FOOTNOTES:

was some forty years old. Her age was partly open to positive proof, as in '94 she was known to have just reached her twentieth year—it was partly shown by a fulness of person, rather tending to corpulence, which betrayed the retreat of her younger bloom; but still you would rarely find another beauty so well preserved, or a general appearance equally imposing. Tall, full, gorgeous, she reminded you of the historical beauties of antiquity. Such a figure you might imagine as an Ariadne, Dido, or Cleopatra. With a perfect bust, arms, and shoulders; white as an animated statue, regular features, beaming eyes, pearly teeth, hair raven black—hearing, speech, motion, still ravishingly perfect. Her costume, too, had a certain Grecian character.

Among the painters, Gérard was the lady's chosen intimate. When she first knew him, he had already been long famous and rich; but he seems to have taken pleasure in recalling the struggles of his early career. It was, in many respects, a strange one:—

His father was a Frenchman, who belonged to the domestic establishment of the Cardinal de Bernis, then ambassador at Rome. His mother, whose name was Tortoni, was the daughter of a plain Roman citizen. In 1782, Gérard's parents, with their three boys, of whom François, the eldest, was now twelve, returned to France, where the father died in 1789. A year afterwards the widow went back with her children to her own country, but had to return to France once more, for the preservation of a small income important in her narrow circumstances. On this occasion, besides her sons, she came back with her little brother Tortoni and his infant sister, some years younger than her eldest son François. Thus there was in the house an aunt younger than her nephew.

The family found it hard enough to live at all in Paris: and when François's great talent for drawing revealed itself, the household means were further pinched to provide him with paper and pencils. Under all obstacles, however, his powers soon grew evident: he got at last an introduction to David, and became his pupil:—

Gérard was created the perfect opposite, both physically and morally, of David. David was tall, with distorted features, rough, furious, cruel. Gérard was small, with a pleasing, regular physiognomy, delicate, soft, generous.... He would often tell how he was forced in those days (during the reign of terror) to deceive his master David, in order to preserve his own life. David, who in his zeal for reforming the world had become one of the most active members of the Committee of Safety, was incessantly busied in providing that bloody tribunal with familiars. Every one belonging to him, who desired his own preservation, was forced either to adopt republicanism in David's sense, or to evade it by some kind of deception. Gérard, although in perfect health, escaped the honor designed him by feigning sickness; and went about in public on crutches, which, however, he threw down the instant he knew himself safe from observation. Gérard's mother had died in 1792. Her brother, the painter's uncle, now a grown youth, took up the queer fancy of showing the Parisians the excellent manner in which the Romans are skilled in making confectioner's ices. The success of theCafé Tortoni, on theBoulevard des Italiens, has now been for some fifty years known to all Europe. One of the children (Gérard) was dead, the youngest provided for elsewhere; and thus, after his mother's death, the young painter of two-and-twenty was left alone with his aunt, Mlle. Tortoni, who was but two years his junior. She became his wife. When relating the above, she would add, withnaïveté, "At that time my nephew was in a manner forced to marry me, unless he chose to turn me out into the street. We were poor, but contented. Gérard's talent, as yet little known, and destitute of suitable means for its exercise, supported us, however, barely; and I continued to sew, darn, cook, carry water, and cut wood for our little household, as I had been wont to do before, when assisting his mother, my sister. In those days there was no marrying in the church, no priest, no banns. A few days after the death of my sister, we appeared in our poor work-a-day clothes, before themaire. He joined our hands, and then we became a couple."

Some months were passed in this obscure poverty, until calmer times prevailed in Paris. Isabey had somehow become aware of the young painter's talent, and now urged him to exhibit a picture at the first Exhibition. Gérard produced the sketch of hisBélisaire;[5]but declared he had no means to paint it on a grand scale. Isabey hereupon assisted him; and, after the picture was finished and exhibited with success, procured him a purchaser, at the price of 100 Louis d'or.

"On the receipt of this sum," Madame Gérard went on, "we were nearly losing our wits for joy. We were ravished, like mere children, by the glitter of the shining gold, which we kept again and again rolling through our fingers. We, who until now could not even afford to buy a common candlestick, so that we had to cut a hole in our poor wooden table to stick the rushlight in,—we now had a hundred louis!" By degrees Gérard advanced to a high European name; but those only who knew him personally could have any idea of his amiable, refined nature, of his pleasant conversation, of the various acquirements and highly intellectual peculiarities of this eminent man, who took up with equal clearness many of the most dissimilar sciences. You forgot time with him, or gladly gave him up the whole night, as he seldom made his appearance in company at his own house before ten.

Before leaving the grim figure of the old Revolution for more modern sketches, we must correct the lady's statement of its victims, in which she quite exceeds the utmostlatitude of feminine gossip. "Two millions of heads" she assigns as the food of the devouring guillotine—a number transcendent, even for lady rhetoric. It is somefive hundredtimes more than the largest estimate of those even who have done their best to aggravate the tale of its horrors. The Convention, when grown Anti-Jacobin, and anxious, of course, to justify its destruction of Robespierre and his fellows, it published lists of the sufferers, could not bring the number of the guillotined up to a fulltwothousand. Montgaillard, who complains that the returns were incomplete, may be taken as the author of the most extreme calculation on this subject: he does not get beyond a total offourthousand victims, including those who perished byfusilladesandnoyades. Even an anonymous lady cannot be suffered to pass with such a terrific exaggeration unquestioned. In 1823, she was present at an opening of the Chambers by "Louis the Desired," now grown fatter, it seems, than was desirable for such an operation. Indeed—

he could no longer walk; on this account the session was held in the Louvre; and the manner in which he suddenly pushed out on his low rolling chair, from beneath a curtain, which was quickly drawn back, as it is done on the stage, and as rapidly closed again, had an effect at once painful and ludicrous. Both these feelings were increased by the shrill piping treble which came squeaking forth from this unlucky corpulent body.... His brother, the Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles the Tenth, was tall and thin, and had retained to his advanced age that habit of shuffling about with his legs, which teachers and governors had vainly tried to cure him of while young. He could not keep his body still for a single instant. His protruded head, his mouth always open, would of themselves have seemed to indicate mere stupidity rather than cunning, had not this impression been contradicted, partly by the vivacity of his eyes, and partly by his too notorious habit of intriguing. This idiotic air of poking forward the head, with the mouth always open—but aggravated by quite lifeless and almost totally closed eyes—was apparent in a still higher degree in his eldest son, the Duke of Angoulême. In the face of his wife there were still visible some traces, if not of a former beauty, at least of something characteristic and noble. In spite of her withered, lean figure, her gait was firm and majestic; but the terrorists of the Revolution had heaped misery of every kind in double and three-fold measure on this unhappy daughter of Louis the Sixteenth, and their cannibal severity had broken her heart for ever.... The Duchess of Berri, a Neapolitan princess, wife of the youngest son of the Count d'Artois, was young, but had been ill-treated by nature in her outward appearance. She was short, thin, with hair blonde almost to whiteness, and a kind of reddish fairness of complexion. In her irregular features, in her eyes which all but squinted, no kind of expression could be detected—not even that of frivolity, which she was accused of.... To both these ladies the rigorously-prescribed court-dress, as worn in open day, without candlelight, was very unbecoming. It consisted of a short white satin dress, calledjupe, which means a dress without a train; the front breadth richly embroidered with gold, with a cut-out body, and short sleeves, leaving the neck and arms bare,—the effect of which was absolutely pitiable on the superannuated, yellow, and withered Duchess of Angoulême. Around the waist a golden ceinture held up a colored velvet skirt, with an enormous train, but no body. In front, this kind of outer dress, calledmanteau de cour, was open, and trimmed all round with broad lace. The head was decorated, or rather disfigured, by a thick upright plume of tall white ostrich feathers, to which were attached behind two long ends of blonde lace, calledbarbes, which hung down the back. On the forehead a closely-fitting jewelled diadem was worn, and diamond ornaments on the neck and arms, according to the usual fashion.

From such court scarecrows let us turn to keep a last corner for a figure of more modern and genial appearance—though this, too, was saddening, and is now, like the rest, grown a mere shadow. The lady saw much of the musician Chopin after 1832, and speaks of him with warm affection, and with a fine feeling of his genius:—

He was a delicate, graceful figure, in the highest degree attractive—the whole man a mere breath—rather a spiritual than a bodily substance,—all harmony, like his playing. His way of speaking, too, was like the character of his art—soft, fluctuating, murmuring. The son of a French father and of a Polish mother, in him the Romance and Sclavonic dialects were combined, as it were, in one perfect harmony. He seemed, indeed, hardly to touch the piano; you might have fancied he would do quite as well without as with the instrument: you thought no more of the mechanism,—but listened to flute-like murmurs, and dreamed of hearing Æolian harps stirred by the ethereal breathings of the wind; and with all this—in his whole wide sphere of talents given to him alone—always obliging, modest, unexacting! He was no pianoforte player of the modern sort: he had fashioned his art quite alone in his own way, and it was something indescribable. In private rooms as well as in concerts, he would steal quietly, unaffectedly, to the piano; was content with any kind of seat; showed at once, by his simple dress and natural demeanor, that he abhorred every kind of grimace and quackery; and began, without any prelude, his performance. How feeling it was—how full of soul!... When I first knew him, though far from strong, he still enjoyed good health; he was very gay, even satirical, but always with moderation and good taste. He possessed an inconceivable comic gift of mimicry, and in private circles of friends he diffused the utmost cheerfulness both by his genius and his good spirits.... Hallé has now the best tradition of his manner.

We pause, not for want of matter, but for want of room. Besides its lively sketches, the book contains some materials of a tragic interest—to which we may return.

FOOTNOTES:[5]It is now, or was not long since, at Munich, in the Leuchtenburg Gallery.

[5]It is now, or was not long since, at Munich, in the Leuchtenburg Gallery.

A writer in the July number ofBentley's Miscellanydescribes some official experiences in Egypt during the reign of Mehemet Ali, and among various curious incidentshas the following of Boghos Bey, the prime minister of the Pacha, who then played a no inconsiderable part on the stage of European diplomacy, more particularly as relating to the, at that period, all-engrossing "Eastern Question."

"By birth an Armenian, in early life Boghos Bey was dragoman or interpreter to Mr. Wherry, then English consul at Smyrna; but he gave up that appointment, to accompany, in a similar capacity, the Turkish army, which, during the occupation of Egypt by the French, was sent to co-operate at Alexandria with Sir Ralph Abercrombie's British force. At the close of the war, on the expulsion of the French, he remained in Egypt, where he attached himself to the rising fortunes of Mehemet Ali, with whom he successively occupied the post of interpreter, secretary, and finally that of prime minister, when his master—from the Albanian adventurer—became the self-elected successor of the Pharaohs and Ptolomies.

"On one occasion, Boghos having got into disgrace, Mehemet Ali ordered his prime minister to be placed in a sack and thrown into the Nile. It was supposed that this cruel sentence had been duly carried into effect. However, the British consul in Egypt at that time, managed to get something else smuggled into the sack, whilst he smuggled old Boghos into his own residence, where the latter long remained concealed, until, on one occasion, the financial accounts got so entangled, that Mehemet Ali expressed to the British consul his regret that Boghos Bey was no longer there to unravel the complicated web of difficulties in which he found himself entangled: whereupon old Boghos was produced, pardoned, reinstated in his office, acquired more influence than ever, and was, at the time referred to, the very 'Joseph' of the land."

Mr. Justice Haliburton obtained some notoriety and a certain degree of popularity by his broad caricatures of common life in New England. These books did not display very eminent ability even for the rather low and mean field in which the author found congenial occupation, but the old jokes transplanted into our republican soil had a seeming freshness in the eyes of buyers of cheap books, and they were profitable to paper-makers and printers, until the patience of the public could tolerate no more of their monotonous vulgarity. Judge Haliburton has since essayed a more serious vein, and being wholly without originality, has fallen into the old track of depreciation, sneering, and vituperation, in the expectation that any form of attack upon the people of the United States would sell, at least in England. The unfortunate gentleman was mistaken, as the following very kind reviewal of his book, which we transfer toThe InternationalfromThe Athenæumof July 26, will show.

"The English in America.By the Author of 'Sam Slick,' &c.This is a vulgar and violent political pamphlet, which will fill no small part of the admirers of 'Sam Slick' with alarm and astonishment. The 'English in America' are in these two volumes set forth principally as a parcel of uncouth, disingenuous, and repulsive Puritans, who emigrated to America in the early part of the seventeenth century for the sake of an easier indulgence in disloyalty and schism. Confining himself almost wholly to the events which took place in the colony of Massachusetts, Judge Haliburton has thought it worth while to write a book, half declamation and half treatise, against Democracy and Dissent,—which seem to him to be the two giant evils that oppress mankind. It is no part of our function to discuss the abstract merits of either of these questions; but it is perfectly within our province to point out the errors and faults of those writers who imagine that they can serve a party purpose by making a convenient and derogatory use of literature."In the first place, then, we say that the volumes before us are essentially unfair. The 'English in America' have not really and truly beensuchEnglish as are there described,—nor has their career been such as is there narrated,—nor generally are the actual facts of the case logically and impartially stated in these volumes. Judge Haliburton colors and distorts almost every event and circumstance to which he refers; and there is a coarseness and rancor in the manner in which he speaks of nearly all persons and parties who differ from him in opinion, which has surprised and shocked us. There was no occasion whatever for all this vehemence. In the first place, the facts connected with the early history of the British settlements in America are too well known to permit any attempt at systematic and unscrupulous disparagement of the early Puritan colonists to be in any important degree successful. In the next place, the questions which Judge Haliburton professes to consider have been for all practical purposes discussed and decided long ago. In the last place, we are quite sure that no writer on questions of colonial policy could more effectually cut himself off from all sympathy and influence than by the adoption of an excited and menacing tone."We find in the introductory chapter to these volumes a statement to the effect that one of the chief objects in writing them has been to inform Englishmen that Democracy did not appear for the first time in America during the War of Independence; and that the peculiar form of religion that prevailed at an early period in the New England States exerted a very powerful influence over their politics and modes of government. Surely there is nothing new in all this. There is no great discovery here which required for its introduction the expenditure of so much labor and vehemence. We had imagined that the great orations of Burke on Conciliation with America had exhausted long ago not only all the facts but most of the philosophy which is contained in the general view now revived by the author of 'Sam Slick.' There are a sentence or two in one of the most famous passages of perhaps the greatest of these orations which seem to anticipate the present volumes most completely. 'All Protestantism,' said Burkemore than seventy years ago, 'even the most cold and passive, is a sort of dissent. But the religion most prevalent in our northern colonies is a refinement on the principle of resistance; it is the dissidence of dissent, and the Protestantism of the Protestant religion. This religion, under a variety of denominations, agreeing in nothing but in the communication of the spirit of liberty, is predominant in most of the northern provinces; where the Church of England, notwithstanding its legal rights, is in reality no more than a sort of private sect, not composing, most probably, the tenth of the people. The colonists left England when this spirit was high, and in the emigrants was the highest of all; and even that stream of foreigners which has been constantly flowing into these colonies has for the greatest part been composed of dissenters from the establishments of their several countries, and have brought with them a temper and character far from alien to that of the people with whom they mixed.' The speech of Burke in which these sentences occur ought surely to have passed for something in the estimation of Judge Haliburton before he committed himself to the task of writing this book."We are quite sensible that as far as the mere composition is concerned there is very great merit in its publication. The style is vigorous and lively—and not unfrequently the animation rises into eloquence. The narrative parts of the volumes are in general exceedingly well written; and we must not omit to say, that during those short intervals when the author permits himself to lose sight of his extreme opinions he rarely fails to delight the reader with a page or two distinguished by acute observation and good sense."Still, the faults of the book are of the most serious kind. It is incomplete in plan: for it is neither a regular narrative, nor a treatise, nor a commentary, nor a history, nor an article for a review—but something of all five. As we have said, it is written in a tone highly excited and partial; and it has the misfortune to appear before the world as the exponent of seemingly a new, but in reality of an old and familiar, doctrine, by employing examples and reasonings of which very few people indeed will not be able to detect at once either the sophistry or the incompleteness."We forbear to enter into any general discussion on the well-worn topics of the Pilgrim Fathers and the Puritan settlements. The verdict of an impartial age has been long ago pronounced on these questions: and we may well deplore the unsound judgment of any writer of the deserved eminence of Judge Haliburton who gratuitously brings upon himself an imputation of outrageous eccentricity by attempting to unsettle, on his own single authority, conclusions so well and so long established...."There is a great deal said in these volumes in disparagement of the early New Englanders. They are stigmatized as turbulent, schismatic, dishonest, revolutionary, bigoted, cruel, and so on. These are old charges, which have been several times placed in their true light; and it is needless again to undertake a defence and to enter into explanations which are familiar to most educated persons. We are not the indiscriminate admirers of the policy pursued by the first colonists of Massachusetts Bay; but the course which they adopted, the communities which they built up, and the form of liberty which they introduced into the New World can be adequately understood only when surveyed from a comprehensive and impartial point of view. It is at best a shallow criticism which contents itself with the discovery that the settlers were religious zealots, and had no particular respect for either kings or bishops.... "We close these volumes. We regret that the author has been so ill-advised as to publish them at all. They are well written, as we have said—and in some respects possess great merit; but truth compels us to add, that they are very unworthy of the author and of the great questions they profess to elucidate and discuss."

"In the first place, then, we say that the volumes before us are essentially unfair. The 'English in America' have not really and truly beensuchEnglish as are there described,—nor has their career been such as is there narrated,—nor generally are the actual facts of the case logically and impartially stated in these volumes. Judge Haliburton colors and distorts almost every event and circumstance to which he refers; and there is a coarseness and rancor in the manner in which he speaks of nearly all persons and parties who differ from him in opinion, which has surprised and shocked us. There was no occasion whatever for all this vehemence. In the first place, the facts connected with the early history of the British settlements in America are too well known to permit any attempt at systematic and unscrupulous disparagement of the early Puritan colonists to be in any important degree successful. In the next place, the questions which Judge Haliburton professes to consider have been for all practical purposes discussed and decided long ago. In the last place, we are quite sure that no writer on questions of colonial policy could more effectually cut himself off from all sympathy and influence than by the adoption of an excited and menacing tone.

"We find in the introductory chapter to these volumes a statement to the effect that one of the chief objects in writing them has been to inform Englishmen that Democracy did not appear for the first time in America during the War of Independence; and that the peculiar form of religion that prevailed at an early period in the New England States exerted a very powerful influence over their politics and modes of government. Surely there is nothing new in all this. There is no great discovery here which required for its introduction the expenditure of so much labor and vehemence. We had imagined that the great orations of Burke on Conciliation with America had exhausted long ago not only all the facts but most of the philosophy which is contained in the general view now revived by the author of 'Sam Slick.' There are a sentence or two in one of the most famous passages of perhaps the greatest of these orations which seem to anticipate the present volumes most completely. 'All Protestantism,' said Burkemore than seventy years ago, 'even the most cold and passive, is a sort of dissent. But the religion most prevalent in our northern colonies is a refinement on the principle of resistance; it is the dissidence of dissent, and the Protestantism of the Protestant religion. This religion, under a variety of denominations, agreeing in nothing but in the communication of the spirit of liberty, is predominant in most of the northern provinces; where the Church of England, notwithstanding its legal rights, is in reality no more than a sort of private sect, not composing, most probably, the tenth of the people. The colonists left England when this spirit was high, and in the emigrants was the highest of all; and even that stream of foreigners which has been constantly flowing into these colonies has for the greatest part been composed of dissenters from the establishments of their several countries, and have brought with them a temper and character far from alien to that of the people with whom they mixed.' The speech of Burke in which these sentences occur ought surely to have passed for something in the estimation of Judge Haliburton before he committed himself to the task of writing this book.

"We are quite sensible that as far as the mere composition is concerned there is very great merit in its publication. The style is vigorous and lively—and not unfrequently the animation rises into eloquence. The narrative parts of the volumes are in general exceedingly well written; and we must not omit to say, that during those short intervals when the author permits himself to lose sight of his extreme opinions he rarely fails to delight the reader with a page or two distinguished by acute observation and good sense.

"Still, the faults of the book are of the most serious kind. It is incomplete in plan: for it is neither a regular narrative, nor a treatise, nor a commentary, nor a history, nor an article for a review—but something of all five. As we have said, it is written in a tone highly excited and partial; and it has the misfortune to appear before the world as the exponent of seemingly a new, but in reality of an old and familiar, doctrine, by employing examples and reasonings of which very few people indeed will not be able to detect at once either the sophistry or the incompleteness.

"We forbear to enter into any general discussion on the well-worn topics of the Pilgrim Fathers and the Puritan settlements. The verdict of an impartial age has been long ago pronounced on these questions: and we may well deplore the unsound judgment of any writer of the deserved eminence of Judge Haliburton who gratuitously brings upon himself an imputation of outrageous eccentricity by attempting to unsettle, on his own single authority, conclusions so well and so long established....

"There is a great deal said in these volumes in disparagement of the early New Englanders. They are stigmatized as turbulent, schismatic, dishonest, revolutionary, bigoted, cruel, and so on. These are old charges, which have been several times placed in their true light; and it is needless again to undertake a defence and to enter into explanations which are familiar to most educated persons. We are not the indiscriminate admirers of the policy pursued by the first colonists of Massachusetts Bay; but the course which they adopted, the communities which they built up, and the form of liberty which they introduced into the New World can be adequately understood only when surveyed from a comprehensive and impartial point of view. It is at best a shallow criticism which contents itself with the discovery that the settlers were religious zealots, and had no particular respect for either kings or bishops.

... "We close these volumes. We regret that the author has been so ill-advised as to publish them at all. They are well written, as we have said—and in some respects possess great merit; but truth compels us to add, that they are very unworthy of the author and of the great questions they profess to elucidate and discuss."

I trust I am notnowimpertinent, however much so I may have been heretofore. I have seen and observed a great deal. My observations have engendered experiences. My experiences have some point to them. And altogether, I think I am entitled to ask a few questions of those whom I have sometimes overlooked, but now address myself to most immediately. I am proud to say that I never belonged to but one mistress. I was of too much value to be exchanged, lost, lightly parted with, or—I feel prouder as I say it—sold. Moreover, I was agage d'amour. That fascinating Dr. ——!

But though curious, I will be discreet. This sole mistress of mine gave me plenty to do. Many thanks to her for it, since it has given me an insight into much that is wonderful. I am certain she preferred opera to the drama. I saw more of the stage at the first, and more of the audience at the last. I have found much in both to puzzle me. Some things I have solved. As for that which remains, I had hoped to determine for myself, but an unlucky fall from a nail has spoiled my sight. I have been now two months imprisoned in anescrutoire. Others must answer my questions.

In the first place, I want to know why theatres and opera houses have such curious odors when empty? I have often perceived this fact when our carriage came announced the last of all. And why are the lights turned out when the audience have half-way reached the front doors? What becomes of the bills which are left behind? Do the rag-pickers ever break in? Where do the musicians go to through that little door in the stage? And why does the kettle drummer always glance around the house upon entering with such an air of satisfaction? As if any one cared forhim! Why does the leader always stop to take a pinch of snuff, while the audience are breathing in their boots and gaiters to catch the first note of the new opera? Why does the fat man with the violoncello always saw upon two strings, and leave the two in the middle to such a contemptuous silence and exile? Why do thefront-bench people get up ten minutes before the performances are over, and rush from the house as if the floor was on fire, while the galleries make twice as much noise by crying "hush!" and always stay to hear the speech (if there is any), although they have not paid as much by half as they who ran away? Why does the lover, rushing upon the stage to the embrace of his mistress, stop half way to bow to the ladies in the boxes? And why doesn't the aforesaid mistress box his ears for his impoliteness? And why did she say, just before he came, "Here comes my Alonzo! Hark! I hear his step," when every door upon the stage was shut, and nothing was heard but the confused trampling behind her, which might have been the galloping of donkeys? And why did this same lady wait for him by the side of a rosewood table, covered with satin damask, and ornamented with a Wellington inkstand—and she dressed in a robe of shot-silk, with laces and feathers—while he was dressed as a valiant knight of the sixteenth century should be? And now I think of it, why didMr. Anderson, in the play of "Gisippus," visit the Roman centurion in a brick house, entered through a mahogany door, with a brass plate upon it? Why do the peasantry of Europe always dress with the most expensive ribbons about their legs and arms when they come out to dance at the wedding, or to drink from pewter mugs to the health of the bride? And why do they stand like mutes at a funeral, whilst two people in their midst are plotting some horrible murder? Why do the Italian banditti wear such steeple-crowned hats when they creep through small holes, or kneel for concealment behind rocks which only cover their foreheads? Why do the soldiers inFra Diavolostand and sing, "We must away, 'tis duty calls," while they sit at a table drinking punch, and seem in no more hurry to go than if they were paid for drinking? Why do the chamois-hunters in "Amilie" continue so urgent about going to the mountains away, after the prey, before the dawning of the day, when it is evident from the very nature of things that they couldn't be spared for such a severe service on any contingency?

Why does the lover always sing tenor in an opera? What connection is there between villany and a bass voice? What's the necessity of aprima donnasinging towards the ceiling when she addresses a chorus behind her? By what right does the head man in the chorus do all the gesticulating, while his fellows stand like militia-men? Who ever saw an excited basso bid a "minion away," without trying to throw his fist behind him? Why does Ernani's mistress wear such splendid diamonds, and not sell them to give him release from persecution? I have seen a sentimental young lady swear to share the poverty and disgrace of her lover, when she was fool enough to lay aside most precious jewels and dresses, which would have purchased affluence, and then robe herself in calico! Now, why did he permitthat?

Why do stage heroines venture out into the woods in November in white silk dresses? Are there never any snakes about? And why are theatrical forests always green in the middle of winter? What kind of thermometers do managers have? Why is it that three or four stout men, with loaded pistols, allow themselves to be beaten off the stage by a slim man with a small stick? In my opinion—and I don't care who hears it—Richard the Third (whom I understand to be a natural son of one Shakespeare) was a great numskull to allow Richmond to beat him with the two dozen lanky-looking scoundrels who come in during the last scene!

Why do the fairies shake so convulsively when they soar through the air over the stage? Are stage-fairies all over the world such unequal highflyers? Who made gaiter-boots for Juno and her attendant goddesses, in the many classical plays I have witnessed? Did the Egyptians and Persians know how to make cotton-cloth a yard wide—I have measured their costumes too often behind the footlights not to know the exact measurement.

Why do people always cough in the theatre after a severe storm of thunder and lightning, and hold their handkerchiefs to their noses at such times? Why does the moon, in every opera wherein she condescends to show herself, stand still for half an hour immediately over a chimney? What is the necessity of a man dying for love, and singing himself to death like a swan, when he has strength enough of body and mind to pick up three or four pounds ofbouquets? And why does he give them up to the spasmodic lady in white muslin, whom he has been abusing for half an hour, and declaring, in most emphatic terms, that they part from that time forward for ever? What wonderful hair-invigorator do some actors use in order to grow themselves a fine pair of bushy whiskers in fifteen minutes? How is it possible for a noble lord to have travelled over thousands of miles, to have encountered unheard-of perils, in order to return and marry the miller's maid, and yet to preserve, through years of absence, the same trousers, vest, coat, and hat, in which he first won her affections? Mentioning hats, why does the rich landholder, in modern comedy, sometimes go without a hat, when all his servants talk to him withtheirhats upon their heads? Is there any forcible, necessary, or (to put it stronger)absolute, connection between a queen in distress and large quantities of pearls strung about the hair?

These are but a twentieth part of the inquiries which crowd into my questioning-box. I know they are disjointed,—as I soon shall be. But I will see what can be done for me, as things here stand, before I venture to again pile "whys" upon "wherefores."

I felt myself alone—alone as oneWho leapt in joy from starry rock to rockAcross creations stream, and joyed to knowHimself alone in starry solitudes,Communing with his soul and God; and clombThe heights of glory, there amazed to seeThe wilderness of worlds, and feel the wantOf other hearts to share excess of bliss.Alone!—it startled me with such a fear—A daring fear, as only spirits can have.At once I would be every where—on allThe peopled globes where'er myself had been;My lonely being would I spread through all.I thought, with the velocity of thoughtWhich disembodied souls alone may know—I thought, I willed, myself in thousand placesIn quick and successive instants, quick as one;And so around again, and still around,Without an interval. Soon as a flash,A thousand selves were scattered o'er the deepOf distant space; and, urging on my soul,Around and on, with energy immortal,And swifter still, at last I seemed to growUbiquitous—a multipresence dread,A loneliness enlarged, more awful yet—Until, in thought's extreme rapidity,The distant selves were blended into one,And space was gone! The universe was lostIn me—in nothingness.Soon it returnedAnd stood resplendent; space again becameA mode of thought, as thought resumed its calm,And motion ceased with will. I found myselfFar off in outer coasts of light....

.... The vision changed; for stillThe cherub Fancy sports beyond the grave,Led by the hand of Reason. Once again,My memory rose, a painted canvas, framedIn golden mouldings of immortal joy.But now the perfect copy of a life,With all the colors glorified, beganTo melt in slow dissolving views of truth.From out the crowded scene of mortal deeds,A group enraged, colossal in its shapes:Self—a dead giant, hideous and deformed,Lay, slain with lightning, while, upon his head,Stood holy Love, her eyes upturned to Heaven,Her hands extended o'er the kneeling formsOf Faith and Hope....

Nor were the splendors silent all. To spirits'Tis ever one to see, to hear, to feel—The music of the spheres is therefore truth,And, now, no more I heard the noise confusedOf humming stars and murmuring moons, in tonesDiscordant; but as in the focal pointOf whispering rooms, so here I found at lastThe centre where the perfect chords combine—Where the full harmonies of rolling worldsAre poring evermore in billowy seasOf sounds, that break in thundered syllablesUnutterable to men. A naked soulWithin the central court of space, to meThe trill of myriad stars, the heavy boomOf giant suns that slowly came and went,The whistlings, sweet and far, of lesser orbs,And the low thunder of more distant deeps,Ever commingling, grew to eloquenceNo mortal brain may bear. The universeHad found a voice....

"Look to thy God." I flamed at Him with will intense,And soon a sea of light and love aroseAnd bathed my soul, and filled the empty spaceWith overflowing glory. All was heaven;And all the joy, the splendor, I had knownIn space, to this was but the prelude harshOf brazen instruments, before the songOf some incarnate seraph, breathes and rollsA flood of fulness o'er a tranced world.Enough to say, whate'er we wish of scene,Society, occupation, pleasure—Whenever wished, is ours; and this is Heaven;This is the prize of earthly self-denial.Freedom, the boundless freedom of the pure—This the reward of holy self-restraint.

We must now turn once more to Sir Philip Hastings as he sat in his lonely room in prison. Books had been allowed him, paper, pen, and ink, and all that could aid to pass the time; but Sir Philip had matter for study in his own mind, and the books had remained unopened for several days. Hour after hour, since his interview with Secretary Vernon, and day after day he had paced that room to and fro, till the sound of his incessant footfall was a burthen to those below. His hair had grown very white, the wrinkles on his brow had deepened and become many, and his head was bowed as if age had pressed it down. As he walked, his eye beneath his shaggy eyebrow was generally bent upon the floor, but when any accidental circumstance caused him to raise it—a distant sound from without, or some thought passing through his own mind—there was that curious gleam in it which I have mentioned when describing him in boyhood, but now heightened and rendered somewhat more wild and mysterious. At those moments the expression of his eyes amounted almost to fierceness, and yet there was something grand, and fixed, and calm about the brow which seemed to contradict the impatient, irritable look.

At the moment I now speak of there was an open letter on the table, written in his daughter's hand, and after having walked up and down for more than one hour, he sat down as if to answer it. We must look over his shoulder and see what he writes, as it may in some degree tend to show the state of his mind, although it was never sent.

"My Child" (it was so he addressed the dear girl who had once been the joy of his heart): "The news which has been communicated to you by Marlow has been communicated also to me, but has given small relief. The world is a prison, and it is not very satisfactory to leave one dungeon to go into a larger.

"Nevertheless, I am desirous of returning to my own house. Your mother is very ill, with nobody to attend upon her but yourself—at least no kindred. This situation does not please me. Can I be satisfied that she will be well and properly cared for? Will a daughter who has betrayed her father show more piety towards a mother? Who is there that man can trust?"

He was going on in the same strain, and his thoughts becoming more excited, his language more stern and bitter every moment, when suddenly he paused, read over thelines he had written with a gleaming eye, and then bent his head, and fell into thought. No one can tell, no pen can describe the bitter agony of his heart at that moment. Had he yielded to the impulse—had he spoken ever so vehemently and fiercely, it would have been happier for him and for all. But men will see without knowing it in passing through the world, conventional notions which they adopt as principles. They fancy them original thoughts, springing from their own convictions, when in reality they are bents—biases given to their minds by the minds of other men. The result is very frequently painful, even where the tendency of the views received is good. Thus a shrub forced out of its natural direction may take a more graceful or beautiful form, but there is ever a danger that the flow of the sap may be stopped, or some of the branches injured by the process.

"No," said Sir Philip Hastings, at length, with a false sense of dignity thus acquired, "no, it is beneath me to reproach her. Punish her I might, and perhaps I ought; for the deed itself is an offence to society and to human nature more than to me. To punish her would have been a duty, even if my own heart's blood had flowed at the same time, in those ancient days of purer laws and higher principles; but I will not reproach without punishing. I will be silent. I will say nothing. I will leave her to her own conscience," and tearing the letter he had commenced to atoms, he resumed his bitter walk about the room.

It is a terrible and dangerous thing to go on pondering for long solitary hours on any one subject of deep interest. It is dangerous even in the open air, under the broad, ever-varying sky, with the birds upon the bough, and the breeze amongst the trees, and a thousand objects in bright nature to breathe harmonies to the human heart. It is dangerous in the midst of crowds and gay scenes of active life so to shut the spirit up with one solitary idea, which, like the fabled dragon's egg, is hatched into a monster by long looking at it. But within the walls of a prison, with nothing to divert the attention, with nothing to solicit or compel the mind even occasionally to seek some other course, with no object in external nature, with the companionship of no fellow being, to appeal to our senses or to awake our sympathies, the result is almost invariable. An innocent man—a man who has no one strong passion, or dark, all-absorbing subject of contemplation, but who seeks for and receives every mode of relief from the monotony of life that circumstances can afford, may endure perfect solitude for years and live sane, but whoever condemns a criminal—a man loaded with a great offence—to solitary confinement, condemns him to insanity—a punishment far more cruel than death or the rack. Hour after hour again, day after day, Sir Philip Hastings continued to beat the floor of the prison with untiring feet. At the end of the third day, however, he received formal notice that he would be brought into court on the following morning, that the indictment against him would be read, and that the attorney-general would enter anolle prosequi. Some of these forms were perhaps unnecessary, but it was the object of the government at that time to make as strong an impression on the public mind as possible without any unnecessary effusion of blood.

The effect upon the mind of Sir Philip Hastings, however, was not salutary. The presence of the judges, the crowd in the court, the act of standing in the prisoners' dock, even the brief speech of the lawyer commending the lenity and moderation of government, while he moved the recording of thenolle prosequi, all irritated and excited the prisoner. His irritation was shown in his own peculiar way, however; a smile, bitter and contemptuous curled his lip. His eye seemed to search out those who gazed at him most and stare them down, and when he was at length set at liberty, he turned away from the dock and walked out of the court without saying a word to any one. The governor of the jail followed him, asking civilly if he would not return to his house for a moment, take some refreshment, and arrange for the removal of his baggage. It seemed as if Sir Philip answered at all with a great effort; but in the end he replied laconically, "No, I will send."

Two hours after he did send, and towards evening set out in a hired carriage for his own house. He slept a night upon the road, and the following day reached the Court towards evening. By that time, however, a strange change had come over him. Pursuing the course of those thoughts which I have faintly displayed, he had waged war with his own mind—he had struggled to banish all traces of anger and indignation from his thoughts—in short, fearing from the sensations experienced within, that he would do or say something contrary to the rigid rule he had imposed upon himself, he had striven to lay out a scheme of conduct which would guard against such a result. The end of this self-tutoring was satisfactory to him. He had fancied he had conquered himself, but he was very much mistaken. It was only the outer man he had subdued, but not the inner.

When the carriage drew up at his own door, and Sir Philip alighted, Emily flew out to meet him. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, and her heart beat with joy and affection.

For an instant Sir Philip remained grave and stern, did not repel her, but did not return her embrace. The next instant, however, his whole manner changed. A sort of cunning double-meaning look came into his eyes. He smiled, which was very unusual with him, assumed a sort of sportiveness,which was not natural, called her "dainty Mistress Emily," and asked after the health of "his good wife."

His coldness and his sternness might not have shocked Emily at all, but his apparent levity pained and struck her with terror. A cold sort of shudder passed over her, and unclasping her arms from his neck, she replied, "I grieve to say mamma is very ill, and although the news of your safety cheered her much, she has since made no progress, but rather fallen back."

"Doubtless the news cheered you too very much, my sweet lady," said Sir Philip in an affected tone, and without waiting for reply, he walked on and ascended to his wife's room.

Emily returned to the drawing-room and fell into one of her profound fits of meditation; but this time they were all sad and tending to sadness. There Sir Philip found her when he came down an hour after. She had not moved, she had not ordered lights, although the sun was down and the twilight somewhat murky. She did not move when he entered, but remained with her head leaning on her hand, and her eyes fixed on the table near which she sat. Sir Philip gazed at her gloomily, and said to himself, "Her heart smites her. Ha, ha, beautiful deceitful thing. Have you put the canker worm in your own bosom? Great crimes deserve great punishments. God of heaven! keep me from such thoughts. No, no, I will never avenge myself on the plea of avenging society. My own cause must not mingle with such vindications."

"Emily," he said in a loud voice, which startled her suddenly from her reverie, "Emily, your mother is very ill."

"Worse? worse?" cried Emily with a look of eager alarm; "I will fly to her at once. Oh, sir, send for the surgeon."

"Stay," said Sir Philip, "she is no worse than when you left her, except insomuch as a dying person becomes much worse every minute. Your mother wishes much to see Mrs. Hazleton, who has not been with her for two days, she says. Sit down and write that lady a note asking her to come here to-morrow, and I will send it by a groom."

Emily obeyed, though with infinite reluctance; for she had remarked that the visits of Mrs. Hazleton always left her mother neither improved in temper nor in health.

The groom was dispatched, and returned with a reply from Mrs. Hazleton to the effect that she would be there early on the following day. During his absence, Sir Philip had been but little with his daughter. Hardly had the note been written when he retired to his own small room, and there remained shut up during the greater part of the evening. Emily quietly stole into her mother's room soon after her father left her, fearing not a little that Lady Hastings might have remarked the strange change which had come upon her husband during his absence. But such was not the case. She found her mother calmer and gentler than she had been during the last week or ten days. Her husband's liberation, and the certainty that all charge against him was at an end, had afforded her great satisfaction; and although she was still evidently very ill, yet she conversed cheerfully with her daughter for nearly an hour.

"As I found you had not told your father the hopes that Mr. Marlow held out when he went away, I spoke to him on the subject," she said. "He is a strange cynic, my good husband, and seemed to care very little about the matter. He doubt's Marlow's success too, I think, but all that he said was, that if it pleased me, that was enough for him. Mrs. Hazleton will be delighted to hear the news."

Emily doubted the fact, but she did not express her doubt, merely telling her mother she had written to Mrs. Hazleton, and that the servant had been sent with the note.

"She has not been over for two days," said Lady Hastings. "I cannot think what has kept her away."

"Some accidental circumstance, I dare say," said Emily, "but there can be no doubt she will be here to-morrow early."

They neither of them knew that on the preceding night but one Mrs. Hazleton had received a visit from John Ayliffe, which, notwithstanding all her self-command and assumed indifference, had disturbed her greatly.

Mrs. Hazleton nevertheless was, as Emily anticipated, very early at the house of Sir Philip Hastings. She first made a point of seeing that gentleman himself; and though her manner was, as usual, calm and lady-like, yet every word and every look expressed the greatest satisfaction at seeing him once more in his home and at liberty. To Emily also she was all tenderness and sweetness; but Emily, on her part, shrunk from her with a feeling of dread and suspicion that she could not repress, and hardly could conceal. She had not indeed read any of the papers which Marlow had left with her, for he had not told her to read them; but he had directed her thoughts aright, and had led her to conclusions in regard to Mrs. Hazleton which were very painful, but no less just.

That lady remarked a change in Emily's manner—she had seen something of it before;—but it now struck her more forcibly, and though she took no notice of it whatever, it was not a thing to be forgotten or forgiven; for to those who are engaged in doing ill there cannot be a greater offence than to be suspected, and Mrs. Hazleton was convinced that Emily did suspect her.

After a brief interview with father and daughter, their fair guest glided quietly up to the room of Lady Hastings, and seated herself by her bed-side. She took the sick lady's hand in hers—that white, emaciatedhand, once so beautiful and rosy-tipped, and said how delighted she was to see her looking a great deal better.

"Do you think so really?" said Lady Hastings; "I feel dreadfully weak and exhausted, dear Mrs. Hazleton, and sometimes think I shall never recover."

"Oh don't say so," replied Mrs. Hazleton; "your husband's return has evidently done you great good: the chief part of your malady has been mental. Anxiety of mind is often the cause of severe sickness, which passes away as soon as it is removed. One great source of uneasiness is now gone, and the only other that remains—I mean this unfortunate engagement of dear Emily to Mr. Marlow—may doubtless, with a little firmness and decision upon your part, be remedied also."

Mrs. Hazleton was very skillful in forcing the subject with which she wished to deal, into a conversation to which it had no reference; and having thus introduced the topic on which she loved to dwell, she went on to handle it with her usual skill, suggesting every thing that could irritate the invalid against Marlow, and render the idea of his marriage with Emily obnoxious in her eyes.

Even when Lady Hastings, moved by some feelings of gratitude and satisfaction by the intelligence of Marlow's efforts to recover her husband's property, communicated the hopes she entertained to her visitor, Mrs. Hazleton contrived to turn the very expectations to Marlow's disadvantage, saying, "If such should indeed be the result, this engagement will be still more unfortunate. With such vast property as dear Emily will then possess, with her beauty, with her accomplishments, with her graces, the hand of a prince would be hardly too much to expect for her; and to see her throw herself away upon a mere country gentleman—a Mr. Marlow—all very well in his way, but a nobody, is indeed sad; and I would certainly prevent it, if I were you, while I had power."

"But how can I prevent it?" asked Lady Hastings; "my husband and Emily are both resolute in such things. I have no power, dear Mrs. Hastings."

"You are mistaken, my sweet friend," replied her companion; "the power will indeed soon go from you if these hopes which have been held out do not prove fallacious. You are mistress of this house—of this very fine property. If I understand rightly, neither your husband nor your daughter have at present any thing but what they derive from you. This position may soon be altered if your husband be reinstated in the Hastings estates."

"But you would not, Mrs. Hazleton, surely you would not have me use such power ungenerously?" said Lady Hastings.

Mrs. Hazleton saw that she had gone a little too far—or rather perhaps that she had suggested that which was repugnant to the character of her hearer's mind; for in regard to money matters no one was ever more generous or careless of self than Lady Hastings. What was her's was her husband's and her child's—she knew no difference—she made no distinction.

It took Mrs. Hazleton some time to undo what she had done, but she found the means at length. She touched the weak point, the failing of character. A little stratagem, a slight device to win her own way by an indirect method, was quite within the limits of Lady Hastings' principles; and after dwelling some time upon a recapitulation of all the objections against the marriage with Marlow, which could suggest themselves to an ambitious mind, she quietly and in an easy suggestive tone, sketched out a plan, which both to herself and her hearer, seemed certain of success.

Lady Hastings caught at the plan eagerly, and determined to follow it in all the details, which will be seen hereafter.

"I feel very ill indeed this morning," said Lady Hastings, addressing her maid about eleven o'clock. "I feel as if I were dying. Call my husband and my daughter to me."

"Lord, my lady," said the maid, "had I not better send for the doctor too? You do not look as if you were dying at all. You look a good deal better, I think, my lady."

"Do I?" said Lady Hastings in a hesitating tone. But she did not want the doctor to be sent for immediately, and repeated her order to call her husband and her daughter.

Emily was with her in an instant, but Sir Philip Hastings was some where absent in the grounds, and nearly half an hour elapsed before he was found. When he entered he gazed in his wife's face with some surprise—more surprise indeed than alarm; for he knew that she was nervous and hypondriacal, and as the maid had said, she did not look as if she were dying at all. There was no sharpening of the features—no falling in of the temples—none of that pale ashy color, or rather that leaden grayness, which precedes dissolution. He sat down, however, by her bed-side, gazing at her with an inquiring look, while Emily stood on the other side of the bed, and the maid at the end; and after speaking a few kind but somewhat rambling words, he was sending for some restoratives, saying "I think, my dear, you alarm yourself without cause."

"I do not indeed, Philip," replied Lady Hastings. "I am sure I shall die, and that before very long—but do not send for any thing. I would rather not take it. It will do me more good a great deal to speak what I have upon my mind—what is weighing me down—what is killing me."

"I am sorry to hear there is any thing," said Sir Philip, whose thoughts, intensely busy with other things, were not yet fully recalled to the scene before him.

"Oh, Philip, how can you say so?" said Lady Hastings, "when you know there is. You need not go," she continued, speaking to the maid, who was drawing back as if to quit the room, "I wish to speak to my husband and my daughter before some one who will remember what I say."

Sir Philip however quietly rose, opened the door, and motioned to the girl to quit the room, for such public exhibitions were quite contrary to his notions of domestic economy. "Now, my dear," he said, "what is it you wish to tell me? If there be any thing that you wish done, I will do it if it is in my power."

"It is in your power, Philip," replied Lady Hastings; "you know and Emily knows quite well that her engagement to Mr. Marlow was against my consent, and I must say the greatest shock I ever received in my life. I have never been well since, and every day I see more and more reason to object. It is in the power of either of you, or both, to relieve my mind in this respect—to break off this unhappy engagement, and at least to let me die in peace, with the thought that my daughter has not cast herself away. It is in your power, Philip, to—"

"Stay a moment," said her husband, "it is not in my power."

"Why, are you not her father?" asked Lady Hastings, interrupting him. "Are you not her lawful guardian? Have you not the disposal of her hand?"

"It is not in my power," repeated Sir Philip coldly, "to break my plighted word, to violate my honor, or to live under a load of shame and dishonor."

"Why in such a matter as this," said Lady Hastings, "there is no such disgrace. You can very well say you have thought better of it."

"In which case I should tell a lie," said Sir Philip dryly.

"It is a thing done every day," argued Lady Hastings.

"I am not a man to do any thing because there are others who do it every day," answered her husband. "Men lie, and cheat, and swindle, and steal, and betray their friends, and relations, and parents, but I can find no reason therein for doing the same. It is not in my power, I repeat. I cannot be a scoundrel, whatever other men may be, and violate my plighted word, or withdraw from my most solemn engagements. Moreover, when Marlow heard of the misfortunes which have befallen us, and learned that Emily would not have one-fourth part of that which she had at one time a right to expect, he showed no inclination to withdraw from his word, even when there was a good excuse, and I will never withdraw from mine, so help me God."

Thus speaking he turned his eyes towards the ground again and fell into a deep reverie.

While this conversation had been passing, Emily had sunk upon her knees, trembling in every limb, and hid her face in the coverings of the bed. To her, Lady Hastings now turned. Whether it was that remorse and some degree of shame affected her, when she saw the terrible agitation of her child, I cannot tell, but she paused for a moment as if in hesitation.

She spoke at length, saying "Emily, my child, to you I must appeal, as your father is so obdurate."

Emily made no answer, however, but remained weeping, and Lady Hastings becoming somewhat irritated, went on in a sharper tone. "What! will not my own child listen to the voice of a dying mother?" she asked rather petulantly than sorrowfully, although she tried hard to make her tone gravely reproachful; "will she not pay any attention to her mother's last request?

"Oh, my mother," answered Emily, raising her head, and speaking more vehemently than was customary with her, "ask me any thing that is just; ask me any thing that is reasonable; but do not ask me to do what is wrong and what is unjust. I have made a promise—do not ask me to break it. There is no circumstance changed which could give even an excuse for such a breach of faith. Marlow has only shown himself more true, more faithful, more sincere. Should I be more false, more faithless, more ungenerous than he thought me? Oh no! it is impossible—quite impossible," and she hid her streaming eyes in the bed-clothes again, clasping her hands tightly together over her forehead.

Her father, with his arms crossed upon his chest, had kept his eyes fixed upon her while she spoke with a look of doubt and inquiry. Well might he doubt—well might he doubt his own suspicions. There was a truth, a candor, a straightforwardness, in that glowing face which gave the contradiction, plain and clear, to every foul, dishonest charge which had been fabricated against his child. It was impossible in fact that she could have so spoken and so looked, unless she had so felt. The best actress that ever lived could not have performed that part. There would have been something too much or too little, something approaching the exaggerated or the tame. With Emily there was nothing. What she said seemed but the sudden outburst of her heart, pressed for a reply; and as soon as it was spoken she sunk down again in silence, weeping bitterly under the conflict of two strong but equally amiable feelings.

For a moment the sight seemed to rouse Sir Philip Hastings. "She should not, if she would," he said; "voluntarily, and knowing what she did, she consented to the promise I have made, and she neither can nor shall retract. To Marlow, indeed, I may have a few words to say, and he shall once more have the opportunity of acting as he pleases; but Emily is bound as well as myself, and by that bond we must abide."

"What have you to say to Marlow?" asked Lady Hastings in a tone of commonplace curiosity, which did not at all indicate a sense of that terrible situation in which she assumed she was placed.

"That matters not," answered Sir Philip. "It will rest between him and me at his return. How he may act I know not—what he may think I know not; but he shall be a partaker of my thoughts and the master of his own actions. Do not let us pursue this painful subject further. If you feel yourself ill, my love, let us send for further medical help. I do hope and believe that you are not so ill as you imagine; but if you are so there is more need that the physician should be here, and that we should quit topics too painful for discussion, where discussion is altogether useless."

"Well, then, mark me," said Lady Hastings with an air of assumed melancholy dignity, which being quite unnatural to her, bordered somewhat on the burlesque; "mark me, Philip—mark me, Emily! your wife, your mother, makes it her last dying request—her last dying injunction, that you break off this marriage. You may or you may not give me the consolation on this sick bed of knowing that my request will be complied with; but I do not think that either of you will be careless, will be remorseless enough to carry out this engagement after I am gone. I will not threaten, Emily—I will not even attempt to take away from you the wealth for which this young man doubtless seeks you—I will not attempt to deter you by bequeathing you my curse if you do not comply with my injunctions; but I tell you, if you do not make me this promise before I die, you have embittered your mother's last moments, and—"

"Oh, forbear, forbear," cried Emily, starting up. "For God's sake, dear mother, forbear," and clasping her hands wildly over her eyes, she rushed frantically out of the room.

Sir Philip Hastings remained for nearly half an hour longer, and then descended the stairs and passed through the drawing-room. Emily was seated there with her handkerchief upon her eyes, and her whole frame heaving from the agonized sobs which rose from her bosom. Sir Philip paused and gazed at her for a moment or two, but Emily did not say a word, and seemed indeed totally unconscious of his presence. Some movements of compassion, some feeling of sympathy, some doubts of his preconceptions might pass through the bosom of Sir Philip Hastings; but the dark seeds of suspicion had been sown in his bosom—had germinated, grown up, and strengthened—had received confirmation strong and strange, and he murmured to himself as he stood and gazed at her, "Is it anger or sorrow? Is it passion or pain? All this is strange enough. I do not understand it. Her resolution is taken, and taken rightly. Why should she grieve? Why should she be thus moved, when she knows she is doing that which is just, and honest, and faithful?"

He measured a cloud by an ell wand. He gauged her heart, her sensibilities, her mind, by the rigid metre of his own, and he found that the one could not comprehend the other. Turning hastily away after he had finished his contemplation, without proffering one word of consolation or support, he walked away into his library, and ringing a bell, ordered his horse to be saddled directly. While that was being done, he wrote a hasty note to Mr. Short, the surgeon, and when the horse was brought round gave it to a groom to deliver. Then mounting on horseback, he rode away at a quick pace, without having taken any further notice of his daughter.

Emily remained for about half an hour after his departure, exactly in the same position in which he had left her. She noticed nothing that was passing around her; she heard not a horse stop at the door; and when her own maid entered the room and said,—"Doctor Short has come, ma'am, and is with my lady. Sir Philip sent Peter for him; but Peter luckily met him just down beyond the park gates;" Emily hardly seemed to hear her.

A few minutes after, Mr. Short descended quietly from the room of Lady Hastings, and looked into the drawing-room as he passed. Seeing the beautiful girl seated there in that attitude of despondency, he approached her quietly, saying, "Do not, my dear mistress Emily, suffer yourself to be alarmed without cause. I see no reason for the least apprehension. My good lady, your mother is nervous and excited, but there are no very dangerous symptoms about her—certainly none that should cause immediate alarm; and I think upon the whole, that the disease is more mental than corporeal."

Emily had raised her eyes when he had just begun to speak, and she shook her head mournfully at his last, words, saying, "I can do nothing to remedy it, Mr. Short—I would at any personal sacrifice, but this involves more—I can do nothing."

"But I have done my best," said Mr. Short with a kindly smile; for he was an old and confidential friend of the whole family, and upon Emily herself had attended from her childhood, during all the little sicknesses of early life. "I asked your excellent mother what had so much excited her, and she told me all that has passed this morning. I think, my dear young lady, I have quieted her a good deal."

"How? how?" exclaimed Emily eagerly. "Oh tell me how, Mr. Short, and I will bless you!"

The good old surgeon seated himself beside her and took her hand in his. "I have only time to speak two words," he said, "but I think they will give you comfort. Your mother explained to me that there had been a little discussion this morning when shethought herself dying—though that was all nonsense—and it must have been very painful to you, my dear Mistress Emily. She told me what it was about too, and seemed half sorry already for what she had said. So, as I guessed how matters went—for I know that the dear lady is fond of titles and rank, and all that, and saw she had a great deal mistaken Mr. Marlow's position—I just ventured to tell her that he is the heir of the old Earl of Launceston—that is to say, if the Earl does not marry again, and he is seventy-three, with a wife still living. She had never heard any thing about it, and it seemed to comfort her amazingly. Nevertheless she is in a sad nervous state, and somewhat weak. I do not altogether like that cough she has either; and so, my dear young lady, I will send her over a draught to-night, of which you must give her a tablespoonful every three hours. Give it to her with your own hands; for it is rather strong, and servants are apt to make mistakes. But I think if you go to her now, you will find her in a very different humor from that which she was in this morning. Good bye, good bye. Don't be cast down, Mistress Emily. All will go well yet."

From the house of Sir Philip Hastings Mr. Short rode quickly on to the cottage of Mistress Best, which he had visited once before in the morning. The case of John Ayliffe, however, was becoming more and more urgent every moment, and at each visit the surgeon saw a change in the countenance of the young man which indicated that a greater change still was coming. He had had a choice of evils to deal with; for during the first day after the accident there had been so much fever that he had feared to give any thing to sustain the young man's strength. But long indulgence in stimulating liquors had had its usual effect in weakening the powers of the constitution, and rendering it liable to give way suddenly even where the corporeal powers seemed at their height. Wine had become to John Ayliffe what water is to most men, and he could not bear up without it. Exhaustion had succeeded rapidly to the temporary excitement of fever, and mortification had begun to show itself on the injured limb. Wine had become necessary, and it was administered in frequent and large doses; but as a stimulant it had lost its effect upon the unhappy young man, and when the surgeon returned to the cottage on this occasion, he saw not only that all hope was at an end, but that the end could not be very far distant.

Good Mr. Dixwell was seated by John Ayliffe's side, and looked up to the surgeon with an anxious eye. Mr. Short felt his patient's pulse with a very grave face. It was rapid, but exceedingly feeble—went on for twenty or thirty beats as fast as it could go—then stopped altogether for an instant or two, and then began to beat again as quickly as before.

Mr. Short poured out a tumbler full of port wine, raised John Ayliffe a little, and made him drink it down. After a few minutes he felt his pulse again, and found it somewhat stronger. The sick man looked earnestly in his face as if he wished to ask some question; but he remained silent for several minutes.

At length he said, "Tell me the truth, Short. Am not I dying?"

The surgeon hesitated, but Mr. Dixwell raised his eyes, saying, "Tell him the truth, tell him the truth, my good friend. He is better prepared to bear it than he was yesterday."

"I fear you are sinking, Sir John," said the surgeon.

"I do not feel so much pain in my leg," said the young man.

"That is because mortification has set in," replied Mr. Short.

"Then there is no hope," said John Ayliffe.

The surgeon was silent; and after a moment John Ayliffe said, "God's will be done."

Mr. Dixwell pressed his hand kindly with tears in his eyes; for they were the Christian words he had longed to hear, but hardly hoped for.

There was a long and somewhat sad pause, and then the dying man once more turned his look upon the surgeon, asking, "How long do you think it will be?"

"Three or four hours," replied Mr. Short. "By stimulants, as long as you can take them, it may be protracted a little longer, but not much."

"Every moment is of consequence," said the clergyman. "There is much preparation still needful—much to be acknowledged and repented of—much to be atoned for. What can be done, my good friend to protract the time?"

"Give small quantities of wine very frequently," answered the surgeon, "and perhaps some aqua vitæ—but very little—very little, or you may hurry the catastrophe."

"Well, well," said John Ayliffe, "you can come again, but perhaps by that time I shall be gone. You will find money enough in my pockets, Short, to pay your bill—there is plenty there, and mind you send the rest to my mother."

The surgeon stared, and said to himself, "he is wandering;" but John Ayliffe immediately added, "Don't let that rascal Shanks have it, but send it to my mother;" and saying "Very well, Sir John," he took his leave and departed.

"And now, my dear young friend," said Mr. Dixwell, the moment the surgeon was gone, "there is no time to be lost. You have the power of making full atonement for the great offence you have committed to oneof your fellow creatures. If you sincerely repent, as I trust you do, Christ has made atonement for your offences towards God. But you must show your penitence by letting your last acts in this life be just and right. Let me go to Sir Philip Hastings."

"I would rather see his daughter, or his wife," said John Ayliffe: "he is so stern, and hard, and gloomy. He will never speak comfort or forgiveness."

"You are mistaken—I can assure you, you are mistaken," answered the clergyman. "I will take upon me to promise that he shall not say one hard word, and grant you full forgiveness."

"Well, well," said the young man, "if it must be he, so be it—but mind to have pen and ink to write it all down—that pen won't write. You know you tried it this morning."

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