Three years have passed away,—the young Earl has arrived at age, and is coming to take possession of his domains—after finishing his education at Oxford; great preparation has been made to welcome him. Foremost on the occasion is Mrs. Alice Goodfellow, and as their Lord's reputed aunt for so many years, she is a person of no small importance:—still single, but beginning to think of settling now, as her glass gives awkward reflections,—but still balancing the claims of her admirers, though she does give color to the report of shewing a preference for the sturdy blacksmith;—by her side, smartly dressed, are gamboling about the young Johnsons, while their father, in a respectable suit of black, marshals the somewhat unruly procession of maidens and youths chosen to receive the young Earl. He is now the steward, (agent is a name he wisely discards,) and a great man, but young girls and boys from sixteen to twenty have a trick of paying no attention to the wisdom of their elders, and he is sorely put to it to maintain order. Spring has planted her fair feet upon the daisied green, and a huge May-Pole has been erected, as in the olden time, an ox is roasted whole upon the lawn, tables are spread out under the shade of the great elms and sturdy oaks, foaming barrels of mighty ale, such as Guy of Warwick drank, ere he encountered the dun cow, are seen with taps ready in them,—the children are dancing round the May-Pole in wild glee,—and now a scout posted on a rising ground comes tearing towards them as though life and death defended on his speed,—the carriage is coming,—a cheer arises,—it has passed the gates, and is coming up the avenue. Johnson is full of nervous excitement, the maidens cease giggling and pinching and all those endearing little amusements, the young men try to look solemn and only succeed in causing a burst of laughter from the sly girls, some of whom draw down their faces in imitation. They are nervous, too—what if the great man should see their dresses in disorder, and he a young man, too; the elder matrons and the farmers stand nearest the house, all is expectation, he has come, the carriage has stopped at the very extremity of the line, a cheer, thrice repeated, peals through the air, as he descends from the carriage, and it is a heartfelt one, for this they know has been among themselves, and shared their hopes and fears. He is followed by Captain Williams, in the full uniform of an American Naval Officer; he is whiter headed than when we saw him last, but he looks able to wrestle any man upon the ground, a cheer bursts forth for him also, though none recognize in him aught but the brave sailor who had shown such sympathy at the grave of Mary Waters. They are received by the Curate, Mr. Johnson, the Lawyer and the Clerk. The young Earl waves his hand, and every door and window, in the spacious edifice is thrown open. With a kind word for every one, a merry joke with one fair maiden, and a laughing glance at another, a cheerful nod to the young men, and a hearty shake of the hand to the old, and as he decorously salutes each old matron on the cheek, he fairly rushes into the arms of his quondam aunt, who nearly goes into hysterics with joy, (which would have been awkward, as she is stout, and has laced some,) so she thinks better of it, and cries over him, which does just as well. Such a shout arises as makes the very welkin ring. He stops upon the top-most step, Capt. Williams and the others by his side. Every sound is hushed as he speaks. 'It is not outside, my friends, whom I hope I may never give reason to regret this day. It is not outside of my halls that I can give you thanks for my reception. There is no room in my house in which you are not freely welcome, this night, and to him who will not accept the call of the Earl de Montford, I will send poor Edward Barnett. Ten years from this day, if such of you as are spared, and I am one, will meet me here again, I will render to you an account of my stewardship, and then if you can raise again the cheers with which you have this day greeted me, poor Edward Barnett will be more than rewarded for his trials, and the Count de Montford the happiest of his race.' The glorious sun shone full upon his manly form and handsome features, and as cheer upon cheer arose, not one that looked upon his open truthful countenance, feared he would not redeem his promise, or disgrace the proud motto emblazoned on the banners that waved high above his head on the battlements;—Nulli Secundi,—Second to none.
POSTSCRIPT.
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.
Gentle reader! if thou hast been interested in this tale of human hopes and fears—of stern retribution on the wicked, if thou hast shed a tear over the fate of the gentle and the good—thou wilt perhaps be anxious to know more of him, who at the close of our tale, we left—in life's young morning brightness—with wealth and power to aid in his path. Did he fall from his high estate, did prosperity dim the lustre of his promise, (and methinks some gentle maiden asks, how sped he in his love.) If thou hast borne with our tediousness, and hast not fainted—fear not, we will inflict upon thee yet more.
What all thy tediousness on me? (Leonato)
Yes, please your worship. (Dogberry.)
If thou hast been disgusted at the gloomy record, and kicked the book from thee,—Why then farewell, so end the hopes of poor
TOBY ACONITE,
e Scribe.