JOHN DE LANCASTER.

————

VOLUME III.

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


JOHN DE LANCASTER.

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

The Arrival of the Party from Glen Morgan at Kray Castle.

In the morning of the day after that, in which the miserable remains of old Ap Rees’s hapless daughter were interred, the whole party under orders of march for Kray Castle took their leave of Glen Morgan; the Wilsons, father and son, with Amelia and Mrs. Jennings, in the coach, and John, as usual, on his favourite horse; the equipage of Mr. De Lancaster, properly attended, having arrived the day before.

An apartment, commanding a very beautiful prospect, had been made ready for Amelia, by the order and under the inspection of the presiding lady of the castle, who with the taste and elegance natural to her had fitted it with every thing, that could be devised for the use, ornament or amusement of the fair visitor, who was destined to take possession of it. In a very handsome dressing-room adjoining to the bed-chamber, and communicating by a flight of steps with a flower-garden in high cultivation, Cecilia had provided a selection of well-chosen books, nor was music overlooked in the catalogue of accommodations there collected and displayed. A young woman, daughter of an old domestic, and perfectly qualified to wait upon the person of a lady, was instructed to consider herself as specially and exclusively attached to the service of Miss Jones.

When the turret-bell gave the signal of an arrival, the servants of the castle arranged themselves in the hall, nor was the harp silent upon the entrance of our hero, conducting the fair stranger through their respectful files to the saloon, where Cecilia received them. After they had reposed themselves for a few minutes Mr. De Lancaster entered, and with a gracious smile made his cordial salutations to each in turn, reserving his embrace for John, last, but not least in his favour.

When I see my family circle, he said, thus recruited by the return of my former inmates, and graced with the accession of my new ones, I experience a pleasurable conviction, that so long as Providence shall indulge me with a capacity to enjoy these blessings, I should be, and I am, devoutly thankful, although one member of our community has been lately lost, and in the instance of the other, who is absent, I am totally disappointed and defeated of all hope. To you, John De Lancaster, my grandson, in whom I glory, I render thanks for the honour you have conferred upon my name and family by your noble conduct in the melancholy case of old Ap Rees’s daughter; and I am particularly pleased, that your generous feelings for the injured did not betray you into angry and intemperate personalities against the worthless wretch, whom Heaven, not you, must call to his account. In his melancholy fate we see an instance of the impolicy as well as the impiety of setting all regard to character at defiance. The evil spirit hath not so established his authority upon earth, that men will risque to be the friends of him, who dares to be the foe of virtue. Innocence will not be violated, nor justice braved and insulted with impunity. Where is there one amongst all the favourites of fortune, to whom more happy opportunities and brighter hopes of prosperity have been vouchsafed, than to that young man, who is now become the object of our aversion and contempt? What might he not have been? Alas, what is he now?

I should be at a loss, said the elder Wilson, to answer that question, because I could not find words in the language to express his crimes: but murder of the blackest cast is amongst them, so that methinks is one item, which has a pretty good right to cry out in the catalogue. Were I on his court-martial, I would hang him without mercy, and I think I could almost find in my heart to be present at his execution.

Not you, not you, said Cecilia in an under-tone, and laid her gentle and reproving hand upon his shoulder.

She is right, resumed De Lancaster; she knows you better than you know yourself. I am persuaded you are no otherwise a friend to punishment but as it tends to reformation; that is not the property of hanging. The poor Irish criminal, who before he was turned off ingenuously declared it should be a warning to him in future, materially mistook his own case. Excision is no cure: I much doubt, if that dreadful process ought to be resorted to in any instance.

Surely not, the colonel observed, except to save the body’s health: with that view I myself submitted to the amputation of a limb.

Secure the community, De Lancaster rejoined, against further danger from the obnoxious member, and let no man’s extinguishing decree deprive his guilty fellow creature of a chance for repentance and atonement. Here, if I mistake not, we may let the question rest, and relieve the ladies present from a painful disquisition.

Upon John’s enquiring of his aunt, if she had any news of his father, she informed him she had received a large pacquet, which was not producible except in private; and in truth it was a journal, which not only on account of its prolixity, but of its absurdity also, requires a separate and exclusive chapter.

CHAPTER II.

The Journal of Mr. Philip De Lancaster.

“When we dropped anchor at Liverpool, the crowd and hurry on the quay appeared to me to be such, that I held it best to keep quiet in the cabin of the brig, that brought me thither. Being in no capacity for making enquiries in my own person about a passage to the South of France, I did not like to manifest to my friendly captain a desire to quit his company, which had become so agreeable to me; I thereupon came to a determination of taking my chance with him, and when I understood his destination to be for the fourth time to the coast of Africa, I considered that one warm climate was like another, and warmth being what I was in search of for Mrs. De Lancaster, he assured me that I should find it there in perfection; this being ascertained I engaged for the voyage, avoiding thereby all further trouble either to myself or him about a matter of such absolute indifference.

“It cost some time to ship the cargo he was taking out with him, and gave me some annoyance whilst his crew were stowing it, as they are in the habit of accompanying their work with certain noises, far from melodious, and intelligible only to themselves. I had however a faculty of sleeping pretty generally through it all, which made time, heavy at the best, pass off very tolerably, till we set sail and took leave of land and all its troublesome concerns. I understood from the people that went on shore, that the town of Liverpool would have been highly worth my seeing, and I have every reason to believe their information was correct.

“We commenced our voyage in pleasant weather; the captain’s conversation was on many points entirely new and very edifying on that account. He kept a liberal table, particularly in the article of salt-fish, of which he had a considerable cargo on board; but when he had no longer a supply of eggs to recommend his salt-fish, I must confess I was sometimes puzzled how to make a dinner, especially as his soup had a taste, to which I had not as yet familiarized my palate.

“During our passage through the Bay of Biscay I perceived the vessel to have considerable motion, but there is a lulling property in the vacillation of a hammock, that promotes repose.

“One day, when I was told we were off the coast of Portugal, and I began to inhale odours from the shore, that were infinitely preferable to those of the salt-fish in the ship, I had a curiosity for the first time to visit the accommodations below, when I was tempted to ask my friend the captain for what purpose he had parted off a portion of his hold with iron gratings like those of a prison, and also why he had provided such a collection of handcuffs, fetters and other instruments, that seemed calculated both for torture and confinement.

“He was a very communicative man, and did not hesitate to inform me, that being a trader in negro slaves, it was necessary for him to be well stored with all those conveniences for security’s sake; For how else, said he, could I be sure that those savages, who have no understanding of the happiness in store for them, would not rise upon us and cut all our throats?—Though I immediately saw all the force of his reasoning, I was a little staggered by the nature of his intelligence; and this I think it probable that he perceived, for he was pleased to say, that, being bound in the first instance for the Tagus, he would set me down with his cargo of salt fish at Lisbon, if I had the least objection to proceeding any further. I thanked him for his civility, and candidly confessed that although I could have no objection to the removal of his salt fish, I should think it ill exchanged for his cargo of slaves. I accordingly accepted his alternative of leaving me at Lisbon; where, though I should much regret the loss of his society, I might avail myself of the opportunity of visiting the famous aqueduct of Alcantara, of which I had heard so wonderful an account, and was anxious to enjoy the sight.

“The captain acknowledged that he had heard there was such a thing to be seen in the near neighbourhood of Lisbon, but as he had no particular taste for sights of that sort, he had not troubled himself to go out of his way for it: he was pleased however in the politest manner to repeat his offer of setting me down at Lisbon; observing to me with great satisfaction, that as we were now happily arrived within the mouth of the river we had nothing further to apprehend; for he could assure me we were fairly out of all possibility of mischance, being in the track of the safest navigation in the world.

“In the very moment whilst this experienced navigator was cheering me and himself with these pleasant assurances, a sudden shock of the vessel threw him from his balance, and catching hold of me as he was falling, we came together upon the deck with a considerable degree of violence. As he fell upon me he had the advantage of being first upon his legs, which he employed with all speed in rushing forwards to the forecastle, whilst I was endeavouring to save myself from further bruises; for now a cry ran through the ship, that we were stranded on a rock, and sinking bodily. Of this information I had soon no reason to doubt, as the water rushed in with great impetuosity. The crew were eagerly employed in getting out the boat; but as I was persuaded that they, who were at the trouble of launching, would naturally be the first to make use of it, I persisted to keep my post, being resolved not to disgrace the character of a true De Lancaster by betraying the least symptom of impatience or alarm.

“When I had stayed till the treading over-head had ceased, and the captain along-side was calling upon me by name to come on board the boat and save myself, or stay where I was and be drowned, I thought it behoved me to avail myself of an alternative, so fairly stated, though my compliance with his offer of rescuing me from the sinking ship was attended with no small degree of trouble and inconvenience, for I now perceived myself to be sorely bruised.

“I exerted myself to the utmost in getting into the boat, yet my efforts being not sufficiently adroit to satisfy the gentlemen, who were eager to push off, I heard myself saluted with a general volley of oaths and ludicrous buffooneries allusive to my awkwardness, which I can truly aver were the only uncivil words, that I received from either captain or crew, whilst I had the pleasure of sailing with them.

“The boat, in which I was, belonged to one of our Lisbon pacquets, that had the humanity to stop her course and assist us in our distress. On board this charitable ship I was at length conveyed, and was agreably surprised to find myself thus unexpectedly amongst my friends and neighbours; young Sir David Owen and his amiable mother being passengers and bound to Lisbon. To the humanity of these friends I am indebted for the comforts I am now enjoying in an excellent hotel on an eminence called Buenos Ayres, from whence, if my contusions allowed me to get out of my bed, I might enjoy a beautiful view of the town and river, and in which, were it not for the annoyance of the flies and more domestic vermin, I might assuage my pains with the luxury of sleep; but this, when more familiarized to the customs of these insects, I hope still to enjoy.

“There has been another slight shock of an earthquake yesterday, but as I was in my bed, it did not disturb me near so much as that of the ship, when she ran upon the rock.

“As soon as I regain the use of my limbs, I shall look out for a suitable abode for Mrs. De Lancaster in this delicious place, where I promise myself a high entertainment in surveying the dilapidations and disorders occasioned by the great earthquake, which has made the town a heap of interesting ruins.

“I have written you a long letter, so, with my duty to my father and regards to all at home, I conclude myself, dear sister,

“Your very faithful servant
and loving brother,
“Philip De Lancaster.”

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Philip De Lancaster in his Hotel at Lisbon receives the News of his Lady’s Death, and is visited by Sir David Ap Owen. The Consequences of that Interview are related.

If this letter was read by our hero with mixed impressions of vexation and disgust it is little to be wondered at, for certainly no character less extravagantly absurd than that of Philip could have dictated such a narrative in a serious mood and without varying from the truth of fact. The intelligence of his wife’s decease was now gone to him at Lisbon, and the consequences, that might ensue from the fatal weakness of his intellect and the interested cunning of the widow Owen were very seriously to be apprehended.

His natural indolence still kept him a voluntary prisoner in his hotel at Buenos Ayres and under the hands of his surgeon, though he had no longer any need of surgical assistance. When Cecilia’s letter reached his hands he was sitting, in all the costuma of a wounded invalid, in a bed-gown and night-cap, with his leg, that, having once been bruised, had not forfeited its privilege, resting on a stool provided with an easy cushion. Having perused the contents, he deliberately folded up the letter, laid it on the table before him, and, reclining back in his chair, surrendered himself to a kind of drowsy meditation on the solemn nature of the event, now communicated to him: at length, being in the habit talking more confidentially to himself than to any other person, he murmured out the following reflections, as they presented themselves to his mind without order or connection.

“I thought she had not long to live. I was prepared for the event. It was naturally to be expected, and Llewellyn himself seemed to cherish very feeble hopes. Death is common; she is dead, and all the medicines she has taken have been of no avail; even music could not save her. Well! I have done my duty; witness the incredible pains and trouble I have taken to seek out a suitable climate and commodious house for her to winter in: one of these after infinite labour I had happily discovered, and the other I was using unabating diligence to provide for her. As things have turned out I might have spared myself this voyage; but no matter—It is some consolation to reflect that I have done what I could; and if my travels have not proved serviceable to her, for whose sake I undertook them, they have not been totally unprofitable or unpleasurable to me; for, with the exception only of the surfeit I got of salt-fish, and the bruises I suffered by shipwreck, I passed my time very comfortably at sea, and if I have not seen any thing worth my notice on shore, I have been at least where it was to be seen, and that is something for a man of curiosity like mine to reflect upon with satisfaction. Now that I am a widower, and only in the noon of life, people will be saying to me—Why don’t you marry again? This I am to expect, but who can judge for me so well as I can for myself? Nobody knows what matrimony is but those who have undergone the trial. A man may risque it once in the way of an experiment, but to repeat it is a sacrifice to posterity and a compliment to the sex, which I am not disposed to make. No, no; I must not come on there any more. Let me do Mrs. De Lancaster the justice to confess, that there was an accommodating lassitude in her, a hypochondriac inertness, a congelation of all the volatile humours, harmonizing so entirely with my feelings, that I despair of finding any second wife so happily endowed; I dare not trust myself with the widow Ap Owen: she has indeed many excellent endowments; and in spite of all my family can say against her I will maintain my opinion of her as a very elegant engaging woman, aye, and one, that in many respects is entirely to my taste, but then (oh Heaven and earth!) her eyes are so quick, her voice so shrill, her spirit so high and her health alas! so alarmingly good, that I could never promise myself a life of ease with her—No, no; she will not suit.”

Just as he had struck upon this ante-hymeneal sentiment Sir David Ap Owen came into his room—I am this instant arrived from Cintra, he said, where in the loveliest spot upon the habitable globe I have been entertained in a princely style by a gentleman of the factory, Devereux by name, diamond contractor with the court of Portugal, and universally looked up to as a man nobly descended and of great wealth. He has one son, who jointly conducts his business, and one daughter, who to the recommendation of a very handsome person adds that of a very considerable fortune: In short, I have some thoughts of the girl, and in consequence of that idea have a small favour to require of you.

Name it, Sir David.

Simply to take an opportunity of calling on Mr. Devereux, and in the course of conversation naturally to say, that you know me to be what I am—A man of honour, fortune and of high respectability on the score of family. This is what I want from you, friend Philip, and all I want from any man. You know it to be true and of course will have no difficulty in averring it. I am a stranger in this country: impostors have assumed names and titles, and Devereux, being a trader, is a cautious man. Come, sir, put on your clothes, and accompany me directly: my carriage is in waiting: as for your leg, it has been well these three weeks.

But if I were to put on my clothes, Philip replied, I could not go out in them, for I have no mourning, and by a letter from my sister, just now received, I am informed that Mrs. De Lancaster is no more.

Dead; defunct?

Even so.

That is an event indeed of great importance. In one respect it liberates you; in another it enthrals, and binds you to your promise.

I don’t rightly understand to what promise you allude.

Is it possible, rejoined Sir David, (his fierce eyes flashing as his fury kindled) is it possible you can feign to forget the engagement you are under to a lady, whom I have the honour of being related to, and whose natural protector I am? If your memory, Mr. Philip, is of that deceitful unretentive texture, you are indeed a true De Lancaster. But make good your engagement out of hand: a lady’s honour may not be trifled with. The inveterate animosity of your rancorous son, so called, and the injurious charges he has fostered, forged, and urged against me in my absence, have this morning been reported to me by my agent at Penruth. They are such as he must answer and atone for, unless you by fulfilling your solemn promise to my mother, shall interpose your fatherly mediation and heal the else irreparable breach between our families.

It is not my fault, Philip calmly replied; for all the world knows me to be a man of peace and quiet; but as to healing breaches in the manner you prescribe, give me leave to observe, Sir David, that it is a very early day for me to be thinking of a second wife before I have yet put on mourning for my first.

Yet, sir, you must think of it, reiterated Sir David, (elevating his voice) and seriously too, though I shall not hurry you in the execution of it. You shall have time to mourn, if that be what you wish for; but my spirit has been much too deeply galled by the son to bear any aggravation from the gentleman, who allows himself to be called the father—Therefore in one word—Your bond, sir, to my mother, or your blood.—There is but this alternative: so take your choice.

You will give me time, Sir David, to deliberate upon this.

Just as much time, Mr. Philip De Lancaster, as it will cost my lawyer to write out the bond. I will call upon you before two hours are past. With these threatening words the loud-tongued bravo bolted out of the room—Mercy on me, exclaimed the affrighted Philip, what shall I do now, hedged in as I am between matrimony and murder?

CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Philip De Lancaster receives a second Visit from Sir David Ap Owen, and is forced into Measures not very willingly acceded to.

Faithful to his time, Sir David walked into poor Philip’s room without ceremony, followed by the bearer of the bond, and accompanied by a miscreant, who, in the counterfeited dress of an officer, was in his true character and profession nothing better than a bully and assassin.

There is the bond, said Ap Owen, throwing it on the table: this gentleman, who drew it up, will read it over to you, and point out the place where you are to sign and seal. Though in itself a mere matter of form, yet where a lady’s honour is concerned, it is a form indispensable. It will behove you therefore instantly to complete it: if not, this brave and gallant officer, who holds a respectable command in the army of his most faithful majesty, and is my friend, will be under the unpleasant necessity to demand satisfaction of you in my name, and settle time and place for deciding our difference by the death of one of us.

Immediately the bond-bearer began to gabble it over with that kind of inarticulate rapidity, which to Philip’s perturbed senses gave little chance for understanding it. This ceremony being over, the operation of signing and sealing was pressed forward with the utmost haste, and urged by Sir David and his mock-military friend with no common importunity.

What could poor Philip do, hedged in, as he had observed, between matrimony and murder? He looked up, and in the face of the black-whiskered demon-like assassin, that stood over him with the pen, read his fate if he refused: he signed the bond, and sealed it with the winged harp, that never since the days of Bladud had been so disgraced: by this he was pledged to a penalty of twenty thousand pounds, if he failed in the conditions, or, if he fulfilled them, consigned over to the arms of Mrs. Rachel Ap Owen, relict of Mr. David Ap Owen, and daughter of he knew not whom.

As soon as this was done, the bond-bearer folded up his paper, thrust it into his bosom and walked off: the principal and his second sate down on each side of Philip—We have now one common interest, said Sir David, and are friends for life. The injurious treatment I have received from those, with whom I shall be so nearly connected, and chiefly from your son, may now be amicably adjusted. You, Mr. Philip De Lancaster, will be united to one of the most amiable women in the world; a lady descended from the illustrious house of De La Cerda, and endowed with every grace, and every virtue, that can render the married state correctly honourable and supremely happy.

If it be but quiet, that is all I ask, poor Philip said in a desponding tone. After a short pause he added—If this gentleman has no particular objection to leaving us alone, I should wish to say a few words to you, Sir David, in private upon family concerns.

Sir David desired the colonel, as he called him, to wait for him in the next room: Philip took the liberty of informing him that he should go to England by the pacquet for the purpose of settling some affairs, that in consequence of Mrs. De Lancaster’s decease would require his presence.

To this Sir David replied—I perceive you have not strictly attended to the conditions of the bond, you would have else have known that to separate yourself from my mother before marriage would involve you in the forfeiture of it. We mean to pass the winter months at Cintra, where I have engaged a house in the near neighbourhood of Mr. Devereux’s villa. It is sufficiently large to accommodate us both; and you will there not only find yourself in an earthly paradise, but enjoy the full opportunity of cultivating a more close acquaintance with the truly amiable object, who is destined to make your future days respectable and happy. What a violation would it be of all the rules of gallantry and good faith were you to run over to England and desert her! No, my dear sir, (and here Sir David took his hand and attempted a look, which, if he meant it as a smile, was a wretched and most libellous imitation) no, my dear sir, he said, I could not for any consideration in life submit to part from my good father-in-law elect, for whom I have conceived so cordial an esteem, and in whose society I promise myself so many agreeable hours. Having now definitively adjusted your alliance with my mother, I shall lose no further time in sounding Mr. Devereux on the disposal of his daughter, and we may very probably effect a double marriage at the same happy moment, provided only that I find the young lady’s fortune answer my expectations.

That is truly a very prudent consideration, Philip replied, and puts me in mind, Sir David, to ask you what is the fortune I am to expect with the lady your mother.

The happiest that can befal you, was the answer, and a bond of twenty thousand pounds cancelled on your wedding-day. With these words Ap Owen left the room, whilst poor Philip, silenced but not satisfied, made no further effort to detain him.

Though Mrs. Rachel De Lancaster had some grounds for expecting a proposal, she had no such plea upon the score of actual promise as could constitute a claim so peremptory as now was urged upon him; and with all the partiality he had ever felt or expressed for the widow, it may well be doubted if his dread of marriage would not in all cases have outweighed his hopes of happiness. But now, crest-fallen and spiritless, in a strange country, which he dare not quit, and conscious, that, except within the walls of his far-distant home, he had not in the world a friend, to whom he could unbosom his sorrows and appeal for succour and advice, he poignantly felt the full impression of his distressful situation. To his father he was ashamed to write; to his sister writing could not serve him; Colonel Wilson was not a man for his purpose, and there remained only his son John, whom, though he had hitherto treated as a child, he now thought proper to address by letter; and in the course of the next day, after as much meditation as his mind was capable of, he wrote as follows.

Philip had just time to set his name to this lamentable epistle, when a young gentleman of good person and elegant address, who had been announced by the name of Devereux, entered the room. He understood Mr. De Lancaster to be in habits of friendship with Sir David Ap Owen, and, if he had not been misinformed, they were near neighbours in Merionethshire.

Philip said he had been rightly informed. They were near neighbours. Sir David’s seat at Penruth was not above four miles from Kray Castle, where he lived with his father.

Penruth has been represented to me, said the gentleman, as a very fine old venerable mansion—Philip nodded assent—And the estate about it very considerable; indeed, as I have been told, very capital.

I have been told the same, Philip said; but I am not curious about people’s estates. Sir Owen, this young gentleman’s uncle, lived very handsomely, and very hospitably, upon it. That is all I know of the matter.

I suspect, rejoined the other, I may appear to you more inquisitive than I ought to be; but I beg leave to say in my own defence that I was particularly referred to you by Sir David himself.

Sir David could not have referred you to a more unfit man: I am as ignorant of my own father’s estate as I am of Sir David’s, and of Sir David’s as I am of your’s.

Why then, sir, I must pay a visit to Penruth myself; for I have my father’s strict commands to obtain information of every particular necessary for him to know relative to Sir David Ap Owen, who, I must now tell you, has made proposals to us for marrying my sister.

Yes, and to me, said Philip, for marrying his mother; you see therefore it is a family-affair between us, and though I have not a single syllable to offer why Sir David’s marriage with your sister should not take place, I confess it would not break my heart if mine with his mother was put off for ever. Now, sir, if you are bound to England, I can truly say, I wish I were going with you; but if you meditate a visit to Penruth Abbey, where there is nobody to receive you, I most earnestly recommend it to you to turn aside and go to Kray Castle, where my father and his family will be happy to see you, and where you may do me a singular piece of service, if you will take charge of this letter, which I have just been writing, and deliver it privately to my son, whilst I will trouble you to be the bearer of a few lines to my good and worthy father, simply to let him know how respectable a visitor I shall have the honour to introduce to him, when you are pleased to avail yourself of his well known hospitality.

Sir, replied Devereux, I am setting off for England in to-morrow’s pacquet. Of your letter to your son I will take faithful charge, and deliver it to him in the manner you prescribe. I also thankfully embrace your very kind offer of introducing me to your father, of whose high character for worth and honour I am not uninformed; whilst I must own there is a mysterious kind of cloud about Sir David Ap Owen, through which I am not able perfectly to see my way; for I find him totally unknown to our British envoy here, and have not heard him say what brings him and the lady, to whom it seems you are engaged, into this country, having so lately succeeded to a great situation and establishment in his own. With respect to his proposed connection with my family, I must beg to say, that although we reside here in the character and capacity of merchants, we have nevertheless such pretensions on the score of noble birth and property by no means inconsiderable, as give us a perfect right to use every honorable precaution for knowing whom we are to receive into our alliance, provided the gentleman, who proposes, shall prove acceptable to us as well as to my sister; on whom nothing has been sparingly bestowed, that either nature could give or education improve.

This being said, what further passed is not important to relate. Philip wrote a short letter to his father, and having delivered it, and his secret pacquet, to Mr. Devereux, took his leave of him, and as he grasped his hand with a sensation, rarely, if ever, felt by him before, he sent from his sad heart a longing sigh towards his beloved native country, which fate, that had doomed him never more to visit it but as a corpse, gave to the winds, that dispersed it on its passage.

CHAPTER V.

Another Soliloquy of Mr. Philip De Lancaster. Our History returns to the Family at Kray Castle.

When the Irish tailor, who had been a journeyman botcher in London, and was now become a master of journeymen botchers in Lisbon, had invested the well-made person of Mr. Philip De Lancaster in an ill-made suit of rotten black, the mourning bridegroom elect, having paid the bill and dismissed the bill-maker, examined himself in the glass, and thus, as was customary with him, mournfully soliloquized—

“Luckless man that I am, must I put aside this habit on my wedding-day? Wherefore; on what pretence; I have undergone that ceremony once already, and by experience can more than guess to what sad hours that ceremony leads. Marriage, by high authority denominated honourable, is, through perversion of its purposes, to many become disgraceful, burdensome to most, and a blessing, as I verily believe, to few, if any, who know how to compute what is a blessing, and what is their bane. There are indeed a few soft silly things amongst the mass of female spinsters, that a man, who knows the value of their ignorance, might possibly with proper care prevent from growing wiser; but a widow—(Oh my hapless fortune, Rachel Owen is a widow—) who can keep in ignorance? Not I; not any man.

“Her eyes, her air, her action, every movement and every word prognosticate sagacity, that will not be deceived: then what a pipe? Good Heaven, if that voice, which is so shrill whilst only warbling Spanish tonadillas, that to me are unintelligible, shall be roused to exert itself in plain English argumentation, farewel to all repose! nor peace, nor quiet shall I ever know. How am I sure she is not a Jewess? She may, for aught that I can tell, be lineally descended from that wicked king, who put to death all the innocents; and if so, how shall I escape? Happy Devereux, he is on the seas: would I were on them too, or under them, rather than what I may be, aye, and shall be if that sharp-eyed widow sets her wits to work. I begin to think I made a wrong choice, and should have taken my chance of turning out with the son, rather than of turning in where I shall have no chance at all. There seems nothing left for me but to fall extremely sick, and that I may really be so without feigning, I will instantly call in a Portuguese physician, and (which is more than any patient less desperate will promise) I am resolute to take his physic. Ah, where is my good friend and countryman Llewellyn? My poor wife followed his prescriptions, and behold! here am I in his livery, black as the hands of man can make me. Ah Llewellyn, Llewellyn, in Wales it was quite enough for me to endure your company; I never wished to be your patient till now that I am in Lisbon, and under sentence of a dose more bitter and against my palate than you ever mixed—But what if John De Lancaster should come upon my call? There would be a champion worthy of my cause: Glendowr’s magic could not conjure up a braver or a stouter spirit. He is young, not married, not, like me, bent to the yoke, but free, untrammeled and untamed. I’ll cherish hope; I’ll feed upon the thought that my brave boy will come, and vex myself no more.”

Whilst this sad ditty was in recitation Devereux was wafted swiftly over the ocean, favoured by a freshening gale, that blowed direct for England, as if impatient to salute the mother of the winds and mistress of the waves, amidst which she sits safe and encircled on her chalky throne.

Mean time our John De Lancaster, from whose society we have unwillingly been separated for some short while, could hardly count the hours, so quick they passed, when with his loved Amelia by his side,