JOHN DE LANCASTER.

VOLUME I.

JOHN DE LANCASTER.

A NOVEL.
BY
RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ.
IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LACKINGTON, ALLEN, AND CO.
TEMPLE OF THE MUSES,
FINSBURY-SQUARE.
———
1809.

Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John’s Square.
JOHN DE LANCASTER.

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.
The Reader is made acquainted with the Family of De Lancaster.

On the first of March 1751, Robert De Lancaster, a native of North Wales, and grandfather of my hero, had assembled his friends and neighbours to celebrate, according to custom, the anniversary of their tutelary saint.

I enter at once upon my story without any introduction, having already announced this novel in my Memoirs, and I flatter myself, if it is perused with that candour, to which fair dealing has some claim, it will serve to entertain the major part of its readers, disappoint not many and corrupt not one.

Robert de Lancaster was a gentleman of great respectability, and Kray-castle, the venerable seat of his family through many generations, lost nothing of its long-established fame for hospitality on this occasion: the gentry were feasted, and the poor were not forgotten.

The family of this worthy antient Briton consisted of an only son Philip, married to an heiress of the house of Morgan, and a maiden daughter, named Cecilia. He was himself a widower. Mrs. Philip De Lancaster was at this time in that state, which gave speedy hopes of an heir to the very ancient family, into which she had married: in the festivities of the day she had taken little share, and in the superintendence of her father-in-law’s household absolutely none: that province she had found in much more able hands, and never sought to interfere with the administration of it: in short she had no ambition for authority, and very great objection to any thing, that might require exertion, or occasion trouble.

Cecilia De Lancaster from the death of her mother, through a period of more than ten years, had patiently and without repining suffered her youth to pass away, amply repayed by the love and approbation of her father, whilst she devoted herself to all those duties, which had devolved upon her, when Kray Castle lost its mistress. Her brother Philip had quite as little disposition to trouble as his lady, so that all things were under the unenvied government of Cecilia; and every guest, that resorted to the house, every domestic, that belonged to it, bore witness to the excellence of her administration.

A character like hers, though located amidst the recesses of Merionethshire, could not be totally divested of attraction; for she had high pretensions on the score of fortune, and a pedigree, that only stopped where the world began: these might have been enough to satisfy any reasonable man, though some perhaps would have rated them the higher for the loveliness of her person, the excellence of her understanding and the virtues of her mind.

Amongst the many suitors, who in various periods of her celibacy had been induced to propose themselves to her, none had been so persevering in his addresses as Sir Owen ap Owen, baronet, a gentleman by no means of yesterday, and possessed of a very fair and ample landed property, upon which there were no other encumbrances save only the barren rocks and unproductive mountains, over which it stretched. He was indeed not very eminent as a scholar; for although Sir Owen had without doubt been taught to read, he had almost entirely discontinued the practice of it: and indeed, considering the nature of Sir Owen’s more immediate pursuits, reading might very well be dispensed with, as it could only tend to interrupt his evening nap, and not improve him in the art of hallooing to his hounds, or pushing round the tankard to a tawdry toast: he however administered justice to his neighbours, and settled differences in a summary way after a fashion of his own, by reference not to any books of law, but to the beer barrels in his cellar; by which his decisions as a magistrate became extremely popular, and men quarrelled first, that they might get drunk afterwards, and patch up the peace in their cups, which they had broken when they were sober. By these means Sir Owen got a good name in the county, and supported a considerable interest, which he never failed to employ, as his fathers had done before him, in opposing and railing at the minister of the day, whoever that obnoxious animal might chance to be.

This distinguished personage was now in the fifth year of his suitorship, and verging towards the fiftieth of his age, whilst the inexorable Cecilia had already endured a siege half as long as that of Troy, without betraying any symptoms, that might indicate a surrender. In fact Sir Owen seemed now to content himself with a yearly summons, like the Moors before Ceuta, as a compliment to his perseverance, and to keep up appearances and pretensions.

It was now Saint David’s day, when he never failed to be a visitor to the castle, and he had brushed out the lining of his coach, and put himself in his best array, to do honour to the festival, at which he knew Cecilia would preside. His person was not eminently graceful, for he was a round, red-faced gentleman, neither tall of stature, nor light of limb; but his apparel bore the faded marks of ancient splendor, and his huntsman had bestowed uncommon pains in frizzing out a huge white perriwig, which he had powdered with no sparing hand. Sir Owen was at no time apt to be an idle looker-on whilst the bottle was in circulation, and on the present occasion he had charged himself more than usually high to encounter an opposition, which he had reason to expect would be more than usually stubborn; for though due consideration had been paid to his rank, and he had been placed at table close beside the lady, who presided at it, fortune had not favoured him with any striking opportunities for displaying his address, or advancing himself in her good graces. On the contrary he had been rather unlucky in his assiduities, and in his eagerness to dispute the ladle had overset the soup, with sundry other little misadventures, incidental to an awkward operator and an unsteady hand.

It is perfectly well understood, that the worthy baronet had pledged himself to his privy counsellor the huntsman for vigorous measures; confessing to him, whilst assisting at his toilette, with the candour natural to his character, that he was ashamed of hanging so long upon a cold scent, and protesting, with a due degree of spirit, that he would that very day either bring the trail to an entapis, or give up the chace, and draw off; for which manly resolution he had all proper credit given him by the partaker of his secrets, and the companion of his sports.

When the gentlemen had sate a reasonable time after the ladies had retired, it was the custom of the house to adjourn to the drawing room, where Cecilia administered the ceremonials of the tea-table. It was here Sir Owen meditated to plant himself once more by her side, and bring his fortune to a crisis; trusting that wine, which had fortified him with courage, would not fail to inspire him with eloquence. High in hope, and eager to acquit himself of his promise to his confidante at home, upon entering the room he pushed his course directly for the tea-table, where the cluster of candles and the dazzling gleams reflected from the polished apparatus, there displayed in glittering splendor, so confounded his optics, that without discovering the person of Mrs. Philip De Lancaster, or computing distances so as to bring up in time, he came foul of the tea-table, and discharged a part of the wreck with a horrible crash into the lap of the aforesaid lady, whilst his head came to the floor amidst the fragments of broken cups and sawcers with an impunity, which no common head would probably have had to boast of in the like circumstance. Dreadful was the consternation of the company, most alarmingly critical were the screams and convulsive throes of the unfortunate lady, whose lap was ill prepared to receive any such accession to the burden, which it was already doomed to carry. The consequences in short were so immediate, and their symptoms so decisive, that had not Mr. Llewellyn been in attendance, and happily not quite so tipsy as to be incapacitated from affording his assistance, the world might have lost the pleasure of reading these adventures, and I the fame of recording them.

A couch being provided, and the lady laid at her length upon it, she was carried up to her chamber, whilst the castle echoed with her piercing screams.

It would be treating this serious misadventure much too lightly, were I only to remark that the love-scene in projectu was of necessity adjourned by Cecilia’s leaving the company, and attending upon her sister-in-law, whom a whole bevy of females under the conduct of the sage Llewellyn followed up the stairs. We may well suppose, where one so able was present to direct, and so many were assembled, ready either to obey, or sagaciously to look on and edify, that every thing needful for a lady in her critical situation was provided and administered. Every visitor, whose recollection served to remind him that after such a discomfiture the speediest retreat was the best compliment he could pay to the master of the house, called for their horses and their carriages to the great disappointment of their servants, who had not yet paid all the honours to Saint David, that were by customary right Saint David’s due.

Sir Owen ap Owen, who had already taken some little time to recover his legs, found himself still at a loss to recall his recollection. At length, after contemplating the chaos he had created—By the Lord, friend De Lancaster, he exclaimed, I have made a terrible wreck of your crockery; but you should warn your housemaids not to dry rub your floors, for they are as slippery as glass, and let a man tread ever so carefully, a false step may throw him off his balance, and then who can answer for the mischief he may do? I heard a terrible screaming, but I hope, my good neighbour, nobody is hurt, and if your fair daughter, the divine Cecilia, (so I always call her) is inconsolable about her china, and if London can’t repair the loss, the East Indies shall, though I go all the way to fetch it home for her myself; for though I know well enough I have had a glass too much, and am but as you may call me a kind of bear in a ball-room, yet I know what a gentleman ought to do, when he has done mischief; and on the word of a true ancient Briton you may believe me, that if I had undesignedly set fire to your house, I am no such Hanoverian rat as to run away by the light of it: that is not my principle.

Your principle, my good friend, replied De Lancaster, nobody doubts, and if your accident shall be productive of no other mischief than what has happened to Cecilia’s tea-cups, Cecilia thinks no more of them than I do. The screams you heard did not proceed from her—

No, no, cried Sir Owen, her sweet pipe never uttered such a shrill veiw-hollah; so if she is safe from hurt and harm, all is well. ’Twas an accident, as you say, and there’s an end of it.

A servant now announced to the baronet, that his coach was at the door. De Lancaster entered into no farther explanations, and his awkward guest surrendered himself to the guidance of a coachman luckily not quite so tipsey as his master.

CHAPTER II.
Conversation in a Library.

When the wheels of Sir Owen’s coach had ceased from rattling over the flinty pavement of the castle court, Robert De Lancaster glanced his eyes round the room, and in a corner of it discovered his son Philip, unnoticed of him before. Neither the cataract and confusion, that had ensued upon Sir Owen’s tumble, nor the screams of a lady, in whose safety he might be presumed to have some interest, had provoked this disciple of Harpocrates to violate his taciturnity, or to stir from his seat. At the same instant Colonel Wilson, a friend of the family, entered, and brought tidings from the runners in the service of Mr. Llewellyn, that things above stairs were going on as well as could be expected.

Then with your leave, Colonel, said the lord of the castle, we will adjourn to my library, and there await the event. Upon the word Philip started from his corner, ran to the door and held it open for his father. A silent bow was interchanged at passing; the library was near at hand: the chairs were set ready, the candles lighted and the three gentlemen arranged themselves round the fire in their customary seats.

I think, said De Lancaster, addressing himself to the colonel, amongst all the extravagancies I have been betrayed into, there is none that sits so light upon my conscience, as the passion I have had for collecting books.

They certainly are a source of pleasure, said the colonel, to the readers of them.

They cause great trouble to the writers, Philip answered in an under voice, as if talking to himself.

Colonel Wilson was a disabled officer, having lost a leg in the service, and had now retired upon a sinecure government of twenty shillings per day to a small patrimonial estate in the near neighbourhood of Kray Castle: he was a few years younger than Robert De Lancaster, who had now kept his sixtieth birthday. Wilson had two sons; the elder was in the army, and the younger at the head of Westminster school: he was a man of strict probity, good understanding and an excellent heart. These were qualities, which De Lancaster knew how to appreciate as well as any man, and though his studies and pursuits had been widely different from those of the Colonel, yet he courted his company, and lived in perfect harmony with him as his friend and neighbour. Wilson on his part was not blind to the eccentricities of De Lancaster, but as they never disagreed except upon points, that did not interest the passions, their disputes were carried on without any mixture of acrimony, and only served to keep the conversation amicably alive.

Wilson had lived in the world; De Lancaster in study and retirement: the latter would sometimes contend against assumptions, which to the former appeared to be little less than self-evident; in the mean time De Lancaster would oftentimes undertake to demonstrate paradoxes, that to Wilson’s unsophisticated understanding seemed perfectly inexplicable: these he was in the habit neither to admit, nor pertinaciously to contest: if he had done the first, there would have been a speedy end to the discussion; if he had pursued the latter course, there would have been no end at all, for De Lancaster was not often in the humour to recede from his positions.

Philip De Lancaster on the contrary believed all things, and examined none: he was a man of great faith and few words; by no means wanting in curiosity, but extremely averse from enquiry and trouble. Being an only son and heir to the wealthy house of De Lancaster, it was thought adviseable by the fathers on each side, who were the contracting parties, that he should take to wife Matilda, only child of old Morgan of Glen-Morgan, and presumptive heiress to his fortune and estate. Philip, who had shewn no ardour as a lover, was by no means remarkably uxorious as a husband; and Matilda did not molest him with her fondness or attentions: They lived in the same house as appurtenances to the family at Kray Castle, (for such from time immemorial had been the custom of the De Lancasters) and they lived without quarrelling; for they were very little together; their passions were never roused by contradiction, or enflamed by jealousy; the husband had no attachments, and the wife, who was said to have been thwarted in her first love, laid herself out for no future admirers.

These few preliminary remarks may probably account for the placidity, with which Philip now sate down in the library between his father and the colonel to wait the issue of an event, in which if he did not manifest a very lively interest, the reason very probably was, because he did not feel it.

Philip, (if his sage remark is in the recollection of the reader) had risqued a truism, when he modestly suggested that it was a troublesome task to write a book. Philip did not speak this from his own experience; therefore it is, that I call his truism a risque, for it was not always that his father gave his passport to assertions of that character; but the learned gentleman’s thoughts were just then employed not upon the trouble, that we take when we bring our works into the world, but the trouble, which we give, when we ourselves are brought into it, and upon this topic he began to descant, as follows.

The unlucky accident, by which my blundering neighbour has precipitated Mrs. De Lancaster into labour-pains, must in all probability tend to aggravate and enhance those sorrows, in which by the condition of her sex she is destined to bring forth; and indeed, independent of that accident, I should not wonder if the pains she suffers, and the screams she utters, were more than ordinarily acute and piercing, planted as she now is, by adoption into my family, in the very stream and current from the fountain head of the primæval curse—

Whereabouts are we now, said the colonel within himself?

—Nevertheless, under the pressure of these apprehensions, I console myself with the reflection, that if the general observation, that what we produce with difficulty we are thereby influenced to preserve with diligence, be true in all other cases, it will be also true in that of child-bearing. If so, we may expect that the storgee, or natural affection of my daughter-in-law towards her infant will be proportionally greater than that of mothers, who shall have had easier times.

I see no grounds for that conclusion, replied the colonel.

Surely, sir, resumed De Lancaster, you must have remarked, that in all our operations, whether mental or manual, we are naturally most attached to those on which most pains and labour have been expended. Slight performances and slight opinions may be easily given up, but where great deliberation has been bestowed, we are not soon persuaded to admit that our time has been misspent and our talents misapplied.

Certainly, replied Wilson, there are some points, upon which we ought not to waver in our opinions, but there are many others, which it is not worth our while to be too pertinacious in defending. In my profession we must not quarrel with men for their caprices, so long as they are not mischievously or impiously eccentric. It is not often we can find a mess-room in the same way of thinking, except upon the question of another bottle.

In your profession, my good friend, resumed De Lancaster, (for which I have all possible respect) the pliability you describe may be perfectly in character, and much to be commended; for where differences are to be adjusted by arguments, swords should not be admitted into the conference. In my system of life I see no reason why I should be bound to think with the majority; nay, I confess to you I am very ill inclined to subscribe to popular opinions, unless upon strict investigation.

Are they always worth it? said the colonel.

I should think not, echoed Philip.

Pardon me, exclaimed De Lancaster! So many things are assumed without being examined, and so many disbelieved without being disproved, that I am not hasty to assent or dissent in compliment to the multitude; and on this account perhaps I am considered as a man affecting singularity: I hope I am not to be found guilty of that idle affectation, only because I would not be a dealer in opinions, which I have not weighed before I deliver them out. Above all things I would not traffic in conjectures, but carefully avoid imposing upon others or myself by confident anticipation, when nothing can be affirmed with certainty in this mortal state of chance and change, that is not grounded on conviction; for instance, in the case of the lady above stairs, whose situation keeps our hopes and fears upon the balance, our presumption is, that Mrs. De Lancaster shall be delivered of a child, either male or female, and in all respects like other children—

I confess, said Wilson, that is my presumption, and I should be most outrageously astonished, should it happen otherwise.

I don’t think it likely, murmured Philip.

No, no, no, replied De Lancaster; but we need not be reminded how many præternatural and prodigious births have occurred and been recorded in the annals of mankind. Whether the natives of the town of Stroud near Rochester are to this day under the ban of Thomas a Becket I am not informed; but when, in contempt of that holy person, they wantonly cut off the tail of his mule as he rode through their street, you have it from authority that every child thenceforward born to an inhabitant of Stroud was punished by the appendage of an incommodious and enormous tail, exactly corresponding with that, which had been amputated from the archbishop’s mule.

Here a whistle from the colonel struck the auditory nerves of Philip, who, gently laying his hand upon his stump, gravely reminded him that Becket was a saint—

De Lancaster proceeded—- What then shall we say of the famous Martin Luther, who being ordained to act so conspicuous a part in opposition to the papal power, came into the world fully equipped for controversy; his mother being delivered of her infant, (wonderful to relate) habited in all points as a theologian, and (which I conceive must have sensibly incommoded her) wearing a square cap on his head, according to academic costuma. This, Colonel Wilson, may perhaps appear to you, as no doubt it did to the midwife and all present at his birth, as a very extraordinary and præternatural circumstance.

It does indeed appear so, said the colonel. I know you don’t invent the fable; I should like to know your authority for it.

My authority, replied De Lancaster, in this case is the same as in that of Becket’s mule; Martinus Delrius is my authority for both; and when we find this gravely set forth by a writer of such high dignity and credit, himself a doctor of theology, and public professor of the Holy Scriptures in the university of Salamanca, who is bold enough to question it?

I am not bold enough to believe it, said Wilson.

CHAPTER III.
An Accession to the ancient Family of De Lancaster.

When the good man of the house perceived that the Salamanca doctor and his anecdotes only moved the ridicule of his friend Wilson, and even staggered the credulity of his son Philip, he pursued the subject no further, but wearied with the exertions and agitations of the day leaned back in his easy chair, and fell asleep. The parties, that were still awake, seemed mutually disposed to enjoy their meditations in silence, till upon the Castle clock’s striking eleven, Philip appositely remarked that it wanted but an hour to twelve—

And then, said Wilson, the first of March will have become the second of March, so that if your boy don’t make haste into the world, saint David’s day will be over, and he will not have the privilege of being born with a leek in his bonnet, and Martin Luther will keep the field of wonders to himself.

The story is very extraordinary, said Philip; but do you think it is true?

Do I think it is true, replied Wilson, that this gentleman, (pointing to a picture over the chimney) whom I take to be Icarus, came into the world, as the painter has described him, with his wings at full stretch? If you can give credit to the one, you may believe the other.

I think the safest way is to believe neither, Philip observed; but the gentleman you point at is not what you suppose: I believe he is some King: It is a family piece, and my father can explain it to you.

That I will do directly, cried the father, who had waked just in time to hear what his son had been saying. The personage you enquire about is not Icarus, but King Bladud of unfortunate memory, and the incident being historically connected with the records of my family, I have had the picture cleaned and repaired, and conspicuously hung, as you see, over the chimney piece of my library. He with the wings is, as I told you, King Bladud: He has miscarried in his experiment, and fallen to the ground from the topmost pinnacle of the Temple of Apollo. The venerable old man in the sacerdotal habit is the priest of Apollo, and the Philosopher in the saffron-coloured mantle is my ancestor, the ingenious contriver of the unlucky pinions. From him it is I date the privilege of attaching wings to my more ancient bearing of the Harp, as you see it displayed on the banners in the hall, and in sundry other parts of the castle, with the appropriate motto underwritten—Dum cœlum peto, cantum edo.

Thank you, my good sir, said the colonel: I am perfectly satisfied. For my own part I am contented to exhibit three cockle-shells on the handles of my spoons, but where I picked them up, and how I came by them, I know no more than the man in the moon, nor care.

At this instant Cecilia entered the room, and, running up to her father, joyfully announced the welcome entrance of our hero on this mortal stage in the character of a lovely boy, adding in the usual phrase that the mother was quite as well as could be expected.

I rejoice to hear it; I rejoice to hear it, exclaimed the grandfather. But, my dear Cecilia, are you quite certain that it is a boy?

Dear sir, replied Cecilia, you wont suppose the people about my sister can be deceived as to that.

Why no, said De Lancaster, upon better recollection I presume they cannot.

Cecilia directed a congratulatory look to her brother, and nodding to him, as she left the room, said, I give you joy, Philip, I give you joy with all my heart. Philip received it with many thanks, and entertained it with much composure.

Reach me the family bible, son, said De Lancaster, and looked at his watch, observing that it wanted half an hour of midnight. He thereupon entered the day and hour of his grandson’s birth in the recording leaf of the aforesaid holy book; observing, that he would postpone engrossing the event into his pedigree roll till his attorney could attend for that purpose—I confess, added he, it is more properly the office of my bard David Williams, but as he, poor man, is blind, I shall wink at his excusing himself from that branch of his duty.

I don’t see how you can well do less, said the colonel.

He will be christened John, continued the old gentleman, not attending to the colonel’s remark: the links in the chain of my genealogy have long been distinguished by the alternate names of John, Robert and Philip, and the brightest of the three has fallen to his turn. The Johns have been the heroes of the family: That was my father’s name; he was a gentleman of the most punctilious honour, but he was killed in a duel with a foreign officer, who happened to tread upon the train of my mother’s gown in a ball-room. The Philips universally, without the exception of my worthy son here present, have been lovers of their ease, and my great-grandfather was very generally distinguished by the style and title of Robert the Philologist: by manuscripts, which are now in my possession, it appears, that he had been at considerable pains and study in writing comments and annotations for a new and splendid edition of the Incredibilia of Palæphatus: This he did not live to complete, but he is said more than once to have declared, that he would convince the world, that Palæphatus told many more truths than he himself was aware of.

Perhaps Palæphatus atoned for it, said the colonel, by telling many untruths, that he was aware of;—but is it not time to go to bed?

CHAPTER IV.
Our Hero pays his first Visit to his Grandfather. The congratulatory Lay of the Minstrel.

The next morning Robert de Lancaster rose with the sun. From the window of his chamber he cast his eyes over that grand and beautiful expanse of country, which the proud and lofty site of his castle overpeered. It was the first sun, that had risen on his new-born hope, and the splendour, which that glorious luminary diffused over the animating scenery under his survey, was to a mind like his peculiarly auspicious and impressive: his bosom glowed with pious gratitude to the Supreme Dispenser of those blessings—It is too much, all-bounteous Being, he exclaimed, too much for sinful man! I am not worthy of such goodness.

He summoned his servant, and being informed that the night had passed well with Mrs. De Lancaster, he desired the child might be brought to him: his wish was speedily obeyed. He stood for some time intently gazing on the countenance of his grandchild, and at length pronounced it to be a perfect model of infantine beauty, open and ingenuous, every thing in short that his warmest wishes could have pictured.

I perceive, cried he, and can decypher the hand-writing of nature in the expressive lineaments of this lovely babe: if God, who gave him life, shall in his mercy give him length of days, he will be an honour to his name and an ornament to his country.

He is a sweet pretty puppet, said the nurse.

Pooh! cried the prophet, I am not speaking of what he is, I am telling what he will be. I prognosticate that he will be brave, benevolent, and virtuous—

And handsome and tall and well-shaped, re-echoed the loquacious dame; only look what fine straight limbs he has, pretty fellow!

Take yourself away with him! cried De Lancaster in displeasure. You have interrupted me with your chatter, and the continuity of those thoughts, which spontaneously presented themselves, is no more to be resumed.

The nurse departed, dancing the child in her arms, and prattling to it in her way, unconscious of the offence she had committed, whilst De Lancaster, pacing up and down his room, in vain attempted to find that place in the book of fate, from which her untimely gabble had caused him to break off—It is lost, said he to himself; I can only discern bright gleams of virtuous happiness, but not unclouded, not without those darkening shadows, that denounce misfortune.—Heaven forbid my father’s fate should be this infant’s portion with my father’s name!

He ceased; sate down, and, whilst the tear hung on his cheek, silently put up an unpremeditated prayer.

It was his custom every morning after he had dressed himself for the day to be attended by his bard David Williams, and it was now the hour for the old man to present himself with his harp at the door of his patron’s chamber: whilst he was in it, all approach was interdicted; the mind of De Lancaster seemed in a peculiar manner to sympathize with the melody of the harp: he had not only a national predilection for that instrument in common with his countrymen of the principality, but professed an hereditary attachment to it as a true De Lancaster, whose ancestors had worn it on their shields from the days of King Bardus. He had now heard the signal, that announced the morning visit of his minstrel, but a doubt struck him whether he could admit him to perform without hazarding an infringement upon his own order for general silence throughout the castle, as recommended by the sage Llewellyn: whilst pausing upon this dilemma it luckily occurred to his recollection, that there was a piano as well as a forte upon his favourite instrument, and furthermore, that the apartment of his daughter-in-law was at the greatest possible distance from his own; balancing these considerations in his mind, the good man became satisfied upon the point in doubt so far, that David was allowed to enter, and perform his morning serenade under suitable restrictions.

There was a stool, on which Williams always sate during his performances, and an easy chair, in which the patron reposed himself, and indulged his silent meditations. By signals audibly given, on the arms of the aforesaid chair the blind musician was directed to modulate the character and spirit of his movements, so as to correspond and accord with the movements of the hearer’s mind. It was a communication without language, perfectly well understood by the performer, who no sooner heard the signal for soft music than he began a prelude so exquisitely tender, that the strings only whispered under his fingers, till at length being filled with the inspiration of his muse, he broke forth extemporaneously into the following strains—

“Shine forth, bright sun, and gild the day,
“That greets our new-born hope with light!
“Give me to feel thy cheering ray,
“Tho’ these dark orbs are wrapt in night.

“Yet Heav’n in pity hath allow’d
“These hands to wake the tuneful string,
“The muse her influence hath bestow’d,
“And taught her sightless bard to sing.

“Sound then, my harp, thy softest strain,
“Melodious solace of the blind!
“Airs, that may heal a mother’s pain,
“And sooth a father’s anxious mind!

“Hush, hush! for now the infant sleeps—
“Let no rude string disturb its rest;
“And lo! instinctively it creeps
“To nestle at its parent breast.

“Ah luckless me! these curtain’d eyes
“Shall never view its lovely face;
“I ne’er must see that star arise,
“The day-spring of an ancient race.

“Father of life, in mercy take
“This infant to thy nursing care,
“And for the virtuous grandsire’s sake
“Oh! hear the humble minstrel’s pray’r!

“Grant that this babe, as yet the last
“Of Lancaster’s time-honour’d name,
“When coming ages shall have past,
“May rank amongst the first in fame!”

Thou hast sung well, David Williams, said the patron, as soon as the harp had ceased, and I command thee to accept, and wear upon thy finger, this antique beryl, upon which is engraved a head of the poet Homer, thy prototype in melody not less than in misfortune. Thy muse, old man, hath not been unpropitious: go thy way therefore, and cherish thy spirit with the best flask of metheglin, that my cellars afford. I know it is thy favourite Helicon, which at once gives nerves to thy fingers, and nourishment to thy fancy. Get thee hence, blind bard, and be merry!

Old David devoutly drew the ring on his finger, and with a profound obeisance replied—I thank you and I bless you, my munificent patron. I will drink prosperity to the illustrious house of De Lancaster and the new-born heir thereof. It has stood from the time when the old world was deluged, may it stand till the time when the new one shall be dissolved!

With these words David took his leave and departed, whilst De Lancaster, glowing with that pure sensation of refined delight, which music can convey to its admirers, and blest in having now recruited his pedigree with a new descendant from the loins of Noah, sallied forth for the breakfast room, displaying on his stately person a new suit, after an old fashion, of flaming full-trimmed scarlet, ornamented with enormous gold-worked buttons, plentifully dispersed; a prodigious flowing perriwig of natural hair sable as the raven’s plume, with rolled silk stockings and high-topped square-toed shoes, which, resounding upon every step of the oaken stairs as he descended, gave loud and early notice of his approach to the personages assembled to receive him.

Cecilia, Philip and Colonel Wilson in turn presented themselves, and received his cordial embrace, for in his heart nature had implanted all the warm affections of father and of friend, and in courtesy of manners he was a sample of the chivalric ages; Llewellyn therefore was by no means overlooked; his services were both highly praised, and liberally repaid. Lawyer Davis also attended, being summoned for the purpose of the enrolment. So many were the messages of enquiry from the neighbours round the castle, that almost every servant and retainer belonging to his houshold made an errand to present themselves and pay homage to their good old master. Had pen, ink and paper been called for, there would have been three domestics to have brought them in: in the mean while it may be presumed that the more than usually profound respect, with which they accompanied their devoirs, was in some degree owing to the awe they were impressed with by the splendor, in which they saw him now arrayed; and certain it is, if they needed any pardon for this excess of reverence towards a mortal like themselves, the stately person and commanding countenance of Robert De Lancaster were exactly such, as in their predicament might serve for an apology: his stature was of the tallest, but well-proportioned and erect; his frame athletic, but without a trace of clumsiness or vulgarity; his voice, his action, his address were all of that character, which seemed peculiarly adapted to impose respect. Colonel Wilson, who had got secret intimation of this brilliant sortie, which his friend was about to make, had brushed up his epaulets, and turned out in full uniform for the occasion.

Not so Sir Owen ap Owen, baronet, of Penruth Abbey, who, having been told of the event as he had just turned his hounds into cover, instantly galloped off to Kray Castle; and being now ushered into the room in his hunting jacket and boots, exhibited a figure, which both in dress and address was as perfect a contrast to that we have been describing, as reality could present, or imagination feign.

Cecilia took an early opportunity of saying she was upon duty and withdrew: the rest of the company fell off one and one, and Sir Owen found himself left with Mr. De Lancaster.

What ensued will be related in the following chapter.

CHAPTER V.
An importunate Visitor interrupts the Business of the Morning.

It must be obvious to the well-bred reader, that this visit of Sir Owen to the worthy owner of Kray Castle, though not exactly in form, was nevertheless not out of place, considering what had passed in the antecedent day. We may literally say that it was made upon the spur of the occasion, and this we hope will be an apology for our introducing the baronet in boots. Without doubt he was conscious that something more was due from him than a simple enquiry could acquit him of, but the happy turn things had taken, since his head came to the floor and our hero into the world, relieved him in great part from his embarrassment: the politeness of De Lancaster put him entirely at his ease, when turning to Sir Owen, he said—I think, my good neighbour, as I am indebted to you on my boy’s account for his early introduction into life, there is nothing wanting to complete the favour but that you should take some charge of him, now he is with us, and stand godfather at the christening.

To this the baronet made answer, that he should be ready to obey the call, and was greatly flattered by it, adding with a significant smile, that it was not his fault, if he had not by this time had the honour of standing in a nearer relation to a grandson of Mr. De Lancaster than that of godfather; to which the other as readily replied—Neither was it his fault.

This was so fair an opening, that Sir Owen could not miss it, and upon this hint he spake. His speech, though not remarkable for its eloquence, was extremely easy to be understood: he professed a very sincere esteem and high respect for the amiable Cecilia: he would make a very handsome settlement upon her, and add two horses to complete his set, so that she should command her coach and six; he would new set the family jewels, furnish the best apartments afresh, and build her a conservatory: he would leave off smoking, take to tea in an afternoon, and learn quadrille: he would move the dog-kennel to a greater distance from his house, that the hounds might not wake her in a morning: he would stand candidate for the county at the next election, and as soon as he had taken his seat in parliament, and overturned the present ministry, he did not doubt of being made a lord. He said he was well aware of the lady’s high pretensions on the score of pedigree, but he flattered himself he should have something to say on that head, when he had looked into matters, and refreshed his memory; this he knew for a fact—that old Robin ap Rees, his minstrel, had records to prove that his ancestors, the Ap Owens, were not drowned in the general deluge, but saved themselves with their goats on the tops of their mountains in Merionethshire; and this should be made appear to the satisfaction of Cecilia as clear as the sun at noon-day: he added in conclusion, that as a mark of his respect for the name of De Lancaster, his second son should bear it jointly with his own, coupled with another ap.

These proposals being submitted, he wished to know if there was any thing more, that could be required of him for the satisfaction and content of the lady he aspired to. To this Robert De Lancaster gravely answered, that certainly there was nothing wanting to complete his wishes but her consent.

Why that is what I have always intimated to her, cried the baronet, that she had nothing to do but to say yes, and I was ready to strike hands upon the word and clinch the bargain. When a thing can so easily be set to rights, it is rather surprising to me, that she can hesitate about it.

Upon De Lancaster’s dropping a hint as to the seriousness of an engagement for life, and that two opinions must coincide upon that measure, Sir Owen very appositely observed, that it was mere loss of time to spin out a business year after year, that could be finished in a single minute.

I grant you, my good friend, said De Lancaster, that Cecilia could do more towards settling this affair in the space of one minute than you and I could do in a twelvemonth, for she is absolutely her own mistress; therefore with your leave we will turn it over to her, and when I have next the honour to see you, I will engage you shall have an answer from her own lips: let me only request you to receive that answer as decisive, be it what it may; and for your own as well as for her repose stir the question no more.

So let it be! replied Sir Owen, and fit it is that so it should be; for, take notice, I am getting on all this while, and she is not standing still in life, so that for the sake of posterity we had best lose no more time about it. If it is to be, the sooner it is done the better; if it is not, why there must be an end of it; I must turn my horse’s head, as they say, another way; and that puts me in mind that I have left the hounds in cover, and, if they find, I shall be quite and clean thrown out.

Nothing in this life more likely, replied old Robert archly, and with this answer, which cut two ways at once, the baronet, who just then thought of nothing but his hounds, bustled out of the room, muttering to himself—Huntsman will wonder what, the plague, has become of me.

CHAPTER VI.
Some Men are more fond of telling long Stories than others are of listening to them.

When this inauspicious conference was over, and the subject matter left, in the diplomatic phrase, ad referendum, Robert de Lancaster, who was anxious to dispatch the more interesting business of the day, rang the bell for his servant, and by him was informed that all parties were in readiness to attend him to the audit-room, where, amongst other family treasures, the record of his pedigree was kept in a vaulted casemate so fortified, as to bid defiance both to force and fire.

Accompanied by Cecilia, Philip, Wilson and Lawyer Davis, followed by the nurse carrying the infant, and Williams, in his bardal habit, led by a venerable domestic out of livery, he proceeded to the spot, and with his own hands liberated the incarcerated roll. It was a splendid record, and when spread out at full length exhibited several figures gaudily emblazoned. Colonel Wilson, who had no great respect at heart, but much gravity of countenance, whilst these ceremonials were in operation, addressing himself to the master of the show, said—It is well, my good friend, that you have stage room enough to display this fine spectacle in perfection without putting any of your ancestors to inconvenience—Then passing along till he came to the upper end of the roll, where Japheth, son of Noah, conspicuously kept his post, and pointing to a figure on the step next below him, he gravely asked who that majestic personage might be in kingly robes, wearing a crown on his head, and carrying a sceptre in his hand: Robert De Lancaster as gravely replied, that it was Samothes, the first sovereign monarch of this island, from him called Samothea.—Wilson bowed, and obtruded no more questions.

Whilst the ceremony of enrolment was in process—I record this infant, said the grandfather, by the name of John, although he hath not yet received the sacred rite of baptism, forasmuch as the pronomina of John, Robert and Philip have been successively adopted by my family from the very earliest time of the Christian æra to the present—Write him down therefore by the name of John.

This being done in proper form by Lawyer Davis, and date annexed, blind Williams gave a crowning twang upon his harp (for I omitted to premise that he brought it with him) and in a loud and solemn tone chanted forth—Floreat!—when our hero (unwillingly I record it to his shame) set up such a dismal and most dolorous howl, as startled all the hearers, but most of all his grandfather, who, struck with horror, cried out to the nurse—Take him away, take him instantly away! Why would you let him roar at this unlucky moment?—Bless your honour, said the prating gossip, ’tis a sign of strength—A sign! repeated the sage; how should you know of what it is a sign? Away with him at once! I would it had not happened.

As the cavalcade now marched away in solemn silence, Colonel Wilson, halting on his wooden leg, whispered to Lawyer Davis, who was in the rear—This is ridiculous enough, friend Davis, we must fairly confess; but the harmless foibles of good and worthy men should not expose them to our contempt.

Amongst the many oddities (for I am loth to call them absurdities) that marked the character of Robert de Lancaster, his pride of pedigree was one of the most prominent and most open to ridicule. That his friend Colonel Wilson saw it in this light there is no doubt; yet although he was quite intolerant enough towards many of Robert’s eccentricities upon speculative points, in this favourite folly he left him undisturbed, perceiving, as we may suppose, that it was a prejudice not to be attacked but at the risque of his friendship. This topic therefore had never come into discussion, and even the history of the picture, lately brought out of obscurity, was, as we have before observed, new to the incurious colonel. He had seen the pedigree unrolled for the first time, but of its contents he knew no more than what his single question about King Samothes had drawn from De Lancaster in the way of explanation.

If Wilson acquiesced in this foible of his friend, none else amongst the numbers, that were in habits of acquaintance with the family, were likely to start any question as to the antiquity of it; they were so cordially welcomed, and so hospitably entertained at Kray Castle, that it would have been hard indeed upon their host, if they could have swallowed nothing at his table but the dinner, that he put upon it. Add to this, that the good old man was a patient listener to other people’s anecdotes, though a deliberate narrator of his own. For all those dealers in the marvellous, who are proverbially said to shoot a long bow, he had a great deal of companionable fellow-feeling, and as he did not hold the commonly received opinions of the world in very high respect, he had boldly put together and amassed a curious and elaborate collection, somewhat after the manner of Coryat, of what he styled his Confutations of vulgar Errors. These have come under the inspection of some people since his death, and though it must be owned that they are not to be read without some few grains of allowance, yet there is a sufficiency of novelty to make them entertaining, and good sense enough interspersed to render them in a certain degree respectable.

He there paradoxically asserts, (and I must believe it was his serious opinion, for he was fond of repeating it amongst his intimates) that the human understanding had been extremely narrowed and contracted, since the art of printing had been discovered and carried into practice, for that tradition was the mother of memory, and book-reading the murderer. For modern history he had a sovereign contempt; he said it was a mass of voluntary misrepresentations, and that no man could be trusted to write the annals of his own time; strenuously contending, that it was from the dark ages only we could strike out light to illuminate mankind. In the early writers of the history of his own country he was profoundly versed, and could adduce a host of authorities to prove that Dominicus Marius Niger and Berosus were clearly warranted in their affirmations that the island of Great Britain was as well and as fully stocked with inhabitants long before the days of Noah, as any other country upon the face of the globe.

Upon all these topics Wilson had not much to say: he knew his friend was in the habit of disputing points, which others took for granted, and taking many for granted, which by others were disputed; he was therefore well contented to let him talk his fill so long as he was only talking for fame, resolved on his own part to take no more for truth than he saw fit; and, being always able to prove what he himself asserted, what he heard asserted without proof he did not hold himself always bound to believe.

He now perceived the time was come, when it would be no longer in his power to parry the propensity so discoverable in his friend on this occasion to treat him with a discussion on the antiquity of his family: he was prepared to meet it, nay, he was just now disposed even to invite it by some leading questions respecting the family bards, and the authenticity of the facts by them recorded.

This was every thing that De Lancaster could wish for: it was at once a salvo for his vanity, and a challenge to his veracity. Assuming thereupon a more than ordinary degree of solemnity, he said—It is not to the bards alone that I am indebted for all I know of those, who have borne my name before I was in the world, though much is due to their correct and faithful records of the times they lived in. By my own perseverance in keeping hold of the clue, which, by the help of Joannes Bodinus, Franciscus Tarapha, Wolfangus Lazius, and other equally illustrious authorities, hath led me to the fountain head of my genealogy, I have at this moment the consolation to reflect, that when that most incomparable personage Samothes, (first son of Japhet, who was third son of Noah) was monarch, patriarch and legislator of this my native island, I had an ancestor then living in it, who shared the blessings of his government, was also nearly allied to him, and stood so high in his favour and confidence, as to be appointed president and chief teacher of theology in that celebrated college of philosophers called Samothei, which both Aristotle and Secion affirm to have been established in the days of this good king, and so called in honour of his name: but not this school only, the whole island took its name after this excellent king, and was for a course of years, till the arrival of Albion, called Samothea, as both the learned Bale and Doctor Caius concur in affirming—but perhaps to you, Colonel Wilson, these anecdotes may be uninteresting; and, if so, I will pass them over.

By no means, my good friend, replied the colonel, for be assured that all these family facts, which you have collected, and Moses in his history seems to have overlooked, are to me perfectly new and extremely entertaining.

Sir, resumed the narrator, Samothes was succeeded by his son Magus, from whom the Persian Magi derive—(Wilson arched his eye-brows, as men are apt to do on certain occasions)—and Sarron succeeded Magus, from whom were derived a sect of philosophers amongst the Celtes, called Sarronides. In the reign of Druis, continued De Lancaster, or, as Seneca writes it, Dryus, (which I take to be a corruption) my ancestors transplanted themselves, together with the philosophers, named after their sovereign Druids, into the isle of Anglesea, which, as Humphry Lloyd truly observes, was their chief place of abode, or, more properly speaking, their pontifical headquarters. Bardus, the son of Druis, succeeded to his father, and in his reign so famous was my then existing ancestor for his performances on the harp, that we have ever since borne that instrument by royal grant of this king as our family coat of arms and crest. Now, let it be observed, added he, that many families have coats of arms and crests, and can’t tell how they came by them.

That is true, said the colonel, and one of those am I; but I beg pardon for interrupting you: I pray you to proceed.

After a period of three hundred and ten years, the Celtes being subdued by Albion the giant, and this island subjected to his dominion, he changed its name of Samothea to that of Albion. This same Albion the giant was, as every body knows, the fourth son of Neptune—

I am proud to hear it, cried the colonel, but I protest to you it is the first I ever heard of him, or any of his family: I can now account for our superiority in naval affairs; and I most heartily hope that the trident, which this son of Neptune inherited from his father, shall never in any time to come be wrested from his posterity of this island.

I hope not, replied De Lancaster; but I proceed with my narrative—Upon the landing of Brute with his Trojans, (which was not above three thousand years ago) I find it asserted by Master Henry Lyte of Lytescarie, that this island was no better than a rude and barren wilderness, ferarum altrix, a nursery for wild beasts, as he slightingly denominates it; but I must take leave to tell that learned antiquary, that his history, which he proudly styles The Light of Britain, might more properly be called The Libel upon Britain; for I will neither give credit to his lions, which he presumes to say overran the island, nor implicitly acquiesce in his monstrous white bulls, with shagged manes and hairy foreheads, forasmuch as I find no mention of them in our King Edward the First’s letters to Pope Boniface, wherein this very point of the landing of Brute in Albion is very learnedly discussed. As for his lions, I treat that fable with contempt, for, besides that King Edward does not mention them, I will never believe there could have been one in the whole island, else how came King Madan, the grandson of this very Brute, to be killed and devoured by wolves in a hunting match, when it has been notorious from all time, that the wolf will fly from the hunter, that has anointed himself with lion’s tallow? Will any man suppose that the royal sportsman could have failed taking that obvious precaution, had there been but a single ounce of the fat of that animal in the whole kingdom?

Nobody will suppose it, said Wilson, and I am satisfied there were no lions for the reason you assign: I must beg leave to doubt also if there was any authority for his enormous white bulls, provided you are quite sure that King Edward does not hint at them in his correspondence with the Pope: but have we not lost sight of your ancestors amongst these lions and the bulls?

Not so, replied De Lancaster, for upon the partition, which Brute made of the kingdom between his three sons Locrine, Camber and Albanact, my family is found in the Cambrian district upon the very spot, where Kray Castle now stands; which will warrant me in saying without vanity that few land-holders in the island can boast a longer tenure in their possessions, this being not above sixty-six years after the taking of Troy, and eleven hundred thirty and two years before the Christian æra.

That is quite sufficient, said the colonel: few post-diluvian families can produce a better title.

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

It is not always the greatest misfortune, that can befal the listener to a long story, if the teller shall chance to be called off in the middle of it. This was just now the case with Robert De Lancaster, who had advanced in his narrative but a very few years on this side of the Trojan war, when the arrival of the servant, whom he had dispatched with his letter of congratulation to old Morgan of Glen-Morgan, cut him short in his progress, and it probably required as much philosophy on his part to command his patience, as it did on Wilson’s to conceal his pleasure.

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

“Dear Sir,

“Your servant duly delivered your kind letter, informing me, that my daughter Mrs. Philip De Lancaster was safely delivered of a son; an event, which I hope will afford much consolation to you, and be the happy means of delivering down to future generations a name, which from time immemorial has been highly respectable in these parts.

“To my name as one of the sponsors at the christening you have an undoubted right, and I am flattered that you enforce it; but of my personal attendance upon that solemnity there is I fear but little chance; for I am a victim to the gout, and though the snow, which now lies on the hills, may disappear before the month is out, I cannot expect my pains will be in the like melting mood: but He, who is the disposer of all things, will dispose even of such a wretched insignificant as I am.

“Alas! my good brother-in-law, I am not like you a healthy, gay and social man; I am gloomy, sullen and uncomfortable; hypochondriac by nature, and splenetic by vexation and disease: I will not say that I repent that ever I was a father; that would be wrong; but I do say, that, being a father, I repent of my unfitness, and am conscious of my errors.

“One only child, whom we jointly call our daughter, was all that Providence entrusted to me: her mother died when she was an infant, and I never ventured on a second marriage. I did not seek for teachers to instruct me how to educate my child: I took that task upon myself, and was her only master: I coveted not to accomplish her as a fine lady; I studied to implant good principles in her heart, and make her an honest, honourable woman. I suspect my discipline was too rigid, for I totally overlooked amusement, and fixed a melancholy upon her spirit, accompanied with so absolute a submission to my dictates, that she seemed to think and act without any will or option of her own.

“When you tendered to me your alliance, I embraced it with ardour; for I held your character then, as I do to this day, in the highest honour and respect. Had ambition been my ruling passion, I could have looked up to nothing in point of family of superior dignity; had avarice been my vice, how could I have gratified it more than by marrying my daughter to the only son and heir of De Lancaster? Your son was comely, courteous, unassuming, and though perhaps not prominently marked with any brilliant gleams of genius, yet certainly in moral purity no young man bore a more unblemished character. I recommended the connection to my daughter—warmly, anxiously recommended it—Implicitly, without appeal, in a concern the most material she accorded to my wish, and answered at the altar to the awful question there repeated as compliantly as she did, when I first proposed it to her.

“Now, sir, when I disclose to you that this too duteous creature had conceived a passion, which under the terror of my authority she had not courage to discover, judge what my sorrow and remorse must be. I have, though unintentionally, made a wreck of her peace, and endangered that of your son. I may have brought into your family a wife without a heart for her husband, and a mother, (which Heaven avert!) without natural affection for her offspring.

“Thus I have laid the sorrows of my soul before you, and beseech you, that, with the candour and benignity, which are natural to you, you would look upon my child, and without revealing my secret to your son, influence him to be mild with her, in her present situation more especially; and this I am confident will engage her gratitude, though I dare not promise if will gain her love.

“I was about to conclude with my love and blessing to the mother and her babe, but upon reading over what in the confusion of my thoughts I have so ill put together, I find I have omitted to tell you, who the young man is, of whom I have been speaking. His name is Jones, a gentleman by birth, but destitute of fortune. He was ensign, and on a recruiting party at Denbigh, where I noticed him for his modest manners and engaging person; having withal known his father Colonel Jones, and served with him in the same regiment when I was in the army, I invited this youth to make my house his quarters, became very fond of him, and furnished him with means to purchase a lieutenancy. I have nothing to charge him with; his conduct towards my daughter was honourable in the extreme, and I am informed that it was his punctilious delicacy towards me as his patron, that occasioned him to secede, when she probably would have summoned resolution to have laid the state of her heart before me; which had she done, if I know myself, I know she would have had her lover, and Jones would have had my estate.

I have the honour to be,
Dear Sir, &c. &c.
John Morgan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is all this true? De Lancaster asked.

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

Is Jones the name of that young officer?

It is.

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

I perceive you know something of this Jones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.
A Country Visit according to the old Costuma.

By peep of day every thing, that had life, in and about Kray Castle, horses, dogs and cats included, were up and in motion, save only the lady in the straw, who could not rise, and the gentleman in bed, who did not chuse to leave it, namely Philip the fisher, who had not got one perch, and probably not so many bites from beside the banks, as he had been favoured with from between the blankets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hark, hark, tis the bugle! It wafts to my ear
“The signal for parting—Adieu to my dear.
“I go to the isles, where the climate is death,
“And Fate’s pallid hand weaves my funeral wreath.

“When I leave my soul’s treasure forlorn on the shore,
“And I strain my sad eyes, till they see her no more,
“My sorrows unheeded no pity shall move,
“While my cold-hearted comrades cry—Why did you love?

“A soldier, whose sword is his all, should obey
“No mistress but Honor—and truly they say—
“Behold! at her call, to my duty I fly;
“Can a soldier do more for his honor than die?”

When Mr. Gryffin Gryffin had concluded his madrigal, of which the melody at least was extremely well composed, the painter, who ought to have been a better critic, than to have overlooked the effect, which it had had upon the countenance of old Morgan, unadvisedly enquired who the mistress of the poet was—A poet’s mistress, you may be sure, De Lancaster instantly replied; every thing is imaginary; the mistress and the muse are alike ideal beings, and death and dying are only put in to make out the rhymes; then turning to the master of the table, he said—Brother Morgan, I perceive you drink no wine; I have had my glass, and if the company will excuse us, you and I old fellows will leave them to their claret, and take a cup of coffee tete à tete in the next room.

The motion was seasonable, and so immediately seconded by the man of medicine, that the mover and the man to be moved soon found themselves in a situation equally well adapted to the compassionate object of the one, and the seasonable relief of the other.

Here as soon as they had taken their seats, and were left to themselves, De Lancaster commenced his lecture De consolatione. On this occasion it so happened, that a fair opportunity was not made use of, for, except a slight hint at Cicero and his daughter, very little philology or common-place argument were resorted to: common sense was found upon trial to answer all purposes quite as well: when the one lamented that he had not discovered his daughter’s attachment, the other very naturally demanded, who but the lady was to be blamed for that? Where there was such a flagrant want of confidence on the part of the daughter, and no compulsion on that of the father, by what kind of sophistry could he suggest occasion for any self-reproach?—To this when Morgan answered, that he feared his daughter had been awed into concealment, De Lancaster sharply replied, that he defied him to assign any honourable motive for a disingenuous action: a father could only recommend the situation, which he thought most eligible and advantageous for his child, presuming that she had not previously engaged her heart; in which if he was deceived by her, it only proved that either he was very unsuspecting, or she extremely cunning. In conclusion Morgan was driven to confess that his only remaining compunction arose from the reflection upon what Mr. Philip De Lancaster might suffer by a connection, so little likely to promote his happiness.

If that be your regret, resumed De Lancaster, dismiss it from your mind at once. Philip is made at all points for your daughter: no couple can be better paired. Fondness on either side would destroy their mutual tranquillity. They have given us, under Providence, a grandson, and if that blessing be continued to us, you and I must agree to regard the intermediate generation as a blank, and rest our only hope on what that child may be.

Heaven grant him life, cried Morgan! You have cured me of the mournfuls. Let us join our friends.

CHAPTER II.
Robert De Lancaster returns to Kray-Castle. Another Visit is in Meditation.

As the porter, who lays down his burden and his knot, has probably a quicker sense, and greater relish for the pleasure, which that relaxation gives, than the gentleman, who never carried any thing heavier than the coat upon his back, so did it fare with the good old lord paramount of the manor of Glen-Morgan. He was just now the lightest man in the company, forasmuch as he had got rid of a heavy wallet of vexations, and in the gaiety of his heart, he declared, that as for any pain the gout could give (which in fact at that very moment gave no pain at all) he regarded it as nothing: a man was not to flinch and make wry faces at a little twinge of the toe, when he had a gallant officer in his eye, who had undergone the amputation of a leg.

Yes, said the colonel, I have lost one leg; I should not like to lose another; but in our way of life we must take things as they turn out; considering how often I have heard the bullets whistle, I think myself well off.

I perceive, cried the painter, it is your right leg, colonel, which you have lost: the misfortune I should think would have been greater, had you been deprived of your right arm.

So the world would think, sir, replied the colonel, had it been your case; but we poor soldiers sometimes want our legs to save our lives.

Your wounds sometimes, said De Lancaster, will save your lives: the scars, that Caius Marius bore about him, rendered his visage so terrible, that the assassinating soldier did not dare to strike him.—I have painted him in that very crisis, replied the artist; but I confess I have trusted to his natural expression, and left out the scars.—You have done right as a painter, rejoined De Lancaster; an historian is tied down to facts.

After an evening, passed in conversation, cheerful at least, though little worth recording, and a night consumed in sleep, of which no record can be taken, Robert De Lancaster rose with the sun, and, after about five hours travel, was set down in safety with his friend the colonel at his castle door, where Cecilia met him with a smiling welcome, and a happy report, that all was well. This report was in a few minutes after confirmed by Mr. Llewellyn, who had the health of the lady above stairs under his care. Mr. Philip also presented himself, and our hero John, (though last and least) exhibited his person, and seemed perfectly well satisfied with the reception, that was given him.

Llewellyn was a man of information, and had a spirit of enquiry, by which he became to the full as deep in the secrets of the families he visited, as in those of the medicines he administered. To Sir Owen at all times, sick or well, he had free access, and he paid him more than professional attendance: he now brought the news of Mrs. David Owen’s arrival at Penruth Abbey. He had seen her, and being as usual in a communicative vein, he proceeded to launch out into many of those trivial particulars, which are of easy carriage, and with which gentlemen of his vocation are apt to enrich their conversation to the great edification and amusement of their employers.

Mr. Llewellyn would not positively pronounce Mrs. David Owen to be a beauty, yet he was aware that many people would call her pretty; she was not however to his taste: there was a want of sensibility and a certain delicacy of expression, which in his conception of the female character (and here he addressed himself to Cecilia) was the very crisis of all that is charming in woman.

You mean criterion, my friend, said De Lancaster, but you are in the shop, and there errors are excepted; so go on; proceed with your description.

Mr. Llewellyn was too well accustomed to these little rubs to be daunted by them, and finding that he had gained attention, proceeded to describe Mrs. Owen as a sprightly little woman of a very dark complexion, with an aquiline nose, quick sparkling eyes and thick arched eyebrows, black as the raven’s plume: Mr. Llewellyn professed himself no admirer of black hair; (Cecilia’s was light brown). Her dress, he said, was after the fashion of the Spanish ladies, as he had seen them represented on the London stage, when he walked the hospitals.—Here Mr. Llewellyn made another slip, but it was out of De Lancaster’s reach, who had no data for a comment.—He acknowledged that her style of dress was well calculated to set off her shape, and display the elegance of her taper limbs to the best advantage: he would have the company be prepared to encounter the sight of bare elbows and short petticoats; for his own part he was no friend to either. She had taken up her guitar at Sir Owen’s desire, and sung two or three of her Spanish airs, accompanied by certain twanging strokes on that instrument, which, though it resembled nothing that could be called playing, had however no unpleasing effect. She sung in a high shrill tone, and accompanied the words, which he did not understand, with certain looks and gestures, which he did not wish to describe.

Their melodies are Moorish, said De Lancaster; they use a great deal of action when they sing: the Greeks themselves did the same. Does Mrs. David Owen speak English?

With great fluency, but with a foreign accent. She had her son with her, about four or five years old, the very picture of herself; extremely forward, cunning and intelligent beyond what could be expected from a child of his age. Sir Owen had been rather disconcerted and thrown out of his bias by his visitors on their first arrival; but he had now acquiesced, and the lady seemed to have the game in hand. Mr. Llewellyn concluded by declaring, that if he had not been told she was a Spaniard, he should verily have suspected her to be a Jewess.

Whether she be Jewess or Christian, said the master of the family, we must pay her the compliment of a first visit, and without delay.

The next morning, as soon as the sun appeared upon the eastern hills, and gave the promise of a fair day, order of march was given out for the afternoon; dinner was announced for an early hour, and again the body-coach set out with De Lancaster and Cecilia occupying the seat of honour, and Philip with his back to the great front glass, followed by two reverend personages grey-headed, and in no respect resembling light horsemen, save only that they carried arms before them, though not in holsters of the newest military fashion. The elegant simplicity of Cecilia’s dress very happily contrasted the splendid drapery of the old gentleman, who had relieved the scarlet coat, not in the happiest manner, with a waistcoat of purple satin, richly embroidered with gold, and not much exceeded by the coat in the length of its flaps, or the capaciousness of its pockets. Philip was by no means over-studious of the toilette. Colonel Wilson had gone home to receive his son Edward, who was now elected off from Westminster school to Trinity College in Cambridge.

CHAPTER III.
The Visit to Penruth Abbey. Certain Personages, who will fill conspicuous Parts in this eventful History, are introduced to our Readers.

As the cumbrous machine, to which the family of the De Lancasters had now committed their persons, disdained the novelty of springs, it was well for the company within that it was provided with a soft lining of blue velvet and enormous cushions, stuft with swan’s down. It had been the admiration of the county, when its owner served the office of sheriff about twenty years past, and though its original splendour was somewhat faded, it still exhibited on its pannels a vast shield emblazoned with the device of the harp between a copious expanse of wings. When it turned the point of the avenue leading to Penruth Abbey, looming large as an Indiaman in a fog off Beachy Head, it was readily descried by the porter from his lodge, who, huddling on his tufted gown of ceremony, rung out the signal on the turret-bell; whereupon all the waitingmen, drunk or sober, ranged themselves in the hall, and old Robin ap Rees prepared himself to salute the respected visitor with a flourish on the harp, as he entered the house.

Robert De Lancaster, followed by his son and daughter, passed through the domestic files to the tune of Shenkin, and was received at the door of the saloon by Sir Owen, who presented his sister-in-law in due form, making her reverences in the style and fashion of Spain, where the ladies bow, and the men curtsey.

The good old man acquitted himself with all the gallantry of the good old court, and took his seat with due respect and ceremony beside the lady. When he had adjusted the tyes of his perriwig and the flaps of his coat, having drawn off his high-topped gloves to give a due display to his ruffles, Mrs. Rachel Owen began the conversation by telling him how much she admired his equipage, which she complimented by saying it was exactly upon the model of the coaches of the Spanish nobles: the English carriages, she observed, were generally very ill constructed and in a bad taste, particularly those she travelled in, drawn by only two beggarly horses, unmercifully whipped by a brat of a postillion; whereas in her country no man of distinction could pass from place to place without his six mules, guided by the voice, unincumbered by either reins or harness, and ornamented with bells, which in her opinion gave a cheerful sound, and had a very dignified effect.

Why yes, madam, said De Lancaster, every country is attached to its own customs. The Spaniard prefers his mule, the Laplander his rein-deer, the inhabitant of the desart his camel, and some tribes bordering upon Abyssinia ride their cows. The animals no doubt are adapted to their several climates: in England we are contented with horses, and as our vehicles are apt to have a great deal of iron-work about them, we are satisfied with the jingling they make, and readily dispense with the amusement of bells.

He then proceeded to pass some high encomiums on the beauty and majesty of the Castilian language, which he said he could read and understand, when spoken, though he was not able to keep up a conversation in it. He remarked upon the excellence of their proverbs, which he said was a proof both of the fecundity and antiquity of a language. She acknowledged the justness of his remark, and instanced the romance of Cervantes as abounding in proverbs. She believed they were frequent in the Hebrew language, and asked him if they were also common in the Greek.

Very much so, madam, replied De Lancaster, in the writings of the Greeks. As to the Hebrews, the wise sayings of Solomon alone furnish a very copious collection, and are by us specifically called his Proverbs, or as the Greeks would term them his Paræmiæ, which some express by the word proverb, following Cicero’s interpretation; others by the word adage, preferring the authority of Varro, the most learned of all the Roman philologists.

The lady, who had drawn this conversation upon herself by an affectation of talking about what she did not understand, now perceiving the eyes of the company directed towards her, and a general silence kept whilst De Lancaster was speaking, felt her vanity so much flattered by having this learned harangue addressed to her, that, in order to hold it on, she ventured to ask which of the Greek authors were most famous for their proverbs.

Madam, replied De Lancaster, your question, though extremely pertinent for you to ask, is not easy for me to answer with the precision I could wish. I can only tell you that the Greek oracles were in general adages, and many of the latter are to be traced even in Homer: the bulk of them however is to be collected from Aristotle the Peripatetic, and his disciples Theophrastus and Clearchus of Irlöe, from Chrysippus, Cleanthes, Theætetus, Aristides, Aristophanes, Æschylus, Mylo, Aristarchus, and many others, that do not just now occur to me to name to you.

These are great authorities indeed, cried Mrs. Owen, more and more delighted with the conversation as it grew more and more unintelligible to her; and pray, learned sir, added she, condescend to inform me where the wise sayings of these great men are to be met with.

De Lancaster was not a man to withhold his answer from any question upon a point of philology, could any such have been put to him by his cook-maid; whereas Mrs. Owen had fairly hooked him in to believe that she was interested in his discourse, and solicitous to be informed. Possessed with this opinion, he replied—Madam, every question that you put to me is a convincing proof, that the ladies in your country turn their minds to studies, in which our English women have no ambition to be instructed (a conclusion falser than which he never made in his life) and it is with particular satisfaction I have the honour to inform you, that in Zenobius the sophist, or (as some will have it) Zenodotus, in Diogenianus of Heraclea, and in the Collectanea of Suidas, you will find ample store to gratify your very laudable curiosity: I would recommend to you also to consult Athenæus, Stobæus, Laertius, Michael Apostolius the sophist, Theophrastus called Logotheta, and others, that might be pointed out; but for the present perhaps these may suffice.

I dare say they will, cried Sir Owen, and if you find them in this house, sister Rachel, I’ll give you leave to keep them. Lord bless you, my good neighbour, she never heard the name of one of them, nor is there a monk in all Spain, that ever did put a word of theirs under his cowl, or ever will. I tell you they are as dull as asses, and as obstinate as mules. Rachel knows no more of what you have been saying to her than I do.

This side speech of the baronet’s, so unseasonably true, had scarce passed his lips, when little David bolted into the room, and having fixed his piercing eyes upon the person of De Lancaster, ran up to his mother, and in a screaming voice cried out—Look, look, mamma, there’s a man in a black wig, for all the world like our old governor of Cadiz!—Hush, hush, saucy child, cried the mother, stopping his mouth with her hand.—Don’t stop him, I pray you, said the good man; when children find out likenesses, ’tis a proof that they make observations. Your son compares me to the governor of Cadiz, and I dare say I am honoured by the comparison.

That is true politeness, said Mrs. Owen, addressing herself respectfully to De Lancaster. It is not often that great learning and great urbanity are found in the same person: when they are, how infinitely they adorn each other!—a reflection this, so much to the honour of Mrs. David Owen, that lest I may not have many to record equally to her credit, I am the more inclined to notice it upon this opportunity.

Addressing herself to Mr. Philip De Lancaster, she said—I take for granted, sir, you are extremely fond of the beautiful infant, of which I am to give you joy—Philip bowed and made no answer.—I hear, repeated she, he is an uncommon fine boy—Philip was of opinion that all infants were alike: for his part he could mark no difference between them—Perhaps you have not studied them with quite so much attention as you have given to your books—Philip was not very fond of reading—Of country sports perhaps—Still less—Of planting, farming, building?—Not in the least of either—Mrs. Owen seemed resolved to find his ruling passion—Did he take pleasure in the wholesome exercise of walking?—He doubted if it was wholesome, and he never walked, if he could avoid it: he angled now and then, and had no dislike to a game of chess—I comprehend you now, said the inquisitive lady; fishing is an amusement, that accords with meditation, and chess demands reflection and a fixt attention—I give little or no attention to it, replied Philip; and that may be the reason, why I never win a game—That certainly may be the reason, resumed the lady, and I’m persuaded you have struck upon it.

The conversation now took a general turn. Tea was served, and the black prying eyes of Rachel Owen were at leisure to scrutinize the dress and person of Cecilia, whom the baronet seemed now disposed to release from all further solicitation. Master David Owen in the mean time amused himself with teazing a poor little Spanish lap-dog, which, but for him, would have quietly reposed its diminutive body in his mother’s muff. When reprimanded by Sir Owen for tormenting a dumb creature, he set his nails with a most inveterate resolution into the little creature’s tail, and to his infinite delight convinced the hearers, that he had no dumb creature between his fingers. This produced a slight box on the ear from his uncle, and the yell of the suffering dog was instantly overpowered by the louder yell of the enraged tormentor—Poor fellow, said Mrs. Owen, you shall play with little Don when your uncle is not present: boys must be amused; must they not Mr. De Lancaster?—Not with cruelty I should hope, he replied; they ought not to be indulged in that amusement; and it is a very bad prognostic, when they can be amused by it—The dog is of little value to me, said Mrs. Owen, and I would sooner wring his nasty neck off with my own hands, than he should annoy my brother Owen, and expose my darling boy to be punished by him.

The dog, madam, said the old gentleman with a gravity, that was highly tinctured with displeasure, the dog may be of little value, but humanity is of the highest; and a more sacred lesson cannot be impressed upon the mind of your son, whilst it is yet capable of receiving the impression. Permit me also to observe to you that no lady wrings off the neck of a dog with her own hands: we should view it as an act of violence so totally out of character, that I must doubt if she ever could recover it—I will not suppose that a poor little animal could provoke your anger, because it cried out when it suffered pain, and your son excite your pity, when he cried out louder, and suffered nothing.

I am obliged to you, my good friend, cried Sir Owen, that is just what I would have said, if I could—Rachel Owen said nothing, but answered with a look, that I am neither able nor ambitious to describe. In that moment vanished her respect for De Lancaster, and something was adopted in its stead of a less innocent and gentle quality. She took her sulky sobbing brat by the hand, and left the room without apology. The coach was announced, and De Lancaster rose to take his leave—You see how it is with me, said Sir Owen; I have admired an angel, and henceforth renounce all hope of her: such a whelp and such a shrew, as I am now coupled to, will shortly make an end of me.

De Lancaster shook his friend by the hand, walked silently through the hall to his coach, which conveyed him home in safety, time not having sufficed for the fat coachman to get more than three parts tipsy, and the fat horses being, as was usual with them, perfectly sober and acquainted with the road.

CHAPTER IV.
The Family of De Lancaster return to Kray-Castle. Our History mends its Pace.

De Lancaster and his daughter, meditating on the occurrences, that had passed at their visit, particularly on the expressions, that had fallen from Sir Owen upon their taking leave, observed a profound silence for some time after they had left the Abbey. Philip’s thoughts did not in any degree harmonize with their’s, for he was ruminating on the charms of Mrs. Owen, and, as the coach was slowly moving up a steep ascent, promulgated his opinion, that nothing could be more agreeable and engaging than the very lady, who to them had appeared in so opposite a character.

No notice was taken of this dictum, for Philip had such a muttering way of delivering his wise sayings, as made them seem like speeches addressed to nobody in company, and of course entitled to no answer from any body. Philip however, who had laid down his proposition in general terms, proceeded now to branch into particulars, and these produced the following brief dialogue between son and father; the former carrying it on in the character of proponent, the latter as respondent.

Mrs. Owen is very delicately made. I like slender limbs.

They suit well with slender likings.

She has a great deal of wit, and I am sure you thought so, for you talked a great deal to her.

And to very little purpose it should seem.

She did not like Sir Owen to correct her child.

Then she should have taken the trouble out of his hands, for the boy deserved correction, and I am afraid will shortly become incorrigible.

Here the alternation paused, and Cecilia, turning to her father, said—What is it in the countenance of that boy, which, when I look upon him, causes me to shudder?

It is, said the father, because you read his character in his features, and are persuaded, that the child, who sets out by tormenting a poor helpless dog, will in time grow up to be the tormentor of a poor helpless man. I own there is something in the boy repulsive to my nature.

He has fine eyes, said Philip.

They are indications of his mind, and give fair warning, replied De Lancaster; so far they may merit what you say of them.

I hope, rejoined Cecilia, my dear little nephew in no future time will form acquaintance or connection with him. He never will be cruel I am sure; his little hands already are held out to every living thing he sees, and his sweet smile bespeaks humanity.

Yes, and as surely as he lives, my dear, replied De Lancaster, his hands will be held out to all his fellow creatures in distress, or I am a false prophet. As for my friend Sir Owen, I pity him from my heart, poor man. His last words made a strong impression on me. If he submits to keep these plagues about him, I fear he will never know another happy day.

Philip’s opinion of Mrs. Owen was not altered, but his fund of conversation was exhausted, so he said no more, and the coach discharged its freight in the port, from which it had set out.

As we hold it matter of conscience not to keep our readers any longer in the nursery, we must here avail ourselves of our privilege, and pass very slightly over a period of our hero’s life, which does not furnish us with matter sufficiently interesting to be recorded in these memoirs. As we profess to give the history of the human mind, we trust it will be allowed us to present our John De Lancaster to the reader as a boy, whose thoughts and actions were no longer merely neutral, but such as might naturally lead to the developement of that character, which he was destined to exhibit in his more advanced maturity. For the present we shall content ourselves with observing that, although the age, when education ought to have begun, was now gone by, still the question of what species that education should be, whether public or private, was not decided.

Within this period the following letters, under different dates from the West Indies, had reached the hands of Mrs. Philip De Lancaster.

“From Captain Jones—Letter the first.

“Madam,

“In a few days after I had arrived at my destination I fell ill, and my disorder soon assumed those appearances, which in this country are considered to afford but little chance of a recovery. The wife and daughter of my friend Major Parsons, who came passengers with me in the same transport, with a benignity, that exposed their lives to danger, under Providence saved me from death.

“Unfortunately for the younger of my preservers, she conceived so strong an attachment, that I must have been the most unfeeling and the most ungrateful of all men could I have remained insensible to her partiality. Her health became in danger, and both her father and mother, well apprised of the cause of it, offered and even solicited me to accept her hand in marriage, and I did not withstand their joint appeal.

“Thus, after your example, I have married, and I am persuaded, that my wife, had she the honour of being known to you, would please you by the gentleness of her character and the unaffected modesty of her manners. I have stationed her in a little cottage near adjoining to the barracks, and in a healthy situation; but her father Major Parsons is like myself a soldier of fortune, and our establishment is proportioned to our means.

“I write by this conveyance to lay her jointly with myself at the feet of my benevolent patron your ever-honoured father. She presumes to send you a few tropical fruits of her own preserving, and hopes you will condescend to accept of them together with her most humble respects and unfeigned good wishes.

I have the honour to be,
Madam, &c. &c.
John Jones.”

The second letter from Captain Jones, of a date posterior by about a year to the foregoing, is as follows—

“Madam,

“Alas, that I must trouble you with my sorrows! I have lost my wife; my poor Amelia is no more. She was a being of so mild a nature, that were I conscious of a single word, which ever passed my lips to give her pain, I never should have peace of mind again. The ravages of this exterminating fever are tremendous: she fell before it almost without a struggle. The affliction of her parents is extreme, and I am told the sternest soldier in my company, that followed her body to the grave, could not refrain from tears, for every soul that knew her, loved and lamented her. She has left an infant daughter, in whose tender features I trace a perfect miniature of her whom I have lost. As soon as ever her afflicted grandmother can be induced to part from her, I mean to rescue her from this infernal climate, and consign her to the motherly care and protection of my kind friend and relation Mrs. Jennings, who resides at Denbigh—

“Oh Madam, you, who know the inmost feelings of my breaking heart, will you in pity look upon my child, the legacy of my Amelia, my all in this world, and perhaps before this letter reaches you, the only relict of your wretched friend?

I have the honour, &c. &c.
John Jones.”

This letter was soon followed by the melancholy tidings of poor Jones’s death; his infant child Amelia had in the mean time arrived, and was placed under the care of Mrs. Jennings above-mentioned, who by the bounty of old Morgan, was liberally rewarded with a pension for her education of the orphan.

CHAPTER V.
Puerile Anecdotes of our Hero John De Lancaster.

Although Mr. De Lancaster in one of his prophetic moments had pronounced, that the mother of our hero would conceive a more than ordinary love and affection for her infant, the event did not exactly verify the prediction: sorrow had benumbed her heart: she had so long fed upon it in secrecy and silence, that all the little energy, which nature had originally endowed her with, was lost. From her husband she derived no comfort, and for the maternal duties she was totally unfit. The accommodating contract she had entered into with Philip for all nuptial emancipation in future, was so religiously observed on both sides, that it did not seem in the order of things natural, that the heir of the family would ever be saddled with a provision for younger children.

Young John, who had occasioned much trouble and annoyance to his mother by inadvertently coming into the world, before he was expected, seemed likely to go out of it without experiencing the care of any other parent than the benevolent Cecilia; for Mr. Philip De Lancaster, as I have before hinted, had married without any other moving cause than what operated upon him through the strainers of his father’s recommendation and advice, and was not remarkably uxorious. On the contrary, as the embers of affection were not vivid in his bosom, and as there is reason to believe he did not take much pains to kindle them in the bosom of his lady, it may be presumed, that he was as little studious to find consolation for her sorrows, as she was to interrupt his indolence, or to resent his indifference.—Amusements she had none, and occupations extremely few: she discharged herself from all attention to family hours and family meals; eat and slept by herself, received no company and paid no visits, alive to little else but the reports, which at stated times she expected and received from Mrs. Jennings at Denbigh of little Amelia’s health and improvement, whom at the same time she had not energy enough to visit, whilst her father was a prisoner at Glen-Morgan under the coercion of two inexorable keepers, old age and gout. She had a servant Betty Wood, an ancient maiden and as melancholy as herself, who now and then read homilies to her, and now and then worked carpeting and quilted counterpanes, over which she regaled herself with hymns, sung in a most sleep-inviting key to adagio movements, that scarce moved at all. This work of hers, like that of the chaste Penelope, was without end or object; for it rarely failed to happen that, before the task was finished, Mrs. De Lancaster had changed her fancy as to the pattern, and destroyed perhaps in a few minutes what patient Betty had been employed upon for months: her carpets never covered the floor, nor did her counterpanes ever ornament the beds.

As Mr. Philip De Lancaster had no further punctilios to observe towards his lady, he seemed to think that nothing more could be required of him towards his son except to measure his growth from year to year by notches in the wainscot of the steward’s parlour, which are there remaining to this hour as records of the extraordinary vegetative powers, with which dame Nature had endowed the object of these memoirs. Cecilia would fain have had her little nephew brought into the room after dinner, but it was not often she was indulged in that wish, as the old gentleman did not approve of the custom; and once, when the good aunt was rather more importunate than was usual with her, he told her, that the practice of introducing noisy children and prattling nurses into the guest-room was so justly reprobated by all civilized societies, that the citizens of Abydos became notorious to a proverb for their ill manners in that particular, and were the laughing-stock of the more refined Athenians—And should not you and I, said he, like the aforesaid citizens, deserve to be the ridicule of our neighbours, if, instead of entertaining them with the conversation of the table, we should treat them with the din and gabble of a nursery?—From these, or any other authorities, when abetted by her father, it was not Cecilia’s practice to appeal, though perhaps she longed to observe to him, that his neighbours were not in all respects exactly like the refined Athenians.

De Lancaster nevertheless was extremely fond of his grandson, and once in every forenoon had him brought into his library, where he would hear him say the little lessons, that his aunt had taught him, and sometimes with great good humour tell him stories, and repeat fables, which had always some point of instruction couched under the moral of them, upon which however the narrator was in the habit of descanting rather longer than would have answered his purpose, had that been only to amuse the hearer; but as this history does not undertake to record every incident, that occurred during the boyish years of our hero, we shall content ourselves with observing, that, as he advanced in strength and stature, he gave proofs of a very early aptitude towards all athletic exercises within the compass of his powers. He scrambled up the crags, forded the gullies and braved the inclemencies of climate, with any boy of his age, however bold or hardy.

That the only son and heir of a family so ancient, rich and respectable should be indulged in these adventures, would not seem very natural, but that his aunt could not, and his father would not, follow him in these excursions, whilst every body else about the castle conspired to encourage him in them, and applauded him for his resolution.