Chapters 7
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1 01 - Washington's Escape; a Tale of the Revolution 28:54
The Rover, Volume One, Number One. Edited by Seba Smith and Lawrence Labrie. Section One, Washington's Escape, A Tale of the Revolution. On a bright morning in the summer of 77, an unusual bustle was observable in the camp of Washington, whose officers were seen gliding from tent to tent, preparing their own accoutrements, or superintending the comparison of their fleeted steeds. The army was quietly lying on the banks of the Hudson, and no immediate hostilities expected, although the British headquarters were but a few miles distant. The present excitement was occasioned by an invitation from Colonel Mauburn, the noble owner of a seat in the neighborhood, to attend an entertainment given in honor of his only daughter, the young Countess of Cleavesdown, who had lately returned from beyond sea.
As among military men a lofty bearing, a pride of personal appearance, are seldom wanting, it is not surprising that a more than ordinary solicitude was evinced. Old coats and saddle-cloths were carefully brushed, boots and spurs burnished, swords and holsters borrowed, and yet none of the young men seemed perfectly satisfied with themselves, save Charles de Carrel, the youthful aide of Lafayette, who was lounging on a log, with soiled linen and unpowdered locks, while the smile and sparkling glances indicated the paradise of his imagination. In vain, his noble charger neighed and pawed at the door of his tent, in seeming disgust at the soiled trappings with which he was covered. DeCarroll's reverie was not to be broken.
At this moment, a couple of brother officers passing inquired at what hour they were to ride. At ten precisely, answered Major E, and observing the young aide with surprise, asked if the favorite was not invited. Oh, certainly, replied Lieutenant G, next in the list to Lafayette himself. But depending on the liberality with which nature has gifted him, or schoolboy acquaintance with the young countess, he neglects all personal decorations. But perhaps he may find himself in the vocative, said Major E., and be treated with the same coldness as Captain Bliss, who presumed on the same footing. But a girl at school and a peerist come out, he will find different persons. But let him alone. We shall see, whispered Major E., casting an envious glance from his own diminutive person to the elegant figure of De Carroll, who remained unmoved.
Just as they hurried on, General Bortelieu, in whom all the good qualities of humanity appeared to have found a welcome, happened to pass, and seeing the absorbed condition of our hero, Gave him a violent shake, and in a half-reproachful tone, inquired if he did not remember that Washington was punctual to an appointment. And while you sit here, added he, dreaming of auburn ringlets and slender arms floating around your brown visage and infantile pleadings for the conveyance of kisses and teardrops across the Atlantic to dearest Maria, as Dr. Franklin tells the story, we will be far on the way to Marathon. A hint to the wise, said Bortolo, significantly, is sufficient, as DeCarroll, deeply coloring, glided into his tent, and when he joined the troop, his superb suit of blue and gold, powdered curls, and magnificent trappings decided that he and his man Cato had spent no idle time.
As he vaulted into the saddle, his splendid appearance caused a smile among the senior officers, which was nothing diminished by the trusty black saying to his Arabian. You be mighty proud today, Master Janice. Maybe you think you tote Queen Anne on your back. You try to strike me, do you? Dat feed you, dat tend you all de time. Perhaps he has discovered we are going to the wedding, Cato, and that the groom is in company, said General Bortolo, glancing ironically at DeCarol, while the whole cavalcade, putting spurs to their horses, galloped off. Leaving the eyes and the mouth of the negro in a state of distention, who hastened, as much as in him lay, to bring up the rear. Merrily the troops scoured over hill and valley, and surely, in no age nor country, were there ever truer hearts, or a more gallant band.
All were handsome, talented men in the brilliancy of youth, or prime of manhood, and glowing with that enthusiasm for liberty and love of country, which seemed to breathe of something more than mortal. Washington Lafayette wrote in front, Lincoln, Wayne, Lee, Bortolo, and DeCarroll, with many others, followed closely after, and our spirited riding brought them in view of Marathon, as the colonel's residence was called. But in this band of choice spirits, were all true? Alas, no, for even among them was a traitor who would gladly have led them all into the heart of the British camp. But his time was not yet come. And as he, too, endeavored to pass gaily along, it was with malicious joy he perceived that envy and rivalship would probably add another facility to his purpose, as he followed the disdainful glance of Major E., whose chagrin at de Carroll's superior appearance was only supportable by observing that some obtruding anxiety had dissipated the wearer's mental sunshine.
On, cheerily, however they went, and dismounted at a long shed, Fastening their horses with accoutrements on, the commander-in-chief having so directed. They then walked slowly up the ascent on which the edifice was situated, to the entrance of a lofty portico, where they were received by Colonel Mauburn with his usual fascination of manner, thanking them, apparently most cordially, for the honor they did him, and shaking hands with each individual, in true planter style, led the way to the saloon. The folding doors were thrown open, and the first glance determined the taste and affluence of the owner, the furniture and ornaments being of the richest materials, and arranged in the most elegant style imaginable.
At the entrance of this palace of the Hudson, the young officers lingered, while their seniors were paying their respects to the stately lady of the mansion. Mrs. Mauburn, who was easily distinguished from the ladies around her by the hauteur of her manner, she being well assured, in her own opinion, that her beauty of face had never been surpassed, but having discovered from many mortifications that her person was fat and unwieldy, and her gait awkward, preferred receiving her guests in a sitting posture, hoping they would conclude want of condescension, and not of charms, prevented her rising. While the chiefs received her profusion of civilities with that calm affability peculiar to themselves, and the young officers waited with some deference their presentation, Bortolo whispered to Carol if the tall, elegant figure, whom the lady hostess had beckoned to tie up a broken flower, was not the genius of the Fete.
The young colonel changed color, and was about to say she must be an elder sister of Arabella, when the recollection that she was an only daughter, and this her fourteenth birthday, flashed the truth on his mind. It was herself, he would have said, but the words died away on his lips. The amiable Bortolo observed his embarrassment, and endeavored to relieve it again by asking if he knew the tawny serpent that was taking the job off the lady's hands. It must be, said de Carrol, recovering himself, that baggage of a fleur sauvage, shot up like an asparagus top, but from her superb crimson habit and the numerous bells attached to her white satin leggings, one might suppose her an Indian queen. At this instant, the youthful countess turned and presented her hand to Washington, who, gallantly reminding her that he had once been an admirer of her mother's loveliness, received her with paternal kindness, and presented her to those of his suite, who had not seen her.
But on approaching DeCarroll, Washington handed her over to Lafayette, for even he, in his gravity, had heard of the acquaintance of the young folks. The lovely girl, however, spared the feelings of her friends by receiving our hero with unaffected modesty, welcoming him in the name of her absent brothers, without seeming to have any particular recollection of the past. De Carroll had hoped, in the anxiety of his heart, And where is the young man on earth that could blame him, that Arabella's heightened blushes would excuse his vanity in the eyes of his comrades, but was forced to acknowledge, mentally, her discretion to be a more powerful ally? In a few moments, the whole party was seated, wine and refreshments freely distributed, and conversation became general, while a band of music, hidden from the view, played the most exhilarating airs.
Taken, as our young soldiers were, from the roughness of the tented field, from the hardships of an American camp, it was not surprising that the scene around should act like a spell on their excited feelings. And, as Telemachus in the flowery aisle, they should be better pleased than their sage mentor desired. In the midst, however, of this delicious excitement, the music suddenly ceased, and after a short pause, struck up God Save the King. Instantly, Wayne Lincoln and Lee sprang to the middle of the saloon, while the whole suite rose simultaneously, partly unsheathing their swords and looking defiance at Arnold, whose significant glances with Mrs. Mauburn were immediately observed. In the midst of all this confusion, the father of the Union remained unmoved, perfectly composed, Nor suffered a shade of agitation to pass over his countenance, but smiling at the display around him, beckoned Lady Arabella to his side and said, Lest the spirits of these rattlecaps effervesce in too ranting a manner, give us something on the other side of the question, and let your maiden, to change the tone of feeling, play a simple tune on her lute.
Arabella nodded compliance, and breathing a few syllables in the Delaware tongue to wildflower, the band instantly played Yankee Doodle in the most energetic manner. Immediately the tumult subsided. The officers, abashed, cast sidelong glances at each other and endeavored to laugh at their own excitement. As the music died away, the Indian girl, softly touching a harp of a strange wild sound, sang the following song. Where waved the fragrant orange boughs, with fruit and flowers and verdure gay, where weeping willows kiss the wave, and soft and balmy breezes blow. "'Twas there a chieftain wandered forth, with him he saved on battle day, nor thought for base and sordid gold, that friend would ever friend betray."
Neath a tall oak whose leafy shade obscured the noonday's piercing ray, where blossoms bright a carpet laid, the cruel basilisk seized his prey. But peace we must not trace a scene which ill accords with festive day, nor tell of blasted oaks or winds, which, moaning to the travelers say, a traitor's doom by heaven's own hand. A nervous scream from Mrs. Mauburn at this instant interrupted the music. When the Colonel, who had not appeared to notice what had passed around him for the last half hour, but to be earnestly engaged in conversation with Major E., smiled, and with his usual presence of mind, ascribed the scream to the presence of a spider on his lady's many-breadth-a-masque, and turning to the company, announced dinner with so much nonchalance and good humor that even a critical observer would not have suspected aught.
But there was one present, whose eye he dared not to meet, who watched every muscle and read the inward workings of his soul. As dinner was announced, folding doors on the opposite side of the saloon were thrown open, and displayed a table covered with every luxury of the old and new world. The ladies, rising, led the way to the banquet in the stately manner of the times. Mrs. Mauburn presented her hand to Washington, and her sisters did the like honor to Lafayette and Lincoln. Lady Arabella, who had stooped to speak to Wildflower, as she was sitting on a velvet cushion at her feet, now rose also, and gave, as by a previous agreement, her hand to Major E., who, casting a haughty glance at DeCarroll, led her away, leaving our hero petrified to the spot, and pale with rage, and muttering to himself.
Truly, I am no longer anything but a fool. This day is to demonstrate what my mother often said to me in my arrogance. You will only be proud, son, in every way, when in every way tried. Why don't you come on, boys? cried Bortolo. What? Leigh in to Carol in a passion, because they have no lady's glove to boast, when here am I, neglectful and unmatched. Will ye suffer your wounded vanity to boil over as if you were slighted maidens? "'I will tell you, friends, there is very little of the woman in my heart just now,' said Lee. "'I would rather administer such an oath to our host as I did to Watson and the worthies of Newport than to eat salt with him.'" "'Mon Dieu, t'es vous, yes,' said de Carol.
"'We must on and be gay.'" "'Having a care to drink neither too much nor too little,' added Lee. And hastening to the table, after much ceremony, all were seated. And had not the genius of liberty presided at the entertainment, the profusion before them, the smiles and compliments of host and hostess, all of which, when contrasted with the miserable condition of the American army, might prove too flattering, even for the high-toned spirits on which they were lavished. Dinner was at length concluded, and the colonel invited his guests to ramble in his spacious gardens, which commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country. The majestic Hudson rolled through the valleys of plenty, and hills piled on hills, covered with every shade and variety of foliage, while far on the distance the purple highlands frowned in hoary battlements to the very heavens.
All was lost, however, unto Carroll, who lingered beyond with Bortolo, occupied with one object only. Fearing a second defeat, he had not ventured his services to Arabella, who, taking the parental arm of Washington, passed without noticing him. In the meantime, Mrs. Mauburn, appropriating Major E. to herself, requested that he and Major Arnold would accompany her to examine a sinking spring in the lower garden. "'You are a strange fellow, Charles,' said Bortolo, giving him a jerk, scarcely able to identify the young Pyrrhus, and almost in a frenzy for the sake of her. "'Ah, dear friend, but you are cruel,' sighed our hero, "'for well you know how long I have adored her.' "'Bona sa dute,' interrupted Bortolo.
But look through the hedge. The idol that has melted the heart of a brave is gathering apricots for Washington, who, farmer-like, is stowing them away in his pockets. Do see what angelic grace, what sylph-like movement. And the auburn ringlets, DeCarroll, can you dispense with them? When the lovely neck and shoulders they used to conceal indemnify you for your confinement? And those diamonds, do they equal the wreaths of Belle de Nuit, with which you used to crown her temples in the twilight evenings of her thirteenth summer? You press me hard, dear Bortolo, but look! And an involuntary shudder passed over them on observing the Countess turn deathly pale from something communicated to her by Wildflower, who had approached and was gathering the fruit her mistress had shaken down.
The anguish painted on the countenance of Arabella was extreme, but recovering herself, turned to Washington and proffered to show him a hanging bird's nest, and as she separated the branches and praised the ingenuity of the feathered architect, softly breathed a few words in his ear. At this instant, a peach, thrown with unerring dexterity by Wildflower, disordered her hair and shivered a superb comb in pieces. I wonder that Indian did not kill you, daughter, instead of the woodpecker she aimed at, said Colonel Mauburn, impatiently, as he approached. Be not offended, dear father. She meant no harm. I can slip to the house and repair the damages before the signal for assembling at the lake. It yet lacks thirty minutes to the firing of the first cannon," continued Arabella.
And come with me, Wildflower, to bring the general's pocket companion, which he bade me remember, for the bustle of starting may make me forget it. And managing her hoop gracefully, she was out of sight in a moment, but soon passed by the still fleeter Indian. By Jove, said Bordelieu, there is something questionable in all this. Perhaps my suspicions were not unfounded this morning, when Washington ordered the British uniforms recently taken to be prepared, and a chosen troop ready to ride at a moment's warning. A grasp from the nervous hand of Decarro produced silence, while Colonel Mauburn smilingly informed them that a collation and an agreeable surprise were preparing for them at the entrance of a remarkable cavern, where the reverberations of a field-piece would produce surprising effect.
Meanwhile, Washington turned, and taking the arm of the Colonel, Archley said to the young men, As I have my pockets full, I will spare each of you one of Bell's apricots, and as he passed, extended his hand to de Carroll, who felt as though an electric shock obscured his vision when he perceived written on a smooth leaf, Treachery, to camp for Secours. In affairs of danger, our hero was on trodden ground. Instantly commanding his feelings, he chewed up the leaves, exchanged looks and a few words with Bortolo, and hastened by a circuitous path to the house, which, as he expected, was deserted by the servants, except a couple of old blacks who were sitting by the door, of whom he inquired if they had seen Cato.
Oh, yes, Massa, he just now go into the house with your honor's whip and put him away. Yes, yes, that's like him. While he is parading about, my noble horse may be kicked to death for all him. And slipping a handful of money into the hand of the old woman, passed rapidly into the hall. Here his steps were arrested by the exhibition of three portraits which were veiled on their arrival. In the first he recognized the romping little girl of ten, as he first beheld her at the Moravian boarding-school, in the second the roses and ringlets of her thirteenth summer, and the third, as Arabella then was, matured into perfect loveliness. Charles was entranced. The dangers, the horrors of his situation, and more than all his duty were forgotten.
"'Yes, it is she,' he exclaimed, "'my own, my long-loved girl, and unless an almighty fiat has gone out against me, I will deserve her, and she shall be mine.'" and, rushing forward, pressed his lips long and ardently to the canvas, till a voice behind him cried out, Charles, dearest Charles, why linger you with those lifeless things, when the existence of so many brave men and your country's liberty depend upon your exertions? He turned. The original of the picture stood before him, and was instantly clasped in his embrace. Charles, dearest Charles, repeated the pallid girl, why will you linger? And yet how soon mayst thou be a mangled corpse? A dreadful ambush intercepts thy return to camp.
But be thyself. Put implicit confidence in Wildflower. Delay not, we must part, though it try our souls to the utmost. And as she urged him to the door, and said again and again farewell, DeCarroll fell every nerve, strung with redoubled energy, and, kissing her marble forehead without uttering a word, hastened to the shed. And here he found Cato talking to Janice. How comes it, cried his master, that you neglected to bring my lady's filly? Did you suppose I would take my bride behind me? Oh no, Massa, me tanked grand horse saddled in the stable fixed purpose for your missus. Well, to the house and be silent. Not for a thousand pounds would I have my present situation discovered. A stern look accelerated the Black's departure, while the Colonel sprung his horse to the edge of a steep bluff, where the Bridal was seized by the Indian girl, who led him down through tangled vines and almost perpendicular steeps to the bottom of a deep ravine, while DeCarroll, who had ventured many in Alpine Eyrie, found it difficult to follow.
And putting him on an entire new route to the camp, Wildflower wound up the cliffs like a black snake, and was out of sight in a moment. And DeCarroll, putting Janice to his utmost speed, mentally repeated Arabella's directions. Bring the chosen band clad in British uniforms. Immediately after the departure of DeCarroll, Arabella returned to the gardens, but the more wily Indian went in the first place to look after Cato, whom she found muttering to himself. Mighty strange dis, Indian squaw preferred to faithful colored man, dat old mistress bring up herself to tend on young Massa. Silence, you black baboon, she whispered, or I'll throw you down the cliffs to feed the wolves. And making a sign of taking his scalp, she showed him a tomahawk concealed in the folds of her dress.
In the meanwhile, all was apparent friendship and gaiety among the guests and their entertainers. Mrs. Mauburn promenaded, talked, laughed, and seemed almost delirious with pleasure. Even the Colonel appeared to excel himself in his ability to please, and to none were his attentions so minutely directed as to the mighty spirit whom he had vainly hoped his arts had deceived, but with whom his intrigues availed no more than a mesh of cobwebs thrown to ensnare the monarch of the deep. "'Have you brought me the treasure I left in the arbor, my daughter?' said Washington in a compassionate voice, as gazing on the lovely pale face of Arabella, he almost wished her in peace with her sainted mother."
With trembling hands she presented him his Bible, which after opening he calmly transmitted to his pocket, but not without observing a line drawn under these words. They sold Joseph to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver. He observed it, yet no shade passed over his placid countenance. No variation of feeling seemed to disturb the even current of his soul. The first round of artillery now gave the signal for descending into a little spot. Called by the Colonel the Emerald Valley, where, in honor of the guests, a collation, entirely American, had been prepared. Had the Queen of the Fairies selected a summer residence in the New World, it certainly would have been this, which was inaccessible to mortals till artificial steps were formed in its rocky walls.
Its verdant carpet, flowers, evergreens, and gushing fountains, and a vast cavern opening on one side, rendered it both a cool and curious resort. For the amusement of the present company, the cavern was illuminated, and several tiny boats played in a small lake in its center. Gaily, the whole descended save Washington and Lafayette, who, walking to and fro with Mauburn, seemed to enjoy the felicity of the merry group. Suddenly the cannon again poured forth its thunder, which appeared to shake even the distant highlands, and to make the bravest faces turn pale. Mauburn bit his lips, and for a moment appeared to have a fearful misgiving of consequence. Till Washington, handing his watch to his youthful comrade, said with a smile, please descend and admonish those happy fellows that pleasure will not dispense with the hour of riding.
Bid Wayne to drink Mont-Rippo in good season, and that the third fire must find them mounted for camp. We do not propose to have another round, General, said Mauburn, with an inquiring air. Well, then, let's to the house for the surprise you promised, or we shall lose our share of the banquet. Oh, I have no surprise, but three portraits of my daughter, of which I would like your opinion, replied Mauburn, manifestly uneasy at the self-possession of one whose conclusions he found himself unable to fathom. As they walked toward the house, Washington expatiated on the beauty of the surrounding country and added, Alas, after all, perhaps our labor may be in vain. Despotism may yet drain this delightful land of all its resources.
The poor may hear, as in other climes, behold the luxury of nature with disappointment. Heaven forbid, ejaculated Mauburn, what do you fear? Nothing so much as treachery. You know one's enemies may be those of his own household. It is possible to be betrayed even in the house of a friend. Dear General, what could have suggested such horrible ideas? I only meant, replied Washington, to point out the consequences of treachery. But who are those riding so rapidly toward your hospitable mansion, winding along by the foot of yonder hill? Some of your own troops coming to escort you to camp, are they not, General? said the host, rubbing his eyes and looking at his watch. But they have on British uniforms, replied the General.
What can all this mean? "'That you are my prisoner, and must submit to King George,' answered Mauburn, as the troop hastily dismounted at the gate. "'That you are my prisoner,' he repeated, tapping Washington familiarly on the shoulder. While with an exulting smile he surveyed the number and order of the band. "'But what? DeCarol at their head?' he exclaimed with a look of horror. "'DeCarol!' Even so," said Washington, slapping him in turn, "'he whom you supposed among your guests. Learn how little Britain has to expect from hypocrites. Here." Colonel DeCarroll, seize this traitor and carry him to camp. We will make him an example to the enemies of liberty. At this instant, a tremendous peal of artillery from the British camp was answered by a light discharge from the American, which shook the mansion to its center, and was followed instant-her by the field piece in the garden.
Amidst all this uproar and confusion, Lafayette was heard shouting to the suite, "'To horse! To horse! Brave comrades! A British dastard was never born to bury us alive! We will cut our way to the camp or die. I would like to pay my respects to the Lady of the Mansion in our own way, before we ride,' vociferated Lee, but time presses, and I will have to omit it at present." Form too deep around this lady, again shouted Lafayette, and the troop beheld Arabella weeping bitterly while she exclaimed in a voice of despair, My country is saved, but I have lost my father. Bortolo supported her fainting steps, and the Indian maiden was leading a horse superbly comparisoned when Mrs. Mauburn rushed forward in a frenzy of rage, seized the reins, and cried, Let go the bridle, you red witch.
"'Shall my abhorred stepdaughter ride the horse which would have carried me to the British camp of Duchess, had it not been for your accursed intermeddling? Let go, or I will tear you to pieces.' The Indian answered not, but whirled her burnished tomahawk in the air. In another instant Lady Arabella was in the saddle, and the whole cavalcade, galloping at full speed, left Mrs. Mauburn to apologize to the British horsemen in the best way she could, for their unexpected and humiliating disappointment." Passing over immediate events, we will raise the curtain to the tent of Washington. The great American was seated in silence, but it was evident there existed a strong conflict in his mighty mind between justice and compassion.
Before him stood the man whom he once believed his friend and the friend of liberty, and whose talents and resources he had greatly valued. Yes, without a word of defense stood Mauburn, though his pockets were filled with intercepted letters accusing him of the basest designs and purporting to have been written by Washington, but which in his heart he knew to be forged. Supported by Wildflower, Arabella knelt at her father's feet in unutterable agony. On either side, her brothers, George and Arthur, lay on litters, dreadfully wounded, having returned from a distant expedition, just in time to rush upon the ambuscade laid to intercept the return of the troop. Most of the family of the chief were present, all preserved a mournful silence.
Not a groan was heard from the wounded, not a sigh from the distressed. Thrice Washington essayed to speak, but emotion choked his utterance, till Lafayette, rushing forward, seized his hand. Then, in a hoarse voice, he exclaimed, Oh, Mauburn, Mauburn, would to God that you or I had died ere we had seen this day. Justice to my country's wrong points clearly to my duty. But when I reflect on my former friendship, when I look upon these young martyrs to the cause of liberty, and above all the entreaties of this best friend of the colonies, General Lafayette, I feel that humanity must prevail. Go, your life I shall not require, but your exile forever. And I call heaven and earth to witness, that never again, where I have any influence, shall friend or brother escape the just demerit of any breach of trust or attempt to sever the Union, though it darken my soul and tear my heart asunder.
Anyone so doing shall receive the punishment due to his crime. Alas, poor Andre, in thee was this ass severation verified. The long war of the Revolution was over. The times which tried the souls of every son and daughter of America were past, and on a beautiful farm in Rhode Island, which opened to the sea, Arabella and Charles de Carrol, united by the holiest of earthly ties, sought repose from the severe anxieties they had suffered. There, under the blossom of their own vine, and a land freed from oppression, they tasted the sweets of friendship,
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2 02 - The Widow's Ordeal, by Washington Irving 22:48
The Widow's Ordeal by Washington Irving.
There was, once upon a time, a certain Duke of Lorraine, who was acknowledged throughout his domains to be one of the wisest princes that ever lived. In fact, there was not any one measure that he adopted that did not astonish all his privy counsellors and gentlemen in attendance, and he said so many witty things and made such sensible speeches that his High Chamberlain had his jaws dislocated from laughing with delight at the one and gaping with wonder at the other. This very witty and exceedingly wise potentate lived for half a century in single blessedness, when his courtiers began to think it a great pity so wise and wealthy a prince should not have a child after his own likeness to inherit his talents and domains.
So they urged him most respectfully to marry for the good of his estate and the welfare of his subjects. He turned their advice in his mind some four or five years, and then sending emissaries to all parts, he summoned to his court all the beautiful maidens in the land who were ambitious of sharing a ducal crown. The court was soon crowded with beauties of all styles and complexions, from among whom he chose one in the earliest budding of her charms, and acknowledged by all the gentlemen to be unparalleled for grace and loveliness. The courtiers extolled the duke to the skies for making such a choice, and considered it another proof of his great wisdom. The duke, said they, is waxing a little too old.
The damsel, on the other hand, is a little too young. If one is lacking in years, the other has a superabundance. Thus, a want on one side is balanced by an excess on the other, and the result is a well-assorted marriage. The Duke, as is often the case with wise men who marry rather late and take damsels rather youthful to their bosoms, became dotingly fond of his wife and indulged her in all things. He was, consequently, cried out by his subjects in general, and by the ladies in particular, as a pattern for husbands, and, in the end, from the wonderful docility with which he submitted to be reigned and checked, acquired the amiable and enviable appellation of Duke Philibert the wife of the king.
There was only one thing that disturbed the conjugal felicity of this paragon of husbands. Though a considerable time elapsed after his marriage, he still remains without any prospect of an heir. The good duke left no means untried to propitiate heaven. He made vows and pilgrimages, he fasted and he prayed, but all to no purpose. The courtiers were all astonished at the circumstance. They could not account for it. While the meanest peasant in the country had sturdy brats by dozens, without putting up a prayer, the duke wore himself to skin and bone with penances and fastings, yet seemed farther off from his object than ever. At length, the worthy prince fell dangerously ill, and felt his end approaching.
He looked with sorrowful eyes upon his young and tender spouse, who hung over him with tears and sobbings. Alas, said he, Tears are soon dried from youthful eyes, and sorrow lies lightly on a youthful heart. In a little while I shall be no more, and in the arms of another husband thou wilt forget him who has loved thee so tenderly. Never, never, cried the Duchess, never will I cleave to another. Alas, that my lord should thank me capable of such inconstancy. The worthy and wife-ridden duke was soothed by her assurances, for he could not endure the thoughts of giving her up. Even after he should be dead. Still, he wished to have some pledge of her enduring constancy. Far be it from me, my dearest wife, said he, to control thee through a long life.
A year and a day of strict fidelity will appease my troubled spirit. Promise to remain faithful to my memory for a year and a day, and I will die in peace. The Duchess made a solemn vow to that effect. The exorius feelings of the Duke were not yet satisfied. Safe bind, safe find, thought he, so he made a will in which he bequeathed to her all his domain, on condition of her remaining true to him for a year and a day after his decease. But should it appear that within that time she had in any wise lapse from her fidelity, the inheritance should go to his nephew, the lord of a neighboring territory. Having made this will, the good duke died and was buried. Scarcely was he in his tomb when his nephew came to take possession, thinking, as his uncle had died without issue, that the demands would be devised to him, of course.
He was in a furious passion, however, when the will was produced, and the young widow was declared inheritor of the dukedom. As he was a violent, high-handed man and one of the sturdiest knights in the land, fears were entertained that he might attempt to seize on the territories by force. He had, however, two bachelor uncles for bosom counselors. These were two swaggering, rakely old cavaliers who, having led loose and rightest lives, prided themselves upon knowing the world and being deeply experienced in human nature. They took their nephew aside. For thee, man, said they, be of good cheer. The Duchess is a young and booksome widow. She has just buried our brother, who, God rest his soul, was somewhat too much given to praying and fasting, and kept his pretty wife always tied to his girdle.
She is now like a bird from a cage. Thank you, she will keep her vow impossible. Take our word for it. We know mankind, and, above all, womankind. It is not in widowhood, we know it. And that's enough. Keep a sharp lookout upon the widow, therefore, and within the twelve months you will catch her tripping, and then the dukedom is your own. The nephew was pleased with this counsel, and immediately placed spies around the Duchess, and bribed several of her servants to keep a watch upon her, so that she could not take a single step, even from one apartment of her palace to another, without being observed. Never was young and beautiful widow exposed to so terrible an ordeal. The Duchess was aware of the watch thus kept upon her.
Though confident of her own rectitude, she knew that it was not enough for a woman to be virtuous. She must be above the reach of slander. For the whole term of her probation, therefore, she proclaimed a strict nonintercourse with the other sex. She had females for cabinet ministers and chamberlains, through whom she transacted all her public and private concerns. And it is said that never were the affairs of the dukedom so adroitly administered. All males were rigorously excluded from the palace. She never went out of its precincts, and whenever she moved about its courts and gardens, she surrounded herself with a bodyguard of young maids of honor, commanded by dames renowned for discretion.
She slept in a bed without curtains, placed in the center of a room illuminated by innumerable wax tapers. Four ancient spinsters, virtuous as Virginia, perfect dragons of watchfulness, who only slept in the daytime, kept vigils throughout the night, seated in the four corners of the room on stools without backs or arms, and with seats cut in checkers of the hardest wood to keep them from dozing. Thus wisely and wearily did the young Duchess conduct herself for twelve long months, and slander almost bit her tongue off in despair at finding no room, even for a surmise. Never was ordeal more burdensome or more enduringly sustained. The last odd day arrived, and a long, long day it was. A thousand times did the Duchess and her ladies watch the sun from the windows of the palace, As he slowly climbed the vault of heaven, it seems still more slowly to roll down.
By the time the sun sunk behind the horizon, the Duchess was in a fidget that passed all bounds, and, though several hours were yet to pass before the day regularly expired, she could not have remained those hours' endurance to gain a royal crown, much less a ducal coronet. So she gave her orders, and her palfrey, magnificently capricent, was brought into the courtyard of the castle with pelfries for all her ladies in attendance. In this way, she sallied forth just as the sun had gone down. It was a mission of piety, a pilgrim cavalcade to a convent at the foot of a neighboring mountain, to return thanks to the Blessed Virgin for having sustained her through this fearful ordeal. The Orisons performed, the Duchess and her ladies returned, ambling gently along the border of a forest.
It was about that mellow hour of twilight, when night and day are mingled and all objects indistinct. Suddenly, some monstrous animals sprang from the thicket with fearful howlings. The whole female bodyguard was thrown into confusion and fled different ways. It was some time before they recovered from their panic and gathered once more together, but the Duchess was not to be found. The greatest anxiety was felt for her safety. The hazy mist of twilight had prevented their distinguishing perfectly the animal which had affrighted them. Some thought it was a wolf, others a bear, and others a wild man of the woods. For upward of an hour did they beleaguered the forest without daring to venture in, and were on the point of giving up the Duchess as torn to pieces and devoured, when, to their great joy, they beheld her advancing in the gloom, supported by a stately cavalier.
He was a stranger knight whom nobody knew. It was impossible to distinguish his countenance in the dark, but all the ladies agreed that he was of a noble presence and captivating address. He had rescued the Duchess from the very fangs of the monster, which, he assured the ladies, was neither a wolf nor a bear, nor yet a wild man of the woods, but a veritable fiery dragon. The Duchess would fain have prevailed on her deliverer to accompany her to her court. But he had no time to spare, being a night-errant who had many adventures on hand and many distressed damsels and afflicted widows to rescue and relieve in various parts of the country. Taking a respectful leave, therefore, he pursued his wayfaring, and the Duchess and her train returned to the palace.
No sooner was the adventure of the wood made public than a whirlwind was raised about the ears of the beautiful Duchess. The blustering nephew of the deceased Duke went about, armed to the teeth, with a swaggering uncle at each shoulder, ready to back him, and swore the Duchess had forfeited her domain. It was in vain that she called all the saints and angels and her ladies in attendance to witness that she had passed a year and a day of immaculate fidelity. One fatal hour remained to be accounted for, and in the space of one little hour, sins enough may be conjured up by evil tongues to blast the fame of a whole life of virtue. The two graceless uncles who had seen the world were ever ready to bolster the matter through, and as they were brawny, broad-shouldered warriors and veterans in brawl as well as debauched, they had great away with the multitude.
If anyone pretended to assert the innocence of the Duchess, they interrupted him with a loud ha-ha of derision. A pretty story, truly, would they cry, about a wolf and a dragon and a young widow rescued in the dark by a sturdy Verlay who dares not show his face in the daylight. You may tell that to those who do not know human nature. For our part, we know the sex, and that's enough. If, however, the other repeated his assertion, they would suddenly knit their brows, swell, look big, and put their hands upon their swords. As few people like to fight in a cause that does not touch their own interests, the nephew and the uncles were suffered to have their way, and Swagger uncontradicted. The matter was at length referred to a tribunal composed of all the dignitaries of the dukedom, and many and repeated consultations were held.
The character of the Duchess throughout the year was as bright and spotless as the moon in a cloudless night. One fatal hour of darkness alone intervened to eclipse its brightness. Finding human sagacity incapable of dispelling the mystery, it was determined to leave the question to heaven, or, in other words, to decide it by the ordeal of the sword, a sage tribunal in the age of chivalry. The nephew and two bully uncles were to maintain their accusation in listed combat, and six months were allowed to the Duchess to provide herself with three champions to meet them in the field. Should she fail on this, or should her champions be vanquished, her honor would be considered as a tainted, her fidelity as forfeited, and her dukedom would go to the nephew as a matter of right.
With this determination, the Duchess was feigned to comply. Proclamations were accordingly made, and heralds sent to various parts, but day after day, week after week, and month after month elapsed, without any champion appearing to assert her loyalty throughout that darksome hour. The fair widow was reduced to despair when tidings reached her of grand tournaments to be held at Toledo, in celebration of the nuptials of Don Roderick, the last of the Gothic kings, with the Morisco princess, Exelona. As a last resort, the Duchess repaired to the Spanish court to implore the gallantry of its assembled chivalry. The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous revelry on the event of the royal nuptials, the youthful king, brave, ardent, and magnificent, and his lovely bride beaming with all the radiant beauty of the east, were hailed with shouts and acclamations whenever they appeared.
Their nobles vied with each other in the luxury of their attire, their splendid red news and prancing steeds, and the haughty dames of the court appeared in a blaze of jewels. In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful Duchess of Lorraine made her approach to the throne. She was dressed in black and closely veiled, four dunas of the most staid and severe aspect, and six beautiful demoiselles formed her female attendants. She was guarded by several very ancient, withered, and gray-headed cavaliers, and her train was borne by one of the most deformed and diminutive dwarfs in existence. Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, and throwing up her veil, revealed a countenance so beautiful that half the courtiers present were ready to renounce their wives and mistresses and devote themselves to her service.
But when she made known that she came in quest of champions to defend her fame, every cavalier pressed forward to offer his arm and sword, without inquiring into the merits of the case. For it seemed clear that so beauteous a lady could have done nothing but what was right, and that, at any rate, she ought to be championed in following the bent of her humours, whether right or wrong. Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the Duchess suffered herself to be raised from the ground and related the whole story of her distress. When she concluded, the King remained for some time silent, charmed by the music of her voice. At length, As I hope for salvation, most beautiful Duchess, said he, were I not a sovereign king and bounding duty to my kingdom, I myself would put lands in rest to vindicate your cause.
And as it is, I here give full permission to my knights and promised lists in a fair field, and that the contest shall take place before the walls of Toledo in presence of my assembled court. As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there was a strife among the cavaliers present for the honor of the contest. It was decided by lot, and the successful candidates were objects of great envy, for everyone was ambitious of finding favor in the eyes of the beautiful widow. Missives were sent, summoning the nephew and his two uncles to Toledo to maintain their accusation, and a day was appointed for the combat. When the day arrived, Altoledo was in commotion at an early hour. The list had been prepared in the usual place, just without the walls at the foot of the rugged rocks on which the city is built, and on that beautiful meadow along the Tagus, known by the name of the King's Garden.
The populace had already assembled, each one eager to secure a favorable place. The balconies were soon filled with the ladies of the court, clad in their richest attire, And bands of youthful knights, splendidly armed and decorated with their ladies' devices, were managing their superbly caprician steeds about the field. The king at length came forth in state, accompanied by the queen Exelona. They took their seats in a raised balcony under a canopy of rich damask, and, at sight of them, the people rent the air with acclamations. The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, armed cap-a-pie, and followed by a train of cavaliers of their own roistering cast, great swimmers and carassers, errant swashbucklers, that went about with clanking armor and jingling spurs.
When the people of Toledo beheld the vaunting and discordious appearance of these knights, they were more anxious than ever for the success of the gentle duchess. But at the same time, the sturdy and stalwart frames of these warriors showed that whoever won the victory from them must do it at the cost of many a bitter blow. As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one side of the field, the fair widow appeared at the other with her suit of gray-headed courtiers, her ancient duennes and dainty demoiselles, and the little dwarf toiling along under the weight of her train. Everyone made way for her as she passed, and blessed her beautiful face and prayed for success for her cause. She took her seat in a lower balcony not far from the sovereign's, and her pale face, set off by her morning weeds, was as the moon shining forth from among the clouds at night.
The trumpets sounded for the combat. The warriors were just entering the lists when a stranger knight, armed impanibly and followed by two pages and an esquire, came galloping into the field, And, riding up to the royal balcony, claimed the combat as a matter of right. In me, cried he, behold the cavalier who had the happiness to rescue the Duchess from the peril of the forest and the misfortune to bring on her this grievous calumny. It was but recently, in the course of my errantry, that tidings of her wrongs have reached my ears, and I have urged hither at all speed to stand forth in her vindication. No sooner did the Duchess hear the accents of the knight than she recognized his voice, and joined her prayer with his that he might enter the lists.
The difficulty was to determine which of the three champions already appointed should yield his place, each insisting on the honor of the combat. The stranger knight would have settled the point by taking the whole contest upon himself, but this the other knights would not permit. It was at length determined, as before, by lot, and the cavalier who lost the chance retired murmuring and disconsolate. The trumpets again sounded. The lists were opened. The arrogant nephew and his two drunken seer uncles appeared so completely cased in steel that they and their steeds were like moving masses of iron. When they understood the Stranger Knight to be the same that had rescued the Duchess from her peril, they greeted him with the most boisterous derision.
"'Oho, Sir Knight of the Dragons,' said they, "'you who pretend to champion fair widows in the dark, come on and vindicate your deeds of darkness in the open day.'" The only reply of the Cavalier was to put Lance in rest and brace himself for the encounter. Needless is it to relate the particulars of a battle which was like so many hundred combats, Who is there but must have foreseen the event of a contest, where heaven had to decide on the guilt or innocence of the most beautiful and immaculate of widows? The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of judicial combat, can imagine the encounter of the graceless nephew and the stranger knight. He sees their concussion, He was man to man and horse to horse, and mid-career, and in that, Sir Graceless hurled to the ground and slain.
He will not wonder that the assailants of the brawny uncles were less successful in their rude encounter, but he will picture to himself the stout stranger spurring to their rescue in the very critical moment. He will see him transfixing one with his lance, and cleaving the other to the chime with the backstroke of his sword, thus leaving the trio of accusers dead upon the field, and establishing the immaculate fidelity of the Duchess, and her title to the dukedom beyond the shadow of Adel. The air rang with acclamations. Nothing was heard but praises of the beauty and virtue of the Duchess, and of the prowess of the Stranger Knight. But the public joy was still more increased when the champion raised his visor and repealed the countenance of one of the bravest cavaliers in Spain, renowned for his gallantry and the service of the sects, who had long been absent in search of similar adventures.
The worthy knight, however, was severely wounded in the battle, and remained for a long time ill of his wounds. The lovely Duchess, grateful for having twice owed her protection to his arm, attended him daily during his illness. A tender passion grew up between them, and she finally rewarded his gallantry by giving him her hand. The King would fain have had the Knight establish his title to such high advancement by further deeds of arms, but his courtiers declared that he had already merited the Lady by thus vindicating her fame and fortune in a deadly combat to outruns. and the lady herself hinted that she was perfectly satisfied of his prowess in arms from the proofs she received in his achievement in the forest.
Their nuptials were celebrated with great magnificence. The present husband of the Duchess did not pray and fast like his predecessor, Philibert the wife-ridden. Yet he found greater favor in the eyes of heaven, for their union was blessed with the numerous progeny, the daughters chaste and puteous as their mother, the sons all stout and valiant as their sire, and all renowned, like him, for relieving, disconsolate damsels and desolate widows.
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3 03 - The Merchant's Clerk, a Legend of the Olden Times 25:58
Impara. The Rover, Volume 1, Number 1. Edited by Seba Smith and Lawrence Labrie. Section 3. The Merchant's Clerk. A Legend of the Olden Time. Toward the middle of the second half of the seventeenth century, or in plainer English, about the year of grace, 1672, there lived in London a very rich, and therefore very respectable merchant, who, having come to the very rare resolution that he had made money enough, and having, as he said, no kith or kin, tacked to this said resolution one of more frequent occurrence, namely, That he would take a wife to be the superintendent of his household affairs, the sharer of his fortune, the soother of his sorrows, if ever he should have any, and so forth. And to a man of so much importance, as was Master Edwards, there were very few obstacles in the way of his accomplishing such a purpose, as he might easily pick and choose among the maidens or widows of his ward, who would all be but too proud of an alliance with so honorable and substantial a citizen.
He did not, however, deliberate so long on the matter as might perhaps have been expected, seeing how wide a field he had wherein to exercise his speculations. For at the same time that he informed those friends whom he chose to consult on the occasion, of his before-named intention, he gave them to understand that his choice had already fallen on Dorothy Langton, the daughter of a poor goldsmith and reputed papist, but nevertheless a maiden of good fame, seemly bearing, She was tall, fair, and well-made, but with nothing striking about her face that would call for particular description, unless one may advert to what, indeed, was no part of her face, an unusual breath at the back of her head, behind her ears, which seemed to give her features an appearance of being too small.
The lady was, truth to confess, not very much admired in the neighborhood, and to continue the confession, she was as little liked. She was said by those who knew her best, or rather, as it might seem worst, to be of a sullen temper, and yet withal, violent. And the death of one young man was laid at her door all the way from the East Indies, whither he had gone in despair after having been for eleven months her accepted suitor and then discharged in a fit of peevishness. How far this incident, which happened before she was twenty, Might have formed her after character, or how far even her earlier character may have been molded from the fact of her having been left motherless while yet an infant and bred up afterward under the sole care of her father, a harsh and severe man, it is not for me to determine, and much less so, how or why Master Edwards came to fix on her as his partner.
Master Edwards himself, at the time we are speaking of, was in the very prime and vigor of life, that is, in his own opinion. It may be stated, however, that he was in his five-and-fiftieth year, rather corpulent and very gray, but the former fact, he asserted, and not without truth, was a proof of his stoutness. Some men, he observed, quite young men too, that is, younger than himself, had contracted a bad habit of stooping, which showed that their walk through life had not been upright. Then, as to his gray hairs, he boasted that they were once the various black, but that thought and honorable labor had blanched them. Besides, his worst foes could not say he was bald. For the rest, Master Edwards was a man of tolerable parts, as times went, of an easy and good temper, and one who loved to crack his bottle and his joke as well as any man living, either now or then.
For some time, say thirteen months after the marriage, they lived together in all seeming harmony. I say seeming, of course speaking only of what met the eyes of others. For far be it from me to intrude any unnecessary inquiry into the discomforts or discrepancies, if any such existed, of the domestic circle, a rather small one to be sure, seeing it consisted of only two individuals, unless, as a third segment thereof, may be reckoned Master Edward's clerk, a young man, an orphan, of the name of Simon, who had lived with him from a child. He was a youth of good favor, but did not seem to find it in his mistress's eyes, or rather laterally he did not. For at her first coming she had behaved with great kindness to him, while he, on the other hand, always treated her with that distant respect so becoming in an inferior, but so mortifying to a superior who may happen, for some purpose or other, to wish to be on more familiar terms.
After a little time, Mistress Edwards evidently took a great dislike to poor Simon, and by the exercise of a little domestic despotism, she made his home sufficiently uncomfortable. Master Edwards seldom interfered in the matter, and to do his wife justice, she concealed the alteration she had caused in the lad's comforts as much as she could from his master. And if ever he did happen to make any reference to the subject, she was pat with complaint against Simon for being so often away from the house, which was no more than truth, as she frequently made it too hot to hold him, and also that during his absence he was continually to be seen in very bad company, at which his master would sigh, and I am sorry to say was also no less than the truth, and probably the consequence of her harsh treatment.
Various little trinkets and other knick-knacks were also said by Mistress Edwards to be from time to time missing, and her lamentations and anger on such subjects were always uttered in Simon's hearing, plentifully interlarded with expressions of wonder, who the thief could be, and assertions that these things could not walk off without hands. Whereat her facetious husband never failed to remark, Yes, dearie, they might, if they had feet. And this has regularly put her in a passion and made her vow that, for her part, she could not see what use there was in keeping about the house such lazy, loitering, good-for-nothing vagabonds, with various other such ungentle epithets, all of which were quite plainly launched at the unfortunate Simon.
At the end of these thirteen months, Simon, together with several articles of Plait, was found missing in real earnest. All mere suspicion on the subject being removed by the following note which Master Edwards found on his breakfast table. Even in the very commission of a deed of wrong and villainy can I not refrain from bidding you farewell, my kind, mine honored, my loved master, even while I am doing wrong to you. But I am driven to it and away from your house by the cruel and unjust treatment of your wife. Beware of her, master of mine, for she is evil. Whither I go, God knows. I care not, nor will he. For I have abandoned his ways and broken his commands, but I am forced to it, forced to rob that I may not starve of hunger, to rob you to whom I owe everything.
But indeed, indeed. I would not do so, knew I knew not what I take from you can be little missed, and that if I spoke to you, you would not let me quit your house, and sure I am that if I did so without means of living, you would sorrow that the child of your fostering, the boy of your rearing, whom you have ever treated more as a son than a servant, should be." The words that immediately followed were quite illegible, being so blotted as though the writer had written over drops of water. Then followed a short, thick dash of the pen, and then, in a large and hurried hand, the following. But this is foolish and fallacy. Farewell, sir. Dear Master, farewell. Forgive me. I cannot pray for you. I ask you not to pray for me.
But do, if you think it will avail me ought. If not, forget me. And oh, forgive me. I am going wrong. Goodbye. The signature was also much blotted, but it could be traced to be, the thankful orphan, Simon. The effect produced by this event was very different both on Master Edwards and his wife, as well as from what might have been expected. The former, to use a homely word, took on greatly about the matter, was evidently much hurt, became silent and abstracted, and went so far as to shed tears. A thing which his oldest friends, those who had been his school fellows, declared they had never known him do in all his life, not even when under the infliction of Dr. Everhart's cane, the right Reverend High Master of St.
Paul's School, where Master Edwards had learned Latin and peg-top. Mistress Edwards, on the other hand, showed a great share of rejoicing on the occasion, declaring she thought his room cheaply purchased at the loss of the trumpery he had taken with him. That same afternoon, during dinner, she hinted that she had already a young man in her eye as the successor of Simon, at which observation her husband merely sighed, but made no enquiries, and yet he probably had no conception whom his wife had in her eye. Though, if some of their neighbors had been present, they might, if they had liked it, have helped him to an innuendo concerning a handsome young man, of whom no one knew anything except that he was frequently seen walking with Mistress Edwards of evenings under the tall elms in Goodman's fields.
There were some hints of a yet more scandalous nature, but these shall be omitted. The stranger, however, come after the situation, and a handsome young man he was. His name was Lambert Smythe. But as for his qualifications for the new place, which Mistress Edwards really seemed uncommonly anxious he should obtain, as little had best be said as may be. And the less need be said as Master Edwards was decidedly of opinion that he was utterly unfitted for the office, for the expression of which opinion he was downright scolded by his wife, and indeed fairly warned that she would have her own way after all. A few nights after Simon's departure—a dark and stormy November night it was—Mistress Edwards was seen, no matter yet by whom, to cross the cloistered courtyard at the back of her husband's house, bearing a lantern in her hand which she partially covered over with the large cloak wherein she was muffled, probably with the intention of concealing its light, perhaps only to prevent its being extinguished by the gustful wind and rain.
She approached a low postern gate, which gave in to a passage leading to Cripplegate Church. She unlocked it, opened it hesitatingly, looked out as though for someone, came back again, re-locked the door, placed a lantern in one of the angels of the cloister, and began slowly pacing up and down under its shelter. In a few moments, she stopped and listened. Her body and head slightly bent rightward toward the postern. A low whistle was heard without. She flew to the gate. Opened it, and let in a man, also muffled in a cloak. She addressed him by exclaiming, Late, sir! The stranger began some excuse, probably, but was at one stop with a sharp hush, and they conversed in whispers. At length, they shifted their position and advanced toward the house, Mistress Edwards having taken up her light and leading her companion forward with the other hand.
Of a sudden, the man stopped, and she also. He sighed and said, though still in a whisper, I cannot do it. I cannot. Indeed, I cannot. Anything but that. Anything but that? Why, what else is there to be done? Will you not be master of all? Of me? Nay, come, dear Lambert. The man passed on. As he turned a second angle close to the house door, A sharp-pointed weapon was driven into his breast by someone standing behind one of the thick stone pillars, and with such force that the point pierced one of his ribs, which prevented the wound from being mortal. The young man shrieked with agony, and grasping toward the spot whence the blow came, seized hold of a part of the assassin's dress who struggled and extricated himself from his grasp, but left behind him part of a chain with a watch hung to it.
At the same time, he wrenched the dagger from the lacerated bone and with a surer blow drove it into his victim's heart. All this was the work of little more than a moment, during which Mistress Edwards, who at first had been struck with the stupor of surprise and horror, rushed forward, screaming, murder, murder, and fell, swooning, within a few paces of the body. When she recovered, she found several of her neighbors and of the watch standing round, and among them, her alarmed husband. She looked round wildly for a moment, fixed her eyes on him for another, then shrieked wildly, Ah! I see! I see him! Him! Seize him! The murderer! And again fell senseless. Edwards was accordingly seized, though few could understand why or wherefore, but when he protested he knew nothing about the matter, people began to think him guilty.
Especially as some declared the murdered man was the same youth with whom his wife had often been seen walking under the tall elms in Goodman's fields. And upon her second recovery, Mistress Edwards confirmed this declaration by clinging round the young man's body and calling for vengeance on the murderer of her love. Edwards was carried before a justice of the peace, and after a short examination, committed to Newgate to take his trial in the courthouse there at the next sessions, which were to take place within a week. The day came and the trial commenced. At the very outset, an argument arose between the counsel for the prosecution and the defense, whether the exclamations used by the wife on the night of the murder, accusing her husband, could be given as evidence by those who had heard them.
For the defense, it was urged that as a wife could not appear as a witness either for or against her husband, so neither could any expression of hers, tending to criminate him, be admissible. On the other hand, it was contended that as confessions were admissible against the party, so a husband and wife, being as one in the eye of the law, such expressions as these were in the nature of confessions by the party himself, and therefore should be admitted. And so the recorder decided they should be. In addition to this other, circumstantial evidence was produced against the prisoner. The poniard with which Lambert had been stabbed, and which in falling he had borne out of his slayer's hand, was a jeweled Turkish one, known by many to be the property of the prisoner, and to have been in his possession many years, he haven't brought it home with him from one of his voyages to the Marea.
The watch also was produced, which, with part of the chain, the deceased had held in his clenched hands. It was a small silver one, shaped like a tulip, and checkered in alternate squares of dead and bright metal. Its dial plate of dead silver, figured with a bright circle containing black Roman figures, in the interior, on the works, it bore the inscription, Thomas Hooke, in Pope's Head Alley. The brother to the celebrated Robert Hooke, who had recently invented the patent spring pocket watches. This watch was proved to have also been the property of the prisoner, to have been given by him to his wife, and lately to have been returned by her to him in order to be repaired. These circumstances, together with the natural imputation that was cast upon him by the consideration of who the murdered man was, were all that were reduced against Edwards.
And he was called on for his defense, being, by the mild mercy of the English law, denied the assistance of counsel for that purpose. It being wisely considered that though a man in the nice intricacies of a civil cause may need technical aid, he cannot possibly do so in a case where the fact of his life being dependent on the success of his pleading must necessarily induce and assist him to have all his wits about him. The prisoner's situation, however, in this instance, seemed unaccountably to have the contrary effect on him, and he appeared embarrassed and confused. He averred he could not explain the cause of his wife's extraordinary error, but that an error it certainly had been. For the Ponyards being in the man's heart, he was equally at a loss to account, and as for the watch...
He admitted all that had been proved, but declared that he had put it by about a week before the murder in a cabinet which he had never since opened, and how it had been removed, he was unable to tell. Of course, this defense, if such it could be termed, availed him very little, in fact, simply nothing. The jury found him guilty, and the recorder called on him to say why judgment should not be pronounced against him. The prisoner seemed suddenly to have recovered his old or gained new powers. He broke out into a strong and passionate appeal, calling on the judge to believe his word, as that of a dying man, that he was innocent and concluded by solemnly calling upon God so to help him as he spoke the truth.
He was condemned. The prisoner hid his face in his hand and sobbed aloud. He was removed from the bar to his solitary cell. About half past ten that night, as the recorder was sitting alone, dozing in his easy chair over the fire and a tankard of mole claret, he was suddenly started by a loud knock at the door, followed up by the announcement of a stranger, who would brook no delay. He was admitted. A young man, whose features were fearfully haggard and drawn, as though with some intense inward struggle. In fact... The good magistrate did not half like his looks, and intimated to his servant that as his clerk was gone home, he had better stay in the room, which was, on the whole, a confused remark, as in the first place he knew his servant could not write, and in the second, he did not know whether any writing was required.
But the youth relieved the worthy recorder from his dilemma by preemptorily stating that the communication he had to make must be made to him alone. The servant therefore withdrew, the recorder put on his spectacles, and the youth began. I come to tell you, sir, that you have this day unjustly condemned an innocent man to death. Bah! Bah! And pray, how do you know that he is innocent? By this token, sir, that know who did the deed for which you have condemned Master Edwards to suffer. Lambert's murderer stands before you. The recorder Horror-stricken at the notion of being so close to a murderer at large, gabbled out an inarticulate ejaculation, something of an equivocal nature between an oath and a prayer, and stretched out his hand toward the silver handbell which stood before him on the table.
And still more horrified was he when the youth caught his hand and said, I will do you no harm, sir, but my confession shall be a willing and a free one. He removed the handbell beyond the recorder's reach, let go his arm, and retired again to a respectful distance. He then proceeded to relate that his name was Simon Johnson, that he was an orphan, and had been bred up with great kindness by Master Edwards. In detailing his story, he hinted at an unlawful passion which his mistress had endeavored to excite in his mind toward her, and to his resistance or carelessness of her wiles, he partly attributed her hatred and persecution of him. His home made wretched thereby, he had sought relief in society.
Unfortunately for him, he had fallen in with some young men of bad character, among others with this very Lambert, who had been among his most strenuous advisors, that he should from time to time purloin some of his master's superfluous wealth for the purpose of supplying himself and his companions with the means of more luxurious living. He had, however, for a long while rejected this advice, until at length, goaded by the continual unjust accusations of his mistress, charging him with the very crime he was thus tempted to commit, he had, in truth, done so and had absconded with several articles of value, but his companions, instead of receiving him with praise, as he had expected, had loaded him with invective for not bringing them a richer prize.
Instigated by their reproaches and by a mingled sense of shame and anger, he had intended, by means of a secret key which he had kept, to rob Master Edwards' house on the very night when the murder was committed. Having gained access to the courtyard, he was just about to open the house door when he heard footsteps. He retired and concealed himself. From his place of concealment, he had seen Mrs. Edwards encouraging Lambert by many fond and endearing professions of love for him and of hatred of his master to the murder of her husband. And as Lambert, conquered by her threats and entreaties, was passing him within arm's length, an irresistible impulse had urged him to save his master's life by sacrificing Lambert's.
And having done the deed of death, he had leaped the yard wall and fled. The pony art and watch were part of the property stolen when he had left the house. He ended thus. After I had left the spot, sir, I fled. I know not whither. For days and nights I wandered about in the fields, sleeping in sheds, numb with cold and half-starved, never daring to approach the dwellings of men to relieve my wants till dark, and then ever feeling as though every eye scowled upon me, and when I left them again, and was again alone in the fields, I would suddenly start and run, with the feeling that I had been followed and was about to be taken. In vain I strove to overcome these feelings. In vain, I struggled to reconcile myself to the deed I had done.
In vain, I represented it to my heart as one of good, as one which had saved a life infinitely more valuable than his whom I had slain. It was all vain. A something within tortured me with unnatural and undefinable terror, and even when I sometimes partially succeeded in allaying this feeling, and half convinced myself that I had done for the best, it seemed as if I heard a voice whisper in my own soul, What brought thee to thy master's courtyard that night? And this sent me raving again. Unable longer to bear this torture, I made up my mind to self-slaughter, for the thoughts of delivering myself into the hands of justice drove me almost mad. My heart was hardened against making even this late atonement, and with a reckless daring I resolved on self-slaughter.
But how? How to do this? I knew not. Drowning was fearful to me. I should have time, perhaps, to repent. And so, with starving, even if nature would allow that trial, I returned to the suburbs. It was this very evening. A lantern hanging on the end of a barber's pole caught my sight. I hastened into the shop, with the intention of destroying myself with the first razor I could lay my hands on. But the shop was quite full. I sat down in a corner, doggedly waiting for my time, and paying no heed to the conversation that was going on till my master's name struck on my ear. I listened. His trial, condemnation, and coming execution were the general talk. I started up, and with a feeling of thankfulness to God that there was something yet to live for, I think I cried out so.
I rushed out of the shop, hurried hither. I am not too late to supply my master's place tomorrow. The young man sank exhausted in a chair and dropped his head on the table. The astonished magistrate leaned forward, cautiously extending his hand, seized his handbell and rang loud and long, beginning at the same time to call over the names of all the servants he had ever had from the first time of his keeping house. But at the first jingle of the bell, Simon started up from the chair and said, I, I am your prisoner now. Yes, sir, yes, said the recorder. Jeffrey, Williams, very true, sir, by your leave, sir. Goodwin, Ralph, there's your prisoner, sir, he added to the one wondering servant who answered this multitudinless call.
The sequel may be told in a few lines. A reprieve for Edwards was immediately sent to Newgate, which was followed up by a pardon, for having been found guilty, of course, he could not be declared innocent. The wretched wife of the merchant died by her own hand on the morning of her husband's reprieve. Simon was tried for Lambert's murder, of course found guilty, and sentenced to death. But in consideration of the extraordinary circumstances attending his case, this sentence was changed into transportation for life. My Lord Chief Justice Hale delivered a very voluminous judgment on the occasion. The main ground on which he proceeded seems to have been that as Simon had not been legally discharged by Edwards, he might still be considered in the light of his servant, and that he was therefore to a certain degree justifiable in defending his master's life.
Simon died on his passage. Edwards, from the time of his release, became a driveling idiot. He lived several years. It was not till the death of the old man that a secret was discovered. It was ascertained that Simon was a natural son, and that in preventing the intended assassination of the merchant, he had unconsciously saved the life of his father.
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4 04 - Lost Beauty, by Mrs. S. C. Hall 28:31
The Rover, Volume 1, Number 1. Edited by Siba Smith and Lawrence Labrie. Section 4. Lost Beauty. By Mrs. S. C. Hall.
Near one of the windows of a large and antique house of the Elizabethan era, two ladies were seated enjoying the cool evening breeze that entered through an open window, and if we do not descant upon the richness and variety of the landscape, It is because we admire the living more than the material world, and would make acquaintance with that noble-looking woman, whose countenance is turned toward the setting sun, and whose every attitude expresses dignity. How firmly, yet how gracefully, her head is raised above her polished shoulders. What richness yet propriety in her dress. The folds of her velvet robe descend to her feet, that, so delicate are their form, barely indent the crimson cushion with their slight pressure.
Her companion is of other, though it may be, of more winning beauty. The childish golden hair that clusters over her expansive brow in such redundancy of freedom harmonizes well with the cheek of palest rose, and a form that we could imagine might rest upon a bed of violets without crushing a single petal. Her voice is like the breathing of a soft lyre when awakened by the spirit of joy. Her blue eyes are full of hope that Perfectly unsaddened Hope, which dwells with youth as a companion, and calls Innocence its sister. They are both children of the same parents, though many years passed before Annette was born, to be the playmate and friend of the stately Lady Leslie. As they sat together in that great chamber, there was a feeling of quiet and solitude around them, which darkened the shadows on Lady Leslie's mind and sobered the smile on the lip of her gay young sister.
They had both recently suffered from that fell disease, which has been the bane of so much beauty. But while Annette escaped unscathed, the blight had fallen upon her sister, and the mistress of Leslie, Abby, arose from her bed with the marks of the pestilence written on her once beautiful countenance, too strongly to be ever effaced. It is not to be denied that the noble lady had as large a share of personal vanity as usually falls to the lot of woman, of high birth and Large possessions, she had consequently a sufficient number of flatterers to praise and fawn. Had she been as dark as Erebus, and as deformed as Sin, they would still have sung of and praised her loveliness. But its character and brilliancy had been such that she could not move without receiving the homage of eyes, so rarely paid without being sensibly felt and duly appreciated.
She had been feeded and sung, painted and sculptured, until her exquisite head whirled upon its pedestal, and, what was still worse, her heart, naturally kind and benevolent, became careless of the wants or wishes of her fellow creatures. Prosperity drives pity from the bosoms of the wealthy. It is good to feel disappointment, and even adversity, at some point of our lives, for Practical experience is a benefit to ourselves and others. It was Lady Leslie's beauty that steeled her heart. She thought of it, acted upon it, dreamed of it. It had gained her the affections of the only man she ever loved, one whom wealth and title could not purchase, was nevertheless caught by the matchless face that now...
But she could not bear to think of it. To look upon it a second time, thus scarred and disfigured, was impossible. Her husband had been abroad, and the letter, which lay open upon her lap, told of his hopes of an immediate return, and spoke much of anticipated happiness in meeting again, or so ran the words, with his bright and beautiful wife. Annette had watched with all the earnestness and anxiety of her affectionate nature the effect produced by the perusal of that letter upon her sister's mind. She had longed for the return of her brother, for she felt that now was the time when Lady Leslie's proud spirit was bowed with mortification to lead her from the vanity of her ways and teach her to mount Far, far above the world's mean and sordid enjoyments.
Why should such as she, thought Annette, trifle away the essence and energy of soul that God has given her upon those whose wonder is cankered by envy, to whose lips blessings are unknown? Her heart is touched and softened by affliction. She valued the casket more than the jewel it contained, for she lived among those who could appreciate the first, but not the last. The roses of her cheek were more lovely in her sight than the blossoms of her mind. That would have furnished forth such glorious fruit, had the one been cultivated with half the care bestowed upon the other. But it is not too late. She is yet in the summer of her days, and who knows that if Leslie comes not, it may be given to me, to me, her youngest and unworthy sister, to show her better things.
When the old Roman soldier was blind, he was led by a stripling boy, as one child would lead another. Not that the old man was less wise than before, but he wanted sight, and the youth lent him the only faculty he lacked. On the same principle, may I not give unto her, who is ten times greater than myself, the one quality she needs, the only one that I possess, and so render her loss a gain? Having thought so much, Annette Looked into Lady Leslie's face. It retained the traces of recent tears, and was more than usually pale. I will not speak yet, thought her sister, and without saying a word, she took her lute, and striking a few wild chords, began that beautiful song of the witty and accomplished Carew.
He that loves a rosy cheek or a coral lip admires, or from star-like eyes doth seek fuel to maintain his fires, as old time makes these decay, so his flames must waste away. She paused for a moment at the conclusion of the first verse and stole a quiet glance at her companion. But there was no expression that could induce her either to continue or forbear another stanza. She again sung, but a smooth and steadfast mind, gentle thoughts and calm desires, hearts with equal love combined, kindle never-dying fires, where these are not I despise, lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. You are fond of the lays of the olden time. Said Lady Leslie with a sigh. But I care not for either the modern or the ancient rhymesters.
Why should I care for anything when nothing cares for me? If you care for nothing, dear sister, that same nothing shows marvelous wisdom in caring for you. I wish I could imitate it. But will you not read me Leslie's letter? She continued. Or at least tell me what he says. Here I have sat the perfect picture of maidenly patience, singing and sighing, from fair curiosity, to know what writes my lordly brother. Oh, you may see it all, but stay, I will read you this passage myself. Since you have so long enriched the Abbey with your presence, I fear I can hardly hope you will continue there after my return. Tell me, dearest, do you not pant for the court, of which your beauty was so bright an ornament?
You hear, Annette? continued the proud lady, rising from her seat and pacing the apartment with the grace of a Mary and the irritation of an Elizabeth. You hear? Did he know of the evil I have suffered? It would be ill talking of beauty. Perhaps he would not think of returning. And have you not told him, then? Told him, Annette? Oh, no, silly girl. Do you think I did not want to see him once more? Him I have so loved, but your childish nature cannot. Understand such love. You love linets and doves and wild roses, and you, sister? Forgive me, Annette, forgive me, said Lady Leslie, with one of those sudden transitions of temper to which petted men, women, and children are so often subject. Some allowance would be made for a king who had lost his crown for a You have not lost your crown.
It is now my turn to be forgiven for again interrupting you. I have read of a virtuous woman being a crown of glory to her husband, and do you know what I fancy should be a married woman's crown? Her husband's love. Granted, my husband's love was what I prized on earth. More than earth's. All earth's. Other treasures. It is for him I would be beautiful. My dear sister, what means ye, girl, inquired Lady Leslie, with returning haughtiness of manner, that you deceive yourself? I grant he was your principal, but not your only object. Admiration was your food. Your existence depended on it. If he were not present to give you the necessary supply, you took it from other hands. Nay, do not look so steady on me.
I own that from him it was sweeter than any. But, sister, it was sweet from all. Lady Leslie gazed upon her young sister with astonishment. She had only considered her an affectionate, kind girl. She had not sought to penetrate her character. Vain people seldom care for others sufficiently to scrutinize their minds. And now, astonishment at her boldness was blended with veneration for her truth. Annette continued. If my beloved sister would throw open the rich storehouse of her mind and cultivate the affections of her heart, she would be more beloved than ever by her husband and command the respect, if indeed it be worth commanding, of those who flattered, and better still, of those who never soiled their lips by flattery or falsehood.
Annette Feversham, the philosopher, exclaimed the lady contemptuously. Annette Feversham, the naturalist, if you will, replied her sister playfully. May I tell you a little tale? It is very short and very true. You know that when you were engaged in the business of fashionable life, your boy was turned over to his childish aunt as Well, sister, I have learned from children more wisdom, more of that natural wisdom, which comes directly from God, than I ever learned from men. Their goodness is so active, and their thoughts given with so much honesty. I love to hear them prattle of their miniature hopes and fears, before deceit has taught them mystery or concealment. Do you remember the first day you ventured to your dressing room, you ordered Edward to be brought in?
I was well long before, and had seen him frequently, but some weeks had elapsed before he had been permitted audience of his mother. Sister, you took him in your arms, kissed his fair brow a thousand times, and wept salt yet sweet tears of joy. They were brighter to my eyes than the gay jewels of your coronet, for they were nature's tears. Perhaps they were tears of pride shed at my own sad change. I'll not believe it. He, too, had suffered the disease, but escaped without a blemish. Ah, good, my sister! You wept for joy to see his brow unstained. I did, I did. I knew you did. I took him to his chamber, and after a grave pause, he looked into my face, and clasping his tiny hands, exclaimed, I am so happy that Mama has grown ugly.
Shall I tell you why, dear aunt? It has taught her to be kind. She never kissed me before. Shall I pray tonight that she may continue always ugly? Trust me, dear sister, Ned was the true philosopher. He knew that people, though they may be admired for beauty, are seldom loved for it. My poor boy. said the lady, after a painful pause. My poor dear boy! He is a noble child, and I may thank you for it, Annette. I trusted him to Menials. You saved him from contamination. I am not yet come out, retorted Miss Feversham, with her own peculiar archness of manner. When I am, I shall have other employments, I dare say, like other young ladies. Annette, do not trifle now. My child might think those scenes of little consequence, but my husband, then those women, Those beauties I have so long eclipsed.
Oh, there it is. I will not believe it is on Leslie's account to sorrow. He is but one of the many, if I have wronged you by my frankness, she continued, seeing the cloud again gathering on her sister's brow. Study but the arts he loves, and on my knees I'll crave a pardon, and never, never, never any more offend. He loves country life. He loves simplicity. He ought to have married you. Perhaps he would, had I been old enough. My glorious sister, if you look so upon me, I'll never jest again. I know not why I jest. A jest is a play on truth, and truth I have ever worshipped. With reverence I speak. It is the earthly type of all things heavenly. God is truth. His words yet dwell upon our lips, still flying, still remaining.
Brighten our eyes. Shed a pure luster over our features. A luster that can make beautiful the plainest face. A noble thing is truth. Annette, there's a new spirit created or roused within you. Lady, it is not new. Love may burn faintly for a time, but it can be quickly fanned by circumstances to a flame. I loved my sister, and when I looked into her mind, I saw but one blot there. "'Twas vanity. I feel that I am touching a dangerous theme with much too free a hand. But you have called me, friend." That is a title dearer far than sister. I've heard you say men were capricious and would feed on loveliness, like bees, taking honey, returning stings, that they would rove from flower to flower, seeking the sweetest.
But Leslie is none of these. We look upon the plainness of the thing we love till it grows into beauty. He could not look on me, Annette, replied Lady Leslie, without drawing comparisons. What I was and what I am. My dear sister, let me tell you one more short story, and I've done. In an eastern country, no matter whether in Persia or Turkey, but somewhere in the east, there was a spring. A limpid spring, whose waters were like crystal, and upon the margin thereof the nymphs and good spirits used to congregate, to return thanks to Allah for having a place so delightful of fountain by the wayside. The holy men, who, journeying from country to country, drank of its refreshing waters, declared that it came directly from the center of the world, and brought to its surface The virtues and medicaments that before were concealed in the bowels of the earth.
The fame of the well spread far and near, and one of the rulers in that country said, Behold, we will build around our spring, the spring wherewith Allah has blessed our land, a safeguard and a wall, and the wall shall be of alabaster, within and without, so that all who pass by shall marvel at the purity of the well. And we will set one to keep the well, and watch over it, and the name of her who watches and guards the well shall be truth. And all the wise in that country who heard the words of the venerable ruler declared that they were good, and the ruler stroked his beard, which descended below his girdle, and the ruler said, Let the thing be done forthwith. But in that land there were more rulers than one, and another opened his mouth and spake.
The brain in the gray head is dry, said the youthful ruler. And his eye dim so that he cannot discern the fashions that spread over the earth. His ear is closed against the voice of improvement. Behold, we will tell him a thing. Why should our well, the spring of delight in our wilderness, be closed in alabaster, and one of such exceeding plainness as truth set to guard its waters? Behold, we will plant a glorious tree beside the well, and its roots shall descend. Ascend into the earth, and its branches ascend to the first heaven, and the tree shall bear the fruit of gems and jewels which will sparkle in the sun and overshadow our spring with splendor. And the young and the foolish shouted the shout of joy, and the shouts of the young and the shouts of the foolish were louder than the shouts of the wise.
So the young ruler curled his mustache till its hair saluted those of his soft hazel eyes and said, the thing shall be done forthwith. And the thing was done. The voice of the foolish prevailed for a time over the voice of the wise. Where's the goodness of the well, and where the purity of the water? exclaimed those who once had praised its marvel and its beauty. Behold, the roots of the filthy tree have disturbed its cleanliness. My spring, my spring, my limpid spring, wailed the last spirit that had lingered by its side, and could now no longer remain near its margin. Birds of no wisdom nest in the branches of the false tree, and the untrue gems have become cankered, and thy waters are corrupt.
Oh, that thou hadst been walled by alabaster and guarded by truth. And as the spirit passed, sighingly away from the well, the spring itself replied, The sun shines, and the gems sparkle on me. What do I desire more? And a great spirit heard the words, and the great spirit said that the words were foolish, and the great spirit resolved that he would uproot the tree, and after a time restore the well. And the tree, which was named Eternal Beauty, became uprooted at the command of the great spirit, and the waters of the spring were troubled, and mourned after the tree. After the gay birds that filled its air with foolishness. But the great spirit said, Let be. The well, in a little time, will regain its purity, now that the glare of eternal beauty is removed from its sight, and the roots of vanity from its heart.
It can now drink into its depths the mysteries of heaven and the light of Allah. and be satisfied with the wall of alabaster as a guard. Oh, that so fine a well should ever become so corrupt. My dear sister, Persisted the fabulist, seeing that Lady Leslie was not displeased at her invention. You are the well, and Leslie the wall of alabaster, and I am truth, and your beauty was the tree. Think less of the tree, and more of your husband and child, and Annette Fevershem's word upon it, he will love you better than ever. I will not tell you," she continued with more tact than those unacquainted with the windings, the knowledge, and the mysteries of woman's heart would have given her credit for. I will not remind you that your figure is as perfect as ever, your eyes as brilliant, your teeth as white, your smile as gracious, and as for those little pits, They're graves for vanity.
Write to your husband, sister. Tell him. Lady Leslie started from her seat, and after a moment's listening exclaimed, It's his horse's tramp. I know the sound of its hoofs among a thousand. Oh, that I could hide this face from him and from the world. She seized a veil, which lay upon the sofa, and would have flung it over her head, but Annette drew up her slight figure with a gesture and a dignity that bore a miniature resemblance to her sister, and, taking the rich lace from the trembling and agitated hands of the lady, said with both feeling and emphasis, Is shame. The House of Beaversham knows it not. Lady Leslie could hardly keep smiling at the tone of authority assumed by the little Annette, but she yielded nevertheless, and forgot at the time, in her husband's warm and affectionate greeting, the mortification which, for so many weeks, had steeped her proud soul in bitterness.
It is again evening, though five years have passed since the commencement of our tale, and on the lawn of Leslie Abbey, the Lord and his noble Lady are enjoying the prospect and the breeze of their native hills. The moat has been partly filled, and instead of weeds in wilderness, have sprung up goodly shrubs and smiling flowers. Here a vista has been carefully opened in the wood, and we may see the beautiful river wandering like animated silver beneath the smiles of the rising moon until it is again swallowed in the darkness of the deep, deep forest. Hark! the voice of joyous children from a neighboring village. The shout, the laugh, the gay halloo, dancing amid the echoes of the hills, and we can perceive the spire of the village church, the church that they, the Lord and his once proud wife, have built and beneficed.
The country upon which they look is theirs. The silver river, the dark wood, the waving corn. What else? The hearts and blessings of their tenantry. Where tarries our sister? he inquired, after they had surveyed their wide domain and heard the blackbird's last whistle, and watched the fog wreath encircle the wood and cast its mantle over the valley. She's with the children. Oh, Leslie, we both owe much to that girl, who blends so astonishing the wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove and the frolic of the wild kid. I shall never forget the first lesson she read me on the advantage of personal plainness. Personal plainness? What has it to do with you? Peace, peace, dear Leslie. Do you not again awaken the vanquished spirit of pride within your wife's I sometimes fear it only sleeps.
Yet have I yet learned to bless lost beauty. My trial has been turned into a triumph. Let it sleep on, then, replied the husband, of whose character Annette had rightly judged. A woman has something to be far more proud of than personal beauty.
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5 05 - Leoni, a Legend of Italy 16:33
Section No. 5 of The Rover. Volume 1. Number 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by April 6090. The Rover, Volume 1. Number 1. Edited by Seba Smith and Lawrence Labry. Section Five. Leone, a legend of Italy. The lord of the castle, Alto, is old and grey-headed. Fourscore years have flitted silently over him, and the dream of his life is nigh to awakening, and his ear is dull, and his eye is dim, and his heart is weary. The old man reclines on a couch in the hall of his ancestors, beside an open casement. And the balmy air that floats over the deep blue waters of the broad sea passes softly through his thin hair, and his weary eye rests on the brightness of a lovely landscape.
For the olive and the orange and the myrtle are green by the shore of the still waters, and the city lies whitely beneath the glance of the sun, as he rides through the cloudless azure of the heaven. While the purple mountains clasp the ocean in their arms, and fade away into the horizon in long lines of misty blue. Alas, the springtime of nature is a mockery to the winter of age, and, Amalfiero, turns away in sadness. His vassals are waiting around him to do him pleasure. The minstrel is there with his harp, the maiden with her song. But no music is so sweet to the old man's ear, as the voice of his daughter, Gialetta, Gialetta, when a babe, was a thing of smiles and loveliness, like happy thoughts dancing over the mind.
Gialetta, when a child, was like the orange blossom in the groves, a frioli, and gladness floated around her, like the fragrance of the flower. Gialetta, in her youth, was the fairest maiden in Italy. She glanced among the myrtle bowers like the winged Sephir. The evening star, when it rises, gleaming out of the sea into the darkness of the glorious night of Italy, is not so bright as the beam that flashed from her large eye through the night of her lovely eyelashes. Gilietta's mind was love, all love, to each and every thing. Like music to the sadness of the soul, was Gilietta to the old age of her father. As she passed before him, a light came into the coldness of his eye, and his ear, when it was dead to other sounds, awoke to the murmur of her gentle voice.
As an angel watches over the last days of a saint upon earth, when the tumult of the battle of his life is over, and sheds peace around his hours, and bids his day pass sweetly and holily, So, Guillietta watched over Amalfiero like an influence of good, and was the sun of his thoughts and the light of his rejoicing. Guillietta had a brother. Garcio de Almifiero was a man of a dark countenance, and the shadows of his evil passed over it like clouds over the luridness of the stormy heaven. And his look withered, those upon whom it fell, and his wrath Once excited, raged like a pestilence, and would not be appeased. He was loved by few, and had many enemies, none of whom he hated, as he did the bandit, Leone.
For him only he feared. Leone's better nature had been borne down by the violence of his passions, and he became what was abhorred. And widely was the fear of his name spread, for he passed over the land like a meteor, and left desolation behind him in the palaces of the great and the powerful, but not in the hamlets of the poor. Returning from a successful attack on the castle of a neighboring baron, Leone had been once traced to the vastness of the Apenines by Garcio with a chosen troop of his followers. The bandit gave him battle, and was as usual victorious. The followers of Garcio cowered back. from his thunderbolt charge, and Garcio himself was struck from his horse by the sword of Leonie.
It had been said of the bandit that he had never deserted a friend, nor spared an enemy, but as his sabre waved over the head of his prostrate foe, the beaver of Garcio's helmet fell open. Leonie's arm was arrested as if by the hand of an invisible being. And a smile of scorn passed over his lip. Then a mildness came into his eye. He turned calmly away, and, to the astonishment of his followers, sounded a retreat in the very flesh of victory, while Garcio and his disheartened and vanquished band were suffered to retire unmolested. From that time the hatred of Garcio to Leone was inextinguishable. The shame of defeat And the thirst of revenge gnawed into his heart like vultures, for he would rather have been laid dead by the sword of Leone than have owed his life to the clemency of his conqueror.
Giollietta sat in her chamber in the eastern tower of Castelalto. The evening star rose out of the sea, and climbed slowly up into the sky, and Giollietta's dark eye rested sadly upon it. She was waiting for a voice. that rose every evening from the myrtle grove below the castle, as that star disappeared behind the peak of a distant mountain. Giulietta hardly knew how very sweet the voice was to her listening ear, for it was the voice of one who loved her with a more than common love. They had first met when Giulietta was young, very young, and Francesco just verging into manhood. From that hour she was the light of his path. and the joy of his heart. Her father knew not of his child's love for Francesco, who pleaded to Gialietta some ancient feud of their families as an excuse for maintaining his secrecy.
When the star touched the misty summit of the mountain and Gialietta drew near to the window, a blush passed over her fair cheek as a minstrel's song rose upon the breeze. She opened a secret door and descended. And Francesco saw her come forth in her beauty. "'What meant thy song to-night, Francesco?' said the maiden. "'What can a farewell to thee mean, Gilietta, but misery?' "'Nay, this is madness, Francesco,' replied the maiden. "'Wherefore must we part?' "'Thou sayest well, Gilietta, we will not part. Fly with me. Night is on the mountain. My band is near.' Ere the day dawn we shall be far hence in safety, in honor, and, if thou wilt, in power." "'Thy band,' repeated Gilietta, "'fly with thee?
With whom? What meanest thou? What art thou, Francesco?' "'I know not, maiden,' said Francesco. "'I have not been what I seem to be. Yet thou couldst make me so.' With thee I am Francesco. Without thee I am a pestilence, a scourge. In a word, without thee I am Leone. And the name struck through the maiden's heart with a coldness as of death. The cry she would have uttered died upon her lips, and she fainted in the arms of her lover. A hectic flush passed over her cheek, and she woke from the partial death with a deep gasp, as of one in pain. And her dark eye was filled with a vague horror. Francesco! Francesco! she said. Thou toldst me something. It was terrible. Tell it me again. Francesco! Thou art not Francesco.
And she paused for a moment. I know now, she said. I remember well, very well. Francesco is dead, and thou... Thou art not. Thou canst be. Thou shalt not be, Leone. The bandit Leone, my brother's enemy. O Francesco, say thou mockest me. I was once Leone, he replied, thy brother's enemy. Never. Or Garcia had not now lived. Could I be the enemy of your brother, Gileeta? And Gileeta felt that it was Francisco, and not Leone, who spoke. And she paused in deep agony. Great was the tumult at Castle Alto. An old fisherman of Pizzullo had informed García that he had seen two figures passing down westward on the sea-shore at the foot of the castle. One was a maiden of exceeding beauty. The countenance of the other, he said, was one which he knew well, and which once seen was not easily forgotten—that of the bandit, Leone.
Then García was wild with rage, and he called his followers together. And the clash of arms was loud in the hall, and then, from the gate of Castle Alta, issued a troop of warriors, and their mail shone cold in the starlight, and García spurred on his bloody war-horse in the van. His countenance was pale with wrath, and he dashed madly forward along the winding shore. But one of the maidens of Gielieta, when she heard the peasant's tale, went and sought for her in her father's hall. And she was not there, and she descended by the secret staircase, and she saw footsteps in the dew on the grassy ground. Then she returned weeping, and came to Alma Fiero, and told him that Leone, the bandit, had carried away Gialietta.
And the old man was very feeble, and he bowed his head greatly upon his breast, and died. Heardest thou nothing? Gialietta said to Leone. Nothing, Gialietta, he replied. Nay, Now that I listen, methinks I hear a sound, far away, like the tramp of steeds along the sand. And Gileetta listened, and she was filled with great fear. "'Oh, fly, Leone,' she said. "'It is Garcio. Fly and leave me here.' But Leone raised her in his arms and bore her softly forward. And now the rocks were seen rising high from the seashore, with the columns of a ruined temple upon their summit. And Leonie knew that his band was near. "'On! On, Gileetta!' he exclaimed. "'One effort more, and we are safe!' And now the tramp of the galloping horses came nearer, and the voices of men were heard urging them on.
Louder and louder became the sound, and Gileetta made one last struggle forward, and having gained the rocks, the lovers stood beneath the ruins. "'Anselmo! Anselmo!' cried Leone. And he was, answered by a shout from the rocks. And the banditti leaped from their concealment. But ere they gained the shore, the foremost horseman of the opposite troop dashed into view. It was Garcio. A shout of triumph burst from his lips when he saw Leone. Guilliera saw him level his carbine, and with a shriek of agony she threw herself before Leone and fell dead in his arms. The band of Leone heard the shot, and were around him in an instant, and, lo, their leader was standing, inactive, beside the body of a maiden.
There was a stillness in his eye and in his features. But it was as the stillness of the volcano before it bursts forth into desolation. His troops stood around him in fearful silence, and there was a pause, until, like a whirlwind over the quietness of deep waters, came the madness Over the soul of Leone. He looked up and saw that his band was beside him. Stand by me this night, he said, and revenge the loss of your leader. Then he shouted his war cry, and the banditti swelled the sound with eager voices. The followers of Garcia replied, and Leone dashed at them like a thunderbolt. Then loudly into the quietness of the heaven rose the roar of the battle. and the echoes rolled heavily over the sea.
Leone burst his path through the mass of battle, and his bloodshot eye was on the crest of Garcio, and whether it were foe or friend whom he met in his frenzy, he dashed the combatants aside and clove his way to that one plume. With the implacable wrath of an avenging spirit, Leone sought his single foe. The followers of Garcio shrunk from his glance. And as he broke through the front of their battle, some turned and fled, and the rest hung back in disorder and dismay. Then Garcio saw Leone come upon him with the swoop of an eagle, and his eye coiled before the despair of his foe. Wretch! cried Leone. Lovest thou life? O would that I could make life to thee what thou hast made it to me, and thou shouldst live!
I spared thee once for her sake. Thou hast well rewarded me. Thy sister strikes thee, Garcio. And he smote him dead. And the voice of the battle drifted away toward Castle Alto, and the shouts of the victorious banditti were heard echoing along the cliffs. But Leone was no longer at their head. In their victory they were without a leader. They remembered that he had commanded them to revenge his loss, and few, very few, of the followers of Garcio escaped the slaughter of that night. The banditti met and sought for Leone among the dead, and they found the body of Garcia, and the sword of their leader lying beside it, but him they found not. And they retired silently under cover of the night to their fastness among the mountains.
Oh, calmly, brightly, beautifully rose the morning out of the eastern sea, and widely spread the rosy dawn over the deep. Gloriously the radiance stole up into the high heaven, where the white clouds waved their light wings in the deepness of the infinite blue, and looked out eastward, rejoicing as they met the morning breeze that sprang upward from its repose in the grove of silver olives. And the sun lifted its head majestically out of the sea, and the mists passed away before his glance from its surface, and the waves rolled onward. Singing, with sweet low voices, and a long golden path was thrown upon them, even unto the shore. Oh, the radiance of that morning was unconscious of the desolation of the night.
There was no sadness in the dawn that shone on the ruins of Castle Alta. The surges that, in the night, had dashed away the blood from the shore, now broke clear and white on the unstained petals. A figure was leaning against a rock on the strand. Few, very few, would have recognized in the haggard face and withered form the once haughty and fiery Leone. The fishermen of Pozioli affirmed that, for years after that terrible night, the same figure was seen pacing the shore, with the unequal step and wild gesture of a maniac.
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6 06 - The Duel 14:18
The Duel Some years ago, while traveling in the north of England, I took occasion to visit one of its old Gothic churches, and while there my attention was attracted by the sound of a voice chanting a sublime and beautiful hymn. After listening for several moments, the voice ceased, and I walked gently forward and saw a man of middle life leaning against the rails, which enclosed a very noble monument. and looking up to it steadily with eyes full of tears, I expressed a fear that I was intruding. He turned and looked upon me with a thoughtful glance, as if he would read my heart. Whether it was my manner or my countenance that reassured him, I know not, but he replied courteously, and did not, as I feared he might have done, move away.
The paleness of his face and the dew upon his forehead alarmed me with the fear that he was about to faint. I caught him by the arm as he sunk down upon his knees, and lifting up his face with closed eyes, upon the lashes of which tears quivered, he asked me if I did not know him, and if I could bear to look upon and speak to him. The earth does not contain, said I, a single being upon whom I dare disdain to look or to whom I could not desire to speak with charity, but to one whom I found engaged as you were when I entered, and from whose lips I heard the hymn you have just ended, I would speak at once as to a brother in the best of bonds. "'Alas,' replied the stranger, "'but I am not a Christian.
I am without that hope. Yet it is a mournful pastime to me to repeat that lovely song.'" I do it often, constantly. It operates like a lullaby to my tossed mind, as a mere opiate, and while I listen to my own mournful voice, I am tranquilized and pleased and forget that I am a murderer. I certainly started. I was for a short moment struck mute, till as I looked upon his sad, penitent form, he had fallen upon his knees. I entreated him to rise and come into the open air, that he might recover himself. I helped to raise him up, saying, You cannot be a mere murderer. Whatever you have done, I look upon you more in pity than in anger. Confession of your offense is a duty. It is the only reparation which you can make to the broken laws of man.
To the violated law of a higher power, you can make none. But there is yet room for repentance. No, said he, I am no common murderer, for it was my own familiar friend that I slew. And though the law of heaven was broken, those laws called the laws of honor were not. And I am free, and have been these twenty years. I understand you, I replied. It was in a duel that you killed your friend. Even so, he answered. You shall hear my story. If you are a sorrowful man, I shall make your sorrow light by comparison. If you are happy, it will acquaint you with grave, sad thoughts, which it may not harm you to entertain. Arthur Hill and myself were schoolfellows, friends. We lived in the same county, within a few miles of each other, and our intimacy sprang up from our traveling to and fro to school in the same chaise.
Moreover, we were of like age, like taste, and read in the same class. We were both younger sons, and though receiving a general education, were both designed for the Army. Hill, in compliance with his own choice, and I, because my mother was promised to commission for me, and desired it. At sixteen we both received our appointments, and I shall not forget till I die the glad and affectionate expression of Hill's countenance. Winnie brought me the Gazette, and I found that our commissions were dated on the same day and were in the same regiment. The corps to which we were attached was stationed at Sandown Fort in the Isle of Wight, and we joined together in the early spring of 18-blank. The friendship we had formed at school strengthened every hour, and those officers who were our seniors in rank and life never wanted some pleasant or kind word for us.
It was upon a hot, sultry evening in the month of August that a small group of the junior officers were idling upon the sands near the fort, and Hill and myself were of the party. Hill had got on a new foraging cap, which was very becoming to him, and I was quizzing him upon his vanity, from which of a truth never was a youth more free, as I well knew. I was in exuberant spirits and only joking. But others being present perhaps made the joke unpleasant to him. He colored and looked grave, and I thought that he was a little out of humor and deserved to be shamed into a better temper. Reckoning on my frequent experience at school, I made sure that I should soon bring back his handsome smile. Accordingly, I went bantering on.
I was in a foolish mind, uttered many absurdities, and laughed all the while convulsively. Woe to light hearts! They soon forerun our fall. At last, finding my words had not produced the effect I intended. I caught him playfully about the waist, and, lifting my hand to the back of his head, tipped off his cap, which fell upon the sand. He released himself from my grasp, petulantly, and, stooping for his cap, bade me not do it again, in a manner rough and, as I thought, rude. I'd never seen him in such a touchy mood before. A circumstance which, if I had had one moment's reflection, would have made me stop my folly, for I well knew his fine disposition, his real generous and loving nature, but I was beside myself.
I laughed louder than ever, stole again behind him, and again pushed off his cap. Whether it was the heat caused by stooping that wound up his anger or some more mysterious impulse I know not, but as he raised himself his face was red, and his eyes shot fire. And observing that he did not like practical jokes, he dared me to do the like again. The menace did not open my eyes. Though it was plain I was going too far, but it was not pleasant to me to be checked by a threat before so many of the officers, and not dreaming of anything beyond a trip-up or a wrestle and a fall, such as we had often given each other at school. I went up to him once more, and jerked off his cap again. He did not stoop, but aiming a straight and violent blow, At my breast, for which I was wholly unprepared, he knocked me down.
I was instantly picked up by a tall, vulgar young man who had lately joined the regiment by exchange, in consequence of some affair of honor in which he had been engaged with his captain, and who was already agent of mischief. This business, said he, can only be settled in one way, and the sooner the better. I cast my eyes round to look for Hill. E. had caught up his cap, and was walking away bareheaded, and two brother— Ensigns following him, one of whom I knew had a pair of dueling pistols. A little fellow, who had only joined a few days, and was not more than fifteen, and to whom we had both been kind, came to me. "'O Vernon,' said he, run after him, make all up. It was all foolishness. Why, it was only play, till he got vexed, and that was your fault.
I'm sure he was sorry. Let us all agree to say nothing about it, at mess, and to keep it from the colonel.' Such was the thought of the artless boy. Oh, that he had had man's wisdom! I mean not that of such men as were with us then, for my tall friend called him a young blockhead, and bade him hold his nonsense, and remember that officers were not schoolboys. To think that of the seven persons present there was but one peacemaker, and he a child. Had he but gone to the colonel or any of the senior officers, there would not have been wanting some worth and wisdom to stand between the boys and their calamity. As it was, we were both in the hands of wicked and unreasonable men, both the dull and passive slaves of a cruel custom.
My tall friend went home with me to my barrack-room and wrote a challenge, which I copied. Scarce knowing what I did, he carried it himself and was long away. How busy were my hopes during that interval! He will make an apology, methought. He will do anything rather than meet me. The mischief-maker at last returned. He brought no note, a verbal consent, to meet me. I never saw such a fellow," said the wretch, who had volunteered to be my second, knock a man down, and then offer him an apology, while you would be both turned out of the service, he for offering, and you for accepting it. I would give my life, I replied, to avoid this meeting, if it were possible. Well, said my second, it is not possible.
However, it is a pleasant and safe duel for you, for after receiving your shot, he'll, of course, fire in the air and make an apology. But go to the ground he must. and you need not be uneasy. Perhaps you may miss him. Perhaps I may miss him," said I. Why, I would not fire at him or hurt a hair of his head for the universe. As to that, replied my mentor, aim at him. You must. You are the challenger. You must not call out a man and make a fool of him and a mockery of a duel and expect a couple of gentlemen to stand looking on as seconds at such a piece of chicken-hearted child's play. No, no, that will never do. I feel for you, my dear fellow, but your honor is at stake. It is a sad annoyance, but it can't be helped.
I'm engaged out to supper, and I shall not go to bed tonight, so I shall be with you in time. Five is the hour. You need not worry about anything. I have got pistols. The heartless wretch left me alone, troubled, bewildered, almost out of my senses. I walked about my room. I sat down. I lay down on my bed. I was in a sad confusion of thought. My brain was wearied with its working. I fell asleep. I woke at four o'clock and got a light. washed and dressed myself. My servant, whom I had roused, stared at me and asked if I was unwell. I said, a little so. Might he fetch the doctor, then? No. The only comfort I could find or make was in the resolution to fire wide of the mark. The only prayer my heart could breathe was the fervent wish that I might manage it well.
All's well that ends well, said I to myself. We shall be friends again at breakfast as if nothing had happened. Arthur loves me, and I am better than all others. It wanted some minutes to five when my odious second arrived, with his pistols wrapped in a silk handkerchief. We exchanged but a very few words, but as we walked to the ground he said unfeelingly, this will not be a pistols for two, coffee for one, kind of a duel but a very harmless one. I'll answer for it, my yonker, so you need not look so pale. My very blood ran chill as he spoke, and I felt terrified. We proceeded in silence to the sands. Hill and his second were already there. I hoped the duel might yet be averted. I longed to run over to Hill and to press him to my heart.
The ground was measured. As I found myself opposite the youth whom I best loved, with a pistol in my hand, my eyes swam, and I felt sick and giddy. All the presence of mind I had was intent upon making sure to miss him. I heard the words, ready. Present. I raised my pistol with a careful slowness, and according to the rules, when I had gotten the aim I designed, I fired. In that moment, guilt, remorse, age, and despair fell, as it were, upon me, and they have dwelt with me ever since. For twenty long years they have held me in their cruel hands. My hope, shuddered as my finger pulled the fatal trigger. I dared not follow the shot with my eyes, but I heard the fall and fainted upon the earth. When I recovered my sense as I was laid by the side of Arthur Hill upon the sand and he had got my hands in his and he was looking at me kinder and sadder than I ever saw any body upon earth look and in a few minutes with a heavy sigh he died.
Poor Arthur! I killed him and I have never been quite well since, not to say quite right. That hymn you heard me sing was found in Arthur's desk, copied out in his own hand, and his friends sent it to me. two years ago, to comfort me, and it does for the time, but I'm very miserable, good sir, very. I saw plainly that his reason had never been perfectly restored, but I strove to console him with the only consolation that there is for such a sorrow, or for any other, and I prayed for him, and walked with him about half a mile to a house where he lived with his uncle, a country gentleman of small property, who told me that his nephew ranged about the park of Bowden and its neighboring villages quite unmolested and harmless, that he seldom spoke to anyone, and that he was much surprised at his having related to me the story of his melancholy, but that it was quite true.
He had left the army instantly, and had never been able to settle his mind to anything since, but was very devout and very humble and lowly, and nothing ever gave him so much comfort as to meet and talk with Christians when he felt well enough. But he had views as concerning himself that were very gloomy, and which no one Have been able to dissipate.
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7 07 - The Spy 17:02
T'was in the middle of the year. 1810, when the British Army, after various struggles and hard-fought actions, succeeded in occupying the very heart of Spain that the enemy greatly reinforced, and far exceeding our forces in numbers, had taken up a very strong position in our front. There, our posts were so much advanced. that the greatest vigilance was necessary to prevent a surprise, but ours was on the alert and ready to check the slightest movement. Rare, indeed, is it to find a British soldier slumbering at the post of honor. The night, for the time of year in a southern country, was dark and lowering. All was hushed in silence save the gentle sounds which broke upon the ear of the sentinel's footsteps as they paced to and fro on the short space of ground allotted as their post.
Or the visiting officer on duty, cautiously passing from one spot to another, to see that all were attentive and steady. A gentle rivulet ran by the right of the British outposts, Ever and anon, a distant murmur of a movement in the French lines struck through the still air. Then would the officer place his ear to the earth, by which, from frequent habit, he could almost ascertain the numbers in motion. At all events he could determine the direction they were moving in. Two or three deserters this night crossed a ford higher up than the army. and presenting themselves to the pickets were conducted in the usual form to the headquarters. Whatever information they gave, whether it was considered true or false, or what might or might not have been the cause, so it was that an attack which had been meditated at daybreak was countermanded, and the army remained quietly looking at their opponents.
Making the necessary dispositions to secure, if possible, a victory, it being decided for, no doubt, good reasons to avoid, at least for the moment, a general action, and simply to hold the enemy in check. On the first of these nights it was that I found an amiable young friend and officer gazing on his Eliza's miniature, and employing His fancy and the pleasing retrospection of the happy hours he had passed with those he loved. In my sudden appearance, startling him for an instant, broke the delightful charm, destroying all his airy, blissful visions, and bringing him back to the full feeling of his real situation with its various sensations. A warm and friendly squeeze of the hands assured me That he forgave my interruption, which was in no small degree increased on my introducing a person who greatly excited his curiosity.
Figure to yourself a man dressed in a sort of French-Italian costume, a face stained with a yellowish hue, a box suspended from his shoulders by a leather strap, containing snuffs, tobacco, perfumes, trinkets, and a variety of articles likely to be purchased by officers and soldiers. These he showed and expatiated, on with all the volubility and gasconade of a French peddler following an army. Our youth's curiosity was so greatly excited, but all his thoughts of home and love were, for the moment, obliterated. The question of where the man came from, how he came, Why, he came. And many others were put in rapid succession. I bade him look on the man and tell me if he had ever before seen him. He gazed intently on his face and figure, and assured me he had not.
Thus did the disguise appear perfect, though our young friend added mournfully his features at first reminded me of my dear friend in... But that is not possible, for in a skirmish with the pickets two nights ago, I was told he had been severely wounded and taken prisoner while driving them from an ambuscade. The scene, now, became of intense interest. Friendship's sincere and disinterested friendship was put to the test and proved. Poor Frank, cried he. Heaven knows if I may ever see him again. I loved him as a brother from early youth. His heart was the seat of goodness, his soul of honor, and yet he had his full share of life's misfortunes. N. Stood with his eye, fixed on his youthful friend's changing countenance, and the various feelings depicted on his expressive features, then suddenly raising his cap of disguise, casting on him a look full of pleasure, and beaming with friendship most ardent.
Calling on his name, he rushed to embrace him. Inquiries of how he escaped, what were his wounds, and why was he habited in his present costume, were the immediate consequence of recognition. For the first, it appeared that being closely engaged at the edge of the rivulet, as before described, dust coming on, when the pickets were all pell-mell together. In... Fell by a blow from a musket, which for a time completely stunned him, and on recovering, all was still. No being with life remained near him. Not exactly recollecting the spot on which he was, and it being dark, he cautiously forded the stream at a little distance, believed he was joining his troops, it having already been passed more than once.
At break of day, however, he found out his mistake, When, to prevent being taken by the enemy, he was forced to make a circuitous route of some miles ere he could venture again to attempt passing over to regain his own lines. This, however, he at last did in safety, and no sooner arrived than he was told an intelligent officer was wanted to volunteer for a particular service, ever on the quay viva, to show the greatest zeal. In his profession, he instantly waited on the general of the division, became acquainted with the hazardous and arduous nature of the undertaking, when he not only offered himself for it, but begged the general's particular interest in his behalf. This he most cordially promised him, not only from his knowledge of his abilities as an officer, but in all other respects, especially his perfect acquaintance with several languages, the French particularly, which for Pureness, elegance of pronunciation and fluency could scarcely be surpassed by even a Parisian.
The general's report to the commander-in-chief proved sufficient, and our gallant friend was appointed to a post at once of the highest consequence to the army, and of peril to himself, yet was his brave heart undaunted. He received his instructions, arranged his disguise, and was now devoting this last hour to the delights of sincere and real friendship. It was, indeed, in our awakening sensations among the three friends, easily to be imagined by minds capable of sentiments calculated to make life an enjoyment. To describe their feelings would be difficult, suffice it to say that when the moment of parting arrived, it was one of melancholy, in the truest sense of the word. It was midnight, and was conducted by his two friends to the extreme verge.
of the advance sentinels, where a fervent and rapid adieu was exchanged, when in rushed forward to prevent those strong emotions of friendship overcoming his feelings, which with such a triumvirate would otherwise certainly have been the case, and have sent Poir in on his way depressed and sorrowful. Our two young officers retraced their steps in silence to their separate quarters and retired to rest, offering up a prayer for the safety of their early friend. Behold now our spy, tracking his solitary road to a small village about two leagues' distance in order to avoid as much as possible the chance of falling in with the enemy's videttes, until he had attained a point beyond the reach of suspicion.
At daybreak he arrived at the village of Calvero del Monte and entering a venta. demanded of the old alberguero in good Spanish some breakfast. A few French riflemen were in the room smoking together with half a dozen Spanish muleteers, who immediately on the entrance of our peddler's spy approached inquisitively to ascertain the contents of his packages. He showed them several things quite like a regular trader, and conversed with them in perfect good humor. But his great object was to engage the attention and cultivate the acquaintance of the soldiers. For that purpose, accosting them in pure French, he requested their observance and opinion of some peculiarly fine tobacco which he had to sell cheap, then giving them a little to make trial of, and speaking their own language with great fluency, an instant friendship was brought about.
N. told them a fictitious story of his birthplace, being Bagniers, a small town celebrated forest baths just on the other side of the Pyrenees, a place with which he was well acquainted, having resided there for a long time, when a boy with an uncle who went there for the recovery of his health, then, like a true Frenchman, assuming a liveliness of disposition, singing, laughing, chatting, and recounting anecdotes about dear France, in became so great a favorite that at the hour of relieving the pickets they begged him to accompany them. The request was of course complied with, and he thus soon passed through pickets, advance guards, etc., to the main body of the army, minutely noticing the various dispositions made, and making the numbers and all that could be of service.
Being fearful of committing anything to paper, as the most trifling circumstance or observation might cause a discovery with the Instant forfeiture of his life, and as it would have been next to an impossibility for him to carry a recollection of everything in his mind, he resorted to a curious method of keeping his memory alive. His box contained three separate compartments, each of which had three divisions, filled with trinkets of various kinds—tobacco, small packets of snuff, scents, soaps, etc. One part was considered the main body, and headquarters. The other parts were designed to represent other divisions, advances, etc., in fact, all that was necessary, and when separately taken to pieces and regularly laid out, they would represent the object intended as accurately as could be desired.
Vested in with his box strapped before him, passed through the whole French army, mingling with the soldiers and officers, Selling some few of his articles, and minutely taking his observations of all that was going forward. On one occasion he was placed in some jeopardy, being seated on the ground in the evening, laying out his plans. An officer passing observed him attentively, and before he was aware of it touched in on the shoulder, asking him whether he was drawing his skill at copying the movements of an army, or whether he intended entering the service and becoming a great general by study and practice. N. was at first much alarmed, but finding the officer was not particularly scrutinizing.
In his manner he quickly recovered himself, and without the least hesitation or apparent embarrassment he replied in so artless and clear a way as to throw off all suspicion he gave the officer, an idea that his intellects were rather ill-calculated for a general or any post in the army. N. soon replaced his box. Saluted the officer and joined the host of followers, of which there is never any lack in such situations. Having soon gained all the information he wanted, he quitted the French position by a different route to that he had entered. Stating his intention of proceeding on his journey to Madrid and making a circuit of three or four leagues, regained in safety the advance post of his own troops early in the morning, and was immediately conducted by a corporal and file of men to the officer who commanded the guard.
to whom he was entirely unknown, and had it been otherwise, he could not have discovered himself. He named the general of his division, and requested to be carried before him. The general welcomed his safe return, and after some few inquiries accompanied himself to the commander-in-chief, to whom N. so fully and ably explained every particular of the enemy's army and events so much precision and clearness that all was completely understood. N. was immediately recommended for the captain. Indeed, it was but the just reward of merit in risking so dangerous a service to accomplish an object so invaluable to the commander of an army, and which he had done with such skill. N. now repaired to his quarters, where he was received by his brother officers with every mark of sincere friendship.
The day was occupied in making the necessary preparations for an attack at daybreak. Orders arrived at the different posts in quick succession. All was on the quiva, and at the close of the evening, with the utmost caution and silence, the troops commenced, moving to take up positions so as to meet more advantageously those of the enemy, according to the report by N. This at once proved the value of our friend's information. The night was thus passed, all anxiously anticipating the result of the morrow. Both as a body, and to themselves individually. Alas, many who were then so reflecting on that morrow ceased forever to think on subliminary things. At the first dawn of day a rocket from the right of the advance was the signal of attack, and quickly afterwards an incessant roar of cannon and musketry reverberated through the air and shook the earth.
Now did the vivid flashes send their death mandates to many a brave and gallant soldier, the husband, father, son, and lover, The courageous and the coward, all alike, fell without distinction. Foes and friends lay heaped together in one short minute, in close embrace, at rest and peace with each other forever. The battle raged with the utmost fury the whole day. Positions were taken and retaken. Men fought hand to hand toward sunset. Then it was that the French, after struggling to the last, began a rapid retreat, leaving several hundreds of dead and dying on the field with all their baggage and material. The British troops triumphantly entered the town. The victory was complete. Thanks were due to N for the assistance he had afforded by his valuable information.
But, alas, fate ordained he should not be conscious of the result of his exertions. He lived not to enjoy the proud feeling of the glory of this day would have given him. When the returns were sent in, poor N was among the killed, and by inquiries in the regiment it was ascertained that he had fought nobly during almost the whole day. And it was not till nearly the close of it that the fatal bullet carried its billet. Thus ended the short but brilliant career of one alike distinguished as an ornament to his profession as he was for his private virtues. Peace to his moneys. End of the River. Volume One. Number One. Edited by Seba Smith. and Laurence Libry.