In 1609, Robinson with his people removed to Leyden, where he spent the remainder of his days, building up the church in the truth, laying broad and deep in the minds of the Pilgrim fathers the principles which fitted them to become the founders of America's future greatness, and writing those works which constitute his noblest memorial, and have yet a mission to fulfil in our own and succeeding ages.

The fame of Robinson rests principally on three things: first, his relation to the pilgrims; secondly, his personal and public character; and lastly, the force—we had almost said genius—displayed in his various publications. The peculiarity of Robinson's character may be described by one word, completeness—totus atque teres rotundus. The united testimony of admirers and opponents witnesses his integrity, purity, courtesy, prudence, and charity. But he possessed other qualities. He was chiefly distinguished by what we venture to call a very rare characteristic, in the sense in which we understand it,—an intense love of truth, which ever stimulated him to search after it as the chief part of his being's aim and end, and which never permitted him to swerve a hair's breath from it in practice. This made him a nonconformist, a separatist, an exile, an independent; a growing Christian, a profound theologian, an able controversialist; a student at Leyden University, although he had previously graduated and held a fellowship at Cambridge; a diligent attendant on the lectures of both Polyander and Episcopus, at the time when all Leyden was agitated by the rival theories of the two professors on the subject of Arminianism; and an avowed advocate of the principle, that though Christian men were confirmed in their own doctrinal and ecclesiastical principles, it was their duty to hear what their opponents had to say, even if it should lead them to the parish church.

This love of truth was both a principle and a passion. It grew with his growth, strengthened with his strength, and was the chief source of all his excellence. It made him learned in a learned age, and wise in the knowledge of human nature and the experience of the world, at a period when such wisdom was rare. It fitted him to be the counsellor of his fellow-exiles in the emergencies of their strange position, and the statesman-like adviser of the pilgrims when they went forth to clear the wilderness, and lay the foundations of civil life afresh in a new world. In a word, he may be said to have lived in the spirit of his own aphorism;—"He that knows not in his measure, what he ought to know, especially in the matters of God, is but a beast amongst men; he that knows what is simply needful and no more, is a man amongst men; but he who knows according to the help vouchsafed him of God, what may well be known, and so far as to direct himself and others aright, is as a God amongst men."

It is impossible to do justice to the writings of Robinson in a brief notice like the present: yet it is on these writings that we are disposed chiefly to rest his claims to future regard. They are not like those of Milton, "one perfect field of cloth of gold;" nor like those of Taylor, enlivened by figures and images that captivate the fancy and impress the heart; but they have what to some possesses an equal charm, in the full orbed light they cast on some of the most abstruse doctrines, and on some of the most controverted questions of revealed and practical religion. Excepting a few obsolete expressions here and there, the language is perfectly clear and comprehensible after more than two centuries; indeed, more clear and comprehensible to ordinary readers than that which pervades a large portion of the so-called elegant literature of the past and present age. It is the language of Shakspeare and Bacon, without the measure of the one, or the involution of the other—that language which has ever been the vernacular of the people of this country, and to which our best writers are coming back—clear, terse, good old English.

Some may take exception to the form of these writings, because they are chiefly controversial; but no objection can be more futile. England is glorious through controversy, and nowhere has her mind put on more of might than on the battle-field of truth. Her greatest works are in this very form. What were left to us of the Hookers and Barrows, Taylors and Miltons, if their controversial writings were excepted? and, indeed, what would become of our Nonconformist literature itself, if this objection were allowed a practical weight. Whosoever would have knowledge respecting doctrines and principles still unsettled, in religion or in science, must seek it in such debate or be altogether disappointed. Nowhere will the nonconformists and dissenters find more of truth—and in some particulars of new truth—in relation to their own principles and duties, than in these volumes. Even the independents have still much to learn from this master in Israel. While on some points we hold Robinson to have been altogether wrong; on others—and these not trivial, but important points—we hold that he is nearly as much in advance of the present age as he was of his own, because he adheres more closely than even religious men are ordinarily wont to do, to the spirit and genius of those older Scriptures which have yet to liberate a world from all but invulnerable superstitions.

Besides the Memoir, the first of the volumes before us contains an account of the descendants of Robinson, from the pen of Dr. Allen, of Northampton, Massachusetts, from which it appears that they are "very numerous, scattered over New England and other States of the Union, and occupying respectable and useful stations in life." Then come "New Essays; or Observations, Divine and Moral, collected out of the Holy Scriptures, ancient and modern writers, both divine and human; as also out of the great volume of men's manners; tending to the furtherance of knowledge and virtue." We give the title in full, because it is the best and briefest description we can give of the work itself. The most cursory perusal is sufficient to show the erudition of the author, and a comparatively slight examination raises our estimation of his sagacity and wisdom. These essays, the last productions of his pen, are not unworthy of circulation with those of Lord Bacon, of which they frequently remind us by apt allusions, sententious definitions, clear-headed distinctions, and sharp antitheses, no less than by profound insight into the workings of human nature. We had marked passages for quotation, which our limits will not permit. One, however, we must cite, for the incidental light it throws on the character of Robinson as a speaker and preacher. We are not aware that any of his contemporaries have remarked upon the peculiarity thus disclosed; but it accords with the judgment otherwise formed of the man. In an essay entitled, "Of Speech and Silence," containing the pith and marrow of all Carlyle has written on the subject, without any of his exaggeration, we have:

"Both length and shortness of speech may be used commendably in their time; as mariners sometimes sail with larger spread, and sometimes with narrower-gathered sails. But as some are large in speech out of abundance of matter, and upon due consideration; so the most multiply words, either from weakness or vanity. Wise men suspect and examine their words ere they suffer them to pass from them, and to speak the more sparingly; but fools pour out theirs by talents, without fear or wit. Besides, wise men speak to purpose, and so have but something to say: the others speak every thing of every thing, and, therefore, take liberty to use long wanderings. Lastly, they think to make up that in number, or repetition of words, which is wanting in weight. But above all other motives, some better, some worse, too many love to hear themselves speak; and imagining vainly that they please others, because they please themselves, make long orations when a little were too much. Some excuse their tediousness, saying, that they cannot speak shorter; wherein they both say untruly, and shame themselves also; for it is all one as if they said that they have unbridled tongues, and inordinate passions setting them a-work. I have been many times drawn so dry, that I could not well speak any longer for want of matter: but I ever could speak as short as I would."

The remainder of this volume is occupied by "A Defence of the Doctrine propounded by the Synod at Dort", able, full of close reasoning and Scripture exposition, and worthy of careful perusal, whether the conclusions be admitted or not.

The second volume is occupied with Robinson's greatest controversial work, "A Justification of Separation from the Church of England," &c. It is elaborate and complete; and, besides vindicating the separatists of that day, pronounces on many questions on which dissenters have yet to make up their minds. In this work he classes himself with the Brownists; from which it may be inferred, that his advice to the pilgrims, to "shake off the name of Brownist," is not to be interpreted very largely, as has sometimes been the case. It is the name that he chiefly abjures. The following passage from the introduction to this performance will illustrate the manner in which Robinson vindicated his co-religionists from the misrepresentations of that age:

"The difference you lay down touching the proper subject of the power of Christ, is true in itself, and only yours wherein it is corruptly related, and especially in the particular concerning us, as, that where 'the Papists plant the ruling power of Christ in the Pope; the Protestants in the Bishops; the Puritans,' as you term the reformed churches and those of their mind 'in the Presbytery;' we whom you name 'Brownists,' put it in the 'body of the congregation, the multitude called the church:' odiously insinuating against us that we do exclude the elders in the case of government, where, on the contrary, we profess the bishops or elders to be the only ordinary governors in the church, as in all other actions of the church's communion, so also in the censures. Only we may not acknowledge them for lords over God's heritage, (1 Pet. v. 3,) as you would make them, controlling all, but to be controlled by none; much less essential unto the church, as though it could not be without them; least of all the church itself, as you and others expound. (Matt. xviii.)"

The third volume contains four treatises and some shorter pieces, chiefly letters. The first treatise is the celebrated "Apology," originally published in Latin, in 1619, and afterwards translated into English by Robinson himself, although not published in the last form until 1625. It is to the use of the word "independently," in the first chapter, that some have attributed the origin of the name Independent, as the designation of the party of which Robinson was so eminent a member. It appears, however, that Jacob had used the same term, for the same purpose, as early as 1612; and the denominational title had become fixed before 1622, since Bishop Hall speaks of the "anarchical fashion of independent congregations" in one of his publications of that year. The principle of congregationalism, as opposed to nationalism and catholicism, is nowhere more fully established than in this admirable work.

The remaining treatises are on Religious Communion, Exercise of Prophecy, and the Lawfulness of Hearing Ministers of the Church of England. The first discriminates between personal and public fellowship, and lays down the position that the former is allowable between all Christians, recognizing one another as such, whatever their differences respecting minor points and church polity. The second is a scriptural exposition of the subject of lay-preaching, as it is now termed. The third is a defence of those who occasionally, and merely for the sake of hearing, attend upon the ministrations of the established clergy. An appendix to this volume contains an interesting account of the congregational church in Southwark, of which Henry Jacob was the first pastor; by the present pastor, the Rev. John Waddington; a sketch of the exiles and their churches in Holland, by the editor; and an index of subjects and authors.

We cannot conclude this notice without congratulating the editor and his numerous coadjutors, on the satisfactory manner in which these volumes have been prepared for publication, and on the success that has attended the undertaking.

[The life of John Robinson of Leyden is more strictly a portion of American than of English history, and its suitable exhibition demands the best abilities that can be summoned to such service in this country, where, hitherto, the popular declamation of Puritan celebrations, it must be confessed, has evinced but a superficial acquaintance with Puritan intelligence, doctrine, or character.]

FOOTNOTES:

[18] The works of John Robinson, Pastor of the Pilgrim Fathers; with a Memoir and Annotations. By Robert Ashton, Secretary of the Congregational Board, London. Three volumes. London; 1851.



From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.

A CHAPTER ON CATS.

The newspapers have recently been chronicling, as a fact provocative of especial wonder, the enterprise of some speculative merchant of New-York, who has just been dispatching a cargo of one hundred cats to the republic of New Granada, in which it would appear the race, owing, as we may believe, to the frequently disturbed state of the country, has become almost extinct.

Your cat is a domestic animal, and naturally conservative in its tastes—averse, therefore, to uproar, and to all those given to change. Its propensities are to meditation and contemplative tranquillity, for which reason it has been held in reverence by nations of a similar staid and composed disposition, and has been the favorite companion and constant friend of grave philosophers and thoughtful students. By the ancient Egyptians cats were held in the highest esteem; and we learn from Diodorus Siculus, their "lives and safeties" were tendered more dearly than those of any other animal, whether biped or quadruped. "He who has voluntarily killed a consecrated animal," says this writer, "is punished with death; but if any one has even involuntarily killed a cat or an ibis, it is impossible for him to escape death: the mob drags him to it, treating him with every cruelty, and sometimes without waiting for judgment to be passed. This treatment inspires such terror, that, if any person happen to find one of these animals dead, he goes to a distance from it, and by his cries and groans indicates that he has found the animal dead. This superstition is so deeply rooted in the minds of the Egyptians, and the respect they bear these animals is so profound, that at the time when their king, Ptolemy, was not yet declared the friend of the Roman people—when they were paying all possible court to travellers from Italy, and their fears made them avoid every ground of accusation and every pretext for making war upon them—yet a Roman having killed a cat, the people rushed to his house, and neither the entreaties of the grandees, whom the king sent for the purpose, nor the terror of the Roman name, could protect this man from punishment, although the act was involuntary. I do not relate this anecdote," adds the historian, "on the authority of another, for I was an eye-witness of it during my stay in Egypt."[19]

During their lives, the consecrated cats were fed upon fish, kept for the purpose in tanks; and "when one of them happened to die," says the veracious writer just cited, "it was wrapped in linen, and after the bystanders had beaten themselves on the breast, it was carried to the Tarichoea, where it was embalmed with coedria and other substances which have the virtue of embalming bodies, after which it was interred in the sacred monument." It has puzzled not a little the learned archaeologists, who have endeavored to discover a profound philosophy figured and symbolized in the singular mythology of the Egyptians, to explain how it is that in Thebes, where the sacred character of the cat was held in the highest reverence, and cherished with the greatest devotion, not only embalmed cats have been found, but also the bodies of rats and mice, which had been subjected to the same anti-putrescent process. If, however, Herodotus is to be credited, the Egyptians owed a deep debt of gratitude to the mice; for the venerable historian assures us, and on the unquestionable authority of the Egyptian priests, that when Sennacherib and his army lay at Pelusium, a mighty corps of field-mice entered the camp by night, and eating up the quivers, bowstrings, and buckler-leathers of the Assyrian troops, in this summary fashion liberated Egypt from the terror of the threatened invasion. Probably the existence of mice-mummies may be accounted for in this way, and if—resorting to no violent supposition—we presume in the good work which the tiny patriots so sagaciously accomplished that their cousins-german the rats were assistant, the whole matter receives a satisfactory explanation. The hypothesis, it is submitted, is not without plausible recommendations on its behalf. There is extant a fragment of a comedy, entitled "The Cities," written by the Rhodian poet Anaxandrides, in which the Egyptian worship of animals is amusingly enough quizzed. A translation will be found in Dr. Prichard's Analysis of Egyptian Mythology. The lines referring to cat-worship are as follows:

"You cry and wail whene'er ye spy a cat, Starving or sick; I count it not a sin To hang it up, and flay it for its skin;"

from which it appears this gay free-thinker was not only somewhat skeptical in his religious notions, but, moreover, a hard-hearted, good-for-nothing fellow—one who, had he lived in our time, would unquestionably have brought himself within the sweep of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and the Duke of Beaufort's Humanity Act.

We learn from Herodotus that in his days it was customary, whenever a cat died, for the whole household at once to go into mourning, and this although the lamented decease might have been the result of old age, or other causes purely natural. In the case of a cat's death, however, the eyebrows only were required to be shaved off; but when a dog, a beast of more distinguished reputation, departed this life, every inmate of the house was expected to shave his head and whole body all over. Both cats and dogs are watched and attended to with the greatest solicitude during illness. Indeed by the ancient Egyptians the cat was treated much in the same way as are dogs amongst us: we find them even accompanying their masters on their aquatic shooting-excursions; and, if the testimony of ancient monuments is to be relied on, often catching the game for them, although it may be permitted to doubt whether they ever actually took to the water for this purpose.

In modern Egypt the cat, although more docile and companionable than its European sister, has much degenerated; but still, on account of its usefulness in destroying scorpions and other reptiles, it is treated with some consideration—suffered to eat out of the same dish with the children, to join with them in their sports, and to be their constant companion and daily friend. A modern Egyptian would esteem it a heinous sin, indeed, to destroy or even maltreat a cat; and we are told by Sir Gardner Wilkinson, that benevolent individuals have bequeathed funds by which a certain number of these animals are daily fed at Cairo at the Cadi's court, and the bazaar of Khan Khaleel.

But a tender regard for the inferior animals is a prevailing characteristic of the Oriental races, and is inculcated as a duty by their various religions. At Fez there was, and perhaps is at this day, a wealthily-endowed hospital, the greater part of the funds of which was devoted to the support and medical treatment of invalid cranes and storks, and procuring them a decent sepulture whenever they chanced to die. The founders are said to have entertained the poetical notion that these birds are, in truth, human beings, natives of distant islands, who at certain periods assume a foreign shape, and after they have satisfied their curiosity with visiting other lands, return to their own, and resume their original form.

To return, however, not to our sheep, but our cats, we must remark that, in modern times, in spite of the kindness the cat habitually receives in Egypt, his morale is not in that country rated very high—the universal impression being that, although, like Snug the joiner's lion, he is by nature "a very gentle beast," still he is by no means "of a good conscience;" that he is, in short, a most ungrateful beast; and that when, in a future state, it is asked of him how he has been treated by man in this, he will obstinately deny all the benefits he has received at his hand, and give him such a character for cruelty and hardness of heart as is shocking to think of. The dog, however, it is understood, will conduct himself more discreetly, and readily acknowledge the good offices for which he is indebted to the family of mankind.

Singular anecdotes have been related of the intense repugnance persons have been found to entertain to these, at worst, harmless animals. One shall be given in the very words of the Rev. Nicholas Wanley, who, in his authentic Wonders of the Little World, has recorded a number of other facts quite as marvellous, and sustained by testimony not one whit more exceptionable: "Mathiolus tells of a German, who coming in wintertime into an inn to sup with him and some other of his friends, the woman of the house being acquainted with his temper (lest he should depart at the sight of a young cat which she kept to breed up), had beforehand hid her kitling in a chest in the same room where we sat at supper. But though he had neither seen nor heard it, yet after some time that he had sucked in the air infected by the cat's breath, that quality of his temperament that had antipathy to that creature being provoked, he sweat, and, of a sudden, paleness came over his face, and to the wonder of us all that were present, he cried out that in some corner of the room there was a cat that lay hid." Not long after the battle of Wagram and the second occupation of Vienna by the French, an aide-de-camp of Napoleon, who at the time occupied, together with his suite, the Palace of Schoenbrunn, was proceeding to bed at an unusually late hour, when, on passing the door of Napoleon's bedroom, he was surprised by a most singular noise, and repeated calls from the Emperor for assistance. Opening the door hastily, and rushing into the room, a singular spectacle presented itself—the great soldier of the age, half undressed, his countenance agitated, the beaded drops of perspiration standing on his brow, in his hand his victorious sword, with which he was making frequent and convulsive lunges at some invisible enemy through the tapestry that lined the walls. It was a cat that had secreted herself in this place; and Napoleon held cats not so much in abhorrence as in terror. "A feather," says the poet, "daunts the brave;" and a greater poet, through the mouth of his Shylock, remarks that "there are some that are mad if they behold a cat—a harmless, necessary cat." Count Bertram would seem to have shared in this unaccountable aversion. When "Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist, that had the whole theory of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the shape of his dagger," was convicted of mendacity and cowardice, Bertram exclaimed, "I could endure any thing before this but a cat, and now he's a cat to me." The fores of censure could no further go.

If Napoleon, however, held cats, as has been averred, in positive fear, there have been others, and some of them illustrious captains, that have regarded them with other feelings. Marshall Turenne could amuse himself for hours in playing with his kittens; and the great general, Lord Heathfield, would often appear on the walls of Gibraltar, at the time of the famous siege, attended by his favorite cat. Cardinal Richelieu was also fond of cats; and when we have enumerated the names of Cowper and Dr. Johnson, of Thomas Gray and Isaac Newton, and, above all, of the tender-hearted and meditative Montaigne, the list is far from complete of those who have bestowed on the feline race some portion of their affections.

Butler, in his Hudibras, observes in an oft-quoted passage, that

"Montaigne, playing with his cat, Complains she thought him but an ass."

And the annotator on this passage, in explanation, adds, that "Montaigne in his Essays supposes his cat thought him a fool for losing his time in playing with her;" but, under favor, this is a misinterpretation of the essayist's sentiments, and something like a libel on the capacity of both himself and cat. Montaigne's words are: "When I play with my cat, who knows whether I do not make her more sport than she makes me? We mutually divert each other with our play. If I have my hour to begin or refuse, so also has she hers." Nobody who has read the striking essay in which these words appear could a moment misconceive their author's meaning. He is vindicating natural theology from the objections of some of its opponents, and in the course of his argument he takes occasion to dwell on the wonderful instincts, and almost rational sagacity of the inferior animals. We must, however, lament that, although he does full justice to the "half-reasoning elephant," to the aptitude and fidelity of the dog, to the marvellous economical arrangements of the bees, and even to the imitative capacity of the magpie, he pays no higher tribute to the merits of the cat than that she is as capable of being amused as himself, and like himself, too, has her periods of gravity when recreative sports are distasteful. Her social qualities he does not allude to, though he, so eminently social himself, could scarcely have failed to appreciate them.

In this country, at this time, cats have superseded parlor favorites decidedly less agreeable in their appearance, and infinitely more mischievous in their habits. Writing in the seventeenth century, Burton in his Anatomy of Melancholy, remarks that "Turkey gentlewomen, that are perpetual prisoners, still mewed up according to the custom of the place, have little else, beside their household business or to play with their children, to drive away time but to dally with their cats, which they have in delitiis, as many of our ladies and gentlewomen use monkeys and little dogs." It is not the least merit of the cat that it has banished from our sitting-rooms those frightful mimicries of humanity—the monkey tribe; and as to the little dogs Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, although we are not insensible to their many virtues and utilities, we care not to see them sleeping on our hearth-rugs, or reposing beside our work-tables.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] In the matter of fanaticism, the modern Egyptians, or rather the inhabitants of Alexandria, seem hardly to have degenerated from their ethnic "forbears" as we read in Mr. J. A. St. John's travels the account of a serious insurrection which broke out some years ago in that city, in consequence of certain Jews having taken up the butchers' trade, and having slain the meat with a knife having three instead of five nails in the handle!



From the Dublin University Magazine.

THE HEIRS OF RANDOLPH ABBEY.

I. THE MEETING IN THE STORM.

There was a wild storm out at sea—a storm by night—the winds and the waves had begun to lift up their voices just when the tumult of the world was hushed in the silent darkness, so that on the earth all was tranquillity, while the ocean raged in fury: it was as though that spirit of unrest which haunts the hearts of men, having been driven out of them by the charm of sleep, had taken refuge here among the boiling waters, and prepared to hold a frantic revel. The mad sea was a fitting field for such a guest, and the fierce sport they made together seemed designed for a mocking imitation of the stormy human passions, which convulsed the land by day.

There was a mimic war in heaven—the thunder, for artillery, and the shock of the electric clouds, like the meeting armies when fellow-mortals do battle for destruction; then the beautiful lightning was as the flashing hopes that gleam in at times on the darkness of the soul, and often blast it in the passing of their fatal brightness. The waves leapt, and rose, and sunk to rise no more, like men wrestling for happiness and finding a grave, and over as the tempest swept by the rain went with it, wildly weeping, as though its big, bursting drops were the frantic tears of an earthly despair.

In the midst of all this senseless strife, a ship went struggling helplessly. It was a piteous thing to see it, for it was so like a human being, straining every nerve to keep above whelming waves; strong as fate the billows bore it up towards the very heaven, then dashed it down, and trampled on it like a fallen enemy; but the stout old oak stood the shock, and as yet the good planks held together, though the danger was imminent, and not one on board expected to see the light of another day.

The scene on deck was very striking, for human nature was there stripped of all disguise and all self-deceit before the presence of death. Pride and ambition, ostentation and avarice—the fallacies of the world, the complacent lies of society, the hopes and griefs that were of earth alone—all unrealities, in short, had passed for these shivering, helpless beings, with the life that seemed receding from them—that hour of horror revealed them to themselves and to others: there would be no more smiling lips over blackest hearts; no more bold looks over craven spirits; those murderous waters, as they dashed them to and fro, wrung from them the very secrets of their souls.

There were some there who carried a fair name through the world, and won honor and praise for their virtuous living, that now shrieked out to the pitiless winds, the detail of crimes which had deformed their soul unseen. There were others who had seemed full of love to the beings who cherished them, and now stole the rope or the spar from their straining hands, that they might save themselves therewith whilst they left these to perish; but still, whatever shape the frenzy of that perishing crew might take, whether their cries were of remorse, or prayer, or impotent rage, but one desire and instinct seemed to animate them all—the desire into which every energy of their soul was gathered up and concentrated—for the mortal life that was being rent from their passionate grasp.

Life! life! it had been to many of them a torturer, full of anguish and disappointments—a hard taskmaster, driving them on from day to day with weary feet and heavy heart, as over arid deserts where no sweet waters were springing from the wells of human love, or friendship, to slake their thirst for sympathy; they had prayed for death, they had writhed in the power of this life, and sought to be rid of it, as a prisoner of his bonds,—and now, when the bubbling waves came sweeping over the deck to their very throat, there uprose in each heart such an intensity of love for it, that all other thoughts were swallowed up in this one burning wish. They cared not who perished round them, the dearest and the best; they cared not what torments it might bring them in the future, only let them not feel its warm breath departing from their lips, its throbbing from their heart.

Now, in the midst of all these beings hanging between life and death—maddened by their terror for the one, and their passion for the other—there were two who maintained a perfect serenity, and looked with quiet eye and smiling face, upon the boiling surge which threatened to ingulf them. The first of these was a young girl, who had been lashed to a mast, against which she leant quite motionless; she was one of those sweet spring flowers, whose bright and joyous aspect shows, that they have known only the sunshine of life's early day; no sorrow as yet had checked those bounding feet, that loved to spring so lightly over woodland paths, nor hushed the carol of that gladsome voice, which rivalled the summer bird in melody; cloudless and pure were her eyes as the sky at dawn—fresh the soul within her as the morning dew; the beauty of guilelessness, and of a heart at rest, shed a light around her which had an indescribable charm. It was a strange thing to see her there, looking out so serenely on the war of the elements; whilst others wept and raved, no sound was heard from her, and though strong men lay writhing at her feet in a paroxysm of terror, no thrill of fear shook her tender frame; calmly she stood, her white garments shining in the night, like the pure robes of some angel of peace; her sweet face shaded by the golden glory of her long flowing hair, her fair hands folded over her tranquil bosom, and a faint smile lingering on her parted lips, like the soft light of a reflected moonbeam, on the still waters of a lucid lake.

There was one there who, even in that hour of tumult and distress, could not choose but look on her in her marvellous tranquillity; he, like herself, was calm—the only other in all that trembling crew who faced death with indifference. But it was sufficient to look upon his countenance to read the secret of his silent courage; strange it was, indeed, that she—so young, so fair, so like a snow-white lily—should be ready to fall without a sigh into the embrace of the deadly corruption; but it was no marvel that this man should be well content to feel on his strong, passionate heart, the iron grasp which alone would still its beating. A noble face was his, bearing the marked evidence of a powerful mind, a resolute spirit, and a generous heart; but it was so sorrowfully stern, so deeply shadowed with the gloom of some great darkness which lay upon his soul, that it was plain the bitterness of life alone had engendered this recklessness of death.

They had never met before, these two. She was so young, and he already well-nigh past his prime, for he had numbered some forty years; yet now the attraction of a common sentiment drew them towards one another as though they had been kindred spirits. He was gazing intently upon her, when she turned her bright, candid eyes towards him, and smiled. She seemed willing to answer the question his looks were asking, concerning the reason of her fearlessness in this great peril. There was a momentary lull in the storm, and he suddenly walked towards her. It was no time for the courtesies of the world, and he did not hesitate to address her. "How is it that you alone can meet this appalling danger in such perfect calm?" She answered him at once, as frankly as he spoke, with a confiding, childlike smile upon her lips. "Because life, so far as I have known it, has been so happy and so beautiful, that I believe death must be more beautiful and happy still."

"What a marvellous doctrine; where can you have learned such untenable philosophy?"

"I do not know what philosophy means. I have but said what I have been taught by one who was my master. Life, which is a mystery, came to me unasked, and I found it a most joyful thing; if death, a deeper mystery, come alike unsought, why should I doubt it will be a yet more precious gift? But look!" she continued eagerly, "is it not true that the storm is abating?—the sailors are working cheerfully. Surely there is hope. Oh! say that it is so; for, though I do not dread death, because I believe that its gloom conceals some glorious joy, I do fear such passage to it as this—the actual pain, the horror of drowning, the sinking, choked and struggling, into that dark sea. Tell me, shall we live?"

"Yes," he answered slowly, as he looked around the scene, where all gave token that the tempest's wrath was spent. "I think, indeed, that the danger is over; I think that we are saved. You may hear it in the exulting of these trembling wretches who, but a few minutes since, were crawling on the deck in abject supplication. Well, they have what they asked, and soon they will curse the hour when their request was granted."

She looked at him with an innocent surprise in her large, clear eyes. She seemed to think him a being of a different nature from herself. At last she spoke. "And now, since we two alone seemed well content to die, when all others raved and shrieked for life, will you tell me why it was that you were thus willing to be done of earth; for I can see it was not because you believe, as I do, beauty, and goodness, and love in all things, however dark and strange they seem as yet?"

"And did your master teach you," he said, with a bitter smile, "that there is beauty in suffering?"

"Yes! in suffering, in pain, and death; for he said that beneath their stern aspect there lay hidden treasures that were immortal, blessings crowning us with stingless joy; but if you fear suffering, why do you not fear to die: they say there is a pang in dying?"

"You answered my question, and I must answer yours; but it were better for you not to know that such things can be in this world. I did not fear, or rather I courted, the last struggle, because I have found the agony of life sharper than the agony of death can be." He turned away abruptly, as he spoke, and seemed desirous to close the interview; and truly it was a strange conversation which had taken place between those two, in the midst of that fierce, stormy night, with the waters gaping open-mouthed for both their lives. It could not have occurred at all under other circumstances. Two strangers could not thus have told out their secret thoughts, had they not been driven by uncontrollable impulse to a close companionship, because of the communion of feeling which seemed to inspire both in that tremendous hour; but now that it was past, that they must re-enter on the ordinary routine of life, the words they had not scrupled to say to one another appeared to them both as some strange, wild dream. When they met again, it was as though they never had departed from the ordinary customs of society. Yet this brief conversation was destined to have a weighty influence on the lives of both of them.

Their next meeting was in the morning, when all traces of the midnight storm had passed away—when, brighter and more beautiful than ever before, the earth, and the sky, and the daylight seemed to the eyes that had looked on death so near. The passengers were all collected on deck once more, as they had been when the tempest was raging; but now it was that they might weep fears of delight as they felt the glow of the sunshine—that they might revel in the very throbbing of their pulses, which told how the warm life-blood was careering, unchecked, through their hearts.

Soon, however, the memory of their danger passed away, like a hateful dream, and they began, according to the nature of men, to occupy themselves, with a sort of unconscious interest, in the actual circumstances passing before them.

The ship in which they were embarked was bound, from the coast of Ireland to that of England. Her ultimate destination was a seaport town in Devon; but at present she had suddenly swerved from her course, and was making for the land just where a tract of richly-wooded country attracted the eye by the luxuriance of its vegetation, and the evident traces of that care and cultivation which are usually bestowed on the estate of a wealthy proprietor. The vessel hove-to within a short distance of the shore, and a boat was lowered. The captain informed any curious inquirers that it was for the accommodation of some of the passengers who were to disembark at the little fishing village now visible on the coast. He was still speaking, when the noble-looking man already mentioned came to take leave of him, and to thank him for his efforts in the storm of the previous night. He then passed with a quiet, stately step through the crowd of passengers, and went down into the boat which was to convey him to the shore. He did not fail, however, to look round anxiously for her, with whom he had become so strangely acquainted; and it was with evident regret that he quitted the ship without having seen her again. He had observed, during their short voyage, that she was under the protection of an elderly lady, who seemed, from a certain stiffness in her manners and appearance, to have occupied, at some time, the post of governess; but during the storm she had been so utterly prostrated by fear and bodily ailment, that she had abandoned all care of her charge. Even in the morning, when all danger was over, she appeared still too much stupefied to be of much service to the young girl; and both ladies were evidently fortunate in having a most efficient attendant in the old gray-haired man, whose primitive appearance and manner seemed to indicate that he was a country servant. The stranger was scarcely placed in the boat when, somewhat to his surprise and pleasure, he saw this old man carefully depositing the duenna of his young friend in a seat near him; and in another moment there was a light footfall on the ladder, a waving of white garments, and she was herself placed beside him, whilst the sailors, pushing off from the side of the vessel, made all speed towards the shore. Both turned round hastily, and their eyes met in a glance of recognition. "It would seem our destination is the same," said he, with a smile; "at least so far as the fishing village. After that, I cannot, indeed, hope it, for the path which leads to my abode is not one that many would seek to travel."

"Is your home near this?" she said eagerly. "I am so glad to hear it; for perhaps you can tell me something of this country, which is quite new to me."

"Most certainly I can," he answered. "I think I know every tree in the wood, and every flower in the valleys; my whole life, so to speak, has been passed in these localities."

"Then tell me, do you know Randolph Abbey?"

He started with a movement of the most uncontrollable agitation, and looked at her almost fiercely, as though he suspected the intention of her words; but her candid gaze disarmed him; he compressed his lips firmly, which had grown deadly white, and answered composedly: "I do know it well, most intimately; not only the Abbey, but its inhabitants; they have been my friends these many years."

"Then you must be mine also," she said gayly; "for I am myself a Randolph."

"I might have guessed it;" and he looked thoughtfully upon her.

"And you know them all—all the party I am going to meet?—for I was told I should find so many relations there."

"I think I am acquainted with every one who ever crossed the threshold of Randolph Abbey," he said with a faint smile; "from old Sir Michael himself down to the great wolfdog Philax, who guards the outer gate; and you are his niece, no doubt—the only child of his brother Edward."

"Yes, I am Lilias Randolph; did you know, then, that I was expected?"

"I have not been at the Abbey for some time," he answered, while an expression of deep pain passed across his face; "but I know that Sir Michael is collecting round him all his nearest heirs, that he may choose amongst them one to whom he shall leave the Abbey and estate, which he has the power of willing away to whom he pleases. I knew that he sent for you to complete the number."

"Very true, and that alone damps my pleasure in going to see my new relations, that this visit to my uncle is for such a purpose; however," she continued, laughing merrily, "with so many charming cousins as I believe I have to dispute the prize with me, I think I need not fear that it will fall to my share."

"Nevertheless, it were a fair possession," he said, turning round, and pointing to the beautiful shore they were rapidly approaching. "All those magnificent woods and green luxuriant fields, as far as your eye can reach, belong to Randolph Abbey."

She looked with some interest on the lands which had been the heritage of her ancestors; but soon withdrawing her eyes to gaze fixedly at him, she said with some earnestness: "You seem to know so much more of my family than I do myself, I should be thankful if you would give me some information respecting those I am about to meet. I do not even know how many cousins I have there. I have heard that I had several uncles, all of whom died, except Sir Michael, but I have never seen any of their children."

"Sir Michael had four brothers, of whom your father was the youngest, and his favorite. They all died, each leaving a child. The heirs of the three eldest have already been summoned to the Abbey, and now you will complete the party."

"But will you not describe them to me, and my uncle and aunt?—they are quite strangers to me."

"Describe them! I! impossible;" and his features, which had relaxed from their habitual sternness while he spoke to her, suddenly assumed an expression of severity which almost terrified her; the color mounted to her fair face, as she felt that, perhaps, her request had been unwarrantable to a perfect stranger. He saw her embarrassment, and instantly the smile of singular sweetness, which at times rendered his countenance almost beautiful, dispersed the passing shadow.

"You must excuse my abruptness," he said; "I have been so little accustomed of late to the society of such as you are; but, indeed, it were better you should go unbiased to receive your first impression of your relations. Did you say you had never seen any of them?"

"None. I have lived all my life with my old dear grandfather in Ireland, far from any town in the old house, among the wild green hills, which was my poor mother's home. I never saw either of my parents, but I have heard so much of her I seem quite to know her; my heart and spirit know her; whereas of my father, and his family, I know literally nothing."

"The time is at hand, then," he said, pointing to the beach; "there stands Sir Michael's carriage to convey you to the Abbey." She turned her sweet countenance with a timid, anxious look to the shore, and he gazed at her evidently with deep interest; suddenly he addressed her: "You wished me to describe your cousins to you, and I could not; but now, when I think that you are going quite alone amongst them all, I feel strangely tempted to give you one caution: think what you will of the others, and be as friendly with them as your heart prompts you, but beware of——." A name seemed trembling on his lips; he plainly struggled to utter it, and then some thought checked him. "No," he said, speaking more to himself than to her, "it were an act of blind, human policy to seek to shield her by any earthly scheming from the approach of evil; let her go, powerful in her own innocence and purity of heart; what better safeguard can she have than that deep guilelessness?" He saw that she gazed at him in astonishment as he spoke—"You will scarce regret," he continued, smiling, "that our acquaintance is drawing to a close; I must seem to have dealt very strangely by you; and I have yet a request to make before we part, which will, I fear, yet astonish you still more. Will you promise me not to mention to any individual whatever at Randolph Abbey that you have met me? you do not know my name, but they would recognize me by your description, and I earnestly desire I should not be spoken of amongst them." The fair, candid eyes assumed an expression of gravity.

"Pray do not ask me this, for I cannot endure concealments."

"That I can well believe," he answered. "I would fancy your young mind clear and limpid as the purest waters; but trust me, that I do not make the request without a reason you would yourself approve of; you would not wish to give pain to any one I know."

"Indeed I would not."

"Then you will not speak of me at Randolph Abbey, for by so doing you would cause acute suffering—not to me, but to another."

"That is quite enough; I will promise you to be silent, unless some unforeseen circumstance should compel me to speak of what has passed between us."

"I thank you much," he said; "and now here we part. You will excuse my not accompanying you to the carriage, as you have your servants, and I do not wish to be seen by Sir Michael's people." The boat had reached the shore; he leaped out and assisted her to disembark; then, still holding her hand for a moment, he looked at her with the strange, sweet smile which so beautified his face, and said—"I need scarcely say, all good be with you, for I feel it must be so. There are many stern natures in this world, but none cruel enough, I am sure, to betray so trusting a heart, or cause such cloudless eyes to grow dim in tears; you never will deceive or injure any, and, therefore, will deceits and wrong fall harmless round you. Your own frank and unsuspecting goodness will be as invincible armor upon you, and fear not, therefore, when you find yourself in the midst of the toils which crafty human nature spreads over life; walk on in truth and guilelessness, according as your own generous impulse dictates, and I do not doubt that the pure and gentle spirit of the woman will come forth unscathed, where many a stronger has been scorched and withered; for you will soon learn that the dangerous paths of this world are over hidden fires and by treacherous pitfalls."

With these strange words he left her before she had time to answer him; it seemed to her that what he had said was not intended as a mere general remark, but that it applied directly to herself, from some secret knowledge he possessed of her future prospects. She remained looking after him in astonishment, not unmixed with interest in one who seemed so strangely to have assumed the position of friend and counsellor towards her; the echo of his voice still ringing in her ears, so full of mournful sweetness, and the haunting melancholy of the eyes which had read her inmost soul, oppressed her with a feeling of sadness very new to her light heart. She saw him mount a horse which his servant held in readiness for him, and, in another instant, he had disappeared in the woods. With him, however, passed the cloud he had raised; a thousand new objects of interest were before her, and her eyes seemed to catch the very sunbeams as they passed, while her light feet bounded eagerly to the spot where Sir Michael's servants awaited her.

II. THE OLD MAN'S REVENGE ON THE DEAD.

In a small room, darkened by the deepening shadows of the twilight, sat a withered old man—looking infinitely more like a necromancer of some centuries back than an English baronet of the present day. The species of cell in which he sat was placed in the loftiest turret of Randolph Abbey, as far separated as possible from the apartments inhabited by the family. It was entirely filled with a variety of scientific instruments, which seemed to be in constant requisition; the quaint, old latticed window was thrown wide open, and a telescope fixed at it, in the proper position for a contemplation of the heavenly bodies by night. At the other end of the room was fixed an apparatus for chemical experiments, and here Sir Michael was seated, poring over some liquid which he was subjecting to the influence of a spirit-lamp. He wore a black velvet cap, which contrasted forcibly with the fixed livid color of his face, and his person was enveloped in an ample dressing-gown of the same material, in which the shrivelled, meagre form seemed almost lost. It seemed incredible that a living frame should be so wasted and shrunken as his was—the skin had literally dried on his hands, till they were like those of a skeleton. There was nothing lifelike in his whole appearance, except the small, piercing eyes, which glittered with a startling brightness.

Who could have imagined, to look upon him, that within this withered body there glowed the most intense and ardent passions it can be given to a human being to feel on earth!

No young man, in the strength and energy of his prime, ever loved with so fierce a love, or hated with so bitter a hate, as did this worn, attenuated being; in truth, it was the fire, undiminished still, of the strong, passionate heart that throbbed in so frail a tenement, which had sapped the very springs of life within him, and dried up the blood in his veins.

Even now, the ceaseless activity with which he busied himself in his chemical experiments, the convulsive twitching of his mouth from excessive eagerness, was but the result of the one burning thought that consumed him, and from which he sought relief in physical action. He cared nothing at all for these things about which he occupied himself, but long practice, systematically undertaken, and his own great ability, had rendered him a wonderful adept in science; he had resolutely become so, because he knew that these subtle experiments, and the singular combinations they produced, must, to a certain degree, prove an aliment to the intolerable restlessness produced by the one strong passion that lay feeding at his heart, like a serpent coiled around it.

It was a glorious summer day, and outside the thick walls of the turret the sunlight was glancing, and the green trees waving in the wind; but he dared not go out to the free air and the smiling nature, for, if released from the occupation he had created for himself, because it demanded such incessant attention, the current of thought, undiverted from its natural course, would too surely ebb back upon his soul with its waters of exceeding bitterness; and therefore had many years of this old man's wretched life been spent as he was spending this present hour—bending over the glowing crucible, that he might avert the shock of the antagonistic properties which he had purposely combined, in order that his mind might be engaged in preventing the collision. None knew better than himself how profitless and miserable was this existence he had made, but except he fed, even with this food of ashes, the serpent thought that haunted him, it would have preyed on him to madness. Truly that dark fluid, beneath which his withered fingers were even now so busily turning the powerful flame, was an apt symbol of his own life—wasting away before the hidden fire which himself was goaded on to foster hour by hour.

Absorbed as he seemed to be in his strange employment, he nevertheless heard with great acuteness the approach of some person, who knocked softly at the door and then opened it. Sir Michael turned round eagerly; the new comer was a servant, who said quickly, "My lady wishes to speak to you, Sir," and disappeared at once, as though the locality was one in which he by no means desired to find himself.

But the old man had heard the message, and through all the red glow cast by the flaming lamp, his livid face grew ghastlier still with strong emotion. He leant back in his chair, breathing quick and hard, and with his hand pressed to his side; then rising hastily, he gathered the long black garment round him, and left the room, heedless of the boiling liquid, whose ingredients it had required days to combine, and which now, overflowing in the crucible, was lost entirely. Through the vaulted passages of the noble old building the Lord of Randolph Abbey took his way, stealing along within the shadow of the wall, the shrivelled hands still clasped over his bosom, and trembling with agitation. One might have fancied him the spectre of some old miser, creeping back to visit the beloved gold which had turned, as it were, to molten lead, crushing him within his grave; but it was, indeed, hard to believe that this was the possessor of as noble an estate as ever came to a man from the dead hands of a long line of ancestors, and that wealth well nigh untold was at his command. He crossed the great hall, a magnificent room, lighted by an immense Gothic window at the one end, whilst the other was occupied by a large organ, whence he went through various passages, covered with the softest carpets and lined with silken hangings. It was plain that he was on the outskirts of a region where luxury was systematically studied. At length he reached a door, which was closed only by heavy curtains, and there paused for a moment.

A voice was heard within, a clear, full-toned voice, talking, as it would seem, in terms of endearment to some animal; and as it came murmuring on his ear, there stole a light into that old man's eyes, a light reflected from the bright, spring-time of life, when first he had heard those tones, and vowed to follow their sweet sound the wide world over, little dreaming they would lure him through a labyrinth of such varied agonies; his whole countenance was softened by the gleaming of that pure affection from his eyes, for it was the memory of the young fresh love that still held unalterable dominion over him. This was his misery, that it was as young as ever in his aged heart, strong and lusty beyond what the withered frame could bear; but no longer fresh and true, no longer guiltless, for it will be seen how this deep love had engendered a deeper hate.

With the beauty of that tenderness still lingering on his face, he drew back the curtain and passed into the room; and straight-way was he met by the glance of stinging, cold disdain that all these many years had, hour by hour, and day by day, tortured his love to madness, and lashed his very soul to fiercest irritability. A most beautiful woman was Lady Randolph, though now in the ripe autumn of her days; stately and magnificent in dress and appearance, with pride in every gesture and movement, and a haughty self-love filling that swelling breast, and curling the finely chiselled lips. She was surrounded by the utmost refinement of luxury, and lay extended on a chaise lounge, with a delicate little Italian greyhound nestling beside her, to whom she continued to talk in fondling accents, even when her husband stood before her. Yet there was no symptom of an indolent disposition in her appearance; there was, on the contrary, a flashing gleam in the proud eyes, which seemed to tell of fiery energy.

These met him, as we have said, with a glance of withering contempt, which caused the shrivelled frame to shake and quiver. Yet memory had been busy at his heart, when he heard her voice come softly through the curtain, as once through the green shade of the whispering woods, in his summer time of love and hope. There was a tremulous softness in his tone, a sad deprecating of her disdain, when he spoke to her. "You wished to see me, Catherine."

"Only that I might give you a piece of intelligence, no doubt most gratifying to you; another of your heirs has obeyed your summons; I am told that Lilias Randolph is arrived."

She spoke as if she could have wished that every word should cut to his very heart; it was plain that the fact thus announced had somehow touched a wound of rankling bitterness in her own. She went on, gazing fixedly at him with the most frigid coldness, "This Lilias is the daughter of your favorite brother, is she not? I presume she will be the fortunate individual on whom your choice will probably fall. Henceforward, then, it may be a pleasant subject of speculation for me, whether this girl, whom you have never so much as seen, will vouchsafe a crust of bread to your widow, and a garret to shelter her in the home she shared with you."

He writhed under these bitter words, and wrung his withered hands. He spoke with moaning voice, like that of a child in pain—"Catherine, Catherine, it is yourself who have forced me to it. You know how, living, all that I have is yours,—my whole wealth utterly at your command; dying, as soon I must, how thankful would I leave all I possess to you; yes, thankful should I be to think that from the very grave my love had still the power to benefit and bless you—if you would but give me the pledge I ask. You know how from this overwhelming affection which I have given you these long, interminable years, there has been born a hate deeper, deeper even than its parent love, for it constrains me rather to endure the bitterness of your reproaches, the agony of leaving you destitute on earth, than consent that even one inch of my property, one penny of my wealth, should pass from your hands to the offspring of the man I have abhorred."

"Yes! and to have so abhorred him, the best and noblest of his kind—and now to hate his helpless child—I tell you, you can have no heart of man within you, but the very nature of a tiger, cruel and crafty. A deadly hate it must be, truly, which can pursue a man into his very rest of death, and wound the poor corpse in the person of his son. Oh! how could you abhor him—you who have seen him in his living grace and goodness?"

"Because he loved you," almost shrieked the old man; "and oh, Catherine, my wife, so long and vainly dear, because you loved him also."

"I did, and do," she exclaimed, weeping passionate tears; "oh! how I love him still, my first, my only choice, the husband of my youth, the father of my child. You thought I should forget him, did you, in the midst of all this luxury? I tell you I love his green and narrow grave, with the dead ashes it contains, ten thousandfold better than this palace home and the living husband within it." The withering scorn with which she uttered these last words seemed to madden him.

"What, you doat on his very grave," he said, stamping his foot, "and by the side of it you would have starved, a penniless widow, had I not taken you."

Her breast heaved with anger—"And should I not have been well content to starve, rather than eat that bitter bread which I bought with the title of your wife: but the child, his child and mine, would have perished, or lived in misery; and for his sake, for my lost husband's sake, I married you, that I might the better cherish the poor son he left me."

"Oh! why will you torture me? It is true, that, from the days of our first meeting, you have fostered within me the unconquerable hate which, for my agony and yours, has grown mightier than the mighty love I bear you. It is by this wanton lavishing upon him, and now upon his son, of the tenderness I sought with a life's idolatry to gain, which has curdled the very blood within my heart, and makes me feel that I would rather leave you to languish in the worst of poverty than furnish you the means of blessing him with all life's treasures, and dwelling with him in delight, when I can no longer claim your presence, by the wife's obedience, if not alas! alas! by the woman's love. No, though my resolution has made our life a miserable struggle, yet am I immovable in this—I never will go down into the dungeon of the grave, and know that over my impotent dust the son of my rival is revelling in all my wealth, dwelling in my home, making you happy, as you never were when at my side, because he has the likeness of his father in his face. Already is it torture to me to know he is within these walls; and often I have thought that, madly as I love you, it was a dear-bought pleasure to have you as my wife, when the condition on which you came to me was the presence of this hateful boy. Oh, Catherine, be advised, give him up—strange object of affection, truly!"—and he laughed bitterly—"not to starve—he is your son—I do not ask it; but to go and live upon a pittance somewhere out of my sight and thoughts. Then give me this easy pledge, that he never shall inherit Randolph Abbey, and I will have no other heir but you. With your own hands, if you will, you then may drive out all these children of my brothers; I care not what becomes of them; and here you shall be a very queen, possessor of the whole fair lands for ever."

He had given her time to quell her emotion in this earnest speech, and he shuddered as he met the look of impassible and contemptuous determination with which she answered him—"Why will you weary me with proposals which I have a hundred times rejected, and will reject again, as often as it shall please you to amuse yourself by making them. I require no more of these detailed assurances that you design to be, as you have ever been, my bitter enemy."

"Catherine, is it to be an enemy to worship you as I have done?"

"Yes! a remorseless enemy, and this selfish worship my sorest persecution. What other name were fitting for you, who, in your jealous hate, have struck blow after blow upon my miserable heart, in the persons of those most dear to me? Did you not, by your machinations, deprive my noble husband of the employment by which he lived, and then, rolling in riches as you were, did you ever stretch one finger to save him from the wasting poverty which brought him to the grave? Are you not his murderer?" and she grew fearfully excited. "Did you not hide all from me, till I discovered it long after I was your wretched wife, when, had I known it, you never should have so much as touched this hand of mine?"

"But, remember, remember; he had done me a deadly wrong—he stole you from me. What injury I ever did him was like to this?"

"It might have been an injury," she said, with a bitter smile, "had he stolen my love from you; but this you never had, Sir Michael Randolph—not even before I knew him. I loved luxury and greatness, as I do now, and I had agreed to marry the Lord of Randolph Abbey, as such, and nothing more. Then I met your gentle cousin Lyle, and the sweet power of affection overcame ambition. My first love was, if you will, your fair estate; but he was my second, and my last, for ever!"

"Do you not fear to speak such words to me?" he said, his face growing white with anger, "and to irritate me thus bitterly, when you know I have no power to control the fierceness of my passions? Do you not dread my vengeance?"

"No; for whilst you live you can never injure me; your own heart would resist your efforts so to do; and besides, the bonds that unite us would prevent it. You never can take from me the right to share your home, and find my chief pleasure in its luxury; nor can you, by the oath which I made you take as the condition of our marriage, in any way deprive my child of the shelter of this roof."

"It is true, I cannot; though I would give my right hand to do it!"

"That may be," said the scornful voice, "but you cannot escape your vow any more than I can the marriage oath. And now, we have had enough of these odious scenes of mutual reproach. You have fully instructed me in your resolve, to punish a dead man for the love I bear his ashes, by depriving myself and my son, after your death, of the estate I have shared with you. I am fully aware of your intentions, and I congratulate you on the pleasant task you have prepared for yourself, of choosing an heir amongst half-a-dozen needy relations; and, now, if you have any doubt as to my plans, I will tell you them, once for all, and let there be an end to this childish struggling between us. I married you in order to procure a home for my son, and for myself the luxury in which my nature delights; both of these you are bound to give us in your lifetime, and you are decided to dispossess us of them hereafter. If, then, your belief that you have an incurable malady be true, we have not long to enjoy these benefits, for which I sacrificed that which is dearest to a woman's heart—the faithfulness of her worship to one alone; and, therefore, since the price I paid for them has proved so tremendous, I will, at least, make the most of them while they are left to me. My son shall not stir one hour from this house; I will not descend one step from my place, as mistress of the Abbey and all your wealth; and, if we survive you, as you predict, I will promise you not to curse your memory, because I should lose my self-respect in so doing, since, be you what you may, I have given you the title of my husband." And the haughty woman turned from him as she spoke, sweeping her gorgeous robes after her with so dignified a movement, so stately a curve of the proud neck, that his anger was almost quelled in admiration of her queen-like beauty. Lady Randolph had reached the door, when she paused and looked back, "We have forgotten Lilias Randolph: is it your pleasure to receive her here in my presence?"

"Yes, send for her at once," he answered, eagerly seizing a pretext to keep her in his sight; for, despite her bitter words—despite the age which sent the blood so sluggishly through his veins—he ever felt, when she left the room, that going forth of strength from the soul with the departing of one beloved, which is the penalty of a deep affection. She rung a little silver hand-bell, and desired that the new-comer should be conducted to this room; and then she sat down immovably to await her, without glancing at her husband. She was, to all appearance, calm; but the heaving chest showed how the proud heart was still beating fast, whilst he shook in every limb, like an aged tree, over which a storm had passed. He gazed intently upon her, as in her presence he ever did, and at last, seeming irritated at her silence, he said, in a voice tremulous with passion—"Remember, Lady Randolph, that however bitterly you hate me, I will have none of it reflected back upon my niece. Lilias Randolph must find here a home, and a happy one. I will have it so: and no unkind treatment of yours must render it otherwise."

"I do not wonder you should fear that I may have learned in this house the exercise of petty tyranny, and the punishing of the innocent for the crimes of others; but we do not easily learn that which is against our nature, and I think experience may tell you that your lessons have failed. Is there one of the Randolphs now located in this house who can complain of me, in any way whatsoever?"

He was glad that the sound of approaching footsteps prevented the necessity of an answer. Both turned to the door to greet Lilias Randolph.

She came in like a very sunbeam, all light and peace, dispersing, as it were, by her presence, the storm of angry passions that had been raging there. Both of them were disposed to meet her with preconceived animosity, but they were at once disarmed by the serene purity of her aspect. The large candid eyes, with their timid glance, half shy, half free, so like a young fawn; the sweet face, glowing beneath the soft hair, with a faint blush of diffidence; the whole atmosphere of innocence, and hope, and loving kindness towards all men, which seemed to be around her, had power to stir long silent depths in both those seared and angry hearts; the bitter strife, whose cause and results had become magnified to their distorted vision, to an importance which nothing on this fleeting earth could really merit, almost melted away before her presence, who seemed prepared to walk through life in such joyousness and singleness of heart, with eyes that could see nothing but beauty, and a mind that could perceive only goodness. Lady Randolph came forward, and took her hand with a degree of politeness which Sir Michael knew to be a most unwonted act of condescension, but which to the sunny-hearted Lilias seemed to be a very cold, repulsive welcome. She looked up with her clear eyes to the proud, handsome face that bent over her and wondered if it was of this stately lady that she was to beware, for the half-uttered words of the stranger had impressed her strangely, and the one thought, that there was to be for her a hidden enemy within these walls, had appeared to haunt her very footsteps ever since she entered Randolph Abbey. Sir Michael approached, and Lady Randolph at once let fall the little hand that fluttered in her own. Lilias timidly advanced towards her uncle; involuntarily he put his arm round her, and stroked down the soft brown hair: "Poor Edward," he murmured, "how wonderfully you resemble him."

"Then you will love me for his sake, will you not?" and she looked coaxingly up to him.

"Dear child, would that you could be like what he was, to me, the only creature who ever loved me."

"And now I will be another; only let me try to take his place." She put her arms round his neck and nestled close to him, till the old man felt, as it were, the warmth of a new life creep into his breast from the beating of the pure young heart beside him. He pressed her fondly to him; it was so long since any one had seemed to consider him as a being for whom it was possible to feel the least affection, that her gentle words were strangely soothing to him. Suddenly she started in his arms, for the door was closed with great violence; it was Lady Randolph, who had left the room, and she wondered at the strange gleam of pleasure which lit up the livid face of her uncle. Unconsciously she shrunk from him as from something evil; but little indeed could that innocent mind conceive of the feeling which made him exalt in having thus drawn forth an indication of jealous anger from the wife who so long had crushed him with her cold contempt. Lilias remained with her uncle, and told him the brief history of her untroubled life; all things connected with her seemed gentle, pure, and happy, even where images of death forced their way amongst them. He listened as to some melodious poem, whilst she told him of her mother, the sweet Irish girl, who had lured his brother Edward, in early youth, from all the grandeur of Randolph Abbey, to come and dwell with her among the Connaught hills; and how, as Lilias had heard from her old nurse, they had been the fairest couple ever seen, living for one another only, and thinking earth a paradise, because they walked upon it hand in hand.

"And then, dear uncle," continued Lilias, "it seemed as though they feared that time or change should make them less beloved one to another; or since that could never be, that any evil should rise up to separate them even for one day; and so they went and lay down side by side in the green churchyard, where none could seek them out, to trouble the silent love they knew would live beyond the grave. My father died the first, and my mother laid her head upon his heart, when it ceased to beat, and never lifted it again; and so they buried them just as they were, and she lies there still, most sweetly sleeping. She said, just before she expired, that his heart had been her resting-place in life, and should be so in death; and so it was, and is even yet, a blessed rest.—Is it not, dear uncle?"

He almost crushed her hand in his, and said, "Tell me no more of them, Lilias, I cannot bear it;" he was thinking how the proud feet of his disdainful wife would spurn the turf from his unhappy grave.

Lilias thought it pained him to hear of the brother's death whom he had so loved, and therefore gently changing the subject, she began to tell him of her own happy childhood and youth—how she had lived with her good old grandfather, the pastor of a country village, roaming the hills all day a free and joyous child, and in the evening sitting by his side, gaining from him all needful learning, and many tender counsels to smooth her path in life: and how the one bright lesson he had ever taught her was to have deep faith in the love and goodness pervading all things inwardly, even as beauty clothes the world outwardly; to believe that however dark, and bitter, and mysterious might seem the destinies of man, yet all has a merciful purpose, and shall have a joyous ending, if only we will have patience, and hope, and loving-kindness one towards another; and how she was to fear nothing on this earth, not pain, nor sorrow, nor death, for that all these were tender messengers working their work of mercy; and how she never was to suspect evil or to look for it in others, but ever to seek only that which was good and pure in them, for that there is not in the world a soul, however stained, but has some fair spot lingering from the brightness with which it was clothed when it came forth—a new-created spirit, bright as a star. So she spoke, telling her gentle, happy ideas in a sweet murmuring voice, and Sir Michael felt, with every word she uttered, that from this wise and beautiful teaching she had come out the sweetest, purest, most loving of human beings, ever ready to cast back all thought or shadow of evil, and seek only that which is lovely and of good report—the germ of which is every where to be found, even in the blackest heart that ever weighed down the breast of man; and so, bending over her, Sir Michael kissed the spotless forehead, and internally resolved that she, and none other, should be his heiress, the possessor of Randolph Abbey: but he said nothing, for when he had summoned the children of his four brothers to come and reside with him, that he might make choice of an heir, he had announced to them that they were to have a probation of six months, during which time he designed to judge of their merits, without making any announcement of his decision, till the period had expired.

III.-THE ASSEMBLING OF THE HEIRS IN PRESENCE OF THE JUDGE.

Through the dark old hall, from which the lingering twilight was excluded, came Lilias Randolph towards the room where she was to meet the assembled family, and make acquaintance with her competitors. It was a fairer sight than these grim walls had witnessed for many a day, to see her wandering down, with her sunny hair and snowy garments, among the suits of armor and warlike relics of ancient times which lay around on all sides: there was a grace in all her movements, a softness and purity in her aspect, which made her ever seem like a moving light, and now, in that shadowy expanse, her glancing form was almost the flitting of moon-beams along the wall. She paused one moment at the door, and though her thoughts were busy with the recollection that amongst those she was about to meet there was to be found, she knew not where, a dangerous foe, yet did not her heart beat one stroke the faster beneath the gentle hands so calmly crossed upon her breast. She felt that she had injured none, she knew that never would she desire aught but the well-being of all around her, and therefore she feared nothing that man could do, for she was well convinced that there are limits set to the unprovoked wrong.

In another moment she stood within the room—a lofty saloon, magnificently furnished, and of great size; there were two fireplaces, but the whole group were collected round one, for although the summer was just bursting over the earth, the evenings were still chilly.

She distinguished at first only Sir Michael and Lady Randolph—the former crouching down in a huge arm-chair, the latter standing so as to display her majestic height, with an arm laden with jewels leaning on the mantelpiece. She saw the young girl come in; but the other persons present were turned from the door, and none heard the light footfall on the thick carpet till the childlike form, all fair and white, stood close to her aunt, contrasting strangely with the haughty lady in her dark velvet robes.

Lilias looked up; so strange is the power of a few brief human words, that, as she gazed from face to face, it was with the question in her heart, "Which of you is to be my enemy?" Before her stood two young men, both strikingly handsome, but most unlike: one, who appeared to be the eldest, was a noble specimen of joyous, hardy youth—a fine open countenance, from which the dark had been dashed away as with a free hand, a gay smile, a bold, clear eye, a mellow voice—these were all indications of what he truly was—a frank, generous-hearted man, with great nobility of sentiment and a rare sincerity. The other were less easily described, and seemed of a very different stamp; slighter of make, and with a fairer face, he seemed the very embodiment of meekness and gentleness, and his large, almond-shaped blue eyes were seldom raised when he spoke; and yet there was a refined intelligence beaming in every line of his countenance: the soft silken hair and delicate hands might have graced a woman, and Lilias inwardly decided, as she looked on him, that he must be a gentle spirit, easily broken; little fitted to battle with the rough world. He, at least, could never be one of whom any should beware, nor yet could the beaming countenance of that bolder man hide aught but a noble heart; where then was her future enemy? it must be the third of her unknown cousins. Lady Randolph now named these to her: Walter was the elder, son to Sir Michael's soldier brother, who died heroically on the field of battle; Gabriel, the child of one who had disgraced his family by a concealed marriage with a woman of low rank. She stated these circumstances as calmly as though the offspring of this person had not been standing before her: he listened to the contemptuous allusion to his mother without a word or movement; but Lilias saw the slight hands tremble violently and the chest heave. Was it with anger or shame?

"This is not all," said Sir Michael, who had watched the scene; he turned to Lady Randolph—"Will she come?"

His wife made no answer, but walked towards a small door which seemed to open into some inner apartment: she opened it, pronounced the name of "Aletheia," and returned to her place. There was a pause. Lilias had heard no sound of steps, but suddenly Walter and Gabriel moved aside, she looked up, and Sir Michael himself placing a hand within hers, said—"This is your cousin Aletheia; her father, my third brother, died only last year." The hand she held sent a chill through Lilias's whole frame, for it was cold as marble, and when she fixed her eyes on the face that bent over her, a feeling of awe and distress, for which she could not account, seemed to take possession of her.

It was not a beautiful countenance, far from it, yet most remarkable; the features were fixed and still as a statue, rigid, with a calm so passionless, that one might have thought the very soul had fled from that form, the more so as the whole of the marble face was overspread with the most extraordinary paleness. There was not a tinge of color in the cheek, scarce even on the lips, and the dead white of the forehead contrasted quite unnaturally with the line of hair, which was of a soft brown, and gathered simply round the head; it was as though some intense and awful thought lay so heavy at her heart that it had curdled the very blood within it, and drawn it away from the veins that it might be traced distinctly under the pure skin. It was singular that the immovable stillness of that face whispered no thought of soothing rest, for it was a stillness as of death—a death to natural joys and feelings; and mournfully from under their heavy lids, the eyes looked out with a deep, earnest gaze, which seemed to ignore all existing sights and things, and to be fixed on vacancy alone. Aletheia wore a dress of some dark material, clasped round the throat, and falling in heavy folds from the braid which confined it at the waist; she stood motionless, holding the little warm hand Sir Michael had placed in hers, without seeming almost to perceive the girlish form that stood before her. There could not have been a greater contrast than between that pale statue and the bright, glowing Lilias, the play of whose features, ever smiling or blushing, was fitful as waters sparkling beneath the sunbeam.

"Do you not welcome your cousin, Aletheia," said Sir Michael, with a frown. She started fearfully, as if she had been roused by a blow, from the state in which she was absorbed. She looked down at Lilias, who felt as if the deeply mournful eyes sent a chill to her very soul. Then the mouth relaxed to an expression of indescribable sweetness, which gave, for one second, a touching beauty to the rigid face; a few words, gentle, but without the slightest warmth, passed from her pale lips. Then they closed as if in deep weariness. She let fall the hand of Lilias, and glided back to a seat within the shadow of the wall, where she remained, leaning her head on the cushions, as though in a death-like swoon. Lilias looked inquiringly at her aunt, almost fearing her new-found cousin might be ill. But Lady Randolph merely answered, "It is always so;" and no further notice was taken of her.

They went to dinner shortly after, and Lilias thought there could not be a more complete picture of comfort and happiness than the luxurious room, with its blazing fire, and warm crimson hangings, and the large family party met round the table, where every imaginable luxury was collected. Little did her guilelessness conceive of the deep drama working beneath that fair outward show. Her very ignorance of the world and its ways, prevented her feeling any embarrassment amongst those who, she concluded, must be her friends, because they were her relations, and she talked gayly and happily with Walter, who was seated next to her, and who seemed to think he had found in her a more congenial spirit than any other within the walls of Randolph Abbey. All the rest of the party, excepting one, joined in the conversation: Lady Randolph, with a few coldly sarcastic remarks, stripped every subject she touched upon of all poetry or softness of coloring; she seemed to be one whom life had handled so roughly that it could no longer wear any disguise for her, and at once, in all things, she ever grasped the bitterness of truth, and wished to hold its unpalatable draught to the shrinking lips of others. Sir Michael listened with interest to every word which Lilias uttered, and encouraged her to talk of her Irish life; whilst Gabriel, with the sweetest of voices, displayed so much talent and brilliancy in every word he said, that he might well have excited the envy of his competitors, but for the extraordinary humility which he manifested in every look and gesture. There was one only who did not speak, and to that one Lilias's attention was irresistibly drawn. She could not refrain from gazing, almost in awe, on Aletheia, with her deadly pale face and her fixed, mournful eyes, who had not uttered a word, nor appeared conscious of any thing that was passing around her; and her appearance, as she sat amongst them, was as though she was for ever hearing a voice they could not hear, and seeing a face they could not see. Lilias had yet to learn that "things are not what they seem" in this strange world, and that mostly we may expect to find the hidden matter below the surface directly opposite to that which appears above. She therefore simply concluded that this deep insensibility resulted from coldness of heart and deadness of feeling, and gradually the conviction deepened in her mind, that Aletheia Randolph was the name which had trembled on the lips of her unknown friend, when he warned her to beware of some one of her new relatives. It seemed to her most likely that one so dead and cold should be wholly indifferent to the feelings of others, and disposed only to work out her own ends as best she might; and thus, by a few unfortunate words, the seeds of mistrust were sown in that innocent heart against one most unoffending, and a deep gulf was fixed between those two, who might have found in each other's friendship a staff and support whereon to lean, when for either of them the winds blew too roughly from the storms of life.

Once only that evening did Lilias hear the sound of Aletheia's voice, and then the words she uttered seemed so unnatural, so incomprehensible, to that light heart in its passionless ignorance, that they did but tend to increase the germ of dislike, and even fear, that was, as we have said, already planted there against this singular person. It was after they had returned to the drawing-room that some mention was made of the storm of the preceding evening, to which Lilias had been exposed. Walter was questioning her as to its details, with all the ardor of a bold nature, to whom danger is intoxicating. "But, I suppose," he continued, smiling, "you were like all women, too much terrified to think of any thing but your own safety?"

"No," said Lilias, lifting up her large eyes to his with a peculiar look of brightness, which reminded him of the dawning of morning, "the appearance of the tempest was so glorious that its beauty filled the mind, and left no room for fear. I wish you could have seen it. It was as though some fierce spirit were imprisoned behind the deep black veil that hung over the western heavens, to whom freedom and power were granted for a little season; for suddenly one vivid, tremendous flash of lightning seemed to cleave asunder that dark wall, and then the wild, liberated storm came thundering forth, shrieking and raging through the sky, and tearing up the breast of the sea with its cruel footsteps. It was the grandest sight I ever saw."

"I think there must have been another yet more interesting displayed on board the vessel itself," said the sweet, low voice of Gabriel. "I should have loved rather to watch the storms and struggles of the human soul in such an hour of peril as you describe."

"Ah! that was very fearful," said Lilias, shuddering. "I cannot bear to think of it. That danger showed me such things in the nature of man as I never dreamt of. I think if the whirlwind had utterly laid bare the depths of the sea, as it seemed striving to do, it could not have displayed more monstrous and hideous sights than when its powers stripped those souls around me of all disguise."

"Pray give us some details," said Gabriel, earnestly. He seemed to long for an anatomy of human nature in agony, as an epicure would for a feast.

Lilias was of too complying a disposition to refuse, though she evidently disliked the task. "One instance may be a sufficient example of what I mean," she said. "There was a man and his wife, whom, previous to the storm, I had observed as seeming so entirely devoted to one another; he guarded her so carefully from the cold winds of evening, and appeared to live only in her answering affection. Now, when the moment of greatest peril came—when the ship was reeling over, till the great mountains of waves threatened to sweep every living soul from the deck, and the only safety was in being bound with ropes to the masts—I saw this man, who had fixed himself to one with a cord that was not very strong, and who held his wife clasped in his arms, that the waters might not carry her away. At last there came one gigantic billow, whose power it seemed impossible to withstand; then I saw this man withdraw the support of his arm from the poor creature, who seemed anxious only to die with him, and use both his hands to clasp the pole which sustained him. She gave a piteous cry, more for his cruelty, I feel sure, than her own great peril; but with the impulse of self-preservation, she suddenly grasped the frail cord which bound him. Then he, uttering an impious curse, lifted up his hand—I can scarcely bear to tell it." And Lilias shivered, and grew pale.

"Go on," said Walter, breathlessly.

"He lifted up his hand, and struck her with a hard, fierce blow, which sent her reeling away to death in the boiling sea; for death it would have been, had not a sailor caught her dress and upheld her till the wave was passed."

"How horrible!" exclaimed Walter.

"Oh, miserable to be thus rescued! Happy—thrice happy had she died," said a deep-toned, mournful voice behind her.

Lilias started uncontrollably, and looked round. The words had been spoken very low, and as if unconsciously, like a soul holding converse with some other soul, rather than a human being communicating with those of her own kind; yet she felt that they came from Aletheia, who had been sitting for the last hour like an immovable statue, in a high-backed oaken chair, where the shadow of the heavy curtain fell upon her. She had remained there pale and still as marble, her head laid back in the attitude that seemed habitual to her; the white cheek seeming yet whiter contrasted with the crimson velvet against which it lay; and the hand folded as in dumb, passive resignation on her breast. But now, as she uttered these strange words, a sudden glow passed over her face, like the setting sun beaming out upon snow; the eyes, so seldom raised, filled with a liquid light, the chest heaved, the lips grew tremulous.

"What! Aletheia," exclaimed Walter, "happy, did you say—happy to die by that cruel blow?"

"Most happy—oh! most blessed to die by a blow so sweet from the hand she loved."

Her voice died into a broken whisper; a few large tears trembled in her mournful eyes, but they did not fall; the unwonted color faded from her face, and in another moment she was as statue-like as ever, and with the same impenetrable look, which made Lilias feel as if she never should have either the wish or the courage to address her. Her astonishment and utter horror at Aletheia's strange remark were, however, speedily forgotten in the stronger emotion caused her by an incident which occurred immediately after. Sir Michael had not been in the room since dinner-time, and now he suddenly entered. He came forward with a rapid step towards Lady Randolph, and even she seemed to quail beneath the steady gaze of his angry eye. He stood before her for a moment, as if the rage that swelled his bosom were too great for utterance; and his face became of the color of iron white with heat.

"Lady Randolph, he has again presumed to cross my path; I have met him, I have seen him, I stumbled against him, as he came with his noiseless step, like a viper; I should have fallen if his arm had not upheld me. How has he dared—how have you dared to molest me thus?"

"It was not intentional, I am sure," said Lady Randolph, evidently annoyed; "certainly he did not expect to meet you there; you know how careful he is."

"But am I to be exposed to the possibility of such a meeting? Was it not a distinct stipulation that he should avoid even the risk of encountering me? Lady Randolph, is it or is it not a part of the agreement by which I permit him to dwell in this house, that I am never to be tormented with the sight of him?"

"It is, it is," she answered impatiently; "and for that reason I am vexed this should have occurred. I admit that you are justified in your complaint, since such was our contract, however cruel this condition; but I will take care that it does not happen again; and at all events, Sir Michael, it seems to me that this is a most unfit discussion to be heard by your nephews and nieces."