'What is the use of bullying?' said I. 'Sure you are ruined should this swindling affair come to be known, not that I would, for the world, hang your ladyship;—far from it,—but then your character will be blasted. Ah! Lady Gwyn, where is your hereditary honour? where is your prudence? where is your dignity?'
'Where is my parrot?' shrieked her ladyship.
'Ranging the radiant air!' exclaimed I—'inhaling life, and fragrance, and freedom amidst the clouds! I let it out at the window.'
Her ladyship ran towards me, but I passed her, and made the best of my way down stairs; while she followed, calling, stop thief! Too well I knew and rued the dire expression; nor stopped an instant, but hurried out of the house—through the lawn—down the avenue—into a hay-field;—the servants in hot pursuit. Not a moment was to be lost: a drowning man, you know, will grasp at straws, and I crept for refuge under a heap of hay.
But whether they found me there, or how long I remained, or what has become of me since, or what is likely to become of me hereafter, you shall learn in my next.
Adieu.
I remained in my disagreeable situation till night had closed, and the pursuit appeared over. I then rose, and walked through the fields, without any settled intention. Terror was now succeeded by bitter indignation at the conduct of Lady Gwyn, who had dared to drive me from my own house, and vilify me as a common thief. Insupportable insult! Unparalleled degradation! Was there no revenge? no remedy?
Like a rapid ray from heaven, a thought at once simple and magnificent shot through my brain, and made my very heart bound with transport. When I name Monkton Castle, need I tell you the rest? Need I tell you that I determined to seize on that antique abode of my ancestors, to fortify it against assaults, to procure domestics and suitable furniture for it, and to reside there, the present rival, and the future victress of the vile Lady Gwyn? Let her dispossess me if she dare, or if she can; for I have heard that possession is a great number of points of the law in one's favour.
As to fitting up the castle, that will be quite an easy matter; for the tradespeople of London willingly give credit for any amount to a personage of rank like me; and therefore I have nothing more to do than make some friend there bespeak furniture in my name.
It appeared to me that Jerry Sullivan was the most eligible person I could select; so now, a light heart making a light foot, I tripped back to the road, and took my way towards Monkton Castle, for the purpose of procuring an asylum in some cottage near it, and writing a letter of instructions to Jerry.
It was starlight, and I had walked almost three miles, when a little girl with a bundle of sticks on her back overtook me, and began asking alms. In the midst of her supplications, we came to the hut where she lived, and I followed her into it, with the hope of getting a night's lodging there, or at least a direction to one.
In a room, comfortless, with walls of smoked mud, I found a wrinkled and decrepit beldame, and two smutty children, holding their hands over a few faded embers. I begged permission to rest myself for a short time; the woman, after looking at me keenly, consented, and I sat down. I then entered into conversation, represented myself as a wandering stranger in distress, and inquired if I had any chance of finding a lodging about the neighbourhood. The woman assured me that I had not, and on perceiving me much disconcerted at the disappointment, coarsely, but cordially, offered me her hut for the night. I saw I had nothing for it but to remain there; so the fire was replenished, some brown bread and sour milk (the last of their store) produced, and while we sat round it, I requested of the poor woman to let me know what had reduced her to such distress.
She told me, with many tears and episodes, that her daughter and son-in-law, who had supported her, died about a month ago, and left these children behind, without any means of subsistence, except what they could procure from the charitable.
All their appearances corroborated this account, for famine had set its meagre finger on their faces. I wished to pity them, but their whining, their dirtiness, and their vulgarity, disgusted more than interested me. I nauseated the brats, and abhorred the haggard hostess. How it happens, I know not, but the misery that looks alluring on paper is almost always repulsed in real life. I turn with distaste from a ragged beggar, or a decayed tradesman, while the recorded sorrows of a Belfield or a Rushbrook draw tears of pity from me as I read.
At length we began to think of rest. The children gave me their pallet: I threw myself upon it without undressing, and they slept on some straw with a blanket over them.
In the morning we presented a most dismal group. Not a morsel had we for breakfast, nor the means of obtaining any. The poor cripple, who had expected some assistance from me, sat grunting in a corner; the children whimpered and shivered; and I, with more elegance, but not less misery, chaunted a matin to the Virgin.
I then began seriously to consider what mode of immediate subsistence I ought to adopt; and at last I hit upon a most pleasing and judicious plan. As some days must elapse between my writing to Jerry Sullivan and his coming down (for I mean to have him here, if possible), and as the cottage is within a short distance from the castle, I have resolved to remain with my hostess till he shall arrive, and to go forth every day in the character of a beggar-girl. Like another Rosa, I will earn my bread by asking alms. My simple and imploring address, my half-suppressed sigh, my cheek yet traced with the recent tear, all will be irresistible. Even the shrivelled palm of age will expand at my supplication, and the youths, offering compliments with eleemosynary silver, will call me the lovely vagabond, or the mendicant angel. Thus my few days of beggary will prove quite delightful; and oh, how sweet, when those are over, to reward and patronize, as Lady of the Castle, those hospitable cottagers who have pitied and sheltered me as the beggar-girl.
My first step was writing to Jerry Sullivan; and I fortunately found the stump of a pen, some thick ink, and coarse paper, in the cottage. This was my letter.
'Honest Jerry,'Since I saw you last, I have established all my claims, and am now the Lady Cherubina de Willoughby, the true and illustrious mistress of Gwyn Castle, Monkton Castle, and other estates of uncommon extent and value. Now, Jerry, as I am convinced that you feel grateful for the services, however trivial, which I have done you, I know you will be happy at an opportunity of obliging me in return.'Will you then execute some commissions for me? Meaning to make Monkton Castle (which is uninhabited at present) my residence, I wish to furnish it according to the style of the times it was built in. You must, therefore, bespeak, at the best shops, such articles as I shall now enumerate.'First. Antique tapestry sufficient to furnish one entire wing.'Second. Painted glass enriched with armorial bearings.'Third. Pennons and flags, stained with the best old blood;—Feudal if possible.'Fourth. Black feathers, and cloaks for my liveries.'Fifth. An old lute, or lyre, or harp.'Sixth. Black hangings, curtains, and a velvet pall.'Seventh. A warder's trumpet.'Eighth. A bell for the portal.'Besides these, I shall want antique chairs, tables, beds, and, in a word, all the casts-off of castles that you can lay hands upon.'You must also get a handsome barouche, and four horses; and by mentioning my name (the Lady Cherubina de Willoughby, of Monkton Castle), and by shewing this letter, no shopkeeper or mechanic will refuse you credit for anything. Tell them I will pass my receipts as soon as the several articles arrive.'I have now to make a proposal, which, I hope and trust, will meet with your approbation. Your present business does not appear to be prosperous: all the offices in my castle are still unoccupied, and as I have the highest opinion of your discretion and honesty, the situation of warden (a most ostensible one) is at your service. The salary is two hundred a-year: consider of it.'At all events, I do beseech of you to come down, as soon as you can, on receipt of this letter, and remain a few days, for the purpose of assisting me in my regulations.'You might travel in the barouche, and bring some of the smaller articles with you. Pray be here in three days at farthest.'Cherubina de Willoughby.'Monkton Castle.'
'Honest Jerry,
'Since I saw you last, I have established all my claims, and am now the Lady Cherubina de Willoughby, the true and illustrious mistress of Gwyn Castle, Monkton Castle, and other estates of uncommon extent and value. Now, Jerry, as I am convinced that you feel grateful for the services, however trivial, which I have done you, I know you will be happy at an opportunity of obliging me in return.
'Will you then execute some commissions for me? Meaning to make Monkton Castle (which is uninhabited at present) my residence, I wish to furnish it according to the style of the times it was built in. You must, therefore, bespeak, at the best shops, such articles as I shall now enumerate.
'First. Antique tapestry sufficient to furnish one entire wing.
'Second. Painted glass enriched with armorial bearings.
'Third. Pennons and flags, stained with the best old blood;—Feudal if possible.
'Fourth. Black feathers, and cloaks for my liveries.
'Fifth. An old lute, or lyre, or harp.
'Sixth. Black hangings, curtains, and a velvet pall.
'Seventh. A warder's trumpet.
'Eighth. A bell for the portal.
'Besides these, I shall want antique chairs, tables, beds, and, in a word, all the casts-off of castles that you can lay hands upon.
'You must also get a handsome barouche, and four horses; and by mentioning my name (the Lady Cherubina de Willoughby, of Monkton Castle), and by shewing this letter, no shopkeeper or mechanic will refuse you credit for anything. Tell them I will pass my receipts as soon as the several articles arrive.
'I have now to make a proposal, which, I hope and trust, will meet with your approbation. Your present business does not appear to be prosperous: all the offices in my castle are still unoccupied, and as I have the highest opinion of your discretion and honesty, the situation of warden (a most ostensible one) is at your service. The salary is two hundred a-year: consider of it.
'At all events, I do beseech of you to come down, as soon as you can, on receipt of this letter, and remain a few days, for the purpose of assisting me in my regulations.
'You might travel in the barouche, and bring some of the smaller articles with you. Pray be here in three days at farthest.
'Cherubina de Willoughby.
'Monkton Castle.'
I now began to think that I might, and should summon other friends, on this important occasion; and accordingly I wrote a few lines to Higginson.
'Dear Sir,'Intending to take immediate possession of Monkton Castle, which has devolved to me by right of lineal descent; and wishing, in imitation of ancient times, for a wild and enthusiastic minstrel, as part of my household, I have to acquaint you, that if you should think such an office eligible, I shall be happy to place you in it, and to recompense your poetical services with an annual stipend of two hundred pounds.'Should this proposal prove acceptable, be so good as to call on my trusty servant, Jerry Sullivan, in St. Giles's, and accompany him down in my barouche.'Cherubina de Willoughby.'Monkton Castle.'
'Dear Sir,
'Intending to take immediate possession of Monkton Castle, which has devolved to me by right of lineal descent; and wishing, in imitation of ancient times, for a wild and enthusiastic minstrel, as part of my household, I have to acquaint you, that if you should think such an office eligible, I shall be happy to place you in it, and to recompense your poetical services with an annual stipend of two hundred pounds.
'Should this proposal prove acceptable, be so good as to call on my trusty servant, Jerry Sullivan, in St. Giles's, and accompany him down in my barouche.
'Cherubina de Willoughby.
'Monkton Castle.'
I then penned a billet to Montmorenci; ah, ask not why, but pity me. Silly Cherubina! and yet, mark how her burning pen can write ice.
'My Lord,'Pardon the trouble I am about giving you, but as I mean to reside, for the future, in one of my castles (my birth and pretensions having already been acknowledged by Lady Gwyn), I wish to secure the parchment and picture that I left at my former lodgings at Drury Lane.'Will you, my lord, have the goodness to transmit them, by some trusty hand, to Jerry Sullivan, the woollen-draper in St. Giles's, who will convey them to me at Monkton Castle.'With sentiments of respect and esteem,'I have the honour to be,'My Lord,'Your lordship's most obedient,'And most humble servant,'Cherubina de Willoughby.'Monkton Castle.'
'My Lord,
'Pardon the trouble I am about giving you, but as I mean to reside, for the future, in one of my castles (my birth and pretensions having already been acknowledged by Lady Gwyn), I wish to secure the parchment and picture that I left at my former lodgings at Drury Lane.
'Will you, my lord, have the goodness to transmit them, by some trusty hand, to Jerry Sullivan, the woollen-draper in St. Giles's, who will convey them to me at Monkton Castle.
'With sentiments of respect and esteem,
'I have the honour to be,
'My Lord,
'Your lordship's most obedient,
'And most humble servant,
'Cherubina de Willoughby.
'Monkton Castle.'
Now this is precisely the formal sort of letter which a heroine sometimes indites to her lover: he cannot, for the soul of him, tell why; so down he comes, all distracted in a postchaise, and makes such a dishevelled entrance, as melts her heart in an instant, and the scene ends with his arm round her waist.
Adieu.
As I was now about to go begging, I thought it necessary to look like a beggar; so I dressed myself in a tattered gown, cap, and cloak, that had belonged to the deceased daughter of my hostess. Then placing my mother's portrait in my bosom, I sallied forth, and took the road to the neighbouring village.
Being Sunday, the rustics looked trim and festive, the nymphs and youths frolicked along, the grandsires sat at their doors, the sun was shining; all things smiled but the miserable Cherubina.
At length I reached the village, and deposited my letters for the post. The church, imbosomed in trees, stood at a little distance. The people were at prayers, and as I judged that they would soon be dismissed, I placed myself at the sacred gate, as an auspicious station for the commencement of my supplicatory career.
In a short time they began to leave the church.
'One penny for the poor starving girl,' said I.
'How are you? How are you? How are you?' was gabbled on all sides.
'One penny,—one penny,—Oh, one penny!' softly faltered I.
It was the cooing of a dove amidst the chattering of magpies.
'And who was that stranger in the next pew?' said one lady.
'One penny for the love of——'
'She seemed to think herself too pretty to pray,' said another.
'One penny for the——'
'Perhaps motion does not become her lips,' said another.
'One penny for the love of charity.'
But they had gotten into their carriages.
'If youth, innocence, and distress can touch your hearts,' said I, following some gentlemen down the road, 'pity the destitute orphan, the hungry vagrant, the most injured and innocent of her sex. Gentlemen, good gentlemen, kind gentlemen——.'
'Go to hell,' said they.
'There is for you, sweetheart,' cried a coarse voice from behind, while a halfpenny jingled at my foot. I turned to thank my benefactor, and found that he was a drunken man in the stocks.
Disgusted and indignant at the failure of my first attempt, I hurried out of the village, and strayed along, addressing all I met, but all appeared too gay to pity misery. Hour after hour I passed in fruitless efforts, now walking, now sitting; till at length day began to close, and fatigue and horrid hunger were enfeebling my limbs.
In a piteous condition, I determined to turn my steps back towards the cottage; for night was already blackening the blue hemisphere, the mountainous clouds hung low, and the winds piped the portentous moan of a coming hurricane. By the little light that still remained, I saw a long avenue on my left, which, I thought, might lead to some hospitable place of shelter; and I began, as well as the gloom of the trees would permit, to grope my way through it.
After much labour and many falls, I came to an opening, and as I saw no house, I still walked straight forward. By this time the storm had burst upon my head with tremendous violence, and it was with difficulty that I could keep my feet.
At last I fancied I could perceive a building in front, and I bent my steps towards it. As I drew nearer, I found my way sometimes obstructed by heaps of stones, or broken columns, and I concluded that I was approaching some prodigious castle, where I should be sure to find shelter, horror, owls, and one of my near relations. I therefore hastened towards it, and soon my extended hands touched the structure. My heart struck a throb of joy, and I began to feel along the wall for some ruined portal or archway.
Hardly had I moved ten paces, when my groping hands plunged into unresisting air: I stopped a moment, then entered through the vacuity, and to my great comfort, found myself under immediate shelter.
This then, I guessed, was the great hall of the castle, and I prepared my mind for the most terrible things.
I had not advanced three yards, when I paused in much terror; for I thought I heard a stir just beside me. Again all was still, and I ventured forward. I now fancied that I heard a gentle breathing; and at the same instant I struck my foot against something, which, with a sudden movement, tripped up my heels, and down I came, shrieking and begging for mercy; while a frightful bustle arose all round me,—such passing and repassing, rustling and rushing, that I gave myself over for lost.
'Oh, gentlemen banditti!' cried I, 'spare my persecuted life, and I will never, never betray you!'
They did not answer a syllable, but retired to some distance, where they held a horrid silence.
In a few minutes, I heard steps outside, and two persons entered the building.
'This shelters us well enough,' said one of them.
'Curse on the storm,' cried the other, 'it will hinder any more of them from coming out to-night. However we have killed four already, and, please goodness, not one will be alive on the estate this day month.'
Oh, Biddy, how my soul sickened at the shocking reflection, that four of a family were already murdered in cold blood, and that the rest were to share the same fate in a month!
Unable to contain myself, I muttered, 'Mercy upon me, mercy upon me!'
'Did you hear that?' whispered one of the men.
'I did,' said the other. 'Off with us this moment!' and off they both ran.
I too determined to quit this nest of horrors, for my very life appeared in danger; so, rising, I began to grope my way towards the door, when I fell over something that lay on the ground, and as I put out my hand, I touched (Oh, horrible!) a dead, cold, damp human face. Instantly the thought struck me that this was one of the four whom the ruffians had murdered, and I flung myself from it, with a shiver of horror; but in doing so, laid my hand on another face; while a faint gleam of lightning that flashed at the moment shewed me two bodies, pale, ghastly, naked, and half covered with straw.
I started up, screaming, and made a desperate effort to reach the door; but just as I was darting out of it, I found my shoulder seized with a ferocious grasp.
'I have caught one of them,' cried the person. 'Fetch the lantern.'
'I am innocent of the murder!' cried I. 'I swear to you that I am. They did not fall by my dagger, I can assure you.'
'Who? what murder?' cried he. 'Hollo, help! here is a murder committed.'
'Not by me!' cried I. 'Not by me, not by me! No, no, no, my hands are unstained with their blood.'
And now a lantern being brought, I perceived several servants in liveries, who first examined my features, and then dragged me back into the building, while they searched there for some poachers, whom they had been way-laying when they found me. The building! And what was the building, think you? Why nothing more than the shell of an unfinished house,—a mere modern morsel of a tasteless temple! And what were the banditti who had knocked me down, think you? Why nothing more than a few harmless sheep, that now lay huddled together in a corner! And what were the two corpses, think you? Why nothing more than two Heathen statues for the little temple!—And the ruffians that talked of their having killed, and having to kill, were only the poachers, who had killed four hares! Here then was the whole mystery developed, and a great deal of good fright gone for nothing.
However, some trouble still remained to me. The servants, swearing that I was either concerned with the poachers, or in some murder, dragged me down a shrubbery, till we reached a large mansion. We then entered a lighted hall: one of them went to call his master, and after a few minutes, an elderly gentleman, with a troop of young men and women at his heels, came out of a parlour.
'Is that the murderess? What a young murderess! I never saw a murderess before!' was whispered about by the ladies.
'What murder is this you were talking of, young woman?' said the gentleman to me.
'I will tell you with pleasure,' answered I. 'You must know that I am a wandering beggar-girl, without home, parents, or friends; and when the storm began, I ran, for shelter, into the Temple of Taste, as your servants called it. So, thinking it a castle, and some sheep which threw me down, banditti, and a couple of statues, corpses, of course it was quite natural for me to suppose, when two men entered, and began to talk of having killed something, that they meant these very corpses. Was it not natural now? And so that is the plain and simple narrative of the whole affair.'
To my great surprise, a general burst of laughter ran round the hall.
'Sheep banditti, and statues corpses. Dear me,—Bless me—Well to be sure!' tittered the misses.
'Young woman,' said the gentleman, 'your incoherent account inclines me to think you concerned in some atrocious transaction, which I must make it my business to discover.'
'I am sure,' said a young lady, 'she carries the gallows in her face.'
''Tis so pretty a gallows,' said a young gentleman, 'that I wish I were hanging upon it.'
'Fie brother,' said the young lady, 'how can you talk so to a murderess?'
'And how can you talk so,' cried I, 'before you know me to be a murderess? It is not just, it is not generous, it is not feminine. Men impelled by love, may deprive our sex of virtue; but we ourselves, actuated by rancorous, not gentle impulses, rob each other of character.'
'Oh! indeed, you have done for yourself now,' said the young lady. 'That sentence of morality has settled you completely.'
'Then I presume you do not admire morality,' said I.
'Not from the lips of a low wretch like you,' said she.
'Know, young woman,' cried I, 'that the current which runs through these veins is registered in hereditary heraldry.'
The company gave a most disgusting laugh.
'It is,' cried I, 'I tell you it is. I tell you I am of the blood noble.'
'Oh blood!' squeaked a young gentleman.
What wonder that I forgot my prudence amidst these indignities? Yes, the proud spirit of my ancestors swelled my heart, all my house stirred within me, and the blood of the De Willoughbys rose into my face, as I drew the magnificent picture from my bosom, pointed a quivering finger at it, and exclaimed:
'Behold the portrait of my titled mother!'
'See, see!' cried the girls crowding round. ''Tis covered all over with diamonds!'
'I flatter myself it is,' said I. 'There is proof irrefragable for you!'
'Proof enough to hang you I fancy!' cried the old gentleman, snatching it out of my hand. 'So now, my lady, you must march to the magistrate.' I wept, knelt, entreated, all was in vain: his son, the young man who had paid my face the compliment, took charge of my person, and accompanied by the servant who had seized me, set off with me to the magistrate's.
During our walk, he tried to discover how I had got possession of the picture, but I was on my guard, and merely replied that time would tell my innocence. On a sudden, he desired the servant to go back for an umbrella, and take it to the magistrate's after him.
The man having left us:
'Now,' said the 'squire, 'whether you are a pilferer of pictures I know not, but this I know, that you are a pilferer of hearts, and that I am determined to keep you in close custody, till you return mine, which you have just stolen. To be plain, I will extricate you from your present difficulty, and conceal you in a cottage just at hand, if you will allow me to support and visit you. You understand me.'
The blood gushed into my cheeks as he spoke; but however indignant I felt at the proposal, I likewise felt that it would be prudent to dissemble; and as other heroines in similar predicaments do not hesitate to hint that they will compromise their honours, I too determined to give my tempter some hope; and thus make him my friend till I could extricate myself from this emergency.
I therefore replied that I trusted he would not find me deficient in gratitude.
'Thank you, love,' said he. 'And now here is the cottage.'
He then tapped at a door: an elderly woman opened it, and within I perceived a young woman, with a bold, but handsome face, hastily adjusting her cap at a glass.
'I have brought a wretched creature,' said he, 'whom I found starving on the road. Pray take care of her, and give her some refreshment. You must also contrive a bed for her.'
The women looked earnestly at me, and then significantly at each other.
'She shall have no bed in my house,' said the elder, 'for I warrant this is the hussey who has been setting you against poor Susan, in order to get you herself, and telling you lies about Tommy Hicks's visiting here—poor girl!'
'Ay, and Bob Saunders,' cried the daughter.
'Sweet innocent!' cried the mother. 'And the three Hawkins's,' cried the daughter.
'Tender lamb!' cried the mother, 'and a girl too that never looked at mortal man but the 'squire.'
'And John Mullins, and Jacob Jones, and Patrick O'Brien,' cried the daughter.
'Think of that!' cried the mother.
'Yes, think of that!' cried the daughter. 'Patrick O'Brien! the broad-shouldered abominable man! Oh! I will cut my throat—I will—so I will!'
'Alas!' said I, 'behold the fatal effects of licentious love. Here is a girl, whom your money, perhaps, allured from the paths of virtue.'
'Oh! no,' cried Susan, 'it was his honour's handsome face, and his fine words, so bleeding and so sore, and he called me an angel above the heavens!'
'Yes,' said I, 'it is the tenderness of youth, the smile of joy, the blush of innocence, which kindle the flame of the seducer; and yet these are what he would destroy. It is the heart of sensibility which he would engage, and yet in that heart he would plant every rankling pang, every bitter misery. Detestable passion! which accomplishes the worst of purposes, through the medium of the best and sweetest affections. She whose innocent mind ascribes to others the motives that actuate itself, she who confides, because she would not deceive, she who has a tear for real grief, and who melts at the simulated miseries of her lover, she soonest falls a sacrifice to his arts; while the cold vestal, who goes forth into the world callous to feeling, and armed with austerity, repulses his approaches with indignation, and calls her prudence virtue.'
The young man gazed on me with surprise, and the mother had come closer; but Susan was peeping at her face in the glass.
'Look on that beautiful girl before you,' cried I. 'Heaven itself is not brighter than her brow; the tints of the morning cannot rival her blushes.'
Susan held down her head, but cast an under glance at the 'squire.
'Such is she now,' continued I, 'but too soon you may behold her pale, shivering, unsteady of step, and hoarse with nocturnal curses, one of those unhappy thousands, who nightly strew our streets with the premature ruins of dilapidated beauty.'
'Yes, look at her, look at her!' cried the mother, who flushing even through her wrinkles, and quivering in every limb, now rushed towards her daughter, and snatching off her cap, bared her forehead. 'Look at her! she was once my lovely pride, the blessing of my heart; and see what he has now made her for me; while I, miserable as I am, must wink at her guilt, that I may save her from disgrace and ruin!'
'Oh! then,' cried I, turning to the 'squire, 'while still some portion of her fame remains, fly from her, fly for ever!'
'I certainly mean to do so,' replied he, 'so pray make your mind easy. You see, Susan, by this young woman's sentiments, that she cannot be what you suspected her.'
'And I am convinced, Susan,' said I, 'that you feel grateful for the pains I have taken to reclaim the 'squire from a connection so fatal to you both.'
'I am quite sure I do,' sobbed Susan, 'and I will pray for your health and happiness ever while I live. So, dear Miss, since I must lose him, I hope you will coax him to leave me some money first; not that I ever valued him for his money, but you know I could not see my mother go without her tea o'nights.'
'Amiable creature!' cried I. 'Yes, I will intercede for you.'
'My giving you money,' said the 'squire, 'will depend on my finding, when I return to-morrow morning, that you have treated this girl well to-night.'
'I will treat her like a sister,' said Susan.
The 'squire now declared that he must be gone; then taking me aside, 'I shall see you early to-morrow,' whispered he, 'and remove you to a house about a mile hence, and I will tell my father that you ran away. Meantime, continue to talk virtue, and these people will think you a saint.'
He then bade us all good-night, and departed.
Instantly I set my wits at work, and soon hit upon a plan to accomplish my escape. I told the women that I had an old mother, about a mile from the cottage, who was almost starving; and that if I could procure a little silver, and a loaf of bread, I would run to her hut with the relief, and return immediately.
To describe the kind solicitude, the sweet goodnature that mother and daughter manifested, in loading me with victuals and money, were impossible. Suffice it, that they gave me half-a-crown, some bread, tea, and sugar; and Susan herself offered to carry them; but this I declined; and now, with a secret sigh at the probability that I might never see them again, I left their house, and hastened towards the cottage of the poor woman. Having reached it, I made the hungry inhabitants happy once more, while I solaced myself with some tea, and the pleasing reflection, that I had brought comfort to the distressed, and had reclaimed a deluded girl from ruin and infamy.
Adieu,
After my last letter, I spent two tedious days in employments that I now blush to relate;—no less than doing all the dirty work of the cottage, such as sweeping the room, kindling the fire, cooking the victuals; and trying, by dint of comb and soap, to make cherubs of the children. What bewitched me, I cannot conceive, for the humanity of other heroines is ever clean, elegant, and fit for the reader. They give silver and tears in abundance, but they never descend to the bodily charity of working, like wire-drawers, for withered old women and brats with rosy noses. I can only say, in vindication of myself, that those who sheltered me were poor and helpless themselves, and that they deserved some recompense on my part for their hospitality to me. So you must not condemn me totally; for I do declare to you, that I would much rather have relieved them with my purse, and soothed them with my sympathy, than have fried their herrings and washed their faces.
At the same time, take notice, I was not totally forgetful of my nobler destiny; for I dedicated part of this period to the composition of a poem, which I reserve for my memoirs. My biographer can say that it was suggested by the story of Susan; and even if it should still appear to be somewhat forced into my book, I would rather have this the case, than suffer posterity to go without it altogether. Here it is.
CAROLINEBeneath a thatch, where gadding woodbine flower'd,About the lattice and the porch embower'd,An aged widow lived, whose calm decline,Clung on one hope, her lovely Caroline.Her lovely Caroline, in virtue blest,As morning snow, was spotless and unprest.Her tresses unadorn'd a braid controll'd,Her pastoral russet knew no civic gold.In either cheek an eddying dimple play'd,And blushes flitted with a rosy shade.Her airy step seem'd lighting from the sky,And joy and frolic sparkled in her eye.Yet would she weep at sorrows not her own,And love foredoom'd her heart his panting throne.For her the rustics strove a homely grace,Clipped their redundant locks, and smooth'd their pace;Lurk'd near her custom'd path, in trimmest guise,And talk'd the simple praises of her eyes.But fatal hour, when she, by swains unmov'd,Beheld the master of the vale, and loved.Long had he tempted her reserve in vain,Till one luxuriant eve that sunn'd the plain;On the bent herbage, where a gushing brook,Blue harebells and the tufted violet shook;Where hung umbrageous branches overhead,And the rain'd roses lay in fragments red,He found the slumbering maid. Prophane he press'dHer virgin lip, then first by man carest.She starts, and like a ruddy cloud bestrewn,At brake of morning, o'er the paly moon;Or as on Alpine cliffs, a wounded doeSheds all its purple life upon the snow;So the maid blushes, while her humble eyesFear from a knot of primroses to rise;And mute she sits, affecting to repairThe discomposed meanders of her hair.Need I his arts unfold? The accomplish'd guileThat glosses poisonous words with gilded smile?The tear suborned, the tongue complete to please;Eyes ecstasied, idolatry of knees?These and his oaths I pass. Enough to tell,The virgin listen'd, and believ'd, and fell.And now from home maternal long decoy'dShe dwells with him midst pleasures unenjoy'd;Till the sad tidings that her parent dearTo grief had died a victim reach her ear.Pale with despair, 'At least, at least,' she cries,'Stretch'd on her ashes, let me close these eyes.Short shelter need the village now bestow,Ere by her sacred grave they lay me low.'Then, without nurture or repose, she hastesHer journey homeward over rocks and wastes;Till, as her steps a hill familiar gain,Bursts on her filling eyes her native plain.She pants, expands her arms, 'Ah, peaceful scene!'Exclaiming: 'Ah, dear valley, lovely green,Still ye remain the same; your hawthorn still,All your white cottages, the little mill;Its osiered brook, that prattles thro' the meads,The plat where oft I danced to piping reeds.All, all remain unalter'd. 'Tis but thineTo suffer change, weak, wicked Caroline!'The setting sun now purples hill and lake,And lengthen'd shadows shadows overtake.A parting carol larks and throstles sing,The swains aside their heated sickles fling.Now dairies all arrang'd, the nymphs renewThe straggling tress, and tighten'd aprons blue;And fix some hasty floweret, as they runIn a blithe tumult to the pipe begun.And now, while dance and frolic shake the vale,Sudden the panting girl, dishevell'd, pale,Stands in the midst. All pausing gather round,And gaze amaz'd. The tabors cease to sound.'Yes, ye may well,' the faltering suppliant cries,'Well may ye frown with those repulsive eyes.Yet pity one not vicious but deceiv'd,Who vows of marriage, ere she fell, believ'd.Without a mother, sire, or fostering home,Save, save me, leave me not forlorn to roam.Not now the gifts ye once so fondly gave,Not now the verse and rural wreath I crave;Not now to lead your festive sports along,Queen of the dance, and despot of the song;One shed is all, oh, just one wretched shed,To lay my weary limbs and aching head.Then will I bless your bounty, then inureMy frame to toil, and earn a pittance poor.Then, while ye mix in mirth, will I, forlorn,Beside my murder'd parent sit and mourn.'She paus'd, expecting answer. None replied.'And have ye children, have ye hearts?' she cried.'Save me now, mothers, as from future harmsYe hope to save the babies in your arms!See, to you, maids, I bend on abject knee;Youths, even to you, who bent before to me.O, my companions, by our happy plays,By dear remembrance of departed days;By pity's self, your cruel parents move;By sacred friendship; Oh! by those ye love!Oft when ye trespassed, I for pardon pray'd;Oft on myself your little mischiefs laid.Did I not always sooth the wounded mind?Was I not called the generous and the kind?Still silent? What! no word, no look to cheer?No gentle gesture? What, not even a tear?Go then, ye pure! to heights of virtue climb;Let none plead for me, none forgive my crime.Go—yet the culprit, by her God forgiven,May plead for you before the throne of heaven!Ye simple pleasures of my rural hours,Ye skies all sunshine, and ye paths all flowers;Home, where no more a soothing friend I see,Dear happy home, a last farewell to thee!'Claspt are her hands, her features strewn with hair,And her eyes sparkle with a keen despair.But as she turns, a sudden burst of tears,And struggles, as of one withheld, she hears.'Speak!' she conjures, 'ere yet to phrenzy driven,Tell me who weeps? What angel sent from heaven?''I, I your friend!' exclaims, with panting charms,A rosy girl, and darts into her arms.'What! will you leave me? Me, your other heart,Your favourite Ellen? No, we must not part;No, never! come, and in our cottage live;Come, for the cruel village shall forgive.O, my own darling, come, and unreproved,Here on this heart rest ever, ever lov'd;Here on this constant heart!' While thus she spoke,Her furious sire the linkt embraces broke.Borne in his arms, she wept, entreated, rav'd;Then fainted, as a mute farewell she wav'd.But now the wretch, with low and wildered cries,Round and around revolving vacant eyes:Slow from the green departs, and pauses now,And gnaws her tresses and contracts her brow.Shock'd by the change, the matrons, stern no more,Pursue her steps and her return implore:Soon a poor maniac, innocent of ill,She wanders unconfined, and drinks the rill,And plucks the simple cress. A hovel nearHer native vale defends her from the year.With tender feet to flint and thistle bare,And faded willows weeping in her hair,She climbs some rock at morn, and all alone,Chaunts hasty snatches of harmonious moan.When moons empearl the leafy locks of bowers,With liquid grain, and light the glistening flowers,She gathers honeysuckle down the dells,And tangled eglantine, and slumbering bells;And with moist finger, painted by the leaves,A coronet of roses interweaves;Then steals unheard, and gliding thro' the yews,The odorous offering on her mother strews.At morn with tender pause, the nymphs admire,How recent chaplets still the grave attire;And matrons nightly tell, how fairies seen,Danc'd roundelays aslant its cowslipped green.Even when the whiten'd vale is bleak with snows,That verdant spot the little Robin knows;And sure to find the flakes at dawn remov'd,Alights and chirps upon its turf belov'd.Such her employ; till now, one wintry day,Some shepherds hurrying by the haunted clay,Find the pale ruin, life for ever flown,With her cheek pillow'd on its dripping stone.The turf unfinish'd wreaths of ivy strew,And her lank locks are dim with misty dew.Poor Ellen hymns her requiem. Willows pineAround her grave. Fallen, fallen Caroline!
CAROLINE
CAROLINE
Beneath a thatch, where gadding woodbine flower'd,About the lattice and the porch embower'd,An aged widow lived, whose calm decline,Clung on one hope, her lovely Caroline.Her lovely Caroline, in virtue blest,As morning snow, was spotless and unprest.Her tresses unadorn'd a braid controll'd,Her pastoral russet knew no civic gold.In either cheek an eddying dimple play'd,And blushes flitted with a rosy shade.Her airy step seem'd lighting from the sky,And joy and frolic sparkled in her eye.Yet would she weep at sorrows not her own,And love foredoom'd her heart his panting throne.For her the rustics strove a homely grace,Clipped their redundant locks, and smooth'd their pace;Lurk'd near her custom'd path, in trimmest guise,And talk'd the simple praises of her eyes.But fatal hour, when she, by swains unmov'd,Beheld the master of the vale, and loved.Long had he tempted her reserve in vain,Till one luxuriant eve that sunn'd the plain;On the bent herbage, where a gushing brook,Blue harebells and the tufted violet shook;Where hung umbrageous branches overhead,And the rain'd roses lay in fragments red,He found the slumbering maid. Prophane he press'dHer virgin lip, then first by man carest.She starts, and like a ruddy cloud bestrewn,At brake of morning, o'er the paly moon;Or as on Alpine cliffs, a wounded doeSheds all its purple life upon the snow;So the maid blushes, while her humble eyesFear from a knot of primroses to rise;And mute she sits, affecting to repairThe discomposed meanders of her hair.Need I his arts unfold? The accomplish'd guileThat glosses poisonous words with gilded smile?The tear suborned, the tongue complete to please;Eyes ecstasied, idolatry of knees?These and his oaths I pass. Enough to tell,The virgin listen'd, and believ'd, and fell.And now from home maternal long decoy'dShe dwells with him midst pleasures unenjoy'd;Till the sad tidings that her parent dearTo grief had died a victim reach her ear.Pale with despair, 'At least, at least,' she cries,'Stretch'd on her ashes, let me close these eyes.Short shelter need the village now bestow,Ere by her sacred grave they lay me low.'Then, without nurture or repose, she hastesHer journey homeward over rocks and wastes;Till, as her steps a hill familiar gain,Bursts on her filling eyes her native plain.She pants, expands her arms, 'Ah, peaceful scene!'Exclaiming: 'Ah, dear valley, lovely green,Still ye remain the same; your hawthorn still,All your white cottages, the little mill;Its osiered brook, that prattles thro' the meads,The plat where oft I danced to piping reeds.All, all remain unalter'd. 'Tis but thineTo suffer change, weak, wicked Caroline!'The setting sun now purples hill and lake,And lengthen'd shadows shadows overtake.A parting carol larks and throstles sing,The swains aside their heated sickles fling.Now dairies all arrang'd, the nymphs renewThe straggling tress, and tighten'd aprons blue;And fix some hasty floweret, as they runIn a blithe tumult to the pipe begun.And now, while dance and frolic shake the vale,Sudden the panting girl, dishevell'd, pale,Stands in the midst. All pausing gather round,And gaze amaz'd. The tabors cease to sound.'Yes, ye may well,' the faltering suppliant cries,'Well may ye frown with those repulsive eyes.Yet pity one not vicious but deceiv'd,Who vows of marriage, ere she fell, believ'd.Without a mother, sire, or fostering home,Save, save me, leave me not forlorn to roam.Not now the gifts ye once so fondly gave,Not now the verse and rural wreath I crave;Not now to lead your festive sports along,Queen of the dance, and despot of the song;One shed is all, oh, just one wretched shed,To lay my weary limbs and aching head.Then will I bless your bounty, then inureMy frame to toil, and earn a pittance poor.Then, while ye mix in mirth, will I, forlorn,Beside my murder'd parent sit and mourn.'She paus'd, expecting answer. None replied.'And have ye children, have ye hearts?' she cried.'Save me now, mothers, as from future harmsYe hope to save the babies in your arms!See, to you, maids, I bend on abject knee;Youths, even to you, who bent before to me.O, my companions, by our happy plays,By dear remembrance of departed days;By pity's self, your cruel parents move;By sacred friendship; Oh! by those ye love!Oft when ye trespassed, I for pardon pray'd;Oft on myself your little mischiefs laid.Did I not always sooth the wounded mind?Was I not called the generous and the kind?Still silent? What! no word, no look to cheer?No gentle gesture? What, not even a tear?Go then, ye pure! to heights of virtue climb;Let none plead for me, none forgive my crime.Go—yet the culprit, by her God forgiven,May plead for you before the throne of heaven!Ye simple pleasures of my rural hours,Ye skies all sunshine, and ye paths all flowers;Home, where no more a soothing friend I see,Dear happy home, a last farewell to thee!'Claspt are her hands, her features strewn with hair,And her eyes sparkle with a keen despair.But as she turns, a sudden burst of tears,And struggles, as of one withheld, she hears.'Speak!' she conjures, 'ere yet to phrenzy driven,Tell me who weeps? What angel sent from heaven?''I, I your friend!' exclaims, with panting charms,A rosy girl, and darts into her arms.'What! will you leave me? Me, your other heart,Your favourite Ellen? No, we must not part;No, never! come, and in our cottage live;Come, for the cruel village shall forgive.O, my own darling, come, and unreproved,Here on this heart rest ever, ever lov'd;Here on this constant heart!' While thus she spoke,Her furious sire the linkt embraces broke.Borne in his arms, she wept, entreated, rav'd;Then fainted, as a mute farewell she wav'd.But now the wretch, with low and wildered cries,Round and around revolving vacant eyes:Slow from the green departs, and pauses now,And gnaws her tresses and contracts her brow.Shock'd by the change, the matrons, stern no more,Pursue her steps and her return implore:Soon a poor maniac, innocent of ill,She wanders unconfined, and drinks the rill,And plucks the simple cress. A hovel nearHer native vale defends her from the year.With tender feet to flint and thistle bare,And faded willows weeping in her hair,She climbs some rock at morn, and all alone,Chaunts hasty snatches of harmonious moan.When moons empearl the leafy locks of bowers,With liquid grain, and light the glistening flowers,She gathers honeysuckle down the dells,And tangled eglantine, and slumbering bells;And with moist finger, painted by the leaves,A coronet of roses interweaves;Then steals unheard, and gliding thro' the yews,The odorous offering on her mother strews.At morn with tender pause, the nymphs admire,How recent chaplets still the grave attire;And matrons nightly tell, how fairies seen,Danc'd roundelays aslant its cowslipped green.Even when the whiten'd vale is bleak with snows,That verdant spot the little Robin knows;And sure to find the flakes at dawn remov'd,Alights and chirps upon its turf belov'd.Such her employ; till now, one wintry day,Some shepherds hurrying by the haunted clay,Find the pale ruin, life for ever flown,With her cheek pillow'd on its dripping stone.The turf unfinish'd wreaths of ivy strew,And her lank locks are dim with misty dew.Poor Ellen hymns her requiem. Willows pineAround her grave. Fallen, fallen Caroline!
Beneath a thatch, where gadding woodbine flower'd,
About the lattice and the porch embower'd,
An aged widow lived, whose calm decline,
Clung on one hope, her lovely Caroline.
Her lovely Caroline, in virtue blest,
As morning snow, was spotless and unprest.
Her tresses unadorn'd a braid controll'd,
Her pastoral russet knew no civic gold.
In either cheek an eddying dimple play'd,
And blushes flitted with a rosy shade.
Her airy step seem'd lighting from the sky,
And joy and frolic sparkled in her eye.
Yet would she weep at sorrows not her own,
And love foredoom'd her heart his panting throne.
For her the rustics strove a homely grace,
Clipped their redundant locks, and smooth'd their pace;
Lurk'd near her custom'd path, in trimmest guise,
And talk'd the simple praises of her eyes.
But fatal hour, when she, by swains unmov'd,
Beheld the master of the vale, and loved.
Long had he tempted her reserve in vain,
Till one luxuriant eve that sunn'd the plain;
On the bent herbage, where a gushing brook,
Blue harebells and the tufted violet shook;
Where hung umbrageous branches overhead,
And the rain'd roses lay in fragments red,
He found the slumbering maid. Prophane he press'd
Her virgin lip, then first by man carest.
She starts, and like a ruddy cloud bestrewn,
At brake of morning, o'er the paly moon;
Or as on Alpine cliffs, a wounded doe
Sheds all its purple life upon the snow;
So the maid blushes, while her humble eyes
Fear from a knot of primroses to rise;
And mute she sits, affecting to repair
The discomposed meanders of her hair.
Need I his arts unfold? The accomplish'd guile
That glosses poisonous words with gilded smile?
The tear suborned, the tongue complete to please;
Eyes ecstasied, idolatry of knees?
These and his oaths I pass. Enough to tell,
The virgin listen'd, and believ'd, and fell.
And now from home maternal long decoy'd
She dwells with him midst pleasures unenjoy'd;
Till the sad tidings that her parent dear
To grief had died a victim reach her ear.
Pale with despair, 'At least, at least,' she cries,
'Stretch'd on her ashes, let me close these eyes.
Short shelter need the village now bestow,
Ere by her sacred grave they lay me low.'
Then, without nurture or repose, she hastes
Her journey homeward over rocks and wastes;
Till, as her steps a hill familiar gain,
Bursts on her filling eyes her native plain.
She pants, expands her arms, 'Ah, peaceful scene!'
Exclaiming: 'Ah, dear valley, lovely green,
Still ye remain the same; your hawthorn still,
All your white cottages, the little mill;
Its osiered brook, that prattles thro' the meads,
The plat where oft I danced to piping reeds.
All, all remain unalter'd. 'Tis but thine
To suffer change, weak, wicked Caroline!'
The setting sun now purples hill and lake,
And lengthen'd shadows shadows overtake.
A parting carol larks and throstles sing,
The swains aside their heated sickles fling.
Now dairies all arrang'd, the nymphs renew
The straggling tress, and tighten'd aprons blue;
And fix some hasty floweret, as they run
In a blithe tumult to the pipe begun.
And now, while dance and frolic shake the vale,
Sudden the panting girl, dishevell'd, pale,
Stands in the midst. All pausing gather round,
And gaze amaz'd. The tabors cease to sound.
'Yes, ye may well,' the faltering suppliant cries,
'Well may ye frown with those repulsive eyes.
Yet pity one not vicious but deceiv'd,
Who vows of marriage, ere she fell, believ'd.
Without a mother, sire, or fostering home,
Save, save me, leave me not forlorn to roam.
Not now the gifts ye once so fondly gave,
Not now the verse and rural wreath I crave;
Not now to lead your festive sports along,
Queen of the dance, and despot of the song;
One shed is all, oh, just one wretched shed,
To lay my weary limbs and aching head.
Then will I bless your bounty, then inure
My frame to toil, and earn a pittance poor.
Then, while ye mix in mirth, will I, forlorn,
Beside my murder'd parent sit and mourn.'
She paus'd, expecting answer. None replied.
'And have ye children, have ye hearts?' she cried.
'Save me now, mothers, as from future harms
Ye hope to save the babies in your arms!
See, to you, maids, I bend on abject knee;
Youths, even to you, who bent before to me.
O, my companions, by our happy plays,
By dear remembrance of departed days;
By pity's self, your cruel parents move;
By sacred friendship; Oh! by those ye love!
Oft when ye trespassed, I for pardon pray'd;
Oft on myself your little mischiefs laid.
Did I not always sooth the wounded mind?
Was I not called the generous and the kind?
Still silent? What! no word, no look to cheer?
No gentle gesture? What, not even a tear?
Go then, ye pure! to heights of virtue climb;
Let none plead for me, none forgive my crime.
Go—yet the culprit, by her God forgiven,
May plead for you before the throne of heaven!
Ye simple pleasures of my rural hours,
Ye skies all sunshine, and ye paths all flowers;
Home, where no more a soothing friend I see,
Dear happy home, a last farewell to thee!'
Claspt are her hands, her features strewn with hair,
And her eyes sparkle with a keen despair.
But as she turns, a sudden burst of tears,
And struggles, as of one withheld, she hears.
'Speak!' she conjures, 'ere yet to phrenzy driven,
Tell me who weeps? What angel sent from heaven?'
'I, I your friend!' exclaims, with panting charms,
A rosy girl, and darts into her arms.
'What! will you leave me? Me, your other heart,
Your favourite Ellen? No, we must not part;
No, never! come, and in our cottage live;
Come, for the cruel village shall forgive.
O, my own darling, come, and unreproved,
Here on this heart rest ever, ever lov'd;
Here on this constant heart!' While thus she spoke,
Her furious sire the linkt embraces broke.
Borne in his arms, she wept, entreated, rav'd;
Then fainted, as a mute farewell she wav'd.
But now the wretch, with low and wildered cries,
Round and around revolving vacant eyes:
Slow from the green departs, and pauses now,
And gnaws her tresses and contracts her brow.
Shock'd by the change, the matrons, stern no more,
Pursue her steps and her return implore:
Soon a poor maniac, innocent of ill,
She wanders unconfined, and drinks the rill,
And plucks the simple cress. A hovel near
Her native vale defends her from the year.
With tender feet to flint and thistle bare,
And faded willows weeping in her hair,
She climbs some rock at morn, and all alone,
Chaunts hasty snatches of harmonious moan.
When moons empearl the leafy locks of bowers,
With liquid grain, and light the glistening flowers,
She gathers honeysuckle down the dells,
And tangled eglantine, and slumbering bells;
And with moist finger, painted by the leaves,
A coronet of roses interweaves;
Then steals unheard, and gliding thro' the yews,
The odorous offering on her mother strews.
At morn with tender pause, the nymphs admire,
How recent chaplets still the grave attire;
And matrons nightly tell, how fairies seen,
Danc'd roundelays aslant its cowslipped green.
Even when the whiten'd vale is bleak with snows,
That verdant spot the little Robin knows;
And sure to find the flakes at dawn remov'd,
Alights and chirps upon its turf belov'd.
Such her employ; till now, one wintry day,
Some shepherds hurrying by the haunted clay,
Find the pale ruin, life for ever flown,
With her cheek pillow'd on its dripping stone.
The turf unfinish'd wreaths of ivy strew,
And her lank locks are dim with misty dew.
Poor Ellen hymns her requiem. Willows pine
Around her grave. Fallen, fallen Caroline!
This morning, having resumed my muslins, I repaired to my castle, and seated on the stump of a withered oak, began an accurate survey of its strength, for the purpose of ascertaining whether it could stand a siege, in case Lady Gwyn should attempt to dispossess me of it. I must now describe it to you.
It is situated about a quarter of a mile from the road, on a waste tract of land, where a few decayed trunks of trees are all that remain of a former forest. The castle itself, which I fear is rather too small for long corridors and suites of apartments, forms a square, with a turret at each corner, and with a large gateway, now stopped up with stones, at the southern side. While I surveyed its roofless walls, over-topt with briony, grass, and nettles, and admired the gothic points of the windows, where mantling ivy had supplied the place of glass, long suffering and murder came to my thoughts.
As I sat planning, from romances, the revival of the feudal customs and manners in my castle, and of the feudal system among my tenantry (all so favourable to heroines), I saw a magnificent barouche, turning from the road into the common, and advancing towards me. My heart beat high: the carriage approached, stopt; and who should alight from it, but Higginson and Jerry!
After Higginson, with reverence, and Jerry, with familiarity, had congratulated me on my good fortune, the latter looked hard at the castle.
'The people told us that this was Monkton Castle,' said he; 'but where is the Monkton Castle that your ladyship is to live in?'
'There it is, my friend,' answered I.
'What? there!' cried he.
'Yes, there,' said I.
'What, there, there!'
'Yes, there, there.'
'Oh! murder! murder!'
'How far are we from your ladyship's house?' said the postilion, advancing with his hat off.
'This castle is my house,' answered I.
'Begging your ladyship's pardon,' said he; 'what I mean, is, how far are we from where your ladyship lives?'
'I live in this castle,' answered I.
Jerry began making signs to me over the fellow's shoulder, to hold my tongue.
'What are you grimacing about there, Mr. Sullivan?' said I.
'Nothing at all, Ma'am,' answered he. ''Tis a way I have got; but your ladyship, you know, is only come down to this castle on a sort of a country excursion, to see if it wants repairing, you know: you don't mean to live in it, you know.' And he put his finger on his nose, and winked at me.
'But I know I do mean to live in it,' cried I, 'and so I request you will cease your grinning.'
'Oh, murder, murder!' muttered he, swinging round on his heel.
The postilion now stood staring at the venerable edifice, with an expression of the most insolent ridicule.
'And what areyoulooking at?' cried Jerry.
'At the sky through the castle window,' said the fellow, reddening, and shaking with smothered laughter.
'Why then mind your own business,' cried Jerry, 'and that is, to take the horses from the carriage, and set off with yourself as fast as you can.'
'Not till I am paid for their journey down,' said the postilion. 'So will your ladyship have the goodness to pay me?'
'Certainly,' said I. 'Jerry, pay the fellow.'
'Deuce a rap have I,' answered Jerry. 'I laid out my last farthing in little things for your ladyship.'
'Higginson,' said I, 'shall I trouble you to pay him?'
'It irks me to declare,' answered Higginson, 'that in equipments for this expedition;—a nice little desk, a nice little comb, a nice little pocket-glass, a nice little——'
'In short you have no money,' cried I.
'Not a farthing,' answered he.
'Neither have I,' said I; 'so, postilion, you must call another time.'
'Here is a pretty to do!' cried the postilion. 'Damme, this is a shy sort of a business. Not even the price of a feed of oats! Snuff my eyes, I must have the money. I must, blow me.'
''Tis I that will blow you,' cried Jerry, 'if you don't unloose your horses this moment, and pack off.'
The postilion took them from the carriage, in silence; then having mounted one of them, and ridden a few paces from us, he stopped.
'Now you set of vagabonds and swindlers,' cried he, 'without a roof over your heads, or a penny in your pockets, to go diddle an honest man out of his day's labour; wait till master takes you in hand: and if I don't tell the coachmaker what a blockhead he was to give you his barouche on tick, may I be particularly horsewhipt! Ladyship! a rummish sort of a tit for a Ladyship! And that is my Lord, I suppose. And this is the Marquis. Three pickpockets from Fleet-street, I would bet a whip to a wisp. Ladyship! Oh, her Ladyship!' and away he cantered, ladyshipping it, till he was out of hearing.
'That young person deserves a moral lecture,' said Higginson.
'He deserves a confounded drubbing,' cried Jerry. 'But now, 'pon your conscience, does your ladyship intend to live in this old castle?'
'Upon my honour I do,' replied I.
'And is there no decent house on the estate, that one of your tenants could lend you?' said he.
'Why you must know,' replied I, 'that though Lady Gwyn, the person who has withheld my property from me so long, acknowledged my right to it but a few days since, still, as she has not yet yielded up the title deeds, in consequence of a quarrel which obliged me to quit her house, it is improbable that the tenantry would treat me as their mistress. All I can do, is, to seize this uninhabited castle which lies on my own estate. But I can tell you, that a heroine of good taste, and who wishes to rise in her profession, would infinitely prefer the desolation of a castle to the comforts of a villa.'
'Well, of all the wise freaks——' cried Jerry, standing astride, sticking his hands in his ribs, and nodding his head, as he looked up at the castle.
'I tell you what, Mr. Sullivan,' interrupted I, 'if you have the slightest objection to remaining here, you are at perfect liberty to depart this moment.'
'And do you think I would leave you?' cried he. 'Oh then, oh then, 'tis I that wouldn't! And the worse your quandary, the more I would stick by you;—that is Jerry Sullivan. And if it was a gallows itself you were speculating in, I would assist you all the same. One can find friends enough when one is in the right, but give me the fellow that would fight for me right or wrong.'
I shook his honest hand with warmth, and then asked him if he had performed my commissions.
'Your ladyship shall hear,' said he. 'As soon as I got your letter, I went with it in my hand, and shewed it at fifty different shops;—clothiers, and glaziers, and upholsterers, and feather-makers, and trumpet-makers; but neither old tapestry, nor old painted glass, nor old flags stained with old blood, nor old lutes, nor old any thing that you wanted, could I get; and what I could get, I must pay for; and so what I must pay for, I would not get; and the reason why, I had no money; and moreover, as sure as ever I shewed them your letter, so sure they laughed at it.'
'Laughed at it!' cried I.
'All but one,' said Jerry.
'And he?' cried I.
'Was going to knock me down,' answered Jerry. 'So, as I did not wish to come without bringing something or other to you, and as you commanded me to get everything old; egad, I have brought three whole pieces of damaged black cloth out of our own shop, that I thought might answer for the hangings and curtains; and I bought a parcel of old funeral feathers and an old pall, from an undertaker; and I bought an old harp with five strings, that will do any thing but play; and I stole our own parlour bell; and I borrowed a horn from the guard of a mail-coach, which I hope will do for a trumpet; and now here they are all in the barouche, and my bed and trunk; and a box of Mr. Higginson's.'
'But the barouche?' said I; 'how did you get that?'
'By not shewing your letter,' answered Jerry; 'and besides, the coach-maker knew me; and I told him it was for my Lady De Willoughby, as beautiful as an angel—but he did not mind that—and as rich as a Jew;—but he minded that; and so he gave me the barouche, and a shake-hands into the bargain.'
'Well, my friend,' said I, 'you did your best; so as soon as I can raise a sufficient sum, I will furnish my castle in a style of gothic grandeur, which your modern painters and glaziers have no notion of. Meantime, if you and Higginson will pull down those stones that choak the gateway, we will enter the building, and see what can be done with our present materials.'
They commenced operations with such alacrity, that they soon cleared away the rubbish, and in we went. Not a sign of a roof on the whole edifice: the venerable verdure of damp stained the walls, nettles and thistles clothed the ground, and three of the turrets, inaccessible to human feet, were to be come at only by an owl or an angel. However, on examining the fourth, or eastern turret, I found it in somewhat better condition than the rest. A half-decayed ladder, leaning against an aperture in the ceiling above, tempted me to mount, and I got into a room of about eight feet square (the breadth of the turret), overrun with moss and groundsel, and having a small window in one of its sides. From the floor, another ladder reached to another aperture in the ceiling above; and on ascending it, I found myself at the top of the tower, round which ran a broken parapet. This tower, therefore, I determined to fit up and inhabit; and to leave the other three in a state of classical dilapidation, as receptacles for strange noises, horrid sights, and nocturnal Condottieri.
I then descended, and made the minstrel and warden (for they have consented to undertake these offices) draw the barouche within the gateway, and convey the luggage up to the room that I meant for my residence.
The next matter that we set about was hanging the chamber with the black cloth; and this we contrived to do by means of wooden pegs, which the warden cut with his knife, and drove, with a stone, through the drapery, into the crevices of the walls. We found two of the three pieces of black cloth sufficient to cover the sides of the room; and when the hangings were all arranged, I gazed on their sombrous and antique effect with the most heartfelt transport. I then named it theBlack Chamber, and gave orders that it should always be called so.
Our next object was to contrive a bed for me. Jerry, therefore, procured some branches of trees, and after much labour, and with no small ingenuity, constructed a bedstead, as crazy as any that ever creaked under a heroine. We then hung it round with curtains of black cloth; and Jerry's own bed being placed upon it, we spread the black pall over that. Never was there a more funereal piece of furniture; and I saw, with pride, that it rivalled the famous bed in the Mysteries of Udolpho.
The minstrel all this time appeared stupified with astonishment, but worked like a horse, puffing and panting, and doing every thing that he was desired, without uttering a word.
Dinner now became our consideration, and I have just dispatched the warden (like Peter, in the Romance of the Forest) to procure provisions. Not a farthing has he to purchase any, since even the half-crown which Susan gave me is already exhausted.
But the light that enters at my window begins to grow grey, and an appropriate gloom thickens through the chamber. The minstrel stands in a corner, muttering poetry; while I write with his pen and ink on a stool that the warden made for me. My knees are my desk.
Adieu.
Just at the close of evening, Jerry came running towards the castle with a milk-pail on his head.
'See,' cried he, putting it down, 'how nicely I have choused a little milk-maid! There was she, tripping along as tight as her garter. 'Fly for your life,' cries I, striding up to her: 'there is the big bull at my heels that has just killed two children, two sucking pigs, two—— Here! here! let me hold your pail for you!' and I whips it off her head. So, what does she do, but she runs off without it one way; and what does I do, but I runs off with it another way. And besides this, I have got my hat filled with young potatoes, and my pockets stuffed with ears of wheat; and if we can't eat a hearty dinner off these dainties, why that our next may be fried fleas and toasted leather!'
Though I was angry at the means used by Jerry to get the provisions, yet, as dinner just then had more charms for me than moral sentiment, instead of instructing him in the lofty doctrines of the social compact, I bade him pound the grains of wheat between two flat stones. In the mean time, I sent the minstrel to the cottage for a light and some fuel; and on his return, made him stop up the window with grass and fern. He then kindled a fire of wood in the centre of the Black Chamber; for, as the floor was of stone, it ran no risk of being burned. This done, I mixed some milk with the bruised wheat, kneaded a cake, and laid it on the red embers, while Jerry took charge of roasting the potatoes.
As soon as our romantic repast was ready, I drew my stool to the fire: my household sat on large stones, and we made a tolerable meal, they on the potatoes, and I on the cake, which hunger had really rendered palatable.
The warden lifted the pail to my lips, and I took a draught of the rural nectar; while the minstrel remarked, that Nestor himself had not a larger goblet.
I now paid the poor cottagers a visit, and carried the fragments of our dinner to them.
On my return, we resumed our seats, and hung over the decayed embers, that cast a gloomy glare upon the bed and the drapery; while now and then, a flash from the ashes, as they sank, shot a reddened light on the paleness of the minstrel, and brightened the broad features of the warden. The wind had risen: there was a good deal of excellent howling round the turret: we sat silent, and looking for likenesses in the fire.
'Come, warden,' cried I, 'repair these embers with a fresh splinter, and let me hear the memoirs of your life.'
The warden consented, the fire was replenished, and he thus began:
'Once upon a time when pigs were swine——'
'I will trouble you for a more respectable beginning,' said I; 'some striking, genteel little picture, to bespeak attention,—such as, "All was dark;" or, "It was on a gloomy night in the month of November."'
'That would be the devil's own lie,' cried Jerry, 'because I was born in January; and by the same token, I was one of the youngest children that ever was born, for I saw light five months after my mother's marriage. Well, being born, up I grew, and the first word I said was mammy; and my hair was quite yellow at first, though 'tis so brown now; and I promised to be handsome, but the symptom soon left me; and I remember I was as proud as Lucifer when I got trowsers; and——'
'Why now, Jerry, what sort of trash is this?' said I. 'Fie; a warden like you! I hoped to have heard something of interest and adventure from you; that your family was respectable, though poor——'
'Respectable!' cried Jerry. 'Why, I am of the O'Sullivans, who were kings of Ireland, and that is the very reason I have not Mister to my name, seeing as how I am of the blood royal. Oh, if 'tis the wonderful your ladyship wants, by the powers, I am at home thereabouts. Well, I was iddicated in great tenderness and ingenuity, and when I came of age, I went and seized on O'Sullivan Castle, and fortified it, and got a crown and sceptre, and reigned in great peace many years. But as the devil would have it——'
'Jerry,' said I, 'I must insist on hearing no more of these monstrous untruths.'
'Untruths!' cried he. 'Why you might as well give me the lie at once. O murder! to think I would tell a falsehood about the matter!'
'Sir,' said I, ''tis a falsehood on the very face of it.'
''Pon my conscience then,' cried he, ''tis as like your own story as one pea is like another. And sure I did not contradict you (whatever I might think, and I have my thoughts too, I can tell you,) when you talked so glib of your great estates; though, to be sure, your ladyship is as poor as a rat. Howsomever, since you will have it so, 'tis all a falsehood, sure enough; but now you shall hear the real story; though, for that matter, any body can tell truth, and no thanks to them.
'Well, then, my father was nothing more than a common labourer, and just poor enough to be honest, but not poor enough to be a rogue. Poverty is no great disgrace, provided one comes honestly by it; for one may get poor as well as rich by knavery. So, being poor, father used to make me earn odd pennies, when I was a boy; and at last I got so smart, that he resolved on sending me to sell chickens at the next town. But as I could only speak Irish at that time, by reason we lived up the mountains, he sat down and taught me a little English, in case any gentlefolks should ask me about my chickens. Now, Jerry, says he, in Irish, if any gentleman speaks to you, of course it will be to know the price of your chickens; so you are to say,three shillings, Sir. Then to be sure he will be for lowering the price, so you are to say stoutly,No less, Sir; and if he shakes his head, or looks angry, 'tis a sign he won't buy unless you bate a little, so you are to say,I believe I must take two, Sir.
'Well, I got my lesson pat, and off I set, with my hair cut and my face washed, and thinking it the greatest day of my life; and I had not walked a hundred yards from the house, when I met a gentleman.
'Pray how far is it to the next village?' says he.
'Three shillings, Sir,' says I.
'You are a saucy fellow,' says he.
'No less, Sir,' says I.
'I will give you a box in the face,' says he.
'I believe I must take two, Sir,' says I.
'But, instead of two, egad, I got six, and as many kicks as would match 'em; and home I ran howling.—Well, that was very well, so when I told father that I was beaten for nothing:
'I warrant you were not,' says he; 'and if I had done so by my poor father, he would have broken every bone in my skin,' says he. 'But he was a better father than I am,' says he.
'How dare you say that your father was better than my father,' says I; and upon this, father takes me by the ear, and lugs me out of the house. Just as we got outside, the same gentleman was passing by; and he stopped, and began to complain of me to my father; and then the whole matter came out, and both of them laughed very heartily.
'Well, what do you think? 'Pon my veracity, the gentleman took me home with him to clean the knives and boots. And then he sent me to school, where I learned English; and then I began to tend at table, and at last became a regular servant in the family.
'Well, here I lived several years, and might have lived till now, but that one night, when mistress had company, while bringing in the tray of cake and wine, down I came, and broke all the glasses.
'By this and that,' says mistress; (only to be sure, mistress did'nt swear) 'you are quite drunk,' says she.
'Never tasted a drop all day,' says I; and it was true for me, 'cause I did not begin till evening.
'Who taught you to tell falsehoods?' says she.
'Troth, you did,' says I; 'for you taught me to tell visitors you were not at home, when all the time you are peeping down the bannisters. Fine fashions, indeed! Nobody is ever at home now-a-days, but a snail,' says I. And I would have said more too, but that master kicked me out of the house.
'Well, that was very well; and now my misfortunes were all before me, like a wheelbarrow.
'This happened in the year of the Rebellion; so, being out of service, I lived at alehouses; and there it was that I met gentlemen with rusty superfine on their backs, and with the longest words in the world. They soon persuaded me that old Ireland was going to ruin; I forget how now, but I know I had the whole story pat at that time; and the end of it was, that I became an United Irishman.
'Howsomever, though I would have died for my country, it would be carrying the joke too far to starve for her, and I had now spent all my wages. So, at last, back I went to my old master, and fell on my knees, and begged his pardon for my bad conduct when I lived with him, and prayed of him to take me once more. Well, he did; and it was only two nights after that we heard a great noise outside, and master comes running into the kitchen.
'Jerry,' says he, 'here are the rebels breaking into the house; and as I know you are a faithful fellow, take this sword and pistol, and stand by me.'
'No, but I will stand before you,' says I. So we mustered our men, five in all, and posted ourselves on the head of the stairs; when in burst the rebels into the hall, and we began a parley. 'Why then, is that Barney Delany?' says I to their captain.
'Why then, is that Jerry Sullivan?' says he to me. 'You are one of us,' says he, 'so now turn round and shoot your master,' says he.
'I will cut off both my hands first,' says I.
'Take that then,' says he; and he fires a shot, and I another, and to it we kept, till we beat them all off.
'Well, in a few months afterwards, this same Barney being made prisoner, I was bound over as witness against him. So some of the gentlemen with the long words came to me, and told me how wrong I had acted in fighting for my master, instead of for my country, and that I must make amends by giving evidence in Barney's favour.
'Well, they puzzled me so, that from then till now I never could make out whether I was right or wrong in standing by master. But somehow, I think I was right; for though patriotism (as the gentlemen call it) is a fine thing, yet, after all, there is nothing like gratitude. Why, if the devil himself did me a kind office, I believe I would make shift to do him another, and not act like the clergy, who spend their whole lives in snubbing at him, and calling him all manner of names, though they know, that, but for him, there would not be a clergyman or a fat living in the kingdom.
'Howsomever, I was persuaded to do the genteel thing by Barney Delany; so, when the day for the trial came, I drank myself pretty unintelligible; and I swore point blank, before judge and jury, that I did not know Barney good or bad, and that all I knew of him was good; and I bothered the lawyers, and they turned me from the table, and threatened to indite me for perjury. But it was the people that did praise me, and call it iligant swearing, mighty pretty evidence; and I was the great man of the day; and they took me to the fair that was hard by, where we tippled a little more, and then we sallied forth ripe for fun.
'Well, as we were running through the fair, what should I see but a man's bald head sticking out of a hole in one of the tents—to cool, I suppose,—so I just lifted up my cudgel, and just laid it down again; when, in a moment, out came a whole set of fellows from the tent, and the man asks which of us had broken his head.
'It was myself,' says I, 'but curse me if I could help it, that skull of your's looked so inviting.
'Accordingly both parties began a battle, and then others, who had nothing better to do, came and joined; they did not know why, but no matter for that. Any one may fight when there is an occasion; but the beauty of it is, to fight when there is no occasion at all.
'Howsomever, in the midst of it up came the military to spoil sport as usual; and they dispersed us, and made some of us prisoners, I among the rest, and we were put into Bridewell. Well, that was very well. So at night we contrived to break it open, beat the keepers, and make our escape. Then what to do with myself was the question. It would go hard with me if I were caught again; so I skulked about the country several days, till happening to meet some lads going beyond seas to reap the English harvest, they persuaded me to buy a reaping-hook, and go with them.
'But to be sure, to be sure, such a hurricane as we had at sea, and such tumbling and tossing; and then we were driven to the world's end, or the Land's End, or some end; but I know I thought I was come to my own end. In short, such wonderful adventures never were known.'
'What adventures, my friend?' cried I. 'I love to hear wonderful adventures.'
'Why,' said he, 'we had an adventure every moment, for every moment we were near going to the bottom.'
'And was that all?' cried I.
'Then,' said he, 'there was such pulling of ropes, and reefing and rigging; and we went over so many seas and channels; the Irish Channel, and the British Channel, and the Bristol Channel, and the Baltic Sea, and the Atlantic Sea, and—— Oh dear, as good as forty more.'
'Forty more!' cried I. 'And pray what were their names?'
'Bad luck to me if I can remember,' said he.
'Probably you were in the Red Sea,' said I.
'To be sure I was.'
'And in the Black Sea?'
'No doubt of it.'
'And in the White Sea, and the Pacific Ocean?'
'In every mother's soul of them.'
'And pray what kind of seas are they?' asked I.
'Why,' said he, 'the Red Sea is as red as blood, and the Black Sea is as black as ink, and the White Sea is the colour of new milk, or nearer butter-milk; and the Pacifi-ifi—What's that word?'
'Pacific,' said I.
'And what is the meaning of Pacific?' said he.
'It means peaceful or calm,' answered I.
'Gad, I thought so,' said he, 'for the devil a wave that same ocean had on it high or low. 'Pon my conscience, it was as smooth as the palm of my hand.'
'Take care, Jerry,' said I, laughing; 'I am afraid——'
'Why then,' cried he, 'that I may never——'
'Hush!' said I. 'No swearing.'
'By dad,' cried he, 'you had better tell my story yourself; for you seem resolved to have it all your own way. May be you won't believe me neither, when I tell you that I landed?'
'As you are not at sea now,' said I, 'I will believe you.'
'Well then,' said he, 'I suppose you will believe that I made a little money by reaping, and then trudged to London to try my fortune.'
'I make no doubt of the fact,' said I. 'But pray how did you contrive to subsist in London at first?'
'By spitting through my teeth,' said Jerry.
'Take care,' cried I. 'This I suspect is another——'
'If you mean lie,' said he, 'I have caught you at last; for 'tis as true as true can be, and I will tell you all about it. You must know that 'tis now the fashion for gentlemen to be their own coachmen; and not only to drive like coachmen, but to talk, walk, dress, drink, swear, and even spit like coachmen. Well, two days after my arrival in London, as I was standing in the street, and looking about, I happened to spit through my teeth, to the envy and admiration of a gentleman that was just driving his own carriage by me. For he stopped, and called me to him, and swore I should get half-a-crown if I would teach him topickle a wig,—that was the word. So when he gave me plain English for it, I closed with him, and went to his house, and taught him to spit so well, that my fame spread through the town, and all the fashionable bloods came to me for instruction; till at last I had a good mind to set up a Spitting Academy.
'Well, I had now spit myself into such affluence, that I refused a coachman's seat with forty pounds a year (for, as I said, even a curate had more than that); and may be, instead of a seat on the box, I might at last have risen to a seat in the Parliament (for many a man has got there by dirtier tricks than mine), but that my profession, which was of a nature to dry up my mouth, forced me to frequent porterhouses; where, as the devil would have it, I met other gentlemen, such as I had met before, and with just the same set of long words.
'In a short time, all of us agreed that our country was ruined, and that something must be done. So we made ourselves into a club, for the purpose of writing ballads about the war, and the taxes, and a thousand lashes that a soldier got. And we used to set ten or twelve ballad-singers round a table in our club-room, each with her pint of beer; and one of our club would teach them the tune with a little kit, while I was in a cock-loft overhead composing the words. And they reckoned me the best poet of them all; and they told me that my writings would descend to posterity; and sometimes the thoughts came so quick on me, that I was obliged to chalk them down on the back of the bellows. But whenever I wanted an idea, I read the Weekly Register; and then between the Register and the liquor, I got worked up to such a pitch of poetry, that my blood used to run cold in the morning, at the thoughts of what I would have done at night.
'Well, one evening, the ballad-singers were round the table, sipping and singing to the little kit, and I had just popt down my head through the trap-door of the cock-loft, to ask the chairman the rhime forReform:
'Confound you,' says he, 'didn't I tell you twenty times 'tisa storm;' when in bursts the door, and a parcel of peace-officers seize him, and the whole set, for holding seditious meetings, and publishing inflammatory songs. Think of that! when I protest to you our only object was, by causing disunion, and convincing our enemies that we could not carry on the war, to procure a speedy and honorable peace.
'Howsomever, I got out of the scrape by being concealed in the cock-loft; and I remember well it was on that very night I first saw my wife.'
'Ah,' said I, 'give me the particulars of that event, the first meeting of lovers is always so interesting!'
'Why,' said he, 'going home sorrowful enough after the ruin of our club, I resolved to drown care in a noggin; and accordingly turned into a gin-shop, where I found three fruit-women from Covent Garden, bound on the same errand.'
'What dram shall we drink?' says they.
'Brandy,' says one.
'Gin,' says another.
'Anniseed-water,' says another. And so they fell to and drank.
'I am happy that I ever came to this City of Lunnun; for my fortune is made,' says Brandy.