Three Short Novels: Glenfell, Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore and The Omen 9781474402095

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Three Short Novels Glenfell Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore The Omen

The Edinburgh Edition of the Works of John Galt General Editor: Angela Esterhammer

The Edinburgh Edition of the Works of John Galt General Editor: Angela Esterhammer (University of Toronto) Editorial Board: Gerard Carruthers (University of Glasgow) Ian Duncan (University of California, Berkeley) Penny Fielding (University of Edinburgh) Suzanne Gilbert (University of Stirling) Regina Hewitt (University of South Florida) Alison Lumsden (University of Aberdeen) Katie Trumpener (Yale University)

Published so far: Annals of the Parish, edited by Robert P. Irvine Three Short Novels: Glenfell; Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore; The Omen, edited by Angela Esterhammer In preparation: Sir Andrew Wylie, of that Ilk, edited by Sharon Alker The Provost, edited by Caroline McCracken-Flesher The Entail, edited by Mark Schoenfield and Clare Simmons The Ayrshire Legatees and The Steam-Boat, edited by Mark Parker Lawrie Todd, edited by Regina Hewitt Bogle Corbet, edited by Katie Trumpener

JOHN GALT

Three Short Novels Glenfell Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore The Omen Edited by Angela Esterhammer

edinburgh university press 2020

Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: edinburghuniversitypress.com © editorial matter and organization, Angela Esterhammer, 2020 © the text, Edinburgh University Press, 2020 Edinburgh University Press Ltd The Tun – Holyrood Road 12 (2f) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in Arno Pro at the University of Toronto and printed and bound in Great Britain A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4744 0208 8 (hardback) ISBN 978 1 4744 0209 5 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 1 4744 0210 1 (epub) The right of Angela Esterhammer to be identified as author of the editorial matter has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and ­Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498).

CONTENTS Preface to The Works of John Galt . . Acknowledgements. . . . . . Chronology of John Galt. . . . Introduction . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . .

. vii . ix . x . xv

The Periodical Novelist or Circulating Library. . Advertisement to the Series. . . . . . Vol. 1: Glenfell; or, Macdonalds and Campbells. . Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . Glenfell . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vol. 3: Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore . . . Biographical Sketch of the Abbate Furbo. . Andrew of Padua. . . . . . . . . .

1 2 5 6 7 134 138 141

The Omen. . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 Emendations . . . . . . . . . . . . 297 End-of-line Hyphens . . . . . . . . . 301 Explanatory Notes. . . . . . . . . . 303

PREFACE TO THE EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WORKS OF JOHN GALT John Galt was among the most popular and prolific Scottish writers of the nineteenth century. He wrote in a panoply of forms and genres about a great variety of topics and settings, drawing on his experiences of living, working, and travelling in Scotland and England, in Europe and the Mediterranean, and in North America. Yet only a fraction of his many works have been reprinted since their original publication. In 1841–43 Galt’s most important publisher, Blackwood, reprinted seven of his novels in volumes 1, 2, 4, and 6 of the Blackwood’s Standard Novels series. In 1895, the Blackwood firm republished these novels, with one change to the selection, as the eight-volume Works of John Galt; this collection was reissued in 1936, again with one additional novel. Modern annotated editions of some individual works have appeared since then. However, the Edinburgh Edition of the Works of John Galt presents for the first time a much fuller range of Galt’s fiction in authoritative texts, together with materials that add to an appreciation of his historical surroundings and his cultural heritage. Each volume includes an introduction that places Galt’s work in the context of history, genre, and the print culture of the period; annotations that explain specialized vocabulary as well as historical, geographical, literary, cultural, and philosophical allusions; and other features such as a glossary of Scots words and expressions, maps, and excerpts that illuminate Galt’s sources and his contemporary reception. Galt wrote and published his work quickly, sending portions of manuscript to the printer to be set in type as soon as he finished them; he and his publisher would frequently correct proofs of part of a text while he continued writing the remainder. Although he was usually busy with several projects at once, his correspondence documents his involvement in all stages of the publication process and shows that he undertook proof-corrections himself, except in cases where he developed especially close working relationships with a publisher or fellow writer and allowed that person editorial control. However, with few exceptions, no manuscripts or proofs of Galt’s published fiction have survived. For many of his works, only a single edition appeared during

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his lifetime. Sometimes there were one or more ­further editions, lightly revised and corrected; in other cases, the text was originally published in a periodical and then revised for publication in book form. As a general editorial principle, subject to adaptation based on research by the editors and the particular publishing history of each text, the present edition adopts as the copy-text the latest version in which Galt is known to have had a hand. In the case of texts first published in periodicals and later revised by Galt to appear as a book, the book publication is preferred as the copy-text. Each volume of the present edition includes the editor’s account of the composition and publication history of Galt’s text, with reference to extant versions in the form of periodical publications, multiple book editions, and manuscript materials. All editorial emendations to the copy-text are recorded in a list of emendations at the end of the volume. The Edinburgh Edition of the Works of John Galt presents Galt’s fiction accurately as it appeared during his lifetime, reflecting his intentions to the extent that they can be ascertained. Galt’s work was thoroughly interwoven with the publishing practices and reading habits of his age. He wrote for currently popular publication venues such as monthly magazines and literary annuals; he acquiesced to the expected format of the three-volume novel, but also attempted to popularize alternative forms such as single-volume ­novels and shorter fiction. His works therefore present a ­revealing ­pic­ture of the literary marketplace during the second and third decades of the nineteenth century. The Edinburgh Edition of the Works of John Galt highlights these insights through the editors’ contextualizing notes on early-nineteenth-century print culture and through the presentation of Galt’s texts on the page. With respect to page layout, font, punctuation, and many other details, this edition seeks to replicate the look of Galt’s original editions while providing an enjoyable reading experience for modern readers. The editors hope that the results will make Galt’s clever, insightful, multifaceted, often innovative fiction accessible to a wide range of readers and researchers, and reaffirm Galt’s importance within literary history.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The production of this volume has been, in many respects, a team effort. Members of the Editorial Board, editors of other volumes of The Works of John Galt, the staff of Edinburgh University Press, and librarians in the United Kingdom and North America consistently responded to queries and requests with expert knowledge and good advice. Rob Dunbar, Ian Duncan, Penny Fielding, Robert P. Irvine, and Anthony Mandal, in particular, generously shared their expertise on a variety of topics relevant to this volume. Sincere thanks are due to my research assistants at the Uni­versity of Toronto. Delaney ­Anderson, ­Alexander De Pompa, David Johnstone, Ronan M ­ allovy, Sana Mohtadi, ­Tatiana Poluch, Zoe Sebastien, and Meg Zhang worked on this volume at many stages; Kaylee Baxter, John Kozub, and Jovana ­Pajovic provided extensive assistance in preparing and setting the final text. The University of Toronto gave generous financial support to this project and Victoria College contributed a congenial and productive working environment for the team. Thanks also to the McLaughlin Library at the University of Guelph for providing the original title-page images of Glenfell and The Omen, and to Harvard University Library for the title page of Andrew of Padua. Angela Esterhammer Victoria College, University of Toronto

CHRONOLOGY OF JOHN GALT 1779 John Galt is born (2 May) at Irvine, Scotland, as the oldest child of John Galt (1750–1817), a ship’s captain involved in West Indian trade, and Jean Thomson (1746–1826). 1787–88 Attends the Old Grammar School in Irvine. 1789 Father becomes a ship-owner and moves the family to Greenock. Attends school in the Royal Close. 1795–1804 Clerk in Greenock Customs House, then in the mercantile office of James Miller & Co. 1797 Founds a literary and debating society with two former schoolfellows, William Spence and James Park. 1798 Death of brother James at Montego Bay (17 July). 1803 Publishes a memoir of Greenock poet John Wilson in John Leyden’s Scotish Descriptive Poems. Extracts from “Battle of Largs, a Gothic Poem” appear in the Scots Magazine (April 1803 and January 1804). 1804 Invites James Hogg to a public dinner in Greenock and meets him there. Moves to London (May). Publishes The Battle of Largs in book form, then suppresses it. 1805 “Essay on Commercial Policy” in the Philosophical Magazine, edited by Alexander Tilloch (November). Enters into business with Hugh McLachlan, factor and broker.

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1807 “Statistical Account of Upper Canada” in the Philosophical Magazine (October). 1808 Bankruptcy of the McLachlan-Galt business (April). Enters into business with brother Tom, who soon departs for Honduras. 1809 Admitted to Lincoln’s Inn to study law (18 May), but after four months embarks on travels in the Mediterranean and Near East, at times in the company of Lord Byron. Visits Gibraltar, Sardinia, Malta, Sicily, Albania, Greece, and Turkey; journeys overland between Constantinople and Vidin for the sake of a mercantile scheme that proves unsuccessful. 1811 Returns to London (October); abandons the study of law. 1812 Voyages and Travels in the Years 1809, 1810, and 1811; The Tragedies of Maddalen, Agamemnon, Lady Macbeth, Antonia, and Clytemnestra; The Life and Admini­ stration of Cardinal Wolsey, about which Galt receives a complimentary letter from Walter Scott. Briefly edits Redhead Yorke’s Weekly Political Review. Travels to Gibraltar to open a branch office for Kirkman Finlay & Co. ( June), but the business falls through. 1813 Returns to London to seek medical treatment. Marries E ­ lizabeth Tilloch (20 April). Death of brother Tom in Honduras (2 August). L ­ etters from the Levant; contributions to Lives of the Admirals. Last encounters with Byron. 1814 “On the Art of Rising in the World” and “On the Principles of the Fine Arts” in the New Monthly Magazine. Edits and contributes dramas to The New British Theatre (4 vols, 1814–15). Visits France, Belgium, and Holland on a potential business venture (May). Birth of son John (13 August). 1815 The Majolo (vol. 1). Birth of son Thomas (12 August). Becomes Secretary of the Royal Caledonian Asylum, a children’s charity established by the Highland Society in London. Death of friend William Spence. 1816 The Life and Studies of Benjamin West, Esq. (vol. 1); The Majolo (2 vols).

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1817 Death of father (6 August). Birth of son Alexander (6 September). Death of friend James Park. Begins writing for Richard Phillips’ Monthly Magazine. 1818 The Appeal: A Tragedy, in Three Acts performed at Edinburgh with prologue by J. G. Lockhart, epilogue by Walter Scott. Moves to Finnart near Greenock to work for Reid, Irving & Co., but the business venture is aborted. 1819 “The Late Mr. William Spence” in the Monthly Magazine (May). Returns to London to lobby Parliament as agent for the Edinburgh & Glasgow Union Canal Company. Begins writing school textbooks under pseudonyms for publishers Phillips and Souter, as well as children’s books including The History of Gog and Magog. Publishes occasional articles in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine. 1820 Glenfell; Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore; Life, Studies, and Works of Benjamin West (2 vols); The Wandering Jew; All the Voyages round the World; A Tour of Europe; A Tour of Asia; The Earthquake; “The Atheniad, or The Rape of the Parthenon: An Epic Poem” in the Monthly Magazine (February); “The Ayrshire Legatees” in instalments in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine ( June 1820–February 1821). The Union Canal bill is successfully passed by Parliament. Appointed agent for claimants in Upper Canada (now Ontario) seeking compensation from the British government for losses sustained in the War of 1812. 1821 Annals of the Parish; Pictures, Historical and Biographical; The Ayrshire Legatees (in book form); “The Steam-Boat” in instalments in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (February–December). Resides in Edinburgh during the latter part of the year while writing for Blackwood. 1822 Sir Andrew Wylie, of that Ilk; The Provost; The Steam-Boat (in book form); “The Gathering of the West” in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (September); The Entail. Visits Scotland during the summer; in Edinburgh during the visit of George IV (August), then in Greenock; returns to London in December. 1823 Ringan Gilhaize; The Spaewife. Moves his family from London to Musselburgh near Edinburgh.

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1824 The Bachelor’s Wife; Rothelan. Forms the Canada Company to broker the sale of Crown lands and promote settlement in Upper Canada; appointed as its Secretary. 1825 Travels to York (now Toronto) via New York as one of five commissioners sent to Upper Canada on a fact-finding mission ( January to June). Presented with the Freedom of the Burgh of Irvine. Death of father-in-law Alexander Tilloch. Travels to Scotland after his mother suffers a stroke (December). 1826 The Omen; The Last of the Lairds; “Bandana on Colonial Undertakings” and “Bandana on Emigration” in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (August– September). Death of mother (18 July). Appointed Superintendent of the Canada Company, which is granted a royal charter (19 August). Embarks for New York (October); reaches York in Upper Canada (12 December). Studies the operations of land companies in upper New York State. 1827 Visits Quebec for a month (February). Founds Guelph (23 April) and Goderich in Upper Canada. Visits the settlement of Galt (now part of Cambridge, Ontario) which William Dickson named in his honour. 1828 Sustains a lasting injury from a severe fall. His wife and sons join him in Canada; sons attend school in Lower Canada. 1829 Recalled from management of the Canada Company (2 January). Arrives in Liverpool (20 May) and proceeds to London. Committed to King’s Bench Prison for debt (15 July–10 November). Recurring spells of illness begin. “My Landlady and Her Lodgers” in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (August). 1830 Lawrie Todd; Southennan; The Life of Lord Byron. Wife and sons return from Canada ( June). Briefly edits The Courier, a London evening newspaper. Begins contributing regularly to Fraser’s Magazine, the New Monthly Magazine, and literary annuals. 1831 Bogle Corbet; Lives of the Players; short stories (including “The Fatal Whisper,” “The Unguarded Hour,” and “The Book of Life”) in The Club-book, edited by

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Andrew Picken. Forms and becomes Secretary of the British American Land Company for settlement of the Eastern Townships in Lower Canada. 1832 Stanley Buxton; The Member; The Radical; “Our Borough” in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (October). Begins writing for Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine (e.g., “The Howdie,” September–October 1832). Suffers a stroke (October); illness becomes more crippling. 1833 Eben Erskine; Poems; The Stolen Child; The Ouranologos, a joint venture with painter John Martin; Stories of the Study (containing “The Dean of Guild,” “The Jaunt,” and “The Seamstress,” among others); The Autobiography of John Galt. Resigns from the British American Land Company due to illness. Sons John and Thomas emigrate to Canada. 1834 The Literary Life, and Miscellanies, of John Galt; “The Mem, or Schoolmistress” in Fraser’s Magazine (August). Son Alexander leaves for Canada to work for the British American Land Company. Moves to Greenock and settles with his wife at the home of his sister, Agnes Macfie. Death of William Blackwood. 1835 Efforts of an Invalid (poetry). Continues to write and publish short fiction, chiefly in Fraser’s Magazine and Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine (e.g., “Tribulations of the Rev. Cowal Kilmun,” November 1835–January 1836). 1836 “A Rich Man” in Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine ( June–August). 1838–39 Edits Diary Illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth. 1839 Dies at Greenock (11 April). The Demon of Destiny and Other Poems published posthumously. Elizabeth Tilloch Galt joins her sons in Canada.

INTRODUCTION The present volume of the Edinburgh Edition of the Works of John Galt brings together three short novels that display different facets of Galt’s creative abilities. Glenfell is his first publication in the style of Scottish fiction for which he would become best known; Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore is a unique synthesis of his experiences with theatre, ­educational writing, and travel in the Mediterranean; and The Omen is a haunting gothic tale. Each story was originally published in one short volume – a form that Galt preferred, but one that found little favour with publishers, circulating libraries, and readers in an age dominated by triple-decker novels. Thus, the history of how these tales came to be written and published demonstrates Galt’s entrepreneurial efforts to bring shorter fiction onto the literary market. With their easily readable scope and their vivid themes, each of the three stories has a distinct charm. At the same time, they cast light on significant phases in Galt’s career as a writer and on his versatility in experimenting with new themes and styles.

The Periodical Novelist, or The Circulating Library Glenfell and Andrew of Padua were part of the same publishing venture: a series of short novels for which Galt, albeit anonymously, seems to have been a prime mover. During the years 1819 and 1820, he lived in London and published heavily with the firms of Richard Phillips and John Souter. Besides contributing articles to Phillips’ Monthly ­Magazine, Galt compiled pedagogical works on history and geography for the use of schoolchildren; most of these appeared under the pseu­ donyms “Reverend T. Clark” and “Captain Samuel Prior.” He was forty years old, and his writing career up to this point comprised moderately successful accounts of his travels in the Mediterranean, biographies, dramas, articles on political economy and other non-fictional topics, and a large number of school textbooks. His only fictional publication, a two-volume tale entitled The Majolo that appeared in 1815–16, had fallen flat. Nevertheless, in 1819 the publisher Phillips and his regular writer

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Galt collaborated to start a monthly series of fiction aimed at private purchasers as well as circulating libraries. This series of “superior new Novels and Novellettes” was first announced in the October 1819 issue of Phillips’ Monthly Magazine; it was to consist partly of “translations from the French, Italian, German, Spanish, and oriental languages” and partly of original works for which “some of the first writers of the day have pledged their co-operation.”1 Over the next five months, it was advertised in the Monthly Magazine as a “Periodical Series of Original Novels, Romances, and Tales,” “Novelties for Novel ­Readers,” and “Classical New Novels.”2 Besides the eminence of the writers and the quality of the translations, a particular selling point was to be the reliable and relatively affordable price of six shillings per ­volume, ­regardless of the volume’s length. The series was published under two interchangeable titles, The Periodical Novelist and The Circulating ­Library, both of which suggest an attempt to capitalize on contemporary reading habits. The “Advertisement to the Series” that was printed at the beginning of volume 1 – that is, Galt’s Glenfell – is quite explicit about the intention to woo circulating libraries as well as private purchasers by providing a commodity that is available at a “cheap rate,” yet counts as “a monthly luxury above all price” (2–3).3 The advertisement also intimates that the series will allow for quick publication (“an early view”) of work by new authors (“literary ­amateurs”), and that it will be a venue for tales that “would probably have been rejected by the modern publishers of Novels, on account of their brevity” (2–3). This attempt to create an alternative outlet for publication hints at Galt’s collaboration in the series from the beginning, since it resembles other projects he had previously undertaken. Some six years earlier, Galt pitched a similar monthly series of dramas to publisher Henry Colburn, to be entitled The Rejected Theatre; it was to include plays that had been turned down by the licensed theatres of Covent Garden and Drury Lane. The provocative title reflected Galt’s frustration over the rejection of plays he himself had submitted for performance and his suspicion that the theatre managers had not bothered to read them properly, if at all.4 The Rejected Theatre was soon 1

The Monthly Magazine; or, British Register, 48 (1819), p. 262. Monthly Magazine, 48 (1819), p. 347; 49 (1820), p. 70; 49 (1820), p. 156. 3 When no further specification is given, numbers in parentheses refer to pages in the present volume. 4 See The Autobiography of John Galt, 2 vols (London: Cochrane and McCrone, 1833), I, p. 264. 2

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retitled, somewhat more neutrally, The New British Theatre; A Selection of Original Dramas, not yet acted; some of which have been offered for ­representation, but not accepted, and four volumes were published over the course of 1814 and 1815. Galt drew on The New British Theatre in various ways when writing tales for the Periodical Novelist series, as is especially evident in Andrew of Padua’s engagement with the world of the theatre. But The Periodical Novelist proved even more shortlived than The New British Theatre; after three volumes – two of them ­written by Galt – it quietly folded. Because of Galt’s heavy involvement with this monthly series and because of what it reveals about some of his earliest forays into the marketplace for fiction, the title pages and prefatory material for the Periodical Novelist or Circulating Library are included in the present edition.

Glenfell; or, Macdonalds and Campbells Galt’s two anonymously published contributions to the series are ­nevertheless remarkable, each in its own way. The first one appeared on 15 January 1820 as a duodecimo volume of 328 pages with a threepart title: Glenfell; or, Macdonalds and Campbells. An Edinburgh Tale of the Nineteenth Century. Although long forgotten, this delightful story is key to an understanding of Galt’s development as a writer because it is his first publication in the style that soon after made him famous: the humorous, socially and historically insightful tale of Scottish life. Both of Glenfell’s subtitles are significant for locating the book within historical and literary contexts. The subtitle Macdonalds and Campbells simultaneously raises and defuses expectations of a ­dramatic historical plot that might have centered on centuries-old feuds between the Macdonald and Campbell clans, evoking un­resolved tensions within Highland society that Galt’s Scottish readers would have associated with the 1692 Massacre of Glencoe. But, with its omission of definite articles, the phrase “Macdonalds and Campbells” (rather than “the Macdonalds and the Campbells”) carries somewhat different connotations, hinting instead at the confusion of names and identities that underlies the novel’s comic plot. The action of Glenfell plays itself out among several Macdonalds and several Campbells residing comfortably in the small compass of Edinburgh’s New Town, which had just completed building at the time the novel appeared and was attracting Highland families to the city in increasing numbers. ­Although Galt’s family came from lowland Ayrshire, he had Highland

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connections, especially at this point in his career. Due to his work with the Caledonian Asylum, a charitable organization for orphaned Scottish children, he had been involved with the Highland Society of London since 1814; in 1818, he became a Director of the Highland Society in Greenock, a town that already had a significant Highland population when Galt was growing up there during the 1790s. Later, in his memoirs, he mentions the Gaelic associations of the Galt name and his own possible ancestry in the Highlands of Perthshire.5 While the disruption and depopulation of Highland communities from the mid-eighteenth century onward forms a larger historical backdrop to the novel, the action of Glenfell confines itself to a small, domestic scale. Its sphere is that of professional and fashionable life; its characters range from members of the middle class such as the businessman Mr. Ruart to hereditary nobility such as the Laird of Glenfell who, while he has taken up the practice of law in Edinburgh, remains a clan chief. Most importantly, it is about the ways these classes have begun to intermingle – in the friendship of Glenfell and Ruart, who are former schoolmates, in intermarriages between classes and clans, and in the relocation of Highlanders to Edinburgh and Glasgow. By focusing on social interactions among Macdonalds, Campbells, and other Highland families in these rapidly changing communities, Galt anticipates the perspective his fiction would take vis-à-vis larger historical movements in Annals of the Parish and other novels of the following years. Glenfell’s second subtitle, An Edinburgh Tale of the Nineteenth ­Century, also evokes and undercuts expectations. It gestures toward the genre of the historical novel that Walter Scott had popularized six years earlier; but instead of offering a tale of eighteenth-century adventure in the manner of Scott’s Waverley (1814), Galt locates his characters in a nineteenth-century social world more akin to those of Maria Edgeworth and Jane Austen. All the events of Glenfell occur on a restrained domestic scale, beginning with a misdelivered issue of the Edinburgh Review, climaxing with a bankruptcy negotiation, and ending with the marriages of Macdonalds and Campbells and Glenfell himself. Urban geography plays an important part throughout Glenfell. In 1820, Edinburgh’s New Town was brand new; the residential district built by architects Robert Adam and Robert Reid based on the plans laid out by James Craig in the 1760s had just been completed. The handsome architecture designed around a symmetrical grid of roads, 5

The Literary Life, and Miscellanies, of John Galt, 3 vols (Edinburgh: Blackwood and London: Cadell, 1834), I, pp. 256–7.

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squares, and crescents provides the main stage for the characters’ movements in Glenfell. By introducing a subplot about the Glasgow merchant Mr. Ruart into the story, Galt also depicts the relationship between professional Edinburgh and mercantile Glasgow as he has characters travel from one city to the other along ever-accelerating stagecoach routes. Galt’s experience as a dramatist is clearly evident in Glenfell. He based the novel on “Auld Reekie; or, a Mistake in Edinburgh,” a play he had written sometime during the preceding decade but only published much later in volume 3 of his Literary Life, and Miscellanies (1834). More specifically, Glenfell’s plot resembles French comédie ­d’intrigue in the use of mistaken identities, the predominance of dialogue, and an approximate unity of time. The events take place over a very few days, and the scene shifts back and forth between simultaneous goings-on in Edinburgh and Glasgow. There are frequent quotations from and allusions to Shakespeare, which Galt uses to parallel the domestic drama of Glenfell with Shakespearean comedies of mistaken identity and hyperbolically juxtapose it with tragedy.6 All thirty-five chapters begin with epigraphs that are drawn from thirteen different Shakespearean plays and from a wide variety of eighteenth-century British literature. These epigraphs embed Galt’s modest tale within an e­ laborate, if ironic, literary heritage. Galt’s recent, busy months of writing educational texts for Phillips and Souter also influenced the composition of Glenfell. As mis­ identifications of Macdonalds and Campbells proliferate throughout the novel, Galt allows his reader to fall into some of these misunderstandings along with the characters in order to instill a ­lesson about reading attentively. Not until chapter 5 does the omniscient narrator clear up some of the initial confusion with a pedantic aside: “Here it becomes necessary to apprise the reader that in our Northern ­Comedy of Errors there are two Macdonalds as well as two Miss Campbells” (20). Further misunderstandings are stirred up, however, by the ­novel’s title character – the young, rich, handsome, poetically inclined lawyer Glenfell, whose impulsive actions and fondness for making rhetorical arguments that he doesn’t actually believe cause 6

Galt’s engagement with Shakespeare around this time may also be reflected in a long review article of Nathan Drake’s Shakespeare and his Times in the April 1819 issue of the Edinburgh Monthly Review, which Ian A. Gordon attributes to him (John Galt: The Life of a Writer [Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1972], p. 22).

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near-­catastrophic mistakes. The educative theme shows up again in Glenfell’s character development: he is taught by the emotional whirlwind of the novel’s events to amend his eccentric, devil’s-advocate demeanour and become a “proselyte to propriety” (117). The story’s happy ending involves a deus ex machina in the person of rich Mr. Grant, yet another Campbell relative who has just returned to Scotland after thirty-five years in colonial Upper Canada. The colonial motif aligns with Galt’s evolving business interests. Although his first voyage to Canada was still a few years away, he had learned enough detail about the country from an emigrant relative to publish a “Statistical Account of Upper Canada” in the Philosophical Magazine in 1807, and Canada would become a central focus of his own business affairs by the end of 1820, when he was appointed agent for Canadian claimants seeking compensation from the British government. But in addition to the fortuitous return of Mr. Grant, what makes the novel’s resolution possible is the common sense shown by the protagonists. Nineteenth-century Macdonalds and Campbells settle their differences according to social conventions and commercial negotiations rather than violence and retribution. The long-absent Highlander Mr. Grant ironically calls attention to this change in morés when he reflects: I am a little sorry that we have been so easily reconciled, for I do not much like this modern moderation of feeling, this debating about the equity of things. I know not why a man whose race and line have for ages withstood the changes of time and chance, should, for the sake of mahogany chairs, plated ware, and cut glass, measure his manners by those of the temporary traffickers in cotton bags and sugar hogsheads. (106) Glenfell turns the historical romance that its title might have heralded into the irony of the everyday. The novel climaxes not with a battle, but with a bankruptcy hearing; its triumphal celebration is a dinner party enlivened by satire and a dose of slapstick comedy. Glenfell is thus of significant interest as Galt’s first published ­Scottish novel and the first example of his distinctive approach to depicting the social history of his country. More specifically, Glenfell introduces names and scenes that he would develop further in the popular novels that followed. The second cousin of Mrs. Campbell Ardmore, Reverend Mr. Belwhidder (or Bellwhidder), would lend his name to Reverend Micah Balwhidder, the narrator-protagonist of

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Annals of the Parish (1821). In Glenfell, a key item of Mrs. Campbell Ardmore’s banquet finery is borrowed from the Belwhidders, and the ­Reverend nearly comes into view when he performs the double marriage ceremony at the end of the novel. Galt also reprised the entire scene of Mrs. Campbell Ardmore’s autumn banquet, where she puts on a masterful show of gentility and generosity while shrewdly borrowing and wheedling supplies in order to assemble the meal at the least possible cost to herself, in a tale he published three years later, The Gathering of the West (1823). Ruth Aldrich, one of the very few critics to have commented on Glenfell, notes the general significance of the novel as the first published example of motifs that recur throughout Galt’s Scottish fiction, including the selective use of Scots language and the depiction of strong female characters.7 Nevertheless, Glenfell was not only forgotten but entirely lost from sight soon after its anonymous publication. A review in the Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review was lukewarm, describing Glenfell as “a tale neither destitute of interest, nor possessing any extraordinary degree of merit.” Still, the review continues, Glenfell is sufficiently “well written” to be a good advertisement for the Circulating Library series, which, the reviewer predicts, “will soon rank with the most popular periodical productions.”8 A French translation entitled Glenfell, ou les MacDonalds et les Campbells: Histoire Écossaise du 19e Siècle appeared in Paris in 1823, published together with a translation of Maria Edgeworth’s 1804 tale “Murad the Unlucky.” In a preface, the anonymous translator identifies the author of Glenfell as “a true Englishman” (un veritable Anglais), noting nevertheless that the interest of the novel for French readers lies in its Scottish setting, since “a justly celebrated author” (that is, Walter Scott) has recently brought so much attention to Scotland.9 The translator, who seems to assume that Glenfell is by a male author but not to know that the author is Galt, notes that a man’s perspective on contemporary manners is especially valuable at a time when so many novels are written by women. Glenfell was never republished, and by the time Galt wrote his memoirs in 1834 he remembered having written it only when reminded by a friend – although he immediately recalled, too, that it “was supposed 7

Ruth I. Aldrich, John Galt (Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1978), p. 44. Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review, 101.39 (12 February 1820), pp. 100–1. 9 Glenfell, ou les MacDonalds et les Campbells. Histoire Écossaise du 19e Siècle, suivie de Murad le Malheureux, par Miss Edgeworth (Paris: Persan, 1823), pp. xxx–xxxi. 8

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to have some merit.”10 Copies of Glenfell are listed in the catalogues of circulating libraries during the 1820s and 1830s, but after that the novel disappeared from sight for almost a century and a half. A copy of the French translation remained in the British Library, and for literary scholars until the mid-twentieth century Glenfell was available only in this translated version. In the second half of the twentieth century, a few copies of Galt’s original came to light that are now held by libraries in Britain, Canada, and the United States. The copy in the University of Guelph Library has an inscription on the title page – “The parting Gift of an affectionate Son. Nov. 1824.” – that appears to be in Galt’s handwriting, making it likely that he gave this copy of Glenfell to his mother shortly before departing on his first trip to Canada. The ­present edition marks the first time Glenfell has been published since 1820.

Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore Glenfell, volume 1 of the Periodical Novelist or Circulating Library series, appeared simultaneously with volume 2, an anonymous translation of the recent French novel Petrarch and Laura by Madame de Genlis. The third book in the series, published on 15 February 1820, seemed to offer readers further translations of European fiction. According to its title page, this duodecimo volume of 294 pages contained two tales: Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore: A Tale from the Italian of the Abbate Furbo and The Vindictive Father, or Lorenzo and Claudia, from the Spanish of Leandra of Valladerras. The provenance of the second tale is somewhat obscured by the idiosyncratic phrasing and s­ pelling of the Spanish title and name, but The Vindictive Father is, in fact, translated from “Claudia y Don Lorenzo,” one of several inset stories in the nine-volume novel La Leandra written by Antonio Valladares de Sotomayor and published in Madrid between 1797 and 1807. It is quite possible that this translation was done by Galt, who amused himself with speed-translation exercises during his travels in the Mediterranean from 1809 to 1811; in his Literary Life, he records that during a second trip to Gibraltar in 1812–13 he worked on his Spanish and read in the town libraries.11 10

Literary Life, I, p. 349. Literary Life, I, p. 141. According to an advertisement pasted into the front inside cover of volume 1 (Glenfell) when it was published on 15 January, 11

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Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore, however, is a different story altogether. On the surface, it is a first-person narrative by a famous Italian author named Francisco Furbo. Most of his tale consists of a story-within-a-story told by an old man, Andrew, whom Furbo encounters in Rome. As Furbo treats Andrew to food and wine over the course of a few days, Andrew relates his autobiography – how he gave up an apprenticeship in a counting-house to join the theatre and became an internationally renowned improvvisatore, a performer of spontaneously composed poetry and song. But Andrew of Padua is eventually revealed to be a fraud and a trickster; what is more, the entire novel turns out to be a mise en abîme of performances within performances. Just as Andrew plays the improviser and the unreliable narrator in relation to Furbo, so Furbo plays the same role in relation to the reader. In fact, the name of the supposed Italian author, Furbo, means “trickster” – and if that does not make readers suspicious, the elaborate framing devices that surround his tale might do so. To explain the provenance of the story, the anonymous English translator begins by quoting an extract of a letter from the gentleman who ­supposedly supplied him with the Italian original, which leads on into a ­pseudo-scholarly “Biographical Sketch of the Abbate Furbo” complete with a history of Furbo’s novels and their reception in Italy. The biographical sketch claims to draw on multiple Italian biographies and editions of Furbo’s complete works. Among other things, the gifted author Furbo is credited with understanding fourteen languages and writing fluently in nine – although the biographical sketch also describes him, tellingly, as “an apt and shrewd spirit, with a knavish relish of mischief ” (137). The ironies, inconsistencies, and word-play of the biographical sketch and the translator’s preface and footnotes reveal that the whole v­ olume 3 of The Periodical Novelist was originally intended to consist of “three exquisite Tales, elegantly translated from the Spanish of a modern Author.” If this plan was altered on short notice to one Spanish tale plus Andrew of Padua in time for volume 3 to be published on 15 March, Galt must have produced Andrew of Padua very quickly indeed. The pasted-in advertisement appears only in some of the extant copies of Glenfell; in the copies held by the University of Edinburgh Library and the Senate House Library, it is pasted over with a bookplate. The copy acquired by the Harry Ransom Center of the University of Texas at Austin in 1983 is the only known copy in which the advertisement is legible.

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thing is actually a hoax. Andrew of Padua participates in the fakery so often found in writings of the Romantic era, including gothic novels that purport to be based on found manuscripts and fictional editors who pretend to confer historical authenticity. Andrew of Padua is the first publication in which Galt hoaxed readers to such an extent, although he would soon join the contributors to Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine who excelled at this practice; he would use similar devices in The Ayrshire Legatees (1820–21) and, at least glancingly, in The Omen. But the specialized form of tale-spinning that Galt draws on in Andrew of Padua – the figure of the Italian improvvisatore – derives directly from his travels in the Mediterranean between 1809 and 1811. The germ of Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore can be found in V ­ oyages and Travels, the travel account that Galt published in 1812 after his return to Britain. A brief section entitled “An Improvisatore” recounts his meeting with an unnamed individual in Sicily who vaunts his own services as a tour guide, claiming to be “the best i­mprovisatore in all Palermo.” As in Andrew of Padua, the narrator invites the improvvisatore to visit him at his lodgings, only to have his landlord advise him to avoid this character at all costs: “‘Oh my God!’ cried he, ‘that is one grand Furbo … When he come again, you tell him to go to hell’.”12 The character of Andrew of Padua is an amalgam of the “grand Furbo” of an improvvisatore whom Galt himself encountered in P ­ alermo, and a more sympathetic improvising performer who appears in another early ­publication of Galt’s: the biography of A ­ merican painter Ben­­ jamin West, a significant part of which is devoted to West’s trip to Italy in 1759–60. While in a coffee-house in Rome, West encounters “the most celebrated Improvisatore in all Italy.” This improvvisatore is described as “a venerable old man, with a guitar” who goes by the name of “Homer” (the same epithet claimed by Andrew of Padua) and extemporizes an impressive ode on the theme of “an American come to study the fine arts in Rome” – that is to say, on Benjamin West himself.13 The episode of West’s encounter with the Roman improvvisatore called Homer in 1760 makes it possible to take at face value the few chronological markers in Andrew of Padua: the translator’s o­ pening remark that “about sixty years ago” there was “a very 12

Voyages and Travels in the Years 1809, 1810, and 1811 (London: Cadell and Davies, 1812), p. 45. 13 The Life and Studies of Benjamin West, Esq. (London: Cadell and Davies, 1816), pp. 114–15.

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celebrated performer of that kind at Rome, known to all travellers by the name of Omero or Homer” (136), and Andrew’s boast to Furbo at the beginning of chapter 10 that “every person who visited Rome about thirty years ago, considered me as one of the standing miracles of the Papal Court” (173). From the standpoint of 1820, when the story was published, this means that Andrew would have reached the height of his fame in Rome in 1760 (“sixty years ago”) and his encounter with Furbo would have taken place in 1790 (“thirty years ago”), when Andrew had become an old man. Most of the remaining historical allusions in both the biographical sketch and Andrew’s tale fall into place around those dates – with the exception of a mischievous footnote, in the midst of a chapter about the credibility of storytellers, where the translator claims that Furbo wrote this tale “before the establishment of the independence of the United States” (194). Since Galt was preparing the second ­volume of his ­biography of Benjamin West for the press simultaneously with Andrew of Padua, it is not surprising that traces of West’s adventures made their way into Andrew of Padua’s story. In other ways, too, the most illuminating frame of reference for Andrew of Padua is Galt’s own writing career. The story gradually reveals more and more elaborate correspondences with the many types of writing at which he had tried his hand: travel accounts, drama, opera librettos, biography, fiction. These allusions are sometimes quirky or satirical, other times so precise as to make Andrew of Padua look like an allegory of Galt’s experiences in the publishing and theatrical world of London during the years 1812 to 1819. The motif of flute-playing, for instance, crops up repeatedly in Galt’s early work. The hero of The Majolo plays the flute, as Galt did during his youth, and as does Andrew of Padua. Indeed, Andrew’s temporary obsession with flute-playing is a bizarre episode that seems to function more as a coded authorial signature than an intrinsic part of the plot. Names and characters that appear in Andrew of Padua are also to be found in The Earthquake (1820), the long novel that Galt wrote while living in Scotland in 1818. It features two improvvisatore characters: Salpano, “the best poet in all Sicily,” an extemporizer who is so talented that he could have made a killing on the London stage, and Andrea, an illiterate old man who “often deceived his auditors into a belief that his stories were actually his own adventures.”14 Andrew of Padua looks very much like 14

The Earthquake: A Tale, 3 vols (Edinburgh: Blackwood and London: Cadell, 1820), I, pp. 297–8 and II, p. 260.

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a conflation of these two characters. Two other minor figures in The Earthquake, Furbo the highway robber and Father Francisco the priest, together provide the pseudonym “Abbate Francisco Furbo.” Andrew of Padua is as much a portrayal of Galt’s experiences with publishers and theatre managers in London as it is of his Mediter­ranean travels. The story makes the Italian improvvisatore into an avatar of the British writer struggling to earn a living by grasping the opportunities offered by the late-Romantic marketplace. Andrew of Padua’s theme of the poet-performer who literally sings for his supper had ironic personal relevance for Galt as he wrote school textbooks, magazine articles, and fiction for Richard Phillips and other publishers as quickly as it could be printed. The counting-house into which Galt places Andrew in the early chapters, and the theatrical sphere in which Andrew later tries to make his way, are worlds whose frustrations Galt knew all too well. Having failed to interest the Theatres Royal of London in the tragedies and comedies he had written, Galt developed strong views on the shortcomings of the theatre industry that found expression in The New British Theatre, the volumes of rejected plays that he edited in 1814–15. In chapter 16 of Andrew of Padua, Andrew outlines a l­ yrical drama that is actually an opera libretto entitled Orpheus, written and published by Galt himself in volume 3 of The New British Theatre. Even when the allusion is less blatant than this, Galt’s own experiences with the London theatres clearly provide background for the novel. Galt is nevertheless even-handed in his characterization of theatre managers: they range from the dignified manager of the opera house in Palermo in chapter 18 who is credited with “solid attainments, … great skill, and … exquisite taste” (207) to the agent of the London opera house in chapter 19, a former tradesman who can easily be hoodwinked by Andrew because he knows no Italian and “possesse[s] about as much taste in Italian music as his bidets” (209). In the context of magazine publishing, too, Andrew the improvvisatore is an all too realistic representation of Galt the “bookseller’s hack,” as he sometimes called himself, wryly echoing a comment by John Cam Hobhouse.15 The plot device whereby Andrew manages to cajole a glass of wine or something to eat from his listener Furbo at the end of almost every chapter might evoke Galt’s relation to his publishers, from whom he was often obliged to ask for cash advances on his next piece of writing. There may be a more pointed satire in chapter 12 of Andrew of Padua, where Andrew contracts with an ­Italian printer 15

Autobiography, I, p. 187.

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named Masano to publish his improvisations. Masano is described as “a little fat man, with a face of singular rotundity and fulness” (182) who proves avaricious, impatient, and irascible – details that recall contemporary descriptions of Richard Phillips’ appearance and personality.16 The educational writing that Galt had been doing for Phillips also leaves its mark on Andrew of Padua. In individual episodes as well as in the plot of the story as a whole, Galt tries to inculcate habits of careful reading and observation by making fun of characters who allow themselves to be hoodwinked. In chapter 15, for instance, while sailing from Leghorn to Messina, Andrew takes part in a storytelling game where a multicultural group of passengers entertain one another with tall tales. Andrew learns an important lesson about how not to be taken in when a Frenchman poses as a learned member of the Academy of Sciences but turns out to be an ordinary barber. In Andrew of Padua as a whole, it is Francisco Furbo who eventually realizes that he has fallen for Andrew’s elaborate story about his international fame; listeners, Andrew chides him, should learn to “exercise their own faculties a little more cleverly” (222) in order to avoid being cajoled out of their wine and dinners by clever performers. Finally, with a paratextual apparatus consisting of the “Biographical Sketch of the Abbate Furbo” and footnotes by the pseudo-translator, Galt performs the same exercise on his actual readers, teaching us to be more prudent when it comes to evaluating narrative authority. Andrew of Padua is thus a lynchpin in Galt’s career between his writing of school texts and his association with the hoaxing group of authors involved with Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, for which he began to write around this time. It is also an ironic literary memoir that traces Galt’s trajectory from his Mediterranean travels to his breakthrough Scottish fiction by way of his biographical, ­pedagogical, and dramatic writings. Yet, like Glenfell, this key text completely ­disappeared from view following its publication. The only review to be found is a brief, predictably favourable notice in Phillips’ Monthly Magazine. “The adventures of the Improvisatore, related by himself, are little inferior in nature and genuine humour to the exploits of Gil Blas, and the best itinerant heroes of Fielding,” this reviewer opined; “Andrew is a true son of Fortune, but bears her vicissitudes in so good humoured a manner, and relates them with so much grace and nature, that (which is now seldom the case) we laid down the book with an 16

See Cyrus Redding, Fifty Years’ Recollections, Literary and Personal, 3 vols (London: Skeet, 1858), I, p. 65.

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actual feeling of regret.”17 Although the title Andrew of Padua appears in the list of published works at the end of his Literary Life in 1834, even Galt claims at that point to have forgotten about it completely: “Andrew of Padua … has entirely, even to the name, escaped my memory,” he admits in the last paragraph of his memoirs.18 It is hard to credit Galt’s casual dismissal of the tale, however, given that he continued to rework it for several years under the title “The Improvisatore” and eventually republished it in a different form. On 18 May 1822, while sending William Blackwood portions of the book manuscript for The Steam-Boat, Galt also sent him a revised version of “the Improvisatore” to be published as part of a collection that he called “the Lazaretto.”19 In a letter of 28 May, he suggested that “the Quarrantine” [sic] would be a better title for the collection of tales.20 Blackwood appears to have declined the stories, but they came in handy in October 1824 when Galt, on the point of leaving for Canada, desperately needed to fill space in a three-volume historical novel he was publishing with Oliver & Boyd. In “The Quarantine; or, Tales of the Lazaretto,” which fills the second half of volume 3 of Galt’s Rothelan, the text of Andrew of Padua appears in recycled form as “The Improvisatoré; or, The Italian’s Tale.” This time, the pseudo-narrator Francisco Furbo is replaced by a different frame story: “The Quarantine” takes place in Messina, Sicily, where an international group of travelers confined in the lazaretto because of the danger of plague decide to pass the time by telling stories to one another and assessing the credibility of each storyteller. The Italian “Improvisatoré” relates the second of the three tales. By embedding his ­autobiographical narrative within a scene of instruction about how to tell truth from fiction, this new context intensifies the pedagogical orientation of the original story. Other differences between Andrew of Padua and “The Improvisatoré; or, The Italian’s Tale” cast light on the evolution of Galt’s writing habits and the intentions of the original 1820 version. “The Improvisatoré” is shorter, ending abruptly with the protagonist’s departure from London in the company of Belletta and her lover (that is, halfway through chapter 20 of Andrew of Padua), after which Galt wraps up the story with a couple of hasty sentences. The style of “The Improvisatoré” 17

Monthly Magazine, 49 (1820), p. 357. Literary Life, I, p. 349. 19 Galt to William Blackwood, 18 May 1822, MS 4008, National Library of Scotland (NLS). 20 Galt to William Blackwood, 28 May 1822, MS 4008, NLS. 18

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is in many places tighter and less wordy, and there are no divisions into chapters as in Andrew of Padua. A few episodes are omitted entirely; likely motivations for these cuts are to maintain a more moral tone (for instance, a nighttime assignation between a young woman and her lover disappears), to moderate the satire of monks and monasteries (chapters 13 and 14, on Andrew’s brief period as a novice, are deleted), and to remove some of the autobiographical allusions to Galt and his works (“The Improvisatoré” contains neither the synopsis of Galt’s opera “Orpheus” nor the overview of Sicily that echoes his Voyages and Travels). The revised version also omits brief character sketches of some minor figures, which raises the suspicion that Galt had intended these descriptions to refer to specific individuals when he first wrote Andrew of Padua; this would not be the only time that he was persuaded to omit ad hominem satires when he revised his original text. The word-for-word and episode-for-episode correspondence of most of these two narratives, however, leaves no doubt that Galt had Andrew of Padua in front of him while ­rewriting it as “The Improvisatoré.” As his correspondence with Oliver & Boyd shows, although he was frantically busy wrapping up affairs in ­Britain before sailing for Canada, he concerned himself with details of the 1824 publication, among other things finding time to correct the proofs himself.21 More generally, Galt continued to portray improvisers and wily tricksters throughout his later fiction. A Sicilian improvvisatore or “provisatory” is still accosting Scottish travellers to Palermo over twenty years later in his last, comic rewriting of his Mediterranean voyage as “The Jaunt” in Stories of the Study (1833). Characteristics of Andrew the improviser are evident in the protagonists of the better-­ known fiction Galt wrote in the years following Andrew of Padua. The names of Andrew Wylie, Provost Pawkie, and Lawrie Todd all encode, in English or Scots, the wily character of their bearers, as does the name of the Italian Francisco Furbo. Indeed, Galt’s choice of the typically Scottish name “Andrew” for his Italian improvvisatore is an indication that Italian and Scottish contexts are being superimposed in Andrew of Padua. Ironically, the fiction of the imaginary author Francisco Furbo proved so durable that Andrew of Padua is much more often listed under the pseudonym “Furbo” than under Galt’s own name, both in the catalogues of nineteenth-century circulating libraries and in the few rare-book libraries that hold copies today. The present volume brings Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore back into view as an 21

Galt to Oliver & Boyd, [October 1824], Acc.5000/188, NLS.

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e­ ntertaining “furbo” of a text, as well as an informative ­illustration of the development of Galt’s fiction.

The Omen The six years that separate The Omen from the two previous tales brought about significant changes in Galt’s status and career. Thanks to the numerous novels and periodical contributions he published during the early 1820s, Galt was by mid-decade an established, popular fiction writer. He was also engaged in the major business enterprise of his career, the Canada Company that bought Crown land and sold it to settlers on behalf of the British government, and he made a first trip to North America to pursue this venture in 1825. Galt kept up his commercial and literary activities ­simultaneously, writing at a daunting pace while moving wherever business and family matters took him. Yet The Omen arose during a period of unusual ­anxiety and depression. The writing of the tale coincided with a national financial crisis that began in the latter months of 1825, involving a major stock market crash, widespread bank failures in England, and aftershocks that hit the British publishing industry with particular severity. Galt’s own affairs were precarious as he anxiously awaited parliamentary decisions that would determine the fate of the Canada Company; “my mind was in no very comfortable state,” he recalls in his ­Autobiography.22 Added to his concerns over business was the failing health of his mother, who was being cared for by his sister in Scotland during the last months of her life. In a letter to his sister dated 13 January 1826, while he was finishing the manuscript of The Omen, Galt reveals his state of mind with unusual frankness, alluding to his need to borrow money to see his family through the financial crisis and his general depression about believing himself to be a disappointment to their mother: I feel that at no former period of my life was I so depressed – ‘hope deferred’ too long has made me sick at heart & I begin to suffer, for the first time, the gnawing of disappointed expectation. Yet the same sort of miracle, from light to darkness, is continued to be performed around me & I know not, nor have I ever heard of one who has had less reason to despair. I tremble in my gratitude to providence 22

Autobiography, I, p. 339.

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when I think of the path that seems marked out for me along the edge of peril.23 Galt’s characteristic optimism about the coming of better times is of a piece with the resilience that made it possible for him to continue writing through depression to produce The Omen. His friend and early biographer D. M. Moir, aware of the difficult circumstances in which the tale was written, refers to it as “one of the most beautiful, and ­perhaps the most elaborately finished of his productions.”24 Galt himself commented that The Omen is “not … at all in the style for which I am best known.”25 As wide-ranging as his themes and genres had been up to this point, The Omen undertakes something ­different from almost all his previous writing. Its first-person ­narrator is a young English nobleman named Henry and it is set mainly in Oxford, parts of East Anglia, and the environs of London. The plot ­features a gothic motif of narrowly averted incest that was new to Galt’s fiction, although he had paid considerable attention to similar themes in Byron’s poetry. Recalling the origins of The Omen in his Literary Life, Galt claims that “it is founded on the story to which I alluded to Lord Byron on speaking one day of the ‘Bride of Abydos’.”26 The story in question is a four-volume novel entitled The Three B ­ rothers by Joshua Pickersgill that was published in 1803. Galt was so struck by similarities between The Bride of Abydos and this convoluted gothic romance that he returned several times to the question of whether Byron had plagiarized The Three Brothers or perhaps even written it himself when very young.27 While Galt intimates that The Omen also derives from this source, any resemblance to The Three Brothers is very vague. Instead, there are stronger connections to themes in some of his own earlier fiction. Galt had long been interested in premonitions, extrasensory perception, and semi-mystical sympathies – as The Omen’s narrator puts it, in the belief that the mind may be “endowed with other faculties of perception than those of the corporeal senses” (237). In his Autobiography 23

Galt to Mrs. Macfie, 13 January 1826, MS A277054, H. B. Timothy Collection, University of Guelph Library. 24 “Biographical Memoir of the Author,” The Annals of the Parish and The Ayrshire Legatees, by John Galt (Edinburgh and London: Blackwood, 1841), p. xxxviii. 25 MS A277053, H. B. Timothy Collection, University of Guelph Library. 26 Literary Life, I, pp. 269–70; see also II, p. 185. 27 Autobiography, II, pp. 179–85 and 224; Literary Life, I, pp. 24 and 307–8.

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Galt describes The Omen as “a continuation … of a former attempt to embody presentiments and feelings in situations not uncommon”28 – that is, a continuation of his first published tale, The Majolo, whose title character is similarly susceptible to presentiments and intuitive sympathies. In both The Majolo and The Omen, Galt distances himself from a belief in omens by ascribing this belief to fictional characters and exploring its effect on their psyche. He does, however, identify personally with another one of the psychological phenomena illustrated by The Omen: a mental faculty that he calls “local memory” and that he believes himself to possess in a “remarkable” degree.29 Galt glosses local memory as “the peculiarity of recalling objects of sight, and describing them as if they were present”; according to the examples he gives in the Autobiography, it is a capacity for intense visualization that can recall vivid details of past scenes in a way that “helps to make individuality and to mark identity.”30 In The Omen, Galt transfers the propensity for local memory to the protagonist Henry, whose sensorially vivid memories of scenes from his childhood might today be described as flashbacks to childhood trauma. Occasional scenes and motifs in The Omen can be traced to other facets of Galt’s experience. The shipboard scenes in Epoch III reflect his background as the son of a sea-captain who grew up in port towns; his musical inclinations and his ability to play the flute make their way into the episode of the mystical German flute teacher; and his portrayal of the lives of the aristocracy owes something to the titled acquaintances, including Lord Byron, whom he visited while residing in London. Datable allusions in The Omen suggest that the narrator Henry is born about the same time as Galt himself (1779), and the unusual term “Epochs” into which Henry’s narrative is divided is the term that Galt would use seven years later in composing his own Autobiography. Although the biographical parallels end there, the historical background to Henry’s narrative coincides with events that Galt h­ imself lived through: threats of invasion by revolutionary and, later, Napoleonic France; the presence of new military garrisons near the English coast; restrictions on travel to the Continent during the early years of the nineteenth century. The political history of the Napoleonic era is repressed into the background of the narrative, yet the wartime atmosphere and the prominence of military figures 28

Autobiography, I, p. 339. Autobiography, I, p. 340. 30 Autobiography, I, pp. 342–3. 29

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throughout The Omen are crucial aspects of the story. The personal crisis of the narrator Henry corresponds to a time of national crisis; his identification with Hamlet and his sense of victimization by an irresistible fate in an incomprehensible world gains intensity when placed in historical as well as psychological and theological contexts. The end of Henry’s narrative approximately corresponds with the end of the Napoleonic wars in 1815, and the editor’s statement in the postscript that about ten years have passed since Henry’s letters were handed over for publication brings the timeline to 1825, the date of The Omen’s publication. Although the ironic postscript added by an unnamed editor contrasts with the meditative tone of Henry’s story, it is possible that the date and location “Castle-Bromage, 10th Jan. 1826” with which the postscript end reflect Galt’s whereabouts as he completed the last pages of the manuscript. Symbolically at least, the name Castle-Bromage or Castle-Bromwich, a staging place on the road between London and Scotland, seems to gesture toward Galt’s unsettled, transitory state at the time. Galt wrote The Omen in the last three months of 1825 while staying in London, having recently returned from his first voyage to North America. Correspondence between William Blackwood in Edinburgh and his nineteen-year-old son Alexander, who had been sent to London to learn the publishing trade, chronicles the tos and fros of the manuscript’s production. The Omen, to be “elegantly printed in a pocket volume,”31 was first announced in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Maga­ zine under “Works Preparing for Publication” in September, October, and November 1825. As Galt requested, it was advertised on the same page as the Scottish novel he was writing concurrently, The Last of the Lairds – but while Lairds was advertised as being “by the Author of Annals of the Parish, &c.,” the separate listing of The Omen intentionally concealed the fact that it was by the same author.32 Alexander Blackwood began receiving copy from Galt at the beginning of November, and it was set in type by the London printer Spottiswoode as soon as pages were received. Alexander relayed proofs back and forth between the printer and Galt, after which the proofs were sent to Edinburgh for William Blackwood’s approval. Waiting impatiently for Galt to supply the rest of the manuscript to Alexander, Blackwood Sr. grumbled about Galt’s visit to Brighton for a few days in mid-November, and worried that his trip home to Greenock at the end of that month due 31 32

Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 18 ( July–December 1825), p. 638. Galt to William Blackwood, 11 September 1825, MS 4014, NLS.

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to his mother’s serious illness would further delay the writing process. Although Galt assured the Blackwoods that he would keep sending copy throughout his travels, William remained concerned that delays would prevent the book from appearing in time for New Year’s buying. As it turned out, by year’s end the publishing industry in London and Edinburgh was in chaos due to the stock-market crash and book purchases had fallen off dramatically, so the Blackwoods were resigned to the delay in publication of The Omen while they awaited further developments. On 3 January 1826, Galt wrote to William Blackwood that “the MS all but two chapters is finished”;33 he completed the text at the end of January. On 29 January, Alexander Blackwood wrote to his father that “Mr Galt talks of doing a funny thing for the preface”;34 during the following week, the “funny thing” turned from a preface into a postscript, which Galt sent to the printer on 7 February. The Omen (dated 1825) finally appeared in mid-February 1826 as a slim octavo volume without any authorial attribution, priced at four shillings and sixpence. The pages of the original edition leave ample white space at the end of each short chapter, giving the story an episodic feel and visually emphasizing the beginnings and ends of chapters, which often contain meditative passages on time and fate. On 16 February, Alexander Blackwood posted twenty-five copies to his father and had a further five hundred copies sent from London to Edinburgh by boat. All parties involved, the Blackwoods and Galt himself, were ­concerned that it was an inauspicious moment for book-buying. In their correspondence, they strategize about the timing and advertising of the publication, and consider whether concealing Galt’s authorship entirely or letting out the secret will be likely to have a more positive impact. Sales of The Omen were indeed slow in both England and Scotland and the critical response was mixed, although prominent authors to whom William Blackwood distributed the first copies returned very complimentary comments. “All clever people admire & praise it highly,” William Blackwood wrote to his son, “but ordinary folks think it a painful story.”35 Galt was pleased about this “favourable opinion” as well as about the “complete mystification” as to the identity of the 33

Galt to William Blackwood, 3 January 1826, MS 4017, NLS. Alexander Blackwood to William Blackwood, 29 January 1826, MS 4016, NLS. 35 William Blackwood to Alexander Blackwood, 8 March 1826, MS 4016, NLS. 34

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author.36 Indeed, the first readers of The Omen seem to have taken it to be by any of the popular authors of the day except Galt. Caroline Bowles guessed it to be by Thomas De Quincey; James Hogg assumed the author was his friend R. P. Gillies;37 other guesses were Walter Scott, John Wilson, John Gibson Lockhart, and William Godwin. D. M. Moir adds in his posthumous memoir of Galt that the tale was also attributed at the time to William Maginn, Thomas Hamilton, and Barry St Leger.38 When The Omen was first published, even Galt’s close friend Moir did not seem to be in on the secret. In February 1826, Moir sent a copy of the book to the writer Alexander Balfour with the comment, “The Omen you will find a beautifully written thing but a little unfortunate as to story. – I know not who is the author; but I believe he is resident in London.”39 A few months later, Moir wrote to Blackwood expressing surprise at learning (as he thought) that the unknown author was John Gibson Lockhart.40 While editing Galt’s manuscript The Last of the Lairds, Moir had come across a deliberately misleading attribution of The Omen to Lockhart that Galt planted in chapter 21 of Lairds. Although Moir believed the hint, he found the reference egregious and edited Lockhart’s name out of Lairds. It was not an uncommon occurrence for Moir or Blackwood to remove overly strident ad hominem allusions from Galt’s fiction manuscripts; apparently a shot against William Jerdan, the editor of the Literary Gazette toward whom both Blackwood and Galt harbored resentment, was also edited out of Lairds at this point.41 Nevertheless, a cryptic allusion to The Omen remains in the published version of The Last of the Lairds: the narrator describes “universal nature” in “euphonious phrases, imitated from the style of that mysterious little work, ‘the Omen’” and intimates that both the sentiment and the author of The Omen are Scottish.42 The first published review of The Omen, which appeared in the 36

Galt to William Blackwood, 27 March 1826, MS 4017, NLS. Caroline Bowles to William Blackwood, 25 February 1826, MS 4018, and James Hogg to William Blackwood, 19 March 1826, MS 4017, NLS. 38 “Biographical Memoir of the Author,” p. xxi. 39 D. M. Moir to Alexander Balfour, February 1826, Needler Papers, Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto. 40 D. M. Moir to William Blackwood, [ June–August 1826], MS 4018, NLS. 41 Galt to William Blackwood, 19 September 1826, MS 4017, NLS. 42 The Last of the Lairds: or, The Life and Opinions of Malachi Mailings, Esq. of Auldbiggings (Edinburgh: Blackwood and London: Cadell, 1826), pp. 183–4. 37

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­ iterary Gazette on 25 February 1826, began by noticing that the L ­novel’s postscript “puzzles” the reviewer as to “whether the writer means the reader to take it gravely or as a jest,” a hoax of the kind to which Scottish writers in the Blackwood’s circle were especially prone. The Gazette then quotes long passages of evocative scenery and ­psychological description so as to let readers “form their own opinions upon the m ­ erits or demerits of the Omen.”43 A brief review in the New Times, a daily paper edited by John Stoddart, followed two days later; it consisted of a few sentences prefacing some extracts from The Omen. While it describes The Omen as “a series of beautifully conceived, and beautifully executed scenes,” the New Times deems this kind of episodic character description to show much less genius than a well-constructed plot.44 Both these reviews are only mildly negative, yet Galt referred to them anxiously as “Jerdans strictures & Dr ­Stoddarts”45 and continued to resent them bitterly, Jerdan’s in particular. A much longer and more devastating review that appeared in the April issue of Constable’s Edinburgh Magazine summarizes the entire story of The Omen and quotes long excerpts that obliterate any suspense. With a combination of sarcasm and condescension, this review critiques the subject as “unpleasant,” the style as “inflated and hyperbolical,” and the incidents as “highly improbable”; it questions the originality of the tale and ridicules the theme of premonitions entirely.46 It ends by attributing the novel to an unnamed Irish author – likely William Maginn or Barry St Leger, although the reviewer’s specific reference to “Belfast” might even point toward John Banim, who was in Belfast at the time. Another negative review came in the March issue of the Monthly Review. Summarizing the plot of the story briefly, this review criticizes its second half as being melodramatic and improbable, “in the very worst style of the German school,” and s­ peculates that the novel is the “‘maiden’ production” of a Scottish author.47 Notwithstanding this discouraging initial reception, Galt remained so engaged with the mystical theme of The Omen that a month after its publication he began to write a kind of sequel, immediately taking 43

The Literary Gazette, and Journal of Belles Lettres, Arts, Sciences, &c., 475 (25 February 1826), pp. 116–18. 44 The New Times, 27 February 1826, p. 1. 45 Galt to William Blackwood, 2 March 1826, MS 4017, NLS. 46 The Edinburgh Magazine, and Literary Miscellany, n.s. 97 ( January–June 1826), pp. 433–45; here, pp. 435 and 445. 47 The Monthly Review, n.s. 1 (1826), pp. 335–6.

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up a hint of Alexander Blackwood’s that “a tale for the [Blackwood’s] Magazine, by the author of the Omen would be of use.” Galt conceived a story “full of mysticism & poetry” called “666 or ‘the number of the heart’” that would “extend to nearly 100 pages of such print as the Omen” and be published across three issues of Blackwood’s.48 He began to send the manuscript on 7 April 1826; William Blackwood had it typeset and returned partial proofs to Galt on 21 April.49 Despite this rapid and extensive progress, however, the story never seems to have achieved publication, and it has been lost. Four months after The Omen’s publication, Walter Scott buoyed everyone’s spirits by providing a long, thoughtful, positive review that was published in the July 1826 issue of Blackwood’s. Scott praised “the beauty of its language, and the truth of the descriptions introduced.” The “main interest of the piece,” in his opinion, is the effective delineation of a troubled psyche and the resulting insights into the possible causes of apparitions and premonitions.50 Galt remained proud of the attention the book had received from his illustrious contemporary (who was initially under the impression, however, that The Omen was by his own son-in-law Lockhart).51 In his Literary Life, Galt recalls that he found Scott’s review “greatly gratifying” – not only because of the “commendable degree of approbation” expressed in it, but also because Scott apparently took the story to be more true-to-life than it actually was; according to Galt, Scott’s review included “facts stated corroborative of incidents that were pure metaphysical inventions.”52 In a letter of 22 August 1826, William Blackwood raised with Galt the possibility of a new edition of The Omen, this time with the attribution “by the Author of the Ayrshire Legatees,”53 to which Galt replied: “I agree with you that the device proposed for a second edition of the Omen should be tried. I would make a little change of a 48

Galt to William Blackwood, 27 March 1826, and a subsequent undated letter, MS 4017, NLS. 49 William Blackwood to Galt, 21 April 1826, MS 30309, NLS. 50 Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 20 ( July–December 1826), pp. 52–9; here, p. 57. 51 In his journal entry for 23 February 1826, Scott wrote: “Read a little volume called the omen very well written, deep and powerfull language. Aut Erasmus aut Diabolus—it is Lockhart or I am strangely deceived” (The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson [Oxford: Clarendon, 1972], p. 97). 52 Literary Life, I, p. 270. 53 William Blackwood to Galt, 22 August 1826, MS 30309, NLS.

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page or two in the last sheet, or rather restore what was injudiciously omitted.”54 There is no indication of what Galt would have changed, what was omitted and by whom, and whether he refers to the story itself or to the postscript. In any case, no further edition of The Omen in English materialized during Galt’s lifetime, although a few translations appeared during the early 1830s. A Russian version entitled Предзнаменование (Predznamenovanie), translated by G. Pasynkov, was published in St. Petersburg in 1831 – albeit with the subtitle “A story by Walter Scott” (повесть Вальтер-Скотта, Povest’ ValterSkotta). A Danish translation entitled Varselstegnet by Hans Christian Wosemose appeared in six instalments in a Copenhagen periodical in June and July 1832; it was based on a German translation by Johann August Diezmann that has not been traced. Unlike the other two short novels in the present volume, The Omen suited the taste of Victorian readers and was occasionally republished in the later nineteenth century. Within a few years of Galt’s death in 1839, The Omen appeared twice in different collections of short prose. First, in 1842, it was included in volume 4 of the original series of Blackwood’s Standard Novels, four volumes of which were devoted to Galt’s work. This version, which was edited by Galt’s literary executor D. M. Moir, completely omits The Omen’s postscript, thus reducing the complexity of the tale by removing the skeptical voice of the ­editor “B. A. M.” The postscript did appear in an American republication of The Omen as part of a compendium of six short novels by British authors entitled The Omnibus of Modern Romance. Despite the inclusion of the ironic postscript, however, the tone of this reprint was significantly altered by the addition of a subtitle that reads: “The Omen: A Tale of Real Life. By John Galt.” In place of Galt’s original epigraph from Shakespeare, a couple of sentences from Scott’s review serve as a headnote to the story in order to substantiate its supposed truth: “The real merits of the work consists [sic] in the beauty of its language and the truth of the descriptions introduced. Yet even these are kept in subordination to the main interest of the piece. This remarkable story we have every reason to believe accurate matter of fact, at least in its general ­bearings.”55 The Omen was republished once more (with the 54

Galt to William Blackwood, 6 September 1826, MS 4017, NLS. The Omnibus of Modern Romance (New York: James Mowatt, 1844), vol. I, no. 2, p. 145. The Omnibus was to appear twice a month, providing cheap reprints of modern British and European romance novels; four issues are extant, all from 1844. 55

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postscript) by Publication Studio Guelph in 2013, edited by David J. Knight, who includes Scott’s review from Blackwood’s and the anonymous Edinburgh Magazine review as appendices. *

*

*

From the domestic comedy of Glenfell to the complex irony of Andrew of Padua to the meditative tragedy of The Omen, the three stories collected in the present volume show Galt writing tales of a length to which he naturally inclined. Diverse as they are, there are some ­revealing continuities between them, such as Galt’s continuing engagement with drama and theatre. He originally wrote Glenfell in the form of a play; Andrew of Padua centres on the protagonist’s ­theatrical career; and a crucial recognition scene in The Omen takes place at a performance of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The comedy of G ­ lenfell merges in Andrew of Padua with a kind of metafictional irony that persists even in the melancholy Omen, where Galt cannot resist adding a hoaxing postscript despite the serious tone of the story. While financial exigency may have been a major factor in Galt’s writing of all three works, they are more innovative and complex than might be expected from simple hack-work. Instead, they demonstrate Galt’s creativity, his ­willingness to experiment, and his determination to improvise a place for himself in the volatile literary market of the 1820s.

the CIRCULATING LIBRARY. Vol. I.

GLENFELL.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SERIES. The object of this undertaking is, to furnish readers of taste and s­ entiment with a series of the most beautiful Novels, Tales, and Romances, ­derived from the French, the German, the Italian, the Spanish, and the Oriental languages, not hitherto translated; interspersed with superior original Works by eminent English Writers. Every Story will be finished within the Volume; and, when the Pieces are short, two or more will be given complete within the same Number: or, when long, an extra quantity of letter-press will be introduced, at the same price. The attractions of such a periodical work, and its sources of novelty and originality, are sufficiently obvious. Independent of the moral ­pleasure which it is expressly calculated to dispense to the elegant mind, it will ­afford opportunities to the grave and philosophical, of comparing the various powers and peculiarities of national taste and genius; and supply the ­scrupulous with an early view of a class of publications which have acquired, perhaps of all the productions of the Press, the greatest influence on the manners and heart. The Proprietor therefore deems it unnecessary to point out any of the minor advantages inherent in the plan, such as furnishing literary ­amateurs with an opportunity of publishing the recreations of their taste, in a manner that will ensure immediate and extensive attention, whilst it opens the means of giving to the Public all those spirited essays of original imagination, which are often the happiest productions of genius, and as supplying Libraries and Book Societies with a perpetual succession of interesting novelties at a cheap rate. The Reader will recollect, that the most beautiful stories extant do not exceed the compass of a volume of this Series:—Rasselas, the Vicar of Wakefield, the Death of Abel, Paul and Virginia, and the Tales of

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­ armontel, which would probably have been rejected by the modern M publishers of Novels, on account of their brevity, are of that magnitude to which its plan is expressly adapted; and, from the variety and extent of its resources, the promise may be justly held out, that it is likely to present Works of the same kind, not inferior in interest or elegance. To Private and Family Libraries it will therefore afford a monthly luxury above all price; and, for all Circulating Libraries and Book Societies, it will at once supply a desideratum, and prove an indispensable requisite; while the stake of the Proprietor in the Series will guarantee the moral character and intellectual superiority of the successive volumes. That this species of writing and composition is an elegant exercise of the intellectual powers cannot be denied: the wise and good of all ages have adopted it as the most felicitous mode of conveying moral instruction; and the Sacred Parables are not only evidence of this practice, but serve to prove that it does not impair the native dignity of truth, since it has been ­employed by the sublimest authority, in teaching the most important of all knowledge,—that of religion itself. In truth, the Stores, gratifying to persons of taste, which exist in this d­ epartment of Literature, are so inexhaustible, that, in bringing them before the Public, it will be more difficult to avoid the ­continuity of a ­commanding interest, than difficult to create it; and so ­comprehensive is the plan, and so extensive are the resources of the Conductors, that they are persuaded the publication of this Series will confer a new and improved character on this species of Literary Composition.

PREFACE. In the following tale our Readers are called upon to believe, that it has been our object to touch the various pathetic incidents developed in the progress of the work, with all the affecting sentiments so beautifully characteristic of the tender passion in the present enlightened age, and to avoid, by a skilful selection of the most elegant occurrences, in the vicissitudes of that high state of society which we have undertaken to describe, every thing that is not of the most refined and exquisite quality. For we hold in great contempt all those who have, of late years, given but too much encouragement to a class of authors that presume to think novels and romances may be made the vehicles of agreeable historical information, combined with descriptions of character, which show so little invention, that they are, by the most competent judges, considered almost as portraits of particular living persons. And to mark, indeed, how decidedly we differ in opinion from them, we have only alluded, and that in the most distant and delicate manner, to the social festivals which, during the winter, are so illustrative of the general state of society in Edinburgh; taking care to enter into none of those details which might lead the reader to imagine that we regarded them as peculiarly marking the manners and expedients of any class or individuals. In short we have been governed by a liberal philosophy in our little comedy of northern errors, and neither general nor particular satire entered into the scope of our plan. Ambitious of offering to the world a work pregnant with instruction, we have, throughout preserved a becoming gravity. It would ill have suited that gentle moralizing vein which we feel to be the predominant quality of our genius, to have chosen any other style than the calm and dignified, which we have throughout endeavoured to support, and we trust not without success. Covenanters’ Close, High Street, Edinburgh, December 31, 1819.

GLENFELL; or, MACDONALDS AND CAMPBELLS.

CHAP. I. “What mighty troubles rise from little things.”

One morning, Jooker, an English youth who held the sinecure of valet to the young Laird of Glenfell, left his master’s lodgings in St. James’ssquare, Edinburgh, with a note addressed to Miss Mary Campbell, to whom he was also entrusted with a remarkable Number of a wellknown publication, that does honour to the talent and genius of the “intellectual city.” In passing the Register Office he happened to meet with one Jem Crupper, groom to an English gentleman, who had the preceding evening arrived in “the Athens of the North,” from a tour to Loch Catherine, which the “mighty minstrel” has consecrated to the lovers of romantic adventure, by one of the most beautiful of all his poetical effusions. Jem was a plain, honest, downwright, simple lad; but Jooker was a clever ingenious rascal, who, if he enjoyed himself, cared little about who paid the reckoning. They had been formerly fellow-­servants ­together, and of course their meeting in so outlandish a city as ­Edinburgh was equally hearty and cordial on both sides; so much so, indeed, that Jooker resolved in his own mind, upon the instant, that no considerations of duty ought to deprive him of the pleasure of his old friend’s company for at least a couple of hours. Unfortunately, however, he had, under many strict and strong injunctions, been ordered by his ­master to carry the book and note to Miss Mary Campbell as quickly as possible; and Jem was also obliged to go directly to the post-office to inquire for letters.

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The post-office was at that time situated at the south-end of the North Bridge, on the west side, opposite to a shop where excellent hats are sold upon very reasonable terms; and certainly Jooker might have accompanied his friend without any material dereliction of duty, and afterwards executed his commission. But as the Squire had, in the event of no letters, given his servant leave to look at the lions of the place without returning, it occurred to the trusty Jooker, that as there was some chance of Jem being set free for the day, it would be very hard if he could not share his company. In the mean time Saunders M‘Ghee, one of those all-knowing and discreet personages, who, in the capacity of porters, but under the denomination of caddies, ply their vocation in the streets of Edinburgh, eyes the book and note in the hands of Jooker with many a desiring side-long glance. He had partly overheard what was passing between the two friends, and being actuated by a benevolent wish to relieve their perplexity, he approached them with modest diffidence, and said in a civil and insinuating manner—“Maybe I may ken the house whar y’re gaun.” This was a lucky hit, for upon the suggestion of Jem, M‘Ghee was allowed to inspect the address on the note,—which obliges us to communicate a piece of information of the greatest importance to our readers. In the city of Edinburgh there are many personages of the same name, who are respectively distinguished by their titles; that is, by the names of their fathers’ farms, public-houses, or professions; and Glenfell’s cousin, the young lady for whom the book and letter were intended, was Miss Mary Campbell of Ardmore. The omission of her title in the address was a matter in itself of no consequence, as Jooker knew the house where she resided with her widowed mother; but to M‘Ghee, who was no less as circumstantially acquainted with the ­residence of every Miss Mary Campbell, not only in George’s-street, but in both the old and new town, it was of the greatest importance. However, he was too anxious to obtain the job to run the risk of losing it by confessing his ignorance: accordingly on being fee’d with a sixpence, he undertook to deliver the book and letter, and Jooker and his friend departed, reckless of all the woes that were destined to spring from this encounter.

CHAP. II. Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear, by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.

Lady Glenfoik and her neice, Miss Mary Campbell Darknish, were deliberating in her Ladyship’s parlour in Queen-street, Edinburgh, respecting the day when the young lady might inform her lover Macdonald, that all her marriage preparations would be finished; and her Ladyship was of opinion that the twentieth of the next month should be fixed for the wedding-day. “I fear,” said the innocent Mary, “I shall not be ready so soon.” There was perhaps a little unconscious falsehood mingled with this fear, for she thought in heart every thing might be ready at least a whole week sooner, and she almost sighed when she reflected on the dangers of delay. “Be under no uneasiness,” replied her aunt, “Miss Peggy Shapings the mantua-maker will have your dresses in good time.” At this moment a servant entered with a note and a Number of the Review, which he delivered to Miss Mary and retired. The fair and gentle Mary laid the book on the table, and read the note somewhat thoughtfully. “What does he say,” enquired the old lady, with a sly look and a solemn significant smile. “He is obliged to wait on a gentleman just from abroad,” answered her ingenuous niece. “Indeed!” cried her Ladyship earnestly—“what more has he said? why do you look at that letter so?” “Because,” said Mary, “it is not written by Mr. Macdonald himself, which I am surprised at.” “Let me look at it,” articulated her Ladyship in a tone of dignified composure—putting on, at the same time, her spectacles. Lady Glenfoik was the widow of a general officer—her years ­exceeded three-score, and her deportment showed that she expected more deference than was due even to her years. She was an ample erect personage—her head shook a little, but with so much decorum

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that the shaking seemed to be more the effect of moralizing than of infirmity; she dressed in the fashion of the departed generation—to demonstrate that she had been bred to better times, and by this ­peculiar taste she was enabled to wear out her old garments. She was kind in her disposition, stately in her manners, jealous of her rank, and resentful of neglect—her failings leant towards honour, but her ­virtues were weakest on the side of hereditary dignity, she commanded esteem, ­often affection, while at the same time she was constantly laughed at. The artless and gentle Mary handed to her the note, which her ­Ladyship read aloud with particular emphasis: “Mr. Macdonald presents his compliments to Miss Campbell, and begs her pardon for not keeping his appointment this morning, being obliged to wait on a friend who has just arrived in town. “He sends her at the same time the new Number of the Review, which he hopes will afford her some amusement.—It will not be published till tomorrow.” Lady Glenfoik read the note a second time; and at the conclusion took off her spectacles; wiped them with the corner of her shawl; laid the note on the table, and then folding up her spectacles put them into their case. “Is that,” said her Ladyship, “a fit style for a lover to use to the lady of his affections, when breaking an appointment at which the day of their marriage was to have been fixed? I do not wonder, my dear, that you are greatly shocked.” “I am not shocked,” answered Mary with unguarded simplicity, “but I am surprised at the construction which you put on the note; Mr. Macdonald has been hurried.” “A very likely thing indeed!” cried her Ladyship, with solemnity: “No, no, there is something at the bottom of this letter.” “I doubt,” answered her neice, “that your Ladyship is yielding to some unjust suspicion.” Lady Glenfoik had lifted her snuff-box, and giving three emphatic raps on the lid, said in a tone of conscious superiority, which she was well justified in her own opinion to assume,—“Do not call my judgment in question, but summon up proper spirit in this alarming crisis of our affairs.” “I see no cause for alarm,” answered the sweet and unaffected girl, surprised at the warmth and temper of her aunt’s manner—“something has happened which prevents Mr. Macdonald from keeping his appointment; but he will come.” “I doubt that,” cried her Ladyship in a manner that indicated a

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consciousness of great foresight. “But the respectability of our family is above the possibility of being slighted, and therefore we must not take this mortification to heart; ‘but, setting a stout heart to stey brae,’ as the old proverb says, act with circumspection and decision. You will therefore go to your room, and get yourself in order to go out with me. I will shew to this Macdonald that he is not to treat me or mine as he pleases.” Mary looked alarmed, as her Ladyship was gradually rising in the tone and emphasis of her declamation, and said, “but what does your Ladyship intend to do?” “Do! pay twenty visits, if not more; the world shall not dare to think that we cared two straws for the insignificant fellow. I therefore insist that you instantly put on your bonnet and pelisse and come with me.— As you respect the honour and dignity of your blood, Mary, I insist on your obedience in this critical juncture. Trust to my knowledge of the world to rescue you from this impending misfortune.” Mary had been too long habituated to yield implicit submission to the will of the old lady, ever to dispute the propriety of any of her commands. On the present occasion, however, she ventured to question the justness of the opinion which her aunt had so hastily adopted. But she was soon silenced by an order so peremptory, that it at once intimidated her into obedience, and obliged her to leave the room.  

CHAP. III. “To expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.” ____________________

When Jooker was sent with the note and book, Glenfell, his ­ aster, was sitting with Macdonald—Bencloo, as for variety, we must m occasionally call him. This Bencloo was a young writer to the signet, distinguished for the solidity of his judgment, the justness of his observations, and a manly common-sense estimate of the world. His family intended him for the Bar, for which he undoubtedly possessed many qualities calculated to ensure distinction; but he had the sagacity to perceive in time, that although it was the genteeler department, success in it was more precarious, while the sedate drudgery of the writers’ vocation was a sure and quiet road to wealth and independence. The only doubt that was ever entertained of Macdonald’s judgment and talents arose from his intimacy with Glenfell, whom he professed on all occasions to admire as a young man of the most ingenuous disposition; endowed with a generosity rarely found, connected with equal powers of conception, and a genius so quick and lively, that he could not but excel in whatever he undertook, if he would only give the requisite attention. This opinion of Glenfell was not in unison with what the world entertained of his character; nor indeed was it at all supported by the conduct of the young chief himself. He was, on the contrary, what may be strictly called a wild and restless young man. It was allowed that his endowments were of a high order, and that at times he ­expressed himself with admirable eloquence, and extraordinary powers of conception. His taste, in what respected the works of others, was eminently acute and ingenious; but his own effusions, for he was a poet as well as an advocate, were strangely singular—and seemed to be rather experiments with language, than the natural promptings of poetical inspiration. But the greatest defect of his mind, was the systematic ardour with

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which he prosecuted every undertaking; and he was constantly ­giving his attention to objects which persons of inferior capacity would have justly rejected as ridiculous. Among other whims he had resolved to become an accomplished orator, and though possessed of great ­natural eloquence he was for ever and on all occasions, ­without any respect to time, place, or person, incessantly practising in the most absurd and vexatious manner, by which he had rendered himself one of the most insufferable coxcombs in the whole city. He was, in fact, become so disagreeable to all his friends, that ­Macdonald had ­determined to remonstrate with him on the subject: and for this ­purpose, on the morning alluded to, he had called to breakfast with ­him, more i­mmediately, however, in consequence of an article of flippant ­criticism, which Glenfell had written in the identical number of the Review, ­already so often mentioned, and which had excited some ­severe and just animadversions on the author, at a ball on the ­preceding evening. Macdonald had been introduced at the ball, by Glenfell, to his cousin Miss Mary Campbell Ardmore, and had promised to call on her in the morning with the Review, but was prevented by the arrival of a friend from Glasgow. He was therefore under the necessity of sending an apology with the book; and it was with this commission that Jooker was entrusted. The reader has been informed how that faithful domestic was induced to employ a deputy; and with that spirit of discernment which is possessed by every cautious reader, he has doubtless discovered that the caddy, owing to the want of the lady’s title, carried the book and note to the niece of Lady Glenfoik. It was even so; for infallible as the caddies of Edinburgh are in the delivery of messages, M‘Ghee on this occasion went to the house of her Ladyship in Queen-street, instead of the flat in George’s-street, ­occupied by Mrs. Campbell Ardmore. While this unfortunate mistake was working to great and serious effects, Macdonald admonished his friend of the complaints which were rising against him. “I conjure you, Glenfell,” said he, “to renounce this ridiculous behaviour. It may be true, that an actor never can acquire self-possession until he feels himself superior to his auditors; but this notion of yours to consider every body like the cabbages which you used to harangue in your father’s garden, betrays you into some of the most unworthy absurdities.” Glenfell defended his system with much apparent earnestness, but

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in reality only by way of exercising his faculties. “I assure you Macdonald, that I am daily sensible of the advantages which I derive by making every incident conducive to my improvement. In fact to address oneself to every stranger either with statement, argument, or interrogation, is the only way—” “Of making yourself disagreeable,” said Macdonald, “and I beg that you will not, at present, treat me as one of your cabbages.” “I do not intend it,” said Glenfell, “but if you will hear me to an end you shall have auricular demonstration of the benefit which I reap by my perseverance.” This was said with sincerity, but in a moment after his voice changed, and he was again on stilts. “My efforts,” continued he, with the full round tone of a public speaker, “my efforts I am free to allow are still rude, and as such may be unpleasant; but when practice shall have given facility, and when facility shall have earned grace, admiration will be produced where at present a patient hearing is with difficulty obtained. There is nothing more ridiculous than a man learning to dance.”— “For man substitute boy,” said Macdonald drily, “and allow me to observe that even the boy does not pester every one he meets, by requesting them to hold his hands that he may cut capers. In one word, your cabbage system is madness with a little method in it. But the most extravagant part of your behaviour under this madness is in keeping that idle fellow Jooker.” “Why,” exclaimed Glenfell, “you very much surprise me. Am I not anxious to be able to sift and examine witnesses with dexterity? I ­assure you whenever Jooker neglects to do anything, which I confess is a little too often of late,—he puts me to my mettle before I can extract the truth out of him—more particularly since he has begun to suspect that I only put him to the question for the sake of practice. You have no idea of the labour requisite to the attainment of excellence. Be assured, my friend, that unless a man arms himself against the quips and scorns of the times; resolves to breast the saucy waves of public opinion, and like Leander in the Hellespont, keep his eye fixed on the light in the hand of the object of his devotion—” “He will become a respectable character,” said Macdonald, with the most provoking sobriety to this rhapsody. Glenfell turned on his heel and laughed at his own folly. After some farther conversation more to the point, Glenfell ­promised to renounce his cabbage system. It was a promise however that he could not so easily perform, for he received himself so much amusement in his different attempts to puzzle and confound, that he

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took a malicious pleasure in playing with the temper and ingenuity of all the unfortunate persons whom he subjected to his experiments. But Macdonald was satisfied for the present, and they walked arm in arm to the parliament-house together.  

CHAP. IV. “These are portents.”

In the meantime, while the amiable and confiding Mary had r­ etired to put on her pelisse and bonnet, the Number of the Review, with its Prussian-blue cover and yellow backing, as it lay on the table, attracted the eyes of Lady Glenfoik; she lifted it, and turning over the leaves, held it the utmost stretch of her arms from her eyes. First she turned to one side, and then to another, as if the light did not fall properly on the book; and when at last she had made out the name of an Author, whose work graces the top of the page, she hastily replaced her spectacles on that instrument of the face which was made on purpose to sustain spectacles, and glanced at the article. If the Note had occasioned her to suspect a change in the affections of Macdonald Arskeen, the accepted lover of her neice, she could entertain no doubt of the fact after looking at the criticism, nor of his motives for sending the Review, for it consisted of a most bitter and sarcastic strain of invective against a publication of one of her friends, of whose merits she entertained a very high opinion, and, respecting him as a valuable member of society, naturally enough concluded that he must be an accomplished author. What confirmed her in this opinion, was a circumstance that certainly could not have been the result of accident, but of a preconcerted design with the critics on purpose to vex and insult her, being no other than a still more acrimonious and still less justifiable attack on the poetical merits of one of her own relations. And, on looking a little farther into the Number, she found another article, worse than both the others, in which the very vitals of her political and hereditary principles were torn to pieces with the most radical vengeance, and trampled under the hoofs and heels of malignant criticism, like pearls beneath the tread of swine. It was therefore as clear to her Ladyship as the sun at noon-day, that this Number of the Review was written with malice propense against her and her family, and that Macdonald had sent it that morning as a tacit and refined mode of breaking off his visits to her house for ever: for Macdonald was intimate with several of the writers in the Review, and must, in the opinion of her Ladyship, as

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a matter of course, approve of all their particular sentiments. These striking and indubitable facts she pointed out to Mary on her return into the room; and could with difficulty maintain her dignity against the democratic influence of Nature, in other words, keep her temper, when that unassuming maid observed to her, that the obnoxious articles were not more particularly severe than the general character of the strictures in the publication. The consideration, however, of the stake at issue in the slight which she believed her neice had received, and the insidious insult levelled against herself, namely, the dignity of her family, induced her to make an effort to suppress her feelings, and to proceed on her round of visits without delay; and, therefore, smoothing her brow, she took the arm of Mary and sallied forth. The first house to which they directed their steps was the habitation of her neighbour and relative, Mrs. Campbell Ardmore, the aunt of Glenfell; a widow lady of great economy, and little revenue, who, with her daughter, Mary, the same indeed for whom the Note and fatal Review were intended, contrived to revolve and hover in the limbo of vanity which surrounds the fashionable orbs and circles of Edinburgh, without being actually members of the system, and yet so regular in their course as to be somewhat more connected with it than those occasional comets from beyond Aurora and the Ganges, blazing for seasons, and perplexing dowagers with fear of change. It happened that as the visitors were approaching towards the door, Mrs. Campbell and her daughter were conversing on the occurrences of the Ball the preceding evening, and that Miss Campbell had ­informed her mother of her partner, Mr. Macdonald’s promise to call with the new Number of the Review. Mrs. Campbell had heard that the Mr. Macdonald who was paying his addresses to Mary Campbell Darknish was an associate with some of the most notorious of the Reviewers, and she very simply concluded that the gentleman who danced with her daughter, could, in consequence of promising to bring the publication in his hand b­ efore it was distributed to the public, be no other than the same person. Miss Mary Campbell Ardmore was, in many points of character, as well as points of beauty, very different from her namesake of Darknish. She was so tall and thin, that her cousin Glenfell used to call her an obelisk; for she had indeed something of an Egyptian air; she held her arms straight to her sides, like those figures which are so much admired by a particular class of antiquaries as curious specimens of ancient art; and when anybody said she was nevertheless a genteel looking young

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woman, for she had outlived the epithet of girl, he d­ eclared that she was nothing but a pyramidal concretion of triangles. These were very ill-natured observations of the young Laird, and it was by such indiscretions that he was very cordially hated by un­married ladies of a certain age. But it is time to hear what Mrs. Campbell and her daughter were saying:— Miss Mary remarked, that Mr. Macdonald had said that he would call before One o’clock, and that it was already almost Two. “Surely,” said her mother inquisitively, “surely, Mary, my dear, he must have been very attentive. Has he made an impression?” “I cannot say that,” replied the young lady cautiously, “but so early in the season it is desirable to secure such an accomplished beau.” “Ah, lassie, lassie,” said Mrs. Campbell in a compassionate voice, “there’s no hope with Mr. Macdonald for you; he’s at the point of b­ eing married upon your cousin Mary Darknish, now staying with auld Lady Glenfoik. What a wonder of fine things they say she’s getting, or to get!” The meagre Miss Mary’s countenance was tinctured with a shade of the rueful at these words, but she endured the remark with all due composure. At this moment, Lady Glenfoik and her niece were announced and shewn into the room. Mrs. Campbell advancing towards her ladyship, said, in her wheedling way, “O, my Lady Glenfoik, how well pleased I am to see your ladyship look so well! Ease yourself, my Lady, for our stairs are a day’s journey to ailing folk like your Ladyship.” The two dowagers seated themselves near the fire, while the two Marys took places for themselves on a distant sopha to talk apart, ­unheard. Miss Mary Ardmore assured her meek and blooming visitant that she was longing to see her ever since yesterday afternoon, when she had returned from the Highlands. “But I understand,” added she significantly, “that you have very good reasons for being but little abroad; I wish you every happiness: I could almost feel in my heart to envy you, Mr. Macdonald is really so handsome a man, so affable, and so sensible,—” “I did not know you were acquainted with him,” said the artless Mary Campbell Darknish. “I have certainly not known him long, but last night,” answered the pyramidal concretion of triangles, “he danced with me, and I have never met with a more charming partner.” This intelligence, though founded in error, came like the touch

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of cold to the heart of the beautiful Mary, and she grew pale with a fear never felt before; which her cousin observing, with more satisfaction than was becoming a christian temper, continued to relate many circumstances of attention highly creditable to the politeness and ­gallantry of Mr. Macdonald Bencloo, both as a gentleman, and as a lady’s partner at a ball. Meanwhile, the dowagers were enjoying themselves with various topics as little to the advantage of some of their neighbours as the discourse at the morning meetings of any two dowagers can well be, till, among other things, after rallying her ladyship on the approaching marriage of her niece, Mrs. Campbell mentioned how much her daughter had been pleased with the manners and behaviour of Mr. Macdonald, with whom she had danced, conceiving that it was no other than the same who was engaged to her ladyship’s neice. This information coming so immediately in connexion with the mysterious note, and the machiavelism of the Review, so affected Lady Glenfoik, that she exclaimed in a tone which could not be mistaken, “You very much surprise me, Mrs. Campbell.” “I hope,” answered that worthy lady, “there is nothing wrong.” But all the reply which Lady Glenfoik made was an oracular echo. “I hope so too, Mrs. Campbell.” “Goodness me!” was the answer, “surely the man will not draw back his word!” “There is no saying what some men will do,” observed her ladyship philosophically; rising at the same moment, she said to her neice it was time to go, and immediately retired with less urbanity of countenance than she commonly affected. Mrs. Campbell followed them to the head of the stairs, and con­ tinued speaking to her ladyship as she descended.  

CHAP. V. “And love is as the tuneful poets sing, An easy lesson to the gentle heart.”

When Mrs. Campbell returned to the room where she had left her daughter ruminating, she shut the door in a more particular m ­ anner than usual behind her, and said in a sort of exclamatory whisper, “O, Mary, my dear, what will I no tell you. Lady Glenfoik’s frightned out of her seven senses! What would ye think if ye have stollen Mr. Macdonald’s heart from Mary Darknish? for when I told her how Mr. Macdonald and you danced thegither, she grew as white as my apron.” But we should mention here that it is usual among the clans to omit the surnames, and to add the name of the paternal property, or profession, to the christian name of the members spoken of; accordingly, Mrs. Campbell calls the neice of Lady Glenfoik Mary Darknish, meaning Mary Campbell of Darknish, she herself being of the clan Campbell. Miss Mary was not so much surprised as her mother expected, but with great self-possession informed her in return for this agreeable piece of conjectural intelligence, in what manner Mary Darknish sighed and looked when she spoke of her supposed acquaintance with Macdonald Ardskeen. Here it becomes necessary to apprise the reader that in our ­Northern Comedy of Errors there are two Macdonalds as well as two Miss Campbells, and that Macdonald of Ardskeen was the lover of the gentle-hearted neice of Lady Glenfoik, and not Macdonald Bencloo, the friend of Glenfell, who had danced with Mary Ardmore at the ­assembly, and by whom the book and note, that occasioned so much uneasiness, were sent. Having explained this point, we shall for the future, in general, distinguish the gentlemen by their respective titles, and instead of fatiguing the memory with Macdonald this, and Macdonald that, call them, with true Highland propriety, Ardskeen and Bencloo; which, by the way, are very pretty novel-like names, and well befitting our romantic story. Mrs. Campbell paused with a look of great solemnity when her daughter had described, somewhat a little too strongly, how much

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Mary Darknish had been affected, and then said, “As sure as death, Mary, ye maun hae captured Mr. Macdonald; patience in the end ay meets with its reward.” During this short colloquy the mother and daughter were standing with their faces towards the windows, and too much interested to hear the door open, so that Glenfell, who had entered in the meanwhile, had time to step softly up behind them and say, “Plotting,” before they were aware of his being in the room. “The Gude be here!” cried Mrs. Campbell, “what for, Glenfell, do you come in upon a body like a deevil in this unreverent manner?” “I like,” said the young laird, “to see the unpremeditated effects of passion. It enables me to judge of actors and pictures.” “Ah, if you had been here,” replied his aunt, “you would have seen something worth the seeing, Lady Glenfoik has been calling with her poor unfortunate neice, and I never saw such a picture in all the days of my life.” “The deuce take the old cat,” exclaimed Glenfell pettishly, “she is always so serious and solemn about the merest trifles, that I would as soon read a folio of old divinity as endure her conversation. But what has befallen her?” “She is afraid,” answered Mrs. Campbell, looking calmly towards her daughter,—“she is afraid that my Mary will be an interloper ­between Ardskeen and Mary Darknish. But Mary, my dear, have not you the new French flounce to sew to your green sarsnet gown for Mrs Bagan’s Conversaseony? I wish you would na forget, lassie.” “Do make haste cousin and leave the room; (said Glenfell) don’t you perceive that your mamma has got something to say, which it is not proper for young ladies to hear—child.” There was scarcely a more offensive way, in which the meaning of this short sentence could be given, to the feelings of a lady arrived to so many years of discretion as Miss Campbell Ardmore, and she therefore quitted the room abruptly. Glenfell, however, only intended to be a little playful towards his aunt, whose brimful look of importance offered an irresistable temp­ tation to renew his cabbage system. He put on a solemn consequential face, and placing his right hand in his bosom, and his left in his breeches pocket, assumed an attitude of senatorial dignity, and waited with an affectation of infinite gravity for the solemn farce that he saw the old lady was preparing. “Now, Glenfell,” said Mrs. Campbell, “none of your airs with me, but sit down, and in a discreet, sober manner, let me have some discourse

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with you anent the situation of my Mary—she’s your own flesh and blood, and you should take an interest in her, poor thing; you’re come to that time of life when you might help her, but unless its the Lord’s will neither her nor me can hope for any help of man. Now, Glenfell, do you think there is really any thing serious going on between your friend Mr. M‘Donald and Mary Darknish.” Glenfell was almost thrown off his guard by this question, but, putting on a grave counselling face, he replied, “I do not think that there is any thing serious going on between my friend Mr. Macdonald and Mary Darknish.” “In that case,” said Mrs. Campbell, “the marriage will not take place whether or no; so that my Mary has full liberty to set her cap for him, as well as for any other body.” “I am sure,” replied the Counsellor, “that I know of nothing to the contrary; but, perhaps, the experiment might be tried with as much success on some other object.” “Is he not a fine young man?” said Mrs. Campbell, inquiringly. “I know not his superior,” replied Glenfell, with emphatic solemnity. “And he has good prospects,” rejoined the anxious matron. “Highly so,” was the grave answer. “Weel that’s all I had to say to you,” replied Mrs. Campbell. Glenfell looked at her with astonishment. His aunt, he knew, was a good-natured, weak woman, but it never entered his head that she would attempt to cabbage him in his own way; nor did he believe it within the range of possibility, that she could be in earnest. He was therefore utterly confounded, and the feeling which he experienced in connexion with the admonition he had received from Bencloo in the morning, was one of extreme mortification. It seemed to him that the absurdity of his conduct must be palpable indeed, when so weak and illiterate a personage as his aunt would undertake to play upon him in his own way, and that too with the most consummate success. Under the influence of this feeling he wished her good morning, and returned home agitated with anxieties, which, though in their nature ludicrous, were far from being enviable. In a word, he was completely overwhelmed with a sense of folly almost as painful as a sense of shame; and while he deplored with unfeigned contrition the time he had lost in a vain endeavour which had made him only ridiculous, he longed for some serious occupation, that might make him in earnest with life. He was frequently on the point of giving up his friend Macdonald, because he had never given him a fee, or rather, what is more correct, because he had never employed him in any of his numerous

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causes—for the fee was the last thing that Glenfell would have valued. It was surprising indeed, that Bencloo, with all the partiality which he evinced for him, and with all that opinion which he expressed for his talents to others, had never once himself thought of employing Glenfell. In this, perhaps, the reader may see a proof of Macdonald’s professional prudence; at the same time it must not be concealed, that when Glenfell had once or twice hinted his surprise at this, Mac­ donald always appeased his vanity by saying, that he really had not yet obtained any case sufficiently worthy of his friend’s talents—such as he would like to see him engaged in, and to which he could do effectual justice; adding, however, that the causes he had before the courts were common things, such as it would be ruinous alike to the advocate and the agent to lose, but which would be assuredly lost by Glenfell, merely because they were of that ordinary and obvious character, which required no attention to understand, nor any care to explain.  

CHAP. VI. What honours or estates of peers, Could be preserv’d but by their heirs?

Macdonald Ardskeen, during all these serious concerns and anticipations, had been wholly occupied with the thoughts of his marriage; and in order that there might be no unnecessary delay in preparing the deeds of settlement, he called at his lawyer’s in his way to Lady Glenfoik’s to give the requisite orders. It happened that Mr. M‘Queery, writer to the signet, was at the time engaged with the man of business of a certain nobleman, on a very knotty point of difference relative to an heirloom which had ­descended to his Lordship as heir of entail. The article in question was, as we have been creditably informed, adorned with a blue selvege and a red border. The man of business contended, that the blue selvege was formed in the warp, whereas the red border was composed of a thing added, and might be removed or taken away without any m ­ aterial damage or detriment to the substantiality of the thing. In short, the said article was no other than a blanket, in which the martyred King Charles had once obtained a comfortable night’s repose in one of his journies to Scotland; and on which account it had ever after been held sacred in the family to whom it belonged, and all possible care was taken by testamentary documents to preserve it as an honourable badge and memorial. Mr. M‘Queery however argued, that no part of the blanket could be abstracted without detriment, for any party occupying the said blanket in a cold night, might be so incommoded by the removal of so essential a part as the red border, especially if that person was a tall or long person, and above the common stature of mankind; and it was not impossible to say, but that some of the noble Lord’s posterity might be so, however much he himself had declined from the greatness of his ancestors: the case did not apply to women, that particular sex being commonly shorter than men, and moreover in this instance heirs female were excluded by the deed of entail—then, and in that case, inconvenience might be felt and suffered, either by reason of the blanket not being sufficient to cover the feet of the occupant, or by not

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being sufficiently long to come over the head, should the occupant be of such complexion or inclination, so to wish for the full and entire enjoyment of his inheritance in a cold wintry night. As for the blue selvege, as it was a necessary and inherent innate portion of the original texture, it was quite clear that every attempt to remove it would be, in fact, an incision upon the vital stuff of the article itself. The other party explained, stating, he did not entirely agree with his learned friend on this subject. He thought that if the blue selvege were actually cut away, a hem would effectually stop any farther ­damage; and that the circumstance of the selvege being inherent, did not render it a vital part of the texture more than the red border, for if the red border was formed in the waft, it was as evidently a vital part as the blue selvege formed in the warp. Mr. M‘Queery however contended, that as the blanket was much longer than it was broad, the blue selvege, which was woven in the width was of more consequence than the red border, which was only strictly speaking attached to the length—the length of a web, and all blankets are woven in webs, being an arbitrary thing, dependent altogether on the accident of a greater or a smaller quantity of the requisite material. To this the lawyer, on the other side, replied, that he had his doubts on that point, and that he threw it out merely however by way of suggestion, whether red being a more costly colour than blue, as would be substantiated by some of the soundest and most reputable persons ­engaged in the art of dyeing at Glasgow; the value of the red border did not in consequence render the difference of measure between it and the blue selvege wholly nugatory. At the same time he could not but remark, that his learned friend had omitted to consider that the term border might refer to something which went entirely round the blanket, whereas selvege was acknowledged to be but the outer edge of the cloth; and he would further take the liberty of remarking, that only one selvege was spoken of, whereas every piece of cloth must have two selveges, and therefore it was the more probable that the red border went entirely round the blanket, because it seemed to be a­ dmitted that the blanket had but one selvege, being doubtless worked in a piece or web of double the width. Mr. M‘Queery contended, that however ingenious the supposition might be, he certainly stretched probability farther than any man could allow, for so far was it from being true that the blanket could have only one selvege, it was morally impossible to imagine how it could have been made without two, besides it was well known that blankets are

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articles of such breadth, that they were oftener worked in two pieces than in one, and therefore it is absurd to reason but from facts: the supposition of a loom so wide as to work two blankets at once, is contrary to all philosophy, and taxing the credulity of mankind to a point of faith, of which it is impossible to see the consequences. The agent of the noble Lord was surprised that his friend should take up the question so warmly—the matter between them being nothing more than an old blanket, bequeathed under certain limitations of entail; and as there were several blankets in the castle at the time of the late Earl’s death, the point at issue did not so much refer to the question of selvege and border, but as to which blanket ought to be assigned to his Lordship by the executors. In stating this, and to convince his worthy friend, for whose information he entertained the greatest respect, he was not precipitate in suggesting that the blanket had perhaps been worked in a double piece, he would only refer to the common Scottish vernacular phrase, “a pair of blankets,” which it was well known actually did denote but one piece of blanketting; and further he would observe, the word pair was chiefly employed to express things co-equal and conjoined. But as there was some difference of opinion between them, he would suggest that they should severally take the opinion of counsel, for certainly there was something in the case not well defined in law, and a decision upon the point would be highly interesting Mr. M‘Queery agreed that it was necessary to take the opinion of counsel; but, at the same time, he was thoroughly convinced that the rights of the question could never be determined without the solemn adjudication of the Court of Session—and he doubted if even that decision would be satisfactory, unless indeed it were confirmed upon an appeal to the House of Peers. Macdonald had been sitting in patient hope, that their conference (for this interesting and truly business conversation took place in Mr. M‘Queery’s consulting-room) would be soon over, being laughingly informed by a young gentleman in the office, that they had nothing to speak about but an old blanket. This youth was however green in the world, and knew not what it is for the agents of rich clients to settle business involving points of legal difficulty. Macdonald, therefore, was not only frustrated in his wish to see Mr. M‘Queery, but detained so long that mischievous Fate had placed his happiness in great jeopardy before he left the house.  

CHAP. VII. “Ring the alarm-bell.”

Chagrined with the unprofitable exercise of his patience, Macdonald left the house of Mr. M‘Queery, a little querulous with the existing state of things; but as he ascended from Prince’s-street, ­towards St. Andrew’s square, his thoughts began again to brighten with the image of his lovely, unaffected Mary; and by the time he had reached the church in George’s-street, he was in perfect good humour with all mankind—when suddenly out from the entry, which led to the stairs of Mrs. Campbell Ardmore, who should appear but Lady Glenfoik leaning on the arm of the idol of all his wishes. The residence of another friend of her ladyship was but a few doors west ward from the spot, and Macdonald thought he should be able to join them before they could reach the door; but the strength of her Ladyship’s limbs had been reinvigorated by the intelligence which she had received from Mrs. Campbell, and she hurried so fast on, that the door-bell had been rung by the fair hand of Mary before her lover was near enough to speak. It is perhaps necessary to explain that the reason why Mary rang the bell, instead of knocking as a gentlewoman ought to do, was ­because there was no knocker on the door; for it is not the custom in the Scottish metropolis to have bells for servants, and knockers for the gentry, as in London; and various causes may be assigned for this peculiarity of our prudent and sagacious northern neighbours—this ingenious refinement of the modern Athenians. The most obvious certainly is the economy of the thing, because where only a bell is used the expense of a knocker is saved; but not to insist upon this, it is more congenial to the philosophic habits of the people to suppose, that the omission of the one or the other, as the case may be, is a deliberate act of the understanding, deduced from a principle of comfort—for the larum of a gentlemanly or a footmanly plying of the knocker, would be so tremendous in the hollow silence of the new town of Edinburgh, that the consequences cannot be a priori imagined. In the first place, the sound would peal along the streets, and rising from the New Town, would reverberate among the cliffs of the castle, and the clustering

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mansions of the old city—then slanting eastward would roll around the Calton Hill, and diverging towards Arthur Seat, would there leap and bound from rock to rock, till its awful concussions were lost in the hollows and recesses of the Salisbury Craigs. Miss Mary Campbell Darknish having, as we have described, rung the bell, Macdonald, in the moment the door opened, was at her side —and, with the utmost non-chalance, as her Ladyship thought, but with great good-humour as her niece imagined, said, “Ladies your most obedient.” “Mr. Macdonald, how do you do?” replied Lady Glenfoik, erecting her head unto the utmost pitch of dignity. “Mary, what’s the matter?” cried the astonished lover to the mild complacent object of his affections, and, without waiting for a reply, addressing himself to her aunt said, “Have I in any way offended your Ladyship?” “Offended me!” exclaimed her Ladyship with emphatic coldness; “No, Sir, fortunately that is not in your power.” This was still more extraordinary, and Macdonald, in a tone of earnest anxiety, said, “How then have I incurred your displeasure? Why this change in you too Mary?” Lady Glenfoik prevented her niece from replying, and said, “You cannot be surprised, Sir, that others should change their minds.” “Others!” cried Macdonald; “I do not understand your Ladyship. I entreat your Ladyship to afford me some satisfaction.” “You are very impertinent,” answered her Ladyship sharply, “to ask me to give you satisfaction. To rue in time is very prudent—circumstances cause changes—the respect due to my family will not allow me to condescend to be more particular.” In saying this her Ladyship took Mary’s arm, which she had resigned when they had reached the house; and, hurrying into the hall, wished Macdonald good morning; and with her own hands shut the door against him. Macdonald was overwhelmed at once with rage and consternation, and could almost have had the rudeness to kick the door open, when in the very instant of his paroxysm Mr. Ghee, the caddy, whom Jooker employed to deliver the fatal note, and more fatal Review, came up to him, and pulling down the brim of his own hat instead of taking it off, a sly invention of the Scottish populace to prevent themselves from taking cold, said—“Will it pleasure you, Sir, to tell me what na Miss Campbell lives here.” “Devil!” said Macdonald, and rapidly strode away.

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“Miss Campbell, Deevil!” said the caddy inwardly. “I never heard of her before, but I’ll keep it to mysel, for as she’s a new comer, nane of the rest (meaning the other caddies) will ken when she’s speered for, and I’ll monopoleese her awhile.”  

CHAP. VIII. Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenc’d In mail of proof—her purity of soul.

Macdonald Ardskeen was a young man of very amiable dispositions, but not endowed with any particular talent, he was accordingly not much thought of among the sharp writers to the signet, and the spruce advocates of the intellectual city; but he was nevertheless a very estimable character. He was richly endowed with that genuine love of his native land and affection for its people, which constitute the great features of the Highland gentleman’s character; and in choosing a partner to enjoy with him the romantic scenery and simple hospitalities of Ardskeen, he could not have made a more judicious choice than Mary Darknish. It is true, that habit had rendered her perhaps too submissive to the dictation of her aunt; but there was a treasure of good sense and correct feeling in her bosom, that all the ordinary events of life might draw largely on without exhausting. Besides, she was adorned with that sweet artlessness of character which graces the simplicity of Highland manners, infinitely more than accomplishments of a bolder and more splendid kind; and it was this charm in her deportment perhaps, quite as much as her more solid qualities of the mind and heart, that had engaged the affections of Ardskeen. It remained, indeed, for circumstances to draw forth the latent vigour of her character, and to show that with the charming simplicity that befitted the Highland lassie, she was capable of acting with the dignity and decision that was expected in the Highland lady. Having returned home, and entered the parlour, she deposited her bonnet on the table, with a degree of negligence that amazed Lady Glenfoik, to whom she said in a tone that with infinite mildness was quite irresistible—“I am in great doubt of the propriety of all this kind of proceeding, and I will certainly not decidedly quarrel with Mr. Macdonald, till I have more satisfactory reasons than your Ladyship’s suspicion. I feel that I have done wrong in parting from him, in the manner that your Ladyship has obliged me to do—or rather in the manner that I have been silly enough to submit to.” Lady Glenfoik was thunderstruck; she listened and she looked—

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and without uttering a word she seated herself in the arm-chair by the fire-side, and looked like one awakened from a dream. After a pause of a minute or two she said—“Mary Campbell, have you lost your senses? I am surprised, and beginning to be confounded—what is it that you intend to do? Do you mean to disgrace your family?” “I hope,” replied the intrepid girl, still more strikingly showing the natural superiority of her sentiments, “I hope that I shall not be so weak as to act unworthily towards any man, who has professed for me the affection that Mr. Macdonald has done.” Her Ladyship bounced from her seat at these words, exclaiming, “You are a disgrace to your sex and blood.” “I am,” replied Mary, “certainly unconscious of the means that have made me so.” “Go to your room,” was the commanding answer; “Go to your room, maiden, and when you have better reflected on your spiritless want of pride and decorum, then you may come to me—but for the present I have no more to say to you. But to your room, Miss, to your room, and learn what it is to treat a woman of my experience with so much impertinence.” The force of habit prevailed—and Mary, without being at all changed or convinced by the lofty tone of her aunt, retired from the parlour. Macdonald, in the meantime, had hastened back to his lodgings in a flutter of anxiety and indignation, that almost transported him out of himself, and he sat down to write a letter on the subject. His first intention was to address Mary, conceiving that as it was with her alone his happiness was concerned, it was from her that he ought to require an explanation of the extraordinary rebuff which he had ­received: but there was a languishing tenderness in the last look she had cast on him that disarmed his anger against her, while it served by a strange ­sympathy to convert it into fiercer fury against her aunt. We shall however leave him at his desk, under the influence of these conflicting emotions, and return to our worthy friend Mrs. Campbell, whose fears and cares, although of a different kind, were scarcely less keenly excited than those of the indignant lover. To do her daughter justice, her expectations were more moderate; she was surprised at the fervour with which the old lady had allowed herself to believe, that Mr. Macdonald had shown her any more than the common ­civilities of the ball-room. But Mrs. Campbell had become very anxious to see her daughter settled in life, and would have grasped with avidity at any chance, even if more improbable, with equal exultation and

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e­ arnestness—she wished too warmly not to believe too easily; and in this originated the curious facility of the self-delusion into which she was so suddenly and causelessly betrayed.  

CHAP. IX. “The good old gentleman was quite aghast.”

In the opinion of Mrs. Campbell there were such signs and indications of love on the part of Ardskeen as she supposed, that, from all she had heard, she ought to be prepared to give him a proper answer. Accordingly, as soon as Glenfell had left her she resolved to call on Dr. Macleish, a friend of her dear deceased husband, as she always spoke of Mr. Campbell, (having heard a great English lady at Inverary Castle so speak of her departed lord.) On reaching the doctor’s house she was at once admitted to an ­audience, and upon entering the room she addressed him, with her best smiles and pleasantest manner, to the following effect:—“How weel pleased, Doctor, I am to find you at home, and without ony ­patients, which I am greatly surprised at, considering the unwholesome weather at this time of the year. Its a long time since I have had the felicity of seeing you, Doctor; I often wonder you canna find the road up our stairs. I hope you dinna wait for an invitation.” “Ah, Mrs. Campbell,” replied the Doctor, placing a chair for her, and seating himself in another by her side, “folks like you seldom need the physician. Industry and temperance are great adversaries to the ­faculty.” “A very good observe,” said Mrs. Campbell, “but health and strength wear out at length, and a widow-woman’s a failing subject.” “And how does Miss Mary do?” inquired the Doctor.—“No word of a husband yet; it begins to be time.” “Worth is not wealth;” replied the lady, “but what will be will— she’ll get in a good time all that’s ordained for her; and the best among us, Doctor, can get no more. But supposing, Doctor, that a creditable match was to cast up, what is your opinion?” “That you should on no account allow such a thing to slip through your fingers;” was the dry reply of Doctor Macliesh, who began to ­suspect that this unexpected visit was not altogether disinterested. “Well, that’s just my own opinion;” said Mrs. Campbell, “but ­supposing there was something between the gentleman and another lady, what would you think then?”

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The Doctor did not immediately reply; but having reflected some time, he said cautiously, “That must depend on the circumstances of the case.” “I am glad to hear you say so,” resumed Mrs. Campbell, “for I have some reason to think that Macdonald Ardskeen has seen my Mary to advantage; and maybe you may have heard that he had some dealings with Mary Darknish, auld Lady Glenfoik’s niece, a cousin of my own: but the length that they went is what I would be weel pleased to learn—and now, Doctor, as you are going much about sick beds, maybe you may have heard something about the business.” The Doctor, however, assured her he had not, and that although he was in the practice of being professionally called in by Lady Glenfoik, he was not in the custom of visiting at her house. “I wonder at that,” replied Mrs. Campbell, “it maun be your own fault Doctor—for certain sure am I, that if I were Lady Glenfoik, and frail and infirm, and my head tottering with the palsy like her’s, I would be glad to see a doctor with your ability whenever he was pleased to come. Howsomever, Doctor, could you not, to serve a friend, just by the way as it were of breaking the ice of ceremony, take occasion to look in upon her ladyship, and in a far aff round-about manner, probe the matter between her niece and Mr. Macdonald. It would be a great favour to me and Mary; and when I think on the love and regard that my dear deceased husband had for you Doctor, I think we have a claim on you for this turn.” Dr. Macliesh, who was totally unacquainted with every circumstance and incident in the case, thought that there must surely be some reason for this application on the part of Mrs. Campbell, and promised that he would call on Lady Glenfoik as he was returning from the church-yard. “Ah, Doctor, wha’s dead now?” said Mrs. Campbell. “The Laird of Kilfogie,” replied the Doctor. “Poor man!” was the sympathetic remark of Mrs. Campbell, “and so he has won awa’ at last—he had a sore time o’t. I heard that his nephew had called you in, and I knew that there could be no hope—but its a warning to us all, for he led but a loose kind of a life.” “He was, indeed,” said the Doctor, “a man that took great ­liberties with his constitution, but he was beyond the power of medicine ­before I was called in.” “That could make little difference,” replied Mrs. Campbell, “for you may well remember my dear deceased husband—that was a perfect image of sobriety, was na lang among your hands; but when the Lord’s

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time is come, its no in the power of Nature to say “Nay.” I suppose the nephew has got the bulk of his fortune, and no doubt he rewarded you handsomely, for I am told he’s an excellent young man. As for the laird, I fancy gin the truth were told, he’s well awa, for he was after all, ­Doctor, but a neer-do-weel body. Howsomever, I’ll no detain you longer at present, and ye’ll no forget to call at Lady Glenfoik’s.” “You may rely on me,” said the Doctor, “as soon as I have got my work safe home, I will make a point of ascertaining what you wish.” “Ah, Doctor,” replied Mrs. Campbell, who had in the meantime risen, and moved towards the door; “Ah, Doctor, its a fye-for-shame of you to be so jocose with your dead patients”—and with these words Mrs. Campbell bade the Doctor adieu, and returned to her own house mightily content with her maternal prudence.  

CHAP. X. “My ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel.”

We must now revert to the occasion of Bencloo not keeping his appointment with Miss Mary Campbell Ardmore, because on that circumstance hangs the issue of our eventful story. It was the arrival of a friend in Edinburgh—and as every thing that happens must have a cause, this arrival had one also. The friend here alluded to was Mr. Ruart, a Glasgow merchant, whose losses in trade had come so thick upon him, that, after ex­ hausting every expedient to preserve his credit, he was constrained to stop payment, having, like most others in the same situation, continued to pay till all was drained, still hoping that some im­probable stroke of good fortune would occur to set his affairs again right. ­Having stopped payment, he was advised by his friends to take legal advice as to the course he ought next to adopt in winding up of his concerns, and it was for the purpose of consulting Bencloo that he had come to E ­ dinburgh. There was much in the situation of Mr. Ruart to interest the heart and reason of Bencloo, independent altogether of the relationship between them. He had set out in life apparently with numerous high mercantile connexions; his talents were of a distinguished order, and his attention to business was exemplary—but he was too apt to ­indulge his feelings, and to glow with an unusual warmth of gratitude for those reciprocal helps and aids, vulgarly called raising the wind, which are not peculiar to the mercantile circles of Glasgow, and this led to his ruin. In his outset of life, all those high mercantile connexions that he was taught by others to expect would assist him, proved of no use whatever to any of his undertakings—so that he was constrained with very limited means to trust entirely to his own exertions. But, except Bencloo, his schoolfellow and cousin, the world knew nothing of all this, but was pleased to think, with as much reason as it does in many other cases, that Ruart was well supported. The consequence of this was, that some of those older establishments, who had traded or treated beyond their means, condescended to encourage him to deal

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with them—and from one thing to another, led him into that train of accommodation-bills, which finally terminated in their mutual overthrow. The circumstances attending the failure were somewhat remarkable. The pride of the houses, which stood in need of Ruart’s credit to support their impaired capital, would not allow them to fail first; and in order to bring him down, they had allowed him on one pretext after another to pay bill on bill, till, as we have already stated, he had paid away all that he possessed. But this commercial machiavelism of theirs was of no avail—some other prop on which they had leant, not ­being actuated by quite so ardent a sense of gratitude for similar favours as Ruart, intimated to them in a proper laconic business-like manner, that unless they sent them forthwith the needful wherewithal to ­retire their bills, they would necessarily be dishonoured. This decision ended the game. The old respectable concerns went the way that they had long been conscious of going, and Ruart also stopped payment. It happened that previous to this event, the mother and sister of Ruart had come from a neighbouring village to live with him. He had, in the sanguine hopes of youthful prosperity, written to them for this purpose several months before, but in the village to which Mrs. Ruart had retired after the death of her husband, a clergyman of the established Church of Scotland, some time was requisite for the disposal of her modest mansion, and such articles of her furniture as were deemed unfit for the modish dwelling of her thriving son. The old lady was a descendant of the royal race of the Mac­donalds, kings of the isles; and, with a lofty notion of her own dignity, she united many of the most affectionate and maternal virtues. At an early age a female relation, who had been married to an English gentleman of ­fortune, invited her to London, and in her house she was introduced to the best society of that metropolis; her manners in consequence were formed in a school far superior to the circle of life in which she was destined to move. The Reverend Mr. Ruart was the domestic tutor and chaplain of a Scottish nobleman, with whose lady the cousin of Miss Mac­donald lived on terms of great intimacy. This led to their acquaintance; and his elegant attainments and excellent qualities of the head and heart, with her beauty and accomplishments, soon inspired a m ­ utual ­affection, which, as soon as he was appointed by his patron to be the minister of the parish of Dunalbin, was consummated with their marriage. Blest with the man of her heart, in whose elegant mind she obtained more than a recompence for all the advantages which she

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had sacrificed by what her relations called an imprudent marriage, the sequestered manse of Dunalbin was so embellished by the charms of happiness and congenial taste, that she never regretted the loss of that splendour which irradiated the spacious mansion of her cousin in ­Grosvenor-square. But her felicity was not of long duration. I­ ntense study had impaired the constitution of her husband, and soon after the birth of her daughter he expired in her arms, leaving her with no other means, for the support of herself and their two infant children than the scanty pittance from that fund which the Scottish clergy have provided for their widows. Her native dignity, however, gave respectability even to this, and by her industry she so contrived to augment her little income, that she still preserved her station with undiminished gentility. Her neighbours gave her opulent London friends the credit of assisting her straitened stipend; for it was ascertained that from time to time she received an occasional remittance in Bank of England notes—but these were the fruit of her industry. Among other accomplishments she was a skilful embroiderer; and a f­ashionable dress-maker in London, whom she had formerly known, gave her ­regular and profitable employment. By these means she was enabled to educate her children, in a manner that was considered as calculated to inspire them with ideas above their condition—and perhaps in this she erred. But nature had so impressed her with the love of ­intellectual elegance, and her education with the admiration of noble principles and honourable ambition, that although, in her own case, she had p­ referred happiness to grandeur, it never occurred to her that her ­children should be taught to limit their views to the same humble sphere. But why should we spend so much time on the character of the mother, when “metal more attractive” in the daughter claims attention. Flora Ruart was at this time in the bloom and beauty of eighteen. Her stature rose to the majestic, but it was slender and elegant; her ­complexion may rather be described as that transparent loveliness which expresses every movement of the mind, than compared to the poetical blendings of the rose and lily; and her full blue eyes were, in the opinion of many, superior to being beautiful, by a peculiar ­lambent intellectual radiance beaming with an indescribable pathos, that at once melted and delighted the heart. It was impossible to look on her without admiration or love; but there was a strange tincture of s­ orrow mingled with these animating feelings; and she was often viewed rather as the transient vision of some fair creature of a purer element, than as a woman sent to bear the duties of the sex in this rude world

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of men and housewifery. Yet in her disposition she was un­usually buoyant and cheerful; an artless, light, and bounding gaiety, was the characteristic of her spirit; and a piquant naiveté lent the charms of the most playful graces to her manners.  

CHAP. XI. “He who presents an offering to a friend, By the acceptance feels himself repaid.”

The result of Ruart’s conference with Bencloo was, that he should submit his affairs, in the first instance, to his creditors; and in the next, to advise them, both for his own sake and theirs, on account of the confusion arising from the different failures in which he was interested, to make him a bankrupt.—“You have no choice, my friend, but this,” said Bencloo; “to this issue your affairs must come at last, and your only chance of redeeming the misfortunes of the past, is by being free to act again as soon as possible.” This advice Ruart knew was the soundest he could adopt, but his heart swelled with something more painful than even mortified pride, at the idea of communicating the news to his mother and sister. Bencloo was well acquainted with the high sentiments of the old lady, but he also duly appreciated the firmness and strength of her character; and, in reflecting on the effect it might have on Flora, the idea suddenly occurred to him that this was an occasion in which he might interest Glenfell with advantage. To determine with Macdonald was to act; he accordingly advised Ruart to return the same day to Glasgow; and, exhorting him to meet his misfortunes with manliness, left him to call on Glenfell. He found the young Laird in his room, as we have described, much dissatisfied with himself, and longing to meet with something intere­sting in life. Without much preface Bencloo told him what had happened to Ruart, adding, “Now, Glenfell, this is an occasion in which you may find that sort of employment for a few days that will do you more good than all your idle schemes for personal and mental improvement. I wish you to accompany him to Glasgow, and to ­remain with him until he has met his creditors.” “But of what use can I be to him?” inquired Glenfell, “I know ­nothing of mercantile concerns, and merchants possessed of any ­common sense, you have often said, will never allow lawyers to ­embroil their differences. Besides I have never paid much attention to commercial law.”

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“All that is very true,” replied the writer to the signet; “and if there were any legal advice required in Ruart’s affairs, be assured I would not recommend you. This, in a word, is a case that stands in need of more than a lawyer’s aid: it requires a man’s. Ruart’s feelings are very keen, and though possessed of a strong mind, the particular state of his ­domestic arrangements is such, that he runs a greater risk of b­ eing ­upset by what may take place at home, than any harshness he may ­suffer at the meeting of his creditors. He will be well enough advised, I doubt not, in all that relates to his business; but I wish you, as an old friend, to help him in the more painful conflict of his domestic embarrassments.” “But what would you have me do?” said Glenfell, utterly at a loss to conceive why Macdonald should advise him to interfere in Ruart’s affairs. “Go with him, and be guided by circumstances,” was the earnest ­reply. “It is enough that you know he is placed in a situation s­ ufficiently trying, to make a man of even more experience and fortitude doubt of himself; and what I wish is, that you should be on the spot. Your own reflections there will point out better than I can possibly imagine, what may then be expedient to do.” Glenfell agreed to go. Ruart, as well as Macdonald, had been at the same school with him, and a strong juvenile friendship had rendered them very dear to each other; but from the time that Ruart had been placed in a counting-house at Glasgow they had seldom met. Glenfell had not seen Flora for many years, and had indeed no remembrance of the early promise of that extraordinary beauty, into which she had gradually unfolded—and Macdonald, in urging him to go with Ruart, abstained from mentioning her. This was an instance of address on the part of Bencloo, of which we know not well what to say, for in truth the main reason that made him anxious Glenfell should go to Glasgow was, that he might see Flora in all the advantageous beauty of grief, which the heart and fancy of his generous friend were calculated to feel with peculiar force; while, at the same time, he was persuaded that the warmth and delicacy of Glenfell’s friendship would afford a consolation and support to her brother, that would appease the anguish of the feelings natural to his situation. The only obstacle, indeed, that Glenfell had at first to going at all, arose from a circumstance in itself silly enough, and one perhaps we should suppress;—it was no other than a formal invitation to dinner, which he had received from his aunt, Mrs. Campbell, about ten days

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before, with all the formality of a distant stranger, and this grand dinner was to take place next day. Glenfell had on former occasions received much amusement at Mrs. Campbell’s parties of this kind, and he had set his heart on enjoying it with additional relish in the company of Bencloo, for whom he had resolved to procure an invitation. It was therefore at first with some reluctance that he was induced to forego the expected pleasure; but the earnestness of Macdonald, and the natural warmth of his disposition, when once excited, soon prevailed, and he agreed, as we have mentioned, to accompany Ruart to Glasgow that afternoon. It was necessary, however, that he should make a cere­monious apology to her, for whom he certainly entertained no ceremonious sentiment, though a good deal of affection; and for this purpose, before going to Ruart, who was sitting disconsolate enough in M‘Gregor’s hotel, he persuaded Macdonald to accompany him to his aunt. It may seem to the eyes of our fair readers, who are doubtless all much delighted with the delicious romance of disinterested friendship, a great drawback on the character of our hero, that he should have attached so much consequence, so much self-indulgence, to the ludicrous banquet of Mrs. Campbell; but if we did not know how much they are averse to all metaphysical speculation, we would here convince them in a very profound disquisition on the principles of moral necessity, that the hesitation which influenced the mind of Glenfell arose from the distinct images which his memory cherished of what he had formerly experienced, in opposition to his hazy perception of the service he might render to Ruart. We can however assure them, that had Macdonald placed before his imagination a picture of the dignified distress of the mother of Ruart, and painted the beautiful and delicate Flora bending in her sorrow, like a lily, oppressed with the beating rain and pelting of the pityless tempest, he would have been impatient to hasten to their assistance with the succour of more than half his fortune.  

CHAP. XII. “Thrift, thrift Horatio.”

As Mrs. Campbell was returning to her own house, from Dr. M‘Cleish’s, her mind was naturally occupied with the hopes and ­prospects which the events of the morning had unfolded, and she thought it was highly expedient to be civil towards Mr. Macdonald. This laudable determination became the parent of several others, all verging to the indulgence of hospitable feelings, so that before she had passed Dumbreck’s hotel, in St. Andrew’s Square, from which a savoury smell of soups and cookery regaled her olfactory nerves, she resolved to invite him to her grand dinner, which was to take place, as we have stated, next day, and for which she had been some time ­making the most abundant preparations. The reader may be apt to question the consistency of the character which we have given of this lady, when he hears of so great an undertaking as a grand dinner; and may be at a loss, if he has never visited the Scottish metropolis, to reconcile such a circumstance with that economy with which Mrs. Campbell has been represented as so highly embued. But genteel people with straitened incomes are necessitated to be diplomatical in their entertainments as well as much greater folks. The fact is, that Mrs. Campbell’s prospective banquet was, in ­reality, a genuine diplomatic dinner. It was one of two great annual occasions, in which, to use an ­expression of the learned author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, she “displayed her wealth and liberality,” being devised to pay off certain debts of gratitude due to her neighbours for similar manifestations of hospitality, and to impose obligations by which others in return should invite her and Mary to their parties. The one feast was given early in the winter, and the guests were invited a week at least before Miss Mary’s return from the Highlands. —As there was great skill and address in this arrangement, it behoves us to explain it, for a casual observer might have imagined that the whole affair was but an example of that genuine hospitality which ­anciently prevailed among the Highlanders. About three weeks before the expected return of her daughter

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from Argyleshire, Mrs. Campbell informed her by a letter under a frank, for which she had waited several days, that the house would be cleaned and ready by the latter end of October. Upon the receipt of this important intelligence, Miss Mary fixed the day of her return, and immediately began to collect game, and various other articles for the dinner, and for casual tea and turn-out parties in the winter. In the meantime, her mother issued her cards of invitation, and duly, two or three days before the festival, Miss Mary arrived with baskets of game, bottles of whiskey, sausages, dried fish, and a side or quarter of venison, according to the liberality of the family from whom she took her departure. The reader must now be sensible that the great fall dinner of Mrs. Campbell had in it nothing of extravagance; but perhaps the spring occasion requires a little more explanation, and, in truth, it would be doing great injustice to her management, not to unfold the secret ­motives of it also. In the course of the winter, it may be easily conceived, without any particular statement of the fact, that Mrs. Campbell and her daughter incurred many obligations of civility, which it was necessary to discharge, in order to preserve that reciprocity of intercourse which is so requisite between families where there are unmarried daughters. During Miss Mary’s annual excursion to Argyleshire and districts adjacent, she visited many families, where she generally met with young ladies anxious to see and partake of the gaieties of Edinburgh, which no one could better describe than herself: and when a suitable opportunity offered, she invited one or two of them to spend a fortnight with her in the spring. It was not convenient to ask them for the winter, because there was a risk that bad weather might render their visit too long: besides, by inviting them for the spring she was always ready, when the period of their visit expired, to accompany them back to the Highlands, on a visit to them. Out of this judicious system the spring banquet arose, for the ­visitants came, like Miss Mary, laden with cargoes of provisions; which enabled Mrs. Campbell to provide a great feast at little cost, and, at the same time, to make a deep and lasting impression on her guests of the grandeur and style of her entertainments. But to return to our narrative. The autumnal banquet, the ­harvest-home of Mrs. Campbell and her daughter, being at hand, she resolved to invite Mr. Macdonald; thus, by the operation of some occult law of nature, was she induced to think the same thought as her nephew Glenfell. The German philosophers are of opinion, that

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people who resemble each other in person, resemble each other also in mind; and no doubt where the same blood beats in different veins, the same thoughts will rise in the different hearts. It being, as the ­naturalists know, a settled thing, that the life is in the blood, and the soul being the life, where the blood is of the same sort, the soul must be of the same kind. It is therefore not surprising that the aunt should have thoughts, as well as the nephew, of inviting Bencloo; the fact is, the daughter also entertained the same idea, and only hesitated to speak of it with that amiable diffidence peculiar to young ladies, ­because she did not well know how it could be done with regard to the etiquettes of fashionable life, which were so necessary to be strictly attended to on so great an occasion. She had some notion of broaching the subject to Glenfell, but she was afraid of his merciless ridicule, conscious, from what had already taken place, that he would dive into her motives; and she also dreaded to trust her mother, whose precipitate prudence she was afraid might prove, by some unguarded stroke of address, still more embarrassing. But from this state of doubt and fear she was happily relieved, when the old lady, on her return, told her, that she intended to request Glenfell to ask Mr. Macdonald to the dinner.  

CHAP. XIII. “But hit or miss, Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes.”

Although the reader has been made acquainted with the highly satisfactory reasons which induce that portion of the inhabitants of the New Town of Edinburgh, who live in the enjoyment of houses with street-doors, to dispense with the use of knockers, it is necessary to observe, that the expediency of the practice not being so obvious to those who, like Mrs. Campbell Ardmore, occupy a flat or floor opening on a common stair-case, knockers are not so rare among them. Perhaps it may be as well here, once for all, to mention that Mrs. Campbell’s door was adorned with a handsome brass one, and which was always kept remarkably bright and clean. When she first went to the house there was only a bell, which being one day pulled down by a consequential visitor, she agreed, after consulting with her daughter, that although a brass knocker would cost more than the estimated expense of repairing the bell, yet in the end it would be cheaper, because knockers are not so apt to go wrong as bells. Besides there was an important advantage attached to k­ nockers to which bells had not the slightest pretension—and that was the ­faculty of announcing the rank of the visitors; an advantage which Mrs. Campbell pointed out to her daughter would be a great convenience to them who were obliged to look after the house, and consequently not always in a condition to receive genteel strangers. A knocker was accordingly purchased and placed on the door, and the lassie, who assisted the housemaid, and who was ordered to be always after breakfast neatly dressed to attend the door, was duly ­instructed in the language thereof, and carefully admonished not to be in too great a hurry to open to a double knock. The innocent lassie thought this order very singular, because she imagined that those who announced themselves by the sounding peal ought to receive the most alert attention; but in process of time she began to suspect the hidden wisdom of her mistress’s instructions. Accordingly, in proportion to the loudness and duration of the peal, she was tardy in giving admittance; nay, on some occasions, she even went so far as to look into the

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parlour before going to the door; the reason and purpose of which must be left to the reader’s ingenuity to discover, for we do not think it necessary to fatigue the attention by dwelling too long on trifling topics, and therefore we cut short much of the interesting matter which might have been added on the use of bells and knockers, to resume the thread of our discourse. While Glenfell and Bencloo were walking towards Mrs. Campbell’s, that exemplary lady and her daughter were severally employed in two separate branches of their domestic economy. Miss Mary was busy sewing the new French flounce on her green sarsnet gown, and Mrs. Campbell was planning with bits of paper, on the table beside her, what would be the most advantageous method of setting out the banquet board at their great dinner. In the midst of some doubt relative to the proper situation for a tongue stewed with spices, (a dish which Miss Mary had been ­informed, while in Argyleshire, was highly esteemed by the noble guests at Inverary Castle) a loud and long peal on the bright brazen knocker announced the visitors. Mrs. Campbell instantly gathered up her bits of paper and threw them into the fire, exclaiming at the same moment, “Mary, Mary, fling by your seam; hide it out of sight. Whenever you hear a double knock at the door you should fly to your painting or music. That was the way I got my accomplished character when I was a young leddy.” Miss Mary accordingly put the French flounce and the green sarsnet gown into her work-basket; and while her mother pushed it under the middle piece of the dining-table, the hanging leaves of which ­concealed it from view, she hastily took up a book, and placed herself in the posture of an attentive student. In the meantime, the lassie that attended the door had admitted Macdonald and Glenfell; so that, as they entered the room, Miss Mary was in a condition to raise her head, as if disturbed in her reading. Glenfell introduced his friend to Mrs. Campbell, by whom he was graciously received, and, as if by accident, invited to take a seat on that side of the fire where the fair student had so engagingly placed herself. Glenfell sat down beside his aunt, and while the customary declarations on the state of the weather were making by the whole party, Mrs. Campbell hospitably poked the fire with such effect, that the dust rolled voluminous and vast to the ceiling. When the state of the weather had been thoroughly discussed, Glenfell very innocently said, that Macdonald having an hour to spare before dinner, has resolved to waste it here. “We are greatly flattered

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by his condescension,” replied Mrs. Campbell; but seeing Macdonald addressing himself to her daughter, she turned to Glenfell and chidingly remarked, “You need not have been so soon at your practices. You might have got another word for waste; it would have been more discreet. For you may have put it into his head that the time spent here is all lost.” “On my conscience, aunt,” cried Glenfell, “I was not aware you had been so much of a critic.” “None of your phantasies now, Glenfell,” said Mrs. Campbell in a better humour, glancing towards Macdonald and her daughter: “it would be more to the credit of some folks if they were less critical. They’ll never devaul till they are brought to an untimely end with their criticeesing.” “Why,” exclaimed Glenfell, “I thought you were one of the patrons of the Review.” “The gude forbid,” cried the lady, waxing more and more pleased. “I only take it in for Mary, that it may authorise her to speak about poets, and such like things, at Mrs. Lagan’s converzationies.” “In that respect you confess the book is useful,” said Glenfell ­jocularly. “I’ll no deny but it is of some service,” was the answer of Mrs. Campbell, in a wheedling tone of satisfaction: “And to say true, may-be such a book was wanted; for I have known a world of good it has done to mony a dunkled character.” Glenfell looked at his aunt like a votary of the Pythia listening to the response of the oracle; and she went on to say, “I have noticed whenever a new Number comes out the scandal of the town stands still, and the whole talk is about the Review. But if I was an author, as I am but a woman, I would put a skewer in the nose of that ettercap Francy Iamphler, who has no more respect for the writings of the best divine in the land than for a play-book or a novel,—nor so mickle. But although the book comes from Constable’s with my name on the cover, I would na have you to think me guilty of such a piece of ­extravagance as to take in a whole Review.” “I must acknowledge,” said Glenfell, “that I have been surprised at the circumstance, and intended to have asked for some explanation.” “I’ll let you into the secret, if you’ll promise no to speak o’t again,” was the answer. “My own second cousin, the Reverend Mr. Bellwhidder, used to buy the book; but as his stipend’s not a lord’s living, I proposed to him, that if he would let it come in my name for Mary’s sake, I would pay him a sixpence on every Number; and paying him a

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sixpence on every Number, the book comes to me straight from the bookseller’s shop; so I pass for one of the regular literati. Folks now-adays, Glenfell, are put to their shifts; what with taxation and tribulation there’s no saying how it will end; but I am sure if it were na for fear of the outstrap’lous Reformers I would na care that Government felt the weight of a heavy hand; for I declare it’s void of conscience, and should na get all its own way in such an unmerciful manner. But, Glenfell, ye don’t know what I have got; will ye come into the drawing-room, and I’ll let you see my curiosity.” Glenfell was so bewildered with his aunt’s incoherent rambling, the consequence of her attention being attracted towards Macdonald and her daughter; that he rose involuntarily and followed her. “Don’t you think,” said she, when they were in the passage, “that your friend is greatly taken with my Mary?” This question explained everything, and tickled his fancy so ­exceedingly that he could not refrain from flattering her hopes, in such a manner as to leave no doubt that marriage would be the consequence. But that attention of Macdonald to Miss Mary, which her mother thought so explicit of affection, and which suggested the pretext for bringing them together, was, in truth, but his natural manner of sifting the character of a new acquaintance. Miss Mary heard her mother’s invitation to Glenfell, and took the opportunity of informing Macdonald, that the curiosity was a mandarin, a present from her uncle in the Madras army. “He has been long in India,” said the simple Miss Mary, “and has made, they say, a large ­fortune. Poor man, we have long wished that he would come home and marry, for he is in very bad health, and my mother being his only sister, it would be so comfortable to us to see him settled. But I fear that pleasure will never be enjoyed, for his last letters were full of his infirmities.” “He will, however, leave the bulk of his fortune to you,” said Macdonald drily. To which Miss Mary answered with truth and feeling, “O, Sir, his fortune is a thing that never enters into our consideration. He may leave it to me, or he may not; but it would be better if he would marry, and enjoy it himself.” Macdonald rose with an unamiable expression of countenance, as if he had contemptuous ideas, and inquired if he might not also see the mandarin. In the same moment, however, the aunt and nephew returning into the room, Macdonald hastily reminded Glenfell of his promise respecting Ruart, and wished Mrs. Campbell and her daughter good

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morning, as if pressed by the sudden recollection of some important affair which he had strangely neglected. When the gentlemen had taken leave, and the basket in which the French flounce and the green sarsnet gown were deposited, was again replaced between the feet of the table and the hearth-rug; when Miss Mary had resumed her seam, and the book which gave her such an air of erudition was again placed upon the mantlepiece, to be at hand for the next occasion; in short, when Mrs. Campbell had again taken an old letter, and divided it into seventeen parts, the exact number of the dishes which she intended for her feast, instead of reviving the impor­ tant subject of the spiced tongue, she began to speak her approbation of Mr. Macdonald with great pith and earnestness. This, in my opinion, was a very inartificial stratagem of that clever woman, for it was quite unnecessary to make use of any device to discover the sentiments of her daughter towards him. But it is the custom with ladies of a certain age and experience to court the confidence of their daughters in the tender affairs of the heart, and Mrs. Campbell thought it her duty to do as she had been done by. In the midst of her panegyric, however, she forgot herself and exclaimed, “And what did he say to you, Mary, my dear, when we were out of the room.” The incident of their conversation which had made the deepest ­impression on the sensibility of the young lady was, Macdonald’s ­remark on the probable reversion of her uncle’s fortune. Some of my fair readers have, no doubt, thought it a very base mercenary question, and have justly regarded him as a vile man. Miss Mary, however, had more sense—she considered it as little less than an unequivocal declaration of love, and her mother, on being informed of it, was quite of the same opinion, observing, that it was a sure and certain sign that his thoughts were running on the marriage settlements. Their mutual congratulation, on the flattering prospects which were thus unfolded, was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Campbell lamenting that she had neglected to invite him to dinner, and that it would therefore be requisite to send a note to him immediately. The task of writing the note was deputed to Miss Mary, because, as her mother observed, “nobody could spell but herself with the pens she kept.”  

CHAP. XIV. “A plague on both your houses.”

It is reported, but upon what authority we know not, that, from time immemorial, a deadly feud had been faithfully cherished b­ etween the clans of the Glenfells and Glenfoiks. Some antiquaries have been of opinion that it was not, however, of such great antiquity, as the ­traditionary historians of the respective clansmen pretended; and many who have investigated this important point, have even ventured to fix the æra when it first arose; and to describe the circumstances of the transaction. The character of this feud, though accompanied with all the usual concomitants of clanish enmity, was very different from that of every other; and it was by a careful examination of its peculiarities, that the learned antiquaries, particularly alluded to, were enabled to trace it to a specific cause. It seems that the family of Glenfell had always assumed great ­superiority over that of Glenfoik, and that the Glenfoiks never would allow of this pretension; but, on the contrary, treated the Glenfells, in their turn, with the most ineffable contempt. In former times, this, no doubt, gave rise to many of those “wars of speed and spoil” which have been so admirably recorded in their respective chronicles: and in these latter days it was, no doubt, the instinctive cause of the ­conduct of the young laird towards Lady Glenfoik, and of her ladyship’s dignified retaliation. There was, however, at one time, on the part of her ladyship, a very amiable conciliatory spirit towards him. The animosity of ancient days was mellowed by the combined operation of time and civilization, and softened in the gentle medium of the female heart, had become manageable for all the ordinary purposes of ordinary life, and promised, in the course of a few ages, to become not irreconcilable. But the innate presumption of the Glenfells was still prompt and active in the ardent bosom of their young laird; and he for ever incurred the detestation of her ladyship, for daring one day to address her, in a large company, with what she conceived the most derogatory familiarity. The wrath of her ladyship from that moment burnt fiercely against him, and would not be appeased.

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The reader may therefore justly conceive and sympathise with her ladyship’s feelings, when, after returning from Mrs. Campbell’s, she enquired of the footman if the note and book had been brought by Macdonald’s own man, and was informed it had been delivered by M‘Ghee the caddy, who had received it from Glenfell’s English valet. Had there been no other proof of the total dereliction of Macdonald, this alone would have been sufficient to satisfy her ladyship. She was indeed thoroughly convinced that one of the obnoxious articles in the Review must have been written by Glenfell himself, purposely to irritate her feelings, and that both he and Macdonald were enjoying the pleasing reflection of having done all in their power to vex her. The consideration of the consequences to her niece were for a time lost in the overwhelming feelings which this thought was calculated to raise, and she gave full scope to her indignation in a torrent of invective, in which it was hard to say whether the defection of Macdonald, or hatred of Glenfell, was the topic. The sensibility of Mary was sorely tried by the disappointment of the morning, and by the plausible reasons which her aunt assigned why the breach with Macdonald was complete. Hope, nevertheless, still fluttered in her bosom, and whispered that her Ladyship was mistaken. Great, indeed, as her habitual deference was for the judgment of her aunt, Mary was still inclined to think it more probable that she must be in the wrong, than that Macdonald should so unaccountably and suddenly prove faithless. But the contest of wishes and feeling ­exhausted her spirits, and she felt herself unwell, and in need of r­ epose; accordingly when the street bell was rung by Doctor Macleish on his return from the funeral of Killfoggie, she retired to her own room. Her Ladyship had been long enough in the world to observe, that physicians never make friendly visits but on occasions of family misfortune, and the visit of Doctor Macleish at this juncture was another link in the chain of evidence to convince her of the altered affections of Macdonald. However, she received the Doctor with a praiseworthy degree of equanimity, and inquired what news were stirring, not exactly in the usual negligent tone in which that solemn question is so often propounded, but still in a manner sufficiently free and indif­­f erent. The answer of the Doctor was more natural, “Only flying reports,” said he, “chiefly of a domestic nature.” Her Ladyship very shrewdly perceived, that the whole extent of her niece’s case was already in the mouths of the profane vulgar; and she observed with philosophical composure to the Doctor—“I thought it would be so; you have no doubt then heard what has happened in

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this family.” Doctor Macleish, with his wonted professional address, replied, “that he had indeed heard something—nothing very circumstantial— poor Miss Campbell! how is she?” “Quite as well” said her Ladyship, “as can be expected.” This answer unfortunately was instantly associated in the D ­ octor’s mind with what Mrs. Campbell had said, and he drew from it an ­inference of frightful import to the reputation of the young lady. “I am truly sorry to hear it,” said he; “what does Macdonald say for himself?” “He’s a perjured wretch!” cried her Ladyship. “It is always the case when such things happen,” said the Doctor. “Is there no hope of a ­marriage?” “None whatever,” answered her Ladyship, still kindling with anger. “I would have regretted it less had he drawn up with any other than Mary Ardmore—a creature ingrained with the artifices of penurious gentility. She goes to the Highlands every year to wear her old gowns, although she pretends it is to visit her relations, just as if either she or her mother care a pinch of snuff for their whole clan.” “I did not understand,” said the Doctor, softly sliding in his remark —“I did not understand that Mr. Macdonald had actually offered himself to Miss Campbell Ardmore!” “Do they say he has?” interrupted her Ladyship, not particularly ­attending to what the Doctor said. “I wish her much good of him— but who told you this Doctor?” “To be candid with your Ladyship,” was the answer, “Mrs. Campbell herself.” This was decisive. Her Ladyship was completely satisfied, that the Doctor had told her that Mrs. Campbell had informed him of Mac­ donald having made a tender of his hand to her daughter; and the Doctor perceived from the effect which it had on the mind of her Ladyship, that it would be indecorous to prolong his visit. So after changing the conversation in that abrupt manner, which most people do when they find themselves engaged on a disagreeable topic, the Doctor soon after rose and took his leave. In coming from her Ladyship’s the Doctor had occasion to pass the door of Miss Mally M‘Gab, one of his annual patients, and he could do no less than inquire how she found herself that morning. Miss Mally had been many years confined to her bed-chamber, but she was not the less accessible to company, and few maiden ladies could boast of a more extensive and communicative circle of acquaintance.

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Some people are of opinion, that there is no harm in repeating a true secret, because sooner or later it will be discovered; but to begin the snowball of scandal, so liable to grow to an evalanche, and overwhelm with ruin its ill-fated victims, was in the nice sense of honour which Doctor Macleish cherished, totally unworthy of the medical character. He felt, however, no scruple in consideration of the authen­ tic sources from which he had derived his information, of telling Miss Mally of the approaching nuptials of Mr. Macdonald with Mary Campbell Ardmore, and how very improperly he had acted towards the niece of Lady Glenfoik. Miss Mally had heard of the intended marriage of Ardskeen and Mary Darknish; indeed, she had herself sent for Miss Peggy Shapings, the mantua-maker, to consult her respecting a new night-gown, for the express purpose of receiving an account of the marriage-dresses, and Miss Peggy had promised in the most confidential manner, that ­before sending them home Miss Mally should be favoured with a sight of them. The reader, therefore, need not be surprised at the astonishment which that much interested lady felt on hearing the important intelligence of the Doctor. In fact, she declared herself unusually ­indisposed on the occasion, and begged the Doctor to return in the evening, a­ fter he had seen Mrs. Campbell, for she was quite sure that she would require some cordial; and then she deplored the fickleness of all mankind, and sighed to think that perhaps poor Mary Darknish might, like herself, be confined to a sick room for life, thereby intimating that some such dereliction of a lover had been the cause of her own long and hopeless malady. The Doctor, in a sympathising tone, assured her that it was only the influence of a change in the weather that had affected her spirits, but he would certainly call in the evening, and if he found her no better would then order what was necessary to repair the temporary depression of the vital energy. 

CHAP. XV. “Alas! it is the business of thy fear That makes thee strangle thy propriety.”

Not to dwell on trifling details, we shall now for a time bid adieu to the progress of error in Edinburgh, and accompany Glenfell and his friend Ruart to Glasgow. It was very late when they arrived, for the young laird on seeing the dejected looks of the bankrupt had resolved to travel post, instead of by the stage-coach, in which they were liable to meet acquaintances; and with this view had purposely procrastinated their departure. To do Glenfell justice, his heart was now big with compassion for the situation of his friend. He recollected with an intense delight, that felt almost like anguish, the cheerful hilarity of Ruart’s boyish days, and contrasted the pale and anxious look which he had acquired in the delusive pursuit of mercantile prosperity, with the remembrance of his blithe and blooming boyhood. His mind also dwelt on the frank generosity with which Ruart had in that gay spring of life been distinguished; and he was grieved to think that with a disposition open as day to assist others, he was reduced to the situation of becoming almost literally an object of charity; and while the pang of this reflection shot thrillingly across his bosom, he turned over in his mind a thousand schemes for repairing the ruined fortunes of his friend. Ruart sat beside him in the carriage wholly absorbed in the ­contemplation of his mother and his sister’s situation. He had resolved not to inform them of what had happened, until he had consulted Macdonald; and bankruptcy being now determined, he was reflecting in what manner he should best acquaint them with his irretrievable ruin, in order that the blow might fall as lightly as possible. But in this he was anticipated; one of those officious and kind gentlewomen who take a delight in ascertaining, for the benefit of the public, the extent of their neighbours’ misfortunes, and in what manner they endure them, had that day heard of Ruart’s failure, and lost no time in going to offer her sympathy to his mother. This condolence was a thunder-clap to Mrs. Ruart, but her self-­ possession enabled her to listen to it with so much equanimity, that

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her officious visitor was at once overawed and rebuked. Fortunately Flora at the time was not in the room, so that, after the departure of the meddling guest, the distressed mother had some time to prepare herself for communicating the afflicting tidings in a more guarded manner to her gentle and beautiful child—and we shall draw a veil over the scene that ensued. Glenfell, on reaching Glasgow, wished to have stopped at an hotel, but Ruart, unsuspicious of the disclosure that had taken place, insisted on his going home with him. Mrs. Ruart had expected her son by the coach, and as he did not arrive at the usual time, she concluded he had been detained longer in Edinburgh than he expected, so that when she heard the chaise stop, and his knock at the door, she hastily rose from her bed, to which she had just retired for the night, and without much attention to her dress, hurriedly put on her clothes, and rushed to meet him. Mrs. Ruart, as we have already intimated, was, in her youth, ­singularly beautiful, and her figure was surprisingly noble; there was a full, and yet a pathetic tone in the accents of her voice, that at once commanded and penetrated the heart, when in the slightest degree ­affected by any emotion of tenderness or sorrow. Glenfell had no other than a boyish recollection of her being a grand tall lady, for even in the humble capacity of a parish minister’s wife, the native majesty of her character, and the superior style of her manners, could neither be concealed nor subdued. He was standing with Ruart at the fire in the dining-room, looking pensively at the grate, for he was sensibly affected at the sight of the elegance of his friend’s house, contrasted as it then was with the bankruptcy of his prospects; and he did not hear Mrs. Ruart enter the room till he was struck to the heart with the accent in which she said to her son, “O Charles, what is this!” In the same moment she perceived the stranger, and an awful self-command thrust down, as it were by a ­stupendous effort of the will, the rising passion of maternal grief. Glenfell had turned round. She was standing in the distant obscurity of the apartment, which was only lighted by the fire, the servant, after admitting the travellers, having gone for candles. Her stately and august form was folded in a loose crimson wrapper, and round her aching head she had tied a white handkerchief which had been unfurled by her haste, and the ends of it fell loose with her long grey tresses, in a wild and dishevelled state over the crimson. Her appearance affected Glenfell almost as much as her voice. His imagination had never formed any thing at once so noble and ruined.

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She stood before him like the embodied genius of fallen greatness, and the solemnity of her approach towards him was felt as if she came to rebuke him for having profanely looked upon her sacred feelings. She took him at first for Bencloo, and was advancing to thank him for his kindness, but the servant entering at the same moment with lights, she discovered that he was a stranger whom she did not recollect. Ruart, when he saw his mother enter, perceived that she had heard of his misfortune, and overwhelmed by his feelings, flung himself on a sopha and burst into tears. Glenfell was unable to articulate a word. The servant scarcely less affected, placed the candles on the table, and retired with a soft and fearful step, as if he was treading in the room of sickness and death. Mrs. Ruart had recoiled with a degree of alarm on first discovering her mistake, but in an instant, after regaining her wonted presence of mind, she said to Glenfell, “Sir, you are doubtless acquainted with the ruin of my son. This is our first meeting since I have known it, and you cannot be surprised at our agitation. O Charles!” she exclaimed, “why did you not tell me yourself? But I know your motive—let not misfortune sink you to any unmanly sorrow. I hear your sister’s voice on the stairs—she will be with us presently, rise and be yourself. The darkest hour is before the break of day, and what has happened to you has befallen many as good men, and in far other circumstances—you have no wife—no children involved in this calamity.” She was interrupted by the entrance of Flora. Glenfell, whose whole spirit was during this short scene sublimed to a state of quivering sensibility, was so affected at the visionary beauty of this lovely creature, that he could no longer master himself, but hastily rushed from the room, and quitted the house. Quite overcome by his feelings, he walked in the streets till he felt himself so far recovered as to be able to seek admission at one of the hotels without being subject to observation: but his bed afforded him no rest. What Bencloo anticipated had taken effect; the extraordinary beauty of Flora; her apparitional appearance; and the circumstances in which she had been seen, left an image in the mind of Glenfell, associated with so many high feelings, that he wrought himself into the poetry and fond enthusiasm of the lover’s state, while he thought himself laudably engaged in considering how he could preserve the shattered majesty of Mrs. Ruart from a fall, and the stranded fortunes of her son from total wreck.  

CHAP. XVI. “And some believed him mad.”

Amongst the other signs of the degeneracy of the present age, we fear that a lamentable decay in the fervour of the lover’s passion must be reckoned; for, although smitten to the heart by the beauty of Flora, and still more by the touching pathos of her large and full blue eyes, we are obliged to confess that, after an hour or two of restless extasy, our hero fell asleep, and enjoyed a comfortable oblivion to all love, friendship, and other temporal cares, till near nine o’clock next morning. No doubt his journey from Edinburgh, a distance of forty-four miles, helped to reduce him into this unlover-like condition; but had he ­travelled twice as far, and been twice as much agitated, he might perhaps have been more inclined to toss his bed-clothes, breathing his sighs into the ear of night, like a true faithful swain of some long departed age; for in that case he would in all probability have been irritated into wakefulness by some febrile affection. However, not to expend our wit and ingenuity, we will resume our narrative, by ­informing the reader, that Glenfell, having dressed himself, hastened to Ruart’s house, for the purpose of decorating a little before breakfast, his portmanteau and all personal et ceteras being there. He was met at the door by Ruart himself, who chided him, in a kindly voice, for having so abruptly left the house the preceding night. Glenfell made but an awkward apology, for, at the same m ­ oment, Ruart’s mother came into the dining-room, into which he had been conducted, followed by Flora. The dignity of the old lady was rendered somewhat solemn by her grief; and the loveliness of Flora, without ­being at all shaded, seemed to have acquired an indescribable charm, of which melancholy was the chief ingredient, and the effect a pensive benignity that was more affecting than either sorrow or beauty. Glenfell was too much interested by the sight to recollect that he had intended to dress himself to advantage before breakfast, and the servant entering with the tea-urn at this juncture, he sat down to table without speaking. Mrs. Ruart attributing his embarrassment to the situation of the family, exerted herself to entertain him, but he paid no attention to

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what she said. Flora could not help wondering in her own mind at the strangeness of his conduct: even Ruart, who was not unacquainted with his character, was at a loss what to do with him. In a word, Glenfell, by his abstraction, drew off much more effectually the minds of his friends from the anxiety of their own unfortunate state than if he had exerted all his powers of pleasing—powers which, when he chose to exert them, were fascinating in no small degree. He sat some time at table, and partook of the breakfast, rather, as it were, from the force of habit, the articles being placed before him, than as the result of any voluntary action. But at last, forgetting h­ imself entirely, he rose, and lifting his chair to the front of the fire, he sat down, and placing his feet on the fender, leaned back, and abandoned himself to his own meditations. “What could Bencloo intend,” said Ruart to himself, “to trouble me at this time with such a madman.” A gentle smile played on the face of Flora, like a glance of sunshine on the waters, as she looked at Glenfell; and she wished that the interdict to playfulness, which misfortune had then laid upon her, had not prevented her from rousing him from his trance. Mrs. Ruart was offended, and, after a momentary pause, she also rose from the table, and going to Glenfell, said with a lofty but serene severity—“Sir, you are acquainted with the circumstances of my son; you are aware how important it is to his interests that he should at this time be master of himself;—why do you add to our troubles by this very extraordinary conduct?” Glenfell was startled from his reverie, and overawed by her manner, and with an emotion too powerful to be controlled, knelt at her feet, and burst into tears. In a moment, however, he recovered himself from this extravagance, and rising said—“It is your misfortunes, Madam, that transport me out of myself. I came here to attend your son.—I was not prepared to meet so much greatness in distress: so much beauty, to whom it would be profanity in this crisis to—” His emotion overcame him; he paused, and soon after calmly resumed—“In one word, Madam, I can think of nothing since I left the house last night, but of averting the calamity with which you are threatened.” Mrs. Ruart looked at him with a sharp and apprehensive eye. Ruart had risen, and walked to the window, where he stood looking into the street, with eyes that shed an abundance of tears, but saw no passing object; and Flora blushed without knowing why, was pleased and yet trembled, and thought that if Glenfell was not in his right mind, as she

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had begun to suspect, it was a great pity, for he was certainly the finest young man she had ever seen. Her mother was the first that completely recovered self-possession, and with an easy and tranquillising accent said—“We must not allow ourselves to think of these things in this way—the duty that my son has to perform, is to be done before men who are but little acquainted with his heart; he must not therefore allow his feelings to overcome his fortitude; but if we give way to this kind of romance, he will be ­unmanned by the sympathy of our weakness. He is now brought into that state with the world, in which all the reaching arms and ­endeavours of affection cannot avail to protect him. His own mind is in this juncture his only friend, and our part is to take care, that in the ­struggle his attention is not drawn towards us, lest his honour be exposed to danger.” Glenfell replaced himself at the table, and Ruart likewise again took his seat. “I have often thought,” continued Mrs. Ruart, “that nothing in ­human life can be more affecting than the contrast in private, ­between the condition of an ingenuous youth, going forth from under the mater­nal wing, to try his fortune in the world, and the state of the same person when after many a bold endeavour to realise the fond ­anticipations of his early friends, he is, like your old school-fellow there, blasted in his prosperity.” “You are right, madam,” exclaimed Glenfell, catching with ardour at the pathetic idea which her reflection had suggested. “He begins the journey in the first fine morning of the spring; the flowers and the hedges all sparkling with dew, like the hopes in his bosom, and the birds in the air and in the boughs mingle their songs with the ­encouraging cheers that come blithely from his young companions as he looks behind towards his village home. The warm impression of the recent embrace of affection is yet glowing round his swelling heart, and a thousand generous resolutions to adorn the haunts of his youthful days, and reward the affection of those who so fondly cherished him, form the tide of his feelings; but when he enters upon the scene of business—civility is the substitute that he finds for that household love which was never weary of him in the fretfulness of childhood, nor angry with him but when he harmed himself. His ­actions are no ­longer regulated by his feelings, but as they may please others; and in his endeavour to please he is often rebuffed as officious; still he presses onward, hopeful that a day will come when his suppressed feelings may be allowed indulgence, and his native character

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permitted again to show itself. But, when the prospect seems opening, the view is suddenly overcast, and after being buffeted by the tempest, and ­dishevelled by the shower, he becomes so changed that all doors are shut against him—he stands an outcast, and must account to the stern tribunals of the law, for the woeful change that the storm of misfortune has made in his condition.” This, though a little tinctured with the peculiar conceits of Glenfell, was delivered in a tone of such true and exquisite eloquence, that it would have subdued the most callous audience. Ruart, to whom it was as if his heart had been laid open, was quite overcome. His mother also wept, and Flora looked at Glenfell, but said nothing. “What have I done?” exclaimed the young Laird. “I am doomed only to add to your distress; I ought not to have come here; and yet it is with you that I feel myself at last in earnest with what I do. Come Ruart,” he added, in a firm and manly voice, “let us get through with your business first, and then I will tell you what I think may be done to repair this wreck of your hopes;” and he cast a look at Flora which told her that what he meditated was not entirely meant for her brother. After breakfast the gentlemen retired to the counting-house, where the clerks having, in the absence of their master, prepared a statement of Ruart’s affairs, a meeting of the creditors was called for an early day. In the meantime it is necessary that we should relate what happened at Edinburgh, where the reader will recollect we left Ardskeen meditating a letter to Mary Darknish and Mrs. Campbell Ardmore on the eve of her grand banquet.  

CHAP. XVIII. “The sun begins to gild the western sky.”

Ardskeen after beginning at least half a score of letters, and tearing them before he had finished half a sentence, at last wrote the following brief epistle, and despatched it by his servant, who was requested not to return without an answer:— “My dear Mary, Your behaviour distracts me.—In what am I to blame.—Tell me when I can see you—At least afford me this satisfaction.” Miss Campbell was in her own room, at the time the note was d­ elivered to Lady Glenfoik, with the usual intimations that Ardskeen’s servant waited for an answer. Her ladyship did not lack decision; she ordered the taper on the mantlepiece to be lighted, and, with an air of supreme dignity, inclosed the note in a cover, and, having addressed it to Ardskeen, sealed it with sublime composure, and giving it to the servant said, there is an answer. The footman retired, and Ardskeen’s servant hastened home to his master as Mary descended to the parlour. “I have settled the business,” said her ladyship, as Mary entered the room. “The fellow had the impudence to send you a letter, but I have shewn him that we have dropped his correspondence by returning it in a blank cover.” “Was the letter addressed to your ladyship,” said Mary with e­ motion. “No, he would not dare to address me,” exclaimed lady Glenfoik, proud of what she had done. “Then” replied her niece, “with all the respect that I entertain for your ladyship, I must say that to take such a liberty with a letter from Mr. Macdonald to me, after the manner in which you have made me act to-day to him, is an injury that I cannot but resent.” Although this was expressed with no small degree of heat, it gave lady Glenfoik quite a cold fit, and she enquired somewhat timidly—“Mary, what do you mean?” “Mean,” exclaimed the indignant girl, “I will send for Mr. Macdonald

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instantly, and come to an explanation with him.” “You shall send for no such article to my house,” retorted her ladyship, recovering from her astonishment; “and if I thought you capable of doing such a mad act, I would send you to Bedlam this very night.” Mary burst into tears, and wept aloud with vexation. “The blood of your family is changed in your veins,” said her ladyship, “or you would not thus condescend to weep for a fellow that has insulted you in this manner.” “He has not insulted me,” exclaimed the poor girl, “nor do I weep for him, but for my own folly. Madam, I will rather quit your house this instant, than continue another hour this silly victim to some ­trifling inadvertency.” “And where will you go?” inquired her Ladyship coolly. Mary was more prepared than Lady Glenfoik expected, for she had reflected on the alternative in her own room; accordingly she answered to my cousin Mary Ardmore. “What to your rival!” cried her Ladyship in a shriek. “She is not my rival,” replied her niece. “It is all a misconception—I know it is.” “How do you know it?” said Lady Glenfoik. “Mary Campbell ­Darknish, at your peril, I charge you.” At this instant the street-door bell was pulled with tremendous vehemence, Mary dried up her tears, and Lady Glenfoik, in the ­apprehension of no less a personage than the dreaded Ardskeen, raised herself into an attitude of solemn dignity in her arm chair to receive him. In a moment after, the footman came into the room, and said, that Glenfell’s servant had come in quest of the letter and book which had been received by mistake in the morning, for that they were intended for Miss Campbell Ardmore. Lady Glenfoik was petrified, and it was not until after the servant had repeated the same tidings to her niece, that she could either see or speak. Her first words were, “Mary, you have been very foolish to take this accident so much to heart—it has been all a mistake. There is the book, and here is the letter,” said she, taking the one from the table, and the other from her writing-desk, which always stood at her e­ lbow, and giving them to the servant, who immediately retired. “Really, Mary, I am surprised to see you—had you been calm and collected like me, none of this uneasiness would have so afflicted you.” Mary was scarcely more affected by the light that was thrown on the mystery of the morning, than surprised at the dexterity with

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which her aunt exculpated herself, she however only said, “But what is now to be done.” “We’ll just send for Ardskeen at once;” and he was sent for with all possible expedition accordingly; but before the footman reached his lodgings he had received the returned letter, and in a fit of extreme indignation had rushed into the street, and the Glasgow coach happening at the same time to be on the point of setting off, he threw himself into it, and was borne away along Prince’s-street before Lady Glenfoik’s footman, panting and breathless with ascending the steep from Queen-street, had reached St. Andrew’s-square with her message. Thus had the chain of occult destiny, by that series of links which brought the groom and valet, as if by chance, together in the presence of Saunders M‘Ghee, the caddy, drawn Ardskeen and Glenfell, on the same night, by circumstances seemingly the most unconnected, to Glasgow.  

CHAP. XIX. “Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboards; look to the plate.”— Few ladies, who actively superintend their domestic affairs, knew better than Mrs. Campbell Ardmore how many blue beans it takes to make five; but the integrity that belongs to the character of an ­historian obliges the truth to be told, and, with all the partiality which we cherish for that worthy lady, we are forced to confess that she could not calculate with equal precision the quantity of genteel dinner ­requisite for seventeen adult persons, a girl entering her teens, and a boy turned of ten years,—the expected guests at her grand banquet. Perhaps a ­genius more strictly mathematical might even in this matter have found some difficulty; be this, however, as it may, whatever might be said of the frugality of Mrs. Campbell’s table in general, it must be acknowledged that on the great occasions of the fall and Spring banquets, she erred always on the safe side, and

“The table groaned with costly piles of food.”

The only thing inapplicable in this beautiful quotation, is the term costly, for although the viands of Mrs. Campbell consisted of ­varieties certainly valuable, the chief cost of them was a few hints from Miss Mary; a price that particular readers, considering the end in view, might think sufficiently great; but if they knew the character of that economical damsel, they would not be surprised at the liberality with which she dispensed her hints and suggestions, to procure materials for her mother’s feasts. From these observations it has probably been already inferred that the superabundance of Mrs. Campbell’s dinners was not owing so much to her hospitality as to her insufficient knowledge of the culinary arithmetic; and yet a very different opinion was currently repeated by all her guests, and her house was regarded as the Iona of Highland hospitality in Edinburgh. The only place when lost and neglected ­everywhere else, it found shelter, and where she, as St. C ­ olumbus did to learning, fostered and preserved it for the delight and comfort of mankind.

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On the morning of the great day of Mrs. Campbell, that day which so many circumstances combined to render important, and which was not only an æra in time but a point of confluence where many destinies met and mingled, a single knock was heard at the stair-head door before the sun had given the slightest intimation of any intention to get up. The wakeful ears of Mrs. Campbell alone heard the sound, and soon obedient to her summons, the maid, the lassie, and Miss Mary were a-foot, and the untimely visitor admitted. This visitor was no less a personage than tasty Jenny, who having in her younger years acquired some knowledge of cookery, was occasionally hired to assist in the savoury mysteries of festal rites. As soon as she entered, the kitchen-fire was stirred up. The grate had on the preceding evening been most thoroughly cleared of all the substratum of ashes with which the economical housewives of Scotland contract their kitchen-fires. A large boiler of water was placed to warm, and dishes with all the various apparatus of the table which had not been made use of since the Spring festival, were mustered to be cleaned. Mrs. Campbell had not rested satisfied with her own stock of utensils, et cetera, but had collected a miscellaneous assemblage of knives and forks, spoons, jelly-glasses, two pair of extra salt-cellars, candlesticks, and wine decanters; above all, she had borrowed from Mrs. Bellwhidder, the lady of the sleeping partner in the Review c­ onnexion, a silver waiter, which she had brought herself under her cloke. The waiter had been a gift to the modest divine on his marriage, from a ­pious dowager, and bearing her ladyship’s arms fully blazoned, it was so grand a looking thing in the opinion of Mrs. Campbell, that it is hard to say if she did not infringe the tenth commandment whenever the idea of it happened to cross her mind. This gorgeous article ­being but seldom used, was along with the rest of the plate consigned to the fair hands of Miss Mary, and under their purifying influence it ­attained the utmost pitch of dazzling brightness. But without entering upon minute details, suffice it to say, that before eight o’clock in the morning, all the congregated vessels and implements of festivity were fitted for use, and appropriately disposed of to meet the impending exigencies of the banquet. Soon after eight o’clock a hasty breakfast was despatched, and Mrs. Campbell sallied forth to purchase fish. This was almost the only ­article, except vegetables, which it was necessary to buy. On her return home she was delighted to find that nobody had been idle during her absence. She immediately put out for use her largest and best ­damask table-cloth, and the fire was laid in the dining-room ready to

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be lighted; the maid was summoned to assist her mistress in placing the tables, while tasty Jenny and Miss Mary were busily ornamenting the jellies and other light and cold confections, which address themselves more to the eye than the appetite, and the lassie was despatched to the baker’s for rolls. Considering how much was to be done, it was a great pity the maid had not the sense to bring them, when she was there with the puddings and pies. The table being laid, and the cloth spread, it was discovered, that by no possible arrangement it could be made to receive the expected number of guests. But this perplexity the alert and inventive genius of Mrs. Campbell readily remedied; she found that by removing one of the semicircular ends, and adding the common turnover to the ­middle piece, sufficient room would be obtained. The turnover was a little narrower than the dining-table; but, as she observed, folks need not strain at gnats when they are swallowing camels—it was accordingly placed as she directed. When the table was covered and adorned; for the domestic establishment of Mrs. Campbell did not allow of two courses, but only of removes, it was time to put the meat to the fire, to set the drawing-room in order—and Miss Mary having finished her part in the preparations, undertook to put the candles in the candlesticks. Her mother wished that she had cut handsome papers for the sockets, but the young lady assured her that no such things were now used at Inverary Castle; the candles were therefore set unadorned, which Mrs. Campbell declared might be vastly genteel, but for her part there was something in the cut papers that looked like an occasion. Miss Mary then retired to dress, in order that the hectic of her ­culinary labours might be abated before the arrival of the guests. But her mother had yet a world to do—she had to see that the things were not spoiled in the kitchen, and that nothing was forgotten, which she continued to do till the last moment. Indeed, a thundering knock at the door announced some of the guests, while she was in the very act of blowing at the ladle to taste the soup; and had it not been for the instructions which the lassie had received respecting her attention to the summons of the knocker, that able and active gentlewoman might have been caught in the fact.  

CHAP. XX. “Pudding he and tart that day shall eat.”

Where much is to be performed, something will be neglected. The fire in Mrs. Campbell’s drawing-room had not kindled so alertly as it ought to have done, and, strange to tell, although the chimney had been swept but the week before, and not a fire had been in it since, the smoke did not ascend with its wonted propriety; this rendered it ­necessary to open one of the windows, which the maid having o­ mitted to shut before the guests assembled, the air of the room was as raw and inhospitable as the atmosphere of our old parish church. The first guests had not long arrived when Miss Mary made her appearance, dressed, it must be allowed, not altogether without genteelity; but the previous tasks in which she had been all the morning engaged, had left something about her complexion not quite satisfactory even to herself—so much is it the nature of drudging toils to beget an ignoble mien. Half the company were come, and Mrs. Campbell had not yet ­entered—they were seated round the fire, and not yet comfortable. In the meantime the good lady had dressed herself, and gone into the kitchen merely to inquire if all was going right. This was a fortunate visitation, for on inquiring if the ketchup had been put into the cruet, it was discovered that this important essential had been entirely omitted, and that the bottle still stood in the closet next the fire in the drawing-room. The maid, who by this time had acquired a complexion equal to that of the grate, whose arms were besmeared with smut, and whose garb in many particulars as perfectly announced her vocation as the mantle does the herald, was therefore sent to bring the bottle. Before she could obtain access to the closet, she was obliged to raise three ladies and four gentlemen from their seats to make way for her, and when she had carried the bottle to the kitchen, her mistress discovered that the stupid creature had forgotten to bring away the key. Indeed, Mrs. Campbell did not think this so much attributable to negligence as design, for the closet contained several case-bottles of whiskey, and who knows what might have been done to them, while the company were enjoying the pleasures of the table in the ­dining-room—so that scarcely were the guests again seated, till they

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were again disturbed by the maid for the key. Mrs. Campbell, in her way from the kitchen to the drawing-room, took a look at the table to see if all was safe, when to her horror and consternation she beheld the nefarious cat in total contempt of her honour and renown, maliciously nuzzling the whipt-cream that ornamented the middle of the table. But the damage was happily averted in time, and the cat having scampered off like a detected thief as she was, Mrs. Campbell shut the door, and entered the drawing-room where her guests were by this time nearly all assembled. When her smirking salutations and welcomings were duly performed, she took her place at some distance from the fire, being in no need of artificial heat, and, stroking down her dress, endeavoured to look, in spite of her complexion, as cool as the Duchess of Argyle herself. But in the midst of this affected indifference a terrible crash was heard in the passage, and she ran to the door, and, looking out, ­exclaimed—“O! the abominable cat has tripped the woman with a plate of custards, just as she was going into the dining-room, and she has let them fall on the floor—such an obloquy to my carpet!” “It is but an accident,” said Miss Mary, calmly; “do not let it disturb the company:” and Mrs. Campbell resumed her seat evidently under the influence of a vigorous determination to appear quite indifferent to the impression of so great a misfortune. In the meantime the maid who had so much to do, and so many errands to run, had at last found an interval to dress herself; and soon after the fall of the custards she was in a condition not only to inform the company that dinner was on the table, but prepared with the ­assistance of the lassie to wait on the company. Jooker, by order of his master, was also in attendance. We shall not follow the guests of Mrs. Campbell to the hos­pitable board, but allow them to indulge unmolested, according to their ­several tastes, in the various masses of congregated luxury which had been prepared with such indefatigable labour and attention for their entertainment. Nor shall we enumerate or describe the guests, the greater number of whom being unknown to our readers, although among them were some of the most distinguished public characters of Edinburgh—persons who, in the opinion of their fellow-citizens, equalled in the different modifications of talent and acquirement, the most illustrious of any age or country. It is, however, necessary to ­explain in what manner it happens that individuals so extraordinary are so little known out of the circles of the intellectual city, while they are so strenuously celebrated within its romantic bounds.

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In the first place, there is the invidia of cotemporary rivals, and national as well as local prejudices, all co-operating to detract from their merits. The poets, the orators, and the lawyers, of the flat Bœtian region of the dull and muddy Thames, being under the influence of the envious spirit of conscious inferiority, make a point of rarely noticing the pre-eminent endowments of the northern Athenians; and when they do quote their verses or opinions, they always select such as are only remarkable for their conceit or mediocrity, disguising the malice of this insidious detraction by exorbitant epithets of admiration. But their cruel applause is as nothing compared with the effect of national and local prejudice. The whole English people, the Irish, and all Europe, are chagrined at the superiority of the wise and learned of Edinburgh; yea, every other town that participates in the intellectualising keenness of the Scottish air, turns the sharpness of its wits against the pretensions of the provincial capital. If such obstacles are opposed to the exterior celebrity of Edinburgh genius, an ample indemnity is provided, for the mortification, within the circles of the romantic town. These narrow circles of the different orders of society, may be compared to those maps which illustrate the plurality of worlds, wherein we see different systems linked together by the long eliptical orbits of unappropriated wandering stars of singular and transient splendour.—What these stars are in the universe, the Edinburgh men of genius are in the spheres of Edinburgh; they are found glittering and decorating, not only where with heavenly harmony the feast of reason and the flow of soul is dispensed, but even where Mrs. Campbell and her daughter—the earth and moon of the system, hold their diurnal course. To descend, however, from these astronomical heights, the plain fact is, that the highest public characters of Edinburgh are possessed of an agreeable affability, which induces them to accept of invitations to the show dinners of all their various degrees of acquaintance, by which they respectively acquire a numerous host of partizans to buy their books and speak their praise, constituting a species of literary federalism that exists no where else. Owing to this circumstance the table of Mrs. Campbell Ardmore, at her equinoctial banquets, was adorned with some of the most renowned personages connected with the legal or literary circles of the city; and on the occasion we have described, it was more than usually so honoured. Not because the authors had poems or novels in the press, or because the lawyers were engaged in causes which they expected would attract attention, but solely on account of their own innate affability, as well as natural predeliction for good eating.

CHAP. XXI. “Why, such is Love’s transgression.”

While the guests of Mrs. Campbell were enjoying the rich a­ ccumulations of her table, Glenfell was drinking deeply of love’s delicious draught at Glasgow, but not without some taste also of the bitter that is sometimes found mingled in the cup. Ardskeen was ­related to Mrs. Ruart, and on the morning after his precipitate arrival in the city of Cotton Mills and Steam Engines he called to see her. He was not acquainted with the situation of her son’s affairs, and heard with much sorrow the blight that had fallen upon them. While they were conversing on the subject, Flora entered the room, and her extraordinary beauty, the pensive cast which misfortune had given to her countenance, and the stinging recollections of the apparent caprice of his betrothed Mary, all combined to make him look on her with more than usual interest. In a word, on leaving the house, he determined that he would think no more of Mary, but at once declare himself the lover of Flora. But this determination was not formed in a very calm and settled state of mind, and it soon gave place to another, in which he resolved to demand an explanation from Mary, and if it was not satisfactory then to make a declaration of his wishes to Flora. Before he had however reached the hotel where he lodged, his fancy had taken another turn, and he thought it would be as well at least for a day to allow the fickle fair to remain in ignorance of the effect of her inexplicable inconstancy. While this resolution was floating in his mind, he fell in with Ruart and Glenfell returning from the Counting-house where they had been during the greater part of the day, and on being introduced to Glenfell by the former he requested them both to dine with them, for he had been informed by Mrs. Ruart of the friendly part which Glenfell was acting on this occasion, and he was desirous of becoming acquainted with a gentleman to whom his relations were so greatly obliged. Glenfell would rather have shared the fare of Flora, but Ruart accepted the invitation at once, and prevented him from declining it. It was however necessary that he should repair his phisiognomy by getting rid of that excrescence of nightly

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growth which he had neglected in the morning, and for this purpose, leaving Ruart and Ardskeen in the street, he walked to Ruart’s house, where his portmanteau and the necessary implements as we have ­already mentioned were left the preceding night. On reaching the door, he met Mrs. Ruart going abroad on some domestic business, and although he could not but compassionate the dejected dignity of her appearance, he experienced a very lively thrill of delight, when she told him that he would find Flora alone in the parlour. The young lady herself, not being in expectation at that time of any visitor, had availed herself of her mother’s intention of going out, to perform a little task of duty, which the altered state of her brother’s circumstances had imposed. This was no other than to arrange, in a casket, for the purpose of being sent to her mother’s friend, the dressmaker, in London, for sale, a gold-watch and several little jewels and ornamental trinkets, which she had received from her brother in his happier days. Immediately on ascertaining the extent of his misfortunes she had agreed with her mother, that they should lose no time in preparing to retire again into that sequestered way of life, which they had unfortunately been induced to forsake: and ornaments of the kind which lay scattered on the table before her, were unsuitable to that ­village simplicity which she had resolved so speedily to resume. We must not, however, ascribe her determination to dispose of the trinkets entirely to this feeling of modest pride—for a finer sentiment ennobled the sacrifice. She regarded the gifts of fraternal affection, as rendered by the inability of her brother to pay his debts, the property of his creditors, and the money expected from the sale, she was ­resolved should be added to his effects. She could not muster courage enough to deliver the trinkets themselves back to him, to be disposed of along with his other property, and the same delicacy of feeling would not allow her to offer them for sale to the jewellers from whom they had been probably purchased. In the performance of her intention, Flora unquestionably enjoyed the glow of honourable satisfaction, but regret and painful feelings so thickened upon her, that when Glenfell entered the room she was overwhelmed with emotion, and drowned in tears. With his usual quickness, he at once guessed the cause of her grief, and the motives by which she was actuated; for he saw a letter in the box in which some of the articles were already deposited, and he instantly concluded that they were destined to be sent to some distance for sale. But this intuitive knowledge, instead of teaching him the propriety of retiring, only whetted his curiosity to know more, and the same inflexion of the mind

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which determined him to become the purchaser of the trinkets, made him eager to know the address of the person whom he conjectured was to be entrusted with the sale. The attention of any man would have been absorbed by the sight of the beautiful Flora in distress, but it was the nature of our ingenuous hero constantly to overlook the present; and his imagination at the moment was associated with the delightful image of restoring to Flora, in some happy hour, when she least expected it, these beloved tokens of her brother’s affection, with which she was so reluctant and afflicted to part. There was joy in the conception of this image, and it brightened the heart and the countenance of Glenfell. With a total oblivion of all propriety, forgetting that he had neither declared his devotion to Flora, nor knew if his addresses would be acceptable, he ran towards her before she had time to recover from the confusion which his entrance had ­occasioned, and with the fond familiarity of a full-accepted bridegroom, took her in his arms, and imprinted her cheek with kisses. The astonished beauty burst from his embrace with a look of ­appalling indignation, that at once dissolved all the enchantment of fancy by which he had been so betrayed, and humiliated him with a sudden conviction of the violation of decorum, which he had so strangely committed. Before he had time to recover himself Flora gathered the trinkets into her lap and hastily quitted the room.

CHAP. XXII. “All broken implements of a ruin’d house.”

In the meantime it was known among the creditors of Ruart, that he had returned from Edinburgh with the young and wealthy Laird of Glenfell, who had examined his books, and that his relation, the still more opulent Macdonald, of Ardskeen, had also come to condole with him in his misfortunes; which left them no reason to doubt that Ruart would speedily be enabled, by their assistance, to resume his payments and satisfactorily arrange all the claims on his estate. The immediate effect of this was a very consolatory disposition towards Ruart, even from those from whom he had most reason to apprehend severity; and he was strongly urged, by one after another, to recommence his business; some of them went so far as to offer him temporary aid for this purpose. All this tended greatly to keep up his spirits, and to cherish that confidence in his own integrity which was necessary to sustain him through the arduous duty of explaining in public to his creditors the cause of his bankruptcy. But cheering as this treatment was, it could not disguise from him the true state of his affairs, the irrecoverable ruin of which confirmed him in his determination to abandon commercial pursuits for ever; he, therefore, adhered to the advice which Bencloo gave him, and sent out the summons for his creditors to meet. At dinner, however, when he joined Glenfell and Ardskeen, he was in better spirits than usual, and attributing the absence of mind which he observed in both his friends, to the interest which they took in his situation, he exerted himself to convince them that he was not so much cast down by what had happened, as he imagined them to suppose. But in this persuasion he was not more fortunate than some of the other parties in our piece were in theirs; for the abstraction of Glenfell was owing to his reflections on the offence he had given to Flora, and that of Ardskeen to the indecision under which he laboured with respect to the niece of Lady Glenfoik, for whom his affection b­ egan to revive with augmented ardour, whenever he allowed himself to think that the mystery of her conduct might proceed from some misunderstanding which he ought to have more patiently endeavoured to ascertain.

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It is, therefore, needless to say, that Ruart, after vainly exerting himself to dissipate a silent solemnity, of which he had not the most distant idea of the true cause, sunk also into himself, and meditated on his own peculiar circumstances. After several unsocial transits of the bottle, Ardskeen suddenly proposed that they should adjourn to Ruart’s house, and take tea with his mother and sister. This proposition, in itself so natural, rung like a peal of terror in the ears of the unfortunate Glenfell; for it was seemingly at once the summons to trial for the outrage he had committed, and a more dreadful indication of some particular interest which Ardskeen took in Flora. But he had no choice; nor in fact did he make any attempt to decline the proposal, but accompanied his companions, as it were, with the involuntary ­acquiescence of instinct. Flora, although extremely indignant at the rude treatment of Glenfell, was yet so far acquainted with his character, and had seen enough of the eccentricity of his manner, as not to feel inwardly offended against him. On the contrary, she thought him a fine, but odd sort of a young man, and in the midst of her sorrows could scarcely reflect, without a smile, on the extravagance of his behaviour, which, upon reflection, she justly attributed to his having found her in tears. She, therefore, made no complaint of what had passed to her brother, but resolved to act with coldness and ceremony towards the delinquent. Accordingly, when the gentlemen arrived, she received Ardskeen with the wonted warmth of her disposition; and early acquaintance, as well as relationship, gave an unusual degree of frankness and familiarity to her manner in addressing him; while to Glenfell she deported herself with all the dignity of distance which she was capable of assuming, and awed him into a trembling dread of her displeasure, whenever he ventured to lift his lowly downcast eyes towards her. Tea did not go off more cheerfully than dinner; all but Mrs. R ­ uart endeavoured to appear differently from what they felt; she alone sustained with due propriety the august part of her maternal grief. As soon as the table was cleared and the servant had retired, she said, with a degree of emotion that was the more affecting as being almost repressed, that whatsoever might be the result of the meeting of the creditors, it was the duty of her son not to lose a day in reducing his expenses to the smallest possible scale. “I happened,” said she, “to hear to-day that Mr. Grant, the purchaser of the Kildramalloch property in Invernessshire, has arrived from Canada, and that until he gets his commercial affairs finally closed, he intends to remain in Glasgow, and is desirous of renting a furnished house for some time. This is an

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advantageous opportunity,” she added, “for my son to get rid at once of his entire establishment, and I wish him to make an offer of the house immediately to Mr. Grant.” “When did Mr. Grant arrive?” inquired Ardskeen thoughtfully. Mrs. Ruart looked at him, and said significantly, “I forgot that he is Miss Campbell’s uncle. He has come in time,” she added, with a smile, meaning in time for the marriage. Ardskeen repeated the question somewhat earnestly. “Two days ago,” replied Ruart; “and he has returned with one of the largest fortunes that has yet been brought to this country from America.” Ardskeen sighed, and seemed inwardly contending with a burst of feeling that he with difficulty was able to controul. At this point of the conversation Flora observed, it was a fortunate circumstance for her brother, that she and her mother could at an hour’s notice be ready to remove. “We have already began to prepare.” “And where do you intend to go?” inquired Glenfell, without venturing to look up. The tone in which this was said, and the humble air with which the speaker seemed affected struck all present. Flora was the first who broke the pause that ensued, and that in a manner which surprised both her mother and Ruart; as for Ardskeen, he had fallen into a deep dejected cogitation, and observed but little of what was passing. Her voice had a clear ring of gaiety in its sound, unsuitable as it seemed to the occasion; but her reply to Glenfell was, “Where we shall be safe, if not from misfortune at least from violence.” These simple words contained, as he thought, the doom of his hopes: conscious error magnified their import, and gave to the sportive accent in which they were uttered, the acute and piercing emphasis of scorn. Ruart’s mind was too well constituted to hesitate for a moment in adopting his mother’s advice, and with his habitual alacrity of character he rose, and said he would go immediately and offer his house to Mr. Grant. Flora at the same moment also rose, and requesting him to stop, ran lightly to her own room, and returned with a small box carefully packed and sealed, which the sharp eyes of Glenfell recognised as probably containing the casket which he had disturbed her in packing. “I wish,” said she, in giving it to her brother, “that you would take it to the London coach for me. I have written by post that it is coming.” Ruart took the box in his hand, and Glenfell, actuated by a strange wish to get possession of it, bade Mrs. Ruart good night, and without noticing Flora, in words, accompanied him, leaving Ardskeen behind. As soon as they got to the street, Glenfell said that he would take

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charge of the box for London, while Ruart went in quest of Mr. Grant. This was done in perfect sincerity, his motive being to see the address of the person for whom it was intended, in order that he might explain his desire to become the purchaser of the contents. But when he had thus obtained possession of the casket, he began to think, what was very true, that in so long a journey as to London it was liable to meet with accidents, and might even be lost, and that the best way, perhaps, to acquire the jewels, was to retain them, and negociate with full hands. We shall not discuss very strictly the morality of a lover’s conscience in a matter of this sort,—suffice it for the present to say, that Glenfell, instead of carrying the casket to the coach-office, took it to the hotel where he lodged, and wrote to Mrs. Trimmings, the dressmaker, for whom it was intended, the following very proper and satisfactory epistle:— “Madam, “By the coach to-night from this city you were to have ­received from Miss Flora Ruart a box, containing several valuable ­articles, which circumstances have rendered it expedient for me to ­retain. I am ready to account to you for the full value of them as soon as possible, upon the simple condition that you will not ­divulge that they have been taken possession of in this manner by me.” Perfectly well pleased with the perspicuity of this explanation of a transaction which in any case might have been mistaken for a fraud, but in the situation of Ruart’s affairs could scarcely fail of being considered as the act of some interposing creditor, he despatched the letter to the post-office and deposited the casket in a place of safety. In the meantime, the unhappy Ardskeen had also bade Flora and her mother good night, and having no other acquaintance in Glasgow, he came in quest of Glenfell, whom he found in the full enjoyment of that self-complacency which, such a notable instance of address as this, was calculated to produce in a mind that acted with so little regard at any time to consequences.

CHAP. XXIII. “Alack! poor swain.”

Glenfell although but so recently introduced to Ardskeen was well acquainted with his approaching nuptials with the niece of Lady Glenfoik; but, when the doubting lover entered the room, he was in a humour of self-content that disqualified him for giving the slightest serious attention to any subject, far less a love-quarrel; accordingly when Ardskeen said, (after he had seated himself) somewhat ruefully, “Short, Sir, as our acquaintance has been, enough has occurred to convince me that you are a man of honour, and that I may safely consult you in a matter which deeply concerns my happiness.” Glenfell felt all his cabbaging predilections revive, and he replied with an affectation of profound gravity. “I perceive that something has occurred to darken the prospect of your felicity.” “True,” said Ardskeen, “I was on the point of marriage with a young lady in every way most worthy of my affection.” “But you have since observed a change in the behaviour of the lady?” answered Glenfell inquiringly. “I own it with sorrow,” said the disconsolate lover. “I never heard of such wanton cruelty in all my life!” exclaimed Glenfell, affecting a tone of vehement condolence; “Your hopes all blasted; the bond of love broken; the sunshine of life overcast; the spring of youth withered. But, Sir, can you accuse yourself with no fault, no aberration of juvenile hilarity that may have given offence.” “None,” was the dolorous reply of the drooping swain. “Very extraordinary,” cried his sympathising counsellor, “you are then quite sure that no blame whatever can attach to you?” “Perfectly,” said Ardskeen. “In that case,” observed Glenfell, in a prudential business-like manner, “the dishonour of the breach does not fall on you, and therefore we must turn our attention to the conduct of the other party; and, if possible, ascertain by the consideration of circumstances, whether any thing has happened in that quarter to affect the interests of the lady, so as to induce that apostacy of affection of which you so justly complain.”

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“I know of nothing that possibly could have had any influence on her except the arrival of her uncle, that Mr. Grant who is arrived from Canada,” said Macdonald earnestly. “Ah, and he is rich!” exclaimed Glenfell. “He is so reputed,” an­swered the lover. “The arrival of her uncle—a man of large fortune,” said Glenfell shrewdly, “that, Sir, is a most serious consideration; has the lady, independent of this rich uncle, any fortune of her own?” “Not considerable—fortune with me,” said Macdonald sorrowfully, “was no object.” “I believe it,” exclaimed Glenfell, “on your part all was love, f­ eeling, and honour. Excuse my freedom, Sir, but I think I ought rather to congratulate you on having escaped from a mercenary woman, than to sympathise with your grief. Women, Sir, as we see every day, act in such a manner, that the man who founds his hopes of happiness on their constancy, is like him who builds upon sand. The world is full of examples of beauty submitting to be bound in golden chains by deformity, and of paralytic age, leading virgin youth into the most deplorable captivity.” Glenfell thought he had said this in his best manner, and Macdonald answered, much affected:— “True, Sir, but I cannot think so meanly of the woman whom I still hope to call my wife. Besides, she knew her uncle’s fortune before, and she is not his only heir.” “But,” cried Glenfell, with an affectation of moral warmth, “he may have determined that she shall be his only heir, and have so informed her since his arrival; and may not she, Sir, have thought, in consequence, that if with comparatively humble prospects she succeeded in riveting the love of a gentleman of your figure and condition, she might, with the addition of her uncle’s fortune, hope for a still greater match?” “I do not think she is such a calculator,” observed Macdonald gravely. “And yet,” said Glenfell, “you think her a woman of ­understanding. Now, my dear Sir, you have surely had experience enough of the world to know, that what is called understanding is commonly but a short phrase for saying, that the person who possesses it, is one who has all wishes, passions, and affections, in due subordination to the ­reason; and what greater proof in a worldly sense could you desire of the ­understanding of this faithless woman, than that with the assurance of her uncle’s great fortune she should controul those wishes, subdue that passion which you had inspired, and entirely overwhelm that

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affection which unfortunately for your peace of mind you had too fondly thought was all your own.” Ardskeen was not quite convinced of the justness of this reason, but it had the effect of adding to his vexation, and he bade Glenfell good night, and quitted the room to hide his agitation. “What a delightful cabbage it is,” said Glenfell to himself, amused with what had passed. In the same instant, the idea crossed his mind, that poor Ardskeen might really have some cause for vexation and distress, and this thought had not only the effect of instantly checking the self-gratulation in which he was indulging, but to give him serious uneasiness and pain. One mouth of that seven-headed beast conscience opened—all the other heads were roused, and began to hiss in such a manner, that he was quite confounded; for ever and anon there was one that spoke unutterable things about the casket, till he wished it twenty times at the bottom of the sea, and finally resolved to send it forward to its original destination. But the folly he had committed in ever thinking of keeping it was irremediable, for his letter was sent to the post-office, for which he might as effectually have called s­ pirits from the vasty deep, as have tried to obtain it from the inexorable post-master.

CHAP. XXIV. “Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks and hills, whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak, such was the process, And of the cannibals that each other eat; And anthropophagi and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders.”

Mr. Grant, the uncle of Mary Campbell Darknish, and in quest of whom, Ruart had gone to make him an offer of his house, was like every Highlander, a gentleman by birth and descent. History, however, in recording the valiant deeds of a long line of heroic ancestors, had not occasion to state, that the glory of ages which was concentrated round his cradle, in the decayed hall of his fathers, was accompanied with the substantial fuel of ample herds and spacious domains, without which all its splendour is but a lambent flame, like the cold pale light which plays in the dark, around the lifeless victims of piscatorial stratagems. Grant having little other inheritance than an honourable name in the traditions of his country, but anxious in these degenerate days, when matters of political economy are laid in the balance against the renown of thousands slain, to uphold the relative consequences of his family, was easily persuaded, as he approached the years of discretion, to prefer the sordid industry of commercial enterprise, to the bloody bravery of military aggression. Being still however desirous even in the craft of trade, to retain something of the freedom of his mountain ancestors, he determined, in the language of heroic fable, to espouse his fortune. With this intent he embarked for America, and for more than five and thirty years, in the wilds of upper Canada, he pursued a course of life, which though strictly mercantile in its object, was, in its incidents and varieties, such as even the mighty Fingal might from his throne of clouds have contemplated with satisfaction. In the vast sylvan wildernesses around the lakes, he had leisure to ruminate apart from the world, and to cherish with the holiness of religious devotion, the early associations of ancestral virtue, the ties of kindred, and the love of country. But he was naturally of a cheerful

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disposition, and had he mingled more in polished society, would probably have proved a witty and facetious companion. As it was, his solitary recreations, instead of rendering him morose and melancholy, had the effect of only making his fancy a little more extravagant in its flights without weakening his innate acuteness of judgment in ­affairs of serious business. He was, in consequence, considered by the young officers whom he visited in the remote forts of those Indian countries as a droll and ridiculous character, while he was esteemed by the old and experienced as a man of profound reflection, singular honour, and undaunted intrepidity. The opinion which the young entertained of him was owing to his endeavours to make sport of their credulity, by recounting wonderful stories. A better acquaintance with the world would have taught him more moderation, and secured for him the amusement he sought; for the error he committed was in ascribing to the prematurity of modern youth, the simplicity that he had himself enjoyed at the same green period of life. At the close of the American war, Mr. Grant had taken as his servant a private solider of the name of Isaac, who was in some respects even a greater original than his master. The genius of the old gentleman lay in embellishing the most whimsical fictions, with an air of probability so complete as almost to persuade his auditors that he believed his own stories, while the mind of Isaac was of the most single, simple, and, if the expression may be used, literal kind. He was indeed forbidden by nature to comprehend a joke; all fancy was to Isaac falsehood, and yet so implicit was his credulity, that there was scarcely any tale too gross for him to credit. Of his master’s stories he had been assured a hundred times, that they were only inventions to raise a laugh, but still he was in constant terror lest those who heard them should think Mr. Grant addicted to that other species of story-telling which requires no broader epithet. The reader may therefore easily conceive how anxious Issac was, that now when they had bid adieu to “the lone magnificence of mountain, lake, and wood” of Upper Canada, his master should turn over a new leaf, and refrain from relating those strange and marvellous things, which had rendered him so much an object of ridicule among the young officers in that “far savage land.” To offer advice without giving offence, requires, it is well known, the utmost delicacy of address; not, however, that species of address which is learnt from Lord Chesterfield’s philosophy, but which is taught by the venerable Lady Nature, who, without any disparagement to the merits of his Lordship, is one of the best teachers of good

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manners and of graceful behaviour that has yet undertaken the task of smoothing the intercourse of society. Under the tuition of this ­excellent governess the faithful Isaac had received the rudiments of all the politeness he possessed, and it was mainly by her advice and instruction that he was enabled not only to remind his master of past indiscretions, but to caution him with respect to the future, without provoking his displeasure. We shall, however, relate what passed between them after Ruart had retired, Mr. Grant having agreed to take his house. “Well, Isaac,” said his master, “thank heaven! we shall soon get out of this noisy Black Bull Inn, and be as safe and quiet in a house of our own, as ever we were on the banks of the Red River. Five and thirty years, Isaac, have made me almost an old man, and Scotland is so changed since I left it, that I feel myself a stranger in my native land.” “Five and thirty years,” replied Isaac, “is indeed, Sir, a terrible long while, and I have been with you the greatest part of all that time, and never took any liberty, Sir, with you before—I wish therefore, Sir, that you would at least allow me to speak a little.” “Speak! Isaac,” exclaimed his master, somewhat surprised at this ­exordium, “speak, and welcome.” “Then, with your honour’s permission, I will say something.” “I hope so,” said his master dryly, “I did not certainly expect that you requested leave to say nothing, although you have only asked ­permission to speak.” “Then, Sir, by your leave,” answered Isaac, less humbly, “I would take the liberty of advising you.” “What! you then intend to offer me some good advice?” inquired the old gentleman. “Yes, Sir, if you please,” said Isaac, pausing to afford time for an ­answer, but none being given he proceeded. “We are, as you say, Sir, now in Scotland, where we are less known than in the woods of Upper Canada, and where I greatly fear the ­people are not like those whom we used to meet with there.” Mr. Grant said, he did believe that they were indeed very different. “Then, Sir,” said Isaac diffidently, “don’t you think, Sir, it would be as well if we were to give up telling those strange stories, which used to astonish the Johnny Raws in the forts yonder.” The intelligent reader will take notice that Isaac made use of the ­social pronoun, in order to divide with his master the odium that might attach to the stories. Mr. Grant held down his head to listen with more attention to the

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continuation of this lecture. “For,” said Isaac, “they made me suffer a great deal.” Mr. Grant was not exactly prepared for this, and he unguardedly asked what the officers in the forts used to say of him. “That the Indians had taught you, Sir, to shoot a long bow,” ­answered Isaac. The good humour of Mr. Grant returned at this unintentional sally, and he observed with cheerful candour, that habit had perhaps sometimes led him to joke a little too much. Isaac, delighted with the effect of his admonition, said, “Indeed it does, Sir.” “Very well then, Isaac,” replied his master; “whenever you observe me shooting beyond the mark, give me a hint by a nod or a cough, for I should not like to ­expose myself among the people here.” At this satisfactory point of the conversation a waiter entered with a letter. It was from Lady Glenfoik, congratulating Mr. Grant on his arrival, and explaining to him the unfortunate misunderstanding that had arisen between his niece and Ardskeen, all owing, as her Ladyship very justly remarked, to the misconduct of a servant, and a little pride on the part of Mary; but that matters she trusted would yet be ­amicably settled, and she thought that if Mr. Grant could fall in with Mr. Macdonald, whom she understood had flown to Glasgow, an explanation might take place without any degradation of family honour, or violation of female delicacy. Her Ladyship added, “you will probably hear of Ardskeen by inquiring at the house of Mr. Ruart, a merchant who has lately broken, related to the Macdonalds, by the mother’s blood.” Mr. Grant was not altogether well satisfied with the commission which her Ladyship had thus given him, for he was conscious that it required more knowledge of the character of the parties than he possessed; but his clanish prepossessions began to rise, when he reflected that it was a sister’s child for whom he was called on to interfere—and that the time was when a slight to one of the remotest of his kin, even from the royal race of the Macdonalds, would have kindled the mountain heath with the dazzle of the claymore, and the flashing of hostile eyes. In a word, the weakness, or rather perhaps more correctly speaking, the nobleness of his nature was soon warmed in the cause of his niece, and without loss of time he went immediately to Ruart in quest of the truant lover.

CHAP. XXV. “Thou art not honest: or If thou inclinest that way, thou art a coward.”

In the mean time all went prosperously on at the grand banquet of Mrs. Campbell Ardmore; every article of her superabundance was ­excellent except the soup, which, although she had tasted the last thing herself out of the ladle, and pronounced delicious, turned out, when served up, most shocking indeed. This was owing to some negligence in removing the fish-kettle from the fire, by which such a portion of the water, wherein the fish were boiled, was dashed over into the soup, that it quite destroyed all its proper taste and flavour. But misfortunes of this kind will happen in the best regulated families; the guests of Mrs. Campbell, however, in order to dissipate the chagrin which this disappointment evidently occasioned to their most kind hostess, “were shut up,” as the poet says, “in measureless content” with her other good things. During the dinner all went well, the maid, the lassie, and Jooker did their best, and the best was done. Never on any former occasion had Mrs. Campbell such a feast, nor were her guests before so well attended. It was, indeed, as she herself declared, a wonder and a pleasure to see the ability of the servitude. Bencloo, as he had promised to Glenfell, was there, and not a savoury bit or nicer slice than another, could Mrs. Campbell discover on any part of the table, but it was pressed upon the imaginary lover, as if his heart was indeed to be won through the medium of his stomach. At last the vast remains and mangled members of the dinner were removed, and the ladies, in due time, began to interchange silent ­tokens of a wish that their garrulous hostess would retire with them to the drawing-room. She, however, read their looks, and most hospitably remonstrated against what she called such an early evacuation. Where she had acquired the term we have not been able to learn, but it was probably from some of the gallant lawyers in that renowned and warlike host the Edinburgh Volunteers. The remonstrance had the desired effect of restraining the ladies a little longer from moving, till Miss Mary, by a look intimated to her mother that it was full time they

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should go; upon which signal Mrs. Campbell, enjoining the gentlemen not to spare the bottle, rose, and led the way from the dining-room. As it is not the practice in Edinburgh for gentlemen to indulge long at their wine, especially in the houses of dowagers, the ladies were not well seated in their apartment, when all the gentlemen made their ­appearance. At their entrance Mrs. Campbell instantly quitted her chair, and hastened back to the dining-room to put away the decanters, but Jooker was already there, and most laudably employed in clearing the glasses from the table. Among other things that Mrs. Campbell observed in the tray in which he was placing the glasses, were two pair of cut tumblers, that had been set down for the water with the desert, but instead of water they appeared strangely to be filled with some more generous liquor. “What’s that in the two crystal tumblers, Jooker?” exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, in a tone of amazement. “Table beer,” said Jooker. “Who could be drinking table-beer with their fruit, Jooker,” ­observed the lady, “let me taste it.” Jooker turned up the corner of his eye, and showed more than the tip of his tongue, as he presented one of the glasses. “As I’m to be trusted,” cried Mrs. Campbell, even before she had tasted what was in the tumbler, “its my old Madeira wine.” But Jooker, heedless of her exclamation, had, in the meantime, nimbly quitted the room with what glasses were in the tray, and, on setting it down in the kitchen, drank off the wine that he had in the other tumbler, and returned to assist in removing the remainder of the glasses with the most unabashed innocence of face. Mrs. Campbell, however, was resolved that he should not, as she said, play his pranks on her for nothing, and began to rail against the wastrie of servants in general; she rashly asserted that what Jooker had done was the most confidential piece of thievery that she had ever seen in all her born days. This touched his honour, and he inquired if she meant to call his honesty into question. “I’ll no say what I’ll call in question,” replied the lady, waxing more and more wroth, “but if I was a man as I am but a woman, it would na be to seek what I would say.” “I believe the old devil is tipsy,” said the faithful valet. This was a floorer, to use a phrase of the fancy. Mrs. Campbell was struck speechless; she could not fetch her breath; she staggered to a chair, but scarcely was she down, when she bounced up with a yell of horror, for she had seated herself on a selection of ripe pears which

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Jooker had placed aside for himself, and crushed them with her setting part, to the utter ruin of a new French silk gown, which she had received as a present from one of her relations, an officer, who lost his leg at the battle of Waterloo, and who, in his return home, smuggled the piece of silk wrapped round its wooden substitute, beneath his Wellington trowsers. This sore calamity, as she very properly designated the misfortune which had thus befallen her, drove all thoughts of the pilfered wine out of her head. Miss Mary was summoned from the drawing-room, and after the calm and cool advice of that reasonable young lady, it was determined that Mrs. C. should retire and change her dress, comforted by the assurance of Miss Mary, that the gown could be dyed another colour, when it would look quite as well as new. In the mean time the table had been cleared; but Jooker, burning with revenge for the imputation that had been cast on his integrity, meditated an ample indemnification. He cast his eyes on the sideboard, adorned with the superb salver that had been borrowed from Mrs. Belwhidder, and he resolved to make himself master of the ­glittering prize. For this purpose he went softly to the hall-door, which led, as we have already mentioned, to a common stair, and opened it wide to the wall. The windows of this stair, he knew, looked into a certain receptacle, which, in the doric dialect of Scotland, is called a midden; but for a proper translation of the term we must refer our readers to the elaborate dictionary of our old friend, the learned Dr. Jamieson. Jooker also knew that divers panes of glass in the aforesaid windows were broken, affording several tempting apertures to throw out any thing, whether intended to be sought again or consigned to perish in the abyss below. When he had thus opened the door, he returned into the ­dining-room, and folding the darling salver together as well as he could by main force, he again cautiously slipped out, and threw it out at one of the broken panes. When this was done he returned into the kitchen, and immediately began to assist in some of the operations that were going on there in preparing the borrowed cutlery and spoons to be returned—complaining very morosely of the manner in which he had been insulted by Mrs. Campbell, vowing that he never would enter her house again, which he declared not only one of the most stingy he had ever set his foot in, but so cold and comfortless, that the wind blew in it as if the windows were open. By this time Mrs. Campbell had changed her dress, and was leaving her room, when seeing the hall-door open, she exclaimed, “Who has

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been so thoughtless, in such a night as this, as to leave the door open in that way?—we’ll be stollen off our feet!” A universal cry from all in the kitchen answered, that no one had been out, nor had any one come in, and surely the door could not be open. This was truly alarming; but nothing in the hall being removed, Mrs. Campbell was satisfied with merely chiding such inattention. In taking a look, however, into the dining-room, before rejoining the company, she missed the salver; and in the sharp quick tone of apprehen­sion, ­inquired where it was. This brought Jooker, the maid, the lassie, and tasty Jenny, into the room, and Jooker declared, that when he was last there, he saw the salver on the side-board. Miss Mary was again summoned from the drawing-room; but, alas! what could she say. The salver was gone, and all agreed that the thief must have come in at the door. The sound of what passed, the lamentations of Mrs. Campbell, the protestations of Jooker, and the clamour of the meeting, alarmed the guests; but they could throw no light on the mystery. Something, however, in the manner of Jooker struck Bencloo, and he instantly charged him with being the thief. This was so unexpected that the delinquent was thrown off his guard, which confirmed Macdonald’s suspicion; but the ­kitchen-women all assured him that Jooker had not been out of the house; and the knavish varlet himself appealed, in proof of his innocence, to his shoes, which he declared he had brought in his hand clean from his master’s lodgings, and put them on in the house, and that they were still ­perfectly clean. This strong exculpatory fact, would probably have satisfied the ­accuser, and Jooker might have been allowed to depart, and carry away the hidden prize at his leizure, had not tasty Jenny in going to r­ esume her drudgery in the kitchen, happened to have occasion to open the window for the purpose of emptying with the greater expedition, one of her utensils; in which act the utensil escaped from her hands, and fell into the court below. The night being dark, she was in consequence obliged to take a candle down with her to the court, to enable her to find it, and the light catching the lustre of the salver as it lay, where the cock in the fable found the precious stone, she seized it with hands of triumph, and bore it battered and besmeared as it was, to where the company were still marvelling at the boldness and dexterity of the unknown thief. Jooker was confounded and fell on his knees, imploring the mercy of Macdonald, who without any process of law, dragged him to the door, and kicked him down stairs, telling him to

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quit Edinburgh as expeditiously as he could, and he would account for his absence to his master. It is unnecessary to say with what pleasure Mrs. Campbell received the lost treasure, nor shall we attempt to relate how, when her first emotions of joy had subsided, she bewailed the condition in which it had been found, “dunkled and deflowered” as she pathetically said, “in the jaws and jeopardy of a midden.” The company soon after this affair took their leave, and the part which Bencloo had acted in the business, appeared to Mrs. P ­ ickenween, one of the guests, so very particular, that in recounting the whole ­affair to Miss Mally M‘Gab, on whom she called in her way home, in order to give her an account of the party, she spoke of it in terms of great commendation. Miss Mally was happily enabled by the information which she had received from Dr. Macleish, to account in the most satisfactory manner for Bencloo’s conduct, assuring Mrs. Pickenween that she had it from the best authority that a marriage would very soon explain all. That lady however refused to give credit to the report, ­being convinced as she said by her own eyes, that Mr. Macdonald had a settled aversion to Miss Campbell, for never in her life had she seen such studied contempt manifested by man to woman. Nevertheless although thus persuaded, she made no scruple the next day in speaking on the subject to her acquaintance, to intimate her confidential knowledge of the intended marriage, in terms not indeed direct, but sufficiently so to be perfectly understood. In short, it was quickly circulated among all their respective acquaintance, that Macdonald Bencloo, and Miss Campbell Ardmore were to be soon married, and that Mrs. Campbell had given a grand promulgatory dinner in honour of the approaching nuptials, at which she was robbed of a vast deal of family plate, and an incredible amount of other valuables, by a gang of thieves from London in league with the Laird of Glenfell’s blackguard flunkie, who had admitted them into the house in the most extraordinary manner, and concealed them in a water closet, where they were found by one of the ladies, disguised in the most appalling forms.

CHAP. XXVI. “This ancient Sir, who, it would seem Hath some time loved.”

Her innate dignity of mind, and the charm of polished ­manners which is its proper lustre, would have rendered Mrs. Ruart in all situations an object of singular interest to strangers—in the embar­ rassment of her son’s misfortunes, she appeared entitled to the epithet of ­majestic. When he had returned from Mr. Grant and told her that the old gentleman had agreed to take the house, and would come in the morning to see it, she said that she would be ready with Flora to quit it in the evening.—“We cannot go back however to our old humble retreat, even were it ready to receive us, for having left it with flattering prospects we should only subject ourselves to mortifications in the shape of insincere condolence. In the village we had a few agreeable acquaintance, but my early habits, and perhaps my Highland pride, were not altogether congenial to their manners, and I found myself treated with more respect among them than was due to my circumstances, and less cordiality than my heart desired. What was then regarded as the effect of hereditary feelings, and my education in London, would now be ascribed to a mean endeavour on my part to preserve by distance a consequence that was unbecoming my poverty. This may be a severe opinion of my neighbours, but I live ­persuaded that it is a just one; for I could often enough before discern that my peculiarities which I can no more prevent than I can change my own nature and person, were indulgently considered on account, my dear Charles, of some presentiment of your good fortune. That is dissipated, and we should now prepare, as it were to begin the world anew. As soon as you have met your creditors, and submitted to their decision, you will do well to revise the past, in which perhaps you will discover that you committed two great errors. The one in trusting too much to the hollow and falacious civilities of those friends, by whose in­attention to you in serious matters you have so often felt the pang of disappointment; and the other, in acting as confidently as if you had really enjoyed their support. You have often told me, that whatever help you received in the prosecution of your business, was obtained

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from strangers, on whom you had no claim, nor of whom you had any other knowledge than that accidental intimacy which arises in the common intercourse of life. From this your main comfort should now be drawn—you have only in future to avoid encouraging any hope of assistance from any friend, and to act with fearless integrity, in order to be assured, that in whatever line or land your lot may be cast, you will still find friends whom disposition or interest will induce to take you again by the hand.” Ruart was much affected by the tone in which this was said, and he inquired with some emotion, what his mother intended to do with herself and Flora. “Since I heard of what has happened, I have thought of little else,” replied his mother; “for I did not much turn my thoughts to your circumstances; they are out of a woman’s sphere, and I am inca­pable of judging concerning them. I only know that you have met with losses—I conjecture that you may have been imprudent, but I am confident that you have been always an honest man—and that is my consolation. For myself, though somewhat passed into the vale of life, I may reasonably look forward to many years—years enough to see you, Charles, in the full bearing of prosperity—and those little attainments acquired for ornamental accomplishments, but which since the death of your f­ ather have enabled me to possess every moderate pleasure that became the sequestered condition of a clergyman’s widow, will again be put to use—with the fruits of them and my pension, I shall still be able to maintain at least the appearance of a gentlewoman. Flora has been educated with great care, she is possessed of talents of no common kind. I am sure that a mother’s partiality does not ­deceive me—and I doubt not when an opportunity is afforded her of exercising her taste and genius in a proper manner, that her industry will soon indemnify her for the pain of our present disappointment. I have already written to Mrs. Trimmings, who has more than once expressed her satisfaction at the specimens which I sent her of Flora’s embroidery, informing her of what has taken place, and requesting to know if she could receive Flora into her house, and would teach her the general business of a dress-maker.” The heart of Ruart was almost cleft in twain by this observation— his Scotch pride, his Highland feelings, were all, as it were, insulted at the idea of seeing his sister in the condition of a dress-maker—that sister whose dazzling beauty seemed to be conferred to add splendour to rank, and whose elegance of mind, and superiority of talent, was even still more extraordinary than her beauty.

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Mrs. Ruart perceived his astonishment and the emotion with which it was immediately followed, but without apparently noticing it, continued to say— “This is not, to be sure, quite so splendid a destiny for Flora as we perhaps both once thought, but still it holds out the prospect of great respectability—for the dress-makers in London are persons in a far different line of life from those of Glasgow or of Edinburgh; and in mercantile concerns you are aware, it is the magnitude of the dealings that makes all the difference between the high and the low.” At this crisis of their conversation Mr. Grant was announced—he entered without making any apology, and inquired, in rather an unnecessary and particular manner, where Mr. Macdonald Ardskeen was to be found. Mrs. Ruart, unacquainted with his person, imagined that he was a creditor, and with a voice and look that fixed him to the spot, said, “I perceive, Sir, that you do not observe there is a lady in the room.” Mr. Grant instantly corrected himself, and with extreme good humour said, “Really I have been so long out of the way of rooms with ladies in them, that I have almost forgot there were any other of the species than women and squaws in the world.” Ruart introduced him to his mother, and Mr. Grant then by way of apology said he had received a letter from a relation in Edinburgh, which obliged him to see Ardskeen without delay, and that he was ­directed to inquire for him at Mr. Ruart’s. As soon as the proper answer was given to this, in the name of the hotel where Ardskeen lodged, the old gentleman making his best bow to Mrs. Ruart, turned to leave the room. “Since you are here,” said ­Ruart, “you may as well look at the house, it will save you the trouble of coming in the morning, and afford us a little more time for ­removing—it may be ready for your reception on the day after.” Mr. Grant gave a cursory glance round the room, and eyed Ruart for a moment with a slight cast of compassion in his countenance. He then walked respectfully up to his mother, and said with a free and manly emphasis, “The house, Madam, that is fit for a lady of your ­appearance, must be better than such a wild man of the woods as I am can possibly know what to do with. I have taken your house young man—but your mother shall not stir out of it till it suits her own pleasure, though that were not to be till she was as ugly as an Indian’s grandmother.” Mr. Grant meant literally what he said—the habits of his life had given a rapidity of decision to a mind naturally quick in its volitions; and the august form of Mrs. Ruart presenting itself beside her bankrupt

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son, whose countenance still retained some traces of his emotion for the change in the destiny of a beloved sister, roused his generosity into the determination which he expressed with so little ceremony. While the party were yet standing on the floor, Flora entered the room—the elegance of her stature, and that extraordinary intelligence of countenance, which, like a halo, irradiated her corporeal beauty, ­appeared to him as the visionary glories of a race of beings superior to the daughters of men. “Ah!” said he, almost loud enough to be heard, “this is the mis—understanding that has balked the hopes of my poor niece—:” and he looked at Flora with such sincerity of admiration that the dazzling lustre of her charms blushed rosy red; the diamond changed into ruby. After a pause of a few seconds, he abruptly seated himself in a chair, and said, “Well, man is man, and I will not seek ­Ardskeen to-night. Pray Mrs. Ruart, if it is not troubling you too much, I should like to sup with you.” Any ordinary Glasgow lady would have tossed her head with scorn at such familiar impudence; and to say the truth, Ruart felt pretty much like a punch-drinking merchant on the occasion. His mother, whose early acquaintance with the various modifications of character, enabled her to perceive at once that their visitor was a gentlemanly ­humourist, replied with that self-possession which is only to be ­acquired by frequenting polite society, “the offer is too flattering to be refused;” and rather a brisk conversation, in which the humour of Mr. Grant became still more apparent, was carried on, for a few minutes, between them. “I see how it is,” said the old man to Ruart, who in the mean time had retired to his seat, and who looked a little askancely at his guest,—“I see how it is—you have been bred up too much of a gentleman to succeed among the thorough-bred counting-house curs of this profit and loss city, unless you had been backed by a l­onger purse than is generally the inheritance of the mountain-race; and with such a purse who would live in Glasgow, breathing the smoke of steam-engines and the fumes of secret works. I have been here but three days, and curse take me, if the only proofs of superior civilization that I have yet seen, are not the total absence of that spirit of h­ onour, which the Indians still cherish, fat wives loaded with riches, and dowdy daughters, whose only conversation in the dining-room is ‘port, if you please;’ and in the drawing-room—‘my instrument is ­really out of tune;’ which serves as an apology for dislocating reels, and raising the dead rattle in the throat of adagios and strathspeys.” Ruart looked a little discontented at the first part of this address, and Flora laughed at the compliment on the accomplishments of the

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Glasgow young ladies. “Why, how now!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, turning suddenly round to her—“What Indian nurse suckled you into such heroism, that you dare to be so natural as to laugh in the bankrupt circumstances of your brother. I spent the afternoon, yesterday, with a family who had lost a distant relation; some great man, whom they had never seen; but he had died much regretted, as the newspapers told them, by a numerous circle of acquaintance. He had, moreover, left them a handsome legacy, for which they had put on black clothes and long faces: had the man been hanged for sheep-stealing they could not have worn more woeful looks; and yet you, in the bloom of youth and beauty, in the rose of life, threatened, as I understand you are, to be cast out from all this elegance, to the dangers of the peopled world, with only the precarious chance of your brother’s getting again into business, which he has proved himself, in some degree, unworthy of by failing; you have bravery enough to laugh at the whimsicality of a savage, who has spent the best part of his days in the woods of ­America, and that too with as much honesty of heart as if you were in the full enjoyment of prosperity and fortune.” “O Sir,” said Flora, a little fervently, for the plainness with which he had spoken of her brother, but still in a sprightly manner—“You give my courage more praise than it merits, for I am not quite so dependent as you seem to think.” “Then you have a fortune of your own.” “I have,” said Flora. “I have ten—,” and she paused. “I have ten fingers.” The generous heart of the old man swelled when he looked at the elegant and lovely creature before him, and was told that she must depend on her own exertion for support, while the candour and spirit in which it was said, evidently showed that she neither considered it as a degradation, nor was alarmed at its insecurity. Mrs. Ruart, who had been witness, with some degree of emotion, to all that Mr. Grant had said, now interposed—“I see, Sir, that although you are partly acquainted with our present situation, you are not informed as to some particulars that may serve to explain the ease with which we bear what is, nevertheless, a great misfortune: my daughter has only, within these few weeks, been brought into this house. She has lived with me in a small country town, where she has been taught to trust to industry as her only fortune, and she feels it no hardship to resume her tasks. Her habits, fortunately, are not yet broken.” “I doubt, I doubt,” cried Mr. Grant, “that she has no intention of returning to any such drudgery.” “What do you mean,” exclaimed Ruart, with indignation.

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“That I am a conjuror,” replied the old man, calmly. “There is a little bird, a familiar of mine, whose wings are paper, and its life a pen, that has this very night given me some reason to suspect that a fair laird from the isles of the ocean will prevent this scheme of needlework.” It was to Ardskeen that Mr. Grant alluded, for the Macdonalds are a fair-complexioned race. Flora, who remembered the rude embrace of Glenfell, was a little surprised that the description did not apply to him, for he was dark haired, black eyed, and not from the islands. In this the young lady showed a little of her sex’s vanity, for Glenfell had not spoken to her half a dozen brief sentences, and yet, on hearing this oracular intimation, she took it into her head that he was in love with her. The fact was, no doubt, even so, but then she had no reasonable grounds to suppose any such thing, unless, indeed, that occult intelligence which passes between kindred spirits, and prompts them in a moment to be animated with the same passion, may be allowed to have had some previous influence in her bosom. At this point of the conversation the servant entered and laid the table for supper in the same room where the party were sitting. Mr. Grant for some time continued to joke with Flora, until he had drawn out all the natural gaiety of her disposition, by the stratagem of his remarks, and, without giving even her mother the slightest cause to suspect that he was sounding the depth of her judgment and powers, he made himself fully acquainted with the noble ingenuousness of her disposition, and the richness of her intellectual endowments. After enjoying one of the most delightful evenings he had ever spent, before taking leave, he again repeated to Mrs. Ruart that a­ lthough he considered the house as his, she was free to remain in it until it perfectly suited all her arrangements to remove. She would have declined the offer, but he abruptly interrupted her, saying—“It must, indeed, madam, be so, I must, however, have permission to come into it as often as you and this charming creature can afford me a glimpse of natural manners, and elegance without affectation.” “Ah!” said Flora, laughing, “We shall soon, I perceive, know who is the fair haired man that is to stop my needlework.” Mr. Grant put his hand to his locks, and said, peevishly, “No, my dear, you are mistaken; these hairs are grey. But yet I am not old enough to think that you could love me, nor weak enough to insult you with the offer of my all. I have, however, come home, to my ­native land, to spend the evening of my days, and I am gladdened to see so bright a star in my sky. The moonlight of remembrance is all I can now expect, for my day is past—but you have come upon my feelings

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like the dream of my youth; like the vision that floated in brightness before me in the dark woods beyond the ocean, when I was alone beside the lake, in the paths of the chace, and the hills of my fathers rose green through my tears; but my spring passed away and my summer departed, and when I gathered the fruits of autumn, the dim eye of age could see the phantom no more. It had vanished and left me a solitary old man.” Flora, affected by this burst of latent enthusiasm, which, with all its extravagance was delivered with the simplicity of true feeling, took him by the hand, and in token at once of sympathy and gratitude for his frankness, kissed it with filial reverence. A tear fell on her neck as she stooped, but in a moment Mr. Grant recovered himself, and said cheerfully—“I know not whether the old or the young one is the greatest fool. Let that morose brother of yours get out of his dismals as soon as he can, and then we shall see what can be done to put your ten fingers to some office more becoming the heart they belong to, than dragging the entrails of the silk-worm through cambric and muslin.” Flora, when he had retired, became loud in his praises; and her mother took occasion to observe to Ruart, who seemed unusually thoughtful, that here was an assurance of a new friend sprung up, as it were, out of the earth. “The peculiarities of his character are the ­strongest pledge,” she observed, “that he has really formed some inten­ tion to serve us.” But Ruart was surprised that his mother and sister could see any thing about the man but a rude simplicity, the effect of his long seclusion from society. Our readers, however, will be at no loss to account for his dislike, when they consider how abruptly Mr. Grant had spoken of Ruart’s misfortunes, and had even slightingly treated him as a man of business.

CHAP. XXVII. “At lovers’ quarrels they say Jove laughs.”

Glenfell passed a sleepless night; he was vexed by the folly he had committed, and worked himself into a painful sense of shame. Towards morning, however, “tired nature’s sweet restorer” paid him a short visit, but long enough to prevent him from sending the casket by the coach as he had contritely determined to do. This was a new misfortune; for under the consciousness of his imprudence he had not courage to breakfast at Ruart’s as he had intended, and was thus deprived of the pleasure of seeing Flora. His attention, however, was quickly engaged with another object. As he was sitting, taking breakfast alone, who should appear but the worthy valet who had been kicked down Mrs. Campbell’s stairs the preceeding evening. The ­fellow believing that he possessed more influence over his master than he really did, was determined to anticipate Bencloo’s report, by going to him with all possible expedition. Accordingly, in less than an hour after his detection, he was on the top of the night-coach between Edin­ burgh and Glasgow, and, by the time alluded to, was in a condition to appear before his master, to whom he recited, after the first surprise of the moment was over, an account of what had taken place, solemnly protesting that he had only concealed the salver in a lark (carefully suppressing in what place) to alarm Mrs. Campbell. Unfortunately for Jooker, his master was in no humour to try his ingenuity; on the contrary, he told him that he was convinced the whole story was a pack of falsehoods, and that the truth would turn out that he had got himself drunk and behaved very badly. Jooker took hold of this idea with avidity, and confessed that he certainly had taken a little wine which Mrs. Campbell made a great to do about; and was proceeding to give such an account of that part of the business as he thought would amuse Glenfell. “I am busy just now,” said his master emphatically, “and have no time to spend in hearing such nonsense, so get you gone.”—The only business that Glenfell had in hand was rapping the end of an egg. Jooker, however perceived that he was not in a disposition to talk with him, and immediately retired. Determined, however, not

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to lose his place as long as he could keep it, he desired the waiter to show him his master’s bed-chamber, in order that he might put his clothes in ­order. The waiter did so, but Jooker, after opening all the drawers in the room, saw nothing in them but the unfortunate box of ­jewellery. This he lifted, and the watch within not having run down he heard it ­ticking. His curiosity was excited; but for that time he had ­self-possession enough to repress its craving; and he returned to his master and inquired where his portmanteau had been placed, for that he could see nothing in his room but a small box containing a watch. Glenfell burst into a spurt of passion, and inquired how he durst presume to meddle with that box which contained articles of great value. Jooker again retired. Glenfell, as soon as he had finished his breakfast, walked immediately to Ruart’s house: on entering the parlour he found the old lady alone, and without any preface, taking a chair, placed himself by her side, and very affectionately took her hand. “I fear,” said he, “that you must think me ill capable of being of any service to your son in his present difficulties. My behaviour has been eminently absurd, and it is proper that you should be made acquainted with the cause. In one word, since my arrival in Glasgow I have fallen quite beside myself in love. I know not what I am doing, or rather my passion plays me such pranks, that it is continually betraying me into the most improper and unworthy actions. Indeed, from the moment I saw you, so noble in mien—so Siddonian in majesty——” At this crisis Flora entered the room. Glenfell paused, and Mrs. ­Ruart looked at him with a strong emotion of alarm, for the halt in his speech led her to suppose that she herself was the object of his passion, and she could not, therefore, believe he was in his right mind. “I am lost,” he exclaimed, “undone for ever.” “What is the matter?” said Flora a little slyly. “You are the cause,” said Glenfell, “It is you who have converted me into this fool, and I shall never know how to act with common sense, or common honesty, until I know that you do not despise me.” “Upon my word,” replied Flora, half disposed to laugh, which a wild and delicious fluttering of the heart, alone prevented her from doing. “You have not given me much reason to think otherwise.” “I know it,” exclaimed her lover, “but it is all your own fault. You ought not to have been half so beautiful, if you expected any man of discernment to conduct himself with propriety in your presence.” “O! then, you are a man of discernment, I presume,” said Flora gaily.

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Her mother perceived to what issue all this was tending, and left the room. “In one word,” cried the impassioned lover, “I am sure you were made to be my wife; you are just the lovely vision that my hopes have ever pictured—the better half of my soul—and I know that were you mine, I should become one of the most rational of men—without you I am but a moité of the being that I ought to be.” “From all this,” replied Flora, “I am to understand that you are at present half-witted; but with me”—and she paused with embarrassment. Glenfell took her hand, and in the same moment a loud peal on the knocker announced a stranger, and the lovers were interrupted in the most interesting moment of their lives, by the entrance of Mr. Grant. The old gentlemen had been all the morning in quest of Ardskeen, to come to an explanation with him respecting his niece, but had not succeeded. Somewhat chagrined by his disappointment, he had come to pay his respects to his new friends, and to enquire also of them where he was likely to fall in with the truant lover. Not being acquainted with the person of Ardskeen, on entering the room, and perceiving the confusion into which his interruption as well as their own feelings had thrown Flora and Glenfell, he took our hero for the gentleman he sought, and the suspicion was confirmed, which he had the preceding evening formed of Flora’s beauty as the cause of ­Ardskeen’s inconstancy. The natural gallantry of his character, however, mastered the immediate effect of this mistake, and he embraced her with much tenderness. “I do not wonder at this,” said Mr. Grant, turning to Glenfell, “but as a man of honour you ought to have subdued every impression in order to fulfil your engagements.” Glenfell immediately interpreted this to his own disadvantage. He thought that Mr. Grant, by his familiarity, was a near relation and friend of the family, and that Flora had complained to him of the manner in which he had treated her the preceding day. Under this misconception, he replied, “I confess that I have been to blame; but there are moments when no man is master of his feelings, and I was in that state.” “There is none when a gentleman can forget his honour,” said the venerable Highlander haughtily. Glenfell bowed and left the room. Flora was bewildered, and ­enquired with alarm what had happened. “He has behaved in the most unaccountable manner to my niece,” said Mr. Grant, “and I do not regret this encounter, as it has afforded

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me an opportunity of exposing to you the fickleness of his character. But it is necessary that I should come to some explanation with himself on the subject, and you will excuse my abrupt departure to your lady mother”—with these words he immediately retired and followed Glenfell.

CHAP. XXVIII. “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!”

On quitting the house Glenfell hastened to his hotel, for the purpose of seeking Ardskeen to explain to him what had passed, and to request him to wait on Ruart, and formally make a tender of his hand to his sister. Ardskeen, who lodged in the same house, was not at home, and our hero retired to his own room in a state of extreme vexation, in which vivid scintillations of anger flickered against the old unknown friend. In this crisis, the drawer in which he had deposited the casket caught his eye, and eager to repair the lapse he had committed, he went towards it for the purpose of sending it without delay to the coach-­ office; but on pulling out the drawer the casket was gone. He rung the bell furiously, and inquired for his servant, but was informed that the faithful Jooker had departed an hour before by the Edinburgh coach. “Did you observe if he took any thing with him?” exclaimed G ­ lenfell. “Only a small sealed package in his hand,” replied the waiter. “I am ruined, undone!” cried Glenfell in despair, and in the same breath he ordered a post-chaise and four to be instantly got ready that he might overtake the thief. The alarm of the robbery spread through the house—all was in uproar—the chaise was at the door as if by magic, and Glenfell was in and off before Mr. Grant reached the door. In the meantime Ruart happened to go home, and was informed by his mother of what had passed between Glenfell and Flora, and of the singular scene which had taken place between him and Mr. Grant. Ruart was much distressed by this intelligence, he thought that there must be some reason for the accusation of the old gentleman, and he dreaded the impetuosity of Glenfell’s character. While they were speaking on the subject, Ardskeen was announced, and Ruart, without thinking it necessary to make any particular preface, informed him of what had taken place. Ardskeen listened to the communication with profound attention, and, after two or three sedate inquiries, said, with a particular emphasis, “A light breaks in upon me—your friend is not in fault, I am the cause of all, and must instantly avert the fatal consequences.” Ardskeen in this thought but of himself, and what he meant by

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averting the fatal consequences, was to return immediately to Edin­ burgh; Mrs. Ruart and her son, however, interpreted his meaning differently, and when he hastily left them, they ascribed his anxiety to a wish to prevent Mr. Grant and Glenfell from coming to any deadly determination against each other. Ruart also thought himself bound to interfere in such an emergency, and followed Ardskeen—whom he directed to Mr. Grant’s lodgings, while he went himself as expeditiously as possible to the hotel where Glenfell staid. On reaching the house he found the crowd round the door, (whom the alarm of the robbery had served to collect round the chaise and four,) dispersing, and learnt from them that Glenfell had just set off with four horses in pursuit of his servant, who had robbed him of a vast sum of money. Ruart, not being aware of the valet’s arrival in Glasgow, and ­knowing that Glenfell had brought no considerable sum of money with him, concluded that the story of the robbery was but an invention to disguise a duel. But the distress which this naturally occasioned was however of short duration, for Mr. Grant advancing from the crowd, expressed his chagrin at being disappointed of coming to an explanation with the fugitive. “However,” said the old gentlemen, “I am glad to see that my reproaches have had the effect of so quickly restoring him to a sense of his own honour, nor shall I afterwards think the less of him for his failing since he has so quickly endeavoured to repair the error.” While they were standing together on the spot, Ardskeen, in his search for Mr. Grant, came up, and Ruart introduced them to each other. “What have I done!” exclaimed the old gentleman, thunderstruck by the mistake into which he had fallen. “I have insulted a stranger that I took for you.” Ardskeen was not a little perplexed by this observation, and Ruart was confounded. Mr. Grant, however, continued to address himself to the former. “Last night, Sir, I received a letter from Lady Glenfoik, giving me some account of the unworthy manner in which you have acted towards my niece. I have been long out of this country, and know not how the fashion now is to treat such matters, and I am too old in prejudice to rid myself of early sentiments. In a word, Sir, no daughter of my ancestors shall, while I live, be wronged with more impunity in these days, than in other times. The interdict of the laws has quenched the ardour of clannish affections, but no temporary expedient of modern policy can extinguish the ancient honour of a Highland gentleman. Our dependents may not now meet on the hill, but we shall not the

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less settle our dispute in the field.” “Let us retire,” said Ruart, “into the house;” and he added in a ­jocular tone, to appease the rising resentment of Mr. Grant, “The streets of Glasgow are no longer a proper scene for Highland chieftains to determine their feuds.” The old gentleman, without speaking, walked with stern and stately strides to the door of the hotel, and in a voice that would have made the royal hall of Selma itself resound, commanded the waiter to show them into a room. Ardskeen, perfectly unconscious of having in any way whatever given cause of offence to his betrothed or any of her family, followed Ruart with perfect self-possession; and when the waiter had retired, he went up to Mr. Grant, who took his station with his back to the fire, scowling with fierce thoughts of old renown, and many a mortal fray—and said to him, “Sir, I am glad of this interview, and I trust that you are able to tell me the cause of that unhappy misunderstanding, which seems to have so provoked your displeasure.” “I have,” replied Mr. Grant, “told you, that I am informed of the ungentlemanly manner in which you have acted towards a niece of mine.” “I am innocent of every such accusation,” answered Ardskeen; “but something has undoubtedly occurred to lead Lady Glenfoik to suppose, that I may have acted improperly. It would be but fair, before I am condemned, to let me know in what I have offended.” “Upon that part of the subject I have nothing to say,” replied Mr. Grant—“I only find that one of my own blood requires my friendship, and I have not so declined from the ancient honour of my race as to refuse it.” “But,” interposed Ruart, “there may be faults on both sides, and it is but equitable to ascertain which is really in the wrong.” “A true Highlander!” exclaimed Mr. Grant proudly, “knows no such sentiment. It is the duty of every man to support those who are in the right; but it is the virtue of a Highlander to stand by his kin and friends, be they in the right or wrong.” “This is not to be endured,” said Ardskeen. “On the morning when I went to fix the day of my marriage with your niece, I was rebuffed with scorn by her aunt, who till that day had ever been most favourable towards me; and now, Sir, you also act to me as if I had committed some offence. I wrote, demanding some explanation, and my letter was returned unopened. I beg you to tell me in what I am to blame, and you demand satisfaction for a wrong. I trust, Sir, that I am as little likely as yourself to shrink from an enemy, but it is a strange return to

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an affection as sincere as it is disinterested, to find all the relations of its object thus bent on provoking me to quarrel.” The ruddy indignation of Mr. Grant’s visage began to fade, and he turned hastily to Ruart, saying—“What do you think of this business?” “There is evidently some misconception,” said Ruart; “and before proceeding further I would recommend the parties most interested to meet. There is no objection on either side to the marriage.” “None,” replied Mr. Grant. “Why then has it been so capriciously interrupted?” exclaimed ­Ardskeen. The fervour of Mr. Grant’s spirit had now entirely abated; he perceived that the case really did not require the interference of quite so much heroism as he had resolved to exert, and he said, in a good-­ humoured manner—“If I understand you rightly, Ardskeen, you are still anxious to marry my niece.” “It is the life of all my wishes,” replied the lover. “Then, I am sure,” resumed the old gentleman, “that I know of no impediment, and the sooner you return to Edinburgh the sooner your happiness will be secured. But what is to be done with the gentleman whom I met with at your house, Mr. Ruart?” Ruart had also begun to think of Glenfell, and could, by no possible conjecture, explain the enigma of his sudden flight.

CHAP. XXIX. “I’ll be wise hereafter And seek for grace.”______

______

Glenfell had, in the meantime, proceeded with increasing vehe­ mence of spirit, and velocity of wheel, after the Edinburgh coach, which he overtook about half-way in the journey, and with very little ceremony, alighted from his chaise, and pulled the pallid and convicted Jooker from the roof, with the fatal casket in his hand. Few words passed; Glenfell too happy to have recovered the purloined treasure, was little disposed to inflict punishment, and the faithful valet, too sensible of the importance in such a case, of saying little, was glad to acquiesce in silence to whatever his master might have required. In returning to the chaise with the casket, a momentary flush of indignation glowed on the countenance of the young Laird, when he saw the delinquent, with his hat in his hand, attempt to hold the door to him as he stepped into the carriage. “Go to the devil at once,” he exclaimed, “or you will provoke me to hang you.” Jooker bowed, and returning to the coach, resumed his seat on the roof, and was never more heard of, while Glenfell ordered his horses’ heads to be turned again towards Glasgow. His whole heart was now filled with the image of Flora, all other considerations were regarded as nothing compared with that of obtaining her forgiveness for the liberty he had taken. In this spirit, and in total forgetfulness of the awkward appearance he would make with the casket in his possession, he ordered the chaise to drive directly to Ruart’s house. Ruart, in the meantime, had made Mr. Grant in some degree acquainted with the eccentric character of Glenfell, and the old gentle­ man had determined to dine with Ruart, who in vain attempted to decline the offer, even to urging the state of his affairs as a reason. “It is of no consequence to me,” said Mr. Grant, “I have taken your house; you told me I might take possession when I pleased, and I am resolved to dine there to-day. I will not be your guest, but your mother and sister shall be mine, and as long too as they think proper. I will ­order in wine;—my servant shall attend;—dine with me if you will, and

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welcome; but there I am determined to dine. As for your bankruptcy, why, man, it is but like a warrior who has lost a battle: it is an occasion in which your spirit should rise. The courage which you require is, to be sure, not exactly of the same kind as a soldier’s, but still it is courage. If you have been honest, never fear the world: mankind are bad enough, but the worst of them respect virtue, and all reverence it in distress. I have not known what home was for five and thirty years till last night, when I met with it at your fire-side. From that moment I counted myself your friend, and in spite of your pride and prudence I will convince you, before all is over, that I am so.” Ruart could not resist this determination of the old man, and accordingly consented to his wish. Mr. Grant also made it a point with Ardskeen that he should likewise dine with him. “I know,” said he, “that you wish to be off for Edinburgh, but, as of old, the whole clan were interested in the matches of their members, you must give me an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the candidate that offers to be admitted into union with ours. You must write to Mary that all will be settled and yourself in Edinburgh to-morrow, and I will inform Lady Glenfoik that she is an old fool, as I have no doubt she is, for having set us almost by the ears; and yet to confess the truth, I am a little sorry that we have been so easily reconciled, for I do not much like this modern moderation of feeling, this debating about the equity of things. I know not why a man whose race and line have for ages withstood the changes of time and chance, should, for the sake of mahogany chairs, plated ware, and cut glass, measure his manners by those of the temporary traffickers in cotton bags and sugar hogsheads. Thank Heaven! although I have been a merchant, my particular trade has saved me from the contamination of this degeneracy, and with as good a fortune as most of the squad, I can lay my head for sleep as comfortably beneath the lonely tree and the starry canopy as ever did the hardiest of my ancestors on the mountain heath, or in those fields of war where tent was never raised.” Ardskeen, upon the earnest persuasion of Mr. Grant, having consented to stay, the old gentleman himself undertook to be the bearer of the requisite information to Mrs. Ruart, and a few minutes before the return of Glenfell he had been admitted, and was standing in the parlour when he entered, waiting for the ladies who were engaged at the time in some household cares. On seeing Glenfell and recollecting the little equivoque that had taken place between them, he indulged his natural predilection to joke, by affecting a very cold and distant air. The young chief was not,

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however, in a disposition to be cowed by this; on the contrary, he was so well pleased with the result of his excursion, that it would not have been easy to upset his good humour. “I suppose Mrs. Ruart and Miss Flora will be here presently,” said Glenfell. “I really do not know,” replied Mr. Grant; “nor am I at all aware of your motive for expecting them; nor if your appearance here will be agreeable to any of the family.” This was language apparently plainer than what Glenfell was prepared for; and for a moment he was rather taken a little back, but in recovering himself he said, “I do not think, Sir, that any very harsh construction should be put on my indiscretion; the sight of so much beauty in tears was more than I could resist.” “True,” replied Mr. Grant, who was unacquainted with what he ­alluded to; “It is very true, but, Sir, you ought to have reflected better.” “Well, but” cried Glenfell, a little impatiently, “I am willing to make all the reparation in my power: if I may use an expression to describe my wish for an event that would confer on me the greatest happiness.” The shrewd mind of Mr. Grant perceived that something had taken place between Glenfell and Flora, besides what her brother and mother knew, and he applied his wonted ingenuity to discover what it was. “Considering the short time that you have known Flora, you must allow,” said the sly old man, “you have not been wanting in the means of declaring to her the warmth of your sudden love.” “You may call it sudden if you please,” replied the lover, “but it is no new thing in the history of the passion to fall in love at first sight. I am already as familiar with your lovely relation as if I had known her these twenty years.” “You mean with her soul, I presume,” said Mr. Grant drily, “for she is but eighteen. However, Sir, you must be sensible that you have ­carried your familiarity a little too far,—sensible as you are yourself how much you have been to blame.” “I confess,” said Glenfell, “that it was not quite à la mode to take her in my arms, but the action was dictated by tenderness and affection: I saw her in tears; I perceived the sacrifice she was preparing; I felt for her situation, I admired her beauty;—in a word, I wished to make her mine. I thought she would soon be so, and with the fondness of that fancy I committed the transgression on cold etiquette which you seem to consider as a sin.”

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Mr. Grant was highly amused at having thus discovered to what extent Glenfell had been betrayed; and was almost inclined to take him heartily by the hand and laugh at the confession into which he had seduced him. But he reserved his knowledge of the secret until he should have an opportunity of teazing Flora.

CHAP. XXX. “What have I been doing.”

While all things at Glasgow were tending to a favourable issue, d­ isaster on disaster seemed to thicken in malignancy at Edinburgh. Mrs. Campbell was on the self-same night in which Mr. Belwhidder’s silver waiter met with such atrocious treatment from the profligate hands of Glenfell’s servant, convinced that Bencloo had not one spark of affection for her daughter. He had behaved as he always did, with the greatest politeness through all the trials of her superfluous hospitality, but his deportment towards Miss Campbell was dry and forbidding; so much so that the young lady felt it and her mother saw it, for her eyes were on him the whole afternoon. This discovery was the more mortifying as the visit to Dr. Macleish was rendered ­evidently premature; so that what with the accidents that befell plate, viands, and garments, the close of her banquet was embittered with many un­pleasant thoughts. Lady Glenfoik was scarcely in a more enviable situation. Perfectly convicted, by her own conscience of having acted with great rashness, she in vain endeavoured to allay the reproaches of that accusing spirit by animadverting on the innocent conduct of her niece. But the abrupt departure of Ardskeen for Glasgow seemed to place the calamity beyond all power of remedy. Mary, however, was less disturbed by it than her ladyship expected. The source of the mistake that had taken place being so completely cleared, she had so true a confidence in the affection and principles of her lover, (which every woman ought to have in the man with whom she has agreed to encounter the vicissitudes of human life) that she was sure a speedy and satisfactory result would necessarily ensue. In this crisis letters were received informing them of the arrival of Mr. Grant at Glasgow, and lady Glenfoik lost no time, as we have already noticed, in making him acquainted with what had happened. As a prudential precaution, however, against accidents, her ladyship thought it would be as well to apprise Miss Peggy ­Shapings, the mantua-maker, that she need not proceed with the bridal dresses till further orders. This was a piece of information of too much consequence to be withheld from the public, and accordingly next day,

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Miss Peggy took an early opportunity of calling on Miss Mally M‘Gab for the purpose of letting her know the exact state of the case; Miss Mally however was fully prepared for this intelligence, and requited the commendable zeal and communicativeness of the mantua-maker, by informing her of all that had been divulged by Dr. Macleish, and of what had taken place the evening before, at Mrs. Campbell’s banquet. A mantua-maker, a bedrid lady, and a physician being thus ­engaged in a business for which any one of the three was sufficient, the story spread with wonderful celerity. Visitor after visitor called on lady Glenfoik, and without once directly speaking to the point, loudly complained against the inconstancy of man, and the vanity and vexation of spirit attending all earthly expectations, by which her ladyship understood that the change in the prospects of her niece was the g­ eneral talk of the town: and the condolence was the more afflicting as she was unable to insinuate any contradiction of the story. But her ladyship enjoyed a bed of roses, even in this, compared with Mrs. Campbell, who being a less dignified personage, her acquain­tance took greater liberties with her. The bright brazen knocker glowed with repeated peals, and one visitor after another was successively announced, all bent on the same errand, to congratulate her on the excellent match which had at last fallen to the lot of her daughter. In vain did the afflicted Mrs. Campbell with the most unaffected sin­ cerity assure them that there was no foundation for what they said. With some she endeavoured to laugh, with others she was angry, but again the knocker sounded, and another woe was announced in the form of an elderly gentlewoman. Her daughter, from whom the visit to Dr. Macleish had been carefully concealed, was astonished and perplexed beyond measure, that the supposition of Mr. Macdonald paying his addresses to her should be so universally known; and as her mother’s vexation increased, her spirit began to be cheered with the auspicious augury of public ­opinion. In this state of things the sun set in the west, on Edinburgh. The windows of Queen-street were illuminated with his last rays, as if there had been a lamp in every pane along the whole extent of that breezy terrace.—The flag on the castle was lowered.—The drums and fifes of the garrison were heard from the castle-hill. Those of the ­inhabitants who had dined early, prepared for tea, while their highbred neighbours, indulged themselves in the luxuries of more substantial fare. But northern twilight lingers long, and the Calton-hill and classic haunts of Arthur’s seat were yet frequented by many an admirer of nature, and

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of the environs of the intellectual city. About this time in Glasgow, Mr. Grant’s party at Ruart’s house had met, and Glenfell was still by one little occurrence after another prevented from telling the adventure of the casket. He had placed it carelessly on a side table, during his conversation with Mr. Grant, where it lay unnoticed till the company had taken their places at the dinner-table. The first who discovered it, and indeed the only one who recognized it stripped of the case in which it was packed, was Flora herself. Various feelings that require no particular description, prevented her from saying any thing respecting it. She supposed that her brother instead of taking it to the coach, had been induced by the ticking of the watch, which she recollected had not run down, to open the box, and had brought it back. She was sorry that he had done so, and disturbed that he should be displeased with what she considered a sacrifice to honour and duty. This little incident for a time saddened as it were her spirit; the vigilant eyes of her lover saw the change, and he imputed it to the conversation he had held with her in the morning. Mr. Grant was alone at his ease; and endeavoured in vain by his best jokes and flights of fancy, to disperse the gloom which darkened the countenances of his guests. His servant Isaac, who was in attendance, and ignorant of the cause, was at first surprised at the ineffectual fire of his master’s wit; but this feeling soon gave place to one of far deeper emotion. Isaac began to fear that the seriousness of the party proceeded from a contempt for his master’s extravagance, and he became extremely uneasy at seeing the old gentleman continuing, as he thought, to play the fool more and more. Mrs. Ruart and Flora rose soon after the cloth was removed, and the latter on leaving the apartment, took the casket in her hand to the drawing-room. Glenfell observed her do this, and when she retired he sunk down in his seat overwhelmed with an oppressive sense of shame. “Gentlemen, this will not do,” said Mr. Grant, “you are all in the wrong; we are, it is true, in a house on which the shadow of the cloud rests—but the wind that brought the cloud will bear it away. When I went first to the wilds of Upper Canada I had as gloomy reflections as our friend Ruart here, and I was obliged to devise amusement for myself, for I was often without companions of my own degree.” Isaac, who was doing something at the side-board, paused in his work and listened. “I meditated till I was tired,” continued Mr. Grant, “on the wonders

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of nature around me; on the stupendous scale upon which all things in those remote lands seem to be formed, on the greatness of the rivers, the sealike expanse of the lakes, and the magnitude of different tribes of animals of the same species that we have here in Scotland, particularly of the deer kind.” Glenfell began to attend to what he said, and Isaac looking round from the side-board, gave an audible sigh. “One day, however,” continued the narrator, “I met with a remarkable circumstance. As I was standing leaning against a tree, looking at some enormous fish of the trout species, as they turned up their silver breasts to the light in the stream, I heard a strange noise at some distance—I can compare it to nothing but the distant sound of a wellfilled country church, when the congregation are all singing the Psalm.” Isaac gave a gentle cough. “Hearing this sound,” said Mr. Grant, “I turned round, and beheld not far from me, a flock, as I thought, of birds, somewhat like pheasants in their plumage, and having my gun at hand, I fired and killed one of them.” Isaac coughed with so much vehemence, that Glenfell, who was already hatching a theory on the subject, said to Mr. Grant, “Your servant has a very bad cold, I wish you would tell him to leave the room.”—Isaac was ordered out accordingly. “But,” resumed the traveller, “on going to lift my fowl, as I supposed it, I was petrified with astonishment, to find it not a bird but an insect— an insect, gentlemen, and formed in every respect like a common bee: I made use of its sting long after as a pricker for the touch-hole of my fowling-piece.” “Did you not examine this singular thing further?” enquired ­Glenfell. “O yes,” replied Mr. Grant, highly tickled that he had been so ­successful with his first story, “my curiosity was too much interested in the matter to let it rest, but I was most confoundedly afraid of ­approaching the hive; however, at last I did venture to take a peep.” “And what was it like?” said our hero earnestly. “Just like a common hive!” was the sly answer. “Doubtless! but how large?” “Not much bigger,” replied the traveller. “How the deuce, then, could such bees as you have described get in?” enquired Glenfell earnestly. “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, “that was the bees’ affair, not mine.” This little jeu d’esprit had the desired effect; Ruart and Ardskeen had perceived that Glenfell was taking the story seriously, and a

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hearty laugh at his expense exhilarated them all, which, with a brisk c­ irculation of the wine, the old gentleman insisting that they should do something for the good of his new house, rendered them soon in excellent spirits to join the ladies.

CHAP. XXXI. “I mist my end and lost my way.”

It has often been remarked, that few things are more ridiculous than the ordinary run of love letters; we are much inclined, however, to think that love conversations are still more so, and enough has been said and shown to satisfy the reader, that Glenfell was not of a temperament to exalt their dignity. On entering the drawing-room he was in high glee, his fancy was like a gem of a thousand points, pouring in all directions the blaze and flicker of its lustre. The moment that his eye caught the elegant form of Flora he was at her side, and in contempt of all spectators and auditors he had declared the violence of his love, explained the adventure of the casket, and demanded her in marriage. Her brother was not altogether pleased with this publicity, nor did Flora herself seem to relish it entirely; but Glenfell was sincere, and he reiterated his request so earnestly, that Mr. Grant interposed in his behalf, and so far succeeded that the young lady was in a manner constrained to confess, that she did not absolutely detest him. This incident, in itself so contrary to the established usage in such cases, had the effect of a charm on Glenfell. When the rhapsody of the moment had subsided, he placed himself near Flora, and became at once, as it were, not only serious, but singularly rational. He acted towards her as one whose destiny was already mingled with his own; spoke of her brother’s unhappy situation as a participator in the misfortune; in a word, the natural powers of his mind broke out with surprising lustre, and effectually redeemed in half an hour all the ­disadvantageous impression of his previous eccentricities. But the scene that had taken place agitated Mrs. Ruart greatly. It was an event beyond her most sanguine hopes, to see in such a dark season of fortune, so bright and so flattering a prospect open to a ­beloved child. Mr. Grant, who had, from the first moment he entered the house, felt a strong and particular interest in the fate of the ­family, seemed, after a short time, a good deal embarrassed by something working in his mind. Ardskeen and Ruart had retired. “I am thinking,” said the old gentleman at last, “that although all this is a very happy incident to you who are in love, it is not so very

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easy to be finally settled as the lovers may suppose. In the first place there is Mr. Ruart’s affairs—he is to meet his creditors to-morrow— there is this house which I have unfortunately taken—it is true you are as welcome to it as if it were still your own home—but I am a stranger, and you will on that account not accept the use of it, nor is it proper perhaps that you should. Then again there is Miss Flora—she must be equipped as the bride of Glenfell ought to be—and without a sacrifice of pride and feeling I know not how all this is to be done.” Glenfell, who had listened with profound attention to what Mr. Grant said, acknowledged the justness of his remarks—“But,” he added, “some of the difficulties may be easily remedied—my aunt, Mrs. Campbell Ardmore, will, I am sure, rejoice to receive Mrs. Ruart and Flora until we have had time to make every proper arrangement—I would therefore recommend that they should set off for Edinburgh to-morrow morning, and I will write to Mrs. Campbell this evening to prepare for their reception; as for Ruart’s affairs, they must go to a bankruptcy—the probable deficiency of his assets is so great, that he can by no reasonable assistance expect to redeem them. By accepting of such assistance, he is convinced that he would only be exchanging one set of creditors for another. In his transactions there has been some imprudence, but no greater fault, and it is therefore not likely his creditors will deal more harshly with him than with others in the same situation. Relieved by bankruptcy from the trammels of his present affairs, he will, in all probability, be soon a free man; and, as I understand, he has determined to abandon commercial pursuits for ever, his friends must endeavour to find out some new tract for his abilities.” Mr. Grant listened with surprise and pleasure to the calm and ­sensible manner in which Glenfell expressed himself, so different from any thing that he had yet an opportunity of observing in the conduct of the young chieftain—and the result of the whole was, that Mrs. Ruart and Flora should not the next, but the following day, take their departure from Glasgow, in company with Glenfell and Mr. Grant, who was now anxious to see his niece. Ardskeen, it was understood, intended to quit Glasgow that night; and, indeed, it was for the purpose of seeing him in the coach, that Ruart had gone with him. Soon after this conversation, Mrs. Ruart and her daughter left the room:—they had much to say to each other, and not a little to do. As soon as they had retired, Mr. Grant enquired of Glenfell with great earnestness who were Ruart’s friends, and what they could do for him—but the answer was unsatisfactory. Glenfell knew of none but himself who had the will, and those who had the means in an equal

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degree had no personal knowledge of him—for Ruart had explained to him how he stood with respect to his mother’s relations. “Then, I think,” said the generous old Highlander, “as you have Flora under your plaid, I cannot do better than take the old lady under mine.” Glenfell looked not a little amazed, and Mr. Grant, seeing his surprise, could not resist the temptation of resuming his jocularity. But the effervescence of our hero’s fancy had subsided. He was calm, ­collected, and sedately intent on a serious affair, so that after two or three endeavours, Mr. Grant said—“Don’t be alarmed; I have no ­intention whatever to marry—nor from what I observe of the old lady do I think she is much inclined to change her condition. But when her daughter is settled her anxieties will naturally revert to the situation of her son, and it will be my task to lighten them. I have some political influence—at least I ought to have, and the talents which Ruart ­possesses for business, though not for speculation, which is altogether a different sort of thing, may qualify him to do the state some service. Not, however, on his own account, but because he has so noble a ­monument of Highland grandeur in his mother, and a being so like the daughters of the days of harp and song in his sister.” Glenfell was extremely delighted with the frank generosity and singular motives of Mr. Grant, nor was the old gentleman less pleased with him for the dash of extravagance that he had seen in his behaviour, since he found it was balanced with a treasure of just reflection, which enabled him to redeem, with extraordinary success, the most ludicrous and violent indiscretions. It was agreed between them, however, that nothing should be said to Ruart on the subject, until he had finished his duty towards his creditors.—“For,” observed Glenfell, “upon the way in which he performs his part in his present difficulties, we must judge how he is hereafter to be trusted. It is not enough because he is our friend and stands in need of a good place, that we should exert our influence to procure him one—we must deal justly with the state.” “I don’t understand the sense of such modern remarks,” replied Mr. Grant, “I am his friend, and will endeavour to serve him.” Glenfell smiled, but said nothing, and the return of Ruart, from having seen Ardskeen off for Edinburgh, interrupted their conversation on the subject.

CHAP. XXXII. “Endure and conquer, live for better fate.”

The character of Glenfell, who had now a settled and d­ eterminate object in view, began to develope itself with great beauty. That freakish, we might almost say, that skittish disposition, which before was constantly leading him to commit some wanton transgression on decorum, from the moment that he considered his fate connected with the happiness of Flora, started forward, with a noble bound, in a ­career of manly and generous emulation—not for distinction but for utility. This conversion, if we may use the word, was sudden, like that of many other sinners, but it partook of the energy of his character, and he became a proselyte to propriety with as much vehemence as he had formerly indulged in the most contemptuous violation of all the ordinary dignities of life. He was, in fact, a new being; the chrysalis of his youthful folly was changed, and on the morning when Ruart was to meet his creditors, he joined the family at breakfast with a self-­ possession and vigour and decision of mind that would have merited the lofty epithet of greatness, had the crisis in question been the concerns of empire and the interests of the world; as it was, it did not seem to exceed the measure of the occasion—for it is the beauty of genius to so adapt itself to circumstances as scarcely to seem remarkable. Mr. Grant, full of that fine ancient spirit which it was his weakness or his virtue to cherish, also shared the anxieties of his new friends; but so much was he struck with the surprising acuteness of Glenfell, his aptitude, his richness in expedients, his precise and indeed wonderful intuitive perception of the most ravelled matters of account, that he could not repair from openly expressing his admiration. “There is no fear of your son to-day,” said he to Mrs. Ruart. “This extraordinary young man would lift him from the very mud of d­ isgrace as well as the slough of dispond, and establish him on the bright green sunny path of honour and esteem. I am amazed, and I feel that I have long lived out of the sphere of man. This talent, this shrewdness, this marvellous precision of thought, are what suit modern wants, and stands in place of the heroism and spirit of former ages. I am now convinced that we not only change with circumstances, but that we should

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change; and that all those dreams of other years on which I have doted so fondly in the lone wastes and woods where it has been my lot to pass my life, are but like the poetry of the bards, things of sublime and remote concernment, having no part or place in the ­affairs of the modern world.” Mrs. Ruart acknowledged that she was indeed astonished at the versatility of Glenfell’s character, but that she was afraid his present lucid interval might be like his folly, but a fit. The two old people were holding this conversation apart; listening at intervals to what was passing between Glenfell and Ruart. Flora was sitting silent by herself, looking now and then with great earnestness and pleasure towards her lover. When Glenfell had finished what he had to say to Ruart, by way of instruction for him in the scene that was to ensue, Flora left her chair, and came round the table to where Glenfell was sitting, and placing her hand familiarly on his shoulder, said, “My dear Glenfell, all that you have been saying is exceedingly wise and just, but my brother must not be your puppet; he must act from the dictates of his own mind; you cannot school him to perform a part well for which he may not be qualified by nature.” “Here is Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, I declare,” cried Mr. Grant, struck with her words, “But what would your majesty propound?” “O nothing,” said the beautiful girl, “I only think, that were Glenfell placed in my brother’s situation, he would surprise us by his prudence, but I wish Charles to be himself prudent.” “You will make a discreet wife,” said Glenfell jocularly, while he ­tenderly pressed the hand that she had placed on his shoulder, “in not wishing that your husband should monopolize all the wisdom and good qualities of his sex—and be assured my love, though I hope ­always to like you better than any other woman, I will not pledge myself to think you always the fairest or the wisest.” Ruart himself was in the meantime mustering up a great deal of ­unnecessary firmness. The great art of management in life, is to do things easily. Nothing, when it comes to pass, is like what it was ­expected to be—and the worst things always look the most hideous at a distance; for fear is a magnifying medium. The hour at last arrived when the delinquent was to go forth to trial, and Glenfell went with him. Mr. Grant remained with the two ladies. For some time the old gentleman drew largely on his wishes to amuse, nor were their endeavours to be cheerful any less.—But anxiety, like

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a spreading frost, stilling the flowing waters and hushing the cascade, gradually silenced all; and was only broken by a brief question, which a monosyllable answered. As the time advanced, Flora, with an affecting simplicity began with dejection to wonder what could be doing at the meeting. Her mother said nothing; but rose from her seat, and walked to and fro in the room with the awful majesty of a Zenobia, when the last b­ attle of her Palmyra was fighting. Mr. Grant thought that it was strange, so common a thing as a bankruptcy, should occasion him to feel so queerly, especially when he was not a creditor. “I do not think,” said he, to Mrs. Ruart, rising and walking with her on the floor, “that after all, these modern accidents are more easily borne, though they make so much less noise, than those to which of old our ancestors were liable.” “No, sir,” replied the old lady, pausing, with an air that would have beggared the majesty of a Siddons. “It is as we feel things, not what the things themselves are, that produce our suffering. Were my son at this moment in the field of battle, and his honour, inheritance, the renown of all my race involved in the contest, I could not suffer more than I do at this moment.” “I thought so;” said Mr. Grant, “wherein then I should be glad to know, is that boasted improvement in the state of the country, which, without lessening the sensibility of the people, has increased the number of the sufferers. Commend me to the good old times of furrowless plains and unbridged streams, when, if the soldiers were few, and the battles were bloodier, the mourners in the hall were also few, and the vanquished died not unhonoured.” Mrs. Ruart had been too early taken to England to retain many of her Highland affections; but the view which Mr. Grant ingeniously took of the situation of her son, alluding to it with so much delicacy, soothed her agitation, and inspired her with a firmer resolution to wait the result of the meeting with calmness. Glenfell and her son returned much sooner than was expected. The former was self-collected and grave, but the latter was pale, and trembled exceedingly. “It is over,” he exclaimed; “the trial is past;”—and rushing into the arms of his mother, was relieved by a flood of tears. “The business,” said Glenfell, “has passed as I expected. An explicit statement in writing was read by your son of the causes that brought on his fall. This was, perhaps, unnecessary, and some of the creditors would have been no doubt as well pleased to have been spared a comment that they all must have felt—but it was the act of an ingenuous

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mind, and the effect was honourable to all concerned. The meeting saw that bankruptcy was inevitable; submitted to the loss as became men of the world; and applauded as men of honour the frank avowal of Ruart. He is not now, it is true, a man of the same credit he once was, but he has convinced all that he is an honourable minded man, and has not lost a friend by the money he has lost.” The old lady embraced her son, dropping but one tear on his shoulder; and rising from the position into which she had stooped, said to Flora, who, quite overwhelmed, had thrown herself into the arms of Glenfell, “We ought not to be sad, but rather to rejoice at the event of this day. Get yourself in readiness to leave Glasgow, I entered it with a glad heart, but I shall quit it with a prouder.” Mr. Grant, who, on seeing the two young men enter the room, had retired to a corner, was, perhaps, not one of the least affected of the whole groupe. In a pause in the scene he came forward, and with a profound but strange emotion of piety, knelt down. “I thank heaven,” he cried, “that in casting my fate in the lonely wilds and wastes afar off in the desart of Kedar, of Canada I should say, it has spared me so long from the knowledge of the pangs that wait on mercantile discomfiture.” In this truly solemn crisis the parlour door was opened, and Isaac, attended by Ruart’s servant, entered, bearing a salver with wine and cake. The old man in a transport of rage started from his kneeling, and exclaiming, “Fool, do you take this for a funeral?” dashed the salver from his hand, and pushed him and the other out of the room. What had tempted Isaac to commit this obtrusion must be left to the conjectures of the reader; the incident itself, however, did more to rouse the whole party to a proper temperament of feeling, than all the ingenuity of Glenfell could have effected in his happiest moments, or the extravagance of Mr. Grant in his freest flights. Details of business are not very interesting on any occasion, and still less so in a narrative: we shall, therefore, pass over as too tedious to be mentioned, the particulars of what took place at the meeting. After the first paroxysm had gone off, Mr. Grant felt himself in new freedom. He had previously ordered Isaac to provide a good dinner; and he was “himself again,” with all the airiness and wildness of his genuine character. “Now,” said he to Glenfell, “I must work; Ruart, you are, I understand, free, after a short time to go—the world all before you, where to choose your place of rest, and providence your guide. But you will not be the worse off for having a friend to assist you in the choice. During the American war I was of some use to Lord George��, I will ask him to serve you and he shall do it. If he do

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not, my influence is not exhausted.”—and without farther preface or ­discourse, he ordered Isaac to bring him his writing desk, and he wrote on the spot an urgent request to his lordship to secure for a particular friend of his, the first situation that fell vacant worthy of a gentleman, and a man of talent. He read the letter to Glenfell, who thought the solicitation too peremp­tory. “Pho! Pho!” cried Mr. Grant, “I never solicited a favour in my life, and will not now. It is a bargain—a plain bargain—but if you think otherwise I will add a postscript, and he accordingly wrote at the bottom—“I do not ask this, my Lord, for the service I have done, but because I have six different estates now in Scotland.” Glenfell laughed exceedingly, and confessed he had never ­imagined any more cogent reason for obtaining an official appointment for a friend. “Oh!” said the old gentleman, “little as I know of the world I have lived long enough to be certain that the meek mouth will ever use a small spoon. What the devil interest has lord this or that more in the state than I have, that I should mince the matter.” The letter was sealed and sent to the post-office, where Glenfell’s to Mrs. Campbell, apprizing her of the visit from Mrs. Ruart and Flora had been deposited some time before.

CHAP. XXXIII. “Let those whom folly prompts to sneer, Be told we sport with fable here.”

The letter which Glenfell wrote to his aunt, apprising her of the visit of Mrs. Ruart and Flora, was so much to the point, so clear, and so considerate, that its authenticity might have been disputed by Mrs. Campbell, to whom his occasional epistles were in a far different style, had he not inserted the following postscript:—“N.B. We shall be with you in time for dinner, and I hereby order and command, that you do forthwith provide a new dinner.” He happened, after finishing the letter, to recollect the recent banquet, and knowing the abundance that would still remain of the fragments, as well as the lady’s notable economy, he had deemed it expedient to anticipate the probable ap­ paritional unsubstantiality of hashes and other spectral re-appearances of the departed feast, by this explicit order. To do Mrs. Campbell however justice, she was not naturally mean, but the shifts and exped­ients which her passion for gentility had rendered habitual, often betrayed her to appear so in beating out her narrow jointure to gild a larger space in the view of her neighbours than she was entitled by her i­ncome to occupy. The admonition of her nephew was, therefore, on the present occasion, not altogether injudicious. Miss Mary, on reading the letter to her mother, expressed her astonish­ment at the strong and serious interest which Glenfell had so suddenly taken in these Ruarts; but the mind of her mother seized on the postscript, and without troubling herself about the cause, began to wonder what she could get to make a decent dinner. At this juncture a rap with a knuckle was heard at the door, and the lassie came into the parlour to inquire if her mistress would buy a goose. This, which at any other time would have been a piece of superfluous formality on the part of the lassie, Mrs. Campbell considered a stroke of good fortune, and rose with Miss Mary to examine the proffered bargain. The animal, however, as Mrs. Campbell called it, was alive, which, her daughter remarked, rendered it of no use. “But,” said her mother, “as the Ruarts are to be some time with us, we may want it another day, and ye ken a goose at this time o’ the year’s a feast for ony

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body”—and with this she began to chaffer about the price with the woman who had it for sale. Mrs. Campbell being no zoologist, did not discover that the goose was a gander, nor perhaps indeed would the circumstance of gender have been deemed of any consequence, provided it had been suitably considered in the price. The woman assured her, that it was young and in good condition, having been, as she vernacularly expressed it, “one of her own clecking”—and handed it to Mrs. Campbell by the neck, that she might feel how heavy it was. Mrs. Campbell was not satisfied with poising it in her hand by the neck, depreciating its weight, and expressing her suspicions that it was of “one of the male species,” as she called it, but actually began to feel its condition on the ribs, in such a manner that the gander flapped his wings in great fury, burst from the hands of Mrs. Campbell, and flew upon her with far other passion than Jupiter’s towards Leda. Miss Mary fled, the lassie laughed, the housemaid ran with the woman to assist her mistress, but the enraged gander continued the assault with such violence, that poor Mrs. Campbell, in attempting to escape, fell over a stool, and hurt her forehead against the door before she was extricated. When order was restored in the kitchen the creature was purchased, and soon after justly put to death; but the injury which Mrs. Campbell had received on the forehead proved so serious, that she was rendered unable to go to market, for after bathing the bruise with vinegar, and plastering it with brown paper dipped in the same liquid, the swelling still continued, and the inflammation spread to such a degree, that it was evident Mrs. Campbell would be soon afflicted with a black eye. “After such an accident Miss Mary was sure,” as she said to her mother, “that Glenfell would not expect a particular dinner;” but the old lady, ambitious of appearing with proper dignity before the ­Ruarts, would not be persuaded, and insisted on her daughter making the ­necessary preparations. Accordingly, at the time appointed a new dinner was in process, and about an hour before it was ready the travellers made their appearance. Miss Mary received them with all that meagre affability which is the peculiar characteristic of ladies destined to languish long in single blessedness, and made a circumspect apology for the absence of her mother, who was then busy superintending matters in the kitchen, by informing them that she had met with a slight accident that morning, by which she had received a contusion on the forehead; she expected however to be able to join them at dinner.

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Scarcely had Miss Mary delivered this congratulatory address to the party on their arrival, when Mrs. Campbell came flaunting into the room, with a large patch of brown paper on her forehead, and saluted them with a more cordial welcome, desiring Mary to get them a glass of wine and a biscuit, for they must stand in need of something after their journey. “O Glenfell,” she exclaimed, “if you had seen what befell me, you would have seen something to speak about. A kintra wife and a goose came to our door—the devil was in the beast. I just took it by the neck in the ordinary way, to fin the weight o’t, but although I had been thrappling the creature, it could na have been mare wud—for floch it flew, and knocked me down with its wings, and pursued me like a dragon. I can assure you Mrs. Ruart, I ne’er got sicken a fright in all my life—I had no notion either goose or feathered fowl were so venemous—I really thought it would have devoured me on the spot.” At this point of her discourse she paused suddenly, not because the guests were moved to the expression of other feelings, than those of compassion for her misfortune, and looking eagerly at Mrs. Ruart exclaimed, “Goodness me! Magdalane Macdonald, where have ye came from; how have been; och but ye’re looking auld”—and she ran towards her, and took her warmly by both the hands. In the midst of her speech Mrs. Campbell recognised in her stately guest an old school companion, of whom she had lost all trace and knowledge for many years; and Mrs. Ruart was equally pleased, though less obstreperous in the expression of her pleasure, to meet with in her hostess, an early friend whose negligence at school and boundless good humour, had been too remarkable ever to be forgotten. The satisfaction of this unexpected meeting was however soon damped by the loquacious inquiries of Mrs. Campbell, who, in spite of the grave looks of Glenfell, and indeed several pretty plain hints, continued to search all the pains of Mrs. Ruart’s memory with the most indefatigable curiosity. “Tut!” she exclaimed, “I am not a blind horse, so none of your winks and nods to me Glenfell. Is not this my own Magdalane Macdonald that I kent before ye were in the shell, and who took my part against the other randies at Mrs. Spinnet’s school. Ah, Magdalane! we’ll never see yon days again—ye’ll never have the hide nor the hue you had then, nor I the light heart—your dochter there’s a bonny lassie, but she’s a primrose compared to the lily that was her mother—many jawp have I, since that time, been obliged to juke to, Mrs. Ruart. Ardmore was an aged man when, sore against my will, I was obliged to marry him—and his son by his first wife, for I was his fourth, inherited the property. But I was ay sure you would

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turn out a grand lady, for I heard of your going to London town; and sometimes I thought when Mary was reading to me the account of the birth-day dresses, which is a wonderful entertainment to people like me, that are far from the great world,—what can have become of bonny Magdalane Macdonald! But no doubt you have had your share of afflictions—its the lot of all flesh, and neither birth, parentage, nor education, can protect us from the king of terrors.” There were several little flakes of pathos in this rambling discourse, that sunk into the heart and melted into sorrow. Mrs. Ruart was much affected, but Glenfell and Flora could with difficulty repress their mirth. “Yes, my friend,” replied Mrs. Ruart, “I have had also my share of troubles in the world, but I have also so largely participated in the best things that fall to the lot of human nature, that it would be unjust of me to complain.” Mrs. Ruart alluded to the happiness she had enjoyed with her husband, and the pleasure which she derived from the conduct and disposition of her children; but Mrs. Campbell, who was ignorant of her history, attributed the observation to a lucky share of more tangible good things. “But man is born to trouble,” resumed Mrs. Campbell in her ­moralizing strain, “like the thorns that crackle under a pot, and the sparks fly upward. Howsomever, I should not repine that it has pleased him in whose hands we are but as a drop in the bucket, and the dust in the balance, that he has cast me out upon the hearth-stone a cold cinder, while others have mounted up in a bright flame, licking the lips of the weel filled pat.” The gravity of Mrs. Ruart was moved by this flight; she took Mrs. Campbell kindly by the hand, and said, smiling, “I never expected to find you such a moralist.” The pleasures of memory in Mrs. Campbell were now, however, verging to pains, a tear shot into her eye, and she applied her handkerchief as she replied—“We little know for what we are ordained—for when I was a thoughtless lassie, singing like the lavrock, and skipping from flower to flower like a butterfly in the spring—grief and care lay as lightly on my heart, and fell as easily off as the dew-blab in a cabbage leaf. But now I have a continual warsle with anxiety, and I doubt it will soon get the better of me; and when I am gone, who will look ­after my Mary—for I fear, poor maiden, that she’s sitting her time. Heh, ­Magdalane, weel I canna but look at your dochter—we are now baith auld folks—one foot in the grave, and the other fast following—she’s

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really a comely creature—and she’s no unlike what ye were once— what have you done with your eene Glenfell? I’m sure ye may look long with bent brows before ye’ll see such another.” Flora blushed, and the old lady suspecting the cause, said, with her wonted garrulity, “So, so, Miss, but ha’d him while ye can, for he’s just a ramplor deevil; for my part, he has long been off at the nail with me—I have given him up—and when he’s in his diplomaticks, he has no respect for man or beast, but would threap that the crow’s white. But, like David King of Israel, with all his faults, he’ll no make an ill gudeman—howsomever, he’ll need cooking, for a goose ye ken’s but a boss bird, and little worth without seasoning.” Such was the reception which Mrs. Ruart and the lovers received from Mrs. Campbell, to whose hospitable attentions we shall now for a time leave them while we pay our respects to Lady Glenfoik.

CHAP. XXXIV. “Such was the fate of vain loquacity.”

Ardskeen having arrived from Glasgow, all doubt of his fidelity was put to rest, as well as of the marriage taking place at the time previously agreed on between his betrothed and her aunt, in so much that Lady Glenfoik was of opinion Miss Peggy Shapings should be enjoined to proceed with all possible despatch in the preparation of the wedding garments. With the intention of giving orders to this ­effect herself, as well to leave the lovers an opportunity of meeting by themselves, she had walked out alone to call on that fashionable and ingenious artificer, and while she was in conversation with her on the subject, a message was received from Mrs. Campbell, r­ equesting Miss Peggy to come to her as soon as possible, and to bring with her patterns of some of the newest and most fashionable dresses in her possession. The ­circumstance of the notable Mrs. Campbell not calling herself, which the consequences of the assault that she had suffered from the ­gander prevented, was in itself remarkable; but the generality of the order, and the unlimited elegance of the articles, were things that exceedingly surprised Miss Peggy, and were not heard by Lady Glenfoik without a slight return of her former feelings and apprehensions. However she deported herself on the occasion with considerable equanimity, and going soon after away, she told Miss Peggy that she would not, for the present, detain her any longer, but begged she would come and consult the bride herself after she had been at Mrs. Campbell’s. This was a diplomatic stroke to obtain some account of the mystery in which “that woman and her daughter,” as her ladyship expressed it, had been of late involved. On returning home she found Ardskeen had only made a hasty visit, and that he was engaged to dine at Mrs. Campbell’s, in order to meet Glenfell. This was still more wonderful than Mrs. Campbell’s message; without speaking her ladyship sat down in her arm-chair, and looked at her niece, who, observing the effect of the news, could with difficulty preserve her gravity. Ardskeen, on leaving her ladyship’s, had walked directly to the hotel in St. Andrew’s-square, where it had previously been arranged

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Mr. Grant should take up his abode, some circumstances, which the old gentleman did not explain, having prevented him from ­leaving Glasgow so early in the morning as the other travellers. He had, in fact, found it necessary to wait until the banks were opened, having formed a design, both with respect to his niece and Flora, which could not be very well performed without the assistance of his banker. On reaching the hotel Ardskeen found him just alighting with Isaac from a post-chaise, and after a very hearty greeting told him of the ludicrous mistake which had given rise to the circumstances that had placed his happiness and that of Mary in so much jeopardy. Mr. Grant was highly amused at the incident, and formed an opinion of Lady Glenfoik’s understanding not quite so exalted as that which the good lady entertained of it herself. Although his sister had been married to her brother, he was quite unknown to her ladyship, and his stately fi­ gure, and white flowing venerable locks were not calculated to apprise a stranger of the latent waggery of his disposition. To Lady Glenfoik, when he was introduced by Ardskeen, he seemed indeed a personage to whom it would be requisite to behave with more than usual ceremony, and at the very moment that she was addressing him with the courtliness of the old school of manners, he resolved to divert himself at her expense. She had not entirely recovered from the shock which the intelligence of Ardskeen’s engagement to dine with Glenfell at Mrs. Campbell’s had given her, when he was announced; and no sooner had Ardskeen again retired, (having some instructions to give respecting the marriage settlements to Mr. M‘Queery, his lawyer), than he began to put his prank in practice. He rallied his niece respecting what had happened, delighted with her pleasing and unaffected appearance, though a little disappointed that her beauty was not so splendid as that of Flora Ruart, and by a look prepared her to expect the scene that he was then meditating. “But all’s well that ends well,” said he, “and I hope, my dear, you will enjoy every happiness with Ardskeen; but if matters had not gone quite so far between you, and my advice could have been of any avail, I do not think that some things which are to take place, would, in that case, have ensued.” “Very just, sir,” interposed Lady Glenfoik, “I have had many mis­ givings of the mind on the subject.” “Your ladyship’s experience and discernment,” answered Mr. Grant, “ought to have had their due weight. I trust, however, that Ardskeen will prove himself a man of honour, but I could have wished that it was less the custom than it is, for young men, now a-days, to have two

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strings to their bow.” This touched the most sensitive cord at that moment in her ladyship’s bosom, and she said “I certainly should have more confidence at present, if I were satisfied of the cause which has led to this ­wonderful intimacy between Ardskeen and Mrs. Campbell’s Clanjamphrey. There is among them a puppy of a creature, young Glenfell, that ­nobody who has any respect for good manners, would deign to speak to. For my part there has been enmity between our blood and his from time immemorial, and it shall never be quenched by me. I wish, ­indeed, after all, that this reconciliation between Ardskeen and Mary be not some vile device of that wretch to make us the laughing-stock of the town; for, would you believe it, sir, Mrs. Campbell, who never would nor could buy a dress from any fashionable house in her life, has, this very day, in my own hearing, sent for the most elegant dressmaker in all Edinburgh, to consult her about making some of the finest that can be made.” The old gentleman was not at a loss to understand for whom these dresses were probably intended, but he encouraged her ladyship to proceed. “Now, sir, before such a narrow, stinted, save-all, as Mrs. Campbell would run the risk of ordering such things from Miss Peggy Shapings, she must be well assured how they were to be paid.” “Oh, I see clearly how it is,” exclaimed Mr. Grant, affecting a tone of great indignation, “I see clearly how it is, Ardskeen is to be married to Mary Campbell.—Glenfell is to pay for that bridal paraphernalia— your ladyship is most completely hoodwinked, and in as fair a way of becoming a laughing stock as any poor soul ever was in this world. But, Mary, I will put an end to this mystery without delay; you shall go instantly with me to this Mrs. Campbell’s; I will take you in my hand, and if we are not thoroughly satisfied, as to all these proceedings, before we return, the blood of my fathers has been changed in my veins.” Mary had been partly informed by Ardkseen respecting the Ruarts, and perceived that her uncle only intended to introduce her to them; but a little spice of malicious playfulness to be revenged on her aunt for the anxiety she had made her suffer, induced her to fall in with his humour, and she equipped herself to go with him as expeditiously as possible, leaving the old lady not a little surprised at the extraordinary spirit and alacrity which she displayed on the occasion. It is unnecessary to describe the interview, between Mr. Grant and his niece, with Mrs. Ruart and her daughter; suffice it to say, that upon the pressing entreaties of Mrs. Campbell, they agreed to stop and dine

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with her party, and that Mr. Grant consented to do so, on condition that he was permitted to send for lady Glenfoik. Mrs. Campbell, however, told him that she was sure her ladyship would not come to meet Glenfell, whom she hated as the worthy lady said, “more than a yeard toad.” Mr. Grant, however, was prepared with an invitation which he knew her ladyship would be unable to resist, and he accordingly wrote the following note, and despatched it by the lassie, ordering her to fly with the utmost speed.—“My dear madam, if you have any respect for your own comfort as connected with the happiness of your niece, you will come to us instantly! Yours, A. Grant.” The breathless haste of the messenger, and the urgency of the note, alarmed her ladyship to such a degree that she scarcely took time to fit herself for the street. Attended by her footman she hurried up the steep to George’s Street, and ascended Mrs. Campbell’s stairs with a beating heart. An awful peal on the bright brazen knocker announced her at the door, and Mrs. Campbell herself, with open arms, and a large patch of brown paper on her forehead, received her. “O, my Leddy, who could have expected this;” was the salutation, “such haste, for an auld woman like your ladyship; but I’m no in a condition to receive you as I ought, for look what a figure I am!—such a calamity has happened to my face.” “Where is Mr. Grant and my unfortunate niece,” was the only ­reply of her ladyship, and she brushed past by Mrs. Campbell into the drawing-room where the party were assembled.—Mr. Grant shortly explained the whole business, and Glenfell coming forward and ­addressing her ladyship with most particular respectfulness she was soon restored to so much good humour, that she not only forgave the trick that the old gentleman had played, but even condescended to include Glenfell in an invitation which she gave to the whole company to dine with her next day. Every thing now was in the most harmonious state, when Ardskeen was announced as Mr. Macdonald. Mrs. Campbell, and her daughter looked, expecting Bencloo; but the moment he made his appearance they exchanged a despondent glance, and the mother heaving a profound sigh, said apart to Glenfell, “O ye Sorrow, what for did ye no tell me, that there were two Mr. Macdonalds.” Bencloo himself also soon after came in, having been sent for by Glenfell, and all anxieties and mysteries being thus happily removed and expounded, in due time the whole company sat down to a dinner, which although not equal in variety to the great banquet, did much credit to Mrs. Campbell’s good housewifery in the opinion of those who were not in the secret.

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The fact however was, that on the suggestion of Glenfell, she had been liberally supplied from one of the neighbouring hotels, and the whole went off entirely to her satisfaction. We have now only to add, that Mr. Grant settled a fortune on Flora similar to what he gave his niece, and that on the same night that Miss Peggy Shapings carried the bridal dresses to be inspected by Miss Mally M‘Gab before sending them home, Mrs. Pickenween called on that amiable invalid at the very time that Dr. Macleish was adminis­tering the news of the day, and informed her that Mr. Ruart had received a lucrative appointment in one of the colonies. In the meanwhile it had been agreed, that the two weddings should take place on the same day. Ardskeen and his bride, after the ceremony, ­accompanied by Mr. Grant, went to his seat in the Highlands; but there are a few particulars, respecting the excursion of our hero and Flora, necessary to the conclusion of our eventful history, and which we must reserve for the next Chapter.

CHAP. XXXV. “Now my charms are all o’erthrown.”

It had been previously determined, that Glenfell and his bride should spend the honeymoon amidst the romantic scenery of the ­English lakes, and afterwards proceed on a tour through England. The only part of this arrangement to which Mrs. Campbell decidedly objected was the visit to the Lakes, for she was quite sure that Loch Lomond was as big as any three of them, and was moreover much finer than the whole put together, being adorned with no less than four and twenty islands, and therefore she thought, that in these hard times Glenfell might spend his money to more profit among his own country-folk than with the English. “I am creditably informed,” said this patriotic lady, “that it is not to be told what the extortions of an English inn are; and as for furnished lodgings in London, the Gude keep us from them—they would herry an honest man out of house and hall, and a lord’s living would na play pue to the wastrie of the servants.” But all her objections were obviated, when Flora invited Miss Mary to accompany them. On the day of bliss, the conjugal knot was tied by the Rev. Mr. Belwhidder, Mrs. Campbell’s partner in the review, and immediately after a handsome new equipage from the hands of Chricton drove up to the door. Flora shed a few natural tears on the bosom of her mother, and giving her hand to Glenfell, was conducted by him down stairs, followed by Ruart, leading Miss Mary. When they were seated in the carriage, and on the point of setting off, a loud alarming cry of “Stop! stop!” was heard from above, and on looking up Mrs. Campbell was seen at a window. She instantly disappeared, and in a few seconds was at the door with a small basket in her hand that had been forgotten. She held it up herself to Miss Mary, who looked out of the window of the carriage to receive it. The day being windy, as it very often is at Edinburgh, the rude blast took hold of her bonnet and pulled it off, wig and all, and carried it down the street, amidst the shouts of an assembled throng of children and neighbouring ­servants—leaving the unhappy bridemaid’s head like a Turk’s shaven scalp without the turban. The fugitive cap and wig were however soon recovered—but somewhat damaged by the mud in their excursion.

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Glenfell would have alighted till matters so important were adjusted, and put in order, but Mrs. Campbell would permit no such thing—“It would,” she said, “be an ill omen were they then to turn back; and as for what Mary’s wig and bonnet had suffered, “dirt bodes luck,” and ye could na have wished for a better mischance at your outset.” In saying these words the carriage drove off, and Mrs. Campbell, full of the most cordial feelings, notwithstanding the accident, returned to comfort Mrs. Ruart, who, though rejoicing that her child was so happily raised to a sphere of fortune, which she was well qualified to adorn, could not but indulge in those maternal regrets, which a mother’s heart can alone properly appreciate. Our story, however, would be still incomplete, did we not relate that the good augury, which Mrs. Campbell drew from the misfortune of her daughter’s wig and bonnet, was followed by a series of fortunate incidents. During the sojourning of the wedding party at Cheltenham, they became acquainted with one of those bilious malcontents that are annually imported with the liver complaint and a heavy purse from ­India; and Miss Mary paid him so much attention, that in the course of a week he made her a suitable declaration of the tender passion, with an offer of his hand and fortune. Glenfell, that so good a match might not slip through her fingers, urged a speedy celebration of the m ­ arriage, so that before Miss Mary had time to receive an answer from her mother, to sanction her acceptance of the proposal, Colonel Rupee himself had the satisfaction to communicate, to his dear mother-in-law, the pleasing intelligence, that he had been made happy by the fair hand of her daughter Mary. Miss Mary, by the same post, likewise informed her mother that she was that day setting out, in her own carriage, for Malvern Wells, where the Colonel intended to spend some time for the benefit of the waters. At the end of the letter was a postscript, in which she requested Mrs. Campbell to look out for a cheap elegant house in Queen-street, as it was the intention of her dear Colonel to pass the ensuing winter at Edinburgh, where, in due time, they arrived, to the infinite delight and satisfaction of their mother. We lament however to add, that the parties which Mrs. Rupee occasionally gives, do not entirely meet the wishes of Mrs. Campbell. The old lady acknowledges, that they are indeed vastly genteel, but she thinks they would be no less satisfactory were the guests less ­numerous, and the viands more abundant.

finis.

the PERIODICAL NOVELIST or CIRCULATING LIBRARY Vol. III.

ANDREW OF PADUA and THE VINDICTIVE FATHER

The Translator thinks it necessary to prefix the following extract of a letter from the gentleman to whom he is indebted for the only entire copy of the Abbate Furbo’s works, perhaps in this country. “Andrew of Padua is certainly not the best of his tales, but it serves to show the spirit in which they are conceived, so that were you to think of translating any of them into English, with a view to make our countrymen acquainted with them, I would advise you to begin with it. It is better known here as The Improvisatore than by its title, and I have been assured that there is some foundation in fact for the character, about sixty years ago there having been a very celebrated performer of that kind at Rome, known to all travellers by the name of Omero or Homer. His works (i. e. Furbo’s), were originally published, tale after tale, in a cheap and rude form, like those wonderful stories about love and murder, with fine coloured cuts, which we see in the windows of the booksellers to the Sovereign People. It happened, however, that father Augustino, the venerable editor of the Bolognese edition, chanced, when a young man, to buy the first tale; and being much pleased with the spirit in which it was written, bought all the others as they succes­ sively appeared, and was thus enabled to supply the two omitted in the Pisan edition, although it is understood that the Abbate superin­ tended that collection himself. The tales of Furbo, falling thus on their first appearance into the hands of schoolboys and the lower classes, remained long unknown to the literary world; indeed it was not until some of those who rel­ ished them in their boyhood, had themselves become members of the republic of letters, that they were ever noticed; but since they have been called into favour, their popularity has been excessive; two large impressions, the Pisan and Bolognese have been bought up with such avidity, that it was with the utmost difficulty I could procure the copy which C—— has been so kind as to take charge of for you.”

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE

ABBATE FURBO, AUTHOR OF ANDREW OF PADUA &c.

Francisco Furbo, a native of Genoa, was born on the 11th S­ eptember, 1722; his father, though of noble birth, was by profession a merchant, and even of celebrated eminence as such; indeed we have recently been informed that his mercantile establishment still exists, though under another firm, and that it has formed connections with ­several English houses in other Italian ports; by which it has become of late ­extremely well known to many of our merchants and ­manufacturers. In this, however, there is probably some mistake; but certainly the house of Furbo has long been one of the most considerable and ­numerous in its branches of all the establishments in Genoa. Francisco was very early distinguished for an apt and shrewd spirit, with a knavish relish of mischief, assurances that he would in all prob­ ability turn out a singular, if not an eminent character. Of his proficiency at school there is no account, but we have some reason to suspect that it was not remarkable, for in several of his tales, as well as in that of Andrew of Padua, he seems to take a pleasure in representing his principal characters as not having been distinguished in their youth by any peculiar aptitude for learning. In the Romance of The Mariner, the hero is described as so great a dunce, that his uncle, the Ragusan apothecary, sent him to sea in the hope that he might die in some unwholesome climate, or be lost by shipwreck, so hopeless was he of ever seeing him good for any thing in this world. But whatever may have been the backwardness of Francisco’s early

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studies, it is without question that he must have afterwards applied with uncommon assiduity, for it is said by his biographer Lincetti, in that elegant sketch of his life prefixed to the Bolognese edition of his works in ten volumes,* that he understood fourteen languages, and could write in nine with great ease and purity. The first of his tales, Lindoro, was published in 1751; but although it is very well written, and contains many lively touches like those which render the style of his works so free and sprightly, it did not attract much attention. We believe, indeed, that none of his produc­ tions acquired any popularity till the Romance of The Prior came out; and the fame which it immediately obtained, was at first owing to a circumstance not only accidental, but in no way whatever connected with that amusing and curious performance. It happened that about a week before The Prior was published, an intrigue was discovered at Genoa, in which the chief of the Dominicans cut a very laughable figure, and the public fancied that Francisco’s tale was on account of that affair, and that the diverting history which he gives of the early life of his prior was a caricatured account of the unfortunate Dominican. Although some exception has been taken to the freedom of his satire, yet the general impression of his works is highly moral and instructive. His animadversions on the corruption of manners in the convents can offend no truly pious mind; and the delicacy, and at the same time gaiety with which he describes the profligate customs of the married ladies of Italy in the tale of the Cicisbeo may be ranked among the happiest efforts of Genius. But although the Abbate Furbo was a man of great natural endow­ ments he was far from being fortunate. In his literary capacity he derived but little celebrity from his works, for, being anonymous, they were commonly ascribed to other authors; and he had the misfortune to be so deformed in the mouth by falling against a table, on which a boiling coffee pot was standing, that his articulation was scarcely intelligible, in consequence of which he went seldom abroad. “Yet,” says Lincetti, “few men passed their time more happily; a contented cheerfulness subdued the malice of Fortune, and the lot of the Abbate Furbo, suffering many privations, excluded, by his deformity, from * This is the only complete edition of his works, ostensibly printed at Amsterdam, but in reality at Bologna. In the Pisan edition of ten v­ olumes, two of his tales are omitted, The Nun and the Doctor, and The Beautiful Chamber Maid, which in many respects are equal to the most felicitous of his productions. They have been sometimes ascribed to ­Giacomo Poggio.

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social enjoyments, and afflicted with old age and disease, was still enviable.” Lincetti makes no mention of the time when he met with the mis­ fortune of having his mouth so injured; but we are inclined to think it must have been in his youth, and that his literary proficiency, espe­ cially his knowledge of languages, may be attributed to the accident. When the French, during the revolutionary war, took possession of Rome, the Abbate was still living and residing in that city, but the exact time of his death is not mentioned. His Pisan biographer, Altravista, however, gives a very minute account of his funeral, describes his monument in the church of St. Peter Martyr, with the most minute circumstantiality, and copies a long verbose, and in many respects ­stupid, eulogium of an epitaph, in which the Abbate is praised for many virtues and ­qualities which he was never known to possess, ­having no opportunity of showing them, while the peculiar merits of his genius and writings are altogether omitted.

ANDREW OF PADUA. CHAPTER I. Some years ago, during the Carnival, I happened one evening to rest myself on the steps of one of the churches at the Porto del Popolo, where I had not sat long, when I was surrounded by a crowd of beggars, imploring alms with all the various pathos of mendicity. What small change I had about me, only served to exasperate their importunity; they were indeed like hungry sparrows in the nest, for I could not turn myself or move a hand or foot, but all their red throats were clam­ orously opened upon me. How long they might have continued to vex the saints, to assist their prayers, and to tease me, who felt by the irritation they provoked, that I was still very far from possessing that holy equanimity which it is so much the duty of all Christians to practise, especially when beset by a score of importunate beggars, I know not; but just as I was on the point of wickedly wishing them, and all such starving wretches, in Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob’s bosom, or wheresoever else they might find themselves more comfortable than in this howling wilderness, they suddenly left me, and gathered round an old man, who seemed in no better condition than themselves. Instead, however, of assailing him with their miseries, and the love of God and the blessed Virgin, as they had afflicted me, they seemed to be seized with a marvellous fit of happiness. The old man talked to them familiarly as to old friends, and they were no less hearty and good humoured with him.—He gave them jokes for his alms, and they thanked his benevolence with shouts of laughter. Surprised by this singular scene, I was naturally led to look some­ what attentively at the old man, and his appearance was certainly both striking and singular.— He had all the marks of extreme age, without being in any degree venerable. His locks were as hoary as the moun­ tain snow, and his face as rough, weather-beaten, and furrowed as the mountain itself, but his look inspired no feeling of reverence; for, his

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eyes were blithe and sparkling; and the smiles of an easy heart, like the ripe clusters of the vine garlanding an aged tree, prevented me at the moment from noticing his poverty and infirmities. “Who is this jocular old man,” said I to a little ragged boy, who had rolled towards me from the crowd, like to die of laughter at something which the facetious stranger had said. “Why, don’t you know Andrew of Padua?” replied the boy, in a voice of astonishment. “No, indeed, I do not,” was my answer, in a tone of surprise, scarcely less emphatic. “Who is this Andrew of Padua?” “Oh! the funniest man in all Rome; his words are worth their weight in gold, as he says himself,” exclaimed the boy, bursting into a fresh fit of laughter, as if tickled by the recollection of something that Andrew had said. His words, thought I, are indeed worth their weight in gold; since, in the course of less time than a clock could tell five, he has thus changed, by a few sentences, a swarm of the most miserable beggars in all Italy, into a set of the most joyous and contented mortals in the whole world.—“Come hither,” cried I to Andrew, and I beckoned him towards me. The old man, followed by all the beggars, and several other persons who wore better clothes, but more morose faces, came to the bottom of the portico where I was sitting. “They tell me, friend,” said I to him as he approached, “that you are the wisest man in all Christendom.” “I am glad to hear that my character is mending in the public ­opinion,” replied Andrew, “for hitherto I have been always counted one of the most foolish.” “Impossible, Andrew; you make the wretched happy, and can wis­ dom do any more,” was my philosophical answer, delivered in a tone very unsuitable to the occasion, and not at all calculated to make that favourable impression on my auditors, for which it was no doubt at the time intended. It was, certainly, very absurd; for it had the effect of destroying the glee of Andrew, and in a moment after, of setting all the importunate throats of the beggars as wide and clamorous on me as before. “Yes,” said Andrew emphatically, “it is true that I possess the power of dispensing pleasure to others, but I am nevertheless not wise, for the wise are themselves happy; but, alas! what am I? a poor, friendless old man—a mendicant—a wretch that must carol gay songs for a meal, while hunger pinches his heart.”

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It was at this expression, that all his auditors at once opened in full cry again upon me, and forced me to retire from the spot. I did not, however, go far, for the appearance and answer of poor Andrew, had awakened my best feelings from their slumber, and I resolved to select him from the crowd, in order to give him a portion of what little relief I could afford, and to inquire into his history. His language and address were evidently superior to his condition; and he could not have acquired, as I thought, that degree of popularity which he possessed among the beggars of Rome, without some remarkable peculiarities. As soon, therefore, as a proper opportunity presented itself, I went into a small coffee-house near the gate, and requested the waiter to ask Andrew to come to me. “He is such a knave, Sir,” exclaimed the waiter, “that I would advise you to have nothing to do with him; my God! what lies he does tell!” “Then you know him?” said I. “Know him!” cried the man, “who does not know Andrew of Padua! I dare not ask him to come within our door, it is as much as my place is worth—ask Andrew of Padua to come into our respectable coffee-­ house! My God! Sir, who do you think would ever enter it again?” At this moment the landlord came towards me, and I mentioned to him that his waiter had refused to go for the stranger, or even permit him to enter the house. “Andrew of Padua!” said the master, “don’t you know who he is, that you would ask him to come into my house?” “No,” replied I; “I do not know who Andrew of Padua is, and that is the very reason why I am desirous to converse with him in your coffee-­ house, free from the interruptions of yon crowd of idle vagabonds.” The landlord paused for a few seconds, and then said to the waiter, “Go, Giovanni, and bring him hither. As for my part, I have no ill to allege against the old man; but then every body says there is not such a rogue out of the college of Cardinals as Andrew of Padua; and my good wife, who, by the way, Sir, is no saint herself in the particular of the tongue, would, if she knew that I permitted Andrew of Padua to come within my door, put me in a purgatory, from which all the holy fathers in the church might pray in vain to deliver me, until her wrath was burnt out.” “In that case, friend,” said I, “rather than place your domestic peace in such jeopardy, I will receive the old man at my own lodgings, and thank you to send him to me there. I accordingly told the landlord in what part of the city I lived; and giving him a small gratuity, instead of taking any of his lemonade, I walked home, where I was soon after

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joined by Andrew of Padua. A short conversation made us speedily acquainted with each other; and when I asked him a few particulars respecting his life, he related the following story, which I give you, as near as I can possibly recollect, in his own words.

CHAPTER II. “Whether I was brought into this world like the rest of mankind, or was a special creation, I have not been able to ascertain,” said Andrew of Padua. “This, however, is certain, that I have never known by name either parent or kindred. The only reason that I have for suspecting myself to have been of human parentage, is a presumptive circum­ stance, which I must own is not altogether unworthy of attention. “As early as I can recollect any thing, I resided in the house of an excellent lady, Signora Stomaticho, who, without permitting me to call her mother, treated me with as much kindness and care as if I had been her only child. Being a woman of great piety and virtue, she was particularly honoured by the frequent visits of Padre Urbano, a portly good humoured monk, of the Benedictine order, of which there was a richly endowed monastery, not far from the residence of the Signora. She was not the only lady in Padua whom these holy friars were in the practice of visiting, that was equally distinguished for a charitable care of little orphans, who, from time to time, made their appearance in the city, no one could tell how. In truth, Sir, had we not so many good reasons in the numerous costly churches, and well fed priests around us, to believe that the Pagan religion of our ancestors was entirely fab­ ulous; I should be much inclined to think that some sixty or seventy years ago, Jupiter, as the mythologists inform us, was very much in the practice at Padua of impregnating the air as of old, and causing a brood of human creatures to come forth without parent or pedigree. “But not to insist too much on this singular fact, it cannot be doubted that the virtuous and benevolent Signora Stomaticho, much to the edification of all her neighbours, brought me up with the ten­ derness of a mother, and that Padre Urbano, as long as he lived, treated me with as much affection as any father in the city could manifest for his lawfully begotten son. “When I had reached my fifth year, I was sent to school, where, with­ out acquiring any particular celebrity, I in due and reasonable course of time learnt to read and write. The only circumstance that I directly remember of this important epoch, is the person of my teacher. He had, like myself, some unknown mysterious monkish origin, but in a lower walk of life. He had been originally destined to assist in the

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making of men, as far as the garments are concerned; but having, in an early stage of his studies, pricked his thumb so terribly with a coarse needle that the wound festered, he was obliged to submit to the ampu­ tation of a joint, by which he was completely disabled from following the profession of clothing the naked at their own expense. “It happened very fortunately for Signor Sticcinetto, that he was naturally of a grave and patient disposition; and having during the progress of his wound shown an uncommon predilection for reading, a learned Doctor of the University advised him, after the loss of his thumb joint, to devote the remainder of his life to the improvement of the intellectual faculties of the human race, fate having interdicted him from assisting any longer in the decoration of their corporeal and perishable bodies. Upon this advice, the meek, good, and pensive Sticcinetto, as soon as his hand was cured, gave notice of his intention to take up a school, and when he did so, I was enrolled among the number of his pupils. “Although Signor Sticcinetto had to deplore the mutilation of his thumb, he was nevertheless a man, such as it would be well for the world if it possessed more of the same sort; goodness, simplicity, and a mild lowliness of mind, were his predominant characteristics. He was, to be sure, but slenderly learned for the master of a school, but he had no vanity, neither presumption nor pedantry. His first object in the undertaking was, to gain an honest livelihood, and in the pros­ ecution of it with sincerity, he acquired also, in time, the reputation of a meritorious and skilful teacher. He had the art of so interesting the kindly feelings of his little flock in his favour, that, although he never could inspire them with any degree of that awful reverence which the despots of the birchen sceptre are so ambitious of acquiring, the love which they bore him induced an obedience on their part, which answered all the purposes of the most implicit subjugation that power may inflict, or authority exact. “Among other things associated in my mind, with the remem­ brance of this lowly and blameless man, is an old clock that stood in the school-room, and by which the ingress and egress of the boys were regulated; the hour plate was covered with a glass, in which, at one corner was a hole large enough to allow a quill to be inserted, by which the hands could be pushed forward. As the school-room was on the sunny side of the street, it was always opened some time before the master came, in order that the children might not play in the heat of the sun, and we were often in the practice of pushing the hands of this clock forward a full half hour, setting up a lamentation the moment the

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master appeared, at the grievous time he had kept us from our lessons. With a countenance beaming with the most ineffable benevolence, the simple and kind-hearted Sticcinetto, would look at the truant clock, and exclaim, ‘Well a-day, how time flies.’ The trick was played at least a hundred times a year, and the same sagacious observation was as often repeated. “When I had learnt all that this worthy creature was deemed capa­ ble of teaching, I was removed from his school, and placed under the charge of the Abbate Vicenzo, who prepared the domiciliated youth of Padua for the University. This man was of a character very different from that of my first instructor; he was a short, stubby person, of a testy temper, fond of good eating, and prone to exercise the most unbounded sway over his beardless subjects. The consequence of which was, that his person was the constant topic of their ridicule, his irascibility the butt of their pranks, while a never-ending series of cabals and insurrections, set at nought the pretensions of his author­ ity. Under his care I made but little progress, nor indeed did I take much interest in the course of studies which he prescribed; his tasks were assigned to the pupils without explanation of their object, and those who made the best figure at his school, turned out in after life the greatest dunces of men: They learnt their tasks, without exercising their minds, and their acquirements in grammar was, in consequence, like the possession of tools and instruments, which they were inca­ pable of using. “In the winter of the second year, after I was placed under the charge of the Abbate Vicenzo, I met with my first adventure. But, Sir, as story-telling is dry work, I should not proceed less cleverly with the narrative, were you to order in a flask of good old wine, to moisten my lips occasionally, and so make in my discourse something analogous to those convenient breaks with which authors contrive to divide their works into chapters.” I craved the pardon of Andrew for having neglected a circum­ stance so important, and having ordered in a bottle of the best I had in my house, after the old man had refreshed himself, and paid due compliments to the quality of the wine, he resumed his history as follows:—  

CHAPTER III. “The Abbate, as I have already told you, was extremely fond of good eating, and a short time before Lent he had given directions to his housekeeper, a plump, elderly matron, to prepare one night an excellent supper for three or four friends, equally distinguished with himself for their love of savoury viands. The boys had gained some knowledge of the intended banquet, and the Abbate having, a few days before, incurred the indignation of all his pupils, by the impru­ dent severity with which he had punished a trifling offence, they were resolved to avenge the general wrong which they had so suffered, by disappointing him and his cronies of their expected enjoyment. For this purpose, the leading conspirators made choice of me as one of their instruments; not that I was at all averse to the plot, but I belonged to a younger class than it was deemed prudent to inlist in the enter­ prise: the motive for which I was chosen, did credit to the discernment of those juvenile traitors. “The housekeeper was a French woman, Madame Larolle, who possessed great culinary skill, and was moreover exceedingly talkative and amusing, particularly in the fine descriptions which she delighted to give of the splendor of Paris, and the magnificence of the Grand Monarque Louis XIV. In addition to her requisite official duties as housekeeper, Madame Larolle being the most skilful confectioner in all Padua, was occasionally employed by the nobility and people of fortune, to make preserves and sweetmeats for them; and when she was employed in such undertakings, she was always particularly gar­ rulous, taking an opportunity as she formed her cates and conserves after the most approved Parisian taste and models, to illustrate the propriety of the forms she adopted, by some anecdote of the French court. “As I was born with a genius which delighted in such things, and particularly relished the scraps and crumbs of Madame Larolle’s confectionary, perhaps quite as much as her tales of French grandeur and Parisian luxury, I was often in the practice of attending her in her operations, enjoying her stories and partaking of her sweets. The boys had observed this, and also that I was so much a favorite with the good lady, that it was not at all likely I should be suspected, happen what

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would, of being a party in the plot against the banqueters. Accordingly, in order to secure my assistance, they constrained me by many vows of friendship and favour, as well as threats of the most implacable enmity, to take a part in their malicious scheme, which was no less than to throw into the different messes which Madam Larolle would, they knew, prepare for the feast, certain odious drugs and ingredients which they had previously procured. “I will not deny that when they disclosed to me the probable result of these devices, I was so tickled and delighted that it required very ­little persuasion afterwards to induce me to undertake the performance of the part proposed. At the time appointed I was, in consequence, duly in attendance on Madam Larolle, with pockets well filled with the different articles, and as the old lady kneaded her dough and told her tales, I never laughed so heartily at her humour, while, from time to time, as she had occasion to turn round, I slily slipped into the paste, or among the meats, the ingredients with which I had been intrusted. All went well; the paste rose beautifully, and the ragouts and all the other savoury et cæteras of the supper were to the heart’s content of the happy Madam Larolle. With the flavour of but one dish, the soup, she was not, however, satisfied. The fragrance was not what she had expected, and there was something in the taste which she could not account for; still, however, it was good, and she had no doubt that it would afford ample satisfaction to the guests. “Among other spicy concoctions was a particular pye which she had constructed and adorned with all her skill; it was, indeed, as she herself said, a chef-d’œuvre; but when it was brought out of the oven, the fume from it was such that she was overwhelmed with sorrow. No one could abide the smell; the very scullion declared that it was like the dead—an expression which affected Madam Larolle to such a degree, that she actually screamed with horror. “When the first paroxysms of her distress had abated, her master was summoned and consulted. The ingredients of the pye were all circumstantially enumerated, and the cause of the odious flavour discussed as a miracle that baffled all the laws of cookery. There were, however, so many other good things, that her master endured the loss and disappointment of the pye with an admirable philosophic composure; indeed it even afforded him a topic of amusement; for on rejoining his guests, who were by this time assembled in the ­eating room, he related to them what had happened, and many a peal of laughter announced how lightly they considered the misfortune, in the delicious anticipations which they entertained from the other

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articles of the feast. But not to dwell on minor affairs, let it be enough that I tell you, dish after dish was set before them, and all of the most admirable appearance, but the taste of every new one proved more abominable than the other. The pastry was as bitter as aloes, the sauces as sour as vinegar, and the soup, which had the least peculiar flavour, began to announce the power and influence of the mingled charm in such a manner as to give the unfortunate guests the greatest reason to dread a sleepless night. “But I had executed my task too well; every thing was so infected, that it was soon evident that the transmutation could not have been the effect of accident, and this suspicion was scarcely broached by the afflicted Abbate, when the conspirators, who were lurking in the meanwhile without, having heard from the servants what had happened, began to shout and crow in the most outrageous and tri­ umphant manner. In this crisis the medicine in the soup took effect on the Abbate, who, unable to preserve decorum, announced at once the condition of his stomach and his mind by declaring they were all poisoned. “A terrible consternation ensued; the servants flew to the magis­ trates, Madam Larolle fell into fits, the guests made no scruple of openly performing their malefactions in the saloon, the neighbours came rushing into the house, and, amazed and terrified at the alarm and horror depicted in every countenance, I escaped into the street. In a word, Sir, I stood then even more in need of a glass of good wine than I do at this moment, and your’s is so old and excellent that were I not to pause and taste it, I should ill merit the kindness with which you so readily ordered it in at my suggestion.” In saying these words, Andrew filled a bumper, and after drinking it off, smacking his lips well satisfied with the taste, continued to describe the consequences of the prank which he had played on the Abbate’s supper.  

CHAPTER IV. “From the house of the purged and afflicted Abbate,” continued Andrew, “I ran to that of Signora Stomaticho, and hid myself in a closet. In the meantime the police officers had surrounded the habitation of the unfortunate Vicenzo, and his moaning guests. The domestics were taken into custody, and I was missed. Search was instantly made for me. The officers came, as pale with the horror of the crime as men of their condition and habits of life could well affect to be, and a dreadful uproar was the consequence. The house was rummaged from top to bottom, and I was pulled from my lurking hole more dead than alive. “I shall pass over, as too melancholy to be described, the grief and alarm of the good Signora, to whom, from my earliest remembrance, I had been treated with so much tenderness. The domestic ran for Padre Urbano, who when he arrived was so much distressed at what had taken place, that few fathers could have acted with more paternal agitation in similar circumstances. On my knees imploring mercy, I confessed all that I had done, declared the names of my accomplices, and was thrown with them into prison. “In the course of the night, however, the bowels of the Abbate and his friends having exhausted all their violence, they enjoyed, towards morning, a comfortable sleep; and about the time that I was carried with my companions before the magistrates, they were all charmingly well again. So that instead of the dreadful murder by poison that had filled the whole city with horror and lamentations, the school-boy trick was discovered, and the affair became a source of inextinguish­ able laughter. “The Abbate and his companions might, perhaps, after their fright, have been persuaded to pardon the delinquents; but the merciless condolence with which they were in all places greeted, kept their anger so fierce, that they vowed to persecute us to the end of time, if we lived together so long. As to receiving any of the offenders back to his sem­ inary, Vicenzo declared that he would as soon consent to harbour as many moorish infidels, heretic Englishmen, or blaspheming Jews; and, for my part, I no less decidedly resolved never to set my foot again within his door. All this occasioned great uneasiness and sorrow to Signora Stomaticho and the worthy Padre Urbano. After various sad

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and parental consultations on the subject, they agreed that it would be as well to send me to Venice, where the friar had a brother, an eminent merchant, who would no doubt do all in his power to promote my future welfare. Accordingly in the course of about a week after the plot, I was sent to Venice under the care of Carlina, the nurse and confiden­ tial servant of the Signora. “Nothing very material happened in the course of our journey, except one afternoon a dreadful thunder-storm came on, attended with such deluges of rain, that we were obliged to take shelter at a miserable inn on the road side, and to stop there all night. This was certainly no adventure to be particularly remembered; but the same cause which drove us in, constrained other travellers to follow our example; and as there was only one chamber in the house, the whole were necessitated to pass the night together. This promiscuous pigging of men, women, and children affected the chaste sensibility of poor Carlina to such a degree that she was in the greatest possible affliction, considering herself for some time as utterly undone. What, indeed, might have happened cannot be told, but luckily for Carlina, the host­ ess recollected that the diligence in which we had travelled might be converted into a very comfortable bed-chamber for Carlina and me. “As soon therefore after supper as possible we withdrew quietly from the party of numerous guests, in order to take our place in the carriage. I was put in first; and Carlina having some private matters to discuss with the landlady, remained some time behind in the house. The flashing of the lightning and the distant peals of the retiring thun­ der frightened me so much, when left alone in the carriage, that I grew impatient for Carlina to come, and anxious to hasten her, opened the door and jumped out. “Not finding her in the room where the guests were,—some drink­ ing, some smoking, some sleeping, and some snoring; I sat myself down among them to wait for her, and in this situation fell asleep. In the meantime a great dog, belonging to one of the travellers, seeing the carriage door open, thought, like the hostess, that in such a night the diligence would make a comfortable bed-chamber, got in and occu­ pied my place. Soon after Carlina and the hostess went to the carriage, and the former inquiring for me, the dog answered with a groan. ‘Poor thing,’ said Carlina, ‘he is already fast asleep, I will not disturb him,’ and with that she hoisted herself into the coach. In a few minutes she was herself encircled by the embraces of Morpheus, but the dog was not so comfortable. The flashes of the lightning and the noise of the thunder kept him awake, and alarmed him so much, that while Carlina

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was in the enjoyment of the delightful negative of life; nay, for aught I know, in the possession of the positive pleasure of agreeable dreams, the trembling animal drew nearer and closer to the venerable hand­ maid of Signora Stomaticho. In the occasional transient disturbance of her repose, which this affection of the dog occasioned, she took him for me, and hugged him with those obscure feelings of kindness with which she was wont in my childhood to press me to her bosom, when I slept with her. This attention on her part, met with a suitable return from her companion, and he at length began to lick her hands, and to aspire to her face, in which attempt he roused her from her slumber. Terrified almost to distraction at finding herself in the embraces as she thought of the old gentleman himself, she screamed with such vehe­ mence that the dog, scarcely less frightened, bolted out at the window, leaving her in a state more easily to be imagined than described. “Her cries awakened all the house; lights were struck, and the guests came rushing to her aid. For some time she was unable to speak; and when she recovered her senses sufficiently to make herself understood, she not only declared that the devil had flown away with me, but had taken the most improper liberties with her. “I happened to be among the crowd when this declaration was made, and it was so far from occasioning any sympathy for the terror of the unfortunate damsel, that it only drew forth peals and shouts of laughter, in which I bore a part becoming my years and character. “When the alarm had subsided, and I had explained how it hap­ pened that I was not in the coach, the guests again retired, but Carlina would not resume her place; she rather chose to encounter all the per­ ils of the general chamber than risk such another salutation in the dark as she had received from the dog; being persuaded in her own mind if that it was not the fiend with hoofs and horns who had molested her, it could be no other than some sinful mortal who as little respected her virtue. But the change was not for the better. In the corner of the room, near to which a lair was prepared for us, stood a large jar of water, which, just after Carlina had said her prayers and composed herself to sleep, one of the travellers applied to for a drink, and in lifting it over our bed, as it was heavier than he expected, he was pulled down across Carlina and me by its weight, and the whole contents emptied upon her. Her cries on this occasion were scarcely less wild than her terror, and the misfortune was greater, for so completely drenched were all her garments that she was obliged to get a fire lighted in the stable to dry them. At last the day began to dawn, and the storm having entirely passed away, the sun rose in all his power and glory, and did more by

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his beams to repair the misfortune of Carlina than the fire that had been kindled on purpose. “In the evening we reached Venice, after a pleasant sail in a passage-­ boat, from a village where we embarked on the Brenta. And here I should mention it was in that boat I received my first lesson respecting the veracity of history. Among other passengers was a pedlar, who had been at Padua, and who recounted to his horror-struck auditors the particulars of a most atrocious discovery that had been made in that city,—of a schoolmaster, possessed certainly by a demon, who had administered poison to more than twenty of his pupils, every one of whom had perished except one, the only son of a pious and noble lady, and he was not expected to survive many hours when the storyteller left Padua. Upon cross-questioning the pedlar, it turned out that the whole was a popular version of the trick that had been played on the Abbate Vicenzo, and that I was myself the only son of the pious and noble lady not expected to live. “My reception by Signor Argento, the brother of Padre Urbano, was sufficiently satisfactory, and Carlina was consoled in his house for the fatigues and disasters of the journey, by a judicious administration of a delicious cordial which his housekeeper presented, and which reminds me of the obligations I am under to pay my respects again to your bottle. For I do think when a man is in company with such wine as yours, venerable by age, and estimable for its quality, he must be greatly deficient in the proper respect due to excellence, if he does not show it the utmost possible attention.”

CHAPTER V. When Andrew had drank his wine, he resumed his narrative; but his tone was a little changed, which surprised me, because the natural effect of the liquor should have exhilarated his spirits. “Soon after my arrival at Venice,” said he, “I had occasion to regret my removal from under the maternal wing of Signora Stomaticho, not that the brother of Padre Urbano treated me with any unkindness; but I was now among utter strangers, and some time was requisite to make them acquainted with the peculiarities of my disposition. “On the second day after my arrival, Signor Argento placed me as a clerk in his own counting-house. I was certainly young enough for the situation, and could do but little service; he, however, thought that I had been sufficiently educated for the mercantile profession, and that as I was a smart and shrewd lad, the deficiency of a year or two was a matter of no consequence. “I need not spend much time in telling you, that the merchants of Venice consist of two very distinct classes. The first, the nobles of the city, were those who trafficked in the produce of their own estates, on the terra firma, and in the islands belonging to the state, either by selling it to the agents of foreign merchants, or exchanging it for the commodities imported by them. In this class were many members of the most ancient and distinguished families of the Republic, who, in their mansions and manners, were on a par with the nobility of the rest of Europe, and scarcely inferior to them either in wealth or in arrogance. “The other class of the Venetian merchants, consisted of the brokers of these proud patricians, with the agents of the foreign merchants. Signor Argento belonged to this class; he was the broker of the Pulci, the Marmovechi, and Terestani, who were, if not the most wealthy of the first class, assuredly equal to the richest of them all, in pride and self-satisfaction. Argento had served them with great fidelity for many years; he was indeed a man of exemplary integrity, and although in their service, often entrusted with a vast amount of property, he had never made any other profit of his trust than what he was perfectly entitled to for his trouble. “But this honesty, which was not usually practised at Venice, begat

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him no more credit than if he had been a little more easy in his principles. The community at large, judging from what they knew of themselves and others, believed that he had amassed a great fortune; and that it was only his natural narrowness that prevented him from displaying it in his manner of living. His constituents were much of the same opinion; and as they never required any temporary loans from him, like those of some of the other brokers; and he pursued his own regular and independent method of doing business; they often contrasted his slow-paced regularity with the dashing expedition of his neighbours, and called it by the odious epithet of indolence. This, however, in time, if left to itself, would have corrected itself; but the constituents of the clever party, had an interest in crying up the merits of their friends; for in proportion to the quantity of business that they did, they were able to assist their pecuniary wants; and the conse­ quence was, that a considerable degree of disrepute had accumulated against the professional character of Argento, about the time that I was placed in his counting-house. “A boy was not very likely to appreciate the causes of this justly, nor in fact was it till long after a very large experience of the world, that I was able to understand the matter at all. I could not however but feel very sensibly from the youths of other counting-houses, with whom I was occasionally associated, the sort of degradation that was, in the manner I have mentioned, attached to Argento. It made me extremely unhappy; my pride was mortified, and his business became, in conse­ quence, my aversion. I was perfectly convinced, that the imputations which that honest man was obliged to endure, were altogether unjust; for I could not but compare the unostentatious assiduity of his clerks, and his own strict integrity, and patient modesty, with the flutter and bustle and arrogance of his rivals, and all their various dependents. But the conviction of their hollow and plated reputation was no consola­ tion to me.—The impression of the calumnious inferiority sank deep upon my spirits; my tasks became irksome, and I longed to escape from the bondage in which I felt myself. “In the mean time, I was ripening into manhood, when a restless spirit takes possession of the heart, and a love of change disturbs all that parents and guardians have predetermined. Perhaps this implanted disposition to ramble, was as much the cause of my unhap­ piness under the roof of Argento, as the circumstances which I have mentioned. Be this however as it may, an incident took place that decided my future fate. “During the Carnival, like others, I went to all the theatres; and

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in one of the most insignificant, a little piece, which attracted a good deal of attention, particularly among the junior clerks in the counting houses of the merchants, was brought out. I forget entirely the subject of the drama, but it was something sweet, tender and romantic; and the principal female part was sustained by a young actress, who after­ wards acquired great celebrity under the descriptive name of Pathetica. “I went with another lad of my own age to see this famous perfor­ mance, and the moment that Pathetica made her appearance, I was smitten to the heart—she was finely formed, and her countenance exhibited the most expressive beauty. It is impossible to conceive any thing more ravishingly affecting than her impassioned accents or so irresistible as the imploring pathos of her eyes. All the scene to me was absorbed in this elegant, this divine creature: I saw nothing but her beauty, I heard nothing but her voice. In the progress of the piece, she had occasion to deplore the obduracy of a lover, and every word that she delivered vibrated to my heart. “I could think of nothing all night but of the divine Pathetica; she floated in my dreams, invested with the radiance of a goddess; and when I awoke, it was only to remember some delicious accent of her eloquence—some glance of the beautiful spirit that resided in her eyes. “On the following evening I went again and alone to the theatre, and when she appeared her loveliness seemed still more charming. All the fiction of the performance perished as it were before me, and she appeared the actual heroine whom she only represented. The drama now began to excite an interest, owing to this self delusion, which I cannot describe. I entered with my whole soul into the destiny of the heroine; and although I several times tried to separate Pathetica from the character she sustained, I was happier when I allowed myself to think that she only performed her own story. “Night after night I went to the theatre, and the first effect that the passion with which she had inspired me produced, was, an attempt to embody in verse a description of the feelings and emotions which she had awakened. My poetry, I need not say, was barbarous and harsh, but I thought it more tender than that of Petrarch; and when I inclosed a copy of that delectable effusion to the goddess of my idolatry, I felt as if I had made a vast bound into the regions of immortality. “My first sonnet being sent anonymously, I burned with impatience and love, to know what effect it had produced on my charmer; but I had no acquaintance with the players, nor any confident to consult, and I languished for several days a prey to alternate hopes and fears. Perceiving, however, that all this was doing nothing, I indited another

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excellent new song, and transmitted it to Pathetica, as a humble tribute to her merits; and to this modest and ridiculous epistle, I subscribed my name and address, which drew a reply that filled me with raptures. My verses were declared to be of the most incomparable beauty, and the lovely object of my sighs and admiration concluded by informing me of the night when her benefit was to take place, on which occasion, she begged the honour of my patronage. “To be pronounced by such a woman as Pathetica an elegant poet, and to be deemed worthy of being solicited to patronise the most eminent actress in the most despicable of all the minor theatres of Venice, was a glory beyond the beatitude of the poet in his highest visions of bliss: it turned my head. I bought all the tickets my pocket-­ money would allow, and I sold them among my acquaintance, and bought more, and sold these again, so that, to tell the truth, the lady was mainly indebted to me for a benefit honoured by the presence of all the sprucest beardless clerks in Venice. “My exertions were too well known to pass unrewarded, and I had in this business acquired a wonderful augmentation of self-confidence. Accordingly, at the close of the play I strutted behind the scenes to pay my respects to the incomparable Pathetica. But what took place, requires so much courage to relate, that you must excuse me if I endeavour to fortify myself for the trial by the friendly assistance of your generous bottle.  

CHAPTER VI. “When a youth,” resumed Andrew, “first visits the playhouse, he thinks the scenery at least as beautiful as the aspect of nature, and the performers as much elevated above the ordinary race of mankind, as blank verse is above prose. My enthusiasm made me see all the stage in this light; and when I went behind the scenes and beheld the heroes and heroines, the tattered, haggard, patched, and painted low-bred trulls and scoundrels of the Thespian corps, as far in appearance below the rest of the world as the miserable daubing of their scenery was inferior to the things in nature which it affected to represent; I was seized with a strange qualm of disgust. I looked around among the gang, but could see nothing of the divine Pathetica; at last, after some time, I discovered an ugly wide-eyed coarse-looking harlot, on very easy terms with the bill-sticker of the establishment, for the brute was pawing her cheek; and in this hideous personage I detected the god­ dess of my idolatry. But who shall describe my emotions and feelings! The shock which I received was as if I had suddenly tumbled into the Adriatic, and been in an instant flung again into the midst of a fiercely burning furnace,—or rather as if I had been plunged into a mixture of every odious taste and smell that the apothecary can compound with the aid of all his gallipots. “I was thus cured of my first love as if I had been suddenly roused from a dream, and I should have left the spot with sentiments of fear rather than affection for the detestable creature. But to do her justice, she possessed, as you have heard, considerable merit in her profession, and when she was informed by some of the by-standers, that it was to me she had been mainly indebted for her overflowing benefit, she thanked me with so much gracefulness, and in a tone so pleasing, that half her ugliness was veiled by her manner, and all her vulgar licen­ tiousness disappeared. “Still, however, my repugnance was not to be subdued, and after a few words of conversation I left her, and addressed myself to some of the other performers, and among the females, to a lively little bru­ net, who was so confoundedly stupid on the stage, that no one could endure her; but behind the scenes she was Venus herself, compared with the hideous Electo that I had found in Pathetica.

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“The deficiencies of Belletta as an actress, had the effect of drawing out her other talents to please; and the moment that she cast eyes on me, all her allurements were spread. It happened that this damsel had not performed at the benefit of Pathetica; and among the first things I said to her, was an inquiry as to the cause. ‘I am,’ replied Belletta, ‘the victim of a faction.’ No princess could have uttered the words with a grander air. ‘Alas! Signor,’ she continued, ‘jealousy is the ruin of my virtue,’ meaning thereby her talent as an actress. ‘I shall never be per­ mitted to assume a character worthy of my genius.’ “Pity melts the mind to love, and I was touched with compassion for the unhappy fate of the pretty Belletta. ‘Who is your rival,’ said I; ‘who is it that opposes your just pretensions to fame?’—‘That wretch,’ exclaimed the gentle fair, ‘that ugly, staring wretch, Pathetica; and would you believe it, Signor, the devil has had already two children.’ “I could not, I must confess, see very clearly in what manner the circumstance of Pathetica having had two children could affect the merits of Belletta as an actress; but she said it had, or rather her words implied as much, and she looked at me with such beautiful languishing eyes, that I was persuaded it must be true. I do not know whether Belletta’s experience or genius informed her that I was likely to be easily gulled; but the result was, that before we had conversed many minutes, she took me by the arm with all the comfortable ease of an old acquaintance, and I was forthwith convinced that, but for the ­vilest partiality on the part of the manager, Pathetica never would have been permitted to enjoy the éclat of the first characters, and that the amiable Belletta was one of the worst used actresses that ever trod the boards of any theatre. “The disgust that I had conceived against Pathetica, doubtless oper­ ated to assist the impression which Belletta had made. In proportion as I had exerted myself in behalf of Pathetica, I resolved to redouble my endeavours for the beautiful victim of a faction. And I need not blush to own that my determination was upon the whole generous. It is true that my recollection of her sufferings by the tyranny of the manager, and his unjust partiality for the hideous Pathetica, was crossed and disturbed by the remembrance of her fine full dark eyes; but it was not until after I had seen her again next night, that their influence began to predominate. In the third, I could think of nothing else; and when I attempted to interest my companions in her favour, assuring them that she was truly a most incomparable actress, but the victim of a faction and rival, I became myself almost the victim of their ribaldry and ridi­ cule. Belletta, however, consoled me. But Argento hearing of the affair,

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wrote to Padre Urbano on the subject, who lost no time in coming to Venice, and remonstrating with me on having formed a connection so imprudent. All his words, however, would have proved only empty wind, had it not happened that one of those foolish Englishmen who are sent abroad by their parents, as unfit to take a part in the constant conflict of cabals which distract that turbulent country, until they have acquired some experience of the world—came the same night to the theatre, and seeing Belletta, supplanted me in her heart: at least I had great reason to think so; for after enduring the lecture of Padre Urbano, I went to her lodgings to tell her what had taken place, but, alas! the bird was flown. The Englishman had carried her off, as the landlady told me, from the theatre, and had given her such a power of money to buy fine dresses, that she had made her a present of all her former wardrobe, beside paying the rent due, like a princess. “This to me was woeful tidings, and I verily believe, that could I at the moment have laid hands on Belletta, I should have shaken the beautiful eyes out of her head. But what could be said? she was false, and I undone. And to mend matters, Padre Urbano heard in the course of the afternoon of what had happened, and rallied me so unmercifully on the fickle frailty of my mistress, that it is hard to say, at this distance of time, whether I was most affected by the infidelity of the actress, or the triumphant ridicule of the monk. And yet, what were his jokes and grins compared to her insolence; for on going to one of the other theatres, having determined never again to set foot in that which had caused me so much woe, with loss of Belletta, who should I meet in the vestibule, but my faithless brunet, with her arrogant protector. ‘Ah, my dear Andrew of Padua!’ said she, with the most heart-breaking gai­ ety; ‘this Signor is the most generous of men, and I can never love you any more—adieu, my dear Andrew of Padua!’ Ungrateful, perfidious! I exclaimed in transports of passion, and rushed to tear her from the Englishman; but she only laughed, and he knocked me down. “When I recovered my feet, the happy lovers were safe in the ­theatre, and I was distracted. The indignity of the blow was fury to my thoughts, and I verily believe, that had all the gunpowder in the world been collected on the spot, I would have made no scruple of firing it all in my revenge. Nature, however, never intended me for any thing very criminal, and the laughter which my vows of vengeance awakened in the by-standers when they heard that all my love and despair was for so worthless a creature, had the most salutary effect in curing me of my first folly. I became, as I cooled, strangely vexed at having played the fool, and my indignation against the Englishman was lost in the sense

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of my own imprudence.” At this pause in the narrative, as I perceived that Andrew had still a great deal of his story to tell, I ordered the servant to get us supper: Andrew heard the intimation with visible satisfaction, and resumed his narrative with renewed vivacity.  

CHAPTER VII. “Ill news,” said Andrew, “travel fast! When I went home to the house of Argento to supper, I found the whole of my adventure, the infidelity of Belletta, and the triumph of the Englishman already known to Padre Urbano. He gloried in my disgrace; and being a man of some humour, and possessed of the most consummate knowledge of the world, his ridicule was at once so cruel and just, that while it made me quiver with agony in every nerve, I could scarcely refrain from joining in the laugh. “But the mirthful compassion of the cunning monk was nothing, in its effects, to what I experienced next day, when all the hopeful youth of my acquaintance came to afflict me with their condolence. When I reflect on what I felt, I often wonder how it happened that I did not rush into the Adriatic for refuge from their taunts and deri­ sion. However, I weathered the storm within, but the event made a deep impression on my mind. I was changed in my very nature; and without any thing like what can be called the corruption of dissolute companions, I became one of the most dissipated youths in all Venice. The intoxication of sensuality afforded me, however, no satisfaction; or rather every excess was followed with such a moral nausea, that I grew every day more and more miserable. Padre Urbano had returned to Padua soon after my adventure with the Englishman, and had left me, together with much good advice, a considerable sum of money, in the persuasion that the mortification I had met with, would tend to make me more discreet in future. “But with all his knowledge of the general character of mankind, the sapient Padre was not aware of the force of individual peculiarities. His advice I gave to the four winds of Heaven, and troubled myself no more about it; but his money augmented my confidence, and was in fact as paws to my natural vices; for by it I found all the pleasures of the stews and taverns wonderfully within my reach. I do not however think that I was naturally disposed to be a libertine; on the contrary, I fancy, that if my affections had been interwoven with those domes­ tic ties which are reciprocally formed between children of the same ­family, and parents and children, I should not have abandoned myself, as it were, at once to the profligate courses to which I allude. I say this,

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because, as I have told you, in that career of pleasure I experienced the greatest misery. Ennui preyed upon me in the morning; and to free myself from her fangs, I rushed into the arms of debauchery at night. Never was the insufficiency of sensual enjoyments to form the happiness of man, more strikingly illustrated than in my case. I was haunted in the pursuit with the upbraidings of the celestial spirit that I so wantonly neglected; and my innate taste,—for I will not presume to call it virtue,—often revolted at the scenes to which a wild infatua­ tion, night after night, led me on. “Argento beheld my ruin as inevitable, and again wrote to Padre Urbano that he feared I was lost for ever. The worthy monk came on the instant again to Venice, and he was so much shocked at my appear­ ance at our first interview, that he could with difficulty refrain from shedding tears. He declared, that I wore the audacious countenance of a youth fated to an evil end, and yet the ingenuousness of my gladness at seeing him again, convinced him that my heart was not entirely corrupted. Had he yielded to his feelings, I should, in all probability, have been redeemed. But he knew the world too well, and believed me worse than I was; for instead of mildly and kindly interceding with me for myself, he in a few moments assailed me with a torrent of reproaches. He recalled to me, with expressions barbed with the most envenomed ridicule, the absurdity of my conduct towards the actress, and exerted all the powers of his strong natural eloquence to lower my pride, and to convince me of my own unworthiness. I needed not his terrible sarcasms to do this. There was an echo to all he said within me, whose deep and dreadful responses were far more tremendous than the scorn or contempt of man. It was the voice of my guardian angel, as he contended with the sensual fiend that struggled for the possession of my soul. “When Padre Urbano had given vent to his displeasure, he left me; but the moment that he was gone, my whole mind underwent a change. I suppose the devil then got the upper-hand of the angel, for all that I had done seemed wonderfully proper and becoming my years. I reflected on my conduct, and I thought it manly, spirited, and though a little wild, yet, upon the whole, generous. I cannot however recollect how I should ever have thought it generous, for I spent all my money with a riotous crew, and only I believe more freely than my companions because I happened to have more of it than them. Not one act of kindness or of charity was performed by me in all that unworthy career.” In this crisis of the narrative, we were disturbed by the servant

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entering to lay the cloth for supper, and while he was in the room, Andrew shifted the conversation to some general subject. It was evident, indeed, by the tone of his declamation, that he felt no small degree of contrition in the recollection of his conduct after the inter­ view with Padre Urbano. But there was a natural buoyancy in his spirits that soon recovered from such momentary depression, so that when we were again by ourselves, he spoke as dashingly and freely as ever.  

CHAPTER VIII. “It was in vain,” said Andrew, “that I endeavoured to master the feelings which the reproaches of Padre Urbano awakened. I thought myself exceedingly ill used, my wisdom undervalued, and my conduct, which, in my own opinion, was so manly and proper, maltreated by an old fool, without judgment or consideration. In short, to make a short tale of a long story, I determined to quit the house of Argento, to abandon the slavish traffic of merchandise, and on some arena more suitable to my talents than Venice, to show the world with a bounce that I was destined to be somebody. “It is possible, however, that I might have hesitated for some time longer before carrying this notable design into effect, had not an acci­ dent, in itself trivial, decided my destiny. I was now become intimate with many of the players, and I was generally esteemed among them as a sharp and shrewd lad: my natural character began also now to develope itself with more vigour. I could say happy things that pleased my auditors. I had a natural knack at mimickry, could sing with some effect, especially comic and jovial airs; and, what was of the first consequence in the eyes of a manger, I was daily growing a well-built handsome fellow. “On some occasion or another,—the cause I do not recollect,—a series of grand fêtes were to be given at Florence, whether in honour of a visit from the pope or the emperor, I cannot tell, nor indeed is it of any consequence; for you know all great folks, whether pious or profligate, grave or gay, secular or clerical, are always treated with magnificent entertainments, and in general all of the same sort; and whatever may be the diversity of their tastes, they are all expected to be equally delighted. “Well, the rumour of the Florentine festival came to Venice, and produced a great sensation on all the dramatic body. The first perform­ ers received liberal engagements, the inferior went on speculation, and those who were deemed unworthy of any invitation, went from curiosity. “It happened that on the day when the general translation of the players from Venice to Florence was to take place, I was attending for Argento the unloading of a vessel with oil from the estates of some of

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his constituents. In discharging one of the butts of oil, the crane broke, the cask fell, the head was driven in, and the oil smoothed the waves of the Adriatic. This accident vexed Argento exceedingly; he blamed me angrily, and of course unjustly. He taunted me in his passion with paying more attention to the theatres than to his business, and, in a word, said as many foolish things as an angry man commonly does. A thousand little causes of irritation had been long fretting in my bosom. The reproaches of Argento touched the sores to the quick. I replied with spirit, as a youth would say; with indiscretion, as a man of more experience would think. The debate flamed into fierceness between us; to words gestures succeeded. Argento shook his fist in my face, and I knocked him down. This of course ended our connection; I left his house in the instant, not altogether without some apprehension of being kicked out, and resolved, with admirable promptitude to join my friends among the players who were going to Florence. “I ran immediately to them, and explained to them with vehement gestures, loud words, and strong oaths, the ill usage I had received, and my determination to try my luck and fortune on the stage. My spirit was applauded to the skies as the very pink of knighthood, and I was welcomed into the honourable fraternity of vagabonds with every demonstration of joy and satisfaction. The same night we took our departure from Venice. “It so happened, that in the boat in which I embarked with my com­ panions for the terra firma, was the manager of the principal theatre, and a large miscellaneous assemblage of kings and harlequins, princes and fidlers, queens and dancers, singers, candle snuffers, scene shifters, and all those et cætera of characters that make up the pride, pomp, and circumstance of histrionic splendor. We were a jovial set—the laugh, the gibe, the joke went merrily round, and ever and anon some choice genius favoured the company with a specimen of his art. At last it fell to my lot to sing, and I acquitted myself so well, that the great man, the manager, expressed himself quite astonished, and inquired in the most flattering manner from what part of Italy I had come, and how it happened that I had not called on him at his theatre during my visit to Venice. It was clear from this, Sir, that the song had done the business, and that, in the slang of the theatre, it had made a man of me. “I will not trouble you with details; my history was soon related, and before we reached the landing place, I had accepted a liberal offer from the manager to perform with his company in the Grand Duke’s theatre at Florence. “But I had never studied a part; this difficulty however was soon

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got over. The manager was so confident of the effect of my powers, that, without reference to what the rest of his company might think, he determined that I should make my appearance in a principal char­ acter; and he fixed on one which I should have modestly shrunk from myself. In the course of our journey I studied the part, and easily got the speeches by heart; the airs were also soon acquired, and as I prac­ tised them before the whole of the company as we travelled along, by the time we reached Florence I felt myself perfectly at home in the character. “One thing, however, I had not counted on—the awfulness of a first appearance on the stage; and as we drew nearer and nearer to the city, strange qualms came over my heart, and it was remarked that I lost my hilarity, grew pale and thoughtful. The manager, who suspected the cause, did all in his power to cheer me, but the players maliciously magnified the hazards. At last we arrived, and my arrival was announced to the ducal court with great pomp. It was stated publicly that I was a prodigy, and that the manager had the greatest merit in persuading me to live with him, for that I was a capricious devil on whom no dependence could be placed, and would only sing and play as it pleased myself. The result of all this was as the manager expected; the greatest anxiety was excited in the public mind; nothing was talked of but my talents and whims; and the Grand Duke himself was as much interested in the success of my appearance, as if the glory of his dukedom depended on the event. “But look, Sir, supper is on the table, and I feel something like the qualms I felt on that occasion, invading the seat of my appetite; with your leave I will therefore try to pacify that cormorant fiend, the ­stomach, by sacrificing a few of your good things on the well-dressed altar which your servant has prepared.” In saying these words, Andrew took his place at the table. I began now to understand the character of the old man, and to suspect the cause for which he was so generally shunned by those who had any thing to give. It was plain that he delighted in good fare, and made his wits subservient to his living, which by the bye is the way of the world in general, as well as of Andrew of Padua.

CHAPTER IX. Andrew ate heartily, praised the viands and was not sparing of the wine. I was not displeased to see the poor creature enjoy himself so well, and could not reflect without an emotion of pity that a man so evidently possessed at one time of a gay and facetious genius, should be reduced to such a state of poverty as to be obliged in his old age to earn the satisfaction of a good meal by so much endeavoured glee; for I could perceive even in his mirth the latent workings of a wounded spirit, and something like a sentiment of remorse at finding himself reduced so low. However, when he had done supper and the table was cleared, he again began: “I shall not attempt,” said he, “to describe to you how I felt on the day big with my fate. It seemed to me as if Time was rushing forward with unusual speed. I looked at the sun in the morning; and before I knew where I was, it was noon; and down he fell from the meridian to the evening, as if he had tumbled from his sphere. There was an awful haste in all nature. Men performed their tasks seemingly within half the wonted time. The very force of fire was augmented, and the culinary preparations were brought to a conclusion with the most appalling expedition. I felt the whole earth moving. I looked around me, and every thing was going forward. The moon sprang from her couch in the eastern cloud, as if she had been bowled along the sky by the demon of precipitancy. The stars were rash in all their movements, and a sound was in my spirit and in my ear more terrible than ever mortal hearing ever before heard. “At an appointed moment the manager came to conduct me to the theatre; he described the vast crowd that was assembled for admit­ tance, and spoke in raptures of the splendor and fulness of the house. The tidings sounded to me more tremendous than thunder: my limbs trembled, and my lips quivered. I declared myself unwell; I protested my inability to perform; I felt as if my memory was gone, and that I could not survive the trial. But the manager urged me into courage, and forced me to go with him. When I entered the theatre, I saw no distinct object, nor heard any intelligible sound; lights and eyes and faces and furniture floated before me; and voices and violins, and ten thousand discords pealed in my ears.

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“While I was in this state, the curtain drew up, and the manager, who stood near me, behind the scenes, absolutely pushed me on the stage before the audience. A vast, a continued, and a rousing applause, gave me time to recover myself, and my part beginning with a song not inapplicable to the tremors with which I was afflicted, when the din of my reception subsided, I was able to commence with some effect. I certainly never sang worse before; but the audience were delighted. They attributed my defects to the caprice of which I had been so artfully accused, and they were determined to applaud me into good humour. As the scene proceeded, I became more at ease; my spirits, which had pined with fearful anguish for so many days before, began to regain their wonted briskness; and the loud and long plaudits that crowned my efforts, added new energy to my endeavours. Never was the success of an actor more complete; and yet, to tell the truth, I was certainly not a good actor; for instead of performing the part which the author had conceived, I threw into it the peculiarities of my own individual character. This made me seem sufficiently spirited and nat­ ural, and all tongues and all hands were vehement in my praise. “The same opera was repeated night after night, and every night being more at ease, I was better than on the preceding. Assuredly, had I died at the close of the fêtes at Florence, I should have been recorded as the most extraordinary Roscius that had appeared in modern times, and a singer of unequalled taste and power; and perhaps had I studied with care, I might have even risen to distinction in the profession. But my appearance in a new part at Leghorn, to which the players removed after the festival was over, dispelled the illusion. The actors saw that I had no imitative conception; and while they confessed that in the part in which I had made my first appearance, I was great beyond imagi­ nation, they declared that in every other I showed but the shadow of it. This was quite true; but I was intoxicated, and my personal vanity contributed to my ruin. I paid no attention to the requisite study of character, contenting myself with getting the words of the part by rote; and giving up my time to dissipation, at once impaired my health, injured my morals, and destroyed the gifts of nature, which, with proper cultivation, might have procured the distinction for which I longed. “But although I had thus fallen into bad courses, the natural ingen­ uousness of my disposition acted as a spell on my errors, and made me an object of deeper interest than if my conduct had been less blameable. “Among others who at this juncture paid me particular attention,

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was the Marquis Altrobosco, a nobleman of the finest genius, but still more admirable for the gentleness of his manners, and the inex­ haustible virtues of his heart. He frequently invited me to his parties; chided me with parental solicitude for my indiscretions, and took every opportunity of persuading me, that although my voice and ­figure qualified me to appear on the stage with superior effect, yet that the strength of my talents did not lie in that direction. ‘The quickness of your fancy,’ said he; ‘the liveliness of your conception, and the intui­ tive felicity of your language, convince me that you are rather destined to excel as a poet;’ and he urged me to make an essay in verse. I obeyed him the same evening, and next morning brought him a rhapsody descriptive of the progress of the seasons; in which I introduced a sort of allegory, descriptive also of the progress of love. I thought the performance a master-piece, and expected the approbation of the marquis in no ordinary terms. He smiled when I presented it, and marvelled at the length of the composition in so short a time. He then read it, and grew serious as he read. At last he said, ‘Andrew, this will never do: it is arrant trash; take it away; and when you have bestowed more pains, I will then read your verses, and give you the opinion of a friend on them.’ “Piqued and mortified at this treatment, I abandoned the muses, and for some time never looked near the marquis, and was always engaged when he sent to invite me to his house. About a month after, a young man belonging to the opera-house, and who was remarkable only for his stupidity, offered the manager a little piece of his own composition, in which he had introduced the part of an improvisatore, which he designed for me. The dialogue of the drama was neatly written, and the situations chosen with that sort of dramatic skill which is only to be acquired by a constant attendance at the theatre; but the poetry which he provided for the improvisatore to recite was execrable.—On reading my part, with which I was mightily pleased, the idea struck me, that perhaps I could produce a better effect were I, instead of reciting what had been prepared, to attempt myself extemporaneous compo­ sition in the scene. Filled with this notion, I paid more attention than usual to my part, insomuch that I was quite at my ease when I came to perform. I said nothing to the other players of my intention; but trust­ ing to the inspiration of the moment, resolved, if possible, to surprise them as well as the audience by the richness and variety of my powers. “The house, as is usual on the first representation of a new piece, was full; and among others, the Marquis Altrobosco was in his box. The first essay of the improvisatore required that he should display

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his abilities to convince an austere old man that he was indeed gifted with genius. Nothing could be happier for me. I looked towards the marquis’s box; I felt the inspiring mantle of the muse descend upon me; I was, as it were, lifted out of myself, and began a rhapsody, which I addressed to the marquis, and in which I indignantly adverted to the scorn he had expressed at my fine strains on the seasons. Images thickened upon me; the rock was touched by the prophetic wand, and the stream, as it flowed, gave life to the sands of the desert. My spirit mounted; and in the fervour of its flight, I became so entranced in the topic which I undertook to embellish, that I lost all sense of the scene before me, and continued to vindicate my poetical powers, with such a vehemence of elocution, such a glorious consciousness of power and abundance, that the actors on the stage stood amazed at what they heard, and the audience were scarcely less transported by my success, than I was myself with the rapture of the moment. “At the close of the scene, the Marquis came behind the curtain; and, enchanted with delight, he called me a second Homer, and from that moment I was known by no other name. ‘You have now,’ said he, ‘opened to yourself the path which you ought to pursue. Cultivate your powers as an improvisatore, and endeavour, at the same time, to repair your indiscretions, and you will one day become the ornament of Italy.’ “I did cultivate my powers,” resumed Andrew, “but alas, I neglected the other portion of the good man’s advice, and behold what I am!— The flame of my genius has long departed; the fire is burnt out; and a few small and fading embers, still glimmering in the ashes, are all that remains of those powers of fancy and invention which shot up like meteors among the stars, and diffused over my theme a light and a glory that were deemed the omens of immortality.” Andrew paused, and a tear trickled from his eye; but in a moment he mastered the regret which had so suddenly subdued his vivacity, and continued his narrative.  

CHAPTER X. “I will not trouble you,” said the old man, “with any account of my compositions. You have perhaps heard of them; every person who visited Rome about thirty years ago, considered me as one of the standing miracles of the Papal Court, and I fell a sacrifice to the blandishments of admiration.—But this is proceeding a little too fast, and we must return to my first essay. “The piece in which I performed so distinguished a part, consisted of two acts, and it was in the first that I produced the effects which the Marquis Altrobosco had so highly praised.—In the second, I had a still more difficult task. By the structure of the piece, the improvisa­ tore was a lover, and although he had won the father of his mistress to approve his suit, by the effusion I have described, he had still to persuade her of his constancy, ardour, and love. “During the performance of the first act, I had observed in one of the boxes, a beautiful young lady, and when I came to the scene in which I was to woo my mistress, I resolved to turn with all my enthusiasm to that lovely stranger. It was supposed that I had exhausted myself, and the audience were even disposed to allow the piece to be curtailed in indulgence to me. But I felt no diminution of my power, and returned to the stage with a confident mind, and a proud step. The written dia­ logue proceeded, and the moment of trial came. The whole house was hushed to stillness as I paused to collect my thoughts; I was for an instant agitated, and walked to the front of the stage—every eye was quickened with expectation—I looked round and moved two paces towards the side box where the beautiful stranger was placed. The business of the scene required that I should address an actress, who by this movement was left behind me; but instead of turning round to her, I knelt down and addressed myself to the stranger. I will not describe what ensued; she became a performer in the scene, for my first words directed every eye towards her; she shrank from the general gaze; she blushed as I proceeded; she changed colour as I implored her pity; and in spite of all the public around, when I described my fondness, sincerity, and devotion, she was melted into tears, and stretched her arms towards me. A universal shout resounded from all parts of the theatre. The audience started from their seats, and the actress to whom

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I ought to have addressed myself, ran towards me, and overwhelmed me with caresses to such a degree, that peals of laughter succeeded the burst of admiration which rewarded my efforts. “But the effect of my poetry did not end here. The beautiful Rosalia was moved in reality to love; a fervent and noble passion took posses­ sion of her heart, and in contempt of the difference in our condition, for she was of noble birth, she would have bestowed on me her hand. The episode is interesting, and as it is one of the few incidents of my early life that I reflect on with pleasure, you will indulge me by listen­ ing to it particularly. “The beautiful Rosalia was the only child of the Marchioness Villasecho, a widow lady, who had in her own youth, not been dis­ tinguished either for the purity or consistency of her conduct, and therefore, I suppose, was the more sensible of the consequences of any imprudence on the part of her daughter, for she bred her up in entire seclusion from the rest of the world, while the utmost care was bestowed in the cultivation of her talents.—Rosalia was, in reality, one of the loveliest, and most accomplished creatures in the world. Her person was adorned with every charm of grace and beauty, that nature confers on the fairest of the fair; and her mind, which was extremely susceptible to whatever was fine in sentiment, and noble in action, was enriched with infinite care by the ablest teachers that could be procured in Leghorn.—She was in a word, without question, the most fascinating woman in the city, with a greater variety of knowledge than usually falls to the lot of the sex, together with a simplicity of character at once so open and delightful, that I do think, on recollection, that in all the variety of my experience, I have never met with any one so perfectly calculated to rivet the affections of the man whom she had once interested in her favour. But woe is me, I must confess my unworthiness of the love which I had inspired. I was as insensible to her beauty as a painter or a sculptor; I could only admire the piece of work which nature had made in her. And my taste for the innocence of simplicity, was lost in a libertine desire for something more piquant and airy, and yet withal, more criminal. The fact is, that at the time I was over head and ears in love with the Parisian, fille de chambre of the wife of the French ambassador to the Papal court, and who had only landed from Marseilles a few days before. She lodged with her lady in an hotel opposite to the house in which I resided, and about an hour before going to perform at the opera, we had exchanged from the window across the street, the most captivating and tacit expressions of everlasting love.

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“This will explain to you what ensued; were I anxious to exalt myself in your opinion, I should have concealed this part; but I am so old that it is no longer worth my while to affect any virtue beyond sincerity; and my only pleasure now is, to acknowledge my faults to the candid and the wise; the crafty and the foolish regard me as a bad man. “On the morning after the performance, as I was standing at the window of my apartment, all eye for the gay fille de chambre, that I momentarily expected to appear, an old woman was admitted into my room—it was the nurse of Rosalia; she began to sob and weep, and heigh-ho with all the absurd affectation that such old sinners commonly give themselves on such occasions. In the end, it turned out that she had come to me from her mistress, requesting me to meet her in a dark and unfrequented part of the city. All this was mighty flattering to a young man; but still the pretty fille de chambre ran more in my head than the noble Rosalia; however, I promised to attend her summons, and the old go-between rose to depart; but just as she was quitting the room, some compunctious visitation of nature overcame her, and she turned round and wiping her eyes, blowing her nose by the way, and taking snuff at the same time, she declared that her young lady was ruined, for that the Count Jovanelli was deeply enamoured of her beauty, and would give his castle in the country, with all the moveables of which he stood possessed, to stand in my shoes. This intelligence which ought, perhaps, to have whetted me to rivalry, had quite the contrary effect; I knew the count—a young nobleman of superior talents, and of a nature so modest, and yet so elevated, that it was impossible to know him without respecting him. “As soon as the old hag of a nurse had left me, I reflected on this adventure, on the charming Rosalia, on my more piquant fille de chambre, and on the excellent count Jovanelli, and after a few pros and cons which I shall not tire you by detailing, I resolved in the first instance, to pay the Count a visit. You shall learn my purpose in the sequel. “Accordingly I lost no time in going to his residence, and was fortu­ nate enough to find him at home, and alone. He was surprised at my visit, but still more so, when I addressed him to the following effect:— “‘My lord, a circumstance of which you are perhaps not ignorant, happened at the theatre last night, in which my performance inter­ ested Signora Rosalia so deeply, that a scene took place that excited at least the amazement of the audience. That scene was attended with impressions deeper than I was aware of; and this morning I have received a message from the lady, requesting me to meet her in secret.’

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“The colour of the Count went and came, as I uttered these words, as if he could with difficulty command himself; without, however, noticing his agitation, I proceeded— “‘But, my lord, it is impossible that I can hope for the hand of the lady as my wife, nor do I desire it; yet understanding that she is beloved by you, and believing as I do, that her partiality for me is of a transient nature, I have come to request, if my information is correct, that you will accompany me to the place of assignation.’ “The complexion of the count reddened with disdain;—‘No,’ said he: ‘if she is capable of fixing her affections on an opera singer, she is unworthy of me.’ “I do not know how it was, but there was something so like the voice of justice in this insult, that instead of provoking my anger, it only aroused my better affections, and I replied “‘My lord, I do not ask of you any sacrifice of your honour, I only wish you to assist me to redeem a young lady of admirable virtues, and noble birth, from falling a victim to a libertine opera singer.’ “The Count Jovanelli looked at me with indescribable astonish­ ment; and after an emphatic pause of several minutes, in which I preserved the dignity of the character I had assumed, he said— “‘Andrew, I am not insensible to your merits as a man of genius; but there is a greatness of mind in what you have now proposed, which at once confounds and delights me. Yes; I love Rosalia, I would lay down my life for her; but I cannot accept of her hand without the dowry of her heart, and that I fear she has not to give. No: if she believed you possessed so much nobleness of spirit as you seem to do at present, I should esteem her less if she did not admire you—love you I would say, but prejudice will not allow me.’ “In the end, the Count consented to accompany me to the interview; but as it was one of the most trying scenes in which I ever performed, you will pardon me for pausing a little, to give my heart time to muster blood enough to support me in the recital.*

* The English reader may perhaps wonder that Andrew had not recourse to the bottle, but it is not the custom in Italy to drink after supper.

CHAPTER XI. “The time appointed,” continued Andrew, “was an hour after sun­ set. The Count was to be at the spot in disguise; but as for me, that was not necessary. It was a beautiful evening. The twilight was still clear, but labour had in every direction thrown aside her implements for the night, and was gay and garrulous in all her haunts of recreation. The cheerful murmur of laughter and song, rose from the little coffee-­ houses frequented by strangers and mariners. The lamps before the images of the saints were all lighted and shone cheerfully, without seeming to add any light to the saffron radiance of the western skies that still rendered every object distinctly visible, though in a soft and hazy form. Nothing could surpass the brilliancy of the stars; they were indeed the eyes of heaven, and I thought as I walked forth towards the appointed spot, that they looked on me with beams of encouragement and kindness. “My heart glowed with a pleasure almost new to it, the pleasure of good intentions—my pulse beat quickly and variably, but it was with an emotion rarely experienced before—the hope of conferring favour on the good and noble. My steps were light; the air of heaven that I breathed lifted me from the ground, and I walked forward with the elasticity and bravery of a man inspired by high notions. I thought as I advanced, that a light was around me, a glory over me, and that thousands of the pure and beautiful beings that rejoice in the good actions of men, hovered in my path and marshalled me to the scene of victorious virtue. Never shall I forget the triumph of that hour. The joy that it kindled has been ever since a beacon fire, and though now afar off, high on a rugged rock, and myself old, shattered, and tugging with aged hands at the heavy oar of poverty, I look back to it as a guiding star, and when most in despair, I exclaim, there is still yon cheering light which assures me I am not utterly lost. “On reaching the place, I found the Count there before me; he was sullen and agitated, and, at first, full of indignation against Rosalia. While I attempted to pacify him, we discovered at a distance two female figures approaching. We were standing under an arcade, and the Count hid himself behind one of the pillars as I walked to meet the women. We were not mistaken: it was Rosalia and her nurse.

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“I waved, without speaking, to the old woman to retire, and took the hand of Rosalia, which fluttered with alarm in mine, and led her near to the pillar behind which the Count stood concealed. I then dropped it, and said without emotion, for I felt none, ‘I have attended your invitation, Signora. Why have you requested this of me? This darkness and secrecy bear witness that you are conscious of doing wrong; and my own heart tells me, that in being ashamed to meet me more openly, you have felt as a lady of your virtue and birth ought to feel.’ “She made no reply for some time, but I heard her breathe fast, and sigh deeply. At last, however, she recovered some degree of self-­ possession, and in a tremulous but emphatic manner answered:— “‘I did not, Sir, expect this reproof; but I am not surprised that you should have given it; a man who conceives so nobly as you do, ought to act greatly, and the sentiments by which you seem to be actuated are worthy of the feelings which you expressed last night. But, Sir, I have been informed that you are not what you seem, that youthful folly has led you to the stage, that your family is of high rank at Venice, and if so, a fond, but I fear unmaidenly hope, has led me to think that perhaps I might reclaim you to honour and the station you were born to embellish.’ “This was but the seductive paltering of love, and I was experienced enough in the sex to perceive it; but the benevolent angel that ruled the hour preserved my magnanimity. I informed her frankly of my unknown origin, my suspicion as to my parents, and with a virtuous fidelity, confessed my licentious and unbridled courses. “She turned from me with a sigh, and moved to retire, but I seized her firmly by the hand. ‘No, Madam,’ I exclaimed; ‘you must not thus leave me—we have incurred a terrible risk in this interview, you the hazard of dishonor, and I that of a great crime.’ “She stood immoveable as a statue, and I continued:— “‘The Count Jovanelli is, I am informed, the most devoted of your lovers; his talents are of a high order, his character unblemished, and he is of your own rank in life. Turn towards him those eyes of favour which in a luckless moment you have cast on me.’ “She withdrew her hand from mine, and stepped aside to go away. “‘I have not yet done,’ exclaimed I, warmed with the crisis that I perceived was coming on. ‘Your innocence and beauty have been placed in fearful peril—nor am I, lady, insensible to the value of the prize within my reach—but you would be disgraced by receiving me as your husband, and I have not virtue enough to make you any return for so great a sacrifice.’

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“These words affected her extremely, but she was presently relieved by a flood of tears. ‘You have rescued me,’ she cried, ‘from ruin—I am penetrated with your magnanimity—I will send for Count Jovanelli​ —I will relate to him this interview, and if he can accept my hand after knowing the greatness of my imprudence, it will ever after be my study to merit his esteem and love.’ “‘He is here and at your feet, most ingenuous of women,’ exclaimed the Count, rushing from behind the pillar and kneeling before her.” The old man was moved to tears as he described this, and could not articulate for some time; but when he had a little recruited, he resumed: “It would only weaken the impression which this scene must have made on you, were I to relate what passed between Rosalia and her lover. In the moment, however, that things were brought to a proper understanding, the old nurse came hobbling towards us, out of breath and in the greatest terror. “‘O, Signora! O, Signor!’ was her cry, ‘we are all undone; my lady, the Marchioness, has discovered our absence, and knowing from her own sly tricks of old that we could be after no good, behold, she is herself coming like a mad she-wolf from the mountains to worry us to death; what is to be done?—you may fly, but I cannot, my legs are unable to make speed enough; and unless you, Signor,’ said she to me, ‘take me on your back, and fly with me as your dearest treasure, we are lost for ever and ever.’ “This communication required the utmost promptitude of decision. ‘Count,’ I exclaimed, ‘look to your mistress,’ and with that I lifted the old hag in my arms, and ran with her as fast as possible. But the Devil, who no doubt owed me a grudge for the part I had played, just as we had reached a convenient turning in the street, put out his cursed clo­ ven foot in the shape of a stone, and so tripped me up that I fell with an awful smash against the pavement, and almost dashed the nurse to pieces; her screams and cries alarmed the neighbourhood, twenty windows flew open at the sound, and as many lamps with a dozen faces at each, presently appeared to throw light on the scene, and to know what had happened. I staid not to wait the result, but scrambling up as speedily as I could, flew from the spot, and left the crazed and dislocated old woman to settle her own business as well as she could. “But my adventure did not end here; I am, however, very tired tonight, Signor, with what I have already told, and therefore, with your permission, I will return to-morrow evening and finish my story.” I could perceive Andrew’s motive, and said to him, I see you have taken a hint from the fair narrator of the Arabian tales, and I must

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not be more cruel than the Commander of the Faithful. I therefore give you leave to depart; but remember, I shall expect you with great impatience. Andrew accordingly, took his leave, and when he had left the room, I could not refrain from moralizing on his fate; but as my readers will do that for themselves quite as well as by any thing I might suggest, I will now wish them good night, and request their refreshed attention to the remainder of my story to-morrow.

CHAPTER XII. Soon after sunset, Andrew came, faithful to the time appointed, and after a few prelusive observations resumed his narrative. “I must now tell you,” said he, “the fruit of my improvisatorial effusions in another quarter. Among the audience was Masano, the printer;* a bustling money-making fellow he was! The applause with which my efforts were crowned, suggested to him the idea, that if I would write out my rhapsodies he might make a good penny of the sale; and after consulting some of his literary friends on the subject, he made me a proposal, liberal enough I must allow; but the whole strain of what I had delivered was no more. I sat down to write, thinking I should be able to recollect the verses, but could not bring two rhimes to clink in proper harmony. “In the meantime Masano, delighted with his arrangement, had gone round to all his friends to tell them of the bargain he had made with me, and to assure them that no time would be lost in proceeding with the publication. He had struck the iron while it was hot; all his friends were charmed with the idea of getting my magnificent effu­ sions in a tangible form, and the publisher before returning home, had orders for a vast number of copies. Alas! it is thus that human affairs often go on. Masano hugged himself in the prospect before him, and was not a little pleased with his promptitude in the bargain he had made with me; all the town began to talk of the affair, and Masano was congratulated by all his acquaintance. The days of Ariosto and of Tasso, were deemed come again, and a poetical lover even more impressive than Petrarca. But a sad disappointment was in preparation. “In vain did I endeavour to recall the figurative images of my rap­ ture; in vain did I endeavour to reconstruct the verse. I knocked my forehead till I was tired, but memory was a gadding, and I gave up the first attempt in despair. Next morning I tried again, and day after day, but the fountain was dried up—the volcano burnt out! About the end of a week subsequent to the day of our agreement, Masano called on me for a portion of the copy, that he might set his compositors to * The printers in Italy occupy, with respect to authors, the same place that the booksellers do in London.

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work. I told him my inability and hopelessness; he heard me at first with some expression of displeasure in his countenance; but when I assured him of my endeavours, and of that oblivion which had swept the whole theme so entirely from my recollection, he stood like the statue of amazement before me, and not a very handsome one I assure you, for he was a little fat man, with a face of singular rotundity and fulness; his eyes were small and sharp, but his nose was something more like a pimple than that conspicuous organ and ornament of the human face divine. “When he had recovered his breath, he exclaimed, ‘And can you do nothing for me?’ ‘Nothing!’ I replied, ‘literally nothing!’ “At these words his amazement was changed into rage, and he flew upon me like a tyger, and seized me by the collar, crying, ‘I will not believe it—I will not believe it—it is a lie—you have cheated me— you have sold yourself to some other rascal—I will have the verses—I will have the poetry if I should tear it out of your heart with my hands.’ “The sudden violence of this frenzy so completely disconcerted me, that I was almost strangled before I could disengage his fingers from my throat. “At this crisis Padre Urbano entered my room. My elopement from Venice had afflicted him and Signora Stomaticho exceedingly, and when they at last heard of my appearance on the stage, he came imme­ diately from Padua, to reclaim me, if possible, to a more honourable way of life. A few words explained to him the cause of the printer’s passion, and being a man as I have already told you, of a facetious disposition, he endeavoured, before saying any thing to me, to pacify the frantic publisher. “‘But what shall I say to the world?’ exclaimed Masano, panting with his passion and his efforts. The advice of Padre Urbano was preg­ nant with wisdom, and gave me a lesson in the management of the public, that I never forgot. “‘Sit down, Signor,’ said the friar to the printer, ‘sit down; calm your­ self and listen to me. It is quite evident from what Andrew says, that the poetry on which you have reckoned so much, cannot be produced; disappointment is therefore inevitable, and your study must be as to the means of rendering it as light as possible.’ “‘And what are these, what are these?’ cried Masano, somewhat abating in his vehemence. “‘Say nothing,’ replied Padre Urbano sedately; ‘for a few days you may be plagued with inquiries, to which, give evasive answers; by-and-by these inquiries will cease, and something new will arise to

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attract the wonder and attention of the public, so that the whole affair will soon be forgotten.’ “‘But my profit, holy father, what say you to that?’ “‘That is your disappointment, and you must bear it as well as you can,’ said Padre Urbano. ‘If by any thing you could do, the matter might be mended, I would counsel you differently; but as it is, you have no choice, you must submit.’ “It is unnecessary to repeat all that passed before the bristled back of the printer was smoothed down, or his temper coaxed into a man­ ageable humour; but the friar in the end succeeded, and he went away leaving us together. “‘My dear Andrew,’ said Padre Urbano, as soon as the door was shut, ‘I am grieved that you have given yourself up to such profligate courses, but you are still young enough to repair your imprudence; quit Leghorn, and return with me to Padua; quit the stage, and take up some more respectable profession. If you do not like commerce, I will endeavour to provide for you otherwise. There is a worthy advocate at Rome, with whom I have long been on the most friendly terms; go to him, and I will recommend you in the strongest manner; he will teach you to become a notary, and my endeavours after, will not be wanting to procure you clients.’ “Of all things, the profession of a notary was the last I should have thought of, and in a few sentences I convinced the friar that he spoke to me without effect on that subject. But I need not trouble you with our argument, which was ended by my consenting to return to Padua with Padre Urbano, and to be entered as a novice with the Benedic­ tines, in order to become a monk, and to rise in time, as the good man assured me, to great church preferment. But I must tell you a secret: church preferment was the thing of all others that I considered least; my pious resolution to enter into holy orders, was induced by very wicked and carnal motives. It appeared to me, that of all the various orders of mankind, the clergy were those who enjoyed the world most, and did the least for its advantage.*

* The remainder of this chapter we have omitted, as containing too many irreverent things respecting ecclesiastical immunities. The author certainly meant only to satirize the monks, but his sarcasms and insinuations are so worded, as to apply to the priesthood in general.

CHAPTER XIII. When Andrew had refreshed himself with a glass of wine, he continued,—“In a word, upon the persuasion of Padre Urbano I left Leghorn, and returned with him to Padua, and again took up my abode with Signora Stomaticho. She did not know me on my return. A few years in the spring time of life, like a few days in the youth of the year, make vast changes. I was now a full grown young man, with an impudent and libertine air; and the pious Signora had retained in her remembrance only the image of the blooming good humoured boy, that she had sent with her own handmaid to be his guard to Venice; the consequence of which was, that she received me with something of the politeness due to a stranger, and never seemed able to divest herself of an opinion, that I was not the child whom she had formerly so tenderly loved. “But I did not remain long in the house of this worthy lady. Padre Urbano soon made arrangements for me to enter on my noviciate, in the same exemplary monastery to which he belonged, and I removed to it accordingly. “Nothing appeared to me during the very first day so remarkably dull as the monastic life, and before I had suffered it four and twenty hours, my determination was, to seize the earliest opportunity of making my escape from Padua, and resuming the buskins. But there is no contending with destiny. Among the novices at this time in the convent, were three young men of very dissimilar, but all very singular characters. “Anselmo Bolderini was a fanatic. He was created on purpose to be a monk. In no change of time, place, or circumstance, could that extraordinary being have been any thing but a monk. His mind, I have ever thought, was one of the most remarkable contrivances in nature; all his ideas and predilections were of the purest and best sort, but they had no affinity with those of other men. His patience was most admirable, and his industry miraculous. He undertook the heaviest tasks without reflecting on the time and application to perform them, and continued working till they were finished. He had not the slightest faculty of being able to discriminate the importance of his duties, but executed them seriatim, each and all, as if they had been all of the same

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consequence. To administer medicine to a dying brother, or to trim a lamp, were things of equal solemnity in the mind of Anselmo; in fact, had the superior, while he was in the act of performing the former, requested him in the most simple manner to do the latter, he would even in the most imminent case have obeyed him with undisturbed equanimity. “Pietro Portallegro was the very antithesis to this character. In mind he resembled him in nothing; but in person they bore a very striking similarity to each other. They were of the same stature, the same age, and the sound of their footsteps spoke the same music. Anselmo was so regular, that it seemed almost contrary to nature he should offend against any etiquette, while Pietro was all day long plunging and floun­ dering from one offence to another, and constantly weaving the web of his perplexities thicker and thicker. “The third of these hopeful ecclesiastics was Carlo Alberti. To please his father, who had a wonderful taste for clerical pomp and pageantry, he had become a novice; but fortunately, a few days before I entered on my noviciate, the old man died, and Carlo was resolved, as soon as decency would permit, to change his garb, and return to the world. This young man was in many points an interesting character. Without the slightest spark of generous principle in his composition, he was the best behaved, the most virtuous, and the most correct of men. It was impossible to know him without respecting the force of propriety in his conduct; or to trust him in any matter of difficulty, after he was known, without fearing that if it was likely, in however minute a degree to affect himself, he would make no scruple of abandoning his trust, although it involved the happiness or fortune of his dearest friend; and yet to this young man you could not impute selfishness, for in all wherein he himself was the party concerned, his conduct was truly exemplary. “Of the three I attached myself to him. He was sensible, learned, ingenious, and possessed that delicate sense of the ridiculous, which persons of a nice feeling of propriety commonly enjoy; and to him I disclosed my determination to elope from the cloister. He did not condemn my resolution; on the contrary, he approved of it; but on being informed of my total isolation in the world, without kindred or fortune, he was petrified at the temerity of my intention. I told him what I had before done, in running away from Venice; but the risks in his mind were so immense, that he could neither comprehend the confidence which experience had taught me, nor sympathise in that feeling of content with one’s destiny, which is perhaps the peculiarity

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of all the adventurous. “However, to quit the convent I was fixed, and the only thing wanting to the execution of my design was, a small sum of money to defray my travelling expenses, till I could reach Messina, to which the dramatic corps to whom I belonged, had intended to transport them­ selves from Leghorn, soon after my departure from that city. “In this crisis of my fate, Signora Stomaticho, who had been in the country on a visit to some of her relations, in returning to Padua, was seized with the mal aria fever, and after a few days illness expired. Her worthy friend, Padre Urbano, lamented her death with sincere sorrow, and I also should have felt more sad on the occasion than I actually did, if she had not bequeathed me a handsome legacy in Venetian sequins, adequate to all my immediate wants, and vastly exceeding the utmost amount of treasure that I had ever expected to command. “Upon being informed of my good fortune in this particular, I com­ municated to the friar, my determination to break from the monotony of a monastic life. He heard my determination with unaffected con­ cern, and after reasoning with me, at last gave up the point. “‘I see,’ said he, ‘that it is useless to contend with character. Nature has implanted in thee, Andrew, a roving disposition, and bestowed on thee those sort of talents which are the best fortune that can be given to one of thy kind. Go wheresoever thou wilt, but let me hear sometimes of thee; when thou art in prosperity and pleasure, I shall know by thy silence; and when thou art in difficulty and distress, write, and I will try to help thee. I should have been glad had it been possible for thee to have remained near me. But the bird sees her full-feathered young depart from the nest for ever, and cheers them in their first flight with songs, and I know not why the human being in similar circumstances should feel differently. Go, Andrew, and be happy; I do not say be prosperous; but if thou wilt keep thy bosom free from guile, thine own temper will make thee jocund, happen what may to thy fortunes. The little that I have seen of thee here since thou hast been in the convent, has served to convince me that thou art not at all fitted for any kind of regular business. Pleasure is the nymph to whose care destiny has consigned thee, but take care, that in the pranks she play thee, thou art not betrayed to associate with Sin. Therefore go, my dear child, and my blessing be upon thee: thou hast no friend out of this house but thyself; thy sequins will not last long, and when they are done, thou wilt have no other fortune than thy talents.’ “Albeit unused to the ‘melting mood,’” said Andrew, “there was something so kind and touching in this address of Padre Urbano, that

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I could not refrain from shedding tears on his hand; he also was a good deal moved; from that moment, however, he no longer treated me as one over whom he conceived himself to have any particular charge, but still with a warm and particular friendship. “I withdrew the same evening from the monastery, it being contrary to the rules of the order to allow the novices to remain in the house who have determined not to incur the vows. Carlo Alberti also on the same night came away, and it was agreed between us that we should live together at one of the inns, until I had provided myself with a stock of clothes suitable to my improved circumstances. “The secession of two novices in one day from a religious life, as the fanatic Anselmo considered the dronish routine of monkish indo­ lence, was regarded by that sage and pious youth as an awful instance of the backsliding state of the age; and when we were quitting the convent, attended by Pietro Portallegro, who accompanied us to the inn to enjoy, as he said, a glimpse of good fellowship before it set to him for ever, the stupid lout placed himself in the gateway, and, as we passed, stood with his hands folded in a praying posture, and, without speaking, uttered in the same breath a groan and a sigh, and turned up the white of his eyes like a saint suffering martyrdom. The mummery of this tacit admonition was very laughable, and tickled us a good deal at the time; but it was not until we had enjoyed ourselves at the tavern, that it led to any effect; and yet the wine we had there was neither so good nor so old as your’s, Sir; and by your leave I will end another chapter in drinking long life to you, my generous master.”  

CHAPTER XIV. “I dare say,” continued Andrew, “that I need not tell you, students of divinity are not a whit better than other young men, when they get wine in their heads, and money in their pockets; and therefore I need not say that two scape-grace fellows like Carlo Alberti and myself, with a novice by constraint of poverty like Pietro Portallegro, were, on such a night as our deliverance from college rules, little disposed to improve the morals of the age by our example. While the land­ lord’s wine was mounting to its effects, Pietro, recollecting the silly, sanctimonious deportment of Anselmo at the gate, proposed that we should play him a trick, and nothing was more easy; for such was the extraordinary method of his conduct, that once get him under weigh, he could be steered into any waters, however troubled. The only obstacle was, in procuring the means of giving the first impulse. Pietro had however observed, that after vespers Anselmo seemed always to have regularly about an hour’s leisure between that and ­supper-time, and it was agreed that we should endeavour to cajole him out of the monastery, and keep him from returning until the gates were shut for the night. By this time it was near the hour, and the boy of the tavern was dispatched to the convent to request Anselmo to come to a particular house, where a traveller who had arrived from Lugino, the village where his friends resided, was desirous to see him, and to give him some information respecting his family. The bait took; Anselmo came; but instead of being received by a simple rustic, as he expected, he was welcomed into a handsome room by a beautiful young lady, whom we had schooled for the part. She apologized for the absence of her relation, who had been, as she said, obliged to go out for a short time, but would be back presently. Anselmo was simplicity itself, and at her request he seated himself to wait. “Meanwhile we were working up the plot otherwise. The boy was again sent to the monastery to inquire for Anselmo in the most urgent manner. His name was loudly echoed through all the cloisters, but no Anselmo answered; one of the friars, however, had observed him go out, and this was an answer to our messenger. The absence of Anselmo, and in the dusk of the evening, excited some little observation among

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the monks, and they had begun to wonder how it happened, that a ­tavern boy was in search of him, when another messenger from us made his appearance at the gate inquiring again for Anselmo: he received the same answer that was given to the boy; but the wonder at the absence of the novice was redoubled, and it began to be suspected that he had slyly stolen away to be of our party. But this suspicion was soon removed by the return of Pietro Portallegro a few minutes before the shutting of the gates for the night, and who declared that Anselmo had not been with us, nor had he seen him. The holy frater­ nity were now in the greatest perplexity, and the whole conversation in the r­ efectory during supper was about Anselmo, and the cause of his absence. “In this state of things a loud knocking was heard at the gate. ‘Here he comes,’ exclaimed all the monks, ‘but why with such a terrible din and heralding as this?’ The porter admitted him, and Anselmo all pale and ghastly, came flying, as Pietro described the scene to us, like a bedlamite escaped from confinement, into the refectory. His eyes were fearfully distended, his lips colourless, and he shook as if under the influence of some strange and supernatural terror. “His wild and woe-begone appearance excited some degree of alarm; but presently he began to rave of the jeopardy of soul and body from which he had been redeemed. He spoke of Joseph and Potiphar’s lady, of St. Anthony and the Devil, and related the vision with which he had been tempted with such severity of passion, that the whole pious brotherhood were thrown into convulsions of laughter. But they had all mistaken the energy of Anselmo’s character; under that cir­ cumstantiality of method and simplicity which had so often provoked their ridicule, lay a strong but couchant spirit, the genius of fanaticism, and their laughter roused it into a tremendous paroxysm. “Anselmo was sincere in his abhorrence of the temptation to which we had subjected him; he had felt in it the weakness of human nature, and by an effort that the enthusiasm of religious principle alone could have sustained, he burst from the snare and fled to the convent for refuge. But in the midst of his description the laughter of the monks appalled him, and he suddenly paused, and, with a face kindled to sublimity by the fervour of zeal, he awed them into reverence by the emphasis with which he commanded silence. And then, in voice that shook the boldest of them, he addressed the superior to the following effect:— “‘I do not wonder, Sir, now, that the church should be in a state of decay—abandoned by Heaven. Our order was instituted to subdue

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in ourselves the evil and carnal passions which are the foes of charity and good works; and in the tasks prescribed by your statutes I have laboured to conquer mine. Think you, Sir, in all that indiscriminative assiduity with which I have performed the duties of my noviciate, that the Tempter had no power nor influence over me? I have, Sir, felt his fangs upon me continually, and I only plied my tasks the closer that he might not draw me to listen to his seductive promises. But, Sir, from your conduct on this occasion, and that of these friars, I should be led to question the utility and merit of all those religious duties which it has been the endeavour of the good and wise to inculcate as necessary for our well-being in this world and salvation hereafter. What a system of fraud are you practising either towards God or man!—your masses, your incense, your ritual and your requiems, are things which you do not believe have any influence with Heaven; or, if you do believe, why is it that a transaction which should fill the chaste bosom of a true servant of religion with horror and alarm, moves you to this Baccha­ nalian ribaldry? Beware, Sir, beware—the world has only respected the ministers of religion for the sake of religion—for reverence towards Heaven; but, if it is once thought religion itself is but one of the manifold inventions ascribed to churchmen, a vial of more terrible influences will be poured upon our heads than the heresy of Luther, which rent christendom asunder. I have, however, done, and I have done with you; this night I quit your house. I cannot, with my eyes now opened to your iniquities, to your inward scorn of the first and greatest of all the abstinences required in your profession, consent to remain exposed to the contagion of your corruption, to the infection of your sins.’ And in saying these words, Anselmo turned round, and instantly left the monastery. “This was an effect of our scheme, that, from our previous knowl­ edge of Anselmo, could not have been anticipated; and when Pietro next morning related to me what had passed, I received a lesson which I never forgot. It seemed to me that mankind have in general two characters, that which nature bestows, and that which is the result of principle; to the former belong humours, dispositions, and manners, and to the latter whatever is properly entitled to the name of virtue. “But I did not come here to vindicate to you the duties of the monastic life, far less to deliver a lecture on moral philosophy; I will, therefore, by way of getting well rid of the subject, take another glass of your excellent wine, and perhaps you will have the kindness to order your servant to bring supper in a little earlier than last night.”

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This latter remark amused me, for I had not invited Andrew to sup with me, nor in fact did I intend he should that night; but the way in which he expressed himself, deserved some acknowledgment, and I did as he required.

CHAPTER XV. “I did not remain long at Padua,” resumed my guest; “for in the course of the same week in which I bade adieu to the monastic life, I departed for Leghorn; where I embarked immediately for Sicily, to join the players at Messina. In the vessel on board of which I took my passage, were several travellers, English and French, and among them a little, quiet, modest, unassuming man, a Sicilian by birth, who was then returning from Spain, after an absence of many years from his native country. “It happened on the evening after leaving port, that a smart breeze sprung up, which although favourable to our course, was yet most afflicting to the stomachs of the passengers; all but Don Alphonso and myself were overwhelmed with that vilest of all maladies, sea-sickness. The English sullenly wished themselves and all on board at the devil, and yielded themselves, after a long and stubborn resistance, to the full influence of the disease. But the French were in wild despair; instead of submitting peaceably to that for which there was no remedy, they got up from their seats, and ran along the deck, wringing their hands, and venting hideous maledictions between every surge of their stomachs that precipitated them to the gunnel of the vessel. “During this scene, the Sicilian informed me, that he had been in the Spanish American provinces as a doctor, and that he had formed a curious collection of seeds, and other things illustrative of facts in nat­ ural history. He mentioned the circumstance incidentally to account for his not being sick like the rest of the passengers, telling me at the same time, that he thought a voyage in the waters of the Mediterra­ nean as disagreeable, and more dangerous than in the Atlantic. This little conversation led to some degree of intimacy between us. I found him, as far as I could judge, a man of profound science and learning; his mind enriched with many remarkable facts, but withal so modest and amiable, that when I say he was one of the best creatures I ever knew, the truth is not exceeded. “The rage of the sickness abated in the course of the night; so that in the morning, the wind also having subsided into a gentle halcyon zephyr, the passengers were in a condition to club their wits and ­spirits for the general entertainment. It was agreed that each of us should give

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an account of the most curious thing he had ever met with; and to save all debate as to who should begin, the youngest should relate his anecdote first. I was the youngest; and having no recollection at the moment of any very wonderful adventure, I drew on my invention, and told them a story of a surprising escape that I had once made from a gang of robbers. The tale was entirely fictitious; but I interlarded it with so many little personal circumstances, that it was not only thought true, but my language and manner in relating it were greatly admired. The only one of the company who did not seem quite satisfied that it was altogether a real adventure, was the Sicilian; but he was loudest in the praise of my talent, and from that moment appeared to take a sort of fatherly interest in me. “The tales went round as we sat on the deck of the vessel, under an awning formed by one of the sails, and some of the stories were diverting enough, till it came to the turn of my friend the Sicilian, who, with great precision of language, but in a simple and scientific manner, described a scene which he had himself witnessed in South America, of the effect produced on a horse by certain electrical fishes, of which he gave what, I have no doubt, was a correct and faithful account. “The story went off very well; but a lively little Frenchman, a pro­ digious snuff-taker, and a great talker, followed. Whether, like me, he drew on his fancy, or by some confusion of mind (the effect of igno­ rance and presumption), he thought himself a philosopher, cannot at this distance of time, and in the absence of all evidence, be discovered; but he, forsooth, must describe some extraordinary phenomenon, which he asserted he had seen, as the result of some chymical exper­ iment at Paris. He had not uttered many sentences, when I was convinced that he was talking nonsense; not by my knowledge, but by the effect which his narrative produced on the countenance of the Sicilian. However, none daunted, and with a surprising glibness in the use of scientific terms, many of which I am sure had as little to do with chemistry, as they had with the story of Orpheus’s singing to the wild beasts, he continued, and so completely succeeded in interesting all the other passengers in his story, that he was evidently considered by them as a most learned personage, certainly not less than a member of the Academy of Sciences. The Sicilian alone saw through the imposi­ tion which I could only suspect, and was filled with great contempt for the facetious snuff-taker. “The day, however, passed pleasantly; but except by myself, when our tales were all told, the little modest naturalist from the new world was allowed to ruminate alone, while a vast deal of attention was paid

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to the French philosopher. “In the evening we had again recourse to the same expedient in order to pass the time, and one of the Englishmen began his story, by telling us that he was a native of America.* The Frenchman at this immediately began to laugh, and ended by assuring us that the thing was impossible, for that the Americans were all either the colour of copper or jet black. The other Englishman, for there were two on board, stoutly contested this, while his companion laughed at the pertinacity with which the Frenchman maintained his opinion. As for myself, I was like the rest of the Italians present, rather inclined, from some the­ oretical persuasion, to agree with the Frenchman, that the Americans were either red or black; but upon applying to my friend the Sicilian, who was sitting near me, I was set right, and enjoyed the debate, highly pleased with the manner in which the vivacious Frenchman sustained the argument. Those who knew better, that is, the Sicilian, the two Englishmen, and myself, by believing the Sicilian, were of course not a little excited by the contest; but the Frenchman appealed to the ignorant herd of the other passengers, and to the captain of the vessel, and they all agreed that he was perfectly right, for that the Americans were not only either red or black, but that they ate one another, and killed young children with as little remorse as butchers do kids and lambs. I mended the case by adding, and that they publicly exposed their legs for sale in the market; and that nothing more common was to be seen in their towns, than one of their large fat monks chaffering with a butcher about a loin of virgin veal. “On the following day we arrived at Messina, and on the vessel reaching the Marina, we all prepared to disembark, when amidst a crowd of lazzaroni assembled on the quay, a barber lad, in the full costume of his profession, saluted the French academician with the venerable name of father, and presently we learnt that the sage philoso­ pher who had surprised us by his science and knowledge, was no other than a member of the rouge pot college, and a deacon of the order of pomatum. “But in this little voyage I had acquired another lesson of worldly wisdom, and of great practical utility. Monsieur Tonsure had only ­spoken a farrago of nonsense. He was as ignorant of chemistry as I * The Italians even still in many of the ports do not make any distinction in conversation between the British and Americans. The Abbate Furbo wrote this tale, however, before the establishment of the independence of the United States.

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am of alchymy, or the art of making money in any way whatever; and yet by the manner in which he went through with his account of the experiment which he pretended he had seen, he begat so much esteem for his knowledge, although every sentence he uttered was pregnant with absurdity, that when he came to assert the Americans were all black and red, and this even to an American, he received credit from the by-standers in spite of the evidence to the contrary before their eyes. “I think with this voyage I may say my education was completed. I had now run through many youthful frolics; I had found the bent of my talents, and I had been afforded by fate several excellent opportu­ nities of acquiring a knowledge of some of the maxims that conduce to success in life. What I have now to relate is, my conduct as a man with all these natural and acquired advantages. But as supper is on the table, let us pause and partake of it. The goods the cook has provided, solicit us with all their fragrance to enjoy, and I should be the most ungrateful of mortals to fortune, to nature, and to hospitality, if I did not accept the invitation with that alacrity of appetite so suitable to the occasion.”  

CHAPTER XVI. When the servant had cleared the table after supper, Andrew resumed his story with unusual gaiety. “My arrival at Messina,” said he, “was a new æra in my life. I felt that I was fairly afloat on the ocean of the world, and without being exactly adrift, almost in the same state. I was engaged in the vague adventures of discovery. “My first course, after refreshing myself, was to wait on the man­ ager of the opera, and he received me with joyful eyes and friendly hands. The same evening it was announced from the stage that the renowned improvisatore Andrew of Padua, surnamed the Homer, had arrived from Leghorn, and was engaged to perform for a limited number of nights some of his most celebrated parts. The deuce a part had I suitable to me as an improvisatore, but the little stupid piece that I have described. It was, however, determined that all the wits of the theatre should be laid under contribution, and two new dramas composed on purpose. One of them was excellent in conception, and executed with surprising felicity, considering how such things are fabricated by ­players, who are in general persons of low origin, and unfurnished with literary ideas. I must describe to you the plot of this piece, because, had I been a man of any prudence, it would have made my fortune, and established me on the pinnacle of fame. “It was founded on the fable of Orpheus, and in the management of the story, was truly classical. The scene opened with the poet flying from a band of savage Thracians on Mount Rhodope, apprehensive that they intended to devour him; but the simple savages were only pursuing him for a song. They had heard him singing in a bower, and were so enchanted with his voice and poetry, that they were determined to catch him, and make him sing all day long. Orpheus, on hearing this barbarian design, solicits them to respite him from such continued exertion, and reminds them that the birds are spared in the night from their tuneful tasks. At least such was the turn I gave to his solicitations; and the Thracians, moved to pity by his musical eloquence, not only consent to suspend their inclination, but submit to his control, and he instructs them in the first rudiments of social life. When they, at his command, disperse themselves, to gather fruits to store up for their wants in winter, the poet begins to lament the absence of Eurydice.

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She hears his voice, and is restored to his embraces at the time that the Thracians return chanting in chorus a hymn to their instructor. With this the first act closed. “The second opened with Orpheus instituting religious worship, and revealing to them the existence of the gods, and their sublime nature and influence. But at the end of the ceremony, a band of Thra­ cian women burst in upon the worshippers and describe the rape of Eurydice by Pluto. Orpheus in despair complains of his destiny, abjures the gods of light, and declares that his devotions will now be paid to the dreadful furies, the melancholy Proserpine, and even to the terrible Pluto, and with this determination he quits the stage. The Thracians lament him as lost, and pay divine honours to his memory, with which the second act closes. “The third opens with Orpheus in the infernal regions. He reaches the banks of the Styx, amidst a chorus of spectres, and persuades Charon by his songs to transport him across the river. After ­wandering in those doleful shades for some time, he approaches the gates of ­Pluto’s palace, conjures, by his music, the dog Cerberus into gentle­ ness, and the gates of living brass to open, when the hall of Pluto, with ­Proserpine and all the majesty and magnificence of Erebus are exposed to view. In this situation he becomes a suppliant, and so moves the compassion of the stern deities to whom he addresses himself, that Eurydice is restored to his arms, and the drama ends. “You will perceive from this sketch, that no piece could have been contrived better calculated to display all the richest powers of an improvisatore, with a fine voice, such as mine was considered at that time. The passages in which I excelled were the supplicatory; but the press of awful images that thronged into my fancy, as I supposed myself wandering through the depths of hell, were listened to with a silence and a dread which proved how well they produced the effect I intended. Night after night I repeated this performance, and on every new occasion some fresh burst of inspiration surprised me into higher rapture, and astonished the audience. I was regarded as a prodigy, and received a thousand favours, both from the populace and the nobility, sufficient to have turned my brain. But it was not my fate to be able to convert these great advantages to any profit. In the midst of the spring of fortune in which I was now placed, every bough covered with blos­ soms, the air filled with melody, the heavens clear, the sun bright, and the sea smooth, all around me gladness and promise and pleasure, I was seized with a fit of infatuation—an insatiable desire to learn to play on the flute.

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“For some time I struggled to overcome this folly, but in the end it so overcame me, that I did nothing all day but exert my breath to produce discords, and in my performance in the evening, I could think of nothing but the flute. It was a strange sort of madness; it was ­nothing else, and I fell a victim to it in the public estimation. It was soon observed that I grew careless in my part, and one night I acted so ill that a burst of displeasure rose from all parts of the theatre, and withered me at once into insignificance. I fled from the stage in terror​ —ran to my lodgings, and like a child pursued by some phantom of its own fancy, hid myself beneath the bed clothes, and endeavoured as it were to believe myself dead. “In this state I continued about an hour, when the manager came and roused me from my trance. Whether the agitation into which I had been cast, produced any change in the humours of my physical constitution, I leave it to doctors to determine; but when I rose from my bed, the flute madness was cured, and I was in as sane and sound a mind as any reasonable philosopher could expect. “The manager represented to me the cause of my disgrace, and joined his execrations with mine against the flute; but he failed in persuading me to return to the stage of Messina. No, said I, that is impossible; my best efforts will now be undervalued; the charm of my supremacy is broken; and I should have to work up against the current of a strong prejudice, by which faults that would have before been overlooked, will now be more observed than my best efforts. “Seeing me resolute, he acquiesced at last in my determination, and said, ‘Then there is no time to be lost—quit the city instantly. Go to Palermo, or to Naples before your misfortune can be known, and by a little care you may be established in the public favour, and redeem the error of the past with honour and triumph.’ “The same night I left Messina for Palermo; I hired a letica, and before the midnight hour I had crossed the mountains which overlook the Streights and the romantic shores of Calabria.”  

CHAPTER XVII. Andrew after a brief pause continued his narrative—“I have often been in Sicily, and was always delighted to revisit that beautiful island. The country is inferior to that of Italy, the mountains are less picturesque, the sylvan scenery is more rare, and the towns are not so magnificent; but still it possesses a charm in the climate, and the gar­ rulous simplicity, and sly ingenuity of the inhabitants, have ever to me been the source of inexpressible delight. Whatever is impressed on my recollection of bright scenes, delicious breezes, crystaline waves and gay faces, are all associated with something Sicilian, some romantic vale, or mountain crested with an ancient town; some pleasant vista, terminated with the stately mass of a venerable monastery, or head­ land crowned with a watch tower, stretching into the sea. “But of all the beautiful scenes that come like freshness to my heart, as often as they are recalled to remembrance, that which I enjoyed in approaching the city of Cefalu, ever stands the fairest and the s­ weetest; and the pleasure which it produced, was the fortaste of one of my hap­ piest adventures. “The city of Cefalu stands on the sea shore, at the foot of a stupen­ dous promontory, whose awful cliffs, and perpendicular precipices lift into the clouds the walls and towers of an extensive castle of unknown antiquity. The town itself, in approaching from Messina is scarcely seen, as it lies chiefly behind the North West shoulder of the mountain, but the castle on its ærial throne is an object of great majesty and interest. “It was late in the afternoon when I approached Cefalu; the road was one of those cornices as the Sicilians ingeniously call the paths that wind along the front of precipices; and not having entire confidence in the mules which bore my letica, I alighted to walk. The mortification I received at Messina, had corroded my heart, and during all the preced­ ing part of my journey, I had sullenly repulsed the blandishments of soft and caressing airs, with which nature seemed as it were to woo me to be cheerful. But on leaving the letica, and looking on the landscape around me, the lofty castle standing darkly on high like the genius of departed ages; the spacious sea exceeding the whole expanse of vision, hazily studded with the Lipari islands, that served as stepping stones to the fancy, in her attempts to pass beyond the visible horizon; the

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rugged mountains rising above me on the one hand, and the rich and fertile cultivation which adorned their sloping sides below me on the other, with those cheerful sounds of labour done, which in a fine ­evening come so musical from the environs of a Sicilian town, combined like the mingled ingredients of a benevolent fairy’s spell to dissipate my shame and melancholy. “The letica went on briskly before to the city, and I followed at my leisure; but I had not walked far, when the soothing reverie into which I had fallen, became warmed into sentiment, and the muse descending upon me, I carolled as I went a spontaneous hymn to Nature, in which I gave full scope to all the powers of my voice, and the prodigality of my imagination. In this enchanted humour, which accorded so well with all things in view, and with the felicitous influence of the atmos­ phere, I had walked for some time undisturbed. But on turning round the corner of a jutting rock, a little boy who had come from a garden above the road met me, and begged me to go with him to his father. ‘We were enjoying ourselves in the pavilion, when we heard you pass, and my father has sent to beg the favour of your company.’ “There was something flattering in the circumstances of this invi­ tation, and I accompanied the boy to the pavilion. It was a small but rude open temple, constructed on a projecting rock over the precipice, along which the cornice-road was constructed, and it commanded not only all the view which had appeased my spirit, but also that of the country to the westward of Cefalu, and which is one of the most beautiful tracks in the whole island. “The party assembled in this fit cage for a poet, consisted of an elderly gentleman with a sedate look, and a military air. His wife, a lady somewhat less advanced in years, a lively girl of sixteen, their niece, and two little boys their sons, of whom the eldest, about twelve years old, had been the messenger of their hospitality. On my appearing, the Baron Micheli, for such I soon learnt was his name, advanced to meet me, and said in a polite manner, ‘We have been so much charmed with your singing, that, guessing by the letica which has passed on before, we have presumed to bribe you for another song, by the offer of our house for the night. I see you are a stranger; and so few strangers pass this way that you are not likely to be well accommodated in the town; I therefore hope you will accept our offer; we shall be repaid by your company even if you should not favour the ladies with a song.’ “I need not say that I accepted this hospitable invitation with plea­ sure, and the servant in attendance was immediately dispatched to conduct the letica to the villa of the baron, a small but tasteful ­structure,

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which stood about half a furlong from the scite of the pavilion. “After a short preliminary conversation, the baroness inquired, as I had mentioned my having come from Messina, if I had been to hear Andrew of Padua; the wonderful improvisatore. The question discon­ certed me a little at first; I hesitated for a moment, but at last mustering all my virtue and courage, I told her that I myself was the identical Andrew. Delighted with this intelligence, the whole party seemed dis­ posed to treat me as if I had indeed been Apollo come among them; and in a short time I was not only quite at my ease, but charged with the muse to rapture. I sang them a eulogy on the pleasures of a country life, and contrasting it with those of the town, I introduced a descrip­ tion of the misery of a gentle and sensitive mind, compelled to have recourse to the stage as a profession—a thing by-the-bye extremely improbable—that they gave me credit for having depicted my own feelings. The fair Agatha, the niece, shed tears of sympathy and love. “The baron, however, was a man of the world; he had served s­ everal campaigns in the army of Maria Theresa, and he knew too much of mankind to give more credit to my poetry than was due to a well conceived fiction. He applauded my talent, said, it indeed excelled all that he had heard or expected, and regretted in a polite, but at the same time sufficiently admonitory manner, that the powers of con­ ceiving beautiful incidents and noble sentiments, were often of little advantage to the possessor, and that the works of the greatest authors seldom afforded any view of the motives and principles by which their own conduct was actuated. He had in fact noticed the tears of the beautiful Agatha, and had perhaps divined from the cast of my physiognomy, that I was not altogether so innocent and pastoral as my verses were calculated to make her believe. I own to you I felt a little hurt by his observation; but that frank spirit which has ever inhabited my bosom, and which all the shifts and vicissitudes of my chequered and dissipated life could never dislodge, approved his prudence, and compelled me to respect the man. “The sun was now on the point of setting, and the dew began to fall so heavily, that the baron proposed we should adjourn to the villa, and there spend the interval till supper time, when he expected some of the officers with their families from the castle. ‘We hold to-night,’ said he, ‘a little festival, and it is singularly fortunate, that we can introduce to our guests the Homer of the age.’ In saying these words, as the path was narrow, he desired the children to walk on before, and the ladies to follow, while he took me by the arm. I was sensible that he held me back until they had advanced a considerable distance, but I could not

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divine his motive.” Andrew paused, and said he would return the next night, or when I pleased, and finish his adventures; but after some persuasion, he con­ sented to tell me what passed between him and the baron, on their way to the villa, and it will serve as matter for the next chapter.  

CHAPTER XVIII. “‘I perceive, young man,’ said the Baron,” continued Andrew, “‘that you have been long enough in the world to think lightly of many great offences. Your countenance tells me so, and your address convinces me; but you have just sentiments, and I dare say can feel honourably, and as a man that would be esteemed by the world.’ What could I say to so true and so decisive a speech? I was confused; but not at a loss to guess the drift of the Baron’s observations. It was clear that he was afraid of his niece; and in truth, from what I had an opportunity of observing in the course of the evening, his apprehen­ sions were not without reason. But I was on honour, and invulnerable to all her expressive glances. “As the company arrived, the scene grew more and more interesting, and the lively, languishing Agatha had soon a rival in a little round and cherry-cheeked elderly matron, the wife of an old major in the garrison. This stumpy beauty played off on me when I sang of love and lovers’ hopes and fears, all the artillery of her smirks. Her husband, who was a tall, meagre, erect, and stiff personage, with a prodigious long queue down his back, the most unlike herself of all human kind, was exces­ sively jealous; and in the recitation of one of my effusions, I perceived he eyed his little lady with orbs that flamed with dreadful thoughts. A wicked imp at that moment tempted me to torment him; I dexterously changed the scene, and introduced the story of a troubadour singing to his mistress, a high-born dame, himself a wandering minstrel. The major’s dumpling dame caught at the idea, and encouraged me with a thousand smiles to proceed with the declaration of my passion, till her husband, unable to withstand her folly any longer, rushed behind her, and, with an oath that pierced the whole house, plucked her by the hair with such fury, that his execrations were lost in her screams. ‘The Baron, who had warily noticed the whole scene, in the con­ fusion came towards me, and took me aside into another apartment. ‘I am sorry,’ said he in a firm voice, ‘to observe that you are not able to perform the part I expected of you. Your conduct shows that your ideas are too libertine ever to enable you to act with propriety among those who are, perhaps, only better than your associates by being less

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tempted. There is an ounce* for you, and my servants will assist to remove your baggage to the city, where, I regret to say, you must seek lodgings: after what has passed, I cannot think of allowing you to remain in my house.’ “I cannot divine how other men would have felt on being treated so contemptuously, but the dreadful lesson that I had received from the audience in the theatre at Messina came flashing in all its terrors upon my recollection, and I shrunk away from the Baron like a poltroon. It was evident from this, you will say, that I was destined to pass through life without honour, since I was so little capable of upholding my per­ sonal dignity; and the plight in which you see me in old age justifies the observation. Certain it is that I was born without gall; countless have been the indignities to which I have been subjected; but a vindic­ tive feeling, beyond the flush of the moment, has never found harbour in my heart: in a word, I was created to be a mere toy in the world. But I must go on with my story: “On descending from the villa to the city, I learnt from the servants that the major’s lady was in fact no better than one of the wicked, but that her husband was such a jealous and resentful cur, that I would do well to quit Cefalu as soon as possible. I needed no spur to that intent, and accordingly by the dawn of day I was again in my letica, the mules trudging briskly, and their bells ringing cheerily as they conveyed me towards the capital, where I arrived the same evening. On reaching Palermo, I waited, the first thing, next morning on the manager of the opera, and announced myself, but, great as I had deemed my fame, he had never heard of me. This was a mortification more cooling to my vanity than even the indignation of the Messinese at my carelessness. There was but little intercourse between Palermo and any other part of the world, except Naples, and what was known of me in that city was confined to a few travellers, chiefly Englishmen, whose ignorance of our language prevented them from being com­ petent judges of my effusions. Between the theatrical establishments of the Sicilian capital and those of Messina, there was no intercourse whatever. “What was to be done? I had to begin the world as it were again; but the coldness of the manager’s reception did not disconcert me. I felt confidence in my genius, and requested him to afford me an opportunity of appearing before the Palermitans. He heard me civilly, and begged that I would sing one of my airs that he might judge of * A gold coin of Sicily.

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my voice and accomplishments. Now this was trying my strength in the weakest part. I had, it is true, in attending the theatres, and after becoming a performer, acquired a passable knowledge of music, but I had nothing that could be called scientific instruction. The manager of the opera, however, was a man profoundly skilled in the art; it was his pride to be so; and although his singers were, in point of voice, not remarkable, yet the performance at his theatre was the most accurate, and, as far as management was concerned, the best in Europe; so that I had not proceeded above half a dozen bars in the song that I began as a specimen of my powers as a singer, when he stopped me. ‘This will never do,’ he exclaimed peevishly; ‘you have an exquisite voice, but the gifts of nature have been cast away by your negligence. It would take three years to fit you to appear in my theatre, and even then I doubt if the rank and vile weeds that smother the natural flowers of your endowment, would be so eradicated as to make you, after all, more than a singer of the third order.’ “This was a severe cut; I had anticipated nothing equal to this, and it was with difficulty that I could repress the emotion with which I was agitated from an unmanly expression; in the end, however, I mus­ tered courage sufficient to say that I did not consider either singing or acting as my forte; that I was, in fact, properly an improvisatore, and in that capacity had frequently won the approbation of the most distinguished critics. “‘Who were they?’ said the manager drily; ‘what were their names?’ “This was worse than his condemnation of my musical talents; I could name on the instant no one in particular; my face flushed with mingled radiations of shame and indignation: the manager saw my agitation, and observed, with ineffable self-complacency, ‘I see how it is, Signor, a few foolish persons, whose little stock of experience and knowledge in such matters is circumscribed to a petty circle, have been pleased with your endeavours, and have good-humouredly, no doubt also in perfect sincerity, said that they thought you a genius, and on the faith of the correctness of this judgment, they have sent you with the presumption of thinking you qualified to adorn the metropolitan boards. Take my advice, Signor, and return to some industrious voca­ tion; you are not qualified for the high eminence to which you aspire.’ “Although good nature was the vice of my character, this insolence was a little too much, and in my turn I became assailant. ‘By what supe­ riority of nature or of education,’ I inquired of the dignified manager, ‘are you so well qualified to pronounce a sentence on me so final and without appeal; I should very much suspect that all your art is artifice.

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I have seen enough of players and managers to know that their best ability lies in gulling the public, and I shall not be surprised when I go to hear your performers, to find that they are a parcel of ignorant knaves, well drilled by a scoundrel, to impose upon the simplicity of the Palermitans, and that all this pretended science of yours is a trick that only requires to be exposed, in order to be despised and punished.’ “These taunts I uttered with a scornful tongue, but a smiling coun­ tenance. The manager was thunderstruck, and grew as pale as ashes with rage. ‘Good morning, Sir,’ I added, ‘good morning, I see you have lost your temper, and I am losing my time. It will not help you to recover your natural urbanity to know that from this hour I am your enemy.’ And with this I made him a profound bow, and wished him good morning. Never had the spell or invocation of wizard such an effect; he gazed upon me as upon an apparition, and saw me depart with just such a look as a bereft man would glance towards a vanishing spectre. “From the manager of the Great Opera I went to the manager of the comic theatre: in him I found metal more tractable. I told him of the interview which I have just described, and mentioned, with a con­ fidence inspired at once by his own good humour and by resentment for the indignity I had endured, the success with which I had appeared on different occasions as an improvisatore. But what could he do with an improvisatore, his performances being limited to regular tragedy and comedy. He was however, a man experienced in shifts and expedi­ ents, and after ruminating for a few minutes, he said, ‘Signor Andrew, you shall perform at my house, I will get a little piece prepared on purpose for you; I have in my company an excellent mimic: he shall study the character of Don Pomposo, the opera manager, and you will play together. This will afford you an opportunity of singing your best songs, and of showing your powers at extemporaneous poetry, as if before the manager. The dialogue shall be drawn from what has actu­ ally passed; the Palermitans will find themselves appealed to as judges, and you will be crowned with immortality.’ “I was pleased with the ingenuity of this idea, and we immediately sat down together to construct a plot for the little drama that was to afford this display. Pescatori, the manager, was a man of considerable ability in his way, and in the course of a quarter of an hour he had digested the outlines of a drama, in which, a lover highly gifted was to win his mistress by his poetical and musical powers. The father of the lady was to represent the manager of the Opera-house; and the dilemma of the lovers was to arise from his Midas-like rejection of

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the musical bard. All that was necessary to be written of the piece was completed the same day, and in the evening it was announced, that on the following day Signor Bellavoce, on his way from Naples to the King’s theatre of London, would perform, out of friendship to the manager for a night or two, in one of his most popular and perfect parts. There was no such performer as Bellavoce engaged for London, but the manager assumed that there might be such a one, and if there was not, it was not his fault. However, the lure took. The house was crowded to excess on the night appointed, and by all the best company in Palermo, to the no small loss and discomfort of the opera manager. He had no idea that the actor announced could be me, never having heard of any Bellavoce, although in correspondence with all the chief musicians in Europe: he suspected a trick, and was himself present in one of the most conspicuous and best situations in the pit. “The curtain drew up; the piece began, which in the first scene was tame and explanatory enough, in order to prepare the audience for the appearance of the principal characters; and in due time, with the actress who performed the part of my mistress, I appeared on the stage. I was then in the bloom of manhood, and dressed in my best. I was flatteringly welcomed; in making my bow for this reception, I caught the eye of the opera manager, and fascinated him with such a look, that it led the eyes of the audience towards him. This was enough! In the course of a few sentences after, his representative, the mimic, dressed and painted exactly like him, came on the stage, and the joke was instantly relished by the whole house. A short prelude led to the exhibition of the scene that had taken place between him and me; the dialogue was as near as possible verbatim. Thunders of applause and shouts of laughter proclaimed that the satire was understood. My spir­ its revived with this success; I sang better than I ever did before, and the audience were extravagant in their applause. I displayed my inven­ tion both as a poet and a tale-teller; in a word, never was a triumph more complete. The opera manager quitted the theatre in despair, and my repetition of the part, with occasional variations, continued so long, and with such success, that his house was entirely deserted. “But gratifying, as in every respect my victory was, I felt conscious that it could not last long. The solid attainments, the great skill, and the exquisite taste of the opera manager, I was convinced would grad­ ually recover their ascendancy and brightness over the meteor flashes which rendered me for a time so much a wonder; and I resolved to make hay while the sun shone. I had now acquired more method in my dissipation; I was not less than in my youthful folly the votary of

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pleasure, but I was no longer an enthusiast, and could worship at her shrine even while I was no longer negligent of my worldly welfare. Accordingly, notwithstanding all the voluptuous temptations of Pal­ ermo, foreseeing the wane of my popularity, I availed myself of the pretended engagement for London, and announced my intention of taking leave of the good-humoured Palermitans on the evening of my own benefit. This I do think was the only act of my whole life, that might justly be called prudent, and like all prudent actions it was attended with great success. The company overflowed, the presents sent to me were liberal beyond all precedent, and I took leave of the audience with a presentiment, that I had reached the utmost limit of my glory. It was even so!” The old man paused, and sighing as he said this, was for a few moments absorbed in thought; but presently he shook off the melan­ choly that had fallen upon him, and continued his story with a free and joyous spirit.  

CHAPTER XIX. “I embarked at Palermo for Marseilles, and after a pleasant passage, was safely landed in France. It was my intention to proceed directly for Paris, of which I had heard so much from Madame Larolle, the housekeeper of my old schoolmaster, the Abbate Vicenzo, and from every Frenchman and woman that I afterwards met with; but not understanding the language, I stopped on my landing a few days until I could obtain a servant who understood French as well as Italian. I still retained the name of Bellavoce, and the people belonging to the vessel in which I came, spoke of me as a prodigy, and engaged, at an incalculable expense, for the Grand Opera of London, which, it was understood on the continent, was managed by a committee of noble­ men, who set no bounds to their prodigality of expense. “It happened at the hotel where I took up my abode, that at this very time an agent of the London Opera-house was then waiting for a favourable wind to transport him to Leghorn, on his way to Italy to engage performers; hearing of me, and that it was reported I was engaged for his theatre, which he knew was not true, he became ­anxious to see me, and introduced himself. He was as little acquainted with the Italian language as I was with the French, although going to engage Italian performers; but he had a shrewd knave of a servant, a native of Naples, who acted as his interpreter. “This agent of the English Opera had in his day been a cabinet maker, although never a privy counsellor, and possessed about as much taste in Italian music as his bidets. In the course of our conver­ sation I learnt that he was in search chiefly of a principal male singer. ‘I am your man,’ said I to myself, when I heard this, and requested in a negligent manner the interpreter to tell him, that I was on my way to London for the purpose of giving a series of concerts, and an impro­ visatorial exhibition. He snapped at the bait, and was caught; for on his retiring after this introductory visit, I sent for his interpreter, and told him, that being desirous of going to London, I would make him a handsome present if he could so infect his master’s mind as to procure me an engagement. He snapped too, and was caught. It was arranged between us, that I should make occasional bravura flourishes in hum­ ming backwards and forwards in my chamber, which was near the

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Englishman’s, while the cunning Carlo should take every opportunity of repeating a thousand fine things of the wonderful Bellavoce, and how it was supposed his concerts would be so much the fashion, that the Grand Opera would be ruined. Thus, to make a long tale short, I was in the end engaged to be first singer at the King’s theatre in Lon­ don; and the Englishman, who had no other idea of our music, than he had of that of the spheres, was infinitely delighted with my flights, and the other absurdities which the chaste skill of the Palermitan manager had pronounced so execrable. He wrote his principals, that he had in Signor Bellavoce found the most incomparable singer and performer then in all Italy, and that I possessed, in addition to all the extraordinary powers of my voice and action, one of the finest persons on the stage. “His letter was shown to all the musical professors and persons of taste in London, and mutual congratulations on so great an acquisition were exchanged in all quarters. The only circumstance that led them to suspect the precise veracity of the description, was his account of my person, to which as singers, both male and female, are in general remarkably ugly, they could not give credit. However, it was noised through all the circles of rank and fashion, that the Bellavoce was to be brought out, and those ladies and gentlemen, the subscribers to the Opera, who, in their simplicity, inquired if it was a serious or comic piece, were informed that it was the name of the most accomplished singer in all Italy. The bait took here likewise, so that by the time I reached London, for I stopped a few days to taste of Paris as I passed, all the world was agape for my arrival. It was late in the evening when I reached the British capital; but having found an Italian servant at Paris well acquainted with the town, I sent him to the manager to apprise him that I was come, and he came flying to me on tiptoe with expanded arms; and jaded and fatigued as I was after my journey, dragged me with him to show me at a concert which a magnificent duchess was that evening giving to the court.* Nothing could exceed the eclat of my reception. The apartments of the mansion were mean and small, and crowded to suffocation, but all the great of one of the greatest nations were present. “The performers in the concert acquitted themselves so r­ espectably, that I began to fear I had overrated the musical ignorance of the English. But the airs they sung were in a different taste from ours, and * This is not correct; the British court has never been entertained by subjects.

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I was comforted when I heard the best among them attempt a popular Italian song. Towards the end of the concert, the lady of the entertain­ ment came to me, and begged for God’s sake that I would but sing one verse. It would oblige her so much; it would make her famous for ever, to have it said, that I had first sung in England in her house. There was no withstanding this, and she was besides a beautiful and fascinating woman. The manager who acted as interpreter, pleaded my fatigue in excuse; but she said, all present were aware of that, and only implored him to procure one verse from me. I obeyed; and in a careless manner that I knew was often most effective, I sang one of my gayest songs, one which was reserved for jovial parties behind the scenes; but the English knew nothing of Italian, and I was applauded to the skies. ‘What taste!’ cried one. ‘What sentiment!’ said another. ‘O, divine!’ resounded on all sides. The little manager was transported out of him­ self with the bargain he had got in Bellavoce, and such an audience as filled the Opera-house on the Saturday following, was never before seen; legs and arms were broken in the crowd at the doors, all to hear the rejected Bellavoce of the Palermitan Opera. “I shall never forget the effect which the magnitude of the house had on me when I entered the stage; for I had not, as yet, been in any of the great theatres of Italy. I was for a moment intimidated, but the vastness of the applause sounded in my ear like acclamations in which posterity joined, and I was encouraged to enthusiasm. The dramatic part of the Opera was so much cut away to make room for the addi­ tional songs I was to introduce, that the story was barely intelligible. But I was the eye as well as the tongue of the spectacle; almost every song I sung was encored; and such, as it was said, was my astonishing execution, that the orchestra could not follow me. Between ourselves this was true, but it was because I was continually running out of tune. It diverts me yet, when I think of the English and their Italian Opera. An old Dowager, whom age had rendered as deaf as a post, and whose box was in the remotest part of the house, assured me that I was the only singer she could endure to hear since the days of Farinelli; I was perhaps, indeed, the only one that bellowed loud enough to be heard so far off, in the spacious circuit of that house. “In London I made a vast deal of money, and enjoyed every pleasure that mortal man could ask to partake of. I will enter upon no details; it is a voluptuous story, and both you and I, Sir, are old men, and should be thinking of other things. But for all that, I could not like the country or the people. The freedom of the government I thought more than overbalanced to the people, in their moist, raw, and dismal climate;

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and the immense revenue no less so to the rulers, by the turbulent and factious spirit of the subjects. Though Fortune, therefore, held me by the one hand, and Pleasure by the other, I resolved, after the end of the second month of my engagement, to return to Paris, where I found a public spirit more congenial to my own particular taste. But before quitting the English, I have a little story to tell you of an adventure that befel me in England.” This, however, I must reserve for the next chapter; for upon consideration, my readers may not have such good wine at hand to refresh them as I had prepared for Andrew, and which at this point, I requested him to taste, in order to make a break in his rapid and ­excursive narrative.  

CHAPTER XX. “It was late in the evening,” said Andrew, “when I entered in the coach that was to carry me from London. When I went to take my place, I found already three other passengers seated, two men and a female. My servant was to go outside; I was not long in the coach when I dis­ covered that the female and one of the men were Italians. There was an accent in the voice of the woman (for it was so dark, we could not see each other’s faces) that affected me very strangely, and recalled to my mind an agitated series of associations and recollections. I thought it was familiar to my ear, and at last I was convinced it could be the voice of no other than my faithless Belletta. This discovery induced me to remain concealed, in order that I might ascertain in what state she then was, and I soon gathered from what passed between her and my countryman, that after scraping a rich harvest from her English friend, she was returning home to Italy; that her companion, who had been his valet, was on good terms with her, and that as soon as they reached a catholic country, it was their intention to be united in the holy bands of matrimony, and to set themselves down comfortably in the native village of Belletta, on the Banks of the Brenta, where, as she observed they would get a family of pretty little children and be happy, till it was time for them to go to Heaven. “The laughable naïveté of Belletta’s character I perceived was none altered, but her voice had become harsher, and when the day dawned on her face, I found her beauty greatly impaired. However, I am pro­ ceeding a little too fast. When the lovers had adjusted their future scheme of life, their conversation took a more desultory character, and as the first thing in the minds of all professional people, whether heroes or actors is their profession, it naturally related on the part of Belletta to the English theatres which she pronounced quite detest­ able. ‘What would you think,’ said she to her swain, ‘that when I went to Drury Lane, an old lady who was exceedingly polite to me, and who invited me to her house, wanted to make a heretic of me—Oh! the English theatres are in that respect abominable. Well, I was pleased with her civility; I went home with her; but we had not been long in the house till she ordered in a spirit. Would you believe it, love, this was no other than gin? Was it not most shocking, to corrupt my

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­religion and ­innocence with gin?’ “It required me some time,” said Andrew, “to discover in what way the drinking of gin was to make a heretic of Belletta; but it turned out, that the kindness of the old lady towards her, was only a prelude to an invitation to board and lodge with her, along with several other young ladies, who were, as Belletta described them, such heretics as to be nightly unfit to say their prayers; and consequently must drop to the devil like a stone in a well, the moment that their souls were out of their bodies. “‘But,’ exclaimed this chaste and faithful maiden, ‘who do you think Bellavoce is, that all the people of London have gone mad after? No other than Andrew of Padua, who was my lover, when your master came to Venice. Poor soul! I shall never forget how he looked when he saw me with my lord, I am ready to die of laughter when I think of it. Ah! he was as innocent as a lamb, and I had a great mind to send for him when I saw him in the Opera house; but my lord was then busy negotiating his marriage, and I promised to be faithful to him till all was arranged, so Honour forbade me seeing my dear Andrew of Padua.’ “Upon this declaration I made myself known, and excessive was the joy and congratulations that passed on the occasion. Lorenzo, the valet, the lover and intended husband, was not however quite satisfied with the encounter; but when he understood that I was returning like themselves to the continent, with a purse that would shake against the wind, he was soon reconciled, and we travelled like the three graces in the greatest comfort and good humour to Paris together. “It did not however suit my views to retain this connexion long; so after we had been about a week in Paris, I played Belletta just such another trick as she had played me. I left her and Lorenzo one evening, and took up my abode with a beautiful piquant actress of the theatre François; and in the course of three days after, Belletta and her friend took their departure for Italy. “In Paris I remained a long period of years, at least half a dozen; I gambled, I sang, and entered with delight into all the pleasantries of that merry capital. But in the end my money ran out, and I was obliged once more to have recourse to my talents for a supply. The French do not pay so well as the English; and their theatres being under a better system of management, I could get no engagement but as an occasional singer, and my defect of scientific knowledge was not in the opinion of the managers compensated by the power and melody of my voice. My genius as an improvisatore was also of as little use to me in Paris as in London, for the French are acquainted with no

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language but their own. In this state of things I had almost made up my mind to return to London, where I should have been received with the magnificence of an emperor; but the very next morning when I intended to prepare for my departure, the air became raw and foggy, just like the atmosphere of London; and I resolved rather to enjoy in penury the blandishments and sunshine of our beautiful Italy, than pine and shiver with liberty and luxury in England. Instead, therefore, of directing my course towards Calais, I embarked in the diligence for Marseilles, and after an absence of ten years was restored to my country at Leghorn. “The first thing I did after my arrival was, to seek out the manager of the theatre, expecting to find my old friend; but instead of that, to my infinite chagrin, I found the odious rascal that I called Don Pomposo of the Palermitan opera. I would have turned on my heel and quitted the room, but he recognised me, and welcomed me with as much urbanity as it was in the power of the little, yellow, shrunk and bilious wretch to practise. “‘Bellavoce,’ said he, ‘Bellavoce, I once committed a sad mistake, and did you great injustice. I am willing to repair my error; shall we be friends?’ “I have been at the grand Opera in London, and received with ­glorious applause, was my reply. “‘All that is very true—I know it,’ said he; ‘but being at London is no recommendation to the Italian stage, however much having been in Italy may be a passport to the English. But you are a plain dealer, and I will therefore deal with you plainly; unless you have greatly improved yourself since I heard your attempt, you are not yet fitted to appear among scientific musicians. You possess, however, Bellavoce, extraordinary powers as an improvisatore, and in that character I will cheerfully engage you.’ “I will think of your offer, was my answer, and I parted from him. “This knave of a manager, I saw, had discovered the motive of my calling on him. He guessed rightly that I was in necessitous circum­ stances; and he knew that I would never have come to him, had I been able to sustain the eclat of my London appearance, in any of the great Italian theatres. I was however not willing to let myself down too quickly, lest I should be so stunned by the fall as to find some difficulty in recovering. I lingered, however, some days in Leghorn, expecting he would call on me, and propose terms; but in this I was disappointed. “My money had now run to the lowest ebb, and it was necessary to recruit my purse before I could leave the city. In this dilemma I had

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no other alternative but to announce myself as Andrew of Padua, and that I would give an improvisatorial entertainment before ­proceeding on my journey towards Naples. My name was recollected by the public, and a considerable sensation in my favour was produced. But a new race, who knew me not, had sprung up since my former visit to Leghorn, and the yellow and bilious manager having the ear of all the principal personages in the place, and repeating to them that I was but an adventurer who had been hissed from the stage of Messina, on the night of my performance, though a great crowd attended, not one of any distinction or rank appeared in the number. “The habit of attending public places had given me the tact to discover this deplorable falling off at a glance; so that when I entered before the audience to commence my performance, my genius was chilled by the sweltering crowd, and my heart sank so low within me, that the tears almost burst into my eyes. I need not therefore say that my invention languished, and that my efforts were feeble. At times I elicited a little approbation, but the gorgeous enthusiasm which invested my first attempts with so much honour was not there—at the close of the performance, I returned home with a melancholy heart, and disconsolate presages. “My youth was now all gone, the delicious period of my life over. I had possessed golden opportunities, and had neglected them all. But a truce with complaining, sadness has ever been with me as the summer cloud on the landscape; and in spite of beggary, the gaiety of my spirit shall end but with the wants of this infirm and aged frame.”  

CHAPTER XXI. It might have been expected that the sentiment of Andrew, with which I closed the last chapter, would have been expressed with an affecting pathos; but far from it was the case. He spoke in a sly and roguish manner, as if he shrewdly wished to perceive the effect which it would have on me. He then resumed his narrative as follows: “On the following morning I bade adieu to Leghorn, and set out for Rome, where I had not yet been. You may wonder what I intended to do here, as the Romans have no theatre;* but I had heard while in London and Paris, a vast deal about Rome, and the greatness and glory of the Romans as far excelling all of French or British grandeur; and it seemed to me that “the eternal city” was the best market to which I could carry my wares. Judge then, Signor Furbo, of my amaze­ ment, when, on entering Rome, instead of the vast, the populous, the military and the dissolute capital I expected, I found a ruinous, depop­ ulated, monkish, and sober city; a huge monastery, and one too whose endowments had greatly declined. “The very world itself seemed changed to me now. My genius was loaded with an incumbent dejection that I could not shake off; and I thought that were I to quit Rome, I should find myself in a desert. But what was to be done? The little stock of money that I had collected by my performance at Leghorn, could not last long. “In this crisis, an English family of the first consequence arrived. I had known them in London, and seen them more than once at Paris. I renewed my acquaintance with them. They introduced me to the best company then in the Roman capital, and under their auspices, I began to recover heart and fancy, in occasional exhibitions that were applauded and well paid. But oh! that thief, that traitor, Time! that heretic, as Belletta would have called him! Just as I was beginning to be re-established in public favour, I was seized with the tooth-ach in one of my front teeth, and after suffering the most diabolical torment, I was obliged to submit to having it torn out by iron pincers. This spoiled my singing, but it did not impair my imagination, and for * We believe this is not the case now, and that a regular operatic establishment is at present permitted in the papal city.—Ed.

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some years I continued to sing as well as to perform as an improvi­ satore; but on each succeeding year my personal appearance became less remarkable, and my audience grew thinner and thinner. Thus was I gradually reduced, without having committed any very heinous offence, to the sad condition at last, of offering my powers to please in the coffee-houses to the benevolences of occasional guests. In this way I passed thirty years of my life, sinking from a poet to a story-teller, without meeting with any remarkable adventure, till one evening, about six months ago, in returning to my solitary garret, I happened to pass an old man coming out of the French minister’s palace, attended by a servant. Not aware of the rank of the old man, and having a nod and smile sort of knowledge of the domestic, I asked him how he was. His look gave me to understand I had fallen into a mistake. ‘Who is that?’ said his master in the same moment. ‘Andrew of Padua,’ replied the servant. ‘Andrew of Padua,’ said the old man thoughtfully, ‘Andrew of Padua! it is a long time since I have heard of Andrew; where is he?’ “The servant called me back, for I had gone on in the meantime a few paces. In returning to the porch, I now saw by the dress of the old man, that he belonged to the college of cardinals. ‘Signor Andrew,’ said he as I drew near, ‘it is a long time since we met.’ “I could not charge my memory with ever having seen his Eminence before, except in public. ‘Then you don’t know me, Andrew? you don’t remember the novice of the Benedictine monastery at Padua, on whom you played such a prank?’ “I was greatly astonished at this salutation,—‘But you shall go home and sup with me; I long to hear your adventures. I hope you have mended your manners. Ah, you were in a bad way then; but it was not your fault. The example set you by those accursed Benedic­ tines was sufficient to have corrupted a Joseph. I have never since that night ceased to labour for the reformation of the order. On that night I made a vow to do so; and although my endeavours have been incessant, the fruit is still small, and I fear, as I did then, that a storm is gathering, that will sweep them, and all our holy institutions, from the face of the earth.’ “In the cardinal I now discovered the fanatic Anselmo; and de­­sirous of hearing by what means he had attained to that high honour, as well as of sharing the good things of his eminence’s table, I followed him respectfully home. “But here I was again doomed to suffer a new disappointment. It is true that the Cardinal occupies a large palace, but one room serves all his humble wants. He is abstemious; a niggard to himself, giving all his

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ample revenues to the poor. The stately chambers of his palace, as we passed through them, were dark; nor did he appear to have any other domestics than the servant on whose arm he leant; for on entering the vestibule, the door of which the servant unlocked, there was a lamp burning on the floor, and with it he lighted us to a small remote room, furnished neatly, but with extreme simplicity. “I had now an opportunity of retracing the features of the novice in the Cardinal, but my imagination failed to supply the defects which time had occasioned. He was pale and meagre; his eyes and mouth uncommonly large, and the whole cast of his countenance was at once spiritual and cadaverous. There is no feast in this house, thought I. “In the course of a few minutes the domestic returned into the room with the materials of a frugal supper. They consisted of a sallad, a couple of eggs—one stained red and the other blue; two slices of bread, a few salted olives, and a jug of pellucid water. “Mercy on us! said I to myself; is it thus that the princes of the church live? “Whether the Cardinal perceived my disappointment, or only thought it his duty to reconcile his guest to such meagre fare, I leave you to determine; but he began a very sensible eulogium on temper­ ance, and he reminded me of the respective states in which we then stood. ‘You see, Andrew,’ said he, ‘what has been the result of my self-denial, for I did not lack the desires and impulses to which you and the other novices yielded yourselves, but I have mastered them; and persevering in a course of virtue and fidelity to my ecclesiastical vows, I have risen to a high and honoured station, with vast riches at my command if I wished for any carnal pleasures, while you, poor sinner, have scarcely wherewithal to break your fasting. But I need not add to your vexation; I would only conjure you, while it is not yet too late, to mend your way of life, and retire into a monastery, where you will be carefully tended in your old age, and I will myself contribute both to your bodily and spiritual comfort. Your old friend Pietro Pontallegro, who was expelled even by the Benedictines for his misdemeanors, has been awakened by me into a wholesome state of repentance, after having lost his nose, and been rendered by his vices an insupportable object of abhorrence; therefore take my advice and repent. Go to him; you will find him in the Capuchin college, and he will edify you by the excellence of his reflexions on the insufficiency of all earthly pleasures. I had lost sight of him for many years, but in one of my charitable visits to the hospital I discovered him,—an awful warning to all incontinent youth, and by my exhortations brought him to such a lively sense of

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his own iniquities, that he would now be an ornament to the church; but alas! he has lost his nose, which greatly diminishes the exemplary effect of his pious and contrite old age.’ Andrew here paused for some time, and looked, I thought, as if he had no more to say.

CHAPTER XXII. Andrew, said I, did not the Cardinal tell you his history; you gave me reason to think he did so, and I should be glad to hear what hap­ pened to the benevolent fanatic from the time he left the Benedictines of Padua, till you found him a member of the sacred college. “Ah,” replied he, “the Cardinal is matter for another tale, and it would require more time to tell it, than I have taken for that of the Improvisatore.” What do you mean? exclaimed I, is not what you have related of the improvisatore your own history? “Bless your heart!” cried Andrew; “surely you were not so simple as to think so. Surely you never thought that I had run through such a course of adventures as I have described, or that I was gifted with such talents as I pretended to have exercised.” Then you are really the impostor that you were represented to be, and all this long story is but a pack of falsehoods contrived to beguile me of my wine and suppers, cried I, waxing wroth with resentment. “Softly, softly,” said Andrew; “do not call it falsehood, fiction is the term, and if it has amused you as well as if it had been all true, what signifies the little stratagem that I have played. In a word, Sir, I am indeed a native of Padua, and hence my name, but I was brought to Rome with a Savoyard, a raree show, and a monkey, while a very little boy, and since that time I have lived by my wits, in singing songs and telling stories, nor have I ever been half a league from the city.” Then you have invented all this romantic narrative without any premeditation, said I. “Even so,” replied Andrew, “and were you a scholar, and would write down my inventions, it would make you as famous as Boccacio, for I can neither read nor write. What a genius has been lost to posterity by my inability to record the flights of my fancy!” There seemed to be truth in the observation of the old man; and after some further conversation, it was agreed that he should visit me from time to time, and relate what occurred to him. “But,” said he, “you must not again fall into the mistake of thinking that my tales are true stories, for I must always be the hero of what I relate; and if I were to give you an account of a Pope, or the King of England, I trust that

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in the narrative you would take me either for Ganganelli or George the Third.” This let me into the whole secret of the disgrace under which poor Andrew laboured. It was evident that his auditors had often commit­ ted a mistake similar to mine; and that, forgetful of the amusement he had afforded them in his narration, they had been indignant at being duped by the probability of adventures which they afterwards found were altogether imaginary. One thing which he reminded me of with considerable pleasantry, was highly comic. “I told you,” said he, “that my voice was injured by the loss of one of my front teeth—and yet I never had the tooth-ache in all my life, and you see my whole case is still entire. I repeated to you also a hundred times, that I was as handsome as Adonis, as captivating as the Apollo, and yet I have all the while been setting before you with a crooked spine, and legs as ill-matched as if they had belonged to two different individuals, such as we sometimes see helping to make up an ancient statue, without, however, being half so handsome. Ah! Signor, poor Andrew is not in fault. If those who abuse me would only exercise their own faculties a little more cleverly, they would not complain of any imposition, but applaud my ingenuity. However, the opinion of the world is settled concerning me, and I shall never receive the celebrity due to my genius, unless some man of letters will take the trouble to write out my tales, and tell them as much in my own manner as he can.” It was thus that I acquired the materials for this series of adven­ tures and stories. My merit in the composition is very small; whatever is striking in the incidents or happy in the conception, is due to the author; and those who recollect the felicitous effusions of Andrew of Padua at Rome, under the name of Omero, will regret that some more worthy pen had not been employed to preserve them. But what pen could do justice to an improvisatore so highly gifted, to a story-teller whose invention was inexhaustible? The splendor of his genius was as the blushing of beauty, or the gleeful shouts of merry childhood, which art has never ventured to imitate. The sketch which I have here given of his first tale, is but the meagre outline of a finished painting; a caput mortuum, from which not only the illuminating spirit has departed from the eye, the bloom faded from the cheek, and the motion of life from the lips, but the very skin and flesh have entirely disappeared.* * This observation of the Abbate Furbo on the narrative of Andrew, applies with peculiar force to the translation; for although I have endeavoured to convey the ideas of the original in that free colloquial manner,

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which constitutes the great charm of the author’s style, I am so sensible of being left immeasurably behind in the higher flights of his occasional eloquence, that I am convinced of having done great injustice in my endeavour to present to the English reader a characteristic translation of this singular work. The Italians have supposed that in Cardinal Anselmo, the Abbate has given a portrait, or rather a caricature of the celebrated Pope G ­ anganelli; but this notion is entirely supposititious. We have his tale of the ­Cardinal before us, the hero of which is Anselmo, and it bears not the slightest mark of any thing like a history of Ganganelli. It is that of a genuine and unaffected fanatic, with a benevolent heart, and the most charitable intentions. The Pope was a far different character; nor, we believe, is there the slightest ground for thinking that ever Ganganelli was a novice of the Jesuits, and of course, the satire on the free lives of the Benedictines in the history of Anselmo, could have no reference to them. Ganganelli, in fact, was a most accomplished hypocrite; he played off dotage and infirmity until seated in the Papal chair, in which, with a youthful and Herculean vigour, he ­strangled those two great serpents of the church, the order of the Jesuits and the secular pretensions of the Popes. Perhaps I do him wrong in calling him a hypocrite, although he certainly attained his ends by dissimulation; for when he became Pope, the office of that High Priest of Christendom, was instantly limited to his religious duties; and the See of Rome, instead of exacting obedience, endeavoured to obtain respect by the wisdom and the superiority of the Papal policy. Were we called upon to name, of all the sovereign princes of the eighteenth century, the one who appeared to be most actuated by the spirit of that superb cycle, we would without hesitation pronounce Pope Ganganelli: compared with him in practical wisdom, Frederick of Prussia sinks into a corporal before a sage; and Catherine of Russia, the greatest spirit of the three, appears but as a gorgeous and bloody harlot. The other kings of the time were only so many ninepins, that Time was at the trouble of setting up, and Death idle enough to knock down. They might have all been spared till the end of the period, and the great clock of human affairs would still have run on, and struck the alarm of the French Revolution, in total contempt of their existence.—Tr.

End of Andrew of Padua.

THE OMEN. EPOCH I. CHAP. I. * * * * Even my childhood was joyless, and a mystery overshadows all my earliest recollections. Sometimes, on the revisitations of the past, strange and obscure apparitional resemblances leave me in doubt whether they are indeed the memory of things which have been, or but of the stuff that dreams are made of. The vision of a splendid mansion and many servants, makes me feel that I am, as it were, still but a child, playing with an orange on the carpet of a gorgeous room. A wild cry and a dreadful sound frighten me again; and as I am snatched up and borne away, I see a gentleman lying bleeding on the steps of a spacious staircase, and a beautiful lady distractedly wringing her hands. While yet struggling in the strangling grasps of that fearful nightmare, a change comes upon the spirit of my dream, and a rapid ­procession of houses and trees, and many a green and goodly object, passes the window of a carriage in which I am seated, beside an unknown female, who sheds tears, and often caresses me. We arrive at the curious portal of a turretted manorial edifice:—I feel myself lifted from beside my companion, and fondly pressed to the bosom of a venerable matron, who is weeping in the dusky twilight of an ancient chamber, adorned with the portraits of warriors. A breach in my remembrance ensues; and then the same sad lady is seen reclining on a bed, feeble, pale, and wasted, while sorrowful damsels are whispering and walking softly around. * * * * She laid her withered hand upon my head, as I stood at her pillow. It felt like fire, and, shrinking from the touch, I pushed it away, but with awe and reverence; for she was blessing me in silence, with such kind and gentle eyes! My tears still flow afresh, whenever I think of

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those mild and mournful eyes, and of that withered and burning hand. I never beheld that sad lady again; but some time after the female who brought me in the carriage led me by the hand into the room where I had seen her dying. It was then all changed; and on the bed lay the covered form of a mysterious thing, the sight of which filled my infantine spirit with solemnity and dread. The poor girl, as she looked on it, began to weep bitterly; I, too, also wept, but I knew not wherefore; and I clung to her, overwhelmed with the phantasma of an unknown fear.  

CHAP. II. After the funeral of my grandmother, I was conveyed, by the same affectionate girl, in another carriage, to a lone house in a distant part of the country, where she consigned me to the care of an aged gentlewoman, of a serene and benign countenance. The house stood on a bleak rising ground, overlooking a little bay, along the western skirts of which a few fishermen’s huts formed a scattered hamlet. The eastern side was a rugged promontory, and tall cliffs and huge rocks beetled and frowned upon the restless ocean, that for ever chafed and murmured on the sandy margin at their feet. When I had been some three or four days in that unvisited and solitary house, the venerable lady took me by the hand, and led me to walk on the smooth beach below the cliffs. It was in the cool of a calm summer-evening. The waves, as they slowly rippled on the sand, churmed, as it were, a lullaby: the air was hushed with the holy stillness of the Sabbath; and the sea-birds, as they flew between me and the dark precipices, shone like silvery stars. A stately ship lay becalmed in the offing. The fishermen, who had been on board, were returning towards the shore; and the glancing of their oars appeared to the simplicity of my young imagination as if they were wantonly breaking the beautiful glassiness of the peaceful ocean. A gentleman, who was sitting on a rock, started up, as we came unexpectedly upon him, and hastily retired. Something in his appearance arrested my attention; and I followed him with my eyes till he disappeared behind another jutting fragment of the precipice. He had lately become the inhabitant of a little cottage, which stood in a niche of the cliffs. No one could tell whence he had come: all that was known concerning him was in the ravelled circumstances of an uncredited tale told by a poacher, who, being abroad in the night, on his unlawful vocation, saw a black boat passing athwart the disk of the moon, (then just emerging from the sea,) and making towards a vessel under sail. A solitary man was at the same time seen coming from the beach—one who had doubtless been landed from that vessel. Next morning, about break of day, the gentleman whom we had disturbed applied at the cottage for some refreshment, and finding in the only inmate the needy widow of a fisherman, he persuaded her to take him

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for a guest, and with her he had continued to lead a companionless life. The fishermen, sometimes moved by curiosity, threw themselves in his way, and asked him needless questions, with the hope of thereby establishing some acquaintanceship; but, although he answered them with mildness and courtesy, it was yet in so reserved a manner, that they at last entirely abstained from attempting to disturb the thoughtfulness of his melancholy.  

CHAP. III. Several years elapsed before I again fell in with Mr. Oakdale. I was then no longer an attended child but a careless boy, allowed to range alone in the freedom of the hills and shores. It was during the summer of the year in which I was first sent to school, perhaps it was later in the season; for a vague assemblage of autumnal circumstances, yellow fields, and ripened berries, are mingled with the remembrance. I was returning homeward along the brow of the cliffs which overhung his cottage; a sunny breeze was blowing from the sea; and a slight haziness in the air rather whitened than obscured the azure of the heavens. The waves were breaking on the shore, but neither hoarsely nor heavily; and the hissing of the grass and the rustling of the leaves had more of life than of sadness in their sounds. Immediately above the cottage was a path which meandered down among the rocks towards the hamlet; and as it shortened my distance from home I turned into it, and had descended about fifty yards, when I discovered him sitting on a rock with his chin resting on his hand. I knew him again at the first glance, so vividly had his image been impressed upon my young remembrance; and I felt as if I had known him in a previous state of existence, which had long, long ceased to be. I looked at him for a moment, and then softly turned to retrace my steps; but he heard me, and raising himself from the ruminating posture in which he was sitting, he beckoned to me, and invited me with such encouraging accents to come to him, that in the ready confidence of boyhood I soon obeyed the summons. At first he spoke playfully, as the gentle-hearted ever address them­selves to children; but all at once he gazed at me with a wild and ­startled eye, and brushing up the curls from my forehead with his hand, perused my features with an alarming earnestness, and suddenly burst into tears. When this paroxysm of incomprehensible sorrow had subsided, he tried to regain my confidence by those familiar civilities which so soon allay the fears and appease the anxieties of the young heart. Still there was a cast of grief and passion in his countenance, and ever and anon he fell into momentary fits of abstraction, during which, his tears, though with less violence, flowed again.

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He enquired my name, but it was one of which he had never heard; and he questioned me about many things, but I was ignorant of them all. More than once he regarded me with a look so fierce and suspicious, that it made me quake, and I was fain to flee from him, but he held me firmly by the wrist. Nevertheless, in the midst of all that wayward and fantastical treatment, there was much gentleness; and I enjoyed on my heart the occasional breathings of a spirit framed of the kindliest elements, and rich in the softest affections of pity, and charity, and love.  

CHAP. IV. I remained with him a long time. It was not indeed until the lighthouse and the evening star were mingling their beams on the glittering waters, that I thought of returning home. He walked with me to the gate where Mrs. Ormond was standing, alarmed at my absence, and anxiously looking for the servants whom she had sent out in quest of me. The old lady, on seeing us, came eagerly forward, and while affectionately embracing me, began to chide at my having staid abroad to so late an hour. I had then hold of Mr. Oakdale by the finger, and felt him start at the first sound of her voice: in the same moment he snatched his hand away, and hastily withdrew. Surprised by his abruptness, Mrs. Ormond raised herself from the posture into which she had stooped to caress me, and enquired with emotion who the stranger was. Before I had time to answer, he returned with a wild and strange haste, and seizing her by the hand endeavoured to remove her to a distance from me. She demanded to know why he treated her so rudely. He said something in an emphatic whisper which I did not overhear, but it stunned her for an instant; and when she recovered, instead of making him any reply, she led me away, and without speaking closed the gate. As we ascended the steps of the hall-door I looked back and saw Mr. Oakdale standing on the spot where we had left him. Mrs. Ormond also looked back, and said with an accent which the echoes of memory have never ceased to repeat, “Miserable, miserable man!” She then hurried me before her into the parlour, and sunk down upon a sopha, overwhelmed with agitation and grief. The servants having returned, she enquired if the gentleman who brought me home was still at the gate, but none of them had seen him. Being by this time somewhat composed, she began to question me again concerning him. Though I told her all I knew, and that he was the same person whom we had seen so long before sitting forlornly on the rock, still my information appeared to afford no satisfaction, but only to call forth her wonder that he should have been so long so near us, and all the time so perfectly unknown;—by which, young as I then was, and

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incapable of penetrating the mystery with which I was surrounded, I yet, nevertheless, could discern that I was doomed to experience some ill-omened sympathy with the disastrous fate and fortunes of that unhappy, solitary man.  

CHAP. V. Some feel that their consciousness of life is in their recollections, ­others enjoy it in their anticipations. I am of those whose sense of being is derived from the past. Were the ever-forward-going mind a thing to be spoken of as having form and lineament, I should say, that the eyes of mine were in the back of the brain. Of what may be it never reasons, but only doats, with the constancy of fascination, on pictures in the gallery of memory, which it would be happiness to know were but lunacies of the imagination, conceived in some eclipse, and coloured with the unblest shadowings of the full moon. But wherefore speak of what I am? My task is to describe things seen, felt, and known: by these it shall be discovered what I was. Next morning one of the servants learnt from some of the fishermen that the stranger, as Mr. Oakdale was called among them, had left the widow’s cottage, and was gone no one knew whither; but he had presented her with money enough to make her rich for all the remainder of her life. I was present when these tidings were told to Mrs. Ormond, and they did not allay the anxiety with which she was visibly affected from the event of the preceding evening. For some time she remained silent and thoughtful. I was busy with my toys; but I recollect, as it were a thing of present occurrence, that I now and then stole a glance at her countenance, while I thought of the kind and wayward gentleman of the rock. She rose, and, opening her writing-desk, began a letter.—I observed as she wrote that she often sighed, and sometimes wiped her eyes. When it was finished a servant was dispatched on horseback with it, and returned with a post-chaise from Bevlington. In the mean time there was a great bustle in the house by the maids passing to and fro with articles of dress in their hands: the clothes I wore were changed for my holyday suit. Mrs. Ormond lifted me into the chaise, and placed herself by my side.—I was delighted with the prospect of a jaunt; and when the carriage began to move, and I beheld the objects without, seemingly passing by, it reminded me of my first journey, and brought all the

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impressive incidents of that eventful day again distinctly before me. I spoke of them to Mrs. Ormond as of things I had seen in a dream: at first, she gave little heed to my young prattling, for her attention was engrossed with her own thoughts; but as from time to time some new circumstance was recalled, she gradually listened to me with more and more curiosity, till at last I perceived she was touched with amazement and alarm. Once or twice, she strangely, as it then seemed to me, enquired, if the gentleman of the rock had not described the things of which I was speaking; and she tried to persuade me that I had indeed dreamt them. But her endeavours produced an opposite effect; for they led me to trace so many incidents back from the time in which we were then together, that the illusion melted entirely away, till, mere child as I was, I could not but believe, that what I had at first described as a dream, was the memorial aliment on which my spirit had been long and secretly nourished. It is true, I could not divest them of the vague and visionary character which the recollections of childhood ever possess; but that early controversy gave them the distinctness of a renewed impression, and blended them with feelings which, even at the tender age of little more than six years, taught me to know, that I had sustained some great misfortune, and was perhaps the heir of guilt and contrition.  

CHAP. VI. Why are we so averse to confess to one another, how much we in secret acknowledge to ourselves, that we believe the mind to be endowed with other faculties of perception than those of the corporeal senses? We deride with worldly laughter the fine enthusiasm of the conscious spirit that gives heed and credence to the metaphorical intimations of prophetic reverie, and we condemn as superstition, the faith which consults the omens and oracles of dreams; and yet, who is it that has not in the inscrutable abysses of his own bosom an awful worshipper, bowing the head and covering the countenance, as the dark harbingers of destiny, like the mute and slow precursors of the hearse marshal the advent of a coming woe? It may be that the soul never sleeps, and what we call dreams, are but the endeavours which it makes, during the trance of the senses, to reason by the ideas of things associated with the forms and qualities of those whereof it then thinks. Are not indeed the visions of our impressive dreams often but the metaphors with which the eloquence of the poet would invest the cares and anxieties of our waking circumstances and rational fears? But still the spirit sometimes receives marvellous warnings; and have we not experienced an unaccountable persuasion, that something of good or of evil follows the visits of certain persons, who, when the thing comes to pass, are found to have had neither affinity with the circumstances, nor influence on the event? The hand of the horologe indexes the movements of the planetary universe; but where is the reciprocal enginery between them? These reflections, into which I am perhaps too prone to fall, partake somewhat of distemperature and disease, but they are not therefore the less deserving of solemn consideration.—The hectical flush, the palsied hand, and the frenzy of delirium, are as valid, and as efficacious in nature, to the fulfilment of providential intents, as the glow of health, the masculine arm, and the sober inductions of philosophy.—Nor is it wise in considering the state and frame of man to overlook how much the universal element of disease affects the evolutions of fortune. Madness often babbles truths which make wisdom wonder. I have fallen into these thoughts by the remembrance of the emotions with which I was affected during the journey with Mrs. Ormond.

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During that journey, I first experienced the foretaste of misfortune, and heard, as it were afar off, the groaning wheels of an unknown ­retribution coming heavily towards me.  

CHAP. VII. When we had travelled about half-a-dozen miles, we entered one of the great highways of the kingdom, and soon after came to an inn, where we changed horses. Our next halt was in a village, through which I must have passed when first taken to be placed under the care of Mrs. Ormond; for a yew-tree on the green, cut into the shape of a lion, reminded me of having been there before; and I directed the attention of Mrs. Ormond towards it, as a proof that the things which I had been relating were historical, and not, as she would have persuaded me to think, but fantastical and imaginary. She was evidently grieved that my recollection retained such an exact impression of circumstances which, it was hoped, I had been too young to remember; and she expressed herself with so much sadness at the discovery that it caused me to sit in silence and reverie during the remainder of our journey. Having again changed horses we continued our progress, and in the afternoon reached the stately portal of a great mansion, situated in the centre of a magnificent park; but all around wore the aspect of neglect and decay.—When we entered the hall Mrs. Ormond exclaimed that the smell of the damp was as the breath of a sepulchre. Some preparations had been made for our reception. An old domestic, one of three or four who had charge of the house, conducted us to a parlour, in which a fire had been recently lighted, and a table was already covered. A repast was soon after served up, and I gathered from a conversation between Mrs. Ormond and an aged matron, the housekeeper, that we were to abide with her until answers were received from London to letters which had been sent off that morning. I rejoiced at this; for in coming up the avenue I had seen many hares playing on the lawn, and was gladdened with the expectation of being permitted to chase them. Accordingly, while Mrs. Ormond continued in conversation with the housekeeper, I left her for that purpose. In seeking my way alone back to the vestibule, I happened to enter a large saloon, adorned with pictures and mirrors of a princely magnitude. Finding myself in error, I was on the point of retiring, when my eye caught a marble table, on which stood a French clock between two

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gilded cupids. The supporters of the table were curiously carved into such chimerical forms as belong only to heraldry and romance. As I looked around at the splendid furniture with wonder and curiosity, something in the ornaments of that gorgeous table arrested my attention, and made a chilly fear vibrate through my whole frame. I trembled as if a spectre of the past had been before me, claiming the renovation of an intimacy and communion which we had held together in some pre-Adamite state of being. Every object in that chamber I had assuredly seen in another time; but the reminiscence which the sight of them recalled fluttered my innocent imagination with fear. A door, opposite to that by which I had entered, led to the foot of a painted marble staircase. I moved tremblingly towards it, filled with an unknown apprehension and awe. I could no longer doubt I was in the same house where, in infancy, I had witnessed such dismay and sorrow; but all was dim and vague; much of the record was faded, and its import could not be read. The talisman of memory was shattered, and but distorted lineaments could be seen of the solemn geni who, in that moment, rose at the summons of the charm, and showed me the distracted lady and the wounded gentleman, whose blood still stained the alabaster purity of the pavement on which I was again standing.  

CHAP. VIII. We must have remained at Beechendale-Hall about a month; for I remember, on being placed in bed, I happened to notice the new moon shining dimly opposite the window, and bade Mrs. Ormond, who, according to her custom, was attending to hear that I said my prayers, look how like it was to a ring,—a broken wedding-ring. How such a thought came into my childish fancy would be useless to conjecture, but the simile so affected her, that she said with a sigh, “Heaven have compassion on this singular boy!” and bending over me, she kissed my forehead, and I felt a tear fall upon my cheek. I say, we must have remained at Beechendale-Hall at least a month, for I well recollect the waxing of that moon to the full, and the shadows which she threw of the trees on the lawn, fluctuating like the dark waters of little pools and lakes, as the branches were stirred by the wind. Often did I stand admiring from the windows the silvery appearance of the deer in the moonshine, with their horns tipped with glimpses of glittering light, as they moved on their pasture, single or in troops, leaving a wake behind in the dewy grass, like the tracts of ships on the rippling ocean. On the evening when Dr. Bosville arrived to take me to his school, the new moon was come again. It was first observed by the housekeeper, who was standing with me on the steps of the portico, looking at the heavens as they were lighted up, till I became almost persuaded that I saw the angels of the signs and the seasons busily moving to and fro, kindling the stars, one by one, with their links and cressets of glory. Mrs. Ormond came to us at the moment, and the housekeeper remarked to her that it was an ominous moon, and betokened grief to the mariner’s hearth, so plainly was the corpse of the last seen in its bosom. What had passed elsewhere, in the mean time, concerning me, was as much beyond the penetration of my young conjecture as the mysteries of destiny. But the first cycle of my life was completed. I had been brought back to the point at which the earliest movements of my retrospective being commenced. With Dr. Bosville I bade the kind and benignant Mrs. Ormond farewell. She wept bitterly as she pressed me fondly to her heart for

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the last time; and I was reluctantly lifted from her embrace, and placed in the carriage beside my judicious but austere preceptor. “You will have many playfellows,” said the Doctor, to cheer and encourage me as we drove away from the house; but I scarcely knew what the word signified, and sat silently ruminating about that which is ever uppermost in the thoughts of the simple child and the inquisitive philosopher—What am I! wherefore are all these things, whither am I going, and who awaits to love or to hate me there?

end of epoch i.

EPOCH II. CHAP. I. The accidents of fortune are somewhat analogous to the notches in the movements of machinery. The foretokens of the augur and the seer are but parts of the providential enginery;—such as have been noticed in their recurrence, without the observer being able to trace in what manner the revolving chains and the wedded racks of the wheels were combined in their operations together. The great clock of time hath all its motions from one spring, and the infinity of movements in its universal spheres and orbits, form the demonstration which proves the original impulse to have been Almighty. But what are those impalpable and substanceless energies which instruct the oracles of fate, and create, by prediction, the desire and purpose that beget the act foretold?—Though they elude the grasp of mortal science, are they not akin to that occult and inscrutable intelligence which oscillates between the ocean and the moon, showing the power of its invisible influences in the tides, or as the communion which the pleiades hold with the flowers, and the signs in the stars with the times and the seasons? What a solemn prologue to the tale of a school-boy’s little cares! Yet, if this story be read aright, it will soon be manifest that the secret homage which we all pay to the sovereignty of the still small voice, heard but in the silence of dread, acknowledges a tremendous sense of some spirit-seen apocalypse. The world may affect not to understand the mystery; but even the atheistical votary of mathematical truth, will confess at the shrine of some UNKNOWN POWER of nature, that he himself is indeed a sincere and appalled worshipper of a God and Providence, whose place, faculties, and qualities, are as much hidden from the discernment of philosophy as the heavens, the powers, and the purposes of the Being which religion has revealed.  

CHAP. II. Dr. Bosville’s school was what is called a select seminary:—he received but ten pupils, the unacknowledged offspring of splendid misery, or the children of parents who had some sad tragedy of the hearth to conceal. It was to me, however, a noisy, busy, overreaching world. Hitherto I had been a solitary child, cherished with the unwearied caresses of the most affectionate of women, and charmed into the trances of enthusiasm by the blandishments of the summer sunshine, the music of the winds of autumn, the hallelujahs of the winter storm, and the mighty chorus of the ocean waves. Never was simple boy less prepared for a scene so new, so harsh, so full of discords to all his gentle feelings. I was overwhelmed, and shrunk from the rude fellowship of my blithe and boisterous companions. I could take no part in their pastimes; but while they were at play in the neighbouring church-yard, I sat on a tomb-stone, and marvelled with myself what partial blessing of gaiety had been bestowed upon them, that I was not permitted to share! In this mood I continued about two years, shunning but not shunned, for, when the first two or three weeks were over, during which my school-mates had often tried both to vex and to win me from my moping, they desisted, and gradually began to treat me with compassionate affection. They invited me to see the nests they had discovered; they presented me with the best fish which they caught, and one of them, who had received a little dog from some of his friends, came with two of the elder boys, and begged me to accept it. “He will keep you from being alone,” said the generous boys, “and, perhaps, as you do not like our games, he will amuse you with his tricks.” But at the end of the second year a change was produced in the monotony of my reflections, by the removal of one of our companions, and the arrival of another in his place. Alfred Sydenham was about my own age. The moment we saw one another we both felt that we had been destined to become friends,— and yet it is difficult to imagine how any two children could have been more differently bred. He had just lost his mother, the splendid and beautiful mistress of a nobleman of the very highest rank: but

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although he was not permitted to bear his father’s name, he was yet regarded by him with all the love and kindness which the parental heart can bestow on an only and a darling child. Nor was he unworthy of that affection which delighted to lavish upon him every indulgence. It is impossible to imagine a creature more elegantly formed than Sydenham was in his boyhood. His dreadful wounds, and the loss of both his arms at the siege of V********, were not sufficient to destroy the extraordinary gracefulness of his maturer years;—but all his personal endowments were as the anatomy of the frame to the beauty of living youth compared with the delightful felicity of his temper, and the mild yet joyous elements of a spirit which was too noble and ­generous for the business of life, too sensitive to bear the rubs of adversity. His father died suddenly, without having properly secured the provision he had intended to make for him. Litigation, in an endeavour to establish his claim with the heir, exhausted his means;—he had no resources, for he had lost his hands, and therefore he—died.

CHAP. III. The arrival of Sydenham was indeed to me an era. Before that event my feelings were all loose and objectless; I longed for something that I could be kind to, and I felt and believed myself to be a forlorn and unaffiliated thing. He awoke the sympathy of fraternal affection, which, till then, had been asleep in my bosom: all the premature anxieties of my orphan state were diminished, by being shared in confidence with him; and by the emulation to equal him in our tasks, he gave me the first taste of the pleasure of being in earnest. He regularly spent the holydays with his father, and it happened, in the course of the summer of the third year after he came to Dr. Bosville’s, that he brought me an invitation from the Duke to accompany him, at Christmas, to B—— Castle. We were then both but in our twelfth year; the circumstances, however, in which we had been respectively placed had taught us to observe with a spirit of more maturity. The old magnificence of the castle, a rude and vast pile, interested me for the two first days. It stands on the verge of a precipice, which overshadows a smooth-­ flowing river. Masses of venerable trees surround it on the other three sides, from the midst of which huge towers, with their coronals of battlements, and clokes of ivy, look down upon the green and bowery villagery of the valley, with the dark aspect of necromancy, and the veteran scowl of obdurate renown. It is indeed a place full of poesy and romance. The mysterious stairs, and the long hazy galleries, are haunted by the ever-whispering spirits of echo and silence; and the portraits and tapestries of the chambers make chivalry come again. The arrival of visitors, and the stir of the numerous servants, would soon have changed the solemn mood and legendary cast of my reflections, had I not discovered, in the person of one of the guests, that undivulged stranger of the rock, Mr. Oakdale. Six years had so altered my appearance, that he did not recognise me, though, I remarked, when he first observed me, that something like a sudden reminiscence moved him for a moment: it, however, passed away; and, during the remainder of his visit, he took no

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­particular notice of me. I knew him again at the first sight; and, having made Sydenham acquainted with the discovery, we resolved to search, by all possible means, into the secrets of his story. He had still the same pale and thoughtful countenance which had first attracted my attention, but there was now an air of ease and worldliness about him, that I had not observed before, perhaps the impassioned state of his mind, during his solitary sequestrations from society, had affected the habitude of his manners at that time. But although both Sydenham and myself were all eye and ear to every thing which related to Mr. Oakdale, he was yet several days in the castle before any thing occurred to afford the slightest clue to the gratification of our intense curiosity.—At last, one day when, ­according to custom, we were summoned after dinner to partake of the dessert, Sydenham chanced to overhear him say with reference to some public circumstance which Mr. Oakdale did not well recollect, that it must have happened while he was abroad. “How long is it,” said Sydenham, “since you were abroad?” “About seven years,” was the answer. I heard the reply, and I observed that it attracted general notice. “In what country were you?” subjoined the ingenious boy. The question made Mr. Oakdale change colour; and Sydenham, without waiting for an answer, added, eagerly, “And what made you go abroad?” The Duke, who overheard what was passing, hastily called the young inquisitor away, but not until he had inflicted, as I could plainly discern, a touch of torment on the penitent.  

CHAP. IV. Tremendous and impenetrable destiny, wherefore is it that I have ever been doomed to despondency, like a blighted plant that languishes beneath the frown of an eclipse? Come not all things to pass as Providence hath pre-ordained they should be? What then does it avail to the agency of fate-fettered man that he has faith in the warning of oracles, the science of the augur, or the vision of the prophet, when all things that shall be are already registered in the eternal chronicles of Heaven as past and done? But these thoughts come too often and too fast upon me. I must endeavour to master them, else shall I never be able to complete my little story with the brevity that befits a tale of a single feeling. Bear, however, with me; for it is my comfortless instinct to observe how it hath pleased Providence to make the falsest promises of fortune ever appear the fairest. What are we all, indeed, but simple victims, pleased with the wreaths by which we are led forward to sacrifice! I thought that Sydenham was given to me as an indemnity for the companionless melancholy of my orphan childhood,—but he was fated only to widen the horizon of the desert, like the Arabian guide who conducts the traveller to view the skeletons of Palmyra, and abandons him in the midst of the desolation and the waste.—But enough of this, let me proceed. The Duke having whispered to Sydenham that he wished to see him in his closet in the morning, we soon after left the dining-room together, and, retiring to the apartment allotted to us, we compared our observations. Young as we still were, we both came to the same conclusion,—some bad thing had happened to Mr. Oakdale, which he and his friends desired to forget and should be forgotten. Is it credible that from that night Sydenham and myself, though we lived long together, and, to the eyes of all who knew us, were companions of singular constancy,—should yet for years have never held any communion as friends? A spell was invoked upon his frankness; and while he appeared in no measure less attached, yea, even while he showed a deeper feeling of affection for me, (for I often caught him looking at me with pity, till his eye overflowed,) it was but too evident that he stood in awe of my

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unhappy destiny, and beheld the spectre which ever followed me,— the undivulged horror, of which my conscious spirit had only the dim knowledge, that dread and bodements sometimes so wonderfully and so inexplicably give.  

CHAP. V. Next morning Sydenham and I met as usual in the park. I had been abroad before him, for the little incident of the preceding evening had affected me with a painful curiosity. I had no rest; or if at times Sleep for a moment did alight on my eyelids, it was suddenly scared away by fearful dreams,—the brood of fancy and of memory,—diseased, hideous, and sorrowful. Nor was the aspect of the morning when I rose of a kind to allay my unhappy mood. Even for the season it was dismal, and a preternatural gloom made the dawn more awful than the night. There was a silence all around such as my spirit had never before felt. A severe frost had hushed the murmuring of the river; the wind was still, and the woods, incrusted with icicles, were also dumb. The cold had made every stirring thing cower within its nest or lair, and the air, and the fields, and the boughs, were mute and forsaken. Nothing living was seen, no sound heard; and when I looked out at the castle gate and saw the shrubs on the lawn standing in the dim haze of the twilight, all in winding-sheets of hoar-frost, they seemed like monuments in a church-yard, and reminded me of the dead and of sepulchres and spectres! Thus it happened that Sydenham found me full of superstitious sadness. With his wonted kindness, and with that pleasing gaiety, the delightful quality of his unrivalled and invincible temper, he endeavoured to cheer me, but the topic he chose was calculated to produce a far different effect. He spoke triumphantly of the impression he had produced on Mr. Oakdale, and assured me that we could not fail soon to discover the secrets of his story. I was persuaded that those secrets were fraught with evil and woe to me. Our conversation lasted till the breakfast-bell summoned us in, and nothing farther occurred at that time. After breakfast, according to the appointment, he went to his father, who had not made his appearance that morning. He remained with the Duke, it might be about an hour. I know not how it was that this incident should have in any degree interested me, but it did so, and I longed impatiently, and with some degree of fear, for his return. At last he came, and the moment I saw him I perceived he was no

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longer the same free, open-hearted companion to me that he had been. His countenance showed he had been told of something which had moved his wonder and sorrow. He, however, came towards me, and I advanced to meet him, but suddenly he turned round and ran away. All the remainder of the day he kept aloof from me; and I remarked in the evening, when, as usual, we were called in to the dessert, that he twice or thrice looked at Mr. Oakdale with a strange earnestness, and a shudder, as it were, of aversion. When we retired to our own room, he forgot himself for a moment, and in playfulness laid his hands upon my shoulders, as we were going along the gallery, as if with the intention to leap upon my back; but in the very act he halted, and, thoughtfully, yet with much kindness, said that he was going to his own bed-chamber to read, and immediately retired; I, too, went to mine, but neither to read nor to find repose.  

CHAP. VI. Next morning a letter was brought to me from Dr. Bosville, by a ­gentleman, who, as the Doctor informed me, was appointed to conduct me to Eton. Towards Dr. Bosville I had never felt any degree of attachment. His manners were naturally cold and reserved, and his professional duties had given him a habit of methodical austerity repulsive to youth. But the stream often runs pure and strong beneath the ice. His letter was full of parental tenderness, and contained compassionate expressions, which could only have been dictated by some knowledge of the evil impending in my fate. Among other regrets, he lamented that he had been obliged to part with me so prematurely and so suddenly;—a circumstance which led me to imagine that the unknown ruler of my destiny was moved to the order by something in the accident of my visit to B—— Castle, and the estrangement of Sydenham confirmed me in that opinion. The Duke kindly entreated my conductor to allow me to stay out the holydays, and urged him to remain with me; but his instructions were so peremptory, that I was not permitted to stop even another day. I do not recollect the name of that gentleman, nor is it of any consequence I should. He was a boisterous and offensive person, crimsoned in the face with irascibility and intemperance. He had been in the army, and was a major. On alighting at the gate of the College, an officer, belonging to a regiment of the Guards, then quartered in Windsor, came up and shook hands with him, and I gathered, with greedy ears, from their conversation, that it was at the request of an old General, a mutual friend of both, he had become, as he termed it, bear-leader, for the day, of me. Had the name of the General then been mentioned, or had I not been withheld by remorseless and incomprehensible Fate from asking it, what sorrow, what misery, what guilt, had been averted! But it comes of the structure of man to forget that the worm, he was created to be food to, may be of higher consequence in the scheme of the universe than he who hath proclaimed himself the paragon of animals, and the glory of the earth! In the dream of his imagined dignity, he looks for omens and prodigies to warn him of the woes which

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in this world he was born to suffer. Yet what are portents but the signs of things that have been—funereal pageantry! Nature and destiny execute their greatest purposes by invisible engines. The pestilence travels in darkness—wars are often begotten of the undetermined maladies of minions or of ministers. The element of fire is viewless in the combustible—a pebble hath turned the roaring waters of a mighty flood—Death is silent, and Omnipotence on all His universal thrones is alike unsearchable and unseen. How is it that we never think of applying this stupendous demonstration to the circumstances of man, constantly admonished as we are, that the turns of fortune are produced by trifles, whose seeming insignificance in occurrence alone causes them to be disregarded. The germ is implanted in the past—the rich soil of the cemetery of the past—and often slow is the growth of that tree which at last over­ shadows the present, and scatters its baleful seedlings far into the regions of hereafter.  

CHAP. VII. Upwards of six years had elapsed since I was consigned by Mrs. Ormond to the care of Dr. Bosville, and I was still as ignorant of the world as when I parted from her maternal bosom. Some of the jeal­ ousies and petty frauds of school-boys I had, in the meantime,—shall I say—acquired? No, I had but learnt that such things were.—In all that long meantime of more than six years, the remembrance of her kindness had continued, wrapped in many a fold of my softest feelings, and often in my ruminations have I longed to see her again, and wondered if I ever should. The Major, after introducing me to Doctor —— at Eton, to whose care I was particularly recommended, carried me to dine at an inn in Windsor. On reaching the house, he went into the coffee-room, and ordered dinner, and while it was preparing took me with him to walk on the terrace. The evening was cold and raw, a foggy and foul easterly wind blew in gusts, and filled the wide prospect with untimely obscurity. The sentinels stood shivering in their boxes, and we were fain to return earlier than the Major had intended. All the time from our departure in the morning from B—— Castle, he had but seldom spoken to me. He was evidently discontented with his office. It was a task which must have been forced upon him; for he grudged the performance as if it had been tainted with something of shame. Two or three times I was struck with his shyness, and particularly so by the emotion and the manner with which he shrunk back on observing a carriage passing across the bottom of the street as we returned from the Castle. He stopped suddenly, and with a rude expression and an angry snatch, seized me by the arm, and pulled me abruptly into a shop, where we remained several minutes in frivolous conversation with the young man who kept it. As we left the shop, he looked warily and anxiously around, and then hurried with precipitation towards the inn, bidding me in his roughest manner follow him quickly. I was doing so, when in turning the corner of the Town-hall, I happened to observe two ladies at the balcony windows of the inn. One of them was much younger than the

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other, and her air and dress were elegant and fashionable, but it was the elder that arrested my eyes, for I discovered in her my dear and excellent Mrs. Ormond. I knew her at once; she wore, as usual, a black lace-cap over one of white cambric; she had also on the same sort of black silk mittens I had been accustomed to see her wear, and she possessed the same pale and benign countenance. I stopped for a moment to look at her, in the hope she would notice and recollect me; but the Major, who had by this time entered the inn-door, turned round and chided me for lingering. The harshness of that man’s behaviour had wounded my morbid delicacy; and though I was burning with impatience to throw myself into the arms of my venerable friend, I had yet no power left to tell him what I wished, nor to do what I so earnestly desired!—I recollect it as an instance of his heartlessness, that instead of going with me to Eton, he ordered the porter of the inn to take me home, while he continued at his wine. In the morning I rose betimes, and hastened to the inn, in the hope of finding Mrs. Ormond still there,—but she was gone. She and the other lady had returned to London the preceding evening, and the Major had accompanied them in their carriage.

CHAP. VIII. Well do I remember with what feelings of disappointment and of grief, chastened with wonder, I returned to Eton. I could not but connect the appearance of Mrs. Ormond in Windsor, at that particular time, with some undivulged occurrence in my fate. Her acquaintance with the Major,—his anxiety to avoid observation,—the elegant unknown lady,—were all so many ingredients in the spell of mystery by which I was withheld from participating in the common sympathies and enjoyments of my age. But though these reflections saddened my spirit at the time, they yet generated a motive which gave new energy to my character. I was certain, by what I had observed, that I belonged to the upper ranks of society; and this notion, with the dim reminiscence of my childhood, lent a colouring of probability, to a suspicion which I began to entertain, that whatever of guilt or of grief was in the fortunes of my family had originated with my mother. During the quiet of the remaining holydays I did nothing but ruminate on this suspicion. Had I been asked, in the course of that time, whether I had noticed the appearance of Windsor Castle, I verily think I must have answered in the negative, so entirely were my thoughts engrossed with my unhappy egoism. But as the other boys came back to College this dejection wore away, and I gradually became a very different creature to what I had ever before been. Without being less reserved than I was at Dr. Bosville’s, I entered into more fellowship with my companions, and, without having any desire to be more playful than when I was the shy and bashful orphan whom my schoolmates were wont to treat with so much gentleness, I became a bold and obstreperous adventurer. This was not altogether involuntary. I saw that I was now among youths by whom I might obtain some clue to lead me out of the labyrinth in which I was so bewildered; but days, and weeks, and months, and years, passed away, and I remained still unsatisfied. As I grew older my allowance from Dr. —— was gradually increased. I was always treated as an heir to fortune, and, when the vegetable period of life was over, I was restrained by no considerations of pecuniary prudence from participating in the dissipation of my companions.

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In this way time passed till I was about seventeen, when Dr. —— informed me, that he was instructed to send me to Oxford. The intelligence was received as good news and glad tidings. I felt that but one step more, and I should be in the world, free to act for myself, and free to embark in any enterprise by which I could hope to discover the secret so carefully and so intricately concealed. But my joy was somewhat chilled and shaded when the Doctor told me, that a gentleman was appointed to call for me at Eton, in order to carry me to Oxford. I recollected the Major; and the remembrance of his forbidding manners made me fear it might be him. I was, however, agreeably disappointed.  

CHAP. IX. It was the Rev. Mr. Alsager who came for me; and I soon discovered that he knew nothing whatever either of my previous history or of those occult circumstances in which I was so much interested. Through the medium of some friend he had been appointed to attend me, and, as his allowance was liberal, he treated me with indulgent consideration. More of me than my name he knew not; but, nevertheless, his mild and agreeable deportment soon made me regard him as a friend, and the wisdom of his gentle admonition was a rein and curb upon the extravagance of the career I was beginning at Eton. To the worth and virtues of this excellent man I am indebted beyond all computation. Whatever of approbation or of favour I afterwards acquired in the world I owe to his admirable discretion, and to the calm and beautiful address with which he won me from error, and taught me the way which leads to happiness and honor.—Alas! I had inherited an ancestral curse, and was not to be excepted from the avenging menace in the Decalogue. Soon after our arrival at Oxford, I met Sydenham in the street: he had just arrived, and was also entered a gentleman-commoner of the same college. We were both greatly delighted at seeing each other again, and for some time we could not sufficiently congratulate ourselves in being brought so happily together. But when I reminded him of the circumstances in which we had been separated, a cloud darkened his countenance, and from that moment I perceived that the effects of his father’s undivulged communication were still uneffaced. Often have I regarded it as not one of the least remarkable things in the troubled current of my life, that I never, by any chance, for so long a period, was animated with resolution enough to ask Sydenham what he had heard to make him regard me with so much more of pity than belongs to friendship. It was, however, so; and I am doomed to rue, for a few days more, the consequences of that strange diffidence which the early impressions of crime and of sorrow,—the crime and the sorrow of others,— had awakened or implanted in my bosom. But notwithstanding the unexplained reserve of Sydenham we

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continued always friends; it would be more correct, however, to say companions; for the withholding of that something by which I was to be so much affected, deprived our intimacy of all the cordiality and confidence which belongs to friendship, and in which we were respectively formed by nature to have indulged. The allowance from his father was as unbounded as the Duke’s affection; but, unfortunately, His Grace was irregular in his remittances, and I was often obliged to become Sydenham’s banker: this, too, had its effect in weakening the tie between us. He felt himself reduced below the level of a friend by accepting my assistance. I will not wrong my own nature to say that the granting of it either diminished my regard for him, or impaired the equality, I might even say the admiration, with which I never ceased to regard his many delightful and noble qualities. But every thing around me, and with which I became connected, was fated to partake of the disastrous taint of my inheritance. What nature seemed to have made on purpose to contribute to my happiness, was, by the impoisoned influence of parental sin, turned into a source of anguish and of mortification. The burning marl was prepared for the unblest foot; and it has been my doom to taste but of bitterness in that cup, wherein all which can gladden and embolden youth was mingled and administered by health and opulence.  

CHAP. X. In one of my occasional excursions with Sydenham to London, we happened to go to Drury-Lane theatre when Hamlet was performing. I had heard of Shakspeare, as most University-men commonly do. I was prepared to admire his genius, without having the most remote idea of his merits or of his power. I am not conscious of having read one line of his works, nor do I believe that I had either seen or desired to see before, any one of his plays in representation. But the opening of Hamlet is pitched to a key with which I was almost constantly in unison. Of the story I had never heard, though the name of the hero was as familiar to me as to most unbookish ­students. As the performance proceeded, I soon felt that the tale it told was shadowed in the conception I had formed of the circumstances of my own fortunes. The cunning of the scene at one time so overcame me, that I laid hold of Sydenham by the arm, and breathed with such trepidation, that he enquired in alarm if I was unwell. This was when the ghost related in what manner he had been murdered. From that moment I looked forward to see Hamlet in the character of an avenger,—terrific, magnificent, and resolved: but when I saw him so soon after become a puling and purposeless misanthrope, I was, for a time, discontented with the whole piece. There was, however, so much of philosophical ingenuity in the plot and stratagem of the players’ play, that my attention was again arrested, and I watched with an ardour and earnestness for the result, equal almost to what the Prince of Denmark himself might have felt. At the moment when Hamlet is satisfied of his uncle’s guilt, I started from my seat, and the first object that caught my eye was Mr. Oakdale in the adjoining box, startled by my emotion. He looked at me for an instant with the unrecognising eye of a stranger; he evidently did not then recollect me; but when I had resumed my seat, and he had looked again towards the stage for about the space of a minute, he suddenly threw his eyes towards me, as with apprehension and dread. My agitation at that moment was too great to give utterance to my feelings. I rose and hurried from the box, followed by Sydenham, who, alarmed at my extravagance, came with me

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out of the theatre. I said nothing. As we moved on, he often entreated me to tell him what was the matter; but there was a flashing of recollections and imaginations overwhelming my reason; and it was not until we were by ourselves, in a private parlour in one of the neighbouring taverns, that I was in any condition to hear or to answer his questions. I placed my elbows on the table, and clasped my temples in my hands, remaining in that position silent for some four or five minutes. “Now, Sydenham,” said I at last, “I can believe what I have heard of the genius of Shakspeare.” “Is that all?” said he with a smile, intended, doubtless, to allay the perturbation, which he ascribed to the poetry and the performance; and he added, “I never should have conceived, however, that any thing in so heavy a drama as Hamlet could have moved you to such a degree;” and then he began to descant as a critic on the talents of the author. What he said, or what he meant to have impressed me with, sounded in my ear unheeded, and I cried abruptly; “Cease, you know nothing of his genius: he has told me to-night what I had before but, as it were, dreamt of.” “Well! what has he told you?” “That my father has been murdered.” Sydenham grew pale, and lay back in his chair in astonishment. “Nay more,” cried I; “he has told me, that the crime was caused by my mother.” Sydenham trembled and rose from his seat, exclaiming, “Is this possible?” “Yes, and you have known it for years; and that Mr. Oakdale is the adulterous assassin!”

end of epoch ii.

EPOCH III. CHAP. I. When Sydenham came to me in the morning, I was calm and collected. “I am glad to see you in that state,” said he; “and I hope, before you take any resolution, you will return with me to Oxford. Many years have now elapsed since the event took place, and neither of us have any friend with whom we can consult on a subject of such delicacy.” “Rely upon it,” replied I, “this incident has not come to pass as a chance, but as a cause,—something will follow from it, or some other thing has happened with it that will speak as imperatively to me as the ghost did to Hamlet. These are the things which are not dreamt of in your philosophy; of such substance are the restless spirits that divulge guilt, and the unhouselled spectres that avenge crime. But what you say is just and wise.—Let us return to Oxford.” Little more passed at that time: I was too much occupied with my own cogitations to notice or to think of any other topic than the frightful and humiliating vision which, in a thousand shapes and horrors, filled the whole compass of my imagination. We arrived at our college, almost, I may say, without having exchanged a word; but on entering my room, I was surprised to see upon my table a note, of which the superscription was in an unknown hand. As I lifted it, glancing at the seal, I said to Sydenham, “Here is the principal to which the incident of last night was but the herald.” The note was from General Oglethorpe: it was brief, merely s­ tating, that he was unknown to me, but had business of such importance to communicate that he would wait in Oxford till I returned from ­London. At that juncture the General was announced, and I immediately went forward to receive him. His appearance was precise, erect, and professional; his com­plex­ ion bore the impress of foreign climates, and his thin hair, though covered with powder, was bleached by the influence of other changes

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than those of age. Sydenham was about to retire, which the General observing, requested him to remain; and turning to me, said, “Is this the young gentleman of whom I have heard as your particular friend?” I was struck with the espionage over me which this incidental expression revealed, and said coldly, “It is Mr. Sydenham.” “Then,” replied the General, “I have nothing to say here,” laying particular emphasis on the last word, “to which he may not be privy;” and again turning to me, he held out his hand, and with a slight accent of emotion, betraying the sensibility he endeavoured to restrain, he added, “Nephew.” In the surprise of the moment I retreated from him, but instantly recovering my self-possession, I bent forward and seized his profered hand between both of mine with feelings of which it were in vain to attempt any description. “This,” said the General, “is not a fit place to tell you my errand, or to explain the reasons which have occasioned me to make somewhat abruptly this sudden disclosure of our connexion; but the time was fast coming when it could no longer be delayed. I have therefore come to take you with me for a few days, and I have made arrangements with the Master for your absence. To you the journey cannot be unpleasant, for it is to carry you to a princely inheritance that has long been your own, and I expect you, with the least possible delay, to accompany me to Beechendale Hall.” I remembered the name; the place, and every object around it, had been engraved on my memory, and treasured in my breast, from the time I had resided there with Mrs. Ormond. Sydenham, too, was acquainted with the name, for I had often spoken of the place to him, and he was scarcely less surprised than I was myself. Nothing more particular then happened. The old General, who was exceedingly formal, but withal courteous, retired to the Star Inn, to give the necessary orders for our departure, whilst Sydenham remained with me in a state of amazement scarcely less superstitious, as it may be called, than my own.—He said little, but sometimes he lifted the letter and looked at it, and then walked across the room, and asked me, with a degree of earnest anxiety, how I felt.  

CHAP. II. The old General told his tale in that state of commanded sensi­bil­ ity with which a gentleman endeavours to possess himself, when ­convinced he cannot but produce irremediable affliction. His communication was indeed calculated to turn the May of hopeful feeling into the sere and yellow of withered disappointment. My mother’s father was his brother, and she was the sole heiress of her maternal ancestors, from whom she inherited the splendid domain of Beechendale, and whose surname I bore—my father was a young gentleman, richer in heraldry than possessions, with whom she accidentally had become acquainted. Her passion for him was rash and prodigal; even before she presented him with her hand, she made him master of all her inheritance, reserving for herself only a settlement comparatively inconsiderable. I was the sole offspring of their sudden fondness; but scarcely had I been brought into the world, when her fickle affections withdrew from the husband of her youthful devotion, and clung with the same warmth and recklessness to another object. I do not recollect whether General Oglethorpe said that Mr. Oakdale was the first minion of her infidelity; but from this topic I may retire: over the shame of a parent, filial reverence has ever been permitted to draw a veil. When my father discovered her intimacy with Mr. Oakdale, that hideous scene ensued, the remembrance of which still hovers in the dreamy reminiscences of my earliest childhood; but he was not killed, only wounded in the scuffle. Mr. Oakdale fled, and was not for years heard of—it was during that time he inhabited the widow’s cottage—my mother also made her escape to the continent. My father, under the influence of some relic of tenderness for the fond extravagance with which she had lavished her vast fortune upon himself, abstained from instituting any legal proceedings against her. “He was, indeed,” said the General, “a gentleman of singular delicacy; and though he recovered from his wound, he yet did not long survive the humiliation of dishonoured affection.” Immediately after the discovery, I was sent to my grandmother; but the event had broken her heart, for it was supposed that my father’s

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wounds were mortal, and he was her only child. On the death of that venerable lady, I was consigned to the care of Mrs. Ormond, who had been governess to my mother, and who had never ceased to deplore the errors of her beautiful and favourite pupil; and General Oglethorpe was appointed by my father the ­special guardian of my education. “I had thought,” said the General, that my niece would not interfere with an arrangement framed with so much kindness towards herself, nor, indeed, till long after your father’s death, did she make any attempt even to see you. It happened, however, that one day observing in the newspapers some account of the Christmas festivities at B***** castle, when Mr. Oakdale was there; and knowing, I do not well recollect how, that you were then also at the castle, a sudden instigation of shame and contrition made her, on the instant, order your removal to Eton. Except in that instance, I have never been obliged to exercise the authority with which I was invested; but a proceeding so peremptory on her part called for equal sternness on mine, and you have ever since been entirely under my controul.” From the manner in which my guardian thus expressed himself, I was led to imagine that it was he who had sent the coarse and unmannerly major to place me at Eton.—On such slender pivots as such imaginings do the influences of fortune often turn. The secret I had so long thirsted to know being at last disclosed, I enquired eagerly what had become of my mother; but the punctilious veteran refused to tell—he even exacted a promise that I should never seek to discover her. “She has dishonoured herself and us all,” said he proudly; “and it is charity, yea, affection, to regard her as dead.” A reason so imperative who could withstand? Yes; I was doomed to give the promise,—Oh, fatal, fatal pledge! But let my pen here pause,—let this trembling hand rest for a little while,—let me suspend the record of those things which have filled the untimely twilight of my brief, dull day, more full of terrors than all I dread to meet in the starless night which will so soon close around me, in the silent valley and shadow of death.  

CHAP. III. Beechendale-hall and park were among the finest in England, but the blood of my father was there in visible stains, and the effects of my mother’s guilt no less indelible, had touched every object with the corrosion of desertion and decay. When General Oglethorpe finished his story, and I had wiped away the tears, which would not be repressed, I rose and walked towards the door of the library in which we had been sitting. He followed me, holding his hat in his hand. We passed into the saloon in silence. I looked around for a moment on the gorgeous furniture, and my eye falling on the rich and curious table with the French clock, I became so agitated by the wild and hurried recollections which the sight recalled, that I could no longer master myself, but bursting into a paroxysm of inexpressible grief, exclaimed, “General, let this house be demolished; see the work properly done. It is but a monument of guilt, foul with my father’s blood! and fouler with my mother’s shame!” The tear stood upon the cheek of the honourable veteran, and without speaking he shook me cordially by the hand, as he covered his face with his hat. The conflict, however, was but for a moment; almost in the same instant he regained his self-possession, and returning back into the saloon, summoned a servant and ordered his carriage to be got immediately ready for our departure. “We shall go,” said he, “to your paternal inheritance. There you will be reminded of no such scenes of dishonour as have happened beneath these gaudy ceilings, and have sullied this splendour with the tarnish of guilt.” I followed him to the carriage without speaking, and the same evening we reached Throstle-grove, the antique gothic portal of which, the wide low hall, the beetling lintel of the huge chimney, adorned with the family escutcheon, and the parlour beyond with the portraits of knights and warriors in armour, revived all the slumbering recollections of the first adventures of my ill-starred mirthless childhood. It was a homely but ancestral mansion, full of a sober household dignity,—something of the good olden time every where bore testimony to the heartiness and good cheer of manorial hospitality, and a grave and motherly comfortableness reigned throughout: the old

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domestics, both in appearance and manners, were becoming to the dwelling. “This,” said I, as we entered the parlour, “this, General, shall be my home—the very air here is sweetened with the remembrance of indescribable kindness.—I feel, as it were, again on the soft lap of affection, and the fingers of venerable love wandering amidst the tangled curls of my infantine hair.” The excellent old man remained with me about a week, during which it was determined I should not return to Oxford, but, as soon as the requisite arrangements could be made, proceed to the continent for a year or two. These occupied several months. The chain and the fetter were, however, upon me, and despite of resolution and intent, I was dragged to my appointed doom. The coming shadows of inevitable misfortune had always indeed darkened and chilled my spirit, but it was not until left to decide for myself, that I felt how much I was entangled within the irresistible eddies of the stream of destiny, which, like the wide and shoreless Hellespont of the Atlantic, never knows a returning tide.

CHAP. IV. On the evening preceding my departure for Harwich, I ordered my groom to have the horses at the door by break of day; but when I rose in the morning, an unwonted depression, beyond the habitual heaviness which ever weighed upon my heart, made me linger and reluctant to depart, and yet the universal aspect of the heavens and the earth was bland and gracious, and the glorious harmonies of the morning and the spring, were eloquent with invocations to happiness and tranquility. As the horses were brought to the door, the sun rose over the woods and uplands—a few thin streaks of vapour floating high and beautiful in the great cupola of the world, seemed like praise em­­ bodied in incense ascending from the altars of early devotion—and the sadness of my spirit began to yield to the delicious influences of a scene so holy and so calm. Before mounting, I happened to look towards the wall which separated the lawn from the highway—a row of trees and shrubs screened its unsightly appearance, but here and there an opening disclosed a vista of the distant country, and in one of those openings, I observed something seemingly carried on the shoulders of four persons, whose heads only were visible.—It passed and was concealed by the trees, but it had seized my attention, and I followed it with my eye. When it came to the next opening I saw it plainer, and could trace the outlines of a human form covered with a sheet, which, in several places, was stained with blood. This sight darkened the splendour of the morning, and withered the beauty of the spring. I instantly lept into my saddle, and clapping spurs to my horse, was soon at a distance from the inauspicious omen. When I reached the first stage, where I intended to breakfast, I sent my servant forward to the village, but, on alighting, I found the house almost deserted; a little girl and the hostler, an old grey-headed man, were the only persons who made their appearance. Having given my horse to the latter, I desired the girl to get breakfast ready, but she replied it would be necessary to wait till her mistress or some of the other servants came back. “Where are they,” said I, “and when do you expect them?”

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“They are all gone to the village—every body is gone to the village. Are not you, too, Sir, going to the village?” “Yes, I am on my way, but I am going to a far distant country.” I know not how it was that I should have so expressed myself to one so young and simple, but my thoughts were adrift: I was scarcely aware of what I said. The child looked at me curiously, and I was struck with a remarkable momentary cast in her eyes when she replied as I paused: “You may go to the village, but you will find no one there who will help you forward to-day.” “Why,—what has happened in the village—why are all the people gone thither this morning?” “Have you not heard?” said she, in a low apprehensive whisper, looking timidly around, and drawing closer towards me. I yielded to the sympathy which her manifest dread and awe ­awakened—as she added, coming nearer and nearer—“They carried it past in the grey of the morning—we heard a noise, and looked out at the windows. The daylight had not begun to show itself, but it is the last quarter of the moon,—they say it betokens no good when such things chance in the wane of the moon,—and we saw it by her waning light.” “What did you see?” “There were four,” replied the little maiden, with the same emphatic and mystical look which had so particularly attracted my attention—“I saw them black in the moonshine. They were speaking, but I could not discern their voices—I heard only the murmuring of their tongues. As we were looking and listening, the wind came rustling from the trees and lifted aside the shroud.” She shuddered, and graspingly took me by the hand for a moment, unable to describe what the wind had revealed—and then she flew into the house, and bolting the door, would not be entreated to open it. I immediately called to the hostler to bring back my horse—and I resolved to ride at once to the village. It is singular I should never have thought of questioning the hostler; but the sight I had seen, the apparitional spectacle which the girl described in those few and feature-like touches, and above all, her own spiritual look, absorbed every other idea. It was not until I left the house more than a mile behind, that I began to marvel at my absence in not asking the hostler what had happened.  

CHAP. V. As I approached the village, I met several persons coming from it together, in very earnest and serious conversation. They all turned aside as I rode towards them, evidently shunning me, that they might not be disturbed—and their shyness made me pass them without speaking. About a furlong, perhaps less, from the entrance to the village, stands a single cottage of an antique and picturesque appearance. The chimnies are curiously formed, and seem as if they had once belonged to some great mansion, but the windows are small and grotesquely ornamented. It is placed within a little garden enclosed on three sides by an ancient wall, covered with fruit-trees and vines; in front of the house the wall, however, is less than half the height of the other three sides and the space between it and the house is planted with flowers, pansies, and hollyhocks of rank and luxurious vegetation. As I drew near towards it, a number of children and old women were standing along the outside of the dwarf wall, all looking anxiously and in silence at an aged crone who was busy washing several articles of apparel. An employment so ordinary, to occasion so much wonder and solemnity, made me halt and join them, and a strange phantasy took possession of my imagination; nor was it without reasonable cause, for as the old woman turned over the clothes, broad and gory stains were exposed to view, at the sight of which the spectators uttered a low involuntary murmur of horror. At that moment two men, carpenters by their appearance and the tools in their hands, came out of the house bringing with them one of those boards on which country people lay out their dead. As they turned aside to place the board against the wall, I saw it had been recently besmeared with blood, and wiped in so careless a manner, that the marks were still fresh and wet. I called to one of them and enquired what had happened, but he answered me with coarse and audacious ribaldry; a few words, however, satisfied, or rather appalled, my curiosity, for the story resembled the tragedy of my own home, and I turned from him with humiliation and disgust. But my mind was then elevated and solemn, and the indignation which his licentiousness provoked, filled me with

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the fanaticism of a sublime anticipation.—I felt, as it were, divine impulses, prompting me to holy enterprises—a light, a halo seemed to be shining around me. I was no less to myself, in the mood of that impassioned moment, than one chosen and fated to fulfil the part of an avenger.—Alas! I have been but predestined to rue and to endure the miseries of those crimes, which, in the holy enthusiasm of indignant resolution, I had fancied myself commissioned to weed from the world.—  

CHAP. VI. On reaching Harwich, I found the packet clear for sea, and my b­ aggage, which had been sent from Throstle-grove the evening before, was already on board. For a few minutes, after ascending on deck, the novelty of the scene, the bustle of the sailors, and the haste and hurry of departure, interested me; but the remembrance of the morning’s incidents soon regained their influence, and I retired to my cabin, abandoned to the bodements with which I had become infected. The Captain did not arrive on board till the tide began to ebb. It was then dark; the skies were clouded and lowering, but there was scarcely any wind, and we drifted more than a mile after weighing anchor, before the breeze had strength enough to make the ship answer to her rudder. During the din and activity of unmooring, I left my cabin, and, going upon the quarter-deck, leant against the railing, and allowed free scope to the melancholy humour which pervaded my comfortless reflections. As the vessel was kedged towards the harbour’s mouth, the sullen aspect of the heavens grew less menacing;—here and there a star glimmered out between the clouds;—the occasional breathings of the wind upon the sails, and the rippling of the sea against the side of the ship, took also something away from the monotony of night; but yet the change only served to awaken a more dismal train of associations. The slow funereal motion of the vessel felt as the sensible gliding away of time; the glimmering stars, peeping dimly, and but at intervals, from beyond the clouds, seemed imperfect witnesses, bearing testimony to the being of another world, and imagination, in the breathing airs and murmuring waters, found some remote accordance to the sighs and regrets heard around the bed of death. This dark and sad enthusiasm was deepened in its feelings by the dawning light of the rising moon; which gave to the obscure outline of the receding land an appearance as fearful and mysterious as if the pall of oblivion had been raised from the corpse of some stupendous Being. By the time we had reached the open sea, which a breadth and freedom in the motion of the ship soon announced, the moon was

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several degrees above the horizon: the clouds were become fleecy, and their seams, through which the stars glimmered, unfolded wide and beautiful vistas of the constellations, shining in the holiness of their sublime tranquillity. The ocean also was brightened; and the waves, as they moved gently before the breeze, showed their white manes to the moon. As the ship, with all her canvass spread, held her course before the wind, I retired from the railing against which I had been leaning, and stretched myself on the coops, with my hands beneath my head, looking to the star of the zenith, and giving to the fleecy clouds, as they changed their forms, the lineaments of shrouded spirits in solemn transit from the earth to another world. In this state of superstitious rumination, I beheld a small dense black cloud, on the verge of a hazy mass of vapour, which obscured, but did not entirely conceal the moon. I watched its progress, till I fancied I could discern the dim form of two vast hands bearing that sarcophagus-thing between them. My blood grew cold, and my flesh began to crawl on my bones as I continued to trace the development of that phenomenon; for at last I distinctly discovered the whole figure to which those mighty hands belonged, and beheld, as it were, the Ancient of days, garmented in shadows: his beard flowing over his breast, with the hoary affluence of priestly antiquity. Suddenly the casket he held appeared to open; in the same moment a deep, low whisper of dread and wonder rose from all on board the ship. I started up, shuddering with horror at the hideous portent; and the ship-dog, a black and sullen cur, came running coweringly and terrified towards me.—His eye glanced at the Omen, as if he said to me, “Look!” and, gazing in my face, he began to howl, with fearful pauses between, in which the seamen thought they heard voices afar off, answering from the clouds and the waves; and they boded no less than of shipwreck to themselves, and a watery winding-sheet to me.  

CHAP. VII. As the breeze freshened, the motion of the vessel increased, till it made the all-absorbing anguish of physical suffering overpower every faculty of my mind—but our passage to Hamburgh was speedy, and to the sailors pleasant. The passengers were landed in the afternoon of the following day. While I was standing on the wharf after having been put ashore, an English gentleman, with a young lady leaning on his arm, came towards me. Their appearance, and the familiarity between them, showed they were father and daughter. He possessed a noble military presence; and though somewhat faded from the grace of youth, was still in the lustre of manhood. But why speak of one so well known, and so universally admired for his personal elegance? It was General Purcel,—need I add, and poor Maria, who, as she hung upon his arm, smiled in his face with those eyes of loveliness that the epicure worm was so soon to make his prey, and those lips, more beautiful and richer with delight than the rosy morning.—Ha! to what am I betrayed? But unless I describe the feelings, unfelt before, with which I first beheld that exquisite creature—how shall the dreadful issues of our terrific tale be ever rightly understood! Yet, I will restrain my im­­passioned pen, for it were guilt now to speak of her as my heart prompts. The General, on approaching, addressed me with an agreeable urbanity. He was waiting with his family for a fair wind to pass over to England. “We have been several years,” said he, “on the continent; but my wife has at last become alarmed at the progress of the French, and the disorganization of society which ensues wherever they come.” He then enquired the latest news. I had nothing, however, particular to report; and, finally, while my servant was getting the baggage ashore, we walked saunteringly towards a carriage, in which Mrs. ­Purcel was sitting. I cannot describe the singular and delightful flutter into which I was thrown by the voice and smile of that lady. I felt as if I could have leaped into her arms, and fondled in her bosom. This ecstasy

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was, however, but for a moment, for Maria was at my elbow, and the matronly graces of her mother awakened but a momentary feeling of childish joy compared with the glowing sentiment which her smile and beauty had kindled in my bosom. Yes; the emblem of love is fire, and like the element it resembles, when once lighted in two pure and faithful hearts, the mingling flame, increasing as it burns, points to the divine source whence its bright and beauteous element first emanated. In the mean time, the wind, which had been for some time constantly increasing, began to blow with violence; the clouds thickened, and the squally showers came nearer and nearer. Mrs. Purcel, while alone in the carriage, had remarked the augmenting symptoms of a storm more than any of the party; and declared she would not embark until the weather assumed a more favourable aspect. After some little domestic altercation, the General consented to return with her to their hotel, which he recommended to me as the best in the city. I required, however, no recommendation to prefer it. It was the residence of Maria, and I was fascinated. General Purcel having placed his daughter in the carriage beside her mother, politely offered to walk with me, and we proceeded together by its side. During the course of our walk, and particularly after I had entered their apartment in the hotel, I was several times put out of countenance by the intense earnestness with which Mrs. Purcel occasionally looked at me. She was evidently of a gay disposition, and her manners were singularly elegant and playful; but now and then a shade overcast the brightness of her countenance, and she appeared at times uneasy, impatient, and altogether strangely affected towards me.—I did not, however, much remark this at the time, for Maria was present, and my whole soul was occupied with her. Having continued with them longer than good manners would have allowed, I thanked the General for his attention and retired. Scarcely, however, had I quitted their apartment, when I felt myself embarrassed by having neglected to inform them of my name,—if neglect it can be called,—which was the effect of the insurmountable backwardness I ever felt in announcing myself to strangers, lest the history of my mother’s errors should be known to them, and thereby recalled to mind.—Still, in the midst of the irksome reflections with which I was affected, I enjoyed moments of a fluttering and unspeakable pleasure. The image of Maria was radiant in my thoughts and wishes, and hopes and anticipations were mingled with the fond contemplation of so delightful a vision.—There was also a charm in

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the impression I had received of her mother, that saddened while it soothed me, as the moonlight sheds melancholy in the calm of the summer night, when it lightens the silent shores, and silvers the expanse of the waveless sea.—But the spell of her mother’s influence soon passed, and Maria alone dazzled my imagination.  

CHAP. VIII. Surely it is the very error of our nature, a fantasy of human pride, to suppose that man can be wisely ruled by his reason. Are not all our sympathies and antipathies but the instructions of instinct—the guide which we receive direct, original, and uncorrupted from Heaven? It may be, that we cannot, like choughs and ravens, and the other irrational and babbling oracles of change—being so removed by habit from the pristine condition of natural feeling—predict from our own immediate sensations, the coming of floods and of thunder-storms, nor scent, like the watch-dog, the smell of death, before the purple spot or the glittering eye have given sign of the fatal infection; but have we not an inward sense that is often gladdened and saddened by influences from futurity, as the strings of the harp are prophetical of the mood and aspect of to-morrow? Shakspeare has exquisitely described his belief in this philosophy:

“The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, And by his hollow whistling in the leaves Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day.”

And I believe myself to be possessed of the faculty whose power consists of this hereafter sort of discernment;—Sydenham used to call it my genius. And what is genius, but a sort of something which distinguishes one mind from another, as the differences of figure and feature, mien and complexion, individualise the persons of different men?—We all hear, and see, and taste, and feel, and smell alike, though some have a keener relish of the enjoyments of one sense than those of another. Some are delighted by the ear with melodious sounds—others by the eye with well ordered forms, and the musical distribution of colours: of such are those artists who address themselves to the imagination. The epicure has his paradise in the palate; the voluptuary in his exquisite touch; and I have sometimes thought that the faculty of the poet was liveliest in his smell; for no other revels so luxuriously in the reveries and ruminations of the aromatic summer, nor finds

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in the perfume of leaves and flowers such delicious reminiscences of wisdom and beauty. Despite, then, of all controversy and meta­physics, it may be said, as the senses are the gates of the mind, that genius sits as warder at that which is best constructed to give entrance, or, perhaps, that which the circumstances of fortune have made the most frequented—quickness of sense, or a habit of observation. But whether that melancholy foreknowledge, with which I was so often depressed, came of endowment or of custom, it would be thriftless to investigate: for, as an old musician once told me, such things are too shrewd and subtle ever to be tested by philosophy. He was a German by birth, and came to Oxford to teach the flute. I was one of his pupils; but soon discovering that he was curiously versed in a peculiar experience, I took lessons from him in a study more congenial to my disposition than even music. He had been bred up from his childhood in the band of a regiment, and yet, such was the dominion which his genius had over him, such his fascination to harmonious sounds, that he remained as simple in his morals and imaginations as the shepherd-boy when he tries his first oaten-pipe, alone on the hills, in the calm of a sunny May morning. “Is not the sense I have of the speech which is in melody,” I have often heard him say, “a gift from Heaven? Think you it was given to delight but idle ears?— That would be to say Providence makes fiddle-­ strings.—No: there is much prophecy, in all the sounds of nature, speaking to our instinct; but the use of instinct we have lost, and therefore do not understand them. Yes: by the virtue of the oracle in mine ear I have discovered many things that are among the laws and regularities of nature. Those persons, for example, who particularly delight in the delicacies of chromatic melodies, modulated on a flat key, whether they be composers, performers, or listeners, are seldom long-lived. For the most part they die before their forty-second year, though a few, by reason of more strength, do sometimes reach to forty-nine. Such truths cannot be put into the crucibles of philosophy.”—And then he would reckon on his fingers innumerable instances of musicians of that delicate order who died in their youth; adding, “And have I not the witness I most believe in mine own self? I can tell by the key to which the rising corn rustles in the winds of spring, whether the harvest will be plenteous or niggardly; for the world is but a band of instruments that were all once tuned to the same pitch, the celestial key to which the innocent angels tune their harps.—Whenever, therefore, there is any lack of concord with that which was the universal key, expectation will be disappointed, and the harmony of nature vext

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with some deficiency. In this lieth the mystery of fortune. Those who, by their vigour and intelligence, should be prosperous in health and in worldly circumstances, and yet are always otherwise, are ever sensible of some discord in the diapason of themselves, which mars the effect of their best endeavours in performance.” One night as I was returning home I met this curious hypothetist in the street, and bantered him on his being abroad at so late an hour. “Speak not so,” said he, very seriously, “for I am going to die; I have had my warning. As I stood on the bridge, listening to the tongues which the winds give to the leaves of the trees in the neighbouring gardens, making them all to sing like the little cherubim, I heard a requiem for one that is doomed on the morrow to die.” I attempted to speak lightly of his superstition, though his accent curdled my veins; but he added: “And when their hymn was sung, I heard the soft low voice of a willow tree, singing an old ditty,—one with which my mother long, long ago, often lulled me to sleep. By the music of the requiem, and the pity which was in that melody, I know when I next shall fall asleep, I am never to awaken again.” With these words he left me, and in the morning he was found dead of apoplexy. Who, therefore, shall venture to say, that what the German enthusiast called his gift, his instinct, or his genius, was not some incommunicable faculty which made his spirit as different from that of any other man’s, as he was in his person distinguishable from every individual of the universal race?—He had faith, however, in the warning of his fate. I have had but a feeling of the import that was ever in the bodements of mine; and by working against it with the traditionary fallacies of reason, I have become—let my story tell what.  

CHAP. IX. In the course of the evening, after leaving the Purcels, I walked at random through the city. I had no object in view; curiosity was asleep: the sense of Maria’s beauty alone was glowing on my heart, but with something more of sadness than of delight. She seemed to me a being of too fine an element to be able to withstand the coarse elbowing and pressure of the rude and jostling world; and love was almost refined into compassion, as I thought of that exquisite delicacy, so like the vestment in which the poet sees the benign cherub Innocence looking at helpless Infancy, as he lies ­smiling in his sleep, with the remembrance of some joy which the newly embodied spirit still retains of its primitive purity—a remembrance so soon to be lost amidst the ails and cares of its incorporation with the dross of mortality. In that tremulous condition of admiration and tenderness, I continued my aimless sauntering, I know not how long. The sound of an organ, as I happened to pass the open door of a church, first dissolved my reverie. I listened for a moment, and then went in. It was an old edifice of spacious dimensions, a creation of the ­gorgeous pageantries of Popery; but the apostolical agency of the Reformation had ravished the shrines. The austere reason of Martin Luther had substituted the homely benches of polemical attention for the thrones and stalls of sacerdotal pomp, and the altars and imageries of sensual contemplation. The aspect was ancient, not ruinous: a faded magnificence, still venerable, reminded me of the splendour which had been extinguished; and a sober twilight bespoke the musings of a more sublime philosophy than those of the faith which is cheered by the flickering of tapers and nourished by the odour of incense. I sat down on a rush-bottomed chair under the organ-loft. I heard the sound of several voices speaking softly and in whispers around the instrument. The organist, who had been rehearsing the symphony to an anthem, soon after paused. There was nothing in his execution, nor in the subject, to arrest attention; but still the genius of the place rendered the performance profoundly solemn, and I felt that he would have deepened my enjoyment had he continued to play. A considerable interval of silence and of whispering however ensued, and I rose;

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when, suddenly, as I was on the point of quitting the church, the organ was awakened with a touch of such enchanting power, that it made me thrill in every fibre, and after a light, but fanciful, prelude, the new performer began an air which came upon me with a delicious and magical influence.—A thousand beautiful phantoms of smiles beamed upon me, the pressure of delightful caresses fondly embraced me, and my heart was, as it were, filled with the indescribable laughter of titillation and ecstasy. Surely, said I to myself, I have heard that air before; and while I tried to recollect when and where, the musician changed the tune, and played another, which brought the saloon of Beechendale-Hall, with all its crimson grandeur, the talismanic table, and the mystical French clock, as plainly around me as if I had been seated on the carpet, ­playing with an orange, in the wonderment of childhood. I continued musing and marvelling at so singular a power, in melodies which were really deserving of no particular attention, till I was roused by the hand of a stranger on my shoulder. It was General Purcel, who, in consequence of his lady complaining of a slight indisposition, had strolled out with Maria, and had, like myself, accidentally entered the church. Yes; it was her gentle fingers, by which those old and simple airs were summoned from the organ, endowed with such metaphysical power as to charm back the forgotten feelings and emotions of my fondled and happy infancy.—Alas, alas, I ascribed to the particular interest with which she had inspired me an influence that belonged only to the notes she had so exquisitely played;—a ruder touch and a meaner hand would, perhaps, have made the same stops discourse altogether as persuasively.

end of epoch iii.

EPOCH IV. CHAP. I. It was a beautiful idea of the little boy, and full of poetry too, who, when asked what the mind was, replied, that it must be like a blind child, for its eyes look inwardly. “We take no note of time,” says one of the poets, and it is true; for days, and weeks, and months, and years, pass away, and if they press not the memory with events, have they not, indeed, been as nothing? Verily, doth not all the remembrance we retain of what has chanced, depend on something in the accident, rather than in aught connected with the shadows of the dial-plate? So has it been with —— . I have not been in fault, and will not say the wretch, but only the wretched victim of an inherited penalty. On the second day after I landed at Hamburgh, the Purcels em­­ barked for home. According to an inspection of my rent-roll, made on my return to England, when I met them again, I must have been at least four years separated from Maria, and yet so constantly, and so lovely was her image all the while, beaming, smiling, and blushing, and such a claimant on affection, tenderness, and admiration before me, that when I saw her again, I might have declared with unimpeachable sincerity, we had never from the moment of our first meeting been for a moment apart. Sometimes, indeed, the treasuries of S­ witzerland and Italy might almost be said to have bribed me to forget her; but it was to such forgetfulness as one has of the glorious sun, when looking at a painted window, enriched with stories, and portraits of kings and famous men, the magnificence of great edifices, and scenes of mountain-­landscapes, mitigating, but deriving all the charm of its interest from his beams. I found some grace and brightness of her every where. But, do I still dream? Have I not been awakened? Is all this desolated world, this blasted heath, on which I am doomed to perish, and all the alarm of fire and of blood by which I was so roused, but things of the reasonless nightmare? Oh my heart! my heart!

CHAP. II. In the midst of that trance of enchantment when all was Maria, and whatever was either good, or fair, or beautiful, reminded me of some quality that in her was more excellent, a momentary dread often overcame me, and I wished that I could love her less or be sure that she might be mine. Still these causeless cares were soon mastered, for as such they seemed at the time. I regarded them as the envious suggestions of some evil genius: alas! were they not the dismal intimations of my own guardian angel, in his endeavours to quench that forbidden and unholy fire which I thought so pure—“as genial as the light of heaven?” From the first time on which Mrs. Purcel observed my attentions to Maria, her behaviour towards me underwent an embarrassing change. Naturally gay, and for her years full of grace and playfulness, she became thoughtful, and her eyes were often fixed upon me with a pathetic earnestness, and something like solicitation, as if she beseeched my compassion. I remarked this unaccountable mystery in her manner, and always particularly when I happened in a morning visit to find her alone; often then in conversation her voice would falter while she was addressing me, and she once remarked with a sigh, that surely I had few friends, and wondered at the circumstance, considering my fortune,—all indicating desire to obtain my confidence. Many such similar things often escaped from her. But when the General or Maria were present she put on a resolution of gaiety, and I could not disguise from myself that she was a woman of consummate art and address. On one occasion, as we were standing together at a window in the drawing-room, she laid her hand fondly and familiarly on my shoulder. I started at the touch, and she instantly rushed from the room in tears. Could I doubt she regarded me with no common affection? But even this impassioned extravagance was lost in the a­ ll-absorbing influence of Maria, who happened immediately after to come from an adjoining apartment. In the evening, when I was reading in my lodgings, for this took place in London, the recollection of it suddenly recurred upon me, and I began to ponder on the inconvenience, as I then but thought

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it, of having interested the mother so much in my favour. I laughed at what I was disposed to regard as an awkward dilemma.—In that moment a knocking at the door roused me from my reverie, and Mrs. Purcel was herself announced.  

CHAP. III. Her eyes were sparkling with a wild and insane brilliancy, and the moment the door was shut she cried,— “If General Purcel will not forbid your visits, I will. I have come to do so: I can endure them no longer—wretches—” In saying these words, her articulation became choked with passion, and she sunk upon a sofa, overwhelmed with agitation. I was myself for the space of several minutes unable to speak: I stood beside her: when I recovered sufficient composure, I entreated her to moderate her displeasure. “Displeasure!” said she, with an accent of Siddonian pathos, and looked at me with an expression which could never be forgotten, while she snatched my hand, and bathed it with tears. “Merciful heaven, Madam!” I exclaimed, equivocating with myself; “what does all this mean? Am I not in birth and fortune the equal of your daughter?” “O yes, O yes,” was her wild reply; and she added “too much her equal. Oh, miserable me! and you love her too well.” “Why do you say so?” cried I, alarmed and amazed; “such a declaration becomes not a mother and a wife.” “A mother! a wife!—if you could imagine the scorpions which these words exasperate here;” and she smote her heart as she rose from the sofa, and walked hurriedly across the room, tossing her arms aloft, an appalling spectacle of frenzy and despair. In this terrific state of perturbation she continued for some time. I was overwhelmed with amazement, and stood like a statue. Suddenly she appeared to subdue her emotion, and came towards me with an air of resolute calmness, intending to address me; but in the same moment she burst into such a frantic fit of hysterical laughter, that I became alarmed, and rushed towards the door to call for assistance, believing she was indeed mad. She observed my intention, and with a grasp as dreadful and effective as a fiat, she seized me by the arm. “Hear me,” she exclaimed; “hear me, oh, Henry, Henry!” I shuddered at being so familiarly and so tenderly addressed; but I replied somewhat more self-possessed than I had hitherto been, “Madam, I can be at no loss to understand the cause of this vehemence.”

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The flash of her eyes withered me for a moment: I paused while she replied: — “No, no; you do not, you cannot understand it. Sit down on the sofa, sit beside me: I have worked myself to this, and it shall now be done.” In saying these words, she bent her head upon my shoulder, and wept bitterly. At that moment the sound of a loud knocking reminded me that Sydenham was then to call. “Is it for you?” said she in alarm; and scarcely had I answered in the affirmative, when she darted out of the room and ran up the second flight of stairs. In the same moment the voice of her husband, at the hall-door, enquiring if I was at home, overwhelmed me, if possible, with still greater consternation. His accent was precise and emphatic; his tread on the stairs, as he ascended, sounded heavily; and when he entered the room, his face was pale, and his dark eyes vividly fierce.  

CHAP. IV. “Is Mrs. Purcel here?” said he, as he approached towards the table on which lay the book I had been reading when she came in. His tone was arrogant, and I could not brook the menace of the aspect with which it was delivered. “Is she?” was all the answer I gave him: at the same moment I walked towards the fire, and stood on the hearth-rug, eying him, I must however say, with feelings more defensive and compassionate than those with which he appeared to be animated. Somewhat surprised by the manner with which I regarded him, he paused and looked around much perplexed. “General Purcel,” said I, faintly, “I am at no loss to discover the cause of this singular visit. My devotion to your daughter is not acceptable to her mother, nor to you: I think you cannot be offended if I enquire the cause on your part.” “On mine there is none,” he replied, in a calmer voice; “but Mrs. Purcel, who has always been a woman of uncontrollable caprice, has fallen into frenzy on the subject; and though I am well aware Maria can hardly hope for a more advantageous match, yet her mother is so vehemently opposed to your attachment, which we have both long remarked, that she will listen to no argument on the subject. She insisted to-night in such a manner I should forbid you my house, that I almost suspect she has herself——” He hesitated, and then after a moment’s pause added;—“But it is impossible that the interest you appear to feel for Maria can be a disguise to conceal—” He paused again, and I replied, “General Purcel, I will not affect to misunderstand you; but I am a man of honour, and a word may appease all suspicions. Will you give me Maria?” “It must then be without her mother’s consent.” “With yours I shall be satisfied, if Maria will.” “It must then be managed secretly; for Mrs. Purcel, when once her feelings or her passions are engaged, though in her milder moments seemingly of a far different order of temper, is deaf to reason, and blind to danger; nothing can repress her vehemence nor rule her wilfulness; she either loves or hates you; whichever is the source of her o­ pposition,

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is equally beyond reason.” “But,” said I, “that can be only while the feeling lasts.” “Till it is gratified,” was his solemn and emphatic reply. “Then, if to expect any mitigation of her opposition be so hopeless, and you are willing, may I presume to ask the hand of Maria?” “You have her heart, I think, and you have my consent; but be wary, and let me be no more seen in it than is absolutely necessary;” and he smiled, as he added, “such things will happen in the best regulated families.” At that moment I heard a rustling on the landing-place, and expected to see Mrs. Purcel burst into the room; but she descended in the dark, and escaped from the house. It is not required of me to mention what farther passed with the General, and I dare no longer trust my pen with any reflections. Facts are all I may now venture to record.—The fetters of perdition were rivetted; the spells that were to burst in horror had taken effect—the victims were now fastened to the stake—but they had no sense of their condition; they were happy in a flowery, an arborous Sicilian garden: the volcano was below, and the giant earthquake only asleep.  

CHAP. V. I have remarked in my own experience two kinds of somnambular perception; the one, ordinary and common to all sorts of minds, but the other is strange, inscrutable, and prophetical; of rare occurrence even among those who are saddened with the melancholy endowment. The same thing has, I imagine, been often observed before, and been distinguished by thoughtful men with the discriminative epithets of dreams and visions. The former, as I think, consist of the involuntary remembrance and association of impressions which have been made on the senses, and are but the mere metaphorical clothing of unregulated reflection; the latter are apocalyptical admonitions from heaven,—and of this kind was the omen of my sleep in that fatal night. I had a vision of an ancient church: banners and carved stalls, and stately tombs, and long avenues of columns, stained with the many-­coloured dim religious light of painted windows, were around me. I stood before the altar, with Maria as my bride: her father was there, and the priest was reading the service. I had the ring ready, when, ­suddenly, in the place of Maria, I beheld her mother; still the ­ceremony proceeded as if there had been no change, but when the visionary bride raised her hand to receive the ring, the beauty of it became dust, and she offered but the cany fingers of a skeleton. Although fate was in the revelation and in the tumultuous feelings with which I awoke, I yet soon reasoned myself into a calm interpretation of the omen. The unequivocal affection Mrs. Purcel had shown for me explained the source of the imagining which brought her to mar the marriage, and the vision then appeared but the drowsy reminiscence of the scenes of the evening. Still, however, that mouldering mummy hand was ever before me, suggesting the dread of some hideous combination of unmixable and forbidden things. Weddings and funerals ­mingled together, and banquets at which the dead sat in their cerements. Nevertheless, in the morning I sent for Sydenham; and having informed him of what had passed, he undertook to make the necessary arrangements for the completion of my happiness:—happiness! and in the evening I wrote to General Oglethorp, to tell him of my

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choice. By this time he was become very aged and infirm: he resided constantly at Bath, and seldom went abroad; but we frequently corresponded; and although I had not before told him of my attachment to Maria Purcel, he was yet aware of my intention to marry, and that I had selected my partner.  

CHAP. VI. It was not thought necessary that the preparations for the wedding should be of any particular splendour: on the contrary, it was determined that as soon as the ceremony was over, we should proceed on a tour to the Highlands of Scotland. All that was deemed requisite Sydenham undertook to arrange; and in consequence of the impassioned opposition of Mrs. Purcel, it was agreed that the General, on the pretext of showing Maria the curiosities of the Tower, should bring her to a church in the city, where the service might be performed, without the hazard of interruption from her mother; for some extra­ ordinary violence, in the event of discovery, was apprehended from her. It was necessary, however, that proper settlements should be prepared in the mean time; and, accordingly, as the lawyers required three days to make up the writings, that interval was allowed to them; but they obtained more than a week by an event signal and appalling. Instead of receiving an answer from General Oglethorp by return of the post, he came himself from Bath, and suddenly entered my room while Sydenham was with me. I rose to receive him with feelings of the liveliest delight. To see him in town, on the occasion, was far more than I had ventured to expect, considering his infirmities and the length of the journey. But in an instant the joy was extinguished; for, on offering me his hand, he uttered a wild and feeble shriek, and sunk at my feet in speechless and powerless paralysis. I will not dwell on the scene. In the course of the same day he died. Thus, as it appeared, was the frightful vision which had so scared my sleep awfully realised, and the preparations for a wedding turned indeed into those for a funeral. But though the event was in itself so well calculated to fill my bosom with solemnity and sorrow, it had yet a far other effect. I was, as it were, lightened and lifted out of my accustomed superstitious apprehensions, and I felt eager and impatient of any occurrence which impeded the consummation of my fate. Before the excellent old man was committed to the earth, Sydenham procured the license; and the day of the entombment was appointed for the joyous celebration of my wedding.

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I shrink and I shudder when I now recall to mind the infatuation that made me join things which nature has so impressively placed asunder. Sydenham urged me to pause,—to sacrifice to decorum; but his argument and eloquence were unavailing. General Purcel, too, entreated me to let but a week pass over. I was, however, obstinate; and he brought me letters from Maria, all asking delay; but I regarded them as the suggestions of his own weakness. The morning and the hour being in consequence of my inflexible determination so fixed, and General Purcel having agreed to attend the funeral, it was resolved that the marriage-ceremony, instead of taking place as previously arranged, should be performed in ­Westminster-Abbey, where the remains of my uncle were to be laid, and immediately after the burial. That such an unnatural mixture of irreconcilable rites should ever have been consented to by a creature so full of tenderness and of such unparalleled delicacy as Maria, is not the least wonder in our dismal story; but she was fastened to the same chain by which I was drawn on. It was thought by us that the horrible stratagem of joining the funeral and the wedding together would never be suspected by Mrs. Purcel.  

CHAP. VII. The funeral procession moved towards the Abbey as the clock was striking seven:—the service was read and the burial completed. The friends of my uncle who had come to pay the last tribute of their regard had retired, and General Purcel and myself also left the church; but instead of going back to the coach which had brought us, we walked into the cloisters. Sydenham was not at the funeral. Maria with a young friend and her maid were under his charge in a house in Abingdon-Street; and as soon as the hearse and the remains of the pageantry left the Abbey, they entered the church by Poets’ Corner. Except the clergyman, and the servants of the Cathedral, there were no spectators.—By some inexplicable influence, however, my valet, of his own accord, remained at the door to prevent interruption, and the ceremony proceeded; but just in the moment when I was in the act of putting on the ring, he came rushing towards us with such an expression of consternation in his countenance, that I was startled and alarmed before he had power to tell his fear. In the same moment Maria screamed, for her mother entered the church, pale, dishevelled, and frantic, crying, “I forbid the bands—brother and sister—brother and sister!” I heard no more:—the vast edifice reeled, as it were, around me, and the pillars and monuments seemed as if they were tumbling upon my head; and then there is a hiatus in my remembrance, a chasm in my life. When I recovered from the shock, under which I had fallen senseless on the pavement, I found myself at home in my own chamber, and Sydenham standing mournfully at my bed-side.—I asked no ­questions, but pressed his hand. “The carriage,” said he, “is at the door, and I will go with you.” I made no answer, but rose, for I had not been undressed, and followed him to the carriage. Ten years have passed since that dreadful morning, and I have never opened my lips to enquire the issues of the event; but one day, about two years ago, in visiting the English cemetery at Lisbon, I saw on a marble slab, which the weather or accident had already partly defaced, the epitaph of Maria. The remainder of my own story is but

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a tissue of aimless and objectless wanderings and moody meditations, under the anguish of the inherited curse.—But all will soon be over: —a tedious hectic that has long been consuming me, reluctantly and slowly, hath at last, within these few days, so augmented its fires, that I am conscious, from a sentiment within, I cannot survive another month; I have, indeed, had my warning. Twice hath a sound like the voice of my sister startled my unrefreshing sleep: when it rouses me for the third time, then I shall awake to die.

 

finis.

POSTSCRIPT. The original letters from which the foregoing narrative has been extracted, rather than compiled, were addressed to the late Sir George Shelbrooke, K.C.B., and extended nearly to the number of a hundred. About ten years ago they were given to a relation of the editor, for the purpose of being published entire; but it was then thought that the recollection of the principal incident was still too fresh in the minds of many persons of quality to justify such a measure, especially as they contained observations calculated to wound the feelings of an amiable family. After the death of Sir George, the manuscripts were allowed to remain with the gentleman in whose hands they had been left, by that excellent man and distinguished officer, till the beginning of last year, when he delivered them to the editor, expressing at the same time a wish, as his own infirm health prevented him from engaging in the arduous task of superintending the publication, that he would adopt some means to lay before the world, a moral lesson so impressive in itself and so instructive by its consequences. This led to a correspondence with Mr. Blackwood, who, even without seeing the papers, declared himself to be so affected by the story, that he would willingly publish the whole series in his Magazine. Conduct so liberal commanded equal confidence, and the letters were accordingly sent to Edinburgh; but, on submitting them to Mr. North, his confidential adviser in literary matters, that eminent scholar made some objection to certain personal strictures in them, as rendering many of the letters unfit for their miscellany, and in consequence the design of an entire publication was a second time abandoned. Mr. Blackwood, however, suggested, that by omitting minute details and reflections on individuals, the letters would still afford materials, from which an interesting story might be constructed. This task the editor has accordingly endeavoured to perform, with as close an adherence to the original text, as the nature of the work would permit. But it is the public who will judge of the manner in which he has executed this difficult and delicate undertaking; and, when the distance of his residence from London is considered, he trusts, that the few errors of the press which may here and there be detected,

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­especially the unaccountable orthography of Magdeline for Magdalen, will not be objected as faults of a very offensive complexion. B. A. M. Castle-Bromage, 10th Jan. 1826.

EMENDATIONS The texts of Glenfell and Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore are based on the first and only published editions. They appeared in 1820 as volumes 1 and 3, respectively, of the Periodical Novelist or Circulating Library series (see the Introduction). The text of The Omen is based on the first and only edition published during Galt’s lifetime, dated 1825. No manuscripts are extant for any of these texts. There is no evidence that Galt corrected proofs of Glenfell and Andrew of Padua; he did correct proofs of The Omen, according to his correspondence with ­publishers William and Alexander Blackwood. The edition of The Omen in volume 4 of Blackwood’s Standard Novels (1842), edited by D. M. Moir, makes many small changes to punctuation and spelling and uses less capitalization than the original 1825 edition. None of these alterations affects the copy-text used for the present volume, since they occurred after Galt’s lifetime, but the 1842 edition is adopted as the authority for the only two emendations made in the present edition to the 1825 text of The Omen, which appear to be printer’s errors. The following list includes all the emendations made to the copytexts in the present edition. Obvious errors in printing are infrequent in Andrew of Padua and The Omen, but numerous in Glenfell, perhaps reflecting the haste with which the Periodical ­Novelist series was launched; these errors have been emended. However, ­spelling that departs from modern standard spelling, including variant spellings that appear equally often in the copy-text, has been retained; an example from Glenfell is “niece” and “neice” (an older Scottish spelling). Variable spellings of characters’ names, as well as original punctuation, are also retained. In particular, Mrs. Campbell Ardmore’s language in Glenfell has not been regularized. Galt registers her distinctive use of Scots and her idiosyncratic grammar in the written text, even when the difference cannot be heard; for example, only in Mrs. Campbell’s speeches is “its” written in place of “it’s.” In the list of emendations the reading of the present text is given first, by page and line ­number, followed by a square bracket and then the reading of the copy-text. Line numbering includes chapter and section headings and epigraphs.

298 8.36 9.12 13.40 21.3 22.6 22.14 26.3 27.12 29.1 30.16 31.35 42.6 47.15 47.20 53.14 55.31 64.13 68.15 69.5 69.9 70.18 71.21 76.8 78.11 83.7 92.33 93.6 95.11 95.36 98.11 98.31 99.21

emendations reckless] reekless falsehood] faslehood absurdities.”] absurdities. with its reward] with it reward Mary Darknish.”] Mary Darknish. “that I know] that I know supposition of a loom] supposition of of a loom of her ladyship] of her her ladyship “I never] I never exhausting. Besides] exhausting Besides lover. To do] lover To do some reluctance] sone reluctance Mary had been] Mary had had been “Mary] Mary “I would] I would neighbours’ misfortunes] neighbours misfortunes Saunders M‘Ghee] Saunders, M‘Ghee mien.] mien, renown,] renown. assembled.] assembled, town.] town, to Flora.] to Flora earnestly.] earnestly happiness.”] happiness. displeasure.] displeasure, emphasis,] emphasis. irradiated] irriadiated intimation] timation But yet] ‘But yet articles of] articles sf “What is the matter?” said Flora a little slyly.] “What is the matter,” said Flora a little slyly? Glenfell] Grenfell

emendations 102.37 105.8 105.19 107.6 107.14 109.28 110.6 110.26 110.30 111.41 112.14 114.7 114.23 115.1 115.9 115.12 115.17 115.30 117.4 117.6 117.28 118.2 120.19 121.5 121.19 123.6 126.12 127.6 128.31 128.35 129.3

299

my ancestors] my an-ancestors with] wth horses’ heads] horses heads “nor] nor resist.”] resist” ensue.] ensue, Mrs. Campbell’s] Mr. Campbell’s gentlewoman.] gentlewoman mother’s] her mothers’ continued Mr. Grant] con- Mr. Grant cough.] cough, dignity] dignignity situation] sitnation suppose.] suppose Glenfell] “Glenfell Campbell Ardmore] Campbell, Ardmore bankruptcy] bankruprcy the whole was,] the who le wa, beauty.] beauty, transgression] trangression Ruart.] Ruart wastes] wates (“Wastes” is a conjecture; “waters” would also be possible, but “wastes and woods” was a more common phrase at the time.) discomfiture.”] discomfiture,” talent.] talent.” Mrs. Campbell] Mrs, Campbell in the price] in he price Mrs. Ruart] Mrs Ruart Peggy Shapings] Peggy’s Shapings ends well] end’s well ensued.”] ensued. certainly] cer ainly

300 130.14 130.18 130.26 130.32 132.19 132.21 132.28 143.14 153.2 163.18 177.26 179.8 179.37–8 180.1 189.30 208.10 218.15 243.16 281.7

emendations George’s] Georges’ Leddy,] Leddy. respectfulness she] respectfulnesss he Macdonald.] Macdonald, Mrs. Campbell’s] Mr. Campbell’s Flora shed] Flora, shed forgotten] fotgotten tell!”] tell! positive] possitive Venice.] Venice ever since] eve since her.”] her.’ ” tired to-night] tired to night Faithful.] Faithful, abhorrence] abhorence precedent] pecedent servant.] servant.’ oscillates] oscilates (corrected as in 1842 edition) titillation] titulation (corrected as in 1842 edition)

END-OF-LINE HYPHENS Listed below are “hard” end-of-line hyphens, not produced accidentally by typesetting, but intended to be retained whatever the format in which the text is typeset and therefore to be retained also in making quotations. The entries are listed by page and line number. 7.7 James’s-square 7.9 well-known 49.2 now-a-days 55.34 self-possession 72.13 dress-maker 77.12 dress-maker 87.16 side-board 101.11 coach-office 104.13 good-humoured 112.12 well-filled 117.16 self-possession 129.14 dress-maker 143.18 coffee-house 143.26 coffee-house 154.3 passage-boat 177.7 coffee-houses 178.10 self-possession 179.37 to-night 227.15 night-mare 246.20 smooth-flowing 256.26 school-mates 278.22 fiddle-strings

EXPLANATORY NOTES T h ese notes identify Galt’s sources, quotations, proverbial phrases, and references to historical events and figures; they explain or trans­ late obscure, specialized, and foreign-language terms. References are to standard editions or to editions Galt would have known and used. When Galt’s quotations reproduce their sources accurately, the refer­ ence is given without comment; when there are differences, references include “see” or “compare.” Biblical references are to the King James Version. Plays by Shakespeare are cited without ­authorial ascription, and references are to The Norton Shakespeare, edited by S. ­Greenblatt et al., 3rd edn (New York: Norton, 2016). References to Milton’s Paradise Lost are to the Norton Critical Edition, ed. G. Teskey (New York: Norton, 2005). Where the notes cite other works by Galt, page ­numbers refer to the original editions: The Autobiography of John Galt, 2 vols (London: Cochrane and McCrone, 1833); The Life and Studies of Benjamin West, Esq., vol. 1 (London: Cadell and Davies, 1816); The Literary Life, and Miscellanies, of John Galt, 3 vols (Edinburgh: Blackwood and London: Cadell, 1834); The New British Theatre, 4 vols (London: Colburn, 1814–15); and Voyages and Travels, in the Years 1809, 1810, and 1811 (London: Cadell and Davies, 1812). The notes are indebted to standard works such as the online Oxford English Dictionary (OED) and the online Dictionary of the Scots Language (DSL). 2.1–2 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SERIES] refers to the monthly series ­entitled The Circulating Library or The Periodical Novelist (see the Intro­duction to the present edition). Glenfell, volume 1 of the three-volume series, is the only volume to contain this advertisement. 2.29–3.1 Rasselas, the Vicar of Wakefield, the Death of Abel, Paul and Virginia, and the Tales of Marmontel] Samuel Johnson, The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia (1759); Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield (1766); The Death of Abel, a translation of Salomon Gessner’s poem Der Tod Abels (1758); Paul and Virginia, a translation of Jacques-Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s novel Paul et Virginie (1788); and tales by eighteenth-century French encyclopédiste JeanFrançois Marmontel (1723–99).

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5 title page] The handwritten inscription is likely Galt’s, marking this copy of Glenfell as a gift to his mother shortly before his departure for Upper Canada. 5.7 “A plague on both your houses.”] Romeo and Juliet, III.i.104: by likening the Macdonald and Campbell clans to the feuding Montague and Capulet houses in Shakespeare’s play, this epigraph intensifies the irony of the novel’s subtitle. 6.22 little comedy of northern errors] echoes the title of Shake­ speare’s The Comedy of Errors – like Glenfell, a comedy of mistaken identities. “Northern” marks the distinctiveness of the Scottish setting. 6.30 Covenanters’ Close] Covenant Close was a private ­laneway sloping southward from Edinburgh’s High Street between Old ­Assembly Close and Burnet’s Close; the sign can still be seen above an archway on the High Street. This reference locates the writer of the preface in the Old Town of Edinburgh, in contrast to the New Town where much of the story is set, and in contrast to London, where Galt had his residence in December 1819. “Covenanters’ Close” appears again in Galt’s Annals of the Parish (1821) as the place where Reverend and Mrs. Balwhidder stay on a visit to Edinburgh. 7.5 epigraph] See Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock (1714), canto 1, line 2: “What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things” (ed. G. ­Tillotson [London: Routledge, 1989], p. 28). 7.7–8 St. James’s-square] formerly a residential area of Georgian townhouses in Edinburgh’s New Town, developed beginning in 1773 and demolished in the late 1960s. 7.11 “intellectual city”] Rather than a specific source, Galt’s quota­ tion marks indicate a widespread view of Edinburgh as a university town, a publishing centre, and an intellectual hub of the Scottish ­Enlightenment. 7.11 Register Office] Now called General Register House, this build­ ing designed by Robert Adam in the classical style and built 1774–88 was one of the early architectural achievements of the New Town. 7.13 “the Athens of the North”] This self-bestowed epithet alludes to Edinburgh’s reputation as an “intellectual city” and to its physical transformation, beginning in the late eighteenth century, through building projects that were inspired by classical architecture. 7.14–16 Loch Catherine … his poetical effusions] Loch Katrine in the Scottish Highlands is the setting of The Lady of the Lake (1810) by ­Walter Scott, the “mighty minstrel.”

explanatory notes

305

8.6–7 look at the lions of the place] see the sights. 8.12 caddies] A caddie is “a lad or man who waits about on the ­lookout for chance employment as a messenger” (OED 2a). 8.31–2 not only in George’s-street, but in both the old and new town] Edinburgh’s historical Old Town and especially the adjacent New Town, built as a residential district beginning in 1767, are the main settings of Glenfell. George’s-street (now George Street), named for George III, was designed as the principal street of the New Town. 9.2–4 epigraph] See A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I.i.132–4: “Ay me! For aught that I could ever read …” 9.6 Queen-street] a major New Town thoroughfare running parallel to George Street and named for Queen Charlotte, wife of George III. 9.17 mantua-maker] dressmaker. 9.18–19 Number of the Review] an issue of the Edinburgh Review, a widely read quarterly journal on socio-economic, cultural, and literary topics that was generally aligned with Whig political views. 9.32 general officer] “an officer above the rank of colonel” (OED general C2). 11.3 setting a stout heart to stey brae] “put (or set) a stout heart to a stey brae” is a Scottish proverb meaning to face with courage a steep climb or a hard task. 11.13 pelisse] “A woman's long cloak, with armhole slits and a s­ houlder cape or hood, often made of a rich fabric” (OED 3a). 12.2–5 epigraph] Hamlet, II.ii.86–9. 12.9 writer to the signet] solicitor, in the Scottish legal system. 12.26 young chief] The Laird of Glenfell, who is known in the novel by his clan name Glenfell, holds the status of chief or head of his clan. 14.11 he was again on stilts] he was using artificially elevated, bom­ bastic language. 14.33–4 like Leander in the Hellespont … object of his devotion] In Greek mythology, the youth Leander swam across the Hellespont (also called the Dardanelles), the strait separating Asia from Europe, to meet his lover Hero, a priestess of Aphrodite; he was guided by a lamp she lit in her tower every night. 16.2 epigraph] Othello, V.ii.45. 16.29–30 pearls beneath the tread of swine] See the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount: “Give not that which is holy unto the

306

explanatory notes

dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you” (Matthew 7:6). 16.31–2 this Number of the Review was written with malice ­propense] properly, malice prepense or malice that is premeditated and intentional. Although the Edinburgh Review could sometimes be harsh in its critique of contemporary literature, the issue that fits the story’s timeframe – no. 64, October 1819 – does not contain any obviously objectionable articles; instead, most of the 1819 volume concerns ­political economy, science, international affairs, and foreign (especially French) literature. The story’s allusions to the Edinburgh Review convey information about the progressive politics of the char­ acters who write for it (Glenfell, Macdonald Bencloo) and subscribe to it (Mrs. Campbell Ardmore and her cousin Rev. Bellwhidder), con­ trasted with the views of those who take umbrage at its liberal Whig agenda (Lady Glenfoik). 17.18–19 limbo of vanity] In Milton’s Paradise Lost (book 3, lines 444–97), the Limbo of Vanity or Paradise of Fools is the place beyond our solar system that is reserved for the foolish after their death. 17.22 occasional comets from beyond Aurora and the Ganges] Following the discoveries of eighteenth-century astronomer Edmond Halley, comets were known to appear with some regularity, but they were still “occasional” enough to be considered unsettling portents. Galt’s phrase may suggest that ominous comets appear in the east, the direction of the Ganges River in India and of Aurora, the Roman goddess of dawn. Since both aurora (polar lights) and the “celestial Ganges” have astronomical meanings, the phrase may also convey ­uncertainty about where in the heavens comets originate. 20.2–3 epigraph] See The Word of Honor, II.i, Galt’s free translation of Carlo Goldoni’s La gelosia di Lindoro (1764), published in Galt’s New British Theatre, I, p. 358. 20.23 Northern Comedy of Errors] see note to 6.22. 20.26–7 danced … at the assembly] Social evenings at the grand Assembly Rooms, opened in 1787 on George Street, were part of ­fashionable New Town life. 21.24 sarsnet] a fine, soft silk (more often “sarsenet” or “sarcenet”). 21.25 Conversaseony] a corruption of the Italian conversazione, an ­evening of conversation and entertainment in a private salon. 23.12–13 the advocate and the agent] that is, the two types of ­lawyers

explanatory notes

307

involved in the case: respectively, the barrister and the writer or ­solicitor (see note to 12.9). 24.2–3 epigraph] See Samuel Butler, Hudibras (1674–78), third part, canto 1, lines 839–40: “What Honours, or Estates of Peers / Could be preserv’d but by their Heirs?” (ed. J. Wilders [Oxford: Clarendon, 1967], p. 213). 24.13 selvege] the finished edge of a piece of woven cloth (also sel­ vage or selvedge): the first of many artificial subdivisions of the old blanket that is at issue in this tour de force of an endless, overblown legal case. 24.18–19 martyred King Charles] Charles I, the Stuart king of ­England, Scotland, and Ireland from 1625, was tried and executed for treason in 1649. 26.27–9 Court of Session … House of Peers] Decisions of the Court of Session, the highest civil court of Scotland, could in some cases be appealed to the British House of Lords (also called the House of Peers). 27.2 epigraph] See Macbeth, II.iii.69: “Ring the alarum bell!” 27.8 church in George’s-street] St. Andrew’s Church (now called St. Andrew’s and St. George’s West), opened in 1784 on the north side of George Street near St. Andrew Square, was built to serve the New Town. 27.25 modern Athenians] residents of Edinburgh; see note to 7.13. 27.31 larum] alarm, call to arms. 27.34–28.4 rising from the New Town … Salisbury Craigs] Galt’s hyperbolic representation of the effects of a New Town door-knocker gives the opportunity for a bird’s-eye view of the residential New Town in relation to the historic and topographical landmarks of Edinburgh. 29.3 speered] (Scots) asked. 30.2–3 epigraph] Byron, Don Juan, canto 1, stanza 82 (The Complete Poetical Works, ed. J. J. McGann, 5 vols [Oxford: Clarendon, 1980–86], V, p. 34). 30.4 Ardskeen] an invented place-name. 33.2 epigraph] Byron, Don Juan, canto 2, stanza 37 (The Complete Poetical Works, ed. J. J. McGann, 5 vols [Oxford: Clarendon, 1980–86], V, p. 100). 33.8 Inverary Castle] Built in the eighteenth century, Inveraray

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­ astle in Argyll is the seat of the Dukes of Argyll, the chiefs of the C Campbell clan. 33.21 faculty] “the members ... of the medical profession” (OED 10a). 36.2 epigraph] The Merchant of Venice, III.ii.313–14. 37.2 accommodation-bills] bills used to raise money on credit in a financial emergency. 37.25–6 the royal race of the Macdonalds, kings of the isles] The clan Donald or Macdonald claimed royal descent; from the thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries, its chief held the title “King of the Isles” or “Lord of the Isles.” 37.39 Dunalbin] a fictional West Highlands village with this name is the setting for Christian Isobel Johnstone’s novel Clan-Albin: A ­National Tale (1815). 38.5 Grosvenor-square] a fashionable address in the West End of Georgian London. 38.9–10 that fund which the Scottish clergy have provided for their widows] Established in 1744 and in existence until 1994, the “Churches and Universities (Scotland) Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund” was the first life insurance scheme designed using actuarial models. 38.29 “metal more attractive”] Hamlet, III.ii.100. 39.3 piquant naiveté] “lively candour,” a French expression in use in nineteenth-century English. 40.2–3 epigraph] from Sulieman: A Tragedy, IV.ii, an anonymous drama published in Galt’s New British Theatre, II, p. 49. 40.8 to make him a bankrupt] The subplot about Ruart’s bankruptcy draws on Galt’s own experience. A mercantile house in which he was a partner was declared bankrupt in April 1808; Galt had attended the meeting of creditors on 27 November 1807. 42.14 M‘Gregor’s hotel] Built 1807–18, the Queen’s Hotel on the north side of Glasgow’s central George Square was owned by James McGregor (or MacGregor) and was sometimes known as Mac­ Gregor’s Queen’s Hotel. 43.2 epigraph] Hamlet, I.ii.180. 43.9 Dumbreck’s hotel, in St. Andrew’s Square] a well-known ­hotel in one of the first parts of the New Town to be built in the late eighteenth century. 43.25 “displayed her wealth and liberality”] Edward Gibbon

explanatory notes

309

writes in volume 1, chapter 12 of The History of the Decline and Fall of the ­Roman Empire (1776) that “the Roman emperors displayed their wealth and liberality” with elaborately outfitted amphitheatres (3 vols, ed. D. Womersley [London: Penguin, 1994], I, p. 354). 44.1 Argyleshire] Argyllshire, the Highlands county on the west coast of Scotland where Mary Campbell pays family visits each ­summer, is the hereditary home of both the Campbell and the Macdonald clans. 44.1–2 a letter under a frank] Mrs. Campbell delays sending her ­letter until she can obtain an endorsement from someone with the parliamentary privilege of franking, which allows for postage-free ­delivery. 44.41–45.2 The German philosophers ... also in mind] It is not clear which “German philosophers” are meant, but Galt was persis­ tently intrigued by the idea that strong physical resemblance between individuals indicates their intellectual sympathy; he explores this ­notion in The Majolo (1815–16), “The ­Physiognomist” (1824), and Eben Erskine (1833). 45.4 the naturalists know ... that the life is in the blood] See ­Leviticus 17:11: “For the life of the flesh is in the blood.” Romantic-era natural scientists (“naturalists”) and physicians such as John Hunter also believed that blood held the principle of life. 46.2–3 epigraph] Troilus and Cressida, I.iii.380–1. 48.12 devaul] (Scots) “stop, cease, leave off ” (DSL 1). 48.18 converzationies] see note to 21.25 (“Conversaseony”). 48.24 dunkled] (Scots) dented (here used figuratively). 48.25 votary of the Pythia] in ancient Greece, a devotee of the ­prophetic priestess of Apollo at the oracle of Delphi. 48.29–30 that ettercap Francy Iamphler] An “ettercap” is an iras­ cible, spiteful person (Scots). “Francy Iamphler” is a corruption of the name of the Edinburgh Review’s editor, Francis Jeffrey (1773–1850), that Galt used again in The Steam-Boat (1822). 48.32 Constable’s] Archibald Constable, publisher of the Edinburgh Review. 48.38–9 Reverend Mr. Bellwhidder] The similarly named R ­ everend Micah Balwhidder is the narrator-protagonist of Galt’s Annals of the Parish, published in 1821 but partially drafted earlier, a­ ccording to Galt in his Autobiography (II, pp. 226–8) and Literary Life (I, pp. 152–4). However, there are significant differences between the two characters.

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49.5 outstrap’lous Reformers] obstreperous, rowdy protesters. Pop­ ular unrest increased after Waterloo, especially among weavers and other artisans, culminating in the Peterloo massacre in Manchester that was almost contemporaneous with the writing of Glenfell. Mrs. Campbell’s more moderate pro-Reform sympathies align with the ­politics of the Edinburgh Review; the October 1819 issue carried an ­article condemning violent uprising but sympathizing with the need for reform. 49.23–4 mandarin] “An ornament (typically made of porcelain) rep­ resenting a seated figure in traditional Chinese costume, with a head which continues to nod for a long time after being shaken” (OED 1b). 49.24 Madras army] a division of the East India Company army in British India. 51.2 epigraph] Romeo and Juliet, III.i.104. 51.20 “wars of speed and spoil”] The phrase presumably refers to raids carried out by feuding clans, but there is no evidence that it is a direct quotation. 55.2–3 epigraph] Compare Twelfth Night, V.i.139–40: “Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear / That makes thee strangle thy propriety.” 55.8 travel post, instead of by the stage-coach] Travelling post by changing horses at intermediate posting-stations was faster and more private, but also more expensive, than travelling by public stagecoach. By 1819, the stagecoach ran five times a day between Edinburgh and Glasgow, covering the 42 miles (68 kilometres) in 12 hours. 58.2 epigraph] James Beattie, The Minstrel; or, The Progress of Genius, book 1, stanza 16 (London: Sharpe, 1816, p. 15). 62.1 CHAP. XVIII.] There is no chapter numbered 17; this error in the original has been retained in the numbering of chapters in the present edition. 62.2 epigraph] The Two Gentlemen of Verona, V.i.1. 63.4 Bedlam] a madhouse. 65.2 epigraph] Romeo and Juliet, I.iv.118–19. 65.3–5 knew … how many blue beans it takes to make five] a pro­ verbial expression for someone who is intelligent and sensible. 65.16 “The table groaned with costly piles of food.”] See Thomas Parnell, “The Hermit,” line 55: “The Table groans with costly Piles of Food” (Poems on Several Occasions [Dublin, 1722], p. 125).

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65.29–32 the Iona of Highland hospitality … as St. Columbus did to learning] Iona, a small island in the Hebrides, was in the ­Middle Ages the site of an important monastery and centre of learning founded by the Irish monk Columba. 66.1 On the morning of the great day of Mrs. Campbell … ] Parts of the dinner-party episode in chapters 19, 20, and 25 appear in re­ written form in the “Edinburgh” episode of Galt’s The Gathering of the West (1823), describing the grand dinner held by Mrs. Lorn on the ­occasion of George IV’s visit to Edinburgh in 1822. 66.23 silver waiter] small silver tray. 66.27 infringe the tenth commandment] “Thou shalt not covet … any thing that is thy neighbour’s” (Exodus 20:17). 67.12 common turnover] a turnover-table or table with a hinged top. 67.14–15 folks need not strain at gnats when they are ­swallowing camels] See Matthew 23:24, where Jesus criticizes hypocrites as “blind guides, which strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel.” 67.19 removes] A “remove” is “a dish that is served during a course in place of one that is removed” (OED 5b). 68.2 epigraph] See Anna Laetitia Barbauld, “Washing-Day” (first published December 1797 in Richard Phillips’ Monthly Magazine), lines 52–3: “pudding he nor tart / That day shall eat” (Selected Poetry and Prose, ed. W. McCarthy and E. Kraft [Peterborough: Broadview, 2002], p. 146). 68.21 cruet] “small bottle or vial for liquids” (OED 1). 68.25 smut] “soot or sooty matter” (OED 4a). 68.32 case-bottles] “a (usually square) bottle that fits in a case with others” (OED). 69.13 Duchess of Argyle] wife of the Duke of Argyll, the chief of the Campbell clan. 70.1 invidia] (Latin) envy, one of the seven deadly sins in Christian tradition. 70.3–6 the flat Bœtian region of the dull and muddy Thames … northern Athenians] Boeotia is a low-lying region of Greece around a major river, likened here to the Thames that runs through London; “Bœotian” was sometimes used to mean “dull, stupid” (OED). The ­allusion contrasts ironically with the epithet “northern Athenians” for inhabitants of Edinburgh.

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71.2 epigraph] Romeo and Juliet, I.i.180. 71.7–8 city of Cotton Mills and Steam Engines] In contrast to ­Edinburgh’s status as the “intellectual city,” Glasgow was an important centre of manufacture and textile production. James Watt invented his steam engine while working at the University of Glasgow. 74.2 epigraph] Timon of Athens, IV.ii.16. 78.2 epigraph] See Love, Honor, and Interest, I.i, Galt’s free transla­ tion of Carlo Goldoni’s Un curioso accidente (1760), published in Galt’s New British Theatre, III, p. 264. 80.11 that seven-headed beast conscience] Neither the seven-­ headed beast of Revelation 13 nor the Hydra, the many-headed ­monster of Greek mythology, fits this metaphor, which may depict more generally Glenfell’s inability to quiet the voice of his conscience. 80.18–19 called spirits from the vasty deep] See Henry IV, Part I, III.i.52: “I can call spirits from the vasty deep.” 81.2–7 epigraph] See Othello, I.iii.140–5. 81.15 lambent] “playing lightly upon or gliding over a surface without burning it” (OED 1a). 81.15–17 the cold pale light … victims of piscatorial stratagems] Bioluminescence, the weak light emitted by some biological o­ rganisms, was associated since Aristotle’s time with dead fish. 81.28 upper Canada] a region corresponding to present-day ­Ontario. 81.30 the mighty Fingal] a legendary third-century Celtic king, ­father of the hero Ossian in the epics published by James Macpherson during the 1760s as translations of ancient Gaelic poetry. 82.18 American war] Both the American Revolutionary War (1775– 83) and the War of 1812 (1812–15) were referred to in Galt’s time as the “American war.” Since the narrative emphasizes how long Isaac has been in Mr. Grant’s employ during his thirty-five-year sojourn in Can­ ada, it is likely that the former is meant here. 82.32–3 “the lone magnificence of mountain, lake, and wood”] Galt is quoting himself. He used the phrase “the wild magnificence of mountain, lake, and wood” in The Life and Studies of Benjamin West (1816), p. 116, and likely recalled it while writing Glenfell because he was simultaneously preparing a second volume of this biography for publication in 1820. The phrase appears again in Galt’s story “Deu­ calion of Kentucky,” first included in “The Steam-Boat” (Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine 9 [ June 1821], p. 260).

explanatory notes

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82.36 “far savage land”] The quotation could not be traced. 82.39 Lord Chesterfield’s philosophy] Philip Dormer Stanhope, fourth Earl of Chesterfield (1694–1773), gave advice on principles of politeness in publications such as Letters to His Son (1774). 83.11 Black Bull Inn] a prominent inn at 12 Argyle Street (the ­corner of Trongate, Stockwell, and Glassford Streets) in Glasgow, from which stagecoaches departed for Edinburgh. It was also the home of the Glasgow Highland Society and the Gaelic Club of Gentlemen. 83.12 the Red River] a river that flows into the south end of Lake ­Winnipeg, a key route for the fur trade and the settlement of ­Manitoba, Canada. 83.37 Johnny Raws] raw, inexperienced recruits. 84.5 to shoot a long bow] idiomatically, to tell exaggerated tales. 84.32 royal race of the Macdonalds] see note to 37.25–6. 84.33 claymore] “the two-edged broadsword of the ancient Scottish Highlanders” (OED 1a). 85.2–3 epigraph] The Winter’s Tale, I.ii.242–3. 85.12–13 misfortunes of this kind will happen in the best regulated families] The phrase echoes an eighteenth-century proverb and anti­ cipates a more famous formulation in chapter 28 of Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield (1850): “accidents will occur in the best-regulated families” (The Personal History of David Copperfield, ed. R. H. M ­ alden [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1948], p. 413). Galt uses a similar phrase in epoch 4, chapter 4 of The Omen (see 288.8–9 of the present edition). 85.15 “were shut up … in measureless content”] Macbeth, II.i.16–17. 85.32–3 gallant lawyers … Edinburgh Volunteers] The Royal ­Edinburgh Volunteers, a counter-revolutionary civilian army founded in 1794, included a large number of lawyers. 86.16 table beer] a weak, moderately priced beer for which Scottish brewers were well known. 86.22 Madeira wine] a fortified wine imported from the Portuguese Madeira Islands. 86.30 wastrie] (Scots) wastefulness. 86.38 a floorer, to use a phrase of the fancy] a knockdown blow, in the slang of early-nineteenth-century London’s boxing world (called the “fancy”).

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87.6 Wellington trowsers] one of several articles of clothing named after the Duke of Wellington that were fashionable during the ­post-­Waterloo years. 87.17 salver] “A tray, used for handing refreshments or for presenting letters, visiting-cards, etc.” (OED 2a); this is the “silver waiter” men­ tioned at 66.23. 87.22 doric dialect] Mid Northern Scots or Northeast Scots. 87.24–5 elaborate dictionary of our old friend, the learned Dr. ­Jamieson] John Jamieson’s dictionary, the first etymological dictio­ nary of the Scots language, was published in 1808; it defines “midden” as “a dunghill.” 88.36 where the cock in the fable found the precious stone] in one of Aesop’s fables, a cock finds a jewel in a dunghill. 90.2–3 epigraph] See The Winter’s Tale, IV.iv.352–3: “this ancient sir, who, it should seem, / Hath sometime loved.” 93.18 punch-drinking merchant] Glasgow rum-punch was popular in the early nineteenth century but was c­ onsidered somewhat vulgar, especially since its principal ­ingredients of rum and sugar were associ­ ated with the slave trade. 93.39 strathspeys] music to accompany Strathspey dances, such as minuets or reels, named for the Strathspey area in the central High­ lands. 97.2 epigraph] See Romeo and Juliet, II.i.134–5: “At lovers’ perjuries / They say Jove laughs.” 97.5 “tired nature’s sweet restorer”] See Edward Young, Night Thoughts (1742–45), Night the First, line 1: “Tir’d nature’s sweet ­Restorer, balmy Sleep!” (ed. S. Cornford [Cambridge: Cambridge ­University Press, 1989], p. 37). 98.25 Siddonian in majesty] reminiscent of Sarah Siddons (1755– 1831), the greatest tragic actress of her era. 99.7 moité] (French) half (properly moitié). 101.2 epigraph] Richard III, V.iv.7. 101.18 post-chaise and four] a fast mode of travel by a hired carriage drawn by four horses, which could be exchanged for fresh ones at post houses when necessary. 103.8 royal hall of Selma] the palace of Fingal in Celtic legend, as popularized by James Macpherson’s Works of Ossian (1765).

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105.2–3 epigraph] The Tempest, V.i.296–7. 107.35 à la mode] (French) according to fashion. 109.2 epigraph] translation of a line from the Greek ­philosopher Pythagoras, used as the motto to no. 137 of The Adventurer (26 ­February 1754). The epigraphs to the following four chapters are all from The ­Adventurer, a popular bi-weekly newspaper written by John Hawkesworth, Samuel Johnson, and others from 1752 to 1754. 110.11–12 vanity and vexation of spirit] “I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit” (Ecclesiastes 1:14). 110.40–1 Calton-hill and classic haunts of Arthur’s seat] Calton Hill, which began to be developed with a park and monuments during the early nineteenth century, and the wilder crag known as Arthur’s Seat, are areas of Edinburgh popular for their walks and views. 112.25 touch-hole] “A small hole or channel near the breech of an early firearm, through which the powder is ignited” (OED 1). 112.40 jeu d’esprit] (French) witticism. 114.2 epigraph] translation of a verse from Horace, used as the motto to no. 74 of The Adventurer (21 July 1753). 117.2 epigraph] translation of a verse from Virgil, used as the motto to no. 8 of The Adventurer (2 December 1752). 117.30 slough of dispond] in John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (1678), a swamp that symbolizes sin and guilt. 118.21 Solomon and the Queen of Sheba] In 1 Kings 10, the Queen of Sheba visits King Solomon of Israel in order to test his reputation for wisdom. 119.7–8 Zenobia, when the last battle of her Palmyra was fighting] Zenobia, the powerful and cultured queen of the Palmyrene Empire in Syria, was defeated when Palmyra was taken by the Romans in an epic battle in ad 272. 119.16 majesty of a Siddons] see note to 98.25. 120.18 Kedar] Qedar, son of Ishmael and ancestor of nomadic Arabic tribes in the Old Testament. 120.37–9 the world all before you ... and providence your guide] See the penultimate lines of ­Milton’s Paradise Lost (book 12, lines 646– 7): “The world was all b­ efore them, where to choose / Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.”

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122.2–3 epigraph] translation of verses from the Roman fabulist Phaedrus, used as the motto to no. 37 of The Adventurer (13 March 1753). 123.1 chaffer] bargain, haggle. 123.8 clecking] (Scots) “a brood … of fowls” (DSL 2). 123.15 other passion than Jupiter’s towards Leda] In classical ­mythology, the god Jupiter took the form of a swan in order to make love to Leda, the Queen of Sparta. 124.7–14 A kintra wife and a goose … on the spot] This incident recurs in Galt’s Gathering of the West (1823). 124.7 kintra] (Scots) country. 124.10 thrappling] (Scots) throttling, strangling. 124.10 mare wud] (Scots) more fierce, wild, or furious. 124.11 floch] (Scots) usually flocht or in flocht, “in a flutter” (DSL I.1). 124.12 sicken] (Scots) such. 124.34 randies] (Scots) a randie is a “brawling, bad-tempered woman” (DSL II.2). 124.38–9 many jawp have I … been obliged to juke to] (Scots) a variant of the expression jouk an let the jaw gae by, duck or dodge to avoid a splash of mud. 125.7 king of terrors] death; see Job 18:14. 125.21–3 man is born to trouble … the sparks fly upward] “Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward” ( Job 5:7). 125.24–5 a drop in the bucket, and the dust in the balance] ­“Behold, the nations are as a drop of a bucket, and are counted as the small dust of the balance” (Isaiah 40:15). 125.27 weel filled pat] (Scots) well-filled pot. 125.34 lavrock] (Scots) laverock: skylark. 125.36 dew-blab] (Scots) “A drop of moisture, a bubble” (DSL blab n.2[1]). 125.37 warsle] (Scots) wrestle. 126.2 eene] (Scots) eyes. 126.5 ha’d] (Scots) haud: hold, keep. 126.6 ramplor] (Scots) “rowdy, devil-may-care” (DSL rample 1). 126.6 off at the nail] behaving strangely, going mad (OED nail P4.a).

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126.8 threap] (Scots) “argue, contend” (DSL I.1). 127.2 epigraph] translation of a verse from Ovid, used as the motto to no. 112 of The Adventurer (1 December 1753). 128.31 all’s well that ends well] proverbial phrase that echoes the title of Shakespeare’s play All’s Well that Ends Well. 129.5–6 Clanjamphrey] (Scots) “a mob, rabble, the riff-raff of a ­community” (DSL 1). 130.4–5 yeard toad] (Scots) common toad, earth toad (DSL yird 7[19]). 132.2 epigraph] The Tempest, Epilogue, line 1. 132.5 English lakes] the Lake District in Cumbria, northwest E ­ ngland. 132.8 Loch Lomond] one of the largest lakes in Britain, located on the border between the Scottish Lowlands and Highlands. 132.16 play pue] (Scots) “compete with, ‘hold a candle to’” (DSL pew II.1, citing an 1836 example from Tait’s Magazine where Galt uses a phrase very similar to the present instance). 132.21 Chricton] Alexander and his son Patrick Crichton ran a prom­ inent Edinburgh coachworks beginning in the mid-eighteenth century. 132.21 shed a few natural tears] See Paradise Lost (book 12, line 645): “Some natural tears they dropped.” 133.4 “dirt bodes luck”] a Scottish proverb. 133.15 Cheltenham] a spa town in Gloucester, southwest England, that became very fashionable in the late eighteenth century. 133.23 Colonel Rupee] Galt’s The Last of the Lairds (1826) also ­features a nabob named Mr. Rupees. 133.28 Malvern Wells] a spa town in the West Midlands. 134–5 series and volume title pages] Andrew of Padua, the Improvisatore appeared together with the translation of a Spanish story en­ titled The Vindictive Father as volume 3 of The Periodical Novelist or Circulating Library series: see the Introduction to the present volume. 137.3 Furbo] (Italian) “clever, mischievous” or “trickster.” 137.10–12 sixty years ago … Omero or H ­ omer] In The Life and ­Studies of Benjamin West, Galt refers to West’s e­ ncounter with an old man who went by the name of Homer and was “the most celebrated Improvisa­ tore in all Italy” (pp. 114–15) at the time of West’s visit to Rome in 1760 (that is, sixty years before the publication of Andrew of Padua).

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137.16 Sovereign People] ordinary people, general populace. 137.29 impressions] editions, print-runs. 138.22–3 Romance of The Mariner] This work is non-existent, as are the other titles, editions, biographers, and writers named in the Biographical Sketch and the preceding translator’s note. 138.24 Ragusan] from Ragusa, a town in southern Sicily. 139.36 *] Footnotes marked with an asterisk appear in the original text and are by Galt posing as the fictional editor-translator of Andrew of Padua. 140.7–8 When the French, during the revolutionary war, took pos­­session of Rome] Napoleon’s troops occupied Rome from Feb­ ruary 1798 until October 1799. 140.11 church of St. Peter Martyr] Verona and Naples have churches dedicated to St. Peter of Verona, who is also called St. Peter Martyr; Rome does not, but there is a Chapel of St. Peter Martyr in the Vatican Palaces. 141.3 Carnival] Traditionally, Carnival in Rome was an eight-day public celebration ending at the beginning of Lent; the Piazza del ­Popolo, where the narrator sits, was one of its main venues. 141.4 one of the churches at the Porto del Popolo] The Porta del Popolo is a monumental gateway erected in 1475 on the site of an ­ancient gate in the Aurelian Walls of Rome; the closest church, just inside the gates, is the fifteenth-century Basilica of Santa Maria del Popolo. 141.17 in Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob’s bosom] that is, in the after­ life; in Luke 16:22, the beggar Lazarus is described as being “carried by the angels into Abraham’s bosom” when he dies. The Old Testament ­patriarchs Isaac and Jacob, son and grandson of Abraham, are added for rhetorical effect. 141.18 howling wilderness] the present world, ironically echoing Deuteronomy 32:10: “He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness.” 143.31 college of Cardinals] a council consisting of the highest clergy of the Roman Catholic Church, that elects and advises the Pope. 145.13 Benedictine order] The Order of St. Benedict or the “Black Monks” spread throughout Italy and western Europe between the sixth and twelfth centuries, but was in decline at the time the story is set.

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145.15 Padua] a city in the Veneto region of northern Italy with a long­ standing reputation for culture, science, and learning. Its ­renowned university, founded in 1222, is the second-oldest in Italy. 145.22–3 Jupiter … impregnating the air as of old] a vague allusion to ancient Roman mythology in which Jupiter, the supreme god of the sky, weather, and air, was able to impregnate women by taking a variety of forms. 148.26 cates] “choice viands; dainties, delicacies” (OED 2a). 149.28 scullion] “a domestic servant of the lowest rank in a house­ hold who performed the menial offices of the kitchen” (OED a). 152.19 diligence] public stagecoach. 152.39 Morpheus] the god of dreams and sleep in classical mythology. 153.1 negative of life] used here to mean “sleep,” although “death” would be a more usual meaning; see Newcastle Magazine, 6 ( January 1827), p. 21: “We are told in common parlance that rest is the negative of motion, sleep the negative of waking, disease the negative of health, and death the negative of life.” 153.12 old gentleman] the devil. 154.4 Brenta] a river in northeastern Italy that flows by Padua into the Adriatic Sea at Venice. 154.17 Signor Argento] (Italian) “Mr. Silver.” 155.19 terra firma] During the eighteenth century, Venice controlled extensive territories on the mainland known as the Domini di Terraferma. 155.22 Republic] The Republic of Venice, which lasted from the eighth century until 1797, was known for its wealthy and influential merchant class. 155.28–9 the Pulci, the Marmovechi, and Terestani] These names do not appear among the noble merchant families of Venice and are apparently invented; pulci are fleas, and marmovechi is reminiscent of “old marble.” 156.41 During the Carnival, like others, I went to all the theatres] Theatrical productions were permitted during Carnival but restricted at other times of year, and prohibited entirely during the six weeks of Lent that followed Carnival. 157.34 Petrarch] Francesco Petrarca (1304–74) was famed for the ­lyrical poetry inspired by his unrequited love for a woman named Laura.

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158.6 her benefit] a theatrical performance for which the proceeds go to a particular performer, in this case Pathetica. 159.8 trulls] prostitutes. 159.21 gallipots] A gallipot is “a small earthen glazed pot … used by apothecaries for ointments and medicines” (OED 1a). 159.35­–6 Venus herself, compared with the hideous Electo] Electo (usually Alecto) is one of the three snake-haired, bat-winged Furies of Greek mythology, and thus the epitome of ugliness in contrast to Venus, the goddess of love and beauty. 161.25 so much woe, with loss of Belletta] Compare Milton, Paradise Lost (book 1, lines 3–4): “all our woe / With loss of Eden.” 163.31 stews] brothels. 167.39–40 Grand Duke’s theatre at Florence] Most of Florence’s leading theatres enjoyed subsidies from the Grand Dukes of Tuscany during the eighteenth century. Andrew probably refers here to the largest one of all: the Teatro della Pergola, the oldest opera house in Italy, was a court theatre for the Grand Dukes until it opened to the public in the eighteenth century and hosted the Italian premieres of Mozart’s operas. 170.22 Roscius] an honorary name for a successful actor, after the comic actor Quintus Roscius in ancient Rome. 170.25 Leghorn] English name of Livorno, a port city on the ­western coast of Tuscany and an important location for trade and cultural con­ tact with Britain. 171.26 improvisatore] Anglicized version of the Italian improvvisatore, a poet who performs extemporaneously composed verses or songs. 172.7–8 the rock was touched … sands of the desert] See Exodus 17:1–6 and Numbers 20:1–11, where God makes water flow from a rock in the desert when the prophet Moses strikes it with his rod. 172.17 second Homer] see note to 137.10–12; the epithet Homer, after the ancient Greek bard, was bestowed on celebrated improvvisatori. 174.35 fille de chambre] (French) lady’s maid. 179.10 recruited] recovered. 179.28–9 cloven foot] a foot or hoof divided in two, traditionally considered a distinguishing feature of the devil. 179.41 fair narrator of the Arabian tales] Scheherazade, the narrator

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of the Arabian Nights or One Thousand and One Nights, was married to a ruler who executed his new wife every morning. She used the ruse of beginning a tale each evening and concluding it only in the morning to postpone and eventually avoid execution. 180.1 Commander of the Faithful] traditional title of rulers in Mus­ lim countries, here referring to the husband of Scheherazade. 181.3 prelusive] “of the nature of, or serving as, a prelude; prelimi­ nary; introductory” (OED). 181.5 Masano, the printer] Galt’s footnote likening Italian printers to English booksellers suggests that Masano may be a caricature of Richard Phillips, the bookseller and publisher of Andrew of Padua with whom Galt worked closely from 1816 to 1820. 181.24–6 The days of Ariosto and of Tasso … more impressive than Petrarca] Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533), Torquato Tasso (1544–95), and Francesco Petrarca or Petrarch (1304–74) were poets of the golden age of Italian Renaissance literature. 181.29 a gadding] wandering. 181.33 compositors] typesetters; the sentence describes the way Galt often worked, delivering just-written portions of his manuscript to the printer to be typeset while he continued writing. 182.9 human face divine] Milton, Paradise Lost (book 3, line 44). 183.17–20 There is a worthy advocate … become a notary] The career path proposed for Andrew resembles Galt’s own: after early fail­ ures in business, he enrolled to study law in London in 1809 but soon abandoned it. 183.26–7 a novice with the Benedictines] see note to 145.13; a nov­ ice is one who enters the monastery for a probationary period before taking vows. 183.34–7 The remainder of this chapter … priesthood in g­ eneral] The hoaxing footnote by the supposed editor-translator of Andrew of Padua reflects ironically on reviewers’ criticisms of Galt’s Voyages and Travels (1812) and Letters from the Levant (1813), which contain forthright critiques and ­satire of the Catholic Church. “Ecclesiastical ­immunities” are ­exemptions from civil responsibilities enjoyed by members of religious orders. 184.22 buskins] boots worn by tragic actors in ancient Greece; thus, by association, drama or tragedy. 186.9 mal aria] (Italian) “bad air”; malarial fever was associated with

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the unhealthful atmosphere of marshy regions in Italy. 186.12 Venetian sequins] gold coins. 186.40 Albeit unused to the ‘melting mood’] Othello, V.ii.342; the ­entire phrase is cited from Shakespeare, not only the words in quota­ tion marks. 188.12 under weigh] underway; the alternative spelling suggests weighing or raising anchor. 188.22 Lugino] an invented name. 189.17 bedlamite] an inhabitant of Bedlam, a madhouse. 189.22–3 Joseph and Potiphar’s lady] See Genesis 39:1–18: after the Israelite Joseph, a slave in the house of the Egyptian officer Potiphar, resists the attempts of Potiphar’s wife to seduce him, she accuses him of attempted rape and has him thrown into prison. 189.23 St. Anthony and the Devil] The third-century Christian monk Anthony withstood temptation and persecution by the devil in the desert. 190.16–17 Bacchanalian] given to drunken revelry like followers of Bacchus, the Greek god of wine. 190.21–2 heresy of Luther, which rent christendom asunder] The reforms of Martin Luther (1483–1546), condemned as heretical by the Catholic Church, resulted in the establishment of Protestant denomi­ nations during the mid-sixteenth century. 192.34–5 halcyon zephyr] calm mild wind. 193.18 electrical fishes] Fish that can generate electric fields were known since the eighteenth century. 193.32–3 Orpheus’s singing to the wild beasts] In Greek ­mythology, the inspired singer Orpheus could charm animals, trees, and rocks with his music. 193.36 Academy of Sciences] The French Académie des sciences, founded in 1666, was preeminent in Europe during the eighteenth century. 194.28 lazzaroni] lowest class of street people, usually in Naples but here in the Sicilian town of Messina. 194.32–3 a member of the … order of pomatum] that is, a barber, one who applies pomatum ointment to the skin and hair. 194.35 Monsieur Tonsure] (French) “Mr. Haircut.” 196.22 It was founded on the fable of Orpheus …] The plot of the

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drama outlined by Andrew corresponds closely to Galt’s Orpheus: An Opera, in Three Parts, published in New British Theatre, III, pp. 289–302. Unlike most versions of the Greek myth, this play ends happily with Orpheus successfully winning back Eurydice. 197.40–1 an insatiable desire to learn to play on the flute] Flute-­ playing occurs repeatedly in Galt’s life and work: Galt himself played the flute in his youth (Autobiography, I, p. 18), as does the protagonist of The Majolo (1815–16), and a mystical German flute-teacher appears in The Omen. 198.30 letica] Italian lettiga, a litter or sedan chair carried between two mules. This was the type of conveyance used by Galt when he travelled around Sicily; in his account of the trip, he calls it “the only kind of carriage suitable to the country roads of Sicily” (Voyages and Travels, p. 18). 198.31–32 crossed the mountains … Calabria] Andrew travels westward along the north coast of Sicily, toward Palermo and away from the Strait of Messina that separates Sicily from Calabria on the Italian mainland. 199.4 The country is inferior to that of Italy …] Andrew’s impres­ sions of Sicily correspond to the much more detailed descriptions in Galt’s Voyages and Travels, based on his three-month stay in Sicily while the island was ­under British occupation. 199.35 Lipari islands] the Aeolian islands, a volcanic archipelago off the northern coast of Sicily. 201.8 Apollo] the Greek god of music and poetry. 201.17 army of Maria Theresa] Empress Maria Theresa of Austria­ Hungary, who reigned from 1740 to 1780, reformed the A ­ ustrian ­military and maintained a strong standing army. 201.26–7 divined from the cast of my physiognomy] The ability to read a person’s character from facial and bodily features also plays an important part in Galt’s The Majolo (1815–16) and the “The Physiog­ nomist” (1824). 203.9 afraid of his niece] that is, afraid for his niece. 204.8 poltroon] coward, wretch. 206.38 digested] methodically arranged. 206.41–207.1 Midas-like rejection of the musical bard] In Greek mythology, King Midas showed his incapacity to judge musical talent by choosing the satyr Pan as the winner in a musical contest over the

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god Apollo, for which Apollo punished Midas by changing his ears into those of an ass. 207.3 Signor Bellavoce] (Italian) “Mr. Beautiful Voice.” 209.15 London Opera-house] Given the reference to “the King’s theatre in London” in the following paragraph and the history of Galt’s interaction with London theatres, the reference is most likely to the Theatre Royal Covent Garden rather than the Lyceum Theatre (which was also called the English Opera House as of 1816). During the early nineteenth century, Covent Garden presented a variety of entertainments, including opera. 209.23–4 cabinet maker, although never a privy counsellor] a pun on “cabinet” as a piece of furniture and a governing body. 211.33 Farinelli] The castrato Carlo Maria Michelangelo Nicola Broschi (1705–82), known as Farinelli, performed to great acclaim in ­London from 1734 to 1737. 213.31 Drury Lane] The Theatre Royal Drury Lane was, like C ­ ovent Garden, a patent theatre licensed for the performance of spoken drama and one of London’s leading venues. 214.24 three graces] the Gratiae or Charities, goddesses of beauty and creativity in Greek and Roman mythology. 214.29–30 theatre François] The Théâtre-Français or ComédieFrançaise is the renowned national theatre of Paris. 216.5 a new race, who knew me not] See Exodus 1:8: “Now there arose up a new king over Egypt, which knew not Joseph.” 217.9 the Romans have no theatre] Theatres in Rome were subject to papal restrictions including censorship and closure in some seasons of the church year, but public theatres were gradually opened over the course of the eighteenth century. 217.12 “the eternal city”] a widely known epithet for Rome since the first-century bc poet Tibullus used the phrase urbs aeterna in his ­Elegies. 218.19 college of cardinals] see note to 143.31. 218.29 sufficient to have corrupted a Joseph] In the Book of G ­ enesis, Joseph, the favourite son of the patriarch Jacob (Israel), is sold into slavery in Egypt but rises to become a senior official of Pharaoh. The main temptation he resists is seduction by the wife of his employer, Potiphar (see note to 189.22–3). 219.35 lost his nose] The decay of the nose was commonly associated

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with syphilis. Galt uses this image in his satirical poem “The A ­ theniad, or The Rape of the Parthenon,” published in the same month as ­Andrew of Padua (Monthly Magazine, 49 [February 1820], pp. 51–4). 219.37 Capuchin college] An offshoot of the Franciscans, the Capu­ chin order was dedicated to poverty and austerity. 221.22 Savoyard] a native of the Savoy region of southeastern France. In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Paris and London, Savoyards were often associated with minstrelsy, as in Galt’s three-act opera The Savoyard (New British Theatre, IV, pp. 351–76). 221.28 Boccacio] Italian writer Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–75), best known for his interlinked prose tales in The Decameron. 222.1–2 Ganganelli or George the Third] Giovanni Vincenzo ­Antonio Ganganelli led the Catholic Church as Pope Clement XIV from 1769 to 1774; George III reigned in the United Kingdom from 1760 to 1820. 222.13 Adonis] in classical mythology, a handsome youth loved by the goddess Venus. 222.24–5 this series of adventures and stories] Galt implies that he planned to continue using the narrator Furbo, perhaps in further ­issues of the Periodical Novelist series, but this did not happen. 222.34–5 caput mortuum] “dead head,” an alchemical image referring to leftover residue. 223.8 his tale of the Cardinal] a possible allusion to Galt’s bio­ graphical work The Life and Administration of Cardinal Wolsey (­1812), which he sometimes referred to as “The Cardinal” in his correspon­ dence – for example, in a letter to Archibald Constable of 25 May 1812 (MS 682) and a letter to publishers Oliver & Boyd of 6 October 1823 (Acc.5000/188), both in the ­National Library of Scotland. 223.17–18 Herculean vigour … serpents of the church] As an i­ nfant, the Greek hero Herakles (Hercules), a son of Zeus, strangled the ser­ pents that Zeus’s jealous wife Hera sent into his cradle to kill him. 223.22 See of Rome] Also called the Holy See, the See of Rome refers to the authority or government of the Pope and the papal court. 223.28 Frederick of Prussia] Frederick II, called Frederick the Great, ruled Prussia from 1740 to 1786. The first of the miscellaneous writ­ ings appended to Galt’s Literary Life, and Miscellanies (1834) is an e­ ssay entitled “The Seven Years’ War in Germany” (II, pp. 1–33), which is ­apparently the “brief history of Frederick’s part in the celebrated

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Seven Years’ war” that he wrote while living in Gibraltar in 1814 (I, p. 141). It was at the same time that Galt “began to learn Spanish” (I, p. 141), suggesting that ideas for Andrew of Padua and the translation from Spanish that fills the rest of this issue of The Periodical Novelist may derive from his reading and writing in the libraries of Gibraltar. 223.28–9 Catherine of Russia] Catherine II or Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia from 1762 to 1796, also features in Galt’s essay “The Seven Years’ War in Germany” (see note to 223.28). 225.2–4 Can such things be … special wonder?] See Macbeth, III. iv.112–14: “Can such things be, / And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, / Without our special wonder?” 227.8 the stuff that dreams are made of] See The Tempest, IV.i.156–7: “We are such stuff / As dreams are made on.” 227.16 a change comes upon the spirit of my dream] Compare “A change came o’er the spirit of my dream,” a line repeated at the begin­ ning of sections 3 to 8 of Byron’s poem “The Dream” (1816) (The ­Complete Poetical Works, ed. J. J. McGann, 5 vols [Oxford: Clarendon, 1980–86], IV, pp. 22–9). 229.15 churmed] from chirm or churm, “to warble as a bird, sing; to croon, hum” (DSL 2[1]). 235.29 Bevlington] a fictional place-name. 239.36 French clock] Elaborate gilt-bronze clocks made in France were fashionable during the early nineteenth century. 241.24 angels of the signs and the seasons] Various religious tradi­ tions associated angels with each of the twelve signs of the astrological zodiac and with the four seasons. 241.25 cressets] figuratively, torches or beacons; historically, a cresset was “an iron basket to hold pitched rope, wood, or coal, to be burnt for light” (OED 1a and 2). 241.27–9 an ominous moon … seen in its bosom] The pheno­ menon of “earthshine” or “the old moon in the new moon’s arms” – when the new crescent moon cradles a full moon faintly illuminated by light reflected from the earth – was considered a bad omen; in the traditional Scottish ballad “Sir Patrick Spens,” it is associated with a shipwreck. 243.17–18 communion which the pleiades hold with the ­flowers] an obscure example of alignments between heavenly bodies and sea­ sonal rhythms. According to various ancient Mediterranean traditions,

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the constellation of seven stars called the Pleiades or Seven Sisters marks the end of the seafaring season or appears at the time of spring flowers, even though the constellation is most visible in the northern hemisphere in late autumn. 243.22 still small voice] See 1 Kings 19:12, where the prophet Elijah is called by God in a “still small voice.” 245.7 siege of V********] possibly the Siege of Valencia (1811–12), in which the Spanish defenders of the city were defeated by the forces of Napoleonic France. The British were allied with Spain during this phase of the Peninsular War, although they did not have major ­involvement in the Siege of Valencia. 248.16 the wreaths by which we are led forward to sacrifice] In Greek and Roman antiquity, sacrificial animals were adorned with wreaths when being led to the altar. 248.19–21 Arabian guide … desolation and the waste] Galt showed interest in Palmyra, the ancient trade-route capital of the Syrian desert, since his own travels in the Mediterranean and Middle East (1809–11); it is not clear whether he is alluding to a specific story about aban­ doned travellers. 252.4 Eton] Eton College near Windsor, a boarding-school for boys aged thirteen to eighteen; founded in the fifteenth century, it is ­renowned for educating aristocrats, statesmen, and public leaders. 252.25 regiment of the Guards, then quartered in Windsor] prob­ ably the Royal Horse Guards at Clewer Barracks, which were erected 1796–1800 amidst fears of a French invasion. 252.28 bear-leader] “formerly a ludicrous name for a travelling tutor; also, a captor, custodian” (OED bear C2). 255.5 mittens] “A fingerless covering for the hand and forearm worn by women, especially in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries” (OED 2a). 256.19 Windsor Castle] The royal residence at Windsor, which was being extensively renovated by George III at the time of the story’s setting and by George IV at the time of its writing, is located about a mile from Eton College. 256.34 vegetable period of life] period of rapid growth. 258.17 avenging menace in the Decalogue] The second of the Ten Commandments (the Decalogue) includes the threat of an ancestral curse, whereby God requites “the iniquity of the fathers upon the

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c­ hildren unto the third and fourth generation” (Exodus 20:5). 258.19 gentleman-commoner] “One of a privileged class of under­ graduates formerly recognized in the Universities of Oxford and ­Cambridge” (OED 1). 259.20 burning marl] marl is a chalky clay-lime soil; echoing ­Milton’s Paradise Lost (book 1, line 296), “burning marl” evokes the surface of Hell. 260.24 players’ play] that is, the “Mousetrap” play performed by the ­visiting players in Hamlet, III.ii. With this play, Hamlet hopes to ­entrap his uncle, King Claudius, into revealing his guilt for murdering ­Hamlet’s father before marrying his mother. 262.11–12 not dreamt of in your philosophy] echoes the words of ­Hamlet to his friend after Hamlet sees his father’s ghost: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy” (Hamlet, I.v.168–9). 262.13 unhouselled spectres] See Hamlet, I.v.77: “Unhouseled, dis­ appointed, unaneled.” 263.31–2 Star Inn] an old coaching inn formerly located at 52 Corn­ market Street, Oxford; in the early nineteenth century, daily stage­ coaches departed in several directions from here. 264.6 sere and yellow] See Macbeth, V.iii.22–3: “My way of life / Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf.” 267.17–18 wide and shoreless Hellespont … returning tide] Galt transfers the term “Hellespont,” the classical name for the narrow strait at the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea, to the wider straits of Gibraltar at its western end. Because of the differing densities of the Atlantic and Mediterranean waters that meet at Gibraltar, the surface current continually flows eastward into the Mediterranean. 268.2 Harwich] a North Sea port in Essex that was a key site of both defence and communication with the Continent during the Napole­ onic Wars. 272.2–4 On reaching Harwich … on board] In chapters 4 to 6 of Epoch III, Henry rides from his paternal home of Throstle-grove to Harwich in a day, changing horses at staging-posts; these geographical details seem to place Throstle-grove within about fifty miles of Har­ wich in the county of Essex or the county of Suffolk. 272.2 packet] a boat that travels regularly between two ports. 272.19 kedged] To kedge is to “warp a ship, or move it from one

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329

­position to another by winding in a hawser attached to a small anchor dropped at some distance” (OED a). 273.20 Ancient of days] a biblical name for God that emphasizes God’s eternity (Daniel 7:9, 13, 22). 274.4 Hamburgh] Henry sails to Hamburg, Germany, rather than the much closer ports in Holland because Holland was under French control during the Napoleonic Wars. Britain, however, controlled the tiny archipelago of Heligoland near the port of Hamburg as of 1807. 274.14 General Purcel] a fictional character, despite the intimation that readers will recognize his name. 277.6 choughs] A chough is “a bird of the crow family” (OED 1a). 277.16–19 “The southern wind … blust’ring day.”] Henry IV, Part One, V.i.3–6. 278.18 oaten-pipe] a Scottish or English reed-pipe made of dried oat straws. 279.4 diapason] “the combination of parts or notes in a harmonious whole, properly in concord” (OED 3a). 280.31–2 symphony to an anthem] an instrumental passage accom­ panying a vocal composition. 282.3–5 It was a beautiful idea … inwardly] The allusion could not be traced. 282.6 “We take no note of time”] Edward Young, Night Thoughts (1742–45), Night the First, lines 54–5: “We take no note of Time, / But from its Loss” (ed. S. Cornford [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989], p. 38). 282.30 this blasted heath] Macbeth, I.iii.78; see also Paradise Lost (book 1, line 615). 283.11 “as genial as the light of heaven?”] The quotation could not be traced. 285.11 Siddonian pathos] reminiscent of the tragic actress Sarah ­Siddons (1755–1831). 288.8–9 such things will happen in the best regulated families] see note to Glenfell, 85.12–13. 289.32 cerements] “waxed wrappings for the dead,” or grave-clothes (OED 1a). 291.8 Tower] the Tower of London, a castle and prison d­ ating from 1066.

330

explanatory notes

293.9 Abingdon-Street] a street that runs along the east side of ­Westminster Abbey, between the Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. 293.11 Poets’ Corner] part of the south transept of Westminster ­Abbey where renowned writers are traditionally buried. 293.34 English cemetery at Lisbon] Established in 1717, the Cemi­ teria dos Ingleses was a place where non-Catholics could be buried, including members of the significant British expatriate community in Lisbon during the early nineteenth century. 294.3 hectic] fever. 295.3–4 Sir George Shelbrooke, K.C.B.] an invented name. “K.C.B.” stands for Knight Commander of the Bath, a distinction that during the post-Waterloo period was usually conferred by George IV for ­eminent military service during the Napoleonic Wars. 295.19 Mr. Blackwood] Edinburgh publisher William Blackwood, who published much of Galt’s work during the early 1820s. 295.21 his Magazine] the monthly Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine. 295.23 Mr. North] “Christopher North” was the fictitious editor of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine; in the mid-1820s, the pseudonym was used mainly by John Wilson. 296.1 Magdeline for Magdalen] Since this name does not appear in the text with either spelling, the allusion may be part of the hoax hinted at in the postscript. The most likely association of “Magda­ len” is Magdalen College, Oxford, which John Wilson (“Christopher North”) had attended as a gentleman-commoner. 296.3 B. A. M.] The initials of the fictional editor spell “bam,” the term used in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine for a joke or hoax. 296.4 Castle-Bromage] Castle-Bromwich, a village and stagecoach stop in the West Midlands near Birmingham.