Blue-Stocking Hall, (Vol. 3 of 3)

appeared as just a character as could be given of this classic river, as we passed along for some miles in view of its winding course. The beautiful plains of the Cottian Alps were left behind us, when we quitted Pinerolo, and we soon opened on the rugged scenery which surrounds Pomaretto, which we entered on foot, so difficult was its approach. The valley of Perosa had much to interest us. We passed through that of Pragella, and wondered at the dreariness of the prospect.

burst simultaneously from the lips of Emily and Falkland, as we gazed on the barren district before us.

For the particulars of four delightful days spent in traversing the vallies of St. Martino, Clusone, and Luzerna, I shall refer you to our journals, which faithfully describe, and circumstantially narrate all that we saw and heard during our progress. I must hasten on to “metal more attractive” still, in the exquisite loveliness of San Giovanni. At La Torre we were arrested, as if by a spell of magical enchantment. There we halted during two days: visited the monument of Christina, sister of Elizabeth Smith, talked over Victor Amadeus with detestation, of the noble Henri Arnaud with enthusiasm, and were so lost in admiration of the Alpine beauties, and simple manners by which we were so hemmed in on every side, that after a week’s sojournment in this fascinating vale, we should all have been likely to forget the whole of what is called the civilized world, if certain thoughts of Turin, Selby, and Glenalta, had not been interwoven with the raptures to which we resigned ourselves. From La Torre, however, we tore ourselves (I am not so unworthy as to commit a pun amidst the mountains of Switzerland), and proceeded to Angrogna. Here we called a halt, and the result of our deliberations was, that the two girls being intent on achieving, if practicable, the difficult ascent of La Vachera, and visiting the famous Pre du Tour, it was judged expedient that they should remain quietly housed in the village of Angrogna, while some of the party, in quality of scouts, were to reconnoitre, and returning to the rendezvous, declare how far it might be possible for the ladies to realize their daring resolution.

The post of danger is the post of honour, and it might therefore be supposed that the gentlemen of our detachment were all ambitious of being heroes, and immortalizing their names amongst the brave of other days, who had vanquished or fallen near this impregnable fortress of nature’s workmanship; but no such thing, Mr. Otway honestly avowed that his love of adventure was cooled in the stream of time, and that, with the perils of the expedition he would surrender all title to a share in its glories. This was fair and reasonable, suitable to his years, and according with his generosity. But what will you say of Master Falkland, when I tell you that his youthful blood boiled not with either martial or romantic ardour? Protesting against the ungallant proceeding of leaving two damsels in the care of one knight, he sent forward Bentley and your humble servant to meet all the hazard of the undertaking. In short, George and I were decreed to be “les enfans perdus,” while Falkland, not contented with the privileges of exemption from our toils, laid claim to the rewards of chivalry, and sought in Emily’s approving smile a full ratification of his cowardly choice. Yes, Charles, if I mistake not, is no longer compos mentis; and if so, we must not be too hard upon him. I set out with George upon the most interesting perambulation I ever made in my life. We took a guide, and, followed by a peasant boy, struck out of the beaten track, and wandered for several hours through the Valleys of the Waldenses, amid pathless defiles of rock and glen, which presented such matchless variety, such astonishing contrast of the beautiful and sublime, as I should in vain attempt to pourtray with any hope of doing justice to the scenery.

On our return we gave a glowing picture of the romantic beauties which crowned our exertions, and engaged to pilot my sisters and their beaux into the defiles of the adjacent mountains on the following day, which we performed admirably, Emily and Charlotte bringing such freshness of Kerry practice to the task, that they struck our guides with the deepest astonishment. We made acquaintance in our way with several peasants, who charmed us by the ease and simplicity of their manners. All the adventitious distinctions which by introducing inequality, bring also in its train condescension on the one hand, meanness, servility, awkwardness, and presumption on the other, are unknown in the Valleys of Piémont. Here man is reduced to his elemental character: stars and garters, which glitter in the murky atmosphere of courts, and there assume the “Lux lucet in tenebris,” hide their diminished heads, and dare not radiate their sickly lustre in presence of that glorious luminary which seems to disport with peculiar rapture in this region of eternal snows, and to play off all the magic versatility of his powers, amid these giant prisms that reflect, and refract his beams in every possible variety of form and colour. Were I in love, I should grow like one of the lichens to these rocks, but as I am enabled to sing

I prefer returning to the full tide of life, and coming from time to time to enjoy these fastnesses of nature with all the stimulus of contrast, added to their intrinsic sublimity. Emily wept as we left the banks of the Pelice on our return to Turin. Though longing to be with those who were left behind, and carrying with her the society which had lent its charms to the desert, her tears flowed as an irresistible tribute to scenes so congenial to her heart. Charlotte used to be always considered by us to live more in a world of sentiment than her elder sister, yet her eyes were not suffused; and though her pencil and her voice have borne away unnumbered memoranda from the mountains, she repassed the Porta Nuova with such transport, that I could scarcely keep her in the carriage and prevent her from running a race with the animals that were doing their best to reunite us with the group which we felt impatient to embrace.

Alas, my dear uncle has been very ill during our absence, and is much changed within these few days of our separation from him. We found my beloved mother looking pale from want of sleep, but rejoicing in the blessing of beholding the triumph of Faith and Hope, in the approaching scene which we cannot flatter ourselves is not in immediate prospect. Stanley, she says, is a celestial messenger.

Your next accounts of my poor aunt, will, I hope, be more favourable. Stanley entirely approves of your conciliating her affections by all the means in your power; and has no doubt that they are the very best handmaids to religion. He bids me say that you must not be discouraged if you cannot prevail at first. Be patient, and even five minutes seriously employed, when the heart is sincere, will not be lost.

A few bits of coloured paper have nothing in their manufacture more inimical to the great cause, than any other trifles which serve to alienate the mind from its most important concerns. This is Stanley’s opinion. Adieu, mon ami,

Ever your faithful friend

F. Douglas.

LETTER XLV.
Emily Douglas to Julia Sandford.

Turin.

Oh, my dearest Julia, in what words shall I describe the horror and consternation in which we have been thrown by the awful event mentioned to your aunt in Alfred Stanley’s last letter? A week has passed since the dreadful catastrophe, and I have not slept since, so great is the shock that it produced. The particulars are as I will now endeavour to detail them.

On the evening of this day se’nnight we were returning, a numerous party, from a walk in the direction of Rivoli, when passing by a large house removed at a little distance from the outskirts of this town, and separated from the road by a thick plantation, we were violently startled by the noise of a pistol-shot, followed by a shriek so piercing, that I shall never cease to remember its shrillness. Mr. Otway, Fanny, Charles Falkland, and I, were foremost, and reached the spot whence these affrighting sounds proceeded before the rest came up; and scarcely had we arrived opposite the door, ere a frantic figure rushed from it, and fell down at our feet! Charles and Mr. Otway raised her from the earth, but she was pale as death, and quite insensible. I ran eagerly to a stream which was just by, and filling the crown of my straw hat with water, was hastening back, when I perceived that she was supported by a young and beautiful woman in deep mourning, who was recognized at the first glance by Fanny to be the Madame de Lisle, of whom I told you in a former letter. The object of our anxiety remained motionless, while the gentlemen, who were now joined by Alfred, George, and Frederick, flew into the house, where all was confusion: servants running to and fro; some of whom were employed in placing the body of a young man, who had just blown his brains out, on a bed. It was growing dark, and the shade of the trees rendered it impossible to see any thing clearly; but on Frederick’s return from the house, where some of the people had told him that the lady who had fainted was wife to Monsieur le Marchand, who was a negociant from Bourdeaux, and had destroyed himself in consequence, they supposed of bad news contained in a letter which he had received on that day, he pressed forward to take her in his arms for the purpose of laying her on a mattrass which he had had brought out; and no sooner did the light fall directly on her corpse-like features, than Frederick exclaimed, “Good God! Adelaide Crayton! She is the very image of her portrait in Grosvenor Square!” The agitation produced by this discovery is more easily imagined than described. Adelaide, for she was indeed our unfortunate cousin, was removed; and as she was raised up a locket fell upon the ground, which contained hair, with a coronet and the letter C. in diamonds. This ornament confirmed my brother’s belief; but she was silent, her pulse appeared to cease, and the livid paleness of her countenance, gave reason to imagine that her spirit would not revive. Oh! who amongst us had heart to wish that her eyes should open again on such a scene? Yet open they did, at last, but it was only to utter another shriek, and look wildly round for an instant, after which, half uttering the name of La Tour, she relapsed into the same inanimate state from which she had but just awakened. We had sent for a surgeon, who was now conducted to the mattrass on which Adelaide lay by a young woman, who, on being questioned, I found was La Tour, and femme de chambre to my poor cousin. In reply to my inquiries, she told me, with very little feeling, that Le Marchand was a feigned name, that Lord Crayton, after killing Signior Castelli, was obliged to fly; that his extravagance knew no bounds, and that he played enormously high; that an hour before the fatal act of suicide he saw a person pass the windows of the room in which he sat, whom he recognized as a Milan man to whom he owed a large sum of money; and irritated by finding that he was no longer concealed, he resolved on the desperate deed which was hardly resolved on ere it was perpetrated. His pistols were charged, and in the presence of his wife he put one of them to his mouth, and was dead in an instant! I said something expressive of pity for the survivor, and was not a little shocked by La Tour’s reply, “Ma’amselle, ne vous mettez pas en peine, madame se consolera bientôt.”

I turned from this woman with abhorrence, just as Mr. Otway, who had been employed in examining the servants, came back to the place where we were surrounding Adelaide, and trying every method for her recovery. Madame de Lisle was kneeling at my side, and engaged in rubbing one of poor Adelaide’s hands, when Mr. Otway changed colour as his eyes met her’s. He seemed on the point of speaking, but repressed whatever he was going to say; and I concluded that he had mistaken her for one of us in the confusion of the moment. At length the surgeon succeeded in recalling poor Lady Crayton’s senses, and she was carried to her bed, where Frederick and I resolved to watch by her during the night. George Bentley and Charles Falkland insisted on remaining below stairs, and Mr. Otway took charge of Charlotte and Fanny, whom he hurried home to apprize mamma of the events of the evening. They found her so far prepared for the dreadful intelligence, that she knew through Mr. Stanley, whom we begged to hasten to our hotel, that a gentleman had shot himself, in consequence of which we were delayed, but she had yet to learn the melancholy particulars of the catastrophe, and that we were endeavouring to be of use to our near relations.

Madame de Lisle was like a sister, she and her maid remained with us all night; and there was nothing that sympathy and tenderness could dictate which this lovely young woman did not offer to us in the way of assistance. Mamma thought my uncle too ill to listen to an account of what had happened, and till the morning she did not come to me, as she judged it better that Adelaide should continue in perfect quiet. A sleeping-dose had been administered, and she lay in a sort of stupor, interrupted from time to time by words uttered in delirium: “Where are my jewels?” “Did you see Castelle?” “When will Arthur come?” were the only sentences that Frederick and I could hear distinctly, though she’ talked a great deal, and apparently with anger at intervals. It was determined upon to remove her as quickly as possible from the theatre of such horror, and accordingly apartments were immediately prepared in a house adjoining that in which we live. The body was disposed of, and every arrangement that we could devise carried into effect with the utmost celerity to change the scene for Adelaide.

When I look back upon the last week, the whole appears like a terrific dream! For an hour together I never lose sight of that corse, weltering in its blood; nor cease to think of that spirit, hurried into the presence of its God! The subject is too awful, and the mind will not dwell upon it. I sometimes feel as if I should lose my senses. Adelaide seems quite unconscious of all that has happened, and never mentions her husband. The physician assures us, that she is not in danger unless the fever increase.

After the lapse of many days I find my letter only half written; but anxiety thickens upon us, and my Julia will excuse me. My poor aunt Howard’s situation is so precarious, that we know not what a day may bring forth. My dear uncle declines, alas, too visibly to leave a doubt that the dreaded moment is at hand! and though Lady Crayton is recovering rapidly, she is, to my eye, a more melancholy object than even death itself. La Tour’s words vibrate on my senses: they are a true picture; “elle se consolera bientôt!” Yes; elle se console, and with so little reference to decency, that though at the arrival of every English mail we expect the last accounts of her mother’s existence, and her husband’s bleeding image seems to dwell amongst us, she is able to talk of indifferent matters, and her only solicitude literally appears at present to display itself only in contrivances for rendering her weeds becoming. She wishes for Arthur, not that she may enjoy a brother’s sympathy, but to know the utmost that can be done to make her independent. On hearing from mamma that a considerable sum had been remitted for the payment of Lord Crayton’s debts in Milan, conceive her proposing that Arthur should be written to directly, to desire that he might reserve this money for her use, and leave her husband’s debts unpaid! Oh, Julia, poor Adelaide was not worse than others by nature; and is this the end of a fashionable education?

I am sick at heart, and turn from the contemplation of my cousin’s future career to rest on the pleasing thought of Madame de Lisle, with whom we are delighted. Though evidently bent on seclusion, and desirous of avoiding even a limited society, she would not refuse us the pleasure of calling upon her; and, from her first interview with mamma, she has not required that we should again solicit her acquaintance. I never saw such sympathy between two beings so far separated by different age and country.

I told you that I had remarked a change in Mr. Otway’s colour when he first saw this deeply interesting young woman. Since that time he has been minutely inquiring about the handkerchief which Fanny picked up, and is fully confirmed by the letters marked upon it in the belief that he has known her family in former days, and seen her when a child; but some circumstances, which I am unable to fathom, deter him from putting any question to her that might determine the point. Perhaps she married without the consent of her friends; yet she seems so good that it would take much evidence to convince me that she had ever made her parents unhappy. Again, were she not so perfectly elegant, so modest and refined in her ways of thinking, it might be supposed that she had conformed to the vulgar views of high life, by marrying some mere man of fashion, in whom she had been disappointed, and by whom, perhaps, she may have been left to mourn over conduct, at the remembrance of which she blushes; but Madame de Lisle cannot be a hypocrite, and if not her husband must have been worthy of her. No ignoble motive could have induced this sweet and lovely creature to bestow her hand without her heart. Whatever be the reason, she desires concealment, and we alone, I believe, constitute her attraction to Turin. If Mr. Otway be right in his conjecture, she is the daughter of an English nobleman; but he will not tell us more till he brings the matter to a certainty.

I am this moment informed, that a letter is just received by Frederick from Arthur, announcing his mother’s death. Excellent young man! he rejoices in the idea of having been with her, and enabled, to the last moment, to minister to her comfort. He speaks of her tranquil exit with feelings of the deepest gratitude to heaven; and mentions, that she had from time to time derived the greatest relief from unburthening her heart to an admirable clergyman, who visited her frequently in the latter days of her life.

The letters which informed the family at Selby of all that had taken place here, had not reached England when Arthur wrote. It is his intention to come here as soon as possible, accompanied by my cousin Louisa.

You shall hear regularly from me of all that passes.

Loves from, to all.

Ever my dearest Julia’s affectionate,

Emily Douglas.

LETTER XLVI.
From Arthur Howard to the Reader.

My dear Reader,

If you have travelled thus far with me, you and I are kind friends; and I am, in duty bound, to do my best for your gratification. I told you, long ago, my motives for raking and rummaging through sundry trunks where papers were deposited, for the letters which I have picked out of an immense heap, and strung together—shall I venture to say for your amusement? That I was fired with the hope of affording you some entertainment is certain; but people often fail when they are most anxious to succeed; and the size of my manuscript begins to frighten me.

On returning to Glenalta, in the peaceful shades of which the idea first occurred to me of addressing you, I found, as you may imagine, much difficulty in collecting my materials, and making choice from amongst them, to say nothing of arranging and transcribing; but this trouble, and much more, I would willingly take for any one who has liked me sufficiently to accompany my steps during a period of nearly four years. If I resolve, then, on tying up the numerous packets which still lie piled on the table before me; and returning them to their several caskets to be forwarded to their rightful owners, it is not that I am tired of working for you, but I am afraid of fatiguing you, and losing your society, which has hitherto afforded me so much pleasure, that I would not for any consideration lose my hold on your regard, which our good fellowship during so long a journey may lead me to hope that I possess.

Actuated by these friendly feelings, it occurs to me that I will tell you the rest of the story myself, not, believe me, from the vain-glorious motive of desiring to push myself into an undue degree of notice, nor of securing that which attaches to the last speaker, but for the following reasons: First, my dear good friend, we are all alive and merry, I mean we who have written all the mounds of paper through which you have waded so patiently; and therefore you cannot expect a regular end of what is still going on; nor can I keep my book open any longer, lest you might suppose it endless, and throw it aside. Secondly, some of our party came to be involved in writing of another kind, and in the necessity of encountering law business, with which I could not think of wearying you, and thus had less time for the employment of their pens upon more interesting subjects. Again, other individuals of our society became gradually so devoted to each other’s conversation, that with grief of heart I saw myself in danger of losing the best contributors to my scheme. And you know if people will not separate for the accommodation of a compiler, adieu to letter-writing. In short, I grew very uneasy and after suffering those pangs which authors only understand, I determined on throwing up my correspondence, taking the matter at once into my own hands, and relieving your curiosity respecting people and things which I have been the means of introducing to your acquaintance.

You are able, no doubt, to anticipate a great deal, but that is no reason why I should not tell you all I know. And first you shall have such information as I can give you respecting Madame de Lisle, who has been rather abruptly introduced to your acquaintance in a letter from Emily Douglas. The letter to which Miss Douglas refers, for the history of Madame de Lisle, has been unfortunately lost; and you must therefore be contented with such particulars as I have collected since I had the pleasure of an introduction to her acquaintance. Mr. Otway one day saw her so violently agitated by Stanley’s occasional mention of a person who is a friend of his, and whose name is Alured, that he resolved at once on removing his doubts relating to her parentage. Alured was a family name in the pedigree to which he believed her to belong, and he was right. He went alone to visit her, and soon discovered that she was indeed Lady Laura Penshurst, the only surviving daughter of the proud and pompous Earl of Alton, whose sister he had loved in early life, before the “thick coming” honours of her house had tacked a title to her name. This disclosure once made, Lady Laura took Mr. Otway at once into her confidence, and told him that her mother, whose memory she adores, died a few months ago in the south of France, having survived Lord Alton, to whom no mortal could be attached, but three years. Her brother succeeded to the title and estates, and enjoyed them but a very short time, when he too was swept off the mortal stage, and they descended to an infant who is the present Lord Alton. Disgusted with the world in which she no longer possessed an object of affection, Lady Laura determined on remaining abroad, assuming a name and style which should protect her from curiosity, and ending her days where her mother’s remains were deposited.

Of our good friend, George Bentley, I have news which will probably surprise you not a little. He often talked, during our rambles in Switzerland, of taking up his abode in the midst of the romantic scenery which had excited our admiration. His declarations were received as the mere effusions of the moment, and we never believed him in earnest until he seriously declared his determination to carry his project into effect, and took decisive measures for the purpose. He went to Ireland, made arrangements of his property, by which he provided for three or four relations, who are all of his family that remain; settled an annual bounty on the parish poor, annuities on the old retainers, left Mount Prospect to be let by Mr. Oliphant, returned to Piémont, and was, ere long, established in a cottage near Angrogna.

General Douglas, his sister, and Mr. Otway, exerted all their skill in rhetoric to dissuade George from deserting his native country. They represented most forcibly that inversion of mind by which people, neglecting the good that lies within their grasp, bend all their energies to distant objects. They endeavoured to convince him that so much remained to be done at home, that it was criminal to quit the post in which heaven had placed him, and yielding to a spirit of adventure, instead of being governed by the sober desire of usefulness, prefer the notoriety of this romantic scheme, to the less shewy, but more valuable purpose of being a kind landlord, and a resident gentleman in his native land.

Bentley’s principal fault is obstinacy, which he sometimes mistakes for firmness. He had determined, and was ready with more fluency of words, than depth of argument, to answer the reasoning of his friends. “He thought that a call should not be resisted. He considered the remarkable chain of events which had brought him into the Vallies of Piémont, as a providential appointment, a cord that drew him invisibly forward to his true destiny.” In vain was it urged in reply, that such arguments would legitimatize every absurd dereliction of duty, every wild vagary of adventure; and were fantasies like these permitted to carry conviction to the understanding, a country might be drained of all its inhabitants who were capable of exerting beneficial influence within its circuit, and the population be committed to anarchy and want.

Bentley remained fixed as a rock, and perhaps, secretly gloried in the double character of martyr and missionary, since he now encountered what he technically denominated “persecution.” To the Vallies he would go, and perhaps the real motive may never be fully revealed to his own mind, though we lookers on could not help perceiving very clearly, that the devoted and mutual attachment of Falkland and Emily Douglas, had been the true pivot on which his purposes turned. Love, in its common acceptation, never found a place in Bentley’s breast. He never knew what it was to be impelled either by ungovernable passion, which hurries some to ruin and abasement; nor was his heart formed to those all-powerful, but delicate sympathies, which though fine as threads of gossamer, yet irresistibly entangle the affections, and produce entire dependence for happiness on the reciprocal devotion of a beloved object. No, Bentley had seen that men and women usually marry. He had therefore contemplated marriage for himself. He saw children in most families, and without loving them, he supposed that he should one day be a father, as well as husband; but the utmost which his mind had ever accomplished in reducing these wide abstractions and “loose generalities,” to any practical bearing on his individual lot, was summed up in the following hypothesis. “If I should ever think of engaging myself to any woman, and resigning my present freedom, become a married man, I must endeavour to select a suitable companion; money is a sordid motive, though it is a necessary adjunct; beauty is a fading flower, yet the eye is fascinated by its charms; intellect is inspiring, but it often leads to vanity; religion is essential, but how do we know it to be sincere. If I were to think of marrying, I wish that it might be to Emily Douglas; but would she marry me?” These ifs and ands, had been so often laid before the imagination of George Bentley, that they became as habitual as breakfast, dinner, and sleep, probably occupying at stated intervals that period of coma, which intervenes between a full meal and a sound slumber, till by daily recurrence of Emily’s image, he had marked her insensibly for his own, and that too, without the slightest degree of personal presumption either respecting his powers of pleasing, or her feelings towards him. When, therefore, his eyes were first opened to the truth that Emily loved, and was beloved by another, he woke, as from a dream. He was astounded, puzzled. He felt unsettled, set adrift, or, perhaps like an owl when it is suddenly brought into the sun’s light from the tranquil shade of its ivied tower. At last, however, his mental optics accommodated themselves to a new focus. He was no longer confused, and his eyes were no longer dim. He then began to examine himself, and was obliged to make the inward confession, that no one had injured him. He was not in love. He had never given any one reason to suppose that he felt more than friendship, and all the Douglas family treated him with unvarying kindness and affection which had never passed that sober limit; but things are not so easily settled with pride.

Bentley’s had in reality nothing to do in the matter, for his had not received offence, yet by some extraordinary fancy, he did appear to take umbrage at the attachment, which was evident; and he did so perhaps, because he did not at first perceive it, and at the critical time of its becoming manifest to his senses, the expedition to the Vallies, opened a new vista to his mind, and gave an unexpected bias to his resolutions.

Frederick and I were hammering at something not far removed from this statement, when Mr. Otway came into the room, and in five minutes drew up the case as I have recorded it.

As time rolled on, the delightful mother of Emily Douglas, was called upon to approve a union which cannot fail of happiness. Emily and Charles Falkland are formed for each other. Virtue and talents lend all their influence to lay a solid foundation, while the lighter graces which belong to manners and accomplishments, give a finish to the charm that binds them to each other. Simplicity is a decided characteristic of both; and when the day arrived which General Douglas begged to hasten, in order that he might bestow a blessing with ten thousand pounds, which he presented to his niece there was no idle parade of dress and equipage. Not a single preparation which had display for its object, or vanity for its motive, marked this nuptial scene. It was the only marriage, except her sister’s, at which Louisa Howard had ever assisted, and what a contrast did it not present to the gorgeous folly of poor Adelaide’s hymeneals? A short tour to Geneva, Lausanne and Vevay, separated the Falklands but a little time from Turin, to which place they returned, and the dying couch of a beloved uncle was attended with all the tenderness which true affection can alone inspire. He lingered till winter had clothed the Alps in a fresh mantle of snow, and breathed his last in the arms of Frederick. Some months of repose were necessary to the shattered health of Mrs. Douglas, and she preferred remaining in Switzerland till the following spring, when the whole party arrived in safety at Marsden.

Though Emily’s marriage afforded a pretext for selling off the English property according to the letter of General Douglas’ will, his sister considered that to delay its sale was more in agreement with the spirit of his intentions, and she had consequently no hesitation in determining that Frederick should try the experiment of remaining in Hampshire for some time, while her son, implicitly relying on the counsels of his mother, acquiesced with alacrity in whatever she thought right. Marsden became the abode of whatever most exalts human nature, and the Douglas family possess the art of rendering virtue and knowledge attractive in such a degree, that their anxiety is to avoid, not to court acquaintance with the great. Their society is universally sought after, and none can exceed it.

Emily and her husband, as the avant couriers of Mrs. Douglas, accompanied Mr. Otway to Ireland, and have purchased Mount Prospect, to which they have given its ancient Irish appellation of Cairndruid, and which they are altering and beautifying, for their future home, when the family of Glenalta shall return to their dearly-loved abode.

Mr. Oliphant, who is a perfect pattern of what every clergyman ought to be, and aided in his pious labours by an excellent sister, lives but to do good and make his parishioners happy. When he saw the circle of those friends, so justly valued, once more in their accustomed places, his glistening eye and uplifted hands seemed to say with old Simeon, “Let thy servant now depart in peace.”

The Sandfords, Stanleys, Mrs. Fitzroy, and various other agreeable people have had happy meetings at Marsden; and I will venture a prophecy, that Frederick, who longs to regain his native shores, will one day prevail upon the elegant Julia Sandford to bear him company thither. If strongly tempted, too, to lay a wager, though I do not consider bets to be the most convincing arguments, I might be persuaded to risk a few pounds upon the probability of two other matches, viz. one between Charlotte Douglas and Algernon Stanhope, and the other between an elder brother of Stanley’s and Louisa Howard. As to my own loves, if I have any, my dear Reader, you cannot expect me to divulge them: “Sink or swim, I carry my secrets with me,” which was the sagacious resolve of Mrs. Faulkner, wife to the celebrated George, of editorial memory, who asked her, on her death-bed, whether or not she had been a faithful sposa.

You will be glad to hear that Lawrence cleans the gravel walks still at Glenalta, and is never weary of recounting stories to his young mistress when she walks in the shrubbery, of all that had happened in her absence, Lisfarne looks glad once more, and the Beacon Hill is burned to brown from all the fires that have spread their glow over the beautiful bay which it overlooks.

Aunt Douglas shall close my narrative: she is the centre round which all these numerous rays converge, and the nearer they advance to her, the more nearly do they approach each other. How can human beings unite sincerely in loving the same object, and be at enmity amongst themselves? It is impossible. A year’s probation has so assured this self-denying mother that Marsden can never rival Glenalta in the hearts of her children, that a treaty is now on foot for disposing of a place which possesses no associations with past time to endear it to their memory. Frederick remains to complete the contract, and has hopes of bringing old Mr. Bolton with him to pay a visit in the Emerald Isle, which he has never seen, while it has fallen to my happy lot to attend the homeward bound group, Louisa making one of the party, and behold such joy as language fails me to describe. The roads were lined with happy faces, and welcome resounded from every mouth. Each step of the way produced increasing interest, till, in that verandah where I first met her sweet smile, I saw Glenalta’s guardian angel folded in the arms of her daughter.

Now, gentle reader, remember that it is not many years since I was one of that heartless multitude who laugh at all that they either do not comprehend, or that violates the rules which tyrant fashion imposes on her worshippers. I am, therefore, prepared for a shower of those epithets which I should once have liberally bestowed upon a book compounded of such materials as I have employed in mine. “Puerile”—“moral”—“prosy”—“dull,” are sounds familiar to my ear; and if they should be applied to me by those who still belong to the fraternity which I have quitted, I trust for ever, I must submit, yet not without reminding them, that I held out no false colours. I warned them of what was coming, and desired to be thrown aside at once by all who opened my pages, in expectation of finding a Novel full of striking events, or numerous incidents. I have been occupied in representing domestic life, and giving peeps into real character, not in furnishing scenes for the poet or the painter. But, though I am fully prepared both for yawners and revilers, I dare to cherish a hope, that some of those whose suffrage would repay me for a world of contumely, may find amusement as well as truth in my sketches. Amongst the fair sex I ought to be kindly received, for my anxious desire has been to assert their claims; and by endeavouring to exorcise the demon of Blueism, restore them to their just inheritance.

In order to this recovery of female birthright, I have attempted to illustrate in the memoirs of the Douglas family, that compatibility so frequently denied between the highest intellectual attainment, and the sweetest humility of heart I have tried to convince all who are not wilfully blind, that we have still under other names, our Lady Jane Greys, and Margaret Ropers, and that they can be as lovely and as feminine at the present moment, as in the age when those bright examples of excellence adorned society with their graces, virtues, and talents, though living under the tyranny of arbitrary government, while ours is the boasted æra of freedom, and “the march of mind.” Whatever be my fate, I must now bid you farewell. Even the kindest friends must part. Adieu, then, my dear reader. May you and I shake hands in affectionate brotherhood wherever we meet. If you were always of opinion that religion and virtue are indispensable to happiness; and that the most agreeable people in the world may also be the best; you have an advantage over me in never having strayed from the truth; but inasmuch as I have erred, I am desirous to proclaim my recantation, and returning to the nick-named Glenalta, lay down the follies of my youth, and sign myself a sincere and penitent convert.

Arthur Howard.

THE END.

PRINTED BY J. B. NICHOLS, 25, PARLIAMENT STREET.

ERRATA.

Transcriber’s Note: the errata in the present (third) volume have been corrected (along with numerous errors not in this list). Those wishing to apply corrections to the first and second volumes should note that the page and line references given here are not always entirely accurate.

FIRST VOLUME.

Line 6, page 15, read fitting for filling.—l. 9, p. 21, Serborian for Terborian.—l. 16, p. 30, selectæ for selecta.—l. 20, p. 33, confoundedly for confounded.—l. 23, p. 37, had for has.—p. 101, we for We. dele full stop.—l. 13, p. 106, insert and.—l. 17, p. 181, a for to.—l. 22, p. 182, alteratives for alterations.—l. 16, p. 189, it for I.—l. 11, p. 204, guileless for guiltless.—l. 17, p. 214, distinguish for distinguishes.—l. 4, p. 215, induce a for I—l. 7. p. 216, cacciata for caciata, and fugge for fuge.—l. 4, p. 218, for be exact, in exact.—l. 5, p. 238, retired for refined.—l. 1. p. 244, fully for full.—l. 12, p. 245, inanity for vanity.—l. 7, p. 256, full stop after time.—l. 13, p. 256, agreeably for agreeable.—l. 17, p. 276, give for gives.—l. 22, p. 292, facilities for facility.—l. 1, p. 315, lose for loose.

SECOND VOLUME.

Line 18, p. 130, for they not, read they are not.—l. 1, p. 131, for where once, where she once;—l. 15, p. 156, insert and, and dele and in the next line.—l. 12, p. 165, erase the.—l. 6, p. 181, Ronayne’s for Ronayve’s.—l. 7, p. 181, Ture for Lure.—l. 4, p. 186, we for he.—l. 10, p. 219, insert in after imagery.—l. 9, p. 241, erase the.—l. 6, p. 243, Causer for Cosé.—l. 24, p. 246, and for I.—l. 23, p. 253, insert Frederick.—l. 18, p. 303, bringing for bring.

THIRD VOLUME.

Line 19, page 44, read sometimes for something.—l. 13, p. 71, you for your.—l. 12, p. 77, Benefico (the good giant) for benefice.—l. 10, p. 84, fact for facts.—l. 19, p. 93, Bayle for Boyle.—l. 24, p. 95, before all, insert it.—l. 7, p. 120, bewildering for bewildered, we for be.—l. 20, p. 143, forces for foces.—l. 13, p. 195, Sully for Tully.—l. 1, p. 201, truly for happy.—l. 11, p. 228, erase “the particulars.”

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