And now let us turn to "Etched Thoughts by the Etching Club." We find a new name or two added to the list—C.G. Lewis, the renowned and best of etchers; and Severn, whose etchings are new to us, not so his other works of art. We remember his "Ship of the Ancient Mariner," and his expressive, sentimental, figures; and poor Fearnley—now no more—we remember greatly admiring a somewhat large picture of his—"A River-Scene in Norway,"—evidently painted immediately from nature, powerfully, expressively given. Somehow or other he did not take in this country, and quitted it, leaving behind him very beautiful studies strangely undervalued, and sold for little. The fact is, he was too true to the solemnity and sobriety of nature to please a public led away by gaudy display and meretricious colouring. Yet was he a man of more genius—in landscape—than any nine out of ten of our best artists that have, these last ten years, attempted to show nature or art upon our academical walls. Poor Fearnley! We have heard that elsewhere he was appreciated and successful. Stone and Herbert are good additions. Happy is it when the feelings of the artist and poet are in unison; happier still when the poet is himself the artist: and such is the case here. So that, in many cases, they are really "Etched Thoughts"—not etched translations of thoughts; and the work of the pen is not inferior to that of the needle. In the "Deserted Village" was a continuous story; every plate was in connexion with its preceding. In this publication, every artist seems to have been left to his own choice of subject, and to his free fancy.

Cope first comes under our notice. He commences the work with "Love," and a quotation from Spenser. As an etching, it is powerful, but we doubt if quite true: there should be something to account, in such a twilight scene, for the strong light upon the "Ladye-love!" Nor are we quite satisfied with the love of the lover, or the reception it meets with. The man or his guitar, one of the two, if not both, must be out of tune. His "Veteran's Return" tells its tale, and a somewhat mournful one; it is in illustration of some very good and pathetic lines by a member of the club, H.J. Townsend; and as, we believe, they are not to be met with out of "Etched Thoughts," we extract them for the gratification of the reader:—

THE VETERAN'S RETURN.

The old yew, deck'd in even's parting beams, From his red trunk reflects a ruddier ray; While, flickering through the lengthen'd shadow, gleams Of gold athwart the dusky branches play. The jackdaws, erst so bustling on the tower, Have ceased their cawing clamour from on high; And the brown bat, as nears the twilight hour, Circles—the lonely tenant of the sky.

The soldier there, ere pass'd to distant climes, On Sabbath morn his early mates would meet; There list the chant of the familiar chimes, And the fond glance of young affection greet. There, too, at eve—before the twilight grey Led the dark hours, when sprites are wont to walk— With his sweet Nancy how he joy'd to stray, And tell his rustic love in homely talk.

Now, home return'd, far other thoughts he owns, Though still the same the scene that meets his view! The same sun glistens o'er the lichen'd stones— Scarce one year more seems to have gnarl'd the yew. There, too, the hamlet where his boyhood pass'd Sends, as of old, its curls of smoke to ken— So near, his stalwart arm a stone might cast Among the cots that deck the coppiced glen!

But ere the joys of that domestic glade Can wipe the tear from off his rugged brow, A stone beneath the yew-tree's ebon shade Deep o'er his heart a heavier shade doth throw. (Oh! sad indeed, when thus such tidings come That stun, even when by slow degrees they steal,) That tablet tells how cold within the tomb Are hands whose fond warm grasp he long'd to feel.

The "Painter of the Olden Time."—"His shop is his element, and he cannot, with any enjoyment to himself, live out of it.—Dr South." This is very good. The painter has his back to you, and is at work apparently on a wall. Little wots he of the world without. He is embodying angels, and spreading angelic light; himself, slipshod and loosely girdled, centring the radiance he creates. How differently arrayed are body and mind! By the title, we presume Mr Cope means to satirize some modern fops of the profession. Of all Mr Cope's etchings in the volume, we mostly admire "Love's Enemies." It is from the well-known passage of Shakspeare, "Ah me! for aught that ever I could read," &c. The conception is excellent. War, Death, and Sickness are taking off their prisoner Cupid, chained, from the door of an aged couple willing enough to part with him, while their poor broken-hearted daughter, with disheveled hair, hides her face with her hands; and, above her, the hard father's uplifted crutch is ready to speed the departure. It is lightly etched, in very good keeping; so that the grouping is clear, and the moral is perceptible at a glance. His "Rejected Addresses" is of another cast. Here he is in the common and beggarly world: yet represents he no common beggar; for, though he be often so named, he is one of rare accomplishments. "He can write a capital letter, enough to make any of the 'quality people' cry. The begging-letter people give him a shilling for a letter. He is now on the tramp." The man was a lawyer, and so astute that he can so adjust himself and his shadow, that he will hide in it from your scrutiny any habitual expression of his villany. And Cope has been most happy in this idea.

"Morning Prayer" is introduced with a few elegant lines, we presume by Mr Cope himself. They have no name to them. The figure is graceful, the effect tender; but we confess we have been so satiated with such subjects in the Annuals, that we do not relish this as perhaps we ought. From the same cause, we do not dwell upon "The Mother." "The Wanderer— the beggar and his dog," is good. The impostor beggar was in sunshine, and which he turned to his purpose: he could cope with the world's broad glare. This is no impostor; and the atmosphere he breathes is suited to his fortunes. The rejecting hand, with its shadow of the dry skinny fingers, is well conceived.

"The Readers," from Boccaccio, is not happy. The figures are not Italian; nor is the costume of the age of the book. His "Girl and Cupid" is a little gem, reminding us of Schidoni. We presume these lines are by the etcher—

"Love, in the virgin breast of beauty lying, Laughs at the fate for her he doth prepare— Will swiftly turn her sweetest smiles to sighing, And flee when she is fixed in despair."

We have seen so many ladies with up-turned eyes, called in the annual catalogues "Meditation," that we will not interrupt the calm of Mr Cope's. C.G. Lewis has but one plate, "A Woodland Dell." A quiet spot of shade and flickering sunshine—a streamlet, and a rural bridge. It is sweetly etched, true to the character.

Richard Redgrave, in more than one instance in the book, shows that he has power over the deep and solemn pathetic, as well as over the tender. His first plate is "The Survivors of the Storm." The story is from Petronius, as told by Jeremy Taylor. A floating body of one of a shipwrecked crew lies pillowed on a wave, and is met with by the survivors in their boat. Solemn and awe-stricken is their expression. The plate is of a fine tone, befitting death in that awful shape. This story of Petronius was the subject of a poetical piece, which we remember to have read in a volume of poems by Thomas Flatman, one of the "mob of gentlemen" condemned by Pope, who, nevertheless, did not care about borrowing from him pretty much of his version of the "Animula, blandula, vagula"—the Emperor Adrian's address to his soul. We remember the commencement of the piece:—

"After a blustering tedious night, The winds all hush'd, and the rude tempest o'er, Rolling far off upon a briny wave, Compassionate Philander spied A floating carcass ride, That seem'd to beg the kindness of a grave. At near approach he thought he knew the man," &c.

His "Fairy Revels" make a light and elegant plate. A fairy group in a frame of leaves. He is here both painter and poet.

"Hast thou not seen the summer breeze, The eddying leaves, and downy feather, Whirl round a while beneath the trees, Then bear aloft to heaven together? With just such motion, gliding light, These fairies vanish'd from my sight."

Poor unfortunate Dadd! some years ago he exhibited a picture of this subject, somewhat similarly treated, that was exquisitely ideal.

The "Ellen Orford," from Crabbe's Borough, is good in the effect; but it has not the pathos that usually distinguishes Redgrave. "Rizpah watching her Sons," is very fine. The night, the glaring torchlight, to scare away the approaching wolves, and the paler, more distant light in the sky, with the melancholy mourning Rizpah, are of the best conception. "The Sick Child" has quite the effect of a Rembrandt plate; yet it is very tender—a scene fit for the angelic visit, and pure and devout of thought and purpose is that angel—we do not like the mother. The best description is from Mr Redgrave's own pen.

"THE SICK CHILD.

"He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."—PSALM xci.

"In a chamber, faintly crying, With its mother o'er it sighing, Lay a baby pale and wan; Ever turning—restless turning— Much she dreaded fever burning, Sickness slow or sickness hasting, Cough, convulsion, ague wasting. Bitter tears there fell upon The pale face of her little son.

"The evening chimes had ceased their ringing, And the even song was singing In the old kirk grey with years; Through the air sweet words came welling— Words of peace, unto that dwelling; Hymns they sang, how angels shielded Those who ne'er to sin had yielded:— And her pale face lost its fears— That lonely mother dried her tears.

"In her arms the babe soon slumber'd; That little son, whose days seem'd number'd, Smiled upon his mother sleeping. The Lord indeed had sorely tried her, But his angel knelt beside her; Heavenly breezes cool'd the fever Of her child—He shall not leave her! And this mother ceased her weeping."

The "Expected Return" is quite in Redgrave's best manner

"Fancy, impatient of all painful thoughts, Pictured the bliss should welcome his return; * * * * * And hope and memory made a mingled joy."—SOUTHEY

This is a lovely figure; a loving and lovable gentle creature! and many such have we seen by Redgrave's hand. Not Raffaelle himself could more truly paint the pure mind—that precious jewel, innocence, in its most lovely casket.

Severn has two plates, which may be called companions; racy and good are they, and of one vintage. We are not quite satisfied with either face or figure of the maiden in the "Roman Vintage." Hers is not a face of feeling; nay, we would almost beg Mr Severn's pardon, and pronounce her a bit of a fool. The "Neapolitan" is much better. They are executed in a very bold, broad, free style of etching, and effective. Horsley's "English Peasant" might be allowed to be a little weatherbeaten; but, at first sight, we should say that he was not of the temperance society when the aquafortis was on the table. It is black, from being overbitten. Yet, after a while, we see through the darkness into the character. He is an honest fellow, but a little "disguised." His "Twilight" is very good, yet perhaps is the light a little too sharp and strong for that hour. The subject is from verses by Redgrave, and good and quaintlike old gentle rhymes they are. But how comes it that the figures are both feminine?—that does not accord with the lines.

"Time was no more for them: the sun had gone, The stars from sunset glow began to peer; Yet 'neath those stars that pair still linger'd on, Unconscious of the night, fast drawing near! His voice to her was daylight, and her smile A sunny morning breaking o'er his soul: Such hours of bliss come only once—the while Long-silent love speaks forth without control, And of its hopes and fears first telleth out the whole."

"Welsh Gossips."—

"At every word a reputation dies."

For the credit of Wales, we hope Mr Horsley did not sketch these from nature; yet is there a fearful look of natural acrimony in the one, and sheer busybodyism in the other. The plate is beautifully etched. His "Moonlight" is not quite clear enough—there are too many sparkling lights. The "Shady Seat" is prettily designed; the lady looks rather too alarmed, and, for the subject, perhaps there is not enough of shadow— certainly not "enough for two." We at once recognize Stonhouse in the "Evening effects of Solitude," and his "Neath Abbey." The former he thus describes:—

"There, woods impervious to the breeze, Thick phalanx of embodied trees— Here, stillness, height, and solemn shade Invite, and contemplation aid."

We are sure that Neath Abbey is from nature, for it has the sooty and smoked character of that manufacture-ruined ruin. But we must not pass by his "Dorothea" from Don Quixote. Nothing can be more happily expressed than the deep shady retirement of the wood; there are nice gradations of shades, which is the very character of retirement, and Dorothea is herself in it, not a bright figure in a black mass—and good is the figure too, but the feet are unfinished.

Mr Creswick is a large contributor, and least fortunate in his first: it is not the scene so well given in verse by his friend Townsend; for it is too pretty, too tight. It wants the "lane;" it is the road-side.

"THE WAYSIDE.

"A lane, retired from noisy haunts of men, Whose ruts the solitary lime cart tracks, Whose hedge-sides, propp'd by many a mossy stone, Are checker'd o'er with foxglove's purple bloom, Or graceful fern, or snakehood's curling sheath, Or the wild strawberry's crimson peeping through. There, where it joins the far-outstretching heath, A lengthen'd nook presents its glassy slope, A couch with nature's velvet verdure clad, Trimm'd by the straggling sheep, and ever spread To rest the weary wanderer on his way. There, oft the ashes of the camp-fire lie, Marking the gipsy's chosen place of rest. Black roots of half-charr'd furze, and capons' bones— Relic of spoils from distant farmers' coop— Point to the revels of preceding night. And fancy pictures forth the swarthy group, Their dark eyes flashing in the ruddy glare; While laughter, louder after long constraint, From every jocund face is pealing round.

His "Summer" is a simple unaffected scene, such as may be met with any where, if you have but "eyes to see:" and pretty much like it, but inferior—for if it be not more common in subject, it is in treatment— is the "Old Farm-House," from that delighting and most natural painter with her pen, Miss Mitford. Very exquisite in his "Moonlight"—so true, with all the quivering and blending light of nature, where all things are at once lucid and in shade—as Virgil happily expresses it, "luce sub incerta linae." Sweet, too, and in the deep solemn repose of religious eve, is the "Village Church"—from lines by Rogers. He is not so happy in his "Smithy;" neither is the scene of interest nor the effect pleasing. But he makes up for all by his "Outward Bound." The home is left in the calmest, stillest of days; though the "outward bound" has sails, they rather wait for, than feel, the wind; there is the village church still in view, and will yet be an hour and more. The sky is, though really printers' ink, like many a sooty vapour converted into light-shedding yet faint clouds—we can see the colour—it is a grey, in which is gold and ultra-marine. The boat is conveying the "outward bound" to the vessel; there is the moving and the waiting. It is poetical. "The Castle" we do not much admire; it is a villa castle, and on no agreeable river. "Low Water" is quite another thing; it is a beautiful etching. He thus describes it with his pen—

"The flowing tides that spread the land, And turn to sea again."

The "River Scene," illustrating lines from Southey, is delicately touched, and a pleasing scene; yet we feel sure it is not from nature. Why, we can hardly tell. Is it that there is a bridge, apparently without a bank on one side to rest upon? "The Terrace," from lines by Andrew Marvel, is a most fascinating upright plate. It is perfectly true, giving all the thousand intricacies and shades of such a scene; and there is grace in the forms, and the figures well suit the whole. All is gentleness and ease; not a light is too strong, or a shadow too deep; there is no violence—which too many are apt to express when they would give powerful effect. His "Fishing Scene on the Coast of Ireland" is not to our taste, yet is it not without meaning—it is windy and sunny. "The Oriental Palace" is solemn, with its ancient yew in the silence of the crescent moon; but the ruin is to fill up, and does no good.

We have read with pleasure, and extracted, some of Mr Townsend's poetry; let us now see his etching. "Boyhood:" those who delight in the easy, every-day, every-hour play of boyhood, will enjoy this plate. A boy is, with a peacock's feather, tickling a child asleep in the arms of a grave old lady—so sedate have we seen grimalkin look whilst encouraging her kitten, lightly and coquettishly, to play with a ball of cotton. "The Beach" is a well-sketched coast scene, and shows Mr Townsend to have an eye for nature's scenery, as well as nature's sympathies. Very good is "The Model"—an artist sketching in the figure of a Lascar. But his best plate is "Sad Tidings." It is a very sweet figure—youth, elegance, tenderness, are there—and such an even melancholy light, or rather such a mournful evenness of light and shade, that, as a whole, it is neither light nor dark, and should have no other name than melancholy. He had the judgment and forbearance to hide the face—we know it is lovely, and that is enough; it is this, in part, which separates "Sad Tidings" from such subjects as they are usually treated. There are two etchings by Frederic Tayler—"The Chase" from Somerville, and "The Auld Grey" from Burns—both are lightly etched and good; but they have not that free and certain hand which marks Mr Tayler's style in his drawings, where one wash of the brush hits off his object with great truth. "The Gypsy Boy," by Mr Knight, is very masterly in chiaroscuro, and certainly characteristic of the race. Effect of chiaroscuro seems to be his aim. It is marked in his "Old Fable" (which always means the newest) of "The Peasant and the Forest." It is thus given: "A peasant once went into an old forest of shady oaks, and humbly entreated the same to grant him a small branch to make a handle for his axe, and thereby enable him to pursue his labours at home. The forest very graciously acceded to his request, and the peasant soon formed the required handle; but presently he began to lay about him in every direction, using the very substance with which the forest had furnished him out of its own bosom, and in a short time hewed down its whole growth."

Which are we bound most to admire—John Bell's pen or John Bell's needle? It is a difficulty. "The Devil's Webbe" is admirable in both. What a spider-like wretch is he, watching the toils that he has spread!

"This webbe our passions be, and eke the flies Be we poor mortals: in the centre coyles Old Nick, a spider grimme, who doth devyse Ever to catch us in his cunning toyles. Look at his claws—how long they are, and hooked! Look at his eyes—and mark how grimme and greedie! Look at his horrid fangs—how sharp and crooked! Then keep thy distance so, I this arreede ye, Oh sillie Flie! an thou wouldst keep thee whole; For an he catch thee, he will eate thy soul."

And there they are! the winged insect lovers of pleasure, and of gain and strife—in one word, of sin—entangled in the ladder webb; while such a monster is in the centre, watching his larder. John Bell is instinctively a moral weaver. Fine-spun are his philosophical threads; we stop not to enquire if they will bear the tug of life. He is trying them, however, on the "tug of war." Pen and needle are set to work philosophically, methodically, benignly. In this he is but a unit out of many thousands. His opinions are not singular. Amiable moralist!— delightful is the dream, sweetly sounding the wisdom; but is it practicable? John Bell's warfare, "The Assault," is, without a doubt, "confusion worse confounded;" it is not easy, at a view, to find legs and arms and heads in their anatomical order. We must trace the human figure as through its map. Perhaps this is purposely done to resemble a battle the more truly, where limbs are apt to fly out of their places. But John Bell thinks—

"The play's the thing Wherewith to touch the conscience of the king."

So he pours forth from his "Unpublished Play" a choice tirade against the royal play of human ninepins:—

"And then a battle, too—no doubt it is A right fine thing; or rather to have been there. But all things have their price; and this, methinks, Is rather dear sometimes. Oh! glory's but The tatter'd banner in a cobwebb'd hall, Open'd not once a-year—a doubtful tomb, With half the name effaced. Of all the bones Have whiten'd battle-fields, how many names Live in the chronicle? and which were in the right? One murder hangs a man upon a rope, A hundred thousand maketh him a god, And builds him up a temple in the air Out of men's skulls. A loving mother bears A thousand pangs to bring into the world One child; your warrior sends a thousand out, Then picks his teeth."

JOHN BELL—Unpublished Play.

Such was Shakspeare's momentary humour, when he put it into Falstaff's mouth to ask what honour is "to him that died o' Wednesday." It is a humour that won't last—'tis against nature—man is more than half belligerent, and has a "murder" in him (to give it a bad name) "that will out." Even the peaceable Ephraim took up the handspike, and used it too, with "friend, keep thee in thy own ship." The "friend" was hyprocrisy—the use of the handspike, natural; the very elements are at war, and were made to be so—storms are as necessary as sunshine. But excellent able John Bell likes sunshine best; and who does not like him the better for that? And sweet sunshine has he shed around "The good Mayde"—a sunshine that makes its own magic circle, within which evil spirits or evil men shall not come. Tempt on, ye wizards—she looketh upwards, yet think not she will fall or miss her way—the Unseen guideth her steps. Bell's account of the matter is, however, far better. Let him publish his quaint poem, all of it; the specimens warrant the request.

"Thus doth the goode Mayde, with a stedfaste eye, Walke through the troubles vaine, and peryls dire, That doe beset mayde's path with haytes full slie, The trappes and gynnes of mischief's cunning syre. Ne nought to her is riches' golden shower, Ne gaudy baites of dresse and rich attyre, Ne lover's talke, ne flatteries' worthless store, Ne scandal's forked tongue—that ancient liar, Ne music's magic breath, ne giddy wheel Of gay lascivious daunce, ne ill-raised mirthe, Ne promised state doth cause her mind to reel, Or lure from thoughts of heaven to joys of earthe."

Our poet, a moralist etcher, reverts to the old subject; and we have "The Progresse of Warre," in a series, as part of a frieze for his Temple of Peace. This is most clear—for he who runs may read; yet, on a second view, we doubt that—for we see, what we did not at first see, writing under each tablet that is by no means intelligible. Having, with Mr Bell, seen an end of the battle, it is fit time, with Mr Herbert, to discuss "The Day after the Battle." "Next day did many widows come"— that verse of Chevy Chase is the subject. The slaughtered knight, the widow, and the dog, tell the tale, and tell it well too. The widow is the best figure. We have had enough of battle and all its horrors; let us turn to tranquillizing nature, where the undisturbed lichen may grow upon the rocks, and the branches of unpruned trees throw out their sheltering leafage, and the innocent insects know it is their home; and even in the seeming silence, if you listen, may you hear the still voice of a busy creation, a world of a few summer hours—yet seemeth it to them an eternity of enjoyment. And such a scene we have in the "Woody Scene," by Thomas Fearnley—poor Fearnley!—and is it not lightly, elegantly touched with the needle? the scene realized? Or, would you see a wilder spot, turn to his "Norwegian Scenery," and see the saw-mill, or whatever the building be, at the very entrance of the deep wood in its gloom, with the mountain torrent pouring over the rocks. In this sequestered spot, man has built him a home, and turned to human uses the rebellious waters, even on the very skirts of the wilderness; and there he is, for his hours are not all of toil, gloriously angling, for he has hooked his fish. Poor Fearnley! would he could have remained in this country! Had he been moderately patronised, he might have added an honourable name to our dictionary of painters.

And what has become of Webster? We remember well his "Boys let loose from School." Here he is—and but one plate—"Anticipation"—well named. The pie is come home, and the boy's eyes open, and his mouth waters. The story is quaintly told by Townsend thus:—Lights and shadows of boyish days! how bright and deep they are! The schoolmaster's frown may be charmed away by the gift of a new top, or a score of marbles. But what are these in the cotter's life to the stirring vicissitudes of a pie! ——Before its departure for the bakehouse, did he not ponder admiringly on the delicate tact that mingled the bony scraps with.

'Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses?'

"Since then, imagination has been at play; and, in accordance with its suggestions, his bib and tucker have been donned, as trusty adjutants to the formidable wooden spoon. Thus armed, while sister Phillis—the creative genius of the savoury structure—regards the baker's boy with her modest glance, young Corydon, with his prophetic anticipation, is ogling the baker's burden. If his knife be as sharp as his appetite, 'twill want no whetting! We must expect that, in the afternoon, when anticipation shall have faded through the stages of its fulfilment, if no longer entranced by the pleasures of Hope, he will solace himself with those of Memory." And there, sure enough, is the grinning baker's boy, and the pie admirably baked; and the boy of the bib and tucker, and the wooden spoon, realizing it through his nostrils, and magnifying it through his eyes; and there is the neat-handed Phillis, who cares little for the eating. Feminine and gluttonous seldom come together. "The little glutton" is ever the male. This was in Webster's own way, and he has hit it off truly; he has seen it hundreds of times, and knew as well as Townsend who should have the wooden spoon. We find we have omitted to notice one plate, and that by Redgrave. We did not expect landscape by his hand. It is, however, very clever; there is a light over the dark church-tower which a little offends. Keep down that a little, and you recognize the true effect of nature. It is a view of Worcester. "A spot," says Mr Redgrave, "memorable as the scene of that battle signalized by Oliver Cromwell as the 'crowning mercy;' and whence the young Charles II. commenced the series of romantic and perilous adventures which terminated in his safety."

Our work of criticism is at an end; not so our pleasure. We shall look at this choice volume again and again; and as we have somewhat arrogantly, and with a conceit of our ability and right so to do, taken the Etching Club under our especial care, regard, and patronage, we shall think ourselves at liberty to encourage and to exhort them whenever we see fit. We therefore do exhort them to go on, to give a taste for painters' etchings, to improve themselves, too; and let each make it a rule to himself never to take the trouble to touch a subject that is not worth doing; nor to tell a story not worth telling, however such may seem to look pretty or with effect upon copper or paper; by all means to avoid "annual sentimentalities," and commonplace "acting charades;" and never to forget that expression is the soul of the art. For the present, we dismiss them with thanks—like the prudent physician, who, as Fielding says, always stands by to see nature work, and contents himself by clapping her on the back, by way of approbation, when she does well.



A LOVE-CHASE—IN PROSE.

CHAPTER I.

Bandvale Hall had lain empty for a long time—old Frank Edwards, so well known as a sportsman, had been dead for eighteen years, his horses sold, his kennels dismantled, and his son, after so absurdly long a minority, (for his father had capriciously fixed his majority at twenty-three,) only now coming of age; but whether he would reside at Bandvale, or continue in the neighbourhood of Leicester, where his guardian lived, or what he would do, nobody could tell. The estate, we were told, in spite of the economical management of four or five attorneys, and a couple of stewards, was more involved than when old Frank died; and many a time have I sighed, as I ambled past the lodges, and saw grass growing over the drive, contrasting these appearances with the jolly days I had known in the hall, "when the beards wagged all—shall we ever see the like again?" But change passes over all; and Bandvale was not the only place or the only thing that felt its influence. We were all very different from what we were; we had a railway within half an hour's drive; we had a Methodist chapel in the village; we had a clergyman who preached in his surplice, and would have had a hurl off a lame donkey if he had ventured into the saddle; the hounds were given up; you were asked to dinner at half-past seven, and got home again by ten; rather a changed state of affairs since old Frank kept the ball alive, and Parson Holt rode his grey nag over bank and fence, and we had two packs within ten miles, and no Methodists in the village, and no railroad in the county, and every thing was exactly as it ought to be; and we dined at five, and got home—when it pleased Heaven. Sometimes I turned down the avenue, and took a melancholy look at the old Hall. It is a great square house; flanked with two turrets, with fine old stone windows, and a stone porch in the middle. The Bandvale river runs through the park about three hundred yards from the front door, and is crossed by two bridges in the direction of the lodges, east and west; and beyond it rises the upland, all dotted over with clumps of elm—and at the highest part of the park is the church; a great black figure, kneeling on one knee, used to bear up the sun-dial in the centre of the sweep—his leg had given way from the weight of years and the huge globe he supported, and the poor old fellow lay on his back, kicking up the stump of his leg in a most audacious manner, in the very face of the sun. "The great globe itself had dissolved, and left not a wreck behind." They talk of Marius among the ruins of Carthage, and Coliseums unroofed, and temples of Theseus with crumbling pillars—all these are desolate enough; but then, their condition is picturesque: and I doubt whether Marius in the capitol, and the Coliseum newly finished, and the Temple at the time of its consecration, were half such interesting objects as in the days of their decline and fall. But to me the true representative of desolation was the long tufts of grass that grew in old Frank Edwards's stable-yard, the weeds that choked up the hall door, and the broken panes of the great dining-room windows—the spacious yard, the hospitable door, the jocund dining-room. And now young Frank was just coming to his legal age, and we were all forming our guesses and conjectures as to what the youth's proceedings would be when he came into possession. I made sure, if the property was really involved to the extent reported, that he would sell some of the lands he had in other counties; a farm or two he had in Sussex; a tolerable estate in the north; and a foolish marine villa somewhere in Devonshire, and pay off all incumbrances, and settle himself for life at Bandvale Hall. He would still have a very fine fortune; and it had been the family seat since the reign of Charles the Second. All the mothers and aunts in the county thought it was a seat like a Spanish saddle, and would carry double; and it certainly was amazing to see the preparations that were made to get the proper foot in the stirrup. It seemed agreed that for a young gentleman of twenty-three, seventeen was the only admissible age; and to reach that desirable date, as great cruelty was practised on the baptismal register books as on ancient travellers by the bed of Procrustes-girls of twenty-four were shortened by seven years, and little children of fourteen elongated by three. In some families there were three or four daughters all of the same age, yet not the least like twins; brothers and fathers were kept in marching order, ready to be dispatched to make poor Frank's acquaintance the moment he took possession. I also, though unendowed with any possession so valuable as either daughter, or sister, or niece, kept myself prepared to welcome my old friend's son, whenever he arrived.

The day of majority came at last—the third of June. The tenants of the Bandvale farms had a dinner at the Rose and Crown, and one of the managing attorneys proposed the young landlord's health in a speech full of amazing eloquence, but with a countenance that would have been more appropriate to a funeral oration than a toast; and it was, in fact, the funeral oration over his stewardship, as he gave notice that it was Mr Edwards's intention to take the management into his own hands—a piece of information that gave great satisfaction to every one except the firm of Goody and Fripp. But in spite of this announcement, young Frank never made his appearance—the walks continued overgrown with grass—the wounded Atlas looked proudly to heaven from his deathbed of fame-and the young ladies remained on the tiptoe of expectation.

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought I; "has he no regard for his father's neighbours, and his own birthplace?"

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought Miss Sibylla Smith, and all the maidens young, old, and middle aged. "Has he fallen in love with his tutor's daughter, or got engaged to his guardian's niece?" for our young people had studied life so zealously in three-volume novels, that they never doubted for a moment that Frank Edwards's tutor (if he had a tutor) had a daughter, or that his guardian (and they knew he had a guardian) had a niece. But in spite of all our thoughts Bandvale Hall continued empty.

"I'll take another look at the old place," I said, one day in August as I was passing the lodge, and rode at a quiet contemplative walk down the avenue. I hung my rein over one of the rails of the porch steps, and passed round into the garden. Not a flower to be seen; but the place of them famously supplied with potatoes and other useful articles—and the same evidence of absenteeism in the shape of tottering walls, and grass grown walks, and dusty fountains in all directions. What a shame!—if I knew the boy's address, I would write to him to come home at once; but that Leicestershire guardian has kept him quite separated from those who ought to have been his friends, and had the bringing up of him from his youth. If we are to have him all the rest of his life, he could not have come among us too early; and in the firm intention of carrying this resolution into effect, I determined to look out for some workman about the place, to ask where Mr Edwards was to be found. The man that has the care of the garden can't be far off;—and accordingly I went in search of him. But either the vegetables were illustrations, like Southey's butlers, of self-culture, or the gardener had gone to dinner; and in the expectation of finding him in the kitchen, I clambered into the house by an open window, and walked quietly along the passage. I thought I heard voices in the garden library, a delightful room on the ground-floor, where I had passed many an evening with old Frank; and, supposing the gardener had taken possession of it, I opened the door. Close to the window two persons were sitting, so deeply engaged in conversation that they did not remark my entrance, and I took the opportunity of observing them at leisure. They were both young men—both tall and good-looking; one remarkably dark, with great umbrageous whiskers and mustaches; the other a chestnut-haired, fresh-complexioned youth, so like poor old Frank in the set on of his head and breadth of his shoulders, that I knew in a moment it could be no one but his son. They seemed both very much excited about something; but from the whispered tone of their conversation, it was difficult to make out what it was. The dark man, who was six or seven years older than his companion, had apparently been saying something that shocked the other, for he clenched his hand, and threw his eyes despairingly to the ceiling; and no wonder, for the words I heard, as I advanced from the screen at the door, were enough to raise a shudder in any person's breast. He said—

"I had him murdered in the shooting-box."

"But why?" enquired Frank Edwards, looking less startled than could be expected.

"Why? Because Isabella could not be happy while he lived."

"Recollect I had no hand in it," said Frank. "I wouldn't have agreed to it on any account, and told you so before you did it."

Great heavens! what a secret to be thrust upon me! and what an introduction to the son of my poor friend—the accomplice of a murderer—who had evidently been consulted about the crime, and though he certainly had protested against it, had allowed it to be carried into effect! I was hesitating whether I should not retire at once, when Frank turned round and saw me. He rose, and received the apologies I muttered for my intrusion with the most astonishing self-command. I determined to conceal my knowledge of their conversation from them; and really, looking at the clear open countenance of the boy, it was difficult to believe that he knew any thing of so shocking a kind. I was introduced to the other, Mr Percy Marvale, and saw so much Italian, or perhaps gipsy, blood in his dark skin, and such a fierce expression in his coal-black eyes, that I was not so much surprised at his being implicated in the fearful deed. He looked just like one of the fellows on the stage who cut throats in a heroic fashion on the slightest provocation. But both were so free in their manner, and talked so pleasantly, that if it had not been for what I had overheard, I should have taken them for two very agreeable young men. And, in spite of it all, I could hardly avoid asking them both to leave the deserted house, and take up their quarters with me. I forced myself, however, to abstain from giving them the invitation; and after a half hour of friendly conversation, I got up to go away. They accompanied me a portion of the way; and when I looked at young Frank, and listened to the tones of his voice, twenty years seemed to roll off my shoulders. I took his hand. "You must dine with me to-morrow," I said; "and—and—your friend Mr Marvale," I added with some little difficulty. They both accepted without a moment's hesitation. "Hang it, there must be some mistake after all!" I thought, as I put my foot in the stirrup; "but I'll go and ask a few of the neighbours to meet them. Old Smith of Howkey is a magistrate, with an amazing nose for a crime. We'll see what he makes of it."



CHAPTER II.

Now old Smith was the son of a great London millionaire—an alderman, or even a lord mayor, for any thing I know—who had bought Howkey, and built an enormous house, to which his son had taken the moment the old gentleman died; had cut the shop, got on the commission, and now rejoiced in a fat, jolly, good-tempered wife, and a multiplicity of sons and daughters. Such a fellow for points of law was never heard of out of Westminster Hall, nor in it either. He read Acts of Parliament as other people read novels—for his amusement; and every body thought he knew more about them than a lord chancellor. There was great rejoicing at Howkey, from the drawing-room up to the very nursery, when I told of Frank Edwards's arrival. All manner of enquiries were made, in various tones of interest, from the romantic Miss Sibylla down to the youngest of the girls, as to his appearance, manner, height, and complexion. I answered them all to the extreme satisfaction of the enquirers, but took care to make no allusion to his companion; though, at the same time, I confess I could not persuade myself that what I had overheard had the dreadful meaning I at first attached to it. He must have meant something else; for I had not become acquainted with the new style of flash language, where so many allusions are made to people's mothers and their mangles, without any real reference either to one or other. Getting a man murdered in a shooting-box might mean something equivalent to "There you go, with your eye out!" which has no meaning at all. But although I had persuaded myself of this, I made no mention at Howkey of the ferocious-looking Percy Marvale, but merely asked my friend Old Smith to come over, and help me to welcome the new neighbour. Sibylla, who had all along been of opinion that Mr Frank Edwards was engaged to his tutor's daughter, and took no interest in him accordingly, was all of a sudden seized with an uncommon affection for my wife. She felt for the awkwardness of her position so much in being the only lady among so many gentlemen, that she insisted on going over with her father, merely to bear her company; and, from the sympathizing countenance of her fair sister Monimia, I expected every moment a similar offer from her. The Williamses, and old Harry Lambert and his son, were the only others I could catch on so short a notice; but we all determined to make up in friendliness for the paucity in numbers, and give young Frank a hearty welcome to his native county.

We were all assembled in the drawing-room—that is to say, all but the party from Bandvale—and Mr Smith was laying down the law, or rather explaining it after his usual manner, when Sibylla, who had stood at the window, all of a sudden gave a slight scream, and flushed up to the eyes like a peony rose.

"Why, what's the matter, Sib?" said Old Smith; "has a bee stung you."

"No, no!" she said; "but I saw likeness—a something"—

"What was it you saw?" enquired my wife—"a ghost?"

Sibylla lifted up her eyes to the ceiling, and said nothing; for at that moment the door opened, and Frank Edwards and Mr Percy Marvale were announced.

"No, not a ghost," whispered Sibylla to my wife, "but an apparition I as little expected to see—I knew Mr Marvale in town."

The introduction was soon over; and Mr Marvale, on being presented to Miss Sibylla, exhibited as much surprise as that young lady had done at the window. I watched him as closely as if I had been one of the detective police; but, saving an enormous amount of puppyism and affectation, I could trace nothing very unusual in his appearance. Frank, on the other hand, was a fine open-mannered fellow, that one took to at once; and it was a mystery to me how he could be so intimate with a person so different from himself. Pity such a good-dispositioned youth should fall into the hands of such an atrocious character!

"You've met Mr Marvale before?" I said to Sibylla, as I took her into the dining-room.

"Oh, yes—at my cousin Jane's, in Russell Square—a wonderful man—a perfect genius!"

"I hope to Heaven he's no worse," said I, "though that's bad enough."

"Bad enough! Oh, I doat on men of genius! Did you never hear of him? He is quite a celebrity. Cousin Jane always has him at her literary parties, for she does not know Bulwer or Dickens; and he's so handsome, too—such a wild expression."

"Wild enough to get him two months of the tread-mill, if your father lays hands on him."

But when I saw the glance of profound admiration darted by Sibylla at the interesting stranger, I felt sure she would only like him the more if he were found out to be a murderer in reality; for there is a certain school of young ladies who do not stand upon trifles in the way of their flirtations, but extract fresh reasons for glorifying the object of their preference, from facts which the unwary lay before them by way of warnings. If he is a spendthrift, it is so noble to be free and generous; if he is a gambler, he is of such a fine unsuspecting disposition, he is only the dupe of the designing. In short, whatever you say to put them on their guard, only makes them expose themselves the more; and, therefore, I made no further attempt to open the eyes of Miss Sibylla Smith. All passed off very well at dinner. Every one was kind to Frank, and, for his sake, were abundantly civil to his friend; but that individual seemed to care very little whether we were civil to him or not. He talked more than all the rest of us put together— corrected Old Smith on points of law—and put me right on the routine of crops; proved to old Lambert's own satisfaction that he knew nothing of stall-feeding, and so belaboured us with great people, with their whole birth, parentage, and connexions, that we might have fancied he was Mr Debrett. Sibylla evidently believed he was the most delightful of men; and certainly the looks she darted at him, and the looks he darted at her, were the most extraordinary phenomena of the look kind I ever happened to see. It was quite evident that the daughter's feelings were not shared by Old Smith; and I made little doubt he would have been delighted to give him seven years of the hulks, if he could have found out any act of Parliament making it penal for a good-looking young fellow to encourage a silly young woman to make a fool of herself. He found time, in spite of his apparently monopolizing the whole conversation, to whisper incessantly into Sibylla's ear. He was evidently asking questions about her household position—how many sisters she had—how many brothers—their ages, characters looks, and the state of their education. He seemed practising for an inspector of schools. Then he went off to her cousin's, where he had met her in Russell Square, and the same series of questions about family affairs was repeated. Was the man engaged in collecting the census returns?

"What a dreadful thing the death of poor Mr Mopple!" said Sibylla. "They said he wasn't kind to his wife, though I never saw any signs of it at my cousin's."

"Mopple! Mopple!" he said, as if trying to remember. "Ah! a poor man with a beautiful wife is he dead?"

"Oh, yes—quite suddenly! He was down in Scotland, on the moors. Some people say there is something wrong about it."

"Indeed—ha!" said Mr Marvale. "What—what do they say?"

"He was found dead in a shooting-box. His gun had gone off and killed him; but"—

I looked at the man's face. He was trying to appear as if he scarcely attended to what she was saying.

"Some of the friends are not quite satisfied that it was accidental," continued Sibylla. "How I pity poor Mrs Mopple."

"Pray, Sibylla," I said, "what was the poor woman's Christian name?"

"Her name was Isabella."

"So!" I said, and looked firmly at Mr Marvale. "Do you hear that, sir? Her name was Isabella."

"Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage—a good thing in its time, but out of fashion now," he answered. "A curious fact, there is an incident of precisely the same kind, of which I claim the credit."

"Of what kind, sir?" I said. "Take care what you say."

"Oh, it's no secret! Mr Edwards and I concocted it between us; that is to say, he objected to it a little at first, but I flatter myself it will make some little noise in the world when it is fairly known."

I looked again at the brazen-faced fellow, and nearly fell off my chair at hearing him make such a horrid confession.

"I don't believe a word of it, sir," I exclaimed, "as far as Frank Edwards is concerned."

"I assure you he had very little hand in it," he replied. "The merit, as you say, is entirely my own."

"And the consequences, too, I hope."

"I hope so. I offered a good deal before I undertook it; and I think it will pay very well."

"What will pay?"

"The Surrey, when the melodrama is finished."

"Oh! it is a melodrama you're speaking of? I was not aware, I am sure, or I should"—

"My dear sir, make no apologies. I hate the fuss people make about a man because he happens to be a successful author. I assure you, the plain entertainment you have given is better than all the fetes my friends Devonshire and Lansdowne gave me, when I published the Blasted Nun."

So my murderer had sunk into a writer of plays.

Sibylla looked at him with still more intense admiration, when she heard him speak of the honours his works had procured him, and he entered at once into a minute description of the festivities of Chatsworth and Bowood, that would have done honour to the Morning Post.

After the ladies had gone to the drawing-room, I took the opportunity of having a quiet conversation with Frank, while his friend was astonishing the minds of the rest of the party with an account of his having refused the Guelphic Order which the Queen had pressed upon him on the twenty-fourth night of his Blood-stained Milkmaid.

"Who, in Heaven's name, and what is your friend, Mr Percy Marvale?"

"Oh, a very good fellow!" replied Frank. "I have known him at the Club for a long time."

"He seems a rum one."

"A very useful ally, I can assure you. I study him as the beau ideal of vanity and impudence."

"But your studies seem somewhat useless, if you have no higher object?"

"Oh, but I have, though—a very serious object—the only object, in fact, I care for in the world!"

And here the young man sighed.

"Well, if your object," I said, "has any connexion with my old friend Smith, I think he is in a fair way of securing you a confederate in Miss Sibylla."

"She may perhaps be useful; but Marvale will find out whether she will be so or not, before he lets her go to-night."

"Well, if it's any thing where other assistance is needed, you may depend on me."

"You're very good; but I fear you have neither the vanity nor the impudence that are so invaluable in my friend Percy Marvale."

"Is that his real name?"

"I am sure I don't know. It is what he is known by in the Club. He dramatizes all the bloodthirsty horrors at the Surrey—pushes his way every where—puffs and praises himself wherever he goes—is very good-looking, and makes love like a French hero—and, in short, is at this moment indispensable to me."

I made no further enquiries, for Frank filled his glass, and sighed like a smith's bellows. But I was filled with wonder at all that passed, and could form no guess at the bond that united two such dissimilar men, nor at the reason so much value was attached to the services of a boastful, clattering, pushing, inquisitive vagabond like the bewhiskered dramatist.

Before I joined in the general conversation, it was evident that Mr Percy Marvale, by dint of downright categorical questions, had acquired an intimate knowledge of poor old Harry Lambert's and Williams's domestic affairs; and it is useless to say he had bound himself in the most solemn manner to visit both them and Mr Smith, though neither of them, as far as I could see, seemed much delighted with his repeated asseverations.

"It's what I always do, my dear sir," he said to Harry Lambert; "for how could a man pick up any information unless he made himself intimate with all classes? Why should I keep myself separate from good fellows, merely because I happen to have written the Frozen Island, or the Fire King of the Caucasus? I will see you the day after to-morrow. I give you my honour. Your daughters have perhaps read my works?"

"I'm afraid they're too young, sir."

"What age are they? But if they are well taught, they have studied the drama, of course. They have a governess, I suppose?

"Yes."

"Has she red hair? I have an idea that red-haired people are all good teachers."

"I don't recollect the colour of her hair, I'm sure."

"I'll come over and judge for myself. I will not disappoint you on any account. So you may be quite easy."

And the same thing he said to Mr Williams, with the slight variation of an enquiry whether his governess squinted; for he had another theory that squinting people had a peculiar faculty for speaking French.

"I'll tell you what, Frank Edwards," I said to my young guest when we were about to separate, "I was an old friend of your father's, and I wish to show my regard to his memory by kindness to you; and as I don't think you have formed the best acquaintance in the world in the person of your companion, Mr Marvale, I wish you would give me an hour to-morrow at Bandvale, and I will offer you a little advice."

He shook my hand very warmly, and thanked me; and I agreed to be with him at one o'clock.

"I'll save the poor fellow from that harpy, at any rate; and have him back to Bandvale in half a year."

"You must get him married first," said my wife, "or his life will be miserable."

"How?"

"Why, there are three Miss Smiths, two Lamberts, and seven or eight others. They will set on him like a swarm of bees; and as they can't all make honey of him"—

"They will sting him to death. I see—I see."



CHAPTER III.

Next day I trotted over to the Hall. Mr Percy Marvale was busy putting the finishing stroke to his Demon of the Waste, in which the interesting incident of the murder in the shooting-box is introduced; and Frank and I had a long and confidential conversation in the garden. Miss Sibylla Smith and the students of three-volume novels were for once very nearly right in their guesses on the subject of his tutor's daughter. He certainly was in love, if not engaged, but not exactly in the way they had imagined; and it struck me that, in spite of his declaration of constancy and firmness, there was still a very reasonable chance of there being an opening for some of the bees alluded to by my wife. For my own part, I am no believer in sentiment and romance, and could not enter into Frank's feelings at all.

Not far from Frank's guardian's house, in Leicestershire, there was a small white-walled villa, surrounded by pretty pleasure grounds, and inhabited by the most enchanting family in the world. The father, a clergyman, too much of an invalid to hold a living, and only rich enough to struggle on in the quietest possible way, with a wife and a daughter. The wife, of course, was all that was amiable and wise; and the daughter, Alice, endowed with every possible perfection. As to her beauty, it was above description, and her disinterestedness almost incredible. Every week, and at least every day of every week, Frank found himself at the fireside of the Reverend Mr Elstree, and no mother and sister could be so affectionate to him as Mrs Elstree and Alice. He was only fourteen, to be sure, when the acquaintance began, and the girl nine or ten; so that when he was twenty-one, he could not recall by what means, or on what occasion, he had told Alice he was devoted to her; nor could he even recollect what method she had taken to tell him she was delighted to hear it; but the case was, nevertheless, as complete a case of engagement, and true love, as if he had made formal propositions on his knees, or signed a bond on parchment. By this time he was at Cambridge, and considered himself as much a man as undergraduates always consider themselves—and wrote twice a-week to Alice—and heard twice a-week in return—and looked at her portrait, which he kept in a secret drawer of his desk, about twenty times a-day; and (which was the only thing about it that made me think it a real instance of true love) he never mentioned her name to one of his companions. Yet Cambridge has its temptations even to people as constant as Amadis de Gaul. Frank was a gay young fellow, with a good allowance—had his father's seat on horseback, and sported a red coat whenever the hounds came within twenty miles. He was blessed also with a capacious appetite, both for solids and fluids, and occasionally astonished the waiter at the Eagle and Child, by ordering in an extra basket of magnums; but, in the main, he was steady—and looked at the little portrait with undiminished admiration. All this time poor Mr Elstree knew nothing of the engagement, but looked on Frank more as a son than as a mere acquaintance, without any thought of its being in his power to attain in reality to that degree of relationship by means of the beautiful Miss Alice. If Frank believed this, I will be bound Miss Sibylla Smith would not have given him credit for such stupidity. But there are innocent minded people in the world, and poor Elstree was one of them. The visits to the white-walled villa were continued all the vacation; love went on increasing; and nothing could be more delightful than the description Frank gave of the happiness of that youthful time. But black days were in store for them. He left Cambridge, and went to London—the great trial for country affections. The affections, by his account, continued exactly the same; but the ideas altered—he saw other people, he mixed with the world—he overlaid the passion that lay snug and powerful at the bottom of his heart, with a score or two of flirtations; but, so far from burying it, they only kept it warm. In the mean time, however, the correspondence was not so regular as before—and perhaps the expressions on both sides not quite so tender; for it is impossible for a man in the Clarendon, with a carriage at the door to carry him down to Ascot, to write about flames and arrows, which come so naturally when musing on the Cam or Isis. And in the midst of this London career—during all which, he assured me, he liked her better than ever—he was startled by hearing that Mr Elstree was very ill. He hurried down to Leicestershire, but found he was too late. The good man had died, after having learned from his daughter the secret of her engagement, and having refused his consent to it, not on the ground that he was too good a match for Alice—which would be almost as vulgar a reason as if he had been too poor—but on the ground that he was young, giddy, thoughtless, and the wasting health and wan cheek of his daughter had told him that he was fickle too. People in the country make so little allowance for young men during their first season in town; and mother and daughter, in spite of all his protestations, in spite of all the vows he made to Alice, which she believed in her heart—were firm in breaking off the connexion, and would see him no more. And this resolution seemed to be formed on the maturest deliberation, and in spite of every inducement to the contrary they kept it. He had not seen them for nearly a year. Their income, at all times small, had been annihilated by the father's death; they left the white-walled villa, and after bidding him farewell for ever in a letter, and thanking him for his friendship to her father, and some few tender recollections on her own account, Alice had begged him to forget her! And Frank thought of her, of course, every hour of his life—tried every means to find out where they had gone, that he might resume his suit, and to offer them the fortune of which he had now come into full possession—but all in vain. His friend, Mr Percy Marvale, had undertaken to find them out within six months if they were still on the habitable globe, and thought he had discovered that the scene of their retirement was in our county; and with a knowledge of nature drawn from melodramas, French and English, he had laid it down as a rule, that as they were reduced in circumstances, Alice had gone out as a governess— which accounted for his theories about squints and red hair. It was a curious story; but there was perfect sincerity in all he said; and instead of trying to dissuade him, I could not help offering my services to discover the vanished pleiad—if she twinkled in any part of our Worcestershire heavens.

During this long communication we had left the garden, and were lounging slowly by the side of the river that runs through the park. We were both engaged in the narrative, and I was no little surprised, on looking to the other side, to see my magisterial friend, Old Smith, and his two daughters, busy with fishing-rods. The girls were tastefully dressed— but more to catch admiration than fish; two very showy handsome girls they were and I could not help thinking in my secret soul that there were not much odds to be risked on the late favourite Alice, against such a spanker as Monimia Smith. As for Sibylla, she despised gold and acres in comparison with genius and mustaches; and therefore, I concluded, she intended to be the second horse to her sister, and keep out the rest of the field. A clever, dashing, creature Monimia certainly, with such a pretence at childishness that nobody felt any wonder at any thing she did. And that same childishness is a very captivating quality till a girl is rising twenty or thereabouts; but after that time it does not take. At the same time, it is only a show qualification after all, and may do for a ball-room, but has no chance any where else. We looked at them without making any remark, and all three pretended to be so busy watching, their floats, that they had no idea—not they, poor souls!—that Frank Edwards of Bandvale Hall was within a mile of them. Sibylla occasionally glanced towards the house, in hopes, I suppose, of seeing Mr Percy Marvale emerge from his literary labours; but Monimia, looking under her long beautiful eyelashes, saw very well where we were, and threw herself into twenty attitudes of expectation, hope, and disappointment, ad ran through the whole gamut of a fisher's passions, in a way that would have done for a recitation of Collins's ode; and graceful, playful, and beautiful the attitudes were— and I saw in a moment that Frank's attention was caught. He was silent all of a sudden, and said no more about Alice Elstree. Monimia had it all her own way; but when she saw that her bait had taken, she determined to play the trout a little longer. She cast herself into finer and more captivating attitudes than ever, threw back her bonnet till it hung at her back—her beautiful hair broke loose—and in her hurry to pull up her hook, though I am ready to declare the float had never moved, she pressed so vehemently on poor Old Smith, who was deep in a contention with the root of a tree, which had held his hook prisoner for half an hour, that he lost his footing and fell plump into the water. If Monimia's motions were astonishing, her screams were appalling; and though I feel sure she had no intention of drowning her father, she had put him into tremendous hazard. The water was deep—he could not swim a stroke—the banks were steep; and there stood Monimia wringing her hands, while Sibylla had taken the quieter method of showing her agitation by falling into a faint upon the grass. In a moment Frank had left my side, dashed into the stream, and half forced, half supported Old Smith to the side, with my assistance, brought him safe on dry land. The girls hurried round by the bridge, and came upon us like a charge of Cossacks, while we were attending to the half-drowned parent on the bank.

"Where is my papa?" exclaimed Monimia—"my dear papa!"—and threw herself beside him on the turf, showing her figure, I must say, to the very best advantage. "And you," she cried, "his saviour—his preserver!" —and here she actually flung herself into poor Frank's arms, and laid her head upon his shoulder, in one of the most becoming faints I ever saw. There being no other person worth fainting for, Sibylla retained her composure; and as Monimia continued insensible, and Old Smith was really chilled, and might catch his death of cold, we conveyed them both, as carefully as we could, to the house; gave Monimia in charge to the gardener's wife and her sister, and installed Old Smith in Frank's own bed. I sent off a labourer on my pony for the doctor, and went to make enquiries after Miss Monimia. She was very ill, but Sibylla hoped she would soon be well enough to attend upon her father. Mr Percy Marvale made a multitude of quotations from some of his own melodramas apropos to the occasion, and Sibylla replied in the same high-flown style. It was evident they were quite used to such incidents in the Surrey, and I left them to entertain each other. On the doctor's arrival, he pronounced it improper to remove Mr Smith after his system had undergone such a shock; and the same judgment, very nearly, was past on Miss Monimia.

"I told mamma before I left home," whispered that young lady to her sister, as she lay gracefully on the outside of the bed, "that I would make an impression on Mr Edwards, if I could. I think this will do it, if any thing will; for we sha'n't let papa be well enough to move for a week. He is a delightful, fascinating man, and we have him all to ourselves."



CHAPTER IV.

Have you?—poor girl, you never heard of Alice Elstree! But Frank, to be sure, has not heard of her for a year—and you're certainly pretty, and he's young—and has an eye for the sublime and beautiful. The betting grows nearly even. All the skill of the gardener's wife, and as many other women as could be pressed into the service, was put into requisition to prepare a dinner for such unexpected guests; but as if by some half miraculous foreknowledge of events, preparations seemed to have been made on a great scale at Howkey; and on hearing of the accident, the good-natured Mrs Smith had despatched a light luggage cart filled with cold pies, preserved soups, and joints of meat, as if in anticipation of a blockade—in this respect imitating the good French marshal who besieged Gibraltar, and supplied old Elliot with provisions. But even after dinner was provided, how were the invalids, in addition to the original garrison, to be lodged for the night? Frank and his friend would not hear of coming over to me, and it was finally arranged that they should take up their quarters at the Rose and Crown. Old Smith kept his bed, but, for an invalid, performed wonders on the veal-pies; and also, by way of recruiting his exhausted strength, and showing his regard for Lord Cardigan at the same time, kindly made a crystal decanter of his throat, and decanted a black bottle of port into it with astonishing skill. Monimia was not so weak as to be kept in her apartment, and joined us—for I stayed to see how matters would end in the dining-room—and, I am bound to say, that gratitude for a father's safety was never shown in a more captivating manner than by that pale and interesting young lady, both in words and glances, during the whole evening. Sibylla and Mr Percy Marvale were equally pleased with the unlooked-for incident that threw them together; and I could not help thinking that the spy for Mr Frank Marvale's interest had an eye kept pretty open for his own; but watching the proceedings of people who would be fifty times better pleased if the race of Paul Prys were extinct, is very tiresome, and I soon took leave. The ladies betook themselves to their room at the same time, and the young men walked alongside of my pony down to the village inn. As we went, Mr Percy Marvale was loud in his praises of all the inhabitants of Howkey—from the half-drowned sire to the youngest of the children; so it is not to be supposed that Sibylla and Monimia were omitted in his eulogies. I remarked that he made no allusion to red hair or squinting, and that Frank himself said nothing against his extravagant laudations of Monimia's beauty. As little did he say any thing in corroboration. Was silence a tribute to his old love, or the ominous commencement of a new? One whole day he had been with her—a week, perhaps, was before him, of constant association. How difficult for a young fellow to continue deaf and blind to soft tones and softer glances, that spoke in reality of herself, though professedly they were all about her father!

Next day Monimia was still further recovered, and her venerated governor not yet fit to be moved. It was so bright and sunny that it would have been a shame to stay in doors, and Frank accompanied the lively Monimia into the garden. Oh! the running to and fro, the reaching up of the white arm, and standing on tiptoe to get at the fruit-trees on the wall—the merry laugh, the conscious looks, the blushing cheek—if Frank isn't made of stone, he'll yield to a certainty. She trips over all the beds with a wicker-basket on her arm to gather flowers, and clips them off so gracefully, and arranges them so tastefully, and all to be presented to the gallant deliverer of her papa. She is already on her way back, having achieved a nosegay of surpassing sweetness, when Mr Percy Marvale hurries out of the library window with a letter in his hand.

"We've found her at last! I told you, if she was in England, I would ferret her out in no time."

Frank seized the letter, tore open the seal—a flush passed over his cheek—he devoured the words—read the over again—and did not even look up, when Monimia dropt her basket and picked it up again, with the grace of Taglioni.

"Glorious—glorious!" he said, and nearly kissed the scarcely legible scrawl. "I will go this moment—it can't be far."

"Are you going, Mr Edwards?" said Monimia, holding the nosegay in her hand. "I hope you will soon return."

"Perhaps I may—but, pray, make my excuses to your father—my friend, Mr Marvale, will do the honours of the house."

"And you go away so suddenly?" she said, and pouted.

"I can't help it—business—sudden intelligence. Can you tell me where the village of Wibbelton is?"

"No," said the young lady, and laid the nosegay very quietly in her basket.

"If I should not return before Mr Smith is well enough to go home, will you present my compliments to your sister, and assure her"—

"Oh! she will he very sorry, I dare say," said Miss Monimia tartly, tying the strings of her bonnet, which had again fallen back and shown her beautiful ringlets.

"I wish the flowers were better," continued Frank; "and at some future time, I trust"—

"Oh, the flowers are good enough!" said the young lady. "I think the moss rose is Charles Lambert's favourite, so I have gathered this bunch for him."

You would scarcely have known the cold-voiced, calm-eyed Miss Monimia, to be the playful, graceful hoyden of five minutes before. She made Frank a stately curtsy, and, without farther parley, he hurried down to the village, and ordered the solitary post-chaise of which the Rose and Crown could boast.

"Stay you here," he said to Mr Percy Marvale, "and I will join you in two days if any thing occurs. We may be disappointed again, though the present intelligence seems authentic."

The intelligence which so suddenly altered the destination of Miss Monimia Smith's nosegay, was from one of Frank's Leicestershire correspondents; and was to the effect, that Alice had gone into a situation in the little village of Wibbleton, where she had been securely hidden from all her lover's pursuits for half a year. Wibbelton, he found, was fifteen miles from Bandvale, on the Birmingham road, and merrily away he trotted as fast as the two posters could go.

The news, the air, the motion, that had such an exhilirating effect on Frank Edwards, seemed to be equally efficacious in the case of my old friend Smith. He felt so well on being told of his host's departure, that he was able to move at once; and, without waiting for consultation with the doctor, or even for his carriage, he accompanied his daughter and the indefatigable Percy Marvale across the fields to Howkey on foot.

Meanwhile the hopeful lover drew near the hamlet of Wibbelton. He drove to the inn as the likeliest place where he could get information, and entered the common parlour, a neat little whitewashed room, with clean sanded floor, that looked out upon the village green. At a little table by the window sat a gentleman reading the newspaper, and occasionally relieving the dryness of the parliamentary debates by a sip at a little tankard of beer. He was a neatly dressed old man, with his thin long hair tied behind in a cue, a bright blue coat buttoned close up to the throat, stocking-thread pantaloons, and high Hessian boots. His upright carriage and projecting chest pointed him out at once as a military man; and the bow he had made, on Frank entering the room, showed at once he was a man of the old school—very formal and ceremonious—but was indicative of good-nature at the same time.

"A stranger in Wibbelton?" he said, laying down the paper. "Ha! I thought so—never remarked you before, though I keep my eye on any new face that appears in our parish."

"There are not many strangers, I presume, who find their way to this out-of-the-way village," replied Frank.

"I beg your pardon, my young friend. Many do. It is just the place for strangers to come to. A more complete retirement is not to be found in England."

"But every one is not enamoured of retirement," answered Frank.

"Then they have never been in active life. As for my step-son and me, who have been pushed about the world all our days, we find no place like Wibbelton."

"A soldier, I presume?" enquired Frank.

The old militaire bowed. "A soldier, sir, not quite unknown to fame, if I may be allowed to say so. My step-son also."

"And both reside here?"

"My step-son's house is the large white manorial mansion you see on the other side of the green. It is the noblest house in the county. Ah! there is nothing equal to the fine residences of our venerable agricultural nobility. My step-son is chief of the family; and though I had the misfortune to lose his mother in a very few years after our marriage, I always look upon him as a son. He looks on me as a father. We fight our battles over again, and only feel the want of a little addition to our pleasing intelligent society."

Frank looked towards the mansion described as one of the noblest in England, and saw a tolerably sized square house, with a range of white palings before the door, and a vine trailing over the front, but with no appearance of grandeur more than the very ordinary houses by its side.

"It would perhaps destroy the charm of the retirement you spoke of, if too many were admitted to share it," said Frank. "Has your step-son a family?"

"Four blooming girls, and an equal number of boys, not quite old enough yet to be treated as companions."

"Still at school?"

"Oh, no! My step-son hates public education. He brings them up beneath his own roof."

"With the help of a tutor, I suppose?"

"No, sir—no. A tutor is too harsh. A governess does it all."

"Ah!" said Frank.

"You start, my friend, as if you thought it impossible; but 'tis the case I assure you—quite a young woman, too—and yet what order she keeps them in. If I had had an adjutant-general, when I had my command, with half such zeal! We military men are judges of discipline, whether it is in the school-room or the field. So is my step-son."

"Pray, what age is the young person you speak so highly of?"

"I should say not more than eighteen—so gentle too, with it all."

"Have you had the benefit of her services long?"

"About half a year; yes, I think she has introduced her system about half a year. We are quite a family party here. You see the house next to my step-son's?—the large mansion in the Tudor style of architecture? That belongs to my other step-son; a man of the purest philanthropy, who, merely to benefit the poor of his own village and the surrounding country, practises as the medical man. Next to him, again, in the turreted building with the Gothic portico, is his younger brother, who, from equally philanthropic principles, and to prevent litigation among our neighbours, acts here as an attorney. You see the brass plate on the office door? We are quite a family party, you see."

"I congratulate you on your neighbourhood," said Frank. "But the next house to the youngest of your step-sons—the lath and plaster cottage with the broken casements, and untiled roof?"

"Ah! that is to be let. It belongs to The Chobb."

"To The Chobb! Who is The Chobb!"

"My step-son, sir. He is head of the great family of the Chobbs, and follows the example of The O'Conor Don, The Chisholm, and other representatives of the old blood, by taking the distinction 'the' before his name. Should you like to look at the cottage ornee, sir?"

"The one with the broken windows?" enquired Frank; "is it empty?"

"Yes; the Marquis di Carralva left it last week. If you would like a lodging in it for a few weeks, The Chobb will be happy to put in a little furniture. You would join our circle"—

"And take lessons in discipline from The Chobb's governess?"

"Of course; you would immediately become one of the family. We are all united in the village; no secrets, no privacy."

"Then I take the house, sir," said Frank. "May I ask who it is I have the honour of talking to?"

"My name is General Hosham—you've heard of my being commander-in-chief in Mexico; my step-son, Colonel Chobb, fought for the glorious Isabella of Spain. Will you go and look at the villa, sir?"

"I shall take it," said Frank, "at all events. Very little accommodation will be enough for me."

"And you will take possession?"

"Immediately; I consider myself Colonel Chobb's tenant from this hour."

"You do?" said the general, taking him by the hand. "You put me in mind of my poor aide-de-camp, Saint Rosalio; he was a perfect gentleman. I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir. I will be back in a few minutes."

And so saying, the general made a military salam, and walked in a stately manner out of the room.

"By this manoeuvre I have at all events secured admission to The Chobb's house; and if this governess is indeed poor Alice—but no—how could I think she would be connected in any way with such strange people as these? At all events, she is in the village, and by staying in it for a few days I am certain to find her out." In the midst of these and similar reflections, the general returned, and brought with him no less an individual than The Chobb in person. He was a little man, very dark in the complexion, and very fat, with the coarse look that a habit of low dissipation is sure to leave upon the best features. Small impudent eyes peeped sharply over the puffed out cheeks, and gave a look of mingled bullying and cunning to his countenance, which told a very intelligible tale of beer and tobacco. He held out his hand in the most open, unaffected manner, and echoed all his step-sire's speeches on the subject of the ornamental villa, and his pride and happiness in finding so desirable a neighbour.

"Rather worse quarters than if you came into the great house, as my poor mansion is called, but a mighty deal more comfortable than many I've had to put up with. I remember bivouacking in a wet cave on the shores of the Bay of Biscay. I was in command that day of the army of observation. Carlos was on the heights of St Sebastian, and I was tired of reconnoitring: I bivouacked, I tell you, in a cave—no blankets, no counterpane, and covered with wounds. In the middle of the night I heard a noise; looked up; it was pitch dark. I cocked my pistol, and fired into the corner where the noise was made, and went to sleep again! In the morning my aides-de-camp came in, and on groping in the cave, what do you think we found?—but you will never guess it: a boa-constrictor— an immense animal—thicker than stepfather's body. I had shot him right through the eye, for I never missed a mark in my life."

"I thought you said it was pitch dark?" said Frank.

"Oh, no! you misunderstood me. I did not say it was dark, father?"

"Certainly not. You distinctly said it was light enough to see the animal. I have heard you tell the story a dozen times. It was as light as day."

Frank looked at the old gentleman with surprise, but said nothing; and they proceeded as before.

"You will have no boa-constrictors to contend with," said The Chobb. "One of the bed-rooms is splendidly furnished already. There is the tent-bed in it which the general took from Tippoo Saib in Mexico; and as to your dining-room and kitchen, why, you can dine with me." And here he held out his hand, and shook Frank's again. "You will not have far to come, and there will always be a knife and fork."

"He is certainly the most generous fellow in England," whispered the general to Frank; "a perfect gentleman, and open as the day."

"We shall get on very well, I have no doubt," pursued the colonel, who pretended not to have heard the general's remark; "but here comes the landlord with dinner. I ordered it as I came up stairs; and, by way of consolidating our friendship, I hope you will take it here to-day, instead of in the great house."

Along with dinner came in the two brothers of The Chobb, and were introduced in due form. The philanthropist who practised as attorney, brought with him an agreement for the house; and the general explaining to Frank that these business details were merely for form's sake, and that he had told his step-son that the terms they had fixed on for the cottage were for half a year at a rent of twenty pounds, Frank signed the paper, and they all sat down to dinner. The Chobb presided, and the general acted as vice.

"This is a mighty deal better than the buffalo soup we had at Pondicherry, when we were besieged by Santa Anna and the Monte Videans," said the general.

"Or the tiger broth we had at Cadiz, when we were defending the town against Don Pedro," said The Chobb. "I used to shoot the tigers myself, which was capital amusement."