CHAPTER I.

JOHN DE LANCASTER.

VOLUME II.

JOHN DE LANCASTER.

A NOVEL.

BY

_RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ._

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

_LONDON_:

PRINTED FOR LACKINGTON, ALLEN, AND CO.

TEMPLE OF THE MUSES,

FINSBURY-SQUARE.

1809.

Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John’s Square.

JOHN DE LANCASTER.

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

_The Experiment, as resolved upon by Mr. Philip De Lancaster, is made._

When Philip’s confidential interview with Colonel Wilson was concluded,

he directly bent his course to the chamber of David Williams. It was a

station equally well adapted to the studies of the poet, the astronomer

or the musician, for it was in the high road to the stars, at the very

top of the loftiest turret of Kray-Castle, and far enough exalted above

every living thing, that grovelled on the earth. It is to be lamented

that the fine prospect it commanded was no recommendation of it to blind

David, but the advantages it might have offered to him of inhaling the

refreshing breezes in their greatest purity would have compensated in

part, had it not so happened, that its only casement was not made to

open.

When Philip, whom the love of prospect never could have tempted to

ascend this winding staircase, had with infinite pains landed himself in

David’s airey, the twilight was drawing on, and the sun sinking red

towards his chamber in the west. He found the minstrel seated in his

only chair with his harp between his knees, and on the table before him

his pitcher, which, though of a capacious girth, had been drained of its

contents.

Philip having accosted him and made known his errand in few words, the

old man rose from his seat, and stood with his left hand resting on his

harp, whilst his right was pressed respectfully on his breast--Be it, he

replied, as the son of my patron hath commanded! When David Williams

shall hesitate to obey the heir of this castle, and the descendant of

the ever-honoured De Lancasters, this heart must have forfeited its

duty, and this hand forgotten its accustomed office. Although my brain

is even now in travail and only waits the mollifying aid of another jug

to bring forth, behold me ready! Speak the word only for my son David to

bear my harp, and lead me to the apartment of the lady your spouse, I

will incontinently set forward.

Thank you, my old friend, cried Philip! You do it with good will, and

that is every thing. But what think you of the experiment? Do you hold

with my father in opinion that by the melody of the harp you can drive

the evil spirit out of Mrs. De Lancaster?

Who drove the evil spirit out of Saul, replied the minstrel?

You have said it sure enough, rejoined Philip; but we must proceed

cautiously, and not give her too much of it. A short strain, and

something in her own way, of the pensive cast--You have the name, the

instrument and the art of the royal minstrel, but recollect the peril he

was in, and be aware how you proceed too far in stirring up and

stimulating the passions.

Thus having said, he departed, whilst the hoary-headed enthusiast seized

his harp, and full of the muse called amain for his son to lead him.

Whilst this was passing in the turret, Cecilia with our young hero had

paid an evening visit to Mrs. De Lancaster in her apartment. She was

more than fancifully ill, for her sunken eyes and hectic looks too

plainly indicated a constitution breaking up. Her spirits however were

just now in that kind of nervous flutter, which carries a resemblance to

gaiety, and she was more than ordinarily communicative and disposed to

talk.

Their conversation turned upon the preparations making for the

approaching festival--You will look in upon us I hope, said Cecilia; and

if you apprehend the company will be too much for you, I’ll have the

latticed gallery in the hall kept private, where nobody will molest you.

There will be music, sister, and I flatter myself you have no dislike to

that.

None, replied Mrs. De Lancaster, to music, properly so called, but

infinite dislike and horror for trumpets and cudgel-playing, and noisy

bawling drunkards, who shout over their cups, and rattle them on the

table by way of applause: these are generally the accompaniments of a

Welch carousal.

You have none such to expect with us, believe me, said Cecilia. We shall

not make it a Saint David’s day, take my word for it.

No, cried the invalid, one such as I experienced, when this poor thing

was hurried into the world, has been one too many, and left me more to

struggle with than I shall ever overcome--and here her spirits sunk, and

her countenance assumed a melancholy cast, whilst she turned her languid

eyes upon her son.

I am sorry to hear you talk thus, the gentle Cecilia replied: I was in

hopes, that now when all the troubles of that time are over, you would

have looked back to that day as a day of happiness and comfort. I am

persuaded that your son will never give you cause to regret what you

suffered for his sake; and now that he is in train to receive an

excellent education, what may we not expect from the brilliancy of his

talents, and the virtues of his heart?

Yes, yes, she cried with a desponding sigh, I know what I am to expect

from the education he will receive. Every thing I dare say they will

teach him but humility and that discernment, which might constitute his

happiness. He will split upon the rock, that was so fatal to his

wretched mother, and they, on whom his destiny depends, will immolate

another victim to ambitious fortune and the pride of family.

John’s ready apprehension caught the words, understood their meaning,

and in that instant he resolved to bring them to an explanation,

whenever opportunity might favour his design. She had spoken these words

with a degree of energy, that apparently exhausted her--Poor fellow, she

now said in a faint voice, and reached out her hand, as if inviting him

to approach; he sprung from his seat, respectfully received her hand and

pressed it to his lips--Am I not to blame, she said, addressing herself

to Cecilia, for thus indulging my affection for an object, from whom I

must so soon be parted?

No, my dear sister, replied Cecilia; you are only to blame for

indulging those melancholy thoughts. Exert yourself for the recovery of

your health and spirits; seek amusement in the company of your friends,

resort to air and exercise in the place of medicine and confinement, and

you may live to see all your apprehensions vanish, and your son made

happy, (so may Heaven grant it!) to the completion of your warmest

wishes.

Ah my kind comforter, said the mother, I know full well that medicine

cannot cure my complaints nor exertion restore my spirits. I am sensible

it is not worth my while to seek for a recovery any where, for sure

enough it is no where to be found; yet I will acknowledge to you, that

unless I were obstinately resolved to devote myself to death, I must not

meet another winter in this country. The soft climates of Lisbon or the

South of France may give me a few more weeks; and though I have long

ceased from enjoying life, I am not reconciled in my conscience to the

neglect of any reasonable means for prolonging it. Besides, as I have

all the disposition in the world not to disturb Mr. De Lancaster’s

repose with certain ceremonials, in which he might think it incumbent on

him to take a part, I shall only trouble him to attend upon me to the

sea-side, and leave it to other people in another country to follow me

to the grave. I perceive myself exactly treading in the steps of my poor

mother, and can easily foresee where they will lead me. When she was at

my time of life, (as I well recollect,) she was affected just in the

same manner as I am. My father talked to her as you talk now to me: he

was a kind and tender husband, which, allow me to observe, was one more

comfort in her lot than I have to boast of. She had no child but me, and

I was about John’s age when I saw her for the last time. She was not in

the habit of bestowing any extraordinary caresses upon me, and I seldom

was admitted to her, for her spirits did not allow of it. Upon this last

meeting however she was extremely kind to me, and the circumstance is

the more strongly impressed upon my memory on account of a very singular

occurrence, which I can sometimes reflect upon till I fancy myself in

her very situation, and hearing the same sounds, as seemed to summon my

poor mother to her death-bed.

Of what sort were those sounds? Cecilia asked--Of the most seraphic

sort, Mrs. De Lancaster replied, as she described them; such as we may

conceive the angels to excite, when they waft a soul into bliss.

By one of those extraordinary coincidences, that sometimes occur, it so

chanced, that in the very moment, whilst Mrs. De Lancaster, was

describing these strains, heard by her mother before death, David

Williams, who had planted himself in the adjoining gallery, gave a

flourish on his harp. It was not one of those imposing preludes, that

are calculated to display the execution of the master; it was rather

meant to invite attention by its melody, than to arrest it by its

violence.

Hark! cried Mrs. De Lancaster; do you hear those sounds?--It is only

David Williams, Cecilia replied, going to serenade us. If you wish it

to be stopped, I’ll tell him--Upon no account, answered the other, I am

convinced these things do not happen by chance; and whether the music is

produced by natural or supernatural means, I entreat you not to attempt

at interrupting it.

Immediately a symphony was played most exquisitely sweet and melodious:

the minstrel never was in a happier moment; young John in the mean time

kept hold of his mother’s hand, whilst the strain swelled and sunk at

times in cadence so enchanting, as might remind Mrs. De Lancaster of

those seraphic airs, which were supposed to have visited her dying

mother, especially when the following words were distinctly heard, as

the blind minstrel chanted them forth to the accompaniment of his harp.

“What art thou, Death; that we should fear

The shadow of a shade?

What’s in thy name, that meets the ear,

Of which to be afraid?

Thou art not care, thou art not pain,

But thou art rest and peace:

’Tis thou can’st make our terrors vain,

And bid our torments cease.

Thy hand can draw the rankling thorn

From out the wounded breast;

Thy curtain screens the wretch forlorn,

Thy pallet gives him rest.

Misfortune’s sting, Affliction’s throes,

Detraction’s pois’nous breath,

The world itself and all its woes

Are swallow’d up in death.”

CHAPTER II.

_Mr. De Lancaster discourses upon the Tactics of the Ancients._

Whilst David Williams was chanting the extemporaneous lay, with which we

concluded the foregoing chapter, the door between him and Mrs. De

Lancaster was ajar; the gallery, in which he was playing, was admirably

disposed for music, and every note came to the ear, mellowed by the

distance without being lost in its passage. The strain was of a

character so simple, and the harmony so pure and flowing in it’s course,

without any of those capricious and false ornaments, which are too often

resorted to, that both the movement and the matter were intelligible to

the hearers, till at the close it burst into such a display of

execution, as called forth all the powers of the instrument, and set off

the art of the master in its highest style of excellence.

When Mrs. De Lancaster perceived that the performance was concluded,

John was told to open the door, and upon his entering the gallery, the

old minstrel was discovered sitting in deep meditation, with his arms

folded round his harp, and his head resting upon the frame of it, whilst

his white locks, long and flowing, hung profusely over his forehead, and

entirely shaded his countenance. He had placed himself opposite to an

antique bow-window, through which a ruddy gleam from the descending sun

directly smote upon his figure, and threw it into tints, that would have

been a study for Rembrandt or Bassan.

The mother and aunt of our hero, who had now joined him in the gallery,

stood for a while contemplating the striking effect, which his attitude

produced. At length Mrs. De Lancaster said--We are obliged to you, Mr.

Williams, for your very charming music: may I ask who is the author of

it?

He, who is the author of my being, he replied, rising up and shaking the

locks from off his forehead; He, that endowed me with a soul, inspired

me with the love of harmony, and what He inspires, I with all humble

devotion endeavour to express.

Can you repeat those passages again?

Lady I cannot. It was not from memory that I played them, and having

played them, I no longer keep them in remembrance. When the approaching

festival shall call on me for my exertions, I hope to produce something

more worthy of your commendation.

Did you come hither of your own accord?

I never come to ladies’ chambers of my own accord.

To whom beside yourself am I indebted for this entertainment?

The son of my patron, your spouse, commanded me to play to you.

Did he so? said Mrs. De Lancaster. I will trouble you no further. She

then wished Cecilia a good night, pressed the hand of her son in token

of a farewel, and turned into her chamber.

Whilst this was passing above stairs, the venerable chief of the De

Lancasters was sitting and conversing over his coffee with Colonel

Wilson and his sons Henry and Edward; for the elder of these brothers,

who was captain of a troop of dragoons, had taken advantage of a few

days furlough to pay a visit to his father before he joined his regiment

in Ireland. Henry was an amiable and well-informed young man, and had

the character of being a very gallant and good officer. De Lancaster

loved a soldier, and was fond of talking to every man upon professional

topics: Henry was highly entertained with the singularity of his

character, and had won the old gentleman’s heart by listening to his

dissertations with the most flattering attention, asking questions and

throwing in remarks occasionally, which proved him to have taken a

lively interest in the subject under discussion, and to be a hearer to

the heart’s content of his communicative host.

Robert De Lancaster had been calling to mind the several passages, that

occurred to him in the grammarians, respecting ancient tactics, and had

gone back to the Trojan war for the purpose of remarking to Captain

Henry, that it did not appear that the Greeks had any cavalry in the

besieging army, except the horses, which they harnessed to their

chariots: that even in the battle of Marathon there were no horse in the

Athenian army, and that it was not till they repulsed Xerxes and were at

peace, that they raised any body of cavalry, and then only three

hundred.

Henry let him proceed without interruption till he got amongst the Roman

cohorts, who, he informed him, did not use saddles till they copied them

from the Germans, and as for stirrups, they had no word, that answered

to them in their language. He remarked that Franciscus Philelphus, who

lived in the time of the fathers, had indeed coined the word _Stapeda_

to express a stirrup, but Budæus in after times had improved upon it by

substituting the compound term of _Subex pedancus_, which he clearly

preferred, and for which he gave Budæus all due credit.

Mr. De Lancaster seemed very candidly disposed to recommend the fashion

of riding without saddle or stirrups, though he himself used both in

their greatest amplitude and richest splendor; the seat of the one being

of blue velvet, and the materials of the other brass proudly gilt. He

even doubted if the Numidians were not the best models for cavalry,

forasmuch as they made use neither of saddle nor bridle, but turned and

stopped their horses with their canes or switches, whilst the Teutonic

horsemen were so adroit in shifting from horse to horse, that they

oftentimes charged their enemy double-mounted; nay, they could manage

four, as Homer witnesses, and he (Mr. De Lancaster) had authority to say

that one of their kings named Teutobocchus, was so excellent a rider,

that he could keep six horses alternately under him, and bring them all

into action at the same time, which he conceived was a very great

advantage to that warlike monarch in a charge. He begged however to be

understood as saying this under correction of the captain’s better

judgment, and seemed to wait in expectation of his decision upon the

reference.

The captain properly observed, that, if King Teutobocchus had a horse

killed under him, he certainly had his choice of five yet left; but if

he was killed himself he stood the chance of leaving six without a rider

to fall into the enemy’s hands; so that much might be said on both

sides.

This answer, which decided neither for nor against King Teutobocchus and

his six chargers, left De Lancaster at liberty to hold to his opinion,

and proceed with his discourse, which now went back to the Romans, who,

till they used saddles, always vaulted on their steeds, training the

young recruits to the practice by drilling them upon wooden horses, till

they were able to mount and dismount upon either side with all their

accoutrements, in which manœuvre the great Pompey was said to be so

expert, as to perform it at full speed, drawing and returning his sword

at the same time with the utmost expedition and correctness. After the

barbarous introduction of saddles Mr. De Lancaster acknowledged that the

Roman horseman was forced to mount either by the aid of the hand, or by

practising his horse to kneel. He took notice that the sword-belt slung

over the shoulder was conformable to ancient custom, but he doubted

whether the sword ought not to be slung on the right side, as the Romans

wore it, and not of so enormous a length, as it was carried to by the

present fashion. He confessed that the Roman trooper with his massy

spear, a shield slung to his horse’s side, a case of three or four stout

javelins with broad blades, and with his helmet and coat of mail, must

have been a cumbrous load upon his charger, and he admitted that his

movements and evolutions could not be very rapid. Speaking of the

standards of the cavalry, he said they were very generally of purple

with the name of the commander worked in gold; though he was aware they

afterwards introduced the figure of the dragon, richly embroidered after

the fashion of the Asiatics. That the devices they wore on their helmets

were of various sorts, according to the fancy of the wearer, but plumes

of peacock’s feathers could only be mounted on the crests of generals of

the highest rank and description. Pyrrhus’s crest was distinguished by

the horns of the goat curiously modelled in fine gold.

He informed his hearers, that when the Roman cavalry were ordered to the

charge, the chief trumpeter, whose station was beside the general,

sounded to make ready; this was answered by the band posted near the

eagles, and when the horse were going down all the trumpets in the army

sounded together, whilst the soldiers shouted out the word for battle,

and that word, though not precisely recorded, he had reason to believe

was FERI! answering to our _Strike home!_ A chorus so tremendous, that

Cato says--The cry of our soldiers is more terrifying to the enemy than

their swords. As for the Greeks, it is well known, he observed, that

they came down to the charge shrieking out their insulting ALALAGMOS! Of

this cry Pân was the inventor, and the terror it created was thence

called Panic: the same Greeks had their Pæan before battle, called the

Aggressive Pæan, and another after battle, called the Pæan of Victory.

With respect to what we call specifically--_the word_ or parolle--that

was given out by the general at pleasure, and was alway of some cheering

and auspicious import--as that of Cæsar, which he made use of in his

African campaign, FELICITAS! that of Brutus, LIBERTAS! that of Augustus,

APOLLO! whilst Cyrus gave out with the signal for battle--JUPITER

SOCIUS, DUX, SERVATOR! _Jupiter, our comrade, our leader, our

preserver!_

CHAPTER III.

_Mr. De Lancaster relates some curious Properties peculiar to certain

Islands._

Mr. De Lancaster had brought his dissertation to a conclusion, when

Philip entered the room: he had been told by David Williams what effect

his experiment had produced, and as it had brought Mrs. De Lancaster out

of her chamber, he had begun to apprehend greater consequences from its

operation, than he was either prepared to encounter, or disposed to

wish, till upon meeting Mr. Llewellyn he was informed by that sagacious

gentleman, that the surprise, into which his patient had been thrown by

the unexpected serenade of David’s harp had proved extremely prejudicial

to her health, and that he thought it of the last consequence to her

life, never to expose her to such dangerous experiments again--I cannot

for my soul conceive, said that learned sage, what expectations you

could form from such a ridiculous chimæra, but to hurry her into fits,

which you have done, and to drive her out of her senses which very

possibly you may do. If I am thus to be interrupted in the management of

her case, how am I to be answerable for her life?

Thus rebuffed by the anti-musical doctor, Philip sought refuge in the

society of the company below stairs from the persecution of those above.

He sate silent and dull, but as this was nothing extraordinary on his

part, nobody concerned themselves about him.

Mr. De Lancaster asked Captain Wilson in what province of Ireland his

regiment was quartered, and upon being answered that it was in Munster,

he gravely observed, that he would then be upon the spot, where, if so

disposed, he might enquire into the truth of the extraordinary

properties recorded by Giraldus Cambrensis of a certain island in the

aforesaid province which, if related by any other than a historian of

his established character for veracity and research, might have

staggered all credulity.

Upon Henry’s desiring to be informed what those properties were--he

replied, I premised that they were extraordinary, and I own to you they

require confirmation, for Giraldus deliberately tells us, that there is

an island in that province, known in his time, and in fact from the time

of Saint Patrick, into which no woman, nor any female creature living,

could enter.

Well done, Giraldus! cried the colonel, that is an interesting discovery

for married men.

A blessed one--said Philip in an under voice.

I hardly think I shall be able to find it, said the captain, and if I

do, I don’t believe I shall chuse it for my head quarters.

It is fitter for a hermitage or a monkish convent, Edward observed.

Hold, cried De Lancaster, I have Giraldus on the table, and here he

tells us of an island, where no woman can be delivered of a child.

Pooh! said the colonel, he is an old woman himself, and can be delivered

of nothing but lies.

Hold, resumed the expounder of Giraldus; here is another island, which

is partly inhabited by good, and partly by evil spirits.

All islands are alike for that, said the colonel.

Have a little patience; we have not done yet with Giraldus’s islands,

for here is one, where dead bodies cannot putrefy; and look! here is

another, that outgoes all the others, where nobody can ever die--Mark

his words--_Nemo unquam moritur, unquam mortuus fuit, vel morte naturali

mori potuit_.

Excellent Giraldus! exclaimed the colonel; if he does but make out his

immortal island to be that which women cannot enter, the grand

desideratum is obtained.

He does not say that, replied De Lancaster.

Then he had better have said nothing about it, Philip cried out from his

corner, for fear our wives should find it out.

At this instant our hero John made his appearance with a most flaming

and tremendous sketch of David Williams, playing on his harp at

sun-down, as he had seen him in the gallery. This was the first unlucky

start of John’s genius in the branch of portrait-painting, and though it

was in the grand gusto of Michael Angelo, it was not quite so good as

Michael Angelo would have made it, though John had bestowed as much red

ink upon it as would have served a merchant’s clerk for a twelve-month.

At the sight of that red ink, so profusely squandered, Philip betrayed

no small alarm, and demanded where he got it. John had found a bottle of

it upon the chimney-piece in his father’s bedroom.

It is not ink, cried Philip; it is the blood of Saint Januarius, and you

have ruined me.

The vehemence of Philip’s exclamation, and the horror of his

countenance, were too ridiculous to be withstood, and even the gravity

of the grandfather was not proof against the laugh.

Hollah! friend John, cried the colonel, you have drawn a devil in the

blood of a saint.

John demanded how long the saint had been dead; and the colonel

answered at a guess, that it was not much more than a thousand years,

but the monks could bring his blood to life again, when they had

occasion for a vial of red ink.

You may make a laughing matter of it, said Philip, but I got it with

considerable difficulty, and not at the price of red ink, assure

yourself.

And what was the use of it, when you had got it, said the colonel?

Sir, replied poor Philip with much solemnity--It has various uses: it is

a preservative against storms by sea or land; against thunder and

lightning; it guards your house from fire, keeps off evil spirits, and

prevents or cures diseases.

And so it may still, said the old gentleman, for the sight of John’s

drawing brings to my recollection the famous recipe, which John De

Gaddesden has bequeathed to us for those, who may be seized with that

terrible disorder the small-pox, and I believe I can give it to you in

his own, or very nearly his own, words--“after the eruption of the small

pox, says that ancient and learned leech, cause the whole body of your

patient to be wrapt in scarlet, or in any other red envelope, and

command every thing about the couch of the sick person to be made red,

for this will be found an excellent and speedy cure. It was in this

manner, he adds, I treated the son of the noble King Edward the Second

of England, when he had the small pox, and I cured him without leaving

any marks.”--This being granted, my grandson’s performance, although not

eminently meritorious for its art, may yet be turned to beneficial

purposes, and Saint Januarius may share the credit of them with John De

Gaddesden.

Philip, who perceived he was not likely to receive any redress, walked

away to meditate in silence over the loss of his miraculous vial. John

was called up to his mother’s apartment, and when there admitted, Betty

was ordered to retire, and she addressed him as will be found in the

following chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

_Our Hero has an Interview with his Mother._

When John had entered his mother’s chamber, and presented himself to

her, she said--As I know that I must prepare myself to meet that

summons, from which no mortal is exempt, sit down by me, and hear what I

have to say; for whilst my senses hold I wish to communicate to you some

particulars, which it imports you to be apprised of, and as they are of

a secret nature, I must rely upon your discretion for understanding what

is due to the confidence, that I am about to repose in you. I suspect

you have been informed by the soldier, who died in this house, of my

attachment to his master Captain Jones--(’Tis very well: I understand

your signal)--He has told you, and I tell you now again, that my whole

life has been embittered by the disappointment and affliction, which I

endured, when rigid honour on his part, and over-ruling duty on mine,

tore me from the arms of that beloved man, and threw me into those of

your unfeeling father. Great as my affection was for Captain Jones, and

implicit as my trust, yet I take it on my soul to assure you, that our

connection was in the strictest sense correctly pure, and after I was

married I never had the fortitude to speak to him, or even see his face.

I state this to you, my dear child, not only that you may have it in

your power conscientiously to put to silence and dismiss all

insinuations against my honour, but also more especially to arm your

mind for ever against those alarming fancies, that might else occur to

you, if in any future period of time the charms, the virtues and

endowments of the daughter should engage your heart, as those of the

father captivated mine.

This angelic girl, (for as such she is represented to me) now lives

with Mrs. Jennings at Denbigh, who has the care of her education, and

on whom my father has settled an annuity for that purpose. I have

bequeathed to Amelia Jones two thousand pounds by will, which is the

only sum I can at present call my own; but if, by the will of

providence, your grandfather should be suddenly taken off before I die,

whatever I may in that case inherit from him I shall leave entirely to

you, and recommend this interesting relict of my lamented friend to your

bounty and protection. And now before I reveal to you the wish, that

lies deepest at my heart, let me furnish you with the means of being

known to her. This case contains a miniature of her father in enamel,

admirably painted, and on the reverse of it under a crystal there is a

lock of his hair. Dear as this relic has been, and still is, to me,

alas! I never more must look upon it, I could not bear it, and must now

endeavour to employ my thoughts in other meditations; take it, my son,

and as your gift present it to Amelia; she will thank you; and if her

gentle character should gain an early interest in your youthful heart,

think of your wretched mother, and resolve against the fatal sacrifice,

that I have made to fortune and connections: what are they, if your

choice goes not with them? what but misery, entailed upon you by the

base surrender of your own natural rights? Ah! my poor child, could I

but cherish a consoling hope, that you will summon courage to assert

those natural rights, and resolutely shun the torrent of those sordid

importunities, that will assail you, I could die in peace.

Live then, replied our hero, live, my mother, in that confirmed

assurance, and believe nothing can shake my fixt determination to follow

my free choice in that event, which must decide my happiness for life.

Fortune I do not want, and for that idle pride, which pedigree entails

on some, who have no other merit, I despise it; all are my equals, who

are not debased in character and conduct: as for Amelia Jones, (forgive

me, madam) being my father’s son, and she the daughter of parents by

their virtues ennobled, I look up to her as my superior; and when I have

the happiness to present to her this valuable relic of her father, I can

well believe my second visit will confirm the impression I received upon

my first.

What do you tell me? Have you visited and seen Amelia?

I should have told you that before, but was afraid the circumstances,

that produced that interview, might agitate and discompose your spirits.

No, no, relate them. If Amelia gave the impression you describe, ’tis

all I wish, ’tis all I pray for.

She appeared, he replied, in loveliness of person, mind and manners to

merit their description, who report her to you as an angelic girl. My

plea for visiting her was to deliver into her hands the wedding ring,

worn by her mother, and sent to her by her father in the care of the

poor soldier, his servant, who on his death-bed entrusted it to me. In

the execution of this delicate commission I was so dazzled, and my

senses were so engrossed by the appearance of an object, beautiful and

impressive beyond my expectations, that the abrupt and awkward manner,

in which I introduced my business, occasioned a surprise on her part,

which for a time overthrew her spirits and deprived me of her company.

In the mean time whilst I was contemplating her father’s portrait, which

hung opposite to me, and in a kind of rhapsody, that I could not

controul, pledging my protection to his lovely daughter, behold, she

stood beside me; and before I could recollect myself I had clasped her

in my arms. Shocked at myself for an action so audacious, I fled out of

the house, and by a note to Mrs. Jennings endeavoured to apologize and

asked forgiveness: it was granted to me on the part of Amelia, but Mrs.

Jennings by her answer to my note imposed upon me the severe condition

of forbearing to intrude upon her charge in the like manner any more.

This I have hitherto obeyed; how then shall I fulfil your orders, and

present this relic to Amelia?

You must write to Mrs. Jennings, state what your commission is, and ask

leave to wait upon her charge. When you have done this, shew me your

letter, and, if I am able, I will add a postscript. Now, my dear son,

beloved of my heart, farewel! my feeble spirits can no longer bear the

agitation this discourse has caused. I am not used to joy; it overcomes

me--send assistance to me!

CHAPTER V.

_Preparations for celebrating the Assembly of the Minstrels at Kray

Castle._

The day was now come, when the assembly of the minstrels was to be

celebrated at Kray Castle. Every body was alert: the great hall showed

like an arsenal, hung round with trophies of armour, and decorated with

the banners of the family, upon which the emblem of the winged harp held

its station paramount.

The natives, whether inhabitants of mountain or of vale, flocked from

all parts to the spectacle. No minstrel, who had any ambition to

distinguish himself, neglected the invitation. The domestics of the

castle were arrayed in their gala liveries of orange-tawney, new for the

occasion. All hands were busy in the kitchen, which was of conventual

size, and the savory steam ascended to the vaulted roof in clouds of

stomach-stirring odour. The cellar, though provided with a double tier

of potent ordnance, was formidably menaced by the numbers of the

assailants. Cecilia, the moving spring of all operations, had taken her

measures so providently, and given out her orders with such precision,

that all things went on in their respective departments with consummate

regularity.

Mrs. De Lancaster, still languid, though in spirits less depressed, was

incapable of taking any share in the festivities of the day, and

confined herself to her apartment. The worthy old colonel had put

himself in full uniform for the occasion, and Captain Henry Wilson,

brilliant as if accoutred for a review, appeared as if he had been

mailed in glittering sheets of silver. A ditto suit of melancholy

bottle-green sufficed for Philip’s unambitious taste.

These with the venerable senior of the family had assembled in the great

saloon, when the Reverend Edward Wilson, leading our young hero by the

hand, presented him to his grandfather with the following address--I

have the honour, sir, to introduce my pupil to you, and am most happy in

assuring you, that I have already witnessed such encouraging instances

both of his application and of his talents, as far exceed the promise of

my most sanguine hopes. If my instructions can keep pace with the

rapidity of his comprehension, it will not be very long before he will

have exhausted all I shall wish to teach him as a reader of the

classics. His own naturally strong understanding, and the inborn virtues

of his heart, will leave me little else to do, save only to repress a

certain ebullition of courageous spirit, which, though it be a quality,

that ought to be found in every gentleman’s character, should not be

called forth upon every frivolous occasion.

The old man sighed, cast a tender look upon his grandson, kissed him on

each cheek, and turning aside to the preceptor, said in a whisper, I

will talk to him on this subject.

A dealer in minute descriptions would here find some employment about

the dress and person of our hero, as well as of his aunt Cecilia,

hitherto unnoticed; but as elegance and perfect neatness were all that

she aimed at, and her nephew imitated, simplicity, as I understand it,

is not liable to description, and it would be loss of labour to attempt

it.

The equipage of Sir Owen ap Owen was now discovered in approach. There

had been a sensible falling off in the accustomed intercourse between

the houses of De Lancaster and Owen since the accession of the Spanish

widow and her son to the family of the baronet. Some little sparring

upon points of county politics had occurred to threaten rather than to

effect an actual breach between them. This visit therefore was regarded

by the worthy host of the castle as a conciliatory advance on the part

of his old friend and neighbour, whom of course he welcomed with all

possible cordiality.

Sir Owen’s constitution was completely broken down; he walked with

difficulty through the hall, leaning on De Lancaster’s arm, who saw with

concern the change, that had been wrought in his once sturdy frame.

Philip not being disposed to quit his corner, Captain Henry Wilson

ushered in Mrs. David Owen, who having made her Spanish salutations to

the company, took her seat upon the sopha, and gave the captain to

understand that there was room for him to sit beside her. She made an

excuse for her son, that he was out with the hounds, and had not

returned, but would pay his compliments to Mr. De Lancaster in the

course of the afternoon: she turned a look upon her bottle-green lover,

which was not very expressive of complacency, and immediately played off

her best graces on the captain: she took notice of his uniform, and

complimented him by observing it was quite as brilliant as that of the

Spanish guards--If we, who wear it, are quite as brave, the captain

courteously replied, our finery will be well bestowed. She addressed

herself to Cecilia, and observed that Master John, as she called him,

was very much grown. He had taken his seat beside his godfather Sir

Owen, who, when he had recovered his breath, said to De Lancaster--We

are come, my good sir, to pay our compliments to you on this occasion,

and have brought Ap-Rees with us to give you a specimen of his art,

which you will understand, but I do not. Rachel, as you see, has set

herself out in all her finery to do grace to your festival, but you must

take a plain man in a plain coat, for I am too ill to thrust my crazy

carcase into a fresh doublet, and shall hardly shift my rigging till I

change it for a suit of sheep’s wool only.

De Lancaster shook his head, turned an eye of pity on his friend, but

made no answer.

Sir Owen had now taken his godson by the hand, and was asking him why he

did not go out with the hounds--I wait, John replied, till I can see

you in the field, mounted on your favourite horse Glendowr; then I shall

turn out with pleasure--Ah! my dear boy, cried Sir Owen, never, never

again in this life shall I find myself upon the back of Glendowr. I can

only look at him through the window, when he is led out to amuse me. He

is the best horse and the best hunter in England: Lamprey was his sire,

and Lamprey belonged to Sir William Morgan of Tredegar. I am torn to

pieces for Glendowr, but a sack of money would not buy him: nephew David

spells hard to borrow him, but I won’t lend him to David of all men

living, for he is cruel to his horses, and abuses the fine creature,

that carries him; but I will lend him to you, John, freely and

willingly, for you are merciful, and will use him well; nay, I could

find it in my heart to give him to you out and out.

Upon no account, John exclaimed, would I take him, whilst it can afford

you, my dear sir, a moment’s pleasure to look at him.

Well, well! that’s handsome, he replied. Wait the going of a few short

weeks, and you’ll find him in my will.

There is something more than meets the eye in this circumstance of the

horse, or we should not have inserted it.

The guests in the mean time were coming in, and at an early hour the

castle-bell rang out for dinner. At this instant the heir of the Owens

made his appearance in his hunting uniform, and booted. He apologised

for this by saying he had not quitted the saddle, that he might be in

time to pay his compliments to Mr. De Lancaster within the hour, that

was specified on his card. All this was very well, and Mr. David Owen

was most courteously welcomed by Mr. De Lancaster and the inmates of his

family. John made his bow, and Mr. Owen fell in with the company, who

were now summoned to the dinner room, and took his seat at table.

Hospitality without parade, and festivity without excess was the

character of an entertainment projected and conducted by the presiding

genius of Cecilia De Lancaster.

Mr. David Owen assumed a certain consequential style and carriage, which

strongly indicated, that he knew himself as the heir of his uncle’s

title and estate, and that he saw the hour at hand, which was to put him

in possession of both. A set of vulgar companions, who frequented his

uncle’s table, had blown him up with flattery, whilst they were sapping

the constitution of poor Sir Owen with their sottish debaucheries,

which, if Mrs. David Owen took no ostensible measures to encourage, she

certainly used no efforts to prevent: of her maternal authority she made

no use, nor indeed could any be made, for it was completely dispensed

with. Nature in the meanwhile had not done much for the young gentleman,

and education very little; yet he was not without talents of a certain

sort, and whenever opportunity offered for employing them, diffidence

never stood in his way. He had the cunning of a Jew, and the haughtiness

of a Spaniard: ridicule was his passion, and mimicry, particularly of

his uncle, what he most excelled in. He had black piercing eyes, an

aquiline nose and Moorish complexion, a high shrill voice, and when he

wrinkled up his features into a smile, it was the grin of malice and

derision.

CHAPTER VI.

_Occurrences at Kray Castle during the Assembly of the Minstrels._

When the repast was over, and the glass had cheerfully, yet temperately,

circulated, the doors of the great hall were thrown open: a scaffolding

containing seats for the company, and a stage for the performers had

been prepared, and the audience was full. Old De Lancaster, encircled by

his guests, made the central figure of the assembly, and his entrance

was hailed by a chorus of harps, joining in the popular air--_Of a

noble race was Shenkin_.

When this was past, the names of six selected minstrels were announced.

Each of these was of high celebrity in his art, and the respectability

of the audience called on them for their best exertions. When four of

this number had now acquitted themselves with great credit, and the

plaudits of the hearers seemed to have been pretty equally bestowed

amongst them, there remained only Robin Ap-Rees, the famous harper of

Penruth Abbey, and David Williams of Kray Castle as yet unheard. In

these celebrated performers there existed a high spirit of emulation,

and the opinions of the country were divided between them: Though rivals

in art, they were brothers in misfortune, for both were bereft of

sight--_Blind Thamyris and blind Mœonides_.

After a pause of some minutes, Ap-Rees presented himself to the

spectators, led, like Tiresias, by his young and blooming daughter, and

followed by his son, carrying his harp. The interesting group so touched

all hearts, and set all hands in motion, that the hall rung with their

plaudits. He was a tall thin man with stooping shoulders, bald head,

pale visage, of a pensive cast, and habited in a long black mantle of

thin stuff bound about with a rose-coloured sash of silk, richly fringed

with silver, and on his breast, appending to a ribbon of pale blue, hung

a splendid medal of honour.

Before he took the seat, that was provided for him, he stopped and made

a profound obeisance to the company: his daughter in the meantime,

modest, timid and unprepared for such a scene, not venturing to

encounter the eyes of the spectators, when she had placed her father in

his seat, no longer able to struggle with her sensibility, sunk into his

arms, trembling and on the point to faint: her brother stood aghast and

helpless: the ladies manifested their alarm by screams, and the men were

rising from their seats, when our hero, whose only monitor was his

heart, leapt on the stage and sprung to her relief: she revived, and he

gallantly conducted her to a seat, where she was no longer exposed to

the observation of the company who cheered him with a loud applause.

Silence being restored, Ap-Rees began to tune his harp. He paused, as if

waiting for the inspiration of his muse; his bosom yet laboured with the

recent agitation of his spirits, when at length he threw his hand over

the strings, and began the symphony. His song was the tale of ancient

days: he took for his theme the religious legend of the famous knight

Sir Owen, one of the ancestors of his present patron. The legend is

detailed at length by Matthew Paris in his history, page 86, edited by

Doctor Watts in the year 1640, and few can be found better calculated to

call forth all the powers of poetry and music: The date is that of the

reign of King Stephen, and in the wars of that period Sir Owen had very

valorously distinguished himself. When Ap-Rees described his hero

entering the tremendous cave amidst the wailings of the tormented, and

beset by the infernal spirits, who assailed his constancy by every

horrible device their malice could suggest, so striking were the

effects, so contrasted the transitions of his harmony, that he seemed

almost to realize those fearful yellings, groanings and thunderings

recorded in the story. When he advanced to that period, where the

fortitude of the knight baffles all the efforts of the dæmons, the

movement, which had before been turbulent, irregular and excursive,

became solemn, flowing and majestic; but when in conclusion Sir Owen,

triumphant over his assailants, puts them to general rout, and the

gloomy cave in an instant is converted into a bright and blooming

paradise, the minstrel with such art adapted his melody to the scene

described, and so tranquillizing was the sweetness of his strain, that

at the close he left his hearers still impressed with those delightful

sensations, which Milton describes Adam to have felt, whilst the voice

of the communicative angel was yet dwelling on his ear.

At length De Lancaster rose up, and addressing himself to the minstrel,

testified his high admiration of the excellent performance he had

witnessed, observing that it had been particularly gratifying to him to

listen to a poem, founded on the magnanimous behaviour of a truly

Christian knight, who was enrolled amongst the many heroes, which the

ancient and illustrious house of his friend and countryman Sir Owen ap

Owen might justly boast of.

This speech was followed by a thundering applause, the exulting minstrel

made his valedictory obeisance, and withdrew.

Sir Owen in the meantime whispered his friend De Lancaster, that he had

never read the story, but he was told it was put down in a book and of

course he conceived it must be all true.

David Williams now remained to ascend the stage and close the

entertainment. He was ushered in, habited in a loose vest or mantle of

white cloth with open sleeves, which he had tucked up, leaving his arms

bare: it was bound about his waist with a broad belt of orange-tawney

silk, and upon his breast he wore a medal, on which the device of the

winged harp was conspicuously displayed: a fillet of the same colour

with his belt confined his white locks, and when he had arranged himself

in his seat and begun to touch his harp, all was silence and attentive

expectation.

At length, rolling his sightless eyeballs in a kind of poetic phrensy,

he began his song from Noah: he sung the destructive visitation of the

general deluge: he chanted the praises of King Samothes, and the

splendor of his court; he then took a martial strain, and, smiting his

harp with all the fire of an enthusiast, sung the triumphs of the giant

son of Neptune, who entailed the trident of his father on his new-named

Albion to all posterity. The animating subject seized the passions of

the hearers, and the applause was loud and clamourous.

When this subsided, the minstrel chose a melancholy theme; his head

drooped upon his harp, and his fingers moved languidly over the strings,

whilst in a slow and mournful strain he chanted the sad fate of Bladud--

“Fallen from his towring flight,

“And weltring in his blood.--”

During the movement all were silent, when at once the harp was heard to

break forth into a melody of the most gay and joyous character, inviting

all present to festivity and good fellowship, and invoking blessings on

the hospitable and time-honoured house of De Lancaster.

The harp now ceased, and the several minstrels, as well those, who had

attended and were unheard, as those, who had performed, being assembled

on the platform, the venerable patron and projector of the entertainment

stood up in his place, and addressed himself to speak as follows--

Gentlemen, who have so highly gratified us with your excellent

performances, and you also, who, if time had permitted, would have

increased that gratification; masters and professors of that science,

which is at once so dignified and so delightful, I offer you on the

part of all here present the tribute of our unanimous acknowledgments,

and our unqualified approbation and applause. We beg you will be pleased

to share our praises amongst you; we do not presume to apportion them

according to your respective merits. And now friends, neighbours and

countrymen, who have done me the honour to accept any invitation to this

our domestic eistedfodd, you have heard the lay of our minstrel David

Williams, and although, for brevity’s sake, he took it up from the

deluge only, yet, if you do not already know, you ought now to be

informed, that this unconquered soil whereon we dwell, was in times

antecedent to that visitation as fully peopled, and arts and sciences

were as happily cultivated here as within any spot upon the habitable

globe. If therefore in the recitation of the lay, which I allude to,

mention of that early time was omitted to be made, it was not because

records are wanting of sufficient authenticity to illuminate the

subject, forasmuch as not a few of those, who lived before the flood,

have spoken for themselves, and their words and works have descended to

us through the lapse of ages. Witness those treatises upon natural

magic, which Ham the son of Noah, when in the ark with his father,

possessed himself of, and having bequeathed them to his son Misraim,

were afterwards made public to the great edification of the repeopled

world. Nay, gentlemen, let me assure you, there are those, who trace the

origin of the Chrysopeia, or art of making gold, even up to Adam

himself, who in a tract of his own composing (after the fall we will

suppose) expounds that curious process.

I lay this before you, friends and countrymen, knowing that there are

few amongst you, who do not trace your pedigrees up to the ante-diluvian

ages, and I rest what I have said upon sound authorities that you, being

true and ancient Britons, may have wherewithal to defend your

derivations from your father Adam, if any there may be, obstinate and

absurd enough to dispute them.

I shall now trespass on your time no longer, than whilst I express my

hope that you, my gallant countrymen, who have held the tenure of this

soil from ages so remote, will persevere to defend it through ages yet

to come from all invaders foreign and domestic.

CHAPTER VII.

_Harmony of Sounds does not always ensure Harmony of Souls._

Whilst these performances were going on, Mr. David Owen, sullen and

unsocial, had planted himself on a bench as far apart from the principal

gentry as he could, and obstinately resisted all solicitations to take a

seat more suitable to his rank, and more respectful to the company there

assembled. Mr. De Lancaster however, as a mark of his attention, had

desired his son Philip to place himself by his side, and take care that

nothing was omitted, that could add to his entertainment or

accommodation. Nothing could be more acceptable to Philip than a

commission of this sort, which consigned him to a post, where he might

sit unseeing and unseen, and happily enjoy a complete vacation from

thought, whilst his sulky neighbour, wearied with his morning’s chace,

and little interested by what was going forward, fell asleep.

The bustle however, which Nancy Ap Rees had occasioned when she led her

father on the stage, caused the drowsy gentleman to open his eyes just

as our John De Lancaster was sallying to her assistance--That youngster

of yours, said David, methinks is very officious. I am weary of this

mummery. Can’t we slip aside, and repose ourselves in a quiet room till

this tiresome business is all over? I believe you find as little

amusement in it as I do.

I find none at all, Philip replied, and rising up, cried, now is the

moment, follow me.

When the assembly had broken up, and the gentry were filing off to the

collation, that was set out for them in the great parlour, Mr. David

Owen and his umbra in the bottle green were missing. It was suspected

they had retired to Philip’s private room, and our hero John was

dispatched to find them. This discovery was soon made, and his message

as soon delivered. Philip set out upon the summons, when young Owen,

instead of following him out of the room, which he seemed prepared to

do, shut the door, and turning to John, who was civilly attending upon

him, said to him in his ironical and sneering way--Upon my word, young

gentleman, you have made a very capital display of your agility before

the company in jumping on the stage, and shewing off your gallantry

towards a young wench, who is in the high situation of daughter to our

old blind harper, and a domestic in our family.

Sir, replied the youth, I considered her situation in no other light

than as she seemed to want assistance, and in tendering that, I trust I

have not offended Mr. David Owen.

Oh, by no means, replied the other in the same taunting tone; you

afforded me an opportunity of admiring you in the amiable attitude of

succouring a distressed and fainting damsel--besides, give me leave to

observe, that such a heavy load of music without a little dancing

between whiles would have been absolutely insupportable, and I felt

myself unspeakably obliged to you for the relief, which your elegant

performance so seasonably afforded; and if my respect for the ladies

present had not bound me to silence, I should have requested you to

have repeated that delightful rigadoon with Miss Nancy Ap Rees for my

particular entertainment.

There are no ladies here present, cried the gallant youth, stepping up

to him; so, if you are in the same humour still, your respect need not

stop you: but let me remind you, Mr. Owen, that it is no mark of courage

to insult me under the sanction of a roof, where the laws of hospitality

forbid me to resent it. Take your opportunity of playing off your

spiteful jests upon me in any other place, and you shall find me, though

your inferior in the art of ridicule, at least your equal in the spirit

of a gentleman. I know you can throw dirt and bespatter very

ingeniously, and enjoy the mischief as a joke, without remorse for the

pain and injury it inflicts.

At this moment Edward Wilson entered the room, and from the last words,

which he had heard, and the angry countenance of his pupil, guessing

what had passed--John De Lancaster, he cried, recollect yourself!

Aye, sir, resumed the demy-Spaniard, now more pale and sallow with his

rage, teach your schoolboy better manners, and warn him how he carries

himself so unbecomingly towards one, who is every way his superior.

Tell me first, said Wilson, in what my pupil has offended you; and as

you are his superior in age, avail yourself of that advantage by stating

your dispute calmly and dispassionately, and let me fairly judge between

you.

No, sir, replied the haughty youth, I shall state nothing, nor let any

man be judge over me; least of all a gentleman in your predicament, Mr.

Wilson, whose judgment I can pretty well guess at. Let your angry boy

make up his story as he likes, and you may believe it, or not, as you

like. I care not. Into this house I will never enter more with my good

will.

In that respect, said Wilson, you must do as you see fit; but command

yourself at present, and that you may not disturb the harmony of the

night, let me recommend it to you to join the company.

And if I do, sir, resumed the insolent, give me leave to tell you that

wherever and whenever I sit down at table with any one, that bears the

name of De Lancaster, I shall consider myself as in company with my

inferior.

Hold! You forget yourself, cried the reverend Mr. Wilson; you are much

too lofty; and if you do not speedily correct that pride yourself,

somebody will be found to do it for you.

Go, go! said Owen, don’t tutor me, tutor your schoolboy, and let him

think himself well off, that he has escaped chastisement.

Chastisement! exclaimed John, and put himself before the door; you dare

as well eat fire, as repeat that to me in another place.

As John was saying this, David Owen, who was making for the door, put

him aside, rather roughly, with his hand, and walked out of the room in

that kind of strutting style, which a braggart finds it convenient to

assume on his departure, when he feels the time is come, that

counterfeited courage will no longer serve his purpose.

Was not that a blow, cried John, eagerly arresting Wilson, as he was

about to follow? Has not that Jew-born miscreant given me a blow?

What ails you? Are you mad? It was no blow.

It makes my flesh burn where his hand was on me. Indeed, indeed! I feel

it as a blow. I’m sure he struck me. Why should you deny it? I thought

you had been my friend.

I am your friend, said Wilson, looking him stedfastly in the face, and

if you do not consider me as such because I did not suffer you to

disgrace the hospitality of your grandfather by a fray with one of his

guests, you do not judge of me with truth and candour, but in the heat

of passion and resentment.

Disarmed, and brought to instant recollection by this temperate

remonstrance, the brave youth cried out--I’m wrong, I’m wrong! I pray

you to forgive me. You are my friend, and I depend upon you: but call it

what you will--a push, a touch--the spite and malice of the action gives

it the cast and character of a blow; and to put up with a blow from

David Owen, what could there be in life so disgraceful, what in death so

dreadful as that?

John, John, said Wilson gravely and authoritatively, I must remind you

in what charge I stand towards you, and by what duty you are bound to

me: I tell you once again, it was no blow. You put yourself between him

and the door; he could not pass you otherwise than he did. Come, come,

you must reform this angry spirit; it savours of revenge; and to carry

such an inmate in your bosom, would be neither for your reputation, nor

repose. There is however one species of revenge, in which I will assist

you, I mean the revenge of virtue, the triumph of a good and noble

character over an ignoble and an evil one: that victory if you can

obtain (and it shall be my study to point out the road to it) you will

then establish a fair title to that superiority over David Owen, which

he now vainly arrogates over you. Come then, my dear John, let us

henceforward set about that honourable task in earnest, and in the mean

time treat his insolence only with contempt.

CHAPTER VIII.

_Our Hero goes to Glen-Morgan, and pays a Visit to Mrs. Jennings at

Denbigh._

Lawyer Davis (universally so called) was an active honourable little

fellow in great request, and would ride further for a few shillings in

the prosecution of his business, than some physicians will for as many

pounds. He was a light weight, was always well-mounted, and travelled by

the compass with extraordinary expedition. In the early morning of the

day, immediately following the festival at Kray Castle, he called upon

our hero John with an invitation from his grandfather at Glen-Morgan to

come over to him upon particular business, and Davis did not disguise

from him that it was for the purpose of communicating to him the

disposal of his effects by will.

To a summons so important there was neither prohibition nor delay. John

however in a short interview with his mother suggested to her the

opportunity, that now offered for presenting to Amelia the miniature of

her father, with which he was entrusted. Mrs. De Lancaster had no

objection to his making an excursion to Denbigh, and allowed him to use

her name for his introduction to Miss Jones, but the proposal of writing

to Mrs. Jennings had been laid aside. Lawyer Davis was to go with him,

and John under such a swift-sailing convoy soon found himself safe

moored by the side of his grandfather.

John, said the good old man, I have been putting down a few items in

the only work of mine, that will ever descend to posterity, and as you

have a concern in the purport of it, I think it is but right you should

know what it is. In this paper, which is my last will and testament, and

which friend Davis has translated out of English into law, I have

bequeathed my estates real and personal to your mother independantly of

her husband for her life, and after her decease to you and your heirs,

executors and assigns, for ever. So God bless you with it! I for one

shan’t hold it from you long. However take notice, I have not forgotten

certain friends and dependants, who will have claims upon you; and as I

have not been notoriously uncharitable in my life, I have not quite

overlooked that duty at my death. I shall not turn out rich in money,

for the labouring poor have been so confoundedly pinched, that they

would not let me gratify the rascally passion, which I naturally had to

be a miser. There is Dame Jennings will come upon you for an annuity,

and that little witch Amelia Jones is down in black and white for

another. I could not help it. They were both too good, and one of them

too pretty, too innocent, and too helpless to be left to the wide world;

I could not go out of it in peace, and leave them to starve in poverty:

you must think, John, that would not do; would it? No, no; I was forced

to take care of them for the sake of an easy conscience, or in other

words (do you see) for my own sake; else I should not have done it for

the mere pleasure of giving away; for I have no pleasure in it. As a

proof of that, look you, here is a hundred guineas in a canvas purse; I

took from the greasy pocket of a drover for twenty head of scabby

cattle, that were neither use nor ornament to me. I cheated the poor

fellow, or rather I should say, let him cheat himself; for I took what

he offered. Now here’s a case in point, if you don’t take and rid me of

it, it will lie upon my conscience, and what with that and the gout

together, I shall get no sleep.

You know, my dear generous grandfather, said John, I don’t want money.

Perhaps not; but I want sleep, replied the grandfather; therefore take

it, if you love me, and dispose of it as you like. John made no further

opposition, but received the present.

It so chanced that in the evening a certain Jew, Israel Lyons by name,

who was in the practice of travelling about the country at stated

periods with his portable stock in trade, came to the house. He had the

character of a fair-dealing man, and was well known to the principal

families in those parts. Israel either bought or sold, and was a trader

in all respects conformable to the occasions of those, to whom he

resorted. Old Morgan having retired to his chamber, John, according to

custom, had stepped aside to pay a kind visit to Mrs. Richards and the

old butler, whilst Israel was descanting upon the excellence of a pair

of spectacles, which the good lady was cheapening; these were soon

purchased and paid for without any cheapening at all, and in the mean

time our hero’s eyes were caught by the attraction of a rich and elegant

gold chain of curious workmanship, which Israel displayed with address

and eloquence, at least proportioned to its merit. It instantly

occurred to John that this brilliant chain would admirably become the

beautiful neck of Amelia, and be a fit and apposite appendage to the

miniature picture of her father, which he was about to present to her. A

speedy transfer of the aforesaid chain was accordingly made by Mr.

Israel Lyons, who had no kind of difficulty in parting from it for value

received in ready cash upon terms of his own proposing; and thus it came

to pass, that the present, which John hesitated to receive, was, as it

now turned out, most opportunely bestowed.

The next morning brought our young De Lancaster to the door of Mrs.

Jennings; he was admitted to that lady, but Amelia was not present. When

he had communicated the object of his visit, and signified that he

waited on Miss Jones with the entire approbation, and in fact by the

immediate desire of his mother, Mrs. Jennings paused, and after a few

moments recollection, said--I should very much wish, Mr. De Lancaster,

that Amelia Jones, agitated as I am sure she will be upon the sight of

this most interesting present, might with your permission be allowed to

receive it in the first instance through my hands; that so she may have

time to recollect herself, before she undertakes to pay her

acknowledgments to Mrs. De Lancaster through you, and to you in person;

and I hope, sir, you will believe that I can have no other inducement

for proposing this to you, except that of my consideration for the

feelings of the young and sensitive creature, who is under my immediate

charge.

To this appeal our hero instantly, replied--As I promised my mother

that I would deliver this token of her affection into Miss Jones’s

hands, I confess I wished to have fulfilled my promise; but your

authority supersedes those wishes on my part, and with all possible

respect for your superior judgment, I beg you will transmit this pacquet

to Miss Jones in the way you think best: I am only the bearer of it, and

shall intrude no further--Having risen from his seat whilst he was

uttering these words, he had no sooner made an end of speaking, than he

bolted out of the room with a rapidity, that precluded all reply--Never

will I enter those doors again, he exclaimed as he stepped into the

street, whilst that dragon is within them.--

We make no comment on this hasty proceeding of our disappointed hero:

some of our readers perhaps will find a plea for it; we offer none. The

good lady whose caution had given cause for it, (if any cause there

was) had by the sudden departure of her visitor been precluded from

making any of those efforts for detaining him, which politeness might

else have dictated. He had passed her windows before she had

sufficiently recovered her surprise to attempt at explanation, and she

had now to reflect how far it was, or was not, incumbent upon her to

relate the incident with all its circumstances to Amelia. In her sense

of the responsible situation, in which she stood towards the families of

De Lancaster and Morgan, she conceived it highly behoved her to be

extremely careful how she gave them any grounds to accuse her of

favouring interviews, that in course of time might lead to an

attachment, which she had reason to apprehend might involve her in much

trouble, if considered by those families as originating in her house.

When she had weighed these circumstances in her mind, she found so many

reasons, that justified her reserve towards young De Lancaster, that she

no longer regretted the interruption she had given to a second

interview, which would probably have excited some sensations, and drawn

out some expressions on the part of Amelia, which she by no means was

disposed to encourage. She now took up the pacquet, and entering the

room, where Amelia, unconscious of what had been passing, was employed

upon her studies--My dear child, she said, I have a present for you from

Mrs. Philip De Lancaster, which I am sure you will very highly value,

being a miniature portrait of your father, which that lady has long had

in her possession, and now kindly bestows it upon you--Bless me,

exclaimed Amelia, how very kind that is in Mrs. De Lancaster! What a

good and generous lady she must be. In the meantime she eagerly

proceeded to open the pacquet, which inclosed two shagreen cases, and

instantly taking that, which evidently contained the miniature of her

father, rapturously exclaimed--Oh, what an exquisite, what an admirable

resemblance; how lovely, how divine is the expression of this

countenance! I can look on this with more delight than I can on the

portrait below stairs; for here I behold him happy and in health; there

he appears so melancholy and dejected, that I can hardly ever look upon

it without tears--But what in the name of wonder is this, said she,

opening the case, in which the gold chain was contained? Bless me! can

this fine thing be intended for me? Did Mrs. De Lancaster give me this

also?

I suppose so, said Mrs. Jennings: at least I know nothing to the

contrary.

But who brought it? demanded Amelia; and thus interrogated, Mrs.

Jennings was constrained to answer, that it was brought and delivered to

her by young De Lancaster himself.

Oh then I am sure this chain at least is his present, said the

enraptured girl, (her face flushing, and her eyes glistening with joy)

why didn’t you call me down instantly to pay my thanks to him? Come,

madam! why do we keep him waiting?

Hold, my dear. The gentleman is not waiting: he is gone.

Gone! exclaimed Amelia! you astonish me; you alarm me. Is it possible

Mr. De Lancaster could bring me these fine presents, these inestimable

presents, and go away without seeing me? Ah dear madam, tell me at once

without disguise where is he gone; why is he gone?

Have patience, my dear child, and you shall hear--It was by no means my

wish that he should go without your seeing him, and paying him your

acknowledgments so justly due; but as I did not know to what degree you

might be affected by the sight of your father’s picture, I thought it on

all accounts adviseable to desire Mr. De Lancaster would allow me to be

the bearer of the pacquet to you; for which I assured him I had no other

motive but consideration and regard for your repose; upon which he gave

me the pacquet, expressed himself disappointed, and before I could

answer, left the house.

In anger--

I suspect it.

Ah madam, madam, where then is my repose, which you so cautiously

consulted? Gone for ever. I might have been the happiest of human

beings, I am now the most miserable. Much as I adore the memory of my

father, infinitely as I prize this relique, which presents me with his

image, and dear to me as this token of Mr. De Lancaster’s favour would

have been, yet as he wished to give it to me, and that small, that

trifling gratification was denied to him, never will I wear it, touch

it, look upon it more, till I receive it from his hands, and am assured

of his forgiveness.

Having said this, she burst into tears, and what Mrs. Jennings suggested

for her consolation would not be very interesting to relate.

CHAPTER IX.

_A Hasty Retreat. Meditations by the Way._

When a hasty youth is mounted on a hasty horse, who can foresee where

the spur of passion will transport him? The patience of an ass, or the

obstinacy of a mule might either weary out his anger, or so divert it,

as to give him some chance for recollection; but John and his steed were

in the same humour for a start at score, and it seemed equally

indifferent to both which way they bent their course, so they did but

agree to outrun discretion. They soon left Denbigh behind them, and as

Glen Morgan did not just then occur to the rider, and old Ben could not

come up within earshot to remind him of it, where they might have gone

is mere matter of conjecture, but certainly not to Kray Castle, had not

that inextinguishable spark of humanity, which John cherished in his

bosom, given him a memento, that a generous animal ought not to suffer

merely because a hot-headed rider had got astride upon his back.

The impulse of pity, that now struck upon the heart of John, was

instantaneous. He stopped his horse, dismounted, relieved him by

slackening the stricture of his girths, turned his nostrils to the wind,

wiped the sweat from his face and ears, caressed him and in his heart

asked pardon for the unreasonable fatigue he had exposed him to. Whilst

this was passing Ben came panting up: what he had in mind to say is lost

to the world, forasmuch as being rather pursey, Ben had not breath to

utter it; besides which, the offender having now recollected himself,

had prevented his curiosity at the same time that he softened his

remonstrance, by apologising for his excursion, confessing that he had

forgotten himself, and did not know why he came there, nor where he was.

’Tis very well then that I can tell you whereabouts you are, Ben

replied.

Well! and where am I? John demanded.

Out of your road, said Ben, quite and clean; that’s where you are, and

so I would have told you in good time, hadn’t you gallopped on at such a

pelting rate, that I couldn’t get up to you: And now may I ask without

offence where it is your pleasure to go next?

Home, to the Castle--was the answer.

Then we must not travel quite so fast if you please, said Ben; for the

road is somewhat difficult to hit off, and not over smooth besides.

Lead the way! John replied: go your own pace, and I’ll follow--This

point being adjusted, conversation ceased, and our young hero began to

meditate as follows--

That I have cause to feel and resent the treatment I have received is an

opinion that I still persist in, but I am conscious of the folly I have

been guilty of in suffering myself to be hurried into such ridiculous

excesses, as I have now been giving way to. Of this I am most heartily

ashamed; but after being denied access to Amelia, when coming by my

mother’s authority, and bringing her present in my hand as my

introduction, I hold myself justified in resolving never more to enter

Mrs. Jennings’s doors, nor subject myself to be considered by that

precise repulsive lady as an unwelcome and obnoxious visitor. If there

was no collusion between the governess and her charge, (and I confess

there does not appear to have been any such) I certainly have no reason

to be offended with Amelia, who perhaps may have felt some portion of

that disappointment, which fell so heavily upon me. All that I have

promised and solemnly pledged myself to do in her behalf, I will

faithfully fulfil; but I will not allow Mrs. Jennings to misinterpret my

attentions and suspect that I am governed by any motives with regard to

the lovely and engaging orphan under her care, which are not simply

directed to her service, and strictly consistent with the purest honour:

She shall not therefore be alarmed in future by any assiduities on my

part, which it shall be possible for her to misconstrue and suspect.

Heaven knows I have need enough of instruction, and to my studies under

the direction of my excellent preceptor I will henceforward so totally

devote myself, that if there was any early preference forming at my

heart, which time and opportunity might have ripened into positive

attachment, it is now the moment for me to suppress it, and by

application to acquirements, in which I am so glaringly deficient, give

them all my thoughts, and let no wandering wishes turn them from the

tract, they ought to follow and persist in.

Whilst our young heart-wounded hero was arguing himself into this wise

resolution, and proposing to derive profit from disappointment, he came

within sight of a cottage, whose lonely and desolate situation seemed

ill accordant with the neatness and studied comfort of every thing

about it. Two women were sitting at their needle-work in the little

garden in the front of it, and he was already near enough to distinguish

the features of the youngest before she had started from her seat, and

ran into the house. He was so struck with the resemblance, that she bore

to the daughter of Sir Owen’s minstrel, blind Ap-Rees, of whom we have

made former mention, that he stopped, and put that question to the

elderly dame, who kept her seat: the dame at first did not think fit to

answer, but upon the question being respectfully urged a second

time--Whether that young person was, or was not, Nancy Ap-Rees, she

briefly replied--That young person is my daughter, and my name is not

Ap-Rees.

Then I am mistaken, said John, and rode on.

Satisfied with this answer, which at the present time made but a slight

impression on his thoughts, he proceeded homewards, following his guide

step by step through all the sinuosities of a craggy road, ruminating

upon what had passed at Denbigh, at some times accusing, and at others

acquitting himself for his conduct upon that occasion. He formed a wild

and fanciful conception of those brilliant lights, that science would in

time unfold; but whilst he was enjoying this platonic vision, the

sylph-like image of Amelia would recur to his imagination in the

captivating attitude of standing at his elbow, as once she had been

seen, when, taken by surprise, he caught her in his arms, and

rapturously pressed her to his heart. Thus advancing onwards, though

not conscious of progression, he was at length recalled to recollection

by the sight of Kray Castle, and his reverie dispersed.

* * * * *

The awful character of the time, in which we now live, calls upon every

writer to be cautious how he appeals to the passions of mankind. The

novelist, who is professedly a writer of this description, has no

arbitrary power, independant of morality, over the characters he

exhibits merely because they are fictions of his own inventing: he has

duties, which he is bound to observe, and cannot violate without

offence.

Under this impression, I endeavour to conduct my fable, studious to make

that amiable, which I strive to make attractive; and although, in

obedience to nature, I must mingle shade with light, I flatter myself

that vice of my devising will have no allurements to attach the unwary,

nor virtue be pourtrayed with those romantic attributes, which, bearing

no similitude to real life, leave no impression on the reader’s mind,

nor can be turned to any moral use.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

_Sir Owen ap Owen on his Death-Bed takes leave of Mr. De Lancaster._

There was an apartment in one of the turrets of Kray Castle, which

commanded a fine view of the park and country, bounded by the sea: here

it was that young De Lancaster commenced a course of application to his

studies under the instruction of his excellent preceptor, to which he

devoted himself with so determined a passion for improvement, that it

was not long before he had made a progress in the learned languages,

that would have qualified him to pass muster with most young scholars of

his standing.

Nature had endowed him with a strong and retentive memory, and parts

rather solid than brilliant: he had great industry, a ready apprehension

and a mind turned to enquiry. Few temptations were now sufficiently

alluring to detach him from his books; so grateful to him were the

lectures of his instructor, and so delectable the acquisition of

knowledge, that he sought no pleasures, and seemed to regret all

avocations. His volatility of spirit had now in a great degree subsided;

he became cautious in the company of his seniors, and more disposed to

listen than to talk. The neighbours did not think him mended by his

studies, and the servants, who had been the companions of his puerile

sports, pronounced that he was spoilt.

An unatoned insult still rankled at his heart, and he shunned the sight

of David Owen, not because he feared him, but because he doubted his

own self-command upon the meeting. That arrogant young man had now taken

a decided character; was a loud talker and a bold assertor, and, being

under no restraint, gave himself all the latitude, which the actual

possession of what he was only presumptive heir to, could have

emboldened him to assume.

As for Sir Owen, he was now in the last stage of a decline, never

stirred from his chamber, and was considered by all about him as a man,

who had not many days to live. In this extremity he dispatched a

messenger to Kray Castle to request an interview with his old friend De

Lancaster, who immediately put himself in order to obey the summons. As

soon as his arrival was announced, Sir Owen dismissed his attendants,

and received his worthy visitor alone in his chamber. After the

customary enquiries had passed, the baronet delivered himself as

follows--

I have asked this favour of you, my good friend and neighbour, because I

perceive myself going out of the world, and, having great esteem and

respect for you, I would willingly bid you farewell before I am gone. I

have thought very little about death till it has come upon me as it were

at once; all I know of the matter is that we must all die, and so, you

see, I must take my turn, as others have done before, and every one must

do after me. If it had been my good fortune to have made myself

acceptable to your amiable daughter, I might have lived to enjoy, as you

do now, a healthy old age; but when a man has neither wife nor family

nor friend at hand to jog his memory upon occasion, he will be apt to

forget himself at times, and by going too fast come the sooner to his

journey’s end. That has been my case, friend De Lancaster, and how could

it be otherwise. I have none of those resources that you have; if my

house was full of books, they would be of no use to me; I should not

read one of them; I never had a turn that way. Time was I took delight

in hunting my own hounds; that, you know, is a rational and

gentlemanlike amusement, but when I could no longer follow it up, you

must think, I was fain to fall upon other means for making away with my

time: every man must do that; and what is so natural as to fly to the

pleasure of the table, when we can no longer enjoy the sports of the

field? So long as I could do both, and take them in their turns, all

things went well with me. If a country gentleman like me takes a cup too

much over night, he rides it off the next morning, and there’s an end of

it; but when he is reduced to the helpless situation, in which you now

see me, what is to be done? Life becomes a burden, and the sooner we are

quit of it, the better.

In truth, my good friend, said De Lancaster, I cannot wonder, if a life,

that furnishes no intellectual enjoyments, becomes burdensome: and since

it must be resigned when the disposer of our fate sees fit, it is happy

for us, when called upon to quit this world, if we find upon reflection

that the pleasures of it are not worthy of our regret.

I have had no pleasure in it, replied the dying man, since these people

came out of Spain to molest me. Had your daughter heard reason, when I

first proposed to her, I might have had a son and heir of my own,

British born, and, had that been the case, this mongrel of my brother’s

fathering, half Jew and half Spaniard, might have been a pedlar, and

hawked buckles and buttons about the country to his dying day, for what

I had cared: But that is over, and, except the few personals I have

willed away to huntsman and other of my friends, together with a

keep-sake to your daughter, and my favourite horse Glendowr to my

godson, all the real property I am possessed of must go to David by

entail, and a despicable David he will be, take my word for it.--

He would have said more, and struggled hard for speech, but his efforts

had already exhausted him, and he sunk back in his chair. Robert de

Lancaster rung the bell; the attendants came upon the summons: The good

man cast a pitying look for the last time upon his dying friend and

departed.

CHAPTER II.

_Sir Owen ap Owen Dies._

The next day Sir Owen died, and upon the opening of his will there was

found a bequest to Cecilia De Lancaster of a valuable brilliant diamond,

which he used to display upon his finger on certain days of ceremony,

and a remembrance to his godson John of his favourite hunter Owen

Glendowr. After a proper interval, during which the interment took

place, upon enquiry being made for these tokens, answer was given that

no diamond ring, as described in the will, could be found, and as for

the horse, they might take him away when they would; Sir David Owen saw

no reason why he should find stable room for him, and had ordered him to

be turned out upon the heath.

Galled by this insolent message, our hero with young Williams and two or

three domestics of the castle set out upon the search, and having

traversed the waste for a considerable time, at length discovered the

poor animal, laying in an obscure dell, hamstrung and dead.

When young De Lancaster cast his eyes upon the carcase of this fine

animal, and saw the wounds, that had been inflicted on him, it was with

the utmost difficulty he could command himself so far as to abstain from

any animadversions, that might indicate to the people with him, that his

suspicions pointed at Sir David Owen. He caused them to collect and

pile a heap of stones to mark the spot. He sate upon his horse in

melancholy silence, whilst this work was going on, and having imposed

like forbearance on his party, and completed what he was about, he bade

them follow him, and took his course to the castle.

Whilst this was going on consultation was held at the castle with the

family lawyer upon the circumstance of the diamond ring. In the

discussion of this delicate question the man of law and the man of

learning did not quite agree upon the means to be pursued; but as Davis,

although a pertinacious lawyer, had generally more resources at his

command than he chose all at once to call out, a compromise was made for

time, and the deliberation brought no other point to a conclusion,

except that it was agreed upon to deliberate further on some future

occasion.

John now arrived and in his grandfather’s hearing simply related his

adventure in search of the horse. Mr. De Lancaster was much less

reserved upon this subject than he had been on that of the ring. He even

declared that the wretch, who had been guilty of so barbarous and

malevolent an action was not fit to live: he would give twice the value

of the animal to discover the perpetrator, and Davis immediately

proposed to issue hand bills, offering a liberal reward for that

discovery. To this measure the old gentleman in the warmth of his

resentment gave no opposition, and one hundred pounds was determined

upon as the premium for information.

As soon as our young hero found himself alone with his friend and tutor

Wilson, he avowed the most unreserved suspicion of Sir David Owen--Could

there be any doubt, he demanded, if the wretch, who would not give the

horse the shelter of his stable, could have been any other than the

contriver, if not the actual perpetrator, of the cruelty, that had been

practised upon him? was there any name too bad for such a spiteful

rascal; he would post him upon every whipping post and stocks, in every

ale-house, barber’s shop and blacksmith’s shed throughout the county: he

would set a hundred men to work, and erect a pyramid of stones upon the

horse’s grave, that should perpetuate his infamy to ages.

Heyday, exclaimed Wilson; you are very fertile in devising methods of

revenge, and seem to forget, that you have neither yet brought

conviction to the criminal, or, if you had, that the law will put the

power of punishment into your hands; can you not recollect how much more

noble it is, how much more becoming of a christian and a gentleman, to

forgive than to revenge a wrong? I must wonder where you found that

bitterness of spirit, that would prompt you to entail a never ending

animosity upon your respective families. Can you suppose your

grandfather, your aunt or your parents could be reconciled to such a

proceeding? Certainly not. I am persuaded therefore you will dismiss all

meditations of so revengeful a nature, and wait the event of the

measures, which Davis has in hand for discovering the offender, and in

the meantime, recollect that if you cannot absolutely avoid entertaining

a suspicion, you can at least abstain from publishing it.

I have abstained, he replied, except towards you to whom I open all my

heart; but as I am persuaded that the perpetrator of this scandalous

action, if ever he is traced to conviction, will be found in the person

of him, whom I suspect, before that happens I wish you would contrive to

take or send me out of the way; for unless I were to imprison myself in

the castle, I might chance to cross upon that unworthy gentleman in my

excursions, and indeed, my good sir, I am far from sure, that I should

be capable of that self command and forbearance, which you recommend to

me.

It is to be presumed the substance of this conversation was reported at

head quarters, for the next morning John was summoned before his

grandfather and his aunt in the library, when the former of these

addressed him in the following terms.

John De Lancaster and my grandson, attend to what I am about to say to

you--I would have you to understand and remember that revenge is not

amongst the attributes of a hero, or the virtues of a christian. It

behoves me therefore to caution you against it: I hold it as my

indispensible duty to apprise you of what is expected from a gentleman

of your pure and unpolluted descent through successive generations from

times of the remotest antiquity to the present moment, in which you are

standing before me, the last and only hope, whereon I rest my fortune

and my name. You conceive yourself injured and affronted by a rash and

inconsiderate young man, your senior by some few years, who now inherits

the title and estate of my late friend and neighbour Sir Owen ap Owen:

upon this suspicion, for it amounts to nothing more, you meditate

revenge. Are you quite convinced you can with honour own yourself

affronted by him? I will not speak degradingly of any person’s family,

whether it be Spanish, or whether it be Jewish; but to one, or to the

other, of these we must resort for the pedigree of Sir David’s mother. I

draw no inference from this; I leave it with you for your consideration.

Recollect yourself however, my dear child; compute your age, your

strength, and, if there were no other bar to your resentment, how are

you to execute it? Puerile resentment--What is that? A boyish scuffle it

may be; an interchange perhaps of blows; and what is the result of

blows?--Eternal enmity--Can the spirit of a De Lancaster endure a blow?

Impossible. Sacred and inviolable as the oath of the young Hannibal

against Rome, would be his resolution to avenge himself upon the giver

of that blow.

Ah, sir, sir! exclaimed Cecilia, are you not going from your point, and

justifying what you truly said was not fitting either for a hero or a

christian? I beg you will allow me to send my nephew out of the room,

for I have something to impart to you, that I would not wish him to

hear.

John, who knew too well what his aunt alluded to, instantly left the

room; but the words were irrevocable; the fatal authority, so congenial

with his feeling, had sunk into his heart never to be eradicated.

As soon as he was gone Cecilia apologized to her father for the

interruption she had been guilty of; she said, that knowing, as she did,

that her nephew had for a considerable time past harboured resentment

against young Owen for a blow, she could not but regret that he should

hear a justification of his resentment from such high authority as she

feared would outweigh any thing, that his tutor could advise against it.

Whether this remark, which was confessedly not very politic on the part

of poor alarmed Cecilia, or the consciousness of having overshot his

argument, piqued and disconcerted the good old man, certain it is he did

not receive his daughter’s apology with his usual suavity and candour,

but coldly answered that he was not bound to revoke his opinions merely

because they might not chance to conform with those of Mr. Wilson; and

least of all, said he, should I have suspected that you, Cecilia, who

have ever shewn such deference to my authority, should be alarmed lest

it might outweigh that of any other person.

Heaven forbid, cries Cecilia, that I should ever fail to reverence that

wisdom, which I am of an age to comprehend, but which a youth like my

nephew may misconceive and construe not according to reason and its true

sense, but according to the bent and impulse of his own passions.

You are right, said De Lancaster, recovering his complacency, you are

right, my dear child, and I am sorry that I alluded to the example of

young Hannibal, as I have ever disapproved of Hanno for bringing him at

so early an age to the altar, and implanting hatred and revenge in his

heart by a solemn oath for ever. All this while take notice, I am an

enemy to blows; I never struck your brother Philip in my life, nor

should allow of his striking my grandson John; at the same time there

are blows, that inflict no disgrace; the blows for instance, that are

received in battle, when combating the enemies of our country, where the

hero, although bleeding with his wounds, spares the life of the

opponent, who asks it of him and submits himself to his mercy. I shall

speak upon this more at large to my grandson, and define to him the

several characters and descriptions of blows in such a manner, as may

enable him to distinguish which may be passed over, and which may not;

copying the example of the Sage Chiron the Centaur, who, when tutoring

his pupil young Achilles upon the nature of blows, put a whip into his

hand, and set him astride on his own back, threatening at the same time

to kick him off without mercy, if he ventured to make use of it.

With submission to your better judgment, said Cecilia, smiling at the

ridiculousness of the allusion, I should conceive it may be well to

postpone this lecture till our young Achilles is more able to understand

it, and in the meantime, till this matter of the ham-strung horse is

cleared up, to send him out of harm’s way with his tutor Mr. Wilson, who

meditates to pay a visit to his parish, and has, as you well know,

repairs and improvements to superintend at his parsonage house, where

your people are at work for his accommodation.

Your advice is excellent, my dear Cecilia, cried De Lancaster, rising

from his seat, and shall be strictly followed: Let John be off with the

lark to-morrow morning, and no fear but, in the peaceful mansion of the

christian teacher of forgiveness, he will recover his tranquillity, and

consign all injuries to oblivion.

It was not many minutes after this conversation had passed, when Mr. De

Lancaster, addressing himself to his friend Wilson, said--I perceive, my

good colonel, that the knowledge, which a man gets in his library is of

very little use to himself or others in the world at large: I suspect

that I have been reading every thing to no purpose, whilst Cecilia, who

has read scarce any thing, is wiser than I am.

Aye my good sir, replied Wilson, ’tis even so: we must carry our grey

hairs to school, and learn wisdom of our children. If we would wish to

know what the world is about, we must not enquire of those, who are out

of it, but of those, who are in it.

CHAPTER III.

_Our Hero sets out upon a Visit to his Tutor at his Parsonage House.

Occurrences by the Way._

In a fine autumnal morning, whilst the sun was mounting in the clear

horizon, the Reverend Mr. Wilson and his pupil took their departure from

the castle. They had not less than twenty Welch computed miles to

traverse over a romantic country before they reached the parsonage house

at Shells, now prepared for their reception. What were the prospects,

that opened upon them by the way, how wild, how various, how sublime, we

shall not study to describe, though all the requisites of mountain, wood

and water are at our command, and court us to employ them. If these

beautiful objects lost their effect upon our hero John, it was in great

part owing to another beautiful object, not then present, which greatly

occupied his thoughts, as the immediate scene of his meditation just

then laid at Denbigh, where the young Amelia, unseen but not forgotten,

still kept possession of his heart. The point, towards which he was

shaping his course, would bring him nearer to Denbigh by more than half

the distance between that place and Kray Castle, and though his mind was

not perfectly at peace with respect to Mrs. Jennings, he felt every

tender sentiment for her unoffending charge, and cherished a fond hope

that some happy opportunity might occur to repay him for the

disappointment he had met with and the long absence he had endured.

Whilst our young hero, wholly occupied in these meditations, was

incautiously riding along a slippery path in his descent from the

heights, his horse’s footing failed him and he fell upon his knees:

being an active horseman he lost neither his seat nor his temper, but it

brought other ideas to his recollection, and turning to his companion he

calmly observed, that had his favourite Glendowr been under him, nothing

of that sort could have happened--and what a treasure, added he, have I

been defrauded of? what kind of heart must that man have who could turn

a fine animal, that had been cloathed and pampered in the stable, naked

on a barren heath, only because an uncle, who had left him every think

else, had bequeathed this one token of his remembrance to me as his

godson?

At this instant lawyer Davis rode up to them on a brisk gallop, and

saluting them as he reined in his horse, cried out--Well met,

gentlemen; I thought I kenn’d you as I crossed the hill, and hastened to

give you the intelligence, that I am carrying to the castle, of my

having got such information, as will secure ample damages for the loss

of Sir Owen’s legacy of the horse, and expose to the world one of the

basest and most rascally transactions, that was ever brought to light.

As Davis uttered these words young John De Lancaster turned a look upon

Mr. Wilson that could not fail to be understood, and desired Davis to

relate the particulars--They are soon told, he replied, for the informer

Joe Johnson, who was feeder to Sir Owen’s hounds, has deposed, that by

the express order of his present master the young baronet betook the

horse called Owen Glendowr out of the stable in the evening of the 12th

instant, and accompanied by the said Sir David led him to a bye spot on

the mountain, where in a dell they contrived by ropes to cast, and then

and there to hamstring him by deep incisions on the sinews of his legs,

leaving the poor mangled animal to expire in tortures. Johnson describes

his reluctance to obey commands of so barbarous a nature, but his master

was peremptory, and had caused him to be plied with liquor till he was

so intoxicated, that unless Sir David himself had assisted in the act,

he could not have executed it.

Davis having related these particulars, addressing himself to Mr. Edward

Wilson, added--’Tis a villainous business, reverend sir, a very

villainous business, and if old Mr. De Lancaster shall think fit to

bring it into court, I would not be in Sir David’s case for his estate.

Mr. De Lancaster will do no such thing, said Wilson, that you may rely

upon--No, no, cried John, ’tis not a case to be settled in that way: I’m

satisfied my grandfather will not resort to the law, nor accept of any

compensation for the injury I have suffered from Sir David Owen and his

dog-kennel accomplice. The man, who degrades his character by an action

of that sort, puts his person out of the reach of a gentleman’s

resentment.

This said, the conference broke off: the companions proceeded on their

way, and Davis shaped his course towards the mansion of De Lancaster.

When there arrived and admitted to an audience in the library, he stated

facts rather more circumstantially from the chair than he had done from

the saddle, and having concluded, the old gentleman remained silent for

some time, pondering in his mind the measures he should take: at length,

breaking forth in a tone, that bespoke his resolution formed, he

said--Davis, we must save this wretched young man, if it be possible.

He, who has dabbled in the blood of an animal, may be wrought by

desperation to attempt the life of a fellow creature: he is young, and

may be turned to better thoughts; I am old, and must not be extreme in

justice: Furthermore, I must confess to you, Davis, that I am not quite

reconciled to the means we have taken for eliciting this information

from a scoundrel dog-feeder by the lure of a reward. Your law, I know,

allows it; but your law and my conscience do not always harmonize. This

very fellow, whom we have paid for confessing the act, was probably

paid also for committing it: that is a traffic in iniquity, which I am

sorry to have countenanced. However I will write to Mrs. David Owen, who

in her twofold capacity of mother and guardian, seems the properest

person to recall this young offender to a due contrition for his

offence.

I should doubt that, Davis replied; I am much afraid, worthy sir, you

would not mend your chance by that appeal; for I have another unlucky

evidence in my possession of a damned Jew’s trick in the article of the

diamond ring--

Speak to the point, friend Davis, said the old gentleman, but spare your

expletives; for oaths are not ornaments to an honest man’s discourse--

I ask pardon, rejoined Davis; but really, sir, when one hears of such

scandalous practices, as are carried on in that family between mother

and son, it is enough to make a parson swear--

I should hope not, said De Lancaster; but what do you allude to?--

Why you must know, replied the lawyer, I had my suspicions that all was

not right in the going of the diamond ring, bequeathed to Madam Cecilia,

and reported _non est inventus_; so it came into my mind, that it might

not be amiss to put the old proverb into practice, and set a thief to

catch a thief--

Speak, if you please, without a proverb, said the good old man; I shall

comprehend you better; for in my opinion, Mr. Davis, when our

conversation is to turn upon thieves, the sooner it is concluded, so

that we may dismiss them from our thoughts, the better it will be for us

both.

CHAPTER IV.

_The Humanity of De Lancaster is not permitted to obtain its End._

Our readers will recollect a certain Jew pedlar, Israel Lyons by name,

of whom we have heretofore made mention: this man was in the habit of

employing Davis as his man of business for collecting debts, and

enforcing payments. In the course of his late circuit he had called upon

him, and consulted him upon a secret transaction he had engaged in with

Mrs. Owen respecting a diamond ring of considerable value, which he was

to dispose of in Holland on her account, and for which he had deposited

security in her hands. Upon the production of this ring Davis instantly

recognised it to be the very ring devised to Cecilia by Sir Owen in his

will. Lyons, who immediately saw the danger of his negotiation in its

proper light, readily consented to accompany Davis to Kray Castle for

the purpose of more fully identifying the ring, and to this it was that

Davis alluded, when he was answered by De Lancaster, as was related in

the preceding chapter. He now shewed the ring to that gentleman, who no

sooner cast his eyes upon it, than he said--Put it by! I am satisfied.

So was not Davis, but importunately demanded how he was to proceed--Not

at all, replied De Lancaster, not at all. I am neither prepared to blast

the heir of the Owens for the consideration of a horse, which I can

replace from my own stable, nor the mother of that heir for a bauble,

which I desire you will return to the pedlar, and take care that I have

no concern with dog-feeders, or with Jews.

Davis, struck with astonishment, exclaimed--This is above my

comprehension; it must be as you please; but you will give me leave to

take care of myself, and keep out of the scrape of compromising felony.

With these words he departed, and a servant, entering the room at the

same moment, announced the names of three gentlemen, who solicited a

private conference with Mr. De Lancaster; they were persons of

respectability in the county, but not in the habit of visiting at the

castle, being of the opposite party in politics, and zealously attached

to the interests of the ancient house of Owen.

The venerable owner of Kray Castle met them at the door of his

apartment, and received them with all possible courtesy and respect.

When they were seated, Sir Arthur Floyd (a name not new to the reader of

this history) opened the business as follows--

We wait upon you, Mr. De Lancaster, as friends of the lately deceased

Sir Owen ap Owen, and in virtue of the regard, in which we hold his

memory, are solicitous to preserve the like good opinion of the

successor to his estate and title. A report, which, if true, would stamp

indelible disgrace upon his character, has reached us, relative to his

treatment of a certain favourite horse, which our departed friend

bequeathed to your grandson; we know you lived on terms of friendship

with Sir Owen, and we trust you will participate in our motives, when we

request you (who must of course be acquainted with the particulars, we

are anxious to be informed of) to say whether or not there is any

foundation for the report we allude to.

Gentlemen, said De Lancaster, it is a fact that the horse, which you

describe as a favourite of my late friend, was bequeathed by him to my

grandson John.

And is your grandson now in possession of that horse? In plainer terms,

is the horse alive? This question was not put by Sir Arthur Floyd, and

Mr. De Lancaster, turning to him, with some discomposure demanded, if it

were expected of him to answer all manner of interrogatories in a case,

which he was desirous of dismissing from his thoughts.

To this Sir Arthur Floyd replied, that with all imaginable respect for

his character as a gentleman of the highest honour, they did expect of

him to answer all such questions, as might be honourably put to him in

the matter of a charge so fatal to the reputation of Sir David Owen, if

true; so injurious, if false. We presume also to remind you, sir, that

where the name of De Lancaster is attached to a report, it is such an

authority as no man can dispute, and of course no man ought to doubt.

Upon a point of honour therefore, which by consequence affects yourself

not less than it does us, we conjure you to tell us plainly whether the

horse be dead or living.

The horse is dead; in that state he was found by my grandson and his

servant on the heath.

You will permit us to ask, said one of the party, if there were not

marks of violence upon the carcase; in short, sir, was not the horse

hamstrung upon all his legs?

I am told he was.

Was there any enquiry made as to the perpetrator, or perpetrators, of

that butchery?

I am constrained to say there was. Lawyer Davis made enquiry.

And when lawyer Davis traced out the perpetrators of that most shameful

act, have the goodness to inform us whether he did, or did not, find

evidence to implicate Sir David Owen as a party in the act itself.

Let lawyer Davis answer that himself, replied De Lancaster in a firm

tone of voice; I decline it, and you must excuse me.

We shall refer ourselves to lawyer Davis, said the spokesman, and we

hope you will permit your grandson and his servant to attend on the

occasion. If we find Sir David Owen guilty on the charge, this will be

no country for him to live in; at least he cannot live in it with us. In

the mean time we thank you, worthy sir, for your very handsome reception

of us, and shall be ever forward to bear testimony to your candour and

delicacy towards the character of a most unhappy young man, if our fears

prove true. We are sensible, Mr. De Lancaster, you could have said much

more, and we know that it was honour alone, that extorted from you what

you did say, and generosity, that suppressed what you did not say.

The party were now rising to take their leave, when the old gentleman

entreated their patience for a few minutes--we have been discoursing, he

said, upon a very unpleasant subject. The young man, who now wears the

title of my departed friend, is just entering on the world, and being

native of another country, and not educated amongst us, may perhaps have

been betrayed into some irregularities, that cannot stand a rigid

scrutiny; I will venture therefore to submit to you, whether it may not

be advisable to let this affair pass over without any further

investigation, assured as you may be, that the charge shall never be

stirred by me, or any one of my family.

To this Sir Arthur Floyd made answer as follows--What you have now

proposed to us, Mr. De Lancaster, is a proof of that candour and

benignity, which have ever marked your character; but you know full well

what has long been the state of party interests in this county, and to

which side we have hitherto adhered; you must also be aware that the day

is not far off, when probably we must again declare ourselves: It

behoves us therefore to be made secure of the honour and character of

that gentleman, young although he is, on whom that consequence and

leading interest have devolved, which we have been accustomed to look up

to. We must therefore in our own justification decline your generous

proposal, which we are convinced you would not have made, had you not

been satisfied, or suspicious at least, of the young man’s criminality.

This said they rose, and with much courteous ceremony on both sides took

their leave, and departed.

CHAPTER V.

_Philip De Lancaster sets out upon his Travels._

When De Lancaster had reseated himself in his chair, and devoted a few

minutes to meditation, the door of his library was opened, and our young

hero respectfully approached him to receive his welcome and embrace.

What brings thee hither, John De Lancaster? said the grandfather.

My father sent for me.

That’s true; that’s true. He would take his leave of you before he sets

out upon his journey to the south of France. An opinion has prevailed

that your mother must winter in a warmer climate, and your father is

going to make preparations for her residence at Montpelier. Upon these

occasions I do not chuse to interpose: he will follow his own fancy, and

that is about as likely to lead him to Jerusalem as to Montpelier: and

your mother, John, your mother, never will go hence but to her grave.

Nature is in absolute decay; her vital powers are exhausted, and

Llewellyn either knows her inability to undertake the journey, or is

blockhead enough to believe it practicable, and knows nothing of his

business. You will say, why do I not dissuade your father from setting

out upon this fruitless journey? I answer, because it is not worth my

while; for whom does it concern in what spot of earth upon this

habitable globe a listless creature doses out unprofitable time? Let him

go, let him go; I rest no further hopes on him. The tree, which

emblematically bears the fortunes of my house, is withering at the top,

dead in its middle branches, whilst there is yet one scyon, that has

life and vigour: Yes, my child, I am passing away; thy father is gone

by, but thou, with the blessing of providence, art springing up and

bursting into bloom, I have thy tutor’s testimony strongly vouched in

thy favour, and with rapture I contemplate the auspicious promise of

those dawning virtues, which in the riper character of the man will be

the ornament and safe-guard of our ancient stock. And now, John, I must

apprise thee of an affair, that will put those virtues to the test. Some

neighbouring gentlemen, who are amongst the chief supporters of the Owen

interest, have this morning been with me to enquire into the

circumstances of Sir David’s treatment of you in the matter of the horse

bequeathed to you by your godfather; and they are determined to call

upon you and Davis for your evidence, that they may sift it to the

bottom.

With all my heart, cried John, the colour mounting to his cheeks. I

desire nothing better than to meet Sir David Owen face to face, and

depose what I know of that rascally transaction in the most public

manner before all his friends, be they who they may.

Hold, hold, my child, said De Lancaster, you must not forget how much

modesty and forbearance become your years. You must put all angry

thoughts aside, when you are called upon to speak the truth without

prejudice or animosity; and that you may be kept in mind of that duty, I

shall desire your worthy tutor to accompany you to that discussion.

I hope you will not think that necessary, John replied, for if I have

nothing to do but to speak the truth, I trust I do not want a tutor to

teach me that.

Go then, said De Lancaster; be it as thou sayest! for I perceive the

spirit of my race, which has passed over thy father, descends upon thee.

Go, when thou art called for; but remember, truth must not be told with

aggravation, nor in our resort to justice must we gratify revenge.

At this moment Mr. Philip De Lancaster walked into the room, and

addressing himself after his cool manner to his son--You are come just

in time, he said, for I have taken leave of your mother, and have

nothing to do but to pay my duty to my father, and set out upon my

journey. I leave you in the care of such good friends, that you stand in

no need of any advice from me; and, if you did, I know not what else I

could say to you, but to recommend it to you to be a good boy, to pay

attention to your tutor, to carry yourself dutifully to your

grandfather, mother and aunt, to recollect that you are but a child in

age and understanding, and in a word to mind your book and say your

prayers. Now go up to your mother; she expects you in her bed chamber;

tread softly, (do you mind) and be careful of alarming her, for, though

she bore parting from me with perfect tranquillity, the least noise will

shake her nerves, and throw her into tremors.

I shall observe your caution, sir, the youth replied; but if it is your

pleasure that I should attend upon you again before you take your

departure, I will simply pay my duty to my mother, and wait upon you to

your carriage.

No, no, child, cried the father, there is no occasion for that ceremony.

I don’t wish any body to attend upon me to my carriage, but the

servant, that goes with me.

The disappointed youth cast a parting look of sensibility on his father,

bowed respectfully and left the room.

I perceive, son Philip, said the old gentleman, that, nearly allied as

you are to my grandson John, you are not acquainted with his manly

character, when you talk to him as to a child--but of this we will say

no more--so long as I have life his education will be my care, and at my

death it will be found I have not been less careful of his interest. You

are now going to the continent, and I sincerely wish you health and a

pleasant tour; but if you calculate upon Mrs. De Lancaster’s chance of

ever reaching Montpelier, I greatly fear you will be disappointed, and I

therefore recommend it to you to postpone providing an establishment

for her there or elsewhere, till you are further advised from us. Your

equipage I see is waiting, and nothing remains for me, but to bid you

heartily farewell.

This said, they both rose, embraced and parted never to meet again.

CHAPTER VI.

_Dark Doings at the Abbey of Penruth._

When long disease hath sapped the vital powers, and death creeps on by

painless slow approaches, the mind is oftentimes observed to assume a

dignified composure, and even an elevation of sentiment, which did not

appear to belong to it in the body’s better health: so it was with the

mother of our hero. She was reposing on her couch with Cecilia sitting

by her side, and when her son approached raised herself up to receive

him--I am delighted to see you, my dear child, she said, and I hope your

grandfather will consent to your residing in the castle for the very

short time I have yet to live: though I have little strength to hold

discourse with you, yet it is a consolation to know you are within my

call, and that, so long as sight is not taken from me, I may gratify

that sense--nay, my beloved son, don’t shed a tear for me--rather

rejoice that I am drawing near to the end of a dull journey, joyless at

the best, and not less wearisome to others than to myself. I have parted

from your father: if he persuades himself that I shall follow him, it is

a harmless delusion; if he does not, it is a commodious plea to escape

a trouble, and exchange a melancholy scene for an amusing one; at all

events, whatever object he may have in view, I hope that you, who have

never experienced his care, will have no occasion to lament his absence.

To this John made some answer not necessary to record, when by a signal

from his aunt understanding that his mother stood in need of silence and

repose, he took the hint and quietly departed. The project of his

passing a few weeks with Mr. Wilson at the parsonage was now laid aside,

and in compliance with his mother’s wishes, he resumed his station and

his studies at the castle, holding himself ever ready to obey her

summons, when she wished to see him.

The next morning brought Sir Arthur Floyd once more to the castle. He

came to ask the favour of young De Lancaster’s company at his own house,

and that he would allow his servant Williams to attend together with

lawyer Davis, who would provide himself with the deposition of Sir

David’s feeder. It was matter of no small regret to the good old man

that these gentlemen were so resolute to persist in their investigation

of this odious business, but having pledged his word, he would not

retract it, and young John who had not all those repugnant feelings,

which his grandfather had, was speedily equipped, and having put himself

under the convoy of Sir Arthur Floyd, soon found himself in his

conductor’s house, and greeted with all possible politeness by the

gentlemen there assembled. Sir David Owen was not yet arrived, and some

began to doubt if he would attend the meeting. At length he was

discovered coming down the avenue, followed by his huntsman and his

groom, himself and his attendants being in the uniform of the hunt.

Upon his entering the room, where the company had assembled, he either

did not see, or chose to take no notice of De Lancaster: but observing

to the gentlemen, that having understood them to be called together for

the purpose of arranging the rules and regulations of the union-hunt, he

expected to have found them in their proper colours, and wished to be

informed if any thing had occurred to give them dissatisfaction.

We naturally expect that question from you, said Sir Arthur Floyd, and

are prepared to answer, that until you can vindicate yourself from a

charge, that is made against you, we are and ought to be dissatisfied,

and therefore it is we do not shew our colours, till we are convinced by

you we need not be ashamed to wear them.

How am I to convince you of that, gentlemen, but by wearing them myself?

However as you insinuate, that a charge is made against me, let me know

the nature of that charge, and who it is, that presumes to circulate any

thing to my discredit.

Hear me with patience, Sir Arthur replied, and I will state it to you

without aggravation. You are suspected to have mal-treated the favourite

horse Glendowr, which your uncle left by will to this young gentleman,

Mr. John De Lancaster, here present.

I see that he is present, but I do not see the right by which he meets

the members of a hunt, that he has no concern with. He is here however;

such is your pleasure, and I presume he is here for some purpose, best

known to yourselves. I am suspected, it seems: what answer can I give to

that? Can you substantiate any charge against me? If you can, state it.

This it is, said Sir Arthur, rising from his seat--The horse, that

consistently with the manners of a gentleman, ought to have been

delivered according to the purport of your uncle’s will, or at least

carefully retained in your stable, was unhandsomely turned out upon the

mountain, and there found hamstrung in every leg, most barbarously and

feloniously mangled, and dying dead upon the ground.

Who found him there?

I found him, young De Lancaster replied; I and my servant found him

there, and in that very condition, which you have heared described.

Well, if you did, what is all that to me?

It is to you, rejoined Sir Arthur Floyd, if the deposition of your own

menial servant, charging you as the instigator to, and accomplice in,

that barbarous act, cannot be done away. This man is now waiting with

Mr. Davis the attorney, ready to substantiate his averment upon oath,

and I am the magistrate, that will administer it to him, if you so

require.

Not I, not I, exclaimed the haughty culprit: I will not condescend to

answer to a charge, that is evidenced by a dog-feeder, contrived,

abetted and encouraged by a mercenary attorney. I came to meet you here

as brother sportsmen, I find you what I will not say. As for that

attorney, whom I know to be in the pay and employ of my enemy, I hold

him as a wretch too despicable for any notice on my own account; let

him propagate and pursue his charge against me as he will, I care not;

but I accuse him, and will have him prosecuted to the utmost rigour of

the law, as the slanderer and defamer of my innocent and injured mother.

Davis, who had entered the room, unseen of young Owen, and planted

himself behind his chair, now stept forward, and demanded to know of

what he was accused. It was not immediately that the arrogance of this

hardened youth, thus taken by surprise, could recover from his

embarrassment; at length, after some hesitation, being again called upon

to explain himself, he turned to Davis with an assumed air of bravery,

and said--I am given to understand you have not scrupled to affix upon

my mother Mrs. Owen the abominable scandal of having secreted a

valuable diamond ring, which appears in my uncle’s will as a legacy to

Mrs. Cecilia De Lancaster; but which ring after the minutest search is

no where to be found. This I aver to be a libel of the grossest sort.

And so it would be, I confess, said Davis, were I not provided with

evidence to prove that this same valuable diamond ring was found by Mrs.

Owen, and by her consigned to the Jew Israel Lyons, under the seal of

secresy, and upon security by him given for the value, to be by him

taken out of the kingdom and sold in Holland on her account and for her

emolument. I have the ring here in my hand ready to produce, the very

ring, which was bequeathed by your uncle, and which you say could not be

found amongst the effects of the deceased. Bear witness for me,

gentlemen, I am compelled to produce this article in my own defence, and

do not voluntarily disobey the positive injunctions of my worthy patron

Mr. De Lancaster, who honourably commanded me to stifle the discovery,

and put up with any injuries, rather than expose the parties to shame,

so much more care had that good gentleman for them than they have had

for themselves; but thus accused, and forced on my defence, what could I

do but what I now have done?

To this no answer was attempted: astonishment seized the company: Sir

David Owen started from his seat, and glancing a malicious look upon our

young hero as he passed him--I’ll not forget you, sir, he cried: the

time will come when you shall hear of this.

CHAPTER VII.

_Events consequential of the Meeting at Sir Arthur Floyd’s. The last

Chapter of the Second Book._

As soon as the convicted baronet had made his hasty exit, the parties

present in their court of honour on the spot unanimously adjudged him

infamous, and with one voice voted him unworthy of their acquaintance.

The question was stirred if any notice should be taken of the ring,

produced by Davis in his own defence. To this it was objected, that as

it had no concern with the case immediately before them, it was

conceived advisable to pass it over, and leave Mr. De Lancaster to act

as he saw fit. They had heard with indignation the insolent menace,

which Owen had thrown out as he was leaving the room, and they

unanimously besought our hero to treat it with its due contempt; Sir

Arthur Floyd in particular insisted upon his right, as master of the

house, to take all such affronts upon himself: John made his

acknowledgment to the speaker with a respectful bow, but offered no

reply.

When he called for his horse to return to the castle, they were six in

number, all principal supporters of the Owen interest, who mounted at

the same time, and having escorted him every step of the way to his

home, rode with him into the castle court, where the venerable host,

summoned by the tolling of his porter’s bell, presented himself to bid

them welcome at the great hall door: his orange-tawney livery-men stood

behind him in their files, and he ushered them into the saloon, where

they were received in form by Cecilia, who was there attending with

Colonel Wilson and his son Edward, the preceptor of their companion

John.

When all introductory ceremonials were over, Sir Arthur Floyd, their

spokesman as before, recounted briefly what had passed, and the

resolution they had taken of abandoning an unworthy connection, and for

the future giving their support decidedly in favour of the house of

Lancaster, whenever opportunity presented itself of demonstrating their

attachment.

To this De Lancaster made answer, that the honour they conferred upon

him, was at once so unexpected and so unmerited, that he felt himself

ill prepared to find expressions, that might do justice to his

feelings.--My holdings, he said, in this county, it is well known are

not of yesterday; they have devolved upon me through a series of

ancestors, in whose steps I have endeavoured to tread, and to whose

politics and opinions, (as far as I could guess what they would have

been in these times by what they appear to have been in their own) I

have steadily adhered. Little as I know of the secrets of government, I

may have been in error; but if I have been pertinacious in opinion, I

trust I have never been found illiberal or unneighbourly to those

honourable gentlemen, who differed from me. I lived in friendship with

Sir Owen, and we never suffered politics to damp the harmony of our

social hours. I lamented his death; but the disgrace, that has fallen on

his family in the person of his successor, is to me extremely grievous:

I fear it has gone too far to be entirely remedied, but some alleviation

may perhaps be thought of, if in addition to the honour you have

already shewn me, you will be pleased to confirm our friendly contract

by consenting to partake my homely meal.

The hospitality of Kray Castle was in no danger of being put out of

countenance by any want of preparation; the guests sate down to a

plenteous board, and the genius of Cecilia added elegance to abundance.

What the benevolence of De Lancaster could obtain for Sir David Owen

amounted only to a general promise, that the affair should be allowed to

sleep, and no further notice taken of any thing, that passed during the

discussion at Sir Arthur Floyd’s.

It is to be presumed that De Lancaster was punctilious in returning the

visit of every gentleman, who had dined with him at the castle. On these

occasions he was constantly accompanied by his grandson, so that the

old state coach and fat horses were for a time in more than ordinary

requisition.

Whilst they were upon a visit at Sir Arthur Floyd’s a very beautiful

horse, which was purposely led out of the stable, attracted every body’s

notice, and particularly that of our young hero, who ran out of doors to

have a nearer view of him. A little stable-boy was mounted on his back,

and put him through his paces on the lawn before the house: the

gentleness of the fine animal was as much to be admired as the beauty.

John was asked if he would back him; the proposal was immediately

accepted, and as there was a fine expanse of lawn for John’s equestrian

performances, he took a considerable circuit, and having given a very

handsome specimen of his jockeyship, returned in perfect raptures with

the horse, pronouncing him to be incomparably the best he had ever

mounted, his lamented favourite Glendowr alone excepted. The horse was

put into the stable, and nothing more passed upon the subject at that

time.

In the evening John returned with his grandfather to the castle, when

upon stepping out of the coach, a letter was put into his hand, that had

the signature of the several gentlemen of the new coalition, and was to

the following purport--

“Dear Sir,

As you seemed pleased with the horse, which we invited you to make

trial of, we have taken the liberty of putting him into your

stable, and jointly request that you will not refuse to gratify us

by your acceptance of him. When we tell you he is full brother to

Glendowr, we flatter ourselves we cannot better recommend him to

you, and when we assure you, that we can no otherwise be reconciled

to the disgrace of our late connection with Sir David Owen, except

by your allowing us to present you with this token of our esteem,

we trust you will not mortify us by a refusal.

We have the honour to be,

&c. &c.”

Though John was highly delighted with this present, he did not consider

himself secure in the possession of it, till he had submitted the letter

to his grandfather. The good old man was under no difficulty as to his

decision, for luckily this was one of the few questions, that in his

contemplation did not wear two faces; so that he said at once, applying

himself to his friend Colonel Wilson--I see no reason why my grandson

should decline this very handsome compliment.

There is no reason, said the colonel.

And why is there none? rejoined the other: why, but because a horse, or

a sword, is by all the rules of chivalry, a present of honour, which it

is no degradation to accept, though it were tendered to a general or a

prince?

I conceive it degrades no man to accept a present from a friend.

I am not sure of that. Friendship can sanctify many things, but not all.

An equipoise of favours is essential to friendship, but an overweight

throws it out of its balance: it then becomes patronage, and the party

obliged incurs a debt, which although it be the debt of gratitude,

entails a duty upon him, and is not of the true spirit of friendship.

Therefore it is that a king can hardly have a real friend--“Gods, how I

should love Augustus, said a certain Roman, if he were not Cæsar.” The

anecdote is to the point of my remark.

I dare say it is, said the Colonel, but I cannot exactly understand how

it applies to the point in question.

If you allude to the question whether my grandson John should accept the

horse, that is settled; there cannot be two opinions in that case:

favours of that sort are not to be refused.

I rejoice to hear it, rejoined the colonel, for I consider it as an

earnest of future favours, when my friend John shall be of age to take

the duties of our county member on himself, unanimously chosen.

Ah my good friend, said the old man and sighed, that day is distant, and

that chance is doubtful: in the meantime my all depends upon a single

stake, and though your worthy son is he of all mankind, in whom I can

repose the fullest trust, yet in the life of that beloved youth, on whom

I rest my hopes, there is a period yet to pass full of alarm and danger.

John has an ardent spirit, and I fear is much more likely to resent

affronts than treat them with contempt. If this malicious Owen is to

live amongst us, and persist in his unworthy practices, I can foresee

the time must come, when my brave boy will bring him to account. Who can

prevent it? not the donors of his horse; their handsome present may

repair his loss, but will it make atonement for the insult he has

received? What can I do? I am not the man to talk to him: young as he

is, he has possessed himself of my sentiments, and I cannot retract

what I have said. Talk to him yourself; you are a soldier, and upon a

point of honour no man can speak with more authority: try if you can

persuade him to think as you do.

Were I to do that, my good sir, replied the colonel, I fear your

grandson would not derive security of person from the rules of practice,

that men of my profession are compelled to follow; but I can hold my

tongue, and that is quite as much as I will undertake for in any case,

where the honour of your family is brought into question. I love your

gallant boy; every body loves him; but what I would not say to my own

son, I could not say to him. I am however inclined to believe that Sir

David Owen will in no future time find resolution to insult your

grandson; but, if he does, I cannot find resolution to dissuade him

from taking proper notice of it.

Well! let it pass, resumed De Lancaster. My boy must take his fate. I

had no right to look for other sentiments from you, and if they are, as

I suspect, irreconcilable to reason and religion, we are both of us I

fear in the same condemnation.

* * * * *

If in the long course of my literary labours I had been less studious to

adhere to nature and simplicity, I am perfectly convinced I should have

stood higher in estimation with the purchasers of copy rights, and

probably been read and patronized by my contemporaries in the proportion

of ten to one. To acquire a popularity of name, which might set the

speculating publishers upon out-bidding one another for an embryo work

(perhaps in meditation only) seems to be as proud and enviable a

pre-eminence as human genius can arrive at: but if that pre-eminence has

been acquired by a fashion of writing, that luckily falls in with the

prevailing taste for the romantic and unnatural, that writer, whosoever

he may be, has only made his advantage of the present hour, and

forfeited his claim, upon the time to come: having paid this tribute to

popularity, he certainly may enjoy the profits of deception, and take

his chance for being marked out by posterity (whenever a true taste for

nature shall revive) as the misleader and impostor of the age he lived

in.

The circulation of a work is propagated by the cry of the many; its

perpetuity is established by the fiat of the few. If we have no concern

for our good name after we have left this world, how do we greatly

differ from the robber and assassin?--But this is nothing but an old

man’s prattle. Nobody regards it--We will return to our history.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

_The Mother of our Hero, being at the Point of Death, takes her last

Farewell of her Father-in-law._

The order of our history requires us to attend upon the worthy

grandfather of our hero to the death-bed of his daughter-in-law, who had

expressed a wish to see him. She took his hand, and pressing it to her

heart, said--I thank you, sir, for this and all the proofs of kindness,

which you have uniformly been pleased to show me, though I am conscious

it has never been my happy lot to contribute to your comforts, or to

reflect either grace or ornament upon your family, even in the slightest

degree. Of your son my husband I forbear to speak; when he took his

departure, and left me on the plea of providing a retreat for me upon

the continent, I was too well apprised of my situation not to know that

we should meet no more, and under that impression I took leave of him

for ever. I have given an heir to your name and family, for whose dear

sake, from his birth to the present moment, my agitated heart, though I

have laboured to appear composed, has secretly been racked with sad

forebodings. I am a woman, sir, and those presentiments, which your

strong sense would spurn, sink deep in my weak mind--

Here her speech failed her; her breath fluttered, and quitting the hand

of De Lancaster, she snatched at the sheet, as if convulsion had began

to seize her. Cecilia was at hand, but tears had furnished the relief,

which she was advancing to administer, and the subject, which this short

alarm had interrupted, was resumed as follows--

My seeming dereliction of that darling child must have degraded me in

your opinion; you could not fail to think me void of those affections,

which are natural to a mother, and despised me for my seeming

insensibility. Alas, how very different was the state of my too fond,

too feeling heart! But there were reasons, over-ruling reasons--I cannot

tell them now--They will come to your knowledge--Let the charge lie by,

till the defence can meet it. It would have blessed me to have seen my

father; but he cannot come to me, and when I go to him, it will be only

in my body’s passage to its grave. He has kindly anticipated my wishes,

by leaving my dear son sole heir of his estate. Though it is but little

that I have to devise, yet I have made a will; for so much in it as

concerns my son, I trust he will fulfil the obligations I impose upon

him. If he shall live to be of age, and you survive, (which Heaven in

mercy grant) to see that day, all may be well: I leave him in your care;

I have done so always, and have kept my word; I have not made him that

disgustful thing, a mother’s favourite son. Ah sir, correct the errors

of his youth, but control not the affections of his heart. If,

overlooking rank and fortune, they should honourably and worthily be

fixt on merit in obscurity, do not I implore you--it is my last, my

dying petition--do not oppose his choice. There is an humble being in

the world, lovely and full of promise--oh, if she--if she should--

Whilst these words were yet upon her lips, she sunk down upon her bed

as one, whose life had left her in that moment. Whilst Cecilia and the

women in attendance were busied in assisting her, De Lancaster stood in

deep and pensive meditation with his eyes fixed upon her pallid

countenance, and as the tear dropt upon his aged cheek, he said to his

daughter--Your endeavours to restore her will be fruitless: and, if an

easy death is what we helpless mortals ought to wish for, ’tis hardly to

be hoped you may.

This said, he withdrew, and turning into the gallery discovered John

alone, and intent upon the perusal of a paper, which upon seeing his

grandfather he hastily folded up and thrust into his pocket.

John, I would speak to you, said the old gentleman, and bidding him sit

down, addressed him in these words--Young as you are, you are not now

to learn what a precarious tenure we frail mortals hold in any thing on

this side death, to which we all must come.

I understand you, sir; you come to tell me of my mother’s death.

Not altogether so; but if I did, I can believe your excellent preceptor

has prepared you to meet misfortune as becomes you. Methinks you hardly

can have glanced your eye upon a single page in any moral book, that

does not give you lessons of that sort. Even your pagan poets, whilst

with idle levity they counsel you to devote your time to pleasure, give

you at least fair warning of its shortness.

True, sir, but we have better masters than they are, to whom we may

apply. I am aware that there are no hopes for my poor mother; and it is

nothing strange that she should die, who for years past can hardly have

been said to live: but that my father, seeing her condition, could leave

her almost in the article of death, is matter of astonishment to me.

Such is his nature, John; and whether we must call it the defect of head

or heart is more than I can tell. He is gone however, whither I know

not, and she, poor soul, who has known little happiness on earth, is

going where alone it can be sought. Her last care was for

you.--Something there was, some wish that seemed to weigh upon her

heart; but in her effort to express it, nature failed her, and she

fainted.

That--that indeed--cried John, was most unfortunate. Did she let fall no

words to guide conjecture?

Her words, De Lancaster replied, I am perfect in--“There was an humble

being in the world, lovely and full of promise--Oh, if she--if she

should”--There she stopt.

It is enough! John cried. I’ll wait here with your leave till I am

permitted to pay my last sad duty to a parent, whom I have known but at

the close of life.

As Mr. De Lancaster was rising to depart, it occurred to him to enquire

about the paper, which John had so hastily thrust into his pocket--Let

me know, he said, what you were reading so attentively when I entered

the gallery. It seemed a letter, and by the eagerness with which you put

it up, I suspect it may contain some interesting matter: If so, John,

you hardly will conceal it from me.

Certainly not, replied the youth, if you command me to produce it; but

I am sorry that you noticed it, for it will only bring to your

recollection a subject totally unworthy of your thoughts at any time,

especially in a moment like the present. It is, as you supposed, a

letter; an insolent one you may well believe, for it comes from Sir

David Owen; but as he has quitted the country, I hope you will not ask

to see the favour he has bestowed on me at parting.

Grandson, resumed De Lancaster, I am become too much a party in the

subject you allude to, not to be interested in whatever correspondence

you may hold with that dishonourable young man; therefore let me see

what he has written to you.

This authoritative order was instantly obeyed; the letter was delivered,

and De Lancaster read as follows--

“You have begun very early in life, young gentleman, to take a

decided part against me and my family, and you are not to wonder,

if henceforward and for ever I shall be found to act with

reciprocal hostility towards you and your’s.

“You have arraigned my character in the matter of the horse, and

the oldest and firmest friends of my house have been spirited away

by your grandfather to desert me, and attach themselves to him--Do

you flatter yourself I can forget this? Are you weak enough to

suppose I will forgive it?

“By the right I have over the cattle in my keeping I turned that

horse out of my stables, and I am free to own it was no

recommendation to me, that you assumed to have a claim to him,

which claim you neglected, or was ashamed, to make.

“As for the ring, which your attorney was instructed to demand, my

mother, who is not obliged, nor expected to recognise what she

never saw, has nothing to do with the charge: she has nevertheless

given it up to your said attorney, and your aunt is at liberty to

wear it; my consolation is, she can wear no ring of my uncle’s

giving but as a legatee.

“As I am not a native of your island, I am leaving it without

regret. Don’t persuade yourself however that I shall forget what

has passed, or forfeit any opportunity of avenging my injured

honour.

David ap Owen.”