Since the establishment of the overland communication with India through Egypt, and the steam navigation of the Red Sea, the want had been sensibly felt of an intermediate station between Suez and Bombay, which might serve both as a coal depot, and, in case of necessity, as a harbour of shelter. The position of Aden, almost exactly halfway, would naturally have pointed it out as the sought-for haven, even had its harbour been less admirably adapted than it is, from its facility of entrance and depth of water close to the shore, for steamers to run straight in, receive their fuel and water from the quay, and proceed on their voyage without loss of time; while the roadstead of Mokha, [40] the only other station which could possibly be made available for the purpose, is at all times open and insecure, and in certain points of the wind, particularly when it blows from the south through the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb, communication with the shore is absolutely impracticable. It was clear, therefore, that the proposed depot, if carried into effect at all, must be fixed at Aden; and there can be little doubt that its occupation was contemplated by the Indian government from the time of the visit of the surveying ships to the Red Sea. A pretext was now all that was sought for, and this was not long wanted. It was reported to the Bombay Administration in October 1836, by Captain Haines, (then in command of the Palinurus at Makullah) that great insecurity to navigation prevailed on both the African and Indian shores, at the entrance of the Red Sea; and one particular instance was adduced, in which the crew of a Muscat vessel, wrecked on the coast near Aden, were subjected to such inordinate extortion by Sultan Mahassan, that "the master, in anger or despair, burned his vessel. The Bombay government could only give general instructions, that in case of any outrage being offered to a vessel under British colours, redress should be peremptorily demanded. But long before these instructions were issued, and, indeed, before the intelligence which elicited them had reached Bombay, a case, such as they had supposed, had really occurred."—(Corresponderce relating to Aden, printed in May 1839, by order of the House of Commons, No. 49, p. 38.)

[Footnote 40: "A vessel will lie" (at Mokha) "with a whole chain on end, topgallant masts struck, and yards braced by, without being able to communicate with the shore; while at the same time in Aden harbour she will lie within a few yards of the shore, in perfectly smooth water, with the bight of her chain cable scarcely taught."—CAPTAIN HAINES'S Report.]

An Indian ship called the Derya-Dowlut, (Fortune of the Sea,) the property of a lady of the family of the Nawab of Madras, but sailing under British colours, was wrecked on the coast near Aden, February 20, 1837, when on her voyage from Calcutta to Jiddah, with a cargo valued at two lacs of rupees, (L.20,000.) It would appear, from the depositions of the survivors, that the loss of the ship was intentional on the part of the supercargo and nakhoda, (or sailing-master,) the latter of whom, however, was drowned, with several of the crew, in attempting to get on shore in the boat. The passengers—who had been denied help both by the officers who had deserted them, and by the Arabs who crowded down to the beach—with difficulty reached the land, when they were stripped, plundered, and ill-treated by the Bedoweens, but at last escaped without any personal injury, and made their way in miserable plight to Aden, where they were relieved and clothed by a Sheikh, the hereditary guardian of the tomb of Sheikh Idris, the guardian saint of the town. The stranded ship, meanwhile, after being cleared of as much of her cargo and stores as could be saved, was burned by direction of the supercargo, who shortly afterwards took his departure to Jiddah, carrying with him one-third of the rescued property, and leaving the remainder as a waif to the Sultan of Aden. After he was gone, the Sultan made an offer to the agent [41] of the ship to restore the goods which had fallen to his share on a payment of ten per cent for salvage; but this was declined, on the ground that after such a length of time "the things on board must have been almost all lost; that he did not require them, nor had he money to pay for them." The Sultan, however, still refused to allow him to leave Aden till he had given him written acquittance of all claims on account of the ship; a document was accordingly signed, as he says, under compulsion, to the effect that he made no claim against the Sultan, but with a full reservation of his claim for redress from the supercargo, who had wrecked the ship and embezzled the goods saved from her. The agent and several of the crew, after undergoing great hardships, at last reached Mokha, and laid their complaint before the commanders of the Company's cruisers Coote and Palinurus. The latter vessel, under the command of Captain Haines, immediately repaired to Aden to demand redress for the injuries thus inflicted on English subjects, while a formal report of the case was made to the Government at Bombay. The Sultan at first attempted to deny that he possessed any of the goods in question, and afterwards alleged that they had been given to him voluntarily by the supercargo; but finding all his subterfuges unavailing, he at length gave up merchandize and stores to the amount of nearly 8000 dollars, besides a bond at a year's date for 4191 dollars more, in satisfaction for the goods which had been previously sold or made away with, as well as for the insults offered to the passengers.

[Footnote 41: This person, Syud Nooradeen, had been captain of the vessel at the outset of the voyage; but had been deposed from the responsible command by an order purporting to come from the merchant who had freighted the ship, but which is now said to have been forged by the supercargo.]

Here, in ordinary cases, the matter might have rested; for though the conduct of this Arab chief would certainly have been indefensible in a civilized country, the worst charge that can be considered as fairly proved against him is that of being a receiver of stolen goods, as the price of his connivance at the appropriation of the rest by the supercargo—since with the wreck of the ship, whether premeditated or not, he had certainly nothing to do—and the outrages committed by the wild Bedoweens on the beach can scarcely be laid to his charge. A far more atrocious insult to the British flag in 1826, when a brig from the Mauritius had been piratically seized at Berbera, (a port on the African coast, just outside the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb,) and part of her crew murdered, had been expiated by the submission of the offenders, and the repayment of the value of the plunder by yearly instalments, (see WELLSTED'S Arabia, vol. ii. chap. 18;)—whereas, in the present case, restitution, however reluctant, had been prompt and complete. But so eager were the authorities in India to possess themselves of the place on any terms, that even while the above-mentioned negotiation was pending, a minute was drawn up (Sept. 28) by the Governor of Bombay, and transmitted to the Governor-general at Calcutta, in which, after stating that "the establishment of a monthly communication by steam with the Red Sea, and the formation of a flotilla of armed steamers, renders it absolutely necessary that we should have a station of our own on the coast of Arabia, as we already have on the Persian Gulf" —alluding to the seizure of the island of Karrack—and noticing "the insult which has been offered to the British flag by the Sultan of Aden," requests permission "to take possession of Cape Aden." [42] The Governor-general, however, in his reply, (Oct. 16,) appears scarcely of opinion that so strong a measure is warranted by the provocation, and suggests "that satisfaction should, in the first instance, be demanded of the Sultan. If it be granted, some amicable arrangement may be made with him for the occupation of this port as a depot for coals, and harbour for shelter. If it be refused, then further measures may be considered." [43]

[Footnote 42: Correspondence, No. 16.]

[Footnote 43: Ibid. No. 19.]

But notwithstanding the qualified terms of the Governor-general's reply, it appears to have been regarded by the Bombay government as equivalent to a full permission [44] for the prosecution of the object on which they had fixed their views: for by the despatch of Captain Haines from Aden, (dated Jan. 20, 1838,) we find that no sooner had he "completed the first duty on which he was sent," (the recovery of the cargo of the Derya-Dowlet,) than he addressed a letter (Jan. 11) to the Sultan, to the effect that "he was empowered by Government to form a treaty with the Sultan for the purchase of Aden, with the land and points surrounding it," &c. &c.—that he felt assured that the Sultan "would, in his wisdom, readily foresee the advantages which would accrue to his country from having such an intimate connecting link with the British"—and enclosing a rough draft of the terms on which it was proposed that the transfer should be effected. The Sultan appears to have been considerably taken aback at this unexpected proposition, which, it should be observed, was not put forward as part of the atonement required for the affair of the Derya-Dowlut—as for this, (in the words of Captain Haines,) "satisfaction has been given by you, and our friendship is as before." A lengthened correspondence ensued, at the rate of a letter or two daily, till the end of January—in which the Sultan, with all the tortuous tact of an Asiatic, endeavoured, without expressly pledging himself on the main point, to stipulate in the first instance for assistance, in the shape of artillery and ammunition, against the hostile tribes in the neighbourhood, and other advantages for himself and his family, particularly for the retention of their jurisdiction over the Arab residents in Aden: and he at last quitted Aden for Lahedj, without absolutely concluding any thing, but having authorized a merchant of the former place, named Reshid-Ebn-Abdallah, to act as his agent.

[Footnote 44: "The Government of India did not, indeed, in express words authorize us to negotiate with the Sultan for a cession to us of the post and harbour: but they desired us to obtain the occupation of the port as a coal depot, and that of the harbour as a place of shelter. These words far exceed the mere establishment of a coal depot under the auspices of the Sultan, and in fact, could not in any practical sense, or to any beneficial purpose, be fulfilled, except by our obtaining the occupation of that port and harbour as a matter not of sufferance but of right."—Minute by the Governor of Bombay, No. 49.]

Still every thing appeared in a fair way for adjustment; the principal difficulty remaining to be settled being the annual sum to be paid as an equivalent for the port-dues of Aden. The Sultan's commissioner at first rated this source of revenue at the exorbitant sum of 50,000 dollars!—but it was at last agreed that it should be commuted for a yearly stipend of 8708, a mode of payment preferred by the Sultan to the receipt of a gross sum, lest the rapacity of his neighbours should be excited against him by so sudden an accession of wealth: while the amount thus fixed was believed even to exceed the actual amount of the customs. The Sultan meanwhile, though evading the formal execution of the deed of transfer, constantly wrote from Lahedj that the English were at liberty to begin building in Aden as soon as they pleased—adding on more than one occasion—"if the Turks or any other people should come and take away the whole country by strength from me, the blame will not rest on my shoulders."

On the 27th, however, Sultan Hamed, the eldest son and heir-apparent of Sultan Mahassan, arrived at Aden from Lahedj, accompanied by a synd or descendant of the prophet, named Hussein, who was represented as having come as a witness to the transaction; and Captain Haines was invited on shore to meet them. While he was preparing, however, to repair to the place of meeting, he received a private intimation through the merchant already mentioned, Reshid-Ebn-Abdallih, to the effect that the Arab chiefs had determined on seizing his person at the interview, in order to possess themselves of the papers connected with the proposed transfer of Aden, (to which Sultan Hamed had from the first been strongly opposed,) and in particular of the bond for 4191 dollars which had been given in satisfaction for the balance of the goods in the Derya-Dowlut. How far this imputed treachery was really meditated, there can be, of course, no means of precisely ascertaining; and the minute of the governor of Bombay (Correspondence, No. 49,) seems to consider it doubtful; [45] but Captain Haines acted as if fully convinced of the correctness of the intelligence which he had received; and after reproaching Sultan Hamed with his intended perfidy, returned first to Mokha, and afterwards (in February) to Bombay, carrying with him the letter in which the old Sultan was alleged to have given his consent to the cession, but leaving the recovered goods at Aden in charge of a Banyan—a tolerably strong proof, by the way, that the Sultan, notwithstanding the bad faith laid to his charge, was not considered likely to appropriate them afresh.

[Footnote 45: "I am not, however, disposed to treat the matter as one of much importance. We have no knowledge of it but from report, and all concerned in it will solemnly deny the truth of the information."]

The unsuccessful issue of this mission pretty clearly proved, that notwithstanding the dread of the British power entertained by the Abdalli chiefs, their reluctance to part with their town would not be easily overcome by peaceable means: while the Governor-general (then busily engaged at Simla in forwarding the preparations for the ill-fated invasion of Affghanistan) still declined, in despite of a renewed application from Bombay to give any special sanction to ulterior measures—"a question on which"—in the words of the despatch—"her Majesty's Government is rather called upon to pronounce judgment, than the supreme government of India." The authorities at Bombay, however, were not to be thus diverted from the attainment of their favourite object; and in a despatch of September 7, 1838, to the Secret Committee, (Corresp. No. 59,) they announce that, "on reconsideration, they have resolved to adopt immediate measures for attempting to obtain peaceable possession of Aden, without waiting for the previous instructions of the Governor-general of India:" but "as the steamer Berenice will leave Bombay on the 8th inst.," (the next day,) "we have not time to enter into a detail of the reasons which have induced us to come to the above resolution." A notification similar to the above had been forwarded two days previously to Lord Auckland at Simla; and a laconic reply was received (Oct. 4) from Sir William Macnaghten, simply to the effect that "his lordship was glad to find that, at the present crisis of our affairs, the governor (of Bombay) in council has resolved to resort to no other than peaceful means for the attainment of the object in view."

In the latter part of October, accordingly, Captain Haines once more reached Aden in the Coote, with a small party of Bombay sepoys on board as his escort; but the aspect of affairs was by no means favourable. The old Sultan Mahassan, worn out with age and infirmities, had resigned the management of affairs almost entirely to his fiery son Hamed, who, encouraged not only by his success in baffling the former attempt, but by the smallness of the force which had accompanied the British commissioner, [46] openly set him at defiance, declaring that he himself, and not his father, was now the Sultan of the Bedoweens: that his father was but an imbecile old man; and that any promise which might have been extorted from him could not be regarded as of any avail: and, in short, that the place should not be given up upon any terms. In pursuance of this denunciation, all supplies, even of wood and water, were refused to the ship; the Banyan in charge of the Derya-Dowlut's cargo was prohibited from giving up the goods to the English; and though the interchange of letters was kept up as briskly as before, the resolution of Sultan Hamed was not to be shaken by this torrent of diplomacy: and he constantly adhered to his first expressed position—"I wish much to be friends, and that amity was between us, but you must not speak or write about the land of Aden again." The English agent, however, persisted in speaking of the transfer as already legally concluded, and out of the power of Hamed to repudiate or annul: while, in order to give greater stringency to his remonstrances, he gave orders for the detention of the date-boats and other vessels which arrived off Aden, hoping to starve the Sultan into submission, by thus at once stopping his provisions, and cutting off his receipt of port dues. The blockade does not seem to have been very effectual: and an overture from the Futhali chief to aid with his tribe in an attack on the Abdallis, was of course declined by Captain Haines.

[Footnote 46: "Their first exclamation was, 'Are the English so poor that they can only afford to send one vessel? and is she only come to talk? Why did they not send her before? Had they sent their men and vessels, we would have given up; but until they do, they shall never have the place.'"—CAPTAIN HAINES'S Despatch, Nov. 6, (No. 61.)]

The apparently interminable cross fire of protocols [47] (in which both Captain Haines and his employers appear to have luxuriated to a degree which would have gladdened the heart of Lord Palmerston himself) was now, however, on the point of being brought to a close. On the 20th of November, one of the Coote's boats, while engaged in overhauling an Arab vessel near the shore, was fired at by the Bedoweens on the beach, and hostilities were carried on during several days, but with little damage on either side. In most cases, it would have been considered that blockading a port, and intercepting its supplies of provisions constituted a sufficiently legitimate ground of warfare to justify these reprisals: but Captain Haines, it appears, thought otherwise, as he stigmatizes it as "a shameful and cowardly attack," and becomes urgent with the Bombay government for a reinforcement which might enable him to assume offensive operations with effect. Her Majesty's ships Volage, 28, and Cruiser, 16 gun-brig, which had been employed in some operations about the mouth of the Indus, were accordingly ordered on this service, and sailed from Bombay December 29, accompanied by two transports conveying about 800 troops—Europeans, sepoys, and artillerymen—under the command-in-chief of Major Baillie, 24th Bombay native infantry. The Abdalli chiefs, on the other hand, made an effort to induce the Sultan of the Futhalis, (with whom they held a conference during the first days of 1839, at the tomb of Sheikh Othman near Aden, on the occasion of the payment of the annual tribute above referred to,) to make common cause with them against the intruders who were endeavouring to establish themselves in the country; but the negotiation wholly failed, and the two parties separated on not very amicable terms.

[Footnote 47: It is worthy of remark, that in a note of December 1st, (Corresp. No. 81,) from the Governor of Bombay to the Sultan, the ill treatment of the passengers of the Derya-Dowlut is again advanced as the ground of offence, as an atonement for which the cession of Aden is indispensable; though for this, ample satisfaction had been admitted long since to have been given.]

It appears that the determination of the Abdallis to hold out had been materially strengthened by the intelligence which they received from India, (where many Arabs from this part of Yemen and the neighbouring country of Hadramout are serving as mercenaries to the native princes,) of the manifold distractions which beset the Anglo-Indian government, and the armaments in course of equipment for Affghanistan, Scinde, the Persian Gulf, &c., and which confirmed them in the belief that no more troops could be spared from Bombay for an attack on Aden. The stoppage of provisions by sea, however, and the threatened hostilities of the Futhalis, caused severe distress among the inhabitants of the town; and dissensions arose among the chiefs themselves, as to the proportions in which (in the event of an amicable settlement) the annual payment of 8700 dollars should be divided among them—it being determined that Sultan Mahassan should not have it all. An attempt was now made by the synds to effect a reconciliation; but though abundance of notes were once more interchanged, [48] and the old Sultan came down from Lahedj to offer his mediation, all demands for the main object, the cession of the place, were rejected or evaded. The negotiation consequently came to nothing, and hostilities were resumed with more energy than before, the artillery of Aden being directed (as was reported) by an European Turk; till, on the 16th of January, the flotilla from Bombay, under the command of Captain Smith, R.N., anchored in Western Bay.

[Footnote 48: In this correspondence, the phrase of—"If you will land and enter the town, I will be upon your head," is more than once addressed by Sultan Hamed to Captain Haines and seems to have been understood as a menace; but we have been informed that it rather implies, "I will be answerable for your safety—your head shall be in my charge."]

A peremptory requisition was now sent on shore for the immediate surrender of the town; but the answer of the Sultan was still evasive, and, as the troops had only a few days' water on board, an immediate landing was decided upon. On the morning of the 19th, accordingly, the Coote, Cruiser, Volage, and the Company's armed schooner Mahi, weighed and stood in shore, opening a heavy fire on the island of Seerah and the batteries on the mainland, to cover the disembarkation. The Arabs at first stood to their guns with great determination, but their artillery was, of course, speedily silenced or dismounted by the superior weight and rapidity of the English fire; and though the troops were galled while in the boats by matchlocks from the shore, both the town and the island of Seerah were carried by storm without much difficulty. The loss of the assailants was no more than fifteen killed and wounded—that of the Arabs more than ten times that number, including a nephew of the Sultan and a chief of the Houshibee tribe, who fought gallantly, and received a mortal wound; considerable bloodshed was also occasioned by the desperate resistance made by the prisoners taken on Seerah in the attempt to disarm them, during which the greater part of them cut their way through their captors and got clear off. Most of the inhabitants fled into the interior during the assault, but speedily returned on hearing of the discipline and good order preserved by the conquerors; and the old Sultan, on being informed of the capture of the place, sent an apologetic letter (Jan. 21) to Captain Haines, in which he threw all the blame on his son Hamed, and expressed an earnest wish for a reconciliation. Little difficulty was now experienced in conducting the negotiations, and during the first days of February articles of pacification were signed both with the Abdallis and the other tribes in the neighbourhood. To secure the good-will of the Futhali chief, the annual payment which he had received from Aden of 360 dollars, was still guaranteed to him, as were the 8700 dollars per annum to the Sultan of Lahedj, whose bond for 4191 dollars was further remitted as a token of good-will.

Such were the circumstances under which Aden became part of the colonial empire of Great Britain—and the details of which we have taken, almost entirely, from the official accounts published by order of Government. In whatever point of view we consider the transaction, we think it can scarcely be denied that it reflects little credit on the national character for even-handed justice and fair dealing. Even if the tact and savoir faire, which Captain Haines must be admitted to have displayed in an eminent degree in the execution of his instructions, had succeeded in intimidating the Arabs into surrendering the place without resistance, such a proceeding would have amounted to nothing more or less than the appropriation of the territory of a tribe not strong enough to defend themselves, simply because it was situated conveniently for the purposes of our own navigation: and the open force by which the scheme was ultimately carried into effect, imparts to this act of usurpation a character of violence still more to be regretted. The originally-alleged provocation, the affair of the Derya-Dowlut, is not for a moment tenable as warranting such extreme measures:—since not only was the participation of the parties on whom the whole responsibility was thrown, at all events extremely venial; but satisfaction had been given, and had been admitted to have been given, before the subject of the cession of the place was broached:—and the Sultan constantly denied that his alleged consent to the transfer, on which the subsequent hostilities were grounded, had ever been intended to be so construed. It is evident, moreover, that the Arabs would gladly have yielded to any amicable arrangement short of the absolute cession of the town, which they regarded as disgraceful: —the erection of a factory, which might have been fortified so as to give us the virtual command of the place and the harbour, would probably have met with no opposition:—and even if Aden had fallen, as it seemed on the point of doing, into the hands of the Pasha of Egypt, there can be little doubt that the Viceroy would have shown himself equally ready to facilitate our intercourse with India, in his Arabian as in his Egyptian harbours. At all events, it is evident that the desired object of obtaining a station and coal depot for the Indian steamers, might easily have been secured in various ways, without running even the risk of bringing on the British name the imputation of unnecessary violence and oppression.

Aden, however, was now, whether for right or wrong, under the British flag; but the hostile dispositions of the Arabs, notwithstanding the treaties entered into, were still far from subdued; and the cupidity of these semi-barbarous tribes was still further excited by the lavish expenditure of the new garrison, and by the exaggerated reports of vast treasures said to be brought from India for the repairs of the works. Among the advantages anticipated by Captain Haines in his official report from the possession of the town, especial stress is laid on its vicinity to the coffee and gum districts, and the certainty, that when it was under the settled rule of British law, the traffic in these rich products, as well as in the gold-dust, ivory, and frankincense of the African coast, would once more centre in its long-neglected harbour. But it was speedily found that the insecurity of communication with the interior opposed a serious obstacle to the realization of these prospects—the European residents and the troops were confined within the Turkish wall—and though the extreme heat of the climate (which during summer averaged 90 deg. of Fahrenheit in the shade within a stone house) did not prove so injurious as had been expected to European constitutions, it was found, singularly enough, to exercise a most pernicious influence on the sepoys, who sickened and died in alarming numbers. Aden at this period is compared, in a letter quoted in the Asiatic Journal, to "the crater of Etna enlarged, and covered with gravestones and the remains of stone huts;" provisions were scarce, and vegetables scarcely procurable. By degrees, however, some symptoms of reviving trade appeared and by the end of 1839 the population had increased to 1500 souls.

The smouldering rancour with which the Arabs had all along regarded the Frank intruders upon their soil, had by this time broken out into open hostility; and, after some minor acts of violence, an attack was made on the night of November 9th on the Turkish wall across the isthmus, (which had been additionally strengthened by redoubts and some guns,) by a body of 4000 men, collected from the Abdallis, the Futhalis, and the other tribes in the neighbourhood. The assailants were of course repulsed, but not without a severe conflict, in which the Arabs engaged the defenders hand to hand with the most determined valour—so highly had their hopes of plunder been stimulated by the rumours of English wealth. This daring attempt (which the Pasha of Egypt was by some suspected to have had some share in instigating) at once placed the occupants of Aden in a state of open warfare with all their Arab neighbours; and the subsidies hitherto paid to the Futhali chief and the old Sultan of Lahedj were consequently stopped—while L.100,000 were voted by the Bombay government for repairing the fortifications, and engineers were sent from India to put the place in an efficient state of defence. These regular ramparts, however, even when completed, can never be relied on as a security against the guerilla attacks of these daring marauders, who can wade through the sea at low water round the flanks of the Turkish wall, and scramble over precipices to get in the rear of the outposts—and accordingly, during 1840, the garrison had to withstand two more desperate attempts (May 20, and July 4,) to surprise the place, both of which were beaten off after some hard fighting, though in one instance the attacking party succeeded in carrying off a considerable amount of plunder from the encampment near the Turkish wall. Since that period, it has been found necessary gradually to raise the strength of the garrison from 800 to 4000 men, one-fourth of whom are always European soldiers—and though no attack in force has lately been made by the Arabs, the necessity of being constantly on the alert against their covert approaches, renders the duties of the garrison harassing to the last degree. Though a considerable trade now exists with the African coast, scarcely any commercial intercourse has yet been established with the interior of Arabia, (notwithstanding the friendly dispositions evinced by the Iman of Sana,) the road being barred by the hostile tribes—and a further impediment to improvement is found in the dissensions of the civil and military authorities of the place itself, who, pent up in a narrow space under a broiling sun, seem to employ their energies in endless squabbles with each other. Whatever may be the ultimate fate of this colony, it must be allowed, to quote the candid admission of a writer in the United Service Journal, that "at present we are not occupying a very proud position in Arabia"—though considering the means by which we obtained our footing in that peninsula, our position is perhaps as good as we deserve.

* * * * *



SONNET

BY THE AUTHOR OP THE LIFE OF BURKE, OF GOLDSMITH, &C.,

ON VIEWING MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

How warms the heart when dwelling on that face, Those lips that mine a thousand times have prest, The swelling source that nurture gav'st her race, Where found my infant head its downiest rest! How in those features aim to trace my own, Cast in a softer mould my being see; Recall the voice that sooth'd my helpless moan, The thoughts that sprang for scarcely aught save me; That shaped and formed me; gave me to the day, Bade in her breast absorbing love arise; O'er me a ceaseless tender care display, For weak all else to thee maternal ties! This debt of love but One may claim; no other Such self-devotion boasts, save thee, my Mother!

* * * * *



CALEB STUKELY.

PART XIII.

THE FUGITIVE.

The tongue has nothing to say when the soul hath spoken all! What need of words in the passionate and early intercourse of love! There is no oral language that can satisfy or meet the requisitions of the stricken heart. Speech, the worldling and the false—oftener the dark veil than the bright mirror of man's thoughts—is banished from the spot consecrated to purity, unselfishness, and truth. The lovely and beloved Ellen learnt, before a syllable escaped my lips, the secret which those lips would never have disclosed. Her innocent and conscious cheek acknowledged instantly her quick perception, and with maiden modesty she turned aside—not angrily, but timorous as a bird, upon whose leafy covert the heavy fowler's foot has trod too harshly and too suddenly. I thought of nothing then but the pain I had inflicted, and was sensible of no feeling but that of shame and sorrow for my fault. We walked on in silence. Our road brought us to the point in the village at which I had met Miss Fairman and her father, when, for the first time, we became companions in our evening walk. We retraced the path which then we took, and the hallowed spot grew lovelier as we followed it. I could not choose but tell how deeply and indelibly the scene of beauty had become imprinted on my heart.

"To you, Miss Fairman," I began, "and to others who were born and nurtured in this valley, this is a common sight. To me it is a land of enchantment, and the impression that it brings must affect my future being. I am sure, whatever may be my lot, that I shall be a happier man for what I now behold."

"It is well," said my companion, "that you did not make the acquaintance of our hills during the bleak winter, when their charms were hidden in the snow, and they had nothing better to offer their worshipper than rain and sleet and nipping winds. They would have lost your praise then."

"Do you think so? Imprisoned as I have been, and kept a stranger to the noblest works of Providence, my enjoyment is excessive, and I dare scarcely trust myself to feel it as I would. I could gaze on yonder sweet hillock, with its wild-flowers and its own blue patch of sky, until I wept."

"Yes, this is a lovely scene in truth!" exclaimed Miss Fairman pensively.

"Do you remember, Miss Fairman, our first spring walk? For an hour we went on, and that little green clump, as it appears from here, was not for a moment out of my sight. My eyes were riveted upon it, and I watched the clouds shifting across it, changing its hue, now darkening, now lighting it up, until it became fixed in my remembrance, never to depart from it. We have many fair visions around us, but that is to me the fairest. It is connected with our evening walk. Neither can be forgotten whilst I live."

It was well that we reached the parsonage gate before another word was spoken. In spite of the firmest of resolutions, the smallest self-indulgence brought me to the very verge of transgression.

In the evening I sat alone, and began a letter to the minister. I wrote a few lines expressive of my gratitude and deep sense of obligation. They did not read well, and I destroyed them. I recommenced. I reproached myself for presumption and temerity, and confessed that I had taken advantage of his confidence by attempting to gain the affections of his only child. I regretted the fault, and desired to be dismissed. The terms which I employed, on reperusal, looked too harsh, and did not certainly do justice to the motives by which throughout I had been actuated; for, however violent had been my passion, principle had still protected and restrained me. I had not coldly and deliberately betrayed myself. The second writing, not more satisfactory than the first, was, in its turn, expunged. I attempted a third epistle, and failed. Then I put down the pen and considered. I pondered until I concluded that I had ever been too hasty and too violent. Miss Fairman would certainly take no notice of what had happened, and if I were guarded—silent—and determined for the future, all would still be well. It was madness to indulge a passion which could only lead to my expulsion from the parsonage, and end in misery. Had I found it so easy to obtain a home and quiet, that both were to be so recklessly and shamefully abandoned? Surely it was time to dwell soberly and seriously upon the affairs of life. I had numbered years and undergone trial sufficient to be acquainted with true policy and the line of duty. Both bade me instantly reject the new solicitation, and pursue, with singleness of purpose, the occupation which fortune had mercifully vouchsafed to me. All this was specious and most just, and sounded well to the understanding that was not less able to look temperately and calmly upon the argument in consequence of the previous overflow of feeling. Reason is never so plausible and prevailing as when it takes the place of gratified passion. Never are we so firmly resolved upon good, as in the moment that follows instantly the doing of evil. Never is conscience louder in her complaints than when she rises from a temporary overthrow. I had discovered every thing to Miss Fairman. I had fatally committed myself. There was no doubt of this; and nothing was left for present consolation but sapient resolutions for the future. Virtuous and fixed they looked in my silent chamber and in the silent hour of night. Morning had yet to dawn, and they had yet to contend with the thousand incitements which our desires are ever setting up to battle with our better judgment. I did not write to Mr. Fairman, but I rose from my seat much comforted, and softened my midnight pillow with the best intentions.

Fancy might have suggested to me, on the following morning, that the eyes of Miss Fairnan had been visited but little by sleep, and that her face was far more pallid than usual, if her parent had not remarked, with much anxiety, when she took her place amongst us, that she was looking most weary and unwell. Like the sudden emanation that crimsons all the east, the beautiful and earliest blush of morning, came the driven blood into the maiden's cheek, telling of discovery and shame. Nothing she said in answer, but diligently pursued her occupation. I could perceive that the fair hand trembled, and that the gentle bosom was disquieted. I could tell why downwards bent the head, and with what new emotions the artless spirit had become acquainted. Instantly I saw the mischief which my rashness had occasioned, and felt how deeply had fallen the first accents of love into the poor heart of the secluded one. What had I done by the short, indistinct, most inconsiderate avowal, and how was it possible now to avert its consequences? Every tender and uneasy glance that Mr. Fairman cast upon his cherished daughter, passed like a sting to me, and roused the bitterest self-reproach. I could have calmed his groundless fears, had I been bold enough to risk his righteous indignation. The frankness and cordiality which had ever marked my intercourse with Miss Fairman, were from this hour suspended. Could it be otherwise with one so innocent, so truthful, and so meek! Anger she had none, but apprehension and conceptions strange, such as disturb the awakened soul of woman, ere the storm of passion comes to overcharge it.

I slunk from the apartment and the first meal of the day, like a man guilty of a heinous fault. I pleaded illness, and did not rejoin my friends. I knew not what to do, and I passed a day in long and feverish doubt. Evening arrived. My pupils were dismissed, and once more I sat in my own silent room lost in anxious meditation. Suddenly an unusual knock at the door roused me, and brought me to my feet. I requested the visitor to enter, and Mr. Fairman himself walked slowly in. He was pale and care-worn and he looked, as I imagined, sternly upon me. "All is known!" was my first thought, and my throat swelled with agitation. I presented a chair to the incumbent; and when he sat down and turned his wan face upon me, I felt that my own cheek was no less blanched than his. I awaited his rebuke in breathless suspense.

"You are indeed ill, Stukely," commenced Mr. Fairman, gazing earnestly. "I was not aware of this, or I would have seen you before. You have overworked yourself with the boys. You shall be relieved to-morrow. I will take charge of them myself. You should not have persevered when you found your strength unequal to the task. A little repose will, I trust, restore you."

With every animating syllable, the affrighted blood returned again, and I gained confidence. His tones assured me that he was still in ignorance. A load was taken from me.

"I shall be better in the morning, sir," I answered. "Do not think seriously of the slightest indisposition. I am better now."

"I am rejoiced to hear it," answered the incumbent. "I am full of alarm and wretchedness to-day. Did you observe my daughter this morning, Stukely?"

"Yes, sir," I faltered.

"You did at breakfast, but you have not seen her since. I wish you had. I am sick at heart."

"Is she unwell, sir?"

"Do you know what consumption is? Have you ever watched its fearful progress?"

"Never."

"I thought you might have done so. It is a fearful disease, and leaves hardly a family untouched. Did she not look ill?—you can tell me that, at least."

"Not quite so well, perhaps, as I have seen her, sir; but I should hope"—

"Eh—what, not very ill, then? Well, that is strange, for I was frightened by her. What can it be? I wish that Mayhew had called in. Every ailment fills me with terror. I always think of her dear mother. Three months before her death, she sat with me, as we do here together, well and strong, and thanking Providence for health and strength. She withered, as it might be from that hour, and, as I tell you, three short months of havoc brought her to the grave."

"Was she young, sir?"

"A few years older than my child—but that is nothing. Did you say you did not think her looks this morning indicated any symptoms? Oh—no! I recollect. You never saw the malady at work. Well, certainly she does not cough as her poor mother did. Did it look like languor, think you?"

"The loss of rest might"—

"Yes, it might, and perhaps it is nothing worse. I know Mayhew thinks lightly of these temporary shadows; but I do not believe he has ever seen her so thoroughly feeble and depressed as she appears to-day. She is very pale, but I was glad to find her face free from all flush whatever. That is comforting. Let us hope the best. How do the boys advance? What opinion have you formed of the lad Charlton?"

"He is a dull, good-hearted boy, sir. Willing to learn, with little ability to help him on. Most difficult of treatment. His tears lie near the surface. At times it seems that the simplest terms are beyond his understanding, and then the gentlest reproof opens the flood-gate, and submerges his faculties for the day."

"Be tender and cautious, Stukely, with that child. He is a sapling that will not bear the rough wind. Let him learn what he will—rest assured, it is all he can. His eagerness to learn will never fall short of your's to teach. He must be kindly encouraged, not frowned upon in his reverses; for who fights so hard against them, or deplores them more deeply than himself? Poor, weak child, he is his own chastiser."

"I will take care, sir."

"Have you seen this coming on, Stukely?"

"With Charlton, sir?"

"No. Miss Fairman's indisposition. For many weeks she has certainly improved in health. I have remarked it, and I was taken by surprise this morning. I should be easier had Mayhew seen her."

"Let me fetch him in the morning, sir. His presence will relieve you. I will start early—and bring him with me."

"Well, if you are better, but certainly not otherwise. I confess I should be pleased to talk with him. But do not rise too early. Get your breakfast first. I will take the boys until you come back."

This had been the object of the anxious father's visit. As soon as I had undertaken to meet his wish, he became more tranquil. My mission was to be kept a secret. The reason why a servant had not been employed, was the fear of causing alarm in the beloved patient. Before Mr. Fairman left me, I was more than half persuaded that I myself had mistaken the cause of his daughter's suffering; so agreeable is it, even against conviction, to discharge ourselves of blame.

The residence of Dr. Mayhew was about four miles distant from our village. It was a fine brick house, as old as the oaks which stood before it, conferring upon a few acres of grass land the right to be regarded as a park. The interior of the house was as substantial as the outside; both were as solid as the good doctor himself. He was a man of independent property, a member of the University of Oxford, and a great stickler for old observances. He received a fee from every man who was able to pay him for his services; and the poor might always receive at his door, at the cost of application only, medical advice and physic, and a few commodities much more acceptable than either. He kept a good establishment, in the most interesting portion of which dwelt three decaying creatures, the youngest fourscore years of age and more. They were an entail from his grandfather, and had faithfully served that ancestor for many years as coachman, housekeeper, and butler. The father of Dr. Mayhew had availed himself of their integrity and experience until Time robbed them of the latter, and rendered the former a useless ornament; and dying, he bequeathed them, with the house and lands, to their present friend and patron. There they sat in their own hall, royal servants every one, hanging to life by one small thread, which when it breaks for one must break for all. They had little interest in the present world, to which the daily visit of the doctor, and that alone, connected them. He never failed to pay it. Unconscious of all else, they never failed to look for it.

The village clock struck eleven as I walked up the avenue that conducted to the house. The day was intensely hot, and at that early hour the fierce fire of the sun had rendered the atmosphere sweltry and oppressive. I knocked many times before I could obtain admittance, and, at last, the door was opened by a ragged urchin about twelve years of age, looking more like the son of a thief or a gypsy than a juvenile member of the decent household.

"Is Dr. Mayhew at home?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know!" he answered surlily; "you had better come and see;" and therewith he turned upon his heel, and tramped heavily down the kitchen stairs. For a few seconds I remained where I was. At length, hearing no voices in the house, and finding that no one was likely to come to me, I followed him. At the bottom of the stairs was a long passage leading to the offices. It was very dark, or it was rendered so to me who had just left the glare of noonday. At the end of it, however, a small lamp glimmered, and under its feeble help I advanced. Arriving at its extremity, I was stopped by the hum of many voices that proceeded from a chamber on the right. Here I knocked immediately. The voice of Dr. Mayhew desired me to enter. The door was opened the moment afterwards, and then I beheld the doctor himself and every servant of the house assembled in a crowd. The little boy who had given me admission was in the group; and in the very centre of all, sitting upright in a chair, was the strangest apparition of a man that I have ever gazed upon, before or since. The object that attracted, and at the same time repelled, my notice, was a creature whose age no living man could possibly determine. He was at least six feet high, with raven hair, and a complexion sallow as the sear leaf. Look at his figure, then mark the absence of a single wrinkle, and you judge him for a youth. Observe again: look at the emaciated face; note the jet-black eye, deeply-sunken, and void of all fire and life; the crushed, the vacant, and forlorn expression; the aquiline nose, prominent as an eagle's, from which the parchment skin is drawn as rigidly as though it were a dead man's skin, bloodless and inert. The wear and tear, the buffeting and misery of seventy years are there. Seventy!—yea, twice seventy years of mortal agony and suffering could hardly leave a deeper impress. He is strangely clad. He is in rags. The remnants of fine clothes are dropping from his shrunken body. His hand is white and small. Upon the largest finger he wears a ring—once, no doubt, before his hand had shrivelled up—the property and ornament of the smallest. It is a sparkling diamond, and it glistens as his own black eye should, if it be true that he is old only in mental misery and pain. There is no sign of thought or feeling in his look. His eye falls on no one, but seems to pass beyond the lookers-on, and to rest on space. The company are far more agitated. A few minutes before my arrival the strange object had been found, with the boy whom I had first seen, wandering in the garden. He was apprehended for a thief, brought into the house, and not until Dr. Mayhew had been summoned, had it been suspected that the poor creature was an idiot. Commiseration then took the place of anger quickly, and all was anxiety and desire to know whence he had come, who he might be, and what his business was. He could not speak for himself, and the answers of the boy had been unsatisfactory and vague. When I entered the room, the doctor gave me a slight recognition, and proceeded at once to a further examination of the stripling.

"Where did you pick him up, Sir?" enquired the Doctor.

"Mother sent me out a-begging with him," answered the gypsy boy.

"Who is your mother?"

"Mabel."

"Mabel what?"

"Mabel nothing."

"Where does she live, then?"

"She doesn't live nowhere. She's a tramper."

"Where is she now?"

"How can I tell? We shall pick up somewhere. Let me go, and take Silly Billy with me. I shall get such a licking if I don't."

"Is his name Billy?"

"No, Silly Billy, all then chaps as is fools are called Silly Billy. You know that, don't you? Oh, I say, do let's go now, there's good fellows!"

"Wait a moment, boy—not so fast. How long have you been acquainted with this unfortunate?"

"What, Silly Billy? Oh, we ain't very old friends! I only see'd him yesterday. He came up quite unawares to our camp whilst we were grubbing. He seemed very hungry, so mother gave him summut, and made him up a bed—and she means to have him. So she sent me out this morning a-begging with him, and told me she'd break every gallows bone I'd got, if I did not bring him back safe. I say, now I have told all, let us go—there's a good gentleman! I'm quite glad he is going to live with us. It's so lucky to have a Silly Billy."

"How is it, you young rascal, you didn't tell me all this before? What do you mean by it?

"Why, it isn't no business of your'n. Let us go, will you?"

"Strange," said Doctor Mayhew, turning to his butler—"Strange, that they should leave that ring upon his finger—valuable as it looks."

"Oh, you try it on, that's all! Catch mother leaving that there, if she could get it off. She tried hard enough, I can tell you and I thought he'd just have bitten her hand off. Wasn't he savage neither, oh cry! She won't try at it again in a hurry. She says it serves her right, for no luck comes of robbing a Silly Billy."

The servants, who betrayed a few minutes before great anxiety and apprehension, were perfectly overcome by this humorous sally, and burst, with on accord, into the loudest laughter. The generally jocose doctor, however, looked particularly serious, and kept his eye upon the poor idiot with an expression of deep pity. "Will he not speak?" he asked, still marking his unhappy countenance bereft of every sign of sensibility.

"He won't say not nuffin," said the boy, in a tone which he hoped would settle the business; "You have no right to keep us. Let us go."

"Leave me with these persons," said the Doctor, turning to the servants. "We will see if the tongue of this wretched be really tied. Go, all of you."

In an instant the room was left to Doctor Mayhew and myself—the idiot and his keeper.

"What is your name, my man?" enquired the physician in a soothing tone. "Do not be frightened. Nobody will hurt you here. We are all your very good friends. Tell me now, what is your name?"

The questioner took the poor fellow at the same time by the hand, and pressed it kindly. The latter then looked round the room with a vacant stare, and sighed profoundly.

"Tell me your name," continued the Doctor, encouraged by the movement. The lips of the afflicted man unclosed. His brick-red tongue attempted to moisten them. Fixing his expressionless eyes upon the doctor, he answered, in a hollow voice, "Belton."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed the boy. "Them Silly Billies is the deceitfulest chaps as is. He made out to mother that he couldn't speak a word."

"Take care what you are about, boy," said Doctor Mayhew sternly. "I tell you that I suspect you." Turning to the idiot, he proceeded. "And where do you come from?"

The lips opened again, and the same hollow voice again answered, "Belton."

"Yes, I understand—that is your name—but whither do you wish to go?"

"Belton," said the man.

"Strange!" ejaculated the Doctor. "How old are you?"

"Belton," repeated the simple creature, more earnestly than ever.

"I am puzzled," exclaimed Mr. Mayhew, releasing the hand of the idiot, and standing for a few seconds in suspense. "However," he continued, "upon one thing I am resolved. The man shall be left here, and in my care. I will be responsible for his safety until something is done for him. We shall certainly get intelligence. He has escaped from an asylum—I have not the slightest doubt of it—and we shall be able, after a few days, to restore him. As for you, sir," he added, addressing the young gypsy, "make the best of your way to your mother, and be thankful that you have come so well off—fly."

The boy began to remonstrate, upon which the doctor began to talk of the cage and the horsepond. The former then evinced his good sense by listening to reason, and by selecting, as many a wiser man has done before him—the smaller of two necessary evils. He departed, not expressing himself in the most elegant terms that might have been applied to a leave-taking.

The benevolent physician soon made arrangements for the comfort of his charge. He was immediately placed in a bath, supplied with food, and dressed in decent clothing. He submitted at once to his treatment, and permitted his attendant to do what he would with him, taking, all the while, especial care to feel the diamond ring safe and secure under the palm of his own hand. A room was given to him and Robin, the gardener's son, who was forthwith installed his guardian, with strict directions not to leave the patient for an instant by himself. When Dr. Mayhew had seen every thing that could be done properly executed, he turned cheerfully to me, and bade me follow him to his library.

"His clothes have been good," muttered the doctor to himself, as he sat down. "Diamond ring! He is a gentleman, or has been one. Curious business! Well, we shall have him advertised all round the country in a day or two. Meanwhile here he is, and will be safe. That trouble is over. Now, Stukely, what brings you so early? Any thing wrong at home? Fairman in the dumps again; fidgety and restless, eh?"

I told my errand.

"Ah, I thought so! There's nothing the matter there, sir. She is well enough now, and will continue so, if her father doesn't frighten her into sickness, which he may do. I tell you what, I must get little puss a husband, and take her from him. That will save her. I have my eye upon a handsome fellow—Hollo, sir, what's the matter with you! Just look at your face in that glass. It is as red as fire."

"The weather, sir, is"—

"Oh, is it? You mean to say, then, that you are acquainted with the influences of the weather. That is just the thing, for you can help me to a few facts for the little treatise on climate which I have got now in hand. Well, go on, my friend. You were saying that the weather is—is what?"

"It is very hot, sir," I answered, dreadfully annoyed.

"Well, so it is; that's very true but not original. I have heard the same remark at least six times this morning. I say, Master Stukely, you haven't been casting sheep's-eyes in that sweet quarter, have you? Haven't, perhaps, been giving the young lady instruction as well as the boys—eh?"

"I do not understand, sir," I struggled to say with coolness.

"Oh, very well!" answered Dr. Mayhew dryly. "That's very unfortunate too, for," continued he, taking out his watch, "I haven't time to explain myself just now. I have an appointment four miles away in half an hour's time. I am late as it is. Williams will get you some lunch. Tell Fairman I shall see him before night. Make yourself perfectly at home, and don't hurry. But excuse me; this affair has made me quite behindhand."

The Doctor took a few papers and a book from the table, and before I had time to reply, vanished, much to my relief and satisfaction. My journey homeward was not a happy one. I felt alarm and agitation, and the beautiful scenery failed to remove or temper them. My heart's dear secret had been once more discovered. Rumour could not omit to convey it speedily to the minister himself. In two directions the flame had now power to advance and spread; and if the old villager remained faithful, what reason had I to hope that Dr. Mayhew would not immediately expose me—yes, must not regard it as his business and duty so to do? Yet one thing was certain. The secret, such as it had become, might, for all practical purposes, be known to the whole world, for unquestionably the shallowest observer was at present able to detect it. The old woman in the village, aged and ignorant as she was, had been skilful enough to discover it when I spoke. The doctor had gathered it from my looks even before I uttered a syllable. What was to hinder the incumbent from reading the tale on my forehead the moment that I again stood in his presence?

Reaching the parsonage, I proceeded at once to the drawing-room, where I expected to see the minister. No one was in the room, but a chair was drawn to the table, and the implements of drawing were before it. Could I not guess who had been the recent tenant of that happy chair—who had been busy there? Forgetful of every thing but her, I stood for a time in silent adoration of the absent one; then I ventured to approach and gaze upon her handiwork. I shook with joy, with ravishment, and ecstasy, when I beheld it. What was not made known to me in that one hasty look! What golden dreams did not engage, what blissful triumph did not elevate, what passionate delight did not overflow my aching heart! Oh, it was true—and the blessed intelligence came to me with a power and a reality that no language could contain—SHE LOVED ME! she, the beloved, the good, the innocent, and pure! Before me was the scene—the dearest to me in life—through which we had so recently walked together, and upon which she knew I doated, for the sake of her whose presence had given it light and hallowed it. Why had she brought it on the paper? Why this particular scene, and that fair hillock, but for the sake of him who worshipped them—but that the mysterious and communicable fire had touched her soul, and melted it? I trembled with my happiness. There was a spot upon the paper—a tear—one sacred drop from the immaculate fount. Why had it been shed? In joy or pain—for whom—and wherefore? The paper was still moist—the tear still warm. Happiest and most unfortunate of my race, I pressed it to my lips, and kissed it passionately.

Miss Fairman entered at that moment.

She looked pale and ill. This was not a season for consideration. Before I could speak, I saw her tottering, and about to fall. I rushed to her and held her in my arms. She strove for recovery, and set herself at liberty; but she wept aloud as she did so, and covered her face with her hands. I fell upon my knees, and implored her to forgive me.

"I have been rash and cruel, Miss Fairman, but extend to me your pardon, and I will go for ever, and disturb your peace no more. Do not despise me, or believe that I have deliberately interfered with your happiness, and destroyed my own for ever. Do not hate me when I shall see you no more."

"Leave me, Mr. Stukely, I entreat," sobbed Miss Fairman, weeping amain. Her hand fell. I was inflamed with passion, and I became indifferent to the claims of duty, which were drowned in the louder clamours of love. I seized that hand and held it firm. It needed not, for the lady sought not to withdraw it.

"I am not indifferent to you, dearest Miss Fairman," I exclaimed; "you do not hate me—you do not despise me—I am sure you do not. That drawing has revealed to me all that I wish or care to know. I would rather die this moment possessed of that knowledge, than live a monarch without it."

"Leave me, leave me, I implore you," faltered Miss Fairman.

"Yes, dearest lady, I must—I shall leave you. I can stay no longer here. Life is valueless now. I have permitted a raging fire to consume me. I have indulged, madly and fearfully indulged, in error. I have struggled against the temptation. Heaven has willed that I should not escape it. I have learnt that you love me—come what may, I am content."

"If you regard me, Mr. Stukely, pity me, and go, now. I beg, I entreat you to leave me."

I raised the quivering hand, and kissed it ardently. I resigned it, and departed.

My whole youth was a succession of inconsiderate yieldings to passion, and of hasty visitings of remorse. It is not a matter of surprise that I hated myself for every word that I had spoken as soon as I was again master of my conduct. It was my nature to fall into error against conviction and my cool reason, and to experience speedily the reaction that succeeds the commission of exorbitant crimes. In proportion to the facility with which I erred, was the extravagance and exaggeration with which I viewed my faults. During the predominance of a passion, death, surrounded by its terrors, would not have frighted me or driven me back—would not have received my passing notice; whilst it lasted it prevailed. So, afterwards, when all was calm and over, a crushing sense of wrong and guilt magnified the smallest offence, until it grew into a bugbear to scare me night and day. Leaving Miss Fairman, I rushed into the garden, preparatory to running away from the parsonage altogether. This, in the height of remorseful excitement, presented itself to my mind forcibly as the necessary and only available step to adopt; but this soon came to be regarded as open to numerous and powerful objections.

It seemed impossible that the incumbent could be kept any longer in ignorance of the affair; and it was better—oh! how much better—for comfort and peace of mind that he should not be. In a few hours Dr. Mayhew would arrive, and his shrewd eye would immediately penetrate to the very seat of his patient's disquietude. The discovery would be communicated to her father—and what would he think of me?—what would become of me? I grew as agitated as though the doctor were at that moment seated with the minister—and revealing to his astounded listener the history of my deceit and black ingratitude. The feeling was not to be borne; and in order to cast it off, I determined myself to be the messenger of the tale, and to stand the brunt of his first surprise and indignation. With the earliest conception of the idea, I ran to put it into execution. Nor did I stop until I reached the door of his study, when the difficulty of introducing at once so delicate a business, and the importance of a little quiet preparation, suggested themselves, and made me hesitate. It was however, but for a moment for self-possession. I would argue with myself no longer. The few hours that intervened before the arrival of the doctor were my own and if I permitted them to pass away, my opportunity was gone for ever, and every claim upon the kindness and forgiveness of my patron lost. I would confess my affection, and offer him the only reparation in my power—to quit his roof, and carry the passion with me for my punishment and torment.

Mr. Fairman was alone. The pupils were playing on the lawn upon which the window of the study opened. There they ran, and leaped, and shouted, all feeling and enjoyment, without an atom of the leaden care of life to press upon the light elastic soul; and there stood I, young enough to be a playmate brother, separated from them and their hearts' joyousness by the deep broad line which, once traversed, may never be recovered, ground to the earth by suffering, trial, and disappointment; darkness and discouragement without; misery and self-upbraiding robbing me of peace within. My eyes caught but a glimpse of the laughing boys before they settled on the minister, and summoned me to my ungracious task—and it was a glimpse of a bright and beautiful world, with which I had nothing in common, of which I had known something, it might be ages since—but whose glory had departed even from the memory.

"Is he here?" enquired the incumbent.

"Doctor Mahew could not accompany me, sir," I answered, "but he will shortly come."

"Thank you, Stukely, thank you. I have good news for you. I can afford you time to recruit and be yourself again. The lads return home on Monday next; you shall have a month's holiday, and you shall spend it as you will—with us, or elsewhere. If your health will be improved by travelling, I shall be happy to provide you with the means. I cannot afford to lose your services. You must not get ill."

"You are very kind, sir," I replied—"kinder than I deserve."

"That is a matter of opinion, Stukely. I do not think so. You have served me faithfully and well. I consult my own interest in rewarding you and taking care of yours."

"Yes, sir—but"—

"Well, never mind now. We will not argue on whose side the obligation lies. It is perhaps well that we should both of us think as we do. It is likely that we shall both perform our duty more strictly if we strike the balance against ourselves. Go and refresh yourself. You look tired and worn. Get a glass of wine, and cheer up. Have you seen Miss Fairman?"

"It is concerning her, sir," I answered, trembling in every joint, "that I desire particularly to speak to you."

"Good heaven!" exclaimed the incumbent, starting from his chair, "what do you mean? What is the matter? What has happened? Why do you tremble, Stukely, and look so ghastly pale? What has happened since the morning? What ails her? Go on. Speak. Tell me at once. My poor child—what of her?"

"Calm yourself, I implore you, sir. Miss Fairman is quite well. Nothing has happened. Do not distress yourself. I have done very wrong to speak so indiscreetly. Pardon me, sir. I should have known better. She is well."

Mr. Fairman paced the room in perturbation, and held his hand upon his heart to allay its heavy throbs.

"This is very wrong," he said—"very impious. I have thought of nothing else this day—and this is the consequence. I have dwelt upon the probability of calamity, until I have persuaded myself of its actual presence—looked for woe, until I have created it. This is not the patience and resignation which I teach; for shame, for shame!—go to thy closet, worm—repent and pray."

Mr. Fairman resumed his seat, and hid his face for a time in his hands. At length he spoke again.

"Proceed, Stukely. I am calm now. The thoughts and fears in which it was most sinfull to indulge, and which accumulated in this most anxious breast, are dissipated. What would you say? I can listen as I ought."

"I am glad, sir, that the boys revisit their homes on Monday, and that a month, at least, will elapse before their return to you. In that interval, you will have an opportunity of providing them with a teacher worthier your regard and confidence; and, if I leave you at once, you will not be put to inconvenience."

"I do not understand you."

"I must resign my office, sir," I said with trepidation.

"Resign? Wherefore? What have I said or done?"

"Let me beg your attention, sir, whilst I attempt to explain my motives, and to do justice to myself and you. I mentioned the name of Miss Fairman."

"You did. Ha! Go on, sir."

"You cannot blame me, Mr. Fairman, if I tell you that, in common with every one whose happiness it is to be acquainted with that lady, I have not been insensible to the qualities which render her so worthy of your love, so deserving the esteem"—I stopped.

"I am listening, sir—proceed."

"I know not how to tell you, sir, in what language to express the growth of an attachment which has taken root in this poor heart, increased and strengthened against every effort which I have made to crush it."

"Sir!" uttered the incumbent in great amazement.

"Do not be angry, Mr. Fairman, until you have heard all. I confess that I have been imprudent and rash, that I have foolishly permitted a passion to take possession of my heart, instead of manfully resisting its inroads; but if I have been weak, do not believe that I have been wicked."

"Speak plainly, Stukely. What am I to understand by this?"

"That I have dared, sir, to indulge a fond, a hopeless love, inspired by the gentlest and most innocent of her sex—that I have striven, and striven, to forget and flee from it—that I have failed—that I come to confess the fault, to ask your pardon, and depart."

"Tell me one thing," asked the incumbent quickly. "Have you communicated your sentiments to Miss Fairman?"

"I have, sir."

"Is her illness connected with that declaration?—You do not answer. Stukely, I am deceived in you. I mistrust and doubt you. You have murdered my poor child."

"Mr. Fairman, do not, I entreat"—

"Heaven have mercy upon me for my wild uncrucified temper. I will use no harsh terms. I retract that expression, young man. I am sorry that I used it. Let me know what more you have to say."

The tears came to my eyes, and blinded them. I did not answer.

"Be seated, Stukely," continued the minister, in a kinder tone; "compose yourself. I am to blame for using such a term. Forgive me for it—I did not mean all that it conveyed. But you know how fragile and how delicate a plant is that. You should have thought of her and me before you gratified a passion as wild as it is idle. Now, tell me every thing. Conceal and disguise nothing. I will listen to your calmly, and I will be indulgent. The past is not to be recalled. Aid me in the future, if you are generous and just."

I related all that had passed between Miss Fairman and myself—all that had taken place in my own turbulent soul—the battlings of the will and judgment, the determination to overcome temptation, and the sudden and violent yielding to it. Faithful to his command, I concealed nothing, and, at the close of all, I signified my readiness, my wish, and my intention to depart.

"Forgive me, sir, at parting," said I, "and you shall hear no more of the disturber of your peace."

"I do not wish that, Stukely. I am indebted to you for the candour with which you have spoken, and the proper view which you take of your position. I wish to hear of you, and to serve you—and I will do it. I agree with you, that you must leave us now—yes, and at once; and, as you say, without another interview. But I will not turn you into the world, lad, without some provision for the present, and good hopes for the future. I owe you much. Yes—very much. When I consider how differently you might behave, how very seriously you might interfere with my happiness"—as Mr. Fairman spoke, he opened the drawer of a table, and drew a checque-book from it—"I feel that you ought not to be a loser by your honesty. I do not offer you this as a reward for that honesty—far from it—I would only indemnify you—and this is my duty."

Mr. Fairman placed a draft for a hundred pounds in my hand.

"Pardon me, sir," said I, replacing it on his table. "I can take no money. Millions could not indemnify me for all that I resign. Judge charitably, and think kindly of me, sir—and I am paid. Honour is priceless."

"Well, but when you get to London?"—

"I am not altogether friendless. My salary is yet untouched, and will supply my wants until I find employment."

"Which you shall not be long without, believe me, Stukely, if I have power to get it you—and I think I have. You will tell me where I may address my letters. I will not desert you. You shall not repent this."

"I do not, sir; and I believe I never shall. I propose to leave the parsonage to-night, sir."

"No, to-morrow, we must have some talk. You need not see her. I could not let you go to-night. You shall depart to-morrow, and I rely upon your good sense and honourable feelings to avoid another meeting. It could only increase the mischief that has already taken place, and answer no good purpose. You must be aware of this."

"I am, sir. You shall have no reason to complain."

"I am sure of it, Stukely. You had better see about your preparations. John will help you in any way you wish. Make use of him. There must be many little things to do. There can be no impropriety, Stukely, in your accepting the whole of your year's salary. You are entitled to that. I am sorry to lose you—very—but there's no help for it. I will come to your room this evening, and have some further conversation. Leave me now." The incumbent was evidently much excited. Love for his child, and apprehension for her safety, were feelings that were, perhaps, too prominent and apparent in the good and faithful minister of heaven; they betrayed him at times into a self-forgetfulness, and a warmth of expression, of which he repented heartily as soon as they occurred. Originally of a violent and wayward disposition, it had cost the continual exercise and the prayers of a life, to acquire evenness of temper and gentleness of deportment, neither of which, in truth, was easily, if ever disturbed, if not by the amiable infirmity above alluded to. He was the best of men; but to the best, immunity from the natural weakness of mortality is not to be vouchsafed.

Mr. Fairman was the last person whom I saw that night. He remained with me until I retired to rest. He was the first person whom I saw on the following morning. I do not believe that he did not rely upon the word which I had pledged to him. I did not suppose that he suspected my resolution, but I an convinced that he was most restless and unhappy, from the moment that I revealed my passion to him, until that which saw me safely deposited at the foot of the hill, on my way to the village. So long as I remained in his house, he could only see danger for his daughter; and with my disappearance he counted upon her recovery and peace.

The incumbent was himself my companion from the parsonage. The servant had already carried my trunk to the inn. At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Fairman stopped and extended his hand.

"Fare-you-well, Stukely," said he, with emotion. "Once more, I am obliged to you. I will never forget your conduct; you shall hear from me."

Since the conversation of the preceding day, the incumbent had not mentioned the name of his daughter. I had not spoken of her. I felt it impossible to part without a word.

"What did Doctor Mayhew say?" I asked.

"She is a little better, and will be soon quite well, we trust."

"That is good news. Is she composed?"

"Yes—she is better."

"One question more, sir. Does she know of my departure?"

"She does not—but she will, of course."

"Do not speak unkindly of me to her, sir. I should be sorry if she thought ill"—

"She will respect you, Stukely, for the part which you have acted. She must do so. You will respect yourself."

I had nothing more to say, I returned his warm pressure, and bade him farewell.

"God bless you, lad, and prosper you! We may meet again in a happier season; but if we do not, receive a father's thanks and gratitude. You have behaved nobly. I feel it—believe me."

Manly and generous tears rushed to the eyes of my venerable friend, and he could not speak. Once more he grasped my hand fervently, and in the saddest silence that I have ever known we separated.

There was gloom around my heart, which the bright sun in heaven, that gladdened all the land, could not penetrate or disperse; but it gave way before a touch of true affection, which came to me as a last memorial of the beloved scene on which I lingered.

I had hardly parted from the minister, before I perceived walking before me, at the distance of a few yards, the youngest of the lads who had been my pupils. At the request of the minister, I had neither taken leave of them nor informed any one of my departure. The lad whom I now saw was a fine spirited boy, who had strongly attached himself to me, and shown great aptitude, as well as deep desire, for knowledge. He knew very little when I came to him, but great pains had enabled him to advance rapidly. The interest which he manifested, called forth in me a corresponding disposition to assist him; and the grateful boy, altogether overlooking his own exertions, had over and over again expressed himself in the warmest terms of thankfulness for my instruction, to which he insisted he owed all that he had acquired. He was in his eleventh year, and his heart was as kind and generous as his intellect was vigorous and clear. I came up to him, and found him plucking the wild-flowers from the grass as he wandered slowly along. I looked at him as I passed, and found him weeping.

"Alfred!" I exclaimed, "What do you here so early?"

The boy burst into a fresh flow of tears, and threw himself passionately into my arms. He sobbed piteously, and at length said—

"Do not go, sir—do not leave me! You have been so kind to me. Pray, stop."

"What is the matter Alfred?"

"John has told me you are going, sir. He has just taken your box down. Oh, Mr. Stukely, stay for my sake! I won't give you so much trouble as I used to do. I'll learn my lessons better—but don't go, pray, sir."

"You will have another teacher, Alfred, who will become as good a friend as I am. I cannot stay. Return to the parsonage—there's a dear boy."

"Oh, if you must go, let me walk with you a little, sir! Let me take your hand. I shall be back in time for breakfast—pray, don't refuse me that, sir?"

I complied with his request. He grasped my palm in both his hands, and held it there, as though he would not part with it again. He gave me the flowers which he had gathered, and begged me to keep them for his sake. He repeated every kind thing which I had done for him, not one of which he would forget, and all the names and dates which he had got by heart, to please his tutor. He told me that it would make him wretched, "to get up to-morrow, and remember that I was gone;" and that he loved me better than any body, for no one had been so indulgent, and had taken such pains to make him a good boy. Before we reached the village, his volubility had changed the tears to smiles. As we reached it, John appeared on his return homeward. I gave the boy into his charge, and the cloud lowered again, and the shower fell heavier than ever. I turned at the point at which the hills became shut out, and there stood the boy fastened to the spot at which I had left him.

At the door of the inn, I was surprised to find my luggage in the custody of Dr. Mayhew's gardener. As soon as he perceived me, he advanced a few steps with the box, and placed note in my hand. It was addressed to me at the parsonage, and politely requested me to wait upon the physician at my earliest convenience. No mention was made of the object of my visit, or of the doctor's knowledge of my altered state. The document was as short as it might be, and as courteous. Having read it, I turned to the gardener, or to where he had stood a moment before, with the view of questioning that gentleman; but to my great astonishment, I perceived him about a hundred yards before me, walking as fast as his load permitted him towards his master's residence. I called loudly after him, but my voice only acted as a spur, and increased his pace. My natural impulse was to follow him, and I obeyed it.

Dr. Mayhew received me with a very cunning smile and a facetious observation.

"Well, Master Stukely, this hot weather has been playing the deuce with us all. Only think of little puss being attacked with your complaint, the very day you were here suffering so much from it, and my getting a touch myself."

I smiled.

"Yes, sir, it is very easy to laugh at the troubles of other men, but I can tell you this is a very disagreeable epidemic. Severe times these for maids and bachelors. I shall settle in life now, sooner than I intended. I have fallen in love with puss my self."

I did not smile.

"To be sure, I am old enough to be her father, but so much the better for her. No man should marry till fifty. Your young fellows of twenty don't know their own mind—don't understand what love means—all blaze and flash, blue fire and sky-rocket—out in a minute. Eh, what do you say, Stukely?"

"Are you aware, sir, that I have left the parsonage?"

"To be sure I am; and a pretty kettle of fish you have made of it. Instead of treating love as a quiet and respectable undertaking, as I mean to treat it—instead of simmering your love down to a gentlemanly respect and esteem, as I mean to simmer it—and waiting patiently for the natural consequences of things, as I mean to wait—you must, like a boy as you are, have it all out in a minute, set the whole house by the ears, and throw yourself out of it without rhyme or reason, or profit to any body. Now, sit down, and tell me what you mean to do with yourself?"

"I intend to go to London, sir."

"Does your father live there?"

"I have no father, sir."

"Well—your mother?"

"She is dead, too. I have one friend there—I shall go to him until I find occupation."

"You naughty boy! How I should like to whip you! What right had you to give away so good a chance as you have had? You have committed a sin, sir—yes, you may look—you have, and a very grievous one. I speak as I think. You have been flying in the face of Providence, and doing worse than hiding the talent which was bestowed upon you for improvement. Do you think I should have behaved so at your age? Do you think any man in the last generation out of a madhouse would have done it? Here's your march of education!"

I bowed to Doctor Mayhew, and wished him good-morning.

"No, thank you, sir," answered the physician, "if I didn't mean to say a little more to you, I shouldn't have spoken so much already. We must talk these matters over quietly. You may as well stay a few days with your friend in the country as run off directly to the gentleman in London. Besides, now I have made my mind up so suddenly to get married, I don't know soon I may be called upon to undergo the operation—I beg the lady's pardon—the awful ceremony. I shall want a bride's-man, and you wouldn't make a bad one by any means."

The physician rang the bell, and Williams the butler—a personage in black, short and stout, and exceedingly well fed, as his sleek face showed—entered the apartment.

"Will you see, Williams, that Mr. Stukely's portmanteau is taken to his room—bed quite aired—sheets all right, eh?"

"Both baked, sir," replied Williams with a deferential but expressive smile, which became his face remarkably well.

"Then let us have lunch, Williams, and a bottle of the sherry?"

A look accompanied the request, which was not lost upon the butler. He made a profound obeisance, and retired. At lunch the doctor continued his theme, and represented my conduct as most blameable and improper. He insisted that I ought to be severely punished, and made to feel that a boy is not to indulge every foolish feeling that rises, just as he thinks proper, but, like an inconsistent judge, he concluded the whole of a very powerful and angry summing up, by pronouncing upon me the verdict of an acquittal—inasmuch as he told me to make myself as comfortable as I could in his house, and to enjoy myself thoroughly in it for the next fortnight to come, at the very least. It may have been that, in considering my faults as those of the degenerate age in which I lived—which age, however, be it known, lived afterwards to recover its character, and to be held up as a model of propriety and virtue to the succeeding generation—the merciful doctor was willing to merge my chastisement in that which he bestowed daily upon the unfortunate object of his contempt and pity, or possibly he desired to inflict no punishment at all, but simply to perform a duty incumbent upon his years and station. Be this as it may, certain it is that with the luncheon ended all upbraiding and rebuke, and commenced an unreservedness of intercourse—the basis of a generous friendship, which increased and strengthened day by day, and ended only with the noble-hearted doctor's life—nor then in its effects upon my character and fortune.