For several months I was confined by a nervous fever, and on my recovery was filled with a violent antipathy even to the name of Natural Philosophy.

A letter from my father telling me that my youngest brother William had been found murdered, and bidding me return and comfort Elizabeth, made me decide to hasten home.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva. The gates of the town were shut, and I was obliged to pass the night at a village outside. A storm was raging on the mountains, and I wandered out to watch the tempest and resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered.

Suddenly I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me. Its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination than I became convinced of its truth. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. I thought of pursuing, but it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks, and he soon reached the summit and disappeared.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. It was a house of mourning, and from that time I lived in daily fear lest the monster I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I wished to see him again that I might avenge the death of William.

My wish was soon gratified. I had wandered off alone up the valley of Chamounix, and was resting on the side of the mountain, when I beheld the figure of a man advancing towards me, over the crevices in the ice, with superhuman speed. He approached: his countenance bespoke bitter anguish—it was the wretch whom I had created.

"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? Begone, vile insect! Or, rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust!"

"I expected this reception," said the monster. "All men hate the wretched: how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things. You purpose to kill me. Do your duty towards me and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death with the blood of your remaining friends."

My rage was without bounds, but he easily eluded me and said:

"Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Remember that I am thy creature. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. I have assisted the labours of man, I have saved human beings from destruction, and I have been stoned and shot at as a recompense. The feelings of kindness and gentleness have given place to rage. Mankind spurns and hates me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge, and the bleak sky is kinder to me than your fellow-beings. Shall I not hate them who abhor me? Listen to me, Frankenstein. I have wandered through these mountains consumed by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. You must create a female for me with whom I can live. I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me.

"What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate. It is true, we shall be monstrous, cut off from all the world: but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel. If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man, and will ripen our foods. My evil passion will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy. My life will flow quietly away, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker."

His words had a strange effect on me. I compassionated him, and concluded that the justest view both to him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request.

"I consent to your demand," I said, "on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever."

"I swear," he cried, "by the sun and by the fire of love which burns in my heart that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home, and commence your labours: I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety."

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments.

IV.—The Doom of Frankenstein

I travelled to England with my friend Henry Clerval, and we parted in Scotland. I had fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours.

Three years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend whose barbarity had desolated my heart. I was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts, but she had not. They might even hate each other, and she might quit him. Even if they were to leave Europe, a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of man precarious and full of terror.

I was alone on a solitary island, when looking up, the monster whom I dreaded appeared. My mind was made up: I would never create another like to him.

"Begone," I cried, "I break my promise. Never will I create your equal in deformity and wickedness. Leave me; I am inexorable."

The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Are you to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? I go, but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding night."

I started forward, but he quitted the house with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness.

The next day I set off to rejoin Clerval, and return home. But I never saw my friend again. The monster murdered him, and for a time I lay in prison on suspicion of the crime. On my release one duty remained to me. It was necessary that I should hasten without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I loved, and to lie in wait for the murderer.

Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my long-contemplated marriage with Elizabeth. I remembered the fiend's words, "I shall be with you on your wedding night," and if I had thought what might be the devilish intention of my adversary I would never have consented. But thinking it was only my own death I was preparing I agreed with a cheerful countenance.

Elizabeth seemed happy, and I was tranquil. In the meantime I took every precaution, carrying pistols and dagger, lest the fiend should openly attack me.

After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at my father's; it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should proceed immediately to the shores of Lake Como.

That night we stopped at an inn. I reflected how fearful a combat, which I momentarily expected, would be to my wife, and earnestly entreated her to retire. She left me, and I walked up and down the passages of the house inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary.

Suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. I rushed in. There, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half covered with her hair, was the purest creature on earth, my love, my wife, so lately living, and so dear.

And at the open window I saw a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse.

Drawing a pistol I fired; but he eluded me, and running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats. Nets were cast, but in vain. On my return to Geneva, my father sank under the tidings I bore, for Elizabeth had been to him more than a daughter, and in a few days he died in my arms.

Then I decided to tell my story to a criminal judge in the town, and beseech him to assert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. This Genevan magistrate endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and treated my tale as the effects of delirium. I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and soon quitted Geneva, hurried away by fury. Revenge has kept me alive; I dared not die and leave my adversary in being.

For many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange chance, I saw the fiend hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea.

Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants informed me of his path; sometimes he himself left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy.

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the cold increased in the degree almost too severe to support. I found the fiend had pursued his journey across the frost-bound sea in a direction that led to no land, and exchanging my land sledge for one fashioned for the Frozen Ocean I followed him.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then. I was about to sink under the accumulation of distress when you took me on board. But I had determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose—for my task is unfulfilled.

V.—Walton's Letter, continued

A week has passed away while I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed.

The only joy that Frankenstein can now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death.

September 12

I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory. September 9 the ice began to move, and we were in the most imminent peril. I had promised the sailors that should a passage open to the south, I would not continue my voyage, but would instantly direct my course southward. On the 11th a breeze sprung from the west, and the passage towards the south became perfectly free. Frankenstein bade me farewell when he heard my decision, and died pressing my hand.

At midnight I heard the sound of a hoarse human voice in the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein were lying. I entered, and there, over the body, hung a form gigantic, but uncouth and distorted, and with a face of appalling hideousness.

The monster uttered wild and incoherent self-reproaches. "He is dead who called me into being," he cried, "and the remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. Soon I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt."

He sprang from the cabin window as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel, and was borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.

* * * * *



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

Arcadia

Sir Philip Sidney, the finest type of gentleman of Elizabethan days, was born on November 30, 1554, at Penshurst, Kent, the eldest son of Sir Henry Sidney, Lord-Deputy in Ireland, and grandson, on his mother's side, of the Duke of Northumberland, who was beheaded for complicity in the Lady Jane Grey conspiracy. Education at Oxford, travel abroad, diplomatic service, a wise interest in literature, and a singular graciousness of character made Sidney "a full man." He was regarded, at home and abroad, as the ideal gentleman of his time, and a heroic death, at the siege of Zutphen, on October 2, 1586, enhanced his fame. His body was brought home for a national funeral in old St. Paul's. Sidney's claims as a writer are based on both prose—"Arcadia" and "An Apologie for Poetrie"—and verse—"Astrophel and Stella." The elaborate and artificial romance "Arcadia" was written for his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke, probably between 1578-80. It was left incomplete, and was not published until four years after his death. It has been described as forming the earliest model for the art of prose. In our epitome we have followed the central thread of a story which has innumerable episodic extensions.

I.—Lost and Found

It was the time that the earth begins to put on her new apparel against the approach of her lover, when the shepherd, Strephon, on the sands which lie against the island of Cithera, called upon him his friendly rival, Claius, and bewailed their hopeless wooing of the fair shepherdess, Urania, whose beauty taught the beholders chastity. As they were going on with their praises, they perceived the thing which floated nearer and nearer to the shore, by the favourable working of the sea, till it was cast up hard before them, and they fully saw it was a man. So they fell to rub and chafe him, till they brought him to recover both breath, the servant, and warmth, the companion of living. Whereupon, without so much as thanking them for their pains, he got up and cried, as he looked round to the uttermost limits of his sight, "What, shall Musidorus live after Pyrocles's destruction?" Then they, hearing him speak in Greek, which was their natural language, became the more tender-hearted towards him.

"Since you take care of me," said he, "I pray you find some bark that will go out of the haven, that it possible we may find the body of Pyrocles." So Claius presently went to a fisherman, and having agreed with him, and provided some apparel for the naked stranger, they embarked, and were no sooner gone beyond the mouth of the haven than they discerned the ship burning which had driven both Musidorus and his friend, rather to commit themselves to the cold mercy of the sea, than to abide the hot cruelty of the fire. And when they had bent their course as near up to it as they could, they saw, but a little way off, the mast, whose proud height now lay along, and upon it a young man who sat as on horseback, holding a sword aloft which often he waved, which when Musidorus saw he was ravished with joy. But now the sailors described a galley which came with sails and oars directly in the chase of them, and straight they perceived it was a well-known pirate, so forthwith they set on all the canvas, and flew homeward, leaving in that poor sort Pyrocles, so near to be rescued. And Musidorus, casting a long look that way, saw the galley leave the pursuit of them, and turn to take up the spoils of the wreck; and, lastly, he might well see them lift up the young man. But the fishermen made such speed into the haven that they absented his eyes from beholding the issue, and he could procure neither them, nor any other, to put to sea again.

The honest shepherds, Strephon and Claius, seeing sickness grew something upon their companion, offered to bring him into their own country of Arcadia, upon the next confines whereof dwelt a gentleman, by name Kalander, who for his hospitality was much haunted, and for his upright dealing beloved of his neighbours. To this Musidorus gave easy assent; and so they came to Arcadia, which welcomed Musidorus' eyes with delightful prospects. These were hills garnished with stately trees, humble valleys comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers, meadows enameled with eye-pleasing flowers, pastures stored with sheep feeding in sober security, here a young shepherdess knitting and singing withal, and there a shepherd boy piping as though he should never be old.

As they came near the house, Claius asked to know something more of Musidorus and the young man he lamented, that they might inform Kalander how to proportion his entertainment. Musidorus, according to an agreement between Pyrocles and himself to alter their names, answered that he called himself Palladius, and his friend Diaphantus. And Kalander, judging his guest was of no mean calling, and seeing him possessed with an extreme burning fever, conveyed him to commodious lodging in his house, and respectfully entertained him; and the young shepherds went away, leaving Musidorus loath to part with them.

There Palladius continued some while with no great hope of life, but youth at length got the victory of sickness. Palladius, having gotten his health, Kalander, who found in him a piercing wit, void of ostentation, high-erected thoughts seated in a heart of courtesy, and a behaviour so noble as gave a majesty to adversity, and enamoured with a fatherly love towards him, proceeded to tell him of Arcadia.

"Here dwelleth and reigneth Prince Basilius, who being already well stricken in years married a young Princess, Gynecia, of notable beauty, and of these two are brought to the world two daughters, the elder named Pamela, the younger Philoclea, both beyond measure excellent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable creatures. When I marked them, methought there was more sweetness in Philoclea, but more majesty in Pamela; methought Philoclea's beauty only persuaded, but so persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pamela's beauty used violence, and such violence as no heart could resist. Philoclea, so bashful as though her excellencies had stolen into her before she was aware; Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids pride by making it one of her excellencies to be void of pride. Now Basilius hath retired himself, his wife, and children, into a forest hereby, which he calleth his desert, having appointed a nobleman named Philanax to be Prince Regent—and most worthy so to be—and this Basilius doth, because he means not, while he breathes, that his daughters shall have any husbands, but keep them solitary with him."

Some few days afterwards Palladius perceived by the behaviour of Kalander, who had retired himself to his chamber, that an ill-pleasing accident had fallen out. Whereupon he called to the steward and desired the truth, who confessed that his master had received news that his son, Clitophon, who was near the day of his marriage, had been made prisoner at a battle between the Lacedaemon and the Helots, when going to deliver a friend of his taken prisoner by the Helots; and every hour he was to look for nothing but some cruel death, though he had offered great ransom for his life, which death, hitherunto, had only been delayed by the captain of the Helots, who seemed to have a heart of more manly pity than the rest.

Hearing this, Palladius thanked the steward, and then, well bethinking himself, called for armour, a horse, and guide, and armed all saving the head, went to Kalander, who had banished food and sleep as enemies to mourning, and said, "No more, no more of this, my Lord Kalander, let us labour to find before we lament the loss." And with those words comfort seemed to lighten in his eyes; and in his face and gesture was painted victory.

Kalander's spirits were so revived that he himself guided Palladiu to the place upon the frontiers where already were assembled several thousand men all well disposed for Kalander's sake to abide any peril. So Palladius marched on the town of Cardamila, where Clitophon was captive, and having by a stratagem obtained entry, put the Helots to flight, but ere the Arcadians could reach the prison, the captain of the Helots, who had been absent, returned and rallied them. Then the fight grew most sharp, and the encounters of cruel obstinacy, and such was the overflowing of the valour of Palladius that the captain of the Helots saw he alone was worth all the rest of the Arcadians; and disdaining to fight any other sought only to join with him, which mind was no less in Palladius. So they began a combat, surpassing in bravery, and, as it were, delightful terribleness, till, both sides beginning to wax faint, the captain of the Helots strake Palladius upon the side of the head, and withal his helmet fell off. Other of the Arcadians were ready to shield him from any harm which might rise of that nakedness; but little needed it, for his chief enemy kneeled down, offering to deliver the pommel of his sword, in token of yielding, withal saying aloud that he thought it more liberty to be his prisoner than any other's general. Palladius, standing upon himself, and misdoubting some craft, "What," said the Captain, "hath Palladius forgotten the voice of Diaphantus?"

And by that watchword Palladius knew it was his only friend Pyrocles, whom he had lost upon the sea, and therefore both caused the retreat to be sounded. And of the Arcadian side the good old Kalander striving more than his old age could achieve, was taken prisoner, but being led towards the captain of the Helots, whom should he see next the captain but his son Clitophon! Then were Kalander and Clitophon delivered to the Arcadians without ransom, for so the Helots agreed, being moved by the authority of Diaphantus as much as persuaded by his reasons, and to Palladius (for so he called Musidorus) he sent word by Clitophon that he would himself repair to Arcadia, having dispatched himself of the Helots. Also he assured them he would bring with him Clitophon's friend. Araglus, till then kept in close prison, or he would die. And this he did, and was received with loving joy by Kalander.

II.—The Lovers' Quest

The two friends having accounted their adventures to each other since they parted, embraced and kissed each other, and then told Kalander the whole story; and Palladius recounted also to Pyrocles the strange story of Arcadia and its king. And so they lived for some days in great contentment. But anon, it could not be hid from Palladius that Diaphantus was grown weary of his abode in Arcadia, seeing the court could not be visited, but was prohibited to all men save certain shepherdish people. And one day, when Kalander had invited them to the hunting of a goodly stag, Diaphantus was missed, after death had been sent to the poor beast with a crossbow, and on returning to the house, Palladius, greatly marvelling, lighted on a letter written by Pyrocles before he went a-hunting, in which he said that violence of love led to his absence. Then Palladius determined never to leave seeking him till his search should be either by meeting accomplished, or by death ended.

So, in private guise, he directed his course to Laconia, and passed through Achai, and Sycyonia, and returned after two months travail in vain. Having already passed over the greater part of Arcadia, one day, going to repose himself in a little wood, he saw a fair lady walking with her side towards him, whose sword interested her to be an Amazon, and following her warily to a fine close arbour, he heard her sing, with a voice no less beautiful to his ears than her goodliness was full of harmony to his sight. The ditty gave him suspicion, and the voice gave him assurance who the singer was, and entering boldly he perceived it was Pyrocles thus disguised.

Then Pyrocles told him he had been infected by love through a sight of the picture of the king's daughter Philoclea, and by what he had heard of her and, in the guise of an Amazon, and under the name of Zelmane, had come forth to seek her.

As a supposed niece to the Queen of the Amazons he had been gently received by King Basilius in his sylvan retirement, and introduced to his Queen and daughters, with the effect that he was more than ever in love with the Princess Philoclea, while old Basilius, deceived as to his sex, showed signs of a doting admiration which choked him with its tediousness.

So Musidorus returned to a village not far off, and Zelmane returned to the part of the forest where the king kept his seclusion.

When Zelmane next returned to the arbour where she had met Musidorus she saw, walking from herward, a man in shepherdish apparel, with a sheephook in his right hand, and singing as he went a lamentable tune. The voice made her hasten her pace to overtake him, for she plainly perceived it was her dear friend Musidorus.

Then Musidorus recounted how sojourning in secret, and watching by the arbour, he had observed and loved the Princess Pamela, and was now under the name of Dorus, disguised as one of the shepherds who were allowed the Princess' presence. And so it happened that when Basilius, the better to breed Zelmane's liking, appointed a fair field for shepherdish pastimes, Zelmane and Dorus were both of the company, Dorus still keeping his eye on Pamela, and Zelmane setting the hand of Philoclea to her lips, when suddenly there came out of a wood a monstrous lion, with a she-bear not far from him, of little less fierceness. Philoclea no sooner espied the lion than she lept up and ran lodge-ward, as fast as her delicate legs could carry her, while Dorus drew Pamela behind a tree, where she stood quaking like the partridge which the hawk is ready to seize. The Zelmane, to whom danger was a cause of dreadlessness, slew the lion and carried the head to Philoclea, while Pamela was seen coming, and having in her hand the paw of the bear which the shepherd Dorus had presented unto her. And while Philoclea applied precious balm to a wound of no importance which Zelmane had received, Pamela's noble heart would needs make known gratefully the valiant means of her safety.

And now the two friends sought to make known their true estate to Philoclea and Pamela. So Dorus, feigning a love in attendance on Pamela, told her, in the presence of her mistress, the story of the two friends, Pyrocles and Musidorus, but in such words that Pamela understood who it was that was speaking, and carried to Philoclea the news that her Dorus had fallen out to be none other than the Prince Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his heroical enterprises; and, later, Pyrocles, finding himself in private conference with Philoclea, did avow himself Prince of Macedon, and her true lover, and they passed the promise of marriage, and she, to entertain him from a more straight parley, did entreat him to tell the story of his life, and what he did until he came to the shipwreck.

III.—Through Perils to Peace

By the mischievous device of Cecropia, aunt to the Princesses, both were carried away, with Zelmane, and imprisoned in her castle in the hope that Philoclea would favour the suit of her cousin Amphialus, Crecropia's son. But Philoclea remained faithful to her love for Pyrocles, and Pamela faithful to her love for Musidorus, who brought up an army and stormed the castle, and rescued the prisoners.

The princes, becoming tired of inaction, and foreseeing no favourable issue to their concealed suits, persuaded the Princesses to attempt an escape with them to their own dominions; and such was the trust Pamela placed in Musidorus and Philoclea in Pyrocles, that they became willing companions in the flight. But when Musidorus and Pamela had escaped, and Pyrocles sought Philoclea in her room to carry her away, he found she was unable to undertake the fatigue of the journey; and Dametas, the clownish guardian of the princess, discovering the presence of Pyrocles in the room, locked the door on the inside, and raised an alarm. Musidorus and Pamela too were surprised, secured, and brought back.

Now, by the laws of the Arcadians, both the princesses and their lovers had forfeited their lives by their indiscretions, but King Basilius was removed from the seat of judgement by drinking a potion of drugged wine, which the Queen, not without warning to the King, had prepared for Zelmane. It was left, therefore, to Philanax, the regent, to deal with the difficulties that surrounded the administration of justice—the offences of Musidorus and Pyrocles, of Philoclea and Pamela, who now became heir to the throne, and the complicity of the Queen in the death of the King. At this moment, Euarchus, King of Macedon, arrived with a small escort, on a visit to his friend, King Basilius, and, by common consent, was asked to deliver judgement on the several prisoners.

His decisions were, that the Queen should be buried quick with the body of her husband; that Philoclea should be kept a prisoner as a vestal nun; that Pyrocles should be thrown out of a high tower to receive his death by his fall, and that Musidorus should be beheaded.

At this moment a stranger broke through the press and astonished the multitude with his cries. Then falling at the feet of Euarchus, he told him those whom he had judged were his own son, the comfort of Macedon, and his nephew, the only stay of Thessalia, who, during their wanderings, had grown out of the knowledge of their king.

Then Euarchus, after staying a good while upon himself like a valiant man that should receive a good encounter, at length said, "O Arcadians, that what this day I have said, hath been out of my assured persuasion what justice itself, and your just laws require. Now, contrary to expectation, I find the guilty to be my only son and nephew. But shall justice halt? Or rather shall all my private respects give place to that holy name? Let the remnant of my life be an inward and outward desolation; but never, never let sacred rightfulness fall. Therefore, O Philanax, see the judgement rightly performed."

But this pitiful matter was not entered into, for King Basilius, who had been thought dead, awoke from the sleep into which the potion had cast him, and there was much ado to make him understand what had fallen out. Then, having weighed these things, he first sent with all honourable pomp for his Queen, Gynecia, and told them how she had warned him to take heed of the drink; and next, with princely entertainment to Euarchus, and to his inestimable joy the marriage was concluded between the peerless princes and princesses.

* * * * *



TOBIAS SMOLLETT

The Adventures of Roderick Random

Tobias George Smollett was born at Dalquhurn, Dumbartonshire, Scotland, in 1721. He was apprenticed to a Glasgow apothecary, came to London in 1739, much in the way described in "Roderick Random," with a tragedy in his pocket, and very little else. The play, "Regicide," he submitted in vain to various theatrical managers, and, reduced almost to starvation, during the same year accepted the post of surgeon's mate on board a King's ship. In 1746 he returned to England, bent upon another desperate effort to make a living by his pen. A period of adverse fortune followed, broken, however, in 1748 by the publication of "The Adventures of Roderick Random." Two years later Smollett obtained his M.D. degree, and for a number of years combined medical work with literature. In 1756 he was made editor of the "Critical Review," a post which resulted in a fine of L100 and three months' imprisonment for a libel on Admiral Knowles. He died on October 21, 1771. Smollett wrote altogether five novels and a number of historical works and records of travel. It is impossible to overestimate his influence on novel-writing. Most of the great Victorian writers, especially Charles Dickens, owe much to his art.

I.—My Birth, Parentage, and Childhood

I was born in the northern part of this United Kingdom, in the house of my grandfather, a gentleman of considerable fortune and influence, who was remarkable for his abilities in the law, which he exercised with great success in the station of a judge.

My father, his youngest son, falling in love with a poor relation, who lived with the old gentleman in the quality of housekeeper, espoused her privately; and I was the first fruit of that marriage. On my grandfather telling my father one day, that he had provided a match for him, the latter frankly owned what he had done. He added, that no exception could be taken to his wife's virtue, birth, beauty, and good sense; and as for fortune, it was beneath his care; he could be in no danger of wanting while his father's tenderness remained, which he and his wife should always cultivate with the utmost veneration. "Your brothers and sisters," said my grandfather, "did not think it beneath them to consult me in an affair of such importance as matrimony; neither, I suppose, would you have omitted that piece of duty, had not you some secret fund in reserve, to the comforts of which I leave you, with a desire that you will this night seek out another habitation for yourself and wife. Sir, you are a polite gentleman, I will send you an account of the expense I have been at in your education—I wish you a great deal of joy, and am your very humble servant."

So saying, he left my father in a situation easily imagined. However, he did not long hesitate: for being perfectly well acquainted with my grandfather's disposition, he knew it would be to no purpose to attempt him by prayers and entreaties. So without any further application, he betook himself with his disconsolate bedfellow to a farmhouse, where an old servant of his mother dwelt. In this ill-adapted situation they remained for some time, until my mother, hoping that her tears and condition would move my grandfather to compassion, went, in disguise, to the house, and implored his forgiveness. My grandfather told her that he had already made a vow which put it out of his power to assist her; and this said, he retired.

My mother was so afflicted by this that she was, at once, thrown into violent pains. By the friendship of an old maidservant she was carried up to a garret, where I was born. Three days later my grandfather sent a peremptory order to her to be gone, and weakness, grief, and anxiety soon put an end to her life. My father was so affected with her death, that he remained six weeks deprived of his senses; during which time, the people where he lodged carried the infant to the old man, who relented so far as to send the child to nurse.

My father's delirium was succeeded by a profound melancholy. At length he disappeared, and could not be heard of; and there were not wanting some who suspected my uncles of being concerned in my father's fate, on the supposition that they would all share in the patrimony destined for him.

I grew apace; and the jealous enmity of my cousins quickly showed itself; before I was six years of age their implacable hatred made them blockade my grandfather, so that I never saw him but by stealth.

I was soon after sent to school at a village hard by, of which my grandfather had been dictator time out of mind; but as he neither paid for my board, nor supplied me with clothes, books, or other necessaries, my condition was very ragged and contemptible; and the schoolmaster gave himself no concern about the progress I made.

In spite of all this, I became a good proficient in the Latin tongue; but the contempt which my appearance produced, the continual wants to which I was exposed, and my own haughty disposition, involved me in a thousand troubles and adventures. I was often inhumanly scourged for crimes I did not commit; because having the character of a vagabond in the village every piece of mischief whose author lay unknown, was charged upon me. Far from being subdued by this infernal usage, my indignation triumphed, and the more my years and knowledge increased, the more I perceived the injustice and barbarity of the treatment I received. By the help of our usher, I made a surprising progress in the classics and arithmetic, so that before I was twelve years old I was allowed by everybody to be the best scholar in the school.

Meanwhile, I took the advantage of every playday to present myself before my grandfather, to whom I seldom found access, by reason of his being closely besieged by a numerous family of his grandchildren, who, though they perpetually quarrelled among themselves, never failed to join against me, as the common enemy of all. His heir, who was about the age of eighteen, minded nothing but fox-hunting, and never set eyes on me, without uncoupling his beagles, and hunting me into some cottage or other, whither I generally fled for shelter.

About this time, my mother's only brother, who had been long abroad, lieutenant of a man of war, arrived in his own country; where, being informed of my condition, he came to see me, and, out of his slender finances, not only supplied me with what necessaries I wanted for the present, but resolved not to leave the country until he had prevailed on my grandfather to settle something handsome on me for the future. To this end he set out with me for my grandfather's house, and after a few minutes' pause he was admitted. When we came into the judge's presence (through a lane of my relations), my uncle, after two or three sea bows, expressed himself in this manner: "Your servant—your servant, what cheer?—I suppose you don't know me—mayhap you don't. My name is Tom Bowling; and this here boy—you look as if you did not know him neither, 'tis like you mayn't. 'Tis my nephew, d'ye see, Roderick Random—your own flesh and blood; and, if you have any conscience at all, do something for this poor boy, who has been used at a very un-Christian rate. Come—consider, old gentleman, you are going in a short time to give an account of your evil actions. Remember the wrongs you did his father, and make all the satisfaction in your power before it be too late. The least thing you can do is to settle his father's portion on him."

The judge in reply told my uncle he had been very kind to the boy, whom he had kept to school seven or eight years, although he was informed he made no progress in his learning, but was addicted to all manner of vice. However, he would see what the lad was fit for, and bind him apprentice to some honest tradesman or other, provided he would behave for the future as became him.

The honest tar answered my grandfather, that it was true he had sent me to school, but it had cost him nothing; as to my making small progress, he was well-informed as how Rory was the best scholar of his age in all the country. "Thank you for your courteous offer of binding the lad apprentice to a tradesman. I suppose you would make a tailor of him, would you. I had rather see him hanged, d'ye see. Come along, Rory, I perceive how the land lies, my boy; let's tack about—i'faith, while I have a shilling, thou sha'n't want a sixpence. Bye, old gentleman, you're bound for the other world, but damnably ill provided for the voyage."

Thus ended our visit, and we returned to the village, my uncle muttering curses all the way against the old shark and the young fry that surrounded him.

II.—I Arrive in London

A few weeks after our first visit, we were informed that the old judge, conscious of his approaching end, had made his will, and desired to see all his descendants. So my uncle set out with me a second time, and when we entered his chamber we found my grandfather in his last agonies. My uncle approached him with these words: "How fare ye, old gentleman?—Lord have mercy upon your poor sinful soul. Here's poor Rory come to see you before you die, and receive your blessing. What, man! Don't despair—you have been a great sinner, 'tis true. What then? There's a righteous judge above—ain't there?—Yes, yes, he's agoing—He minds me no more than a porpoise, the land crabs will have him, I see that—his anchor's apeak, i'faith."

In a few minutes we were convinced of my grandfather's decease, by a dismal yell uttered by the young ladies in his apartment.

It was not till after the funeral that the will was read, and the reader can scarce conceive the astonishment and mortification that appeared, when the attorney pronounced aloud, the young squire sole heir of all his grandfather's estate, personal and real, and that there were no legacies.

My uncle at once decided, though he could ill afford it, to give me university education; and accordingly settled my board and other expenses at a town not many miles distant, famous for its colleges, whither we repaired in a short time.

In a few days after, my uncle set out for his ship, and I began to consider my precarious situation; that my sole dependence was on the generosity of one man.

I at once applied myself with great care to my studies, and in the space of three years I understood Greek very well, and was pretty far advanced in mathematics.

Then one day my landlady's husband put two letters in my hand, from my uncle. The first was to my landlord, explaining that he had fought a duel with his captain, and in consequence had been obliged to sheer off from his ship.

The second was to me, assuring me that all would be well some day.

My landlord only shook his head and desired me to provide myself with another lodging; which I promptly did, and for a time I took service under a drunken surgeon named Crab. When I deemed myself sufficiently master of my business, I decided to go to London. "You may easily get on board of a King's ship in quality of a surgeon's mate," said Crab; "where you will certainly see a great deal of practise, and stand a good chance of getting prize money."

In a few weeks I set out for London, my whole fortune consisting of one suit of clothes, half a dozen ruffled shirts, as many plain, four pair of stockings, a case of pocket instruments, Wiseman's Surgery, and ten guineas in cash, for which Crab took my bond.

At Newcastle-upon-Tyne I found an old schoolfellow, named Hugh Strap, employed in a barber's shop, and we at once embraced cordially. Strap, having saved sufficient money for the occasion, at once decided to go to London with me, and we departed next morning by daybreak.

As we travelled mostly in wagons, it was a tedious journey, but at length we entered the great city. Nothing but disappointment awaited us. In vain I applied at the Navy Office. I had satisfied the board at Surgeon's Hall, it seemed nothing but money could help me at the Navy Office, and by that time I had not wherewithal to purchase a dinner.

Strap obtained employment and generously shared his purse with me, otherwise I should have starved.

Instead of getting an appointment as surgeon's mate, I was seized, when I was crossing Tower Wharf, by a press-gang; and on my resistance, was disarmed, taken prisoner, and carried on board; where, after being treated like a malefactor, I was thrust down into the hold among a parcel of miserable wretches, the sight of whom well nigh distracted me.

After we had sailed, I was released from irons by the good offices of a Surgeon's Mate whom I had met on land, and subsequently I was appointed to assist the surgeon, and exempted from all other duties.

Our destination was the West Indies, and here I saw active service in the war with Spain. When the time came to return to England the ship was wrecked off the coast of Sussex. I got ashore, and in my distress was glad to be hired by an elderly lady as her footman. I speedily acquired the good opinion of my mistress, and fell in love with her niece Narcissa, cursing the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this amiable and adorable being. I soon learnt that the brother of my idol was a savage, fox-hunting squire, who had designed the lovely Narcissa for Sir Timothy Thicket, a neighbouring foxhunter. I cursed in my heart this man for his presumption, looking upon him as my rival.

Eight months I remained in the station of footman, and then an accident put an end to my servitude.

I was passing through a wood when I heard the cries of Narcissa, and rushing to her assistance, rescued her from the brutal familiarities of Sir Timothy. I struck his weapon out of his hand, and cudgelled him so that he fell to the ground and lay senseless.

Narcissa thanked me with tender acknowledgements, but I was soon warned that I should be apprehended and transported for assaulting a magistrate. I escaped to France by the aid of smugglers, but before I left I avowed my passion, and explained that I was an unfortunate gentleman, and the story of my mishandling provoked a sympathetic response.

III.—I Recover My Father

From the Marshalsea Prison, where I had been lodged for debt, some time after my return from France, I was rescued by my generous uncle, Mr. Bowling. He told me that he was now in command of a large merchant ship, and proposed that I should sail with him in quality of his surgeon, with a share in the profits. I accepted his offer, without hesitation, and Strap, who had stood by me in so many troubles, at my desire was made ship's steward by Captain Bowling.

Before we sailed I managed to achieve an interview with Narcissa; and sure, lovers never parted with such sorrow and reluctance as we.

Our voyage was entirely successful, and while we were at anchor in that part of South America which is called Buenos Ayres, I amused myself with the transporting hopes of enjoying Narcissa on our return. I had money and would marry his sister by stealth if the fox-hunting squire was still as averse to me as ever.

We were very much caressed by the Spanish gentlemen of the country, and made the acquaintance of a certain English signior, who had been settled in those parts many years, and had acquired the love and esteem of the whole province.

I had been struck with a profound veneration for this gentleman on first seeing him; when he spoke I listened with reverence and attention. I sympathised involuntarily with the melancholy which saddened the face of Don Rodrigo—for so he was named.

Don Rodrigo, understanding we were his countrymen, desired our company at his house, and seemed to show a particular regard for me. He made me a present of a beautiful ring, saying at the same time that he was once blessed with a son, who, had he lived, would have been nearly of my age. This observation made my heart throb with violence, and a crowd of confused ideas filled my imagination. My uncle, perceiving my absence of thought, tapped me on the shoulder and said: "Odds! are you asleep, Rory?"

Before I had time to reply, Don Rodrigo said eagerly, "Pray, captain, what is the young gentleman's name?"

"His name," said my uncle, "is Roderick Random."

"Gracious Powers!" cried Don Rodrigo, starting up—"and his mother's?"

"His mother," answered the captain, amazed, "was called Charlotte Bowling."

"O Bounteous Heaven!" exclaimed Don Rodrigo, clasping me in his arms, "my son! my son! have I found thee again?" So saying, he fell upon my neck and wept aloud for joy. The captain, wringing my father's hand, cried, "Brother Random, I'm rejoiced to see you—God be praised for this happy meeting." Don Rodrigo embraced him affectionately, saying, "Are you my Charlotte's brother? Brother, you are truly welcome. This day is a jubilee!"

My father decided to return with us to England, and having learnt from me of my love for Narcissa, approved of my passion, and promised to contribute all in his power towards its success. I stayed in his house, and at his request recounted to him the passages of my life, and he gratified me with the particulars of his story.

"Careless of life," he said, "and unable to live in a place where every object recalled the memory of my dear Charlotte, I little suspected that my father's unkindness would have descended to my innocent orphan, when I set out for France. From Paris I accompanied a young nobleman as tutor to the Court of Spain, and from Spain I came to South America, where for sixteen years heaven has prospered my undertakings. Your fate I could never learn, notwithstanding all my enquiries."

Presently Strap arrived, whom my father at once took by the hand, saying, "Is this the honest man who befriended you so much in your distress? I will soon put it in the power of my son to reward you for your good offices in his behalf."

Shortly afterwards, Don Rodrigo, who had already remitted twenty thousand pounds to Holland, settled his affairs, converted his effects into silver and gold, visited and took leave of all his friends; and, coming on board of my uncle's ship, with the first favourable wind we sailed from the Rio de la Plata, and in three months after made the Lizard.

It is impossible to express the joy I felt at the sight of English ground! Don Rodrigo was not unmoved, and Strap shed tears of gladness.

My father and I went ashore immediately at Portsmouth, leaving Strap with the captain to go round with the ship. I rode across country into Sussex, where I learnt that Narcissa was in London, and that her brother was married, and vowed his sister should lose her fortune if she married without his consent.

IV.—I Am Married

No sooner was I in London than I sought my charmer in her lodgings. How was my soul transported, when Narcissa broke in upon my view, in all the bloom of ripened beauty! We flew into each other's arms. "O adorable Narcissa," cried I; "never shall we part again."

In the evening I accompanied my father to her lodgings. He embraced her tenderly, and told her he was proud of having a son who had engaged the affections of such a fine lady.

Don Rodrigo was, quickly, as much charmed with her good sense as with her appearance; and she was no less pleased with his understanding and polite address.

The following was the squire's answer to a letter from my father, promising handsome settlements on my marriage to Narcissa:

"Sir—Concerning a letter which I received, subscribed R. Random, this is the answer. As for you, I know nothing of you. Your son, or pretended son, I have seen—if he marries my sister, at his peril be it; I do declare, that he shall have not one farthing of her fortune, which becomes my property, if she takes a husband without my consent. Your settlement, I do believe, is all a sham, and yourself no better than you should be; but if you had all the wealth of the Indies, your son should never match in our family, with the consent of

ORSON TOPEHALL."

My father was not much surprised at this polite letter, after having heard the character of the author; and as for me, I was very pleased at his refusal, because I now had an opportunity of showing my disinterested love. I waited on my charmer; and having imparted the contents of her brother's letter, the time of our marriage was fixed at the distance of two days.

My uncle being by this time come to town, I introduced him to my bride, and he was struck dumb with admiration at her beauty. After having kissed and gazed at her for some time, he turned to me, saying, "Odds Bobs, Rory! here's a notable prize, indeed, finely built and gloriously rigged, i'faith! No offence, I hope, niece; you must not mind what I say, being, as the saying is, a plain seafaring man."

Narcissa received him with great civility, and told him that she looked upon him as her uncle, by which name she begged leave to call him for the future.

The honest captain was transported at her courteous behaviour, and insisted upon giving her away at the ceremony, swearing that he loved her as well as if she was his own child.

Everything being prepared for the solemnisation of our nuptials, which were to be performed privately at my father's house, the auspicious hour arrived. In a little time the clergyman did his office, my uncle, at his own request, acting the part of a father to my dear Narcissa.

* * * * *

My father, intending to revisit his native country, Narcissa and I resolved to accompany him; while my uncle determined to try his fortune once more at sea.

At Edinburgh, Don Rodrigo, having intelligence that the family estate was to be exposed to sale by public auction, determined to make a purchase, and actually bought all the land that once belonged to his father.

In a few days after this bargain was made, we left Edinburgh, in order to go and take possession; and, by the way, halted one night in that town where I was educated. Upon inquiry, I found that Mr. Crab was dead; whereupon I sent for his executor, paid the sum I owed, with interest, and took up my bond. We proceeded to our estate, which lay about twenty miles from this place, and were met by a prodigious number of poor tenants, men, women, and children, who testified their joy by loud acclamations; so that we were almost devoured by their affection. My charming Narcissa was universally admired by all our neighbours who called upon us; and she is so well pleased with the situation of the place, and the company round, that she has not the least desire of changing her habitation. If there be such a thing as true happiness on earth, I enjoy it.

* * * * *



Peregrine Pickle

"The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle," published in 1751, is the second of Smollett's novels. It was written under more congenial circumstances than "Roderick Random," although it is admitted that the hero is by no means a moral improvement on his predecessor. Sir Walter Scott describes him as "the savage and ferocious Pickle, who, besides his gross and base brutality towards Emilia, besides his ingratitude towards his uncle, and the savage propensity which he shows in the pleasure he takes to torment others by practical jokes, exhibits a low and un-gentlemanlike way of thinking, only one degree higher than that of Roderick Random." But the real interest of the story lies not so much in the adventures of Peregrine, as in the character of the old Commodore Trunnion. Thackeray declared Trunnion to be equal to Fielding's Squire Weston. If in "Peregrine Pickle" Smollett occasionally exhibits a tendency to secure variety by extravagant caricature, it is certain that in none of his works, and in none of those of any of his contemporaries, does a richer and more various crowd of personalities appear—a crowd at once quaint and amusing, disgusting and contemptible.

I.—Peregrine's Parentage

In a certain county of England, bounded on one side by the sea, and at the distance of 100 miles from the metropolis, lived Gamaliel Pickle, Esq., the son of a London merchant, who, from small beginnings, had acquired a plentiful fortune. On the death of his father, Mr. Pickle exerted all his capacity in business; but, encumbered by a certain indolence and sluggishness that prevailed over every interested consideration, he found himself at the end of fifteen years five thousand pounds worse than he was when he first took possession of his father's effects. Convinced by the admonitions of his only sister, Miss Grizzle, then in the thirtieth year of her maidenhood, he withdrew his money from the trade, and removed to a house in the country, which his father built near the seaside.

Here, then, Mr. Pickle fixed his habitation for life in the six and thirtieth year of his age; and before he had been three months settled, the indefatigable zeal of Miss Grizzle had arranged a match for her brother with a fair Miss Appleby, daughter of a gentleman who lived in the next parish.

The following letter was transmitted to Miss Appleby by her brother:

MISS SALLY APPLEBY.

MADAME,—Understanding you have a parcel of heart, warranted sound, to be disposed of, shall be willing to treat for said commodity on reasonable terms; doubt not we shall agree for same; shall wait on you for further information when and where you shall appoint. This the needful from Yours etc.,

GAM. PICKLE.

This laconic epistle met with as cordial a reception as if it had been couched in the terms of passion and genius. Mr. Appleby at once visited Mr. Pickle, the marriage settlement was determined, and the day appointed for the wedding,—to which everybody of any fashion in the neighbourhood was invited. Among these were Commodore Trunnion and Lieutenant Hatchway, two retired seamen, and the sole companions of the bridegroom.

In due time a fine boy was born, who was christened by the name of Peregrine, the Commodore assisting at the ceremony as godfather. On Mrs. Pickle assuming the management of household affairs, Miss Grizzle directed her operations upon the Commodore, whom she was resolved to captivate and enslave, in spite of his well-known distrust of matrimony.

Mr. Pickle had early learnt the singular character of his neighbour Trunnion from a loquacious publican at whose house he was accustomed to call. "The Commodore and your worship," said he, "will in a short time be hand in glove; he has a power of money and spends it like a prince; though, to be sure, he is a little humoursome, and swears roundily, though I'll be sworn he means no more harm than a sucking babe. Lord have mercy upon us! he's been a great warrior in his time, and lost an eye and a heel in the service. Then he does not live like any other Christian landman; but keeps garrison in his house, as if he were in the midst of his enemies, and makes his servants turn out in the night, watch and watch, as he calls it, all the year round. His habitation is defended by a ditch, over which he has laid a drawbridge, and planted his court-yard with pateroes continually loaded with shot, under the direction of one Mr. Hatchway, who had one of his legs shot away, while he acted as lieutenant on board the Commodore's ship; and now being on half pay, lives with him as his companion. The Lieutenant is a very brave man, a great joker, and, as the saying is, hath got the length of his commander's foot; though he has another favourite in the house, called Tom Pipes, that was his boatswain's mate, and now keeps the servants in order. Tom is a man of few words, but an excellent hand at a song, concerning the boatswain's whistle, husslecap, and chuck-farthing—there is not such another pipe in the country. So that the Commodore lives very happy in his own manner; though he be sometimes thrown into perilous passions and quandaries, and exceedingly afflicted with goblins that disturb his rest. Bless your honour's soul, he is a very oddish kind of a gentleman. I don't think he would marry the Queen of Sheba. Lackaday! sir, he won't suffer his own maids to speak in the garrison, but turns them into an outhouse before the watch is set."

However, Hatchway entered spiritedly into Miss Grizzle's cause by working on the fears of the Commodore. He prevailed upon Pipes to get up on the top of the chimney belonging to the Commodore's chamber at midnight, and to hollow through a speaking-trumpet, "Trunnion! turn out and be spliced, or lie still and be damned!" By this, and other stratagems, Trunnion's obstinacy was overcome. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and heaving a piteous groan yielded to the remonstrances of Hatchway in these words: "Well, since it must be so, I think we must e'en grapple. But 'tis a hard case that a fellow of my years should be compelled, d'ye see, to beat up to windward all the rest of his life, against the current of his own inclination."

Things being brought to this bearing, Miss Grizzle's heart dilated with joy; the parson was persuaded to perform the ceremony in the garrison, which all that day was adorned with flags, and at night illuminated by the direction of Hatchway.

II.—The Commodore Takes Peregrine Under His Own Care

Having no hopes of propagating his own name, the Commodore, through his friendly intercourse with Mr. Gamaliel, contracted a liking for Peregrine, who, by this time entered the third year of his age, was a very handsome, healthy, and promising child, with a certain oddity of disposition for which he had been remarkable even from his cradle. Almost all his little childish satire was levelled against the Commodore, but in this he might have been influenced by the example and instruction of Mr. Hatchway, who delighted in superintending the first essays of his genius.

One day when the Commodore had chastised the child by a gentle tap with his cane, Peregrine fell flat on the floor as if he had been deprived of all sense and motion, to the terror and amazement of the striker; and having filled the whole house with confusion and dismay, opened his eyes, and laughed heartily at the success of his own imposition.

A few years later, when Mrs. Pickle decided to send Peregrine to a boarding-school, her husband not venturing to make the least objection, the Commodore interested himself so much in behalf of his favourite, as to fit him out at his own charge, and accompany him in person to the place of his destination. In less than a twelvemonth the boy was remarkable for the brightness of his parts, and the Commodore received with transport an account of his proficiency, and forthwith communicated the happy tidings to the parents.

Mr. Gamaliel Pickle heard them with a sort of phlegmatic satisfaction, and the child's mother observed that the truth was always exaggerated by schoolmasters. Mrs. Pickle being by this time blessed with a daughter, her affection was otherwise engrossed.

A change of master at the school made the Commodore resolve to fetch the boy away. He went directly to visit Mrs. Pickle, and desired she would permit him to take his godson under his own care.

This lady, whose family was now increased by another son, had not seen Perry during the course of four years, and with regard to him was perfectly weaned of maternal fondness; she therefore consented to the Commodore's request with great condescension, and a polite compliment on the concern he had all along manifested for the welfare of the child.

Trunnion having obtained this permission, that very afternoon dispatched the lieutenant in a postchaise to the school, from whence in two days he returned with our young hero; who, being now in the eleventh year of his age, was remarkable for the beauty of his person. His godfather was transported with his arrival, and in the afternoon conducted him to the house of his parents.

Strange to tell, no sooner was Peregrine presented to his mother, than she eyed him with tokens of affliction and surprise, and bursting into tears, exclaimed that her child was dead, and this was no other than an impostor whom they brought to defraud her sorrow. Trunnion was confounded at this unaccountable passion, which had no other foundation than caprice and whim; and Gamaliel himself was so disconcerted and unsettled in his own belief, which began to waver, that he knew not how to behave towards the boy, whom his godfather immediately carried back to the garrison, swearing all the way that Perry should never cross their threshold again with his goodwill. Thus exiled from his father's house, the young gentleman was left entirely to the disposal of the Commodore, whose affection for him daily increased.

III.—First Acquaintance with Miss Emilia Gauntlet

At the age of twelve Peregrine was sent to Winchester School. A clergyman named Jacob Jolter was engaged as tutor to superintend the boy's education, and Tom Pipes, at his own petition, put into livery, and appointed footman to the young squire. Mr. Pickle approved of the plan, though he durst not venture to see the boy; so much was he intimidated by his wife, whose aversion to her firstborn became every day more inveterate and unaccountable. Her second son, Gam, now in the fourth year of his age, had been rickety from the cradle, and as the deformity increased, the mother's fondness was augmented. Though she no longer retained the notion of Perry being an impostor, she would not suffer him to approach his father's house, and broke off all commerce with her sister-in-law and the Commodore because they favoured the poor child.

Her malice, however, was frustrated by the love and generosity of Trunnion, who, having adopted him as his own son, equipped him accordingly.

At school, Peregrine, after two years of mischievous pranks, fixed his view upon objects which he thought more worthy of his attention than practical joking. Having contracted intimacies with several youths older than himself, they, pleased with his address, introduced him into parties of gallantry; and Peregrine soon found he was by nature particularly adapted for succeeding in adventures of this kind.

Being one evening at the ball which is always given at the time of the races, Peregrine was struck with admiration at the beauty of a young lady, who seemed to be of his own age. He begged she would do him the honour to walk a minuet with him, and she frankly complied with his request. If he was charmed with her appearance, he was quite ravished with her discourse, which was sensible, spirited, and gay. Her mother, who was present, thanked him for his civility, and he received a compliment of the same nature from the young lady's brother.

When the company broke up, Peregrine obtained permission to visit her at her habitation about sixteen miles from Winchester, and was also informed by her mother that her name was Miss Emilia Gauntlet. He assured Mrs. Gauntlet that he should not neglect this invitation, and having learned that his Emilia (for so he already called her) was the only daughter of a deceased field officer, he set out early one morning for the village where his charmer lived. He was received with demonstrations of regard and affection by Emilia and her mother; but his absence produced great disturbance at Winchester, and finally the Commodore, having been informed of his nephew's disappearance, dispatched Hatchway, who traced the truant to the village where he had taken up his abode, and persuaded him to return to the school.

Shortly afterwards Peregrine was summoned to attend his uncle, and in a few days arrived with Mr. Jolter and Pipes at the garrison, which he filled with joy and satisfaction. From a comely boy he was now converted into a most engaging youth, already taller than a middle-sized man. The Commodore, who assumed justly the whole merit of his education, was as proud of the youth's improvements as if he had actually been his own offspring; but Peregrine could not help feeling the injury he suffered from the caprice of his mother, and foreseeing the disagreeable situation he would find himself in if any sudden accident should deprive him of the Commodore, he therefore accompanied his uncle one evening to the Club and presented himself to his father, begging pathetically to know how he had incurred his displeasure.

Mr. Gamaliel was never so disconcerted as at this rencontre. His own disposition was perfectly neutral, but he was so strongly impressed with the terror of his wife, that he answered in a peevish strain, "Why, good now, child, what would you have me to do? Your mother can't abide you."

"If my mother is so unkind, I hope you will not be so unjust," said Peregrine, tears of indignation starting from his eyes. Before Mr. Pickle could reply, the Commodore interposed, and Gamaliel at length surrendered. He acquiesced in the justice of his friend's observations, and, taking his son by the hand, promised to favour him for the future with his love and fatherly protection.

But this laudable resolution did not last. Mrs. Pickle, having made him disclose what had happened, he sustained a most severe rebuke for his simplicity and indiscretion, and humbled himself so far as to promise to annul the condescensions he had made, and for ever renounce the ungracious object of her disgust. This undertaking was punctually performed in a letter to the Commodore, which Mrs. Pickle herself dictated: "Sir,—Whereas my good nature being last night imposed upon, I was persuaded to promise I know not what to that vicious youth whose parent I have the misfortune to be; I desire you will take notice that I revoke all such promises, and shall never look upon that man as my friend, who will henceforth in such a cause solicit,

Yours, etc., GAM. PICKLE."

Trunnion was incensed by this absurd renunciation, nor did Peregrine bear with patience the injurious declaration.

Meanwhile preparations were made for the youth's departure to the University, and in a few weeks Peregrine set out for Oxford in the seventeenth year of his age, accompanied by Mr. Jolter and Pipes, the same attendants who lived with him at Winchester.

IV.—Peregrine is Left an Orphan and Marries

From the University, Peregrine went on a grand tour in Europe, and was only summoned home by a letter from Lieutenant Hatchway representing the dangerous condition of the Commodore.

Our hero arrived at the garrison about four o'clock in the morning and found his generous uncle in extremity. Though the Commodore's speech was difficult, he still retained the use of his senses, and when Peregrine approached, stretched out his hand with manifest signs of satisfaction. In spite of all his endeavours, the tears gushed from the young man's eyes, and the Commodore, perceiving his distress, made a last effort and consoled him in these words:

"Swab the spray from your bowsprit, my good lad, and coil up your spirits. Many a better man has foundered before he has made half my way; though I trust, by the mercy of God, I shall be sure in port in a very few glasses, and fast moored in a most blessed riding; for my good friend Jolter hath overhauled the journal of my sins, and by the observation he hath taken of the state of my soul, I hope I shall happily conclude my voyage, and be brought up in the latitude of heaven. Now while the sucker of my windpipe will go, I would willingly mention a few things which I hope you will set down in the logbook of your remembrance, d'ye see. There's your aunt sitting whimpering by the fire; I desire you will keep her tight, warm, and easy in her old age. Jack Hatchway, I believe she has a kindness for you; whereby, if you two will grapple in the way of matrimony I do suppose that my godson for love of me, will allow you to live in the garrison all the days of your life. I need not talk of Pipes, because I know you will do for him without any recommendation. But I hope you'll take care of the rest of my crew, and not disrate them after I am dead in favour of new followers. As for that young woman, Ned Gauntlet's daughter, I am informed as how she's an excellent wench, and has a respect for you; whereby if you run her on board in an unlawful way, I leave my curse upon you, and trust you will never prosper in the voyage of life. But I believe you are more of an honest man than to behave so much like a pirate. As soon as the breath is out of my body, let minute guns be fired, till I am safe under ground. Let my pistols, cutlass, and pocket compass be laid in the coffin along with me. And now I have no more to say, but God in heaven have mercy on my soul, and send you all fair weather, wheresoever you may be bound."

The Commodore's voice sunk so low as not to be distinguished, and having lain about an hour without moving he gave up the ghost with a groan.

Peregrine, having performed the will with a most pious punctuality, examined the will, and being sole executor, took an account of the estate to which he had succeeded, which amounted to L30,000.

His domestic affairs being settled, Hatchway remaining in command at the garrison, Peregrine was visited by almost all the gentlemen in the country, who endeavoured to effect a reconciliation betwixt his father and him. Old Gamaliel, at their entreaties, seemed very well disposed to any accommodation; but his favourable disposition was rendered altogether ineffectual by his implacable wife, and our hero resigned all expectations of being reunited to his father's house.

Peregrine, then took leave of all his friends, and repaired to London, where he made a remarkable appearance among the people of fashion. His own follies made Mrs. Gauntlet and Emilia hold aloof from him, and landed him for a time in the Fleet Prison. From this place the good offices of Emilia's brother, Godfrey Gauntlet, and Hatchway, released him, and the news of his father's death, who had died without making a will, hastened his departure. Peregrine, having thus succeeded to his father's estate, set off at once for the country, and instead of alighting at the garrison, rode straightway to his father's house, accompanied by Hatchway and Pipes.

No servants appearing to receive him, Peregrine advanced into the hall and made immediate application to a bell-rope. This brought two footmen into his presence, and one of them, in reply to a stern reprimand, said sullenly that they had been in the service of old Mr. Pickle, and now that he was dead, thought themselves bound to obey nobody but their lady, and her son Mr. Gamaliel. Our hero ordered them to decamp without further preparation, and as they continued restive, they were kicked out of doors by Hatchway. Young Gamaliel flew to the assistance of his adherents, and discharged a pistol at his brother, who luckily escaped the shot and turned him out into the court-yard, to the consolation of his two dependents.

The noise of the pistol alarmed Mrs. Pickle, who, running down stairs, would have assaulted our hero, had she not been restrained. The exercise of her tongue not being hindered, she wagged against him with all the virulence of malice. She asked if he was come to butcher his brother, to insult his father's corpse, and triumph in her affliction? And bestowed upon him the epithets of spendthrift, jail-bird, and unnatural ruffian.

Peregrine calmly replied, that if she did not quietly retire to her chamber, he should insist upon her removing to another lodging; for he was determined to be master in his own house.

Next morning the house was supplied with some servants from the garrison, and preparations were made for the funeral of the deceased.

Gamaliel, having taken lodging in the neighbourhood, was speedily followed by his mother, to whom Peregrine sent word that a regular provision should be settled upon her.

No will having been made in favour of the second son, all Mr. Pickle's property, amounting to more than L80,000, fell to Peregrine, the widow being entitled to a jointure of L500 a year.

On Peregrine's return to London, Godfrey Gauntlet, knowing his sister's affections still undiverted from her earliest love, arranged for his friend to call for him at Emilia's lodgings.

Rushing into her presence, Peregrine was at first so dazzled with her beauty, that his speech failed, and all his culties were absorbed in admiration. Then he obeyed the impulse of his love, and circled the charmer in his arms without suffering the least frown or symptom of displeasure. Observing Mrs. Gauntlet, he asked pardon for his neglect, and was forgiven in consideration of the long and unhappy exile which he had suffered.

"I ought to punish you with the mortification of a twelve months' trial," said Emilia, "but it is dangerous to tamper with an admirer of your disposition, and therefore I think I must make sure of you while it is in my power."

"You are willing, then, to take me for better, for worse, in presence of heaven and these witnesses?" cried Peregrine, kneeling, and applying her hand to his lips. She darted a side-glance, while her answer was, "Why—heaven grant me patience to bear the humours of such a yolk-fellow."

"And may the same powers," replied the youth, "grant me life and opportunity to manifest the immensity of my love."

Matters being thus happily matured, the lover begged that immediate recourse might be had to the church, and set out with Godfrey for Doctor Commons for a license, having first agreed that the ceremony should be performed in the lodgings of the bride.

Permission being obtained, they found a means to engage a clergyman, who undertook to attend them at their own time and place.

The ceremony was performed without delay, Hatchway standing as godfather to the bride.

Such another couple as Peregrine and Emilia were not to be found in the whole United Kingdom.

* * * * *



MADAME DE STAEL

Corinne

Madame de Stael, the most famous and brilliant of the many famous Frenchwomen of the Revolution and the Empire, was born, like Bonaparte himself, of alien parents. Her father was Necker, the eminent Swiss minister of finance under Louis XVI, whose triumph and exile were among the startling events of the opening stage of the Revolution; whilst her mother, also Swiss, had been the lover of the historian Gion and now presided over one of the most brilliant salons in Paris. Anne Marie Louise Germaine Necker was born at Paris on April 22, 1766. In 1787 she was married—unhappily—to Baron de Stael-Holstein, Swedish Ambassador at Paris. She was in peril during the Terror, but escaped to Switzerland. A few years afterwards she showed keen political activity against Napoleon, who respected her hostility so profoundly that he would not suffer her to approach Paris. Madame de Staels "Corinne, or Italy," is accounted one of her two masterpieces, the other one being "On Germany." (See Vol. XX.) It was published in 1807, and was written at Coppet, in Switzerland, her place of residence and exile during her many enforced sojourns from Paris by order of the Emperor. "Corinne" not only revealed for the first time to the Frenchmen of her day the grandeur and mystery and charm of Italy, but also showed the national characteristics of French and Englishmen for the first time in their respective, and in a European light. Moreover, as one European critic has pointed out, it is also one of the first, and still one of the subtlest, studies in the psychology of sex and emancipation of woman of the nineteenth century. Madame de Stael's relations with the clever and ambitious young statesman and writer, Benjamin Constant, formed the chief source of her inspiration in writing "Corinne," as it formed his in writing "Adolphe." Madame de Stael died in Paris, July 14, 1817.

I.—The Roman Poetess

When Oswald, Lord Nevil, awoke on his first morning in Rome, he heard church bells ringing and cannon firing, as if announcing some high solemnity. He inquired the cause and learned that the most celebrated woman in Italy would that morning be crowned at the capital—Corinne, the poetess and improvisatrice, one of the loveliest women of Rome.

As he walked the streets, he heard her named every instant. Her family name was unknown. She had won fame by her verses five years before, under the simple name of Coe; and no one could tell where she had lived nor what she had been, in her earlier days.

The, triumphal procession approached, heralded by a burst of melody. First came a number of Roman nobles, then an antique car drawn by four spotless steeds, escorted by white clad maidens. Not until he beheld the woman in the car did Oswald lay aside his English reserve and yield to the spirit of the scene. Corinne was tall, robust like a Greek statue, and transcendently beautiful. Her attitude was noble and modest; while it manifestly pleased her to be admired, yet a timid air blended with her joy, and she seemed to ask pardon for her triumph.

She ascended to the capitol; the assembled Roman poets recited her praises; Prince Castel Forte, the most honoured of Roman noblemen, uttered a eulogy of her; and, ere she received the destined bays, she took up her lyre and in accordance with custom gave a poetic improvisation. The subject of her passionate chant was the glory of Italy; and amid the impetuous applause that followed, Corinne, looking round, observed Oswald. She saw him to be English; she was struck by his melancholy, and by the mourning he wore. Taking up her lyre again, she spoke some touching stanzas on death and consolation that went straight to his heart.

The crown of bays and myrtle was placed on her head; she descended from the Capitol amid a burst of triumphant music. As she passed Oswald, the crown accidentally fell from her head. He quickly picked it up and restored it to her, with a few words of homage in Italian. What was his surprise when she thanked him in perfect English!

On the evening of the next day, Oswald was introduced to Corinne at her own house by the Count d'Erfeuil, a Frenchman who had been his companion in the journey into Italy. The Prince Castel Forte and all the other guests paid her the most assiduous attention; Oswald gazed on her for the most part in silence, wondering at the mingled sweetness and vivacity of her conversation, realising that she possessed a grace that he had never met before. Although she invited him to meet her again, he did not go on the next evening; he was restrained by a kind of terror at the feeling which excited him.

"Oh, my father," he sighed, "had you known Corinne, what would you have thought of her?"

For the mourning that Oswald wore was for his father. A terrible event in Oswald's life had drawn the two apart; his father had died ere he could return to ask forgiveness. But his father had blessed him on his deathbed, and it was Oswald's whole desire in the grief that preyed upon him, to live in all things as his dead parent would have wished him to live.

The attraction of Corinne's society soon drew him back to her presence, and during the next fortnight she, at her own proposal, guided him in his exploration of Rome. Together they wandered through the ruins, the churches, the art galleries. Their opinions were seldom in agreement; Corinne was characteristically and brightly Italian in her views, Oswald characteristically and sombrely English. But each was conscious, none the less, of keen intellectual sympathy with the other; and Oswald, without speaking of the love of which he began to be conscious, made her sensible of it every hour in the day. His proud retiring attachment shed a new interest over her life. Accustomed as she was to the lively and flattering tributes of the Italians, this outward coldness disguising intense tenderness of heart captivated her imagination.

But one morning she received from him a note saying that indisposition would confine him to his house for some days. Oswald had made up his mind to avoid Corinne; he felt too strongly the power of her charms. What would his father have said of this woman? Could she, the brilliant poetess, be expected to possess the English domestic virtues which his father valued above all things in a wife? Besides, there was a mystery about her; she had not revealed her name and family even to him; nor had he ever had an explanation of her perfect knowledge of English.

Corinne was terrified, on receiving the note, by the idea that he would fly without bidding her adieu. Unable to rest in the house where Oswald came not, she wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet him. As she was seated in grief beside the Fount of Trevi, Oswald, who had paused there at the same moment, saw her countenance reflected in the water. He started, as if he had seen her phantom; but a moment later Corinne had rushed forward and seized his arm—then, repenting of her impetuosity, she blushed, and covered her face to hide her tears.

"Dear Corinne!" he cried, "has my absence pained you?"

"Yes," she replied, "you must have known it would. Why then inflict such pangs on me? Have I deserved them?"

Her emotion greatly affected Oswald. "I will visit you again to-morrow, Corinne," he said. "Swear it!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "I do."

II.—The Living and the Dead

Oswald's natural irresolution had been augmented by misfortune, and he hesitated before entering upon an irrevocable engagement. Although he no longer sought to disguise his affection for Corinne, he did not propose marriage to her. She, on her part, was mortified by his silence. Often he was on the point of breaking it; but the thought of his father restrained him—and the thought of Lucy Edgarmond, the English girl whom his father had wished him to marry, when she was old enough, and whom he had not seen since she was a child of twelve. What, he asked himself, again and again, was his duty?

One day, as he was visiting her at her house at Tivoli, she took her harp and sang one of those simple Scotch ballads, the notes of which seemed fit to be borne on the wailing breeze. Oswald's heart was touched at the memories thus awakened of his own country; his eyes filled with tears.

"Ah, Corinne," he cried, "does then my country affect your heart? Could you go with me there, and be the partner of my life?"

"Surely I could," she answered, "for I love you."

"In love's name, then, tell me who you are, Corinne; have no more secrets from me."

"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald. I only ask that you require not my story until the religious solemnities of Easter are over; is not the support of heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must decide my fate?"

"Corinne," he said, "if thy fate depends on me, it shall no longer be a sad one."

When Easter was over, Corinne set out for Naples, where she had many friends and admirers; and Oswald accompanied her there. She still feared to tell the story of her life.

"Who can tell," she said to Oswald, "if, when I have opened my heart to you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such doubt?"

To encourage her, and to exchange confidences honourably with her, he told her his own secret He had been skilfully drawn into an intrigue with a scheming Frenchwoman, utterly against his father's wishes; when he had escaped from the net that had been cast for him, and was hurrying homeward, he heard the news that the being whom he loved and revered most of all mankind was dead. He had knelt at his father's tomb and sworn in atonement that he would never marry without his consent. But how obtain the consent of one who was no more? Lucy Edgarmond—Corinne started at the name—had been destined by his father for his bride. Was the wish one that could be set aside? He had simply advised the match, for Lucy was still a child with character unformed.

"Ere I met you," said Oswald, "I meant to fulfil his wish as an act of expiation; but now," he went on passionately, "you have triumphed over my whole being. My doubts are over, love; I am yours for ever. Would my father have had it otherwise had he known you?"

"Hold," cried Corinne, "speak not thus to me yet!"

"Ah, tell me what you have to tell me!"

"Presently I shall; and I shall hear my sentence from your lips unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel."

Ere she revealed her story, Corinne gave a fete, as if to enjoy one more day of fame and happiness ere her lover pronounced her doom. It was held on the cape of Micena. The lovely bay and its islands lay before the party; Vesuvius frowned in the background. As the party embarked to return in the glowing calm of the evening hour, Corinne put back her tresses that she might better enjoy the sea air; Oswald had never seen her look so beautiful.

"Oh, my love, oh, my love," he whispered, "can I ever forget this day?"

"Alas!" returned Corinne, "I hope not for such another day."

"Corinne!" he cried, "here is the ring my father gave his wife, let me give it to you, and while you keep it, let me be no longer free."

"No, no! take it back," she answered in a stifled voice.

"I shall not," he replied; "I swear never to wed another till you send back that ring."

"Perhaps when you have read my history, the dreadful word adieu—"

"Never," cried Oswald, "until my deathbed—fear not that word till then."

"Alas!" said Corinne, "as I looked at the heavens a minute ago, the moon was covered by a cloud of fatal aspect. A childish superstition came back to my mind. To-night the sky condemns our love."

That evening Corinne's maid brought him the papers in which she had written her story.

III.—Corinne's Story

"Oswald, I begin with the avowal that must determine my fate. Lord Edgarmond was my father. I was born in Italy; his first wife was a Roman lady; and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, is my sister by my father's second marriage.

"I lost my mother ere I was ten years old, and remained in the care of an aunt at Florence until I was fifteen, when my father brought me to his home in Northumberland. My stepmother was a cold, dignified, silent woman, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child Lucy, then three years old; but she usually wore so positive an air that it seemed impossible to make her understand a new idea.

"My tastes and talents had already been formed, and they were but ill-suited to the dismal monotony of my life in Northumberland. I was bidden to forget Italy; I was not allowed to converse on poetry or art; I had no congenial friends. Even the sun, that might have reminded me of Italy, was often hidden by fog. My only occupation was the education of my half-sister; my only solace, the company of my father.

"'My dear child, he said to me once, it is not here as in Italy; our women have no occupation save their domestic uses. Your talents may beguile your solitude; but in a country town like this all that attracts attention excites envy. One must not combat the habits of a place in which one is established. It is better to bear a little ennui than to be beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you do.'

"Lord Nevil was my father's intimate friend, and it was yourself of whom he thought for my husband. Had we then met and loved, our fate would have been cloudless. But when I was presented to Lord Nevil I desired, perhaps too ardently, to please him; I displayed all my talents, dancing, singing, and extemporising before him—I believe, though I am not certain—that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too wild; for although he treated me very kindly, yet, when he left my father he said that he thought his son too young for the marriage in question. Oswald, what importance do you attach to this confession? I might suppress it, but I will not. Is it possible that it will prove my condemnation?

"When my father died, my despair was uncontrollable. I found myself without support. My only adult relation was my stepmother, who was as frigid as ever towards me. I was attacked by that homesick yearning which makes exile more terrible than death. All the country around me was dull and sullen. I longed for the sunshine, the vine, the music, the sweet language of Italy. At twenty-one I had a right to my mother's fortune, and whatever my father had left me. Then did I first dream of returning to Italy, and devoting my life to the arts.

"When I suggested the possibility of my doing so to Lady Edgarmond, she replied, with dry indifference, 'You are of age, and the mistress of your conduct; but if you take any step which would dishonour you in the eyes of the world, you owe it to your family to change your name and be reported dead.' This heartless scorn helped me to come to a decision. In less than a week I had embarked on a vessel for Leghorn. I set forth without warning my stepmother, but left a letter apprising her of my plans.

"For a time I lived in Florence, whither Lady Edgarmond wrote me word of her having spread the report that I had travelled southwards for my health and had died on the voyage. During the following five years, as you know, I won fame as Corinne the poetess.

"And now you know my history—I have concealed nothing. My happiness depends entirely upon you. When you have read this, I would see you; my impatience will bring me to your side, and I shall read my fate at a glance; for grief is a rapid poison—and the heart, though weak, never mistakes the signal of irrevocable destiny."

IV.—Parting and Pursuit

"Well," said Corinne, struggling to appear calm, when she went to Oswald to learn her fate, "you have had time enough—speak! tell me what you have resolved!"

"Corinne," answered Oswald, "my heart is unchanged. We will both live for love. I will return."

"Return!" interrupted Corinne; "ah, you leave me then! How all is changed since yesterday!"

"Dearest love," he replied, "be composed. It is necessary that I should ascertain my father's reasons for opposing our union seven years ago. I will hope for the best, Corinne; but if my father decides against you, I will never be the husband of another, though I cannot be yours."

One night in Venice a few weeks later, when Corinne was leaving a scene of festivity of which she had been the most brilliant ornament, Oswald led her aside. She marked his paleness and agitation.

"What has happened?" she cried.

"I must start for England to-night. My regiment is about to embark for the West Indies, and I am recalled to rejoin it."

"Ah!" moaned Corinne, "when I tell myself to-morrow 'I shall see him no more,' the thought may kill me; happy am I if it does."

"Why do you fear? Is my solemn promise nothing?"

"Oh, I believe it; but listen—when you are in London, you will discover that love promises bind not your honour. Will you find excuses in these sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound on me? Cannot you at least pity me for loving you thus?"

"Stay!" cried Oswald, seizing her in his arms, "this is too much. Dearest, I cannot leave you!"

"Nay, you must," replied Corinne, recalled to herself by his words.

"My love," answered Oswald, trying to calm himself, "I shall strive during my absence to restore to you your due rank in your father's country. If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at your feet."

A light gleamed through the window, and the gondola that was to take Oswald away stopped at the door.

"They are here—adieu—all is ended!" sobbed Corinne.

"Oh God! O my father!" he exclaimed, "what do ye exact of me?"

He flung himself once more into her arms and then, trembling and pale, like one prepared for the torture, he passed from her sight.

On reaching England, he found that his regiment's departure had been postponed, and, while waiting, he visited Northumberland, told Lady Edgarmond of his affection for her stepdaughter, and demanded Corinne's restoration to her rank. Lady Edgarmond unbendingly refused.

"I owe to your father's memory," she added, "my exertion to prevent your union with her if I can. Your father's letter on the subject is in the hands of his old friend, Mr. Dickson."

Oswald speedily set out for his ancestral estate in Scotland, anxious to see Mr. Dickson and read the letter. In Northumberland he had seen Lucy—a beautiful and sweetly innocent girl, one whom he could plainly see to be a maiden after his father's own heart.

His father's letter confirmed his worst fears. He had wholly disapproved of Oswald's union with the girl who afterwards became Corinne. He had thought her wholly unfitted for domestic English life, and had feared that she would destroy his son's English character and transform him into an Italian. Oswald was to be acquainted with his wishes if necessary; he knew he would respect them.

The irresolution and unhappiness into which Oswald was plunged was increased by the fact that his letters to Corinne received no replies. Had her love ceased when his presence was removed? His friends told him of the fickleness of Italian women, and he began to believe that she had deserted him. The truth was that Corinne was not in Italy to receive his letters. She had come to England.

Desolated by his absence, and alarmed by the tone of the letters from him that had reached her, she had resolved to follow him. On arriving in London, she had been seized by an illness which prevented her from seeing him. On her recovery the people with whom she was staying took her to the theatre where Mrs. Siddons was playing. Oswald was at the theatre with Lady Edgarmond and Lucy. Corinne observed with a sinking heart the delicate attention which Oswald paid to her half-sister.

She saw him next at a review, where he appeared at the head of his regiment. After the march past, he escorted Lucy in a ride on horseback. Corinne noted his kind solicitude, his promptitude when Lucy was in danger, the tenderness with which he supported her. What more did Corinne need to convince her of his love for Lucy?