from her own earnings were quite incompetent to satisfy this living
vampire. She saw him daily rush from her presence, threatening that
he would bring her to the extremity of disgrace by the methods he
would take to obtain money. She lived for weeks in the agonising
fear that the next moment would bring her news of some awful crime
committed by his hand, and for which he was likely to suffer the last
penalty of the law. She hardly knew who or what were his associates;
but occasionally she learned, from mutterings in his sleep, that his
practices were of the most flagitious and debased kind. He seemed to be
the leader or director of a set of wretches who made a livelihood by
midnight burglary. At length, one day he came home at an unusual hour,
accompanied by three strangers, with whom he entered into conversation
in the next room. Between that apartment and the room in which he was
sitting, there was a door, which, being never used, was locked up.
Through the thin panels, she overheard a scheme laid for entering the
house of ——, a villa in the neighbourhood, in order to rob the tenant,
whom they described as a gentleman just returned from the East Indies,
with a great quantity of plate and other valuables. One of the persons
in conference had visited the house, through the kindness of a servant,
to whom he had made up as a sweetheart; and he therefore was able
to lead the attack through such a channel as rendered success almost
certain. “The nabob,” said this person, “sleeps in a part of the house
distant from the room in which his boxes are for the present deposited.
But should he attempt to give us any disturbance, we have a remedy for
that, you know.” And here the listener’s blood ran cold at hearing a
pistol cocked. From all that she could gather, her husband was only to
keep watch at the outside of the house, while the rest should enter
in search of the booty. It is impossible to describe the horror with
which she heard the details of the plot. Her mind was at first in such
a whirl of distracted feeling, that she hardly knew where she stood;
but as the scheme was to be executed that very evening, she saw it
necessary to exert herself quickly and decisively, and, therefore, she
immediately went to the house of a friend, and wrote an anonymous note
to the person most concerned, warning him of a design (she could use
no more specific language) which she knew was entertained against a
certain part of his property, and recommending him to have it removed
to some more secure part of his house. To make quite sure of this note
being delivered in time, she took it herself to the gate, and left it
with the porter, whom she strictly enjoined to give it immediately
into the hands of his master. She then went home, and spent an evening
of misery more bitter than the cup of death itself. She had formerly
passed many a lonely night at her cheerless fireside, while waiting
for the return of her wretched husband; but she never spent one like
this. When she reflected upon the happiness of her early days, and
the splendid prospects which were then said to lie before her, and
contrasted them with the misery into which she had been so suddenly
plunged, not by any fault of her own, but, as it appeared, by the mere
course of destiny, she could have almost questioned the justice of
that supreme power, by which she piously believed the concerns of this
lower world to be adjusted. What dire calamities had sprung to her from
one unfortunate step! What persecutions she had innocently endured!
How hopeless was her every virtuous exertion against the perverse
counteraction of a being from whom society could not permit her to be
disjoined! And, finally, what an awful outburst of wretchedness was
at this moment, to appearance, impending over her! Then she recalled
one gentle recollection, which occasionally would steal into her mind,
even in her darkest hours, and fill it with an agreeable but still
painful light—the thought of Russell—Russell, the kind and good, whom,
in a moment of girlish vanity, she had treated harshly, so that he
vanished from her presence for ever, and even from the place where he
had suffered her scorn. Had fate decreed that she should have been
united to that endeared mate of her childhood, how different might
have been her lot!—how different, also, perhaps, might have been his
course of life!—for she feared that her ungenerous cruelty had also
made shipwreck of his noble nature. These meditations were suddenly
disturbed by the entrance of Dempster, who rushed into her room,
holding a handkerchief upon his side, and, pale, gory, and breathless,
fell upon the ground before her. Almost ere she had time to ascertain
the reality of this horrid vision, quick footsteps were heard upon the
stair. The open door gave free admission, and in a moment the room was
half filled with watchmen, at the head of whom appeared a middle-aged
gentleman, of a prepossessing though somewhat disordered exterior.
“This,” he exclaimed, “is the villain; secure him, if he be yet alive,
but I fear he has already met the punishment which is his due.” The
watchmen raised Dempster from the ground, and, holding his face to the
light, found that the glaze of death was just taking effect upon his
eyes. The unhappy woman shrieked as she beheld the dreadful spectacle,
and would have fallen upon the ground if she had not been prevented by
the stranger, who caught her in his arms. Her eyes, when they first
re-opened, were met by those of RUSSELL.
It would be difficult to describe the feelings with which these
long-severed hearts again recognised each other, the wretchedness into
which she was plunged, by learning that her well-intended efforts had
unexpectedly led to the death of her husband, or the returning tide of
grateful and affectionate emotion which possessed his bosom, on being
informed that those efforts had saved his life, not to speak of the
deep sensation of pity with which he listened to the tale of her life.
A tenderer feeling than friendship was now impossible, and, if it could
have existed, would have hardly been in good taste; but Russell, now
endowed with that wealth which, when he had it not, would have been
of so much avail, contented himself to use it in the pious task of
rendering the declining years of Eliza Farney as happy as her past life
had been miserable.
TALE OF THE SILVER HEART.
In the course of a ramble through the western part of Fife, I descended
one evening upon the ancient burgh of Culross, which is situated on a
low stripe of land beside the sea-shore, with a line of high grounds
rising behind it, upon which are situated the old abbey church and the
ruins of a very fine mansion-house, once the residence of the lords
of the manor. On stepping forth next morning from the little inn, I
found that the night had been stormy, and that the waves of the Forth
were still rolling with considerable violence, so as to delay the
usual passage of the ferry-boat to Borrowstouness. Having resolved to
cross to that part of the opposite shore, I found that I should have
ample time, before the boat could proceed, to inspect those remains of
antiquity, which now give the burgh almost its only importance in the
eyes of a traveller. The state of the atmosphere was in the highest
degree calculated to increase the interest of these objects. It was
a day of gloom, scarcely different from night. The sky displayed that
fixed dulness which so often succeeds a nocturnal tempest; the sea was
one sheet of turbid darkness, save where chequered by the breaking
wave. The streets and paths of the little village-burgh showed, each by
its deep and pebbly seam, how much rain had fallen during the night;
and all the foliage of the gardens and woods around, as well as the
walls of the houses, were still drenched with wet. Having secured
the services of the official called the _bedral_, I was conducted to
the abbey church, which is a very old Gothic structure, but recently
repaired and fitted up as a parochial place of worship. It was fitting,
in such a gloomy day, to inspect the outlines of abbots and crusaders
which still deck the pavement of this ancient temple; and there was
matter, perhaps, for still more solemn reflection in the view of the
adjacent mansion-house. Culross Abbey, as this structure is called, was
finished so lately as the reign of Charles the Second, and by the same
architect with Holyrood House, which it far exceeded in magnificence.
Yet, as the premature ruin of youthful health is a more affecting
object than the ripe decline of age, so did this roofless modern
palace, with the wallflower waving from its elegant Grecian windows,
present a more dismal aspect than could have been expected from any
ruin of more hoary antiquity. The tale which it told of the extinction
of modern grandeur, and the decline of recently flourishing families,
appealed more immediately and more powerfully to the sympathies than
that of remote and more barbarous greatness, which is to be read in
the sterner battlements of a border tower, or an ancient national
fortress. The site had been chosen upon a lofty terrace overlooking the
sea, in order that the inmates might be enlivened by the ever-changing
aspect of that element, and the constant transit of its ships; but now
all useless was this peculiarity of situation, except to serve to the
mariner as a kind of landmark, or to supply the more contemplative
voyager with the subject of a sigh. With a mind attuned by this object
to the most melancholy reflections, I was conducted to what is called
an aisle or burial vault, projecting from the north side of the church,
and which contains the remains of the former lords of Culross. There
images are shown, cut in beautiful Italian marble, of Sir —— Bruce,
his lady, and several children, all of which must have been procured
from the Continent at a great expense; for this honourable knight and
his family flourished in the early part of the seventeenth century,
when no such art was practised in Scotland. The images, however, and
the whole sepulchre, had a neglected and desolate appearance, as may
be expected by the greatest of personages, when their race has become
unknown at the scene of their repose. In this gloomy chamber of the
heirless dead, I was shown a projection from one of the side-walls,
much like an altar, over which was painted on the wall the mournfully
appropriate and expressive word “FUIMUS.” Below was an inscription on
a brass plate, importing that this was the resting place of the heart
of Edward Lord Bruce of Kinloss, formerly proprietor of the princely
estate of Culross; and that the story connected with it was to be found
related in the Guardian, and alluded to in Clarendon’s History of the
Great Rebellion. It was stated that the heart was enclosed in a silver
case of its own shape, which had reposed here ever since it ceased to
beat with the tide of mortal life in the year 1613, except that it was
raised from its cell for a brief space in 1808, in the course of some
repairs upon the sepulchre. As I had a perfect recollection of the
story told by Steele, which indeed had made a deep impression upon me
in boyhood, it was with no small interest that I beheld the final abode
of an object so immediately connected with it. It seemed as if time
had been betrayed, and two centuries annihilated, when I thus found
myself in presence of the actual membrane, in bodily substance entire,
which had, by its proud passions, brought about the catastrophe of that
piteous tale. What! thought I, and does the heart of Edward Bruce,
which beat so long ago with emotions now hardly known among men, still
exist at this spot, as if the friends of its owner had resolved that
so noble a thing should never find decay? The idea had in it something
so truly captivating, that it was long ere I could quit the place, or
return to the feelings of immediate existence. The whole scene around,
and the little neglected burgh itself, had now become invested with a
fascinating power over me; and I did not depart till I had gathered,
from the traditions of the inhabitants, the principal materials of the
following story, aiding them, after I had reached home, by reference to
more authentic documents:—
Edward Lord Bruce of Kinloss, the second who bore the title, was the
son of the first lord, who is so memorable in history as a serviceable
minister to King James the Sixth during the latter years of his
Scottish reign, having been chiefly instrumental, along with the
Earl of Mar, in smoothing the way for his majesty’s succession to
Queen Elizabeth. After the death of his father, the young Lord Bruce
continued, along with his mother, to enjoy high consideration in the
English court. He was a contemporary and playmate of Henry Prince of
Wales, whom he almost equalled in the performance of all noble sports
and exercises, while, from his less cold character, he was perhaps
a greater favourite among those who were not prepossessed in favour
of youthful royalty. There was not, perhaps, in the whole of the
English court, any young person of greater promise, or more endearing
qualities, than Lord Bruce, though, in respect of mere external
accomplishments, he was certainly rivalled by his friend Sir George
Sackville, a younger son of the Earl of Dorset. This young gentleman,
who was the grandson of one poet,[1] and destined to be the grandsire
of another,[2] was one of those free and dashing spirits, who,
according to the accounts of contemporary writers, kept the streets
of London in an almost perpetual brawl, by night and by day, with
their extravagant frolics, or, more generally, the feuds arising out
of them. His heart and genius were naturally good, but the influence
of less innocent companions gradually betrayed him into evil habits;
and thus many generous faculties, which might have adorned the highest
profession, were in him perverted to the basest uses. It was often a
subject of wonder that the pure and elevated nature of young Lord Bruce
should tolerate the reckless profligacy of Sackville; but those who
were surprised did not take a very extended view of human nature. The
truth is, that real goodness is often imposed upon by vice, and sees
in it more to attract and delight than it does in goodness similar to
itself. The gentle character of Bruce clung to the fierce and turbulent
nature of Sackville, as if it found in that nature a protection and
comfort which it needed. Perhaps there was something, also, in the
early date of their intimacy, which might tend to fix the friendship
of these dissimilar minds. From their earliest boyhood they had been
thrown together as pages in the household of the prince, where their
education proceeded, step by step, in union, and every action and every
duty was the same. It was further remarked, that, while the character
of Bruce appeared always to be bolder in the presence of Sackville
than on other occasions, that of Sackville was invariably softened by
juxtaposition with Bruce; so that they had something more like a common
ground to meet upon than could previously have been suspected.
When the two young men were about fourteen, and as yet displayed little
more than the common features of innocent boyhood, Sackville was
permitted by his parents to accompany Bruce on a summer visit to the
paternal estates of the young nobleman in Scotland. There they enjoyed
together, for some weeks, all the sports of the season and place, which
seemed to be as untiring as their own mutual friendship. One day, as
they were preparing to go out a-hunting, an aged woman, who exercised
the trade of _spaewife_, or fortune-teller, came up to the gate. The
horses upon which they had just mounted were startled by the uncouth
appearance of the stranger, and that ridden by Sackville was so very
restive as nearly to throw him off. This caused the young Englishman
to address her in language of not the most respectful kind; nor could
all the efforts of Lord Bruce, who was actuated by different feelings,
prevent him from aiming at her once or twice with his whip.
“For heaven’s sake, Sackville,” said Lord Bruce, “take care lest she
make us all repent of this. Don’t you see that she is a spaewife?”
“What care I for your spaewives?” cried Sackville. “All I know is, that
she is a cursed old beggar or gipsy, and has nearly caused me break my
neck!”
“I tell you she is a witch and a fortune-teller,” said his gentler
companion; “and there is not a man in the country but would rather have
his neck broken than say any thing to offend her.”
The woman, who had hitherto stood with a face beaming with indignation,
now broke out—
“Ride on to your hunting, young man,” addressing Sackville; “you will
not have the better sport for abusing the helpless infirmities of old
age. Some day you two will go out to a different kind of sport, and one
only will come back alive; alive, but wishing that he rather had been
doomed to the fate of his companion.”
Both Sackville and Bruce were for the time deeply impressed with this
denunciation, to which the superstitious feelings of the age gave
greater weight than can now be imagined; and even while they mutually
swore that hostility between them was impossible, they each secretly
wished that the doom could be unsaid. Its chief immediate effect was
to deepen and strengthen their friendship. Each seemed to wish, by
bestowing more and more affection upon his companion, at once to give
to himself a better assurance of his own disposition to quarrel, and
to his friend a stronger reason for banishing the painful impression
from his mind. Perhaps this was one reason—and one not the less strong
that it was in some measure unconscious—why, on the separation of their
characters in ripening manhood, they still clung to each other with
such devoted attachment.
In process of time, a new and more tender relation arose between these
two young men, to give them mutually better assurance against the
doom which had been pronounced upon them. Lady Clementina Sackville,
eldest daughter of the Earl of Dorset, was just two years younger
than Sir George and his friend, and there was not a more beautiful or
accomplished gentlewoman in the court of Queen Anne. Whether in the
walking of a minuet, or in the personation of a divine beauty in one
of Ben Jonson’s court masks, Lady Clementina was alike distinguished;
while her manners, so far from betraying that pride which so often
attends the triumphs of united beauty and talent, were of the most
unassuming and amiable character. It was not possible that two such
natures as those of Lord Bruce and Lady Clementina Sackville should
be frequently in communion, as was their case, without contracting a
mutual affection of the strongest kind. Accordingly, it soon became
understood that the only obstacle to their union was their extreme
youth, which rendered it proper that they should wait for one or
two years, before their fortunes, like their hearts, should be made
one. It unfortunately happened that this was the very time when the
habits of Sir George Sackville made their greatest decline, and
when, consequently, it was most difficult for Bruce to maintain the
friendship which hitherto subsisted between them. The household of
Lord Dorset was one of that sober cast, which, in the next age, was
characterised by the epithet puritanical. As such, of course, it suited
with the temper of Lord Bruce, who, though not educated in Scotland,
had been impressed by his mother with the grave sentiments and habits
of his native country. Often then did he mourn with the amiable family
of Dorset over the errors of his friend; and many was the night which
he spent innocently in that peaceful circle, while Sir George roamed
about, in company with the most wicked and wayward spirits of the time.
One night, after he had enjoyed with Lady Clementina a long and
delightful conversation respecting their united prospects, Sir George
came home in a state of high intoxication and excitement, exclaiming
loudly against a Scotch gentleman with whom he had had a street
quarrel, and who had been rescued, as he said, from his sword, only
by the unfair interference of some other “beggarly Scots.” It was
impossible for a Scotsman of Bruce’s years to hear his countrymen
spoken of in this way without anger; but he repressed every emotion,
till his friend proceeded to generalise upon the character of these
“beggarly Scots,” and extended his obloquy from the individuals to the
nation. Lord Bruce then gently repelled his insinuations, and said,
that surely there was one person at least whom he would exempt from
the charge brought against his country. “I will make no exemptions,”
said the infatuated Sackville, “and least of all in favour of a cullion
who sits in his friend’s house, and talks of him puritanically behind
his back.” Bruce felt very bitterly the injustice of this reproach;
but the difficulty of shaping a vindication rendered his answer more
passionate than he wished; and it was immediately replied to by
Sackville with a contemptuous blow upon the face. There, in a moment,
fell the friendship of years, and deadly gall usurped the place where
nothing before had been but “the milk of kindness.” Lady Clementina,
to whom the whole affair seemed a freak of a hurried and unnatural
dream, was shocked beyond measure by the violence of her brother; but
she was partly consoled by the demeanour of Bruce, who had the address
entirely to disguise his feelings in her presence, and to seem as if he
looked upon the insult as only a frolic. But though he appeared quite
cool, the blow and words of Sackville had sunk deep into his soul; and
after brooding over the event for a few hours, he found that his very
nature had become, as it were, changed. That bitterest of pains—the
pain of an unrequited blow—possessed and tortured his breast; nor was
the reflection that the injurer was his friend, and not at the time
under the control of reason, of much avail in allaying his misery.
Strange though it be, the unkindness of a friend is the most sensibly
felt and most promptly resented; and we are never so near becoming the
irreconcilable enemies of any fellow-creature, as at the moment when we
are interchanging with him the most earnest and confiding affection.
Similar feelings possessed Sackville, who had really felt of late some
resentment at Lord Bruce, on account of certain references which had
been made by his parents to the regret expressed by this young nobleman
respecting his present course of life. To apologise for his rudeness
was not to be thought of; and, accordingly, these two hearts, which for
years had beat in unison, became parted at once, like rocks split by
one of the convulsions of nature, and a yawning and impassable gulf was
left between.
For some weeks after, the young men never met; Sackville took care
never to intrude into the family circle, and Bruce did not seek his
company. It appeared as if the unfortunate incident had been forgotten
by the parties themselves, and totally unknown to the world. One day,
however, Bruce was met in Paul’s Walk by a young friend and countryman,
of the name of Crawford, a rambling slip of Scottish nobility, whose
very sword seemed, from the loose easy way in which it was disposed by
his side, to have a particular aptitude for starting up in a quarrel.
After some miscellaneous conversation, Crawford expressed his regret at
a story which had lately come to his ears, respecting a disagreement
between Sackville and Bruce. “What!” he said, “one might have as
well expected Castor and Pollux to rise from their graves and fall
a-fighting, as that you two should have had a tussle! But, of course,
the affair was confined merely to words, which, we all know, matter
little between friends. The story about the batter on the face must be
a neat figment clapped upon the adventure by Lady Fame.”
“Have you indeed heard,” asked Bruce, in some agitation, “that any such
incident took place?”
“Oh, to be sure,” replied his companion; “the whole Temple has been
ringing with it for the last few days, as I am assured by my friend
Jack Topper. And I heard it myself spoken of last week to the west of
Temple Bar. Indeed, I believe it was Sackville himself who told the
tale at first among some of his revellers; but, for my part, I think it
not a whit the more true or likely on that account.”
“It is,” said Bruce, with deep emotion, “too true. He did strike me,
and I, for sake of friendship and love, did not resent it. But what,
Crawford, could I do in the presence of my appointed bride, to right
myself with her brother?”