JOHN DE LANCASTER.



VOLUME II.

Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John’s Square.


JOHN DE LANCASTER.

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

The Experiment, as resolved upon by Mr. Philip De Lancaster, is made.

When Philip’s confidential interview with Colonel Wilson was concluded, he directly bent his course to the chamber of David Williams. It was a station equally well adapted to the studies of the poet, the astronomer or the musician, for it was in the high road to the stars, at the very top of the loftiest turret of Kray-Castle, and far enough exalted above every living thing, that grovelled on the earth. It is to be lamented that the fine prospect it commanded was no recommendation of it to blind David, but the advantages it might have offered to him of inhaling the refreshing breezes in their greatest purity would have compensated in part, had it not so happened, that its only casement was not made to open.

When Philip, whom the love of prospect never could have tempted to ascend this winding staircase, had with infinite pains landed himself in David’s airey, the twilight was drawing on, and the sun sinking red towards his chamber in the west. He found the minstrel seated in his only chair with his harp between his knees, and on the table before him his pitcher, which, though of a capacious girth, had been drained of its contents.

Philip having accosted him and made known his errand in few words, the old man rose from his seat, and stood with his left hand resting on his harp, whilst his right was pressed respectfully on his breast—Be it, he replied, as the son of my patron hath commanded! When David Williams shall hesitate to obey the heir of this castle, and the descendant of the ever-honoured De Lancasters, this heart must have forfeited its duty, and this hand forgotten its accustomed office. Although my brain is even now in travail and only waits the mollifying aid of another jug to bring forth, behold me ready! Speak the word only for my son David to bear my harp, and lead me to the apartment of the lady your spouse, I will incontinently set forward.

Thank you, my old friend, cried Philip! You do it with good will, and that is every thing. But what think you of the experiment? Do you hold with my father in opinion that by the melody of the harp you can drive the evil spirit out of Mrs. De Lancaster?

Who drove the evil spirit out of Saul, replied the minstrel?

You have said it sure enough, rejoined Philip; but we must proceed cautiously, and not give her too much of it. A short strain, and something in her own way, of the pensive cast—You have the name, the instrument and the art of the royal minstrel, but recollect the peril he was in, and be aware how you proceed too far in stirring up and stimulating the passions.

Thus having said, he departed, whilst the hoary-headed enthusiast seized his harp, and full of the muse called amain for his son to lead him.

Whilst this was passing in the turret, Cecilia with our young hero had paid an evening visit to Mrs. De Lancaster in her apartment. She was more than fancifully ill, for her sunken eyes and hectic looks too plainly indicated a constitution breaking up. Her spirits however were just now in that kind of nervous flutter, which carries a resemblance to gaiety, and she was more than ordinarily communicative and disposed to talk.

Their conversation turned upon the preparations making for the approaching festival—You will look in upon us I hope, said Cecilia; and if you apprehend the company will be too much for you, I’ll have the latticed gallery in the hall kept private, where nobody will molest you. There will be music, sister, and I flatter myself you have no dislike to that.

None, replied Mrs. De Lancaster, to music, properly so called, but infinite dislike and horror for trumpets and cudgel-playing, and noisy bawling drunkards, who shout over their cups, and rattle them on the table by way of applause: these are generally the accompaniments of a Welch carousal.

You have none such to expect with us, believe me, said Cecilia. We shall not make it a Saint David’s day, take my word for it.

No, cried the invalid, one such as I experienced, when this poor thing was hurried into the world, has been one too many, and left me more to struggle with than I shall ever overcome—and here her spirits sunk, and her countenance assumed a melancholy cast, whilst she turned her languid eyes upon her son.

I am sorry to hear you talk thus, the gentle Cecilia replied: I was in hopes, that now when all the troubles of that time are over, you would have looked back to that day as a day of happiness and comfort. I am persuaded that your son will never give you cause to regret what you suffered for his sake; and now that he is in train to receive an excellent education, what may we not expect from the brilliancy of his talents, and the virtues of his heart?

Yes, yes, she cried with a desponding sigh, I know what I am to expect from the education he will receive. Every thing I dare say they will teach him but humility and that discernment, which might constitute his happiness. He will split upon the rock, that was so fatal to his wretched mother, and they, on whom his destiny depends, will immolate another victim to ambitious fortune and the pride of family.

John’s ready apprehension caught the words, understood their meaning, and in that instant he resolved to bring them to an explanation, whenever opportunity might favour his design. She had spoken these words with a degree of energy, that apparently exhausted her—Poor fellow, she now said in a faint voice, and reached out her hand, as if inviting him to approach; he sprung from his seat, respectfully received her hand and pressed it to his lips—Am I not to blame, she said, addressing herself to Cecilia, for thus indulging my affection for an object, from whom I must so soon be parted?

No, my dear sister, replied Cecilia; you are only to blame for indulging those melancholy thoughts. Exert yourself for the recovery of your health and spirits; seek amusement in the company of your friends, resort to air and exercise in the place of medicine and confinement, and you may live to see all your apprehensions vanish, and your son made happy, (so may Heaven grant it!) to the completion of your warmest wishes.

Ah my kind comforter, said the mother, I know full well that medicine cannot cure my complaints nor exertion restore my spirits. I am sensible it is not worth my while to seek for a recovery any where, for sure enough it is no where to be found; yet I will acknowledge to you, that unless I were obstinately resolved to devote myself to death, I must not meet another winter in this country. The soft climates of Lisbon or the South of France may give me a few more weeks; and though I have long ceased from enjoying life, I am not reconciled in my conscience to the neglect of any reasonable means for prolonging it. Besides, as I have all the disposition in the world not to disturb Mr. De Lancaster’s repose with certain ceremonials, in which he might think it incumbent on him to take a part, I shall only trouble him to attend upon me to the sea-side, and leave it to other people in another country to follow me to the grave. I perceive myself exactly treading in the steps of my poor mother, and can easily foresee where they will lead me. When she was at my time of life, (as I well recollect,) she was affected just in the same manner as I am. My father talked to her as you talk now to me: he was a kind and tender husband, which, allow me to observe, was one more comfort in her lot than I have to boast of. She had no child but me, and I was about John’s age when I saw her for the last time. She was not in the habit of bestowing any extraordinary caresses upon me, and I seldom was admitted to her, for her spirits did not allow of it. Upon this last meeting however she was extremely kind to me, and the circumstance is the more strongly impressed upon my memory on account of a very singular occurrence, which I can sometimes reflect upon till I fancy myself in her very situation, and hearing the same sounds, as seemed to summon my poor mother to her death-bed.

Of what sort were those sounds? Cecilia asked—Of the most seraphic sort, Mrs. De Lancaster replied, as she described them; such as we may conceive the angels to excite, when they waft a soul into bliss.

By one of those extraordinary coincidences, that sometimes occur, it so chanced, that in the very moment, whilst Mrs. De Lancaster, was describing these strains, heard by her mother before death, David Williams, who had planted himself in the adjoining gallery, gave a flourish on his harp. It was not one of those imposing preludes, that are calculated to display the execution of the master; it was rather meant to invite attention by its melody, than to arrest it by its violence.

Hark! cried Mrs. De Lancaster; do you hear those sounds?—It is only David Williams, Cecilia replied, going to serenade us. If you wish it to be stopped, I’ll tell him—Upon no account, answered the other, I am convinced these things do not happen by chance; and whether the music is produced by natural or supernatural means, I entreat you not to attempt at interrupting it.

Immediately a symphony was played most exquisitely sweet and melodious: the minstrel never was in a happier moment; young John in the mean time kept hold of his mother’s hand, whilst the strain swelled and sunk at times in cadence so enchanting, as might remind Mrs. De Lancaster of those seraphic airs, which were supposed to have visited her dying mother, especially when the following words were distinctly heard, as the blind minstrel chanted them forth to the accompaniment of his harp.

CHAPTER II.

Mr. De Lancaster discourses upon the Tactics of the Ancients.

Whilst David Williams was chanting the extemporaneous lay, with which we concluded the foregoing chapter, the door between him and Mrs. De Lancaster was ajar; the gallery, in which he was playing, was admirably disposed for music, and every note came to the ear, mellowed by the distance without being lost in its passage. The strain was of a character so simple, and the harmony so pure and flowing in it’s course, without any of those capricious and false ornaments, which are too often resorted to, that both the movement and the matter were intelligible to the hearers, till at the close it burst into such a display of execution, as called forth all the powers of the instrument, and set off the art of the master in its highest style of excellence.

When Mrs. De Lancaster perceived that the performance was concluded, John was told to open the door, and upon his entering the gallery, the old minstrel was discovered sitting in deep meditation, with his arms folded round his harp, and his head resting upon the frame of it, whilst his white locks, long and flowing, hung profusely over his forehead, and entirely shaded his countenance. He had placed himself opposite to an antique bow-window, through which a ruddy gleam from the descending sun directly smote upon his figure, and threw it into tints, that would have been a study for Rembrandt or Bassan.

The mother and aunt of our hero, who had now joined him in the gallery, stood for a while contemplating the striking effect, which his attitude produced. At length Mrs. De Lancaster said—We are obliged to you, Mr. Williams, for your very charming music: may I ask who is the author of it?

He, who is the author of my being, he replied, rising up and shaking the locks from off his forehead; He, that endowed me with a soul, inspired me with the love of harmony, and what He inspires, I with all humble devotion endeavour to express.

Can you repeat those passages again?

Lady I cannot. It was not from memory that I played them, and having played them, I no longer keep them in remembrance. When the approaching festival shall call on me for my exertions, I hope to produce something more worthy of your commendation.

Did you come hither of your own accord?

I never come to ladies’ chambers of my own accord.

To whom beside yourself am I indebted for this entertainment?

The son of my patron, your spouse, commanded me to play to you.

Did he so? said Mrs. De Lancaster. I will trouble you no further. She then wished Cecilia a good night, pressed the hand of her son in token of a farewel, and turned into her chamber.

Whilst this was passing above stairs, the venerable chief of the De Lancasters was sitting and conversing over his coffee with Colonel Wilson and his sons Henry and Edward; for the elder of these brothers, who was captain of a troop of dragoons, had taken advantage of a few days furlough to pay a visit to his father before he joined his regiment in Ireland. Henry was an amiable and well-informed young man, and had the character of being a very gallant and good officer. De Lancaster loved a soldier, and was fond of talking to every man upon professional topics: Henry was highly entertained with the singularity of his character, and had won the old gentleman’s heart by listening to his dissertations with the most flattering attention, asking questions and throwing in remarks occasionally, which proved him to have taken a lively interest in the subject under discussion, and to be a hearer to the heart’s content of his communicative host.

Robert De Lancaster had been calling to mind the several passages, that occurred to him in the grammarians, respecting ancient tactics, and had gone back to the Trojan war for the purpose of remarking to Captain Henry, that it did not appear that the Greeks had any cavalry in the besieging army, except the horses, which they harnessed to their chariots: that even in the battle of Marathon there were no horse in the Athenian army, and that it was not till they repulsed Xerxes and were at peace, that they raised any body of cavalry, and then only three hundred.

Henry let him proceed without interruption till he got amongst the Roman cohorts, who, he informed him, did not use saddles till they copied them from the Germans, and as for stirrups, they had no word, that answered to them in their language. He remarked that Franciscus Philelphus, who lived in the time of the fathers, had indeed coined the word Stapeda to express a stirrup, but Budæus in after times had improved upon it by substituting the compound term of Subex pedancus, which he clearly preferred, and for which he gave Budæus all due credit.

Mr. De Lancaster seemed very candidly disposed to recommend the fashion of riding without saddle or stirrups, though he himself used both in their greatest amplitude and richest splendor; the seat of the one being of blue velvet, and the materials of the other brass proudly gilt. He even doubted if the Numidians were not the best models for cavalry, forasmuch as they made use neither of saddle nor bridle, but turned and stopped their horses with their canes or switches, whilst the Teutonic horsemen were so adroit in shifting from horse to horse, that they oftentimes charged their enemy double-mounted; nay, they could manage four, as Homer witnesses, and he (Mr. De Lancaster) had authority to say that one of their kings named Teutobocchus, was so excellent a rider, that he could keep six horses alternately under him, and bring them all into action at the same time, which he conceived was a very great advantage to that warlike monarch in a charge. He begged however to be understood as saying this under correction of the captain’s better judgment, and seemed to wait in expectation of his decision upon the reference.

The captain properly observed, that, if King Teutobocchus had a horse killed under him, he certainly had his choice of five yet left; but if he was killed himself he stood the chance of leaving six without a rider to fall into the enemy’s hands; so that much might be said on both sides.

This answer, which decided neither for nor against King Teutobocchus and his six chargers, left De Lancaster at liberty to hold to his opinion, and proceed with his discourse, which now went back to the Romans, who, till they used saddles, always vaulted on their steeds, training the young recruits to the practice by drilling them upon wooden horses, till they were able to mount and dismount upon either side with all their accoutrements, in which manœuvre the great Pompey was said to be so expert, as to perform it at full speed, drawing and returning his sword at the same time with the utmost expedition and correctness. After the barbarous introduction of saddles Mr. De Lancaster acknowledged that the Roman horseman was forced to mount either by the aid of the hand, or by practising his horse to kneel. He took notice that the sword-belt slung over the shoulder was conformable to ancient custom, but he doubted whether the sword ought not to be slung on the right side, as the Romans wore it, and not of so enormous a length, as it was carried to by the present fashion. He confessed that the Roman trooper with his massy spear, a shield slung to his horse’s side, a case of three or four stout javelins with broad blades, and with his helmet and coat of mail, must have been a cumbrous load upon his charger, and he admitted that his movements and evolutions could not be very rapid. Speaking of the standards of the cavalry, he said they were very generally of purple with the name of the commander worked in gold; though he was aware they afterwards introduced the figure of the dragon, richly embroidered after the fashion of the Asiatics. That the devices they wore on their helmets were of various sorts, according to the fancy of the wearer, but plumes of peacock’s feathers could only be mounted on the crests of generals of the highest rank and description. Pyrrhus’s crest was distinguished by the horns of the goat curiously modelled in fine gold.

He informed his hearers, that when the Roman cavalry were ordered to the charge, the chief trumpeter, whose station was beside the general, sounded to make ready; this was answered by the band posted near the eagles, and when the horse were going down all the trumpets in the army sounded together, whilst the soldiers shouted out the word for battle, and that word, though not precisely recorded, he had reason to believe was FERI! answering to our Strike home! A chorus so tremendous, that Cato says—The cry of our soldiers is more terrifying to the enemy than their swords. As for the Greeks, it is well known, he observed, that they came down to the charge shrieking out their insulting ALALAGMOS! Of this cry Pân was the inventor, and the terror it created was thence called Panic: the same Greeks had their Pæan before battle, called the Aggressive Pæan, and another after battle, called the Pæan of Victory.

With respect to what we call specifically—the word or parolle—that was given out by the general at pleasure, and was alway of some cheering and auspicious import—as that of Cæsar, which he made use of in his African campaign, Felicitas! that of Brutus, Libertas! that of Augustus, Apollo! whilst Cyrus gave out with the signal for battle—Jupiter socius, dux, servator! Jupiter, our comrade, our leader, our preserver!

CHAPTER III.

Mr. De Lancaster relates some curious Properties peculiar to certain Islands.

Mr. De Lancaster had brought his dissertation to a conclusion, when Philip entered the room: he had been told by David Williams what effect his experiment had produced, and as it had brought Mrs. De Lancaster out of her chamber, he had begun to apprehend greater consequences from its operation, than he was either prepared to encounter, or disposed to wish, till upon meeting Mr. Llewellyn he was informed by that sagacious gentleman, that the surprise, into which his patient had been thrown by the unexpected serenade of David’s harp had proved extremely prejudicial to her health, and that he thought it of the last consequence to her life, never to expose her to such dangerous experiments again—I cannot for my soul conceive, said that learned sage, what expectations you could form from such a ridiculous chimæra, but to hurry her into fits, which you have done, and to drive her out of her senses which very possibly you may do. If I am thus to be interrupted in the management of her case, how am I to be answerable for her life?

Thus rebuffed by the anti-musical doctor, Philip sought refuge in the society of the company below stairs from the persecution of those above. He sate silent and dull, but as this was nothing extraordinary on his part, nobody concerned themselves about him.

Mr. De Lancaster asked Captain Wilson in what province of Ireland his regiment was quartered, and upon being answered that it was in Munster, he gravely observed, that he would then be upon the spot, where, if so disposed, he might enquire into the truth of the extraordinary properties recorded by Giraldus Cambrensis of a certain island in the aforesaid province which, if related by any other than a historian of his established character for veracity and research, might have staggered all credulity.

Upon Henry’s desiring to be informed what those properties were—he replied, I premised that they were extraordinary, and I own to you they require confirmation, for Giraldus deliberately tells us, that there is an island in that province, known in his time, and in fact from the time of Saint Patrick, into which no woman, nor any female creature living, could enter.

Well done, Giraldus! cried the colonel, that is an interesting discovery for married men.

A blessed one—said Philip in an under voice.

I hardly think I shall be able to find it, said the captain, and if I do, I don’t believe I shall chuse it for my head quarters.

It is fitter for a hermitage or a monkish convent, Edward observed.

Hold, cried De Lancaster, I have Giraldus on the table, and here he tells us of an island, where no woman can be delivered of a child.

Pooh! said the colonel, he is an old woman himself, and can be delivered of nothing but lies.

Hold, resumed the expounder of Giraldus; here is another island, which is partly inhabited by good, and partly by evil spirits.

All islands are alike for that, said the colonel.

Have a little patience; we have not done yet with Giraldus’s islands, for here is one, where dead bodies cannot putrefy; and look! here is another, that outgoes all the others, where nobody can ever die—Mark his words—Nemo unquam moritur, unquam mortuus fuit, vel morte naturali mori potuit.

Excellent Giraldus! exclaimed the colonel; if he does but make out his immortal island to be that which women cannot enter, the grand desideratum is obtained.

He does not say that, replied De Lancaster.

Then he had better have said nothing about it, Philip cried out from his corner, for fear our wives should find it out.

At this instant our hero John made his appearance with a most flaming and tremendous sketch of David Williams, playing on his harp at sun-down, as he had seen him in the gallery. This was the first unlucky start of John’s genius in the branch of portrait-painting, and though it was in the grand gusto of Michael Angelo, it was not quite so good as Michael Angelo would have made it, though John had bestowed as much red ink upon it as would have served a merchant’s clerk for a twelve-month.

At the sight of that red ink, so profusely squandered, Philip betrayed no small alarm, and demanded where he got it. John had found a bottle of it upon the chimney-piece in his father’s bedroom.

It is not ink, cried Philip; it is the blood of Saint Januarius, and you have ruined me.

The vehemence of Philip’s exclamation, and the horror of his countenance, were too ridiculous to be withstood, and even the gravity of the grandfather was not proof against the laugh.

Hollah! friend John, cried the colonel, you have drawn a devil in the blood of a saint.

John demanded how long the saint had been dead; and the colonel answered at a guess, that it was not much more than a thousand years, but the monks could bring his blood to life again, when they had occasion for a vial of red ink.

You may make a laughing matter of it, said Philip, but I got it with considerable difficulty, and not at the price of red ink, assure yourself.

And what was the use of it, when you had got it, said the colonel?

Sir, replied poor Philip with much solemnity—It has various uses: it is a preservative against storms by sea or land; against thunder and lightning; it guards your house from fire, keeps off evil spirits, and prevents or cures diseases.

And so it may still, said the old gentleman, for the sight of John’s drawing brings to my recollection the famous recipe, which John De Gaddesden has bequeathed to us for those, who may be seized with that terrible disorder the small-pox, and I believe I can give it to you in his own, or very nearly his own, words—“after the eruption of the small pox, says that ancient and learned leech, cause the whole body of your patient to be wrapt in scarlet, or in any other red envelope, and command every thing about the couch of the sick person to be made red, for this will be found an excellent and speedy cure. It was in this manner, he adds, I treated the son of the noble King Edward the Second of England, when he had the small pox, and I cured him without leaving any marks.”—This being granted, my grandson’s performance, although not eminently meritorious for its art, may yet be turned to beneficial purposes, and Saint Januarius may share the credit of them with John De Gaddesden.

Philip, who perceived he was not likely to receive any redress, walked away to meditate in silence over the loss of his miraculous vial. John was called up to his mother’s apartment, and when there admitted, Betty was ordered to retire, and she addressed him as will be found in the following chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

Our Hero has an Interview with his Mother.

When John had entered his mother’s chamber, and presented himself to her, she said—As I know that I must prepare myself to meet that summons, from which no mortal is exempt, sit down by me, and hear what I have to say; for whilst my senses hold I wish to communicate to you some particulars, which it imports you to be apprised of, and as they are of a secret nature, I must rely upon your discretion for understanding what is due to the confidence, that I am about to repose in you. I suspect you have been informed by the soldier, who died in this house, of my attachment to his master Captain Jones—(’Tis very well: I understand your signal)—He has told you, and I tell you now again, that my whole life has been embittered by the disappointment and affliction, which I endured, when rigid honour on his part, and over-ruling duty on mine, tore me from the arms of that beloved man, and threw me into those of your unfeeling father. Great as my affection was for Captain Jones, and implicit as my trust, yet I take it on my soul to assure you, that our connection was in the strictest sense correctly pure, and after I was married I never had the fortitude to speak to him, or even see his face. I state this to you, my dear child, not only that you may have it in your power conscientiously to put to silence and dismiss all insinuations against my honour, but also more especially to arm your mind for ever against those alarming fancies, that might else occur to you, if in any future period of time the charms, the virtues and endowments of the daughter should engage your heart, as those of the father captivated mine.

This angelic girl, (for as such she is represented to me) now lives with Mrs. Jennings at Denbigh, who has the care of her education, and on whom my father has settled an annuity for that purpose. I have bequeathed to Amelia Jones two thousand pounds by will, which is the only sum I can at present call my own; but if, by the will of providence, your grandfather should be suddenly taken off before I die, whatever I may in that case inherit from him I shall leave entirely to you, and recommend this interesting relict of my lamented friend to your bounty and protection. And now before I reveal to you the wish, that lies deepest at my heart, let me furnish you with the means of being known to her. This case contains a miniature of her father in enamel, admirably painted, and on the reverse of it under a crystal there is a lock of his hair. Dear as this relic has been, and still is, to me, alas! I never more must look upon it, I could not bear it, and must now endeavour to employ my thoughts in other meditations; take it, my son, and as your gift present it to Amelia; she will thank you; and if her gentle character should gain an early interest in your youthful heart, think of your wretched mother, and resolve against the fatal sacrifice, that I have made to fortune and connections: what are they, if your choice goes not with them? what but misery, entailed upon you by the base surrender of your own natural rights? Ah! my poor child, could I but cherish a consoling hope, that you will summon courage to assert those natural rights, and resolutely shun the torrent of those sordid importunities, that will assail you, I could die in peace.

Live then, replied our hero, live, my mother, in that confirmed assurance, and believe nothing can shake my fixt determination to follow my free choice in that event, which must decide my happiness for life. Fortune I do not want, and for that idle pride, which pedigree entails on some, who have no other merit, I despise it; all are my equals, who are not debased in character and conduct: as for Amelia Jones, (forgive me, madam) being my father’s son, and she the daughter of parents by their virtues ennobled, I look up to her as my superior; and when I have the happiness to present to her this valuable relic of her father, I can well believe my second visit will confirm the impression I received upon my first.

What do you tell me? Have you visited and seen Amelia?

I should have told you that before, but was afraid the circumstances, that produced that interview, might agitate and discompose your spirits.

No, no, relate them. If Amelia gave the impression you describe, ’tis all I wish, ’tis all I pray for.

She appeared, he replied, in loveliness of person, mind and manners to merit their description, who report her to you as an angelic girl. My plea for visiting her was to deliver into her hands the wedding ring, worn by her mother, and sent to her by her father in the care of the poor soldier, his servant, who on his death-bed entrusted it to me. In the execution of this delicate commission I was so dazzled, and my senses were so engrossed by the appearance of an object, beautiful and impressive beyond my expectations, that the abrupt and awkward manner, in which I introduced my business, occasioned a surprise on her part, which for a time overthrew her spirits and deprived me of her company. In the mean time whilst I was contemplating her father’s portrait, which hung opposite to me, and in a kind of rhapsody, that I could not controul, pledging my protection to his lovely daughter, behold, she stood beside me; and before I could recollect myself I had clasped her in my arms. Shocked at myself for an action so audacious, I fled out of the house, and by a note to Mrs. Jennings endeavoured to apologize and asked forgiveness: it was granted to me on the part of Amelia, but Mrs. Jennings by her answer to my note imposed upon me the severe condition of forbearing to intrude upon her charge in the like manner any more. This I have hitherto obeyed; how then shall I fulfil your orders, and present this relic to Amelia?

You must write to Mrs. Jennings, state what your commission is, and ask leave to wait upon her charge. When you have done this, shew me your letter, and, if I am able, I will add a postscript. Now, my dear son, beloved of my heart, farewel! my feeble spirits can no longer bear the agitation this discourse has caused. I am not used to joy; it overcomes me—send assistance to me!

CHAPTER V.

Preparations for celebrating the Assembly of the Minstrels at Kray Castle.

The day was now come, when the assembly of the minstrels was to be celebrated at Kray Castle. Every body was alert: the great hall showed like an arsenal, hung round with trophies of armour, and decorated with the banners of the family, upon which the emblem of the winged harp held its station paramount.

The natives, whether inhabitants of mountain or of vale, flocked from all parts to the spectacle. No minstrel, who had any ambition to distinguish himself, neglected the invitation. The domestics of the castle were arrayed in their gala liveries of orange-tawney, new for the occasion. All hands were busy in the kitchen, which was of conventual size, and the savory steam ascended to the vaulted roof in clouds of stomach-stirring odour. The cellar, though provided with a double tier of potent ordnance, was formidably menaced by the numbers of the assailants. Cecilia, the moving spring of all operations, had taken her measures so providently, and given out her orders with such precision, that all things went on in their respective departments with consummate regularity.

Mrs. De Lancaster, still languid, though in spirits less depressed, was incapable of taking any share in the festivities of the day, and confined herself to her apartment. The worthy old colonel had put himself in full uniform for the occasion, and Captain Henry Wilson, brilliant as if accoutred for a review, appeared as if he had been mailed in glittering sheets of silver. A ditto suit of melancholy bottle-green sufficed for Philip’s unambitious taste.

These with the venerable senior of the family had assembled in the great saloon, when the Reverend Edward Wilson, leading our young hero by the hand, presented him to his grandfather with the following address—I have the honour, sir, to introduce my pupil to you, and am most happy in assuring you, that I have already witnessed such encouraging instances both of his application and of his talents, as far exceed the promise of my most sanguine hopes. If my instructions can keep pace with the rapidity of his comprehension, it will not be very long before he will have exhausted all I shall wish to teach him as a reader of the classics. His own naturally strong understanding, and the inborn virtues of his heart, will leave me little else to do, save only to repress a certain ebullition of courageous spirit, which, though it be a quality, that ought to be found in every gentleman’s character, should not be called forth upon every frivolous occasion.

The old man sighed, cast a tender look upon his grandson, kissed him on each cheek, and turning aside to the preceptor, said in a whisper, I will talk to him on this subject.

A dealer in minute descriptions would here find some employment about the dress and person of our hero, as well as of his aunt Cecilia, hitherto unnoticed; but as elegance and perfect neatness were all that she aimed at, and her nephew imitated, simplicity, as I understand it, is not liable to description, and it would be loss of labour to attempt it.

The equipage of Sir Owen ap Owen was now discovered in approach. There had been a sensible falling off in the accustomed intercourse between the houses of De Lancaster and Owen since the accession of the Spanish widow and her son to the family of the baronet. Some little sparring upon points of county politics had occurred to threaten rather than to effect an actual breach between them. This visit therefore was regarded by the worthy host of the castle as a conciliatory advance on the part of his old friend and neighbour, whom of course he welcomed with all possible cordiality.

Sir Owen’s constitution was completely broken down; he walked with difficulty through the hall, leaning on De Lancaster’s arm, who saw with concern the change, that had been wrought in his once sturdy frame. Philip not being disposed to quit his corner, Captain Henry Wilson ushered in Mrs. David Owen, who having made her Spanish salutations to the company, took her seat upon the sopha, and gave the captain to understand that there was room for him to sit beside her. She made an excuse for her son, that he was out with the hounds, and had not returned, but would pay his compliments to Mr. De Lancaster in the course of the afternoon: she turned a look upon her bottle-green lover, which was not very expressive of complacency, and immediately played off her best graces on the captain: she took notice of his uniform, and complimented him by observing it was quite as brilliant as that of the Spanish guards—If we, who wear it, are quite as brave, the captain courteously replied, our finery will be well bestowed. She addressed herself to Cecilia, and observed that Master John, as she called him, was very much grown. He had taken his seat beside his godfather Sir Owen, who, when he had recovered his breath, said to De Lancaster—We are come, my good sir, to pay our compliments to you on this occasion, and have brought Ap-Rees with us to give you a specimen of his art, which you will understand, but I do not. Rachel, as you see, has set herself out in all her finery to do grace to your festival, but you must take a plain man in a plain coat, for I am too ill to thrust my crazy carcase into a fresh doublet, and shall hardly shift my rigging till I change it for a suit of sheep’s wool only.

De Lancaster shook his head, turned an eye of pity on his friend, but made no answer.

Sir Owen had now taken his godson by the hand, and was asking him why he did not go out with the hounds—I wait, John replied, till I can see you in the field, mounted on your favourite horse Glendowr; then I shall turn out with pleasure—Ah! my dear boy, cried Sir Owen, never, never again in this life shall I find myself upon the back of Glendowr. I can only look at him through the window, when he is led out to amuse me. He is the best horse and the best hunter in England: Lamprey was his sire, and Lamprey belonged to Sir William Morgan of Tredegar. I am torn to pieces for Glendowr, but a sack of money would not buy him: nephew David spells hard to borrow him, but I won’t lend him to David of all men living, for he is cruel to his horses, and abuses the fine creature, that carries him; but I will lend him to you, John, freely and willingly, for you are merciful, and will use him well; nay, I could find it in my heart to give him to you out and out.

Upon no account, John exclaimed, would I take him, whilst it can afford you, my dear sir, a moment’s pleasure to look at him.

Well, well! that’s handsome, he replied. Wait the going of a few short weeks, and you’ll find him in my will.

There is something more than meets the eye in this circumstance of the horse, or we should not have inserted it.

The guests in the mean time were coming in, and at an early hour the castle-bell rang out for dinner. At this instant the heir of the Owens made his appearance in his hunting uniform, and booted. He apologised for this by saying he had not quitted the saddle, that he might be in time to pay his compliments to Mr. De Lancaster within the hour, that was specified on his card. All this was very well, and Mr. David Owen was most courteously welcomed by Mr. De Lancaster and the inmates of his family. John made his bow, and Mr. Owen fell in with the company, who were now summoned to the dinner room, and took his seat at table.

Hospitality without parade, and festivity without excess was the character of an entertainment projected and conducted by the presiding genius of Cecilia De Lancaster.

Mr. David Owen assumed a certain consequential style and carriage, which strongly indicated, that he knew himself as the heir of his uncle’s title and estate, and that he saw the hour at hand, which was to put him in possession of both. A set of vulgar companions, who frequented his uncle’s table, had blown him up with flattery, whilst they were sapping the constitution of poor Sir Owen with their sottish debaucheries, which, if Mrs. David Owen took no ostensible measures to encourage, she certainly used no efforts to prevent: of her maternal authority she made no use, nor indeed could any be made, for it was completely dispensed with. Nature in the meanwhile had not done much for the young gentleman, and education very little; yet he was not without talents of a certain sort, and whenever opportunity offered for employing them, diffidence never stood in his way. He had the cunning of a Jew, and the haughtiness of a Spaniard: ridicule was his passion, and mimicry, particularly of his uncle, what he most excelled in. He had black piercing eyes, an aquiline nose and Moorish complexion, a high shrill voice, and when he wrinkled up his features into a smile, it was the grin of malice and derision.

CHAPTER VI.

Occurrences at Kray Castle during the Assembly of the Minstrels.

When the repast was over, and the glass had cheerfully, yet temperately, circulated, the doors of the great hall were thrown open: a scaffolding containing seats for the company, and a stage for the performers had been prepared, and the audience was full. Old De Lancaster, encircled by his guests, made the central figure of the assembly, and his entrance was hailed by a chorus of harps, joining in the popular air—Of a noble race was Shenkin.

When this was past, the names of six selected minstrels were announced. Each of these was of high celebrity in his art, and the respectability of the audience called on them for their best exertions. When four of this number had now acquitted themselves with great credit, and the plaudits of the hearers seemed to have been pretty equally bestowed amongst them, there remained only Robin Ap-Rees, the famous harper of Penruth Abbey, and David Williams of Kray Castle as yet unheard. In these celebrated performers there existed a high spirit of emulation, and the opinions of the country were divided between them: Though rivals in art, they were brothers in misfortune, for both were bereft of sight—Blind Thamyris and blind Mœonides.

After a pause of some minutes, Ap-Rees presented himself to the spectators, led, like Tiresias, by his young and blooming daughter, and followed by his son, carrying his harp. The interesting group so touched all hearts, and set all hands in motion, that the hall rung with their plaudits. He was a tall thin man with stooping shoulders, bald head, pale visage, of a pensive cast, and habited in a long black mantle of thin stuff bound about with a rose-coloured sash of silk, richly fringed with silver, and on his breast, appending to a ribbon of pale blue, hung a splendid medal of honour.

Before he took the seat, that was provided for him, he stopped and made a profound obeisance to the company: his daughter in the meantime, modest, timid and unprepared for such a scene, not venturing to encounter the eyes of the spectators, when she had placed her father in his seat, no longer able to struggle with her sensibility, sunk into his arms, trembling and on the point to faint: her brother stood aghast and helpless: the ladies manifested their alarm by screams, and the men were rising from their seats, when our hero, whose only monitor was his heart, leapt on the stage and sprung to her relief: she revived, and he gallantly conducted her to a seat, where she was no longer exposed to the observation of the company who cheered him with a loud applause.

Silence being restored, Ap-Rees began to tune his harp. He paused, as if waiting for the inspiration of his muse; his bosom yet laboured with the recent agitation of his spirits, when at length he threw his hand over the strings, and began the symphony. His song was the tale of ancient days: he took for his theme the religious legend of the famous knight Sir Owen, one of the ancestors of his present patron. The legend is detailed at length by Matthew Paris in his history, page 86, edited by Doctor Watts in the year 1640, and few can be found better calculated to call forth all the powers of poetry and music: The date is that of the reign of King Stephen, and in the wars of that period Sir Owen had very valorously distinguished himself. When Ap-Rees described his hero entering the tremendous cave amidst the wailings of the tormented, and beset by the infernal spirits, who assailed his constancy by every horrible device their malice could suggest, so striking were the effects, so contrasted the transitions of his harmony, that he seemed almost to realize those fearful yellings, groanings and thunderings recorded in the story. When he advanced to that period, where the fortitude of the knight baffles all the efforts of the dæmons, the movement, which had before been turbulent, irregular and excursive, became solemn, flowing and majestic; but when in conclusion Sir Owen, triumphant over his assailants, puts them to general rout, and the gloomy cave in an instant is converted into a bright and blooming paradise, the minstrel with such art adapted his melody to the scene described, and so tranquillizing was the sweetness of his strain, that at the close he left his hearers still impressed with those delightful sensations, which Milton describes Adam to have felt, whilst the voice of the communicative angel was yet dwelling on his ear.

At length De Lancaster rose up, and addressing himself to the minstrel, testified his high admiration of the excellent performance he had witnessed, observing that it had been particularly gratifying to him to listen to a poem, founded on the magnanimous behaviour of a truly Christian knight, who was enrolled amongst the many heroes, which the ancient and illustrious house of his friend and countryman Sir Owen ap Owen might justly boast of.

This speech was followed by a thundering applause, the exulting minstrel made his valedictory obeisance, and withdrew.

Sir Owen in the meantime whispered his friend De Lancaster, that he had never read the story, but he was told it was put down in a book and of course he conceived it must be all true.

David Williams now remained to ascend the stage and close the entertainment. He was ushered in, habited in a loose vest or mantle of white cloth with open sleeves, which he had tucked up, leaving his arms bare: it was bound about his waist with a broad belt of orange-tawney silk, and upon his breast he wore a medal, on which the device of the winged harp was conspicuously displayed: a fillet of the same colour with his belt confined his white locks, and when he had arranged himself in his seat and begun to touch his harp, all was silence and attentive expectation.

At length, rolling his sightless eyeballs in a kind of poetic phrensy, he began his song from Noah: he sung the destructive visitation of the general deluge: he chanted the praises of King Samothes, and the splendor of his court; he then took a martial strain, and, smiting his harp with all the fire of an enthusiast, sung the triumphs of the giant son of Neptune, who entailed the trident of his father on his new-named Albion to all posterity. The animating subject seized the passions of the hearers, and the applause was loud and clamourous.

When this subsided, the minstrel chose a melancholy theme; his head drooped upon his harp, and his fingers moved languidly over the strings, whilst in a slow and mournful strain he chanted the sad fate of Bladud—