The Caxtons - The Art and Popular Culture Encyclopedia (2024)

From The Art and Popular Culture Encyclopedia

{{Template}}

The Caxtons: A Family Picture is an 1849 Victorian novel by Edward Bulwer-Lytton that was popular in its time.

The book was first serialized anonymously in Blackwood's Magazine from April 1848 to October 1849, and first published in novel form (in three volumes) in Britain in 1849. In the United States, it was serialized in Harper's Magazine (1850–53) and Littell's Living Age (1850-52).

The novel was "instantly popular" in Britain and also sold 35,000 copies within three years of its release in the United States.

Plot

A synopsis of the plot from a 1910 reference work states:

The Caxtons are Austin Caxton, a scholar engaged on a great work, "The History of Human Error;" his wife Kitty, much his junior; his brother Roland, the Captain, who has served in the Napoleonic campaigns; the two children of the latter, Herbert and Blanche; and Austin's son, Pisistratus, who tells the story. The quiet country life of the family of Austin Caxton is interrupted by a visit to London. There Pisistratus, who has had a good school education, though he has not yet entered the university, is offered the position of secretary to Mr. Trevanion, a leader in Parliament. Lady Ellinor, Mr. Trevanion's wife, was loved as a girl by Roland and Austin Caxton; but she had passed them both by to make a marriage better suited to an ambitious woman. By a freak of fate Pisistratus now falls in love with her daughter Fannie; and when he finds that his suit is hopeless, he gives up his position under Mr. Trevanion, and enters Cambridge University, where his college course is soon closed by the financial troubles of his father. A further outline of this story would give no idea of its charm. The mutual affection of the Caxtons is finely indicated, and the gradations of light and shade make a beautiful picture. Never before had Bulwer written with so light a touch and so gentle a humor, and this novel has been called the most brilliant and attractive of productions. His gentle satire of certain phrases of political life was founded, doubtless, on actual experience.

The Caxtons are asserted to have descended from William Caxton, the first English printer. In the latter part of the novel, two characters emigrate to Australia, and emigration is positively depicted as a chance for redemption.

Pisistratus Caxton also serves as the nominal narrator of My Novel (1853) and What Will He Do With It? (1858).

Legacy

From the time of its release, comparisons of the work to Tristram Shandy were frequent, with a few commentators suggesting the borrowing was perhaps too much, but the former work can be ultimately seen more generally as an inspiration than a source text.

The Stanford Companion to Victorian Fiction (1989) states that the "domestic milieu and easy-going narrative manner" of The Caxtons stands in contrast to the author's prior melodramatic works, and "marks a turning point in Bulwer-Lytton's career, and in Victorian fiction generally."

The description of Edgar Allan Poe in Rufus Wilmot Griswold's negative and much-republished 1849 obituary of Poe is in part a lengthy quote of the description of the character Frances Vivian in The Caxtons. The passage was marked with quotes in the original obituary, but the quotes were omitted when later republished.

Full text

THE CAXTONS

(Complete)

A FAMILY PICTURE

By Edward Bulwer Lytton

(Lord Lytton)

PREFACE.

If it be the good fortune of this work to possess any interest for theNovel reader, that interest, perhaps, will be but little derived fromthe customary elements of fiction. The plot is extremely slight, theincidents are few, and with the exception of those which involve thefate of Vivian, such as may be found in the records of ordinary life.

Regarded as a Novel, this attempt is an experiment somewhat apart fromthe previous works of the author. It is the first of his writings inwhich Humor has been employed, less for the purpose of satire than inillustration of amiable characters; it is the first, too, in which manhas been viewed, less in his active relations with the world, than inhis repose at his own hearth,--in a word, the greater part of the canvashas been devoted to the completion of a simple Family Picture. And thus,in any appeal to the sympathies of the human heart, the common householdaffections occupy the place of those livelier or larger passionswhich usually (and not unjustly) arrogate the foreground in Romanticcomposition.

In the Hero whose autobiography connects the different characters andevents of the work, it has been the Author's intention to imply theinfluences of Home upon the conduct and career of youth; and in theambition which estranges Pisistratus for a time from the sedentaryoccupations in which the man of civilized life must usually serve hisapprenticeship to Fortune or to Fame, it is not designed to describethe fever of Genius conscious of superior powers and aspiring to highdestinies, but the natural tendencies of a fresh and buoyant mind,rather vigorous than contemplative, and in which the desire of action isbut the symptom of health.

Pisistratus in this respect (as he himself feels and implies) becomesthe specimen or type of a class the numbers of which are dailyincreasing in the inevitable progress of modern civilization. He isone too many in the midst of the crowd; he is the representative of theexuberant energies of youth, turning, as with the instinct of nature forspace and development, from the Old World to the New. That which may becalled the interior meaning of the whole is sought to be completed bythe inference that, whatever our wanderings, our happiness willalways be found within a narrow compass, and amidst the objects moreimmediately within our reach, but that we are seldom sensible of thistruth (hackneyed though it be in the Schools of all Philosophies) tillour researches have spread over a wider area. To insure the blessing ofrepose, we require a brisker excitement than a few turns up and down ourroom. Content is like that humor in the crystal, on which Claudian haslavished the wonder of a child and the fancies of a Poet,--

 "Vivis gemma tumescit aquis."

 E. B. L.

October, 1849.

THE CAXTONS.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

"Sir--sir, it is a boy!"

"A boy," said my father, looking up from his book, and evidently muchpuzzled: "what is a boy?"

Now my father did not mean by that interrogatory to challengephilosophical inquiry, nor to demand of the honest but unenlightenedwoman who had just rushed into his study, a solution of that mystery,physiological and psychological, which has puzzled so many curioussages, and lies still involved in the question, "What is man?" For as weneed not look further than Dr. Johnson's Dictionary to know that a boyis "a male child,"--i.e., the male young of man,--so he who would go tothe depth of things, and know scientifically what is a boy, must be ableto ascertain "what is a man." But for aught I know, my father may havebeen satisfied with Buffon on that score, or he may have sided withMonboddo. He may have agreed with Bishop Berkeley; he may havecontented himself with Professor Combe; he may have regarded the genusspiritually, like Zeno, or materially, like Epicurus. Grant that boy isthe male young of man, and he would have had plenty of definitions tochoose from. He might have said, "Man is a stomach,--ergo, boy a maleyoung stomach. Man is a brain,--boy a male young brain. Man is a bundleof habits,--boy a male young bundle of habits. Man is a machine,--boya male young machine. Man is a tail-less monkey,--boy a male youngtail-less monkey. Man is a combination of gases,--boy a male youngcombination of gases. Man is an appearance,--boy a male youngappearance," etc., etc., and etcetera, ad infinitum! And if none ofthese definitions had entirely satisfied my father, I am perfectlypersuaded that he would never have come to Mrs. Primmins for a new one.

But it so happened that my father was at that moment engaged in theimportant consideration whether the Iliad was written by one Homer, orwas rather a collection of sundry ballads, done into Greek by divershands, and finally selected, compiled, and reduced into a whole by aCommittee of Taste, under that elegant old tyrant Pisistratus; and thesudden affirmation, "It is a boy," did not seem to him pertinent to thethread of the discussion. Therefore he asked, "What is a boy?" vaguely,and, as it were, taken by surprise.

"Lord, sir!" said Mrs. Primmins, "what is a boy? Why, the baby!"

"The baby!" repeated my father, rising. "What, you don't mean to saythat Mrs. Caxton is--eh?"

"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Primmins, dropping a courtesy; "and as fine alittle rogue as ever I set eyes upon."

"Poor dear woman," said my father, with great compassion. "So soon,too--so rapidly," he resumed, in a tone of musing surprise. "Why, it isbut the other day we were married!"

"Bless my heart, sir," said Mrs. Primmins, much scandalized, "it is tenmonths and more."

"Ten months!" said my father with a sigh. "Ten months! and I have notfinished fifty pages of my refutation of Wolfe's monstrous theory! Inten months a child! and I'll be bound complete,--hands, feet, eyes,ears, and nose!--and not like this poor Infant of Mind," and my fatherpathetically placed his hand on the treatise, "of which nothing isformed and shaped, not even the first joint of the little finger! Why,my wife is a precious woman! Well, keep her quiet. Heaven preserve her,and send me strength--to support this blessing!"

"But your honor will look at the baby? Come, sir!" and Mrs. Primminslaid hold of my father's sleeve coaxingly.

"Look at it,--to be sure," said my father, kindly; "look at it,certainly: it is but fair to poor Mrs. Caxton, after taking so muchtrouble, dear soul!"

Therewith my father, drawing his dressing-robe round him in more statelyfolds, followed Mrs. Primmins upstairs into a room very carefullydarkened.

"How are you, my dear?" said my father, with compassionate tenderness,as he groped his way to the bed.

A faint voice muttered: "Better now, and so happy!" And at the samemoment Mrs. Primmins pulled my father away, lifted a coverlid from asmall cradle, and holding a candle within an inch of an undevelopednose, cried emphatically, "There--bless it!"

"Of course, ma'am, I bless it," said my father, rather peevishly. "It ismy duty to bless it--Bless It! And this, then, is the way we come intothe world!--red, very red,--blushing for all the follies we are destinedto commit."

My father sat down on the nurse's chair, the women grouped round him.He continued to gaze on the contents of the cradle, and at length said,musingly, "And Homer was once like this!"

At this moment--and no wonder, considering the propinquity of thecandle to his visual organs--Homer's infant likeness commenced the firstuntutored melodies of nature.

"Homer improved greatly in singing as he grew older," observed Mr.Squills, the accoucheur, who was engaged in some mysteries in a cornerof the room.

My father stopped his ears. "Little things can make a great noise," saidhe, philosophically; "and the smaller the thing; the greater noise itcan make."

So saying, he crept on tiptoe to the bed, and clasping the pale handheld out to him, whispered some words that no doubt charmed and soothedthe ear that heard them, for that pale hand was suddenly drawn from hisown and thrown tenderly round his neck. The sound of a gentle kiss washeard through the stillness.

"Mr. Caxton, sir," cried Mr. Squills, in rebuke, "you agitate mypatient; you must retire."

My father raised his mild face, looked round apologetically, brushed hiseyes with the back of his hand, stole to the door, and vanished.

"I think," said a kind gossip seated at the other side of my mother'sbed, "I think, my dear, that Mr. Caxton might have shown more joy,--morenatural feeling, I may say,--at the sight of the baby: and Such a baby!But all men are just the same, my dear,--brutes,--all brutes, dependupon it!"

"Poor Austin!" sighed my mother, feebly; "how little you understandhim!"

"And now I shall clear the room," said Mr. Squills. "Go to sleep, Mrs.Caxton."

"Mr. Squills," exclaimed my mother, and the bed-curtains trembled, "praysee that Mr. Caxton does not set himself on fire. And, Mr. Squills, tellhim not to be vexed and miss me,--I shall be down very soon,--sha' n'tI?"

"If you keep yourself easy, you will, ma'am."

"Pray, say so. And, Primmins--"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Every one, I fear, is neglecting your master. Be sure," and my mother'slips approached close to Mrs. Primmins' ear, "be sure that you--air hisnightcap yourself."

"Tender creatures those women," soliloquized Mr. Squills as, afterclearing the room of all present save Mrs. Primmins and the nurse, hetook his way towards my father's study. Encountering the footman in thepassage, "John," said he, "take supper into your master's room, and makeus some punch, will you,--stiffish!"

CHAPTER II.

"Mr. Caxton, how on earth did you ever come to marry?" asked Mr.Squills, abruptly, with his feet on the hob, while stirring up hispunch.

That was a home question, which many men might reasonably resent; but myfather scarcely knew what resentment was.

"Squills," said he, turning round from his books, and laying one fingeron the surgeon's arm confidentially,--"Squills," said he, "I myselfshould be glad to know how I came to be married."

Mr. Squills was a jovial, good-hearted man,--stout, fat, and with fineteeth, that made his laugh pleasant to look at as well as to hear. Mr.Squills, moreover, was a bit of a philosopher in his way,--studied humannature in curing its diseases; and was accustomed to say that Mr. Caxtonwas a better book in himself than all he had in his library. Mr. Squillslaughed, and rubbed his hands.

My father resumed thoughtfully, and in the tone of one who moralizes:--

"There are three great events in life, sir,--birth, marriage, and death.None know how they are born, few know how they die; but I suspect thatmany can account for the intermediate phenomenon--I cannot."

"It was not for money, it must have been for love," observed Mr.Squills; "and your young wife is as pretty as she is good."

"Ha!" said my father, "I remember."

"Do you, sir?" exclaimed Squills, highly amused. "How was it?"

My father, as was often the case with him, protracted his reply, andthen seemed rather to commune with himself than to answer Mr. Squills.

"The kindest, the best of men," he murmured,--"Abyssus Eruditionis.And to think that he bestowed on me the only fortune he had to leave,instead of to his own flesh and blood, Jack and Kitty,--all, at least,that I could grasp, deficiente manu, of his Latin, his Greek, hisOrientals. What do I not owe to him?"

"To whom?" asked Squills. "Good Lord! what's the man talking about?"

"Yes, sir," said my father, rousing himself, "such was Giles Tibbets, M.A., Sol Scientiarum, tutor to the humble scholar you address, and fatherto poor Kitty. He left me his Elzevirs; he left me also his orphandaughter."

"Oh! as a wife--"

"No, as a ward. So she came to live in my house. I am sure there was noharm in it. But my neighbors said there was, and the widow Weltraumtold me the girl's character would suffer. What could I do?--Oh, yes, Irecollect all now! I married her, that my old friend's child might havea roof to her head, and come to no harm. You see I was forced to do herthat injury; for, after all, poor young creature, it was a sad lotfor her. A dull bookworm like me,--cochlea vitam agens, Mr.Squills,--leading the life of a snail! But my shell was all I couldoffer to my poor friend's orphan."

"Mr. Caxton, I honor you," said Squills, emphatically, jumping up, andspilling half a tumblerful of scalding punch over my father's legs. "Youhave a heart, sir; and I understand why your wife loves you. You seem acold man, but you have tears in your eyes at this moment."

"I dare say I have," said my father, rubbing his shins; "it wasboiling!"

"And your son will be a comfort to you both," said Mr. Squills,reseating himself, and, in his friendly emotion, wholly abstracted fromall consciousness of the suffering he had inflicted; "he will be a doveof peace to your ark."

"I don't doubt it," said my father, ruefully; "only those doves, whenthey are small, are a very noisy sort of birds--non talium avium cantossomnum reducent. However, it might have been worse. Leda had twins."

"So had Mrs. Barnabas last week," rejoined the accoucheur. "Who knowswhat may be in store for you yet? Here's a health to Master Caxton, andlots of brothers and sisters to him."

"Brothers and sisters! I am sure Mrs. Caxton will never think of such athing, sir," said my father, almost indignantly; "she's much too good awife to behave so. Once in a way it is all very well; but twice--and asit is, not a paper in its place, nor a pen mended the last three days:I, too, who can only write cuspide duriuscula,--and the baker comingtwice to me for his bill, too! The Ilithyiae, are troublesome deities,Mr. Squills."

"Who are the Ilithyiae?" asked the accoucheur.

"You ought to know," answered my father, smiling,--"the female daemonswho presided over the Neogilos, or New-born. They take the name fromJuno. See Homer, Book XI. By the by, will my Neogilos be brought up likeHector, or Astyanax--videlicet, nourished by its mother, or by a nurse?"

"Which do you prefer, Mr. Caxton?" asked Mr. Squills, breaking the sugarin his tumbler. "In this I always deem it my duty to consult the wishesof the gentleman."

"A nurse by all means, then," said my father. "And let her carry him upokolpo, next to her bosom. I know all that has been said about mothersnursing their own infants, Mr. Squills; but poor Kitty is so sensitivethat I think a stout, healthy peasant woman will be the best for theboy's future nerves, and his mother's nerves, present and future too.Heigh-ho! I shall miss the dear woman very much. When will she be up,Mr. Squills?"

"Oh, in less than a fortnight!"

"And then the Neogilos shall go to school,--upo kolpo,--the nurse withhim, and all will be right again," said my father, with a look of sly,mysterious humor which was peculiar to him.

"School! when he's just born?"

"Can't begin too soon," said my father, positively; "that's Helvetius'opinion, and it is mine too!"

CHAPTER III.

That I was a very wonderful child, I take for granted; but neverthelessit was not of my own knowledge that I came into possession of thecircumstances set down in my former chapters. But my father's conducton the occasion of my birth made a notable impression upon all whowitnessed it; and Mr. Squills and Mrs. Primmins have related the factsto me sufficiently often to make me as well acquainted with them asthose worthy witnesses themselves. I fancy I see my father before me, inhis dark-gray dressing-gown, and with his odd, half-sly, half-innocenttwitch of the mouth, and peculiar puzzling look, from two quiet,abstracted, indolently handsome eyes, at the moment he agreed withHelvetius on the propriety of sending me to school as soon as I wasborn. Nobody knew exactly what to make of my father,--his wife excepted.The people of Abdera sent for Hippocrates to cure the supposed insanityof Democritus, "who at that time," saith Hippocrates, dryly, "wasseriously engaged in philosophy." That same people of Abdera wouldcertainly have found very alarming symptoms of madness in my poorfather; for, like Democritus, "he esteemed as nothing the things, greator small, in which the rest of the world were employed." Accordingly,some set him down as a sage, some as a fool. The neighboring clergyrespected him as a scholar, "breathing libraries;" the ladies despisedhim as an absent pedant who had no more gallantry than a stock or astone. The poor loved him for his charities, but laughed at him as aweak sort of man, easily taken in. Yet the squires and farmers foundthat, in their own matters of rural business, he had always a fund ofcurious information to impart; and whoever, young or old, gentle orsimple, learned or ignorant, asked his advice, it was given with notmore humility than wisdom. In the common affairs of life he seemedincapable of acting for himself; he left all to my mother; or, if takenunawares, was pretty sure to be the dupe. But in those very affairs, ifanother consulted him, his eye brightened, his brow cleared, the desireof serving made him a new being,--cautious, profound, practical. Toolazy or too languid where only his own interests were at stake, touchhis benevolence, and all the wheels of the clock-work felt the impetusof the master-spring. No wonder that, to others, the nut of sucha character was hard to crack! But in the eyes of my poor mother,Augustine (familiarly Austin) Caxton was the best and the greatest ofhuman beings; and she ought to have known him well, for she studied himwith her whole heart, knew every trick of his face, and, nine times outof ten, divined what he was going to say before he opened his lips. Yetcertainly there were deeps in his nature which the plummet of her tenderwoman's wit had never sounded; and certainly it sometimes happened that,even in his most domestic colloquialisms, my mother was in doubt whetherhe was the simple, straightforward person he was mostly taken for.There was, indeed, a kind of suppressed, subtle irony about him, toounsubstantial to be popularly called humor, but dimly implying some sortof jest, which he kept all to himself; and this was only noticeable whenhe said something that sounded very grave, or appeared to the grave verysilly and irrational.

That I did not go to school--at least to what Mr. Squills understood bythe word "school"--quite so soon as intended, I need scarcely observe.In fact, my mother managed so well--my nursery, by means of doubledoors, was so placed out of hearing--that my father, for the most part,was privileged, if he pleased, to forget my existence. He was oncevaguely recalled to it on the occasion of my christening. Now, my fatherwas a shy man, and he particularly hated all ceremonies and publicspectacles. He became uneasily aware that a great ceremony, in which hemight be called upon to play a prominent part, was at hand. Abstractedas he was, and conveniently deaf at times, he had heard such significantwhispers about "taking advantage of the bishop's being in theneighborhood," and "twelve new jelly-glasses being absolutely wanted,"as to assure him that some deadly festivity was in the wind. And whenthe question of godmother and godfather was fairly put to hire,coupled with the remark that this was a fine opportunity to return thecivilities of the neighborhood, he felt that a strong effort atescape was the only thing left. Accordingly, having, seemingly withoutlistening, heard the day fixed and seen, as they thought, withoutobserving, the chintz chairs in the best drawing-room uncovered (mydear mother was the tidiest woman in the world), my father suddenlydiscovered that there was to be a great book-sale, twenty miles off,which would last four days, and attend it he must. My mother sighed;but she never contradicted my father, even when he was wrong, as hecertainly was in this case. She only dropped a timid intimation that shefeared "it would look odd, and the world might misconstrue my father'sabsence,--had not she better put off the christening?"

"My dear," answered my father, "it will be my duty, by and by, tochristen the boy,--a duty not done in a day. At present, I have no doubtthat the bishop will do very well without me. Let the day stand, orif you put it off, upon my word and honor I believe that the wickedauctioneer will put off the book-sale also. Of one thing I am quitesure, that the sale and the christening will take place at the sametime." There was no getting over this; but I am certain my dear motherhad much less heart than before in uncovering the chintz chairs in thebest drawing-room. Five years later this would not have happened. Mymother would have kissed my father and said, "Stay," and he would havestayed. But she was then very young and timid; and he, wild man, not ofthe woods, but the cloisters, not yet civilized into the tractabilitiesof home. In short, the post-chaise was ordered and the carpetbag packed.

"My love," said my mother, the night before this Hegira, looking upfrom her work, "my love, there is one thing you have quite forgot tosettle,--I beg pardon for disturbing you, but it is important!--baby'sname: sha' n't we call him Augustine?"

"Augustine," said my father, dreamily,--"why that name's mine."

"And you would like your boy's to be the same?"

"No," said my father, rousing himself. "Nobody would know which waswhich. I should catch myself learning the Latin accidence, or playing atmarbles. I should never know my own identity, and Mrs. Primmins would begiving me pap."

My mother smiled; and putting her hand, which was a very pretty one, onmy father's shoulder, and looking at him tenderly, she said: "There's nofear of mistaking you for any other, even your son, dearest. Still, ifyou prefer another name, what shall it be?"

"Samuel," said my father. "Dr. Parr's name is Samuel."

"La, my love! Samuel is the ugliest name--"

My father did not hear the exclamation; he was again deep in his books.Presently he started up: "Barnes says Homer is Solomon. Read Omerosbackward, in the Hebrew manner--"

"Yes, my love," interrupted my mother. "But baby's Christian name?"

"Omeros--Soremo--Solemo--Solomo!"

"Solomo,--shocking!" said my mother.

"Shocking indeed," echoed my father; "an outrage to common-sense." Then,after glancing again over his books, he broke out musingly: "But, afterall, it is nonsense to suppose that Homer was not settled till histime."

"Whose?" asked my mother, mechanically. My father lifted up his finger.

My mother continued, after a short pause., "Arthur is a pretty name.Then there 's William--Henry--Charles--Robert. What shall it be, love?"

"Pisistratus!" said my father (who had hung fire till then), in a toneof contempt,--"Pisistratus, indeed!"

"Pisistratus! a very fine name," said my mother, joyfully,--"PisistratusCaxton. Thank you, my love: Pisistratus it shall be."

"Do you contradict me? Do you side with Wolfe and Heyne and thatpragmatical fellow Vico? Do you mean to say that the Rhapsodists--"

"No, indeed," interrupted my mother. "My dear, you frighten me."

My father sighed, and threw himself back in his chair. My mother tookcourage and resumed.

"Pisistratus is a long name too! Still, one could call him Sisty."

"Siste, Viator," muttered my father; "that's trite!"

"No, Sisty by itself--short. Thank you, my dear."

Four days afterwards, on his return from the book-sale, to my father'sinexpressible bewilderment, he was informed that Pisistratus was"growing the very image of him."

When at length the good man was made thoroughly aware of the fact thathis son and heir boasted a name so memorable in history as that borne bythe enslaver of Athens and the disputed arranger of Homer,--and it wasasserted to be a name that he himself had suggested,--he was as angry asso mild a man could be. "But it is infamous!" he exclaimed. "Pisistratuschristened! Pisistratus, who lived six hundred years before Christwas born! Good heavens, madam! you have made me the father of anAnachronism."

My mother burst into tears. But the evil was irremediable. Ananachronism I was, and an anachronism I must continue to the end of thechapter.

CHAPTER IV.

"Of course, sir, you will begin soon to educate your son yourself?" saidMr. Squills.

"Of course, sir," said my father, "you have read Martinus Scriblerus?"

"I don't understand you, Mr. Caxton."

"Then you have not read Martinus Scriblerus, Mr. Squills!"

"Consider that I have read it; and what then?"

"Why, then, Squills," said my father, familiarly, "you would knowthat though a scholar is often a fool, he is never a fool so supreme,so superlative, as when he is defacing the first unsullied page of thehuman history by entering into it the commonplaces of his own pedantry.A scholar, sir,--at least one like me,--is of all persons the mostunfit to teach young children. A mother, sir,--a simple, natural, lovingmother,--is the infant's true guide to knowledge."

"Egad! Mr. Caxton,--in spite of Helvetius, whom you quoted the night theboy was born,--egad! I believe you are right."

"I am sure of it," said my father,--"at least as sure as a poor mortalcan be of anything. I agree with Helvetius, the child should be educatedfrom its birth; but how? There is the rub: send him to school forthwith!Certainly, he is at school already with the two great teachers,--Natureand Love. Observe, that childhood and genius have the same master-organin common,--inquisitiveness. Let childhood have its way, and as it beganwhere genius begins, it may find what genius finds. A certain Greekwriter tells us of some man who, in order to save his bees a troublesomeflight to Hymettus, cut their wings, and placed before them the finestflowers he could select. The poor bees made no honey. Now, sir, if Iwere to teach my boy, I should be cutting his wings and giving himthe flowers he should find himself. Let us leave Nature alone for thepresent, and Nature's loving proxy, the watchful mother."

Therewith my father pointed to his heir sprawling on the grass andplucking daisies on the lawn, while the young mother's voice rosemerrily, laughing at the child's glee.

"I shall make but a poor bill out of your nursery, I see," said Mr.Squills.

Agreeably to these doctrines, strange in so learned a father, I thrivedand flourished, and learned to spell, and make pot-hooks, under thejoint care of my mother and Dame Primmins. This last was one of an oldrace fast dying away,--the race of old, faithful servants; the race ofold, tale-telling nurses. She had reared my mother before me; buther affection put out new flowers for the new generation. She was aDevonshire woman; and Devonshire women, especially those who have passedtheir youth near the sea-coast, are generally superstitious. She had awonderful budget of fables. Before I was six years old, I was erudite inthat primitive literature in which the legends of all nations are tracedto a common fountain,--Puss in Boots, Tom Thumb, Fortunio, Fortunatus,Jack the Giant-Killer; tales, like proverbs, equally familiar, underdifferent versions, to the infant worshippers of Budh and the hardierchildren of Thor. I may say, without vanity, that in an examination inthose venerable classics I could have taken honors!

My dear mother had some little misgivings as to the solid benefit to bederived from such fantastic erudition, and timidly consulted my fatherthereon.

"My love," answered my father, in that tone of voice which alwayspuzzled even my mother to be sure whether he was in jest or earnest,"in all these fables certain philosophers could easily discover symbolicsignifications of the highest morality. I have myself written a treatiseto prove that Puss in Boots is an allegory upon the progress of thehuman understanding, having its origin in the mystical schools of theEgyptian priests, and evidently an illustration of the worship renderedat Thebes and Memphis to those feline quadrupeds of which they make bothreligious symbols and elaborate mummies."

"My dear Austin," said my mother, opening her blue eyes, "you don'tthink that Sisty will discover all those fine things in Puss in Boots!"

"My dear Kitty," answered my father, "you don't think, when you weregood enough to take up with me, that you found in me all the fine thingsI have learned from books. You knew me only as a harmless creature whowas happy enough to please your fancy. By and by you discovered thatI was no worse for all the quartos that have transmigrated into ideaswithin me,--ideas that are mysteries even to myself. If Sisty, as youcall the child (plague on that unlucky anachronism! which you do well toabbreviate into a dissyllable),--if Sisty can't discover all the wisdomof Egypt in Puss in Boots, what then? Puss in Boots is harmless, and itpleases his fancy. All that wakes curiosity is wisdom, if innocent; allthat pleases the fancy now, turns hereafter to love or to knowledge. Andso, my dear, go back to the nursery."

But I should wrong thee, O best of fathers! if I suffered the reader tosuppose that because thou didst seem so indifferent to my birth, andso careless as to my early teaching, therefore thou wert, at heart,indifferent to thy troublesome Neogilos. As I grew older, I became moresensibly aware that a father's eye was upon me. I distinctly rememberone incident, that seems to me, in looking back, a crisis in my infantlife, as the first tangible link between my own heart and that calmgreat soul.

My father was seated on the lawn before the house, his straw hat overhis eyes (it was summer), and his book on his lap. Suddenly a beautifuldelf blue-and-white flower-pot, which had been set on the window-sillof an upper story, fell to the ground with a crash, and the fragmentsspluttered up round my father's legs. Sublime in his studies asArchimedes in the siege, he continued to read,--_Impavidum ferientruinae!_

"Dear, dear!" cried my mother, who was at work in the porch, "my poorflower-pot that I prized so much! Who could have done this? Primmins,Primmins!"

Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of the fatal window, nodded to thesummons, and came down in a trice, pale and breathless.

"Oh!" said my mother, Mournfully, "I would rather have lost all theplants in the greenhouse in the great blight last May,--I would ratherthe best tea-set were broken! The poor geranium I reared myself, and thedear, dear flower-pot which Mr. Caxton bought for me my last birthday!That naughty child must have done this!"

Mrs. Primmins was dreadfully afraid of my father,--why, I know not,except that very talkative social persons are usually afraid ofvery silent shy ones. She cast a hasty glance at her master, who wasbeginning to evince signs of attention, and cried promptly, "No, ma'am,it was not the dear boy, bless his flesh, it was I!"

"You? How could you be so careless? and you knew how I prized them both.Oh, Primmins!" Primmins began to sob.

"Don't tell fibs, nursey," said a small, shrill voice; and Master Sisty,coming out of the house as bold as brass, continued rapidly--"don'tscold Primmins, mamma: it was I who pushed out the flower-pot."

"Hush!" said nurse, more frightened than ever, and looking aghasttowards my father, who had very deliberately taken off his hat, and wasregarding the scene with serious eyes wide awake. "Hush! And if he didbreak it, ma'am, it was quite an accident; he was standing so, and henever meant it. Did you, Master Sisty? Speak!" this in a whisper, "or Pawill be so angry."

"Well," said my mother, "I suppose it was an accident; take care infuture, my child. You are sorry, I see, to have grieved me. There's akiss; don't fret."

"No, mamma, you must not kiss me; I don't deserve it. I pushed out theflower-pot on purpose."

"Ha! and why?" said my father, walking up.

Mrs. Primmins trembled like a leaf.

"For fun!" said I, hanging my head,--"just to see how you'd look, papa;and that's the truth of it. Now beat me, do beat me!"

My father threw his book fifty yards off, stooped down, and caught me tohis breast. "Boy," he said, "you have done wrong: you shall repair it byremembering all your life that your father blessed God for giving him ason who spoke truth in spite of fear! Oh! Mrs. Primmins, the next fableof this kind you try to teach him, and we part forever!"

From that time I first date the hour when I felt that I loved my father,and knew that he loved me; from that time, too, he began to conversewith me. He would no longer, if he met me in the garden, pass by with asmile and nod; he would stop, put his book in his pocket, and though histalk was often above my comprehension, still somehow I felt happierand better, and less of an infant, when I thought over it, and triedto puzzle out the meaning; for he had a way of suggesting, not teaching,putting things into my head, and then leaving them to work out theirown problems. I remember a special instance with respect to that sameflower-pot and geranium. Mr. Squills, who was a bachelor, and well-to-doin the world, often made me little presents. Not long after the eventI have narrated, he gave me one far exceeding in value those usuallybestowed on children,--it was a beautiful large domino-box in cut ivory,painted and gilt. This domino-box was my delight. I was never weary ofplaying, at dominos with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept with the box undermy pillow.

"Ah!" said my father one day, when he found me ranging the ivoryparallelograms in the parlor, "ah! you like that better than all yourplaythings, eh?"

"Oh, yes, papa!"

"You would be very sorry if your mamma were to throw that box out of thewindow and break it for fun." I looked beseechingly at my father, andmade no answer.

"But perhaps you would be very glad," he resumed, "if suddenly oneof those good fairies you read of could change the domino-box into abeautiful geranium in a beautiful blue-and-white flower-pot, and youcould have the pleasure of putting it on your mamma's window-sill."

"Indeed I would!" said I, half-crying.

"My dear boy, I believe you; but good wishes don't mend bad actions:good actions mend bad actions."

So saying, he shut the door and went out. I cannot tell you how puzzledI was to make out what my father meant by his aphorism. But I know thatI played at dominos no more that day. The next morning my father foundme seated by myself under a tree in the garden; he paused, and looked atme with his grave bright eyes very steadily.

"My boy," said he, "I am going to walk to ----," a town about two milesoff: "will you come? And, by the by, fetch your domino-box. I shouldlike to show it to a person there." I ran in for the box, and, not alittle proud of walking with my father upon the high-road, we set out.

"Papa," said I by the way, "there are no fairies now."

"What then, my child?"

"Why, how then can my domino-box be changed into a geranium and ablue-and-white flower-pot?"

"My dear," said my father, leaning his hand on my shoulder, "everybodywho is in earnest to be good, carries two fairies about with him,--onehere," and he touched my heart, "and one here," and he touched myforehead.

"I don't understand, papa."

"I can wait till you do, Pisistratus. What a name!"

My father stopped at a nursery gardener's, and after looking over theflowers, paused before a large double geranium. "Ah! this is finer thanthat which your mamma was so fond of. What is the cost, sir?"

"Only 7s. 6d.," said the gardener.

My father buttoned up his pocket. "I can't afford it to-day," said he,gently, and we walked out.

On entering the town, we stopped again at a china warehouse. "Have youa flower-pot like that I bought some months ago? Ah! here is one, marked3s. 6d. Yes, that is the price. Well; when your mamma's birthday comesagain, we must buy her another. That is some months to wait. And we canwait, Master Sisty. For truth, that blooms all the year round, is betterthan a poor geranium; and a word that is never broken, is better than apiece of delf."

My head, which had drooped before, rose again; but the rush of joy at myheart almost stifled me.

"I have called to pay your little bill," said my father, entering theshop of one of those fancy stationers common in country towns, and whosell all kinds of pretty toys and knick-knacks. "And by the way," headded, as the smiling shopman looked over his books for the entry,"I think my little boy here can show you a much handsomer specimen ofFrench workmanship than that work-box which you enticed Mrs. Caxton intoraffling for, last winter. Show your domino-box, my dear."

I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal in hiscommendations. "It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing isworth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young gentleman getstired of his plaything, what will you give him for it?"

"Why, sir," said the shopman, "I fear we could not afford to give morethan eighteen shillings for it, unless the young gentleman took some ofthese pretty things in exchange."

"Eighteen shillings!" said my father; "you would give that sum! Well, myboy, whenever you do grow tired of your box, you have my leave to sellit."

My father paid his bill and went out. I lingered behind a few moments,and joined him at the end of the street.

"Papa, papa," I cried, clapping my hands, "we can buy the geranium;we can buy the flower-pot." And I pulled a handful of silver from mypockets.

"Did I not say right?" said my father, passing his handkerchief over hiseyes. "You have found the two fairies!"

Oh! how proud, how overjoyed I was when, after placing vase and floweron the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the gown and made her followme to the spot.

"It is his doing and his money!" said my father; "good actions havemended the bad."

"What!" cried my mother, when she had learned all; "and your poordomino-box that you were so fond of! We will go back to-morrow and buyit back, if it costs us double."

"Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus?" asked my father.

"Oh, no--no--no! It would spoil all," I cried, burying my face on myfather's breast.

"My wife," said my father, solemnly, "this is my first lesson to ourchild,--the sanctity and the happiness of self-sacrifice; undo not whatit should teach to his dying day."

CHAPTER V.

When I was between my seventh and my eighth year, a change came over me,which may perhaps be familiar to the notice of those parents whoboast the anxious blessing of an only child. The ordinary vivacityof childhood forsook me; I became quiet, sedate, and thoughtful. Theabsence of play-fellows of my own age, the companionship of matureminds, alternated only by complete solitude, gave something precocious,whether to my imagination or my reason. The wild fables muttered tome by the old nurse in the summer twilight or over the winter'shearth,--the effort made by my struggling intellect to comprehend thegrave, sweet wisdom of my father's suggested lessons,--tended to feed apassion for revery, in which all my faculties strained and struggled, asin the dreams that come when sleep is nearest waking. I had learned toread with ease, and to write with some fluency, and I already began toimitate, to reproduce. Strange tales akin to those I had gleaned fromfairy-land, rude songs modelled from such verse-books as fell into myhands, began to mar the contents of marble-covered pages designed forthe less ambitious purposes of round text and multiplication. My mindwas yet more disturbed by the intensity of my home affections. My lovefor both my parents had in it something morbid and painful. I often weptto think how little I could do for those I loved so well. My fondestfancies built up imaginary difficulties for them, which my arm was tosmooth. These feelings, thus cherished, made my nerves over-susceptibleand acute. Nature began to affect me powerfully; and, from thataffection rose a restless curiosity to analyze the charms that somysteriously moved me to joy or awe, to smiles or tears. I got my fatherto explain to me the elements of astronomy; I extracted from Squills,who was an ardent botanist, some of the mysteries in the life offlowers. But music became my darling passion. My mother (though thedaughter of a great scholar,--a scholar at whose name my father raisedhis hat if it happened to be on his head) possessed, I must own itfairly, less book-learning than many a humble tradesman's daughter canboast in this more enlightened generation; but she had some naturalgifts which had ripened, Heaven knows how! into womanly accomplishments.She drew with some elegance, and painted flowers to exquisiteperfection. She played on more than one instrument with more thanboarding-school skill; and though she sang in no language but her own,few could hear her sweet voice without being deeply touched. Her music,her songs, had a wondrous effect on me. Thus, altogether, a kind ofdreamy yet delightful melancholy seized upon my whole being; and thiswas the more remarkable because contrary to my early temperament, whichwas bold, active, and hilarious. The change in my character began to actupon my form. From a robust and vigorous infant, I grew into a pale andslender boy. I began to ail and mope. Mr. Squills was called in.

"Tonics!" said Mr. Squills; "and don't let him sit over his book. Sendhim out in the air; make him play. Come here, my boy: these organs aregrowing too large;" and Mr. Squills, who was a phrenologist, placed hishand on my forehead. "Gad, sir, here's an ideality for you; and, blessmy soul, what a constructiveness!"

My father pushed aside his papers, and walked to and fro the room withhis hands behind him; but he did not say a word till Mr. Squills wasgone.

"My dear," then said he to my mother, on whose breast I was leaningmy aching ideality--"my dear, Pisistratus must go to school in goodearnest."

"Bless me, Austin!--at his age?"

"He is nearly eight years old."

"But he is so forward."

"It is for that reason he must go to school."

"I don't quite understand you, my love. I know he is getting past me;but you who are so clever--"

My father took my mother's hand: "We can teach him nothing now, Kitty.We send him to school to be taught--"

"By some schoolmaster who knows much less than you do--"

"By little schoolboys, who will make him a boy again," said my father,almost sadly. "My dear, you remember that when our Kentish gardenerplanted those filbert-trees, and when they were in their third year,and you began to calculate on what they would bring in, you went out onemorning, and found he had cut them down to the ground. You were vexed,and asked why. What did the gardener say? 'To prevent their bearingtoo soon.' There is no want of fruitfulness here: put back the hour ofproduce, that the plant may last."

"Let me go to school," said I, lifting my languid head and smiling on myfather. I understood him at once, and it was as if the voice of my lifeitself answered him.

CHAPTER VI.

A year after the resolution thus come to, I was at home for theholidays.

"I hope," said my mother, "that they are doing Sisty justice. I do thinkhe is not nearly so quick a child as he was before he went to school. Iwish you would examine him, Austin."

"I have examined him, my dear. It is just as I expected; and I am quitesatisfied."

"What! you really think he has come on?" said my mother, joyfully.

"He does not care a button for botany now," said Mr. Squills.

"And he used to be so fond of music, dear boy!" observed my mother, witha sigh. "Good gracious, what noise is that?"

"Your son's pop-gun against the window," said my father. "It is lucky itis only the window; it would have made a less deafening noise, though,if it had been Mr. Squills's head, as it was yesterday morning."

"The left ear," observed Squills; "and a very sharp blow it was too. Yetyou are satisfied, Mr. Caxton?"

"Yes; I think the boy is now as great a blockhead as most boys of hisage are," observed my father with great complacency.

"Dear me, Austin,--a great blockhead?"

"What else did he go to school for?" asked my father.

And observing a certain dismay in the face of his female audience, anda certain surprise in that of his male, he rose and stood on thehearth, with one hand in his waistcoat, as was his wont when about tophilosophize in more detail than was usual to him.

"Mr. Squills," said he, "you have had great experience in families."

"As good a practice as any in the county," said Mr. Squills, proudly;"more than I can manage. I shall advertise for a partner."

"And," resumed my father, "you must have observed almost invariably thatin every family there is what father, mother, uncle, and aunt pronounceto be one wonderful child."

"One at least," said Mr. Squills, smiling.

"It is easy," continued my father, "to say this is parental partiality;but it is not so. Examine that child as a stranger, and it willstartle yourself. You stand amazed at its eager curiosity, its quickcomprehension, its ready wit, its delicate perception. Often, too, youwill find some faculty strikingly developed. The child will have a turnfor mechanics, perhaps, and make you a model of a steamboat; or it willhave an ear tuned to verse, and will write you a poem like that ithas got by heart from 'The Speaker;' or it will take to botany (likePisistratus), with the old maid its aunt; or it will play a march on itssister's pianoforte. In short, even you, Squills, will declare that itis really a wonderful child."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Squills, thoughtfully, "there's a great dealof truth in what you say. Little Tom Dobbs is a wonderful child; so isFrank Stepington--and as for Johnny Styles, I must bring him here foryou to hear him prattle on Natural History, and see how well he handleshis pretty little microscope."

"Heaven forbid!" said my father. "And now let me proceed. Thesethaumata, or wonders, last till when, Mr. Squills?--last till the boygoes to school; and then, somehow or other, the thaumata vanish intothin air, like ghosts at the cockcrow. A year after the prodigy has beenat the academy, father and mother, uncle and aunt, plague you no morewith his doings and sayings: the extraordinary infant has become a veryordinary little boy. Is it not so, Mr. Squills?"

"Indeed you are right, sir. How did you come to be so observant? Younever seem to--"

"Hush!" interrupted my father; and then, looking fondly at my mother'sanxious face, he said soothingly: "Be comforted; this is wiselyordained, and it is for the best."

"It must be the fault of the school," said my mother, shaking her head.

"It is the necessity of the school, and its virtue, my Kate. Let anyone of these wonderful children--wonderful as you thought Sistyhimself--stay at home, and you will see its head grow bigger and bigger,and its body thinner and thinner--eh, Mr. Squills?--till the mind takeall nourishment from the frame, and the frame, in turn, stint or makesickly the mind. You see that noble oak from the window. If the Chinesehad brought it up, it would have been a tree in miniature at five yearsold, and at a hundred, you would have set it in a flowerpot on yourtable, no bigger than it was at five,--a curiosity for its maturity atone age; a show for its diminutiveness at the other. No! the ordeal fortalent is school; restore the stunted mannikin to the growing child, andthen let the child, if it can, healthily, hardily, naturally, work itsslow way up into greatness. If greatness be denied it, it will at leastbe a man; and that is better than to be a little Johnny Styles all itslife,--an oak in a pill-box."

At that moment I rushed into the room, glowing and panting, health on mycheek, vigor in my limbs, all childhood at my heart. "Oh, mamma, I havegot up the kite--so high! Come and see! Do come, papa!"

"Certainly," said my father; "only don't cry so loud,--kites make nonoise in rising; yet, you see how they soar above the world. Come, Kate.Where is my hat? Ah!--thank you, my boy."

"Kitty," said my father, looking at the kite, which, attached by itsstring to the peg I had stuck into the ground, rested calm in the sky,"never fear but what our kite shall fly as high; only, the human soulhas stronger instincts to mount upward than a few sheets of paper ona framework of lath. But observe that to prevent its being lost inthe freedom of space,--we must attach it lightly to earth; and observeagain, my dear, that the higher it soars, the more string we must giveit."

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

When I had reached the age of twelve, I had got to the head of thepreparatory school to which I had been sent. And having thus exhaustedall the oxygen of learning in that little receiver, my parents lookedout for a wider range for my inspirations. During the last two years inwhich I had been at school, my love for study had returned; but it wasa vigorous, wakeful, undreamy love, stimulated by competition, andanimated by the practical desire to excel.

My father no longer sought to curb my intellectual aspirings. He had toogreat a reverence for scholarship not to wish me to become a scholar ifpossible; though he more than once said to me somewhat sadly, "Masterbooks, but do not let them master you. Read to live, not live to read.One slave of the lamp is enough for a household; my servitude must notbe a hereditary bondage."

My father looked round for a suitable academy; and the fame of Dr.Herman's "Philhellenic Institute" came to his ears.

Now, this Dr. Herman was the son of a German music-master who hadsettled in England. He had completed his own education at the Universityof Bonn; but finding learning too common a drug in that market to bringthe high price at which he valued his own, and having some theories asto political freedom which attached him to England, he resolved uponsetting up a school, which he designed as an "Era in the History of theHuman Mind." Dr. Herman was one of the earliest of those new-fashionedauthorities in education who have, more lately, spread pretty numerouslyamongst us, and would have given, perhaps, a dangerous shake to thefoundations of our great classical seminaries, if those last had notvery wisely, though very cautiously, borrowed some of the more sensibleprinciples which lay mixed and adulterated amongst the crotchets andchimeras of their innovating rivals and assailants.

Dr. Herman had written a great many learned works against everypre-existing method of instruction; that which had made the greatestnoise was upon the infamous fiction of Spelling-Books: "A more lying,roundabout, puzzle-headed delusion than that by which we confuse theclear instincts of truth in our accursed systems of spelling, was neverconcocted by the father of falsehood." Such was the exordium of thisfamous treatise. For instance, take the monosyllable Cat. What a brazenforehead you must have when you say to an infant, c, a, t,--spell Cat:that is, three sounds, forming a totally opposite compound,--opposite inevery detail, opposite in the whole,--compose a poor little monosyllablewhich, if you would but say the simple truth, the child will learn tospell merely by looking at it! How can three sounds, which run thus tothe ear, see-eh-tee, compose the sound cat? Don't they rather composethe sound see-eh-te, or ceaty? How can a system of education flourishthat begins by so monstrous a falsehood, which the sense of hearingsuffices to contradict? No wonder that the horn-book is the despair ofmothers! From this instance the reader will perceive that Dr. Herman,in his theory of education, began at the beginning,--he took thebull fairly by the horns. As for the rest, upon a broad principle ofeclecticism, he had combined together every new patent invention foryouthful idea-shooting. He had taken his trigger from Hofwyl; he hadbought his wadding from Hamilton; he had got his copper-caps from Belland Lancaster. The youthful idea,--he had rammed it tight! he had rammedit loose! he had rammed it with pictorial illustrations! he had rammedit with the monitorial system! he had rammed it in every conceivableway, and with every imaginable ramrod! but I have mournful doubtswhether he shot the youthful idea an inch farther than it did under theold mechanism of flint and steel! Nevertheless, as Dr. Herman reallydid teach a great many things too much neglected at schools; as,besides Latin and Greek, he taught a vast variety in that vagueinfinite nowadays called "useful knowledge;" as he engaged lecturerson chemistry, engineering, and natural history; as arithmetic and theelements of physical science were enforced with zeal and care; asall sorts of gymnastics were intermingled with the sports of theplayground,--so the youthful idea, if it did not go farther, spread itsshots in a wider direction, and a boy could not stay there five yearswithout learning something: which is more than can be said of allschools! He learned at least to use his eyes and his ears and his limbs;order, cleanliness, exercise, grew into habits; and the school pleasedthe ladies and satisfied the gentlemen,--in a word, it thrived; and Dr.Herman, at the time I speak of, numbered more than one hundred pupils.Now, when the worthy man first commenced the task of tuition, he hadproclaimed the humanest abhorrence to the barbarous system of corporalpunishment. But alas! as his school increased in numbers, he hadproportionately recanted these honorable and anti-birchen ideas.He had--reluctantly, perhaps, honestly, no doubt; but with fulldetermination--come to the conclusion that there are secret springswhich can only be detected by the twigs of the divining-rod; and havingdiscovered with what comparative ease the whole mechanism of his littlegovernment could be carried on by the admission of the birch-regulator,so, as he grew richer and lazier and fatter, the Philhellenic Institutespun along as glibly as a top kept in vivacious movement by theperpetual application of the lash.

I believe that the school did not suffer in reputation from this sadapostasy on the part of the head-master; on the contrary, it seemed morenatural and English,--less outlandish and heretical. And it was atthe zenith of its renown when, one bright morning, with all my clothesnicely mended, and a large plum-cake in my box, I was deposited at itshospitable gates.

Amongst Dr. Herman's various whimsicalities there was one to which hehad adhered with more fidelity than to the anti-corporal punishmentarticles of his creed; and, in fact, it was upon this that he hadcaused those imposing words, "Philhellenic Institute," to blaze in giltcapitals in front of his academy. He belonged to that illustrious classof scholars who are now waging war on our popular mythologies, andupsetting all the associations which the Etonians and Harrovians connectwith the household names of ancient history. In a word, he soughtto restore to scholastic purity the mutilated orthography of Greekappellatives. He was extremely indignant that little boys should bebrought up to confound Zeus with Jupiter, Ares with Mars, Artemiswith Diana,--the Greek deities with the Roman; and so rigidly did heinculcate the doctrine that these two sets of personages were to bekept constantly contradistinguished from each other, that hiscross-examinations kept us in eternal confusion.

"Vat," he would exclaim to some new boy fresh from some grammar-schoolon the Etonian system--"Vat do you mean by dranslating Zeus Jupiter? Isdat amatory, irascible, cloud-compelling god of Olympus, vid his eagleand his aegis, in the smallest degree resembling de grave, formal, moralJupiter Optimus Maximus of the Roman Capitol?--a god, Master Simpkins,who would have been perfectly shocked at the idea of running afterinnocent Fraulein dressed up as a swan or a bull! I put dat question toyou vonce for all, Master Simpkins." Master Simpkins took care to agreewith the Doctor. "And how could you," resumed Dr. Herman majestically,turning to some other criminal alumnus,--"how could you presume todranslate de Ares of Homer, sir, by the audacious vulgarism Mars?--Ares,Master Jones, who roared as loud as ten thousand men when he was hurt;or as you vill roar if I catch you calling him Mars again?--Ares, whocovered seven plectra of ground? Confound Ares, the manslayer, with theMars or Mavors whom de Romans stole from de Sabines!--Mars, de solemnand calm protector of Rome! Master Jones, Master Jones, you ought to beashamed of yourself!" And then waxing enthusiastic, and warming more andmore into German gutturals and pronunciation, the good Doctor would liftup his hands, with two great rings on his thumbs, and exclaim: "Und Du!and dou, Aphrodite,--dou, whose bert de seasons velcomed! dou, whodidst put Atonis into a coffer, and den tid durn him into ananemone! dou to be called Venus by dat snivel-nosed little MasterBudderfield!--Venus, who presided over Baumgartens and funerals andnasty tinking sewers!--Venus Cloacina, O mein Gott! Come here, MasterBudderfield: I must flog you for dat; I must indeed, liddle boy!" As ourPhilhellenic preceptor carried his archaeological purism into all Greekproper names, it was not likely that my unhappy baptismal would escape.The first time I signed my exercise I wrote "Pisistratus Caxton" in mybest round-hand. "And dey call your baba a scholar!" said the Doctor,contemptuously. "Your name, sir, is Greek; and, as Greek, you villbe dood enough to write it, vith vat you call an e and ano,--P,e,i,s,i,s,t,r,a,t,o,s. Vat can you expect for to come to,Master Caxton, if you don't pay de care dat is proper to your own doodname,--de e, and de o? Ach? let me see no more of your vile corruptions!Mein Gott! Pi! ven de name is Pei!"

The next time I wrote home to my father, modestly implying that Iwas short of cash, that a trap-bat would be acceptable, and that thefavorite goddess amongst the boys (whether Greek or Roman was veryimmaterial) was Diva Moneta, I felt a glow of classical pride in signingmyself "your affectionate Peisistratos." The next post brought a saddamper to my scholastic exultation. The letter ran thus:--

 My Dear Son,--I prefer my old acquaintances Thucydides and Pisistratus to Thoukudides and Peisistratos. Horace is familiar to me, but Horatius is only known to me as Cocles. Pisistratus can play at trap-ball; but I find no authority in pure Greek to allow me to suppose that that game was known to Peisistratos. I should be too happy to send you a drachma or so, but I have no coins in my possession current at Athens at the time when Pisistratus was spelt Peisistratos.--Your affectionate father, A. CAXTON.

Verily, here indeed was the first practical embarrassment producedby that melancholy anachronism which my father had so propheticallydeplored. However, nothing like experience to prove the value ofcompromise in this world. Peisistratos continued to write exercises, anda second letter from Pisistratus was followed by the trap-bat.

CHAPTER II.

I was somewhere about sixteen when, on going home for the holidays, Ifound my mother's brother settled among the household Lares. UncleJack, as he was familiarly called, was a light-hearted, plausible,enthusiastic, talkative fellow, who had spent three small fortunes intrying to make a large one.

Uncle Jack was a great speculator; but in all his speculations henever affected to think of himself,--it was always the good of hisfellow-creatures that he had at heart, and in this ungrateful worldfellow-creatures are not to be relied upon! On coming of age, heinherited L6,000, from his maternal grandfather. It seemed to him thenthat his fellow-creatures were sadly imposed upon by their tailors.Those ninth parts of humanity notoriously eked out their fractionalexistence by asking nine times too much for the clothing whichcivilization, and perhaps a change of climate, render more necessary tous than to our predecessors, the Picts. Out of pure philanthropy, UncleJack started a "Grand National Benevolent Clothing Company," whichundertook to supply the public with inexpressibles of the best Saxoncloth at 7s. 6d. a pair; coats, superfine, L1 18s.; and waistcoats atso much per dozen,--they were all to be worked off by steam. Thusthe rascally tailors were to be put down, humanity clad, and thephilanthropists rewarded (but that was a secondary consideration) with aclear return of thirty per cent. In spite of the evident charitablenessof this Christian design, and the irrefragable calculations uponwhich it was based, this company died a victim to the ignorance andunthankfulness of our fellow-creatures; and all that remained of Jack'sL6,000, was a fifty-fourth share in a small steam-engine, a largeassortment of ready-made pantaloons, and the liabilities of thedirectors.

Uncle Jack disappeared, and went on his travels. The same spirit ofphilanthropy which characterized the speculations of his purse attendedthe risks of his person. Uncle Jack had a natural leaning towards alldistressed communities: if any tribe, race, or nation was down in theworld, Uncle Jack threw himself plump into the scale to redressthe balance. Poles, Greeks (the last were then fighting the Turks),Mexicans, Spaniards,--Uncle Jack thrust his nose into all theirsquabbles! Heaven forbid I should mock thee, poor Uncle Jack, for thosegenerous predilections towards the unfortunate; only, whenever a nationis in a misfortune, there is always a job going on! The Polishcause, the Greek cause, the Mexican cause, and the Spanish cause arenecessarily mixed up with loans and subscriptions. These Continentalpatriots, when they take up the sword with one hand, generally contriveto thrust their other hand deep into their neighbor's breeches' pockets.Uncle Jack went to Greece, thence he went to Spain, thence to Mexico.No doubt he was of great service to those afflicted populations, forhe came back with unanswerable proof of their gratitude in the shapeof L3,000. Shortly after this appeared a prospectus of the "New, Grand,National, Benevolent Insurance Company, for the Industrial Classes."This invaluable document, after setting forth the immense benefitsto society arising from habits of providence and the introduction ofinsurance companies,--proving the infamous rate of premiums exactedby the existent offices, and their inapplicability to the wants of thehonest artisan, and declaring that nothing but the purest intentionsof benefiting their fellow-creatures, and raising the moral tone ofsociety, had led the directors to institute a new society, founded onthe noblest principles and the most moderate calculations,--proceededto demonstrate that twenty-four and a half per cent was the smallestpossible return the shareholders could anticipate. The company beganunder the fairest auspices; an archbishop was caught as president, onthe condition always that he should give nothing but his name to thesociety. Uncle Jack--more euphoniously designated as "the celebratedphilanthropist, John Jones Tibbets, Esquire"--was honorary secretary,and the capital stated at two millions. But such was the obtusenessof the industrial classes, so little did they perceive the benefitsof subscribing one-and-ninepence a-week from the age of twenty-one tofifty, in order to secure at the latter age the annuity of L18, that thecompany dissolved into thin air, and with it dissolved also Uncle Jack'sL3,000. Nothing more was then seen or heard of him for three years. Soobscure was his existence that on the death of an aunt, who left hima small farm in Cornwall, it was necessary to advertise that "If JohnJones Tibbets, Esq., would apply to Messrs. Blunt & Tin, Lothbury,between the hours of ten and four, he would hear of something to hisadvantage." But even as a conjurer declares that he will call the aceof spades, and the ace of spades, that you thought you had safely underyour foot, turns up on the table,--so with this advertisement suddenlyturned up Uncle Jack. With inconceivable satisfaction did the newlandowner settle himself in his comfortable homestead. The farm, whichwas about two hundred acres, was in the best possible condition, andsaving one or two chemical preparations, which cost Uncle Jack, upon themost scientific principles, thirty acres of buckwheat, the ears ofwhich came up, poor things, all spotted and speckled as if they had beeninoculated with the small-pox, Uncle Jack for the first two years wasa thriving man. Unluckily, however, one day Uncle Jack discovered acoal-mine in a beautiful field of Swedish turnips; in another weekthe house was full of engineers and naturalists, and in another monthappeared; in my uncle's best style, much improved by practice, aprospectus of the "Grand National Anti-Monopoly Coal Company, institutedon behalf of the poor householders of London, and against the MonsterMonopoly of the London Coal Wharves.

"A vein of the finest coal has been discovered on the estates of thecelebrated philanthropist, John Jones Tibbets, Esq. This new mine, theMolly Wheel, having been satisfactorily tested by that eminent engineer,Giles Compass, Esq., promises an inexhaustible field to the energies ofthe benevolent and the wealth of the capitalist. It is calculated thatthe best coals may be delivered, screened, at the mouth of the Thamesfor 18s. per load, yielding a profit of not less than forty-eight percent to the shareholders. Shares L50, to be paid in five instalments.Capital to be subscribed, one million. For shares, early applicationmust be made to Messrs. Blunt & Tin, solicitors, Lothbury."

Here, then, was something tangible for fellow-creatures to go on: therewas land, there was a mine, there was coal, and there actually cameshareholders and capital. Uncle Jack was so persuaded that his fortunewas now to be made, and had, moreover, so great a desire to share theglory of ruining the monster monopoly of the London wharves, thathe refused a very large offer to dispose of the property altogether,remained chief shareholder, and removed to London, where he set up hiscarriage and gave dinners to his fellow-directors. For no less thanthree years did this company flourish, having submitted the entiredirection and working of the mines to that eminent engineer, GilesCompass. Twenty per cent was paid regularly by that gentleman to theshareholders, and the shares were at more than cent per cent, when onebright morning Giles Compass, Esq., unexpectedly removed himself tothat wider field for genius like his, the United States; and it wasdiscovered that the mine had for more than a year run itself intoa great pit of water, and that Mr. Compass had been paying theshareholders out of their own capital. My uncle had the satisfactionthis time of being ruined in very good company; three doctors ofdivinity, two county members, a Scotch lord, and an East India directorwere all in the same boat,--that boat which went down with the coal-mineinto the great water-pit!

It was just after this event that Uncle Jack, sanguine and light-heartedas ever, suddenly recollected his sister, Mrs. Caxton, and not knowingwhere else to dine, thought he would repose his limbs under my father'strabes citrea, which the ingenious W. S. Landor opines should betranslated "mahogany." You never saw a more charming man than UncleJack.

All plump people are more popular than thin people. There is somethingjovial and pleasant in the sight of a round face! What conspiracycould succeed when its head was a lean and hungry-looking fellow, likeCassius? If the Roman patriots had had Uncle Jack amongst them, perhapsthey would never have furnished a tragedy to Shakspeare. Uncle Jack wasas plump as a partridge,--not unwieldy, not corpulent, not obese,not vastus, which Cicero objects to in an orator, but every crevicecomfortably filled up. Like the ocean, "time wrote no wrinkles on hisglassy [or brassy] brow." His natural lines were all upward curves, hissmile most ingratiating, his eye so frank, even his trick of rubbing hisclean, well-fed, English-looking hands, had something about it coaxingand debonnaire, something that actually decoyed you into trusting yourmoney into hands so prepossessing. Indeed, to him might be fully appliedthe expression--Sedem animce in extremis digitis habet,--"He had hissoul's seat in his finger-ends." The critics observe that few men haveever united in equal perfection the imaginative with the scientificfaculties. "Happy he," exclaims Schiller, "who combines the enthusiast'swarmth with the worldly man's light:" light and warmth, Uncle Jackhad them both. He was a perfect symphony of bewitching enthusiasm andconvincing calculation. Dicaeopolis in the "Aeharnenses," in presentinga gentleman called Nicharchus to the audience, observes: "He is small,I confess, but, there is nothing lost in him: all is knave that is notfool." Parodying the equivocal compliment, I may say that though UncleJack was no giant, there was nothing lost in him. Whatever was notphilanthropy was arithmetic, and whatever was not arithmetic wasphilanthropy. He would have been equally dear to Howard and to Cocker.Uncle Jack was comely too,--clear-skinned and florid, had a littlemouth, with good teeth, wore no whiskers, shaved his beard as close asif it were one of his grand national companies; his hair, once somewhatsandy, was now rather grayish, which increased the respectability of hisappearance; and he wore it flat at the sides and raised in a peak at thetop; his organs of constructiveness and ideality were pronounced by Mr.Squills to be prodigious, and those freely developed bumps gave greatbreadth to his forehead. Well-shaped, too, was Uncle Jack, about fivefeet eight,--the proper height for an active man of business. He worea black coat; but to make the nap look the fresher, he had given it therelief of gilt buttons, on--which were wrought a small crown and anchor;at a distance this button looked like the king's button, and gave himthe air of one who has a place about Court. He always wore a whiteneckcloth without starch, a frill, and a diamond pin, which lastfurnished him with observations upon certain mines of Mexico, whichhe had a great, but hitherto unsatisfied, desire of seeing worked by agrand National United Britons Company. His waistcoat of a morning waspale buff--of an evening, embroidered velvet; wherewith were connectedsundry schemes of an "association for the improvement of nativemanufactures." His trousers, matutinally, were of the color vulgarlycalled "blotting-paper;" and he never wore boots,--which, he said,unfitted a man for exercise,--but short drab gaiters and square-toedshoes. His watch-chain was garnished with a vast number of seals; eachseal, indeed, represented the device of some defunct company, and theymight be said to resemble the scalps of the slain worn by theaboriginal Iroquois,--concerning whom, indeed, he had once entertainedphilanthropic designs, compounded of conversion to Christianity onthe principles of the English Episcopal Church, and of an advantageousexchange of beaver-skins for Bibles, brandy, and gunpowder.

That Uncle Jack should win my heart was no wonder; my mother's he hadalways won, from her earliest recollection of his having persuaded herto let her great doll (a present from her godmother) be put up to araffle for the benefit of the chimney-sweepers. "So like him,--sogood!" she would often say pensively. "They paid sixpence apiece for theraffle,--twenty tickets,--and the doll cost L2. Nobody was taken in, andthe doll, poor thing (it had such blue eyes!) went for a quarter of itsvalue. But Jack said nobody could guess what good the ten shillings didto the chimney-sweepers." Naturally enough, I say, my mother liked UncleJack; but my father liked him quite as well,--and that was a strongproof of my uncle's powers of captivation. However, it is noticeablethat when some retired scholar is once interested in an active man ofthe world, he is more inclined to admire him than others are. Sympathywith such a companion gratifies at once his curiosity and his indolence;he can travel with him, scheme with him, fight with him, go with himthrough all the adventures of which his own books speak so eloquently,and all the time never stir from his easy-chair. My father said "that itwas like listening to Ulysses to hear Uncle Jack!" Uncle Jack, too, hadbeen in Greece and Asia Minor, gone over the site of the siege of Troy,eaten figs at Marathon, shot hares in the Peloponnesus, and drunk threepints of brown stout at the top of the Great Pyramid.

Therefore, Uncle Jack was like a book of reference to my father. Verilyat times he looked on him as a book, and took him down after dinneras he would a volume of Dodwell or Pausanias. In fact, I believe thatscholars who never move from their cells are not the less an eminentlycurious, bustling, active race, rightly understood. Even as old Burtonsaith of himself--"Though I live a collegiate student, and lead amonastic life, sequestered from those tumults and troubles of the world,I hear and see what is done abroad, how others run, ride, turmoil, andmacerate themselves in town and country,"--which citation sufficeth toshow that scholars are naturally the most active men of the world; onlythat while their heads plot with Augustus, fight with Julius, sail withColumbus, and change the face of the globe with Alexander, Attila, orMahomet, there is a certain mysterious attraction, which our improvedknowledge of mesmerism will doubtless soon explain to the satisfactionof science, between that extremer and antipodal part of the human frame,called in the vulgate "the seat of honor," and the stuffed leather ofan armed chair. Learning somehow or other sinks down to that part intowhich it was first driven, and produces therein a leaden heaviness andweight, which counteract those lively emotions of the brain that mightotherwise render students too mercurial and agile for the safety ofestablished order. I leave this conjecture to the consideration ofexperimentalists in the physics.

I was still more delighted than my father with Uncle Jack. He was fullof amusing tricks, could conjure wonderfully, make a bunch of keys dancea hornpipe, and if ever you gave him half-a-crown, he was sure to turnit into a halfpenny.

He was only unsuccessful in turning my halfpennies into half-crowns.

We took long walks together, and in the midst of his most divertingconversation my uncle was always an observer. He would stop to examinethe nature of the soil, fill my pockets (not his own) with great lumpsof clay, stones, and rubbish, to analyze when he got home, by the helpof some chemical apparatus he had borrowed from Mr. Squills. He wouldstand an hour at a cottage door, admiring the little girls who werestraw-platting, and then walk into the nearest farmhouses, to suggestthe feasibility of "a national straw-plat association." All thisfertility of intellect was, alas! wasted in that ingrata terra intowhich Uncle Jack had fallen. No squire could be persuaded into thebelief that his mother-stone was pregnant with minerals; no farmertalked into weaving straw-plat into a proprietary association. So, evenas an ogre, having devastated the surrounding country, begins to cast ahungry eye on his own little ones, Uncle Jack's mouth, long defraudedof juicier and more legitimate morsels, began to water for a bite of myinnocent father.

CHAPTER III.

At this time we were living in what may be called a very respectablestyle for people who made no pretence to ostentation. On the skirts ofa large village stood a square red-brick house, about the date of QueenAnne. Upon the top of the house was a balustrade,--why, Heaven knows,for nobody, except our great tom-cat, Ralph, ever walked upon the leads;but so it was, and so it often is in houses from the time of Elizabeth,yea, even to that of Victoria. This balustrade was divided by low piers,on each of which was placed a round ball. The centre of the house wasdistinguishable by an architrave in the shape of a triangle, underwhich was a niche,--probably meant for a figure; but the figure was notforthcoming. Below this was the window (encased with carved pilasters)of my dear mother's little sitting-room; and lower still, raised on aflight of six steps, was a very handsome-looking door, with a projectingporch. All the windows, with smallish panes and largish frames, wererelieved with stone copings; so that the house had an air of solidityand well-to-do-ness about it,--nothing tricky on the one hand, nothingdecayed on the other. The house stood a little back from the gardengates, which were large, and set between two piers surmounted withvases. Many might object that in wet weather you had to walk some way toyour carriage; but we obviated that objection by not keeping a carriage.To the right of the house the enclosure contained a little lawn, alaurel hermitage, a square pond, a modest greenhouse, and half-a-dozenplots of mignonette, heliotrope, roses, pinks, sweet-William, etc. Tothe left spread the kitchen-garden, lying screened by espaliers yieldingthe finest apples in the neighborhood, and divided by three windinggravel-walks, of which the extremest was backed by a wall, whereon,as it lay full south, peaches, pears, and nectarines sunned themselvesearly into well-remembered flavor. This walk was appropriated to myfather. Book in hand, he would, on fine days, pace to and fro,often stopping, dear man, to jot down a pencil-note, gesticulate, orsoliloquize. And there, when not in his study, my mother would be sureto find him. In these deambulations, as he called them, he had generallya companion so extraordinary that I expect to be met with a hillalu ofincredulous contempt when I specify it. Nevertheless I vow and protestthat it is strictly true, and no invention of an exaggerating romancer.It happened one day that my mother had coaxed Mr. Caxton to walk withher to market. By the way they passed a sward of green, on which sundrylittle boys were engaged upon the lapidation of a lame duck. It seemedthat the duck was to have been taken to market, when it was discoverednot only to be lame, but dyspeptic,--perhaps some weed had disagreedwith its ganglionic apparatus, poor thing. However that be, thegood-wife had declared that the duck was good for nothing; and upon thepetition of her children, it had been consigned to them for a littleinnocent amusement, and to keep them out of harm's way. My motherdeclared that she never before saw her lord and master roused to suchanimation. He dispersed the urchins, released the duck, carried ithome, kept it in a basket by the fire, fed it and physicked it till itrecovered; and then it was consigned to the square pond. But lo! theduck knew its benefactor; and whenever my father appeared outside hisdoor, it would catch sight of him, flap from the pond, gain the lawn,and hobble after him (for it never quite recovered the use of its leftleg) till it reached the walk by the peaches; and there sometimes itwould sit, gravely watching its master's deambulations, sometimes strollby his side, and, at all events, never leave him till, at his returnhome, he fed it with his own hands; and, quacking her peaceful adieus,the nymph then retired to her natural element.

With the exception of my mother's favorite morning-room, the principalsitting-rooms--that is, the study, the diningroom, and what wasemphatically called "the best drawing-room," which was only occupied ongreat occasions--looked south. Tall beeches, firs, poplars, and a fewoaks backed the house, and indeed surrounded it on all sides but thesouth; so that it was well sheltered from the winter cold and the summerheat. Our principal domestic, in dignity and station, was Mrs. Primmins,who was waiting gentlewoman, housekeeper, and tyrannical dictatrix ofthe whole establishment. Two other maids, a gardener, and a footman,composed the rest of the serving household. Save a few pasture-fields,which he let, my father was not troubled with land. His income wasderived from the interest of about L15,000, partly in the Three perCents, partly on mortgage; and what with my mother and Mrs. Primmins,this income always yielded enough to satisfy my father's single hobbyfor books, pay for my education, and entertain our neighbors, rarelyindeed at dinner, but very often at tea. My dear mother boasted that oursociety was very select. It consisted chiefly of the clergyman and hisfamily; two old maids who gave themselves great airs; a gentleman whohad been in the East India service, and who lived in a large white houseat the top of the hill; some half-a-dozen squires and their wives andchildren; Mr. Squills, still a bachelor; and once a year cards wereexchanged--and dinners too--with certain aristocrats who inspired mymother with a great deal of unnecessary awe, since she declared theywere the most good-natured, easy people in the world, and always stucktheir cards in the most conspicuous part of the looking-glass frame overthe chimney-piece of the best drawing-room. Thus you perceive that ournatural position was one highly creditable to us, proving the soundnessof our finances and the gentility of our pedigree,--of which last morehereafter. At present I content myself with saying on that head thateven the proudest of the neighboring squirearchs always spoke of us asa very ancient family. But all my father ever said, to evince pride ofancestry, was in honor of William Caxton, citizen and printer in thereign of Edward IV.,--Clarum et venerabile nomen! an ancestor a man ofletters might be justly vain of.

"Heus," said my father, stopping short, and lifting his eyes from theColloquies of Erasmus, "salve multum, jucundissime."

Uncle Jack was not much of a scholar, but he knew enough Latin toanswer, "Salve tantundem, mi frater."

My father smiled approvingly. "I see you comprehend true urbanity, orpoliteness, as we phrase it. There is an elegance in addressing thehusband of your sister as brother. Erasmus commends it in his openingchapter, under the head of Salutandi formuloe. And indeed," added myfather, thoughtfully, "there is no great difference between politenessand affection. My author here observes that it is polite to expresssalutation in certain minor distresses of nature. One should salute agentleman in yawning, salute him in hiccuping, salute him in sneezing,salute him in coughing,--and that evidently because of your interest inhis health; for he may dislocate his jaw in yawning, and the hiccup isoften a symptom of grave disorder, and sneezing is perilous to the smallblood-vessels of the head, and coughing is either a tracheal, bronchial,pulmonary, or ganglionic affection."

"Very true. The Turks always salute in sneezing, and they are aremarkably polite people," said Uncle Jack. "But, my dear brother, I wasjust looking with admiration at these apple-trees of yours. I never sawfiner. I am a great judge of apples. I find, in talking with my sister,that you make very little profit by them. That's a pity. One mightestablish a cider orchard in this county. You can take your own fieldsin hand; you can hire more, so as to make the whole, say a hundredacres. You can plant a very extensive apple-orchard on a grand scale. Ihave just run through the calculations; they are quite startling. Take40 trees per acre--that's the proper average--at 1s. 6d. per tree;4,000 trees for 100 acres, L300; labor of digging, trenching, say L10an acre,--total for 100 acres, L1,000. Pave the bottoms of the holesto prevent the tap-root striking down into the bad soil,--oh! I am veryclose and careful you see, in all minutiae; always was,--pave 'em withrubbish and stones, 6d. a hole; that for 4,000 trees the 100 acres isL100. Add the rent of the land, at 30s. an acre,--L150. And how standsthe total?" Here Uncle Jack proceeded rapidly ticking off the items withhis fingers:--

 "Trees........... 300 Labor........... 1,000 Paving holes.... 100 Rent............ 150 ____ Total....... L1,550

"That's your expense. Mark! Now to the profit. Orchards in Kent realizeL100 an acre, some even L150; but let's be moderate, say only L50 anacre, and your gross profit per year, from a capital of L1,550, willbe L5,000,--L5,000 a-year. Think of that, brother Caxton! Deduct 10 percent, or L500 a-year, for gardeners' wages, manure, etc., and the netproduct is L4,500. Your fortune's made, man,--it is made; I wish youjoy!" And Uncle Jack rubbed his hands.

"Bless me, father," said eagerly the young Pisistratus, who hadswallowed with ravished ears every syllable and figure of this invitingcalculation, "why, we should be as rich as Squire Rollick; and then, youknow, sir, you could keep a pack of fox-hounds."

"And buy a large library," added Uncle Jack, with more subtle knowledgeof human nature as to its appropriate temptations. "There's my friendthe archbishop's collection to be sold."

Slowly recovering his breath, my father gently turned his eyes from oneto the other; and then, laying his left hand on my head, while with theright he held up Erasmus rebukingly to Uncle Jack, said,--

"See how easily you can sow covetousness and avidity in the youthfulmind. Ah, brother!"

"You are too severe, sir. See how the dear boy hangs his head! Fie!natural enthusiasm of his years,--'gay hope by fancy fed,' as the poetsays. Why, for that fine boy's sake you ought not to lose so certainan occasion of wealth, I may say, untold. For observe, you will forma nursery of crabs; each year you go on grafting and enlarging yourplantation, renting,--nay, why not buying, more land? Gad, sir! intwenty years you might cover half the county; but say you stop short at2,000 acres, why the net profit is L90,000 a-year. A duke's income,--aduke's; and going a-begging, as I may say."

"But stop," said I, modestly; "the trees don't grow in a year. I knowwhen our last apple-tree was planted--it is five years ago--it was thenthree years old, and it only bore one half-bushel last autumn."

"What an intelligent lad it is! Good head there. Oh, he'll do creditto his great fortune, brother," said Uncle Jack, approvingly. "True, myboy. But in the mean while we could fill the ground, as they do in Kent,with gooseberries and currants, or onions and cabbages. Nevertheless,considering we are not great capitalists, I am afraid we must give upa share of our profits to diminish our outlay. So harkye,Pisistratus--look at him, brother, simple as he stands there, I think heis born with a silver spoon in his mouth--harkye, now to the mysteriesof speculation. Your father shall quietly buy the land, and then,presto! we will issue a prospectus and start a company. Associations canwait five years for a return. Every year, meanwhile, increases the valueof the shares. Your father takes, we say, fifty shares at L50 each,paying only an instalment of L2 a share. He sells 35 shares at cent percent. He keeps the remaining 15, and his fortune's made all the same;only it is not quite so large as if he had kept the whole concern in hisown hands. What say you now, brother Caxton? Visne edere pomum? as weused to say at school."

"I don't want a shilling more than I have got," said my father,resolutely. "My wife would not love me better; my food would not nourishme more; my boy would not, in all probability, be half so hardy, or atenth part so industrious; and--"

"But," interrupted Uncle Jack, pertinaciously, and reserving his grandargument for the last, "the good you would confer on the community; theprogress given to the natural productions of your country; the wholesomebeverage of cider brought within cheap reach of the laboring classes. Ifit was only for your sake, should I have urged this question? Should Inow? Is it in my character? But for the sake of the public! mankind! ofour fellow-creatures! Why, sir, England could not get on if gentlemenlike you had not a little philanthropy and speculation."

"Papae!" exclaimed my father; "to think that England can't get onwithout turning Austin Caxton into an apple-merchant! My dear Jack,listen. You remind me of a colloquy in this book,--wait a bit, here itis, 'Pamphagus and Cocles.' Cocles recognizes his friend, who had beenabsent for many years, by his eminent and remarkable nose. Pamphagussays, rather irritably, that he is not ashamed of his nose. 'Ashamed ofit! no, indeed,' says Cocles; 'I never saw a nose that could be put toso many uses!' 'Ha!' says Pamphagus (whose curiosity is aroused), 'uses!what uses?' Whereon (lepidissime frater!) Cocles, with eloquence asrapid as yours, runs on with a countless list of the uses to which sovast a development of the organ can be applied. 'If the cellar was deep,it could sniff up the wine like an elephant's trunk; if the bellows weremissing, it could blow the fire; if the lamp was too glaring, it couldsuffice for a shade; it would serve as a speaking-trumpet to a herald;it could sound a signal of battle in the field; it would do for a wedgein wood-cutting, a spade for digging, a scythe for mowing, an anchor insailing,'--till Painphagus cries out, 'Lucky dog that I am! and I neverknew before what a useful piece of furniture I carried about with me.'"My father paused and strove to whistle; but that effort of harmonyfailed him, and he added, smiling, "So much for my apple-trees, brotherJohn. Leave them to their natural destination of filling tarts anddumplings."

Uncle Jack looked a little discomposed for a moment; but he thenlaughed with his usual heartiness, and saw that he had not yet got tomy father's blind side. I confess that my revered parent rose in myestimation after that conference; and I began to see that a man may notbe quite without common sense, though he is a scholar. Indeed, whetherit was that Uncle Jack's visit acted as a gentle stimulant to hisrelaxed faculties, or that I, now grown older and wiser, began tosee his character more clearly, I date from those summer holidays thecommencement of that familiar and endearing intimacy which everafter existed between my father and myself. Often I deserted themore extensive rambles of Uncle Jack, or the greater allurements of acricket-match in the village, or a day's fishing in Squire Rollick'spreserves, for a quiet stroll with my father by the old peachwall,--sometimes silent, indeed, and already musing over the future,while he was busy with the past, but amply rewarded when, suspending hislecture, he would pour forth hoards of varied learning, rendered amusingby his quaint comments, and that Socratic satire which only fell shortof wit because it never passed into malice. At some moments, indeed, thevein ran into eloquence; and with some fine heroic sentiment in his oldbooks, his stooping form rose erect, his eye flashed, and you saw thathe had not been originally formed and wholly meant for the obscureseclusion in which his harmless days now wore contentedly away.

CHAPTER IV.

"Egad, sir, the county is going to the dogs! Our sentiments are notrepresented in parliament or out of it. The 'County Mercury' has ratted,and be hanged to it! and now we have not one newspaper in the wholeshire to express the sentiments of the respectable part of thecommunity!"

This speech was made on the occasion of one of the rare dinners given byMr. and Mrs. Caxton to the grandees of the neighborhood, and uttered byno less a person than Squire Rollick, of Rollick Hall, chairman of thequarter-sessions.

I confess that I (for I was permitted on that first occasion not only todine with the guests, but to outstay the ladies, in virtue of my growingyears and my promise to abstain from the decanters),--I confess, I say,that I, poor innocent, was puzzled to conjecture what sudden interest inthe county newspaper could cause Uncle Jack to prick up his ears like awarhorse at the sound of the drum and rush so incontinently across theinterval between Squire Rollick and himself. But the mind of that deepand truly knowing man was not to be plumbed by a chit of my age. Youcould not fish for the shy salmon in that pool with a crooked pin anda bobbin, as you would for minnows; or, to indulge in a more worthyillustration, you could not say of him, as Saint Gregory saith of thestreams of Jordan, "A lamb could wade easily through that ford."

"Not a county newspaper to advocate the rights of--" here my unclestopped, as if at a loss, and whispered in my ear; "What are hispolitics?" "Don't know," answered I. Uncle Jack intuitively took downfrom his memory the phrase most readily at hand, and added, with a nasalintonation, "the rights of our distressed fellow-creatures!"

My father scratched his eyebrow with his fore-finger, as he was apt todo when doubtful; the rest of the company--a silent set--looked up.

"Fellow-creatures!" said Mr. Rollick,--"fellow-fiddlesticks!"

Uncle Jack was clearly in the wrong box. He drew out of itcautiously,--"I mean," said he, "our respectable fellow-creatures;" andthen suddenly it occurred to him that a "County Mercury" would naturallyrepresent the agricultural interest, and that if Mr. Rollick saidthat the "'County Mercury' ought to be hanged," he was one of thosepoliticians who had already begun to call the agricultural interest "aVampire." Flushed with that fancied discovery, Uncle Jack rushed on,intending to bear along with the stream, thus fortunately directed,all the "rubbish" (1) subsequently shot into Covent Garden and Hall ofCommerce.

"Yes, respectable fellow-creatures, men of capital and enterprise! Forwhat are these country squires compared to our wealthy merchants? Whatis this agricultural interest that professes to be the prop of theland?"

"Professes!" cried Squire Rollick,--"it is the prop of the land; and asfor those manufacturing fellows who have bought up the 'Mercury'--"

"Bought up the 'Mercury,' have they, the villains?" cried Uncle Jack,interrupting the Squire, and now bursting into full scent. "Depend uponit, sir, it is a part of a diabolical system of buying up,--which mustbe exposed manfully. Yes, as I was saying, what is that agriculturalinterest which they desire to ruin; which they declare to be so bloated;which they call 'a Vampire!'--they the true blood-suckers, thevenomous millocrats? Fellow-creatures, Sir! I may well call distressedfellow-creatures the members of that much-suffering class of which youyourself are an ornament. What can be more deserving of our best effortsfor relief than a country gentleman like yourself, we'll say,--of anominal L5,000 a-year,--compelled to keep up an establishment, pay forhis fox-hounds, support the whole population by contributions to thepoor-rates, support the whole church by tithes; all justice, jails,and prosecutions of the county-rates; all thoroughfares by thehighway-rates; ground down by mortgages, Jews, or jointures; having toprovide for younger children; enormous expenses for cutting his woods,manuring his model farm, and fattening huge oxen till every pound offlesh costs him five pounds sterling in oil-cake; and then the lawsuitsnecessary to protect his rights,--plundered on all hands by poachers,sheep-stealers, dog-stealers, churchwardens, overseers, gardeners,gamekeepers, and that necessary rascal, his steward. If ever there was adistressed fellow-creature in the world, it is a country gentleman witha great estate."

My father evidently thought this an exquisite piece of banter, for bythe corner of his mouth I saw that he chuckled inly.

Squire Rollick, who had interrupted the speech by sundry approvingexclamations, particularly at the mention of poor-rates, tithes,county-rates, mortgages, and poachers, here pushed the bottle to UncleJack, and said, civilly: "There's a great deal of truth in what you say,Mr. Tibbets. The agricultural interest is going to ruin; and when itdoes, I would not give that for Old England!" and Mr. Rollick snappedhis finger and thumb. "But what is to be done,--done for the county?There's the rub."

"I was just coming to that," quoth Uncle Jack. "You say that you havenot a county paper that upholds your cause and denounces your enemies."

"Not since the Whigs bought the '--shire Mercury.'"

"Why, good heavens! Mr. Rollick, how can you suppose that you willhave justice done you if at this time of day you neglect the Press?The Press, sir--there it is--air we breathe! What you want is a greatnational--no, not a national--A Provincial proprietary weekly journal,supported liberally and steadily by that mighty party whose veryexistence is at stake. Without such a paper you are gone, you aredead,--extinct, defunct, buried alive; with such a paper,--wellconducted, well edited by a man of the world, of education, of practicalexperience in agriculture and human nature, mines, corn, manure,insurances, Acts of Parliament, cattle-shows, the state of parties, andthe best interests of society,--with such a man and such a paper, youwill carry all before you. But it must be done by subscription,by association, by co-operation,--by a Grand Provincial BenevolentAgricultural Anti-innovating Society."

"Egad, sir, you are right!" said Mr. Rollick, slapping his thigh; "andI'll ride over to our Lord-Lieutenant to-morrow. His eldest son ought tocarry the county."

"And he will, if you encourage the Press and set up a journal," saidUncle Jack, rubbing his hands, and then gently stretching them out anddrawing them gradually together, as if he were already enclosing in thatairy circle the unsuspecting guineas of the unborn association.

All happiness dwells more in the hope than the possession; and at thatmoment I dare be sworn that Uncle Jack felt a livelier rapture circumproecordia, warming his entrails, and diffusing throughout his wholeframe of five feet eight the prophetic glow of the Magna Diva Moneta,than if he had enjoyed for ten years the actual possession of KingCroesus's privy purse.

"I thought Uncle Jack was not a Tory," said I to my father the next day.

My father, who cared nothing for politics, opened his eyes. "Are you aTory or a Whig, papa?"

"Um!" said my father, "there's a great deal to be said on both sidesof the question. You see, my boy, that Mrs. Primmins has a great manymoulds for our butter-pats: sometimes they come up with a crown on them,sometimes with the more popular impress of a cow. It is all very wellfor those who dish up the butter to print it according to their tasteor in proof of their abilities; it is enough for us to butter our bread,say grace, and pay for the dairy. Do you understand?"

"Not a bit, sir."

"Your namesake Pisistratus was wiser than you, then," said my father."And now let us feed the duck. Where's your uncle?"

"He has borrowed Mr. Squills's mare, sir, and gone with Squire Rollickto the great lord they were talking of."

"Oho!" said my father; "brother Jack is going to print his butter!"

And indeed Uncle Jack played his cards so well on this occasion, and setbefore the Lord-Lieutenant, with whom he had a personal interview, sofine a prospectus and so nice a calculation that before my holidays wereover, he was installed in a very handsome office in the county town,with private apartments over it, and a salary of L500 a-year, foradvocating the cause of his distressed fellow-creatures, includingnoblemen, squires, yeomanry, farmers, and all yearly subscribers in theNew Proprietary Agricultural Anti-Innovating--Shire Weekly Gazette. Atthe head of his newspaper Uncle Jack caused to be engraved a crown,supported by a flail and a crook, with the motto, "Pro rege et grege."And that was the way in which Uncle Jack printed his pats of butter.

(1) "We talked sad rubbish when we first began," says Mr. Cobden, in oneof his speeches.

CHAPTER V.

I seemed to myself to have made a leap in life when I returned toschool. I no longer felt as a boy. Uncle Jack, out of his own purse, hadpresented me with my first pair of Wellington boots; my mother had beencoaxed into allowing me a small tail to jackets hitherto tail-less; mycollars, which had been wont, spaniel-like, to flap and fall about myneck, now, terrier-wise, stood erect and rampant, encompassed with acircumvallation of whalebone, buckram, and black silk. I was, in truth,nearly seventeen, and I gave myself the airs of a man. Now, be itobserved that that crisis in adolescent existence wherein we first passfrom Master Sisty into Mr. Pisistratus, or Pisistratus Caxton, Esq.;wherein we arrogate, and with tacit concession from our elders, thelong-envied title of young man,--always seems a sudden and impromptupshooting and elevation. We do not mark the gradual preparationsthereto; we remember only one distinct period, in which all thesigns and symptoms burst and effloresced together,--Wellington boots,coat-tail, cravat, down on the upper lip, thoughts on razors, reverieson young ladies, and a new kind of sense of poetry.

I began now to read steadily, to understand what I did read, and to castsome anxious looks towards the future, with vague notions that I hada place to win in the world, and that nothing is to be won withoutperseverance and labor; and so I went on till I was seventeen and at thehead of the school, when I received the two letters I subjoin.

1.--FROM AUGUSTINE CAXTON, Esq.

 My Dear Son,--I have informed Dr. Herman that you will not return to him after the approaching holidays. You are old enough now to look forward to the embraces of our beloved Alma Mater, and I think studious enough to hope for the honors she bestows on her worthier sons. You are already entered at Trinity,--and in fancy I see my youth return to me in your image. I see you wandering where the Cam steals its way through those noble gardens; and, confusing you with myself, I recall the old dreams that haunted me when the chiming bells swung over the placid waters. Verum secretumque Mouseion, quam multa dictatis, quam multa invenitis! There at that illustrious college, unless the race has indeed degenerated, you will measure yourself with young giants. You will see those who, in the Law, the Church, the State, or the still cloisters of Learning, are destined to become the eminent leaders of your age. To rank amongst them you are not forbidden to aspire; he who in youth "can scorn delights, and love laborious days," should pitch high his ambition.

 Your Uncle Jack says he has done wonders with his newspaper; though Mr. Rollick grumbles, and declares that it is full of theories, and that it puzzles the farmers. Uncle Jack, in reply, contends that he creates an audience, not addresses one, and sighs that his genius is thrown away in a provincial town. In fact, he really is a very clever man, and might do much in London, I dare say. He often comes over to dine and sleep, returning the next morning. His energy is wonderful--and contagious. Can you imagine that he has actually stirred up the flame of my vanity, by constantly poking at the bars? Metaphor apart, I find myself collecting all my notes and commonplaces, and wondering to see how easily they fall into method, and take shape in chapters and books. I cannot help smiling when I add, that I fancy I am going to become an author; and smiling more when I think that your Uncle Jack should have provoked me into so egregious an ambition. However, I have read some passages of my book to your mother, and she says, "it is vastly fine," which is encouraging. Your mother has great good sense, though I don't mean to say that she has much learning,-- which is a wonder, considering that Pic de la Mirandola was nothing to her father. Yet he died, dear great man, and never printed a line; while I--positively I blush to think of my temerity! Adieu, my son; make the best of the time that remains with you at the Philhellenic. A full mind is the true Pantheism, plena Jovis. It is only in some corner of the brain which we leave empty that Vice can obtain a lodging. When she knocks at your door, my son, be able to say, "No room for your ladyship; pass on." Your affectionate father, A. CAXTON.

2.--FROM Mrs. CAXTON.

 My Dearest Sisty,--You are coming home! My heart is so full of that thought that it seems to me as if I could not write anything else. Dear child, you are coming home; you have done with school, you have done with strangers,--you are our own, all our own son again! You are mine again, as you were in the cradle, the nursery, and the garden, Sisty, when we used to throw daisies at each other! You will laugh at me so when I tell you that as soon as I heard you were coming home for good, I crept away from the room, and went to my drawer where I keep, you know, all my treasures. There was your little cap that I worked myself, and your poor little nankeen jacket that you were so proud to throw off--oh! and many other relies of you when you were little Sisty, and I was not the cold, formal "Mother" you call me now, but dear "Mamma." I kissed them, Sisty, and said, "My little child is coming back to me again!" So foolish was I, I forgot all the long years that have passed, and fancied I could carry you again in my arms, and that I should again coax you to say "God bless papa." Well, well! I write now between laughing and crying. You cannot be what you were, but you are still my own dear son,--your father's son; dearer to me than all the world,--except that father.

 I am so glad, too, that you will come so soon,--come while your father is really warm with his book, and while you can encourage and keep him to it. For why should he not be great and famous? Why should not all admire him as we do? You know how proud of him I always was; but I do so long to let the world know why I was so proud. And yet, after all, it is not only because he is so wise and learned, but because he is so good, and has such a large, noble heart. But the heart must appear in the book too, as well as the learning. For though it is full of things I don't understand, every now and then there is something I do understand,--that seems as if that heart spoke out to all the world.

 Your uncle has undertaken to get it published, and your father is going up to town with him about it, as soon as the first volume is finished.

 All are quite well except poor Mrs. Jones, who has the ague very bad indeed; Primmins has made her wear a charm for it, and Mrs. Jones actually declares she is already much better. One can't deny that there may be a great deal in such things, though it seems quite against the reason. Indeed your father says, "Why not? A charm must be accompanied by a strong wish on the part of the charmer that it may succeed,--and what is magnetism but a wish?" I don't quite comprehend this; but, like all your father says, it has more than meets the eye, I am quite sure.

 Only three weeks to the holidays, and then no more school, Sisty,-- no more school! I shall have your room all done, freshly, and made so pretty; they are coming about it to-morrow.

 The duck is quite well, and I really don't think it is quite as lame as it was.

 God bless you, dear, dear child. Your affectionate happy mother. K.C.

The interval between these letters and the morning on which I wasto return home seemed to me like one of those long, restless, yethalf-dreamy days which in some infant malady I had passed in a sick-bed.I went through my task-work mechanically, composed a Greek ode infarewell to the Philhellenic, which Dr. Herman pronounced a chefd'oeuvre, and my father, to whom I sent it in triumph, returned a letterof false English with it, that parodied all my Hellenic barbarisms byimitating them in my mother-tongue. However, I swallowed the leek, andconsoled myself with the pleasing recollection that, after spending sixyears in learning to write bad Greek, I should never have any furtheroccasion to avail myself of so precious an accomplishment.

And so came the last day. Then alone, and in a kind of delightedmelancholy, I revisited each of the old haunts,--the robbers' cave wehad dug one winter, and maintained, six of us, against all the police ofthe little kingdom; the place near the pales where I had fought my firstbattle; the old beech-stump on which I sat to read letters from home!With my knife, rich in six blades (besides a cork-screw, a pen-picker,and a button-hook), I carved my name in large capitals over my desk.Then night came, and the bell rang, and we went to our rooms. And Iopened the window and looked out. I saw all the stars, and wonderedwhich was mine,--which should light to fame and fortune the manhoodabout to commence. Hope and Ambition were high within me; and yet,behind them stood Melancholy. Ah! who amongst you, readers, can nowsummon back all those thoughts, sweet and sad,--all that untold,half-conscious regret for the past,--all those vague longings forthe future, which made a poet of the dullest on the last night beforeleaving boyhood and school forever?

PART III.

CHAPTER I.

It was a beautiful summer afternoon when the coach set me down at myfather's gate. Mrs. Primmins herself ran out to welcome me; and I hadscarcely escaped from the warm clasp of her friendly hand before I wasin the arms of my mother.

As soon as that tenderest of parents was convinced that I was notfamished, seeing that I had dined two hours ago at Dr. Herman's, sheled me gently across the garden towards the arbor. "You will find yourfather so cheerful," said she, wiping away a tear. "His brother is withhim."

I stopped. His brother! Will the reader believe it? I had never heardthat he had a brother, so little were family affairs ever discussed inmy hearing.

"His brother!" said I. "Have I then an Uncle Caxton as well as an UncleJack?"

"Yes, my love," said my mother. And then she added, "Your father and hewere not such good friends as they ought to have been, and the Captainhas been abroad. However, thank Heaven! they are now quite reconciled."

We had time for no more,--we were in the arbor. There, a table wasspread with wine and fruit,--the gentlemen were at their dessert; andthose gentlemen were my father, Uncle Jack, Mr. Squills, and--tall,lean, buttoned-to-the-chin--an erect, martial, majestic, and imposingpersonage, who seemed worthy of a place in my great ancestor's "Boke ofChivalrie."

All rose as I entered; but my poor father, who was always slow in hismovements, had the last of me. Uncle Jack had left the very powerfulimpression of his great seal-ring on my fingers; Mr. Squills had pattedme on the shoulder and pronounced me "wonderfully grown;" my new-foundrelative had with great dignity said, "Nephew, your hand, sir,--I amCaptain de Caxton;" and even the tame duck had taken her beak from herwing and rubbed it gently between my legs, which was her usual mode ofsalutation, before my father placed his pale hand on my forehead, andlooking at me for a moment with unutterable sweetness, said, "More andmore like your mother,--God bless you!"

A chair had been kept vacant for me between my father and his brother.I sat down in haste, and with a tingling color on my cheeks and a risingat my throat, so much had the unusual kindness of my father's greetingaffected me; and then there came over me a sense of my new position. Iwas no longer a schoolboy at home for his brief holiday: I had returnedto the shelter of the roof-tree to become myself one of its supports. Iwas at last a man, privileged to aid or solace those dear ones who hadministered, as yet without return, to me. That is a very strange crisisin our life when we come home for good. Home seems a different thing;before, one has been but a sort of guest after all, only welcomed andindulged, and little festivities held in honor of the released andhappy child. But to come home for good,--to have done with school andboyhood,--is to be a guest, a child no more. It is to share the everydaylife of cares and duties; it is to enter into the confidences of home.Is it not so? I could have buried my face in my hands and wept!

My father, with all his abstraction and all his simplicity, had a knacknow and then of penetrating at once to the heart. I verily believe heread all that was passing in mine as easily as if it had been Greek. Hestole his arm gently round my waist and whispered, "Hush!" Then, liftinghis voice, he cried aloud, "Brother Roland, you must not let Jack havethe best of the argument."

"Brother Austin," replied the Captain, very formally, "Mr. Jack, if Imay take the liberty so to call him--"

"You may indeed," cried Uncle Jack.

"Sir," said the Captain, bowing, "it is a familiarity that does mehonor. I was about to say that Mr. Jack has retired from the field."

"Far from it," said Squills, dropping an effervescing powder into achemical mixture which he had been preparing with great attention,composed of sherry and lemon-juice--"far from it. Mr. Tibbets--whoseorgan of combativeness is finely developed, by the by--was saying--"

"That it is a rank sin and shame in the nineteenth century," quoth UncleJack, "that a man like my friend Captain Caxton--"

"De Caxton, sir--Mr. Jack."

"De Caxton,--of the highest military talents, of the most illustriousdescent,--a hero sprung from heroes,--should have served so many years,and with such distinction, in his Majesty's service, and should now beonly a captain on half-pay. This, I say, comes of the infamous system ofpurchase, which sets up the highest honors for sale, as they did in theRoman empire--"

My father pricked up his ears; but Uncle jack pushed on before my fathercould get ready the forces of his meditated interruption.

"A system which a little effort, a little union, can so easilyterminate. Yes, sir," and Uncle Jack thumped the table, and two cherriesbobbed up and smote Captain de Caxton on the nose, "yes, sir, I willundertake to say that I could put the army upon a very differentfooting. If the poorer and more meritorious gentlemen, like Captainde Caxton, would, as I was just observing, but unite in a grandanti-aristocratic association, each paying a small sum quarterly, wecould realize a capital sufficient to out-purchase all these undeservingindividuals, and every man of merit should have his fair chance ofpromotion."

"Egad! sir," said Squills, "there is something grand in that, eh,Captain?"

"No, sir," replied the Captain, quite seriously; "there is in monarchiesbut one fountain of honor. It would be an interference with a soldier'sfirst duty,--his respect for his sovereign."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Squills, "it would still be to thesovereigns that one would owe the promotion."

"Honor," pursued the Captain, coloring up, and unheeding this wittyinterruption, "is the reward of a soldier. What do I care that a youngjackanapes buys his colonelcy over my head? Sir, he does not buy from memy wounds and my services. Sir, he does not buy from me the medal Iwon at Waterloo. He is a rich man, and I am a poor man; he iscalled--colonel, because he paid money for the name. That pleases him;well and good. It would not please me; I had rather remain a captain,and feel my dignity, not in my title, but in the services by which ithas been won. A beggarly, rascally association of stock-brokers, foraught I know, buy me a company! I don't want to be uncivil, or I wouldsay damn 'em--Mr.--sir--Jack!"

A sort of thrill ran through the Captain's audience; even Uncle Jackseemed touched, for he stared very hard at the grim veteran, and saidnothing. The pause was awkward; Mr. Squills broke it. "I should like,"quoth he, "to see your Waterloo medal,--you have it not about you?"

"Mr. Squills," answered the Captain, "it lies next to my heart while Ilive. It shall be buried in my coffin, and I shall rise with it, at theword of command, on the day of the Grand Review!" So saying, the Captainleisurely unbuttoned his coat, and detaching from a piece of stripedribbon as ugly a specimen of the art of the silversmith (begging itspardon) as ever rewarded merit at the expense of taste, placed the medalon the table.

The medal passed round, without a word, from hand to hand.

"It is strange," at last said my father, "how such trifles can be madeof such value,--how in one age a man sells his life for what in thenext age he would not give a button! A Greek esteemed beyond price a fewleaves of olive twisted into a circular shape and set upon his head,--avery ridiculous head-gear we should now call it. An American Indianprefers a decoration of human scalps, which, I apprehend, we should allagree (save and except Mr. Squills, who is accustomed to such things)to be a very disgusting addition to one's personal attractions; andmy brother values this piece of silver, which may be worth about fiveshillings, more than Jack does a gold mine, or I do the library of theLondon Museum. A time will come when people will think that as idle adecoration as leaves and scalps."

"Brother," said the Captain, "there is nothing strange in the matter. Itis as plain as a pike-staff to a man who understands the principles ofhonor."

"Possibly," said my father, mildly. "I should like to hear what you haveto say upon honor. I am sure it would very much edify us all."

CHAPTER II.

"Gentlemen," began the Captain, at the distinct appeal thus made tohim,--"Gentlemen, God made the earth, but man made the garden. God mademan, but man re-creates himself."

"True, by knowledge," said my father.

"By industry," said Uncle Jack.

"By the physical conditions of his body," said Mr. Squills. "He couldnot have made himself other than he was at first in the woods and wildsif he had fins like a fish, or could only chatter gibberish likea monkey. Hands and a tongue, sir,--these are the instruments ofprogress."

"Mr. Squills," said my father, nodding, "Anaxagoras said very much thesame thing before you, touching the hands."

"I cannot help that," answered Mr. Squills; "one could not open one'slips, if one were bound to say what nobody else had said. But after all,our superiority is less in our hands than the greatness, of our thumbs."

"Albinus, 'De Sceleto,' and our own learned William Lawrence, have madea similar remark," again put in my father. "Hang it, sir!" exclaimedSquills, "what business have you to know everything?"

"Everything! No; but thumbs furnish subjects of investigation to thesimplest understanding," said my father, modestly.

"Gentlemen," re-commenced my Uncle Roland, "thumbs and hands are givento an Esquimaux, as well as to scholars and surgeons,--and what thedeuce are they the wiser for them? Sirs, you cannot reduce us thus intomechanism. Look within. Man, I say, re-creates himself. How? By ThePrinciple Of Honor. His first desire is to excel some one else; hisfirst impulse is distinction above his fellows. Heaven places in hissoul, as if it were a compass, a needle that always points to one end;namely, to honor in that which those around him consider honorable.Therefore, as man at first is exposed to all dangers from wild beasts,and from men as savage as himself, Courage becomes the first qualitymankind must honor: therefore the savage is courageous; therefore hecovets the praise for courage; therefore he decorates himself with theskins of the beasts he has subdued, or the the scalps of the foes he hasslain. Sirs, don't tell me that the skins and the scalps are only hideand leather: they are trophies of honor. Don't tell me that they areridiculous and disgusting: they become glorious as proofs that thesavage has emerged out of the first brute-like egotism, and attachedprice to the praise which men never give except for works that secure oradvance their welfare. By and by, sirs, our savages discover that theycannot live in safety amongst themselves unless they agree to speak thetruth to each other: therefore Truth becomes valued, and grows into aprinciple of honor; so brother Austin will tell us that in the primitivetimes truth was always the attribute of a hero."

"Right," said my father; "Homer emphatically assigns it to Achilles."

"Out of truth comes the necessity for some kind of rude justice and law.Therefore men, after courage in the warrior, and truth in all, beginto attach honor to the elder, whom they intrust with preserving justiceamongst them. So, sirs, Law is born--"

"But the first lawgivers were priests," quoth my father.

"Sirs, I am coming to that. Whence arises the desire of honor, butfrom man's necessity of excelling,--in other words, of improvinghis faculties for the benefit of others; though, unconscious of thatconsequence, man only strives for their praise? But that desire forhonor is unextinguishable, and man is naturally anxious to carry itsrewards beyond the grave. Therefore he who has slain most lions orenemies, is naturally prone to believe that he shall have the besthunting fields in the country beyond, and take the best place at thebanquet. Nature, in all its operations, impresses man with the idea ofan invisible Power; and the principle of honor that is, the desire ofpraise and reward--makes him anxious for the approval which that Powercan bestow. Thence comes the first rude idea of Religion; and in thedeath-hymn at the stake, the savage chants songs prophetic of thedistinctions he is about to receive. Society goes on; hamlets are built;property is established. He who has more than another has more powerthan another. Power is honored. Man covets the honor attached to thepower which is attached to possession. Thus the soil is cultivated; thusthe rafts are constructed; thus tribe trades with tribe; thus Commerceis founded, and Civilization commenced. Sirs, all that seems leastconnected with honor, as we approach the vulgar days of the present,has its origin in honor, and is but an abuse of its principles. Ifmen nowadays are hucksters and traders, if even military honors arepurchased, and a rogue buys his way to a peerage, still all arisesfrom the desire for honor, which society, as it grows old, gives to theoutward signs of titles and gold, instead of, as once, to its inwardessentials,--courage, truth, justice, enterprise. Therefore I say, sirs,that honor is the foundation of all improvement in mankind."

"You have argued like a schoolman, brother," said Mr. Caxton,admiringly; "but still, as to this round piece of silver, don't we goback to the most barbarous ages in estimating so highly such things ashave no real value in themselves,--as could not give us one opportunityfor instructing our minds?"

"Could not pay for a pair of boots," added Uncle Jack.

"Or," said Mr. Squills, "save you one twinge of the cursed rheumatismyou have got for life from that night's bivouac in the Portuguesemarshes,--to say nothing of the bullet in your cranium, and thatcork-leg, which must much diminish the salutary effects of yourconstitutional walk."

"Gentlemen," resumed the Captain, nothing abashed, "in going back tothose barbarous ages, I go back to the true principles of honor. It isprecisely because this round piece of silver has no value in the marketthat it is priceless, for thus it is only a proof of desert. Where wouldbe the sense of service in this medal, if it could buy back my leg,or if I could bargain it away for forty thousand a year? No, sirs, itsvalue is this,--that when I wear it on my breast, men shall say, 'Thatformal old fellow is not so useless as he seems. He was one of those whosaved England and freed Europe.' And even when I conceal it here," and,devoutly kissing the medal, Uncle Roland restored it to its ribbon andits resting-place, "and no eye sees it, its value is yet greater in thethought that my country has not degraded the old and true principles ofhonor, by paying the soldier who fought for her in the same coin asthat in which you, Mr. Jack, sir, pay your bootmaker's bill. No, no,gentlemen. As courage was the first virtue that honor called forth, thefirst virtue from which all safety and civilization proceed, so we doright to keep that one virtue at least clear and unsullied from allthe money-making, mercenary, pay-me-in-cash abominations which are thevices, not the virtues, of the civilization it has produced."

My Uncle Roland here came to a full stop; and, filling his glass, roseand said solemnly: "A last bumper, gentlemen,--'To the dead who died forEngland!'"

CHAPTER III.

"Indeed, my dear, you must take it. You certainly have caught cold; yousneezed three times together."

"Yes, ma'am, because I would take a pinch of Uncle Roland's snuff, justto say that I had taken a pinch out of his box,--the honor of the thing,you know."

"Ah, my dear! what was that very clever remark you made at the sametime, which so pleased your father,--something about Jews and thecollege?"

"Jews and--oh! pulverem Olympicum collegisse juvat, my dearmother,--which means that it is a pleasure to take a pinch out of abrave man's snuff-box. I say, mother, put down the posset. Yes, I'lltake it; I will, indeed. Now, then, sit here,--that's right,--and tellme all you know about this famous old Captain. Imprimis, he is olderthan my father?"

"To be sure!" exclaimed my mother, indignantly. "He looks twenty yearsolder; but there is only five years' real difference. Your father mustalways look young."

"And why does Uncle Roland put that absurd French de before his name;and why were my father and he not good friends; and is he married; andhas he any children?"

Scene of this conference: my own little room, new papered on purpose formy return for good,--trellis-work paper, flowers and birds, all sofresh and so new and so clean and so gay, with my books ranged in neatshelves, and a writing-table by the window; and, without the window,shines the still summer moon. The window is a little open: you scentthe flowers and the new-mown hay. Past eleven; and the boy and his dearmother are all alone.

"My dear, my dear, you ask so many questions at once!"

"Don't answer them, then. Begin at the beginning, as Nurse Primmins doeswith her fairy tales, 'Once on a time.'

"Once on a time, then," said my mother, kissing me between theeyes,--"once on a time, my love, there was a certain clergyman inCumberland who had two sons; he had but a small living, and the boyswere to make their own way in the world. But close to the parsonage, onthe brow of a hill, rose an old ruin with one tower left, and this, withhalf the country round it, had once belonged to the clergyman's family;but all had been sold,--all gone piece by piece, you see, my dear,except the presentation to the living (what they call the advowson wassold too), which had been secured to the last of the family. The elderof these sons was your Uncle Roland; the younger was your father. NowI believe the first quarrel arose from the absurdist thing possible,as your father says; but Roland was exceedingly touchy on all thingsconnected with his ancestors. He was always poring over the oldpedigree, or wandering amongst the ruins, or reading books ofknight-errantry. Well, where this pedigree began, I know not, but itseems that King Henry II. gave some lands in Cumberland to one Sir Adamde Caxton; and from that time, you see, the pedigree went regularlyfrom father to son till Henry V. Then, apparently from the disordersproduced, as your father says, by the Wars of the Roses, there was a sadblank left,--only one or two names, without dates or marriages, till thetime of Henry VII, except that in the reign of Edward IV. there wasone insertion of a William Caxton (named in a deed). Now in the villagechurch there was a beautiful brass monument to one Sir William deCaxton, who had been killed at the battle of Bosworth, fighting for thatwicked king Richard III. And about the same time there lived, as youknow, the great printer, William Caxton. Well, your father, happening tobe in town on a visit to his aunt, took great trouble in hunting up allthe old papers he could find at the Heralds' College; and, sure enough,he was overjoyed to satisfy himself that he was descended, not from thatpoor Sir William who had been killed in so bad a cause, but from thegreat printer, who was from a younger branch of the same family, andto whose descendants the estate came in the reign of Henry VIII. It wasupon this that your Uncle Roland quarrelled with him,--and, indeed, Itremble to think that they may touch on that matter again."

"Then, my dear mother, I must say my uncle was wrong there so far ascommon-sense is concerned; but still, somehow or other, I can understandit. Surely, this was not the only cause of estrangement?"

My mother looked down, and moved one hand gently over the other, whichwas her way when embarrassed. "What was it, my own mother?" said I,coaxingly.

"I believe--that is, I--I think that they were both attached to the sameyoung lady."

"How! you don't mean to say that my father was ever in love with any onebut you?"

"Yes, Sisty,--yes, and deeply! And," added my mother, after a slightpause, and with a very low sigh, "he never was in love with me; and whatis more, he had the frankness to tell me so!"

"And yet you--"

"Married him--yes!" said my mother, raising the softest and purest eyesthat ever lover could have wished to read his fate in; "yes, for the oldlove was hopeless. I knew that I could make him happy. I knew that hewould love me at last, and he does so! My son, your father loves me!"

As she spoke, there came a blush, as innocent as virgin ever knew, tomy mother's smooth cheek; and she looked so fair, so good, and stillso young all the while that you would have said that either Dusius, theTeuton fiend, or Nock, the Scandinavian sea-imp, from whom the learnedassure us we derive our modern Daimones, "The Deuce," and Old Nick, hadpossessed my father, if he had not learned to love such a creature.

I pressed her hand to my lips; but my heart was too full tot speak for amoment or so, and then I partially changed the subject.

"Well, and this rivalry estranged them more? And who was the lady?"

"Your father never told me, and I never asked," said my mother, simply."But she was very different from me, I know. Very accomplished, verybeautiful, very highborn."

"For all that, my father was a lucky man to escape her. Pass on. Whatdid the Captain do?"

"Why, about that time your grandfather died; and shortly after an aunt,on the mother's side, who was rich and saving, died, and unexpectedlyleft each sixteen thousand pounds. Your uncle, with his share, boughtback, at an enormous price, the old castle and some land round it, whichthey say does not bring him in three hundred a year. With the littlethat remained, he purchased a commission in the army; and the brothersmet no more till last week, when Roland suddenly arrived."

"He did not marry this accomplished young lady?"

"No! but he married another, and is a widower."

"Why, he was as inconstant as my father, and I am sure without so goodan excuse. How was that?"

"I don't know. He says nothing about it."

"Has he any children?"

"Two, a son--By the by, you must never speak about him. Your unclebriefly said, when I asked him what was his family, 'A girl, ma'am. Ihad a son, but--'

"'He is dead,' cried your father, in his kind, pitying voice."

"'Dead to me, brother; and you will never mention his name!' You shouldhave seen how stern your uncle looked. I was terrified."

"But the girl,--why did not he bring her here?"

"She is still in France, but he talks of going over for her; and we havehalf promised to visit them both in Cumberland. But, bless me! is thattwelve? and the posset quite cold!"

"One word more, dearest mother,--one word. My father's book,--is hestill going on with it?"

"Oh yes, indeed!" cried my mother, clasping her hands; "and he must readit to you, as he does to me,--you will understand it so well. I havealways been so anxious that the world should know him, and be proud ofhim as we are,--so--so anxious! For perhaps, Sisty, if he had marriedthat great lady, he would have roused himself, been more ambitious,--andI could only make him happy, I could not make him great!"

"So he has listened to you at last?"

"To me?" said my mother, shaking her head and smiling gently. "No,rather to your Uncle Jack, who, I am happy to say, has at length got aproper hold over him."

"A proper hold, my dear mother! Pray beware of Uncle Jack, or we shallall be swept into a coal-mine, or explode with a grand national companyfor making gunpowder out of tea-leaves!"

"Wicked child!" said my mother, laughing; and then, as she took up hercandle and lingered a moment while I wound my watch, she said, musingly:"Yet Jack is very, very clever; and if for your sake we could make afortune, Sisty!"

"You frighten me out of my wits, mother! You are not in earnest?"

"And if my brother could be the means of raising him in the world--"

"Your brother would be enough to sink all the ships in the Channel,ma'am," said I, quite irreverently. I was shocked before the words werewell out of my mouth; and throwing my arms round my mother's neck, Ikissed away the pain I had inflicted.

When I was left alone and in my own little crib, in which my slumberhad ever been so soft and easy, I might as well have been lying uponcut straw. I tossed to and fro; I could not sleep. I rose, threw on mydressing-gown, lighted my candle, and sat down by the table near thewindow. First I thought of the unfinished outline of my father's youth,so suddenly sketched before me. I filled up the missing colors,and fancied the picture explained all that had often perplexed myconjectures. I comprehended, I suppose by some secret sympathy in my ownnature (for experience in mankind could have taught me little enough),how an ardent, serious, inquiring mind, struggling into passion underthe load of knowledge, had, with that stimulus sadly and abruptlywithdrawn, sunk into the quiet of passive, aimless study. I comprehendedhow, in the indolence of a happy but unimpassioned marriage, with acompanion so gentle, so provident and watchful, yet so little formedto rouse and task and fire an intellect naturally calm and meditative,years upon years had crept away in the learned idleness of a solitaryscholar. I comprehended, too, how gradually and slowly, as my fatherentered that stage of middle life when all men are most prone toambition, the long-silenced whispers were heard again, and the mind, atlast escaping from the listless weight which a baffled and disappointedheart had laid upon it, saw once more, fair as in youth, the only truemistress of Genius,--Fame.

Oh! how I sympathized, too, in my mother's gentle triumph. Looking overthe past, I could see, year after year, how she had stolen more and moreinto my father's heart of hearts; how what had been kindness had growninto love; how custom and habit, and the countless links in the sweetcharities of home, had supplied that sympathy with the genial man whichhad been missed at first by the lonely scholar.

Next I thought of the gray, eagle-eyed old soldier, with his ruinedtower and barren acres, and saw before me his proud, prejudiced,chivalrous boyhood, gliding through the ruins or poring over the mouldypedigree. And this son, so disowned,--for what dark offence? An awecrept over me. And this girl,--his ewe-lamb, his all,--was she fair? hadshe blue eyes like my mother, or a high Roman nose and beetle brows likeCaptain Roland? I mused and mused and mused; and the candle went out,and the moonlight grew broader and stiller; till at last I was sailingin a balloon with Uncle Jack, and had just tumbled into the Red Sea,when the well-known voice of Nurse Primmins restored me to life witha "God bless my heart! the boy has not been in bed all this 'varsalnight!"

CHAPTER IV.

As soon as I was dressed I hastened downstairs, for I longed to revisitmy old haunts,--the little plot of garden I had sown with anemones andcresses; the walk by the peach wall; the pond wherein I had angled forroach and perch.

Entering the hall, I discovered my Uncle Roland in a great stateof embarrassment. The maid-servant was scrubbing the stones at thehall-door; she was naturally plump,--and it is astonishing how much moreplump a female becomes when she is on all-fours! The maid-servant, then,was scrubbing the stones, her face turned from the Captain; and theCaptain, evidently meditating a sortie, stood ruefully gazing at theobstacle before him and hemming aloud. Alas, the maidservant was deaf!I stopped, curious to see how Uncle Roland would extricate himself fromthe dilemma.

Finding that his hems were in vain, my uncle made himself as small ashe could, and glided close to the left of the wall; at that instant themaid turned abruptly round towards the right, and completely obstructed,by this manoeuvre, the slight crevice through which hope had dawnedon her captive. My uncle stood stock-still,--and, to say the truth, hecould not have stirred an inch without coming into personal contact withthe rounded charms which blockaded his movements. My uncle took offhis hat and scratched his forehead in great perplexity. Presently, bya slight turn of the flanks, the opposing party, while leaving him anopportunity of return, entirely precluded all chance of egress in thatquarter. My uncle retreated in haste, and now presented himself to theright wing of the enemy. He had scarcely done so, when, without lookingbehind her, the blockading party shoved aside the pail that crippled therange of her operations, and so placed it that it formed a formidablebarricade, which my uncle's cork leg had no chance of surmounting.Therewith Captain Roland lifted his eyes appealingly to Heaven, and Iheard him distinctly ejaculate--

"Would to Heaven she were a creature in breeches!"

But happily at this moment the maid-servant turned her head sharplyround, and seeing the Captain, rose in an instant, moved away the pail,and dropped a frightened courtesy.

My uncle Roland touched his hat. "I beg you a thousand pardons, my goodgirl," said he; and, with a half bow, he slid into the open air.

"You have a soldier's politeness, uncle," said I, tucking my arm intoCaptain Roland's.

"Tush, my boy," said he, smiling seriously, and coloring up to thetemples; "tush, say a gentleman's! To us, sir, every woman is a lady, inright of her sex."

Now, I had often occasion later to recall that aphorism of my uncle's;and it served to explain to me how a man, so prejudiced on the scoreof family pride, never seemed to consider it an offence in my father tohave married a woman whose pedigree was as brief as my dear mother's.Had she been a Montmorenci, my uncle could not have been more respectfuland gallant than he was to that meek descendant of the Tibbetses. Heheld, indeed, which I never knew any other man, vain of family, approveor support,--a doctrine deduced from the following syllogisms: First,that birth was not valuable in itself, but as a transmission of certainqualities which descent from a race of warriors should perpetuate;namely, truth, courage, honor; secondly, that whereas from the woman'sside we derive our more intellectual faculties, from the man's we deriveour moral: a clever and witty man generally has a clever and wittymother; a brave and honorable man, a brave and honorable father.Therefore all the qualities which attention to race should perpetuateare the manly qualities, traceable only from the father's side. Again,he held that while the aristocracy have higher and more chivalrousnotions, the people generally have shrewder and livelier ideas.Therefore, to prevent gentlemen from degenerating into completedunderheads, an admixture with the people, provided always it was onthe female side, was not only excusable, but expedient; and, finally,my uncle held that whereas a man is a rude, coarse, sensual animal, andrequires all manner of associations to dignify and refine him, womenare so naturally susceptible of everything beautiful in sentiment andgenerous in purpose that she who is a true woman is a fit peer fora king. Odd and preposterous notions, no doubt, and capable of muchcontroversy, so far as the doctrine of race (if that be any way tenable)is concerned; but then the plain fact is that my Uncle Roland was aseccentric and contradictory a gentleman--as--as--why, as you and I are,if we once venture to think for ourselves.

"Well, sir, and what profession are you meant for?" asked my uncle. "Notthe army, I fear?"

"I have never thought of the subject, uncle."

"Thank Heaven," said Captain Roland, "we have never yet had a lawyer inthe family, nor a stockbroker, nor a tradesman--ahem!"

I saw that my great ancestor the printer suddenly rose up in that hem.

"Why, uncle, there are honorable men in all callings."

"Certainly, sir. But in all callings honor is not the first principle ofaction."

"But it may be, sir, if a man of honor pursue it! There are somesoldiers who have been great rascals!"

My uncle looked posed, and his black brows met thoughtfully. "You areright, boy, I dare say," he answered, somewhat mildly. "But do you thinkthat it ought to give me as much pleasure to look on my old ruined towerif I knew it had been bought by some herring-dealer, like the firstancestor of the Poles, as I do now, when I know it was given to a knightand gentleman (who traced his descent from an Anglo-Dane in the time ofKing Alfred) for services done in Aquitaine and Gascony, by Henry thePlantagenet? And do you mean to tell me that I should have been the sameman if I had not from a boy associated that old tower with all ideas ofwhat its owners were, and should be, as knights and gentlemen? Sir, youwould have made a different being of me if at the head of mypedigree you had clapped a herring-dealer,--though, I dare say, theherring-dealer might have been as good a man as ever the Anglo-Dane was,God rest him!"

"And for the same reason I suppose, sir, that you think my father neverwould have been quite the same being he is if he had not made thatnotable discovery touching our descent from the great William Caxton,the printer."

My uncle bounded as if he had been shot,--bounded so incautiously,considering the materials of which one leg was composed, that he wouldhave fallen into a strawberry-bed if I had not caught him by the arm.

"Why, you--you--you young jackanapes!" cried the Captain, shaking me offas soon as he had regained his equilibrium. "You do not mean to inheritthat infamous crotchet my brother has got into his head? You do not meanto exchange Sir William de Caxton, who fought and fell at Bosworth,for the mechanic who sold black-letter pamphlets in the Sanctuary atWestminster?"

"That depends on the evidence, uncle!"

"No, sir; like all noble truths, it depends upon faith. Men, nowadays,"continued my uncle, with a look of ineffable disgust, "actually requirethat truths should be proved."

"It is a sad conceit on their part, no doubt, my dear uncle; but till atruth is proved, how can we know that it is a truth?"

I thought that in that very sagacious question I had effectually caughtmy uncle. Not I. He slipped through it like an eel.

"Sir," said he, "whatever in Truth makes a man's heart warmer and hissoul purer, is a belief, not a knowledge. Proof, sir, is a handcuff;belief is a wing! Want proof as to an ancestor in the reign of KingRichard? Sir, you cannot even prove to the satisfaction of a logicianthat you are the son of your own father. Sir, a religious man does notwant to reason about his religion; religion is not mathematics. Religionis to be felt, not proved. There are a great many things in the religionof a good man which are not in the catechism. Proof!" continued myuncle, growing violent--"Proof, sir, is a low, vulgar, levelling,rascally Jacobin; Belief is a loyal, generous, chivalrous gentleman! No,no; prove what you please, you shall never rob me of one belief that hasmade me--"

"The finest-hearted creature that ever talked nonsense," said my father,who came up, like Horace's deity, at the right moment. "What is it youmust believe in, brother, no matter what the proof against you?"

My uncle was silent, and with great energy dug the point of his caneinto the gravel.

"He will not believe in our great ancestor the printer," said I,maliciously.

My father's calm brow was overcast in a moment. "Brother," said theCaptain, loftily, "you have a right to your own ideas; but you shouldtake care how they contaminate your child."

"Contaminate!" said my father, and for the first time I saw an angrysparkle flash from his eyes; but he checked himself on the instant."Change the word, my dear brother."

"No, sir, I will not change it! To belie the records of the family!"

"Records! A brass plate in a village church against all the books of theCollege of Arms!"

"To renounce your ancestor, a knight who died in the field!"

"For the worst cause that man ever fought for!"

"On behalf of his king!"

"Who had murdered his nephews!"

"A knight! with our crest on his helmet."

"And no brains underneath it, or he would never have had them knockedout for so bloody a villain!"

"A rascally, drudging, money-making printer!"

"The wise and glorious introducer of the art that has enlightened aworld. Prefer for an ancestor, to one whom scholar and sage never namebut in homage, a worthless, obscure, jolter-headed booby in mail, whoseonly record to men is a brass plate in a church in a village!"

My uncle turned round perfectly livid. "Enough, sir! enough! I aminsulted sufficiently. I ought to have expected it. I wish you and yourson a very good day."

My father stood aghast. The Captain was hobbling off to the iron gate;in another moment he would have been out of our precincts. I ran upand hung upon him. "Uncle, it is all my fault. Between you and me, Iam quite of your side; pray forgive us both. What could I have beenthinking of, to vex you so? And my father, whom your visit has made sohappy!" My uncle paused, feeling for the latch of the gate. My fatherhad now come up, and caught his hand. "What are all the printers thatever lived, and all the books they ever printed, to one wrong to thyfine heart, brother Roland? Shame on me! A bookman's weak point, youknow! It is very true, I should never have taught the boy one thing togive you pain, brother Roland,--though I don't remember," continued myfather, with a perplexed look, "that I ever did teach it him, either!Pisistratus, as you value my blessing, respect as your ancestor SirWilliam de Caxton, the hero of Bosworth. Come, come, brother!"

"I am an old fool," said Uncle Roland, "whichever way we look at it. Ah,you young dog, you are laughing at us both!"

"I have ordered breakfast on the lawn," said my mother, coming out fromthe porch, with her cheerful smile on her lips; "and I think the devilwill be done to your liking to-day, brother Roland."

"We have had enough of the devil already, my love," said my father,wiping his forehead.

So, while the birds sang overhead or hopped familiarly across the swardfor the crumbs thrown forth to them, while the sun was still cool in theeast, and the leaves yet rustled with the sweet air of morning, we allsat down to our table, with hearts as reconciled to each other, and aspeaceably disposed to thank God for the fair world around us, as ifthe river had never run red through the field of Bosworth, and thatexcellent Mr. Caxton had never set all mankind by the ears with anirritating invention a thousand times more provocative of our combativetendencies than the blast of the trumpet and the gleam of the banner!

CHAPTER V.

"Brother," said Mr. Caxton, "I will walk with you to the Romanencampment."

The Captain felt that this proposal was meant as the greatestpeace-offering my father could think of; for, first, it was a very longwalk, and my father detested long walks; secondly, it was the sacrificeof a whole day's labor at the Great Work. And yet, with that quicksensibility which only the generous possess, Uncle Roland accepted atonce the proposal. If he had not done so, my father would have had aheavier heart for a month to come. And how could the Great Work havegot on while the author was every now and then disturbed by a twinge ofremorse?

Half an hour after breakfast, the brothers set off arm-in-arm; and Ifollowed, a little apart, admiring how sturdily the old soldier got overthe ground, in spite of the cork leg. It was pleasant enough to listento their conversation, and notice the contrasts between these twoeccentric stamps from Dame Nature's ever-variable mould,--Nature, whocasts nothing in stereotype; for I do believe that not even two fleascan be found identically the same.

My father was not a quick or minute observer of rural beauties. He hadso little of the organ of locality that I suspect he could have lost hisway in his own garden. But the Captain was exquisitely alive to externalimpressions,--not a feature in the landscape escaped him. At everyfantastic gnarled pollard he halted to gaze; his eye followed the larksoaring up from his feet; when a fresher air came from the hill-top hisnostrils dilated, as if voluptuously to inhale its delight. My father,with all his learning, and though his study had been in the stores ofall language, was very rarely eloquent. The Captain had a glow and apassion in his words which, what with his deep, tremulous voice andanimated gestures, gave something poetic to half of what he uttered. Inevery sentence of Roland's, in every tone of his voice and every playof his face, there was some outbreak of pride; but unless you set him onhis hobby of that great ancestor the printer, my father had not as muchpride as a homeopathist could have put into a globule. He was not proudeven of not being proud. Chafe all his feathers, and still you couldrouse but the dove. My father was slow and mild, my uncle quick andfiery; my father reasoned, my uncle imagined; my father was very seldomwrong, my uncle never quite in the right; but, as my father once said ofhim, "Roland beats about the bush till he sends out the very bird thatwe went to search for. He is never in the wrong without suggesting to uswhat is the right." All in my uncle was stern, rough, and angular; allin my father was sweet, polished, and rounded into a natural grace. Myuncle's character cast out a multiplicity of shadows, like a Gothic pilein a northern sky. My father stood serene in the light, like a Greektemple at mid-day in a southern clime. Their persons corresponded withtheir natures. My uncle's high, aquiline features, bronzed hue, rapidfire of eye, and upper lip that always quivered, were a notable contrastto my father's delicate profile, quiet, abstracted gaze, and thesteady sweetness that rested on his musing smile. Roland's forehead wassingularly high, and rose to a peak in the summit where phrenologistsplace the organ of veneration; but it was narrow, and deeply furrowed.Augustine's might be as high, but then soft, silky hair waved carelesslyover it, concealing its height, but not its vast breadth, on which not awrinkle was visible. And yet, withal, there was a great family likenessbetween the two brothers. When some softer sentiment subdued him, Rolandcaught the very look of Augustine; when some high emotion animated myfather, you might have taken him for Roland. I have often thought since,in the greater experience of mankind which life has afforded me, thatif, in early years, their destinies had been exchanged,--if Roland hadtaken to literature, and my father had been forced into action,--eachwould have had greater worldly success. For Roland's passion and energywould have given immediate and forcible effect to study; he mighthave been a historian or a poet. It is not study alone that produces awriter, it is intensity. In the mind, as in yonder chimney, to make thefire burn hot and quick, you must narrow the draught. Whereas, hadmy father been forced into the practical world, his calm depth ofcomprehension, his clearness of reason, his general accuracy in suchnotions as he once entertained and pondered over, joined to a temperthat crosses and losses could never ruffle, and utter freedom fromvanity and self-love, from prejudice and passion, might have made hima very wise and enlightened counsellor in the great affairs of life,--alawyer, a diplomatist, a statesman, for what I know, even a greatgeneral, if his tender humanity had not stood in the way of his militarymathematics.

But as it was,--with his slow pulse never stimulated by action, and toolittle stirred by even scholarly ambition,--my father's mind went onwidening and widening till the circle was lost in the great ocean ofcontemplation; and Roland's passionate energy, fretted into fever byevery let and hindrance in the struggle with his kind, and narrowed moreand more as it was curbed within the channels of active discipline andduty, missed its due career altogether, and what might have been thepoet, contracted into the humorist.

Yet who that had ever known ye, could have wished you other than yewere, ye guileless, affectionate, honest, simple creatures?--simpleboth, in spite of all the learning of the one, all the prejudices,whims, irritabilities, and crotchets of the other. There you are, seatedon the height of the old Roman camp, with a volume of the Stratagemsof Polyaenus (or is it Frontinus?) open on my father's lap; the sheepgrazing in the furrows of the circumvallations; the curious steer gazingat you where it halts in the space whence the Roman cohorts glitteredforth; and your boy-biographer standing behind you with folded arms,and--as the scholar read, or the soldier pointed his cane to eachfancied post in the war--filling up the pastoral landscape with theeagles of Agricola and the scythed cars of Boadicea!

CHAPTER VI.

"It is never the same two hours together in this country," said my UncleRoland, as, after dinner, or rather after dessert, we joined my motherin the drawing-room.

Indeed, a cold, drizzling rain had come on within the last two hours,and though it was July, it was as chilly as if it had been October. Mymother whispered to me, and I went out; in ten minutes more, the logs(for we live in a wooded country) blazed merrily in the grate. Why couldnot my mother have rung the bell and ordered the servant to light afire? My dear reader, Captain Roland was poor, and he made a capitalvirtue of economy!

The two brothers drew their chairs near to the hearth, my father at theleft, my uncle at the right; and I and my mother sat down to "Fox andGeese."

Coffee came in,--one cup for the Captain, for the rest of the partyavoided that exciting beverage. And on that cup was a picture of--HisGrace the Duke of Wellington!

During our visit to the Roman camp my mother had borrowed Mr. Squills'schaise and driven over to our market-town, for the express purpose ofgreeting the Captain's eyes with the face of his old chief.

My uncle changed color, rose, lifted my mother's hand to his lips, andsat himself down again in silence.

"I have heard," said the Captain after a pause, "that the Marquis ofHastings, who is every inch a soldier and a gentleman,--and that issaying not a little, for he measures seventy-five inches from thecrown to the sole,--when he received Louis XVIII. (then an exile) atDonnington, fitted up his apartments exactly like those his Majesty hadoccupied at the Tuileries. It was a kingly attention (my Lord Hastings,you know, is sprung from the Plantagenets),--a kingly attention to aking. It cost some money and made some noise. A woman can show the sameroyal delicacy of heart in this bit of porcelain, and so quietly that wemen all think it a matter of course, brother Austin."

"You are such a worshipper of women, Roland, that it is melancholy tosee you single. You must marry again!"

My uncle first smiled, then frowned, and lastly sighed somewhat heavily.

"Your time will pass slowly in your old tower, poor brother," continuedmy father, "with only your little girl for a companion."

"And the past!" said my uncle; "the past, that mighty world--"

"Do you still read your old books of chivalry,--Froissart and theChronicles, Palmerin of England, and Amadis of Gaul?"

"Why," said my uncle, reddening, "I have tried to improve myself withstudies a little more substantial. And," he added with a sly smile,"there will be your great book for many a long winter to come."

"Um!" said my father, bashfully.

"Do you know," quoth my uncle, "that Dame Primmins is a very intelligentwoman,--full of fancy, and a capital story-teller?"

"Is not she, uncle?" cried I, leaving my fox in the corner. "Oh, if youcould hear her tell the tale of King Arthur and the Enchanted Lake, orthe Grim White Woman!"

"I have already heard her tell both," said my uncle.

"The deuce you have, brother! My dear, we must look to this. Thesecaptains are dangerous gentlemen in an orderly household. Pray, wherecould you have had the opportunity of such private communications withMrs. Primmins?"

"Once," said my uncle, readily, "when I went into her room, while shemended my stock; and once--" He stopped short, and looked down.

"Once when? Out with it."

"When she was warming my bed," said my uncle, in a half-whisper.

"Dear!" said my mother, innocently, "that's how the sheets came by thatbad hole in the middle. I thought it was the warming-pan."

"I am quite shocked!" faltered my uncle.

"You well may be," said my father. "A woman who has been heretoforeabove all suspicion! But come," he said, seeing that my uncle lookedsad, and was no doubt casting up the probable price of twice sixyards of holland, "but come, you were always a famous rhapsodist ortale-teller yourself. Come, Roland, let us have some story ofyour own,--something which your experience has left strong in yourimpressions."

"Let us first have the candles," said my mother.

The candles were brought, the curtains let down; we all drew our chairsto the hearth. But in the interval my uncle had sunk into a gloomyrevery; and when we called upon him to begin, he seemed to shake offwith effort some recollections of pain.

"You ask me," he said, "to tell you some tale which my own experiencehas left deeply marked in my impressions,--I will tell you one, apartfrom my own life, but which has often haunted me. It is sad and strange,ma'am."

"Ma'am, brother?" said my mother, reproachfully, letting her small handdrop upon that which, large and sunburnt, the Captain waved towards heras he spoke.

"Austin, you have married an angel!" said my uncle; and he was,I believe, the only brother-in-law who ever made so hazardous anassertion.

CHAPTER VII. MY UNCLE ROLAND'S TALE.

"It was in Spain--no matter where or how--that it was my fortune totake prisoner a French officer of the same rank that I then held,--alieutenant; and there was so much similarity in our sentiments that webecame intimate friends,--the most intimate friend I ever had, sister,out of this dear circle. He was a rough soldier, whom the world had notwell treated; but he never railed at the world, and maintained that hehad had his deserts. Honor was his idol, and the sense of honor paid himfor the loss of all else.

"We were both at that time volunteers in a foreign service,--in thatworst of service, civil war,--he on one side, I the other, both,perhaps, disappointed in the cause we had severally espoused. There wassomething similar, too, in our domestic relationships. He had a son--aboy--who was all in life to him, next to his country and his duty. Itoo had then such a son, though of fewer years." (The Captain pausedan instant; we exchanged glances, and a stifling sensation of pain andsuspense was felt by all his listeners.) "We were accustomed, brother,to talk of these children, to picture their future, to compare ourhopes and dreams. We hoped and dreamed alike. A short time sufficed toestablish this confidence. My prisoner was sent to head-quarters, andsoon afterwards exchanged.

"We met no more till last year. Being then at Paris, I inquired for myold friend, and learned that he was living at R--, a few miles from thecapital. I went to visit him. I found his house empty and deserted. Thatvery day he had been led to prison, charged with a terrible crime. I sawhim in that prison, and from his own lips learned his story. His son hadbeen brought up, as he fondly believed, in the habits and principles ofhonorable men, and having finished his education, came to reside withhim at R--. The young man was accustomed to go frequently to Paris. Ayoung Frenchman loves pleasure, sister; and pleasure is found at Paris.The father thought it natural, and stripped his age of some comforts tosupply luxuries to the son's youth.

"Shortly after the young man's arrival, my friend perceived that he wasrobbed. Moneys kept in his bureau were abstracted, he knew not how, norcould guess by whom. It must be done in the night. He concealed himselfand watched. He saw a stealthy figure glide in, he saw a falsekey applied to the lock; he started forward, seized the felon, andrecognized his son. What should the father have done? I do not ask you,sister! I ask these men: son and father, I ask you."

"Expelled him the house," cried I.

"Done his duty, and reformed the unhappy wretch," said my father. "Nemorepente turpissinus semper fait,--No man is wholly bad all at once."

"The father did as you would have advised, brother. He kept the youth;he remonstrated with him: he did more,--he gave him the key of thebureau. 'Take what I have to give,' said he; 'I would rather be a beggarthan know my son a thief.'"

"Right! And the youth repented, and became a good man?" exclaimed myfather.

Captain Roland shook his head. "The youth promised amendment, and seemedpenitent. He spoke of the temptations of Paris, the gaming-table, andwhat not. He gave up his daily visits to the capital. He seemed to applyto study. Shortly after this, the neighborhood was alarmed by reportsof night robberies on the road. Men, masked and armed, plunderedtravellers, and even broke into houses.

"The police were on the alert. One night an old brother officer knockedat my friend's door. It was late; the veteran (he was a cripple, by theway, like myself,--strange coincidence!) was in bed. He came down inhaste, when his servant woke, and told him that his old friend, woundedand bleeding, sought an asylum under his roof. The wound, however, wasslight. The guest had been attacked and robbed on the road. The nextmorning the proper authority of the town was sent for. The plunderedman described his loss,--some billets of five hundred francs in apocketbook, on which was embroidered his name and coronet (he was avicomte). The guest stayed to dinner. Late in the forenoon, the sonlooked in. The guest started to see him; my friend noticed his paleness.Shortly after, on pretence of faintness, the guest retired to his room,and sent for his host. 'My friend,' said he, 'can you do me a favor? Goto the magistrate and recall the evidence I have given.'

"'Impossible,' said the host. 'What crotchet is this?'

"The guest shuddered. 'Peste!' said he, 'I do not wish in my old age tobe hard on others. Who knows how the robber may have been tempted, andwho knows what relations he may have,--honest men, whom his crime woulddegrade forever! Good heavens! if detected, it is the galleys, thegalleys!'

"And what then? The robber knew what he braved. 'But did his father knowit?' cried the guest.

"A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in arms; he caught his friend bythe hand: 'You turned pale at my son's sight,--where did you ever seehim before? Speak!'

"'Last night on the road to Paris. The mask slipped aside. Call back myevidence!'

"'You are mistaken,' said my friend, calmly. 'I saw my son in his bed,and blessed him, before I went to my own.'

"'I will believe you,' said the guest; 'and never shall my hastysuspicion pass my lips,--but call back the evidence.'

"The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The father conversed with hisson on the subject of his studies; he followed him to his room, waitedtill he was in bed, and was then about to retire, when the youth said,'Father, you have forgotten your blessing.'

"The father went back, laid his hand on the boy's head and prayed. Hewas credulous--fathers are so! He was persuaded that his friend had beendeceived. He retired to rest, and fell asleep. He woke suddenly in themiddle of the night, and felt (I here quote his words)--'I felt,'said he, 'as if a voice had awakened me,--a voice that said, "Rise andsearch." I rose at once, struck a light, and went to my son's room. Thedoor was locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice no answer. I dared notcall aloud, lest I should rouse the servants. I went down the stairs, Iopened the back-door, I passed to the stables. My own horse was there,not my son's. My horse neighed; it was old, like myself,--my old chargerat Mont St. Jean. I stole back, I crept into the shadow of the wall bymy son's door, and extinguished my light. I felt as if I were a thiefmyself.'"

"Brother," interrupted my mother, under her breath; "speak in your ownwords, not in this wretched father's. I know not why, but it would shockme less."

The Captain nodded.

"Before daybreak, my friend heard the back-door open gently; a footascended the stair, a key grated in the door of the room close at hand:the father glided through the dark into that chamber behind his unseenson.

"He heard the clink of the tinder-box; a light was struck; itspread over the room, but he had time to place himself behind thewindow-curtain which was close at hand. The figure before him stooda moment or so motionless, and seemed to listen, for it turned to theright, to the left, its visage covered with the black, hideous maskwhich is worn in carnivals. Slowly the mask was removed. Could that behis son's face,--the son of a brave man? It was pale and ghastly withscoundrel fears; the base drops stood on the brow; the eye was haggardand bloodshot. He looked as a coward looks when death stands before him.

"The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the secretaire, unlocked it,opened a secret drawer, placed within it the contents of his pocketsand his frightful mask; the father approached softly, looked over hisshoulder, and saw in the drawer the pocketbook embroidered with hisfriend's name. Meanwhile, the son took out his pistols, uncocked themcautiously, and was about also to secrete them, when his father arrestedhis arm. 'Robber, the use of these is yet to come!'

"The son's knees knocked together, an exclamation for mercy burst fromhis lips; but when, recovering the mere shock of his dastard nerves,he perceived it was not the gripe of some hireling of the law, but afather's hand that had clutched his arm, the vile audacity which knowsfear only from a bodily cause, none from the awe of shame, returned tohim.

"Tush, sir!' he said, 'waste not time in reproaches, for, I fear, thegendarmes are on my track. It is well that you are here; you can swearthat I have spent the night at home. Unhand me, old man; I have thesewitnesses still to secrete,' and he pointed to the garments wet anddabbled with the mud of the roads. He had scarcely spoken when the wallsshook; there was the heavy clatter of hoofs on the ringing pavementwithout.

"'They come!' cried the son. 'Off, dotard! save your son from thegalleys.'

"'The galleys, the galleys!' said the father, staggering back; 'it istrue; he said--"the galleys!"'

"There was a loud knocking at the gate. The gendarmes surrounded thehouse. 'Open, in the name of the law!' No answer came, no door wasopened. Some of the gendarmes rode to the rear of the house, in whichwas placed the stable yard. From the window of the son's room the fathersaw the sudden blaze of torches, the shadowy forms of the men-hunters.He heard the clatter of arms as they swung themselves from their horses.He heard a voice cry, 'Yes, this is the robber's gray horse,--see, itstill reeks with sweat!' And behind and in front, at either door, againcame the knocking, and again the shout, 'Open, in the name of the law!'

"Then lights began to gleam from the casements of the neighboringhouses; then the space filled rapidly with curious wonderers startledfrom their sleep: the world was astir, and the crowd came round to knowwhat crime or what shame had entered the old soldier's home.

"Suddenly, within, there was heard the report of a fire-arm; and aminute or so afterwards the front door was opened, and the soldierappeared.

"'Enter,' he said to the gendarmes: 'what would you?'

"'We seek a robber who is within your walls.'

"I know it; mount and find him: I will lead the way.'

"He ascended the stairs; he threw open his son's room: the officers ofjustice poured in, and on the floor lay the robber's corpse.

"They looked at each other in amazement. 'Take what is left you,' saidthe father. 'Take the dead man rescued from the galleys; take the livingman on whose hands rests the dead man's blood!'

"I was present at my friend's trial. The facts had become knownbeforehand. He stood there with his gray hair, and his mutilated limbs,and the deep scar on his visage, and the Cross of the Legion of Honor onhis breast; and when he had told his tale, he ended with these words: 'Ihave saved the son whom I reared for France from a doom that would havespared the life to brand it with disgrace. Is this a crime? I giveyou my life in exchange for my son's disgrace. Does my country need avictim? I have lived for my country's glory, and I can die contented tosatisfy its laws, sure that, if you blame me, you will not despise; surethat the hands that give me to the headsman will scatter flowers over mygrave. Thus I confess all. I, a soldier, look round amongst a nation ofsoldiers; and in the name of the star which glitters on my breast I darethe fathers of France to condemn me!'

"They acquitted the soldier,--at least they gave a verdict answering towhat in our courts is called 'justifiable homicide.' A shout rose in thecourt which no ceremonial voice could still; the crowd would have bornehim in triumph to his house, but his look repelled such vanities. To hishouse he returned indeed; and the day afterwards they found him dead,beside the cradle in which his first prayer had been breathed over hissinless child. Now, father and son, I ask you, do you condemn that man?"

CHAPTER VIII.

My father took three strides up and down the room, and then, halting onhis hearth, and facing his brother, he thus spoke: "I condemn his deed,Roland! At best he was but a haughty egotist. I understand why Brutusshould slay his sons. By that sacrifice he saved his country! What didthis poor dupe of an exaggeration save? Nothing but his own name. Hecould not lift the crime from his son's soul, nor the dishonor from hisson's memory. He could but gratify his own vain pride; and insensibly tohimself, his act was whispered to him by the fiend that ever whispersto the heart of man, 'Dread men's opinions more than God's law!' Oh, mydear brother! what minds like yours should guard against the most isnot the meanness of evil,--it is the evil that takes false nobility, bygarbing itself in the royal magnificence of good." My uncle walked tothe window, opened it, looked out a moment, as if to draw in fresh air,closed it gently, and came back again to his seat; but during the shorttime the window had been left open, a moth flew in.

"Tales like these," renewed my father, pityingly,--"whether told by somegreat tragedian, or in thy simple style, my brother,--tales like thesehave their uses: they penetrate the heart to make it wiser; but allwisdom is meek, my Roland. They invite us to put the question toourselves that thou hast asked, 'Can we condemn this man?' and reasonanswers as I have answered, 'We pity the man, we condemn the deed.'We--take care, my love! that moth will be in the candle. We--whisk!whisk!" and my father stopped to drive away the moth. My uncle turned,and taking his handkerchief from the lower part of his face, of whichhe had wished to conceal the workings, he flapped away the moth from theflame. My mother moved the candles from the moth.

I tried to catch the moth in my father's straw-hat. The deuce was in themoth! it baffled us all, now circling against the ceiling, now sweepingdown at the fatal lights. As if by a simultaneous impulse, my fatherapproached one candle, my uncle approached the other; and just as themoth was wheeling round and round, irresolute which to choose for itsfuneral pyre, both candles were put out. The fire had burned down low inthe grate, and in the sudden dimness my father's soft, sweet voice cameforth, as if from an invisible being: "We leave ourselves in the darkto save a moth from the flame, brother! Shall we do less for ourfellow-men? Extinguish, oh! humanely extinguish, the light of our reasonwhen the darkness more favors our mercy." Before the lights were relit,my uncle had left the room; his brother followed him. My mother and Idrew near to each other and talked in whispers.

PART IV.

CHAPTER I.

I was always an early riser. Happy the man who is! Every morning,day comes to him with a virgin's love, full of bloom and purity andfreshness. The youth of Nature is contagious, like the gladness of ahappy child. I doubt if any man can be called "old" so long as he isan early riser and an early walker. And oh, youth!--take my word ofit--youth in dressing-gown and slippers, dawdling over breakfast atnoon, is a very decrepit, ghastly image of that youth which sees thesun blush over the mountains, and the dews sparkle upon blossominghedgerows.

Passing by my father's study, I was surprised to see the windowsunclosed; surprised more, on looking in, to see him bending over hisbooks,--for I had never before known him study till after the morningmeal. Students are not usually early risers, for students, alas!whatever their age, are rarely young. Yes, the Great Book must begetting on in serious earnest. It was no longer dalliance with learning;this was work.

I passed through the gates into the road. A few of the cottages weregiving signs of returning life, but it was not yet the hour for labor,and no "Good morning, sir," greeted me on the road. Suddenly at a turn,which an over-hanging beech-tree had before concealed, I came full uponmy Uncle Roland.

"What! you, sir? So early? Hark, the clock is striking five!"

"Not later! I have walked well for a lame man. It must be more than fourmiles to--and back."

"You have been to--? Not on business? No soul would be up."

"Yes, at inns there is always some one up. Hostlers never sleep! I havebeen to order my humble chaise and pair. I leave you today, nephew."

"Ah, uncle, we have offended you! It was my folly, that cursed print--"

"Pooh!" said my uncle, quickly. "Offended me, boy? I defy you!" and hepressed my hand roughly.

"Yet this sudden determination! It was but yesterday, at the Roman Camp,that you planned an excursion with my father, to C------ Castle."

"Never depend upon a whimsical man. I must be in London tonight."

"And return to-morrow?"

"I know not when," said my uncle, gloomily; and he was silent for somemoments. At length, leaning less lightly on my arm, he continued: "Youngman, you have pleased me. I love that open, saucy brow of yours, onwhich Nature has written 'Trust me.' I love those clear eyes, that lookone manfully in the face. I must know more of you--much of you. You mustcome and see me some day or other in your ancestors' ruined keep."

"Come! that I will. And you shall show me the old tower--"

"And the traces of the outworks!" cried my uncle, flourishing his stick.

"And the pedigree--"

"Ay, and your great-great-grandfather's armor, which he wore at MarstonMoor--"

"Yes, and the brass plate in the church, uncle."

"The deuce is in the boy! Come here, come here: I've three minds tobreak your head, sir!"

"It is a pity somebody had not broken the rascally printer's, before hehad the impudence to disgrace us by having a family, uncle."

Captain Roland tried hard to frown, but he could not. "Pshaw!" said he,stopping, and taking snuff. "The world of the dead is wide; why shouldthe ghosts jostle us?"

"We can never escape the ghosts, uncle. They haunt us always. We cannotthink or act, but the soul of some man, who has lived before, points theway. The dead never die, especially since--"

"Since what, boy? You speak well."

"Since our great ancestor introduced printing," said I, majestically.

My uncle whistled "Malbrouk s'en va-t-en guerre."

I had not the heart to plague him further.

"Peace!" said I, creeping cautiously within the circle of the stick.

"No! I forewarn you--"

"Peace! and describe to me my little cousin, your pretty daughter,--forpretty I am sure she is."

"Peace," said my uncle, smiling. "But you must come and judge foryourself."

CHAPTER II.

Uncle Roland was gone. Before he went, he was closeted for an hour withmy father, who then accompanied him to the gate; and we all crowdedround him as he stepped into his chaise. When the Captain was gone, Itried to sound my father as to the cause of so sudden a departure. Butmy father was impenetrable in all that related to his brother's secrets.Whether or not the Captain had ever confided to him the cause of hisdispleasure with his son,--a mystery which much haunted me,--my fatherwas mute on that score both to my mother and myself. For two or threedays, however, Mr. Caxton was evidently unsettled. He did not even taketo his Great Work, but walked much alone, or accompanied only by theduck, and without even a book in his hand. But by degrees the scholarlyhabits returned to him; my mother mended his pens, and the work went on.

For my part, left much to myself, especially in the mornings, I began tomuse restlessly over the future. Ungrateful that I was, the happiness ofhome ceased to content me. I heard afar the roar of the great world, androved impatient by the shore.

At length, one evening, my father, with some modest hums and ha's, andan unaffected blush on his fair forehead, gratified a prayer frequentlyurged on him, and read me some portions of the Great Work. I cannotexpress the feelings this lecture created,--they were something akinto awe. For the design of this book was so immense, and towards itsexecution a learning so vast and various had administered, that itseemed to me as if a spirit had opened to me a new world, which hadalways been before my feet, but which my own human blindness hadhitherto concealed from me. The unspeakable patience with which allthese materials had been collected, year after year; the ease with whichnow, by the calm power of genius, they seemed of themselves to fallinto harmony and system; the unconscious humility with which the scholarexposed the stores of a laborious life,--all combined to rebuke myown restlessness and ambition, while they filled me with a pride in myfather which saved my wounded egotism from a pang. Here, indeed, was oneof those books which embrace an existence; like the Dictionary of Bayle,or the History of Gibbon, or the "Fasti Hellenici" of Clinton, it wasa book to which thousands of books had contributed, only to make theoriginality of the single mind more bold and clear. Into the furnace allvessels of gold, of all ages, had been cast; but from the mould came thenew coin, with its single stamp. And, happily, the subject of the workdid not forbid to the writer the indulgence of his naive, peculiar ironyof humor, so quiet, yet so profound. My father's book was the "Historyof Human Error." It was, therefore, the moral history of mankind,told with truth and earnestness, yet with an arch, unmalignant smile.Sometimes, indeed, the smile drew tears. But in all true humor lies itsgerm, pathos. Oh! by the goddess Moria, or Folly, but he was at home inhis theme. He viewed man first in the savage state, preferring in thisthe positive accounts of voyagers and travellers to the vague mythsof antiquity and the dreams of speculators on our pristine state. FromAustralia and Abyssinia he drew pictures of mortality unadorned, aslively as if he had lived amongst Bushmen and savages all his life.Then he crossed over the Atlantic, and brought before you the AmericanIndian, with his noble nature, struggling into the dawn of civilization,when Friend Penn cheated him out of his birthright, and the Anglo-Saxondrove him back into darkness. He showed both analogy and contrastbetween this specimen of our kind and others equally apart from theextremes of the savage state and the cultured,--the Arab in his tent,the Teuton in his forests, the Greenlander in his boat, the Finn in hisreindeer car. Up sprang the rude gods of the North and the resuscitatedDruidism, passing from its earliest templeless belief into the latercorruptions of crommell and idol. Up sprang, by their side, the Saturnof the Phoenicians, the mystic Budh of India, the elementary deities ofthe Pelasgian, the Naith and Serapis of Egypt, the Ormuzd of Persia, theBel of Babylon, the winged genii of the graceful Etruria. How nature andlife shaped the religion; how the religion shaped the manners; how, andby what influences, some tribes were formed for progress; how otherswere destined to remain stationary, or be swallowed up in war andslavery by their brethren,--was told with a precision clear and strongas the voice of Fate. Not only an antiquarian and philologist, but ananatomist and philosopher, my father brought to bear on all these gravepoints the various speculations involved in the distinction of races.He showed how race in perfection is produced, up to a certain point, byadmixture; how all mixed races have been the most intelligent; how, inproportion as local circumstance and religious faith permitted theearly fusion of different tribes, races improved and quickened into therefinements of civilization. He tracked the progress and dispersionof the Hellenes from their mythical cradle in Thessaly, and showed howthose who settled near the sea-shores, and were compelled intocommerce and intercourse with strangers, gave to Greece her marvellousaccomplishments in arts and letters,--the flowers of the ancient world.How others, like the Spartans; dwelling evermore in a camp, on guardagainst their neighbors, and rigidly preserving their Dorian purity ofextraction, contributed neither artists, nor poets, nor philosophers tothe golden treasure-house of mind. He took the old race of the Celts,Cimry, or Cimmerians. He compared the Celt who, as in Wales, the ScotchHighlands, in Bretagne, and in uncomprehended Ireland, retains his oldcharacteristics and purity of breed, with the Celt whose blood, mixed bya thousand channels, dictates from Paris the manners and revolutionsof the world. He compared the Norman, in his ancient Scandinavian home,with that wonder of intelligence and chivalry into which he grew, fusedimperceptibly with the Frank, the Goth, and the Anglo-Saxon. He comparedthe Saxon, stationary in the land of Horsa, with the colonist andcivilizers of the globe as he becomes when he knows not through whatchannels--French, Flemish, Danish, Welsh, Scotch, and Irish--he drawshis sanguine blood. And out from all these speculations, to which I dosuch hurried and scanty justice, he drew the blessed truth, that carrieshope to the land of the Caffre, the but of the Bushman,--that there isnothing in the flattened skull and the ebon aspect that rejects God'slaw, improvement; that by the same principle which raises the dog,the lowest of the animals in its savage state, to the highest afterman--viz., admixture of race--you can elevate into nations of majestyand power the outcasts of humanity, now your compassion or your scorn.But when my father got into the marrow of his theme; when, quittingthese preliminary discussions, he fell pounce amongst the would-bewisdom of the wise; when he dealt with civilization itself, its schools,and porticos, and academies; when he bared the absurdities couchedbeneath the colleges of the Egyptians and the Symposia of the Greeks;when he showed that, even in their own favorite pursuit of metaphysics,the Greeks were children, and in their own more practical region ofpolitics, the Romans were visionaries and bunglers; when, following thestream of error through the Middle Ages, he quoted the puerilities ofAgrippa, the crudities of Cardan, and passed, with his calm smile,into the salons of the chattering wits of Paris in the eighteenthcentury,--oh! then his irony was that of Lucian, sweetened by the gentlespirit of Erasmus. For not even here was my father's satire of thecheerless and Mephistophelian school. From this record of error he drewforth the grandeurs of truth. He showed how earnest men never thinkin vain, though their thoughts may be errors. He proved how, in vastcycles, age after age, the human mind marches on, like the ocean,receding here, but there advancing; how from the speculations of theGreek sprang all true philosophy; how from the institutions of the Romanrose all durable systems of government; how from the robust folliesof the North came the glory of chivalry, and the modern delicacies ofhonor, and the sweet, harmonizing influences of woman. He tracked theancestry of our Sidneys and Bayards from the Hengists, Genserics,and Attilas. Full of all curious and quaint anecdote, of originalillustration, of those niceties of learning which spring from a tastecultivated to the last exquisite polish, the book amused and alluredand charmed; and erudition lost its pedantry, now in the simplicity ofMontaigne, now in the penetration of La Bruyere. He lived in each timeof which he wrote, and the time lived again in him. Ah! what a writerof romances he would have been if--if what? If he had had as sad anexperience of men's passions as he had the happy intuition into theirhumors. But he who would see the mirror of the shore must look whereit is cast on the river, not the ocean. The narrow stream reflects thegnarled tree and the pausing herd and the village spire and the romanceof the landscape. But the sea reflects only the vast outline of theheadland and the lights of the eternal heaven.

CHAPTER III.

"It is Lombard Street to a China orange," quoth Uncle Jack.

"Are the odds in favor of fame against failure so great? You do notspeak, I fear, from experience, brother Jack," answered my father, as hestooped down to tickle the duck under the left ear.

"But Jack Tibbets is not Augustine Caxton. Jack Tibbets is not ascholar, a genius, a wond--"

"Stop!" cried my father.

"After all," said Mr. Squills, "though I am no flatterer, Mr. Tibbetsis not so far out. That part of your book which compares the crania orskulls of the different races is superb. Lawrence or Dr. Prichard couldnot have done the thing more neatly. Such a book must not be lost to theworld; and I agree with Mr. Tibbets that you should publish as soon aspossible."

"It is one thing to write, and another to publish," said my father,irresolutely. "When one considers all the great men who have published;when one thinks one is going to intrude one's self audaciously into thecompany of Aristotle and Bacon, of Locke, of Herder, of all the gravephilosophers who bend over Nature with brows weighty with thought,--onemay well pause and--"

"Pooh!" interrupted Uncle Jack, "science is not a club, it is an ocean;it is open to the cock-boat as the frigate. One man carries across ita freightage of ingots, another may fish there for herrings. Who canexhaust the sea, who say to Intellect, 'The deeps of philosophy arepreoccupied'?"

"Admirable!" cried Squills.

"So it is really your advice, my friends," said my father, who seemedstruck by Uncle Jack's eloquent illustrations, "that I should desert myhousehold gods, remove to London, since my own library ceases to supplymy wants, take lodgings near the British Museum, and finish off onevolume, at least, incontinently."

"It is a duty you owe to your country," said Uncle Jack, solemnly.

"And to yourself," urged Squills. "One must attend to the naturalevacuations of the brain. Ah! you may smile, sir, but I have observedthat if a man has much in his head, he must give it vent, or itoppresses him; the whole system goes wrong. From being abstracted, hegrows stupefied. The weight of the pressure affects the nerves. I wouldnot even guarantee you from a stroke of paralysis."

"Oh, Austin!" cried my mother tenderly, and throwing her arms round myfather's neck.

"Come, sir, you are conquered," said I.

"And what is to become of you, Sisty?" asked my father. "Do you go withus, and unsettle your mind for the university?"

"My uncle has invited me to his castle; and in the mean while I willstay here, fag hard, and take care of the duck."

"All alone?" said my mother.

"No. All alone! Why, Uncle Jack will come here as often as ever, Ihope."

Uncle Jack shook his head.

"No, my boy, I must go to town with your father. You don't understandthese things. I shall see the booksellers for him. I know how thesegentlemen are to be dealt with. I shall prepare the literary circles forthe appearance of the book. In short, it is a sacrifice of interest,I know; my Journal will suffer. But friendship and my country's goodbefore all things."

"Dear Jack!" said my mother, affectionately.

"I cannot suffer it," cried my father. "You are making a goodincome. You are doing well where you are, and as to seeing thebooksellers,--why, when the work is ready, you can come to town for aweek, and settle that affair."

"Poor dear Austin," said Uncle Jack, with an air of superiority andcompassion. "A week! Sir, the advent of a book that is to succeedrequires the preparation of months. Pshaw! I am no genius, but I am apractical man. I know what's what. Leave me alone."

But my father continued obstinate, and Uncle Jack at last ceased tourge the matter. The journey to fame and London was now settled, but myfather would not hear of my staying behind.

No, Pisistratus must needs go also to town and see the world; the duckwould take care of itself.

CHAPTER IV.

We had taken the precaution to send, the day before, to secure our duecomplement of places--four in all, including one for Mrs. Primmins--in,or upon, the fast family coach called the "Sun," which had lately beenset up for the special convenience of the neighborhood.

This luminary, rising in a town about seven miles distant from us,described at first a very erratic orbit amidst the contiguous villagesbefore it finally struck into the high-road of enlightenment, and thenceperformed its journey, in the full eyes of man, at the majestic pace ofsix miles and a half an hour. My father with his pockets full of books,and a quarto of "Gebelin on the Primitive World," for light reading,under his arm; my mother with a little basket containing sandwiches, andbiscuits of her own baking; Mrs. Primmins, with a new umbrella purchasedfor the occasion, and a bird-cage containing a canary endeared toher not more by song than age and a severe pip through which she hadsuccessfully nursed it; and I myself,--waited at the gates to welcomethe celestial visitor. The gardener, with a wheel-barrow full of boxesand portmanteaus, stood a little in the van; and the footman, who wasto follow when lodgings had been found, had gone to a rising eminence towatch the dawning of the expected "Sun," and apprise us of its approachby the concerted signal of a handkerchief fixed to a stick.

The quaint old house looked at us mournfully from all its desertedwindows. The litter before its threshold and in its open hall; wisps ofstraw or hay that had been used for packing; baskets and boxes that hadbeen examined and rejected; others, corded and piled, reserved to followwith the footman; and the two heated and hurried serving-women leftbehind, standing halfway between house and garden-gate, whispering toeach other, and looking as if they had not slept for weeks,--gave to ascene, usually so trim and orderly, an aspect of pathetic abandonmentand desolation. The Genius of the place seemed to reproach us. I feltthe omens were against us, and turned my earnest gaze from the hauntsbehind with a sigh, as the coach now drew up with all its grandeur. Animportant personage, who, despite the heat of the day, was envelopedin a vast superfluity of belcher, in the midst of which galloped a giltfox, and who rejoiced in the name of "guard," descended to inform uspolitely that only three places, two inside and one out, were at ourdisposal, the rest having been pre-engaged a fortnight before our orderswere received.

Now, as I knew that Mrs. Primmins was indispensable to the comforts ofmy honored parents (the more so as she had once lived in London, andknew all its ways), I suggested that she should take the outside seat,and that I should perform the journey on foot,--a primitive mode oftransport which has its charms to a young man with stout limbs and gayspirits. The guard's outstretched arm left my mother little time tooppose this proposition, to which my father assented with a silentsqueeze of the hand. And having promised to join them at a family hotelnear the Strand, to which Mr. Squills had recommended them as peculiarlygenteel and quiet, and waved my last farewell to my poor mother, whocontinued to stretch her meek face out of the window till the coach waswhirled off in a cloud like one of the Homeric heroes, I turnedwithin, to put up a few necessary articles in a small knapsack which Iremembered to have seen in the lumber-room, and which had appertainedto my maternal grandfather; and with that on my shoulder, and a strongstaff in my hand, I set off towards the great city at as brisk a pace asif I were only bound to the next village. Accordingly, about noon I wasboth tired and hungry; and seeing by the wayside one of those prettyinns yet peculiar to England, but which, thanks to the railways, willsoon be amongst the things before the Flood, I sat down at a table undersome clipped limes, unbuckled my knapsack, and ordered my simple farewith the dignity of one who, for the first time in his life, bespeakshis own dinner and pays for it out of his own pocket.

While engaged on a rasher of bacon and a tankard of what the landlordcalled "No mistake," two pedestrians, passing the same road which Ihad traversed, paused, cast a simultaneous look at my occupation, andinduced no doubt by its allurements, seated themselves under the samelime-trees, though at the farther end of the table. I surveyed thenew-comers with the curiosity natural to my years.

The elder of the two might have attained the age of thirty, thoughsundry deep lines, and hues formerly florid and now faded, speaking offatigue, care, or dissipation, might have made him look somewhat olderthan he was. There was nothing very prepossessing in his appearance. Hewas dressed with a pretension ill suited to the costume appropriate toa foot-traveller. His coat was pinched and padded; two enormous pins,connected by a chain, decorated a very stiff stock of blue satin dottedwith yellow stars; his hands were cased in very dingy gloves which hadonce been straw-colored, and the said hands played with a whalebonecane surmounted by a formidable knob, which gave it the appearance ofa "life-preserver." As he took off a white napless hat, which hewiped with great care and affection with the sleeve of his right arm,a profusion of stiff curls instantly betrayed the art of man. Likemy landlord's ale, in that wig there was "no mistake;" it was brought(after the fashion of the wigs we see in the popular effigies of GeorgeIV. in his youth), low over his fore-head, and was raised at the top.The wig had been oiled, and the oil had imbibed no small quantity ofdust; oil and dust had alike left their impression on the forehead andcheeks of the wig's proprietor. For the rest, the expression of his facewas somewhat impudent and reckless, but not without a certain drolleryin the corners of his eyes.

The younger man was apparently about my own age,--a year or two older,perhaps, judging rather from his set and sinewy frame than his boyishcountenance. And this last, boyish as it was, could not fail to commandthe attention even of the most careless observer. It had not only thedarkness, but the character of the gipsy face, with large, brillianteyes, raven hair, long and wavy, but not curling; the features wereaquiline, but delicate, and when he spoke he showed teeth dazzlingas pearls. It was impossible not to admire the singular beauty ofthe countenance; and yet it had that expression, at once stealthy andfierce, which war with society has stamped upon the lineaments of therace of which it reminded me. But, withal, there was somewhat of the airof a gentleman in this young wayfarer. His dress consisted of a blackvelveteen shooting-jacket, or rather short frock, with a broad leathernstrap at the waist, loose white trousers, and a foraging cap, whichhe threw carelessly on the table as he wiped his brow. Turning roundimpatiently, and with some haughtiness, from his companion, he surveyedme with a quick, observant flash of his piercing eyes, and thenstretched himself at length on the bench, and appeared either to dose ormuse, till, in obedience to his companion's orders, the board was spreadwith all the cold meats the larder could supply.

"Beef!" said his companion, screwing a pinchbeck glass into his righteye. "Beef,--mottled, cowey; humph! Lamb,--oldish, rawish, muttony;humph! Pie,--stalish. Veal?--no, pork. Ah! what will you have?"

"Help yourself," replied the young man peevishly, as he sat up, lookeddisdainfully at the viands, and, after a long pause, tasted firstone, then the other, with many shrugs of the shoulders and mutteredexclamations of discontent. Suddenly he looked up, and called forbrandy; and to my surprise, and I fear admiration, he drank nearly halfa tumblerful of that poison undiluted, with a composure that spoke ofhabitual use.

"Wrong!" said his companion, drawing the bottle to himself, and mixingthe alcohol in careful proportions with water. "Wrong! coats of stomachsoon wear out with that kind of clothes-brush. Better stick to the'yeasty foam,' as sweet Will says. That young gentleman sets you agood example," and therewith the speaker nodded at me familiarly.Inexperienced as I was, I surmised at once that it was his intention tomake acquaintance with the neighbor thus saluted. I was not deceived."Anything to tempt you, sir?" asked this social personage after a shortpause, and describing a semicircle with the point of his knife.

"I thank you, sir, but I have dined."

"What then? 'Break out into a second course of mischief,' as the Swanrecommends,--Swan of Avon, sir! No? 'Well, then, I charge you with thiscup of sack.' Are you going far, if I may take the liberty to ask?"

"To London."

"Oh!" said the traveller, while his young companion lifted his eyes; andI was again struck with their remarkable penetration and brilliancy.

"London is the best place in the world for a lad of spirit. See lifethere,--'glass of fashion and mould of form.' Fond of the play, sir?"

"I never saw one."

"Possible!" cried the gentleman, dropping the handle of his knife,and bringing up the point horizontally; "then, young man," he addedsolemnly, "you have,--but I won't say what you have to see. I won'tsay,--no, not if you could cover this table with golden guineas, andexclaim, with the generous ardor so engaging in youth, 'Mr. Peacock,these are yours if you will only say what I have to see!'"

I laughed outright. May I be forgiven for the boast, but I had thereputation at school of a pleasant laugh. The young man's face grew darkat the sound; he pushed back his plate and sighed.

"Why," continued his friend, "my companion here, who, I suppose, isabout your own age, he could tell you what a play is,--he could tellyou what life is. He has viewed the manners of the town; 'perused thetraders,' as the Swan poetically remarks. Have you not, my lad, eh?"

Thus directly appealed to, the boy looked up with a smile of scorn onhis lips,--

"Yes, I know what life is, and I say that life, like poverty, hasstrange bed-fellows. Ask me what life is now, and I say a melodrama; askme what it is twenty years hence, and I shall say--"

"A farce?" put in his comrade.

"No, a tragedy,--or comedy as Moliere wrote it."

"And how is that?" I asked, interested and somewhat surprised at thetone of my contemporary.

"Where the play ends in the triumph of the wittiest rogue. My friendhere has no chance!"

"'Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley,' hem--yes, Hal Peacock may be witty,but he is no rogue."

"This was not exactly my meaning," said the boy, dryly.

"'A fico for your meaning,' as the Swan says.--Hallo, you sir! BullyHost, clear the table--fresh tumblers--hot water--sugar--lemon--and--Thebottle's out! Smoke, sir?" and Mr. Peacock offered me a cigar.

Upon my refusal, he carefully twirled round a very uninviting specimenof some fabulous havanna, moistened it all over, as a boa-constrictormay do the ox he prepares for deglutition, bit off one end, and lightingthe other from a little machine for that purpose which he drew fromhis pocket, he was soon absorbed in a vigorous effort (which thedamp inherent in the weed long resisted) to poison the surroundingatmosphere. Therewith the young gentleman, either from emulation orin self-defence, extracted from his own pouch a cigar-case of notableelegance,--being of velvet, embroidered apparently by some fair hand,for "From Juliet" was very legibly worked thereon,--selected a cigar ofbetter appearance than that in favor with his comrade, and seemed quiteas familiar with the tobacco as he had been with the brandy.

"Fast, sir, fast lad that," quoth Mr. Peacock, in the short gaspswhich his resolute struggle with his uninviting victim alone permitted;"nothing but [puff, puff] your true [suck, suck] syl--syl--sylva--doesfor him. Out, by the Lord! the 'jaws of darkness have devoured it up;'"and again Mr. Peacock applied to his phosphoric machine. This timepatience and perseverance succeeded, and the heart of the cigarresponded by a dull red spark (leaving the sides wholly untouched) tothe indefatigable ardor of its wooer.

This feat accomplished, Mr. Peacock exclaimed triumphantly: "And now,what say you, my lads, to a game at cards? Three of us,--whist anda dummy; nothing better, eh?" As he spoke, he produced from hiscoat-pocket a red silk handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a nightcap, atooth-brush, a piece of shaving-soap, four lumps of sugar, the remainsof a bun, a razor, and a pack of cards. Selecting the last, andreturning its motley accompaniments to the abyss whence they hademerged, he turned up, with a jerk of his thumb and finger, the knaveof clubs, and placing it on the top of the rest, slapped the cardsemphatically on the table.

"You are very good, but I don't know whist," said I.

"Not know whist--not been to a play--not smoke! Then pray tell me, youngman," said he majestically, and with a frown, "what on earth you doknow."

Much consternated by this direct appeal, and greatly ashamed ofmy ignorance of the cardinal points of erudition in Mr. Peacock'sestimation, I hung my head and looked down.

"That is right," renewed Mr. Peacock, more benignly; "you have theingenuous shame of youth. It is promising, sir; 'lowliness is youngambition's ladder,' as the Swan says. Mount the first step, and learnwhist,--sixpenny points to begin with."

Notwithstanding any newness in actual life, I had had the good fortuneto learn a little of the way before me, by those much-slandered guidescalled novels,--works which are often to the inner world what maps areto the outer; and sundry recollections of "Gil Blas" and the "Vicar ofWakefield" came athwart me. I had no wish to emulate the worthy Moses,and felt that I might not have even the shagreen spectacles to boast ofin my negotiations with this new Mr. Jenkinson. Accordingly, shakingmy head, I called for my bill. As I took out my purse,--knit by mymother,--with one gold piece in one corner, and sundry silver ones inthe other, I saw that the eyes of Mr. Peacock twinkled.

"Poor spirit, sir! poor spirit, young man! 'This avarice sticks deep,'as the Swan beautifully observes. 'Nothing venture, nothing have.'"

"Nothing have, nothing venture," I returned, plucking up spirit.

"Nothing have! Young sir, do you doubt my solidity--my capital--my'golden joys'?"

"Sir, I spoke of myself. I am not rich enough to gamble."

"Gamble!" exclaimed Mr. Peacock, in virtuous indignation--"gamble! whatdo you mean, sir? You insult me!" and he rose threateningly, and slappedhis white hat on his wig. "Pshaw! let him alone, Hal," said the boy,contemptuously. "Sir, if he is impertinent, thrash him." (This was tome.) "Impertinent! thrash!" exclaimed Mr. Peacock, waxing very red; butcatching the sneer on his companion's lip, he sat down, and subsidedinto sullen silence.

Meanwhile I paid my bill. This duty--rarely a cheerful one--performed,I looked round for my knapsack, and perceived that it was in theboy's hands. He was very coolly reading the address, which, in caseof accidents, I prudently placed on it: "Pisistratus Caxton,Esq.,--Hotel,--Street, Strand."

I took my knapsack from him, more surprised at such a breach of goodmanners in a young gentleman who knew life so well, than I should havebeen at a similar error on the part of Mr. Peacock. He made no apology,but nodded farewell, and stretched himself at full length on the bench.Mr. Peacock, now absorbed in a game of patience, vouchsafed no returnto my parting salutation, and in another moment I was alone on thehigh-road. My thoughts turned long upon the young man I had left; mixedwith a sort of instinctive compassionate foreboding of an ill future forone with such habits and in such companionship, I felt an involuntaryadmiration, less even for his good looks than his ease, audacity, andthe careless superiority he assumed over a comrade so much older thanhimself.

The day twas far gone when I saw the spires of a town at which Iintended to rest for the night. The horn of a coach behind made me turnmy head, and as the vehicle passed me, I saw on the outside Mr. Peacock,still struggling with a cigar,--it could scarcely be the same,--andhis young friend stretched on the roof amongst the luggage, leaning hishandsome head on his hand, and apparently unobservant both of me andevery one else.

CHAPTER V.

I am apt--judging egotistically, perhaps, from my own experience--tomeasure a young man's chance of what is termed practical success inlife by what may seem at first two very vulgar qualities; viz., hisinquisitiveness and his animal vivacity. A curiosity which springsforward to examine everything new to his information; a nervousactivity, approaching to restlessness, which rarely allows bodilyfatigue to interfere with some object in view,--constitute, in my mind,very profitable stock-in-hand to begin the world with.

Tired as I was, after I had performed my ablutions and refreshedmyself in the little coffee-room of the inn at which I put up, with thepedestrian's best beverage, familiar and oft calumniated tea, I couldnot resist the temptation of the broad, bustling street, which, lightedwith gas, shone on me through the dim windows of the coffee-room. I hadnever before seen a large town, and the contrast of lamp-lit, busy nightin the streets, with sober, deserted night in the lanes and fields,struck me forcibly.

I sauntered out, therefore, jostling and jostled, now gazing at thewindows, now hurried along the tide of life, till I found myself beforea cookshop, round which clustered a small knot of housewives, citizens,and hungry-looking children. While contemplating this group, andmarvelling how it comes to pass that the staple business of earth'smajority is how, when, and where to eat, my ear was struck with "'InTroy there lies the scene,' as the illustrious Will remarks."

Looking round, I perceived Mr. Peacock pointing his stick towards anopen doorway next to the cookshop, the hall beyond which was lightedwith gas, while painted in black letters on a pane of glass over thedoor was the word "Billiards."

Suiting the action to the word, the speaker plunged at once into theaperture, and vanished. The boy-companion was following more slowly,when his eye caught mine. A slight blush came over his dark cheek; hestopped, and leaning against the door-jambs, gazed on me hard and longbefore he said: "Well met again, sir! You find it hard to amuse yourselfin this dull place; the nights are long out of London."

"Oh!" said I, ingenuously, "everything here amuses me,--the lights, theshops, the crowd; but, then, to me everything is new."

The youth came from his lounging-place and moved on, as if invitingme to walk; while he answered, rather with bitter sullenness than themelancholy his words expressed,--

"One thing, at least, cannot be new to you,--it is an old truth with usbefore we leave the nursery: 'Whatever is worth having must be bought;'ergo, he who cannot buy, has nothing worth having."

"I don't think," said I, wisely, "that the things best worth having canbe bought at all. You see that poor dropsical jeweller standing beforehis shop-door: his shop is the finest in the street, and I dare say hewould be very glad to give it to you or me in return for our good healthand strong legs. Oh, no! I think with my father: 'All that are worthhaving are given to all,'--that is, Nature and labor."

"Your father says that; and you go by what your father says? Of course,all fathers have preached that, and many other good doctrines, sinceAdam preached to Cain; but I don't see that the fathers have found theirsons very credulous listeners."

"So much the worse for the sons," said I, bluntly. "Nature," continuedmy new acquaintance, without attending to my ejaculation,--"Natureindeed does give us much, and Nature also orders each of us how to useher gifts. If Nature give you the propensity to drudge, you will drudge;if she give me the ambition to rise, and the contempt for work, I mayrise,--but I certainly shall not work."

"Oh," said I, "you agree with Squills, I suppose, and fancy we are allguided by the bumps on our foreheads?"

"And the blood in our veins, and our mothers' milk. We inherit otherthings besides gout and consumption. So you always do as your fathertells you! Good boy!"

I was piqued. Why we should be ashamed of being taunted for goodness,I never could understand; but certainly I felt humbled. However, Ianswered sturdily: "If you had as good a father as I have, you would notthink it so very extraordinary to do as he tells you."

"Ah! so he is a very good father, is he? He must have a great trust inyour sobriety and steadiness to let you wander about the world as hedoes."

"I am going to join him in London."

"In London! Oh, does he live there?"

"He is going to live there for some time."

"Then perhaps we may meet. I too am going to town."

"Oh, we shall be sure to meet there!" said I, with frank gladness; formy interest in the young man was not diminished by his conversation,however much I disliked the sentiments it expressed.

The lad laughed, and his laugh was peculiar,--it was low, musical, buthollow and artificial.

"Sure to meet! London is a large place: where shall you be found?"

I gave him, without scruple, the address of the hotel at which Iexpected to find my father, although his deliberate inspection of myknapsack must already have apprised him of that address. He listenedattentively, and repeated it twice over, as if to impress it on hismemory; and we both walked on in silence, till, turning up a smallpassage, we suddenly found ourselves in a large churchyard,--a flaggedpath stretched diagonally across it towards the market-place, onwhich it bordered. In this churchyard, upon a gravestone, sat a youngSavoyard; his hurdy-gurdy, or whatever else his instrument might becalled, was on his lap; and he was gnawing his crust and feeding somepoor little white mice (standing on their hind legs on the hurdy-gurdy)as merrily as if he had chosen the gayest resting-place in the world.

We both stopped. The Savoyard, seeing us, put his arch head on one side,showed all his white teeth in that happy smile so peculiar to his race,and in which poverty seems to beg so blithely, and gave the handle ofhis instrument a turn. "Poor child!" said I.

"Aha, you pity him! but why? According to your rule, Mr. Caxton, he isnot so much to be pitied; the dropsical jeweller would give him as muchfor his limbs and health as for ours! How is it--answer me, son of sowise a father--that no one pities the dropsical jeweller, and all pitythe healthy Savoyard? It is, sir, because there is a stern truth whichis stronger than all Spartan lessons,--Poverty is the master-ill of theworld. Look round. Does poverty leave its signs over the graves? Lookat that large tomb fenced round; read that long inscription:'Virtue'--'best of husbands'--'affectionate father'--'inconsolablegrief'--'sleeps in the joyful hope,' etc. Do you suppose these stonelessmounds hide no dust of what were men just as good? But no epitaph tellstheir virtues, bespeaks their wifes' grief, or promises joyful hope tothem!"

"Does it matter? Does God care for the epitaph and tombstone?"

"Datemi qualche cosa!" said the Savoyard, in his touching patois, stillsmiling, and holding out his little hand; therein I dropped a smallcoin. The boy evinced his gratitude by a new turn of the hurdy-gurdy.

"That is not labor," said my companion; "and had you found him at work,you had given him nothing. I, too, have my instrument to play upon, andmy mice to see after. Adieu!"

He waved his hand, and strode irreverently over the graves back in thedirection we had come.

I stood before the fine tomb with its fine epitaph: the Savoyard lookedat me wistfully.

CHAPTER VI.

The Savoyard looked at me wistfully. I wished to enter into conversationwith him. That was not easy. However, I began.

Pisistratus.--"You must be often hungry enough, my poor boy. Do the micefeed you?"

Savoyard puts his head on one side, shakes it, and strokes his mice.

Pisistratus.--"You are very fond of the mice; they are your only friends,I fear."

Savoyard evidently understanding Pisistratus, rubs his face gentlyagainst the mice, then puts them softly down on a grave, and gives aturn to the hurdy-gurdy. The mice play unconcernedly over the grave.

Pisistratus, pointing first to the beasts, then to theinstrument.--"Which do you like best, the mice or the hurdygurdy?"

Savoyard shows his teeth--considers--stretches himself on thegrass--plays with the mice--and answers volubly. Pisistratus, by the helpof Latin comprehending that the Savoyard says that the mice are alive,and the hurdy-gurdy is not.--"Yes, a live friend is better than a deadone. Mortua est hurdy-gurda!"

Savoyard shakes his head vehemently.--"No--no, Eccellenza, non e morta!"and strikes up a lively air on the slandered instrument. The Savoyard'sface brightens--he looks happy; the mice run from the grave into hisbosom. Pisistratus, affected, and putting the question in Latin.--"Haveyou a father?"

Savoyard with his face overcast.--"No, Eccellenza!" then pausinga little, he says briskly, "Si, si!" and plays a solemn air on thehurdy-gurdy--stops--rests one hand on the instrument, and raises theother to heaven.

Pisistratus understands: the father is like the hurdygurdy, at oncedead and living. The mere form is a dead thing, but the music lives.Pisistratus drops another small piece of silver on the ground, and turnsaway.

God help and God bless thee, Savoyard! Thou hast done Pisistratus allthe good in the world. Thou hast corrected the hard wisdom of the younggentleman in the velveteen jacket; Pisistratus is a better lad forhaving stopped to listen to thee.

I regained the entrance to the churchyard, I looked back; there sat theSavoyard still amidst men's graves, but under God's sky. He was stilllooking at me wistfully; and when he caught my eye, he pressed his handto his heart and smiled. God help and God bless thee, young Savoyard!

PART V.

CHAPTER I.

In setting off the next morning, the Boots, whose heart I had won by anextra sixpence for calling me betimes, good-naturedly informed me that Imight save a mile of the journey, and have a very pleasant walk into thebargain, if I took the footpath through a gentleman's park, the lodge ofwhich I should see about seven miles from the town.

"And the grounds are showed too," said the Boots, "if so be you has amind to stay and see 'em. But don't you go to the gardener,--he'll wanthalf a crown; there's an old 'oman at the lodge who will show you allthat's worth seeing--the walks and the big cascade--for a tizzy. You maymake use of my name," he added proudly,--"Bob, boots at the 'Lion.' Shebe a _h_aunt o' mine, and she minds them that come from me perticklerly."

Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated these counsels, Ithanked my shock-headed friend, and asked carelessly to whom the parkbelonged.

"To Muster Trevanion, the great parliament man," answered the Boots."You has heard o' him, I guess, sir?"

I shook my head, surprised every hour more and more to find how verylittle there was in it.

"They takes in the 'Moderate Man's Journal' at the 'Lamb:' and they sayin the tap there that he's one of the cleverest chaps in the House o'Commons," continued the Boots, in a confidential whisper. "But we takesin the 'People's Thunderbolt' at the 'Lion,' and we knows betterthis Muster Trevanion: he is but a trimmer,--milk and water,--nohorator,--not the right sort; you understand?" Perfectly satisfiedthat I understood nothing about it, I smiled, and said, "Oh, yes!" andslipping on my knapsack, commenced my adventures, the Boots bawlingafter me, "Mind, sir, you tells haunt I sent you!"

The town was only languidly putting forth symptoms of returning life asI strode through the streets; a pale, sickly, unwholesome look on theface of the slothful Phoebus had succeeded the feverish hectic of thepast night; the artisans whom I met glided by me haggard and dejected;a few early shops were alone open; one or two drunken men, emerging fromthe lanes, sallied homeward with broken pipes in their mouths; bills,with large capitals, calling attention to "Best family teas at 4s. apound;" "The arrival of Mr. Sloinan's caravan of wild beasts;" andDr. Do'em's "Paracelsian Pills of Immortality," stared out dull anduncheering from the walls of tenantless, dilapidated houses in thatchill sunrise which favors no illusion. I was glad when I had left thetown behind me, and saw the reapers in the corn-fields, and heardthe chirp of the birds. I arrived at the lodge of which the Bootshad spoken,--a pretty rustic building half-concealed by a belt ofplantations, with two large iron gates for the owner's friends, and asmall turn-stile for the public, who, by some strange neglect on hispart, or sad want of interest with the neighboring magistrates, hadstill preserved a right to cross the rich man's domains and look on hisgrandeur, limited to compliance with a reasonable request, mildly statedon the notice-board, "to keep to the paths." As it was not yet eighto'clock, I had plenty of time before me to see the grounds; andprofiting by the economical hint of the Boots, I entered the lodge andinquired for the old lady who was haunt to Mr. Bob. A young woman, whowas busied in preparing breakfast, nodded with great civility to thisrequest, and hastening to a bundle of clothes which I then perceivedin the corner, she cried, "Grandmother, here's a gentleman to see thecascade."

The bundle of clothes then turned round and exhibited a humancountenance, which lighted up with great intelligence as thegranddaughter, turning to me, said with simplicity. "She's old, honestcretur, but she still likes to earn a sixpence, sir;" and taking acrutch-staff in her hand, while her granddaughter put a neat bonneton her head, this industrious gentlewoman sallied out at a pace whichsurprised me.

I attempted to enter into conversation with my guide; but she did notseem much inclined to be sociable, and the beauty of the glades andgroves which now spread before my eyes reconciled me to silence.

I have seen many fine places since then, but I do not remember to haveseen a landscape more beautiful in its peculiar English character thanthat which I now gazed on. It had none of the feudal characteristics ofancient parks, with giant oaks, fantastic pollards, glens covered withfern, and deer grouped upon the slopes; on the contrary, in spite ofsome fine trees, chiefly beech, the impression conveyed was, that itwas a new place,--a made place. You might see ridges on the lawns whichshowed where hedges had been removed; the pastures were parcelled out indivisions by new wire fences; young plantations, planned with exquisitetaste, but without the venerable formality of avenues and quin-cunxes,by which you know the parks that date from Elizabeth and James,diversified the rich extent of verdure; instead of deer, wereshort-horned cattle of the finest breed, sheep that would have won theprize at an agricultural show. Everywhere there was the evidence ofimprovement, energy, capital, but capital clearly not employed for themere purpose of return. The ornamental was too conspicuously predominantamidst the lucrative not to say eloquently: "The owner is willing tomake the most of his land, but not the most of his money."

But the old woman's eagerness to earn sixpence had impressed meunfavorably as to the character of the master. "Here," thought I, "areall the signs of riches; and yet this poor old woman, living on the verythreshold of opulence, is in want of a sixpence."

These surmises, in the indulgence of which I piqued myself on mypenetration, were strengthened into convictions by the few sentenceswhich I succeeded at last in eliciting from the old woman.

"Mr. Trevanion must be a rich man?" said I. "Oh, ay, rich eno'!"grumbled my guide.

"And," said I, surveying the extent of shrubbery or dressed groundthrough which our way wound, now emerging into lawns and glades, nowbelted by rare garden-trees, now (as every inequality of the groundwas turned to advantage in the landscape) sinking into the dell, nowclimbing up the slopes, and now confining the view to some object ofgraceful art or enchanting Nature,--"and," said I, "he must employ manyhands here: plenty of work, eh?"

"Ay, ay! I don't say that he don't find work for those who want it. Butit ain't the same place it wor in my day."

"You remember it in other hands, then?"

"Ay, ay! When the Hogtons had it, honest folk! My good man was thegardener,--none of those set-up fine gentlemen who can't put hand to aspade."

Poor faithful old woman!

I began to hate the unknown proprietor. Here clearly was some mushroomusurper who had bought out the old simple, hospitable family, neglectedits ancient servants, left them to earn tizzies by showing waterfalls,and insulted their eyes by his selfish wealth.

"There's the water all spilt,--it warn't so in my day," said the guide.

A rivulet, whose murmur I had long heard, now stole suddenly into view,and gave to the scene the crowning charm. As, relapsing into silence, wetracked its sylvan course, under dripping chestnuts and shady limes, thehouse itself emerged on the opposite side,--a modern building of whitestone, with the noblest Corinthian portico I ever saw in this country.

"A fine house indeed," said I. "Is Mr. Trevanion here much?"

"Ay, ay! I don't mean to say that he goes away altogether, but it ain'tas it wor in my day, when the Hogtons lived here all the year round intheir warm house,--not that one."

Good old woman, and these poor banished Hogtons, thought I,--hatefulparvenu! I was pleased when a curve in the shrubberies shut out thehouse from view, though in reality bringing us nearer to it. And theboasted cascade, whose roar I had heard for some moments, came in sight.

Amidst the Alps, such a waterfall would have been insignificant, butcontrasting ground highly dressed, with no other bold features, itseffect was striking, and even grand. The banks were here narrowed andcompressed; rocks, partly natural, partly no doubt artificial, gave arough aspect to the margin; and the cascade fell from a considerableheight into rapid waters, which my guide mumbled out were "mortal deep."

"There wor a madman leapt over where you be standing," said the oldwoman, "two years ago last June."

"A madman! why," said I, observing, with an eye practised in thegymnasium of the Hellenic Institute, the narrow space of the banks overthe gulf,--"why, my good lady, it need not be a madman to perform thatleap."

And so saying, with one of those sudden impulses which it would be wrongto ascribe to the noble quality of courage, I drew back a few steps, andcleared the abyss. But when from the other side I looked back at what Ihad done, and saw that failure had been death, a sickness came over me,and I felt as if I would not have releapt the gulf to become lord of thedomain.

"And how am I to get back?" said I, in a forlorn voice to the old woman,who stood staring at me on the other side. "Ah! I see there is a bridgebelow."

"But you can't go over the bridge, there's a gate on it; master keepsthe key himself. You are in the private grounds now. Dear, dear! thesquire would be so angry if he knew. You must go back; and they'll seeyou from the house! Dear me! dear, dear! What shall I do? Can't you leapback again?"

Moved by these piteous exclamations, and not wishing to subject thepoor old lady to the wrath of a master evidently an unfeeling tyrant, Iresolved to pluck up courage and releap the dangerous abyss.

"Oh, yes, never fear," said I, therefore. "What's been done once oughtto be done twice, if needful. Just get out of my way, will you?"

And I receded several paces over a ground much too rough to favor my runfor a spring. But my heart knocked against my ribs. I felt that impulsecan do wonders where preparation fails.

"You had best be quick, then," said the old woman.

Horrid old woman! I began to esteem her less. I set my teeth, and wasabout to rush on, when a voice close beside me said,--

"Stay, young man; I will let you through the gate."

I turned round sharply, and saw close by my side, in great wonder thatI had not seen him before, a man, whose homely (but not working) dressseemed to intimate his station as that of the head-gardener, of whom myguide had spoken. He was seated on a stone under a chestnut-tree, withan ugly cur at his feet, who snarled at me as I turned.

"Thank you, my man," said I, joyfully. "I confess frankly that I wasvery much afraid of that leap."

"Ho! Yet you said, what can be done once can be done twice."

"I did not say it could be done, but ought to be done."

"Humph! That's better put."

Here the man rose; the dog came and smelt my legs, and then, as ifsatisfied with my respectability, wagged the stump of his tail.

I looked across the waterfall for the old woman, and to my surprise sawher hobbling back as fast as she could. "Ah!" said I, laughing, "thepoor old thing is afraid you'll tell her master,--for you're the headgardener, I suppose? But I am the only person to blame. Pray say that,if you mention the circumstance at all!" and I drew out half a crown,which I proffered to my new conductor.

He put back the money with a low "Humph! not amiss." Then, in a loudervoice, "No occasion to bribe me, young man; I saw it all."

"I fear your master is rather hard to the poor Hogtons' old servants."

"Is he? Oh! humph! my master. Mr. Trevanion you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, I dare say people say so. This is the way." And he led me down alittle glen away from the fall. Everybody must have observed that afterhe has incurred or escaped a great danger, his spirits rise wonderfully;he is in a state of pleasing excitement. So it was with me. I talked tothe gardener a coeur ouvert, as the French say; and I did not observethat his short monosyllables in rejoinder all served to draw out mylittle history,--my journey, its destination, my schooling under Dr.Herman, and my father's Great Book. I was only made somewhat suddenlyaware of the familiarity that had sprung up between us when, just as,having performed a circuitous meander, we regained the stream and stoodbefore an iron gate set in an arch of rock-work, my companion saidsimply: "And your name, young gentleman? What's your name?"

I hesitated a moment; but having heard that such communications wereusually made by the visitors of show places, I answered: "Oh! a veryvenerable one, if your master is what they call a bibliomaniac--Caxton."

"Caxton!" cried the gardener, with some vivacity; "there is a Cumberlandfamily of that name--"

"That's mine; and my Uncle Roland is the head of that family."

"And you are the son of Augustine Caxton?"

"I am. You have heard of my dear father, then?"

"We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me,--this way;" and my guide,turning abruptly round, strode up a narrow path, and the house stood ahundred yards before me ere I recovered my surprise.

"Pardon me," said I, "but where are we going, my good friend?"

"Good friend, good friend! Well said, sir. You are going amongst goodfriends. I was at college with your father; I loved him well. I knew alittle of your uncle too. My name is Trevanion."

Blind young fool that I was! The moment my guide told his name, Iwas struck with amazement at my unaccountable mistake. The small,insignificant figure took instant dignity; the homely dress, of roughdark broadcloth, was the natural and becoming dishabille of a countrygentleman in his own demesnes. Even the ugly cur became a Scotch terrierof the rarest breed.

My guide smiled good-naturedly at my stupor; and patting me on theshoulder, said,--

"It is the gardener you must apologize to, not me. He is a very handsomefellow, six feet high."

I had not found my tongue before we had ascended a broad flight ofstairs under the portico, passed a spacious hall adorned with statuesand fragrant with large orange-trees, and, entering a small room hungwith pictures, in which were arranged all the appliances for breakfast,my companion said to a lady, who rose from behind the tea-urn: "My dearEllinor, I introduce to you the son of our old friend Augustine Caxton.Make him stay with us as long as he can. Young gentleman, in LadyEllinor Trevanion think that you see one whom you ought to know well;family friendships should descend."

My host said these last words in an imposing tone, and then pounced ona letter-bag on the table, drew forth an immense heap of lettersand newspapers, threw himself into an armchair, and seemed perfectlyforgetful of my existence.

The lady stood a moment in mute surprise, and I saw that she changedcolor from pale to red, and red to pale, before she came forward withthe enchanting grace of unaffected kindness, took me by the hand, drewme to a seat next to her own, and asked so cordially after my father, myuncle, my whole family, that in five minutes I felt myself at home. LadyEllinor listened with a smile (though with moistened eyes, which shewiped every now and then) to my artless details. At length she said,--

"Have you never heard your father speak of me,--I mean of us; of theTrevanions?"

"Never," said I, bluntly; "and that would puzzle me, only my dearfather, you know, is not a great talker."

"Indeed! he was very animated when I knew him," said Lady Ellinor; andshe turned her head and sighed.

At this moment there entered a young lady so fresh, so blooming, solovely that every other thought vanished out of my head at once. Shecame in singing, as gay as a bird, and seeming to my adoring sight quiteas native to the skies.

"Fanny," said Lady Ellinor, "shake hands with Mr. Caxton, the son ofone whom I have not seen since I was little older than you, but whom Iremember as if it were but yesterday."

Miss Fanny blushed and smiled, and held out her hand with an easyfrankness which I in vain endeavored to imitate. During breakfast, Mr.Trevanion continued to read his letters and glance over the papers, withan occasional ejaculation of "Pish!" "Stuff!" between the intervals inwhich he mechanically swallowed his tea, or some small morsels of drytoast. Then rising with a suddenness which characterized his movements,he stood on his hearth for a few moments buried in thought; and now thata large-brimmed hat was removed from his brow, and the abruptness ofhis first movement, with the sedateness of his after pause, arrested mycurious attention, I was more than ever ashamed of my mistake. It was acareworn, eager, and yet musing countenance, hollow-eyed and with deeplines; but it was one of those faces which take dignity and refinementfrom that mental cultivation which distinguishes the true aristocrat,namely, the highly educated, acutely intelligent man. Very handsomemight that face have been in youth, for the features, though small, wereexquisitely defined; the brow, partially bald, was noble and massive,and there was almost feminine delicacy in the curve of the lip. Thewhole expression of the face was commanding, but sad. Often, asmy experience of life increased, have I thought to trace upon thatexpressive visage the history of energetic ambition curbed by afastidious philosophy and a scrupulous conscience; but then all that Icould see was a vague, dissatisfied melancholy, which dejected me I knewnot why.

Presently Trevanion returned to the table, collected his letters, movedslowly towards the door, and vanished.

His wife's eyes followed him tenderly. Those eyes reminded me of mymother's, as I verily believe did all eyes that expressed affection.I crept nearer to her, and longed to press the white hand that lay solistless before me.

"Will you walk out with us?" said Miss Trevanion, turning to me. Ibowed, and in a few minutes I found myself alone. While the ladies leftme, for their shawls and bonnets, I took up the newspapers which Mr.Trevanion had thrown on the table, by way of something to do. My eye wascaught by his own name; it occurred often, and in all the papers. Therewas contemptuous abuse in one, high eulogy in another; but one passagein a journal that seemed to aim at impartiality, struck me so much asto remain in my memory; and I am sure that I can still quote the sense,though not the exact words. The paragraph ran somewhat thus:--

"In the present state of parties, our contemporaries have notunnaturally devoted much space to the claims or demerits of Mr.Trevanion. It is a name that stands unquestionably high in the Houseof Commons; but, as unquestionably, it commands little sympathy inthe country. Mr. Trevanion is essentially and emphatically a member ofparliament. He is a close and ready debater; he is an admirable chairmanin committees. Though never in office, his long experience of publiclife, his gratuitous attention to public business, have ranked him highamong those practical politicians from whom ministers are selected. Aman of spotless character and excellent intentions, no doubt, he mustbe considered; and in him any cabinet would gain an honest and a usefulmember. There ends all we can say in his praise. As a speaker, he wantsthe fire and enthusiasm which engage the popular sympathies. He has theear of the House, not the heart of the country. An oracle on subjectsof mere business, in the great questions of policy he is comparativelya failure. He never embraces any party heartily; he never espouses anyquestion as if wholly in earnest. The moderation on which he is saidto pique himself often exhibits itself in fastidious crotchets and anattempt at philosophical originality of candor which has long obtainedhim, with his enemies, the reputation of a trimmer. Such a mancircumstances may throw into temporary power; but can he command lastinginfluence? No. Let Mr. Trevanion remain in what Nature and positionassign as his proper post,--that of an upright, independent, able memberof parliament; conciliating sensible men on both sides, when party runsinto extremes. He is undone as a cabinet minister. His scruples wouldbreak up any government; and his want of decision--when, as in all humanaffairs, some errors must be conceded to obtain a great good--wouldshipwreck his own fame."

I had just got to the end of this paragraph when the ladies returned.

My hostess observed the newspaper in my hand, and said, with aconstrained smile, "Some attack on Mr. Trevanion, I suppose?"

"No," said I, awkwardly; for perhaps the paragraph that appeared to meso impartial, was the most galling attack of all,--"No, not exactly."

"I never read the papers now,--at least what are called theleading articles; it is too painful. And once they gave me so muchpleasure,--that was when the career began, and before the fame wasmade."

Here Lady Ellinor opened the window which admitted on the lawn, and ina few moments we were in that part of the pleasure-grounds which thefamily reserved from the public curiosity. We passed by rare shrubs andstrange flowers, long ranges of conservatories, in which bloomed andlived all the marvellous vegetation of Africa and the Indies.

"Mr. Trevanion is fond of flowers?" said I.

The fair Fanny laughed. "I don't think he knows one from another."

"Nor I either," said I,--"that is, when I fairly lose sight of a rose ora hollyhock."

"The farm will interest you more," said Lady Ellinor.

We came to farm buildings recently erected, and no doubt on themost improved principle. Lady Ellinor pointed out to me machines andcontrivances of the newest fashion for abridging labor and perfectingthe mechanical operations of agriculture.

"Ah! then Mr. Trevanion is fond of farming?" The pretty Fanny laughedagain.

"My father is one of the great oracles in agriculture, one of the greatpatrons of all its improvements; but as for being fond of farming, Idoubt if he knows his own fields when he rides through them."

We returned to the house; and Miss Trevanion, whose frank kindnesshad already made too deep an impression upon the youthful heart ofPisistratus the Second, offered to show me the picture-gallery. Thecollection was confined to the works of English artists; and MissTrevanion pointed out to me the main attractions of the gallery.

"Well, at least Mr. Trevanion is fond of pictures?"

"Wrong again," said Fanny, shaking her arched head. "My father is saidto be an admirable judge; but he only buys pictures from a sense ofduty,--to encourage our own painters. A picture once bought, I am notsure that he ever looks at it again."

"What does he then--" I stopped short, for I felt my meditated questionwas ill-bred.

"What does he like then? you were about to say. Why, I have known him,of course, since I could know anything; but I have never yet discoveredwhat my father does like. No,--not even politics; though he lives forpolitics alone. You look puzzled; you will know him better some day, Ihope; but you will never solve the mystery--what Mr. Trevanion likes."

"You are wrong," said Lady Ellinor, who had followed us into theroom, unheard by us. "I can tell you what your father does more thanlike,--what he loves and serves every hour of his noble life,--justice,beneficence, honor, and his country. A man who loves these may beexcused for indifference to the last geranium or the newest plough, oreven (though that offends you more, Fanny) the freshest masterpiece byLanseer, or the latest fashion honored by Miss Trevanion."

"Mamma!" said Fanny, and the tears sprang to her eyes. But Lady Ellinorlooked to me sublime as she spoke, her eyes kindled, her breast heaved.The wife taking the husband's part against the child, and comprehendingso well what the child felt not, despite its experience of every day,and what the world would never know, despite all the vigilance of itspraise and its blame, was a picture, to my taste, finer than any in thecollection.

Her face softened as she saw the tears in Fanny's bright hazel eyes; sheheld out her hand, which her child kissed tenderly; and whispering, "'Tis not the giddy word you must go by, mamma, or there will be somethingto forgive every minute," Miss Trevanion glided from the room.

"Have you a sister?" asked Lady Ellinor.

"No."

"And Trevanion has no son," she said, mournfully. The blood rushed to mycheeks. Oh, young fool again! We were both silent, when the door opened,and Mr. Trevanion entered. "Humph!" said he, smiling as he saw me,--andhis smile was charming, though rare. "Humph, young sir, I came to seekfor you,--I have been rude, I fear; pardon it. That thought has onlyjust occurred to me, so I left my Blue Books, and my amanuensis hardat work on them, to ask you to come out for half an hour,--just half anhour, it is all I can give you: a deputation at one! You dine and sleephere, of course?"

"Ah, sir, my mother will be so uneasy if I am not in town to-night!"

"Pooh!" said the member; "I'll send an express."

"Oh, no indeed; thank you."

"Why not?"

I hesitated. "You see, sir, that my father and mother are both new toLondon; and though I am new too, yet they may want me,--I may be ofuse." Lady Ellinor put her hand on my head and sleeked down my hair as Ispoke.

"Right, young man, right; you will do in the world, wrong as that is.I don't mean that you'll succeed, as the rogues say,--that's anotherquestion; but if you don't rise, you'll not fall. Now put on your hatand come with me; we'll walk to the lodge,--you will be in time for acoach."

I took my leave of Lady Ellinor, and longed to say something about"compliments to Miss Fanny;" but the words stuck in my throat, and myhost seemed impatient.

"We must see you soon again," said Lady Ellinor, kindly, as she followedus to the door.

Mr. Trevanion walked on briskly and in silence, one hand in his bosom,the other swinging carelessly a thick walkingstick.

"But I must go round by the bridge," said I, "for I forgot my knapsack.I threw it off when I made my leap, and the old lady certainly nevertook charge of it."

"Come, then, this way. How old are you?"

"Seventeen and a half."

"You know Latin and Greek as they know them at schools, I suppose?"

"I think I know them pretty well, sir."

"Does your father say so?"

"Why, my father is fastidious; however, he owns that he is satisfied onthe whole."

"So am I, then. Mathematics?"

"A little."

"Good."

Here the conversation dropped for some time. I had found and restrappedthe knapsack, and we were near the lodge, when Mr. Trevanion saidabruptly, "Talk, my young friend, talk; I like to hear you talk,--itrefreshes me. Nobody has talked naturally to me these last ten years."

The request was a complete damper to my ingenuous eloquence; I could nothave talked naturally now for the life of me.

"I made a mistake, I see," said my companion, good-humoredly, noticingmy embarrassment. "Here we are at the lodge. The coach will be by infive minutes: you can spend that time in hearing the old woman praisethe Hogtons and abuse me. And hark you, sir, never care three straws forpraise or blame,--leather and prunella! Praise and blame are here!"and he struck his hand upon his breast with almost passionate emphasis."Take a specimen. These Hogtons were the bane of the place,--uneducatedand miserly; their land a wilderness, their village a pig-sty. I come,with capital and intelligence; I redeem the soil, I banish pauperism,I civilize all around me: no merit in me, I am but a type of capitalguided by education,--a machine. And yet the old woman is not the onlyone who will hint to you that the Hogtons were angels, and myself theusual antithesis to angels. And what is more, sir, because that oldwoman, who has ten shillings a week from me, sets her heart upon earningher sixpences,--and I give her that privileged luxury,--every visitorshe talks to goes away with the idea that I, the rich Mr. Trevanion, lether starve on what she can pick up from the sightseers. Now, doesthat signify a jot? Good-by! Tell your father his old friend must seehim,--profit by his calm wisdom; his old friend is a fool sometimes,and sad at heart. When you are settled, send me a line to St. James'sSquare, to say where you are. Humph! that's enough."

Mr. Trevanion wrung my hand, and strode off.

I did not wait for the coach, but proceeded towards the turn-stile,where the old woman (who had either seen, or scented from a distancethat tizzy of which I was the impersonation),--

 "Hushed in grim repose, did wait her morning prey."

My opinions as to her sufferings and the virtues of the departed Hogtonssomewhat modified, I contented myself with dropping into her open palmthe exact sum virtually agreed on. But that palm still remained open,and the fingers of the other clawed hold of me as I stood, impounded inthe curve of the turn-stile, like a cork in a patent corkscrew.

"And threepence for nephy Bob," said the old lady.

"Threepence for nephew Bob, and why?"

"It is his parquisites when he recommends a gentleman. You would nothave me pay out of my own earnings; for he will have it, or he'll ruinmy bizziness. Poor folk must be paid for their trouble."

Obdurate to this appeal, and mentally consigning Bob to a master whosefeet would be all the handsomer for boots, I threaded the stile andescaped.

Towards evening I reached London. Who ever saw London for the first timeand was not disappointed? Those long suburbs melting indefinablyaway into the capital forbid all surprise. The gradual is a greatdisenchanter. I thought it prudent to take a hackney-coach, and sojolted my way to the Hotel, the door of which was in a small street outof the Strand, though the greater part of the building faced that noisythoroughfare. I found my father in a state of great discomfort in alittle room, which he paced up and down like a lion new caught in hiscage. My poor mother was full of complaints: for the first time in herlife, I found her indisputably crossish. It was an ill time to relate myadventures.

I had enough to do to listen. They had all day been hunting for lodgingsin vain. My father's pocket had been picked of a new India handkerchief.Primmins, who ought to know London so well, knew nothing about it, anddeclared it was turned topsy-turvy, and all the streets had changednames. The new silk umbrella, left for five minutes unguarded in thehall, had been exchanged for an old gingham with three holes in it.

It was not till my mother remembered that if she did not see herselfthat my bed was well aired I should certainly lose the use of my limbs,and therefore disappeared with Primmins and a pert chambermaid, whoseemed to think we gave more trouble than we were worth, that I told myfather of my new acquaintance with Mr. Trevanion.

He did not seem to listen to me till I got to the name "Trevanion." Hethen became very pale, and sat down quietly. "Go on," said he, observingI stopped to look at him.

When I had told all, and given him the kind messages with which I hadbeen charged by husband and wife, he smiled faintly; and then, shadinghis face with his hand, he seemed to muse, not cheerfully, perhaps, forI heard him sigh once or twice.

"And Ellinor," said he at last, without looking up,--"Lady Ellinor, Imean; she is very--very--"

"Very what, sir?"

"Very handsome still?"

"Handsome! Yes, handsome, certainly; but I thought more of her mannerthan her face. And then Fanny, Miss Fanny, is so young!"

"Ah!" said my father, murmuring in Greek the celebrated lines of whichPope's translation is familiar to all,--

 "'Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground.'

"Well, so they wish to see me. Did Ellinor--Lady Ellinor--say that, orher--her husband?"

"Her husband, certainly; Lady Ellinor rather implied than said it."

"We shall see," said my father. "Open the window; this room isstifling."

I opened the window, which looked on the Strand. The noise, the voices,the trampling feet, the rolling wheels, became loudly audible. My fatherleaned out for some moments, and I stood by his side. He turned to mewith a serene face. "Every ant on the hill," said he, "carries its load,and its home is but made by the burden that it bears. How happy am I!how I should bless God! How light my burden! how secure my home!"

My mother came in as he ceased. He went up to her, put his arm round herwaist and kissed her. Such caresses with him had not lost their tendercharm by custom: my mother's brow, before somewhat ruffled, grew smoothon the instant. Yet she lifted her eyes to his in soft surprise.

"I was but thinking," said my father, apologetically, "how much I owedyou, and how much I love you!"

CHAPTER II.

And now behold us, three days after my arrival, settled in all the stateand grandeur of our own house in Russell Street, Bloomsbury, the libraryof the Museum close at hand. My father spends his mornings in those latasilentia, as Virgil calls the world beyond the grave. And a world beyondthe grave we may well call that land of the ghosts,--a book collection.

"Pisistratus," said my father one evening, as he arranged his notesbefore him and rubbed his spectacles, "Pisistratus, a great library isan awful place! There, are interred all the remains of men since theFlood."

"It is a burial-place!" quoth my Uncle Roland, who had that day found usout.

"It is an Heraclea!" said my father.

"Please, not such hard words," said the Captain, shaking his head.

"Heraclea was the city of necromancers, in which they raised the dead.Do want to speak to Cicero?--I invoke him. Do I want to chat in theAthenian market-place, and hear news two thousand years old?--I writedown my charm on a slip of paper, and a grave magician calls me upAristophanes. And we owe all this to our ancest--"

"Ancestors who wrote books; thank you."

Here Roland offered his snuff-box to my father, who, abhorring snuff,benignly imbibed a pinch, and sneezed five times in consequence,--anexcuse for Uncle Roland to say, which he did five times, with greatunction, "God bless you, brother Austin!"

As soon as my father had recovered himself, he proceeded, with tearsin his eyes, but calm as before the interruption--for he was of thephilosophy of the Stoics,--

"But it is not that which is awful. It is the presuming to vie withthese 'spirits elect;' to say to them, 'Make way,--I too claim placewith the chosen. I too would confer with the living, centuries after thedeath that consumes my dust. I too--' Ah, Pisistratus! I wish Uncle Jackhad been at Jericho before he had brought me up to London and placed mein the midst of those rulers of the world!"

I was busy, while my father spoke, in making some pendent shelves forthese "spirits elect;" for my mother, always provident where my father'scomforts were concerned, had foreseen the necessity of some suchaccommodation in a hired lodging-house, and had not only carefullybrought up to town my little box of tools, but gone out herself thatmorning to buy the raw materials. Checking the plane in its progressover the smooth deal, "My dear father," said I, "if at the PhilhellenicInstitute I had looked with as much awe as you do on the big fellowsthat had gone before me, I should have stayed, to all eternity, the lagof the Infant Division."

"Pisistratus, you are as great an agitator as your namesake," cried myfather, smiling. "And so, a fig for the big fellows!"

And now my mother entered in her pretty evening cap, all smiles andgood humor, having just arranged a room for Uncle Roland, concludedadvantageous negotiations with the laundress, held high council withMrs. Primmins on the best mode of defeating the extortions of Londontradesmen, and, pleased with herself and all the world, she kissed myfather's forehead as it bent over his notes, and came to the tea-table,which only waited its presiding deity. My Uncle Roland, with his usualgallantry, started up, kettle in hand (our own urn--for we had one--notbeing yet unpacked), and having performed with soldier-like method thechivalrous office thus volunteered, he joined me at my employment, andsaid,--

"There is a better steel for the hands of a well-born lad than acarpenter's plane."

"Aha! Uncle--that depends--"

"Depends! What on?"

"On the use one makes of it. Peter the Great was better employed inmaking ships than Charles XII. in cutting throats."

"Poor Charles XII.!" said my uncle, sighing pathetically; "a very bravefellow!"

"Pity he did not like the ladies a little better!"

"No man is perfect!" said my uncle, sententiously. "But, seriously, youare now the male hope of the family; you are now--" My uncle stopped, andhis face darkened. I saw that he thought of his son,--that mysteriousson! And looking at him tenderly, I observed that his deep lines hadgrown deeper, his iron-gray hair more gray. There was the trace ofrecent suffering on his face; and though he had not spoken to us a wordof the business on which he had left us, it required no penetration toperceive that it had come to no successful issue.

My uncle resumed: "Time out of mind, every generation of our house hasgiven one soldier to his country. I look round now: only one branch isbudding yet on the old tree; and--"

"Ah! uncle. But what would they say? Do you think I should not like tobe a soldier? Don't tempt me!"

My uncle had recourse to his snuff-box; and at thatmoment--unfortunately, perhaps, for the laurels that might otherwisehave wreathed the brows of Pisistratus of England--private conversationwas stopped by the sudden and noisy entrance of Uncle Jack. Noapparition could have been more unexpected.

"Here I am, my dear friends. How d'ye do; how are you all? Captain deCaxton, yours heartily. Yes, I am released, thank Heaven! I have givenup the drudgery of that pitiful provincial paper. I was not made for it.An ocean in a tea cup! I was indeed! Little, sordid, narrow interests;and I, whose heart embraces all humanity,--you might as well turn acircle into an isolated triangle."

"Isosceles!" said my father, sighing as he pushed aside his notes, andvery slowly becoming aware of the eloquence that destroyed all chanceof further progress that night in the Great Book. "'Isosceles' triangle,Jack Tibbets, not 'isolated."'

"'Isosceles' or 'isolated,' it is all one," said Uncle Jack, as herapidly performed three evolutions, by no means consistent withhis favorite theory of "the greatest happiness of the greatestnumber,"--first, he emptied into the cup which he took from my mother'shands half the thrifty contents of a London cream-jug; secondly, hereduced the circle of a muffin, by the abstraction of three triangles,to as nearly an isosceles as possible; and thirdly, striding towardsthe fire, lighted in consideration of Captain de Caxton, and hooking hiscoat-tails under his arms while he sipped his tea, he permittedanother circle peculiar to humanity wholly to eclipse the luminary itapproached.

"'Isolated' or 'isosceles,' it is all the same thing. Man is made forhis fellow-creatures. I had long been disgusted with the interference ofthose selfish Squirearchs. Your departure decided me. I have concludednegotiations with a London firm of spirit and capital and extended viewsof philanthropy. On Saturday last I retired from the service of theoligarchy.

"I am now in my true capacity of protector of the million. My prospectusis printed,--here it is in my pocket. Another cup of tea, sister;a little more cream, and another muffin. Shall I ring?" Havingdisembarrassed himself of his cup and saucer, Uncle Jack then drew forthfrom his pocket a damp sheet of printed paper. In large capitals stoodout "The Anti-Monopoly Gazette; or Popular Champion." He waved ittriumphantly before my father's eyes.

"Pisistratus," said my father, "look here. This is the way your UncleJack now prints his pats of butter,--a cap of liberty growing out of anopen book! Good, Jack! good! good!"

"It is Jacobinical!" exclaimed the Captain.

"Very likely," said my father; "but knowledge and freedom are the bestdevices in the world to print upon pats of butter intended for themarket."

"Pats of butter! I don't understand," said Uncle Jack. "The less youunderstand, the better will the butter sell, Jack," said my father,settling back to his notes.

CHAPTER III.

Uncle Jack had made up his mind to lodge with us, and my mother foundsome difficulty in inducing him to comprehend that there was no bed tospare.

"That's unlucky," said he. "I had no sooner arrived in town than I waspestered with invitations; but I refused them all, and kept myself foryou."

"So kind in you, so like you!" said my mother; "but you see--"

"Well, then, I must be off and find a room. Don't fret; you know Ican breakfast and dine with you all the same,--that is, when my otherfriends will let me. I shall be dreadfully persecuted." So saying, UncleJack repocketed his prospectus and wished us good-night.

The clock had struck eleven, my mother had retired, when my fatherlooked up from his books and returned his spectacles to their case.I had finished my work, and was seated over the fire, thinking now ofFanny Trevanion's hazel eyes, now, with a heart that beat as high at thethought, of campaigns, battle-fields, laurels, and glory; while, withhis arms folded on his breast and his head drooping, Uncle Roland gazedinto the low clear embers. My father cast his eyes round the room,and after surveying his brother for some moments he said, almost in awhisper,--

"My son has seen the Trevanions. They remember us, Roland."

The Captain sprang to his feet and began whistling,--a habit with himwhen he was much disturbed.

"And Trevanion wishes to see us. Pisistratus promised to give him ouraddress: shall he do so, Roland?"

"If you like it," answered the Captain, in a military attitude, anddrawing himself up till he looked seven feet high.

"I should like it," said my father, mildly. "Twenty years since we met."

"More than twenty," said my uncle, with a stern smile; "and the seasonwas--the fall of the leaf!"

"Man renews the fibre and material of his body every seven years," saidmy father; "in three times seven years he has time to renew the innerman. Can two passengers in yonder street be more unlike each other thanthe soul is to the soul after an interval of twenty years? Brother,the plough does not pass over the soil in vain, nor care over the humanheart. New crops change the character of the land; and the plough mustgo deep indeed before it stirs up the mother stone."

"Let us see Trevanion," cried my uncle; then, turning to me, he saidabruptly, "What family has he?"

"One daughter."

"No son?"

"No."

"That must vex the poor, foolish, ambitious man. Oho! you admire thisMr. Trevanion much, eh? Yes, that fire of manner, his fine words, andbold thoughts, were made to dazzle youth."

"Fine words, my dear uncle,--fire! I should have said, in hearing Mr.Trevanion, that his style of conversation was so homely you would wonderhow he could have won such fame as a public speaker."

"Indeed!"

"The plough has passed there," said my father.

"But not the plough of care: rich, famous, Ellinor his wife, and noson!"

"It is because his heart is sometimes sad that he would see us."

Roland stared first at my father, next at me. "Then," quoth my uncle,heartily, "in God's name, let him come. I can shake him by the hand, asI would a brother soldier. Poor Trevanion! Write to him at once, Sisty."

I sat down and obeyed. When I had sealed my letter, I looked up, andsaw that Roland was lighting his bed-candle at my father's table; and myfather, taking his hand, said something to him in a low voice. I guessedit related to his son, for he shook his head, and answered in astern, hollow voice, "Renew grief if you please; not shame. On thatsubject--silence!"

CHAPTER IV.

Left to myself in the earlier part of the day, I wandered, wistful andlonely, through the vast wilderness of London. By degrees I familiarizedmyself with that populous solitude; I ceased to pine for the greenfields. That active energy all around, at first saddening, became soonexhilarating, and at last contagious. To an industrious mind, nothing isso catching as industry. I began to grow weary of my golden holiday ofunlaborious childhood, to sigh for toil, to look around me for a career.The University, which I had before anticipated with pleasure, seemed nowto fade into a dull monastic prospect; after having trod the streets ofLondon, to wander through cloisters was to go back in life. Day by day,my mind grew sensibly within me; it came out from the rosy twilight ofboyhood,--it felt the doom of Cain under the broad sun of man.

Uncle Jack soon became absorbed in his new speculation for the good ofthe human race, and, except at meals (whereat, to do him justice, hewas punctual enough, though he did not keep us in ignorance of thesacrifices he made, and the invitations he refused, for our sake), weseldom saw him. The Captain, too, generally vanished after breakfast,seldom dined with us, and it was often late before he returned. Hehad the latch-key of the house, and let himself in when he pleased.Sometimes (for his chamber was next to mine) his step on the stairsawoke me; and sometimes I heard him pace his room with perturbedstrides, or fancied that I caught a low groan. He became every day morecare-worn in appearance, and every day the hair seemed more gray. Yethe talked to us all easily and cheerfully; and I thought that I was theonly one in the house who perceived the gnawing pangs over which thestout old Spartan drew the decorous cloak.

Pity, blended with admiration, made me curious to learn how these absentdays, that brought night so disturbed, were consumed. I felt that, if Icould master the Captain's secret, I might win the right both to comfortand to aid.

I resolved at length, after many conscientious scruples, to endeavor tosatisfy a curiosity excused by its motives.

Accordingly, one morning, after watching him from the house, I stole inhis track, and followed him at a distance.

And this was the outline of his day: he set off at first with a firmstride, despite his lameness, his gaunt figure erect, the soldierlychest well thrown out from the threadbare but speckless coat. First hetook his way towards the purlieus of Leicester Square; several times,to and fro, did he pace the isthmus that leads from Piccadilly intothat reservoir of foreigners, and the lanes and courts that start thencetowards St. Martin's. After an hour or two so passed, the step becamemore slow; and often the sleek, napless hat was lifted up, and the browwiped. At length he bent his way towards the two great theatres, pausedbefore the play-bills, as if deliberating seriously on the chances ofentertainment they severally proffered, wandered slowly through thesmall streets that surround those temples of the Muse, and finallyemerged into the Strand. There he rested himself for an hour at a smallcook-shop; and as I passed the window and glanced within, I could seehim seated before the simple dinner, which he scarcely touched, andporing over the advertisement columns of the "Times." The "Times"finished, and a few morsels distastefully swallowed, the Captain putdown his shilling in silence, receiving his pence in exchange, and Ihad just time to slip aside as he reappeared at the threshold. He lookedround as he lingered,--but I took care he should not detect me,--andthen struck off towards the more fashionable quarters of the town.It was now the afternoon, and, though not yet the season, the streetsswarmed with life. As he came into Waterloo Place, a slight but muscularfigure buttoned up across the breast like his own cantered by on ahandsome bay horse; every eye was on that figure. Uncle Roland stoppedshort, and lifted his hand to his hat; the rider touched his own withhis forefinger, and cantered on; Uncle Roland turned round and gazed.

"Who," I asked of a shop-boy just before me, also staring with all hiseyes, "who is that gentleman on horseback?"

"Why, the Duke to be sure," said the boy, contemptuously.

"The Duke?"

"Wellington, stu-pid!"

"Thank you," said I, meekly. Uncle Roland had moved on into RegentStreet, but with a brisker step: the sight of the old chief had done theold soldier good. Here again he paced to and fro; till I, watching himfrom the other side of the way, was ready to drop with fatigue, stoutwalker though I was. But the Captain's day was not half done. He tookout his watch, put it to his ear, and then, replacing it, passed intoBond Street, and thence into Hyde Park. There, evidently wearied out,he leaned against the rails, near the bronze statue, in an attitude thatspoke despondency. I seated myself on the grass near the statue, andgazed at him: the park was empty compared with the streets, but stillthere were some equestrian idlers, and many foot-loungers. My uncle'seye turned wistfully on each: once or twice, some gentleman of amilitary aspect (which I had already learned to detect) stopped, lookedat him, approached, and spoke; but the Captain seemed as if ashamed ofsuch greetings. He answered shortly, and turned again.

The day waned,--evening came on; the Captain again looked at his watch,shook his head, and made his way to a bench, where he sat perfectlymotionless, his hat over his brows, his arms folded, till up rose themoon. I had tasted nothing since breakfast, I was famished; but I stillkept my post like an old Roman sentinel.

At length the Captain rose, and re-entered Piccadilly; but how differenthis mien and bearing!--languid, stooping; his chest sunk, his headinclined; his limbs dragging one after the other; his lameness painfullyperceptible. What a contrast in the broken invalid at night from thestalwart veteran of the morning!

How I longed to spring forward to offer my arm! but I did not dare.

The Captain stopped near a cab-stand. He put his hand in his pocket, hedrew out his purse, he passed his fingers over the net-work; the purseslipped again into the pocket, and as if with a heroic effort, my uncledrew up his head and walked on sturdily.

"Where next?" thought I. "Surely home! No, he is pitiless!"

The Captain stopped not till he arrived at one of the small theatres inthe Strand; then he read the bill, and asked if half price was begun."Just begun," was the answer, and the Captain entered. I also took aticket and followed. Passing by the open doors of a refreshment-room,I fortified myself with some biscuits and soda-water; and in anotherminute, for the first time in my life, I beheld a play. But the play didnot fascinate me. It was the middle of some jocular after piece; roarsof laughter resounded round me. I could detect nothing to laugh at,and sending my keen eyes into every corner, I perceived at last, in theuppermost tier, one face as saturnine as my own.--Eureka! It was theCaptain's! "Why should he go to a play if he enjoys it so little?"thought I; "better have spent a shilling on a cab, poor old fellow!"

But soon came smart-looking men, and still smarter-looking ladies,around the solitary corner of the poor Captain. He grew fidgety--herose--he vanished. I left my place, and stood without the box to watchfor him. Downstairs he stumped,--I recoiled into the shade; andafter standing a moment or two, as in doubt, he entered boldly therefreshment-room or saloon.

Now, since I had left that saloon it had become crowded, and I slippedin unobserved. Strange was it, grotesque yet pathetic, to mark the oldsoldier in the midst of that gay swarm. He towered above all like aHomeric hero, a head taller than the tallest; and his appearance was soremarkable that it invited the instant attention of the fair. I, in mysimplicity, thought it was the natural tenderness of that amiable andpenetrating sex, ever quick to detect trouble and anxious to relieve it,which induced three ladies in silk attire--one having a hat and plume,the other two with a profusion of ringlets--to leave a little knotof gentlemen--with whom they were conversing, and to plant themselvesbefore my uncle. I advanced through the press to hear what passed.

"You are looking for some one, I'm sure," quoth one familiarly, tappinghis arm with her fan.

The Captain started. "Ma'am, you are not wrong," said he.

"Can I do as well?" said one of those compassionate angels, withheavenly sweetness.

"You are very kind, I thank you; no, no, ma'am," said the Captain withhis best bow.

"Do take a glass of negus," said another, as her friend gave way to her."You seem tired, and so am I. Here, this way;" and she took hold of hisarm to lead him to the table. The Captain shook his head mournfully; andthen, as if suddenly aware of the nature of the attentions so lavishedon him, he looked down upon these fair Armidas with a look of suchmild reproach, such sweet compassion,--not shaking off the hand, inhis chivalrous devotion to the sex, which extended even to all itsoutcasts,--that each bold eye felt abashed. The hand was timidly andinvoluntarily withdrawn from the arm, and my uncle passed his way.

He threaded the crowd, passed out at the farther door, and I, guessinghis intention, was in waiting for his steps in the street.

"Now home at last, thank Heaven!" thought I. Mistaken still! My unclewent first towards that popular haunt which I have since discovered iscalled "the Shades;" but he soon re-emerged, and finally he knocked atthe door of a private house in one of the streets out of St. James's. Itwas opened jealously, and closed as he entered, leaving me without. Whatcould this house be? As I stood and watched, some other men approached:again the low single knock, again the jealous opening and the stealthyentrance.

A policeman passed and re-passed me. "Don't be tempted, young man," saidhe, looking hard at me: "take my advice, and go home."

"What is that house, then?" said I, with a sort of shudder at thisominous warning.

"Oh! you know."

"Not I. I am new to London."

"It is a hell," said the policeman, satisfied, by my frank manner, thatI spoke the truth.

"God bless me,--a what? I could not have heard you rightly!"

"A hell,--a gambling-house!"

"Oh!" and I moved on. Could Captain Roland, the rigid, the thrifty,the penurious, be a gambler? The light broke on me at once: the unhappyfather sought his son! I leaned against the post, and tried hard not tosob.

By and by, I heard the door open; the Captain came out and took the wayhomeward. I ran on before, and got in first, to the inexpressible reliefboth of father and mother, who had not seen me since breakfast, and whowere in equal consternation at my absence. I submitted to be scoldedwith a good grace. "I had been sight-seeing, and lost my way;" beggedfor some supper, and slunk to bed; and five minutes afterwards theCaptain's jaded step came wearily up the stairs.

PART VI.

CHAPTER I.

"I don't know that," said my father.

What is it my father does not know? My father does not know that"happiness is our being's end and aim."

And pertinent to what does my father reply, by words so sceptical, to anassertion so seldom disputed?

Reader, Mr. Trevanion has been half an hour seated in our littledrawing-room. He has received two cups of tea from my mother's fairhand; he has made himself at home. With Mr. Trevanion has come anotherfriend of my father's, whom he has not seen since he left college,--SirSedley Beaudesert.

Now, you must understand that it is a warm night, a little after nineo'clock,--a night between departing summer and approaching autumn. Thewindows are open; we have a balcony, which my mother has taken care tofill with flowers; the air, though we are in London, is sweet andfresh; the street quiet, except that an occasional carriage or hackneycabriolet rolls rapidly by; a few stealthy passengers pass to and fronoiselessly on their way homeward. We are on classic ground,--near thatold and venerable Museum, the dark monastic pile which the taste of theage had spared then,--and the quiet of the temple seems to hallow theprecincts. Captain Roland is seated by the fire-place, and though thereis no fire, he is shading his face with a hand-screen; my father and Mr.Trevanion have drawn their chairs close to each other in the middle ofthe room; Sir Sedley Beaudesert leans against the wall near the window,and behind my mother, who looks prettier and more pleased than usualsince her Austin has his old friends about him; and I, leaning my elbowon the table and my chin upon my hand, am gazing with great admirationon Sir Sedley Beaudesert.

Oh, rare specimen of a race fast decaying,--specimen of the true finegentleman, ere the word "dandy" was known, and before "exquisite" becamea noun substantive,--let me here pause to describe thee! Sir SedleyBeaudesert was the contemporary of Trevanion and my father; butwithout affecting to be young, he still seemed so. Dress, tone, look,manner,--all were young; yet all had a certain dignity which does notbelong to youth. At the age of five and twenty he had won what wouldhave been fame to a French marquis of the old regime; namely, thereputation of being "the most charming man of his day,"--the mostpopular of our sex, the most favored, my dear lady-reader, by yours. Itis a mistake, I believe, to suppose that it does not require talent tobecome the fashion,--at all events, Sir Sedley was the fashion, and hehad talent.

He had travelled much, he had read much,--especially in memoirs,history, and belles-lettres,--he made verses with grace and acertain originality of easy wit and courtly sentiment, he converseddelightfully, he was polished and urbane in manner, he was braveand honorable in conduct; in words he could flatter, in deeds he wassincere.

Sir Sedley Beaudesert had never married. Whatever his years, he wasstill young enough in looks to be married for love. He was high-born,he was rich, he was, as I have said, popular; yet on his fair featuresthere was an expression of melancholy, and on that forehead--pure fromthe lines of ambition, and free from the weight of study--there was theshadow of unmistakable regret.

"I don't know that," said my father; "I have never yet found in lifeone man who made happiness his end and aim. One wants to gain a fortune,another to spend it; one to get a place, another to build a name: butthey all know very well that it is not happiness they search for. NoUtilitarian was ever actuated by self-interest, poor man, when hesat down to scribble his unpopular crotchets to prove self-interestuniversal. And as to that notable distinction between self-interestvulgar and self-interest enlightened, the more the self-interest isenlightened, the less we are influenced by it. If you tell the young manwho has just written a fine book or made a fine speech that he will notbe any happier if he attain to the fame of Milton or the power ofPitt, and that, for the sake of his own happiness, he had much bettercultivate a farm, live in the country, and postpone to the last thedays of dyspepsia and gout, he will answer you fairly, 'I am quite assensible of that as you are. But I am not thinking whether or not Ishall be happy. I have made up my mind to be, if I can, a great authoror a prime minister.' So it is with all the active sons of the world.To push on is the law of Nature. And you can no more say to men and tonations than to children: 'Sit still, and don't wear out your shoes!'"

"Then," said Trevanion, "if I tell you I am not happy, your only answeris that I obey an inevitable law."

"No, I don't say that it is an inevitable law that man should not behappy; but it is an inevitable law that a man, in spite of himself,should live for something higher than his own happiness. He cannot livein himself or for himself, however egotistical he may try to be. Everydesire he has links him with others. Man is not a machine,--he is a partof one."

"True, brother, he is a soldier, not an army," said Captain Roland.

"Life is a drama, not a monologue," pursued my father. "'Drama' isderived from a Greek verb signifying 'to do.' Every actor in the dramahas something to do, which helps on the progress of the whole: that isthe object for which the author created him. Do your part, and let theGreat Play get on."

"Ah!" said Trevanion, briskly, "but to do the part is the difficulty.Every actor helps to the catastrophe, and yet must do his part withoutknowing how all is to end. Shall he help the curtain to fall on atragedy or a comedy? Come, I will tell you the one secret of my publiclife, that which explains all its failure (for, in spite of my position,I have failed) and its regrets,--I want Conviction!"

"Exactly," said my father; "because to every question there are twosides, and you look at them both."

"You have said it," answered Trevanion, smiling also. "For public lifea man should be one-sided: he must act with a party; and a party insiststhat the shield is silver, when, if it will take the trouble to turn thecorner, it will see that the reverse of the shield is gold. Woe to theman who makes that discovery alone, while his party are still swearingthe shield is silver, and that not once in his life, but every night!

"You have said quite enough to convince me that you ought not to belongto a party, but not enough to convince me why you should not be happy,"said my father.

"Do you remember," said Sir Sedley Beaudesert, "an anecdote of the firstDuke of Portland? He had a gallery in the great stable of his villa inHolland, where a concert was given once a week, to cheer and amuse hishorses! I have no doubt the horses thrived all the better for it. WhatTrevanion wants is a concert once a week. With him it is always saddleand spur. Yet, after all, who would not envy him? If life be a drama,his name stands high in the play-bill, and is printed in capitals on thewalls."

"Envy me!" said Trevanion,--"Me! No, you are the enviable man,--you, whohave only one grief in the world, and that so absurd a one that I willmake you blush by disclosing it. Hear, O sage Austin! O sturdy Roland!Olivares was haunted by a spectre, and Sedley Beaudesert by the dread ofold age!"

"Well," said my mother, seriously, "I do think it requires a great senseof religion, or at all events children of one's own, in whom one isyoung again, to reconcile oneself to becoming old."

"My dear ma'am," said Sir Sedley, who had slightly colored atTrevanion's charge, but had now recovered his easy self-possession,"you have spoken so admirably that you give me courage to confess myweakness. I do dread to be old. All the joys of my life have been thejoys of youth. I have had so exquisite a pleasure in the mere sense ofliving that old age, as it comes near, terrifies me by its dull eyes andgray hairs. I have lived the life of a butterfly. Summer is over, and Isee my flowers withering; and my wings are chilled by the first airs ofwinter. Yes, I envy Trevanion; for in public life no man is ever young,and while he can work he is never old."

"My dear Beaudesert," said my father, "when Saint Amable, patronsaint of Riom, in Auvergne, went to Rome, the sun waited upon him as aservant, carried his cloak and gloves for him in the heat, and kept offthe rain, if the weather changed, like an umbrella. You want to put thesun to the same use. You are quite right; but then, you see, you mustfirst be a saint before you can be sure of the sun as a servant."

Sir Sedley smiled charmingly; but the smile changed to a sigh as headded, "I don't think I should much mind being a saint, if the sun wouldbe my sentinel instead of my courier. I want nothing of him but to standstill. You see he moved even for Saint Amable. My dear madam, you and Iunderstand each other; and it is a very hard thing to grow old, do whatone will to keep young."

"What say you, Roland, of these two malcontents?" asked my father. TheCaptain turned uneasily in his chair, for the rheumatism was gnawing hisshoulder, and sharp pains were shooting through his mutilated limb.

"I say," answered Roland, "that these men are wearied with marching fromBrentford to Windsor,--that they have never known the bivouac and thebattle."

Both the grumblers turned their eyes to the veteran: the eyes restedfirst on the furrowed, care-worn lines in his eagle face; then they fellon the stiff outstretched cork limb; and then they turned away.

Meanwhile my mother had softly risen, and under pretence of looking forher work on the table near him, bent over the old soldier and pressedhis hand.

"Gentlemen," said my father, "I don't think my brother ever heard ofNichocorus, the Greek comic writer; yet he has illustrated him veryably. Saith Nichocorus, 'The best cure for drunkenness is a suddencalamity.' For chronic drunkenness, a continued course of realmisfortune must be very salutary!"

No answer came from the two complainants; and my father took up a greatbook.

CHAPTER II.

"Mr friends," said my father, looking up from his book, and addressinghimself to his two visitors, "I know of one thing, milder than calamity,that would do you both a great deal of good."

"What is that?" asked Sir Sedley.

"A saffron bag, worn at the pit of the stomach!"

"Austin, my dear," said my mother, reprovingly.

My father did not heed the interruption, but continued gravely: "Nothingis better for the spirits! Roland is in no want of saffron, because heis a warrior; and the desire of fighting and the hope of victory infusesuch a heat into the spirits as is profitable for long life, and keepsup the system."

"Tut!" said Trevanion.

"But gentlemen in your predicament must have recourse to artificialmeans. Nitre in broth, for instance,--about three grains to ten (cattlefed upon nitre grow fat); or earthy odors,--such as exist in cucumbersand cabbage. A certain great lord had a clod of fresh earth, laid in anapkin, put under his nose every morning after sleep. Light anointing ofthe head with oil, mixed with roses and salt, is not bad but, upon thewhole, I prescribe the saffron bag at the--"

"Sisty, my dear, will you look for my scissors?" said my mother.

"What nonsense are you talking! Question! question!" cried Mr.Trevanion.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed my father, opening his eyes: "I am giving youthe advice of Lord Bacon. You want conviction: conviction comes frompassion; passion from the spirits; spirits from a saffron bag. You,Beaudesert, on the other hand, want to keep youth. He keeps youthlongest, who lives longest. Nothing more conduces to longevity than asaffron bag, provided always it is worn at the--"

"Sisty, my thimble!" said my mother.

"You laugh at us justly," said Beaudesert, smiling; "and the sameremedy, I dare say, would cure us both."

"Yes," said my father, "there is no doubt of that. In the pit of thestomach is that great central web of nerves called the ganglions; thencethey affect the head and the heart. Mr. Squills proved that to us,Sisty."

"Yes," said I; "but I never heard Mr. Squills talk of a saffron bag."

"Oh, foolish boy! it is not the saffron bag, it is the belief in thesaffron bag. Apply Belief to the centre of the nerves, and all will gowell," said my father.

CHAPTER III.

"But it is a devil of a thing to have too nice a conscience!" quoth themember of parliament.

"And it is not an angel of a thing to lose one's front teeth!" sighedthe fine gentleman.

Therewith my father rose, and putting his hand into his waistcoat, moresuo, delivered his famous Sermon Upon The Connection Between Faith AndPurpose.

Famous it was in our domestic circle, but as yet it has not gone beyond;and since the reader, I am sure, does not turn to the Caxton Memoirswith the expectation of finding sermons, so to that circle let its famebe circumscribed. All I shall say about it is that it was a very finesermon, and that it proved indisputably--to me at least--the salubriouseffects of a saffron bag applied to the great centre of the nervoussystem. But the wise Ali saith that "a fool doth not know what makethhim look little, neither will he hearken to him that adviseth him." Icannot assert that my father's friends were fools, but they certainlycame under this definition of Folly.

CHAPTER IV.

For therewith arose, not conviction, but discussion; Trevanion waslogical, Beaudesert sentimental. My father held firm to the saffron bag.When James the First dedicated to the Duke of Buckingham his meditationon the Lord's Prayer, he gave a very sensible reason for selecting hisGrace for that honor; "For," saith the king, "it is made upon a veryshort and plain prayer, and, therefore, the fitter for a courtier, forcourtiers are for the most part thought neither to have lust nor leisureto say long prayers, liking best courte messe et long disner." I supposeit was for a similar reason that my father persisted in dedicating tothe member of parliament and the fine gentleman "this short and plaine"morality of his,--to wit, the saffron bag. He was evidently persuaded,if he could once get them to apply that, it was all that was needful;that they had neither lust nor leisure for longer instructions. Andthis saffron bag,--it came down with such a whack, at every round inthe argument! You would have thought my father one of the old plebeiancombatants in the popular ordeal, who, forbidden to use sword and lance,fought with a sand-bag tied to a flail: a very stunning weapon itwas when filled only with sand; but a bag filled with saffron, it wasirresistible! Though my father had two to one against him, theycould not stand such a deuce of a weapon. And after tats and pishesinnumerable from Mr. Trevanion, and sundry bland grimaces from SirSedley Beaudesert, they fairly gave in, though they would not own theywere beaten.

"Enough," said the member, "I see that you don't comprehend me; I mustcontinue to move by my own impulse."

My father's pet book was the Colloquies of Erasmus; he was wont to saythat those Colloquies furnished life with illustrations in every page.Out of the Colloquies of Erasmus he now answered the member.

"Rabirius, wanting his servant Syrus to get up," quoth my father, "criedout to him to move. 'I do move,' said Syrus. 'I see you move,' repliedRabirius, 'but you move nothing.' To return to the saffron bag--"

"Confound the saffron bag!" cried Trevanion, in a rage; and thensoftening his look as he drew on his gloves, he turned to my mother andsaid, with more politeness than was natural to, or at least customarywith, him,--

"By the way, my dear Mrs. Caxton, I should tell you that Lady Ellinorcomes to town to-morrow on purpose to call on you. We shall be here somelittle time, Austin; and though London is so empty, there are still somepersons of note to whom I should like to introduce you and yours--"

"Nay," said my father; "your world and my world are not the same. Booksfor me, and men for you. Neither Kitty nor I can change our habits, evenfor friendship: she has a great piece of work to finish, and so have I.Mountains cannot stir, especially when in labor; but Mahomet can come tothe mountain as often as he likes."

Mr. Trevanion insisted, and Sir Sedley Beaudesert mildly put in hisown claims; both boasted acquaintance with literary men whom my fatherwould, at all events, be pleased to meet. My father doubted whether hecould meet any literary men more eloquent than Cicero, or more amusingthan Aristophanes; and observed that if such did exist, he would rathermeet them in their books than in a drawing-room. In fine, he wasimmovable; and so also, with less argument, was Captain Roland.

Then Mr. Trevanion turned to me.

"Your son, at all events, should see something of the world."

My mother's soft eye sparkled.

"My dear friend, I thank you," said my father, touched; "and Pisistratusand I will talk it over."

Our guests had departed. All four of us gathered to the open window, andenjoyed in silence the cool air and the moonlight.

"Austin," said my mother at last, "I fear it is for my sake that yourefuse going amongst your old friends: you knew I should be frightenedby such fine people, and--"

"And we have been happy for more than eighteen years without them,Kitty! My poor friends are not happy, and we are. To leave well aloneis a golden rule worth all in Pythagoras. The ladies of Bubastis, mydear,--a place in Egypt where the cat was worshipped,--always keptrigidly aloof from the gentlemen in Athribis, who adored the shrew-mice.Cats are domestic animals, your shrew-mice are sad gadabouts: you can'tfind a better model, any Kitty, than the ladies of Bubastis!"

"How Trevanion is altered!" said Roland, musingly,--"he who was solively and ardent!"

"He ran too fast up-hill at first, and has been out of breath eversince," said my father.

"And Lady Ellinor," said Roland, hesitatingly, "shall you see herto-morrow?"

"Yes!" said my father, calmly.

As Captain Roland spoke, something in the tone of his question seemed toflash a conviction on my mother's heart, the woman there was quick; shedrew back, turning pale even in the moonlight, and fixed her eyes onmy father, while I felt her hand, which had clasped mine, trembleconvulsively.

I understood her. Yes, this Lady Ellinor was the early rival whose nametill then she had not known. She fixed her eyes on my father; and at histranquil tone and quiet look she breathed more freely, and, slidingher hand from mine, rested it fondly on his shoulder. A few momentsafterwards, I and Captain Roland found ourselves standing alone by thewindow.

"You are young, nephew," said the Captain, "and you have the name of afallen family to raise. Your father does well not to reject for youthat opening into the great world which Trevanion offers. As for me, mybusiness in London seems over: I cannot find what I came to seek. I havesent for my daughter; when she arrives I shall return to my old tower,and the man and the ruin will crumble away together."

"Tush, uncle! I must work hard and get money; and then we will repairthe old tower and buy back the old estate. My father shall sell the redbrick house; we will fit him up a library in the keep; and we will alllive united, in peace, and in state, as grand as our ancestors beforeus."

While I thus spoke, my uncle's eyes were fixed upon a corner ofthe street, where a figure, half in shade, half in moonlight, stoodmotionless. "Ah!" said I, following his eye, "I have observed that mantwo or three times pass up and down the street on the other side of theway and turn his head towards our window. Our guests were with us then,and my father in full discourse, or I should have--"

Before I could finish the sentence my uncle, stifling an exclamation,broke away, hurried out of the room, stumped down the stairs, and was inthe street, while I was yet rooted to the spot with surprise. I remainedat the window, and my eye rested on the figure. I saw the Captain, withhis bare head and his gray hair, cross the street; the figure started,turned the corner, and fled.

Then I followed my uncle, and arrived in time to save him from falling;he leant his head on my breast, and I heard him murmur: "It is he--it ishe! He has watched us!--he repents!"

CHAPTER V.

The next day Lady Ellinor called; but, to my great disappointment,without Fanny.

Whether or not some joy at the incident of the previous night hadserved to rejuvenate my uncle, I know not, but he looked to me ten yearsyounger when Lady Ellinor entered. How carefully the buttoned-up coatwas brushed; how new and glossy was the black stock! The poor Captainwas restored to his pride, and mighty proud he looked! with a glow onhis cheek and a fire in his eye, his head thrown back, and his whole aircomposed, severe, Mavortian, and majestic, as if awaiting the charge ofthe French cuirassiers at the head of his detachment.

My father, on the contrary, was as usual (till dinner, when he alwaysdressed punctiliously, out of respect to his Kitty), in his easymorning-gown and slippers; and nothing but a certain compression in hislips, which had lasted all the morning, evinced his anticipation of thevisit, or the emotion it caused him.

Lady Ellinor behaved beautifully. She could not conceal a certainnervous trepidation when she first took the hand my father extended; andin touching rebuke of the Captain's stately bow, she held out to him thehand left disengaged, with a look which brought Roland at once to herside. It was a desertion of his colors to which nothing, short of Ney'sshameful conduct at Napoleon's return from Elba, affords a parallelin history. Then, without waiting for introduction, and before aword indeed was said, Lady Ellinor came to my mother so cordially,so caressingly; she threw into her smile, voice, manner, such winningsweetness,--that I, intimately learned in my poor mother's simple,loving heart, wondered how she refrained from throwing her arms roundLady Ellinor's neck and kissing her outright. It must have been a greatconquest over herself not to do it! My turn came next; and talking to meand about me soon set all parties at their ease,--at least apparently.

What was said, I cannot remember; I do not think one of us could. But anhour slipped away, and there was no gap in the conversation.

With curious interest, and a survey I strove to make impartial, Icompared Lady Ellinor with my mother; and I comprehended the fascinationwhich the high-born lady must, in their earlier youth, have exercisedover both brothers, so dis-similar to each other. For charm was thecharacteristic of Lady Ellinor,--a charm indefinable. It was not themere grace of refined breeding, though that went a great way, it wasa charm that seemed to spring from natural sympathy. Whomsoever sheaddressed, that person appeared for the moment to engage all herattention, to interest her whole mind. She had a gift of conversationvery peculiar. She made what she said like a continuation of what wassaid to her. She seemed as if she had entered into your thoughts, andtalked them aloud. Her mind was evidently cultivated with great care,but she was perfectly void of pedantry. A hint, an allusion, sufficedto show how much she knew, to one well instructed, without mortifyingor perplexing the ignorant. Yes, there probably was the only woman myfather had ever met who could be the companion to his mind, walk throughthe garden of knowledge by his side, and trim the flowers while hecleared the vistas. On the other hand, there was an inborn nobility inLady Ellinor's sentiments that must have struck the most susceptiblechord in Roland's nature, and the sentiments took eloquence from thelook, the mien, the sweet dignity of the very turn of the head. Yes, shemust have been a fitting Oriana to a young Amadis. It was not hard tosee that Lady Ellinor was ambitious, that she had a love of fame forfame itself, that she was proud, that she set value (and that morbidly)on the world's opinion. This was perceptible when she spoke of herhusband, even of her daughter. It seemed to me as if she valued theintellect of the one, the beauty of the other, by the gauge of thesocial distinction it conferred. She took measure of the gift as I wastaught at Dr. Herman's to take measure of the height of a tower,--by thelength of the shadow it cast upon the ground.

My dear father, with such a wife you would never have lived eighteenyears shivering on the edge of a Great Book!

My dear uncle, with such a wife you would never have been contented witha cork leg and a Waterloo medal! And I understand why Mr. Trevanion,"eager and ardent," as ye say he was in youth, with a heart bent on thepractical success of life, won the hand of the heiress. Well, you seeMr. Trevanion has contrived not to be happy! By the side of mylistening, admiring mother, with her blue eyes moist and her coral lipsapart, Lady Ellinor looks faded. Was she ever as pretty as my mother isnow? Never. But she was much handsomer. What delicacy in the outline,and yet how decided, in spite of the delicacy! The eyebrow so defined;the profile slightly aquiline, so clearly cut, with the curved nostril,which, if physiognomists are right, shows sensibility so keen; and theclassic lip that, but for the neighboring dimple, would be so haughty.But wear and tear are in that face. The nervous, excitable temper hashelped the fret and cark of ambitious life. My dear uncle, I know notyet your private life; but as for my father, I am sure that though hemight have done more on earth, he would have been less fit for heaven,if he had married Lady Ellinor.

At last this visit--dreaded, I am sure, by three of the party--was over,but not before I had promised to dine at the Trevanions' that day.

When we were again alone, my father threw off a long breath, and lookinground him cheerfully, said, "Since Pisistratus deserts us, let usconsole ourselves for his absence; send for brother Jack, and all fourgo down to Richmond to drink tea."

"Thank you, Austin," said Roland; "but I don't want it, I assure you."

"Upon your honor?" said my father, in a half whisper.

"Upon my honor."

"Nor I either. So, my dear Kitty, Roland and I will take a walk, and beback in time to see if that young Anachronism looks as handsome as hisnew London-made clothes will allow him. Properly speaking, he ought togo with an apple in his hand, and a dove in his bosom. But now I thinkof it, that was luckily not the fashion with the Athenians till the timeof Alcibiades!"

CHAPTER VI.

You may judge of the effect that my dinner at Mr. Trevanion's, with along conversation after it with Lady Ellinor, made upon my mind when,on my return home, after having satisfied all questions of parentalcuriosity, I said nervously, and looking down: "My dear father, I shouldlike very much, if you have no objection--to--to--"

"What, my dear?" asked my father, kindly.

"Accept an offer Lady Ellinor has made me on the part of Mr. Trevanion.He wants a secretary. He is kind enough to excuse my inexperience, anddeclares I shall do very well, and can soon get into his ways. LadyEllinor says," I continued with dignity, "that it will be a greatopening in public life for me; and at all events, my dear father, Ishall see much of the world, and learn what I really think will be moreuseful to me than anything they will teach me at college."

My mother looked anxiously at my father. "It will indeed be a greatthing for Sisty," said she, timidly; and then, taking courage, sheadded--"and that is just the sort of life he is formed for."

"Hem!" said my uncle.

My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, after a longpause,--

"You may be right, Kitty: I don't think Pisistratus is meant for study;action will suit him better. But what does this office lead to?"

"Public employment, sir," said I, boldly; "the service of my country."

"If that be the case," quoth Roland, "have not a word to say. But Ishould have thought that for a lad of spirit, a descendant of the old DeCaxtons, the army would have--"

"The army!" exclaimed my mother, clasping her hands, and lookinginvoluntarily at my uncle's cork leg.

"The army!" repeated my father, peevishly. "Bless my soul, Roland, youseem to think man is made for nothing else but to be shot at! You wouldnot like the army, Pisistratus?"

"Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother; otherwise, indeed--"

"Papae!" said my father, interrupting me. "This all comes of your givingthe boy that ambitious, uncomfortable name, Mrs. Caxton; what could aPisistratus be but the plague of one's life? That idea of serving hiscountry is Pisistratus ipsissimus all over. If ever I have another son(Dii meliora!) he has only got to be called Eratostratus, and then hewill be burning down St. Paul's,--which I believe was, by the way, firstmade out of the stones of a temple to Diana. Of the two, certainly,you had better serve your country with a goose-quill than by poking abayonet into the ribs of some unfortunate Indian; I don't thinkthere are any other people whom the service of one's country makes itnecessary to kill just at present, eh, Roland?"

"It is a very fine field, India," said my uncle, sententiously; "it isthe nursery of captains."

"Is it? Those plants take up a good deal of ground, then, that might bemore profitably cultivated. And, indeed, considering that the tallestcaptains in the world will be ultimately set into a box not above sevenfeet at the longest, it is astonishing what a quantity of room thatspecies of arbor mortis takes in the growing! However, Pisistratus, toreturn to your request, I will think it over, and talk to Trevanion."

"Or rather to Lady Ellinor," said I, imprudently: my mother slightlyshivered, and took her hand from mine. I felt cut to the heart by theslip of my own tongue.

"That, I think, your mother could do best," said my father, dryly, "ifshe wants to be quite convinced that somebody will see that your shirtsare aired. For I suppose they mean you to lodge at Trevanion's."

"Oh, no!" cried my mother; "he might as well go to college then. Ithought he was to stay with us,--only go in the morning, but, of course,sleep here."

"If I know anything of Trevanion," said my father, "his secretary willbe expected to do without sleep. Poor boy! you don't know what it isyou desire. And yet, at your age, I--" my father stopped short. "No!" herenewed abruptly, after a long silence, and as if soliloquizing,--"no;man is never wrong while he lives for others. The philosopher whocontemplates from the rock is a less noble image than the sailor whostruggles with the storm. Why should there be two of us? And could he bean alter ego, even if I wished it? Impossible!" My father turned on hischair, and laying the left leg on the right knee, said smilingly, ashe bent down to look me full in the face: "But, Pisistratus, will youpromise me always to wear the saffron bag?"

CHAPTER VII.

I now make a long stride in my narrative. I am domesticated with theTrevanions. A very short conversation with the statesman sufficed todecide my father; and the pith of it lay in this single sentence utteredby Trevanion: "I promise you one thing,--he shall never be idle!"

Looking back, I am convinced that my father was right, and that heunderstood my character, and the temptations to which I was most prone,when he consented to let me resign college and enter thus prematurelyon the world of men. I was naturally so joyous that I should have madecollege life a holiday, and then, in repentance, worked myself into aphthisis.

And my father, too, was right that though I could study, I was not meantfor a student.

After all, the thing was an experiment. I had time to spare; if theexperiment failed, a year's delay would not necessarily be a year'sloss.

I am ensconced, then, at Mr. Trevanion's; I have been there some months.It is late in the winter; Parliament and the season have commenced. Iwork hard,--Heaven knows, harder than I should have worked at college.Take a day for sample.

Trevanion gets up at eight o'clock, and in all weathers rides anhour before breakfast; at nine he takes that meal in his wife'sdressing-room; at half-past nine he comes into his study. By thattime he expects to find done by his secretary the work I am about todescribe.

On coming home,--or rather before going to bed, which is usually afterthree o'clock,--it is Mr. Trevanion's habit to leave on the table of thesaid study a list of directions for the secretary. The following, whichI take at random from many I have preserved, may show their multifariousnature:--

 1. Look out in the Reports (Committee, House of Lords) for the last seven years all that is said about the growth of flax; mark the passages for me.

 2. Do, do. "Irish Emigration."

 3. Hunt out second volume of Kames's "History of Man," passage containing Reid's Logic,--don't know where the book is!

 4. How does the line beginning Lumina conjurent, inter something, end? Is it in Grey? See.

 5. Fracastorius writes: Quantum hoe infecit vitium, quot adiverit urbes. Query, ought it not, in strict grammar, to be injecerit, instead of infecit? If you don't know, write to father.

 6. Write the four letters in full from the notes I leave; i. e., about the Ecclesiastical Courts.

 7. Look out Population Returns: strike average of last five years (between mortality and births) in Devonshire and Lancashire.

 8. Answer these six begging letters "No,"--civilly.

 9. The other six, to constituents, "that I have no interest with Government."

 10. See, if you have time, whether any of the new books on the round table are not trash.

 11. I want to know All about Indian corn.

 12. Longinus says something, somewhere, in regret for uncongenial pursuits (public life, I suppose): what is it? N. B. Longinus is not in my London catalogue, but is here, I know,--I think in a box in the lumber-room.

 13. Set right the calculation I leave on the poor-rates. I have made a blunder somewhere, etc.

Certainly my father knew Mr. Trevanion; he never expected a secretary tosleep! To get through the work required of me by half-past nine, I getup by candle-light. At half-past nine I am still hunting for Longinus,when Mr. Trevanion comes in with a bundle of letters.

Answers to half the said letters fall to my share. Directionsverbal,--in a species of short-hand talk. While I write, Mr.Trevanion reads the newspapers, examines what I have done, makesnotes therefrom,--some for Parliament, some for conversation, some forcorrespondence,--skims over the Parliamentary papers of the morning, andjots down directions for extracting, abridging, and comparing them withothers, perhaps twenty years old. At eleven he walks down to a Committeeof the House of Commons,--leaving me plenty to do,--till half-pastthree, when he returns. At four, Fanny puts her head into the room--andI lose mine. Four days in the week Mr. Trevanion then disappears for therest of the day; dines at Bellamy's or a club; expects me at the Houseat eight o'clock, in case he thinks of something, wants a fact ora quotation. He then releases me,--generally with a fresh list ofinstructions. But I have my holidays, nevertheless. On Wednesdays andSaturdays Mr. Trevanion gives dinners, and I meet the most eminent menof the day, on both sides; for Trevanion is on both sides himself,--orno side at all, which comes to the same thing. On Tuesdays Lady Ellinorgives me a ticket for the Opera, and I get there at least in time forthe ballet. I have already invitations enough to balls and soirees,for I am regarded as an only son of great expectations. I am treated asbecomes a Caxton who has the right, if he pleases, to put a Debefore his name. I have grown very smart. I have taken a passion fordress,--natural to eighteen. I like everything I do, and every one aboutme. I am over head and ears in love with Fanny Trevanion, who breaks myheart, nevertheless; for she flirts with two peers, a life-guardsman,three old members of Parliament, Sir Sedley Beaudesert, one ambassadorand all his attaches and positively (the audacious minx!) with a bishop,in full wig and apron, who, people say, means to marry again.

Pisistratus has lost color and flesh. His mother says he is very muchimproved,--that he takes to be the natural effect produced by Stultz andHoby. Uncle Jack says he is "fined down." His father looks at him andwrites to Trevanion,--

 "Dear T.--I refused a salary for my son. Give him a horse, and two hours a day to ride it. Yours, A. C."

The next day I am master of a pretty bay mare, and riding by the side ofFanny Trevanion. Alas! alas!

CHAPTER VIII.

I have not mentioned my Uncle Roland. He is gone--abroad--to fetch hisdaughter. He has stayed longer than was expected. Does he seek his sonstill,--there as here? My father has finished the first portion ofhis work, in two great volumes. Uncle Jack, who for some time has beenlooking melancholy, and who now seldom stirs out, except on Sundays (onwhich days we all meet at my father's and dine together),--Uncle Jack,I say, has undertaken to sell it.

"Don't be over-sanguine," says Uncle Jack, as he locks up the MS. in twored boxes with a slit in the lids, which belonged to one of the defunctcompanies. "Don't be over-sanguine as to the price. These publishersnever venture much on a first experiment. They must be talked even intolooking at the book."

"Oh!" said my father, "if they will publish it at all, and at their ownrisk, I should not stand out for any other terms. 'Nothing great,' saidDryden, 'ever came from a venal pen!'"

"An uncommonly foolish observation of Dryden's," returned Uncle Jack;"he ought to have known better."

"So he did," said I, "for he used his pen to fill his pockets, poorman!"

"But the pen was not venal, Master Anachronism," said my father. "Abaker is not to be called venal if he sells his loaves, he is venal ifhe sells himself; Dryden only sold his loaves."

"And we must sell yours," said Uncle Jack, emphatically. "A thousandpounds a volume will be about the mark, eh?"

"A thousand pounds a volume!" cried my father. "Gibbon, I fancy, did notreceive more."

"Very likely; Gibbon had not an Uncle Jack to look after his interests,"said Mr. Tibbets, laughing, and rubbing those smooth hands of his. "No!two thousand pounds the two volumes,--a sacrifice, but still I recommendmoderation."

"I should be happy indeed if the book brought in anything," said myfather, evidently fascinated; "for that young gentleman is ratherexpensive. And you, my dear Jack,--perhaps half the sum may be of use toyou!"

"To me! my dear brother," cried Uncle Jack "to me! Why when my newspeculation has succeeded, I shall be a millionnaire!"

"Have you a new speculation, uncle?" said I, anxiously. "What is it?"

"Mum!" said my uncle, putting his finger to his lip, and looking allround the room; "Mum! Mum!"

Pisistratus.--"A Grand National Company for blowing up both Houses ofParliament!"

Mr. Caxton.--"Upon my life, I hope something newer than that; for they,to judge by the newspapers, don't want brother Jack's assistance to blowup each other!"

Uncle Jack (mysteriously).--"Newspapers! you don't often read anewspaper, Austin Caxton!"

Mr. Caxton.--"Granted, John Tibbets!"

Uncle Jack.--"But if my speculation make you read a newspaper everyday?"

Mr. Caxton (astounded).--"Make me read a newspaper every day!"

Uncle Jack (warming, and expanding his hands to the fire).--"As big asthe 'Times'!"

Mr. Caxton (uneasily).--"Jack, you alarm me!"

Uncle Jack.--"And make you write in it too,--a leader!"

Mr. Caxton, pushing back his chair, seizes the only weapon at hiscommand, and hurls at Uncle Jack a great sentence of Greek,--"... aquotation in Greek..." (1)

Uncle Jack (nothing daunted).--"Ay, and put as much Greek as you likeinto it!"

Mr. Caxton (relieved and softening). "My dear Jack, you are a great man;let us hear you!"

Then Uncle Jack began. Now, perhaps my readers may have remarked thatthis illustrious speculator was really fortunate in his ideas. Hisspeculations in themselves always had something sound in the kernel,considering how barren they were in the fruit; and this it was that madehim so dangerous. The idea Uncle Jack had now got hold of will, I amconvinced, make a man's fortune one of these days; and I relate it witha sigh, in thinking how much has gone out of the family. Know, then,it was nothing less than setting up a daily paper, on the plan of the"Times," but devoted entirely to Art, Literature, and Science,--MentalProgress, in short; I say on the plan of the "Times," for it was toimitate the mighty machinery of that diurnal illuminator. It was to bethe Literary Salmoneus of the Political Jupiter, and rattle its thunderover the bridge of knowledge. It was to have correspondents in all partsof the globe; everything that related to the chronicle of the mind, fromthe labor of the missionary in the South Sea Islands, or the research ofa traveller in pursuit of that mirage called Timbuctoo, to the last newnovel at Paris, or the last great emendation of a Greek particle at aGerman university, was to find a place in this focus of light. It wasto amuse, to instruct, to interest,--there was nothing it was not to do.Not a man in the whole reading public, not only of the three kingdoms,not only of the British empire, but under the cope of heaven, that itwas not to touch somewhere, in head, in heart, or in pocket. The mostcrotchety member of the intellectual community might find his own hobbyin those stables.

"Think," cried Uncle Jack,--"think of the march of mind; think of thepassion for cheap knowledge; think how little quarterly, monthly, weeklyjournals can keep pace with the main wants of the age! As well have aweekly journal on politics as a weekly journal on all the matters stillmore interesting than politics to the mass of the public. My 'LiteraryTimes' once started, people will wonder how they had ever lived withoutit! Sir, they have not lived without it,--they have vegetated; they havelived in holes and caves, like the Troggledikes."

"Troglodytes," said my father, mildly,--"from _trogle_, 'a cave,' and_dumi_, 'to go under.' They lived in Ethiopia, and had their wives incommon."

"As to the last point, I don't say that the public, poor creatures, areas bad as that," said Uncle Jack, candidly; "but no simile holds good inall its points. And the public are no less Troggledummies, or whateveryou call them, compared with what they will be when living under thefull light of my 'Literary Times.' Sir, it will be a revolution in theworld. It will bring literature out of the clouds into the parlor, thecottage, the kitchen. The idlest dandy, the finest fine lady, will findsomething to her taste; the busiest man of the mart and counter willfind some acquisition to his practical knowledge. The practical man willsee the progress of divinity, medicine, nay, even law. Sir, the Indianwill read me under the banyan; I shall be in the seraglios of the East;and over my sheets the American Indian will smoke the calumet of peace.We shall reduce politics to its proper level in the affairs of life;raise literature to its due place in the thoughts and business ofmen. It is a grand thought, and my heart swells with pride while Icontemplate it!"

"My dear Jack," said my father, seriously, and rising with emotion, "itis a grand thought, and I honor you for it. You are quite right,--itwould be a revolution! It would educate mankind insensibly. Upon mylife, I should be proud to write a leader, or a paragraph. Jack, youwill immortalize yourself!"

"I believe I shall," said Uncle Jack, modestly; "but I have not said aword yet on the greatest attraction of all."

"Ah! and that?"

"The Advertisements!" cried my uncle, spreading his hands, with allthe fingers at angles, like the threads of a spider's wed. "Theadvertisements--oh, think of them!--a perfect El Dorado. Theadvertisements, sir, on the most moderate calculation, will bring usin L50,000 a year. My dear Pisistratus, I shall never marry; you are myheir. Embrace me!"

So saying, my Uncle Jack threw himself upon me, and squeezed out ofbreath the prudential demur that was rising to my lips.

My poor mother, between laughing and sobbing, faltered out:

"And it is my brother who will pay back to his son all--all he gave upfor me!"

While my father walked to and fro the room, more excited than ever Isaw him before, muttering, "A sad, useless dog I have been hitherto! Ishould like to serve the world! I should indeed!"

Uncle Jack had fairly done it this time. He had found out the onlybait in the world to catch so shy a carp as my father,--haeret lethalisarundo. I saw that the deadly hook was within an inch of my father'snose, and that he was gazing at it with a fixed determination toswallow.

But if it amused my father? Boy that I was, I saw no further. I must ownI myself was dazzled, and, perhaps with childlike malice, delighted atthe perturbation of my betters. The young carp was pleased to see thewaters so playfully in movement when the old carp waved his tail andswayed himself on his fins.

"Mum!" said Uncle Jack, releasing me; "not a word to Mr. Trevanion, toany one."

"But why?"

"Why? God bless my soul. Why? If my scheme gets wind, do you supposesome one will not clap on sail to be before me? You frighten me out ofmy senses. Promise me faithfully to be silent as the grave."

"I should like to hear Trevanion's opinion too."

"As well hear the town-crier! Sir, I have trusted to your honor. Sir, atthe domestic hearth all secrets are sacred. Sir, I--"

"My dear Uncle Jack, you have said quite enough. Not a word will Ibreathe!"

"I'm sure you may trust him, Jack," said my mother.

"And I do trust him,--with wealth untold," replied my uncle. "May I askyou for a little water--with a trifle of brandy in it--and a biscuit, orindeed a sandwich. This talking makes me quite hungry."

My eye fell upon Uncle Jack as he spoke. Poor Uncle Jack, he had grownthin!

(1) "Some were so barbarous as to eat their own species." The sentencerefers to the Scythians, and is in Strabo. I mention the authority, forStrabo is not an author that any man engaged on a less work than the"History of Human Error" is expected to have by heart.

PART VII.

CHAPTER I.

Saith Dr. Luther, "When I saw Dr. Gode begin to tell his puddingshanging in the chimney, I told him he would not live long!"

I wish I had copied that passage from "The Table Talk" in large roundhand, and set it before my father at breakfast, the morn preceding thatfatal eve in which Uncle Jack persuaded him to tell his puddings.

Yet, now I think of it, Uncle Jack hung the puddings in the chimney, buthe did not persuade my father to tell them.

Beyond a vague surmise that half the suspended "tomacula" would furnisha breakfast to Uncle Jack, and that the youthful appetite of Pisistratuswould despatch the rest, my father did not give a thought to thenutritious properties of the puddings,--in other words, to the twothousand pounds which, thanks to Mr. Tibbets, dangled down the chimney.So far as the Great Work was concerned, my father only cared for itspublication, not its profits. I will not say that he might not hungerfor praise, but I am quite sure that he did not care a button forpudding. Nevertheless, it was an infaust and sinister augury for AustinCaxton, the very appearance, the very suspension and danglement of anypuddings whatsoever, right over his ingle-nook, when those puddings weremade by the sleek hands of Uncle Jack! None of the puddings which he,poor man, had all his life been stringing, whether from his ownchimneys or the chimneys of other people, had turned out to be realpuddings,--they had always been the eidola, the erscheinungen, thephantoms and semblances of puddings.

I question if Uncle Jack knew much about Democritus of Abdera. But hewas certainly tainted with the philosophy of that fanciful sage. Hepeopled the air with images of colossal stature which impressed allhis dreams and divinations, and from whose influences came his verysensations and thoughts. His whole being, asleep or waking, was thus butthe reflection of great phantom puddings!

As soon as Mr. Tibbets had possessed himself of the two volumes of the"History of Human Error," he had necessarily established that hold uponmy father which hitherto those lubricate hands of his had failed toeffect. He had found what he had so long sighed for in vain,--his pointd'appui, wherein to fix the Archimedean screw. He fixed it tight in the"History of Human Error," and moved the Caxtonian world.

A day or two after the conversation recorded in my last chapter, I sawUncle Jack coming out of the mahogany doors of my father's banker; andfrom that time there seemed no reason why Mr. Tibbets should not visithis relations on weekdays as well as Sundays. Not a day, indeed, passedbut what he held long conversations with my father. He had much toreport of his interviews with the publishers. In these conversations henaturally recurred to that grand idea of the "Literary Times," which hadso dazzled my poor father's imagination; and, having heated the iron,Uncle Jack was too knowing a man not to strike while it was hot.

When I think of the simplicity my wise father exhibited in this crisisof his life, I must own that I am less moved by pity than admiration forthat poor great-hearted student. We have seen that out of the learnedindolence of twenty years, the ambition which is the instinct of a manof genius had emerged; the serious preparation of the Great Book for theperusal of the world had insensibly restored the claims of that noisyworld on the silent individual. And therewith came a noble remorse thathe had hitherto done so little for his species. Was it enough to writequartos upon the past history of Human Error? Was it not his duty, whenthe occasion was fairly presented, to enter upon that present, daily,hourly war with Error, which is the sworn chivalry of Knowledge? SaintGeorge did not dissect dead dragons, he fought the live one. And London,with that magnetic atmosphere which in great capitals fills the breathof life with stimulating particles, had its share in quickening the slowpulse of the student. In the country he read but his old authors, andlived with them through the gone ages. In the city, my father, duringthe intervals of repose from the Great Book, and still more now thatthe Great Book had come to a pause, inspected the literature of his owntime. It had a prodigious effect upon him. He was unlike the ordinaryrun of scholars, and, indeed, of readers, for that matter, who, in theirsuperstitious homage to the dead, are always willing enough to sacrificethe living. He did justice to the marvellous fertility of intellectwhich characterizes the authorship of the present age. By the presentage, I do not only mean the present day, I commence with the century."What," said my father one day in dispute with Trevanion, "whatcharacterizes the literature of our time is its human interest. It istrue that we do not see scholars addressing scholars, but men addressingmen,--not that scholars are fewer, but that the reading public is morelarge. Authors in all ages address themselves to what intereststheir readers; the same things do not interest a vast community whichinterested half a score of monks or book-worms. The literary polis wasonce an oligarchy, it is now a republic. It is the general brilliancy ofthe atmosphere which prevents your noticing the size of any particularstar. Do you not see that with the cultivation of the masses hasawakened the Literature of the affections? Every sentiment findsan expositor, every feeling an oracle. Like Epimenides, I have beensleeping in a cave; and, waking, I see those whom I left children arebearded men, and towns have sprung up in the landscapes which I left assolitary wastes."

Thence the reader may perceive the causes of the change which had comeover my father. As Robert Hall says, I think of Dr. Kippis. "He had laidso many books at the top of his head that the brains could not move."But the electricity had now penetrated the heart, and the quickenedvigor of that noble organ enabled the brain to stir. Meanwhile, I leavemy father to these influences, and to the continuous conversations ofUncle Jack, and proceed with the thread of my own egotism.

Thanks to Mr. Trevanion, my habits were not those which favorfriendships with the idle, but I formed some acquaintances amongst youngmen a few years older than myself, who held subordinate situations inthe public offices, or were keeping their terms for the Bar. There wasno want of ability amongst these gentlemen, but they had not yet settledinto the stern prose of life. Their busy hours only made them moredisposed to enjoy the hours of relaxation. And when we got together, avery gay, light-hearted set we were! We had neither money enough tobe very extravagant, nor leisure enough to be very dissipated; butwe amused ourselves notwithstanding. My new friends were wonderfullyerudite in all matters connected with the theatres. From an opera to aballet, from "Hamlet" to the last farce from the French, they hadthe literature of the stage at the finger-ends of their straw-coloredgloves. They had a pretty large acquaintance with actors and actresses,and were perfect Walpoladi in the minor scandals of the day. To dothem justice, however, they were not indifferent to the more masculineknowledge necessary in "this wrong world." They talked as familiarly ofthe real actors of life as of the sham ones. They could adjust to a hairthe rival pretensions of contending statesmen. They did not profess tobe deep in the mysteries of foreign cabinets (with the exception of oneyoung gentleman connected with the Foreign Office, who prided himself onknowing exactly what the Russians meant to do with India--when theygot it); but, to make amends, the majority of them had penetrated theclosest secrets of our own. It is true that, according to a propersubdivision of labor, each took some particular member of the governmentfor his special observation; just as the most skilful surgeons, howeverprofoundly versed in the general structure of our frame, rest theiranatomical fame on the light they throw on particular parts of it,--oneman taking the brain, another the duodenum, a third the spinal cord,while a fourth, perhaps, is a master of all the symptoms indicated by apensile finger. Accordingly, one of my friends appropriated to himselfthe Home Department; another the Colonies; and a third, whom we allregarded as a future Talleyrand (or a De Retz at least), had devotedhimself to the special study of Sir Robert Peel, and knew, by the way inwhich that profound and inscrutable statesman threw open his coat, everythought that was passing in his breast! Whether lawyers or officials,they all had a great idea of themselves,--high notions of what they wereto be, rather than what they were to do, some day. As the king of modernfine gentlemen said to himself, in paraphrase of Voltaire, "They hadletters in their pockets addressed to Posterity,--which the chanceswere, however, that they might forget to deliver." Somewhat "priggish"most of them might be; but, on the whole, they were far more interestingthan mere idle men of pleasure. There was about them, as features of ageneral family likeness, a redundant activity of life, a gay exuberanceof ambition, a light-hearted earnestness when at work, a schoolboy'senjoyment of the hours of play.

A great contrast to these young men was Sir Sedley Beaudesert, who waspointedly kind to me, and whose bachelor's house was always open to meafter noon: Sir Sedley was visible to no one but his valet before thathour. A perfect bachelor's house it was, too, with its windows openingon the Park, and sofas nicked into the windows, on which you might lollat your ease, like the philosopher in Lucretius,--

 "Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre Errare,"--

and see the gay crowds ride to and fro Rotten Row, without the fatigueof joining them, especially if the wind was in the east.

There was no affectation of costliness about the rooms, but a wonderfulaccumulation of comfort. Every patent chair that proffered a variety inthe art of lounging found its place there; and near every chair a littletable, on which you might deposit your book or your coffee-cup, withoutthe trouble of moving more than your hand. In winter, nothing warmerthan the quilted curtains and Axminster carpets can be conceived; insummer, nothing airier and cooler than the muslin draperies and theIndian mattings. And I defy a man to know to what perfection dinner maybe brought, unless he had dined with Sir Sedley Beaudesert. Certainly,if that distinguished personage had but been an egotist, he had been thehappiest of men. But, unfortunately for him, he was singularly amiableand kind-hearted. He had the bonne digestion, but not the otherrequisite for worldly felicity,--the _mauvais coeur_. He felt a sincerepity for every one else who lived in rooms without patent chairs andlittle coffee-tables, whose windows did not look on the Park, with sofasniched into their recesses. As Henry IV. wished every man to have hispot au feu, so Sir Sedley Beaudesert, if he could have had his way,would have every man served with an early cucumber for his fish, anda caraffe of iced water by the side of his bread and cheese. He thusevinced on politics a naive simplicity which delightfully contrasted hisacuteness on matters of taste. I remember his saying, in a discussion onthe Beer Bill, "The poor ought not to be allowed to drink beer, it isso particularly rheumatic! The best drink in hard work is drychampagne,--not _mousseux_; I found that out when I used to shoot on themoors."

Indolent as Sir Sedley was, he had contrived to open an extraordinarynumber of drains on his wealth.

First, as a landed proprietor there was no end to applications fromdistressed farmers, aged poor, benefit societies, and poachers hehad thrown out of employment by giving up his preserves to please histenants.

Next, as a man of pleasure the whole race of womankind had legitimatedemands on him. From a distressed duchess whose picture lay perdu undera secret spring of his snuff-box, to a decayed laundress to whom hemight have paid a compliment on the perfect involutions of a frill, itwas quite sufficient to be a daughter of Eve to establish a just claimon Sir Sedley's inheritance from Adam.

Again, as an amateur of art and a respectful servant of every muse,all whom the public had failed to patronize,--painter, actor, poet,musician,--turned, like dying sunflowers to the sun, towards the pityingsmile of Sir Sedley Beaudesert. Add to these the general miscellaneousmultitude who "had heard of Sir Sedley's high character forbenevolence," and one may well suppose what a very costly reputationhe had set up. In fact, though Sir Sedley could not spend on what mightfairly be called "himself" a fifth part of his very handsome income, Ihave no doubt that he found it difficult to make both ends meet at theclose of the year. That he did so, he owed perhaps to two rules whichhis philosophy had peremptorily adopted. He never made debts, and henever gambled. For both these admirable aberrations from the ordinaryroutine of fine gentlemen I believe he was indebted to the softness ofhis disposition. He had a great compassion for a wretch who was dunned."Poor fellow!" he would say, "it must be so painful to him to passhis life in saying 'No.'" So little did he know about that class ofpromisers,--as if a man dunned ever said 'No'! As Beau Brummell, whenasked if he was fond of vegetables, owned that he had once eat a pea, soSir Sedley Beaudesert owned that he had once played high at piquet. "Iwas so unlucky as to win," said he, referring to that indiscretion, "andI shall never forget the anguish on the face of the man who paid me.Unless I could always lose, it would be a perfect purgatory to play."

Now nothing could be more different in their kinds of benevolence thanSir Sedley and Mr. Trevanion. Mr. Trevanion had a great contempt forindividual charity. He rarely put his hand into his purse,--he drew agreat check on his bankers. Was a congregation without a church, or avillage without a school, or a river without a bridge, Mr. Trevanionset to work on calculations, found out the exact sum required by analgebraic x--y, and paid it as he would have paid his butcher. It mustbe owned that the distress of a man whom he allowed to be deserving, didnot appeal to him in vain. But it is astonishing how little he spentin that way; for it was hard indeed to convince Mr. Trevanion that adeserving man ever was in such distress as to want charity.

That Trevanion, nevertheless, did infinitely more real good than SirSedley, I believe; but he did it as a mental operation,--by no means asan impulse from the heart. I am sorry to say that the main differencewas this,--distress always seemed to accumulate round Sir Sedley, andvanish from the presence of Trevanion. Where the last came, with hisbusy, active, searching mind, energy woke, improvement sprang up. Wherethe first came, with his warm, kind heart, a kind of torpor spread underits rays; people lay down and basked in the liberal sunshine. Nature inone broke forth like a brisk, sturdy winter; in the other like a lazyItalian summer. Winter is an excellent invigorator, no doubt, but we alllove summer better.

Now, it is a proof how lovable Sir Sedley was, that I loved him, and yetwas jealous of him. Of all the satellites round my fair Cynthia, FannyTrevanion, I dreaded most this amiable luminary. It was in vain for meto say, with the insolence of youth, that Sir Sedley Beaudesert wasof the same age as Fanny's father; to see them together, he might havepassed for Trevanion's son. No one amongst the younger generation washalf so handsome as Sedley Beaudesert. He might be eclipsed at firstsight by the showy effect of more redundant locks and more brilliantbloom; but he had but to speak, to smile, in order to throw a wholecohort of dandies into the shade. It was the expression of hiscountenance that was so bewitching; there was something so kindly in itseasy candor, its benign good-nature. And he understood women so well! Heflattered their foibles so insensibly; he commanded their affection withso gracious a dignity. Above all, what with his accomplishments, hispeculiar reputation, his long celibacy, and the soft melancholy ofhis sentiments, he always contrived to interest them. There was not acharming woman by whom this charming man did not seem just on thepoint of being caught! It was like the sight of a splendid trout ina transparent stream, sailing pensively to and fro your fly, in awill-and-a-won't sort of a way. Such a trout! it would be a thousandpities to leave him, when evidently so well disposed! That trout,fair maid or gentle widow, would have kept you whipping the stream anddragging the fly--from morning to dewy eve. Certainly I don't wishworse to my bitterest foe of five and twenty than such a rival as SedleyBeaudesert at seven and forty.

Fanny, indeed, perplexed me horribly. Sometimes I fancied she liked me;but the fancy scarce thrilled me with delight before it vanished in thefrost of a careless look or the cold beam of a sarcastic laugh. Spoileddarling of the world as she was, she seemed so innocent in her exuberanthappiness that one forgot all her faults in that atmosphere of joy whichshe diffused around her. And despite her pretty insolence, she had sokind a woman's heart below the surface! When she once saw that she hadpained you, she was so soft, so winning, so humble, till she had healedthe wound. But then, if she saw she had pleased you too much, the littlewitch was never easy till she had plagued you again. As heiress to sorich a father, or rather perhaps mother (for the fortune came fromLady Ellinor), she was naturally surrounded with admirers not whollydisinterested. She did right to plague them; but Me! Poor boy that Iwas, why should I seem more disinterested than others; how shouldshe perceive all that lay hid in my young deep heart? Was I not inall worldly pretensions the least worthy of her admirers, and might Inot seem, therefore, the most mercenary,--I, who never thought of herfortune, or if that thought did come across me, it was to make me startand turn pale? And then it vanished at her first glance, as a ghost fromthe dawn. How hard it is to convince youth, that sees all the world ofthe future before it, and covers that future with golden palaces, of theinequalities of life! In my fantastic and sublime romance I lookedout into that Great Beyond, saw myself orator, statesman, minister,ambassador,--Heaven knows what,--laying laurels, which I mistook forrent-rolls, at Fanny's feet.

Whatever Fanny might have discovered as to the state of my heart,it seemed an abyss not worth prying into by either Trevanion or LadyEllinor. The first, indeed, as may be supposed, was too busy to think ofsuch trifles. And Lady Ellinor treated me as a mere boy,--almost like aboy of her own, she was so kind to me. But she did not notice much thethings that lay immediately around her. In brilliant conversation withpoets, wits, and statesmen, in sympathy with the toils of her husbandor proud schemes for his aggrandizement, Lady Ellinor lived a life ofexcitement. Those large, eager, shining eyes of hers, bright with somefeverish discontent, looked far abroad, as if for new worlds to conquer;the world at her feet escaped from her vision. She loved her daughter,she was proud of her, trusted in her with a superb repose; she did notwatch over her. Lady Ellinor stood alone on a mountain and amidst acloud.

CHAPTER II.

One day the Trevanions had all gone into the country on a visit to aretired minister distantly related to Lady Ellinor, and who was one ofthe few persons Trevanion himself condescended to consult. I had almosta holiday. I went to call on Sir Sedley Beaudesert. I had always longedto sound him on one subject, and had never dared. This time I resolvedto pluck up courage.

"Ah, my young friend!" said he, rising from the contemplation of avillanous picture by a young artist, which he had just benevolentlypurchased, "I was thinking of you this morning.--Wait a moment, Summers[this to the valet]. Be so good as to take this picture; let it bepacked up and go down into the country. It is a sort of picture,"he added, turning to me, "that requires a large house. I have an oldgallery with little casements that let in no light. It is astonishinghow convenient I have found it!" As soon as the picture was gone, SirSedley drew a long breath, as if relieved, and resumed more gayly,--

"Yes, I was thinking of you; and if you will forgive any interferencein your affairs,--from your father's old friend,--I should be greatlyhonored by your permission to ask Trevanion what he supposes is to bethe ultimate benefit of the horrible labor he inflicts upon you."

"But, my dear Sir Sedley, I like the labors; I am perfectly contented."

"Not to remain always secretary to one who, if there were no business tobe done among men, would set about teaching the ants to build hills uponbetter architectural principles! My dear sir, Trevanion is an awful man,a stupendous man, one catches fatigue if one is in the same roomwith him three minutes! At your age,--an age that ought to be sohappy,"--continued Sir Sedley, with a compassion perfectly angelically"it is sad to see so little enjoyment!"

"But, Sir Sedley, I assure you that you are mistaken, I thoroughly enjoymyself; and have I not heard even you confess that one may be idle andnot happy?"

"I did not confess that till I was on the wrong side of forty!" said SirSedley, with a slight shade on his brow. "Nobody would ever think youwere on the wrong side of forty!" said I, with artful flattery, windinginto my subject. "Miss Trevanion, for instance?"

I paused. Sir Sedley looked hard at me, from his bright dark-blue eyes."Well, Miss Trevanion for instance?"

"Miss Trevanion, who has all the best-looking fellows in London roundher, evidently prefers you to any of them."

I said this with a great gulp. I was obstinately bent on plumbing thedepth of my own fears.

Sir Sedley rose; he laid his hand kindly on mine, and said, "Do not letFanny Trevanion torment you even more than her father does!"

"I don't understand you, Sir Sedley."

"But if I understand you, that is more to the purpose. A girl like MissTrevanion is cruel till she discovers she has a heart. It is not safe torisk one's own with any woman till she has ceased to be a coquette. Mydear young friend, if you took life less in earnest, I should spare youthe pain of these hints. Some men sow flowers, some plant trees: you areplanting a tree under which you will soon find that no flower will grow.Well and good, if the tree could last to bear fruit and give shade;but beware lest you have to tear it up one day or other; for then--Whatthen? Why, you will find your whole life plucked away with its roots!"

Sir Sedley said these last words with so serious an emphasis that Iwas startled from the confusion I had felt at the former part of hisaddress. He paused long, tapped his snuff-box, inhaled a pinch slowly,and continued, with his more accustomed sprightliness,--

"Go as much as you can into the world. Again I say, 'Enjoy yourself.'And again I ask, what is all this labor to do for you? On some men,far less eminent than Trevanion, it would impose a duty to aid you in apractical career, to secure you a public employment; not so on him. Hewould not mortgage an inch of his independence by asking a favor from aminister. He so thinks occupation the delight of life that he occupiesyou out of pure affection. He does not trouble his head about yourfuture. He supposes your father will provide for that, and does notconsider that meanwhile your work leads to nothing! Think over all this.I have now bored you enough."

I was bewildered; I was dumb. These practical men of the world, how theytake us by surprise! Here had I come to sound Sir Sedley, and here was Iplumbed, gauged, measured, turned inside out, without having got an inchbeyond the surface of that smiling, debonnaire, unruffled ease. Yet,with his invariable delicacy, in spite of all this horrible frankness,Sir Sedley had not said a word to wound what he might think the moresensitive part of my amour propre,--not a word as to the inadequacy ofmy pretensions to think seriously of Fanny Trevanion. Had we been theCeladon and Chloe of a country village, he could not have regarded usas more equal, so far as the world went. And for the rest, he ratherinsinuated that poor Fanny, the great heiress, was not worthy of me,than that I was not worthy of Fanny.

I felt that there was no wisdom in stammering and blushing out denialsand equivocations; so I stretched my hand to Sir Sedley, took up my hat,and went. Instinctively I bent my way to my father's house. I had notbeen there for many days. Not only had I had a great deal to do in theway of business, but I am ashamed to say that pleasure itself had soentangled my leisure hours, and Miss Trevanion especially so absorbedthem, that, without even uneasy foreboding, I had left my fatherfluttering his wings more feebly and feebly in the web of UncleJack. When I arrived in Russell Street I found the fly and the spidercheek-by-jowl together. Uncle Jack sprang up at my entrance and cried,"Congratulate your father. Congratulate him!--no; congratulate theworld!"

"What, uncle!" said I, with a dismal effort at sympathizing liveliness,"is the 'Literary Times' launched at last?"

"Oh! that is all settled,--settled long since. Here's a specimen of thetype we have chosen for the leaders." And Uncle Jack, whose pocket wasnever without a wet sheet of some kind or other, drew forth a steamingpapyral monster, which in point of size was to the political "Times"as a mammoth may be to an elephant. "That is all settled. We are onlypreparing our contributors, and shall put out our programme next week orthe week after. No, Pisistratus, I mean the Great Work."

"My dear father, I am so glad. What! it is really sold, then?"

"Hum!" said my father.

"Sold!" burst forth Uncle Jack. "Sold,--no, sir, we would not sell it!No; if all the booksellers fell down on their knees to us, as they willsome day, that book should not be sold! Sir, that book is a revolution;it is an era; it is the emancipator of genius from mercenarythraldom,--That Book!"

I looked inquiringly from uncle to father, and mentally retracted mycongratulations. Then Mr. Caxton, slightly blushing, and shyly rubbinghis spectacles, said, "You see, Pisistratus, that though poor Jack hasdevoted uncommon pains to induce the publishers to recognize the merithe has discovered in the 'History of Human Error,' he has failed to doso."

"Not a bit of it; they all acknowledge its miraculous learning, its--"

"Very true; but they don't think it will sell, and therefore mostselfishly refuse to buy it. One bookseller, indeed, offered to treat forit if I would leave out all about the Hottentots and Caffres, the Greekphilosophers and Egyptian priests, and confining myself solely to politesociety, entitle the work 'Anecdotes of the Courts of Europe, Ancientand Modern.'"

"The--wretch!" groaned Uncle Jack.

"Another thought it might be cut up into little essays, leaving outthe quotations, entitled 'Men and Manners.' A third was kind enough toobserve that though this kind of work was quite unsalable, yet, as Iappeared to have some historical information, he should be happy toundertake an historical romance from my graphic pen,'--that was thephrase, was it not, Jack?"

Jack was too full to speak.

"Provided I would introduce a proper love-plot, and make it into threevolumes post octavo, twenty-three lines in a page, neither more norless. One honest fellow at last was found who seemed to me a veryrespectable and indeed enterprising person. And after going through alist of calculations, which showed that no possible profit could arise,he generously offered to give me half of those no-profits, provided Iwould guarantee half the very visible expenses. I was just meditatingthe prudence of accepting this proposal, when your uncle was seizedwith a sublime idea, which has whisked up my book in a whirlwind ofexpectation."

"And that idea?" said I, despondently.

"That idea," quoth Uncle Jack, recovering himself, "is simply andshortly this. From time immemorial, authors have been the prey of thepublishers. Sir, authors have lived in garrets, nay, have been choked inthe street by an unexpected crumb of bread, like the man who wrote theplay, poor fellow!"

"Otway," said my father. "The story is not true,--no matter."

"Milton, sir, as everybody knows, sold 'Paradise Lost' for tenpounds,--ten pounds, Sir! In short, instances of a like nature are toonumerous to quote.--But the booksellers, sir, they are leviathans; theyroll in seas of gold; they subsist upon authors as vampires upon littlechildren. But at last endurance has reached its limit; the fiat has goneforth; the tocsin of liberty has resounded: authors have burst theirfetters. And we have just inaugurated the institution of 'The GrandAnti-Publisher Confederate Authors' Society,' by which, Pisistratus, bywhich, mark you, every author is to be his own publisher; that is, everyauthor who joins the society. No more submission of immortal worksto mercenary calculators, to sordid tastes; no more hard bargains andbroken hearts; no more crumbs of bread choking great tragic poets in thestreets; no more Paradises Lost sold at L10 a-piece! The author bringshis book to a select committee appointed for the purpose,--men ofdelicacy, education, and refinement, authors themselves; they read it,the society publish; and after a modest deduction, which goes towardsthe funds of the society, the treasurer hands over the profits to theauthor."

"So that, in fact, uncle, every author who can't find a publisheranywhere else will of course come to the society. The fraternity will benumerous."

"It will indeed."

"And the speculation--ruinous."

"Ruinous, why?"

"Because in all mercantile negotiations it is ruinous to invest capitalin supplies which fail of demand. You undertake to publish books thatbooksellers will not publish: why? Because booksellers can't sellthem. It's just probable that you'll not sell them any better than thebooksellers. Ergo, the more your business, the larger your deficit; andthe more numerous your society, the more disastrous your condition. Q.E. D."

"Pooh! The select committee will decide what books are to be published."

"Then where the deuce is the advantage to the authors? I would as liefsubmit; my work to a publisher as I would to a select committee ofauthors. At all events, the publisher is not my rival; and I suspect heis the best judge, after all, of a book,--as an accoucheur ought to beof a baby."

"Upon my word, nephew, you pay a bad compliment to your father's GreatWork, which the booksellers will have nothing to do with."

That was artfully said, and I was posed; when Mr. Caxton observed, withan apologetic smile,--

"The fact is, my dear Pisistratus, that I want my book published withoutdiminishing the little fortune I keep for you some day. Uncle Jackstarts a society so to publish it. Health and long life to Uncle Jack'ssociety! One can't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Here my mother entered, rosy from a shopping expedition with Mrs.Primmins; and in her joy at hearing that I could stay to dinner, allelse was forgotten. By a wonder, which I did not regret, Uncle Jackreally was engaged to dine out. He had other irons in the fire besidesthe "Literary Times" and the "Confederate Authors' Society;" he was deepin a scheme for making house-tops of felt (which, under other hands,has, I believe, since succeeded); and he had found a rich man (I supposea hatter) who seemed well inclined to the project, and had actuallyasked him to dine and expound his views.

CHAPTER III.

Here we three are seated round the open window--after dinner--familiaras in the old happy time--and my mother is talking low, that she may notdisturb my father, who seems in thought--

Cr-cr-crrr-cr-cr! I feel it--I have it. Where! What! Where!Knock it down; brush it off! For Heaven's sake, see to it!Crrrr-crrrrr--there--here--in my hair--in my sleeve--in my ear--cr-cr.

I say solemnly, and on the word of a Christian, that as I sat down tobegin this chapter, being somewhat in a brown study, the pen insensiblyslipped from my hand, and leaning back in my chair, I fell to gazing inthe fire. It is the end of June, and a remarkably cold evening, even forthat time of year. And while I was so gazing I felt something crawlingjust by the nape of the neck, ma'am. Instinctively and mechanically, andstill musing, I put my hand there, and drew forth What? That what it iswhich perplexes me. It was a thing--a dark thing--a much bigger thingthan I had expected. And the sight took me so by surprise that I gave myhand a violent shake, and the thing went--where I know not. The what andthe where are the knotty points in the whole question! No sooner hadit gone than I was seized with repentance not to have examined it moreclosely; not to have ascertained what the creature was. It might havebeen an earwig,--a very large, motherly earwig; an earwig far gone inthat way in which earwigs wish to be who love their lords. I have aprofound horror of earwigs; I firmly believe that they do get into theear. That is a subject on which it is useless to argue with me uponphilosophical grounds. I have a vivid recollection of a story told meby Mrs. Primmins,--how a lady for many years suffered under the mostexcruciating headaches; how, as the tombstones say, "physicians were invain;" how she died; and how her head was opened, and how such a nest ofearwigs, ma'am, such a nest! Earwigs are the prolifickest things, andso fond of their offspring! They sit on their eggs like hens, and theyoung, as soon as they are born, creep under them for protection,--quitetouchingly! Imagine such an establishment domesticated at one'stympanum!

But the creature was certainly larger than an earwig. It might havebeen one of that genus in the family of Forficulidae calledLabidoura,--monsters whose antennae have thirty joints! There isa species of this creature in England--but to the great grief ofnaturalists, and to the great honor of Providence, very rarelyfound--infinitely larger than the common earwig, or Forfaculidaauriculana. Could it have been an early hornet? It had certainly a blackhead and great feelers. I have a greater horror of hornets, if possible,than I have of earwigs. Two hornets will kill a man, and three acarriage-horse sixteen hands high. However, the creature was gone. Yes,but where? Where had I so rashly thrown it? It might have got into afold of my dressing-gown or into my slippers, or, in short, anywhere,in the various recesses for earwigs and hornets which a gentleman'shabiliments afford. I satisfy myself at last as far as I can, seeingthat I am not alone in the room, that it is not upon me. I look uponthe carpet, the rug, the chair under the fender. It is non inventus.I barbarously hope it is frizzing behind that great black coal in thegrate. I pluck up courage; I prudently remove to the other end of theroom. I take up my pen, I begin my chapter,--very nicely, too, Ithink upon the whole. I am just getting into my subject,when--cr-cr-er-cr-er--crawl--crawl--crawl creep--creep--creep. Exactly,my dear ma'am, in the same place it was before! Oh, by the Powers! Iforgot all my scientific regrets at not having scrutinized its genusbefore, whether Forficulida or Labidoura. I made a desperate lunge withboth hands,--something between thrust and cut, ma'am. The beast is gone.Yes, but, again, where? I say that where is a very horrible question.Having come twice, in spite of all my precautions--and exactly on thesame spot, too--it shows a confirmed disposition to habituate itselfto its quarters, to effect a parochial settlement upon me; there issomething awful and preternatural in it. I assure you that there is nota part of me that has not gone cr-cr-cr!--that has not crept, crawled,and forficulated ever since; and I put it to you what sort of a chapterI can make after such a--My good little girl, will you just take thecandle and look carefully under the table? that's a dear! Yes, mylove, very black indeed, with two horns, and inclined to be corpulent.Gentlemen and ladies who have cultivated an acquaintance with thePhoenician language are aware that Beelzebub, examined etymologicallyand entomologically, is nothing more nor less than Baalzebub, "theJupiter-fly," an emblem of the Destroying Attribute, which attribute,indeed, is found in all the insect tribes more or less. Wherefore,as--Mr. Payne Knight, in his "Inquiry into Symbolical Languages," hathobserved, the Egyptian priests shaved their whole bodies, even to theireyebrows, lest unaware they should harbor any of the minor Zebubs of thegreat Baal. If I were the least bit more persuaded that that black cr-crwere about me still, and that the sacrifice of my eyebrows would deprivehim of shelter, by the souls of the Ptolemies I would,--and I will too!Ring the bell, my little dear! John, my--my cigar-box! There is not acr in the world that can abide the fumes of the havana! Pshaw! sir, I amnot the only man who lets his first thoughts upon cold steel end, likethis chapter, in--Pff--pff--pff!

CHAPTER IV.

Everything in this world is of use, even a black thing crawling over thenape of one's neck! Grim unknown, I shall make of thee--a simile!

I think, ma'am, you will allow that if an incident such as I havedescribed had befallen yourself, and you had a proper and lady-likehorror of earwigs (however motherly and fond of their offspring), andalso of early hornets,--and indeed of all unknown things of the insecttribe with black heads and two great horns, or feelers, or forceps,just by your ear,--I think, ma'am, you will allow that you would find itdifficult to settle back to your former placidity of mood and innocentstitch-work. You would feel a something that grated on your nerves andcr'd-cr'd "all over you like," as the children say. And the worst is,that you would be ashamed to say it. You would feel obliged to lookpleased and join in the conversation, and not fidget too much, noralways be shaking your flounces and looking into a dark corner of yourapron. Thus it is with many other things in life besides black insects.One has a secret care, an abstraction, a something between the memoryand the feeling, of a dark crawling cr which one has never dared toanalyze. So I sat by my mother, trying to smile and talk as in the oldtime, but longing to move about, and look around, and escape to my ownsolitude, and take the clothes off my mind, and see what it was that hadso troubled and terrified me; for trouble and terror were upon me. Andmy mother, who was always (Heaven bless her!) inquisitive enough in allthat concerned her darling Anachronism, was especially inquisitive thatevening. She made me say where I had been, and what I had done, and howI had spent my time; and Fanny Trevanion (whom she had seen, by the way,three or four times, and whom she thought the prettiest person in theworld), oh, she must know exactly what I thought of Fanny Trevanion!

And all this while my father seemed in thought; and so, with my armover my mother's chair, and my hand in hers, I answered my mother'squestions, sometimes by a stammer, sometimes by a violent effort atvolubility; when at some interrogatory that went tingling right to myheart I turned uneasily, and there were my father's eyes fixed on mine,fixed as they had been when, and none knew why, I pined and languished,and my father said, "He must go to school;" fixed with quiet, watchfultenderness. Ah, no! his thoughts had not been on the Great Work; he hadbeen deep in the pages of that less worthy one for which he had yet morean author's paternal care. I met those eyes and yearned to throw myselfon his heart and tell him all. Tell him what? Ma'am, I no more knew whatto tell him than I know what that black thing was which has so worriedme all this blessed evening!

"Pisistratus," said my father, softly, "I fear you have forgotten thesaffron bag."

"No, indeed, sir," said I, smiling.

"He," resumed my father, "he who wears the saffron bag has morecheerful, settled spirits than you seem to have, my poor boy."

"My dear Austin, his spirits are very good, I think," said my mother,anxiously.

My father shook his head; then he took two or three turns about theroom.

"Shall I ring for candles, sir? It is getting dark; you will wish toread."

"No, Pisistratus, it is you who shall read; and this hour of twilightbest suits the book I am about to open to you."

So saying, he drew a chair between me and my mother and seated himselfgravely, looking down a long time in silence, then turning his eyes toeach of us alternately.

"My dear wife," said he, at length, almost solemnly, "I am going tospeak of myself as I was before I knew you."

Even in the twilight I saw that my mother's countenance changed.

"You have respected my secrets, Katherine, tenderly, honestly. Now thetime is come when I can tell them to you and to our son."

CHAPTER V.

MY FATHER'S FIRST LOVE.

"I lost my mother early; my father--a good man, but who was so indolentthat he rarely stirred from his chair, and who often passed whole dayswithout speaking, like an Indian dervish--left Roland and myself toeducate ourselves much according to our own tastes. Roland shot andhunted and fished, read all the poetry and books of chivalry to be foundin my father's collection, which was rich in such matters, and madea great many copies of the old pedigree,--the only thing in which myfather ever evinced much vital interest. Early in life I conceived apassion for graver studies, and by good luck I found a tutor in Mr.Tibbets, who, but for his modesty, Kitty, would have rivalled Porson. Hewas a second Budaeus for industry,--and, by the way, he said exactly thesame thing that Budaeus did, namely, 'That the only lost day in his lifewas that in which he was married; for on that day he had only hadsix hours for reading'! Under such a master I could not fail to be ascholar. I came from the university with such distinction as led me tolook sanguinely on my career in the world.

"I returned to my father's quiet rectory to pause and consider what pathI should take to fame. The rectory was just at the foot of the hill,on the brow of which were the ruins of the castle Roland has sincepurchased. And though I did not feel for the ruins the same romanticveneration as my dear brother (for my day-dreams were more colored byclassic than feudal recollections), I yet loved to climb the hill, bookin hand, and built my castles in the air midst the wrecks of that whichtime had shattered on the earth.

"One day, entering the old weed-grown court, I saw a lady seated on myfavorite spot, sketching the ruins. The lady was young, more beautifulthan any woman I had yet seen,--at least to my eyes. In a word, I wasfascinated, and as the trite phrase goes, 'spell-bound.' I seated myselfat a little distance, and contemplated her without desiring to speak.By and by, from another part of the ruins, which were then uninhabited,came a tall, imposing elderly gentleman with a benignant aspect, anda little dog. The dog ran up to me barking. This drew the attention ofboth lady and gentleman to me. The gentleman approached, called offthe dog, and apologized with much politeness. Surveying me somewhatcuriously, he then began to ask questions about the old place and thefamily it had belonged to, with the name and antecedents of which hewas well acquainted. By degrees it came out that I was the descendantof that family, and the younger son of the humble rector who was now itsrepresentative. The gentleman then introduced himself to me as the Earlof Rainsforth, the principal proprietor in the neighborhood, but who hadso rarely visited the country during my childhood and earlier youth thatI had never before seen him. His only son, however, a young man of greatpromise, had been at the same college with me in my first year at theUniversity. The young lord was a reading man and a scholar, and we hadbecome slightly acquainted when he left for his travels.

"Now, on hearing my name Lord Rainsforth took my hand cordially, andleading me to his daughter, said, 'Think, Ellinor, how fortunate!--thisis the Mr. Caxton whom your brother so often spoke of.'

"In short, my dear Pisistratus, the ice was broken, the acquaintancemade; and Lord Rainsforth, saying he was come to atone for his longabsence from the county, and to reside at Compton the greater part ofthe year, pressed me to visit him. I did so. Lord Rainsforth's liking tome increased; I went there often."

My father paused, and seeing my mother had fixed her eyes upon him witha sort of mournful earnestness, and had pressed her hands very tightlytogether, he bent down and kissed her forehead.

"There is no cause, my child!" said he. It was the only time I everheard him address my mother so parentally. But then I never heard himbefore so grave and solemn,--not a quotation, too; it was incredible:it was not my father speaking, it was another man. "Yes, I went thereoften. Lord Rainsforth was a remarkable person. Shyness that was whollywithout pride (which is rare), and a love for quiet literary pursuits,had prevented his taking that personal part in public life for which hewas richly qualified; but his reputation for sense and honor, and hispersonal popularity, had given him no inconsiderable influence even, Ibelieve, in the formation of cabinets, and he had once been prevailedupon to fill a high diplomatic situation abroad, in which I haveno doubt that he was as miserable as a good man can be under anyinfliction. He was now pleased to retire from the world, and look at itthrough the loopholes of retreat. Lord Rainsforth had a great respectfor talent, and a warm interest in such of the young as seemed to him topossess it. By talent, indeed, his family had risen, and were strikinglycharacterized. His ancestor, the first peer, had been a distinguishedlawyer; his father had been celebrated for scientific attainments; hischildren, Ellinor and Lord Pendarvis, were highly accomplished. Thusthe family identified themselves with the aristocracy of intellect, andseemed unconscious of their claims to the lower aristocracy of rank. Youmust bear this in mind throughout my story.

"Lady Ellinor shared her father's tastes and habits of thought (she wasnot then an heiress). Lord Rainsforth talked to me of my career. It wasa time when the French Revolution had made statesmen look round withsome anxiety to strengthen the existing order of things, by alliancewith all in the rising generation who evinced such ability as mightinfluence their contemporaries.

"University distinction is, or was formerly, among the popular passportsto public life. By degrees, Lord Rainsforth liked me so well as tosuggest to me a seat in the House of Commons. A member of Parliamentmight rise to anything, and Lord Rainsforth had sufficient influence toeffect my return. Dazzling prospect this to a young scholar fresh fromThucydides, and with Demosthenes fresh at his tongue's end! My dear boy,I was not then, you see, quite what I am now: in a word, I loved EllinorCompton, and therefore I was ambitious. You know how ambitious sheis still. But I could not mould my ambition to hers. I could notcontemplate entering the senate of my country as a dependent on a partyor a patron,--as a man who must make his fortune there; as a man who,in every vote, must consider how much nearer he advanced himself toemolument. I was not even certain that Lord Rainsforth's views onpolitics were the same as mine would be. How could the politics of anexperienced man of the world be those of an ardent young student? Buthad they been identical, I felt that I could not so creep into equalitywith a patron's daughter. No! I was ready to abandon my own morescholastic predilections, to strain every energy at the Bar, to carveor force my own way to fortune; and if I arrived at independence,then,--what then? Why, the right to speak of love and aim at power. Thiswas not the view of Ellinor Compton. The law seemed to her a tedious,needless drudgery; there was nothing in it to captivate her imagination.She listened to me with that charm which she yet retains, and by whichshe seems to identify herself with those who speak to her. She wouldturn to me with a pleading look when her father dilated on thebrilliant prospects of a parliamentary success; for he (not havinggained it, yet having lived with those who had) overvalued it, andseemed ever to wish to enjoy it through some other. But when I, in turn,spoke of independence, of the Bar, Ellinor's face grew overcast. Theworld,--the world was with her, and the ambition of the world, which isalways for power or effect! A part of the house lay exposed to the eastwind. 'Plant half-way down the hill,' said I one day. 'Plant!' criedLady Ellinor,--'it will be twenty years before the trees grow up. No,my dear father, build a wall and cover it with creepers!' That was anillustration of her whole character. She could not wait till trees hadtime to grow; a dead wall would be so much more quickly thrown up, andparasite creepers would give it a prettier effect. Nevertheless, she wasa grand and noble creature. And I--in love! Not so discouraged as youmay suppose; for Lord Rainsforth often hinted encouragement which evenI could scarcely misconstrue. Not caring for rank, and not wishingfor fortune beyond competence for his daughter, he saw in me all herequired,--a gentleman of ancient birth, and one in whom his own activemind could prosecute that kind of mental ambition which overflowedin him, and yet had never had its vent. And Ellinor!--Heaven forbid Ishould say she loved me, but something made me think she could do so.Under these notions, suppressing all my hopes, I made a bold effortto master the influences round me and to adopt that career I thoughtworthiest of us all. I went to London to read for the Bar."

"The Bar! is it possible?" cried I. My father smiled sadly.

"Everything seemed possible to me then. I read some months. I began tosee my way even in that short time,--began to comprehend what would bethe difficulties before me, and to feel there was that within me whichcould master them. I took a holiday and returned to Cumberland. I foundRoland there on my return. Always of a roving, adventurous temper,though he had not then entered the army, he had, for more than twoyears, been wandering over Great Britain and Ireland on foot. It wasa young knight-errant whom I embraced, and who overwhelmed me withreproaches that I should be reading for the law. There had never been alawyer in the family! It was about that time, I think, that I petrifiedhim with the discovery of the printer! I knew not exactly wherefore,whether from jealousy, fear, foreboding, but it certainly was a painthat seized me when I learned from Roland that he had become intimateat Compton Hall. Roland and Lord Rainsforth had met at the house ofa neighboring gentleman, and Lord Rainsforth had welcomed hisacquaintance, at first, perhaps, for my sake, afterwards for his own.

"I could not for the life of me," continued my father, "ask Roland if headmired Ellinor; but when I found that he did not put that question tome, I trembled!

"We went to Compton together, speaking little by the way. We stayedthere some days."

My father here thrust his hand into his waistcoat. All men have theirlittle ways, which denote much; and when my father thrust his hand intohis waistcoat, it was always a sign of some mental effort,--he was goingto prove or to argue, to moralize or to preach. Therefore, though Iwas listening before with all my ears, I believe I had, speakingmagnetically and mesmerically, an extra pair of ears, a new sensesupplied to me, when my father put his hand into his waistcoat.

CHAPTER VI.

"There is not a mystical creation, type, symbol, or poetical inventionfor meanings abtruse, recondite, and incomprehensible which is notrepresented by the female gender," said my father, having his hand quiteburied in his waistcoat. "For instance, the Sphinx and Isis, whose veilno man had ever lifted, were both ladies, Kitty! And so was Persephone,who must be always either in heaven or hell; and Hecate, who was onething by night and another by day. The Sibyls were females, and sowere the Gorgons, the Harpies, the Furies, the Fates, and the TeutonicValkyrs, Nornies, and Hela herself; in short, all representations ofideas obscure, inscrutable, and portentous, are nouns feminine."

Heaven bless my father! Augustine Caxton was himself again! I began tofear that the story had slipped away from him, lost in that labyrinth oflearning. But luckily, as he paused for breath, his look fell on thoselimpid blue eyes of my mother, and that honest open brow of hers,which had certainly nothing in common with Sphinxes, Fates, Furies, orValkyrs; and whether his heart smote him, or his reason made himown that he had fallen into a very disingenuous and unsound trainof assertion, I know not, but his front relaxed, and with a smile heresumed: "Ellinor was the last person in the world to deceive any onewillingly. Did she deceive me and Roland, that we both, though notconceited men, fancied that, if we had dared to speak openly of love,we had not so dared in vain; or do you think, Kitty, that a woman reallycan love (not much, perhaps, but somewhat) two or three, or half adozen, at a time?"

"Impossible!" cried my mother. "And as for this Lady Ellinor, I amshocked at her--I don't know what to call it!"

"Nor I either, my dear," said my father, slowly taking his hand from hiswaistcoat, as if the effort were too much for him, and the problem wereinsoluble. "But this, begging your pardon, I do think, that before ayoung woman does really, truly, and cordially centre her affectionson one object, she suffers fancy, imagination, the desire of power,curiosity, or Heaven knows what, to stimulate, even to her own mind,pale reflections of the luminary not yet risen,--parhelia that precedethe sun. Don't judge of Roland as you see him now, Pisistratus,--grim,and gray, and formal: imagine a nature soaring high amongst daringthoughts, or exuberant with the nameless poetry of youthful life, witha frame matchless for bounding elasticity, an eye bright with haughtyfire, a heart from which noble sentiments sprang like sparks from ananvil. Lady Ellinor had an ardent, inquisitive imagination. This bold,fiery nature must have moved her interest. On the other hand, she hadan instructed, full, and eager mind. Am I vain if I say, now afterthe lapse of so many years, that in my mind her intellect feltcompanionship? When a woman loves and marries and settles, why then shebecomes a one whole, a completed being. But a girl like Ellinor has inher many women. Various herself, all varieties please her. I do believethat if either of us had spoken the word boldly, Lady Ellinor would haveshrunk back to her own heart, examined it, tasked it, and given a frankand generous answer; and he who had spoken first might have had thebetter chance not to receive a 'No.' But neither of us spoke. Andperhaps she was rather curious to know if she had made an impression,than anxious to create it. It was not that she willingly deceived us,but her whole atmosphere was delusion. Mists come before the sunrise.However this be, Roland and I were not long in detecting each other. Andhence arose, first coldness, then jealousy, then quarrel."

"Oh, my father, your love must have been indeed powerful to have made abreach between the hearts of two such brothers!"

"Yes," said my father, "it was amidst the old ruins of the castle, therewhere I had first seen Ellinor, that, winding my arm round Roland's neckas I found him seated amongst the weeds and stones, his face buried inhis hands,--it was there that I said, 'Brother, we both love this woman!My nature is the calmer of the two, I shall feel the loss less. Brother,shake hands! and God speed you, for I go!'"

"Austin!" murmured my mother, sinking her head on my father's breast.

"And therewith we quarrelled. For it was Roland who insisted, while thetears rolled down his eyes and he stamped his foot on the ground, thathe was the intruder, the interloper; that he had no hope; that he hadbeen a fool and a madman; and that it was for him to go! Now, while wewere disputing, and words began to run high, my father's old servantentered the desolate place with a note from Lady Ellinor to me, askingfor the loan of some book I had praised. Roland saw the handwriting, andwhile I turned the note over and over irresolutely, before I broke theseal, he vanished.

"He did not return to my father's house. We did not know what had becomeof him. But I, thinking over that impulsive, volcanic nature, took quickalarm. And I went in search of him; came on his track at last; and aftermany days found him in a miserable cottage amongst the most dreary ofthe dreary wastes which form so large a part of Cumberland. He wasso altered I scarcely knew him. To be brief, we came at last to acompromise. We would go back to Compton. This suspense was intolerable.One of us at least should take courage and learn his fate. But whoshould speak first? We drew lots, and the lot fell on me.

"And now that I was really to pass the Rubicon, now that I was to impartthat secret hope which had animated me so long, been to me a new life,what were my sensations? My dear boy, depend on it that that age is thehappiest when such feelings as I felt then can agitate us no more; theyare mistakes in the serene order of that majestic life which Heavenmeant for thoughtful man. Our souls should be as stars on earth, notas meteors and tortured comets. What could I offer to Ellinor, to herfather? What but a future of patient labor? And in either answer whatalternative of misery,--my own existence shattered, or Roland's nobleheart!

"Well, we went to Compton. In our former visits we had been almost theonly guests. Lord Rainsforth did not much affect the intercourse ofcountry squires, less educated then than now; and in excuse for Ellinorand for us, we were almost the only men of our own age she had seenin that large dull house. But now the London season had broken up,the house was filled; there was no longer that familiar and constantapproach to the mistress of the Hall which had made us like one family.Great ladies, fine people were round her; a look, a smile, a passingword were as much as I had a right to expect. And the talk, too, howdifferent! Before I could speak on books,--I was at home there! Rolandcould pour forth his dreams, his chivalrous love for the past, his bolddefiance of the unknown future. And Ellinor, cultivated and fanciful,could sympathize with both. And her father, scholar and gentleman, couldsympathize too. But now--"

CHAPTER VII.

"It is no use in the world," said my father, "to know all the languagesexpounded in grammars and splintered up into lexicons, if we don't learnthe language of the world. It is a talk apart, Kitty," cried my father,warming up. "It is an Anaglyph,--a spoken anaglyph, my dear! If all thehieroglyphs of the Egyptians had been A B C to you, still, if you didnot know the anaglyph, you would know nothing of the true mysteries ofthe priests. (1)

"Neither Roland nor I knew one symbol letter of the anaglyph. Talk,talk, talk on persons we never heard of, things we never cared for. Allwe thought of importance, puerile or pedantic trifles; all we thought sotrite and childish, the grand momentous business of life! If you found alittle schoolboy on his half-holiday fishing for minnows with a crookedpin, and you began to tell him of all the wonders of the deep, thelaws of the tides, and the antediluvian relies of iguanodon andichthyosaurus; nay, if you spoke but of pearl fisheries and coral-banks,or water-kelpies and naiads,--would not the little boy cry outpeevishly, 'Don't tease me with all that nonsense; let me fish in peacefor my minnows!' I think the little boy is right after his own way: itwas to fish for minnows that he came out, poor child, not to hear aboutiguanodons and water-kelpies.

"So the company fished for minnows, and not a word could we say aboutour pearl-fisheries and coral-banks! And as for fishing for minnowsourselves, my dear boy, we should have been less bewildered if you hadasked us to fish for a mermaid! Do you see, now, one reason why Ihave let you go thus early into the world? Well, but amongst theseminnow-fishers there was one who fished with an air that made theminnows look larger than salmons.

"Trevanion had been at Cambridge with me. We were even intimate. He wasa young man like myself, with his way to make in the world. Poor as I,of a family upon a par with mine, old enough, but decayed. There was,however, this difference between us: he had connections in the greatworld; I had none. Like me, his chief pecuniary resource was a collegefellowship. Now, Trevanion had established a high reputation at theUniversity; but less as a scholar, though a pretty fair one, than asa man to rise in life. Every faculty he had was an energy. He aimed ateverything: lost some things, gained others. He was a great speaker ina debating society, a member of some politico-economical club. He was aneternal talker,--brilliant, various, paradoxical, florid; differentfrom what he is now, for, dreading fancy, his career since has been oneeffort to curb it. But all his mind attached itself to something that weEnglishmen call solid; it was a large mind,--not, my dear Kitty, like afine whale sailing through knowledge from the pleasure of sailing,but like a polypus, that puts forth all its feelers for the purpose ofcatching hold of something. Trevanion had gone at once to London fromthe University; his reputation and his talk dazzled his connections,not unjustly. They made an effort, they got him into Parliament; he hadspoken, he had succeeded. He came to Compton in the flush of his virginfame. I cannot convey to you who know him now--with his careworn faceand abrupt, dry manner, reduced by perpetual gladiatorship to the skinand bone of his former self--what that man was when he first steppedinto the arena of life.

"You see, my listeners, that you have to recollect that we middle-agedfolks were young then; that is to say, we were as different from what weare now as the green bough of summer is from the dry wood out of whichwe make a ship or a gatepost. Neither man nor wood comes to the uses oflife till the green leaves are stripped and the sap gone. And then theuses of life transform us into strange things with other names: the treeis a tree no more, it is a gate or a ship; the youth is a youth no more,but a one-legged soldier, a hollow-eyed statesman, a scholar spectacledand slippered! When Micyllus"--here the hand slides into the waistcoatagain--"when Micyllus," said my father, "asked the cock that had oncebeen Pythagoras(2) if the affair of Troy was really as Homer told it,the cock replied scornfully, 'How could Homer know anything about it?At that time he was a camel in Bactria.' Pisistratus, according to thedoctrine of metempsychosis you might have been a Bactrian camel whenthat which to my life was the siege of Troy saw Roland and Trevanionbefore the walls.

"Handsome you can see that Trevanion has been: but the beauty of hiscountenance then was in its perpetual play, its intellectual eagerness;and his conversation was so discursive, so various, so animated, andabove all so full of the things of the day! If he had been a priest ofSerapis for fifty years he could not have known the anaglyph better.Therefore he filled up every crevice and pore of that hollow societywith his broken, inquisitive, petulant light; therefore he was admired,talked of, listened to, and everybody said, 'Trevanion is a rising man.'

"Yet I did not do him then the justice I have done since; for westudents and abstract thinkers are apt too much, in our first youth, tolook to the depth, of a man's mind or knowledge, and not enough to thesurface it may cover. There may be more water in a flowing stream onlyfour feet deep, and certainly more force and more health, than in asullen pool thirty yards to the bottom. I did not do Trevanion justice;I did not see how naturally he realized Lady Ellinor's ideal. I havesaid that she was like many women in one. Trevanion was a thousand menin one. He had learning to please her mind, eloquence to dazzle herfancy, beauty to please her eye, reputation precisely of the kindto allure her vanity, honor and conscientious purpose to satisfy herjudgment; and, above all, he was ambitious,--ambitious not as I, not asRoland was, but ambitious as Ellinor was; ambitious, not to realize somegrand ideal in the silent heart, but to grasp the practical, positivesubstances that lay without.

"Ellinor was a child of the great world, and so was he.

"I saw not all this, nor did Roland; and Trevanion seemed to pay noparticular court to Ellinor.

"But the time approached when I ought to speak. The house began to thin.Lord Rainsforth had leisure to resume his easy conferences with me; andone day, walking in his garden, he gave me the opportunity,--for I neednot say, Pisistratus," said my father, looking at me earnestly, "thatbefore any man of honor, if of inferior worldly pretensions, will openhis heart seriously to the daughter, it is his duty to speak first tothe parent, whose confidence has imposed that trust." I bowed my headand colored.

"I know not how it was," continued my father, "but Lord Rainsforthturned the conversation on Ellinor. After speaking of his expectationsin his son, who was returning home, he said, 'But he will of courseenter public life,--will, I trust, soon marry, have a separateestablishment, and I shall see but little of him. My Ellinor! I cannotbear the thought of parting wholly with her. And that, to say theselfish truth, is one reason why I have never wished her to marry a richman, and so leave me forever. I could hope that she will give herself toone who may be contented to reside at least great part of the year withme, who may bless me with another son, not steal from me a daughter.I do not mean that he should waste his life in the country; hisoccupations would probably lead him to London. I care not where my houseis,--all I want is to keep my home. You know,' he added, with a smilethat I thought meaning, 'how often I have implied to you that I haveno vulgar ambition for Ellinor. Her portion must be very small, for myestate is strictly entailed, and I have lived too much up to my incomeall my life to hope to save much now. But her tastes do not requireexpense, and while I live, at least, there need be no change. She canonly prefer a man whose talents, congenial to hers, will win their owncareer, and ere I die that career may be made.' Lord Rainsforthpaused; and then--how, in what words I know not, but out all burst!--mylong-suppressed, timid, anxious, doubtful, fearful love. The strangeenergy it had given to a nature till then so retiring and calm! Myrecent devotion to the law; my confidence that, with such a prize,I could succeed,--it was but a transfer of labor from one study toanother. Labor could conquer all things, and custom sweeten them in theconquest. The Bar was a less brilliant career than the senate. But thefirst aim of the poor man should be independence. In short, Pisistratus,wretched egotist that I was, I forgot Roland in that moment; and I spokeas one who felt his life was in his words.

"Lord Rainsforth looked at me, when I had done, with a countenance fullof affection, but it was not cheerful.

"'My dear Caxton,' said he, tremulously, 'I own that I once wishedthis,--wished it from the hour I knew you; but why did you so long--Inever suspected that--nor, I am sure, did Ellinor.' He stopped short,and added quickly: 'However, go and speak, as you have spoken to me, toEllinor. Go; it may not yet be too late. And yet--but go.'

"'Too late!'--what meant those words? Lord Rainsforth had turned hastilydown another walk, and left me alone, to ponder over an answer whichconcealed a riddle. Slowly I took my way towards the house and soughtLady Ellinor, half hoping, half dreading to find her alone. There was alittle room communicating with a conservatory, where she usually sat inthe morning. Thither I took my course. That room,--I see it still!--thewalls covered with pictures from her own hand, many were sketches of thehaunts we had visited together; the simple ornaments, womanly but noteffeminate; the very books on the table, that had been made familiar bydear associations. Yes, there the Tasso, in which we had read togetherthe episode of Clorinda; there the Aeschylus in which I translated toher the 'Prometheus.' Pedantries these might seem to some, pedantries,perhaps, they were; but they were proofs of that congeniality which hadknit the man of books to the daughter of the world. That room, it wasthe home of my heart.

"Such, in my vanity of spirit, methought would be the air round a hometo come. I looked about me, troubled and confused, and, halting timidly,I saw Ellinor before me, leaning her face on her hand, her cheek moreflushed than usual, and tears in her eyes. I approached in silence, andas I drew my chair to the table, my eye fell on a glove on the floor. Itwas a man's glove. Do you know," said my father, "that once, when I wasvery young, I saw a Dutch picture called 'The Glove,' and the subjectwas of murder? There was a weed-grown, marshy pool, a desolate, dismallandscape, that of itself inspired thoughts of ill deeds and terror. Andtwo men, as if walking by chance, came to this pool; the finger of onepointed to a blood-stained glove, and the eyes of both were fixed oneach other, as if there were no need of words. That glove told its tale.The picture had long haunted me in my boyhood, but it never gave me souneasy and fearful a feeling as did that real glove upon the floor. Why?My dear Pisistratus, the theory of forebodings involves one of thosequestions on which we may ask 'why' forever. More chilled than I hadbeen in speaking to her father, I took heart at last, and spoke toEllinor."

My father stopped short; the moon had risen, and was shining full intothe room and on his face. And by that light the face was changed; youngemotions had brought back youth,--my father looked a young man. But whatpain was there! If the memory alone could raise what, after all, was butthe ghost of suffering, what had been its living reality! InvoluntarilyI seized his hand; my father pressed it convulsively, and said with adeep breath: "It was too late; Trevanion was Lady Ellinor's accepted,plighted, happy lover. My dear Katherine, I do not envy him now; lookup, sweet wife, look up!"

(1). The anaglyph was peculiar to the Egyptian priests; the hieroglyphgenerally known to the well educated.

(2). Lucian, The Dream of Micyllus.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Ellinor (let me do her justice) was shocked at my silent emotion. Nohuman lip could utter more tender sympathy, more noble self-reproach;but that was no balm to my wound. So I left the house; so I neverreturned to the law; so all impetus, all motive for exertion, seemedtaken from my being; so I went back into books. And so a moping,despondent, worthless mourner might I have been to the end of my days,but that Heaven, in its mercy, sent thy mother, Pisistratus, acrossmy path; and day and night I bless God and her, for I have been, andam--oh, indeed, I am a happy man!"

My mother threw herself on my father's breast, sobbing violently, andthen turned from the room without a word; my father's eye, swimming intears, followed her; and then, after pacing the room for some momentsin silence, he came up to me, and leaning his arm on my shoulder,whispered, "Can you guess why I have now told you all this, my son?"

"Yes, partly: thank you, father," I faltered, and sat down, for I feltfaint.

"Some sons," said my father, seating himself beside me, "would find intheir father's follies and errors an excuse for their own; not so willyou, Pisistratus."

"I see no folly, no error, sir; only nature and sorrow."

"Pause ere you thus think," said my father. "Great was the folly andgreat the error of indulging imagination that has no basis, of linkingthe whole usefulness of my life to the will of a human creature likemyself. Heaven did not design the passion of love to be this tyrant;nor is it so with the mass and multitude of human life. We dreamers,solitary students like me, or half-poets like poor Roland, make our owndisease. How many years, even after I had regained serenity, asyour mother gave me a home long not appreciated, have I wasted! Themainstring of my existence was snapped; I took no note of time. Andtherefore now, you see, late in life, Nemesis wakes. I look back withregret at powers neglected, opportunities gone. Galvanically I brace upenergies half-palsied by disuse; and you see me, rather than rest quietand good for nothing, talked into what, I dare say, are sad follies, byan Uncle Jack! And now I behold Ellinor again; and I say in wonder: 'Allthis--all this--all this agony, all this torpor, for that, haggardface, that worldly spirit!' So is it ever in life: mortal things fade;immortal things spring more freshly with every step to the tomb.

"Ah!" continued my father, with a sigh, "it would not have been so if atyour age I had found out the secret of the saffron bag!"

CHAPTER IX.

"And Roland, sir," said I, "how did he take it?"

"With all the indignation of a proud, unreasonable man; more indignant,poor fellow, for me than himself. And so did he wound and gall me bywhat he said of Ellinor, and so did he rage against me because I wouldnot share his rage, that again we quarrelled. We parted, and did notmeet for many years. We came into sudden possession of our littlefortunes. His he devoted (as you may know) to the purchase of the oldruins and the commission in the army, which had always been hisdream; and so went his way, wrathful. My share gave me an excuse forindolence,--it satisfied all my wants; and when my old tutor died, andhis young child became my ward, and, somehow or other, from my ward mywife, it allowed me to resign my fellowship and live amongst my books,still as a book myself. One comfort, somewhat before my marriage, Ihad conceived; and that, too, Roland has since said was comfort tohim,--Ellinor became an heiress. Her poor brother died, and all of theestate that did not pass in the male line devolved on her. That fortunemade a gulf between us almost as wide as her marriage. For Ellinor poorand portionless, in spite of her rank, I could have worked, striven,slaved; but Ellinor rich! it would have crushed me. This was a comfort.But still, still the past,--that perpetual aching sense of somethingthat had seemed the essential of life withdrawn from life evermore,evermore! What was left was not sorrow,--it was a void. Had I lived morewith men, and less with dreams and books, I should have made my naturelarge enough to bear the loss of a single passion. But in solitudewe shrink up. No plant so much as man needs the sun and the air.I comprehend now why most of our best and wisest men have lived incapitals; and therefore again I say, that one scholar in a family isenough. Confiding in your sound heart and strong honor, I turn youthus betimes on the world. Have I done wrong? Prove that I have not, mychild. Do you know what a very good man has said? Listen and follow myprecept, not example.

"The state of the world is such, and so much depends on action, thateverything seems to say aloud to every man, 'Do something--do it--doit!'"

I was profoundly touched, and I rose refreshed and hopeful, whensuddenly the door opened, and who or what in the world should comein--But certainly he, she, it, or they shall not come into this chapter!On that point I am resolved. No, my dear young lady, I am extremelyflattered, I feel for your curiosity; but really not a peep,--not one!And yet--Well, then, if you will have it, and look so coaxingly--Whoor what, I say, should come in abrupt, unexpected--taking away one'sbreath, not giving one time to say, "By your leave, or with your leave,"but making one's mouth stand open with surprise, and one's eyes fix in abig round stupid stare--but--

PART VIII.

CHAPTER I.

There entered, in the front drawing-room of my father's house in RussellStreet, an Elf, clad in white,--small, delicate, with curls of jetover her shoulders; with eyes so large and so lustrous that they shonethrough the room as no eyes merely human could possibly shine. The Elfapproached, and stood facing us. The sight was so unexpected and theapparition so strange that we remained for some moments in startledsilence. At length my father, as the bolder and wiser man of the two,and the more fitted to deal with the eerie things of another world, hadthe audacity to step close up to the little creature, and, bending downto examine its face, said, "What do you want, my pretty child?"

Pretty child! Was it only a pretty child after all? Alas! it would bewell if all we mistake for fairies at the first glance could resolvethemselves only into pretty children.

"Come," answered the child, with a foreign accent, and taking my fatherby the lappet of his coat, "come, poor papa is so ill! I am frightened!come, and save him."

"Certainly," exclaimed my father, quickly. "Where's my hat, Sisty?Certainly, my child; we will go and save papa."

"But who is papa?" asked Pisistratus,--a question that would never haveoccurred to my father. He never asked who or what the sick papas of poorchildren were when the children pulled him by the lappet of his coat."Who is papa?"

The child looked hard at me, and the big tears rolled from those large,luminous eyes, but quite silently. At this moment a full-grown figurefilled up the threshold, and emerging from the shadow, presented to usthe aspect of a stout, well-favored young woman. She dropped a courtesy,and then said, mincingly,--

"Oh, miss, you ought to have waited for me, and not alarmed thegentlefolks by running upstairs in that way! If you please, sir, I wassettling with the cabman, and he was so imperent,--them low fellowsalways are, when they have only us poor women to deal with, sir, and--"

"But what is the matter?" cried I, for my father had taken the child inhis arms soothingly, and she was now weeping on his breast.

"Why, you see, sir [another courtesy], the gent only arrived last nightat our hotel, sir,--the Lamb, close by Lunnun Bridge,--and he was takenill, and he's not quite in his right mind like; so we sent forthe doctor, and the doctor looked at the brass plate on the gent'scarpet-bag, sir, and then he looked into the 'Court Guide,' and he said,'There is a Mr. Caxton in Great Russell Street,--is he any relation?'and this young lady said, 'That's my papa's brother, and we were goingthere.' And so, sir, as the Boots was out, I got into a cab, and misswould come with me, and--"

"Roland--Roland ill! Quick, quick, quick!" cried my father, and with thechild still in his arms he ran down the stairs. I followed with his hat,which of course he had forgotten. A cab, by good luck, was passing ourvery door; but the chambermaid would not let us enter it till she hadsatisfied herself that it was not the same she had dismissed. Thispreliminary investigation completed, we entered and drove to the Lamb.

The chambermaid, who sat opposite, passed the time in ineffectualovertures to relieve my father of the little girl,--who still clungnestling to his breast,--in a long epic, much broken into episodes, ofthe causes which had led to her dismissal of the late cabman, who, toswell his fare, had thought proper to take a "circumbendibus!"--andwith occasional tugs at her cap, and smoothings down of her gown, andapologies for being such a figure, especially when her eyes rested on mysatin cravat, or drooped on my shining boots.

Arrived at the Lamb, the chambermaid, with conscious dignity, led us upa large staircase, which seemed interminable. As she mounted theregion above the third story, she paused to take breath and inform us,apologetically, that the house was full, but that if the "gent" stayedover Friday, he would be moved into No. 54, "with a look-out and achimbly." My little cousin now slipped from my father's arms, and,running up the stairs, beckoned to us to follow. We did so, and were ledto a door, at which the child stopped and listened; then, taking off hershoes, she stole in on tiptoe. We entered after her.

By the light of a single candle we saw my poor uncle's face; it wasflushed with fever, and the eyes had that bright, vacant stare which itis so terrible to meet. Less terrible is it to find the body wasted, thefeatures sharp with the great life-struggle, than to look on the facefrom which the mind is gone,--the eyes in which there is no recognition.Such a sight is a startling shock to that unconscious habitualmaterialism with which we are apt familiarly to regard those we love;for in thus missing the mind, the heart, the affection that sprang toours, we are suddenly made aware that it was the something within theform, and not the form itself, that was so dear to us. The form itselfis still, perhaps, little altered; but that lip which smiles nowelcome, that eye which wanders over us as strangers, that ear whichdistinguishes no more our voices,--the friend we sought is not there!Even our own love is chilled back; grows a kind of vague, superstitiousterror. Yes, it was not the matter, still present to us, which hadconciliated all those subtle, nameless sentiments which are classed andfused in the word "affection;" it was the airy, intangible, electricsomething, the absence of which now appals us.

I stood speechless; my father crept on, and took the hand that returnedno pressure. The child only did not seem to share our emotions, but,clambering on the bed, laid her cheek on the breast, and was still.

"Pisistratus," whispered my father at last, and I stole near, hushing mybreath,--"Pisistratus, if your mother were here!"

I nodded; the same thought had struck us both. His deep wisdom, myactive youth, both felt their nothingness then and there. In the sickchamber both turned helplessly to miss the woman.

So I stole out, descended the stairs, and stood in the open air in asort of stunned amaze. Then the tramp of feet, and the roll of wheels,and the great London roar, revived me. That contagion of practical lifewhich lulls the heart and stimulates the brain,--what an intellectualmystery there is in its common atmosphere! In another moment I hadsingled out, like an inspiration, from a long file of those ministrantsof our Trivia, the cab of the lightest shape and with the strongesthorse, and was on my way, not to my mother's, but to Dr. M--H--,Manchester Square, whom I knew as the medical adviser to the Trevanions.Fortunately, that kind and able physician was at home, and he promisedto be with the sufferer before I myself could join him. I then drove toRussell Street, and broke to my mother, as cautiously as I could, theintelligence with which I was charged.

When we arrived at the Lamb, we found the doctor already writing hisprescription and injunctions: the activity of the treatment announcedthe clanger. I flew for the surgeon who had been before called in. Happythose who are strange to that indescribable silent bustle which thesick-room at times presents,--that conflict which seems almost handto hand between life and death,--when all the poor, unresisting,unconscious frame is given up to the war against its terrible enemy thedark blood flowing, flowing; the hand on the pulse, the hushed suspense,every look on the physician's bended brow; then the sinapisms to thefeet, and the ice to the head; and now and then, through the lull of thelow whispers, the incoherent voice of the sufferer,--babbling, perhaps,of green fields and fairyland, while your hearts are breaking! Then, atlength, the sleep,--in that sleep, perhaps, the crisis,--the breathlesswatch, the slow waking, the first sane words, the old smile again, onlyfainter, your gushing tears, your low "Thank God! thank God!"

Picture all this! It is past; Roland has spoken, his sense has returned;my mother is leaning over him; his child's small hands are clasped roundhis neck; the surgeon, who has been there six hours, has taken up hishat, and smiles gayly as he nods farewell; and my father is leaningagainst the wall, his face covered with his hands.

CHAPTER II.

All this had been so sudden that, to use the trite phrase,--for no otheris so expressive,--it was like a dream. I felt an absolute, an imperiouswant of solitude, of the open air. The swell of gratitude almost stifledme; the room did not seem large enough for my big heart. In early youth,if we find it difficult to control our feelings, so we find it difficultto vent them in the presence of others. On the spring side of twenty,if anything affects us, we rush to lock ourselves up in our room, or getaway into the streets or the fields; in our earlier years we are stillthe savages of Nature, and we do as the poor brute does: the woundedstag leaves the herd, and if there is anything on a dog's faithfulheart, he slinks away into a corner.

Accordingly, I stole out of the hotel and wandered through the streets,which were quite deserted. It was about the first hour of dawn,--themost comfortless hour there is, especially in London! But I only feltfreshness in the raw air, and soothing in the desolate stillness. Thelove my uncle inspired was very remarkable in its nature; it was notlike that quiet affection with which those advanced in life must usuallycontent themselves, but connected with the more vivid interest thatyouth awakens. There was in him still so much of viva, city and fire, inhis errors and crotchets so much of the self-delusion of youth, thatone could scarce fancy him other than young. Those Quixotic, exaggeratednotions of honor, that romance of sentiment which no hardship, care,grief, disappointment, could wear away (singular in a period when, attwo and twenty, young men declare themselves blases!), seemed to leavehim all the charm of boyhood. A season in London had made me more a manof the world, older in heart than he was. Then, the sorrow that gnawedhim with such silent sternness. No, Captain Roland was one of those menwho seize hold of your thoughts, who mix themselves up with yourlives. The idea that Roland should die,--die with the load at his heartunlightened,--was one that seemed to take a spring out of the wheels ofnature, all object out of the aims of life,--of my life at least. For Ihad made it one of the ends of my existence to bring back the son tothe father, and restore the smile, that must have been gay once, to thedownward curve of that iron lip. But Roland was now out of danger; andyet, like one who has escaped shipwreck, I trembled to look back on thedanger past: the voice of the devouring deep still boomed in my ears.While rapt in my reveries, I stopped mechanically to hear a clockstrike--four; and, looking round, I perceived that I had wandered fromthe heart of the City, and was in one of the streets that lead out ofthe Strand. Immediately before me, on the doorsteps of a large shopwhose closed shutters were as obstinate a stillness as if they hadguarded the secrets of seventeen centuries in a street in Pompeii,reclined a form fast asleep, the arm propped on the hard stonesupporting the head, and the limbs uneasily strewn over the stairs.The dress of the slumberer was travel-stained, tattered, yet withthe remains of a certain pretence; an air of faded, shabby, pennilessgentility made poverty more painful, because it seemed to indicateunfitness to grapple with it. The face of this person was hollow andpale, but its expression, even in sleep, was fierce and hard. I drewnear and nearer; I recognized the countenance, the regular features, theraven hair, even a peculiar gracefulness of posture: the young man whomI had met at the inn by the way-side, and who had left me alone withthe Savoyard and his mice in the churchyard, was before me. I remainedbehind the shadow of one of the columns of the porch, leaning againstthe area rails, and irresolute whether or not so slight an acquaintancejustified me in waking the sleeper, when a policeman, suddenly emergingfrom an angle in the street, terminated my deliberations with thedecision of his practical profession; for he laid hold of the youngman's arm and shook it roughly: "You must not lie here; get up and gohome!" The sleeper woke with a quick start, rubbed his eyes, lookedround, and fixed them upon the policeman so haughtily that thatdiscriminating functionary probably thought that it was not from sheernecessity that so improper a couch had been selected, and with an airof greater respect he said, "You have been drinking, young man,--can youfind your way home?"

"Yes," said the youth, resettling himself, "you see I have found it!"

"By the Lord Harry!" muttered the policeman, "if he ben't going to sleepagain. Come, come, walk on; or I must walk you off."

My old acquaintance turned round. "Policeman," said he, with a strangesort of smile, "what do you think this lodging is worth,--I don't sayfor the night, for you see that is over, but for the next two hours? Thelodging is primitive, but it suits me; I should think a shilling wouldbe a fair price for it, eh?"

"You love your joke, sir," said the policeman, with a brow much relaxed,and opening his hand mechanically.

"Say a shilling, then; it is a bargain! I hire it of you upon credit.Good night, and call me at six o'clock."

With that the young man settled himself so resolutely, and thepoliceman's face exhibited such bewilderment, that I burst out laughing,and came from my hiding-place.

The policeman looked at me. "Do you know this--this--"

"This gentleman?" said I, gravely. "Yes, you may leave him to me;" and Islipped the price of the lodging into the policeman's hand. He lookedat the shilling, he looked at me, he looked up the street and down thestreet, shook his head, and walked off. I then approached the youth,touched him, and said: "Can you remember me, sir; and what have you donewith Mr. Peacock?"

Stranger (after a pause).--"I remember you; your name is Caxton."

Pisistratus.--"And yours?"

Stranger.--"Poor devil, if you ask my pockets,--pockets, which are thesymbols of man; Dare-devil, if you ask my heart. [Surveying me from headto foot.] The world seems to have smiled on you, Mr. Caxton! Are you notashamed to speak to a wretch lying on the stones? but, to be sure, noone sees you."

Pisistratus (sententiously).--"Had I lived in the last century, I mighthave found Samuel Johnson lying on the stones."

Stranger (rising).--"You have spoilt my sleep: you had a right, sinceyou paid for the lodging. Let me walk with you a few paces; you need notfear, I do not pick pockets--yet!"

Pisistratus.--"You say the world has smiled on me; I fear it has frownedon you. I don't say 'courage,' for you seem to have enough of that; butI say 'patience,' which is the rarer quality of the two."

Stranger.--"Hem! [again looking at me keenly.] Why is it that you stopto speak to me,--one of whom you know nothing, or worse than nothing?"

Pisistratus.--"Because I have often thought of you; because you interestme; because--pardon me--I would help you if I can,--that is, if you wanthelp."

Stranger.--"Want? I am one want! I want sleep, I want food; I want thepatience you recommend,--patience to starve and rot. I have travelledfrom Paris to Boulogne on foot, with twelve sous in my pocket. Out ofthose twelve sous in my pocket I saved four; with the four I went to abilliard-room at Boulogne: I won just enough to pay my passage and buythree rolls. You see I only require capital in order to make a fortune.If with four sous I can win ten francs in a night, what could I win witha capital of four sovereigns, and in the course of a year? That isan application of the Rule of Three which my head aches too much tocalculate just at present. Well, those three rolls have lasted me threedays; the last crumb went for supper last night. Therefore, take carehow you offer me money (for that is what men mean by help). You see Ihave no option but to take it. But I warn you, don't expect gratitude; Ihave none in me!"

Pisistratus.--"You are not so bad as you paint yourself. I would dosomething more for you, if I can, than lend you the little I have tooffer. Will you be frank with me?"

Stranger.--"That depends; I have been frank enough hitherto, I think."

Pisistratus.--"True; so I proceed without scruple. Don't tell me yourname or your condition, if you object to such confidence; but tell meif you have relations to whom you can apply? You shake your head.Well, then, are you willing to work for yourself, or is it only at thebilliard-table--pardon me--that you can try to make four sous produceten francs?"

Stranger (musing).--"I understand you. I have never worked yet,--I abhorwork. But I have no objection to try if it is in me."

Pisistratus.--"It is in you. A man who can walk from Paris to Boulognewith twelve sous in his pocket and save four for a purpose; who canstake those four on the cool confidence in his own skill, even atbilliards; who can subsist for three days on three rolls; and who, onthe fourth day, can wake from the stones of a capital with an eye anda spirit as proud as yours,--has in him all the requisites to subduefortune."

Stranger.--"Do you work--you?"

Pisistratus.--"Yes--and hard."

Stranger.--"I am ready to work, then."

Pisistratus.--"Good. Now, what can you do?"

Stranger (with his odd smile).--"Many things useful. I can splita bullet on a penknife; I know the secret tierce of Coulon, thefencing-master; I can speak two languages (besides English) like anative, even to their slang; I know every game in the cards; I can actcomedy, tragedy, farce; I can drink down Bacchus himself; I can make anywoman I please in love with me,--that is, any woman good for nothing.Can I earn a handsome livelihood out of all this,--wear kid gloves andset up a cabriolet? You see my wishes are modest!"

Pisistratus.--"You speak two languages, you say, like a native,--French,I suppose, is one of them?"

Stranger.--"Yes."

Pisistratus.--"Will you teach it?"

Stranger (haughtily). "No. Je suis gentilhomme, which means more orless than a gentleman. Gentilhomme means well born, because free born;teachers are slaves!"

Pisistratus (unconsciously imitating Mr. Trevanion).--"Stuff!"

Stranger (looks angry, and then laughs).--"Very true; stilts don't suitshoes like these! But I cannot teach. Heaven help those I should teach!Anything else?"

Pisistratus.--"Anything else!--you leave me a wide margin. You knowFrench thoroughly,--to write as well as speak? That is much. Give mesome address where I can find you,--or will you call on me?"

Stranger.--"No! Any evening at dusk I will meet you. I have no addressto give, and I cannot show these rags at another man's door."

Pisistratus.--"At nine in the evening, then, and here in the Strand,on Thursday next. I may then have found some thing that will suit you.Meanwhile--" slides his purse into the Stranger's hand. N. B.--Purse notvery full.

Stranger, with the air of one conferring a favor, pockets the purse; andthere is something so striking in the very absence of all emotion at soaccidental a rescue from starvation that Pisistratus exclaims,--

"I don't know why I should have taken this fancy to you, Mr. Dare-devil,if that be the name that pleases you best. The wood you are made ofseems cross-grained, and full of knots; and yet, in the hands of askilful carver, I think it would be worth much."

Stranger (startled).--"Do you? Do you? None, I believe, ever thoughtthat before. But the same wood, I suppose, that makes the gibbet couldmake the mast of a man-of-war. I tell you, however, why you have takenthis fancy to me,--the strong sympathize with the strong. You, too,could subdue fortune!"

Pisistratus.--"Stop! If so, if there is congeniality between us, thenliking should be reciprocal. Come, say that; for half my chance ofhelping you is in my power to touch your heart."

Stranger (evidently softened).--"If I were as great a rogue as I oughtto be, my answer would be easy enough. As it is, I delay it. Adieu.--OnThursday."

Stranger vanishes in the labyrinth of alleys round Leicester Square.

CHAPTER III.

On my return to the Lamb, I found that my uncle was in a soft sleep; andafter a morning visit from the surgeon, and his assurance that thefever was fast subsiding, and all cause for alarm was gone, I thought itnecessary to go back to Trevanion's house and explain the reason formy night's absence. But the family had not returned from the country.Trevanion himself came up for a few hours in the afternoon, and seemedto feel much for my poor uncle's illness. Though, as usual, very busy,he accompanied me to the Lamb to see my father and cheer him up. Rolandstill continued to mend, as the surgeon phrased it; and as we went backto St. James's Square, Trevanion had the consideration to release mefrom my oar in his galley for the next few days. My mind, relieved frommy anxiety for Roland, now turned to my new friend. It had not beenwithout an object that I had questioned the young man as to hisknowledge of French. Trevanion had a large correspondence in foreigncountries which was carried on in that language; and here I could be butof little help to him. He himself, though he spoke and wrote French withfluency and grammatical correctness, wanted that intimate knowledgeof the most delicate and diplomatic of all languages to satisfy hisclassical purism.

For Trevanion was a terrible word-weigher. His taste was the plague ofmy life and his own. His prepared speeches (or rather perorations) werethe most finished pieces of cold diction that could be conceived underthe marble portico of the Stoics,--so filed and turned, trimmed andtamed, that they never admitted a sentence that could warm the heart, orone that could offend the ear. He had so great a horror of a vulgarismthat, like Canning, he would have made a periphrasis of a couple oflines to avoid using the word "cat." It was only in extempore speakingthat a ray of his real genius could indiscreetly betray itself. One mayjudge what labor such a super-refinement of taste would inflict upon aman writing in a language not his own to some distinguished statesmanor some literary institution,--knowing that language just well enoughto recognize all the native elegances he failed to attain. Trevanion atthat very moment was employed upon a statistical document intended asa communication to a Society at Copenhagen of which he was all honorarymember. It had been for three weeks the torment of the whole house,especially of poor Fanny (whose French was the best at our jointdisposal). But Trevanion had found her phraseology too mincing, tooeffeminate, too much that of the boudoir. Here, then, was an opportunityto introduce my new friend and test the capacities that I fancied hepossessed. I therefore, though with some hesitation, led the subject to"Remarks on the Mineral Treasures of Great Britain and Ireland" (suchwas the title of the work intended to enlighten the savants of Denmark);and by certain ingenious circumlocutions, known to all able applicants,I introduced my acquaintance with a young gentleman who possessed themost familiar and intimate knowledge of French, and who might be of usein revising the manuscript. I knew enough of Trevanion to feel thatI could not reveal the circumstances under which I had formed thatacquaintance, for he was much too practical a man not to have beenfrightened out of his wits at the idea of submitting so classicala performance to so disreputable a scapegrace. As it was, however,Trevanion, whose mind at that moment was full of a thousand otherthings, caught at my suggestion, with very little cross-questioning onthe subject, and before he left London consigned the manuscript to mycharge.

"My friend is poor," said I, timidly.

"Oh! as to that," cried Trevanion, hastily, "if it be a matter ofcharity, I put my purse in your hands; but don't put my manuscript inhis! If it be a matter of business, it is another affair; and I mustjudge of his work before I can say how much it is worth,--perhapsnothing!"

So ungracious was this excellent man in his very virtues!

"Nay," said I, "it is a matter of business, and so we will consider it."

"In that case," said Trevanion, concluding the matter and buttoninghis pockets, "if I dislike his work,--nothing; if I like it,--twentyguineas. Where are the evening papers?" and in another moment the memberof Parliament had forgotten the statist, and was pishing and tuttingover the "Globe" or the "Sun."

On Thursday my uncle was well enough to be moved into our house; and onthe same evening I went forth to keep my appointment with the stranger.The clock struck nine as we met. The palm of punctuality might bedivided between us. He had profited by the interval, since our lastmeeting, to repair the more obvious deficiencies of his wardrobe; andthough there was something still wild, dissolute, outlandish, about hiswhole appearance, yet in the elastic energy of his step and the resoluteassurance of his bearing there was that which Nature gives to her ownaristocracy: for, as far as my observation goes, what has been calledthe "grand air" (and which is wholly distinct from the polish of manneror the urbane grace of high breeding) is always accompanied, and perhapsproduced, by two qualities,--courage, and the desire of command. It ismore common to a half-savage nature than to one wholly civilized. TheArab has it, so has the American Indian; and I suspect that it was morefrequent among the knights and barons of the Middle Ages than it isamong the polished gentlemen of the modern drawing-room.

We shook hands, and walked on a few moments in silence; at length thuscommenced the Stranger,--

"You have found it more difficult, I fear, than you imagined, to makethe empty sack stand upright. Considering that at least one third ofthose born to work cannot find it, why should I?"

Pisistratus.--"I am hard-hearted enough to believe that work never failsto those who seek it in good earnest. It was said of some man, famousfor keeping his word, that 'if he had promised you an acorn, and all theoaks in England failed to produce one, he would have sent to Norway foran acorn.' If I wanted work, and there was none to be had in the OldWorld, I would find my way to the New. But to the point: I have foundsomething for you, which I do not think your taste will oppose, andwhich may open to you the means of an honorable independence. But Icannot well explain it in the streets: where shall we go?"

Stranger (after some hesitation).--"I have a lodging near here which Ineed not blush to take you to,--I mean, that it is not among rogues andcastaways."

Pisistratus (much pleased, and taking the stranger's arm).--"Come,then."

Pisistratus and the stranger pass over Waterloo Bridge and pause beforea small house of respectable appearance. Stranger admits them both witha latch-key, leads the way to the third story, strikes a light, and doesthe honors to a small chamber, clean and orderly. Pisistratus explainsthe task to be done, and opens the manuscript. The stranger draws hischair deliberately towards the light and runs his eye rapidly over thepages. Pisistratus trembles to see him pause before a long array offigures and calculations. Certainly it does not look inviting; but,pshaw! it is scarcely a part of the task, which limits itself to themere correction of words.

Stranger (briefly).--"There must be a mistake here--stay!--I see--" (Heturns back a few pages and corrects with rapid precision an error in asomewhat complicated and abstruse calculation.)

Pisistratus (surprised).--"You seem a notable arithmetician."

Stranger.--"Did I not tell you that I was skilful in all games ofmingled skill and chance? It requires an arithmetical head for that:a first-rate card-player is a financier spoilt. I am certain that younever could find a man fortunate on the turf or at the gaining-table whohad not an excellent head for figures. Well, this French is good enough,apparently; there are but a few idioms, here and there, that, strictlyspeaking, are more English than French. But the whole is a work scarceworth paying for!"

Pisistratus.--"The work of the head fetches a price not proportioned tothe quantity, but the quality. When shall I call for this?"

Stranger.--"To-morrow." (And he puts the manuscript away in a drawer.)

We then conversed on various matters for nearly an hour; and myimpression of this young man's natural ability was confirmed andheightened. But it was an ability as wrong and perverse in itsdirections or instincts as a French novelist's. He seemed to have, toa high degree, the harder portion of the reasoning faculty, but to bealmost wholly without that arch beautifier of character, that sweetpurifier of mere intellect,--the imagination; for though we are too muchtaught to be on our guard against imagination, I hold it, with CaptainRoland, to be the divinest kind of reason we possess, and the one thatleads us the least astray. In youth, indeed, it occasions errors, butthey are not of a sordid or debasing nature. Newton says that onefinal effect of the comets is to recruit the seas and the planets bya condensation of the vapors and exhalations therein; and so even theerratic flashes of an imagination really healthful and vigorous deepenour knowledge and brighten our lights; they recruit our seas and ourstars. Of such flashes my new friend was as innocent as the sternestmatter-of-fact person could desire. Fancies he had in profusion, andvery bad ones; but of imagination not a scintilla! His mind was oneof those which live in a prison of logic, and cannot, or will not, seebeyond the bars. Duch a nature is at once positive and sceptical. Thisboy had thought proper to decide at once on the numberless complexitiesof the social world from his own harsh experience.

With him the whole system was a war and a cheat. If the universe wereentirely composed of knaves, he would be sure to have made his way. Nowthis bias of mind, alike shrewd and unamiable, might be safe enough ifaccompanied by a lethargic temper; but it threatened to become terribleand dangerous in one who, in default of imagination, possessed abundanceof passion: and this was the case with the young outcast. Passion, inhim, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate againsthuman happiness. You could not contradict him but you raised quickcholer; you could not speak of wealth, but the cheek paled with gnawingenvy. The astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy his beauty,his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fieryatmosphere--had raised his constitutional self-confidence into anarrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudicesagainst him. Irascible, envious, arrogant,--bad enough, but not theworst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold,repellent cynicism,--his passions vented themselves in sneers. Thereseemed in him no moral susceptibility, and, what was more remarkable ina proud nature, little or nothing of the true point of honor. He had,to a morbid excess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly called"ambition," but no apparent wish for fame or esteem or the love of hisspecies; only the hard wish to succeed, not shine, not serve,--succeed,that he might have the right to despise a world which galled hisself-conceit, and enjoy the pleasures which the redundant nervouslife in him seemed to crave. Such were the more patent attributes of acharacter that, ominous as it was, yet interested me, and yet appearedto me to be redeemable,--nay, to have in it the rude elements of acertain greatness. Ought we not to make something great out of a youth,under twenty, who has, in the highest degree, quickness to conceiveand courage to execute? On the other hand, all faculties that canmake greatness, contain those that can attain goodness. In the savageScandinavian or the ruthless Frank lay the germs of a Sidney or aBayard. What would the best of us be if he were suddenly placed at warwith the whole world? And this fierce spirit was at war with the wholeworld,--a war self-sought, perhaps, but it was war not the less. Youmust surround the savage with peace, if you want the virtues of peace.

I cannot say that it was in a single interview and conference that Icame to these convictions; but I am rather summing up the impressionswhich I received as I saw more of this person, whose destiny I presumedto take under my charge.

In going away, I said, "But at all events you have a name in yourlodgings: whom am I to ask for when I call tomorrow?"

"Oh! you may know my name now," said he smiling, "it is Vivian,--FrancisVivian."

CHAPTER IV.

I remember one morning, when a boy, loitering by an old wall to watchthe operations of a garden spider whose web seemed to be in greatrequest. When I first stopped, she was engaged very quietly with a flyof the domestic species, whom she managed with ease and dignity. Butjust when she was most interested in that absorbing employment came acouple of May-flies, and then a gnat, and then a blue-bottle,--all atdifferent angles of the web. Never was a poor spider so distractedby her good fortune! She evidently did not know which godsend to takefirst. The aboriginal victim being released, she slid half-waytowards the May-flies; then one of her eight eyes caught sight of theblue-bottle, and she shot off in that direction,--when the hum of thegnat again diverted her; and in the middle of this perplexity, pouncecame a young wasp in a violent passion! Then the spider evidently losther presence of mind; she became clean demented; and after standing,stupid and stock-still, in the middle of her meshes for a minute or two,she ran off to her hole as fast as she could run, and left her guests toshift for themselves. I confess that I am somewhat in the dilemma ofthe attractive and amiable insect I have just described. I got on wellenough while I had only my domestic fly to see after. But now that thereis something fluttering at every end of my net (and especially since theadvent of that passionate young wasp, who is fuming and buzzing in thenearest corner), I am fairly at a loss which I should first grapplewith; and alas! unlike the spider, I have no hole where I can hidemyself, and let the web do the weaver's work. But I will imitate thespider as far as I can; and while the rest hum and struggle away theirimpatient, unnoticed hour, I will retreat into the inner labyrinth of myown life.

The illness of my uncle and my renewed acquaintance with Vivian hadnaturally sufficed to draw my thoughts from the rash and unpropitiouslove I had conceived for Fanny Trevanion. During the absence of thefamily from London (and they stayed some time longer than had beenexpected), I had leisure, however, to recall my father's touchinghistory, and the moral it had so obviously preached to me; and I formedso many good resolutions that it was with an untrembling hand that Iwelcomed Miss Trevanion at last to London, and with a firm heart that Iavoided, as much as possible, the fatal charm of her society. The slowconvalescence of my uncle gave me a just excuse to discontinue ourrides. What time Trevanion spared me, it was natural that I should spendwith my family. I went to no balls nor parties; I even absented myselffrom Trevanion's periodical dinners. Miss Trevanion at first rallied meon my seclusion, with her usual lively malice. But I continued worthilyto complete my martyrdom. I took care that no reproachful look at thegayety that wrung my soul should betray my secret. Then Fanny seemedeither hurt or disdainful, and avoided altogether entering her father'sstudy; all at once, she changed her tactics, and was seized with astrange desire for knowledge, which brought her into the room to lookfor a book, or ask a question, ten times a day. I was proof to all.But, to speak truth, I was profoundly wretched. Looking back now, Iam dismayed at the remembrance of my own sufferings: my health becameseriously affected; I dreaded alike the trial of the day and the anguishof the night. My only distractions were in my visits to Vivian and myescape to the dear circle of home. And that home was my safeguard andpreservative in that crisis of my life; its atmosphere of unpretendedhonor and serene virtue strengthened all my resolutions; it braced mefor my struggles against the strongest passion which youth admits, andcounteracted the evil vapors of that air in which Vivian's envenomedspirit breathed and moved. Without the influence of such a home, ifI had succeeded in the conduct that probity enjoined towards those inwhose house I was a trusted guest, I do not think I could have resistedthe contagion of that malign and morbid bitterness against fate andthe world which love, thwarted by fortune, is too inclined of itselfto conceive, and in the expression of which Vivian was not without theeloquence that belongs to earnestness, whether in truth or falsehood.But, somehow or other, I never left the little room that contained thegrand suffering in the face of the veteran soldier, whose lip, oftenquivering with anguish, was never heard to murmur, and the tranquilwisdom which had succeeded my father's early trials (trials like myown), and the loving smile on my mother's tender face, and the innocentchildhood of Blanche (by which name the Elf had familiarized herself tous), whom I already loved as a sister,--without feeling that those fourwalls contained enough to sweeten the world, had it been filled to itscapacious brim with gall and hyssop.

Trevanion had been more than satisfied with Vivian's performance, he hadbeen struck with it; for though the corrections in the mere phraseologyhad been very limited, they went beyond verbal amendments,--theysuggested such words as improved the thoughts; and besides that notablecorrection of an arithmetical error which Trevanion's mind was formed toover-appreciate, one or two brief annotations on the margin were boldlyhazarded, prompting some stronger link in a chain of reasoning, orindicating the necessity for some further evidence in the assertion ofa statement. And all this from the mere natural and naked logic of anacute mind, unaided by the smallest knowledge of the subject treatedof! Trevanion threw quite enough work into Vivian's hands, and ata remuneration sufficiently liberal to realize my promise of anindependence. And more than once he asked me to introduce to him myfriend. But this I continued to elude,--Heaven knows, not from jealousy,but simply because I feared that Vivian's manner and way of talk wouldsingularly displease one who detested presumption, and understood noeccentricities but his own.

Still, Vivian, whose industry was of a strong wing, but only for shortflights, had not enough to employ more than a few hours of the day, andI dreaded lest he should, from very idleness, fall back into old habitsand re-seek old friendships. His cynical candor allowed that both weresufficiently disreputable to justify grave apprehensions of such aresult; accordingly, I contrived to find leisure in my evenings tolessen his ennui, by accompanying him in rambles through the gas-litstreets, or occasionally, for an hour or so, to one of the theatres.

Vivian's first care, on finding himself rich enough, had been bestowedon his person; and those two faculties of observation and imitationwhich minds so ready always eminently possess, had enabled him toachieve that graceful neatness of costume peculiar to the Englishgentleman. For the first few days of his metamorphosis traces indeed ofa constitutional love of show or vulgar companionship were noticeable;but one by one they disappeared. First went a gaudy neckcloth, withcollars turned down; then a pair of spurs vanished; and lastly adiabolical instrument that he called a cane--but which, by means of arunning bullet, could serve as a bludgeon at one end, and concealed adagger in the other--subsided into the ordinary walking-stick adaptedto our peaceable metropolis. A similar change, though in a less degree,gradually took place in his manner and his conversation. He grew lessabrupt in the one, and more calm, perhaps more cheerful, in the other.It was evident that he was not insensible to the elevated pleasure ofproviding for himself by praiseworthy exertion, of feeling for the firsttime that his intellect was of use to him creditably.

A new world, though still dim--seen through mist and fog--began to dawnupon him.

Such is the vanity of us poor mortals that my interest in Vivian wasprobably increased, and my aversion to much in him materially softened,by observing that I had gained a sort of ascendancy over his savagenature. When we had first met by the roadside, and afterwards conversedin the churchyard, the ascendancy was certainly not on my side. But Inow came from a larger sphere of society than that in which he had yetmoved. I had seen and listened to the first men in England. What hadthen dazzled me only, now moved my pity. On the other hand, his activemind could not but observe the change in me; and whether from envy ora better feeling, he was willing to learn from me how to eclipse me andresume his earlier superiority,--not to be superior chafed him. Thushe listened to me with docility when I pointed out the books whichconnected themselves with the various subjects incidental to themiscellaneous matters on which he was employed. Though he had less ofthe literary turn of mind than any one equally clever I had ever met,and had read little, considering the quantity of thought he had acquiredand the show he made of the few works with which he had voluntarilymade himself familiar, he yet resolutely sat himself down to study; andthough it was clearly against the grain, I augured the more favorablyfrom tokens of a determination to do what was at the present irksome fora purpose in the future. Yet whether I should have approved the purposehad I thoroughly understood it, is another question. There were abysses,both in his past life and in his character, which I could not penetrate.There was in him both a reckless frankness and a vigilant reserve: hisfrankness was apparent in his talk on all matters immediately before us,in the utter absence of all effort to make himself seem better than hewas. His reserve was equally shown in the ingenious evasion of everyspecies of confidence that could admit me into such secrets of his lifeas he chose to conceal where he had been born, reared, and educated; howhe came to be thrown on his own resources; how he had contrived, how hehad subsisted, were all matters on which he had seemed to take an oathto Harpocrates, the god of silence. And yet he was full of anecdotes ofwhat he had seen, of strange companions whom he never named, but withwhom he had been thrown. And, to do him justice, I remarked that thoughhis precocious experience seemed to have been gathered from the holesand corners, the sewers and drains of life, and though he seemed whollywithout dislike to dishonesty, and to regard virtue or vice with asserene an indifference as some grand poet who views them both merelyas ministrants to his art, yet he never betrayed any positive breachof honesty in himself. He could laugh over the story of some ingeniousfraud that he had witnessed, and seem insensible to its turpitude; buthe spoke of it in the tone of an approving witness, not of an actualaccomplice. As we grew more intimate, he felt gradually, however, thatpudor, or instinctive shame, which the contact with minds habituatedto the distinctions between wrong and right unconsciously produces, andsuch stories ceased. He never but once mentioned his family, and thatwas in the following odd and abrupt manner:--

"Ah!" cried he one day, stopping suddenly before a print-shop, "how thatreminds me of my dear, dear mother."

"Which?" said I, eagerly, puzzled between an engraving of Raffaelle's"Madonna" and another of "The Brigand's Wife."

Vivian did not satisfy my curiosity, but drew me on in spite of myreluctance.

"You loved your mother, then?" said I, after a pause. "Yes, as a whelpmay a tigress."

"That's a strange comparison."

"Or a bull-dog may the prize-fighter, his master! Do you like thatbetter?"

"Not much; is it a comparison your mother would like?"

"Like? She is dead!" said he, rather falteringly.

I pressed his arm closer to mine.

"I understand you," said he, with his cynic, repellent smile. "But youdo wrong to feel for my loss. I feel for it; but no one who cares for meshould sympathize with my grief."

"Why?"

"Because my mother was not what the world would call a good woman. I didnot love her the less for that. And now let us change the subject."

"Nay; since you have said so much, Vivian, let me coax you to say on. Isnot your father living?"

"Is not the Monument standing?"

"I suppose so; what of that?"

"Why, it matters very little to either of us; and my question answersyours."

I could not get on after this, and I never did get on a step further. Imust own that if Vivian did not impart his confidence liberally, neitherdid he seek confidence inquisitively from me. He listened with interestif I spoke of Trevanion (for I told him frankly of my connection withthat personage, though you may be sure that I said nothing of Fanny),and of the brilliant world that my residence with one so distinguishedopened to me. But if ever, in the fulness of my heart, I began to speakof my parents, of my home, he evinced either so impertinent an ennuior assumed so chilling a sneer that I usually hurried away from him, aswell as the subject, in indignant disgust. Once especially, when I askedhim to let me introduce him to my father,--a point on which I was reallyanxious, for I thought it impossible but that the devil within him wouldbe softened by that contact,--he said, with his low, scornful laugh,--

"My dear Caxton, when I was a child I was so bored with 'Telemachus'that, in order to endure it, I turned it into travesty."

"Well?"

"Are you not afraid that the same wicked disposition might make acaricature of your Ulysses?"

I did not see Mr. Vivian for three days after that speech; and I shouldnot have seen him then, only we met, by accident, under the Colonnadeof the Opera-House. Vivian was leaning against one of the columns, andwatching the long procession which swept to the only temple in voguethat Art has retained in the English Babel. Coaches and chariotsblazoned with arms and coronets, cabriolets (the brougham had not thenreplaced them) of sober hue but exquisite appointment, with gigantichorses and pigmy "tigers," dashed on, and rolled off before him. Fairwomen and gay dresses, stars and ribbons, the rank and the beauty of thepatrician world,--passed him by. And I could not resist the compassionwith which this lonely, friendless, eager, discontented spirit inspiredme, gazing on that gorgeous existence in which it fancied itself formedto shine, with the ardor of desire and the despair of exclusion. By oneglimpse of that dark countenance, I read what was passing within the yetdarker heart. The emotion might not be amiable, nor the thoughts wise,yet were they unnatural? I had experienced something of them,--not atthe sight of gay-dressed people, of wealth and idleness, pleasure andfashion, but when, at the doors of Parliament, men who have won noblenames, and whose word had weight on the destinies of glorious England,brushed heedlessly by to their grand arena; or when, amidst the holidaycrowd of ignoble pomp, I had heard the murmur of fame buzz and gatherround some lordly laborer in art or letters: that contrast between gloryso near and yet so far, and one's own obscurity, of course I had feltit,--who has not? Alas! many a youth not fated to be a Themistocles willyet feel that the trophies of a Miltiades will not suffer him to sleep!So I went up to Vivian and laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Ah!" said he, more gently than usual, "I am glad to see you, and toapologize,--I offended you the other day. But you would not get verygracious answers from souls in purgatory if you talked to them of thehappiness of heaven. Never speak to me about homes and fathers! Enough!I see you forgive me. Why are you not going to the opera? You can."

"And you too, if you so please. A ticket is shamefully dear, to be sure;still, if you are fond of music, it is a luxury you can afford."

"Oh! you flatter me if you fancy the prudence of saving withholds me. Idid go the other night, but I shall not go again. Music!--when you go tothe opera, is it for the music?"

"Only partially, I own; the lights, the scene, the pageant, attract mequite as much. But I do not think the opera a very profitable pleasurefor either of us. For rich idle people, I dare say, it may be asinnocent an amusement as any other, but I find it a sad enervator."

"And I just the reverse,--a horrible stimulant! Caxton, do you knowthat, ungracious as it will sound to you, I am growing impatient ofthis 'honorable independence'? What does it lead to? Board, clothes, andlodging,--can it ever bring me anything more?"

"At first, Vivian, you limited your aspirations to kid gloves and acabriolet: it has brought the kid gloves already; by and by it willbring the cabriolet!"

"Our wishes grow by what they feed on. You live in the great world,you can have excitement if you please it; I want excitement, I want theworld, I want room for my mind, man! Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly, and sympathize with you, my poor Vivian; but it will allcome. Patience! as I preached to you while dawn rose so comfortless overthe streets of London. You are not losing time. Fill your mind; read,study, fit yourself for ambition. Why wish to fly till you have got yourwings? Live in books now; after all, they are splendid palaces, and opento us all, rich and poor."

"Books, books! Ah! you are the son of a book-man. It is not by booksthat men get on in the world, and enjoy life in the mean while."

"I don't know that; but, my good fellow, you want to do both,--get onin the world as fast as labor can, and enjoy life as pleasantly asindolence may. You want to live like the butterfly, and yet have all thehoney of the bee; and, what is the very deuce of the whole, even as thebutterfly, you ask every flower to grow up in a moment; and, as abee, the whole hive must be stored in a quarter of an hour! Patience,patience, patience!"

Vivian sighed a fierce sigh. "I suppose," said he, after an unquietpause, "that the vagrant and the outlaw are strong in me, for I longto run back to my old existence, which was all action, and thereforeallowed no thought."

While he thus said, we had wandered round the Colonnade, and were inthat narrow passage in which is situated the more private entrance tothe opera: close by the doors of that entrance, two or three young menwere lounging. As Vivian ceased, the voice of one of these loungers camelaughingly to our ears.

"Oh!" it said, apparently in answer to some question, "I have a muchquicker way to fortune than that: I mean to marry an heiress!"

Vivian started, and looked at the speaker. He was a very good-lookingfellow. Vivian continued to look at him, and deliberately, from head tofoot; he then turned away with a satisfied and thoughtful smile.

"Certainly," said I, gravely (construing the smile), "you are rightthere: you are even better-looking than that heiress-hunter!"

Vivian colored; but before he could answer, one of the loungers, asthe group recovered from the gay laugh which their companion's easycoxcombry had excited, said,--

"Then, by the way, if you want an heiress, here comes one of thegreatest in England; but instead of being a younger son, with three goodlives between you and an Irish peerage, one ought to be an earl at leastto aspire to--Fanny Trevanion!"

The name thrilled through me, I felt myself tremble; and looking up, Isaw Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion, as they hurried from their carriagetowards the entrance of the opera. They both recognized me, and Fannycried,--

"You here! How fortunate! You must see us into the box, even if you runaway the moment after."

"But I am not dressed for the opera," said I, embarrassed.

"And why not?" asked Miss Trevanion; then, dropping her voice, sheadded, "why do you desert us so wilfully?" and, leaning her hand on myarm, I was drawn irresistibly into the lobby. The young loungers at thedoor made way for us, and eyed me, no doubt, with envy.

"Nay!" said I, affecting to laugh, as I saw Miss Trevanion waited for myreply. "You forget how little time I have for such amusements now, andmy uncle--"

"Oh, but mamma and I have been to see your uncle to-day, and he isnearly well,--is he not, mamma? I cannot tell you how I like and admirehim. He is just what I fancy a Douglas of the old day. But mamma isimpatient. Well, you must dine with us to-morrow, promise! Not adieu,but au revoir," and Fanny glided to her mother's arm. Lady Ellinor,always kind and courteous to me, had good-naturedly lingered till thisdialogue, or rather monologue, was over.

On returning to the passage, I found Vivian walking to and fro; hehad lighted his cigar, and was smoking energetically. "So this greatheiress," said he, smiling, "who, as far as I could see,--under herhood,--seems no less fair than rich, is the daughter, I presume, of theMr. Trevanion, whose effusions you so kindly submit to me. He is veryrich, then! You never said so, yet I ought to have known it; but you seeI know nothing of your beau monde,--not even that Miss Trevanion is oneof the greatest heiresses in England."

"Yes, Mr. Trevanion is rich," said I, repressing a sigh, "--very rich."

"And you are his secretary! My dear friend, you may well offer mepatience, for a large stock of yours will, I hope, be superfluous toyou."

"I don't understand you."

"Yet you heard that young gentleman, as well as myself and you are inthe same house as the heiress."

"Vivian!"

"Well, what have I said so monstrous?"

"Pooh! since you refer to that young gentleman, you heard, too, whathis companion told him, 'one ought to be an earl, at least, to aspire toFanny Trevanion!'"

"Tut! as well say that one ought to be a millionnaire to aspire to amillion! Yet I believe those who make millions generally begin withpence."

"That belief should be a comfort and encouragement to you, Vivian. Andnow, good-night; I have much to do."

"Good-night, then," said Vivian, and we parted.

I made my way to Mr. Trevanion's house and to the study. There was aformidable arrear of business waiting for me, and I sat down to it atfirst resolutely; but by degrees I found my thoughts wandering from theeternal blue-books, and the pen slipped from my hand in the midst of anextract from a Report on Sierra Leone. My pulse beat loud and quick; Iwas in that state of nervous fever which only emotion can occasion. Thesweet voice of Fanny rang in my ears; her eyes, as I had last met them,unusually gentle, almost beseeching, gazed upon me wherever I turned;and then, as in mockery, I heard again those words,--"One ought to bean earl at least to aspire to-" Oh! did I aspire? Was I vain fool sofrantic, household traitor so consummate? No, no! Then what did I underthe same roof? Why stay to imbibe this sweet poison that was corrodingthe very springs of my life? At that self-question, which, had I beenbut a year or two older, I should have asked long before, a mortalterror seized me; the blood rushed from my heart and left me cold, icycold. To leave the house, leave Fanny! Never again to see those eyes,never to hear that voice! Better die of the sweet poison than of thedesolate exile! I rose, I opened the windows; I walked to and fro theroom; I could decide nothing, think of nothing; all my mind was in anuproar. With a violent effort at self-mastery, I approached the tableagain. I resolved to force myself to my task, if it were only tore-collect my faculties and enable them to bear my own torture. I turnedover the books impatiently, when lo! buried amongst them, what metmy eye? Archly, yet reproachfully,--the face of Fanny herself! Herminiature was there. It had been, I knew, taken a few days before by ayoung artist whom Trevanion patronized. I suppose he had carried it intohis study to examine it, and so left it there carelessly. The painterhad seized her peculiar expression, her ineffable smile,--so charming,so malicious; even her favorite posture,--the small head turned over therounded Hebe-like shoulder; the eye glancing up from under the hair. Iknow not what change in my madness came over me; but I sank on my knees,and, kissing the miniature again and again, burst into tears. Suchtears! I did not hear the door open, I did not see the shadow steal everthe floor; a light hand rested on my shoulder, trembling as it rested--Istarted. Fanny herself was bending over me!

"What is the matter?" she asked tenderly. "What has happened? Youruncle--your family--all well? Why are you weeping?"

I could not answer; but I kept my hands clasped over the miniature, thatshe might not see what they contained.

"Will you not answer? Am I not your friend,--almost your sister? Come,shall I call mamma?"

"Yes--yes; go--go."

"No, I will not go yet. What have you there? What are you hiding?"

And innocently, and sister-like, those hands took mine; and so--andso--the picture became visible! There was a dead silence. I looked upthrough my tears. Fanny had recoiled some steps, and her cheek was veryflushed, her eyes downcast. I felt as if I had committed a crime, asif dishonor clung to me; and yet I repressed--yes, thank Heaven! Irepressed the cry that swelled from my heart and rushed to my lips:"Pity me, for I love you!" I repressed it, and only a groan escapedme,--the wail of my lost happiness! Then, rising, I laid the miniatureon the table, and said, in a voice that I believe was firm,--

"Miss Trevanion, you have been as kind as a sister to me, and thereforeI was bidding a brother's farewell to your likeness; it is so likeyou--this!"

"Farewell!" echoed Fanny, still not looking up.

"Farewell--sister! There, I have boldly said the word; for--for--" Ihurried to the door, and, there turning, added, with what I meant to bea smile,--"for they say at home that I--I am not well; too much for methis; you know, mothers will be foolish; and--and--I am to speak to yourfather to-morrow; and--good-night! God bless you, Miss Trevanion!"

PART IX.

CHAPTER I.

And my father pushed aside his books.

O young reader, whoever thou art,--or reader at least who hast beenyoung,--canst thou not remember some time when, with thy wild troublesand sorrows as yet borne in secret, thou hast come back from that hard,stern world which opens on thee when thou puttest thy foot out of thethreshold of home,--come back to the four quiet walls wherein thineelders sit in peace,--and seen, with a sort of sad amaze, how calm andundisturbed all is there? That generation which has gone before thee inthe path of the passions,--the generation of thy parents (not so manyyears, perchance, remote from thine own),--how immovably far off, inits still repose, it seems from thy turbulent youth! It has in it astillness as of a classic age, antique as the statues of the Greeks.That tranquil monotony of routine into which those lives that precededthee have merged; the occupations that they have found sufficingfor their happiness, by the fireside, in the arm-chair and cornerappropriated to each,--how strangely they contrast thine own feverishexcitement! And they make room for thee, and bid thee welcome, and thenresettle to their hushed pursuits as if nothing had happened! Nothinghad happened! while in thy heart, perhaps, the whole world seems to haveshot from its axis, all the elements to be at war! And you sit down,crushed by that quiet happiness which you can share no more, and smilemechanically, and look into the fire; and, ten to one, you say nothingtill the time comes for bed, and you take up your candle and creepmiserably to your lonely room.

Now, it=f in a stage-coach in the depth of winter, when three passengersare warm and snug, a fourth, all besnowed and frozen, descends fromthe outside and takes place amongst them, straightway all the threepassengers shift their places, uneasily pull up their cloak collars,re-arrange their "comforters," feel indignantly a sensible loss ofcaloric: the intruder has at least made a sensation. But if you had allthe snows of the Grampians in your heart, you might enter unnoticed;take care not to tread on the toes of your opposite neighbor, and nota soul is disturbed, not a "comforter" stirs an inch. I had not slept awink, I had not even lain down all that night,--the night in which Ihad said farewell to Fanny Trevanion; and the next morning, when the sunrose, I wandered out,--where I know not: I have a dim recollection oflong, gray, solitary streets; of the river, that seemed flowing in dull,sullen silence, away, far away, into some invisible eternity; trees andturf, and the gay voices of children. I must have gone from one endof the great Babel to the other; for my memory only became clear anddistinct when I knocked, somewhere before noon, at the door of myfather's house, and, passing heavily up the stairs, came into thedrawing-room, which was the rendezvous of the little family; for sincewe had been in London, my father had ceased to have his study apart, andcontented himself with what he called "a corner,"--a corner wide enoughto contain two tables and a dumb-waiter, with chairs _a discretion_ alllittered with books. On the opposite side of this capacious cornersat my uncle, now nearly convalescent, and he was jotting down, in hisstiff, military hand, certain figures in a little red account-book; foryou know already that my Uncle Roland was, in his expenses, the mostmethodical of men.

My father's face was more benign than usual, for before him lay aproof,--the first proof of his first work--his one work--the Great Book!Yes! it had positively found a press. And the first proof of your firstwork--ask any author what that is! My mother was out, with the faithfulMrs. Primmins, shopping or marketing, no doubt; so, while the brotherswere thus engaged, it was natural that my entrance should not make asmuch noise as if it had been a bomb, or a singer, or a clap of thunder,or the last "great novel of the season," or anything else that made anoise in those days. For what makes a noise now,--now, when the mostastonishing thing of all is our easy familiarity with things astounding;when we say, listlessly, "Another revolution at Paris," or, "By the by,there is the deuce to do at Vienna!" when De Joinville is catchingfish in the ponds at Claremont, and you hardly turn back to look atMetternich on the pier at Brighton!

My uncle nodded and growled indistinctly; my father put aside hisbooks,--"you have told us that already."

Sir, you are very much mistaken; it was not then that he put aside hisbooks, for he was not then engaged in them,--he was reading his proof.And he smiled, and pointed to it (the proof I mean) pathetically,and with a kind of humor, as much as to say: "What can you expect,Pisistratus? My new baby in short clothes--or long primer, which is allthe same thing!"

I took a chair between the two, and looked first at one, then at theother. Heaven forgive me!--I felt a rebellious, ungrateful spite againstboth. The bitterness of my soul must have been deep indeed to haveoverflowed in that direction, but it did. The grief of youth is anabominable egotist, and that is the truth. I got up from my chair andwalked towards the window; it was open, and outside the window was Mrs.Primmins's canary, in its cage. London air had agreed with it, and itwas singing lustily. Now, when the canary saw me standing opposite toits cage, and regarding it seriously, and, I have no doubt, with a verysombre aspect, the creature stopped short, and hung its head on oneside, looking at me obliquely and suspiciously. Finding that I did itno harm, it began to hazard a few broken notes, timidly andinterrogatively, as it were, pausing between each; and at length, asI made no reply, it evidently thought it had solved the doubt, andascertained that I was more to be pitied than feared,--for it stolegradually into so soft and silvery a strain that, I verily believe,it did it on purpose to comfort me!--me, its old friend, whom it hadunjustly suspected. Never did any music touch me so home as did thatlong, plaintive cadence. And when the bird ceased, it perched itselfclose to the bars of the cage, and looked at me steadily with itsbright, intelligent eyes. I felt mine water, and I turned back and stoodin the centre of the room, irresolute what to do, where to go. My fatherhad done with the proof, and was deep in his folios. Roland hadclasped his red account-book, restored it to his pocket, wiped hispen carefully, and now watched me from under his great beetle-brows.Suddenly he rose, and stamping on the hearth with his cork leg,exclaimed, "Look up from those cursed books, brother Austin! What isthere in your son's face? Construe that, if you can!"

CHAPTER II.

And my father pushed aside his books and rose hastily. He took off hisspectacles and rubbed them mechanically, but he said nothing, and myuncle, staring at him for a moment, in surprise at his silence, burstout,--

"Oh! I see; he has been getting into some scrape, and you are angry.Fie! young blood will have its way, Austin, it will. I don't blame that;it is only when--Come here, Sisty. Zounds! man, come here."

My father gently brushed off the Captain's hand, and advancing towardsme, opened his arms. The next moment I was sobbing on his breast.

"But what is the matter?" cried Captain Roland. "Will nobody say whatis the matter? Money, I suppose, money, you confounded extravagant youngdog. Luckily you have got an uncle who has more than he knows what todo with. How much? Fifty?--a hundred?--two hundred? How can I write thecheck if you'll not speak?"

"Hush, brother! it is no money you can give that will set this right.My poor boy! Have I guessed truly? Did I guess truly the other eveningwhen--"

"Yes, sir, yes! I have been so wretched. But I am better now,--I cantell you all."

My uncle moved slowly towards the door; his fine sense of delicacy madehim think that even he was out of place in the confidence between sonand father.

"No, uncle," I said, holding out my hand to him, "stay. You too canadvise me,--strengthen me. I have kept my honor yet; help me to keep itstill."

At the sound of the word "honor," Captain Roland stood mute, and raisedhis head quickly.

So I told all,--incoherently enough at first, but clearly and manfullyas I went on. Now I know that it is not the custom of lovers to confidein fathers and uncles. Judging by those mirrors of life, plays andnovels, they choose better,--valets and chambermaids, and friends whomthey have picked up in the street, as I had picked up poor FrancisVivian: to these they make clean breasts of their troubles. But fathersand uncles,--to them they are close, impregnable, "buttoned to thechin." The Caxtons were an eccentric family, and never did anything likeother people. When I had ended, I lifted up my eyes and said pleadingly,"Now tell me, is there no hope--none?"

"Why should there be none?" cried Captain Roland, hastily--"the DeCaxtons are as good a family as the Trevanions; and as for yourself,all I will say is, that the young lady might choose worse for her ownhappiness."

I wrung my uncle's hand, and turned to my father in anxious fear, forI knew that, in spite of his secluded habits, few men ever formed asounder judgment on worldly matters, when he was fairly drawn to lookat them. A thing wonderful is that plain wisdom which scholars andpoets often have for others, though they rarely deign to use it forthemselves. And how on earth do they get at it? I looked at my father,and the vague hope Roland had excited fell as I looked.

"Brother," said he, slowly, and shaking his head, "the world, whichgives codes and laws to those who live in it, does not care much for apedigree, unless it goes with a title-deed to estates."

"Trevanion was not richer than Pisistratus when he married LadyEllinor," said my uncle.

"True, but Lady Ellinor was not then an heiress; and her fatherviewed these matters as no other peer in England perhaps would. As forTrevanion himself, I dare say he has no prejudices about station, but heis strong in common-sense. He values himself on being a practical man.It would be folly to talk to him of love, and the affections of youth.He would see in the son of Austin Caxton, living on the interest of somefifteen or sixteen thousand pounds, such a match for his daughter as noprudent man in his position could approve. And as for Lady Ellinor--"

"She owes us much, Austin!" exclaimed Roland, his face darkening.

"Lady Ellinor is now what, if we had known her better, she promisedalways to be,--the ambitious, brilliant, scheming woman of the world. Isit not so, Pisistratus?"

I said nothing,--I felt too much.

"And does the girl like you? But I think it is clear she does!"exclaimed Roland. "Fate, fate; it has been a fatal family to us! Zounds!Austin, it was your fault. Why did you let him go there?"

"My son is now a man,--at least in heart, if not in years: can manbe shut from danger and trial? They found me in the old parsonage,brother!" said my father, mildly.

My uncle walked, or rather stumped, three times up and down the room;and he then stopped short, folded his arms, and came to a decision,--

"If the girl likes you, your duty is doubly clear: you can't takeadvantage of it. You have done right to leave the house, for thetemptation might be too strong."

"But what excuse shall I make to Mr. Trevanion?" said I, feebly; "whatstory can I invent? So careless as he is while he trusts, so penetratingif he once suspects, he will see through all my subterfuges, and--and--"

"It is as plain as a pikestaff," said my uncle, abruptly, "and thereneed be no subterfuge in the matter. 'I must leave you, Mr. Trevanion.''Why?' says he. 'Don't ask me.' He insists. 'Well then, sir, if you mustknow, I love your daughter. I have nothing, she is a great heiress. Youwill not approve of that love, and therefore I leave you!' That is thecourse that becomes an English gentleman. Eh, Austin?"

"You are never wrong when your instincts speak, Roland," said my father."Can you say this, Pisistratus, or shall I say it for you?"

"Let him say it himself," said Roland, "and let him judge himself of theanswer. He is young, he is clever, he may make a figure in the world.Trevanion may answer, 'Win the lady after you have won the laurel, likethe knights of old.' At all events you will hear the worst."

"I will go," said I, firmly; and I took my hat and left the room. As Iwas passing the landing-place, a light step stole down the upper flightof stairs, and a little hand seized my own. I turned quickly, and metthe full, dark, seriously sweet eyes of my cousin Blanche.

"Don't go away yet, Sisty," said she, coaxingly. "I have been waitingfor you, for I heard your voice, and did not like to come in and disturbyou."

"And why did you wait for me, my little Blanche?"

"Why! only to see you. But your eyes are red. Oh, cousin!" and before Iwas aware of her childish impulse, she had sprung to my neck and kissedme. Now Blanche was not like most children, and was very sparing ofher caresses. So it was out of the deeps of a kind heart that thatkiss came. I returned it without a word; and putting her down gently,descended the stairs, and was in the streets. But I had not got farbefore I heard my father's voice; and he came up, and hooking hisarm into mine, said, "Are there not two of us that suffer? Let us betogether!" I pressed his arm, and we walked on in silence. But whenwe were near Trevanion's house, I said hesitatingly, "Would it not bebetter, sir, that I went in alone? If there is to be an explanationbetween Mr. Trevanion and myself, would it not seem as if your presenceimplied either a request to him that would lower us both, or a doubt ofme that--"

"You will go in alone, of course; I will wait for you--"

"Not in the streets--oh, no! father," cried I, touched inexpressibly.For all this was so unlike my father's habits that I felt remorse tohave so communicated my young griefs to the calm dignity of his serenelife.

"My son, you do not know how I love you; I have only known it myselflately. Look you, I am living in you now, my first-born; not in my otherson,--the Great Book: I must have my way. Go in; that is the door, is itnot?"

I pressed my father's hand, and I felt then, that while that hand couldreply to mine, even the loss of Fanny Trevanion could not leave theworld a blank. How much we have before us in life, while we retainour parents! How much to strive and to hope for! what a motive in theconquest of our sorrow, that they may not sorrow with us!

CHAPTER III.

I entered Trevanion's study. It was an hour in which he was rarely athome, but I had not thought of that; and I saw without surprise that,contrary to his custom, he was in his arm-chair, reading one of hisfavorite classic authors, instead of being in some committee-room of theHouse of Commons.

"A pretty fellow you are," said he, looking up, "to leave me allthe morning, without rhyme or reason! And my committee ispostponed,--chairman ill. People who get ill should not go into theHouse of Commons. So here I am looking into Propertius: Parr isright; not so elegant a writer as Tibullus. But what the deuce areyou about?--why don't you sit down? Humph! you look grave; you havesomething to say,--say it!"

And, putting down Propertius, the acute, sharp face of Trevanioninstantly became earnest and attentive.

"My dear Mr. Trevanion," said I, with as much steadiness as I couldassume, "you have been most kind to me; and out of my own family thereis no man I love and respect more."

Trevanion.--"Humph! What's all this? [In an undertone]--Am I going to betaken in?"

Pisistratus.--"Do not think me ungrateful, then, when I say I come toresign my office,--to leave the house where I have been so happy."

Trevanion.--"Leave the house! Pooh! I have over-tasked you. I will bemore merciful in future. You must forgive a political economist; it isthe fault of my sect to look upon men as machines."

Pisistratus (smiling faintly).--"No, indeed; that is not it! I havenothing to complain of, nothing I could wish altered; could I stay."

Trevanion (examining me thoughtfully).--"And does your father approve ofyour leaving me thus?"

Pisistratus.--"Yes, fully."

Trevanion (musing a moment).--"I see, he would send you to theUniversity, make you a book-worm like himself. Pooh! that will not do;you will never become wholly a man of books,--it is not in you. Youngman, though I may seem careless, I read characters, when I please it,pretty quickly. You do wrong to leave me; you are made for the greatworld,--I can open to you a high career. I wish to do so! Lady Ellinorwishes it,--nay, insists on it,--for your father's sake as well asyours. I never ask a favor from ministers, and I never will. But" (hereTrevanion rose suddenly, and with an erect mien and a quick gestureof his arm he added)--"but a minister can dispose as he pleases of hispatronage. Look you, it is a secret yet, and I trust to your honor.But before the year is out, I must be in the Cabinet. Stay with me; Iguarantee your fortunes,--three months ago I would not have said that.By and by I will open Parliament for you,--you are not of age yet; worktill then. And now sit down and write my letters,--a sad arrear!"

"My dear, dear Mr. Trevanion!" said I, so affected that I could scarcelyspeak, and seizing his hand, which I pressed between both mine, "Idare not thank you,--I cannot! But you don't know my heart: it is notambition. No! if I could but stay here on the same terms forever--here,"looking ruefully on that spot where Fanny had stood the night before."But it is impossible! If you knew all, you would be the first to bid mego!"

"You are in debt," said the man of the world, coldly. "Bad, verybad--still--"

"No, sir; no! worse."

"Hardly possible to be worse, young man--hardly! But, just as you will;you leave me, and will not say why. Goodby. Why do you linger? Shakehands, and go!"

"I cannot leave you thus; I--I--sir, the truth shall out. I am rash andmad enough not to see Miss Trevanion without forgetting that I am poor,and--"

"Ha!" interrupted Trevanion, softly, and growing pale, "this is amisfortune, indeed! And I, who talked of reading characters! Truly,truly, we would-be practical men are fools--fools! And you have madelove to my daughter!"

"Sir? Mr. Trevanion!--no--never, never so base! In your house, trustedby you,--how could you think it? I dared, it may be, to love,--atall events, to feel that I could not be insensible to a temptation toostrong for me. But to say it to your heiress,--to ask love in return: Iwould as soon have broken open your desk! Frankly I tell you my folly:it is a folly, not a disgrace."

Trevanion came up to me abruptly as I leaned against the bookcase, and,grasping my hand with a cordial kindness, said, "Pardon me! You havebehaved as your father's son should--I envy him such a son! Now, listento me: I cannot give you my daughter--"

"Believe me, sir; I never--"

"Tut, listen! I cannot give you my daughter. I say nothing ofinequality,--all gentlemen are equal; and if not, any impertinentaffectation of superiority, in such a case, would come ill from one whoowes his own fortune to his wife! But, as it is, I have a stake in theworld, won not by fortune only, but the labor of a life, the suppressionof half my nature,--the drudging, squaring, taming down all that madethe glory and joy of my youth,--to be that hard, matter-of-factthing which the English world expect in a statesman! This station hasgradually opened into its natural result,--power! I tell you I shallsoon have high office in the administration; I hope to render greatservices to England,--for we English politicians, whatever the mob andthe Press say of us, are not selfish place-hunters. I refused office, ashigh as I look for now, ten years ago. We believe in our opinions, andwe hail the power that may carry them into effect. In this cabinet Ishall have enemies. Oh, don't think we leave jealousy behind us, at thedoors of Downing Street! I shall be one of a minority. I know well whatmust happen: like all men in power, I must strengthen myself by otherheads and hands than my own. My daughter shall bring to me the allianceof that house in England which is most necessary to me. My life falls tothe ground, like a child's pyramid of cards, if I waste--I do not say onyou, but on men of ten times your fortune (whatever that be)--the meansof strength which are at my disposal in the hand of Fanny Trevanion.To this end I have looked, but to this end her mother has schemed;for these household matters are within a man's hopes, but belong toa woman's policy. So much for us. But to you, my dear and frank andhigh-souled young friend; to you, if I were not Fanny's father, if Iwere your nearest relation, and Fanny could be had for the asking, withall her princely dower (for it is princely),--to you I should say, flyfrom a load upon the heart, on the genius, the energy, the pride, andthe spirit, which not one man in ten thousand can bear; fly from thecurse of owing everything to a wife! It is a reversal of all naturalposition, it is a blow to all the manhood within us. You know not whatit is; I do! My wife's fortune came not till after marriage,--so far, sowell; it saved my reputation from the charge of fortune-hunting. But, Itell you fairly, that if it had never come at all, I should be a prouderand a greater and a happier man than I have ever been, or ever can be,with all its advantages: it has been a millstone round my neck. And yetEllinor has never breathed a word that could wound my pride. Would herdaughter be as forbearing? Much as I love Fanny, I doubt if she has thegreat heart of her mother. You look incredulous,--naturally. Oh, youthink I shall sacrifice my child's happiness to a politician's ambition.Folly of youth! Fanny would be wretched with you. She might not think sonow; she would five years hence! Fanny will make an admirable duchess,countess, great lady; but wife to a man who owes all to her! No, no;don't dream it! I shall not sacrifice her happiness, depend on it. Ispeak plainly, as man to man,--man of the world to a man just enteringit,--but still man to man! What say you?"

"I will think over all you tell me. I know that you are speaking to memost generously,--as a father would. Now let me go, and may God keep youand yours!"

"Go,--I return your blessing; go! I don't insult you now with offers ofservice; but remember, you have a right to command them,--in all ways,in all times. Stop! take this comfort away with you,--a sorry comfortnow, a great one hereafter. In a position that might have moved anger,scorn, pity, you have made a barren-hearted man honor and admire you.You, a boy, have made me, with my gray hairs, think better of the wholeworld; tell your father that."

I closed the door and stole out softly, softly. But when I got intothe hall, Fanny suddenly opened the door of the breakfast parlor, andseemed, by her look, her gesture, to invite me in. Her face was verypale, and there were traces of tears on the heavy lids.

I stood still a moment, and my heart beat violently. I then mutteredsomething inarticulately, and, bowing low, hastened to the door.

I thought, but my ears might deceive me, that I heard my namepronounced; but fortunately the tall porter started from his newspaperand his leathern chair, and the entrance stood open. I joined my father.

"It's all over," said I, with a resolute smile. "And now, my dearfather, I feel how grateful I should be for all that your lessons--yourlife--have taught me; for, believe me, I am not unhappy."

CHAPTER IV.

We came back to my father's house, and on the stairs we met my mother,whom Roland's grave looks and her Austin's strange absence had alarmed.My father quietly led the way to a little room which my mother hadappropriated to Blanche and herself, and then, placing my hand in thatwhich had helped his own steps from the stony path down the quiet valesof life, he said to me: "Nature gives you here the soother;" and sosaying, he left the room.

And it was true, O my mother! that in thy simple, loving breast naturedid place the deep wells of comfort! We come to men for philosophy,--towomen for consolation. And the thousand weaknesses and regrets, thesharp sands of the minutiae that make up sorrow,--all these, whichI could have betrayed to no man (not even to him, the dearest andtenderest of all men), I showed without shame to thee! And thy tears,that fell on my cheek, had the balm of Araby; and my heart at length laylulled and soothed under thy moist, gentle eyes.

I made an effort, and joined the little circle at dinner; and I feltgrateful that no violent attempt was made to raise my spirits,--nothingbut affection, more subdued and soft and tranquil. Even little Blanche,as if by the intuition of sympathy, ceased her babble, and seemed tohush her footstep as she crept to my side. But after dinner, when we hadreassembled in the drawing-room, and the lights shone bright, and thecurtains were let down, and only the quick roll of some passing wheelsreminded us that there was a world without, my father began to talk. Hehad laid aside all his work, the younger but less perishable child wasforgotten, and my father began to talk.

"It is," said he, musingly, "a well-known thing that particular drugsor herbs suit the body according to its particular diseases. When we areill, we don't open our medicine-chest at random, and take out any powderor phial that comes to hand. The skilful doctor is he who adjusts thedose to the malady."

"Of that there can be no doubt," quoth Captain Roland. "I remember anotable instance of the justice of what you say. When I was in Spain,both my horse and I fell ill at the same time: a dose was sent for each;and by some infernal mistake, I swallowed the horse's physic, and thehorse, poor thing, swallowed mine!"

"And what was the result?" asked my father.

"The horse died!" answered Roland, mournfully, "a valuable beast, brightbay, with a star!"

"And you?"

"Why, the doctor said it ought to have killed me; but it took a greatdeal more than a paltry bottle of physic to kill a man in my regiment."

"Nevertheless, we arrive at the same conclusion," pursued my father,--"Iwith my theory, you with your experience,--that the physic we take mustnot be chosen haphazard, and that a mistake in the bottle may kill ahorse. But when we come to the medicine for the mind, how little do wethink of the golden rule which common-sense applies to the body!"

"Anan," said the Captain, "what medicine is there for the mind?Shakspeare has said something on that subject, which, if I recollectright, implies that there is no ministering to a mind diseased."

"I think not, brother; he only said physic (meaning boluses and blackdraughts) would not do it. And Shakspeare was the last man to find faultwith his own art; for, verily, he has been a great physician to themind."

"Ah! I take you now, brother,--books again! So you think when a manbreaks his heart or loses his fortune or his daughter (Blanche, child,come here), that you have only to clap a plaster of print on the soreplace, and all is well. I wish you would find me such a cure."

"Will you try it?"

"If it is not Greek," said my uncle.

CHAPTER V.

My Father's Crotchet On The Hygienic Chemistry Of Books.

"If," said my father,--and here his hand was deep in his waistcoat,--"ifwe accept the authority of Diodorus as to the inscription on the greatEgyptian library--and I don't see why Diodorus should not be as near themark as any one else?" added my father interrogatively, turning round.

My mother thought herself the person addressed, and nodded her graciousassent to the authority of Diodorus. His opinion thus fortified, myfather continued,--"If, I say, we accept the authority of Diodorus, theinscription on the Egyptian library was: 'The Medicine of the Mind.'Now, that phrase has become notoriously trite and hackneyed, and peoplerepeat vaguely that books are the medicine of the mind. Yes; but toapply the medicine is the thing!"

"So you have told us at least twice before, brother," quoth the Captain,bluffly. "And what Diodorus has to do with it, I know no more than theman of the moon."

"I shall never get on at this rate," said my father, in a tone betweenreproach and entreaty.

"Be good children, Roland and Blanche both," said my mother, stoppingfrom her work and holding up her needle threateningly,--and indeedinflicting a slight puncture upon the Captain's shoulder.

"'Rem acu tetigisti,' my dear," said my father, borrowing Cicero's punon the occasion. (1) "And now we shall go upon velvet. I say, then,that books, taken indiscriminately, are no cure to the diseases andafflictions of the mind. There is a world of science necessary in thetaking them. I have known some people in great sorrow fly to a novel,or the last light book in fashion. One might as well take a rose-draughtfor the plague! Light reading does not do when the heart is reallyheavy. I am told that Goethe, when he lost his son, took to study ascience that was new to him. Ah! Goethe was a physician who knew what hewas about. In a great grief like that you cannot tickle and divert themind, you must wrench it away, abstract, absorb,--bury it in an abyss,hurry it into a labyrinth. Therefore, for the irremediable sorrows ofmiddle life and old age I recommend a strict chronic course of scienceand hard reasoning,--counter-irritation. Bring the brain to act upon theheart! If science is too much against the grain (for we have not allgot mathematical heads), something in the reach of the humblestunderstanding, but sufficiently searching to the highest,--a newlanguage, Greek, Arabic, Scandinavian, Chinese, or Welsh! For theloss of fortune, the dose should be applied less directly to theunderstanding,--I would administer something elegant and cordial. For asthe heart is crushed and lacerated by a loss in the affections, so itis rather the head that aches and suffers by the loss of money. Here wefind the higher class of poets a very valuable remedy. For observe thatpoets of the grander and more comprehensive kind of genius have in themtwo separate men, quite distinct from each other,--the imaginative man,and the practical, circumstantial man; and it is the happy mixtureof these that suits diseases of the mind, half imaginative and halfpractical. There is Homer, now lost with the gods, now at home with thehomeliest, the very 'poet of circumstance,' as Gray has finely calledhim; and yet with imagination enough to seduce and coax the dullest intoforgetting, for a while, that little spot on his desk which his banker'sbook can cover. There is Virgil, far below him, indeed,--'Virgil thewise, Whose verse walks highest, but not flies,' as Cowley expresses it.But Virgil still has genius enough to be two men,--to lead you into thefields, not only to listen to the pastoral reed and to hear thebees hum, but to note how you can make the most of the glebe and thevineyard. There is Horace, charming man of the world, who will condolewith you feelingly on the loss of your fortune, and by no meansundervalue the good things of this life, but who will yet show youthat a man may be happy with a vile modicum or parva rura. There isShakspeare, who, above all poets, is the mysterious dual of hard senseand empyreal fancy,--and a great many more, whom I need not name, butwho, if you take to them gently and quietly, will not, like your merephilosopher, your unreasonable Stoic, tell you that you have lostnothing, but who will insensibly steal you out of this world, with itslosses and crosses, and slip you into another world before you knowwhere you are!--a world where you are just as welcome, though you carryno more earth of your lost acres with you than covers the sole of yourshoe. Then, for hypochondria and satiety, what is better than a briskalterative course of travels,--especially early, out-of-the-way,marvellous, legendary travels! How they freshen up the spirits! Howthey take you out of the humdrum yawning state you are in. See, withHerodotus, young Greece spring up into life, or note with him howalready the wondrous old Orient world is crumbling into giant decay; orgo with Carpini and Rubruquis to Tartary, meet 'the carts of Zagathailaden with houses, and think that a great city is travelling towardsyou.' (2) Gaze on that vast wild empire of the Tartar, where thedescendants of Jenghis 'multiply and disperse over the immense wastedesert, which is as boundless as the ocean.' Sail with the earlyNorthern discoverers, and penetrate to the heart of winter, amongsea-serpents and bears and tusked morses with the faces of men. Then,what think you of Columbus, and the stern soul of Cortes, and thekingdom of Mexico, and the strange gold city of the Peruvians, with thataudacious brute Pizarro; and the Polynesians, just for all the worldlike the Ancient Britons; and the American Indians and the South-SeaIslanders? How petulant and young and adventurous and frisky yourhypochondriac must get upon a regimen like that! Then, for that vice ofthe mind which I call sectarianism,--not in the religious sense of theword, but little, narrow prejudices, that make you hate your next-doorneighbor because he has his eggs roasted when you have yours boiled;and gossiping and prying into people's affairs, and backbiting, andthinking heaven and earth are coming together if some broom touch acobweb that you have let grow over the window-sill of your brains whatlike a large and generous, mildly aperient (I beg your pardon, my dear)course of history! How it clears away all the fumes of the head,--betterthan the hellebore with which the old leeches of the Middle Agespurged the cerebellum! There, amidst all that great whirl and sturmbad(storm-bath), as the Germans say, of kingdoms and empires, and races andages, how your mind enlarges beyond that little feverish animosity toJohn Styles, or that unfortunate prepossession of yours that all theworld is interested in your grievances against Tom Stokes and his wife!

"I can only touch, you see, on a few ingredients in this magnificentpharmacy; its resources are boundless, but require the nicestdiscretion. I remember to have cured a disconsolate widower, whoobstinately refused every other medicament, by a strict course ofgeology. I dipped him deep into gneiss and mica schist. Amidst thefirst strata I suffered the watery action to expend itself upon cooling,crystallized masses; and by the time I had got him into the tertiaryperiod, amongst the transition chalks of Maestricht and the conchiferousmarls of Gosau, he was ready for a new wife. Kitty, my dear, it is nolaughing matter! I made no less notable a cure of a young scholar atCambridge who was meant for the church, when he suddenly caught a coldfit of freethinking, with great shiverings, from wading out of his depthin Spinoza. None of the divines, whom I first tried, did him the leastgood in that state; so I turned over a new leaf, and doctored him gentlyupon the chapters of faith in Abraham Tucker's book (you should read it,Sisty); then I threw in strong doses of Fichte; after that I put himon the Scotch metaphysicians, with plunge-baths into certain Germantranscendentalists; and having convinced him that faith is not anunphilosophical state of mind, and that he might believe withoutcompromising his understanding,--for he was mightily conceited on thatscore,--I threw in my divines, which he was now fit to digest; and histheological constitution, since then, has become so robust that he haseaten up two livings and a deanery! In fact, I have a plan for a librarythat, instead of heading its compartments, 'Philology, Natural Science,Poetry,' etc., one shall head them according to the diseases for whichthey are severally good, bodily and mental,--up from a dire calamity orthe pangs of the gout, down to a fit of the spleen or a slight catarrh;for which last your light reading comes in with a whey-posset andbarley-water. But," continued my father, more gravely, "when some onesorrow, that is yet reparable, gets hold of your mind like a monomania;when you think because Heaven has denied you this or that on which youhad set your heart that all your life must be a blank,--oh! then dietyourself well on biography, the biography of good and great men. Seehow little a space one sorrow really makes in life. See scarce a page,perhaps, given to some grief similar to your own; and how triumphantlythe life sails on beyond it! You thought the wing was broken! Tut, tut,it was but a bruised feather! See what life leaves behind it when all isdone!--a summary of positive facts far out of the region of sorrowand suffering, linking themselves with the being of the world. Yes,biography is the medicine here! Roland, you said you would try myprescription,--here it is;" and my father took up a book and reached itto the Captain.

My uncle looked over it,--"Life of the Reverend Robert Hall."

"Brother, he was a Dissenter; and, thank Heaven! I am a Church-and-Stateman to the backbone!"

"Robert Hall was a brave man and a true soldier under the GreatCommander," said my father, artfully.

The Captain mechanically carried his forefinger to his forehead inmilitary fashion, and saluted the book respectfully.

"I have another copy for you, Pisistratus,--that is mine which I havelent Roland. This, which I bought for you to-day, you will keep."

"Thank you, sir," said I listlessly, not seeing what great good the"Life of Robert Hall" could do me, or why the same medicine should suitthe old weather-beaten uncle and the nephew yet in his teens.

"I have said nothing," resumed my father, slightly bowing his broadtemples, "of the Book of books, for that is the _lignum vitae_, thecardinal medicine for all. These are but the subsidiaries; for as youmay remember, my dear Kitty, that I have said before,--we can never keepthe system quite right unless we place just in the centre of the greatganglionic system, whence the nerves carry its influence gently andsmoothly through the whole frame, The Saffron Bag!"

(1) Cicero's joke on a senator who was the son of a tailor: "Thou hasttouched the thing sharply" (or with a needle, acu).

(2) Rubruquis, sect. xii.

CHAPTER VI.

After breakfast the next morning I took my hat to go out when my father,looking at me, and seeing by my countenance that I had not slept, saidgently,--

"My dear Pisistratus, you have not tried my medicine yet."

"What medicine, sir?"

"Robert Hall."

"No, indeed, not yet," said I, smiling.

"Do so, my son, before you go out; depend on it you will enjoy your walkmore."

I confess that it was with some reluctance I obeyed. I went back to myown room and sat resolutely down to my task. Are there any of you, myreaders, who have not read the "Life of Robert Hall?" If so, in thewords of the great Captain Cuttle, "When found, make a note ofit." Never mind what your theological opinion is,--Episcopalian,Presbyterian, Baptist, Paedobaptist, Independent, Quaker, Unitarian,Philosopher, Freethinker,--send for Robert Hall! Yea, if there existsyet on earth descendants of the arch-heretics which made such a noise intheir day,--men who believe, with Saturninus, that the world was made byseven angels; or with Basilides, that there are as many heavens as thereare days in the year; or with the Nicolaitanes, that men ought to havetheir wives in common (plenty of that sect still, especially in theRed Republic); or with their successors, the Gnostics, who believed inJaldaboath; or with the Carpacratians, that the world was made by thedevil; or with the Cerinthians and Ebionites and Nazarites (which lastdiscovered that the name of Noah's wife was Ouria, and that she setthe ark on fire); or with the Valentinians, who taught that there werethirty AEones, ages or worlds, born out of Profundity (Bathos), male,and Silence, female; or with the Marcites, Colarbasii, and Heracleonites(who still kept up that bother about AEones, Mr. Profundity and Mrs.Silence); or with the Ophites, who are said to have worshipped theserpent; or the Cainites, who ingeniously found out a reason forhonoring Judas, because he foresaw what good would come to men bybetraying our Saviour; or with the Sethites, who made Seth a part ofthe divine substance; or with the Archonticks, Ascothyctae, Cerdonians,Marcionites, the disciples of Apelles, and Severus (the last was ateetotaller, and said wine was begot by Satan!), or of Tatian, whothought all the descendants of Adam were irretrievably damned exceptthemselves (some of those Tatiani are certainly extant!), or theCataphrygians, who were also called Tascodragitae, because they thrusttheir forefingers up their nostrils to show their devotion; or thePepuzians, Quintilians, and Artotyrites; or--But no matter. If I gothrough all the follies of men in search of the truth, I shall never getto the end of my chapter or back to Robert Hall; whatever, then, thouart, orthodox or heterodox, send for the "Life of Robert Hall." It isthe life of a man that it does good to manhood itself to contemplate.

I had finished the biography, which is not long, and was musing over it,when I heard the Captain's cork-leg upon the stairs. I opened the doorfor him, and he entered, book in hand, as I also, book in hand, stoodready to receive him.

"Well, sir," said Roland, seating himself, "has the prescription doneyou any good?"

"Yes, uncle,--great."

"And me too. By Jupiter, Sisty, that same Hall was a fine fellow! Iwonder if the medicine has gone through the same channels in both? Tellme, first, how it has affected you."

"Imprimis, then, my dear uncle, I fancy that a book like this must dogood to all who live in the world in the ordinary manner, by admittingus into a circle of life of which I suspect we think but little. Hereis a man connecting himself directly with a heavenly purpose, andcultivating considerable faculties to that one end; seeking toaccomplish his soul as far as he can, that he may do most good on earth,and take a higher existence up to heaven; a man intent upon a sublimeand spiritual duty: in short, living as it were in it, and so filledwith the consciousness of immortality, and so strong in the linkbetween God and man, that, without any affected stoicism, withoutbeing insensible to pain,--rather, perhaps, from a nervous temperament,acutely feeling it,--he yet has a happiness wholly independent of it. Itis impossible not to be thrilled with an admiration that elevates whileit awes you, in reading that solemn 'Dedication of himself to God.' Thisoffering of 'soul and body, time, health, reputation, talents,' to thedivine and invisible Principle of Good, calls us suddenly to contemplatethe selfishness of our own views and hopes, and awakens us from theegotism that exacts all and resigns nothing.

"But this book has mostly struck upon the chord in my own heart in thatcharacteristic which my father indicated as belonging to all biography.Here is a life of remarkable fulness, great study, great thought, andgreat action; and yet," said I, coloring, "how small a place thosefeelings which have tyrannized over me and made all else seem blank andvoid, hold in that life! It is not as if the man were a cold and hardascetic; it is easy to see in him, not only remarkable tenderness andwarm affections, but strong self-will, and the passion of all vigorousnatures. Yes; I understand better now what existence in a true manshould be."

"All that is very well said," quoth the Captain, "but it did not strikeme. What I have seen in this book is courage. Here is a poor creaturerolling on the carpet with agony; from childhood to death tortured by amysterious incurable malady,--a malady that is described as 'an internalapparatus of torture;' and who does, by his heroism, more than bearit,--he puts it out of power to affect him; and though (here is thepassage) 'his appointment by day and by night was incessant pain, yethigh enjoyment was, notwithstanding, the law of his existence.' RobertHall reads me a lesson,--me, an old soldier, who thought myself abovetaking lessons,--in courage, at least. And as I came to that passagewhen, in the sharp paroxysms before death, he says, 'I have notcomplained, have I, sir? And I won't complain!'--when I came to thatpassage I started up and cried, 'Roland de Caxton, thou hast been acoward! and, an thou hadst had thy deserts, thou hadst been cashiered,broken, and drummed out of the regiment long ago!'"

"After all, then, my father was not so wrong,--he placed his guns right,and fired a good shot."

"He must have been from six to nine degrees above the crest of theparapet," said my uncle thoughtfully, "which, I take it, is the bestelevation, both for shot and shells in enfilading a work."

"What say you then, Captain,--up with our knapsacks, and on with themarch?"

"Right about--face!" cried my uncle, as erect as a column.

"No looking back, if we can help it."

"Full in the front of the enemy. 'Up, Guards, and at 'em!'"

"'England expects every man to do his duty!'"

"Cypress or laurel!" cried my uncle, waving the book over his head.

CHAPTER VII.

I went out, and to see Francis Vivian; for on leaving Mr. Trevanion Iwas not without anxiety for my new friend's future provision. But Vivianwas from home, and I strolled from his lodgings into the suburbs on theother side of the river, and began to meditate seriously on the bestcourse now to pursue. In quitting my present occupations I resignedprospects far more brilliant and fortunes far more rapid than I couldever hope to realize in any other entrance into life. But I felt thenecessity, if I desired to keep steadfast to that more healthful frameof mind I had obtained, of some manly and continuous labor, some earnestemployment. My thoughts flew back to the university; and the quietof its cloisters--which, until I had been blinded by the glare of theLondon world, and grief had somewhat dulled the edge of my quick desiresand hopes, had seemed to me cheerless and unfaltering--took an invitingaspect. It presented what I needed most,--a new scene, a new arena, apartial return into boyhood; repose for passions prematurely raised;activity for the reasoning powers in fresh directions. I had not lost mytime in London: I had kept up, if not studies purely classical, at leastthe habits of application; I had sharpened my general comprehension andaugmented my resources. Accordingly, when I returned home, I resolved tospeak to my father. But I found he had forestalled me; and on entering,my mother drew me upstairs into her room, with a smile kindled by mysmile, and told me that she and her Austin had been thinking that itwas best that I should leave London as soon as possible; that my fatherfound he could now dispense with the library of the Museum for somemonths; that the time for which they had taken their lodgings would beup in a few days: that the summer was far advanced, town odious, thecountry beautiful,--in a word, we were to go home. There I could preparemyself for Cambridge till the long vacation was over; and, my motheradded hesitatingly, and with a prefatory caution to spare my health,that my father, whose income could ill afford the requisite allowance tome, counted on my soon lightening his burden by getting a scholarship.I felt how much provident kindness there was in all this,--even in thathint of a scholarship, which was meant to rouse my faculties and spurme, by affectionate incentives, to a new ambition. I was not lessdelighted than grateful.

"But poor Roland," said I, "and little Blanche,--will they come withus?"

"I fear not," said my mother; "for Roland is anxious to get back to histower, and in a day or two he will be well enough to move."

"Do you not think, my dear mother, that, somehow or other, this lost sonof his had something to do with Roland's illness,--that the illness wasas much mental as physical?"

"I have no doubt of it, Sisty. What a sad, bad heart that young man musthave!"

"My uncle seems to have abandoned all hope of finding him in London;otherwise, ill as he has been, I am sure we could not have kept him athome. So he goes back to the old tower. Poor man, he must be dull enoughthere! We must contrive to pay him a visit. Does Blanche ever speak ofher brother?"

"No; for it seems they were not brought up much together,--at allevents, she does not remember him. How lovely she is! Her mother mustsurely have been very handsome."

"She is a pretty child, certainly, though in a strange style ofbeauty,--such immense eyes!--and affectionate, and loves Roland as sheought."

And here the conversation dropped.

Our plans being thus decided, it was necessary that I should lose notime in seeing Vivian and making some arrangement for the future. Hismanner had lost so much of its abruptness that I thought I could ventureto recommend him personally to Trevanion; and I knew, after what hadpassed, that Trevanion would make a point to oblige me. I resolved toconsult my father about it. As yet I had either never found or nevermade the opportunity to talk to my father on the subject, he had been sooccupied; and if he had proposed to see my new friend, what answer couldI have made, in the teeth of Vivian's cynic objections? However, as wewere now going away, that last consideration ceased to be of importance;and, for the first, the student had not yet entirely settled back to hisbooks. I therefore watched the time when my father walked down to theMuseum, and, slipping my arm in his, I told him, briefly and rapidly, aswe went along, how I had formed this strange acquaintance, and how I wasnow situated. The story did not interest my father quite so much as Iexpected, and he did not understand all the complexities of Vivian'scharacter,--how could he?--for he answered briefly, "I should thinkthat, for a young man apparently without a sixpence, and whose educationseems so imperfect, any resource in Trevanion must be most temporary anduncertain. Speak to your Uncle Jack: he can find him some place, I haveno doubt,--perhaps a readership in a printer's office, or a reporter'splace on some journal, if he is fit for it. But if you want to steadyhim, let it be something regular."

Therewith my father dismissed the matter and vanished through the gatesof the Museum. Readership to a printer, reportership on a journal, fora young gentleman with the high notions and arrogant vanity of FrancisVivian,--his ambition already soaring far beyond kid gloves and acabriolet! The idea was hopeless; and, perplexed and doubtful, I took myway to Vivian's lodgings. I found him at home and unemployed, standingby his window with folded arms, and in a state of such revery that hewas not aware of my entrance till I had touched him on the shoulder.

"Ha!" said he then, with one of his short, quick, impatient sighs, "Ithought you had given me up and forgotten me; but you look pale andharassed. I could almost think you had grown thinner within the last fewdays."

"Oh! never mind me, Vivian; I have come to speak of yourself. I haveleft Trevanion; it is settled that I should go to the University, and weall quit town in a few days."

"In a few days!--all! Who are 'all'?"

"My family,--father, mother, uncle, cousin, and myself. But, my dearfellow, now let us think seriously what is best to be done for you. Ican present you to Trevanion."

"Ha!"

"But Trevanion is a hard, though an excellent man, and, moreover, as heis always changing the subjects that engross him, in a month or so hemay have nothing to give you. You said you would work,--will you consentnot to complain if the work cannot be done in kid gloves? Young men whohave risen high in the world have begun, it is well known, as reportersto the press. It is a situation of respectability, and in request, andnot easy to obtain, I fancy; but still--"

Vivian interrupted me hastily.

"Thank you a thousand times! But what you say confirms a resolution Ihad taken before you came. I shall make it up with my family and returnhome."

"Oh, I am so really glad. How wise in you!"

Vivian turned away his head abruptly.

"Your pictures of family life and domestic peace, you see," he said,"seduced me more than you thought. When do you leave town?"

"Why, I believe, early next week."

"So soon," said Vivian, thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps I may ask you yetto introduce me to Mr. Trevanion; for who knows?--my family and I mayfall out again. But I will consider. I think I have heard you say thatthis Trevanion is a very old friend of your father's or uncle's?"

"He, or rather Lady Ellinor, is an old friend of both."

"And therefore would listen to your recommendations of me. But perhapsI may not need them. So you have left--left of your own accord--asituation that seemed more enjoyable, I should think, than rooms in acollege. Left, why did you leave?"

And Vivian fixed his bright eyes full and piercingly on mine.

"It was only for a time, for a trial, that I was there," said I,evasively; "out at nurse, as it were, till the Alma Mater opened herarms,--alma indeed she ought to be to my father's son."

Vivian looked unsatisfied with my explanation, but did not question mefurther. He himself was the first to turn the conversation, and hedid this with more affectionate cordiality than was common to him. Heinquired into our general plans, into the probabilities of our return totown, and drew from me a description of our rural Tusculum. He was quietand subdued; and once or twice I thought there was a moisture in thoseluminous eyes. We parted with more of the unreserve and fondness ofyouthful friendship--at least on my part, and seemingly on his--than hadyet endeared our singular intimacy; for the cement of cordial attachmenthad been wanting to an intercourse in which one party refused allconfidence, and the other mingled distrust and fear with keen interestand compassionate admiration.

That evening, before lights were brought in, my father, turning to me,abruptly asked if I had seen my friend, and what he was about to do.

"He thinks of returning to his family," said I.

Roland, who had seemed dozing, winced uneasily.

"Who returns to his family?" asked the Captain.

"Why, you must know," said my father, "that Sisty has fished up a friendof whom he can give no account that would satisfy a policeman, and whosefortunes he thinks himself under the necessity of protecting. You arevery lucky that he has not picked your pockets, Sisty; but I dare say hehas. What's his name?"

"Vivian," said I,--"Francis Vivian."

"A good name and a Cornish," said my father. "Some derive it from theRomans,--Vivianus; others from a Celtic word which means--"

"Vivian!" interrupted Roland. "Vivian!--I wonder if it be the son ofColonel Vivian."

"He is certainly a gentleman's son," said I; "but he never told me whathis family and connections were."

"Vivian," repeated my uncle,--"poor Colonel Vivian! So the young man isgoing to his father. I have no doubt it is the same. Ah!--"

"What do you know of Colonel Vivian or his son?" said I. "Pray, tell me;I am so interested in this young man."

"I know nothing of either, except by gossip," said my uncle, moodily."I did hear that Colonel Vivian, an excellent officer and honorable man,had been in--in--" (Roland's voice faltered) "in great grief about hisson, whom, a mere boy, he had prevented from some improper marriage, andwho had run away and left him,--it was supposed for America. The storyaffected me at the time," added my uncle, trying to speak calmly.

We were all silent, for we felt why Roland was so disturbed, and whyColonel Vivian's grief should have touched him home. Similarity inaffliction makes us brothers even to the unknown.

"You say he is going home to his family,--I am heartily glad of it!"said the envying old soldier, gallantly.

The lights came in then, and two minutes after, Uncle Roland and I werenestled close to each other, side by side; and I was reading over hisshoulder, and his finger was silently resting on that passage thathad so struck him: "I have not complained, have I, sir? And I won'tcomplain!"

PART X.

CHAPTER I.

My uncle's conjecture as to the parentage of Francis Vivian seemed to mea positive discovery. Nothing more likely than that this wilful boy hadformed some headstrong attachment which no father would sanction,and so, thwarted and irritated, thrown himself on the world. Such anexplanation was the more agreeable to me as it cleared up much that hadappeared discreditable in the mystery that surrounded Vivian. I couldnever bear to think that he had done anything mean and criminal, howeverI might believe he had been rash and faulty. It was natural thatthe unfriended wanderer should have been thrown into a society, theequivocal character of which had failed to revolt the audacity of aninquisitive mind and adventurous temper; but it was natural also thatthe habits of gentle birth, and that silent education which Englishgentlemen commonly receive from their very cradle, should have preservedhis honor, at least, intact through all. Certainly the pride, thenotions, the very faults of the well-born had remained in fullforce,--why not the better qualities, however smothered for the time? Ifelt thankful for the thought that Vivian was returning to an element inwhich he might repurify his mind, refit himself for that sphere towhich he belonged, thankful that we might yet meet, and our presenthalf-intimacy mature, perhaps, into healthful friendship.

It was with such thoughts that I took up my hat the next morning to seekVivian, and judge if we had gained the right clew, when we were startledby what was a rare sound at our door,--the postman's knock. My fatherwas at the Museum; my mother in high conference, or close preparationfor our approaching departure, with Mrs. Primmins; Roland, I, andBlanche had the room to ourselves.

"The letter is not for me," said Pisistratus.

"Nor for me, I am sure," said the Captain, when the servant entered andconfuted him,--for the letter was for him. He took it up wonderingly andsuspiciously, as Glumdalclitch took up Gulliver, or as (if naturalists)we take up an unknown creature that we are not quite sure will not biteand sting us. Ah! it has stung or bit you, Captain Roland; for you startand change color,--you suppress a cry as you break the seal; you breathehard as you read; and the letter seems short--but it takes time inthe reading, for you go over it again and again. Then you fold it up,crumple it, thrust it into your breast-pocket, and look round like a manwaking from a dream. Is it a dream of pain, or of pleasure? Verily,I cannot guess, for nothing is on that eagle face either of pain orpleasure, but rather of fear, agitation, bewilderment. Yet the eyes arebright, too, and there is a smile on that iron lip.

My uncle looked round, I say, and called hastily for his cane and hishat, and then began buttoning his coat across his broad breast,though the day was hot enough to have unbuttoned every breast in themetropolis.

"You are not going out, uncle?"

"Yes, Yes."

"But are you strong enough yet? Let me go with you."

"No, sir; no. Blanche, come here." He took the child in his arms,surveyed her wistfully, and kissed her. "You have never given me pain,Blanche: say, 'God bless and prosper you, father!'"

"God bless and prosper my dear, dear papa!" said Blanche, putting herlittle hands together, as if in prayer.

"There--that should bring me luck, Blanche," said the Captain, gayly,and setting her down. Then seizing his cane from the servant, andputting on his hat with a determined air, he walked stoutly forth; and Isaw him, from the window, march along the streets as cheerfully as if hehad been besieging Badajoz.

"God prosper thee too!" said I, involuntarily.

And Blanche took hold of my hand, and said in her prettiest way (and herpretty ways were many), "I wish you would come with us, cousin Sisty,and help me to love papa. Poor papa! he wants us both,--he wants all thelove we can give him."

"That he does, my dear Blanche; and I think it a great mistake that wedon't all live together. Your papa ought not to go to that tower of hisat the world's end, but come to our snug, pretty house, with a gardenfull of flowers, for you to be Queen of the May,--from May to November;to say nothing of a duck that is more sagacious than any creature in theFables I gave you the other day."

Blanche laughed and clapped her hands. "Oh, that would be so nice!But"--and she stopped gravely, and added, "but then, you see, therewould not be the tower to love papa; and I am sure that the tower mustlove him very much, for he loves it dearly."

It was my turn to laugh now. "I see how it is, you little witch," saidI; "you would coax us to come and live with you and the owls! With allmy heart, so far as I am concerned."

"Sisty," said Blanche, with an appalling solemnity on her face, "do youknow what I've been thinking?"

"Not I, miss--what? Something very deep, I can see,--very horrible,indeed, I fear; you look so serious."

"Why, I've been thinking," continued Blanche, not relaxing a muscle, andwithout the least bit of a blush--"I've been thinking that I'll be yourlittle wife; and then, of course, we shall all live together."

Blanche did not blush, but I did. "Ask me that ten years hence, if youdare, you impudent little thing; and now, run away to Mrs. Primmins andtell her to keep you out of mischief, for I must say 'Good morning.'"

But Blanche did not run away, and her dignity seemed exceedingly hurtat my mode of taking her alarming proposition, for she retired into acorner pouting, and sat down with great majesty. So there I left her,and went my way to Vivian. He was out; but seeing books on his table,and having nothing to do, I resolved to wait for his return. I hadenough of my father in me to turn at once to the books for company;and by the side of some graver works which I had recommended, I foundcertain novels in French that Vivian had got from a circulating library.I had a curiosity to read these; for except the old classic novels ofFrance, this mighty branch of its popular literature was then new tome. I soon got interested; but what an interest!--the interest that anightmare might excite if one caught it out of one's sleep and set towork to examine it. By the side of what dazzling shrewdness, what deepknowledge of those holes and corners in the human system of which Goethemust have spoken when he said somewhere,--if I recollect right, anddon't misquote him, which I'll not answer for "There is something inevery man's heart which, if we could know, would make us hate him,"--bythe side of all this, and of much more that showed prodigious boldnessand energy of intellect, what strange exaggeration; what mock nobilityof sentiment; what inconceivable perversion of reasoning; what damnabledemoralization! The true artist, whether in Romance or the Drama, willoften necessarily interest us in a vicious or criminal character; but hedoes not the less leave clear to our reprobation the vice or the crime.But here I found myself called upon, not only to feel interest in thevillain (which would be perfectly allowable,--I am very much interestedin Macbeth and Lovelace), but to admire and sympathize with the villanyitself. Nor was it the confusion of all wrong and right in individualcharacter that shocked me the most, but rather the view of societyaltogether, painted in colors so hideous that, if true, instead of arevolution, it would draw down a deluge. It was the hatred, carefullyinstilled, of the poor against the rich; it was the war breathed betweenclass and class; it was that envy of all superiorities which loves toshow itself by allowing virtue only to a blouse, and asserting; that aman must be a rogue if he belong to that rank of society in which,from the very gifts of education, from the necessary associations ofcircumstance, roguery is the last thing probable or natural. It was allthis, and things a thousand times worse, that set my head in a whirl,as hour after hour slipped on, and I still gazed, spell-bound, on theseChimeras and Typhons,--these symbols of the Destroying Principle. "PoorVivian!" said I, as I rose at last; "if thou readest these books withpleasure or from habit, no wonder that thou seemest to me so obtuseabout right and wrong, and to have a great cavity where thy brain shouldhave the bump of 'conscientiousness' in full salience!"

Nevertheless, to do those demoniacs justice, I had got through timeimperceptibly by their pestilent help; and I was startled to see, by mywatch, how late it was. I had just resolved to leave a line fixingan appointment for the morrow, and so depart, when I heard Vivian'sknock,--a knock that had great character in it, haughty, impatient,irregular; not a neat, symmetrical, harmonious, unpretending knock, buta knock that seemed to set the whole house and street at defiance:it was a knock bullying--a knock ostentatious--a knock irritating andoffensive--impiger and iracundus.

But the step that came up the stairs did not suit the knock; it was astep light, yet firm--slow, yet elastic.

The maid-servant who had opened the door had, no doubt, informed Vivianof my visit, for he did not seem surprised to see me; but he cast thathurried, suspicious look round the room which a man is apt to castwhen he has left his papers about and finds some idler, on whosetrustworthiness he by no means depends, seated in the midst of theunguarded secrets. The look was not flattering; but my conscience was sounreproachful that I laid all the blame upon the general suspiciousnessof Vivian's character.

"Three hours, at least, have I been here!" said I, maliciously.

"Three hours!"--again the look.

"And this is the worst secret I have discovered,"--and I pointed tothose literary Manicheans.

"Oh!" said he, carelessly, "French novels! I don't wonder you stayedso long. I can't read your English novels,--flat and insipid; there aretruth and life here."

"Truth and life!" cried I, every hair on my head erect withastonishment. "Then hurrah for falsehood and death!"

"They don't please you,--no accounting for tastes."

"I beg your pardon,--I account for yours, if you really take for truthand life monsters so nefast and flagitious. For Heaven's sake, mydear fellow, don't suppose that any man could get on in England,--getanywhere but to the Old Bailey or Norfolk Island,--if he squared hisconduct to such topsy-turvy notions of the world as I find here."

"How many years are you my senior," asked Vivian, sneeringly, "that youshould play the mentor and correct my ignorance of the world?"

"Vivian, it is not age and experience that speak here, it is somethingfar wiser than they,--the instinct of a man's heart and a gentleman'shonor."

"Well, well," said Vivian, rather discomposed, "let the poor booksalone; you know my creed--that books influence us little one way or theother."

"By the great Egyptian library and the soul of Diodorus! I wish youcould hear my father upon that point. Come," added I, with sublimecompassion, "come, it is not too late, do let me introduce you to myfather. I will consent to read French novels all my life if a singlechat with Austin Caxton does not send you home with a happier face andlighter heart. Come, let me take you back to dine with us to-day."

"I cannot," said Vivian, with some confusion; "I cannot, for this dayI leave London. Some other time perhaps,--for," he added, but notheartily, "we may meet again."

"I hope so," said I, wringing his hand, "and that is likely, since,in spite of yourself, I have guessed your secret,--your birth andparentage."

"How!" cried Vivian, turning pale and gnawing his lip. "What do youmean? Speak."

"Well, then, are you not the lost, runaway son of Colonel Vivian? Come,say the truth; let us be confidants."

Vivian threw off a succession of his abrupt sighs; and, then, seatinghimself, leaned his face on the table, confused, no doubt, to findhimself discovered.

"You are near the mark," said he, at last, "but do not ask me furtheryet. Some day," he cried impetuously, and springing suddenly to hisfeet, "some day you shall know all,--yes, some day, if I live, when thatname shall be high in the world; yes, when the world is at my feet!" Hestretched his right hand as if to grasp the space, and his whole facewas lighted with a fierce enthusiasm. The glow died away, and with aslight return of his scornful smile he said: "Dreams yet; dreams! Andnow, look at this paper." And he drew out a memorandum, scrawled overwith figures.

"This, I think, is my pecuniary debt to you; in a few days I shalldischarge it. Give me your address."

"Oh!" said I, pained, "can you speak to me of money, Vivian?"

"It is one of those instincts of honor you cite so often," answered he,coloring. "Pardon me."

"That is my address," said I, stooping to write, in order to concealmy wounded feelings. "You will avail yourself of it, I hope, often, andtell me that you are well and happy."

"When I am happy you shall know."

"You do not require any introduction to Trevanion?"

Vivian hesitated. "No, I think not. If ever I do, I will write for it."

I took up my hat, and was about to go,--for I was still chilled andmortified,--when, as if by an irresistible impulse, Vivian came to mehastily, flung his arms round my neck, and kissed me as a boy kisses hisbrother.

"Bear with me!" he cried in a faltering voice; "I did not think to loveany one as you have made me love you, though sadly against the grain.If you are not my good angel, it is that nature and habit are too strongfor you. Certainly some day we shall meet again. I shall have time, inthe mean while, to see if the world can be indeed 'mine oyster, whichI with sword can open.' I would be aut Caesar aut nullus! Very littleother Latin know I to quote from! If Caesar, men will forgive me all themeans to the end; if nullus, London has a river, and in every street onemay buy a cord!"

"Vivian! Vivian!"

"Now go, my dear friend, while my heart is softened,--go before I shockyou with some return of the native Adam. Go, go!"

And taking me gently by the arm, Francis Vivian drew me from the room,and re-entering, locked his door.

Ah! if I could have left him Robert Hall, instead of those execrableTyphons! But would that medicine have suited his case, or must grimExperience write sterner prescriptions with iron hand?

CHAPTER II.

When I got back, just in time for dinner, Roland had not returned,nor did he return till late in the evening. All our eyes were directedtowards him, as we rose with one accord to give him welcome; but hisface was like a mask,--it was locked and rigid and unreadable.

Shutting the door carefully after him, he came to the hearth, stood onit, upright and calm, for a few moments, and then asked,--

"Has Blanche gone to bed?"

"Yes," said my mother, "but not to sleep, I am sure; she made me promiseto tell her when you came back."

Roland's brow relaxed.

"To-morrow, sister," said he, slowly, "will you see that she has theproper mourning made for her? My son is dead."

"Dead!" we cried with one voice, and surrounded him with one impulse.

"Dead! impossible,--you could not say it so calmly. Dead,--how do youknow? You may be deceived. Who told you? why do you think so?"

"I have seen his remains," said my uncle, with the same gloomy calm. "Wewill all mourn for him. Pisistratus, you are heir to my name now, as toyour father's. Good-night; excuse me, all--all you dear and kind ones;I am worn out." Roland lighted his candle and went away, leaving usthunderstruck; but he came back again, looked round, took up his book,open in the favorite passage, nodded again, and again vanished. Welooked at each other as if we had seen a ghost. Then my father roseand went out of the room, and remained in Roland's till the night waswell-nigh gone! We sat up, my mother and I, till he returned. His benignface looked profoundly sad.

"How is it, sir? Can you tell us more?" My father shook his head.

"Roland prays that you may preserve the same forbearance you have shownhitherto, and never mention his son's name to him. Peace be to theliving, as to the dead! Kitty, this changes our plans; we must all go toCumberland,--we cannot leave Roland thus!"

"Poor, poor Roland!" said my mother, through her tears. "And to thinkthat father and son were not reconciled! But Roland forgives himnow,--oh, yes, now!"

"It is not Roland we can censure," said my father, almost fiercely; "itis--But enough; we must hurry out of town as soon as we can: Roland willrecover in the native air of his old ruins."

We went up to bed mournfully. "And so," thought I, "ends one grandobject of my life! I had hoped to have brought those two together. But,alas, what peacemaker like the grave!"

CHAPTER III.

My uncle did not leave his room for three days; but he was much closetedwith a lawyer, and my father dropped some words which seemed to implythat the deceased had incurred debts, and that the poor Captain wasmaking some charge on his small property. As Roland had said that hehad seen the remains of his son, I took it at first for granted that weshould attend a funeral; but no word of this was said. On the fourth dayRoland, in deep mourning, entered a hackney-coach with the lawyer, andwas absent about two hours. I did not doubt that he had thus quietlyfulfilled the last mournful offices. On his return, he shut himself upagain for the rest of the day, and would not see even my father. But thenext morning he made his appearance as usual, and I even thought thathe seemed more cheerful than I had yet known him,--whether he played apart, or whether the worst was now over, and the grave was less cruelthan uncertainty. On the following day we all set out for Cumberland.

In the interval, Uncle Jack had been almost constantly at the house,and, to do him justice, he had seemed unaffectedly shocked at thecalamity that had befallen Roland. There was, indeed, no want of heartin Uncle Jack, whenever you went straight at it; but it was hard tofind if you took a circuitous route towards it through the pockets. Theworthy speculator had indeed much business to transact with my fatherbefore he left town. The Anti-Publisher Society had been set up, and itwas through the obstetric aid of that fraternity that the Great Book wasto be ushered into the world. The new journal, the "Literary Times,"was also far advanced,--not yet out, but my father was fairly in for it.There were preparations for its debut on a vast scale, and two or threegentlemen in black--one of whom looked like a lawyer, and another like aprinter, and a third uncommonly like a Jew--called twice, with papersof a very formidable aspect. All these preliminaries settled, the lastthing I heard Uncle Jack say, with a slap on my father's back, was,"Fame and fortune both made now! You may go to sleep in safety, for youleave me wide awake. Jack Tibbets never sleeps!"

I had thought it strange that, since my abrupt exodus from Trevanion'shouse, no notice had been taken of any of us by himself or Lady Ellinor.But on the very eve of our departure came a kind note from Trevanion tome, dated from his favorite country seat (accompanied by a present ofsome rare books to my father), in which he said, briefly, that therehad been illness in his family which had obliged him to leave town fora change of air, but that Lady Ellinor expected to call on my motherthe next week. He had found amongst his books some curious works of theMiddle Ages, amongst others a complete set of Cardan, which he knew myfather would like to have, and so sent them. There was no allusion towhat had passed between us. In reply to this note, after due thanks onmy father's part, who seized upon the Cardan (Lyons edition, 1663, tenvolumes folio) as a silk-worm does upon a mulberry-leaf, I expressed ourjoint regrets that there was no hope of our seeing Lady Ellinor, as wewere just leaving town. I should have added something on the loss myuncle had sustained, but my father thought that since Roland shrank fromany mention of his son, even by his nearest kindred, it would be hisobvious wish not to parade his affliction beyond that circle.

And there had been illness in Trevanion's family! On whom had it fallen?I could not rest satisfied with that general expression, and I took myanswer myself to Trevanion's house, instead of sending it by the post.In reply to my inquiries, the porter said that all the family wereexpected at the end of the week; that he had heard both Lady Ellinor andMiss Trevanion had been rather poorly, but that they were now better. Ileft my note with orders to forward it; and my wounds bled afresh as Icame away.

We had the whole coach to ourselves in our journey, and a silent journeyit was, till we arrived at a little town about eight miles from myuncle's residence, to which we could only get through a cross-road. Myuncle insisted on preceding us that night; and though he had writtenbefore we started, to announce our coming, he was fidgety lest the poortower should not make the best figure it could, so he went alone, and wetook our ease at our inn.

Betimes the next day we hired a fly-coach--for a chaise could neverhave held us and my father's books--and jogged through a labyrinthof villanous lanes which no Marshal Wade had ever reformed from theirprimal chaos. But poor Mrs. Primmins and the canary-bird alone seemedsensible of the jolts; the former, who sat opposite to us wedged amidsta medley of packages, all marked "Care, to be kept top uppermost" (why Iknow not, for they were but books, and whether they lay top or bottom itcould not materially affect their value),--the former, I say, contrivedto extend her arms over those disjecta membra, and griping a window-sillwith the right hand, and a window-sill with the left, kept her seatrampant, like the split eagle of the Austrian Empire: in fact, it wouldbe well nowadays if the split eagle were as firm as Mrs. Primmins! Asfor the canary, it never failed to respond, by an astonished chirp, toevery "Gracious me!" and "Lord save us!" which the delve into a rut, orthe bump out of it, sent forth from Mrs. Primmins's lips, with all theemphatic dolor of the "Ai, ai!" in a Greek chorus.

But my father, with his broad hat over his brows, was in deep thought.The scenes of his youth were rising before him, and his memory went,smooth as a spirit's wing, over delve and bump. And my mother, whosat next him, had her arm on his shoulder, and was watching his facejealously. Did she think that in that thoughtful face there was regretfor the old love? Blanche, who had been very sad, and had wept much andquietly since they put on her the mourning, and told her that she had nobrother (though she had no remembrance of the lost), began now toevince infantine curiosity and eagerness to catch the first peep of herfather's beloved tower. And Blanche sat on my knee, and I shared herimpatience. At last there came in view a church-spire, a church, a plainsquare building near it, the parsonage (my father's old home), a long,straggling street of cottages and rude shops, with a better kind ofhouse here and there, and in the hinder ground a gray, deformed mass ofwall and ruin, placed on one of those eminences on which the Danes lovedto pitch camp or build fort, with one high, rude, Anglo-Norman towerrising from the midst. Few trees were round it, and those eitherpoplars or firs, save, as we approached, one mighty oak,--integraland unscathed. The road now wound behind the parsonage and up a steepascent. Such a road,--the whole parish ought to have been flogged forit! If I had sent up a road like that, even on a map, to Dr. Herman, Ishould not have sat down in comfort for a week to come!

The fly-coach came to a full stop.

"Let us get out," cried I, opening the door, and springing to the groundto set the example.

Blanche followed, and my respected parents came next. But when Mrs.Primmins was about to heave herself into movement--

"_Papae!_" said my father. "I think, Mrs. Primmins, you must remain in, tokeep the books steady."

"Lord love you!" cried Mrs. Primmins, aghast.

"The subtraction of such a mass, or moles,--supple and elastic as allflesh is, and fitting into the hard corners of the inert matter,--sucha subtraction, Mrs. Primmins, would leave a vacuum which no naturalsystem, certainly no artificial organization, could sustain. There wouldbe a regular dance of atoms, Mrs. Primmins; my books would fly here,there, on the floor, out of the window!

 "'Corporis officium est quoniam omnia deorsum.'

"The business of a body like yours, Mrs. Primmins, is to pressall things down, to keep them tight, as you will know one of thesedays,--that is, if you will do me the favor to read Lucretius, andmaster that material philosophy of which I may say, without flattery, mydear Mrs. Primmins, that you are a living illustration."

These, the first words my father had spoken since we set out from theinn, seemed to assure my mother that she need have no apprehension asto the character of his thoughts, for her brow cleared, and she said,laughing,--

"Only look at poor Primmins, and then at that hill!"

"You may subtract Primmins, if you will be answerable for the remnant,Kitty. Only I warn you that it is against all the laws of physics."

So saying, he sprang lightly forward, and, taking hold of my arm, pausedand looked round, and drew the loud free breath with which we drawnative air.

"And yet," said my father, after that grateful and affectionateinspiration,--"and yet, it must be owned that a more ugly country onecannot see out of Cambridgeshire." (1)

"Nay," said I, "it is bold and large, it has a beauty of its own. Thoseimmense, undulating, uncultivated, treeless tracts have surely theircharm of wildness and solitude. And how they suit the character of theruin! All is feudal there! I understand Roland better now."

"I hope to Heaven Cardan will come to no harm!" cried my father; "he isvery handsomely bound, and he fitted beautifully just into the fleshiestpart of that fidgety Primmins."

Blanche, meanwhile, had run far before us, and I followed fast. Therewere still the remains of that deep trench (surrounding the ruins onthree sides, leaving a ragged hill-top at the fourth) which made thefavorite fortification of all the Teutonic tribes. A causeway, raisedon brick arches, now, however, supplied the place of the drawbridge,and the outer gate was but a mass of picturesque ruin. Entering into thecourtyard or bailey, the old castle mound, from which justice had beendispensed, was in full view, rising higher than the broken wallsaround it, and partially over grown with brambles. And there stood,comparatively whole, the Tower or Keep, and from its portals emerged theveteran owner.

His ancestors might have received us in more state, but certainly theycould not have given us a warmer greeting. In fact, in his own domainRoland appeared another man. His stiffness, which was a little repulsiveto those who did not understand it, was all gone. He seemed less proud,precisely because he and his pride, on that ground, were on good termswith each other. How gallantly he extended,--not his arm, in our modernJack-and-Jill sort of fashion, but his right hand to my mother; howcarefully he led her over "brake, bush, and scaur," through the lowvaulted door, where a tall servant, who, it was easy to see, had beena soldier,--in the precise livery, no doubt, warranted by the heraldiccolors (his stockings were red!),--stood upright as a sentry. And cominginto the hall, it looked absolutely cheerful,--it took us by surprise.There was a great fireplace, and, though it was still summer, a greatfire! It did not seem a bit too much, for the walls were stone, thelofty roof open to the rafters, while the windows were small and narrow,and so high and so deep sunk that one seemed in a vault. Nevertheless,I say the room looked sociable and cheerful,--thanks principally to thefire, and partly to a very ingenious medley of old tapestry at oneend, and matting at the other, fastened to the lower part of the walls,seconded by an arrangement of furniture which did credit to my uncle'staste for the picturesque. After we had looked about and admired to ourheart's content, Roland took us, not up one of those noble staircasesyou see in the later manorial residences, but a little winding stonestair, into the rooms he had appropriated to his guests. There was firsta small chamber, which he called my father's study,--in truth, it wouldhave done for any philosopher or saint who wished to shut out the world,and might have passed for the interior of such a column as the Stylitesinhabited; for you must have climbed a ladder to have looked out of thewindow, and then the vision of no short-sighted man could have got overthe interval in the wall made by the narrow casement, which, after all,gave no other prospect than a Cumberland sky, with an occasional rookin it. But my father, I think I have said before, did not much care forscenery, and he looked round with great satisfaction upon the retreatassigned him.

"We can knock up shelves for your books in no time," said my uncle,rubbing his hands.

"It would be a charity," quoth my father, "for they have been very longin a recumbent position, and would like to stretch themselves, poorthings. My dear Roland, this room is made for books,--so round and sodeep! I shall sit here, like Truth in a well."

"And there is a room for you, sister, just out of it," said my uncle,opening a little, low, prison-like door into a charming room, for itswindow was low and it had an iron balcony; "and out of that is thebedroom. For you, Pisistratus, my boy, I am afraid that it is soldier'squarters, indeed, with which you will have to put up. But never mind;in a day or two we shall make all worthy a general of your illustriousname,--for he was a great general, Pisistratus the First, was he not,brother?"

"All tyrants are," said my father; "the knack of soldiering isindispensable to them."

"Oh! you may say what you please here," said Roland, in high good humor,as he drew me downstairs, still apologizing for my quarters, and soearnestly that I made up my mind that I was to be put into an oubliette.Nor were my suspicions much dispelled on seeing that we had to leave thekeep, and pick our way into what seemed to me a mere heap of rubbishon the dexter side of the court. But I was agreeably surprised to find,amidst these wrecks, a room with a noble casement, commanding the wholecountry, and placed immediately over a plot of ground cultivated as agarden. The furniture was ample, though homely; the floors and wallswell matted; and, altogether, despite the inconvenience of having tocross the courtyard to get to the rest of the house, and being whollywithout the modern luxury of a bell, I thought that I could not bebetter lodged.

"But this is a perfect bower, my dear uncle! Depend on it, it was thebower-chamber of the Dames de Caxton,--Heaven rest them!"

"No," said my uncle, gravely, "I suspect it must have been thechaplain's room, for the chapel was to the right of you. An earlierchapel, indeed, formerly existed in the keep tower; for, indeed, it isscarcely a true keep without a chapel, well, and hall. I can show youpart of the roof of the first, and the two last are entire; the well isvery curious, formed in the substance of the wall at one angle of thehall. In Charles the First's time our ancestor lowered his only son downin a bucket, and kept him there six hours, while a malignant mob wasstorming the tower. I need not say that our ancestor himself scorned tohide from such a rabble, for he was a grown man. The boy lived to be asad spendthrift, and used the well for cooling his wine. He drank up agreat many good acres."

"I should scratch him out of the pedigree, if I were you. But pray, haveyou not discovered the proper chamber of that great Sir William aboutwhom my father is so shamefully sceptical?"

"To tell you a secret," answered the Captain, giving me a sly poke inthe ribs, "I have put your father into it! There are the initial lettersW. C. let into the cusp of the York rose, and the date, three yearsbefore the battle of Bosworth, over the chimney-piece."

I could not help joining my uncle's grim, low laugh at thischaracteristic pleasantry; and after I had complimented him on sojudicious a mode of proving his point, I asked him how he could possiblyhave contrived to fit up the ruin so well, especially as he had scarcelyvisited it since his purchase.

"Why," said he, "some years ago that poor fellow you now see as myservant, and who is gardener, bailiff, seneschal, butler, and anythingelse you can put him to, was sent out of the army on the invalid list.So I placed him here; and as he is a capital carpenter, and has had avery fair education, I told him what I wanted, and put by a small sumevery year for repairs and furnishing. It is astonishing how littleit cost me; for Bolt, poor fellow (that is his name), caught the rightspirit of the thing, and most of the furniture (which you see is ancientand suitable) he picked up at different cottages and farm-houses inthe neighborhood. As it is, however, we have plenty more rooms here andthere,--only, of late," continued my uncle, slightly changing color,"I had no money to spare. But come," he resumed with an evident effort,"come and see my barrack; it is on the other side of the hall, and madeout of what no doubt were the butteries."

We reached the yard, and found the fly-coach had just crawled to thedoor. My father's head was buried deep in the vehicle; he was gatheringup his packages and sending out, oracle-like, various mutteredobjurgations and anathemas upon Mrs. Primmins and her vacuum, which Mrs.Primmins, standing by and making a lap with her apron to receive thepackages and anathemas simultaneously, bore with the mildness of anangel, lifting up her eyes to heaven and murmuring something about "poorold bones,"--though as for Mrs. Primmins's bones, they had been mythsthese twenty years, and you might as soon have found a Plesiosaurus inthe fat lands of Romney Marsh as a bone amidst those layers of flesh inwhich my poor father thought he had so carefully cottoned up his Cardan.

Leaving these parties to adjust matters between them, we stepped underthe low doorway and entered Roland's room. Oh! certainly Bolt had caughtthe spirit of the thing; certainly he had penetrated down to the pathosthat lay within the deeps of Roland's character. Buffon says, "The styleis the man;" there, the room was the man. That nameless, inexpressible,soldier-like, methodical neatness which belonged to Roland,--that wasthe first thing that struck one; that was the general character of thewhole. Then, in details, there, on stout oak shelves, were the books onwhich my father loved to jest his more imaginative brother; there theywere,--Froissart, Barante, Joinville, the Mort d'Arthur, Amadis ofGaul, Spenser's Faerie Queene, a noble copy of Strutt's Horda, Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, Percy's Reliques, Pope's Homer, books on gunnery,archery, hawking, fortification; old chivalry and modern war together,cheek-by-jowl.

Old chivalry and modern war! Look to that tilting helmet with the tallCaxton crest, and look to that trophy near it,--a French cuirass--andthat old banner (a knight's pennon) surmounting those crossed bayonets.And over the chimneypiece there--bright, clean, and, I warrant you,dusted daily--are Roland's own sword, his holsters and pistols, yea, thesaddle, pierced and lacerated, from which he had reeled when that leg--Igasped, I felt it all at a glance, and I stole softly to the spot, and,had Roland not been there, I could have kissed that sword as reverentlyas if it had been a Bayard's or a Sidney's.

My uncle was too modest to guess my emotion; he rather thought Ihad turned my face to conceal a smile at his vanity, and said, in adeprecating tone of apology: "It was all Bolt's doing, foolish fellow!"

(1) This certainly cannot be said of Cumberland generally, one of themost beautiful counties in Great Britain. But the immediate district towhich Mr. Caxton's exclamation refers, if not ugly, is at least savage,bare, and rude.

CHAPTER IV.

Our host regaled us with a hospitality that notably contrasted hiseconomical thrifty habits in London. To be sure, Bolt had caught thegreat pike which headed the feast; and Bolt, no doubt, had helpedto rear those fine chickens ab ovo; Bolt, I have no doubt, made thatexcellent Spanish omelette; and, for the rest, the products of thesheepwalk and the garden came in as volunteer auxiliaries,--verydifferent from the mercenary recruits by which those metropolitanCondottieri, the butcher and greengrocer, hasten the ruin of thatmelancholy commonwealth called "genteel poverty."

Our evening passed cheerfully; and Roland, contrary to his custom,was talker in chief. It was eleven o'clock before Bolt appeared with alantern to conduct me through the courtyard to my dormitory among theruins,--a ceremony which, every night, shine or dark, he insisted uponpunctiliously performing.

It was long before I could sleep; before I could believe that but so fewdays had elapsed since Roland heard of his son's death,--that son whosefate had so long tortured him; and yet, never had Roland appeared sofree from sorrow! Was it natural, was it effort? Several days passedbefore I could answer that question, and then not wholly to mysatisfaction. Effort there was, or rather resolute, systematicdetermination. At moments Roland's head drooped, his brows met, and thewhole man seemed to sink. Yet these were only moments; he would rousehimself up, like a dozing charger at the sound of the trumpet, andshake off the creeping weight. But whether from the vigor of hisdetermination, or from some aid in other trains of reflection, I couldnot but perceive that Roland's sadness really was less grave and bitterthan it had been, or than it was natural to suppose. He seemed totransfer, daily, more and more, his affections from the dead to thosearound him, especially to Blanche and myself. He let it be seen that helooked on me now as his lawful successor,--as the future supporterof his name; he was fond of confiding to me all his little plans, andconsulting me on them. He would walk with me around his domains (ofwhich I shall say more hereafter),--point out, from every eminence weclimbed, where the broad lands which his forefathers had owned stretchedaway to the horizon: unfold with tender hand the mouldering pedigree,and rest lingeringly on those of his ancestors who had held martial postor had died on the field. There was a crusader who had followed Richardto Ascalon; there was a knight who had fought at Agincourt: there was acavalier (whose picture was still extant), with fair love-locks, who hadfallen at Worcester,--no doubt the same who had cooled his son in thatwell which the son devoted to more agreeable associations. But of allthese worthies there was none whom my uncle, perhaps from the spirit ofcontradiction, valued like that apocryphal Sir William. And why? Becausewhen the apostate Stanley turned the fortunes of the field at Bosworth,and when that cry of despair, "Treason! treason!" burst from the lipsof the last Plantagenet, "amongst the faithless," this true soldier,"faithful found," had fallen in that lion rush which Richard made athis foe. "Your father tells me that Richard was a murderer and usurper,"quoth my uncle. "Sir, that might be true or not; but it was not on thefield of battle that his followers were to reason on the characterof the master who trusted them, especially when a legion of foreignhirelings stood opposed to them. I would not have descended from thatturncoat Stanley to be lord of all the lands the earls of Derby canboast of. Sir, in loyalty, men fight and die for a grand principle anda lofty passion; and this brave Sir William was paying back to the lastPlantagenet the benefits he had received from the first!"

"And yet it may be doubted," said I, maliciously, "whether WilliamCaxton the printer did not--"

"Plague, pestilence, and fire seize William Caxton the printer, and hisinvention too!" cried my uncle, barbarously.

"When there were only a few books, at least they were good ones; and nowthey are so plentiful, all they do is to confound the judgment,unsettle the reason, drive the good books out of cultivation, and draw aploughshare of innovation over every ancient landmark; seduce the women,womanize the men, upset states, thrones, and churches; rear a race ofchattering, conceited coxcombs who can always find books in plenty toexcuse them from doing their duty; make the poor discontented, the richcrotchety and whimsical, refine away the stout old virtues into quibblesand sentiments! All imagination formerly was expended in noble action,adventure, enterprise, high deeds, and aspirations; now a man can butbe imaginative by feeding on the false excitement of passions he neverfelt, dangers he never shared, and he fritters away all there is of lifeto spare in him upon the fictitious love--sorrows of Bond Street and St.James's. Sir, chivalry ceased when the Press rose! And to fasten uponme, as a forefather, out of all men who ever lived and sinned, the veryman who has most destroyed what I most valued,--who, by the Lord! withhis cursed invention has well-nigh got rid of respect for forefathersaltogether,--is a cruelty of which my brother had never been capable ifthat printer's devil had not got hold of him!"

That a man in this blessed nineteenth century should be such a Vandal,and that my Uncle Roland should talk in a strain that Totila would havebeen ashamed of, within so short a time after my father's scientificand erudite oration on the Hygeiana of Books,--was enough to make onedespair of the progress of intellect and the perfectibility of ourspecies. And I have no manner of doubt that, all the while, my uncle hada brace of books in his pockets, Robert Hall one of them! In truth, hehad talked himself into a passion, and did not know what nonsense he wassaying. But this explosion of Captain Roland's has shattered the threadof my matter. Pouff! I must take breath and begin again.

Yes, in spite of my sauciness, the old soldier evidently took to me moreand more. And besides our critical examination of the property and thepedigree, he carried me with him on long excursions to distant villageswhere some memorial of a defunct Caxton, a coat of arms, or anepitaph on a tombstone, might be still seen. And he made me pore overtopographical works and county histories (forgetful, Goth that hewas, that for those very authorities he was indebted to the repudiatedprinter!) to find some anecdote of his beloved dead! In truth, thecounty for miles round bore the vestigia of those old Caxtons; theirhandwriting was on many a broken wall. And obscure as they all were,compared to that great operative of the Sanctuary at Westminster whommy father clung to, still, that the yesterdays that had lighted themthe way to dusty death had cast no glare on dishonored scutcheons seemedclear, from the popular respect and traditional affection in whichI found that the name was still held in hamlet and homestead. It waspleasant to see the veneration with which this small hidalgo of somethree hundred a-year was held, and the patriarchal affection with whichhe returned it. Roland was a man who would walk into a cottage, rest hiscork leg on the hearth, and talk for the hour together upon all thatlay nearest to the hearts of the owners. There is a peculiar spiritof aristocracy amongst agricultural peasants: they like old names andfamilies; they identify themselves with the honors of a house, as ifof its clan. They do not care so much for wealth as townsfolk and themiddle class do; they have a pity, but a respectful one, for well-bornpoverty. And then this Roland, too,--who would go and dine in acookshop, and receive change for a shilling, and shun the ruinousluxury of a hack cabriolet,--could be positively extravagant in hisliberalities to those around him. He was altogether another being in hispaternal acres. The shabby-genteel, half-pay captain, lost in thewhirl of London, here luxuriated into a dignified ease of manner thatChesterfield might have admired. And if to please is the true signof politeness, I wish you could have seen the faces that smiled uponCaptain Roland as he walked down the village, nodding from side to side.

One day a frank, hearty old woman, who had known Roland as a boy, seeinghim lean on my arm, stopped us, as she said bluffly, to take a "geudluik" at me.

Fortunately I was stalwart enough to pass muster, even in the eyes ofa Cumberland matron; and after a compliment at which Roland seemed muchpleased, she said to me, but pointing to the Captain,--

"Hegh, sir, now you ha' the bra' time before you, you maun e'en try andbe as geud as he. And if life last, ye wull too; for there never waur abad ane of that stock. Wi' heads kindly stup'd to the least, and liftedmanfu' oop to the heighest,--that ye all war' sin ye came from the Ark.Blessin's on the ould name! though little pelf goes with it, it soundson the peur man's ear like a bit of gould!"

"Do you not see now," said Roland, as we turned away, "what we owe toa name, and what to our forefathers? Do you not see why the remotestancestor has a right to our respect and consideration,--for he wasa parent? 'Honor your parents': the law does not say, 'Honor yourchildren!' If a child disgrace us, and the dead, and the sanctity ofthis great heritage of their virtues,--the name; if he does--" Rolandstopped short, and added fervently, "But you are my heir now,--I have nofear! What matter one foolish old man's sorrows? The name, that propertyof generations, is saved, thank Heaven,--the name!"

Now the riddle was solved, and I understood why, amidst all his naturalgrief for a son's loss, that proud father was consoled. For he was lesshimself a father than a son,--son to the long dead. From every gravewhere a progenitor slept, he had heard a parent's voice. He could bearto be bereaved, if the forefathers were not dishonored. Roland wasmore than half a Roman; the son might still cling to his householdaffections, but the Lares were a part of his religion.

CHAPTER V.

But I ought to be hard at work preparing myself for Cambridge. Thedeuce! how can I? The point in academical education on which I requiremost preparation is Greek composition. I come to my father, who, onemight think, was at home enough in this. But rare indeed it is to find agreat scholar who is a good teacher.

My dear father, if one is content to take you in your own way, therenever was a more admirable instructor for the heart, the head, theprinciples, or the taste,--when you have discovered that there is someone sore to be healed, one defect to be repaired; and you have rubbedyour spectacles, and got your hand fairly into that recess between yourfrill and your waistcoat. But to go to you cut and dry, monotonously,regularly, book and exercise in hand; to see the mournful patience withwhich you tear yourself from that great volume of Cardan in the veryhoneymoon of possession; and then to note those mild eyebrows graduallydistend themselves into perplexed diagonals over some false quantity orsome barbarous collocation, till there steal forth that horrible _Papae!_which means more on your lips than I am sure it ever did when Latin wasa live language, and _Papae_ a natural and unpedantic ejaculation!--no,I would sooner blunder through the dark by myself a thousand times thanlight my rushlight at the lamp of that Phlegethonian _Papae!_

And then my father would wisely and kindly, but wondrous slowly, erasethree fourths of one's pet verses, and intercalate others that one sawwere exquisite, but could not exactly see why. And then one asked why;and my father shook his head in despair, and said, "But you ought tofeel why!"

In short, scholarship to him was like poetry; he could no more teach ityou than Pindar could have taught you how to make an ode. You breathedthe aroma, but you could no more seize and analyze it than, with theopening of your naked hand, you could carry off the scent of a rose.I soon left my father in peace to Cardan and to the Great Book,--whichlast, by the way, advanced but slowly; for Uncle Jack had now insistedon its being published in quarto, with illustrative plates, and thoseplates took an immense time, and were to cost an immense sum,--but thatcost was the affair of the Anti-Publisher Society. But how can I settleto work by myself? No sooner have I got into my room--penitus ab orbedivisus, as I rashly think--than there is a tap at the door. Now it ismy mother, who is benevolently engaged upon making curtains to all thewindows (a trifling superfluity that Bolt had forgotten or disdained),and who wants to know how the draperies are fashioned at Mr.Trevanion's,--a pretence to have me near her, and see with her own eyesthat I am not fretting; the moment she hears I have shut myself up in myroom, she is sure that it is for sorrow. Now it is Bolt, who is makingbookshelves for my father, and desires to consult me at every turn,especially as I have given him a Gothic design, which pleases himhugely. Now it is Blanche, whom, in an evil hour, I undertook to teachto draw, and who comes in on tiptoe, vowing she'll not disturb me, andsits so quiet that she fidgets me out of all patience. Now, and muchmore often, it is the Captain, who wants me to walk, to ride, to fish.And, by St. Hubert (saint of the chase) bright August comes, and thereis moorgame on those barren wolds; and my uncle has given me the gun heshot with at my age,--single-barrelled, flint lock; but you would nothave laughed at it if you had seen the strange feats it did in Roland'shands,--while in mine, I could always lay the blame on the flint lock!Time, in short, passed rapidly; and if Roland and I had our dark hours,we chased them away before they could settle,--shot them on the wing asthey got up.

Then, too, though the immediate scenery around my uncle's was so bleakand desolate, the country within a few miles was so full of objects ofinterest,--of landscapes so poetically grand or lovely; and occasionallywe coaxed my father from the Cardan, and spent whole days by the marginof some glorious lake.

Amongst these excursions I made one by myself to that house in which myfather had known the bliss and the pangs of that stern first-lovewhich still left its scars fresh on my own memory. The house, largeand imposing, was shut up,--the Trevanions had not been there foryears,--the pleasure-grounds had been contracted into the smallestpossible space. There was no positive decay or ruin,--that Trevanionwould never have allowed; but there was the dreary look of absenteeshipeverywhere. I penetrated into the house with the help of my card andhalf-a-crown. I saw that memorable boudoir,--I could fancy the very spotin which my father had heard the sentence that had changed the currentof his life. And when I returned home, I looked with new tenderness onmy father's placid brow, and blessed anew that tender helpmate who inher patient love had chased from it every shadow.

I had received one letter from Vivian a few days after our arrival. Ithad been re-directed from my father's house, at which I had given him myaddress. It was short, but seemed cheerful. He said that he believed hehad at last hit on the right way, and should keep to it; that he and theworld were better friends than they had been; that the only way to keepfriends with the world was to treat it as a tamed tiger, and haveone hand on a crowbar while one fondled the beast with the other. Heenclosed me a bank-note, which somewhat more than covered his debtto me, and bade me pay him the surplus when he should claim it as amillionnaire. He gave me no address in his letter, but it bore thepostmark of Godalming. I had the impertinent curiosity to look into anold topographical work upon Surrey, and in a supplemental itinerary Ifound this passage: "To the left of the beech wood, three miles fromGodalming, you catch a glimpse of the elegant seat of Francis Vivian,Esq." To judge by the date of the work, the said Francis Vivian might bethe grandfather of my friend, his namesake. There could no longer be anydoubt as to the parentage of this prodigal son.

The long vacation was now nearly over, and all his guests were to leavethe poor Captain. In fact, we had made a considerable trespass on hishospitality. It was settled that I was to accompany my father and motherto their long-neglected Penates, and start thence for Cambridge.

Our parting was sorrowful,--even Mrs. Primmins wept as she shook handswith Bolt. But Bolt, an old soldier, was of course a lady's man. Thebrothers did not shake hands only,--they fondly embraced, as brothers ofthat time of life rarely do nowadays, except on the stage. And Blanche,with one arm round my mother's neck and one round mine, sobbed in myear: "But I will be your little wife, I will." Finally, the fly-coachonce more received us all,--all but poor Blanche, and we looked roundand missed her.

CHAPTER VI.

Alma Mater! Alma Mater! New-fashioned folks, with their large theoriesof education, may find fault with thee. But a true Spartan mother thouart: hard and stern as the old matron who bricked up her son Pausanius,bringing the first stone to immure him,--hard and stern, I say, to theworthless, but full of majestic tenderness to the worthy.

For a young man to go up to Cambridge (I say nothing of Oxford, knowingnothing thereof) merely as routine work, to lounge through three yearsto a degree among the (Greek word),--for such an one Oxford Streetherself, whom the immortal Opium-Eater hath so direly apostrophized, isnot a more careless and stony-hearted mother. But for him who will read,who will work, who will seize the rare advantages proffered, who willselect his friends judiciously,--yea, out of that vast ferment of youngidea in its lusty vigor choose the good and reject the bad,--there isplenty to make those three years rich with fruit imperishable, threeyears nobly spent, even though one must pass over the Ass's Bridge toget into the Temple of Honor.

Important changes in the Academical system have been recently announced,and honors are henceforth to be accorded to the successful disciples inmoral and natural sciences. By the side of the old throne of Mathesisthey have placed two very useful fauteuils a la Voltaire. I have noobjection; but in those three years of life it is not so much thething learned as the steady perseverance in learning something that isexcellent.

It was fortunate, in one respect, for me that I had seen a little of thereal world,--the metropolitan,--before I came to that mimic one,--thecloistral. For what were called pleasures in the last, and which mighthave allured me, had I come fresh from school, had no charm for menow. Hard drinking and high play, a certain mixture of coarsenessand extravagance, made the fashion among the idle when I was at theUniversity, consule Planco,--when Wordsworth was master of Trinity; itmay be altered now.

But I had already outlived such temptations, and so, naturally, I wasthrown out of the society of the idle, and somewhat into that of thelaborious.

Still, to speak frankly, I had no longer the old pleasure in books. Ifmy acquaintance with the great world had destroyed the temptation topuerile excesses, it had also increased my constitutional tendency topractical action. And, alas! in spite of all the benefit I had derivedfrom Robert Hall, there were times when memory was so poignant thatI had no choice but to rush from the lonely room haunted by temptingphantoms too dangerously fair, and sober down the fever of the heart bysome violent bodily fatigue. The ardor which belongs to early youth, andwhich it best dedicates to knowledge, had been charmed prematurely toshrines less severely sacred. Therefore, though I labored, it was withthat full sense of labor which (as I found at a much later period oflife) the truly triumphant student never knows. Learning--that marbleimage--warms into life, not at the toil of the chisel, but the worshipof the sculptor. The mechanical workman finds but the voiceless stone.

At my uncle's, such a thing as a newspaper rarely made its appearance.At Cambridge, even among reading men, the newspapers had their dueimportance. Politics ran high; and I had not been three days atCambridge before I heard Trevanion's name. Newspapers, therefore, hadtheir charms for me. Trevanion's prophecy about himself seemed about tobe fulfilled. There were rumors of changes in the Cabinet. Trevanion'sname was bandied to and fro, struck from praise to blame, high and low,as a shuttlecock. Still the changes were not made, and the Cabinet heldfirm. Not a word in the "Morning Post," under the head of "fashionableintelligence," as to rumors that would have agitated me more than therise and fall of governments; no hint of "the speedy nuptials of thedaughter and sole heiress of a distinguished and wealthy commoner:" onlynow and then, in enumerating the circle of brilliant guests at the houseof some party chief, I gulped back the heart that rushed to my lips whenI saw the names of Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion.

But amongst all that prolific progeny of the periodical Press, remoteoffspring of my great namesake and ancestor (for I hold the faith of myfather), where was the "Literary Times"? What had so long retarded itspromised blossoms? Not a leaf in the shape of advertisements had yetemerged from its mother earth. I hoped from my heart that the wholething was abandoned, and would not mention it in my letters home, lestI should revive the mere idea of it. But in default of the "LiteraryTimes" there did appear a new journal, a daily journal too,--a tall,slender, and meagre stripling, with a vast head, by way of prospectus,which protruded itself for three weeks successively at the top of theleading article, with a fine and subtle body of paragraphs, and thesmallest legs, in the way of advertisements, that any poor newspaperever stood upon! And yet this attenuated journal had a plump andplethoric title,--a title that smacked of turtle and venison; analdermanic, portly, grandiose, Falstaflian title: it was called TheCapitalist. And all those fine, subtle paragraphs were larded out withrecipes how to make money. There was an El Dorado in every sentence. Tobelieve that paper, you would think no man had ever yet found a properreturn for his pounds, shillings, and pence; you would turn up yournose at twenty per cent. There was a great deal about Ireland,--not herwrongs, thank Heaven! but her fisheries; a long inquiry what hadbecome of the pearls for which Britain was once so famous; a learneddisquisition upon certain lost gold mines now happily re-discovered; avery ingenious proposition to turn London smoke into manure, by a newchemical process; recommendations to the poor to hatch chickens in ovenslike the ancient Egyptians; agricultural schemes for sowing the wastelands in England with onions, upon the system adopted near Bedford,--netproduce one hundred pounds an acre. In short, according to that paper,every rood of ground might well maintain its man, and every shilling be,like Hobson's money-bag, "the fruitful parent of a hundred more." Forthree days, at the newspaper room of the Union Club, men talked of thisjournal: some pished, some sneered, some wondered; till an ill-naturedmathematician, who had just taken his degree, and had spare time on hishands, sent a long letter to the "Morning Chronicle," showing up moreblunders, in some article to which the editor of "The Capitalist" hadspecially invited attention, than would have paved the whole island ofLaputa. After that time, not a soul read "The Capitalist." How long itdragged on its existence I know not; but it certainly did not die of amaladie de langueur.

Little thought I, when I joined in the laugh against "The Capitalist,"that I ought rather to have followed it to its grave, in black crape andweepers,--unfeeling wretch that I was! But, like a poet, O "Capitalist"!thou wert not discovered and appreciated and prized and mourned tillthou wert dead and buried, and the bill came in for thy monument.

The first term of my college life was just expiring when I received aletter from my mother, so agitated, so alarming,--at first reading sounintelligible,--that I could only see that some great misfortune hadbefallen us; and I stopped short and dropped on my knees to pray for thelife and health of those whom that misfortune more specially seemed tomenace; and then, towards the end of the last blurred sentence, readtwice, thrice, over,--I could cry, "Thank Heaven, thank Heaven! it isonly, then, money after all!"

PART XI.

CHAPTER I.

The next day, on the outside of the "Cambridge Telegraph," there was onepassenger who ought to have impressed his fellow-travellers with a veryrespectful idea of his lore in the dead languages; for not a singlesyllable, in a live one, did he vouchsafe to utter from the moment heascended that "bad eminence" to the moment in which he regained hismother earth. "Sleep," says honest Sancho, "covers a man better than acloak." I am ashamed of thee, honest Sancho, thou art a sad plagiarist;for Tibullus said pretty nearly the same thing before thee,--

 "Te somnus fusco velavit amictu." (1)

But is not silence as good a cloak as sleep; does it not wrap a manround with as offusc and impervious a fold? Silence, what a world itcovers,--what busy schemes, what bright hopes and dark fears, whatambition, or what despair! Do you ever see a man in any society sittingmute for hours, and not feel an uneasy curiosity to penetrate the wallhe thus builds up between others and himself? Does he not interest youfar more than the brilliant talker at your left, the airy wit at yourright whose shafts fall in vain on the sullen barrier of the silent man!Silence, dark sister of Nox and Erebus, how, layer upon layer, shadowupon shadow, blackness upon blackness, thou stretchest thyself from hellto heaven, over thy two chosen haunts,--man's heart and the grave!

So, then, wrapped in my great-coat and my silence, I performedmy journey; and on the evening of the second day I reached theold-fashioned brick house. How shrill on my ears sounded the bell! Howstrange and ominous to my impatience seemed the light gleaming acrossthe windows of the hall! How my heart beat as I watched the face of theservant who opened the gate to my summons!

"All well?" cried I.

"All well, sir," answered the servant, cheerfully. "Mr. Squills, indeed,is with master, but I don't think there is anything the matter."

But now my mother appeared at the threshold, and I was in her arms.

"Sisty, Sisty! my dear, dear son--beggared, perhaps--and myfault--mine."

"Yours! Come into this room, out of hearing,--your fault?"

"Yes, yes! for if I had had no brother, or if I had not been ledaway,--if I had, as I ought, entreated poor Austin not to--"

"My dear, dearest mother, you accuse yourself for what, it seems, wasmy uncle's misfortune,--I am sure not even his fault! [I made a gulpthere.] No, lay the fault on the right shoulders,--the defunct shouldersof that horrible progenitor, William Caxton the printer; for though Idon't yet know the particulars of what has happened, I will lay a wagerit is connected with that fatal invention of printing. Come, come! myfather is well, is he not?"

"Yes, thank Heaven!"

"And I too, and Roland, and little Blanche! Why, then, you are right tothank Heaven, for your true treasures are untouched. But sit down andexplain, pray."

"I cannot explain. I do not understand anything more than that he, mybrother--mine!--has involved Austin in--in--" (a fresh burst of tears.)

I comforted, scolded, laughed, preached, and adjured in a breath; andthen, drawing my mother gently on, entered my father's study.

At the table was seated Mr. Squills, pen in hand, and a glass of hisfavorite punch by his side. My father was standing on the hearth, ashade more pale, but with a resolute expression on his countenance whichwas new to its indolent, thoughtful mildness. He lifted his eyes as thedoor opened, and then, putting his finger to his lips, as he glancedtowards my mother, he said gayly, "No great harm done. Don't believeher! Women always exaggerate, and make realities of their own bugbears:it is the vice of their lively imaginations, as Wierus has clearly shownin accounting for the marks, moles, and hare-lips which they inflictupon their innocent infants before they are even born. My dear boy,"added my father, as I here kissed him and smiled in his face, "I thankyou for that smile! God bless you!" He wrung my hand and turned a littleaside.

"It is a great comfort," renewed my father, after a short pause, "toknow, when a misfortune happens, that it could not be helped. Squillshas just discovered that I have no bump of cautiousness; so that,craniologically speaking, if I had escaped one imprudence, I shouldcertainly have run my head against another."

"A man with your development is made to be taken in," said Mr. Squills,consolingly.

"Do you hear that, my own Kitty? And have you the heart to blame Jackany longer,--a poor creature cursed with a bump that would take in theStock Exchange? And can any one resist his bump, Squills?"

"Impossible!" said the surgeon, authoritatively.

"Sooner or later it must involve him in its airy meshes,--eh,Squills?--entrap him into its fatal cerebral cell. There his fate waitshim, like the ant-lion in its pit."

"Too true," quoth Squills. "What a phrenological lecturer you would havemade!"

"Go then, my love," said my father, "and lay no blame but on thismelancholy cavity of mine, where cautiousness--is not! Go, and let Sistyhave some supper; for Squills says that he has a fine development ofthe mathematical organs, and we want his help. We are hard at work onfigures, Pisistratus."

My mother looked broken-hearted, and, obeying submissively, stole to thedoor without a word. But as she reached the threshold she turned roundand beckoned to me to follow her.

I whispered my father and went out. My mother was standing in the hall,and I saw by the lamp that she had dried her tears, and that her face,though very sad, was more composed.

"Sisty," she said, in a low voice which struggled to be firm, "promiseme that you will tell me all,--the worst, Sisty. They keep it fromme, and that is my hardest punishment; for when I don't know all thathe--that Austin suffers, it seems to me as if I had lost his heart.Oh, Sisty, my child, my child, don't fear me! I shall be happy whateverbefalls us, if I once get back my privilege,--my privilege, Sisty, tocomfort, to share! Do you understand me?"

"Yes indeed, my mother! And with your good sense and clear woman'swit, if you will but feel how much we want them, you will be thebest counsellor we could have. So never fear; you and I will have nosecrets."

My mother kissed me, and went away with a less heavy step.

As I re-entered, my father came across the room and embraced me.

"My son," he said in a faltering voice, "if your modest prospects inlife are ruined--"

"Father, father, can you think of me at such a moment? Me! Is itpossible to ruin the young and strong and healthy! Ruin me, with thesethews and sinews; ruin me, with the education you have given me,--thewsand sinews of the mind! Oh, no! there, Fortune is harmless! And youforget, sir,--the saffron bag!"

Squills leaped up, and wiping his eyes with one hand, gave me a soundingslap on the shoulder with the other.

"I am proud of the care I took of your infancy, Master Caxton. Thatcomes of strengthening the digestive organs in early childhood. Suchsentiments are a proof of magnificent ganglions in a perfect state oforder. When a man's tongue is as smooth as I am sure yours is, he slipsthrough misfortune like an eel."

I laughed outright, my father smiled faintly; and, seating myself, Idrew towards me a paper filled with Squills's memoranda, and said, "Nowto find the unknown quantity. What on earth is this? 'Supposed valueof books, L750.' Oh, father! this is impossible. I was prepared foranything but that. Your books,--they are your life!"

"Nay," said my father; "after all, they are the offending party in thiscase, and so ought to be the principal victims. Besides, I believe Iknow most of them by heart. But, in truth, we are only entering all oureffects, to be sure [added my father, proudly], that, come what may, weare not dishonored."

"Humor him," whispered Squills; "we will save the books." Then he addedaloud, as he laid finger and thumb on my pulse, "One, two, three, aboutseventy,--capital pulse, soft and full; he can bear the whole: let usadminister it."

My father nodded: "Certainly. But, Pisistratus, we must manage your dearmother. Why she should think of blaming herself because poor Jack tookwrong ways to enrich us, I cannot understand. But as I have had occasionbefore to remark, Sphinx is a noun feminine."

My poor father! that was a vain struggle for thy wonted innocent humor.The lips quivered.

Then the story came out. It seems that when it was resolved toundertake the publication of the "Literary Times," a certain numberof shareholders had been got together by the indefatigable energies ofUncle Jack; and in the deed of association and partnership, my father'sname figured conspicuously as the holder of a fourth of this jointproperty. If in this my father had committed some imprudence, he hadat least done nothing that, according to the ordinary calculations ofa secluded student, could become ruinous. But just at the time when wewere in the hurry of leaving town, Jack had represented to my fatherthat it might be necessary to alter a little the plan of the paper, andin order to allure a larger circle of readers, touch somewhat on themore vulgar news and Interests of the day. A change of plan mightinvolve a change of title; and he suggested to my father the expediencyof leaving the smooth hands of Mr. Tibbets altogether unfettered, asto the technical name and precise form of the publication. To this myfather had unwittingly assented, on hearing that the other shareholderswould do the same. Mr. Peck, a printer of considerable opulence andhighly respectable name, had been found to advance the sum necessary forthe publication of the earlier numbers, upon the guarantee of the saidact of partnership and the additional security of my father's signatureto a document authorizing Mr. Tibbets to make any change in the form ortitle of the periodical that might be judged advisable, concurrent withthe consent of the other shareholders.

Now, it seems that Mr. Peck had, in his previous conferences with Mr.Tibbets, thrown much cold water on the idea of the "Literary Times,"and had suggested something that should "catch the moneyed public,"--thefact being, as was afterwards discovered, that the printer, whose spiritof enterprise was congenial to Uncle Jack's, had shares in three or fourspeculations to which he was naturally glad of an opportunity to invitethe attention of the public. In a word, no sooner was my poor father'sback turned than the "Literary Times" was dropped incontinently, and Mr.Peck and Mr. Tibbets began to concentrate their luminous notions intothat brilliant and comet-like apparition which ultimately blazed forthunder the title of "The Capitalist."

From this change of enterprise the more prudent and responsible of theoriginal shareholders had altogether withdrawn. A majority, indeed, wereleft; but the greater part of those were shareholders of that kind mostamenable to the influences of Uncle Jack, and willing to be shareholdersin anything, since as yet they were possessors of nothing.

Assured of my father's responsibility, the adventurous Peck put plentyof spirit into the first launch of "The Capitalist." All the walls wereplacarded with its announcements; circular advertisements ran from oneend of the kingdom to the other. Agents were engaged, correspondentslevied en masse. The invasion of Xerxes on the Greeks was not moremunificently provided for than that of "The Capitalist" upon thecredulity and avarice of mankind.

But as Providence bestows upon fishes the instrument of fins, wherebythey balance and direct their movements, however rapid and erratic,through the pathless deeps, so to the cold-blooded creatures of ourown species--that may be classed under the genus Money-Makers--thesame protective power accords the fin-like properties of prudence andcaution, wherewith your true money-getter buoys and guides himselfmajestically through the great seas of speculation. In short, the fishesthe net was cast for were all scared from the surface at the firstsplash. They came round and smelt at the mesh with their sharpbottle-noses, and then, plying those invaluable fins, made off as fastas they could, plunging into the mud, hiding themselves under rocks andcoral banks. Metaphor apart, the capitalists buttoned up their pockets,and would have nothing to say to their namesake.

Not a word of this change, so abhorrent to all the notions of poorAugustine Caxton, had been breathed to him by Peck or Tibbets. He ateand slept and worked at the Great Book, occasionally wondering why hehad not heard of the advent of the "Literary Times," unconscious of allthe awful responsibilities which "The Capitalist" was entailing on him,knowing no more of "The Capitalist" than he did of the last loan of theRothschilds.

Difficult was it for all other human nature, save my father's, not tobreathe an indignant anathema on the scheming head of the brother-in-lawwho had thus violated the most sacred obligations of trust and kindred,and so entangled an unsuspecting recluse. But, to give even Jack Tibbetshis due, he had firmly convinced himself that "The Capitalist" wouldmake my father's fortune; and if he did not announce to him the strangeand anomalous development into which the original sleeping chrysalis ofthe "Literary Times" had taken portentous wing, it was purely and whollyin the knowledge that my father's "prejudices," as he termed them, wouldstand in the way of his becoming a Croesus. And, in fact, Uncle Jackhad believed so heartily in his own project that he had put himselfthoroughly into Mr. Peck's power, signed bills, in his own name, tosome fabulous amount, and was actually now in the Fleet, whence hispenitential and despairing confession was dated, arriving simultaneouslywith a short letter from Mr. Peck, wherein that respectable printerapprised my father that he had continued, at his own risk, thepublication of "The Capitalist" as far as a prudent care for his familywould permit; that he need not say that a new daily journal was a veryvast experiment; that the expense of such a paper as "The Capitalist"was immeasurably greater than that of a mere literary periodical, asoriginally suggested; and that now, being constrained to come uponthe shareholders for the sums he had advanced, amounting toseveral thousands, he requested my father to settle with himimmediately,--delicately implying that Mr. Caxton himself might settleas he could with the other shareholders, most of whom, he grieved toadd, he had been misled by Mr. Tibbets into believing to be men ofsubstance, when in reality they were men of straw!

Nor was this all the evil. The "Great Anti-Bookseller PublishingSociety," which had maintained a struggling existence, evinced byadvertisements of sundry forthcoming works of solid interest andenduring nature, wherein, out of a long list, amidst a pompous array of"Poems;" "Dramas not intended for the Stage;" "Essays by Phileutheros,Philanthropos, Philopolis, Philodemus, and Philalethes," stoodprominently forth "The History of Human Error, Vols. I. and II., quarto,with illustrations,"--the "Anti-Bookseller Society," I say, that hadhitherto evinced nascent and budding life by these exfoliations from itsslender stem, died of a sudden blight the moment its sun, in the shapeof Uncle Jack, set in the Cimmerian regions of the Fleet; and a politeletter from another printer (O William Caxton, William Caxton, fatalprogenitor!) informing my father of this event, stated complimentarilythat it was to him, "as the most respectable member of the Association,"that the said printer would be compelled to look for expenses incurred,not only in the very costly edition of the "History of Human Error," butfor those incurred in the print and paper devoted to "Poems," "Dramasnot intended for the Stage," "Essays by Phileutheros, Philanthropos,Philopolis, Philodemus, and Philalethes," with sundry other works, nodoubt of a very valuable nature, but in which a considerable loss, in apecuniary point of view, must be necessarily expected.

I own that as soon as I had mastered the above agreeable facts, andascertained from Mr. Squills that my father really did seem to haverendered himself legally liable to these demands, I leaned back in mychair stunned and bewildered.

"So you see," said my father, "that as yet we are contending withmonsters in the dark,--in the dark all monsters look larger and uglier.Even Augustus Caesar, though certainly he had never scrupled to makeas many ghosts as suited his convenience, did not like the chance of avisit from them, and never sat alone in tenebris. What the amount of thesums claimed from me may be, we know not; what may be gained from theother shareholders is equally obscure and undefined. But the first thingto do is to get poor Jack out of prison."

"Uncle Jack out of prison!" exclaimed I. "Surely, sir, that is carryingforgiveness too far."

"Why, he would not have been in prison if I had not been so blindlyforgetful of his weakness, poor man! I ought to have known better. Butmy vanity misled me; I must needs publish a great book, as if [said Mr.Caxton, looking round the shelves] there were not great books enoughin the world! I must needs, too, think of advancing and circulatingknowledge in the form of a journal,--I, who had not knowledge enough ofthe character of my own brother-in-law to keep myself from ruin! Comewhat will, I should think myself the meanest of men to let that poorcreature, whom I ought to have considered as a monomaniac, rot in prisonbecause I, Austin Caxton, wanted common-sense. And [concluded my father,resolutely] he is your mother's brother, Pisistratus. I should have goneto town at once, but hearing that my wife had written to you, I waitedtill I could leave her to the companionship of hope and comfort,--twoblessings that smile upon every mother in the face of a son like you.To-morrow I go."

"Not a bit of it," said Mr. Squills, firmly; "as your medical adviser, Iforbid you to leave the house for the next six days."

(1) Tibullus, iii. 4,55.

CHAPTER II.

"Sir," continued Mr. Squills, biting off the end of a cigar which hepulled from his pocket, "you concede to me that it is a very importantbusiness on which you propose to go to London."

"Of that there is no doubt," replied my father.

"And the doing of business well or ill entirely depends upon the habitof body!" cried Mr. Squills, triumphantly. "Do you know, Mr. Caxton,that while you are looking so calm, and talking so quietly,--just onpurpose to sustain your son and delude your wife,--do you know that yourpulse, which is naturally little more than sixty, is nearly a hundred?Do you know, sir, that your mucous membranes are in a state of highirritation, apparent by the papillae at the tip of your tongue? And if,with a pulse like this and a tongue like that, you think of settlingmoney matters with a set of sharp-witted tradesmen, all I can say is,that you are a ruined man."

"But--" began my father.

"Did not Squire Rollick," pursued Mr. Squills,--"Squire Rollick, thehardest head at a bargain I know of,--did not Squire Rollick sell thatpretty little farm of his, Scranny Holt, for thirty per cent below itsvalue? And what was the cause, sir? The whole county was in amaze! Whatwas the cause, but an incipient simmering attack of the yellow jaundice,which made him take a gloomy view of human life and the agriculturalinterest? On the other hand, did not Lawyer Cool, the most prudent manin the three kingdoms,--Lawyer Cool, who was so methodical that all theclocks in the county were set by his watch,--plunge one morning headover heels into a frantic speculation for cultivating the bogs inIreland? (His watch did not go right for the next three months, whichmade our whole shire an hour in advance of the rest of England!) Andwhat was the cause of that nobody knew, till I was called in, and foundthe cerebral membrane in a state of acute irritation,--probably just inthe region of his acquisitiveness and ideality. No, Mr. Caxton, youwill stay at home and take a soothing preparation I shall send you, oflettuce-leaves and marshmallows. But I," continued Squills, lighting hiscigar and taking two determined whiffs,--"but I will go up to town andsettle the business for you, and take with me this young gentleman,whose digestive functions are just in a state to deal safely with thosehorrible elements of dyspepsia,--the L. S. D."

As he spoke, Mr. Squills set his foot significantly upon mine.

"But," resumed my father, mildly, "though I thank you very much,Squills, for your kind offer, I do not recognize the necessity ofaccepting it. I am not so bad a philosopher as you seem to imagine; andthe blow I have received has not so deranged my physical organization asto render me unfit to transact my affairs."

"Hum!" grunted Squills, starting up and seizing my father's pulse;"ninety-six,--ninety-six if a beat! And the tongue, sir!"

"Pshaw!" quoth my father; "you have not even seen my tongue!"

"No need of that; I know what it is by the state of the eyelids,--tipscarlet, sides rough as a nutmeg-grater!"

"Pshaw!" again said my father, this time impatiently.

"Well," said Squills, solemnly, "it is my duty to say," (here my motherentered, to tell me that supper was ready), "and I say it to you, Mrs.Caxton, and to you, Mr. Pisistratus Caxton, as the parties most nearlyinterested, that if you, sir, go to London upon this matter, I'll notanswer for the consequences."

"Oh! Austin, Austin," cried my mother, running up and throwing herarms round my father's neck; while I, little less alarmed by Squills'sserious tone and aspect, represented strongly the inutility of Mr.Caxton's personal interference at the present moment. All he could doon arriving in town would be to put the matter into the hands of a goodlawyer, and that we could do for him; it would be time enough tosend for him when the extent of the mischief done was more clearlyascertained. Meanwhile Squills griped my father's pulse, and my motherhung on his neck.

"Ninety-six--ninety-seven!" groaned Squills in a hollow voice.

"I don't believe it!" cried my father, almost in a passion,--"neverbetter nor cooler in my life."

"And the tongue--Look at his tongue, Mrs. Caxton,--a tongue, ma'am, sobright that you could see to read by it!"

"Oh! Austin, Austin!"

"My dear, it is not my tongue that is in fault, I assure you," said myfather, speaking through his teeth; "and the man knows no more of mytongue than he does of the Mysteries of Eleusis."

"Put it out then," exclaimed Squills; "and if it be not as I say, youhave my leave to go to London and throw your whole fortune into the twogreat pits you have dug for it. Put it out!"

"Mr. Squills!" said my father, coloring,--"Mr. Squills, for shame!"

"Dear, dear, Austin! your hand is so hot; you are feverish, I am sure."

"Not a bit of it."

"But, sir, only just gratify Mr. Squills," said I, coaxingly.

"There, there!" said my father, fairly baited into submission, and shylyexhibiting for a moment the extremest end of the vanquished organ ofeloquence.

Squills darted forward his lynx-like eyes. "Red as a lobster, and roughas a gooseberry-bush!" cried Squills, in a tone of savage joy.

CHAPTER III.

How was it possible for one poor tongue, so reviled and persecuted, sohumbled, insulted, and triumphed over, to resist three tongues in leagueagainst it?

Finally, my father yielded, and Squills; in high spirits, declared thathe would go to supper with me, to see that I ate nothing that would tendto discredit his reliance on my system. Leaving my mother still with herAustin, the good surgeon then took my arm, and as soon as we were inthe next room, shut the door carefully, wiped his forehead, and said: "Ithink we have saved him!"

"Would it really, then, have injured my father so much?"

"So much? Why, you foolish young man, don't you see that with hisignorance of business where he himself is concerned,--though forany other one's business, neither Rollick nor Cool has a betterjudgment,--and with his d--d Quixotic spirit of honor worked up into astate of excitement, he would have rushed to Mr. Tibbets and exclaimed,'How much do we owe you? There it is,' settled in the same way withthese printers, and come back without a sixpence; whereas you and I canlook coolly about us and reduce the inflammation to the minimum!"

"I see, and thank you heartily, Squills."

"Besides," said the surgeon, with more feeling, "your father has reallybeen making a noble effort over himself. He suffers more than you wouldthink,--not for himself (for I do believe that if he were alone in theworld, he would be quite contented if he could save fifty pounds a-yearand his books), but for your mother and yourself; and a fresh access ofemotional excitement, all the nervous anxiety of a journey to London onsuch a business, might have ended in a paralytic or epileptic affection.Now we have him here snug; and the worst news we can give him will bebetter than what he will make up his mind for. But you don't eat."

"Eat! How can I? My poor father!"

"The effect of grief upon the gastric juices, through the nervoussystem, is very remarkable," said Mr. Squills, philosophically, andhelping himself to a broiled bone; "it increases the thirst, while ittakes away hunger. No--don't touch port!--heating! Sherry and water."

CHAPTER IV.

The house-door had closed upon Mr. Squills,--that gentleman havingpromised to breakfast with me the next morning, so that we mighttake the coach from our gate,--and I remained alone, seated by thesupper-table, and revolving all I had heard, when my father walked in.

"Pisistratus," said he gravely, and looking round him, "yourmother!--suppose the worst--your first care, then, must be to try andsecure something for her. You and I are men,--we can never want, whilewe have health of mind and body; but a woman--and if anything happens tome--"

My father's lip writhed as it uttered these brief sentences.

"My dear, dear father!" said I, suppressing my tears with difficulty,"all evils, as you yourself said, look worse by anticipation. It isimpossible that your whole fortune can be involved. The newspaper didnot run many weeks, and only the first volume of your work is printed.Besides, there must be other shareholders who will pay their quota.Believe me, I feel sanguine as to the result of my embassy. As for mypoor mother, it is not the loss of fortune that will wound her,--dependon it, she thinks very little of that,--it is the loss of yourconfidence."

"My confidence!"

"Ah, yes! tell her all your fears, as your hopes. Do not let youraffectionate pity exclude her from one corner of your heart."

"It is that, it is that, Austin,--my husband--my joy--my pride--mysoul--my all!" cried a soft, broken voice.

My mother had crept in, unobserved by us.

My father looked at us both, and the tears which had before stood in hiseyes forced their way. Then opening his arms, into which his Kitty threwherself joyfully, he lifted those moist eyes upward, and by the movementof his lips I saw that he thanked God.

I stole out of the room. I felt that those two hearts should be leftto beat and to blend alone. And from that hour I am convinced thatAugustine Caxton acquired a stouter philosophy than that of the Stoics.The fortitude that concealed pain was no longer needed, for the pain wasno longer felt.

CHAPTER V.

Mr. Squills and I performed our journey without adventure, and as wewere not alone on the coach, with little conversation. We put up ata small inn in the City, and the next morning I sallied forth to seeTrevanion; for we agreed that he would be the best person to adviseus. But on arriving at St. James's Square I had the disappointment ofhearing that the whole family had gone to Paris three days before, andwere not expected to return till the meeting of Parliament.

This was a sad discouragement, for I had counted much on Trevanion'sclear head and that extraordinary range of accomplishment in all mattersof business--all that related to practical life--which my old patronpre-eminently possessed. The next thing would be to find Trevanion'slawyer (for Trevanion was one of those men whose solicitors are sure tobe able and active). But the fact was that he left so little to lawyersthat he had never had occasion to communicate with one since I had knownhim, and I was therefore in ignorance of the very name of his solicitor;nor could the porter, who was left in charge of the house, enlighten me.Luckily, I bethought myself of Sir Sedley Beaudesert, who could scarcelyfail to give me the information required, and who, at all events, mightrecommend to me some other lawyer. So to him I went.

I found Sir Sedley at breakfast with a young gentleman who seemed abouttwenty. The good baronet was delighted to see me; but I thought it waswith a little confusion, rare to his cordial ease, that he presented meto his cousin, Lord Castleton. It was a name familiar to me, though Ihad never before met its patrician owner.

The Marquis of Castleton was indeed a subject of envy to young idlers,and afforded a theme of interest to gray-bearded politicians. Often hadI heard of "that lucky fellow Castleton," who when of age would stepinto one of those colossal fortunes which would realize the dreams ofAladdin,--a fortune that had been out to nurse since his minority.Often had I heard graver gossips wonder whether Castleton would takeany active part in public life,--whether he would keep up the familyinfluence. His mother (still alive) was a superior woman, and haddevoted herself, from his childhood, to supply a father's loss and fithim for his great position. It was said that he was clever, had beeneducated by a tutor of great academic distinction, and was reading for adouble-first class at Oxford. This young marquis was indeed the headof one of those few houses still left in England that retain feudalimportance. He was important, not only from his rank and his vastfortune, but from an immense circle of powerful connections; from theability of his two predecessors, who had been keen politicians andcabinet ministers; from the prestige they had bequeathed to his name;from the peculiar nature of his property, which gave him the returninginterest in no less than six parliamentary seats in Great Britainand Ireland; besides the indirect ascendency which the head of theCastletons had always exercised over many powerful and noble allies ofthat princely house. I was not aware that he was related to Sir Sedley,whose world of action was so remote from politics; and it was with somesurprise that I now heard that announcement, and certainly with someinterest that I, perhaps from the verge of poverty, gazed on this youngheir of fabulous El Dorados.

It was easy to see that Lord Castleton had been brought up witha careful knowledge of his future greatness, and its seriousresponsibilities. He stood immeasurably aloof from all the affectationscommon to the youth of minor patricians. He had not been taught to valuehimself on the cut of a coat or the shape of a hat. His world was farabove St. James's Street and the clubs. He was dressed plainly, thoughin a style peculiar to himself,--a white neck-cloth (which was notat that day quite so uncommon for morning use as it is now), trouserswithout straps, thin shoes, and gaiters. In his manner there was nothingof the supercilious apathy which characterizes the dandy introducedto some one whom he doubts if he can nod to from the bow-window atWhite's,--none of such vulgar coxcombries had Lord Castleton; and yet ayoung gentleman more emphatically coxcomb it was impossible to see. Hehad been told, no doubt, that as the head of a house which was almostin itself a party in the state, he should be bland and civil to all men;and this duty being grafted upon a nature singularly cold and unsocial,gave to his politeness something so stiff, yet so condescending thatit brought the blood to one's cheek,--though the momentary anger wascounterbalanced by a sense of the almost ludicrous contrast between thisgracious majesty of deportment and the insignificant figure, with theboyish beardless face, by which it was assumed. Lord Castleton did notcontent himself with a mere bow at our introduction. Much to my wonderhow he came by the information he displayed, he made me a littlespeech after the manner of Louis XIV. to a provincial noble, studiouslymodelled upon that royal maxim of urbane policy which instructs a kingthat he should know something of the birth, parentage, and family of hismeanest gentleman. It was a little speech in which my father's learningand my uncle's services and the amiable qualities of your humble servantwere neatly interwoven, delivered in a falsetto tone, as if learnedby heart, though it must have been necessarily impromptu; and then,reseating himself, he made a gracious motion of the head and hand, as ifto authorize me to do the same.

Conversation succeeded, by galvanic jerks and spasmodic starts,--aconversation that Lord Castleton contrived to tug so completely out ofpoor Sir Sedley's ordinary course of small and polished small-talkthat that charming personage, accustomed, as he well deserved, to beCoryphaeus at his own table, was completely silenced. With his lightreading, his rich stores of anecdote, his good-humored knowledge of thedrawing-room world, he had scarce a word that would fit into the great,rough, serious matters which Lord Castleton threw upon the table as henibbled his toast. Nothing but the most grave and practical subjects ofhuman interest seemed to attract this future leader of mankind. Thefact is that Lord Castleton had been taught everything that relates toproperty,--a knowledge which embraces a very wide circumference. Ithad been said to him, "You will be an immense proprietor: knowledgeis essential to your self-preservation. You will be puzzled, bubbled,ridiculed, duped every day of your life if you do not make yourselfacquainted with all by which property is assailed or defended,impoverished or increased. You have a vast stake in the country, youmust learn all the interests of Europe,--nay, of the civilized world;for those interests react on the country, and the interests of thecountry are of the greatest possible consequence to the interests of theMarquis of Castleton." Thus the state of the Continent; the policy ofMetternich; the condition of the Papacy; the growth of Dissent; theproper mode of dealing with the general spirit of Democracy, which wasthe epidemic of European monarchies; the relative proportions of theagricultural and manufacturing population; corn-laws, currency, and thelaws that regulate wages; a criticism on the leading speakers of theHouse of Commons, with some discursive observations on the importance offattening cattle; the introduction of flax into Ireland; emigration;the condition of the poor; the doctrines of Mr. Owen; the pathologyof potatoes; the connection between potatoes, pauperism, andpatriotism,--these and suchlike stupendous subjects for reflection, allbranching more or less intricately from the single idea of the Castletonproperty, the young lord discussed and disposed of in half-a-dozen prim,poised sentences; evincing, I must say in justice, no inconsiderableinformation, and a mighty solemn turn of mind. The oddity was that thesubjects so selected and treated should not come rather from some youngbarrister, or mature political economist, than from so gorgeous a lilyof the field. Of a man less elevated in rank one would certainlyhave said, "Cleverish, but a prig;" but there really was something sorespectable in a personage born to such fortunes, and having nothingto do but to bask in the sunshine, voluntarily taking such pains withhimself and condescending to identify his own interests--theinterests of the Castleton property--with the concerns of his lesserfellow-mortals that one felt the young marquis had in him the stuff tobecome a very considerable man.

Poor Sir Sedley, to whom all these matters were as unfamiliar asthe theology of the Talmud, after some vain efforts to slidethe conversation into easier grooves, fairly gave in, and with acompassionate smile on his handsome countenance, took refuge in hiseasy-chair and the contemplation of his snuff-box.

At last, to our great relief, the servant announced Lord Castleton'scarriage; and with another speech of overpowering affability to me, anda cold shake of the hand to Sir Sedley, Lord Castleton went his way.

The breakfast-parlor looked on the street, and I turned mechanicallyto the window as Sir Sedley followed his guest out of the room. Atravelling carriage with four post-horses was at the door, and aservant, who looked like a foreigner, was in waiting with his master'scloak. As I saw Lord Castleton step into the street, and wrap himself inhis costly mantle lined with sables, I observed, more than I had whilehe was in the room, the enervate slightness of his frail form, and themore than paleness of his thin, joyless face; and then, instead of envy,I felt compassion for the owner of all this pomp and grandeur,--feltthat I would not have exchanged my hardy health and easy humor and vividcapacities of enjoyment in things the slightest and most within thereach of all men, for the wealth and greatness which that poor youthperhaps deserved the more for putting them so little to the service ofpleasure.

"Well," said Sir Sedley, "and what do you think of him?"

"He is just the sort of man Trevanion would like," said I, evasively.

"That is true," answered Sir Sedley, in a serious tone of voice, andlooking at me somewhat earnestly. "Have you heard? But no, you cannothave heard yet."

"Heard what?"

"My dear young friend," said the kindest and most delicate of all finegentlemen, sauntering away, that he might not observe the emotion hecaused, "Lord Castleton is going to Paris to join the Trevanions. Theobject Lady Ellinor has had at heart for many a long year is won, andour pretty Fanny will be Marchioness of Castleton when her betrothedis of age,--that is, in six months. The two mothers have settled it allbetween them."

I made no answer, but continued to look out of the window.

"This alliance," resumed Sir Sedley, "was all that was wanting to assureTrevanion's position. When Parliament meets, he will have some greatoffice. Poor man, how I shall pity him! It is extraordinary to me,"continued Sir Sedley, benevolently going on, that I might have full timeto recover myself, "how contagious that disease called 'business' is inour foggy England! Not only Trevanion, you see, has the complaint in itsvery worst and most complicated form, but that poor dear cousin of minewho is so young [here Sir Sedley sighed], and might enjoy himself somuch, is worse than you were when Trevanion was fagging you to death.But, to be sure, a great name and position, like Castleton's, must be avery heavy affliction to a conscientious mind. You see how the senseof its responsibilities has aged him already,--positively, two greatwrinkles under his eyes. Well, after all, I admire him and respect histutor: a soil naturally very thin, I suspect, has been most carefullycultivated; and Castleton, with Trevanion's help, will be the first manin the peerage,--prime minister some day, I dare say. And when I thinkof it, how grateful I ought to feel to his father and mother, whoproduced him quite in their old age; for if he had not been born, Ishould have been the most miserable of men,--yes, positively, thathorrible marquisate would have come to me! I never think over HoraceWalpole's regrets, when he got the earldom of Orford, without thedeepest sympathy, and without a shudder at the thought of what my dearLady Castleton was kind enough to save me from,--all owing to the Emswaters, after twenty years' marriage! Well, my young friend, and how areall at home?"

As when, some notable performer not having yet arrived behind thescenes, or having to change his dress, or not having yet quite recoveredan unlucky extra tumbler of exciting fluids, and the green curtain hastherefore unduly delayed its ascent, you perceive that the thorough-bassin the orchestra charitably devotes himself to a prelude of astonishingprolixity, calling in "Lodoiska" or "Der Freischutz" to beguile thetime, and allow the procrastinating histrio leisure sufficient to drawon his flesh-colored pantaloons and give himself the proper complexionfor a Coriolanus or Macbeth,--even so had Sir Sedley made that longspeech requiring no rejoinder, till he saw the time had arrived whenhe could artfully close, with the flourish of a final interrogative, inorder to give poor Pisistratus Caxton all preparation to compose himselfand step forward. There is certainly something of exquisite kindness andthoughtful benevolence in that rarest of gifts,--fine breeding; and whennow, re-manned and resolute, I turned round and saw Sir Sedley's softblue eye shyly, but benignantly, turned to me, while, with a grace noother snuff-taker ever had since the days of Pope, he gently proceededto refresh himself by a pinch of the celebrated Beaudesert mixture,--Ifelt my heart as gratefully moved towards him as if he had conferred onme some colossal obligation. And this crowning question, "And how areall at home?" restored me entirely to my self-possession, and for themoment distracted the bitter current of my thoughts.

I replied by a brief statement of my father's involvement, disguisingour apprehensions as to its extent, speaking of it rather as anannoyance than a possible cause of ruin, and ended by asking Sir Sedleyto give me the address of Trevanion's lawyer.

The good baronet listened with great attention; and that quickpenetration which belongs to a man of the world enabled him to detectthat I had smoothed over matters more than became a faithful narrator.

He shook his head, and, seating himself on the sofa, motioned me to cometo his side; then, leaning his arm over my shoulder, he said, in hisseductive, wincing way,--

"We two young fellows should understand each other when we talk ofmoney matters. I can say to you what I could not say to my respectablesenior,--by three years,--your excellent father. Frankly, then, Isuspect this is a bad business. I know little about newspapers, exceptthat I have to subscribe to one in my county, which costs me a smallincome; but I know that a London daily paper might ruin a man in a fewweeks. And as for shareholders, my dear Caxton, I was once teasedinto being a shareholder in a canal that ran through my property, andultimately ran off with L30,000 of it! The other shareholders were alldrowned in the canal, like Pharaoh and his host in the Red Sea. But yourfather is a great scholar, and must not be plagued with such matters. Iowe him a great deal. He was very kind to me at Cambridge, and gave methe taste for reading to which I owe the pleasantest hours of my life.So, when you and the lawyers have found out what the extent of themischief is, you and I must see how we can best settle it. What thedeuce! My young friend, I have no 'incumbrances,' as the servants,with great want of politeness, call wives and children. And I am not amiserable great landed millionnaire, like that poor dear Castleton, whoowes so many duties to society that he can't spend a shilling exceptin a grand way and purely to benefit the public. So go, my boy, toTrevanion's lawyer,--he is mine, too. Clever fellow, sharp as a needle,Mr. Pike, in Great Ormond Street,--name on a brass plate; and whenhe has settled the amount, we young scapegraces will help each other,without a word to the old folks."

What good it does to a man, throughout life, to meet kindness andgenerosity like this in his youth!

I need not say that I was too faithful a representative of my father'sscholarly pride and susceptible independence of spirit to accept thisproposal; and probably Sir Sedley, rich and liberal as he was, didnot dream of the extent to which his proposal might involve him. But Iexpressed my gratitude so as to please and move this last relic of theDe Coverleys, and went from his house straight to Mr. Pike's office,with a little note of introduction from Sir Sedley. I found Mr. Pikeexactly the man I had anticipated from Trevanion's character,--short,quick, intelligent, in question and answer; imposing and somewhatdomineering in manner; not overcrowded with business, but with enoughfor experience and respectability; neither young nor old; neither apedantic machine of parchment, nor a jaunty off-hand coxcomb of West Endmanners.

"It is an ugly affair," said he, "but one that requires management.Leave it all in my hands for three days. Don't go near Mr. Tibbets norMr. Peck; and on Saturday next, at two o'clock, if you will call here,you shall know my opinion of the whole matter." With that Mr. Pikeglanced at the clock, and I took up my hat and went.

There is no place more delightful than a great capital if you arecomfortably settled in it, have arranged the methodical disposal of yourtime, and know how to take business and pleasure in due proportions. Buta flying visit to a great capital in an unsettled, unsatisfactoryway; at an inn--an inn in the City too--with a great, worrying load ofbusiness on your mind, of which you are to hear no more for three days,and an aching, jealous, miserable sorrow at the heart such as I had,leaving you no labor to pursue and no pleasure that you have the heartto share in,--oh, a great capital then is indeed forlorn, wearisome, andoppressive! It is the Castle of Indolence, not as Thomson built it, butas Beckford drew in his Hall of Eblis,--a wandering up and down, to andfro; a great, awful space, with your hand pressed to your heart; and--ohfor a rush on some half-tamed horse through the measureless green wastesof Australia! That is the place for a man who has no home in the Babel,and whose hand is ever pressing to his heart, with its dull, burningpain.

Mr. Squills decoyed me the second evening into one of the smalltheatres; and very heartily did Mr. Squills enjoy all he saw and all heheard. And while, with a convulsive effort of the jaws, I was tryingto laugh too, suddenly in one of the actors, who was performing theworshipful part of a parish beadle, I recognized a face that I hadseen before. Five minutes afterwards I had disappeared from the side ofSquills, and was amidst that strange world,--Behind The Scenes.

My beadle was much too busy and important to allow me a good opportunityto accost him till the piece was over. I then seized hold of him as hewas amicably sharing a pot of porter with a gentleman in black shortsand a laced waistcoat, who was to play the part of a broken-heartedfather in the Domestic Drama in Three Acts that would conclude theamusements of the evening.

"Excuse me," said I, apologetically; "but as the Swan pertinentlyobserves, 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot?'"

"The Swan, sir!" cried the beadle, aghast,--"the Swan never demeanedhimself by such d--d broad Scotch as that!"

"The Tweed has its swans as well as the Avon, Mr. Peacock."

"St--st--hush--hush-h--u--sh!" whispered the beadle in great alarm,and eying me, with savage observation, under his corked eyebrows. Then,taking me by the arm, he jerked me away. When he had got as far as thenarrow limits of that little stage would allow, Mr. Peacock said,--

"Sir, you have the advantage of me; I don't remember you. Ah! you neednot look--by gad, sir, I am not to be bullied--it was all fair play. Ifyou will play with gentlemen, sir, you must run the consequences."

I hastened to appease the worthy man.

"Indeed, Mr. Peacock, if you remember, I refused to play with you; andso far from wishing to offend you, I now come on purpose to complimentyou on your excellent acting, and to inquire if you have heard anythinglately of your young friend Mr. Vivian."

"Vivian? Never heard the name, sir. Vivian! Pooh, you are trying to hoaxme; very good!"

"I assure you, Mr. Peac--"

"St--st--How the deuce did you know that I was once called Peac--, thatis, people called me Peac--. A friendly nickname, no more. Drop it, sir,or you 'touch me with noble anger'!"

"Well, well; 'the rose by any name will smell as sweet,' as the Swan,this time at least, judiciously observes. But Mr. Vivian, too, seems tohave other names at his disposal. I mean a young, dark, handsomeman--or rather boy--with whom I met you in company by the roadside, onemorning."

"O--h!" said Mr. Peacock, looking much relieved, "I know whom you mean,though I don't remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you before.No; I have not heard any thing of the young man lately. I wish I didknow something of him. He was a 'gentleman in my own way.' Sweet Willhas hit him off to a hair--!

 'The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword.'

"Such a hand with a cue! You should have seen him seek the 'bubblereputation at the cannon's mouth.' I may say," continued Mr. Peacock,emphatically, "that he was a regular trump--Trump!" he reiterated with astart, as if the word had stung him--"trump! he was a Brick!"

Then fixing his eyes on mine, dropping his arms, interlacing his fingersin the manner recorded of Talma in the celebrated "Qu'en dis-tu!" heresumed in a hollow voice, slow and distinct--

"When--saw--you--him,--young m--m--a--n--nnn?"

Finding the tables thus turned on myself, and not willing to giveMr. Peac--any clew to poor Vivian (who thus appeared, to my greatsatisfaction, to have finally dropped an acquaintance more versatilethan reputable), I contrived, by a few evasive sentences, to keep Mr.Peac--'s curiosity at a distance till he was summoned in haste to changehis attire for the domestic drama. And so we parted.

CHAPTER. VI.

I hate law details as cordially as my readers can, and therefore I shallcontent myself with stating that Mr. Pike's management at the end, notof three days, but of two weeks, was so admirable that Uncle Jack wasdrawn out of prison and my father extracted from all his liabilitiesby a sum two thirds less than was first startlingly submitted to ourindignant horror,--and that, too, in a manner that would have satisfiedthe conscience of the most punctilious formalist whose contributionto the national fund for an omitted payment to the Income Tax theChancellor of the Exchequer ever had the honor to acknowledge. Still,the sum was very large in proportion to my poor father's income; andwhat with Jack's debts, the claims of the Anti-Publisher Society'sprinter, including the very expensive plates that had been so lavishlybespoken, and in great part completed, for the "History of Human Error,"and, above all, the liabilities incurred on "The Capitalist;" what withthe plant, as Mr. Peck technically phrased a great upas-tree of a total,branching out into types, cases, printing-presses, engines, etc., allnow to be resold at a third of their value; what with advertisementsand bills that had covered all the dead-walls by which rubbish might beshot, throughout the three kingdoms; what with the dues of reporters,and salaries of writers, who had been engaged for a year at least to"The Capitalist," and whose claims survived the wretch they had killedand buried; what, in short, with all that the combined ingenuity ofUncle Jack and Printer Peck could supply for the utter ruin of theCaxton family (even after all deductions, curtailments, and after allthat one could extract in the way of just contribution from the leastunsubstantial of those shadows called the shareholders),--my father'sfortune was reduced to a sum of between seven and eight thousand pounds,which being placed at mortgage at four per cent, yielded just L372 10s.a year: enough for my father to live upon, but not enough to affordalso his son Pisistratus the advantages of education at Trinity College,Cambridge. The blow fell rather upon me than my father, and my youngshoulders bore it without much wincing.

This settled to our universal satisfaction, I went to pay my farewellvisit to Sir Sedley Beaudesert. He had made much of me during my stayin London. I had breakfasted and dined with him pretty often; I hadpresented Squills to him, who no sooner set eyes upon that splendidconformation than he described his character with the nicest accuracy,as the necessary consequence of such a development for the rosypleasures of life. We had never once retouched on the subject of Fanny'smarriage, and both of us tacitly avoided even mentioning the Trevanions.But in this last visit, though he maintained the same reserve as toFanny, he referred without scruple to her father.

"Well, my young Athenian," said he, after congratulating me on theresult of the negotiations, and endeavoring again in vain to bear atleast some share in my father's losses, "well, I see I cannot press thisfurther; but at least I can press on you any little interest I may havein obtaining some appointment for yourself in one of the public offices.Trevanion could of course be more useful; but I can understand that heis not the kind of man you would like to apply to."

"Shall I own to you, my dear Sir Sedley, that I have no taste forofficial employment? I am too fond of my liberty. Since I have been atmy uncle's old Tower, I account for half my character by the Borderer'sblood that is in me. I doubt if I am meant for the life of cities; and Ihave odd floating notions in my head that will serve to amuse me whenI get home, and may settle into schemes. And now to change the subject:may I ask what kind of person has succeeded me as Mr. Trevanion'ssecretary?"

"Why, he has got a broad-shouldered, stooping fellow, in spectaclesand cotton stockings, who has written upon 'Rent,' I believe,--animaginative treatise in his case, I fear, for rent is a thing he couldnever have received, and not often been trusted to pay. However, heis one of your political economists, and wants Trevanion to sell hispictures, as 'unproductive capital.' Less mild than Pope's Narcissa, 'tomake a wash,' he would certainly 'stew a child.' Besides this officialsecretary, Trevanion trusts, however, a good deal to a clever,good-looking young gentleman who is a great favorite with him."

"What is his name?"

"His name? Oh! Gower,--a natural son, I believe, of one of the Gowerfamily."

Here two of Sir Sedley's fellow fine gentlemen lounged in, and my visitended.

CHAPTER VII.

"I Swear," cried my uncle, "that it shall be so." And with a big frownand a truculent air he seized the fatal instrument.

"Indeed, brother, it must not," said my father, laying one pale,scholar-like hand mildly on Captain Roland's brown, bellicose, andbony fist, and with the other, outstretched, protecting the menaced,palpitating victim.

Not a word had my uncle heard of our losses until they had been adjustedand the sum paid; for we all knew that the old Tower would have beengone--sold to some neighboring squire or jobbing attorney--at the firstimpetuous impulse of Uncle Roland's affectionate generosity. Austinendangered! Austin ruined!--he would never have rested till he came,cash in hand, to his deliverance. Therefore, I say, not till all wassettled did I write to the Captain and tell him gayly what had chanced.And however light I made of our misfortunes, the letter brought theCaptain to the red brick house the same evening on which I myselfreached it, and about an hour later. My uncle had not sold the Tower,but he came prepared to carry us off to it vi et armis. We must livewith him and on him, let or sell the brick house, and put out theremnant of my father's income to nurse and accumulate. And it was onfinding my father's resistance stubborn, and that hitherto he had madeno way, that my uncle, stepping back into the hall, in which he had lefthis carpet bag, etc., returned with an old oak case, and, touching aspring roller, out flew the Caxton pedigree.

Out it flew, covering all the table, and undulating, Nile-like, till ithad spread over books, papers, my mother's work-box, and the tea-service(for the table was large and compendious, emblematic of its owner'smind); and then, flowing on the carpet, dragged its slow length alongtill it was stopped by the fender.

"Now," said my uncle, solemnly, "there never have been but two causes ofdifference between you and me, Austin. One is over: why should the otherlast? Aha! I know why you hang back: you think that we may quarrel aboutit!"

"About what, Roland?"

"About it, I say; and I'll be d--d if we do!" cried my uncle, reddening."And I have been thinking a great deal upon the matter, and I have nodoubt you are right. So I brought the old parchment with me, and youshall see me fill up the blank just as you would have it. Now, then,you will come and live with me, and we can never quarrel any more."Thus saying, Uncle Roland looked round for pen and ink; and having foundthem,--not without difficulty, for they had been submerged under theoverflow of the pedigree,--he was about to fill up the lacuna, orhiatus, which had given rise to such memorable controversy, with thename of "William Caxton, printer in the Sanctuary," when my father,slowly recovering his breath, and aware of his brother's purpose,intervened. It would have done your heart good to hear them, socompletely, in the inconsistency of human nature, had they changed sidesupon the question,--my father now all for Sir William de Caxton, thehero of Bosworth; my uncle all for the immortal printer. And inthis discussion they grew animated their eyes sparkled, their voicesrose,--Roland's voice deep and thunderous, Austin's sharp and piercing.Mr. Squills stopped his ears. Thus it arrived at that point, when myuncle doggedly came to the end of all argumentation,--"I swear that itshall be so;" and my father, trying the last resource of pathos, lookedpleadingly into Roland's eyes, and said, with a tone soft as mercy,"Indeed, brother, it must not." Meanwhile the dry parchment crisped,creaked, and trembled in every pore of its yellow skin.

"But," said I, coming in opportunely, like the Horatian deity, "Idon't see that either of you gentlemen has a right so to dispose of myancestry. It is quite clear that a man has no possession in posterity.Posterity may possess him; but deuce a bit will he ever be the betterfor his great great-grandchildren!"

Squills.--"Hear, hear!"

Pisistratus (warming).--"But a man's ancestry is a positive property tohim. How much, not only of acres, but of his constitution, his temper,his conduct, character, and nature, he may inherit from some progenitorten times removed! Nay, without that progenitor would he ever have beenborn,--would a Squills ever have introduced him into the world, or anurse ever have carried him upo kolpo!"

Squills.--"Hear, hear!"

Pisistratus (with dignified emotion).--"No man, therefore, has a rightto rob another of a forefather, with a stroke of his pen, from anymotive, howsoever amiable. In the present instance you will say,perhaps, that the ancestor in question is apocryphal,--it may be theprinter, it may be the knight. Granted; but here, where history isin fault, shall a mere sentiment decide? While both are doubtful, myimagination appropriates both. At one time I can reverence industry andlearning in the printer; at another, valor and devotion in the knight.This kindly doubt gives me two great forefathers; and, through them, twotrains of idea that influence my conduct under different circumstances.I will not permit you, Captain Roland, to rob me of either forefather,either train of idea. Leave, then, this sacred void unfilled,unprofaned, and accept this compromise of chivalrous courtesy while myfather lives with the Captain, we will believe in the printer; when awayfrom the Captain, we will stand firm to the knight."

"Good!" cried Uncle Roland, as I paused, a little out of breath.

"And," said my mother, softly, "I do think, Austin, there is a way ofsettling the matter which will please all parties. It is quite sad tothink that poor Roland and dear little Blanche should be all alone inthe Tower; and I am sure that we should be much happier all together."

"There!" cried Roland, triumphantly. "If you are not the most obstinate,hard-hearted, unfeeling brute in the world,--which I don't take you tobe,--brother Austin, after that really beautiful speech of your wife's,there is not a word to be said further."

"But we have not yet heard Kitty to the end, Roland."

"I beg your pardon a thousand times, ma'am--sister," said the Captain,bowing.

"Well, I was going to add," said my mother, "that we will go and livewith you, Roland, and club our little fortunes together. Blanche and Iwill take care of the house, and we shall be just twice as rich togetheras we are separately."

"Pretty sort of hospitality that!" grunted the Captain. "I did notexpect you to throw me over in that way. No, no; you must lay by for theboy there. What's to become of him?"

"But we shall all lay by for him," said my mother, simply,--"you as wellas Austin. We shall have more to save, if we have more to spend."

"Ah, save!--that is easily said; there would be a pleasure in saving,then," said the Captain, mournfully.

"And what's to become of me?" cried Squills, very petulantly. "Am Ito be left here in my old age, not a rational soul to speak to, and noother place in the village where there's a drop of decent punch to behad? 'A plague on both your houses!' as the chap said at the theatre theother night."

"There's room for a doctor in our neighborhood, Mr. Squills," said theCaptain. "The gentleman in your profession who does for us, wants, Iknow, to sell the business."

"Humph," said Squills,--"a horribly healthy neighborhood, I suspect!"

"Why, it has that misfortune, Mr. Squills; but with your help," said myuncle, slyly, "a great alteration for the better may be effected in thatrespect."

Mr. Squills was about to reply when ring--a--ting--ring--ting!there came such a brisk, impatient, make-one's-self-at home kind oftintinnabular alarum at the great gate that we all started up and lookedat each other in surprise. Who could it possibly be? We were not keptlong in suspense; for in another moment Uncle Jack's voice, which wasalways very clear and distinct, pealed through the hall, and we werestill staring at each other when Mr. Tibbets, with a bran-new mufflerround his neck, and a peculiarly comfortable greatcoat,--best doubleSaxony, equally new,--dashed into the room, bringing with him a veryconsiderable quantity of cold air, which he hastened to thaw, firstin my father's arms, next in my mother's. He then made a rush at theCaptain, who ensconced himself behind the dumb-waiter with a "Hem!Mr.--sir--Jack--sir--hem, hem!" Failing there, Mr. Tibbets rubbed offthe remaining frost upon his double Saxony against your humble servant,patted Squills affectionately on the back, and then proceeded to occupyhis favorite position before the fire.

"Took you by surprise, eh?" said Uncle Jack, unpeeling himself by thehearth-rug. "But no,--not by surprise; you must have known Jack's heart:you at least, Austin Caxton, who know everything,--you must have seenthat it overflowed with the tenderest and most brotherly emotions; thatonce delivered from that cursed Fleet (you have no idea what a place itis, sir!), I could not rest, night or day, till I had flown here,--here,to the dear family nest,--poor wounded dove that I am," added UncleJack, pathetically, and taking out his pocket-handkerchief from thedouble Saxony, which he had now flung over my father's arm-chair.

Not a word replied to this eloquent address, with its touchingperoration. My mother hung down her pretty head and looked ashamed. Myuncle retreated quite into the corner and drew the dumb-waiter afterhim, so as to establish a complete fortification. Mr. Squills seized thepen that Roland had thrown down, and began mending it furiously,--thatis, cutting it into slivers,--thereby denoting, symbolically, how hewould like to do with Uncle Jack, could he once get him safe and snugunder his manipular operations. I bent over the pedigree, and my fatherrubbed his spectacles.

The silence would have been appalling to another man: nothing appalledUncle Jack.

Uncle Jack turned to the fire, and warmed first one foot, then theother. This comfortable ceremony performed, he again faced thecompany, and resumed, musingly, and as if answering some imaginaryobservations,--

"Yes, yes, you are right there; and a deuced unlucky speculation itproved too. But I was overruled by that fellow Peck. Says I to him, saysI, 'Capitalist!--pshaw! no popular interest there; it don't addressthe great public! Very confined class the capitalists, betterthrow ourselves boldly on the people. Yes,' said I, 'call it the"Anti-Capitalist."' By Jove! sir, we should have carried all before us!but I was overruled. The 'Anti-Capitalist'!--what an idea! Addressthe whole reading world, there, sir: everybody hates thecapitalist--everybody would have his neighbor's money. The'Anti-Capitalist'!--sir, we should have gone off, in the manufacturingtowns, like wildfire. But what could I do?--"

"John Tibbets," said my father, solemnly, "Capitalist 'or'Anti-Capitalist,' thou hadst a right to follow thine own bent ineither,--but always provided it had been with thine own money. Thouseest not the thing, John Tibbets, in the right point of view; and alittle repentance in the face of those thou hast wronged, would not havemisbecome thy father's son and thy sister's brother!"

Never had so severe a rebuke issued from the mild lips of Austin Caxton;and I raised my eyes with a compassionate thrill, expecting to see JohnTibbets gradually sink and disappear through the carpet.

"Repentance!" cried Uncle Jack, bounding up as if he had been shot. "Anddo you think I have a heart of stone, of pumice-stone? Do you think Idon't repent? I have done nothing but repent; I shall repent to my dyingday."

"Then there is no more to be said, Jack," cried my father, softening,and holding out his hand.

"Yes!" cried Mr. Tibbets, seizing the hand and pressing it to the hearthe had thus defended from the suspicion of being pumice, "yes,--that Ishould have trusted that dunderheaded, rascally curmudgeon Peck; thatI should have let him call it 'The Capitalist,' despite all myconvictions, when the Anti--'"

"Pshaw!" interrupted my father, drawing away his hand.

"John," said my mother, gravely, and with tears in her voice, "youforget who delivered you from prison; you forget whom you have nearlyconsigned to prison yourself; you forg--"

"Hush, hush!" said my father, "this will never do; and it is you whoforget, my dear, the obligations I owe to Jack. He has reduced myfortune one half, it is true; but I verily think he has made the threehearts, in which lie my real treasures, twice as large as they werebefore. Pisistratus, my boy, ring the bell."

"My dear Kitty," cried Jack, whimperingly, and stealing up to my mother,"don't be so hard on me; I thought to make all your fortunes,--I didindeed."

Here the servant entered.

"See that Mr. Tibbets's things are taken up to his room, and that thereis a good fire," said my father.

"And," continued Jack, loftily, "I will, make all your fortunes yet. Ihave it here!" and he struck his head.

"Stay a moment!" said my father to the servant, who had got back tothe door. "Stay a moment," said my father, looking extremelyfrightened,--"perhaps Mr. Tibbets may prefer the inn!"

"Austin," said Uncle Jack, with emotion, "if I were a dog, with no homebut a dog-kennel, and you came to me for shelter, I would turn out--togive you the best of the straw!"

My father was thoroughly melted this time.

"Primmins will be sure to see everything is made comfortable for Mr.Tibbets," said he, waving his hand to the servant. "Something nice forsupper, Kitty, my dear,--and the largest punch-bowl. You like punch,Jack?"

"Punch, Austin!" said Uncle Jack, putting his handkerchief to his eyes.

The Captain pushed aside the dumb-waiter, strode across the room, andshook hands with Uncle Jack; my mother buried her face in her apron, andfairly ran off; and Squills said in my ear, "It all comes of thebiliary secretions. Nobody could account for this who did not know thepeculiarly fine organization of your father's--liver!"

PART XII.

CHAPTER I.

The Hegira is completed,--we have all taken roost in the old Tower. Myfather's books have arrived by the wagon, and have settled themselvesquietly in their new abode,--filling up the apartment dedicated to theirowner, including the bed chamber and two lobbies. The duck also hasarrived, under wing of Mrs. Primmins, and has reconciled herself tothe old stewpond, by the side of which my father has found a walk thatcompensates for the peach-wall, especially as he has made acquaintancewith sundry respectable carps, who permit him to feed them after he hasfed the duck,--a privilege of which (since, if any one else approaches,the carps are off in an instant) my father is naturally vain. Allprivileges are valuable in proportion to the exclusiveness of theirenjoyment.

Now, from the moment the first carp had eaten the bread my father threwto it, Mr. Caxton had mentally resolved that a race so confiding shouldnever be sacrificed to Ceres and Primmins. But all the fishes on myuncle's property were under the special care of that Proteus Bolt;and Bolt was not a man likely to suffer the carps to earn their breadwithout contributing their full share to the wants of the community.But, like master, like man! Bolt was an aristocrat fit to be hung ala lanterne. He out-Rolanded Roland in the respect he entertained forsounding names and old families; and by that bait my father caught himwith such skill that you might see that if Austin Caxton had been anangler of fishes, he could have filled his basket full any day, shine orrain.

"You observe, Bolt," said my father, beginning artfully, "thatthose fishes, dull as you may think them; are creatures capable of asyllogism; and if they saw that, in proportion to their civility to me,they were depopulated by you, they would put two and two together, andrenounce my acquaintance."

"Is that what you call being silly Jems, sir?" said Bolt. "Faith! thereis many a good Christian not half so wise."

"Man," answered my father, thoughtfully, "is an animal lesssyllogistical or more silly-Jemical, than many creatures popularlyesteemed his inferiors. Yes, let but one of those Cyprinidae, with hisfine sense of logic, see that if his fellow-fishes eat bread, they, aresuddenly jerked out of their element and vanish forever, and though youbroke a quartern loaf into crumbs, he would snap his tail at you withenlightened contempt. If," said my father, soliloquizing, "I had been assyllogistic as those scaly logicians, I should never have swallowed thathook which--Hum! there--least said soonest mended. But, Mr. Bolt, toreturn to the Cyprinidae."

"What's the hard name you call them 'ere carp, yer honor?" asked Bolt.

"Cyprinidae,--a family of the section Malacoptergii Abdominales,"replied Mr. Caxton; "their teeth are generally confined to thePharyngeans, and their branehiostegous rays are but few,--marks ofdistinction from fishes vulgar and voracious."

"Sir," said Bolt, glancing to the stewpond, "if I had known they hadbeen a family of such importance, I am sure I should have treated themwith more respect."

"They are a very old family, Bolt, and have been settled in Englandsince the fourteenth century. A younger branch of the family hasestablished itself in a pond in the gardens of Peterhoff (the celebratedpalace of Peter the Great, Bolt,--an emperor highly respected by mybrother, for he killed a great many people very gloriously in battle,besides those whom he sabred for his own private amusement); and thereis an officer or servant of the Imperial household, whose task it is tosummon those Russian Cyprinidae to dinner, by ringing a bell, shortlyafter which, you may see the emperor and empress, with all theirwaiting ladies and gentlemen, coming down in their carriages to seethe Cyprinidae eat in state. So you perceive, Bolt, that it would bea republican, Jacobinical proceeding to stew members of a family sointimately associated with royalty."

"Dear me, sir," said Bolt, "I am very glad you told me. I ought to haveknown they were genteel fish, they are so mighty shy,--as all your realquality are."

My father smiled, and rubbed his hands gently,--he had carried hispoint; and henceforth the Cyprinidae of the section MalacoptergiiAbdominales were as sacred in Bolt's eyes as cats and ichneumons were inthose of a priest in Thebes.

My poor father, with what true and unostentatious philosophy thou didstaccommodate thyself to the greatest change thy quiet, harmless lifehad known since it had passed out of the brief, burning cycle of thepassions! Lost was the home endeared to thee by so many noiselessvictories of the mind, so many mute histories of the heart; for onlythe scholar knoweth how deep a charm lies in monotony, in the oldassociations, the old ways and habitual clockwork of peaceful time.Yet the home may be replaced,--thy heart built its home round itselfeverywhere,--and the old Tower might supply the loss of the brick house,and the walk by the stewpond become as dear as the haunts by the sunnypeach-wall. But what shall replace to thee the bright dream of thineinnocent ambition,--that angel-wing which had glittered across thymanhood, in the hour between its noon and its setting? What replace tothee the Magnum Opus--the Great Book!--fair and broad-spreading tree,lone amidst the sameness of the landscape, now plucked up by the roots?The oxygen was subtracted from the air of thy life. For be it knownto you, O my compassionate readers, that with the death of theAnti-Publisher Society the blood-streams of the Great Book stood still,its pulse was arrested, its full heart beat no more. Three thousandcopies of the first seven sheets in quarto, with sundry unfinishedplates, anatomical, architectural, and graphic, depicting variousdevelopments of the human skull (that temple of Human Error), from theHottentot to the Greek; sketches of ancient buildings, Cyclopean andPelasgic; Pyramids and Pur-tors, all signs of races whose handwritingwas on their walls; landscapes to display the influence of Nature uponthe customs, creeds, and philosophy of men,--here showing how the broadChaldean wastes led to the contemplation of the stars; and illustrationsof the Zodiac, in elucidation of the mysteries of symbol-worship;fantastic vagaries of earth fresh from the Deluge, tending to impress onearly superstition the awful sense of the rude powers of Nature; viewsof the rocky defiles of Laconia,--Sparta, neighbored by the "silentAmyclae," explaining, as it were, geographically the iron customs ofthe warrior colony (arch-Tories, amidst the shift and roar of Hellenicdemocracies), contrasted by the seas and coasts and creeks of Athens andIonia, tempting to adventure, commerce, and change. Yea, my father, inhis suggestions to the artist of those few imperfect plates, had thrownas much light on the infancy of earth and its tribes as by the "shiningwords" that flowed from his calm, starry knowledge! Plates and copies,all rested now in peace and dust, "housed with darkness and withdeath," on the sepulchral shelves of the lobby to which they wereconsigned,--rays intercepted, world incompleted. The Prometheus wasbound, and the fire he had stolen from heaven lay imbedded in the flintsof his rock. For so costly was the mould in which Uncle Jack and theAnti-Publisher Society had contrived to cast this exposition of HumanError that every bookseller shied at its very sight, as an owl blinks atdaylight, or human error at truth. In vain Squills and I, before we leftLondon, had carried a gigantic specimen of the Magnum Opus into theback parlors of firms the most opulent and adventurous. Publisher afterpublisher started, as if we had held a blunderbuss to his ear. AllPaternoster Row uttered a "Lord deliver us!" Human Error found no manso egregiously its victim as to complete those two quartos, with theprospect of two others, at his own expense. Now, I had earnestly hopedthat my father, for the sake of mankind, would be persuaded to risk someportion--and that, I own, not a small one--of his remaining capitalon the conclusion of an undertaking so elaborately begun. But there myfather was obdurate. No big words about mankind, and the advantage tounborn generations, could stir him an inch. "Stuff!" said Mr. Caxton,peevishly. "A man's duties to mankind and posterity begin with his ownson; and having wasted half your patrimony, I will not take another hugeslice out of the poor remainder to gratify my vanity, for that is theplain truth of it. Man must atone for sin by expiation. By the book Ihave sinned, and the book must expiate it. Pile the sheets up in thelobby, so that at least one man may be wiser and humbler by the sight ofHuman Error every time he walks by so stupendous a monument of it."

Verily, I know not how my father could bear to look at those dumbfragments of himself,--strata of the Caxtonian conformation lying layerupon layer, as if packed up and disposed for the inquisitive genius ofsome moral Murchison or Mantell. But for my part, I never glanced attheir repose in the dark lobby without thinking, "Courage, Pisistratus!courage! There's something worth living for; work hard, grow rich, andthe Great Book shall come out at last!"

Meanwhile, I wandered over the country and made acquaintance withthe farmers and with Trevanion's steward,--an able man and a greatagriculturist,--and I learned from them a better notion of the natureof my uncle's domains. Those domains covered an immense acreage, which,save a small farm, was of no value at present. But land of the same sorthad been lately redeemed by a simple kind of draining, now well knownin Cumberland; and, with capital, Roland's barren moors might become anoble property. But capital, where was that to come from? Nature givesus all, except the means to turn her into marketable account. As oldPlautus saith so wittily, "Day, night, water, sun, and moon, are to behad gratis; for everything else--down with your dust!"

CHAPTER II.

Nothing has been heard of Uncle Jack. Before we left the brick house theCaptain gave him an invitation to the Tower,--more, I suspect, outof compliment to my mother than from the unbidden impulse of his owninclinations. But Mr. Tibbets politely declined it. During his stayat the brick house he had received and written a vast number ofletters,--some of those he received, indeed, were left at the villagepost-office, under the alphabetical addresses of A. B. or X. Y.; for nomisfortune ever paralyzed the energies of Uncle Jack. In the winter ofadversity he vanished, it is true; but even in vanishing, he vegetatedstill. He resembled those algae, termed the Prolococcus nivales, whichgive a rose-color to the Polar snows that conceal them, and flourishunsuspected amidst the general dissolution of Nature. Uncle Jack, then,was as lively and sanguine as ever; though he began to let fallvague hints of intentions to abandon the general cause of hisfellow-creatures, and to set up business henceforth purely on his ownaccount,--wherewith my father, to the great shock of my belief in hisphilanthropy, expressed himself much pleased. And I strongly suspectthat when Uncle Jack wrapped himself up in his new double Saxony andwent off at last, he carried with him something more than my father'sgood wishes in aid of his conversion to egotistical philosophy.

"That man will do yet," said my father, as the last glimpse was caughtof Uncle Jack standing up on the stage-coach box, beside the driver,partly to wave his hand to us as we stood at the gate, and partly toarray himself more commodiously in a box-coat with six capes, which thecoachman had lent him.

"Do you think so, sir?" said I, doubtfully. "May I ask why?"

Mr. Caxton.--"On the cat principle,--that he tumbles so lightly. You maythrow him down from St. Paul's, and the next time you see him he will bescrambling atop of the Monument."

Pisistratus.--"But a cat the most vicarious is limited to nine lives;and Uncle Jack must be now far gone in his eighth."

Mr. Caxton (not heeding that answer, for he has got his hand in hiswaistcoat).--"The earth, according to Apuleius, in his 'Treatise on thePhilosophy of Plato,' was produced from right-angled triangles; but fireand air from the scalene triangle,--the angles of which, I need not say,are very different from those of a right-angled triangle. Now I thinkthere are people in the world of whom one can only judge rightlyaccording to those mathematical principles applied to their originalconstruction: for if air or fire predominates in our natures, we arescalene triangles; if earth, right-angled. Now, as air is so notablymanifested in Jack's conformation, he is, nolens volens, produced inconformity with his preponderating element. He is a scalene triangle,and must be judged, accordingly, upon irregular, lop-sided principles;whereas you and I, commonplace mortals, are produced, like theearth, which is our preponderating element, with our triangles allright-angled, comfortable and complete,--for which blessing let us thankProvidence, and be charitable to those who are necessarily windy andgaseous, from that unlucky scalene triangle upon which they have hadthe misfortune to be constructed, and which, you perceive, is quite atvariance with the mathematical constitution of the earth!"

Pisistratus.--"Sir, I am very happy to hear so simple, easy, andintelligible an explanation of Uncle Jack's peculiarities; and I onlyhope that, for the future, the sides of his scalene triangle may neverbe produced to our rectangular conformations."

Mr. Caxton (descending from his stilts with an air as mildly reproachfulas if I had been cavilling at the virtues of Socrates).--"You don't doyour uncle justice, Pisistratus,--he is a very clever man; and I amsure that, in spite of his scalene misfortune, he would be an honestone,--that is [added Mr. Caxton, correcting himself], not romanticallyor heroically honest, but honest as men go,--if he could but keep hishead long enough above water; but, you see, when the best man in theworld is engaged in the process of sinking, he catches hold of whatevercomes in his way, and drowns the very friend who is swimming to savehim."

Pisistratus.--"Perfectly true, sir; but Uncle Jack makes it his businessto be always sinking!"

Mr. Caxton (with naivete).--"And how could it be otherwise, when he hasbeen carrying all his fellow-creatures in his breeches' pockets? Now hehas got rid of that dead weight, I should not be surprised if he swamlike a cork."

Pisistratus (who, since the "Capitalist," has become a strongAnti-Jackian). "But if, sir, you really think Uncle Jack's love for hisfellow-creatures is genuine, that is surely not the worst part of him."

Mr. Caxton.--"O literal ratiocinator, and dull to the true logic ofAttic irony! can't you comprehend that an affection may be genuine asfelt by the man, yet its nature be spurious in relation to others? A manmay generally believe he loves his fellow-creatures when he roaststhem like Torquemada, or guillotines them like St. Just! Happily Jack'sscalene triangle, being more produced from air than from fire, does notgive to his philanthropy the inflammatory character which distinguishesthe benevolence of inquisitors and revolutionists. The philanthropy,therefore, takes a more flatulent and innocent form, and expends itsstrength in mounting paper balloons, out of which Jack pitches himself,with all the fellow-creatures he can coax into sailing with him. Nodoubt Uncle Jack's philanthropy is sincere when he cuts the stringand soars up out of sight; but the sincerity will not much mend theirbruises when himself and fellow-creatures come tumbling down neck andheels. It must be a very wide heart that can take in all mankind,--andof a very strong fibre to bear so much stretching. Such hearts thereare, Heaven be thanked! and all praise to them. Jack's is not of thatquality. He is a scalene triangle. He is not a circle! And yet, if hewould but let it rest, it is a good heart,--a very good heart [continuedmy father, warming into a tenderness quite infantine, all thingsconsidered]. Poor Jack! that was prettily said of him--'That if he werea dog, and he had no home but a dog kennel, he would turn out to give methe best of the straw!' Poor brother Jack!"

So the discussion was dropped; and in the mean while, Uncle Jack, likethe short-faced gentleman in the "Spectator," "distinguished himself bya profound silence."

CHAPTER III.

Blanche has contrived to associate herself, if not with my more activediversions,--in running over the country and making friends with thefarmers,--still in all my more leisurely and domestic pursuits. There isabout her a silent charm that it is very hard to define; but it seems toarise from a kind of innate sympathy with the moods and humors of thoseshe loves. If one is gay, there is a cheerful ring in her silver laughthat seems gladness itself; if one is sad, and creeps away into a cornerto bury one's head in one's hand and muse, by and by, and just atthe right moment, when one has mused one's fill, and the heart wantssomething to refresh and restore it, one feels two innocent arms roundone's neck, looks up, and lo! Blanche's soft eyes, full of wistful,compassionate kindness, though she has the tact not to question; it isenough for her to sorrow with your sorrow,--she cares not to knowmore. A strange child,--fearless, and yet seemingly fond of things thatinspire children with fear; fond of tales of fay, sprite, and ghost,which Mrs. Primmins draws fresh and new from her memory as a conjurerdraws pancakes hot and hot from a hat. And yet so sure is Blanche ofher own innocence that they never trouble her dreams in her lone littleroom, full of caliginous corners and nooks, with the winds moaninground the desolate ruins, and the casements rattling hoarse in thedungeon-like wall. She would have no dread to walk through the ghostlykeep in the dark, or cross the church-yard what time,--

 "By the moon's doubtful and malignant light,"--

the gravestones look so spectral, and the shade from the yew-trees liesso still on the sward. When the brows of Roland are gloomiest, and thecompression of his lips makes sorrow look sternest, be sure that Blancheis couched at his feet, waiting the moment when, with some heavy sigh,the muscles relax, and she is sure of the smile if she climbs to hisknee. It is pretty to chance on her gliding up broken turret-stairs,or standing hushed in the recess of shattered casements; and you wonderwhat thoughts of vague awe and solemn pleasure can be at work under thatstill, little brow.

She has a quick comprehension of all that is taught to her; she alreadytasks to the full my mother's educational arts. My father has had torummage his library for books to feed (or extinguish) her desirefor "further information," and has promised lessons in French andItalian--at some golden time in the shadowy "By and by"--which arereceived so gratefully that one might think Blanche mistook "Telema que"and "Novelle Morali" for baby-houses and dolls. Heaven send her throughFrench and Italian with better success than attended Mr. Caxton'slessons in Greek to Pisistratus! She has an ear for music which mymother, who is no bad judge, declares to be exquisite. Luckily there isan old Italian, settled in a town ten miles off, who is said to bean excellent music-master, and who comes the round of the neighboringsquirearchy twice a week. I have taught her to draw,--an accomplishmentin which I am not without skill,--and she has already taken a sketchfrom nature, which, barring the perspective, is not so amiss; indeed,she has caught the notion of "idealizing" (which promises futureoriginality) from her own natural instincts, and given to the oldwitch-elm, that hangs over the stream, just the bough that it wanted todip into the water and soften off the hard lines. My only fear is thatBlanche should become too dreamy and thoughtful.

Poor child, she has no one to play with! So I look out, and get her adog, frisky and young, who abhors sedentary occupations,--a spaniel,small, and coal-black, with ears sweeping the ground. I baptize him"Juba," in honor of Addison's "Cato," and in consideration of his sablecurls and Mauritanian complexion. Blanche does not seem so eerie andelf-like while gliding through the ruins when Juba barks by her side andscares the birds from the ivy.

One day I had been pacing to and fro the hall, which was deserted; andthe sight of the armor and portraits--dumb evidences of the active andadventurous lives of the old inhabitants, which seemed to reprove my owninactive obscurity--had set me off on one of those Pegasean hobbieson which youth mounts to the skies,--delivering maidens on rocks, andkilling Gorgons and monsters,--when Juba bounded in, and Blanche cameafter him, her straw hat in her hand.

Blanche. "I thought you were here, Sisty: may I stay?"

Pisistratus.--"Why, my dear child, the day is so fine that instead oflosing it indoors, you ought to be running in the fields with Juba."

Juba.--"Bow-wow."

Blanche.--"Will you come too? If Sisty stays in, Blanche does not carefor the butterflies!"

Pisistratus, seeing that the thread of his day-dreams is broken,consents with an air of resignation. Just as they gain the door, Blanchepauses, and looks as if there were something on her mind.

Pisistratus--"What now, Blanche? Why are you making knots in thatribbon, and writing invisible characters on the floor with the point ofthat busy little foot?"

Blanche (mysteriously).--"I have found a new room, Sisty. Do you thinkwe may look into it?"

Pisistratus--"Certainly; unless any Bluebeard of your acquaintance toldyou not. Where is it?"

Blanche.--"Upstairs, to the left."

Pisistratus.--"That little old door, going down two stone steps, whichis always kept locked?"

Blanche.--"Yes; it is not locked to-day. The door was ajar, and I peepedin; but I would not do more till I came and asked you if you thought itwould not be wrong."

Pisistratus.--"Very good in you, my discreet little cousin. I have nodoubt it is a ghost-trap; however, with Juba's protection, I think wemight venture together."

Pisistratus, Blanche, and Juba ascend the stairs, and turn off downa dark passage to the left, away from the rooms in use. We reach thearch-pointed door of oak planks nailed roughly together, we push itopen, and perceive that a small stair winds down from the room,--it isjust over Roland's chamber.

The room has a damp smell, and has probably been left open to be aired;for the wind comes through the unbarred casement, and a billet burns onthe hearth. The place has that attractive, fascinating air which belongsto a lumber-room,--than which I know nothing that so captivates theinterest and fancy of young people. What treasures, to them, oftenlie hid in those quaint odds and ends which the elder generationshave discarded as rubbish! All children are by nature antiquarians andrelic-hunters. Still, there is an order and precision with which thearticles in that room are stowed away that belies the true notion oflumber,--none of the mildew and dust which give such mournful interestto things abandoned to decay.

In one corner are piled up cases and military-looking trunks ofoutlandish aspect, with R. D. C. in brass nails on their sides. Fromthese we turn with involuntary respect and call off Juba, who has wedgedhimself behind in pursuit of some imaginary mouse. But in the othercorner is what seems to me a child's cradle,--not an English one,evidently; it is of wood, seemingly Spanish rosewood, with a railwork atthe back, of twisted columns; and I should scarcely have known it tobe a cradle but for the fairy-like quilt and the tiny pillows, whichproclaimed its uses.

On the wall above the cradle were arranged sundry little articles thathad, perhaps, once made the joy of a child's heart,--broken toys withthe paint rubbed off, a tin sword and trumpet, and a few tattered books,mostly in Spanish; by their shape and look, doubtless children's books.Near these stood, on the floor, a picture with its face to the wall.Juba had chased the mouse, that his fancy still insisted on creating,behind this picture, and as he abruptly drew back, the picture fellinto the hands I stretched forth to receive it. I turned the face to thelight, and was surprised to see merely an old family portrait; it wasthat of a gentleman in the flowered vest and stiff ruff which referredthe date of his existence to the reign of Elizabeth,--a man with a boldand noble countenance. On the corner was placed a faded coat of arms,beneath which was inscribed, "Herbert De Caxton, Eq: Aur: AEtat: 35."

On the back of the canvas I observed, as I now replaced the pictureagainst the wall, a label in Roland's handwriting, though in a youngerand more running hand than he now wrote. The words were these "The bestand bravest of our line, He charged by Sidney's side on the field ofZutphen; he fought in Drake's ship against the armament of Spain. Ifever I have a--" The rest of the label seemed to have been torn off.

I turned away, and felt a remorseful shame that I had so far gratifiedmy curiosity,--if by so harsh a name the powerful interest thathad absorbed me must be called. I looked round for Blanche; she hadretreated from my side to the door, and, with her hands before her eyes,was weeping. As I stole towards her, my glance fell on a book that layon a chair near the casement and beside those relics of an infancyonce pure and serene. By the old-fashioned silver clasps I recognizedRoland's Bible. I felt as if I had been almost guilty of profanationin my thoughtless intrusion. I drew away Blanche, and we descended thestairs noiselessly; and not till we were on our favorite spot, amidsta heap of ruins on the feudal justice-hill, did I seek to kiss away hertears and ask the cause.

"My poor brother!" sobbed Blanche, "they must have been his,--and weshall never, never see him again!--and poor papa's Bible, which he readswhen he is very, very sad! I did not weep enough when my brother died.I know better what death is now! Poor papa! poor papa! Don't die, too,Sisty!"

There was no running after butterflies that morning; and it was longbefore I could soothe Blanche. Indeed, she bore the traces of dejectionin her soft looks for many, many days; and she often asked me,sighingly, "Don't you think it was very wrong in me to take you there?"Poor little Blanche, true daughter of Eve, she would not let me bear mydue share of the blame; she would have it all, in Adam's primitiveway of justice,--"The woman tempted me, and I did eat." And since thenBlanche has seemed more fond than ever of Roland, and comparativelydeserts me to nestle close to him, and closer, till he looks up andsays, "My child, you are pale; go and run after the butterflies;" andshe says now to him, not to me, "Come too!" drawing him out into thesunshine with a hand that will not loose its hold.

Of all Roland's line, this Herbert de Caxton was "the best and bravest!"yet he had never named that ancestor to me,--never put any forefather incomparison with the dubious and mythical Sir William. I now rememberedonce that, in going over the pedigree, I had been struck by the name ofHerbert,--the only Herbert in the scroll,--and had asked, "What of him,uncle?" and Roland had muttered something inaudible, and turned away.And I remembered also that in Roland's room there was the mark on thewall where a picture of that size had once hung. The picture had beenremoved thence before we first came, but must have hung there for yearsto have left that mark on the wall,--perhaps suspended by Bolt duringRoland's long Continental absence. "If ever I have a--" What were themissing words? Alas! did they not relate to the son,--missed forever,evidently not forgotten still?

CHAPTER IV.

My uncle sat on one side the fireplace, my mother on the other; andI, at a small table between them, prepared to note down the resultsof their conference; for they had met in high council, to assess theirjoint fortunes,--determine what should be brought into the common stockand set apart for the Civil List, and what should be laid aside as aSinking Fund. Now my mother, true woman as she was, had a womanly loveof show in her own quiet way,--of making "a genteel figure" in the eyesof the neighborhood; of seeing that sixpence not only went as far assixpence ought to go, but that, in the going, it should emit a mild butimposing splendor,--not, indeed, a gaudy flash, a startlingBorealian coruscation, which is scarcely within the modest and placididiosyncracies of sixpence,--but a gleam of gentle and benign light,just to show where a sixpence had been, and allow you time to say"Behold!" before

 "The jaws of darkness did devour it up."

Thus, as I once before took occasion to apprise the reader, we hadalways held a very respectable position in the neighborhood round oursquare brick house; been as sociable as my father's habits would permit;given our little tea-parties, and our occasional dinners, and, withoutattempting to vie with our richer associates, there had always beenso exquisite a neatness, so notable a housekeeping, so thoughtful adisposition, in short, of all the properties indigenous to a well-spentsixpence, in my mother's management, that there was not an old maidwithin seven miles of us who did not pronounce our tea-parties to beperfect; and the great Mrs. Rollick, who gave forty guineas a year toa professed cook and housekeeper, used regularly, whenever we dinedat Rollick Hall, to call across the table to my mother (who therewithblushed up to her ears) to apologize for the strawberry jelly. It istrue that when, on returning home, my mother adverted to that flatteringand delicate compliment, in a tone that revealed the self-conceit ofthe human heart, my father--whether to sober his Kitty's vanity intoa proper and Christian mortification of spirit, or from that strangeshrewdness which belonged to him--would remark that Mrs. Rollick wasof a querulous nature; that the compliment was meant, not to please mymother, but to spite the professed cook and housekeeper, to whom thebutler would be sure to repeat the invidious apology.

In settling at the Tower, and assuming the head of its establishment,my mother was naturally anxious that, poor battered invalid though theTower was, it should still put its best leg foremost. Sundry cards,despite the thinness of the neighborhood, had been left at the door;various invitations, which my uncle had hitherto declined, had greetedhis occupation of the ancestral ruin, and had become more numerous sincethe news of our arrival had gone abroad; so that my mother saw beforeher a very suitable field for her hospitable accomplishments,--areasonable ground for her ambition that the Tower should hold up itshead as became a Tower that held the head of the family.

But not to wrong thee, O dear mother! as thou sittest there, oppositethe grim Captain, so fair and so neat,--with thine apron as white, andthy hair as trim and as sheen, and thy morning cap, with its ribbons ofblue, as coquettishly arranged as if thou hadst a fear that the leastnegligence on thy part might lose thee the heart of thine Austin,--notto wrong thee by setting down to frivolous motives alone thy femininevisions of the social amenities of life, I know that thine heart, in itsprovident tenderness, was quite as much interested as ever thy vanitiescould be, in the hospitable thoughts on which thou wert intent. For,first and foremost, it was the wish of thy soul that thine Austin might,as little as possible, be reminded of the change in his fortunes,--mightmiss as little as possible those interruptions to his abstractedscholarly moods at which, it is true, he used to fret and to pshaw andto cry Papa! but which nevertheless always did him good, and freshenedup the stream of his thoughts. And, next, it was the conviction of thineunderstanding that a little society and boon companionship, and theproud pleasure of showing his ruins and presiding at the hall of hisforefathers, would take Roland out of those gloomy reveries into whichhe still fell at times. And, thirdly, for us young people, ought notBlanche to find companions in children of her own sex and age? Alreadyin those large black eyes there was something melancholy and brooding,as there is in the eyes of all children who live only with their elders.And for Pisistratus, with his altered prospects, and the one greatgnawing memory at his heart,--which he tried to conceal from himself,but which a mother (and a mother who had loved) saw at a glance,--whatcould be better than such union and interchange with the world aroundus, small though that world might be, as woman, sweet binder and blenderof all social links, might artfully effect? So that thou didst not go,like the awful Florentine,--

 "Sopra for vanita che par persona,"--

"over thin shadows that mocked the substance of real forms," but ratherit was the real forms that appeared as shadows, or vanita.

What a digression! Can I never tell my story in a plain, straightforwardway? Certainly I was born under Cancer, and all my movements arecircumlocutory, sideways, and crab-like.

CHAPTER V.

"I think, Roland," said my mother, "that the establishment issettled,--Bolt, who is equal to three men at least; Primmins, cook andhousekeeper; Molly, a good, stirring girl, and willing (though I'vehad some difficulty in persuading her to submit not to be called AnnaMaria). Their wages are but a small item, my dear Roland."

"Hem!" said Roland; "since we can't do with fewer servants at lesswages, I suppose we must call it small."

"It is so," said my mother, with mild positiveness. "And indeed, whatwith the game and fish, and the garden and poultry-yard, and your ownmutton, our housekeeping will be next to nothing."

"Hem!" again said the thrifty Roland, with a slight inflection of thebeetle brows. "It may be next to nothing, ma'am,--sister,--just as abutcher's shop may be next to Northumberland House; but there is a vastdeal between nothing and that next neighbor you have given it."

This speech was so like one of my father's--so naive an imitation ofthat subtle reasoner's use of the rhetorical figure called Antanaclasis(or repetition of the same words in a different sense)--that I laughedand my mother smiled. But she smiled reverently, not thinking of theAntanaclasis, as, laying her hand on Roland's arm, she replied in theyet more formidable figure of speech called Epiphonema (or exclamation),"Yet, with all your economy, you would have had us--"

"Tut!" cried my uncle, parrying the Epiphonema with a masterlyAposiopesis (or breaking off); "tut! if you had done what I wished, Ishould have had more pleasure for my money!"

My poor mother's rhetorical armory supplied no weapon to meet thatartful Aposiopesis; so she dropped the rhetoric altogether, and wenton with that "unadorned eloquence" natural to her, as to other greatfinancial reformers: "Well, Roland, but I am a good housewife, I assureyou, and--Don't scold; but that you never do;--I mean, don't look as ifyou would like to scold. The fact is, that even after setting aside L100a year for our little parties--"

"Little parties!--a hundred a year!" cried the Captain, aghast.

My mother pursued her way remorselessly,--"which we can well afford; andwithout counting your half-pay, which you must keep for pocket-money andyour wardrobe and Blanche's,--I calculate that we can allow PisistratusL150 a year, which, with the scholarship he is to get, will keep himat Cambridge" (at that, seeing the scholarship was as yet amidst thePleasures of Hope, I shook my head doubtfully), "and," continued mymother, not heeding that sign of dissent, "we shall still have somethingto lay by."

The Captain's face assumed a ludicrous expression of compassion andhorror; he evidently thought my mother's misfortunes had turned herhead.

His tormentor continued.

"For," said my mother, with a pretty calculating shake of her head, anda movement of the right forefinger towards the five fingers of the lefthand, "L370,--the interest of Austin's fortune,--and L50 that we mayreckon for the rent of our house, make L420 a year. Add your L330 a yearfrom the farm, sheep-walk, and cottages that you let, and the total isL750. Now, with all we get for nothing for our housekeeping, as I saidbefore, we can do very well with L500 a year, and indeed make a handsomefigure. So, after allowing Sisty L150, we still have L100 to lay by forBlanche."

"Stop, stop, stop!" cried the Captain in great agitation; "who told youthat I had L330 a year?"

"Why, Bolt,--don't be angry with him."

"Bolt is a blockhead. From L330 a year take L200, and the remainder isall my income, besides my half-pay."

My mother opened her eyes, and so did I.

"To that L130 add, if you please, L130 of your own. All that you haveover, my dear sister, is yours or Austin's, or your boy's; but not ashilling can go to give luxuries to a miserly, battered old soldier. Doyou understand me?"

"No, Roland," said my mother; "I don't understand you at all. Does notyour property bring in L330 a year?"

"Yes, but it has a debt of L200 a year on it," said the Captain,gloomily and reluctantly.

"Oh, Roland!" cried my mother tenderly, and approaching so near that,had my father been in the room, I am sure she would have been boldenough to kiss the stern Captain, though I never saw him look sternerand less kissable. "Oh, Roland!" cried my mother, concluding that famousEpiphonema which my uncle's Aposiopesis had before nipped in the bud,"and yet you would have made us, who are twice as rich, rob you of thislittle all!"

"Ah!" said Roland, trying to smile, "but I should have had my own waythen, and starved you shockingly. No talk then of 'little parties' andsuch like. But you must not now turn the tables against me, nor bringyour L420 a year as a set-off to my L130."

"Why," said my mother generously, "you forget the money's worth that youcontribute,--all that your grounds supply, and all that we save by it. Iam sure that that's worth a yearly L300 at the least."

"Madam,--sister," said the Captain, "I'm sure you don't want to hurt myfeelings. All I have to say is, that if you add to what I bring an equalsum,--to keep up the poor old ruin,--it is the utmost that I can allow,and the rest is not more than Pisistratus can spend."

So saying, the Captain rose, bowed, and before either of us could stophim, hobbled out of the room.

"Dear me, Sisty!" said my mother, wringing her hands; "I have certainlydispleased him. How could I guess he had so large a debt on theproperty?"

"Did not he pay his son's debts? Is not that the reason that--"

"Ah!" interrupted my mother, almost crying, "and it was that whichruffled him; and I not to guess it! What shall I do?"

"Set to work at a new calculation, dear mother, and let him have his ownway."

"But then," said my mother, "your uncle will mope himself to death, andyour father will have no relaxation, while you see that he has lost hisformer object in his books. And Blanche--and you too. If we were only tocontribute what dear Roland does, I do not see how, with L260 a year, wecould ever bring our neighbors round us! I wonder what Austin wouldsay! I have half a mind--No, I'll go and look over the week-books withPrimmins."

My mother went her way sorrowfully, and I was left alone.

Then I looked on the stately old hall, grand in its forlorn decay. Andthe dreams I had begun to cherish at my heart swept over me, and hurriedme along, far, far away into the golden land whither Hope beckons youth.To restore my father's fortunes; re-weave the links of that brokenambition which had knit his genius with the world; rebuild those fallenwalls; cultivate those barren moors; revive the ancient name; glad theold soldier's age; and be to both the brothers what Roland had lost,--ason: these were my dreams; and when I woke from them, lo! they had leftbehind an intense purpose, a resolute object. Dream, O youth! dreammanfully and nobly, and thy dreams shall be prophets!

CHAPTER VI.

Letter From Pisistratus Caxton To Albert Trevanion, Esq., M.P.

(The confession of a youth who in the Old World finds himself one toomany.)

 My Dear Mr. Trevanion,--I thank you cordially, and so we do all, for your reply to my letter informing you of the villanous traps through which we have passed,--not indeed with whole skins, but still whole in life and limb,--which, considering that the traps were three, and the teeth sharp, was more than we could reasonably expect. We have taken to the wastes, like wise foxes as we are, and I do not think a bait can be found that will again snare the fox paternal. As for the fox filial it is different, and I am about to prove to you that he is burning to redeem the family disgrace. Ah! my dear Mr. Trevanion, if you are busy with "blue- books" when this letter reaches you, stop here, and put it aside for some rare moment of leisure. I am about to open my heart to you, and ask you, who know the world so well, to aid me in an escape from those flammantia maenia wherewith I find that world begirt and enclosed. For look you, sir, you and my father were right when you both agreed that the mere book-life was not meant for me. And yet what is not book-life, to a young man who would make his way through the ordinary and conventional paths to fortune? All the professions are so book-lined, book-hemmed, book- choked, that wherever these strong hands of mine stretch towards action, they find themselves met by octavo ramparts, flanked with quarto crenellations. For first, this college life, opening to scholarships, and ending, perchance, as you political economists would desire, in Malthusian fellowships,--premiums for celibacy,-- consider what manner of thing it is!

 Three years, book upon book,--a great Dead Sea before one; three years long, and all the apples that grow on the shore full of the ashes of pica and primer! Those three years ended, the fellowship, it may be, won,--still books, books, if the whole world does not close at the college gates. Do I, from scholar, effloresce into literary man, author by profession? Books, books! Do I go into the law? Books, books! Ars longa, vita brevis, which, paraphrased, means that it is slow work before one fags one's way to a brief! Do I turn doctor? Why, what but books can kill time until, at the age of forty, a lucky chance may permit me to kill something else? The Church (for which, indeed, I don't profess to be good enough),--that is book-life par excellence, whether, inglorious and poor, I wander through long lines of divines and Fathers; or, ambitious of bishoprics, I amend the corruptions, not of the human heart, but of a Greek text, and through defiles of scholiasts and commentators win my way to the See. In short, barring the noble profession of arms,--which you know, after all, is not precisely the road to fortune,--can you tell me any means by which one may escape these eternal books, this mental clockwork and corporeal lethargy? Where can this passion for life that runs riot through my veins find its vent? Where can these stalwart limbs and this broad chest grow of value and worth in this hot-bed of cerebral inflammation and dyspeptic intellect? I know what is in me; I know I have the qualities that should go with stalwart limbs and broad chest. I have some plain common-sense, some promptitude and keenness, some pleasure in hardy danger, some fortitude in bearing pain,--qualities for which I bless Heaven, for they are qualities good and useful in private life. But in the forum of men, in the market of fortune, are they not flocci, nauci, nihili?

 In a word, dear sir and friend, in this crowded Old World there is not the same room that our bold forefathers found for men to walk about and jostle their neighbors. No; they must sit down like boys at the form, and work out their tasks, with rounded shoulders and aching fingers. There has been a pastoral age, and a hunting age, and a fighting age; now we have arrived at the age sedentary. Men who sit longest carry all before them,--puny, delicate fellows, with hands just strong enough to wield a pen, eyes so bleared by the midnight lamp that they see no joy in that buxom sun (which draws me forth into the fields, as life draws the living), and digestive organs worn and macerated by the relentless flagellation of the brain. Certainly, if this is to be the Reign of Mind, it is idle to repine, and kick against the pricks; but is it true that all these qualities of action that are within me are to go for nothing? If I were rich and happy in mind and circumstance, well and good; I should shoot, hunt, farm, travel, enjoy life, and snap my fingers at ambition. If I were so poor and so humbly bred that I could turn gamekeeper or whipper in, as pauper gentlemen virtually did of old, well and good too; I should exhaust this troublesome vitality of mine by nightly battles with poachers, and leaps over double dikes and stone walls. If I were so depressed of spirit that I could live without remorse on my father's small means, and exclaim, with Claudian, "The earth gives me feasts that cost nothing," well and good too; it were a life to suit a vegetable, or a very minor poet. But as it is,--here I open another leaf of my heart to you! To say that, being poor, I want to make a fortune, is to say that I am an Englishman. To attach ourselves to a thing positive, belongs to our practical race. Even in our dreams, if we build castles in the air, they are not Castles of Indolence,--indeed they have very little of the castle about them, and look much more like Hoare's Bank, on the east side of Temple Bar! I desire, then, to make a fortune. But I differ from my countrymen, first, by desiring only what you rich men would call but a small fortune; secondly, in wishing that I may not spend my whole life in that fortune-making. Just see, now, how I am placed.

 Under ordinary circumstances, I must begin by taking from my father a large slice of an income that will ill spare paring. According to my calculation, my parents and my uncle want all they have got, and the subtraction of the yearly sum on which Pisistratus is to live till he can live by his own labors, would be so much taken from the decent comforts of his kindred. If I return to Cambridge, with all economy, I must thus narrow still more the res angusta domi; and when Cambridge is over, and I am turned loose upon the world,--failing, as is likely enough, of the support of a fellowship,--how many years must I work, or rather, alas! not work, at the Bar (which, after all, seems my best calling) before I can in my turn provide for those who, till then, rob themselves for me; till I have arrived at middle life, and they are old and worn out; till the chink of the golden bowl sounds but hollow at the ebbing well? I would wish that, if I can make money, those I love best may enjoy it while enjoyment is yet left to them; that my father shall see "The History of Human Error" complete, bound in russia on his shelves; that my mother shall have the innocent pleasures that content her, before age steals the light from her happy smile; that before Roland's hair is snow-white (alas! the snows there thicken fast), he shall lean on my arm while we settle together where the ruin shall be repaired or where left to the owls, and where the dreary bleak waste around shall laugh with the gleam of corn. For you know the nature of this Cumberland soil,--you, who possess much of it, and have won so many fair acres from the wild; you know that my uncle's land, now (save a single farm) scarce worth a shilling an acre, needs but capital to become an estate more lucrative than ever his ancestors owned. You know that, for you have applied your capital to the same kind of land, and in doing so, what blessings-- which you scarcely think of in your London library--you have effected, what mouths you feed, what hands you employ! I have calculated that my uncle's moors, which now scarce maintain two or three shepherds, could, manured by money, maintain two hundred families by their labor. All this is worth trying for; therefore Pisistratus wants to make money. Not so much,--he does not require millions; a few spare thousand pounds would go a long way, and with a modest capital to begin with, Roland should become a true squire,--a real landowner, not the mere lord of a desert. Now then, dear sir, advise me how I may, with such qualities as I possess, arrive at that capital--ay, and before it is too late--so that money-making may not last till my grave.

 Turning in despair from this civilized world of ours, I have cast my eyes to a world far older,--and yet more to a world in its giant childhood. India here, Australia there,--what say you, sir, you who will see dispassionately those things that float before my eyes through a golden haze, looming large in the distance? Such is my confidence in your judgment that you have but to say, "Fool, give up thine El Dorados and stay at home; stick to the books and the desk; annihilate that redundance of animal life that is in thee; grow a mental machine: thy physical gifts are of no avail to thee; take thy place among the slaves of the Lamp,"--and I will obey without a murmur. But if I am right; if I have in me attributes that here find no market; if my repinings are but the instincts of nature that, out of this decrepit civilization, desire vent for growth in the young stir of some more rude and vigorous social system,--then give me, I pray, that advice which may clothe my idea in some practical and tangible embodiments. Have I made myself understood?

 We take no newspaper here, but occasionally one finds its way from the parsonage; and I have lately rejoiced at a paragraph that spoke of your speedy entrance into the Administration as a thing certain. I write to you before you are a minister, and you see what I seek is not in the way of official patronage. A niche in an office,-- oh, to me that were worse than all! Yet I did labor hard with you, but,--that was different. I write to you thus frankly, knowing your warm, noble heart, and as if you were my father. Allow me to add my humble but earnest congratulations on Miss Trevanion's approaching marriage with one worthy, if not of her, at least of her station. I do so as becomes one whom you have allowed to retain the right to pray for the happiness of you and yours. My dear Mr. Trevanion, this is a long letter, and I dare not even read it over, lest, if I do, I should not send it. Take it with all its faults, and judge of it with that kindness with which you have judged ever,

 Your grateful and devoted servant,

 Pisistratus Caxton.

Letter From Albert Trevanion, Esq., M. P., To Pisistratus Caxton.

 Library of the House of Commons, Tuesday Night.

 My Dear Pisistratus, ------- is up; we are in for it for two mortal hours! I take flight to the library, and devote those hours to you. Don't be conceited, but that picture of yourself which you have placed before me has struck me with all the force of an original. The state of mind which you describe so vividly must be a very common one in our era of civilization, yet I have never before seen it made so prominent and life-like. You have been in my thoughts all day. Yes, how many young men must there be like you, in this Old World, able, intelligent, active, and persevering enough, yet not adapted for success in any of our conventional professions,--"mute, inglorious Raleighs." Your letter, young artist, is an illustration of the philosophy of colonizing. I comprehend better, after reading it, the old Greek colonization,-- the sending out, not only the paupers, the refuse of an over- populated state, but a large proportion of a better class, fellows full of pith and sap and exuberant vitality, like yourself, blending, in those wise cleruchioe, a certain portion of the aristocratic with the more democratic element; not turning a rabble loose upon a new soil, but planting in the foreign allotments all the rudiments of a harmonious state, analogous to that in the mother country; not only getting rid of hungry, craving mouths, but furnishing vent for a waste surplus of intelligence and courage, which at home is really not needed, and more often comes to ill than to good,--here only menaces our artificial embankments, but there, carried off in an aqueduct, might give life to a desert.

 For my part, in my ideal of colonization I should like that each exportation of human beings had, as of old, its leaders and chiefs,--not so appointed from the mere quality of rank (often, indeed, taken from the humbler classes), but still men to whom a certain degree of education should give promptitude, quickness, adaptability; men in whom their followers can confide. The Greeks understood that. Nay, as the colony makes progress, as its principal town rises into the dignity of a capital,--a polis that needs a polity,--I sometimes think it might be wise to go still further, and not only transplant to it a high standard of civilization, but draw it more closely into connection with the parent state, and render the passage of spare intellect, education, and civility, to and fro, more facile, by drafting off thither the spare scions of royalty itself. I know that many of my more "liberal" friends would pooh-pooh this notion; but I am sure that the colony altogether, when arrived to a state that would bear the importation, would thrive all the better for it. And when the day shall come (as to all healthful colonies it must come sooner or later) in which the settlement has grown an independent state, we may thereby have laid the seeds of a constitution and a civilization similar to our own, with self-developed forms of monarchy and aristocracy, though of a simpler growth than old societies accept, and not left a strange, motley chaos of struggling democracy--an uncouth, livid giant, at which the Frankenstein may well tremble, not because it is a giant, but because it is a giant half completed. (1) Depend on it, the New World will be friendly or hostile to the Old, not in proportion to the kinship of race, but in proportion to the similarity of manners and institutions,--a mighty truth to which we colonizers have been blind.

 Passing from these more distant speculations to this positive present before us, you see already, from what I have said, that I sympathize with your aspirations; that I construe them as you would have me: looking to your nature and to your objects, I give you my advice in a word,--Emigrate!

 My advice is, however, founded on one hypothesis; namely, that you are perfectly sincere,--you will be contented with a rough life, and with a moderate fortune at the end of your probation. Don't dream of emigrating if you want to make a million, or the tenth of a million. Don't dream of emigrating unless you can enjoy its hardships,--to bear them is not enough!

 Australia is the land for you, as you seem to surmise. Australia is the land for two classes of emigrants: first, the man who has nothing but his wits, and plenty of them; secondly, the man who has a small capital, and who is contented to spend ten years in trebling it. I assume that you belong to the latter class. Take out L3,000, and before you are thirty years old you may return with L10,000 or L12,000. If that satisfies you, think seriously of Australia. By coach, tomorrow, I will send you down all the best books and reports on the subject; and I will get you what detailed information I can from the Colonial Office. Having read these, and thought over them dispassionately, spend some months yet among the sheep-walks of Cumberland; learn all you can from all the shepherds you can find,--from Thyrsis to Menalcas. Do more; fit yourself in every way for a life in the Bush, where the philosophy of the division of labor is not yet arrived at. Learn to turn your hand to everything. Be something of a smith, something of a carpenter --do the best you can with the fewest tools; make yourself an excellent shot; break in all the wild horses and ponies you can borrow and beg. Even if you want to do none of these things when in your settlement, the having learned to do them will fit you for many other things not now foreseen. De-fine-gentlemanize yourself from the crown of your head to the sole of your foot, and become the greater aristocrat for so doing; for he is more than an aristocrat, he is a king, who suffices in all things for himself,-- who is his own master, because he wants no valetaille. I think Seneca has expressed that thought before me; and I would quote the passage, but the book, I fear, is not in the library of the House of Commons. But now (cheers, by Jove! I suppose ---- is down. Ah! it is so; and C--- is up, and that cheer followed a sharp hit at me. How I wish I were your age, and going to Australia with you!)--But now--to resume my suspended period--but now to the important point,--capital. You must take that, unless you go as a shepherd, and then good-by to the idea of L10,000 in ten years. So, you see, it appears at the first blush that you must still come to your father; but, you will say, with this difference, that you borrow the capital with every chance of repaying it instead of frittering away the income year after year till you are eight and thirty or forty at least. Still, Pisistratus, you don't, in this, gain your object at a leap; and my dear old friend ought not to lose his son and his money too. You say you write to me as to your own father. You know I hate professions; and if you did not mean what you say, you have offended me mortally. As a father, then, I take a father's rights, and speak plainly. A friend of mine, Mr. Bolding, a clergyman, has a son,--a wild fellow, who is likely to get into all sorts of scrapes in England, but with plenty of good in him notwithstanding, frank, bold, not wanting in talent, but rather in prudence, easily tempted and led away into extravagance. He would make a capital colonist (no such temptations in the Bush!) if tied to a youth like you. Now I propose, with your leave, that his father shall advance him L1,500, which shall not, however, be placed in his hands, but in yours, as head partner in the firm. You, on your side, shall advance the same sum of L1,500, which you shall borrow from me for three years without interest. At the end of that time interest shall commence; and the capital, with the interest on the said first three years, shall be repaid to me, or my executors, on your return. After you have been a year or two in the Bush, and felt your way, and learned your business, you may then safely borrow L1,500 more from your father; and, in the mean while, you and your partner will have had together the full sum of L3,000 to commence with. You see in this proposal I make you no gift, and I run no risk even by your death. If you die insolvent, I will promise to come on your father, poor fellow; for small joy and small care will he have then in what may be left of his fortune. There--I have said all; and I will never forgive you if you reject an aid that will serve you so much and cost me so little.

 I accept your congratulations on Fanny's engagement with Lord Castleton. When you return from Australia you will still be a young man, she (though about your own years) almost a middle-aged woman, with her head full of pomps and vanities. All girls have a short period of girlhood in common; but when they enter womanhood, the woman becomes the woman of her class. As for me, and the office assigned to me by report, you know what I said when we parted, and--But here J---- comes, and tells me that "I am expected to speak, and answer N----, who is just up, brimful of malice,"--the House crowded, and hungering for personalities. So I, the man of the Old World, gird up my loins, and leave you, with a sigh, to the fresh youth of the New

 "_Ne tibi sit duros acuisse in proelia dentes_."

 Yours affectionately,

 Albert Trevanion.

CHAPTER VII.

So, reader, thou art now at the secret of my heart.

Wonder not that I, a bookman's son, and at certain periods of my life abookman myself, though of lowly grade in that venerable class,--wondernot that I should thus, in that transition stage between youth andmanhood, have turned impatiently from books. Most students, at one timeor other in their existence, have felt the imperious demand of thatrestless principle in man's nature which calls upon each son of Adamto contribute his share to the vast treasury of human deeds. And thoughgreat scholars are not necessarily, nor usually, men of action, yetthe men of action whom History presents to our survey have rarely beenwithout a certain degree of scholarly nurture. For the ideas which booksquicken, books cannot always satisfy. And though the royal pupil ofAristotle slept with Homer under his pillow, it was not that he mightdream of composing epics, but of conquering new Ilions in the East.Many a man, how little soever resembling Alexander, may still have theconqueror's aim in an object that action only can achieve, and the bookunder his pillow may be the strongest antidote to his repose. And howthe stern Destinies that shall govern the man weave their first delicatetissues amidst the earliest associations of the child! Those idle taleswith which the old credulous nurse had beguiled my infancy,--tales ofwonder, knight-errantry, and adventure,--had left behind them seeds longlatent, seeds that might never have sprung up above the soil, but thatmy boyhood was so early put under the burning-glass, and in the quickforcing house, of the London world. There, even amidst books and study,lively observation and petulant ambition broke forth from the lushfoliage of romance,--that fruitless leafiness of poetic youth! And therepassion, which is a revolution in all the elements of individual man,had called a new state of being, turbulent and eager, out of the oldhabits and conventional forms it had buried,--ashes that speak where thefire has been. Far from me, as from any mind of some manliness, bethe attempt to create interest by dwelling at length on the strugglesagainst a rash and misplaced attachment, which it was my duty toovercome; but all such love, as I have before implied, is a terribleunsettler,--

 "Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever grow."

To re-enter boyhood, go with meek docility through its disciplinedroutine--how hard had I found that return, amidst the cloisteredmonotony of college! My love for my father, and my submission to hiswish, had indeed given some animation to objects otherwise distasteful;but now that my return to the University must be attended with positiveprivation to those at home, the idea became utterly hateful andrepugnant. Under pretence that I found myself, on trial, not yetsufficiently prepared to do credit to my father's name, I had easilyobtained leave to lose the ensuing college term and pursue my studiesat home. This gave me time to prepare my plans and bring round ----. Howshall I ever bring round to my adventurous views those whom I proposeto desert? Hard it is to get on in the world,--very hard; but the mostpainful step in the way is that which starts from the threshold of abeloved home.

How--ah, how indeed! "No, Blanche, you cannot join me to-day; I am goingout for many hours. So it will be late before I can be home."

Home,--the word chokes me! Juba slinks back to his young mistress,disconsolate; Blanche gazes at me ruefully from our favorite hill-top,and the flowers she has been gathering fall unheeded from her basket.I hear my mother's voice singing low as she sits at work by her opencasement. How,--ah, how indeed!

[END OF PRINT VOL 1.]

PART XIII.

CHAPTER I.

Saint Chrysostom, in his work on "The Priesthood," defends deceit, iffor a good purpose, by many Scriptural examples; ends his first book byasserting that it is often necessary, and that much benefit may arisefrom it; and begins his second book by saying that it ought not to becalled "deceit," but "good management." (1)

"Good management," then, let me call the innocent arts by which Inow sought to insinuate my project into favor and assent with myunsuspecting family. At first I began with Roland. I easily induced himto read some of the books, full of the charm of Australian life, whichTrevanion had sent me; and so happily did those descriptions suit hisown erratic tastes, and the free, half-savage man that lay rough andlarge within that soldierly nature, that he himself, as it were, seemedto suggest my own ardent desire, sighed, as the careworn Trevanion haddone, that "he was not my age," and blew the flame that consumed me,with his own willing breath. So that when at last--wandering one dayover the wild moors--I said, knowing his hatred of law and lawyers:"Alas, uncle, that nothing should be left for me but the Bar!" CaptainRoland struck his cane into the peat and exclaimed, "Zounds, sir! theBar and lying, with truth and a world fresh from God before you!"

"Your hand, uncle,--we understand each other. Now help me with those twoquiet hearts at home!"

"Plague on my tongue! what have I done?" said the Captain, lookingaghast. Then, after musing a little time, he turned his dark eye on meand growled out, "I suspect, young sir, you have been laying a trap forme; and I have fallen into it, like an old fool as I am."

"Oh, sir, I? you prefer the Bar!--"

"Rogue!"

"Or, indeed, I might perhaps get a clerkship in a merchant's office?"

"If you do, I will scratch you out of the pedigree!"

"Huzza, then, for Australasia!"

"Well, well, well!" said my uncle,--

 "With a smile on his lip, and a tear in his eye,"--

"the old sea-king's blood will force its way,--a soldier or a rover,there is no other choice for you. We shall mourn and miss you; but whocan chain the young eagles to the eyrie?"

I had a harder task with my father, who at first seemed to listen to meas if I had been talking of an excursion to the moon. But I threw in adexterous dose of the old Greek Cleruchioe cited by Trevanion, which sethim off full trot on his hobby, till after a short excursion to Euboeaand the Chersonese, he was fairly lost amidst the Ionian colonies ofAsia Minor. I then gradually and artfully decoyed him into his favoritescience of Ethnology; and while he was speculating on the origin ofthe American savages, and considering the rival claims of Cimmerians,Israelites, and Scandinavians, I said quietly: "And you, sir, who thinkthat all human improvement depends on the mixture of races; you,whose whole theory is an absolute sermon upon emigration, and thetransplanting and interpolity of our species,--you, sir, should be thelast man to chain your son, your elder son, to the soil, while youryounger is the very missionary of rovers."

"Pisistratus," said my father, "you reason by synecdoche,--ornamental,but illogical;" and therewith, resolved to hear no more, my father roseand retreated into his study.

But his observation, now quickened, began from that day to followmy moods and humors; then he himself grew silent and thoughtful, andfinally he took to long conferences with Roland. The result was thatone evening in spring, as I lay listless amidst the weeds and fern thatsprang up through the melancholy ruins, I felt a hand on my shoulder;and my father, seating himself beside me on a fragment of stone, saidearnestly; "Pisistratus, let us talk. I had hoped better things fromyour study of Robert Hall."

"Nay, dear father, the medicine did me great good: I have not repinedsince, and I look steadfastly and cheerfully on life. But Robert Hallfulfilled his mission, and I would fulfil mine."

"Is there no mission in thy native land, O planeticose and exallotriotespirit?" (2) asked my father, with compassionate rebuke.

"Alas, yes! But what the impulse of genius is to the great, the instinctof vocation is to the mediocre. In every man there is a magnet; in thatthing which the man can do best there is a loadstone."

"Papae!" said my father, opening his eyes; "and are no loadstones to befound for you nearer than the Great Australasian Bight?"

"Ah,--sir, if you resort to irony I can say no more!" My father lookeddown on me tenderly as I hung my head, moody and abashed.

"Son," said he, "do you think that there is any real jest at my heartwhen the matter discussed is whether you are to put wide seas and longyears between us?" I pressed nearer to his side, and made no answer.

"But I have noted you of late," continued my father, "and I haveobserved that your old studies are grown distasteful to you; and I havetalked with Roland, and I see that your desire is deeper than a boy'smere whim. And then I have asked myself what prospect I can hold out athome to induce you to be contented here, and I see none; and thereforeI should say to you, 'Go thy ways, and God shield thee,'--but,Pisistratus, your mother!"

"Ah, sir, that is indeed the question; and there indeed I shrink! But,after all, whatever I were,--whether toiling at the Bar or in somepublic office,--I should be still so much from home and her. And thenyou, sir, she loves you so entirely that--"

"No," interrupted my father; "you can advance no arguments like these totouch a mother's heart. There is but one argument that comes homethere: is it for your good to leave her? If so, there will be no need offurther words. But let us not decide that question hastily; let you andI be together the next two months. Bring your books and sit with me;when you want to go out, tap me on the shoulder, and say 'Come.' At theend of those two months I will say to you 'Go' or 'Stay.' And you willtrust me; and if I say the last, you will submit?"

"Oh yes, sir, yes!"

(1) Hohler's translation.

(2) Words coined by Mr. Caxton from (Greek word), "disposed to roaming,"and (Greek word), "to export, to alienate."

CHAPTER II.

This compact made, my father roused himself from all his studies,devoted his whole thoughts to me, sought with all his gentle wisdom towean me imperceptibly from my one fixed, tyrannical idea, ranged throughhis wide pharmacy of books for such medicaments as might alter thesystem of my thoughts. And little thought he that his very tendernessand wisdom worked against him, for at each new instance of either myheart called aloud, "Is it not that thy tenderness may be repaid, andthy wisdom be known abroad, that I go from thee into the strange land, Omy father?"

And the two months expired, and my father saw that the magnet had turnedunalterably to the loadstone in the Great Australasian Bight; and hesaid to me, "Go, and comfort your mother. I have told her your wish,and authorized it by my consent, for I believe now that it is for yourgood."

I found my mother in the little room she had appropriated to herselfnext my father's study. And in that room there was a pathos which I haveno words to express; for my mother's meek, gentle, womanly soul spokethere, so that it was the Home of Home. The care with which she hadtransplanted from the brick house, and lovingly arranged, all the humblememorials of old times dear to her affections,--the black silhouette ofmy father's profile cut in paper, in the full pomp of academics, cap andgown (how had he ever consented to sit for it?), framed and glazed inthe place of honor over the little hearth; and boyish sketches of mineat the Hellenic Institute, first essays in sepia and Indian ink,to animate the walls, and bring her back, when she sat there in thetwilight, musing alone, to sunny hours, when Sisty and the young motherthrew daisies at each other; and covered with a great glass: shade, anddusted each day with her own hand, the flower-pot Sisty had bought withthe proceeds of the domino-box on that memorable occasion on whichhe had learned "how bad deeds are repaired with good." There, inone corner, stood the little cottage piano which I remembered allmy life,--old-fashioned, and with the jingling voice of approachingdecrepitude, but still associated with such melodies as, afterchildhood, we hear never more! And in the modest hanging shelves, whichlooked so gay with ribbons and tassels and silken cords, my mother'sown library, saying more to the heart than all the cold wise poets whosesouls my father invoked in his grand Heraclea. The Bible over which,with eyes yet untaught to read, I had hung in vague awe and love as itlay open on my mother's lap, while her sweet voice, then only serious,was made the oracle of its truths. And my first lesson-books were there,all hoarded. And bound in blue and gold, but elaborately papered up,Cowper's Poems,--a gift from my father in the days of courtship: sacredtreasure; which not even I had the privilege to touch, and which mymother took out only in the great crosses and trials of conjugal life,whenever some words less kind than usual had dropped unawares from herscholar's absent lips. Ah! all these poor household gods, all seemedto look on me with mild anger; and from all came a voice to my soul,"Cruel, dost thou forsake us?" And amongst them sat my mother, desolateas Rachel, and weeping silently.

"Mother! mother!" I cried, falling on her neck, "forgive me,--it ispast; I cannot leave you!"

CHAPTER III.

"No, no! it is for your good,--Austin says so. Go,--it is but the firstshock."

Then to my mother I opened the sluices of that deep I had concealed fromscholar and soldier. To her I poured all the wild, restless thoughtswhich wandered through the ruins of love destroyed; to her I confessedwhat to myself I had scarcely before avowed. And when the picture ofthat, the darker, side of my mind was shown, it was with a prouder faceand less broken voice that I spoke of the manlier hopes and nobler aimsthat gleamed across the wrecks and the desert and showed me my escape.

"Did you not once say, mother, that you had felt it like a remorsethat my father's genius passed so noiselessly away,--half accusing thehappiness you gave him for the death of his ambition in the contentof his mind? Did you not feel a new object in life when the ambitionrevived at last, and you thought you heard the applause of the worldmurmuring round your scholar's cell? Did you not share in the day dreamsyour brother conjured up, and exclaim, 'If my brother could be the meansof raising him in the world!' And when you thought we had found the wayto fame and fortune, did you not sob out from your full heart, 'And itis my brother who will pay back to his son all--all he gave up for me'?"

"I cannot bear this, Sisty! Cease, cease!"

"No; for do you not yet understand me? Will it not be better still ifyour son--yours--restore to your Austin all that he lost, no matter how?If through your son, mother, you do indeed make the world hear of yourhusband's genius, restore the spring to his mind, the glory to hispursuits; if you rebuild even that vaunted ancestral name which isglory to our poor sonless Roland; if your son can restore the decay ofgenerations, and reconstruct from the dust the whole house into whichyou have entered, its meek, presiding angel,--all, mother! if this canbe done, it will be your work; for unless you can share my ambition,unless you can dry those eyes, and smile in my face, and bid me go, witha cheerful voice, all my courage melts from my heart, and again I say, Icannot leave you!"

Then my mother folded her arms round me, and we both wept, and could notspeak; but we were both happy.

CHAPTER IV.

Now the worst was over, and my mother was the most heroic of us all. SoI began to prepare myself in good earnest, and I followed Trevanion'sinstructions with a perseverance which I could never, at that young day,have thrown into the dead life of books. I was in a good school, amongstour Cumberland sheep-walks, to learn those simple elements of ruralart which belong to the pastoral state. Mr. Sidney, in his admirable"Australian Hand-Book," recommends young gentlemen who think of becomingsettlers in the Bush to bivouac for three months on Salisbury Plain.That book was not then written, or I might have taken the advice;meanwhile I think, with due respect to such authority, that I wentthrough a preparatory training quite as useful in seasoning the futureemigrant. I associated readily with the kindly peasants and craftsmen,who became my teachers. With what pride I presented my father with adesk, and my mother with a work-box, fashioned by my own hands! I madeBolt a lock for his plate-chest, and (that last was my magnum opus,my great masterpiece) I repaired and absolutely set going an oldturret-clock in the tower that had stood at 2 p.m. since the memory ofman. I loved to think, each time the hour sounded, that those who heardits deep chime would remember me. But the flocks were my main care. Thesheep that I tended and helped to shear, and the lamb that I hooked outof the great marsh, and the three venerable ewes that I nursed through amysterious sort of murrain which puzzled all the neighborhood,--are theynot written in thy loving chronicles, O House of Caxton?

And now, since much of the success of my experiment must depend on thefriendly terms I could establish with my intended partner, I wrote toTrevanion, begging him to get the young gentleman who was to join me,and whose capital I was to administer, to come and visit us. Trevanioncomplied; and there arrived a tall fellow, somewhat more than six feethigh, answering to the name of Guy Bolding, in a cut-away sporting-coat,with a dog whistle tied to the button-hole, drab shorts and gaiters, anda waistcoat with all manner of strange furtive pockets. Guy Bolding hadlived a year and a half at Oxford as a "fast man,"--so "fast" had helived that there was scarcely a tradesman at Oxford into whose books hehad not contrived to run.

His father was compelled to withdraw him from the University, at whichhe had already had the honor of being plucked for "the little-go;" andthe young gentleman, on being asked for what profession he was fit, hadreplied, with conscious pride, that he could "tool a coach!" In despair,the sire, who owed his living to Trevanion, had asked the statesman'sadvice; and the advice had fixed me with a partner in expatriation.

My first feeling in greeting the "fast" man was certainly that of deepdisappointment and strong repugnance. But I was determined not to be toofastidious; and, having a lucky knack of suiting myself pretty well toall tempers (without which a man had better not think of loadstones inthe Great Australasian Bight), I contrived before the first week was outto establish so many points of connection between us that we became thebest friends in the world. Indeed, it would have been my fault if we hadnot; for Guy Bolding, with all his faults, was one of those excellentcreatures who are nobody's enemies but their own. His good-humor wasinexhaustible. Not a hardship or privation came amiss to him. He hada phrase, "Such fun!" that always rushed laughingly to his lips whenanother man would have cursed and groaned. If we lost our way in thegreat trackless moors, missed our dinner, and were half-famished, Guyrubbed hands that would have felled an ox, and chuckled out, "Such fun!"If we stuck in a bog, if we were caught in a thunder-storm, if we werepitched head-over-heels by the wild colts we undertook to break in, GuyBolding's sole elegy was "Such fun!" That grand shibboleth of philosophyonly forsook him at the sight of an open book. I don't think that atthat time he could have found "fun" even in Don Quixote. This hilarioustemperament had no insensibility; a kinder heart never beat,--but, to besure, it beat to a strange, restless, tarantula sort of measure, whichkept it in a perpetual dance. It made him one of those officiously goodfellows who are never quiet themselves, and never let any one else bequiet if they can help it. But Guy's great fault, in this prudent world,was his absolute incontinence of money. If you had turned a Euphrates ofgold into his pockets at morning, it would have been as dry as the GreatSahara by twelve at noon. What he did with the money was a mystery asmuch to himself as to every one else. His father said, in a letter tome, that "he had seen him shying at sparrows with half-crowns!" Thatsuch a young man could come to no good in England, seemed perfectlyclear.

Still, it is recorded of many great men, who did not end their days in aworkhouse, that they were equally non-retentive of money. Schiller, whenhe had nothing else to give away, gave the clothes from his back, andGoldsmith the blankets from his bed. Tender hands found it necessary topick Beethoven's pockets at home before he walked out. Great heroes,who have made no scruple of robbing the whole world, have been just aslavish as poor poets and musicians. Alexander, in parcelling out hisspoils, left himself "hope"! And as for Julius Caesar, he was twomillions in debt when he shied his last half-crown at the sparrowsin Gaul. Encouraged by these illustrious examples, I had hopes of GuyBolding; and the more as he was so aware of his own infirmity that hewas perfectly contented with the arrangement which made me treasurer ofhis capital, and even besought me, on no account, let him beg everso hard, to permit his own money to come in his own way. In fact,I contrived to gain a great ascendency over his simple, generous,thoughtless nature; and by artful appeals to his affections,--to allhe owed to his father for many bootless sacrifices, and to the duty ofproviding a little dower for his infant sister, whose meditated portionhad half gone to pay his college debts,--I at last succeeded in fixinginto his mind an object to save for.

Three other companions did I select for our Cleruchia. The first wasthe son of our old shepherd, who had lately married, but was not yetencumbered with children,--a good shepherd, and an intelligent, steadyfellow. The second was a very different character. He had been the dreadof the whole squirearchy. A more bold and dexterous poacher did notexist. Now my acquaintance with this latter person, named Will Peterson,and more popularly "Will o' the Wisp," had commenced thus: Bolt hadmanaged to rear, in a small copse about a mile from the house,--andwhich was the only bit of ground in my uncle's domains that might bycourtesy be called "a wood,"--a young colony of pheasants, that hedignified by the title of a "preserve." This colony was audaciouslydespoiled and grievously depopulated, in spite of two watchers, who,with Bolt, guarded for seven nights successively the slumbers of theinfant settlement. So insolent was the assault that bang, bang! wentthe felonious gun,--behind, before, within but a few yards of thesentinels,--and the gunner was off and the prey seized, before theycould rush to the spot. The boldness and skill of the enemy soonproclaimed him, to the experienced watchers, to be Will o' the Wisp; andso great was their dread of this fellow's strength and courage, and socomplete their despair of being a match for his swiftness and cunning,that after the seventh night the watchers refused to go out any longer;and poor Bolt himself was confined to his bed by an attack of whata doctor would have called rheumatism, and a moralist, rage. Myindignation and sympathy were greatly excited by this mortifyingfailure, and my interest romantically aroused by the anecdotes I hadheard of Will o' the Wisp; accordingly, armed with a thick bludgeon, Istole out at night, and took my way to the copse. The leaves were notoff the trees, and how the poacher contrived to see his victims I knownot; but five shots did he fire, and not in vain, without allowing me tocatch a glimpse of him. I then retreated to the outskirt of the copse,and waited patiently by an angle which commanded two sides of the wood.Just as the dawn began to peep, I saw my man emerge within twenty yardsof me. I held my breath, suffered him to get a few steps from the wood,crept on so as to intercept his retreat, and then pounce--such a bound!My hand was on his shoulder,--prr, prr; no eel was ever more lubricate.He slid from me like a thing immaterial, and was off over the moors witha swiftness which might well have baffled any clodhopper,--a race whosecalves are generally absorbed in the soles of their hobnail shoes. Butthe Hellenic Institute, with its classical gymnasia, had trained itspupils in all bodily exercises; and though the Will o' the Wisp wasswift for a clodhopper, he was no match at running for any youth whohas spent his boyhood in the discipline of cricket, prisoner's bar, andhunt-the-hare. I reached him at length, and brought him to bay.

"Stand back!" said he, panting, and taking aim with his gun: "it isloaded."

"Yes," said I; "but though you're a brave poacher, you dare not fire atyour fellow-man. Give up the gun this instant."

My address took him by surprise; he did not fire. I struck up thebarrel, and closed on him. We grappled pretty tightly, and in thewrestle the gun went off. The man loosened his hold. "Lord ha' mercy! Ihave not hurt you?" he said falteringly.

"My good fellow,--no," said I; "and now let us throw aside gun andbludgeon, and fight it out like Englishmen, or else let us sit down andtalk it over like friends."

The Will o' the Wisp scratched its head and laughed.

"Well, you're a queer one!" quoth it. And the poacher dropped the gunand sat down.

We did talk it over, and I obtained Peterson's promise to respect thepreserve henceforth; and we thereon grew so cordial that he walked homewith me, and even presented me, shyly and apologetically, with the fivepheasants he had shot. From that time I sought him out. He was a youngfellow not four and twenty, who had taken to poaching from the wildsport of the thing, and from some confused notions that he had a licensefrom Nature to poach. I soon found out that he was meant for betterthings than to spend six months of the twelve in prison, and finish hislife on the gallows after killing a gamekeeper. That seemed to me hismost probable destiny in the Old World, so I talked him into a burningdesire for the New one; and a most valuable aid in the Bush he provedtoo.

My third selection was in a personage who could bring little physicalstrength to help us, but who had more mind (though with a wrong twist init) than both the others put together.

A worthy couple in the village had a son, who, being slight and puny,compared to the Cumberland breed, was shouldered out of the market ofagricultural labor, and went off, yet a boy, to a manufacturing town.Now about the age of thirty, this mechanic, disabled for his work bya long illness, came home to recover; and in a short time we heard ofnothing but the pestilential doctrines with which he was either shockingor infecting our primitive villagers. According to report, Corcyraitself never engendered a democrat more awful. The poor man was reallyvery ill, and his parents very poor; but his unfortunate doctrines driedup all the streams of charity that usually flowed through our kindlyhamlet. The clergyman (an excellent man, but of the old school) walkedby the house as if it were tabooed. The apothecary said, "Miles Squareought to have wine;" but he did not send him any. The farmers held hisname in execration, for he had incited all their laborers to strike foranother shilling a week. And but for the old Tower, Miles Square wouldsoon have found his way to the only republic in which he could obtainthat democratic fraternization for which he sighed; the grave being, Isuspect, the sole commonwealth which attains that dead flat of socialequality that life in its every principle so heartily abhors.

My uncle went to see Miles Square, and came back the color of purple.Miles Square had preached him a long sermon on the unholiness of war."Even in defence of your king and country!" had roared the Captain; andMiles Square had replied with a remark upon kings in general that theCaptain could not have repeated without expecting to see the old Towerfall about his ears, and with an observation about the country inparticular, to the effect that "the country would be much better off ifit were conquered!" On hearing the report of these loyal andpatriotic replies, my father said "Papae!" and roused out of his usualphilosophical indifference, went himself to visit Miles Square. Myfather returned as pale as my uncle had been purple. "And to think,"said he mournfully, "that in the town whence this man comes there are,he tells me, ten thousand other of God's creatures who speed the work ofcivilization while execrating its laws!"

But neither father nor uncle made any opposition when, with a basketladen with wine and arrowroot, and a neat little Bible bound in brown,my mother took her way to the excommunicated cottage. Her visit was assignal a failure as those that preceded it. Miles Square refused thebasket,--"he was not going to accept alms and eat the bread of charity;"and on my mother meekly suggesting that "if Mr. Miles Square wouldcondescend to look into the Bible, he would see that even charity wasno sin in giver or recipient," Mr. Miles Square had undertaken to prove"that, according to the Bible, he had as much a right to my mother'sproperty as she had; that all things should be in common; and when allthings were in common, what became of charity? No, he could not eatmy uncle's arrowroot and drink his wine while my uncle was improperlywithholding from him and his fellow-creatures so many unprofitableacres: the land belonged to the people." It was now the turn ofPisistratus to go. He went once, and he went often. Miles Square andPisistratus wrangled and argued, argued and wrangled, and ended bytaking a fancy to each other; for this poor Miles Square was not halfso bad as his doctrines. His errors arose from intense sympathy withthe sufferings he had witnessed amidst the misery which accompanies thereign of millocratism, and from the vague aspirations of a half-taught,impassioned, earnest nature. By degrees I persuaded him to drink thewine and eat the arrowroot en attendant that millennium which wasto restore the land to the people. And then my mother came again andsoftened his heart, and for the first time in his life let into itscold crotchets the warm light of human gratitude. I lent him some books,amongst others a few volumes on Australia. A passage in one of thelatter, in which it was said "that an intelligent mechanic usuallymade his way in the colony, even as a shepherd, better than a dullagricultural laborer," caught hold of his fancy and seduced hisaspirations into a healthful direction. Finally, as he recovered, heentreated me to let him accompany me. And as I may not have to return toMiles Square, I think it right here to state that he did go with meto Australia, and did succeed, first as a shepherd, next as asuperintendent, and finally, on saving money, as a landowner; and thatin spite of his opinions of the unholiness of war, he was no soonerin possession of a comfortable log homestead than he defended it withuncommon gallantry against an attack of the aborigines, whose right tothe soil was, to say the least of it, as good as his claim to my uncle'sacres; that he commemorated his subsequent acquisition of a freshallotment, with the stock on it, by a little pamphlet, published atSydney, on the "Sanctity of the Rights of Property;" and that when Ileft the colony, having been much pestered by two refractory "helps"that he had added to his establishment, he had just distinguishedhimself by a very anti-levelling lecture upon the duties of servants totheir employers. What would the Old World have done for this man?

CHAPTER V.

I had not been in haste to conclude my arrangements, for, independentlyof my wish to render myself acquainted with the small useful crafts thatmight be necessary to me in a life that makes the individual man a statein himself, I naturally desired to habituate my kindred to the idea ofour separation, and to plan and provide for them all such substitutesor distractions, in compensation for my loss, as my fertile imaginationcould suggest. At first, for the sake of Blanche, Roland, and my mother,I talked the Captain into reluctant sanction of his sister-in-law'sproposal to unite their incomes and share alike, without consideringwhich party brought the larger proportion into the firm. I representedto him that unless he made that sacrifice of his pride, my mother wouldbe wholly without those little notable uses and objects, thosesmall household pleasures, so dear to woman; that all society in theneighborhood would be impossible, and that my mother's time would hangso heavily on her hands that her only resource would be to muse on theabsent one and fret. Nay, if he persisted in so false a pride, I toldhim, fairly, that I should urge my father to leave the Tower. Theserepresentations succeeded; and hospitality had commenced in the oldhall, and a knot of gossips had centred round my mother, groups oflaughing children had relaxed the still brow of Blanche, and the Captainhimself was a more cheerful and social man. My next point was to engagemy father in the completion of the Great Book. "Ah! sir," said I, "giveme an inducement to toil,--a reward for my industry. Let me think, ineach tempting pleasure, each costly vice,--No, no; I will save for theGreat Book! And the memory of the father shall still keep the son fromerror. Ah, look you, sir! Mr. Trevanion offered me the loan of L1,500necessary to commence with; but you generously and at once said 'No; youmust not begin life under the load of debt.' And I knew you were rightand yielded,--yielded the more gratefully that I could not but forfeitsomething of the just pride of manhood in incurring such an obligationto the father of--Miss Trevanion. Therefore I have taken that sum fromyou,--a sum that would almost have sufficed to establish your youngerand worthier child in the world forever. To that child let me repay it,otherwise I will not take it. Let me hold it as a trust for the GreatBook; and promise me that the Great Book shall be ready when yourwanderer returns and accounts for the missing talent."

And my father pished a little, and rubbed off the dew that had gatheredon his spectacles. But I would not leave him in peace till he had givenme his word that the Great Book should go on _a pas de geant_,--nay, tillI had seen him sit down to it with good heart, and the wheel went roundagain in the quiet mechanism of that gentle life.

Finally, and as the culminating acme of my diplomacy, I effected thepurchase of the neighboring apothecary's practice and good-will forSquills, upon terms which he willingly subscribed to; for the poor manhad pined at the loss of his favorite patients,--though Heaven knowsthey did not add much to his income. And as for my father, there was noman who diverted him more than Squills, though he accused him of being amaterialist, and set his whole spiritual pack of sages to worry and barkat him, from Plato and Zeno to Reid and Abraham Tucker.

Thus, although I have very loosely intimated the flight of time, morethan a whole year elapsed from the date of our settlement at the Towerand that fixed for my departure.

In the mean while, despite the rarity amongst us of that phenomenon,a newspaper, we were not so utterly cut off from the sounds of thefar-booming world beyond, but what the intelligence of a change in theAdministration and the appointment of Mr. Trevanion to one of the greatoffices of state reached our ears. I had kept up no correspondence withTrevanion subsequent to the letter that occasioned Guy Belding's visit;I wrote now to congratulate him: his reply was short and hurried.

An intelligence that startled me more, and more deeply moved my heart,was conveyed to me, some three months or so before my departure, byTrevanion's steward. The ill health of Lord Castleton had deferred hismarriage, intended originally to be celebrated as soon as he arrived ofage. He left the University with the honors of "a double-first class;"and his constitution appeared to rally from the effects of studies moresevere to him than they might have been to a man of quicker and morebrilliant capacities, when a feverish cold, caught at a county meetingin which his first public appearance was so creditable as fully tojustify the warmest hopes of his party, produced inflammation ofthe lungs and ended fatally. The startling contrast forced on mymind,--here, sudden death and cold clay; there, youth in its firstflower, princely rank, boundless wealth, the sanguine expectation of anillustrious career, and the prospect of that happiness which smiled fromthe eyes of Fanny,--that contrast impressed me with a strange awe: deathseems so near to us when it strikes those whom life most flatters andcaresses. Whence is that curious sympathy that we all have with thepossessors of worldly greatness when the hour-glass is shaken and thescythe descends? If the famous meeting between Diogenes and Alexanderhad taken place, not before, but after the achievements which gave toAlexander the name of Great, the Cynic would not, perhaps, have enviedthe hero his pleasures nor his splendors,--neither the charms of Statiranor the tiara of the Mede; but if, the day after, a cry had gone forth,"Alexander the Great is dead!" verily I believe that Diogenes wouldhave coiled himself up in his tub and felt that with the shadow of thestately hero something of glory and of warmth had gone from that sunwhich it should darken never more. In the nature of man, the humblest orthe hardest, there is a something that lives in all of the Beautifulor the Fortunate, which hope and desire have appropriated, even in thevanities of a childish dream.

CHAPTER VI.

"Why are you here all alone, cousin? How cold and still it is amongstthe graves!"

"Sit down beside me, Blanche: it is not colder in the churchyard than onthe village green."

And Blanche sat down beside me, nestled close to me, and leaned her headupon my shoulder. We were both long silent. It was an evening inthe early spring, clear and serene; the roseate streaks were fadinggradually from the dark gray of long, narrow, fantastic clouds. Tall,leafless poplars, that stood in orderly level line on the lowlandbetween the churchyard and the hill, with its crown of ruins, left theirsharp summits distinct against the sky. But the shadows coiled dull andheavy round the evergreens that skirted the churchyard, so that theiroutline was vague and confused; and there was a depth in that lonelystillness, broken only when the thrush flew out from the lower bushes,and the thick laurel-leaves stirred reluctantly, and again were rigidin repose. There is a certain melancholy in the evenings of earlyspring which is among those influences of Nature the most universallyrecognized, the most difficult to explain. The silent stir of revivinglife, which does not yet betray signs in the bud and blossom, only ina softer clearness in the air, a more lingering pause in the slowlylengthening day; a more delicate freshness and balm in the twilightatmosphere; a more lively, yet still unquiet, note from the birds,settling down into their Coverts; the vague sense under all that hush,which still outwardly wears the bleak sterility of winter, of the busychange, hourly, modestly, at work, renewing the youth of the world,re-clothing with vigorous bloom the skeletons of things,--all thesemessages from the heart of Nature to the heart of Man may well affectand move us. But why with melancholy? No thought on our part connectsand construes the low, gentle voices. It is not thought that replies andreasons, it is feeling that hears and dreams. Examine not, O child ofman!--examine not that mysterious melancholy with the hard eyes of thyreason; thou canst not impale it on the spikes of thy thorny logic,nor describe its enchanted circle by problems conned from thy schools.Borderer thyself of two worlds,--the Dead and the Living,--give thineear to the tones, bow thy soul to the shadows, that steal, in the Seasonof Change, from the dim Border Land.

Blanche (in a whisper).--"What are you thinking of? Speak, pray!"

Pisistratus.--"I was not thinking, Blanche,--or, if I were, the thoughtis gone at the mere effort to seize or detain it."

Blanche (after a pause).--"I know what you mean. It is the same with meoften,--so often when I am sitting by myself, quite still. It is justlike the story Primmins was telling us the other evening, 'how there wasa woman in her village who saw things and people in a piece of crystalnot bigger than my hand;(1) they passed along as large as life, but theywere only pictures in the crystal.' Since I heard the story, when auntasks me what I am thinking of, I long to say, 'I'm not thinking, I'mseeing pictures in the crystal!'"

Pisistratus.--"Tell my father that,--it will please him; there is morephilosophy in it than you are aware of, Blanche. There are wise men whohave thought the whole world, its 'pride, pomp, and circumstance,' onlya phantom image,--a picture in the crystal."

Blanche.--"And I shall see you,--see us both, as we are sitting here;and that star which has just risen yonder,--see it all in my crystal,when you are gone!--gone, cousin!" (And Blanche's head drooped.)

There was something so quiet and deep in the tenderness of this poormotherless child that it did not affect one superficially, like achild's loud momentary affection, in which we know that the first toywill replace us. I kissed my little cousin's pale face and said, "AndI too, Blanche, have my crystal; and when I consult it, I shall be veryangry if I see you sad and fretting, or seated alone. For you must know,Blanche, that that is all selfishness. God made us, not to indulge onlyin crystal pictures, weave idle fancies, pine alone, and mourn over whatwe cannot help, but to be alert and active,--givers of happiness. Now,Blanche, see what a trust I am going to bequeath you. You are to supplymy place to all whom I leave; you are to bring sunshine wherever youglide with that shy, soft step,--whether to your father when you seehis brows knit and his arms crossed (that, indeed, you always do), or tomine; when the volume drops from his hand, when he walks to and fro theroom, restless, and murmuring to himself, then you are to steal up tohim, put your hand in his, lead him back to his books, and whisper,'What will Sisty say if his younger brother, the Great Book, is notgrown up when he comes back?' And my poor mother, Blanche! Ah, how canI counsel you there,--how tell you where to find comfort for her? Only,Blanche, steal into her heart and be her daughter. And to fulfil thisthreefold trust, you must not content yourself with seeing pictures inthe crystal,--do you understand me?

"Oh, yes!" said Blanche, raising her eyes, while the tears rolled fromthem, and folding her arms resolutely on her breast.

"And so," said I, "as we two, sitting in this quiet burial-ground, takenew heart for the duties and cares of life, so see, Blanche, how thestars come out, one by one, to smile upon us; for they, too, gloriousorbs as they are, perform their appointed tasks. Things seem toapproximate to God in proportion to their vitality and movement. Of allthings, least inert and sullen should be the soul of man. How thegrass grows up over the very graves,--quickly it grows and greenly;but neither so quick nor so green, my Blanche, as hope and comfort fromhuman sorrows."

(1) In primitive villages in the West of England the belief that theabsent may be seen in a piece of crystal is, or was not many years ago,by no means an uncommon superstition. I have seen more than one of thesemagic mirrors, which Spenser, by the way, has beautifully described.They are about the size and shape of a swan's egg. It is not every one,however, who can be a crystal-seer; like second-sight, it is a specialgift. N. B.--Since the above note (appended to the first edition of thiswork) was written, crystals and crystal-seers have become very familiarto those who interest themselves in speculations upon the disputedphenomena ascribed to Mesmerical Clairvoyance.

PART XIV.

CHAPTER I.

There is a beautiful and singular passage in Dante (which has notperhaps attracted the attention it deserves), wherein the sternFlorentine defends Fortune from the popular accusations against her.According to him she is an angelic power appointed by the Supreme Beingto direct and order the course of human splendors; she obeys the will ofGod; she is blessed; and hearing not those who blaspheme her, calm andaloft amongst the other angelic powers, revolves her spheral course andrejoices in her beatitude. (1)

This is a conception very different from the popular notion whichAristophanes, in his true instinct of things popular, expresses by thesullen lips of his Plutus. That deity accounts for his blindness bysaying that "when a boy he had indiscreetly promised to visit only thegood;" and Jupiter was so envious of the good that he blinded the poormoney-god. Whereon Chremylus asks him whether, "if he recovered hissight, he would frequent the company of the good." "Certainly," quothPlutus; "for I have not seen them ever so long." "Nor I either," rejoinsChremylus, pithily, "for all I can see out of both eyes."

But that misanthropical answer of Chremylus is neither here nor there,and only diverts us from the real question, and that is, "WhetherFortune be a heavenly, Christian angel, or a blind, blundering, oldheathen deity?" For my part, I hold with Dante; for which, if I were sopleased, or if at this period of my memoirs I had half a dozen pagesto spare, I could give many good reasons. One thing, however, is quiteclear, that whether Fortune be more like Plutus or an angel, it is nouse abusing her,--one may as well throw stones at a star. And I think,if one looked narrowly at her operations, one might perceive that shegives every man a chance at least once in his life. If he take and makethe best of it, she will renew her visits; if not, itur ad astra! Andtherewith I am reminded of an incident quaintly narrated by Mariana inhis "History of Spain," how the army of the Spanish kings got out ofa sad hobble among the mountains at the Pass of Losa by the help of ashepherd who showed them the way. "But," saith Mariana, parenthetically,"some do say the shepherd was an angel; for after he had shown the way,he was never seen more." That is, the angelic nature of the guide wasproved by being only once seen, and after having got the army out of thehobble, leaving it to fight or run away, as it had most mind to. Now, Ilook upon that shepherd, or angel, as a very good type of my fortune atleast. The apparition showed me my way in the rocks to the great "Battleof Life;" after that--hold fast and strike hard!

Behold me in London with Uncle Roland. My poor parents naturally wishedto accompany me, and take the last glimpse of the adventurer on boardship; but I, knowing that the parting would seem less dreadful to themby the hearthstone, and while they could say, "He is with Roland; he isnot yet gone from the land," insisted on their staying behind; andthus the farewell was spoken. But Roland, the old soldier, had so manypractical instructions to give, could so help me in the choice of theoutfit and the preparations for the voyage, that I could not refuse hiscompanionship to the last. Guy Bolding, who had gone to take leave ofhis father, was to join me in town, as well as my humbler Cumberlandcolleagues.

As my uncle and I were both of one mind upon the question of economy,we took up our quarters at a lodging-house in the City; and there it wasthat I first made acquaintance with a part of London of which few of mypoliter readers even pretend to be cognizant. I do not mean any sneerat the City itself, my dear alderman,--that jest is worn out. I am notalluding to streets, courts, and lanes; what I mean may be seen at theWest-end--not so well as at the East, but still seen very fairly,--Imean The House-Tops!

(1) Dante here evidently associates Fortune with the planetaryinfluences of judicial astrology. It is doubtful whether Schiller everread Dante; but in one of his most thoughtful poems he undertakes thesame defence of Fortune, making the Fortunate a part of the Beautiful.

CHAPTER II.

The House-Tops! What a soberizing effect that prospect produces on themind. But a great many requisites go towards the selection of the rightpoint of survey. It is not enough to secure a lodging in the attic; youmust not be fobbed off with a front attic that faces the street. First,your attic must be unequivocally a back attic; secondly, the housein which it is located must be slightly elevated above its neighbors;thirdly, the window must not lie slant on the roof, as is common withattics,--in which case you can only catch a peep of that leadencanopy which infatuated Londoners call the sky,--but must be a windowperpendicular, and not half blocked up by the parapets of that fossecalled the gutter; and, lastly, the sight must be so humored that youcannot catch a glimpse of the pavements: if you once see the worldbeneath, the whole charm of that world above is destroyed. Taking it forgranted that you have secured these requisites, open your window, leanyour chin on both hands, the elbows propped commodiously on the sill,and contemplate the extraordinary scene which spreads before you. Youfind it difficult to believe life can be so tranquil on high, whileit is so noisy and turbulent below. What astonishing stillness! EliotWarburton (seductive enchanter!) recommends you to sail down the Nile ifyou want to lull the vexed spirit. It is easier and cheaper to hire anattic in Holborn! You don't have the crocodiles, but you have animalsno less hallowed in Egypt,--the cats! And how harmoniously the tranquilcreatures blend with the prospect; how noiselessly they glide alongat the distance, pause, peer about, and disappear! It is only fromthe attic that you can appreciate the picturesque which belongs to ourdomesticated tiger-kin! The goat should be seen on the Alps, and the caton the house-top.

By degrees the curious eye takes the scenery in detail; and first, whatfantastic variety in the heights and shapes of the chimney-pots! Someall level in a row, uniform and respectable, but quite uninteresting;others, again, rising out of all proportion, and imperatively taskingthe reason to conjecture why they are so aspiring. Reason answers thatit is but a homely expedient to give freer vent to the smoke; wherewithImagination steps in, and represents to you all the fretting and fumingand worry and care which the owners of that chimney, now the tallest ofall, endured before, by building it higher, they got rid of the vapors.You see the distress of the cook when the sooty invader rushed down,"like a wolf on the fold," full spring on the Sunday joint. You hear theexclamations of the mistress (perhaps a bride,--house newly furnished)when, with white apron and cap, she ventured into the drawing-room,and was straightway saluted by a joyous dance of those monads calledvulgarly "smuts." You feel manly indignation at the brute of abridegroom who rushes out from the door, with the smuts dancing afterhim, and swears, "Smoked out again! By the Arch-smoker himself, I'llgo and dine at the club!" All this might well have been, till thechimney-pot was raised a few feet nearer heaven; and now perhapsthat long-suffering family owns the happiest home in the Row. Suchcontrivances to get rid of the smoke! It is not every one who merelyheightens his chimney; others clap on the hollow tormentor all sorts ofodd head-gear and cowls. Here, patent contrivances act the purpose ofweather-cocks, swaying to and fro with the wind; there, others stand asfixed as if, by a sic jubeo, they had settled the business.

But of all those houses that in the street one passes by, unsuspiciousof what's the matter within, there is not one in a hundred but whatthere has been the devil to do to cure the chimneys of smoking! At thatreflection Philosophy dismisses the subject, and decides that, whetherone lives in a hut or a palace, the first thing to do is to look to thehearth and get rid of the vapors.

New beauties demand us. What endless undulations in the variousdeclivities and ascents,--here a slant, there a zigzag! With whatmajestic disdain yon roof rises up to the left! Doubtless a palace ofGenii, or Gin (which last is the proper Arabic word for those buildersof halls out of nothing, employed by Aladdin). Seeing only the roofof that palace boldly breaking the sky-line, how serene yourcontemplations! Perhaps a star twinkles over it, and you muse on softeyes far away; while below at the threshold--No, phantoms! we see younot from our attic. Note, yonder, that precipitous fall,--how ragged andjagged the roof-scene descends in a gorge! He who would travel on footthrough the pass of that defile, of which we see but the picturesquesummits, stops his nose, averts his eyes, guards his pockets, andhurries along through the squalor of the grim London lazzaroni. Butseen above, what a noble break in the sky-line! It would be sacrilegeto exchange that fine gorge for a dead flat of dull rooftops. Look here,how delightful! that desolate house with no roof at all,--gutted andskinned by the last London fire! You can see the poor green-and-whitepaper still clinging to the walls, and the chasm that once was acupboard, and the shadows gathering black on the aperture that once wasa hearth! Seen below, how quickly you would cross over the way! Thatgreat crack forebodes an avalanche; you hold your breath, not to bringit down on your head. But seen above, what a compassionate, inquisitivecharm in the skeleton ruin! How your fancy runs riot,--re-peopling thechambers, hearing the last cheerful good-night of that destined Pompeii,creeping on tiptoe with the mother when she gives her farewell lookto the baby. Now all is midnight and silence; then the red, crawlingserpent comes out. Lo! his breath; hark! his hiss. Now, spire afterspire he winds and he coils; now he soars up erect,--crest superb, andforked tongue,--the beautiful horror! Then the start from the sleep, andthe doubtful awaking, and the run here and there, and the mother's rushto the cradle; the cry from the window, and the knock at the door,and the spring of those on high towards the stair that leads to safetybelow, and the smoke rushing up like the surge of a hell! And they runback stifled and blinded, and the floor heaves beneath them like a barkon the sea. Hark! the grating wheels thundering low; near and nearercomes the engine. Fix the ladders,--there! there! at the window, wherethe mother stands with the babe! Splash and hiss comes the water; pales,then flares out, the fire! Foe defies foe; element, element. How sublimeis the war! But the ladder, the ladder,--there, at the window! All elseare saved,--the clerk and his books; the lawyer with that tin box oftitle-deeds; the landlord, with his policy of insurance; the miser,with his bank-notes and gold: all are saved,--all but the babe and themother. What a crowd in the streets; how the light crimsons over thegazers, hundreds on hundreds! All those faces seem as one face, withfear. Not a man mounts the ladder. Yes, there,--gallant fellow! Godinspires, God shall speed thee! How plainly I see him! his eyes areclosed, his teeth set. The serpent leaps up, the forked tongue dartsupon him, and the reek of the breath wraps him round. The crowd hasebbed back like a sea, and the smoke rushes over them all. Ha! whatdim forms are those on the ladder? Near and nearer,--crash come theroof-tiles! Alas and alas! no! a cry of joy,--a "Thank Heaven!" and thewomen force their way through the men to come round the child and themother. All is gone save that skeleton ruin. But the ruin is seen fromabove. O Art! study life from the roof-tops!

CHAPTER III.

I was again foiled in seeing Trevanion. It was the Easter recess, and hewas at the house of one of his brother ministers somewhere in the Northof England. But Lady Ellinor was in London, and I was ushered into herpresence. Nothing could be more cordial than her manner, though she wasevidently much depressed in spirits, and looked wan and careworn.

After the kindest inquiries relative to my parents and the Captain, sheentered with much sympathy into my schemes and plans, which she saidTrevanion had confided to her. The sterling kindness that belonged to myold patron (despite his affected anger at my not accepting his profferedloan) had not only saved me and my fellow-adventurer all trouble as toallotment orders, but procured advice as to choice of site andsoil, from the best practical experience, which we found afterwardsexceedingly useful. And as Lady Ellinor gave me the little packet ofpapers, with Trevanion's shrewd notes on the margin, she said, with ahalf sigh, "Albert bids me say that he wishes he were as sanguine of hissuccess in the Cabinet as of yours in the Bush." She then turned to herhusband's rise and prospects, and her face began to change; her eyessparkled, the color came to her cheeks. "But you are one of the few whoknow him," she said, interrupting herself suddenly; "you know how hesacrifices all things,--joy, leisure, health,--to his country. Thereis not one selfish thought in his nature. And yet such envy,--suchobstacles still! And"--her eyes dropped on her dress, and I perceivedthat she was in mourning, though the mourning was not deep--"and," sheadded, "it has pleased Heaven to withdraw from his side one who wouldhave been worthy his alliance."

I felt for the proud woman, though her emotion seemed more that of pridethan sorrow. And perhaps Lord Castleton's highest merit in her eyes hadbeen that of ministering to her husband's power and her own ambition. Ibowed my head in silence, and thought of Fanny. Did she, too, pine forthe lost rank, or rather mourn the lost lover?

After a time I said, hesitatingly, "I scarcely presume to condole withyou, Lady Ellinor, yet, believe me, few things ever shocked me likethe death you allude to. I trust Miss Trevanion's health has not muchsuffered. Shall I not see her before I leave England?"

Lady Ellinor fixed her keen bright eyes searchingly on my countenance,and perhaps the gaze satisfied her; for she held out her hand to me witha frankness almost tender, and said "Had I had a son, the dearest wishof my heart had been to see you wedded to my daughter."

I started up; the blood rushed to my cheeks, and then left me pale asdeath. I looked reproachfully at Lady Ellinor, and the word "cruel!"faltered on my lips.

"Yes," continued Lady Ellinor, mournfully, "that was my real thought, myimpulse of regret, when I first saw you. But as it is, do not think metoo hard and worldly if I quote the lofty old French proverb, Noblesseoblige. Listen to me, my young friend: we may never meet again, andI would not have your father's son think unkindly of me, with all myfaults. From my first childhood I was ambitious,--not, as women usuallyare, of mere wealth and rank, but ambitious as noble men are, of powerand fame. A woman can only indulge such ambition by investing it inanother. It was not wealth, it was not rank, that attracted me to AlbertTrevanion: it was the nature that dispenses with the wealth and commandsthe rank. Nay," continued Lady Ellinor, in a voice that slightlytrembled, "I may have seen in my youth, before I knew Trevanion,one [she paused a moment, and went on hurriedly]--one who wanted butambition to have realized my ideal. Perhaps even when I married--and itwas said for love--I loved less with my whole heart than with my wholemind. I may say this now, for now every beat of this pulse is wholly andonly true to him with whom I have schemed and toiled and aspired; withwhom I have grown as one; with whom I have shared the struggle, and nowpartake the triumph, realizing the visions of my youth."

Again the light broke from the dark eyes of this grand daughter ofthe world, who was so superb a type of that moral contradiction,--anambitious woman.

"I cannot tell you," resumed Lady Ellinor, softening, "how pleased I waswhen you came to live with us. Your father has perhaps spoken to you ofme and of our first acquaintance!"

Lady Ellinor paused abruptly, and surveyed me as she paused. I wassilent.

"Perhaps, too, he has blamed me?" she resumed, with a heightened color.

"He never blamed you, Lady Ellinor!"

"He had a right to do so,--though I doubt if he would have blamed me onthe true ground. Yet no; he never could have done me the wrong thatyour uncle did when, long years ago, Mr. de Caxton in a letter--the verybitterness of which disarmed all anger--accused me of having trifledwith Austin,--nay, with himself! And he, at least, had no right toreproach me," continued Lady Ellinor warmly, and with a curve ofher haughty lip; "for if I felt interest in his wild thirst for someromantic glory, it was but in the hope that what made the one brother sorestless might at least wake the other to the ambition that would havebecome his intellect and aroused his energies. But these are old talesof follies and delusions now no more: only this will I say, that I haveever felt, in thinking of your father, and even of your sterneruncle, as if my conscience reminded me of a debt which I longed todischarge,--if not to them, to their children. So when we knew you,believe me that your interests, your career, instantly became to mean object. But mistaking you, when I saw your ardent industry bent onserious objects, and accompanied by a mind so fresh and buoyant, andabsorbed as I was in schemes or projects far beyond a woman's ordinaryprovince of hearth and home, I never dreamed, while you were ourguest,--never dreamed of danger to you or Fanny. I wound you,--pardonme; but I must vindicate myself. I repeat that if we had a son toinherit our name, to bear the burden which the world lays upon thosewho are born to influence the world's destinies, there is no one towhom Trevanion and myself would sooner have intrusted the happiness ofa daughter. But my daughter is the sole representative of the mother'sline, of the father's name: it is not her happiness alone that I have toconsult, it is her duty,--duty to her birthright, to the career of thenoblest of England's patriots; duty, I may say, without exaggeration, tothe country for the sake of which that career is run!"

"Say no more, Lady Ellinor, say no more; I understand you. I have nohope, I never had hope--it was a madness--it is over. It is but as afriend that I ask again if I may see Miss Trevanion in your presencebefore--before I go alone into this long exile, to leave, perhaps, mydust in a stranger's soil! Ay, look in my face,--you cannot fear myresolution, my honor, my truth! But once, Lady Ellinor,--but once more.Do I ask in vain?"

Lady Ellinor was evidently much moved. I bent down almost in theattitude of kneeling; and brushing away her tears with one hand, shelaid the other on my head tenderly, and said in a very low voice,--

"I entreat you not to ask me; I entreat you not to see my daughter. Youhave shown that you are not selfish,--conquer yourself still. What ifsuch an interview, however guarded you might be, were but to agitate,unnerve my child, unsettle her peace, prey upon--"

"Oh! do not speak thus,--she did not share my feelings!"

"Could her mother own it if she did? Come, come; remember how young youboth are. When you return, all these dreams will be forgotten; then wecan meet as before; then I will be your second mother, and again yourcareer shall be my care: for do not think that we shall leave you solong in this exile as you seem to forbode. No, no; it is but an absence,an excursion,--not a search after fortune. Your fortune,--leave that tous when you return!"

"And I am to see her no more!" I murmured, as I rose, and went silentlytowards the window to conceal my face. The great struggles in life arelimited to moments. In the drooping of the head upon the bosom, in thepressure of the hand upon the brow, we may scarcely consume a second inour threescore years and ten; but what revolutions of our whole beingmay pass within us while that single sand drops noiseless down to thebottom of the hour-glass!

I came back with firm step to Lady Ellinor, and said calmly: "My reasontells me that you are right, and I submit; forgive me! And do not thinkme ungrateful and overproud if I add that you must leave me still theobject in life that consoles and encourages me through all."

"What object is that?" asked Lady Ellinor, hesitatingly.

"Independence for myself, and ease to those for whom life is stillsweet. This is my twofold object; and the means to effect it must be myown heart and my own hands. And now, convey all my thanks to your noblehusband, and accept my warm prayers for yourself and her--whom I willnot name. Farewell, Lady Ellinor!"

"No, do not leave me so hastily; I have many things to discuss withyou,--at least to ask of you. Tell me how your father bears hisreverse,--tell me at least if there be aught he will suffer us to do forhim? There are many appointments in Trevanion's range of influence thatwould suit even the wilful indolence of a man of letters. Come, be frankwith me!"

I could not resist so much kindness; so I sat down, and as collectedlyas I could, replied to Lady Ellinor's questions, and sought to convinceher that my father only felt his losses so far as they affected me,and that nothing in Trevanion's power was likely to tempt him from hisretreat, or calculated to compensate for a change in his habits. Turningat last from my parents, Lady Ellinor inquired for Roland, and onlearning that he was with me in town, expressed a strong desire tosee him. I told her I would communicate her wish, and she then saidthoughtfully,--

"He has a son, I think; and I have heard that there is some unhappydissension between them."

"Who could have told you that?" I asked in surprise, knowing how closelyRoland had kept the secret of his family afflictions.

"Oh! I heard so from some one who knew Captain Roland,--I forget whenand where I heard it; but is it not the fact?"

"My uncle Roland has no son."

"How!"

"His son is dead."

"How such a loss must grieve him!"

I did not speak.

"But is he sure that his son is dead? What joy if he were mistaken,--ifthe son yet lived!"

"Nay, my uncle has a brave heart, and he is resigned. But, pardon me,have you heard anything of that son?"

"I!--what should I hear? I would fain learn, however, from your unclehimself what he might like to tell me of his sorrows--or if, indeed,there be any chance that--"

"That--what?"

"That--that his son still survives."

"I think not," said I; "and I doubt whether you will learn much frommy uncle. Still, there is something in your words that belies theirapparent meaning, and makes me suspect that you know more than you willsay."

"Diplomatist!" said Lady Ellinor, half smiling; but then, her facesettling into a seriousness almost severe, she added,--"it is terribleto think that a father should hate his son!"

"Hate!--Roland hate his son! What calumny is this?"

"He does not do so, then! Assure me of that; I shall be so glad to knowthat I have been misinformed."

"I can tell you this, and no more (for no more do I know), that if everthe soul of a father were wrapped up in a son,--fear, hope, gladness,sorrow, all reflected back on a father's heart from the shadows on ason's life,--Roland was that father while the son lived still."

"I cannot disbelieve you!" exclaimed Lady Ellinor, though in a tone ofsurprise. "Well, do let me see your uncle."

"I will do my best to induce him to visit you, and learn all that youevidently conceal from me."

Lady Ellinor evasively replied to this insinuation, and shortlyafterwards I left that house in which I had known the happiness thatbrings the folly, and the grief that bequeathes the wisdom.

CHAPTER IV.

I had always felt a warm and almost filial affection for Lady Ellinor,independently of her relationship to Fanny, and of the gratitude withwhich her kindness inspired me; for there is an affection very peculiarin its nature, and very high in its degree, which results fromthe blending of two sentiments not often allied,--namely, pity andadmiration. It was impossible not to admire the rare gifts andgreat qualities of Lady Ellinor, and not to feel pity for thecares, anxieties, and sorrows which tormented one who, with all thesensitiveness of woman, went forth into the rough world of man.

My father's confession had somewhat impaired my esteem for Lady Ellinor,and had left on my mind the uneasy impression that she had trifled withhis deep and Roland's impetuous heart. The conversation that had justpassed, allowed me to judge her with more justice, allowed me tosee that she had really shared the affection she had inspired in thestudent, but that ambition had been stronger than love,--an ambition, itmight be, irregular, and not strictly feminine, but still of no vulgarnor sordid kind. I gathered, too, from her hints and allusions her trueexcuse for Roland's misconception of her apparent interest in himself;she had but seen, in the wild energies of the elder brother, some agencyby which to arouse the serener faculties of the younger. She had butsought, in the strange comet that flashed before her, to fix a leverthat might move the star. Nor could I withhold my reverence from thewoman who, not being married precisely from love, had no sooner linkedher nature to one worthy of it, than her whole life became as fondlydevoted to her husband as if he had been the object of her first romanceand her earliest affections. If even her child was so secondary to herhusband; if the fate of that child was but regarded by her as one to berendered subservient to the grand destinies of Trevanion,--still itwas impossible to recognize the error of that conjugal devotion withoutadmiring the wife, though one might condemn the mother. Turning fromthese meditations, I felt a lover's thrill of selfish joy, amidst allthe mournful sorrow comprised in the thought that I should see Fannyno more. Was it true, as Lady Ellinor implied, though delicately, thatFanny still cherished a remembrance of me which a brief interview, alast farewell, might reawaken too dangerously for her peace? Well, thatwas a thought that it became me not to indulge.

What could Lady Ellinor have heard of Roland and his son? Was itpossible that the lost lived still? Asking myself these questions, Iarrived at our lodgings, and saw the Captain himself before me, busiedwith the inspection of sundry specimens of the rude necessaries anAustralian adventurer requires. There stood the old soldier, by thewindow, examining narrowly into the temper of hand-saw and tenon-saw,broad-axe and drawing-knife; and as I came up to him, he looked at mefrom under his black brows with gruff compassion, and said peevishly,--

"Fine weapons these for the son of a gentleman! One bit of steel in theshape of a sword were worth them all."

"Any weapon that conquers fate is noble in the hands of a brave man,uncle."

"The boy has an answer for everything," quoth the Captain, smiling, ashe took out his purse and paid the shopman.

When we were alone, I said to him: "Uncle, you must go and see LadyEllinor; she desires me to tell you so."

"Pshaw!"

"You will not?"

"No!"

"Uncle, I think that she has something to say to you with regardto--to--pardon me!--to my cousin."

"To Blanche?"

"No, no; the cousin I never saw."

Roland turned pale, and sinking down on a chair, faltered out--"Tohim,--to my son?"

"Yes; but I do not think it is news that will afflict you. Uncle, areyou sure that my cousin is dead?"

"What!--how dare you!--who doubts it? Dead,--dead to me forever! Boy,would you have him live to dishonor these gray hairs?"

"Sir, sir, forgive me,--uncle, forgive me. But pray go to see LadyEllinor; for whatever she has to say, I repeat that I am sure it will benothing to wound you."

"Nothing to wound me, yet relate to him!"

It is impossible to convey to the reader the despair that was in thosewords.

"Perhaps," said I, after a long pause and in a low voice, for I wasawe-stricken, "perhaps--if he be dead--he may have repented of alloffence to you before he died."

"Repented--ha, ha!"

"Or if he be not dead--"

"Hush, boy, hush!"

"While there is life, there is hope of repentance."

"Look you, nephew," said the Captain, rising, and folding his armsresolutely on his breast,--"look you, I desired that that name mightnever be breathed. I have not cursed my son yet; could he come tolife--the curse might fall! You do not know what torture your words havegiven me just when I had opened my heart to another son, and found thatson in you. With respect to the lost, I have now but one prayer, and youknow it,--the heart-broken prayer that his name never more may come tomy ears!"

As he closed these words, to which I ventured no reply, the Captain tooklong, disordered strides across the room; and suddenly, as if the spaceimprisoned, or the air stifled him, he seized his hat and hastened intothe streets. Recovering my surprise and dismay, I ran after him; but hecommanded me to leave him to his own thoughts, in a voice so stern, yetso sad, that I had no choice but to obey. I knew, by my own experience,how necessary is solitude in the moments when grief is strongest andthought most troubled.

CHAPTER V.

Hours elapsed, and the Captain had not returned home. I began to feeluneasy, and went forth in search of him, though I knew not whither todirect my steps. I thought it, however, at least probable that he hadnot been able to resist visiting Lady Ellinor, so I went first to St.James's Square. My suspicions were correct; the Captain had been theretwo hours before. Lady Ellinor herself had gone out shortly afterthe Captain left. While the porter was giving me this information,a carriage stopped at the door, and a footman, stepping up, gave theporter a note and a small parcel, seemingly of books, saying simply,"From the Marquis of Castleton." At the sound of that name I turnedhastily, and recognized Sir Sedley Beaudesert seated in the carriageand looking out of the window with a dejected, moody expression ofcountenance, very different from his ordinary aspect, except when therare sight of a gray hair or a twinge of the toothache reminded him thathe was no longer twenty-five. Indeed, the change was so great thatI exclaimed dubiously,--"Is that Sir Sedley Beaudesert?" The footmanlooked at me, and touching his hat, said, with a condescending smile,"Yes, sir, now the Marquis of Castleton."

Then, for the first time since the young lord's death, I remembered SirSedley's expressions of gratitude to Lady Castleton and the waters ofEms for having saved him from "that horrible marquisate." Meanwhile myold friend had perceived me, exclaiming,--

"What! Mr. Caxton? I am delighted to see you. Open the door, Thomas.Pray come in, come in."

I obeyed, and the new Lord Castleton made room for me by his side.

"Are you in a hurry?" said he. "If so, shall I take you anywhere? Ifnot, give me half an hour of your time while I drive to the city."

As I knew not now in what direction more than another to prosecute mysearch for the Captain, and as I thought I might as well call at ourlodgings to inquire if he had not returned, I answered that I shouldbe very happy to accompany his lordship; "Though the City," said I,smiling, "sounds to me strange upon the lips of Sir Sedley--I begpardon, I should say of Lord--"

"Don't say any such thing; let me once more hear the grateful sound ofSedley Beaudesert. Shut the door, Thomas; to Gracechurch Street,--Messrs.Fudge & Fidget."

The carriage drove on.

"A sad affliction has befallen me," said the marquis, "and nonesympathize with me!"

"Yet all, even unacquainted with the late lord, must have felt shockedat the death of one so young and so full of promise."

"So fitted in every way to bear the burden of the great Castleton nameand property. And yet you see it killed him! Ah! if he had been but asimple gentleman, or if he had had a less conscientious desire to dohis duties, he would have lived to a good old age. I know what it isalready. Oh, if you saw the piles of letters on my table! I positivelydread the post. Such colossal improvement on the property which the poorboy had began, for me to finish. What do you think takes me to Fudge &Fidget's? Sir, they are the agents for an infernal coal-mine whichmy cousin had re-opened in Durham, to plague my life out with anotherthirty thousand pounds a year! How am I to spend the money?--how am I tospend it? There's a cold-blooded head steward who says that charity isthe greatest crime a man in high station can commit,--it demoralizes thepoor. Then, because some half-a-dozen farmers sent me a round-robin tothe effect that their rents were too high, and I wrote them word thatthe rents should be lowered, there was such a hullabaloo, you would havethought heaven and earth were coming together. 'If a man in the positionof the Marquis of Castleton set the example of letting land below itsvalue, how could the poorer squires in the country exist? Or if theydid exist, what injustice to expose them to the charge that theywere grasping landlords, vampires, and bloodsuckers! Clearly if LordCastleton lowered his rents (they were too low already), he strucka mortal blow at the property of his neighbors if they followed hisexample, or at their characters if they did not.' No man can tell howhard it is to do good, unless fortune gives him a hundred thousandpounds a-year, and says--'Now, do good with it!' Sedley Beaudesertmight follow his whims, and all that would be said against him was'good-natured, simple fellow!' But if Lord Castleton follow his whims,you would think he was a second Catiline,--unsettling the peace andundermining the prosperity of the entire nation!" Here the wretched manpaused, and sighed heavily; then, as his thoughts wandered into a newchannel of woe, he resumed: "Ah! if you could but see the forlorn greathouse I am expected to inhabit, cooped up between dead walls instead ofmy pretty rooms with the windows full on the park; and the balls I amexpected to give; and the parliamentary interest I am to keep up;and the villanous proposal made to me to become a lord-steward orlord-chamberlain, because it suits my rank to be a sort of a servant.Oh, Pisistratus, you lucky dog,--not twenty-one, and with, I dare say,not two hundred pounds a-year in the world!"

Thus bemoaning and bewailing his sad fortunes, the poor marquis ran on,till at last he exclaimed, in a tone of yet deeper despair,--

"And everybody says I must marry too;--that the Castleton line must notbe extinct! The Beaudeserts are a good old family eno,'--as old, forwhat I know, as the Castletons; but the British empire would suffer noloss if they sank into the tomb of the Capulets. But that the Castletonpeerage should expire is a thought of crime and woe at which all themothers of England rise in a phalanx! And so, instead of visitingthe sins of the fathers on the sons, it is the father that is to besacrificed for the benefit of the third and fourth generation!"

Despite my causes for seriousness, I could not help laughing; mycompanion turned on me a look of reproach.

"At least," said I, composing my countenance, "Lord Castleton has onecomfort in his afflictions,--if he must marry, he may choose as hepleases."

"That is precisely what Sedley Beaudesert could, and Lord Castletoncannot do," said the marquis, gravely. "The rank of Sir SedleyBeaudesert was a quiet and comfortable rank, he might marry a curate'sdaughter, or a duke's, and please his eye or grieve his heart as thecaprice took him. But Lord Castleton must marry, not for a wife, but fora marchioness,--marry some one who will wear his rank for him; take thetrouble of splendor off his hands, and allow him to retire into acorner and dream that he is Sedley Beaudesert once more! Yes, it must beso,--the crowning sacrifice must be completed at the altar. But a truceto my complaints. Trevanion informs me you are going to Australia,--canthat be true?"

"Perfectly true."

"They say there is a sad want of ladies there."

"So much the better,--I shall be all the more steady."

"Well, there's something in that. Have you seen Lady Ellinor?"

"Yes,--this morning."

"Poor woman! A great blow to her,--we have tried to console eachother. Fanny, you know, is staying at Oxton, in Surrey, with LadyCastleton,--the poor lady is so fond of her,--and no one has comfortedher like Fanny."

"I was not aware that Miss Trevanion was out of town."

"Only for a few days, and then she and Lady Ellinor join Trevanionin the North,--you know he is with Lord N--, settling measures onwhich--But, alas! they consult me now on those matters,--force theirsecrets on me. I have, Heaven knows how many votes! Poor me! Upon myword, if Lady Ellinor was a widow, I should certainly make up to her:very clever woman, nothing bores her." (The marquis yawned,--SirSedley Beaudesert never yawned.) "Trevanion has provided for his Scotchsecretary, and is about to get a place in the Foreign Office for thatyoung fellow Gower, whom, between you and me, I don't like. But he hasbewitched Trevanion!"

"What sort of a person is this Mr. Gower? I remember you said that hewas clever and good-looking."

"He is both; but it is not the cleverness of youth,--he is as hard andsarcastic as if he had been cheated fifty times, and jilted a hundred!Neither are his good looks that letter of recommendation which ahandsome face is said to be. He has an expression of countenance verymuch like that of Lord Hertford's pet bloodhound when a strangercomes into the room. Very sleek, handsome dog the bloodhound iscertainly,--well-mannered, and I dare say exceedingly tame; but stillyou have but to look at the corner of the eye to know that it isonly the habit of the drawing-room that suppresses the creature'sconstitutional tendency to seize you by the throat, instead of givingyou a paw. Still, this Mr. Gower has a very striking head,--somethingabout it Moorish or Spanish, like a picture by Murillo--I half suspectthat he is less a Gower than a gypsy!"

"What!"--I cried, as I listened with rapt and breathless attention tothis description. "He is then very dark, with high, narrow forehead,features slightly aquiline, but very delicate, and teeth so dazzlingthat the whole face seems to sparkle when he smiles,--though it is onlythe lip that smiles, not the eye."

"Exactly as you say; you have seen him, then?"

"Why, I am not sure, since you say his name is Gower."

"He says his name is Gower," returned Lord Castleton, dryly, as heinhaled the Beaudesert mixture.

"And where is he now,--with Mr. Trevanion?"

"Yes, I believe so. Ah! here we are--Fudge & Fidget! But perhaps," addedLord Castleton, with a gleam of hope in his blue eye,--"perhaps they arenot at home!"

Alas! that was an illusive "imagining," as the poets of the nineteenthcentury unaffectedly express themselves. Messrs. Fudge & Fidget werenever out to such clients as the Marquis of Castleton; with a deepsigh, and an altered expression of face, the Victim of Fortune slowlydescended the steps of the carriage.

"I can't ask you to wait for me," said he; "Heaven only knows how longI shall be kept! Take the carriage where you will, and send it back tome."

"A thousand thanks, my dear lord, I would rather walk. But you will letme call on you before I leave town."

"Let you!--I insist on it. I am still at the old quarters,--underpretence," said the marquis, with a sly twinkle of the eyelid, "thatCastleton House wants painting!"

"At twelve to-morrow, then?"

"Twelve to-morrow! Alas! that's just the hour at which Mr. Screw, theagent for the London property (two squares, seven streets, and a lane!)is to call."

"Perhaps two o'clock will suit you better?"

"Two! just the hour at which Mr. Plausible, one of the Castletonmembers, insists upon telling me why his conscience will not let himvote with Trevanion!"

"Three o'clock?"

"Three! just the hour at which I am to see the secretary of theTreasury, who has promised to relieve Mr. Plausible's conscience! Butcome and dine with me,--you will meet the executors to the will!"

"Nay, Sir Sedley,--that is, my dear lord,--I will take my chance, andlook in after dinner."

"I do so; my guests are not lively! What a firm step the rogue has! Onlytwenty, I think,--twenty! and not an acre of property to plague him!" Sosaying, the marquis dolorously shook his head and vanished through thenoiseless mahogany doors behind which Messrs. Fudge & Fidget awaited theunhappy man,--with the accounts of the great Castleton coal-mine.

CHAPTER VI.

On my way towards our lodgings I resolved to look in at a humble tavern,in the coffee-room of which the Captain and myself habitually dined. Itwas now about the usual hour in which we took that meal, and he might bethere waiting for me. I had just gained the steps of this tavern whena stagecoach came rattling along the pavement and drew up at an inn ofmore pretensions than that which we favored, situated within a few doorsof the latter. As the coach stopped, my eye was caught by the Trevanionlivery, which was very peculiar. Thinking I must be deceived, I drewnear to the wearer of the livery, who had just descended from the roof,and while he paid the coachman, gave his orders to a waiter who emergedfrom the inn,--"Half-and-half, cold without!" The tone of the voicestruck me as familiar, and the man now looking up, I beheld the featuresof Mr. Peacock. Yes, unquestionably it was he. The whiskers were shaved;there were traces of powder in the hair or the wig; the livery of theTrevanions (ay, the very livery,--crest-button and all) upon that portlyfigure, which I had last seen in the more august robes of a beadle. ButMr. Peacock it was,--Peacock travestied, but Peacock still. Before I hadrecovered my amaze, a woman got out of a cabriolet that seemed to havebeen in waiting for the arrival of the coach, and hurrying up to Mr.Peacock, said, in the loud, impatient tone common to the fairest of thefair sex, when in haste, "How late you are!--I was just going. I mustget back to Oxton to-night."

Oxton,--Miss Trevanion was staying at Oxton! I was now close behind thepair; I listened with my heart in my ear.

"So you shall, my dear,--so you shall; just come in, will you?"

"No, no; I have only ten minutes to catch the coach. Have you any letterfor me from Mr. Gower? How can I be sure, if I don't see it under hisown hand, that--"

"Hush!" said Peacock, sinking his voice so low that I could only catchthe words, "no names. Letter, pooh! I'll tell you." He then drew herapart and whispered to her for some moments. I watched the woman's face,which was bent towards her companion's, and it seemed to show quickintelligence. She nodded her head more than once, as if in impatientassent to what was said, and after a shaking of hands, hurried off tothe cab; then, as if a thought struck her, she ran back, and said,--

"But in case my lady should not go,--if there's any change of plan?"

"There'll be no change, you may be sure. Positively tomorrow,--not tooearly: you understand?"

"Yes, yes; good-by!" and the woman, who was dressed with a quietneatness that seemed to stamp her profession as that of an abigail(black cloak with long cape,--of that peculiar silk which seems spunon purpose for ladies'-maids,--bonnet to match, with red and blackribbons), hastened once more away, and in another moment the cab droveoff furiously.

What could all this mean? By this time the waiter brought Mr. Peacockthe half-and-half. He despatched it hastily, and then strode on towardsa neighboring stand of cabriolets. I followed him; and just as, afterbeckoning one of the vehicles from the stand, he had ensconced himselftherein, I sprang up the steps and placed myself by his side. "Now, Mr.Peacock," said I, "you will tell me at once how you come to wear thatlivery, or I shall order the cabman to drive to Lady Ellinor Trevanion'sand ask her that question myself."

"And who the devil! Ah, you're the young gentleman that came to mebehind the scenes,--I remember."

"Where to, sir?" asked the cabman.

"To--to London Bridge," said Mr. Peacock. The man mounted the box anddrove on.

"Well, Mr. Peacock, I wait your answer. I guess by your face that youare about to tell me a lie; I advise you to speak the truth."

"I don't know what business you have to question me," said Mr. Peacock,sullenly; and raising his glance from his own clenched fists, hesuffered it to wander over my form with so vindictive a significancethat I interrupted the survey by saying, "'Will you encounter thehouse?' as the Swan interrogatively puts it? Shall I order the cabman todrive to St. James's Square?"

"Oh, you know my weak point, sir! Any man who can quote Will--sweetWill--has me on the hip," rejoined Mr. Peacock, smoothing hiscountenance and spreading his palms on his knees. "But if a man doesfall in the world, and after keeping servants of his own, is obliged tobe himself a servant,--

 "'I will not shame To tell you what I am.'"

"The Swan says, 'To tell you what I was,' Mr. Peacock. But enough ofthis trifling. Who placed you with Mr. Trevanion?"

Mr. Peacock looked down for a moment, and then fixing his eyes on me,said, "Well, I'll tell you: you asked me, when we met last, about ayoung gentleman,--Mr.--Mr. Vivian."

Pisistratus.--"Proceed."

Peacock.--"I know you don't want to harm him. Besides, 'He hath aprosperous art,' and one day or other,--mark my words, or rather myfriend Will's,--

 "'He will bestride this narrow world Like a Colossus.'

"Upon my life he will,--like a Colossus;

 "'And we petty men--'"

Pisistratus (savagely).--"Go on with your story."

Peacock (snappishly).--"I am going on with it! You put me out. Where wasI--oh--ah--yes. I had just been sold up,--not a penny in my pocket;and if you could have seen my coat,--yet that was better than the smallclothes! Well, it was in Oxford Street,--no, it was in the Strand, nearthe Lowther,--

 "'The sun was in the heavens; and the proud day Attended with the pleasures of the world."'

Pisistratus (lowering the glass).--"To St. James's Square?"

Peacock.--"No, no; to London Bridge.

 "'How use doth breed a habit in a man!'

"I will go on,--honor bright. So I met Mr. Vivian, and as he had knownme in better days, and has a good heart of his own, he says,--

 "'Horatio,--or I do forget myself."'

Pisistratus puts his hand on the check-string.

Peacock (correcting himself).--I mean--"Why, Johnson, my good fellow."'

Pisistratus.--"Johnson! Oh, that's your name,--not Peacock."

Peacock.--"Johnson and Peacock both [with dignity]. When you knowthe world as I do, sir, you will find that it is ill travelling this'naughty world' without a change of names in your portmanteau.

"'Johnson,' says he, 'my good fellow,' and he pulled out his purse.'Sir,' said I, 'if, "exempt from public haunt," I could get somethingto do when this dross is gone. In London there are sermons in stones,certainly, but not "good in everything,"--an observation I shouldtake the liberty of making to the Swan if he were not now, alas! "thebaseless fabric of a vision."'"

Pisistratus.--"Take care!"

Peacock (hurriedly).--"Then says Mr. Vivian, 'If you don't mind wearinga livery till I can provide for you more suitably, my old friend,there's a vacancy in the establishment of Mr. Trevanion.' Sir, Iaccepted the proposal; and that's why I wear this livery."

Pisistratus.--"And pray, what business had you with that young woman,whom I take to be Miss Trevanion's maid? And why should she come fromOxton to see you?"

I had expected that these questions would confound Mr. Peacock; but ifthere were really anything in them to cause embarrassment, the ci-devantactor was too practised in his profession to exhibit it. He merelysmiled, and smoothing jauntily a very tumbled shirt front, he said, "Oh,sir, fie!

 "'Of this matter Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made.'

"If you must know my love affairs, that young woman is, as the vulgarsay, my sweetheart."

"Your sweetheart!" I exclaimed, greatly relieved, and acknowledgingat once the probability of the statement. "Yet," I addedsuspiciously,--"yet, if so, why should she expect Mr. Gower to write toher?"

"You're quick of hearing, sir; but though--

 "'All adoration, duty, and observance; All humbleness and patience and impatience,'

the young woman won't marry a livery servant,--proud creature!--veryproud! and Mr. Gower, you see, knowing how it was, felt for me, and toldher, if I may take such liberty with the Swan, that she should--

 "'Never lie by Johnson's side With an unquiet soul,'

for that he would get me a place in the Stamps! The silly girl said shewould have it in black and white,--as if Mr. Gower would write to her!

"And now, sir," continued Mr. Peacock, with a simpler gravity, "you areat liberty, of course, to say what you please to my lady; but I hopeyou'll not try to take the bread out of my mouth because I wear a liveryand am fool enough to be in love with a waiting-woman,--I, sir, whocould have married ladies who have played the first parts in life--onthe metropolitan stage."

I had nothing to say to these representations, they seemed plausible;and though at first I had suspected that the man had only resorted tothe buffoonery of his quotations in order to gain time for invention orto divert my notice from any flaw in his narrative, yet at the close,as the narrative seemed probable, so I was willing to believe thebuffoonery was merely characteristic. I contented myself, therefore,with asking, "Where do you come from now?"

"From Mr. Trevanion, in the country, with letters to Lady Ellinor."

"Oh! and so the young woman knew you were coming to town?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. Trevanion told me, some days ago, the day I should haveto start."

"And what do you and the young woman propose doing to-morrow if there isno change of plan?"

Here I certainly thought there was a slight, scarce perceptible,alteration in Mr. Peacock's countenance; but he answered readily,"To-morrow, a little assignation, if we can both get out,--

 "'Woo me, now I am in a holiday humor, And like enough to consent'

"Swan again, sir."

"Humph! so then Mr. Gower and Mr. Vivian are the same person?"

Peacock hesitated. "That's not my secret, sir; 'I am combined by asacred vow.' You are too much the gentleman to peep through the blanketof the dark and to ask me, who wear the whips and stripes--I mean theplush small-clothes and shoulder-knots--the secrets of another gent towhom 'my services are bound.'"

How a man past thirty foils a man scarcely twenty! What superiority themere fact of living-on gives to the dullest dog! I bit my lip and wassilent.

"And," pursued Mr. Peacock, "if you knew how the Mr. Vivian you inquiredafter loves you! When I told him, incidentally, how a young gentlemanhad come behind the scenes to inquire after him, he made me describeyou, and then said, quite mournfully, 'If ever I am what I hope tobecome, how happy I shall be to shake that kind hand once more,'--verywords, sir, honor bright!

 "'I think there's ne'er a man in Christendom Can lesser hide his hate or love than he.'"

And if Mr. Vivian has some reason to keep himself concealed still;if his fortune or ruin depend on your not divulging his secret for awhile,--I can't think you are the man he need fear. 'Pon my life,--

 "'I wish I was as sure of a good dinner,'

as the Swan touchingly exclaims. I dare swear that was a wish often onthe Swan's lips in the privacy of his domestic life!"

My heart was softened, not by the pathos of the much profaned anddesecrated Swan, but by Mr. Peacock's unadorned repetition of Vivian'swords. I turned my face from the sharp eyes of my companion; the cab nowstopped at the foot of London Bridge.

I had no more to ask, yet still there was some uneasy curiosity in mymind, which I could hardly define to myself, was it not jealousy? Vivianso handsome and so daring,--he at least might see the great heiress;Lady Ellinor perhaps thought of no danger there. But--I--I was a loverstill, and--nay, such thoughts were folly indeed!

"My man," said I to the ex-comedian, "I neither wish to harm Mr. Vivian(if I am so to call him), nor you who imitate him in the variety ofyour names. But I tell you fairly that I do not like your being in Mr.Trevanion's employment, and I advise you to get out of it as soon aspossible. I say nothing more as yet, for I shall take time to considerwell what you have told me."

With that I hastened away, and Mr. Peacock continued his solitaryjourney over London Bridge.

CHAPTER VII.

Amidst all that lacerated my heart or tormented my thoughts thateventful day, I felt at least one joyous emotion when, on entering ourlittle drawing-room, I found my uncle seated there.

The Captain had placed before him on the table a large Bible, borrowedfrom the landlady. He never travelled, to be sure, without his ownBible; but the print of that was small, and the Captain's eyes began tofail him at night. So this was a Bible with large type, and a candle wasplaced on either side of it; and the Captain leaned his elbows onthe table, and both his hands were tightly clasped upon hisforehead,--tightly, as if to shut out the tempter, and force his wholesoul upon the page.

He sat the image of iron courage; in every line of that rigid form therewas resolution: "I will not listen to my heart; I will read the Book,and learn to suffer as becomes a Christian man."

There was such a pathos in the stern sufferer's attitude that it spokethose words as plainly as if his lips had said them. Old soldier, thouhast done a soldier's part in many a bloody field; but if I could makevisible to the world thy brave soldier's soul, I would paint thee as Isaw thee then!--Out on this tyro's hand!

At the movement I made, the Captain looked up, and the strife he hadgone through was written upon his face.

"It has done me good," said he simply, and he closed the book.

I drew my chair near to him and hung my arm over his shoulder.

"No cheering news, then?" asked I in a whisper.

Roland shook his head, and gently laid his finger on his lips.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was impossible for me to intrude upon Roland's thoughts, whatevertheir nature, with a detail of those circumstances which had roused inme a keen and anxious interest in things apart from his sorrow.

Yet as "restless I rolled around my weary bed," and revolved the renewalof Vivian's connection with a man of character so equivocal as Peacock;the establishment of an able and unscrupulous tool of his own in theservice of Trevanion; the care with which he had concealed from mehis change of name, and his intimacy at the very house to which I hadfrankly offered to present him; the familiarity which his creaturehad contrived to effect with Miss Trevanion's maid; the words that hadpassed between them,--plausibly accounted for, it is true, yet stillsuspicious; and, above all, my painful recollections of Vivian'sreckless ambition and unprincipled sentiments,--nay, the effect thata few random words upon Fanny's fortune, and the luck of winning anheiress, had sufficed to produce upon his heated fancy and audacioustemper,--when all these thoughts came upon me, strong and vivid, in thedarkness of night, I longed for some confidant, more experienced inthe world than myself, to advise me as to the course I ought to pursue.Should I warn Lady Ellinor? But of what? The character of the servant,or the designs of the fictitious Gower? Against the first I could say,if nothing very positive, still enough to make it prudent to dismisshim. But of Gower or Vivian, what could I say without--not indeedbetraying his confidence, for that he had never given me--but withoutbelying the professions of friendship that I myself had lavishly made tohim? Perhaps, after all, he might have disclosed whatever were his realsecrets to Trevanion; and, if not, I might indeed ruin his prospects byrevealing the aliases he assumed. But wherefore reveal, and whereforewarn? Because of suspicions that I could not myself analyze,--suspicionsfounded on circumstances most of which had already been seeminglyexplained away. Still, when morning came, I was irresolute what to do;and after watching Roland's countenance, and seeing on his brow so greata weight of care that I had no option but to postpone the confidence Ipined to place in his strong understanding and unerring sense of honor,I wandered out, hoping that in the fresh air I might re-collect mythoughts and solve the problem that perplexed me. I had enough to doin sundry small orders for my voyage, and commissions for Bolding, tooccupy me some hours. And, this business done, I found myselfmoving westward; mechanically, as it were, I had come to a kind ofhalf-and-half resolution to call upon Lady Ellinor and question her,carelessly and incidentally, both about Gower and the new servantadmitted to the household.

Thus I found myself in Regent Street, when a carriage, borne bypost-horses, whirled rapidly over the pavement, scattering to the rightand left all humbler equipages, and hurried, as if on an errand of lifeand death, up the broad thoroughfare leading into Portland Place. Butrapidly as the wheels dashed by, I had seen distinctly the face of FannyTrevanion in the carriage; and that face wore a strange expression,which seemed to me to speak of anxiety and grief; and by her side--Wasnot that the woman I had seen with Peacock? I did not see the faceof the woman, but I thought I recognized the cloak, the bonnet, andpeculiar turn of the head. If I could be mistaken there, I was notmistaken at least as to the servant on the seat behind. Looking back ata butcher's boy who had just escaped being run over, and was revenginghimself by all the imprecations the Dirae of London slang could suggest,the face of Mr. Peacock was exposed in full to my gaze.

My first impulse, on recovering my surprise, was to spring after thecarriage; in the haste of that impulse, I cried "Stop!" But the carriagewas out of sight in a moment, and my word was lost in air. Full ofpresentiments of some evil,--I knew not what,--I then altered my course,and stopped not till I found myself, panting and out of breath, inSt. James's Square--at the door of Trevanion's house--in the hall. Theporter had a newspaper in his hand as he admitted me.

"Where is Lady Ellinor? I must see her instantly."

"No worse news of master, I hope, sir?"

"Worse news of what, of whom? Of Mr. Trevanion?"

"Did you not know he was suddenly taken ill, sir,--that a servant cameexpress to say so last night? Lady Ellinor went off at ten o'clock tojoin him."

"At ten o'clock last night?"

"Yes, sir; the servant's account alarmed her ladyship so much."

"The new servant, who had been recommended by Mr. Gower?"

"Yes, sir,--Henry," answered the porter, staring at me. "Please, sir,here is an account of master's attack in the paper. I suppose Henry tookit to the office before he came here,--which was very wrong in him; butI am afraid he's a very foolish fellow."

"Never mind that. Miss Trevanion,--I saw her just now,--she did not gowith her mother: where was she going, then?"

"Why, sir,--but pray step into the parlor."

"No, no; speak!"

"Why, sir, before Lady Ellinor set out she was afraid that there mightbe something in the papers to alarm Miss Fanny, and so she sent Henrydown to Lady Castleton's to beg her ladyship to make as light of it asshe could; but it seems that Henry blabbed the worst to Mrs. Mole."

"Who is Mrs. Mole?"

"Miss Trevanion's maid, sir,--a new maid; and Mrs. Mole blabbed to myyoung lady, and so she took fright, and insisted on coming to town.And Lady Castleton, who is ill herself in bed, could not keep her,I suppose,--especially as Henry said, though he ought to have knownbetter, 'that she would be in time to arrive before my lady set off.'Poor Miss Trevanion was so disappointed when she found her mamma gone.And then she would order fresh horses and go on, though Mrs. Bates(the housekeeper, you know, sir) was very angry with Mrs. Mole, whoencouraged Miss; and--"

"Good heavens! Why did not Mrs. Bates go with her?"

"Why, sir, you know how old Mrs. Bates is, and my young lady is alwaysso kind that she would not hear of it, as she is going to travel nightand day; and Mrs. Mole said she had gone all over the world with herlast lady, and that--"

"I see it all. Where is Mr. Gower?"

"Mr. Gower, sir!"

"Yes! Can't you answer?"

"Why, with Mr. Trevanion, I believe, sir."

"In the North,--what is the address!"

"Lord N--, C--Hall, near W--"

I heard no more.

The conviction of some villanous snare struck me as with the swiftnessand force of lightning. Why, if Trevanion were really ill, had the falseservant concealed it from me? Why suffered me to waste his time, insteadof hastening to Lady Ellinor? How, if Mr. Trevanion's sudden illness hadbrought the man to London,--how had he known so long beforehand (as hehimself told me, and his appointment with the waiting-woman proved) theday he should arrive? Why now, if there were no design of which MissTrevanion was the object, why so frustrate the provident foresight ofher mother, and take advantage of the natural yearning of affection, thequick impulse of youth, to hurry off a girl whose very station forbadeher to take such a journey without suitable protection,--against whatmust be the wish, and what clearly were the instructions, of LadyEllinor? Alone, worse than alone! Fanny Trevanion was then in the handsof two servants who were the instruments and confidants of an adventurerlike Vivian; and that conference between those servants, thosebroken references to the morrow coupled with the name Vivian hadassumed,--needed the unerring instincts of love more cause forterror?--terror the darker because the exact shape it should assume wasobscure and indistinct.

I sprang from the house.

I hastened into the Haymarket, summoned a cabriolet, drove home as fastas I could (for I had no money about me for the journey I meditated),sent the servant of the lodging to engage a chaise-and-four, rushed intothe room, where Roland fortunately still was, and exclaimed,--"Uncle,come with me! Take money, plenty of money! Some villany I know, though Ican't explain it, has been practised on the Trevanions. We may defeat ityet. I will tell you all by the way. Come, come!"

"Certainly. But villany,--and to people of such a station--pooh! collectyourself. Who is the villain?"

"Oh, the man I had loved as a friend; the man whom I myself helped tomake known to Trevanion,--Vivian, Vivian!"

"Vivian! Ah, the youth I have heard you speak of! But how? Villany towhom,--to Trevanion?"

"You torture me with your questions. Listen: this Vivian (I knowhim),--he has introduced into the house, as a servant, an agent capableof any trick and fraud; that servant has aided him to win over hermaid,--Fanny's--Miss Trevanion's. Miss Trevanion is an heiress, Vivianan adventurer. My head swims round; I cannot explain now. Ha! I willwrite a line to Lord Castleton,--tell him my fears and suspicions; hewill follow us, I know, or do what is best."

I drew ink and paper towards me and wrote hastily. My uncle came roundand looked over my shoulder.

Suddenly he exclaimed, seizing my arm: "Gower, Gower! What name is this?You said Vivian."

"Vivian or Gower,--the same person."

My uncle hurried out of the room. It was natural that he should leave meto make our joint and brief preparations for departure.

I finished my letter, sealed it, and when, five minutes afterwards, thechaise came to the door, I gave it to the hostler who accompanied thehorses, with injunctions to deliver it forthwith to Lord Castletonhimself.

My uncle now descended, and stepped from the threshold with a firmstride. "Comfort yourself," he said, as he entered the chaise, intowhich I had already thrown myself. "We may be mistaken yet."

"Mistaken! You do not know this young man. He has every quality thatcould entangle a girl like Fanny, and not, I fear, one sentiment ofhonor that would stand in the way of his ambition. I judge him now as bya revelation--too late--Oh Heavens, if it be too late!"

A groan broke from Roland's lips. I heard in it a proof of his sympathywith my emotion, and grasped his hand, it was as cold as the hand of thedead.

PART XV.

CHAPTER I.

There would have been nothing in what had chanced to justify thesuspicions that tortured me, but for my impressions as to the characterof Vivian.

Reader, hast thou not, in the easy, careless sociability of youth,formed acquaintance with some one in whose more engaging or brilliantqualities thou hast,--not lost that dislike to defects or vices whichis natural to an age when, even while we err, we adore what is good,and glow with enthusiasts for the ennobling sentiment and the virtuousdeed,--no, happily, not lost dislike to what is bad, nor thy quick senseof it,--but conceived a keen interest in the struggle between the badthat revolted, and the good that attracted thee, in thy companion? Then,perhaps, thou hast lost sight of him for a time; suddenly thouhearest that he has done something out of the way of ordinary good orcommonplace evil; and in either--the good or the evil--thy mind runsrapidly back over its old reminiscences, and of either thou sayest, "Hownatural! only, So-and-so could have done this thing!"

Thus I felt respecting Vivian. The most remarkable qualities in hischaracter were his keen power of calculation and his unhesitatingaudacity,--qualities that lead to fame or to infamy, according to thecultivation of the moral sense and the direction of the passions. HadI recognized those qualities in some agency apparently of good,--and itseemed yet doubtful if Vivian were the agent,--I should have cried, "Itis he; and the better angel has triumphed!" With the same (alas! witha yet more impulsive) quickness, when the agency was of evil, and theagent equally dubious, I felt that the qualities revealed the man, andthat the demon had prevailed.

Mile after mile, stage after stage, were passed on the dreary,interminable, high north road. I narrated to my companion, moreintelligibly than I had yet done, my causes for apprehension. TheCaptain at first listened eagerly, then checked me on the sudden. "Theremay be nothing in all this," he cried. "Sir, we must be men here,--haveour heads cool, our reason clear; stop!" And leaning back in the chaise,Roland refused further conversation, and as the night advanced, seemedto sleep. I took pity on his fatigue, and devoured my heart in silence.At each stage we heard of the party of which we were in pursuit. At thefirst stage or two we were less than an hour behind; gradually, as weadvanced, we lost ground, despite the most lavish liberality tothe post-boys. I supposed, at length, that the mere circumstance ofchanging, at each relay, the chaise as well as the horses, was the causeof our comparative slowness; and on saying this to Roland as we werechanging horses, somewhere about midnight, he at once called up themaster of the inn and gave him his own price for permission to retainthe chaise till the journey's end. This was so unlike Roland's ordinarythrift, whether dealing with my money or his own,--so unjustified bythe fortune of either,--that I could not help muttering something inapology.

"Can you guess why I was a miser?" said Roland, calmly.

"A miser? Anything but that! Only prudent,--military men often are so."

"I was a miser," repeated the Captain, with emphasis. "I began the habitfirst when my son was but a child. I thought him high-spirited, and witha taste for extravagance. 'Well,' said I to myself, 'I will save forhim; boys will be boys.' Then, afterwards, when he was no more a child(at least he began to have the vices of a man), I said to myself,'Patience! he may reform still; if not, I will save money, that I mayhave power over his self-interest, since I have none over his heart. Iwill bribe him into honor!' And then--and then--God saw that I was veryproud, and I was punished. Tell them to drive faster,--faster; why, thisis a snail's pace!"

All that night, all the next day, till towards the evening, we pursuedour journey, without pause or other food than a crust of bread and aglass of wine. But we now picked up the ground we had lost, and gainedupon the carriage. The night had closed in when we arrived at the stageat which the route to Lord N--'s branched from the direct north road.And here, making our usual inquiry, my worst suspicions were confirmed.The carriage we pursued had changed horses an hour before, but had nottaken the way to Lord N--'s, continuing the direct road into Scotland.The people of the inn had not seen the lady in the carriage, for itwas already dark; but the man-servant (whose livery they described) hadordered the horses.

The last hope that, in spite of appearances, no treachery had beendesigned, here vanished. The Captain at first seemed more dismayed thanmyself, but he recovered more quickly. "We will continue the journey onhorseback," he said; and hurried to the stables. All objections vanishedat the sight of his gold. In five minutes we were in the saddle, witha postilion, also mounted, to accompany us. We did the next stage inlittle more than two thirds of the time which we should have occupiedin our former mode of travel,--indeed I found it hard to keep pacewith Roland. We remounted; we were only twenty-five minutes behind thecarriage,--we felt confident that we should overtake it before it couldreach the next town. The moon was up: we could see far before us; werode at full speed. Milestone after milestone glided by; the carriagewas not visible. We arrived at the post-town or rather village; itcontained but one posting-house. We were long in knocking up thehostlers: no carriage had arrived just before us; no carriage had passedthe place since noon.

What mystery was this?

"Back, back, boy!" said Roland, with a soldier's quick wit, and spurringhis jaded horse from the yard. "They will have taken a cross-road orby-lane. We shall track them by the hoofs of the horses or the print ofthe wheels."

Our postilion grumbled, and pointed to the panting sides of our horses.For answer, Roland opened his hand--full of gold. Away we went backthrough the dull, sleeping village, back into the broad moonlitthoroughfare. We came to a cross-road to the right, but the track wepursued still led us straight on. We had measured back nearly halfthe way to the post-town at which we had last changed, when lo! thereemerged from a by-lane two postilions and their horses!

At that sight our companion, shouting loud, pushed on before us andhailed his fellows. A few words gave us the information we sought. Awheel had come off the carriage just by the turn of the road, and theyoung lady and her servants had taken refuge in a small inn not manyyards down the lane. The man-servant had dismissed the post-boys afterthey had baited their horses, saying they were to come again in themorning and bring a blacksmith to repair the wheel.

"How came the wheel off?" asked Roland, sternly.

"Why, sir, the linch-pin was all rotted away, I suppose, and came out."

"Did the servant get off the dickey after you set out, and before theaccident happened?"

"Why, yes. He said the wheels were catching fire, that they had not thepatent axles, and he had forgot to have them oiled."

"And he looked at the wheels, and shortly afterwards the linch-pin cameout? Eh?"

"Anan, sir!" said the post-boy, staring; "why, and indeed so it was!"

"Come on, Pisistratus, we are in time; but pray God, pray God that--"The Captain dashed his spurs into the horse's sides, and the rest of hiswords were lost to me.

A few yards back from the causeway, a broad patch of green before it,stood the inn,--a sullen, old-fashioned building of cold gray stone,looking livid in the moonlight, with black firs at one side throwingover half of it a dismal shadow. So solitary,--not a house, not a hutnear it! If they who kept the inn were such that villany might reckonon their connivance, and innocence despair of their aid, there was noneighborhood to alarm, no refuge at hand. The spot was well chosen.

The doors of the inn were closed; there was a light in the room below:but the outside shutters were drawn over the windows on the first floor.My uncle paused a moment, and said to the postilion,--

"Do you know the back way to the premises?"

"No, sir; I doesn't often come by this way, and they be new folks thathave taken the house,--and I hear it don't prosper over much."

"Knock at the door; we will stand a little aside while you do so. If anyone ask what you want, merely say you would speak to the servant,--thatyou have found a purse. Here, hold up mine."

Roland and I had dismounted, and my uncle drew me close to the wall bythe door, observing that my impatience ill submitted to what seemed tome idle preliminaries.

"Hist!" whispered he. "If there be anything to conceal within, they willnot answer the door till some one has reconnoitred; were they to see us,they would refuse to open. But seeing only the post-boy, whom they willsuppose at first to be one of those who brought the carriage, they willhave no suspicion. Be ready to rush in the moment the door is unbarred."

My uncle's veteran experience did not deceive him. There was a longsilence before any reply was made to the post-boy's summons; the lightpassed to and fro rapidly across the window, as if persons were movingwithin. Roland made sign to the post-boy to knock again. He did sotwice, thrice; and at last, from an attic window in the roof, a headobtruded and a voice cried, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"I'm the post-boy at the Red Lion; I want to see the servant with thebrown carriage: I have found this purse!"

"Oh! that's all; wait a bit."

The head disappeared. We crept along under the projecting eaves of thehouse; we heard the bar lifted from the door, the door itself cautiouslyopened: one spring, and I stood within, and set my back to the door toadmit Roland.

"Ho, help! thieves! help!" cried a loud voice, and I felt a hand grip atmy throat. I struck at random in the dark, and with effect, for my blowwas followed by a groan and a curse.

Roland, meanwhile, had detected a ray through the chinks of a door inthe hall, and, guided by it, found his way into the room at the windowof which we had seen the light pass and go, while without. As he threwthe door open, I bounded after him and saw, in a kind of parlor, twofemales,--the one a stranger, no doubt the hostess; the other thetreacherous abigail. Their faces evinced their terror.

"Woman," I said, seizing the last, "where is Miss Trevanion?" Instead ofreplying, the woman set up a loud shriek. Another light now gleamed fromthe staircase which immediately faced the door, and I heard a voice,that I recognized as Peacock's, cry out, "Who's there?--What's thematter?"

I made a rush at the stairs. A burly form (that of the landlord, who hadrecovered from my blow) obstructed my way for a moment, to measure itslength on the floor at the next. I was at the top of the stairs; Peacockrecognized me, recoiled, and extinguished the light. Oaths, cries, andshrieks now resounded through the dark. Amidst them all I suddenly hearda voice exclaim, "Here, here! help!" It was the voice of Fanny. I mademy way to the right, whence the voice came, and received a violent blow.Fortunately it fell on the arm which I extended, as men do who feeltheir way through the dark. It was not the right arm, and I seized andclosed on my assailant. Roland now came up, a candle in his hand; and atthat sight my antagonist, who was no other than Peacock, slipped from meand made a rush at the stairs. But the Captain caught him with his graspof iron. Fearing nothing for Roland in a contest with any single foe,and all my thoughts bent on the rescue of her whose voice again broke onmy ear, I had already (before the light of the candle which Roland heldwent out in the struggle between himself and Peacock) caught sight ofa door at the end of the passage, and thrown myself against it: it waslocked, but it shook and groaned to my pressure.

"Hold back, whoever you are," cried a voice from the room within, fardifferent from that wail of distress which had guided my steps. "Holdback at the peril of your life!"

The voice, the threat, redoubled my strength: the door flew from itsfastenings. I stood in the room. I saw Fanny at my feet, claspingmy hands; then raising herself, she hung on my shoulder and murmured"Saved!" Opposite to me, his face deformed by passion, his eyesliterally blazing with savage fire, his nostrils distended, his lipsapart, stood the man I have called Francis Vivian.

"Fanny--Miss Trevanion--what outrage, what villany is this? You have notmet this man at your free choice,--oh, speak!" Vivian sprang forward.

"Question no one but me. Unhand that lady,--she is my betrothed; shallbe my wife."

"No, no, no,--don't believe him," cried Fanny; "I have been betrayed bymy own servants,--brought here, I know not how! I heard my father wasill; I was on my way to him that man met me here and dared to--"

"Miss Trevanion--yes, I dared to say I loved you!"

"Protect me from him! You will protect me from him?"

"No, madam!" said a voice behind me, in a deep tone; "it is I who claimthe right to protect you from that man; it is I who now draw around youthe arm of one sacred, even to him; it is I who, from this spot,launch upon his head--a father's curse. Violator of the hearth, baffledravisher, go thy way to the doom which thou hast chosen for thyself! Godwill be merciful to me yet, and give me a grave before thy course findits close in the hulks or at the gallows!"

A sickness came over me, a terror froze my veins; I reeled back, andleaned for support against the wall. Roland had passed his arm roundFanny, and she, frail and trembling, clung to his broad breast, lookingfearfully up to his face. And never in that face, ploughed by deepemotions and dark with unutterable sorrows, had I seen an expression sogrand in its wrath, so sublime in its despair. Following the directionof his eye, stern and fixed as the look of one who prophesies a destinyand denounces a doom, I shivered as I gazed upon the son. His wholeframe seemed collapsed and shrinking, as if already withered by thecurse; a ghastly whiteness overspread the cheek, usually glowing withthe dark bloom of Oriental youth; the knees knocked together; and atlast, with a faint exclamation of pain, like the cry of one whoreceives a death-blow, he bowed his face over his clasped hands, and soremained--still, but cowering.

Instinctively I advanced, and placed myself between the father and theson, murmuring, "Spare him; see, his own heart crushes him down."Then stealing towards the son, I whispered, "Go, go; the crime was notcommitted, the curse can be recalled." But my words touched a wrongchord in that dark and rebellious nature. The young man withdrew hishands hastily from his face and reared his front in passionate defiance.

Waving me aside, he cried, "Away! I acknowledge no authority over myactions and my fate; I allow no mediator between this lady and myself!Sir," he continued, gazing gloomily on his father,--"sir, you forget ourcompact. Our ties were severed, your power over me annulled; I resignedthe name you bear: to you I was, and am still, as the dead. I deny yourright to step between me and the object dearer to me than life.

"Oh!"--and here he stretched forth his hands towards Fanny--"Oh, MissTrevanion, do not refuse me one prayer, however you condemn me. Let mesee you alone but for one moment; let me but prove to you that, guiltyas I may have been, it was not from the base motives you will hearimputed to me,--that it was not the heiress I sought to decoy, it wasthe woman I sought to win; oh, hear me--"

"No, no," murmured Fanny, clinging closer to Roland, "do not leaveme. If, as it seems, he is your son, I forgive him; but let him go,--Ishudder at his very voice!"

"Would you have me indeed, annihilate the memory of the bond betweenus?" said Roland, in a hollow voice; "would you have me see in you onlythe vile thief, the lawless felon,--deliver you up to justice, or strikeyou to my feet? Let the memory still save you, and begone!"

Again I caught hold of the guilty son, and again he broke from my grasp.

"It is," he said, folding his arms deliberately on his breast, "it isfor me to command in this house; all who are within it must submit tomy orders. You, sir, who hold reputation, name, and honor at so higha price, how can you fail to see that you would rob them from the ladywhom you would protect from the insult of my affection? How would theworld receive the tale of your rescue of Miss Trevanion; how believethat--Oh! pardon me, madam--Miss Trevanion--Fanny--pardon me--I am mad.Only hear me,--alone, alone; and then if you too say, 'Begone!' I submitwithout a murmur I allow no arbiter but you."

But Fanny still clung closer and closer still to Roland. At that momentI heard voices and the trampling of feet below; and supposing that theaccomplices in this villany were mustering courage perhaps to mount tothe assistance of their employer, I lost all the compassion that hadhitherto softened my horror of the young man's crime, and all the awewith which that confession had been attended. I therefore this timeseized the false Vivian with a grip that he could no longer shake off,and said sternly, "Beware how you aggravate your offence! If strifeensues, it will not be between father and son, and--"

Fanny sprang forward. "Do not provoke this bad, dangerous man! I fearhim not. Sir, I will hear you, and alone."

"Never!" cried I and Roland simultaneously.

Vivian turned his look fiercely to me, and with a sullen bitterness tohis father; and then, as if resigning his former prayer, he said: "Well,then, be it so; even in the presence of those who judge me so severely,I will speak at least." He paused, and throwing into his voice a passionthat, had the repugnance at his guilt been less, would not have beenwithout pathos, he continued to address Fanny: "I own that when I firstsaw you I might have thought of love as the poor and ambitious thinkof the way to wealth and power. Those thoughts vanished, and nothingremained in my heart but love and madness. I was as a man in a deliriumwhen I planned this snare. I knew but one object, saw but one heavenlyvision. Oh! mine--mine at least in that vision--are you indeed lost tome forever?"

There was that in this man's tone and manner which, whether arisingfrom accomplished hypocrisy or actual, if perverted, feeling, would,I thought, find its way at once to the heart of a woman who, howeverwronged, had once loved him; and with a cold misgiving, I fixed myeyes on Miss Trevanion. Her look, as she turned with a visible tremor,suddenly met mine, and I believe that she discerned my doubt; forafter suffering her eyes to rest on my own with something of mournfulreproach, her lips curved as with the pride of her mother, and for thefirst time in my life I saw anger on her brow.

"It is well, sir, that you have thus spoken to me in the presence ofothers, for in their presence I call upon you to say, by that honorwhich the son of this gentleman may for a while forget, but cannotwholly forfeit,--I call upon you to say whether, by deed, word, or sign,I, Frances Trevanion, ever gave you cause to believe that I returned thefeeling you say you entertained for me, or encouraged you to dare thisattempt to place me in your power."

"No!" cried Vivian, readily, but with a writhing lip, "no; but where Iloved so deeply, perilled all my fortune for one fair and free occasionto tell you so alone, I would not think that such love could meet onlyloathing and disdain. What! has Nature shaped me so unkindly that whereI love no love can reply? What! has the accident of birth shut me outfrom the right to woo and mate with the high-born? For the last, atleast that gentleman in justice should tell you, since it has been hiscare to instil the haughty lesson into me, that my lineage is onethat befits lofty hopes and warrants fearless ambition. My hopes, myambition--they were you! Oh, Miss Trevanion, it is true that to win youI would have braved the world's laws, defied every foe save him who nowrises before me. Yet, believe me, believe me, had I won what I daredto aspire to, you would not have been disgraced by your choice; and thename, for which I thank not my father, should not have been despised bythe woman who pardoned my presumption, nor by the man who now trampleson my anguish and curses me in my desolation."

Not by a word had Roland sought to interrupt his son,--nay, by afeverish excitement which my heart understood in its secret sympathy,he had seemed eagerly to court every syllable that could extenuate thedarkness of the offence, or even imply some less sordid motive forthe baseness of the means. But as the son now closed with the words ofunjust reproach and the accents of fierce despair,--closed a defencethat showed, in its false pride and its perverted eloquence, so utter ablindness to every principle of that Honor which had been the father'sidol,--Roland placed his hand before the eyes that he had previously,as if spell-bound, fixed on the hardened offender, and once more drawingFanny towards him, said,--

"His breath pollutes the air that innocence and honesty should breathe.He says all in this house are at his command,--why do we stay? Let usgo." He turned towards the door, and Fanny with him.

Meanwhile the louder sounds below had been silenced for some moments;but I heard a step in the hall. Vivian started, and placed himselfbefore us.

"No, no; you cannot leave me thus, Miss Trevanion. I resign you,--be itso; I do not even ask for pardon. But to leave this house thus, withoutcarriage, without attendants, without explanation! The blame falls onme,--it shall do so; but at least vouchsafe me the right to repair whatI yet can repair of the wrong, to protect all that is left to me,--yourname."

As he spoke he did not perceive (for he was facing us, and with his backto the door) that a new actor had noiselessly entered on the scene, and,pausing by the threshold, heard his last words.

"The name of Miss Trevanion, sir,--and from what?" asked the new comeras he advanced and surveyed Vivian with a look that, but for its quiet,would have seemed disdain.

"Lord Castleton!" exclaimed Fanny, lifting up the face she had buried inher hands.

Vivian recoiled in dismay, and gnashed his teeth.

"Sir," said the marquis, "I await your reply; for not even you, in mypresence, shall imply that one reproach can be attached to the name ofthat lady."

"Oh, moderate your tone to me, my Lord Castleton!" cried Vivian; "inyou, at least, there is one man I am not forbidden to brave and defy. Itwas to save that lady from the cold ambition of her parents; it was toprevent the sacrifice of her youth and beauty to one whose sole meritsare his wealth and his titles,--it was this that impelled me to thecrime I have committed; this that hurried me on to risk all for one hourwhen youth at least could plead its cause to youth; and this gives menow the power to say that it does rest with me to protect the name ofthe lady, whom your very servility to that world which you have madeyour idol forbids you to claim from the heartless ambition that wouldsacrifice the daughter to the vanity of the parents. Ha! the futureMarchioness of Castleton on her way to Scotland with a pennilessadventurer! Ha! if my lips are sealed, who but I can seal the lipsof those below in my secret? The secret shall be kept, but on thiscondition,--you shall not triumph where I have failed; I may lose whatI adored, but I do not resign it to another. Ha! have I foiled you, myLord Castleton? Ha, ha!"

"No, Sir; and I almost forgive you the villany you have not effected,for informing me, for the first time, that had I presumed toaddress Miss Trevanion, her parents at least would have pardoned thepresumption. Trouble not yourself as to what your accomplices may say.They have already confessed their infamy and your own. Out of my path,Sir!"

Then, with the benign look of a father and the lofty grace of a prince,Lord Castleton advanced to Fanny. Looking round with a shudder, shehastily placed her hand in his, and by so doing perhaps prevented someviolence on the part of Vivian, whose heaving breast and eye bloodshot,and still unquailing, showed how little even shame had subdued hisfiercer passions. But he made no offer to detain them, and his tongueseemed to cleave to his lips. Now, as Fanny moved to the door she passedRoland, who stood motionless and with vacant looks, like an image ofstone; and with a beautiful tenderness, for which (even at this distantdate, recalling it) I say, "God requite thee, Fanny," she laid her otherhand on Roland's arm and said, "Come, too: your arm still."

But Roland's limbs trembled and refused to stir; his head, relaxing,drooped on his breast, his eyes closed. Even Lord Castleton was sostruck (though unable to guess the true and terrible cause of hisdejection) that he forgot his desire to hasten from the spot, and criedwith all his kindliness of heart, "You are ill, you faint; give him yourarm, Pisistratus."

"It is nothing," said Roland, feebly, as he leaned heavily on my armwhile I turned back my head, with all the bitterness of that reproachwhich filled my heart speaking in the eyes that sought him whose placeshould have been where mine now was. And oh!--thank Heaven, thankHeaven!--the look was not in vain. In the same moment the son was at thefather's knees.

"Oh, pardon, pardon! Wretch, lost wretch though I be, I bow my headto the curse. Let it fall,--but on me, and on me only; not on your ownheart too."

Fanny burst into tears, sobbing out, "Forgive him, as I do."

Roland did not heed her.

"He thinks that the heart was not shattered before the curse couldcome," he said, in a voice so weak as to be scarcely audible. Then,raising his eyes to heaven, his lips moved as if he prayed inly.Pausing, he stretched his hands over his son's head, and averting hisface, said, "I revoke the curse. Pray to thy God for pardon."

Perhaps not daring to trust himself further, he then made a violenteffort and hurried from the room.

We followed silently. When we gained the end of the passage, the door ofthe room we had left closed with a sullen jar.

As the sound smote on my ear, with it came so terrible a sense ofthe solitude upon which that door had closed, so keen and quick anapprehension of some fearful impulse, suggested by passions so fierce toa condition so forlorn, that instinctively I stopped, and then hurriedback to the chamber. The lock of the door having been previously forced,there was no barrier to oppose my entrance. I advanced, and behelda spectacle of such agony as can only be conceived by those who havelooked on the grief which takes no fortitude from reason, no consolationfrom conscience,--the grief which tells us what would be the earth wereman abandoned to his passions, and the Chance of the atheist reignedalone in the merciless heavens. Pride humbled to the dust; ambitionshivered into fragments; love (or the passion mistaken for it) blastedinto ashes; life, at the first onset, bereaved of its holiest ties,forsaken by its truest guide; shame that writhed for revenge; andremorse that knew not prayer,--all, all blended, yet distinct, were inthat awful spectacle of the guilty son.

And I had told but twenty years, and my heart had been mellowed in thetender sunshine of a happy home, and I had loved this boy as a stranger;and lo, he was Roland's son! I forgot all else, looking upon thatanguish; and I threw myself on the ground by the form that writhedthere, and folding my arms round the breast which in vain repelled me,I whispered, "Comfort, comfort: life is long. You shall redeem the past,you shall efface the stain, and your father shall bless you yet!"

CHAPTER II.

I could not stay long with my unhappy cousin, but still I stayed longenough to make me think it probable that Lord Castleton's carriage wouldhave left the inn; and when, as I passed the hall, I saw it standingbefore the open door, I was seized with fear for Roland,--his emotionsmight have ended in some physical attack. Nor were those fears withoutfoundation. I found Fanny kneeling beside the old soldier in the parlorwhere we had seen the two women, and bathing his temples, while LordCastleton was binding his arm; and the marquis's favorite valet, who,amongst his other gifts, was something of a surgeon, was wipingthe blade of the penknife that had served instead of a lancet. LordCastleton nodded to me. "Don't be uneasy,--a little fainting fit; wehave bled him. He is safe now,--see, he is recovering." Roland's eyes,as they opened, turned to me with an anxious, inquiring look. I smiledupon him as I kissed his forehead, and could, with a safe conscience,whisper words which neither father nor Christian could refuse to receiveas comfort.

In a few minutes more we had left the house. As Lord Castleton'scarriage only held two, the marquis, having assisted Miss Trevanion andRoland to enter, quietly mounted the seat behind and made a sign to meto come by his side, for there was room for both. (His servant hadtaken one of the horses that had brought thither Roland and myself, andalready gone on before.) No conversation took place between us then.Lord Castleton seemed profoundly affected, and I had no words at mycommand.

When we reached the inn at which Lord Castleton had changed horses,about six miles distant, the marquis insisted on Fanny's taking somerest for a few hours; for indeed she was thoroughly worn out.

I attended my uncle to his room; but he only answered my assurances ofhis son's repentance with a pressure of the hand, and then, gliding fromme, went into the farthest recess of the room and there knelt down.When he rose, he was passive and tractable as a child. He suffered me toassist him to undress; and when he had lain down on the bed, he turnedhis face quietly from the light, and after a few heavy sighs, sleepseemed mercifully to steal upon him. I listened to his breathing till itgrew low and regular, and then descended to the sitting-room in whichI had left Lord Castleton, for he had asked me in a whisper to seek himthere.

I found the marquis seated by the fire, in a thoughtful and dejectedattitude.

"I am glad you are come," said he, making room for me on the hearth,"for I assure you I have not felt so mournful for many years; we havemuch to explain to each other. Will you begin? They say the sound of thebell dissipates the thunder-cloud; and there is nothing like the voiceof a frank, honest nature to dispel all the clouds that come upon uswhen we think of our own faults and the villany of others. But I beg youa thousand pardons: that young man your relation,--your brave uncle'sson? Is it possible?"

My explanations to Lord Castleton were necessarily brief and imperfect.The separation between Roland and his son; my ignorance of its cause;my belief in the death of the latter; my chance acquaintance with thesupposed Vivian; the interest I took in him; the relief it was to thefears for his fate with which he inspired me, to think he had returnedto the home I ascribed to him; and the circumstances which had inducedmy suspicions, justified by the result,--all this was soon hurried over.

"But I beg your pardon," said the marquis, interrupting me "did you, inyour friendship for one so unlike you, even by your own partial account,never suspect that you had stumbled upon your lost cousin?"

"Such an idea never could have crossed me."

And here I must observe that though the reader, at the firstintroduction of Vivian, would divine the secret, the penetration of areader is wholly different from that of the actor in events. That I hadchanced on one of those curious coincidences in the romance of reallife which a reader looks out for and expects in following the courseof narrative, was a supposition forbidden to me by a variety of causes.There was not the least family resemblance between Vivian and any ofhis relations; and, somehow or other, in Roland's son I had pictured tomyself a form and a character wholly different from Vivian's. To me itwould have seemed impossible that my cousin could have been so littlecurious to hear any of our joint family affairs; been so unheedful,or even weary, if I spoke of Roland,--never, by a word or tone, havebetrayed a sympathy with his kindred. And my other conjecture wasso probable,--son of the Colonel Vivian whose name he bore. And thatletter, with the post-mark of "Godalming," and my belief, too, inmy cousin's death,--even now I am not surprised that the idea neveroccurred to me.

I paused from enumerating these excuses for my dulness, angry withmyself, for I noticed that Lord Castleton's fair brow darkened; and heexclaimed, "What deceit he must have gone through before he could becomesuch a master in the art!"

"That is true, and I cannot deny it," said I. "But his punishment nowis awful; let us hope that repentance may follow the chastisement. Andthough certainly it must have been his own fault that drove him from hisfather's home and guidance, yet, so driven, let us make some allowancefor the influence of evil companionship on one so young,--for thesuspicions that the knowledge of evil produces, and turns into a kindof false knowledge of the world. And in this last and worst of all hisactions--"

"Ah, how justify that?"

"Justify it? Good Heavens! Justify it? No. I only say this, strange asit may seem, that I believe his affection for Miss Trevanion was forherself,--so he says, from the depth of an anguish in which the mostinsincere of men would cease to feign. But no more of this; she issaved, thank Heaven!"

"And you believe," said Lord Castleton, musingly, "that he spoke thetruth when he thought that I--" The marquis stopped, cowered slightly,and then went on. "But no; Lady Ellinor and Trevanion, whatever mighthave been in their thoughts, would never have so forgot their dignity asto take him, a youth, almost a stranger,--nay, take any one into theirconfidence on such a subject."

"It was but by broken gasps, incoherent, disconnected words, thatVivian--I mean my cousin--gave me any explanation of this. But LadyN--, at whose house he was staying, appears to have entertained such anotion, or at least led my cousin to think so."

"Ah! that is possible," said Lord Castleton, with a look of relief."Lady N--and I were boy and girl together; we correspond; she haswritten to me suggesting that--Ah! I see,--an indiscreet woman. Hum!this comes of lady correspondents!"

Lord Castleton had recourse to the Beaudesert mixture; and then, as ifeager to change the subject, began his own explanation. On receiving myletter, he saw even more cause to suspect a snare than I had done, forhe had that morning received a letter from Trevanion, not mentioning aword about his illness; and on turning to the newspaper, and seeing aparagraph headed, "Sudden and alarming illness of Mr. Trevanion," themarquis had suspected some party manoeuvre or unfeeling hoax, since themail that had brought the letter must have travelled as quickly asany messenger who had given the information to the newspaper. He had,however, immediately sent down to the office of the journal to inquireon what authority the paragraph had been inserted, while he despatchedanother messenger to St. James's Square. The reply from the officewas that the message had been brought by a servant in Mr. Trevanion'slivery, but was not admitted as news until it had been ascertained byinquiries at the minister's house that Lady Ellinor had received thesame intelligence, and actually left town in consequence.

"I was extremely sorry for poor Lady Ellinor's uneasiness," said LordCastleton, "and extremely puzzled; but I still thought there could be noreal ground for alarm until your letter reached me. And when you therestated your conviction that Mr. Gower was mixed up in this fable, andthat it concealed some snare upon Fanny, I saw the thing at a glance.The road to Lord N--'s, till within the last stage or two, would bethe road to Scotland. And a hardy and unscrupulous adventurer, withthe assistance of Miss Trevanion's servants, might thus entrap her toScotland itself, and there work on her fears, or if he had hope in heraffections, entrap her into consent to a Scotch marriage. You may besure, therefore, that I was on the road as soon as possible. But as yourmessenger came all the way from the City, and not so quickly perhaps ashe might have come; and then as there was the carriage to see to, andthe horses to send for,--I found myself more than an hour and a halfbehind you. Fortunately, however, I made good ground, and shouldprobably have overtaken you half-way, but that, on passing between aditch and wagon, the carriage was upset, and that somewhat delayed me.On arriving at the town where the road branched off to Lord N--'s, I wasrejoiced to learn you had taken what I was sure would prove the rightdirection; and finally I gained the clew to that villanous inn, by thereport of the post-boys who had taken Miss Trevanion's carriage there,and met you on the road. On reaching the inn I found two fellowsconferring outside the door. They sprang in as we drove up, but notbefore my servant Summers--a quick fellow, you know, who has travelledwith me from Norway to Nubia--had quitted his seat and got into thehouse, into which I followed him with a step, you dog, as active as yourown! Egad! I was twenty-one then! Two fellows had already knockeddown poor Summers, and showed plenty of fight. Do you know," saidthe marquis, interrupting himself with an air of serio-comichumiliation--"do you know that I actually--no, you never will believeit; mind, 't is a secret--actually broke my cane over one fellowsshoulders? Look!" (and the marquis held up the fragment of the lamentedweapon). "And I half suspect, but I can't say positively, that Ihad even the necessity to demean myself by a blow with the nakedhand--clenched too! Quite Eton again; upon my honor it was! Ha, ha!"

And the marquis--whose magnificent proportions, in the full vigor ofman's strongest, if not his most combative, age, would have made him aformidable antagonist even to a couple of prize-fighters, supposing hehad retained a little of Eton skill in such encounters--laughed with theglee of a schoolboy, whether at the thought of his prowess; or his senseof the contrast between so rude a recourse to primitive warfare, and hisown indolent habits and almost feminine good temper. Composing himself,however, with the quick recollection how little I could share hishilarity, he resumed gravely, "It took us some time, I don't sayto defeat our foes, but to bind them, which I thought a necessaryprecaution; one fellow, Trevanion's servant, all the while stunning mewith quotations from Shakspeare. I then gently laid hold of a gown, thebearer of which had been long trying to scratch me, but being, luckily,a small woman, had not succeeded in reaching to my eyes. But the gownescaped, and fluttered off to the kitchen. I followed, and there I foundMiss Trevanion's Jezebel of a maid. She was terribly frightened, andaffected to be extremely penitent. I own to you that I don't care whata man says in the way of slander, but a woman's tongue against anotherwoman,--especially if that tongue be in the mouth of a lady's lady,--Ithink it always worth silencing; I therefore consented to pardon thiswoman on condition she would find her way here before morning. Noscandal shall come from her. Thus you see some minutes elapsed beforeI joined you; but I minded that the less as I heard you and the Captainwere already in the room with Miss Trevanion. And not, alas! dreamingof your connection with the culprit, I was wondering what could havedelayed you so long,--afraid, I own it, to find that Miss Trevanion'sheart might have been seduced by that--hem, hem!--handsome--young--hem,hem----

"There's no fear of that?" added Lord Castleton, anxiously, as hebent his bright eyes upon mine.

I felt myself color as I answered firmly, "It is just to Miss Trevanionto add that the unhappy man owned, in her presence and in mine, thathe had never had the slightest encouragement for his attempt,--never onecause to believe that she approved the affection which, I try to think,blinded and maddened himself."

"I believe you; for I think--" Lord Castleton paused uneasily, againlooked at me, rose, and walked about the room with evident agitation;then, as if he had come to some resolution, he returned to the hearthand stood facing me.

"My dear young friend," said he, with his irresistible kindly frankness,"this is an occasion that excuses all things between us, even myimpertinence. Your conduct from first to last has been such that I wish,from the bottom of my heart, that I had a daughter to offer you, andthat you felt for her as I believe you feel for Miss Trevanion. Theseare not mere words; do not look down as if ashamed. All the marquisatesin the world would never give me the pride I should feel if I could seein my life one steady self-sacrifice to duty and honor equal to thatwhich I have witnessed in you."

"Oh, my lord! my lord!"

"Hear me out. That you love Fanny Trevanion I know; that she may haveinnocently, timidly, half-unconsciously, returned that affection, Ithink probable. But--"

"I know what you would say; spare me,--I know it all."

"No! it is a thing impossible; and if Lady Ellinor could consent,there would be such a life-long regret on her part, such a weight ofobligation on yours, that--No, I repeat, it is impossible! But let usboth think of this poor girl. I know her better than you can,--haveknown her from a child; know all her virtues,--they are charming; allher faults,--they expose her to danger. These parents of hers, withtheir genius and ambition, may do very well to rule England andinfluence the world; but to guide the fate of that child--no!" LordCastleton stopped, for he was affected. I felt my old jealousy return,but it was no longer bitter.

"I say nothing," continued the marquis, "of this position, in which,without fault of hers, Miss Trevanion is placed: Lady Ellinor'sknowledge of the world, and woman's wit, will see how all that can bebest put right. Still, it is awkward, and demands much consideration.But putting this aside altogether, if you do firmly believe that MissTrevanion is lost to you, can you bear to think that she is to beflung as a mere cipher into the account of the worldly greatness of anaspiring politician,--married to some minister too busy to watch overher, or some duke who looks to pay off his mortgages with her fortune;minister or duke only regarded as a prop to Trevanion's power against acounter-cabal, or as giving his section a preponderance in the cabinet?Be assured such is her most likely destiny, or rather the beginning ofa destiny yet more mournful. Now, I tell you this, that he who marriesFanny Trevanion should have little other object, for the first fewyears of marriage, than to correct her failings and develop hervirtues. Believe one who, alas! has too dearly bought his knowledge ofwoman,--hers is a character to be formed. Well, then, if this prize belost to you, would it be an irreparable grief to your generous affectionto think that it has fallen to the lot of one who at least knows hisresponsibilities, and--who will redeem his own life, hitherto wasted, bythe steadfast endeavor to fulfil them? Can you take this hand still, andpress it, even though it be a rival's?"

"My lord! this from you to me is an honor that--"

"You will not take my hand? Then, believe me, it is not I that will givethat grief to your heart."

Touched, penetrated, melted, by this generosity in a man of such loftyclaims, to one of my age and fortunes, I pressed that noble hand, halfraising it to my lips,--an action of respect that would have misbecomeneither; but he gently withdrew the hand, in the instinct of his naturalmodesty. I had then no heart to speak further on such a subject, butfaltering out that I would go and see my uncle, I took up the light andascended the stairs. I crept noiselessly into Roland's room, and shadingthe light, saw that, though he slept, his face was very troubled. Andthen I thought, "What are my young griefs to his?" and sitting besidethe bed, communed with my own heart and was still.

CHAPTER III.

At sunrise I went down into the sitting-room, having resolved to writeto my father to join us; for I felt how much Roland needed his comfortand his counsel, and it was no great distance from the old Tower. Iwas surprised to find Lord Castleton still seated by the fire; he hadevidently not gone to bed.

"That's right," said he; "we must encourage each other to recruitnature;" and he pointed to the breakfast-things on the table.

I had scarcely tasted food for many hours, but I was only aware of myown hunger by a sensation of faintness. I ate unconsciously, and wasalmost ashamed to feel how much the food restored me.

"I suppose," said I, "that you will soon set off to Lord N--'s?"

"Nay, did I not tell you that I have sent Summers express, with a noteto Lady Ellinor begging her to come here? I did not see, on reflection,how I could decorously accompany Miss Trevanion alone, without even afemale servant, to a house full of gossiping guests. And even hadyour uncle been well enough to go with us, his presence would but havecreated an additional cause for wonder; so as soon as we arrived, andwhile you went up with the Captain, I wrote my letter and despatched myman. I expect Lady Ellinor will be here before nine o'clock. Meanwhile Ihave already seen that infamous waiting-woman, and taken care to preventany danger from her garrulity. And you will be pleased to hear thatI have hit upon a mode of satisfying the curiosity of our friend Mrs.Grundy--that is, 'the World'--without injury to any one. We must supposethat that footman of Trevanion's was out of his mind,--it is but acharitable, and your good father would say a philosophical, supposition.All great knavery is madness! The world could not get on if truthand goodness were not the natural tendencies of sane minds. Do youunderstand?"

"Not quite."

"Why, the footman, being out of his mind, invented this mad story ofTrevanion's illness, frightened Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion out oftheir wits with his own chimera, and hurried them both off, one afterthe other. I, having heard from Trevanion, and knowing he could not havebeen ill when the servant left him, set off, as was natural in so olda friend of the family, saved her from the freaks of a maniac, who,getting more and more flighty, was beginning to play the Jack o'Lantern, and leading her, Heaven knows where, over the country; andthen wrote to Lady Ellinor to come to her. It is but a hearty laugh atour expense, and Mrs. Grundy is content. If you don't want her to pityor backbite, let her laugh. She is a she-Cerberus,--she wants to eatyou; well--stop her mouth with a cake.

"Yes," continued this better sort of Aristippus, so wise under all hisseeming levities, "the cue thus given, everything favors it. If thatrogue of a lackey quoted Shakspeare as much in the servants' hall as hedid while I was binding him neck and heels in the kitchen, that's enoughfor all the household to declare he was moon-stricken; and if we find itnecessary to do anything more, why, we must induce him to go into Bedlamfor a month or two. The disappearance of the waiting-woman is natural;either I or Lady Ellinor send her about her business for her folly inbeing so gulled by the lunatic. If that's unjust, why, injustice toservants is common enough, public and private; neither minister norlackey can be forgiven if he help us into a scrape. One must vent one'spassion on something. Witness my poor cane: though, indeed, a betterillustration would be the cane that Louis XIV. broke on a footmanbecause his Majesty was out of humor with the prince, whose shoulderswere too sacred for royal indignation."

"So you see," concluded Lord Castleton, lowering his voice, "that youruncle, amongst all his other causes of sorrow, may think at least thathis name is spared in his son's. And the young man himself may findreform easier when freed from that despair of the possibility ofredemption which Mrs. Grundy inflicts upon those who----

"Courage, then; life is long!"

"My very words!" I cried; "and so repeated by you, Lord Castleton, theyseem prophetic."

"Take my advice, and don't lose sight of your cousin while his pride isyet humbled, and his heart perhaps softened. I don't say this only forhis sake. No, it is your poor uncle I think of: noble old fellow! Andnow I think it right to pay Lady Ellinor the respect of repairing,as well as I can, the havoc three sleepless nights have made on theexterior of a gentleman who is on the shady side of remorseless forty."

Lord Castleton here left me, and I wrote to my father, begging him tomeet us at the next stage (which was the nearest point from thehigh road to the Tower), and I sent off the letter by a messenger onhorseback. That task done, I leaned my head upon my hand, and a profoundsadness settled upon me, despite all my efforts to face the future andthink only of the duties of life--not its sorrows.

CHAPTER IV.

Before nine o'clock Lady Ellinor arrived, and went straight into MissTrevanion's room; I took refuge in my uncle's. Roland was awake andcalm, but so feeble that he made no effort to rise; and it was hiscalm, indeed, that alarmed me the most,--it was like the calm of naturethoroughly exhausted. He obeyed me mechanically, as a patient takes fromyour hand the draught, of which he is almost unconscious, when I pressedhim to take food. He smiled on me faintly when I spoke to him, but mademe a sign that seemed to implore silence. Then he turned his face fromme and buried it in the pillow; and I thought that he slept again,when, raising himself a little, and feeling for my hand, he said, in ascarcely audible voice,--

"Where is he?"

"Would you see him, sir?"

"No, no; that would kill me,--and then what would become of him?"

"He has promised me an interview, and in that interview I feel assuredhe will obey your wishes, whatever they are." Roland made no answer.

"Lord Castleton has arranged all, so that his name and madness (thus letus call it) will never be known."

"Pride, pride, pride still!" murmured the old soldier. "The name, thename,--well, that is much; but the living soul!--I wish Austin werehere."

"I have sent for him, sir."

Roland pressed my hand, and was again silent. Then he began to mutter,as I thought, incoherently about the Peninsula and obeying orders; andhow some officer woke Lord Wellington at night and said that somethingor other (I could not catch what,--the phrase was technical andmilitary) was impossible; and how Lord Wellington asked, "Where'sthe order-book?" and looking into the order-book, said, "Not at allimpossible, for it is in the order-book;" and so Lord Wellington turnedround and went to sleep again. Then suddenly Roland half rose, and said,in a voice clear and firm, "But Lord Wellington, though a greatcaptain, was a fallible man, sir, and the order-book was his own mortalhandiwork. Get me the Bible!"

Oh, Roland, Roland! and I had feared that thy mind was wandering!

So I went down and borrowed a Bible in large characters, and placed iton the bed before him, opening the shutters and letting in God's dayupon God's word.

I had just done this when there was a slight knock at the door. I openedit, and Lord Castleton stood without. He asked me, in a whisper, if hemight see my uncle. I drew him in gently, and pointed to the soldier oflife "learning what was not impossible" from the unerring Order-Book.

Lord Castleton gazed with a changing countenance, and without disturbingmy uncle, stole back. I followed him, and gently closed the door.

"You must save his son," he said in a faltering voice,--"you must; andtell me how to help you. That sight,--no sermon ever touched me more!Now come down and receive Lady Ellinor's thanks. We are going. She wantsme to tell my own tale to my old friend Mrs. Grundy; so I go with them.Come!"

On entering the sitting-room, Lady Ellinor came up and fairly embracedme. I need not repeat her thanks, still less the praises, which fellcold and hollow on my ear. My gaze rested on Fanny where she stoodapart,--her eyes, heavy with fresh tears, bent on the ground. And thesense of all her charms; the memory of the tender, exquisite kindnessshe had shown to the stricken father; the generous pardon she hadextended to the criminal son; the looks she had bent upon me on thatmemorable night (looks that had spoken such trust in my presence), themoment in which she had clung to me for protection, and her breathbeen warm upon my cheek,--all these rushed over me, and I felt that thestruggle of months was undone, that I had never loved her as I loved herthen, when I saw her but to lose her evermore! And then there came forthe first, and, I now rejoice to think, for the only time, a bitter,ungrateful accusation against the cruelty of fortune and the disparitiesof life. What was it that set our two hearts eternally apart and madehope impossible? Not nature, but the fortune that gives a second natureto the world. Ah, could I then think that it is in that second naturethat the soul is ordained to seek its trials, and that the elements ofhuman virtue find their harmonious place? What I answered I know not.Neither know I how long I stood there listening to sounds which seemedto have no meaning, till there came other sounds which indeed woke mysense and made my blood run cold to hear,--the tramp of the horses, thegrating of the wheels, the voice at the door that said all was ready.

Then Fanny lifted her eyes, and they met mine; and then involuntarilyand hastily she moved a few steps towards me, and I clasped my righthand to my heart, as if to still its beating, and remained still. LordCastleton had watched us both. I felt that watch upon us, though I hadtill then shunned his looks; now, as I turned my eyes from Fanny's, thatlook came full upon me,--soft, compassionate, benignant. Suddenly, andwith an unutterable expression of nobleness, the marquis turned to LadyEllinor and said: "Pardon me for telling you an old story. A friend ofmine--a man of my own years--had the temerity to hope that he mightone day or other win the affections of a lady young enough to be hisdaughter, and whom circumstances and his own heart led him to preferfrom all her sex. My friend had many rivals; and you will not wonder,for you have seen the lady. Among them was a young gentleman who formonths had been an inmate of the same house (hush, Lady Ellinor! youwill hear me out; the interest of my story is to come), who respectedthe sanctity of the house he had entered, and had left it when he felthe loved, for he was poor, and the lady rich. Some time after, thisgentleman saved the lady from a great danger, and was then on the eve ofleaving England (hush! again, hush!). My friend was present when thesetwo young persons met, before the probable absence of many years, andso was the mother of the lady to whose hand he still hoped one dayto aspire. He saw that his young rival wished to say, 'Farewell!' andwithout a witness; that farewell was all that his honor and his reasoncould suffer him to say. My friend saw that the lady felt the naturalgratitude for a great service, and the natural pity for a generous andunfortunate affection; for so, Lady Ellinor, he only interpreted the sobthat reached his ear! What think you my friend did? Your high mind atonce conjectures. He said to himself: 'If I am ever to be blest with theheart which, in spite of disparity of years, I yet hope to win, letme show how entire is the trust that I place in its integrity andinnocence; let the romance of first youth be closed, the farewell ofpure hearts be spoken, unembittered by the idle jealousies of one meansuspicion.' With that thought, which you, Lady Ellinor, will neverstoop to blame, he placed his hand on that of the noble mother, drew hergently towards the door, and calmly confident of the result, left thesetwo young natures to the unwitnessed impulse of maiden honor and manlyduty."

All this was said and done with a grace and earnestness that thrilledthe listeners; word and action suited to each with so inimitable aharmony that the spell was not broken till the voice ceased and the doorclosed.

That mournful bliss for which I had so pined was vouchsafed: I was alonewith her to whom, indeed, honor and reason forbade me to say more thanthe last farewell.

It was some time before we recovered, before we felt that we were alone.

O ye moments that I can now recall with so little sadness in the mellowand sweet remembrance, rest ever holy and undisclosed in the solemnrecesses of the heart! Yes, whatever confession of weakness wasinterchanged, we were not unworthy of the trust that permitted themournful consolation of the parting. No trite love-tale, with vowsnot to be fulfilled, and hopes that the future must belie, mocked therealities of the life that lay before us. Yet on the confines of thedream we saw the day rising cold upon the world; and if--children as wewell-nigh were--we shrank somewhat from the light, we did not blasphemethe sun and cry, "There is darkness in the dawn!"

All that we attempted was to comfort and strengthen each other for thatwhich must be; not seeking to conceal the grief we felt, but promising,with simple faith, to struggle against the grief. If vow were pledgedbetween us,--that was the vow: each for the other's sake would striveto enjoy the blessings Heaven left us still. Well may I say that we werechildren! I know not, in the broken words that passed between us, in thesorrowful hearts which those words revealed, I know not if there werethat which they who own in human passion but the storm and the whirlwindwould call the love of maturer years,--the love that gives fire to thesong, and tragedy to the stage; but I know that there was neither a wordnor a thought which made the sorrow of the children a rebellion to theHeavenly Father.

And again the door unclosed, and Fanny walked with a firm step to hermother's side, and pausing there, extended her hand to me and said, as Ibent over it, "Heaven Will be with you!"

A word from Lady Ellinor, a frank smile from him, the rival, one last,last glance from the soft eyes of Fanny, and then Solitude rushed uponme,--rushed as something visible, palpable, overpowering. I felt it inthe glare of the sunbeam, I heard it in the breath of the air; like aghost it rose there,--where she had filled the space with her presencebut a moment before! A something seemed gone from the universe forever;a change like that of death passed through my being; and when I woke,to feel that my being lived again, I knew that it was my youth and itspoet-land that were no more, and that I had passed, with an unconsciousstep, which never could retrace its way, into the hard world oflaborious man!

PART XVI.

CHAPTER I.

"Please, sir, be this note for you?" asked the waiter.

"For me,--yes; it is my name."

I did not recognize the handwriting, and yet the note was from one whosewriting I had often seen. But formerly the writing was cramped, stiff,perpendicular (a feigned hand, though I guessed not it was feigned);now it was hasty, irregular, impatient, scarce a letter formed, scarce aword that seemed finished, and yet strangely legible withal, as the handwriting of a bold man almost always is. I opened the note listlessly,and read,--

"I have watched for you all the morning. I saw her go. Well! I didnot throw myself under the hoofs of the horses. I write this in apublic-house, not far. Will you follow the bearer, and see once againthe outcast whom all the rest of the world will shun?"

Though I did not recognize the hand, there could be no doubt who was thewriter.

"The boy wants to know if there's an answer," said the waiter.

I nodded, took up my hat, and left the room. A ragged boy was standingin the yard, and scarcely six words passed between us before I wasfollowing him through a narrow lane that faced the inn and terminatedin a turnstile. Here the boy paused, and making me a sign to go on, wentback his way whistling. I passed the turnstile, and found myself in agreen field, with a row of stunted willows hanging over a narrow rill.I looked round, and saw Vivian (as I intend still to call him) halfkneeling, and seemingly intent upon some object in the grass.

My eye followed his mechanically. A young unfledged bird that had leftthe nest too soon stood, all still and alone, on the bare short sward,its beak open as for food, its gaze fixed on us with a wistful stare.Methought there was something in the forlorn bird that softened me moreto the forlorner youth, of whom it seemed a type.

"Now," said Vivian, speaking half to himself, half to me, "did the birdfall from the nest, or leave the nest at its own wild whim? The parentdoes not protect it. Mind, I say not it is the parent's fault,--perhapsthe fault is all with the wanderer. But, look you, though the parent isnot here, the foe is,--yonder, see!"

And the young man pointed to a large brindled cat that, kept back fromits prey by our unwelcome neighborhood, still remained watchful, a fewpaces off, stirring its tail gently backwards and forwards, and withthat stealthy look in its round eyes, dulled by the sun,--half fierce,half frightened,--which belongs to its tribe when man comes between thedevourer and the victim.

"I do see," said I; "but a passing footstep has saved the bird!"

"Stop!" said Vivian, laying my hand on his own, and with his old bittersmile on his lip,--"stop! Do you think it mercy to save the bird? Whatfrom; and what for? From a natural enemy,--from a short pang and a quickdeath? Fie! is not that better than slow starvation,--or, if you takemore heed of it, than the prison-bars of a cage? You cannot restore thenest, you cannot recall the parent. Be wiser in your mercy,--leave thebird to its gentlest fate."

I looked hard on Vivian: the lip had lost the bitter smile. He rose andturned away. I sought to take up the poor bird; but it did not know itsfriends, and ran from me, chirping piteously,--ran towards the veryjaws of the grim enemy. I was only just in time to scare away the beast,which sprang up a tree and glared down through the hanging boughs. ThenI followed the bird, and as I followed, I heard, not knowing at firstwhence the sound came, a short, quick, tremulous note. Was it near, wasit far? From the earth, in the sky? Poor parent bird, like parent-love,it seemed now far and now near; now on earth, now in sky!

And at last, quick and sudden, as if born of the space, lo, the littlewings hovered over me!

The young bird halted, and I also.

"Come," said I, "ye have found each other at last,--settle it betweenyou!"

I went back to the outcast.

CHAPTER II.

Pisistratus.--"How came you to know we had stayed in the town?"

Vivian.--"Do you think I could remain where you left me? I wandered out,wandered hither. Passing at dawn through yon streets, I saw the hostlersloitering by the gates of the yard, overheard them talk, and so knew youwere all at the inn,--all!" He sighed heavily.

Pisistratus.--"Your poor father is very ill. Oh, cousin, how could youfling from you so much love?"

Vivian.--"Love! his! my father's!"

Pisistratus.--"Do you really not believe, then, that your father lovedyou?"

Vivian.--"If I had believed it, I had never left him. All the gold ofthe Indies had never bribed me to leave my mother."

Pisistratus.--"This is indeed a strange misconception of yours. Ifwe can remove it, all may be well yet. Need there now be any secretsbetween us? [persuasively]. Sit down, and tell me all, cousin."

After some hesitation, Vivian complied; and by the clearing of his browand the very tone of his voice I felt sure that he was no longer seekingto disguise the truth. But as I afterwards learned the father's taleas well as now the son's, so, instead of repeating Vivian'swords, which--not by design, but by the twist of a mind habituallywrong--distorted the facts, I will state what appears to me the realcase, as between the parties so unhappily opposed. Reader, pardon me ifthe recital be tedious; and if thou thinkest that I bear not hard enoughon the erring hero of the story, remember that he who recites, judges asAustin's son must judge of Roland's.

CHAPTER III.

Vivian.

At The Entrance of Life Sits--The Mother.

It was during the war in Spain that a severe wound, and the fever whichensued, detained Roland at the house of a Spanish widow. His hostesshad once been rich; but her fortune had been ruined in the generalcalamities of the country. She had an only daughter, who assisted tonurse and tend the wounded Englishman; and when the time approached forRoland's departure, the frank grief of the young Ramouna betrayedthe impression that the guest had made upon her affections. Much ofgratitude, and something, it might be, of an exquisite sense of honor,aided, in Roland's breast, the charm naturally produced by the beautyof his young nurse, and the knightly compassion he felt for her ruinedfortunes and desolate condition.

In one of those hasty impulses common to a generous nature--and whichtoo often fatally vindicate the rank of Prudence amidst the tutelaryPowers of Life--Roland committed the error of marriage with a girl ofwhose connections he knew nothing, and of whose nature little more thanits warm, spontaneous susceptibility. In a few days subsequent to theserash nuptials, Roland rejoined the march of the army; nor was he able toreturn to Spain till after the crowning victory of Waterloo.

Maimed by the loss of a limb, and with the scars of many a noble woundstill fresh, Roland then hastened to a home, the dreams of which hadsoothed the bed of pain, and now replaced the earlier visions of renown.During his absence a son had been born to him,--a son whom he might rearto take the place he had left in his country's service; to renew, insome future fields, a career that had failed the romance of his ownantique and chivalrous ambition. As soon as that news had reached himhis care had been to provide an English nurse for the infant, so thatwith the first sounds of the mother's endearments, the child mightyet hear a voice from the father's land. A female relation of Bolt hadsettled in Spain, and was induced to undertake this duty. Natural asthis appointment was to a man so devotedly English, it displeased hiswild and passionate Ramouna. She had that mother's jealousy, strongestin minds uneducated; she had also that peculiar pride which belongs toher country-people of every rank and condition: the jealousy and thepride were both wounded by the sight of the English nurse at the child'scradle.

That Roland on regaining his Spanish hearth should be disappointed inhis expectations of the happiness awaiting him there, was the inevitablecondition of such a marriage, since, not the less for hismilitary bluntness, Roland had that refinement of feeling, perhapsover-fastidious, which belongs to all natures essentially poetic; andas the first illusions of love died away, there could have been littleindeed congenial to his stately temper in one divided from him by anutter absence of education and by the strong, but nameless, distinctionsof national views and manners. The disappointment probably, however,went deeper than that which usually attends an ill-assorted union; forinstead of bringing his wife to his old Tower (an expatriation which shewould doubtless have resisted to the utmost), he accepted, maimed as hewas, not very long after his return to Spain, the offer of a militarypost under Ferdinand. The Cavalier doctrines and intense loyalty ofRoland attached him, without reflection, to the service of a thronewhich the English arms had contributed to establish; while the extremeunpopularity of the Constitutional Party in Spain, and the stigma ofirreligion fixed to it by the priests, aided to foster Roland's beliefthat he was supporting a beloved king against the professors of thoserevolutionary and Jacobinical doctrines which to him were the veryatheism of politics. The experience of a few years in the service of abigot so contemptible as Ferdinand, whose highest object of patriotismwas the restoration of the Inquisition, added another disappointment tothose which had already embittered the life of a man who had seen inthe grand hero of Cervantes no follies to satirize, but high virtues toimitate. Poor Quixote himself,--he came mournfully back to his La Manchawith no other reward for his knight-errantry than a decoration, whichhe disdained to place beside his simple Waterloo medal, and a gradefor which he would have blushed to resign his more modest, but morehonorable, English dignity.

But still weaving hopes, the sanguine man returned to his Penates. Hischild now had grown from infancy into boyhood,--the child would passnaturally into his care. Delightful occupation! At the thought, homesmiled again.

Now behold the most pernicious circumstance in this ill-omenedconnection.

The father of Ramouna had been one of that strange and mysteriousrace which presents in Spain so many features distinct from thecharacteristics of its kindred tribes in more civilized lands. TheGitano, or gypsy of Spain, is not the mere vagrant we see on our commonsand road-sides. Retaining, indeed, much of his lawless principles andpredatory inclinations, he lives often in towns, exercises variouscallings, and not unfrequently becomes rich. A wealthy Gitano hadmarried a Spanish woman; (1) Roland's wife had been the offspring ofthis marriage. The Gitano had died while Ramouna was yet extremelyyoung, and her childhood had been free from the influences of herpaternal kindred. But though her mother, retaining her own religion, hadbrought up Ramouna in the same faith, pure from the godless creed of theGitano, and at her husband's death had separated herself wholly from histribe, still she had lost caste with her own kin and people. And whilestruggling to regain it, the fortune, which made her sole chance ofsuccess in that attempt, was swept away, so that she had remainedapart and solitary, and could bring no friends to cheer the solitudeof Ramouna during Roland's absence. But while my uncle was still in theservice of Ferdinand, the widow died; and then the only relatives whocame round Ramouna were her father's kindred. They had not ventured toclaim affinity while her mother lived, and they did so now by attentionsand caresses to her son. This opened to them at once Ramouna's heartand doors. Meanwhile the English nurse--who, in spite of all that couldrender her abode odious to her, had, from strong love to her charge,stoutly maintained her post--died, a few weeks after Ramouna's mother;and no healthful influence remained to counteract those baneful onesto which the heir of the honest old Caxtons was subject. But Rolandreturned home in a humor to be pleased with all things. Joyously heclasped his wife to his breast, and thought, with self-reproach, thathe had forborne too little and exacted too much,--he would be wisernow. Delightedly he acknowledged the beauty, the intelligence, and manlybearing of the boy, who played with his sword-knot and ran off with hispistols as a prize.

The news of the Englishman's arrival at first kept the lawless kinsfolkfrom the house; but they were fond of the boy, and the boy of them, andinterviews between him and these wild comrades, if stolen, were notless frequent. Gradually Roland's eyes became opened. As in habitualintercourse the boy abandoned the reserve which awe and cunning at firstimposed, Roland was inexpressibly shocked at the bold principles hisson affected, and at his utter incapacity even to comprehend that plainhonesty and that frank honor which to the English soldier, seemed ideasinnate and heaven-planted. Soon afterwards, Roland found that a systemof plunder was carried on in his household, and tracked it to theconnivance of the wife and the agency of his son for the benefit of lazybravos and dissolute vagrants. A more patient man than Roland might wellhave been exasperated, a more wary man confounded, by this discovery. Hetook the natural step,--perhaps insisting on it too summarily; perhapsnot allowing enough for the uncultured mind and lively passions of hiswife,--he ordered her instantly to prepare to accompany him from theplace, and to abandon all communication with her kindred.

A vehement refusal ensued; but Roland was not a man to give up such apoint, and at length a false submission and a feigned repentance soothedhis resentment and obtained his pardon. They moved several miles fromthe place; but where they moved, there some at least, and those theworst, of the baleful brood stealthily followed. Whatever Ramouna'searlier love for Roland had been, it had evidently long ceased, in thethorough want of sympathy between them, and in that absence which, if itrenews a strong affection, destroys an affection already weakened. Butthe mother and son adored each other with all the strength of theirstrong, wild natures. Even under ordinary circumstances the father'sinfluence over a boy yet in childhood is exerted in vain if the motherlend herself to baffle it. And in this miserable position, what chancehad the blunt, stern, honest Poland (separated from his son during themost ductile years of infancy) against the ascendancy of a mother whohumored all the faults and gratified all the wishes of her darling?

In his despair, Roland let fall the threat that if thus thwarted, itwould become his duty to withdraw his son from the mother. This threatinstantly hardened both hearts against him. The wife represented Rolandto the boy as a tyrant, as an enemy, as one who had destroyed all thehappiness they had before enjoyed in each other, as one whose severityshowed that he hated his own child; and the boy believed her. In hisown house a firm union was formed against Roland, and protected by thecunning which is the force of the weak against the strong.

In spite of all, Roland could never forget the tenderness with which theyoung nurse had watched over the wounded man, nor the love--genuine forthe hour, though not drawn from the feelings which withstand the wearand tear of life--that lips so beautiful had pledged him in the bygonedays. These thoughts must have come perpetually between his feelings andhis judgment, to embitter still more his position, to harass still morehis heart. And if, by the strength of that sense of duty which made theforce of his character, he could have strung himself to the fulfilmentof the threat, humanity, at all events, compelled him to delay it,--hiswife promised to be again a mother. Blanche was born. How could he takethe infant from the mother's breast, or abandon the daughter to thefatal influences from which only, by so violent an effort, he could freethe son?

No wonder, poor Roland, that those deep furrows contracted thy boldfront, and thy hair grew gray before its time!

Fortunately, perhaps, for all parties, Roland's wife died while Blanchewas still an infant. She was taken ill of a fever; she died delirious,clasping her boy to her breast, and praying the saints to protect himfrom his cruel father. How often that death-bed haunted the son, andjustified his belief that there was no parent's love in the heart whichwas now his sole shelter from the world and the "pelting of its pitilessrain!" Again I say "poor Roland;" for I know that in that harsh,unloving disrupture of such solemn ties thy large, generous heart forgotits wrongs,--again didst thou see tender eyes bending over the woundedstranger, again hear low murmurs breathe the warm weakness which thewomen of the South deem it no shame to own. And now did it all end inthose ravings of hate, and in that glazing gaze of terror?

(1) A Spaniard very rarely indeed marries a Gitana, or female gypsy. Butoccasionally (observes Mr. Borrow) a wealthy Gitano marries a Spanishfemale.

CHAPTER IV.

The Preceptor.

Roland removed to France, and fixed his abode in the environs of Paris.He placed Blanche at a convent in the immediate neighborhood, going tosee her daily, and gave himself up to the education of his son. The boywas apt to learn; but to unlearn was here the arduous task,--and forthat task it would have needed either the passionless experience,the exquisite forbearance, of a practised teacher, or the love andconfidence and yielding heart of a believing pupil. Roland felt thathe was not the man to be the teacher, and that his son's heart remainedobstinately closed to him. He looked round, and found at the other sideof Paris what seemed a suitable preceptor,--a young Frenchman ofsome distinction in letters, more especially in science, with all aFrenchman's eloquence of talk, full of high-sounding sentiments thatpleased the romantic enthusiasm of the Captain; so Roland, with sanguinehopes, confided his son to this man's care. The boy's natural quicknessmastered readily all that pleased his taste; he learned to speak andwrite French with rare felicity and precision. His tenacious memory,and those flexile organs in which the talent for languages is placed,served, with the help of an English master, to revive his earlierknowledge of his father's tongue and to enable him to speak it withfluent correctness,--though there was always in his accent somethingwhich had struck me as strange; but not suspecting it to be foreign,I had thought it a theatrical affectation. He did not go far intoscience,--little further, perhaps, than a smattering of Frenchmathematics; but he acquired a remarkable facility and promptitude incalculation. He devoured eagerly the light reading thrown in his way,and picked up thence that kind of knowledge which novels and playsafford, for good or evil, according as the novel or the play elevatesthe understanding and ennobles the passions, or merely corrupts thefancy and lowers the standard of human nature. But of all that Rolanddesired him to be taught, the son remained as ignorant as before.Among the other misfortunes of this ominous marriage, Roland's wife hadpossessed all the superstitions of a Roman Catholic Spaniard; and withthese the boy had unconsciously intermingled doctrines far more dreary,imbibed from the dark paganism of the Gitanos.

Roland had sought a Protestant for his son's tutor. The preceptor wasnominally a Protestant,--a biting derider of all superstitions, indeed!He was such a Protestant as some defender of Voltaire's religion saysthe Great Wit would have been had he lived in a Protestant country. TheFrenchman laughed the boy out of his superstitions, to leave behind themthe sneering scepticism of the Encyclopedie, without those redeemingethics on which all sects of philosophy are agreed, but which,unhappily, it requires a philosopher to comprehend.

This preceptor was doubtless not aware of the mischief he was doing;and for the rest, he taught his pupil after his own system,--a mild andplausible one, very much like the system we at home are recommended toadopt: "Teach the understanding,--all else will follow;" "Learn to readsomething, and it will all come right;" "Follow the bias of the pupil'smind,--thus you develop genius, not thwart it." Mind, understanding,genius,--fine things! But to educate the whole man you must educatesomething more than these. Not for want of mind, understanding, genius,have Borgias and Neros left their names as monuments of horror tomankind. Where, in all this teaching, was one lesson to warm the heartand guide the soul?

Oh, mother mine, that the boy had stood by thy knee and heard fromthy lips why life was given us, in what life shall end, and how heavenstands open to us night and day! Oh, father mine, that thou hadst beenhis preceptor, not in book-learning, but the heart's simple wisdom! Ohthat he had learned from thee, in parables closed with practice, thehappiness of self-sacrifice, and how "good deeds should repair the bad"!

It was the misfortune of this boy, with his daring and his beauty, thatthere was in his exterior and his manner that which attracted indulgentinterest and a sort of compassionate admiration. The Frenchman likedhim, believed his story, thought him ill-treated by that hard-visagedEnglish soldier. All English people were so disagreeable, particularlyEnglish soldiers; and the Captain once mortally offended the Frenchmanby calling Vilainton un grand homme, and denying, with brutalindignation, that the English had poisoned Napoleon! So, instead ofteaching the son to love and revere his father, the Frenchman shruggedhis shoulders when the boy broke into some unfilial complaint, and atmost said, "Mais, cher enfant, ton pere est Anglais,--c'est tout dire."Meanwhile, as the child sprang rapidly into precocious youth, he waspermitted a liberty in his hours of leisure of which he availed himselfwith all the zest of his earlier habits and adventurous temper. Heformed acquaintances among the loose young haunters of cafes andspendthrifts of that capital,--the wits! He became an excellentswordsman and pistol-shot, adroit in all games in which skill helpsfortune. He learned betimes to furnish himself with money, by the cardsand the billiard-balls.

But delighted with the easy home he had obtained, he took care to schoolhis features and smooth his manner in his father's visits, to make themost of what he had learned of less ignoble knowledge, and, with hischaracteristic imitativeness, to cite the finest sentiments he had foundin his plays; and novels. What father is not credulous? Roland believed,and wept tears of joy. And now he thought the time was come to take backthe boy,--to return with a worthy heir to the old Tower. He thanked andblessed the tutor; he took the son. But under pretence that he hadyet some things to master, whether in book knowledge or manlyaccomplishments, the youth begged his father at all events not yet toreturn to England,--to let him attend his tutor daily for some months.Roland consented, moved from his old quarters, and took a lodging forboth in the same suburb as that in which the teacher resided. Butsoon, when they were under one roof, the boy's habitual tastes, and hisrepugnance to all paternal authority, were betrayed. To do my unhappycousin justice (such as that justice is), though he had the cunningfor a short disguise, he had not the hypocrisy to maintain systematicdeceit. He could play a part for a while, from an exulting joy inhis own address; but he could not wear a mask with the patience ofcold-blooded dissimulation. Why enter into painful details, so easilydivined by the intelligent reader? The faults of the son were preciselythose to which Roland would be least indulgent. To the ordinary scrapesof high-spirited boyhood no father, I am sure, would have been morelenient; but to anything that seemed low, petty,--that grated on him asa gentleman and soldier,--there, not for worlds would I have braved thedarkness of his frown, and the woe that spoke like scorn in his voice.And when, after all warning and prohibition were in vain, Roland foundhis son in the middle of the night in a resort of gamblers and sharpers,carrying all before him with his cue, in the full flush of triumph, anda great heap of five-franc pieces before him, you may conceive withwhat wrath the proud, hasty, passionate man drove out, cane in hand, theobscene associates, flinging after them the son's ill-gotten gains;and with what resentful humiliation the son was compelled to follow thefather home. Then Roland took the boy to England, but not to theold Tower; that hearth of his ancestors was still too sacred for thefootsteps of the vagrant heir!

CHAPTER V.

The Hearts Without Trust, and The World Without a Guide.

And then, vainly grasping at every argument his blunt sense couldsuggest, then talked Roland much and grandly of the duties menowed,--even if they threw off all love to their father, still to theirfather's name; and then his pride, always so lively, grew irritable andharsh, and seemed, no doubt, to the perverted ears of the son, unlovelyand unloving. And that pride, without serving one purpose of good, didyet more mischief; for the youth caught the disease, but in a wrong way.And he said to himself,--

"Ho, then, my father is a great man, with all these ancestors and bigwords! And he has lands and a castle; and yet how miserably we live, andhow he stints me! But if he has cause for pride in all these dead men,why, so have I. And are these lodgings, these appurtenances, fit for the'gentleman' he says I am?"

Even in England the gypsy blood broke out as before, and the youth foundvagrant associates,--Heaven knows how or where; strange-looking forms,gaudily shabby and disreputably smart, were seen lurking in the cornerof the street, or peering in at the window, slinking off if they sawRoland: and Roland could not stoop to be a spy. And the son's heart grewharder and harder against his father, and his father's face now neversmiled on him. Then bills came in, and duns knocked at the door,--billsand duns to a man who shrank from the thought of a debt as an erminefrom a spot on its fur! And the son's short answer to remonstrance was:"Am I not a gentleman? These are the things gentlemen require." Thenperhaps Roland remembered the experiment of his French friend, and lefthis bureau unlocked, and said, "Ruin me if you will, but no debts. Thereis money in those drawers,--they are unlocked." That trust would foreverhave cured of extravagance a youth with a high and delicate sense ofhonor: the pupil of the Gitanos did not understand the trust; he thoughtit conveyed a natural, though ungracious, permission to take out what hewanted,--and he took! To Roland this seemed a theft; and a theft of thecoarsest kind; but when he so said, the son started indignant, and sawin that which had been so touching an appeal to his honor but a trap todecoy him into disgrace. In short, neither could understand the other.Roland forbade his son to stir from the house; and the young man thesame night let himself out, and stole forth into the wide world, toenjoy or defy it in his own wild way.

It would be tedious to follow him through his various adventures andexperiments on fortune (even if I knew them all, which I do not). Andnow putting altogether aside his right name, which he had voluntarilyabandoned, and not embarrassing the reader with the earlier aliasesassumed, I shall give to my unfortunate kinsman the name by which Ifirst knew him, and continue to do so until,--Heaven grant the time maycome!--having first redeemed, he may reclaim his own. It was in joininga set of strolling players that Vivian became acquainted with Peacock;and that worthy, who had many strings to his bow, soon grew aware ofVivian's extraordinary skill with the cue, and saw therein a better modeof making their joint fortunes than the boards of an itinerant Thespisfurnished to either. Vivian listened to him, and it was while theirintimacy was most fresh that I met them on the highroad. That chancemeeting produced (if I may be allowed to believe his assurance)a strong, and for the moment a salutary, effect upon Vivian. Thecomparative innocence and freshness of a boy's mind were new to him;the elastic, healthful spirits with which those gifts were accompaniedstartled him, by the contrast to his own forced gayety and secret gloom.And this boy was his own cousin!

Coming afterwards to London, he adventured inquiry at the hotel inthe Strand at which I had given my address; learned where we were;and passing one night in the street, saw my uncle at the window,--torecognize and to fly from him. Having then some money at his disposal,he broke off abruptly from the set in which he had been thrown. He hadresolved to return to France,--he would try for a more respectable modeof existence. He had not found happiness in that liberty he had won,nor room for the ambition that began to gnaw him, in those pursuits fromwhich his father had vainly warned him. His most reputable friendwas his old tutor; he would go to him. He went; but the tutor was nowmarried, and was himself a father,--and that made a wonderful alterationin his practical ethics. It was no longer moral to aid the son inrebellion to his father. Vivian evinced his usual sarcastic haughtinessat the reception he met, and was requested civilly to leave the house.Then again he flung himself on his wits at Paris. But there were plentyof wits there sharper than his own. He got into some quarrel with thepolice,--not, indeed, for any dishonest practices of his own, but froman unwary acquaintance with others less scrupulous,--and deemed itprudent to quit France. Thus had I met him again, forlorn and ragged, inthe streets of London.

Meanwhile Roland, after the first vain search, had yielded to theindignation and disgust that had long rankled within him. His son hadthrown off his authority because it preserved him from dishonor. Hisideas of discipline were stern, and patience had been well-nigh crushedout of his heart. He thought he could bear to resign his son to hisfate,--to disown him, and to say, "I have no more a son." It was in thismood that he had first visited our house. But when, on that memorablenight in which he had narrated to his thrilling listeners the dark taleof a fellow-sufferer's woe and crime,--betraying in the tale, to myfather's quick sympathy, his own sorrow and passion,--it did not needmuch of his gentler brother's subtle art to learn or guess the whole,nor much of Austin's mild persuasion to convince Roland that he had notyet exhausted all efforts to track the wanderer and reclaim the erringchild. Then he had gone to London; then he had sought every spot whichthe outcast would probably haunt; then had he saved and pinched from hisown necessities to have wherewithal to enter theatres and gaming-houses,and fee the agencies of police; then had he seen the form for which hehad watched and pined, in the street below his window, and cried, ina joyous delusion, "He repents!" One day a letter reached my uncle,through his bankers, from the French tutor (who knew of no other meansof tracing Roland but through the house by which his salary had beenpaid), informing him of his son's visit. Roland started instantlyfor Paris. Arriving there, he could only learn of his son through thepolice, and from them only learn that he had been seen in the companyof accomplished swindlers, who were already in the hands of justice, butthat the youth himself, whom there was nothing to criminate, had beensuffered to quit Paris, and had taken, it was supposed, the road toEngland. Then at last the poor Captain's stout heart gave way. Hisson the companion of swindlers! Could he be sure that he was not theiraccomplice? If not yet, how small the step between companionship andparticipation! He took the child left him still from the convent,returned to England, and arrived there to be seized with fever anddelirium,--apparently on the same day or a day before that on which theson had dropped, shelterless and penniless, on the stones of London.

CHAPTER VI.

The Attempt to Build a Temple to Fortune Out of the Ruins of Home.

"But," said Vivian, pursuing his tale, "but when you came to my aid, notknowing me; when you relieved me; when from your own lips, for the firsttime, I heard words that praised me, and for qualities that implied Imight yet be 'worth much,'--ah!" he added mournfully, "I remember thevery words,--a new light broke upon me, struggling and dim, but lightstill. The ambition with which I had sought the truckling Frenchmanrevived, and took worthier and more definite form. I would lift myselfabove the mire, make a name, rise in life!"

Vivian's head drooped; but he raised it quickly, and laughed hislow, mocking laugh. What follows of this tale may be told succinctly.Retaining his bitter feelings towards his father, he resolved tocontinue his incognito: he gave himself a name likely to misleadconjecture if I conversed of him to my family, since he knew thatRoland was aware that a Colonel Vivian had been afflicted by a runawayson,--and indeed, the talk upon that subject had first put the notionof flight into his own head. He caught at the idea of becoming known toTrevanion; but he saw reasons to forbid his being indebted to me for theintroduction, to forbid my knowing where he was: sooner or later thatknowledge could scarcely fail to end in the discovery of his real name.Fortunately, as he deemed, for the plans he began to meditate, we wereall leaving London; he should have the stage to himself. And then boldlyhe resolved upon what he regarded as the masterscheme of life; namely,to obtain a small pecuniary independence and to emancipate himselfformally and entirely from his father's control. Aware of poor Roland'schivalrous reverence for his name, firmly persuaded that Roland had nolove for the son, but only the dread that the son might disgrace him,he determined to avail himself of his father's prejudices in order toeffect his purpose.

He wrote a short letter to Roland (that letter which had given the poorman so sanguine a joy),--that letter after reading which he had said toBlanche, "Pray for me", stating simply that he wished to see his father,and naming a tavern in the City for the meeting.

The interview took place. And when Roland--love and forgiveness in hisheart, but (who shall blame him?) dignity on his brow and rebuke in hiseye--approached, ready at a word to fling himself on the boy's breast,Vivian, seeing only the outer signs, and interpreting them by his ownsentiments, recoiled, folded his arms on his bosom, and said, coldly,"Spare me reproach, sir,--it is unavailing; I seek you only to proposethat you shall save your name and resign your son."

Then, intent perhaps but to gain his object, the unhappy youth declaredhis fixed determination never to live with his father, never toacquiesce in his authority, resolutely to pursue his own career,whatever that career might be, explaining none of the circumstancesthat appeared most in his disfavor,--rather, perhaps, thinking that, theworse his father judged of him, the more chance he had to achieve hispurpose. "All I ask of you," he said, "is this: Give me the least youcan afford to preserve me from the temptation to rob, or the necessityto starve; and I, in my turn, promise never to molest you in life,never to degrade you in my death; whatever my misdeeds, they will neverreflect on yourself, for you shall never recognize the misdoer! Thename you prize so highly shall be spared." Sickened and revolted, Rolandattempted no argument; there was that in the son's cold manner whichshut out hope, and against which his pride rose indignant. A meeker manmight have remonstrated, implored, and wept; that was not in Roland'snature. He had but the choice of three evils: to say to his son, "Fool,I command thee to follow me!" or say, "Wretch, since thou wouldst castme off as a stranger, as a stranger I say to thee,--Go, starve or rob,as thou wilt!" or lastly, to bow his proud head, stunned by the blow,and say, "Thou refusest me the obedience of the son, thou demandest tobe as the dead to me. I can control thee not from vice, I can guide theenot to virtue. Thou wouldst sell me the name I have inherited stainless,and have as stainless borne. Be it so! Name thy price!"

And something like this last was the father's choice.

He listened, and was long silent; and then he said slowly, "Pause beforeyou decide."

"I have paused long; my decision is made! This is the last time we meet.I see before me now the way to fortune, fairly, honorably; you can aidme in it only in the way I have said. Reject me now, and the option maynever come again to either!"

And then Roland said to himself, "I have spared and saved for this son:what care I for aught else than enough to live without debt, creep intoa corner, and await the grave? And the more I can give, why, the betterchance that he will abjure the vile associate and the desperate course."And so, out of his small income Roland surrendered to the rebel childmore than the half.

Vivian was not aware of his father's fortune,--he did not suppose thesum of two hundred pounds a year was an allowance so disproportionedto Roland's means; yet when it was named, even he was struck by thegenerosity of one to whom he himself had given the right to say, "I takethee at thy word: 'Just enough not to starve!'"

But then that hateful cynicism, which, caught from bad men and evilbooks, he called "knowledge of the world," made him think, "It is notfor me, it is only for his name;" and he said aloud, "I accept theseterms, sir; here is the address of a solicitor with whom yours cansettle them. Farewell forever."

At those last words Roland started, and stretched out his arms vaguelylike a blind man. But Vivian had already thrown open the window (theroom was on the ground floor) and sprung upon the sill. "Farewell," herepeated; "tell the world I am dead."

He leaped into the street, and the father drew in the outstretched arms,smote his heart, and said: "Well, then, my task in the world of man isover! I will back to the old ruin,--the wreck to the wrecks; and thesight of tombs I have at least rescued from dishonor shall comfort mefor all!"

CHAPTER VII.

The Results.--Perverted Ambition.--Selfish Passion.--The IntellectDistorted by the Crookedness of the Heart.

Vivian's schemes thus prospered. He had an income that permitted him theoutward appearances of a gentleman,--an independence modest, indeed, butindependence still. We were all gone from London. One letter to me withthe postmark of the town near which Colonel Vivian lived, sufficed toconfirm my belief in his parentage and in his return to his friends.He then presented himself to Trevanion as the young man whose pen I hademployed in the member's service; and knowing that I had never mentionedhis name to Trevanion,--for without Vivian's permission I should not,considering his apparent trust in me, have deemed myself authorized todo so,--he took that of Gower, which he selected, haphazard, from an oldCourt Guide as having the advantage--in common with most names borne bythe higher nobility of England--of not being confined, as the ancientnames of untitled gentlemen usually are, to the members of a singlefamily. And when, with his wonted adaptability and suppleness, he hadcontrived to lay aside or smooth over whatever in his manners would becalculated to displease Trevanion, and had succeeded in exciting theinterest which that generous statesman always conceived for ability,he owned candidly one day, in the presence of Lady Ellinor,--for, hisexperience had taught him the comparative ease with which the sympathyof woman is enlisted in anything that appeals to the imagination,or seems out of the ordinary beat of life,--that he had reasons forconcealing his connections for the present; that he had cause to believeI suspected what they were, and, from mistaken regard for his welfare,might acquaint his relations with his whereabout. He therefore beggedTrevanion, if the latter had occasion to write to me, not to mentionhim. This promise Trevanion gave, though reluctantly,--for theconfidence volunteered to him seemed to exact the promise; but as hedetested mystery of all kinds, the avowal might have been fatal to anyfurther acquaintance, and under auspices so doubtful, there would havebeen no chance of his obtaining that intimacy in Trevanion's house whichhe desired to establish, but for an accident which at once opened thathouse to him almost as a home.

Vivian had always treasured a lock of his mother's hair, cut off on herdeath-bed; and when he was at his French tutor's, his first pocket-moneyhad been devoted to the purchase of a locket, on which he had caused tobe inscribed his own name and his mother's. Through all his wanderingshe had worn this relic; and in the direst pangs of want, no hunger hadbeen keen enough to induce him to part with it. Now, one morning, theribbon that suspended the locket gave way, and his eye resting on thenames inscribed on the gold, he thought, in his own vague sense ofright, imperfect as it was, that his compact with his father obligedhim to have the names erased. He took it to a jeweller in Piccadilly forthat purpose, and gave the requisite order, not taking notice of a ladyin the farther part of the shop. The locket was still on the counterafter Vivian had left, when the lady, coming forward, observed it, andsaw the names on the surface. She had been struck by the peculiar toneof the voice, which she had heard before; and that very day Mr. Gowerreceived a note from Lady Ellinor Trevanion, requesting to see him. Muchwondering, he went. Presenting him with the locket, she said smiling,"There is only one gentleman in the world who calls himself De Caxton,unless it be his son. Ah! I see now why you wished to conceal yourselffrom my friend Pisistratus. But how is this? Can you have any differencewith your father? Confide in me, or it is my duty to write to him."

Even Vivian's powers of dissimulation abandoned him, thus taken bysurprise. He saw no alternative but to trust Lady Ellinor with hissecret, and implore her to respect it. And then he spoke bitterly of hisfather's dislike to him, and his own resolution to prove the injusticeof that dislike by the position he would himself establish in the world.At present his father believed him dead, and perhaps was not ill-pleasedto think so. He would not dispel that belief till he could redeem anyboyish errors, and force his family to be proud to acknowledge him.

Though Lady Ellinor was slow to believe that Roland could dislike hisson, she could yet readily believe that he was harsh and choleric, witha soldier's high notions of discipline; the young man's story moved her,his determination pleased her own high spirit. Always with a touch ofromance in her, and always sympathizing with each desire of ambition,she entered into Vivian's aspirations with an alacrity that surprisedhimself. She was charmed with the idea of ministering to the son'sfortunes, and ultimately reconciling him to the father,--through herown agency; it would atone for any fault of which Roland could accuseherself in the old time.

She undertook to impart the secret to Trevanion, for she would have nosecrets from him, and to secure his acquiescence in its concealment fromall others.

And here I must a little digress from the chronological course of myexplanatory narrative to inform the reader that when Lady Ellinor hadher interview with Roland, she had been repelled by the sternness of hismanner from divulging Vivian's secret. But on her first attempt to soundor conciliate him, she had begun with some eulogies on Trevanion's newfriend and assistant, Mr. Gower, and had awakened Roland's suspicions ofthat person's identity with his son,--suspicions which had given him aterrible interest in our joint deliverance of Miss Trevanion. But soheroically had the poor soldier sought to resist his own fears, thaton the way he shrank to put to me the questions that might paralyze theenergies which, whatever the answer, were then so much needed. "For,"said he to my father, "I felt the blood surging to my temples; and if Ihad said to Pisistratus, 'Describe this man,' and by his description Ihad recognized my son, and dreaded lest I might be too late to arresthim from so treacherous a crime, my brain would have given way,--and soI did not dare!"

I return to the thread of my story. From the time that Vivian confidedin Lady Ellinor, the way was cleared to his most ambitious hopes; andthough his acquisitions were not sufficiently scholastic and various topermit Trevanion to select him as a secretary, yet, short of sleeping atthe house, he was little less intimate there than I had been.

Among Vivian's schemes of advancement, that of winning the hand andheart of the great heiress had not been one of the least sanguine. Thishope was annulled when, not long after his intimacy at her father'shouse, she became engaged to young Lord Castleton. But he could not seeMiss Trevanion with impunity (alas! who, with a heart yet free, could beinsensible to attractions so winning?). He permitted the love--such loveas his wild, half-educated, half-savage nature acknowledged--to creepinto his soul, to master it; but he felt no hope, cherished no schemewhile the young lord lived. With the death of her betrothed, Fannywas free; then he began to hope,--not yet to scheme. Accidentally heencountered Peacock. Partly from the levity that accompanied a falsegood-nature that was constitutional with him, partly from a vague ideathat the man might be useful, Vivian established his quondam associatein the service of Trevanion. Peacock soon gained the secret of Vivian'slove for Fanny, and dazzled by the advantages that a marriage with MissTrevanion would confer on his patron, and might reflect on himself, anddelighted at an occasion to exercise his dramatic accomplishments on thestage of real life, he soon practised the lesson that the theatres hadtaught him; namely, to make a sub-intrigue between maid and valet servethe schemes and insure the success of the lover. If Vivian had someopportunities to imply his admiration, Miss Trevanion gave him noneto plead his cause. But the softness of her nature, and thatgraceful kindness which surrounded her like an atmosphere, emanatingunconsciously from a girl's harmless desire to please, tended to deceivehim. His own personal gifts were so rare, and in his wandering life theeffect they had produced had so increased his reliance on them, that hethought he wanted but the fair opportunity to woo in order to win. Inthis state of mental intoxication, Trevanion, having provided for hisScotch secretary, took him to Lord N--s. His hostess was one of thosemiddle-aged ladies of fashion who like to patronize and bring forwardyoung men, accepting gratitude for condescension as a homage to beauty.She was struck by Vivian's exterior, and that "picturesque" in look andin manner which belonged to him. Naturally garrulous and indiscreet, shewas unreserved to a pupil whom she conceived the whim to make "au faitto society." Thus she talked to him, among other topics in fashion, ofMiss Trevanion, and expressed her belief that the present Lord Castletonhad always admired her; but it was only on his accession to themarquisate that he had made up his mind to marry, or, from his knowledgeof Lady Ellinor's ambition, thought that the Marquis of Castletonmight achieve the prize which would have been refused to Sir SedleyBeaudesert. Then, to corroborate the predictions she hazarded, sherepeated, perhaps with exaggeration, some passages from Lord Castleton'sreplies to her own suggestions on the subject. Vivian's alarm becamefatally excited; unregulated passions easily obscured a reason so longperverted, and a conscience so habitually dulled. There is an instinctin all intense affection (whether it be corrupt or pure) that usuallymakes its jealousy prophetic. Thus, from the first, out of all thebrilliant idlers round Fanny Trevanion, my jealousy had pre-eminentlyfastened on Sir Sedley Beaudesert, though, to all seeming, withouta cause. From the same instinct Vivian had conceived the same vaguejealousy,--a jealousy, in his instance, coupled with a deep disliketo his supposed rival, who had wounded his self-love. For the marquis,though to be haughty or ill-bred was impossible to the blandness of hisnature, had never shown to Vivian the genial courtesies he had lavishedupon me, and kept politely aloof from his acquaintance; while Vivian'spersonal vanity had been wounded by that drawing-room effect which theproverbial winner of all hearts produced without an effort,--an effectthat threw into the shade the youth and the beauty (more striking, butinfinitely less prepossessing) of the adventurous rival. Thus animosityto Lord Castleton conspired with Vivian's passion for Fanny to rouse allthat was worst by nature and by rearing in this audacious and turbulentspirit.

His confidant Peacock suggested, from his stage experience, theoutlines of a plot, to which Vivian's astuter intellect instantly gavetangibility and coloring. Peacock had already found Miss Trevanion'swaiting-woman ripe for any measure that might secure himself as herhusband and a provision for life as a reward. Two or three lettersbetween them settled the preliminary engagements. A friend of theex-comedian's had lately taken an inn on the north road, and might berelied upon. At that inn it was settled that Vivian should meet MissTrevanion, whom Peacock, by the aid of the abigail, engaged to lurethere. The sole difficulty that then remained would, to most men, haveseemed the greatest; namely, the consent of Miss Trevanion to a Scotchmarriage. But Vivian hoped all things from his own eloquence, art, andpassion; and by an inconsistency, however strange, still not unnaturalin the twists of so crooked an intellect, he thought that by insistingon the intention of her parents to sacrifice her youth to the very manof whose attractions he was most jealous,--by the picture of disparityof years, by the caricature of his rival's foibles and frivolities,by the commonplaces of "beauty bartered for ambition," etc.,--he mightenlist her fears of the alternative on the side of the choice urged uponher. The plan proceeded, the time came: Peacock pretended the excuse ofa sick relation to leave Trevanion; and Vivian a day before, on pretenceof visiting the picturesque scenes in the neighborhood, obtained leaveof absence. Thus the plot went on to its catastrophe.

"And I need not ask," said I, trying in vain to conceal my indignation,"how Miss Trevanion received your monstrous proposition!"

Vivian's pale cheek grew paler, but he made no reply.

"And if we had not arrived, what would you have done? Oh, dare you lookinto the gulf of infamy you have escaped!"

"I cannot and I will not bear this!" exclaimed Vivian, starting up. "Ihave laid my heart bare before you, and it is ungenerous and unmanlythus to press upon its wounds. You can moralize, you can speak coldly;but--I--I loved!"

"And do you think," I burst forth, "do you think that I did not lovetoo,--love longer than you have done; better than you have done; gonethrough sharper struggles, darker days, more sleepless nights than you;and yet--"

Vivian caught hold of me.

"Hush!" he cried; "is this indeed true? I thought you might have hadsome faint and fleeting fancy for Miss Trevanion, but that you curbedand conquered it at once. Oh, no! It was impossible to have lovedreally, and to have surrendered all chance as you did,--have left thehouse, have fled from her presence! No, no; that was not love!"

"It was love! And I pray Heaven to grant that, one day, you may know howlittle your affection sprang from those feelings which make true lovesublime as honor, and meek as is religion! Oh, cousin, cousin, withthose rare gifts, what you might have been; what, if you will passthrough repentance and cling to atonement, what, I dare hope, you mayyet be! Talk not now of your love; I talk not of mine! Love is a thinggone from the lives of both. Go back to earlier thoughts, to heavierwrongs,--your father, that noble heart which you have so wantonlylacerated, which you have so little comprehended!"

Then, with all the warmth of emotion, I hurried on,--showed him the truenature of honor and of Roland (for the names were one!); showed him thewatch, the hope, the manly anguish I had witnessed, and wept--I, not hisson--to see; showed him the poverty and privation to which the father,even at the last, had condemned himself, so that the son might have noexcuse for the sins that Want whispers to the weak. This and muchmore, and I suppose with the pathos that belongs to all earnestness,I enforced, sentence after sentence, yielding to no interruption,overmastering all dissent, driving in the truth, nail after nail, as itwere, into the obdurate heart that I constrained and grappled to. And atlast the dark, bitter, cynical nature gave way, and the young man fellsobbing at my feet and cried aloud, "Spare me, spare me! I see it allnow, wretch that I have been!"

CHAPTER VIII.

On leaving Vivian I did not presume to promise him Roland's immediatepardon. I did not urge him to attempt to see his father. I felt the timewas not come for either pardon or interview. I contented myself with thevictory I had already gained. I judged it right that thought, solitude,and suffering should imprint more deeply the lesson, and prepare the wayto the steadfast resolution of reform. I left him seated by the stream,and with the promise to inform him at the small hostelry, where he tookup his lodging, how Roland struggled through his illness.

On returning to the inn I was uneasy to see how long a time had elapsedsince I had left my uncle. But on coming into his room, to my surpriseand relief I found him up and dressed, and with a serene, thoughfatigued, expression of countenance. He asked me no questions where Ihad been,--perhaps from sympathy with my feelings in parting with MissTrevanion; perhaps from conjecture that the indulgence of those feelingshad not wholly engrossed my time.

But he said simply, "I think I understood from you that you had sent forAustin,--is it so?"

"Yes, sir; but I named--, as the nearest point to the Tower, for theplace of meeting."

"Then let us go hence forthwith,--nay, I shall be better for the change.And here there must be curiosity, conjecture, torture!" said he, lockinghis hands tightly together. "Order the horses at once!"

I left the room accordingly; and while they were getting ready thehorses, I ran to the place where I had left Vivian. He was still there,in the same attitude, covering his face with his hands, as if toshut out the sun. I told him hastily of Roland's improvement, of ourapproaching departure, and asked him an address in London at which Icould find him. He gave me as his direction the same lodging at whichI had so often visited him. "If there be no vacancy there for me," saidhe, "I shall leave word where I am to be found. But I would gladly bewhere I was before--" He did not finish the sentence. I pressed hishand, and left him.

CHAPTER IX.

Some days have elapsed: we are in London, my father with us; and Rolandhas permitted Austin to tell me his tale, and received through Austinall that Vivian's narrative to me suggested, whether in extenuationof the past or in hope of redemption in the future. And Austin hasinexpressibly soothed his brother. And Roland's ordinary roughness hasgone, and his looks are meek and his voice low. But he talks little, andsmiles never. He asks me no questions, does not to me name his son,nor recur to the voyage to Australia, nor ask why it is put off, norinterest himself, as before, in preparations for it,--he has no heartfor anything.

The voyage is put off till the next vessel sails, and I have seen Viviantwice or thrice, and the result of the interviews has disappointed anddepressed me. It seems to me that much of the previous effect Ihad produced is already obliterated. At the very sight of the greatBabel,--the evidence of the ease, the luxury, the wealth, the pomp;the strife, the penury, the famine, and the rags, which the focus ofcivilization, in the disparities of old societies, inevitably gatherstogether,--the fierce, combative disposition seemed to awaken again; theperverted ambition, the hostility to the world; the wrath, the scorn;the war with man, and the rebellious murmur against Heaven. Therewas still the one redeeming point of repentance for his wrongs to hisfather,--his heart was still softened there; and, attendant on thatsoftness, I hailed a principle more like that of honor than I had yetrecognized in Vivian. He cancelled the agreement which had assured himof a provision at the cost of his father's comforts. "At least there,"he said, "I will injure him no more!"

But while on this point repentance seemed genuine, it was not so withregard to his conduct towards Miss Trevanion. His gypsy nurture, hisloose associates, his extravagant French romances, his theatrical modeof looking upon love intrigues and stage plots, seemed all to risebetween his intelligence and the due sense of the fraud and treachery hehad practised. He seemed to feel more shame at the exposure than at theguilt, more despair at the failure of success than gratitude atescape from crime. In a word, the nature of a whole life was not to beremodelled at once,--at least by an artificer so unskilled as I.

After one of these interviews I stole into the room where Austin satwith Roland, and watching a seasonable moment when Roland, shaking offa revery, opened his Bible and sat down to it, with each muscle in hisface set, as I had seen it before, into iron resolution, I beckoned myfather from the room.

Pisistratus.--"I have again seen my cousin. I cannot make the way Iwished. My dear father, you must see him."

Mr. Caxton.--"I? Yes, assuredly, if I can be of any service. But will helisten to me?"

Pisistratus.--"I think so. A young man will often respect in his elderwhat he will resent as a presumption in his contemporary."

Mr. Caxton.--"It may be so. [Then more thoughtfully] But you describethis strange boy's mind as a wreck! In what part of the moulderingtimbers can I fix the grappling-hook? Here it seems that most of thesupports on which we can best rely, when we would save another, failus,--religion, honor, the associations of childhood, the bonds ofhome, filial obedience, even the intelligence of self-interest, in thephilosophical sense of the word. And I, too,--a mere bookman! My dearson, I despair!"

Pisistratus.--"No, you do not despair; no, you must succeed,--for if youdo not, what is to become of Uncle Roland? Do you not see his heart isfast breaking?"

Mr. Caxton.--"Get me my hat. I will go; I will save this Ishmael,--Iwill not leave him till he is saved!"

Pisistratus. (Some minutes after, as they are walking towards Vivian'slodging).--"You ask me what support you are to cling to: a strong and agood one, sir."

Mr. Caxton. "Ah! what is that?"

Pisistratus.--"Affection! There is a nature capable of strong affectionat the core of this wild heart. He could love his mother,--tears gushto his eyes at her name; he would have starved rather than part with thememorial of that love. It was his belief in his father's indifferenceor dislike that hardened and embruted him; it is only when he hears howthat father loved him that I now melt his pride and curb his passions.You have affection to deal with! Do you despair now?

"My father turned on me those eyes so inexpressibly benign and mild, andreplied softly, 'No!'

"We reached the house; and my father said, as we knocked at the door,'If he is at home, leave me. This is a hard study to which you have setme; I must work at it alone.'

"Vivian was at home, and the door closed on his visitor. My fatherstayed some hours.

"On returning home, to my great surprise I found Trevanion with myuncle. He had found us out,--no easy matter, I should think. But a goodimpulse in Trevanion was not of that feeble kind which turns home at thesight of a difficulty. He had come to London on purpose to see and tothank us.

"I did not think there had been so much of delicacy--of what I may callthe 'beauty of kindness'--in a man whom incessant business had renderedordinarily blunt and abrupt. I hardly recognized the impatient Trevanionin the soothing, tender, subtle respect that rather implied than spokegratitude, and sought to insinuate what he owed to the unhappy father,without touching on his wrongs from the son. But of this kindness--whichshowed how Trevanion's high nature of gentleman raised him aloof fromthat coarseness of thought which those absorbed wholly in practicalaffairs often contract--of this kindness, so noble and so touching,Roland seemed scarcely aware. He sat by the embers of the neglectedfire, his hands grasping the arms of his elbow-chair, his head droopingon his bosom; and only by a deep hectic flush on his dark cheek couldyou have seen that he distinguished between an ordinary visitor and theman whose child he had helped to save. This minister of state, this highmember of the elect, at whose gift are places, peerages, gold-sticks,and ribbons, has nothing at his command for the bruised spirit of thehalf-pay soldier. Before that poverty, that grief, and that pride, theKing's Counsellor was powerless. Only when Trevanion rose to depart,something like a sense of the soothing intention which the visit impliedseemed to rouse the repose of the old man and to break the ice at itssurface; for he followed Trevanion to the door, took both his hands,pressed them, then turned away, and resumed his seat. Trevanion beckonedto me, and I followed him downstairs and into a little parlor which wasunoccupied.

"After some remarks upon Roland, full of deep and considerate feeling,and one quick, hurried reference to the son,--to the effect that hisguilty attempt would never be known by the world,--Trevanion thenaddressed himself to me with a warmth and urgency that took me bysurprise. 'After what has passed,' he exclaimed, 'I cannot suffer you toleave England thus. Let me not feel with you, as with your uncle, thatthere is nothing by which I can repay--No, I will not so put it,--stay,and serve your country at home; it is my prayer, it is Ellinor's. Outof all at my disposal it will go hard but what I shall find somethingto suit you.' And then, hurrying on, Trevanion spoke flatteringly ofmy pretensions, in right of birth and capabilities, to honorableemployment, and placed before me a picture of public life, its prizesand distinctions, which for the moment, at least, made my heart beatloud and my breath come quick. But still, even then I felt (was it anunreasonable pride?) that there was something that jarred, somethingthat humbled, in the thought of holding all my fortunes as a dependencyon the father of the woman I loved, but might not aspire to; somethingeven of personal degradation in the mere feeling that I was thus to berepaid for a service, and recompensed for a loss. But these were notreasons I could advance; and, indeed, so for the time did Trevanion'sgenerosity and eloquence overpower me that I could only falter out mythanks and my promise that I would consider and let him know.

With that promise he was forced to content himself; he told me todirect to him at his favorite country seat, whither he was going thatday, and so left me. I looked round the humble parlor of the meanlodging-house, and Trevanion's words came again before me like a flashof golden light. I stole into the open air and wandered through thecrowded streets, agitated and disturbed.

CHAPTER X.

Several days elapsed, and of each day my father spent a considerablepart at Vivian's lodgings. But he maintained a reserve as to hissuccess, begged me not to question him, and to refrain also for thepresent from visiting my cousin. My uncle guessed or knew his brother'smission; for I observed that whenever Austin went noiseless away, hiseye brightened, and the color rose in a hectic flush to his cheek. Atlast my father came to me one morning, his carpet-bag in his hand, andsaid, "I am going away for a week or two. Keep Roland company till Ireturn."

"Going with him?"

"With him."

"That is a good sign."

"I hope so; that is all I can say now."

The week had not quite passed when I received from my father the letterI am about to place before the reader; and you may judge how earnestlyhis soul must have been in the task it had volunteered, if youobserve how little, comparatively speaking, the letter contains of thesubtleties and pedantries (may the last word be pardoned, for it isscarcely a just one) which ordinarily left my father,--a scholar even inthe midst of his emotions. He seemed here to have abandoned his books,to have put the human heart before the eyes of his pupil, and said,"Read and un-learn!"

To Pisistratus Caxton.

 My Dear Son,--It were needless to tell you all the earlier difficulties I have had to encounter with my charge, nor to repeat all the means which, acting on your suggestion (a correct one), I have employed to arouse feelings long dormant and confused, and allay others long prematurely active and terribly distinct. The evil was simply this: here was the intelligence of a man in all that is evil, and the ignorance of an infant in all that is good. In matters merely worldly, what wonderful acumen; in the plain principles of right and wrong, what gross and stolid obtuseness! At one time I am straining all my poor wit to grapple in an encounter on the knottiest mysteries of social life; at another, I am guiding reluctant fingers over the horn-book of the most obvious morals. Here hieroglyphics, and there pot-hooks! But as long as there is affection in a man, why, there is Nature to begin with! To get rid of all the rubbish laid upon her, clear back the way to that Nature and start afresh,--that is one's only chance.

 Well, by degrees I won my way, waiting patiently till the bosom, pleased with the relief, disgorged itself of all "its perilous stuff,"--not chiding, not even remonstrating, seeming almost to sympathize, till I got him, Socratically, to disprove himself. When I saw that he no longer feared me, that my company had become a relief to him, I proposed an excursion, and did not tell him whither.

 Avoiding as much as possible the main north road (for I did not wish, as you may suppose, to set fire to a train of associations that might blow us up to the dog-star), and where that avoidance was not possible, travelling by night, I got him into the neighborhood of the old Tower.

 I would not admit him under its roof. But you know the little inn, three miles off, near the trout stream? We made our abode there.

 Well, I have taken him into the village, preserving his incognito. I have entered with him into cottages, and turned the talk upon Roland. You know how your uncle is adored; you know what anecdotes of his bold, warm-hearted youth once, and now of his kind and charitable age, would spring up from the garrulous lips of gratitude! I made him see with his own eyes, hear with his own ears, how all who knew Roland loved and honored him,--except his son. Then I took him round the ruins (still not suffering him to enter the house); for those ruins are the key to Roland's character,--seeing them, one sees the pathos in his poor foible of family pride. There, you distinguish it from the insolent boasts of the prosperous, and feel that it is little more than the pious reverence to the dead, "the tender culture of the tomb." We sat down on heaps of mouldering stone, and it was there that I explained to him what Roland was in youth, and what he had dreamed that a son would be to him. I showed him the graves of his ancestors, and explained to him why they were sacred in Roland's eyes. I had gained a great way when he longed to enter the home that should have been his and I could make him pause of his own accord and say, "No, I must first be worthy of it." Then you would have smiled--sly satirist that you are--to have heard me impressing upon this acute, sharp-witted youth all that we plain folk understand by the name of Home,--its perfect trust and truth, its simple holiness, its exquisite happiness, being to the world what conscience is to the human mind. And after that I brought in his sister, whom till then he had scarcely named, for whom he scarcely seemed to care,--brought her in to aid the father and endear the home. "And you know," said I, "that if Roland were to die, it would be a brother's duty to supply his place,--to shield her innocence, to protect her name! A good name is something, then. Your father was not so wrong to prize it. You would like yours to be that which your sister would be proud to own!"

 While we were talking, Blanche suddenly came to the spot, and rushed to my arms. She looked on him as a stranger, but I saw his knees tremble. And then she was about to put her hand in his, but I drew her back. Was I cruel? He thought so. But when I dismissed her, I replied to his reproach: "Your sister is a part of Home. If you think yourself worthy of either, go and claim both; I will not object."

 "She has my mother's eyes," said he, and walked away. I left him to muse amidst the ruins, while I went in to see your poor mother and relieve her fears about Roland and make her understand why I could not yet return home.

 This brief sight of his sister has sunk deep into him. But I now approach what seems to me the great difficulty of the whole. He is fully anxious to redeem his name, to regain his home. So far so well. But he cannot yet see ambition, except with hard, worldly eyes. He still fancies that all he has to do is to get money and power and some of those empty prizes in the Great Lottery which we often win more easily by our sins than our virtues. [Here follows a long passage from Seneca, omitted as superfluous.] He does not yet even understand me--or if he does, he fancies me a mere book- worm indeed--when I imply that he might be poor and obscure, at the bottom of fortune's wheel, and yet be one we should be proud of. He supposes that to redeem his name he has only got to lacker it. Don't think me merely the fond father when I add my hope that I shall use you to advantage here. I mean to talk to him to-morrow, as we return to London, of you and of your ambition; you shall hear the result.

 At this moment (it is past midnight) I hear his step in the room above me. The window-sash aloft opens, for the third time. Would to Heaven he could read the true astrology of the stars! There they are,--bright, luminous, benignant. And I seeking to chain this wandering comet into the harmonies of heaven! Better task than that of astrologers, and astronomers to boot! Who among them can "loosen the band of Orion"? But who amongst us may not be permitted by God to have sway over the action and orbit of the human soul? Your ever-affectionate father,

 A. C.

Two days after the receipt of this letter came the following; and thoughI would fain suppress those references to myself which must be ascribedto a father's partiality, yet it is so needful to retain them inconnection with Vivian that I have no choice but to leave the tenderflatteries to the indulgence of the kind reader.

 My Dear Son,--I was not too sanguine as to the effect that your simple story would produce upon your cousin. Without implying any contrast to his own conduct, I described that scene in which you threw yourself upon our sympathy, in the struggle between love and duty, and asked for our counsel and support; when Roland gave you his blunt advice to tell all to Trevanion; and when, amidst such sorrow as the heart in youth seems scarcely large enough to hold, you caught at truth impulsively, and the truth bore you safe from the shipwreck. I recounted your silent and manly struggles, your resolution not to suffer the egotism of passion to unfit you for the aims and ends of that spiritual probation which we call Life. I showed you as you were,--still thoughtful for us, interested in our interests, smiling on us, that we might not guess that you wept in secret! Oh, my son, my son, do not think that in those times I did not feel and pray for you! And while he was melted by my own emotion, I turned from your love to your ambition. I made him see that you too had known the restlessness which belongs to young, ardent natures; that you too had had your dreams of fortune and aspirations for success. But I painted that ambition in its true colors: it was not the desire of a selfish intellect to be in yourself a somebody, a something, raised a step or two in the social ladder, for the pleasure of looking down on those at the foot, but the warmer yearning of a generous heart; your ambition was to repair your father's losses, minister to your father's very foible in his idle desire of fame, supply to your uncle what he had lost in his natural heir, link your success to useful objects, your interests to those of your kind, your reward to the proud and grateful smiles of those you loved. That was thine ambition, O my tender Anachronism! And when, as I closed the sketch, I said, "Pardon me, you know not what delight a father feels when, while sending a son away from him into the world, he can speak and think thus of him. But this, you see, is not your kind of ambition. Let us talk of making money, and driving a coach-and-four through this villanous world,"--your cousin sank into a profound revery; and when he woke from it, it was like the waking of the earth after a night in spring,--the bare trees had put forth buds!

 And, some time after, he startled me by a prayer that I would permit him, with his father's consent, to accompany you to Australia. The only answer I have given him as yet has been in the form of a question: "Ask yourself if I ought? I cannot wish Pisistratus to be other than he is; and unless you agree with him in all his principles and objects, ought I to incur the risk that you should give him your knowledge of the world and inoculate him with your ambition?" he was struck, and had the candor to attempt no reply.

 Now, Pisistratus, the doubt I expressed to him is the doubt I feel. For, indeed, it is only by home-truths, not refining arguments, that I can deal with this unscholastic Scythian, who, fresh from the Steppes, comes to puzzle me in the Portico.

 On the one hand, what is to become of him in the Old World? At his age and with his energies it would be impossible to cage him with us in the Cumberland ruins; weariness and discontent would undo all we could do. He has no resource in books, and I fear never will have! But to send him forth into one of the over-crowded professions; to place him amidst all those "disparities of social life," on the rough stones of which he is perpetually grinding his heart; turn him adrift amongst all the temptations to which he is most prone,--this is a trial which, I fear, will be too sharp for a conversion so incomplete. In the New World, no doubt, his energies would find a safer field, and even the adventurous and desultory habits of his childhood might there be put to healthful account. Those complaints of the disparities of the civilized world find, I suspect, an easier, if a bluffer, reply from the political economist than the Stoic philosopher. "You don't like them, you find it hard to submit to them," says the political economist; "but they are the laws of a civilized state, and you can't alter them. Wiser men than you have tried to alter them, and never succeeded, though they turned the earth topsy-turvy! Very well; but the world is wide,--go into a state that is not so civilized. The disparities of the Old World vanish amidst the New! Emigration is the reply of Nature to the rebellious cry against Art." Thus would say the political economist; and, alas, even in your case, my son, I found no reply to the reasonings! I acknowledge, then, that Australia might open the best safety-valve to your cousin's discontent and desires; but I acknowledge also a counter-truth, which is this: "It is not permitted to an honest man to corrupt himself for the sake of others." That is almost the only maxim of Jean Jacques to which I can cheerfully subscribe! Do you feel quite strong enough to resist all the influences which a companionship of this kind may subject you to; strong enough to bear his burden as well as your own; strong enough, also,--ay, and alert and vigilant enough,--to prevent those influences harming the others whom you have undertaken to guide, and whose lots are confided to you? Pause well and consider maturely, for this must not depend upon a generous impulse. I think that your cousin would now pass under your charge with a sincere desire for reform; but between sincere desire and steadfast performance there is a long and dreary interval, even to the best of us. Were it not for Roland, and had I one grain less confidence in you, I could not entertain the thought of laying on your young shoulders so great a responsibility. But every new responsibility to an earnest nature is a new prop to virtue; and all I now ask of you is to remember that it is a solemn and serious charge, not to be undertaken without the most deliberate gauge and measure of the strength with which it is to be borne.

 In two days we shall be in London. Yours, my Anachronism, anxiously and fondly, A. C.

I was in my own room while I read this letter, and I had just finishedit when, as I looked up, I saw Roland standing opposite to me. "It isfrom Austin," said he; then he paused a moment, and added, in a tonethat seemed quite humble, "May I see it,--and dare I?" I placed theletter in his hands, and retired a few paces, that he might not think Iwatched his countenance while he read it. And I was only aware that hehad come to the end by a heavy, anxious, but not disappointed sigh. ThenI turned, and our eyes met; and there was something in Roland's look,inquiring and, as it were, imploring. I interpreted it at once.

"Oh, yes, uncle!" I said, smiling; "I have reflected, and I have no fearof the result. Before my father wrote, what he now suggests had becomemy secret wish. As for our other companions, their simple natures woulddefy all such sophistries as--But he is already half-cured of those. Lethim come with me, and when he returns he shall be worthy of a place inyour heart beside his sister Blanche. I feel, I promise it; do not fearfor me! Such a charge will be a talisman to myself. I will shun everyerror that I might otherwise commit, so that he may have no example toentice him to err."

I know that in youth, and the superstition of first love, we arecredulously inclined to believe that love and the possession of thebeloved are the only happiness. But when my uncle folded me in his armsand called me the hope of his age and stay of his house,--the music ofmy father's praise still ringing on my heart,--I do affirm that I knewa prouder bliss than if Trevanion had placed Fanny's hand in mine andsaid, "She is yours."

And now the die was cast, the decision made. It was with no regret thatI wrote to Trevanion to decline his offers. Nor was the sacrifice sogreat--even putting aside the natural pride which had before inclined toit--as it may seem to some; for restless though I was, I had laboredto constrain myself to other views of life than those which close thevistas of ambition with images of the terrestrial deities, Power andRank. Had I not been behind the scenes, noted all of joy and of peacethat the pursuit of power had cost Trevanion, and seen how little ofhappiness rank gave even to one of the polished habits and gracefulattributes of Lord Castleton? Yet each nature seemed fitted sowell,--the first for power, the last for rank! It is marvellous withwhat liberality Providence atones for the partial dispensations ofFortune. Independence, or the vigorous pursuit of it; affection, withits hopes and its rewards; a life only rendered by Art more susceptibleto Nature, in which the physical enjoyments are pure and healthful, inwhich the moral faculties expand harmoniously with the intellectual, andthe heart is at peace with the mind,--is this a mean lot for ambitionto desire, and is it so far out of human reach? "Know thyself," said theold philosophy. "Improve thyself," saith the new. The great object ofthe Sojourner in Time is not to waste all his passions and gifts on thethings external that he must leave behind,--that which he cultivateswithin is all that he can carry into the Eternal Progress. We are herebut as schoolboys, whose life begins where school ends; and thebattles we fought with our rivals, and the toys that we shared with ourplaymates, and the names that we carved, high or low, on the wall aboveour desks,--will they so much bestead us hereafter? As new fates crowdupon us, can they more than pass through the memory with a smile or asigh? Look back to thy schooldays and answer.

CHAPTER XI.

Two weeks since the date of the preceding chapter have passed; we haveslept our last, for long years to come, on the English soil. It isnight, and Vivian has been admitted to an interview with his father.They have been together alone an hour and more, and I and my fatherwill not disturb them. But the clock strikes, the hour is late, the shipsails to-night; we should be on board. And as we two stand below, thedoor opens in the room above, and a heavy step descends the stairs: thefather is leaning on the son's arm. You should see how timidly the songuides the halting step. And now, as the light gleams on their faces,there are tears on Vivian's cheek; but the face of Roland seems calm andhappy. Happy, when about to be separated, perhaps forever, from his son?Yes, happy, because he has found a son for the first time, and is notthinking of years and absence and the chance of death, but thankful forthe Divine Mercy, and cherishing celestial hope. If ye wonder why Rolandis happy in such an hour, how vainly have I sought to make him breatheand live and move before you!

We are on board; our luggage all went first. I had had time, with thehelp of a carpenter, to knock up cabins for Vivian, Guy Bolding, andmyself in the hold; for thinking we could not too soon lay aside thepretensions of Europe,--"de-fine-gentlemanize" ourselves, as Trevanionrecommended,--we had engaged steerage passage, to the great humoring ofour finances. We had, too, the luxury to be by ourselves, and our ownCumberland folks were round us, as our friends and servants both.

We are on board, and have looked our last on those we are to leave, andwe stand on deck leaning on each other. We are on board, and the lights,near and far, shine from the vast City; and the stars are on high,bright and clear, as for the first mariners of old. Strange noises,rough voices, and crackling cords, and here and there the sobs of women,mingling with the oaths of men. Now the swing and heave of the vessel,the dreary sense of exile that comes when the ship fairly moves over thewaters. And still we stood and looked and listened, silent, and leaningon each other.

Night deepened, the City vanished: not a gleam from its myriad lights!The river widened and widened. How cold comes the wind,--is that a galefrom the sea? The stars grow faint, the moon has sunk. And now, howdesolate seem the waters in the comfortless gray of dawn! Then weshivered and looked at each other, and muttered something that was notthe thought deepest at our hearts, and crept into our berths, feelingsure it was not for sleep. And sleep came on us, soft and kind. Theocean lulled the exiles as on a mother's breast.

PART XVII.

CHAPTER I.

The stage-scene has dropped. Settle yourselves, my good audience;chat each with his neighbor. Dear madam in the boxes, take up youropera-glass and look about you. Treat Tom and pretty Sal to some ofthose fine oranges, O thou happy-looking mother in the two-shillinggallery! Yes, brave 'prentice-boys in the tier above, the cat-call byall means! And you, "most potent, grave, and reverend signiors" in thefront row of the pit, practised critics and steady old playgoers, whoshake your heads at new actors and playwrights, and, true to the creedof your youth (for the which all honor to you!), firmly believe that weare shorter by the head than those giants our grandfathers,--laugh orscold as you will, while the drop-scene still shuts out the stage. It isjust that you should all amuse yourselves in your own way, O spectators!for the interval is long. All the actors have to change their dresses;all the scene-shifters are at work sliding the "sides" of a new worldinto their grooves; and in high disdain of all unity of time, as ofplace, you will see in the play-bills that there is a great demand onyour belief. You are called upon to suppose that we are older by fiveyears than when you last saw us "fret our hour upon the stage." Fiveyears! the author tells us especially to humor the belief by letting thedrop-scene linger longer than usual between the lamps and the stage.

Play up, O ye fiddles and kettle-drums! the time is elapsed. Stop thatcat-call, young gentleman; heads down in the pit there! Now the flourishis over, the scene draws up: look before.

A bright, clear, transparent atmosphere,--bright as that of the East,but vigorous and bracing as the air of the North; a broad and fairriver, rolling through wide grassy plains; yonder, far in the distance,stretch away vast forests of evergreen, and gentle slopes break theline of the cloudless horizon. See the pastures, Arcadian with sheep inhundreds and thousands,--Thyrsis and Menalcas would have had hard laborto count them, and small time, I fear, for singing songs about Daphne.But, alas! Daphnes are rare; no nymphs with garlands and crooks tripover those pastures.

Turn your eyes to the right, nearer the river; just parted by a lowfence from the thirty acres or so that are farmed for amusement orconvenience, not for profit,--that comes from the sheep,--you catcha glimpse of a garden. Look not so scornfully at the primitivehorticulture: such gardens are rare in the Bush. I doubt if the statelyKing of the Peak ever more rejoiced in the famous conservatory, throughwhich you may drive in your carriage, than do the sons of the Bush inthe herbs and blossoms which taste and breathe of the old fatherland.Go on, and behold the palace of the patriarchs,--it is of wood, I grantyou; but the house we build with our own hands is always a palace. Didyou ever build one when you were a boy? And the lords of that palace arelords of the land almost as far as you can see, and of those numberlessflocks; and, better still, of a health which an antediluvian might haveenvied, and of nerves so seasoned with horse-breaking, cattle-driving,fighting with wild blacks,--chases from them and after them, for lifeand for death,--that if any passion vex the breast of those kings of theBushland, fear at least is erased from the list.

See here and there through the landscape rude huts like the masters':wild spirits and fierce dwell within. But they are tamed into order byplenty and hope; by the hand open but firm, by the eye keen but just.

Now out from those woods, over those green rolling plains, harum-scarum,helter-skelter, long hair flying wild, and all bearded as a Turk or apard, comes a rider you recognize. The rider dismounts, and another oldacquaintance turns from a shepherd, with whom he has been conversing onmatters that never plagued Thyrsis and Menalcas,--whose sheep seem tohave been innocent of foot-rot and scab,--and accosts the horseman.

Pisistratus.--"My dear Guy, where on earth have you been?"

Guy (producing a book from his pocket, with great triumph).--"There! Dr.Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets.' I could not get the squatter to let mehave 'Kenilworth,' though I offered him three sheep for it. Dull oldfellow, that Dr. Johnson, I suspect,--so much the better, the book willlast all the longer. And here's a Sydney paper, too, only two monthsold!" (Guy takes a short pipe, or dudeen, from his hat, in the band ofwhich it had been stuck, fills and lights it.)

Pisistratus.--"You must have ridden thirty miles at the least. To thinkof your turning book-hunter, Guy!"

Guy Bolding (philosophically).--"Ay, one don't know the worth of a thingtill one has lost it. No sneers at me, old fellow; you, too, declaredthat you were bothered out of your life by those books till you foundhow long the evenings were without them. Then, the first new book wegot--an old volume of the 'Spectator!'--such fun!"

Pisistratus.--"Very true. The brown cow has calved in your absence. Doyou know, Guy, I think we shall have no scab in the fold this year.If so, there will be a rare sum to lay by! Things look up with us now,Guy."

Guy Bolding.--"Yes. Very different from the first two years. You drew along face then. How wise you were, to insist on our learning experienceat another man's station before we hazarded our own capital! But, byJove! those sheep at first were enough to plague a man out his wits.What with the wild dogs, just as the sheep had been washed and readyto shear; then that cursed scabby sheep of Joe Timmes's, that we caughtrubbing his sides so complacently against our unsuspecting poor ewes.I wonder we did not run away. But Patientia fit,--what is that line inHorace? Never mind now. 'It is a long lane that has no turning' doesjust as well as anything in Horace, and Virgil to boot. I say, has notVivian been here?"

Pisistratus.--"No; but he will be sure to come to-day."

Guy Bolding.--"He has much the best berth of it. Horse-breeding andcattle-feeding: galloping after those wild devils; lost in a forestof horns; beasts lowing, scampering, goring, tearing off like madbuffaloes; horses galloping up hill, down hill, over rocks, stones, andtimber; whips cracking, men shouting, your neck all but broken; a greatbull making at you full rush. Such fun! Sheep are dull things to look atafter a bull-hunt and a cattle-feast."

Pisistratus.--"Every man to his taste in the Bush. One may make one'smoney more easily and safely, with more adventure and sport, in thebucolic department; but one makes larger profit and quicker fortune,with good luck and good care, in the pastoral,--and our object, I takeit, is to get back to England as soon as we can."

Guy Bolding.--"Humph! I should be content to live and die in theBush,--nothing like it, if women were not so scarce. To think of theredundant spinster population at home, and not a spinster here to beseen within thirty miles,--save Bet Goggins, indeed, and she has onlyone eye! But to return to Vivian: why should it be our object, more thanhis, to get back to England as soon as we can?"

Pisistratus.--"Not more, certainly. But you saw that an excitement morestirring than that we find in the sheep had become necessary to him. Youknow he was growing dull and dejected; the cattle station was to be solda bargain. And then the Durham bulls and the Yorkshire horses which Mr.Trevanion sent you and me out as presents, were so tempting, I thoughtwe might fairly add one speculation to another; and since one of us mustsuperintend the bucolics, and two of us were required for the pastorals,I think Vivian was the best of us three to entrust with the first,--andcertainly it has succeeded as yet."

Guy.--"Why, yes, Vivian is quite in his element,--always in action, andalways in command. Let him be first in everything, and there is not afiner fellow, nor a better tempered,--present company excepted. Hark!the dogs, the crack of the whip; there he is. And now, I suppose, we maygo to dinner."

(Enter Vivian.) His frame has grown more athletic; his eye, moresteadfast and less restless, looks you full in the face. His smileis more open, but there is a melancholy in his expression almostapproaching to gloom. His dress is the same as that of Pisistratus andGuy,--white vest and trousers; loose neckcloth, rather gay in color;broad cabbage-leaf hat; his mustache and beard are trimmed with morecare than ours. He has a large whip in his hand, and a gun slung acrosshis shoulders. Greetings are exchanged; mutual inquiries as to cattleand sheep, and the last horses despatched to the Indian market. Guyshows the "Lives of the Poets," Vivian asks if it is possible to get theLife of Clive, or Napoleon, or a copy of Plutarch. Guy shakes his head;says if a Robinson Crusoe will do as well, he has seen one in a verytattered state, but in too great request to be had a bargain.

The party turn into the hut. Miserable animals are bachelors in allcountries, but most miserable in Bushland. A man does not know what ahelpmate of the soft sex is in the Old World, where women seem a matterof course. But in the Bush a wife is literally bone of your bone, fleshof your flesh,--your better half, your ministering angel, your Eve ofthe Eden; in short, all that poets have sung, or young orators say atpublic dinners when called upon to give the toast of "The Ladies." Alas!we are three bachelors, but we are better off than bachelors often arein the Bush; for the wife of the shepherd I took from Cumberland doesme and Bolding the honor to live in our hut and make things tidy andcomfortable. She has had a couple of children since we have been in theBush; a wing has been added to the hut for that increase of family. Thechildren, I dare say, one might have thought a sad nuisance in England;but I declare that, surrounded as one is by great bearded men fromsunrise to sunset, there is something humanizing, musical, andChristian-like in the very squall of the baby. There it goes, blessit! As for my other companions from Cumberland, Miles Square, the mostaspiring of all, has long left me, and is superintendent to a greatsheep-owner some two hundred miles off. The Will-o'-the-Wisp isconsigned to the cattle station, where he is Vivian's head man, findingtime now and then to indulge his old poaching propensities at theexpense of parrots, black cockatoos, pigeons, and kangaroos. Theshepherd remains with us, and does not seem, honest fellow, to careto better himself; he has a feeling of clanship which keeps down theambition common in Australia. And his wife--such a treasure! I assureyou, the sight of her smooth, smiling woman's face when we return homeat nightfall, and the very flow of her gown as she turns the "dampers"(1) in the ashes and fills the teapot, have in them something holy andangelical. How lucky our Cumberland swain is not jealous! Not that thereis any cause, enviable dog though he be; but where Desdemonas are soscarce, if you could but guess how green-eyed their Othellos generallyare! Excellent husbands, it is true,--none better; but you had betterthink twice before you attempt to play the Cassio in Bushland! There,however, she is, dear creature!--rattling among knives and forks,smoothing the table-cloth, setting on the salt beef, and that rareluxury of pickles (the last pot in our store), and the produce ofour garden and poultry-yard, which few Bushmen can boast of, andthe dampers, and a pot of tea to each banqueter,--no wine, beer, norspirits; those are only for shearing-time. We have just said grace (afashion retained from the holy mother-country), when, bless my soul!what a clatter without, what a tramping of feet, what a barking of dogs!Some guests have arrived. They are always welcome in Bushland! Perhapsa cattle-buyer in search of Vivian; perhaps that cursed squatter whosesheep are always migrating to ours. Never mind,--a hearty welcome toall, friend or foe. The door opens; one, two, three strangers. Moreplates and knives; draw your stools: just in time. First eat, then--whatnews?

Just as the strangers sit down a voice is heard at the door,--

"You will take particular care of this horse, young man walk him abouta little; wash his back with salt and water. Just unbuckle thesaddle-bags; give them to me. Oh! safe enough, I dare say, but papers ofconsequence. The prosperity of the colony depends on these papers. Whatwould become of you all if any accident happened to them, I shudder tothink."

And here, attired in a twill shooting-jacket budding with gilt buttonsimpressed with a well-remembered device; a cabbage-leaf hat shadinga face rarely seen in the Bush; a face smooth as razor could make it;neat, trim, respectable-looking as ever; his arm full of saddle-bags,and his nostrils gently distended, inhaling the steam of thebanquet,--walks in--Uncle Jack.

Pisistratus (leaping up).--"Is it possible? You in Australia!--you inthe Bush!"

Uncle Jack, not recognizing Pisistratus in the tall bearded man whois making a plunge at him, recedes in alarm, exclaiming: "Who are you?Never saw you before, sir! I suppose you'll say next that I owe yousomething!"

Pisistratus.--"Uncle Jack!"

Uncle Jack. (dropping his saddle-bags).--"Nephew! Heaven be praised!Come to my arms!"

They embrace; mutual introductions to the company,--Mr. Vivian, Mr.Bolding, on the one side; Major MacBlarney, Mr. Bullion, Mr. EmanuelSpeck, on the other. Major MacBlarney is a fine, portly man, with aslight Dublin brogue, who squeezes your hand as he would a sponge. Mr.Bullion, reserved and haughty, wears green spectacles, and gives youa forefinger. Mr. Emanuel Speck--unusually smart for the Bush, witha blue-satin stock and one of those blouses common in Germany, withelaborate hems and pockets enough for Briareus to have put all handsinto at once; is, thin, civil, and stoops--bows, smiles, and sits downto dinner again, with the air of a man accustomed to attend to the mainchance.

Uncle Jack (his mouth full of beef).--"Famous beef!--breed it yourself,eh? Slow work that cattle-feeding! [Empties the rest of the pickle-jarinto his plate.] Must learn to go ahead in the New World,--railway timesthese! We can put him up to a thing or to, eh, Bullion? [Whispering me]Great capitalist that Bullion! Look At Him!"

Mr. Bullion (gravely).--"A thing or two! If he has capital,--youhave said it, Mr. Tibbets." (Looks round for the pickles; the greenspectacles remain fixed upon Uncle Jack's plate.)

Uncle Jack.--"All that this colony wants is a few men like us, withcapital and spirit. Instead of paying paupers to emigrate, they shouldpay rich men to come, eh, Speck?"

While Uncle Jack turns to Mr. Speck, Mr. Bullion fixes his fork in apickled onion in Jack's plate and transfers it to his own, observing,not as incidentally to the onion, but to truth in general: "A man,gentlemen, in this country, has only to keep his eyes on the look-outand seize on the first advantage! Resources are incalculable!"

Uncle Jack, returning to the plate, and missing the onion, forestallsMr. Speck in seizing the last potato; observing also, and in the samephilosophical and generalizing spirit as Mr. Bullion: "The great thingin this country is to be always beforehand. Discovery and invention,promptitude and decision,--that's your go! 'Pon my life, one picks upsad vulgar sayings among the natives here! 'That's your go!'--shocking!What would your poor father say? How is he,--good Austin? Well? That'sright; and my dear sister? Ah, that damnable Peck! Still harping on the'Anti-Capitalist,' eh? But I'll make it up to you all now. Gentlemen,charge your glasses,--a bumper-toast."

Mr. Speck (in an affected tone).--"I respond to the sentiment in aflowing cup. Glasses are not forthcoming."

Uncle Jack.--"A bumper-toast to the health of the future millionnairewhom I present to you in my nephew and sole heir,--Pisistratus Caxton,Esq. Yes, gentlemen, I here publicly announce to you that thisgentleman will be the inheritor of all my wealth,--freehold, leasehold,agricultural, and mineral; and when I am in the cold grave [takes outhis pocket-handkerchief], and nothing remains of poor John Tibbets, lookupon that gentleman and say, 'John Tibbets lives again!'"

Mr. Speck (chantingly),--

 "'Let the bumper-toast go round.'"

Guy Bolding.--"Hip, hip, hurrah!--three times three! What fun!"

Order is restored; dinner-things are cleared; each gentleman lights hispipe.

Vivian.--"What news from England?"

Mr. Bullion.--"As to the Funds, sir?"

Mr. Speck.--"I suppose you mean rather as to the railways. Greatfortunes will be made there, sir; but still I think that ourspeculations here will--"

Vivian.--"I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I thought, in thelast papers, that there seemed something hostile in the temper of theFrench. No chance of a war?"

Major MacBlarney.--"Is it the wars you'd be after, young gentleman? Ifme interest at the Horse Guards can avail you, bedad! you'd make a proudman of Major MacBlarney."

Mr. Bullion (authoritatively).--"No, sir, we won't have a war; thecapitalists of Europe and Australia won't have it. The Rothschilds anda few others that shall be nameless have only got to do this, sir [Mr.Bullion buttons up his pockets],--and we'll do it, too; and then whatbecomes of your war, Sir?" (Mr. Bullion snaps his pipe in the vehemencewith which he brings his hand on the table, turns round the greenspectacles, and takes up Mr. Speck's pipe, which that gentleman had laidaside in an unguarded moment.)

Vivian.--"But the campaign in India?"

Major MacBlarney.--"Oh! and if it's the Ingees you'd--"

Mr. Bullion (refilling Speck's pipe from Guy Bolding's exclusivetobacco-pouch, and interrupting the Major).--"India,--that's anothermatter; I don't object to that. War there,--rather good for the moneymarket than otherwise."

Vivian.--"What news there, then?"

Mr. Bullion.--"Don't know; have n't got India stock."

Mr. Speck.--"Nor I either. The day for India is over, this is our Indianow." (Misses his tobacco-pipe; sees it in Bullion's mouth, andstares aghast. N. B. The pipe is not a clay dudeen, but a smallmeerschaum.--irreplaceable in Bushland.)

Pisistratus.--"Well, uncle, but I am at a loss to understand what newscheme you have in hand. Something benevolent, I am sure; something foryour fellow-creatures,--for philanthropy and mankind?"

Mr. Bullion (starting).--"Why, young man, are you as green as all that?"

Pisistratus.--"I, sir? No; Heaven forbid! But my--" (Uncle Jack holdsup his forefinger imploringly, and spills his tea over the pantaloons ofhis nephew!)

Pisistratus, wroth at the effect of the tea, and therefore obdurate tothe sign of the forefinger, continues rapidly, "But my uncle is! SomeGrand National-Imperial-Colonial-Anti-Monopoly--"

Uncle Jack.--"Pooh! pooh! What a droll boy it is!"

Mr. Bullion (solemnly).--"With these notions, which not even in jestshould be fathered on my respectable and intelligent friend here [UncleJack bows], I am afraid you will never get on in the world, Mr. Caxton.I don't think our speculations will suit you! It is growing late,gentlemen; we must push on."

Uncle Jack (jumping up).--"And I have so much to say to the dear boy.Excuse us,--you know the feelings of an uncle." (Takes my arm and leadsme out of the hut.)

Uncle Jack (as soon as we are in the air).--"You'll ruin us--you, me,and your father and mother. Yes! What do you think I work and slavemyself for but for you and yours? Ruin us all. I say, if you talkin that way before Bullion! His heart is as hard as the Bank ofEngland's,--and quite right he is too. Fellow-creatures,--stuff! I haverenounced that delusion,--the generous follies of my youth! I beginat last to live for myself,--that is, for self and relatives. I shallsucceed this time, you'll see!"

Pisistratus.--"Indeed, uncle, I hope so sincerely; and, to do youjustice, there is always something very clever in your ideas, only theydon't--"

Uncle Jack (interrupting me with a groan). "The fortunes that othermen have gained by my ideas,--shocking to think of! What! and shall Ibe reproached if I live no longer for such a set of thieving, greedy,ungrateful knaves? No, no! Number One shall be my maxim; and I'll makeyou a Croesus, my boy, I will."

Pisistratus, after grateful acknowledgments for all prospectivebenefits, inquires how long Jack has been in Australia; what broughthim into the colony; and what are his present views. Learns, to hisastonishment, that Uncle Jack has been four years in the colony; thathe sailed the year after Pisistratus,--induced, he says, by thatillustrious example and by some mysterious agency or commission, whichhe will not explain, emanating either from the Colonial Office or anEmigration Company. Uncle Jack has been thriving wonderfully since heabandoned his fellow-creatures. His first speculation, on arrivingat the colony, was in buying some houses in Sydney, which (by thosefluctuations in prices common to the extremes of the colonial mind,which is one while skipping up the rainbow with Hope, and at anotherplunging into Acherontian abysses with Despair) he bought excessivelycheap, and sold excessively dear. But his grand experiment has been inconnection with the infant settlement of Adelaide, of which he considershimself one of the first founders; and as, in the rush of emigrationwhich poured to that favored establishment in the earlier years ofits existence,--rolling on its tide all manner of credulous andinexperienced adventurers, vast sums were lost, so of those sums certainfragments and pickings were easily gripped and gathered up by a manof Uncle Jack's readiness and dexterity. Uncle Jack had contrived toprocure excellent letters of introduction to the colonial grandees; hegot into close connection with some of the principal parties seekingto establish a monopoly of land (which has since been in great measureeffected, by raising the price, and excluding the small fry of pettycapitalists); and effectually imposed on them as a man with a vastknowledge of public business, in the confidence of great men at home,considerable influence with the English press, etc. And no discredit totheir discernment; for Jack, when he pleased, had a way with him thatwas almost irresistible. In this manner he contrived to associatehimself and his earnings with men really of large capital and longpractical experience in the best mode by which that capital might beemployed. He was thus admitted into partnership (so far as his meanswent) with Mr. Bullion, who was one of the largest sheep-owners andland-holders in the colony,--though, having many other nests to feather,that gentleman resided in state at Sydney, and left his runs andstations to the care of overseers and superintendents. But land-jobbingwas Jack's special delight; and an ingenious German having latelydeclared that the neighborhood of Adelaide betrayed the existenceof those mineral treasures which have since been brought to day, Mr.Tibbets had persuaded Bullion and the other gentlemen now accompanyinghim to undertake the land journey from Sydney to Adelaide, privily andquietly, to ascertain the truth of the German's report, which was atpresent very little believed. If the ground failed of mines, UncleJack's account convinced his associates that mines quite as profitablemight be found in the pockets of the raw adventurers who were ready tobuy one year at the dearest market, and driven to sell the next at thecheapest.

"But," concluded Uncle Jack, with a sly look, and giving me a poke inthe ribs, "I've had to do with mines before now, and know what they are.I'll let nobody but you into my pet scheme; you shall go shares if youlike. The scheme is as plain as a problem in Euclid: if the German isright, and there are mines, why, the mines will be worked. Then minersmust be employed; but miners must eat, drink, and spend their money. Thething is to get that money. Do you take?"

Pisistratus.--"Not at all!"

Uncle Jack (majestically).--"A Great Grog and Store Depot! The minerswant grog and stores; come to your depot; you take their money; Q. E.D.! Shares,--eh, you dog? Cribs, as we said at school. Put in a paltrythousand or two, and you shall go halves."

Pisistratus (vehemently).--"Not for all the mines of Potosi."

Uncle Jack (good-humoredly).--"Well, it sha'n't be the worse for you. Isha'n't alter my will, in spite of your want of confidence. Your youngfriend,--that Mr. Vivian, I think you call him: intelligent-lookingfellow; sharper than the other, I guess,--would he like a share?"

Pisistratus.--"In the grog depot? You had better ask him!"

Uncle Jack.--"What! you pretend to be aristocratic in the Bush? Toogood. Ha, ha--they're calling to me; we must be off."

Pisistratus.--"I will ride with you a few miles. What say you, Vivian?and you, Guy?" (As the whole party now joined us.)

Guy prefers basking in the sun and reading the "Lives of the Poets."Vivian assents; we accompany the party till sunset. Major MacBlarneyprodigalizes his offers of service in every conceivable department oflife, and winds up with an assurance that if we want anything in thosedepartments connected with engineering,--such as mining, mapping,surveying, etc.,--he will serve us, bedad, for nothing, or next to it.We suspect Major MacBlarney to be a civil engineer suffering under theinnocent hallucination that he has been in the army.

Mr. Speck lets out to me, in a confidential whisper, that Mr. Bullion ismonstrous rich, and has made his fortune from small beginnings, by neverletting a good thing go. I think of Uncle Jack's pickled onion and Mr.Speck's meerschaum, and perceive, with respectful admiration, that Mr.Bullion acts uniformly on one grand system. Ten minutes afterwards, Mr.Bullion observes, in a tone equally confidential, that Mr. Speck, thoughso smiling and civil, is as sharp as a needle, and that if I want anyshares in the new speculation, or indeed in any other, I had bettercome at once to Bullion, who would not deceive me for my weight in gold."Not," added Bullion, "that I have anything to say against Speck. Heis well enough to do in the world,--a warm man, sir; and when a man isreally warm, I am the last person to think of his little faults and turnon him the cold shoulder."

"Adieu!" said Uncle Jack, pulling out once more his pocket-handkerchief;"my love to all at home." And sinking his voice into a whisper: "If everyou think better of the Grog and Store Depot, nephew, you'll find anuncle's heart in this bosom!"

(1) A damper is a cake of flour baked without yeast, in the ashes

CHAPTER II.

It was night as Vivian and myself rode slowly home. Night in Australia!How impossible to describe its beauty! Heaven seems, in that new world,so much nearer to earth! Every star stands out so bright and particularas if fresh from the time when the Maker willed it. And the moon like alarge silvery sun,--the least object on which it shines so distinct andso still. (1) Now and then a sound breaks the silence, but a sound somuch in harmony with the solitude that it only deepens its charms. Hark!the low cry of the night-bird from yonder glen amidst the smallgray gleaming rocks. Hark! as night deepens, the bark of the distantwatch-dog, or the low, strange howl of his more savage species, fromwhich he defends the fold. Hark! the echo catches the sound, and flingsit sportively from hill to hill,--farther and farther and farther down,till all again is hushed, and the flowers hang noiseless over yourhead as you ride through a grove of the giant gum-trees. Now the airis literally charged with the odors, and the sense of fragrance growsalmost painful in its pleasure. You quicken your pace, and escape againinto the open plains and the full moonlight, and through the slendertea-trees catch the gleam of the river, and in the exquisite fineness ofthe atmosphere hear the soothing sound of its murmur.

Pisistratus.--"And this land has become the heritage of our people!Methinks I see, as I gaze around, the scheme of the All-beneficentFather disentangling itself clear through the troubled history ofmankind. How mysteriously, while Europe rears its populations andfulfils its civilizing mission, these realms have been concealed fromits eyes,--divulged to us just as civilization needs the solution to itsproblems; a vent for feverish energies, baffled in the crowd; offeringbread to the famished, hope to the desperate; in very truth enabling the'New World to redress the balance of the Old.' Here, what a Latium forthe wandering spirits,--

 "'On various seas by various tempests tossed.'

"Here, the actual AEneid passes before our eyes. From the huts of theexiles scattered over this hardier Italy, who cannot see in the future

 "'A race from whence new Alban sires shall come, And the long glories of a future Rome'?"

Vivian (mournfully).--"Is it from the outcasts of the work-house, theprison, and the transport-ship that a second Rome is to arise?"

Pisistratus.--"There is something in this new soil--in the labor itcalls forth, in the hope it inspires, in the sense of property, whichI take to be the core of social morals--that expedites the work ofredemption with marvellous rapidity. Take them altogether, whatevertheir origin, or whatever brought them hither, they are a fine, manly,frank-hearted race, these colonists now!--rude, not mean, especially inthe Bush; and, I suspect, will ultimately become as gallant and honesta population as that now springing up in South Australia, from whichconvicts are excluded,--and happily excluded,--for the distinctionwill sharpen emulation. As to the rest, and in direct answer to yourquestion, I fancy even the emancipist part of our population every whitas respectable as the mongrel robbers under Romulus."

Vivian.--"But were _they_ not soldiers,--I mean the first Romans?"

Pisistratus.--"My dear cousin, we are in advance of those grim outcastsif we can get lands, houses, and wives (though the last is difficult,and it is well that we have no white Sabines in the neighborhood)without that same soldiering which was the necessity of theirexistence."

Vivian (after a pause).--"I have written to my father, and to yoursmore fully,--stating in the one letter my wish, in the other trying toexplain the feelings from which it springs."

Pisistratus.--"Are the letters gone?"

Vivian.--"Yes."

Pisistratus.--"And you would not show them to me!"

Vivian.--"Do not speak so reproachfully. I promised your father to pourout my whole heart to him, whenever it was troubled and at strife. Ipromise you now that I will go by his advice."

Pisistratus (disconsolately).--"What is there in this military life forwhich you yearn that can yield you more food for healthful excitementand stirring adventure than your present pursuits afford?"

Vivian.--"Distinction! You do not see the difference between us. Youhave but a fortune to make,--I have a name to redeem; you look calmly onto the future,--I have a dark blot to erase from the past."

Pisistratus (soothingly).--"It is erased. Five years of no weakbewailings, but of manly reform, steadfast industry, conduct soblameless that even Guy (whom I look upon as the incarnation of bluntEnglish honesty) half doubts whether you are _cute_ enough for 'astation;' a character already so high that I long for the hour when youwill again take your father's spotless name, and give me the prideto own our kinship to the world,--all this surely redeems the errorsarising from an uneducated childhood and a wandering youth."

Vivian (leaning over his horse, and putting his hand on myshoulder).--"My dear friend, what do I owe you!" Then recovering hisemotion, and pushing on at a quicker pace, while he continues to speak,"But can you not see that, just in proportion as my comprehension ofright would become clear and strong, so my conscience would become alsomore sensitive and reproachful; and the better I understand my gallantfather, the more I must desire to be as he would have had his son. Doyou think it would content him, could he see me branding cattle andbargaining with bullock drivers? Was it not the strongest wish of hisheart that I should adopt his own career? Have I not heard you say thathe would have had you too a soldier, but for your mother? I have nomother! If I made thousands, and tens of thousands, by this ignoblecalling, would they give my father half the pleasure that he would feelat seeing my name honorably mentioned in a despatch? No, no! You havebanished the gypsy blood, and now the soldier's breaks out! Oh, forone glorious day in which I may clear my way into fair repute, as ourfathers before us!--when tears of proud joy may flow from those eyesthat have wept such hot drops at my shame; when she, too, in her highstation beside that sleek lord, may say, 'His heart was not so vile,after all!' Don't argue with me,--it is in vain! Pray, rather, that Imay have leave to work out my own way; for I tell you that if condemnedto stay here, I may not murmur aloud,--I may go through this round oflow duties as the brute turns the wheel of a mill; but my heart willprey on itself, and you shall soon write on my gravestone the epitaphof the poor poet you told us of whose true disease was the thirst ofglory,--'Here lies one whose name was writ in water."'

I had no answer; that contagious ambition made my own veins run morewarmly, and my own heart beat with a louder tumult. Amidst the pastoralscenes, and under the tranquil moonlight of the New, the Old World, evenin me, rude Bushman, claimed for a while its son. But as we rode on, theair, so inexpressibly buoyant, yet soothing as an anodyne, restored meto peaceful Nature. Now the flocks, in their snowy clusters, were seensleeping under the stars; hark! the welcome of the watch-dogs; see thelight gleaming far from the chink of the door! And, pausing, I saidaloud: "No, there is more glory in laying these rough foundations of amighty state, though no trumpets resound with your victory, though nolaurels shall shadow your tomb, than in forcing the onward progress ofyour race over burning cities and hecatombs of men!" I looked round forVivian's answer; but ere I spoke he had spurred from my side, and I sawthe wild dogs slinking back from the hoofs of his horse as he rode atspeed on the sward through the moonlight.

(1) "I have frequently," says Mr. Wilkinson, in his invaluable work uponSouth Australia, at once so graphic and so practical, "been out on ajourney in such a night, and whilst allowing the horse his own timeto walk along the road, have solaced myself by reading in the stillmoonlight."

CHAPTER III.

The weeks and the months rolled on, and the replies to Vivian's letterscame at last; I foreboded too well their purport. I knew that my fathercould not set himself in opposition to the deliberate and cherisheddesire of a man who had now arrived at the full strength of hisunderstanding, and must be left at liberty to make his own electionof the paths of life. Long after that date I saw Vivian's letter tomy father; and even his conversation had scarcely prepared me for thepathos of that confession of a mind remarkable alike for its strengthand its weakness. If born in the age, or submitted to the influences,of religious enthusiasm, here was a nature that, awaking from sin, couldnot have been contented with the sober duties of mediocre goodness; thatwould have plunged into the fiery depths of monkish fanaticism, wrestledwith the fiend in the hermitage, or marched barefoot on the infidel witha sackcloth for armor,--the cross for a sword. Now, the impatient desirefor redemption took a more mundane direction, but with something thatseemed almost spiritual in its fervor. And this enthusiasm flowedthrough strata of such profound melancholy! Deny it a vent, and it mightsicken into lethargy or fret itself into madness,--give it the vent, andit might vivify and fertilize as it swept along.

My father's reply to this letter was what might be expected. It gentlyreinforced the old lessons in the distinctions between aspirationstowards the perfecting ourselves,--aspirations that are never invain,--and the morbid passion for applause from others, which shiftsconscience from our own bosoms to the confused Babel of the crowd andcalls it "fame." But my father in his counsels did not seek to opposea mind so obstinately bent upon a single course,--he sought rather toguide and strengthen it in the way it should go. The seas of human lifeare wide. Wisdom may suggest the voyage, but it must first look to thecondition of the ship and the nature of the merchandise to exchange. Notevery vessel that sails from Tarshish can bring back the gold of Ophir;but shall it therefore rot in the harbor? No; give its sails to thewind! But I had expected that Roland's letter to his son would have beenfull of joy and exultation,--joy there was none in it, yet exultationthere might be, though serious, grave, and subdued. In the proud assentthat the old soldier gave to his son's wish, in his entire comprehensionof motives so akin to his own nature, there was yet a visible sorrow; itseemed even as if he constrained himself to the assent he gave. Not tillI had read it again and again could I divine Roland's feelings while hewrote. At this distance of time I comprehend them well. Had he sent fromhis side, into noble warfare, some boy fresh to life, new to sin, withan enthusiasm pure and single-hearted as his own young chivalrous ardor,then, with all a soldier's joy, he had yielded a cheerful tribute to thehosts of England. But here he recognized, though perhaps dimly, not thefrank, military fervor, but the stern desire of expiation; and in thatthought he admitted forebodings that would have been otherwiserejected, so that at the close of the letter it seemed, not the fiery,war-seasoned Roland that wrote, but rather some timid, anxious mother.Warnings and entreaties and cautions not to be rash, and assurances thatthe best soldiers were ever the most prudent,--were these the counselsof the fierce veteran who at the head of the forlorn hope had mountedthe wall at--, his sword between his teeth?

But whatever his presentiments, Roland had yielded at once to his son'sprayer, hastened to London at the receipt of his letter, obtaineda commission in a regiment now in active service in India; and thatcommission was made out in his son's name. The commission, with an orderto join the regiment as soon as possible, accompanied the letter.

And Vivian, pointing to the name addressed to him, said, "Now indeed Imay resume this name, and next to Heaven will I hold it sacred! It shallguide me to glory in life, or my father shall read it, without shame,on my tomb!" I see him before me as he stood then,--his form erect, hisdark eyes solemn in their light, a serenity in his smile, a grandeur onhis brow, that I had never marked till then! Was that the same man Ihad recoiled from as the sneering cynic, shuddered at as the audacioustraitor, or wept over as the cowering outcast? How little the noblenessof aspect depends on symmetry of feature, or the mere proportions ofform! What dignity robes the man who is filled with a lofty thought!

CHAPTER IV.

He is gone; he has left a void in my existence. I had grown to love himso well; I had been so proud when men praised him. My love was a sort ofself-love,--I had looked upon him in part as the work of my own hands.I am a long time ere I can settle back, with good heart, to my pastorallife. Before my cousin went, we cast up our gains and settled ourshares. When he resigned the allowance which Roland had made him, hisfather secretly gave to me, for his use, a sum equal to that which I andGuy Bolding brought into the common stock. Roland had raised a sumupon mortgage; and while the interest was a trivial deduction from hisincome, compared to the former allowance, the capital was much moreuseful to his son than a mere yearly payment could have been. Thus,between us, we had a considerable sum for Australian settlers,--L4,500.For the first two years we made nothing,--indeed, great part of thefirst year was spent in learning our art, at the station of an oldsettler. But at the end of the third year, our flocks having thenbecome very considerable, we cleared a return beyond my most sanguineexpectations. And when my cousin left, just in the sixth year of exile,our shares amounted to L4,000 each, exclusive of the value of the twostations. My cousin had at first wished that I should forward his shareto his father; but he soon saw that Roland would never take it, and itwas finally agreed that it should rest in my hands, for me to manage forhim, send him out an interest at five per cent, and devote the surplusprofits to the increase of his capital. I had now, therefore, thecontrol of L12,000, and we might consider ourselves very respectablecapitalists. I kept on the cattle station, by the aid of theWill-o'-the-Wisp, for about two years after Vivian's departure (we hadthen had it altogether for five). At the end of that time, I sold it andthe stock to great advantage. And the sheep--for the "brand" of which Ihad a high reputation--having wonderfully prospered in the mean while, Ithought we might safely extend our speculations into new ventures. Glad,too, of a change of scene, I left Bolding in charge of the flocks andbent my course to Adelaide, for the fame of that new settlement hadalready disturbed the peace of the Bush. I found Uncle Jack residingnear Adelaide in a very handsome villa, with all the signs andappurtenances of colonial opulence; and report, perhaps, did notexaggerate the gains he had made,--so many strings to his bow, andeach arrow, this time, seemed to have gone straight to the white of thebutts. I now thought I had acquired knowledge and caution sufficient toavail myself of Uncle Jack's ideas, without ruining myself by followingthem out in his company; and I saw a kind of retributive justicein making his brain minister to the fortunes which his ideality andconstructiveness, according to Squills, had served so notably toimpoverish. I must here gratefully acknowledge that I owed much to thisirregular genius. The investigation of the supposed mines had provedunsatisfactory to Mr. Bullion, and they were not fairly discovered tilla few years after. But Jack had convinced himself of their existence,and purchased, on his own account, "for an old song," some barren landwhich he was persuaded would prove to him a Golconda, one day or other,under the euphonious title (which, indeed, it ultimately established) ofthe "Tibbets' Wheal." The suspension of the mines, however, fortunatelysuspended the existence of the Grog and Store Depot, and Uncle Jack wasnow assisting in the foundation of Port Philip. Profiting by his advice,I adventured in that new settlement some timid and wary purchases, whichI resold to considerable advantage. Meanwhile I must not omit to statebriefly what, since my departure from England, had been the ministerialcareer of Trevanion.

That refining fastidiousness, that scrupulosity of political conscience,which had characterized him as an independent member, and often served,in the opinion both of friend and of foe, to give the attributeof general impracticability to a mind that, in all details, was soessentially and laboriously practical, might perhaps have foundedTrevanion's reputation as a minister if he could have been a ministerwithout colleagues,--if, standing alone, and from the necessary height,he could have placed, clear and single, before the world, his exquisitehonesty of purpose and the width of a statesmanship marvellouslyaccomplished and comprehensive. But Trevanion could not amalgamate withothers, nor subscribe to the discipline of a cabinet in which he wasnot the chief, especially in a policy which must have been thoroughlyabhorrent to such a nature,--a policy that, of late years, hasdistinguished not one faction alone, but has seemed so forced upon themore eminent political leaders on either side that they who take themore charitable view of things may perhaps hold it to arise from thenecessity of the age, fostered by the temper of the public: I mean thepolicy of Expediency. Certainly not in this book will I introduce theangry elements of party politics; and how should I know much about them?All that I have to say is that, right or wrong, such a policy musthave been at war, every moment, with each principle of Trevanion'sstatesmanship, and fretted each fibre of his moral constitution. Thearistocratic combinations which his alliance with the Castleton interesthad brought to his aid served perhaps to fortify his position in theCabinet; yet aristocratic combinations were of small avail againstwhat seemed the atmospherical epidemic of the age. I could see howhis situation had preyed on his mind when I read a paragraph in thenewspapers, "that it was reported, on good authority, that Mr. Trevanionhad tendered his resignation, but had been prevailed upon to withdrawit, as his retirement at that moment would break up the government."Some months afterwards came another paragraph, to the effect "that Mr.Trevanion was taken suddenly ill, and that it was feared his illnesswas of a nature to preclude his resuming his official labors." ThenParliament broke up. Before it met again, Mr. Trevanion was gazetted asEarl of Ulverstone,--a title that had been once in his family,--and hadleft the Administration, unable to encounter the fatigues of office.To an ordinary man the elevation to an earldom, passing over the lesserhonors in the peerage, would have seemed no mean close to a politicalcareer; but I felt what profound despair of striving againstcircumstance for utility--what entanglements with his colleagues, whomhe could neither conscientiously support, nor, according to his highold-fashioned notions of party honor and etiquette, energeticallyoppose--had driven him to abandon that stormy scene in which hisexistence had been passed. The House of Lords, to that active intellect,was as the retirement of some warrior of old into the cloisters of aconvent. The gazette that chronicled the earldom of Ulverstone was theproclamation that Albert Trevanion lived no more for the world of publicmen. And, indeed, from that date his career vanished out of sight.Trevanion died,--the Earl of Ulverstone made no sign.

I had hitherto written but twice to Lady Ellinor during my exile,--onceupon the marriage of Fanny with Lord Castleton, which took place aboutsix months after I sailed from England, and again when thanking herhusband for some rare animals, equine, pastoral, and bovine, whichhe had sent as presents to Bolding and myself. I wrote again afterTrevanion's elevation to the peerage, and received, in due time, a replyconfirming all my impressions; for it was full of bitterness and gall,accusations of the world, fears for the country,--Richelieu himselfcould not have taken a gloomier view of things when his levees weredeserted and his power seemed annihilated before the "Day of Dupes."Only one gleam of comfort appeared to visit Lady Ulverstone's breast,and thence to settle prospectively over the future of the world,--asecond son had been born to Lord Castleton; to that son woulddescend the estates of Ulverstone and the representation of that linedistinguished by Trevanion and enriched by Trevanion's wife. Never wasthere a child of such promise! Not Virgil himself, when he called on theSicilian Muses to celebrate the advent of a son to Pollio, ever soundeda loftier strain. Here was one, now, perchance, engaged on words of twosyllables, called:

 "By laboring Nature to sustain The nodding frame of heaven and earth and main, See to their base restored, earth, sea, and air, And joyful ages from behind in crowding ranks appear!"

Happy dream which Heaven sends to grandparents,--rebaptism of Hope inthe font whose drops sprinkle the grandchild!

Time flies on; affairs continue to prosper. I am just leaving the bankat Adelaide with a satisfied air when I am stopped in the street bybowing acquaintances who never shook me by the hand before. They shakeme by the hand now, and cry, "I wish you joy, sir. That brave fellow,your namesake, is of course your near relation."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you not seen the papers? Here they are."

 "Gallant Conduct of Ensign De Caxton! Promoted to a Lieutenancy on the Field!"

I wipe my eyes, and cry: "Thank Heaven,--it is my cousin!" Then newhand-shakings, new groups gather round. I feel taller by the head thanI was before! We grumbling English, always quarrelling with eachother,--the world not wide enough to hold us; and yet, when in the farland some bold deed is done by a countryman, how we feel that we arebrothers; how our hearts warm to each other! What a letter I wrotehome, and how joyously I went back to the Bush! The Will-o'-the-Wisp hasattained to a cattle station of his own. I go fifty miles out of my wayto tell him the news and give him the newspaper; for he knows nowthat his old master, Vivian, is a Cumberland man,--a Caxton.Poor Will-o'-the-Wisp! The tea that night tasted uncommonly likewhiskey-punch! Father Mathew, forgive us; but if you had been aCumberland man, and heard the Will-o'-the-Wisp roaring out, "BlueBonnets over the Borders," I think your tea, too, would not have comeout of the--caddy!

CHAPTER V.

A great change has occurred in our household. Guy's father is dead,--hislatter years cheered by the accounts of his son's steadiness andprosperity, and by the touching proofs thereof which Guy has exhibited;for he insisted on repaying to his father the old college debts andthe advance of the L1,500, begging that the money might go towardshis sister's portion. Now, after the old gentleman's death, the sisterresolved to come out and live with her dear brother Guy. Another wing isbuilt to the hut. Ambitious plans for a new stone house, to be commencedthe following year, are entertained; and Guy has brought back fromAdelaide not only a sister, but, to my utter astonishment, a wife, inthe shape of a fair friend by whom the sister is accompanied.

The young lady did quite right to come to Australia if she wanted to bemarried. She was very pretty, and all the beaux in Adelaide were roundher in a moment. Guy was in love the first day, in a rage with thirtyrivals the next, in despair the third, put the question the fourth, andbefore the fifteenth was a married man, hastening back with a treasure,of which he fancied all the world was conspiring to rob him. His sisterwas quite as pretty as her friend, and she, too, had offers enough themoment she landed,--only she was romantic and fastidious; and I fancyGuy told her that "I was just made for her."

However, charming though she be,--with pretty blue eyes and herbrother's frank smile,--I am not enchanted. I fancy she lost all chanceof my heart by stepping across the yard in a pair of silk shoes. If Iwere to live in the Bush, give me a wife as a companion who can ridewell, leap over a ditch, walk beside me when I go forth, gun in hand,for a shot at the kangaroos. But I dare not go on with the list of aBush husband's requisites. This change, however, serves, for variousreasons, to quicken my desire of return. Ten years have now elapsed, andI have already obtained a much larger fortune than I had calculated tomake. Sorely to Guy's honest grief, I therefore wound up our affairsand dissolved partnership; for he had decided to pass his life in thecolony,--and with his pretty wife, who has grown very fond of him, Idon't wonder at it. Guy takes my share of the station and stock off myhands; and, all accounts squared between us, I bid farewell to the Bush.Despite all the motives that drew my heart homeward, it was not withoutparticipation in the sorrow of my old companions that I took leave ofthose I might never see again on this side the grave. The meanest manin my employ had grown a friend; and when those hard hands grasped mine,and from many a breast that once had waged fierce war with the worldcame the soft blessing to the Homeward-bound,--with a tender thought forthe Old England that had been but a harsh stepmother to them,--I felt achoking sensation which I suspect is little known to the friendshipsof Mayfair and St. James's. I was forced to get off with a few brokenwords, when I had meant to part with a long speech,--perhaps the brokenwords pleased the audience better. Spurring away, I gained a littleeminence and looked back. There were the poor faithful fellows gatheredin a ring, watching me, their hats off, their hands shading their eyesfrom the sun. And Guy had thrown himself on the ground, and I heard hisloud sobs distinctly. His wife was leaning over his shoulder, tryingto soothe. Forgive him, fair helpmate; you will be all the world tohim--to-morrow! And the blue-eyed sister, where was she? Had she notears for the rough friend who laughed at the silk shoes, and taught herhow to hold the reins and never fear that the old pony would run awaywith her? What matter? If the tears were shed, they were hidden tears.No shame in them, fair Ellen! Since then thou hast wept happy tears overthy first-born,--those tears have long ago washed away all bitterness inthe innocent memories of a girl's first fancy.

CHAPTER VI.

Dated From Adelaide.

Imagine my wonder! Uncle Jack has just been with me, and--But hear thedialogue.

Uncle Jack.--"So you are positively going back to that smoky, fusty OldEngland, just when you are on your high road to a plum,--a plum, sir, atleast! They all say there is not a more rising young man in the colony.I think Bullion would take you into partnership. What are you in such ahurry for?"

Pisistratus.--"To see my father and mother and Uncle Roland, and--" (wasabout to name some one else, but stops). "You see, my dear uncle, Icame out solely with the idea of repairing my father's losses in thatunfortunate speculation of 'The Capitalist'!"

Uncle Jack (coughs and ejaculates).--"That villain Peck!"

Pisistratus.--"And to have a few thousands to invest in poor Roland'sacres. The object is achieved: why should I stay?"

Uncle Jack.--"A few paltry thousands, when in twenty years more, at thefarthest, you would wallow in gold!"

Pisistratus.--"A man learns in the Bush how happy life can be withplenty of employment and very little money. I shall practise that lessonin England."

Uncle Jack.--"Your mind's made up?"

Pisistratus.--"And my place in the ship taken."

Uncle Jack.--"Then there's no more to be said." (Hums, haws, andexamines his nails,--filbert-nails, not a speck on them. Then suddenly,and jerking up his head) "That 'Capitalist'! it has been on myconscience, nephew, ever since; and, somehow or other, since I haveabandoned the cause of my fellow-creatures, I think I have cared morefor my relations."

Pisistratus (smiling as he remembers his father's shrewd predictionsthereon).--"Naturally, my dear uncle; any child who has thrown a stoneinto a pond knows that a circle disappears as it widens."

Uncle Jack.--"Very true,--I shall make a note of that, applicable tomy next speech in defence of what they call the 'land monopoly.' Thankyou,--stone, circle! [Jots down notes in his pocket-book.] But to returnto the point: I am well off now, I have neither wife nor child, and Ifeel that I ought to bear my share in your father's loss,--it was ourjoint speculation. And your father--good, dear Austin!--paid my debtsinto the bargain. And how cheering the punch was that night, when yourmother wanted to scold poor Jack! And the L300 Austin lent me when Ileft him: nephew, that was the remaking of me,--the acorn of the oakI have planted. So here they are [added Uncle Jack, with a heroicaleffort, and he extracted from the pocket-book bills for a sum betweenthree and four thousand pounds]. There, it is done; and I shall sleepbetter for it!" With that Uncle Jack got up, and bolted out of the room.

Ought I to take the money? Why, I think yes,--it is but fair. Jack mustbe really rich, and can well spare the money; besides, if he wants itagain, I know my father will let him have it. And, indeed, Jack causedthe loss of the whole sum lost on "The Capitalist," etc.: and this isnot quite the half of what my father paid away. But is it not fine inUncle Jack? Well, my father was quite right in his milder estimate ofJack's scalene conformation, and it is hard to judge of a man when heis needy and down in the world. When one grafts one's ideas on one'sneighbor's money, they are certainly not so grand as when they springfrom one's own.

Uncle Jack (popping his head into the room).--"And, you see, you candouble that money if you will just leave it in my hands for a couple ofyears,--you have no notion what I shall make of the Tibbets' Wheal!Did I tell you? The German was quite right; I have been offered alreadyseven times the sum which I gave for the land. But I am now looking outfor a company: let me put you down for shares to the amount at least ofthose trumpery bills. Cent per cent,--I guarantee cent per cent!"And Uncle Jack stretches out those famous smooth hands of his, with atremulous motion of the ten eloquent fingers.

Pisistratus.--"Ah! my dear uncle, if you repent--"

Uncle Jack.--"Repent, when I offer you cent per cent, on my personalguarantee!"

Pisistratus (carefully putting the bills into his breastcoat-pocket).--"Then if you don't repent, my dear uncle, allow me toshake you by the hand and say that I will not consent to lessenmy esteem and admiration for the high principle which prompts thisrestitution, by confounding it with trading associations of loans,interests, and copper-mines. And, you see, since this sum is paid to myfather, I have no right to invest it without his permission."

Uncle Jack (with emotion). "'Esteem, admiration, high principle!'--theseare pleasant words from you, nephew. [Then, shaking his head, andsmiling] You sly dog! you are quite right; get the bills cashed at once.And hark ye, sir, just keep out of my way, will you? And don't let mecoax from you a farthing." Uncle Jack slams the door and rushes out.Pisistratus draws the bills warily from his pocket, half suspecting theymust already have turned into withered leaves, like fairy money; slowlyconvinces himself that the bills are good bills; and by lively gesturestestifies his delight and astonishment. Scene changes.

PART XVIII.

CHAPTER I.

Adieu, thou beautiful land, Canaan of the exiles, and Ararat to many ashattered ark! Fair cradle of a race for whom the unbounded heritage ofa future that no sage can conjecture, no prophet divine, lies afar inthe golden promise--light of Time!--destined, perchance, from the sinsand sorrows of a civilization struggling with its own elements of decay,to renew the youth of the world, and transmit the great soul of Englandthrough the cycles of Infinite Change. All climates that can best ripenthe products of earth or form into various character and temper thedifferent families of man is "rain influences" from the heaven thatsmiles so benignly on those who had once shrunk, ragged, from the wind,or scowled on the thankless sun. Here, the hard air of the chill MotherIsle,--there, the mild warmth of Italian autumns or the breathless glowof the tropics. And with the beams of every climate, glides subtle Hope.Of her there, it may be said, as of Light itself, in those exquisitelines of a neglected poet,--

 "Through the soft ways of heaven and air and sea, Which open all their pores to thee, Like a clear river thou dost glide. All the world's bravery that delights our eyes Is but thy several liveries; Thou the rich dye on them bestowest; Thy nimble pencil paints the landscape as thou goest." (1)

Adieu, my kind nurse and sweet foster-mother,--a long and a last adieu!Never had I left thee but for that louder voice of Nature which callsthe child to the parent, and wooes us from the labors we love the bestby the chime in the sabbath-bells of Home.

No one can tell how dear the memory of that wild Bush life becomes tohim who has tried it with a fitting spirit. How often it haunts him inthe commonplace of more civilized scenes! Its dangers, its risks,its sense of animal health, its bursts of adventure, its intervals ofcareless repose,--the fierce gallop through a very sea of wide, rollingplains; the still saunter, at night, through woods never changing theirleaves, with the moon, clear as sunshine, stealing slant through theirclusters of flowers. With what an effort we reconcile ourselves tothe trite cares and vexed pleasures, "the quotidian ague of frigidimpertinences," to which we return! How strong and black stands mypencil-mark in this passage of the poet from whom I have just quotedbefore--!

"We are here among the vast and noble scenes of Nature,--we are thereamong the pitiful shifts of policy; we walk here in the light and openways of the Divine Bounty,--we grope there in the dark and confusedlabyrinth of human malice." (2)

But I weary you, reader. The New World vanishes,--now a line, nowa speck; let us turn away, with the face to the Old. Amongst myfellow-passengers how many there are returning home disgusted,disappointed, impoverished, ruined, throwing themselves again on thoseunsuspecting poor friends who thought they had done with the lucklessgood-for-noughts forever. For don't let me deceive thee, reader,into supposing that every adventurer to Australia has the luck ofPisistratus. Indeed, though the poor laborer, and especially the pooroperative from London and the great trading towns (who has generallymore of the quick knack of learning,--the adaptable faculty,--requiredin a new colony, than the simple agricultural laborer), are pretty sureto succeed, the class to which I belong is one in which failures arenumerous and success the exception,--I mean young men with scholasticeducation and the habits of gentlemen; with small capital and sanguinehopes. But this, in ninety-nine times out of a hundred, is not the faultof the colony, but of the emigrants. It requires not so much intellectas a peculiar turn of intellect, and a fortunate combination of physicalqualities, easy temper, and quick mother-wit, to make a small capitalista prosperous Bushman. (3) And if you could see the sharks that swimround a man just dropped at Adelaide or Sydney, with one or two thousandpounds in his pocket! Hurry out of the towns as fast as you can, myyoung emigrant; turn a deaf ear, for the present at least, to alljobbers and speculators; make friends with some practised old Bushman;spend several months at his station before you hazard your capital;take with