FRANK FAIRLEGH;

OR, OLD COMPANIONS IN NEW SCENES."

CHAP. XVII.

HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE.

be only too happy, and as delays are dangerous, I had perhaps better be off at once-where is the young lady?"

66

advising me to be married by deputy, I suppose, next, no, no, I'm going to do the trick by letter,— -something like a Valentine, only rather more so, eh? but I can't exactly manage to write it properly. If it was but a warranty for a horse, now, I'd knock it off in no time, but this is a sort of thing, you see, I'm not used to; one is not married as easily as one sells a horse, nor as often, eh? and it's rather a nervous piece of business,-a good deal depends upon the letter."

Eh! hold hard there! don't be quite so fast, young man," exclaimed Lawless aghast; "if you go away at that pace you'll never see the end of the run; It was usually my custom in an afternoon to read you don't suppose I want you to go and talk to her law for a couple of hours, preparatory to committing-pop the question viva voce, do you? You'll be myself to the tender mercies of a special pleader; and as Sir John's well-stored library afforded me every facility for so doing, that was the venue I generally selected for my interviews with Messrs. Blackstone, Coke upon Lyttelton, and other legal luminaries. Accordingly, on the day in question, after having nearly quarrelled with my mother for congratulating me warmly on the attainment of my wishes when I mentioned to her Lawless's proposal, found fault with Fanny's Italian pronunciation so harshly as to bring tears into her eyes, and grievously offended our old female domestic by disdainfully rejecting some little pet abomination upon which she had decreed that I should lunch, I sallied forth, and, not wishing to encounter any of the family, entered the hall by a side-door, and reached the library unobserved. To my surprise I discovered Lawless (whom I did not recollect ever to have seen there before, he being not much given to literary pursuits,) seated, pen in hand, at the table, apparently absorbed in the mysteries of composition.

"I shall not disturb you, Lawless," said I, taking down a book, “I am only going to read law for an hour or two."

"Eh! disturb me?" was the reply; "I'm uncommon glad to be disturbed, I can tell you, for hang me if I can make head or tail of it! Here have I been for the last three hours trying to write an offer to your sister, and actually have not contrived to make a fair start of it yet.—I wish you would lend me a hand, there's a good fellow,-I know you are up to all the right dodges-just give one a sort of notion, eh? don't you see?"

"What! write an offer to my own sister? Well, of all the quaint ideas I ever heard, that's the oddestreally, you must excuse me."

Very odd, is it?" enquired Coleman, opening the door in time to overhear the last sentence. Pray let me hear about it then, for I like to know of odd things particularly; but, perhaps I'm intruding?" "Eh? no; come along here, Coleman," cried Lawless, "you are just the very boy I want-I am going to be married that is, I want to be, don't you see, if she'll have me, but there's the rub;-Frank Fairlegh is all right, and the old lady says she's agreeable, so every thing depends on the young woman herself, -if she will but say 'Yes,' we shall go a-head in style; but, unfortunately, before she is likely to say anything one way or the other-you understand-I've got to pop the question, as they call it. Now I've about as much notion of making an offer, as a cow has of dancing a hornpipe,-so I want you to help

us a bit-eh?"

"Certainly," replied Freddy, courteously; “I shall (1) Continued from p. 4.

"You've been trying your hand at it already, I see," observed Coleman, seating himself at the table; "pretty consumption of paper! I wonder what my governor would say to me if I was to set about drawing a deed in this style; why, the stationer's bill would run away with all the profits."

"Never mind the profits," replied Lawless: "Yes, I've been trying effects, as the painters call it,-putting down two or three beginnings to find out which looked the most like the time of day-you understand?"

"Two or three?" repeated Coleman, "six or seven rather, voyons. Mr. Lawless presents his affections to Miss Fairlegh, and requests the hon. . .' Not a bad idea, an offer in the third person-the only case in which a third person would not be de trop in such an affair.”

"Eh! yes, I did the respectful when I first started, you know, but I soon dropped that when I got warm; you'll see, I went along no end afterwards."

66 6

"Honoured Miss,' continued Coleman, reading, My sentiments, that is, your perfections, your splendid action, your high breeding, and the many slap-up points that may be discerned in you by any man that has an eye for a horse . . .'

"Ah! that was where I spoiled it," sighed Lawless. "Here's a very pretty one," resumed Freddy. "Adorable and adored Miss Fanny Fairlegh, seeing you as I do, with the eyes' (Why she would not think you saw her with your nose, would she?) of fond affection, probably would induce me to overlook (did such exist) any unsoundness . . .'"

"Ex

"That one did not turn out civilly, you see," said Lawless," or else it wasn't such a bad beginning." "Here's a better," rejoined Coleman. quisitely beautiful Fanny, fairest of that lovely sex, which to distinguish it from us rough and ready fox-hunters, who when once we get our heads at any of the fences of life, go at it, never mind how stiff' it may be, (and matrimony has always appeared to me one of the stiffest,) and generally contrive to find ourselves on the other side with our hind legs well under us ;-a sex, I say, which to distinguish it from our own, is called the fair sex, a stock of which I never used to think any great things, reckoning them only fit to canter round the parks with, until I saw

"Feelings, eh?" said Lawless, rubbing his ear "Ah, now we come to the original matter," returned violently, as if to arouse his dormant faculties, “that's Coleman, "and very original it seems. easier said than done. Well, here goes for a start :'My dear Miss Fairlegh.'

"I lie tossing restlessly from side to side, as if me, or wire either.” bitten by

"Oh! that won't do," said Coleman; "no," These tender griefs (that's the term, I think) are some of the effects, goods, and chattels,'-psha! I was thinking of drawing a will the effects produced upon me by " " "The wonderful way in which you stuck to your saddle when the mare bolted with you,'" rejoined Law-an less, enthusiastically;-" what, won't that do either?" "No, be quiet, I've got it all beautifully now, if you don't interrupt me: Your many perfections of mind and person,―perfections which have led me to centre my ideas of happiness solely in the fond hope of one day calling you my own.''

triumph, and a right joyous theatric coronation by an
applauding public, if that generation had not blinded
their eyes to all that is worthy of worship? Could it
be conceived that Franklin (and I do not mean
thereby to depreciate his respectable services) would
have been received with a whole nation's glad
rejoicing, and the ringing of bells, and the gathering
of crowds, except that there were no real heroes left
for it to apotheosize, and it was obliged to play a
mumming with a counterfeit? And what was the
secret of that terrible French revolution, and its after
resolution into the tyranny of Napoleon? was it not
the fierce struggle of a sensualized, but newly-aroused
people to escape from unreality and conventionalities
of whatever kind? And how was it that men could
so unwisely think that a panacea for all these things
was to be found in your "quadruple alliances?" How
could they not perceive that all "balances of power
for mutual convenience, and let-alone systems for
encouragement merely of trades and manufactures,
will tumble to pieces under the least external pressure.
Mere quackeries of a sham expediency can be of no
avail; indeed, what can be of avail, when the human
heart is shut up in the narrowest cage of an insur-
mountable Bastile? Least of all, then, can such
triflings as these succeed. The soul of man complains
with a tolerably audible voice,—

better to exceed in veneration, and, if so be, become
superstitious (bad as this is,) than to be without it,
and have no worship at all. In the one case the
heart can be directed aright, for it has noble capacities,
in the other it must be recreated. Yet such is the
tendency of the covetous temper. Where it scrambles
after any knowledge at all, it is that sort of know-
ledge which may do its part in puffing up, and tying
the sandals of wealth, leaving truth to shift for itself;
which, by-the-by, it can very well manage to do.
Yet what a pitiable perversion of infinite capabilities
is this! Can we not join heartily in the exclamation |
of a great writer, "What a hollow, windy vacuity of
internal character this indicates; how in place of a
rightly ordered heart, we strive only to exhibit a full
purse; and all pushing, rushing, elbowing on, towards
a false aim, the courtier's kibes are more and more
galled by the toe of the peasant; and on every side,
instead of faith, hope, and charity, we have neediness,
greediness, and vain-glory; all this is palpable enough.
Fools that we are! Why should we wear our knees
to the bone, and sorrowfully beat our breasts, praying
day and night to Mammon, who, even if he would |
hear, has almost nothing to give? . . . . Fools that
we are? To dig and bore like ground-worms in those
acres of ours, even if we have acres; and far from
beholding and enjoying the heavenly lights, not to
know of them, except by unheeded and unbelieved
report! Shall certain pounds sterling that we have in
the Bank of England, or the ghosts of certain pounds
that we would fain seem to have, hide from us the
treasures we are all born to in this the city of God?'"'
And can men blind their eyes to these things? Dost
thou not know, O pitiable, groping gold-seeker, that
there is a stamp upon those pieces of gold of thine,
other than that which the mint, the temple of thy
desires, has affixed thereto-a stamp, which claims
them for another treasury, and gives them a weight-cheap ware? He has netted the earth with iron, and
iness hardly endurable even by the vigorous and
daring, and generous? Heap up thy gold-dust, and
die. Poor fool! thy son shall perchance enjoy its
fruits, such as they are; thou for ever its respon-
sibilities. Whose then is the gain?

And was this in very truth the mental history of an age? Was it not? Seek we our answer in the relics which that age has left. What was there which was not made to subserve the poor purposes of wealth? Science no longer busied herself with abstract truth, free and unfettered, greatly to be loved in and for itself; but it was only tolerated, so far as it ministered to the wants and luxuries of outside life, if life it could be called. So physical science, a very good thing in its way, but not altogether the highest of sciences, began to shut out of sight her elder brethren; and "we, the philosophers," was a title claimed exclusively by commentators on electrical machines, and lightning-conductors, and prosy expounders of the wonders of acoustics; and what is yet more droll, the claim was allowed by the gaping world, as far as it cared about the matter at all. Art, too, was required to do her work in the service of Mammon, and her noblest triumphs in these aforesaid times, were not for quite the noblest objects. In short the whole history of events shows how entirely the godlike, and noble, and disinterested, had gone from among men.

"What is that which I should turn to, lighting
upon days like these?

Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to
golden keys."

Mammon has spell-bound our race; and by his
wand has transformed men into very pigmies. There
are no giants in these days. He has blinded the
blue face of heaven with the smoke of manufactories,
but what gain we by that, save dusted calicos and

brought panting engines into the once secluded country, but how much nearer any truth are we, because we are fast forming ourselves into one vast sea-girt city? Let us open our eyes, and behold. All these things are good in their way, and cannot be reversed. But they are not all. The one object of our life is not neared even, much less gained, by the construction of ten thousand railways, or the erection of any number of manufactories. It is of course worse than childish to talk of undoing all these things. They are facts; and whether good or bad, must remain. But what we can and must undo, is the spirit of trusting to them as ends not means; the setting them up over us; the worship of all that ministers to luxury, and wealth and influence, while the soul is left to pine away under an undeniable atrophy. Old forms and prescriptions will not do. They have become obsolete. Old principles, if you please, under new forms, will answer; the more, the better. After winter the earth requires the life of spring, to recreate and to reinvigorate the beautiful and the good. So likewise does a dead and barren generation. We must aim at the good, the true, the beauteous; and not only, or chiefly, at the expedient, the useful, the practical. Be we practical, in its best and only true sense as much as we can; we cannot exceed. But we must not turn machines into idols, Think you that the vain old quasi-means into ends. Clothes, and furniture, and housephilosopher of Ferney would have enjoyed a Parisian hold conveniences of all sorts, and quick travelling, are useful in their way, indeed somewhat necessary, though not to the extent which the many would have time will never answer to the wants of our nature, us suppose; but busying about these to the end of

(1) There were of course exceptions to this general decline,

more especially in that great land of thought, Germany, where

a wondrous constellation of geniuses rose in the very thickest of

that long night.

3

Virtue, love, heroic constancy, faith, hope, magnanimity, these are our needs. Where have they rested hidden for so long time?

(To be continued.)

MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE.

CHAP. I.-THE STRANGER.

THE sun had scarcely gilded the barren mountains which surround the town of Marseilles; it was rising slowly over the beautiful blue sky of Provence, so sweetly sung by the poets, when a boat, in which were two men, of whom one rowed, whilst the other, standing erect, looked pensively around him, entered the large bay, and landed at the foot of the staircase of the ancient and splendid palace of the Counts of Provence.

The man who had been standing in the boat, and whose youthful and noble beauty was heightened by the stately air which seemed to belie the plainness of his dress, bore upon his hand one of those royal birds named falcons, much in vogue at that time (it was in the summer of the year 1234), and used by lords and ladies for hunting. He, however, was apparently neither a noble nor a falconer;-his dress was composed of an ample upper garment, lined and bordered with a dark-coloured fur, which fell upon his shoulders so as almost entirely to cover them, and a tunic underneath, sufficiently open to allow the whiteness and fine texture of his plaited shirt to appear.

The stranger had taken but a few steps upon the marble pavement which extended from the sea to the palace, when a guard approached him, and asked what he desired.

"I bring," said the stranger, "a falcon to the Princess Marguerite, the daughter of Count Beranger the Third;" and at the same time he presented to the guard a paper, before the seal of which the man inclined respectfully.

The man with the falcon then ascended the broad marble steps, entered the vestibule, crossed it, and turned towards the gardens, as one who was perfectly well acquainted with the place, or who had received the most accurate instruction even in regard to the slightest details of this immense edifice. On entering the gardens, he hid his bird in the folds of one of his wide sleeves, and perceiving a building at some distance, which, from its arched windows of painted glass, was evidently a chapel, he walked towards it. The entry was obstructed by a crowd of people, and from the interior of the temple issued the sweetest psalmody; it was the voices of young girls; one, in particular, of enchanting purity, attained the highest diapason; the other voices, though not so powerful, possessed that truth of tone and youthful freshness which charms and delights.

"What exquisite tones!" said the stranger, involuntarily, as he endeavoured, but in vain, to pierce

the crowd.

"Who sings well if not the daughter of the Count of Provence and her two cousins, who are taking today their first communion?" said a person, whose remark adapted itself so well to the stranger's exclamation, that she at once attracted his attention. It was an elderly woman; her brown and white striped petticoat, worn above one of blue, the two short enough to show the red stockings which clothed her legs; and her large black beaver bonnet, bordered with gold lace, marked her as a peasant.

"Or Marguerite de Bar, or Marguerite de Ligny," interrupted the peasant; "have I not told you that there are three Marguerites?-Marguerite la Brune, Marguerite la Blonde, and Marguerite la Blanche; or Brunette, Blanchette, and Blondette, as they call each other familiarly. Push on a little, my young stranger, for by your headgear I see that you do not belong to these parts;-there, now, turn to the right, and tell me, do you see them?"

"I see," said the stranger to his blunt but obliging companion, "three young girls kneeling.-Stay, do you also come forward, as you seem to know them, and tell me which is the daughter of Count Beranger." "Ask me who I am," replied the peasant, in so singular a tone that the unknown looked at her to see if she spoke simply or ironically, " and I will tell you that I am called Misé Millette, widow of José Marquet, waterman; but as to which of those three young ladies who are communicating yonder, is the princess, marry, I know no more than you; however, I imagine that a princess ought to be taller, fatter, and handsomer than a peasant; now, if that be the Marguerite that you ask for, my opinion is, that it is the one in the middle, whose fair hair falls below her veil."

Here Misé Millette was obliged to close her observations and suppositions, for the stranger, gliding from column to column, till he reached the one nearest the high altar, was already too far to hear or reply.

The singing still continued for some time, then the ceremony was concluded; the priest left the altar, the spectators withdrew, either dispersing themselves in the gardens, or returning to the palace, and soon, of all the noble and brilliant assembly which had filled the chapel, there remained but the three communicants; they had expressed a wish to remain alone to pray, and every one had retired, respecting this pious desire.

The unknown alone, hidden behind a pillar, remained in the chapel.

CHAP. II. THE THREN MARGUERITES.

In looking attentively at these three young girls, it was easy to divine which was named Marguerite la Blonde, from the beautiful golden hair of the first of this charming trio.

Marguerite la Brune, the second, brown both in hair and complexion, deserved her name, as did also Marguerite la Blanche, to whose ebon hair was joined a skin whiter than snow. But which was the daughter of Count Beranger! It was impossible to tell; nothing, no particular ornament distinguished one from the other. The fashion had not yet appeared (it came in some years after, and lasted two centuries) of having the armorial bearings of the family embroidered on the robes; so that these three young girls, dressed simply in high white gowns, fitting closely to the figure, and falling in ample folds in the skirt, had one sign only of their high birth, a sign common to all three the veil; which, instead of ending at the shoulder, as that of commoners did, reached to the ground, as it was borne by the wives and daughters of chevaliers. Two of the three, La Blonde and La Brune, were, each in her style, of remarkable beauty; the third, small, thin, badly made, had at the first glance nothing which attracted