So, splendid dreams, and slumbers sweet,
To each and all--Good Night.
WILLIAM E. HURLOUT.
Here might this tale be permitted to end, were it not that a doubt has
arisen in my mind whether some particulars do not need explanation.
Doubtless the nimble wits of the sagacious have fathomed to their
satisfaction all that seemed mysterious; but there may be others who,
either less imaginative or more indolent, would like an elaborate
elucidation. These latter I invite to accompany me across the blue
Atlantic to the pleasant town of Exeter, in the lovely county of
Devon, in England.
In the nave of the splendid old cathedral of that town, two men,
engaged in conversation, are walking backwards and forwards, one of
whom we recognize as the Knight of the Golden Melice; the other is a
stranger. Through the stained glass, the dim light of a winter's
afternoon falls indistinctly on the stone floor, while from behind the
screen which separates the open area where they are pacing from the
portion devoted to religious worship, the solemn tones of an organ
(for it is the time of evening service) are floating around the massy
pillars and among the sculptured arches, as if imploring saintly rest
for the high born nobles and reverend bishops who, for hundreds of
years, have lain in their marble tombs around. None are present save
the two, and, as with reverent feet they tread, they seem dwarfed into
children by the huge proportions of the building.
"Two beings more blessed with mutual affection than the young Earl of
Cliffmere and his lovely countess I know not," said the Knight,
continuing the conversation. "Three weeks remained I with them in
their magnificent palace at London, the attractions whereof were
tenfold heightened by his courteous bearing and her graciousness. Nor
could I without difficulty tear myself away, so lovingly they
delighted to dwell upon the time when, as Miles Arundel, he wooed
Eveline Dunning, or hunted with me, in the wilds of America, and so
sweet were their attentions to my chafed spirit. With them is my
trusty Philip, whose trials are now over, while he basks in the favor
of the Earl and the smiles of the pretty Prudence, his wife,
undisturbed save by her occasional coquetry, which only serves, I
suppose, to make his love more piquant."
"A pleasing episode in your romantic life," said the stranger; but
know you perfectly how you came to leave America so suddenly?"
"There is a mystery connected therewith which hath ever puzzled me,"
replied the Knight.
"How felt you in reference to the plan of converting an English into a
French colony?"
"I did never either feel therefor inclination, or give it the
approbation of my judgment. I cannot forget that I am an Englishman."
"And did Sister Celestina know your sentiments?" inquired the
stranger.
"Surely. Wherefore should I have hesitated to bestow on one so devoted
my absolute confidence?"
"_Ne crede principibus_," said the stranger, "is no more worthy of
acceptance than _ne crede feminis_."
"Chosen friend of my soul, sworn brother of my heart," exclaimed the
Knight, "I conjure thee to tell me what thou knowest or dost suspect
of these mysterious circumstances."
"Thou hast borne, beloved friend, a cross, whereof thou knewest not.
You were betrayed, like him whose name you bear even in the house of
your friends."
"A light begins to dawn upon my mind. And Sister Celestina--"
"Aye, Sister Celestina, or, as she must now be called, the Abbess of
St. Idlewhim, was the traitress. Yet, why call I her so? She did but
obey her vow."
"May it please thee, Albert, to be more explicit?"
"Know, then," said the stranger, "that it was in consequence of
representations from Sister Celestina thou wast recalled."
"How knowest thou this to be true?"
"Ask me not, for that I dare not reveal; but I swear, by the bones of
Loyola, and by our mutual friendship, that it is the sincere truth.
Father ---- (I will not breathe his name, he added, looking cautiously
around,) loves thee not. Thou wert in his way, and he had thee removed
from England. He is strong now and fears thee no longer, and has had
thee sent ignominiously home, seizing hold of the idle suspicions of a
woman as a pretext."
"I see now," said the Knight, "reasons for her conduct, which at the
time seemed inexplicable. But what reported Celestina to him?"
"Recollect you your offer to join the congregation?"
"It was but a stratagem."
"But so could she not understand it. Besides, she mistrusted thine
intimacy with Winthrop, and his influence over thee."
"I loved the man for his gracious qualities, heretic though he be; but
he never influenced me."
"The intense zeal of Celestina, guided only by her womanly instincts,
was unable to comprehend thy feeling. She communicated her suspicions
to the Father, and it was his pleasure to receive them as truths and
act accordingly. It was the father who wrote the letters, signing
thereto feigned names, and charging thee with crimes as feigned. It
was he who, to avert suspicion from our order (for news had come that
the jealousy of the prick-ear'd heretics was aroused, and that they
were on sharp look-out for Catholics,) hesitated not to slander the
Sister, his own confidential agent, trusting, by the magnitude and
foulness of the charges, so to fill the minds of your judges, that
other surmises would be thrust out, and thus the ground be preserved
for further operations."
"I understand," said the Knight, "that my successor has departed."
"He has gone. Sister Celestina, in her elevation, forgets her
temporary humiliation, and Sir Christopher Gardiner--"
"Is the victim of a woman's suspicions and of a monk's policy. Albert,
I thank thee; my mind is now at ease, and I shall no longer beat the
air in vain attempts to discover my accusers; unsubstantial figments
of the Father's imagination. But why told you me not on my arrival in
London, when I did so eagerly search for the infamous varlets who had
attempted to attaint my honor, and when vain, of course, were my
exertions?"
"I was not then permitted. And now, I rely upon thy discretion to bury
the secret in thy breast. Any other course might be fatal to us both."
"Fear me not," said Sir Christopher. "I have been examining my heart,
and find I bear no malice against the holy Father. It was time we
should be removed, and the means, though harsh, were politic; for
suspicions of our being Catholics were rife, and what may sound
strangely, our friendship, Albert, served to confirm them."
"Explain thy meaning."
"Out of my love to thee, and as a remembrancer for myself, I had made
a note in my pocket-book of the time and place of thy admission into
the holy Catholic Church, of the taking of thy scapula, and of thy
degrees, whereunto I had appended no name. This book escaping from my
pocket, was found and delivered to my judges, and considered pregnant
proof against me."
"The writing was a great imprudence," said the stranger.
"_Confiteor_, and whatever shame I may have endured I accept as the
fitting punishment of my sins. Alas! my individual sorrows are
swallowed up in grief at the thought of the condition of the Church.
How doth she sit like a widow in affliction! The flood-gates of error
are opened, and the world is deluged with impure streams. When I look
on the marble images of the crusaders, lying with crossed legs upon
their tombs around us, and on the cold faces of the abbots and mitred
bishops, standing in solemn dignity in their niches, they seem
saddened and indignant at a reverse that hath changed the very temple
erected by Catholic piety over their ashes, and wherein the incense of
acceptable worship was offered unto the Lord, into a place of resort
for impious and deluded heretics with their tasteless rites. Here,
with these mournful monitors around me, I cannot indulge in private
resentment while my heart is breaking for the sufferings of my
people."
"It is a holy and a commendable frame of mind, my brother," said the
stranger. "O, if the spirit that animates thee were universal in our
order, how might the wilderness of the world be made to blossom as the
Rose of Sharon, and the lamentations of Sion be converted into songs
of deliverance!"
* * * * *
THE LOST HUNTER:
A TALE OF EARLY TIMES.
_By the Author of_ "THE KNIGHT OF THE GOLDEN MELICE."
12_mo_. $1.25.
"The style is fluent and unforced; the description of character well
limned; and the pictures of scenery forcible and felicitous. There is
a natural conveyance of incidents to the _dénouement_; and the reader
closes the volume with an increased regard for the talents and spirit
of the author.--_Knickerbocker Magazine_.
"The style is direct and effective, particularly fitting the
impression which such a story should make. It is a very spirited and
instructive tale, leaving a good impression both upon the reader's
sensibilities and morals."--_Eclectic Magazine_.
"An interesting plot, dramatic incidents, characters well conceived
and executed, picturesque sketches of American scenery, and a
satisfactory _dénouement_, are the elements of success which this new
novel invites."--_Ballou's Pictorial_.
"The locale of the story is at Norwich, Ct., the time, a generation
ago, and it embraces a wide range of characters, and brings into
discussion a variety of subjects. There is no feature of the book more
worthy of commendation than the Indian; this is worked up with great
fidelity to the character, passions and legendary history of the
aborigines, and exhibits a rare acquaintance with their characteristics.
The surprises of the story to the reader are most felicitously arranged,
and the conversations introduced are keenly bright."--_Springfield
Republican_.
"The author of this work has not favored the public with his name--and
why, we are at a loss to know, for it is one whose authorship no one
need be ashamed to acknowledge. A train of incidents, now pathetic,
now humorous, and now marvelous, is woven together with an ingenuity
not less happy than remarkable. Any reader, so intense will become his
interest, who shall peruse the first chapter, will find it difficult
to lay the book aside before all its contents shall have been
devoured. And more, and better, no one can read it without becoming
wiser and better--it abounds with wholesome lessons."--_Examiner_.
"No clue is given to the author of this story, but it is marked on
every page by evidence of a practised pen, of great dramatic power, of
experienced judgment of character, and of rare powers of
description."--_St. Louis Republican_.
"Something as bright and cheery as the blue skies and sparkling waters
of the New-England land selected for the scene of narrative; as quaint
and hearty as the early settlers of the northeastern States, whence it
draws its sketches of character, and as wild and picturesque in places
as the Indian legends of that 'long time ago' it so cheerfully
describes.
"Savage life and scenes of the forest are interwoven like threads of
purple and crimson with the pleasant homespun of colonial story; and,
ere the reader has ceased to smile over the antics, adventures and
sports of the odd specimens of early Yankee character that fill the
foreground, he is charmed into silence by the poetic pomp of Indian
tradition and the fiery display of Indian loves and hatreds.
"The Lost Hunter is a fine specimen of that class of American
literature we have sought to encourage, and we will not mar the
enjoyment of those whom we hope this notice may attract, by any brief,
imperfect shadowing of the story. Buy it, read it, and you will find
it amply worth the time."--_National Democrat_.
"We were prepared, by the original and facetious style of the preface
of this book, for something out of the beaten track; nor have we been
disappointed. The plot is ingeniously concealed, and well carried out.
The delineations of character are admirable. The Indian legends, and
specimens of Indian eloquence, are some of them surpassingly
beautiful; while the history of the hero is so exciting, and withal so
shrouded in mystery, that there is no sagging of the interest till the
last page is reached."--_Vermont Republican_.