turn towards the postchaise. It seemed to me To my thinking the best proof of your being fathoms deep in love is your admitting the thought of giving up Lord St. George's favour, and burying yourself at Darliston. "Not in the mere thought. It is a matter of common sense if you only consider it. As a choice of misfortunes I had better lose a chance of rising in the world than incur the disgrace of suffering my"--he was near saying "wife," but checked himself-"the disgrace of neglecting my engagement. Mr. Wainwright paid my debts, you understand, and I have a part to fulfil in return. The marvel to myself is, that I find what at first looked like a very unpleasant duty, assuming quite a tempting appearance. I am just in the humour to quote―. 'Oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit to my minister !' snatched a kiss one evening last week, and, though I was obliged to treat the matter lightly with Helen, her distress was so unfeigned, nothing like that must be suffered again. Tell me what is the fellow like? I have no more distinct recollection of him than of the porter who lifted my luggage when I arrived in Vienna. He was tall and dark, 1 think. Is he goodlooking?" "Yes, rather handsome, and an inch taller than yourself. The most dangerous point about him as a rival is his resolute will, directed as it is. He will not give up, either at her persuasion or your dictation, you may depend upon that." Mrs. Gainsborough said she was surprised at his success in assuming the courtier. Ac cording to my remembrance he was a rough fellow. I took him for some bailiff upon the farm. What sort of gentleman do you think he makes?" "Since he has left off swearing and paid attention to les convenances a very passable one. He is not remarkably deficient in intelligence and appears to have received a fair education. Many ladies might prefer him to yourself for a first quarter of an hour. Very few longer, I should say; at least if you were equally disab-posed to please." -She has glamoured me, and the surdity of the thing seems all the more because I have no need to take things other than equably. Helen is mine-irremediably pledged; and she loves me; only there is this lout of a cousin. Well, if he will bring me to Darliston-kismet-destiny. I must study the agricultural, and write pastorals to my dark-eyed shepherdess." Merton Brown laughed, but he shook his head rather gravely afterwards, saying: "No, no, Arden; we must do without that, somehow. It is too wild an idea. You see, you never were accustomed to any such mode of life." "I shall be down again early in the week, if, as you say, Grant Wainwright is not to be otherwise persuaded to resign." 'Well, I suppose you must see him. I go with you, of course. I would not make sure of your having fair play else." "How do you mean ?” "He has some disreputable acquaintancethat Witham we wrote to you about, for one. I have been cautioned myself that it was a venturesome thing, considering how I stood in relation to Grant Wainwright, to go alone to the Rood Farm.” "Merton, you heard of that affair on the marsh-of Helen's leap? You do not think Grant Wainwright could have had any hand in that attempt on her?" say he might not wink at unfair treatment towards you from others, and I fear passion might carry him almost any lengths. I wish we could hit upon some better plan than visiting him at his house. There will be an out-andout quarrel, and leave off strife before it be meddled with' is a wholesome proverb." "My dear fellow-Helen apart-it could not kill me. If I were sent on a necessary diplomatic mission to Cayenne or Siberia-should I not go? I allow that but for the thought of "No, no. Witham might possibly. He's a that dear loving girl, the idea would be de- bad fellow; capable, I believe, of any villainy; testable. It involves such very serious con- but Grant Wainwright is no sneak. He's a siderations in regard to my success in life that fair fighter, that I believe, and I have had some I could not think it right, except as a last re-experience with him you know. Yet I don't source. But I am in earnest, Merton. Thinking what I now think of Helen, loving her as I now love her, I could, were our engagement less binding, deem it right to devote some years of my life to winning her; and it is not because she may be mine without the trouble that I should shirk such a sacrifice if it be necessary to her happiness. Without supposing that Grant Wainwright may win her away from meand I do not believe he can-he yet must be a very torment to her if he perseveres. It is exposing her to an ordeal and to suffering which I feel bound to protect her from. I do not feel myself that temptation is good to encounter, and it cannot be right to expose her to anything of the sort. He has gone too far already; he "I must enforce my claims as Helen's affianced husband, but do not fear that I shall not be temperate in doing so. Since I left Oxford I have had many lessons on the necessity of keeping temper." "He will insult you." "If he does-I shall express my opinion with equal freedom. Mr. Wainwright cannot expect me to submit tamely to insult from his nephew while making a temperate statement of my pretensions. I will not take the initiative in warfare, but if he choses to resort to violence I am ready to take my chance. The responsibility of the affair shall rest with him, and Mr. Wainwright cannot expect Helen to receive on any terms a man who has conducted himself as an open foe to her affianced husband." "I see." "I say, Merton, who is that young artist who captured the pale-faced man?" "Young Merrivale?-a very nice fellow; brother of a tenant of Mrs. Gainsborough's." "Does he paint well? Could he paint Helen ?" "I think he might. He excels with ladies' faces." "And he is business-like, I suppose: will not fall to making love on the occasion ?" "No, poor lad; not in a hurry again. You did not hear of Lady Althea's having taken him in her snares?" "How was that?" "Well, you see, he was at the Castle last summer, assisting the artist who painted the frescoes. Then he competed at the archery fête, won, and danced with her ladyship. You must have seen him." "By-the-bye, I did. I noticed it was a case with him. But what a fool he must have been." "Just so: and to mend matters the fair lady had him to the Castle to paint her portrait; read love stories while she sat, to his further edification; and then whisked off to Paris leaving the said portrait three-quarters finished, and the young painter in about the same condition. He fainted in front of his easel, I am told." "It was flying at small game. There's the chaise, Merton.' "What train do you go by? I think you have plenty of time." "No; not five minutes to spare. Little Swingate is my station, five miles beyond Marsham. I should have been recognized if I had been seen there. Parlons français, mon ami; souvenez-vous que je suis Monsieur Deschênes ?" LETTERS, &c., OF LORD BYRON. 16, Piccadilly, Dec. 26th, 1805. By the date of my letter you will perceive that I have taken up my residence in the metropolis, where I presume we shall behold you in the latter end of January. I sincerely hope you will make your appearance at that time, as I have some subjects to discuss with you which I do not wish to communicate in my epistle. The has thought proper to solicit a reconciliation, which in some measure I have agreed to still there is a coldness between us which I do not feel inclined to thaw, as terms of civility are the only resources against her, and-proceedings with which you are already acquainted. April 26th, 1808. I have been introduced to at the opera. She is pretty, but I do not admire her: there is too much Byron in her countenance. I hear she is clever-a very great defect in a woman, who becomes conceited in course. Altogether I have not much inclination to improve the acquaintance. I have seen my old friend -, who will prove the best of the family, and will one day be Lord B. I do not much care how soon. My- I shall never marry, unless I am ruined. will have the title and his laurels part, at least with Newstead. I am living here alone, which suits my inclination better than society of any kind. I have shaken off for two years, and I shall not resu ne her yoke in future. I am afraid my disposition will suffer in your estimation, but I never can forgive what I have undergone ..... I am a very melancholy fellow, for I think I had naturally not a bad heart; but it has been so bent, twisted, and trampled upon, that it has become as hard as a highlander's heel-piece. I do not know that much alteration has taken place in my person, except that I am grown much thinner, and somewhat taller. indeed, my relations are those of whom I know the least, and in most instances am not very anxious to improve the acquaintance. I shall be in town in January to take my seat. Newstead Abbey, Dec. 14th, 1808. When I stated in my last that my intercourse with the world had hardened my heart, I did not mean from any matrimonial disappointment. No. I have been guilty of many absurdities, but I hope in God I shall escape that worst of evils-marriage. I have no doubt there are exceptions, and of course include you amongst them; but you will recollect that "exceptions only prove the rule." I live here much in my own manner, that is, alone, for I could not bear the company of my best friend above a month-there is such a sameness in mankind upon the whole, and they grow so much more disgusting every day, that, were it not for a portion of ambition, and a conviction that in | times like the present we ought to perform our respective duties, I should live here all my life in unmarried solitude. I have been visited by all our nobility and gentry, but I return no visits. Joseph Murray is at the head of my household, poor honest fellow! I should be a great brute if I had not provided for him in the manner most congenial to his own feelings and to mine. I have several horses, and a considerable establishment, but I am not addicted to hunting or shooting. I hate all kinds of field-sports, though some years since I was a tolerable adept in the polite arts of fox-hunting, hawking, boxing, &c. My library is rather extensive, and (as you, perhaps, know) I am a mighty scribbler. I flatter myself I have made some improvements in Newstead, and, as I am independent, I am happy as far as any person unfortunate enough to be born into this world can be said to be so Newstead Abbey, Aug. 21st, 1811. I ought to have answered your letter before, but when did I ever do anything that I ought? I am losing my relations, and you are adding to the number of yours; but which is best God knows. Besides poor I have been deprived by death of two most particular friends in little more than a month; but as all observations on such subjects are superfluous and unavailing, I leave the dead to their rest, and return to the dull business of life, which, however, presents nothing very pleasant either in prospect or retrospection... I believe you know that for upwards of two years I have been rambling round the Archipelago, and am returned just in time to know that I might as well have staid for any good I ever have done, or am likely to do at home, and so as soon as I have somewhat repaired my irreparable affairs I shall e'en go abroad again; for I am heartily sick of your climate and everything it rains upon, always save and except yourself. I should be glad to see you here, as I think you have never seen the place, if you could make it convenient. Murray is still like a rock, and will probably outlast some six Lords Byron, though in his seventy-fifth autumn. I took him with me to Portugal, and sent him round by sea to Gibraltar, whilst I rode through the interior of Spain, which was then (1809) accessible. You say you have much to communicate to me. Let us have it, by all means, as I am utterly at a loss to guess. Whatever it may be it will meet with due attention. By-the-bye, I shall marry if I can find anybody inclined to barter money for rank, within six months, after which I shall return to my friends the Turks. ..... Newstead Abbey, Aug. 30th, 1811. There is a recurrence to these note of the first canto of "Childe Harold," to which an additional death gives additional pathos. The sub. ject and the sentiment might have been well spared. of the changes at which you hint: indeed, how should I? On the borders of the Black Sea we heard only of the Russians, so you have much to tell, and all will be novelty. I don't know what meant by telling you that I liked children. I detest the sight of them so much that I have always had the greatest respect for the character of Herod ;* but as my house here is large enough for us all, we shall go on very well, and I need not tell you that I long to see you. I really do not perceive anything so formidable in a journey hither of two days; but all this comes of matrimony. . . . . . Well, I must marry to repair the ravages of myself and prodigal ancestry; but, if I am so unfortunate as to be presented with an heir, instead of a bottle he shall have a gag. . And then if I can't persuade some wealthy dowdy to ennoble the dirty puddle of her mercantile blood, why I shall leave England, and all its clouds, for the East again. I am very sick of it already. . . . . Joe has been getting well of a disease that would have killed a troop of horse. He proold Parr. As you won't come you will write. mises to bear away the palm of longevity from I long to hear all these unutterable things, being utterly unable to guess at any of them, unless they concern, though I had great hopes we had done with him. I have little to add that .... .... you do not already know, and, being quite alone. I am but rarely pestered with visitors, and the have no great variety of incident to gossip with, few I have I get rid of as soon as possible. . . . Newstead Abbey, Aug. 30th, 1811. You will not be very sorry to hear from me again, I wrote to you yesterday, and as you considering our long separation, I shall fill up must excuse my being a little cynical,† knowing this sheet before I go to bed. how my temper was tried in my non-age. The manner in which I was brought up must necessarily have broken a meek spirit, or rendered a fiery one ungovernable. The effect it * This hatred extended only to the children, who are invariably "sons and heirs," with cheeks which are, or ought to be, like those of cherubim and seraphim in a church window. Lord Byron was so far from feeling averse to children not of his own sex, that he adopted a little Turkish girl whom he found among the prisoners at Missolonghi, vide letter post. I mention this because in my opinion a man whose feelings revolt from the innocent and angelic expression of the countenance of a beautiful child, cannot be a good moral character. It conveys more real religion to the heart than a thousand homilies. It is the touchstone of conscience -an object that Virtue, if it ever arrive at maturity, cannot contemplate without sympathy, or Vice regard without remorse. †This affectation of singularity is singular. It is himself has been seen to smile. Lord Byron was by stage effect-the mock gravity of Liston, at which he nature a humourist. He loved to make himself a mystery because be loved mystery, and did not hate himself. It is not very clever to mystify others, though it requires some talent to mystify everybody. ever, buffeting with the world has brought me a little to reason; and two years' travel in distant and barbarous countries have accustomed me to bear privations, and consequently to laugh at many things which would have made me angry before; but I am wandering: in short, I only want to assure you that I love you, and you must not think me indifferent because I do not show my love in the usual way. Pray can't you contrive to pay me a visit between this and Christinas? You will do what you please, without our interfering with each other. The premises are so delightfully extensive that two people might live together without seeing, or hearing, or meeting. .. . In short it would be the most amiable matrimonial mansion, and that is another great inducement to my plan. My wife and I shall be so happy, one in each wing. If this description won't make you come I can't tell what will. You may please yourself. Good-night. I have to walk half-a-mile to my room. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 2, 1811. I wrote you a vastly dutiful letter since my answer to your second epistle, and I now write you a third, for which you may thank silence and solitude My "Satire!" I am glad it made you laugh, for somebody told me, in Greece, that you were angry, and I was sorry, as you were perhaps the only person whom I did uot wish to make angry. But how you will make me laugh I don't know; for it is a vastly serious subject to me, I assure you; therefore take care, or I shall hitch you into the next edition to make up our family party. Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a scribbler. See what I am, and what a parcel of scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with, to deal with them in their own way: all this comes of authorship; but now I am in for it, I shall be at war with Grub-street till I find some better amusement... You say. . . . . in the autumn. I should be glad to know what you call the present season: it would be winter in every other country which I have seen Do let me know all about it, your "bright thought" is a little clouded, like the moon, in this preposterous climate *The reader needs not to be informed that the writer here alludes to the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," where this irascible temper may be seen in high perfection and imperfection, hand-in-hand with Nemesis, "taking through Grub-street a triumphant round," stirring and stinging indiscriminately, like a wasp in a beehive. A MEMORY. Oh! many, many years ago, Day after day, and hand in hand, And many, many years ago, But where the robins came to sing, "EARLY WILL I SEEK THEE." PSALM lxiii. 1. BY H. P. MALET. Ere the morning star is springing For I know the Lord is guiding All the twinkling stars away, And the paling moon is hiding From the brightness of the day. Early will I seek Him, bringing With the songs of Nature's love. God will surely stop and listen When He hears such voices From the dew-drops, as they glisten 'Neath the kindness of His eyes. Let us, then, our songs be singing, When the air is pure and sweet, When our morning hearts are flinging All their faith before His feet. MADAME DE LA ROCHIE. In the year 1815, the traveller on the banks of the Loire might remark the old Chateau de la Roche, and whilst admiring the seigniorial grandeur of the style, would grieve over the appearance of complete neglect which its decaying walls and grass-grown courts presented. The Marquis, its owner, was wholly incapable of enjoying the many gifts that Providence had lavished on him; though little more than thirty years old, he had been seized with mental derangement soon after his marriage, which had ended in a state of complete idiocy. He could only utter incoherent syllables, and sat day after day before a little table cutting out pieces of wood or playing with a steel chain which hung round his neck, to which was attached a small key. The Marchioness was somewhat older; tall, proud, and majestic, possessed of great beauty which seemed to have been petrified; she rarely spoke, fulfilled her duties to her husband and the poor with the strictest attention, but was so austere and impassible in manner that her friends gradually ceased to visit her. It was whispered that great as her calamity was in being tied for life to a living corpse, her sadness arose rather from an unfortunate attachment which had broken her heart some ten years before, the facts of which were as follows: The Marquis de la Roche, her father-in-law, had many years before taken part in the unfortunate expedition to Quiheron, and was accoinpanied by a faithful servant of the name of Cornier. In the flight the Marquis was received in one of the boats, which was rapidly rowing off, when he perceived Cornier, who had fought like a lion to cover his master's embarkation, swimming in the water, in vain attempting to reach the boat. He begged the Captain to stop, which was refused on the plea that he would have done so for the nobleman but not for the servant: "In that case, I shall force you to wait;" was the reply. The Marquis threw himself into the water, joined his servant and helped him to the place of safety. Both were thus saved, and the attachment between them became stronger than ever. Monsieur de la Roche adopted Cornier's only son and had him brought up with his own, the two young men becoming bound in fast friendship; Charles living as a gentleman on his father's estates, whilst Adrien Cornier endowed with great natural talent and good disposition, was passing his examination for the army at the Polytechnic School in Paris, where Charles also spent much of his time and money. and it was apparent that Adrien and the beautiful Emily Kifili were much attached; had she remained poor a marriage might even have taken place, but an event happened before the successful issue of the law-suit which changed the course of affairs. The only remnant of her former fortune which the Baroness de Kifili possessed was a magnifi. cent head-dress of diamonds, which she was fond of displaying and prized highly as a gift of Louis XV. One day they disappeared: the Chateau was in confusion, the police were sent for: Adrien had gone to Paris the day before the discovery, but the Marquis vouched for his innocence. He returned the night after, had an interview with his friend Charles, the result of which none knew, and the next morning in the presence of the family and the servants, who were assembled at his request, confessed his guilt. He had carried away the diamonds and sold them to a man whose address he gave, but refused to say for what price they had gone and where the money was spent. The Marquis in the midst of the general stupefaction, turned him out of the house, stifled the affair, redeemed the jewels, and restored them to the Baroness. Soon after she recovered her estates, and consented with pleasure to the offer which Charles made for her daughter's hand. The young man, it seemed, had loved his cousin passionately, but in secret: as for Emily, she allowed herself to be married. The union was soon followed by a double mourning; the Marquis was carried off by an epidemic, and Cornier, who had suffered so deeply for his son, died of grief. Though a model of probity and honour he never said a word of blame or reproach against him, and on his death-bed, in a sort of hallucination, stretched out his hands and blessed him. Of Adrien nothing was ever heard. A boy and girl were born to the Marquis, and then his terrible malady appeared, which cast its gloom over all the inmates of the Chateau, The doctor and the curé paid their visits, and frequently staid to dine. The conversation was between themselves, for the Marchioness rarely spoke; but in the month of June, 1815, the Baroness de Kifili had left the menaced capital and taken refuge in her daughter's home, and as she was an ardent royalist, and fond of discussion, the dinners had become more lively. The rapid events which followed the abdication of Napoleon aroused every one, and among the various political news came that of the disbanding of the army of the Loire. As When both were about twenty, they went to the Chateau was on the high road, each day the Chateau to meet a relative, Madame de brought the defiling of men and materials of Kifili and her daughter, who had lost her estates war; young beardless men who had never seen at the time of the Revolution, and was engaged the battle's front, and old men, wounded, in in claiming them from the Emperor. Every day ragged uniforms, whose appearance was humiliwas filled up with hunting, dinners, and fêtes;ated, heroic, and wild. One day in the month |