The twelve adventurers, and other stories

by Charlotte Brontë

PREFACE

I have written this tale out of malignity for the injuries that have lately been offered to me. Many parts, especially the former, were composed under a mysterious influence that I cannot account for.

My reader will easily recognise the characters through the thin veil which I have thrown over them. I have considerably flattered Lady Zelvia Ellrington. She is not nearly so handsome as I have represented her, and she strove far more vigorously to oust some one from another person’s good graces than I say. But her endeavours failed. Albion has hitherto stood firm. What he will do I cannot even pretend to guess; but I think that Marina’s incomparable superiority will prevail over her Frenchified rival, who, as all the world knows, is a miller, jockey, talker, blue-stocking, charioteer, and beldam united in one…

The conclusion is wholly destitute of any foundation in truth, and I did it out of revenge. Albion and Marina are both alive and well for aught I know.

One thing, however, will certainly break my heart, and that is the admission of any scandal against Tree (the publisher); but I hope my readers will pardon me for it, as I promise to make amends with usury the next time I write a book.

C. Wellesley,

October 12th, 1880.

I wrote this in four hours.—C. B.

CHAPTER I
ALBION

There is a certain sweet little pastoral village in the south of England with which I am better acquainted than most men. The scenery around it possesses no distinguishing characteristic of romantic grandeur or wildness that might figure to advantage in a novel, to which high title this brief narrative sets up no pretensions.

Neither rugged lofty rocks, nor mountains dimly huge, mark with frowns the undisturbed face of nature; but little peaceful valleys, low hills crowned with wood, murmuring cascades and streamlets, richly cultivated fields, farmhouses, cottages, and a wide river, form all the scenic features. And every hamlet has one or more great men.

This had one and he was ‘na sheep-shanks.’

Every ear in the world had heard of his fame, and every tongue could bear testimony to it. I shall name him the Duke of Strathelleraye, and by that name the village was likewise denominated.

For more than thirty miles around every inch of ground belonged to him and every man was his retainer.

The magnificent villa, or rather palace, of this noble, stood on an eminence, surrounded by a vast park and the embowering shade of an ancient wood, proudly seeming to claim the allegiance of all the countryside.

The mind, achievements, and character of its great possessor, must not, can not, be depicted by a pen so feeble as mine; for though I could call filial love and devoted admiration to my aid, yet both would be utterly ineffective.

Though the duke seldom himself came among his attached vassals, being detained elsewhere by important avocations, yet his lady the duchess resided in the castle constantly. Of her I can only say that she was like an earthly angel. Her mind was composed of charity, beneficence, gentleness, and sweetness. All, both old and young, loved her; and the blessings of those that were ready to perish came upon her evermore.

His Grace had also two sons, who often visited Strathelleraye.

Of the youngest, Lord Cornelius, everything is said when I inform the reader that he was seventeen years of age, grave, sententious, stoical, rather haughty and sarcastic, of a fine countenance though somewhat swarthy; that he had long thick hair black as the hoody’s wing; and liked nothing so well as to sit in moody silence musing over the vanity of human affairs, or improving and expanding his mind by the abstruse study of the higher branches of mathematics, and that sublime science astronomy.

The eldest son, Albion, Marquis of Tagus, is the hero of my present tale. He had entered his nineteenth year; his stature was lofty; his form equal in the magnificence of its proportions to that of Apollo Belvedere. The bright wealth and curls of his rich brown hair waved over a forehead of the purest marble in the placidity of its unveined whiteness. His nose and mouth were cast in the most perfect mould. But saw I never anything to equal his eye! Oh! I could have stood riveted with the chains of admiration gazing for hours upon it! What clearness, depth, and lucid transparency in those large orbs of radiant brown! And the fascination of his smile was irresistible, though seldom did that sunshine of the mind break through the thoughtful and almost melancholy expression of his noble features. He was a soldier, captain in the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards, and all his attitudes and actions were full of martial grace. His mental faculties were in exact keeping with such an exterior, being of the highest order; and though not like his younger brother, wholly given up to study, yet he was well versed in the ancient languages, and deeply read in the Greek and Roman classics, in addition to the best works in the British, German, and Italian tongues.

Such was my hero. The only blot I was ever able to discover in his character was that of a slight fierceness or impetuosity of temper which sometimes carried him beyond bounds, though at the slightest look or word of command from his father he instantly bridled his passion and became perfectly calm.

No wonder the duke should be, as he was, proud of such a son.

CHAPTER II
MARINA

About two miles from the castle there stood a pretty house, entirely hid from view by a thick forest, in a glade of which it was situated.

Behind it was a smooth lawn fringed with odoriferous shrubs, and before it a tasteful flower garden.

This was the abode of Sir Alured Angus, a Scotchman, who was physician to His Grace, and though of gentlemanly manners and demeanour, yet harsh, stern, and somewhat querulous in countenance and disposition.

He was a widower, and had but one child, a daughter, whom I shall call Marina, which nearly resembles her true name.

No wild rose blooming in solitude, or bluebell peering from an old wall, ever equalled in loveliness this flower of the forest. The hue of her cheek would excel the most delicate tint of the former, even when its bud is just opening to the breath of summer, and the clear azure of her eyes would cause the latter to appear dull as a dusky hyacinth. Also, the silken tresses of her hazel hair straying in light ringlets down a neck and forehead of snow seemed more elegant than the young tendrils of a vine. Her dress was almost Quaker-like in its simplicity. Pure white or vernal green were the colours she constantly wore, without any jewels save one row of pearls round her neck. She never stirred beyond the precincts of the wooded and pleasant green lane which skirted a long cornfield near the house. There on warm summer evenings she would ramble and linger listening to the woodlark’s song, and occasionally join her own more harmonious voice to its delightful warblings.

When the gloomy days and nights of autumn and winter did not permit these walks she amused herself with drawing (for which she had an exact taste), playing on the harp, reading the best English, French, and Italian works (all which languages she understood) in her father’s extensive library, and sometimes a little light needlework.

Thus in a state of almost perfect seclusion (for seldom had she even Sir Alured’s company, as he generally resided in London) she was quite happy, and reflected with innocent wonder on those who could find pleasure in the noisy delights of what is called ‘fashionable society.’

One day, as Lady Strathelleraye was walking in the wood she met Marina, and on learning who she was, being charmed with her beauty and sweet manners, invited her to go on the morrow to the castle. She did so, and there met the Marquis of Tagus. He was even more surprised and pleased with her than the duchess, and when she was gone he asked his mother many questions about her, all of which she answered to his satisfaction.

For some time afterwards he appeared listless and abstracted. The reader will readily perceive that he had, to use a cant phrase, ‘fallen in love.’

Lord Cornelius, his brother, warned him of the folly of doing so; but instead of listening to his sage admonitions he first strove to laugh, and then frowning at him commanded silence.

In a few days he paid a visit to Oakwood House (Sir Alured’s mansion), and after that became more gloomy than before.

His father observed this, and one day as they were sitting alone remarked it to Albion, adding that he was fully acquainted with the reason.

Albion reddened but made no answer.

‘I am not, my son,’ continued the duke, ‘opposed to your wishes, though certainly there is a considerable difference of rank between yourself and Marina Angus, but that difference is compensated by the many admirable qualities she possesses.’

On hearing these words, Arthur,—Albion, I mean, —started up, and throwing himself at his father’s feet, poured forth his thanks in terms of glowing gratitude, while his fine features, flushed with excitation, spoke even more eloquently than his eloquent words.

‘Rise, Albion!’ said the duke; ‘you are worthy of her and she of you; but both are yet too young. Some years must elapse before your union takes place; therefore exert your patience, my son.’

Albion’s joy was slightly damped by this news, but his thankfulness and filial obedience as well as love forced him to acquiesce, and immediately after he quitted the room and took his way to Oakwood House.

There he related the circumstance to Marina, who, though she blushed incredulously, yet in truth felt as much gladness and as great a relief from doubt almost amounting to despair as himself.

CHAPTER III
GLASS TOWN

A few months afterwards the Duke of Strathelleraye determined to visit that wonder of the world, the great city of Africa: the Glass Town, of whose splendour, magnificence, and extent, strength and riches, occasional tidings came from afar, wafted by breezes of the ocean to Merry England.

But to most of the inhabitants of that little isle it bore the character of a dream or gorgeous fiction. They were unable to comprehend how mere human beings could construct fabrics of such a marvellous size and grandeur as many of the public buildings were represented to be; and as to the ‘Tower of all the Nations,’ few believed in its existence. It seemed as the cities of old: Nineveh or Babylon with the temples of their gods, Ninus or Jupiter Belus, and their halls of Astarté and Semalt. These most people believe to be magnified by the dim haze of intervening ages, and the exaggerating page of history through which medium we behold them.

The duke, as he had received many invitations from the Glass Townians, who were impatient to behold one whose renown had spread so far, and who likewise possessed vast dominions near the African coast, informed his lady, the Marquis of Tagus, and Lord Cornelius, that in a month’s time he should take his departure with them, and that he should expect them all to be prepared at that period, adding that when they returned Marina Angus should be created Marchioness of Tagus.

Though it was a bitter trial to Albion to part with one to whom he was now so entirely devoted, yet, comforted by the last part of his father’s speech, he obeyed without murmuring.

On the last evening of his stay in Strathelleraye he took a sad farewell of Marina, who wept as if hopeless; but suddenly restraining her griefs she looked up, with her beautiful eyes irradiated by a smile that like a ray of light illumined the crystal tears, and whispered:

‘I shall be happy when you return.’

Then they parted; and Albion during his voyage over the wide ocean often thought for comfort on her last words.

It is a common superstition that the words uttered by a friend on separating are prophetic, and these certainly portended nothing but peace.

CHAPTER IV
LITERARY AMBITIONS

In due course of time they arrived at the Glass Town, and were welcomed with enthusiastic cordiality.

After the duke had visited his kingdom he returned to the chief metropolis and established his residence there at Salamanca Palace.

The Marquis of Tagus from the noble beauty of his person attracted considerable attention wherever he went, and in a short period he had won and attached many faithful friends of the highest rank and abilities.

From his love of elegant literature and the fine arts in general, painters and poets were soon among his warmest admirers. He himself possessed a most sublime genius, but as yet its full extent was unknown to him.

One day as he was meditating alone on the world of waters that rolled between him and the fair Marina, he determined to put his feelings on paper in a tangible shape that he might hereafter show them to her when anticipation had given place to fruition. He took his pen, and in about a quarter of an hour had completed a brief poem of exquisite beauty. The attempt pleased him and soothed the anguish that lingered in his heart. It likewise gave him an insight into the astonishing faculties of his own mind; and a longing for immortality, an ambition of glory, seized him.

He was a devoted worshipper of the divine works that the Grecian tragedians have left for all succeeding ages to marvel at, particularly those of Sophocles the Majestic; and his mind was deeply embued with the spirit of their eagle-like flights into higher regions than that of earth or even Parnassus.

Being now sensible in a degree of his lofty powers, he determined, like Milton, to write somewhat that the traditionary muses would not willingly let die, and accordingly commenced a tragedy entitled: ‘Necropolis, or the City of the Dead.’ Here was set forth in a strain of the grandest mind the mysteries of ancient Egyptian worship; and he has acknowledged to me that he felt his being absorbed while he wrote it, even by the words himself had made.

Sublime is this surprising production! It is indeed, in the words of an eminent writer (Captain Tree), ‘a noble instance of the almost perfectibility of human intellect’; but there hovers over it a feeling of tender melancholy, for the image of Marina haunted his thoughts, and Amalthea, his heroine, is but an impersonation of her.

This tragedy wreathed the laurels of fame round his brow, and his after-productions, each of which seemed to excel the other, added new wreaths to those which already beautified his temples.

I cannot follow him in the splendour of his literary career, nor even mention so much as the titles of his various works. Suffice it to say he became one of the greatest poets of the age; and one of the chief motives that influenced him in his exertions for renown was to render himself worthy to possess such a treasure as Marina. She in whatever he was employed was never out of his thoughts, and none had he as yet beheld among all the ladies of the Glass Town,—though rich, titled, and handsome strove by innumerable arts to gain his favour, —whom he could even compare with her.

CHAPTER V
LADY ZELVIA ELLRINGTON

One evening Albion was invited to the house of Earl Cruachan, where was a large party assembled. Among the guests was one lady apparently about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. In figure she was very tall, and both it and her face were of a perfectly Roman cast. Her features were regularly and finely formed, her full and brilliant eyes jetty black, as were the luxuriant tresses of her richly-curled hair. Her dark glowing complexion was set off by a robe of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, and a nodding plume of black ostrich feathers added to the imposing dignity of her appearance.

Albion, notwithstanding her unusual comeliness, hardly noticed her till Earl Cruachan rose and introduced her to him as the Lady Zelvia Ellrington.

She was the most learned and noted woman in Glass Town, and he was pleased with this opportunity of seeing her.

For some time she entertained him with a discourse of the most lively eloquence, and indeed Madame de Staël herself could not have gone beyond Lady Zelvia in the conversational talent; and on this occasion she exerted herself to the utmost, as she was in the presence of so distinguished a man, and one whom she seemed ambitious to please.

At length one of the guests asked her to favour the company with a song and tune on the grand piano. At first she refused, but on Albion seconding the request rose, and taking from the drawing-room table a small volume of poems opened it at one by the Marquis of Tagus. She then set it to a fine air and sang as follows, while she skilfully accompanied her voice upon the instrument:—

I think of thee when the moonbeams play
On the placid water’s face;
For thus thy blue eyes’ lustrous ray
Shone with resembling grace.
I think of thee when the snowy swan
Glides calmly down the stream;
Its plumes the breezes scarcely fan,
Awed by their radiant gleam.
For thus I’ve seen the loud winds hush
To pass thy beauty by,
With soft caress and playful rush
’Mid thy bright tresses fly.
And I have seen the wild birds sail
In rings thy head above,
While thou hast stood like lily pale
Unknowing of their love.
Oh! for the day when once again
Mine eyes shall gaze on thee;
But an ocean vast, a sounding main,
An ever howling sea,
Roll on between
With their billows green,
High tost tempestuously.

This song had been composed by Albion soon after his arrival at the Glass Town. The person addressed was Marina. The full rich tones of Lady Zelvia’s voice did ample justice to the subject, and he expressed his sense of the honour she had done him in appropriate terms.

When she had finished the company departed, for it was then rather late.

CHAPTER VI
THE SPIRIT OF MARINA

As Albion pursued his way homewards alone he began insensibly to meditate on the majestic charms of Lady Zelvia Ellrington, and to compare them with the gentler ones of Marina Angus. At first he could hardly tell which to give the preference to, for though he still almost idolised Marina, yet an absence of four years had considerably deadened his remembrance of her person.

While he was thus employed he heard a soft but mournful voice whisper ‘Albion!’

He turned hastily round, and saw the form of the identical Marina at a little distance distinctly visible by the moonlight.

‘Marina! My dearest Marina!’ he exclaimed, springing towards her, while joy unutterable filled his heart; ‘how did you come here? Have the angels in Heaven brought you?’

So saying he stretched out his hand, but she eluded his grasp, and slowly gliding away, said: ‘Do not forget me; I shall be happy when you return.’

Then the apparition vanished. It seemed to have appeared merely to assert her superiority over her rival, and indeed the moment Albion beheld her beauty he felt that it was peerless.

But now wonder and perplexity took possession of his mind. He could not account for this vision except by the common solution of supernatural agency, and that ancient creed’ his enlightened understanding had hitherto rejected until it was forced upon him by this extraordinary incident.

One thing there was, however, the interpretation of which he thought he could not mistake, and that was the repetition of her last words: ‘I shall be happy when you return.’ It showed that she was still alive, and that which he had seen could not be her wraith. However, he made a memorandum of the day and hour, namely, the 18th of June 1815, twelve o’clock at night.

From this time the natural melancholy turn of his disposition increased, for the dread of her death before he should return was constantly before him, and the ardency of his adoration and desire to see her again redoubled.

At length, not being able any longer to bear his misery he revealed it to his father; and the duke, touched with his grief and the fidelity of his attachment, gave him full permission to visit England and bring back Marina with him to Africa.

CHAPTER VII
ALBION’S RETURN

I need not trouble the reader with a minute detail of the circumstances of Albion’s voyage, but shall pass on to what happened after he arrived in England.

It was a fair evening in September 1815 when he reached Strathelleraye.

Without waiting to enter the halls of his fathers he proceeded immediately to Oakwood House. As he approached it he almost sickened when for an instant the thought that she might be no more passed across his mind, but summoning hope to his aid and resting on her golden anchor he passed up the lawn and gained the glass doors of the drawing-room.

As he drew near a sweet symphony of harp music swelled on his ear. His heart bounded within him at the sound. He knew that no fingers but hers could create those melodious tones with which now blended the harmony of a sweet and sad but well-known voice. He lifted the vine branch that shaded the door and beheld Marina, more beautiful he thought than ever, seated at her harp sweeping with her slender fingers the quivering chords.

Without being observed by her, as she had her face turned from him, he entered, and sitting down leaned his head on his hand and, closing his eyes, listened with feelings of overwhelming transport to the following words:—

Long my anxious ear hath listened
For the step that ne’er returned;
And my tearful eye hath glistened,
And my heart hath daily burned,
But now I rest.
Nature’s self seemed clothed in mourning;
Even the star-like woodland flower,
With its leaflets fair, adorning
The pathway to the forest-bower,
Drooped its head.
From the cavern of the mountain,
From the groves that crown the hill,
From the stream, and from the fountain,
Sounds prophetic murmured still,
Betokening grief.
Boding winds came fitful, sighing,
Through the tall and leafy trees;
Birds of omen, wildly crying,
Sent their calls upon the breeze
Wailing round me.
At each sound I paled and trembled,
At each step I raised my head,
Hearkening if it his resembled,
Or if news that he was dead
Were come from far.
All my days were days of weeping;
Thoughts of grim despair were stirred;
Time on leaden feet seemed creeping;
Long heart-sickness, hope deferred
Cankered my heart.

Here the music and singing suddenly ceased.

Albion raised his head. All was darkness except where the silver moonbeams showed a desolate and ruined apartment instead of the elegant parlour that a few minutes before had gladdened his sight.

No trace of Marina was visible, no harp or other instrument of harmony, and the cold lunar light streamed through a void space instead of the glass door. He sprang up and called aloud: ‘Marina! Marina!’ But only an echo as of empty rooms answered. Almost distracted he rushed into the open air. A child was standing alone at the garden gate, who advanced towards him and said: ‘I will lead you to Marina Angus; she has removed from that house to another.’

Albion followed the child till they came to a long row of tall dark trees leading to a churchyard, which they entered, and the child vanished, leaving Albion beside a white marble tombstone on which was chiselled:—

MARINA ANGUS
She died
18th of June 1815
at
12 o’clock
midnight.

When Albion had read this he felt a pang of horrible anguish wring his heart and convulse his whole frame. With a loud groan he fell across the tomb and lay there senseless a long time, till at length he was waked from the death-like trance to behold the spirit of Marina, which stood beside him for a moment, and then murmuring, ‘Albion, I am happy, for I am at peace,’ disappeared!

For a few days he lingered round her tomb, and then quitted Strathelleraye, where he was never again heard of.

The reason of Marina’s death I shall briefly relate. Four years after Albion’s departure tidings came to the village that he was dead. The news broke Marina’s faithful heart. The day after, she was no more.

C. B.,

October 12th, 1830.

THE RIVALS

THE RIVALS

A SHORT DRAMA WRITTEN BY
CHARLOTTE BRONTË
AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN YEARS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Lord Arthur.

The Rivals: Marian. Lady Zenobia Ellrington.

These characters will be easily recognised under their assumed names in the story entitled ‘Albion and Marina,’ pp. 75-94.

THE RIVALS

Scene—A thick forest, under the trees of which Lady Zenobia Ellrington is reposing, dressed in her usual attire of a crimson-velvet robe and black plumes. She speaks:

’Tis eve: how that rich sunlight streameth through

The unwoven arches of this sylvan roof!

How their long, lustrous lines of light illume,

With trembling radiance, all the agèd boles

Of elms majestic as the lofty columns

That proudly rear their tall forms to the dome

Of old cathedral or imperial palace!

Yea, they are grander than the mightiest shafts

That e’er by hand of man were fashioned forth

Their holy, solemn temples to uphold;

And sweeter far than the harmonious peals

Of choral thunder, that in music roll

Through vaulted isles, are the low forest sounds

Murmuring around: of wind and stirrèd leaf,

And warbled song of nightingale or lark

Whose swelling cadences and dying falls

And whelming gushes of rich melody

Attune to meditation, all serene,

The weary spirit; and draw forth still thoughts

Of happy scenes half veilèd by the mists

Of bygone times. Yea, that calm influence

Hath soothed the billowy troubles of my heart

Till scarce one sad thought rises, though I sit

Beneath these trees, utterly desolate.

But no, not utterly, for still one friend

I fain would hope remains to brighten yet

My mournful journey through this vale of tears;

And, while he shines, all other, lesser lights

May wane and fade unnoticed from the sky.

But more than friend, e’en he can never be:

[Heaves a deep sigh.

That thought is sorrowful, but yet I’ll hope.

What is my rival? Nought but a weak girl,

Ungifted with the state and majesty

That mark superior minds. Her eyes gleam not

Like windows to a soul of loftiness;

She hath not raven locks that lightly wave

Over a brow whose calm placidity

Might emulate the white and polished marble.

[A white dove flutters by.

Ha! what art thou, fair creature? It hath vanished

Down that long vista of low-drooping trees.

How gracefully its pinions waved! Methinks

It was the spirit of this solitude.

List! I hear footsteps; and the rustling leaves

Proclaim the approach of some corporeal being.

[A young girl advances up the vista, dressed in green, with a garland of flowers wreathed in the curls of her hazel hair. She comes towards Lady Zenobia, and says:

Girl.

Lady, methinks I erst have seen thy face.

Art thou not that Zenobia, she whose name

Renown hath come e’en to this fair retreat?

Lady Ellrington.

Aye, maiden, thou hast rightly guessed. But how

Didst recognise me?

Girl.

In Verreopolis

I saw thee walking in those gardens fair

That like a rich, embroidered belt surround

That mighty city; and one bade me look

At her whose genius had illumined bright

Her age, and country, with undying splendour.

The majesty of thy imperial form,

The fire and sweetness of thy radiant eye,

Alike conspired to impress thine image

Upon my memory; and thus it is

That now I know thee as thou sittest there

Queen-like, beneath the over-shadowing boughs

Of that huge oak-tree, monarch of this wood.

Lady Ellrington [smiling graciously].

Who art thou, maiden?

Girl.

Marian is my name.

Lady Ellrington [starting up: aside].

Ha! my rival! [Sternly] What dost thou here alone?

Marian [aside].

How her tone changed! [Aloud] My favourite cushat-dove,

Whose plumes are whiter than new-fallen snow,

Hath wandered, heedless, from my vigilant care.

I saw it gleaming through these dusky trees,

Fair as a star, while soft it glided by:

So have I come to find and lure it back.

Lady Ellrington.

Are all thy affections centred in a bird?

For thus thou speakest, as though nought were worthy

Of thought or care saving a silly dove!

Marian.

Nay, lady, I’ve a father, and mayhap

Others whom gratitude or tenderest ties,

If such there be, bind my heart closer to.

Lady Ellrington.

But birds and flowers and such trifles vain

Seem most to attract thy love, if I may form

A judgment from thy locks elaborate curled

And wreathed around with woven garlandry,

And from thy whining speech, all redolent

With tone of most affected sentiment.

[She seizes Marian, and exclaims with a violent gesture:

Wretch, I could kill thee!

Marian.

Why, what have I done?

How have I wronged thee? Surely thou ’rt distraught!

Lady Ellrington.

How hast thou wronged me? Where didst weave the net

Whose cunning meshes have entangled round

The mightiest heart that e’er in mortal breast

Did beat responsive unto human feeling?

Marian.

The net? What net? I wove no net; she’s frantic!

Lady Ellrington.

Dull, simple creature! Canst not understand?

Marian.

Truly, I cannot. ’Tis to me a problem,

An unsolved riddle, an enigma dark.

Lady Ellrington.

I’ll tell thee, then. But, hark! What voice is that?

Voice [from the forest].

Marian, where art thou? I have found a rose

Fair as thyself. Come hither, and I’ll place it

With the blue violets on thine ivory brow.

Marian.

He calls me; I must go; restrain me not.

Lady Ellrington.

Nay! I will hold thee firmly as grim death.

Thou need’st not struggle, for my grasp is strong.

Thou shalt not go: Lord Arthur shall come here,

And I will gain the rose despite of thee!

Now for my hour of triumph: here he comes.

[Lord Arthur advances from among the trees, exclaiming on seeing Lady Ellrington.

Lord Arthur.

Zenobia! How com’st thou here? What ails thee?

Thy cheek is flushed as with a fever glow;

Thine eyes flash strangest radiance; and thy frame

Trembles like to the wind-stirred aspen-tree!

Lady Ellrington.

Give me the rose, Lord Arthur, for methinks

I merit it more than my girlish rival;

I pray thee now grant my request, and place

That rose upon my forehead, not on hers;

Then will I serve thee all my after-days

As thy poor handmaid, as thy humblest slave,

Happy to kiss the dust beneath thy tread,

To kneel submissive in thy lordly presence.

Oh! turn thine eyes from her and look on me

As I kneel here imploring at thy feet,

Supremely blest if but a single glance

Could tell me that thou art not wholly deaf

To my petition, earnestly preferred.

Lord Arthur.

Lady, thou’rt surely mad! Depart, and hush

These importunate cries. They are not worthy

Of the great name which thou hast fairly earned.

Lady Ellrington.

Give me that rose, and I to thee will cleave

Till death. Hear me, and give it me, Lord Arthur!

Lord Arthur [after a few minutes’ deliberation].

Here, take the flower, and keep it for my sake.

[Marian utters a suppressed scream, and sinks to the ground.

Lady Ellrington [assisting her to rise].

Now I have triumphed! But I’ll not exult;

Yet know, henceforth, I’m thy superior.

Farewell, my lord; I thank thee for thy preference!

[She plunges into the wood and disappears.

Lord Arthur.

Fear nothing, Marian, for a fading flower

Is not symbolical of constancy.

But take this sign; [Gives her his diamond ring] enduring adamant

Betokens well affection that will live

Long as life animates my faithful heart.

Now let us go; for, see, the deepening shades

Of twilight darken our lone forest-path;

And, lo! thy dove comes gliding through the murk,

Fair wanderer, back to its loved mistress’ care!

Luna will light us on our journey home:

For, see, her lamp shines radiant in the sky,

And her bright beams will pierce the thickest boughs.

[Exeunt, and curtain falls.

From an unpublished manuscript by Charlotte Brontë, entitled ‘Visits in Verreopolis,’ vol. i., completed December 11th, 1880.

THE FAIRY GIFT

Under the title of ‘The Four Wishes’ this story was first printed by Mr. Clement Shorter in April 1918, in an edition limited to twenty copies for private circulation only.

It was published, with three illustrations, in the Strand Magazine, December 1918, pp. 461-466.

The title of ‘The Fairy Gift’ was given to the story by Charlotte Brontë.

C. W. H.

THE FAIRY GIFT

One cold evening in December 17—, while I was yet but a day labourer, though not even at that time wholly without some aspirations after fame and some intimations of future greatness, I was sitting alone by my cottage fire engaged in ambitious reveries of l’avenir, and amusing myself with wild and extravagant imaginations. A thousand evanescent wishes flitted through my mind, one of which was scarcely formed when another succeeded it; then a third, equally transitory, and so on.

While I was thus employed with building castles in the air my frail edifices were suddenly dissipated by an emphatic ‘Hem!’ I started, and raised my head. Nothing was visible, and, after a few minutes, supposing it to be only fancy, I resumed my occupation of weaving the web of waking visions. Again the ‘Hem!’ was heard; again I looked up, when lo! sitting in the opposite chair I beheld the diminutive figure of a man dressed all in green. With a pretty considerable fluster I demanded his business, and how he had contrived to enter the house without my knowledge.

‘I am a fairy,’ he replied, in a shrill voice; ‘but fear nothing; my intentions are not mischievous. On the contrary, I intend to gift you with the power of obtaining four wishes, provided that you wish them at different times; and if you should happen to find the fruition of my theme not equal to your anticipations, still you are at liberty to cast it aside, which you must do before another wish is granted.’

When he had concluded this information he gave me a ring, telling me that by the potency of the spell with which it was invested my desires would prove immediately successful.

I expressed my gratitude for this gift in the warmest terms, and then inquired how I should dispose of the ring when I had four times arrived at the possession of that which I might wish.

‘Come with it at midnight to the little valley in the uplands, a mile hence,’ said he, ‘and there you will be rid of it when it becomes useless.’

With these words he vanished from my sight. I stood for some minutes incredulous of the reality of that which I had witnessed, until at last I was convinced by the green-coloured ring set in gold that sparkled in my hand.

By some strange influence I had been preserved from any feeling of fear during my conversation with the fairy, but now I began to feel certain doubts and misgivings as to the propriety of having any dealings with supernatural beings. These, however, I soon quelled, and began forthwith to consider what should be the nature of my first wish. After some deliberation I found the desire for beauty was uppermost in my mind, and therefore formed a wish that next morning when I arose I should find myself possessed of surpassing loveliness.

That night my dreams were filled with anticipations of future grandeur, but the gay visions which my sleeping fancy called into being were dispelled by the first sounds of morning.

I awoke lightsome and refreshed, and springing out of bed glanced half-doubtingly into the small looking-glass which decorated the wall of my apartment, to ascertain if any change for the better had been wrought in me since the preceding night.

Never shall I forget the thrill of delighted surprise which passed through me when I beheld my altered appearance. There I stood, tall, slender, and graceful as a young poplar tree, all my limbs moulded in the most perfect and elegant symmetry, my complexion of the purest red and white, my eyes blue and brilliant, swimming in liquid radiance under the narrow dark arches of two exquisitely-formed eyebrows, my mouth of winning sweetness, and, lastly, my hair clustering in rich black curls over a forehead smooth as ivory.

In short, I have never yet heard or read of any beauty that could at all equal the splendour of comeliness with which I was at that moment invested.

I stood for a long time gazing at myself in a trance of admiration while happiness such as I had never known before overflowed my heart. That day happened to be Sunday, and accordingly I put on my best clothes and proceeded forthwith towards the church. The service had just commenced when I arrived, and as I walked up the aisle to my pew I felt that the eyes of the whole assembly were upon me, and that proud consciousness gave an elasticity to my gait which added stateliness and majesty to my other innumerable graces. Among those who viewed me most attentively was Lady Beatrice Ducie. This personage was the widow of Lord Ducie, owner of the chief part of the village where I resided and nearly all the surrounding land for many miles, who, when he died, left her the whole of his immense estates. She was without children and perfectly at liberty to marry whomsoever she might chance to fix her heart on, and therefore, though her ladyship had passed the meridian of life, was besides fat and ugly, and into the bargain had the reputation of being a witch, I cherished hopes that she might take a liking for me, seeing I was so very handsome; and by making me her spouse raise me at once from indigence to the highest pitch of luxury and affluence.

These were my ambitious meditations as I slowly retraced my steps homeward.

In the afternoon I again attended church, and again Lady Ducie favoured me with many smiles and glances expressive of her admiration. At length my approaching good fortune was placed beyond a doubt, for while I was standing in the porch after service was over she happened to pass, and inclining her head towards me, said: ‘Come to my house to-morrow at four o’clock.’? I only answered by a low bow and then hastened back to my cottage.

On Monday afternoon I dressed myself in my best, and putting a Christmas rose in the buttonhole of my coat, hastened to the appointed rendezvous.

When I entered the avenue of Ducie Castle a footman in rich livery stopped me and requested me to follow him. I complied, and we proceeded down a long walk to a bower of evergreens, where sat her ladyship in a pensive posture. Her stout, lusty figure was arrayed in a robe of purest white muslin, elegantly embroidered. On her head she wore an elaborately curled wig, among which borrowed tresses was twined a wreath of artificial flowers, and her brawny shoulders were enveloped in a costly Indian shawl. At my approach she arose and saluted me. I returned the compliment, and when we were seated, and the footman had withdrawn, business summarily commenced by her tendering me the possession of her hand and heart, both which offers, of course, I willingly accepted.

Three weeks after, we were married in the parish church by special licence, amidst the rejoicings of her numerous tenantry, to whom a sumptuous entertainment was that day given.

I now entered upon a new scene of life. Every object which met my eyes spoke of opulence and grandeur. Every meal of which I partook seemed to me a luxurious feast. As I wandered through the vast halls and magnificent apartments of my new residence I felt my heart dilating with gratified pride at the thought that they were my own.

Towards the obsequious domestics that thronged around me I behaved with the utmost respect and deference, being impelled thereto by a feeling of awe inspired by their superior breeding and splendid appearance.

I was now constantly encompassed by visitors from among those who moved in the highest circles of society. My time was passed in the enjoyment of all sorts of pleasures; balls, concerts, and dinners were given almost every day at the castle in honour of our wedding. My evenings were spent in hearing music, or seeing dancing and gormandising; my days in excursions over the country, either on horseback or in a carriage.

Yet, notwithstanding all this, I was not happy. The rooms were so numerous that I was often lost in my own house, and sometimes got into awkward predicaments in attempting to find some particular apartment. Our high-bred guests despised me for my clownish manners and deportment. I was forced to bear patiently the most humiliating jokes and sneers from noble lips. My own servants insulted me with impunity; and, finally, my wife’s temper showed itself every day more and more in the most hideous light. She became terribly jealous, and would hardly suffer me to go out of her sight a moment. In short, before the end of three months I sincerely wished myself separated from her and reduced again to the situation of a plain and coarse but honest and contented ploughboy.

This separation was occasioned by the following incident sooner than I expected. At a party which we gave one evening there chanced to be present a young lady named Cecilia Standon. She possessed no mean share of beauty, and had besides the most graceful demeanour I ever saw. Her manner was kind, gentle, and obliging, without any of that haughty superciliousness which so annoyed me in others of my fashionable acquaintances. If I made a foolish observation or transgressed against the rules of politeness she did not give vent to her contempt in a laugh or suppressed titter, but informed me in a whisper what I ought to have done, and instructed me how to do it.

When she was gone I remarked to my wife what a kind and excellent lady Miss Cecilia Standon was. ‘Yes,’ exclaimed she, reddening, ‘every one can please you but me. Don’t think to elude my vigilance, I saw you talking and laughing with her, you low-born creature whom I raised from obscurity to splendour. And yet not one spark of gratitude do you feel towards me. But I will have my revenge.’ So saying she left me to meditate alone on what that revenge might be.

The same night, as I lay in bed restless, I heard suddenly a noise of footsteps outside the chamber door. Compelled by irresistible curiosity, I rose and opened it without making any sound. My surprise was great on beholding the figure of my wife stealing along on tiptoe with her back towards me, and a lighted candle in her hand. Anxious to know what could be her motive for walking about the house at this time of night I followed softly, taking care to time my steps so as to coincide with hers.

After proceeding along many passages and galleries which I had never before seen, we descended a very long staircase that led us underneath the coal and wine cellars to a damp, subterraneous vault. Here she stopped and deposited the candle on the ground. I shrank instinctively, for the purpose of concealment, behind a massive stone pillar which upheld the arched roof on one side.

The rumours which I had often heard of her being a witch passed with painful distinctness across my mind, and I trembled violently. Presently she knelt with folded hands and began to mutter some indistinguishable words in a strange tone. Flames now darted out of the earth, and huge smouldering clouds of smoke rolled over the slimy walls, concealing their hideousness from the eye.

At length the dead silence that had hitherto reigned unbroken was dissipated by a tremendous cry which shook the house to its centre, and I saw six black, indefinable figures gliding through the darkness bearing a funeral bier on which lay arranged, as I had seen her the previous evening, the form of Cecilia Standon. Her dark eyes were closed, and their long lashes lay motionless on a cheek pale as marble. She was quite stiff and dead.

At this appalling sight I could restrain myself no longer, and uttering a loud shriek I sprang from behind the pillar. My wife saw me. She started from her kneeling position, and rushed furiously towards where I stood, exclaiming in tones rendered tremulous by excessive fury: ‘Wretch, wretch, what demon has lured thee hither to thy fate?’ With these words she seized me by the throat and attempted to strangle me.

I screamed and struggled in vain. Life was ebbing apace when suddenly she loosened her grasp, tottered, and fell dead.

When I was sufficiently recovered from the effects of her infernal grip to look around I saw by the light of the candle a little man in a green coat striding over her and flourishing a bloody dagger in the air. In his sharp, wild physiognomy I immediately recognised the fairy who six months ago had given me the ring.

That was the occasion of my present situation. He had stabbed my wife through the heart, and thus afforded me opportune relief at the moment when I so much needed it.

After tendering him my most ardent thanks for his kindness I ventured to ask what we should do with the dead body.

‘Leave that to me,’ he replied. ‘But now as the day is dawning, and I must soon be gone, do you wish to return to your former rank of a happy, honest labourer, being deprived of the beauty which has been the source of so much trouble to you, or will you remain as you are? Decide quickly, for my time is limited.’

I replied unhesitatingly, ‘Let me return to my former rank,’ and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than I found myself standing alone at the porch of my humble cottage, plain and coarse as ever, without any remains of the extreme comeliness with which I had been so lately invested.

I cast a glance at the tall towers of Ducie Castle which appeared in the distance faintly illuminated by the light reflected from rosy clouds hovering over the eastern horizon, and then, stooping as I passed beneath the lowly lintel, once more crossed the threshold of my parental hut.

A day or two after, while I was sitting at breakfast; a neighbour entered and, after inquiring how I did, etc., asked me where I had been for the last half year. Seeing it necessary to dissemble, I answered that I had been on a visit to a relation who lived at a great distance. This satisfied him, and I then inquired if anything had happened in the village since my departure.

‘Yes,’ said he, ‘a little while after you were gone Lady Ducie married the handsomest young man that was ever seen, but nobody knew where he came from, and most people thought he was a fairy; and now about four days ago Lady Ducie, her husband, and Lord Standon’s eldest daughter all vanished in the same night and have never been heard of since, though the strictest search has been made after them. Yesterday her ladyship’s brother came and took possession of the estate, and he is trying to hush up the matter as much as he can.’

This intelligence gave me no small degree of satisfaction, as I was now certain that none of the villagers had any suspicion of my dealings with the fairy.

But to proceed. I had yet liberty to make three more wishes; and, after much consideration, being convinced of the vanity of desiring such a transitory thing as my first, I fixed upon ‘superior talent’ as the aim of my second wish; and no sooner had I done so than I felt an expansion, as it were, of soul within me.

Everything appeared to my mental vision in a new light. High thoughts elevated my mind, and abstruse meditations racked my brain continually. But you shall presently hear the upshot of this sudden éclaircissement.

One day I was sent to a neighbouring market town, by one Mr. Tenderden, a gentleman of some consequence in our village, for the purpose of buying several articles in glass and china.

When I had made my purchases I directed them to be packed up in straw, and then with the basket on my back trudged off homeward. But ere I was half-way night overtook me. There was no moon, and the darkness was also much increased by a small mizzling rain. Cold and drenched to the skin, I arrived at The Rising Sun, a little wayside inn, which lay in my route.

On opening the door my eyes were agreeably saluted by the light of a bright warm fire, round which sat about half a dozen of my acquaintance.

After calling for a drop of something to warm me, and carefully depositing the basket of glass on the ground, I seated myself amongst them. They were engaged in a discussion as to whether a monarchical or republican form of government was the best. The chief champion of the republican side was Bob Sylvester, a blacksmith by trade, and of the largest loquacity of any man I ever saw. He was proud of his argumentative talents, but by dint of my fairy gift I soon silenced him, amid cheers from both sides of the house.

Bob was a man of hot temper, and not calculated for lying down quietly under a defeat. He therefore rose and challenged me to single combat. I accepted, and a regular battle ensued. After some hard hits he closed in furiously, and-dealt me a tremendous left-handed blow. I staggered, reeled, and fell insensible. The last thing I remember was a horrible crash as if the house was tumbling in about my ears.

When I recovered my senses I was laid in bed in my own house, all cut, bruised, and bloody. I was soon given to understand that the basket of glass was broken, and Mr. Tenderden, being a miserly, hard-hearted man, made me stand to the loss, which was upwards of five pounds.

When I was able to walk about again I determined to get rid of my ring forthwith in the manner the fairy had pointed out, seeing that it brought me nothing but ill-luck.

It was a fine clear night in October when I reached the little valley in the uplands before mentioned. There was a gentle frost, and the stars were twinkling with the lustre of diamonds in a sky of deep and cloudless azure. A chill breeze whistled dreamily in the gusty passes of the hills that surrounded the vale, but I wrapped my cloak around me and standing in a sheltered nook boldly awaited the event.

After about half an hour of dead silence I heard a sound as of many voices weeping and lamenting at a distance. This continued for some time until it was interrupted by another voice, seemingly close at hand. I started at the contiguity of the sound, and looked on every side, but nothing was visible. Still the strain kept rising and drawing nearer. At length the following words, sung in a melancholy though harmonious tone, became distinctly audible:—

Hearken, O Mortal! to the wail
Which round the wandering night-winds fling,
Soft-sighing ’neath the moonbeams pale,
How low! how old! its murmuring!
No other voice, no other tone,
Disturbs the silence deep;
All, saving that prophetic moan,
Are hushed in quiet sleep.
The moon and each small lustrous star,
That journey through the boundless sky,
Seem, as their radiance from afar
Falls on the still earth silently,
To weep the fresh descending dew
That decks with gems the world:
Sweet teardrops of the glorious blue
Above us wide unfurled.
But, hark! again the sighing wail
Upon the rising breeze doth swell.
Oh! hasten from this haunted vale,
Mournful as a funeral knell!
For here, when gloomy midnight reigns,
The fairies form their ring,
And, unto wild unearthly strains,
In measured cadence sing.
No human eye their sports may see,
No human tongue their deeds reveal;
The sweetness of their melody
The ear of man may never feel.
But now the elfin horn resounds,
No longer mayst thou stay;
Near and more near the music sounds,
Then, Mortal, haste away!

Here I certainly heard the music of a very sweet and mellow horn. At that instant the ring which I held in my hand melted and became like a drop of dew, which trickled down my fingers and falling on the dead leaves spread around, vanished.

Having now no further business I immediately quitted the valley and returned home…

Being very tired and sleepy I retired to bed. As I have no doubt my reader is by this time in much the same state, I bid him good-bye.

Charlotte Brontë,

December 18th, 1830.

From Visits in Verreopolis, vol. II. chap. ii., by the Honourable Charles Albert Florian, Lord Wellesley, aged ten years. Published by Sergeant Bud. The tale is related by, and is a passage from the early life of, Captain Bud, the father of the fictitious publisher.—C. W. H.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

No title was given by Charlotte Brontë to this story, which was probably intended as a sequel to the short drama printed on pp. 95-104.

The original manuscript has been divided into two parts, one sheet of four pages having been removed and certain words erased (see footnotes on pages 126 and 129), apparently in an attempt to make it appear as two separate and complete manuscripts. The missing words have been obtained from a transcript made before the manuscript was mutilated.

C. W. H.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

In the autumn of the year 1831, being weary of study, and the melancholy solitude of the vast streets and mighty commercial marts of our great Babel, and being fatigued with the ever-resounding thunder of the sea, with the din of a thousand self-moving engines, with the dissonant cries of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, congregated together in the gigantic emporium of commerce, of arts, of God-like wisdom, of boundless learning, and of superhuman knowledge; being dazzled with continually beholding the glory, the power, the riches, dominion, and radiant beauty of the city which sitteth like a queen upon the waters; in one word, being tired of Verdopolis and all its magnificence, I determined on a trip into the country.

Accordingly, the day after this resolution was formed, I rose with the sun, collected a few essential articles of dress, etc., packed them neatly in a light knapsack, arranged my apartment, partook of a wholesome repast, and then, after locking the door and delivering the key to my landlady, I set out with a light heart and joyous step.

After three days of continued travel I arrived on the banks of a wide and profound river winding through a vast valley embosomed in hills whose robe of rich and flowery verdure was broken only by the long shadow of groves, and here and there by clustering herds and flocks lying, white as snow, in the green hollows between the mountains. It was the evening of a calm summer day when I reached this enchanting spot. The only sounds now audible were the songs of shepherds, swelling and dying at intervals, and the murmur of gliding waves. I neither knew nor cared where I was. My bodily faculties of eye and ear were absorbed in the contemplation of this delightful scene, and, wandering unheedingly along, I left the guidance of the river and entered a wood, invited by the warbling of a hundred forest minstrels. Soon I perceived the narrow, tangled woodpath to widen, and gradually it assumed the appearance of a green shady alley. Occasionally bowers of roses and myrtles appeared by the pathside, with soft banks of moss for the weary to repose on. Notwithstanding these indications of individual property, curiosity and the allurements of music and cool shade led me forwards. At length I entered a glade in the wood, in the midst of which was a small but exquisitely beautiful marble edifice of pure and dazzling whiteness. On the broad steps of the portico two figures were reclining, at sight of whom I instantly stepped behind a low, wide-spreading fig-tree, where I could hear and see all that passed without fear of detection. One was a youth of lofty stature and remarkably graceful demeanour, attired in a rich purple vest and mantle, with closely fitting white pantaloons of white woven silk, displaying to advantage the magnificent proportions of his form. A richly adorned belt was girt tightly round his waist from which depended a scimitar whose golden hilt, and scabbard of the finest Damascus steel, glittered with gems of inestimable value. His steel-barred cap, crested with tall, snowy plumes, lay beside him, its absence revealing more clearly the rich curls of dark, glossy hair clustering round a countenance distinguished by the noble beauty of its features, but still more by the radiant fire of genius and intellect visible in the intense brightness of his large, dark, and lustrous eyes.

The other form was that of a very young and slender girl, whose complexion was delicately, almost transparently, fair. Her cheeks were tinted with a rich, soft crimson, her features moulded in the utmost perfection of loveliness; while the clear light of her brilliant hazel eyes, and the soft waving of her auburn ringlets, gave additional charms to what seemed already infinitely too beautiful for this earth. Her dress was a white robe of the finest texture the Indian loom can produce. The only ornaments she wore were a long chain which encircled her neck twice and hung lower than her waist, composed of alternate beads of the finest emeralds and gold; and a slight gold ring on the third finger of her left hand, which, together with a small crescent of pearls glistening on her forehead (which is always worn by the noble matrons of Verdopolis), betokened that she had entered the path of wedded life. With a sweet vivacity in her look and manner the young bride was addressing her lord thus when I first came in sight of the peerless pair:

‘No, no, my lord; if I sing the song you shall choose it. Now, once more, what shall I sing? The moon is risen, and, if your decision is not prompt, I will not sing at all!’

To this he answered: ‘Well, if I am threatened with the entire loss of the pleasure if I defer my choice, I will have that sweet song which I overheard you singing the evening before I left Scotland.’^[*]

With a smiling blush she took a little ivory lyre, and, in a voice of the most touching melody, sang the following stanzas:—

He is gone, and all grandeur has fled from the mountain;
All beauty departed from stream and from fountain;
A dark veil is hung
O’er the bright sky of gladness,
And, where birds sweetly sung,
There’s a murmur of sadness;
The wind sings with a warning tone
Through many a shadowy tree;
I hear, in every passing moan,
The voice of destiny.
Then, O Lord of the Waters! the Great and All-seeing!
Preserve in Thy mercy his safety and being;
May he trust in Thy might
When the dark storm is howling,
And the blackness of night
Over Heaven is scowling;
But may the sea flow glidingly
With gentle summer waves;
And silent may all tempests lie
Chained in Æolian caves!
Yet, though ere he returnest long years will have vanished,
Sweet hope from my bosom shall never be banished:
I will think of the time
When his step, lightly bounding,
Shall be heard on the rock
Where the cataract is sounding;
When the banner of his father’s host
Shall be unfurled on high,
To welcome back the pride and boast
Of England’s chivalry!
Yet tears will flow forth while of hope I am singing;
Still despair her dark shadow is over me flinging;
But, when he’s far away,
I will pluck the wild flower
On bank and on brae
At the still, moonlight hour;
And I will twine for him a wreath
Low in the fairy’s dell;
Methought I heard the night-wind breathe
That solemn word: ‘Farewell!’^[*]

When the lady had concluded her song I stepped from my place of concealment, and was instantly perceived by the noble youth (whom, of course, every reader will have recognised as the Marquis of Douro).

He gave me a courteous welcome, and invited me to proceed with him to his country palace, as it was now wearing late. I willingly accepted the invitation, and, in a short time, we arrived there.

It is a truly noble structure, built in the purest style of Grecian architecture, situated in the midst of a vast park, embosomed in richly wooded hills, perfumed with orange and citron groves, and watered by a branch of the Gambia, almost equal in sight to the parent stream.

The magnificence of the interior is equal to that of the outside. There is an air of regal state and splendour throughout all the lofty domed apartments which strikes the spectator with awe for the lord of so imposing a residence. The marquis has a particular pride in the knowledge that he is the owner of one of the most splendid, select, and extensive libraries now in the possession of any individual. His picture and statue galleries likewise contain many of the finest works, both of the ancient and modern masters, particularly the latter, of whom the marquis is a most generous and munificent patron. In his cabinet of curiosities I observed a beautiful casket of wrought gold. At my request he opened it and produced the contents, viz. a manuscript copy of that rare work, ‘The Autobiography of Captain Leaf.’ It was written on a roll of vellum, but much discoloured and rendered nearly illegible by time. To my eager inquiries respecting the manner in which he had obtained so inestimable a treasure, he replied, with a smile:

‘That question I must decline to answer. It is a secret with which I alone am acquainted.’

I likewise noticed a brace of pistols, most exquisitely wrought and highly finished. He told me they were the chef-d’œuvre of Darrow, the best manufacturer of firearms in the universe. I counted one hundred gold and silver medals, which had been presented to this youthful but all-accomplished nobleman by different literary and scientific establishments. They were all contained in a truly splendid gold vase awarded to him last year by the Academy of Modern Athenians (as that learned body somewhat presumptuously chooses to style itself) as being the composer of the best epigram in Greek. Above this was suspended a silver bow and quiver, the first prize given by the Royal Society of Archers, together with a bit, bridle, spurs, and stirrups, all of fine gold, obtained from the Honourable Community of Equestrians. Near these lay several withered wreaths of myrtle, laurel, etc., etc., won by him as conqueror in the great African Biennial Games. On a rich stand of polished ebony were ranged twenty-three beautiful vases of marble, alabaster, etc., all richly carved in basso-relievo, remarkable for classic elegance of form, design, and execution. Some of these were filled with cameos, others with ancient coins, and others again bore branches of scarlet and white coral, pearls, gems of various sorts, fossils, etc. But what interested me more than all these trophies of victory and specimens of art and nature, costly, beautiful, and almost invaluable as they were, was a little figure of Apollo, about six inches in height, curiously carved in white agate, holding a lyre in his hand, and placed on a pedestal of the same valuable material, on which was the following inscription:—

In our day we beheld the god of Archery, Eloquence, and Verse, shrined in an infinitely fairer form than that worn by the ancient Apollo, and giving far more glorious proofs of his divinity than the day-god ever vouchsafed to the inhabitants of the old Pagan world. Zenobia Ellrington implores Arthur Augustus Wellesley to accept this small memorial, and consider it as a token that, though forsaken and despised by him whose good opinion and friendship she valued more than life, she yet bears no malice.

There was a secret contained in this inscription which I could not fathom. I had never before heard of any misunderstanding between his lordship and Lady Zenobia, nor did public appearances warrant a suspicion of its existence. Long after, however, the following circumstances came to my knowledge. The channel through which they reached me cannot be doubted, but I am not at liberty to mention names.

^[*] One evening about dusk, as the Marquis of Douro was returning from a shooting excursion into the country, he heard suddenly a rustling noise in a deep ditch on the roadside. He was preparing his fowling-piece for a shot when the form of Lady Ellrington started up before him. Her head was bare, her tall person was enveloped in the tattered remnants of a dark velvet mantle. Her dishevelled hair hung in wild elf-locks over her face, neck, and shoulders, almost concealing her features, which were emaciated and pale as death. He stepped back a few paces, startled at the sudden and ghastly apparition. She threw herself on her knees before him, exclaiming in wild, maniacal accents:

‘My lord, tell me truly, sincerely, ingenuously, where you have been. I heard that you had left Verdopolis, and I followed you on foot five hundred miles. Then my strength failed me, and I lay down in this place, as I thought, to die. But it was doomed I should see you once more before I became an inhabitant of the grave. Answer me, my lord: Have you seen that wretch Marian Hume? Have you spoken to her? Viper! Viper! Oh, that I could sheathe this weapon in her heart!’

Here she stopped for want of breath, and, drawing a long, sharp, glittering knife from under her cloak, brandished it wildly in the air. The marquis looked at her steadily, and, without attempting to disarm her, answered with great composure:

‘You have asked me a strange question, Lady Zenobia; but, before I attempt to answer, you had better come with me to our encampment. I will order a tent to be prepared for you where you may pass the night in safety, and, to-morrow, when you are a little recruited by rest and refreshment, we will discuss this matter soberly.’^[*]

Her rage Was now exhausted by its own vehemence, and she replied with more calmness than she had hitherto evinced:

‘My lord, believe me, I am deputed by Heaven to warn you of a great danger into which you are about to fall. If you persist in your intention of uniting yourself to Marian Hume you will become a murderer and a suicide. I cannot explain myself more clearly; but ponder carefully on my words until I see you again.’

Then, bowing her forehead to the ground in an attitude of adoration, she kissed his feet, muttering at the same time some unintelligible words. At that moment a loud rushing, like the sound of a whirlpool, became audible, and Lady Zenobia was swept away by some invisible power before the marquis could extend his arms to arrest her progress, or frame an answer to her mysterious address. He paced slowly forward, lost in deep reflection on what he had heard and seen. The moon had risen over the black, barren mountains ere he reached the camp. He gazed for awhile on her pure, undimmed lustre, comparing it to the loveliness of one far away, and then, entering his tent, wrapped himself in his hunter’s cloak, and lay down to unquiet sleep.

Months rolled away, and the mystery remained unravelled. Lady Zenobia Ellrington appeared as usual in that dazzling circle of which she was ever a distinguished ornament. There was no trace of wandering fire in her eyes which might lead a careful observer to imagine that her mind was unsteady. Her voice was more subdued and her looks pale, and it was remarked by some that she avoided all (even the most commonplace) conversation with the marquis.

In the meantime the Duke of Wellington had consented to his son’s union with the beautiful, virtuous, and accomplished, but untitled, Marian Hume.

Vast and splendid preparations were making for the approaching bridal, when just at this critical juncture news arrived of the Great Rebellion headed by Alexander Rogue. The intelligence fell with the suddenness and violence of a thunderbolt. Unequivocal symptoms of dissatisfaction began to appear at the same time among the lower orders in Verdopolis. The workmen at the principal mills and furnaces struck for an advance of wages, and, the masters refusing to comply with their exorbitant demands, they all turned out simultaneously. Shortly after, Colonel Grenville, one of the great millowners, was shot. His assassins being quickly discovered and delivered up to justice were interrogated by torture, but they remained inflexible, not a single satisfactory answer being elicited from them. The police were now doubled. Bands of soldiers were stationed in the more suspicious parts of the city, and orders were issued that no citizen should walk abroad unarmed. In this state of affairs Parliament was summoned to consult on the best measures to be taken. On the first night of its sitting the house was crowded to excess. All the members attended, and above a thousand ladies of the first rank appeared in the gallery. A settled expression of gloom and anxiety was visible in every countenance. They sat for some time gazing at ache other in the silence of seeming despair. At length the Marquis of Douro rose and ascended the tribune. It was on this memorable night he pronounced that celebrated oration which will be delivered to posterity as a finished specimen of the sublimest eloquence. The souls of all who heard him were thrilled with conflicting emotions. Some of the ladies in the gallery fainted and were carried out. My limits will not permit me to transcribe the whole of this speech, and to attempt an abridgment would be profanation. I will, however, present the reader with the conclusion. It was as follows:—

I will call upon you, my countrymen, to rouse yourselves to action. There is a latent flame of rebellion smouldering in our city, which blood alone can quench: the hot blood of ourselves and our enemies freely poured forth! We daily see in our streets men whose brows were once open as the day, but which are now wrinkled with dark dissatisfaction, and the light of whose eyes, formerly free as sunshine, is now dimmed by restless suspicion. Our upright merchants are ever threatened with fears of assassination from those dependants who, in time past, loved, honoured, and reverenced them as fathers. Our peaceful citizens cannot pass their thresholds in safety unless laden with weapons of war, the continual dread of death haunting their footsteps wherever they turn. And who has produced this awful change? What agency of hell has affected, what master-spirit of crime, what prince of sin, what Beelzebub of black iniquity, has been at work in this Kingdom? I will answer that fearful question: Alexander Rogue! Arm for the battle, then, fellow-countrymen; be not faint-hearted, but trust in the justice of your cause as your banner of protection, and let your war-shout in the onslaught ever be: ‘God defend the right!’

When the marquis had concluded this harangue, he left the house amidst long and loud thunders of applause, and proceeded to one of the shady groves planted on the banks of the Guadima. Here he walked for some time inhaling the fresh night-wind, which acquired additional coolness as it swept over the broad rapid river, and was just beginning to recover from the strong excitement into which his enthusiasm had thrown him when he felt his arm suddenly grasped from behind, and turning round beheld Lady Zenobia Ellrington standing beside him, with the same wild, unnatural expression of countenance which had before convulsed her features among the dark hills of Gibbel Kumri.

‘My lord,’ she muttered, in a low, energetic tone, ‘your eloquence, your noble genius has again driven me to desperation. I am no longer mistress of myself, and if you do not consent to be mine, and mine alone, I will kill myself where I stand.’

‘Lady Ellrington,’ said the marquis coldly, withdrawing his hand from her grasp, ‘this conduct is unworthy of your character. I must beg that you will cease to use the language of a madwoman, for I do assure you, my lady, these deep stratagems will have no effect upon me.’

She now threw herself at his feet, exclaiming in a voice almost stifled with ungovernable emotion:

‘Oh! do not kill me with such cold, cruel disdain. Only consent to follow me, and you will be convinced that you ought not to be united to one so utterly unworthy of you as Marian Hume.’

The marquis, moved by her tears and entreaties, at length consented to accompany her. She led him a considerable distance from the city to a subterranean grotto, where was a fire burning on a brazen altar. She threw a certain powder into the flame, and immediately they were transported through the air to an apartment at the summit of a lofty tower. At one end of this room was a vast mirror, and at the other a drawn curtain, behind which a most brilliant light was visible.

‘You are now,’ said Lady Ellrington, ‘in the sacred presence of one whose counsel, I am sure, you, my lord, will never slight.’

At this moment the curtain was removed, and the astonished marquis beheld Crashie, the divine and infallible, seated on his golden throne, and surrounded by those mysterious rays of light which ever emanate from him.

‘My son,’ said he, with an august smile, and in a voice of awful harmony, ‘fate and inexorable destiny have decreed that in the hour you are united to the maiden of your choice, the angel Azazel shall smite you both, and convey your disembodied souls over the swift-flowing and impassable river of death. Hearken to the counsels of wisdom, and do not, in the madness of self-will, destroy yourself and Marian Hume by refusing the offered hand of one who, from the moment of your birth, was doomed by the prophetic stars of heaven to be your partner and support through the dark, unexplored wilderness of future life.’

He ceased. The combat betwixt true love and duty raged for a few seconds in the marquis’s heart, and sent his life-blood in a tumult of agony and despair burning to his cheek and brow. At length duty prevailed, and, with a strong effort, he said in a firm, unfaltering voice:

‘Son of Wisdom! I will war no longer against the high decree of heaven, and here I swear by the eternal—’

The rash oath was checked in the moment of its utterance by some friendly spirit who whispered in his ear:

‘There is magic. Beware!’

At the same time Crashie’s venerable form faded away, and in its stead appeared the evil genius, Danhasch,^[*] in all the naked hideousness of his real deformity. The demon soon vanished with a wild howl of rage, and the marquis found himself again in the grove with Lady Ellrington.

She implored him on her knees to forgive an attempt which love alone had dictated, but he turned from her with a smile of bitter contempt and disdain, and hastened to his father’s palace.

About a week after this event the nuptials of Arthur Augustus, Marquis of Douro, and Marian Hume were solemnized with unprecedented pomp and splendour. Lady Ellrington, when she thus saw that all her hopes were lost in despair, fell into deep melancholy, and while in this state she amused herself with carving the little image before mentioned. After a long time she slowly recovered, and the marquis, convinced that her extravagances had arisen from a disordered brain, consented to honour her with his friendship once more.

I continued upwards of two months at the Marquis of Douro’s palace, and then returned to Verdopolis, equally delighted with my noble host and his fair, amiable bride.

August 20th, 1882.

NAPOLEON AND THE SPECTRE

This story was printed by Mr. Clement Shorter in February 1919, in an edition limited to twenty-five copies for private circulation only. Extracts from it were printed in Poet-Lore, vol. ix., Autumn Number, 1897. The complete story is now published for the first time.

In the Introduction by Mr. Shorter in the privately printed pamphlet we are informed that the story is supposed to be ‘told at an inn by a traveller whose name is not given, but who is described as a dapper little man, dressed in brown coat and waistcoat and cream-coloured continuations.’

I venture to copy the following further extract from Mr. Shorter’s Introduction to the story:—

The identity of the ghost is revealed by Napoleon’s exclamation when he is recovering from his somnambulistic trance, ‘Where in the world is Piche?’ Piche is General Pichegru, who, when Napoleon was first consul, joined in a plot to assassinate him. The plot was discovered and Pichegru was arrested and imprisoned; but before the day fixed for his trial ‘he was found dead in his cell with his black silk cravat twisted tightly round his neck by means of a stick.’

Whether he was strangled at the instigation of Napoleon, as has been asserted by some historians, is not clear; but Charlotte Brontë apparently believed in Napoleon’s guilt, and in the story causes the ghost of his victim to haunt him.

C. W. H.

NAPOLEON AND THE SPECTRE

Well, as I was saying, the Emperor got into bed.

‘Chevalier,’ says he to his valet, ‘let down those window-curtains, and shut the casement before you leave the room.’

Chevalier did as he was told, and then, taking up his candlestick, departed.

In a few minutes the Emperor felt his pillow becoming rather hard, and he got up to shake it. As he did so a slight rustling noise was heard near the bed-head. His Majesty listened, but all was silent as he lay down again.

Scarcely had he settled into a peaceful attitude of repose, when he was disturbed by a sensation of thirst. Lifting himself on his elbow, he took a glass of lemonade from the small stand which was placed beside him. He refreshed himself by a deep draught. As he returned the goblet to its station a deep groan burst from a kind of closet in one corner of the apartment.

‘Who’s there?’ cried the Emperor, seizing his pistols. ‘Speak, or I’ll blow your brains out.’

This threat produced no other effect than a short, sharp laugh, and a dead silence followed.

The Emperor started from his couch, and, hastily throwing on a robe-de-chambre which hung over the back of a chair, stepped courageously to the haunted closet. As he opened the door something rustled. He sprang forward sword in hand. No soul or even substance appeared, and the rustling, it was evident, proceeded from the falling of a cloak, which had been suspended by a peg from the door.

Half ashamed of himself he returned to bed.

Just as he was about once more to close his eyes, the light of the three wax tapers, which burned in a silver branch over the mantelpiece, was suddenly darkened. He looked up. A black, opaque shadow obscured it. Sweating with terror, the Emperor put out his hand to seize the bell-rope, but some invisible being snatched it rudely from his grasp, and at the same instant the ominous shade vanished.

‘Pooh!’ exclaimed Napoleon, ‘it was but an ocular delusion.’

‘Was it?’ whispered a hollow voice, in deep mysterious tones, close to his ear. ‘Was it a delusion, Emperor of France? No! all thou hast heard and seen is sad forewarning reality. Rise, lifter of the Eagle Standard! Awake, swayer of the Lily Sceptre! Follow me, Napoleon, and thou shalt see more.’

As the voice ceased, a form dawned on his astonished sight. It was that of a tall, thin man, dressed in a blue surtout edged with gold lace. It wore a black cravat very tightly round its neck, and confined by two little sticks placed behind each ear. The countenance was livid; the tongue protruded from between the teeth, and the eyes all glazed and bloodshot started with frightful prominence from their sockets.

‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed the Emperor, ‘what do I see? Spectre, whence cometh thou?’

The apparition spoke not, but gliding forward beckoned Napoleon with uplifted finger to follow.

Controlled by a mysterious influence, which deprived him of the capability of either thinking or acting for himself, he obeyed in silence.

The solid wall of the apartment fell open as they approached, and, when both had passed through, it closed behind them with a noise like thunder.

They would now have been in total darkness had it not been for a dim light which shone round the ghost and revealed the damp walls of a long, vaulted passage. Down this they proceeded with mute rapidity. Ere long a cool, refreshing breeze, which rushed wailing up the vault and caused the Emperor to wrap his loose nightdress closer round, announced their approach to the open air.

This they soon reached, and Nap found himself in one of the principal streets of Paris.

‘Worthy Spirit,’ said he, shivering in the chill night air, ‘permit me to return and put on some additional clothing. I will be with you again presently.’

‘Forward,’ replied his companion sternly.

He felt compelled, in spite of the rising indignation which almost choked him, to obey.

On they went through the deserted streets till they arrived at a lofty house built on the banks of the Seine. Here the Spectre stopped, the gates rolled back to receive them, and they entered a large marble hall which was partly concealed by a curtain drawn across, through the half transparent folds of which a bright light might be seen burning with dazzling lustre. A row of fine female figures, richly attired, stood before this screen. They wore on their heads garlands of the most beautiful flowers, but their faces were concealed by ghastly masks representing death’s-heads.

‘What is all this mummery?’ cried the Emperor, making an effort to shake off the mental shackles by which he was so unwillingly restrained, ‘Where am I, and why have I been brought here?’

‘Silence,’ said the guide, lolling out still further his black and bloody tongue. ‘Silence, if thou wouldst escape instant death.’

The Emperor would have replied, his natural courage overcoming the temporary awe to which he had at first been subjected, but just then a strain of wild, supernatural music swelled behind the huge curtain, which waved to and fro, and bellied slowly out as if agitated by some internal commotion or battle of waving winds. At the same moment an overpowering mixture of the scents of mortal corruption, blent with the richest Eastern odours, stole through the haunted hall.

A murmur of many voices was now heard at a distance, and something grasped his arm eagerly from behind.

He turned hastily round. His eyes met the well-known countenance of Marie Louise.

‘What! are you in this infernal place, too?’ said he. ‘What has brought you here?’

‘Will your Majesty permit me to ask the same question of yourself?’ said the Empress, smiling.

He made no reply; astonishment prevented him. No curtain now intervened between him and the light. It had been removed as if by magic, and a splendid chandelier appeared suspended over his head. Throngs of ladies, richly dressed, but without death’s-head masks, stood round, and a due proportion of gay cavaliers was mingled with them. Music was still sounding, but it was seen to proceed from a band of mortal musicians stationed in an orchestra near at hand. The air was yet redolent of incense, but it was incense unblended with stench.

‘Mon Dieu!’ cried the Emperor, ‘how is all this come about? Where in the world is Piche?’

‘Piche?’ replied the Empress. ‘What does your Majesty mean? Had you not better leave the apartment and retire to rest?’

‘Leave the apartment? Why, where am I?’

‘In my private drawing-room, surrounded by a few particular persons of the Court whom I had invited this evening to a ball. You entered a few minutes since in your nightdress with your eyes fixed and wide open. I suppose from the astonishment you now testify that you were walking in your sleep.’

The Emperor immediately fell into a fit of catalepsy, in which he continued during the whole of that night and the greater part of next day.

Charlotte Brontë.

From the manuscript of the ‘Green Dwarf,’ an unpublished story which was commenced on July 10th, 1833, and completed on September 2nd, 1833.—C. W. H.

THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY

THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY

FROM THE MANUSCRIPT ENTITLED

ARTHURIANA, OR
ODDS AND ENDS

BEING
A MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTION
OF PIECES
IN
PROSE AND VERSE,
BY
LORD CHARLES A. F.
WELLESLEY.

Commenced September 27th, 1833.
Finished November 20th, 1833.

THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY

One wet and rainy afternoon Arthur was sitting alone in his room. The unfavourable weather, united to a severe headache the consequence of certain vigils of the previous night, indisposed him for serious study, and he sat toasting his feet at a bright fire and languidly turning over Vernet’s splendid views of the scenery round Verdopolis.

While thus employed, or rather indis-employed, in the vain endeavour to kill time, a servant entered and announced: ‘Mr. Hamilton.’

‘Show him in,’ said Arthur with alacrity, glad of anything which might be likely to divert the tedious ennui which oppressed him.

As the young architect, who it is well known is one of my brother’s numerous toadies, appeared at the door, he rose and, offering him his hand, said with that winning air of condescension which has gained for him the hearts of the rising geniuses in Verdopolis:

‘Well, Edwin, how are you this suicidal day?’

‘Quite well, my lord, I thank you. I trust I find your lordship the same?’

As they seated themselves on a sofa the marquis replied:

‘I cannot say that I am very brisk this afternoon, I have a slight headache…’

A brief silence followed of which Arthur seemed impatient, and he broke it by saying:

‘Now tell me, Edwin, what was your motive for coming to see me this dull day. I’m mistaken if you had not some particular reason.’

‘Why, my lord,’ replied the architect, blushing and looking down with an embarrassed air, ‘I can’t deny that I have.’

‘What is it, then?’ replied my brother eagerly. ‘Have you been striking out some plan for a new public building? If so, let me see it directly.’

‘No, my lord; my employment lately has been of another kind to that to which you allude. I have been wooing—’

‘Wooing!’ interrupted the marquis. ‘What! you are going to be married, are you? Humph! I see it all now. On my conscience, it’s a perfect miracle how such a bashful fellow as you ever summoned courage to pop the question! But pray, what is the fair lady’s name?’

‘Melpomene, the muse of tears!’ replied the modest Hamilton, blushing to the temples as he spoke. ‘In short, I’ve ventured hither to show your lordship a tragedy which I have written, called “Petus and Aria.”’

At these words the spirit of criticism began to sparkle in Arthur’s eye and the smile of sarcasm to curl his lip. Poor Hamilton shrunk together as he saw his patron gazing on him with that-cool, keen, composed aspect of contempt which he sometimes assumed in order to torture the wretches dependent on his favour.

‘A tragedy!’ he began. ‘Produce it by all means. But first tell me, Edwin, is it constructed in the Grecian or Gothic style of architecture? Or perhaps you may have invented a kind of composite order out of your own head?’

‘Eh, my lord?’ murmured his hapless victim.

‘Petus and Aria,’ continued the unrelenting monster; ‘the former was, I believe, a somewhat timid and henpecked gentleman, whom for his arrant poltroonery I have always looked upon with supreme contempt; and the latter a strapping virago that showed herself particularly anxious to get her husband out of the world which he dishonoured. Queer materials these for a tragedy!’

To his observations Hamilton’s only answer was a look of imploring agony. Its silent eloquence, however, touched Arthur more nearly than words would have done. He smiled and said in a more encouraging tone than he had hitherto used:

‘Come, Edwin, dismiss that miserable expression from your face and let us see this notable play.’

With a trembling hand the architect drew the manuscript from his pocket and presented it to my brother. Half an hour of profound silence ensued, during which he continued to endure all the torments of suspense. At length the marquis laid it down, and the single word ‘Admirable!’ which escaped from his lips at once relieved Hamilton from a host of fears.

‘Are you in earnest, my lord?’ asked he.

‘Perfectly so; and as a proof of it I advise you to offer this play without loss of time to Mr. Price of the Theatre Royal. I will write a few lines in favour of it to him, and I do not doubt but that my recommendation will be sufficient to secure you handsome treatment in that quarter.’

A fortnight passed. Rumours began to be rife through Verdopolis that Mr. Hamilton the architect, whose skill had long advanced him to the rank of rival to the celebrated Turner, had laid down the compasses and taken up the pen. Ere long these reports were confirmed by the appearance one Wednesday morning of Price’s bill of fare, containing the following announcement:—

This evening will be performed at the Theatre Royal
PETUS AND ARIA,
an entirely new tragedy by Edwin Hamilton, Esq.,
under the patronage of the Marquis of Douro.
The character of Aria to be performed by Mrs. Siddons;
that of Petus by Garry David.

That night Price had reason to lick his lips with satisfaction. Never before was there such a crowded house: pit, box, and gallery overflowed; and the manager after all expenses were paid netted a clear profit of five hundred pounds.

It was on this occasion that I took my station among the branches of the mighty golden chandelier which hangs from the centre of the dome; and from thence obtained a bird’s-eye view of the whole magnificent scene.

Certainly there are few sights more animated and inspiring than a crowded theatre. The brilliant lights, the ceaseless hum of voices, the busy and visionary stage, all conspire to raise indescribable feelings in the soul. More than a thousand of the loveliest women on earth sparkled in the dress circle, where the waving of plumes, the rustling of robes, and the light-bright eyes were perfectly dazzling. Among these my eyes singled out Lady Zenobia Ellrington. I noticed her particularly, because she seldom visits the theatre. There she sat robed in gorgeous purple, a star-light band of jewels gleaming among her rich raven locks. Lord Ellrington stood beside her in his usual plain black attire, and wearing a white cravat in the centre of which shone a single diamond. From my elevated station I beheld the entrance of Mr. Hamilton. The Marquis of Douro preceded him, accompanied by a beautiful girl in a white dress and green sash without any ornament on her head except a profusion of chestnut curls which, clustering in the most luxuriant ringlets, obliged her every now and then to raise her small hand in order to put them back from her snowy forehead and laughing blue eyes, which they almost concealed. I need not say that this was the marchioness.

Who shall describe the tumultuous rush of feelings which rose in Edwin’s bosom as he glanced hurriedly round at the vast assembly on which his fate this night depended. His eyes wildly wandered from the rough tenants of the gallery to the glittering population of the boxes, and finally fixed themselves on the mighty green curtain which still hung before the stage. The few moments that elapsed before its removal seemed to him an hour, but at last the tinkle of the prompter’s bell sounded and at once it was gathered to the ceiling.

The prologue (which had been furnished by Arthur) was received with thunders of applause, amidst which arose one solitary note of disapprobation. All eyes turned on the utterer of this presumptuous squeal, which was a small deformed thing of the ape kind dressed in a green coat, and bearing the name of Captain Andrew.

‘Knock him down!’ was the general cry of the gods in the gallery; which mandate was presently executed by my friend, John Bud, who stood near. The first scene now came on, in the course of which Mrs. Siddons displayed all her finest powers and even excelled herself. Peals of applause again shook the theatre to its foundations. Hamilton was scarcely able to contain the joy and gratitude which this intoxicating success excited. His cheeks glowed, his eye sparkled, and his frame trembled all over. His transports, however, were soon about to receive a fearful check. At the commencement of the second act Petus rushed into the tent of Camilus, exclaiming: ‘General, we breathe the air of death. Our plot is smoked!’

‘Well,’ cried Lord Lofty, who with a bevy of puppies like himself occupied a box at no great distance; ‘Well, sir, and if your Pipe is smoked, can’t you light another?’

The laughter of some of the audience was raised by this sally of miserable wit, which from what followed seemed to have been a preconcerted signal for an indiscriminate attack on the tragedy. The thread of approval being once broken it appeared impossible to reunite it. Hisses, groans, and peals of laughter now rose at the finest passages. The gods, who are ever ready to join in a tumult, without nicely inquiring into the cause, yelled aloud for the instant condemnation of the whole concern. Lofty and his gang joined them clamourosly in this demand, and at length the uproar rose to such a pitch that Mr. Price was compelled to come forward to the footlights and declare that since the audience disapproved of the play he consented to withdraw it.

‘All hope of fame is gone and I desire to live no longer,’ said Hamilton, turning on the marquis his corpse-like countenance.

‘Courage, Edwin,’ replied the latter. ‘It is part of my creed that there is no wound too deep to receive relief from the divine balsam of revenge. I know who is your principal foe, and if I live you shall enjoy the remedy in perfection.’

It was a bright and lovely afternoon in the midst of autumn. The saloons of Waterloo Palace were thrown open for the admission of all the rank and fashion of Verdopolis. The doors of the great library were likewise unfolded, and there a knot of bel-esprits, the very flower of Africa’s geniuses, had gathered round a large open bow-window through which might be seen the extensive pleasure-grounds where groups of the brighter children of fashion roamed idly about or reposed under the shade of sequestered bowers. Of course my brother and Lady Zenobia Ellrington formed the nucleus round which this literary party had assembled. While they were conversing Lord Lofty entered and took his station near them. He could not actually join their party, because, though a man of considerable talent, he had never written a book, painted a picture, or moulded a statue; and it is an understood regulation of this chosen band that none but genuine authors and artists shall have the privilege of entering into their high and exclusive society. While he listened to the noble sentiment, the brilliant wit, the exhaustless knowledge, and the varied information which, clothed in the purest language and uttered in the soft subdued tones which perfect refinement dictates, formed a conversazione of such fascinating brilliancy as he had never heard before, undefined longings arose in his heart to become a more immediate partaker of the feast of reason and the flow of soul he witnessed. At this moment the Marchioness of Douro, who, seated on a low footstool at the feet of her husband and Lady Ellrington, had been gazing up at them with her large blue eyes full of wonder and delight, suddenly exclaimed in her usual artless manner: ‘I wish I had written a book!’

‘And so do I,’ was the response that immediately burst from Lofty’s lips. The marquis smiled at the characteristic simplicity of Marian’s aspiration; but he turned with a more serious air to Lofty, and said:

‘Well, and what is there to hinder you from writing as many books as you like?’

‘Nothing, my lord, except that I have not the genius.’

‘Pshaw! nonsense! you can do anything you choose!’

‘Are you in earnest, Douro?’

‘In earnest? Yes, that I am: I never was more so in my life.’

‘Well, then, I really do think I’ll turn author.’

‘That’s right, Fred. I’ll breakfast with you to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk the matter over at our leisure.’

Next day Arthur was punctual to his appointment. On entering the breakfast-room he found Lord Frederic seated in a morning gown of green and silver brocade with slippers to correspond, and on the table beside him lay a quire of paper and an inkstand of elaborate workmanship with golden pens, etc. The smile with which he viewed these preparations would have undeceived any other than Lofty, whose faculties were rendered, however, so obtuse by conceit that he conceived it to be merely a token of approbation.

After the first cup or two of chocolate had been discussed the marquis entered upon business by saying: ‘Well, Fred, do you continue in the same mind I left you in last night?’

‘Certainly, my lord; I am even confirmed in my determination to become an author. The only thing that puzzles me is on what subject to exercise that genius which you flatter me I possess.’

After a moment’s silence and apparent consideration, Arthur said:

‘Of course you would desire something original. Talent like yours would not be content to follow in any beaten path.’

‘Surely. In fact, I have determined that no hackneyed theme shall receive immortality from my pen. Now, Douro, could you not help me to one that has never been touched on before?’

‘I think I could; but before I mention it let me briefly define to you the meaning of originality. It consists in raising from obscurity some theme, topic, employment, or existence which has never been thought of by the great mass of men, or thought of only to be despised; in pouring around it the light of genius, proving its claim to admiration by subtlety of logic, clothing it with all the bright tones of a lively imagination, and presenting it thus adorned to the astonished world. I counsel you, Fred, to take for your subject the unjustly condemned art of the laundress. Write an essay on it divided into three parts, viz.: washing, starching, and ironing. In the first, summon up all your learning. Go back to the old times of Homer when princesses bleached linen in the gardens of Adcinous. Trace the art through the ramifications of ages and nations down to the present day. Expatiate upon the purity of the employment; give it an allegorical meaning, and conclude by saying that it excels all others in dignity and honour. Let the second be a dissertation on the process of making starch. Point out the grain which is most proper for it, and launch a thundering anathema against all adulterators of the genuine article. In the third, discourse most excellent music on the different kinds of irons, as box-irons, flat-irons, and Italian irons, and mind you give them the preference over such machines as mangles and calenders. Do all this and I think I can promise you as the reward of your labours renown of such a nature and extent as would satisfy the ambition of most men.’

‘My lord,’ replied Lofty, ‘by this disinterested and noble counsel you have conferred on me an eternal obligation. I will follow up the hint you have given, and by so doing I hope to produce somewhat that the gracious public will not willingly let die.’

From that day Lord Lofty became an altered man. He was no longer the free, dashing, gallant young nobleman whose handsome exterior and high-bred manners endeared him to the fair sex, and whose superiority both mental and personal had entitled him to the rank of viceroy in the world of fashion, subject only to those two mighty monarchs, Douro and Ellrington. Seldom now was either ballroom, race ground, parliament house, rotunda, or ring honoured with his presence. Day and night he immersed himself in the solitude of his study and gave access to none but my brother, who urged him unrelentingly to the completion of the task which he had assigned him. Sometimes, indeed, the unhappy gull ventured forth to his old haunts, but so changed was he become in dress, language, and behaviour as scarcely to be recognised by his most intimate friends. A shabby black coat was generally wrapped round him; shoes trodden down at the heels garnished his feet; and the fair hair which formerly was his greatest pride, and which he usually wore arranged in clustering curls, now hung neglected in elf-locks round a countenance that for consumptive paleness and attenuation might have been envied by the veriest tea-taster in existence. His conversation was in unison with his appearance, whining, sickly, pedantic, and filled with that disgusting species of affectation peculiar to literary coxcombs. The consequence of this was that those who had been accustomed to consider his acquaintance as an honour and a matter of boasting now grew ashamed to be seen in company with him. When he entered a drawing-room the ladies turned aside their heads, and the gentlemen regarded him with a glance of undisguised contempt. Not a hand was stretched out to welcome him; not a voice repeated his name except in atone of derision. These things, however, he neither saw nor regarded. Fenced by a triple shield of self-conceit, the scorn of women and the disgust of men moved him no more than hailstones would a rock.

After some months of incessant labour he at length one evening announced to the marquis that his work was completed.

‘Wait till to-morrow, Fred,’ replied that faithful friend. ‘I will then accompany you to Sergeant Tree’s, and you shall taste the first sweets of authorship.’

That night and the first hours of morning seemed to Lofty an age. As soon as breakfast was over he stationed himself at the window and continued impatiently looking out for Arthur’s appearance. At length about eleven o’clock a.m. he perceived him advancing with his usual stately tread up the street. Flinging open the sash he jumped out and ran to meet him. As they walked towards the great bookseller’s the marquis mentioned that he had invited a few friends to meet him there that morning, as he wished them to be spectators of Lofty’s triumph. The latter bowed and expressed his gratitude for what he considered to be another instance of my brother’s attachment to him. They now entered the shop. Above a hundred men of the highest rank were assembled there, including Castlereagh, Molyneux, Aberford, Beauclerk, Sidney, Russell, Howard, Morpeth, etc., and by himself, leaning against a pillar, was Hamilton the architect, his pale face and his usually downcast eyes glowing with uncommon ardour behind the marble slab which, supported on Ionic columns, forms the counter. Sergeant Tree was seated in an elevated armchair. To him Lofty immediately advanced and, presenting his manuscript, said in a loud and pompous tone of voice:

‘Look at that, sir, and tell me what you will give me for it.’

Tree took out his spectacles, placed them with all imaginable tranquillity, and after reading the title-page and glancing over the body of the work returned it coolly to the washerwoman, saying in his quiet business-like manner: ‘This, my lord, is not in my way. You have probably mistaken me for Mrs. Bleachum, the washerwoman.’

A peal of laughter from the noble bystanders accompanied these words. Lofty stood motionless a moment as if transfixed, then turned to the marquis with a look of speechless agony. Instead of the cloud of sympathetic sorrow he had expected to see brooding on his friend’s brow his eyes fell on a countenance illumined by a smile of arch, cold, triumphant, deep and devilish meaning. It pierced at once the thick veil of infatuation that obscured his-mental vision, and suddenly the light of truth burst on him with almost annihilating splendour. While he stood more like a statue than a living man Arthur advanced and said in a low and soft voice, but so distinct as to be heard by all present:

‘Well, Frederic, don’t you think a rejected essay is almost as agreeable as a condemned tragedy?’

C. Brontë,

October 6th, 1833.

A PEEP INTO A PICTURE BOOK

Charlotte Brontë was eighteen years of age when she wrote these descriptions of the principal characters in her stories. ‘The land of the Genii’ had become ‘The Kingdom of Angria’; the Duke of Wellington was almost forgotten; and her early hero, the Marquis of Douro, had received various other titles, including that of Duke of Zamorna, and had been elected King of Angria. He had developed a character totally different from that of the studious and ingenuous youth of Charlotte Brontë’s earlier stories.

At this time his first wife, Marian Hume, is supposed to have been dead several years, and he is married to Mary Henrietta, the daughter of his Prime Minister—Alexander Percy, Viscount Ellrington and Earl of Northangerland.

Alexander Percy (sometimes called Alexander Rogue) was originally a pirate, and was one of the creations of Charlotte’s brother, Patrick Branwell Brontë, when very young. On pp. 175-179 of A Bibliography of the Writings in Prose and Verse of the Members of the Brontë Family, 1917, by Thomas J. Wise, is printed a poem of one hundred and twenty-eight lines entitled ‘The Rover.’ This is a poem by Patrick Branwell Brontë descriptive of one of Alexander Percy’s adventures when he was a pirate. It was from this character that Branwell Brontë took the pseudonyms of ‘Northangerland’ and ‘Alexander Percy,’ which he continued to use until the end of his life.

The first wife of Northangerland also is dead at this time, and he is married to Lady Zenobia Ellrington, who in earlier stories (‘Albion and Marina,’ ‘The Rivals,’ and ‘Love and Jealousy’) was the rival of Marian Hume for the affections of the Marquis of Douro.

General Thornton is the guardian of the young Lord Wellesley, the supposed author of the manuscript in which ‘A Peep into a Picture Book’ was found.

C. W. H.

A PEEP INTO A PICTURE BOOK

FROM THE MANUSCRIPT ENTITLED

CORNER DISHES

BEING
A SMALL COLLECTION OF
MIXED AND UNSUBSTANTIAL
TRIFLES
IN PROSE AND
VERSE

BY

LORD CHARLES ALBERT
FLORIAN WELLESLEY.

Begun May 28th, 1834.
Finished June 16th, 1834.

A PEEP INTO A PICTURE BOOK

It is a fine, warm, sultry day, just after dinner. I am at Thornton Hotel. The General is enjoying his customary nap; and while the serene evening sunshine reposes on his bland features and unruffled brow, an atmosphere of calm seems to pervade the apartment.

What shall I do to amuse myself? I dare not stir lest he should awake; and any disturbance of his slumbers at this moment might be productive of serious consequences to me: no circumstance would more effectually sour my landlord’s ordinarily bland temperament. Hark! There is a slight, light snore, most musical, most melancholy: he is firmly locked in the chains of the drowsy god.

At the opposite end of the room three large volumes that look like picture books lie on a sideboard; their green watered-silk quarto covers and gilt backs are tempting, and I will make an effort to gain possession of them. Softly, softly: there, I have thrown down a silver fruit knife and a piece of orange peel! He stirs! I must pause awhile or he will certainly awake. Hem! the worthy gentleman settles down to his former tranquillity; the incipient frown which contracted his forehead is past away; and the rest of a good conscience, the calm of a mental and corporeal healthiness, sleeps there again.

With zephyr-step and bosomed breath I glide onward to the sideboard, I seize my prize, and being once more safely established in my chair I open the volumes to see if the profit be equivalent to the pains.

Eureka! Eureka! ‘Tree’s Portrait Gallery of the Aristocracy of Africa’! Why, here is cent. per cent. indeed! The very thing; the beau-ideal of provision for an after-dinner’s amusement! However languid and unfitted for exertion, the veriest gourmand could not turn with disgust from such placid entertainment as is here prepared for him; the sleepiest eye might wander unwearied over the silent visions that here follow each other in a succession so dreamy and voiceless.

I am no gourmand after dinner; I am as active as before; but just now the pleasure of hanging over forms that speak without sound, of gazing into motionless eyes that search your very heart, is more attractive to me than sprightlier employments.

The second volume is nearest to my hand, and I will raise first from the shadow of gossamer paper, waving as I turn it like a web of woven air, the spirit whosoever it be, male or female, crowned or coroneted, that animates its frontispiece.

A mighty phantom has answered my spell: an awful shape clouds the magic mirror! Reader, before me I behold the earthly tabernacle of Northangerland’s unsounded soul! There he stands: what a vessel to be moulded from the coarse clay of mortality! What a plant to spring from the rank soil of human existence! And the vessel is without flaw: polished, fresh, and bright from the last process of the maker. The flower has sprung up to mature beauty, but not a leaf is curled, not a blossom faded. This portrait was taken ere the lights and shadows of twenty-five summers had fallen across the wondrous labyrinth of Percy’s path through life. At this moment a gleam of sunlight, real deep gold in hue, comes through the kindled window-panes, and falls richly and serenely on the picture. It is a softened glory, for the sun is far west and its amber rays shed inexpressible tranquillity wherever they descend. How sweetly they sleep on that brow! and on those Ionic features! Percy! Percy! never was humanity fashioned in a fairer mould. The eye follows delighted all those classic lines of face and form: not one unseemly curvature or angle to disturb the general effect of so much refined regularity; all appears carved in ivory. The grossness of flesh and blood will not suit its statuesque exactness and speckless polish. A feeling of fascination comes over me while I gaze on that Phidian nose defined with such beautiful precision; that chin and mouth chiselled to such elaborate perfection; that high, pale forehead, not bald as now, but yet not shadowed with curls, for the clustering hair is parted back, gathered in abundant wreaths on the temples and leaving the brow free for all the gloom and glory of a mind that has no parallel to play over the expanse of living marble which its absence reveals. The expression in this picture is somewhat pensive, composed, free from sarcasm except the fixed sneer of the-lip and the strange deadly glitter of the eye whose glance—a mixture of the keenest scorn and deepest thought—curdles the spectator’s blood to ice. In my opinion this head embodies the most vivid ideas we can conceive of Lucifer, the rebellious archangel: there is such a total absence of human feeling and sympathy; such a cold frozen pride; such a fathomless power of intellect; such passionless yet perfect beauty—not breathing and burning, full of tightening blood and fiery thought and feeling like that of some others whom our readers will recollect,—but severely studied, faultlessly refined, as cold and hard and polished and perfect as the most priceless brilliant. And in his eye there is a shade of something, words cannot express what. The sight may catch, but not fix it. A gleam, scarcely human, dark and fiend-like, it steals away under the lash, quivers sometimes with the mysterious tremor of a northern light, fixes stedfastly on some luckless bystander, who shrinks from the supernatural aspect, and then is all at once quenched. Once that marvellous light fell on me; and long after I beheld it vanish its memory haunted me like a spirit. The sensation which it excited was very singular. I felt as if he could read my soul; and strange to tell there was no fear lest he should find sinful thoughts and recollections there, but a harassing dread lest anything good might arise which would awake the tremendous power of sarcasm that I saw lurking in every feature of his face. Northangerland has a black drop in his veins that flows through every vessel, taints every limb, stagnates round his heart, and there in the very citadel of life the albinous blood of the patrician is the bitterest, rankest gall. Let us leave him in that shape, ‘bright with beauty, dark with crime.’ He has sailed over many seas, wandered in many lands; just so with that look buried in profound meditation I can imagine him pacing the silent quarter-deck of his own Red Rover, his eyes fixed on the sullen sea that moans round him on every side, watching the mighty plunges of the waves rushing on as if they had an aim in their journey, as if they would bound on before his gallant ship, and were seeking the land she sought with emulous intent to outstrip the wanderer of their green wilderness, and to teach her that ocean would not brook her haughty defiance. Farewell, Percy!

I turn the leaves and behold—his countess!

Hum! hum! I am not on very good terms with this celebrated lady, as all the world knows; yet plain truth compels me to confess that she is a very fine woman, a superb daughter of Verdopolis; and Frederick de Lisle has done her justice; so has Edward Findan. A mere blue ought not to be so handsome. What eyes! What raven hair! What an imposing contour of form and countenance!

She is perfectly grand in her velvet robes, dark plume, and crown-like turban. The lady of Ellrington House, the wife of Northangerland, the prima donna of the Angrian Court, the most learned woman of her age, the modern Cleopatra, the Verdopolitan de Staël: in a word, Zenobia Percy! Who would think that that grand form of feminine majesty could launch out into the unbridled excesses of passion in which her ladyship not unfrequently indulges? There is fire in her eyes, and command on her brow; and some touch of a pride that would spurn restraint in the curl of her rich lip. But all is so tempered with womanly dignity that it would seem as if neither fire nor pride nor imperiousness could awaken the towering fits of ungoverned and frantic rage that often deform her beauty. Her hands, look at them, they are well formed and small, white and sparkling with rings; is it natural that such hands should inflict the blows that sometimes tingle from them? I think not; but my scarlet ears and aching bones have more than once borne incontestable witness how the case stands! The truth is her fingers though slender are long and like those of Zamorna, and like his they possess more vigour than their fragile structure would seem to indicate. She can spar, I verily believe, with her own husband, one of the best boxers on record, though now a little disabled by a tormenting complaint from long-continued exertion. Her employment, however, as here represented is of a higher order than pugilistic achievement. She leans on a large clasped volume, another of equal size lies open before her, and: one taper forefinger directs the spectator’s attention to the page while her eye looks into his with an earnest and solemn air as if she were warning him of the mighty treasures contained in the maxims of ancient lore to which she points. As I turn from this pictured representation of the countess I must say she is a noble creature both in mind and body, though full of the blackest defects: a flawed diamond; a magnificent landscape trenched with drains; virgin gold basely adulterated with brass; a beautiful intellectual woman, but an infidel.

The next portrait is that of His Grace the Duke of Fidena. I feel as if awaking from a feverish dream, a distempered vision of troubled grandeur and stormy glory, as I raise my eyes from the lord and lady of Pandemonium, from Sin and Satan, and let them fall on Prince John, the Royal Philosopher. How grave! what severe virtue! what deep and far-sought and well-treasured wisdom! what inflexible uprightness! Integrity that Death could not turn from the path of right; Firmness that would stoop to the block rather than yield one jot of its just, mature, righteous resolution; Truth from which the agonies of the wheel would be powerless to wring a word of equivocation; and to speak verity, Pride that could no more be thawed than the icebergs of Greenland or the snows of his own Highland hills. There is a look too of prejudice in his rather stern forehead, a something which tells us that Fidena could be an unforgiving, almost a vindictive, enemy, if stubbornly opposed or wantonly insulted. An air of reserve, of stiffness, which warns us that the son of Alexander,—all good, wise, and just, as he is,—lays emphasis on the forms of Courts, the usages of high circles. He will brook no breach of them, however trivial, in those under his authority. That cold eye and aristocratic mien say that jealousy would be quickly aroused by any mingling of ranks, any inroads of plebeians on the rights of patricians, any removing of landmarks or undermining of old institutions. He looks chill, almost forbidding. Something like a cold feeling of restraint creeps over us whilst we gaze: the virtues pictured in his stately features seem of that high and holy order which almost exempt their possessor from sympathy with mankind. Thoughts of martyrs or patriots, a zealous but stern prophet chosen in evil times to denounce judgment, not to proclaim mercy, recur to our minds. Yet John is not altogether what he appears; or rather he is that and more too. I have seen him in private life in moments of relaxation when surrounded by his family and one or two bosom friends. Nothing in such circumstances can be more fascinating than his winning, easy manner, his calm cheerfulness, his pleasing, philosophical gravity of aspect and demeanour. For hours I have watched him while he sat on a sofa with his lovely wife beside him, and the beautiful Marchioness of Douro sitting at his feet; and heard the benignant simplicity with which he poured out the stores of his varied and extensive erudition, answering so kindly and familiarly each question of the fair listeners, mingling an air of conjugal tenderness in his manner to his wife, and earnest melancholy gentleness in that to Marian such as always characterized his treatment of her. Poor thing! she looked on him as her only friend,—her brother, her adviser, her unerring oracle; with the warm devotedness that marked her disposition she followed his advice as if it had been the precept of inspired revelation. Fidena could not err; he could neither think nor act wrongly: he was perfect. Those who thought him too proud were very much mistaken. She never found him so. Nobody had milder and softer manners; nobody spoke more pleasantly. Thus she would talk; then blush with anger if any one contradicted her too exclusively favourable opinion. Prince John, I believe, regarded Marian as a delicate flower planted in a stormy situation; as a lovely, fragile being that needed his careful protection; and that protection he would have extended to her at the hazard of life itself. To the last he tried to support her. Many lone days he spent in watching and cheering her during her final lingering sickness; but all the kindness, all the tenderness in the world were insufficient to raise that blighted lily so long as the sunshine of those eyes which had been her idolatry was withered; and so long as the music of that voice she had loved so fondly and truly sounded too far off to be heard. Fidena was in the house when she died. He had left the chamber but a few minutes before Zamorna entered it. On quitting the bedside, as he hung over his adopted sister for the last time, a single large tear, the only one anguish, bodily or mental, ever wrung from the exalted soul of the Christian philosopher, dropped on the little worn hand he held in his; and he muttered half aloud: ‘Would to God I had possessed this treasure; it should not thus have been thrown away.’

Marian’s portrait comes next to Fidena. Every one know what it is like: the small delicate features, dark blue eyes full of wild and tender enthusiasm, beautiful curls, and frail-looking form, are familiar to all; so I need not pause on a more elaborate detail.

After her the frank face of General Thornton looks out on the gazer with a hearty, welcoming aspect. You almost hear his doric accents exclaiming: ‘Well, how do you do, this evening? Fine, summer weather! I’m taking a bit of a stroll to Girnington Hall. Will ye come with me and see how the cattle thrive?’ Honest, honest Thornton! there are few men so worthy as thyself in the world. Thou hast been wronged, vilely and shamefully wronged; yet not a shadow of discontent in that smooth, broad brow, with its dashing swirl of hair, intimates that thou art an ill-used man. Never did a word of complaint fall from those fresh-coloured, well-formed lips. Hearty execrations have often poured from them, but not a single whine. Thornton bears a resemblance to Prince John; faint indeed and rather uncertain as to its locality, but still sufficient to point out their relationship. The complexions of both are fair and northern; the eyes are of similar colour: a clear and lively grey; and the nose not unlike in contour. Their forms, however, are very different, the general’s being middle-sized and somewhat stout, the duke’s tall, thin, and stately. But their minds! There the great distinction lies; no wonder they hate each other! Fire and flint could no more amalgamate than them.

Lady Maria Sneachy, a real, dazzling, brilliant, smiling beauty! What large, imperial eyes; what a magnificent neck and brow; and how haughtily she lifts her fair head with its weight of glancing black ringlets! She seems to scorn the earth which her small foot presses, and to look round in supreme contempt of beggarly man and all his trifling concerns. He may gaze at her, worship her, but let him aspire no higher. The laugh of satire that can burst from those lips is cutting to the last degree. I have seen many a wretch writhing under it, and pitied the despair with which he turned away from the royal coquette to seek happiness in a less splendid and less disdainful form. People say that Maria has found her tamer now. I know not how that is, but I think the King of Angria is too well satisfied with his present Queen, who fits herself to him and all his proud strange ways more perfectly every day, to choose even so grand a successor as Maria Sneachy would be.

Augustus, Marquis of Rosendale—young Highland Red-Deer! Fidena may be proud of his son. I never saw a child who better merited the epithet, ‘handsome,’ than does this juvenile prince. All his limbs and features are so round and regular. Look at those fleshy, plump arms naked to the shoulder; on that fair and florid face with its fearless blue eye, and the curly grace of his plentiful light hair; on that bold white forehead which will be bared yet to the mountain winds of his fatherland when he fronts them in the storm of the chase, and to the keener gales of war when he follows the sound of the trumpet and charges either to the rescue or ruin of that banner whose orb is rising, but which ere then will be in its glowing noontide. Prince John should watch Augustus; let him not follow his young god-father in infancy or he will do it hereafter in manhood.

Here the second volume closes. I now take up the first.

Fire! Light! What have we here? Zamorna’s self, blazing in the frontispiece like the sun on his own standard. De Lisle has given him to us in full regimentals—plumed, epauletted, and sabred (I wish the last were literally true, by-the-bye!). All his usual insufferableness or irresistibleness, or whatever the ladies choose to call it, surrounding him like an atmosphere, he stands as if a thunderbolt could neither blast the light of his eyes nor dash the effrontery of his brow. Keen, glorious being! tempered and bright and sharp and rapid as the scimitar at his side when whirled by the delicate yet vigorous hand that now grasps the bridle of a horse to all appearance as viciously beautiful as himself. O Zamorna! what eyes those are glancing under the deep shadow of that raven crest! They bode no good. Man nor woman could ever gather more than a troubled, fitful happiness from their kindest light, Satan gave them their glory to deepen the midnight gloom that always follows where their lustre has fallen most lovingly. This, indeed, is something different from Percy. All here is passion and fire unquenchable. Impetuous sin, stormy pride, diving and soaring enthusiasm, war and poetry, are kindling their fires in all his veins, and his wild blood boils from his heart and back again like a torrent of new-sprung lava. Young duke? Young demon! I have looked at you till words seemed to issue from your lips in those fine electric tones, as clear and profound as the silver chords of a harp, which steal affections like a charm. I think I see him bending his head to speak to the Countess Zenobia or the Princess Maria or Lady Julia or perhaps Queen Henrietta, while he whispers words that touch the heart like a ‘melody that’s sweetly played in tune.’ A low wind rises and sighs slowly onward. Suddenly his plumes rustle; their haughty shadow sweeps over his forehead; the eye, —the full, dark, refulgent eye,—lightens most gloriously; his curls are all stirred; smiles dawn on his lip. Suddenly he lifts his head, flings back the feathers, and clusters of bright hair, and, while he stands erect and god-like, his regards (as the French say) bent on the lady, whoever it be, who by this time is of course seriously debating whether he be man or angel, a momentary play of indescribable expression round the mouth, and elevation of the eyebrows, tell how the stream of thought runs at that moment; the mind which so noble a form enshrines! Detestable wretch!—I hate him!

But just opposite, separated only by a transparent sheet of silver paper, there is something different: his wife, his own matchless Henrietta! She looks at him with serene eyes as if the dew of placid thought could be shed on him by the influence of those large, clear stars. It reminds me of moonlight descending on troubled waters. I wish the parallel held good all the way, and that she was as far beyond the reach of sorrows arising from her husband’s insatiable ambition and fiery impetuosity as Dian is above the lash of the restless deep. But it is not so: her destiny is linked with his; and however strange the great river of Zamorna’s fate may flow; however awful the rapids over which it may rush; however cold and barren the banks of its channel; however wild, however darkly beached and stormily billowed the ocean into which it may finally plunge, Mary’s must follow. Fair creature! I could weep to think of it. For her sake, I hope a bright futurity for her lord; pity that the shadow of grief should ever fall where the light of such beauty shines. Every one knows how like the duchess is to her father: his very image cast in a softer—it could not be a more refined—mould. They are precisely similar, even to the very delicacy of their hands. As Byron says, her features have all the statuesque repose, the calm classic grace, that dwells on the Earl’s. She, however, has one advantage over him: the stealing, pensive brilliancy of her hazel eyes, and the peaceful sweetness of her mouth, impart a harmony to the whole which the satanic sneer fixed on the corresponding features of Northangerland’s face totally destroys. The original paintings of these two engraved portraits, namely, Zamorna’s and his lady’s, hang in the grand refectory at Wellesley House. Five hundred guineas was the sum paid for each. They are de Lisle’s, and rank amongst his most splendid chefs-d’œuvre. I know of no parallels to them, except those of Percy and Zenobia in the central saloon at Ellrington Hall. Search all the world from Iceland to Australia, and you will not find four human beings, male and female, to compare with them.

Hector Mirabeau Montmorency, Esq.! These features are somewhat stern to gaze on after such a continuation of the beautiful. They are far, however, from being harsh and disagreeable. A great deal of stuff was written some years ago about the exaggerated and grotesque character of this gentleman’s physiognomy. I remember several libellous assertions to that effect in the long since exploded catch-penny of Captain Tree’s denominated: ‘The Foundling.’^[*] But, indeed, where all the rest was a compound of the grossest falsehood, where Lord and Lady Ellrington, Mr. Sydney, the Duke of Wellington, the whole concern of the Philosopher’s Island,—tutors, masters of colleges, students and all,—were hashed up into one wild farrago of bombast, fustian and lies, why should the Lord of Derrinane escape more than others? It is not to be wondered at that this same work, which gave a detailed account of Zenobia Percy’s declaring in solemn soliloquy that she hated her husband—abhorred, loathed, detested her own Alexander—which afterwards showed her daring him in the most insolent language to his fate, glorifying the young Marquis of Douro, and anathematizing him; and which, to crown all, made Percy offer to commit an act that certainly was more than excusable—almost justifiable after such provocation,—namely, the final settling of so shrewish and shameless a wife, introduced a third person to prevent the deed, and made his interference successful. The volume which contained all this, I say, should excite but small accession of wonder by the few lines that describe Montmorency as a broad, low man, bandy-legged, squinting, his head covered with a shock of shaggy black hair, and his eyes of the consistency of boiled gooseberries: green, glassy, and ghost-like. The fact is Hector is a tall, well-proportioned, robust figure, with red hair, a florid complexion, an expression of eye which indicates good humour, powerful talent, and no small degree of ferocity. His countenance is certainly not so femininely elegant as that of Northangerland, nor so fierily magnificent as that of Zamorna, but it is the countenance of a gentleman and a Glass-towner, not of a brownie and a bear.

Hist! Thornton is awakening!

‘Heigho, Charles, what are ye about there?’

‘Looking at pictures.’

‘Looking at pictures? Aye, that ye are with a vengeance! Do ye see what you’ve done? Daubed your hands with ink, and then rubbed them over every other portrait in the book. Well, child, thou dost try my patience! Take away your fingers this minute. There! he’s drawn a scrawl across Lady Julia Sydney’s bonny face and spoiled the handsomest lass in the book! Leave the room and get me The Cook’s Guide: you shall learn a page of recipes for this business before ever you have a morsel of supper. Poor Julia! she’s fairly changed into a blackamoor; and there’s John with an ink mark across his forehead that makes him frown like death. Faith, that was a lucky hit! I’ve a’most a good mind to forgive you for it; but I willn’t either: there’s a hundred pounds thrown away, and I won’t have such work.’

All this was very true. While examining the portraits I had been jotting down the few remarks here contained. The ink had been communicated by the pen to my fingers, and by them to each leaf as I turned it over. If crime can be expiated by punishment, however, my sin was soon washed away. Till ten o’clock that night I was engaged in lifting up my voice over the pathetic pages of The Cook’s Guide, or, Every Man his own Housekeeper—(I think that is the title of the abomination); and, let me assure the reader, such a penalty as this might be the guerdon of graver guilt.

C. Brontë,

May 30th, 1834.

MINA LAURY

I

From the first part of the manuscript entitled ‘Passing Events,’ completed by Charlotte Brontë on her twentieth birthday, April 21st, 1836.

C. W. H.

MINA LAURY