that particular. She did not indeed think or guess that any eye observed her. But oh! Ellen there was an eye over you that never slumbered, at least very seldom. Things had thus arrived at such a pass, that concealment on my part would have been criminal.-My duty was clear,-an instant exposure without regard to the feelings of any one. But how could it be accomplished without personal danger. Sir Charles was a shot. I had seen a case of pistols arrive from John Manton and Son, Dover street; besides, he was big enough to eat me, so that putting myself forward was out of the question. I had it--I would write to the Times and the True Sun, under the signature of "a Friend to Morality." That very night I condensed these notes into three columns, as I said to the editor, not to occupy too great a space in his valuable journal; and early on the following morning I arose to dispatch my letters, when, what should greet my astonished senses, but at the door of the Seymours, their travelling carriage with four post horses! What could it mean? I had seen no signs of packing; no trunks, or waggons! What could it mean? I stood perfectly aghast; my eyes were fixed intently upon the carriage.-Oh! I had it again, my wits never fail me the murder was out. I need not write to the Times. Miss Ellen was discovered, and going to be sent off to school, or perhaps to "dull aunts and croaking rooks" in the country! I was glad to be spared the pain of forwarding the explanation; and yet good heavens ! what was my surprise and profound mystification when Sir Charles appeared, handing in, first Lady Seymour, a beautiful flush on her countenance, radiant with smiles, and almost as quick and light in her movements as Ellen herself then the old nurse with the new baby: then Ellen, smiling as usual; and last of all Sir Charles got upon the box, followed by the Viscount!! and then off they drove as fast as the horses could carry them. My eyes and mouth continued wide open long after they had turned the corner into Park Lane. I was at my wits' end; at sea without a rudder. What could all this possibly portend? The little boy was left behind too! and all the servants, with the exception of one of the lady's maids, and Sir Charles's own man. Could it be that Ellen was going to be palmed off upon the poor deceived Viscount? But why then should they go out of town to be married? why had not I seen the least glimpse of a lawyer, or any preparation for a trousseau? and why did the new baby go with them? that could not be of much use at a wedding. No, that could not be it. Where could they be going? I passed a restless day, a sleepless night. The next morning I grew desperate, and was on the point of sallying forth in my cap and dressing gown, to knock at the door of the deserted mansion, and demand satisfaction of the butler, when who should I pounce upon at the door, but my old friend General Crossby. It was devilish unlucky, but I was obliged to ask him up. "I intended to call on my friends, the St. Legers, over the way, this morning," said he, "but I find they are gone to Portsmouth." "To Portsmouth, are they? that 's very curious," said I, interrupting him. "Do you know the family?" asked I, with something like agitation. "I have known Sir Charles St. Leger all his life; he married Fanny Spenser, a daughter of Admiral Spenser." "Good God!" 66 'Why are you surprised?" asked he gravely. "Why, general, I must be candid with you; truth and honour compel me to a disclosure, which I am sure will, as a friend of the family, cause you exceeding pain." The general was now surprised in his turn. "Good heavens !" he ejaculated, "nothing has happened to Mrs. Murray or the child, I hope." "I don't know who you mean by Mrs. Murray," I replied, with great serious ness. "It is of Lady St. Leger and her sister that I am about to speak." And then I told him every circumstance of guilt, with their corroborating proofs, to which I had been so unwilling a witness; I told him all without disguise; to all of which he listened, as I thought, very calmly, apathetically indeed considering he was a friend of the family; but on the conclusion of my recital, to my great dismay he arose, put on his hat, and looking at me sternly, said, "Sir, the lady whom you have thus honoured by so great a share of your attention is not the intriguante you suppose, is not the paramour of Sir Charles St. Leger, but is no other than his wife and my goddaughter.-I wish you, sir, a good morning." "Wife! god-daughter!" I repeated in a faint voice. 66 But, general, for God's sake, one instant, the elder lady?" "Is Lady St. Leger's elder sister, the wife of the gallant Captain Murray, whose absence on service she has been for some time lamenting. His ship has arrived at Portsmouth, and they are all gone to meet him." He had reached the door; I was in an agony; my hair stood on end;" One word more, the viscount?" "Is Captain Murray's elder brother. And before I take my leave, permit me to wish you a better occupation than clandestinely watching the actions of others, of misinterpreting the actions of an amiable and virtuous lady, and traducing the character of an estimable man, whose refinement of feeling you have neither mind to understand nor appreciate. Sir, I wish you again a good morning." What would I not have given at that moment of shame to have been on my travels down the bottomless pit. Anywhere rather than on the first floor at Brook street. I was positively at my wits' end. I hung my head, completely abashed, discomfited-I had nothing to say, absolutely not a word—and was thoroughly ashamed of myself and my ingenuity. Had I possessed a tail, I should have slunk off with it hanging_down between my legs, in the manner I have seen a discomfited dog do: but I had no such expressive appendage, and I could only ejaculate to myself at intervals during the whole of the next three days— "God bless my soul! what a false scent I have been on! And for a bachelor gentleman too, not at all given to invention! Yet how was I to guess that a wife could be in love with her husband? There is some excuse for me after all. God bless my soul!" P. S. The St. Legers are returned Capt. Murray is with them-French blinds are putting up all over the house, "Othello's occupation's gone," can't stand it-off to the Continent. REALITY OF ROMANCE. HAIL to thee, chivalry, hail to thee with all thy gentle associations! Gentle, quotha? Truly, to meet another mad brain on a powerful war-horse on a burning hot day in the middle of a field, and to have the gentle salutation of an oaken lance, under the impetus of a hard gallop, plump on your ribs, or your head, is no such very desirable thing. Still hail to thee, chivalry! How daring were thy sons! and yet if we were to see such daring acts committed in these days, should we not be strongly tempted to think the actors mad? Witness yon tents; how beautiful is the picture! See those pennons, shields, lances, squires, pages, and attendants! It is worth while, however, to ask how many tedious hours of hard drudgery it cost to erect those tents, shape those lances, and forge those shields. We might inquire where the money came from, and, perhaps we should find that chivalry was but the ancient dissipation, and that the sprigs of nobility in Europe, who now squander their gold in dress and dandyism, have merely found out another plan of wasting money. Methinks I see some gaunt, raw-boned, big monster of a knight dunned by an honest mechanic for payment of a bill of breastplates and armour, in the same way that our modern dandies are infested by their tailors. By St. Winifred," roars out one, "an' thou bringest thy beggarly carcase here again, my grooms shall beat thy knave's skull." While the modern creature lisps affectedly, "What does the mane waant? dear me, how excessively ridiculous; go, fell ow,go, 'pon honour an't in funds; go, mane, go. John, show this pareson down stairs." 66 Truly, I fear me these knights were more famous for running bills with blacksmiths than paying them, while their squires were nothing more than chivalrous stable-boys. Yet hail to thee, chivalry, for thy barbaric gorgeousness was better than is our classic licentious ness. There is a feeling among men which leads them to attach a visionary beauty to things of old. Thus we look with composure, if not with pleasure, upon a murder committed by a chieftain whose bones have been resolved into their parent earth some thousand or two of years ago. Time is to us a sort of moral standard by which we measure and weigh the vices of men who had an extraordinary quantity of muscles, while history may be likened to a sifting apparatus, which allows all the littleness (meaning the mass of mankind with all their hopes, passions, fears and troubles) to pass through, but retains all the Amalekiteish personages, famed for throat-cutting, to remain behind for the benefit of posterity. That is, I mean the generality of histories may be so likened. Let me not descend into the vulgarity of criticism, let me not be one of the innumerable who pronounce sentence on the comparatively few who can write. Protect me, my better judgment, against this, for certainly there is a sort of indignation boiling within my breast. I cannot contain it, therefore pardon me, for the act is its own punishment. I am reduced below the standard which my selflove had marked out. I have fallen from a reader into a critic. Listen. I have in my little library a number of histories. Even now I cannot refrain from casting my eyes towards these mental treasures, my books. See that noble edition; it is a modern reprint of Clarendon's History of the Rebellion. It contains, what? merely the history of a few years. What! six large volumes devoted to the history of a single country for a period of scarcely fifty years! Certainly, and I could not spare a page. When I read that work, I am living in the time of its author. I see step by step the genius of the time advancing to complete its work. Now look againthere is Goldsmith's and other histories of England; a few brief pages suffice to unfold the cause and the effect of a great era. But again, here is Goldsmith abridged, and there is a Universal History in twenty-five octavo volumes. The history of all that happened in the world since the creation, condensed into twenty-five octavo volumes; and, as the author expressly states, "Its aim is to preclude the apology for ignorance on one of the most interesting and useful objects of human research." Forgive me this digression, if, indeed, it be digression: for, in fact, there is no greater romance than much of what is called history, and your abridgments are but accounts of romantic actions without any reason being assigned for their performance. But, like a regular sonnetteer, I return to my song. Hail to thee, chivalry! Thine institutions were the bright spots in a barren waste of semi-barbarianism. Men under thine impulses cut each other's throats, and knocked out each other's brains, most scientifically, most coolly, most easily. Ah, ye defunct swaggerers! ye men whose swords have been driven into rocks up to the hilt, whose battle-axes have beaten down the strong fortifications of your enemies, I may now talk of you without fear. As in your ponderosity of armour, you, when once, alas, knocked from your war-horse, could not rise from the ground, but might be approached and pinned to the earth by the veriest serf; so I-one whom in your lives you would have scorned-do advance to contemplate your fallen greatness with impunity. I call upon you to answer and expound some of the differences between your time and my time. Whence had ye that capacity for enduring cold and heat, and hunger and thirst, and bruises and wounds? Or are these things fables? Men of rivets and lances, could you feel at all? Did your gashes require plasters and ointments? Were not the very hairs on your head scorched in your ovens of helmets on the burning plains of Palestine? How, in the name of wonder, did you live? Ye must, in truth, have been a curious race of mortals. I would fain believe your gallant exploits as recorded to be true and veritable. But some little matters of fact will start around and sting me with doubts. I fear me, your shoulders were fearfully galled and scrubbed by your iron casements. I fear me, many a time and oft would ye have given all your cherished hopes of fame to have had the comfort of laying aside your breastplate and armour for a brief respite to the chafings they caused you. no," bright eyes beam on gallant deeds." "Bear your honours bravely." Hark, the trumpet sounds. Ye are called to the fight. Away, away. Well, one is down, I could have foretold it. thine opponent was a foot or two too big for thee; it was impossible for such a little fellow as thee-but I forget, thy lady looked on. Well, that could not prevent thine opponent from knocking thee off. But Sir knight, See, the blood streams from beneath the rivets of his armour. Haste, for the love of heaven! A man, in the year of grace 1836, would not live an hour with such a hole in his body. Here comes a fellow with a hammer. He begins to knock off the armour. Quick, fellow, quick! One by one the rivets are withdrawn. At last the poor knight is taken out of his case. Heavens! what a sight! Why, the knight is but a man after all, and what a thrust. Stop the bleeding, fellows. What do you wait for? off his shirt and bandage his wound. Yet, shirt,-confound it, that is a modern luxury. Your knights wore none. Tear But the ladies-those bright-eyed dames who waved handkerchiefs and dispensed favours. Ah, woman, dear woman! I cannot refrain-so have at ye, ladies! Venus and Cupid, inspire me! Soothers of our sorrows; "heaven's best gift" to man, what were the world without ye? Psha! this is commonplace, I must try again. Dear woman, charm of man's existence, mother, sister, wife; how shall I express the deep thoughts that start within me at the mention of these names, each of which is a volume of blessings? How exquisitely fitted for thy station! In body, in mind, perfect. How smooth the dexterous finish of thy skin. Not a hair on thine upper lip! Bah! that was a slip. I proceed. Thy mind, oh woman, is a type of the etherial beauty of thy frame. Thine inward is like thine outward man. Saints! what a blunder. I give up. I cannot be grand. I meant to have spoken of the gentleness, the tenderness of woman. Of her sweet timidity, looking so gracefully to the stronger sex for protection and defence, and all that. But I find I am unfitted for so pretty a task. Well, I forbear. But how does this sweetness, and gentleness, and timidity sit on the fair bosoms that heaved with gladness at the sight of disembowelled friends, and lovers run through the pericardium? This is an awkward question. Ah, I remember, the ladies used to change colour and sometimes swoon on such occasions. Very well, but they faint now from much less exciting causes. What would one of the dear fairies of our age, who faints at such trifles as unkind looks or crowded rooms, have done in the days of chivalry? How could a London belle, all sensibility and corset, have placed on the bleeding breast of her intended, the prize of his valour? Or more, suppose her heart's own idol should be despoiled of four or five of his front teeth. Suppose him kneeling at the feet of his Amanda, with a pair of black eyes and a most sumptuous bloody nose, trying to look her into love and pity. Nay, since these ladies of old were wont to dress the wounds of their champions, fancy one of our day applying bits of raw beef, or an oyster, to the battered visual orbs of her lover! I fear the ladies have sadly degenerated. an occasional duel is made a subject of ridicule; or if the matter should turn out a little too serious to be laughed at ; if, for instance, one of the pair should be unsouled, why the survivor stands a reasonable chance of getting hanged, or some such ridiculous punishment. In a few words, let me state the difference between the thirteenth and nineteenth centuries. Thirteenth - Glorious war, heroes, deeds of daring, heralds, knights, squires, the mêlée, a death of glory, and a grave on the battle field. Nineteenth-Cotton mills, quack doctors, railroads, speculators, lawyers, merchants, the exchange, a death of indigestion, and a grave in the churchyard, from which you are stolen and dissected for the benefit of science. THE MOUNT OF THE GIANTS. THE Riesengebirge abounds in delicious herbs, from which the most efficacious balms have been at all times made. The inhabitants of the village of Krummhubel in Silesia still use essences made with these simples; and this will appear less surprising, when it is known, that those inhabitants are, in part, descended from the students of Prague, of the famous school of Paracelsus, who were expelled during the war of the Hussites; and who, without doubt, were in possession of useful botanical secrets, the knowledge of which is, at the present day, neglected. But among the herbs which the Riesengebirge produces, is found one which has become celebrated beyond all in the literature of fable. It is called the yellow balsam, and grows only in a kitchen-garden, of which Rübezahl has reserved for himself the exclusive enjoyment. A marvellous power is attributed to this herb; the most durable and the most inveterate maladies do not resist it-it serves even to nourish the mind; and Rübezahl permits only a small number of his favourites to gather it. Once upon a time there was a lady of distinction, who resided at Liegnitz, fell dangerously ill; fearing for her life, she sent for a peasant of the mountains, and promised him a large reward, if he would bring her a yellow balsam from Rübezahl's garden. Seduced by the temptaEven tion of gain, the peasant ventured to Your remark, Mr. Burke, was correct. "The age of chivalry is past." undertake the adventure. When he had reached the wild and desert place in which the garden is situated, he perceived the wonderful plant, and, seizing a spade, he prepared to dig it up; but, while he was trenching the earth, a furious wind suddenly arose, and a voice like thunder sounded in his ears words which he did not comprehend. He rose up quite frightened, and advanced towards the place whence the noise proceeded. Scarcely was he able to resist the wind, and keep himself upright. Presently, on the ridge of a rock, he saw the movement of a gigantic apparition. The phantom had the human form; his long beard hung down to his breast; a large, hooked nose gave him a deformed visage; his menacing eyes seemed to dart lightnings; his locks and his cloak floated in the wind of the tempest. In one of his hands was an enormous club, full of knots. "What are you about there?" cried this supernatural being to the peasant. The peasant, conquering, like a brave man, the alarm which at first seized him, answered, "I seek the yellow balsam; a sick woman has promised to pay me well for it." "That which you hold you may take away," replied the giant; "but take good care not to come a second time." At these words, he brandished his club with a terrible gesture and disappeared. The peasant pensively descended the mountain, and the lady thought herself happy when she saw herself in possession of the remedy which was to shorten her sufferings. Her illness, in fact, diminished at the sight; nevertheless, she did not obtain a complete cure. She again sent for the peasant. "Have you again the courage," said she to him, "to go and seek for me the yellow balsam?"" "Madam," answered the peasant, "the lord of the mountain appeared to me, the first time, in a terrible shape, and forbade me, with threats, to set my feet again in his garden. I have too much fear of offending him." However, the dame conquered his fear, by the promise of a still larger sum than the first; and, for the second time, he determined to penetrate into Rübezahl's domain; but scarcely had he begun to dig up the yellow balsam, when a frightful storm again arose, and the figure appeared to him more menacing still than he had seen it on his first journey. The phantom's locks were more disordered; his cloak floated in the air in larger folds; lightnings flashed from his eyes. He cried, with a voice which made the mountain tremble, "What are you about there?" The abysses repeated, “What are you about there?" "I seek the yellow balsam," answered the peasant; "a sick woman has promised to pay me well for it." The giant could no longer retain his anger. "Madman! did I not caution you; and you dare return? Now, you possess it, save yourself if you can !" At the same instant flames appeared to fall on the criminal, and to burn his face; the powerful club flew round in the air, and dashed a rock near him into shivers; the ground trembled under his feet; a frightful clap of thunder assisted to stun him, and he fell down senseless. He did not come to himself until long afterwards; the club had disappeared, and the thunder growled less loudly; but he still thought he heard the resounding voice of the spirit, and his limbs were as if they had been broken; however, he grasped the balsam in his hand. At last, soaked with rain, surrounded with thick fogs, shoved here and there by malevolent genii, he crawled from rock to rock all the night and all the following day, without knowing where he was; at length a collier, having found him half dead with fatigue, carried him into his cabin; there he took some repose, and got rid of his fright; after which he hastened to return so Liegnitz. The lady was delighted to see him again with the so much desired plant, and gave him so large a sum of money that he forgot the dangers he had run, and went joyfully home. Several weeks elapsed, the dame appeared almost cured; nevertheless, she was not so entirely. "If I had a third balsam," said she, "I am well convinced that I should be out of danger." She then sent for the peasant, who at first was unwilling to come. Instigated, however, by some evil spirit, he at length yielded to the entreaties of the lady. "Here I am, madam," said he, on entering; "what do you want with me? I hope that you do not require me to go a third time for the balsam. Heaven keep me from doing so! I had a great deal of difficulty to get back safe and sound from my last journey; I tremble yet when I think of it." |