PART III.

With pallid check, dishevelled hair, and wildly gleaming eyes,

Once more before the banquetters, a fearful phantom flies!

Once more at Herod’s feet it falls, and cold with nameless dread

The wondering monarch bends to hear. A voice, as from the dead,

From those pale lips, shrieks madly forth,—“Thy promise, king, I

claim,

And if the grant be foulest guilt,—not mine,—not mine the blame!

Quick, quick recall that reckless vow, or strike thy dagger here,

Ere yet this voice demand a gift that chills my soul with fear!

Heaven’s curse upon the fatal grace that idly charmed thine eyes!

Oh! better had I ne’er been born than be the sacrifice!

The word I speak will blanch thy cheek, if human heart be thine,

It was a fiend in human form that murmured it to mine.

To die for _me_! a thoughtless child! for _me_ must blood be shed!

Bend low,—lest angels hear me ask!—oh! God!—the Baptist’s head!”

* * * * *

THE LIGHTNING OF THE WATERS.

BY DR. REYNELL COATES.

There are few phenomena observable on the ocean, more striking than the

phosphorescence of the water, when seen in high perfection. It has

forcibly attracted the attention of poets and philosophers in all ages,

and many and curious have been the speculations of those who have

endeavored to explain the brilliant apparition. In later times, however,

the progress of natural science has dissipated the mystery to a

considerable extent, destroying a portion of its romantic interest,

without, thereby, diminishing its exquisite beauty.

We are well informed, at present, that all the brilliant pyrotechny of

Neptune is the effect of animal secretion, not differing essentially in

cause from that which ornaments our groves and meadows, when the

glow-worms of Europe, the fire-flies of North America, or the fulgoure

of the Indies are lighting their fairy love-lanterns beneath the cool,

green leaves, or filling the air with their mimic meteors.

To those who are not familiar with microscopic researches, it may seem

almost impossible that animal life can be multiplied to such excess in

the transparent waters, where not a mote is visible by daylight, as to

give rise to the broad and bright illumination of the sea, so frequently

observed within the lower latitudes; and many, for this reason, have

attributed these night-fires of the deep to the impurity and occasional

fermentation of the ocean,—a cause which they esteem more nearly

commensurate with the magnificence of the result. Such theorists regard

this phosphorescence as similar to that so constantly produced by

putrifying fish and decaying wood.

These ideas, as I have stated, are no longer tenable, and the real

origin of the phenomenon is better understood. But even now, the few who

have witnessed it in full extent, variety, and grandeur—a privilege

rarely enjoyed, except by those who have made long voyages, and have

become familiar with many seas—are lost in wonder; and, unless

professionally devoted to the study of natural history, they find it

difficult to credit the assertion, that all these vast displays are mere

results of living action.

It may prove interesting, then, to those who are fond of such

investigations, to offer some remarks on the multitudinous character of

those tribes of simple and transparent beings, which swarm about the

surface of the ocean, and may be found continually changing in race and

habits, with almost every degree of latitude we traverse.

If you will take the trouble, on some suitable occasion during the month

of November or December, to descend into a _fashionable oyster cellar_,

and ask admission to the pile of freshly opened shells stowed in the

usual receptacle, which is in some dark vault or closet about the

premises, you may chance to witness, on a diminutive scale, the

far-famed phosphorescence of the sea, without enduring the heavy

_immigration tax_ levied, with unrelenting severity, by the old

trident-bearer upon all novices, except, perhaps, a few fortunate

favorites.

Take up the shovel that leans against the wall, order the light removed

and the door closed, and then proceed to disturb the shells. If they

have been taken from the water, where it is purely salt,—and still more

certainly if gathered from the beds of blue marine mud that are the

favorite resort of the finest oysters—the moment you throw a shovelful

upon the top of the pile, the whole mass, jarred by the blow, will

become spangled with hundreds of brilliant stars—not in this case pale

and silvery, but of the richest golden-green or blue. None of these

stars may equal in size the head of the finest pin; but so intense is

the light emitted by them, that a single, and scarcely visible point

will sometimes illuminate an inch of the surrounding surface, even

casting shadows from the little spears of sea-grass growing in its

neighborhood.

Choose one of the most conspicuous of these diminutive tapers, and,

without removing it from the shell, carry it towards the gas-lamp. As

you approach, the brilliancy of the star declines; and when the full

flood of light is thrown upon the shell, it nearly, or entirely

disappears. If you press your finger rudely upon the spot, you will

again perceive the luminous matter diffused, like a fluid, over the

surrounding surface, and shining, for an instant, more brightly than

ever, even under the immediate glare of the gas. Then all is over. You

have crushed one of the glow-worms of the deep—an animal, once probably

as vain of his golden flame as you of any of your brilliant

endowments—perhaps some sentinel there stationed to alarm his sleeping

brethren of the approach of danger—perhaps an animalcular Hero trimming

her solitary lamp to guide her chosen one, through more than Leander’s

dangers, along the briny path to her rocky bower, beset by all the

microscopic monsters of the corallines! At all events, despise it as you

may, this little being was possessed of life, susceptible of happiness,

and endowed with power to outshine, with inborn lustre, the richest gem

in Europe’s proudest diadem!

The sea is filled in many regions, and at various seasons, with

incalculable multitudes of living creatures, in structure much

resembling this little parasite, but often vastly more imposing in

dimensions. The smallest tribes that are able to call attention to their

individual existence generally wander, like erratic stars, beneath the

waves. They may be seen by thousands shooting past the vessel, on

evenings when the moon is absent or obscured, suddenly lighting their

torches when the motion of the bow produces a few curling swells and

breakers on either hand, and whirling from eddy to eddy, as they sweep

along the side and are lost in the wake. From time to time the vessel,

in her progress, disturbs some large being of similar powers, who

instantly ejects a trail of luminous fluid which, twining, and waving

about among contending currents, assumes the semblance of a silver

snake. But the most surprising of all proofs of the infinity of life is

furnished by those inconceivably numerous bands of shining animalcules,

too small for human vision, which in their aggregate effect perform,

perhaps, the grandest part in beautifying the night scene on the ocean.

The crest of every wave emits a pale and milky light and every ripple

that, urged onward too rapidly before the breeze, expires in spreading

its little patch of foam upon the water, increases the mysterious

brightness. On a starless evening the novice may find it very difficult

to account for the distinctness with which even the distant billows may

be traced by their whitened summits, while every other object is thrown

into the deepest shade. The gentle radiation from within the foam

deceives the eye:—it seems a mere reflection from the surface; and he

turns again and again towards the heavens, with the constantly renewed

impression, that the moon has found some transient opening in the cloudy

canopy through which descends a thin pencil of rays to be glinted back

from the edges of the waves.

Though certain portions of the ocean, generally, present but slender

proofs of phosphorescence,—such being peculiarly the case within the

gloomy limits of the Gulf Stream, for reasons not to be appropriately

mentioned here—yet no observing person can have passed a week upon the

ocean, or rowed his skiff by night on any of our principal harbors,

without becoming familiar with most of the appearances to which allusion

has been made. A mere voyage to Europe frequently presents much grander

examples; but he who would enjoy the view of the phenomenon in its

fullest glory, must “cross earth’s central line” “and brave the stormy

spirit of the Cape.”

Let me transport you for a few moments into the midst of the Indian

Ocean! The sultry sun of February has been basking all day upon the

heated waters from a brassy sky without a cloud—the vapors of the upper

regions resembling a thin veil of dust, fiery and glowing, as if

recently ejected from the mouth of some vast furnace! But the tyrant has

gone to his repose, and we enjoy some respite from his scorching

influence. It is not cool, but the temperature is tolerable, _and this

is much_! Leave the observation of the barometer to the captain! You

cannot prevent a hurricane, should it be impending. Then trust such

cares to those in whom is vested the responsibility, and come on deck

with me.

There is no moon—but the “sentinel stars” are all at their post.

Observe those broad flashes reflected upward from beneath the bows, and

playing brightly upon the jib! At every plunge of the vessel, as she

sinks into the trough of the sea, you might read a volume fluently by

that mild radiance; and beautiful indeed is the view from the fore

stay-sail nettings, looking down upon the curling wreaths on either side

of the cut-water, and the long lines of foam thrown off by the swell as

the vessel gracefully breasts the coming wave, all glowing like molten

silver intermingled with a thousand diamonds!

But I will not lead you thitherward—a noble sight awaits us in our

wake. Step to the stern and lean with me over the taffrail. What a

glorious vision! For miles abaft, our course presents one long and wide

canal of living light—the clear, blue ocean, transparent as air,

filling it to repletion; while the darker waters around appear like some

dense medium through which superior spirits have constructed this magic

path-way for us and us alone, so nicely are its breadth and depth

adjusted to the form of our gallant bark. Has not the galaxy been torn

from heaven, and whelmed beneath the waves to form that burning road?

No! no! Though thousands of bright orbs are set in that nether firmament

to strengthen the delusion, yet it cannot be. Night’s stormy cincture

never gleamed like this, nor bore such dazzling gems. There it still

glimmers with its myriad sparks, athwart the dark blue vault, paled by

the radiance of its sea-born rival, while huge globes of fire roll from

beneath the keel, and blaze along the silvery track like showers of

wandering meteors, but all too gentle in their aspect to be deemed of

evil-augury.

Those stars are literally _living stars_,—that ocean galaxy is formed

of living beings only,—and even those meteors, invisible by day, except

when they approach unusually near to the surface, are active in pursuit

of prey. Observe one closely, and you perceive its motions. Formed like

a great umbrella of transparent jelly, with fibres, yards in length,

trailing from its margin, and the handle carved into a beautiful group

of leaves, it flaps its way regularly through the water with a stately

march, and wo to the unfortunate creature that becomes involved in the

meshes of its stinging tendrils.

This is no exaggerated picture, for such are the beautiful phenomena

occasionally witnessed in the Indian and Pacific Oceans. The animals

upon whose agency they are dependent, generally become invisible by

daylight in consequence of their transparency; but there are certain

tribes among them whose peculiar structure renders them conspicuous: and

of these one of the most remarkable is known to naturalists by the title

of Salpa.

There are many species of the salpæ, but they bear a closer likeness to

each other than do most of these simple tribes of being. In form they

all resemble diminutive purses, composed of highly transparent jelly,

with wide mouths like the ordinary clasp—and strengthened by a net-work

of ribbons interwoven with the general texture of the purse. These are

designed to supply the place of muscles. The salpæ move through the

water by contracting the net-work, so as to render the cavity smaller

and expel the water from it with some force; then, relaxing the fibres,

they allow their natural elasticity to expand them to their original

form; thus drawing in a fresh supply of fluid with which to renew the

effort. In this manner they are driven onward, always retreating from

the principal orifice of the sac. But I will not detain you with a

detailed description of their singular organization. It is enough for

our present purpose to state that near the bottom of the purse, within

the thickness of its walls, there is a golden spot, as if a solitary

coin was there deposited. This spot alone enables us to see the animal

distinctly when floating in the water.

When young, these little creatures adhere together in strings or cords

arranged like the leaflets of a pinnated leaf, in consecutive pairs, to

the number of twenty or more. At that period, the most common species in

the South Atlantic rarely exceed one half an inch in length, and the

yellow spot hardly equals in size an ordinary grain of sand; yet, in

certain regions of the ocean these salpæ swarm in such inconceivable

multitudes that the sea assumes the appearance of a sandy shoal for

miles in length and breadth. To the depth of many fathoms their delicate

bodies are closely huddled together, until the constant repetition of

the diminutive colored spots renders the water perfectly opaque, and so

increases its consistence that the lighter ripple of the surface breaks

upon the edge of the animated bank, while the heavier billows roll on

smoothly, with the regular and more majestic motion of the ground swell.

In passing through such tracts the speed of the vessel is sometimes

sensibly checked by the increased resistance of the medium in which she

moves; and when a bucket full of brine is lifted from the sea, it may

contain a larger portion of living matter than of the fluid in which it

floats.

There can be no reasonable doubt that most of those false shoals which

disfigure the older charts—their existence proved upon authorities of

known veracity and denied by others no less credible—have really been

laid down by navigators who have met with beds of salpæ, and were

ignorant of their true nature.

I have never seen these animals emitting light, but it is well known

that many phosphorescent animalcules shine only in certain stages of the

weather or at certain seasons of the year: and as several distinguished

travellers have spoken of their luminous properties, it is at least

probable that they or their congeners act an important part in dramas

similar to that which has been just described. At all events, their

history clearly shows the vastness of the scale of animal existence in

the superficial waters of the ocean. But for the little yellow spot

within their bodies, they would be totally invisible at the distance of

a few feet in their native fluid, and could not interfere appreciably

with the progress of the rays of light.

If further proof were necessary to show the incalculable increase of

many oceanic tribes, it might be found in the history of living beings

much more familiar to the mariner. Most persons have met with notices of

the Portuguese man-of-war, called, by naturalists _physalia_, a living

air sac of jelly provided with a sail, armed with a multitude of

dependant bottle shaped stomachs, all capable of seizing prey, and

colored more beautifully than the rainbow. This splendid creature

pursues its way over the waves with all the skill of an accomplished

pilot, and furnishes, when caught, one of the most astonishing examples

of the adaptation of animal structure to the peculiar wants, and theatre

of action of living beings, one of the most striking evidences of

Omniscient Wisdom which nature offers to the moralist. The physalia

rarely sails in squadrons, but wanders solitary and self-dependent over

the tropical seas, a terror even to man, by the power which it possesses

of stinging and inflicting pain upon whatever comes in contact with its

long, trailing cables.

But there is another little sailor called the _velella_; unprovided with

offensive weapons, though formed in most respects upon a model somewhat

similar to that of the physalia, unguarded as the peaceful trader

against the piratical attacks of a thousand enemies, its very race would

soon become extinct, were it not for its unlimited increase.

Provided with a flat, transparent, oval scale of cartilage, for the

support of a gelatinous body, it floats by specific levity, alone, for

it has no air vessel—and employs its hundreds of stomachs for ballast.

Another scale arising at right angles with the first and covered with

thin membrane, supplies it with a sail. This unprotected creature serves

as food for many predatory tribes, and of these, the most voracious is

the barnacle. The flesh devoured, the scales still float for many days,

mere wrecks of these gay vessels.

The velellæ are usually found in fleets, and to convey some idea of

their numbers, I may state that on one occasion, when sailing before the

western winds, beyond the southern latitude of the Cape of Good Hope,

our ship encountered a group of globular masses of a pale yellow color

swimming upon the surface and surrounded by fringes of an unknown

substance. Each mass resembled the eggs of some great sea-bird, reposing

on a nest of buoyant feathers. Taking them with a dip net, from the

chains, we found the yellow masses to be globular cryptogamous plants,

to every one of which adhered a group of barnacles, far larger than the

largest I had ever seen before.[1] Many of these last were so intent

upon demolishing their prey, that, even in leaving their native element,

to fall into the hands of tyrants more dangerous than themselves, it was

not always relinquished. Grasping in their horny arms the unfortunate

velellæ, they continued grinding the soft jelly from the tougher

cartilage, with an avidity and determination that reminded me strongly

of the scene in Byron’s Siege of Corinth, where Alp, the renegade,

“Saw the lean dogs beneath the wall

Hold, o’er the dead, their carnival,

Gorging and growling o’er carcass and limb;

They were too busy to bark at him!”

This drew our attention to the source from which such plentiful supplies

of food were obtained, and on examination, the ocean was found literally

covered with the scales of the murdered velellæ, faintly distinguishable

by their glistening in the sunshine, and interspersed with a few living

specimens waiting their turn in the general massacre. We scooped them up

by thousands; and for three long days the ship swept onward “dead before

the wind” with the steady and scarcely paralleled speed of more than ten

knots an hour, thus accomplishing a change of more than seven hundred

miles in longitude, before the last remnant of this unhappy fleet was

passed.

Though it is not pretended that these little sea-boats possess the

phosphorescent quality, their numbers and the wide extent of their

flotilla will suffice to render far less wonderful the vastness of those

beautiful results of animal secretion which have furnished the subject

of this sketch.

But there are other similar and more remarkable phenomena attendant on

these brilliant night scenes, that can only be explained, either by

supposing that myriads of these aquatic beings are endowed with a

community of instinct, or, that the changes of the weather influenced

them in such a way as to awaken all their luminous powers upon the

instant, without the intervention of any mechanical disturbing cause, in

the mere frolic mood of nature.

Those who have visited the Chinese islands, or either of several other

well known regions in the Pacific, have been occasionally surprised, on

a calm moon-light night, when scarce a swell, and not a ripple is

perceptible, to see the ocean suddenly converted into one wide pool of

milk! As described by a few observers who have been so fortunate as to

witness this rare and strange appearance, the color is so equally

diffused over the whole field of view, that all resemblance to the

ordinary hue is lost, and yet no wandering stars,—no scattered torches

can be seen—not even beneath the bows—so feeble is the intensity of

the light emitted, that several have denied the agency of

phosphorescence in producing this remarkable effect, and were convinced

there was a real change in the nature of the fluid; but others, less

enamored of the supernatural, have clearly proved that even this

phenomenon is due to the activity of an infinity of animalcules.

The very rarity of such occurrences distinctly shows that the

microscopic beings which produce it do not emit their light at all

times, and there must exist some cause for this wide-spread and

consentaneous action. To community of instinct it can hardly be

attributed.

We may understand the fact, wonderful as it may be, that an army of

emmets should cross a public road or open space, from field to field, or

from forest to forest, fashioning themselves, as they are sometimes

known to do, into the form of a snake, by crawling over each other’s

backs, by dozens, from the tail to the head of the figure; thus

shortening it at one extremity, while they lengthen it at the other, and

cause it to advance slowly towards their desired retreat! We may

understand this evidence of untaught wisdom, for we see its purpose and

its usefulness. Such means enable these defenceless beings to elude the

vigilance of their feathery enemies, whose beaks, but for the terror of

the mimic reptile, would soon annihilate the weak community.

We may even comprehend that more magnificent display of providential

guidance witnessed in the habits of the coral animals, where nations of

separate beings, outnumbering a thousand times the living population of

the earth and air, enjoy one common life, and build up islands, for the

use of man, on models definitely fixed. For here, also, there is

_purpose_, and were it not that every individual of the host performs

his proper duty—constructing, _here_ a buttress, _there_ an

alcove,—the dash of the billows and the fury of the storm would soon

disintegrate the growing structure. The reef that lies athwart the

mariner’s path, and strews itself with wrecks, would never rise above

the surface, to gather the seeds of vegetation, attract the cool, fresh

moisture from the air, and lay foundations for the future happiness and

wealth of man.

But how shall we explain an instinct by which myriads of creatures,

totally distinct and unconnected, are induced, without apparent end or

object, to act in concert over leagues of sea, as it would seem merely

to fright the passing voyager! It may be that the action of these

animalcules, by which the milky glimmering is occasioned, is

involuntary. It may be the result of atmospheric or electric influence

upon the living frame, to serve some hidden purpose in their unknown

economy; for many things, even in our own organic history, surpass our

powers of comprehension; we know neither their nature nor their use. But

analogy would lead us to infer the exercise of _will_ in all the various

phenomena of phosphorescence, however impenetrable the purpose of its

exercise may be. Like the insect songs of a summer night, or the

love-light of the glow-worm and the fire-fly, they probably control or

guide the motions of the individual or of whole communities.

This idea receives some countenance from the history of a more

remarkable example of this sub-marine meteor, witnessed in the southern

summer of 1823-4, near the island of Tristan d’Acunha, under

circumstances never to be forgotten—and with one short notice of its

character I will leave the reader to his reflections upon these wonders

of the deep.

The night was dark and damp—the western breeze too light to steady the

vessel, and she rolled heavily over the wide swell of the South

Atlantic, making it difficult for a landsman to maintain his footing on

the deck. A fog-bank, which hung around the northern horizon at sunset,

now came sweeping slowly down upon us in the twilight. The captain

ordered the light sails furled in expectation of a squall, and we stood

leaning together over the bulwarks, watching the mist, which approached

more and more rapidly, till it resembled, in the increasing darkness, an

immense and toppling wall extending from the water to the clouds, and

seemed threatening to crush us beneath it. There was something

peculiarly awful in its impenetrable obscurity; and even the crew

relinquished their several occupations to gaze on the unusual aspect of

the fog. It reached us;—but just at this moment, a flash, like a broad

sheet of summer lightning, spread itself over the ocean as far as the

eye could reach, but deep below the waves. Five or six times, at

intervals, of a few seconds, the flash was repeated, and then the vessel

was enveloped in the mist. The breeze immediately quickened; the sailors

sprang to their stations, and, for a few minutes, the bustle of

preparation for a change of wind attracted the exclusive attention of

every one. In this short interval, the narrow belt of vapor had passed

off to leeward, and left us bounding merrily along at the rate of ten

knots an hour, with a spanking norther full upon our beam, over waves

sparkling and dancing in the clear, bright moon-light. But, _the

lightning of the waters was gone_!

-----

[1] The Anatifa Vitrea.

* * * * *

CALLORE.

BY ALEXANDER A. IRVINE.

Thou art ever fair to me—

Fairer than the Autumn moon,

Or a fountain, in its glee,

Singing through the woods of June—

Fairer than a streamlet bright

Flowing on in shimmered light,

Darkling under grassy sedge

Fringing all the river’s edge,

Rippling by the breezes fann’d,

Sliding over silver sand,

Through the meadow gayly ranging

With an aspect ever changing,

Yet with quiet depths below,

And an even, constant flow,

Pensive, musical and slow—

Ever such thou art to me,

Laughing, blue-eyed Callore!

Oh! the stars have sybil tones!

Singing by their golden thrones,

Singing as they watching stand

In their weird and silent land!

But thy voice is sweeter far

Than the music of the star!

Melting on the air at even,

With a mystic sound

Flowing, flowing all around,

’Till the soul is raised to heaven

Oh! at moments such as these

I could kneel on bended knees,

Ever kneel and hear thee sing,

Silent, rapt and worshipping.

As a bark upon the tide

Moving on to symphony,

With its dipping oars beside

Keeping time melodiously,

So thou movest on thy way,

Ever graceful, ever gay.

Or, perchance, in sportive band,

With thy sisters hand in hand,

Swinging all in mystic round—

Thou wilt dance with gentle sound,

A sound as that of fairy feet,

Soft, harmonious and sweet,

As woodland waterfalls at night

Tinkling in the still starlight.

How thine eyes with tears o’erflow

At the troubled tale of wo—

In those eyes I love to look,

They to me are as a book.

There I read without disguise,

And a joy beyond control,

All that in thine inner soul

As upon an altar lies—

Gazing thus, I feel as when

Buried from the haunts of men,

In some quiet shady nook,

Looking downwards in the brook—

I have heard the forest breeze

Wake mysterious melodies,

Bringing sounds of childish play

From the solitudes away,

Singing as a gleesome boy,

Ravishing the soul with joy,

Lifting it on pinions free—

Silver-tonguéd Callore!

Ever, ever thou art meek,

With a mirthful soberness;

None have ever heard thee speak

Of thy passing loveliness—

Thou dost joy to be away

From the garish light of day;

Brooding o’er each holy feeling

Soft across thy bosom stealing;

With thine eyelids downward bent,

Musing in a meek content,

Like a saint upon a shrine

Wrapt in dreams of bliss divine!

Surely, thou art not of earth—

With the angels is thy birth—

Thou hast come awhile, to be

My guide to heaven, Callore!

* * * * *

THE SISTERS.

A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

BY H. W. HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” “THE BROTHERS,”

“CROMWELL,” ETC. ETC.

PART I.

In one of those sweet glens, half pastoral half sylvan, which may be

found in hundreds channelling the steep sides of the moorland hills, and

sending down the tribute of their pure limestone springs to the broad

rapid rivers which fertilize no less than they adorn the lovely vales of

Western Yorkshire, there may be seen to this day the ruins of an old

dwelling-house, situate on a spot so picturesque, so wild, and yet so

soft in its romantic features, that they would well repay the traveller

for a brief halt, who, but too often, hurries onward in search of more

remote yet certainly not greater beauties. The gorge, within the mouth

of which the venerable pile is seated, opens into the broader valley

from the north-eastern side, enjoying the full light and warmth of the

southern sunshine; and, although very narrow at its origin, where its

small crystal rivulet springs up from the lonely well-head, fringed by a

few low shrubs of birch and alder, expands here, at its mouth, into a

pretty amphitheatre or basin of a few acres circuit. A wild and feathery

coppice of oak, and birch, and hazel, with here and there a mountain

ash, showing its bright red berries through the rich foliage, clothes

all the lower part of the surrounding slopes; while, far above, the

seamed and shattered faces of the gray, slaty limestone rise up like

artificial walls, their summits crowned with the fair purple heather,

and every nook and cranny in their sides crowded with odorous wild

flowers. Within the circuit of these natural limits, sheltering it from

every wind of heaven, except the gentle south, the turf lies smooth and

even as if it were a cultured lawn; while a few rare exotic shrubs, now

all run out of shape, and bare, and straggling, indicate even yet the

time when it was a fair shrubbery, tended by gentle hands, and visited

by young and lovely beings, now cold in their untimely sepulchres. The

streamlet, which comes gushing down the glen with its clear, copious

flow, boiling and murmuring about the large gray boulders which

everywhere obstruct its channels, making a thousand mimic cataracts, and

wakening ever a wild, mirthful music, sweeps here quite close to the

foot of the eastern cliff, the feathery branches of the oakwood dipping

their foliage in its eddies, and then, just as it issues forth into the

open champaine, wheels round in a half circle, completely fanning the

little amphitheatre above, except at one point hard beneath the opposite

hill face, where a small winding horse track, engrossing the whole space

between the streamlet and the limestone rock, gives access to the lone

demesne. A small green hillock, sloping down gently to the southward,

fills the embracing arms of the bright brook, around the northern base

of which is scattered a little grove of the most magnificent and noblest

sycamores that I have ever seen; but on the other side, which yet

retains its pristine character of a smooth open lawn, there are no

obstacles to the view over the wide valley, except three old gnarled

thorn bushes, uncommon from their size and the dense luxuriance of their

matted greenery. It was upon the summit of this little knoll that the

old homestead stood, whose massive ruins of red freestone, all overgrown

with briers, and tall rank grass and dock leaves, deface the spot which

they adorned of old; and, when it was erect in all its fair proportions,

the scene which it overlooked, and its own natural attractions, rendered

it one of the loveliest residences in all the north of England—the

wide, rich, gentle valley, all meadow land or pasture, without one brown

ploughed field to mar its velvet green; the tall, thick hawthorn hedges,

with their long lines of hedgerow timber, oak, ash and elm, waving above

the smooth enclosures; the broad, clear, tranquil river flashing out

like a silver mirror through the green foliage; the scattered

farm-houses, each nestled as it were among its sheltering orchards; the

village spire shooting up from the clump of giant elms which over-shadow

the old grave-yard; the steep, long slope on the other side of the vale,

or strath, as it would be called in Scotland, all mapped out to the eye,

with its green fences and wide hanging woods; and, far beyond, the

rounded summits of the huge moorland hills, ridge above ridge, purple,

and grand, and massive, but less and less distinct as they recede from

the eye, and melt away at last into the far blue distance—such was the

picture which its windows overlooked of old, and which still laughs as

gaily in the sunshine around its mouldering walls and lonely

hearth-stone.

But if it is fair now, and lovely, what was it as it showed in the good

old days of King Charles, before the iron hand of civil war had pressed

so heavily on England? The grove of sycamores stood there, as they stand

now, in the prime and luxuriance of their sylvan manhood; for they are

waxing now aged and somewhat gray and stag-horned; and the thorn bushes

sheltered, as they do now, whole choirs of thrushes and blackbirds, but

all the turf beneath the scattered trees and on the sunny slope was

shorn, and rolled, and watered, that it was smooth and even, and far

softer than the most costly carpet that ever wooed the step of Persian

beauty. The Hall was a square building, not very large, of the old

Elizabethan style, with two irregular additions, wings, as they might be

called, of the same architecture, though of a later period, and its

deep-embayed oriel windows, with their fantastic mullions of carved

freestone, its tall quaint chimneys, and its low porch, with overhanging

canopy and clustered columns, rendered it an object singularly

picturesque and striking. The little green within the gorge of the upper

glen, which is so wildly beautiful in its present situation, left as it

is to the unaided hand of nature, was then a perfect paradise; for an

exquisite taste had superintended its conversion into a sort of

untrained garden; an eye well used to note effects had marked its

natural capabilities, and, adding artificial beauties, had never

trenched upon the character of the spot by anything incongruous or

startling. Rare plants, rich-flowering shrubs, and scented herbs were

indeed scattered with a lavish hand about its precincts, but were so

scattered that they seemed the genuine productions of the soil; the

Spanish cistus had been taught to carpet the wild crags in conjunction

with the native thyme and heather; the arbutus and laurestinus had been

brought from afar to vie with the mountain ash and holly; the clematis

and the sweet scented vine blended their tendrils with the rich English

honeysuckle and the luxuriant ivy; rare lotuses might be seen floating

with their azure colored cups and broad green leaves upon the glassy

basins, into which the mountain streamlet had been taught to expand,

among the white wild water lilies and the bright yellow clusters of the

marsh marigold; roses of every hue and scent, from the dark crimson of

Damascus to the pale blush of soft Provence, grew side by side with the

wild wood-brier and the eglantine, and many a rustic seat, of mossy

stone or roots and unbarked branches, invited the loitering visiter in

every shadowy angle.

There was no spot in all the north of England whereon the winter frowned

so lightly as on those sheltered precincts—there was no spot whereon

spring smiled so early, and with so bright an aspect—wherein the summer

so long lingered, pouring her gorgeous flowers, rich with her spicy

breath, into the very lap of autumn. It was, indeed, a sweet spot, and

as happy as it was sweet and beautiful, before the curse of civil war

was poured upon the groaning land, with its dread train of foul and

fiendish ministers; and yet it was not war, nor any of its direct

consequences, that turned that happy home into a ruin and a desolation.

It was not war—except the struggles of the human heart—the conflict of

the fierce and turbulent passions—the strife of principles, of motives,

of desires, within the secret soul, maybe called war, as, indeed, they

might, and that with no figurative tongue, for they are surely the

hottest, the most devastating, the most fatal of all that bear that

ominous and cruel appellation.

Such was the aspect then of Ingleborough Hall, at the period when it was

perhaps the most beautiful; and when, as is but too often the case, its

beauties were on the very point of being brought to a close forever. The

family which owned the manor, for the possessions attached to the old

homestead were large, and the authority attached to them extended over a

large part of Upper Wharfdale, was one of those old English races which,

though not noble in the literal sense of the word, are yet so ancient,

and so indissolubly connected with the soil, that they may justly be

comprised among the aristocracy of the land. The name was Saxon, and it

was generally believed—and probably with truth—that the date of the

name, and of its connection with that estate, was at the least coeval

with the conquest. To what circumstances it was owing that the

Hawkwoods, for such was the time-honored appellation of the race, had

retained possession of their fair demesne when all the land was allotted

out to feudal barons and fat priests, can never now be ascertained; nor

does it indeed signify; yet that it was to some honorable cause, some

service rendered, or some high exploit, may be fairly presumed from the

fact that the mitred potentate of Bolton Abbey, who levied his tythes

far and near throughout those fertile valleys, had no claims on the

fruits of Ingleborough. During the ages that had passed since the advent

of the Norman William, the Hawkwoods had never lacked male

representatives to sustain the dignity of their race; and gallantly had

they sustained it; for in full many a lay and legend, aye! and in grave,

cold history itself, the name of Hawkwood might be found side by side

with the more sonorous appellations of the Norman feudatories, the

Ardens, and Maulevers, and Vavasours, which fill the chronicles of

border warfare. At the period of which we write, however, the family had

no male scion—the last male heir, Ralph Hawkwood, had died some years

before, full of years and of domestic honors—a zealous sportsman, a

loyal subject, a kind landlord, a good friend—his lot had fallen in

quiet times and pleasant places, and he lived happily, and died in the

arms of his family, at peace with all men. His wife, a calm and placid

dame, who had, in her young days, been the beauty of the shire, survived

him, and spent her whole time, as she devoted her whole mind and spirit,

in educating the two daughters, joint heiresses of the old manor-houses,

who were left by their father’s death, two bright-eyed fair-haired

prattlers, dependent for protection on the strong love but frail support

of their widowed mother.

Years passed away, and with their flight the two fair children were

matured into two sweet and lovely women; yet the same fleeting suns

which brought to them complete and perfect youth were fraught to others

with decay, and all the carking cares, and querulous ailments of old

age. The mother, who had watched with keen solicitude over their budding

infancy, over the promise of their lovely childhood, lived indeed, but

lived not to see or understand the full accomplishment of that bright

promise. Even before the elder girl had reached the dawn of womanhood,

palsy had shaken the enfeebled limbs, and its accustomed

follower—mental debility—had, in no small degree, impaired the

intellect of her surviving parent; but long before her sister had

reached her own maturity, the limbs were helplessly immovable, the mind

was wholly clouded and estranged. It was not now the wandering and

uncertain darkness that flits across the veiled horizon of the mind

alternately with vivid gleams, flashes of memory and intellect, brighter

perhaps than ever visited the spirit until its partial aberrations had

jarred its vital principle—it was that deep and utter torpor, blanker

than sleep and duller, for no dreams seem to mingle with its day-long

lethargy—that absolute paralysis of all the faculties of soul and body,

which is so beautifully painted by the great Roman satirist, as the

“omnii

Membrorum damno major dementia, quæ nec

Homina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amici

Cum quo præterita cænavit nocti, nec illos

Quos genuit, quos eduxit”—

that still, sad, patient, silent suffering, which sits from day to day

in the one usual chair, unconscious of itself and almost so of all

around it; easily pleased by trifles, which it forgets as soon, deriving

its sole real and tangible enjoyment from the doze in the summer

sunshine, or by the sparkling hearth of winter. Such was the mother now;

so utterly, so hopelessly dependent on the cares and gratitude of those

bright beings whose infancy she had nursed so devotedly—and well was

that devotedness now compensated; for day and night, winter and summer,

did those sweet girls by turn watch over the frail, querulous

sexagenarian—never both leaving her at once, one sleeping while the

other watched, attentive ever to her importunate and ceaseless cravings,

patient and mild to meet her angry and uncalled for lamentations.

You would have thought that a seclusion so entire, from all society of

their equals, must have prevented their acquiring those usual

accomplishments, those necessary arts, which every English gentlewoman

is presumed to possess as things of course—that they must have grown up

mere ignorant, unpolished country lasses, without a taste or aspiration

beyond the small routine of their dull daily duties—that long

confinement must have broken the higher and more spiritual parts of

their fine natural minds—that they must have become mere moping

household drudges—and so to think would be so very natural, that it is

by no means easy to conceive how it was brought to pass, that the very

opposite of this should have been the result. The very opposite it was,

however—for as there were not in the whole West Riding two girls more

beautiful than Annabel and Marian Hawkwood, so were there surely none so

highly educated, so happy in themselves, so eminently calculated to

render others happy. Accomplished as musicians both, though Annabel

especially excelled in instrumental music, while her young sister was

unrivalled in voice and execution as a songstress; both skilled in

painting; and if not poetesses in so much as to be stringers of words

and rhymes, certainly such, and that too of no mean order, in the wider

and far higher acceptation of the word; for their whole souls were

attuned to the very highest key of spiritual sensibility—romantic, not

in the weak and ordinary meaning of the term, but as admirers of all

things high, and pure, and noble—worshippers of the beautiful, whether

it were embodied in the wild scenery of their native glens, in the rock,

the stream, the forest, the sunshine that clothed all of them in a rich

garb of glory, or the dread storm that veiled them all in gloom and

terror—or in the master-pieces of the schools of painting and of

sculpture—or in the pages of the great, the glorious of all ages—or in

the deeds of men, perils encountered hardily, sufferings constantly

endured, sorrows assuaged by charitable generosity. Such were they in

the strain and tenor of their minds; gentle, moreover, as the gentlest

of created things; humble to their inferiors, but with a proud, and

self-respecting, and considerate humility; open, and free, and frank

toward their equals; but proud, although not wanting in loyalty and

proper reverence for the great, and almost haughty of demeanor to their

superiors, when they encountered any such, which was, indeed, of rare

and singular occurrence. It was a strange thing, indeed, that these lone

girls should have possessed such characters, so strongly marked, so

powerful and striking; should have acquired accomplishments, so many and

so various in their nature. It will appear, perhaps, even stranger to

merely superficial thinkers, that the formation of those powerful

characters had been, for the most part, brought about by the very

circumstances which would at first have appeared most

unpropitious—their solitary habits namely, and their seclusion, almost

absolute seclusion, from the gay world of fashion and of folly. The

large and opulent county, in which their patrimony lay, was indeed then,

as now, studded with the estates, the manors, and the parks of the

richest and the noblest of England’s aristocracy, yet the deep glens and

lofty moorlands among which Ingleborough Hall was situate, are even to

this day a lonely and sequestered region; no great post-road winds

through their devious passes; and, although in the close vicinity of

large and populous towns, they are, even in the nineteenth century, but

little visited, and are occupied by a population singularly primitive

and pastoral in all its thoughts and feelings. Much more then in those

days, when carriages were seen but rarely beyond the streets of the

metropolis, when roads were wild and rugged, and intercourse between the

nearest places, unless of more than ordinary magnitude, difficult and

uncertain, was that wild district to be deemed secluded. So much so,

indeed, was this the case, at the time of which I write, that there were

not within a circle of some twenty miles two families of equal rank, or

filling the same station in society, with the Hawkwoods. This, had the

family been in such circumstances of domestic health and happiness as

would have permitted the girls to mingle in the gaieties of the

neighborhood, would have been a serious and severe misfortune; as they

must, from continual intercourse with their inferiors, have contracted,

in a greater or less degree, a grossness both of mind and manners; and

would, most probably, have fallen into that most destructive

habit—destructive to the mind, I mean, and to all chance of progress or

advancement—the love of queening it in low society. It was, therefore,

under their circumstances, including the loss of one parent and the

entire bereavement of the other, fortunate in no small degree that they

were compelled to seek their pleasures and their occupations, no less

than their duties, within the sphere of the domestic circle.

The mother, who was now so feeble and so helpless, though never a person

of much intellectual energy, or indeed of much force of any kind, was

yet in the highest sense of the word a lady; she had seen in her youth

something of the great world, apart from the rural glens which witnessed

her decline; had mingled with the gay and noble even at the court of

England, and, being possessed of more than ordinary beauty, had been a

favorite and in some degree a belle. From her, then, had her daughters

naturally and unconsciously imbibed that easy, graceful finish which,

more than all beside, is the true stamp of gentle birth and bearing.

Long before children can be brought to comprehend general principles or

rules of convention, they can and do acquire habits, by that strange

tact of imitation and observance which certainly commences at a stage so

early of their young, frail existences, that we cannot, by any effort,

mark its first dawning—habits which, thus acquired, can hardly be

effaced at all—which will endure unaltered and invariable when tastes,

and practices, and modes of thought and action, contracted long, long

afterward, have faded quite away and been forgotten. Thus was it, then,

with these young creatures; while they were yet mere girls, with all the

pure, right impulses of childhood bursting out fresh and fair, they had

been trained up in the midst of high, and honorable, and correct

associations—naught low, or mean, or little; naught selfish, or

dishonest, or corrupt had ever come near to them—in the sight of virtue

and in the practice of politeness they had shot up into maturity; and

their maturity, of consequence, was virtuous and polished. In after

years, devoted as they were to that sick mother, they had no chance of

unlearning anything; and thus, from day to day, they went on gaining

fresh graces, as it were, by deduction from their foregone teachings,

and from the purity of their young natures—for purity and nature, when

united, must of necessity be graceful—until the proudest courts of

Europe could have shown nothing, even in their most difficult circles,

that could surpass, even it could vie with, the easy, artless frankness,

the soft and finished courtesy, the unabashed yet modest grace of those

two mountain maidens.

At the period when my sad tale commences—for it is no less sad than

true—the sisters had just reached the young yet perfect bloom of mature

womanhood, the elder, Annabel, having attained her twentieth summer, her

sister Marian being exactly one year younger; and certainly two sweeter

or more lovely girls could not be pictured or imagined—not in the

brightest moments of the painter’s or the poet’s inspiration. They were

both tall and beautifully formed—both had sweet low-toned voices—that

excellent thing in woman!—but here all personal resemblance ended; for

Annabel, the elder, had a complexion pure and transparent as the snow of

the untrodden glacier before the sun has kissed it into roseate blushes,

and quite as colorless; her features were of the finest classic outline;

the smooth, fair brow, the perfect Grecian nose, the short curve of the

upper lip, the exquisite arch of the small mouth, the chiselled lines of

the soft rounded chin, might have served for a model to a sculptor,

whereby to mould a mountain nymph or Naiad; her rich luxuriant hair was

of a light and sunny brown, her eyes of a clear, lustrous blue, with a

soft, languid, and half melancholy tenderness for their more usual

expression, which united well with the calm, placid air which was almost

habitual to her beautiful features. To this no contrast more complete

could have been offered than by the widely different style of Marian’s

loveliness. Though younger than her sister, her figure was more full and

rounded—so much so, that it reached the very point where symmetry is

combined with voluptuousness—yet was there nothing in the least degree

voluptuous in the expression of her bright artless face. Her forehead,

higher than Annabel’s, and broader, was as smooth and as white as

polished marble; her brows were well-defined and black as ebony, as were

the long, long lashes that fringed her laughing eyes—eyes of the

brightest, lightest azure that ever glanced with merriment, or melted

into love—her nose was small and delicate, but turned a little upwards,

so as to add, however, rather than detract from the _tout ensemble_ of

her arch, roguish beauty—her mouth was not very small, but exquisitely

formed, with lips redder than anything in nature, to which lips can be

well compared, and filled with teeth, regular, white and beautifully

even—fair as her sister’s, and, like hers, showing every where the tiny

veins of azure meandering below the milky skin, Marian’s complexion was

yet as bright as morning—faint rosy tints and red, warm blushes

succeeding one another, or vanishing away and leaving the cheek pearly

white, as one emotion followed and effaced another in her pure, innocent

mind. Her hair, profuse in its luxuriant flow, was of a deep dark brown,

that might have been almost called black, but for a thousand glancing

golden lights and warm rich shadows that varied its smooth surface with

the varying sunshine, and was worn in a thick, massive plait low down in

the neck behind, while on either side the brow it was trained off and

taught to cluster in front of either tiny ear in an abundant maze of

interwoven curls, close and mysteriously enlaced as are the tendrils of

the wild vine, which, fluttering on each warm and blushing cheek, fell

down the swan-like neck in heavy natural ringlets. But to describe her

features is to give no idea, in the least, of Marian’s real

beauty—there was a radiant, dazzling lustre that leaped out of her

every feature, lightning from her quick, speaking eyes, and playing in

the dimples of her bewitching smile, that so intoxicated the beholder

that he would dwell upon her face entranced, and know that it was

lovely, and feel that it was far more lovely, far more enthralling than

any he had ever looked upon before; yet, when without the sphere of that

enchantment, he should be all unable to say wherein consisted its

unmatched attraction.

Between the natural disposition and temperaments of the two sisters

there was perhaps even a wider difference than between the

characteristics of their personal beauty; for Annabel was calm, and

mild, and singularly placid, not in her manners only, but in the whole

tenor of her thoughts, and words, and actions; there was a sort of

gentle melancholy, that was not altogether melancholy either, pervading

her every tone of voice, her every change of feature. She was not

exactly grave, nor pensive, nor subdued, for she could smile very

joyously at times, could act upon emergencies with readiness, and

quickness, and decision, and was at all times prompt in the expression

of her confirmed sentiments; but there was a very remarkable

tranquillity in her mode of doing every thing she did, betokening fully

the presence of a decided principle directing her at every step, so that

she was but rarely agitated, even by accidents of the most sudden and

alarming character, and never actuated by any rapid impulse. The very

opposite of this was Marian Hawkwood; for, although quite as upright and

pure minded as her sister, and, what is more, of a temper quite as

amiable and sweet, yet was her mood as changeful as an April day;

although it was more used to mirth and joyous laughter than to frowns or

tears either, yet had she tears as ready at any tale of sorrow as are

the fountains of the spring shower in the cloud, and eloquent frowns and

eyes that lightened their quick indignation at any outrage, or

oppression, or high-handed violence; her cheek would crimson with the

tell-tale blood, her flesh would seem to thrill upon her bones, her

voice would choke, and her eyes swim with sympathetic drops whenever she

read, or spoke, or heard of any noble deed, whether of gallant daring,

or of heroic self-denial. Her tongue was prompt always, as the sword of

the knight errant, to shelter the defenceless, to shield the innocent,

to right the wronged, and sometimes to avenge the absent. Artless

herself, and innocent in every thought and feeling, she set no guard on

either; but as she felt and thought so she spoke out and acted, fearless

even as she was unconscious of any wrong, defying misconstruction, and

half inclined to doubt the possibility of evil in the minds of others,

so foreign did it seem, and so impossible to her own natural and, as it

were, instinctive sense of right.

Yet although such in all respects as I have striven to depict them, the

one all quick and flashing impulse, the other all reflective and

considerate principle, it was most wonderful how seldom there was any

clashing of opinion and diversity of judgment as to what was to be done,

what left undone, between the lovely sisters. Marian would, it is true,

often jump at once to conclusions, and act as rapidly upon them, at

which the more reflective Annabel would arrive only after some

consideration—but it did not occur more often that the one had reason

to repent of her precipitation than the other of her over

caution—neither, indeed, had much cause for remorse of this kind at

all, for all the impulses of the one, all the thoughts and principles of

the other, were alike pure and kindly. With words, however, it was not

quite so; for it must be admitted that Marian oftentimes said things,

how unfrequently soever she did aught, which she would willingly have

recalled afterwards; not, indeed, that she ever said anything unkind or

wrong in itself, and rarely anything that could give pain to another,

unless that pain were richly merited indeed—but that she gradually came

to learn, long before she learned to restrain her impulses, that it may

be very often unwise to speak what in itself is wise—and very often, if

not wrong, yet certainly imprudent and of evil consequences to give loud

utterance even to right opinions.

Such were the persons, such the dispositions of the fair heiresses of

Ingleborough, at the time when they had attained the ages I have

specified, and certainly, although their sphere of usefulness would have

appeared at first sight circumscribed, and the range of their enjoyments

very narrow, there rarely have been seen two happier or more useful

beings than Annabel and Marian Hawkwood, in this wide world of sin and

sorrow.

The care of their bereaved and hapless parent occupied, it is true, the

greater portion of their time, yet they found many leisure hours to

devote to visiting the poor, aiding the wants of the needy, consoling

the sorrows of those who mourned, and sympathizing with the pleasures of

the happy among their humble neighbors. To them this might be truly

termed a work of love and pleasure, for it is questionable whether from

any other source the lovely girls derived a higher or more satisfactory

enjoyment, than from their tours of charity among their village

pensioners. Next in the scale of happiness stood, doubtless, the society

of the old vicar of that pastoral parish, a man who had been their

father’s friend and counsellor in those young days of college

friendship, when the fresh heart is uppermost in all, and selfishness a

dormant passion; a man old enough almost to have been their grandsire,

but with a heart as young and cheery as a boy’s—an intellect

accomplished in the deepest lore of the schools, both classical and

scientific, and skilled thoroughly in all the niceties and graces of

French, and Spanish, and Italian literature. A man who had known courts,

and camps too, for a short space in his youth; who had seen much, and

suffered much, and yet enjoyed not a little, in his acquaintance with

the world; and who, from sights, and sufferings, and enjoyments, had

learned that if there is much evil, there is yet more of good even in

_this_ world—had learned, while rigid to his own, to be most lenient to

his neighbor’s failings—had learned that charity should be the fruit of

wisdom!—and had learned all this only to practise it in all his daily

walks, to inculcate it in all his weekly lessons. This aged man, and his

scarce less aged wife, living scarcely a stone’s throw from the Hall,

had grown almost to think themselves a portion of the family; and surely

no blood kindred could have created stronger ties of kindness than had

the familiarity of long acquaintance, the confidence of old hereditary

love. Lower yet in the round of their enjoyments, but still a constant

source of blameless satisfaction, were their books, their music, their

drawings, the management of their household, the cultivation of their

lovely garden, the ministering to the wants of their loved birds and

flowers. Thus, all sequestered and secluded from the world, placed in

the midst of onerous duties and solicitudes almost innumerable, though

they had never danced at a ball, nor blushed at the praises of their own

beauty flowing from eloquent lips, nor listened to a lover’s suit,

queens might have envied the felicity, the calm, pure, peaceful

happiness of Annabel and Marian.

They were, indeed, _too_ happy! I do not mean too happy to be virtuous,

too happy to be mindful of, and grateful to, the Giver of all joy—but,

as the common phrase runs, too happy for their happiness to be enduring.

That is a strange belief—a wondrous superstition!—and yet it has been

common to all ages. The Greeks, those wild poetic dreamers, imagined

that their vain gods, made up of mortal attributes, _envied_ the bliss

of men, fearing that wretched earthlings should vie in happiness with

the possessors of Olympus. They sang in their dark mystic choruses,

“That perfect bliss of men not childless dies,

But, ended, leaves a progeny behind

Of woes, that spring from fairest fortune blind—”

and, though their other doctrines of that insuperable destiny, that

absolute necessity, to resist which is needless labor; and of ancestral

guilt, still reproducing guilt through countless generations, would seem

to militate against it, there was no more established faith, and no more

prevalent opinion, than that unwonted fortunes were necessarily followed

by most unusual wo—hence, perhaps, the stern self-mortification of the

middle ages—hence, certainly, the vulgar terror, prevalent more or less

among all classes, and in every time and country, that children are too

beautiful, too prematurely wise, too good, to be long-lived—that

happiness is too great to be lasting—that mornings are too fine to

augur stormless days! And we—aye! we ourselves—we of a better and

purer dispensation—we half believe all this, and more than half tremble

at it, although in truth there is no cause for fear in the

belief—since, if there be aught of truth in the mysterious creed, which

facts do in a certain sense seem to bear out, we can but think, we

cannot but perceive, that this is but a varied form of care and mercy

vouchsafed by the Great All-perfect, towards his frail creatures—that

this is but a merciful provision to hinder us from laying up for

ourselves “treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and

where thieves break through and steal”—a provision to restrain us from

forgetting, in the small temporary bliss of the present, the boundless

and incomparable beatitude of the future—to warn us against bartering,

like Esau, our birthright for a mess of pottage.

But I am not now called to follow out this train of thought, suggested

by the change in the fortunes of those to whom I am performing the part

of historian—by the change I say in their fortunes—a change arising,

too, from the very circumstances, as is so frequently the case, which

seemed to promise the most fairly for their improvement and their

permanence—oh, how blind guides are we—even the most far-sighted of us

all—how weak and senseless judges, even the most sagacious—how false

and erring prophets, even the wisest and the best!—

But I must not anticipate, nor overrun my scent, meriting, like a

babbling hound, the harsh thong of the huntsman critic. It was, as I

have said already, somewhere in the summer wherefrom Annabel reckoned

her twentieth, and Marian her nineteenth year—very late in the last

month of summer, an hour or two before the sunset of as beautiful an

evening as ever smiled upon the face of the green earth; the sky was

nearly cloudless, though a thin gauze-like haze had floated up from the

horizon, and so far veiled the orb of the great sun, that the eye could

gaze undazzled on his glories; and the whole air was full of a rich

golden light which flooded all the level meadows with its

lustre,—except where they were checkered by the long cool blue shadows,

projected from the massive clumps of noble forest trees, which singly or

in groups diversified the lovely vale—and gilded the tall slender

steeple of the old village church, and glanced in living fire from the

broad oriel windows of the Hall. Such was the evening, and so beautiful

the prospect, with every sound and sight in perfect harmony—the sharp

squeak of the rapid swifts wheeling their airy circles around the

distant spire, the full and liquid melodies of thrush and blackbird from

out the thorn bushes upon the lawn, the lowing of the cows returning

from their pasture to pay the evening tribute, the very cawing of the

homeward rooks blended by distance into a continuous and soothing

murmur, the rippling music of the stream, the low sigh of the west wind

in the foliage of the sycamores, the far shout of the children happy at

their release from school, the carol of a solitary milkmaid, combining

to make up music as sweet as can be heard or dreamed of. That lovely

picture was surveyed, and that delicious melody was listened to by eyes

and ears well fitted to appreciate their loveliness—for at an open

casement of a neat parlor in the Hall, with furniture all covered with

those elegant appliances of female industry—well-filled drawings, and

books, and instruments of music, and work baskets, and frames for

embroidery—which show so pleasantly that the apartment is one, not of

show, but of calm home enjoyment, sat Annabel, alone—for the presence

of the frail paralytic being, who dozed in her arm-chair at the farther

end of the room, cannot be held to constitute society. Marian, for the

first time in her life, was absent from her home on a visit, which had

already endured nearly six weeks, to the only near relative of the

family who was yet living—a younger sister of her mother—who had

married many years ago a clergyman, whose piety and talents had raised

him to a stall in the cathedral church of York, where he resided with

his wife—a childless couple. This worthy pair had passed a portion of

the summer at the Hall, and, when returning to the metropolis of the

county, had prevailed on their younger niece, not altogether without

difficulty, to go with them for a few weeks, and see a little of society

on a scale something more extended than that which her native vales

could offer. It was the first time in their lives that the sisters ever

had been parted for more than a few days, and now the hours were

beginning to appear very long to Annabel, as weeks were running into

months, and the gorgeous suns of summer were fast preparing to give

place to the cold dews and frosty winds of autumn. The evening meal was

over, and a solitary thing was that meal now, which used to be the most

delightful of the day, and hastily did the lonely sister hurry it over,

thinking all the while what might be Marian’s occupation at the moment,

and whether she too was engaged in thoughts concerning her far friends

and the fair home of her childhood. It was then in a mood half

melancholy, and half listless, that Annabel was gazing from her window

down the broad valley to the eastward, marvelling at the beauty of the

scenery, though she had noted every changing hue that flitted over the

far purple hills a thousand times before; and listening to every sweet

familiar sound, and yet at the same time pondering, as if she were quite

unconscious of all that met her senses, about things which, she fancied,

might be happening at York, when on a sudden her attention was aroused

by a dense cloud of dust rising beyond the river, upon the line of the

highroad, and sweeping up the valley with a progress so unusually rapid

as indicated that the objects, which it veiled from view, must be in

more than commonly quick motion. For a few moments she watched this

little marvel narrowly, but without any apprehension or even any

solicitude, until, as it drew nearer, she could perceive at times bright

flashes as if of polished metal gleaming out through the murky wreaths,

and feathers waving in the air. The year was that in which the hapless

Charles, all hopes of reconciliation with the parliament being decidedly

frustrated, displayed the banner of civil war, and drew the sword

against his subjects. The rumors of the coming strife had circulated,

like the dread sub-terraneous rumblings which harbinger the earth-quake,

through all the country far and near, sad omens of approaching evil; and

more distinctly were they bruited throughout Yorkshire, in consequence

of the attempt which had been made by the royal party to secure Hull

with all its magazines and shipping—frustrated by the energy and spirit

of the Hothams—so that, as soon as she perceived that the dust was,

beyond all doubt, stirred up by a small party of well appointed horse,

Annabel entertained no doubts as to the meaning, but many serious

apprehensions as to the cause, of the present visitation. The road by

which the cavaliers were proceeding, though well made and passable at

all times, was no considerable thoroughfare; no large or important towns

lay on its route, nay, no large villages were situated on its margins;

it was a devious, winding way, leading to many a homely farm-house, many

a small sequestered hamlet, and affording to the good rustics a means of

carrying their wheat, and eggs, and butter, or driving their fat cattle

and black-faced moorland sheep to market, but it was not the direct line

between any two points or places worthy of even a passing notice. It is

true, that some twelve or fifteen miles down the valley, there was a

house or two tenanted by gentry—one that might, by a liberal courtesy,

have been designated as a castle—but above Ingleborough Hall, to the

northwestward, there was no manor-house or dwelling of the aristocracy

at all, until the road left the _ghylls_, as those wild glens are

designated, and joined the line of the great northern turnpike. It was

extremely singular then, to say the least, that a gay troop of riders

should appear suddenly in that wild spot, so far from anything that

would be likely to attract them; and Annabel sat some time longer by the

window, wondering, and at the same time fearing, although, in truth, she

scarce knew what, until, at about a mile’s distance, she saw them halt,

and, after a few moments’ conversation with a farming man on the

wayside, as if to inquire their route, turn suddenly down a narrow

by-road leading to the high narrow bridge of many arches which crossed

the noble river, and gave the only access to the secluded site of

Ingleborough. When she saw this, however, her perturbation became very

great; for she well knew that there lay nothing in that direction,

except one little market-town, far distant, and a few scattered

farm-houses on the verge of the moors, so that there could be little

doubt that Ingleborough was indeed their destination. The very moment

that she arrived at this conclusion, Annabel called a serving-man and

bade him run quick to the vicarage, and pray good Doctor Summers to come

up to her instantly, as she was in great strait, and fain would speak

with him; and, at the same time, with an energy of character that hardly

could have been expected from one so young and delicate, ordered the men

of the household, including in those days the fowler and the falconer,

and half a dozen sturdy grooms, and many a supernumerary more, whom we

in these degenerate times have long discarded as incumbrances, to have

their arms in readiness—for every manor-house then had its regular

armory—and to prepare the great bell of the Hall to summon all the

tenants, on the instant such proceeding might be needful.

In a few moments the good gray-haired vicar came, almost breathless from

the haste with which he had crossed the little space between the

vicarage and the manor; and a little while after his wife followed him,

anxious to learn, as soon as possible, what could have so disturbed the

quiet tenor of a mind so regulated by high principles, and garrisoned by

holy thoughts, as Annabel’s. Their humble dwelling, though scarce a

stone’s throw from the Hall, was screened by a projecting knoll,

feathered with dense and shadowy coppice, which hid from it entirely the

road by which the horsemen were advancing; so that the worthy couple had

not perceived or suspected anything to justify the fears of Annabel,

until they were both standing in her presence—then, while the worthy

doctor was proffering his poor assistance, and his good wife inquiring

eagerly what was amiss, the sight of that gay company of cavaliers, with

feathers waving and scarfs fluttering in the wind, and gold embroideries

glancing to the sun, as, having left the dusty road, they wheeled

through the green meadows, flashed suddenly upon them.

“Who can they be? What possibly can bring them hither?” exclaimed

Annabel, pointing with evident trepidation towards the rapidly

approaching horsemen; “I fear, oh, I greatly fear some heavy ill is

coming—but I have ordered all the men to take their arms, and the great

bell will bring us twenty of the tenants in half as many minutes. What

can it be, good doctor?”

“In truth I know not, Annabel,” replied the good man, smiling cheerfully

as he spoke; “in truth I know not, nor can at all conjecture; but be

quite sure of this, dear girl, that they will do, to us at least, no

evil—they are King Charles’ men beyond doubt, churchmen and cavaliers,

all of them—any one can see that; and though I know not that we have

much to fear from either party, from them at least we have no earthly

cause for apprehension. I will go forth, however, to meet them, and to

learn their errand—meantime, fear nothing.”

“Oh! you mistake me,” she answered at once; “oh! you mistake me very

much, for I did not, even for a moment, fear personally anything; it was

for my poor mother I was first alarmed, and all our good, kind

neighbors, and, indeed, all the country around, that shows so beautiful

and happy this fair evening—oh! but this civil war is a dread thing,

and dread, I fear, will be the reckoning of those who wake it—”

“Who wake it _without cause_, my daughter! A dreadful thing it is at all

times, but it may be a necessary, aye! and a holy thing—when freedom or

religion are at stake—but we will speak of this again; for see, they

have already reached the farther gate, and I must speak with them before

they enter here, let them be who they may;” and with the words, pressing

her hand with fatherly affection, “Farewell,” he said, “be of good

cheer, I purpose to return forthwith,” then left the room, and hurrying

down the steps of the porch, walked far more rapidly than seemed to suit

his advanced years and sedentary habits across the park to meet the

gallant company.

A gallant company, indeed, it was, and such as was but rarely seen in

that wild region, being the train of a young gentleman of some eight or

nine and twenty years, splendidly mounted, and dressed in the

magnificent fashion of those days, in a half military costume, for his

buff coat was lined throughout with rich white satin, and fringed and

looped with silver, a falling collar of rich Flanders lace flowing down

over his steel gorget, and a broad scarf of blue silk supporting his

long silver-hilted rapier—by his side rode another person, not

certainly a menial servant, and yet clearly not a gentleman of birth and

lineage; and after these a dozen or more of armed attendants, all

wearing the blue scarf and black feathers of the royalists, all nobly

mounted and accoutred, like regular troopers, with sword and dagger,

pistols and musquetoons, although they wore no breastplates, nor any

sort of defensive armor. A brace of jet-black greyhounds, without a

speck of white upon their sleek and glistening hides, ran bounding

merrily beside their master’s stirrup, and a magnificent gosshawk sat

hooded on his wrist, with silver bells and richly decorated jesses. So

much had the ladies observed, even before the old man reached the party;

but when he did so, pausing for a moment to address the leader, that

gentleman at once leaped down from his horse, giving the rein to a

servant, and accompanied him, engaged apparently in eager conversation,

toward the entrance of the Hall. This went far on the instant to restore

confidence to Annabel; but when they came so near that their faces could

be seen distinctly from the windows, and she could mark a well-pleased

smile upon the venerable features of her friend, she was completely

reassured. A single glance, moreover, at the face of the stranger showed

her that the most timid maiden need hardly feel a moment’s apprehension,

even if he were her country’s or her faction’s foe; for it was not

merely handsome, striking, and distinguished, but such as indicates, or

is supposed to indicate, the presence of a kindly disposition and good

heart. Annabel had not much time, indeed, for making observations at

that moment, for it was scarce a minute before they had ascended the

short flight of steps, which led to the stone porch, and entered the

door of the vestibule—a moment longer, and they came into the parlor,

the worthy vicar leading the young man by the hand, as if he were a

friend of ten years’ standing.

“Annabel,” he exclaimed, in a joyous voice, as he crossed the threshold

of the room, “this is the young Lord Vaux, son of your honored father’s

warmest and oldest friend; and in years long gone by, but unforgotten,

my kindest patron. He has come hither, bearing letters from _his_

father—knowing not until now that you, my child, were so long since

bereaved—letters of commendation, praying the hospitality of

Ingleborough, and the best influence of the name of Hawkwood, to levy

men to serve King Charles in the approaching war. I have already told

him—”

“How glad, how welcome, doubtless, would have been his coming,” answered

Annabel, advancing easily to meet the youthful nobleman, although a deep

blush covered all her pale features as she performed her unaccustomed

duty, “had my dear father been alive, or my poor mother”—casting a

rapid glance towards the invalid—“been in health to greet him. As it

is,” she continued, “the Lord Vaux, I doubt not, in the least, will

pardon any imperfections in our hospitality, believing that if in aught

we err, it will be error, not of friendliness or of feeling, but of

experience only, seeing I am but a young mistress of a household. You,

my kind friend, and Mistress Summers, will doubtless tarry with us while

my Lord Vaux gives us the favor of his presence.”

“Loath should I be, indeed, dear lady, thus to intrude upon your

sorrows, could I at all avoid it,” replied the cavalier; “and charming

as it must needs be to enjoy the hospitalities tendered by such an one

as you, I do assure you, were I myself concerned alone, I would remount

my horse at once, and ride away, rather than force myself upon your

courtesy. But, when I tell you that my father’s strong opinion holds it

a matter of importance—importance almost vital to the king, and to the

cause of Church and State in England—that I should levy some force here

of cavaliers, where there be so few heads of noble houses living, to act

in union with Sir Philip Musgrave, in the north, and with Sir Marmaduke

Langdale, I both trust and believe that you will overlook the trouble

and intrusion, in fair consideration of the motives which impel me.”

“Pray—” said she, smiling gaily—“pray, my Lord Vaux, let us leave,

now, apology and compliment—most unaffectedly and truly I am glad to

receive you, both as the son of my father’s valued friend, and as a

faithful servant of our most gracious king—we will do our best, too, to

entertain you; and Doctor Summers will aid you with his counsel and

experience in furthering your military levies. How left you the good

earl, your father? I have heard mine speak of him many times, and ever

in the highest terms of praise, when I was but a little girl—and my

poor mother much more recently, before this sad calamity affected her so

fearfully.”

Her answer, as it was intended, had the effect at once of putting an end

to all formality, and setting the young nobleman completely at his ease;

the conversation took a general tone, and was maintained on all sides

with sufficient spirit, until, when Annabel retired for a little space

to conduct her mother to her chamber, De Vaux found himself wondering

how a mere country girl, who had lived a life so secluded and domestic,

should have acquired graces both of mind and manner, such as he never

had discovered in court ladies; while she was struck even in a greater

degree by the frank, unaffected bearing, the gay wit, and sparkling

anecdote, blended with many a touch of deeper feeling, which

characterized the youthful nobleman. After a little while she

reappeared, and with her was announced the evening meal, the pleasant

sociable old-fashioned supper, and as he sat beside her, while she

presided, full of calm modest self-possession, at the head of her

hospitable board, with no one to encourage her, or lend her countenance,

except the good old vicar and his homely helpmate, he could not but draw

fresh comparisons, all in her favor too, betwixt the quiet graceful

confidence of the ingenuous girl before him, and the _minauderies_ and

meretricious airs of the court dames, who had been hitherto the objects

of his passing admiration. Cheerfully, then, and pleasantly the evening

passed away; and when upon her little couch, hard by the invalid’s sick

bed, Annabel thought over the events of the past day, she felt

concerning young De Vaux, rather as if he had been an old familiar

friend, with whom she had renewed an intercourse long interrupted, than

as of a mere acquaintance whom that day first had introduced, and whom

the next might possibly remove forever. Something there was, when they

met next, at breakfast on the following morning, of blushing bashfulness

in Annabel which he had not observed, nor she before experienced; but it

passed rapidly away, and left her self-possessed and tranquil—while

surely in the sparkling eye, the eager haste with which he broke away

from his conversation with Dr. Summers, as she entered, in his hand half

extended, and then half awkwardly, half timidly, withdrawn, there was

much indication of excited feeling, widely at variance with the stiff

and even formal mannerism inculcated and practised in the court of the

unhappy Charles. It needs not now, however, to dwell on passing

conversations, to narrate every trifling incident—the morning meal once

finished, De Vaux mounted his horse, and rode forth in accordance with

the directions of the loyal clergyman, to visit such among the

neighboring farmers as were most likely to be able to assist him in the

levying a horse regiment. A few hours passed, and he returned full of

high spirits and hot confidence—he had met everywhere assurances of

good will to the royal cause, had succeeded in enlisting some ten or

more of stout and hardy youths, and had no doubt of finally

accomplishing the object, which he had in view, to the full height of

his aspirations. After dinner, which in those primitive days was served

at noon, he was engaged for a time in making up despatches for his

father, which having been sent off by a messenger of his own trusty

servants to the castle in Northumberland, he went out and joined his

lovely hostess in the sheltered garden, which I have described above;

and there they lingered until the sun was sinking in the west behind the

huge and purple headed hills, which covered the horizon in that

direction—the evening circle and the social meal succeeded, and when

they parted for the night, if Annabel and young De Vaux could not be

said to be enamored, as indeed they could not yet, they had at least

made so much progress to that end, that each esteemed the other the most

agreeable and charming person it had been hitherto their fortune to

encounter; and, although this was decidedly the farthest point to which

the thoughts of Annabel extended, when he had laid down on his bed, with

the sweet rays of the harvest moon flooding his room with quiet lustre,

and the voice of the murmuring rivulet and the low flutter of the west

wind in the giant sycamores blending themselves into a soft and soothing

melody, the young lord found himself considering how gracefully that

fair pale girl would fill the place, which had been long left vacant by

his mother, in the grand Hall of Gilsland Castle. Another, and another

day succeeded—a week slipped away—a second and third followed it, and

still the ranks of the royal regiment, though they were filling rapidly,

had many vacancies, and arms had yet to be provided, and standards, and

musicians—passengers went and came continually between the castle and

the manor; and all was bustle and confusion in the lone glens of

Wharfdale. Meantime a change was wrought in Annabel’s demeanor, that all

who saw remarked—there was a brighter glow than ever had been seen

before in her transparent cheeks; her eyes sparkled almost as

brilliantly as Marian’s; her lips were frequently arrayed in bright and

beaming smiles; her step was light and springy as a young fawn’s upon

the mountain—Annabel was in love, and had discovered that it was

so—Annabel was beloved, and knew it—the young lord’s declaration and

the old earl’s consent had come together, and the sweet maiden’s heart

was given, and her hand promised, almost before the asking. Joy! joy!

was there not joy in Ingleborough? The good old vicar’s tranquil air of

satisfaction, the loud and eloquent mirth of his kind-hearted

housewife—the merry gay congratulations of wild Marian, who wrote from

York, half crazy with excitement and delight—the evident and lovely

happiness of the young promised bride—what pen of man may even aspire

to describe them. All was decided—all arranged—the marriage was, so

far at least, to be held private, that no festivities nor public

merriment should bruit it to the world, until the civil strife should be

decided, and the king’s power established; which all men fancied at that

day it would by a single battle—and which, had Rupert wheeled upon the

flank of Essex at Edge-Hill, instead of chasing the discomfited and

flying horse of the Roundheads miles from the field of battle, would

probably have been the case. The old earl had sent the wedding gifts to

his son’s chosen bride, had promised to be present at the nuptials, the

day of which was fixed already; but it had been decided, that when De

Vaux should be forced to join the royal armies, his young wife should

continue to reside at Ingleborough, with her bereaved mother and fond

sister, until the wished-for peace should unite England once again in

bonds of general amity, and the bridegroom find honorable leisure to

lead his wife in state to his paternal mansions. Days sped away! how

fast they seemed to fly to those young happy lovers! How was the very

hour of their first interview noted, and marked with the white in the

deep tablets of their minds—how did they, shyly half, half fondly,

recount each to the other the first impressions of their growing

fondness—how did they bless the cause that brought them thus

together—_Proh! cæca mens mortalium!_—oh! the short-sighted scope of

mortal vision!—alas! for one—for both!—

The wedding day was fixed, and now was fast approaching; and hourly was

Marian with the good uncle and his dame expected at the Hall, and wished

for, and discoursed of by the lovers—“and oh!—” would Annabel say,

half sportively and half in earnest—“well was it for my happiness, De

Vaux, that _she_ was absent when you first came hither, for had you seen

her first, her far superior beauty, her bright wild radiant face, her

rare arch _naïveté_, her flashing wit, and beautiful enthusiasm,

would—_must_ have captivated you all at once—and what had then become

of your poor Annabel?”

And then would the young lord vow—and vow in all sincerity and truth as

he believed, that had he met her first in the most glorious courts of

Europe, with all the gorgeous beauties of the world to rival her, she

would alone have been the choice of his soul—his soul first touched by

her of women!—And then he would ask in lowered tones, and with a sly

simplicity of manner, whether if _he_ had loved another, she could have

still loved him; to which with all the frank and fearless purity, which

was so beautiful a trait in Annabel—“Oh! yes—” she would reply, and

gaze with calm reliance, as she did so, into her lover’s eyes—“oh yes,

dear Ernest—and then how miserably wretched must I have been, through

my whole life thereafter. Oh! yes, I loved you—though then I knew it

not, nor indeed thought at all about it until you spoke to me—I loved

you dearly—tenderly!—and I believe it would have almost killed me, to

look upon you afterward as the wife of another.”

The wedding day was but a fortnight distant, and strange to say, it was

the very day two months gone, which had seen their meeting. Wains had

arrived from Gilsland, loaded with arms and uniforms, standards and

ammunition—two of the brothers of De Vaux, young gallant cavaliers, had

come partly to officer the men, partly to do fit honor to their

brother’s nuptials. The day, although the season had now advanced far

into brown October, was sunny, mild and beautiful; the regiment had that

day, for the first time, mustered in arms in Ingleborough park, and a

gay show they made with glittering casques and corslets, fresh from the

armorer’s anvil, and fluttering scarfs and dancing plumes, and bright

emblazoned banners.

The sun was in the act of setting—De Vaux and Annabel were watching his

decline from the same window in the Hall, whence she had first

discovered his unexpected coming; when, as on that all eventful evening,

a little dust was seen arising on the high road beyond the river, and in

a moment a small mounted party, among which might be readily descried

the fluttering of female garments!

“It is my sister—” exclaimed Annabel, jumping up on the instant, and

clasping her hands eagerly—“it is my dear, dear sister—come, Ernest,

come; let us go meet dear Marian.” No time was lost; but arm in arm they

sallied forth, the lovers; and met the little train just this side the

park gates.

Marian sprang from her horse, light as a spirit of the air, and rushed

into her sister’s arms and clung there with a long and lingering

embrace, and as she raised her head a bright tear glittered on either

silky eyelash. De Vaux advanced to greet her, but as he did so,

earnestly perusing the lineaments of his fair sister, he was most

obviously embarrassed, his manner was confused and even agitated, his

words faltered—and _she_ whose face had been, a second before, beaming

with the bright crimson of excitement, whose eye had looked round

eagerly and gladly to mark the chosen of her sister—_she_ turned as

pale as ashes—brow, cheeks, and lips—pale, almost livid!—and her eye

fell abashed, and did not rise again till he had finished speaking. None

noticed it, but Annabel; for all the party were engaged in gay

congratulations, and, they recovering themselves immediately, nothing

more passed that could create surmise—but she did _note_ it, and her

heart sank for a moment; and all that evening she was unusually grave

and silent; and had not her usual demeanor been so exceedingly calm and

subdued, her strange dejection must have been seen and wondered at by

her assembled kinsfolk.

* * * * *

A DIRGE.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.