It was an aged man, somewhat bowed down, with a serene, though
dejected countenance, and a beaming, melancholy eye. It was the
alchymist. The populace looked upon him with a degree of compassion,
which they were not prone to feel towards criminals condemned by the
inquisition; but when they were told that he was convicted of the
crime of magic, they drew back with awe and abhorrence.
The procession had reached the grand square. The first part had
already mounted the scaffolding, and the condemned were approaching.
The press of the populace became excessive, and was repelled, as it
were, in billows by the guards. Just as the condemned were entering
the square, a shrieking was heard among the crowd. A female, pale,
frantic, dishevelled, was seen struggling through the multitude. "My
father! my father!" was all the cry she uttered, but it thrilled
through every heart. The crowd instinctively drew back, and made way
for her as she advanced.
The poor alchymist had made his peace with Heaven, and, by a hard
struggle, had closed his heart upon the world, when the voice of his
child called him once more back to worldly thought and agony. He
turned towards the well-known voice; his knees smote together; he
endeavoured to stretch forth his pinioned arms, and felt himself
clasped in the embraces of his child. The emotions of both were too
agonizing for utterance. Convulsive sobs and broken exclamations, and
embraces more of anguish than tenderness, were all that passed between
them. The procession was interrupted for a moment. The astonished
monks and familiars were filled with involuntary respect, at the agony
of natural affection. Ejaculations of pity broke from the crowd,
touched by the filial piety, the extraordinary and hopeless anguish,
of so young and beautiful a being.
Every attempt to soothe her, and prevail on her to retire, was
unheeded; at length they endeavoured to separate her from her father
by force. The movement roused her from her temporary abandonment. With
a sudden paroxysm of fury, she snatched a sword from one of the
familiars. Her late pale countenance was flushed with rage, and fire
flashed from her once soft and languishing eyes. The guards shrunk
back with awe. There was something in this filial frenzy, this
feminine tenderness wrought up to desperation, that touched even their
hardened hearts. They endeavoured to pacify her, but in vain. Her eye
was eager and quick, as the she-wolf's guarding her young. With one
arm she pressed her father to her bosom, with the other she menaced
every one that approached.
The patience of the guards was soon exhausted. They had held back in
awe, but not in fear. With all her desperation the weapon was soon
wrested from her feeble hand, and she was borne shrieking and
struggling among the crowd. The rabble murmured compassion; but such
was the dread inspired by the inquisition, that no one attempted to
interfere.
The procession again resumed its march. Inez was ineffectually
struggling to release herself from the hands of the familiars that
detained her, when suddenly she saw Don Ambrosio before her. "Wretched
girl!" exclaimed he with fury, "why have you fled from your friends?
Deliver her," said he to the familiars, "to my domestics; she is under
my protection."
His creatures advanced to seize her. "Oh, no! oh, no!" cried she, with
new terrors, and clinging to the familiars, "I have fled from no
friends. He is not my protector! He is the murderer of my father!"
The familiars were perplexed; the crowd pressed on, with eager
curiosity. "Stand off!" cried the fiery Ambrosio, dashing the throng
from around him. Then turning to the familiars, with sudden
moderation, "My friends," said he, "deliver this poor girl to me. Her
distress has turned her brain; she has escaped from her friends and
protectors this morning; but a little quiet and kind treatment will
restore her to tranquillity."
"I am not mad! I am not mad!" cried she, vehemently. "Oh, save
me!--save me from these men! I have no protector on earth but my
father, and him they are murdering!"
The familiars shook their heads; her wildness corroborated the
assertions of Don Ambrosio, and his apparent rank commanded respect
and belief. They relinquished their charge to him, and he was
consigning the struggling Inez to his creatures.
"Let go your hold, villain!" cried a voice from among the crowd--and
Antonio was seen eagerly tearing his way through the press of people.
"Seize him! seize him!" cried Don Ambrosio to the familiars, "'tis an
accomplice of the sorcerer's."
"Liar!" retorted Antonio, as he thrust the mob to the right and left,
and forced himself to the spot.
The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an instant from the scabbard; the
student was armed, and equally alert. There was a fierce clash of
weapons: the crowd made way for them as they fought, and closed again,
so as to hide them from the view of Inez. All was tumult and confusion
for a moment; when there was a kind of shout from the spectators, and
the mob again opening, she beheld, as she thought, Antonio weltering
in his blood.
This new shock was too great for her already overstrained intellect. A
giddiness seized upon her; every thing seemed to whirl before her
eyes; she gasped some incoherent words, and sunk senseless upon the
ground.
Days--weeks elapsed, before Inez returned to consciousness. At length
she opened her eyes, as if out of a troubled sleep. She was lying upon
a magnificent bed, in a chamber richly furnished with pier-glasses,
and massive tables inlaid with silver, of exquisite workmanship. The
walls were covered with tapestry; the cornices richly gilded; through
the door, which stood open, she perceived a superb saloon, with
statues and crystal lustres, and a magnificent suite of apartments
beyond. The casements of the room were open to admit the soft breath
of summer, which stole in, laden with perfumes from a neighbouring
garden; from whence, also, the refreshing sound of fountains and the
sweet notes of birds came in mingled music to her ear.
Female attendants were moving, with noiseless step, about the chamber;
but she feared to address them. She doubted whether this was not all
delusion, or whether she was not still in the palace of Don Ambrosio,
and that her escape, and all its circumstances, had not been but a
feverish dream. She closed her eyes again, endeavouring to recall the
past, and to separate the real from the imaginary. The last scenes of
consciousness, however, rushed too forcibly, with all their horrors,
to her mind to be doubted, and she turned shuddering from the
recollection, to gaze once more on the quiet and serene magnificence
around her. As she again opened her eyes, they rested on an object
that at once dispelled every alarm. At the head of her bed sat a
venerable form, watching over her with a look of fond anxiety--it was
her father!
I will not attempt to describe the scene that ensued; nor the moments
of rapture which more than repaid all the sufferings that her
affectionate heart had undergone. As soon as their feelings had become
more calm, the alchymist stepped out of the room to introduce a
stranger, to whom he was indebted for his life and liberty. He
returned, leading in Antonio, no longer in his poor scholar's garb,
but in the rich dress of a nobleman.
The feelings of Inez were almost overpowered by these sudden reverses,
and it was some time before she was sufficiently composed to
comprehend the explanation of this seeming romance.
It appeared that the lover, who had sought her affections in the lowly
guise of a student, was only son and heir of a powerful grandee of
Valentia. He had been placed at the university of Salamanca; but a
lively curiosity, and an eagerness for adventure, had induced him to
abandon the university, without his father's consent, and to visit
various parts of Spain. His rambling inclination satisfied, he had
remained incognito for a time at Granada, until, by farther study and
self-regulation, he could prepare himself to return home with credit,
and atone for his transgressions against paternal authority.
How hard he had studied, does not remain on record. All that we know
is his romantic adventure of the tower. It was at first a mere
youthful caprice, excited by a glimpse of a beautiful face. In
becoming a disciple of the alchymist, he probably thought of nothing
more than pursuing a light love affair. Farther acquaintance, however,
had completely fixed his affections; and he had determined to conduct
Inez and her father to Valentia, and to trust to her merits to secure
his father's consent to their union.
In the meantime, he had been traced to his concealment. His father had
received intelligence of his being entangled in the snares of a
mysterious adventurer and his daughter, and likely to become the dupe
of the fascinations of the latter. Trusty emissaries had been
despatched to seize upon him by main force, and convey him without
delay to the paternal home.
What eloquence he had used with his father, to convince him of the
innocence, the honour, and the high descent of the alchymist, and of
the exalted worth of his daughter, does not appear. All that we know
is, that the father, though a very passionate, was a very reasonable
man, as appears by his consenting that his son should return to
Granada, and conduct Inez as his affianced bride to Valentia.
Away, then, Don Antonio hurried back, full of joyous anticipations. He
still forbore to throw off his disguise, fondly picturing to himself
what would be the surprise of Inez, when, having won her heart and
hand as a poor wandering scholar, he should raise her and her father
at once to opulence and splendour.
On his arrival he had been shocked at finding the tower deserted by
its inhabitants. In vain he sought for intelligence concerning them; a
mystery hung over their disappearance which he could not penetrate,
until he was thunderstruck, on accidentally reading a list of the
prisoners at the impending auto da fé, to find the name of his
venerable master among the condemned.
It was the very morning of the execution. The procession was already
on its way to the grand square. Not a moment was to be lost. The grand
inquisitor was a relation of Don Antonio, though they had never met.
His first impulse was to make himself known; to exert all his family
influence, the weight of his name, and the power of his eloquence, in
vindication of the alchymist. But the grand inquisitor was already
proceeding, in all his pomp, to the place where the fatal ceremony was
to be performed. How was he to be approached? Antonio threw himself
into the crowd, in a fever of anxiety, and was forcing his way to the
scene of horror, where he arrived just in time to rescue Inez, as has
been mentioned.
It was Don Ambrosio that fell in their contest. Being desperately
wounded, and thinking his end approaching, he had confessed to an
attending father of the inquisition, that he was the sole cause of the
alchymist's condemnation, and that the evidence on which it was
grounded was altogether false. The testimony of Don Antonio came in
corroboration of this avowal; and his relationship to the grand
inquisitor had, in all probability, its proper weight. Thus was the
poor alchymist snatched, in a manner, from the very flames; and so
great had been the sympathy awakened in his case, that for once a
populace rejoiced at being disappointed of an execution.
The residue of the story may readily be imagined, by every one versed
in this valuable kind of history. Don Antonio espoused the lovely
Inez, and took her and her father with him to Valentia. As she had
been a loving and dutiful daughter, so she proved a true and tender
wife. It was not long before Don Antonio succeeded to his father's
titles and estates, and he and his fair spouse were renowned for being
the handsomest and happiest couple in all Valentia.
As to Don Ambrosio, he partially recovered to the enjoyment of a
broken constitution and a blasted name, and hid his remorse and
disgrace in a convent; while the poor victim of his arts, who had
assisted Inez in her escape, unable to conquer the early passion that
he had awakened in her bosom, though convinced of the baseness of the
object, retired from the world, and became an humble sister in a
nunnery.
The worthy alchymist took up his abode with his children. A pavilion,
in the garden of their palace, was assigned to him as a laboratory,
where he resumed his researches with renovated ardour, after the grand
secret. He was now and then assisted by his son-in-law; but the latter
slackened grievously in his zeal and diligence, after marriage. Still
he would listen with profound gravity and attention to the old man's
rhapsodies, and his quotations from Paracelsus, Sandivogius, and
Pietro D'Abano, which daily grew longer and longer. In this way the
good alchymist lived on quietly and comfortably, to what is called a
good old age, that is to say, an age that is good for nothing; and
unfortunately for mankind, was hurried out of life in his ninetieth
year, just as he was on the point of discovering the Philosopher's
Stone.
* * * * *
Such was the story of the captain's friend, with which we whiled away
the morning. The captain was, every now and then, interrupted by
questions and remarks, which I have not mentioned, lest I should break
the continuity of the tale. He was a little disturbed, also, once or
twice, by the general, who fell asleep, and breathed rather hard, to
the great horror and annoyance of Lady Lillycraft. In a long and
tender love scene, also, which was particularly to her ladyship's
taste, the unlucky general, having his head a little sunk upon his
breast, kept making a sound at regular intervals, very much like the
word _pish_, long drawn out. At length he made an odd abrupt guttural
sound, that suddenly awoke him; he hemmed, looked about with a slight
degree of consternation, and then began to play with her ladyship's
work-bag, which, however, she rather pettishly withdrew. The steady
sound of the captain's voice was still too potent a soporific for the
poor general; he kept gleaming up and sinking in the socket, until the
cessation of the tale again roused him, when he started awake, put his
foot down upon Lady Lillycraft's cur, the sleeping Beauty, which
yelped and seized him by the leg, and, in a moment, the whole library
resounded with yelpings and exclamations. Never did man more
completely mar his fortunes while he was asleep. Silence being at
length restored, the company expressed their thanks to the captain,
and gave various opinions of the story. The parson's mind, I found,
had been continually running upon the leaden manuscripts, mentioned in
the beginning, as dug up at Granada, and he put several eager
questions to the captain on the subject. The general could not well
make out the drift of the story, but thought it a little confused. "I
am glad, however," said he, "that they burnt the old chap of the
tower; I have no doubt he was a notorious impostor."
(END OF VOL. ONE)
BRACEBRIDGE HALL;
OR,
THE HUMOURISTS.
A MEDLEY.
BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent.
VOLUME SECOND.
Under this cloud I walk, Gentlemen; pardon my rude
assault. I am a traveller, who, having surveyed most of
the terrestrial angles of this globe, am hither arrived,
to peruse this little spot.
--_Christmas Ordinary_.
ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN.
His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content;
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shade, till noontide's heat be spent.
His life is neither tost in boisterous seas
Or the vexatious world; or lost in slothful ease.
Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.
--Phineas Fletcher.
I take great pleasure in accompanying the Squire in his Perambulations
about his estate, in which he is often attended by a kind of cabinet
council. His prime minister, the steward, is a very worthy and honest
old man, that assumes a right of way; that is to say, a right to have
his own way, from having lived time out of mind on the place. He loves
the estate even better than he does the Squire; and thwarts the latter
sadly in many of his projects of improvement, being a little prone to
disapprove of every plan that does not originate with himself.
In the course of one of these perambulations, I have known the Squire
to point out some important alteration which he was contemplating, in
the disposition or cultivation of the grounds; this, of course, would
be opposed by the steward, and a long argument would ensue, over a
stile, or on a rising piece of ground, until the Squire, who has a
high opinion of the other's ability and integrity, would be fain to
give up the point. This concession, I observed, would immediately
mollify the old man; and, after walking over a field or two in
silence, with his hands behind his back, chewing the cud of
reflection, he would suddenly turn to the Squire, and observe, that
"he had been turning the matter over in his mind, and, upon the whole,
he believed he would take his honour's advice."
Christy, the huntsman, is another of the Squire's occasional
attendants, to whom he continually refers in all matters of local
history, as to a chronicle of the estate, having, in a manner, been
acquainted with many of the trees, from the very time that they were
acorns. Old Nimrod, as has been shown, is rather pragmatical in those
points of knowledge on which he values himself; but the Squire rarely
contradicts him, and is, in fact, one of the most indulgent potentates
that ever was henpecked by his ministry.
He often laughs about it himself, and evidently yields to these old
men more from the bent of his own humour than from any want of proper
authority. He likes this honest independence of old age, and is well
aware that these trusty followers love and honour him in their hearts.
He is perfectly at ease about his own dignity, and the respect of
those around him; nothing disgusts him sooner than any appearance of
fawning or sycophancy.
I really have seen no display of royal state, that could compare with
one of the Squire's progresses about his paternal fields and through
his hereditary woodlands, with several of these faithful adherents
about him, and followed by a body-guard of dogs. He encourages a
frankness and manliness of deportment among his dependants, and is the
personal friend of his tenants; inquiring into their concerns, and
assisting them in times of difficulty and hardship. This has rendered
him one of the most popular, and of course one of the happiest, of
landlords.
Indeed, I do not know a more enviable condition of life, than that of
an English gentleman, of sound judgment and good feelings, who passes
the greater part of his time on an hereditary estate in the country.
From the excellence of the roads, and the rapidity and exactness of
the public conveyances, he is enabled to command all the comforts and
conveniences, all the intelligence and novelties of the capital, while
he is removed from its hurry and distraction. He has ample means of
occupation and amusement, within his own domains; he may diversify his
time, by rural occupations, by rural sports, by study, and by the
delights of friendly society collected within his own hospitable
halls.
Or, if his views and feelings are of a more extensive and liberal
nature, he has it greatly in his power to do good, and to have that
good immediately reflected back upon himself. He can render essential
services to his country, by assisting in the disinterested
administration of the laws; by watching over the opinions and
principles of the lower orders around him; by diffusing among them
those lights which may be important to their welfare; by mingling
frankly among them, gaining their confidence, becoming the immediate
auditor of their complaints, informing himself of their wants, making
himself a channel through which their grievances may be quietly
communicated to the proper sources of mitigation and relief; or by
becoming, if need be, the intrepid and incorruptible guardian of their
liberties--the enlightened champion of their rights.
All this, it appears to me, can be done without any sacrifice of
personal dignity, without any degrading arts of popularity, without
any truckling to vulgar prejudices or concurrence in vulgar clamour;
but by the steady influence of sincere and friendly counsel, of fair,
upright, and generous deportment. Whatever may be said of English mobs
and English demagogues, I have never met with a people more open to
reason, more considerate in their tempers, more tractable by argument
in the roughest times, than the English. They are remarkably quick at
discerning and appreciating whatever is manly and honourable. They
are, by nature and habit, methodical and orderly; and they feel the
value of all that is regular and respectable. They may occasionally be
deceived by sophistry, and excited into turbulence by public
distresses and the misrepresentations of designing men; but open their
eyes, and they will eventually rally round the landmarks of steady
truth and deliberate good sense. They are fond of established customs;
they are fond of long-established names; and that love of order and
quiet which characterizes the nation, gives a vast influence to the
descendants of the old families, whose forefathers have been lords of
the soil from time immemorial.
It is when the rich and well-educated and highly-privileged classes
neglect their duties, when they neglect to study the interests, and
conciliate the affections, and instruct the opinions, and champion the
rights of the people, that the latter become discontented and
turbulent, and fall into the hands of demagogues: the demagogue always
steps in, where the patriot is wanting. There is a common high-handed
cant among the high-feeding, and, as they fancy themselves,
high-minded men, about putting down the mob; but all true physicians
know that it is better to sweeten the blood than attack the tumour, to
apply the emollient rather than the cautery. It is absurd, in a
country like England, where there is so much freedom, and such a
jealousy of right, for any man to assume an aristocratical tone, and
to talk superciliously of the common people. There is no rank that
makes him independent of the opinions and affections of his
fellow-men; there is no rank nor distinction that severs him from his
fellow-subjects; and if, by any gradual neglect or assumption on the
one side, and discontent and jealousy on the other, the orders of
society should really separate, let those who stand on the eminence
beware that the chasm is not mining at their feet. The orders of
society, in all well-constituted governments, are mutually bound
together, and important to each other; there can be no such thing in a
free government as a vacuum; and whenever one is likely to take place,
by the drawing off of the rich and intelligent from the poor, the bad
passions of society will rush in to fill up the space, and rend the
whole asunder.
Though born and brought up in a republic, and more and more confirmed
in republican principles by every year's observation and experience,
yet I am not insensible to the excellence that may exist in other
forms of government, nor to the fact that they may be more suitable to
the situation and circumstances of the countries in which they exist:
I have endeavoured rather to look at them as they are, and to observe
how they are calculated to effect the end which they propose.
Considering, therefore, the mixed nature of the government of this
country, and its representative form, I have looked with admiration at
the manner in which the wealth and influence and intelligence were
spread over its whole surface; not as in some monarchies, drained from
the country, and collected in towns and cities. I have considered the
great rural establishments of the nobility, and the lesser
establishments of the gentry, as so many reservoirs of wealth and
intelligence distributed about the kingdom, apart from the towns, to
irrigate, freshen, and fertilize the surrounding country. I have
looked upon them, too, as the august retreat of patriots and
statesmen, where, in the enjoyment of honourable independence and
elegant leisure, they might train up their minds to appear in those
legislative assemblies, whose debates and decisions form the study and
precedents of other nations, and involve the interests of the world.