon, but a pleasing trait, was that humanity to the animal\ncreation which marked him from boyhood. Not only did he never\n\"heedlessly\" set \"foot upon a worm,\" but he would carefully remove it\nfrom the path, lest some other foot should crush it. Cruelty of any kind\ncalled forth his strongest reprehension.\n\nOne great charm of his character, was its perfect retention of the\nfreshness of youth. The most juvenile in the company could not but feel\nthat he was as young in spirit as themselves. His regular and temperate\nhabits of life no doubt contributed to this, as did his love of simple\npleasures. He never sought the false excitement of artificial\nstimulants. His own buoyancy of spirits, and ever-varied pursuits, most\nof all perhaps the exhilaration of botanical \"field sports,\" were the\ntrue stimulants which fed the flame of life, while they made it burn\nmore brightly. Even in those years when the smile or quick repartee\noften only concealed, but could not remove, the secret care or the\nunsatisfied craving for some undefined blessing, that preyed within, the\nchange to a new pursuit, or a fresh path for thought and energy, were\nthe only means to which he had recourse \"to keep the mind from preying\non itself.\"\n\nTo those who knew him best it is easy to trace much of his personal\ncharacter in his writings. His social disposition, and particularly this\nfreshness of spirit, gave a tone to all he wrote. The high ideal of\nwoman maintained in the \"Traditions,\" has been already noticed: he was\nquick to perceive fragmentary indications of that ideal, in real life.\nTrue to Haydon's motto which he so often quoted, \"Ex pede Hercules,\" one\ntrait of disinterestedness, of self-sacrifice, of intuitive perception\nof the good, was sufficient, and his imagination therefrom created,\n\n \"A perfect woman, nobly plann'd.\"\n\nA nice observer of the indications of character, he detected, with a\nquickness approaching to intuition, those little peculiarities of manner\nand expression which intimate the disposition and habit of thought, and\noften after a very brief acquaintance, he would by a few touches draw a\nmental portrait to the life, yet without the slightest approach to\ncaricature, which he would have abhorred as deformity. This habit of\nclose observation and quick perception contributed to the variety and\nindividuality of his delineations. He was remarkably susceptible of\nimpressions, hence he was open to influences which others escape. A very\nunpleasing expression of countenance would act upon him so strongly,\nthat he would go far out of his way to avoid it. In a similar manner,\ncertain appearances of the clouds in an electrical state of the\natmosphere would from childhood impress him painfully, even at times\nwith a sentiment almost akin to horror; and this in spite of a\nconstitution, over which the state of the weather ordinarily had no\npower; the spirit seemed directly operated on through the eye.\n\nOne of his strongest natural tendencies, which had considerable\ninfluence in the creations of his fancy, was a love of the supernatural.\nNothing contented him till he had traced it up to that subtle point\nwhere spiritual relations begin. \"Why should such a thing affect us\nthus?\" was the question which he delighted to ask himself. To his mind,\nas indeed to all thoughtful ones, the mysterious was the element into\nwhich all the phenomena of life resolved themselves. And there he took\nhis stand, watching before the veil, if perchance some hand from within\nwould lift its folds. The mutual relations of mind and matter, the\nsecret sympathies of spirit, and the extent of its independence of\nsense, were chosen topics of thought. The enlarged views of these\nsubjects which modern science is opening before us, at once indicating\nthe direction of future inquiry, and retrospectively interpreting the\nwildest records of the past, thus resolving romance into reality, had\nespecial charm for him. The reverse of credulous, he would subject a\nfact to close investigation, before he gave it credence, but at the same\ntime a latent affinity with the supernatural, if the expression be\nallowed, drew him to it: hence astrology attracted him, but after close\nstudy, he gave it up for various reasons, principally that a kind of\nChristian instinct, which will often advance when the understanding\nstops short, warned him off, by a sentiment, of approaching forbidden\nground.\n\nMr. Roby was a striking instance of how far literary pursuits may be\nfollowed without neglect of the duties of life. \"Literature to a man who\nmust have a profession\" observes Sir Walter Scott, \"should be the\nrecreation not the serious business of life.\" Mr. Roby's success in his\nprofession was such as to lead another banker of eminence--not\nprejudiced by the tie of private friendship--to term him the first\naccountant in Europe. Bearing in mind the pursuits of him of whom the\nremark was made, it proves that a successful career as an author, is not\nincompatible with eminence in the ordinary business of life. A strength\nof moral purpose, which would not allow pleasant occupation to infringe\non the prior claims of duty, and which led him inflexibly to follow the\ncourse he had laid down as right, gave force to a character that else\nmight have been deemed too brilliant for every-day wear.\n\nOne remarkable endowment that must have contributed to his success in\nhis own walk in life, was a power he possessed of determining the amount\nof any sum of figures that might be laid before him. The friend an\nextract from whose letter was given on p. 41, thus alludes to this\nfaculty. \"If a double column, twenty figures in each row, or a cube of\nsix, arranged as below, were placed before him, he would tell the sum as\nsoon as his eye could read the figures.\n\n 1 2 5 4 9 1\n 5 3 9 8 1 9\n 6 9 1 2 2 9\n 7 8 2 7 9 2\n 3 7 4 7 8 4\n 4 6 3 6 1 3\n -----------\n\nHe arrived at the result without going through the ordinary process; he\nsaw it at a glance. If, as was rarely the case, owing to a passing fit\nof dulness, or a momentary distraction of thought, he failed to see the\nsum at once, he was rather slow than otherwise in doing it by the\nordinary mode. Mr. Roby himself told me, that Bidder, perhaps the most\nwonderful calculator this country ever produced, though his superior in\nsome points, could not approach him here.\"\n\nTheir respective powers must have been the result of two different\nfaculties. In \"the calculating boy,\" it was extraordinary rapidity of\n_calculation_. In Mr. Roby it was not calculation at all, but\n_combination_. He read and combined the figures into a whole, as we\nshould read the word COMPARISON, for instance, without spelling it; the\npower of the figures in the one case, being equivalent to that of the\nletters in the other. Perhaps the extraordinary strength and activity of\nhis perceptive faculties, combined with considerable talent for the\nscience of number, may account for it: the rapidity of his perceptions\nwas at all times marvellous. He had not trained himself to this\nexercise, nor was it a faculty at all improved by use. He found out\naccidentally one day that he possessed it, and it never varied\nafterwards. The writer is not aware that he practised to any extent what\nis termed mental arithmetic. Yet some extraordinary calculations he made\nwith a pack of cards, by a process carried on in his mind, which, if put\non paper would have covered many sheets, appears to have been of that\nnature. In all such matters which depended on numerical arrangement, he\nwas quite _au fait_. On one occasion he saw a lady perform a trick\ncalled Sir Isaac Newton's. She declined showing how it was done, and\navowed herself unacquainted with the principle on which the arrangement\nwas founded. He went home, lay for hours awake during the night, worked\nall the cards in the pack over and over again mentally; before morning\nhe had not only discovered the arrangement, but extended the principle\nso as to be applicable, not to twenty-seven cards only, but to any\nnumber within the fifty-two.\n\nPunctuality was another marked feature of Mr. Roby's character. He was,\nto use his own phrase, \"a timist.\" An amusing instance of this occurs in\nhis tour. \"Whilst resting and enjoying our cheer (at the Hospice Tete\nNoir) I surprised Urlaub the courier, by telling him I had fixed three\nor four months previously to cross the Tete Noir on this very day, and\non this very hour, showing him a sketch of my tour as given in the\nintroductory chapter. He said it would serve him to tell and boast about\nall his life, he could not have thought it possible; 'but,' continued he\nwith great simplicity, 'I am sure they cannot believe me!'\" Other\ninstances equally diverting he would tell, till even punctuality itself\nlost its sober character, and became tinged with mirth, if not romance.\n\nHis love of order and arrangement was very great: it almost amounted to\na passion. As soon as a botanical or conchological work came into his\nhands, he made himself master of its contents, and drew out a tabular\nview of the information it afforded, a mode of arranging knowledge of\nwhich he was particularly fond, enriching the book with what might be\nwanting, and with references to other standard works. To those who are\ncommencing such pursuits, a little more detail may perhaps afford some\nuseful hints. In Lee's botany of the Malvern Hills, are added, in a\nbeautifully distinct small hand, to each plant named, a reference to the\npage of Hooker's British Flora, on which it is described, and the month\nof flowering; while on blank leaves inserted at the end for the\npurpose, a list is given of all the plants according to the time at\nwhich they flower, thus forming a flora for each month in that district,\nto guide his search in each day's ramble. In his copies of Sowerby's\nEnglish Botany and Hooker's Flora, respectively, to each plant the page\non which it is to be found in the other work, its number in the London\nCatalogue, and synonymes from either of these or from any other high\nauthority are added, with a mark against each successive specimen added\nto his own herbarium. His mode of laying down and preserving specimens\nfor a progressive collection of British plants, often excited the\nadmiration of other collectors. His cabinet of shells, too, was arranged\nin his own perfect manner. Yet with all this order there was nothing\nmerely mechanical in his character, nothing that hindered the free play\nof his imagination.\n\nThe medical profession had at one period been contemplated for him, and\nhis studies for a short time lay in that direction. For physiological\ninvestigations he always entertained a decided partiality. Hence no\ndoubt his ready appreciation of the general principles of hydropathy; he\nsaw and approved the rationale of the system, before he so successfully\ntested its practice. He had cultivated that general knowledge of the\nphysical sciences which enabled him to trace their mutual relations. He\ndwelt with peculiar delight on their points of intersection, where the\nmysterious connection which is ever running underground, as it were,\nthroughout nature, rises to the surface. His industry and perseverance\nequalled the activity of his mind, and the versatility of his talents.\nConcentrating his attention on one subject for the time, when he left it\nhe would turn with the same fixed concentration to another; and the ease\nwith which he resumed any design or train of thought, however long it\nhad been laid aside, prevented his losing ground that had once been\ngained. The quickness with which he acquired knowledge was remarkable;\nwhile the use he would make of a new discovery or of fresh light cast on\nan old subject, by way of illustration, by elucidating kindred truths in\nother sciences, or by indicating discoveries yet to be made, was most\nhappy. Nothing seemed lost upon him: a fact became to him something more\nthan a bare fact, an index of the ideal, or of the hidden paths to those\nmysterious relations of nature, which it has been observed were such\nfavourite objects of contemplation. By no means what is termed a great\nreader, he usually preferred scientific works to those of general\nliterature. He seemed not to care to follow the imaginations of others;\nhe rather required facts as material for his own to revel in, and create\nfrom. Genius must touch the earth to gather strength for her flights.\n\nHis love of the fine arts partook of the enthusiasm of his nature. His\ntaste was highly cultivated, and his own proficiency in several branches\nof art, of no mean order. He loved to dwell on the subtle and mysterious\nmeanings of music, on its wondrous suggestive power, and its burden of\nassociations. A few specimens of his own power of creating \"concord of\nsweet sounds,\" have been preserved. He was particularly happy in\nadapting the music to the words or _vice versa_. Sometimes he would\ncompose an air to one of his own songs. Very few of these compositions\nhave had the care bestowed on them necessary to prepare them for\npublication. One which was harmonised by Mr. Novello, and published in\nthe Congregational and Chorister's Psalm and Hymn Book, will appear in\nthe present volume. It is a fair specimen of the composer's power of\nexpressing the higher feelings.\n\nHis facility of versification one may almost be tempted to regret. He\nwould have written better, and perhaps oftener, had he gone to it as a\nmore severe task--yet there are some lines of such exquisite music and\nsentiment, the inspiration of the moment, in his occasional pieces,\nwhich no gathering up of his powers could have enabled him to reach. The\nballads in the traditions afford illustrations of this remark.\n\nMr. Roby's skill as a draughtsman was often the admiration of his\nfriends. His landscape drawings from nature even when they are faithful\nas portraits are always _pictures_. His fondness for investigation, the\n\"Inquisitive wants to know\" of childhood aided him here. He was never\nsatisfied until he had found out the reason why an object takes a known\nappearance under given circumstances, or why certain processes or\ntouches, transfer certain effects. The writer recollects his mentioning\na conversation with the late B. R. Haydon in which the point under\ndiscussion was, why when an object is presented against the sky, for\nexample the belly of a horse standing on an eminence, the sky where it\napproaches the object, though in point of fact as blue there as in any\nother part, should not be so represented, but in a dim grey, almost\nneutral tint. (The reader will at once perceive, that the blue sky and\nblack horse would be a tea-tray painting.) The discussion terminated\nwithout any satisfactory result, but Mr. Roby could not rest till he had\nfound the true reason in the simple fact, that the eye suiting its focus\nto the distance of the object to which it is directed, _can not\ndistinctly see, at the same time, objects at different distances_. When\nthe focus was right for the horse, it would only perceive the sky\nindistinctly, or directed to the sky, the retina would not receive so\ndistinct an image of the horse. Hence if both were represented exactly\nas they are in themselves, instead of as they are seen in combination, a\nharsh, unnatural, and therefore false picture would be the result.\n\nHis conversation on art was rich in such remarks. A lady who drew in\nwater colours from nature in a superior style observed to the writer,\nthat she had gained more valuable information from Mr. Roby than from\nany of the best masters of whom she had been in the habit of taking\nlessons: he had put her into possession of _principles_. Another\nfriend, who was in raptures with Ruskin's \"Modern Painters,\" described\nit as \"like hearing Mr. Roby talk.\" And here again, in art as in\nscience, he delighted to seek out those general principles, which,\ncommon to all, constitute the oneness of Art, and to trace their\nrelation to the human mind.\n\nTo his ardent admiration of nature reference has already been made. That\nterm but partially conveys an idea of his quick and vivid perception of\nbeauty under whatever form it appeared, and of the intense pleasure, one\nmight almost say happiness, of which he was susceptible from it. His\nspirit seemed to feed upon it as Schiller's Pegasus on the breath of\nflowers. He would stand entranced before a beautiful object or hang over\nit as if by some spell he could draw its beauty into his own soul. It\nseemed as though for pleasure or suffering his mind was in close contact\nwith the _spirit_ of outward things. Nor was this high gratification, a\nthing of rare occurrence. One of Hogarth's lines of Beauty, so\nabundantly scattered through his world who has eyes to see them,\nsufficed. He possessed too in a high degree the power of imparting to\nothers the pleasure he thus enjoyed. His enthusiasm caught by sympathy\ncommunicated in part to his companions the vividness of his own\nimpressions. A friend, herself most highly gifted, in writing of him\nsays, \"What true pleasure I feel in recalling the beauties and\nexcellencies of his character, in tracing through all his gifts, the\nupward tendency of his mind which ever looked\n\n 'From Nature up to Nature's GOD,'\n\nwhich sought His glory in all the pursuits of science--not _earthly_ but\n_heavenly_ pursuits to him--a mind to which was not denied the power to\ngaze along any one of those shining paths, which unite our mortal with\nour immortal nature, to which music, and poetry, and art and science\nopened their divinest treasures, fitting his nature for the immortal\njoys they whisper of here!\"\n\nIt has been occasionally regretted that his powers were directed to so\nmany objects instead of being concentrated, so as to secure higher\nexcellence in one department. And truly were this short life all man's\nexistence, the end of his progress, and \"earthly immortality\" the only\n\"life beyond this,\" then it might be to be deplored, if aught would be\nworth deploring. But regret vanishes when we consider that in this case\nthere were only so many more starting points, for the soul in her higher\nstate of existence, already made out in this life.\n\nTalents so versatile, it may be believed rendered their possessor the\nornament of general society. They were at the same time combined with\nexterior advantages, graceful movement resulting from a\nwell-proportioned and finely-moulded form, elegant manner, so much\nvivacity, and withal so much gentleness--the graceful courtesies of\nlife well became him. His conversational powers were seldom equalled. He\nhad always the right word at command whatever might be the topic, while\nthe ever-varying tones of his musical voice lent additional force to\nevery sentiment whether mirthful or pathetic. Information, anecdote,\nhumour were by turns elicited. It was easy, as it was pleasant, to\nconverse with him; he never misapprehended; he seemed to know what\nothers were going to say, their ideas were his, and the prompt rejoinder\nmade, by a kind of social electricity. Conversation never flagged when\nhe was present; a sullen silence was his abhorrence; equally so, a\nmonotonous abuse of the weather, roads, &c. His never-failing humour,\nand love of pleasantry or kind-hearted banter, supplied the place of\nRousseau's expedient of weaving lace-strings, when in company where it\nwas difficult, if not impossible to maintain conversation that would\ninterest the whole party. If occasionally his repartees gave offence, no\none was more ready to apologise or to atone to any feeling that had been\nwounded. In truth, nothing was farther from his intention than giving\npain, but his love of humour once excited, he did not pause to look from\nanother's point of view. It was as impossible for him to refrain from\nenjoying a joke if it told against himself, as if it bore on another--in\nfact, if it were really a good one, the being pointed against himself\nseemed rather to enhance the piquancy. So conscious was he of the\nabsence of any ill-natured feeling, that it was difficult for him to\nrealize how any one could be hurt by those sallies which, coming from\nanother, he would perfectly understand. A lady who was often the subject\nof his sportive railleries, observed, that no one who saw the kind\nexpression of his eye could feel wounded. It was after a time of close\nmental application that his sportive qualities came out the most\nstrongly; it seemed to be a necessary relief, and the rebound involved\nmirthfulness in many of its innocent forms. Practical jokes he never\nallowed either in himself or others; nor did his humour ever degenerate\ninto mimicry, or amusement at the expense of the absent; delicacy of\nfeeling forbad that. A sharp contest of wits such as he designated \"cut\nand come again\" was his great delight. D'Israeli the elder remarks, \"One\npeculiar trait in the conversation of men of genius which has often\ninjured them, when the listeners were not intimately acquainted with the\nman, are certain sports of a vacant mind, a sudden impulse to throw out\nopinions and take views of things in some humour of the moment.\"\nSomething akin to this Mr. Roby occasionally indulged in, if he\nperceived that any one had formed a false idea of his character, which\nwas not unfrequently the case, he would find a passing diversion in\nhelping on the mistake. How this comported with that yearning for\nsympathy, which was one of the master passions of his nature, it is not\ndifficult to explain. Finding out by intuition where he was not\nunderstood, he sought in the amusement of watching the effect of the\ncharacter thus thrust upon him, on those who had given it, a refuge from\nthe pain which the discovery of the utter absence of sympathy could not\nbut inflict. Afford him but a ray of this coveted sympathy, and you made\nhis happiness, and your own by reflection. Intercourse with the world\nhad taught him how rarely the finer feelings or higher sentiments are\nresponded to, and a shrinking from their exposure in his own case led\nhim to conceal them under the light robe of pleasantry. Hence he was\nsometimes suspected of want of earnestness by those who, as D'Israeli\nremarks, \"were not intimately acquainted with the man.\"\n\nHis fund of general information contributed to the charm of his\nconversational powers, for with him knowledge was as ready to hand as it\nwas various. It seemed to spring spontaneously at the sight of any thing\nwith which it could be associated. Memory while she held her treasures\nwith a firm hand, generously shared them with the companion of the walk\nor the acquaintance of the social hour. At the same time there was no\nassumption, no affectation of superiority in his manner: it was\nperfectly natural and simple.\n\nPossessing great musical talent, a fine ear, and the power of modulating\nhis voice so as to blend with others, and the still rarer gift of\ncomposing a part extempore to any melody, his assistance was sought as\na valuable acquisition in social music. Before his illness his whistle\nwas singularly rich, and he frequently used it as an accompaniment. The\nwriter never heard it; but a gentleman referring to an evening spent in\nhis society many years since, thus describes it, \"I never heard human\nwhistle so clear, so distinct, and brilliant: it was like a flute.\"[F]\n\nPerhaps what he was in general society may be best shown by the\nimpression he made on acquaintances of various tastes and habits whom\nfrom time to time he casually met. Among the many tributes of respect to\nhis memory and to \"his sterling qualities both of heart and mind,\" which\nthe writer has received, one or two may be selected bearing on the\nsalient points of his character. A recent friend, who with his lady were\nthe last guests who were staying with him before he left Malvern for\nScotland, writes, \"I cannot let this opportunity pass without offering\nmy humble tribute of respect to your late husband's memory. My\nacquaintance with Mr. Roby was, as you are aware, of brief duration, but\nI can most unaffectedly, and with sincere gratitude say, that during\nthat period, I learned much of him--more than I ever learned in my life\nfrom any single person. It was impossible to be with him without\ncatching something of his earnestness and enthusiasm. Would he had been\nspared! His death was a severe loss to me. I had hoped to enjoy his\nsociety during the coming summer, to mature in his company those tastes\nwhich, if he did not infuse into me, he certainly roused from their\ndormancy. But this was not to be! Like all who ever came into contact\nwith him, I was struck, on my introduction to Mr. Roby, by the variety\nof his acquirements, then by their elegant intellectual character. His\nenergy in the acquisition of knowledge had amassed a great store of\nmaterial for intellectual enjoyment--his wonderful \"_order_\" had\narranged it in the happiest and most available manner. I think I never\nin my life saw a man of greater mental activity. _He had no lounging\nmoments._ And yet I saw but the _relaxation_ of his mind.\"\n\nOne who knew him intimately the last two years of his life remarks, \"Few\npersons I should imagine could have been in Mr. Roby's society without\nfeeling a peculiar charm, a gladdening influence, which made life appear\nbright and genial. Intercourse with him, invariably gave me a sense of\npower: this made me from the first recognise him as a man of genius. A\nmagician in the regions of the ideal himself, he seemed to inspire his\nlistener with the same mastery over its elements. Whatever might be the\ntopic under notice, it stood out with new beauty as he handled it. His\nconversation, enriched from a thousand sources, sparkled like the many\nfacets of the well-cut diamond.\"\n\nA very old friend who ranks among the first dramatists of the day in\nspeaking of intercourse in years long since departed, characterised him\nas \"a man of rich imagination, and the warmest and soundest heart.\"\nAdding in confirmation of the latter trait, \"I was a perfect stranger\nwhen he received me as a brother, and took on himself the entire\nmanagement of a course of lectures which I delivered in Rochdale several\nyears ago, and which proved to be very remunerative chiefly through his\ncordially-exerted influence.\"\n\nAnother in writing of him, after dwelling with affectionate admiration\non other traits of character, notices \"his great good nature and\nkindness of heart, particularly the good-humoured manner in which he\nbore the expression of opinions different from his own, which by many\nwould not have been taken so patiently. The extreme versatility of his\ntalents placed at his command, acquirements the most varied, such as few\npersons attain to, and his kind and agreeable manner of imparting the\nknowledge he possessed was equally remarkable. His talent and exquisite\nhumour in relating one of his stories or an old tradition, I can\nscarcely imagined to have been equalled.\"\n\nSeveral friends have remarked that during their last interview with him,\nthe conversation turned to the highest subjects, in some cases\nterminating by a short striking remark on his part, too valuable to be\nforgotten. A slight instance of this occurred in his last conversation\nwith the friend just quoted. It happened to be on a subject often\ndiscussed before,--art in connection with religion as exemplified in the\nfine old ecclesiastical structures of our country. No one possessed a\ndeeper sense of their beauty than himself, but his mind at the same time\ncomprehended the possibility of losing sight of the spiritual in\nadmiration of the material, and at the close of the conversation, his\nlast words were, \"Well good bye, remember _we must not worship wood and\nstone_.\" The aptness of the remark, the tone in which it was uttered,\nfixed it in the memory of the listener, and it is now treasured as a\nparting warning. There is a sacred pleasure in dwelling on conversations\nlike these, involving high moral truths, elements of the intercourse yet\nto be renewed.\n\nIt was always in a circle narrower than that of general society, that he\nwas seen to most advantage. When he felt he was surrounded only by those\nof congenial tastes he came out truly himself. His conversation then\nflowed without any restraint, he blended the ideal with the real in a\nway that showed a spirit gifted\n\n \"To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread.\"\n\nA distinguished essayist of the present century compares himself to\nthose toys which we sometimes see formed of box within box. His outer\ncharacter he tells us was visible to all; to friends in proportion to\ntheir intimacy he threw off case after case; the sight of the innermost\nwas reserved for himself, or for only one other. So here too was a\nnarrower circle within that of closest friendship, where one more\ncovering cast aside, his character displayed itself without any reserve.\nWhat he might have been to the _valet_ \"who looked at him with valet\neyes,\" the writer knows not, but by one to whom that character was bared\nas to none besides, so far from seeming any less from the intimate\nacquaintance of daily life, its true nobleness was only then fully\nrecognised. It is not every character that bears the near scrutiny\nafforded by insight through the little things of life. Fewer still grow\n\"right worshipful\" under such inspection. _He_ did both. His feelings\nrepressed, as we have seen in childhood, he had not been in the habit of\nexpressing them freely to the objects of his affection. The writer\nlearned far more of the strength of his love for his children, from\nremarks he made when alone with her, and from the regard he paid to the\neffect which any step he took might have on their welfare, than from any\nordinary demonstrations to them. The anxiety he evinced during the first\nholidays his boys spent with her, that she should understand them, and\nthe pains he took to draw out the most interesting points of their\ncharacters, told more forcibly than words, his concern for their\nhappiness. Though he rarely joined in their amusements himself, yet the\nquiet delight with which he would stand and watch when she happened to\ndo anything of the kind showed how dear even their pleasures were to\nhim.\n\nIt has been a common reproach against literary men, that they are\nundesirable companions in private life, prone to betray unworthy\njealousy of the talents of those around them; though brilliant in\nsociety, fretful or unsocial at home. Here was one more added to the\nmany examples of the contrary. Neither mirth nor talents, courtesy nor\ngenerous feeling, nor any thing that adorns or makes life happy, was\nreserved like holiday attire for going abroad. One who though admitting\nhe could not brook defeat at his favourite chess, from any other lady,\nwould yet say he should have lost the game to his wife with pleasure,\nbecause he should feel her triumph his own, could not have been an\nundesirable home companion.\n\nIt is by trifles such as these, that what the gifted are in private life\nis seen. That it may not invariably be thus is admitted, but the\nsolution is easy. Fireside happiness depends not on the presence or\nabsence of talent, but on the harmony of natural disposition, character,\nand taste. Genius neither commands this, nor can supply its deficiency.\nIt only renders its possessor more keenly alive to the want of\ncongeniality, and those around perchance more wretched from the\nconscious lack of power to make its happiness. The man of genius may not\nonly make home the most blessed spot on earth, but with the blessing of\nGOD give a brilliancy and an intensity to domestic happiness, which none\nbesides can; peopling the wastes of every day life, with bright thoughts\nthat never die, till little is left of mortal existence, that is not to\nbe continued in the higher life to come.\n\nBut there were yet higher endowments--talents are but as the beautiful\nlamp, spiritual life the light they enshrine; and when that light\nglows with an intensity, that throws out the fair form, and\nexquisitely-moulded figures, till the very lamp becomes brilliant, a\nlight-giving thing, then indeed is it a vessel \"fit for the Master's\nuse,\" to the glory of His name whose _workmanship_ the lamp is, but\nwhose _breath_ the light within. And that to all the rich gifts already\ndescribed, was added that which is pre-eminently THE GIFT OF GOD, even\n\"Eternal Life through Christ Jesus our Lord,\" is the point of deepest\ninterest. Taught as we have seen by the discipline of suffering, his\nwere the convictions of experience, not those of the understanding\nmerely; he felt throughout his whole nature, his utter powerlessness to\nerect himself into a consciously virtuous being, and he felt as strongly\nthat in the salvation of Christ alone was that which at once bringing\npardon and imparting holiness, meets all the deep-seated wants of our\nnature, and raises us to the dignity of \"sons and daughters of the Lord\nAlmighty.\" With a heart thrilling to its very centre with a sense of\nunutterable need, he clung to the promises of the Gospel. And as time\nadvanced and the hidden life grew stronger, and daily intercourse united\nthe spirit more closely to GOD as its Father, through faith in Christ\nJesus, his character assumed more and more of the likeness of that\nblessed state which it has now entered. Deep humility and self-distrust\nhabitually marked his religion. In a letter dated April 1849, after\ndetailing a circumstance which occurred during a short stay at Clifton,\nvery gratifying to him as an author, he adds \"I may say all this to\n_you_ because you understand me.... But I feel it is not safe to\n_indulge_ in it. A momentary glance at one's position--and then back\nagain into the only safe place,--low at the Master's feet in love and\nhumiliation, 'What hast thou, that thou hast not received?'\" \"I am so\nafraid of _myself_\" was an expression he often used in the most intimate\nconversation. He felt it was only by the daily impartation of a strength\ngreater than his own, that spiritual life was sustained. All those\nsentiments in the inspired writings, which ordinarily to the men of the\nworld, are either mysteries or meaningless phrases, now comprehended in\nthe fulness of their truth, had become the utterances of his own soul.\n\"The life I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the SON of GOD,\nwho loved me and gave Himself for me.\" He went to the scriptures for his\ncode of morality, as well as for the promise of the life to come. Never\nunder any circumstances did he shrink from performing what he considered\nto be Christian duty, or from avowing what he believed to be religious\ntruth. The tone of Cowper's hymns harmonised more with the prevailing\ncast of his mind than that of any other sacred lyrics. Those of them\nwhich are to be found in Lady Huntingdon's collection, were associated\nwith his earliest recollections, and when his spirit was all\nunconsciously preparing itself for a speedy and unlooked-for summons\ninto the immediate presence of GOD, the strains of the poet, who so\nemphatically learned \"in suffering\" what he taught \"in song,\" cheered\nand animated one kindred in spirit, as in faith. There is something\npleasant in the thought that the strains which his mother might have\nsung by his cradle, were the latest given forth by his own rich voice.\n\nWhile lowliness of mind before God, and a constant desire to serve his\nfellow-men, were perhaps the most conspicuous features of his religious\ncharacter, the over-flowings of a grateful spirit must not be\noverlooked. Thanksgiving formed an essential part of his religion;\nneither the simple pleasures nor the richer blessings of life were lost\nupon him. Day by day he seemed as though he would never be thankful\nenough. His recognition of the hand of GOD in all he enjoyed was very\nvivid.\n\nHow far back the religious element of his character may be traced, it is\nimpossible to say. The human mind is susceptible of the fear of GOD, and\ndoubtless the actions may be modified thereby, long before any distinct\nconsecration to his service, or, which must ordinarily precede it, that\ntrue self-knowledge which makes the need of a Saviour felt. That best of\nblessings the example of a Christian life in his parents, was around his\nearliest days, so that his first ideas of right and wrong must have\ntaken a Christian tone. And that as he rose into life, the claims of a\nCreator and Saviour on his love and service occupied his attention, the\nwriter is aware. Never indeed will be forgotten the intensity of feeling\nwith which, within the last twelvemonths of his life he would sometimes\nrefer to one among his youthful associates, who at that early period\nencouraged him in the practice of spiritual duties. He knew what a life\npassed amid the stir of the world was, how the hot noon dries up the\ncurrent of early feeling, and the thorns of care choke the hidden life;\nand vivid anxiety for his friend's spiritual state, mingled with the\ngrateful remembrance of forty years ago. A sentiment which now burst\nforth fresher than ever, because he knew as he had never done before,\nfrom what the salvation of GOD is a deliverance.\n\nHis sympathy for others in a religious point of view was very strong;\nthe deep pity, amounting to personal grief, which he has expressed in\nintimate conversation, when speaking of any whose life or avowed\nprinciples, testified they were \"without hope, and without GOD in the\nworld,\" showed that his religion drew him the nearer to all his race.\nStrongly as principle and feeling alike led him to seek to promote in\nany way in his power the highest good of his fellow-creatures, the\nremembrance of his deep spiritual suffering caused him to take a deeper\ninterest in those whose minds were in any degree agonised and bewildered\nas his had been. He would have considered no amount of mental effort or\nphysical fatigue too great to encounter, could he thereby have\n\"ministered to a mind diseased.\" In 1848 when visiting friends in the\nsouth of England, he was told of a poor old woman whose distress of mind\nhad baffled every attempt to relieve it. He went to her cottage, sat\ndown and listened to her complaints, anticipating them in great measure\nfrom his own vividly-remembered distress. She was cheered by finding\nanother, who could tell beforehand what she was going to say; and when\nhe reached down the Bible, and began reading his own favourite passages,\n\"When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue\nfaileth for thirst, I the LORD will hear them, I the GOD of Israel will\nnot forsake them, I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the\nmidst of the valleys\" &c., and entering into her feelings, showed her\nthat the glorious promises of God were made to the wretched and\nself-condemning, light seemed to burst upon her mind, and her\nthankfulness and delight knew no bounds; and second only to hers, were\nhis own.--The most brilliant success in society had never afforded a\npleasure like this. He seldom referred to his own past suffering, when\nhe did so it was in a brief but touching manner: thus in a letter dated\nMarch 1849 he writes, \"Pray give my very best remembrance to Mrs. ----\nand tell her that when I come to ---- I _intend_ sitting once more in\nher arm chair, now with what different feelings. I had not then found 'a\nhiding place from the storm, and a covert from the tempest.' Now however\nI hope I have found Christ as 'the shadow of a great rock in a weary\nland.'\"\n\nThe true lowliness of spirit and willingness to be set aside, with which\nhe commenced any undertaking, evinced a chastened spirit, which showed\nthat he had not suffered in vain. \"How thankful,\" wrote he to a friend,\n\"we ought to be that we are permitted even to attempt any thing for Him\n_who has given us all_, and though apparently we fail, yet, as you say,\nwe are secure from disappointment; and, depend on it, some good will\narise probably to ourselves, if not to others, from our least efforts;\nat any rate, if they lead us to more humility and dependence on Him, one\ngreat end will have been answered.\" And two months later, writing to the\nsame friend, he observed:--\"It does seem part of the discipline of life\nthat we should aim at duty--just embark in what seems the very path we\nought to pursue for our own and other's good, and then plainly be sent\nback to learn one very important lesson we are too apt to forget,--viz.\nthat the great Master can do his work without us.\"[G]\n\nIn a letter dated February 22nd, 1850, after speaking of the happiness\nhe had enjoyed of late in communion with GOD, and expressing his desire\nto serve Him, especially by comforting \"the weary,\" he adds, \"but they\n'do His will who only stand and wait;' I am watching the course of\nevents, and when HE has work for me to do, I shall be appointed to it.\nIn the meantime I am working with my pen what may be useful at one time\nor another.\"\n\nThe repose which belongs to maturity of character, indicated by the last\nextract, was not unnoticed at the time. It was one of those traits then\nmarked, but now fully understood. Many things which the writer took for\nphilosophic superiority to trifles, and admired as such at the time, she\nnow recognises as Christian elevation of character. There was about him\nan air--not exactly of indifference to the world or of separation from\nit, for he entered with zest into the social pleasures and all the\nhigher pursuits of life--but of something like a consciousness of still\nnobler relations than any which connected his spirit with earth, an\nabiding recognition of a world to which he more properly belonged and\nstill better than this which he so much enjoyed; and he seemed to stand\nwith one foot uplifted ready to enter on that not distant world. It was\na fulfilling of the divine precept, \"Let your loins be girded about, and\nyour lights burning, and ye yourselves like unto men waiting for their\nLord.\"\n\nAn intimate friend when referring to daily intercourse with him, enjoyed\nfor some time during the last autumn of his life, writes: \"The advance\nin all things connected with the spiritual good of himself, or of\nothers, was very striking--there was a dignity of deportment, a\nseriousness when treating of divine things, and an anxious desire for\nthe religious improvement of all whom he could influence, that,\nsuperadded to his natural cheerfulness and lively wit, made him a most\ndelightful companion. Still this increase of grace was chiefly preparing\nhim for the approaching removal: he was taken because he was _ready_.\nNever did a bed of languishing sickness more evidently fit the sufferer\nfor 'going home' than did his beautiful frame of mind during the happy\nmonths that preceded his sudden removal.\" Not better chosen could one\nexpression of the above have been, had the writer of the note\nrecollected Mr. Roby's crest--a sheaf of corn (_garb_), and motto \"I AM\nREADY.\" Rapid had the ripening been--those years of suffering had done\ntheir work and the brief, but bright, sunshine that followed, made the\nsheaf ready for the garner.[H]\n\nThe mind lingers on this aspect of his character. Most precious to dwell\nupon now is--not the memory of his rich talents--not the recollection of\nhis warm and generous affection, which, like the sunset glow, invests\nall connected with him, with a brightness that seems as if it would\nnever grow dim, but--the thought that he was, in the true, not merely in\nthe conventional, sense of the word, a CHRISTIAN. This alone can connect\nthe beloved ones who are \"gone home\" with all that is real in\ncomfort.--The workings of the sorrowful heart are no longer vague\nguesses and fruitless longings, but sure and living hopes founded on\n\"the true sayings of GOD.\" And when the voice whose music stirred the\nvery depths of the soul, as none other had power to do, can be no longer\nheard, the ear of the spirit is quickened for voiceless intercourse. And\nsince those sayings assure us that those whom we call the dead still\nlive, in all the integrity of their spiritual being, we feel that they\ncan scarcely be said to be gone--that the one in spirit are one for\neternity--that their love for, and interest in us are not shaken--and if\nneither ear nor eye can catch sound or glimpse of what was dearer than\nlife, still we are not without tokens of their presence. The intercourse\nof spirit with spirit is not destroyed because one veil of flesh is\ndropped; rather it is so much the nearer. The flow of reciprocated\naffection, the joy as truly shared, and sorrow as tenderly lightened\nwith whispered assurances of sympathy, all tell of an union over which\ndeath hath no power. Henceforward no abiding sense of loneliness, can\nweigh down the heart made strong in an affection which,\n\n \"Doth draw the very soul into itself,\"\n\nand brings it into companionship with \"the spirits of just men made\nperfect\" in the presence of their Father and our Father. All that\nremains for earth is \"the Patience of Hope.\" Death to the survivor as\nwell as to his victim has \"lost his sting.\" Thanks be unto GOD, who\ngiveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.[I]\n\nThus faintly and inadequately have been pourtrayed the life and\ncharacter of one whom his Maker had endowed with genius, and sent forth\nfor life's brief day. His appointed task was to go to his fellow men,\nwhen the fever of earth's turmoil is on them, and, by transporting them\ninto other scenes, to charm away their cares and weariness for a while;\nbringing one character after another, and adventures in quick\nsuccession, before the reader, till he rises refreshed, and with new\nspirit goes forth again to the conflict of life; having found too,\nduring his brief sojourn in that ideal region, many a hint of valuable\ninformation, many a true moral principle.\n\nAnd if increasing light from that world towards which he was so rapidly\nadvancing showed him how more distinctly to place before his fellow men\nthe characteristic truths of Christianity as the foundation of all that\nis good and enduring, and to consecrate his talents to the highest\ninterests of mankind, and then, with all his plans and purposes\nripening, GOD called him away, it was only to enter on worthier labours\nin that world, where \"His servants serve Him day and night.\" Strange as\nsuch a cutting short of a life so lately renewed in physical vigour,\nand devoted to the high service of GOD appears, the very suddenness was\nin keeping with the whole tenor of an existence which knew no idle\nmoments--as if not an hour of such a spirit was to be wasted--to-day\nworking here in the full vigour of his mortal life, to-morrow on the\nother side of death, an immortal spirit serving in its appointed rank\nbefore the throne of GOD.\n\nSense would fain follow, and, amid the shadowy forms of that world,\ncatch a sight of one so dear: but the eye is strained in vain. Yet Faith\ncan hear her Father's voice: \"BLESSED are the dead that die in the\nLord,\" and she is content: for \"THEY SHALL HUNGER NO MORE, NEITHER\nTHIRST ANY MORE; NEITHER SHALL THE SUN LIGHT ON THEM, NOR ANY HEAT. FOR\nTHE LAMB WHICH IS IN THE MIDST OF THE THRONE SHALL FEED THEM, AND SHALL\nLEAD THEM UNTO LIVING FOUNTAINS OF WATERS, AND GOD SHALL WIPE AWAY ALL\nTEARS FROM THEIR EYES.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[A] The recovery of Mr. Roby's papers from the wreck of the Orion, June,\n1850, when GOD, in His inscrutable providence, cut short a life so\nincomparably precious, was even then matter of thankfulness. Many\nportions of the MS., from which the legends in this volume were printed,\nbear traces of the sad catastrophe.\n\n[B] The notion of this huge stone being a boulder stone--perhaps from\nNorway, which was long believed, is now exploded. A friend at Keswick\n(Sept. 1853) writes me word that the Porphyritic greenstone of which it\nis composed, runs through many parts of the Lake district, in the\nimmediate neighbourhood, and that this stone must have fallen from the\ncliff just above. My informant adds, that Mr. Wright, the well known\nguide, in company with a gentleman, measured the stone and the cavity\nwhence it fell, and found them to correspond; though the cavity is now\nsomewhat overgrown by grass, it is not difficult to perceive.\n\n[C] Esther, in the Jew of York. See Frazer's Mag. for Sept. 1836.\n\n[D] Robert Langland's Visions of Pierce Plowman, were written about the\nyear 1362. He represents himself as falling asleep on the Malvern Hills,\nand there beholding a series of visions, in describing which, he takes\noccasion to satirise the vices prevailing in the different classes of\nsociety, particularly the corruptions of the clergy. His prediction of\nthe Reformation in England is most remarkable. As the date of these\nvisions preceded Chaucer twenty years, the author must be considered the\nfirst English poet. He was a native of Shropshire, and fellow of Oriel\nCollege. Whitaker, who styles him the father of English Poetry, does not\nconfirm the supposition that he was a monk of Worcester or Malvern. He\nthus paraphrases the opening lines.\n\n\"In early summer while sunshine was mild, I withdrew myself into a\nsolitary place, surrounded with shrubs, in habit not like an Anchorite\nwho keeps his cell, but like one of those unholy hermits who wander\nabout the world to see and hear wonders; and on a May morning, reclining\nin a glade among the Malvern Hills, I slept from fatigue, and dreaming,\nbeheld all the wealth and woe of the world.\"--_Whitaker's (of Whalley)\nEd. of Pierce Plowman:_ 1813.\n\n[E] To strangers as well as residents we were much indebted. We received\nboth the warmest sympathy and personal kindness from the Rev. J. Clarke,\nIncumbent of Stretford near Manchester, whose interesting narrative,\npublished under the title of \"_The Wreck of the Orion_,\" contains a full\naccount of the mournful catastrophe. And never can be erased from memory\nthe debt of kindness due to an English clergyman of the Episcopal Church\nin Scotland--the Rev. ---- Pugh--who had come to seek his lovely little\ngirl who had just perished in the wreck. The sympathy and encouragement\nhe afforded touching that one supreme desire, and his offer, beyond all\nprice, to take charge of the remains so unutterably dear, with those of\nhis own beloved child, fill the heart with a weight of thankfulness that\ncannot be expressed. I can only look forward to that world where all the\nlovely will be gathered together, and the tears wiped from the mourner's\neyes, as they already have been from those of the beloved ones we weep\nover.\n\n[F] He would sometimes ventriloquise for the amusement of his friends.\nThe incessant invention required to sustain the wit of three, and\nsometimes four, interlocutors, combined with the physical effort, kept\nthe powers of both mind and body on the stretch to a degree that\nexhausted him more than anything else in which he engaged. See\n_Stewart's Phil. Hum. Mind_. III. 229--224.\n\n[G] Foster represents as \"the _last_ attainment of a zealously good man,\nthe resignation to be as diminutive an agent as GOD pleases and as\nunsuccessful an one.\"--_Essay on the Application of the Epithet\nRomantic._ Letter V.\n\n[H] It is not perhaps always borne in mind, that corn, when cut, is not\nimmediately ready to be carried home. It requires to stand some little\ntime in shock--that the process of ripening may be completed.\n\n[I] Since the above was prepared for the press, the writer has met with\nan interesting illustration of the power of the consolation there\nindicated, in that _unique_ biography, the Life of Mrs. Fletcher of\nMadeley. Conder's exquisite poem \"the Reverie\" treats of the same\nthought. It is the poet's subject, in the poet's hands.\n\n\n\n\nMUSIC.\n\n\n\n\nAIR FROM A MODERN CONCERTO\n\n\n[Music:\n\nWORDS BY J. ROBY. AIR FROM A MODERN CONCERTO.\n\n _Slow._\n\n Father, hear a suppliant's cry;\n Hear, oh hear, for Thou art nigh.\n Though the clouds of sorrow rise\n Darkly o'er these troubled skies;\n Speak the word, \"Let there be light!\"\n Bid the morning chase the night.\n Father, hear a suppliant's prayer;\n Darkness flies when Thou art there!]\n\n\n\n\nSHEW PITY, LORD\n\n\n[Music:\n\nTHE MELODY BY J. ROBY; THE HARMONIES VARIED BY V. NOVELLO.\n\n[_Extracted, by permission, from the Congregational and Chorister's\nPsalm and Hymn-Book. Dufour, Piccadilly._]\n\n _Slow._\n\n TREBLE Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;\n ALTO. Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;\n TENOR. Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;\n See _lower_.\n BASS. Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;\n\n _Slow._\n\n Let a repenting rebel live.\n Let a repenting rebel live.\n Let a repenting rebel live.\n Let a repenting rebel live.\n\n Are not thy mercies large and free?\n Are not thy mercies large and free?\n Are not thy mercies large and free?\n Are not thy mercies large and free?\n\n May not a sinner trust in Thee?\n May not a sinner trust in Thee?\n May not a sinner trust in Thee?\n May not a sinner trust in Thee?\n\n My lips with shame my sins confess.\n Against thy law, against thy grace;\n Lord, should thy judgment grow severe,\n I am condemned, but Thou art clear.\n\n Yet save a humbling sinner, Lord,\n Whose hope, still hovering round thy word,\n Would light on some sweet promise there,\n Some sure support against despair.]\n\n\n\n\nLYRICS.\n\n\nSome of the following short poems were composed early in life, while two\nor three of those last in order are of a very recent date. Those to\nwhich dates are appended are from another pen. It was intended by Mr.\nRoby that they should appear with his own productions. The survivor will\nbe forgiven the mournful pleasure of thus partially fulfilling one of\nthose purposes whose \"inward light,\" was wont to\n\n \"Keep the path before him always bright.\"\n\n\n\n\nLINES\n\nWRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF FRIENDS FROM ENGLAND.\n\n\n Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,\n As with an arrow's flight;\n The untamed winds thy coursers wild,\n The waves thy chariot bright.--\n But there are hearts within that shrine\n Where wilder billows swell,\n Where the last pang is quivering now\n The last fond word--\"Farewell.\"\n\n Blow, ye breezes! Gently roll,\n Thou vast and troubled deep!\n On thy still waters let the sigh\n Of dim-eyed sorrow sleep.\n Bright hearts, bright hearths, and merry homes\n Their voice is on the wind.--\n Be hush'd, ye blasts; too loud ye bring\n Their echoes on the mind.\n\n Soon these hallow'd shores shall fade,\n Fast as the summer cloud,\n And stranger climes and stranger forms\n Pass, like a pageant proud.\n But blessings still your path pursue,\n Where'er that path may lie;\n Since every devious maze ye trace\n Beneath a guiding eye.\n\n Yon evening star that trembling dips\n Beneath the western sea,\n Awhile, like him, your lonesome flight,\n Like his, your destiny.--\n Though setting now in clouds and gloom,\n The day-spring shall arise,\n And yon pale star, like you, appear\n In pomp from eastern skies!\n\n May HE whose word the billows calm'd,\n And sooth'd those seas to rest,\n Yet whisper in the gentlest winds,\n That breathe on ocean's breast.\n But there are waves of mightier power\n His voice alone can still,\n The soul's keen throb,--its louder surge\n Grows peaceful at his will!\n\n Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,\n As with an arrow's flight,\n The untamed winds thy coursers wild,\n The waves thy chariot bright!\n But there are hearts within that shrine\n Where wilder billows swell,\n Where the last pang is quivering now\n The last fond word--\"Farewell!\"\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE TO A LADY'S ALBUM.\n\n\n An Album?--'Tis a pretty book I wis,\n Bound up in cow-skin--or sometimes in calf,\n All tool'd and gilt--where every pert-eyed miss,\n Her pretty pouting lips (too ripe by half),\n Hangs o'er the snow-white page--then steals a laugh,\n Something between a simper and a smile;--\n \"Law, I can't write!--Ridiculous, to spoil\n I have no notion----Will an extract do\n From Moore or Byron?\" \"No, write something new.\"\n\n An Album?--'Tis a wide waste blank--a page\n All bright and glorious, like the morn of life,\n Not darken'd with rude blots;--no dim presage\n Scrawl'd o'er the bliss-like future,--where no knife,\n Like eating care, obliterates.--The strife,\n The agony, those hours shall know, nor trace,\n Nor track, steals o'er their smooth, unruffled face.\n If joy or woe those opening leaves shall bring,\n Who shall unfold their dim foretokening?\n\n And would'st thou have me in that mirror look,\n Shadowing the first page in thy destiny,\n Or weave a frontlet to Fate's Album-book?\n It should be joyous were mine Fate's decree.\n Like opera-overtures, the melody\n I know the story should foretoken, telling\n Of love, hope, joy, and all that sort of thing;\n Or, like the pictures on a raree-show,\n Blazon the matchless wonders hid below.\n\n But I'm no prophet!--what these pages may\n Or may not gather, hard to say methinks.\n 'Tis somewhat strange, e'en for this marvellous day,\n Writing a preface to blank leaves,--a sphynx\n 'Twould puzzle to undo, like Hymen's links!\n The paper's pretty, and a pretty book:\n So far seems certain. What may next be shook\n From Fate's grim bag, _n'importe_--umquhile, I trow,\n Time flits, hopes bud, and wither ere they blow.\n\n When closed the last page of this history,\n If joy or sorrow on that morn shall rise,\n What I may then, or thou shalt surely be\n I dare not mutter with articulate voice!\n And yet I'll try a word or so (no lies,\n I hate them); 'tis irrevocable fate\n I now unfold. Listen, as though there sate\n The wizard seer thy destiny revealing;\n Bright hopes, grim horror, o'er thy vision stealing!\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"Oft shall wearied hope expire,\n Bliss none other bosom knows,\n Love shall scorch thee with its fire,\n Maiden, ere these pages close.\n\n \"Oft shall visions warm and bright,\n Glimmer on thine aching brain,\n Swifter fading from thy sight,\n Ne'er shall dawn those dreams again.\n\n \"Oft shall throb that wearied breast,\n Pulse on pulse in anguish beating,\n Oft shall sink that storm to rest,\n Hope and love those wild waves meeting.\n\n \"Love and hate, and joy and fear,\n Shall thy bosom oft o'erflow,\n All that woman's heart may bear,\n All that woman's breast may know.\n\n \"Oft shall friends thy bosom cherish'd,\n Change to deeper, deadlier foes.\n Love shall die and hope have perish'd,\n Maiden, ere these pages close!\"\n\n\n\n\nTO ----\n\n\n We have met and we have parted,\n Meet it were that love should die;\n Teach the winds, thou fond false-hearted,\n Teach the light wave constancy!\n We have loved as we shall never\n Dare on earth to love again!\n Hearts thus twined, when they shall sever,\n Wear no more love's bootless chain.\n\n Tell the waves to calm their motion,\n Tell the wind thy power to flee,\n Bid the chafed and restless ocean\n Sleep, aye, sleep unchangeably.\n Will the lash'd wave cease its wailing?\n Will the moaning billow rest?\n Then may Hope with joys unfailing,\n Fled like mine, appease thy breast.\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS.\n\n\n \"Lightly o'er the moon-lit sea\n Bounds my lover's bark to me;\n The breeze hath woo'd the fluttering sail,\n Fast flies the prow from the wanton gale.\"\n The lady sung.--'Twas the lone sea-mew\n O'er the waters wail'd, as he wistfully flew.\n\n \"Swiftly through the curling foam,\n Waft, ye winds, my true love home:\n I hear not yet the dripping oar,\n The surge uncleft yet greets the shore.\"\n The lady gazed.--'Twas the rushing blast,\n Like some spirit of might, on the waters pass'd!\n\n Darkly o'er the troubled deep,\n Ruder winds the billows sweep;\n The lady hath left her lattice bower,--\n \"Why tarries my love till the midnight hour?\"\n Swift answer came.--'Twas a shuddering moan,\n As her lover's cold corse at her feet was thrown!\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS FOR MUSIC.[J]\n\n\n Forgotten so soon\n Are thy vows when we parted,\n Have other links bound thee,\n Thou fickle false-hearted?\n Go fling to the winds thy last tenderest vow,\n They are not so changing, so reckless as thou.\n\n Can the tear on thy cheek,\n The warm gush from thy heart,\n So soon dry their torrent?\n So quickly depart?\n Like dew on the flower, like the web when 'tis broken,--\n Oh frailer than these, woman's vows when they're spoken.\n\n And was it for this,\n In my heart's holiest shrine,\n No memory was hidden,\n No image but thine?\n And I deem'd thee some hallow'd, some heaven-given thing,\n Entwined round my bosom for ever to cling.\n\n I had perill'd my all\n On that treacherous bark,\n A woman's fond love;--\n When the billows grew dark,\n The bright sea was ruffled, the loud storm rush'd on,\n My hopes are all wreck'd, and that light bark is gone.\n\n Go, faithless, and weep!\n For I scorn thy words now;\n Yet no tears thou wilt shed\n Can heal one broken vow;\n No weeping can cleanse that one foul perjured stain,\n Or quench the keen fire that now scorches my brain.\n\n Yet stay, false one, stay;\n There's a worm in thy breast,\n A gloom on thy soul\n Where no sunshine shall rest;\n To which e'en the agony thou hast made mine\n Is blessing and bliss when compared but with thine.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[J] This song, and one from the \"Traditions of Lancashire,\" \"They bade\nme sing, they bade me smile,\" were set to music by Mr. Charles Smith,\nauthor of \"Hohenlinden\" and other popular songs. The stanzas immediately\nfollowing were also set by him as a glee. Cramer, Addison, & Co. 201\nRegent Street.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRIES' SONG.\n\n\n Merry, merry elves we be,\n O'er the bright and bounding sea,\n Dancing merrily.\n We glide to the shore in our fairy bark,\n When the moon looks out on high,\n And the waves twinkle round us in many a spark,\n Like radiant melody.\n We dance to the sound of the calm cold billow,\n Ere it sleeps on the sand, ere it dies on its pillow.\n\n Merry, merry elves we be,\n Under the greenwood tree,\n Dancing merrily.\n And the moon through yon white and fleecy cloud,\n Pale, silent, and softly creeps,\n Like a spectre clad in a silvery shroud,\n While nature quietly sleeps.\n We merrily trip it with twinkling feet,\n As the leaves rustle o'er us in melody sweet.\n Away, away,\n At break of day,\n For night is the fairies' holiday.\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS FOR MUSIC.[K]\n\n\n Fare thee well! the dream is o'er;\n Loved one fare thee well!\n Tears and vows deceive no more,\n When broken every spell.\n\n Stars that fade in morning light,\n Suns that set shall rise;\n But no dawn illumes the night,\n When Hope's last glimmer dies!\n\n Oh! lay me where the willows weep,\n On some dreary shore;\n Calm shall be that colder sleep,\n Life's dark vision o'er.\n\n Though earthly joys for ever fled,\n Yet mercy whispers nigh,\n Immortal life beyond the dead,\n And bliss beyond the sky.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[K] These stanzas have been set to a Spanish air by T. Ashworth.\nD'Almaine & Co., Soho Square.\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS FOR MUSIC.\n\n\n On yon dark bosom'd mountain\n The sunbeams are glancing,\n On lake and on fountain,\n The light ray is dancing.\n But yon mountain is dark, though the sunbeams are bright,\n And yon fountain is cold, though 'tis quivering with light.\n\n So one bosom with sadness\n Feels dark and opprest,\n While around, mirth and gladness\n Illumine each breast.\n And the smiles that to others with rapture may glow,\n Leave that bosom alone to its darkness and woe.\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS FOR MUSIC.\n\n\n I've seen the smile on woman's cheek,\n The tear in woman's eye;\n But as I gazed, that smile grew dim,\n That liquid fount was dry.\n\n Oh, I have heard her say she loved,\n And kiss'd the plighted token:--\n But I have lived to feel how false\n What woman's lip hath spoken!\n\n Yes, lighter than the lightest breath\n That skims the morning air\n Is woman's vow, that binds the heart\n In witchery or despair!\n\n How she hath wrung this bleeding breast,\n I may not, dare not tell!\n I only know that I have loved\n Too fondly, and too well.\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS.\n\n\n Say, what is Love?--a bubble\n On life's dull current fleeting,\n A thousand hues and visions bright\n On its frail surface meeting;\n It breaks, and where that vision fair?\n Ocean's dark depth may answer, Where?\n\n Say what is Love?--'tis light\n On life's dark billows thrown;\n Oh, glorious the first glance\n That on those waters shone!\n 'Tis gone,--those waves, illum'd no more,\n Roll darkly on life's desert shore.\n\n Say what is Love?--a glimpse,\n Life's stormy clouds between,\n Of that bright heaven, where all\n Is cloudless and serene;\n A look, ere night and darkness come,\n Beyond the terrors of the tomb!\n\n Come all whose blighted bosom,\n Love's cruel pangs deceive,\n Say what shall be the garland\n For lovers' brows to weave?\n A lone leaf on a blasted tree,\n This, this Love's coronal shall be!\n\n\n\n\nSONG.\n\n\nThe following lines were written to the air No. 4, in the 5th book of\nMendelsohn's \"Lieder ohne Woerte.\"\n\n Oh, say not, lady,\n That ought could ever\n This fond heart sever\n From love and thee\n Go, bid the billow\n Now calm its motion,\n The restless ocean\n Rest endlessly!\n\n Should'st thou deceive me,--\n All earthly blessing,\n Not worth possessing,--\n Away I'd flee.\n And far from home, love--\n My lost hopes mourning--\n Nor thence returning,--\n I'd pray for thee!\n\n And though a stranger\n To earthly gladness,\n There is a sadness\n More glad than mirth,--\n\n The joy of sorrow;\n The sweetest pleasure,\n A tear-bought treasure\n Of heavenly birth!\n\n Though all around me\n Were darkness veiling,\n Yet light unfailing\n In death shall rise!\n Though day departeth,\n Nor cloud nor sorrow\n Shall dim that morrow\n In yonder skies!\n\n\n\n\nTHE FRIEND.\n\n\n There is a friend, whose love\n Is closer than a brother's,--\n Tender, endearing,--'tis above\n E'en fondness like a mother's:--\n She may forget her suckling's cry,\n His ear attends the feeblest sigh.\n\n On Him thy panting breast,\n By care and anguish riven,\n Bleeding and torn, hath found its rest,\n From other refuge driven:--\n And earth, with all its joys and fears,\n Hath ceased to bring or smiles or tears.\n\n Morn's dew-enamell'd flowers,\n The cloud through azure sweeping,\n Their brightness owe to sadder hours,\n Their calm, to storms and weeping.--\n That Friend shall thus each tear illume,\n To forms of glory shape that gloom.\n\n Eve's sapphire cloud hath been\n Dark as the brow of sorrow;\n Those dew pearls wreath'd in emerald green,\n Once wept a coming morrow:--\n But glory sprang o'er earth and sky,\n And all was light and ecstacy.\n\n Yon star upon the brow\n Of night's grey coronet,\n Morn's radiant blush, eve's ruddy glow,\n Had yon bright sun ne'er set,\n Were hidden still from mortal sight,\n Lost in impenetrable light.\n\n Then should afflictions come,\n Dark as the shroud of even,\n A thousand glories glitter from\n The burning arch of heaven!\n Though earth be wrapt in doubt and gloom,\n New splendours dawn o'er daylight's tomb.\n\n And who that azure hung\n With lamps of living fire?\n Who, when the hosts of morning sung,\n First listen'd to their quire?\n The Man of Sorrows mercy sent,--\n In heav'n the GOD!--the Omnipotent!\n\n HE is that friend, whose love\n Nor life nor death shall sever!\n Eternal as yon throne above,\n Unchanged, endures for ever.\n What would'st thou more, frail fabric of the dust;\n OMNIPOTENCE thy Shield!--thy Refuge!--Trust!\n\n\n\n\nLINES TO A LADY\n\nWHOM THE AUTHOR HAD NEVER SEEN.\n\n\n What though thy form I ne'er beheld,\n Yet fancy oft would trace\n Expression, features, look, with all\n Their witchery or grace.\n\n What though thy voice were never heard,\n I felt its melting tone,\n That came like some mysterious spell,\n Unbidden and alone!\n\n I saw thee in the winged beam,\n First-born of morning light;\n In darkness oft I saw thee still,\n A vision of the night.\n\n And though unheard, unseen,--thy name\n The same sweet image brings,\n And fancy o'er the mimic scene,\n Her own bright halo flings.\n\n Oh who shall tell the wondrous glimpse\n Imagination threw,\n As though past, present, and to come\n Were open to her view!\n\n As though the hidden sense had now,\n From earthly dross refin'd,\n Pierc'd this material and left\n Mortality behind!\n\n And is not this a ray that breaks,\n With unquench'd potency,\n Forth from the Omnipotent,--a light\n From his omniscient eye?\n\n A spark from that eternal mind,\n First breath'd into our breast;\n An image of the Infinite,\n On finite pow'rs impress'd.\n\n And though debas'd, degraded, dim,\n From heav'n's own light they shine,\n Imagination, fancy, thought,\n Their origin divine!\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIRCH\n\nON THE WORCESTERSHIRE BEACON, GREAT MALVERN.\n\n\n It stood alone on the green hill side,\n That fairy birchen tree,\n Its yellow leaves in the autumn breeze\n Were flutt'ring heavily.\n\n The early frosts brought those pale leaves down,\n Ere the storms of winter came;\n And stripp'd and bare stood my birchen tree,\n But a wreck to tell its name.\n\n I pass'd the place when the streams were still,\n When the earth was chang'd to stone,\n On the leafless boughs a hoary show'r,\n As a spell of heav'n was thrown.\n\n The glistening sprays by the wind were stirr'd,\n Like a banner gently furl'd;\n It seem'd, in its pure and peerless grace,\n A gift from another world.\n\n And even thus in our inner life,\n When the early frosts are come,\n When the greenness has pass'd from life away,\n And the music of earth is dumb;\n\n 'Tis then that the light and hope of heav'n,\n O'er the lonely heart are flung,\n And our spirit knows a holier joy\n Than that to which erst it clung.\n\n And year by year is the type renew'd,\n That our wayward hearts may learn,\n There is peace for the stripp'd and wearied ones,\n Who in faith to their Father turn.\n\n 1841.\n\n\n\n\nASTROLOGY.\n\n\n 'Tis said that in the burning stars\n The fate of man is writ:\n Yet quail not, Christian, at the sign;\n By LOVE those lamps are lit.\n\n 1848.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST REVELATION.\n\n\nSuggested by the story of a child, whose father, an educated man, but an\ninfidel, if not an atheist, had not allowed him to receive any religious\nculture. Being one day reproved by a friend for using profane language,\non the ground that it was displeasing to GOD, he enquired who was meant.\nHe instantly apprehended with delight all that was told him of the\nnature and attributes of the Supreme Being, as if the idea had been\nlatent in his mind, until thus called forth into recognised existence.\n\n Shadows o'er the infant mind,\n Floating dimly undefin'd\n Like a picture scarce design'd.\n\n Melody but half express'd,\n Inarticulate at best,\n Haunting ever that young breast.\n\n But the magic word is spoken,\n And the shades of night are broken,\n And by that same lustrous token.\n\n \"GOD THE MIGHTY ONE,\" now near,\n Memnon music on the ear\n Falls articulate and clear.\n\n And the day of life begun\n By the newly risen sun,\n In that light its paths are run.\n\n Even so, when GOD reveal'd\n To the eye by Death unseal'd,\n Shall completed being yield,\n\n Will the shadows which now lie,\n As dim portents to the eye,\n From the spirit's vision fly.\n\n And the mystic sounds and sweet,\n Which the untaught ear oft greet,\n Shall a lucid tale repeat.\n\n And mysterious spirit-life--\n Past its agony and strife--\n Be with seven-fold Glory rife.\n\n 1848.\n\n\n\n\nAN EVENING HYMN.\n\n\n Faint falls the twilight dim,\n Woods, waves, their ev'ning hymn\n Murmur to Thee.\n One pale star ocean seeks,\n One waveless glimmer breaks\n O'er that lone sea.\n\n Softly the passing gale,\n Sighs like love's parting tale,\n Whispers not words.\n Clouds come not o'er that night,\n Stars burn with purer light\n Than earth affords.\n\n Come, Night, around this breast,\n Thy soothing dreamy rest\n Waft o'er my soul;\n While thoughts of heav'nly birth,\n Untouch'd by aught of earth,\n Undimm'd may roll.--\n\n Then like yon star may we\n Meet death's calm silent sea,\n Setting to rise.\n Bright'ning still while we sink,\n On that dread ocean brink,\n To other skies!\n\n\n\n\nTHE DUKE OF MANTUA.\n\nA Tragedy.\n\n\nDRAMATIS PERSONAE.\n\n MEN\n\n ANDREA, _Duke of Mantua_.\n\n RIDOLFI, _the Duke's Foster-brother_.\n\n CARLOS, _in love with Hermione_.\n\n BERTRAND, _Friend to Carlos_.\n\n FABIAN, } _Pages attending on the Duke_.\n SYLVIO, }\n\n GIULIO, _a Minstrel attending on Carlos_.\n\n STEPHANO, } _Servants to Ridolfi_.\n ROLAND, }\n\n _Priest_.\n\n _Grave-Digger_.\n\n _Citizens of Mantua_.\n\n\n WOMEN\n\n BEATRICE, _Duchess of Mantua_.\n\n HERMIONE, _Cousin to Ridolfi_.\n\n LAURA, _Sister to Ridolfi_.\n\n ZORAYDA, _a Gipsy_.\n\n BLANCH, _Servant to Hermione_.\n\n\n _Guards, Soldiers, &c_.\n\n\n _Scene--Mantua._\n\n\n\n\nTHE DUKE OF MANTUA.\n\n\nACT I.--SCENE I.\n\n _A Room in the Duke's Palace at Mantua._\n\n _Enter the DUKE and RIDOLFI._\n\n RIDOLFI.\nHermione again visits my house.--\nYour presence, good my lord, with your fair dame,\nI would solicit.\n\n DUKE.\n Well, Ridolfi, be it so:--to-day,\nIf nought forbid the time:--Hermione,\nThou say'st?--I do remember, yet so slight, 'tis scarce\nThe shadow of her form. But once, my brother,\n'Twas one fair summer's eve, awhile I saw\nThy sprightly coz: a laughter-loving spirit,\nShe threw quick mirth as the unbidden shafts\nOf innocent love, scattering with hand profuse\nHer joyous pranks. I was but newly wedded,\nScarce past the honey-moon; Beatrice hung\nFondly upon mine arm, and we too laugh'd,\nOn that still night, until the whisp'ring woods\nGrew loud, and thousand voices started forth\nFrom bough and hoary stem, bursting as if\nTo riotous life; and yet her giddy face,\nPlayful and changing as the restless wave,\nI cannot fashion now from memory's storehouse--\nHow fares thy cousin?\n\n RIDOLFI.\n Still by love, my lord,\nShe comes untamed; but time, one delicate shade\nHath slightly pass'd upon her wanton mirth,\nSoftening the ruder bursts of her high spirit,\nTinged ofttime now with gentler thought.\n\n DUKE.\n 'Tis well\nWhen ripening years mellow the gaudy hue\nOf youth's rich fancies, sparkling else too bright\nFor its repose.----We visit thee to-day.--\nThis tribute say we give Hermione.\n\n RIDOLFI.\nMuch honour hold we from your presence:\nOur poorer hospitality excuse,\nAs you are wont. Adieu! No costly feast\nWe give, but our glad welcome. [_Exit._\n\n DUKE.\n A brother still,--a friend\nTo cheer my way through life's dark wilderness.\nThou art a feeble light, and yet I love\nTo watch thy tremulous blaze, blessing the gloom,\nAnd shedding round my path its thousand gems,\nSprinkling perchance some loathed and hideous form\nWith thy pale gleam. How tender hast thou been\nTo my worst weaknesses, my foibles, all\nHeart-withering cares! Though born to humbler honours,\nI call thee friend. Well hast thou earn'd from me\nThat sacred name! One bosom nourish'd us:\nOne hand our childhood rear'd; twining we grew\nUnto one stem, till riches and high birth\nBore me brief space from that beloved soil,--\nThat home, to which our very nature yet\nSeems most akin.----\nOf proud descent, unsullied as mine own,\nThou yet canst boast: if not of titled wealth,\nOf outward garb, thy suit becomes thee well;\nAnd I do love thee more than if array'd\nIn ducal coronet. Beatrice too\nHath prized him for my sake, and her esteem\nI do repay with tenfold love.----\nFierce, feverish love!--thine idle dreams,--fleeting\nAs cloud-fed vapour, yon o'erarching bow\nBestrides,--fade as the sunbeam on the sky\nDispels the glowing mist. 'Tis well, if then\nThe welkin clear'd, each circumstance and form,--\nFashion'd realities by truth impress'd\nUpon the craving eye-balls,--O 'tis well\nIf on these fix'd and palpable images\nOf roused and wakening sense, the eye may rest\nWith unappeased delight! But if the while\nLove's light-wing'd visions fade, nought fills the void\nSave chilling wastes, trackless, unlimited,\nThat echo back their own grim desolation\nTo the appalled spirit. What escape\nThe shrinking soul is left, save one dark path\nTo unappointed death? I thank thee, Heaven,\nThou sparest me this trial! Love hath still\nWith proud esteem held equal sway: in peace,\nUntroubled they divide their several empire.----\nBut I must hence; Beatrice I would greet\nFirst with these tidings of Hermione. [_Exit._\n\n\nSCENE II.\n\n _A Hall in the House of Ridolfi._\n\n _Enter Servants, preparing for an Entertainment._\n\n ROLAND.\nHelp me with this wine, Stephano.\n\n STEPHANO.\nHelp thee? yea, my wishes be thy help. I hope thou wilt have unhelped\nspeed.\n\n ROLAND.\nTruce to thy wit, comrade, for it helpeth me not, save an' my fingers to\nthis cudgel, and thine hide to a basting.\n\n STEPHANO.\nNay, spare thy wit, and thy cudgel to boot: mine hide endureth it not\ntenderly. If I should wince, thou mightest come to harm. A dainty flagon\nthis: would that thy mouth were as dry as my lips, and our bellies had\nchanged occupants! Thy lazy body would be lighter, methinks, and I\nbetter able to carry thee.----\n\n ROLAND.\nThe Lady Hermione! Oh, how I do love her sweet face, Stephano! She\nsmiles an' it were so temptingly when she speaks! \"Good Roland,\" says\nshe, \"give me of that wine.\"--\"Kind Roland, do go to the bath, and carry\nmy little spaniel:\"--or thus, \"Honest master Roland, pray take my\nbasket, and bring me thy master's garden mittens.\" This house, I trow,\nStephano, she makes like to some gay palace, when she visits it; as\npleasant and full of goodness as the Duke's pantry, who comes to the\nfeast to-day. She was here some two years agone, and I thought I should\nhave pined away at heart when she left.\n\n STEPHANO.\nTush! thou star-stricken marmoset! Is she not a woman? Are not all women\nas full of deceit as their grandmothers? Is not Eve's flesh upon the\nbones of the very best jade in Christendom? and this blowzy-bell of\nthine, beshrew me, has no better a covering than the rest of 'em. This\ndainty hoyden thou delightest to worship, man, can be as chary of her\nwinning looks as any of her sisterhood; and if I have not seen a storm\nbrewing in her face, I have seen a water-spout in her eye, marry, which\nis almost fathomless. Mark me, Roland; if any good comes of her mummery,\nI am no true prophet, that's all.\n\n ROLAND.\nEnvious in this, I do guess, Stephano. Why does she not smile on\nthee--eh? Thy stupid face, seamed like a beggar's coat; thy marvellous\nbright eyes and small nostrils; or, mayhap, I might the rather mean, thy\nmarvellous bright nostrils and small eyes, make tears come into her\ndelicate organs by sympathy, like the stroke of a dull razor. I tell\nthee, man, she cannot smile fronting thy mis-shapened countenance. I\nknow many gentlewomen that bear not an ugly serving-man about them; and\nthe delicate Hermione, I should bethink me, hath aversion to such.--I\nlike her the better, Stephano, for thine ugliness.\n\n STEPHANO.\nThou mis-shapen cur, time serves not to correct thee. What! dost brag if\nthy grinning leer provoke her mirth? \"Sweet Roland,\" ah, \"good Roland,\"\nput thy nose to the curling irons, and twist thy mouth with thy garters.\nI can tell thee, \"Master Roland,\" this favourite hath her privy\ncounsellors, and she not a wit loth to trust 'em. Ah, ah! \"honest\nRoland,\" perhaps thou didst help her to the terrace key o' yesternight;\nand it was \"kind Roland, fetch me\"--oh, her pretty spaniel was it,\n\"Master Roland?\"\n\n ROLAND.\nNay, thou art in jest. Sawest thou the Lady Hermione with the key last\nnight?\n\n STEPHANO.\nI heard a noise in the gallery, and I jumped hastily from my mattress,\nand who should I see but Hermione, with her chamber-lamp, opening the\ndoor which leads to the garden terrace. What sayest thou, Roland?\n\n ROLAND.\nThe key I fetched not.\n\n STEPHANO.\nThen, it seems, she lacks not other \"honest\" friends for matters of more\nneed, and they in nothing loth to serve her.\n\n ROLAND.\nDidst thou watch her further?\n\n STEPHANO.\nAy, good Roland, or I do not deserve to know the worth of a pretty\nsecret.\n\n ROLAND.\nWell?--\n\n STEPHANO.\nThou art curious, i' faith. What makes thee look so wistful?\n\n ROLAND.\nCome, thou lucky knave, I want the burden of thy song. How sped she?\n\n STEPHANO.\nI hied me to the topmost lattice, overlooking--\n\n ROLAND.\nWho was the gallant?\n\n STEPHANO.\nWhy truly he had a brighter face than thine own, but shorn off somewhat\nfrom the left cheek.\n\n ROLAND.\nThou speakest parables, Stephano. Out with it, friend: a secret cometh\nto no good if kept in thy stomach.\n\n STEPHANO.\nA fair face; eyes, mouth, and nose, though none of the best;--I think\nnot half so well made as mine own.\n\n ROLAND.\nIn troth, a dainty lover. What more?\n\n STEPHANO.\nBut then she gave him such a look of devotion, it would have done thine\nheart good to have watched the turn of her face, and to have looked at\nthe glistening of her eye,--and yet this platter-faced gallant seemed\nall unmoved.\n\n ROLAND.\nHis name knowest thou?\n\n STEPHANO.\nVerily, he hath many titles, and I should be puzzled to suit my respect\nwith his proper quality, should we meet.\n\n ROLAND.\nI'll watch to-night;--but pr'ythee whisper me his name gently; I am not\nquick at solving a riddle.\n\n STEPHANO.\nNay, nay; watch and satisfy thine own prying fancy, as I have mine. If\nshe walks to-night I'll call thee. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE III.\n\n _A Chamber in Ridolfi's House._\n\n _HERMIONE, sitting at a Table._\n\n HERMIONE.\nTwo years agone--this self-same chamber--\nJust as 'twas wont;--that ebony casket--still\nYon little crucifix hung o'er the mirror,--\nThat plaited riband, on its flower-carved pillars,\nI wore in sport for love's fair guerdon;\nIts chequer'd noose I vow'd to cast on him\nWho caught me first in some wild reckless game\nOf wanton mirth; but none, as I remember,\nThe adventure gain'd,--it hangs unclaimed still.\nBut why this heaviness?--as if some secret,\nSome long-forgotten grief, waked from its slumber,\nRoused at the voice of these loud recollections.\nAh! dread dissembler! once I thought thee dead,\nAnd thou but slept! Away! haunt not my spirit!\nIs it thy form, fell demon? Hence!--thy strength\nIs nurtured but with present loneliness,\nAnd on the wings of some reviving thought\nAdmittance hast thou gain'd to mock me.\n [_Knocking without._\nWho knocks?--\n\n BLANCH.\n'Tis time, lady, you adorn for the guests. The Duke sends word he will\nattend, and with it his gracious love to Hermione. This billet greets\nyou with his welcome.\n\n HERMIONE.\nA billet!--Welcome!--Stay.\nThou shalt attire me in some simple garb,\nSome unassuming robe; its modest hue\nUnnoticed, I can there observe\nThe humours of this feast.\n\n BLANCH.\nYour crimson bodice, lady, becomes you best, and your lilac kerchief\nwith the blue purfle----or do you choose your orange tiffany dress, and\nyour coif and farthingale?\n\n HERMIONE.\nNeither, good Blanch. Where is mine old spotted robe, with the silk\nsleeves and violet-flowered stomacher?\n\n BLANCH.\nLady, what unlucky accident should bethink you of the garment? I fear\nyour memory is but indifferently served. Once, my kind mistress, you\ngave it to me: and I remember well I said the dress was too gay, when\nstraight you replied, with a sigh (and I do always grieve to hear you\nsigh, lady), \"Take it, good Blanch; I wear it not again:\" which I the\nmore marvelled at, being, as you remember, made up for your last visit\nto Mantua, nor did you inquire for it, after you left this gay city; but\nmethinks none other serves you so well for this same soft-air'd clime. I\nwill away for it speedily, right glad, I trow, the roguish pedler hath\nnot fetched it, who gathers the cast-off dresses from your house. I have\nnot worn the apparel, lady.\n\n HERMIONE.\nThou art a kind-hearted gossip. Choose thee the best suit from my\nclothes-press, and take it for the exchange.--Nay, good Blanch, I allow\nnot thy gainsay:--it will, peradventure, help thee to a husband.\n\n BLANCH.\nI will but keep it then, my sweet mistress, to answer at your bidding;\nmayhap, you will fancy it on your wedding-day.\n\n HERMIONE.\nI shall need no garment then, but the one thy grandmother wore when she\nscared thy father in the forest.\n\n BLANCH.\nSave you, my lady! mean you her winding-sheet?\n\n HERMIONE.\nI mean mine own, Blanch; hers being worn out, belike, ere now, with much\ntravel.\n\n BLANCH.\nOh, mercy!--but you are ever at a jest.\n\n HERMIONE.\nNay, girl, my spirits are too heavy.\n\n BLANCH.\nWhat mean you, fair mistress? I do fear me a few hours of this Mantuan\nair have wrought untowardly with you. Are you ill, lady?\n\n HERMIONE.\nNo, girl.\n\n BLANCH.\nIt is a secret that disturbs you?\n\n HERMIONE.\nThou canst sing, Blanch?--\n\n BLANCH.\nAy, sweet lady, that can I,--and your favourite carol too. List.\n [_Sings._\n \"The miller was blithe in the red, red morn.\n And he sung ere the lark left her nest;\n His heart was bright as the gold, gold light\n That comes o'er the dappled east.\"\n\n HERMIONE.\nNay, that sorts not with my humour, Blanch.\n\n BLANCH.\nShall I try the merry troll you were always right glad to hear, which\nthe old steward taught us?\n\n \"Roundabout, roundabout, laugh and glee\n So merry, so merry--\"\n\n HERMIONE.\nStay:--not now:--some other song, and we'll in to the toilet: let it be\nbrief--I know not why,--save that I think thy singing hath not now such\na jocund and mirthful spirit in it.\n\n BLANCH.\nAh, lady!--but strange purposes are i' the wind when the mirth-giving\nHermione becometh a lover of lamentable ditties!--Stay, shall it be of\nlove?--a sleepy tale of love, as you were wont to call it?--I know a\nballad of this hue.\n\n HERMIONE.\nI care not: another, it may be, would have chimed better. Yet, I'll hear\nthee as a babbler of strange stories.\n\n BLANCH (_sings_).\n \"Up with the light,\n My maiden bright,\n The thrush twitters on the tree;\nEach merry, merry bird to his mate doth call,\n And the bridal waits for thee!\n\n\"The sunbeams pass On the dew-spread grass, And gold gleams are in the\nsky; The morn's balmy breeze to thy casement hies, And thy bridegoom is\nwaiting for thee.\"\n\nThe lover spake, \"Fair maid, awake,\" Yet the maiden still she slept!\n\"Why tarries she from me?--thy bonny face I'll see,\" And lightly to her\nwindow he leapt.\n\nOne cry he gave, Then still as the grave In dim horror he fix'd his dark\neye; For there his lady bright slept her long, long changeless night,\nAnd a blood-sprinkled corpse welter'd nigh!\n\n BLANCH.\nHow like you the song?\n\n HERMIONE.\nIndifferent well;--methinks it were too sad. But sadness and I must have\ncloser fellowship ere long, or I mistake the note of her approach. Away,\nBlanch; we must not delay the honours of the feast. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE IV.\n\n _An Inn at Mantua._\n\n _Enter BERTRAND and CARLOS, fatigued with travel._\n\n BERTRAND.\n'Tis well, good Carlos, in this noble city,\nThanks to all proper instruments, we now\nEnter safe housed. Nay, nay, dole-stricken friend,\nPut off these looks, drench'd still in woe. Why, man,\nLove ne'er was waked with weeping; woman's eye\nE'er kept her heart, and thou must henceforth bribe\nWith gayer looks that restless twinkling organ,\nEre thou may'st gain admittance to her breast.\nRouse thee!--Accost her thus, with careless look\nAnd laughing eye;--bid her \"good day;\"--\nWring her fair hand; and if withdrawn,\nWhy seize her by the waist: her sullen looks\nHeed not; an' if she chide, toss back her words;--\nLet her not learn from thy woe-tinctured face,\nEre yet the tremulous voice its utterance shape,\nThou pinest a love-sick fool!--\n\n CARLOS.\n Bertrand, forbear.\nThou speakest like to one whose lofty spirit\nLove hath not quell'd. I cannot now th' oppressor\nLift from my soul; I am bow'd down,--subdued,--\nCrush'd even to earth,--yet crawling heavily,\nA cumbrous burden, wearied, useless here,\nAnd without purport to my fellow-men!--\nI seem aloof from all connexion, tie,\nOr kindred with mankind. The very earth,\nMy parent dust, claims not its fellowship\nWith mine! Would that yon chill and rayless dwelling\nHad shut me out, and all mine hated sorrow,\nFar from the gaze, the cold, unpitying gaze,\nAlike of stranger and of friend!\nSoon shall the darkness cover me,--the tomb\nClose mine account for ever. Then shall I rest;--\nNo glance of cool-eyed scorn shall meet me there,\nNor woman's charm'd and traitorous tongue shall mock me.\nThey seek not victims i' the grave!--My grief\nShall there be spent; the heart's last ebbing throe\nTo earth in quiet nothingness shall leave me,\nLoosed from my dungeon and my chain!--\n\n BERTRAND.\n Carlos,\nThy troubled spirit hath no appetite\nFor aught but evil. Fancy, diseased,\nShapeth its wrongs from what itself doth breed,--\nE'en as the timid and belated hind\nFrom out his spectre-haunted brain brings forth\nThe shadow most he fears.--I do not mock thee;\nCold scorn lurks not i' the same laughing orbit\nOf an unfraudulent eye. Thou know'st it well,\nThy peace alone I've sought; and this coy dame,\nWoo'd as mine hopes commend, would free my bosom\nFrom half its load. For these remediless griefs\nWith equal weight oppress mine anguish'd spirit,\nAs the united woe this breast e'er smote,\nThe sum untold of this world's misery.\n\n CARLOS.\nForgive a wayward tongue, fretful--unkind:\nMy breaking heart still holds thee dear.\n\n BERTRAND.\n Forgive!--\nNay, ask not this;--man asks but favours.\nWhat waits our bolder claim we crave not. Hold!--\n'Tis needful we devise, touching our errand,\nSome scheme for its adventure. Shrewd my guess,\nThou would'st e'en now return, unwoo'd, unsought\nThis dainty maiden, and to others leave\nThe fond pursuit, then lay thee down and weep!\nI've led thee hither, Carlos;--here I vow,\nEre this same gallant city hath disgorged\nSuch useless habitants, to her dull ear\nThou shalt commend thy love.\n\n CARLOS.\nI've penn'd a fragrant billet----\n\n BERTRAND.\n Or a sonnet,\nMayhap, unto her eyne. Nay, 'tis not thus\nHer fickle love is caught:--canst find no speech?\n'Tis said love's eloquent, and pleadeth nobly,\nUsing such vehement passion as doth rouse\nThe listening heart. Pour thy whole soul to hers:\nGive her no space for thought--'twill bring resistance.\nReflection's chill and polish'd surface soon\nWould glance off thine artillery, rolling back\nThe warm flood to thine heart. But I forbear:--\nMy wish is ever foremost on my tongue,\nAnd still outstrips thy power! Well, thou canst sing,\nPlay on the cittern, trill the soft-voiced lute\nBeneath a lady's chamber; thou canst fill\nA delicate ear with ditties framed so deftly,\nAnd with such wondrous skill, another's woe\nShall seem thine own, 'Tis said, in that soft hour\nThe maiden's heart is tender, and well nurtured\nTo cherish love's impressions. Then, I tell thee,\nUnask'd attend, and with some vagrant band\nOf hired melodists, at once discourse,\nTo thine heart's easing, of pale woe, sighs, groans,\nAnd love forsaken. Thus prepared, her thought\nWill wondering turn to her moon-driven warbler.\nThou knowest well in woman's restless soul\nA lurking fondness lies for mystery.\nIf thou but win her thought to some connexion,\nSome yet scarce-felt recurrence with thine own,\nAnd pleasure once associate with the thought--\nThese outworks gain'd, cheer thee, thou gloomy knight;\nThe lady shall be won. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE V.\n\n _The Terrace. Moonlight._\n\n _Enter HERMIONE._\n\n HERMIONE.\nCalm orb, how tranquil is thy path!--\nAmid the stars thou walkest, clad in light\nAs with a garment. Still thy borrow'd robe\nThe darkness compasseth, and sullen night\nHis cloud-spread visage cleareth at thy beam.--\nHow calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps!\nFair image, woman, of thy maiden breast,\nUnmoved by love. Anon, some vagrant breath\nRuffles its surface, and its pure still light\nIn tremulous pulses heaves:--brighter, perchance,\nThat feverish glitter, but its rest is o'er!--\nHow fresh the dewy air falls on my cheek,\nAs if some spirit, clothed in its influence, came\nUpon my soul, with one heaven-given drop,\nTo cool its torment! Would that I could bind\nThine incorporeal essence! I would chain thee\nHere!--on my heart! Benevolent visitor,\nWhether from yon bright sphere to mortals sent,\nOn moonbeams gliding,--fairy gnome or sylph,\nWhate'er thy name;--or from earth's glistening caves,\nOr from the forest-corall'd deep thou comest,\nIn these chill drops that stud my dew-deck'd hair,\nIts every braid impearling:--fly me not,\nI charge thee, gentle spirit!--Hark! he comes!\n [_Music at a distance._\nI thank thee----\n [_The sound gradually approaches, until heard\n apparently from beneath the Terrace._\nA voice!--I'll hear thy words. Breathe not too loud,\nYe winds.--\n\n SONG.\n Lady, list to me!\n Thy gentle spirit I'll be;\nThe fire is my garment, the flood is my bed,\nAnd I paint the first cloud with the sunbeam red\n That rolls o'er the broad blue sea.\n\nLady, list to me! To the mountain-top I flee: There I watch the first\nwave that comes laden with light, And its soft hue I spread o'er each\nbillow so bright, With its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height,\nAnd the morn's radiant canopy.--\n [_The voice ceases, and the music slowly retires._\n\n HERMIONE.\nOh fly not!--bear me on thy wing!--from earth--\nFrom----Why this shudder?--Save me, spirit of air,\nOr earth, or sea! Tear me but hence; and yet\nI cannot part. Oh! why in mercy once\nWas I conceived, and not to nothing crush'd\nEre the first feeble pulse, unconscious life,\nCrept through this viewless form?--Why was I kept\nUnharm'd through infinite perils?--spared, yet doom'd\nTo writhe unpitied--succourless--alone,\nBeneath one cruel, one remorseless woe,--\nFrom hope shut out--from common sympathy,\nAnd all communion of sorrow,--e'en\nTo the veriest wretch upon thy bosom earth\nNe'er yet denied?--This boon I dare not ask:\nWither'd, consumed, companionless, unwept,\nI meet mine hastening doom. Yet, clad in smiles,\nA flower-wreathed sacrifice, I gaily bound,\nWith gambols playful as the innocent lamb,\nTo the devouring altar. The knife is bared!--\nUplifted,--glittering! Yet I woo thee, tyrant,\nAnd madly kiss my chain. This night the feast\nI left;--arm'd, I had proudly thought--vain hope!\nWith such resolve as, on this moonlit terrace,\nWhere, freed awhile from earth's disquietude,\nMy thralled heart might here unchain for ever!--\n [_Takes a billet from her bosom._\nI vow'd to snatch thee from my breast!\nTo tear thee hence! and to the winds, unseen,\nCommit thy perishing fragments, e'en as now\nThis unoffending page I rend, far scattering\nIts frail memorial to the air.--\n [_Makes an effort to tear the paper._\nSome power withholds me. What! for this thou yearnest?\nWeak, foolish heart, some other hour, thou say'st,\nBetter thou canst resign this fluttering relic\nOf thy----hope, whisperest thou?\nNay, folly--madness,--call it but aright,\nThou throbbing fool, and I will give thee back\nThy doted bauble. [_Returns it into her bosom._\n There--there!--watch over it!\nBrood on thy minion!--cherish and pamper it\nUntil it mock thee!--prey on thy young blood,--\nPoison each spring of natural affection,\nAnd all the sympathies that flesh inherits,--\nThen wilt thou curse thine idol!--Impotent rage,--\nIt will deride thee, and will fiercely cling\nTo thine undoing for ever. Fare thee well,\nThou star-hung canopy!--far-smiling orb.\nFarewell! No more sweet influences ye fling,\nAs ye were wont, around my desolate heart;\nI cannot bear your stillness:--Earthquake--storm--\nThe mighty war of the vex'd elements,\nWould best comport with my disquiet:--now,\nOn thy calm face I dare not look again! [_Exit._\n\n _Enter ROLAND and STEPHANO._\n\n STEPHANO.\nSo, so, my moon-eyed maiden. Ah, \"Good Roland,\" gallants breed not i'\nthe sun; they thrive best belike i' the moonbeams.\n\n ROLAND.\nI saw no gallant.\n\n STEPHANO.\nWhy, poor wretch, I pity thee. Perhaps she hath fallen sick for the\nmoon; thou seest his cheek is somewhat shorn off, and I verily think he\nfavours the lover that I told thee of.\n\n ROLAND.\nThou art an old and a wicked rogue. But what waked such pleasant music?\nCame that from the moon too?\n\n STEPHANO.\nAh, ah, honest friend, dost thou breed suspicions?--Ask the gardener who\nbrought the music-men so late under the garden terrace.\n\n _Enter LAURA cautiously, carrying a light._\n\n LAURA.\nHow now, masters, wot ye,--a pretty time o' night for secret\nwhisperings! What brings you to the terrace, worthy sirs, so nigh upon\nmidnight? Pleasant discourse truly, you unseasonable villains! Can't you\nstay a-bed?\n\n ROLAND.\nSweet mistress, we came to hear the music.\n\n LAURA.\nAnd what should lug your dainty ears to the serenade?--I' faith, 'tis\nhigh time for your betters to stop their ears, when asses jog to the\npipe. So, you guessed the music came to benefit your private discourse.\nAn excellent jest this!--a serenade to a couple of owls.--Get in, you\nlazy dolts, and thank your stars, and not your ears, that you have\n'scaped a beating.----[_Exeunt ROLAND and STEPHANO._]----I wonder these\nidiots guessed not who drew the serenade to this long-deserted house.\nTrue it may be some dozen years or more since this same salute awoke me;\nnevertheless, I was not past hope of its return. That gallant stranger\nwhom I saw at vespers yesterday eyed me not, nor did he watch the corner\nof the street, for nought.--Well, it is a noble-looking cavalier, and a\nsteady, well-ordered person, I warrant, from his noticing me so\nproperly, and not that giddy coz of mine, the love-unheeding\nHermione.--I hope he will return. Virgin decorum permitteth not my\nregard to his first appearance.--Hark!----[_Music._]----Oh! how my heart\nflutters! Sweet harbinger of love! I must show myself, or he will die of\ndespair, or, perchance, he will not come again, which will suit me still\nworse. Though, certes, it would be mightily amusing to feel oneself the\ncause of a gay cavalier hanging himself in his garters! What a precious\nrevenge for the many slights we maidens are subject to! And then, to\nhave it said, \"there goes the signora for whom signor so and so hanged\nhimself.\" Oh, how charming is this moonlight! Really, I am younger\nto-night than when I was but one year past thirty. Hush!--ay, I warrant\nthou art in love;--I can tell by the turn of thy voice. Senor Antonio\nquavered just as thou dost;--but--he was fickle, and quavered so far he\ncould not get back again. I never saw him again after his second sky\nalto!--Hark!\n\n SONG.\n Fair as the moonbeam,\n Bright as the running stream,\n Sparkling, yet cold.\n In Love's tiny fingers\n A shaft yet there lingers,\nAnd he creeps near thy bosom and smiles, lady.\n Soon his soft wings will cherish\n A flame round thine heart,\n And, ere it may perish,\n Thy peace shall depart.\n O listen, listen, lady gay,\n Love doth not always sue;\n The brightest flame will oft decay,\n The fondest lover rue, lady!\n\n LAURA.\nI cannot resist.\n [_She waves her hand over the Terrace. A letter is\n thrown--she takes it to the lamp, and reads--_\n\n\"Say, fairest, canst thou love? or doth cold scorn compose the sum of\nthy affections? Can thine eyes enkindle so suddenly another's heart, and\nyet shed no warmth on thine own? Give me but one smile, and thou shalt\nfrown upon me for ever: so shall that cheering beam outlive a thousand\ndark winters. I am grown bold, for I have but a simple tale, and if thou\nwilt lend an ear to my suit, on the Terrace, to-morrow night at this\nhour, my presence will not offend thee again unless thou judgest in my\nfavour.\n \"CARLOS.\"\n\nSo, so,--rather a bold gallant I trow, seeing it is the first he hath\nasked of my company; but I guess it is the fashion of these perilous\ndays. Peradventure, if I had not been beforetime so careful of my\nfavours, I had been woo'd and wedded with the best of 'em. After all, I\nsee no great harm in the company of a handsome young spark, save that\nthe uncourted dames are envious withal! but verily they would change\ntheir minds mayhap as I do, though every one doth not judge so\ncharitably as the person who hath chanced to ride on the other side of\nhis opinion. I scolded the maids though but yesterday for a night frolic\nwith their sweethearts, and bravely will Hermione laugh at my sermon,\nwith the practice thereto appended. Well, I care not--\"let those laugh\nthat get the magpie's nest.\"--When I am married, grin who dare;--Carlos,\nI meet thee! [_Exit._\n\n\nACT II.--SCENE I.\n\n _The Duke's Chamber._\n\n _Enter DUKE._\n\n DUKE.\nA strange conceit:--where dwellest thou,\nAnd on what nurtured?--Love on air-fed dreams\nYet lives not: if in the heart nor hope there be,\nNor thought, nor token'd glimpse on which to cling\nFor daily sustenance, the recreant dies.--\nRepliest thou?--What, nought my monitor?--\nNay, thou didst rise unbidden on my path,\nWith threatening front, and sternly stalked thee forth\nFrom out thy covert, sent, forsooth, as though\nTo warn of menaced danger. Back to thy den!\nDream there of mischief and invent new terrors;\nI yet can jest, laugh with the laughing dames,\nSport in their transient blaze, unharm'd, uncensured,\nAnd ever to thy fond embrace return,\nBeatrice, thence more wedded to thine heart!\nIn quiet cease thine oft foreboding ill,\nNor with unreal fears haunt my repose,\nLest when thou shouldst arouse, erewhile to rush\nBetwixt me and my purpose, thine alarms\nI heed not, if so oft thy drivelling fancies\nArise to fool me!----\n\n _Enter an ATTENDANT._\n\n ATTENDANT.\nMy Lord, the Lady Hermione visits you to-day.\n\n DUKE.\nMy pages--are they summoned?\n\n ATTENDANT.\nFabian waits below, in the great hall, just equipped for the chase.\n\n DUKE.\nLet him attend. [_Exit ATTENDANT._\nThe tongue of that gay damsel in mine ear\nYet rings. I like her wit well, she doth sport\nThese humours nobly. Words from her charmed lips\nDo gather sweetness, and the sharpest taunt\nFalls from her harmless, veil'd in the soft tones\nOf her most delicate voice. And yet her presence\nI would not seek; a lurking mystery\nHangs, or my thought deceives me, fathomless,\nInscrutable, and dazzling as the veil\nThat quells th' intruder's gaze. I watch'd her eye\nIn secret yesternight, amid the feast;\nThe soul that sate there laugh'd not, but her face\nWith radiant smiles was sprinkled, dimpling o'er\nLike the soft waves on summer seas, with such\nSmooth, gentle undulation. Yet her eye\nNe'er rose nor fell, but fix'd as some stern rock\nAmid that smiling wave. I like not this--\nThere's witchery in that glance.\n\n _Enter FABIAN._\n\nBring here my tablets, boy:--how goes the news?\n\n FABIAN.\nYour grace, perchance, hath heard two gentle strangers\nThe abode inquiring of Hermione.\nBeneath Ridolfi's terrace, yesternight,\nUnto her ear they gave, with pipe and lute,\nSweet signal of their presence.\n\n DUKE.\n Where?--the terrace!--\nI'll have them seiz'd. Ho!--guards!\n\n _Enter Guard._\n\n FABIAN.\n Oh, stay!--why thus, my lord!--\nThe men purpose no mischief, hither bent\nOn some love errand; they in this can plot\nNone other hurt.\n\n DUKE.\nLove! sayest thou?--Whom seek they?--\n\n FABIAN.\n Hermione, my lord, and she----\n\n DUKE.\nAdmits their coming?--Seize them, guards!--\nWhy this delay?\n\n GUARD.\n My lord, we know not where\nYour message hath its reference.\n\n DUKE.\nWhere lurk the caitiffs, boy?\n\n FABIAN.\nAlas! alas! some frenzy masters you:\nOne moment wait, one precious moment, ere\nUpon the spotless robe of your fair justice\nFall this abhorred stain. Pause, I beseech you,\n [_The DUKE motions the Guards to withdraw._\n'Tis for yourself I plead! [_Kneels._\n\n DUKE.\nUp, boy!--what ails thee? Knowest thou, Fabian,\nOf these intruders?--Speak!\n\n FABIAN.\n I know them not.\n\n DUKE.\nThen why such ready zeal in their good service?\n\n FABIAN.\nMy lord, the zeal I now profess\nSeeks but your own. To strangers, courtesy,--\nAnd faith reciprocal, demands protection.\nThis need I tell to Andrea!\nWhose name with purest honour coupled, grew\nInto its likeness, till the very words\nHad but one sense. Need I to Andrea\nInterpret honour's laws? its high-born chivalry,\nIn whose once noble breast her temple rose\nUnsullied, unapproach'd by aught of earth,\nTo which defilement clung. Think but on this--\nOne moment on the past now gaze--'tis bright!\nOh let not one dark cloud, gathering but yet\nUpon the whirlwind of this turbulent passion,\nObscure yon sunny glade, where stilly winds\n'Mid verdant hills, calm waters, glittering plains,\nThe beamy path of an unclouded life,--\nAt one fell sweep, let not this merciless blast\nO'erwhelm its wonted pride!\n\n _Enter DUCHESS._\n\n BEATRICE.\n Your presence, Andrea, I crave\nTo greet our visitors.\n\n DUKE.\n Not now, Beatrice,--\nI cannot come. Where sayest thou?--\n\n BEATRICE.\n My lord! you are disturb'd!\nWhat!--Fabian, and in tears!--Why this reproof?\nThe boy is gentle, and ill brooks harsh words;\nYou were not wont to chide him thus!\n\n DUKE.\n'Tis Fabian, I ween, his master chiding.\n'Twas thus:--Two prying and suspicious elves\nI mark'd, to punish. Issuing forth command\nFor their arrest, this silly, wayward boy,\nWith words and tears, hath temper'd mine intent\nTo his entreaty. True, I might but gain\nSmall honour by their seizure, hence I've given\nThe stripling his desire; yet mark me, Fabian,--\nI watch them closely.----\n\n _Enter HERMIONE and LAURA._\n\nMy soul seems pain'd at her approach. [_Aside._\nMy gentle cousins, hail! None other name\nWherewith I greet you sounds so consonant,\nSo kin to mine affection. How hath fared\nEach friend in Mantua? Laura, yet as fresh\nAs when my childhood knew thee, and thine hand\nSupplied a mother's fondness. Look not grave,\nThou art not half so old as thou art aged\nIn mine esteem.--Hermione, to you\nI publish greeting.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Our beloved cousin,--\nThe form I trow your greeting takes.\n\n DUKE.\n Sweet coz!\nNo form I use, I greet thee well, and crave\nThy long abode in Mantua. Ladies' eyes\nHave most miraculous virtue; they can draw\nThe moon from his orbit, and the little stars\nTo watch their tender sighs at the soft wail\nBreath'd from a timorous lute. You love the moonlight?\nWhy do ye start?--'tis not the first fair dame\nThat in our city listen'd i' the cool\nAnd passionless night, to piped sighs, and vows\nEnamour'd, breathed from reed and flageolet!\n\n HERMIONE.\nMean you the serenade? 'Twas meant, my lord,\nFor other ears than mine.\n\n DUKE.\nHow? For the maid's, belike! Sweet, innocent fool,\nLove e'er was held a story-telling urchin;\nPr'ythee forswear such idle company.\nBut whence upon that cheek such tell-tale hues,\nWrought suddenly in their bright texture?--whence\nThat strange confusion? Love's unquenched flame\nDefies control.\n\n HERMIONE.\n I do confess,--one night,\nTo while a feverish hour,--I had walk'd forth,--\nI sought the garden-terrace. True, surprise\nA moment cross'd me, when your ear I found\nSuch marvellous tidings heard!\n\n DUKE.\n Well, to the maids\n'Tis like we are beholden for this minstrelsy.\nNought living now in that good house would tempt\nOur gallants from their beds.\n\n LAURA.\n And why, your grace?\nIf older ears enjoy such ravishment,\nI'm not so old, beshrew me, potent Duke,\nBut I can wake at true-love's bidding!\n\n DUKE.\n Well said,\nMy maiden-queen! The fire of Zampria's house\nYet quenches not, nor through thy cooler veins\nFlags in its current.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Yesternight\nShe sought my chamber. I had left the terrace\nEre the unyielding maid answer'd her call;\nShe came all radiant with love's virgin fire,\nShe trod on air, and her quick-throbbing bosom\nAll o'er the god confess'd. What says our cousin?\n\n LAURA.\nNo need that maiden's blush reveal her secret,\nIf such rude, giddy, and discretionless tongues\nAre left abroad.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Nay, Laura, thou hast lived\nBut in that snowy page, so prettily crimp'd,\nO'er which, thou sayest, love whilom hath brush'd\nHis tiny wings, and deftly to thine heart\nFrom thence hath sprung. Ah! gentle maid! in mercy\nVouchsafe to me one touch,--one thrilling touch\nOf that same love-wrought billet,--haply, thence\nThe god may come: I'll make the urchin room;\nOr some stray rubbish, hoarded, yet to me\nAs worthless, I'll remove.\n\n LAURA.\n So fair a jewel,\nTo thy rude hand I yield not.\n\n DUKE.\n Excellent maid!\nThy jewel I had thought would hence have pass'd,\nA legacy to earth. I'd give my cap\nTo view this comely gallant.--So, to thee,\nHermione, hath love ne'er yet approach'd,--\nOr, if perchance he came, 'twas clad in guise\nOf other import. If on thy chill bosom,\nSmiling, he yet should nestle, archly pouting\nHis pretty lip for entrance, wouldst thou grant\nThe wanderer room?\n\n HERMIONE.\n I know not:--now, mayhap,\n'Tis not much worth his lodging.\n\n DUKE.\n Then its chambers\nAre still defil'd with many visitors.\nOr, it may chance, some envious power usurps\nHis lawful birthright. Bid thee of such guest,--\nTo thy liege lord submit, and pardon crave\nFor past offences.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Where shall I begin\nMy maiden suit?\n\n DUKE.\n Lay but that garb aside,\nThat glittering panoply, its surface, bright,\nYet harder than the thrice-quench'd steel,\nNo bolt can pierce; and I do promise thee\nA hundred shafts from some well-furnish'd quiver.\n\n HERMIONE.\nBut if those shafts are pointless and unfledg'd,\nA hundred more would boot not!\nOf what avail, though twice ten thousand fell\nUnspeeding at my feet!\n\n DUKE.\n Thy fickle fancy,\nYet unfetter'd, will not always thus,\nGay as the light breeze, rove where'er she list,\nNor heeding ought she passes. She will droop,\nAnd, sighing, linger o'er some cherish'd form,\nEnamour'd while she worships.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Mine roves not!\nOne form I cherish! None I wot beside\nComes forth at fancy's call. 'Tis not mine own!\n\n DUKE.\nThou speakest riddles.\n\n HERMIONE.\n And must ever thus.\nWhate'er on this dark theme I could reveal\nWere mystery still, trackless, inscrutable.\nThe subtle web in which my fate is bound\nTime serves not to unravel: all beside\nBasks in the broad moonlight. All hopes, desires,\nEach changing hue, as cloud or sunshine sweeps\nTheir varied surface, pass without concealment\nBefore the eye of watchful day.--\n\n BEATRICE.\nAnd every maid hath some fond secret,\nSome stored love, that she unwilling keeps\nUntil claim'd thence for its blest owner. Why\nThat face of solemn mystery brought forth,\nAs if thine own were some peculiar fate\nNone ever knew?\n\n HERMIONE.\n Our light burden galls\nMore than the heaviest load our neighbours bear.\nBut we return. The day unwitting slides\nAdown the cope of yon bright heaven. Few hours\nYet come till eve, and Laura looks impatient.\nAnd wherefore thus, bright cousin?--no sly meeting,\nNo time-drawn assignation? Well I know\nThe disrespect thou bearest them, or now\nMy thoughts would judge thee!\n\n DUKE.\n Guard well your giddy charge,\nMost vigilant dame, most excellent duenna,\nLest some gay treacherous gallant should beguile\nHer tender years. Farewell.\n\n LAURA.\nI thank your duteous care. Farewell.\n [_Exeunt HERMIONE and LAURA, followed by the DUCHESS._\n\n DUKE.\nA strange wrought mixture thou\nOf our mortality; mingled, perchance,\nBy nature in some freakish mood, when tired\nOf that same endless reproduction, man,--\nStill to his fellow mortal answering,\nAs, in a mirror, face to face.\n\n FABIAN.\nGo you, my lord, to-day, upon the Prado?\n\n DUKE.\nTo-day?--yes, boy. But I would change this habit,\nAnd mix unknown with that gay crowd. 'Tis well--\nHermione, or strange my thoughts misgive me,\nNow seeks the walk. I'll watch; this paramour\nOr hers or Laura's I may chance discover.\n [_Exeunt separately._\n\n\nSCENE II.\n\n _A Street._\n\n _Enter CARLOS and BERTRAND._\n\n BERTRAND.\nThou speedest well, thanks to my shrewd invention.\nYon babbling rogue, Stephano, gave me note\nOf her night walk upon the terrace, where\nI bribed the keeper to admit ye.\n\n CARLOS.\n Thanks,\nThrice worthy friend. But I do fear mine errand;\nSome secret terror burdens mine intent,\nAnd heavily droops the wing of my firm purpose.\nDull hope's uncertain beam, foreboding, quivers,\nWhile the rude blast, low howling in mine ear\nThe roar of muttering tempests, sweeps it by,\nAnd, in that flickering glare, pale spectres glide,\nA mournful train,--sullen despair, pale woe,\nAnd grisly terror, dwell in their pale looks.\nWould this dread night were o'er!\n\n BERTRAND.\n Some rancorous fiend\nPossesses thee. Some stroke of sudden madness\nTo thy weak brain hath sped, reversed thy thoughts,\nTurn'd each unto its contrary,--what once\nWaked smiling hope, now brings despair,--love, hate!--\nJoy, measureless sorrow!--Rouse thee! Once thou wert\nOf different mood, and, ere thy clouded sun\nSinks to his gloomy bed, again his glance\nShall be unveil'd. I'll be thy prophet! Haste\nFrom this inglorious sleep! As he of old,\nThy fetters from thee shake, in terrible might\nUprising, when awaked from the soft lap\nOf indolent love. Thou lovest but too well,\nNor mayest thou speed, until she find thee oft,\nWith careless port, braving her frown. Wayward,\nThe maiden scorns true lover's tenderest sigh,\nAnd inward pines for some ungracious churl,\nWho slights such light-won favours. 'Tis the good\nWe might possess we loath and sicken at,\nFor that beyond our reach, we moan and fret,\nAs if our very soul were thither urged,\nAnd life itself but hung on its frail tenure.\nWe'll seek the public walk: (woman e'er follows\nThe giddy crowd, as doth your swift-winged hornet\nHunt forth its prey): it will beguile the hours,\nTill night, with drowsy tongue, calls thee to love\nAnd to Hermione! [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE III.\n\n _A Chamber._\n\n _Enter LAURA._\n\n LAURA.\nHow this little tyrant rules it over me! Again--[_Takes a letter from\nher bosom_]--I can repeat the words backwards, tell every turn of a\nletter, count the dots, blurs, and crossings; but--[_In attempting to\nreplace the billet, it drops on the floor unperceived_]--I think the sun\ncreeps backward, and then returns, out of sheer spite and maliciousness.\nI must not be on the terrace too soon: I'll have him wait now; it looks\nmore an it were as if I had other business by the nose than dancing to\nthe pipe of a gay gallant. Three full hours yet. Alack, alack! I can\nneither scold the maids, darn the Venice lace, sort my brother's hose,\nnor even turn up the plaitings of my own hair. I'll bethink me of the\ngown I must wear that shall best please my cavalier, and lay it down, to\nsmooth out the folds. Oh, sweet heart! how tender he looked on me at the\nPrado to-day. Yes,--the same,--I gave him an encouraging glance betimes,\nlest the youth should wax timorous and melancholy. I hope we may have a\nquiet night: the sky looks somewhat wild and turbid. [_Exit._\n\n _Enter HERMIONE._\n\n HERMIONE.\nHow fierce the sun gazes from below that bank of clouds he has just\nquitted, as if he threatened us at his going with some terrible\ndisaster. His beam wraps the city, as with a mantle of fire bespangled\nwith stars,--here and there a glittering cross studding its purple\nvestment: one by one they are quenched, and the glowing mantle itself\nfades. A dark dun haze rests upon the city, and in the west a fiery\nstreak alone tells of the past. I fear me the night forebodes a\nstorm.----Carlos, I find, follows me to Mantua. How the moody wretch and\nhis companion dogged us at the Prado to-day: I doubled more than a hare\nat its lasts shifts, to keep out of their ken. I had hoped he would have\nforgotten me ere this; but you may not cram wisdom even down a mallard's\nthroat.--\n\n _Enter SYLVIO._\n\nWhose message bring you here?\n\n SYLVIO.\nMy Lord Duke sends greeting.\n\n HERMIONE.\nThanks, boy, for his intent. I lack not pleasant compliments.\n\n SYLVIO.\nHe hopes, lady, the air of our public walk suits well your delicate\nhealth, and that your spirits droop not in this gay city.\n\n HERMIONE.\nTell my Lord Duke, when he next goes with the crowd, to veil the dark\nfringe of his eye, and to fashion the bend of his nose afresh; or the\nfire of his eye, and his lordly beak, will betray to every idle\nflutterer the presence of the proud Duke of Mantua. Good b'ye, Sylvio.\n [_Exit._\n\n SYLVIO.\nI cannot read this haughty damsel. Ah! what have we here?--[_Picks up\nthe paper Laura has just dropped._]--Something, I trow, more legible\nthan maiden's breast.\n [_Reads._\n\"_Say, fairest, canst thou love_,\"--I warrant thee--\"_or does cold scorn\ncompose the sum of thine affections_\"--\"_Grown bold_\"--\"_If thou wilt\nlend thine ear to my suit on the terrace to-morrow night at this\nhour_\"--A bold suitor, truly--\"_I will not offend thee again unless thou\njudgest in my favour._\" \"CARLOS.\"\nGood b'ye, lady.--[_Mimicks her._]--The Duke shall enjoy this tender\nmorsel. Tell my Lady Hermione, when she next gives a private meeting to\nher gallant, to keep her billet safe, to veil the fringe of her bodice,\nand raise the beak of her stomacher, else their shallow covering will\nbetray to every idle flutterer the secrets of the haughtiest beauty in\nChristendom. [_Exit._\n\n\nSCENE IV.\n\n _The Terrace. The night dark and tempestuous, with distant\n thunder._\n\n _Enter CARLOS._\n\n CARLOS.\nThe night broods heavily, as though\nGaunt mischief were abroad, and its dun cloak\nWould hide some horror, the yet timid eye\nShrinks to behold. An hour--a minuted age,\nEre the appointed moment can break in\nUpon its tedious march. Hark! footsteps.\nI must conceal----this friendly----Ah, Hermione!\nThus anxious for the meeting?\n [_Steps behind a pillar._\n\n _Enter HERMIONE, with a light; she sets it down at the entrance,\n and walks across the Terrace._\n\n HERMIONE.\nRoll on, thou terrible storm,--\nOn thy dark brow, the lightnings, as they play,\nReveal thy rapid march!--\nSpirit of air, that on the untamed winds\nDost walk, or, on the rushing elements\nUpborne, thy chariot cleaves the groaning sky,--\nWhether to me thou speakest with rude voice\nOf unstill'd tempest, or in whispering breath\nFrom morn's flower-fragrant breeze,--I hail thy presence.\nBear in thine hand hot thunder-bolts,\nThe whirlwind on thy wing, the cloud-swoln cataract\nBurst on the reeking earth,--dauntless I'll make\nTerror my pastime, sport in their turmoil,\nAnd with the storm-careering demon's shriek\nMy bitter laugh shall mingle. These are but\nThe harmless play of innocent childhood,--\nSo fierce the storm that desolates my soul!\n [_CARLOS comes from behind the pillar, and hesitatingly\n approaches._\nSoft--Who approaches?--How!--Don Carlos!\nWhence this intrusion?--Speak not, but begone!\nI hear thee not. Touch but my garment,\nShuddering, I'll shake thee off, as some vile reptile\nMy senses loathe. Hence, ere I spurn thee!\n\n _Enter the DUKE hastily, his sword drawn._\n\n DUKE.\nDraw, villain!--guard thine hated carcass!\nUnsheath, bewildered fool, lest I should spike thee\nOn this good weapon! [_They engage._\n\n HERMIONE.\nHelp!--How fierce they fight!--Lights!\nHo!--within!-- [_CARLOS falls._\n\n CARLOS.\n Oh, I'm wounded!--\nThere, may thy paramour complete thy work,\nUnblushing traitress!--Home to my heart--\nStrike deep! thou canst not give so keen a thrust\nAs her rude tongue!--Haste, ere thy weapon cool;--\nYet, ere I die, Hermione--I loved thee once,\nNow--from my heart I proudly tear thine image,\nBlotting it out for ever, as the memory\nOf some loathed wanton!--Hence!--haunt not my sight,\nFell murderess!--Now unbar my prison, death!--\n\n DUKE.\nNay,--I'll not haste thee to thy last acquittance,\nIll-fated wretch!--I do repent mine haste.\n\n _Enter BERTRAND._\n\n BERTRAND.\nFoul deeds betray ye, sirs!--Carlos!\nWounded!--Unhand him, villain!--'tis to thee\nHe owes this bitter thrust. If thou art aught\nBut what I deem thee, by the earliest dawn\nAgain we meet. The outskirts of yon wood,\nNigh to the city, with thy weapon, there\nUphold thee for this most unjust assault.\nAn innocent man, if yet protection be\nUpon the stranger in proud Mantua,\nI bear to his abode; but on thy head\nHis blood doth rest, a dastard's recreant crow\nDown drawing Heaven's hot vengeance!\n\n _Enter RIDOLFI, LAURA, and Attendants, with lights._\n\n LAURA.\nOh! they have slain him! Help! Who dealt this blow?\nSweetheart, for love thou diest, and for love,\nMalicious fate! thy maiden too must die.\n [_BERTRAND bears off CARLOS._\nYet stay, Carlos! I follow thee.\n\n RIDOLFI.\nNay, maid, content thee;\nThou followest not this stranger.\n\n LAURA.\n Oh, he was mine!\nBut they have ta'en him.\n\n RIDOLFI.\n Thine! Some demon sure\nMakes ye his sport. My Lord--the Duke--I dream--\nThis night, methinks, the storm doth send confusion\nTo men's calm thoughts, o'ermaster'd with its frenzy.\nOn they would rush, malign, to the fulfilment\nOf some sure, unscaped doom.\n\n HERMIONE.\n I know not whence\nThese changes come,--inexplicable, dark\nAs lies my fate,--the abyss to which I hasten!\nMy lord, can you unriddle these events?\nYour presence would denote, at least to me,\nSome knowledge of their bearing.\n\n DUKE.\nA pleasant jest, from me to ask the key!\nIt hangs in thy bosom, lady. Friends, farewell!\nI hasten hence ere this unpitying tempest\nIts fiercest burst, its gathering deluge pour;\nCataracts of forked fire, commingled torrents,\nFrom the wide womb of the vexed elements.\n\n HERMIONE.\nFarewell, my lord! some other time we meet.\n\n DUKE.\nFarewell, my friends! another hour must tell\nMy purpose here this night. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nACT III.--SCENE I.\n\n _A Chamber in the Palace._\n\n _The DUKE at a table, surveying his sword._\n\n DUKE.\n Mischievous weapon!\nI would forswear thy company: but now\nWe cannot part. Blameless,--inanimate,--\nThe heart alone makes thee its passive tool\nTo work the several ills its thought conceives!\nWhat art thou, senseless steel? cold, motionless,\nIncapable of ought, or fraud or injury,--\nNo dire intent there broods, no passionate flame\nMix'd with thy temper, flashes o'er the obscure,\nThe restless gulf within, troubling the spirit;\nA fitful gleam, on the dark surges wreathing\nForms of unutterable horror,--wide\nDisclosing from the womb--the fathomless womb\nOf that abyss!--Would the events,\nThe brief record of time, the narrow space\nBy yesternight enclosed, were blotted out,\nEffaced for ever. I must meet thee, stranger,--\nThou may'st avenge thy friend.--Hermione!--\nWhy should I start?--a sound--a bursting bubble\nMoves me. Hermione!--Again!--This heart\nNot so hath leapt in the loud roar of battle!\n'Tis folly--madness,--yet she marks me out--\nGazes so strangely,--'twere an idle thought,\nBut from her soul, methinks, such pulses come\nOf wild, unworded passion, as they'd mingle,\nPerforce, with every faculty, desire,\nAnd through each avenue rush, thralling the will\nUnto its influence. Those basilisk eyes\nAre on me ever! Asleep, awake, they change not.\n'Tis fascination! If such spell there be,\nHermione doth use it! Yet enchains she not\nOthers unto the like. I've watch'd her thus,\nHow angrily,--as the quick lightning sped,\nThe night uncovering from her form,--I saw\nHer eagle-glance the timorous love-sick wretch\nStrike helpless at her feet. It is not love,--\nA spell earth owns not hangs upon my heart!--\nI love Beatrice; yet more tenderly\nUnto her bosom mine affections cling,\nThe more this parasite, this foul excrescence\nPreys on my vitals, wastes mine healthful spirit,\nPoisoning life's current even at its source.\nI'll shake me from these toils: I knew not when\nThe cunning net was thrown, so light the texture;\nAnd warily I wot the snare was laid,\nOr I had 'scaped it.\n This unwelcome dawn\nComes dimly on the casement;--heavily\nThe day's dull beam seems labouring up the sky,--\nLow hang the clouds, huge relics of the storm,\nLike dark reflections brooding o'er the mind\nWhen passion's rudest burst hath pass'd, and reason,\nAs yon pale gleam, thus struggling forth its way\nThrough adverse clouds, visits again the soul--\n'Tis then the mind, shuddering, at once recoils\nFrom the dire consequence, and conjures up\nA thousand possibilities to scare\nThe resolute purpose. I linger at the threshold\nOf this proceeding. I will not fight thee, stranger;\nI've wrong'd thy friend. His death, yet unappeased,\nClings to my burden'd spirit: I'll atone\nIf yet there be of reparation aught\nThis hand can give. Sylvio!\n\n _Enter SYLVIO._\n\nAttend me with the weapons. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE II.\n\n _An unfrequented Place, on the Outskirts of a Wood, without the\n Walls._\n\n _Enter BERTRAND and two Attendants._\n\n BERTRAND.\nHow goes the morn?\n\n FIRST ATTENDANT.\n When past the rock,\nMethought the convent bell chimed there for matins.\nHeard you it, signor?\n\n BERTRAND.\nI know not. Is the hour yet gone?\n\n FIRST ATTENDANT.\n What hour?\n\n BERTRAND.\nDoes the day dawn?\n\n SECOND ATTENDANT.\n Ay; but night-lurking clouds\nShut out the approaching light. One short, wan streak,\nAs if in the branches of yon distant oak,\nAlone brings niggard tidings.\n\n BERTRAND.\n Hark!--footsteps.\n\n FIRST ATTENDANT.\n It is the tread\nOf some roused deer: upon the rustling leaves\nMan's bolder foot falls not so lightly.\n\n BERTRAND.\nThe day its custom'd hour forgets,\nAnd lingers in its chamber, loth to rise,\nWith unveil'd face, on the wide ruin\nOf this hush'd tempest.\n\n FIRST ATTENDANT.\n Look towards the east!\nThe light breaks rapidly athwart its face.\nYou look not, signor. Hear you the----\n\n _Enter DUKE, disguised._\n\n BERTRAND.\nWelcome, if thou art he--the foe I meet.\n\n DUKE.\nThe same; but not thy foe.\n\n BERTRAND.\n That hated voice!\nRevenge it cries. Prepare! no more delay!\nDraw, dastard! or thy recreant blood I'll pour\nUnfought for to this earth.\n [_BERTRAND makes the attack, the DUKE keeping\n on the defensive._\n\n BERTRAND.\nThou wardest but my blows; fight, villain!\n [_The DUKE makes a parry, and immediately\n disarms BERTRAND._\nI seek not mercy. None would I have given\nIf I had seen thee thus.\n\n DUKE.\nTake back thy sword. How fares thy friend?\n\n BERTRAND.\nIf he recover, hate to thee, unceasing,\nAnd to Hermione, he vows for ever!\n\n DUKE.\nDoes he recover?\n\n BERTRAND.\n Wherefore askest thou?\n\n DUKE.\nNay, chafe me not:--passion but slowly sinks\nIf still the wind buffet the boiling wave!\n\n BERTRAND.\nThou threatenest well. I can defy thy wrath.\nAnother stroke might change the haughty hue\nOf thy proud boast.\n\n FIRST ATTENDANT.\n Nay, be at peace--again\nYe may not quarrel. Soft, good signor, sheath\nYour perilous weapon. 'Tis not just we wait\nAnother issue with decided strife.\n\n DUKE.\n Farewell!\nI would depart while better reason yet\nKeeps stedfast watch. [_Exit._\n\n BERTRAND.\n Cool-hearted wretch!\nThy passion kept not pace with thine occasion,\nElse had it minister'd to other issues.\nAnger disarm'd me--not thine arm, assassin.\n\n FIRST ATTENDANT.\nYet hath he braved it nobly, and, methinks,\nA better name hath earn'd in thy report.\n\n SECOND ATTENDANT.\nKnowest thou thy foe?\n\n BERTRAND.\n What need? His name I wot not.\n\n SECOND ATTENDANT.\nThe Duke!\n\n BERTRAND.\n The Duke?--of Mantua!\n\n SECOND ATTENDANT.\n 'Tis he!\nA nobler heart beneath a truer breast\nNe'er beat. I watch'd his bearing as he gave\nThe weapon back to thy reluctant grasp:\n'Twas just the air, the lofty temper'd port,\nI've seen him use, when, with proud condescension,\nGracious--yet bating nought his dignity,--\nHe deals such pardon to the trembling culprit\nAs makes the offence yet doubly heinous.\n\n BERTRAND.\nI ask'd of him no favour--where the crime?\n'Twas unprovoked; he rush'd upon my friend,--\nThey fought,--he fell,--and I had hoped to avenge\nThe sufferer's wrong. But whence?--'tis wondrous strange.\nHermione!--the Duke!--the proud Hermione\nA prince's paramour! It cannot be.\nSo fair, so noble, yet----There's mystery here;\nI must unravel this perplexed web,\nOr perish in its toils! [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE III.\n\n _A Balcony, overlooking the Garden._\n\n _HERMIONE and BLANCH._\n\n HERMIONE.\nI am sad, Blanch.\n\n BLANCH.\nI would, lady, you were in your little toilet-chamber at Venice. You\nwere not sad there once. Why stay you in this unlucky house? I do\nconceive, that I shall have no more heart soon than hath your\ngoose-quill, nor life within me than a dried puff-ball. When go you to\nVenice, lady?\n\n HERMIONE.\nNever!\n\n BLANCH.\nOh, sweet mistress; and must we die in this dismal city? My very\ncountenance hath changed its fashion, forsooth; being smoke-dried and\ntarnished, like your two years' hung stock-fish. I do fear me that I\nshall pine with home-longings; and the sight of yon garlick-faced knave,\nStephano, for ever at my heels, turns me sick when he gets within stride\nof me. But you jest, lady.\n\n HERMIONE.\nBlanch, thou hast been kinder to me than my fate hath answered for; and\nI give thee good counsel when I tell thee to return to Venice. Stay not\nwith me; for soon the high, the proud-spirited Hermione will----I shall\nsoon lay me in the quiet grave--and thou wilt grieve to see me sink--so\nyoung--so _early_ to my doom. I look fresh, mayhap, and blooming, and\nthey call me happy; but I am withered--here!\n\n BLANCH.\nOh, lady, you will break my heart! (_Weeps._) I will not go! If they\nbear you to the grave, I will follow you there to weep, and to quiet\nmyself beside you.\n\n HERMIONE.\nThou art kind, Blanch. I would thou hadst a happier mistress, thou\nwouldest, peradventure, be happy too.\n\n BLANCH.\nWhat frets you so keenly? I would compass sea and land to fetch you a\nmorsel of comfort. Do tell me, lady. They say sorrow hath companionship,\nand loves its like.\n\n HERMIONE.\nAsk it not, girl: I would not tell it to the winds, lest they should\nbabble it again; I would not whisper it to mine own heart, lest each\npulse should echo it back to mine ear; I dare not think on 't, lest my\nvery thoughts should create a corporeal voice to utter it withal. Other\nsorrows have companionship, but mine hath none!\n\n _Enter Servant._\n\n SERVANT.\nThe strange gipsy woman your ladyship gave an alms to yesterday waits\nwithout, asking to see you. I would have put her away, but she looked on\nme, and I shuddered as I approached her.\n\n HERMIONE.\nBid her come in.\n\n BLANCH.\nHow it would delight me to have my fortune cast; but--my fate answers to\nyour own!\n\n _Enter ZORAYDA._\n\n HERMIONE.\nWhy this silence?--Thy message.\n\n ZORAYDA.\nAskest thou?--Thanks!--What marvel? they speak not\nWith unembodied tongue!\n\n HERMIONE.\n Thou comest, then,\nBut on a thankless errand; I dispense\nWith empty words.\n\n ZORAYDA.\n Why then I go unaudienced.\nI would not vex thee, lady;--thou art strung\nBy unseen anguish, e'en to the topmost pitch\nThy nature bears. One other strain, it breaks!\n\n HERMIONE.\nWhat knowest thou?\n\n ZORAYDA.\n That other comes!\n\n HERMIONE.\n Too soon,\nI wot, these heart-strings break not. How, beldame?\nThy prying eyes gather some secret. Hence\nWith the silly maids thou tamperest, and anon\nThe mistress' ear greets her own confidence;\nBut not on me impose thy mummeries:\nNone other breast than mine yet holds its trust.\n\n ZORAYDA.\nWhat proof requirest thou, ere faith admit\nMy proffer'd testimony?\n\n HERMIONE.\n Proof!\nWhat thou, weak fool--the crazed and worn-out plaything\nOf thy too credulous fancies--cannot give.\nReveal my thoughts!\n\n ZORAYDA.\n But if disclosed, there now\nBe other ears to listen, lady.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Blanch,\nAwhile thou may'st withdraw.\n\n BLANCH.\nHow fierce her eye scowls! I marvel that her brows should escape a\nsingeing.--I would not leave you, gentle mistress, until----\n\n ZORAYDA.\nBegone!---- [_HERMIONE smiles, and motions BLANCH to\n depart. Exit BLANCH._\n\n HERMIONE.\n Now to thy task.\n\n ZORAYDA.\nWhat bearest thou, with such o'er-vigilant watch,\nIn that fair bosom?\n\n HERMIONE.\n Marry, my heart; what more?\n\n ZORAYDA.\n'Tis then but late return'd: the truant once\nHad left its home--what served thee in its place,\nKnowest thou yet, gentle dame?\n\n HERMIONE.\n I note thy craft:\nThou busiest me with questions, hoping thus\nTo catch unheeded words for thine advantage--\nI answer nothing.\n\n ZORAYDA.\n None I crave, fair maiden.\nAn empty billet is but poor exchange\nFor the heart's losing!\n\n HERMIONE.\n How--a billet! Where?\n\n ZORAYDA.\nIn that bright bosom, lady. Search it well--\nAnd yet a thing of nought: 'tis but a form,\nAn every-day express of custom'd greeting,\nBut as a precious relic thou dost wear it;\nAnd 'tis to thee a coveted possession\nOf more esteem than the sun-ripen'd gems\nGolconda bears!\n\n HERMIONE.\n Is this my unveil'd thought?\nNot thus I'm fool'd. Perchance thy cunning eye,\nFor ever on the watch, hath spied this billet.\n'Tis here. What more knowest thou?\n\n ZORAYDA.\n Reserve thy scorn,\n'Twill soon give place----Hark! [_Distant music._\nAh! start not thus.--Why that frail shudder?\nYon guest within the chamber of thine ear\nEre this hath had sweet audience. But come,\nMy pretty spirit, hither speed, and frame\nThine uncorporeal organ to the sound\nOf bodily voice.--[_Music approaches._]--Hark, lady!--ever knew\nYour ear aforetime yon wild melody?\n\n SONG.\n Lady, list to me,\n Thy gentle spirit I'll be;\nThe fire is my garment, the flood is my bed,\nAnd I paint the first cloud with the sunbeam red\n That rolls o'er the broad blue sea.\n\n Lady, list to me;\n To the mountain top I flee,\nThere I watch the first wave that comes laden with light,\nAnd its soft hue I spread o'er each billow so bright;\nWith its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height,\n And the morn's radiant canopy.\n\n HERMIONE.\nMysterious being, say from whence that voice!\nBut once--and on such feverish perception,\nThe sound did strike, I thought some air-form'd vision,\nSome fantasy, hot from the teeming brain,\nImposed unreal conceptions on mine ear,\nTo which sense held no cognizance. Say where,\nThou awful visitor!\n\n ZORAYDA.\n'Twas on the terrace, when the charmed moon\nHung o'er the trembling stream. And thinkest thou\nSpirits have not such utterance?--Oft unseen,\nUpon the viewless air, strange visions float,\nAnd voices people the unfetter'd blast,\nVouchsafed not save to those who reverence\nAnd bow to their high bidding. Now--they speak!\n\n HERMIONE.\nAnd to what import?\n\n ZORAYDA.\n Thus the mystic chant.\n\n When the proud eagle\n Sighs to the dove,\n And his dark wing spreads o'er her\n While fluttering with love:\n\n That eagle's bright crest,\n And that dove's timid eye,\n Are quench'd in the storm\n That rolls recklessly by!\n\n That storm the proud eagle\n Hath swept from his nest:\n But where is the dove\n Shelter'd once in his breast?\n\n She clings to his plume,\n But in death they shall sever;\n The eagle and dove\n They have perish'd for ever!\n\n HERMIONE.\nThe eagle?--Mantua's crest!--But who the dove?\n\n ZORAYDA.\nTempt not yet further to thine harm: we rue\nIf thou break silence!\nThe spirit sings, but mine imperfect hearing\nShapes not its voice to aught articulate\nThat human utterance owns. Again--speak not--\n'Twas thus he sang:\n\n A sprite in the moon-beam,\n A mote in the sun,\n I dive in the smooth stream,\n Through the curl'd flame I run.\n\n I see o'er proud Mantua\n The beacon's red light;\n As the taper 'tis quench'd\n In the chill blast of night!\n\n I see from the turret\n A maiden's dim form,\n And her white robe waves high\n On the wing of the storm!\n\n I hear a loud shriek,\n With the wail of the dead;\n And that spirit from thence\n To its Giver hath fled!\n\nSome dire event breaks from the womb of time:\nTo thee the spirit speaks. Hermione,\nIf yet three days on this forbidden air\nThou breathest, Mantua and her lord\nMay dearly rue thy longer stay. 'Tis past.\nI heed not further question. Well I know\nThe winds I counsel, and the turbulent flood\nTo soothe its rage. On, if some power prevent not,\nMadly ye rush to your undoing; then,\nFair city, thy glad voice to woe shall turn;\nThe loud lament, the chill and desolate wail\nOf thy bereavement shall ascend, piercing,\nUnpitied, the dun pall of heaven!\nFollow me not----\nOnce more I meet thee:--if too soon, beware!\nThine hours are number'd. [_Exit._\n\n HERMIONE.\nThree days!--Where shall I fly?--To what lone spot\nCan I escape? Has this wide earth no room?--\nMeasureless woe!--too vast for mortal limit!--\nYon wild enthusiast, her impostor's craft\nHath here some secret consequence to which\nThese bodings tend--cheat! Nay, thou didst affix\nFearful credentials to thy testimony;\nThey wore the impress of truth. None but that gaze\nWhich scans the soul, may the unvisited depths\nOf mind reveal, its untold subtilties\nUnto the eye disclosing. But three days!\nYet once--one sad farewell! [_Exit._\n\n\nSCENE IV.\n\n _A Chamber in the Inn._\n\n _CARLOS on a couch, attended by GIULIO._\n\n CARLOS.\nI thank thee, Giulio.\nThe couch feels easier from thine hand. 'Tis now\nBut as a troublesome scratch, scarce worth the pains\nTo work its cure. Another strain--thy lute\nStrange chords doth waken, long untuned, forgot,\nSlumbering untouch'd within my breast, the sound\nBreathes on them sweetly; at its marvellous bidding,\nStartled they wake, quivering once more to life.\nI love these ancient ballads, they do savour\nO' the olden time.\n\n GIULIO.\n Good signor, my poor music\nSuits not this garnish'd age:--a simple air\nThat lives in the heart, and floats o'er the still depths\nOf long-lapsed recollections, freshening\nTheir stagnant surface with soft impulse--this,\nBrief skill!--'tis all I claim.\n [_Touches the chords to a slight prelude._\nThey are but snatches of old songs, signor;\nBroken as fragments of the imperishing columns\nWhitening some arid desert; but they are hallow'd\nBy the same hand that spoil'd them!\n\n CARLOS.\n They are bonds\nThat with the past yet link our purer thoughts,\nOur most unsullied affections. Still\nThe voice of other years breathes through them,\nAs the low breeze, while creeping timorously\nAround some ancient ruin, wailing there\nSad echoes of departed greatness.\n\n _GIULIO sings._\n There is a wood, there is a cot,\n There is a gentle river;\n There is a home where I am not,\n But where I would be ever.\nAnd adown the green valley the meadows were fair,\nAnd the breeze came to woo the young daffodils there.\n\n There is a lip I have not press'd,\n A heart yet coldly beating;\n But true love's throb within that breast\n Will wake at others' greeting.\nAnd adown through the valley the morn shone so fair,\nWhen the breeze gently kiss'd the young bud blushing there.\n\n And thou wilt light thy taper cold\n At some gay treacherous eye;\n Its flame shall still thy soul enfold\n When lovers' glance shall die!\nAnd adown the green valley, while morn shone so fair,\nThe breeze sigh'd, and left the young bud weeping there!\n\n CARLOS.\nWoman loves not her true lover,\nA treacherous lewdster best o'ersteps her grace!--\nAnother, Giulio: I could live in them--\nThey feed the soul, as doth ambrosia\nThe mighty gods.\n\n _GIULIO sings._\nLet me rest mine head, lady,\n On thy bended knee:\nEvery pulse to thine beats true;\n I would 'twere so with thee.\n Sing heigho!\n Under the willow tree.\n\nMy cheek will not harm thee, Start not from thy rest----\n\n CARLOS.\nCease!--I do remember me the ballad\nThou gavest yesterday. Upon my brain\nSo loud the music rings, this chaunt I hear not.--\nPrithee again thy strings touch to the carol.\n\n GIULIO.\nYet by your preference I know it not.\nHow name you the ballad?\n\n CARLOS.\n'Twas of the pilgrim, and his goodly benison.\n\n GIULIO.\nThus? (_Plays._)\n\n CARLOS.\n The same.\n\n _GIULIO sings._\nThe chase was done, the feast was begun,\n When the monarch sate proudly high;\nAnd the revelry rode on the wind afar,\n As it swept from the darkening sky.\n\nNo lordly guest----\n\n _Enter BERTRAND._\n\n CARLOS.\nWelcome. I grew oppress'd from thy long absence--\nBut why that heavy, that disquieted brow?\nSome choler, scarce dismiss'd, hath moved thee!\n\n BERTRAND.\nThe Duke--\n\n CARLOS.\n Didst thou complain to him\nTouching my wrong?\n\n BERTRAND.\n I did.\n\n CARLOS.\n Yet I have heard\nThis prince o'er all his peers hereto extoll'd,\nThe mirror of true courtesy; embodying\nThe proud and chivalrous spirit of his time.--\nHow spake he?\n\n BERTRAND.\n Few his words;--but this good sword--\nBitter degradement!----Yon proud Duke, he gave--\nWhen from this recreant hand the traitor fell!\nHe had disarm'd me, Carlos!\n\n CARLOS.\n He!--You fought?\n\n BERTRAND.\nAy, with the Duke--thy mistress' paramour!\n\n CARLOS.\nThe Duke!--_Her_ paramour!--\n'Tis fuel to my hate.\n\n BERTRAND.\n How fares thy wound?\n\n CARLOS.\nThis?--where?--'tis well.--These garments I shake off,\nAnd put on my revenge--its panoply\nShall case my bosom.--Henceforth unto all\nCompunction dead, and steel'd to every touch\nOf natural sympathy, mine o'ercharged hate,\nAs the veil'd fire, pent in yon gathering cloud,\nDeep-brooding waits, in fearful silence crouching,\nOr ere it strike----'Twas for this minion\nShe spurn'd me!\n\n BERTRAND.\n Such my hate to Andrea.\nTogether and in secret we devise--\nYet not with such precipitate haste, our counsel,\nAs shall defeat its own resolve--some plan\nTo furnish our revenge. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE V.\n\n _A Chamber in the Palace._\n\n _Enter the DUKE._\n\n DUKE.\nArouse thee!--fly.\nEre yet the fetters closer to thine heart\nAre riveted--immoved for ever!\nThou counsellest well--these are ignoble trammels.\nAnd I do rid me of them. Once--'tis fix'd--\nA short, sad hour we meet, and then farewell!\nDuty, remorseless, bids me.--There I'll pour\nInto her wondering ear a hapless tale\nOf thwarted love--hearts broken, severed\nBy obdurate fate--and in that feign'd lament,\nBewail mine own.--I must my story tell;\nNone other cause could I with honour urge\nWhy thus we part--for ever!\n\n _Enter FABIAN._\n\n FABIAN.\nMy lord, a woman of strange aspect,\nAnd habited in Eastern garb, sits now\nWithin the western porch, waiting your presence.\nShe would not tell to me her errand.\n\n DUKE.\n How--\nA stranger, and from whence?--Knowest thou her name?\n\n FABIAN.\nShe holds most resolute silence--I forebore\nTo question her.\n\n DUKE.\n Describe this sullen guest.\n\n FABIAN.\nA turban girds her brow, white as the sea-foam,\nWhence, all untrammelled, her dark thin hair\nStreams fitfully upon her storm-beat front;\nHer eye at rest, pale fire in its black orb\nInnocuous sleeps--but roused, Jove's thunder-cloud\nEnkindles not so fiercely! Once it shot\nFull on mine eye:--in dazzling terror yet\nIt haunts my brain!\n\n DUKE.\n How eloquent the tongue\nWhen the soul stirs it!--I would see, unharm'd,\nThis quickened volcano! [_Exit FABIAN._\n Some moon-struck wanderer\nCraving redress for her wrong'd fancies.\n\n _Enter FABIAN followed by ZORAYDA; she stands in silence gazing\n at the DUKE._\n\nWoman, what seekest thou?--Doth silence best\nDeclare thine errand?\n\n ZORAYDA.\n Silence best, my lord,\nShould tell thy destiny--Heaven hath commanded\nTo speak no evil.\n\n DUKE.\nA rare conceit.--What more?--Is this thy message?\nHaste,--we command not back the passing time:--\nTo thy request.\n\n ZORAYDA.\n Much need hast thou to note\nThese priceless minutes;--let no fragment slip\nUngathered.--Yet my boon thou wilt not grant!\nSeest thou yon shadow?--\n [_She beckons him to the window._\n\n DUKE.\nNought this ungifted eye beholds\nBut the dark battlement upon the stream,\nSpread by the tranquil moon.\n\n ZORAYDA.\n Seest thou yon pennon\nFurl'd from the turret, floating on the verge\nOf that still, sedgy shore?--\n\n DUKE.\n Its shadow falls\nWhere thou dost point;--but how may this befit\nWith thy request?\n\n ZORAYDA.\n At thy far-echoing birth,\nWhen hoarse artillery told to Mantua,\nThy wailing entrance to a troublous life,\nYon trembling shadow fell, as now it meets,\nJust on the rippled bank,--uniting each--\nThe calm wave and the shore.--\n\n DUKE.\n Thy meaning, stranger.\n\n ZORAYDA.\nEre yet the bubbling life crept through thy veins,\n'Twas thus decreed: thine hour of danger comes,\nAnd sudden death, when that dim shadow passes\nWhere at thy birth it brooded.--\n\n DUKE.\n (_Aside to FABIAN._) Watch this woman;\nSuspicion wakes at her discourse.--(_To ZORAYDA._)--\n That shadow\nHath oft-time pass'd, no danger thence betiding.\n\n ZORAYDA.\nThy death can happen not, save when, as now,\nThe pale moon flings yon omen from her beam;\nBut ever it bodes danger.\n\n DUKE.\n For this purpose\nEnterest thou my chamber?\n\n ZORAYDA.\n I have sought thee\nTo give rejected counsel.--What! some treachery\nFrom me thou fearest!--Bind me--gird my chains\nTo the unhewn rock beneath the unvisited depths\nOf these abhorr'd foundations--I would wear them\nWithout a murmur could'st thou listen!--Hark!\nThus runs the record of thy house:\n\n \"_When the proud eagle\n From his cloud-wreath'd nest\n Enamour'd meets the dove,\n And sighs on her soft bosom,\n One shaft shall pierce them._\"\n\nDuke, beware----that shaft shall come!\nLet it not find thee in that perilous hour,\nPrescience forebodes thee, at some lady's ear\nSighing unhallowed love.--Its malice then\nHarms not thy breast, another bears the stroke!\nRemember--once again I meet thee.\n [_Exit ZORAYDA._\n\n FABIAN.\nMy lord, the guard shall rid you of the witch.\n\n DUKE.\nLet her depart, she harms me not.\n\n FABIAN.\n You seem\nO'erspent with watching, and forget your couch.--\nBetake you now to your accustom'd rest?\n\n DUKE.\nMy _rest_?--'Tis well;--but will the couch give rest?\nAy, to the wearied limb--but not the weary breast!\nFollow me, boy, unto my chamber. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nACT IV.--SCENE I.\n\n _A Church._\n\n _Enter two CITIZENS._\n\n FIRST CITIZEN.\nStrange omens these!\n\n SECOND CITIZEN.\n They bode disaster, else\nHath Nature changed, and her accustom'd course\nNo longer holds.--See, from the ducal vault\nThe stone--o'er which its mailed warrior rests\nIn such grim pomp--is roll'd, as if that mouth\nExpectant yawn'd for prey.--How comes it thus?\n\n THIRD CITIZEN.\nSome swarth attendant, late within the tomb,\nHath left unclosed its yet insatiate gulf;\nAnd he returns ere long.--His task complete,\nThis stone, oft visited, regains its place;--\nWould it were closed for ever!\n\n SECOND CITIZEN.\nNe'er to his country's weal a truer prince\nShall rise in Mantua--all proper tongues\nTo his just praise are eloquent;--no voice\nBut gathers blessing, when it speaks of Andrea.\nI'll peep o'er the dark wall of this huge grave.\nFresh wonders still!--Here lie funeral trappings\nCovering the entrance;--an inscription too\nUpon the pall--[_Reads_]--\"_Andrea, the fifth Duke\nOf Mantua_\"--a goodly list of honours,\nNames and illustrious acts, now follow--\"_Died_\"--\nI cannot tell those mystic characters--\nCanst thou assign their import?\n\n FIRST CITIZEN.\n I am not skill'd\nTo interpret mysteries; but they are form'd\nBy cabalistic art. Elsewhere I've seen\nThe conjuror, Aldenbert, those uncouth shapes\nUpon his tablets tracing. 'Tis not language\nAkin to mortal tongue.\n\n SECOND CITIZEN.\nTreason, I wot, with bold and impious front,\nStalks forth uncheck'd:--it skulks not now abroad,\nBut in the open day roams unabash'd,\nNor shuns the sunbeam. Some unform'd event\nIs yet in ripening--it bursts ere long\nThe shell of this dread mystery.\n\n _Enter GRAVE-DIGGER and PRIEST._\n\n GRAVE-DIGGER.\nNone, father, save the Egyptian woman, who so troubles the church. She\nslept in the porch yesternight, and I sent her away this morning\nbetimes.\n\n PRIEST.\nThou hast sent a message to the Duke?\n\n GRAVE-DIGGER.\nSome half-hour agone.--I expect his highness in person will take special\nnote of this matter.\n\n PRIEST.\nI fear me they be foes, enemies to the Duke, who have done\nthis.--Treachery puts on bold aspects, when such foretokenings as these\ngo before her, with loud admonishing of her approach. Here comes the\nDuke.\n\n _Enter DUKE with ATTENDANTS._\n\n DUKE.\nGood morrow, friends. I am something curious to behold this\ndevice.--Some trick of intimidation, your petty wonder-monger breeds to\nset our citizens agape.--You have not disturbed this masked frolic?\n\n GRAVE-DIGGER.\nMy lord, it rests in such shape as when it scared me dismally ere the\nlight was well out, about cock-crowing.\n\n DUKE.\nKnowest thou any skulking vagrant of late loitering near the church?\n\n GRAVE-DIGGER.\nNone, your grace, save the tall gipsy--she slept in the porch\nyesternight.\n\n DUKE.\nThe gipsy woman?\n\n GRAVE-DIGGER.\nShe, with the linen turban, that walks the city with her arms\nfolded--thus.\n\n DUKE.\nShe was in the porch?\n\n GRAVE-DIGGER.\nI waked her there, but roughly, an hour agone.\n\n DUKE.\nHere hangs some clue to guide us.--I'll have the beldame seized.--Raise\nthat unseemly pall from the tomb, and close its mouth.--This inscription\nI'll keep as a brief chronicle of the event.--[_Takes off the\ninscription: a billet falls from beneath it._]--What counsels us here?\nOne wonder treads fast upon another's heels, and o'ertops its\nneighbour.--[_Reads._]--\"_I have garnished thy tomb, and it waiteth not\nfor its prey. Depart!--When thou goest forth, but once shalt thou return\nhither!_\"--Guard, search the city--every chink and avenue.--To your\nutmost speed.--This hag shall not escape.--Hence!--[_Exit Guard._]--My\nfriends, let not this matter trouble you; some mischievous spirit hath\nmalice at our peace, and hopes to work confusion within the city.--Soon\nwe unravel the flimsy web of this strange craft. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE II.\n\n _Enter DUCHESS and HERMIONE._\n\n HERMIONE.\nLaura hath not yet\nPut off her sorrow.--Still doth fancy cherish\nThe darling form of yon misguided youth\nYour lord encounter'd on the terrace.--\nWith long entreaty I have learnt his name;\nAnd, as my yet unquestion'd word befits,\n'Tis but a cast-off suitor of mine own!\n\n DUCHESS.\nI fear me this adventure still broods mischief.\nThe Duke somehow had strange intelligence\nOf danger threatened to Hermione.--\nOn that same night he watch'd, and foil'd the ruffian,\nBut he forebore to afflict him farther.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Strange--\nThis brief-told tale--\n\n _Enter DUKE._\n\n Welcome--thrice welcome now.\nBy what good chance, my lord, sought you the terrace\nFew nights agone?--Some stray intelligence,\nThe Duchess tells, crept to your ear of danger\nTo me denounced!\n\n DUKE.\nSome secret whisper met me of the matter.\nKnow you this billet?\n\n HERMIONE.\n Forsooth its fair outside\nSmall import gives of such unworthy deed.--\nI know not, save at once you dare commit\nIts contents to my ken.\n\n DUKE.\n Well spoken, lady.--\nWhat read you?\n\n HERMIONE.\n Carlos!--(_Reads._)\nSome strange mistake rests here. As my good word\nEarns your belief--till now, I ne'er beheld\nThis love-lorn billet.\n\n DUKE.\n Ah, woman, pleasant still,\nBut full of subtlety;--perverse, untoward--\nThy ways mark'd deep by unabash'd deceit:\nWell thou mayst laugh at thine imposture.\n\n HERMIONE.\nThe riddle solves:--this billet by mistake\nHath found its way to yon same helpless virgin.\nLaura hath dropp'd it--some officious friend\nUnto your eye the unoffending page\nHath straight convey'd.\n\n DUKE.\n Thou answerest plausibly;--\nI would believe thy honied tongue.\n\n HERMIONE.\nI did repulse him, sore amazed\nAt his approach.--He threaten'd with his hate,\nWhich I do love more than his unprized favour!\n\n DUKE.\nI well remember thy reproof.\n\n DUCHESS.\nOur rebel cousin hither comes with word\nOf her departure from our city.--Hence,\nTo-morrow, by the saffron-breaking dawn,\nTo Venice she returns. I urge in vain\nSome further hindrance.--Wilt thou again make suit\nTo lady's ear, and win her stay?\n\n DUKE.\n To-morrow!\n\"Let then to-morrow come if e'er it may;\nBut when to-morrow comes, 'tis still to-day--\nTo-morrow go, and thou art never gone,\nTill yon to-morrow and to-day are one!\"\n\n HERMIONE.\n I must hence:\nUrge me not further.\n\n DUKE.\n Nay, I urge thee not.\nMy will in Mantua e'er was held injunction.\nI'll be thy tyrant, lady--thy stern keeper.\nThis day, within our palace, thou shalt be,\nIf willing and obedient, our guest:\nIf stubborn and self-will'd, our prisoner!\nI'll compass thee with such delicious chains,\nThou shalt not wish e'en thine own thought were free!\n\n HERMIONE.\nYour guest this day, the last I spend in Mantua.\nThe night I give to Laura.\n\n DUCHESS.\n This proud night\nShall so out-mimic day, thou shalt not guess\nWhen night hath drawn the twilight to his bosom.\n\n _Enter SYLVIO._\n\n SYLVIO (_aside to the DUKE_).\nThe guard hath yet no tidings;\nThe woman hides her warily.\n\n DUKE.\n Not yet!\nI would, ere night, this mumming witch were found.\nWithout the walls perchance she lurks. Command\nTheir search unto the outskirts: large reward\nWill follow their success. [_Exit SYLVIO._\n\n DUCHESS.\n At this inviting hour, we taste\nThe fragrance from our incense-breathing flowers:\nMy lord, attend you us?\nThe roses are fresh sprinkled,--the soft breeze\nComes heavily from their odour-blushing heads,\nFaint and oppress'd with its delicious burden.\n\n DUKE.\nMy spouse hath set her love on some tall poppy,\nSome velvet-cheek'd, young tulip; drinking nectar\nFrom his soft, balmy lip. I must be jealous\nOf these same gentle favours.\n\n DUCHESS.\n You shall attend\nOur fragrant courtship--the unwitting pander\nTo my stolen pleasures. Ah, my lord! what mean you?\nComes that dark frown to me, or to my lovers?\n\n DUKE.\nNothing, Beatrice,--a passing jest,--'tis gone,--\nI needs must frown when I am jealous. Now,\nFair dames, I would attend you. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE III.\n\n _A Wood._\n\n _ZORAYDA, sitting at the foot of an oak._\n\n ZORAYDA.\nAn outcast from an outcast race,--spurn'd, chid,\nFrom the churl's threshold. Shunn'd, unbless'd by all:\nNor home nor heritance--I live, alone,\nWithout associate, tie, or fellowship\nE'en to my kin. I might from these consist\nOf other nature; other substance might\nEnfold my spirit,--other shape\nEnvelope me, than wraps the affrighted herd\nWho stand aloof and gaze! Th' inanimate forms,\nNature's unchisel'd workmanship--unsullied\nBy man's rude contact--'tis with these I hold\nConverse and high communion;\nAnd from the spirit that lives in them, free\nAnd uncommunicable intercourse\nMy soul receives. In all things there exists\nDistinct peculiar essence, like the soul\nOur being animates; at seasons oft,\nIn presence, though unseen, yet to the mind\nInternal, manifest, imparting there\nMiraculous influence. In secret, too--\nThe bodily eye, from grosser matter freed,--\nIn shape as palpable they come, as doth\nEach outward image rise to corporeal sense.\nI am not mad. The heated brain creates not\nThese uncall'd phantoms: yet men say I'm crazed.\nThey know not, dream not, of the mighty world\nThat lives around them. Other orbs might hold us!\n--By mine art, with potent spell,\nAnd wily stratagem, the Duke I've warn'd.\nHermione--proud victim! Love unhallow'd\nYet lingers in their breasts, and they must sever,\nThough one heart break in that most cruel parting!\nThere's a foul taint of murder in the wind--\nI do suspect her lover--yon Venetian,\nHer suitor once--rejected. Such revenge\nWill ofttimes rouse the spirit up to mischief,\nLoathing, it would abhor e'en if beheld\nBut as a guilty dream. If this fond Duke\nSeek not again her presence I have hope.\nTo-morrow she departs from Mantua--\nNo power can harm thee, save in that brief space\nAppointed with thy birth. Here comes my spy:\nThe urchin loves me for the good he owes.\n\n _Enter GIULIO._\n\n Welcome, boy!\nThine errand?\n\n GIULIO.\n Some whisperings I've caught,\nYet know not to what purpose they should tend.\nI heard \"to-night,\" twice to each listener told,\nAnd oft a cautious glance where I but stood,\nTuning my simple lute. As thou hast bid me,\nWith careful eye, note well their secret converse,\nI hasten'd with the news: and now, good mother,\nSay me farewell.\n\n ZORAYDA.\n A toward child;\nGreat largess thou mayest earn for thy discourse:\nHence! lest this absence tell what thine excuse\nMay not conceal. [_Exit GIULIO._\nTo-night!--I'll watch. This hour of danger past,\nI'll pledge me to thy safety. Noble Mantua,\nIn that dread day, my parent's forfeit life\nWhen thou didst spare, I vow'd to seek thy welfare;\nAnd my good power, for thee and for thine house,\nHath not its use in vain. Yet, I do fear\nThe issue of this night: the vision told\nMortal conclusion nigh--\"_They will not hear_\n\"_Warning oft utter'd, but impetuous rush,_\n\"_Unheeding, to their doom._\"\nPerchance some hidden meaning lurks beneath\nThis fearful message; an ambiguous sense,\nIts proper import framing, when the event\nFrom which it springs, like day-betokening morn,\nIs past. His death it may not show. I'll save thee,\nOr my destruction----soft!--the tramp of men:\nScouts, peradventure, on my track. Go, follow\nThe wild bee to its nest!--or to yon cliff\nClimb with the eagle!--then ye mark my course! [_Exit._\n\n _Enter CARLOS and BERTRAND, meeting._\n\n BERTRAND.\nMy messenger brings welcome news: to-day\nHermione again visits the palace.\nTill this dim light shall fade, her promised stay--\nBut the first watch of night, perchance, may find\nThis cuckoo harbour'd yet in others' nest!\n\n CARLOS.\n'Tis well:--our friends with the opportunity\nAlone are arm'd; and as the time may note\nTheir several parts. From the west turret\nThe accomplice issue signal, if to-night\nThe Duke refreshes in the mountain-breeze,\nAs 'tis his wont, around the platform. When\nUpon its staff the turret pennon sinks\n(The moon to this good signal will suffice),\nWe climb the unguarded stair, and it conducts\nTo our dark enterprise. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE IV.\n\n _Part of the Platform, sloping to the Palace Walls._\n\n _Enter DUKE, DUCHESS, HERMIONE, RIDOLFI._\n\n DUKE.\nWe love these moon-lit walks, Hermione,\nWhilst in her wane: you like her visage best,\nPerchance, increasing. More I love to mark\nHer gradual decay--retreating coy,\nAnd half aside, as if ashamed to meet\nThe full gaze of the sun.\n\n HERMIONE.\n I love the waxing\nYet rather than the wane of yon pale light:\nLike timid maid, when first her opening charms\nMeet love's warm beam. Scarce on the wanton boy\nShe dares to gaze, till, bolder grown, her eye\nAverted still, or half withdrawn, drinks in,\nWith silent ecstacy, love's treacherous glance.\nNow his fond smile, full orb'd, the embolden'd sight\nEnamour'd meets: her very being, essence,\nAnd every faculty absorb--each thought\nRising impregn'd with love's fierce fire; anon\nThere comes a change--shy gleams succeed, her brow\nHath one slight shade, scarce seen, but on its light\nThe darkness grows--love's brightest dream is o'er,\nAnd his pale taper quench'd in utter gloom!\n\n RIDOLFI.\nAy, till another change. Yon fickle goddess\nHer fond, fool'd swain entices, till enamour'd\nE'en to his heart's last core; she then averts\nHer love-impassion'd glance, and, scorning, shuns him!\n\n DUCHESS.\nIf from deserted maid, Hermione,\nWhose charms were withering in the fallow wane\nOf an unprofited life, this speech forlorn\nHad seem'd to ring the knell of her young hopes.\nBut when from rosy lips, and ardent youth,\nIt comes unlook'd for as a wintry chill\nBeneath a summer sun.--This air blows keenly,\nMy locks fall with the dew--I think the night\nHath not its wonted soothness: thrice I shudder'd\nAs the cold breeze methought sigh'd on my bosom.\nI must begone--Hermione, you go not.\n'Tis the last moonlight you behold, mayhap,\nIn this brief stay; take a long parting, ere\nYe bid adieu--the Duke himself attends you;\nWith me, our brother his good presence grants,\nTill your return.\n\n RIDOLFI.\n With such proud gallantry\nI bow to your decree.\n [_Exeunt DUCHESS and RIDOLFI._\n\n DUKE.\n Beneath the western turret\nI love to walk--to watch the huge dim battlements\nOn the smooth river sleeping, when the moon,\nLow in the brightening east, their shadow throws\nUpon its calm, cold bosom.\n\n HERMIONE.\nAwhile I loiter with you there, my lord. [_Exeunt._\n\n\nSCENE V.\n\n _The Battlements._\n\n _Enter DUKE and HERMIONE._\n\n HERMIONE.\nA pleasant tale, you say?\n\n DUKE.\n A story\nAt which the sad might laugh, the merry weep!\n\n HERMIONE.\nStrange modes of pleasantry--the sad might laugh?\n\n DUKE.\nThat his own woes were lighter.\n\n HERMIONE.\n And yet, withal,\nThe merry weep?\n\n DUKE.\n So sad the tale--\n\n HERMIONE.\n In troth,\nMost dolorously pleasant!\n\n DUKE.\n I've been in love.\n\n HERMIONE.\nA strange propensity--a punishment\nMan suffers for his sins. You've been in love?\nMost melancholy! How! I wot the Duchess\nBelieved you not?\n\n DUKE.\n Beatrice yet--mark me--\nMost tenderly I love. Her long affection\nWon my regard: but--late, another power--\nIt is not love, 'tis witchery, false glamour\nChaining the sense, unwilling to be held\nIn such deep thrall--I've seen a basilisk,\nAnd it hath holden me within the circuit\nOf its charmed eye. How counsel you? how break\nFrom its bright glance?\n\n HERMIONE.\n I know not where, my lord,\nYou're held, or how enchain'd. Knows she your love?\n\n DUKE.\nI sought her, and the truth unto her ear\nI utter'd. Was it well?\n\n HERMIONE.\n 'Twere answer'd best\nIn the concealed purpose unto which\nTruth's outward semblance serv'd. What meaning else\nBehind it crouch'd?\n\n DUKE.\n That we might part for ever.\n\n HERMIONE.\nFor ever!--Yes--'twas well!\nWhat answer gave she?\n\n DUKE.\n Answer?--Oh--'twas well!\nThen we must part, Hermione?\n\n HERMIONE.\n _We_ part!\nWherefore for ever?\n\n DUKE.\n I would not again\nCringe in thy burning glance,--and yet--I might--\nThis foolish heart its vanish'd dream forgot--\nUnmoved endure thy presence! Bitter the pang!\nI could not say for ever! I should cling\nAs the doom'd wretch to life, loosing his hold\nBut with the heart's last throb!\n\n HERMIONE.\n I cannot counsel thus!\nAlas! more need some power above our own\nTo tear us hence--to sever. You will forget\nThis idle thought--'tis but a vagrant breath,\nStirring your past affections--they respond\nUntouch'd, when memory wakes the soft still voice\nOf other years. Their echoes o'er, again\nPeace, haply frighted thence, your bosom visits.\nI would not now for ever part!\n\n DUKE.\nThen for a time--when absence\nThe torn heart heals, we meet again. Hermione,\nFor thee, in this night's converse, have I risk'd\nMy happiness, my hope, and every comfort\nWhich most I prize--my peace, my honour--all\nCommitted to thy trust--true confidence\nIf not in mutual charge--nor interchange\nOf strict communion held. If one alone\nThe precious load entrusts, it is o'erbalanced\nWithout due counterpoise, reciprocal faith,\nAnd it endures not. Tell me--nay, but listen--\nThis heart unfetter'd, offer'd thee, unplighted,\nWould'st thou have ta'en?\n\n HERMIONE.\n Indeed, I cannot now\nSuch wild words answer. Spare me but this trial--\n\n DUKE.\nNay, answer me--what--silent?--why 'tis well.\nAnd so we part--but I repent me now\nThou hast my trust. No answer?--then 'tis well!\nWe part for ever! On that treacherous face\nI would not gaze again.\n\n HERMIONE.\n My lord, you must--\nIf this suffice--I answer--_Yes!_\n\n DUKE.\n Angel\nOf soul visiting light! the storm hath still'd\nAt thy omnipotent word! I would not----\n\n _Enter ZORAYDA hastily, before the DUKE; she points to the\n stream._\n\nWhat notest thou, dun sorceress?--speak!\n\n ZORAYDA.\n Yon shadow!\n\n DUKE.\nYet two full hours unspent, ere on the stream\nYon pennon flits: and now we part. But who\nSent thee with such authority--with power\nTo question, and to watch, with daring eye,\nMine every movement? I have sought thee, fiend!\nIf thine hell-vomited sire protect thee not,\nAgain thou shalt not 'scape. I charge thee, witch!\nConfederate with foul treachery.\n\n ZORAYDA.\n There's treason in the air!\nMeet not the wind, it blows incontinently--\nThe maid hath other lovers.\n\n HERMIONE.\n Hag! thy meaning?\nWe study not ambiguous phrase.\n\n DUKE.\nI'll crush thy treason,\nEre it be ripe for hatching.\n [_As the DUKE raises the silver call to his lips,\n ZORAYDA seizes his arm._\n\n ZORAYDA.\n'Tis for thy rescue--stay! one moment stay\nThy rash resolve. If I depart, undone,\nDestroy'd this night!\n [_The DUKE makes the signal._\nRash prince! it shriek'd thy doom!\n\n _Enter Guard._\n\n DUKE.\nSeize that bold traitress!--stop her hated croak!\nLest each ensnared accomplice, if such be\nWithin her call, gain tidings of her seizure.\nTo-morrow, and in private, mark me, Hugo,\nWe hear her further.\n\n ZORAYDA.\nTo-morrow!--nay, to-night, proud Duke.\nTo-morrow is not thine. Beware!\n [_They lead her away._\n\n DUKE.\n Of thee!\nThou fearful wonder. 'Tis not idle terror\nO'ermasters me, but yon foul-plotting witch\nQuails me unwarily. Our country's welfare,\nPerchance, brings o'erused caution; yet the wise\nNo proffer'd warning slights. Within the palace\nWe may defy an ambush'd foe.\n\n HERMIONE.\n To this,\nEre mischief burst abroad, I would entreat.\nYon being hath intelligence not breathed\nFrom mortal lips!\n\n DUKE.\n I dare not say\nThe last farewell: the coming word, when summon'd,\nSo galls my tongue, it hath no utterance\nWhen it might pass. The breath that from it issues\nParches my palate; like the hot simoom,\nIt scorches, though it sweep as stilly o'er\nSome blasted, bladeless desert!--\nI dream!--or I am fool'd!--unbind me, daemon!\nUnseal mine eyeballs!--they are possess'd--again!\nGlazed with thy mockeries! I see not: hark!\n'Tis but the mental image to the brain\nRecoiling: yet as palpable it comes!\nWhat seest thou?--yon shadow?--where?\n\n HERMIONE.\n Yon shadow?\n\n DUKE.\nIt cannot be: a brief told moment past,\nI marked beyond the brink, on the dim wood,\nThe shadow waving. Now 'tis strange. There!--there!\nHow keen this air creeps curdling to my vitals!--\nThe shadow yet hangs dark and motionless\nOn shore and wave!\n\n HERMIONE.\n Whence comes this wondering terror?\nThe flag hath on its staff but newly dropp'd--\nLook to the turret, why that spell-bound gaze\nSo wildly on the stream!\n\n DUKE.\nFell hag! thy boding screech\nToo surely sped. They come! Protect me, Heaven!\n\n _Enter four Assassins, masked. Three of them attack the DUKE, ere\n he can make signals for the Guard; whilst their leader seizes on\n HERMIONE._\n\n HERMIONE.\nHelp!--murderers! Unhand me, wretch.\n [_He stops her mouth._\n\n CARLOS.\nWretch! 'tis thy Carlos come to woo--not now\nTo kiss thy very footprints, and the earth\nWhereon they fell! I'll bear thee hence, my mistress;\nAnd thou shalt live my menial slave. Rage not--\nI'll tame thy spirit, lady. Thou shalt crouch,\nMy gentle captive, as thy Carlos once,\nTo lick the dust, and I will spurn thee. Nay,\nContent thee, dame, our friends will do thee service.\n [_The DUKE defends himself against his assailants.\n One of the Assassins falls._\n\n DUKE.\nThere, villain! my good brand hath served thee.\n [_HERMIONE, whilst struggling with CARLOS, frees\n herself by a sudden effort, and seizes the sword\n of the dying ruffian._\n\n HERMIONE.\nI'll bury this, deep, to thy heart, monster,\nIf thou approach. Help, guards!\n\n CARLOS.\n Thy tongue I fear\nMore than thy weapon. [_Attempts to cover her mouth._\n\n HERMIONE.\nThen to thy doom, hell-destined spirit! [_Stabs him._\n\n CARLOS.\nOh--fly!--save ye, my friends--escape whilst yet--\nThe guards--this fiend hath summon'd---- [_Falls._\n\n HERMIONE (_rushes towards the DUKE_).\nCowards! ye cannot escape. They come!\n\n BERTRAND (_tearing off his mask_).\n Then swifter come\nInsatiate vengeance. To thy place, proud Mantua!\n [_Makes a desperate lunge at the DUKE, who falls._\n\n DUKE.\nA mortal thrust! Hermione, now--now--\nFarewell--'tis past!\n\n BERTRAND.\n Thou leavest not thy paramour.\n [_Stabs HERMIONE._\nHence! to the pale ghosts howl in company.\n\n HERMIONE.\nI'd bless thee----for this---- [_Dies._\n\n _Enter Guard, Soldiers; they seize the Conspirators._\n\n DUKE.\n Too late ye come--\nLife ebbs fast from my veins--mine eyes are dim;\nBut there's a voice--or death unreins my fancy--\nComes o'er mine ear, I do remember, mingling\nEre now 'mid mortal strife.\n\n BERTRAND.\n'Tis I: mine hate is quench'd but with the blood\nThat nourish'd thee! Now to your dungeons lead me:\nYour rarest tortures--haste. This blest revenge\nWill slake your hottest fires, heal the hurt flesh,\nMake the unpitying rack a gentle pillow.\nSofter than cygnet down, or thy death-couch,\nUnsceptred Duke. Guards, do your office.\n\n DUKE.\nUnhappy man! thy fierce, untamed spirit,\nIn its own fiery nature, hath to endure\nWhat bodily tortures reach not. I forgive thee.\nBut this good city, thy most unjust hate\nThis night bereaves of her protector, seeks\nHer just atonement! Bear me hence--Beatrice,\nTo thy loved arms. Would that I ne'er had left thee--\nA fearful meeting now--Hermione!\nWhat--dead! My cup is drain'd e'en to the dregs,\nThe vessel shiver'd, dash'd erewhile to earth!--\n Just Heaven!\nI bow to thee! Thou hast not sent my spirit\nUnshriven to thy bar--brief space on earth\nMy span of time, but unto thee I turn,\nAbused mercy; grant with my last last hour\nRepentance, and thy promised pardon!\n [_Exeunt Attendants with the DUKE._\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS.\n\n\nOne of the following Legends, The Crystal Goblet, was written for the\nTraditions of the County of York. It appeared by permission in an Annual\nentitled, \"The White Rose of York;\" but having only had a local\ncirculation at the time, and having been carefully revised by the Author\nduring the last winter of his life, it finds a place in the present\nvolume.\n\n\n\n\nMOTHER RED CAP;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE ROSICRUCIANS.\n\nA LEGEND OF THE NORTH.\n\n\nPART THE FIRST.\n\nIn the wild and mountainous region of East Lancashire, at the foot of\nthe long line of hills called Blackstonedge, and not far from the town\nof Rochdale, stood one of those old grim-looking mansions, the abode of\nour Saxon ancestors; a quiet sheltered nest, where ages and generations\nhad alike passed by. The wave of time had produced no change; the name\nand the inheritance were the same, and seemingly destined to continue\nunaltered by the mutations, the common lot of all that man labours to\nperpetuate. This state of things existed at the date of our story; now,\nalas! the race of its former possessors is extinct, their name only\nremains a relic of things that were,--their former mansion standing[L],\nas if in mockery, amidst the hum of wheels, and in melancholy contrast\nwith the toil and animation of this manufacturing, money-getting\ndistrict.\n\nBuckley Hall, to which we allude, is still an object of interest to the\nantiquary and the lover of romance, telling of days that are for ever\ndeparted, when the lords of these paternal acres were the occupants,\nnot impoverishers, of the soil from unrecorded ages,--constituting a\ntribe, a race of sturdy yeomanry attached to their country and to the\nlands on which they dwelt. But they are nigh extinct,--other habits and\nother pursuits have prevailed. Profuse hospitality and rude benevolence\nhave given place to habits of business as they are called, and to a more\ncalculating and enterprising disposition. The most ancient families have\nbecome absorbed or overwhelmed by the mighty progress of this new\nelement, this outpouring of wealth as from some unseen source; and in\nmany instances their names only are recognised in these old and rickety\nmansions, now the habitation of the mechanic and the plebeian.\n\nMany of these dwellings remain,--a melancholy contrast to the trim\nerections, the symbols of a new race, along with new habits and forms of\nexistence, sufficiently testifying to the folly and the vain\nexpectations of those who toil and labour hard for a long lease with\nposterity.\n\nThis mansion, like the rest of our ancestral dwellings of the better\nsort, was built of wood, on a stone basement. The outside structure\ncuriously vandyked in a zig-zag fashion with wooden partitions, the\ninterstices were filled with wicker-work, plastered with well-tempered\nclay, to which chopped straw imparted additional tenacity. When newly\nembellished, looking like the pattern, black and white, of some discreet\nmagpie perched on the wooden pinnacles terminating each gable, or\nhopping saucily about the porch,--that never-failing adjunct to these\nhomely dwellings. Here, on a well-scoured bench, the master of the house\nwould sit in converse with his family or his guests, enjoying the fresh\nand cheering breeze, without being fully exposed to its effects. The\nporch was universally adopted as a protection to the large flagged hall\ncalled the \"house-part,\" which otherwise might have been seriously\nincommoded by the inclement atmosphere of these bleak districts. On one\nside of the hall, containing the great fire-place, was the \"guest\nparlour.\" Here the best bed was usually fixed; and here, too, all great\n\"occasions\" took place. Births, christenings, burials, all emanated\nfrom, or were accomplished in, this family chamber. Every member was\nthere transmitted from the cradle to the grave. The low wide oaken\nstairs, to the first bending of which an active individual might have\nleaped without any such superfluous media. The naked gallery, with its\nlittle quaint doors on each side, hatched in the usual fashion, this\nopening into the store-room, that into the servants' lodging, another\ninto the closet where the choicest confections were kept. Opposite were\nthe bedchambers, and at the extremity of the gallery a ladder generally\npointed the way to a loft, where, amongst heaps of winter stores, dried\nroots, and other vegetables, probably reposed one or two of the male\nservants on a straw mattrass, well fortified from cold by an enormous\nquilt.\n\nOur description will apply with little variation to all.--We love these\ndeserted mansion-houses, that speak of the olden time, its good cheer\nand its rude but pleasant intercourse; times and seasons that are for\never gone,--though we crave pardon for indulging in what may perhaps\nfind little favour in the eyes of this generation, whose hopes and\ndesires are to the future, who say the past is but the childhood of our\nexistence,--it is gone, and shall not return. But there are yet some who\nlove to linger on the remnants, the ruins of a former state, who look at\nthese time-honoured relics but as links that bring them into closer\ncommunion with bygone ages, and would fain live in the twilight of other\nyears rather than the meridian splendour of the present. But we must not\nbe seduced any further by these reflections; our present business\nconcerns the legend whose strange title stands at the head of this\narticle.\n\nIn one of the upper chambers at Buckley Hall before named, and not long\nago, was an iron ring fixed to a strong staple in the wall; and to this\nring a fearful story is still attached. The legend, as it is often told,\nis one of those wild improbable fictions based on facts, distorted and\nembellished to suit the taste of the listener or the fancy of the\nnarrator. It will be our task to make out from these imaginative\nmaterials a narrative divested, as much as possible, of the marvellous,\nbut, at the same time, retaining so much as will interest and excite the\nreader and lover of legendary lore.\n\nIt was in one of those genial, mellow, autumnal evenings,--so dear to\nall who can feel their influence, and so rare a luxury to the\ninhabitants of this weeping climate,--when all living things wear the\nhue and warmth of the glowing atmosphere in which they are enveloped,\nthat two lovers were sauntering by the rivulet, a \"wimpling burn\" that,\nrising among the bare and barren moorlands of this uncultivated region,\nruns past Buckley Hall into the valley of the Roch.\n\nIt was near the close of the sixteenth century, in the days of good\nQueen Bess, yet their apparel was somewhat homely even for this era of\nstuffed doublets and trunk-hose. Such unseemly fashions had hardly\ntravelled into these secluded districts; and the plain, stout, woollen\njacket of their forefathers, and the ruffs, tippets, stays, and\nstomachers of their grandmothers, formed the ordinary wear of the belles\nand beaux of the province. Fardingales, or hooped petticoats, we are\nhappy to say, for the sake of our heroine, were unknown.\n\n\"Be of good cheer,\" said the lover; \"there be troubles enow, believe me,\nwithout building them up out of our own silly fears--like boys with\ntheir snow hobgoblins, terrible enough in the twilight of fancy, but a\ngleam of sunshine will melt and dissipate them. Thou art sad to-night\nwithout reason. Imaginary fears are the worst to cope withal; having\nnor shape nor substance, we cannot combat with them. 'Tis hard, indeed,\nfighting with shadows.\"\n\n\"I cannot smile to-night, Gervase; there's a mountain here--a foreboding\nof some deadly sort. I might as soon lift 'Robin Hood's Bed,' yonder, as\nremove it.\"\n\n\"No more of this, my dearest Grace; at least, not now. Let us enjoy this\nbright and sunny landscape. How sharply cut are those crags, yonder, on\nthe sky. Blackstonedge looks almost within a stride, or at least a good\nstone's throw. Thou knowest the old legend of Robin Hood; how that he\nmade yonder rocks his dormitory, and by way of amusement pitched or\ncoited huge stones at a mark on the hill just above us, being some four\nor five miles from his station. It is still visible along with several\nstones lying near, and which are evidently from the same rock as that on\nwhich it is said he slept.\"\n\n\"I've heard such silly tales often. Nurse had many of these old stories\nwherewith to beguile us o' winter nights. She used to tell, too, about\nEleanor Byron, who loved a fay or elf, and went to meet him at the\nfairies' chapel away yonder where the Spodden gushes through its rocky\ncleft,--'tis a fearful story--and how she was delivered from the spell.\nI sometimes think on't till my very flesh creeps, and I could almost\nfancy that such an invisible thing is about me.\"\n\nWith such converse did they beguile their evening walk, ever and anon\nmaking the subject bend to the burden of their own sweet ditty of mutual\n_unchanging_ love!\n\nGrace Ashton was the only daughter of a wealthy yeoman, one of the\ngentry of that district, residing at Clegg Hall, a mile or two distant.\nIts dark, low gables and quiet smoke might easily be distinguished from\nwhere they stood. It was said that the Cleggs, its original owners, had\nbeen beggared and dispossessed by vexatious and fraudulent lawsuits; and\nthe Ashtons had achieved their purpose by dishonesty and chicane.\nHowever this might be, busy rumour gave currency and credit to the tale,\nthough, probably, it had none other foundation than the idle and\nmalevolent gossip of the envious and the unthinking.\n\nThey had toiled up a narrow pathway on the right of a woody ravine,\nwhere the stream had evidently formed itself a passage through the loose\nstrata in its course. The brook was heard, though hidden by the tangled\nunderwood, and they stopped to listen. Soothing but melancholy was the\nsound. Even the birds seemed to chirp there in a sad and pensive\ntwitter, not unnoticed by the lovers, though each kept the gloomy and\nfanciful apprehensions untold.\n\nSoon they gained the summit of a round heathery knoll, whence an\nextensive prospect rewarded their ascent. The squat, square tower of\nRochdale Church might be seen above the dark trees nestling under its\ngrey walls. The town was almost hidden by a glowing canopy of smoke\ngleaming in the bright sunset,--towards the north the bare bleak hills,\nundulating in sterile loneliness, and associating only with images of\nbarrenness and desolation. Easterly, a long, level burst of light swept\nacross meadow, wood, and pasture; green slopes dotted with bright\nhomesteads, to the very base apparently of, though at some distance\nfrom, Blackstonedge, now of the deepest, the most intense blue. Such a\ndaring contrast of colour gave a force and depth to the landscape,\nwhich, had it been portrayed, would to critical eyes, perhaps, have\noutraged the modesty of Nature.\n\nThe sky was already growing cold and grey above the ridge opposed to the\nburning brightness of the western horizon, and Grace Ashton pointed out\nthe beautiful but fleeting hues of the landscape around them. Her\ncompanion, however, was engrossed by another object. Before them was an\neminence marking the horizon to the north-west, though not more than a\ngood bow-shot from where they stood. Between this and their present\nstanding was a little grassy hollow, through which the brook we have\ndescribed trickled rather than ran, amidst moss and rushes, rendering\nthe ground swampy and unsafe. On this hill stood \"Robin Hood's\ncoit-stones;\" and on the largest, called the \"marking-stone,\" a\nwild-looking and haggard figure was couched. Her garments, worn and\ntattered, were of a dingy red; and her cap, or _coiffure_ as it was then\ncalled, was of the same colour. Her head was bent forward beyond the\nknee, as though she were listening towards the ground, or was expecting\nthe approach of the individuals who now came suddenly, and to themselves\nunexpectedly, in view. Her figure, in the glow of that rich autumnal\nsky, looked of the deepest crimson, and of a bloody and portentous\naspect.\n\n\"What strange apparition is yonder,\" said Gervase Buckley, \"on the hill\ntop there before us? Beshrew me, Grace, but it hath an evil and a\nrancorous look.\"\n\nBut Grace, along with a short scream of surprise, betrayed, too, her\nrecognition of the object, and clung with such evident terror to her\ncompanion that he turned from the object of his inquiries to gaze on his\nmistress.\n\n\"What!\" said he, \"hath yonder unknown such power? Methinks it hath moved\nthee strangely. Speak, Grace; can that hideous appearance in any way be\nlinked with our destiny?\"\n\n\"I am ignorant as thou. But its coming, as I have heard, always forbodes\ndisaster to our house. Hast not heard of a Red Woman that sometimes\nhaunts this neighbourhood? I never saw her until now, but I've heard\nstrange and fearful stories of her appearing some years ago, and\nblighting the corn, poisoning the cattle, with many other diabolical\nwitcheries. She is best known by the name of 'Mother Red Cap.'\"\n\n\"I've heard of this same witch in my boyhood. But what should we fear?\nShe is flesh and blood like ourselves; and, in spite of the prevailing\nbelief, I could never suppose power would be granted to some, generally\nthe most wicked and the most worthless, which from the rest of mankind\nis capriciously withholden.\"\n\n\"Hush, Gervase; thou knowest not how far the arch-enemy of mankind may\nbe permitted to afflict bodily our guilty race. I could tell thee such\ntales of yonder creature as would stagger even the most stubborn of\nunbelievers.\"\n\n\"I will speak to her, nevertheless. Tarry here, I prithee, Grace. It\nwere best I should go alone.\"\n\n\"Oh, do not--do not! None have sight of her, as I've heard, but mischief\nfollows. What disaster then may we not expect from her evil tongue. I\nshudder at the anticipation. Stay here. I will not be left; and I cannot\ncross this dangerous swamp.\"\n\nBuckley was, however, bent on the adventure. His natural curiosity,\ninflamed by forbidden longing after the occult and the mysterious to\nwhich he was too prone, even though sceptical as to their existence,\nrendered him proof against his mistress' entreaties.\n\nProbably from situation, or rather, it might be, the distance was judged\ngreater than in reality it proved, but the form before them looked\npreternaturally enlarged, and, as she raised her head, her arms were\nflung out high above it like withered and wasted branches on each side.\nTrembling in every limb, Grace clung to her lover, and it was after long\npersuasion that she suffered him to lift her over the morass, and was\ndragged unwillingly up the hill. As though she were the victim of some\nterrible fascination, her eyes were constantly riveted on the object. A\nraven wheeled round them, every moment narrowing the circle of its\nflight, and the malicious bird looked eager for mischief.\n\nAs they approached nearer to the summit this ill-omened thing, after\nhaving brushed so close that they felt the very breath from its wings,\nalighted beside the Red Woman, who hardly seemed to notice, though well\naware of their proximity.\n\nThey paused when several paces distant, and she rose up suddenly,\nextending both arms, apparently to warn them from a nearer approach. Her\nskinny lips rapidly moving to and fro, and her dark, withered, bony, and\ncadaverous features, gave her more the appearance of a living mummy, or\na resurrection from the charnel-house, than aught instinct with the\ncommon attributes of humanity.\n\nBuckley was for a moment daunted. The form was so unlike anything he had\never seen. He was almost persuaded of the possibility that it might be\nsome animated corpse doomed to wander forth either for punishment or\nexpiation. Her lips still moved. A wild glassy eye was fixed upon them,\nand as she yet stood with extended arms, Gervase, almost wrought to\ndesperation, cried out,\n\n\"Who art thou? Thy business here?\"\n\nA hollow sound, hardly like the tones of a human voice, answered in a\nslow and solemn adjuration:\n\n\"Beware, rash fools! None approach the Red Woman but to their undoing.\"\n\n\"I know no hindrance to my free course in this domain. By whose\nauthority am I forbidden?\" said he, taking courage.\n\n\"Away--mine errand is not to thee unless provoked.\"\n\n\"Unto whom is thy message?\"\n\n\"To thy leman--thy ladye-love, whom thou wilt cherish to thine hurt.\nLeave her, ay, though both hearts break in the separation.\"\n\n\"I will not.\"\n\n\"Then be partaker of the wrath that is just ready to burst upon her\ndoomed house.\"\n\n\"I told thee,\" said Grace, \"she is the herald of misfortune! What woe\ndoes she denounce? What cruel judgment hast thou invoked upon our\nrace?\" cried she to this grim messenger of evil.\n\n\"Evil will--Evil must! I will cling to ye till your last sustenance be\ndried up, and your inheritance be taken from ye.\"\n\n\"Her fate be mine,\" said Buckley, indignantly. \"Her good or evil fortune\nI will share.\"\n\n\"Be it so. Thou hast made thy choice, and henceforth thou canst not\ncomplain.\"\n\nShe stretched out her two hands, one towards Clegg Hall, the abode of\nthe maiden, and the other towards Buckley, her lover's paternal roof,\nfrom which a blue curl of smoke was just visible over the rising grounds\nbeneath them.\n\n\"A doom and a curse to each,\" she muttered. \"Your names shall depart,\nand your lands to the alien and the stranger. Your honours shall be\ntrodden in the dust, and your hearths laid waste, and your habitations\nforsaken.\"\n\nIn this fearful strain she continued until Buckley cried out--\n\n\"Cease thy mumbling, witch. I'll have thee dealt with in such wise thy\ntongue shall find another use.\"\n\nTurning upon him a look of scorn, she seemed to grow fiercer in her\nmaledictions.\n\n\"Proud minion,\" she cried, \"thou shalt die childless and a beggar!\"\n\nThe cunning raven flapped his great heavy wings and seemed to croak an\nassent. He then hopped on his mistress' shoulder, and apparently\nwhispered in her ear.\n\n\"Sayest thou so?\" said the witch. \"Then give it to me, Ralph.\"\n\nThe bird held out his beak, and out popped a plain gold ring.\n\n\"Give this to thy mother, Dame Buckley. Say 'tis long since they parted\ncompany; and ask if she knows or remembers aught of the Red Woman.\nAway!\"\n\nShe threw the ring towards them. Both stooped to pick it up. They\nexamined it curiously for a short space.\n\n\"'Tis a wedding-ring,\" said Buckley, \"but not to wed bride of mine.\nWhere was this----\"\n\nHe stopped short in his inquiry, for lifting up his eyes he found the\ndonor was gone!\n\nNeither of them saw the least trace of her departure. The stone whereon\nshe sat was again vacant. All was silent, undisturbed, save the night\nbreeze that came sighing over the hill, moaning and whistling through\nthe withered bent and rushes at their feet.\n\nThe shadows of evening were now creeping softly around them, and the\nvalley below was already wrapped in mist. The air felt very chill. They\nshuddered, but it was in silence. This fearful vision, for such it now\nappeared to have been, filled them with unspeakable dread.\n\nGervase yet held the ring in his hand. He would have thrown it from him,\nbut Grace Ashton forbade.\n\n\"Do her bidding in this matter,\" said she. \"Give it thy mother, and ask\ncounsel of the sage and the discreet. There is some fearful\nmystery,--some evil impending, or my apprehensions are strangely\nmisled.\"\n\nThey returned, but he was more disturbed than he cared to acknowledge.\nHe felt as though some spell had been cast upon him, and cowed his\nhitherto undaunted spirit.\n\nThey again wound down beside the rivulet into the meadows below, where\nthe mist alone pointed out the course of the stream. The bat and the\nbeetle crossed their path. Evil things only were abroad. All they saw\nand felt seemed to be ominous of the future. As they passed through a\nlittle wicket to the hall-porch, Nicholas Buckley the father met them.\n\n\"Why how now, loiterers? The cushat and the curlew have left the hill,\nand yet ye are abroad. 'Tis time the maiden were at home, and looking\nafter the household.\"\n\n\"We've been hindered, good Sir. We will just get speech of our dame, and\nthen away home with the gentle Grace. Half an hour's good speeding will\nsee her safe.\"\n\n\"Ay--belike,\" said the old man. \"Lovers and loiterers make mickle haste\nto part. Our dame is with the maids and the milk-pans i' the dairy.\"\n\nThe elder Buckley was a hale hearty yeoman, of a ruddy and cheerful\ncountenance. A few wrinkles were puckered below the eyes; the rest of\nhis face was sleek and comfortably disposed. A beard, once thick and\nglossy, was grown grey and thin, curling up, short and stunted, round\nhis portly chin. Two bright twinkling eyes gave note of a stirring and\nrestless temper--too sanguine, may be, for success in the great and busy\nworld, and not fitted either by education or disposition for its\nsuspicions or its frauds. Yet he had the reputation of a clever\nmerchant. Rochdale, even at that early period, was a well-known mart for\nthe buyers and sellers of woollen stuffs and friezes. Many of the most\nwealthy merchants, too, indulged in foreign speculations and adventures,\nand amongst these the name of Nicholas Buckley was not the least\nconspicuous.\n\nThey passed on to the dairy, where Dame Eleanor scolded the maids and\nskimmed the cream at the same moment, by way of economy in time.\n\n\"What look ye for here?\" was her first inquiry, for truly her temper was\nof a hasty and searching nature; somewhat prone, as well, to cavilling\nand dispute; requiring much of her husband's placidity to furnish oil\nfor the turbulent waters of her disposition.\n\n\"Thou wert better at thy father's desk, than idling after thine\nunthrifty pleasures: to-morrow, may be, sauntering among the hills with\nhound and horn, beating up with all the rabble in the parish.\"\n\n\"Nay, mother, chide not: I was never made for merchandize and\nbarter--the price of fleeces in Tod-lane, and the broad ells at\nManchester market.\"\n\n\"And why not?\" said the dame, sharply. \"Haven't I been the prop and stay\nof the house? Haven't I made bargains and ventures when thou hast been\nidling in hall and bower with love-ditties and ladies' purfles?\"\n\nShe was now moved to sudden choler, and Gervase did not dare to thwart\nher further,--letting the passion spend itself by its own efforts, as he\nknew it were vain to check its torrent.\n\nNow Dame Eleanor Buckley was of a sharp and florid\ncountenance,--short-necked and broad-shouldered, her nose and chin\nalmost hiding a pair of thin severe lips, the two prominences being\nclose neighbours, especially in anger. In truth she guided, or rather\nmanaged, the whole circle of affairs; aiding and counselling the\nspeculations of her husband, who had happily been content with the\nproduce and profit of his paternal acres, had not his help-mate, who\ninherited this mercantile spirit from her family, urged her partner to\nsuch unwonted lust and craving for gain.\n\nA huge bundle of keys hung at her girdle, which, when more than usually\nexcited, did make a most discordant jingle to the tune that was a-going.\nIndeed, the height and violence of her passion might be pretty well\nguessed at by this index to its strength.\n\nWhen the storm had in some degree subsided, Gervase held up the ring.\n\n\"What's that, silly one? A wedding-ring!\"\n\nShe grew almost pale with wrath. \"How darest thou?--thee!--a ring!--to\nwed ere thou hast a home for thy pretty one. Ye may go beg, for here ye\nshall not tarry. Go to the next buckle-beggar! A pretty wedding truly!\nWhen thou hast learned how to keep her honestly, 'twill be time enough\nto wed. But thou hast not earned a doit to put beside her dower, and all\nour ready monies, and more, be in trade; though, for the matter o'that,\nthe pulling would be no great business either. But I tell thee again,\nthy father shall not portion an idler like thyself and pinch his trade.\nMarry, 'tis enough to do, what with grievous sums lost in shipwrecks,\nand the time we have now to wait our returns from o'er sea.\"\n\nShe went on at this rate for a considerable space, pausing at last, more\nfor lack of breath than subject-matter of discourse.\n\n\"Mother,\" said he, when fairly run down; \"'tis not a purchase, 'tis a\ngift.\"\n\n\"By some one sillier than thyself, I warrant.\"\n\n\"I know not for that--I had it from a stranger.\"\n\n\"Stranger still,\" she replied sharply, chuckling at her own conceit.\n\n\"Look at it, mother,--Know you such an one?\"\n\nThe dame eyed it with no favour, but she turned it over with a curious\nlook, at the same time lifting her eyes now and then towards the\nceiling, as though some train of recollection was awakening in her mind.\n\n\"Where gat ye this?\" said Dame Eleanor, in a subdued but still querulous\ntone.\n\n\"On the hill-top yonder.\"\n\n\"Treasure-trove belongs to Sir John Byron.[M] The Lord of the Manor\nclaims all from the finders.\"\n\n\"It was a gift.\"\n\n\"Humph. Hast met gold-finders on the hills, or demons or genii, that\nguard hidden treasure?\"\n\n\"We've seen the Red Woman!\"\n\nHad a sudden thunder-clap burst over them, she could not have been more\nstartled. She stood speechless, and seemingly incapable of reply.\nHolding the ring in one hand, her eyes were intently fixed upon it.\n\n\"What is it that troubles you?\" said Gervase. \"Yon strange woman bade me\ngive you the ring, and ask if so be that you remembered her.\"\n\nThe dame looked up, her quick and saucy petulance exchanged for a\nsubdued and melancholy air.\n\n\"Remember thee! thou foul witch,--ay, long, long years have passed: I\nthought thy persecutions at an end; thy prediction was nigh forgotten.\nIt was my wedding-ring, Gervase!\"\n\n\"More marvellous still.\"\n\n\"Peace, and I'll tell thee. Grace Ashton, come forward. I know thine\nears are itching for the news. Well, well, it was when thou wast but a\nboy, Gervase, and I remember an evening just like this. I was standing\nby the draw-well yonder, looking, I now bethink me, at the dove-cote\nwhere I suspected thieves; and in a humour somewhat of the sharpest, I\ntrow. By-and-bye comes what I thought an impudent beggar-woman for an\nalms. Her dress was red and tattered, with a high red cap to match. I\nchided her, it might be somewhat harshly, and I shall not soon forget\nthe malicious look she put on. 'I ask not, I need not thy benison,' she\nsaid; 'I would have befriended thee, but I now curse thee altogether:'\nand stretching out her shrivelled arm, dry and bare, she shook it,\nthreatening me with vengeance. Suddenly, or ere I was aware, she seized\nmy left hand, drew off my wedding-ring; breathing upon it and mumbling a\nspell, she held it as though for me to take back, but with such a\nfiendish look of delight that I hesitated. All on the sudden I\nremembered to have heard my grandmother say, that should a witch or\nwarlock get your wedding-ring, and have time to mutter over it a certain\ncharm, _so long as that ring is above ground_, so long misery and\nmisfortune do afflict the owner. Lucky it was I knew of this, for\ninstead of replacing it I threw it into the well, being the nearest\nhiding-place. And happy for me and thee it was so near; for, would you\nbelieve, though hardly a minute's space in my hand, the black heifer\ndied, the red cow cast her calf, and a large venture of merchandize was\nwrecked in a fearful gale off the gulph. I had no sooner thrown it into\nthe well than the witch looked more diabolical than ever. 'It will come\nagain, dame,' said she, 'and then look to it;' and with this threat she\ndeparted. But what am I doing? If it be the ring, which I doubt not,\nI've had it o'er long in my keeping. Even now disaster may be a-brewing;\nand is there not a richly freighted ship on its passage with silks and\nspices? I'll put it out of her reach this time anyhow. No! I'll hide it\nwhere never a witch in Christendom shall poke it out.\"\n\nDame Eleanor went to the little burn below. Stooping, she scooped a hole\nin the gravel under water; there she laid the ring, and covered it over\nwith stones.\n\n\"Thou'rt always after some of thy megrims, dame,\" said the elder\nBuckley, who had been watching her from the porch. \"Some spell or\ncounter-charm, I'se warrant.\"\n\nWith a look of great contempt for the incredulity of her spouse, she\nreplied,\n\n\"Ay, goodman, sit there and scoff your fill. If't hadn't been for my\ncare and endeavours you had been penniless ere now. But so it is, I may\nslave night and day, I reckon. The whole roof-tree, as a body may say,\nis on my shoulders, and what thanks? More hisses than thanks, more\nknocks than fair words.\"\n\nNever so well pleased as when opportunity was afforded for grumbling,\nthe dame addressed herself again to her evening avocations.\n\nPondering deeply what should be the issue of these things, Gervase set\nout with Grace Ashton to her house at Clegg Hall, a good mile distant.\nEvening had closed in--a chill wind blew from the hills. The west had\nlost its splendour, but a pure transparent brightness filled its place,\nacross which the dark wavy outline of the high moorlands rested in deep\nunvarying shadow. In these bright depths a still brighter star hung,\npure and of a diamond-like lustre, the precursor, the herald of a\nblazing host just rising into view.\n\nAs they walked on, it may well be supposed that the strange occurrences\nof the last few hours were the engrossing theme of their discourse.\n\n\"My mother is a little too superstitious, I am aware,\" said Gervase.\n\"But what I have witnessed to-night has rendered me something more\ncredulous on this head than aforetime.\"\n\n\"I don't half like this neighbourhood,\" said his companion, looking\nround. \"It hath an ill name, and I could almost fancy the Red Woman\nagain, just yonder in our path.\"\n\nShe looked wistfully; it was only the mist creeping lazily on with the\nstream.\n\nThey were now ascending the hill towards Beil or Belfield, where the\nKnights Templars had formerly an establishment. Not a vestige now\nremains, though at that period a ruinous tower covered with ivy, a\ngateway, and an arch, existed as relics of their former grandeur.\n\n\"Here lived the Lady Eleanor Byron,\" said Grace, pointing to the old\nhall close by, and as though an unpleasant recollection had crossed her.\nShe shuddered as they passed by the grim archway beneath the tower.\nWhether it was fancy or reality, she knew not, but as she looked\ncuriously through its ivied tracery, she thought the Red Woman was\npeering out maliciously upon them. She shrank aside, and pointed to the\nspot; but there was nothing visible save the dark and crumbling ruins,\nfrom which their steps were echoed with a dull and sullen sound.\n\nThe night wind sighed round the grey battlements, and from its hidden\nrecesses came moans and whispers, at least so it seemed to their heated\nimaginations.\n\n\"Let us hasten hence,\" said Grace; \"I like not this lonely spot. There\nwas always a fear and a mystery about it. The tale of the invisible\nsylphid and Eleanor Byron's elfish lover, haunts me whenever I pass by,\nand I feel as though something was near, observing and influencing every\nmovement and every thought.\"\n\n\"Come, come, adone I pray. Let not fear o'ermaster reason, else we shall\nsee bogles in every bush.\"\n\nAbove the gateway, in the little square tower now pulled down, was a\nloop-hole, nearly concealed by climbing shrubs, which rendered it easy\nfor a person within to look out without being observed. As they passed,\na low humming din was heard. Then a rude ditty trolled from some not\nunskilful performer. The lovers stayed to listen, when a dark figure\nissued out of the gateway singing:--\n\n \"The bat haunts the tower,\n And the red-breast the bower,\n And the merry little sparrow by the chimney hops,\n Good e'en, hoots master owl,\n To-whoo, to-whoo, his troll,\n Sing heigho, swing the can with----\"\n\n\"What, thee, Tim! is that thy stupid face?\" said Gervase, breaking in\nupon his ditty, and right glad to be delivered from supernatural fears,\nthough the object of them proved only this strolling minstrel. \"Thou\nmight as well kill us outright as frighten us to death.\"\n\nHe that stood before them was one of those wandering musicians that\nhaunt fairs and merry-makings, wakes, and such like pastimes; playing\nthe fiddle and jewtrump too at weddings and alehouses; in short, any\nsort of idleness never came amiss to these representatives of the old\nTroubadours. A tight oval cap covered his shaggy poll; he was clad in a\ncoarse doublet or jerkin slashed in the fashion of the time, while his\nnether integuments were fastened in the primitive mode by a wooden\nskewer. He could conjure too, and play antics to set the folks agape;\nbut as to his honesty, it was of that dubious sort that few cared to\nhave it in trust. He was apt at these alehouse ditties,--many of them\nhis own invention. He knew all the choicest ballads too, so that his\nvocation was much akin to the _jogleurs_ or _jongleurs_ of more ancient\ntimes, when Richard of the Lion's Heart and other renowned monarchs\ndisdained not \"_the gentle craft of poesie_.\"\n\nWherever was a feast, let it be a wedding or a funeral, Tim, like the\nharpies of old, scented the meat, and some of his many vocations were\ngenerally in request.\n\nThis important functionary now stood whistling and singing by turns with\nthe most admired unconcern.\n\n\"What's thy business here?\" cried Gervase, approaching him.\n\n \"The maid was fair and the maid was coy,\n But the lover left, and the maid said 'Why?'\n Sing Oh, the green willow!\"\n\n\"Answerest thou me with thy trumpery ditties? I'll have thee put i' the\nstocks, sirrah.\"\n\n\"Oh ha' mercy, master! there's naught amiss 'at I know. I'm but takin'\nroost here wi' the owls an' jackdaws a bit, may be for want o' better\nlyin'.\"\n\n\"It were hard to have a better knack at lying, than thou hast already.\nHast gotten the weather into thy lodgings? When didst flit to thy new\nquarters?\"\n\n\"Th' hay-mow at Clegg is ower savoured wi' the new crop, an' I want\nfresh air for my studies.\"\n\n\"Now art thou lying----\"\n\n\"Like a lover to his sweetheart,\" said Tim, interrupting him, and\nfinishing the sentence.\n\n\"Peace, knave! There's some mischief i' the wind. Thou'rt after no good,\nI trow.\"\n\n\"What te dickons do I ail here? Is't aught 'at a man can lift off but\nstone wa's an' ivy-boughs? Marry, my little poke maun ha' summut else to\nthrive on nor these.\"\n\n\"There's been great outcry about poultry an' other farmyard appendances\namissing of late, besides eggs and such like dainties enow to furnish\npancakes and fritters for the whole parish. Hast gotten company in thy\nden above there?\"\n\n\"Jacks an' ouzles if ye like, Master Gervase. Clim' up, clim' up, lad,\nan' there'll be a prial on us. Ha, ha! What! our little sweetheart there\nwould liefer t' be gangin'. Weel, weel, 'tis natural, as a body may say:\n\n \"One is good, and two is good,\n But three's no company.\"\n\n\"Answer me quick, thou rogue. Is there any other but thyself yonder\nabove?\"\n\n\"When I'm there I'm not here, an' when I'm here----\"\n\n\"Sirrah, I'll flog the wind out o' thy worthless carcase. Hast\nany pilfering companions about thee? I do smell a savoury\nrefection,--victuals are cooking, or my nose belies its office.\"\n\n\"Fair speech, friend, wins a quiet answer; a soft word and a smooth\ntongue all the world over. What for mayn't I sup as well as my betters?\"\n\n\"As well? better belike. There's no such savour in our hall at eventide,\nnor in the best kitchen in the parish.\"\n\n\"It's not my fau't, is't?\"\n\n\"By'r lady, there's somebody in the chamber there. I saw the leaves\nfluttering from the loophole. Villain, who bears thee company?\"\n\n\"Daft, daft. What fool would turn in to roost wi' me? Clean gone crazy,\nsure as I'm livin'.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, there's some plot here,--some mischief hatching. I'll see,\nor----\"\n\nHe was just going to make the attempt; but Tim withstood him, and in a\nperemptory manner barred the way.\n\n\"How! am I barred by thee, and to my face?\"\n\n\"It's no business o' thine, Master Gervase. What's hatching there,\nconcerns not thee. Keep back, I say, or----\"\n\n\"Ha! Thou jingle-pated rascal, stand off, or I'll wring thy neck round\nas I would a jackdaw.\"\n\n\"Do not, do not, Gervase!\" said Grace Ashton, fearful of some unlucky\nstrife. \"Let us begone. We are too late already, and 'tis no business of\nours.\"\n\n\"What! and be o'erfoughten by this scurvy lack-wit. Once more, who is\nthere above?\"\n\n\"An' what if I shouldn't tell thee?\"\n\n\"I'll baste thy carcase to a mummy; I'll make thee tender for the\nhounds.\"\n\n\"Another word to that, master, an' it's a bargain.\"\n\n\"Let me pass.\"\n\n\"Not without my company.\"\n\n\"He whistled, and in a moment Gervase felt himself pinioned from behind.\nLooking round, he saw two stout fellows with their faces covered; and\nany other possibility of recognition was impracticable in the heavy\ntwilight.\n\n\"Who's i' t' stocks now?\" cried the malicious rogue, laughing.\n\n\"Unhand me, or ye'll rue that ever ye wrought this outrage.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, that were a pretty stave, when we've gotten the bird, to open\nthe trap,\" said Tim.\n\nGervase immediately saw that another party had seized Grace Ashton. He\nraved and stamped until his maledictions were put an end to by an\neffectual gag, and he did not doubt but she had suffered the same\ntreatment, for a short sharp scream only was heard. Being immediately\nblindfolded, he could only surmise that her usage was of a similar\nnature.\n\nHe was so stupified with surprise, that for a short period he was hardly\nsensible to their further proceedings. When able to reflect, he found\nhimself pinioned, and in a sitting posture. A damp chill was on his\nforehead. He had been dragged downwards, and, from the motion, steps\nwere the medium of descent. A door or two had been raised or opened, a\nnarrow passage previously traversed, and a short time only elapsed from\nthe cool freshness of the evening air to the damp and stifling\natmosphere that he now breathed. What could be cause of his seizure, he\nwas quite incompetent to guess. He could not recollect that he had\neither pique or grudge on his hands; and what should be the result, he\nonly bewildered and wearied himself by striving to anticipate.\n\nIt was surely a dream. He heard a voice of ravishing sweetness; such\npure and silvery tones, that aught earthly could have produced it was\nout of the question; it was like the swell of some Eolian lyre,--words\ntoo, modifying and enhancing that liquid harmony. It was a hymn, but in\na foreign tongue. He soon recognised the evening hymn to the Virgin:\n\n \"Mater amata, intemerata,\n Ora, ora, pro nobis.\"\n\nSo sweetly did the music melt into his soul, that he quite forgot his\nthrall, and every sense was attuned to the melody. When the sound\nceased, he made an effort to get free. He loosened his hands, and\nimmediately tore off the bandage from his eyes. A few seconds elapsed,\nwhen he saw a light streaming through a crevice. Looking through, he saw\na taper burning before a little shrine, where two females in white\nraiment, closely veiled, were kneeling.\n\nThe celebration of such rites, at that time strictly prohibited,\nsufficiently accounted for their concealment, and plainly intimated that\nthe parties were not of the Reformed faith.\n\nBy the light which penetrated his cell from this source, he saw it was\nfurnished with a stone bench, and a narrow flight of steps in one corner\ncommunicated with a trap-door above.\n\nThe old mansion at Belfield, contiguous to these ruins, once belonging\nto the Knights of St. John, had been for some years untenanted, and, as\noften happens to the lot of deserted houses, strange noises, sights, and\nother manifestations of ghostly occupants were heard and seen by\npassers-by, rendering it a neighbourhood not overliked by those who had\nbusiness that way after nightfall.\n\nGervase Buckley was pretty well assured that he had been conveyed into\nsome concealed subterranean chamber, but for what purpose he could not\ncomprehend. He was not easily intimidated; and, though in a somewhat\nsorry plight, he now felt little apprehension on the score of\nsupernatural visitations: but his seizure did not hold out an immunity\nas regards corporeal disturbers. He had not long to indulge these\npremonitory reflections ere a door was opened. A figure, completely\nenveloped in a black cloak, on which a red cross was conspicuously\nemblazoned, stood before him. He carried a torch, and Gervase saw a\nshort naked sword glittering in his belt.\n\n\"Follow me,\" said the intruder; and, without further parley, pointed to\nwhere another door was concealed in the pavement. This being opened,\nGervase beheld, not without serious apprehension, a flight of steps\nevidently communicating with a lower dungeon. His conductor pointed to\nthe descent, and it would have been useless folly to disobey. A damp and\nalmost suffocating odour prevailed, as though from some long pent up\natmosphere, which did not give the prisoner any increasing relish or\naffection for the enterprise. He looked at his conductor, whose face and\nperson were yet covered. Had he been a familiar of the Holy Inquisition,\nhe could not have been more careful of concealment. Gervase looked now\nand then with a wistful glance towards his companion's weapon. Being\nhimself unarmed, it would have been madness to attempt escape. He merely\ninquired in his descent,\n\n\"Whence this outrage? I am unarmed, defenceless.\" But there was no\nreply. The guide, with an inclination of the head, pointed with his\ntorch to the gulph his victim was about to enter. There was little use\nin disputation where the opposite party had so decided an advantage, and\nhe thought it best to abide the issue without further impediment. He\naccordingly descended a few steps. His conductor fastened the door\noverhead, and they soon arrived at the bottom, at a low arched passage,\nwhere his guide dashed his flambeau against the wall, and it was\nimmediately extinguished.\n\nGervase was left once more in doubt and darkness. There was little space\nfor explanation. He felt himself seized by an invisible hand, hurried\nunresistingly on, till, without any preparation, a blaze of light burst\nupon him.\n\nIt was for a moment too overpowering to enable him to distinguish\nobjects with any certainty. Soon, however, he saw a tolerably spacious\nvault, or crypt, supported by massy pillars. He had often heard there\nexisted many unexplored subterranean passages reaching to an incredible\ndistance, made originally by the Knights Templars for their private use.\nOne of these, it was said, extended even to the chantry just then\ndissolved at Milnrow, more than a mile distant. Many strange stories he\nhad been told of these warrior monks. But centuries had elapsed since\ntheir suppression. For a moment, he almost believed they were permitted\nto re-appear, doomed at stated periods to re-enact their unhallowed\norgies, their cruelties and their crimes. The chamber was lighted by\nthree or four torches, their lurid unsteady light giving an ever-varying\ncharacter to the surrounding objects.\n\nOpposite the entrance was a stone bench, occupied by several figures\nattired in a similar manner to his conductor. An individual in the\ncentre wore in addition a belt, covered by some cabalistic devices. The\nscene was sufficiently inexplicable, and not at all elucidated by the\nfollowing interrogation:\n\n\"Thou hast been cited to our tribunal,\" said the chief inquisitor.\n\n\"I know ye not,\" said Gervase with great firmness, though hardly aware\nof the position he occupied.\n\n\"Why hast thou not obeyed our summons?\"\n\n\"I have not heard of any such; nor in good sooth should I have been\ncareful to obey had your mandate been delivered.\"\n\n\"Croix Rouge,\" said the interrogator; \"has this delinquent been cited?\"\n\nThe person he addressed arose, bowed, and presented a written answer.\n\n\"I have here,\" continued the chief, \"sufficient proof that our summons\nhath been conveyed to thee, and that hitherto thine answer hath been\ncontumaciously withheld. What sayest thou?\"\n\n\"I have yet to learn, firstly,\" said Gervase, with more indignation than\nprudence, \"by what authority ye would compel me to appear; and,\nsecondly, how and in what form such mandate hath been sent?\"\n\n\"Bethink thee, is our answer to the last,--the first will be manifested\nin due time. We might indeed leave thee ignorant as to what we require,\nbut pity for thy youth and inexperience forbids. Clegg Hall is, thou\nknowest, along with the estate, now unlawfully holden by the Ashtons.\"\n\n\"I know that sundry Popish recusants plotting the overthrow of our most\ngracious Queen, do say that other and more legitimate rights are in\nabeyance only; but the present owners are too well fortified to be\ndispossessed by hearsay.\"\n\n\"In the porch at Clegg thou wast accosted not long ago by a mendicant\nwho solicited an alms.\"\n\n\"Probably so.\"\n\n\"Did he not hold out to thee the sign of the Rosy Cross, the token of\nour all-powerful fraternity of Rosicrucians?\"\n\n\"I do remember such a signal; and furthermore, I drove him forth as an\nimpostor and a pretender to forbidden arts.\"\n\n\"He showed thee the sign, and bade thee follow.\"\n\n\"He did.\"\n\n\"And why was our summons disobeyed?\"\n\n\"Because I have yet to learn what authority you possess either for my\nsummons or detention.\"\n\n\"The brotherhood of the Red Cross are not disobeyed with impunity.\"\n\n\"I have heard of such a fraternity,--as well too that they be idle\ncheats and lying impostors.\"\n\n\"We challenge not belief without sufficient testimony to the truth of\nour mission. In pity to man's infirmity this indulgence is permitted. We\nunfold the hidden operations, the very arcana of Nature, whom we\nunclothe as it were to her very nakedness. Our doctrines thereby carry\ncredence even to the most impious and unbelieving. Ere we command thy\nsubmission, it is permitted to behold some manifestation of our power.\nBy means derived from the hidden essences of Nature, the first\nprinciples which renovate and govern all things, the very elements of\nwhich they consist, we arrive at the incorporeal essence called spirit,\nholding converse with it undebased, uninfluenced by the intervention of\nmatter. Thus we converse in spirit with those that be absent, even\nthough they were a thousand leagues apart.\"\n\n\"And what has this jargon to do with my being dispatched hither?\"\n\n\"Listen, and reply not; the purport will be vouchsafed to thee anon. We\ncan compel the spirits even of the absent to come at our bidding by\nsubtle spells that none have power to disobey. We too can renew and\ninvigorate life, and by the universal solvent bring about the renovation\nof all things,--renovation and decay being the two antagonist\nprinciples, as light and darkness. As we can make darkness light, and\nlight darkness at our pleasure, so can we from decay bring forth life,\nand the contrary. Seest thou this dead body?\"\n\nA black curtain he had not hitherto observed, was thrown aside, and he\nbeheld the features of Grace Ashton, or he was strangely deceived. She\nwas lying on a little couch, death visibly imprinted on her collapsed\nand sunken features.\n\n\"Murderers! I will have ye dealt with for this outrage.\" Maddened almost\nto frenzy he would have rushed towards her, but he was firmly holden by\na power superior to his own.\n\n\"She is now in the first region of departed spirits,\" said the chief.\n\"We have power to compel answer to our interrogatories. Listen, perverse\nmortal. We are well assured that a vast treasure is concealed\nhereabouts, hidden by the Knights of St. John. 'Tis beyond our\nunassisted power to discover. We have asked counsel of one whom we dare\nnot disobey, and she it is hath commanded that we cite thee and Grace\nAshton to the tribunal of the Rosy Cross. This corporeal substance now\nbefore us, by reason of its intimate union with the spirit, purged from\nthe dross of mortality, will answer any question that may be propounded,\nand will utter many strange and infallible prophecies. It will solve\ndoubtful questions, and discourse of things past, present, and to come,\nseeing that she is now in spirit where all knowledge is perfect, and\nhath her eyes and understanding cleared from the gross film of our\ncorruption. But as spirit only hath power over those of its own nature,\nby the law of universal sympathy, so she answers but to those by whom\nshe is bidden, that are of the same temperament and affinity, which is\nshown by your affiance and love toward each other.\"\n\nThe prisoner heard this mystic harangue with a vacant and fixed\nexpression, as though his mind were wandering, and he hardly understood\nthe profundity of the discourse. Every feeling was absorbed in the\nconviction that some horrid incantation had for ever deprived him of his\nbeloved. Then he fancied some imposition had been practised upon him.\nBeing prevented from a closer examination, at length he felt some relief\nin the idea that the form he beheld might possibly be a counterfeit. He\nknew not what to say, and the speaker apparently waited his reply.\nFinding he was still silent, the former continued after a brief space:\n\n\"Our questions to this purport must necessarily be propounded by thee.\nArt thou prepared?\"\n\n\"Say on,\" said Gervase, determined to try the issue, however repugnant\nto his thoughts.\n\nTwo of them now arose and stood at each end of the couch. The superior\nfirst made the sign of the Cross. He then drew a book from his girdle,\nand read therein a Latin exorcism against the intrusion of evil spirits\ninto the body, commanding those only of a heavenly and benign influence\nto attend. He lighted a taper compounded of many strange ingredients\nemitting a fragrant odour, and, as the smoke curled heavily about him,\nflickering and indistinct, he looked like some necromancer about to\nperform his diabolical rites.\n\nThe occupant of that miserable couch lay still as death.\n\n\"The first question,\" cried out the chief; and he looked towards the\nprisoner, who was now suffered to approach within a few paces of the\nbed.\n\n\"Is there treasure in this place?\"\n\nGervase tried to repeat the question, but his tongue clave to his mouth.\nFor the first time probably in his life he felt the sensation of\nhorrible, undefined, uncontrollable fear,--that fear of the unknown and\nsupernatural, that shrinking from spiritual intercourse even with those\nwe have loved best. It seemed as though he were in communion with the\ninvisible world,--that awful, incomprehensible state of existence; and\nwith beings whose power and essence are yet unknown, armed, in\nimagination, with attributes of terror and of vengeance.\n\nWith a desperate effort, however, he repeated the question. Breathless,\nand with intense agony, he awaited the response. It came! A voice, not\nfrom the lips of the recumbent victim, but as though it were some inward\nafflatus, hollow and sepulchral. The lips did not move, but the\nfollowing reply was given.\n\n\"There is!\"\n\nEven the guilty confederates started back in alarm at the success of\ntheir own experiment. All was, however, still,--silent as before.\n\nTaking courage, the next question was put in like manner.\n\n\"In what direction?\"\n\n\"Under the main pillar at the south-eastern corner of the vault.\"\n\nAfter another pause, the following questions were asked:\n\n\"How may we obtain the treasure sought?\"\n\n\"By diligence and perseverance.\"\n\n\"At what time?\"\n\n\"When the moon hath trine to Mercury in the house of Saturn.\"\n\n\"Is it guarded?\"\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"By whom?\"\n\n\"By a power that shall crush you unless propitiated.\"\n\n\"Show us in what manner.\"\n\n\"I may not; my lips are sealed. That power is superior to mine; the rest\nis hidden from me.\"\n\nThe treasure-seekers were silent, as though disappointed at this\nunexpected reply. Another attempt was, however, made.\n\n\"Shall we prosper in our undertaking?\"\n\n\"My time is nigh spent. I beseech you that I may depart, for I am in\ngreat torment.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt not, until thou answer.\"\n\n\"Beware!\"\n\nBut this admonition was from another source, and in a different\ndirection. The obscurity and smoke from the torches made it impossible\nto judge with any certainty whence the interruption proceeded.\n\nGervase started and turned round. It might be fancy, but he was\nconfident the features of the Red Woman were present to his\napprehension. Horrors were accumulating. Even the united brotherhood\nseemed to tremble as though in the presence of some being of whom they\nstood in awe. They awaited her approach in silence.\n\n\"Fool! did I not warn thee to do _my_ bidding only? And thou art\nhankering again, pampering thy cruel lust for gold. How darest thou\nquestion the maiden for this intent? Hence, and thank thy stars thou art\nnot even now sent howling to thy doom!\"\n\nThis terrible and mysterious woman came forward in great anger, and the\nRosicrucian brotherhood were thereby in great alarm. \"The maid is\nmine--begone!\" said she, pointing the way.\n\nLike slaves under their master's frown, they crouched before this\nfearful personification of their unhallowed and forbidden practices, and\ndeparted.\n\n\"Gervase Buckley,\" she cried, \"thou art betrothed to the heiress of yon\nwide possessions.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said he, roused either to courage or desperation, even in the\npresence of a being whose power he felt conscious was not derived from\none common source with his own.\n\n\"Dost thou confirm thy troth?\"\n\n\"I do; in life and in death she is mine.\"\n\n\"Pledge thyself, body and soul, to her.\"\n\n\"I am hers whilst I live, body and soul. Nothing but death shall part\nus.\"\n\n\"On thy soul's hope thou wilt fulfil this pledge!\"\n\n\"I will.\" Gervase looked wistfully towards his beloved. The inanimate\nform was yet pale and still; but a vague hope possessed him that the\nwitch would again quicken her.\n\n\"'Tis enough. But it must be sealed with blood!\"\n\nHe felt her clammy hand on his arm, and a sharp pain as though from a\npuncture. He quickly withdrew it, and a blood-drop fell on the floor.\n\n\"Thou art mine--for ever!\"\n\nA loud yell rang through the vaults, and Gervase felt as though the doom\nof the lost spirits were his,--that a whole troop of fiery demons had\nassailed him, and that he was borne away to the pit of torment. Happily\nhis recollection forsook him, and he became unconscious of future\nsuffering.\n\n\nPART THE SECOND.\n\nMorning rose bright and ruddy above the hills. The elder Buckley was up\nand stirring betimes. Agreeably to his usual practice, he had retired\nearly to bed, leaving the household cares and duties to his helpmate. He\nwas sitting in the porch, when his dame, with a disturbed and portentous\naspect, accosted him:--\n\n\"I know not what hath come to the lad.\"\n\n\"Gervase--what of him?\" said Nicholas, carelessly.\n\n\"He came home very late yesternight. But he did not speak, and he looked\nso wan and woe-begone, that I verily thought he had seen a ghost or some\nuncanny thing yonder on his road home. I've just now been to rouse him,\nbut he will not answer. Prithee go and get speech of him, good or bad. I\nthink i' my heart the lad's bewitched.\"\n\nNicholas Buckley was a man of few words, especially in the presence of\nhis helpmate, so he merely groaned out an incredulous wonder, and went\noff as he was bidden. He saw Gervase evidently under the influence of\nsome stupifying spell. His eyes were open, but he noticed neither the\nquestion nor the person who accosted him. There was something so\nhorrible and mysterious in his whole appearance, that the good man felt\nalarmed, and went back to his dame with all possible expedition. What\n_could_ have happened? They guessed, and made a thousand odd surmises,\nimprobable enough the greater part, but all merging in the prevailing\nbugbear of the day--witchcraft, which was resorted to as a satisfactory\nexplanation under every possible difficulty. Had his malady any\nconnection with the unexpected appearance of the Red Woman and the ring?\nIt was safe buried, however, and that was a comfort. But after all, her\nthoughts always involuntarily recurred to this unpleasant subject. She\ncould not shake off her suspicions, and there was little use in\nattempting further measures unless she could fight the Evil One with his\nown weapons. To this end, she began to cast about for some cunning\nwizard, who might countervail the plots of this malicious witch.\n\nNow at this period, Dr. Dee, celebrated for his extraordinary\nrevelations respecting the world of spirits, had been promoted by Queen\nElizabeth (a firm believer in astrology and other recondite pursuits) to\nthe wardenship of the Collegiate Church at Manchester. His fame had\nspread far and wide. He had not long been returned from his mission to\nthe Emperor Rodolph at Prague, and his intercourse with invisible things\nwas as firmly believed as the common occurrences of the day, and as well\nauthenticated.\n\nThe character of Dee has both been underrated and misunderstood. By\nmost, if not all, he has been looked upon merely as a visionary and an\nenthusiast,--credulous and ambitious, without the power, though he had\nsufficient will, to compass the most mischievous designs. But under\nthese outward weaknesses and superstitions, tinctured and modified by\nthe prevailing belief in supernatural interferences, there was a bold\nand vigorous mind, frustrated, it is true, by circumstances which he\ncould not control. Dee aimed at the entire change and subjugation of\naffairs, ecclesiastical and political, to the dominion of an unseen\npower,--a theocracy or millenium,--himself the sole medium of\ncommunication, the high priest and lawgiver. To this end he sought the\nalliance and support of foreign potentates; and his diary published by\nCasaubon, the original of which is in the British Museum, is a\nremarkable and curious detail of the intrigues resorted to for this\npurpose. His mission to the Emperor Rodolph, offering him the sceptre of\nuniversal dominion, is told with great minuteness; and there is little\ndoubt that Elizabeth herself did not disdain to converse and consult\nwith him on this extraordinary project. Her visits to his house at\nMortlake are well known. He had been consulted as to a favourable day\nfor her coronation, and received many splendid promises of preferment,\nthat were never realised. At length, disappointed and hopeless as to the\nsuccess of his once daring expectations, he settled down to the only\npiece of preferment within his reach, to wit, the wardenship of the\nCollegiate Church at Manchester, where he arrived with his family in the\nbeginning of February, 1596. His advice and assistance were much\nresorted to, and particularly in cases of supposed witchcraft and\ndemoniacal possession,--articles of unshaken belief at that period with\nall but speculatists and optimists, the Sadducees of their day and\ngeneration. His chief colleague throughout his former revelations had\nbeen one Edward Kelly, born at Worcester, where he practised as an\napothecary. In his diary, Dee says, they were brought together by the\nministration of the angel Uriel. He was called Kelly the Seer. This\nfaculty of \"_seeing_\" by means of a magic crystal not being possessed by\nthe Doctor, he was obliged to have recourse to Kelly, who had or\npretended to have this rare faculty. Afterwards, however, he found out\nthat Kelly had deceived him; those spirits which ministered at his\nbidding not being messengers from the Deity as he once supposed, but\nlying spirits sent to deceive and to betray.\n\nKelly was an undoubted impostor, though evidently himself a believer in\nmagic and the black art. Addicted to diabolical and mischievous\npractices, he was a fearful ensample of those deluders given up to their\nown inventions to believe the very lies wherewith they attempted to\ndeceive.\n\nHe was a great treasure-hunter and invoker of demons, and, it is said,\nwould not scruple to have recourse to the most disgusting brutalities\nfor the gratification of his avarice and debauchery. In Weaver's\nFunereal Monuments, it is recorded that Kelly, in company with one Paul\nWaring, went to the churchyard of Walton-le-Dale, near Preston, where a\nperson was interred at that time supposed to have hidden a large sum of\nmoney, and who had died without disclosing the secret. They entered\nprecisely at midnight, the grave having been pointed out to them the\npreceding day. They dug down to the coffin, opened it, and exorcised the\nspirit of the deceased, until the body rose from the grave and stood\nupright before them. Having satisfied their inquiries, it is said that\nmany strange predictions were uttered concerning divers persons in the\nneighbourhood, which were literally and remarkably fulfilled.\n\nAt the date of our legend, Kelly had been parted from the Doctor for a\nconsiderable time. The Doctor having found out his proneness to these\nevil courses, Kelly bore no good will to his former patron and\nassociate.\n\nWe have not space, or it would be an interesting inquiry, as connected\nwith the superstitions of our ancestors, to trace the character and\ncareer of these individuals--men once famous amongst their\ncotemporaries, forming part of the history of those times, and exerting\na permanent influence, immediately on the national character, and\nremotely on that of a future and indefinite period.\n\nDame Eleanor Buckley was morally certain, firstly, that her son was\nwitched; and, secondly, that no time should be lost in procuring relief.\nNicholas therefore took horse for Manchester that very forenoon, with\nthe intention of consulting the learned Doctor above named, on his son's\nmalady. Ere he left, however, there came tidings that Grace Ashton had\nnot returned home, and was supposed to have tarried at Buckley for the\nnight.\n\nTrembling at this unexpected news, the dame once more applied to her\nson. He was still wide awake on the couch, in the same position, and\napparently unconscious of her presence. In great anxiety she conjured\nhim to say if he knew what had befallen Grace Ashton.\n\n\"She is dead!\" was his reply, in a voice strangely altered from his\nusual careless and happy tone. Nothing further, however, could be drawn\nfrom him, but shortly after there came one with additional tidings.\n\n\"Inquiry has been set on foot,\" said the messenger, \"and Tim, well known\nat wakes and merry-makings, doth come forward with evidence which\njustifies a suspicion that is abroad, to wit, that she has met death by\nsome unfair dealing; and, further, he scruples not to throw out dark and\nmysterious hints that implicate your son as being privy to her\ndisappearance.\"\n\nAt this unlooked for intelligence, the mother's fortitude gave way.\nTribulation and anguish had indeed set in upon them like a flood. The\nring, so unaccountably brought back by the Red Woman, was beyond doubt\nthe cause of all their misfortunes--its reappearance, as she\nanticipated, being the harbinger of misery. What should be the next\narrow from her quiver she trembled to forebode. But, in the midst of\nthis fever of doubt and apprehension, one hope sustained her, and that\nwas, the result of her husband's mission to Doctor Dee, who would\ndoubtless find out the nature of the spell, and relieve them from its\ncurse.\n\nLet us follow the traveller to Dee's lodgings in the deanery, where at\nthat time this renowned astrologer was located. Nicholas Buckley found\nhim sitting in a small dismal looking study, where he was introduced\nwith little show either of formality or hesitation. The Doctor was now\nold, and his sharp, keen, grey eyes had suffered greatly by reason of\nrheum and much study. Pale, but of a pleasant countenance, his manner,\nif not so grave and sedate as became one of his deep and learned\nresearch, yet displaying a vigour and vivacity, the sure intimation of\nthat quenchless ardour, the usual concomitant of all who are destined to\neminence, or to any conspicuous part in the age on which they are\nthrown,--not idle worthless weeds on the strand of time, but landmarks\nor beacons in the ocean of life, to warn or to direct.\n\nHe was short in stature, and somewhat thin. A rusty black velvet cap,\nwithout ornament, surmounted his forehead, from which a few straggling\ngrey hairs crept forth, rivalling his pale, thoughtful brow in\nwhiteness.\n\nHe sat in a curiously embossed chair, with a brown-black leathern\ncushion, beside an oaken table or tressel, groaning under the weight of\nmany ponderous volumes of all hues and subjects. Divers and occult were\nthe tractates there displayed, and unintelligible save to the initiated.\nAlchemy was just then his favourite research, and he was vainly\nendeavouring to master the jargon under which its worthlessness and\nfolly were concealed.\n\nNicholas Buckley related his mishap, and, as far as he was able, the\ncircumstances connected with it. The Doctor then erected a horoscope for\nthe hour. After consulting this he said:\n\n\"I will undertake for thee, if so be that my poor abilities, hitherto\nsorely neglected, and I may say despised, can bring thee any succour.\nIndeed the land groans by reason of the sin of witchcraft,--a noisome\nplague now infesting this afflicted realm, and a grievous scandal to the\nmembers and ministers of our Reformed Church. The ring is of a surety\nbewitched, and by one more powerful and wicked than thou canst possibly\nimagine. I tell thee plainly, that unless the charm be broken, the\nrecovery of the young man were vain,--nay, in all likelihood, thine own\nruin will be the result.\"\n\nThe merchant groaned audibly at this doleful news. He thought upon his\nmerchandise and his adventures o'er sea--his treasures and his argosies,\ncommitted to the tender mercies of the deep; and he recounted them in\nbrief.\n\n\"Cannot these be rescued from such disaster?\" inquired he, dolefully.\n\n\"I know not yet,\" was the reply. \"Saturn, that hath his location here,\ngoverning these expected treasures, now beholds the seventh house of\nthe figure I have just erected, with a quartile aspect. They be evil\ntokens, but as regards this same Mother Red Cap or the Red Woman, who\nhath doubtless brought you into grievous trouble, I know her. Nay, look\nnot incredulous. How, it is not needful to inquire. Suffice it that she\nhath great power, though from a different source from mine. She is of\nthe Rosicrucian order, one of the sisters, of which there are five\nthroughout Europe and Asia. They have intercourse with spirits,\ncommunicating too with each other, though at never so great a distance,\nby means of this mystical agency. She hath been here, aye, even in the\nvery place where thou sittest.\"\n\nThe visitor started from his chair.\n\n\"And I am not ignorant of her devices. She is of a Papistical breed; and\nthe recusant priests, if I mistake not, are at the working of some\ndiabolical plot; it may be against the life and government of our\ngracious Queen! They would employ the devil himself, if need were, to\ncompass their intent. She hath travelled much, and doubtless hath\nlearned marvellous secrets from the Moors and Arabian doctors. It is\nhowever little to the purpose at present, that we continue this\ndiscourse. What more properly concerns thee is how to get rid of this\ngrievous visitation; which, unless removed, will of a surety fall out to\nthine undoing. By prayer and fasting much may be accomplished, together\nwith the use of all lawful means for thy release.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said Buckley, \"I fear me there is little hope of a favourable\nissue, and I may not be delivered from this wicked one!\"\n\n\"Be of good heart--we will set to work presently, and, if it be\npossible, counterplot this cunning witch. But to this end it is needful\nthat I visit the young man, peradventure we may gather tidings of her. I\nknow not any impediment to my journey this very day. Aye! even so,\" said\nhe, poring over some unimaginable diagrams. \"Good! there is a\nmarvellous proper aspect for our enterprise thirty minutes after\nmidnight. Thou hast doubtless taken horse with thy servant hither. I\nwill take his place and bear thee company.\"\n\nThe Doctor was soon equipped for travel, much to the comfort of the\nafflicted applicant, who was like to have taken his departure with a\nsorry heart, and in great disquietude. On their arrival at Buckley, Dee\nwould needs see the patient instantly. No change had taken place since\nmorning, and he still refused any sustenance that might be offered. The\nDoctor examined him narrowly, but refrained from pronouncing on his\ncase.\n\nIt was now evening. The sun shot a languid and fitful ray athwart the\nvapours gathering to receive him, and its light shone full on the couch\nof the invalid. The astrologer was sitting apart, in profound\nmeditation. Dame Eleanor suddenly roused him.\n\n\"He has just asked for the Red Woman,\" said she, \"and I heard him\nbemoaning himself, saying that he is betrothed to her, and that she will\ncome ere long to claim his pledge. Hark, he mutters again!\"\n\nDee immediately went to the bedside.\n\n\"I did not kill her,\" said the victim, shuddering. He dashed the cold\nsweat from his forehead with some violence. He then started up. \"Is she\ncome?\" said he in a low, hollow voice, and he sat up in the attitude of\nintense expectation. \"Not yet, not yet,\" he uttered with great rapidity,\nand sank down again as though exhausted.\n\nA stormy and lowering sky now gathered above the sun's track, and the\nchamber suddenly grew dark. The inmates looked as though expecting some\nterrific, some visible manifestation of their tormentor. Dee looked out\nthrough the window. There was nothing worthy of remark, save an angry\nheap of clouds, rolling and twisting together, the sure forerunner of a\ntempest.\n\n\"The whole country is astir,\" said Dame Eleanor. \"They are seeking for\nthe body of Grace Ashton in pits and secret places. Woe is me that I\nshould live to see the day;--the poor lad there is loaden with curses,\nand fearful threatenings are uttered against us. We are verily in\njeopardy of our lives.\"\n\nHereat she fell a weeping, and truly it was piteous to behold.\n\n\"We must first get an answer from him,\" said the Doctor, \"ere measures\ncan be devised for his recovery.\"\n\n\"'Tis said there will be a warrant for his apprehension on the morrow,\"\nsaid the elder Buckley.\n\n\"There is some terrible perplexing mystery, if not knavery in this\nmatter,\" said Dee; \"and I have been thinking, nay I more than suspect,\nthat rascal Kelly hath a hand in it. He is ever hankering after\nforbidden arts, and many have fallen the innocent victims to his\ndiabolical intrigues. He hath become a great adept of late, too, as I am\ntold, in this Rosicrucian philosophy; and, if we have here a clue to our\nlabyrinth, depend on it we'll get to the end speedily. To spite and\nfrustrate that juggling cheat, I will spare neither pains nor study;\nthough, of a surety, we only use lawful and appointed means. Prayers and\nexorcisms must be resorted to, and help craved from a higher source than\ntheirs.\"\n\nAt length the forms and usages generally resorted to on such occasions\nwere entered upon. Loud and fervent were the responses, continuing even\nto a late hour, but without producing any change.\n\nThe wind, hitherto rushing only in short fierce gusts through the\nvalley, now gathered in loud heavy lunges against the corner of the\nhouse, almost extinguishing the solitary light on the table near to\nwhich Dee sat; the casements rattled, and the whole fabric shook as they\npassed by. At length there came a lull, fearful in its very silence, as\nthough the elements were gathering strength for one mighty onslaught. On\nit came like an overwhelming surge, and for a moment threatened them\nwith immediate destruction. Dust, pebbles, and dead branches were flung\non the window as though bursting through, to the great terror of the\ninmates. Again it drew back, and there was stillness so immediate, it\nwas even more appalling than the loudest assaults of the tempest. The\nhousehold, too, were silent. Even Dee was evidently disturbed, and as\nthough in expectation of some extraordinary occurrence.\n\nA sharp quick tapping was heard at the casement.\n\n\"What is that?\" was the general inquiry. Gervase evidently heard it too,\nand was, apparently, listening.\n\nDee arose. He went slowly towards the window, as if carefully\nscrutinising what might present itself. He put his face nearly close to\nthe glass, and manifestly beheld some object which caused him to draw\nback. His forehead became puckered by intense emotion, either from\nsurprise or alarm. He put one finger on his brow, as though taking\ncounsel from his own thoughts, deliberating for a moment what course to\npursue. At length, much to the astonishment of his companions, he opened\nthe latch of the casement, when, with a dismal croak, a raven came\nhopping in. With outstretched wings he jumped down on the floor, and\nwould have gone direct to the bed, but the Doctor caught him, and by\nmain force held him back.\n\nFluttering and screaming, the bird made every effort to escape, but not\nbefore Dee was aware of a label tied round his neck. This he quickly\ndetached; after which the winged messenger flew back through the open\nwindow, either having finished his errand, or not liking his\nentertainment. Dee opened the billet--a bit of parchment--and out\ndropped the ring! In the envelope was a mystical scroll, encompassed\nwith magic emblems, wherein was written the following doggrel, either\nin blood or coloured so as to represent it:--\n\n \"By this ring a charm is wound,\n Rolling darkly round and round,\n Ne'er beginning--ending never,\n Woe betide this house for ever!\n Thou art mine through life--in death\n I'll receive thy latest breath.\n Plighted is thy vow to me,\n Mine thy doom, thy destiny,\n Sealed with blood; this endless token,\n Like the spell, shall ne'er be broken.\"\n\nAlarm was but too legible on the Doctor's brow. He was evidently taken\nby surprise. He read it aloud, while fearful groans responded from the\nvictim.\n\n\"'Tis a case of grievous perplexity,\" said he, \"and I am sore\ndistraught. If he have sworn his very soul to her, as this rhyme doth\nseem to intimate, I am miserably afflicted for his case. Doubtless 'tis\nsome snare which hath unwillingly been thrown about him. Nevertheless, I\nwill diligently and warily address myself to the task, and Heaven grant\nus a safe deliverance. Yet I freely own there is both danger and\nextremity in the attempt. She will doubtless appear and claim the\nfulfilment of his pledge. But I must cope with her alone; none else may\nwitness the conflict. It is not the first time that I have battled with\nthe powers of darkness.\"\n\n\"But what motive hath she for this persecution? it is not surely out of\nsheer malice,\" said the dame, weeping.\n\n\"Belike not,\" replied Dee, thoughtfully. \"It doth savour of those\nincantations whereof I oft read in divers tractates, whereby she expects\nto gain advantage or deliverance if she sacrifice another victim to the\ndemon whereunto she hath sold herself. Indeed, we hear of some whose\ntenure of life can only be renewed by the yearly substitution of\nanother; and it is to this possible danger that our feeble efforts must\nbe directed. But I trust in aid stronger than the united hosts of the\nPrince of Darkness. This very night, I doubt not, will come the final\nstruggle.\"\n\nThe wind was now still, but ever and anon bursts of hail hurtled on the\nwindow. Thunder growled in the distance, waxing louder and louder, until\nits roar might have appalled the stoutest heart.\n\nWith many anxious wishes and admonitions the distressed parents left the\nDoctor to himself.\n\nHe took from his pocket an hour-glass, a bible, and a Latin translation\nfrom the Arabic, being a treatise on witches, genii, demons, and the\nlike, together with their symbols, method of invocation, and many other\nsubjects equally useful. Intent on his studies, he hardly looked aside\nsave for the purpose of turning the glass, when he immediately became\nabsorbed as before.\n\nNow and then he cast a glance towards the bed. His patient lay perfectly\nquiet, but the Doctor fancied he was listening.\n\nAbout midnight he heard a groan; he shut his book, and, looking aside,\nbeheld the terrible eye and aspect of the Red Woman glaring fiercely\nupon him. She had, in all likelihood, been concealed somewhere within\nhearing; for a closet door, on one side of the chamber, stood open as\nthough she had just issued from it.\n\nWith great presence of mind he adjured her that she should declare her\nerrand.\n\n\"I am here on my master's business; mine errand concerns not thee,\" was\nthe reply. Her terrible eyes glanced, as she spoke, towards the bed\nwhere the unfortunate Gervase Buckley lay writhing as though in torment.\n\n\"By what compact or agreement is he thine, foul sorceress? Knowest thou\nnot that there are bounds beyond which ye cannot prevail?\"\n\n\"He hath sworn--the compact is sealed with blood, and must be fulfilled.\nI am here to claim mine own; and it is at thy peril thou prevent me.\"\n\n\"I fear thee not, but am prepared to withstand _thee_ and all thy\nworks.\"\n\n\"Beware! There's a black drop in thine own cup,\" said she. \"Thou thyself\nhast sought counsel by forbidden arts, and I can crush thee in a\nmoment.\"\n\nDee looked as though vanquished on the sudden. He was not altogether\nclear from this charge, having, though at Kelly's instigation, been led\nsomewhat further than was advisable into practices which in his heart he\ncondemned. He, however, now felt convinced that Kelly had some hand in\nthe business, knowing too that he would associate with the most wicked\nand abandoned, if so be that he might compass his greedy and unhallowed\ndesire.\n\n\"Depart whilst thou may,\" she continued. \"I warn thee. Yonder\ninheritance is mine, though the silly damsel they have lost be the\nreputed heir. Aforetime I have told thee. Wronged of our rights, I have\nsold myself, aye body and soul, for revenge! By unjust persecutions we\nhave been proscribed, those of the true faith have been forced to fly,\nand even our lands and our patrimony given to yon graceless heretics.\"\n\n\"But why persecute this unoffending house?--they have not done _thee_\nwrong.\"\n\n\"It is commanded--the doom must be fulfilled. One condition only was\nappointed. A hard task, to wit--but what cannot power and ingenuity\ncompass?--'When one shall pledge himself thine and for ever, then the\ninheritance thou seekest is thine also, which none shall take from thee.\nBut he too must be rendered up to me.' This was the doom! 'Tis\nfulfilled. He hath pledged himself body and soul, and that ring, if need\nbe, is witness to his troth.\"\n\n\"Is Grace Ashton living or dead?\" inquired Dee, with a firm and\npenetrating glance.\n\n\"When he hath surrendered to his pledge it shall be told thee.\"\n\n\"Wicked sorceress,\" said the Doctor, rising in great anger, \"he shall\nnot be thy victim; thine arts shall be countervailed. The powers of\ndarkness are not, in the end, permitted to prevail, though for a time\ntheir devices seem to prosper. Listen, and answer me truly, or I will\ncompel thee in such wise that thou darest not disobey. Was there none\nother condition to thy bond?\"\n\nThe weird woman here broke forth into a laugh so wild and scornful, that\nthe arch-fiend himself could hardly have surpassed it in malice.\n\n\"Fret not thyself,\" she said, \"and I will tell thee. Know then I am\nscathless from all harm until that feeble ring shall be able to bind me;\nnone other bonds may prevail.\"\n\n\"This ring bind thee?\"\n\n\"Even so--and as a blade of grass I could rend it! Judge then of my\nsafety. Fire, air, and water--all the elements--cannot have the power to\nhurt me; I hold a charmed life. The price is paid!\"\n\nDee looked curiously round the little thin ring which he held, and\nindeed it were hopeless to suppose so frail a fetter could restrain her.\n\n\"Thou hast told me the truth?\"\n\n\"I have--on my hope of prospering in this pursuit of our patrimony.\"\n\n\"And what is thy purpose with the lad?\"\n\n\"I have need of him. He is my hostage to him whom I serve.\"\n\n\"Thou wilt not take him by force?\"\n\n\"I will not. He will follow whithersoever I lead. He has neither will\nnor power to disobey.\"\n\n\"Grant a little space I prithee. 'Tis a doleful doom for one so young.\"\n\n\"To-morrow my time hath expired. Either he or I must be surrendered\nto----\" Here she pointed downwards.\n\n\"Agreed. To-morrow, at this hour. We will be prepared.\"\n\nThe witch unwillingly departed as she came. The closet door was shut as\nwith a violent gust of wind, after which Dee sat pondering deeply on the\nmatter, but unable to come to any satisfactory conclusion. He never\nsuspected for one moment, what in this evil and matter-of-fact\ngeneration would have occurred even to the most credulous, to wit, that\neither insanity or fanaticism, aided by fortuitous events, if we may so\nspeak, was the cause of this delusion, at least to the unhappy woman now\nthe object of Dee's most abstruse speculations. His thoughts, however,\nwould often recur to his quondam associate Kelly, and, if in the\nneighbourhood, which he suspected, an interview with him might possibly\nbe of use, and afford some clue to guide their proceedings.\n\nCommitting himself to a short repose, he determined to make diligent\nsearch for this mischievous individual,--having comforted in some\nmeasure the unhappy couple below stairs, who were in a state of great\napprehension lest their son had already fallen a victim, and were ready\nto give up all for lost.\n\nEarly on the ensuing day, the Doctor bent his steps towards Clegg Hall,\nwhence the old family of that name had been dispossessed, and from whom\nthat mysterious individual, the Red Woman, claimed descent.\n\nThe air was fresh and bracing after the night's tempest. Traces of its\nfury, however, were plainly visible. Huge trees had been swept down, as\nthough some giant hand had crushed them. Rising the hill towards\nBelfield, he stayed a moment to look round him. There was something in\nthe loneliness and desertion of the spot that was congenial to his\nthoughts. The rooks cawed round their ancient inheritance, but all was\nruin and disorder. His curiosity was excited; he had sufficient local\nknowledge to remember it was once an establishment of the Knights of St.\nJohn some centuries before, and he remembered too, that, according to\nvulgar tradition, great riches were buried somewhere in the vaults. A\nthought struck him that it was not an unlikely spot for the operations\nof Master Kelly. Impressed with this idea, a notion was soon engendered\nthat his errand need not carry him further. He drew near to the ivied\narchway beneath the tower. The mavis whistled for its mate, and the\nsparrow chirped amongst the foliage. All else was silent and apparently\ndeserted. He entered the gateway. Inside, on the right hand, was a\nnarrow flight of steps, and, impelled by curiosity, he clambered, though\nwith some difficulty, into a dilapidated chamber above. Here the\nloopholes were covered with ivy, but it was unroofed, and the floor was\nstrewn with rubbish, the accumulation of ages. Through a narrow breach\nat one corner he saw what had once been a concealed passage, evidently\npiercing the immense thickness of the walls, and leading probably to\nsome secret chambers not ordinarily in use. He now heard voices below,\nand taking advantage thereby, crept into the passage, probably expecting\nto gather some news by listening to the visitors if they approached. Two\nof these ascended the broken steps, and every word was audible from his\nplace of concealment. He instantly recognised the voice of Kelly. The\nother was a stranger.\n\n\"Ah, ah! old Mother Red Cap, I tell thee, says we can never get the\ntreasure. By this good spade, and a willing arm to wit, the gold is\nmine, ere two hours older,\" said Kelly.\n\n\"I am terribly afeard o' these same bogarts,\" replied his companion.\n\"T'owd an--'ll come sure enough among us, sure as my name's Tim, some\ntime or another.\"\n\n\"Never fear, nunkey; thee knows what a lump I've promised thee; an' as\nfor the old one, trust me for that, I can lay him in the Red Sea at any\ntime. Haven't I and that old silly Doctor, who pretends forsooth to have\nconscience qualms when there's aught to be gotten, though as fond o' the\nstuff as any of us,--haven't we, I say, by conjurations and fumigations,\nraised and laid a whole legion o' them? Why, man, I'm as well acquainted\nwith the kingdom of Beelzebub, and his ministers to boot, as I am with\nmy own.\"\n\n\"Don't make sich an ugly talk about 'em, prithee, good sir. I thought I\nheard some'at there i' the passage, an' I think i' my heart I dar na\nface 'em again for a' th' gowd i' th' monks' cellar.\"\n\n\"Tush, fool! If we get hold on't now, it shall be ours, and none o' the\nrest of our brethren o' the Red Cross need share, thee knows. But thou\nbe'st but newly dubbed, an' hardly initiated yet in our sublime\nmysteries. Nevertheless, I will be indifferent honest too, and for thy\ngreat services to us and to our cause, I do promise thee a largess, when\nit comes to our fingers,--that is to say, one-fifth to thee, and\none-fifth to me; the other three shares do go to the general\ntreasure-house of the community, of which I take half.\"\n\n\"A goodly portion, marry--but I'd liefer t' not gang ony further.\"\n\n\"Villain! thou art bent on treachery; if thou draw back, I'll ha' thee\nhanged, or otherwise punished for what thou hast done. Remember, knave,\nthou art in my power.\"\n\nThe guilty victim groaned piteously, but he was irretrievably entangled.\nThe toils had been spread by a master hand. He saw the gulf to which he\nwas hurried, but could not extricate himself.\n\n\"Yonder women, plague take 'em,\" said Tim; \"what's up now? I know this\nowd witch who's sold hersel' to--to--black face I'm afeard, is th' owner\no' many a good rood o' land hereabout, an' t'owd Ha' too, wi' its\n'purtenances. But she's brought fro' Spain or Italy, as I be tou'd, a\nmain lot o' these same priest gear; an' they're lurkin' hereabout like,\nloike rabbits in a warren, till she can get rid o' these Ashtons. Mony a\nyear long past I've seen her prowling about, but she never could get her\nends greadly till now.\"\n\n\"By my help, she shall,\" said Kelly; \"it's a bargain between us. She's\nbrought her grandchildren too, who left England in their youth, being\neducated in a convent o'er seas. They're just ready to drop into\npossession.\"\n\n\"But poor Grace Ashton, she's gi'en me mony a dish of hot porritch an'\nbannocks. She shauna be hurt, if I can help it.\"\n\n\"Fool!--the wench must be provided for. Look thee,--if she get away,\nshe'll spoil all. When dead, young Buckley must be charged with the\nmurder.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel; but I'll ha' nought more to do wi't. E'en tak' your own\nfling,--I'll wash my hands on't a'together, an' so----\"\n\n\"I want help, thou chicken-faced varlet,--come, budge,--to thy work; we\nmay have helpers to the booty, if time be lost.\"\n\n\"Mercy on us!\" said Tim, in great dolour, \"I wish I had ne'er had aught\nto do wi' treasure-hunting an' sich like occupation. If ever I get rid\nof this job, if I don't stick to my old trade hang me up to dry.\"\n\n\"Hold thy peace, carrion! and remember, should a whisper even escape\nthee, I will have thee hanged in good earnest.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye; just like Satan 'ticing to iniquity, an' then, biggest rogue\nal'ays turns retriever.\"\n\n\"None o' thy pretences; thou hast as liquorish a longing after the gold\nas any miser in the parish, and when the broad pieces and the silver\nnobles jingle in thy fob, thoul't forget thy qualms, and thank me into\nthe bargain. Now to work. Let me see, what did the sleeping beauty say?\nHumph,--'Under the main pillar at the south-east corner.' Good. Nay,\nman, don't light up yet. Let us get fairly under ground first, for fear\nof accidents.\"\n\nTo the great alarm of Dr. Dee, who heard every word, these two worthies\ncame straight towards the opening. He drew on one side at a venture.\nLuckily, it proved the right one; they proceeded up the passage in the\nopposite direction. He heard them groping at the further end. A\ntrap-door was evidently raised, and he was pretty well convinced they\nhad found the way to the vaults; probably it had been blocked up for\nages until recently, and, in all likelihood, Tim had pointed it out, as\nwell as the notion that treasure was concealed somewhere in these\nlabyrinths.\n\nHow to make this discovery in some way subservient to his mission was\nthe next consideration; and with a firm conviction, generally the\nforerunner of success, he determined to employ some bold stratagem for\ntheir detection. They were now fairly in the trap, and he hoped to make\nsure of the vermin. For this end he cautiously felt his way to the\nopposite extremity of the passage, where he found the floor emitted a\nhollow sound. This was assuredly the entrance; but he tried in vain,--it\nresisted every effort. Here, however, he determined to keep watch and\nseize them if possible on their egress, trusting to his good fortune or\nhis courage for help in any emergency that might ensue. At times he laid\nhis ear to the ground, but nothing was audible as to their operations\nbelow. This convinced him they were at a considerable distance from the\nentry, but he felt assured that ere long they must emerge from their\nden, when, taken by surprise, he should have little difficulty in\nsecuring the first that came forth, keeping fast the door until he had\nmade sure of his captive.\n\nHe watched patiently for some time, when all on a sudden he heard a\nrumbling subterraneous noise, and he plainly felt the ground tremble\nunder his feet. A loud shriek was heard below, and presently footsteps\napproaching the entrance. He had scarcely time to draw aside ere the\ndoor was burst open, and some one rushed forth. The Doctor seized him by\nthe throat, and, ere he had recovered from his consternation, dragged\nhim out of the passage.\n\n\"Villain! what is it ye are plotting hereabout? Confess, or I'll have\nthee dealt with after thy deserts.\"\n\n\"Oh!--I'll--tell--all--I will--\" sobbed out the delinquent, gasping with\nterror. Tim, for it was none other, fell on his knees, crying for mercy.\n\"Whoever thou art,\" continued he, \"come and help--help for one that's\nfa'n under a heavy calamity. Bad though he be, we maunna let him perish\nfor lack o' lookin' after.\"\n\n\"Has't got a light, knave?\"\n\n\"I'll run an' fetch one.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay; we part not company until better acquainted. Is there not a\ncandle below?\"\n\n\"Alas! 'tis put out--and--oh! I'd forgotten; here's t' match box i' my\npocket.\"\n\nHe drew forth the requisite materials, and they were soon equipped,\nexploring the concealed chambers we have before described. With\ndifficulty they now found their way, by reason of the dust arising from\nthe recent catastrophe. Dee followed cautiously on, keeping a wary eye\non his leader lest some deceit or stratagem should be intended.\n\nThey now approached a heap of ruins almost choking the entrance to the\nlarger vault. He thought groans issued from beneath.\n\n\"He's not dead yet,\" said Tim. \"Here, here, good sir; help me to shift\nthis stone first.\"\n\nThey set to work in good earnest, and, with no little difficulty and\ndelay, at length succeeded in releasing the unfortunate treasure-hunter.\nEager to possess the supposed riches, they had incautiously undermined\none of the main supports of the roof, and Kelly was buried under the\nruins. Fortunately he lay in the hollow he had made, otherwise nothing\nbut a miracle could have saved him from immediate death. He was terribly\nbruised, nevertheless, and presented a pitiable spectacle. Bleeding and\nsore wounded, he was hardly sensible as they bore him out into the fresh\nair. Apparently unable to move, they laid him on the ground until help\ncould be obtained. In a while he recovered.\n\n\"Thou art verily incorrigible,\" said the Doctor to his former associate.\n\"Where is the maiden ye have so cruelly conveyed away?\"\n\nBut Kelly was dogged, and would not answer.\n\n\"I have heard and know all,\" continued Dee; \"so that, unless thou wilt\nconfess, assuredly I will have thee lodged in the next jail on\naccusation of the murder. Thy diabolical practices will, sooner or\nlater, bring thee to punishment.\"\n\n\"Promise not to molest me,\" said Kelly, who feared nothing but the\nstrong arm of the law, so utterly was he given over to a reprobate mind,\neven to commit iniquity with greediness.\n\n\"What! and let thee forth to compass other, and may be more heinous,\nmischief? I promise nothing, save that thou be prevented from such\npursuits. Thou hast entered into covenant with the woman whom it is our\npurpose, in due time, to deliver up to the secular arm. Ye think to\ncompass your mutual ends by this compact; but be assured your schemes\nshall be frustrated, and that speedily.\"\n\nAt this Kelly again fell into a sulky mood, maimed and helpless though\nhe was; and revenge, dark and deadly, distorted his visage.\n\nTim here stepped forward.\n\n\"I do repent me of this iniquity, an' if ever I'm catched meddlin' wi'\nsich tickle gear again, I'll gie ye leave to hang me up without judge or\njury.\"\n\n\"The best proof of repentance is restitution,\" said the Doctor. \"Knowest\nthou aught of the maiden?\"\n\n\"I'll find her, if ye can keep that noisome wizard frae hurting me. He\nswears that if I tell, e'en by nods, winks, or otherwise, he'll send me\nto ---- in a whirlwind.\"\n\n\"I will give thee my pledge, not a hair of thy head shall be damaged.\"\n\n\"He has the key in his pocket.\"\n\n\"What of that?\"\n\n\"It's the key to the old house door yonder, an' she's either there, or\nbut lately fetched away.\"\n\nThe Doctor proceeded, though not without opposition, to the search. The\nkey was soon produced, and, accompanied by the repentant ballad-monger,\nhe approached the mansion, which, as we have before noticed, was near at\nhand, apparently untenanted.\n\n\"Yonder knave, I think, cannot escape,\" said Dee.\n\n\"No, no,\" said his conductor, \"unless some'at fetches him; he's too well\nhampered for that. His legs are aw smashed wi' that downfa'.\"\n\nThey entered a little court almost choked up with leaves and long grass.\nThe door was unlocked, and a desolate scene presented itself. The hall\nwas covered with damp and mildew, all was rotting in ruin and decay. Tim\nled the way up stairs. The same appearances were still manifest. The\ndark shadow of death seemed to brood there,--an interminable silence.\nThey entered a small closet, nearly dark; and here, on a miserable\npallet, lay the form of Grace Ashton! now, alas! pale and haggard. She\nseemed altogether unconscious of their presence. The horrid events of\nthe preceding night had brought on mental as well as bodily disease. It\nwas the practice of these treasure-seekers, either to raise up a dead\nbody for the desired information, or to throw the living into such a\nstate of mental hallucination that they should answer dark and difficult\nquestions whilst in that condition. It not unfrequently happened,\nhowever, that the unfortunate victims to these horrid rites either lost\ntheir lives or their reason during the experiment.\n\nWe will not pursue the recital in the present case: suffice it to say\nthat Grace Ashton was immediately removed and placed under the care of\nher friends; the Doctor went back to Kelly for further disclosures, but\nwhat was his surprise to find that, by some means or another, he had\nescaped. He now lost no time in returning to Buckley, communicating the\npainful, though in some degree welcome, intelligence that Grace Ashton\nhad been rescued from her persecutors.\n\nIt was now time to adopt measures for their reception of the witch, who\nwould, doubtless, not fail in her appointment.\n\nDee was yet in doubt as to the issue, and he thought it needful to\nacquaint them with the only method by which the spell could be broken.\nHow it were possible that the ring should ever bind her was a mystery\nthat at present he could not solve. Dame Eleanor listened very\nattentively, then sharply replied,--\n\n\"I have heard o' this charm aforetime, or----By'r Lady, but I have it!\"\n\nShe almost capered for joy.\n\nWe will not, however, anticipate the result, but intreat our readers to\nsuspend their guesses, and again accompany us to the chamber where lay\nthe heir of Buckley, still grievously tormented.\n\nMidnight again approached. Dee was sitting at the table, apparently in\ndeep study. He had examined the closet, and found it communicated by\nanother passage to an outer door; and it was through this that the Red\nWoman had contrived to enter without being observed. The learned Doctor\nwas evidently awaiting her approach with no little anxiety. Once or\ntwice he fancied some one tapped at the casement,--but it was only the\nwind rushing by in stormy gusts, increasing in strength and frequency as\nthe time drew nigh.\n\nHark! was not that a distant shriek? It might be the creaking of the\nboughs and the old yew-tree by the door, thought Dee; and again, in a\nwhile, he relapsed into a profound reverie. Another! He heard the\njarring of rusty hinges; a heavy step; and--the Red Woman stood beside\nhim!--but with such a malevolent aspect that he was somewhat startled\nand uneasy at her presence.\n\n\"I am beguiled of my prey!--mocked--thwarted. But beware, old man; thy\nmeddling may prove dangerous. I will possess the inheritance, though\nevery earthly power withstood me! That boy is mine. He hath sworn\nit--sealed it with his heart's blood--and I demand the pledge.\" The\nvictim groaned. \"Hearest thou that response?--'Tis an assent. He is mine\nin spite of your stratagems.\"\n\nThis was, probably, but the raving of a disordered intellect, but Dee\nwas too deeply imbued with the superstitions of the age to suppose for a\nmoment that it was not a case of undisguised witchcraft, or that this\nwicked hag was not invested with sufficient power to execute whatever\neither anger or caprice might suggest.\n\n\"What is thy will with the wretched victim thou hast ensnared?\" he\ninquired.\n\n\"I have told thee.\"\n\n\"Thou wilt not convey him away bodily to his tormentors?\"\n\n\"Unless they have a victim the inheritance may not be mine.\" She said\nthis with such a fiendish malice that made even the exorcist tremble.\nHis presence of mind, however, did not forsake him.\n\n\"The ring--I remember--there was a condition in the bond. In all such\ncompacts there is ever a loophole for escape.\"\n\n\"None that thou canst creep through,\" she said, with a look of scorn.\n\n\"It is not permitted that the children of men be tempted above measure.\"\n\n\"When that ring shall have strength to bind me, and not till then. All\nother bonds I rend asunder. Even adamant were as flaming tow.\"\n\n\"Here is a ring of stout iron,\" said Dee, pointing to an iron ring fixed\nby a stout staple in the wall. \"I think it would try thy boasted\nstrength.\"\n\n\"I could break it as the feeble reed.\"\n\nThe Doctor shook his head incredulously.\n\n\"Try me. Thou shalt find it no empty boast.\"\n\nShe seemed proud that her words should be put to the test; and even\nproposed that her arms should be pinioned, and her body fastened with\nstout cords to the iron ring which had been prepared for this purpose.\n\n\"Thou shalt soon find which is the strongest,\" said she, exultingly. \"I\nhave broken bonds ere now to which these are but as a thread.\"\n\nShe looked confident of success, and surveyed the whole proceeding with\na look of unutterable scorn.\n\n\"Now do thy worst, thou wicked one,\" said Dee, when he had finished.\n\nBut lo! a shriek that might have wakened the dead. She was unable to\nextricate herself, being held in spite of the most desperate efforts to\nescape. With a loud yell she cried out,--\n\n\"Thou hast played me false, demon!\"\n\n\"'Tis not thy demon,\" said Dee; \"it is I that have circumvented thee. In\nthat iron ring is concealed the charmed one, wrought out by a cunning\nsmith to this intent,--to wit, the deliverance of a persecuted house.\"\n\nThe Red Woman now appeared shorn of her strength. Her charms and her\ndelusions were dispelled. She sank into the condition of a hopeless,\nwretched maniac, and was for some time closely confined to this chamber.\n\nBuckley, recovering soon after, was united to Grace Ashton, who it is\nconfidently asserted, and perhaps believed, was restored to immediate\nhealth when the charm was broken.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[L] Within the last few years, since this story was written, the old\nhouse itself has been levelled with the ground.\n\n[M] In the 39th of Eliz., Sir John Biron held the manor of Rochdale,\nsubsequently held by the Ramsays; but in the 13th of Charles I. it was\nreconveyed. The Biron family is more ancient than the Conquest.\nGospatrick held lands of Ernais de Buron in the county of York, as\nappears by Domesday Book. Sir Nicholas Byron distinguished himself in\nthe civil wars of Charles I.; and, in consequence of his zeal in the\nroyal cause, the manor of Rochdale was sequestered. After the\nRestoration, it reverted to the Byrons. Sir John, during these troubles,\nwas made a peer, by the title of Baron Byron of Rochdale. In 1823, the\nlate Lord Byron sold the manor, after having been in possession of the\nfamily for nearly three centuries.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH-PAINTER;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE SKELETON'S BRIDE.\n\n\n\"This will hardly keep body and soul together,\" said Conrad Bergmann, as\nhe eyed with a dissatisfied countenance some score of dingy kreutzers\nthrust into his palm by a \"patron of early genius,\"--one of those\nindividuals who take great merit to themselves by just keeping their\nvictims in that enviable position between life and death;--between\nabsolute starvation and hopeless, abject poverty, which effectually\nrepresses all efforts to excel, controls and quenches all, but longings\nafter immortality,--who just fan the flame, to let it smoke and quiver\nin the socket, but sedulously prevent it rising to any degree of\nsteadiness and brilliance.\n\nConrad that morning had taken home a picture, his sole occupation for\ntwo months, and this patron, a dealer in the \"fine arts,\" dwelling in\nthe good, quiet city of Mannheim, had given him a sum equivalent to\nthirty-six shillings sterling for his labour. Peradventure, it was not\nin the highest style of art; but what Schwartzen Baeren or Weisse\nRoesse--Black Bears, White Horses, Spread Eagles, and the like, the\nmeanest, worst painted signs in the city, would not have commanded a\nhigher price?\n\nIn fact, Conrad had just genius enough to make himself miserable; to\nwit, by aspiring after those honours it was impossible to attain,\nkeeping him thereby in a constant fret and disappointment, instead of\nbeing content with his station, or striving for objects within his\nreach. Could he have drudged on as some dauber of sign-posts, or taken\nto useful employment, he might, doubtless, have earned a comfortable\nsustenance. He had, however, like many another child of genius, a soul\nabove such vulgarities; yearning after the ideal and the vain; having\ntoo much genius for himself and too little for the world: suspended in a\nsort of Mahomet's coffin, between earth and heaven, contemned, rejected,\nby \"gods, men, and columns.\"\n\nConrad Bergmann was about two and twenty, of good figure and\nwell-proportioned features. Complexion fair, bright bluish-grey eyes,\nwhiskers well matched with a pale, poetical, it might be sickly, hue of\ncountenance, and an expression more inclining to melancholy than persons\nof such mean condition have a right to assume. His father had brought\nhim up to a trade, an honest, thriving business, to wit, that of\n_Knopfmacher_ (button-maker). But Conrad, the youngest, and his mother's\nfavourite, happened to be indulged with more idle time than the rest,\nwhich, for the most part, was laudably expended in scrawling sundry\nhideous representations--all manner of things, on walls and wainscoats.\nPersevering in this occupation, he was forthwith pronounced a genius.\nAbout the age of fifteen, Conrad saw a huge \"St. Christopher,\" by a\nnative artist, and straightway his destiny was fixed. He struggled on\nfor some years with little success, save being pronounced by the gossips\n\"marvellously clever.\" His performances wanted that careful and\nelaborate course of study indispensable even to the most exalted genius.\nThey were not only glaring, tawdry, and ill-drawn, but worse conceived;\nflashy, crude accumulations of colour, only rendering their defects more\napparent. He was, in a great measure, self-taught. His impetuous, ardent\nimagination could not endure the labour requisite to form an artist. He\nwould fain have read ere he had learned to spell; and the result might\neasily have been foretold.\n\nHis father died; and the family were but scantily provided for. Conrad\nwas now forced to make out a livelihood by what was previously an\namusement, not having \"a trade in his fingers;\" and he toiled on,\nselling his productions for the veriest trifle. He had now no leisure\nfor improvement in the first elements of his art.\n\n\"Better starve or beg, better be errand-boy or lackey, than\nwaste my talents on such an ungrateful world. I'll turn\nconjurer--fire-eater--mountebank;--set the fools agape at fairs and\npastimes. Anything rather than killing--starving by inches. Why, the\ncriminals at hard labour in the fortress have less work and better fare.\nI wish!--I wish----\"\n\n\"What dost wish, honest youth?\" said a tall, heavy-eyed, beetle-browed,\nswarthy personage, who poked his face round from behind, close to that\nof the unfortunate artist, with great freedom and familiarity.\n\n\"I wish thou hadst better manners, or wast i' the stocks, where every\nprying, impertinent should be,\" replied Conrad, being in no very\nplacable humour with his morning's work. The stranger laughed, not at\nall abashed by this ill-mannered, testy rebuke, replying\ngood-humouredly,\n\n\"Ah, ah! master canvass-spoiler. Wherefore so hasty this morning? My\nlegs befit not the gyves any more than thine own. But many a man thrusts\nhis favours where they be more rare than welcome. I would do thee a\nservice.\"\n\n\"'Tis the hangman's, then; for that seems the only favour that befits my\ncondition.\"\n\n\"Thou art cynical, bitter at thy disappointment. Let us discourse\ntogether hard by. A flask of good Rhenish will soften and assuage thy\nhumours. A drop of _Kirchenwasser_, too, might not be taken amiss this\nchill morning.\"\n\nNothing loth, Conrad followed the stranger, and they were soon imbibing\nsome excellent _vin du pays_ in a neighbouring tavern.\n\n\"Conrad Bergmann,\" began the stranger. \"Ay, thou art surprised; but I\nknow more than thy name. Wilt that I do thee a good office?\"\n\n\"Not the least objection, friend, if the price be within reach. Nothing\npay, nothing have, I reckon.\"\n\n\"The price? Nothing! At least nothing thou need care for. Thou art\nthirsting for fame, riches, for the honours of this world, for--for--the\nhand--the heart of thy beloved.\"\n\nAmongst the rest of Conrad's calamities, he had the misfortune to be in\nlove.\n\n\"Thou art mighty fluent with thy guesses,\" replied he, not at all\nrelishing these unpleasant truths; \"and what if I am doomed to pine\nafter the good I can never attain? I will bear my miseries, if not\nwithout repining, at least without thy pity:\" and he arose to depart.\n\n\"All that thou pinest after is thine. All!\" said the stranger.\n\n\"Mine! by what process?--whose the gift?--Ha, ha!\" and he drained the\nbrimming glass, waiting a solution of his interrogatory.\n\n\"I will be thy instructor. Behold the renowned Doctor Gabriel Ras Mousa,\nwho hath studied all arts and sciences in the world, who hath unveiled\nNature in her most secret operations, and can make her submissive as a\nmenial to his will. In a period incredibly short, I engage to make thee\nthe most renowned painter in Christendom.\"\n\n\"And the time requisite to perform this?\"\n\n\"One month! Ay, by the wand of Hermes, in one month, under my teaching,\nshalt thou have thy desire. I watched thy bargain with the dealer\nyonder, and have had pity on thy youth and misfortunes.\"\n\n\"Humph--compassion! And the price?\" again inquired Conrad, with an\nanxious yet somewhat dubious expression of tone.\n\n\"The price? Once every month shalt thou paint me a picture.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\n\"All.\"\n\nNow Conrad began to indulge some pleasant fancies. Dreams of hope and\nambition hovered about him; but he soon grew gloomy and desponding as\nheretofore. He waxed incredulous.\n\n\"One month? Nothing less, than a miracle! The time is too short.\nImpossible!\"\n\n\"That is my business. I have both the will and the power. Is it a\nbargain?\"\n\nConrad again drained the cup, and things looked brighter. He felt\ninvigorated. His courage came afresh, and he answered firmly,\n\n\"A bargain.\"\n\n\"Give me thy hand.\"\n\n\"Oh, mein Herr--not so hard. Thy gripe is like a smithy vice.\"\n\n\"Beg pardon of thy tender extremities. To-morrow then, at this hour, we\nbegin.\" Immediately after which intimation the stranger departed.\n\nConrad returned to his own dwelling. He felt restless, uneasy.\nApprehensions of coming evil haunted him. Night was tenfold more\nappalling. Horrid visions kept him in continual alarm.\n\nHe arose feverish and unrefreshed. Yesterday's bargain did not appear so\npleasant in his eyes; but fear gave way apace, and ere the appointed\nhour he was in his little work-room, where the mysterious instructor\nfound him in anxious expectation. He drew the requisite materials from\nunder his cloak, a well-primed canvass already prepared. The pallet was\ncovered, and Conrad sat down to obey his master's directions.\n\n\"What shall be our subject?\" inquired the pupil.\n\n\"A head. Proceed.\"\n\n\"A female?\"\n\n\"Yes. But follow my instructions implicitly.\"\n\nConrad chalked out the outline. It was feebly, incorrectly drawn; but\nthe stranger took his crayon, and by a few spirited touches gave life,\nvigour, and expression to the whole. Conrad was in despair.\n\n\"O that it were in my power to have done this!\" he cried, putting one\nhand on his brow, and looking at the picture as though he would have\ndevoured it.\n\n\"Now for colour,\" said the stranger; and he carefully directed his pupil\nhow to lay in the ground, to mingle and contrast the different tints, in\na manner so far superior to his former process, that Conrad soon began\nto feel a glow of enthusiasm. His fervour increased, the latent spark of\ngenius was kindled. In short, the unknown seemed to have imbued him with\nsome hitherto unfelt attributes,--invested him either with new powers,\nor awakened his hitherto dormant faculties. As before, by a few touches,\nthe crude, spiritless mass became living and breathing under the\nmaster's hand. Not many hours elapsed ere a pretty head, respectably\nexecuted, appeared on the canvass. Conrad was in high spirits.\n\nHe felt a new sense, a new faculty, as it were, created within him. He\nworked industriously. Every hour seemed to condense the labour and\nexperience of years. He made prodigious advances. His master came daily\nat the same time, and at length his term of instruction drew to a close.\nThe last morning of the month arrived; and Conrad, unknown to his\nneighbours, had attained to the highest rank in his profession. His\npaintings, all executed under the immediate superintendence of the\nstranger, were splendid specimens of art.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the year----, all Paris was moved with the extraordinary performances\nof a young artist, whose portraits were the most wonderful, and his\nminiatures the most exquisite, that eyes ever beheld. They looked\nabsolutely as though endowed with life, real flesh and blood to all\nappearance; and happy were those who could get a painting from his hand.\nThe price was enormous, and the marvellous facility with which they were\ndispatched was not the least extraordinary part of the business. There\nwas a mystery too, about him, provokingly delightful, especially to the\nfemale portion of the community. In place of living in a gay and\nfashionable part of the city, his lodging was in a miserable garret,\noverlooking one of the gloomiest streets of the metropolis. His manners,\ntoo, were forbidding and reserved. Instead of exhibiting the natural\nbuoyancy of his years, he looked care-worn and dejected; nor was he ever\nknown to smile.\n\nAfter a period, whispers got abroad that several of his female subjects\ncame to strange and untimely deaths. They were seized with some\ndangerous malady, accompanied by frightful delusions. In general, they\nfancied themselves possessed. Wailings, shrieks, and horrible\nblasphemies proceeded from the lips of the sufferers. These reports were\ndoubtless exaggerated, the marvellous being a prodigiously accumulative\nand inventive faculty; yet enough remained, apparently authentic, to\njustify the most unfavourable suspicions.\n\nAbout this time a young Italian lady, of a noble house, arrived on a\nvisit to her brother in the suite of the Florentine embassy. This\nprincely dame, possessed of great wealth and beauty, was not long\nunprovided with lovers; one especially, a handsome official in the royal\nhousehold, De Vessey by name, and as gallant a cavalier as ever lady\nlooked upon. But her term of absence being nigh expired, the lovers were\nin great perplexity; and nothing seemed so likely to contribute to their\ncomfort, during such unavoidable separation, as a miniature portrait of\neach from the hands of this inimitable painter. Leonora sat first, and\nthe lover was in raptures. Hour by hour he watched the progress of his\nwork, in a little gloomy chamber, where the artist, like some automaton\nfixture, was always found in the same place, occupied too, as it might\nseem, without intermission.\n\n\"The gaze of that strange painter distresses me inexpressibly,\" said\nLeonora to her companion, as they went for the last time to his\napartment. \"I have borne it hitherto without a murmur, but words cannot\ndescribe the reluctance with which I endure his glance; yet while I feel\nas though my very soul abhorred it, it penetrates, nay, drinks up and\nwithers my spirit. Though I shrink from it, some influence or\nfascination, call it as thou wilt, prevents escape; I cannot turn away\nmy eyes from his terrible gaze.\"\n\n\"Thou art fanciful, my love,\" said De Vessey; \"the near prospect of our\nparting makes thee apt to indulge these gloomy impressions. Be of good\ncheer; nothing shall harm thee in my presence. 'Tis the last sitting;\nput on a well-favoured aspect, I beseech thee. Remember, this\nportraiture will be my only solace during the long, long hours of thine\nabsence.\"\n\nAs they entered the artist's chamber, the picture lay before him, which\nhe seemed to contemplate with such absorbing intensity, that he was\nhardly aware of their entrance. He did not weep, but grief and pity were\nstrangely mingled in his glance. It was but for a moment; he quickly\nresumed his usual attitude and expression. Whether the previous\nconversation had made her lover liable to take the tone and character of\nher own thoughts, we know not; but, for the first time, he fancied\nLeonora's apprehensions were not entirely without excuse. He looked on\nthe artist, and it excited almost a thrill of apprehension. But speedily\nchiding himself for these untoward fancies, he felt that little was\napparent, either in look or manner, but what the painter's peculiar and\nunexampled genius might sufficiently explain.\n\nSuddenly his attention was riveted on the lady. He saw her lips quiver\nand turn pale, as though she would have swooned. In a moment he was at\nher side. The support seemed to reanimate the fainting maiden, her head\ndrooping on his shoulder. Almost gasping for utterance, she whispered,\n\"Take me hence, I want breath,--air, air!\" De Vessey lifted her in his\narms, and bore her forth into the open door-way. Trembling, shuddering,\nand looking round, the first words she uttered were,--\n\n\"We are watched,--by some unseen being in yonder chamber, I am\npersuaded. Didst not mark an antique, dismal-looking ebony cabinet,\nimmediately behind the painter?\"\n\n\"I did, and admired its exquisite workmanship, as though wrought by some\ncunning hand.\"\n\n\"As I fixed my eyes on those little traceries, it might be fancy, but\nmethought I saw the bright flash of a human eye gazing on me.\"\n\n\"Oh, my Leonora, indulge not these gloomy impressions. Throw off thy\nwayward fancies. 'Tis but the reflex image the mind mistakes for outward\nrealities. When disordered, she discerns not the substance from the\nshadow. Thou art well-nigh recovered. Come, come, let us in. To-day is\nthe last of our task; prithee take courage and return.\"\n\n\"On one condition only; if thou take the chair first, and note well an\nopen scroll to the right, where those fawns and satyrs are carved.\"\n\n\"Agreed. And now shake off thy fears, my love.\"\n\nDe Vessey led her again to the apartment, and, as though without\nconsideration, sat down, his face directly towards the cabinet. He fixed\nhis eyes thereon a few seconds only, when Leonora saw him start up\nsuddenly with a troubled aspect, and grasp the hilt of his sword. Then\nturning to the painter, he said sternly,--\n\n\"So!--We have intruders here, I trow.\"\n\n\"Intruders? None!\" was the artist's reply, without betraying either\nsurprise or alarm.\n\n\"That we'll see presently,\" said the cavalier, hastening to the cabinet;\nwhich, with hearty good will, he essayed to open.\n\n\"Why this outrage?\" inquired the painter, colouring with a hectic flush.\n\n\"Because 'tis my good pleasure,\" was the haughty reply. The door\nresisted his utmost efforts. \"Doubtless held by some one within. Open,\nor by this good sword I'll make a passage through both door and\ncarcase.\"\n\nThe hinges slowly gave way, the folding doors swung open, and displayed\na grinning skeleton!\n\n\"Ah! what lodger is this?\"\n\n\"Mine art requires it,\" said the painter with a ghastly smile; but in\nthat smile was an expression so fearful, yet mysterious, that even De\nVessey quailed before it. Another miniature portrait, a precise copy of\nthe one in hand, hung from the neck of the skeleton.\n\nLeonora, with a loud shriek, covered her face; but the lover, though far\nfrom satisfied himself, strove to assure his mistress, and besought her\nnot to indulge any apprehension.\n\n\"You are disturbed, lady,\" said the artist. \"'Tis but a harmless piece\nof earth, a mouldering fabric of dust, a thing, a form we must all one\nday assume. But to-morrow, to-morrow, if you will, we resume our work.\"\n\nLeonora, relieved by the intimation, gladly consented, fain, for a\nwhile, to escape from this terrible chamber.\n\n\"Nought living was there, of a truth,\" said the cavalier, in evident\nperplexity, as they regained their coach. \"But I saw plain enough, or\nimagination played me the prank, a semblance of a bright and flashing\neye on the spot pointed out. Something incomprehensible hangs about the\nwhole!\"\n\nLeonora agreed in this conclusion, expressing a fear lest harm should\nhappen to themselves thereby. They were not ignorant of the whispers\nafloat, but hitherto treated them either with ridicule or indifference.\nSuspicion, however, once awake, mystery once apprehended, every\ncircumstance, even the most trivial, is seized upon, the mind bending\nall to one grand object which haunts and excites the imagination.\n\nHaving left his companion at her brother's dwelling, De Vessey came to\nhis own, moody and dispirited. A vague sense of some grievous but\nimpending misfortune hung heavily upon him. Night brought no mitigation\nof his fears. Spectres, skeletons, and demon-painters haunted his\nslumbers. He awoke in greater torment than ever. The duplicate portrait\nwas brought to his remembrance with a vividness, an intensity so\nappalling, that he almost expected to behold the skeleton wearer at his\nbedside.\n\nInvolved in a labyrinth of inextricable surmises, and not knowing what\ncourse to pursue, he arose early, and walked forth without aim or design\ntowards the church of Notre Dame.\n\nThe red sun was just bursting through a thick atmosphere of mist,\nilluminating its two dark western towers, which looked even more gloomy\nunder a bright and glowing sky, like melancholy in immediate contrast\nwith hilarity and joy.\n\nHe passed the Morgue, or dead-house, where bodies found in the Seine are\nexposed, in order that they may be owned or recognised. Impelled by\ncuriosity, he entered. One space alone was occupied. He could not surely\nbe deceived when he saw the body of the unfortunate painter! Those\nfeatures were too well remembered to be mistaken. Here was new ground\nfor conjecture, fresh wonder and perplexity. He left this melancholy\nexhibition and entered the cathedral. Mass was celebrating at one of the\naltars. De Vessey joined in adoration, strolling away afterwards towards\nthe vaults: one of them was open. From some vague, unaccountable\nimpulse, he thus accosted the sexton:\n\n\"Whose grave is this, friend?\"\n\n\"A maid's--mayhap.\"\n\n\"Her name?\"\n\n\"The only remaining descendant of the Barons Montargis.\"\n\n\"I have some knowledge of that noble gentlewoman; she was just about to\nbe married. What might be the nature of her malady?\"\n\n\"Why, verily there be as many guesses as opinions. The doctors were all\nat fault, and, 'tis said, even now in great dispute. The king's\nphysician tried hard to save her. Old Frere Jeronymo, the confessor,\nwill have it she was possessed; but all his fumigations, exorcisms,\npaters, and holy water could not cast out the foul fiend. She died\nraving mad!\"\n\n\"A miserable portion for one so young and high-born. Was there no\nvisible cause?\"\n\n\"Cause!--Ay, marry; if common gossip be not an arrant jade. Her portrait\nhad been taken by that same limner who, they say, has been taught in the\ndevil's school, and can dispatch a likeness with the twirl of his\nbrush.\"\n\n\"And what of that?\" cried De Vessey, in an agony of impatience.\n\n\"Why, the same fate has happened to several of our city dames. That is\nall.\"\n\n\"What has happened?\"\n\n\"They have gone mad, and either felt, or fancied, some demon had gotten\nthem in keeping. For my part, I pretend not to a knowledge of the\nmatter. But you seem strangely moved, methinks.\"\n\nThe cavalier was nigh choking with emotion. Sick at heart, and with a\nfearful presentiment of impending evil, he turned suddenly away.\n\nHis next visit, as may be supposed, was to his mistress. He found her in\ngreat agitation. The portrait had been sent home the preceding night,\nand, completely finished, lay before her,--an exquisite, nay marvellous,\nspecimen of art. She was gazing on her own radiant counterpart as he\nentered. They both agreed that something more than ordinary ran through\nthe whole proceedings, though unable to comprehend their meaning. De\nVessey related his discovery in the Morgue, but not his subsequent\ninterview with the sexton.\n\nEre night, Leonora was seized with a strange and frightful disease.\nSymptoms of insanity were soon developed. She uttered fearful cries;\ncalling on the painter in language wild and incoherent, but of terrific\nimport.\n\nThe lover was at his wits' end. He vowed to spare no efforts to save\nher, though scarcely knowing what course to pursue, or in what quarter\nto apply for help.\n\nHis first care was to seek the dwelling of a certain renowned doctor, a\nGerman, whose extraordinary cures and mode of treatment had won for him\ngreat wealth and reputation. Though by some accounted a quack and\nimpostor, nevertheless De Vessey hoped, as a last resource, so cunning a\nphysician might be able to point at once the source and cure of this\noccult malady.\n\nDoctor Hermann Sichel lived in one of those high, antique, dreary\nlooking habitations, now pulled down, situate in the Rue d'Enfer. A\ncommon staircase conducted to several suites of apartments, tenanted by\nvarious occupants, and at the very summit dwelt this exalted personage.\n\nA pull at the ponderous bell-handle gave notice of De Vessey's\napproach, when, after due deliberation, it might seem, and a long trial\nto the impatient querent, a little wicket was cautiously slid back,\nbehind a grating in the door. A face, partially exhibited, demanded his\nerrand.\n\n\"Thy master, knave!\"\n\n\"He is in the very entrails of a sublime study. Not for my beard, grey\nthough it be, dare I break in upon him.\"\n\n\"Mine errand is urgent,\" said De Vessey; \"and, look thee, say a noble\ncavalier hath great need of succour at his hands.\"\n\n\"Grammercy, sir cavalier, and hath not everybody an errand of like\nmoment?--thy business, peradventure, less urgent than fifty others whose\nsuit I have denied this blessed day. I tell thee, my master may not be\ndisturbed!\"\n\nDe Vessey held up a coin, temptingly, before the grating. It would not\ngo through, and the crusty Cerberus gently undid a marvellous array of\nchains, bars, and other ingenious devices, opening a slit wide enough\nfor its insertion.\n\n\"Wider! thou trusty keeper,\" said the artful suitor outside. \"I cannot\nfly though a key-hole!\"\n\nA hand was carefully protruded. The cavalier, espying his opportunity,\nthrust first his sword, afterwards himself, through the aperture, in\nspite of curses and entreaties from the greedy porter. He was\nimmediately within a dark entrance or vestibule; the astonished and\nangry menial venting his wrath, in no measured phrases, on the intruder.\nDe Vessey, in a peremptory tone, demanded to be led forthwith into the\ndoctor's presence. The old man delayed for awhile, almost speechless\nfrom several causes. His breath was nigh spent. Wrath on the one hand,\nfear of his master's displeasure on the other, kept him, like antagonist\nforces, perpetually midway between both.\n\n\"Lead the way, knave, or, by the beard of St. Louis, I'll seek him\nthrough the house! Quick! thou hast legs; if not, speak! mine errand is\nurgent, and will not wait.\"\n\nA stout and determined cavalier, with a strong gripe, and a sword none\nof the shortest, was not to be trifled with; and, after many\nexpostulations, warnings, threats, had failed of their effect, he at\nlength doggedly consented.\n\n\"Thou wilt give me the coin, then, sir cavalier?\"\n\n\"Ay, when thou hast earned it. Away!\"\n\nPassing through a narrow passage, lighted from above, his conductor\npaused before a curiously carved oaken door, at which three taps\nannounced a message.\n\n\"Now enter, and pray for us both a safe deliverance. But, prithee, tell\nhim it was not my fault thou hast gotten admission.\"\n\nThe door slowly opened, as though without an effort, and De Vessey was\nimmediately in the presence of the physician, evidently to the surprise\nof the learned doctor himself, who angrily demanded his business and the\nground of his intrusion.\n\n\"Mine hour is not yet come, young man. Wherefore shouldest thou, either\nby stratagem or force, thrust thyself, unbidden, into our presence?\"\n\n\"To buy or beg thine aid, if it be possible. The case admits not of\ndelay. I crave thy pardon, most reverend doctor, if that content thee;\nand, rest assured, no largess, no reward shall be too great, if thou\nrestore one, I fear me, beyond earthly aid.\"\n\n\"Thus am I ever solicited,\" replied the sage, with a portentous scowl.\nHe was clad in a gown of dark stuff, with slippers to match; his poll\nsurmounted by a small black velvet skull-cap, from which his white,\nintensely white, hair escaped in great profusion. His visage was not\nswarthy, but of a leaden, pale complexion, where little could be\ndiscerned of the wondrous microcosm within. Books, and manuscripts of\nancient form and character, emblazoned in quaint and mystic devices, lay\nopen on a long oak table, on which rested one elbow of the wise man;\nthe other was thrown over an arm of the high-backed chair whereon he\nsat. The room contained plenty of litter in the shape of phials, boxes,\nand other strange furniture. A cupola furnace was just heated, the\ndoctor, apparently, concocting some subtle compound.\n\n\"I am expected to wrest these helpless mortals even from the ravening\njaws of the grave! My skill never tried until beyond other aid!\"\n\n\"But this disorder is of a sudden emergency. A lady of high birth and\nlineage, a few hours since, was seized with a raging frenzy.\"\n\n\"A female, then!\"\n\n\"Ay, and of such sweet temper and excellent parts, there be none to\nmatch with her, body or mind, in Christendom.\"\n\n\"When did this malady attack her?\"\n\n\"Almost immediately after a portrait, made by the celebrated painter,\nwas finished. Of him thou hast, doubtless, heard.\"\n\n\"The painter!--Ay!--There be more than thou have rued his skill. Young\nman, thy pretty one is lost.\"\n\n\"Lost! Oh, say not so! I will give thee thine utmost\ndesire--riches--wealth thou hast never possessed, if thou restore her!\"\n\n\"She is beyond my skill. Hast visited him since?\"\n\n\"I have seen him. She is the last victim, if such be her fate. This very\nmorning, betimes, I saw his body in the Morgue.\"\n\n\"They have found him, then!\" said the doctor, sharply. \"Yet our bodies\nare but exuviae. When cast off, this thinking, sentient principle within\nhas another tabernacle assigned to it, until the great consummation of\nall things. But these are fables, idle tales, to the unlearned.\nNevertheless, I pity thy cruel fate, and, if aid can be afforded, will\ncall another to thine help. Hence! Thou shalt hear from me anon.\"\n\n\"And without loss of time; for every moment, methinks, our succour may\ncome too late.\"\n\n\"I will forthwith seek out one whom I have heretofore taken knowledge\nof. Every science has its votaries,--its adepts; and this evil case hath\nits remedy only by those skilled in arts called, however falsely,\nsupernatural. Even now, there be intelligences around us, which the\ncorporeal eye seeth not, nor can see, unless purged from the dross, the\nfumes of mortality. Some, peradventure, by long and patient study, have\narrived on the very borders, the confines that separate visible from\ninvisible things; and become, as it were, the medium of intercourse for\nmortals, who are, by this means, mightily aided in matters beyond\nordinary research. Put thine ear to this shell. Mark its voice, like the\nsound of many waters. Are not these the invisible source, the essence of\nits being? Has not every thing in like manner, even the most inanimate,\na tongue, a language, peculiar to itself--a soul, a spirit, pervading\nits form, which moulds and fashions every substance according to its own\nnature? Now, this voice thou canst not interpret, being unskilled;\nknowing not the languages peculiar to every form and modification of\nmatter. Else would this beautiful type of the ever-rolling sea discourse\nmarvellously to thine ear. But thou hast not the key to unclose its\nmystic tongue; hence, like any other unknown speech, 'tis but a confused\njumble of unmeaning sound. I have little more knowledge than thyself,\nbut there be those who can interpret. Vain man--presumptuous,\nignorant--scoffs at knowledge beyond his reach, and thinks his own dim,\nnay darkened reason, glimmering as in a dungeon, the narrow horizon that\ncircumscribes his vision, the utmost boundary of all knowledge and\nexistence, while, beyond, lies the infinite and unknown, utterly\ntranscending his capacity and comprehension.\"\n\nDe Vessey drank up every word of this harangue; and something akin to\nhope rose in his bosom, as he withdrew.\n\n\"Thou wilt have a message ere nightfall. An awful trial awaits thee ere\nthe spell can be countervailed.\"\n\nThe cavalier withdrew, suffering many wistful remarks from the old\ndoor-keeper, who marvelled greatly at the interview so graciously\nconceded by his master; while at the same time holding out his palm for\nthe promised largess.\n\nDe Vessey waited impatiently at his own dwelling for the expected\nmessage. Evening drew on, dark and stormy. The wind roared along the\nnarrow streets in sharp and irregular gusts; while, pacing his chamber\nin an agony of suspense, he fancied every sound betokened the\napproaching communication. At length, when expectation was almost weary,\na louder rumbling was heard; a coach drew up at the door; a hasty knock,\nand a heavy tramp; then footsteps ascending the staircase. The door\nopened, and two _gens-d'armes_ entered.\n\n\"We have authority and instructions for the arrest of one Sigismund de\nVessey, on a charge of murder, made this day by deposition before the\nMayor and Prefecture of the Ville de Paris. The individual so named, we\napprehend, is before us.\"\n\n\"The same; though assuredly there is some mistake. Of whose death am I\naccused?\"\n\n\"Of one Conrad Bergmann, a painter, whose body, last night thrown into\nthe Seine, was to-day exposed in the Morgue. The rest will be explained\nanon.\"\n\n\"But an engagement, one too of a most important nature, demands my\npresence.\"\n\n\"No discretion is allowed us in this matter. The carriage waits.\"\n\nHowever reluctant, De Vessey was forced to obey. Though confident of a\nspeedy release, this arrest at so important a juncture was provoking\nenough. Leonora's recovery might probably depend on his exertions for\nthe next few hours, which were now suddenly wrested from him.\n\nLeaving word that he would shortly return, the cavalier stept into the\nvehicle, which immediately drove off.\n\nIn a little space the coach stopped, and De Vessey was invited to\nalight. He was led up a narrow staircase; a door flew open. He entered.\nCould it be; surely imagination betrayed his senses! He could scarcely\nbelieve himself once more in the apartment of the painter! Yet there was\nno mistaking what he saw. The ebony cabinet, the easel, table, chair,\nall left as he saw them yesterday. But the living occupants were\nstrangely diverse. Two or three functionaries of the civil power, and,\nin one corner, a black cloth, spread on the floor, concealed some\nunknown object. The whole was lighted by a feeble lamp from the ceiling.\nA dusky haze from the damp foggy atmosphere rendered objects\nill-defined, indistinct, almost terrific to an excited imagination. In\naddition to the usual articles of furniture, was a desk, with writing\nmaterials, at which one of the officers of justice appeared dictating\nsomething to his secretary.\n\nOn De Vessey's entrance, the scribe made some minute preparatory to his\nexamination, which commenced as follows:\n\n\"Sigismund de Vessey?\"\n\n\"The same.\"\n\n\"Being accused upon oath before us of murder, thou art brought hither to\nconfront thine accusers, and to answer this heinous charge. First, let\nthe body be produced.\"\n\nThe cloth was removed, and De Vessey beheld the corpse lying on a\nmattress.\n\n\"Knowest thou this body?\"\n\n\"I do,\" said the cavalier firmly.\n\n\"When was he seen by thee alive, the last time?\"\n\n\"Yesterday, about noon.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"In this chamber.\"\n\n\"Not since?\"\n\n\"Yes, but not living.\"\n\n\"Dead, sayest thou?\"\n\n\"This morning in the Morgue.\"\n\n\"Not previously?\"\n\n\"I have not. But pray to what purport this examination?\"\n\n\"This will appear presently. When taken out of the river, marks were\nfound upon the throat, as though from strangulation. Knowest thou aught\nof these?\"\n\n\"I do not,\" said the accused indignantly.\n\nThis answer being written down, the examination was resumed.\n\n\"We have testimony that the unfortunate victim and thyself were seen\ntogether about midnight; and, further, a short but violent struggle was\nheard, and a heavy plunge; afterwards an individual, with whom thou art\nidentified, was seen departing in great haste, and entering the house\nwell known as thy residence in the Rue de----\"\n\n\"A most foul and wicked fabrication, for purposes of which as yet I am\nignorant. Of such charges I hardly need affirm that I am innocent.\"\n\n\"Let the accuser stand forth.\"\n\nTo the surprise and horror of De Vessey, there appeared from a recess\nthe German doctor, Hermann Sichel, who, without flinching, recapitulated\nthe foregoing accusation. Moreover, he swore in the most positive terms\nto his identity, and that not a doubt rested on his mind but De Vessey\nwas the murderer.\n\n\"In this very apartment,\" said the witness, \"he, De Vessey, drew his\nsword upon the painter yesterday, doubtless either from grudge or\njealousy; being enamoured of a fair Italian dame, Leonora da Rimini.\"\n\n\"Most abominable of liars!\" said the accused, eyeing him with a furious\nlook. \"How darest thou, to my face, bring this foul accusation. Thou\nshalt answer for it with thy blood!\"\n\n\"Hear him! What need of further testimony? His own betrayed him,\" said\nthe doctor, with unblushing effrontery.\n\n\"We have other witness thou wilt not dare to gainsay,\" said the\npresiding officer. \"This learned person is amply corroborated by\nevidence that must effectually silence all denial. He hath referred us\nto her who was present, Leonora da Rimini.\"\n\n\"Leonora! what, my own--my betrothed? She my accuser?\"\n\n\"Spare thy speech and listen. We could not bring the maiden hither,\ninsomuch the nature of her malady admits not of removal: but her\nevidence and accusation are duly attested, taken at her own request, not\nmany hours ago. The substance of her deposition is as follows: a\nconfession to her of thine intention to murder Conrad Bergmann, the\nartist aforesaid, being jealous of his attentions; and furthermore, in\nthe agony of guilt, thou didst confess in her presence, having first\nstrangled, and afterwards thrown him into the river, hoping thereby to\nconceal thy crime; then forcing her to swear she would keep the matter\nsecret, and threatening her life in case it were divulged. This outrage,\nand this alone, hath nigh driven her frantic; her life being in jeopardy\nfrom thy violence. What sayest thou, Sigismund de Vessey?\"\n\n\"A lie, most foul and audacious! trumped up by that impostor! Leonora?\nImpossible. I would not believe though it were from her own lips. Some\ndemon hath possessed her. This disorder is more than common madness.\"\n\nHe looked around. The whole was like the phantasma of some terrible\ndream. Bewildered, and hardly knowing what course to pursue, in vain he\nattempted to shake the testimony of the hoary villain before him; and\nhaving at present none other means of rebutting the accusation, he was\nordered into close custody until the morrow.\n\nUtterly unprepared with evidence, he knew not where to apply. That he\nwas the victim of some foul plot, so far appeared certain; but for what\npurpose, and at whose instigation, was inexplicable.\n\nEre an hour had elapsed, De Vessey found himself in one of the cells of\na public dungeon, with ample leisure to form plans for proving his\ninnocence. He determined early on the morrow to acquaint his friends,\nand employ a celebrated advocate to expose this villanous doctor, who no\ndoubt had designs either on his purse or person.\n\nIn a while, the prisoner fell asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. He was\nawakened by a sudden glare across his eyelids. At first, imagining he\nwas under the influence of some extravagant dream, he made little effort\nto arouse himself. A figure stood beside the couch; a lamp lifted above\nhis head. A friar's cowl concealed his features; his person too was\nenveloped in a coarse garment, with a huge rosary at his girdle.\n\n\"Mortal, awake and listen,\" said the unknown visitor, \"Art weary of\nlife, or does this present world content thee?\"\n\n\"Who art thou?\" said De Vessey, scarcely raising himself from the\npallet.\n\n\"I am thy friend, thy deliverer an' thou wilt.\"\n\n\"Thanks!\" said the knight, springing from his recumbent posture.\n\n\"Stay!\" replied the intruder, \"there be conditions ere thou pass hence.\nMiserable offspring of Adam, ye still cling to your prison and your\nclay. Wherefore shrink from the separation, afraid to shake off your\nbonds, your loathsome carcase, and spring forth at once to life? Art\nthou prepared to fulfil one--but one condition for thy release?\"\n\n\"Name it! Manifest my innocence; and if it be gold, thou shalt have thy\ndesire. No hired advocate ere yet held such a fee!\"\n\n\"Keep thy gold for baser uses; it buyeth not my benefits. But remember,\nthy life is not worth a week's purchase, neither is thy mistress'\nforsooth, shouldest thou be witless enough to refuse. An ignominious\ndeath, a base exit for thyself,--for her, madness and a speedy grave.\nOne fate awaits ye both. Life and health, if thou consent are yours.\"\n\n\"Thou speakest riddles. It were vain trying to comprehend their import.\nName thy conditions. Aught, that honour may purchase, will I give.\"\n\nThe stranger threw back his cowl, displaying the features of the\nrenowned Doctor Hermann Sichel: a gleam of lurid intelligence lighted\nhis grim grey eyes, that might betoken either insanity or excitement.\n\nWithout reflecting for one moment on the hazard and imprudence of his\nconduct, De Vessey immediately rushed forward, grappled with his\nadversary, and threw him.\n\n\"Now will I have deadly vengeance, fiend! Take that!\" said he, drawing\nforth a concealed poignard, and thrusting with all his might. Scorn\npuckered the features of the pretended monk. The weapon's point was\ndriven back, refusing to enter, as though his enemy held a charmed\nexistence.\n\n\"Put back thy weapon; thou wilt have need of it elsewhere, silly one.\"\n\nDe Vessey was confounded at this unlooked-for result. His foe seemed\ninvulnerable, and he slunk back.\n\n\"I forgive thee, poor fool! Put it back, I say. There--there--now to\nwork--time hastens, and there is little space for parley.\"\n\n\"What is thy will?\"\n\n\"Thy welfare, thy life; listen. Yonder unhappy wretch I have loaden with\nbenefits, rescued from poverty, disgrace, lifted him to the pinnacle of\nhis ambition, the highest rank in art. Base ingrate, he threatened to\nbetray, to denounce, and I crushed the reptile. He is now what thou\nshalt be shortly, unless my power be put forth for thy rescue. Not all\nthe united efforts of man can deliver thee. Beyond earthly aid, thou\ndiest the death of a dog!\"\n\n\"Why dost thou accuse me of a crime, knowing that I am innocent?\"\n\n\"To drive thee, helpless, into my power. Think not to escape save on one\ncondition.\"\n\n\"Name it,\" said De Vessey.\n\n\"Self-preservation is the great, the paramount law of our nature; the\nmost powerful impulse implanted in our being. All, all obey this\nimpulse; and who can control or forbid its operation? Will not the most\ntimid, the most scrupulous, if no alternative be afforded, slay the\nadversary who seeks his life; and does not the law both of earth and\nheaven hold him guiltless? Thou art now denounced. Innocent, thy life\nmust be sacrificed. Thou diest, or another; there is no choice.\"\n\n\"But shall _I_ murder the innocent.\"\n\n\"And suppose it be. What thinkest thou? Two persons, equally guiltless,\none of them must die. Self-preservation will prompt instinctively to\naction. Does not the drowning man cling to his companion; nay, rescue\nhimself at the expense of another's life?\"\n\nDe Vessey felt bewildered, if not convinced. Need we wonder if he\nyielded. Life or death. Honour, disgrace. His mistress restored; his\ninnocence proved. Life, with him, had scarcely been tasted. A glorious\ncareer awaited him; his lady-love smiling through the bright vista of\nthe future; and----the tempter prevailed!\n\nBut who must be the victim? The appalling truth was not then disclosed.\nDe Vessey promised to obey.\n\n\"But remember, no power, not even flight, can screen thee from my\nvengeance shouldst break thy vow. Take warning by the painter; the poor\nfool but hesitated, and his doom was swift as it was sure. Take this\ncowl and friar's garment; I was admitted by the jailor for thy shrift.\nThe lamp will guide thee. Be bold, and fear not. I will remain;\nto-morrow they will find out their mistake, but I have other means of\nescape.\"\n\n\"And Leonora. How shall she be recovered?\"\n\n\"That is a work of peril, and will need thine utmost vigilance.\nRememberest thou the skeleton?\"\n\n\"In the ebony cabinet?\" inquired the cavalier, with a cold shudder.\n\n\"He hath her portrait, and will not lightly be persuaded to give his\nprey. _Every month I am bound to furnish him a bride!_ My own life pays\nthe forfeit of omission. Leonora is the next victim, unless thou\nprevail, betrothed to that grisly type of death!\"\n\n\"Oh, horrible! Mine the bride of a loathsome skeleton! Of an atomy! A\nfiend! Monster, I will denounce thee. I care not for my own life. Of\nwhat worth if torn from hers. Wretch, give back my bride or----\"\n\n\"Spare these transports. I am now thine only friend. Thou art now cut\noff from thy kin, shunned by mankind. To whom then wilt thou turn for\nhelp? Mine thou art, for ever!\"\n\nDe Vessey gasped for utterance.\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" continued his tormentor, \"I will direct and help thee in\nthis matter also. But 'tis a fearful venture. Hast thou courage?\"\n\n\"If to rescue her, aught that human arm can achieve shall be done.\"\n\n\"He holds the portrait, I tell thee, with a steady gripe. Those skeleton\nfingers will be hard to unloose.\"\n\n\"I will break them, or perish. This good----\"\n\n\"Touch them not for thy life. Death, sure but lingering, awaits\nwhomsoever they fasten upon. Take this key. It will admit thee to the\napartment. To-night the deed must be accomplished, or to-morrow the\nmaiden is beyond succour.\"\n\n\"And how is this charmed picture to be wrested from him?\"\n\n\"An ebony wand lies at his feet; he will obey its touch. But whatsoever\nthou seest, be nothing daunted, nor let any silly terror scare thee from\nthy purpose. Now to thy task. But keep these marvels to thyself. If thou\nwhisper, ay to the winds, our compact, thou art not safe.\"\n\nSoon De Vessey, enveloped in his disguise, found egress without\ndifficulty. Once outside the prison, he hurried on scarcely giving\nhimself time for reflection.\n\nThe night was dark and stormy. Torches, distributed about the streets,\nrocked and swung to and fro in their sockets, the flames, with a strange\nand flickering glare, giving an unnatural distorted appearance to\nobjects within reach; and, to some solitary individual, at this late\nhour hurrying alone, the grim aspect of a demon or a spectre to the\ndisturbed imagination of the lover. His courage, at times on the point\nof deserting him, revived, when he remembered that another's life,\ndearer than his own, depended on his exertions. The streets, almost\ndeserted, swam with continually accumulating torrents: but he felt not\nthat terrible tempest; the turmoil, the conflict within, was louder than\nthe roar and tumult of outward elements.\n\nAlmost ere he was aware, he found himself opposite the entrance of the\npainter's habitation; a shudder, like a death-chill, shot through his\nframe. He applied his key. A distant gleam, a dim lurid light, seemed to\nquiver before him. He heard the quick jar, the withdrawing bolt, that\ngave him admittance, as though it were a spectral voice warning him to\ndesist.\n\nThe unknown dangers he anticipated, rendered more terrific by their\nvague indefinite character, were enough to appal a stouter bosom. De\nVessey would have faced and defied earthly perils, but these were almost\nbeyond his fortitude to endure. Love, however, gave excitement, if not\ncourage, and he resolved either to succeed or perish in the attempt. The\nstairs were partially illumined by an uncertain glimmer from a narrow\nwindow into the street. He felt his way, and every step sent the\nlife-blood curdling to his heart. He reached the topmost stair; laid one\nhand on the latch. He listened; all was still, save the hollow gusts\nthat rumbled round the dwelling.\n\nWith a feeling somewhat akin to desperation, he entered. A lamp yet\nburning emitted a feeble glare, but was well-nigh spent, giving a more\ndismal aspect to this lonely chamber. It was apparently unoccupied. The\nchair, the black funeral pall left by the officers of justice over the\npallet, the mysterious cabinet, the desk where the painter usually sat,\nall remained undisturbed. De Vessey's attention was more particularly\ndirected towards the cabinet; there alone, according to his\ninstructions, were the means of deliverance. A cold, clammy\nperspiration, a freezing shiver, came upon him as he approached. He laid\none hand on the latch; it resisted as before. He tried force, a loud\ngroan was heard in the chamber. Every fibre of his frame seemed to grow\nrigid; every limb stiffened with horror, and he drew back.\n\nThis was a sorry beginning to the adventure, and he inwardly repented of\nhis rashness. Looking round in extreme agony, his eyes rested on the\nblack pall. Could it be! or was it from the expiring glimmer of the\nlamp? The drapery appeared to move. Another, and a deeper groan! De\nVessey for a space was unable to move; but his courage came apace,\ninasmuch as it was some relief, and a diversion from the awful mysteries\nof that grim cabinet. He approached the pallet hastily, throwing off the\nheavy coverlet. The recumbent body was yet beneath, but convulsed, as\nthough struggling to free itself from an oppressive burden. De Vessey\nwatched, while his blood froze with terror. Gradually these convulsive\nmovements extended to the features. The lips quivered, as though\nessaying to speak; the eye-balls rolling rapidly under their lids. A\nslight flush dawned upon the cheek; the hands were tightly closed, and\nanother groan preceded one desperate attempt to throw off the load which\nprevented returning animation. At length the eyes opened with a ghastly\nstare; but evidently conveying no outward impression to the inward\nsense. With a loud shriek the body started up: then, uttering a wild and\npiercing cry, rolled on the floor, foaming, and struggling for life as\nthough with some powerful adversary.\n\n\"Save me! Save me!\" was uttered in a tone so harrowing and dreadful,\nmore than mortal agony, that De Vessey would have fled, but his limbs\nrefused their office.\n\n\"He strangles me! Fiend--have--have mercy! Wilt thou not? Oh mercy,\nmercy Heaven!\" His senses, though evidently bewildered, resumed their\nfunctions. With a glare of intense anguish he appeared as though\nsupplicating help and deliverance.\n\n\"Who art thou?\" was the first inquiry and symptom of returning reason.\n\"I know thee, De Vessey. But why art thou here? Another victim. Yes, to\ntorture me. Where am I? In my own chamber! Oh--that horrid cabinet!\nYet--yet these cruel torments. Will they never end?\"\n\nDe Vessey immediately perceived there was no delusion; the mortal form\nof the artist was really before him. Terrible though it were, yet it was\na relief to have companionship with his kind, a being of flesh and blood\nbeside him. He might now, peradventure, accomplish his task. Providence,\nmay be, had opened a way for his deliverance, and hope once more dawned\non his spirit. He helped the miserable artist to regain his couch, and\nsought to soothe him, beseeching the helpless victim not to give way to\nfrenzy, doubtless resulting from his strange and emaciated condition. A\nmiracle or a spell had been wrought for his resuscitation; but the\nevents of the last few hours were alike enigmas, beyond the common\noperations of nature to explain.\n\n\"Yesterday I attempted suicide,\" said the artist, \"taking poison to\nescape a life insupportable to me. Fain would I have broken the chain\nwhich binds me to this miserable existence. But yon tyrant hath given me\na charmed life. I cannot even die!\"\n\n\"Thy body was dragged from the Seine.\"\n\n\"How?\" inquired the artist with an incredulous look.\n\n\"And exposed this morning in the Morgue,\" continued De Vessey.\n\n\"When will my sufferings cease? How have I prayed for deliverance from\nthis infernal thraldom.\"\n\n\"Yon deceiver hath doubtless thrown thee into the river, and supposing\nthou wert dead, he designs me to supply thy place; to carry on the dark\nmystery of iniquity, a glimpse of which hath already been revealed.\"\n\n\"Would that I had been left to perish,--that my doom were ended.\nAvarice, ambition! how enslaved are your victims. How have I longed for\nmy miserable cottage, my poverty, my obscurity,--cold and pinching want,\nbut a quiet conscience to season my scanty meal. I bartered all for\ngold, for fame and--misery! A cruel bondage! compared to which I could\nenvy the meanest thing that crawls on this abject earth. In my trance, I\ndreamed of green fields and babbling streams; of my brethren, my\nplay-mates, my days of innocence and sport, when all was freshness and\nanticipation,--life one bright vista beyond, opening to sunny regions of\nrapture and delight. And now, what am I?--a wretch, degraded,\nundone,--a spectacle of misery, beyond what human thought can conceive.\nDoomed to years, ages it may be, of woe,--to scenes of horror such as\ntongue ne'er told, and even imagination might scarce endure, and my\nmiseries but a foretaste of that hereafter!\"\n\nHere the guilty victim writhed in a paroxysm of agony; his veins swollen\nalmost to bursting. Whether real or imaginary, whether a victim to\ninsanity, or of some supernatural agent, its influence was not the less\nterrible in its effects. Starting suddenly from his grovelling posture,\nhe cried, fixing his eyes on De Vessey with a searching glance,--\n\n\"What brings thee hither?\"\n\n\"Leonora is in jeopardy by your spells. I seek her deliverance.\"\n\n\"She is beyond rescue. Leonora da Rimini is THE SKELETON'S BRIDE!\"\n\nHere the painter threw such a repulsive glance towards the cabinet, that\nthe cavalier shrank back as though expecting some grisly spectre from\nits portals; yet, himself the subject of an extraordinary fascination,\nhe could not withdraw his gaze.\n\n\"Fly, fly, or thou art lost! My tormentor will be here anon,--I would\nhave saved her, and he fixed his burning gripe here, I feel it still;\nnot a night passes that he comes not hither. Away! shouldest thou meet\nhim, thy doom is fixed, and for ever. I would not that another fell into\nhis toils. Couldest thou know, ay, but as a whisper, the secrets of this\nprison-house, thy spirit would melt, thy flesh would shrink as though\nthe hot wind of the desert had passed over. What I have endured, and\nwhat I must endure, are alike unutterable.\"\n\n\"Thy keeper comes not to-night. He hath sent me to this chamber of death\ninstead. He knows not thou art alive.\"\n\n\"Thee!--To--But I must not reveal; my tongue cleaves to my mouth. Nay,\nnay, it cannot be; none but a fiend could do his behest. Away! for thy\nlife, away!\"\n\nDe Vessey related the events of the last few hours. The artist ruminated\nawhile; then abruptly exclaimed--\n\n\"He hath some diabolical design thereupon which I am not yet able to\nfathom. That it is for thine undoing Sir Knight, for thy misery here and\nhereafter, doubt not. Thou hast promised, but not yet offered him a\nvictim. Thus far thou art safe; but he will pursue thee, and think not\nto escape his vengeance. How to proceed is beyond my counsel. Should\nmidnight come, thou wouldest see horrors in this chamber that might\nquail the stoutest heart. Thou art bereft of life or reason if thou\ntarry.\"\n\n\"I leave not without an attempt, even should I fail, to wrench her, who\nis dearer to me than either, from that demon's grasp. I will not hence\nalone.\"\n\n\"Alas! I fear there is little hope; yet shall he not escape yonder\nprison before to-morrow. Even his arts cannot convey him through its\nwalls; the magician's body, if such he be, is subject to like\nimpediments with our own. This night, for good or ill, is thine.\"\n\n\"To work, then, to work,\" said De Vessey, as though inspired with new\nenergy, \"to the rescue, and by this good cross,\" kissing the handle of\nhis sword, \"I defy ye!\"\n\nBy main force he attempted, and, in the end, tore open the door of the\ncabinet. The grinning skeleton was before him, the miniature in its\ngrasp. A moment's pause. The cavalier carefully surveyed his prize.\nSuspended by an iron chain, the links entwined round its bony arm,\nrendered the picture difficult, if not impossible, to detach without\ntouching the limbs. Gathering fresh courage from the countenance and\nsmile of his beloved, he snatched the portrait, but the wearer was too\ntenacious of the charmed treasure, and resisted his utmost efforts. He\nthought a savage, a malicious grin crept upon his features. A smile\nmore than usually hideous mocked him. From those hollow sockets, too, or\nhis imagination played strange antics, a faint glare shot forth. A dizzy\nterror crept over him. His brain reeled. His energies were becoming\nprostrate; and unless one desperate attempt could be made, all hope of\nrescue were past. He sought the ebony wand, but, forgetful or\nincautious, laid hold of the chain which encircled the skeleton's wrist.\nA bell answered to the pressure,--a deep hollow reverberation, like a\ndeath-knell in his ear.\n\n\"Hark! that iron tongue,--lost--lost! Oh! mercy, mercy!\" shrieked the\ndeath-painter, covering his eyes.\n\nAt this moment, De Vessey heard a noise like the jarring of bolts and\nhinges. Ere he was aware, the skeleton's arms were fastened round him;\nthe doors closed, the floor gave way under his feet. He felt the\npressure relaxing; he fell, the hissing wind rushed in his ears. Stunned\nwith his fall, he lay for a while in the dark, scarcely able to move. It\nwas not long ere he was able to grope about. Rotting carcases and bones\nmet his touch--a noisome charnel-house gorged with human bodies in all\nthe various stages of decay. His heart sickened with a fearful\napprehension that he was left to perish by a lingering death, like those\naround him. Despair for the first time benumbed his faculties. His\ncourage gave way at the dreadful anticipation, and he grasped the very\ncarcase on which he trod for succour.\n\nSuddenly, a loud yell burst above him. A blaze of burning timbers\nflashed forth,--crackling, they hissed, and fell into the vault. Through\nan opening overhead, he saw the skeleton seized by devouring flames.\nThey twined, they clung round it. Their forky tongues licked the bones\nthat appeared to writhe and crawl in living agony.\n\nSoon the chain, which held the portrait, gave way, and it dropped at his\nfeet unhurt. A shriek issued from the flaming cabinet, and he saw the\npainter with a burning torch above. A maniac joy lighted up his\nfeatures: he shouted to De Vessey, and with frantic gestures beckoned\nthat he should escape.\n\n\"If thou canst climb yonder stair,\" he cried, \"before the flames cut off\nthy retreat, thou art safe. See, Leonora is already free. Haste--this\nway--there,--there, now leap--mind thy footing, 'tis too frail, creep\nround, those rafters are unbroken; another spring, and thou mayest reach\nthem in safety.\"\n\nThe flames were close upon him. He was nigh suffocated. A perilous\nattempt,--but, at length, he gained the upper floor, and his deliverer\nexclaimed,--\n\n\"Thanks, thanks, he is safe! by this good hand, too, that wrought your\nmisery. Oh! that a life of penitence and prayer might atone for my\nguilt. It was a thought inspired by Heaven, prompted me to set on fire\nthat insatiate demon, to whom my task-master offered those wretched\nvictims, and every month a bride, on pain of his own destruction. What\nmight be the nature of that skeleton form, or their compact, thou canst\nneither know nor understand. Even I, though nightly witnessing horrors\nwhich have given to youth the aspect and decrepitude of age, cannot\nexplain. A connexion, if not inseparable, yet intimate as body and soul,\nexisted between those demon-haunted bones, and yon monster who sought,\nand accomplished my ruin. What I have seen must not, cannot be told. My\nlips are for ever sealed. But the flames are fast gaining on us. Let us\nhasten, ere they prevent our retreat. The whole fabric will shortly be\nenveloped, and every record of this diabolical confederacy consumed. Go\nto thy lady-love. She is recovered, and, as one newly awakened from some\nterrific dream. With the earliest dawn hie thee to the prison lest _he_\nescape. Let him be instantly secured. When summoned I will not fail, to\nconfront, to denounce the wretch. He cannot penetrate yonder walls, save\nby fraud or strategem. How I have escaped death is one of the mysteries\nwhich time perchance may never develope. One might fancy the cunning\nleech who supplied the drug did play me false. Instead of poison mayhap,\none of those potions of which we have heard, that so benumb and stupify\nthe faculties, that for a space they mimic death--nor can any thing\nrouse or recover from its influence until the appointed time be past.\"\n\nThey hurried away as he spoke. De Vessey could scarcely wait until\ndaylight. His first care was to secure the old sorcerer. He sought aid\nfrom the police, and, as far as might be, revealed the dreadful secret.\n\nAn immediate visit was made to the cell. On entering, its inmate was in\nbed,--a scorched, a blackened corpse!\n\nIt may be supposed, the lover was not long in attending on his mistress.\nShe was free from disorder, and happily unconscious of what had passed\nduring the interval, save that an ugly dream had troubled her. Nor was\nshe aware that more than one night had elapsed. In a few days\nafterwards, De Vessey led her to the altar.\n\nThe mystery was never fully penetrated. That imposture, and partial\ninsanity, might be involved, and have the greatest share in its\ndevelopment, is beyond doubt; but they cannot explain the whole of these\ndiabolical proceedings. That the powers of darkness may have power over\nthe bodies of wicked and abandoned men, cannot be denied.\n\nWhether this narration discloses another instance of such mysterious\nagency, our readers must determine.\n\nWhat the painter knew, was buried in eternal silence. The monks of La\nTrappe received a brother whose vows were never broken!\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRYSTAL GOBLET:\n\nA TALE OF THE EMPEROR SEVERUS.\n\n\nIt was midnight,--yet a light was burning in a small chamber situated in\none of the narrowest and least frequented streets of Eboracum,--then the\nmetropolis of the world. York at that period being the residence of the\nEmperor Severus, his court and family were conveyed hither; and the\ngovernment of the world transferred to an obscure island in the west:\nonce the _ultima Thule_ of civilization, its native inhabitants hardly\nyet emerged from a state of barbarism, and addicted to the most gross\nand revolting superstitions.\n\nA lamp of coarse earthenware was fastened on a bronze stand, having\nseveral beaks, and of a boat-like shape. Near it stood the oil-vase for\nreplenishing, almost empty,--while the wicks, charred and heavy with\nexuviae, looked as though for sometime untrimmed. On the same table was a\nGreek and a Coptick manuscript, an inkhorn, and the half of a silver\npenny, the Roman _symbolum_. Breaking a piece of money as a keepsake,\nbetween two friends, was, even at that period, a very ancient custom. A\nbrass rhombus, used by magicians, lay on a _cathedra_, or easy chair,\nwhich stood as though suddenly pushed aside by its occupier in rising\nhastily from his studies. An iron chest was near, partly open, wherein\npapers and parchments lay tumbled about in apparent disorder. Vellum, so\nwhite and firm, as to curl even with the warmth of the hand; purple\nskins emblazoned in gold and silver, and many others, of rare\nworkmanship, were scattered about with unsparing profusion. It was\nevidently the study, the _librarium_ of some distinguished person, and\nconsisted of an inner chamber beyond the court, having one window near\nthe roof, and another opening into a small garden behind. From the\nceiling there hung a dried ape, a lizard, and several uncouth,\nunintelligible reptiles, put together in shapes that nature's most\nfantastic forms never displayed. Vases of ointments, and unguents of\nstrange odours, stood in rows, upon a marble slab on one side of the\napartment. _Scrinia_, or caskets for the admission of rolls, and writing\nmaterials were deposited on shelves, forming a library of reference to\nthe individual whose _sanctum_ we are now describing: It was,\napparently, undisturbed by any living occupant, save a huge raven, now\nroosting on a wooden perch, his head buried under a glossy tissue of\nfeathers, and, to all appearance, immovable as the grinning and hideous\nthings that surrounded him. A magpie, confined in a cage above the door,\nwas taught to salute those who entered, with the word \"[Greek: chaire],\"\na Grecian custom, greatly in vogue amongst the most opulent of the\nRomans.\n\nEre long, there came a footstep,--and a gentle summons at the door. The\nbird gave the usual response; and straightway entered a stout muscular\nfigure, wrapped in a _chlamys_, fastened on the shoulder with a\nrichly-embossed _fibula_. Beneath, was the usual light leathern cuirass,\ncovered with scales of shining metal; the centre, over the abdomen,\nornamented with a gorgon's head, and other warlike devices; a short\nsword, being stuck in his girdle. From the lowest part hung leathern\nstraps, or _lambrequins_ highly wrought and embellished. He wore\nbreeches or drawers, reaching to the knees, and his feet and the lower\npart of the leg were covered with the _cothurnus_, a sort of traveller's\nhalf-boot. A sumptuous mantle, made of leopard skin, was thrown\ncarelessly about his head, hardly concealing his features; for the folds\nrelaxing in some measure as he entered, showed a youthful countenance;\nyet dark and ferocious, indicating a character of daring and vindictive\nenergy; and a disposition where forgiveness or remorse rarely tempered\nthe fiercer passions. As he looked round, the raven raised his head on a\nsudden, and peering at him with that curious and familiar eye, so\ncharacteristic of the tribe, gave a loud and hollow croak, which again\narrested the notice of the intruder.\n\n\"Most auspicious welcome truly, ill omened bird. Is thy master visible?\"\n\nThere was no reply; and the inquirer, after a cautious glance round the\nchamber, sat down, evidently disconcerted by this unexpected reception.\nScarcely seated, he felt the clasp on his shoulder suddenly risen, as\nthough by an intruder from behind. Looking round, he saw the raven with\nthe bauble in his beak, hopping off with great alacrity to his perch.\nThe magpie set up a loud scream as though vexed he was not a\nparticipator in the spoil. The owner, angry at his loss, pursued the\nthief, who defied every attempt to regain it; getting far above his\nreach; ever and anon the same ominous croak sounding dismally through\nthe gloom by which he was concealed. Finding it fruitless, the stranger\ngave up the pursuit, and again sat down, examining carelessly the papers\nwhich lay open for perusal. But it might seem these feathered guardians\nwere entrusted with the care of their master's chamber during his\nabsence.\n\n\"Beware!\" said the same querulous voice, that before accosted him.\nLooking up, he saw the magpie, his neck stretched to the utmost through\nthe bars of his cage, and in the act of repeating the injunction.\n\n\"'Tis an ill augur to my suit,\" he muttered hastily. \"Destiny!\" Starting\nup at the word, which he spake aloud, he clenched his hand.\n\n\"The inexorable gods may decree, but would it not be worthy of my\npurpose to brave them; to render even fate itself subservient to me!\"\n\nHe hurried to and fro across the chamber with an agitated step. Suddenly\nhe stood still, in the attitude of listening. He drew the folds of his\nmantle closer about his head, when by another entrance, there approached\na tall majestic figure, clad in dark vestments, who without speaking,\ncame near and stood before him. A veil of rich net-work fell gracefully\nbelow his mantle, being in that era, the distinctive garb of soothsayers\nand diviners. His hair, for he was an Asiatic, was twisted in the shape\nof a mitre, investing his form with every advantage from outward\nappearances.\n\n\"I would know,\" said he, \"by what right thou art at this untimely hour,\nan intruder on my privacy?\"\n\n\"By a will, which even thou darest not disobey,\" was the answer.\n\n\"It is past midnight. Knowest thou of my long watching, and the dark\nportents of the stars?\"\n\n\"Nay! But passing, I saw the door of the vestibule partly open. The\nfates were propitious. I crossed the court, intending to consult the\nmost famous soothsayer in the emperor's dominions.\"\n\n\"Peradventure 'tis no accidental meeting. To-night I have read the\nstars, the book of heaven. Comest thou not, blind mortal at their\nbidding?\"\n\n\"I have neither skill nor knowledge in the art----,\"\n\nThe stranger hesitated, as though he had as lief the conversation was\nresumed by the diviner himself.\n\n\"Thy father. What of him?\" said the Chaldean, with a look, as though he\nhad penetrated his inmost thoughts.\n\n\"True, 'tis mine errand,\" said the intruder. \"But the event?\"\n\n\"The augury is not complete!\"\n\n\"Thine auguries are like my good fortune,--long in compassing. The best\naugur I trow, is this good steel. I would sooner trust it than the best\nthou canst bestow.\"\n\n\"Rash mortal. Impatience will be thy destruction.--Listen!\"\n\nThe raven hopped down upon his shoulder. A low guttural sound appeared\nto come from this ill-omened bird. The augur bent his ear. Sounds shaped\nthemselves into something like articulation, and the following couplet\nwas distinctly heard:--\n\n \"While the eagle is in his nest, the eaglet shall not prevail,\n Nor shall the eagle be smitten in his eyrie.\"\n\n\"Azor,\" said the warrior, clenching his sword, \"these three times hast\nthou mocked me, and by the immortal gods thou diest!\"\n\n\"Impious one! I could strike thee powerless as the dust thou treadest\non. Give me the bauble,\" said he, addressing the raven. The bird\nimmediately gave the clasp he had purloined into his master's hand.\n\n\"This shall witness between us,\" continued he. \"Dare to lift thy hand,\nthe very palace shall bear testimony to thy treason--that thou hast\nsought me for purposes too horrible even for thy tongue to utter. Hence.\nWhen least expected I may meet thee. If it had not been for thy mother's\nsake, and for my vow, the emperor ere this had been privy to it.\"\n\nStung with rage and disappointment, he put back his weapon, and with\nthreats and imprecations departed.\n\nOn a couch inlaid with ivory and pearl, within a vaulted chamber in the\nPraetorian Palace of the royal city, lay the emperor, in a coverlid of\nrich stuff. Disease had crushed his body, but the indomitable spirit was\nunquenched. Tossing and disturbed, at length he started from his bed.\nCalling to his chamberlain, he demanded if there had not been footsteps\nin the apartment. The ruler of the world, whose nod could shake the\nnations, and whose word was the arbiter of life or death to millions of\nhis fellow-men, lay here--startled at the passing of a sound, the\nfalling of a shadow! His face, whose chief characteristic was\npower,--that strength and determination of spirit which all\nacknowledge, and but few comprehend--was furrowed with deeper marks than\ncare had wrought. Sixty years had moulded the steady and inflexible\npurpose of his soul in lines too palpable to be misunderstood. His beard\nwas short and grizzled; and a swarthy hue, betraying his African birth,\nwas now become sallow, and even sickly in the extreme; but an eagle eye\nstill beamed in all its fierceness and rapacity from under his scanty\nbrows. His nose was not of the Roman sort, like the beak of that royal\nbird, but thick and even clumsy, lacking that sharp and predacious\nintellect generally associated with forms of this description.\n\nSuch was Septimus Severus, then styled on a coin just struck,\n\"BRITANNICVS MAXIMVS,\" in commemoration of a great victory gained over\nthe Caledonians, whom he had driven beyond Adrian's wall. Though\nsuffering from severe illness, he was carried in a horse-litter; and,\nmarching from York at the head of his troops, penetrated almost to the\nextremity of the island, where he subdued that fierce and intractable\nnation the Scots. Returning, he left his son Caracalla to superintend\nthe building of a stone wall across the island, in place of the earthen\nramparts called Adrian's;--a structure, when completed, that effectually\nresisted the inroads of those barbarians for a considerable period.\n\nHe called a third time to Virius Lupus, one, the most confidential of\nhis attendants, to whom many of the most important secrets of the state\nwere entrusted.\n\n\"Thrice have I heard it Virius. Again, and again, it seems to mock and\nelude my grasp.\" He paused: the officer yet listening with becoming\nreverence. The Emperor continued, more like one whose thoughts had taken\nutterance, than as if he were addressing the individual before him.\n\n\"When I led the Pannonian legions to victory; when Rome opened her\ngates at my command; when I fought my way through blood to the\nthrone,--I quailed not then! Now,--satiated with power, careless of\nfame, the prospects of life closed, and for ever,--when all that is left\nfor me to do is to die,--behold, I tremble at the shaking of a leaf! I\nstart, even at the footstep that awakes me!\"\n\n\"Long live the Emperor!\" said the cringing secretary. Interrupting him,\nas he would have proceeded with the customary adulations, the emperor\nagain continued as though hardly noticing his presence.\n\n\"Caracalla yet remains with the army. Once I censured the misguided\nclemency of Marcus, who, by an act of justice might have prevented the\nmiseries that his son Caligula brought upon the empire; and yet I, even\nI,\" said the haughty monarch, bitterly, \"nourish the very weakness that\nin others I despise!\"\n\nHe dashed away the sweat from his brow, ashamed of the weakness he could\nnot quell.\n\n\"He hath sought your life,\" said the wily sycophant.\n\n\"He hath!--Traitor! parricide! the distinctions he would have earned.\nBut my better genius triumphed, and history hath been spared this\ninfamy. It may be, this temporary exile from our court, with the\nnorthern army, shall tame his spirit to submission. My life or his, once\nthe bitter alternative, may yet be avoided.\"\n\n\"But may not his presence with the army be impolitic, should he turn the\nweapon wherewith you have girded him to your own hurt?\"\n\n\"'Tis an evil choice; whichever way I turn, mischief is before me.\"\n\n\"Were it not best that he be recalled?\"\n\n\"What! to plot and practise against my life? To mount upon my reeking\nbody to the throne! He will not reign with Geta. The proud boy disdains\na divided empire.--And was not mine own soul fashioned in the same\nmould? When Niger would have ruled in Syria, and Albinus in Britain, I\nscattered their legions to the winds, and levelled their hopes with\ntheir pride. 'Tis nature: and shall I, the author of his being, punish\nhim for mine own gift?\"\n\nHe raised himself on his couch. The fierce blaze of ambition broke the\ndark cloud of bodily infirmities, and the monarch and the tyrant again\ndilated his almost savage features.\n\nThe secretary, used to these fiery moods, stood awaiting his commands.\nThe emperor, as though exhausted, sunk down on his pillow, exclaiming,--\n\n\"I have governed the world, but I cannot govern a wayward heart!\"\n\nThus did he often lament, and provoke himself the more with these vain\nregrets; forgetting that, if he had exercised the same firmness in his\nprivate as public capacity, the government of his own house would have\nbeen easy as the government of the world.\n\n\"Virius Lupus there is danger,--and to-night. As I have told thee, the\nstars do betoken mischief. But the peril is at my threshold. Let\nCaracalla remain; so shall we avert his weapon. Should the assassin\ncome, it will not be with the blow of a parricide. Thou mayst retire to\nthy couch, but, first, let the guards be doubled, the watchword and\ncountersign changed. And, hark thee, tell the tribune that he look well\nto the _tessera_, and have the right count from the inspectors. Should\ndespatches come from Rome, let the messenger have immediate audience.\"\n\nAgain the emperor stretched himself on the couch, and again his slumbers\nwere interrupted. A murmur was heard along the halls and passages where\nthe guards were stationed. The noise grew louder, approaching the very\ndoor of the royal chamber. The monarch started, as from a dream, and the\ndoor at that moment opened. The Chaldaean soothsayer stood before him.\n\n\"Azor!\" said the Emperor, \"at this hour? What betides such unseemly\ngreeting?\"\n\n\"Caesar trembles on his throne; but the world quakes not! The angel of\ndeath is at thy door. Caracalla hath returned.\"\n\n\"Returned? Surely thy wits are disturbed. Caracalla! Aye, even\nyesterday, we had despatches from the camp.\"\n\n\"Howbeit, he is at thy threshold. The sound of his feet is behind me.\"\n\n\"Impossible! the mischief is not from him.\"\n\n\"Even now I looked in the crystal, and behold----\" The soothsayer\npaused. Horror was gathering on his features. The light suspended above\nhim began to quiver; and, as it waved to and fro, his countenance\nassumed a tremulous and distorted expression.\n\nSeverus watched the result with no little anxiety. The magician drew a\ncrystal cup from his girdle. Looking in, apparently with great alarm, he\npresented it at arm's length to the emperor, who beheld a milky cloud\nslowly undulating within the vessel.\n\n\"Take this,\" said the soothsayer, \"and tell me what thou seest.\"\n\nThe monarch took it at his bidding. The cloud seemed to be clearing\naway, as the morning mist before the sun.\n\n\"I see nothing,\" said the emperor, \"but a silver clasp at the bottom.\"\n\n\"And the owner?\"\n\n\"As I live,\" said the astonished parent, drawing forth a curiously\nembossed clasp from the goblet, and holding it out to the light, \"this\ntoken of rare workmanship did the Empress present to Caracalla, ere he\ndeparted. Whence came it? and wherefore hast thou brought it hither?\"\n\n\"A silent witness to my word. Within the hour thy son returns; and----\"\nThe seer's voice grew more ominous whilst he spake. \"Beware! there's\nmischief in the wind. The raven scents his prey afar off!\"\n\n\"If in this thou art a true prophet, I will give thee largess; but if a\nlying spirit of divination possess thee, my power is swift to punish as\nto reward.\"\n\n\"I heed not either. Do I serve thee for lucre? Look thee, in less time\nthan I would occupy in telling thee on't I could fill thy palace with\ngold and silver! and do I covet thy paltry treasures? The kingdoms of\nthis world are his whom I serve, and shall I seek thy perishing honours?\nBehold, I leave this precious goblet as my pledge. I must away. Thou\nshall render it back on my return. I would not part with that treasure\nfor the dominion of the Caesars. Beware thou let it not forth from thy\nsight, for there be genii who are bound to serve its possessor, and,\nperadventure it shall give thee warning when evil approaches.\"\n\nThe soothsayer departed, and the emperor laid the crystal goblet on a\ntable opposite his couch. He clapped his hands, and the chief secretary\napproached.\n\n\"What said our messenger from the north? Read again the despatch they\nbrought yesterday.\"\n\nThe secretary drew forth a roll from his cabinet, and read as follows:--\n\n\"Again the supreme gods have granted victory to our legions. Favoured by\nthe darkness and their boats, the barbarians attacked us from three\nseparate points. Led on by Fingal and his warriors, whom beforetime we\nerroneously reported to be slain, they crossed over to the station where\nwe had pitched our tents. But the Roman eagle was yet watchful. Though\nretreating behind our last defences, we left not the field until a\nthousand, the choicest of our foes, bit the dust. Morning showed us the\nred-haired chief and his bards, but they were departing, and their\nspears were glittering on the mountains.\"\n\n\"Enough!\" said the emperor. \"Caracalla tarries yet with the camp. Our\nperson is not menaced by his hand. Prithee send a brasier hither. The\nnight is far spent, and slumber will not again visit these eyelids.\"\n\nA bronze tripod was brought, supported by sphinxes, the worship of Isis\nbeing a fashionable idolatry at that period. Charred wood was then\nplaced in a round dish, pierced with holes, and perfumes thrown in to\ncorrect the smell. The emperor commanded that he should be left alone.\nCovering his shoulders with a richly-embroidered mantle, he took from\nbehind his pillow a Greek treatise on the occult sciences, to the study\nof which he was passionately addicted.\n\nIt is said of him, by historians, that he was guided by his skill in\njudicial astrology to the choice of the reigning empress, having lost\nhis first wife when governor of the Lyonnese Gaul. Finding that a lady\nof Emesa, in Syria, one Julia Domna, had what was termed \"a royal\nnativity,\" he solicited and obtained her hand, thus making the prophecy\nthe means of its accomplishment.\n\nA woman of great beauty, and strong natural acquirements, she was, at\nthe same time, the patron of all that was noble and distinguished in the\nphilosophy and literature of the age. It was even said that, secretly,\nshe was a favourer of the Christians. Be this as it may, we do not find\nshe ever became a professor of the faith.\n\nSleep, that capricious guest, which comes unbidden, but not invited, was\njust stealing over the monarch's eyelids, when the roll fell from his\ngrasp. The unexpected movement startled him. His eye fell on the bright\ncrystal opposite. He thought a glimmer was moving in the glass. He\nremembered the words of the sage, and his eye was riveted on the mystic\ngoblet. A sudden flash was reflected from it. He started forward, when a\nnaked sword fell on the couch! the stroke he only escaped by having so\naccidentally changed his place. The glass had revealed the glitter of\nthe blade behind him, and he was indebted to a few inches of space for\nhis life!\n\nLooking round, he beheld a masked figure preparing to repeat the stroke.\nSeverus, with his usual courage and presence of mind, threw his mantle\nacross the assassin's sword. He cried out, and the chamber was\nimmediately filled with guards; but, whether from treachery or\ninadvertence, the traitor was no where to be found. He had escaped,\nleaving his weapon entangled in the folds of the mantle. On examination,\nthe emperor's surprise was visibly increased, when he recognised the\nsword as one belonging to Caracalla! The soothsayer's prediction was\napparently fulfilled. To the emperor's superstitious apprehensions the\ncrystal goblet was charged with his safety. But, lo! on being sought\nfor, the charmed cup was gone!\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe next morning, as the sun was just rising over the green wolds, and\nthe fresh air came brisk and sharply on the traveller's cheek, a\nstranger was noticed loitering through the narrow streets of the\nimperial city. He had passed the great Calcarian or western gate, from\nwhich the statue of the reigning emperor, on that memorable morning, was\nfound razed from its pedestal. The outer and inner faces of the gate\nwere whitened for the writing of edicts and proclamations by the\ngovernment scribes, and likewise for the public notices of minor import,\nthese being daubed on the walls with various degrees of skill, in red or\nblack pigments, according to the nature of the decrees that were issued\nby the Praetor and the caprice of the artist.\n\nOn that morning a number of idlers had assembled about the gate. The\nstatue of the emperor, fallen prostrate, had been removed, and an edict\npromptly supplied, to the purport that an impious hand, having attempted\nthe life of the monarch, a reward of one hundred thousand _sestertia_\nwould be the price of his apprehension. Another reward of the like sum\nwas offered for the discovery of a crystal goblet, stolen from the\nemperor's chamber.\n\nThe individual we have just noticed wore the common sleeved tunic of\ncoarse wool; over it was a cloak buckled on the right shoulder, the yarn\nbeing died in such wise that, when woven, it might resemble the skin of\na brindled ox--such was the dress of the ancient Britons. His head was\ncovered with a close cap, but his feet were naked; and the only weapon\nhe bore was a two-handed sword, stuck in his girdle.\n\nEre he passed the gate, it might be supposed that his business and\ncredentials would have been rigidly scrutinised by the guards; but he\nmerely showed a large signet ring to the superior officer, and was\nimmediately allowed to pass. He soon came to the wooden bridge over the\nriver, now kept by a body of the Praetorian guards. Here, on attempting\nto pass, he was immediately seized. With an air of stupid or affected\nconcern, the prisoner drew the same signet from his hand, the sight of\nwhich again procured him immediate access. The bridge was crossed, and,\nafter passing along the narrow, winding streets, he came to a small\ntriumphal arch leading into the Forum. This was an area of but mean\nextent, surrounded by a colonnade, serving as a market for all sorts of\nwares, and the trades carried on under its several porticoes. The outer\nwalls, behind the columns, were painted in compartments, black and red,\nand here a number of citizens were assembled. There was hurrying to and\nfro. Soldiers and messengers, even so early, were bustling about with\nominous activity. The stranger looked on for awhile, with a vacant sort\nof curiosity, then, turning to the left hand, went forward towards the\ngate of the palace. On a corner of the building he saw another edict to\nthe same purport as before. Near it was the announcement of a spectacle\nat the theatre: the gift of a wealthy patrician for the amusement and\ngratification of the people. Still the stranger passed on, apparently\nuninterested by all, until he came to the outer gate, where he merely\npaused a few moments, as though to observe the movements of the soldiers\nand the changing of the guard. The sound of the trumpet seemed to\nattract especial notice from this barbarian, whose uncouth air and rude\nmanners drew upon him the gaze of many as they passed by. He now turned\ninto a narrower street behind the palace, and here he sought out a\ncommon tavern, where the chequers, newly painted on the door posts,\nbetokened good entertainment for travellers. Having entered, the\nhostess, whose tucked-up dress and general appearance, Martial, in his\nepigrams, so cunningly describes, brought him a vase or flagon of wine.\nIt was not of the true Falernian flavour, as may be readily surmised,\nbut a mixture of stuff, which can hardly be described, of nauseous\ntaste, smelling abominably of resin or pitch, and flavoured with myrrh\nand other bitters. Both hot and cold refections solicited the taste, and\nregaled the sight of the visitor. Flitches of bacon were suspended from\nabove, and fire-wood stuffed between the rafters, black and smoky with\nthe reeking atmosphere below. At his own request, the stranger was\ninstalled in a small chamber behind the public room, where stood a\ncouch, a three-footed table, and a lavatory. Here he was served with\nradishes, cheese, and roasted eggs, in earthen vessels, with a relish of\ncornels in pickle. Ere this refection was brought in, the table was\nrubbed over with a sprig of mint, and the coarse pottery betrayed an\nexquisite odour of thyme and garlic.\n\nAfter the needful refreshments and ablutions, he sallied forth, first\ninquiring for the residence of the Chaldean soothsayer, before whose\ndoor, in due time, he arrived. The gate leading to the vestibule was\nopen, and he entered by a narrow passage terminated by a small inner\ncourt. He paused, and looked round. No fountain played in the centre; a\nclump of rank, unwholesome grass was the only decoration, but the object\nof his search was a crooked, wooden staircase, which led to a sort of\ngallery above. After a little hesitation, he ascended; his country\nmanners showing a determination to persevere until fairly delivered of\nhis errand. A door at the extremity of the gallery stood ajar, and\nthrough this he made bold to enter. A Numidian slave, dwarfish and\ndeformed, was sweeping his master's chamber. He stopped short as the\nbarbarian, with a stupid and wondering look, entered the apartment.\nAfter surveying the new comer with an air of deliberate scrutiny, the\ndwarf burst forth into a violent fit of laughter.\n\n\"Mercury hath sent us precious handsel this morning, truly,\" said he,\nwhen his diversion was concluded. \"A pretty hound to scent out master's\nlost goods. The gods do verily mock us in thy most gracious person.\"\n\nThe visitor looked on with dismay during this ungracious and taunting\nspeech. At length he stammered forth,\n\n\"Thy master, is he not the Chaldean to whom my mistress, knowing I was\nbound for the city, hath sent me privily with a message?\"\n\nThe Briton spoke this in a sort of guttural and broken Latin, which the\napish dwarf mimicked in the most mischievous and provoking way\nimaginable. The messenger, irritated beyond endurance, placed both hands\non his weapon, but his antagonist, with little ado, tripped up his\nheels, and the poor aborigine was completely at the mercy of this\ngrotesque specimen of humanity.\n\nGrinning over him with spite and mischief in his looks, the dwarf\nstamped on the floor; presently there came two slaves, who, without\nfurther notice than a blow now and then when resistance was offered,\nbound him with stout cords, and bade him lie there until he should be\nfurther disposed of. Inquiry was vain as to the cause of this treatment.\nBound hand and foot, he was then tossed with little ceremony, and less\ncompunction, into a corner of the room; and there left to bemoan his\nhard fate. Perched just above his head, sat the cunning raven, who eyed\nhim as though with serious intentions of pecking at him in his present\ndefenceless condition. He was soon aware of this additional source of\nalarm, and as the bird's eye brightened and twinkled with greedy\nanticipation, he rubbed his rapacious beak on the perch, apparently\nwhetting it for the feast. He then jumped down on the floor, and hopping\nclose to his victim, gave a hoarse and dismal croak, a death warning, it\nmight be, to the unfortunate captive. He tried to burst his bonds, and\nshrieked out in the extremity of his alarm. His struggles kept the bird\nat a distance, but it continued to survey him with such a longing,\nliquorish eye, that the poor culprit felt himself already writhing, like\nanother Prometheus, under the beak of his destroyer. His terror\nincreased. It might be some demon sent to torment him; and this\nconviction strengthened when he saw the dismal and hideous things that\nsurrounded him. Just as his agony was wrought to the highest pitch, he\nheard footsteps. Even the sound was some relief. He knew not what\nfurther indignities--not to say violence--he might expect; but at all\nevents, there would be a change, and it was hailed as an alleviation to\nhis misery.\n\nThe soothsayer presented himself, attended by the ugly dwarf.\n\n\"A stupid barbarian thou sayest the Fates have sent us?\" said the\nChaldean, as he entered. \"Bridle thine impious tongue, Merodac; what the\ndweller in immortal fire hath decreed, will be accomplished, though by\nweak and worthless creatures such as these. What ho! stranger, whence\nart thou? and why art thou moved so early across our threshold?\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said the prisoner, in a tone of entreaty, \"these bonds are\nunlawful--I am a freed man. Though a Briton, I am no slave, and I\nbeseech you to visit this indignity on that rogue, who hath so scurvily\nentreated me.\"\n\n\"I was privy to it, else would he not have dared this.\"\n\n\"And to what end, good master?\"\n\n\"That we may have an answer propitious to our suit.\"\n\n\"What! are ye about to sacrifice me to your infernal deities!\" cried the\ncaptive, almost frantic with the anticipation.\n\n\"My friend, thou art bound for another purpose; to wit that, through thy\ninstrumentality, we may discover the divining cup the emperor hath lost.\nKnowest thou aught of this precious crystal?\" inquired the Chaldean,\nwith a searching look.\n\nBut it were vain to describe the astonishment of the victim. He looked\nalmost in doubt of his own identity, or as if he were trying to shake\noff the impression of some hideous dream. At length he replied,\n\n\"'Tis some device surely, that ye may slay me!\"\n\nHe wept; and the tears trickling down his cheek, were indeed piteous to\nbehold, \"I know not,\" said he, \"your meaning. Let me depart.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the soothsayer, \"thou mayest content thyself as thou list,\nbut the cup shall be found, and that by thy ministry. The emperor hath\noffered rewards, nigh to the value of three silver talents, for the\nrecovery, and assuredly thou shalt be held in durance until it be\nregained.\"\n\n\"And by whose authority?\" inquired the Briton.\n\n\"Why, truly, it becometh thee to ask, seeing thou art a party interested\nin the matter. The emperor, in whose care the jewel was left, hath sworn\nby the River Styx, that unless the cup be brought back to the palace ere\nto-morrow's dawn, he will punish the innocent with the guilty; and that\nwith no sparing hand. He hath already laid hands on some of the more\nwealthy citizens, and amerced them in divers sums; others are detained\nas hostages for suspected persons who are absent from the city. The loss\nof this cup being connected with a daring attempt on the emperor's life\nby some unknown hand, he doth suspect that the very palace wants purging\nfrom treason; yet where to begin, or on whom to fasten suspicion, he\nknoweth not. Mine art has hitherto failed me in the matter. The tools\nthey work with baffle my skill, save that the oracle I consult commanded\nthat I should lay hold on the first male person that came hither to-day,\nand by his ministry the lost treasure should be restored. Shouldest thou\nrefuse, thou art lost; for assuredly the emperor will not be slow to\npunish thy contumacy.\"\n\nThe miserable captive fell into great perplexity at this discourse. He\nvowed he knew no more of the lost cup than the very stones he trod on;\nthat he had come since nightfall from his master, Lucius Claudius,\nlieutenant and standard-bearer of the sixth legion, then at Isurium,[N]\non a mere casual errand to the city; and that his mistress, who was a\nBritish lady of noble birth, had instructed him, at the same time, to\nconsult the soothsayer on some matters relative to her nativity, which\nthe sage had calculated some years back. Almost a stranger in these\nparts, how could he pretend to begin the search? He begged piteously for\nhis release; promising, and with great sincerity, that he would never\nset foot in this inhospitable region again. The magician inquired his\nname.\n\n\"Cedric with the ready foot,\" was the reply. Unmoved by his entreaties,\nthe soothsayer said he had the emperor's command for the use of every\nmethod he could devise for the recovery of this precious and priceless\njewel; and that, furthermore, the safety, and even lives of many\ninnocent persons depended on the stranger's exertions, and the speedy\nexecution of his mission. But how to begin, or in what quarter to\ncommence the search, was a riddle worthy of the Sphinx. A most\nunexpected and novel situation for this rude dweller in woods and\nmorasses, to be suddenly thrust forth into a mighty city, without guide\nor direction, more ignorant of his errand than any of its inhabitants.\nBesides, he was not without a sort of incipient and instinctive dread,\nthat the catastrophe might procure him an interview with the emperor;\nand he was filled with apprehension lest his own carcase might afford a\nspecial treat, a sacrifice to the brutal appetite of the spectators in\nthe amphitheatre, after the manner of the _bestiarii_, or gladiators, of\nwhom he had often heard. Even could he have gotten word of this mishap\nto his master, he was by no means certain it would be attended with any\nbeneficial result. The time was too short, and the will and mandate of\nthe emperor would render futile any attempt to obtain deliverance from\nthis quarter.\n\nA few moments sufficed for these considerations. The glance of the mind,\nwhen on the rack for expedients, is peculiarly keen, and hath an\neagle-like perception that appears as though it could pierce to the dim\nand distant horizon of its hopes and apprehensions.\n\n\"Unbind these withes,\" said the captive, \"I cannot begin the search in\nthis extremity.\"\n\n\"Merodac, undo these bonds; and see thou guard thy prisoner\nstrictly:--thy life answers for his safe keeping.\"\n\nThe dwarf, who seemed never so well pleased as when tormenting the more\nfortunate and better shapen of his species, unloosed the cords with\nsomething of the like feeling and intention as a cat when liberating\nsome unfortunate mouse from her talons.\n\n\"There's a chance of rare sport i' the shows to-morrow,\" said the ugly\njailor. \"We are sure of _thee_, anyhow.--Didst ever see the criminals\nfight with wolves, Hyrcanian bears, and such like? I would not miss the\nsight for the best feather in my cap.\"\n\nThe cruel slave here rubbed his hands, and his yellow eyes glistened\nwith the horrible anticipation. His victim groaned aloud.\n\n\"I'll tell thee a rare device,\" continued he, \"whereby thou mayest\nescape being eaten, at least a full hour; and we shall have the longer\nsport. Mind thee, the beasts do not always get the carcases for dinner.\nIf they be cowardly, and show little fight, we give the dead bestiarii\nto the dogs. I remember me well the last we threw into the emperor's\nkennel, the dogs made such a fighting for the carrion, that he ordered\neach of us a flagellation for the disturbance. Let me see, there\nwas--ay--\" here the knave began to count the number of shows and human\nsacrifices he had seen, recounting every particular with the most\nhorrible minuteness. Cedric felt himself already in the gripe of the\nsavages, and his flesh verily quivered on his bones.\n\nBrutal and demoralising were those horrid spectacles. The people of\nRome, it has been well observed by a modern writer, were generally more\ncorrupt by many degrees than has been usually supposed possible. Many\nwere the causes which had been gradually operating towards this result,\nand amongst the rest, the continual exhibition of scenes where human\nblood was poured forth like water. The continual excitement of the\npopulace demanded fresh sacrifices, until even these palled upon the\ncruel appetites of the multitude. Even the more innocent exhibitions,\nwhere brutes were the sufferers, could not but tend to destroy all the\nfiner sensibilities of the nature. \"Five thousand wild animals, torn\nfrom their native abodes in the wilderness and the forest,\" have been\nturned out for mutual slaughter in one single exhibition at the\namphitheatre. Sometimes the _lanista_ or person who exhibited the shows,\nand provided the necessary supplies, by way of administering specially\nto the gratification of the populace, made it known, as a particular\nfavour, that the whole of these should be slaughtered. These, however,\nsoon ceased to stimulate the appetite for blood. From such combats,\n\"the transition was inevitable to those of men, whose nobler and more\nvaried passions spoke directly, and by the intelligible language of the\neye, to human spectators; and from the frequent contemplation of these\nauthorised murders, in which a whole people--women as much as men, and\nchildren intermingled with both, looked on with leisurely indifference,\nwith anxious expectation, or with rapturous delight, whilst below them\nwere passing the direct sufferings of humanity, and not seldom its dying\npangs, it was impossible to expect a result different from that which\ndid, in fact, take place--universal hardness of heart, obdurate\ndepravity, and a twofold degradation of human nature, the natural\nsensibility and the conscientious principle.\" \"Here was a constant\nirritation, a system of provocation to the appetite for blood, such as\nin other nations are connected with the rudest stages of society, and\nwith the most barbarous modes of warfare.\"\n\n\"Whither wilt thou that we direct our steps?\" inquired Merodac, with\nmock submission, when the cords were unloosed.\n\n\"Lead the way--I care not,\" said his moody victim, \"'tis as well that I\nfollow.\"\n\nA bitter and scornful laugh accompanied the reply of the dwarf.\n\n\"That were a pretty device truly,--to let thee lag behind, and without\nthy tether. Ah, ah,\" chuckled the squire as they left the chamber;\n\"Diogenes and his lantern was a wise man's search compared with ours.\"\n\nHow the slave came to be so learned in Grecian lore, we know not. His\nfurther displays of erudition were cut short by the soothsayer, who\ncried out to him as they departed,\n\n\"Remember, thy carcase for his, if he return not.\"\n\nNow, in York, at this day, may be observed, where an angle of the walls\nabuts on the \"Mint Yard,\" a building named \"the Multangular Tower,\" and\nsupposed to have been one of the principal fortifications of the city.\nHowever this might be, its structure has puzzled not a little, even\nthose most conversant with antiquities. The area was not built up all\nround, but open towards the city. The foundations of a wall have\nlatterly been discovered, dividing it lengthwise through the centre, and\ncontinued, for some distance, into the town; so that the whole may not\ninaptly be represented by a Jew-trump--the tongue being the division,\nthe circular end the present Multangular Tower, continued by walls on\neach side. This building, we have every reason to conjecture, was the\nGreek _stadium_ or Roman circus, which authors tell us was a narrow\npiece of ground shaped like a staple; the round end called the barrier.\nThe wall dividing it lengthwise is the _spina_, or flat ridge, running\nthrough the middle, which was generally a low wall, and sometimes merely\na mound of earth. This was usually decorated with statues of gods,\ncolumns, votive altars, and the like. As a corroboration of this\nopinion, there have been found here several small statues, altars, and\nother figures, betokening a place of public resort or amusement.\n\nThe circus was not used merely for horse and chariot-races, but likewise\nfor wrestling--the _caestus_, and other athletic games. It was noted as\nthe haunt of fortune-tellers, and thither the poorer people used to\nresort, and hear their fortunes told.[O]\n\nNear this place stood the barracks, or _castra_. Long ranges of rooms,\ndivided into several stories, the doors of each chamber opening into one\ncommon gallery, ascended by a wooden staircase.\n\nHither we must conduct our readers, at the close of the day on whose\ninauspicious morning \"Cedric with the ready foot,\" was placed in such\njeopardy.\n\nThe whole city meanwhile had been astir. The emperor's wrath and desire\nof revenge were excited to the utmost pitch. He suspected treachery even\namongst the Praetorian guards,--his favourite and best-disciplined\ntroops; and there was an apprehension of some terrible disgrace\nattaching even to them. Still, nothing further transpired implicating\nthe soldiery, save that the assassin had escaped, and, apparently,\nthrough the very midst of the guard; yet no one chose to accuse his\nfellow, or say by whose means this mysterious outlet was contrived. Not\neven to his most confidential minister did the emperor reveal the\ndiscovery of his son's weapon. Neither that son, nor his guilty\naccomplices, if any, could be found; and the day was fast closing upon\nthe monarch's threat, that on the morrow his vengeance should have its\nfull work, unless the crystal goblet was restored.\n\nThere had been a public spectacle at the theatre, but the emperor was\nnot present; and such was the consternation of the whole city, that the\nperformance was but scantily attended. The city was apparently on the\neve of some sad catastrophe, and the whole population foreboding some\nfearful event.\n\nIn the circus were yet some stray groups, who, having little employment\nof their own, were listening for news, and loitering about, either for\nmischief or amusement.\n\nIn one part was exhibited a narrow wooden box, not unlike to our\npuppet-show, wherein a person was concealed, having figures made of wood\nand earthenware, that seemed to act and speak, to the great wonder and\ndiversion of the audience.\n\nAs the rays of the declining sun smote upon the city walls and the white\nsails of the barks below, there came into the circus the dwarf, who had\ncharge of Cedric. The captive now looked like a sort of appendage to\nhis person--being strapped to his arm by a stout thong of bull's hide,\nsuch as was used for correcting refractory slaves. The hours allotted\nfor search were nearly gone. Day was drawing to a close, and Cedric had\ndone little else than bemoan his hard fate. The whole day had been spent\nin wandering from place to place, urged on by the scoffs and jeers of\nhis companion. Some furtive attempts to escape had been the cause of his\npresent bondage. Hither, at length, they arrived. Tired and distressed,\nhe sat down on one of the vacant benches, and gave vent to his sorrows\nin no very careful or measured language.\n\n\"What can I do?\" said he, \"a stranger in this great city--to set me\na-finding what I never knew? A grain of wheat in a barn full of chaff,\nmayhap--a needle in a truss of hay--anything I might find, but what was\nsheer impossible. And now am I like to be thrown to the dogs, like a\nheap of carrion!\"\n\n\"But the oracle, friend.\"\n\n\"Plague on the oracle, for----\" Here his speech was interrupted; for\nhappening to look up, he saw, as he fancied, the eyes of one of the\nlittle figures in the show-box ogling him, and making mouths in such\nwise as to draw upon him the attention of the spectators, now roaring\nwith laughter at his expense. Reckless of consequences, and almost\nfurious from sufferings, he suddenly jumped up, and dragging the dwarf\nalong with him, made a desperate blow at the mimic, which, in a moment,\nlaid sprawling a whole company of little actors, together with the prime\nmover himself, and the showman outside to boot. The fray, as may readily\nbe conceived, waxed loud and furious. The owners and bystanders not\ndiscriminating as to the main cause of the attack, would have handled\nboth the keeper and the captive very roughly, had not the noise awakened\nthe attention of the soldiers in the neighbouring barracks. Hearing the\naffray, a party ran to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and\nseeing two men whom a whole crowd had combined to attack, concluded they\nwere culprits, and forthwith hailed them before the captain of the\nguard, a centurion, Diogenes Verecundus by name.\n\nCedric and the dwarf, being rescued from a sound beating, began to abuse\none another, as the cause of the disturbance; but the officer, by dint\nof threats and inquiries, soon learned the truth of the matter.\n\n\"Thank the stars, I shall be rid of this pestilence to-morrow,\" said\nMerodac; \"my master could not have found me such another; and how the\nFates could pitch upon such a sorry cur for the business, seems passing\nstrange. If he find the cup, I'll be beaten to a jelly in it. Thy\ncarcase will be meat for the emperor's hounds to morrow.\"\n\n\"If, as thou sayest,\" said the centurion, \"thou art so mightily weary of\nthy charge, leave him to my care; I would fain have some discourse with\nhim privily, touching what thou hast spoken.\"\n\nThe slave hesitated.\n\n\"On the word of a Roman soldier he shall be forthcoming. Tell thy master\nthat Verecundus the centurion, hath taken thy prisoner captive. Here is\nmoney for thee.\"\n\nThe Ethiop showed his teeth, like ivory studs on a coral band, while the\nrings shook in his wrinkled ears, as he took the largess. Yet his brow\ncontracted, and he hung his head. He hesitated to unloose the bonds.\n\n\"By what token?\" he at length inquired.\n\n\"By this!\" said the centurion, taking up a thong for his correction.\n\"Stay,\" continued he, laying it down, \"I will not punish thee\nundeservedly. Take these, they will bear thee harmless with thy master.\"\n\nThe dwarf took the writing thankfully, and made the best of his way to\nthe dwelling of the soothsayer.\n\nThe officer now beckoned Cedric that he should follow. In a low room by\nthe guard-chamber at the gate, the following conversation took place.\n\n\"There is evil denounced us of a truth,\" said Verecundus; \"but it may be\nthe gods have sent thee hither for our rescue, as the oracle hath said.\"\n\nThe Briton fixed his wondering eyes on the soldier, whilst he continued.\n\n\"I have pondered the words well, and if thou prove trusty, ere this\nnight pass, the plot shall be discovered, and the ringleaders secured.\nWe have need of such an one as thou--a stranger, whom they will not\nsuspect, and will use the intelligence he obtains with a vigilant and\ncunning eye. There is work for thee, which, if well done, may bring thee\nto great wealth and honour. If thou fail, we fall together in the same\nruin. There is a plot against the emperor; and one which hath its being,\nay, in the very secrets of the palace. Those nearest him, I am well\nassured, are the chief movers in the conspiracy. 'Tis this makes it so\nperilous to discover, and without a fitting agent the mischief will not\nbe overcome. I have thought to throw myself at the emperor's feet, but\nhaving no proof withal to support my suspicions, I should, in all\nlikelihood, fall a sacrifice to my own fidelity.\"\n\n\"But how,\" asked the bewildered Cedric, \"shall I discover them? Verily,\nit doth seem that to-day I am destined to work out impossibilities. How\nit comes to pass that a poor ignorant wretch like myself, should compass\nthese things, it faileth my weak fancy to discover!\"\n\n\"The soothsayer's speech is not lightly to be regarded. Hark thee,\nknave! Is life precious unto thee?\"\n\n\"Yea, truly is it. I have a wife and children, besides a few herds and\nother live stock, likewise sundry beeves i' the forest. But, unless I\ncan find favour in your eyes, my goods, alas! I am not like to see\nagain.\"\n\n\"Nor wilt thou, peradventure, again behold the light of yon blessed sun\nwhich hath just gone down. The shades of evening are upon us, and the\nshadows of death are upon thine eyelids; for, hark thee, I do suspect\nsome treasonable message in thine errand to the city.\"\n\nCedric, with a look of terror and incredulity, stammered out,\n\n\"As I live, I know not thy meaning!\"\n\n\"Thou art in my power; and, unless thou servest me faithfully, thou\ndiest a cruel and fearful death. What was the exact message wherewith\nthou wast entrusted?\"\n\nThe Briton's countenance brightened as he replied,\n\n\"I give it thee, with right good will. No treason lurks there, I trow.\n'Take this,' said my master, yesternight, giving me a signet ring; 'take\nit to York by day-break. At the gate show it to the guard. If they let\nthee pass, well. If not, return, for there is mischief in the city. At\nthe bridge, shouldest thou get so far, again show it, where, I doubt\nnot, thou shalt find thereby a ready passage. Seek thee out some\nby-tavern, where thou mayest refresh; then, about mid-day go into the\nstreet called the goldsmiths', and there inquire for one Caius Lupus,\nthe empress's jeweller. Show him the signet, and mark what he shall tell\nthee.'\"\n\n\"Thou hast given him the signet then?\" said the centurion, sharply.\n\n\"Nay. For my mistress, as ill luck would have it, hearing of my journey,\nand she having had some knowledge of the soothsayer's art aforetime,\nbade me consult him ere my errand was ready with the goldsmith, and\ndeliver a pressing request for the horoscope which had been long\npromised. What passed then, as thou knowest, is the cause of my\ncalamity.\"\n\n\"But didst thou not search out the dwelling of this same Caius, and do\nthine errand?\"\n\n\"I did. But in the straits which I endured, I was not careful to note\nthe time. An hour past mid-day, I sought out his dwelling; but he was\ngone to the palace on urgent business with the empress, nor was it known\nwhen he might return.\"\n\n\"Sayest thou so, friend? I would like to look at this same potent\ntalisman.\"\n\nCedric drew forth the ring. It was a beautiful onyx, on which, engraven\nwith exquisite workmanship, was a head of the youthful Caracalla,\nencircled by a laurel wreath, showing marks of the most consummate\nskill.\n\n\"Was thine errand told to the soothsayer?\" was the next inquiry.\n\n\"Verily nay,\" said the messenger; \"there was little space for parley ere\nI was thrust forth.\"\n\n\"He saw not the signet, then?\"\n\n\"Of a truth it has not been shown, save to the guards for my passport.\"\n\n\"Now, knave, thy life hangs on a thread so brittle that a breath shall\nbreak it. This same goldsmith I do suspect; but thou shalt see him, and\nwhatsoever he showeth, I will be at hand that thou mayest tell me\nprivily. I will then instruct thee what thou shalt do. If thou fail not\nin thy mission, truly thou shalt have great rewards from the emperor.\nBut if thou whisper--ay to the walls--of our meeting, thou diest!\nRemember thou art watched. Think not to escape!\"\n\nThe poor wretch caught hold on this last hope of deliverance, and\npromised to obey.\n\nThere was a narrow vault beneath the women's apartments in the palace,\ncommunicating by many intricate passages, with an outlet into the Forum.\nHere, on this eventful night, was an unusual assemblage. The vault was\ndeep, even below the common foundations of the city, and where the light\nof day never came. An iron lamp hung from one of the massy arches of the\nroof; the damp and stagnant vapours lending an awful indistinctness to\nthe objects they surrounded. Chill drops lay on the walls and on the\nslippery floor. The stone benches were green with mildew; and it seemed\nas though the foot of man had rarely passed its threshold.\n\nIn this chamber, several individuals were now assembled in earnest\ndiscourse, their conversation whispered rather than spoken; yet their\nintrepid and severe looks, and animated gestures, ever and anon betrayed\nsome deep and resolute purpose more than usually portentous.\n\n\"An untoward event truly,\" said one of the speakers, Virius Lupus\nhimself, the emperor's private secretary. \"If the old magician could\nhave been won, it had been well.\"\n\n\"He might have saved the encounter and hazard we must now undergo. But\nlet him hold his fealty. We have stout hearts and resolute hands enow to\nbring the matter to a successful issue.\" Thus spoke Caracalla, the\nunnatural eldest born of his father.\n\n\"And yet,\" replied the secretary, \"he hath a ready admittance to his\nperson, and a great sway over thy father's councils.\"\n\n\"I heed him not, now that brave men work. It were time that our trusty\nservant, the commander at Isurium, had sent the message, with the token\nI left him on my departure. Ere this, we ought to have known the hour we\nmay expect his troops to move on the capital. I had thought to have made\nall safe; to have put it beyond the power of fate to frustrate our\npurpose; but I was foiled like a beardless boy at his weapons.\" He\ngnashed his teeth as he spoke; and this monster of cruelty breathed a\nhorrible threat against the life even of a parent and a king.\n\n\"Here is the roll,\" said one, who from his inkhorn and reed-pen seemed\nto be the scribe; and whose ambition had been lured by a promise that he\nshould have the office of sextumvir in the imperial city.\n\n\"Here be the names and disposition of the troops; the avenues and gates\nto which they are appointed.\"\n\n\"We but wait a messenger from Isurium to make our plans complete,\" said\nCaracalla. \"By the same courier I send back this cypher. Examine it,\nFabricius. The troops of Lucius Claudius are to march directly on the\nForum, and slay all who attempt resistance. Thou, Virius Lupus, wilt\nguide them through the secret passage into the palace.\"\n\nThe secretary bowed assent.\n\n\"Though the empress knows not our high purpose, it is by her connivance\nwe are here, safe from the emperor's spies. Under her mantle we are\nhidden. Suspicion hath crossed her that I am about to head the troops;\nthat my father, oppressed with age and infirmities, will retire to Rome;\nand that I, Caracalla, rule in Britain.\"\n\n\"Then she knows not the mishap of yesternight?\"\n\n\"She knows of the attempt, but not the agent. I would the messenger were\ncome. 'Tis an unforeseen delay. I pray the gods there be not treachery\nsomewhere. The officers and guard at the Calcarian gate and the bridge\nare ours; they were instructed to obey the signet.\"\n\n\"We will vouch for their fidelity,\" said two or three of the\nconspirators.\n\n\"Should he not arrive before midnight, we must strike,\" said Fabricius.\n\n\"Ay, as before,\" said the more cautious secretary. \"But we may now get a\nbroken head for our pains.\"\n\n\"The time brooks not delay,\" said Caracalla. \"Every moment now is big\nwith danger to our enterprise.\"\n\n\"Be not again too hasty,\" replied the secretary, \"there be none that\nwill divulge our plans. Let every part be complete before we act. We\ncannot succeed, should there be a disjointed purpose.\"\n\nCaracalla vehement, and unused to the curb, was about to reply, when\nthe door opened and a dumb slave slowly entered. He crossed his hands,\nand pointed to the door.\n\n\"A messenger,\" said they all.\n\n\"The gods are at last propitious,\" said Caracalla. \"Let him approach.\"\n\nSoon one was led in by the sentinel, blindfolded, and the latter\nimmediately withdrew.\n\n\"The sign,\" cried the secretary.\n\nThe stranger, without hesitation, presented a ring.\n\n\"'Tis the same,\" said Caracalla. He touched a concealed spring in the\nsignet, and from underneath the gem drew forth a little paper with a\nscrap of writing in cypher. It was held before the lamp, and the\nintelligence it contained rendered their plot complete. Ere break of day\nthe deed would be accomplished. The morning would see Caracalla\nproclaimed, and Severus deposed.\n\n\"Have ye any token to my master?\" inquired the messenger.\n\n\"Take back this writing,\" said Virius Lupus. \"Thou wilt find him not far\nfrom the city. We wait his coming.\"\n\n\"This leaden-heeled Mercury should have a largess,\" said the chief, \"but\nin this den we have not wherewithal to give him. Hold! here is a good\nrecompence, methinks,\" continued he, taking the crystal goblet from a\nrecess. \"Take this to thy mistress, and tell her to buy it from thee. We\nwill see her anon. That charmed cup hath foiled me once, but I will foil\nthee now, and the powers thou servest. Thou shall not again cross my\npath!\"\n\nCedric took the gift, wrapping it beneath his cloak.\n\n\"Thou mayest depart.\"\n\nThe dumb sentinel again took charge of him, and led him away by many\nintricate passages towards the entrance, where it seems the goldsmith\nhad directed him on presenting the signet of Caracalla. The person who\ntook charge of him was a dumb eunuch, a slave in the service of the\nempress.\n\nBut the terrors of death were upon the wretched victim. He knew the\ncenturion would assuredly be at hand to receive his report, and he could\nnot escape. He had not brought back one word of intelligence; and, being\nblindfolded, he knew not whither he had been taken. The writing he\ncarried would assuredly be unintelligible, save to those for whom it was\nintended. His mission, he could perceive, had utterly failed. The\ncenturion would not be able to profit by any thing he had brought back,\nand must, inevitably, according to his pledge, at once render him up to\nthe soothsayer. Whilst ruminating on his hard fate, a sudden thought\ncrossed him. There was little probability of success; but, at all\nevents, it might operate as a diversion in his favour, and the design\nwas immediately executed. Skulking for a moment behind the slave, he\ntore off the bandage, and tripped up the heels of his conductor. Before\nthe latter could recover himself, the Briton's gripe was on his throat.\n\n\"Now, slave, thou art my prisoner! Lead on, or, by this good sword, thou\ndiest!\"\n\nThe torch he carried was, luckily, not extinguished in the fall. The\neunuch, almost choaking, made a sign that he would obey. With the drawn\nblade at his throat, the slave went on; but Cedric, ever wary, and with\nthat almost instinctive sagacity peculiar to man in his half-civilised\nstate, kept a tiger-like watch on every movement of his prisoner, which\nenabled him to detect the fingers of the slave suddenly raised to his\nlips, and a shrill whistle would have consigned him over to certain and\nimmediate destruction; but he struck down the uplifted hand with a blow\nwhich made his treacherous conductor crouch and cringe almost to the\nground.\n\n\"Another attempt,\" said Cedric, \"and we perish together!\"\n\nThe wily slave looked all penitence and submission. Silently proceeding,\napparently through the underground avenues of the palace, Cedric was\nmomentarily expecting his arrival at the place where the centurion kept\nwatch. A flight of steps now brought them to a spacious landing-place.\nSuddenly a lamp was visible, and beneath it sat a number of soldiers,\nthe emperor's body-guard. They gave way as the eunuch passed by,\nfollowed by Cedric, his sword still drawn. Several of these groups were\nsuccessively cleared: the guide, by a countersign, was enabled to thread\nhis way through every obstacle that presented itself. The Briton's heart\nmisgave him as they approached a vestibule, before which a phalanx of\nthe guards kept watch. Here he thought it prudent to sheath his weapon,\nthough he still followed the eunuch, as his only remaining chance of\nescape. Even here they were instantly admitted, and without any apparent\nhesitation. The door turned slowly on its pivot, and Cedric found\nhimself in a richly decorated chamber, where, by the light of a single\nlamp, and with the smell of perfumed vapour in his nostrils, he saw a\nfigure in costly vestments reclining on a couch. The slave prostrated\nhimself.\n\n\"What brings thee from thy mistress at this untimely hour? A message\nfrom the empress?\"\n\nHere the speaker raised himself from the couch, and the slave, with\ngreat vehemence, made certain signs, which the wondering Briton\nunderstood not.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the emperor, his eyes directly levelled at the supposed\nculprit; \"thou hast found the thief who, in the confusion of\nyesternight, bore away the magic cup. Bring him hither, that I may\nquestion him ere his carcase be sent to the beasts.\"\n\nThe doomed wretch was now fairly in the paws of the very tyrant he had\nso long dreaded. The death, which by every stratagem he had striven to\navoid, was now inevitable. He was betrayed by means of the very device\nhe had, as he thought, so craftily adopted; but still his natural\nsagacity did not forsake him, even in this unexpected emergency. As he\nprostrated himself, presenting the cup he had stowed away safely in his\ncloak, he still kept a wary eye on the slave who had betrayed him. He\nsaw him preparing to depart; and, knowing that his only hope of\ndeliverance lay in preventing his guide from giving warning to the\nconspirators they had just left, Cedric, with a sudden spring, leaped\nupon him like a tiger, even in presence of the monarch.\n\nThe latter, astounded at this unexpected act of temerity, was for a few\nmoments inactive. This pause was too precious to be lost. Desperation\ngave him courage, and Cedric addressed the dread ruler of the world even\nwhilst he clutched the gasping traitor.\n\n\"Here, great monarch, here is the traitor; and if I prove him not false,\non my head be the recompense!\"\n\nHe said this in a tone of such earnestness and anxiety that the emperor\nwas suddenly diverted from his purpose of summoning his attendants. He\nsaw the favourite slave of the empress writhing in the gripe of the\nbarbarian; but the events of the last few hours had awakened suspicions\nwhich the lightest accusations might confirm. He remembered his son's\nguilt, the facility of his escape; and it might be that treason stood on\nthe very threshold, ready to strike. He determined to sift the matter;\nand, the guard now summoned, the parties were separated,--each awaiting\nthe fiat of the monarch.\n\n\"Where is Virius Lupus?\" was the emperor's first inquiry.\n\n\"He hath not returned from the apartments of the empress.\"\n\n\"Let this slave be bound,\" cried Cedric. \"Force him to conduct you even\nto the place whence, blindfold, he hath just led me; and if you find\nnot a nest of traitors, my own head shall be the forfeit.\"\n\nDark and fearful was the flash that shot from the emperor's eye on the\ndevoted eunuch. Pale and trembling he fell on his knees, supplicating,\nwith uplifted hands, for mercy. He knew it was vain to dissemble.\n\n\"And what wert thou doing in such perilous company?\" inquired the\nemperor, turning to Cedric, and in a voice which made him shrink.\n\n\"Let the centurion, Diogenes Verecundus, be sought out. He waits my\nreturn by the Forum Gate. To him the city owes a discovery of this plot,\nand Rome her monarch!\"\n\nThe faithful centurion was soon found. The eunuch conducted them\nsecretly to the vault. The conspirators were seized in the very height\nof their anticipated success. The roll containing the names of the\nleaders, the plan of attack, and the disposition of the rebellious\ntroops, was discovered; and the morning sun darted a fearful ray on the\nghastly and bleeding heads uplifted on the walls and battlements of the\nimperial palace.\n\nBut with misplaced clemency the monster Caracalla was again pardoned.\nThe centurion Diogenes Verecundus was raised to the dignity of Sexumvir.\nThe only reward claimed by the generous and sturdy Briton was an act of\nimmunity for his master, who was merely dismissed from his post and\nbanished the kingdom.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[N] Aldborough.\n\n[O] Lubinus in Juven. p. 294.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n\nOne morning, during Mr. Roby's stay at Keswick, in September 1849, it\nwas reported that the floating island in the lake was making its\nappearance. He immediately took a boat, and we hastened with a friend to\nthe spot. The island was plainly to be seen at a short distance below\nthe surface of the water, nearly approaching it in some parts, in others\ngradually retreating beyond our sight. It was easily touched with a\nstick, and appeared covered with vegetation. We grappled up with the\nboat-hook, and brought away, as a memento of our visit, a specimen of\nthe _Isoetes Lacustris_ (European quill-wort), a plant which grows\nabundantly at the bottom of the lakes in this district. The boatmen\nrowed carefully about, afraid of passing over the island, lest the boat\nshould run aground. It gave a strange feeling thus to find land coming\nup where, a few days before, we had floated in deep water. It did not\nrise any higher, but, after continuing for a day or two in the state\njust described, sank gradually to its old position at the bottom of the\nlake. The last time it was visible, some years since, it rose above the\nsurface.\n\nIt lies at some distance from the shore on the Barrow side of the lake,\nbetween the Barrow landing and Lodore. It was near the former spot that\nwe gathered the _Circaea Alpina_ (Alpine Enchanter's Nightshade) in\nfruit, growing side by side with the _Silene Maritima_ (Sea Campion).\nThe botanical reader will, perhaps, feel an interest in the notice of\ntwo or three other localities of the rarer plants. In the same\ndirection, high up among the rocks, near Ashness Gill, Mr. Roby found\nthe _Oxyria reniformis_ (Kidney-shaped Mountain-sorrel.) The _Salix\nHerbacaea_ (Least Willow), the smallest of British trees, and _Lycopodium\nAlpinum_ (Savin-leaved Club-moss), on Skiddaw, their well known\nhabitat; the latter plant also, with the _Alchemilla Alpina_ (Alpine\nLady's-mantle), its silvery leaves glistening in the sun, on the\nmountain-side opposite Honister Crag. In the wild and shady nooks of\nBorrowdale, the _Polypodium Phegopteris_ (Pale Mountain-polypody) and\nthe _P. Dryopteris_ (Tender Three-branched Polypody), growing in\ncharming profusion. And on Dunmail Raise, and on the precipitous descent\nof the Stake between Langdale Pikes and Bowfell, the golden stars of the\n_Saxifriga Azoides_ (Yellow Mountain-saxifrage) were still sparkling,\nwhere a little moisture allowed them to flourish.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\nLONDON:\n\nSPOTTISWOODES and SHAW,\n\nNew-street-Square.\n\n\n +------------------------------------------------------------------+\n | Transcriber's Notes: |\n | |\n | Words surrounded by _ are italicized. |\n | |\n | Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected, other |\n | punctuations have been left as printed in the paper book. |\n | |\n | Titles have been added to the music pages (page 121-122) based |\n | on Table of Contents. |\n | |\n | Obvious printer's errors have been corrected, including: |\n | - Page 162-207, incorrect spellings of character names repaired, |\n | (\"RONALD\" corrected to be \"ROLAND,\" \"HERMOINE\" corrected to be |\n | \"HERMIONE\") |\n | - Page 317, \"Herman\" corrected to be \"Hermann\" (Doctor Hermann |\n | Sichel) |\n | - Page 360, \"c[oe]stus\" correced to be \"caestus\" (the _caestus_) |\n | |\n | Other variable spellings retained, including variable usage of |\n | accent (e.g. \"winged\" and \"winged\"), ligature (\"daemon\" and |\n | \"demon\"), hyphen (e.g. \"a-ground\" and \"aground\"), archaic form |\n | (e.g. \"can\" and \"canst\"), any other inconsistent spellings (e.g. |\n | \"synonyms\" and \"synonymes\") |\n | |\n +------------------------------------------------------------------+","title":"The Legendary and Poetical Remains of John Roby: author of 'Traditions of Lancashire', with a sketch of his literary life and character","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":88383}