FOOTNOTES:
[17] Revelations of the Life of Prince Talleyrand. Edited from the Papers of the late M. Colmache, Private Secretary to the Prince. Second Edition. One Volume. London, 1850. H. Colburn.
[18] Suetonius, in Vita, cap. 92.
[19] Οναρ εκ Διος εστιν.
[20] Voice from St. Helena.
[21] The reader will perceive that this was written before the death of Louis Philippe, which took place at Claremont on the 26th day of August last.
[22] The italics are not ours.
[23] See Caulincourt's Recollections, &c. vol. ii. Appendix.
[24] Caulincourt, vol. ii. p. 274, 5.
[25] The particulars have been gleaned from a few scanty notices contained in an unpublished volume by the late George Macintosh, Esq., the nephew of the Mr. Wm. Macintosh spoken of above, entitled, Biographical Memoir of the late Charles Macintosh, Esq., F.R.S. &c. &c. Glasgow, 1847.
[26] P. 210. The italics are in the original.
THE DANGERS OF DOING WRONG. A TALE OF THE SEA-SIDE.
BY AGNES STRICKLAND.
"And so you will not join our party to Dunwich fair to-morrow, Elizabeth?" said Margaret Blackbourne to the pretty daughter of the Vicar of Southwold, with whom she was returning from a long ramble along the broken cliffs toward Eastern Bavent, one lovely July evening in the year 1616.
Southwold, be it known to such of my readers as may happen to be unacquainted with its locale, is a pretty retired bathing town on the coast of Suffolk, remarkable for its picturesque scenery and salubrious air. At the time when the events on which my tale is founded took place, Southwold, though it boasted none of the pretty marine villas which now grace the Gunhill and centre cliffs, was a place of greater wealth and importance than with all its modern improvements it is at present. It was then one of the most flourishing sea-ports in Suffolk, and occasionally sheltered in its ample bay the stateliest ships in the British navy. And, in addition to the little corn-brigs and colliers, whose light sails alone vary the blue expanse of waters, a mighty fleet of vessels of war might not unfrequently be seen stretching in majestic order along the undulating coast between Eastenness and Dunwich, and the more remote promontory of Orford-Ness. Dunwich, too, that Tyre of the East Angles, sat not then so wholly desolate on her crumbling cliff as now overlooking, in dust and ashes, the devouring waves of the German ocean in which her former glory lies buried two centuries ago. Dunwich, however changed and fallen from what she was in olden time, still retained the rank of a city; and, instead of the miserable horde of smugglers' and fishermen's huts we now behold, with the roofless remains of one lonely church, there were busy and populous streets, with shops, and some appearances of maritime enterprise and mercantile prosperity. The annual fair, which still takes place there on St. James's-day, was at that time considered as a most attractive holiday by the denizens of all the scattered towns and villages along that picturesque coast. Many a well-manned yawl and light sailing-vessel would, in those days, put off from Southwold, Lowestofft, or Aldborough, freighted with a pleasure-loving crew, eager to enjoy a summer voyage and a merry day at old Dunwich.
A great revolution has taken place in public opinion since then, with respect to fairs, which, so far from being exclusively the saturnalia of the vulgar and dissolute, were then used as marts for the sale of various articles of domestic produce; and regarded by all classes of society as seasons of social glee, where all met together, from the highest to the lowest, in gala array, with smiles on their faces, and good-will in their hearts, to participate in cheerful sports and harmless mirth, in which good order and decency were observed out of respect for the presence of ladies and gentlemen.
Christopher Younges, Elizabeth's father, was, however, a man of stern notions; and looking on the dark side of the picture, the abuse of such assemblages, he absolutely condemned them as affording fatal opportunities for the idle, the extravagant, and the dissipated to indulge in sinful excesses, and to seduce the weak and unstable to follow bad example. He had never, on any occasion, permitted his pretty daughter Elizabeth, then in the opening bloom of eighteen, to display her youthful charms and gay attire even at the annual fair held in their own town, and she knew, as she told her gay companion, Margaret, "that it would be in vain to ask his permission to join the festive party on the morrow."
"For my part," rejoined Margaret, "I would as lief be a nun, and live shut up between four stone walls, as be subjected to such restraints! My father is the worshipful bailiff of this town, but he never stands in the way of a little harmless pleasure."
"Very true, Margaret; but my father, being a minister of the Gospel, understands these things better, you know."
"What! better than a magistrate? the chief magistrate of the borough and corporation of Southwold, Bessy Younges? No, no, my dear; you won't persuade me to that. Your father is a very good kind of man, and has a deal of book knowledge; but my father says, 'he knows very little of the world, and is far too stiff in his notions for his congregation,'" exclaimed Margaret.
"It may be so," observed Elizabeth, "but as I am bound to pay double attention to my father's advice, both as my parent and my pastor, I beg to hear no more on the subject."
"As you please, Elizabeth;—but have you seen Arthur yet?"
"Arthur! I thought he was at sea."
"He landed this morning at seven."
"And you not to tell me of it before!"
"I thought you had seen him; but I dare say he has called at the Vicarage while we have been out walking."
"How very provoking!"
"Never mind; you will have enough of his company to-morrow, if you go to Dunwich fair with us."
"But I am not going to Dunwich fair!" cried Elizabeth, pettishly; "and if Arthur Blackbourne goes without me I will never speak to him again."
"And if you do not there are plenty in this town who will be ready to pull caps for him, I can tell you. There is Joan Bates will be only too happy to sit by him in the boat, and she says—"
"Something vastly impertinent, I dare say; but I don't want to hear any of her cross speeches second-hand: I beg you will save yourself the trouble of repeating them, Margaret. It is getting late, and I must hasten home."
Time had, indeed, stolen a march on the vicar's fair daughter, while she had been discussing this interesting subject with her youthful friend and gossip, the sister of her sailor lover; for the full-orbed moon had already reared her bright face over the swelling waves, and was pouring a flood of radiance through the bay, and illuminating the high-arched windows of All-Saints' church on the distant dark promontory of Dunwich cat-cliff.
Elizabeth turned resolutely about to pursue a homeward path; but, at the little turnstile leading to the vicarage, which then with its neat garden and paddock adjoined the western boundary of the church-yard, she encountered Arthur Blackbourne and her brother Edward.
"Where have you been cruising out of your course, girls, for the last age?" cried Arthur: "here have I been giving chase to you both in all directions, till I have hardly a leg to stand on!"
"We have only been for a walk to Easton Broad," said Elizabeth.
"A walk to Easton Broad, the very evening of my return, and without me!"
"How should I know you were home?"
"There were other girls in the town who contrived to find it out;—ay, and pretty girls too—but they took the trouble of keeping a look-out for the Jolly Nicholas," rejoined Arthur, reproachfully.
"So did Bessy, I am sure!" exclaimed the boy Edward, with great vivacity; "why, she wholly crazed us about the Jolly Nicholas, and sent me a dozen times a day to ask our old pilots at the station, whether she were in sight, till they were so sick of the Jolly Nicholas and me, that they got as savage as so many sea-bears, and gave me the name of 'Old Nick' for my pains."
"Joan Bates was on the beach to welcome me on shore when I landed," pursued Arthur.
"Just like her; she is always so forward," retorted Elizabeth.
"It would be well if some people thought as much of me as Joan Bates," continued Arthur.
"And if you have nothing more agreeable to say to me, Arthur Blackbourne, I will wish you good night," said Elizabeth. "Come, Edward."
"You are in a mighty hurry, I think; when you have not seen me for six months, and I have thought of you, sleeping and waking, all that time, and now you won't speak one kind word to a poor fellow!" said the young sailor.
"I have spoken quite as many as you deserve," retorted Elizabeth; "if you want flattery, you may go to Joan Bates."
"And so I will, if you are not more lovingly disposed the next time we meet," said Arthur; "but you will be better tempered, I hope, at Dunwich fair to-morrow."
"I am not going to Dunwich fair."
"Not going to Dunwich fair, Bessy! a pretty joke, i'faith, when the Royal Anne is new painted and rigged with her best flags and canvas all ready to take us; and we have the prospect of a glorious day to-morrow."
"No matter; I shall not go."
"How very perverse;—just to vex me, I suppose!"
"You know my father does not approve of fairs."
"Fiddle-de-dee! there will be plenty of people as good as Parson Younges at Dunwich fair, and some a little wiser, mayhap."
"I am sure there is no harm in going to a fair," said the boy Edward; "and, oh, dear! how I should like to go to-morrow."
"So you shall, my hearty, if you can persuade Bessy to go with us."
"Pray, sister, let us go! there will be such fine doings;—a pair of dancing bears, and three jack-an-apes dressed like soldiers, a mountebank with an Andrew and a Master Merriman, and such lots of booths with toys, and beads, and ribbons; more cakes and sweetmeats than I could eat in a year; besides a merry-go-round and two flying ships. Then, there will be wrestling and cudgel-playing, foot-ball, jumping in sacks, and dancing on the church-green to the pipe and tabor, and you dance so well."
"And we should dance together," whispered the handsome mate of the Jolly Nicholas.
"It is all very fine talking; but my father will never consent."
"Tut, tut; you have not asked him yet."
"It would be useless if I did."
"That is more than I know; for no ship is always in the same tack. Men change their minds as often as girls; and if you coax the old boy handsomely, when you bid him good-night, my compass to your distaff, he'll let you both go."
"Oh, do try, dear sister Bessy!" cried Edward, hanging on her arm.
"Well, I suppose I must; and if my father consents I will join you on the beach with Edward at six to-morrow morning."
"We shall wait for you, remember," said the sailor, "so come and let us know, at all events; for time and tide tarry for no one," and so they parted.
Elizabeth, when she preferred her suit to her father that evening, met with a positive denial, accompanied with a stern rebuke for her late return from her evening ramble. She retired to her own chamber in tears, and cried herself to sleep. She dreamed of the forbidden pleasure; and that she was seated in the gayly painted Queen Anne, at the helm by the side of her long-absent sailor love, listening to his whispered endearments, as the boat glided rapidly toward the scene of festive enjoyment, to which the merry pealing of bells seemed to invite her. At five she was awakened by a light tap at her chamber door, from her little brother, who whispered, "Oh, sister Bessy, it is such a lovely morning, let us go and see the boats push off for Dunwich fair!"
"To what purpose?" cried the mortified girl, "the sight of them will only increase my vexation."
"Oh, but you promised to let Arthur and Margaret know; and they will take it unkindly if you do not keep your word," said Edward.
Far wiser would it have been for the brother and sister if they had kept out of the way of temptation; but mutually compounding with their consciences, that there could be no harm in going to see the boat off, since they did not mean to sail with her crew, they left the paternal roof together, and tripped hand-in-hand toward the spot where the Queen Anne, with her new crimson pennon, lay in readiness for the launch, surrounded by a gayly-dressed group of females, young and old, in their holiday attire, jovial seamen, and blithe young bachelors of the town, among whom, but superior to them all, stood Arthur Blackbourne, in his sable fur cap with a bullion cordon and tassels. His nautical dress differed little in fashion from that of the rowers of the yawl, only that his doublet was of a smarter cut and finer material, and surmounted with a full ruff of Flanders lace, a piece of foppery in which the handsome mate of the Jolly Nicholas imitated the fashion of the court of James I., and was enabled, by his trading voyages to Antwerp and Hamburgh, to indulge without any great extravagance. He had brought home half-a-dozen yards of this costly adornment and a damasked gown for the vicar's fair daughter, and he communicated the fact to her in a loving whisper, when, after springing half-way up the cliff at three bounds to meet her, he had fondly encircled her waist with his arm, to aid her in the descent to the beach. "And the damask is white damask," pursued he, "on purpose for your wedding gown; and I have a pocket full of silver and gold besides, to treat you with any thing you may fancy at Dunwich fair, my sweeting."
"Dear Arthur, it is of no use talking of it; father was very angry with me for asking his leave to go, and so I can not go. I told you how it would be!" said Elizabeth, with mingled wrath and sorrow in her tones.
The mate of the Jolly Nicholas looked troubled for a moment, and then said, "Never mind, my darling girl, you shall go to Dunwich fair for all that, and so shall little Teddy."
"Oh, dear Arthur, I am so glad! Hurrah for Dunwich fair!" shouted the boy.
"Be quiet, foolish child, we can not go without my father's leave," said Elizabeth.
"Yes, yes, you can; it is but for once, and I will take all the blame upon myself," cried Arthur Blackbourne.
"Goodness, Arthur! I never disobeyed my father in my life."
"Then you have been a very good girl, Bessy, and he can not reasonably rate you for a first fault; and if he does—there is the white damask ready bought for the wedding gown, and I am ready to take you for better or worse to-morrow," continued Arthur, drawing the half-resisting, but more than half-willing girl, nearer and nearer to the boat at every word; while Teddy, hanging on her arm, continued to wheedle and implore her to go.
"It is only for once, sister Bessy; only for once: father can't kill us if we do take this one day's pastime. Oh, dear, oh, dear; I shall die if I don't go to Dunwich fair!"
"Arthur Blackbourne, we shall lose the tide if you stand palavering there," shouted half-a-dozen of the crew of the Queen Anne.
"Arthur Blackbourne, you are to take charge of my niece, Joan Bates, if Bessy Younges doesn't go with us," screamed the shrill voice of the widow Robson, one of the busiest bodies in the busy borough corporate of Southwold two centuries ago.
"Oh gracious, aunt! you must not interfere between sweethearts;" expostulated Joan, with a giggle of affected simplicity. "I am sure I don't wish to take Arthur Blackbourne from Mistress Elizabeth Younges, if he prefers her company to mine, and it is her intention to go to Dunwich fair with us; but I think she does not go to fairs. Parson Younges always preaches against them, does not he, aunt?" said Joan.
"Why, to be sure he does," cried the widow Robson; "so of course his daughter can not be seen at such a place."
Elizabeth turned pale with vexation at these observations, the drift of which she perfectly understood. Margaret Blackbourne stepped back, and whispered in her ear, "All that is said to keep you from going to Dunwich fair with Arthur."
"I shall not ask their leave if I choose to go," returned Elizabeth.
"Then pray make up your mind at once," said the widow Robson, "or we shall none go, I fancy, as Arthur Blackbourne is the steersman of the Queen Anne."
"I am coming," cried Arthur, drawing Elizabeth toward the boat. All the female voyagers had now scrambled in, save Joan Bates, who was exercising her coquettish skill in parrying the advances of Bennet Allen, the town-clerk's brother, with the evident design of securing the attentions of the handsome Arthur Blackbourne for the voyage.
Four stout seamen, aided by a bare-foot, ragged rout of auxiliaries, such as are always loitering on Southwold beach in readiness to volunteer their services on such occasions, now began to impel the boat through the breakers with the usual chorus of, "Yeo ho—steady—yeo ho!" and Edward, following the example of some of the juvenile passengers, sprang into the boat with the agility of a squirrel, and a wild cry of delight.
"Edward, Edward, you must not go," exclaimed his sister.
"Hurrah for Dunwich fair!" shouted the willful urchin, tossing up his cap.
"Arthur, help me!" cried Elizabeth.
"Ay, ay, by all means," rejoined the mate of the Jolly Nicholas, taking her about the waist, and swinging her into the boat. The next moment he was seated by her side, and the Queen Anne was gayly dashing through the waves. Her canvas was hoisted amidst bursts of mirth, and snatches of nautical songs, and it was said that so gallant and fair a company and crew never before left Southwold beach. Elizabeth Younges was perhaps the only one who looked back with boding glances toward the town, and in so doing recognized her father's tall, bending figure on the centre cliff, holding up his hand in an authoritative manner, as if to interdict her voyage. It was her first act of willful disobedience, and her heart sank within her; and though she had triumphed over her bold rival, by securing the company and attentions of Arthur Blackbourne for the day, she felt more dejected than if she had been left alone on the beach. One black cloud, the only one in the silver and azure sky, now floated across the horizon, and appeared to hover darkly and ominously over her forsaken home, as the shores of Southwold receded in the distance.
"Arthur," whispered she to her lover, "I do not like to go to Dunwich fair so entirely against my father's prohibition. Do make the boat tack, and set the boy Edward and me ashore."
"Dear heart! it is folly to think of such a thing; we are opposite Dingle now."
"It will be only a pleasant walk back to Southwold for us."
"Very pleasant for you, perhaps; but recollect, there are twenty people besides yourself in the boat, and I really do not see why they should be put to inconvenience for your whims."
"But, Arthur, you know you put me into the boat against my will."
"The more fool I," retorted the offended lover. Elizabeth made an angry rejoinder, but instead of persisting in her purpose, she sat silent and sullen during the rest of the voyage. The merry pealing of bells from the three churches then remaining in Dunwich, sounded a jocund welcome over the waves—the old city was adorned with flags and green boughs in honor of her chartered fair, and the tall cliffs were lined with gayly-dressed groups, rejoicing in their holiday; but these things gave no pleasure to Elizabeth. The uproarious glee of her brother Edward annoyed her, and finding Arthur appeared in no haste to offer her his arm, to assist her in ascending the lofty cliffs of Dunwich, after they had landed, she took that of the reluctant boy and walked proudly on, without deigning to direct a glance toward her lover.
"I wish you would walk with your own man, sister Bess," said Edward. "I want to have some fun with the other boys."
"You are very unkind, Edward, to wish to desert me, when Arthur has treated me so ill. If it had not been for your perversity in jumping into the boat, and refusing to leave it, I should not have disobeyed my father by coming here," said Elizabeth.
"It is of no use thinking of that now," rejoined Edward; "as we are here, we had better enjoy ourselves."
Elizabeth never felt so little in the humor for any thing of the kind called pleasure. The want of sympathy, too, in her little brother, added to the bitterness of her feelings. She directed a furtive glance toward the party behind, and perceived Arthur engaged in what in these days would be called an active flirtation with her rival, Joan Bates: under these circumstances she determined not to relinquish her brother's arm; but that perverse urchin, whom she had so entirely loved and petted from his cradle, with the usual ingratitude of a spoiled child, took the earliest opportunity of breaking from her, and joining a boisterous company of boys of his own age. Bennet Allen then approached, and offered his arm to Elizabeth, with the mortifying observation, "that as they both appeared to be forsaken and forlorn, the best thing they could do would be to walk together."
The proud heart of Elizabeth was ready to burst at this remark, and had it been any where else, she would have rejected the proffered attentions of young Allen with scorn; but she felt the impropriety of walking alone in a fair, and silently accepted the arm of her rival's discarded lover, and at the same time affected a gayety of manner she was far from feeling, in the hope of piquing Arthur Blackbourne. Nothing is, however, so wearisome to both mind and body as an outward show of mirth when the heart is sorrowful. Elizabeth Younges relapsed into long fits of gloom and silence, and when addressed by her companion, made short and ungracious answers.
"What a disagreeable thing a fair is," said she, at last; "I no longer wonder at my father saying it was not a suitable place for me—how I wish I were at home!"
But many weary hours of noise and pleasureless excitement had to be worn away, ere the party with whom Elizabeth came to Dunwich would agree to return. Elizabeth's remonstrances, entreaties, and anger were alike unheeded by the companions of her voyage. She had haughtily rejected every overture on the part of Arthur toward a reconciliation, and declined to receive fairings or attentions of any kind from him, to manifest her indignant sense of the slight she had experienced from him in the early part of the day; and Arthur had retorted by paying his court very ostentatiously to Joan Bates. Elizabeth, neglected and alone, strayed from her party, and sought a solitary nook among the ivied ruins of a monastic pile, whose rifted arches overhung the verge of the lofty cliff, where she indulged in floods of tears, casting from time to time her wistful glances toward Southwold, whose verdant cliffs looked so calm and peaceful in the mellow lights of a glowing sunset; but it was not till those cliffs were silvered by the rising moon that the tide served for the return of the boats. At length, Elizabeth heard her name vociferated by many individuals of her party, and felt sorely mortified at the publicity thus given to the fact of her being at a forbidden place. Ashamed to raise her voice in reply, yet painfully anxious to return to her deserted home, she hastened from her retreat among the ruins, and ran eagerly toward the steep narrow path that led to the beach. On the way she encountered Arthur Blackbourne, evidently the worse for his revels.
"Where have you been wandering about by yourself?" cried he, seizing her roughly by the arm.
"You have used me very ill to-day, Arthur," said she, bursting into tears.
"You are jealous and out of temper," was the reply.
"Where is my brother Edward?" sobbed Elizabeth, for she could not trust her voice with a rejoinder to this taunt.
"In the boat, and if you do not make haste, we shall lose the tide."
"I have suffered enough for my disobedience to my father as it is," said Elizabeth; "and oh, what will he say to me on my return from this disgraceful expedition!"
"There is no time to think of that now," rejoined Arthur, as they proceeded to the boat in mutual displeasure with each other. Elizabeth perceived with alarm, that boatmen and passengers alike were in the same state of inebriation which was only too evident in Arthur.
The beach was now a scene of tumultuous bustle; a crowd of boats were putting off for Southwold, Walberswick, and all the other places along the coast for which the wind and tide served.
"Young woman," said an experienced Dunwich mariner who had been regarding Elizabeth with much interest, "which boat are you going in."
"The Queen Anne of Southwold," was the reply.
"Take an old man's counsel and go not in her to-night. She is too full of riotous head strong people, and those who ought to be the most cool and considerate there are the worst."
"Oh, but I must go; I dare not remain longer, for I came without my father's leave."
"So much the worse, young girl, for you; no good can come of such doings," said the ancient mariner.
"Oh, if I but reach my home in safety, I will never, never so transgress again!" sobbed Elizabeth as she took her seat among the reckless crew of the Queen Anne, and rested her aching head against the dewy canvas which was now unfurled to the gay breeze that came dancing over the summer waves.
It was a night of intense beauty, and the contemplation of the starry heavens above, with that glorious moon shining in such cloudless splendor over the mighty expanse of heaving blue waters, might have drawn the minds of the midnight voyagers to far different themes than those which were so clamorously discussed by them as they glided through the murmuring waves. The Queen Anne had shot ahead of the swarm of sailing boats with which she left Dunwich strand, and her thoughtless crew, with wild excitement, continued to accelerate her perilous speed by hoisting a press of canvas as they neared the shores of Southwold.
A dispute now occurred among them, whether they should land at the haven or opposite the town. None of the parties were in a state to form a very correct judgment as to which would be the best and safest point to bring the boat to shore. The importunities of Joan Bates and others of the female passengers, who had suffered severely from sea-sickness during the homeward voyage, prevailed on Arthur Blackbourne and a majority of the party to attempt a landing at the haven, and four of the boatmen scrambling through the surf proceeded to fix their rope and grapples, to bring the boat to shore. They were resisted by such of the men as were for landing opposite the town, and with reason, for the tide was rushing with great force into the river Blythe. Arthur Blackbourne had seized one of the oars to assist in effecting a landing on that perilous spot. Elizabeth Younges, who perceived a cable lying athwart the haven, started up in an agony of terror, caught him by the arm, and entreated him to desist. Arthur, attributing her opposition to angry excitement of temper, rudely shook off her hold and exerted a double portion of energy to accomplish his object, and just at the fatal moment when the men carelessly let go the rope, impelled the boat into immediate contact with the obstacle of which Elizabeth was about to warn him. The next instant all were struggling with the roaring tide. The slumbering village of Walberswick was startled with the death-shrieks of that devoted company. The anxious watchers on Southwold cliff, the parents, relatives, and friends of the hapless voyagers, echoed back their cries in hopeless despair. Then there was the impulsive rush of men, women, and children toward the spot where they had seen the boat capsized. In less than ten minutes the swift-footed neared it, but ere then, the dread gulf which divides time from eternity had already been passed by each and all, save one, of those who sailed so gayly from the town that morn. Lovers and rivals, passengers and crew, were united in a watery grave. The solitary survivor was Arthur Blackbourne.
The register of Southwold for the year 1616 contains the record of this tragedy of domestic life, penned with mournful minuteness by the faithful hand of the bereaved parent of two of the victims, Christopherus Younges, the Vicar of Southwold: we copy it verbatim from the tear-stained page.
"The names of those who were drowned and found again. They were drowned in the haven coming from Donwich fayer, on St. James's day in a bote, by reason of one cable lying overwharf the haven, for by reason the men that brought them down was so negligent, that when they were redie to come ashore the bote broke lose, and so the force of the tide carried the bote against the cable and so overwhelmed. The number of them were xxii, but they were not all found. The widow Robson, Johne Bates, Mary Yewell, Susan Frost, Margaret Blackbourne and the widow Taylor, were all buried on the 26th day of July, being all cast away, coming from Donwick fayer, on St. James's daye.
"Widow Poster was buried the 27th day of Julye. Bennett Allen was buried the 30th daie, Goodie Kerrison same daie. Edward and Elizabeth Younges, daughter and son to me, C. Younges, vicar and minister, was buried the 31st Dae of Julie.
"All these were found again in this towne and buried."—Southwold Register A. D. 1616.
ANECDOTES OF NAPOLEON.
BY THE LATE LORD HOLLAND.[27]