Tho' with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury
Do I take part; the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance.
Shakspeare.
While the levellers and republicans alternately gained the ascendancy,
and Monk, either from irresolution or profound policy, appeared to
favour every party but that which he eventually espoused, long suspence
quenched the hopes of the Loyalists, and their prospect of golden days
seemed enveloped by the gloom of despair, when all at once the General
rapidly measured back his steps. That mighty Parliament which, as
different parties prevailed in it, countenanced the most rigorous
coercion or permitted the wildest anarchy; which opposed, menaced,
conquered, deceived, and murdered the King by whom it was summoned;
which feebly attempted to resist the power of its own creature,
Cromwell; and, after passively dispersing at his frown, re-assembled to
insult his memory, threaten the fanatics, and denounce monarchy; that
strange combination of talent and extravagance, of praying demagogues
and aspiring religionists; deemed by Europe the soul of English
rebellion, and the voice of the nation by whom it was at once feared,
hated, and ridiculed; that representative body which voted its own
perpetuity, and overthrew the constitution it was called to
maintain--died at last by its own vote, amid universal execrations, and
joyous anticipations of better times. A Parliament was called, which,
being really chosen by the nation, hastened to give utterance to the
national feeling. The prison-doors were thrown open to the Loyalists,
their persecutors fled dismayed. Many who had sinned less deeply,
hurried to the King with supererogatory offers of service. The ambitious
and the vain busied themselves in devices to give splendor to the
restoration which, from the awful circumstance of a penitent people
welcoming back their exiled Monarch, could borrow no lustre from
ostentatious pageants. Love, confidence, liberty, and security, seemed
to revive; malice, suspicion, and guile, vanished with the dark tyranny
they had so long supported. The aspect, manners, and dress of Englishmen
resumed their former appearance. The lengthened visage; the rayless, yet
penetrating eye; the measured smile, which expressed neither affection
nor candour, disappeared. The countenance was again permitted to be an
index to the soul, and the tongue uttered the undisguised feelings of
artless sincerity; joy, magnified to ecstasy; freedom bursting the
trammels of oppression; sorrow changed to festivity; want expatiating on
the near prospect of affluence; justice restored to the full exercise of
her balance and sword; religion separated from fanaticism, and
reinstated in decent splendor; a hereditary King, a regular government,
ancient institutions, definite laws, certain privileges, personal
safety, and the restitution of property--such were the glorious themes
which employed the thoughts of the contemplative, elevated the devotion
of the pious, and made the unreflecting multitude frantic with wild
delight. No period of English history records so great a change. The
spring of 1660 was devoted to universal jubilee; with the vulgar it was
disaffection to be sober, and among the higher classes gravity was
treason.
Though the prisons were thrown open, the Beaumont family still lingered
near the abode wherein they had been so long inhumed. A free
communication was renewed with foreign countries; private intercourse
was safe; exiles were every hour returning; but they heard nothing of
their beloved fugitives. Dr. Beaumont waited with the patience of a man,
who had endured years of sorrow. The debilitated Neville feared his last
sands would run out before he could embrace his son. Isabel and
Constantia had fears which they durst not disclose, even to each other.
Were both their lovers enamoured of the merchant's daughter, or had some
continental Circe also spread her fascinations, and made the recreants
forget their fathers and their country, as well as their mistresses?
Surely, in that case Dr. Lloyd would have sent some qualified account of
their temptation and fall. Had they all perished in some tremendous
undertaking; had a pestilence swept them away; had they fallen into the
hands of banditti, or perished silently, ensnared by the still more
merciless machinations of regicide-informers? There was no form in which
danger and death could appear, that did not present itself to the
alarmed mind of these long-suffering maidens, during the few weeks that
intervened between the time that a Loyalist could appear in England
without imminent hazard, and their receiving the intelligence which
dispelled every doubt. A day seemed an age to exhausted patience, and
the transports of others added to their sadness.
Isabel was at length informed, that a stranger inquired for her. Her
bosom throbbed violently--"Is he young or old?" was all she could utter.
"Middle aged," was the reply. "Alas!" said she, "I forget how rapidly
time has stolen on since I parted with De Vallance. I have not looked at
my face for years; 'tis changed, I am sure; I have lost every
attraction, but my heart is still the same."--"Ever the same good
heart!" repeated Eustace, as he rushed in, and caught her in his
affectionate arms. "O! tell me, Isabel, where is my Constantia?" "Speak,
low," said Isabel, attempting to smother a hysterical laugh. "Dear
Eustace, how you are altered! Do not enter that room, the shock will be
too great!"
The terrors of Eustace prompted a thousand inquiries.--"Was Constantia
well? Was she faithful?" "Yes, yes!" replied Isabel, struggling in vain
for composure; "but----" a thousand fears lurked in that word, and Eustace
gazed in mute horror, while Isabel recovered self-command enough to say,
"We are very much altered." Eustace shed tears of joy.--"Virtue and
fidelity are always young and lovely," said he.--"You should not have
taken me by surprise," resumed the much-agitated Isabel; "let me
recollect myself a moment, and then you shall see our long-suffering
father, and your ever-beloved Constance."
Her eyes were turned to the door at which Eustace entered, with an
unacknowledged expectation of another visitant, and she stood incapable
of the promised introduction. But the well-remembered, long-desired
voice of Eustace had penetrated the inner-chamber, and Constantia, pale
and silent, advanced to meet her betrothed love; held out her hand with
timid joy, and sunk speechless into his arms. "My boy! my boy! let me
fold thee to my heart, and expire in thy embraces!" exclaimed the
agonized Neville, as with ineffectual efforts he strove to rise from the
couch of infirmity. Eustace cast himself at his feet. "Your blessing,"
said he, "on one who is no disgrace to your blood. Dearest father, your
commands have been obeyed; I have redeemed my honour, and my life is
preserved to this hour of transport."
"The choicest blessings of all-gracious Providence rest on thy head, and
on that of thy faithful partner;" said Neville, for Constance had
involuntarily knelt by the side of her lover; "and may your future days
be crowned with prosperity and peace! True heir of the Neville virtues,
and now of their honours!" He closed his eyes, and continued to press
his hands on their heads with a patriarch's fervour--then, as if
recalling his thoughts to this lower world, inquired of Eustace if he
had seen the King.
"I have seen and served him," answered Eustace. "He is well, amiable,
royally-disposed, and, at this moment, embarking on board his own fleet
to receive the crown of his ancestors; determined to forget his enemies,
and reward his friends."
"Thou wilt kill me with joy," said the transported veteran; "but I am
now content to die. Eustace, thou shalt never leave me more; I can never
be satiated with hearing the sound of thy voice, or gazing on thee thus
rising from disgrace and death. Come, tell me all thou hast endured
since we parted." Eustace seated himself beside him on the couch, one
arm clasped his Constantia, the other reclined on his father's knees.
Neville rested his arms and head on his crutch, devouring with his eyes
his son's features, and jealous of the glances he frequently cast on his
beloved. Dr. Beaumont stood at a little distance, gazing on the
affectionate group with calm delight, and frequently diverting his
thoughts in pious thankfulness to that gracious Providence, who thus
richly repaid their sorrows. Isabel threw herself at the feet of
Eustace, half angry that she could engage no more of his attention, and
listening to the narrative of his adventures with emotions which it is
impossible to define.
Eustace was brief in his story, reserving the minutiae for a calmer
moment. The increased vigilance of the republican government soon made
Jersey an unsafe residence. They removed to the continent; travelled
through France, Italy, and the Low-Countries, without finding any
eligible place wherein to fix. At length their funds failing, they
agreed to prefer an humble employment to yet more degrading dependence.
Dr. Lloyd served as assistant surgeon in the Dutch military hospital;
and Eustace entered as a volunteer in the body-guard of the young Prince
of Orange, consoled by the idea of devoting his life to the grandson of
his murdered sovereign. Here he frequently saw and conversed with the
present King, whose affable and attractive manners he warmly praised.
"He recognised me," said he, "as the son of one to whom he owed
indelible obligations, and his condescension commanded my confidence. He
knows, dearest father, your early wrongs; and so sure as the crown of
England is placed on his head, he will restore to you your titles and
estates free from every base condition, and subject to no tribute, but
what every English peer owes to a gracious and generous Monarch."
"There," thought Isabel, "my predictions are true--Constance will wear
her ermined robes of state--but where is the cheerful residence of
elegant sufficiency, in which I was to sing to my De Vallance? Eustace
only speaks of his own adventures. Oh, this merchant's daughter of St.
Helier; I wish she had been locked up in a nunnery. Doubtless, she is
young and beautiful; but prosperity is a becoming ornament. I will take
courage, and ask if they are very happy."
Isabel, after hemming several times, attempted to speak, and at last was
able to say, "My dear brother!" Eustace turned his eyes upon her. His
excessive transports had sufficiently subsided to allow him to enter
into her feelings, and he affectionately answered, "What would my dear
sister?"
"You had another companion," said she, "besides Dr. Lloyd."
"I will punish this prudery," thought Eustace. "True, my love; poor
Fido.--It is kind in you to remember that faithful animal. He died on
his travels, and I assure you I dropped a tear on his grave."
"Pshaw," cried Isabel, turning away her head.
"He lies in a celebrated spot," continued Eustace, "close to the walls
of the convent of St. Bernard on the Alps; and thereby hangs a dreadful
tale."
"We will listen to no dreadful tales now," said Constance, who felt by
sympathy the untold sentiments of Isabel. "Tell us what is become of De
Vallance, provoking Eustace; I see by your smile all is well. Will
nothing cure you of your love of teazing us?"
"When ladies forget the names of their lovers," replied Eustace,
"delicacy forbids us to interpret their inquiries. De Vallance is well;
he came with me to England; but, Isabel, you must yield him to stronger
claims."
"I guessed so," answered she; "and will resign him with fortitude; nay,
with indifference." Tears, it is presumed, are a sign of these
sensations, for her's flowed rapidly as she spoke. "Consider, my beloved
sister," returned Eustace; "the glorious event which reinstates you in
the rank and fortune of an Earl's daughter renders De Vallance the son
of a disgraced usurper, despoiled of his ill-acquired splendor, and heir
to nothing save the infamy of his parents."
"I had prepared my mind," said Isabel, "for every thing, but his being
faithless to his vows. Had he been constant, I would have shared his lot
however humble, and told the world his superior virtues cancelled the
treasons and the treachery of his parents. But if beauty and affluence
have proved irresistible, let me remember that my fortunes seemed
desperate, allow the force of the temptation, and forgive him."
"There spoke my own magnanimous sister," exclaimed Eustace, folding her
to his heart. "Thou worthy choice of my best and dearest friend! a
wretched father is the stronger claim which detains him from thee. He is
gone to carry comfort to the most pitiable object in the world, an
alarmed, deserted sinner."
"I never will forgive you, Eustace, for thus torturing me," said Isabel,
and while she spoke, encircled his neck with her arms. "Was there no
truth in the tale of an enamoured lady of St. Helier?" Eustace blushed,
called it a gossip's story, and threw his eyes on Constance, dearer and
more attractive in her faded loveliness, than when in the happy prime of
youthful beauty she first enslaved his affectionate heart.
Neville sat thoughtful and silent, gazing on his children with the
painful exhaustion of overstrained sensibility. Isabel and Eustace
seemed emulous to out-talk each other. Constantia looked unutterable
content. Dr. Beaumont was mild, devout, admonitory; more inclined to
bless the sure mercies of Providence, than to condemn the perverse
conduct of man. He now recollected the anxieties of his good sister
Mellicent, and proposed that Williams should be dispatched with the
joyful tidings. "She must be told," said Eustace, "that the air-built
castles she was so skilful in erecting have now a firm foundation. 'Tis
time she should exercise her abilities in making bride-cake and comfits;
two happy pairs will soon claim her services." "Nay," said Isabel, "as
you are in a marrying humour, there shall be three, for who but she can
reward good Dr. Lloyd, without whose vigilance and generosity we should
all have been the most pitiable of mourners, wretched at the time of
universal joy?"
Eustace answered that the worthy Esculapius was returning in the King's
suite, being appointed one of his physicians, and he hinted the
probability of his aunt's medical pre-eminence destroying the effect of
her personal attractions. "At least," said he, "the Doctor has never
intimated a wish for the alliance, though he speaks with admiration of
her fortitude and maternal affection for us children of her love and
care. And severely as you accuse me for want of gallantry to your sex, I
will not even allow a spinster of seventy to volunteer her hand, when
the honour is not passionately desired."
Dr. Beaumont now inquired what dreadful tale was connected with the
convent of St. Bernard, and he soon found his own predictions were
realized respecting the fate of those who seek security by the paths of
crooked policy and selfish cunning. Those dreary walls inclosed the
wretched heir of the Waverly family. Overwhelmed with horror at having
deprived his father of life, the unhappy man abjured a country whose
civil wars had given birth to such tremendous crimes. Long the victim of
despair, he at last sought a quietus to his ever-gnawing remorse, by
flying to the bosom of that church which barters salvation for pecuniary
mulcts, and represents penance and subserviency to its schemes of
worldly aggrandisement to be the wings which will waft the soul over the
gulph of purgatory, and securely lodge it in Abraham's bosom. Not
content with becoming a convert to the Romish church, the young Baronet
determined upon expiating his unintentional parricide, by taking the
cowl, and entering into its strictest order of monachism. Eustace and
his friends, when they travelled over the Alps, were lodged one night at
this convent, and in the midnight service De Vallance recognized the
well-remembered tones of his powerful voice. They afterwards saw him in
the garden labouring at his future grave, according to the prescribed
rules of his order. His hood was fallen off, and gave to view his face,
in which the deepest lines of sorrow were combined with the gloom of
sullen superstition. All intercourse was forbidden by that law which
chained his tongue to eternal silence, except when employed as the organ
of devotion. Eustace wept with true commiseration; the unhappy monk
threw on him a look, which showed he too well remembered England, drew
his cowl over his face, and with a groan of the deepest melancholy
solemnly returned to his cell.
Dr. Beaumont's remarks on this narrative were pious and affecting; but
there was a heavy gloom in the eye of Neville, which indicated a mind
too much absorbed by its own feelings to enjoy the badinage of happy
lovers, or to listen to the suggestions of wisdom and devotion. "Is our
dear father ill?" was the alarmed inquiry of Isabel. "Has the surprise
of my return overpowered him?" said Eustace. "Will not affliction allow
her victim a few years respite, before the effects of her early
visitations conduct him to the grave?"
It was the privilege of that true minister of Heaven who tranquillized
his youthful impatience, to penetrate into the secret feelings of the
man of sorrows. Inattentive to every other subject, Dr. Beaumont
perceived that he was roused by the name of Walter De Vallance, and
therefore led Eustace to describe his present situation. The tortures of
a guilty conscience, added to his constitutional timidity, had totally
extinguished those faint beams of hope and ambition which led him, in
every previous change of affairs, to project his own security or
advancement. To usurpers and mal-contents of every description he
thought he might either be useful or formidable; but from the returning
King, welcomed with rapture by a repentant nation, a versatile traitor,
who had betrayed the counsels of the royal martyr, could not expect even
mercy. Too well known both for his rank and his provocations, to hope to
shelter in obscurity, he had no resource but to fly to some distant
land; and he proposed retreating to those colonies in America which were
peopled under the influence of republican principles. But he had not
proceeded many stages from London before he fell sick. His perturbed
mind so far betrayed him to his host as to show he was one of those whom
the happy change in public affairs compelled to fly from England, and he
was immediately suspected to be one of the late King's judges, who,
having imbrued their hands in royal blood, were, by the consent of all
parties, reserved as an atonement to public justice. He was therefore
seized, hurried back to London, and thrown into close confinement. His
son and Eustace learned these particulars by stopping at the inn which
had been the scene of his arrest; and the former, from some
circumstances discovering the prisoner to be his father, deputed Eustace
to plead his unchanged love and ardent hopes to his dearest Isabel,
while he himself hastened to protect and solace his wretched parent with
a hope, that by interposing his own unquestioned loyalty as a surety, he
might preserve his life, if not obtain his liberty.
Not all the courtly blandishments of gallantry, nor even the
heart-breathed vows of true love could have been half so acceptable to
Isabel as this sacrifice of self-indulgence to filial duty. Even Neville
could not refrain from commending his nephew's conduct, while brushing a
tear from his eye he attempted to revive the expiring flame of
vindictive indignation. "The villain, then," said he, "knows now what it
is to want the service of a worthy child. Tell me, Eustace, does he
suffer deeply? Is his soul ground down with compunction by recollecting
the inhumed Neville, doomed by him and his rebel partizans to shelter
with the dead. Shut for years from the light of the sun, excluded from
human converse, and daily fed by that dear girl with the bread of
affliction, though born to stand before Kings, and sit as judge among
Princes! Walter De Vallance now suffers what I never endured. The
gnawing worm of remorse must inflict on him the agonies of despair, but
conscious innocence illumined my dungeon with hope. Yes, the spirits of
my ancestors, offended at the foul pollution of their pure ermine, point
at my son as the restorer of their tarnished honours, and bid me exult
in the agonies which await the death-bed of a villain!"
A look of grave rebuke from Dr. Beaumont recalled the much-agitated
Neville from this delirium of indulged malevolence. "My brother and my
friend," he exclaimed; "supporter of my frail existence, and guide of my
soul! I have sinned, pray for me." "May Almighty mercy," replied the
pious minister of Heaven, "grant you that peace which only those can
feel who are in charity with all mankind!--If years of affliction have
not so taught you the comparative worthlessness of temporal possessions
as to prevent your making them a pretext for eternal enmity; if calamity
has steeled your heart to pity instead of melting it to contrition, I
must bid you fear, lest some more terrible trials should visit you, or
what is worse, lest the sinner who will not pardon an offending brother
should be suddenly called to account for his own unrepented
transgressions against the God, not then of infinite compassion, but of
most righteous vengeance."
Neville trembled violently. His affectionate children intreated Dr.
Beaumont to spare his infirmities, but he answered, that regard for the
mortal body must not, in this instance, make him overlook the more
important concerns of the never-dying soul, endangered by his thus
cherishing implacable resentment. The termination of the struggle proved
Neville a true hero. He not only confessed but abjured his errors. "I
have," said he, "brooded too deeply over my injuries, and thus have
added to my plagues by inflicting on myself more torments than even my
enemies designed I should feel. Born with too exquisite sensibility of
ill-treatment, proceeding possibly from inordinate self-esteem, disposed
to ardent attachment and unbounded confidence, I measured the hearts of
others by my own, and supposed that they equally revered the claims of
generosity and friendship; for never did I expect a service, which in a
change of situations, I would not have rendered unasked; never have I
condemned a fault but those so abhorrent to my nature that, I would have
died rather than have committed them. Condemned by the triumphant
treachery of a man, in all things my inferior, to indigence and
obscurity; all the liberal feelings I so dearly cherished palsied by my
inability to expand the social charities beyond the narrow limits of my
own family, I ruminated on the glorious indulgences resulting from, the
possession of that power and affluence I was born to inherit. But,
instead of enjoying the means of patronising merit, raising the
oppressed, or succouring calamity, I beheld myself doomed to the anxious
routine of a life consumed in the care of procuring a sufficiency for
its own support, pondering how the claims of a creditor could be
discharged, and the disgrace of injustice averted by the sacrifice of
every generous gratification--I passed my days in a silent sacrifice of
my wishes and comforts, in concealing my own wants, and steeling my
heart to those of others, and it was during this mental torture of
restrained liberality that I nourished in my soul a deadly thirst for
revenge, an extreme desire of seeing the arm that smote me to the earth
withered and powerless as my own. Oh, my children! there is guilt and
danger in an excessive indulgence of even the most laudable feelings,
and my crime brought on its punishment.--The loss of reason; the death
of your adored mother, deserving infinitely more than the highest
earthly honours, and therefore early translated to an angelical throne;
these were my chastisements. In respect to what I have since suffered
for my King, the testimonies of a good conscience were my support and my
reward. And may the favours of a grateful monarch enable my Eustace to
enjoy those noblest privileges of greatness for which I pined with
ineffectual desire! I am now old and helpless, tottering on the brink of
eternity, a blank, as far as respects this world. May I then divest my
soul of those passions which will unfit it for the abodes of peace! The
injuries of Walter De Vallance are not irremediable. Still do I clasp my
son to my heart. Affliction has tried the virtues of my children, and
brought me to a sense of my own errors. Let not short-sighted man, who
cannot see the remote consequences of events, cherish revenge. Let not
dust and ashes value its imperfect shows of goodness. Our greatest
conquest is a victory over ourselves. Our noblest title is to be called
obedient servants of the Most High."
Dr. Beaumont wept with pious delight, while Neville, leaning on his
children in a posture of penitent adoration, besought Heaven to pardon
his own sins, and the sins of his brother De Vallance. So entire was his
abstraction, that he was not interrupted by the entrance of Barton,
whose countenance expressed a degree of depression ill suited to the
joyous character of the times. Dr. Beaumont accosted him by the title of
his worthy friend, and the associate of his future fortunes. He
introduced him to Eustace, of whose preservation from the massacre at
Pembroke he was till then ignorant. Barton blessed the protecting hand
of Providence, and explained his apparent dejection, by stating that he
had just witnessed a most awful and impressive scene--a grievous sinner
wounded alike in body and in soul, with no hope of escaping punishment
either in this world or in that which is to come. He soon discovered
that he meant the miserable De Vallance, whom, as he had served in
prosperity, he would not desert in his utmost need, though he alike
detested his private and despised his public character. He described him
as alone, pennyless, comfortless, without resources in himself, or help
from others. His worthy son had not yet discovered the place of his
confinement; he knew not what was become of his son, and among all the
crimes which tortured his conscience, the supposed death of Eustace was
most insupportable. Hopeless of pity, yet desperate from remorse, he had
commissioned Barton to intreat the greatly-injured Neville to forgive
him. Christian principles had already obtained a victory over the
agonizing resentments of wounded honour, and the eloquence of Barton
only served to hasten its effect. Neville was calmly resolved, not moved
by pathetic description, to act as he ought. "Go, my child," said he to
Eustace, "bear my forgiveness to our unhappy kinsman, and by convincing
him of your own existence, foil the tempter's efforts to overwhelm him
with despair. I would see him, but we are both, weak in body, and frail
in purpose. An interview might revive violent animosities. Envy and
resentment are irritable passions; 'tis best we meet no more till our
mortal failings are deposited in our graves. Then may our purified
spirits enter upon a state where avarice and ambition cannot tempt, nor
impatience and anger dispose us to offend! There may we meet as pardoned
sinners, alike rejoicing in redemption!--Mine shall not be a mere verbal
reconciliation. My King can refuse nothing to Allan Neville, the
faithful Loyalist. Title and fortune will be restored to me as my right;
but the only reward I will ask for my services shall be the pardon of my
enemies. The punishment of a state-criminal must not disgrace my
Isabel's nuptials. She has been to me the angel of consolation, and she
shall carry forgiveness and honour as a dower to her husband. And now,
Beaumont, while the relentings of my soul can refuse nothing to thy
admonitions, tell me, is there aught more that I ought to perform?"
From one of less acute sensibility, Dr. Beaumont would possibly have
required that he should have been the interpreter of his own purposes to
De Vallance, but he rightly considered, that very susceptible and ardent
characters, after they have forgiven, find it impossible to forget. When
such persons are brought to that proper state of mind, to return good
for evil, without either boasting of their lenity, or enumerating their
wrongs, the best way of inducing an oblivion of the past, is to avoid
such intercourse as may revive painful retrospection. It is impossible
for those who have minds capable of appreciating the delicacies of
friendship, to re-unite the bonds of esteem and confidence, when they
have been violently rent asunder by cunning or treachery. Beside, Barton
admitted that he saw in the behaviour of De Vallance more of the
apprehensions of timorous guilt than the renovated spirit of self-abased
contrition.
Eustace inherited the deep sensibilities of his father, but a train of
happy years rose in perspective before him. Unbroken health, unclouded
fame, successful love, wealth, and greatness--at the hour of his
restoration to all these blessings, he must have been a monster who
could have withheld cordial forgiveness from a humiliated miserable
enemy. Eustace visited the man who had doomed him to a premature grave,
with a sincere desire to prolong his life, and restore his peace. To the
relief afforded by a conviction that the guilt of his nephew's murder
did not lie upon his soul, De Vallance received the additional
consolation of knowing that his own son was alive, and acknowledged by
Eustace as a most beloved friend and future brother. The forgiveness of
Neville, and the assurance of his powerful intercession with the King in
his favour, changed the horrors of the wretched man into transports of
joy. Lost to all nobler feelings, and penitent only from terror,
apprehensions of the future had increased the sickness which fatigue and
anxiety had occasioned, and his recovery was expedited by the confidence
he now felt, that he should be permitted to spend the remnant of his
days in security, protected by the virtues of the son whom he had
neglected, and the clemency of the victims he had wronged.