Two weeks passed without a word from Ireneus. What was he about? It was Known that he had passed through Paris, and should be in La Vendee. Could he not correspond with his friends? Could his letters have been intercepted? Might he not already have fallen a victim to his chivalric ardor, and be wounded, a prisoner, perhaps dead!

The post was looked for with anxiety. The newspapers were read anxiously. Vain hope! those of Sweden gave very meager details of the legitimist movement.

At last M. de Vermondans became angry and humiliated at suffering his impatience to become manifest, and forbade Ireneus or La Vendee to be mentioned. He could not, however, stifle thought in his own mind or in Ebba's.

One morning the young girl arose in great distress, and with a feverish agitation which made her look better. She dressed hastily, and went to her father's room. She said she wanted to see her sister.

"Really," said the old man, deceived by this deceitful animation, and quivering with joy at the idea of her recovery. "Do you wish to go? I will go with you."

He hurried to the stable, had his horse harnessed, and in a few minutes, seated in his cabriolet, was crossing the fields. On her way, Ebba, with peculiar tenderness, pointed out various scenes of her childhood and youth, the home of old servants, spots where she had been with Alete, and made memorable by various little incidents.

Suddenly she ceased to speak—looked at the scenery with deep interest glancing at the sea and the sky, and seemed absorbed in a melancholy reminiscence.

Her father had listened to her with pleasure, and turned to ask why she was silent. He was filled with delight. Had he been able, however, to look into her mind, he would have seen a deep sentiment of sadness and resignation, united with resignation and hopelessness.

In the silent meditation of the poor invalid there might be read a last adieu to the blue wave, the green wood, the distant prospects which so often had occupied her reverie. The warm summer breeze, which played in her hair, the clear sky, the whole tapestry of nature she was about to leave, instinct as it was with poetic fancy. By her half open lips, by her wondering eye, she bade adieu to the scenes amid which she had lived, to the flowers which smiled on her as a sister, and where birds sang their matin lays as if she had been one of their kindred.

When he reached the parsonage, her father stopped to chat with the old pastor. Ebba took Alete by the hand, and hurried her into the chamber.

"Dear sister," said she, "I wished to see you again."

"Again, Ebba—I hope you will, and for many a year."

"Yes—yes—but not here, in another world." She grew pale as she spoke.

"What an idea!" said Alete. "I was so agreeably surprised by your visit. Have you come to distress me?"

As she spoke, Alete covered her face, now suffused with tears, with her hands.

"Excuse me, Alete. I was wrong to give way so. Let us talk of something else."

"Yes, yes," said Alete, smiling amid her tears. "Has anything been heard of Ireneus?"

"Ireneus is—dead!" said Ebba sadly.

"Dead!" exclaimed Alete; "how so?"

"I know he is. I saw him last night."

"Ah, I have sometimes dreamed of a person's death, whom on the next morning I met perfectly well."

"I tell you I saw him struck by a ball in the breast, the blood running from the wound, looking staringly around, and smiling in the agonies of death."

"Madness! my dear Ebba," said Alete, with a burst of strange unnatural laughter, for in spite of herself she was impressed by the words of her sister. "Come, Eric and his father expect us. Let us pass our evening happily together, and shake off all these presentiments, which I pray to God may never be realized."

"Yes, come," and attempting to look gay, she said, "Madness! we will see."

During the next week, a letter from the mother of Ireneus informed them that the young officer had died on the very day of Ebba's dream, of a wound received at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.

Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her father and sister, who wept at her bedside. Her last breath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.

* * * * *

POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, have never before, we believe, been printed in this country.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.

The way was lone, and the hour was late, And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate. The night came down, by slow degrees, On the river stream, and the forest-trees; And by the heat of the heavy air, And by the lightning's distant glare, And by the rustling of the woods, And by the roaring of the floods, In half an hour, a man might say, The Spirit of Storm would ride that way. But little he cared, that stripling pale, For the sinking sun, or the rising gale; For he, as he rode, was dreaming now, Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow, Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted, Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted, Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes. And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches, So the earth below, and the heaven above, He saw them not;—those dreams of love, As some have found, and some will find, Make men extremely deaf and blind. At last he opened his great blue eyes, And looking about in vast surprise, Found that his hunter had turned his back, An hour ago on the beaten track, And now was threading a forest hoar, Where steed had never stepped before.

"By Caesar's head," Sir Rudolph said, "It were a sorry joke. If I to-night should make my bed On the turf, beneath an oak! Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;— Now, for thy sake, good roan, I would we were beneath a roof, Were it the foul fiend's own!"

Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close The sound of a listener's laughter rose. It was not the scream of a merry boy When harlequin waves his wand of joy; Nor the shout from a serious curate, won By a bending bishop's annual pun; Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;—oh, no! It was a gentle laugh, and low; Half uttered, perhaps, perhaps, and stifled half, A good old-gentlemanly laugh; Such as my uncle Peter's are, When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr. The rider looked to the left and the right, With something of marvel, and more of fright: But brighter gleamed his anxious eye, When a light shone out from a hill hard by. Thither be spurred, as gay and glad As Mrs. Maquill's delighted lad, When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown, Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down, And flies, at last, from all the mysteries Of Plaintiffs' and Defendants' histories, To make himself sublimely neat, For Mrs. Camac's in Mansfield Street. At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted; Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted: And he blew a blast with might and main, On the bugle that hung by an iron chain. The sound called up a score of sounds;— The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds, The hollow toll of the turret bell, The call of the watchful sentinel. And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder, As the huge old portals rolled asunder, And gravely from the castle hall Paced forth the white-robed seneschal. He stayed not to ask of what degree So fair and famished a knight might be; But knowing that all untimely question Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion, He laid his hand upon the crupper. And said,—"You're just in time for supper." They led him to the smoking board. And placed him next to the castle's lord. He looked around with a hurried glance: You may ride from the border to fair Penzance, And nowhere, but at Epsom Races, Find such a group of ruffian faces, As thronged that chamber; some were talking Of feats of hunting and of hawking, And some were drunk, and some were dreaming, And some found pleasure in blaspheming. He thought, as he gazed on the fearful crew, That the lamps that burned on the walls burned blue. They brought him a pasty of mighty size, To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes; They brought the wine, so rich and old, And filled to the brim the cup of gold; The knight looked down, and the knight looked up, But he carved not the meat, and he drained not the cup.

"Ho ho," said his host with angry brow, "I wot our guest is fine; Our fare is far too coarse, I trow, For such nice taste as thine: Yet trust me I have cooked the food, And I have filled the can, Since I have lived in this old wood, For many nobler man."— "The savory buck and the ancient cask To a weary man are sweet; But ere he taste, it is fit he ask For a blessing on bowl and meat. Let me but pray for a minute's space, And bid me pledge ye then; I swear to ye, by our Lady's grace, I shall eat and drink like ten!"

The lord of the castle in wrath arose, He frowned like a fiery dragon; Indignantly he blew his nose, And overturned the flagon. And, "Away," quoth he, "with the canting priest. Who comes uncalled to a midnight feast, And breathes through a helmet his holy benison, To sour my hock, and spoil my venison!"

That moment all the lights went out; And they dragged him forth, that rabble rout, With oath, and threat, and foul scurrility, And every sort of incivility. They barred the gates: and the peal of laughter, Sudden and shrill that followed after, Died off into a dismal tone, Like a parting spirit's painful moan. "I wish," said Rudolph, as he stood On foot in the deep and silent wood; "I wish, good Roland, rack and stable May be kinder to-night than their master's table!"

By this the storm had fleeted by; And the moon with a quiet smile looked out From the glowing arch of a cloudless sky, Flinging her silvery beams about On rock, tree, wave, and gladdening all With just as miscellaneous bounty, As Isabel's, whose sweet smiles fall In half an hour on half the county. Less wild Sir Rudolph's pathway seemed, As he fumed from that discourteous tower; Small spots of verdure gaily gleamed On either side; and many a flower, Lily, and violet, and heart's-ease, Grew by the way, a fragrant border; And the tangled boughs of the hoary trees Were twined in picturesque disorder: And there came from the grove, and there came from the hill, The loveliest sounds he had ever heard, The cheerful voice of the dancing rill, And the sad, sad song of the lonely bird. And at last he stared with wondering eyes, As well he might, on a huge pavilion: 'Twas clothed with stuffs of a hundred dyes, Blue, purple, orange, pink, vermilion; And there were quaint devices traced All round in the Saracenic manner; And the top, which gleamed like gold, was graced With the drooping folds of a silken banner; And on the poles, in silent pride, There sat small doves of white enamel; And the vail from the entrance was drawn aside, And flung on the humps of a silver camel. In short it was the sweetest thing For a weary youth in a wood to light on: And finer far than what a king Built up, to prove his taste, at Brighton. The gilded gate was all unbarred; And, close beside it, for a guard, There lay two dwarfs with monstrous noses, Both fast asleep upon some roses. Sir Rudolph entered; rich and bright Was all that met his ravished sight; Soft tapestries from far countries brought, Rare cabinets with gems inwrought, White vases of the finest mould, And mirrors set in burnished gold. Upon a couch a grayhound slumbered; And a small table was encumber'd With paintings, and an ivory lute, And sweetmeats, and delicious fruit. Sir Rudolph lost not time in praising; For he, I should have said was gazing, In attitude extremely tragic, Upon a sight of stranger magic; A sight, which, seen at such a season, Might well astonish Mistress Reason, And scare Dame Wisdom from her fences Of rules and maxims, moods and tenses. Beneath a crimson canopy A lady, passing fair, was lying; Deep sleep was on her gentle eye, And in her slumber she was sighing Bewitching sighs, such sighs as say Beneath the moonlight, to a lover, Things which the coward tongue by day Would not, for all the world, discover: She lay like a shape of sculptured stone, So pale, so tranquil:—she had thrown, For the warm evening's sultriness, The broidered coverlet aside And nothing was there to deck or hide The glory of her loveliness, But a scarf of gauze, so light and thin You might see beneath the dazzling skin, And watch the purple streamlets go Through the valleys of white and stainless snow, Or here and there a wayward tress Which wandered out with vast assurance From the pearls that kept the rest in durance, And fluttered about, as if 'twould try To lure a zephyr from the sky. "Bertha!"—large drops of anguish came On Rudolph's brow, as he breathed that name,— "Oh fair and false one, wake, and fear; I, the betrayed, the scorned, am here." The eye moved not from its dull eclipse, The voice came not from the fast-shut lips; No matter! well that gazer knew The tone of bliss, and the eyes of blue. Sir Rudolph hid his burning face With both his hands for a minute's space, And all his frame in awful fashion Was shaken by some sudden passion. What guilty fancies o'er him ran?— Oh, pity will be slow to guess them; And never, save the holy man, Did good Sir Rudolph e'er confess them But soon his spirit you might deem Came forth from the shade, of the fearful dream; His cheek, though pale, was calm again. And he spoke in peace, though he spoke in pain "Not mine! not mine! now, Mary mother. Aid me the sinful hope to smother! Not mine, not mine!—I have loved thee long Thou hast quitted me with grief and wrong. But pure the heart of a knight should be,— Sleep on, sleep on, thou art safe for me. Yet shalt thou know, by a certain sign, Whose lips have been so near to thine, Whose eyes have looked upon thy sleep, And turned away, and longed to weep, Whole heart,—mourn,—madden as it will,— Has spared thee, and adored thee, still!" His purple mantle, rich and wide, From his neck the trembling youth untied, And flung it o'er those dangerous charms, The swelling neck, and the rounded arms. Once more he looked, once more he sighed; And away, away, from the perilous tent, Swift as the rush of an eagle's wing, Or the flight of a shaft from Tartar string, Into the wood Sir Rudolph went: Not with more joy the school-boys run To the gay green fields, when their task is done; Not with more haste the members fly, When Hume has caught the Speaker's eye. At last the daylight came; and then A score or two of serving men, Supposing that some sad disaster Had happened to their lord and master, Went out into the wood, and found him, Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him. Ere he could tell his tale romantic, The leech pronounced him clearly frantic, So ordered him at once to bed, And clapped a blister on his head. Within the sound of the castle-clock There stands a huge and rugged rock, And I have heard the peasants say, That the grieving groom at noon that day Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff, At the base of the black and beetling cliff. Beside the rock there is an oak, Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke, And I have heard the peasants say, That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay, And coiled in many a deadly wreath A venomous serpent slept beneath.

* * * * *

STANZAS, WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE.

Most beautiful!—I gaze and gaze In silence on the glorious pile; And the glad thoughts of other days Come thronging back the while. To me dim Memory makes more dear The perfect grandeur of the shrine; But if i stood a stranger here, The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt, As reverently their feet have trod On any spot where man hath knelt, To commune with his God; By haunted spring, or fairy well, Beneath the ruined convent's gloom, Beside the feeble hermit's cell, Or the false prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne, Than thus the limner's art hath traced From the time-honored stone? The spirit here of worship seems To hold the heart in wondrous thrall, And heavenward hopes and holy dreams, Came at her voiceless call;—

At midnight, when the lonely moon Looks from a vapor's silvery fold; Or morning, when the sun of June Crests the high towers with gold; For every change of hour and form Makes that fair scene more deeply fair; And dusk and day-break, calm and storm, Are all religion there.

* * * * *

A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD:

TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

Non voglio cento scudi.—Song.

Oh say not that the minstrel's art, The pleasant gift of verse, Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart, Can ever be a curse;— Though sorrow reign within his heart, And Penury hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;— Though he charm no rich relation, The Fairies all his labors bless With such remuneration, As Mr. Hume would soon confess Beyond his calculation.

Annuities, and three per cents, Little cares he about them; And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, He rambles on without them: But love, and noble sentiments,— Oh, never bid him doubt them!

* * * * *

Young Florice rose from his humble bed, And prayed as a good youth should; And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread, Into the neighboring wood; He knew where the berries were ripe and red, And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay, at the noon of day, Beneath the ancient tree, A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way; A holy man was he, And he was wending forth to pray At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh, his was a weary wandering, And a song or two might cheer him. The pious youth began to sing, As the ancient man drew near him; The lark was mute as he touched the string, And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him!"

He sand high tales of the martyred brave; Of the good, and pure, and just; Who have gone into the silent grave, In such deep faith and trust, That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save Spring from their buried dust.

The fair of face, and the stout of limb, Meek maids, and grandsires hoary; Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn, As they passed to their doom of glory;— Their radiant fame is never dim, Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the dead With angels watching round them; The mourner's grief is comforted, As he looks on the chains that bound them; And peace is shed on the murderer's head, And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard In a trance of voiceless pleasure; For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred, By the sad and solemn measure: "I give thee my blessing,"—was his word; "It is all I have of treasure!"

* * * * *

A little child came bounding by; And he, in a fragrant bower, Had found a gorgeous butterfly, Rare spoil for a nursery dower, Which, with fierce step, and eager eye, He chased from flower to flower.

"Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call; And the urchin left his fun; So from the hall of poor Sir Paul Retreats the baffled dun; So Ellen parts from the village ball, Where she leaves a heart half won

Then Florice did the child caress, And sang his sweetest songs: Their theme was of the gentleness, Which to the soul belongs, Ere yet it knows the name or dress Of human rights and wrongs.

And of the wants which make agree All parts of this vast plan; How life is in whate'er we see, And only life in man:— What matter where the less may be, And where the longer span?

An d how the heart grows hard without Soft Pity's freshing dews; And how when any life goes out Some little pang ensues;— Facts which great soldiers often doubt, And wits who write reviews.

Oh, Song hath power o'er Nature's springs Though deep the Nymph has laid them! The child gazed, gazed, on the gilded wings, As the next light breeze displayed them; But he felt the while that the meanest things Are dear to him that made them!

* * * * *

The sun went down behind the hill, The breeze was growing colder But there the minstrel lingered still; And amazed the chance beholder, Musing beside a rippling rill, With a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame, A sleek Arabian mare, The Lady Juliana came, Riding to take the air, With Lords of fame, at whose proud name A radical would swear.

The minstrel touched his lute again.— It was more than a Sultan's crown, When the lady checked her bridle rein, And lit from her palfrey down:— What would you give for such a strain, Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?

He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes, Of Beauty's melting tone; And how her praise is a richer prize Then the gems of Persia's throne: And her love a bliss which the coldly wise Have never, never, known. He told how the valiant scoff at fear, When the sob of her grief is heard; How they couch the spear for a smile or tear How they die for a single word;— Things which, I own, to me appear Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough: She turned to hear Sir Denys Discourse, in language vastly gruff, About his skill at Tennis— While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile, And the Lady rode away.— There is not a lady in all our Isle, I have heard a Poet say, Who can listen more than a little while To a poet's sweetest lay.

* * * * *

His mother's voice was fierce and shrill, As she set the milk and fruit: "Out on thine unrewarded skill, And on thy vagrant lute; Let the strings be broken an they will, And the beggar lips be mute!"

Peace, peace!—the Pilgrim as he went Forgot the minstrel's song; But the blessing that his wan lips sent Will guard the minstrel long; And keep his spirit innocent, And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought Of the moral the minstrel drew; But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought— Brings it not peace to you? And doth not a lesson of virture taught Teach him that reaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh For the minstrel or his hymn;— But when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky, Or lip the goblet's brim, What a star in the mist of memory Her smile will be to him!

* * * * *

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG.

The men of sin prevail! Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn: Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where The good and true, the terrible and fleet? They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat, With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie, Upon the bloody pillow of their rest: Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;— We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts. Will call for comfort: to the God of Hosts We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song; For we are wandering o'er our native land, As sheep that have no shepherd: and the hand Of wicked men is strong.

Only to thee we bow. Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup; And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up To heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge—oh, not our years Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrs shed; The ashes heaped upon the hoary head; The maiden's silent tears;

The babe's bread torn away' The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof; The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof; Judge not for those to-day!

Is not thine own dread rod Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained, Thy name blasphemed, thy temple's courts profaned? Avenge thyself, O God!

Break Pharoah's iron crown; Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings; Wash from thy house the blood of unclean things; And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in thine own good time! We will abide: we have not turned from thee; Though in a world of grief our portion be, Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide! Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go. That we may worship where the torrents flow, And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.— On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there Safe temples, quiet graves!

* * * * *

HOPE AND LOVE.

One day, through fancy's telescope, Which is my richest treasure, I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope Set out in search of Pleasure: All mirth and smiles I saw them go; Each was the other's banker; For Hope took up her brother's bow, And Love, his sister's anchor.

They rambled on o'er vale and hill, They passed by cot and tower; Through summer's glow and winter's chill, Through sunshine and through shower, But what did those fond playmates care For climate, or for weather? All scenes to them were bright and fair, On which they gazed together.

Sometimes they turned aside to bless Some Muse and her wild numbers, Or breathe a dream of holiness On Beauty's quiet slumbers; "Fly on," said Wisdom, with cold sneers: "I teach my friends to doubt you;" "Come back," said Age, with bitter tears, "My heart is cold without you."

When Poverty beset their path, And threatened to divide them, They coaxed away the beldame's wrath, Ere she had breath to chide them, By vowing all her rags were silk, And all her bitters, honey, And showing taste for bread and milk, And utter scorn of money.

They met stern Danger in their way, Upon a ruin seated; Before him kings had quaked that day, And armies had retreated: But he was robed in such a cloud, As Love and Hope came near him, That though he thundered long and loud, They did not see or hear him.

A gray-beard joined them, Time by name; And Love was nearly crazy, To find that he was very lame, And also very lazy: Hope, as he listened to her tale, Tied wings upon his jacket; And then they far outran the mail, And far outsailed the packet.

And so, when they had safely passed O'er many a land and billow, Before a grave they stopped at last, Beneath a weeping willow: The moon upon the humble mound Her softest light was flinging; Sad nightingales were singing.

"I leave you here," quoth Father Time, As hoarse as any raven; And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme Upon the rude stone graven: But Hope looked onward, calmly brave; And whispered, "Dearest brother, We're parted on this side the grave,— We'll meet upon the other."

* * * * *

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LADY ARABELLA FUSTIAN TO LORD CLARENCE FUSTIAN.

—Sweet, when Actors first appear The loud collision of applauding gloves! MOULTRIE.

Your labors, my talented brother, Are happily over at last; They tell me that, some how or other, The bill is rejected,—or past: And now you'll be coming, I'm certain, As fast as four posters can crawl, To help us draw up our curtain, As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements, are nearly completed; But still we've a lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated, We'd keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces,— Lord John is a trifle too tall,— And yours are the safest embraces To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;—it's really enchanting To listen and look at the rout; We're all of us puffing, and panting, And raving, and running about; Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle; There Andrew and Anthony bawl; Flutes murmur, chains rattle, robes rustle, In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By the bye, there are two or three matters We want you to bring us from town; The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's, A nose and a hump for the Clown: We want a few harps for our banquet, We want a few masks for our ball; And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet His white wig, for Fustian Hall.

Huncamunca must have a huge saber, Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl; And we're quite at a stand-still with Weber, For want of a lizard and owl: And then, for our funeral procession, Pray get us a love of a pall; Or how shall we make an impression On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you'll really delight us, If you'll do your endeavor to bring From the Club a young person to write us Our prologue, and that sort of thing; Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely, Is gone, for a Judge, to Bengal; I fear we shall miss him extremely, This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;—your idol Albina Will make a sensation, I feel; We all think there never was seen a Performer, so like the O'Neill. At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy Has deeply affected us all; For one tear that trickles at Drury, There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall.

Dread objects are scattered before her, On purpose to harrow her soul; She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her, At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. The sword never seems to alarm her, That hangs on a peg to the wall, And she doats on thy rusty old armor Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,— Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,— And trampled, in anger and scorning, A bonnet and feathers to death. But hark,—I've a part in the Stranger,— There's the Prompter's detestable call: Come, Clarence,—our Romeo and Ranger, We want you at Fustian Hall.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES

Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diccret, Si quid opus caset, "nunc quidem paullulum," inquit, "a sole."—Cicero Tusc. Disp.

Slowly the monarch turned aside; But when his glance of youthful pride Rested upon the warriors gray Who bore his lance and shield that day, And the long line of spears that came Through the far grove like waves of flame, His forehead burned, his pulse beat high, More darkly flashed his shifting eye, And visions of the battle-plain Came bursting on his soul again.

The old man drew his gaze away Right gladly from that long array, As if their presence were a blight Of pain and sickness to his sight; And slowly folding o'er his breast The fragments of his tattered vest, As was his wont, unasked, unsought Gave to the winds his muttered thought, Naming no name of friend or foe, And reckless if they heard or no.

"Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing, Puppet, which mortals call a king, Adorning thee with idle gems, With drapery and diadems, And scarcely guessing, that beneath The purple robe and laurel wreath, There's nothing but the common slime Of human clay and human crime:— My rags are not so rich,—but they Will serve as well to cloak decay.

"And ever round thy jeweled brow False slaves and falser friends will bow; And Flattery,—as varnish flings A baseness on the brightest things,— Will make the monarch's deeds appear All worthless to the monarch's ear, Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame, So vilely drest, is worse than shame!— The gods be thanked for all their mercies, Diogenes hears naught but curses!

"And thou wilt banquet!—air and sea Will render up their hoards for thee; And golden cups for thee will hold Rich nectar, richer than the gold. The cunning caterer still must share The dainties which his toils prepare; The page's lip must taste the wine Before he fills the cup for thine!— Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer? I dread no royal hemlock here!

"And night will come; and thou wilt lie Beneath a purple canopy, With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed Their feverish fragrance round thy bed, A princess to unclasp thy crest, A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.— Dream, happy one!—thy dreams will be Of danger and of perfidy;— The Persian lance,—the Carian club!— I shall sleep sounder in my tub!

"And thou wilt pass away, and have A marble mountain o'er thy grave, With pillars tall, and chambers vast, Fit palace for the worm's repast!— I too shall perish!—let them call The vulture to my funeral; The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den, Are all he leaves his fellow men,— Heedless how this corruption fares,— Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs!"

* * * *

[From Household Words.]

THE LAST OF A LONG LINE.

CHAPTER I.

Sir Roger Rockville of Rockville was the last of a very long line. It Extended from the Norman Conquest to the present century. His first known ancestor came over with William, and must have been a man of some mark, either of bone and sinew, or of brain, for he obtained what the Americans would call a prime location. As his name does not occur in the Roll of Battle Abbey, he was, of course, not of a very high Norman extraction; but he had done enough, it seems, in the way of knocking down Saxons, to place himself on a considerable eminence in this kingdom. The center of his domains was conspicuous far over the country, through a high range of rock overhanging one of the sweetest rivers in England. On one hand lay a vast tract of rich marsh land, capable, as society advanced, of being converted into meadows; and on the other, as extensive moorlands, finely undulating, and abounding with woods and deer.

Here the original Sir Roger built his castle on the summit of the range of rock, with huts for his followers; and became known directly all over the country as Sir Roger de Rockville, or Sir Roger of the hamlet on the Rock. Sir Roger, no doubt, was a mighty hunter before the lord of the feudal district: it is certain that his descendants were. For generations they led a jolly life at Rockville, and were always ready to exchange the excitement of the chase for a bit of civil war. Without that the country would have grown dull, and ale and venison lost their flavor. There was no gay London in those days, and a good brisk skirmish with their neighbors in helm and hauberk was the way of spending their season. It was their parliamentary debate, and was necessary to thin their woods. Protection and Free Trade were as much the great topics of interest as they are now, only they did not trouble themselves so much about Corn bills. Their bills were of good steel, and their protective measures were arrows a cloth-yard long. Protection meant a good suit of mail; and a castle with its duly prescribed moats, bastions, portcullises, and donjon keep. Free Trade was a lively inroad into the neighboring baron's lands, and the iportation thence of goodly herds and flocks. Foreign cattle for home consumption was as sticking an article in their markets as in ours, only the blows were expended on one another's heads, instead of the heads of foreign bullocks—that is, bullocks from over the Welch or Scotch marches, as from beyond the next brook.

Thus lived the Rockvilles for ages. In all the iron combats of those iron times they took care to have their quota. Whether it were Stephen against Matilda, or Richard against his father, or John against the barons; whether it were York or Lancaster, or Tudor or Stuart, the Rockvilles were to be found in the melee, and winning power and lands. So long as it required only stalwart frames and stout blows, no family cut a more conspicuous figure. The Rockvilles were at Bosworth Field. The Rockvilles fought in Ireland under Elizabeth. The Rockvilles were staunch defenders of the cause in the war of Charles I. with his Parliament. The Rockvilles even fought for James II. at the Boyne, when three-fourths of the most loyal of the English nobility and gentry had deserted him in disgust and indignation. But from that hour they had been less conspicuous.

The opposition to the successful party, that of William of Orange, of course brought them into disgrace: and though they were never molested on that account, they retired to their estate, and found it convenient to be as unobtrusive as possible. Thenceforward you heard no more of the Rockvilles in the national annals. They became only of consequence in their own district. They acted as magistrates. They served as high sheriffs. They were a substantial county family, and nothing more. Education and civilization advanced; a wider and very different field of action and ambition opened upon the aristocracy of England. Our fleets and armies abroad, our legislature at home, law and the church, presented brilliant paths to the ambition of those thirsting for distinction, and the good things that follow it. But somehow the Rockvilles did not expand with this expansion. So long as it required only a figure of six feet high, broad shoulders, and a strong arm, they were a great and conspicuous race. But when the head became the member most in request, they ceased to go a-head. Younger sons, it is true, served in army and in navy, and filled the family pulpit, but they produced no generals, no admirals, no archbishops. The Rockvilles of Rockville were very conservative, very exclusive, and very stereotype. Other families grew poor, and enriched themselves again by marrying plebeian heiresses. New families grew up out of plebeian blood into greatness, and intermingled the vigor of their fresh earth with the attenuated aristocratic soil. Men of family became great lawyers, great statesmen, great prelates and even great poets and philosophers. The Rockvilles remained high, proud, bigoted, and borne.

The Rockvilles married Rockvilles, or their first cousins, the Cesgvilles, simply to prevent property going out of the family. They kept the property together. They did not lose an acre, and they were a fine, tall, solemn race—and nothing more. What ailed them?

If you saw Sir Roger Rockville,—for there was an eternal Sir Roger filling his office of high sheriff,—he had a very fine carriage, and a very fine retinue in the most approved and splendid antique costumes; if you saw him sitting on the bench at quarter sessions, he was a tall, stately, and solemn man. If you saw Lady Rockville shopping, in her handsome carriage, with very handsomely attired servants; saw her at the county ball, or on the race-stand, she was a tall, aristocratic, and stately lady. That was in the last generation—the present could boast of no Lady Rockville.

Great outward respect was shown to the Rockvilles on account of the length of their descent, and the breadth of their acres. They were always, when any stranger asked about them, declared, with a serious and important air, to be a very ancient, honorable, and substantial family. "Oh! a great family are the Rockvilles, a very great family."

But if you came to close quarters with the members of this great and highly distinguished family, you soon found yourself fundamentally astonished: you had a sensation come over you, as if you were trying, like Moses, to draw water from a rock, without his delegated power. There was a goodly outside of things before you, but nothing came of it. You talked, hoping to get talking in return, but you got little more than "noes" and "yeses," and "oh! indeeds!" and "reallys," and sometimes not even that, but a certain look of aristocratic dignity or dignification, that was meant to serve for all answers. There was a sort of resting on aristocratic oars or "sculls," that were not to be too vulgarly handled. There was a feeling impressed on you, that eight-hundred years of descent and ten thousand a-year in landed income did not trouble themselves with the trifling things that gave distinction to lesser people—such as literature, fine arts, politics, and general knowledge. These were very well for those who had nothing else to pride themselves on, but for the Rockvilles—oh! certainly they were by no means requisite.

In fact, you found yourself, with a little variation, in the predicament of Cowper's people,

—who spent their lives In dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing tired of drawing nothing up.

Who hasn't often come across these "dry wells" of society; solemn gulfs out of which you can pump nothing up? You know them; they are at your elbow every day in large and brilliant companies, and defy the best sucking-buckets ever invented to extract anything from them. But the Rockvilles were each and all of this adust description. It was a family feature, and they seemed, if either, rather proud of it. They must be so; for proud they were, amazingly proud; and they had nothing besides to be proud of, except their acres, and their ancestors.

But the fact was, they could not help it. It was become organic. They had acted the justice of peace, maintained the constitution against upstarts and manufacturers, signed warrants, supported the church and the house of correction, committed poachers, and then rested on the dignity of their ancestors for so many generations, that their skulls, brains, constitutions, and nervous systems, were all so completely moulded into that shape and baked into that mould, that a Rockville would be a Rockville to the end of time, if God and Nature would have allowed it. But such things wear out. The American Indians and the Australian nations wear out; they are not progressive, and as Nature abhors a vacuum, she does not forget the vacuum wherever it may be, whether in a hot desert, or in a cold and stately Rockville;—a very ancient, honorable, and substantial family that lies fallow till the thinking faculty literally dies out.

For several generations there had been symptoms of decay about the Rockville family. Not in its property, that was as large as ever; not in their personal stature and physical aspect. The Rockvilles continued, as they always had been, a tall and not bad-looking family. But they grew gradually less prolific. For a hundred and fifty years past there had seldom been more than two, or at most three, children. There had generally been an heir to the estate, and another to the family pulpit, and sometimes a daughter married to some neighboring squire. But Sir Roger's father had been an only child, and Sir Roger himself was an only child. The danger of extinction to the family, apparent as it was, had never induced Sir Roger to marry. At the time that we are turning our attention upon him, he had reached the mature age of sixty. Nobody believed that Sir Roger now would marry; he was the last, and likely to be, of his line.

It is worth while here to take a glance at Sir Roger and his estate. They wore a strange contrast. The one bore all the signs of progress, the other of a stereotyped feudality. The estate, which in the days of the first Sir Roger de Rockville had been half morass and half wilderness, was now cultivated to the pitch of British agricultural science. The marshlands beyond the river were one splendid expanse of richest meadows, yielding a rental of four solid pounds per acre. Over hill and dale on this side for miles, where formerly ran wild deer, and grew wild woodlands of furze-bushes, now lay excellent farms and hamlets, and along the ridge of the ancient cliffs rose the most magnificent woods. Woods, too, clothed the steep hillsides, and swept down to the noble river, their very boughs hanging far out over its clear and rapid waters. In the midst of these fine woods stood Rockville Hall, the family seat of the Rockvilles. It reared its old brick walls above the towering mass of elms, and travelers at a distance recognized it for what it was, the mansion of an ancient and wealthy family.

The progress of England in arts, science, commerce, and manufacture, had carried Sir Roger's estate along with it. It was full of active and moneyed farmers, and flourished under modern influences. How lucky it would have been for the Rockville family had it done the same!

But amid this estate there was Sir Roger solitary, and the last of the line. He had grown well enough—there was nothing stunted about him, so far as you could see on the surface. In stature, he exceeded six feet. His colossal elms could not boast of a properer relative growth. He was as large a landlord, and as tall a justice of the peace, as you could desire: but, unfortunately, he was, after all, only the shell of a man. Like many of his veteran elms, there was a very fine stem, only it was hollow. There was a man, just with the rather awkward deficiency of a soul.

And it were no difficult task to explain, either, how this had come about. The Rockvilles saw plainly enough the necessity of manuring their lands, but they scorned the very idea of manuring their family. What! that most ancient, honorable, and substantial family, suffer any of the common earth of humanity to gather about its roots! The Rockvilles were so careful of their good blood, that they never allied it to any but blood as pure and inane as their own. Their elms flourished in the rotten earth of plebeian accumulations, and their acres produced large crops of corn from the sewage of towns and fat sinks, but the Rockvilles themselves took especial care that no vulgar vigor from the real heap of ordinary human nature should infuse a new force of intellect into their race. The Rockvilles needed nothing; they had all that an ancient, honorable, and substantial family could need. The Rockvilles had no need to study at school—why should they? They did not want to get on. The Rockvilles did not aspire to distinction for talent in the world—why should they? They had a large estate. So the Rockville soul, unused from generation to generation, grew—

Fine by degrees, and spiritually less,

till it tapered off into nothing.

Look at the last of a long fine in the midst of his fine estate. Tall he was, with a stoop in his shoulders, and a bowing of his head on one side, as if he had been accustomed to stand under the low boughs of his woods, and peer after intruders. And that was precisely the fact. His features were thin and sharp; his nose prominent and keen in its character; his eyes small, black, and peering like a mole's, or a hungry swine's. Sir Roger was still oracular on the bench, and after consulting his clerk, a good lawyer,—and looked up to by the neighboring squires in election matters, for he was an unswerving tory. You never heard of a rational thing that he had said in the whole course of his life; but that mattered little, he was a gentleman of solemn aspect, of stately gait, and of a very ancient family.

With ten thousand a-year, and his rental rising, he was still, however, a man of overwhelming cares. What mattered a fine estate if all the world was against him? And Sir Roger firmly believed that he stood in that predicament. He had grown up to regard the world as full of little besides upstarts, radicals, manufacturers, and poachers. All were banded, in his belief, against the landed interest. It demanded all the energy of his very small faculties to defend himself and the world against them.

Unfortunately for his peace, a large manufacturing town had sprung up within a couple of miles of him. He could see its red-brick walls, and its red-tiled roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys, growing and extending over the slopes beyond the river. It was to him the most irritating sight in the world; for what were all those swarming weavers and spinners but arrant radicals, upstarts, sworn foes of ancient institutions and the landed interests of England? Sir Roger had passed through many a desperate conflict with them for the return of members to parliament. They brought forward men that were utter wormwood to all his feelings, and they paid no more respect to him and his friends on such occasions than they did to the meanest creature living. Reverence for ancient blood did not exist in that plebeian and rapidly multiplying tribe. There were master manufacturers there actually that looked and talked as big as himself, and entre nous, a vast deal more cleverly. The people talked of rights and franchises, and freedom of speech and of conscience, in a way that was really frightful. Then they were given most inveterately to running out in whole and everlasting crowds on Sundays and holidays into the fields and woods; and as there was no part of the neighborhood half so pleasant as the groves and river banks of Rockville, they came swarming up there in crowds that were enough to drive any man of acres frantic.

Unluckily, there were roads all about Rockville; foot roads, and high roads and bridle roads. There was a road up the river side, all the way to Rockville woods, and when it reached them, it divided like a fork, and one pony or foot-path led straight up a magnificent grove of a mile long, ending close to the hall; and another ran all along the river side, under the hills and branches of the wood.

Oh, delicious were these woods! In the river there were islands, which were covered in summer with the greenest grass, and the freshest of willows, and the clear waters rushed around them in the most inviting manner imaginable. And there were numbers of people extremely ready to accept this delectable invitation of these waters. There they came in fine weather, and as these islands were only separated from the main-land by a little and very shallow stream, it was delightful for lovers to get across—with laughter, and treading on stepping-stones, and slipping off the stepping-stones up to the ankles into the cool brook, and pretty screams, and fresh laughter, and then landing on those sunny, and to them really enchanted islands. And then came fishermen; solitary fishermen, and fishermen in rows; fishermen lying in the flowery grass, with fragrant meadow-sweet and honey-breathing clover all about their ears; and fishermen standing in file, as if they were determined to clear all the river of fish in one day. And there were other lovers, and troops of loiterers, and shouting roysterers, going along under the boughs of the wood, and following the turns of that most companionable of rivers. And there were boats going up and down; boats full of young people, all holiday finery and mirth, and boats with duck-hunters, and other, to Sir Roger, detestable marauders, with guns and dogs, and great bottles of beer. In the fine grove, on summer days, there might be found hundreds of people. There were picnic parties, fathers and mothers with whole families of children, and a great promenade of the delighted artisans and their wives or sweethearts.

In the times prior to the sudden growth of the neighboring town, Great Stockington, and to the simultaneous development of the love-of-nature principle in the Stockingtonians, nothing had been thought of all these roads. The roads were well enough till they led to these inroads. Then Sir Roger aroused himself. This must be changed. The roads must be stopped. Nothing was easier to his fancy. His fellow-justices, Sir Benjamin Bullockshed and Squire Sheepshank, had asked his aid to stop the like nuisances, and it had been done at once. So Sir Roger put up notices all about, that the roads were to be stopped by an Order of Sessions, and these notices were signed, as required by law, by their worships of Bullockshed and Sheepshank. But Sir Roger soon found that it was one thing to stop a road leading from Oneman-Town to Lonely-Lodge, and another to attempt to stop those from Great-Stockington to Rockville.

On the very first Sunday after the exhibition of those notice-boards, there was a ferment in the grove of Rockville, as if all the bees in the county were swarming there, with all the wasps and hornets to boot. Great crowds were collected before each of these obnoxious placards, and the amount of curses vomited against them was really shocking for any day, but more especially for a Sunday. Presently there was a rush at them; they were torn down, and simultaneously pitched into the river. There were great crowds swarming all about Rockville all that day, and with looks so defiant that Sir Roger more than once contemplated sending off for the Yeoman Cavalry to defend his house, which he seriously thought in danger.

But so far from being intimidated from proceeding, this demonstration only made Sir Roger the more determined. To have so desperate and irreverent a population coming about his house and woods now presented itself in a much more formidable aspect than ever. So, next day, not only were the placards once more hoisted, but rewards offered for the discovery of the offenders, attended with all the maledictions of the insulted majesty of the law. No notice was taken of this, but the whole of Great Stockington was in a buzz and an agitation. There were posters plastered all over the walls of the town, four times as large as Sir Roger's notices, in this style:—

"Englishmen! your dearest rights are menaced! The Woods of Rockville, your ancient, rightful, and enchanting resorts, are to be closed to you. Stockingtonians! The eyes of the world are upon you. 'Awake! arise! or be forever fallen!' England expects every man to do his duty! And your duty is to resist and defy the grasping soil-lords, to seize on your ancient Patrimony!"

"Patrimony! Ancient and rightful resort of Rockville!" Sir Roger was astounded at the audacity of this upstart, plebeian race. What! They actually claimed Rockville, the heritage of a hundred successive Rockvilles, as their own. Sir Roger determined to carry it to the Sessions; and at the Sessions was a magnificent muster of all his friends. There was Sir Roger himself in the chair; and on either hand, a prodigious row of county squirearchy. There was Sir Benjamin Bullockshed, and Sir Thomas Tenterhook, and all the squires,—Sheepshank, Ramsbottom, Turnbull, Otterbrook, and Swagsides. The Clerk of Sessions read the notice for the closing of all the footpaths through the woods of Rockville, and declared that this notice had been duly, and for the required period publicly, posted. The Stockingtonians protested by their able lawyer Daredeville, against any order for the closing of these ancient woods—the inestimable property of the public.

"Property of the public!" exclaimed Sir Roger. "Property of the public!" echoed the multitudinous voices of indignant Bullocksheds, Tenterhooks, and Ramsbottoms. "Why, sir, do you dispute the right of Sir Roger Rockville to his own estate?"

"By no means;" replied the undaunted Daredeville; "the estate of Rockville is unquestionably the property of the honorable baronet, Sir Roger Rockville; but the roads through it are the as unquestionable Property of the public."

The whole bench looked at itself; that is, at each other, in wrathful astonishment. The swelling in the diaphragms of the squires Otterbrook, Turnbull, and Swagsides, and all the rest of the worshipful row, was too big to admit of utterance. Only Sir Roger himself burst forth with an abrupt—

"Impudent fellows! But I'll see them —— first!"

"Grant the order!" said Sir Benjamin Bullockshed; and the whole bench nodded assent. The able lawyer Daredeville retired with a pleasant smile. He saw an agreeable prospect of plenty of grist to his mill. Sir Roger was rich, and so was Great Stockington. He rubbed his hands, not in the least like a man defeated, and thought to himself, "Let them go at it—all right."

The next day the placards on the Rockville estate were changed for others Bearing "STOPPED BY ORDER OF SESSIONS!" and alongside of them were huge carefully painted boards, denouncing on all trespassers prosecutions according to law. The same evening came a prodigious invasion of Stockingtonians—tore all the boards and placards down, and carried them on their shoulders to Great Stockington, singing as they went, "See, the Conquering Heroes come!" They set them up in the center of Stockington market-place, and burnt them, along with an effigy of Sir Roger Rockville.

That was grist at once to the mill of the able lawyer Daredeville. He looked on, and rubbed his hands. Warrants were speedily issued by the baronets of Bullockshed and Tenterhook, for the apprehension of the individuals who had been seen carrying off the notice-boards, for larceny, and against a number of others for trespass. There was plenty of work for Daredeville and his brethren of the robe; but it all ended, after the flying about of sundry mandamuses and assize trials, in Sir Roger finding that though Rockville was his, the roads through it were the public's.

As Sir Roger drove homeward from the assize, which finally settled the question of these footpaths, he heard the bells in all the steeples of Great Stockington burst forth with a grand peal of triumph. He closed first the windows of his fine old carriage, and sunk into a corner; but he could not drown the intolerable sound. "But," said he, "I'll stop their picnic-ing. I'll stop their fishing. I'll have hold of them for trespassing and poaching!" There was war henceforth between Rockville and Great Stockington.

On the very next Sunday there came literally thousands of the jubilant Stockingtonians to Rockville. They had brought baskets, and were for dining, and drinking success to all footpaths. But in the great grove there were keepers, and watchers, who warned them to keep the path, that narrow well-worn line up the middle of the grove. "What! were they not to sit on the grass?"—"No!"—"What! were they not to picnic?"—"No! not there!"

The Stockingtonians felt a sudden damp on their spirits. But the river bank! The cry was "To the river bank! There they would picnic." The crowd rushed away down the wood, but on the river bank they found a whole regiment of watchers, who pointed again to the narrow line of footpath, and told them not to trespass beyond it. But the islands! they went over to the islands. But there too were Sir Roger's forces, who warned them back! There was no road there—all found there would be trespassers, and be duly punished.

The Stockingtonians discovered that their triumph was not quite so complete as they had flattered themselves. The footpaths were theirs, but that was all. Their ancient license was at an end. If they came there, there was no more fishing; if they came in crowds, there was no more picnic-ing; if they walked through the woods in numbers, they must keep to Indian file, or they were summoned before the county magistrates for trespass, and were soundly fined; and not even the able Daredeville would undertake to defend them.

The Stockingtonians were chopfallen, but they were angry and dogged; and They thronged up to the village and the front of the hall. They filled the little inn in the hamlet-they went by scores, and roving all over the churchyard, read epitaphs

That teach the rustic moralists to die,

but don't teach them to give up their old indulgences very good-humoredly. They went and sat in rows on the old churchyard wall, opposite to the very windows of the irate Sir Roger. They felt themselves beaten, and Sir Roger felt himself beaten. True, he could coerce them to the keeping of the footpaths—but, then, they had the footpaths! True, thought the Stockingtonians, we have the footpaths, but then the picnic-ing, and the fishing, and the islands! The Stockingtonians were full of sullen wrath, and Sir Roger was—oh, most expressive old Saxon phrase—HAIRSORE! Yes, he was one universal round of vexation and jealousy of his rights. Every hair in his body was like a pin sticking into him. Come within a dozen yards of him; nay, at the most, blow on him, and he was excruciated—you rubbed his sensitive hairs at a furlong's distance.

The next Sunday the people found the churchyard locked up, except during service, when beadles walked there, and desired them not to loiter and disturb the congregation, closing the gates, and showing them out like a flock of sheep the moment the service was over. This was fuel to the already boiling blood of Stockington. The week following, what was their astonishment to find a much frequented ruin gone! it was actually gone! not a trace of it; but the spot where it had stood for ages, turfed, planted with young spruce trees, and fenced off with post and rail! The exasperated people now launched forth an immensity of fulminations against the churl Sir Roger, and a certain number of them resolved to come and seat themselves in the street of the hamlet and there dine; but a terrific thunderstorm, which seemed in league with Sir Roger, soon routed them, drenched them through, and on attempting to seek shelter in the cottages, the poor people said they were very sorry, but it was as much as their holdings were worth, and they dare not admit them.

Sir Roger had triumphed! It was all over with the old delightful days at Rockville. There was an end of picnic-ing, of fishing, and of roving in the islands. One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton, indeed, dared to fling a line from the banks of Rockville grove, but Sir Roger came upon him and endeavored to seize him. The man coolly walked into the middle of the river, and, without a word, continued his fishing.

"Get out there!" exclaimed Sir Roger, "that is still on my property." The man walked through the river to the other bank, where he knew that the land was rented by a farmer. "Give over," shouted Sir Roger, "I tell you the water is mine."

"Then," said the fellow, "bottle it up, and be hanged to you! Don't you see it is running away to Stockington?"

There was bad blood between Rockville and Stockington-green. Stockington was incensed, and Sir Roger was hairsore.

A new nuisance sprung up. The people of Stockington looked on the cottagers of Rockville as sunk in deepest darkeness under such a man as Sir Roger and his cousin the vicar. They could not picnic, but they thought they could hold a camp-meeting; they could not fish for roach, but they thought they might for souls. Accordingly there assembled crowds of Stockingtonians on the green of Rockville, with a chair and a table, and a preacher with his head bound in a red handkerchief; and soon there was a sound of hymns, and a zealous call to come out of the darkness of the spiritual Babylon. But this was more than Sir Roger could bear; he rushed forth with all his servants, keepers, and cottagers, overthrew the table, and routing the assembly, chased them to the boundary of his estate.

The discomfited Stockingtonians now fulminated awful judgments on the unhappy Sir Roger, as a persecutor and a malignant. They dared not enter again on his park, but they came to the very verge of it, and held weekly meetings on the highway, in which they sang and declaimed as loudly as possible, that the winds might bear their voices to Sir Roger's ears.

To such a position was now reduced the last of the long line of Rockville. The spirit of a policeman had taken possession of him. He had keepers and watchers out on all sides, but they did not satisfy him. He was perpetually haunted with the idea that poachers were after his game, that trespassers were in his woods. His whole life was now spent in stealing to and fro in his fields and plantations, and prowling along his river side. He looked under hedges, and watched for long hours under the forest trees. If any one had a curiosity to see Sir Roger, they had only to enter his fields by the wood side, and wander a few yards from the path, and he was almost sure to spring out over the hedge, and in angry tones demand their name and address. The descendant of the chivalrous and steelclad De Rockvilles was sunk into a restless spy on his own ample property. There was but one idea in his mind—encroachment. It was destitute of all other furniture but the musty technicalities of warrants and commitments. There was a stealthy and skulking manner in everything that he did. He went to church on Sundays, but it was no longer by the grand iron gate opposite to his house, that stood generally with a large spider's web woven over the lock, and several others in different corners of the fine iron tracery, bearing evidence of the long period since it had been opened. How different to the time when the Sir Roger and the Lady of Rockville had had these gates thrown wide on a Sunday morning, and with all their train of household servants after their back, with true antique dignity, marched with much proud humility into the house of God. Now, Sir Roger—the solitary, suspicious, undignified Sir Roger, the keeper and policeman of his own property—stole in at a little side gate from his paddock, and back the same way, wondering all the time whether there was not somebody in his pheasant preserves, or Sunday trespassers in his grove.

If you entered his house it gave you as cheerless a feeling as its owner. There was the conservatory, so splendid with rich plants and flowers in his mothers time—now a dusty receptacle of hampers, broken hand-glasses, and garden tools. These tools could never be used, for the gardens were grown wild. Tall grass grew in the walks, and the huge unpruned shrubs disputed the passage with you. In the wood above the gardens, reached by several flights of fine, but now moss-grown, steps, there stood a pavilion, once clearly very beautiful. It was now damp and ruinous-its walls covered with greenness and crawling insects. It was a great lurking-place of Sir Roger when on the watch for poachers.

The line of the Rockvilles was evidently running fast out. It had reached the extremity of imbecility and contempt—it must soon reach its close.

Sir Roger used to make his regular annual visit to town; but of late, when there, he had wandered restlessly about the streets, peeping into the shop-windows; and if it rained, standing under entries for hours after, till it was gone over. The habit of lurking and peering about was upon him; and his feet bore him instinctively into those narrow and crowded alleys where swarm the poachers of the city—the trespassers and anglers in the game preserves and streams of humanity. He had lost all pleasure in his club; the most exciting themes of political life retained no piquancy for him. His old friends ceased to find any pleasure in him. He was become the driest of all dry wells. Poachers, and anglers, and Methodists, haunted the wretched purlieus of his fast fading-out mind, and he resolved to go to town no more. His whole nature was centered in his woods. He was forever on the watch; and when at Rockville again, if he heard a door clap when in bed, he thought it a gun in his woods, and started up, and was out with his keepers.

Of what value was that magnificent estate to him?—those superb woods; those finely-hanging cliffs; that clear and riant river coming traveling on, and taking a noble sweep below his windows—that glorious expanse of neat verdant meadows, stretching almost to Stockington, and enlivened by numerous herds of the most beautiful cattle—those old farms and shady lanes overhung with hazel and wild rose; the glittering brook, and the songs of woodland birds—what were they to that worn-out old man, that victim of the delusive doctrine of blood, of the man-trap of an hereditary name?

There the poet could come, and feel the presence of divinity in that noble scene, and hear sublime whispers in the trees, and create new heavens and earths from the glorious chaos of nature around him, and in one short hour live an empyrean of celestial life and love. There could come the very humblest children of the plebeian town, and feel a throb of exquisite delight pervade their bosoms at the sight of the very flowers on the sod, and see heaven in the infinite blue above them. And poor Sir Roger, the holder, but not the possessor of all, walked only in a region of sterility, with no sublimer ideas than poachers and trespassers-no more rational enjoyment than the brute indulgence of hunting like a ferret, and seizing his fellow-men like a bulldog. He was a specimen of human nature degenerated, retrograded from the divine to the bestial, through the long operating influences of false notions and institutions, continued beyond their time. He had only the soul of a keeper. Had he been only a keeper, he had been a much happier man.

His time was at hand. The severity which he had long dealt out toward all sorts of offenders made him the object of the deepest vengeance. In a lonely hollow of his woods, watching at midnight with two of his men, there came a sturdy knot of poachers. An affray ensued. The men perceived that their old enemy, Sir Roger, was there: and the blow of a hedge-stake stretched him on the earth. His keepers fled—and thus ignominiously terminated the long line of the Rockvilles. Sir Roger was the last of his line, but not of his class. There is a feudal art of sinking, which requires no study; and the Rockvilles are but one family among thousands who have perished in its practice.



CHAPTER II.

In Great Stockington there lived a race of paupers. From the year of the 42d of Elizabeth, or 1601, down to the present generation, this race maintained an uninterrupted descent. They were a steady and unbroken line of paupers, as the parish books testify. From generation to generation their demands on the parish funds stand recorded. There were no lacunae in their career; there never failed an heir to these families; fed on the bread of idleness and legal provision, these people flourished, increased and multiplied. Sometimes compelled to work for the weekly dole which they received, they never acquired a taste for labor, or lost the taste for the bread for which they did not labor. These paupers regarded this maintenance by no means as a disgrace. They claimed it as a right,—as their patrimony. They contended that one-third of the property of the Church had been given by benevolent individuals for the support of the poor, and that what the Reformation wrongfully deprived them of, the great enactment of Elizabeth rightfully—and only rightfully—restored.

Those who imagine that all paupers merely claimed parish relief because the law ordained it, commit a great error. There were numbers who were hereditary paupers, and that on a tradition carefully handed down, that they were only manfully claiming their own. They traced their claims from the most ancient feudal times, when the lord was as much bound to maintain his villein in gross, as the villein was to work for the lord. These paupers were, in fact, or claimed to be, the original adscripti glebae, and to have as much a claim to parish support as the landed proprietor had to his land. For this reason, in the old Catholic times, after they had escaped from villenage by running away and remaining absent from their hundred for a year and a day, dwelling for that period in a walled town, these people were amongst the most diligent attendants at the Abbey doors, and when the Abbeys were dissolved, were, no doubt, amongst the most daring of these thieves, vagabonds, and sturdy rogues, who, after the Robin Hood fashion, beset the highways and solitary farms of England, and claimed their black mail in a very unceremonious style. It was out of this class that Henry VIII. hanged his seventy-two thousand during his reign, and, as it is said, without appearing materially to diminish their number.

That they continued to "increase, multiply, and replenish the earth," overflowing all bounds, overpowering by mere populousness all the severe laws against them of whipping, burning in the hand, in the forehead or in the breast, and hanging, and filling the whole country with alarm, is evident by the very act itself of Elizabeth.

Amongst these hereditary paupers who, as we have said, were found in Stockington, there was a family of the name of Deg. This family had never failed to demand and enjoy what it held to be its share of its ancient inheritance. It appeared from the parish records, that they had practiced in different periods the crafts of shoemaking, tailoring, and chimney-sweeping; but since the invention of the stocking-frame, they had, one and all of them, followed the profession of stocking weavers, or as they were there called, stockingers. This was a trade which required no extreme exertion of the physical or intellectual powers. To sit in a frame, and throw the arms to and fro, was a thing that might either be carried to a degree of extreme diligence, or be let down into a mere apology for idleness. An "idle stockinger" was there no very uncommon phrase, and the Degs were always classed under that head. Nothing could be more admirably adapted than this trade for building a plan of parish relief upon. The Degs did not pretend to be absolutely without work, or the parish authorities would soon have set them to some real labor,—a thing that they particularly recoiled from, having a very old adage in the family, that "hard work was enough to kill a man." The Degs were seldom, therefore out of work, but they did not get enough to meet and tie. They had but little work if the times were bad, and if they were good, they had large families, and sickly wives or children. Be times what they would, therefore, the Degs were due and successful attendants at the parish pay-table. Nay, so much was this a matter of course, that they came at length not even trouble themselves to receive their pay, but sent their young children for it; and it was duly paid. Did any parish officer, indeed, turn restive, and decline to pay a Deg, he soon found himself summoned before a magistrate, and such pleas of sickness, want of work, and poor earnings brought up, that he most likely got a sharp rebuke from the benevolent but uninquiring magistrate, and acquired a character for hard-heartedness that stuck to him.

So parish overseers learnt to let the Degs alone; and their children regularly brought up to receive the parish money for their parents, were impatient as they grew up to receive it for themselves. Marriages in the Deg family were consequently very early, and there were plenty of instances of married Degs claiming parish relief under the age of twenty, on the plea of being the parent of two children. One such precocious individual being asked by a rather verdant officer why he had married before he was able to maintain a family, replied, in much astonishment, that he had married in order to maintain himself by parish assistance. That he never had been able to maintain himself by his labor, nor ever expected to do it; his only hope, therefore, lay in marrying, and becoming the father of two children, to which patriarchal rank he had now attained, and demanded his "pay."

Thus had lived and flourished the Degs on their ancient patrimony, the parish, for upward of two hundred years. Nay, we have no doubt whatever that, if it could have been traced, they had enjoyed an ancestry of paupers as long as the pedigree of Sir Roger Rockville himself. In the days of the most perfect villenage, they had, doubtless, eaten the bread of idleness, and claimed it as a right. They were numerous, improvident, ragged in dress, and fond of an alehouse and of gossip. Like the blood of Sir Roger, their blood had become peculiar through a long persistence of the same circumstances. It was become pure pauper blood. The Degs married, if not entirely among Degs, yet amongst the same class. None but a pauper would dream of marrying a Deg. The Degs, therefore, were in constitution, in mind, in habit, and in inclination, paupers. But a pure and unmixed class of this kind does not die out like an aristocratic stereotype. It increases and multiplies. The lower the grade, the more prolific, as is sometimes seen on a large and even national scale. The Degs threatened, therefore, to become a most formidable clan in the lower purlieus of Stockington, but luckily there is so much virtue even in evils, that one, not rarely, cures another. War, the great evil, cleared the town of Degs.

Fond of idleness, of indulgence, of money easily got, and as easily spent, the Degs were rapidly drained off by recruiting parties during the last war. The young men enlisted, and were marched away; the young women married soldiers that were quartered in the town from time to time, and marched away with them. There were, eventually, none of the once numerous Degs left except a few old people, whom death was sure to draft off at no distant period with his regiment of the line which has no end. Parish overseers, magistrates, and master manufacturers, felicitated themselves at this unhoped-for deliverance from the ancient family of the Degs.

But one cold, clear, winter evening, the east wind piping its sharp sibilant ditty in the bare shorn hedges, and poking its sharp fingers into the sides of well broad-clothed men by the way of passing jest, Mr. Spires, a great manufacturer of Stockington, driving in his gig some seven miles from the town, passed a poor woman with a stout child on her back. The large ruddy-looking man in the prime of life, and in the great coat and thick worsted gloves of a wealthy traveler, cast a glance at the wretched creature trudging heavily on, expecting a pitiful appeal to his sensibilities, and thinking it a bore to have to pull off a glove and dive into his pocket for a copper; but to his surprise there was no demand, only a low courtesy, and the glimpse of a face of singular honesty of expression, and of excessive weariness.

Spires was a man of warm feelings; he looked earnestly at the woman, and Thought he had never seen such a picture of fatigue in his life. He pulled up and said,

"You seem very tired, my good woman."

"Awfully tired, sir."

"And are you going far to-night?"

"To Great Stockington, sir, if God give me strength."

"To Stockington!" exclaimed Mr. Spires. "Why, you seem ready to drop. You'll never reach it. You'd better stop at the next village."

"Ay, sir, it's easy stopping, for those that have money."

"And you've none, eh?"

"As God lives, sir, I've a sixpence, and that's all."

Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket, and held out to her, the next instant, half-a-crown.

"There stop, poor thing—make yourself comfortable—it's quite out of the question to reach Stockington. But stay—are your friends living in Stockington—what are you?"

"A poor soldier's widow, sir. And may God Almighty bless you!" said the poor woman, taking the money, the tears standing in her large brown eyes as she courtesied very low.

"A soldier's widow!" said Mr. Spires. She had touched the softest place in the manufacturer's heart, for he was a very loyal man, and vehement champion of his country's honor in the war. "So young," said he, "how did you lose your husband?"

"He fell, sir," said the poor woman; but she could get no further; she suddenly caught up the corner of her gray cloak, covered her face with it, and burst into an excess of grief.

The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman a blow by his careless question; he sat watching her for a moment in silence, and then said, "Come, get into the gig, my poor woman; come, I must see you to Stockington."

The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily climbed into the gig, expressing her gratitude in a very touching and modest manner. Spires buttoned the apron over her, and taking a look at the child, said in a cheerful tone to comfort her, "Bless me, but that is a fine thumping fellow, though. I don't wonder that you are tired, carrying such a load."

The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparently two years old, to her breast, as if she felt it a great blessing and no load: the gig drove rapidly on.

Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversation.

"So you are from Stockington?"

"No, sir, my husband was."

"So: what was his name?"

"John Deg, sir."

"Deg?" said Mr. Spires. "Deg, did you say?"

"Yes, sir."

The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off toward his own side of the gig, gave another look at her, and was silent. The poor woman was somewhat astonished at his look and movement, and was silent too.

After awhile Mr. Spires said again, "And do you hope to find friends in Stockington? Had you none where you came from?"

"None, sir, none in the world!" said the poor woman, and again her feelings seemed too strong for her. At length she added, "I was in service, sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married; my mother only was living, and while I was away with my husband, she died. When-when the news came from abroad—that when I was a widow, sir, I went back to my native place, and the parish officers said I must go to my husband's parish lest I and my child should become troublesome."

"You asked relief of them?"

"Never; Oh, God knows, no, never! My family have never asked a penny of a parish. They would die first, and so would I, sir; but they said I might do it, and I had better go to my husband's parish at once—and they offered me money to go."

"And you took it, of course?"

"No, sir; I had a little money, which I had earned by washing and laundering, and I sold most of my things, as I could not carry them, and came off. I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against the treatment of the parish, and I thought I should be better amongst my friends—and my child would, if anything happened to me; I had no friends of my own."

Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence. "Did your husband tell you anything of his friends? What sort of a man was he?"

"Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir; but not bad to me. He always said his friends were well off in Stockington."

"He did!" said the manufacturer, with a great stare, and as if bolting the words from his heart in a large gust of wonder.

The poor woman again looked at him with a strange look. The manufacturer Whistled to himself, and giving his horse a smart cut with the whip, drove on faster than ever. The night was fast settling down; it was numbing cold; a gray fog rose from the river as they thundered over the old bridge; and tall engine chimneys, and black smoky houses loomed through the dusk before them. They were at Stockington.

As they slackened their pace up a hill at the entrance of the town, Mr. Spires again opened his mouth.

"I should be sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Deg," he said, "but I have my fears that you are coming to this place with false expectations. I fear your husband did not give you the truest possible account of his family here."

"Oh, sir! what—what is it?" exclaimed the poor woman; "in God's name, tell me!"

"Why, nothing more than this," said the manufacturer, "that there are very few of the Degs left here. They are old, and on the parish, and can do nothing for you."

The poor woman gave a deep sigh, and was silent.

"But don't be cast down," said Mr. Spires. He would not tell her what a pauper family really was, for he saw that she was a very feeling woman, and he thought she would learn that soon enough. He felt that her husband had from vanity given her a false account of his connections; and he was really sorry for her.

"Don't be cast down," he went on; "you can wash and iron, you say; you are young and strong: those are your friends. Depend on them, and they'll be better friends to you than any other."

The poor woman was silent, leaning her head down on her slumbering child, and crying to herself; and thus they drove on, through many long and narrow streets, with gas flaring from the shops, but with few people in the streets, and these hurrying shivering along the pavement, so intense was the cold. Anon they stopped at a large pair of gates; the manufacturer rung a bell, which he could reach from his gig, and the gates presently were flung open, and they drove into a spacious yard, with a large handsome house, having a bright lamp burning before it, on one side of the yard, and tall warehouses on the other.

"Show this poor woman and her child to Mrs. Craddock's, James," said Mr. Spires, "and tell Mrs. Craddock to make them very comfortable; and if you will come to my warehouse to-morrow," added he, addressing the poor woman, "perhaps I can be of some use to you."

The poor woman poured out her heartfelt thanks, and following the old man-servant, soon disappeared, hobbling over the pebbly pavement with her living load, stiffened almost to stone by her fatigue and her cold ride.

We must not pursue too minutely our narrative Mrs. Deg was engaged to do the washing and getting up of Mr. Spires' linen, and the manner in which she executed her task insured her recommendations to all their friends. Mrs. Deg was at once in full employ. She occupied a neat house in a yard near the meadows below the town, and in those meadows she might be seen spreading out her clothes to whiten on the grass, attended by her stout little boy. In the same yard lived a shoemaker, who had two or three children of about the same age as Mrs. Deg's child. The children, as time went on, became playfellows. Little Simon might be said to have the free run of the shoemaker's house, and he was the more attracted thither by the shoemaker's birds, and by his flute, on which he often played after his work was done.

Mrs. Deg took a great friendship for this shoemaker; and he and his wife, a quiet, kind-hearted woman, were almost all the acquaintances that she cultivated. She had found out her husband's parents, but they were not of a description that at all pleased her. They were old and infirm, but they were of the true pauper breed, a sort of person whom Mrs. Deg had been taught to avoid and to despise. They looked on her as a sort of second parish, and insisted that she should come and live with them, and help to maintain them out of her earnings. But Mrs. Deg would rather her little boy had died than have been familiarized with the spirit and habits of those old people. Despise them she struggled hard not to do, and she agreed to allow them sufficient to maintain them on condition that they desisted from any further application to the parish. It would be a long and disgusting story to recount all the troubles, annoyance, and querulous complaints, and even bitter accusations that she received from these connections, whom she could never satisfy; but she considered it one of the crosses in her life, and patiently bore it, seeing that they suffered no real want, so long as they lived, which was for years; but she would never allow her little Simon to be with them alone.

The shoemaker neighbor was a stout protection to her against the greedy demands of these old people, and of others of the old Degs, and also against another class of inconvenient visitors, namely, suitors, who saw in Mrs. Deg a neat and comely young woman, with a flourishing business and a neat and soon well-furnished house, a very desirable acquisition. But Mrs. Deg had resolved never again to marry, but to live for her boy, and she kept her resolve in firmness and gentleness.

The shoemaker often took walks in the extensive town meadows, to gather groundsell and plantain for his canaries and gorse-linnets, and little Simon Deg delighted to accompany him with his own children. There William Watson, the shoemaker, used to point out to the children the beauty of the flowers, the insects, and other objects of nature; and while he sat on a style and read in a little old book of poetry, as he often used to do, the children sat on the summer grass, and enjoyed themselves in a variety of plays.