John de Lancaster: a novel; vol. I.

CHAPTER VII.

The Narrative is interrupted by the Arrival of a Letter from old Morgan of Glen Morgan.

However this might be, De Lancaster upon the receipt of Morgan’s answer to his letter, came to an immediate pause in his story, and leaving about three thousand years of his pedigree as yet unaccounted for, read as follows—

The perusal of this melancholy letter made a deep impression on the feeling heart of De Lancaster: he pondered on its contents for some time, and began to arrange his thoughts for answering it in a consolatory manner. When he had written a few lines, he laid down his pen, and said within himself—How much better might all this be stated face to face in person than upon paper! He is ill, poor man, and unable to come to me; I am in health, and will go to him; he cannot fail to take my visit kindly, and the face of a friend is cheering, when the spirits are depressed. I will act towards him, as I, in his circumstances, should wish and expect him to act towards me. It is but about four hours drive, and I can be home the next morning: if the roads are passable, ’twill be a pleasant jaunt, for the weather is now fine, and promises a fair day to-morrow.

Having settled this point to his kind heart’s content, the good man rang his bell, and summoned his servant, who had been to Glen-Morgan, to make his report of the roads.

Were they practicable for the coach to pass with safety? The coach might pass in perfect safety, for though the snow laid on the mountains, the road was clear, and he saw no danger. The report was satisfactory; the servant was dismissed, and the coachman summoned: upon enquiry made as to matters within his department, every thing thereunto appertaining, horses and carriage, were ready for the start. Cecilia was now called into council, and the important project was announced to her: It occasioned some surprise to her at first on account of its uncommon spirit and vivacity, but she gave it no opposition, nor even moved the previous question—The kindness of the motive, and care for her dear father’s safety, occupied her gentle thoughts:—Were the roads safe, and would he go alone? The roads were safe, and as he wished to have some private talk with his brother Morgan upon family affairs, he would go alone, and return to her on the next day.

It was resolved: the grand affair was settled: the solemn fiat was announced; the note of preparation was sounded through all the lower regions of the castle, and echoed through the range of stables—Our master goes to-morrow to Glen-Morgan, and will stay out a whole night!

When tidings of this extraordinary event were announced to Colonel Wilson, he was in the common parlour, and had sate down to chess with Mr. Philip De Lancaster, who took much content in that narcotic game, of which however he scarce understood a single principle. Going to Glen-Morgan, cried Wilson! this is news indeed: I am astonished.—I am cheque-mated, said Philip; I cannot move a man.—By Heavens! but I am moved with pleasure and surprise, exclaimed Wilson, to hear that your good father meditates a visit to Glen-Morgan.—It is not above twenty miles, said the other, and the coach is easy; he may sleep in it all the way.—The devil he may, rejoined Wilson: You might as well expect the coachman to fall asleep.—That is not impossible, said Philip, he is very fat and drowsy. But now I think of it, I’ll go and angle for some perch: I shall like to send my father-in-law a few fish of my own catching.

Do so, cried Wilson: you can stand still and catch them.—With these words he stumped out of the room, and turning into the library, where De Lancaster was sitting—I come to congratulate you, said he, as he entered, upon the resolution you have taken. It will warm the heart of my old friend Morgan to be flattered with a visit from the man in all the world he most esteems and honours.

If it will give him any pleasure, I shall not regret my pains.

It will, be assured, repeated Wilson. I have a letter from him by your messenger full of sighs and groans: I don’t much heed them; for it is his humour to deal in the dolefuls, and set himself off in the worst light he can possibly devise: for instance, he tells me here, that his temper, which was always execrable, is now worse than ever; and that he is grown so touchy, that even the parson won’t trust himself to a hit at backgammon with him. This is about as true as the account he gives of his house-keeping, which I know is liberal to excess, but which he represents as rascally in the extreme; pretending to say, that through mere covetousness he has made a potatoe garden of his pleasure ground, turned his coach-horses into the straw yard, and lowered the quality of his Welch ale, till his servants are in mutiny, and his parishioners consulting about hanging him in effigy.

Is all this true? De Lancaster asked.

Not any of it, Wilson replied. His poor neighbours are more disposed to worship him in effigy, than to hang him. He may have planted his grounds with potatoes, and turned his idle horses out to fodder, for I dare say this hard winter has made havoc of his stores, as he tells me that he is screwing up his farmers in revenge for their want of mercy to their necessitous neighbours; but as for his covetousness, I give no credit to that; on the contrary I happen to know that he has just now paid down the purchase money of a company for a young officer in the line, in no degree related to him, or indeed connected with him.

Is Jones the name of that young officer?

It is.

Gallant, glorious old man! How I reverence him for the action! How I honour him for his benignity! I would go to do him service, or to give him pleasure, though I were to walk thither on foot.

I perceive you know something of this Jones.

If you do perceive it, you will not need to be informed of it by me: and now as I also perceive you are in the secret of my visit, I hope you will consent to accompany me to-morrow, and then Cecilia’s mind will be at rest.

To put her mind at rest, said Wilson, where would I not go? How willingly then shall I accompany you upon a friendly errand to a worthy man like Morgan!

Agreed! cried De Lancaster, and now I am in good humour with myself for thinking and resolving on this visit.

Let me profit by your good humour then, rejoined the colonel with a smile, and let me hear the remainder of your genealogy; for we have turned our backs upon the Trojan war, and are drawing near to modern history, when, according to your doctrine, truth becomes darkened, and we get into the regions of deception; which I shall not be sorry for, as I confess there is ever more amusement for me in a harmless pleasant fiction, than in a dry uninteresting matter of fact.

What answer De Lancaster gave to this appeal will be found in the following chapter.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Narrative is resumed and concluded. A learned Lecture upon Harmony, by which the unlearned hearer is not greatly edified.

Since you make so polite a tender of your patience, said De Lancaster, to me, who have already put it to so hard a trial, I must resume my narrative from the landing of Brute and his Trojans, when my ancestors established themselves on this very spot, I do not say in this very castle, under Camber, the second son of the aforesaid Brute. Lud-Hurdibras was the grandson of Camber, and King Bladud was the son of Hurdibras: he built, as is notorious to all the world, the city of Bath, and was the projector of those salubrious baths, that William of Malmsbury would fain ascribe to Julius Cæsar, which I pronounce to be an egregious anachronism, and you may take it meo periculo.

I take it at my own peril, said the colonel; for I have seen Bladud himself with these very eyes standing centinel over the bath of his own making, and I never met with any body hardy enough to dispute his title to it.

Let it pass then! He was a benefactor to mankind by the institution of those baths, and might have been more eminently so, had his opinion upon the practicability of men’s flying in the air been established upon experiment. I confess there is much plausibility in the project, but I am also aware of some difficulties attending it, which merit consideration. I do not say it may not be achieved, but I am not prepared to recommend the undertaking to any friend, whose life is of immediate consequence to his family.

It would be a famous lift, said the wooden-legged warrior, to people in my mutilated predicament; and though I am not quite disposed to the experiment myself, any body else, who is so inclined, will have my good wishes.

That was exactly the language, cried De Lancaster, of King Bladud’s courtiers, and the learned men of the time. They unanimously declared that many notable discoveries might be struck out in astrology, which was the reigning study of the day, if men would fly up high enough to look after them; but they were not impatient to be amongst the first to fly upon those discoveries. My ancestor however, who was then about the person of the king, and an enthusiastic admirer of the sublime and beautiful, went a step beyond them all, and actually contrived a very ample and becoming pair of artificial wings, which in the judgment of the very best mechanics then living promised all possible success to the experiment. Upon their exhibition in presence of the sovereign and of a committee specially appointed, so charmed was King Bladud with the skill displayed in their construction, that he was graciously pleased to authorize and empower the inventor himself to make trial of his own pinions, with free leave to fly as far and as high as he saw fit, and to perch at discretion wherever it might suit him, the chimney tops and lattices of the chambers even of the maids of honour not excepted.

Happy man! cried Wilson; this was a roving commission of a most tempting sort, and I hope your ancestor had too much gallantry to hesitate about embracing it.

I beg your pardon, replied De Lancaster, my ancestor was not a man of that forward character as to aspire to situations, that ought to be above the ambition of a subject, but when this flattering offer was with all becoming thankfulness most modestly declined, King Bladud himself (as my ancestor no doubt foresaw) had the aforesaid wings fitted to his royal shoulders; ascended the roof of the temple of Apollo (at that time the loftiest edifice in the city of Troy-nouvant) and launching himself into the air confidently, as became a prince so sagacious and philosophical, committed his sacred person to the protection of Apollo and the artificial supporters, which promised him so delicious an excursion. Whether the fault was in the wings themselves, or in King Bladud’s want of dexterity in the management of them, is not for me to determine; but history puts it out of doubt that the attempt was fatal to the adventurous monarch. He fell headlong on the steps of the temple, (as you see in the picture fronting you) and was dashed in pieces in the twentieth year of his reign, and the two hundred and twentieth from the landing of Brute. All the world believed my ancestor a lost man, but Lear, son of Bladud and heir to his kingdom, being a prince of a most noble nature, and sensible to whom he was indebted for his so early elevation to the throne, rewarded the artificer of his father’s pinions by empowering him to affix them to his armorial bearing of the harp, and from that hour to this the harp of the bard between the wings of Bladud has been the proper and distinguishing shield of the De Lancasters, as not only the records of the herald’s office, but the head of every spout appertaining to the castle, can testify and evince.

The spouts alone would satisfy me, said the colonel, but the heralds and the spouts together are authorities incontestible; but since you have named Lear, I should wish to know if he is that very Lear, who, according to the drama of our poet Shakespear, having parted his kingdom between his two ungrateful daughters Gonerill and Regan, ran mad upon the reflection of his own folly for having done it.

For his madness, replied De Lancaster, there is no authority. He bestowed his eldest daughter Gonerill in marriage to Henuinus, Duke of Cornwall, and Regan to Maglanus, Duke of Albania. His youngest daughter Cordelia, who was justly his favourite, married Aganippus, prince of Gallia, and succeeded to the crown at Lear’s death, being the first of her sex, who had ever borne the title of queen absolute and governess of Britain. After the decease of Aganippus she fell a victim to the malice of her nephews Cunedagius and Morgan, sons of her unworthy sisters, and being thrown into prison by them, died, after a reign of only five years, by her own hand. The usurpers, who at first agreed to divide the empire, soon rose in arms against each other, and Morgan was slain in Cambria by Cunedagius, where the place of his death is yet called Glen-Morgan, or Morgan’s Land, now in the possession of the friend, to whom we meditate to-morrow’s visit.—But I am hastening to release you, and conclude my narrative—The line of Brute, the Trojan, ended in the year 3476 with Ferrex and Porrex, sons of old King Gorbodug, who swayed the sceptre through a period of sixty and two years. During the whole time of the Pentarchy, that took place upon the decease of the abovenamed sons of Gorbodug, my family appear to have kept close in their Cambrian retirement, till the reign of Mulmutius Dunwallo, immediately subsequent to the Pentarchy. It was then that a learned ancestor of mine assisted Mulmutius in compiling that incomparable code of laws, which being turned into Latin from the British language by Gildus Priscus, was in time long after translated into English by the great King Alfred, and by him incorporated amongst his famous statutes.—And now, my good friend, as I have always determined to have nothing to do with modern history, I here wind up my long detail, congratulating myself that those, from whom I trace my blood, had the good sense to keep close in their quarters in Cambria upon the landing of the Romans, never deigning to mix or intermarry either with them or the Picts, who came with Roderic A. D. 73, or with the Saxons, who first entered the land A. D. 390, or with the Danes in the time of Egbert, much less with the Normans in a more recent period, but remained pure and unadulterated from the days of Samothes, the grandson of Noah, to the present moment, in which I have the honour of thanking you for the attention, you have been pleased to bestow upon a detail, which I fear has been extremely tedious and unentertaining to you throughout.

Assure yourself, my good sir, replied Wilson, that the attention I have bestowed on your narrative has been amply repaid by the entertainment I have received from it. You have given me a history of my native country, which in many parts was perfectly new to me, and if it had had no concern whatever with your genealogy, still it would have been interesting to me, who have never thought, nor had the curiosity to enquire, about the annals of a time so very distant. That you have authorities for what you have narrated I cannot doubt, for I am sure you are incapable of a voluntary fiction, which, if any such there is, must rest with others, not with you. As for the gratification you may derive from the persuasion, that you can trace your descent from the son of Noah, and by consequence, through Noah, even from Adam himself, grace forbid I should attempt to lessen it, persuaded as I am, that you have too much consideration for Moses to enlist with the Pre-Adamites. At the same time I am free to own, that my respect for you, being founded on the virtues of your character, receives little addition from the circumstances of your pedigree; let me not however be considered as an abettor of plebean sentiments; I acknowledge a degree of prejudice for a well-born gentleman, and so long as you display the wings of King Bladud only on the shoulders of King Bardus’s harp, I look with respect upon your ancient banners; and henceforward when blind David Williams shall make your castle hall resound with his melodious harp, I shall recollect with pleasure that you have not only a natural delight, but also an hereditary interest, in that noble instrument. I am myself a lover of music; but it is a love without knowledge, for I neither know the practice, nor ever studied the theory of it. I like this tune, and I can’t tell why; I don’t like that, and can assign no reason for it. If music only creates surprise in me by the wonderful execution of a performer, I scarcely wish to hear it above once; if it moves my passions, and elicits (as it sometimes will) my tears, I could listen to it, as I may say, for ever; no repetition can exhaust the charm. What this is I cannot define, and for that very reason I suppose it to be nature; for art admits of explanation, but there is no logic, that applies to instinct.

This was an unlucky remark, and the colonel stepped a little out of his natural character when he risqued it: had he kept clear of definitions, and said nothing about instinct, he might have escaped a lecture on the Harmonics, which now became unavoidable, and he heard himself addressed as follows—

You discern correctly, my good colonel, as to effect, not so as to cause. You say there is no logic, that applies to instinct; I say there is no instinct, that applies to rationality: the brute creation is submitted to it, and directed by it; man must not offer to degrade his virtues, or defend his vices, by a reference to instinct: the plea of impulse will not save the criminal; for there are no propensities, which reason may not conquer. From what you tell me I perceive that you understand as much of music as ninety-nine in a hundred, who affect to profess it, and more than many, who profess to teach it, forasmuch as you feel it: now as there can be no effect without a cause, depend upon it, there is a reason why you feel exactly in the manner you describe, and in no other, though to investigate that reason, and intelligibly describe it to you, cannot be done without a more intimate knowledge of the constituent properties and powers of music, than falls to many people’s lot to attain. To descant upon these at present would take up more time than either of us would perhaps find convenient to devote to it. I will postpone it to a better opportunity, when I flatter myself I shall be able to relate to you so many striking instances of the astonishing powers of harmony, as will set that sacred science in a stronger and a clearer light, than you may be as yet aware of. Believe me, it is one of the sublimest studies, that the human faculties can embrace. The systems, that have come down to us from the Greek and Roman harmonists, as well as all that has been written by the moderns on that subject, are above measure difficult, elaborate and recondite—

Then I shall never understand them, said the colonel, nor desire to have any thing to do with them.

Pardon me! resumed De Lancaster: If leisure now served, I could give you specimens of the pains I have taken in the way of illustration, not only with the learned treatise of Vincentio Galilei, a noble Spaniard, published in the year 1581, but also with the Satyricon of Martianus Capella, as edited and illustrated by the celebrated Grotius in his early years. Permit me to say that I could give you the scale, and mark out to you the distinct semitones of Quarlino, Giovanni Bardi, and Pierro Strozzi. This would be demonstration, that could not fail to edify, and at the same time I would adduce such evidence, as should prove to you that my ancestorial harp was the very prototype of that, which Epigonus of Ambracia was said to have played upon with forty strings, when he first taught the Sicyonian minstrels to lay aside the plectrum, and employ their fingers in the place of it: when Julius Pollux therefore gives this new-constructed harp the name of Epigonium in honour of Epigonus, it is a mere trick, after the custom of the Greeks, to arrogate all originality to their countrymen, and defraud my ancestor of his prior title to give name to his own invention. In like manner I can detect their plagiarism, when they ascribe the invention of the double-headed plectrum to Sappho, whilst I have models still in my possession, that prove it to have been the very identical plectrum in general use, when my ingenious ancestor struck out a better practice. I am therefore very naturally interested to prevent my ancestorial harp from being confounded with the seven-stringed lyre, ascribed by Homer to Mercury, of which the testudo formed the sounding-board; much less would I have it mistaken for that delineated by Hyginus with crooked arms, and least of all with the suspicious model in the museum of the Medici.

All this, my dear sir, said the colonel, I should be extremely delighted with, were I capable of understanding it; but alas! how should I, who was never accustomed to admire any thing above the crash of a regimental band, comprehend a single word of what you have been saying to me? That I am capable of preferring one tune before another is all I pretend to, but to assign any reason for that preference is what I do not pretend to.

Yet there is a reason, resumed De Lancaster, and that reason is not inscrutable to all, because not enquired into by you. That tones have power over the human feelings will not be disputed; but tones have different properties, and of course different operations: the one, entire, full and legitimate tone contains within itself a variety of divisional parts, by the expression and application of which various passions may be excited, and various effects produced. The full tone may be resolved into the half-tone, or hemitonium; the half-tone into the quarter-tone, or diesis; neither does its divisibility stop here, for the diesis may be again resolved, first, into its proper quarter-tone, or tetartemoria, which be pleased to observe, is also called enarmonios; secondly, into its third of a tone, or tritemoria, (which by the way is the true chromatique) and thirdly and lastly, into a tone, which involves a third part of a full tone and half a third, and this is called hemiolia—And now, my good friend, having given you some insight into the various combinations and resolutions of musical tones, according to the system of the Greek writers on the harmonics, (which, though briefly stated, cannot fail to be perfectly clear to your comprehension) I think I may trust you to discover the reason, why certain modulations and assortments of tones are pleasing to you, and others not. These are the elements of all harmony, and as you are now fully possessed of the definition of them, you cannot possibly find any difficulty in the application.

I am under no difficulty at all, cried the colonel, in finding out when I am pleased, and that being the only discovery I have any concern in, I will trouble you no further to explain to me why I am pleased, but take your word for having given me the true reason, and be content.

Here the lecture ended as many lectures do: the expounder was perfectly satisfied with the instruction he had imparted, and the disciple was entirely reconciled to remain in ignorance of what he did not wish to understand.

At this moment Cecilia opportunely entered the room, and the recollection of Sir Owen’s proposal instantly occuring to her father, he desired to have a little private talk with her, and Wilson on the hint withdrew.

CHAPTER IX.

The last in the Book. The Author presents Cecilia De Lancaster to his Readers, and trusts that he exhibits no unnatural, or ideal, Character.

Cecilia De Lancaster, of whom I am about to speak, was now in her twenty-ninth year, and three years younger than her brother Philip, father of our hero John. I have already said, that, since her father had been a widower, she had persisted in devoting her attention to him, and to the superintendance of his household.

Convinced that she possessed his entire affection, and sensible that his happiness in a great degree depended upon her, she had hitherto withstood every overture for changing her condition. The harmony, typified in her name, was realized in her nature: it was manifested and expressed in every movement, every feature of her mind, her temper and her person. Time, that had robbed her of the freshness of her bloom, had repaid her by maturing and improving charms more permanent, endowments more attractive. There was a smile, so characteristically her own, that it was hard to conceive it could ever be bestowed without being felt, and, such was her discernment, that perhaps it was very rarely bestowed where it was not deserved. Her eyes were the genuine interpreters of her heart: when turned upon the poor or afflicted, they melted into compassion; when directed towards her friends, they glistened with affection; when uplifted towards her God, their expression might be called divine. Her voice came upon the ear like music—There is a passage in a letter written by our hero to one of his friends, that describes it in the following terms. “It is,” says he, “of so sweet a pitch, that, whensoever it is heard, I am struck with wonder how it comes to pass, that others do not tune their voices to it: for my own part I may say, that my first efforts of articulation were instinctively in unison with her tones; and therefore it is, that I have never entered into argument with loud and boisterous speakers, or elevated my voice to the annoyance of any man’s ears, since I have been admitted into society.”

Such was Cecilia De Lancaster, who now in that sweet voice, which we have been describing—(Oh that ye would imitate it, ye tuneless talkers!) requested her father to impart to her his commands, not unaware that they most probably referred to his interview with her importunate admirer Sir Owen ap Owen, baronet, of Penruth Abbey.

This conjecture was soon confirmed by the recital, which her father now gave of the baronet’s proposals; he stated them as advantageously for the proponent, as the case would admit of: his family and fortune were unexceptionable; he saw no objection to him on the score of temper; he had the character of being a kind master, an easy landlord and a hospitable neighbour: it must be owned that the good man was not overstocked with wit or learning, but he had no conceit or self-sufficiency to betray him into attempts, that might subject him to ridicule: his pursuits were not above the level of his understanding, so that upon the whole he thought his friend Sir Owen might pass muster with the generality of country gentlemen.

I think of him, said Cecilia, exactly as you do; his pursuits are suited to his understanding, and his manners are suited to his pursuits: these are easily counted up, for they consist in little else but his hounds and his bottle: I can partake of neither; my happiness centers in the consciousness of possessing the good opinion and affection of my beloved father: That blessing I enjoy at home; I need not run to Penruth Abbey in pursuit of it; ’tis here, and ever present whilst I am with you. As for Sir Owen’s addresses, he has repeated them so often for the last five years, and has so constantly received the same answer, that I must suppose he now compliments me with his proposal rather from habit, than with any serious idea, that it can avail. As a neighbour I shall be glad to see Sir Owen, even at the tea-table, provided he is sober, but as a lover I hope to see no more of him, and I flatter myself I shall not; especially should a certain lady arrive, whom I understand he is expecting at the Abbey.

Upon De Lancaster’s asking who that lady was, Cecilia informed him that she was the widow of his brother David, the Spanish merchant, lately deceased. This lady she understood to be a native of Spain, and that she was bringing with her from Cadiz a boy, the nephew of Sir Owen, and of course presumptive heir to his estate and title. Judge then, added she, if some address will not be employed by Mrs. Owen to keep her son in the succession, and if my poor lover has nothing but his Welch wits to oppose to her Spanish finesse, it is easy to conjecture what turn the politics of Penruth Abbey are likely to take.

Well, cried the father, it was my part to make good my promise to Sir Owen; it is your’s to decide upon his fate. This you have done, and I may now say without scruple, you have wisely done; yet recollect my dear Cecilia, we have as yet but this one infant in our stock, and I do not expect that Mrs. De Lancaster will prove a very prolific mother.

I trust, replied Cecilia, that this fine boy will live, and then I shall think Mrs. De Lancaster a very fortunate mother, though she may never greet us with a second hope.

Heaven grant the child may live! exclaimed De Lancaster; devoutly I implore it. But oh! my dear Cecilia, where is our stream of ancestry alive but in yourself? In whose veins but in your’s does the ancient current of our blood run pure? Look at your brother! Look at the rock, from which this child is hewn! Is there in that dead mass one spark of native fire, one quickening ray of genius?—No; not one. Stampt with an inauspicious name, he is of all the foregone Philips Philippissimus. Look at the hapless mother of the babe! Has she a heart? I know she has not that, which answers to the name: she had, but it is gone. Alas for thee, poor babe! being so fathered and so mothered, child, from whom can’st thou derive or heart or head—?

From you, his grandfather, replied Cecilia: Come, come, my dearest sir, I’ll not allow of this despondency. Rise from your chair, and come with me and visit this new scyon of your stock! Look in his lovely face; contemplate the bright promise of a true De Lancaster, a virtuous hero, born to crown your name with honour: See him! you’ll own how Providence has blessed you, and blush for having doubted.

The father rose, took the hand of his daughter, and, whilst the tears were brimming in his eyes, followed where she led.

Now, my friendly reader, if you have gone patiently along with me through the pages of this my first book, let me hope that you will proceed not unpleasantly to the conclusion of the next.

You know that every story must have time to expand itself: characters must not be hurried into action before they are understood; and a novel, though it ought to be dramatic, is not absolutely a drama.

My hero is yet in the cradle, and I must keep his grandfather and others in the foreground, till he is fit to be presented to you: when that time comes, old age may cease to prattle, philology may fall back and Nature step forward to conduct and close the scene.

In the mean time if I take the freedom of saying a few words, whilst the fable pauses, recollect that I cannot in the course of nature have many more opportunities of conversing with you, and few have been the writers, with whom you have had more frequent intercourse, or who have been more pertinaciously industrious to deserve your favour and esteem, for I am now striving to amuse and edify even the youngest of my readers, when I myself am short of fourscore years by less than four; and I am inclined to believe, that the mere manual operation of writing these pages, (as I am now doing for the third time with my own hand) would be found task enough for any person of my age, without engaging in the labour of inventing, or the risque of fathering them.

Be that as it may, the work is done, and done, not in the evil spirit of the time, but without a single glance at any living character; conscious therefore that I have not endangered what is sacred to me as a gentleman, the critics are most cordially welcome to every thing they can find about me as an author. However as I know some of them to be fair and honourable gentlemen, I hope they will recollect how often I have been useful to them in the sale of their publications, and assist me now with their good word in the circulation of De Lancaster.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

A Country Visit according to the old Costuma.

The two companions, who had pledged themselves to this adventure, rendezvoused at the same moment, though not exactly under the same colours; for whilst the scarlet of De Lancaster’s apparel was fiery bright, the uniform of Wilson had a cast of the campagne in it, having seen some service, and endured some smoke.

Amongst the numerous personages, who attended these adventurers to the door of the vehicle, in which they embarked their bodies, our new-born hero took a conspicuous post, probably more in compliment to the curiosity of his nurse, than selfishly to gratify his own. Nevertheless it is recorded, that when the machine, (called in those days a coach) was put in motion by the joint energy of six fat coach-horses and one fat driver, little John clapped his hands, and crowed amain for joy: if he made any speech upon the occasion, there was one more instance of miraculous prematurity lost to the world, for nobody remembered it.

Though the country they had to travel over was not quite so flat as Norfolk, nor the road altogether like a gravel walk, yet the journey was prosperous, for the team was strong, and a persevering amble, now and then exasperated into an actual trot, brought the travellers within sight of the mansion, embowered in yew-trees, where dwelt the descendant of King Lear, father of a daughter less ambitious than Regan, but far more dutiful.

A forerunner, who without trial of his speed, had outstripped the coach by some miles, had announced the coming of the lord of Kray Castle, and the fires in the old conventual kitchen sparkled at the news: the drunken old warder had got on his fur gown, and the bard of the family was ready in the gallery of the great hall to give the customary salutation to so honourable a guest. When Mr. De Lancaster had passed the abbey-like porch, and found himself in the aforesaid hall, he turned round, and made a courteous inclination of his head to the harper, who, like Timotheus, was placed on high: noticing the domestics and retainers, who lined his passage to the receiving room, he said in a whisper to his friend the colonel—These honest folks don’t look as if they had suffered by a reduction either of the quantity or quality of their Welch ale.—When ushered into the room, where the master of the mansion was, they found him sitting in his gouty chair, with his foot wrapped in flannel on a stool, in company with a great collection of Morgans, who hung quietly by the wall: upon sight of De Lancaster his countenance was lighted up with joy. This is kind indeed, he exclaimed; this is an honour I could not expect, and a favour I shall never forget, taking the hand of De Lancaster, and making an effort, as if to press it to his lips. Turning to Colonel Wilson, he cried—Ah my old friend, I am happy to see you. Welcome to Glen-Morgan! Why you look bravely, and are nimbler upon one leg, than I am upon two: you see how I am suffering for the sins of my youth.—He then called out amain for Mrs. Richards his housekeeper; he might have spared himself the trouble, for Mrs. Richards was in the room, and made herself responsible for well-aired beds, reminding her master, who questioned her very closely, that Captain Jones had lodged ten nights in the room, which she had prepared for Mr. De Lancaster, and he had left Glen-Morgan that very morning: the same good care had been taken of Colonel Wilson’s apartment. Satisfaction being given upon these points, Mrs. Richards was strictly enjoined to see that not an individual belonging to his worthy guest wanted for any thing in his house, nay, if a dog had followed his coach, let it be her duty to take care that he was welcomed and well fed.—These were the manners, and such the primitive hospitality of those days.

When dinner was announced, and old Morgan, wheeled in his chair into the eating-room, the parson in his canonicals at the foot of the table gave his benediction to an abundant mass of steaming viands, which bespoke a liberal rather than an elegant provider. A grave and elderly gentleman, who had the health of the family under his care, pronounced a loud Amen at the conclusion of the parson’s prayer, and the butler at the sideboard bowed his head. The family lawyer was also present, having a dinner retainer ad libitum, and a painter of no small eminence, who was upon his tour for the purpose of taking sketches of back-grounds for his portraits, completed the party.

Every guest at table had an attendant at his back in full livery of green and red with boot-cuffs, on which the tailor of the household had wantonly bestowed such a bountiful profusion of scarlet plush, that the hand, which gave a plate, seldom failed to sweep away the bread beside it, or the knife and fork, as it might happen: some discomposure also occurred to the wearers of wigs, when a dish was put on or taken off from the table. The harp would not have been silent, but that Mr. De Lancaster observed, that the din of the table would probably be louder than the melody of the serenade, and with much good reason suggested, that it might be more respectful to the musician, not to call upon him for his attendance till there was a better chance for hearing his performance.

When the table at length was cleared, and the health of the new-born heir had gone round, De Lancaster did not fail to call for the minstrel, and Mr. Gryffin Gryffin made his entrance with his harp, habited in his garb of office with his badge of merit pendant on his breast. After a prelude, calculated to display his powers of execution, he paused to know if it was the pleasure of the company to honour him with their choice of any favourite melody; to this De Lancaster with his usual courtesy made answer, that for himself he should much prefer to hear some strain of Mr. Gryffin’s own composition, accompanied by the voice. Gryffin bowed, and confessed that he had been employed upon a simple melody of a pensive and pathetic cast, adapted to a few valedictory stanzas, which Captain Jones, who had that morning departed from Glen-Morgan to embark for the West Indies, had left upon his table, purposely, as it should seem, to fall into his hands.—

By all means give us those! was the exclamation of more than one person in the company.

The obedient minstrel again made a graceful reverence, and throwing his hands upon his harp, sung as follows—