THREE WEEKS IN THE DOWNS.

OR

Conjugal Fidelity Rewarded.

Exemplified in the

NARRATIVE OF HELEN AND EDMUND.

Founded on Fact.

BY AN OFFICERS WIDOW.

LONDON

PUBLISHED BY JOHN BENNETT, THREE-TUN PASSAGE, IVY-LANE

PATERNOSTER ROW.

1829

THREE WEEKS IN THE DOWNS,

OR

Conjugal Fidelity Rewarded:

EXEMPLIFIED IN THE

NARRATIVE OF HELEN AND EDMUND.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY AN OFFICER’S WIDOW.

’Tis the day

On which my father gave my hand to Altamont;

As such, I will remember it for ever.

Rowe.

London:

PUBLISHED BY JOHN BENNETT,

THREE-TUN PASSAGE, IVY-LANE, PATERNOSTER-ROW;

AND W. BENNETT, RUSSELL-STREET,

PLYMOUTH.

1829.

ADDRESS.

READING is confessedly one of the great pleasures in life, and that of the light and entertaining description, such as the present Work is, if it does not possess the claim of being useful, it at least possesses that of affording pleasure, which is, in fact, being useful in its way; for surely that deserves the appellation, which beguiles us of our cares, and tends to alleviate the troubles and chagrins to which as mortals we are but too much subject.

            The reader will, we hope, peruse the work here presented throughout, and will not only find interest in the incidents related, but frequently be entertained with the spirited delineations of scenes and characters which are appositely introduced, in order to illustrate as well as amuse; for which, indeed, it would be an injustice not to acknowledge ourselves indebted to some valuable Periodicals, as well as to a recent and excellent work, entitled the Night Watch.

            Although some ambition might certainly exist within the breast of the writer to obtain literary reputation, yet knowing, that at setting out to detail the incidents which befel the heroine and many of the characters in the work, she did not then conceive the narration would so much interest indifferent readers, as the facts had interested herself; therefore, the stimulus to exertion was mere personal gratification; and as she occasionally laboured under an ill state of health, it was a cheerful resource against ennui; hence that which at first consisted but of idle Scraps, became at length a Book, and if the reader should derive a portion of that solace and amusement in perusing, which the Author felt in writing, she will have obtained as much gratification as she could presume to hope for.

            How far the pages thus dedicated by the Author exclusively to her own pleasure, shall hit the mark of pleasing others, which, at the commencement, had not for its design so palpable an object, remains to be tried: too frequently the best intentions are failures, and it would be no wonder, therefore, if the present work should fall short of the Author’s wishes, who deems herself inadequate to the great task, of succeeding in pleasing the rather fastidious taste of the present day. Certainly, there would be much satisfaction in obtaining this desire; but, however, she must abide the general issue, and if a juror only be withdrawn, perhaps she may consider it a trial gained.

CONTENTS.

Chap. I. p. 3

            Captain Kemp taken ill at an obscure inn, at Poole, in Dorsetshire—Helen (his daughter) attends him, and become acquainted with Lieutenant Rosse, who offers her marriage—her reluctance and refusal—remonstrance of her Aunts—her father prevails—betrothment—death of Captain Kemp—funeral—Helen’s illness—Rosse’s attention—Mrs. Gennings reconciles her to her condition.

Chap. II. p. 18.

            Helen’s recovery and marriage—takes leave of her Aunts—departure for Portsmouth.

Chap. III. p. 27.

            Introductory acquaintance with certain characters incidental to the narrative—Mrs. Gennings the fat landlady of Poole, Aunt Deborah and Mrs. Lander—pedigree of Lieut. Rosse—brief sketch of his early life—becomes an officer in his majesty’s navy—Captain Kemp, an army officer, marries the mother of Helen, opposition, family feuds, vicissitudes, and accidental rencontre with Rosse.

Chap. IV. p. 58.

            Rosse and Helen arrive at Portsmouth—introduction to Rosse’s family—their speculative opinions on his wife, and agreeable disappointment—Rosse joins his ship, acquaints his brother officers of his marriage—their gibes on the occasion—sketch of their characters.

Chap. V. p. 76.

            Visit to the dock-yard Chapel at Portsmouth—introduction to the officers—their surprise and admiration—Rosse’s family’s growing partiality for Helen—the first lieutenant enamoured of Helen—description of the Hon. Edmund Daly—family anecdotes of Rosse’s connections—Hart, an Israelite.

Chap. VI. p. 102.

            Rosse’s brother officers express their admiration of Helen, and raillery on the first lieutenant—his distraction depicted—they prepare to pay the wedding visit—considerable discussion on the merits of certain parties.

Chap. VII. p. 116.

            Helen’s reflections on her unhappy lot—prepares to receive Rosse’s brother officers—their visit—Daly’s embarrassment—Helen’s invitation to a ball—reluctance to accept—her chagrin at the disrespect shown to Rosse—Rosse’s jealousy excited—confesses his suspicions—Helen’s unhappiness—Daly’s passion increases—makes a second visit to Helen—Rosse returns from a convivial party—his indecorous behaviour—Helen’s reproof—he manifests his displeasure—accidental rencontre with Daly—Helen attends a country ball—Rosse brings Daly to it—Daly offends Helen—his agitation—reconciliation—Rosse intoxicated.

Chap. VIII. p. 162.

            Helen’s alarm and illness—Rosse’s anger and ill-behaviour—reconciled—visit to Gosport—Daly accompanies them—mutual passion of Helen and Daly—animating description of the sailor, and the officer on shore.

Chap. IX. p. 195.

Return from Gosport—Miss Thistel’s story related.

Chap. X. p. 206.

            Naval and military ball—Rosse’s pride of his wife—his family attempt to dissuade him from taking Helen on board ship—his obstinacy.

Chap. XI. p. 212.

            Helen goes on board ship—novelty of the scene—sails from the Downs—becomes acquainted with the inmates of the floating castle—Rosse respected for the sake of his wife.

Chap. XII. p. 229.

            Visitor on board—accident at table—Daly to blame—his chagrin—pastimes of the ward-room—a Tale of the Passions—Helen annoyed by Mrs. Smith, the marine officer’s wife—much raillery and joke carried on.

Chap. XIII. p. 391.

            Rosse’s relations much alarmed for Helen—Hart’s visit to Dorsetshire—interview with Helen’s Aunt—prevails on her to accompany him to Deal—Helen goes on shore, is insulted, accidentally meets Hart—sees her Aunt—Aunt Deborah’s disappointment—Rosse and Daly’s concern at their visit.

Chap. XIV. p. 330.

            Gala-day on board—man-of-war between decks—Aunt Deborah visits the ship—her wonder and surprise—amusements commence: the games of Launching a Cutter, and the British and Bold Buccaneer described—Aunt Deborah reconciled—takes leave—Rosse hoaxed—Daly proposes to get himself and Rosse removed from the ship—uproar in the ward-room.

Chap. XV. p. 376.

            Orders for sailing—captain and pilot come on board—going down Channel—magnificent scene of merchant fleet under sail—Helen’s early history made known to Daly—his anguish.

Chap. XVI. p. 395.

            Helen’s emotions at quitting England—Rosse and Daly condole with her—ludicrous narrative of the boatswain—spins a long yarn.

Chap. XVII. p. 426.

            Tables turned, Mrs. Smith banishes herself from the ward-room—captain and officers on bad terms—doctor put under arrest—storm at sea—great alarm for the safety of the ship—command resigned to Rosse—his intrepidity and skill—temporary preservation—hurricane—Rosse takes leave of Helen, their mutual anguish—storm increases—masts cut away—Rosse knocked overboard.

Chap. XVIII. p. 449.

            The ship a wreck—Daly protects Helen—Ocean, Newfoundland dog—ship’s boat overcrowded, and every soul perish—the ship breaks into pieces—Helen, Daly and Ocean in the water —their miraculous preservation—Helen revived after her exhausted and suspended animation—their forlorn condition—Daly declares his love—he examines the place on which they are cast away—discovers the dead body of the boatswain and a sailor—buries them—their desperate enterprise to reach the main land—success thereof.

Chap. XIX. p. 479.

            Country described—meets with a Hottentot party—character of the people—protection afforded them—dog demanded as a compensation—guides appointed—disaster, fatigue and sufferings on their journey—anecdotes related—hospitality of the inhabitants—arrival at Cape-Town

Chap. XX. p. 536.

            Their distressed state and appearance—Governor’s humane assistance and hospitality—Helen’s illness and recovery—recognized by the Governor as the daughter of his old friend—Daly and Helen’s marriage—history and description of the Cape.

Chap. XXI. p. 565.

            Their happiness—respect shown to them by the gentry of Cape Town—ship arrives from India—departure from the Cape—embark for England—Daly recognizes an old schoolfellow in one of the mates, who relates his adventures and a marvellous tradition.

Chap. XXII. p. 615.

            Make England—arrival at Plymouth—set out for Poole—Helen introduced to Edmund’s friends, reconciliation—Aunt Deborah and Mrs. Gennings’s ludicrous sympathy for Helen.

Chap. XXIII. p. 635.

            Honourable Edmund Daly promoted to the rank of Captain—Bates reinstated in the navy as Lieutenant—their appointment to the Resolute sloop of war, lying in Hamoaze—fitting for sea—Isabella arrives at Plymouth, marriage with Bates—separation, ship sails—Aunt Deborah taken ill—Mrs. Gennings’s correspondence—Death of Deborah—bequeaths her property to Helen—Mrs. Lampton’s correspondence—Resolute captures a prize—Daly posted—Bates made master and commander—happiness of all parties—conclusion.

THREE WEEKS IN THE DOWNS.

CHAPTER I.

——————————Yea ’tis the hand

Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,

Slow sapping the warm current of existence.

My moments now are few—the sand of life

Ebbs fastly to its finish.

Kirke White.

            “IT is impossible that I can comply with your wishes, sir,” replied Helen Kemp, to the importunities of an admirer in every respect unsuited to her inclinations. “I would rather not marry; indeed, you must excuse my refusing what I have no doubt you conceive, and which I believe to be meant as, a kind offer to me in my present distressing situation.”

            “Why, miss, I will make you a good husband. You shall want for nothing in my power to give, and——

            “I thank you, sir; but I cannot accede—I am extremely miserable—Oh! my dear Father!”

            “Indeed, my dear miss,” said a stout coarse, though apparently good-natured, woman, “I think you act wrong in refusing the gentleman’s offer; consider that your father has but a short time to live, and you know that it is his wish that you should marry him. You will be destitute if you do not; and I am sure that he will do all in his power to make your future life happy.”

            “That’s what I will,” interrupted the man; “I have solemnly promised her father to protect her, and may my next voyage be unprosperous, if I do not. I shall never forget the affecting manner in which the poor gentleman thanked me; therefore, my dear little darling, pray consider—place confidence in me, and all will be right.”
            Helen sat suffused in tears. The assertion that her father’s dissolution was near, had overpowered her feelings. A bell rung—the female was about to quit the room, when Helen rushed before her, and escaped from the apartment, dreading to remain alone with her would-be bridegroom.

            “Ah! ah! I see how it is,” said he, “she has some younker in tow.”

            “A fig for that,” replied the woman; “I tell you she has nothing but her squeamishness to get over—try again—her aunts no doubt will assist you.”

            “Her aunts! are those ladies her aunts I saw just now enter the sick chamber?”

            “Yes; and, I assure you, that to get rid of a poor relation, no efforts on their parts will be spared in your favour.”

            During this colloquy, the sick room was a scene of the most heartless contention. When Helen entered, an old maiden aunt, and a married sister, Mrs. Launder, were sitting by the bed-side; Mr. Kemp was sitting up, supported by pillows, wasted by the ravages of disease and anxiety, and suffering the most intense anguish, as he watched the wretched and disconsolate appearance of his beloved and only child.

            Mrs. Launder vociferated, “Are you mad, Helen? What! refuse so good a match—in your situation too—a beggar—without a farthing—to be such a fool—I’ve no patience.”

            A sigh escaped the unhappy father, and Helen wept and sobbed aloud, when Miss Deborah interfered. “Don’t be so harsh with the poor child, sister : marriage is an extremely delicate point—such a child too as Helen is—I do not wonder she weeps.”

            “My dear sister,” replied Mrs. Launder, “God knows it is a delicate point! I myself was five-and-thirty before I gave consent; nay, I even wept the first time my dear Mr. Launder saluted me—I hope, child, the man hasn’t kissed you yet?”

            “Oh! shocking, sister,” cried Miss Deborah; ‘what! after the lessons of prudence I have given her, as well as those she received from her dear mother.”

            “Her mother was not half particular enough; both father and mother have spoilt her; no wonder she is so very headstrong and obstinate.”

            Helen took little or no notice of such improper conversation. She stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing with the keenness of despair the changes which were taking place in the countenance of her father, whom she now believed to be dying: she had hitherto flattered herself with hopes of his recovery, but they were fled. He beckoned for Helen to approach him, which she immediately did. He opened his arms to receive her, pressed her to his bosom, kissed her cheek, and whispered with difficulty to her thus: “My dearest child, I feel that you will soon lose me; save yourself from the dependance of these women; accept the offer of a worthy man; obey me, and smooth the dying pillow of your father.”

            “Oh! my dearest father! how can I comply—I must see you well first—you must recover; indeed you will.”

            “That will never be, Helen,” interrupted Mrs. Launder, “you must comply. Which is the gentleman?” asked she, of the stout woman before mentioned, who now entered the chamber, and who was the landlady of the Crown-Inn, at Poole, in Dorset.

            The attention of Helen was still directed to her father, who, with the very little strength he had left, was urging her compliance to a union so repugnant to her nature; yet less disposed to resist it, as considering her acquiescence more a point of filial obedience than an act tending in the least to her own individual happiness.

            The officer now entered, for such he really was, a Lieutenant Rosse, now belonging to his majesty’s navy, but brought up in the merchant service, whose history and character will be further developed in the course of our narrative.

            “My niece, sir, has thought better of her scruples; and I conceive that you would have no objection to be betrothed immediately,” said Mrs. Launder.

            “I thank you, madam,” he replied, “take the word of a sailor, that every thing I have said shall be done; and extremely grateful am I to the young lady for so happy a change in her resolution.”

            Miss Deborah had not yet spoken: she was pondering how it was possible for a man, old enough to know better, could think of such a chit as her niece for a wife, when so amiable and interesting a person as herself was still in the state of single blessedness: she had a fortune too to bestow, and the reflection caused the wonder to increase.

            The flame of discontent at last broke forth:—“I am a little surprised, sir, at your choice; why Helen is a mere child! a full grown woman would be better calculated to make you happy, I should think.”

            Rosse looked at the speaker with an elevated brow, and casting a sidelong glance towards the landlady, showed that he perfectly understood the spinster’s meaning. As, however, he was not disposed to affront this rosy damsel of fifty, at least, he merely said—“Why as to that, madam, you see, it is the very cause why I like her—so young, and so beautiful. She is a nice little girl, and I have no doubt she will like me in time, seeing how kind I shall behave to her.”

            Mrs. Launder asked when the ceremony should take place.

            Helen started, as if awakened from a trance. Her father took her passive hand, and placed it in the officer’s, who pressed and kissed it; and thus was the young and lovely Helen Kemp affianced to Lieutenant Rosse, a boisterous son of Neptune. Mrs. Launder assayed to blush; Miss Deborah hung her head and sighed. All power of opposition to this heartless and extraordinary proceeding had ceased on the part of Helen, whose weak frame, exhausted with a long continued attendance on the wants of her father, as well as the repeated persecutions of her aunts relative to this ill-assorted match, was unable to bear up against so many troubles. Her passiveness was therefore readily construed into a willing acquiescence to a proceeding, perhaps but too frequently recurring, for the most sordid and selfish purposes.

            “The ceremony had better be performed this evening,” said the father, and turning to the officer, I wish to see her yours; for I fear my time is but short here.”

            “As soon as you please, sir,” replied the lover, “and I hope, miss, you will make no more objection.”

            Helen faintly said “No!” Her hand had been in his from the time her father had placed it there, totally unconscious of it. Having answered in the negative to his question, he ardently pressed her hand, which she hastily withdrew, and burst into a flood of tears.

            Thus betrothed to a man, with whose sentiments, feelings and habits she was totally at variance, she submitted to the ceremony rather as an automaton than as a being endowed with rationality to distinguish right from wrong. She had, however, obeyed a father’s dying wish, and partially satisfied with the fulfilment of so pious a duty, she resolved to submit with dignity to her unfortunate fate, and support with virtue the character of a wife, though unblessed with a wife’s best prerogative—the man of her heart.

            The father of Helen, as if wishing nothing more than to see his daughter provided for, rapidly sunk under his disorder, and the next day, from the occurrence we have just related, he expired.

            Helen had never quitted him from the time he was evidently dying; and, exhausted with fatigue and anxiety, and miserable from the continued reflection on her unhappy destiny, the shock was too much for her gentle nature to encounter; she fainted; fits succeeded, and a raging fever attacked her; she became delirious, and for three days her life was despaired of by the physician who attended her.

            Rosse, whose attentions were unremitted, was inconsolable, now reflecting, that perhaps he was the cause, and upbraiding himself for his precipitancy in marrying at so critical and awful a conjuncture, a being so young and so amiable.

            The aunts, those cold calculating beings, had quitted the house immediately on the decease of Mr. Kemp, leaving Helen to the care of her husband and the landlady, Mrs. Gennings, whose well-meant kindness was of essential assistance to her in so forlorn a condition. Indeed, the conduct of this woman, though wanting that refinement which renders a service doubly valuable, had really acted towards her during her father’s illness more as a mother than a stranger; and she now more than ever felt an interest in the welfare of Helen, and was determined to use every effort to accelerate her recovery.

            In the meantime the funeral of Helen’s father took place, Rosse attending as chief mourner: Mrs. Launder and Miss Deborah had too high notion of their dignity to be so vulgar, and accordingly remained in state in the parlour during the sad solemnity.

            This, which happened on the third day after the decease of her father, Helen was totally unconscious of; but the next day, some glimpses of returning reason were visible. She observed the landlady and Rosse, whom, however, she did not recognize. “Where am I?” were the first words she uttered. “How came I here? and who is that man?”

            Rosse addressed her by the endearing title of—“My dear,” and enquired how she was: she appeared partly to comprehend; but the landlady, whom experience had taught to be extremely cautious in such cases, replied, that he was a gentleman and a friend, who came to see her. “Oh, the doctor, I suppose? I am thirsty!” Some liquid was given to her, and she sunk into a quiet slumber.

            Rosse, whose blunt sympathies were not easily awakened, arising more perhaps from the dangers he had escaped, and the perils he had encountered, than from any inherent want of feeling, felt extremely vexed and annoyed at the circumstance of Helen’s mistaking him for a stranger, and now began seriously to reflect on the situation in which he had placed himself, through his headstrong eagerness to marry a woman with whom he had been acquainted but a few days.

            “Poor thing!” said he to himself; and poor devil that I am, to have spliced myself in so —— a hurry to a wench of whom I know so little; I shall be blessed with a mad woman for a wife, and shall become a laughing-stock to my shipmates:” then checking himself at the thought of the miserable situation the poor girl was in, he walked up and down the room in great agitation; that he ardently loved Helen there could be no doubt; and, by degrees, the reflection that he was now her natural and only protector, he became calm and willing to submit to the directions of the landlady, who desired him not to be impatient, but strictly to attend to the suggestions of the physician, whose advice was, that Rosse should not be seen by Helen, and that Mrs. Gennings should gradually make her acquainted with what had taken place.

            On the seventh day she became sensible of her deplorable situation, and the dreadful past burst on her view; she wept bitterly for hours, which had the effect of giving relief to her aching heart.

            Rosse was impatient to see her, conceiving the scrupulousness of the physician to be, over-nicety; having no doubt, that the kindness he had shown her, and the delicacy which he had observed since their union, had overcome her dislike to him.

            Alas! hearts are not so soon taught; neither are their possessors able to make them bend to duties imperatively imposed: it is a great conquest when principle is sufficient to guide the conduct in the right path, in opposition to the softer sensations; for the heart to feel one thing, and duty to direct us to act contrary to it, then is the hour of severest trial—then has a victory to be achieved almost too much for human nature entirely to overcome.

            Such now was the case with the orphan Helen: she had, as the circumstances rapidly passed before her, at the time of her betrothment, been by the dying injunctions of a parent whom she tenderly revered and loved, determined on the line of conduct she intended to pursue: she was now to act on it, and her repugnance was strengthened accordingly; besides, her broken spirits and weak state of body, added to the difficulty of the task, had rendered her fortitude unequal to so powerful an effort; she, therefore, avoided mentioning Rosse, and dreaded that every footstep was his.

            Mrs. Gennings observed her eyes continually attracted towards the door, if the least noise occurred, and conceiving she had better at last broach the subject, as two days had elapsed since her evident convalescence.

            “My dear Miss Kemp,” began the good woman, “I observe that you continue to fix your eye towards the door; now there is one without who is very anxious to enter; he is waiting for you to ask him, and I would put it you, whether it would not be proper to do so? He has been, and will prove to be, your best friend; and, I assure you, he has suffered much for you during your illness.”

            Helen sighed, and said, “Ah! Mrs. Gennings, would to heaven my father had allowed me to remain single; I could have endured any thing rather than be in my present condition; I could have taken in work, and have maintained myself; but I am now made for ever miserable. I have known this man but a few days; he is old, and otherwise unfit to contribute to my happiness; his manners are repulsive, and I am certain that his birth is mean, and to good society a perfect stranger—so coarse are his expressions, and so unlike the company to which I (perhaps it is my misfortune) have been used.”

            “My dear young lady, I have listened to what you have said with patience, in order that you may give vent to your feelings; but really now, you are silly, very silly—why, did I not know your dear mother? aye, and lived, when a girl, with your grandmother? I know the ladies, your aunts, and their tempers; the losses and troubles your dear father has lately experienced, and which I feel persuaded broke his heart at last—the death of your excellent mother was the severest stroke;—now, my dear miss, knowing these things, I say, and as the Captain (as I still call him) sometimes told me he had but forty pounds to take you and himself to London; and even then it would be uncertain whether he would be employed; and then the dangers of a hot climate;—but there, it is no use to talk about it, poor gentleman! he is gone; but it was the considering of these things that made me urge you to accept the gentleman’s proposals: believe me, my dear child, that you would have been horribly situated under the command of such women as your aunts are, for with them poverty is a crying sin; and as to work, Lord love ye! I am sure it would ill agree with your tender frame and delicate constitution; why the wind even is too rough to blow upon you, and so thought your poor dear unfortunate parents, who are now dead and gone, heaven rest their souls!”

            Here the poor creature’s sympathy for the forlorn Helen overcame her, and she sobbed aloud in the fullness of her heart.

            “No, my dear orphan, you would not, could not stand such drudgery; for the mere earning a bit of bread you must work both morning soon and evening late, and then the contempt with which your acquaintance would look down on you; for, believe me, not one of them did you so small a kindness as to call and enquire for you while your father lay ill; but since your marriage (as I may call it) with the officer Mr. Rosse, the Keppels, the Tomkinses, the Hawkinses, and others have repeatedly addressed me with ‘Well, Mrs. Gennings, how is the dear child?—so, we hear she is recovered—aye, and married too—pray do you know what the gentleman is worth?’ besides a number of others which I do not recollect; but all showing, that now you are respectably settled, they have altered their opinion as to your respectability, which also shows what you might have expected, if you had continued poor and dependent.”

            Mrs. Genning’s garrulity manifested so much disinterested zeal in behalf of the orphan Helen, blended with a powerful appeal to female pride, of which Helen was by no means destitute, and to which she was subsequently much indebted, that Helen listened with attention to this harangue, and smiled, but not replying, Mrs. Gennings construed it into a sign of approbation, and thus continued:—

            “You object that you are not sufficiently acquainted with the man; but this is easily remedied; for I am satisfied in my mind, that the more you see him, the less you will dislike him; you will see in him the rough sailor, but a plain honest mind; to my thinking, he is like a chestnut, a sweet kernel in a rough covering; it is true, he is not so genteel as your father was, but he is of the family of the Rosses that used to visit the mayor, as well as your own grandfather, and though they are now dead, yet they were neither mean nor poor. He has been to sea all his life-time, and hence his manners are rude, and otherwise than what you wish him; therefore, my dear child, use your good sense, and make him your friend while you may—send for him, and treat him kindly.”

            Helen could not, seeing how irrevocably her fate was fixed, but partially agree in the truth of what Mrs. Gennings had said, and replied, that she fully appreciated her good intention, and would endeavour to comply with her advice as well as she was able; requested her to dress her, and then present her respects to Rosse, and that he might wait on her.

CHAPTER II.

Cal. I tell thee, Altamont,

Such hearts as ours were never pair’d above:

Ill suited to each other: join’d, not match’d;

Some sullen influence, a foe to both,

Has wrought this fatal marriage to undo us.

Mark but the frame and temper of our minds,

How very much we differ. Ev’n this day,

That fills thee with such ecstacy and transport,

To me brings nothing that should make me bless it,

Or think it better than the day before,

Or any other in the course of time,

That duly took its turn, and was forgotten.

Alt. If to behold thee as my pledge of happiness,

To know none fair, none excellent, but thee;

If still to love thee with unweary’d constancy,

Through ev’ry season, ev’ry change of life,

Be worth the least return of graceful love,

Then let my Calista bless this day,

And set it down for happy.

Rowe.

            MRS. GENNINGS congratulated herself on her persuasive powers, and made as much haste as possible in doing as she was requested.

            Helen was seated in a great arm-chair, and Mrs. Gennings left the room on the welcome errand, not however without having repeated sundry argumentations, &c. (so cogent did she now particularly deem her loquacity), as to the proper behaviour of Helen at the intended interview.

            When she was gone, Helen sighed repeatedly, and recollecting the words Mrs. Gennings had said to her, viz. ‘That love would come in time,’ said to herself, ‘Never—never for him; yet have I not vowed to love and honor him?’ The reflection was sufficient to upset her little acquired composure; she was about to recal Mrs. Gennings, when that personage, and Mr. Rosse entered the apartment.

            He was struck with astonishment at her altered appearance. How different from the blooming girl he had previously known her. He had come into her presence with much light-heartedness, pleased that Helen had sent for him, saying to Mrs. Gennings,

‘better late than never!’ but he was extremely shocked at beholding so pale and delicate a creature as now appeared before him: he hastened towards her and said, “My dear Miss Kemp, I am grieved to see you so ill—I had hoped, my dear little girl, to have been at Portsmouth with you ere this.”

            Helen blushed, gave him her hand and said, “I hope I shall soon be well, sir, now I am able to sit up again.”

            She endeavoured to be composed, but in spite of her most strenuous efforts, she trembled, and could not look steadfastly at him.

            He observed it, and said, “My dear Helen, you appear to be afraid of me, why should you? Do you doubt that I will behave kind to you?”

            “No, sir,” stammered Helen; “but—you are so much a stranger to me, and—

            Rosse laughed and said, “true, my dear; but all things must have a beginning, you know; every day will make us better acquainted, and therefore do try and think me to be an old acquaintance—bring yourself to think so, and we shall be so in reality, and the like of like.”

            Helen could not but smile; the last sentence was generally the closing one of all Rosse’s speeches, although totally unconnected in meaning with the previous ones. Helen had, during their short acquaintance, observed this; and now instead of answering his question, she appeared to be in a deep study.

            Rosse imagined he had given her offence, and asked her in what respect.

            “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir,” said Helen; “I was reflecting on your last words; I do not understand them.”

            “What words?” said Rosse.

            Helen repeated them; but he did not recollect having said them. Helen said no more on the subject, imagining, as she afterwards found, that he had acquired this habit of expression, and considering that it was too soon to tell him to avoid the peculiarity.

            He continued with her part of the day, and towards the latter part of the week his attendance was unremitting: he endeavoured to entertain her by recounting his adventures, and telling such stories as were current in the sea-service, which to Helen possessed at least the charm of novelty; he would read to her, and though not the best of readers in the world, was not deficient in sense; he had a little taste too for the standard authors; and his conduct both in word and action was modest, except, indeed, that he was too ardent in his profession of admiration towards her.

            She and her father had been detained at the inn, he having been taken ill there; she had so arranged it, that as soon as she was able to leave her bedroom, she joined the landlord and landlady as usual. Rosse also attended her; and, to her great mortification, her aunts called, attended by the clergyman, intending to breakfast with them.

            The best room in the house was put into requisition. The antique dames appeared to be delighted with the apparent change for the better which had taken place in Helen, and congratulated the bridegroom on it, who expressed himself much obliged to them, and amused them with his delineation of nautical affairs, manners, technicalities, &c. to which he was quite au fait of course, and consequently in his element.

            There not having been a license to the former ceremony, it was of course not legal, and hitherto Rosse had been content to be without the privileges of a husband. He had, therefore, been instrumental in bringing the clergyman to the party, and had procured the license. Willing, however, not to appear too precipitate in any thing in the eyes of Helen: he had acted with extreme caution; for having previously ventured to hint it to her, her agitation had been so terrible, that he was alarmed lest she should relapse into her former illness. Her aunts, therefore, had been consulted, and they had readily entered into the scheme; for, however unwilling they might be to have had her as a poor dependant on their bounty, yet their notions were high as to the honor of their family; they, therefore, hoped to see their sister’s child legally wedded, and also that Rosse should throw off his suit of black, which, as a compliment to Helen he had put on, and appear in his full uniform.

            Things being thus prepared, Rosse had availed himself of the assistance of that indefatigable adviser and general go-between, Mrs. Gennings, who had acquired great influence over the mind of Helen, having known her from her infancy.

            Whilst, therefore, the aunts, the clergyman, and Rosse were engaged in conversation, previously to tea being brought in, Mrs. Gennings desired to have a little talk with her.

            Helen was terror-struck at the information, and began to upbraid Mrs. Gennings as an accessary to the trick, as she termed it, which had been put on her; but the landlady, who expected nothing less, so well expostulated with her, that she consented, though with a heavy heart, to go through the repetition of the ceremony, observing—

            “Ah! Mrs. Gennings, I ought to have been consulted. I remember but too well what happened at the close of the first ceremony, and I am fearful that it will be too much for me—it should have been deferred for several days yet.”

            “Why, my dear madam, (for I must now learn to call you madam and Mrs. Rosse), I have hitherto always looked upon you as my own little pet—I have known you ever since you were no higher than my knee—I think when I saw you first—

            “Oh! my dear Mrs. Gennings,” cried Helen, and throwing her arms around her neck, “pray call me what you have hitherto. You have, indeed, been a kind friend to me; I shall always love, esteem, and hope to reward you for your goodness.”

            “Well, as I was going to say,” continued Mrs. Gennings, “I really must accuse you of a little affectation in this matter. Have you not kept your room for the last three days, and there has been no occasion for it?

            “Is Mr. Rosse offended at my conduct?” enquired Helen.

            “Why, no, my dear; but he does think it strange in you, and said to me, ‘I see, Mrs. Gennings, this dear girl is not so ill as she wishes us to believe: now, I should not wish to frighten her, or do any thing that would annoy her, but I really do wish to rejoin my ship, and therefore I must make an end of this courtship, or rather half-married state:’ this is what he said, and I for my part, think him right; nay, I have wondered at his patience with your little quibbles, and to me, unmeaning ways.”

            “Nay, Mrs. Gennings,” replied Helen, “this is too bad; I really suspect you to be at the bottom of this plot to hurry me into a proceeding so unseemly at the present juncture—consider how recent the decease of my dear father has been, and I am sure you will not blame me for at least wishing not to be accused of an unnatural haste to become, what will be imagined independent, but in reality, at least mentally, a slave to policy, in obedience to the wishes of those I have always considered my natural protectors.”

            “Indeed, you wrong me,” said Mrs. Gennings, “I have done all in my power to prevent Lieutenant Rosse from using haste in the matter, but you see how it is—they wish the thing to be over; and as it must be done some time or other, why I advise you no longer to hesitate.”

            Helen sighing, looked in the glass; she observed how pale and languid she really was, and remarked that no one ought to accuse her of affectation, and that even then she was really ill.

            The landlady told her, that it was merely her present agitation of mind which caused her paleness; but at dinner she appeared charming, and that, to tell the truth, she did not imagine that her dislike to Rosse was so much as she really wished her to believe.

            “Why,” replied Helen, “as a companion to a person partial to a calm domestic life as I am, I will own, that he is not absolutely disagreeable—he is bearable, and that is all I can say. My fate is linked to his, and gratitude may bend me to him, as if he were a brother; and, indeed, I am glad that I can do that; for I must confess to you, that at first sight I really looked on him with abhorrence, and fancied him truly hideous.”

            “Well, well!” quoth the landlady, “I am glad to hear you confess so much: I am sure you will respect him more than a brother, when better acquainted; but come, come, we have staid too long. I hear some one coming; as sure as I am alive, Mr. Rosse; so do pray make haste.”

            Rosse entered, and spoke in the kindest manner to her, entreated her to have courage, and introduced her to the company; tea was served, after which, the ceremony was again performed: thus the affianced Helen became irrevocably the partner in the fortunes of Rosse, to whose uncouth and ungracious manners it had for ever become her duty to succumb.

            Rosse, at its conclusion, was in raptures; he clasped her in his arms, exultingly rejoiced, that he could now really call her his own.

            Miss Deborah and Mrs. Launder congratulated them both, and earnestly requested a visit before their departure, which Rosse declined, observing, that on the morrow he must prepare for their journey, which would take place on the ensuing morning, hoping that nothing would prevent Helen from accompanying him to Portsmouth; they then departed, leaving the clergyman, who had some business to transact with Helen relative to a small cottage, which was the property of Captain Kemp. who had let it furnished previously to his setting out on his intended journey, and had appointed the clergyman (an old friend) to receive the rent of it during his absence. He was now empowered by Helen and her husband, to continue to do so, Helen not wishing to part with it; Rosse observing, that they might like to occupy it, should he ever retire on half-pay: this, and about forty pounds, was the whole of the property left by Helen’s father. Mrs. Gennings had possession of the latter, which she offered, at the desire of Helen, to Rosse, who, however, refused it, saying that it belonged to Helen, and that he desired her to retain it, adding, that all expences incurred at the inn should be defrayed by himself.

            The minister remained to supper with them, and then took his leave; observing, that he should be happy to see them well on their return into Dorsetshire.

            This worthy man had been known to Helen from her childhood: she had always respected him, and when the door closed on him, she could not but be affected, separated from kindred and friends, her person and fate fettered to a stranger, the world and its cares suddenly imposed on her at so early an age—called on to sustain the character of wife, perhaps of mother too at no distant period—the tide of thoughts flowed rapidly in upon her conscious imagination, flung as she was into the uncertain stream of life, and now actually left alone with a man with whose character even she was but as yet imperfectly acquainted; and whose conduct might not, as she imagined, be always the same as his present professions would lead her to anticipate and hope.

            On the following day the preparations for the journey were duly made.

            Mrs. Gennings, however, was outrageous in her clamours against the selfishness of Helen’s relations, who had improperly, as she thought, allowed Mr. Rosse to be at the whole expence of their remaining at her house, which, with the physician’s bill, funeral and other expences, amounted to nearly a hundred pounds.

            Helen offered the money left by her father as part payment, which Rosse, however, would not allow, saying—“No! my dear; whatever has been done for your father or his memory, I take as having been done for me; and I am sorry, Mrs. Gennings, you should have said any thing about it.”

            “I could not help it, sir,” replied the landlady; “because I do not think you ought to pay it. We are not in any hurry for the money—pray let the rent of the cottage run up for it.”

            “No!” said Rosse; here is a draft for the amount on my agent. I have given the minister orders that the rent of the cottage shall be placed in the bank, that it may accumulate; it will be of service for my dear Helen should she ever want it for any purpose in my absence.”

            Helen smiled, and took him by the hand, saying, “You are too generous to me: though I have not been an extravagant daughter, may I not prove an extravagant wife?”

            Rosse was delighted with her freedom, and answered, that a smile from her was worth to him a hundred pounds at any time.

            On the second day after the marriage Mr. and Mrs. Rosse took leave of the landlady, whose tears were many, at parting with one whom she had always loved, and to whom she believed she had, in the late transactions, done the most essential service.

CHAPTER III..

Quin. Is all our company here?

Bot. You were best to call them generally,

man by man, according to the scrip.

Quin. Here is the scroll of every one’s name.

Shakspeare.

            HAVING to make a digression from the regular narrative of the interesting events which hereafter befel Helen, arising out of the important debût she had just made—the more important from the consequences which resulted to Helen ultimately, as well as those which attended her under the most critical circumstances to which she became accidently exposed.

            This chapter is therefore designed to introduce the reader to the several personages connected with the tale.

            Mrs. Gennings was the orphan daughter of the mate of a Newfoundland merchant-ship; he perished at sea, leaving a wife and children to deplore his untimely fate: he was at the time of his death in the employ of Helen’s grandfather, whose wife kindly admitted her an inmate of her house as one of the female children thus destitute of their providing parent; she placed her at school, where, remaining a sufficient time to become qualified to fill the situation of domestic milliner, or upper servant, better known in higher circles as a lady’s maid, to Helen’s grandmother, she became duly instated into that office, and there continued until she was denominated Mrs. Gennings; consequently, being ingrafted, as it were, on the same stem, she was able to appreciate justly the family dispositions, feelings and characters, as far as her limited capacity of making a true estimate of any such thing would allow.

            Mr. Brown, the grandfather of Helen, was a Newfoundland merchant, residing at Poole, in Dorsetshire: both he and Mrs. Brown were of very respectable families; they were visited by the gentry of the neighbourhood; he was a man of honor and integrity—had filled the office of mayor twice, and merited and received the approbation of his fellow-townsmen. He had three daughters, two of whom have already been seen acting their parts in our story, viz. Miss Deborah, who was the eldest, Mrs. Launder, and Mrs. Kemp, the mother of our heroine.

            They each, at the death of Mr. Brown, received ten thousand pounds. The landed property had devolved on a brother’s son, who, however, did not long survive his good fortune, but left two sons to enjoy it.

            Miss Deborah in person was never what could be called handsome, neither was she so plain as to merit the epithet of ugly. Previously to her twentieth year she was in shape tolerable; after it she increased extremely in size—a fixed blowsiness of colour, as it is termed, was visible in her cheeks, and, in fact, her outward appearance was altogether the very reverse of any quality denoting neatness or delicacy—yet these words were continually in her mouth: she affected extreme niceness in all things, but which was of no avail; her manners being as repulsive to good sense and real propriety, as her external appearance was forbidding to any pretension of the kind. She never had an offer of marriage; her ten thousand pounds were insufficient to balance her personal and mental defects, and weighed but as a feather against her corpulency.

            The present Mrs. Launder was, in the matrimonial sense, more fortunate; she was also in her person the exact counterpart of her eldest sister—she was a gaunt lean and lank figure; her head appeared to be screwed to her shoulders, so primly was it situated there; her face was pale and deficient of all fulness; her eyes gray, looked spitefully at all things, and was apparently predestined to a life of single blessedness by all who fancied themselves skilled in the least in physiognomical knowledge: she remained a spinster till thirty-five, unasked and unheeded, when necessity, that dire disturber of the natural current of our feelings, bestirred a neighbour’s son (per advice of his sinister parent) one Mister Launder, to look on the ten thousand pounds with something very like covetousness. He had speculated too far in business—had lost several vessels, and must have become a comparative beggar, unless something was done to retrieve his ill-luck: he hesitated a long time, reflected on the desperate remedy, but there being no alternative, paid Miss Margery Brown a single visit, was accepted of course, and to the surprise and disgust of Miss Deborah’s ideas of decorum, and the amazement and envy of a half-a-score other tabbies, she went privately to church, and returned home a bride.

            Launder was a lively and gay young fellow, good-natured and honest, and hence was capable of not taking advantage of any want of love on his part, but behaved with kindness to his new companion. He sold out part of her fortune, retrieved his credit, and at the time of Helen’s marriage was in affluent circumstances, kept his carriage, and allowed Miss Deborah to abide with her sister, to form one of their domestic coterie, in the absence of children, of which there was no great expectancy.

            Helen’s mother was the youngest of Mr. Brown’s daughters, and far surpassed them in beauty and accomplishments: her modesty, natural timidity, and excellent disposition, rendered her a favourite with all who were capable of appreciating such qualities; but we shall have to speak of her more at large at a further period of our narrative.

            Richard Rosse, the grandfather of Lieutenant Rosse, was in rank and station equal to Mr. Brown. He also had been twice honoured with the civic chair: he had three sons, the eldest of whom, Dick, as his father called him, was a spendthrift, idle, and rather profligate; he was, however, at last caught by the God of Love, in the character of a laughter-loving bar-maid of an inn in London, and he, who had often set at defiance the power of the fickle disturber of hearts, acknowledged himself conquered by the fine dark eye of the said damsel—this was not all the accomplishments of this lass; for if young Brown desisted from looking at her face, a pair of well-turned ancles, and a pretty small foot, with an elastic springiness in her heel, met his retiring half-averted half-rivetted eye—he struggled to abandon a passion which he knew would bring worldly discredit on him—it was of no avail—his sighs and looks quickly revealed to pretty Bess the state of his heart, and the malady under which he was labouring. The tongue that had hitherto rattled so glibly in making love, was now mute, though for what the tongue had lost, the eloquence of the eye made ample amends: this sort of courtship lasted the enormous duration of twenty-four hours, and the next found him asking, and she refusing; he grew bolder—she slapped his face, and with a coquettish toss of the head, wondered at his assurance.

            Dick was now at a non-plus! he knew that his father would never give his consent to a match destitute alike of rank and fortune. Betsy was firm—nothing but to be his lawfully wedded wife would do, she determinedly declared; and he finding or fancying it impossible to live without her, took her one morning early to Mayfair church, and the bonds of matrimony made them one for ever.

            This was truly wonderful to the astonished landlady of the inn, who was the aunt to the new-married lady, and was a thunder-bolt to Dick’s captain (for he was then acting as mate of one of his father’s vessels, which was at the time lying in the Thames, waiting the delivery of a cargo of timber from Norway): he instantly wrote to the father of the culprit, and shortly came the answer, enclosing a draft for a hundred pounds, his dismissal from the ship, and positively forbidding him ever to enter his father’s house more, and, in fact, casting him off entirely.

            Poor Dick, thus thrown on the world, went to Liverpool, was appointed mate in a vessel engaged in the African slave-trade, made one voyage, and was appointed captain the next. On his return, however, from the fourth, he died, leaving his widow with a son and daughter, the former of whom was Richard, the present husband of Helen.

            The young widow sent the boy to Mr. Rosse, his grandfather, and in a letter to him made her circumstances appear as deplorably as possible.

            She had saved a few hundred pounds, and set out part of her house as a lodging-house for the captains of vessels; thus securing a respectable living both for herself and daughter.

            At the expiration of three years, one of these lodgers offered her his hand; she accepted it, and became truly miserable. He was a worthless fellow—spent the little money she had saved, behaved brutally towards her and the child, and the little peace she at all enjoyed was only when the wretch was at sea.

            The daughter grew up and became attached to an individual connected with the Liverpool docks; was married to him contrary to her mother’s wishes, and was in consequence treated harshly.

            Mr. Whippel, the husband, returned to the dock-yard at Portsmouth, where his brother held a lucrative post. He received them very kindly, and through his interest with some one in power, he procured Whippel a situation at a salary of eighty pounds per annum, which, however, in the course of a few years, became two hundred: he lived by economy and prudence on this rising salary in decency and reputation, and became the father of six children.

            Rosse’s mother outlived her second husband, and although repeatedly wooed to make a third trial was obstinate in her refusal ever to re-marry: she, as will hereafter be seen, lived to see her son, to whom we will now pay some little attention.

            When he arrived at his grandfather’s house with the letter of introduction, as before mentioned, he was about seven years of age; was extremely like his deceased father, and appeared to be an interesting lad: he was dressed in a suit of black, and his appearance was in every respect very creditable, having been duly prepared for the visit by the captain of the vessel to whose care his mother had intrusted him.

            The old gentleman was not at home, being engaged in his official capacity as mayor of the town; but Mrs. Rosse, who had tenderly loved her son Richard, and would have interceded for him, had he condescended to have written to her; but his haughty temper could not bend to conciliate a parent for even a parent’s forgiveness, nor had the family heard any thing of him until the child now appeared before them whom she received.

            She wept bitterly at the untimely fate of her beloved son, and clasped the boy in her arms, and embraced him with the utmost tenderness.

            When the mayor returned to dinner, the little fellow was introduced to him, without informing him who he was: he gazed, sighed, and asked his wife with trepidation whether his countenance did not resemble some one whom she knew? “Yes!” she replied, “of that rebellious boy whom we have both wished to forget;” but when she continued, and informed him, that the child’s mother had sent him as the living image of his dead father, for indeed he was no more, the old gentleman sunk into his chair, overcome with grief that he had unblessed and unforgiven died; and with increasing tenderness embraced his grandson, and adopted him in his family immediately.

            He then enquired of the boy for his parent, and from him received the letter of introduction, in which his daughter-in-law depicted the prospects of her children as totally ruined by the loss of their father, but trusted his forgiveness and protection would at least be extended to her orphan boy; for the girl and herself she was content to struggle with every difficulty in expiation of the offence she unwittingly was the cause of.

            His uncles, however, the two remaining sons, were not so favorably disposed towards him. One was still unmarried, and lived at home; the other had become the husband of a lady older than himself, but rich; he had several sons and daughters, and avarice, that baneful vice, was the cause of the little Richard’s being looked on by these parties as an unexpected and unwelcome intruder.

            The boy resembled his father in temper as he did in person, and he was easily governed by kindness, but obstinate and sulky if harshly dealt with; he was grateful for favours and willing to oblige; but his other drawbacks, situated as he was, made him, in proportion as he grew older, more enemies than friends.

            But a short time had elapsed after his arrival, when it was observed by several lads that he was a new-comer, and consequently fair game for persecution. Some boys, older than himself, induced a party of young ones to bully him, browbeat, tease and follow him.

            One day, as he was returning from school, he was attacked by four or five of these little urchins, two of whom were taller and older than himself; they followed—hooted—called him nick-names, and pelted him with missiles of various kinds: being alone, and at some distance from the town, he hesitated what to do, but observing a tolerably large tree, he halted, set his back against the trunk, and defied the whole posse—“I will fight you all,” cried he, “only act fairly, and come on one at a time.” This proposal was accepted with a shout: the biggest boy declined from real shame, and undertook to form a ring for the fray; Dick objected to the ring, seeing they were all on one side; he said it was not fair, and was afraid of treachery; he, therefore, proposed, that all but he with whom he was to fight should stand back at a given distance; this was agreed to, the boys all roaring out that he was afraid.

            The second biggest boy then set-to, his courage being aided by insult and desperation, Dick soon became the conqueror, laid his antagonist sprawling, and eagerly called out for another foeman.

            The specimen he had already given was sufficient; the boys declared him no flincher—that he was not a coward, and that he had, therefore, gained his freedom.

            “What do you mean by that?” said Dick.

            “Why every stranger must prove himself no flincher before we admit him among us,” was the reply—“now you are free.”

            Dick grunted some expression not understood by the others, and surlily walked off, refusing the proffered friendship of some of the boys.

            “If he has courage,” said one, “he is a sulky dog.”

            “He will be revenged on us,” said a little timid fellow.

            “Never mind,” said the eldest boy; “never mind his revenge—I would have served him out, but I did not like to beat him, being taller—let him dare to touch one of you.”

            In the meantime, Dick marched home, inwardly triumphing in his victory: he had received what is called a smart facer, and his upper lip was much swollen.

            His grandmother cried out that he was hurt as soon as she saw him, whilst his uncle John began to reprove him; but the old Mr. Rosse interfered, and said kindly, “come hither, Dick, tell me how it was? You have been fighting, I presume—a stranger in the place, and—

            “It is because I am a stranger,” interrupted the boy, rather sulkily, “that it has happened,” and as well as his disfigured mouth would allow him related all the circumstances.

            The good old man gave him a shilling, whilst his uncle harshly rebuked him, and said he wished his story might be true.

            The boy’s inclination, as he grew up, was the same as his father’s—he would go to sea; and at the age of fourteen, he was placed with a captain to qualify him for the service, who was desired to treat him kindly, and as the grandson of an old merchant.

            He went a few voyages to Newfoundland, and also to Norway. His ship was changed at the request of old Mr. Rosse, in order that he might choose what voyages he should prefer: he then sailed to the Mediterranean, and returned laden with the produce of that luxuriant climate. In one of those voyages he became possessed of a young parrot, and took much pains to teach it to talk; but the constant use of sea terms applied by the captain to the men, rendered any other instruction needless. Poll readily caught these, and would scream an oath—call the men land-lubbers, &c. &c. to the amusement of the crew, and all who heard her.

            This prattling facility, however, was like to have been the cause of a fatal accident: whilst the ship lay at one of the ports of Norway, the merchant from whom they had purchased the timber was invited on board with his two daughters to dine with the captain; both he and the two ladies had treated the captain with the utmost hospitality, and Dick, who had always attended him, was a partaker in it: the ladies, indeed, were too fond of him, and did  all but ask him to have one of them.

            When the captain perceived them coming, he bantered Dick, and told him the Misses —— were ready to make another dead-set at him; the lad took this in sport, and attended him on deck, to welcome them on board, who were then alongside. They bowed politely to them, and Richard endeavoured, with all his ability, to return their complaisance. After spending an agreeable afternoon, they begged to take their leave; and in order to accommodate the ladies, a large tub was put into requisition, to lower them from the ship into their boat; ropes were fastened to them, and things were almost ready, when the parrot, observing the men prepared to obey the orders for lowering, vociferated—“lower away! d—— you, lower away! lower away, you lubbers!” lower away, indeed, the men did. In vain did the captain and Dick call to them that the ropes were not tight; Poll kept to her text, and the sailors deeming it to be the captain’s orders, the tub was unfortunately upset, and into the sea tumbled the hapless lasses; they were speedily rescued, though much exposed in being taken into the boat.

            The father swore it was a trick—refused to receive any apology, though Dick went on shore himself to offer every excuse.

            This incident was the cause of much mirth on board; and though the parrot was the real culprit, yet for the stupid obstinacy of the old merchant in refusing to be pacified, he was rather more caressed than otherwise for his ill-timed interference with the duties of his superiors.

            The story was retailed at a premium on the return of the ship to England; and a gentleman, whose love of fun and frolic exceeded his love of money, purchased it of Richard, whose propensity to avarice was proverbial, for twenty guineas.

            Old Mr. Rosse died in his absence, and Richard having given a loose to some youthful follies, which was made the most of to his disadvantage by his uncles, so that a series of fierce contentions commenced between him and his grandfather; among other disputes, the lad deemed himself competent to take the command of a ship, which the old gentleman had objected to until he had made another voyage; he was forced to obey; but before his return, the decease of his grandfather had taken place, and his will, which had been made immediately after the filial disobedience of Dick’s father, had never been altered, and the sum of five hundred pounds, which was left him, combined all Richard’s future prospects and present possessions.

            His anger was uncontrollable on his return, to find himself thus deceived in his expectations. He charged his uncles with having destroyed a will of subsequent date; but the lawyer being deceased, he could prove nothing. They offered him the command of a ship, but he —— them, and declared he would sink her, unless he received her as his own property: this widened the breach, and Rosse left them, and went to Liverpool, where he arrived just in time to see his mother, who shortly after died.

            He received a hundred pounds on this event, and immediately procured employment similar to that of his father—was mate for two voyages, and then became master of a fine ship, the Fame, in which he continued many years: the destructive climate, however, of the West Indies, had injured his health—he was in fact, from these causes, in a declining state when introduced to our heroine, the latent effects of hard and dangerous service, as well as insalubrity.

            Having done some slight service to Sir John C—— (afterwards port-admiral at Pl——) through whose interest a commission in his majesty’s navy was obtained, Rosse gladly embraced the opportunity; for having become possessed of property, the ambition of wearing an epaulette, and the desire and vanity to display his skill in nautical affairs, and by his enterprise shine in naval history, wholly engrossed his mind.

            The admiral was his only friend; for, in fact, he made none: his temper was bad—he was ever at variance with his brother officers—was extremely fond of money, yet would throw it away in trifles, as it might suit his whims—was sulky and morose—could not bear a joke, and hence was considered fair game for raillery, and was the butt of the mess table.

            At the time of his marriage with Helen he was forty-eight years of age; his hair sprinkled with grey, his countenance sallow (indicative of the climate he had been in), his eyes small with bushy and projecting eyebrows, features tolerably regular, and his smile extremely agreeable, his voice thick and coarse, his form manly, and though rather short, his general appearance was genteel. Such is a brief sketch of the man to whom our heroine was married, at the early age of seventeen years. She was extremely beautiful, and altogether in appearance a very elegant woman.

            The father of Helen was superior in rank to either of the personages we have hitherto introduced. His father was a gentleman of fortune, residing at an elegant country seat, a few miles from Poole. James Kemp was the second son, and his early predilections were for the army: these were opposed by his father with whom he was a great favourite, and who was loth to part with him at an early age.

            The elder brother, whose mind was tainted with envy and selfishness, persuaded him to acquiesce in his younger brother’s desires, inwardly hoping that a friendly bullet might assist him to become the sole possessor of his fortune.

            A commission was accordingly purchased, and the young officer set off in high spirits to join his regiment, being then nearly twenty-one years of age.

            He served with distinction in America—was frequently wounded, and returned to England with his health much impaired from the fatigues and hardships of an active military life. Having procured leave, he rejoined his friends, after an absence of five years: he had been promoted to a company; and the young Captain Kemp became the theme of praise and admiration among the belles of the neighbourhood.

            His brother had in the meantime married; his mother was dead, and his beloved father, though bowed down with infirmities, was cheered with the sight of his darling son, whom he had often deplored as lost to him for ever.

            In attending one of the assemblies he became acquainted with our heroine’s mother; she was then a young and beautiful girl, and had just come out into fashionable life; he had no recollection that he had ever seen her before; he requested her to honor him with her hand as a partner, which she, with a sweet though timid voice, consented to. He gazed his heart away, and Helen Brown became its possessor: when the dance was concluded, he was surprised to see Miss Deborah Brown come and rudely take her away, scowling fiercely at the young officer, who, however, paid no attention, his eyes being rivetted on the sweet girl of whom he was now so suddenly deprived, whilst she looked at him at parting in a manner that showed she dared not disobey.

            He enquired of the master of the ceremonies the name of the lady, and to his astonishment and vexation, found that she was the daughter of the man with whom his father was engaged in a law-suit, and between whose families there had been a kind of hereditary hatred for a series of years. He watched both her and her partner in the next dance; her eyes often met his, and it was evident to him, that she paid but little attention to any thing but himself.

            At the commencing of another set, he again solicited her to dance with him in spite of the awful frown on the prim phiz of Miss Deborah, who had heard who he was.—The timid Helen stood irresolute, fearing either to assent or deny; another gentleman came to ask her, and her sister readily undertook to answer for her in the affirmative, when the Captain immediately informed him that he had a prior claim, on which the gentleman bowed and retired, and he at once took her hand and led the blushing, though secretly delighted girl, again into the set. At the conclusion of the dance he contrived to converse with her—that he was not at first aware who she was, having grown out of his recollection during his absence—lamented the difference between their respective families, and conjured her not to let that circumstance be a bar to their further acquaintance, to which Helen frankly assented; though she reflected with sad emotion on the impossibility of reconciling their parents to such a proceeding.

            The original contention between the parties arose from a dispute relative to a piece of land which Mr. Kemp claimed, but which the corporation opposed, and he in particular looked on the Browns and the Rosses as his greatest enemies.—The cause was, and had been of course, a long time in chancery, and pending the settlement of the question, the most bitter acrimony of feeling was from time to time showing itself.

            The young Captain, however, would not despair. He, on his return, informed his father and brother that he was enamoured of Helen Brown; who had danced with him at the ball without his recollecting who she was, and hoped, that as he felt his future happiness depended on an alliance with her, that no objection would be made to it; he painted in vivid colours the folly of so obstinately and acrimoniously continuing a hatred which could never tend to any good; but which, without any adequate cause, was the means of embittering the lives, not only of the parties interested, but of a number of individuals who really were even unacquainted with the real cause in dispute.

            It was useless; the old gentleman became absolutely furious, which was aided by the intervention of the elder brother, whose animosity against the Browns, &c. was as bitter as the father could wish. He charged his younger son to avoid the young imp, as he called the young lady, assuring him of his irrevocable displeasure if the connection was not immediately dropped.

            James sighed, and felt it to be impossible. He was narrowly watched by his elder brother, and for a week he was unable to see or hear any thing of his beloved Helen.

            She, on her part, had been the round of a severe lecturing at home; was threatened to be locked up unless she faithfully promised not only never to see the Captain again, but to give her consent to be married to a gentleman whom her father had selected for her, belonging to the neighbourhood, in consequence of the discovery of the intimacy which had arisen between her and the Captain.

            This news, on its reaching the Captain, put him to the severest mental tortures, and he even began to despair of being able to counteract the machinations of so heartless a set of persons; when passing through one of the streets of Poole, he met Helen alone; she had been walking with her sister Deborah, who had just stepped in to confabulate with a crony of her own stamp, desiring Helen to pass on to the next place they intended to call. The poor girl was ready to drop with trepidation at this unexpected rencounter.

            “Oh! I must not speak nor see you again,” stammered she; “my sister is coming, and if I am seen with you, God knows the consequences.”

            He eagerly assured her of his unalterable attachment, and his determination not to leave her, unless she promised to meet him at her own time and place alone: she hesitated; but recollecting that on the next evening her mother and sisters were engaged at a card club, consisting principally of old tabbies, to which delectable coterie Helen was denounced as ineligible, she tremblingly pledged herself to meet him at the end of the next street, which was an unfrequented one; on which they separated; just soon enough to escape the lynx-eyed watchfulness of her spiteful sister, who, intent on a bit of precious scandal which she had just heard, failed (for a wonder!) to notice the alteration which the unexpected interview had occasioned in the appearance and manner of her timid and frightened charge.

            After a sleepless night passed in reflecting on her fancied imprudence, at one time determining to evade her promise, at another recalling to mind the dreadful misery which, on the other hand, she had to expect. She at last resolved to brave every danger to avoid the latter alternative.

            The Captain was more determined; he plainly saw all the consequences, and his passion increasing with the difficulties with which he had to contend, he resolved to hazard all to rescue the woman of his heart from a degrading thraldom which would render both him and her miserable for ever.

            He accordingly provided a post-chaise and other necessary accompaniments for carrying her off, and privately wedding her, trusting to overcome by his ersuasions any repugnance she might feel to so decided a step.

            The next evening came, and on his part all was ready.

            The night was dark, and it was in the depth of winter: the hour struck when she promised to come, but no Helen! he began to be impatient—after waiting in an agony of wretchedness for more than an hour, he was about to return, when the lady stood before him, trembling with fear, and begging him to desist from his importunities.

            He caught her in his arms, vowing that she should never leave him. She wept, called him cruel, &c. but to no purpose. He apologized for any seeming rudeness, and declared that he would insist on accompanying her to her own house, if she refused to elope with him—expostulated with her, and depicted with the warmth of a true lover the wretched fate which awaited her.

            Half dead with terror and apprehension, she submitted to be led to the carriage. He assisted her into it; then bidding the postillion use the utmost speed, he jumped into the vehicle, and observed with sincere emotion that his lovely charge had fainted with affright.

            The carriage drove rapidly on towards its destination; the lover used every endeavour to restore the sinking spirits of his mistress, which he soon succeeded in doing. He soothed her agonized feelings, and tried to assuage the bitter misgivings she could not but have on perceiving the situation she was now in: he pretending that their parents would readily forgive them, whilst she, looking on the dark side of the picture, felt assured that the contrary would be the result.

            Within a few hours from their departure, the fugitives were missed; both parties were so much incensed against them as to decline a pursuit; they were, therefore, left to their fate, with a mutual determination to cast them off for ever.

            Old Kemp executed his last will and testament immediately, and disinherited his younger son.

            In the meantime the lovers reached the temple of Hymen—the indissoluble knot was tied—their minds were made up for the worst, which too soon unhappily reached them.

            The clothes of Helen (now Mrs. Kemp) were sent to her, as also a letter from Deborah, expatiating with much acrimony on the indelicacy, as she termed it, of running away with a man.

            In vain they endeavoured, by repentant epistles, to alter the cruel determination of their parents, which were totally disregarded, and to poverty they were obliged to submit; though in the union of two such hearts, it was far from being unhappiness.

            The Captain joined his regiment, which was ordered to India; his wife determined to accompany him—his tenderness, she felt assured, would recompense her for any worldly inconvenience she might suffer; and fortunately, another lady, whose circumstances were similar, was also going with the regiment; she was the wife of one of the officers—a plain but kind-hearted creature; and thus the four, by mutually assisting each other, contrived to keep up a respectable and becoming appearance.

            Two other ladies, the colonel and major’s wives, also accompanied the regiment; they were in affluent circumstances, and associated together; though the elegant manners and amiable conduct of Mrs. Kemp commanded their esteem, whilst the beauty of her person made her the admiration of the officers generally, whose conduct notwithstanding was most respectful towards her—the unremitting kindness of her husband leaving no room for the attention of others.

            They were of course compelled to endure many deprivations during their stay in India. Three children were born there, all of whom died.

            Shortly after, letters arrived from England, informing Mrs. Kemp of the death of her father, who had died without a will, and announcing, therefore, the happy tidings of her becoming entitled to a fortune of ten thousand pounds.

            The same account also informed them of the death of old Mr. Kemp, and of the elder brother’s having become possessed of all the property, although the old man, when too late, had shewn regret at his unkind treatment of his younger son.

            Thus suddenly raised to affluence, the Captain resolved to return to England the first opportunity. He had been wounded in a recent engagement, which had much distressed his gentle partner; and the colonel, finding it to be his wish to sell out, obtained leave of absence for him on account of his health; they shortly set sail with joyful hearts for their native land, where they happily arrived after a tedious voyage.

            Soon after their arrival our heroine was born, to the great joy of both her parents, and when Mrs. Kemp was able to travel they set off for Poole.

            At first the sisters fought shy of their ill-used relation; but observing, that the Captain had purchased the neat little cottage we have before mentioned, and that he was received into the best society, principally owing to his refusal to mix himself in the party feuds of the place, they gradually found means to insinuate themselves on terms of intimacy, and having succeeded in effacing, by a few pretended kindnesses, their former unnatural conduct from the minds of the Captain and his lady, they endeavoured to atone for the same by becoming obsequious and obliging in their future conduct towards them.

            Thus quietly and comfortably settled, Captain Kemp inwardly promised himself many happy years: his darling little Helen, healthy in the extreme, was an interesting and beautiful child. He was her principal instructor, and made it his aim rather to instil into her mind firmness of purpose, and a truly virtuous principle, than the usual accomplishments, as they are termed, of a female’s education; not that these were neglected, but they always formed a subordinate part; the mother’s disposition being extremely passive and ill-calculated for the active duties of domestic life.

            In this secluded and comparatively happy state they lived, respected and honoured by all who knew them; alloyed only by the declining state of health of Helen’s mother, who had shown symptoms of weakness from the time of her daughter’s birth, and which had been caused by her residence in India, as well from the effects of that climate, as the fatigues and hardships she had been compelled to undergo.

            When Helen was fourteen years of age the disease put on a more decided form, and in spite of the most active remedies she continued to grow worse; and though she lingered for two years, she finally sunk under her affliction.

            This severe and irretrievable loss was severely felt by Helen and her father, but it was rendered bitterly poignant by a further, and in a worldly point of view, more distressing misfortune.

            The agent who managed his business, and in whose hands was the bulk of his fortune, absconded, and ultimately became insolvent. Thus suddenly deprived of all future hopes of happiness or independence—the almost broken-hearted gentleman was, therefore, (as before stated) compelled to let the cottage, and having liquidated all claims on him, had determined, with forty pounds, all the money left, to go to some gentlemen with whom he was acquainted connected with the India-house, procure a situation, and go with his daughter again to India.

            He had requested her to remain at home, but she had refused to leave her dear father, urging, that as her mother had stood the climate, and that as she was stronger, she should feel no inconveniences from attending him; besides, her conviction that his health was evidently not good, she wished to accompany him, as the most proper person to nurse him, and otherwise administer to his comforts—these, and similar arguments prevailed. Her languid parent smiled—pressed her to his bosom, and acquiesced with reluctance in her resolution.

            Having quitted his cottage, he put up for a few days at the inn, kept by Mr. and Mrs. Gennings, previous to his departure; but the double shock of the loss of his beloved partner, and that of his fortune, preyed so deeply on his mind, that nature was totally overcome by it. The third night he was seized violently—he rang the bell, and on Mr. Gennings’s answering it, he found him speechless, and to all appearance dying: he hastily called his wife, and immediately sent for the physician, who declared his case hopeless. The anguish of Helen was indescribable—she fell into violent hysterics, and remained in them for a considerable time.

            This happened about five weeks previously to the arrival of Lieutenant Rosse in Dorsetshire—who had obtained leave, as his ship was laid up in one of the Portsmouth docks for repair; and having business to settle in town, thither he went, arranged the same; and, on his return, took Poole in his way, wishing to see how things went in the place of his youthful days and follies.

            He put up at the same inn, in which were Helen and her father—he recollected perfectly the names of both their families—though Helen Brown and James Kemp were perfect strangers to him; there could, therefore, though each belonged to the opposing families, and the elder brother of the Captain was the boy whom Rosse had fought with, be no animosity between them; “but there,” said he, on recounting his victory to Mrs. Gennings: “the poor Captain is ill, and has been cheated not only by his agent, but by his rascally brother, whom I so well drubbed; let it therefore die away.”

            He had heard from his own agent the loss of Helen’s property; he himself was now in possession of about three thousand pounds, which he had invested in government securities.

            He had never seriously thought of matrimony, till he saw Helen—when struck with her beauty and other excellent qualities, he proposed himself to her father, who, enfeebled by disease, and catching at the offer, as a last hope of rescuing his beloved daughter from penury and wretchedness, urged her with a strange pertinacity to accept the hand of a man, perhaps the least suitable for so interesting a girl, that could be found.

            The death of the poor Captain soon occurred, as related in our first chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

Sure, some ill fate's upon me:

Distrust and heaviness sit round my heart,

And apprehension shocks my tim’rous soul.

Why was I not laid in my peaceful grave

With my poor parents, and at rest as they are?

Instead of that, I’m wand’ring into cares.

Otway.

            HELEN and Rosse having arrived at Portsmouth, immediately went to the house of the sister of Rosse, Mrs. Whippel, where he usually lodged when not at sea.

            He had hesitated whilst on the journey respecting the propriety of introducing Helen to the family, which now consisted of several children; some of whom were grown up and married; two only were at home: viz, a son and daughter, the former of whom had a clerk’s situation in the dock-yard.

            Rosse imagined that his marriage would be disagreeable to them, as they considered, should he remain single, they would become entitled, in case of his death, to the property he possessed.

            He determined, however, to make the trial, resolving to resent keenly the least affront that should be offered to his wife, for whom his attachment grew daily more strong and ardent.

            Her gentle manners, and interesting conversation (for she had now become more reconciled to her fate, and hence more communicative) were delightful to the rough Lieutenant’s feelings; and even Helen, on her part, the unpleasant sensations attendant on her having in so unexpected a manner been committed to the care of an absolute stranger, began to feel something like respect for Rosse, and to treat him with a delicacy she had never expected to be able to do.

            It is true that the passion of love was a stranger to her breast, and though his fondness towards her was at all times troublesome, yet she had penetration enough to see, that as her fate was linked to his for ever, it would be prudent, if not absolutely compulsory, to endeavour as much as possible to contribute to his happiness; as, were she to act otherwise, and treat him with indifference, his conduct might change from kindness to cruelty—blunt, coarse, and really of a sulky temper, he would either love or hate; and to rouse the bad passions of such a man, would have been worse than madness, in the case of a young, artless, and unprotected female.

            She, therefore, carefully watched his conduct to others, and observed those traits in his character, the opposing of which might render her truly wretched for the remainder of her life.

            In one of his conversations, he observed, that he could not brook opposition, and hence, because he was subordinate to his superiors in rank, he disliked the navy.

            His previous profession, the captain of a Guineaman, was sufficient to stamp him as one ill-calculated for a display of the softer amenities of our nature, and he had acquired, in consequence, a dictatorial and imperious manner towards his inferiors; his love of money was sufficient, however, to keep him in the profession, and to avail himself of the influence of Sir J—— C——, though his high notions of his own skill as a sailor, impressed him with the idea that, without it he ought to have been long ago promoted; indeed he had a tolerable stock of self-sufficiency in all things; every thing that belonged to him was of a superior quality—even his wife’s beauty had increased since she became Mrs. Rosse, and vanity claimed him as her most devoted admirer.

            Observing these things, Helen had squared her conduct accordingly, silently acquiescing in whatever she could not approve, and avoiding any remarks that might tend to disturb the happy elevation of mind, which her husband seemed at present to enjoy.

            Rosse’s suspicions were but too true relative to the effect which his marriage with Helen would have on his sister’s family.

            He had written a letter to his sister, apprizing her of that event, the receipt of which was like a spark applied to a barrel of gunpowder; she called her husband and the whole family about her, raved at the folly of her brother, called him a stupid old fool, and applied such other epithets to him as would effectually, had he heard them, have prevented him from re-entering their abode.

            Mr. Whippel, however, and two of the children, viz. Fanny and Thomas, acted with more rationality, and after the first exacerbation of Mrs. Whippel’s anger, her husband began to endeavour to soften the wrath of his rather untameable spouse.

            “My dear,” said he, “do not let passion disfigure you so, such conduct is unbecoming; had not your brother a right to marry if he pleased? I do not see that he was obliged to remain single for the benefit of our children.”

            “Indeed,” replied Frances, “I did not wish him to remain single—I hope I shall like his wife; but I suppose she is old enough to be our grandmother, and therefore will be no companion for us.

            “No, no! my lass,” said the father, “I know Dick’s taste better; take my word for it, his wife is both young and handsome—though he is a rough blade, he has not been wanting in making a good bargain where a petticoat is concerned—what will you bet, girls,” continued he, laughing, “that I am not right, hey?”

            “Why, I think you are right, father,” said the son, “and I would as soon take his opinion on a similar subject as any man’s.”

            “Oh!” said the youngest daughter, “I know Uncle values himself on his penetration, and I dare say he has been taken in at last, by some one we shall be ashamed of.”

            “Oh!” screamed the mother, “I shall not be surprised if he bring with him one of his old lasses; and thus, with all his penetration, bring disgrace on us all.”

            “Pho! pho!” said Mr. Whippel, “however fond Dick may have been of taking other men's wives, I’ll be bound for him he has not been so foolish as to marry one that would aid another in a similar way.”

            “Lord have mercy on both her body and soul,” said Thomas, “if she should, for I believe he would treat her with the same humanity he did the slaves, his former cargoes.”

            “Ah! well!” cried Mrs. Whippel, “I hope she will plague his life out, or that he may lead the life of a dog with her—he had no business to marry at all—he has lived to be nearly fifty without a wife, and I had hoped he would have continued so—the old fool that he is—I could tear out his eyes with vexation.”

            “Folly, mother, folly,” said the son, “I shall receive my aunt with good will, should she prove amiable.”

            “And so shall I,” said Frances, “besides we shall have a little gaiety on the occasion; and, for my part, I shall do my best to keep in favour with both.”

            “Right, girl,” said Mr. Whippel, “and I hope your mother will do the same, otherwise, we shall not only lose your uncle as a friend, but likewise aid our neighbours with two good lodgers instead of ourselves.”

            This hint had its proper effect on Mrs. Whippel, which was slyly noticed by the father to his son.

            “When are they expected?” said she.

            “In about a week from the date of his letter, and two days of that are past.”

            “Bless me,” ejaculated Mrs. Whippel, “I shall not have time to get the carpets up, and the curtains clean; we must begin immediately, though I detest the thought for what it should be done.”

            Mrs. Whippel, however, had plenty of time, for the illness of Helen detained the Lieutenant longer than he expected, and they travelled slowly to their destination in consequence.

            The family were sitting in conversation one evening, when a carriage was driving through the street; Thomas Whippel, to plague his mother and sisters, jumped up at the sound, and bawled, “they’re come, by Jove!” and to his own amazement, he saw his uncle pop his head from the window, and order the driver to stop.

            Tom and his father hurried to the door to receive them; they caught a sight of the bride, as Rosse was stepping out of the carriage.

            “Just as I thought, Tom,” whispered the father, “young and handsome.”

            “I am amazed,” cried Tom, “how did his donship get such a lovely creature?”

            There was no time for saying more, for Rosse shook hands with Whippel, saying, “I have brought my little girl at last,” and turning round, assisted Helen to step from the carriage.

            “I am glad to see you, madam,” said Whippel, and taking her by the hand led her into the house, Thomas showing the way, and enjoying the mistake his mother and sisters would confess they had made, in their estimation of the bride.

            Mrs. Whippel, and the girls, had been peeping through the window curtains, to endeavour to catch a glimpse of the face of Helen, but her veil falling on that side, they were disappointed, until she entered the room.

            Time had assuaged the ire of Mrs. Whippel, and she had determined to receive, and to treat with respect, the wife of her brother, whom she in reality regarded with affection.

            Her surprise, therefore, on seeing so beautiful and blooming a girl before her, so unlike every thing she had imagined, was stupefying to her senses, and she was unable to utter a compliment on her entry.

            Frances had more presence of mind; she went forward, and saluted her respectfully—welcomed her to the house, and introduced her to the other branches of the family, who appeared to be as equally struck with dumb astonishment as the mother.

            Rosse thought his sister appeared rather cool, and said, “Betsy, you seem stunned? Why did I not write to you, and request that you might be prepared to receive my wife?”

            “Faith, brother,” said she, “why so you did; but I expected to see you bring a lady more suitable in age to yourself, and this lady is surely younger than our——

            “Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Rosse, “I dare say you thought I was going to bring one as old as yourself, and you are many years older than me;” and perceiving Helen to be uneasy, he turned the conversation, by asking her what refreshment she would prefer, who answered, that tea would be the most agreeable. This set the whole family in motion: it was quickly prepared, and Helen at once entered into familiar chat with the relations of Rosse, with whom she became as great a favourite, as they had mistakingly anticipated she would be a nuisance.

            Frances Whippel, however, attracted the most attention and regard of Helen, and a congeniality of feeling was manifested between them; she was a handsome woman, kind, and amiable; she sympathised with Helen, when she informed her how happy she was to meet at last with one whose age and tastes so agreed with her own, having hitherto been used to the companionship only of an old maiden aunt; that Rosse had given her on the journey an account of the family, in which he spoke of her as his favourite, and she hoped on her part to merit her love and assistance when required.

            When Helen retired, Mrs. Hart, the married sister of Frances Whippel, was extremely inquisitive to know why her new aunt wore black?

            Frances answered her, that she did not know the reason: “I was fearful to ask, in order not to wound her feelings;” then told her that Rosse had informed them, in her absence, of her loss of fortune and her father’s death, and other things relative to her family.

            This was true; and though we have said that he was deficient in delicacy of sentiment, &c., yet in this case he had been both delicate and generous; for on being asked whether any thing at all had been left to Helen, he said yes—some land at Poole, &c., carefully avoiding the circumstance, that in marrying her, he had rescued her from dependence on her aunts.

            In having done so, however, it must be confessed, that it was because Helen was young and beautiful; and hence it proceeded from a partly selfish principle—he felt a passion for her, and having determined to marry, he drove nine knots an hour in his career; he was at present a happy man; the altered conduct of Helen on the journey had flattered him with the delusive hope that she loved him as well as he did her, mistaking her merely polite and passive acquiescence in his wishes as an equal return for his ardent professions of the most unbounded attachment.

            Helen, on her part, found herself still more at ease in meeting with so agreeable a companion as Frances Whippel, and retired from the party with more pleasurable feelings than her fondest wishes had anticipated.

            Helen having recovered the fatigue of her journey, was told by Rosse the next morning, that he should feel proud to introduce her to his brother officers.

            “Do not talk of it yet,” said Helen, “neither my health nor my spirits will bear it.”

            “I will not hurry you, my dear,” replied Rosse; “but being in the place, it is necessary that I should wait on the captain at his lodgings; the ship, as my brother officers inform me, being still in dock.”

            “Suppose,” said Frances, who now interfered, “that Mrs. Rosse makes her first appearance at the dock-yard chapel, on Sunday next, and then it will not be expected she should see any one: this is Thursday, and perhaps the intermediate time will be considered as sufficient rest for my dear aunt.”

            “So let it be,” said Rosse, “if Helen is agreeable.” She assented, and Rosse started to visit his captain. He expected to be jeered for his matrimonial speculation; and, therefore, determined to inform them of it, and prepared himself at once for their remarks, which he knew would be far off the wind, as regarded the age and personal qualifications of his bride.

            He found the first lieutenant, (Rosse being the second), the purser, and the doctor, with his commander.

            They welcomed him heartily on his return; he with an air of the greatest consequence informed them of what had happened in his absence.

            They all roared with laughter at this intelligence—“avast there, Rosse,” said the doctor! “tell that to the marines, for the sailors won’t have it, you may lash it alongside, but we cannot take it aboard.”

            “If it is true,” said the captain, “you have caught an odd fish like thyself, man; and by G— one was enough for the ship.”

            “Why, yes, sir,” said Rosse; “she is very different from the generality of her sex:” enjoying in his mind the surprise which would be occasioned when they found where that difference was.

            “Well!” retorted the doctor, “I always thought that if ever thou didst splice thyself, it would be to a most uncommon creature. Come, now, confess, has she a head or a tail? Is she gregarious or omnivorous? Is she within an ace of an Hottentot? What colour is she, black, blue or grey?”

            “Is she fair or brown?” said the purser.

            “Is she fat or lean?” bawled the doctor.

            “In a word,” asked the captain, “is she handsome or ugly?”

            “Hurrah!” cried Rosse; “I can stand your jibes on this occasion—I will answer you all in one way—Wait and judge for yourselves, gentlemen. Though I do not grudge being so communicative as to confess, that she is fairish for the wife of Dick Rosse, your most obedient servant, gentlemen. She goes to church on Sunday; after which she will be glad to see you, captain, and those impatient fellows who envy a man because he gets a wife he likes.”
            “Why, by G—!” said the doctor, “that is as much as to say, you fell in love with the wench; and surely that was impossible. Where did you pick her up? Whose daughter is she?”

            “Come, tell us that, Rosse,” said the captain, “as we ought to know whom we visit, before we do visit her.”

            This demand made Rosse draw himself proudly up, and say, “Sir, I am of no mean family myself, and let Mrs. Rosse have been whom she might, she is now my wife; but I will not be angry, as I do not suppose you mean to insult me—I will, therefore, tell you who and what she was; and he then recounted to them his adventure, steering clear of every thing like opposition to his marriage, and adding (to give something like importance to the worldly pretension of his wife), that though she had lost so much, yet she was not an absolute beggar: he then took his leave, rather annoyed than otherwise at the reception he had met with.

            When he was gone, they all continued to roar and joke on the unfortunate Rosse, and blow up the conceited savage, as they called him.

            “Did you not observe,” said the captain, “the air of pomposity with which he answered my question? By G—! what, if she had been his wife, I would not have paid her a formal visit, had he not satisfied me of her family and connexions. Did he not tell her age?”

            “A d—— old tabby, no doubt,” said the purser.

            “D— it, man,” said the doctor, laughing, “how could she have been an old maid—your old maids are generally able to protect themselves; neither are their feelings so acute as to fall ill at the death of a father, just at the moment of making sight of a husband. No, no, no old maid, depend upon that from me.”

            “Well, gentlemen,” said the captain, “I really am surprised at the fact; Rosse seems so self-satisfied, I am inclined to think he has a fine girl in tow; and if it be so, how the devil came she to have that black savage?—there’s the wonder.

            “The wonder, indeed,” echoed the doctor; “and if it be so, as we’ve some fine fellows on board, I shall not grudge the poor devil his happiness; but really we will say our prayers on Sunday, and have a squint at the prodigy.”

            “I doubt, doctor, that thou ever sayest thy prayers!” observed the purser.

            “I follow thy example,” replied the doctor.

            “But hast not the grace to mend it,” said the other.

            “Well, gentlemen,” said the captain, “Rosse is certainly a disagreeable fellow, and a conceited old puppy; but he is a good sailor, and knows and does his duty—

                        “Of long experience in the naval art,

Blunt is his speech and naked is his heart:

            Alike to him each climate and each blast,

                        The first in danger and retreat the last.”

            His new companion, I fear, will need the patience of Job; and should she prove to be of the breed of Zantippe, what the devil shall we do in a calm?”

            “Exercise the great guns, to be sure,” said the doctor.

            “Well said, scammony and gamboge,” retorted the purser; and they all fell again to laughing at the expence of their unfortunate brother officer.

            The captain and first lieutenant were single, and the doctor, purser, and marine officer were married. As the ladies of those gentlemen attended with their husbands at the wedding visit, and all are interwoven with our narrative, we shall have occasion hereafter to introduce them to our readers.

            On the Saturday afternoon preceding the Sunday when Helen was to appear at the chapel, Rosse, Helen and Frances were discussing matters relative to their manner of proceeding thither.

            “I have no doubt, Helen,” said Rosse, “but you will see several of our officers at church to-morrow. Does Frances go with you?”

            “Surely she does; and she attends me every where; and it has been agreed, that she shall act as my bride-maid on all occasions.”

            Rosse, smiling, said, “I was sure that you and Fanny would love each other; your tempers are both good, and your dispositions similar.”

            They both laughed, and Helen said, “I do not mean, however, to treat Amelia with neglect, but her mother informs me that she has a lover, and of course he prefers her company.”

            “Right!” said Rosse, “and a good fellow he is too; though I wonder he did not attack you, Fanny; those pretty eyes of yours are preferable surely to Amelia’s odd ones.”

            “Hush! hush!” said Frances, laughing, “if she should overhear you, we will never be forgiven; but to tell the truth, she has carried it triumphantly over me, that she should have got a lover before me, and I will confess, that I have at times been vexed at her fancied superiority.”

            “Never mind, Fan,” said her uncle, “you shall, with my wife, be introduced to good company. Hitherto I have refrained from introducing you to our officers, not being a married man, and consequently there would have been no one to watch over you: it is true, they are not all agreeable fellows, but there is one, the third lieutenant, a quiet well-behaved boy, for he is not above two or three-and-twenty. I wish Mitchell would take a fancy to you, my lass, for he is the only one I think well of on board.”

            “I wish, uncle, you had preferred the first lieutenant, as he will sooner be a captain.”

            “A pretty set I am to be introduced to then,” said Helen; “do pray give me an account of some of your brother officers, for they must, according to your account, be odd beings, I fancy.”

            “Odd, indeed,” replied Rosse; “I dare say that, as my wife, you will be treated with politeness and civility, even were you not so genteel and ladylike as you are; therefore, I am not uneasy on that score; but, I assure you, the fellows, in my eye, are a set of fools, and I should not care whether you ever noticed them or not.”

            “To begin, however, with the captain: he is a pale-faced fellow, and his courage is at a low ebb; he takes care to avoid all danger, and detests the smell of gunpowder; yet he is a bully, can growl and show his teeth, but never dare to draw the tompions.”

            “A genteel fellow, indeed,” said Helen; “but go on.”

            “The first lieutenant is an honourable, his father being a lord, and his mother a countess in her own right, I think they say, (for I am not up to these matters); he is as proud as Lucifer—the deck is not good enough for the puppy to walk on, and even the haughty captain bows down before him, in hopes of preferment through his interest; and, for that matter, so do the rest of the officers, except myself, who will not stoop to such a degradation.”

            “Well, but what is he in person?” asked Frances.

            “Oh, he’s a likely fellow enough, some think. The girls all say he is handsome, though I cannot see it; he is too effeminate—in fact, a dandy; he goes over the ship like a dancing dog, with his fripperies, and so on. They say he is a sailor, but I do not believe it; he is, however, new to the ship, and we shall soon sound him on that tack.”

            “Well, uncle,” said Frances, “the next is your honourable self, quite a sailor of course, you have mentioned Mr. Mitchell, and now go on with the rest.”

            “Oh, bother them! I can’t go through all—but the doctor is an Irishman, he thinks himself a witty fellow, he talks away like a parrot, and worse; for I can’t understand him, and you know I am a good judge of parrots.”

            Then there is the purser, who is always playing at chess with the doctor, and ever quarrelling with him: they are both married men.”

            “Then you need say no more about them,” said Frances.

            “But their wives,” said Helen, “you may describe, as that will affect me particularly.”

            “I am not acquainted with them. The officers are mostly new to the ship; and, to tell you the truth, I have but little liking for any of them.”

            Such was Rosse’s description of his brother officers—a description vague, unmeaning, and prejudiced, partaking of his own really sour temper and disposition, mixed up with his personal dislike of the parties, especially Edmund Daly, the first lieutenant, between whom and Rosse no amalgamation of feeling or sentiment could possibly exist.

            Where there was any similarity, it was of course exaggerated, a sin the case of the captain, who was not one of the most agreeable men in the world.

CHAPTER V.

“Love’s something that exists within,

By pedants construed into sin;

A subtle particle of fire,

Which heav’n did with our souls inspire;

Of such a mixed and doubtful kind,

It pleases whilst it racks the mind;

In lightning through our eyes it breaks—

In blushes glows upon our cheeks—

Pants in the breast, dilates the heart,

And spreads its power through every part;

We feel it throb at every kiss,

Yet know not why, nor what it is.”

            SUNDAY morning came, and Helen and Frances could not avoid recurring to the descriptive talents of Rosse, and each felt inclined to estimate the characters in rather a more favourable light.

            There was a dash of the satirical in Helen’s composition, which her father had used much pains in trying to eradicate; she had too much good nature to indulge in the propensity, if, by so doing, it would in the least degree inflict pain. She had been also brought up in the strictest rules of piety and devotion, and recollecting that she was about to attend divine worship, she checked that levity of thought which her husband’s charitable delineation of his brother officers had given too much cause to excite, and said to Frances, “If it were any where but church to which I am going, I should certainly laugh on seeing the precious mortals we have had described to us; for surely they must have been sadly caricatured if they do not deserve to be laughed at.”

            “Surely they have,” said Frances; “I know my uncle’s manner,—if he dislikes a person, such is always the case.”

            “Now with regard to this honourable first lieutenant, I suppose the young fellow is proud; but so is my uncle in his way, and neither of the two will bend to each other.”

            “Well, we shall soon be able to judge for ourselves. Do we sit near them?”

            “Oh, you will be taken to the seat reserved for the commissioned officers, where several will no doubt be; but you will not be able to distinguish our set till your introduction to them takes place.”

            Helen was now dressed, and as she had the assistance of the first milliner in the place, her beautiful form was set off to the greatest advantage.

            Her dress, though a bridal one, was one of half mourning, and elegant in the extreme as to its quality and arrangement: her bonnet, which was white, came pretty far over her lovely face. Rosse also had furnished himself with a new uniform, and had taken peculiar care to endeavour by every means to make himself look as spruce and young as possible, and on beholding his heavenly looking bride, his self gratulation was immense, and his vanity increased, as well from a hope that he should for ever silence the sharp-shooting of those tormentors on board, as from a notion of his own qualifications, both mental and personal, in having succeeded in making her his wife.

            Time had effaced from his shallow remembrance the difficulties he had encountered, the opposition he had met with, and the degrading means he had taken to obtain so valuable a prize—the victim of a sordid and unnatural conspiracy.

            The captain and lieutenant’s curiosity had increased, “for,” said the former, “by the fellow’s conceited manner in informing us of his marriage, he would make us believe he has done great things; we will, therefore, go early, Daly, and see the parson enter the church, if possible; though depend upon it, we shall have nothing to do but laugh at the beast for a month to come.”

            “Allons! then,” replied Edmund; and accordingly they were nearly the first persons that entered the sacred edifice, on an errand certainly which reflected but little credit on either; but a sailor’s notion of religious propriety, seldom squares with the orthodox one, and must be the only excuse for their impropriety.

            They had been seated but a few minutes when Rosse and Helen entered the chapel: Daly’s astonishment at her appearance was so great that he absolutely stood at the pew-door, and thereby obstructed her entrance into the pew. She was looking on the ground, her bonnet half-hiding her face, but finding some one oppose her progress, she looked up, and met the ardent gaze of admiration from a pair of eyes as beautiful as her own; they met, and for a moment rested on each other.

            Helen deeply blushed and looked down, when Rosse, who was immediately behind her, roughly said, “do you mean to keep us here all day, Daly?” and at the same instant, the captain pulled him by the coat—he started, as if awakened from a dream, and with the greatest confusion whispered, “I beg your pardon, madam;” and, with a blush as deep as Helen’s, bowed, and retired sufficiently to allow her to pass.

            Helen, who had heard Rosse say Daly to him, when seated, ventured to look again; their eyes again met, and Helen’s as quickly sought the ground in blushing embarrassment, whilst the thought crossed her mind of the libel Rosse had previously passed on him.

            She then looked at the captain, whose pale face, straight hair, grey eyes, and diminutive person were only contributive to heighten the contrast between him and the fine manly and handsome form of his first lieutenant, who, seated opposite to her, was unable to keep his eyes from feasting on her own undisputed loveliness.

            Frances Whippel sat next to her, and attracted the attention of the captain and young Mitchell, who had just entered the seat.

            Helen’s sense of prudence, as well as of religious duty, was sufficient to make her attend with propriety to the solemnity of the occasion, and she accordingly kept her eyes fixed on the minister during the whole of the service; at the same time it must be confessed, that the impression she had received so unexpectedly from the meeting with Daly, was sufficient to obtrude itself frequently in the midst of her devotion.

            As for him, he was head and years in love with her from the moment he saw her—it was love at first sight, in the strictest sense of the phrase. Miserable as he was in the reflection that his love was hopeless, yet he felt a secret gratification in beholding at last the woman who was able to impress him with so violent an impulse; yet to behold in the wife of Rosse, the man whom he despised, the only woman he could love, was surely torture sufficient.—Am I awake? thought he, or do I dream? is it possible for me to envy that fellow—that I can envy Rosse? yes, yes, I feel that I do—I would give the world to be the possessor of so charming a creature. And in this manner continued he mentally to rhapsodize till the dismissal of the congregation.

            Rosse could not but avoid observing the uneasiness of Daly, and though anxious to impress him with a favourable opinion of his wife, yet he felt galled at the circumstance. It was his sincere wish to impress Helen with an unfavourable opinion, of Daly, conceiving that he had always been treated by him with contempt, though he himself, was too proud to own it; but alas! if he had designed the contrary, he could not have succeeded more effectually. He was, however, exalted in his own estimation to a towering height, with the evident admiration which his wife excited in all who saw her.

            The admiral of the port himself, and another whose ship was in the harbour, sat in the same seat, and old as they were, paid more attention to scanning the beauties of the bride, than the moral discourse which issued from the lips of the chaplain.

            The former was so smitten, that on his return, he became quite garrulous in her praise; and, from the circumstance, we suppose, of the rarity of the seat’s being graced with so much loveliness, he designated our heroine by the title of the “beautiful vision.”

            Daly was the only one, however, that was planet-struck, as the doctor termed it, though he and the purser, who sat in another seat, confessed after they had been introduced to our heroine, that they had been most confoundedly out in their reckoning; and that they would never prejudge any more the beauty of a man’s wife from any knowledge they might have either of the form or visage of her husband.

            The service being concluded, a general introduction took place. The captain walked down the aisle by Helen, followed by Daly, who did nothing but admire her graceful and elegant form: he had merely bowed at the introduction, not having spoken, excepting the “I beg pardon” on her entrance into the seat; this Rosse attributed to his pride, instead of the true cause—extreme embarrassment, confusion, and an inexplicable difficulty of the power of utterance.

            The captain informed Rosse, that he should wait on him to-morrow; all but Daly crowded round the bridegroom, and congratulated him on his good fortune.

            On the return of the parties, the conversation naturally turned on the persons to whom they had been introduced, which Helen commenced, by observing, that Rosse had surely overcharged the picture in his description of most of his brother officers. “How could you, Rosse,” said she, “speak so ill of that handsome young man Daly?”

            “Oh!” said he, “I see you are like the rest—you fancy him handsome; I maintain that he is a proud puppy. Even this day, he did not deign to speak to you.”

            “I am sure I thought his behaviour to be respectful, and I endeavoured to observe if there was any appearance of that insolent-bearing you charge him with, but in vain. I will, however, frankly confess, that he has one fault—he kept his eyes so fixed on me, as if I had been some strange personage placed before him to stare at.”

            “Call you that a fault?” said Frances; “now I think he did nothing but admire you. What say you, uncle?”

            “Why he certainly was much struck with Helen’s appearance—he did not dream, my love, that I had had the luck to get so sweet a little girl.”

            “Oh! is that it?” replied she, playfully; “I shall grow conceited then; nay, I too shall become a dancing puppy, for you know there are female puppies as well as male.”

            “I only wish, my dear, you to continue to act as you have hitherto.”

            “Indeed,” added Frances, “I could not but remark the surprize of Daly; he was so restless, so fidgity—I was often inclined to laugh at the poor fellow’s melancholy uneasiness.”

            “I too enjoyed his queer conduct,” said Rosse, “though I still dislike him for not speaking; I doubt whether he will call to morrow; if he does not, I shall set it down for sheer envy of my good fortune, in having so nice a little woman for my wife.”

            Helen laughed, and thought of the odd ideas poor Rosse entertained, and added, “I should suppose it of no consequence to Mr. Daly what sort of a wife you have, Rosse.”

            “Oh!” replied he, “you are mistaken: he has been, it is true, but a short time in the ship; we have never been familiar; he looks, I believe, with contempt on me because I am not an honourable like himself, and I treat him in a like manner, because I think him a fool.”

            Helen and Frances exchanged glances, but did not answer.

            Rosse asked their opinion of the other officers.

            “Oh! the captain is an odd little mortal indeed.”

            “Yes; and the more you know him, the more you will think so.”

            “The purser appears to be a pleasant man, and, for his age, is extremely good-looking; but the doctor is a coarse, raw-boned fellow—I hope I shall like his wife: pray when is she expected?”

            “Why,” answered Rosse, “he has been waiting for her for more than a fortnight, and he is devilishly out of temper, because she has not shown herself more eager to join him; and, indeed, I think him right; for, my dear Helen, were I to put into port, I should feel greatly annoyed if you did not come to me immediately; unless, indeed, severe illness were to detain you.”

            “A lesson already for me, Rosse; well I will try and attend to it,” said Helen laughingly, and continued—“but seriously, I would not slight you in the least degree, if in

my power to help it.”

            “My dear girl, I believe you would not,” replied he, pressing the hand that rested on his arm; “I feel assured, that you would not voluntarily give me pain.”

            “Indeed, uncle,” interrupted Frances, “if you do not be a kind husband to my sweet aunt, I shall take up the cudgels against you, for I am sure a more obliging disposition does not exist.”

            “Do I set off in the matrimonial career,” asked Rosse, “as if there was any danger of my treating Helen ill, answer me, Fanny?”

            “Oh no, my dear uncle; I did not mean to insinuate that you have hitherto been amiss, I only alluded as to futurity.”

            “I am very confident, that to Helen I shall ever behave with propriety; because I believe she will continue to act as she has hitherto, and I must be a devil in that case to behave ill to such an angel as she is.”

            This strange dialogue took place as they were walking from the church; and on their arrival at the door of the house, Frances observed the tears starting in the eyes of Helen, occasioned by the turn the conversation had so unexpectedly taken. She said nothing then, but as Helen retired immediately to her dressing-room, she followed her thither. Helen had thrown herself in a chair, and appeared much distressed.

            “My dear, dear friend!” said she to Frances, “I am extremely miserable!”

            “Nay, pray what can make you so? surely I have said nothing to disoblige you? or, has my uncle’s observations affected you thus?”

            “Yes, indeed, my dear, they have,” sobbed Helen; “do you not observe what a stress he lays on his wishes for me to behave as I do now? good God! but I am suspicious that he will change his conduct towards me. There may be many circumstances in life, continued she, with a sigh, “in which one might act contrary to the strictest rules of propriety; I can with confidence, however, answer for my intentions; but I might do wrong, even with good intentions, in dealing with such a man as Rosse; I am, therefore, fearful of offending him. And do you know now, that I really believe a spark of jealousy lurks in his bosom, for he was evidently displeased because I differed from him in my estimation of Mr. Daly.—Now, I will candidly confess to you, that I was never more struck with the appearance of a man, than with him, particularly after the strange character your uncle had given him; and the force of the contrast has, I have no doubt, had the more effect on me—so elegant, graceful, and really handsome a young fellow,” added she, her eyes brightening as she uttered the words, “I never before beheld; in vain did I look for any sign of that self-conceit or puppyism we had been taught to expect.”

            “I think as you do, my dear,” said Frances; “and I admired Daly as much—nay, to you I will confess, for I passed a capital joke on my uncle yesterday, when he was recommending young Mitchell to me, I told him to recommend the first lieutenant. Oh! if such a lovely, captivating young fellow would notice me as he did you, I should certainly be dying in love with him; but there is no danger of that whilst you are by; so, thank heaven! I am safe: but, by the bye, what think you of Mitchell? I saw nothing in him particular.”

            “His person,” answered Helen, “is not prepossessing, but he may be very amiable notwithstanding, therefore do not set your mind against him without a further acquaintance. We even may be mistaken as to Daly; but you have not answered my fears relative to my husband’s temper—I really dread to do any thing to offend him, and as you know him of course better than I do, pray befriend me, and tell me how to avoid any act that might be unpleasant to him.”

            “Though,” replied Frances, “this is a point on which I would rather be silent, yet from the moment I saw you, you became endeared to me; I will, therefore, be frank and free with you. I know my uncle well, and shall I say, that I, when I heard of your marriage, trembled for your happiness. I have observed his conduct since he has been with us this time, and we have seen with pleasure a change for the better; nay we have attributed to your agency a complete transformation in the man. His disposition was morose, overbearing, and tyrannical; it is now, with the exception of what we have witnessed to-day, obliging and conciliatory: yet, you observe, that the officers and he do not agree; this circumstance annoys me; and even now to be very candid with you, I am fearful that it may cause you much unhappiness.”

            “You alarm me, my dear Frances. Why do you think so?”

            “Why, you have expressed yourself in favour of Daly; therefore disagreed with him whose self-conceit is monstrously high—he cannot bear to be thwarted in an opinion; besides, I am fearful, that to plague him, Daly and the rest will endeavour to make him jealous; now though you have nothing of the coquet in your nature, and will therefore give him on your part no cause for complaint, yet their united efforts will not be lost upon him, and you will be the only sufferer.”

            “Then,” replied Helen, looking upwards, “heaven is my witness, that I shall be more miserable than I had anticipated. But, Frances,” continued she, firmly, and taking her by the hand, “my integrity shall ever be firm, my fidelity unshaken, and though wretched, I will repine in silence.”

            Frances threw her arms around her neck and kissed her, saying, “matchless woman! where could my uncle expect to find one like you? but I am glad to see that he has the sense at least to estimate your value at present.”

            “That he may continue so to do is my earnest prayer.”

            They then retired to dress, having to meet several of the family of Mr. Whippel, to whom Helen had not as yet been introduced.

            It may be readily seen, that the heart of our heroine had been attacked in the person of Edmund Daly, and that a reciprocal passion had taken place.—The mysterious power of the mighty archer, who is no respecter of persons, and who is more delighted with his prowess in proportion to the quantum of mischief he occasions, was now commencing its operations, and the sly urchin was revelling in the anticipation of the discord he was about to create. The youthful and too susceptible Helen, aware of the desperate struggle she should have to encounter, was fully prepared to resist, from a truly virtuous principle, the encroachments of a passion as involuntary as it was unfortunate: yet could she not but secretly feel a pleasure in reflecting on the circumstance that the man, whom she could not help loving, was evidently as full of admiration for her; whilst the suspicious nature of her husband, but now too evident, rather encouraged, than otherwise, the dangerous and delusive feeling.

            The developement of the trials of this lovely and sacrificed woman will be therefore the subject of our following pages.

            Previously to which we may as well attempt to describe the man who had wrought, as if by magic, at a mere superficial interview, so great an alteration in the feelings and thoughts of our heroine.

            Edmund Daly was in height rather above the usual standard; his physiognomy was manly and expressive; his features regular, and a perpetual smile was observable on them; his high and prominent forehead beamed with intelligence; his eyes, bounded by dark and long eye-lashes, were indicative of quick perception and keen observation; mellowed by time, his complexion, which had been once extremely fair, was now ruddy and clear: the charge, therefore, of effeminacy in his appearance was utterly groundless; he was elegantly formed, muscular and active; his spirits vivacious, and in fact, one of those joyous beings who are the life and soul of every party where excitement, without apparent labor, is necessary to keep up a buoyancy of feeling and an exhilarating stimulus to continued enjoyment: he was, however, punctilious to a degree of nicety, in his estimation of what is termed the proprieties of fashionable life, and hence was often mistaken by vulgar minds, as a most fastidious personage; for to ill breeding in all its varieties, he was a determined opponent; he could not, therefore, but frequently incur the censure of those with whom it was his lot to mingle: he was an ardent admirer of the fair sex, and actuated by the highest notions of principle towards them, he deemed every one his enemy who would insult a female, however degraded; a circumstance but too frequently happening in sea-port towns, where ruffians of all grades, debase human nature by boasting of their exploits, in first seducing and then brutalizing the victims of their diabolical lusts and other vicious propensities. Born and bred an aristocrat, he did not mix so familiarly with his brother officers in their pursuits either of pleasure or business, as they conceived he ought; he consequently incurred the censure of the ignorant and indiscriminating, as haughty, proud, and overbearing; his really good qualities being not so well known nor understood, as to be duly appreciated by them, as his external deportment, which had, from his scrupulous attention to neatness and general refinement, to contend with disadvantages on board a ship, which are there either unknown or overlooked:

“This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;

Had he been Adam he had tempted Eve:

He can carve too, and lisp: Why, this is he,

That kiss’d away his hand in courtesy.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

———The ladies call him sweet;

The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet:

This is the flower that smiles on every one.”

Shakspeare.

       ————

            A large party of the immediate relatives of Mr. and Mrs. Whippel assembled at their house on the Sunday, when Helen had first made her appearance in public. The elder sister of Frances Whippel, now Mrs. Hart, attracted the particular attention of Helen; and from a remark which in the course of conversation she made, our heroine was anxious to know something of her history: her husband was an Hebrew; he was very rich, and not only an extremely handsome man, but his features bore not the least resemblance to those of his proscribed and persecuted race: this might be accounted for, as his mother was a Christian; indeed he, having himself married a woman not of his own persuasion, their home was any thing else than indicative of their being friends to the synagogue. The peoplesh grumbled a little, it is true; but (as we have before said), as he was very rich, peccadillos of this sort were winked at by those who, had things been otherwise, it would have made no small stir among the Israelites. Mrs. Hart herself was a very beautiful woman; her manners were prepossessing, and her carriage was extremely genteel.

            When the company retired, Frances gave Helen the following sketch of the matrimonial speculation of her sister Eliza—we must, however, premise, as truth is our guide in the narrative we are submitting to the public, that we do not see occasion to suppress any fact, however droll or outre it may appear to the practised Novel reader, or the fastidious blue-stocking; our apologies, therefore, shall be few on this score, feeling assured that we should rather deserve censure than praise for the omission of circumstances that would tend not only to destroy the realities of fiction, but mar the fidelity of history.

            Eliza Whippel and the young David Hart first became acquainted with each other at a ball in the country; they were extremely graceful dancers, and having been partners, an intimacy of the most tender description was the consequence.

            Young Hart, knowing that his father had been rather heathenish in his connexions with his mother, felt but little compunction in demanding the beautiful Eliza from her father.

            Mr. Whippel refused his consent, not only being indisposed to admit into his family the young man on account of his religion, but objecting to him as not being irreproachable in his private conduct, addicted as he was to the company of lewd women and other low pursuits.

            To his surprise also, he met with no better success from his own family; their opposition to the match being equally obstinate, though on different grounds to those of the friends of his inamorata.

            He was not, however, disposed to pay much attention to the suggestions of either party, but proceeded in spite of every obstacle to accomplish his wishes in an indirect manner. His power over Eliza Whippel was uncontrollable, and his intentions being really honorable, he soon succeeded in seducing her to accede to his desires—she became enciente; and, as the young Hebrew expected, to save his daughter’s character, her father gave all his assistance to promote a match between them and Eliza; after some difficulties it was accomplished, to the satisfaction of both families.

            Hart was very fond of his wife, till an extraordinary change in her conduct took place: she became extremely negligent in her mode of dressing herself, became a fashionable snuff-taker, and gave way to other unbecoming habits; these things were the common topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, and had their effect on her husband, whose home in consequence became intolerable to him; and, as a relief from such disagreeable scenes, he had recourse to his former abandoned mode of living; thus, as the song says, “converting that Heaven called marriage to Hell.”

            They had had five children, all but one of whom had died.

            At the expiration of five years from their union, Hart set off for town with a gay cyprian, whom he had long been suspected of having kept. Six weeks elapsed, and his wife having received neither letter nor message from him, became distracted—his affairs were in a fair way for total ruin, being managed by workmen only: he was a jeweller by trade, and his presence was of course required to carry it on with that punctuality which such a business so necessarily demands.

            In vain did Mrs. Hart make the strictest enquiries for her husband; no one could give any tidings of him; she at last determined to close the shop and take other methods to secure herself from the future probability, if things remained as they were, of actual want. Just at the time, however, of this determination, an old Hebrew called on her, whose keenness and general knowledge of the world was proverbial among his brethren. He had observed the true cause of the unfortunate differences between Hart and his wife, and being of a kind disposition, and fonder of healing animosities than provoking them, he determined to try if he could not succeed in reforming both the parties in question.

            “Courage, my friend,” said he, to Mrs. Hart; “I know where your husband is, and if you will suffer yourself to be guided by my directions, I think you will have no cause to complain of what you may at present deem an officious interference in the domestic affairs of your family; I disclaim such an intention, and assure you, that I am actuated by better feelings; I hope to be the means of reforming my brother Hart from the errors of his present vicious proceedings; I know him well, and I not only know where he now is, but also know with whom he is; therefore, attend to my instructions, I shall be very candid, however, with you, and you must, therefore, pardon the freedom I am now about to take in advising.”

            “Quickly, quickly,” interrupted Mrs. Hart; “I will do any thing to recover my lost husband—I will not be offended at any thing you may say—I shall be eternally bound to thank you for your assistance in healing a breach which, perhaps, I myself have been the cause of assisting to make.”

            “I am glad to hear you so reasonable,” replied Moses Hyman; “first then, I hope you will dress yourself smartly and genteely.”

            “What!” cried Mrs. Hart, “do you intend to insult me, sir?”

            “There, now,” said Moses, “I thought you would not listen to reason; well, I will go and—”

            “Nay, nay,” interrupted she, “I did not mean to offend; I will do what you say, though I cannot divine your motive.”

            “Well, then,” continued he, “you must not only obey me in this particular, but you must also refrain from the habit, which you deem fashionable——It is no use to interrupt me again,” perceiving a desire on her part to do so, “this must be done, and both you and I must immediately depart for London. Depend upon it, we shall soon bring back the runaway; but observe, to succeed perfectly in our plan; there must be no reproaches—you must play the agreeable, or I will not answer for the consequences. I know David’s temper and disposition too well—not to succeed is impossible, provided we manage things cleverly. We shall ferret him from the coffee-house where he is, I’ll warrant; and if he does not make one of the best husbands yet in Portsmouth, why, then, old Moses Hyman must give up his trade of negotiating between the belligerents of both sexes.”

            Mrs. Hart listened with attention, not unmixed with chagrin, at the harangue of the garrulous old Hebrew; hesitated for a moment to give her consent; but, recollecting how favourably old Moses was estimated by the fraternity, she resolved to accept of his assistance, and preparations for the journey were immediately made.

            Early the next morning off they started, and having reached London, they engaged a hackney coach, which Moses ordered to be driven to the coffee-house in which he said he knew Hart was: they had not proceeded far before they observed him and his cher amie walking towards them, arm in arm; Moses called out to him, and he left her to approach the coach; Mrs. Hart leaned forward, and addressing him with a smile, said, “Dear David, will you not shake hands?”

            Hart was not only struck with the unexpected, but the altered appearance of his wife: “my God!” cried he, “Eliza! how came you here?”

            “To seek you, my dear David,” was her reply.

            He took no further notice of his former companion, but jumped into the coach, and began to apologize for his conduct.

            Meanwhile the old Jew directed the coachman to return to the place from whence they started; when arrived, Hart continued his apologies, but argued that he had some cause for his neglect of his wife.

            “I own it, David,” said she; “but mutual forbearance is a virtue, and mutual forgiveness may set all to rights again.”

            Old Moses here interfered, laughingly—“come, come,” said he, “you know this is trifling; I see you are both determined to be the best friends in the world for the future; therefore, let us enjoy ourselves right merrily; no recriminations—no repetitions of old grievances, I entreat of you both, and thus there will be another feather in old Moses’s cap as a peacemaker.”

            “And so it was,” continued Frances; “for a happier nor more respectable couple does not exist, than Hart and my sister Eliza. You observe what she now is, my dear Mrs. Rosse, and I am sure you cannot observe any traces of her former strange and unaccountable conduct. These, however, are family affairs, and beyond the circle of our immediate acquaintance, this short romance of real life is unknown. By them, however, Hart is often the subject of a joke on his former love pranks and rambles, which, good-natured as he is, he bears with meekness and resignation; whilst Eliza, whose temper is really amiable, knows the true value of a husband’s affection too well ever to touch on the tender string.”

            Among the company who visited the Whippels, were a Miss Smith and a Miss Thistel; the looks of the latter were wan and care-worn; and entering as it were into a new world, Helen requested Frances to give her the history of this young lady, which she promised to do at some future opportunity; adding, that it was extremely interesting, and would, she thought, be felt so by her particularly.

            Three sisters, by the name of Reeves, were also intimate with the family; and among the gentlemen, Helen observed one whose glances were directed repeatedly towards Frances, whose returns to the same were any thing but repulsive. Helen took an early opportunity of bantering her on it; Frances blushed, and said, “my dear friend, you would not have had me inform you that I had a lover, when, I assure you, the man never mentioned the word love to me in his life; and I will frankly confess, that I had another reason for not having mentioned him to you, viz. a curiosity to learn whether a stranger like yourself would observe any thing peculiar in his manner, with regard to your obedient servant Frances Whippel.”

            “Ah! ah!” replied Helen, “you are a manœuverer, I perceive; I could see plainly enough that it was not the first time you had put the eyes into requisition. I have enquired of Rosse who he is, and I find that he has property—his income is handsome; and thus, my dear Frances, I perceive that you are in a fair way of being well matched.”

            “Fine talking, my dear friend,” said Frances, with a sigh, “I do not know what to make of him. Three months has now expired since I was first introduced to him; he is not a native of the place, having been removed from Plymouth here for promotion; he has been a constant visitor ever since, and his conduct has been invariably what you witnessed yesterday. Heaven knows! what he means by it. Were he to act so towards others, I should put it down as rank male coquetry; but to do him justice, such is not the case; if he does mean any thing towards me, why not speak out? why such reserve?—I am baffled in all my reflections on the subject.”

            “Perhaps,” said Helen, “some family connexions prevent him from engaging himself so seriously.”

            “Then,” added Frances, “he should not endeavour to ensnare my affections, for I can perceive that that is his aim;” and, continued she, blushing, “were I sure that there is no deception intended, I believe—heigh ho! the fellow would succeed; but I must guard with the greatest care the citadel of my heart, for I really am doubtful whether his conduct will be ever any other than it is.”

            “Then,” replied Helen, “I should deem him as equally a seducer, as the man who runs off with a woman and deserts her; that it is his intention to create favourable impressions on your side is to me very obvious: it is true, he does not commit himself legally so much, but the morality of the case I deem of equal turpitude. I remember a circumstance which happened at my native place, which is an illustration of such mental seduction. A young army officer who was quartered there, paid for five months the most devoted attention to a young, accomplished and beautiful girl; true, he had been reserved; nay, she was exactly in the same predicament as yourself. When the regiment was ordered to quit the place he was questioned on his intentions, “Oh! really!” said he, “I am sorry the young lady should have so mistaken me, I really never seriously thought of her—I never mentioned the word love to her—I am sorry my looks should have helped to make the young lady fancy I loved her; and really I think young ladies should guard their hearts till they are asked for.”

            “The brother of the lady, a spirited young fellow, immediately challenged the officer for such unfeeling conduct; a duel was fought, the brother was dangerously wounded by the fop, who escaped without injury, whilst the poor girl herself fell into a frenzied fever from which she is not at this day perfectly recovered.—Oh! my dear Frances, endeavour to keep yourself free from the possibility of being a wretched prey to hopeless love; for I think,” added she, with a sigh, “it must be dreadful indeed.”

            Frances blushed, tried to laugh, and said, “I hope I shall avoid it; your good advice shall have its due weight in the guidance of my future conduct.”

            Helen shook her head; and here the friends separated.

CHAPTER VI.

“Her’s will I be, and only with this thought

Content myself, although my chance be nought.”

Surrey.

“Who then the captive soul can well reprove,

When Love—and Virtue’s self become the darts of Love?”

Fletcher.

            WHEN the bridal party were leaving the dockyard, the officers of Rosse’s ship stood together, all making their parting bow; but the moment they had fairly passed the gate, and were consequently not within hearing, all except the love-stricken Daly expressed to each other their admiration and astonishment at what they had so unexpectedly witnessed. He stood motionless, looking after his goddess, whose beautiful form, like a vision, still appeared before him.

            “Why, lieutenant,” said the doctor, pulling him by the arm, “surely, thou art planet-struck, or what else ails thee?—Rosse’s wife has chained up thy tongue, and converted thee into a statue representative of the god of silence.”

            Daly started, but could not hide his confusion; he stammered something about his being surprised, but he himself did not know what he said; nor what he did say could they understand, excepting the word surprised, very little was intelligible.

            “Surprised, man!” said the captain—“egad so was I, and so I believe are we all; but we have behaved better in the business than you. Nothing, I am sure, has given that conceited fool more pleasure than your conduct to-day. Upon my soul, Daly, your stupid behaviour at the pew-door brought the eyes of all on us—why, you stood like another Cymon.”

            “Ha! ha! ha!” shouted the doctor, “and it is well for him, if, like another Cymon, he has not lost his heart.”

            “Poh! poh! doctor,” said Daly, a little irritated, “I wish you would discontinue that roaring bellowing noise; see all eyes are upon you, no doubt wondering if there be not a raree-show among us.”

            “Well, well,” continued the doctor; “now thou hast found thy tongue, honey, we will give thee leave to ring a peal or two, to make up for lost time.”

            The two admirals now came up. “Well, gentlemen, I think we have had as fine a girl at church to-day as the sun ever shone on—I have mistaken her for a vision! aye, and a beautiful vision too! and, if I mistake not, Mr. Daly, you are of my opinion as much as any one; your eyes are still bent towards the vanishing point, I see; I hope your heart has not vanished with it.”

            Here another glorious shout of laughter burst forth from all present but the unfortunate lieutenant, who thoroughly vexed, tried with his utmost endeavours to hide his chagrin.

            “Really, Admiral, your supposition as to the vision is an agreeable one—a more beautiful one I never saw; and the wonder is, how such loveliness became allied to the odd being who has robbed us of the pleasure of still beholding her—there is the cause for amazement—I confess that it has occasioned my senses almost to be locked up; and,” continued he, laughing, “after this confession, I give you an opportunity, gentlemen,” bowing, “to make yourselves merry at my expence.”

            “Well, well,” replied the admiral, “if such only be the case, the fit will soon be over; I was fearful that your heart had vanished with the vision. By the lord, boy! it is well I am an old fellow, and a married man to boot, or even I should have been in danger.”

            “Nay, then, admiral,” replied Daly, “you have therefore the less reason to laugh at me; but really I am in no danger, I assure you.”

            The old admiral shook his head, and looking archly, said, “I hope not, my young friend—dangerous—troublesome—aye, I was about to say d—— work, to grapple with a married petticoat. Experience teaches us all to beware—you understand me, hey?”

            “Why, Admiral,” said the captain, “the fellow deserves to be horned—you do not know him as well as we.”

            “Fye! fye! Captain, this is not good advice to give young men like Daly; they are so ardent and impetuous in their passions, that a bridle rather than a spur is the more necessary for them.”

            “I agree with you, Admiral,” replied Daly; “I have too mean an opinion of the husband, to flatter him, by bowing to his idol.”

            “Let honour be your guide, my young friend, as it has hitherto been; no after-regrets will then torment you.” He then bowed and left them.

            “What a formal old prig that is,’ said the captain; “why Rosse might keep twenty such idols for me, ere I’d stoop to flatter one of them.”

            Daly then, with great embarrassment, turned the conversation. He felt his heart ill at ease, and he would have been glad to have been alone; but the whole party was invited to dine at the purser's for the first time. Mrs. Brown, that officer’s wife, was a pretty and an agreeable woman, and did all in her power to render her guests happy. The dinner was an excellent one. In vain, however, did Daly try to rally himself; in vain was he pressed to eat or to drink; it was all effort on his part, and in consequence his temper was stoutly tried, in bearing with good nature the raillery of his companions: he was glad, therefore, to escape from them, which he did at an early hour.

            When he reached his lodgings, he dismissed his servant, saying that he intended to sit up late, and did not wish to be disturbed; he then threw himself into a chair, absorbed in thought; he was agitated by contending emotions, to him inexplicable; at last he started from the chair, and paced the room with rapidity, and working himself to a pitch of fury, cursed his destiny, expatiated on the loveliness of a woman he had seen but once, and whom he could never expect to possess without violating every principle of honour and virtue. “God!” cried this son of passion, “would that I could tear her from her present state of—what? pollution—aye, that’s the word—pollution, indeed!” he smote his brow with violence, then sat down again, and covered his face with his hands, “yet,” he muttered, “she looked innocence itself; serious, it is true, but not melancholy; and, therefore, nothing to indicate that she regretted her fate, she appeared unconscious of her soul subduing charms.—Oh! what would I not give to be beloved by such angelic sweetness. Rosse, I despised thee for thy ignorance, thy brutal conceit; but I had no malice against thee.  Now, by heavens! I think I hate thee.  Again he walked the room with agitation. “Rosse, I envy thee! envy Rosse? oh, I could never have thought that such a humiliating word could escape me. But surely she cannot be insensible to attentions—she has all the softness of love—all the fire of passion in those lovely eyes; that passion she cannot feel for Rosse, a younger man might excite it, and love, real love I am sure she has yet to feel: yes, yes, I will try, I will dare my fate—nay, I will even court thy husband’s friendship to win thee, beauteous woman! lovely creature! I feel for thee what I never before experienced. What dangers would I not engage in to serve thee? Hero and Leander! glorious names in the records of love. Would there were another Helespont to swim to reach thee! oh, thou paradise of my soul!—Ha! ha! ha!” shouted he, as if really recollecting himself; “what art thou saying, Daly? rhapsodising like a fool indeed; thou art mad, my friend. What! Edmund Daly mar the happiness of a man who never injured him? what! sow discord in a family and ruin the peace of mind of a woman whom he would die to serve. Honor, which has been thy guiding star, forbid it! cease in time, nor let thy headstrong passion couple thy name and disgrace together. No, no!” after pausing a few moments, continued he, “It shall not be, I will steel my heart against thy charms.” He walked proudly over the room, rejoicing for the moment in the triumph of reason over passion, but as he found it impossible to think of any thing else than the object of his heart, his firm resolves would relapse and grow weaker, as he dwelt on it. “What, if she should give me encouragement! can I withstand such a ravishing temptation? I must be resolved; I feel, I feel, to be blessed with a smile from thee would ruin all my honourable determinations: such bliss would—must conquer me. He sighed “what, though I should be repulsed with scorn—repulsed by Rosse’s wife! horrible thought! distracting idea! it shall rest on this: If, (for I cannot avoid showing my admiration,) she should smile on me, Rosse, thy doom is fixed; I shall be unable to resist the all-powerful sway of mighty love.”

            And in this strain of headlong passion did he continue, alternately flattering himself with the enjoyments of illicit love, or deprecating a deviation from that line of rectitude and honour which he had always justly boasted himself possessed of. He continued thus till nearly three in the morning, when his servant ventured to advise him to go to bed; he assented, though sleep for an hour or two would claim no companionship with him. He at last, wearied out with mental fatigue, dropt into a disturbed slumber, repeating, “yes! yes! loveliest of thy sex! thy conduct must determine mine.”

            Alas! poor Daly—little didst thou, notwithstanding thy surmises, know the trials to which thy honour would be put; little didst thou foresee the torture that was in reserve for thee; still less didst thou imagine that she, for whom thy soul burned with so intense a fire, possessed a heart so firm, so noble, and so determined as to defy thee in thy rash career of unbridled passion, though that heart was thine in secret, and felt for thy misery with an acuteness equal to it. Honour, nay, virtue itself, is often too feeble a barrier—too strong and powerful a temptation.

            The reader, in perusing these pages, will see with pleasure that Daly triumphed over every obstacle, after enduring mortification of the most poignant description, trials of the severest nature. His passions were ardent and impetuous, but his nature was noble, his sentiments just, and his actions generous.

’Twas his with beauty, valour’s gifts to share,

A soul heroic, as his form was fair;

These burn with one pure flame of generous love,

In peace, in war united, still they move.

Byron.

            The next morning was the time appointed for him to call on the captain, in order to accompany him to visit Rosse: as he had given orders to be called at an earlier hour than usual, and as his servant was impressed with an idea that his master had taken too much wine the day before, he thought that to disturb him would not be agreeable to him, and he therefore determined to allow him to sleep as long as he pleased. When, however, the captain’s servant came to say that his master was waiting for Mr. Daly, William began to fear that his judgment had been premature. He went immediately with the message, and found that his master had just awaked; Daly severely reprimanded him for allowing him to oversleep himself; it was a rare thing for William to receive an angry expression from his master, and, looking down, he ventured to say “I thought your honour, that you were not very well last night, and that sleep would do you good.”

            Daly laughed heartily, and replied, “well, never mind, William, you are a good doctor; for your prescription has worked wonders on me, as I did anticipate that I should be extremely ill, but I was never better in my life than I now am; I wished, however, to be early with the captain, having engaged to accompany him to a particular place.”

            Will was glad to observe his master so easily pacified, and say he was well; for the soliloquies of the last night were fresh in his recollection; he, therefore, began with alacrity to adjust him as usual in dressing—still he wondered at the altered manner of his master: hitherto his mode of dressing was without particular effort—now he was tediously long, and extremely fastidious: first, he would look in the glass, and observe that his hair was improperly set—the comb and the brush were of course repeatedly put into requisition; next, his cravat was ill-placed—ill-tied—ill-washed, and so on, with the remainder of his habiliments something was wrong—some alteration was necessary.

            The man stared, and wondered, and hesitated, and seemed to have caught the infection from his master, who at last observed his confusion, and felt vexed at his own trifling, recollecting that it had been also his maxim, “that neatness in dress was a more graceful principle than preciseness,” and that he had read “to win the affections of a woman, appear negligent in your costume—to preserve it, assiduous: the first is a sign of the passion of love; the second, of its respect.”

            “Surely,” said he to himself, “I am really becoming what some of the coarse fellows on board think me—a fastidious puppy; it will not do; though I must confess that I must do my best to outshine myself to-day.”

            He sat down to breakfast with a lover’s as well as a sailor’s haste, and notwithstanding the turbulence of the preceding night would have deprived many a man of his appetite the next morning, yet such was not the case with our hero, as the quick departure of tea, ham, eggs, &c., amply testified; though his breast was still agitated alternately by the contending emotions of joyous expectations and agonizing doubts. He had just finished his repast, when the captain entered, in his usual swaggering and self-sufficient manner.

            “Why, what the devil, Daly, ails you? have you slept your senses away, man? why, it is twelve o’clock! I see how it is, you left us last night for the more agreeable company of some fair damsel, and I suppose have not been home long.”

            Daly laughed and said, “and I suppose captain, that you had a curtain lecture, for remaining so long from your lass, and so got up early to get rid of it.”

            “The devil a bit, Daly; I went home by times; the wine did not exactly agree with me, though I am well enough to-day—my fellow tells me I took too much, and I believe I did, for you know it is seldom I drink at all.”

            “Nor I, captain; but you use yourself so to dilute what you do drink, that a little hurts you.”

            “Well, I cannot help it; in this point I will confess that I am weak-headed—but no shifts, my fine fellow, tell me where were you last night?”

            “Why in my own room, to be sure.”

            “Pho! pho! the marines may, but the sailors won’t believe it. What the devil do you suppose that I am to be crammed with a “tale of a tub?” of your having slept from ten o’clock last evening till twelve to-day? I’ll wager you any thing you like, that you are trying to gull me.”

            “Then you will lose. You know the purser’s is a good distance from this—then I took some time to undress—read a little—have dressed myself this morning with a little care too, you see—have finished my breakfast, and am now ready to march, or rather sail, under your orders, to our appointed destination.”

            “You have been spinning a nice yarn, my fine fellow, but it won’t do. William, I suppose you have been bribed to tell no tales, otherwise I would ask you.”

            “Please your honour,” said William, “my master has not quitted the house since he came home last night.”

            “No doubt, no doubt: but here come three more of the squad—Mitchel, Paddy Esculapius, and Nipcheese; they are, you know, a set of unbelieving rascals in such matters, so I hope you will bear their “quips and cranks” with good humour, for I see mischief brewing in the forecastles of each of them; therefore stand clear, and get your stern chasers ready, for you must run from them.”

            “Indeed I shall not,” said Daly, “I shall tell them exactly as I have told you—truth is my motto, captain, and I shall present its broadside to them, which if it will not at once silence their fire, will stand it till they are tired of attacking, and they will sheer off accordingly.”

            “Ahoy! ahoy!” shouted those noisy sons of Neptune as they entered—“who’s for “Honeymoon Island?”

            Inhabited by the goddess of Love, and a savage called Rosse?” asked the doctor.

            “Why, Daly,” said the captain, “has been skulking; he is hardly under weigh yet; though he says that he turned in at four bells.

            “He smuggled a wench into his room,” said Mitchell, “and——

            “I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Daly warmly; “I would not put so great an affront on the lady of the house—her conduct has been most honorable to me whilst I have been her lodger, and I hope a whisper of what you have just said will not be repeated. I give you the simple truth—I cannot help it if you will not believe me—I accept your jokes so long as they are directed to me only, and are really harmless; therefore be satisfied.”

            “Why we must,” said the captain, “I see no other way to get at the cause of so unusual a proceeding with you. I confess my scepticism on the point, and I suspect some cause exists for it.”

            Daly attempted to laugh, and replied: “the cause is, that my wise servant took it into his head not to wake me early this morning; he fancied that I was not quite well last night, and prescribed sleep as a remedy.”

            “It was a good one,” said the doctor, “and you must have had a good dose; for I declare, I never saw those fine eyes of yours look more brilliant than they now do.”

            This was echoed by a hearty laugh from all.

            Daly felt confused—he internally wished it might be so; and that Helen might receive the impression he hoped to make on her.

            “I am ready,” said he, “gentlemen, to accompany you;” and off they set, all but Daly anticipating sport, at the expence of their usual mark for ridicule, the unfortunate Rosse—he was in a state of agitation more readily conceived than described, which increased as he approached the house in which was all he held dear in the world, upbraiding himself for his want of fortitude in again submitting to the ordeal of meeting the bright eye and dangerous loveliness of Helen; yet irresistibly driven forward to the attack, and fancying an excuse for his temerity, in repeating to himself the following beautiful lines of our immortal Bard Shakspeare:—

“Crabbed age and youth,

Cannot live together;

Youth is full of pleasure

Age is full of care,

Youth like summer morn

Age like winter weather;

Youth like summer brave

Age like winter bare.

Youth is full of sport,

Age’s breath is short,

Youth is nimble, age is lame;

Youth is hot and bold

Age is weak and cold,

Youth is wild and age is tame.

Age I do abhor thee,

Youth I do adore thee;

Oh my love, my love is young.

Age I do defy thee;

Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee

For methinks thou stay’st too long.”

CHAPTER VII.

’Tis not a cheek that boasts the ruby’s glow,

The neck of ivory, or the breast of snow;

’Tis not a dimple known so oft to charm,

The hand’s soft polish, or the tapering arm;

’Tis not a smile that blooms with young desire,

’Tis not an eye that sheds celestial fire;

No, HELEN! these are not the spells that move

My heart to fold thee in eternal love:

But ’tis that soul, which from so fair a frame

Looks forth, and tells us—’twas from Heaven it

            came!

WHEN Helen retired on the Sunday evening, she could not reflect but with mingled emotions of regret and sorrow on her future prospects. She plainly saw the difficulties she should have to contend with in living with such a man as Rosse; what she had heard in the course of the day had also made its impressions on her mind, and the history of Hart and his wife was a source of affliction to her: they were now a happy couple—a mutual attachment was evident between them, and though they had made each other miserable for a time, yet that circumstance alone was sufficient to destroy every discordant feeling, and heal every wound of discontent. Her heart throbbed with anguish as she reflected on her own different and unhappy lot—she was now sufficiently acquainted with her husband to know, that to please him she must do violence to her own sense of propriety and correct feeling; that, however she might be disposed to find fault with his errors, and thereby do him perhaps an essential service, she must be tacit; his qualifications, as he termed them, and his superior penetration and judgment were always uppermost in his mind; and to these self-opinionated talents, he not only ascribed his having succeeded in obtaining a handsome wife, but boasted that he could trace in every line of her beautiful face that innate sense of a virtuous line of conduct, which was assuredly the first attribute of her very superior mind. She could not but often feel disposed to check his exuberance of self-praise and egotism. As her husband, she wished him to appear as worthy of that name as it was possible; and hence she had ventured gently to hint certain improprieties and breaches of politeness, which the poor creature was so frequently in the habit of making. In some few he would acquiesce in the propriety of amending, but generally his self-conceit and confidence in himself was such as to render any remonstrance on her part practically, if not theoretically useless; she, therefore, wisely determined to let him pursue his own career, and assist rather than oppose him, however he might deserve  censure. Though there was unreserved confidence between Helen and Frances Whippel as to every transaction since they had been acquainted, yet she deemed it prudent to keep every antecedent circumstance to herself. Frances, therefore, was not aware of the struggle which had taken place ere Helen had wedded Rosse, nor did she surmise the absence of a reciprocal passion on her part.

            Helen passed a sleepless night: she recalled the bright visions of her early youth; the happiness enjoyed by her parents—the offspring of the purest mutual affection; and contrasted with the bitterest anguish of mind her present situation to her former blissful state. “Oh my dearest mother,” said she to herself, “how would your tender heart have ached to have beheld your daughter’s fate. Ah!” laying her hand on her heart, “I feel here a void—a painful void—cheerless and dull—I have to live, and must live, bearing and to forbear—struggling with a temptation over which I have no controul, or it never should have assailed me; may heaven protect me! no, not even to thee, my dearest Frances, will I divulge the anguish I feel; oh, my beloved father! shall I disgrace myself by forgetting the lessons of prudence which you so sedulously taught me? shall I not have strength of mind sufficient to withstand the allurements of vice, the powerful impulses of passion, and the strong struggles which my unhappy fate destines me to meet? shall I forget thy pious precepts? no! no! though cheerless and gloomy, my path is clear—my husband’s happiness must be my first, my only concern. I am not without some congenial friends; his relations are kind to me, and deserve my gratitude; would that I could love thee, Rosse, for even thou hast dealt at least tenderly with me hitherto; continue it, and I will repay thee with smiles and esteem, if not felt with passion, at least with sincerity:” alternately desponding and hoping, like Daly, did our heroine continue to agitate her uneasy mind, till she wearied herself into a disturbed slumber, in which a repetition of her previous struggles and her future gloomy prospects appeared before her.

            Rosse conceived it an important era in his life, on the Monday morning, when he expected to receive his brother officers at his house. They had appointed to wait on him at ten o’clock; but as that time was passed considerably, and they had not arrived he felt vexed and peevish; considered they intentionally meant to deceive him, and vowed vengeance if such should be the case; he sat with a book in his hand, pretending to be reading, but in reality on the rack of expectation for the sound of the knocker, which at last came with a thundering peal. “There they are!” exclaimed he, throwing down the book.

            Frances and Helen were sitting on a sofa, at the other end of the apartment.

            At their announcement, Helen could not help blushing deeply—her fluttering heart beat harder and harder, as they approached. This will be a trying moment for me, thought she, but I must be firm.

            The gentlemen entered, and after the usual salutations, were seated.

            At the sound of the name of Mrs. Rosse, Edmund’s bosom writhed with agony: he, however, acted his part with calm dignity, averting as much as possible his eyes from the object to which, as if spell-bound, they were attracted. Helen herself was calm and collected; her sense of duty had really obtained the mastery; her natural vivacity, it is true, was gone; but she, perhaps, looked the more beautiful and interesting, from her really modest demeanor and apparent calm resignation to her destiny. The sight of Daly was, it is true, the cause of many an inward struggle; but the conviction that to entertain a passion as hopeless as it would be imprudent, repressed every lurking wish in his favour as a lover.

            Daly also, on his part, was really awed, as well as abashed in her presence; he feasted his eyes on her charms, and mentally muttered curses on his unhappy situation. His habits of true politeness were visible and had their due effect on the captain, who, though far removed from the coarseness of Rosse, was nevertheless a common-place individual; he was a tyrant on board, and therefore uneasy under the restraints of good breeding on shore. The behaviour of the doctor and purser was unexceptionable; they could, if they chose, be sensible and agreeable men; they were, however, so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of raillery, and so much in the habit of roasting each other, as it is termed, that to be thought to say good things, was of more value to them than to gain the esteem of their friends. There is not a more unsocial or less estimable quality of the mind than this: it is the cause of more frequent bickerings than is imagined; the point is so indefinite, or rather so indistinct, where to stop, that for once when freely used it may give pleasure, its result will be that of pain, felt if not expressed, a hundred times. They came with a fixed determination to have, what is called a shy at the weak points of Rosse’s character; but the interesting presence of his beautiful partner, as well as the genteel deportment of every one present, had its proper effect on these laughter-loving and jocular individuals.

            Rosse, ever alive to suspicion, kept an observant eye on Helen, Daly, and the captain, though he knew that the latter was never accused of any over-partiality for the fair sex; neither he nor Daly had ever visited Rosse before, but Helen could not but regret the painful truth, that he was not respected by them.

            We have not said much of the young man Mitchell, for whom Frances had been so quickly engaged by her uncle: he was a third rate personage in his person and intellect; he would assent to every thing, no matter how absurd “exactly so” was his general reply; or “I think exactly as you do, sir.” He was, however, a favourite of Rosse’s, because he never laughed at him.

            The “exactly so” of Mitchell, and “the like of that” of Rosse, were of course standing jokes in the ward-room of their ship.

            Rosse himself seldom had much to say in company when he met his equals, and less with his superiors; but to his inferiors he would talk fluently, and ape a learned stile of conversation; he was, therefore, looked up to by them as an oracle, and thus was flattered into an importance which he had no right to arrogate to himself; and hence he but too frequently drew the shafts of ridicule down upon himself with justice. In the present instance he was taciturn, though affecting great good humour; the conversation was kept up entirely by Helen, Frances, Daly, the captain, the purser and the doctor.

            Though Daly found it impossible but to be embarrassed in the presence of Helen, yet he made ample amends for his stupor on the day before. Among the many questions which he asked Helen was, “whether she was partial to dancing?”

            Helen and Frances, who recollected the epithet which Rosse had applied to him, could not refrain from laughing.

            Rosse also understood the cause, and answered for them, “oh, yes! Helen can caper it away with you, Daly; I am no hand at those things myself.”

            Helen and Frances laughed the louder; which Daly, whom love had completely altered, construed into a sneer at his odd and awkward manner of expressing himself. He followed with a hearty laugh, and looking at Helen, and a half a glance at Rosse, wished her to understand the contempt he had for her husband.

            She neither liked the look, nor the manner in which Rosse’s answer had been received; she was not quite sure as to Daly's intention; she therefore looked sedate and thoughtful: it unhinged that feeling of complacency towards him, which it was her wish to experience. “Odd!” said she to herself, as Rosse undoubtedly is, “I at least will never join in any mark of ridicule directed against him.”

            The penetrating Daly immediately saw his error. “I am mistaken,” thought he, and he took every means indirectly to repair the fault he had been guilty of.

            “Shall you attend the next assembly?” said the captain to Helen.

            Rosse without allowing her to reply, answered in the affirmative.

            “I hope then, madam, to have the honor of your hand for the first dance?” added he.

            “I too,” quickly followed Daly, “must have the pleasure to dance with you?”

            “You shall, Daly,” said Rosse; “but you must follow the leader.”

            Helen made apologies to both, and wished to decline attending any ball. “I am yet in mourning,” said she, “for a beloved father, and I do not deem it prudent that I should yet join in any such amusements.”

            “Oh, my dear,” said Rosse, “do not go, if you are not inclined;” I thought to please you when I spoke for you.”

            “I thank your kind intentions, Mr. Rosse,” said Helen, smiling; “but besides my own disinclination, I know it to be a diversion which does not please you.”

            “Good Heavens!” ejaculated Daly to himself, “how have I been mistaken? the lovely creature really loves the man whom I cannot help despising—the respect she treats him with proves it.” He looked at the captain whose thoughts were in unison with his own.

            Frances, however, begged her to go, which Daly could not help seconding; and, after much discussion, it was resolved on.

            The conduct of Daly, in endeavouring to prejudice Helen against her husband, was shameful, and though he was self-convinced of the fact, yet he did not feel that self-compunction to be guilty of a meanness, which hitherto, he would have shrunk from in an instant.

            It was the first really dishonourable action he had committed—passion for the time was overmastering him. The name of seducer had been to him previously as a detestation—not to be forgotten, or forgiven.

            He was his mother’s favourite child, and she had instilled into his youthful mind, principles of the severest virtue; his modesty was the only point in his character that was ridiculed by his brother officers, and his consciousness of inward rectitude, made the shafts of their wit, or ridicule, fall harmlessly on him.

            How altered, alas! was he now become, as it were in an instant—his passion for Helen, aided by his antipathy to her husband, had wrought a total change in his sentiments. Finding that he had failed in his intentions to win her in his favor, at the expence of Rosse, he determined not to stop short at any obstacle to his infamous desires; he deemed that it would be an easy matter, and he set himself immediately about it. He paid, therefore, to her the most flattering attention; and used, as he hoped, the artillery of his love-inspiring eyes. His amorous glances were unheeded by the virtuous woman, whom his baseness would render miserable for ever.

            He succeeded but too well in his intentions, however, on the husband—Rosse, ever alive to suspicion, quickly observed his insinuating looks, and felt them too, most acutely. He watched with eagerness, to see if Helen would return with any sign of favour, such ungrateful—such monstrous conduct, but in vain; and felt further delighted in the knowledge that he possessed so lovely a treasure.

            Helen, on her part, felt most awkwardly, under these base attacks; though she could not, inexperienced as she was, in the trials of life, imagine that they were intended to go to the extent which Edmund wished them. “Heavens!” thought she, “what insidious hypocrisy, dwells in the heart of man; is it possible, so much personal beauty, can hide a deformed mind? So fair a form, and only to deceive. May I not be mistaken? at least, I feel it prudent to take no notice of the strange conduct of a man, whom my heart at first sight, would have made me believe a divinity, rather than a mortal;” she, therefore, turned with an apparent artlessness to the doctor, and asked, “when he expected his lady, and whether there would be any other married ladies on board, besides?”

            “You will soon see them all, my dear,” said Rosse, glorying alike in his heart, at this prudent conduct of his wife, and the mortified feelings of Edmund, who alone appeared to be ill at ease.

            Helen returned the answer of Rosse in her usual smiling manner, and the doctor, making a remark of a humorous nature, set the whole party, except Daly, laughing most heartily. He felt hurt at the insensible coldness of the woman, whom he thought to make a conquest of, notwithstanding the difficulties attending it, would be an easy task; he was mortified in the reflection, that what he had intended for Rosse had recoiled on himself—he felt as if he was treated with contempt; the innocence of the woman whom he wished to make guilty, was his severe punishment—a just retribution. He could not regain his self-confidence, and took his leave with the rest, without another effort to effect his real guiltiness of purpose.

            Although Rosse had been highly delighted with the conduct of Helen! yet, he had not sufficient strength of mind to continue to appreciate it as it deserved; accordingly, when left alone in the dining-room, after the party had quitted, he could not help mentally recurring to what he had observed.

            He was, as we have before said, a weak-headed mortal; as his soliloquy on the occasion will amply testify.

            “Confound the impudent puppy,” said he, “if I could depend that his puppyish ways would not take with Helen, I should not care, if he was in love with her—it would be punishment enough for him; I know that some women are fools enough to think him handsome, d—— him, I wish he would let my wife alone though:—I should like to give him a round dozen, for his impertinence; I will, however, mention it to Helen.”

            Just at the moment, she entered; he was silent, and determined to defer saying any thing till the next morning; by that time, he had ruminated so much on the matter, that he felt satisfied of the truth of his suspicion.

            Helen observed at the breakfast table the taciturnity of her husband, and could not fail of observing that his mind was disturbed; she, therefore, jocularly said, “what is the matter, Rosse?”

            “Why, my dear, I wished last night to have some serious conversation with you, but thought it better to defer it till now.”

            Helen, astonished at his serious manner, said, “well, I am all attention, what can have displeased you?”

            “Seriously then, I am annoyed at the behaviour of Edmund Daly.”

            Helen blushed, and replied, “indeed, Rosse, I could not help laughing, for I thought of the character you had given him, as a dancing puppy, and—

            Rosse smiled, and interrupted, “it is not that to which I allude—I helped you out of that, for I knew what your thoughts were—Frances, too, was as bad as yourself; I will tell you at once—Edmund Daly is in love with you, if ever a fellow was in love in the world,—

            Helen started with astonishment; “Surely, Rosse,—

            “Do not interrupt me, but hear me out—Edmund Daly, I say, is in love with you—I do not say, that you are with him—God forbid! I should then be miserable indeed!”

            Helen could say nothing, the tears ran profusely down her lovely face, whilst Rosse continued.

            “Why are you so affected? I do not wish to displease you: were you of a vain or light disposition, I should not speak to you as I now do. I, therefore, say again, that I have the greatest reasons to believe, that you have captivated by your charms the man whom I most dislike. He evidently tried to plague me, and if possible make me jealous.”

            “Oh! Rosse,” sobbed Helen, “I entreat you not to entertain such a notion. If you have observed any thing imprudent in my conduct, tell me, and I will alter it; but, oh! if you value my happiness, do not give way to a passion, which must ruin the peace of mind of both you and myself.”

            “Well, my dear, but hear me out—do not interrupt me—I do not mind his being in love with you, if I never see any thing on your part to give me uneasiness: I admired your conduct yesterday, in not returning his admiring gaze; and I rejoiced to see, that he felt it acutely—I never saw him so mortified—I tell you again, that I had cause to rejoice, rather than be jealous; and should your conduct be always so prudent and exemplary, jealousy will never assail me. You heard what was said, my love, relative to the wives of the officers—how uncomfortable they might find themselves, whilst they must wait at this place.”

            “The ship may remain in the Downs for several weeks, as we must tarry till all the East Indiamen are ready, to which we are appointed convoy; you will then necessarily be constantly in Daly’s way. Now, it is my wish that you will not offend him—it would be bad for us both if such were the case—he is really captain of the vessel, and we are at cross-purposes already, too much. I observed that he was, as we say, taken abaft by you on Sunday. He has been remarkable for his delicacy towards the female sex; but, I do not think his conduct yesterday a specimen of it. My wish therefore is, that your behaviour towards him will be the same as that of yesterday—do not offend: if you do not encourage him, he will soon be tired of his impertinence; if he is offended, he may make the ward-room very uncomfortable.”

            Helen, still weeping, replied, “I wish, Rosse, you had said nothing about it, my own sense of prudence and rectitude would dictate to me the conduct I ought to adopt; I was ignorant of the real cause of Mr. Daly’s looks, my indifference, therefore, to them was real: now I am conscious of his motives, I shall feel a restraint—I may be confused—both you and he may attribute such confusion to the wrong cause; and if he insults me, I must offend him. You are not aware of the difficulty I shall have to contend with, in neither offending him, nor encouraging him; the latter, heaven knows my heart! can never take place—I should then become a guilty woman; and I even hope, that you are mistaken. Surely a gentleman of rank, and whose character is irreproachable, will never dare to insult a married woman.”

            “I am sure, what I have said, is true,” said Rosse; “but I do not think he will insult—I look on it as a temporary fit for the present, and intended principally to annoy me—your coolness will stop it; and I merely wish you to keep him at a respectful distance.”

            “My conduct, Rosse, I hope, will always be under your inspection—I will do all in my power to make you happy; but it is my wish, that you should deem me above even suspicion; if I do any act which you may think improper, tell me of it—do it with good temper, for I am not able, nor willing, to cope with you, if opposed by angry feelings and expressions—you make me very unhappy, Rosse, and——

            “My love,” interrupted he, “I do not wish to make you unhappy—you saw that I was pleased at your behaviour, and could appreciate it. In me, Helen, you have a man of sense to deal with.”

            “I wish you would allow me to remain on shore, I shall then be out of the way of any possible disagreeable importunities; with your amiable niece, Frances, I shall be very comfortable.”

            “How can you think that I can part with you, Helen, whilst I remain in England? I love you too well, to wish to be absent from you a moment—my stay also will be so short. I grant that you will be exposed to the company of Mr. Daly, whilst on board, but then there are other ladies there, which will be a sufficient protection from insult; I also shall be with you, and he, as well as myself, will have duties enough to attend to. Do not, therefore, make yourself further uneasy on the subject—when he finds that you are cool and indifferent to his advances, he will leave off his gallantries, and attend to things of more importance.”

            After breakfast, Helen returned to her dressing-room, to give full vent to her feelings, and ponder over the conversation which had just occurred between Rosse and herself; she could not but feel satisfied, that it was not only unfortunate, but misterious; that Rosse’s character was a strange one, she also now knew. She had long since observed, that his manners were different from those of any individual with whom she ever became acquainted; “thank God,” said she, “in this instance, he has acted as he ought; yet, it is astonishing that he could sit down and tell his wife with so much indifference that another man was in love with her, and that he cared not for it, so long as it was not returned! so young, and so fascinating as Daly really is—it is the oddest thing that has happened to me; yet, Rosse is so conceited too, he really does not think that Daly is so handsome as himself—would he were not so—shame, shame on me, to confess it; but can it be possible that he loves me?” she sighed, her feelings overcame her, and she gave free vent to them, by a copious flood of tears; she then lifted her eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, “thou art my witness, that it is my determined desire to do my duty to Rosse as a wife, and a woman—what a hard task is imposed upon me, to bear the attention of a man, whom, in spite of all my wishes and resolves to the contrary, I feel a lurking partiality for—partiality! did I say? would it were no more—if I go on board the vessel, I shall be constantly exposed to his admiring eyes. Insignificant creature that I am; why should he attach so much importance to one, who, even sitting aside the impropriety of the thing, would be unworthy his affections? how shall I be able, satisfactorily, to act my part? I must go—I dare not avoid it—forbidden to encourage, and equally forbidden to offend. The former, my sense of duty will, I feel assured, aid me to accomplish; for the latter I cannot answer. Oh! my dearest father, if thou couldst have supposed it possible, for thy daughter—thy only child—to have been placed in so critical a situation, thou wouldst assuredly have paused, ere thou sacrificed her, even at the risk of anticipated poverty; Rosse may talk, and Daly may look; but it is Helen that has to act.—On the one hand, I have to please a suspicious husband; on the other, to avoid even the appearance of favouring (if I am to believe Rosse) a lover: I stand on a precipice; one inadvertent look, word, or action, might hurl me to destruction—I must do my best to avoid them. Indifference, total indifference, however difficult, to the blandishments or advances of this untoward intruder, must be my only resource, or my peace of mind, if it may ever be called so, may be destroyed for ever.”

            Thus argued our heroine, and having reasoned herself into something like a firm resolve, she dressed, and repaired to the drawing-room, with as much composure as on such an occasion she could command.

            We must now return to Daly, who, after leaving Rosse’s, went with the captain, by appointment, to dine with the port-admiral—this he did the more willingly, as he felt to be alone was torture to him; particularly, after his ill-success, as he deemed it. He was able to drink freely, without feeling those effects which so pernicious a habit generally causes. He remained, and with frequent libations to the god of wine, passed so cheerful an evening, that the captain fairly pronounced him to be quite recovered from his fit of melancholy.

            It was mere illusion. When he returned home, it was late; he dismissed his servant, and in a state of mental misery, unequalled by any thing he had ever before experienced, threw himself on a couch; it was not that intemperate heat of passion he had felt on the previous night; though his inclination to possess Helen was, if possible, increased; but accompanied, as it now was, by the most poignant feeling of despair, mortification and anguish, on the one hand, and on the other, by the conviction, that his motives were base and dishonourable, it was agonizing in the extreme. The idea of Rosse’s happiness haunted him like a demon; the indifference of Helen to his allurements, was an insult to his self-love; “what beautiful eyes,” said he, “and yet by heavens! although I paid her more attention than I believe I ever yet did to a woman; if I had been old and ugly, she could not have looked on me with more coldness, nor greater indifference; she appears as composed and happy, as I am truly miserable.”

            He then began, having had leisure to observe them, to descant with all the raptures of an enthusiast on her beauties, and came to the conclusion that every outward perfection was concentrated in her person. “Oh! beauteous woman,” continued he, “it is reserved for thee, to make me truly wretched; yet, thou art the wife of a man, for whom I could never feel any thing but contempt; why cannot I forget thee? why does thy image so continually present itself to my senses? did I not resolve that thy conduct should direct mine, in all my future actions? but, ah! I did not expect to witness such freezing looks from thee, oh! most lovely of thy sex; yet, I will not despair—I shall dance with thee—I shall find an opportunity to whisper my passion to thee unobserved, and in secret. Would to heaven I had never seen thee, or seeing, I could inspire thee with a regard for me, but a hundredth part equal to the flame which now consumes me.”

            In this strain, continued he, till some time after midnight; when the servant imagining his master to be ill, popped his head into the room, and said, “did your honour ring?”

            “No,” answered Daly, in a desponding tone.

            “Might I recommend your honour to go to bed, as I fear you are unwell, and it is past twelve o’clock.”

            “You may go, William—you are right.”

            William left the room, and Daly went to bed; he was unable to sleep till six in the morning, and when he arose, he was neither refreshed in body, nor easier in mind; his head ached violently—he remained at home the whole of the day—sent excuses to the captain for his absence, alledging his having drank too freely at the admiral’s on the previous night as the cause.

            In the evening he determined to go alone to Rosse’s, hoping to find Helen only. In taking this step, it may easily be imagined, to what a pitch of desperation he had worked himself.

            The servant having let him in, was about to introduce him to the ladies, who he said were upstairs; but Daly caught hold of him, and motioned him to be silent; the door was ajar, he heard two voices sweetly singing a plaintive air, on closing which they struck off with a lively Scotch tune.

            He approached close to the door, and could plainly see both Frances and Helen; the former was stringing beads, the latter was painting a flower. Helen stopped, and said, “Frances, do take this flower; I can make no hand of it—give me the beads.”

            Frances, on looking up, observed Daly; she started, and faintly screamed.

            He then advanced, and was about to explain, when Helen, who now saw him, turned pale, and almost fainted.

            He sprung forward, and was going to support her; but she put him off, and now blushed like scarlet.

            He begged ten thousand pardons for his apparent rudeness; “but hearing you sing so sweetly,” said he, “I was unwilling to interrupt you.”

            Frances answered him, saying, “really, sir, you have almost terrified us: we had been humming a song which had reference to an apparition; and when I caught a glimpse of you, I took you for the ghost, you look so pale; are you not ill, sir?”

            Daly answered in the negative, and added, that having been at the admiral’s on the preceding night, he had remained late; and felt rather fatigued for want of his due portion of rest.

            Helen’s agitation subsiding, during this colloquy, remembered the conversation she had with Rosse, at the breakfast table; but could see now, as things were, no propriety in avoiding the presence of Edmund, particularly as Frances, who knew nothing about the affair between Rosse and Helen, asked him to sit down with them for the evening; delighted to have the opportunity of knowing more of his honourableship, as she told Helen the next day.

            Daly, on his part, became at once the happiest of mortals—to be in company with Helen, in the absence of Rosse, was to him an indescribable pleasure; he, however, inquired for him, and was informed that he was gone to a club with Mr. Whippel.

            Thomas Whippel, who played excellently on the flute, joined them, and what with playing, singing, and conversation, time flew with inconceivable rapidity.

            Daly was himself modest, witty, and full of delightful pleasantries.

            Eleven o’clock arrived, and their elysium was turned into a purgatory, by the entrance of Rosse, who had taken a cheerful glass too much.

            “Well, Daly,” roared he, and going towards Helen, was about to catch hold of her; she shrunk from his embrace—“ah, ah!” he bawled in his usual rough manner, there now, my little girl is afraid I am going to give her a kiss before company; but mind me, I’ll have two for one in private, by G—;” and he then set up a most discordant laugh.

            The whole party had been as happy as possible till this interruption; the extremely polite behaviour of Daly, had re-assured the timid and virtuous wife of the uncouth mortal, Rosse; her intended restraint on her conduct gave way, and she became free and unreserved in her manner; her vivacity increased; and both she and the rest of the party forgot that Rosse existed, till his inharmonious voice burst on their unwilling ears.

            Daly took the earliest opportunity to leave—his misery to have been so separated from the object of his adoration returned in its full vigour; Rosse’s “two for one” rung in his ears, and he felt as if a vulture was gnawing his very heart; he became almost frantic with rage at his accumulated disappointments, and another sleepless night was the consequence.

            As soon as he had departed from Rosse’s, both Thomas and Frances commenced an attack on their uncle for his extreme rudeness to Helen in the presence of Daly; Thomas added, that for his part, he felt so much for her, that he considered it almost a personal affront to himself.

            Helen also could not help saying, “I must retort with your own words, Mr. Rosse, you tell me how to behave in order to make you happy; now I must take leave to tell you, that if I am to endure a repetition of such indelicate conduct before strangers, I shall not be able to help shewing the contempt I must feel.”

            She had never before ventured to use a harsh expression, but on this occasion, his vulgarity was so extremely offensive, aided as it was by nodding, winking, and other indecent auxiliaries, that she felt it a positive duty to shew him that she felt it; and hoped that it would effectually hinder him from a repetition.

            She had no sooner, however, unburthened her mind, than she trembled for the consequences—the look which Rosse gave her, made her quiver with terror; and, but for the able manner in which Thomas Whippel and his sister seconded her, a storm would have burst from the headstrong and ill-natured Rosse, which to his amiable and delicate wife must have been terrifically mischievous.

            The churl merely therefore said, “well, well, forget it; as you are all against me, I suppose I must give way.”

            Helen immediately sprang from her chair, in which she had fallen, and caught him by the hand, saying, “oh, Rosse! I am very sorry to find fault with you; but, indeed, you wound my feelings so acutely, that you must pardon me for noticing it; I will endeavour to forget it, as I heartily forgive you.”

            In appearance, therefore, peace was restored, but it was only in appearance; Rosse could not brook the idea that his wife should dare to find fault with any thing he choose to do, whether in joke or anger, and he therefore sat down sulkily.

            Thomas Whippel observed to his sister after they had retired, how much he pitied his pretty aunt; and, that if he should ever be so fortunate as to get a wife equal to her, he should esteem himself the happiest of mortals.

            Frances laughed, and said, “you aspire too high, my dear Thomas. I do not know a woman equal to her, both mentally and personally: it must have been a miracle that gave her to our uncle.”

            “Aye, aye,” said Thomas, “I cannot understand it; she is a vast deal more suited to Mr. Daly, than he, I think.”

            “Ah! Thomas, between you and me, I wish Daly may not think so too.”

            “Why, Frances, I thought so myself to-night; but he will sigh in vain—her conduct is so prudent, and her principles so correct, that it must be a hopeless task, for any man to attack her virtue; but enough of this, I want your assistance, Frances, in another affair; so does Hart. You know our country ball takes place on Thursday night; now we want to get Mrs. Rosse there, we think the bear will deny us, he has such an aversion to the amusement; you must, therefore, use your influence, and,” continued he, archly, “I will see that you shall have Lampton for a partner.”

            “Pho!” said Frances, “who cares for Lampton? you know I generally used to dance with Hart; but,” added she, laughing, “I suppose my pretty aunt is to eclipse me there also; well, it is enough to make one really jealous. I do not think that uncle will grant it: he was not pleased with our interference just now, and he will deny us, out of revenge, but I will try.”

            “Do,” added Thomas, “for we shall have rare fun this time, depend upon it; so good night.”

            Meanwhile Rosse continued in his chair, saying nothing.

            Helen would not seem to take any notice of such cross conduct; and, therefore, retired to her chamber.

            About an hour afterwards he joined her; she was still up, replacing something in the wardrobe; finding her not in bed as he expected, he roughly said, “I thought you were asleep by this time.”

            Helen could not answer him, but she shed tears in abundance.

            At the breakfast table the next morning he still remained gloomy and morose.

            Frances walked into the room, and asked him the question relative to the country ball, but he roughly denied her; and the breakfast being over, he prepared himself to go out; but, previously to doing so, he came up to Helen, to give and receive his usual salutation, which she complied with, in her usual kind and gentle manner.

            When he was gone, Helen told Frances how ill he had behaved to her, until she came into the room. She then asked her every particular relative to the intended ball; but did not care as to herself, whether she attended it or not. “I must submit to my hard fate,” added she; “I see much future misery before me, and I shall only add to it, by enjoying any pleasure previously to leaving you.”

            Frances endeavoured to cheer her up, by saying, “that it was only his way for a short time—that if the least thing happened, he would have a sulky fit or two, and then forget it.”

            They then separated, to dress, intending to go out to make purchases of millinery, &c. Being ready, they went out, fearing to go farther than the next street, unless escorted by a gentleman.

            On turning the corner of the street in which they lived, they were suddenly obstructed by Daly, “ah! is it you, fair ladies?” cried he with a joyful smile, whither are you rambling unprotected? do accept me for your guardian!”

            After their surprise had subsided, they accepted his offer.

            Daly had left the ship under a pretence of urgent business, intending to give Helen a morning call; the former pleasant rencontre happening, rendered that step unnecessary.

            He accompanied them to the shop, and when they had completed their purchases, they wished to return home immediately; but Daly begged so hard for a walk round the ramparts—expatiated on the fineness of the weather—the beautiful sea-prospect, and the healthy and bracing effect such a promenade would have upon them.

            They acceded, after some little demur on the part of Helen, and so on their return, having enjoyed a pleasant promenade, they met the captain and the doctor; the former attacked Daly, jocularly, saying, “so, sir, this is your important business, is it? you little thought we should so quickly follow you in your rambles.”

            Daly laughed, and assured him, that in making haste about it, he had nearly knocked the ladies down; and seeing that they had no protector, he offered himself as such for a walk.

            They then joined him, and separating the ladies, Helen was placed between the captain and his first-lieutenant, and Frances took hold of the doctor’s arm.

            When they arrived at Rosse’s house, the first object they saw, was Rosse himself, sitting at the window, anxiously waiting for their return: he was uneasy at their remaining so long, and was much surprised to see them accompanied by gentlemen. He came down to the door to meet them, and to Helen’s gratification, invited them in, and otherwise appeared to have regained his usual good temper; for she expected no other than abuse for having staid so long, and in such company; though she could not see that her conduct had been imprudent; satisfied that it had been the result of accident, rather than intention.

            Daly sighed deeply when he resigned her hand; he had enjoyed three of the happiest hours of his existence. He looked at his watch, and was surprised at the lateness of the hour; on taking his leave, he told Rosse that he would give him an evening call, and that as his flute was a finer one than Thomas Whippel’s, he would bring it.

            The captain finding that Daly would be there, requested to accompany him; the doctor and the purser were also invited.

            Rosse, although he appeared pleased to see his wife escorted by the captain and Daly, was not perfectly easy in his mind, as to how that circumstance happened; he was, therefore, extremely inquisitive on this point; for, said he, “Daly left the ship immediately on my getting on board.”

            Helen and Frances, in the most unreserved manner, explained every thing connected with the circumstance; but Rosse could not help surmising, that on the part of Daly at least it was intentional. He expressed, however, his pleasure, at the open and unaffected conduct of Helen and Frances.

            In the evening the parties assembled, with the addition of Hart and his wife, Amelia Whippel and her lover; they sung, danced, and otherwise enjoyed themselves, with the exception of Rosse, who sat during most of the time with a book in his hand, his usual habit, looking as gloomy as possible.

            At the breaking up, Hart invited the officers present to an entertainment at his own house, on the following evening, which was accepted by them, and they attended accordingly; Hart, observing Rosse smile when Helen was dancing with the captain, took the opportunity to intercede with him, to allow Helen to attend the country ball.

            He assented with the reservation, that Helen should not dance with any one but their own party, viz. Mr. Lampton, Thomas Whippel, and Hart himself.

            This was agreed to by the latter; the officers of course were, therefore, ignorant as to this arrangement; when the company separated, Hart informed Helen and Frances of his successful application, which surprised the former much, as he had positively negatived her own application to him on the preceding day; Hart added, that his wife should go, and that the glass coach should be engaged to convey them.

            “Well, well,” said Helen, “we shall have dancing enough at this rate; but pray do not do any thing to incur the displeasure of Rosse, whose comparative pleasantness this evening has been highly gratifying to me.”

            Hart promised to do all in his power to prevent any more domestic squabbles; “though, you know,” added he, laughing, “I am pretty well used to them.”

            Every thing passed off agreeably on board the next day; Rosse dined there; and on Daly’s asking him how Mrs. Rosse was, he good naturedly said, “charming.”

            The intended country party was as yet a secret to him, but in the course of conversation, Rosse mentioned it, adding that he should be at liberty to go any place himself that evening.

            All persons connected with the intended dance were delighted at the absence of Rosse; Hart took Helen at the head of the room, and led off the ball; it was held at a country inn; the room was spacious, and well adapted in other respects for the purpose.

            The company consisted principally of respectable tradesmen and others, who felt no inclination to attend the regular assemblies.

            Helen having danced with Hart, accepted the hand of Thomas Whippel, and afterwards that of Mr. Lampton; in the middle of her engagement with the latter, Frances, in passing her, told her that Rosse and Daly were present; this information, so sudden and unexpected, was not a little agitating to her, and her countenance, which before had beamed with pleasure and happiness, became overcast with sedateness and a forced look of solemn propriety; Lampton observed it, and attributed it to the presence of her husband; though he could not refrain from mentioning his surprize, that Daly should condescend to grace, what they familiarly termed their private country hop.

            He stood gracefully folding his arms, and leaning against the partition, watching with earnestness the scene before him. When the dance was concluded, the gentlemen went towards him and Rosse, as also did Frances and Helen.

            “Well,” said Rosse, “here am I—come among you, on purpose to oblige this mad fellow—he can’t live without dancing; I told him where you all were, and he compelled me to bring him hither—he engaged a coach, and knowing his vagaries, I could not deny him; but I shall be like a fish out of water.”

            “Not at all, dear uncle,” replied Hart, who was rather waggish; “I will shew you into a room down stairs, where there are the fathers and husbands of several of the ladies present; where you may hear the news, discuss politics, and drink as much punch as you like.”

            This he gladly accepted, though the said fathers and husbands were not much obliged to Hart for the introduction, Rosse’s dogmatical and obstreperous modes of argument not being very agreeable to them. He was, however, politely treated, in compliment to Hart, who was generally beloved and esteemed.

            Meanwhile Daly was elated with the opportunity he should now have of more unequivocally making known his passion for Helen; he therefore begged Thomas Whippel, to whom Helen was engaged, to resign her to him for the next dance, which was complied with; and now the delighted and enraptured youth felt as if he trod on air; his spirits were as elastic, as his movements were graceful and impassioned.

            Helen observed, with suppressed pain and emotion, his flashing eye, which said a thousand things at once; and which made her own, in blushing confusion, seek the ground; and in swinging her round, and through the mazy throng, he took every opportunity to press her hand, with the most ardent expression of passion.

            Helen felt that her time was come to act with firmness; she therefore said, “how, sir, came you to wish to come hither?”

            “Because the loveliest of her sex was here, and unless in her presence, I am the most miserable of mortals—I really did urge Rosse to come, but his compliance was in his usual ungracious manner—but I know the man well; as long as I am with you, I care not: and he again eagerly caught her hand, and ardently pressed it; Helen withdrew it, as rapidly, and sarcastically said, “I hope, sir, you told Mr. Rosse of his ungraciousness, and your motives in coming, as plainly as you have told me.”

            Daly was surprised and galled at this, but half-laughingly said, “not quite, madam.”

            “Then, Mr. Daly,” replied Helen, with a tone and look of contempt; “in future, you will oblige me by saying nothing that you will not wish him to hear—I keep no secrets from him.”

            The figure of the dance gave her an opportunity, to separate from him, which she did by disdainfully looking on him.

            “Surely,” thought he, “I do not deserve that look;” and determining to dare his fate to the utmost; when he came to the bottom of the dance, he again took her hand, and pressing it as earnestly as before, said, “loveliest of women, I do not deserve your anger.”

            He would have said more; but with a flashing eye of anger, she forced it from him; and screamed aloud.

            Hart came immediately to her assistance, and eagerly enquired what was the matter.

            Helen could not confess the whole truth, but making a wry face, as if hurt, and looking most contemptuously at Daly, said; “why that rough mortal has hurt my fingers; if he does not behave more gently, he is not fit to dance with any lady.”
            Edmund, who had followed her, was mortified in the extreme, at the ridiculous figure he now cut, and making as haughty a bow as he could, he turned on his heel, and quitted the ballroom. He had gone but a few steps, ere he regretted the line of conduct he had pursued—he really felt sorry that he had offended; but the recollection of the forbidding glances of Helen stung him to the very soul.

            Hart, who observed how ill-pleased he left the room, determined to follow him—he who had been a rare gallant himself, did not look on the circumstance in a serious light. Outside the ball-room was a long gallery, in which Hart, as he expected, found Daly walking to and fro much agitated, who did not observe Hart until the latter touched him on the arm, and laughing, said “come, come, Mr. Daly, why are you so passionate? you must allow the ladies to say what they please.”

            “On my honor, Hart, I did not squeeze or hurt Mrs. Rosse’s hand as she pretends. I really did not think she could have behaved so cruelly towards me.”

            “My good sir,” answered Hart, archly, “that you are unacquainted with the mind of the lady in question, I plainly perceive; she is not to be won by a love tale, or a tender squeeze of the hand.”

            Daly started, and much confused, said “what mean you, Hart.”

            “Oh, mean, Mr. Daly; why I mean to be very candid with you. The lady’s beauty has captivated you—you are a slave to her charms; and, my lad, excuse my freedom, I know the time when perhaps I should have been as susceptible to them as you; you despise the Lapland bear, as I call him, to whom she is so unfortunate as to be united; and so you imagine her fair game. This is the plain statement, but I repeat it—her mind is not a common one—she has not yet breathed a fashionable atmosphere, and depend upon it, she would suffer martyrdom, rather than sacrifice her honour.”

            Daly caught Hart by the arm, and said, “you have proved yourself quick-sighted, I allow, on one side of the question; but on the other how can you vouch for its correctness, you have not known the lady much longer than I have.”

            “I grant it, but we have seen sufficient to convince us of the fact. We feel an interest in her fate—we all pity her, and hope that Rosse may continue his good behaviour towards her. We are surprised even at the alteration she has wrought in him; for he is, and you must observe it, tamed to what he was. His conduct to her a few evenings since was very discreditable to him.”

            “I recollect it,” said Daly, “and I envied him his two kisses.”

            “Which he did not get,” replied Hart, laughing, “for the fellow took it into his head to sulk till noon the next day.”

            “And pray,” eagerly asked Edmund, “what was the conduct of Mrs. Rosse under such circumstances?”

            “Bore it with calmness—appeared not to notice it, though she felt it most acutely, spoke to him as usual when occasion required, and neither expresses anger or pleasure when his good temper returns. Frances, however, observes that she weeps much in private; to provoke her, would please Rosse, as he wishes her to stoop to him, and beg his pardon.”

            “You surprise me! why the fellow is worse than I thought him. But, oh! my good friend, how could so gentle, so angelic a creature, sacrifice herself to the power of such a man? what in the name of heaven could have induced her to marry him?”

            “We are all in the dark in that respect as much as yourself, all we know is, that it was at the request of her dying father—that he had lost ten thousand pounds, but that there was still some property left; and hence I am surprised that he should have urged the proceeding. The very look of Rosse is enough, I should think, to deter a woman’s sympathy towards him; for, as I often say, a Lapland bear is a gentleman in comparison.”

            Edmund sighed, and said, “ah! Hart, would to heaven I had beheld her before the accursed deed was done, or that I had never seen her at all; yet I am surprized that she will not hear a word against him—this is now my crime;” and he then related to him what had taken place in the ballroom.

            “It arises,” said Hart, “from her conviction that it is her duty to do so; to my wife and Frances Whippel she cannot avoid sometimes hinting her unpleasant situation, but she invariably persists in her determination to endure any ill-treatment, rather than give him real cause for offence. “I wish to make him happy,” she will say, “whether I am or not is a different question, and concerns me only.” But come, Mr. Daly, I really cannot help laughing at your altered conduct; you take the thing too seriously; why hang it, you will, if you persist in such strange vagaries, incur the derision of all who know you. I know not how to account for it—you have been hitherto considered a very different being from what we have seen of you within these few days: “love makes the man,” they say, but in your case, “love mars the man,” I think; and

I have heard reasons manifold,

    Why love must needs be blind;

But this, the best of all I hold,

    His eyes are in his mind.

What outward form and feature are,

    He guesseth but in part;

But what within is good and fair,

    He seeth with the heart.

            Seriously, however, if you will not deem me impertinent, I will ask you one question—would you, were it possible, if a divorce could be obtained, marry Mrs. Rosse? I ask this on my own account—my own opinion being, that you are merely seized with a fit of gallantry, which will be as evanescent, as it certainly has been strong, and may be in its consequences unfortunate.”

            Daly took Hart by the hand, and said, “I do not think you impertinent, Hart; in my passion for the subject of our conversation, I have had no fixed determination. I have in thought been guilty of every extravagance towards her, from the first moment I saw her at church. I can think of no one else—I have not had a tranquil moment since, excepting, indeed, when I have enjoyed her society. I am fearful that in imagination I should hesitate at nothing to accomplish my purposes; I should rather say, have hesitated, for now I am willing, after your free communication to me, to submit to your dictation, if possible, in this unfortunate business. With regard to your question, I will frankly tell you, that if I could gain her heart, I would run off with her—without that I could not be happy: and were I to take her from Rosse, I should hold myself bound in honor to marry her, but,” said he, despondingly, “she dislikes me, I see it plainly, and am, therefore, most miserable. I have received a letter to-day from my father, who informs me, that, if I please, I may leave the ship, go to town and be made captain; or, if I think otherwise, I may take another cruise—indeed, I was only placed in this ship the last cruise, in order to be promoted. Now I would comply with my father's wishes; but I feel it impossible to start under existing circumstances. I cannot help cursing the hour when Rosse brought his fascinating wife among us; yet, God forbid that I should injure her: her happiness is I feel so interwoven with my own, that to injure her, would be my own destruction, both mentally and bodily.”

            “Thus then it is,” said Hart, “you must, I assure you, bear with what you are pleased to term your misery; you must never expect to gain her unless my good uncle should take it into his head to depart this life; and I further advise you as a friend, not to be too importunate now, for I feel persuaded that such a course would diminish greatly the chances in your favour, were she at liberty to receive your hand to-morrow.”

            “Were I,” added Daly, “to succeed at present and marry her, it must be without my father’s knowledge, otherwise I might lose my present income; and I feel assured, that the Countess, my mother, would never receive a divorced woman as my wife.”

            “Then why persevere in a course which would render you both miserable?” Hart then laughed, and continued, “what would the poor devil think of me, were he to hear me talking in this manner to you? but I am only on friendly terms with him on account of my wife and the rest of the family—like him, I never did, and he knows it; I should care but little for his loss, were I sure that it would render his lovely wife happy: for the thraldom of a galley-slave, in my opinion, is preferable to the state in which I fear she will long remain. I have spoken to you freely on the subject, because it is my sincere desire that you should cease your importunities; I cannot command your feelings, neither perhaps can you yourself; but I entreat you to disguise them, for the sake, not only of the lovely object of your unfortunate passion, but likewise in deference to the feelings of her friends, who cannot but feel any insult offered to her, but as applied to them also, and will feel it their duty to resent it. She has a strong hold on our affections, though but a mere stranger among us. You see how freely I have spoken my mind to you—I could not avoid it, for I read in your looks your intentions and wishes, the first moment I saw you in company with my pretty aunt. I, therefore, hope you will pardon the freedom I have used towards you, assuring you, that I am actuated by the most honourable motives.”

            Daly gave him his hand, and said, “you have given no offence; I am glad you have said so much to me; but, Hart, as you are so good an interpreter of looks, tell me candidly, now have you observed in the lady’s eyes any thing favourable towards me?”

            “No,” answered Hart, “nothing that would favor your present wishes; were she single, perhaps there might be a congeniality of feeling; but as things are, I decidedly tell you, there is no hope for you. Hark! another dance has commenced; it is my turn to become her partner; come, I will give you another chance to make your peace with her; will you accept it?”

            “Joyfully,” replied Daly, “but will she dance with me again, think you?”

            “I will try, but take a friend’s advice—tempt not your fate, for you tread on forbidden ground.”

            They then re-entered the room, and Helen on her part was not sorry to see it; she was really offended with Daly, yet remembering the desire of Rosse not to give him offence, she was fearful she had done so; not knowing how to act, she could not avoid looking often at the door, hoping he would re-enter. She had not observed Hart leave the room, neither had she missed him; she was, however, fearful when she saw Hart with him, that he had intreated him, on her part, to return; she, therefore, felt extremely uneasy.

            Hart came up to her, and laughingly, said, “I am come, my pretty aunt, to claim you as my partner.”

            Helen smiled, and said, “where have you been?”

            “Been!” replied he, “why to bring back a run-away: Mr. Daly vows he will not hurt your finger again, and entreats that you will allow him to dance with you, instead of me.”

            Daly looked as if entreating pardon for his delinquency, but spoke not.

            Helen smiled, and suffered Hart to place her hand in his, and said, “if he will be a good boy, I can have no objection.”

            “Any thing you please, madam, when you demand it,” said Daly.

            She blushed, and he led her once more into the set. It was the concluding dance, and Edmund's conduct was irreproachable.

            At its conclusion, Helen and Daly chatted as usual, whilst Hart and Thomas Whippel went to enquire about the carriages, and to see what had become of Rosse.

            Hart soon returned, and taking Daly aside, said, “It is as I feared, Rosse has taken too much punch—you had better take my place in the coach, and I will bring Rosse in your chair, for I greatly fear that his conduct, in such a state, will not square with that of propriety towards his timid and gentle wife; these are the fruits,” added he, “of a man's dislike to dancing—he will get drunk instead, and abuse all about him.”

            “I never knew,” said Daly, “that Rosse was a drunkard; I fear he is pursuing so sad a course to annoy the gentle being whom he claims as a wife.”

            “He is not absolutely drunk,” said Hart, “but is what he terms cheerful; that is, ripe for a row, as we say; he will, therefore, attack his wife, unless hindered; so get them off as fast as you can.”

            Helen was not aware until Daly jumped into the coach, that Rosse was not coming with them; Frances hinted to her how things were, and begged her not to be alarmed, if on his return he was rather boisterous in his manners.

            She felt shocked at this intelligence and burst into tears.

            Daly attempted in the most respectful manner to sooth her, but she was deaf to any efforts of the kind.

            On their arrival at home Daly took his leave and returned to his lodging, feeling acutely that he was the cause of the present expected disturbance, in having taken Rosse with him. A lurking hope, however, would cross his mind, that such conduct would be favourable to him in the end—though the conversation with Hart had made its due impression, and he determined to be on his guard for the future. The assertions of Hart, that “even if you were to succeed in your designs, that as your mother would never receive a divorced wife, you must render her, as well as yourself, unhappy; and if you go too far in your solicitations, I really believe she would spurn you were there no obstacle in the way,” had also a proper effect on him; and in resolving to trust to circumstances for any thing that might happen in his favour, he removed a load of mental guiltiness of purpose which previously added much to his unhappiness.

            Helen trembled, and turned pale as soon as she heard the carriage arrive with Rosse and Hart.

            Frances had desired her to remain in the parlour, hoping, that the presence of Hart and her father might have some influence on her husband, if he felt disposed to transgress again the bounds of good-breeding.

            His usual boisterous and discordant laugh was now heard, and the moment he entered the room, he ran towards her, and rudely taking hold of her, kissed her most vehemently.

            As his relations only were present not much notice would have been taken of it; but, in the state he was, reeking with the fumes of liquor, and impregnated most intensely with tobacco-smoke, Helen could not but shrink with abhorrence from his disgusting embrace. She, therefore, caught Frances by the arm, and, terrified beyond measure, was near fainting at the sight.

            Rosse paid no attention to her; but began to sing a stanza of a vulgar drinking song.

            Helen burst into tears.

            Hart and his wife had left, and Mr. Whippel and his son Thomas interfered in vain to pacify the obstreperous and forgetful husband.

            A scene of confusion followed, in which Helen escaped with Frances, with whom she slept, leaving Mr. Whippel and Thomas to manage Rosse, whom, after much trouble, both persuasive and forcible, they at length put to bed; and his loud snoring soon convinced them, that for the night, at least, he would be a peaceable man.

            “Behold!” said Mr. Whippel to his son, “the effects of drunkenness, and depend upon it, lad, this will not be the end of it. I pity from the soul the poor young woman who will have to endure with so headstrong, so violent a man as your uncle. “Oh that man should put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains,” says the great poet and dramatist, Shakspeare; and here is an exemplification indeed of its truth.”

CHAPTER VIII.

“Chaste as the icicle,

That’s corded by the frost from purest snow,

And hangs on Dian’s temple.

Shakspeare.

THE lovely Helen had no other resource but to bewail her unhappy destiny. “Oh, Frances!” said she, “could my beloved father have foreseen that I should have been the victim of such ruffianly brutality, he would have preferred following me to the grave! but, alas! I am his wife, and must obey; I am a wretched woman, and the sooner I follow my dear father, the better.”

Frances endeavoured to soothe her, and said, that she had no doubt but that her uncle would be heartily sorry for his conduct on the morrow; and she hoped it would be the last time the delicacy of Helen would be ever put to so severe a trial.

Rosse, on awaking the next morning, observed that Helen had not slept with him, and he arose with a determination to take her to task, for taking, what he thought, an unpardonable liberty in shewing her dislike to his having been, as he merely deemed it, rather over-merry on the preceding evening; but the kind-hearted Mr. Whippel was prepared for him, expecting that he would take offence at the arrangement which he himself had been instrumental in making.

Rosse, on entering the dining-room, saw Whippel, and expected what was coming; he roughly asked where Helen was?

Whippel sternly answered, “mad-man that you are when drunk, do not repeat your bad conduct when sober; your amiable wife has just now, in consequence of your extraordinary and unmanly usage to her last night, fallen asleep, as I am informed by Frances; and I must take the liberty, Rosse, once for all, to inform you, that if you intend to continue such base and brutal treatment, you cannot expect so delicate a female as Helen is, long to survive it: and further, I will tell you, that of all men breathing, you ought never to get intoxicated; a greater savage I never saw; and your vulgarity on such occasions, is so extremely disgusting, that any man, much less a female, of proper feeling, must blush at it.”

“Poh! Poh!” said Rosse, ill-naturedly, “its all nonsense; your taking her part makes her full of qualms, as we say; but, I tell you I will not allow it; and why the

d——l did she not come to her own bed: if I had awoke in the night, and had found her absent, I would have soon seen, whether or not she would serve me such tricks.”

            “You are a mad-man, Rosse; as you are blessed with a woman for your wife, so much your superior in every respect, you should do all in your power to retain her affections; she is beloved and admired by all who know her; and she acts as few young and handsome women would, in similar circumstances—you should look in the glass, my friend, and contrast your age and person, and dwell on the difference between yourself and her; you are neither young nor handsome; there is, therefore, but one course for you to pursue to make up for such deficiencies, viz. a kind and obliging disposition. I shall now leave you; and I shall order the rest of the house to keep the utmost quietness, in order that Mrs. R. may not be disturbed. I beg you, therefore, to take my advice; take your breakfast quietly—go to the dock-yard, and return in a good temper—beg her pardon for your folly, and I feel assured that you will not regret doing as I wish you.”

            Rosse had been silent during the time Mr. Whippel was speaking, not from any conviction of its propriety, but from mere vexation and anger; and on observing that Whippel was leaving the room, he said: “since I perceive you can forget yourself so far as to address me in such language, I feel it my duty to tell you, that I shall remove Helen to another lodging, where I hope she will have no one to prompt her to give herself airs, and to assume offence when none has been given her.”

            “Your airs,” retorted Whippel, really angry, “will either send her to the grave, or into the arms of a man who will deserve and use her better. You may quit the lodging if you please; but Helen, if she deems proper, shall remain; and I shall consider it my duty to protect her from any further ill-usage which she may anticipate from a savage, whom she is compelled to call a husband.”

            Rosse now became dreadfully enraged—he walked about the room in great agitation; at last, he seized his hat, and rushed out of the house.

            He was, unfortunately, never convinced that he was in the wrong, and hence, he could never be persuaded to make amends for improper conduct; is it any wonder, therefore, such a man was neither beloved nor respected?

            When he reached the ship, the first person he saw was Daly, who asked him how he was; and also enquired for Helen.

            “She is ill,” said Rosse, roughly.

            “Ill!” exclaimed Edmund, “what has occasioned it?”

            “You! you are the cause,” said Rosse; “it is all owing to your confounded capering.”

            “I do not believe it,” answered Edmund, “I fear it is in consequence of your having been intoxicated—you have used her ill.”
            “I never used her ill; and what is it to you if I had?” said Rosse, in a passionate tone.

            Daly felt inclined to resent the insult, and the lightning-like flash of his eye showed it; but, recollecting that the man was Helen’s husband, and his own promise to Hart, he kept his temper, and with a pshaw! turned on his heel with a look of the utmost contempt.

            Rosse himself was afraid he had gone too far, and was glad to avail himself of going on duty, to escape re-encountering the penetrating glance of his superior officer.

            Daly, from the moment he was informed that Helen was ill, was unable to rest. He took the earliest opportunity of going ashore, and enquiring at the dock-yard for Thomas Whippel, from him he learned every particular; he then went to his own lodgings, where he gave a loose rein to his passionate imagination, in forming schemes of elopement, &c. and as speedily abandoning them, Hart’s information and advice stepping in to overturn them as soon as planned.

            “Surely,” said he, “she will not now look cool on me, nor resist my ardent love and admiration. Oh! Helen, if thou wert but once mine, how tenderly would I treat thee.”

            He was engaged again to dine at the admiral’s, but with a heavy and disconsolate heart did he prepare himself for it. Hart’s house being in his way, he determined to call on him, and enquire still further on the subject.

            Hart himself was no stranger to Daly or the other officers: long before this he was in the habit of cashing their bills, lending them money, and otherwise accommodating them.

            He found Hart alone, told him all he had heard, and entreated him to go to the house of Mr. Whippel and learn how Helen was; I am engaged at the admiral’s, but will leave early, and call on you at nine o’clock.

            Hart promised compliance, and they parted.

            Meanwhile, the forlorn and ill-treated Helen awoke in a state of high fever.

            Frances was alarmed, on observing her flushed cheeks, her burning hands, and the dreadful headache of which she complained. She ran to her mother, who was an excellent nurse, and who, as the sister of Rosse, was resolved to act in the most determined manner towards him, by insisting that Helen should remain in bed, and that in her present critical situation, he should not be allowed to see her; in fact, the dread of meeting him was the immediate cause of her illness, particularly when informed that he had determined to remove her.

            Rosse came home at the usual hour to dine, and Mrs. Whippel purposely placed herself in his way to inform him how ill Helen was.

            “Well,” grumbled he, “she may thank the —— capering for it.”

            Mrs. Whippel denied it to be the effects of her having attended the ball. “No, no, Richard,” said she, “it is owing to your vile temper; such usage to so sweet, so gentle a disposition, is enough to make the poor creature ill; but you will not, I assure you, succeed in your threats; rather than leave us for another lodging, she is determined to go back to her aunt’s.”

            “What made her say that?” asked he.

            “Why hearing your conduct to Whippel, and your other outrageous assertions; she deems such a course the only prudent one she can adopt.”

            Now, of all things, in reality, Rosse would have been unable to endure the mortification of being separated from Helen. He loved her in his own way beyond every thing in the world, and he felt a pride in calling so angelic a woman his wife; nor was he ignorant, that in regard to herself, he could not find a tittle of cause for complaint.

            He, therefore, bit his lips with vexation, and half-remorse, for his precipitancy, and muttered, “well, I do not wish to remove her, provided she will behave well, and do as I wish.”

            “Behave well yourself, Richard,” smartly replied his sister, “and you may be the happiest of mortals.”

            Rosse passed on to his room, and when called to dinner ate it in silence; he then returned to his room, and remained alone till the hour for tea which he rang for, still preserving his gloomy taciturnity.

            Frances reported every thing to Helen, and argued that his fit of moroseness was leaving him, and that from the decided manner in which his conduct had been so generally reprobated by all the branches of the family, it was extremely probable that he would never be guilty of such gross improprieties again.

            “I hope in God!” exclaimed Helen, “my dear Frances, your reasonings may prove true—I wish for my own part I could forget to think on it.”

            Hart and his wife were now announced.

            Mrs. Hart went immediately to solace Helen, and to cheer her with the hope of future happiness.

            Hart presented himself before Rosse, and expostulated with him mildly on the ill effects that would arise from his persisting in his obstinacy.

            Rosse had, during the day, reflected on the past, and could not but feel self-condemned; but to own it was the bitter obstacle to be got over.

            Hart’s gentle persuasion made him unbend a little.

            “I am sorry,” said Hart, “to find that Mrs. Rosse is so ill.”

            “It is not my fault, Hart,” answered Rosse, “your confounded caperings have been the cause.”

            “Nay, nay, you judge wrong, you forget the punch and its consequences,” said Hart.

            “You are I perceive all in a string against me—it must be my fault, and I suppose I must agree to it. But you must confess, that if your country ball had not taken place, things would have been different; I wish you were not so fond of dancing, Hart.”

            Rosse spoke this rather mildly, and Hart, laughingly, passed it off by telling the news of the day, and by other means, soon brought Rosse into something like a companionable state.

            Mrs. Hart and Frances hearing them laugh now and then, judged that Hart had succeeded, and they, therefore, ventured to go into the room with them.

            “How is Helen?” said Hart.

            “Ill, very ill,” replied Frances.

            “I am sorry to hear it,” added Hart.

            “Oh! oh!” exclaimed Rosse, “I see how it is, you all want to frighten me—I have not seriously thought Helen to be ill, she is a little ill-tempered, so I thought it best to let her alone; but tell me, Eliza, on your honour, is she seriously ill or not?”

            “If some people,” said Mrs. Hart, archly, “would be good-tempered, it would be the better. Helen is ill, uncle, and Frances intends to remain up with her for the night.”

            “Indeed she shall not,” said Rosse, “she shall be brought to her own bed, and if she is ill I will tend her myself.”

            “Not to-night, uncle,” said Frances; “mother, who is a good nurse, will not consent to it.”

            “I will go and see her directly,” exclaimed he, and caught up one of the candles.

            “Stop, stop,” said Frances, “let me go first;” and she ran to the room where Helen was, and bending her face to her ear, whispered, “Rosse is coming, he is all kindness and good-temper; courage, therefore, my dear friend, all will yet be well.”

            Rosse now entered, and was much surprised to observe Helen in bed; “what in bed already,” said he, “Helen?”

            “I have been in bed all the day,” said she, rising slowly, and with a tremulous voice.

            Rosse sat by the bed-side and taking her hand, said, “I fear Helen that you are worse than I thought you to be—I wish you would come to your own bed and I will take every care of you, my dear little girl.”

            Helen, however, joined Frances in persuading him to let her remain for the night, with which arrangement he was by no means pleased, conceiving it to be impossible but that she would prefer his attentions to any one’s else.

            Helen spoke to him with her usual gentleness, deeming it, in the innocence of her heart, to be a kindness in him to visit her in a peaceable manner, though she could not but inwardly rejoice when he bid her good night and left her.

            “Thank God,” said Helen, “he appears to be in a good temper once more, and now I should hope that he will not think of removing me from the house of you, my best and generous friends.”

            “No, no,” answered Mrs. Whippel, “he will not I am sure think of doing so now; for my own part I wish you were going to remain with us, instead of going to the Downs.”

            “Ah, so do I; but if I must go to the Downs, I shall be allowed I hope to return here when the ship sails, for I should prefer it to the going back to Poole.”

            Mrs. Whippel gave her cordial consent to it, and Frances threw her arms about her neck, and said, “my dearest friend, even if you were going to Poole, I certainly would not leave you, and I only wish that I could accompany you to the Downs.”

            “That indeed would be a pleasure,” replied Helen, “for though the period will be short, yet I dread much the company of strangers.”

            “Well, my dear friend, you had better now compose yourself, endeavour to forget what is past; a good night’s rest will have a wonderful effect on you for the better,” said Mrs. Whippel, “so good night.”

            The feelings of Helen during the day had been dreary enough, and though she derived much comfort from the kind and hospitable conduct of the relations of Rosse, yet the dark vista of her future life, appeared but too frequently before her terrified imagination.

            In spite also of her decided resolution, not to encourage the advances of Edmund, assured as she now was, that she was the object of his tender solicitude, she felt that she should have to be still more determined in her virtuous line of conduct.

            The violent conduct of Rosse, and his utter unfitness to render the life of a young and amiable woman happy, appeared now but too plain to her susceptible mind; and to herself, she could not but confess the immeasurable contrast, between the polite and handsome Daly, and her uncouth and rough consort.

            Hart had removed from her mind the suspicion which she had but too many grounds to conclude was just, viz. that he was actuated by base and dishonourable motives, and the reflection could not but be gratifying to her, that the man whom she involuntarily and secretly admired, would, during her expected short stay on board the ship, be always at hand to protect her, at least from insult and direct violence.

            In taking Hart’s word for the honourable intentions of Edmund, it must be confessed that she was in some respects deceived; but she the more readily received his assertions, as it was the earnest desire of Rosse not to offend him.

            Hart’s motives for speaking so highly in his favour were well intended in his opinion; he really felt for the unpleasant situation of Helen, and guessed the truth, that she had, as it were, been bargained to Rosse, for whom he had always entertained feelings of great contempt. His well known gallantry also was sure to enlist him as a champion for the fair sex; and his wishes, though not expressed, were in favour of Edmund, provided by any means not dishonourable he could obtain her, and she become his lawful wife.

            He recollected the appointment to meet Daly, and, therefore, hurried home with Mrs. Hart for that purpose.

            Edmund was waiting for him with a feverish anxiety. Learning from Hart’s clerk whither he was gone, he sate himself down in the parlour and took a book, hoping to amuse himself till Hart arrived—it would not do, every footstep he heard distracted his attention; every minute was an hour to him, and he put by the book with disgust.

            At last he came, and with looks of intense impatience and uneasiness, when Hart had taken him to his private business-room, enquired after the health of Helen.

            “I fear,” said Hart, “she is seriously ill. Rosse of course occasioned it; but by the exertions of the family, he is, though he will not confess it, sorry for it; and I have left things as well as can be expected; a good night’s rest will, no doubt, relieve her much.”

            “Oh! Hart,” said Daly, “I have been most miserable on her account during the whole of the day—I feel that I love her beyond every thing in the world.”

            “Which you must not for the future make so apparent, my friend; Mrs. Hart herself has observed to me on our way home, that she suspects you are head and ears in love with the girl; I call her so, because I wish she was not the wife of the fool she is, as much as you; but I hope you will see the propriety of attending scrupulously to my advice, as the only rational and favourable chance you will ever have to promote your own as well as her happiness.”
            Daly promised Hart to be as cautious as he could; thanked him for his kindness, went home and dreamt as usual of Helen.

            On going on board the next morning, he met Rosse who, looking cheerful, he ventured to ask how his wife was; “oh,” said he, “thank God better, better, will be well enough bye and bye; won’t you call in the evening?”

            Daly felt elated at the invitation, but hid it, by saying in a careless manner, “I am not sure I shall be at liberty, but I am glad to hear Mrs. Rosse is better;” he then walked to the other end of the deck.

            Rosse felt rather mortified at his abruptness, attributed it to his own conduct on the day before, and was fearful that he had offended him.

            In the course of the forenoon, Helen after rather an indifferent night, was assisted to the drawing-room; she felt weak and giddy, but all pain was gone; she complained of great thirst, which, by the good management of Mrs. Whippel, was speedily assuaged, by cooling draughts of lemonade, &c. and by the evening was so much better as to desire not to retire till the usual hour.

            Daly shortly after was announced; at his entrance Helen blushed deeply, fearing that he would enquire the cause of her indisposition, which she was not aware was known to him.

            As, however, such was the case, he said nothing on the subject; but he attributed her blushes as favourable to himself, and his eyes kindled with animation at the thought. He became lively and interesting in his conversation.

            Rosse’s presence was sufficient to restrain his ardour; though to do that person justice on this occasion, he showed himself capable of being endurable as a companion.

            Frances observed, “we are going to Gosport to-morrow, but my uncle refuses to go; we are half afraid to venture across the water unaccompanied, though my father will take us through the dock-yard, and send us from that place.”

            “I,” eagerly interrupted Daly, “will accompany you, with Rosse’s permission; it is surely improper for you to go without protection.”

            “I shall be very glad if you will go,” said Rosse, “I dislike those wedding visits; yet, as my sister says, that crossing the water will do the health of Helen some service, I wish them to go. You know I am wanted on board; and for that matter, so are you.”

            “Oh,” replied Daly, “I will find time for my business; at what hour, Miss Whippel, shall I wait on you?”

            Frances told him, and all parties were pleased—the ladies that they should have so agreeable a companion, and Rosse that they would be taken care of, as well as to get himself excused from what he called women visits; neither was he jealous of Daly, as he knew there would be others in her company; and though he had narrowly watched his conduct, during his present visit, yet he could perceive nothing to give him uneasiness; indeed, reflection, as well as the advice of Hart, had completely removed from the mind of Edmund his former vicious intentions towards her. The first burst of passion over, he felt that it not only contributed to his own peace of mind, but also to the happiness of her whom he adored, to submit with calmness and resignation to the barriers which nature and honor had placed in opposition to his desires; true, he still loved her with the devotion of an enthusiast, but his heart which was truly generous, and his spirit which was really noble, had resolved to submit to every privation, nay, even insult, provided that the health and happiness of Helen were thereby promoted.

            He was pleased beyond his expectations, therefore, in Rosse’s ready acquiescence to his being the escort of the party.

            To be a whole day with Helen, and to perceive that in consequence of his self-subdued ardour towards her, that she received him as a companion willingly and with a smiling countenance, was a recompence for his virtue, which amply repaid him.

            He retired shortly after, and for the first night for a week, slept pleasantly and soundly. He had desired his servant to awake him early, which was attended to, and accordingly he was at his post with a gladdened heart and animated spirits.

            The ladies were ready, and they proceeded at once through the dock-yard, where they met Lampton, who knew nothing of their intended cruise; when they informed him, he said, “if I had known earlier, whither you were going I should have liked to have gone with you. One lady is enough for you, Mr. Daly, to take care of; shall I,” addressing Frances, “have the pleasure of calling for you in the evening, and accompanying you home, Miss Whippel?”

            The secretly enamoured girl’s eyes danced with delight at the request, and she readily, though confusedly, assented.

            Daly had observed the attentions which this gentleman had showed Frances at the ball, and rallied her on her conquest, as they were crossing in the boat.

            “I am glad,” said he, laughing, “that I shall be relieved from one of my burthens; and faith, if I do not take great care of you, Mrs. Rosse, and you should get cold, Rosse will swear that every pleasure makes you ill: we will therefore be extremely cautious this time at any rate.”

            The parties whom they visited, Mrs. Ellis (lately Miss Reeves) and her sisters, received them with great kindness, and Helen who had never seen Gosport before, passed an agreeable day, tinged however with the obvious conviction that all parties appeared glad at the absence of her husband; Daly was thoroughly happy, and though he disguised it with the cleverness of an adept, feasted his eyes on the loveliness of Helen, and listened with rapture to every word she uttered; and Helen herself, knowing that she was committed to his charge by Rosse, felt no uneasiness at his polite attentions.

            In the evening more company arrived, the lover of Miss Reeves, Thomas Whippel, whose attentions to the younger sister showed but too plainly where his penchant lay, and Hart, that restorer of harmony and lover of fun and frolic, joined the party.

            Lampton also came, and betrayed, though as usual he said nothing, his affection for Frances. He was an extremely delicate and sensitive young man, scrupulous to a degree, as far as his own honorable intentions went; but restrained in his present career of growing affections for a lovely and deserving woman, by having the fear before his eyes of an old maiden aunt, from whom he had great expectations.

            It is true that his present income was handsome, and adequate to the respectable maintenance of a wife and family; but his strength of mind was not sufficiently powerful to make him risk the loss of a large sum of money, by marrying a portionless girl, which was the expressed tenure, on which he was to build his hopes of one day being possessed of.

            “My dear nephew,” the old woman would say to him, “marry the girl I like, that is to say, let her have some money, it will show the world that you have not been taken in—no uncommon case in these degenerate days—I will then give you some on the wedding-day, and you shall have all I am possessed of when I die.”

            Thus restrained, he had never ventured to hint to the old lady his predilection for the pleasing companion of Helen, neither had he the courage, though often on the very verge, to declare himself to that vivacious lass, who thus tantalized with hopes and fears, could not help expressing at times her chagrin to her beloved and bosom friend.

            In his walk home with her, he had ventured to say more on the subject of love than he hitherto had done; and Frances, who really wished the mock courtship, as she half conceived it to be, over, did all in her power consistent with a proper regard to the dignity of her sex, to bring him to an eclaircissement, but to no purpose.

            He preserved with the greatest imperturbability the most provoking silence, as far as he and his companion were concerned.

            “Hang the fellow,” said Frances to herself, “I wish I did not like him half so well as I do, and I’d answer that this should be his last walk with so unfortunate a damsel as myself.”

            Daly was by necessity, as well as prudence, debarred from speaking of self to Helen; his conversation, like Lampton’s, would now and then, as his heart, full of admiration of his lovely charge, could not but dictate, savour of the nature of love; he did not by any means apply it to her, but he spoke of the passion generally.

            It was a subject that Helen herself would rather have avoided, she therefore said but little in answer to him; and Daly had by no means any reason to flatter himself with having touched her heart in his favour; indeed he came to the conclusion from her manners, conversation, and expression of her feelings, that she had never yet felt the influence of the tender and soul-subduing passion.

            “Oh!” cried he to himself, “what would I not give to gain that uncorrupted, innocent, and I am satisfied hitherto untouched heart!” Well may I with Shakspeare exclaim, with heart-felt proof of its truth—

                        “What dangerous action, stood it next to death,

                        Would I not dare for one calm look?

                        Oh! ’tis the curse in love, and still approved,

                        When women cannot love, where they’re beloved.”

            Thus then stood the case with our heroine at the present juncture.

            For Rosse she could not feel the tender passion, and for Edmund Daly she would not, though he assuredly was in person, manners, temper, &c. all that a woman could wish; he was formed to be beloved, and even the very tone of his voice was fascinating.

            How then it may be asked was Helen saved from so many blandishments—from such acute, such violent temptations? She had indeed to struggle against the involuntary prepossession in his favour, which she had felt the first moment she beheld him, and hard was the task to guard her heart from the assault of such powerful weapons, as the mischievous god had concentrated in the person and mind of the youthful and winning Edmund—that heart which acknowledged him in secret to be the most amiable, the most lovely of men. The shield which protected her under such trying circumstances—the talisman which magically, as it were, kept off disgrace and ruin from a lovely and partly unprotected woman, was nothing more than a firm resolution to resist the allurements—the dangers—the sin of illicit love—the possession of a pure and spotless mind, exemplified in her first conversation with Rosse on the subject; and the frequent communings of her own heart.

            “Daly,” she would say, “cannot love me with honour, and how can a married woman, however unhappy, as such, receive the advances, and return the love of a libertine? for such love must be libertinism, if any thing at all; disgrace must be its result—misery, anguish, guilt and destruction, its final reward. I will, therefore, be virtuous and firm in my resolution, to give no cause for complaint to the most fastidious observer of my words and actions.”

            From the time she had observed the effect her determined conduct at the ball had had on Edmund, she felt persuaded that she had nothing to fear from him for the future; she knew that she could command his prudence as well as her own, and thus his fierce and passionate desires had been calmed down to a delicate and more honourable principle.

            He adored her it is true, but he found his advantage under the present uncontrollable and unalterable circumstances to curb his passions, and subdue his ardour, the pursuit of which, if too eagerly grasped, might not only elude his admiring eyes, but escape from his presence for ever. Satisfied too, that her heart was uncorrupted, and that honour would be the eternal guide of her life, he could not, though himself the sufferer, but reflect with pleasure, on her exalted nature—so lovely and powerful is virtue, when called into action by the most opposing and seductive principles, that it demands and extorts the praise, even of vice itself, when conquered in its attacks on her impregnable fortress.

            Daly was now the silent lover, unhappy in the absence of the object of his adoration; but her presence was a heaven to him, and a compensation for his lonely and contemplative misery.

            The change in him was, of course, observed by his brother officers, and his conduct, so unlike the generality of that merry class of individuals, that few could recognize in him the former gay, jocund, and spirited lieutenant—the charm and the idol of their merry-makings.

            Hitherto he had escaped much of their observations, most of them being of the class of the true bred seaman; and when ashore, enjoying themselves accordingly—some were gone to visit relations, and spend their money; others to London, to view the wonders of that wonderful place; others—but we will pause, and describe the seaman ashore, in the words of a popular author of the day, as it will help many of our readers better to understand the peculiarities of many of the incidents hereafter related.

            ‘The first object of the seaman on landing, is to spend his money: but the first sensation is the strange firmness of the earth, which he goes treading in a sort of a heavy light way, half waggoner and half dancing master, his shoulders rolling, and his feet touching and going; the same way, in short, in which he keeps himself prepared for the rolling chances of the vessel, when on deck. There is always, to us, this appearance of lightness of foot and heavy strength of upper works, in a sailor.

            And he feels it himself.

            He lets his jacket fly open and his shoulders slouch, and his hair grow long to be gathered into heavy pigtail; but when full dressed, he prides himself on a certain gentility of toe; a white stocking and a natty shoe, issuing lightly out of the flowing blue trowser. His arms are neutral, hanging and swinging in a curve aloof; his hands, half open, look as if they had just been handling ropes, and had no object in life but to handle them again.

            He is proud of appearing in a new hat and slops, with a Belcher handkerchief flowing loosely round his neck, and the corner of another out of his pocket.

            Thus equipped, with pinchbeck buckles in his shoes (which he bought for gold) he puts some tobacco in his mouth, not as if he were going to use it directly, but as if he stuffed it in a pouch on one side, as a pelican does fish, to employ it hereafter: and so, with Bet Monson at his side, and perhaps a cane or whangee twisted under his other arm, sallies forth to take possession of all Lubberland.

            He buys every thing he comes athwart,—nuts, gingerbread, apples, shoe-strings, beer, brandy, gin, buckles, knives, a watch, (two, if he has money enough,) gowns and handkerchiefs for Bet, and his mother and sisters, dozens of “Superfine Best Men’s Cotton Stockings,” dozens of “Superfine Best Women’s Cotton Ditto,” best good Check for Shirts (though he has too much already), infinite needles and thread (to sew his trowsers with some day), a footman’s laced hat, Bear’s Grease to make his hair grow (by way of joke,) several sticks, all sorts of Jew articles, a flute (which he can’t play and never intends), a leg of mutton which he carries somewhere to roast, and for a piece of which the landlord of the Ship makes him pay twice what he gave for the whole;—in short, all that money can be spent upon, which is every thing but medicine gratis; and this he would insist on paying for.

            He would buy all the painted parrots on an Italian’s head, on purpose to break them, rather than not spend his money.

            He has fiddles and a dance at the Ship, with oceans of flip and grog; and gives the blind fiddler tobacco for sweetmeats, and half-a-crown for treading on his toe.

            He asks the landlady, with a sigh, after her daughter Nance, who first fired his heart with her silk stockings; and finding that she is married and in trouble, leaves five crowns for her; which the old lady appropriates as part payment for a shilling in advance.

            He goes to the port playhouse with Bet Monson, and a great red handkerchief full of apples, gingerbread nuts, and fresh beef; calls out for the fiddlers and Rule Britannia; pelts Tom Sikes in the pit; and compares Othello to the black ship’s cook in his white night-cap.

            When he comes to London, he and some messmates take a hackney-coach, full of Bet Monsons and tobacco-pipes, and go through the streets smoking and lolling out of window.

            He has ever been cautious of venturing on horseback; and among his other sights in foreign parts, relates with unfeigned astonishment how he has seen the Turks ride,—“Only,” says he, guarding against the hearer’s incredulity, “they have saddle-boxes to hold ’em in, fore and aft; and shovels like for stirrups.”

            He will tell you how the Chinese drink, and the NEGURS dance, and the monkies pelt you with coa-nuts; and how King Domy would have built him a mud hut and made him a Peer of the Realm, if he would have stopped with him and taught him to make trowsers.

            He has a sister at a “School for Young Ladies,” who blushes with a mixture of pleasure and shame at his appearance; and whose confusion he completes, by slipping four-pence into her hand, and saying out loud that he has “no more copper” about him.

            His mother and elder sisters at home doat on all he says and does, telling him however that he is a great sea-fellow, and was always wild ever since he was a hop-o-my-thumb no higher than the window locker.

            He tells his mother that she would be a dutchess in Paranaboo; at which the good old portly dame laughs and looks proud.

            When his sisters complain of his romping, he says they are only sorry it is not the baker. He frightens them with a mask made after the New Zealand fashion, and is forgiven for his learning.

            Their mantelpiece is filled by him with shells and shark’s teeth; and when he goes to sea again, there is no end of tears, and God bless you’s, and home made ginger bread.

            His officer on shore does much of all this, only, generally speaking, in a higher taste.

            The moment he lands, he buys quantities of jewellery and other valuables, for all the females of his acquaintance; and is taken in for every article.

            He sends in a cart load of fresh meat to the ship though he is going to town next day; and calling in at the chandler’s for some candles, is persuaded to buy a dozen of green wax, with which he lights up the ship at evening; regretting that the fine moonlight hinders the effect of the colour.

            A man, with a bundle beneath his arm, accosts him in an under tone; and, with a look in which respect for his knowledge is mixed with an avowed zeal for his own interest, asks if his Honour will just step under the gangway here, and inspect some real India shawls.

            The gallant Lieutenant says to himself, “this fellow knows what’s what, by his face;” and so he proves it by being taken in on the spot.

            When he brings the shawls home, he says to his sister with an air of triumph, “there, Poll, there’s something for you; only cost me twelve and is worth twenty, if its worth a dollar.”

            She turns pale.

            “Twenty what, my dear George? why you haven’t given twelve dollars for it, I hope?”

            Not I, by the Lord.

            That’s lucky; because you see, my dear George, that all together is not worth more than fourteen or fifteen shillings.”

            “Fourteen or fifteen what! why its real India, en’t it? why the fellow told me so; or I’m sure I’d as soon”—(here he tries to hide his blushes with a bluster) “I’d as soon have given him twelve douses on the chaps as twelve guineas.”

            “Twelve GUINEAS?” exclaims his sister; and then drawling forth “why—my—dear—George,” is proceeding to shew him what the articles would have cost at Codnell’s, when he interrupts her by requesting her to go and chuse for herself a tea-table service.

            He then makes his escape to some messmates at a coffee-house, and drowns his recollection of the shawls in the best wine, and a discussion on the comparative merits of the English and West Indian beauties and tables.

            At the theatre afterwards, where he has never been before, he takes a lady at the back of one of the boxes for a woman of quality; and when, after returning his long respectful gaze with a smile, she turns aside and puts her handkerchief to her mouth, he thinks it is in derision, till his friend undeceives him.

            He is introduced to the lady; and ever afterwards, at first sight of a woman of quality (without any disparagement either to those charming personages), expects her to give him a smile.

            He thinks the other ladies much better creatures than they are taken for; and for their parts, they tell him, that if all men were like himself, they would trust the sex again:—which, for aught we know, is the truth.

            He has, indeed, what he thinks a very liberal opinion of ladies in general; judging them all, in a manner, with the eye of a seaman’s experience.

            Yet he will believe nevertheless in the “true-love” of any given damsel whom he seeks in the way of marriage, let him roam as much, or remain as long at a distance, as he pleases.

            It is not that he wants feeling; but that he has read of it, time out of mind, in songs; and he looks upon constancy as a sort of exploit, answering to those which he performs at sea.

            He is nice in his watches and linen.

            He makes you presents of cornelians, antique seals, cocoa-nuts set in silver, and other valuables.

            When he shakes hands with you, it is like being caught in a windlass.

            He would not swagger about the streets in his uniform, for the world.

            He is generally modest in company, though liable to be irritated by what he thinks ungentlemanly behaviour.

            He is also liable to be rendered irritable by sickness; partly because he has been used to command others, and to be served with all possible deference and alacrity; and partly, because the idea of suffering pain, without any honour or profit to get by it, is unprofessional, and he is not accustomed to it.

            He treats talents unlike his own with great respect.

            He often perceives his own so little felt that it teaches him this feeling for that of others. Besides he admires the quantity of information which people can get, without travelling like himself; especially when he sees how interesting his own becomes, to them as well as to every body else.

            When he tells a story, particularly if full of wonders, he takes care to maintain his character for truth and simplicity, by qualifying it with all possible reservations, concessions, and anticipations of objection; such as “in case, at such times as, so to speak, as it were, at least, at any rate.”

            He seldom uses sea-terms but when jocosely provoked by something contrary to his habits of life; as for instance, if he is always meeting you on horseback, he asks if you never mean to walk the deck again; or if he finds you studying day after day, he says you are always overhauling your log-book.

            He makes more new acquaintances, and forgets his old ones less, than any other man in the busy world; for he is so compelled to make his home every where, remembers his native one as such a place of enjoyment, has all his friendly recollections so fixed upon his mind at sea, and has so much to tell and to hear when he returns, that change and separation lose with him the most heartless part of their nature.

            He also sees such a variety of customs and manners, that he becomes charitable in his opinions altogether; and charity, while it diffuses the affections, cannot let the old ones go.

            Half the secret of human intercourse is to make allowance for each other.

            When the officer is superannuated or retires, he becomes, if intelligent and enquiring, one of the most agreeable old men in the world, equally welcome to the silent for his card-playing, and to the conversational for his recollection.

            He is fond of astronomy and books of voyages, and is immortal with all who know him for having been round the world, or seen the Transit of Venus, or had one of his fingers carried off by a New Zealand hatchet, or a present of feathers from an Otaheitean beauty.

            If not elevated by his acquirements above some of his humbler tastes, he delights in a corner-cupboard holding his cocoa-nuts and punchbowl; has his summer-house castellated and planted with wooden cannon; and sets up the figure of his old ship, the Britannia or the Lovely Nancy, for a statue in the garden, where it stares eternally with red cheeks and round black eyes, as if in astonishment at it’s situation.”

            Our readers will expect from the title of our book to find delineated many of the characteristics of a class of people of much national importance to this country; and which we presume cannot be uninteresting, inasmuch as they form almost a distinct caste, as it were, of people, possessing peculiarities eccentric compared with society on shore.

            Jack is an amphibious creature, and his sole business on shore, having to go to sea again, is to take as much pleasure as he can; therefore, the moment he sets his foot on dry ground, his duty is to turn his back on all salt beef and other sea restrictions.

            His long absence, and the impossibility of getting land pleasures at sea, put him upon a sort of desperate appetite. He lands like a conqueror taking possession. He has been debarred so long, that he is resolved to have that matter out with the inhabitants; they must render to him an account of their treasures, their women, their victualling stores, their entertainments, their every thing; and in return he will behave like a gentleman and scatter his gold.

            The margin of the seas is the extent of Jack’s geography—Portsmouth and Plymouth, Chatham and Sheerness, could tell many a tale of adventure worth a Jew’s eye for originality; but it is not our intention to embody anecdote to illustrate this faithful portraiture of British seamen.

            Hence the foregoing description being most apt, we will now pass from these generalities, to our own more minute detail of the circumstances we have to relate; the minds of our readers will be prepared to receive and admit the facts, and consequently reconcile their extravagancies, sometimes strangely bordering on fiction, to be indigenous to the watery element, and indubitable traits of those whose business is on the ‘deep waters.’

When storms are sunk to rest,

    And thunder rolls no more,

The seaman’s heart, how blest,

    Who seeks his native shore.

That shore, where many a fair,

    His cheering spirit warms,

All crowd his joys to share,

    Snug moorings follow storms.

Then rage, ye blust’ring winds,

    Ye foaming billows, roar,

The tar a welcome finds

    Upon his native shore:

Though tempest tost at sea,

    On shore affection warms,

All sailors’ creeds agree,

    Sung moorings follow storms.

CHAPTER IX.

“Thy smile—thy love—was to this heart

    As sun-beams to the sea;

They wove a golden chain thereon;

    But drew it all to thee;

They brighten’d each fond cherish’d hope,

    Like dew in morning’s ray;

But hope has fled, as dew takes wing

    Before the fiercer day.

What though the brow may seem to wear

    The sun-lit beams of joy!—

A cloud of gloom enshrouds the heart,

    That can its peace destroy!

What though upon the fever’d cheek

    The smile at times may rest,

    ’Tis but to hide the torturing care

That rankles at the breast.”

            THE party returned at an early hour, which pleased Rosse, whose suspicion of Daly had again returned. After they were gone he requested of Helen to relate the particulars of their day’s pleasure, which she, ever ready to please, gave him without hesitation; Frances also eagerly assisted her; and even Daly, who felt a little gratitude to Rosse for his unusual condescension in committing Helen to his care, was communicative on the subject.

            Rosse was thoroughly satisfied; and on Frances mentioning the name of Miss Thistel, who had been one of the party, Helen requested her to relate the cause of that melancholy, which was so characteristic a feature in the manner and appearance of that young lady.

            Frances complied, and thus began:—

            Miss Thistel is the daughter of a worthy old man, who was formerly an officer in the same department in the dock-yard as my father, but subordinate to him; her mother was a very respectable woman, a good economist, and one who had brought up, on an extremely limited income, her family in a creditable and respectable manner.

            The eldest daughter was married a few years since, and is happily and comfortably settled.

            Other of the children died, and Rebecca, the subject of the present narrative, was the only one left to comfort her parents in their old age; she was an extremely handsome woman, as you may even now perceive, though she is but the wreck of her former self; she had, however, a failing, which perhaps is the occasion more frequently of the ruin of females than is generally imagined. Her notions of life were extremely lofty, she aspired to be the fine lady, and looked with contempt on those who were not only her equals, but her superiors in station. It was her fixed determination, she would often say, if ever she were married, to have a gentleman for her husband; the word gentleman in her vocabulary, of course, meant one who could live without labour; and though I and my sisters invariably scouted her mistaken notions of gentility, and laughed at her fancied superiority, she would never be convinced but that it was proper, nay, even virtuous, to aspire to the highest rank in life; a foolish and vain idea, and prolific of the most disastrous consequences generally, and as in her case at least will be amply proved.

            About three years since a naval officer, (here Frances could not help exchanging glances with Helen) who lodged at the house, a young handsome fellow, with a most insinuating address and high pretensions, became enamoured of the beautiful though giddy Rebecca.

            A slight coolness had existed between us previous to this, owing, we imagine, to our freedom in having given what we conceived good advice.

            One day, however, I called on her, and found her in high spirits; she told me frankly how matters were, and with a toss of her head, asked, “who was right now? Did I not say,” said she, “that I would have a gentleman?”

            “I am sure,” I replied, “I do not envy you, and shall be extremely happy at your good fortune, though I still retain my former opinion, which I have so often and so frankly expressed to you; I hope in all other respects you will be equally fortunate, and that you will not only be a gentleman’s wife, but a happy wife, which I conceive to be of most consequence.”

            “Oh! my dear Frances, there will be no question about it; Mr. —— is so much the gentleman, and is so extremely fond of me, that I have no fears, I assure you.”

            Time passed on, and the marriage-day was fixed; great preparations were made for the joyful ceremony; a large party was invited on the happy occasion, and nothing seemed wanting to render the hopes of Miss Rebecca, and her friends certain; but, alas! for the instability of human things, about a week previous to the intended consummation of the nuptials, the ship to which Mr. —— belonged was unexpectedly ordered to sea at a day’s notice: this was a great shock to the feelings of poor Rebecca; but her lover’s protestation of eternal fidelity, and the mutual consolings of her friends, soothed her into something like a calm resignation to her disappointment. To me she looked for the greatest consolation, and could not but acknowledge that my frankness in having often curbed her in her eager anticipations of expected happiness, was of use to her in her present forlorn and vexatious situation.

            Month after month elapsed, and no letter or communication arrived: that the poor girl was extremely mortified, I could readily perceive; but the efforts of her friends, who strove to the utmost to make the best of the unaccountable and mysterious silence of

Mr. ——, were sufficiently powerful to keep up her spirits under such trying circumstances.

            One day, my brother, on his return from the arsenal, said to me, “Frances,

Mr. ——‘s ship came in this morning.”

            I flew to Rebecca, who was overjoyed at the good tidings, as she anticipated it.

            I being otherwise engaged, heard nothing further about the matter until a week had elapsed, when my father asked me, “what is the matter with old Thistel, do you know, Frances?”

            I replied in the negative, and eagerly enquired his reasons for asking.

            “Why,” said he, “the old man appears to me to be bowed down with sorrow; I fancy he tries to shun me, and I have been so busily engaged of late, that I have been unable to call on him and learn what is the matter; do go, Frances, and see whether Miss Rebecca is married or not, now her spark is arrived!”

            I said I would, and accordingly called in the evening; I was struck with amazement at the scene I now witnessed; the tea things were on the table—old Thistel was sitting as one broken hearted, and looking alternately at his daughter and his wife most wistfully; the poor old woman was weeping; Rebecca herself sitting between them mourning, and removing the cups and saucers; she was dressed in white, and a garland of flowers gathered from her garden, was twisted fantastically in her beautiful dark hair; the instant she recognized me, she sprung as one overjoyed; but the frenzied flash of eye, showed but too plainly her melancholy situation, and I was struck with horror.

            “Oh! Frances,” exclaimed the poor unfortunate, “he is come! he is come! see I am dressed in my bridal dress; we are waiting breakfast for him—at ten o’clock we are to be married. Hark! the clock strikes! he is coming! he is coming! he is coming!” and she flew with rapidity into the garden, as if to meet him.

            I was so shocked at the miserable spectacle before me, and was unable to advance further than the door; but when Rebecca ran out, the old man started up, and said, with a clenched fist, “oh! Miss Frances, would that was as young, and as strong as it was once, to revenge myself on the villain who has robbed me of my daughter’s senses—who has shortened my days, and rendered me and my poor wife there, miserable for ever.”

            I endeavoured to soothe them; and after repeated trials, gained the following information from them, viz. that two days having elapsed after the arrival of the ship, and no communication having been received from Mr. ——, Rebecca came so uneasy and mistrustful, that she determined to address a note to him, which she did, but received no answer; she then begged her father to take a boat and carry him another himself.

            “I told her I did not like the errand,” said the old man, “for my dear Rebecca, if the fellow (for my blood boiled with indignation against him) means to be honourable towards you, there can be no need to send after him; and if not, why it would be a degradation to go. Rebecca, however, so importuned me, that I was forced to comply: and on my reaching the ship, I was received by the scoundrel in the most insolent manner. He was walking the deck, and on taking the letter, without reading it, tore it in pieces before my face.”

            “Tell your paltry daughter, old man,” said he, “I never had any affection for her. How could you be such fools as to imagine that I should so far demean myself as to marry her—if you trouble me in this way again, I will send a shot into your boat and sink it—I owe you no money—go.”

            I returned,” continued the old man, with tears, “and described my interview—you see the consequences.”

            He ceased, and I agitated, terrified, and disgusted, wept at the distressing recital.

            Rebecca returned, and on perceiving me in tears, burst into an hysterical laugh; at which, the poor old man, her father, rushed out of the room in an agony of despair and anguish; I soon followed, with a promise to Mrs. Thistel, whose sorrows were of a calmer, though not less poignant nature, to visit them frequently, and do all in my power, with the assistance of my friends, to alleviate their sufferings.

            On my calling the next morning, Rebecca was outrageous; her frenzy had increased, and for a month she lay fastened by cords to the bed.

            The shock was too great for poor old Thistel, and before the month had elapsed, the severity of his grief was such as to occasion his death.

            Thus was the prop and support of the unfortunate girl and her mother, snatched from them.

            By degrees the delirum left her, though she still spoke and thought incoherently.

            It was recommended to endeavour to make her comprehend the unfortunate decease of her father; and as she recognized me through the whole of her illness, I was requested to use my efforts to effect that purpose.

            I made frequent attempts to do so, and as frequently failed.

            At last, as I was one day describing the manner of her poor father’s dissolution, and his language to me previously to that unfortunate event, she shrieked, and fell on my neck, sobbed aloud, and by degrees became sensible of the truth.

            From that moment she gradually recovered.

            I deemed it, I know not whether correctly or not, the best method to pursue with regard to her, to arouse her former proud spirit, but to direct it in another channel, viz. to despise the man who had been the occasion of such accumulated misfortunes; for although the wretch now denied it, yet it was not the less true, that he himself had demanded her of her father—had himself fixed the wedding day, and had spoken in raptures of her to many individuals.

            As by the death of Mr. Thistel, Rebecca and her mother were left totally dependent on the charity of their friends; much commiseration was excited in their behalf, and by their united efforts, they were set up in a respectable day school, and they now maintain themselves in a creditable manner.

            The Misses Reeves, whom we have visited to-day, have been their best friends, and to their and our house Rebecca will only go.

            Her spirits are entirely broken, and her former vivacity vanished.

            Her sister and I prevailed on her about six months since to walk on the ramparts of the town; we were not aware the ship of her deceiver was in at the time, and to our surprize and vexation, we observed the fellow approaching us.

            I felt that poor Rebecca, who was leaning on my arm, was trembling from head to foot as he approached.

            He passed us and made a respectful bow, which of course we did not return.

            Her sister could not restrain herself, but said, loud enough to be heard by him, “Villain.”

            The hapless girl herself gasped for breath, as if dying, and with the greatest difficulty we succeeded in reaching my sister, Mrs. Hart’s house, which was nearest.

            Here she swooned, and remained senseless for more than an hour, which was succeeded by hysteric fits of weeping.

            No further bad consequences ensued, and we have never since had the mortification to cross the path of the worthless creature, though he is frequently in the port.

            He has no remorse for the distress he has occasioned, and even ridicules the object of his former affection. Whilst she, on her part, I really fear, were he to attempt practising further deceit on her, would readily believe him; for even now, she will not credit but that he has been prejudiced against her, by a third and unknown party.”

            Here Frances concluded her recital, which affected our heroine much, and Rosse himself, ‘albeit not much used to the melting mood,’ roared out, that he should like to see the fellow hanged up to the yard arm: “I know him well, but never thought him guilty of such tricks.”

            Daly made no remark on the subject; but merely reminded the ladies, on taking his leave, that the assembly would take place the next night, when he and the captain expected to see the present party.

            Rosse made a slight objection, and urged that his fears that Helen would again be ill.

            But Frances, laughingly retorted, “never fear, uncle, smoking and drinking will not be allowed there.”

            Rosse received it with as good a grace as he could, though he felt awkwardly under the lash of so home a thrust; and he made no further objection to the proceeding.

CHAPTER X.

Serene, accomplished, cheerful but not loud:

    Insinuating without insinuation;

Observant of the foibles of the crowd,

    Yet ne’er betraying this in conversation;

Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud,

    So as to make them feel he knew his station

And theirs:—without a struggle for priority

He neither brook’d nor claim’d superiority.

That is, with men: with women he was what

    They pleas’d to make or take him for; and their

Imagination’s quite enough for that:

    So that the outline’s tolerably fair,

They fill the canvas up—and ‘verbum sat.’

    If once their phantasies be brought to bear

Upon an object, whether sad or playful,

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.

Byron.

            THE ball, which was attended by all the principal naval and military officers, and the neighbouring gentry, was splendid in the extreme, and to the unpractised eye of Helen it was more like a scene of enchantment than otherwise.

            She herself was no small ornament to the mazy throng; her beautiful person was set off to the highest advantage by the aid of a profusion of pearls and precious stones, which had been presented to her father when in India by a native prince, for services which he had rendered him.

            She had never appeared more interesting and lovely, than on the present occasion; and, as a stranger, was naturally the object of much notice.

            As previously arranged, she danced first with the captain, and next with Edmund, and it was soon whispered that she was the wife of the handsome Daly.

            Edmund himself heard it, and he heaved a secret sigh at its untruth.

            Thomas Whippel was applied to by some of the gentlemen to ascertain who she really was, and when he declared her to be no other than his aunt, and the wife of Rosse, whom he pointed out to them, their risibility was excited in no small degree; at the same time regretting that she should have been so sacrificed.

            Rosse had as usual, merely looked on, and had remained immovable from his entrance into the room—he was glad enough when the time had expired to break up, and declared that his motive for going at all, had been merely to show who the husband of his pretty girl was.

            This he uttered in so consequential a manner as if he really imagined it to the credit of his wife.

            Both the captain and Daly were compelled to have recourse to a fit of coughing, to hide the strong inclination they could not but feel to laugh outright, at this pompous and ignorant speech.

            Thomas Whippel whistled, and Frances hemmed, and kept her breath, fearing to aid the evident danger of an explosion of ridicule, at the expence of the conceited and ignorant mortal who was the occasion of its excitation.

            Poor Helen herself felt it most acutely, but endured the folly with a praiseworthy resignation; pleased with the idea, that after the present night’s pleasure, there was little risk of her husband’s exhibiting another specimen of his former brutal conduct.

            On the next day the doctor brought his wife to be introduced to our heroine. She was a worthy, middle-aged lady; but appearances were against her, when contrasted as companion to the pleasing and sweet disposition of Frances.

            At last the day arrived for the ship to sail for the Downs.

            It came too soon, not only for Helen, but the whole of the Whippel family.

            Old Mr. Whippel declared he would as soon part with his own daughter; and Mrs. Whippel, who before she had seen Helen, was so prepossessed against her, urged with great warmth of good-feeling her wishes for Rosse to allow her to remain with her; whilst Frances, whose attachment to her was unbounded, did nothing but weep, and rail at the hard-heartedness, as she considered it, of Rosse in removing her.

            He was, however, inflexible; and laughed at them for their interference.

            The attentions of Daly, were not only evident to the whole family of the Whippels; but Lampton himself mentioned it to Mr. Whippel, and expressed his doubts as to the propriety of a lovely female, so inadequately protected as Helen would be, going on board a ship.

            “Faith,” said he, “Rosse may go too far in placing his beautiful wife in the gap of so many temptations; correct and virtuous as her conduct undoubtedly has been, and still is, I tremble for her fate, exposed as she will be to scenes so different from those to which she has hitherto been accustomed; Rosse is either blind or mad to take her on board.”

            “What can we do in it?” said Whippel. “To speak to Daly on the subject would be impertinent, seeing that Rosse himself does not find fault; it would be useless, perhaps cruel, to say any thing to Helen, and to hint our fears to Rosse might make things worse than they are; he is so blinded by conceit and egotism; he deems himself the ruler of his wife’s conduct, and cannot imagine but that her affection for him is so strong as not to be shaken.”

            “Well,” said Lampton, “I must confess that I have for his wife’s sake alone, a great desire to open the eyes of the queer mortal, and convince him what people think of him.”

            “It would be useless,” answered Hart, who had just entered; “let the poor wretch alone, you would only make him your enemy, and fail to benefit his wife.”

            “I really tremble for her fate,” added Whippel, “the thing is so preposterous; for Rosse to take her on board, and wholly as it were, commit her to the care of Daly, to me is more like madness than any thing else; I will, however, make one effort to prevent it, before I suffer him to take her from the house. I am informed that Daly has given up his cabin for that of Rosse’s, in order to accommodate him and Helen; now this is an obligation, which, under existing circumstances, I think ought not to take place.”

            The rest of the family agreed with Whippel in this respect, though they came to no fixed determination as to their future proceedings, Whippel himself only being determined to attack Rosse on the first opportunity.

            In the mean time Edmund was congratulating himself on the prospect of daily, and more intimately enjoying the society of Helen; not that he had the least wish or intention to take any advantage of the circumstance; but to be of service to her was a pleasure to him, and on her account Rosse himself was treated with more complacency than usual.

            Rosse was not insensible to this alteration in the conduct of Daly, and had sufficient penetration to see the cause; and, although not perfectly easy in his mind, was determined merely to watch Daly’s future conduct with more strictness than he hitherto had done. He had no fears that Helen would outstep the bounds of prudence, as he not only firmly believed she now preferred him to all men in the world; but that, as she had never been used to gay company, &c. she was immaculate; and that Daly, or any other man might sigh in vain for ever.

            Edmund’s altered conduct of late also was satisfactory to the feelings of Rosse, inasmuch as he conceived himself to have formed a true notion of his former attentions, viz. that they had been only the result of a fit of gallantry, which was now gradually subsiding into mere respect; and his usual condescension for the fair sex.

“But Edmund had a sort of winning way,

    A proud humility, if such there be,

Which shew’d such deference to what females say,

    As if each charming word were a degree.

His tact too temper’d him from grave to gay,

    And taught him when to be reserved or free;

He had the art of drawing people out,

Without their seeing what he was about.”

            Rosse found also that the possession of Helen was of service to him, as in consequence, he became less the mark of ridicule than he had previously been; and this was the true cause why he determined to have her on board with him; a meanness beyond doubt, as the feelings of his delicate and fair consort were violated, in persisting in such a resolution. He hated Daly as much as ever, but policy with regard to self, influenced him, to the exclusion of every noble feeling; he was, therefore, much chagrined and surprised on being accosted by his brother-in-law, Mr. Whippel, on the morning when he intended to take Helen on board a man of war.

            “So, Rosse, you are determined to take your pretty wife on board a man of war, notwithstanding her reluctance to leave us; you will excuse me, but I wish you may not repent it—to take so lovely, young, and unexperienced a creature on board a ship, I conceive to be too great a temptation to throw in the way of so many men. God forbid that I should have an idea that Mrs. Rosse is not able to withstand the attacks of a thousand libertines; but I conceive you to be culpable in exposing her against her inclination, to any temptation.”

            “What temptation?” answered Rosse gruffly, “I will lay my life, brother Whippel, that thou art foolish enough to think Helen so silly as to take notice of such an effeminate  puppy as Daly; why, man, she knows better, ’tis not in a fop like him to please her; a fool that busies himself in the stringing of beads and pearls and such-like small gear, holds their silk whilst they wind it, sings silly songs with them; nay, I even saw him one day take up the silk purse which your daughter was knitting for you, and assist in such trifling work; why he will twist feathers, and make flowers, and play with a work-box; now all this thy wise head would call temptation, and the devil knows what; pho! pho! I tell you again, Helen knows better; she values a man of sense before such trifling, depend on it—why the fellow has scarcely any beard on his chin; he is a mere boy; upon my soul I could not help laughing the other day to see the fool winding silk, as if he had his bread to get by it, and apparently, glad of the employment; so say no more—damme, don’t bother; I won’t hear a word more about it;” and so saying, he walked off, without waiting for a reply, leaving Whippel lost in wonder, as much from the length of his odd harangue, as his utter inability to account for that penetration, which this sea-cub deemed himself the possessor of.

            “Egad!” said he to his son Thomas, whom he immediately saw, “I know not what to make of your uncle; he is becoming a greater fool than ever; there he goes, enjoying, as he imagines, a great triumph over me, for merely wishing him to take care of his wife.”

            “Hang me,” answered Thomas, “if it were not that the character of Helen would suffer, I wish that she would return the love of Daly, in order that the eyes of this man of sense, as he calls himself, might for once in his life-time, be opened.”

            Whippel shook his head, and added, “I fear the worst, Thomas; I love the woman as if she were your sister; pray heaven! my forebodings may not come to pass.”

            Sorrowful indeed was the parting between the relations of Rosse and Helen.

            Heaven bless and protect you! my dear girl, said Mrs. Whippel,” the tear glistening in her eye as she spoke; whilst Frances wept so bitterly, that to nothing but sobs could she give utterance.

            Such kindness from strangers Helen never expected; and knowing how little Rosse was respected by his relations, she felt the obligation still more deeply, and acknowledged with fervency her everlasting gratitude for their kind efforts in all cases, and at all times, in her favor. “I shall soon see you again, my friend,” said she, “and I hope to spend many happy hours with you.”

            A six-oared cutter had been dispatched from the ship to convey her and Mrs. Phillips, the doctor’s wife, on board the ship, which lay nearly three miles from the shore: she waved her handkerchief to the friends, whom she was now quitting for a longer period than she or they could have anticipated; whilst Rosse himself sat unconcerned, desiring the boat’s crew to pull away, and get on board as soon as possible.

CHAPTER XI.

“Up-torn reluctant from the oozy cave,

The ponderous anchor rises o’er the wave;

Along the slippery masts the yards ascend,

And high in air the canvas wings ascend.”

            WHILST the cutter was cleaving its way towards the ship, the whole family of the Whippels returned silently to their home; when arrived there, Mrs. Whippel said to her husband, “something tells me I shall never see that interesting creature any more.”

            “Nonsense,” said Whippel; “why you are making as much fuss as if, instead of the Downs, Rosse was taking her to the Indies.”

            “Well,” returned she, “and I shall not be surprised if such should be the case at last; for I overheard the Doctor and Richard speaking as if something of the kind was intended. “What did you hear, mother?” eagerly asked Frances.

“Why,” answered she, “I heard Richard say, “I am sure, doctor, she will consent if I desire her, she is too good a girl to disobey me.” “Well,” replied the doctor, “I will make mine go, if you will your’s; they will be good company for each other; and— “hush! hush!” said Richard, “I hear some one coming; but, added he, “you know we must get the captain’s consent to it.”

“Curse his deceit!” said Thomas, warmly; “I see it plainly, they have agreed to take their wives to India.”

“I fear you are right, my son,” replied his father; “recollect he has never said a word about her returning when the ship sails; however, as we are not certain, we will hope the best, till we hear from Helen.”

Whilst the cutter was nearing the ship, the sides were crowded by a great number of the ship’s company, who had heard, through the medium of the officers’ servants, that Rosse’s wife was coming on board.

Many were the jokes passed on the subject, both ribald, technical, and otherwise, by the petty-officers and seamen, to whom Rosse was an object of much aversion, his conduct being harsh, arbitrary, and severe towards them generally.

“I say, Bray,” said Tom Pawley the boatswain, to the carpenter, “here comes the neat little frigate commanded by old Bombastes; blow me tight, what a spanker! there is too much sail there for a fifty, I’ll swear; Cape Horn will be doubled often enough, I’m thinking, if she stops with us long.”

“You’m too disrespectful, Tom! she is a beauty though—she’s finely rigged! the peak of her mizen is an ornament to the ould cutter; the doctor’s wife is a hulk to her! I can see myself in her cat-heads! what shiners! how nice and bluff she is about the bows! who could have towed her alongside that crazy old Dutch skipper?”

“Avast! there, Sam, you are getting rum-bustical; though I loves the girls, I respects the harbour of matrimony.”

“Belay there! you may tell that to the marines; but I’ll be —— if the sailors will hoist it in.”

“Stand clear! there’s something else to be hoisted in—but mum!” and these two cronies retired from the gangway.

The boat came alongside, and in a few minutes Helen was, as it were, in another world; all the officers surrounded, and welcomed her on board.

The captain desired to have the honor of leading her down the ladder.

Daly, who had watched the boat, from the instant it left the shore, with a swelling bosom, was profuse in his welcomings, and followed Rosse and the captain with a delighted trepidation.

The captain insisted on their going to his cabin, and desired them to take some refreshment.

Rosse was highly gratified at such condescension, whilst Daly did every thing in his power to contribute to the pleasure and happiness of Helen.

Refreshments were laid on the table, the party sat down to enjoy the same, and much good humour and pleasantry prevailed.

Having concluded, Rosse and Helen withdrew, accompanied by Daly, who had, to accommodate Rosse, exchanged cabins with him, his being larger and more convenient for two persons than Rosse’s.

When alone, Rosse asked Helen how she liked it; “it was Daly’s,” said he, “but he prevailed on me to accept it for your better accommodation.”

She regretted that such was the case; but deemed it better not to express her disapprobation.

Every thing on board was new and incomprehensible to her. “Who is that I hear,” said she, “in the next room?”

“In the next cabin you mean,” replied Rosse with a laugh, “why that is Daly.”

“I wish it were otherwise,” said Helen; “every thing that is said can be heard; cannot Mrs. Phillips be there? I should greatly prefer it.”

“It is impossible,” replied he, “nothing can be heard if we speak low; if you wish to see Mrs. Phillips, I will send her to you; I must leave you, the ship is under-weigh, and I must go on deck.”

“Pray send Mrs. Phillips as soon as possible.”

“I will,” said he; and he left her to reflect on the vicissitudes of her hitherto eventful life. The friends whom she had just left, were the first to occupy her thoughts, and to regret her absence from them.

“Ah, my dearest Frances, what would I not give to have you with me? but the time is short, and I shall soon see you again—Three Weeks! it is a trifle, yet too long to be absent from you and your kind and affectionate kindred.”

Mrs. Phillips now joined her, and with great kindness offered to do any thing in her power to contribute to the pleasure or convenience of our heroine, and informed her that the ship was under-weigh.

“What is that?” said Helen.

Mrs. Phillips explained; and informed her that in short time, they should leave Portsmouth, and be out of the sight of land.

“Majestically slow before the breeze,

The tall ship marches on the azure seas;

In silent pomp she cleaves the watery plain,

The pride and wonder of the billowy main.”

            Helen shrunk at the thought, and eagerly enquired whither they were going?

            “Merely to the Downs, my dear.”

            “Pray explain.”

            “I will.”

            “The Downs is a celebrated road for ships, extending six miles along the eastern coast of Kent, between the North and South Foreland, where both the outward and homeward bound ships frequently make some stay, and squadrons of men of war rendezvous in time of war; it affords excellent anchorage, and is defended by the castles of Deal, Dover, and Sandwich, as well as the Goodwin Sands.”*

            Opposite the town of Deal, about four miles distant are the Goodwin Sands, extending parallel to the shore ten miles; they are composed of a quicksand, and dry in several parts at low water, when the sand becomes so compact that it is impossible to penetrate it, but when the tide again covers them, the sand loosens in a manner that a vessel striking on them is instantly so imbedded, as to render it impossible to get her off, and in a few days she totally disappears under the sand.

            It was in contemplation to erect a light-house on this sand, but after boring several feet, no base to form a foundation being found, the idea was abandoned, and a floating light was moored in nine fathoms depth at the north east extremity of the bank. Though this sand is occasionally fatal to ships, it is of material utility in sheltering the road between it and Deal called the “Downs” from east winds, and rendering it tolerably secure.

            Vessels also stop in this road to discharge or take pilots to and from the Thames, and frequently for the purpose of procuring spirits, tea, &c. which are smuggled on board by the Deal boatmen, who procure them from France. A more honourable source of the prosperity of Deal is derived from the assistance its boats and pilots afford to ships in distress, the intrepidity of the Deal men in these cases being unparalleled.

            Helen acknowledged her obligation to Mrs. Phillips for her kind explanation, they then separated.

            In the evening at supper Helen was introduced to the other officers, and also to Mrs. Smith, the marine officer’s wife.

            The appearance of this woman was forbidding in the extreme to the delicate and modest Helen. Her bold look, denuded bosom, and flaunty air, were sufficient to impress at once our heroine with an unfavourable opinion of her; and after she had retired with Rosse she expressed her dislike to him, and enquired whether she was not right in her conjectures.

            “I must say that you are half right,” said Rosse, “but you must be careful not to offend her—it is astonishing what influence she has with the captain—we must hear, see and say nothing on board, for all the wardroom officers court her favour, excepting Daly, who I think dislikes her.”

            Helen sighed, and could not but express her regret at having lost Frances as a companion.

            “I shall be unhappy if you continue to grieve so,” said Rosse; “I hope that you will be very comfortable where you are, when a little more used to this mode of living. As to Mrs. Smith, all the gentlemen say she is a fine and a pleasant woman; that she is the life of the wardroom; and till to-night I have not observed any thing improper in her conduct.

            Helen was not satisfied with this explanation, she was a keener observer of things than Rosse, and her penetration had easily discovered Mrs. Smith to be not only a bold, but a bad woman: there was a vulgarity in her mode of addressing individuals, which was disgusting to the truly modest female; an indecent joke, though disguised by a double-entendre, was a pleasure to her; and in the general chit-chat of the ward-room she was as ready and easy a contributor as if she was one of the other sex disguised.

            Helen could not but now and then cast a penetrating glance on her for her forwardness, which, however it might have been felt, was unheeded.

            She joked with all the officers without the least restraint or delicacy, and provoked answers which in respectable society would have been deemed, if not insult, breachesof politeness, and a degradation to any pretensions to gentility.

            Daly by his easy and cutting replies was always too good a match for her; whilst Rosse, on whom she would now and then fling a jest, always answered her roughly, and if not to the purpose, scowled her into silence, and consequently was rather feared by her than otherwise.

            The origin of Mrs. Smith was humble, and her conduct had been such as rather to disgrace, than exalt it.

            Her father kept a coal-shed at Sheerness, and her mother was in the habit of bumboating, as it is termed, or supplying the ships at that port with the necessary articles of wearing apparel, &c. &c.

            Their daughter, not restrained by parental care and watchfulness, frequently visited the marine barracks at Chatham.

            Here she became acquainted with Smith the lieutenant of marines, and easily became a prey to seduction.

            Two years elapsed before the parents knew what had become of her, and then their threats, joined to the persuasions of their daughter, were sufficient to induce him to marry her.

            He was shortly after ordered to join a ship, but the officers having discovered that he had introduced a kept mistress among their wives, cut him, or in the technical phrase, sent him to Coventry; he therefore found himself compelled to leave the ship, which he shortly after did, and joined the present captain, who was then in a frigate; which after a year and a half’s cruising off Guernsey and the coast of France near it, was paid off.

            The captain, either from partiality to Smith or to his wife, on being re-appointed to another ship, made interest to have Smith with him again, and he had continued ever since.

            Mrs. Smith’s influence with the captain was all-powerful, and it was peace or war among the officers, just as this termagant pleased; although the captain was never accused of any illicit connexion with her, nor had Smith himself a doubt of his wife’s fidelity.

            Indeed, the probability was that the captain was never acquainted with the real history of this woman, nor were any of the officers, at the time of Helen’s going on board, less ignorant of the same.

            She was genteely formed from the waist downward, but rather high shouldered; had fine dark hair; her eyes also were dark and expressive, though indicative of great cunning and dissimulation; she painted much, and on the whole, when well dressed, was, in the eyes of many, a really handsome woman; she was extravagant in her notions, and was miserable, because instead of spending a thousand a year, she had but the pay of a marine officer, and hence compelled for economy, to live continually on board ship, which had therefore rendered her capable of enduring with impunity sea voyages, and had strengthened her habitual vulgarity: she was secretly attached to Daly, but to his delicate and sensitive notions of what a woman should be, she was the very antipodes to what might create in him a correspondent feeling of partiality.

            She had used all her arts in vain to entrap the handsome lieutenant, and her mind was in consequence always on the rack to account for her total failure.

            Helen’s arrival, and the obvious attention of Daly to her, completely unravelled the mystery.

            Our heroine was, therefore, at once, and innocently, the object of her rancorous hatred, and she determined to do all in her power to make Helen as miserable as possible.

            Here then was the beginning of another source of disquietude to her.

            It quickly became known, from the captain down to the cabin boy, that Daly was in love with Helen; and as Rosse was universally despised, it was a subject for congratulation and pleasure, rather than of sympathy; and now to make him really jealous, all were willing to lend a hand.

            It must, however, be conceded, that the prudent carriage of Helen was properly appreciated by all but Mrs. Smith, whose rancour increased as she became more and more satisfied of the attachment of Daly to her; and she unremittingly endeavoured to prejudice her husband against her, though without success.

            Smith, though of humble origin, being the son of an exciseman in Wales, had received a good education; his deportment was gentlemanly, and in person he would not have disgraced a finer woman than his litigious and strife-making consort.

            He loved his wife tenderly notwithstanding his perfect conviction of her often imprudent and coarse conduct; and if a matrimonial breeze occurred now and then, the cause was always to be traced to some provocation on her part, or in his own endeavour  gently to persuade her of the impropriety of some imprudence, of which she was unfortunately but too often guilty.

            He took the part of Helen decidedly, and expostulated with firmness on the cruelty of doing any thing that might tend in the least to wound her feelings, seeing that no cause of complaint could with justice be urged against her.

            Helen, after a few days’ acquaintance with the conversation and manners of the ward-room, readily understood the jokes and general roastings which were constantly occurring: not that she relished them at all, seeing that the shafts of ridicule were directed oftener to her unfortunate husband than to any other officer; though in consequence of the interference of Daly, out of deference to the feelings of Helen, the place had become a paradise to him, when compared to what it formerly was.

            Daly was always inclined to relieve him when hard pressed, and generally succeeded, by changing the subject, or turning the tables on his opponent.

            Helen was grateful to him for this conduct, but knowing the motive, could not express her thanks.

            Rosse, who also was satisfied that to Daly’s partiality to Helen he ought to attribute his altered manners, began now to speak more civilly than heretofore to him, whilst Daly himself was ever kindly disposed towards him; though whenever he heard Rosse and Helen chatting in their cabin, and he was absent, he felt the pangs of disappointed love return with redoubled force, for

“Yet to her beauteous form he was not blind,

Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;

Not that philosophy on such a mind

E’er deigned to bend her chastely awful eyes;

But Passion raves herself to rest, or flies;

And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,

Had buried thus his hopes no more to rise.”

            In the ward-room Rosse would never carve. The first week Helen was on board it was Daly’s turn to be president, and as Rosse was next to him in rank, his turn ought to follow; hitherto they had always insisted on his doing so, at present Daly took his place: this was a great relief to him, as it was on such occasions his blunders and awkwardness were sure to cause him a greater share of ridicule than at any other time.

            Our heroine had to familiarize herself with scenes far different to those she ever did anticipate; she had to meet the exigencies of her fate, by learning to beguile time, and to look calmly on terrors congenial to the hardy life of a sailor.

“The wind sung, cordage strain’d, and sailors

            swore,

And the ship creak’d, the town became a speck,

    From which away so fair and fast they bore:

CHAPTER XII.

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!

Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand;

Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe,

Such be our fate when we return to land!

Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand

Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;

A circle there of merry listeners stand

Or to some well-known measure featly move,

Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Pass we the long unvarying course, the track

Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;

Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,

And each well known caprice of wave and wind;

Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,

Coop’d in their winged sea-girt citadel;

The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,

As breezes rise and fall and billows swell,

Till on some jocund morn—lo, land! and all is well.

Byron.

            WE must take men as they are—we have heretofore described Edmund as not only a youth of high bred honor and feeling, but also as one of sound sense and judgment.

            Love, however, which ‘makes fools of us all,’ had a similar influence on many of his actions; compelled as he was to witness, without daring to murmur, the happiness of Rosse, who was blessed with the only woman that Edmund felt could sway and mould his heart to whatever she pleased; though too gentle to tyrannize, yet too virtuous to give him a ray of hope that he might ever expect to awaken in her a passion as warm and reciprocal as his own.

            Candour, therefore, compels us to admit, that in many of his future traits of character he would descend from that high bearing and keen sense of the folly of trifling, in which, for the cause above stated, he would frequently indulge.

            To be sure, it must be readily admitted, that the ward-room of a ship can never aspire to be considered on a par with the drawing-room; and the scenes which hereafter happened must be rather put down to this deficiency than to any other cause: so many grades of society, both in respect to rank and education, meeting in such a place.

            Rosse also was, of course, highly to blame, to introduce his lovely and gentle wife to a familiar intercourse with such peculiar company as she was now compelled to associate with; but that individual, who, it must be confessed, was now become a comparatively kind and attentive husband, had acted solely under the impulse of his own gratification; and to him the ward-room, or even the deck of a ship, was a more convenient and pleasurable spot than the finest room of the finest palace in the world.

            When Edmund left Portsmouth, his servant William, who had been with him more than five years, was not arrived from a journey which he had undertaken at the request of his dying father. As the time had expired when he should have returned Edmund was uneasy at the delay, as he was much attached to him.

            In a few days he received the unwelcome intelligence, that William had caught the same fever of which his father had died, and that at the time the letter was written, his life was despaired of.

            Edmund was, therefore, having no other resource, compelled to put up with the attendance of one of a fresh draught of boys, which the ship had received from the Mariners’ school.

            Daly’s boy was an arch, lively young rogue; but as they were all unused to their new duties, he was a poor substitute for the clever and careful William.

            The doctor’s boy was an exceedingly stupid one, and the irritable Irishman would often cuff him for his frequent blunders.

            It was the practice of the captain to dine twice a week in the ward-room, viz. on Sunday and Wednesday.

            On the latter day, the week after Helen had been on board, Daly was officiating as president instead of Rosse.

            A gentleman who had some business to transact with the captain, was invited to dine with the officers in the ward-room.

            He was a fine, handsome and prepossessing young man; and when introduced to our heroine, appeared to be much struck with her, and at the dinner table took his place next to Helen, much to the annoyance and vexation of Daly, who could not avoid betraying the same, much to the amusement of Helen, and to the incomprehensibility of the remainder of the party, excepting Mrs. Smith, who enjoyed his misery, and triumphed in it to her heart’s content.

            Rosse, who was on deck on watch, could not join them till he was relieved. He soon, however, made his appearance.

            “Who relieved you, Rosse?” said Smith.

            “The gunner,” answered he, “while I take my dinner.”

            The name of Rosse was a sufficient key to the gentleman’s understanding, that it was the husband of Helen; and he looked first at one and then on the other, with evident marks of astonishment, the contrast between them was so manifest.

            “I have ordered,” said Daly, “the fish to be kept warm for you, Rosse; will you have it brought?”

            “Never mind,” said he, “I will attack this course.”

            The dinner passed off pleasantly—the eagle eye of Mrs. Smith alone, being engaged in watching every look and word of the strange gentleman and Daly.

            “Give me a small quantity of beer,” said Daly, to the doctor’s stupid boy; the steward being engaged at the sideboard, with the glasses, &c. and this unfortunate urchin being the only one else in attendance.

            He brought the beer with his thumb on the inside of the glass, and having placed it on the table, received from Daly a box on the ear for his forgetfulness.

            The boy reeled, and tumbling against our heroine, upset the glass of wine which stood before her, on her dress; to avoid which, she sprung up, but a part of it being entangled in the chair, she was in the act of falling, boy, glass and all, on the ground; but the gentleman with eagerness prevented it, by catching her in his arms; a scene of laughable confusion was thereby partly prevented, though enough had taken place to amuse and gratify Mrs. Smith, whose penchant for mischief was notorious.

            The whole was the work of a moment.

            The purser started up, and cried out, “quick! quick! Mrs. Rosse, to the cabin! to the cabin! salt and water; here, George, attend me;” and Helen having disengaged herself from the gentleman, ran with confusion from the ward-room to her cabin, attended by the purser, whose careful fears were excited on behalf of her beautiful silk dress, which had received no small quantum of red wine; and on the most conspicuous part of it.

            Arrived at the cabin, this notable economist, with the assistance of the steward, succeeded in effacing all traces of the accident; and returned with Helen to the ward-room, laughing and exulting in his skill.

            Meanwhile, Edmund, who had been the cause of this accident, was, if possible, more distressed than Helen herself; to have been guilty of so great a breach of politeness at dinner, was enough of itself to upset every notion of his, on the rules of good breeding; but to have occasioned, in addition, Helen to fall into the stranger’s arms, and perhaps have injured her, was a shock to his sensitive feelings, from which he scarcely knew how to recover; he blushed like scarlet, and for a few moments he sat, as if fixed to the chair, and was unable to utter a single word by way of excuse.

            Rosse, less delicate, and more intent on enjoying the good things before him, laughed heartily at the upsetting; and seeing the purser take care of his wife, bawled out, “all right! all right in the galley there!” he then quietly continued eating, enjoying the confusion and dismay which Daly, but too evidently in his looks, betrayed.

            At last Daly summoned up resolution to speak, and with hesitation, said, “Rosse, you take this rudeness of mine extremely calm; I really feel quite ashamed of myself, but you must excuse it, betrayed as I was by a momentary irritation to commit so foolish an act.”

            “Why, man, there’s nothing the matter; you’ve neither run the ship ashore, nor is she in danger of sinking, though you did spring a leak; for here she comes, rigged as she was before, and looking the devil a bit the worse for the squall; so heave a head! and lets shove the bottle about.”

            “Bravo! bravo!” said the doctor, who had been of late quite taciturn; an extraordinary fit of virtue in that line having taken him, “that’s the finest speech Rosse ever yet uttered.”

            He was interrupted by the entrance of Helen, who laughing, and seeing the confusion of Edmund, said, “I am not hurt, Mr. Daly,” and seating herself in the same chair, began to converse with Mrs. Phillips on some domestic arrangements, which they were about to put in practice on the morrow.

            Nevertheless, Edmund was but ill at ease; oh, how he envied that calm, that sweet disposition, which his soul’s best treasure possessed; and Rosse’s plegmatic behaviour was as unaccountable to him as it was unpleasant.

            The mornings were usually passed by the ladies in their respective cabins, unless they went on shore.

            Helen had done so but once, for the roughness of the water, and the motion of the boat in consequence, was sufficient to detain her on board; though Mrs. Smith, ever restless, was continually pressing her to do so.

            The Indiamen were collecting rapidly, and orders for sailing were shortly expected.

            Helen, passive in disposition, as meek and pleasant in her manners, had given way to the repeated solicitations of Rosse, to accompany them though the tears flowed plentifully whenever the thought of so hazardous and unpleasant an event would cross her mind.

            Daly, though glad in one respect of such a circumstance, as by it he should be always near her, yet could not but blame Rosse for so unfeeling a proceeding, and scrupled not to argue with him on its impropriety.

            Rosse, who judged things on the narrowest principles, and from his own selfish feelings, was rather pleased than otherwise with Daly’s interference; he imagined he saw in it a diminution of his partiality towards her, and that he as much wished to get rid of her, as he himself to retain her; and gloried in the idea that what had hitherto been a pleasure, might prove a torment to him; still he did not show this disposition; but, in appearance, at least, was more friendly disposed towards him than ever, having resolved firmly to take no notice of whatever might be said or done to provoke him to any jealous feeling.

            Mrs. Smith, as we before observed, was considered as the life and soul of the ward-room; and as duly as evening came she would promote some amusement or other; most of the gentlemen were fond of dancing, and frequently indulged in it; but Mrs. Smith, who was unable to dance gracefully, preferred the game of “hunt the slipper,” or “forfeits.”

            Helen strongly urged her refusal to join in either, but it was of no use.

            Mrs. Smith said it was pride, and the gentlemen ill temper. Although Daly did not like these vulgar and boisterous pastimes, yet from deference to the general feeling, being unwilling to give an affront, and not wishing to be deprived of the company of Helen, joined with the rest in persuading her to comply; half-wishing also that it might have the effect of making her more free and unreserved towards him, for he could not but now and then feel provoked at the calm, steady, and indifferent way she still persisted in, with regard to him in particular; though ever polite and obliging, it was impossible to find fault with her.

            Rosse’s contentment and absence of any jealousy, was vexatious to many of the lovers of scandal.

            Edmund, in answer to the jokes which he was compelled to submit to on the subject of his partiality to Helen, seemed rather to own it than otherwise, which was extremely unpleasant to the feelings of Helen, who wept much in secret in consequence, and her fears increased that it might provoke at last a breach between Rosse and Daly, the fickle and uneven temper of the former being now known so well to her; still, confiding in the purity of her intentions, and more determined than ever to resist every appearance of imprudence with regard to Edmund, she could not at the end of each self-examination and ponderings on her peculiarly unfortunate situation, but conclude with hoping to surmount every difficulty, and finally triumph in her virtuous career! She was thoroughly satisfied that Daly adored her; and knowing how unconquerable the feeling itself was by her own experience, she could not but sympathise with him in his evidently severe struggles to make the state of his heart more clearly known to her.

            Often would she hear him in his cabin when alone, and not aware that she was so near him, “sighing like furnace,” and calling on her sweet name, and blessing it, curse his own hard fate, in being doomed to silence by the tongue, nay the looks merely, of her whom he ought to call his own, and whom he could not but persuade himself was equally miserable.

            These outbreakings were, indeed, answered mentally, by a correspondent feeling, and perhaps more severely to be endured, as being not only the party appealed to, but who had the natural power, and the secret and involuntary inclination to listen with a favourable ear to them.

            Edmund was possessed of a good library, and to relieve the dull tedium of the present life of inactivity, he would call together the ladies in his cabin, and read to them; he had a double motive in doing so; first, he had the pleasure of Helen's company, though with others, (he would have preferred their absence) at a time when otherwise he could not have obtained it; and secondly, he hoped by familiarising her to his cabin, and contributing thus innocently to her happiness, to show still more and more how ardently he was attached to her; and by reading nothing but what was really good, prove himself equally as virtuous in principle as herself.

            “What shall we read this morning?” said he, taking down a book of history from the shelf.

            “Not that again,” said Mrs. Smith, eagerly; “I hate history; have you no pretty stories to read?”

            “I am bare,” said he, “in that sort of literary ware; but looking over a new book yesterday, I was much struck with one under the title of a “Tale of the Passions.”

            “Then,” said Helen, “I pray you will not read it;” fancying that by the word passions, he had a secret motive directed towards her in proposing it.

            “It is the very thing, madam,” said Mrs. Smith, “a Tale of the Passions! it must be about love, and I insist on its being read, so proceed, sir.”

            “It is interesting,” said Edmund, “and when finished, I think you will both acknowledge its goodness, and that you have both prejudged it in a false light; the one,” continued he, looking archly alternately at Mrs. Smith and Helen, “too favourably, and the other too suspiciously.”

            He then proceeded.

A TALE OF THE PASSIONS.

            “After the death of Manfred, king of Naples, the Ghibellines lost their ascendency throughout Italy. The exiled Guelphs returned to their native cities; and not contented with resuming the reins of government, they prosecuted their triumph until the Ghibellines in their turn were obliged to fly, and to mourn in banishment over the violent party spirit which had before occasioned their bloody victories, and now their irretrievable defeat. After an obstinate contest the Florentine Ghibellines were forced to quit their native town; their estates were confiscated; their attempts to reinstate themselves frustrated; and receding from the castle, they at length took refuge in Lucca, and awaited with impatience the arrival of Corradino from Germany, through whose influence they hoped again to establish the Imperial supremacy.

            The first of May was ever a day of rejoicing and festivity at Florence. The youth of both sexes, of the highest rank, paraded the streets, crowned with flowers, and singing the canzonets of the day. In the evening they assembled in the Piazza del Dumo, and spent the hours in dancing. The Carroccio was led through the principal streets, the ringing of its bell drowned in the peals that rang from every belfry in the city, and in the music of fifes, and drums which made a part of the procession that followed it. The triumph of the reigning party in Florence caused them to celebrate the anniversary of the first of  May, 1268, with peculiar splendour. They had indeed hoped that Charles d’Anjou, King of Naples, the head of the Guelphs in Italy, and then Vicare of their republic, would have been there to adorn the festival by his presence. But the expectation of Corradino had caused the greater part of his newly conquered and oppressed kingdom to revolt, and he had hastily quitted Tuscany to secure by his presence those conquests of which his avarice and cruelty endangered the loss. But although Charles somewhat feared the approaching contest with Corradino, the Florentine Guelphs, newly reinstated in their city and possessions, did not permit a fear to cloud their triumph. The principal families vied with each other in the display of their magnificence during the festival. The knights followed the Carroccio on horseback, and the windows were filled with ladies who leant upon gold-inwoven carpets, while their own dresses, at once simple and elegant, their only ornaments flowers, contrasted with the glittering tapestry and the brilliant colours of the flags of the various communities. The whole population of Florence poured into the principal streets, and none were left at home, except the decrepid and sick, unless it were some discontented Ghibelline, whose fear, poverty, or avarice, had caused him to conceal his party, when it had been banished from the city.

            It was not the feeling of discontent which prevented Monna Gegia de’ Becari from being among the first of the revellers; and she looked angrily on what she called her “Ghibelline leg,” which fixed her to her chair on such a day of triumph. The sun shone in all its glory in an unclouded sky, and caused the fair Florentines to draw their fazioles over their dark eyes, and to bereave the youth of those beams more vivifying than the sun’s rays. The same sun poured its full light into the lonely apartment of Monna Gegia, and almost extinguished the fire which was lighted in the middle of the room, over which hung the pot of minestra, the dinner of the dame and her husband. But she had deserted the fire and was seated by her window, holding her beads in her hand, while every now and then she peeped from her lattice (five stories high) into the narrow lane below,—but no creature passed. She looked at the opposite window; a cat slept there beside a pot of heliotrope, but no human being was heard or seen:—they had all gone to the Piazza del Duomo.

            Monna Gegia was an old woman, and her dress of green calrasio shewed that she belonged to one of the Arti Minori. Her head was covered by a red kerchief, which, folden triangular, hung loosely over it: her grey hairs were combed back from her high and wrinkled brow. The quickness of her eye spoke the activity of her mind, and the slight irritability that lingered about the corners of her lips might be occasioned by the continual war maintained between her bodily and mental faculties.—“Now, by St. John!” she said, “I would give my gold cross to make one of them; though by giving that I should appear on a festa without that which no festa yet ever found me wanting.”

 ——And as she spoke she looked with great complacency on a large but thin gold cross which was tied round her withered neck by a ribbon, once black, now of a rusty brown.——“Methinks this leg of mine is bewitched; and it may well be that my Ghibelline husband has used the black art to hinder me from following the Carroccio with the best of them.”——A slight sound as of footsteps in the street far below interrupted the good woman’s soliloquy.—“Perhaps it is Monna Lisabetta, or Messer Giani dei Agli, the weaver, who mounted the breach first when the castle of Pagibonzi was taken.”—She looked down, but could see no one, and was about to relapse into her old train of thoughts, when her attention was again attracted by the sound of steps ascending the stairs: they were slow and heavy, but she did not doubt who her visitant was when a key was applied to the hole of the door; the latch was lifted up, and a moment after, with an unassured mien and downcast eyes, her husband entered.

            He was a short stunted man, more than sixty years of age; his shoulders were broad and high; his legs short; his lank hair, though it grew now only on the back of his head, was still coal-black; his brows overhanging and bushy; his eyes black and quick; his complexion dark and weather-beaten: his lips as it were contradicted the sternness of the upper part of his face, for their gentle curve betokened even delicacy of sentiment, and his smile was inexpressibly sweet, although a short, bushy, grey beard somewhat spoiled the expression of his countenance. His dress consisted of leather trowsers and a kind of short, coarse, cloth tunic, confined at the waist by a leathern girdle. He had on a low-crowned, red, cloth cap, which he drew over his eyes, and seating himself on a low bench by the fire, he heaved a deep sigh. He appeared disinclined to enter into any conversation, but Monna Gegia, looking on him with a smile of ineffable contempt, was resolved that he should not enjoy his melancholy mood uninterrupted.—“Have you been to mass, Cincolo?”—she asked; beginning by a question sufficiently removed from the point she longed to approach.—He shrugged his shoulders uneasily, but did not reply.—“You are too early for your dinner,” continued Gegia; “do you not go out again?”—Cincolo answered, “no!” in an accent that denoted his disinclination to further questioning. But this very impatience only served to feed the spirit of contention that was fermenting in the bosom of Gegia.—“You are not used,” she said, “to pass your May days under your chimney.”—No answer.—“Well,” she continued, “if you will not speak, I have done!”—meaning that she intended to begin—“but by that lengthened face of thine I see that some good news is stirring abroad, and I bless the virgin for it, whatever it may be. Come, if thou be not too curst, tell me what happy tidings make thee so woe-begone.”—

            Cincolo remained silent for awhile, then turning half round but not looking at his wife, he replied,—“What if old Marzio the lion be dead?”—Gegia turned pale at the idea, but a smile that lurked in the good-natured mouth of her husband reassured her. “Nay, St. John defend us!” she began;—“but that is not true. Old Marzio’s death would not drive you within these four walls, except it were to triumph over your old wife. By the blessing of St. John, not one of our lions have died since the eve of the battle of Monte Aperto; and I doubt not that they were poisoned; for Mari, who fed them that night, was more than half a Ghibelline in his heart. Besides, the bells are still ringing, and the drums still beating, and all would be silent enough if old Marzio were to die. On the first of May too! Santa Reparata is too good to us to allow such ill luck;—and she has more favour, I trust, in the seventh heaven than all the Ghibelline saints in your calendar. No, good Cincolo, Marzio is not dead, nor the Holy Father, nor Messer Carlo of Naples; but I would bet my gold cross against the wealth of your banished men, that Pisa is taken—or Corradino—or—”—“And I here! no, Gegia, as old as I am, and much as you need my help, (and that last is why I am here at all) Pisa would not be taken while this old body could stand in the breach; or Corradino die, till this lazy blood were colder on the ground than it is in my body. Ask no more questions, and do not rouse me: there is no news, no good or ill luck, that I know. But when I saw the Neri, the Pulci, the Buondelmonti, and the rest of them, ride like kings through the streets, whose very hands are hardly dry from the blood of my kindred; when I saw their daughter crowned with flowers, and thought how the daughter of Arrigo dei Elisei was mourning for her murdered father, with ashes on her head, by the hearth of a stranger—my spirit must be more dead than it is if such a sight did not make me wish to drive among them; and methought I could scatter their pomp with my awl for a sword. But I remember thee, and am here unstained with blood.”

            “That thou wilt never be!” cried Monna Gegia, the colour rising in her wrinkled cheeks:—“since the battle of Monte Aperto, thou hast never been well washed of that shed by thee and thy confederates;—and how could ye? for the Arno has never since run clear of the blood then spilt.”—“And if the sea were red with that blood, still while there is any of the Guelphs’ to spill, I am ready to spill it, were it not for thee. Thou doest well to mention Monte Aperto, and thou wouldst do better to remember over whom its grass now grows.”—“Peace, Cincolo; a mother’s heart has more memory in it than thou thinkest; and I well recollect who spurned me as I knelt, and dragged my only child, but sixteen years of age, to die in the cause of that misbeliever Manfred. Let us indeed speak no more. Woe was the day when I married thee! but those we happy times when there was neither Guelph nor Ghibelline;—they will never return.”—“Never,—until, as thou sayest, the Arno run clear of the blood shed on its banks;—never while I can pierce the heart of a Guelph;—never till both parties are cold under one bier.”—“And thou and I, Cincolo?—” “Are two old fools, and shall be more at peace under ground than above it. Rank Guelph as thou art, I married thee before I was a Ghibelline; so now I must eat from the same platter with the enemy of Manfred, and make shoes for Guelphs, instead of following the fortunes of Corradino, and sending them, my battle-axe in my hand, to buy their shoes in Bologna.”—“Hush! hush! good man, talk not so loud of thy party; hearest thou not that some one knocks?”—

            Cincolo went to open the door with the air of a man who thinks himself ill used at being interrupted in his discourse, and is disposed to be angry with the intruder, however innocent he might be of any intention of breaking in upon his eloquent complaint. The appearance of his visitor calmed his indignant feelings. He was a youth whose countenance and person shewed that he could not be more than sixteen, but there was a self possession in his demeanour and a dignity in his physiognomy that belonged to a more advanced age. His figure though not tall was slight; and his countenance though of wonderful beauty and regularity of feature, was pale as monumental marble; the thick and curling locks of his chesnut hair clustered over his brow and round his fair throat; his cap was drawn far down on his forehead. Cincolo was about to usher him with deference into his humble room, but the youth staid him with his hand, and uttered the words “Swabia, Cavalieri!” the words by which Ghibellines were accustomed to recognise each other. He continued in a low and hurried tone: “Your wife is within?”—“She is.”—“Enough; although I am a stranger to you, I come from an old friend. Harbour me until night-fall; we will then go out, and I will explain to you the motives of my intrusion. Call me Ricciardo de’ Rossini of Milan, travelling to Rome. I leave Florence this evening.”

            Having said these words, without giving Cincolo time to reply, he motioned that they should enter the room. Monna Gegia had fixed her eyes on the door from the moment he had opened it with a look of impatient curiosity; when she saw the youth enter she could not refrain from exclaiming—“Gesu Maria!”—so different was he from any one she had expected to see.—“A friend from Milan,” said Cincolo.—“More likely from Lucca,” replied his wife, gazing on her visitant:—“You are doubtless one of the banished men, and you are more daring than wise to enter this town: however, if you be not a spy, you are safe with me.” Ricciardo smiled and thanked her in a low, sweet voice:—“If you do not turn me out,” he said, “I shall remain under your roof nearly all the time I remain in Florence, and I leave it soon after dusk.”

            Gegia again gazed on her guest, nor did Cincolo scrutinize him with less curiosity. His black cloth tunic reached below his knees and was confined by a black leather girdle at the waist. He had on trowsers of coarse scarlet stuff, over which were drawn short boots, such as are now seen on the stage only: a cloak of common fox’s fur, unlined, hung from his shoulder. But although his dress was thus simple, it was such as was then worn by the young Florentine nobility. At that time the Italians were simple in their private habits: the French army led by Charles d’Anjou into Italy first introduced luxury into the palaces of the Cisalpines. Manfred was a magnificent prince, but it was his saintly rival who was the author of that trifling foppery of dress and ornaments, which degrades a nation, and is a sure precursor of their downfall. But of Ricciardo—his countenance had all the regularity of a Grecian head; and his blue eyes, shaded by very long dark eyelashes, were soft, yet full of expression: when he looked up, the heavy lids, as it were, unveiled the gentle light beneath, and then again closed over them, as shading what was too brilliant to behold. His lips expressed the deepest sensibility, and something perhaps of timidity, had not the placid confidence of his demeanour forbidden such an idea. His appearance was extraordinary, for he was young and delicate of frame, while the decision of his manner prevented the feeling of pity from arising in the spectator’s mind: you might love him, but he rose above compassion.

            His host and hostess were at first silent; but he asked some natural questions about the buildings of their city, and by degrees led them into discourse. When mid-day struck, Cincolo looked towards his pot of minestra, and Ricciardo following his look, asked if that was not the dinner. “You must entertain me,” he said, “for I have not eaten to-day.” a table was drawn near the window, and the minestra poured out into one plate was placed in the middle of it, a spoon was given to each, and a jug of wine filled from a barrel. Ricciardo looked at the two old people, and seemed somewhat to smile at the idea of eating from the same plate with them; he ate, however, though sparingly, and drank of the wine, though with still greater moderation. Cincolo, however, under pretence of serving his guests, filled his jug a second time, and was about to rise for the third measure, when Ricciardo, placing his small white hand on his arm, said, “are you a German, my friend, that you cease not after so many draughts? I have heard that you Florentines were a sober people.”

            Cincolo was not much pleased with this reproof; but he felt that it was timely; so, conceding the point, he sat down again, and somewhat heated with what he had already drank, he asked his guest the news from Germany, and what hopes for the good cause? Monna Gegia bridled at these words, and Ricciardo replied, “many reports are abroad, and high hopes entertained, especially in the North of Italy for the success of our expedition. Corradino is arrived at Genoa, and it is hoped that, although the ranks of his army were much thinned by the desertion of his German troops, that they will be quickly filled by Italians, braver and truer than those foreigners, who, strangers to our soil, could not fight for his cause with our ardour.”—“And how does he bear himself?”—“As beseems one of the house of Swabia, and the nephew of Manfred. He is inexperienced and young, even to childishness. He is not more than sixteen. His mother would hardly consent to this expedition, but wept with agony at the fear of all he might endure: for he has been bred in a palace, nursed in every luxury, and habituated to all the flattering attentions of courtiers, and the tender care of a woman, who, although she be a princess, has waited on him with the anxious solicitude of a cottager for her infant. But Corradino is of good heart; docile, but courageous; obedient to his wiser friends, gentle to his inferiors, but noble of soul, the spirit of Manfred seems to animate his unfolding mind: and surely, if that glorious prince now enjoys the reward of his surpassing virtues, he looks down with joy and approbation on him who is, I trust, destined to fill his throne.”

            The enthusiasm with which Ricciardo spoke suffused his pale countenance with a slight blush, while his eyes swam in the lustre of the dew that filled them. Monna Gegia was little pleased with his harangue, but curiosity kept her silent, while her husband proceeded to question his guest. “You seem to be well acquainted with Corradino?”—“I saw him at Milan, and was closely connected with his most intimate friend there. As I have said, he has arrived at Genoa, and perhaps has even now landed at Pisa; he will find many friends in that town?” “Every man there will be his friend. But during his journey southward he will have to contend with our Florentine army, commanded by the marshals of the usurper Charles, and assisted by his troops. Charles himself has left us, and is gone to Naples to prepare for this war. But he is detested there, as a tyrant and a robber, and Corradino will be received in the Regno as a saviour: so that if he once surmount the obstacles which oppose his entrance, I do not doubt his success, and trust that he will be crowned within a month at Rome, and the week after sit on the throne of his ancestors in Naples.”

            “And who will crown him?” cried Gegia, unable to contain herself: Italy contains no heretic base enough to do such a deed, unless it be a Jew; or he send to Constantinople for a Greek, or to Egypt for a Mahometan. Cursed may the race of the Frederics ever be! Thrice cursed one who has affinity to that miscreant Manfred! And little do you please me, young man, by holding such discourse in my house.” Cincolo looked at Ricciardo as if he feared that so violent a partisan for the house of Swabia would be irritated at his wife’s attack; but he was looking on the aged woman with a regard of the most serene benignity; no contempt even was mingled with the gentle smile that played round his lips. “I will restrain myself,” he said’ and turned to Cincolo, he conversed on more general subjects, describing the various cities of Italy that he had visited; discussing their mode of government, and relating anecdotes concerning their inhabitants, with an air of experience that, contrasted with his youthful appearance, greatly impressed Cincolo, who looked on him at once with admiration and respect. Evening came on. The sound of bells died away after the Ave Maria had ceased to ring; but the distant sound of music was wafted to them by the night air, and its quick time indicated that the music was already begun. Ricciardo was about to address Cincolo, when a knocking at the gate interrupted him. It was Buzeccha, the Saracen, a famous chess-player, who was used to parade about under the colonnades of the Duomo, and challenge the young nobles to play; and sometimes much stress was laid on these games, and the gain and loss became the talk of Florence. Buzeccha was a tall ungainly man, with all that good-natured consequence of manner, which the fame he had acquired by his proficiency in so trifling a science, and the familiarity with which he was permitted to treat those superior to him in rank who were pleased to measure their forces with him, might well bestow. He was beginning with, “Eh, Messere!” when perceiving Ricciardo, he cried, “who have we here?” “A friend to good men,” replied Ricciardo, smiling. Then, by Mahomet, thou art my friend, my stripling.” “Thou shouldst be a Saracen, by thy speech?” said Ricciardo. “And through the help of the Prophet, so am I. One who in Manfred’s time—but no more of that. We won’t talk of Manfred, eh, Monna Gegia? I am Buzeccha, the chess-player, at your service, Messer lo Forestiere.”

            The introduction thus made, they began to talk of the procession of the day. After a while, Buzeccha introduced his favourite subject of chess-playing; he recounted some wonderfully good strokes he had achieved, and related to Ricciardo how before the Palagio del Popolo, in the presence of Count Guido Novello de’ Guidi, then Vicare of the city, he had played an hour at three chess-boards with three of the best chess-players in Florence, playing two by memory, and one by sight; and out of three games which made the board, he had won two. This account was wound up by a proposal to play with his host. “Thou art a hard-headed fellow, Cincolo, and make better play than the nobles. I would swear that thou thinkest of chess only as thou cobblest thy shoes; every hole of your awl is a square of the board, every stitch a move, and a finished pair, paid for, check-mate to your adversary; eh! Cincolo? Bring out the field of battle, man.” Ricciardo interposed, “I leave Florence in two hours, and before I go, Messer Cincolo promised to conduct me to the Piazza del Duomo.” “Plenty of time good youth,” cried Buzeccha, arranging his men; “I only claim one game, and my games never last more than a quarter of an hour; and then we will both escort you, and you shall dance a set into the bargain with a black-eyed Houri, all Nazarene as thou art. So stand out of my light, good youth, and shut the window, if you have heeding, that the torch flare not so.”

            Ricciardo seemed amused by the authoritative tone of the chess-player; he shut the window and trimmed the torch, which stuck against the wall, was the only light they had, and stood by the table, over-looking the game. Monna Gegia had replaced the pot for supper, and sat somewhat uneasily, as if she were displeased that her guest did not talk with her. Cincolo and Buzeccha were deeply intent on their game, when a knock was heard at the door. Cincolo was about to rise and open it, but Ricciardo saying, “do not disturb yourself,” opened it himself, with the manner of one who does humble offices as if ennobling them, so that no one action can be more humble to them than another. The visitant was welcomed by Gegia alone, with “Ah Messer Beppe, this is kind on May-day night.” Ricciardo glanced slightly on him, and then resumed his stand by the players. There was little in Messer Beppe to attract a favourable regard. He was short, thin, and dry; his face long-drawn and liny; his eyes deep-set and scowling; his lips straight, his nose hooked, and his head covered by a close scull-cap, his hair cut close all round. He sat down near Gegia, and began to discourse in a whining, servile voice, complimenting her on her good looks, launching forth into praise of the magnificence of certain Guelph Florentines, and concluded by declaring that he was hungry and tired. “Hungry, Beppe?” said Gegia, “that should have been your first word, friend. Cincolo, wilt thou give thy guest to eat? Cincolo, art thou deaf? Art thou blind? Dost thou not hear? Wilt thou not see?—Here is Messer Giuseppe de’ Bosticchi.”

            Cincolo slowly, his eyes still fixed on the board, was about to rise. But the name of the visitant seemed to have the effect of magic on Ricciardo. “Bosticchi!” he cried—“Giuseppe Bosticchi! I did not expect to find that man beneath thy roof, Cincolo, all Guelph as thy wife is—for she also has eaten of the bread of the Elisei. Farewell thou wilt find me in the street below; follow me quickly.” He was about to go, but Bosticchi placed himself before the door, saying in a tone whose whine expressed mingled rage and sevility, “In what have I offended this young gentleman? Will he not tell me my offence?”—“Dare not to stop my way,” cried Ricciardo, passing his hand before his eyes, “nor force me again to look on thee—Begone!” Cincolo stopt him: “Thou art too hasty, and far too passionate, my noble guest,” said he: “however this man may have offended thee, thou art too violent.” “Violent!” cried Ricciardo, almost suffocated by passionate emotion—“Aye, draw thy knife, and shew the blood of Arrigo dei Elisei with which it is still stained.”

            A dead silence followed. Bosticchi slunk out of the room; Ricciardo hid his face in his hands and wept. But soon he calmed his passion and said:—“This is indeed childish. Pardon me; that man is gone; excuse and forget my violence. Resume thy game, Cincolo, but conclude it quickly, for time gains on us—Hark! an hour of night sounds from the campanile.” “The game is already concluded,” said Buzeccha, sorrowfully, “thy cloak overthrew the best check-mate this head ever planned—so God forgive thee!” “Check-mate!” cried the indignant Cincolo, “Check-mate! and my queen mowing you down, rank and file!”—“Let us begone,” exclaimed Ricciardo: “Messer Buzeccha, you will play out your game with Monna Gegia. Cincolo will return ere long.” So taking his host by the arm, he drew him out of the room, and descended the narrow high stairs with the air of one to whom those stairs were not unknown.

            When in the street he slackened his pace, and first looking round to assure himself that none overheard their conversation, he addressed Cincolo:—“Pardon me, my dear friend; I am hasty, and the sight of that man made every drop of my blood cry aloud in my veins. But I do not come here to indulge in private sorrows or private revenge, and my design ought alone to engross me. It is necessary for me to see, speedily and secretly, Messer Guielmo Lostendardo, the Neapolitan commander. I bear a message to him from the Countess Elizabeth, the mother of Corradino, and I have some hope that its import may induce him to take at least a neutral part during the impending conflict. I have chosen you, Cincolo, to aid me in this, for not only you are of that little note in your town that you may act for me without attracting observation, but you are brave and true, and I may confide to your known worth. Lostendardo resides at the Palagio del Governo; when I enter its doors I am in the hands of my enemies, and its dungeons may alone know the secret of my destiny. I hope better things. But if after two hours I do not appear or let you hear of my welfare, carry this packet to Corradino at Pisa: you will then learn who I am, and if you feel any indignation at my fate, let that feeling attach you still more strongly to the cause for which I live and die.”

            As Ricciardo spoke he still walked on; and Cincolo observed, that without his guidance he directed his steps towards the Palagio del Governo. “I do not understand this,” said the old man;—“by what argument, unless you bring one from the other world, do you hope to induce Messer Guielmo to aid Corradino? He is so bitter an enemy of Manfred, that although that Prince is dead, yet when he mentions his name he grasps the air as it were a dagger. I have heard him with horrible imprecations curse the whole house of Swabia.” A tremor shook the frame of Ricciardo, but he replied, “Lostendardo was once the firmest support of that house and the friend of Manfred. Strange circumstances gave birth in his mind to this unnatural hatred, and he became a traitor. But perhaps now that Manfred is in Paradise, the youth, the virtues, and the inexperience of Corradino may inspire him with more generous feelings and reawaken his ancient faith. At least I must make this last trial. This cause is too holy, too sacred, to admit of common forms of reasoning or action. The nephew of Manfred must sit upon the throne of his ancestors; and to achieve that I will endure what I am about to endure.”

            They entered the palace of government. Messer Guielmo was carousing in the great hall. “Bear this ring to him, good Cincolo, and say that I wait. Be speedy, that my courage, my life, do not desert me at the moment of trial.”—Cincolo, casting one more inquisitive glance on his extraordinary companion, obeyed his orders, while the youth leant against one of the pillars of the court and passionately cast up his eyes to the clear firmament. “Oh, ye stars!” he cried in a smothered voice, “ye are eternal; let my purpose, my will, be as constant as ye!” Then, more calm, he folded his arms in his cloak, and with strong inward struggle endeavoured to repress his emotion. Several servants approached him and bade him follow them. Again he looked at the sky and said, “Manfred,” and then he walked on with slow but firm steps. They led him through several halls and corridors to a large apartment hung with tapestry, and well lighted by numerous torches; the marble of the floor reflected their glare, and the arched roof echoed the footsteps of one who paced the apartment as Ricciardo entered. It was Lostendardo. He made a sign that the servants should retire; the heavy door closed behind them, and Ricciardo stood alone with Messer Guielmo; his countenance pale but composed, his eyes cast down as in expectation, not in fear; and but for the convulsive motion of his lips, you would have guessed that every faculty was almost suspended by intense agitation.

            Lostendardo approached. He was a man in the prime of life, tall and athletic; he seemed capable with a single exertion to crush the frail being of Ricciardo. Every feature of his countenance spoke of the struggle of passions, and the terrible egotism of one who would sacrifice even himself to the establishment of his will: his black eyebrows were scattered, his grey eyes deep set and scowling, his look at once stern and haggard. A smile seemed never to have disturbed the settled scorn which his lips expressed; his high forehead, already becoming bald, was marked by a thousand contradictory lines. His voice was studiously restrained as he said: “Wherefore do you bring that ring?”—Ricciardo looked up and met his eye, which glanced fire as he exclaimed—“Despina!” He seized her hand with a giant’s grasp:—“I have prayed for this night and day, and thou art now here! Nay, do not struggle; you are mine; for by my salvation I swear that thou shalt never again escape me.” Despina replied calmly—“Thou mayst well believe that in thus placing myself in thy power I do not dread any injury thou canst inflict upon me,—or I were not here. I do not fear thee, for I do not fear death. Loosen then thy hold, and listen to me. I come in the name of those virtues that were once thine; I come in the name of all noble sentiment, generosity, and ancient faith; and I trust that in listening to me your heroic nature will second my voice, and that Lostendardo will no longer rank with those whom the good and great never name but to condemn.”

            Lostendardo appeared to attend little to what she said. He gazed on her with triumph and malignant pride; and if he still held her, his motive appeared rather the delight he felt in displaying his power over her, than any fear that she would escape. You might read in her pale cheek and glazed eye, that if she feared, it was herself alone that she mistrusted; that her design lifted her above mortal dread, and that she was as impassive as the marble she resembled to any event that did not either advance or injure the object for which she came. They were both silent, until Lostendardo leading her to a seat, and then standing opposite to her, his arms folded, every feature dilated by triumph, and his voice sharpened by agitation, he said: “Well, speak! What wouldst thou with me?”—“I come to request, that if you can not be induced to assist Prince Corradino in the present struggle, you will at least stand neutral, and not oppose his advance to the kingdom of his ancestors.” Lostendardo laughed. The vaulted roof repeated the sound, but the harsh echo, though it resembled the sharp cry of an animal of prey whose paw is on the heart of its enemy, was not so discordant and dishuman as the laugh itself. “How,” he asked, “dost thou pretend to induce me to comply? This dagger,” and he touched the hilt of one, that was half concealed in his vesture, “is yet stained by the blood of Manfred; ere long it will be sheathed in the heart of that foolish boy.”

            Despina conquered the feeling of horror these words inspired, and replied: “Will you give me a few minutes’ patient hearing?”—“I will give you a few minutes’ hearing, and if I be not so patient as in the Palagio Reale, fair Despina must excuse me, Forbearance is not a virtue to which I aspire.”—“Yes, it was in the Palagio Reale, at Naples, the palace of Manfred, that you first saw me. You were then the bosom friend of Manfred, selected by that choice specimen of humanity as his confident and counsellor. Why did you become a traitor? Start not at that word: if you could hear the united voice of Italy, and even of those who call themselves your friends, they would echo that name. Why did you thus degrade and belie yourself? You call me the cause, yet I am most innocent. You saw me at the court of your master, an attendant on Queen Sibilla, and one who unknown to herself had already parted with her heart, her soul, her will, her entire being, an involuntary sacrifice at the shrine of all that is noble and divine in human nature. My spirit worshipped Manfred as a saint, and my pulses ceased to beat when his eye fell upon me.

            I felt this, but I knew it not. You awoke me from my dream. You said that you loved me, and you reflected in too faithful a mirror my own emotions: I saw myself and shuddered. But the profound and eternal nature of my passion saved me. I loved Manfred. I loved the sun because it enlightened him; I loved the air that fed him; I deified myself for that my heart was the temple in which he resided. I devoted myself to Sibilla, for she was his wife, and never in thought or dream degraded the purity of my affection towards him. For this you hated him. He was ignorant of my passion: my heart contained it as a treasure which you having discovered came to rifle. You could more easily deprive me of life than my devotion for your king, and therefore you were a traitor.

            “Manfred died, and you thought that I had then forgotten him. But love would indeed be a mockery if death were not the most barefaced cheat. How can he die who is immortalized in my thoughts—my thoughts, that comprehend the universe, and contain eternity in their graspings? What though his earthly vesture is thrown as a despised weed beside the verde, he lives in my soul as lovely, as noble, as entire, as when his voice awoke the mute air: nay, his life is more entire, more true. For before, that small shrine that encased his spirit was all that existed of him; but now he is a part of all things; his spirit surrounds me, interpenetrates and divided from him during his life, his death has united me to him for ever.”

            The countenance of Lostendardo darkened fearfully.—When she paused, he looked black as the sea before the heavily charged thunder-clouds that canopy it dissolve themselves in rain. The tempest of passion that arose in his heart seemed too mighty to admit of swift manifestation; it came slowly up from the profoundest depths of his soul, and emotion was piled upon emotion before the lightning of his anger sped to its destination. “Your arguments, eloquent Despina,” he said, “are indeed unanswerable. They work well for your purpose. Corradino is I hear at Pisa: you have sharpened my dagger; and before the air of another night rust it, I may by deeds have repaid your insulting words.”

            “How far do you mistake me! and is praise and love of all heroic excellence insult to you? Lostendardo, when you first knew me, I was an inexperienced girl; I loved but knew not what love was, and circumscribing my passion in narrow bounds, I adore the being of Manfred as I might love an effigy of stone, which, when broken, has no longer an existence. I am now much altered. I might before have treated you with disdain or anger, but now these base feelings have expired in my heart. I am animated but by one feeling—an aspiration to another life, another state of being. All the good depart from this strange earth; and I doubt not that when I am sufficiently elevated above human weaknesses, it will also be my turn to leave this scene of woe. I prepare myself for that moment alone; and in endeavouring to fit myself for a union with all the brave, generous, and wise, that once adorned humanity, and have now passed from it, I consecrate myself to the service of this most righteous cause. You wrong me, therefore, if you think there is aught of disdain in what I say, or that any degrading feelings are mingled with my devotion of spirit when I come and voluntarily place myself in your power. You can imprison me for ever in the dungeons of this palace, as a returned Ghibelline and spy, and have me executed as a criminal. But before you do this, pause for your own sake; reflect on the choice of glory or ignominy you are now about to make. Let your old sentiments of love for the house of Swabia have some sway in your heart; reflect that as you are the despised enemy, so you may become the chosen friend, of its last descendant, and receive from every heart the praise of having restored Corradino to the honours and power to which he was born.

            “Compare this prince to the hypocritical, the bloody and mean-spirited Charles. When Manfred died, I went to Germany, and have resided at the court of the Countess Elizabeth; I have, therefore, been an hourly witness of the great and good qualities of Corradino. The bravery of his spirit makes him rise above the weakness of youth and inexperience: he possesses all the nobility of spirit that belongs to the family of Swabia, and, in addition, a purity and gentleness that attracts the respect and love of the old and wary courtiers of Frederic and Conrad. You are brave, and would be generous, did not the fury of your passion, like a consuming fire, destroy in their violence every generous sentiment: how then can you become the tool of Charles? his scowling eyes and sneering lips betoken the selfishness of his mind. Avarice, cruelty, meanness, and artifice, are the qualities that characterise him, and render him unworthy of the majesty he usurps. Let him return to Provence, and reign with paltry despotism over the luxurious and servile French; the free-born Italians require another Lord. They are not fit to bow to one whose palace is the change-house of money lenders, whose generals are usurers, whose courtiers are milliners or monks, and who basely vows allegiance to the enemy of freedom and virtue, Clement, the murderer of Manfred. Their king, like them, should be clothed in the armour of valour and simplicity; his ornaments, his shield and spear; his treasury, the possessions of his subjects: his army, their unshaken loves. Charles will treat you as a tool; Corradino as a friend—Charles will make you the detested tyrant of a groaning province Corradino the governor of a prosperous and happy people.

            “I cannot tell by your manner if what I have said has in any degree altered your determination. I cannot forget the scenes that passed between us at Naples. I might then have been disdainful: I am not so now. Your execrations of Manfred excited every angry feeling in my mind; but, as I have said, all but the feeling of love expired in my heart when Manfred died, and methinks that where love is, excellence must be its companion. You said you loved me; and though, in other times, that love was twin-brother to hate,—though then, poor prisoner in your heart, jealousy, rage, contempt, and cruelty, were its handmaids,—yet if it were love, methinks that its divinity must have purified your heart from baser feelings; and now that I, the bridal of death, am removed from your sphere, gentler feelings may awaken in your bosom, and you may incline mildly to my voice.

            “If indeed you loved me, will you not now be my friend? shall we not hand in hand pursue the same career? return to your ancient faith; and now that death and religion have placed the seal upon the past, let Manfred’s spirit, looking down, behold his repentant friend the firm ally of his successor, the best and last scion of the house of Swabia.”

            She ceased; for the glare of savage triumph which, as a rising fire at night time, enlightened with growing and fearful radiance the face of Lostendardo, made her pause in her appeal. He did not reply; but when she was silent he quitted the attitude in which he had stood immoveable opposite to her, and pacing the hall with measured steps, his head declined, he seemed to ruminate on some project. Could it be that he weighed her reasonings? if he hesitated, the side of generosity and old fidelity would certainly prevail. Yet she dared not hope; her heart beat fast; she would have knelt, but she feared to move, lest any motion should disturb his thoughts, and curb the flow of good feeling which she fondly hoped had arisen within him: she looked up and prayed silently as she sat. Notwithstanding the glare of the torches, the beams of one small star struggled through the dark window pane; her eye resting on it, her thoughts were at once elevated to the eternity and space which that star symbolized: it seemed to her the spirit of Manfred, and she inwardly worshipped it, as she prayed that it would shed its benign influence on the soul of Lostendardo.

            Some minutes elapsed in this fearful silence, and then he approached her. “Despina, allow me to reflect on your words; to-morrow I will answer you. You will remain in this palace until the morning, and then you shall see and judge of my repentance and returning faith.”—He spoke with studious gentleness. Despina could not see his face, for the lights shone behind him. When she looked up to reply, the little star twinkled just above his head, and seemed with its gentle lustre to reassure her. Our minds, when highly wrought, are strangely given to superstition, and Despina lived in a superstitious age. She thought that the star bade her comply, and assured her of protection from heaven:—from where else could she expect it? she said therefore, “I consent. Only let me request that you acquaint the man who gave you my ring that I am safe, or he will fear for me.”—“I will do as you desire.”—“And I will confide myself to your care. I cannot, dare not, fear you. If you would betray me, still I trust in the heavenly saints that guard humanity.”

            Her countenance was so calm,—it beamed with so angelic a self-devotion and a belief in good, that Lostendardo dared not look on her. For one moment—as she, having ceased to speak, gazed upon the star—he felt impelled to throw himself at her feet, to confess the diabolical scheme he had forged, and to commit himself body and soul to her guidance, to obey, to serve, to worship her. The impulse was momentary; the feeling of revenge returned on him. From the moment she had rejected him, the fire of rage had burned in his heart, consuming all healthy feeling, all human sympathies and gentleness of soul. He had sworn never to sleep on a bed, or to drink aught but water, until his first cup of wine was mingled with the blood of Manfred. He had fulfilled this vow. A strange alteration had worked within him from the moment he had drained that unholy cup. The spirit, not of a man, but of a devil, seemed to live within him, urging him to crime, from which his long protracted hope of more complete revenge had alone deterred him. But Despina was now in his power, and it seemed to him as if fate had preserved him so long only that he might now wreak his full rage upon her. When she spoke of love, he thought how from that he might extract pain. He formed his plan; and this slight human weakness now conquered, he bent his thoughts to its completion. Yet he feared to stay longer with her; so he quitted her, saying that he would send attendants who would shew her an apartment where she might repose. He left her, and several hours passed; but no one came.

            The torches burnt low, and the stars of heaven could now with twinkling beams conquer their feebler light. One by one these torches went out, and the shadows of the high windows of the hall, before invisible, were thrown upon its marble pavement. Despina looked upon the shade, at first unconsciously, until she found herself counting, one, two, three, the shapes of the iron bars that lay so placidly on the stone. “Those grates are thick,” she said: “this room would be a large but secure dungeon.” As by inspiration, she now felt that she was a prisoner. No change, no word, had intervened since she had walked fearlessly in the room, believing herself free. But now no doubt of her situation occurred to her mind; heavy chains seemed to fall around her; the air to feel thick and heavy as that of a prison; and the star-beams that had before cheered her, became the dreary messengers of fearful danger to herself, and of the utter defeat of all the hopes she had dared nourish of success to her beloved cause.

            Cincolo waited, first with impatience, and then with anxiety, for the return of the youthful stranger. He paced up and down before the gates of the palace; hour after hour passed on; the star arose and descended, and ever and anon meteors shot along the sky. They were not more frequent than they always are during a clear summer night in Italy; but they appeared strangely numerous to Cincolo, and portentous of change and calamity. Midnight struck, and at that moment a procession of monks passed, bearing a corpse and chaunting a solemn De Profundis. Cincolo felt a cold tremour shake his limbs when he reflected how ill an augury this was for the strange adventurer he had guided to that palace. The sombre cowls of the priests, their hollow voices, and the dark burthen they carried, augmented his agitation even to terror: without confessing the cowardice to himself, he was possessed with fear lest he should be included in the evil destiny that evidently awaited his companion. Cincolo was a brave man; he had often been foremost in a perilous assault: but the most courageous among us sometimes feel our hearts fail within us at the dread of unknown and fated danger. He was struck with panic;—he looked after the disappearing lights of the procession, and listened to their fading voices: his knees shook, a cold perspiration stood on his brow: until, unable to resist the impulse, he began slowly to withdraw himself from the Palace of Government, and to quit the circle of danger which seemed to hedge him in if he remained on that spot.

            He had hardly quitted his post by the gate of the palace, when he saw lights issue from it, attendant on a company of men, some of whom were armed, as appeared from the reflection their lances’ heads cast; and some of them carried a litter hung with black and closely drawn. Cincolo was rooted to the spot. He could not render himself any reason for his belief, but he felt convinced that the stranger youth was there, about to be carried out to death. Impelled by curiosity and anxiety, he followed the party as they went towards the Porta Romana: they were challenged by the sentinels at the gate; they gave the word and passed. Cincolo dared not follow, but he was agitated by fear and compassion. He remembered the packet confided to his care; he dared not draw it from his bosom, lest any Guelph should be near to overlook and discover that it was addressed to Corradino; he could not read, but he wished to look at the arms of the seal, to see whether they bore the imperial ensigns. He returned back to the Palagio del Governo: all there was dark and silent; he walked up and down before the gates, looking up at the windows, but no sign of life appeared. He could not tell why he was thus agitated, but he felt as if all his future peace depended on the fate of this stranger youth. He thought of Gegia, her helplessness and age; but he could not resist the impulse that impelled him, and he resolved that very night to commence his journey to Pisa, to deliver the packet, to learn who the stranger was, and what hopes he might entertain for his safety.

            He returned home, that he might inform Gegia of his journey. This was a painful task, but he could not leave her in doubt. He ascended his narrow stairs with trepidation. At the head of them a lamp twinkled before a picture of the Virgin. Evening after evening it burnt there, guarding through its influence his little household from all earthly or supernatural dangers. The sight of it inspired him with courage; he said an Ave Maria before it; and then looking around him to assure himself that no spy stood on the narrow landing place, he drew the packet from his bosom and examined the seal. All Italians in those days were conversant in heraldry, since from ensigns of the shields of the knights they learned, better than from their faces or persons, to what family and party they belonged. But it required no great knowledge for Cincolo to decypher these arms; he had known them from his childhood; they were those of the Elisei, the family to whom he had been attached as a partisan during all these civil contests. Arrigo de’ Elisei had been his patron, and his wife had nursed his only daughter, in those happy days when there was neither Guelph nor Ghibelline. The sight of these arms reawakened all his anxiety. Could this youth belong to that house? The seal shewed that he really did; and this discovery confirmed his determination of making every exertion to save him, and inspired him with sufficient courage to encounter the remonstrances and fears of Monna Gegia.

            He unlocked his door; the old dame was asleep in her chair, but awoke as he entered. She had slept only to refresh her curiosity, and she asked a thousand questions in a breath, to which Cincolo did not reply: he stood with his arms folded looking at the fire, irresolute how to break the subject of his departure. Monna Gegia continued to talk: “After you went, we held a consultation concerning this hot-brained youth of this morning; I, Buzeccha, Beppe de’ Bosticchi who returned, and Monna Lissa from the Mercato Nuovo. We all agreed that he must be one of two persons; and be it one or the other, if he have not quitted Florence, the Stinchi* will be his habitation by sunrise. Eh! Cincolo, man! you do not speak; where did you part with your Prince?”—“Prince, Gegia! Are you mad?—what Prince?” “Nay, he is either a Prince or a baker; either Corradino himself, or Ricciardo the son of Messer Tommaso de’ Manelli; he that lived o’th’Arno, and baked for all that Sesto, when Count Guido de Giudi was Vicario. By this token, that Messer Tommaso went to Milan with Ubaldo de’ Gargalandi, and Ricciardo, who went with his father, must now be sixteen. He had the fame of kneading with as light a hand as his father, but he liked better to follow arms with the Gargalandi: he was a fair, likely youth, they said; and so, to say the truth, was our youngster of this morning. But Monna Lissa will have it that it must be Corradino himself——”

            Cincolo listened as if the gossip of two old women could unravel his riddle. He even began to doubt whether the last conjecture, extravagant as it was, had not hit the truth. Every circumstance forbade such an idea; but he thought of the youth and exceeding beauty of the stranger, and he began to doubt. There was none among the Elisei who answered to his appearance. The flower of their youth had fallen at Monte Aperto; the eldest of the new generation was but ten; the other males of that house were of a mature age. Gegia continued to talk of the anger that Beppe de’ Bosticchi evinced at being accused of the murder of Arrigo dei Elisei. “If he had done that deed,” she cried, “never more should he have stood on my hearth; but he swore his innocence; and truly, poor man, it would be a sin not to believe him.” Why, if the stranger were not an Elisei, should he have shewn such horror on viewing the supposed murderer of the head of that family?—Cincolo turned from the fire; he examined whether his knife hung safely in his girdle, and he exchanged his sandal-like shoes for stronger boots of common undressed fur. This last act attracted the attention of Gegia. “What are you about, good man?” she cried. “This is no hour to change your dress, but to come to bed. To-night you will not speak; but to-morrow I hope to get it all out from you. What are you about?” “I am about to leave you, my dear Gegia; and heaven bless and take care of you! I am going to Pisa.” Gegia uttered a shriek, and was about to remonstrate with great volubility, while the tears rolled down her aged cheeks. Tears also filled the eyes of Cincolo, as he said, “I do not go for the cause you suspect. I do not go into the army of Corradino, though my heart will be with it. I go but to carry a letter, and will return without delay.” “You will never return,” cried the old woman: “the Commune will never let you enter the gates of this town again, if you set foot in that traitorous Pisa. But you shall not go; I will raise the neighbours; I will declare you mad——”—“Gegia, no more of this! Here is all the money I have: before I go, I will send your cousin ’Nunziata to you. I must go. It is not the Ghibelline cause, or Corradino, that obliges me to risk your ease and comforts; but the life of one of the Elisei is at stake; and if I can save him, would you have me rest here, and afterwards curse you and the hour when I was born?” “What! is he——? But no; there is none among the Elisei so young as he; and none so lovely, except her whom these arms carried when an infant—but she is a female. No, no; this is a tale trumped up to deceive me and gain my consent; but you shall never have it. Mind that! you will never have it; and I prophecy that if you do go, your journey will be the death of both of us.” She wept bitterly. Cincolo kissed her aged cheek, and mingled his tears with hers; and then recommending her to the care of the Virgin and the saints, he quitted her, while grief choaked her utterance, and the name of the Elisei had deprived her of all energy to resist his purpose.

            It was four in the morning before the gates of Florence were opened and Cincolo could leave the city. At first he availed himself of the carts of the contadini to advance on his journey; but as he drew near Pisa, all modes of conveyance ceased, and he was obliged to take by-roads, and act cautiously, not to fall into the hands of the Florentine out-posts, or of some fierce Ghibelline, who might suspect him, and have him carried before the Podesta of a village; for if once suspected and searched, the packet addressed to Corradino would convict him, and he would pay for his temerity with his life. Having arrived at Vico Pisano, he found a troop of Pisan horse there on guard: he was known to many of the soldiers, and he obtained a conveyance for Pisa; but it was night before he arrived. He gave the Ghibelline watch-word, and was admitted within the gates. He asked for Prince Corradino: he was in the city, at the palace of the Lanfranchi. He crossed the Arno, and was admitted into the palace by the soldiers who guarded the door. Corradino had just returned from a successful skirmish in the Lucchese states, and was reposing; but when count Gherardo Doneratico, his principal attendant, saw the seal of the packet, he immediately ushered the bearer into a small room, where the Prince lay on a fox’s skin thrown upon the pavement.

            The mind of Cincolo had been so bewildered by the rapidity of the events of the preceding night, by fatigue and want of sleep, that he had overwrought himself to believe that the stranger youth was indeed Corradino; and when he had heard that that Prince was in Pisa, by a strange disorder of ideas, he still imagined that he and Ricciardo were the same; that the black litter was a phantom, and his fears ungrounded. The first sight of Corradino, his fair hair and round Saxon features, destroyed this idea: it was replaced by a feeling of deep anguish, when Count Gherardo, announcing him, said, “One who brings a letter from Madonna Despina dei Elisei, waits upon your Highness.”

            The old man sprang forward, uncontrolled by the respect he would otherwise have felt for one of so high lineage as Corradino. “From Despina! Did you say from her? Oh! unsay your words! Not from my beloved, lost, foster-child.

            Tears rolled down his cheeks. Corradino, a youth of fascinating gentleness, but, as Despina had said, “young even to childishness,” attempted to reassure him. “Oh! my gracious Lord,” cried Cincolo, “open that packet, and see if it be from my blessed child—if in the disguise of Ricciardo I led her to destruction.” He wrung his hands Corradino, pale as death with fear for the destiny of his lovely and adventurous friend, broke the seal. The packet contained an inner envelope without any direction, and a letter, which Corradino read, while horror convulsed every feature. He gave it to Gherardo. “It is indeed from her. She says, that the bearer can relate all that the world will probably know of her fate. And you, old man, who weep so bitterly, you to whom my best and lovely friend refers me, tell me what you know of her.”

            Cincolo told his story in broken accents. “May these eyes be for ever blinded!” he cried, when he had concluded, “that knew not Despina in those soft looks and heavenly smiles. Dotard that I am! When my wife railed at your family and princely self, and the sainted Manfred, why did I not read her secret in her forbearance? Would she have forgiven those words in any but her who had nursed her infancy, and been a mother to her when Madonna Pia died? And when she taxed Bosticchi with her father’s death, I, blind fool, did see the spirit of the Elisei in her eyes. My Lord, I have but one favour to ask you. Let me hear her letter, that I may judge from that what hopes remain:—but there are none—none.” “Read it to him, my dear Count,” said the Prince; “I will not fear as he fears. I dare not fear that one so lovely and beloved is sacrificed for my worthless cause.” Gherardo read the letter.

            “Cincolo de’ Becari, my foster father, will deliver this letter into your hands, my respected and dear Corradino. The Countess Elizabeth has urged me to my present undertaking; I hope nothing for it—except to labour for your cause, and perhaps through its event to quit somewhat earlier a life which is but a grievous trial to my weak mind. I go to endeavour to arouse the feelings of fidelity and generosity in the soul of the traitor Lostendardo: I go to place myself in his hands, and I do not hope to escape from them again. Corradino, my last prayer will be for your success. Mourn not for one who goes home after a long and weary exile. Burn the enclosed packet without opening it. The Mother of God protect thee!                                                                            DESPINA.”

            Corradino had wept as this epistle was reading, but then starting up, he said—“To revenge or death! we may yet save her!”—

            A blight had fallen on the house of Swabia, and all their enterprizes were blasted. Beloved by their subjects, noble, and with every advantage of right on their side, except those the church bestowed, they were defeated in every attempt to defend themselves against a foreigner and a tyrant, who ruled by force of arms, and those in the hands of a few only, over an extensive and warlike territory. The young and daring Corradino was also fated to perish in this contest. Having overcome the troops of his adversary in Tuscany, he advanced towards his kingdom with the highest hopes. His arch enemy, Pope Clement IV. had shut himself up in Viterbo, and was guarded by a numerous garrison. Corradino passed in triumph and hope before the town, and proudly drew out his troops before it, to display to the Holy Father his forces, and humiliate him by his show of success. The Cardinals, who beheld the lengthened line and good order of the army, hastened to the Papal palace. Clement was in his oratory, praying; the frightened monks with pale looks, related how the excommunicated heretic dared to menace the town where the Holy Father himself resided; adding, that if the insult were carried to the pitch of an assault, it might prove dangerous warfare. The Pope smiled contemptuously. “Do not fear,” he said; “the projects of these men will dissipate in smoke.” He then went on the ramparts, and saw Corradino and Frederic of Austria, who defiled the line of knights in the plain below. He watched them for a time; then turning to his Cardinals, he said, “they are victims, who permit themselves to be led to sacrifice.”

            His words were a prophecy. Notwithstanding the first success of Corradino, and the superior numbers of his army, he was defeated by the artifice of Charles in a pitched battle. He escaped from the field, and, with a few friends, arrived at a tower called Asturi, which belonged to the family of Frangipani, of Rome. Here he hired a vessel, embarked, and put to sea, directing his course for Sicily, which, having rebelled against Charles, would, he hoped, receive him with joy. They were already under weigh, when one of the family of the Frangipani seeing a vessel filled with Germans making all sail from shore, suspected that they were fugitives from the battle of Taglicozzo, he followed them in other vessels, and took them all prisoners. The person of Corradino was a rich prey for him; he delivered him into the hands of his rival, and was rewarded by the donation of a fief near Benevento.

            The dastardly spirit of Charles instigated him to the basest revenge; and the same tragedy was acted upon those shores which has been renewed in our days. A daring and illustrious Prince was sacrificed with the mock forms of justice, at the sanguinary altar of tyranny and hypocrisy. Corradino was tried. One of the judges alone, a Provençal, dared condemn him, and he paid with his life the forfeit of his baseness. For scarcely had he, solitary among his fellows, pronounced the sentence of death against this Prince, than Robert of Flanders, the brother-in-law of Charles himself, struck him on the breast with a staff, crying, “it behoves not thee, wretch, to condemn to death so noble and worthy a knight.” The judge fell dead in the presence of the king, who dared not avenge his creature.

            On the 26^th of October, Corradino and his friends were led out to die in the Market-place of Naples by the sea-side. Charles was present with all his court, and an immense multitude surrounded the triumphant king, and his more royal adversary, about to suffer an ignominious death. The funeral procession approached its destination. Corradino, agitated, but controlling his agitation, was drawn in an open car. After him came a close litter, hung with black, with no sign to tell who was within. The Duke of Austria and several other illustrious victims followed. The guard that conducted them to the scaffold was headed by Lostendardo; a malicious triumph laughed in his eyes, and he rode near the litter, looking from time to time, first at it and then at Corradino, with the dark look of a tormenting fiend. The procession stopped at the foot of the scaffold, and Corradino looked at the flashing light which every now and then arose from Vesuvius, and threw its reflection on the sea. The sun had not yet risen, but the halo of its approach illuminated the bay of Naples, its mountains, and its islands. The summits of the distant hills of Baiæ gleamed with its first beams. Corradino thought, “by the time those rays arrive here, and shadows are cast from the persons of these men,—princes and peasants, around me, my living spirit will be shadowless.” Then he turned his eyes on the companions of his fate, and for the first time he saw the silent and dark litter which accompanied them. At first he thought, “it is my coffin.” But then he recollected the disappearance of Despina, and would have sprung towards it: his guards stopped him; he looked up, and his glance met that of Lostendardo, who smiled—a smile of dread: but the feeling of religion which had before calmed him again descended on him; he thought that her sufferings, as well as his, would soon be over.

            They were already over. And the silence of the grave is upon those events which had occurred since Cincolo beheld her carried out of Florence, until now that she was led by her fierce enemy to behold the death of the nephew of Manfred. She must have endured much; for when, as Corradino advanced to the front of the scaffold, the litter being placed opposite to it, Lostendardo ordered the curtains to be withdrawn, the white hand that hung inanimate from its side was thin as a winter leaf, and her fair face, pillowed by the thick knots of her dark hair, was sunken and ashy pale, while you could see the deep blue of her eyes struggle through the closed eyelids. She was still in the attire in which she had presented herself at the house of Cincolo: perhaps her tormentor thought that her appearance as a youth would attract less compassion than if a lovely woman were thus dragged to so unnatural a scene.

            Corradino was kneeling and praying when her form was thus exposed. He saw her, and saw that she was dead! About to die himself; about pure and innocent, to die ignominiously, while his base conqueror, in pomp and glory, was spectator of his death, he did not pity those who were at peace, his compassion belonged to the living alone, and as he rose from his prayer he exclaimed, “my beloved mother, what profound sorrow will the news thou art about to hear cause thee!” He looked upon the living multitude around him, and saw that the hard-visaged partisans of the usurper wept; he heard the sobs of his oppressed and conquered subjects; so he drew his glove from his hand and threw it among the crowd, in token that he still held his cause good, and submitted his head to the axe.

            During many years after those events, Lostendardo enjoyed wealth, rank, and honour. When suddenly, while at the summit of glory and prosperity, he withdrew from the world, took the vows of a severe order in a convent, in one of the desolate and unhealthy plains by the sea-shore in Calabria; and after having gained the character of a saint, through a life of self-inflicted torture, he died murmuring the names of Corradino, Manfred and Despina.

            “It is an affecting tale, indeed,” said Helen.

            “Yes, tolerably so,” added Mrs. Smith, “but not interesting; it is not fashionable enough for me.”

            “Well, ladies,” said Daly, “you must accept the best I have, ’tis better than doing nothing during our monotonous mode of existence here; and,” pointing to his library, “any thing I have you are welcome to take and use as your own.”

            We have said that Edmund in the state of mind he now was, did many silly things; here are a few samples.

            When he left the chair as president of the ward-room, it was usual for him as well as the rest in his turn, to go to the bottom of the table. It being his turn now to do so, he instead of which, placed himself by the side of Helen.

            This Mrs. Smith took care to observe, to the confusion of Helen, and not quite agreeable to Edmund.

            At another time Smith placed himself by our heroine, whilst Daly was on deck; on his entering and standing looking for a place, Smith jumped from his seat, and said, “Oh! I beg pardon, this is your place.”

            Daly laughed, was rather chagrined, but took it.

            At these times, however, Rosse was not present; but on another occasion, whilst sitting by his wife, Daly, who was absent for a short time on duty, found on his return his usual place occupied; he looked at Rosse and appeared vexed, but as he had no alternative, he was about to take a vacant seat next to him; just at this moment the captain’s servant came with a message, that Rosse was wanted for a few minutes; his back was no sooner turned, than Daly transferred Rosse’s plate, knife and fork one place below, and put his own instead, and seated himself in the chair next to Helen.

            This was observed by all, and a suppressed titter was the consequence.

            Rosse soon returned, and could not but look amazed at the folly of Edmund.

            The titter then became a roar, and the little doctor bawled out: “lost all, Rosse—wife, place and all.”

            “Oh,” replied Rosse, coolly, “I suppose Mr. Daly would not be able to eat any dinner, unless he sat next my wife.”

            Rosse’s coolness was a disappointment to them, and Daly, who looked extremely simple, instantly rose and offered him his place, with an apology for his rudeness.

            The next day Rosse sat again by his wife, but as soon as Edmund entered he rose, and with a sneer said, “here, Daly, take your place, or your appetite will be spoiled.”

            The laugh was now in Rosse’s favour, and “well done, Rosse, well done,” was shouted on all sides.

            Edmund did not relish the joke, and declined accepting the offer.

            Rosse had predetermined to serve him thus, in consequence of what had taken place the day before, which had secretly annoyed him, though he had not taken any notice of it to Helen; he wished to show Daly that he did not fear him, and he effectually succeeded in doing so.

            It would seem that Rosse had almost taken leave of his senses, in leaving, as he often did, his beautiful wife under the sole care and protection of Daly; particularly as it was the earnest desire of many on board, that he should suffer for his folly.

            Mrs. Smith in particular, endeavoured with all her might to succeed in her malicious wishes, and she never let slip any opportunity of trying to place Helen in the power of Daly.

            Whilst Rosse was on watch one evening, Mrs. Smith proposed her usual game of forfeits; the game had gone on pleasantly enough for some time, until the doctor giving his wife a kiss, and said “it must go round.”

            Mrs. Smith either saluted the purser, or was saluted by him; and Daly taking our heroine by the hand, said playfully, “which shall it be, I or you?”

            “Neither, sir,” replied she, hastily withdrawing her hand, and with an indignant look showed that she would not be trifled with.

            “Oh, yes, indeed you must,” said Mrs. Smith, “or you will interrupt the game; you did not see me scruple with the purser.”

            “You, madam, may do as you please, I shall use my own mind.”

            “Oh, we will not tell Rosse, you need not fear any thing,” cried several of the party.

            “I shall I hope never give any of you the power to tell Mr. Rosse any thing; when ever I accede to your wishes, it shall be with his consent, and before his face; I request, therefore, if I am to remain with you, that you will desist from further importunities.”

            Mrs. Smith was provoked beyond measure at her failure, and sullenly gave up continuing the game; and Edmund, though at first piqued at what he considered obstinate prudery, could not but on reflection have an increased esteem for this further proof of the unconquerable determination of Helen, to avoid even the appearance of an impropriety, or any thing that might be construed as such by her enemies as well as her friends.

            Rosse was informed of the circumstance by one of the party, who mentioned it to Helen with much satisfaction.

            Helen, fearful that the truth had not been told, as it regarded Daly, exonerated him from any participation in their endeavours to annoy her, which was nothing but the truth, as he instantly desisted on her first opposition to the proposed familiarity.

            “Oh, my dear,” said Rosse, “I am satisfied that Daly esteems you as a friend, and as my wife, too much to dare to insult you.”

            In this sentence, the usual consequence of Rosse was apparent; but Helen, glad to find that he was not offended with Edmund, took no further notice of the circumstance.

            The next day was a cold one, and Helen observing the ward-room fire disengaged, sat down by it, and prepared to go on with some needle-work, which was required for the use of her husband; she had not been seated long, when Edmund passing by to his cabin for something he wanted, observed her alone as he imagined, he flew on the deck with the required article, and as quickly returned; and taking a chair, sat down by the fire, opposite to her, observing, “that it was extremely cold on deck.” The steward was standing at the side-board setting the things to rights, and Helen, glad that he was present, remained where she was, and proceeded with her work; she had a little work-box in her lap, which Edmund took hold of, and purposely upset.

            Helen laughed, and called him a baby for his officiousness.

            “Oh,” said he, “I am clever at these things, I will set all to rights again;” and he began to place every article in the nicest order, sometimes asking where this and that should be put; among the articles was a small pocket-book, this he placed inside his waistcoat; it did not belong to the work-box, though it was kept there as a receptacle for sewing silk, &c., which was placed between the leaves.

            The box being properly arranged, “now,” said he, taking the pocket book from whence he had placed it, “I will search this; but hesitated to do it, though he pretended to open it, waiting for Helen’s remark on the same.

            She laughed, and dared him to proceed, but in such a manner as convinced him that he ran but little risk of offending her by so doing; the first thing he took from it, was a small sheet of paper, on which was some writing, “may I read this?” said he.

            “No,” was the answer, but followed the negative, by saying, “he was extremely curious.”

            “I shall take French leave then,” answered Edmund, and read the paper, which was in Helen’s hand-writing, and to his agreeable astonishment, some verses on love.

            “Really,” observed he, in a low tone of voice, and with an arch gravity of countenance, “I wonder you write on such a subject, for I do not believe you know any thing about it.”

            “Indeed,” said she playfully, “if you look at the date, you will perceive the verses were written when I was but thirteen years of age; they pleased my dear father, and I copied them.”

            “And since?” replied Daly, with a still archer look, and an inquisitive tone.

            Helen blushed, and smiling said, “have I not married since?”

            “Oh!” was the reply, “I beg your pardon,” and glancing at George the steward, shewed that he would say more, were he absent; just then a man came from deck, and told him he was wanted; he appeared unwilling to leave, at last he arose, and at first pretending to throw the book at her, gave it respectfully into her hand, with a fondness of look, which still further confirmed Helen that his passion for her was as powerful as ever; she felt uneasy, and as soon as he had left, went directly to her cabin.

            As quickly as Edmund could, he returned; but the bird was flown, and with unwillingness he went again to his duty.

            When the party were seated at dinner, Mrs. Smith, in her usual boisterous and coarse manner said, “what do you think, Mr. Rosse? Mr. Daly and Mrs. Rosse were talking love to each other in the ward-room this morning for more than an hour.”

            Helen though startled for an instant, at this abrupt impertinence, and mischievous intention, neither blushed, nor looked confused, but smiling towards Rosse, recollected with satisfaction that the steward had been present at the trifling conversation, which had really taken place.

            Rosse, who thoroughly hated the woman, good humouredly, though gruffly muttered, “aye, aye.”

            “If we did, madam,” said Daly, drily, and you wish to know every particular, George there will no doubt gratify you, for he had the pleasure to hear all.”

            “Oh!” exclaimed she, vexed to find that the man had been present, of which circumstance she was not before aware, “he is no doubt bribed to be silent.”

            George looked contemptuously, but was fearful of offending by a reply.

            “Oh, by my faith, but is it so, honey?” said the doctor, turning quickly round and appealing to him.

            “Nay,” added Mrs. Smith, “I much doubt whether a kind kiss did not pass, they were so loving.”

            Helen felt indignant at this liberty, and darting a look of contempt at Mrs. Smith, was about to leave the table, but Rosse coolly desired her to remain; and the purser good naturedly desired George to give an explanation, which he did by simply saying that all Mrs. Smith had said was mere invention, “and if I had known,” continued he (for he hated her cordially) “that you were listening, Mrs. Smith, I would have made the old adage good; “that listeners——

            “Hear no good of themselves,” roared the doctor.

            Daly and Rosse laughed heartily.

            “Impertinent fellow,” cried Mrs. Smith, reddening like scarlet, and appealing to the gentlemen if such freedom was to be allowed.

            “Oh, my good lady; but you brought it all on yourself,” said the doctor.

            “And a great deal more, madam, had you your deserts,” added Rosse coolly and sarcastically.

            “Come, come, it was only a joke,” said the purser, do not let a trifle make us all uncomfortable.

            Mrs. Smith was silent, and chewed the cud of her disappointment with but an ill grace, for the remainder of the dinner time. General conversation, however, dissipated the recollections of that which a few moments before threatened to produce the most disagreeable consequences to all parties.

            Rosse was satisfied in the chagrin of Mrs. Smith, and enjoyed his triumph in a dignified silence; whilst Helen, who saw that no real injury to herself would follow, quickly regained her usual cheerfulness and placidity.

            An invitation was sent by the captain, in the evening, to all the party present, to take supper with him; after which Mrs. Smith proposed the game of “hunt the slipper.”

            In vain Helen and Mrs. Phillips remonstrated; Mrs. Smith knew her influence with the captain, and persevered.

            Helen hoping yet to avoid it, said to Edmund, “I am extremely averse to this boisterous and vulgar game; amusement it certainly is not.”

            Daly agreed with her; and looking significantly at the captain and Mrs. Smith, added, “I will do what I can to give them a distaste for it in future.”

            Accordingly at the time when the captain was out, Daly who had the slipper, contrived to hit him a severe blow, which nettled and annoyed him much; and not knowing from whence it came, when the game was over, he accused Helen of giving; Helen respectfully denied it, assuring him that she had never had the slipper in her hand.

            “I thought,” said Daly to Helen, just after, that you would tell tales.”

            “Why did you give him so hard a blow?”

            “Oh, to make him ashamed of submitting to such trifling; standing up like a baby, to be cuffed and knocked about; and I purposely made myself out, to have the opportunity of punishing him, as well as to prevent you from being in a similar situation.”

            “I thank you,” replied Helen, “for I assure you I have heretofore submitted to great inconvenience from the blows which I have received from Mrs. Smith, who I believe takes every means to make me uncomfortable.”

            “Which I shall in future endeavour to prevent,” added Daly.

            Helen had not forgotten to observe, with much chagrin, that Rosse was not of the party; whether it was by design or not she could not determine, but she surmised it to be so.

            He had taken the master’s watch, from which he was relieved by the gunner; and when he made his report, he found the whole party at play; he resolved, therefore, to turn in, curling his lip with disdain, and d——g them all as a parcel of fools; “but there,” said he, “my little girl is with them, and if she is pleased, so let it be.”

            But Helen was not so well at ease as he imagined; the behaviour of Edmund, though respectful in the extreme, had every mark of tender solicitude; he was continually anxious to win her approbation; he watched every turn of her expressive eye; and if, by saying any thing, a grave look from her eye was the consequence, he would immediately turn the conversation, and appear to be miserable, but in the sunshine of her favourable opinion.

            Helen must have been more than mortal not to feel in some degree an interest in the friendship of Edmund, whose whole soul was so devoted to render her present strange mode of life as pleasant as possible.

            Lieutenant Rosse having gone below, dispatched the gun-room steward into the cabin with his compliments to Helen, as he was going to turn in.

            “Carry the message ashore,” said Mrs. Smith, “she cannot be spared, and he does not want her,” looking significantly at Daly.

            “Indeed, madam, he does,” returned the steward; her husband is now walking up and down the gun-room with his hands in his beckets.”

            “Ha! ha!” laughed the captain.

            “Shall I say, madam,” asked the steward, “that you are coming?”

            “Most certainly,” answered Helen.

            “No!” interrupted Mrs. Smith, “she is not married to a foremast man; she shall not go to-bed at eight o’clock. Such an hour only suits the vulgar.” Thus she persisted in annoying our heroine.

            It is almost nine, madam; Mr. Rosse has waited till one bell. He says he cannot sleep without her.”

            “His wife,” said Mrs. Smith, “will not believe that.”

            “Nor the sailors either,” rejoined the captain, “it will only do for the marines.”

            “Indeed! I must go,” said Helen.

            “Will you come, madam?” again asked the steward.

            “Let her husband come and attend her,” said Mrs. Smith.

            “Yes!” rejoined the captain, “tell Mr. Rosse to come and convey his wife down the ladder.”

            “Aye, aye, sir,” said the steward.

            In a few minutes Lieutenant Rosse made his appearance with a lanthorn in his hand.

            “Rosse, your wife is very slack in stays,” * said Mrs. Smith, by way of tantalizing him.

            “A word of mine, and Helen will spring her luff in a minute,” he replied, with his usual confidence and conceit.

            “You know she must,” added Mrs. Smith, “for in a very short time she will be out of soundings. You are well aware that very soon you will have her in blue water.”

            “Good night, Mrs. Rosse,” said the captain. “Mind you square the yards by the lifts and braces, Rosse. I hope we shall have no hard squalls before morning, notwithstanding that Mrs. Smith has endeavoured so very zealously to blow breezes.”

            “Never mind, captain; my little frigate will strip ship in a minute, and pull up all lee-way; we’ll soon be in dock, and then a fig for all squalls or gales either.”

            Helen bore with equanimity the taunting and coarse attempts of Mrs. Smith to create in Rosse the most unpleasant feelings, as well as the rough rebuffs he was obliged to use in reply, which, luckily for her, she did not understand, being so couched in technicalities; nor did she heed the remarks of the captain, who was but too prone to tolerate and aid all Mrs. Smith’s levities.

            She had indeed need of some one to protect her in her partly forlorn condition, for neither of the females on board were calculated to fill the gap made by her separation from her faithful and delightful friend Frances Whippel; to whose house we must now return, where certain of our former characters had in the mean time made their appearance.

CHAPTER XIII.

Oh! she was perfect past all parallel—

    Of any modern female saint’s comparison;

So far above the cunning powers of hell,

    Her guardian angel had given up his garrison;

Even her minutest motions went as well

    As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:

In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,

Save thine ‘incomparable oil’ Macassar!

Byron.

            A FORTNIGHT had nearly elapsed and the Whippels had not heard from Helen, much to their surprize and uneasiness. They were certain that the ship had not sailed from the Downs, as the wind had continued adverse during the whole of that period.

            The truth was, that Rosse, who had made up his mind to have Helen with him, had strictly enjoined her to take no further notice of them; urging, that as it was his earnest desire not to be separated from her, any communication with his relations might embarrass him more than he thought was, under all the circumstances, necessary.

            This was truly distressing to the sensitive and feeling Helen; but as she knew, that to implicitly obey, was the only means of making her existence supportable, she had with the greatest reluctance acquiesced.

            Deeming, therefore, that the strange silence of Helen was compulsory, and that Rosse was about to convey her from her native land against her inclination, the Whippels consulted together as to the best means of counteracting his violent proceedings.

            After much deliberation, it was thought that if the relations of Helen were apprized of the circumstance, some decisive steps might be taken for that purpose; and accordingly, after some discussion, it was resolved, that Hart, who had business in Dorsetshire, should take a journey thither, and wait first on the worthy clergyman, whom we have in our previous pages mentioned in terms of warm and deserved praise, and who they had understood from Helen herself, was the only disinterested friend she really had in Poole.

            Hart, who was fond of a romantic errand, was soon on his way to that place; and having reached it, he went to an inn to enquire for the residence of the minister.

            The landlady, who was no other than our old friend, Mrs. Gennings, soon found means by her good-humoured garrulity and endeavours to make the traveller as comfortable as possible, to get at the purpose of his visit; and on his asking her if she had known a Miss Helen Kemp?

            “Known her, sir!” ejaculated she, “does a mother know her own child? Why God bless you, my worthy sir, I might almost say, that except having brought her into this wicked world, I am as much her mother as any one; but what of her? Oh, the slut! excuse me, sir, but I knew her when she was no higher than this table; ungrateful as she is never to have let us know what has become of her—but there, perhaps, sir, she is ill.”

            “She is ill-treated, my good woman,” said Hart, “and it is on that account I am come hither, to enquire for her relations and others who are interested in her welfare.”

            “Ill-treated, sir! what, has the Lieutenant forgotten his promises, his vows, aye! and his oaths so soon? Oh! the villain! if I had him here, I’d ‘pay him over the face and eyes as the cat paid the owl,’ as we say; but there, it cannot be; so sweet, so gentle, so angelic a creature as Helen Kemp was;” and the tears started from the eyes of the well-meaning woman.

            Hart then related to her what had transpired since the arrival of Rosse at Portsmouth; interrupted now and then, with the harshest expressions of anger of the landlady towards him; but when he mentioned the supposed intention to take her to the East Indies against her will, her anguish of mind was indescribable—she took down her bonnet and cloak, and said, that she would go immediately with Hart to the clergyman; and, “yes, yes, sir,” continued she, “and her aunt Deborah shall know it; for though she snubbed the gentle creature when she was home with her, yet I know that she feels her absence as a misfortune, rather than a blessing, which she expected it to be.—Aye, aye, sir, her little wants and fidgets are not attended to now, as they were when Helen was with her; but come, good sir, let us make haste, every minute is an hour to me.”

            Hart suffered himself to be guided by Mrs. Gennings without hesitation, and having reached the parsonage, they were soon in its parlour, and the subject of their errand fully discussed, interlarded, however, with sundry ejaculations from Mrs. Gennings, of—My God, sir!—Did’e ever!—There now, sir!—There’s villainy for ’e!—Oh! the monster!—Who’d have thought it, sir?—Why the brute beasts have more feeling! &c. all which were good-naturedly born by the reverend gentleman, and enjoyed by his unexpected and strange visitor.

            It was determined to lose no time in waiting on aunt Deborah, who lived in a retired part of the town, alone; having removed long since, as was expected, from the domicile of her stiff and prudish married sister.

            Hart, therefore, remained with the parson and dined with him, whilst Mrs. Gennings was deputed to prepare the way for the intended visit to the spinster, by first calling and prevailing on her to admit Hart to her self-dignified presence; no easy task, as the idea of a man being known to have visited her, would soon be bruited amongst her censorious sisterhood, who would make the most of such an outrageous violation of their established decorum.

            Mrs. Gennings was proud of her delegation—to be busy and officious in doing what she conceived a good action was her heart’s delight; although, as she had not seen Miss Deborah since the departure of Helen, and as she was considered, in her own phraseology, as one of the most tip-top quality in the town, and withal was primly conceited in her notions of self-respect, she felt rather qualmish and hesitating as she approached the door to ring the bell: she was admitted by the domestic who resided with the aunt of Helen, in the multifold capacity of housekeeper, lady’s maid, cook, slut, and dairy-maid, and who was as ‘like as two peas’ in every form and feature to the queen of the mansion.

            Being shown into the dining-room, she had not long to wait, when the broad and rotund figure of Deborah entered, and with much and unexpected familiarity welcomed Mrs. Gennings. She was in appearance much altered for the worse since the landlady had last seen her; yet the smile, which was so unusual, on her brow, made ample amends to the imagination of Mrs. Gennings, for the recollections, which were but too familiar to her, of her former sour and snappish disposition.

            “Well, Mrs. Gennings,” said she, “I am glad to see you—why, I believe we have never met since my poor niece left us?”

            “Please your ladyship,” replied the dame, with a faltering and half-mournful tone, though glad that Helen had been so soon alluded to, “’tis on that dear young creature’s account I’m come to you now.”

            “Why, what’s the matter? My God! nothing I hope happened to the poor girl?—though the ungrateful chit has never written a line to me since the officer in his majesty’s service took her away from us.”

            “Umph!” grunted Mrs. Gennings internally—“ungrateful indeed!—I never knew what cause she had to be grateful to you yet; unless the cuffs and bullying the lamb so patiently suffered from your old spiteful nature be deserving of gratitude. “Why, madam,” addressing her, “she’s in the hands of a barbarian, and her own hands have been tied and bound down not to write to any of us; and I hope, ma’am, that you, as her kind aunt and protector, will take the most early measure to get her from the villain’s grasp. Well, for my particular part, I know what I’d do, I’d put the fellow in the zastical court.”

            Miss Deborah was thunderstruck with this intelligence; and the whole career of her deceased sister, the melancholy circumstances attending the death of Helen’s father, and the forcing the inclinations of his daughter to wed for pecuniary advantages a man whom she now mentally painted as the greatest villain, rose at once before her imagination. She had often regretted the deprivation of Helen as a companion, having soon become disgusted with her new residence with her sister and brother-in-law.

            “The wretch!” replied she. “Oh! Mrs. Gennings, what will not man do? The poor child ill-treated—but what have you otherwise heard?”

            “Oh! ma’am, worse than I have yet told you. Why, would you think it? he’s going to force her to go to the East-Indies without her own consent, and——

            “He shall not, Mrs. Gennings,” interrupted the spinster, bridling with anger and pride, “if there’s law in the land, and money can pay for it—hey-day! no, no! but from whom did you get this intelligence?”

            “Oh, there’s a nice gentleman now waiting at our parson’s to consult with you, with your permission: he’s a handsome man, and quite the gentleman, I assure you.”

            “I’ll see him, Mrs. Gennings, though not one of the horrid sex has hitherto presumed to enter my house. Do you go, therefore, and present Miss Brown’s compliments—but no, I will write to him a note, expressive of the pleasure I shall feel in a visit from him—he is a gentleman, you say; I must, therefore, take a little time to prepare for the interview. In the meantime, take some refreshment, my good Mrs. Gennings, and I will be ready in a short time to dispatch you with a note.—If there’s law in the land, we’ll rescue my dear little niece from the viper’s fangs,” ended she proudly and indignantly; and with this lingual flourish she quitted the apartment.

            Mrs. Gennings was delighted with the success of her mission; and after being well entertained, she was soon on her return to the minister’s, and bursting to relate her good fortune.

            Meanwhile Hart had obtained every particular relative to the early history of Helen, and his indignation at the conduct of Rosse in using Helen as he did, after having obtained her in a manner so totally at variance with his chivalrous notions of the homage and respect due to the fair sex, was increased in a tenfold degree. He, therefore, read, with proportionate pleasure the note of invitation, and having warmly thanked Mrs. Gennings for her trouble, he requested her to prepare a bed for him, as he would make her house his residence during his brief stay at Poole: he then prepared for the intended interview, attended by the worthy clergyman.

            Miss Deborah, whose personal vanity had not decreased with her increased age, had taken extraordinary pains, with the aid of her maid of all work, to set her prim, stiff, though bulky figure to the best advantage, and had made every preparation to receive her visitor with that state and formality which was then considered the best proof of true gentility and politeness: she had not yet given up all hopes of becoming a bride, though the intelligence she had received relative to the ill-treatment of her niece, which was of course exaggerated in the extreme, whilst passing through the medium of the quick-tongued landlady, had no small effect in further promoting her antipathies to the male sex, whom she generally considered as wanting in true discrimination, or she herself would long since have been blessed with connubial felicity.

            Hart, when he entered the apartment, was struck with astonishment, not unaccompanied with risible emotions, on beholding the strange and dutch-like figure of Miss Deborah. Hart was a wag, and it instinctively and instantly occurred to his lively imagination that he saw before him, something at least not wanting in tangible substance, to make a capital subject for future innocent fun and frolic.

            Miss Deborah received him with all the smirking politeness of which she was so perfect a mistress; and the smile which was ever on the countenance of Hart, though now more evident than usual, was construed by her willing mind into the most favourable omen.

            The loss of Helen had been severely felt by her aunt; and though her conduct had been harsh to her, it had rather arisen rather from a mistaken policy in curbing the levities of youth, as she deemed them, than from an unfeeling disposition, or wish to tyrannize; she was, it is true, a niggard, and self-love formed no small portion in the qualities of her heart; but there was a nook in it which contained the seeds of affection for the daughter of her sister, which had taken root during her absence, and grown to a considerable degree, when it received a new impulse by the information which she now received from Hart. After due deliberation, she resolved to place herself at the disposal of that gentleman; and he at once advised her to go to Portsmouth, and further consult with the other branches of Rosse’s relations. It was likewise arranged, that she should set off on the morrow, accompanied by Mrs. Gennings, who was ‘full tilt’ for the undertaking, and breathing vengeance against the destroyer of her little darling’s happiness, as she now deemed Rosse to be; and which was further strengthened by the reflection, that as she had been mainly instrumental, though with the best intentions, in persuading Helen to give her hand to him, she was bound to use her utmost endeavours to assist in rescuing her, if possible, from her present thraldom.

            Hart promised to join them at Portsmouth within a day of their arrival there, as his own business in another part of the country would detain him till that time; and having derived much amusement from the weak points of the spinster, he and the clergyman quitted her residence at an early hour, and took up his abode for the night with the loquacious landlady, whose husband was not the best pleased at the intended departure of his spouse, and began to reason with her on the folly of wasting her time and money on what he sagaciously considered to be a sort of wildgoose chase; but Mrs. Gennings was too good a match for him in answer to his objections; for what she lacked in strength of argument was amply compensated by length; and at last the good man, wearied with the clatter of his wife’s never-tired tongue, gave up the contest, as well as his pipe and jug, and betook himself to rest, leaving Hart and her to arrange matters as they liked.

            Mrs. Gennings having succeeded in acquiring every particular relative to her lodger and his family, congratulated herself on the budget she should have to disclose to Miss Deborah on the journey; and after Hart had given her some necessary advice, and wished her a good night, she prepared with alacrity to get every thing in order for her departure, and then retired to rest, hoping to sleep soundly, that she might enjoy the cruise she was about to take to her heart’s content; but the drowsy god was a stranger to her pillow; and dreams of ships and sea, and sailors and soldiers, and guns and drums, were the accompaniments of the livelong night.

            Though it had been arranged that they should set off early in the morning, yet poor Aunt Deborah, whose fluttering heart and squeamish particularities were continually coming in contact, was not properly ready to set off till near noon. She too had been dreaming of things that, with regard to herself, would never come to pass, really hoping that she was not only setting off on a crusade of humanity, but that she should have to encounter the god of love armed with a thousand arrows; her luggage was enormous, consisting of every finery she had hoarded up for a long series of years, and which, whether the fashion or not, was considered by her, as she rummaged them out of the drawers, as possible to be wanted, and as it was all really good, she was anxious to have an opportunity of again exposing her swelling form as differently and richly attired as possible.

            In vain did Mrs. Gennings, who superintended the packing up, urge the useless waste of time, as well as the utter inutility of one half she was doing.

            The formal maiden was inexorable, and continued packing and piling till the quantum of travelling geer amounted to an enormous load, at which her companion could with difficulty restrain herself from a continual giggle.

            At last they were on the road in a vehicle, misnamed a coach; not, however, without having surmounted many difficulties, as the driver had at first peremptorily refused to take, as the luggage of one person, the numerous boxes, trunks, bundles, &c. which belonged to our travelling spinster.

            Mrs. Gennings, however, whose knowledge of character was far superior to her companion’s, succeeded by the help of her persuasive coaxings, and the assistance of a small piece of the precious metal, to settle all differences; and after a day and half a night’s ride, which shook the bones of poor Deborah almost out of their places, they arrived, weary enough, at their journey’s end.

            The inquiries of Miss Deborah relative to Hart had been of such a nature, whilst on the road, as left no doubt in the mind of Mrs. Gennings, that he had made an impression on her heart of the most tender description; and though she surmised from his conversation, &c. that he was a married man, yet she avoided mentioning the circumstance, half inclined herself to enjoy a joke at her companion’s expence; she assented willingly to all the praises of that lively and agreeable fellow, and chuckled at the idea of the disappointment she would meet with; knowing well that to such disagreeable consequences she was accustomed, as they had always been of her own seeking, and that it was her own wish for Deborah to remain single, in order that her darling Helen might one day reap the benefits of so prudent a course. She was also prompted to these anticipations of a little mischief, by the recollections of the strong hand which Miss Deborah had held towards her niece, whilst under her former superintendance and command, and therefore rather aided, than otherwise, the female prig in her quixotic notions.

            The luggage, or rather, comparatively, the wagon train of the precious pair, when they did arrive at their destination, was again a source of contention for those harpies, as Deborah called them, the inn-porters. They demanded so much, according to the liberal conscience of that pattern of frugality, for the carriage of it to Whippel’s house, which was at some distance, that a mob was gathering round them: the male party bandied about foul names and oaths pretty freely, whilst the females, with their sharp voices, assisted to make the concert complete; the one harping on the words extortion, robbers, &c., and the other loudly bawling as a pacificator between the belligerents; added to which, the by-standers would every now and then echo their mutual abuse with loud roars of laughter, and occasionally chime in a vulgar joke, on the figure which the parties concerned made in the squabble.

            After much altercation, and the interference of the inn-keeper himself, who suspected both the ladies either to have drank a little too much, no uncommon thing in a sea-port; or that they were subjects fit for bedlam, and therefore ought not to be let loose on society; they arrived in safety at Mr. Whippel’s, where they were expected, as Hart had written to that purport before he quitted Poole. All the family were of course much amused with the peculiarities of their strange visitors, though their good breeding was sufficient, and but just sufficient, to keep them from fits of laughter, so frequent were the provocations which occurred during the day.

            It was now the commencement of the third week from Helen’s departure, and on Hart’s returning the next day, it was resolved, that the best method of proceeding, would be to take a post-coach for Deal, and go on board the frigate, in order to be fully satisfied, as to what was really intended.

            The party were to consist of Hart, Frances Whippel, Helen’s aunt and the landlady.

            It is true, the second of the beforementioned ladies felt sorely the severe tug at her purse strings, which she plainly saw would be the consequence; but the errand she was on, aided by the gallant attentions of Hart, who wished above all things to get her on board ship, were sufficient to lull the whispers of avarice, and to reconcile her to exertions which surpassed every thing her whole life had before attempted.

            Away, therefore, they were rattled at an early hour; and the masts and half-unfurled sails of a numerous fleet of outward-bound East Indiamen, greeted their expectant eyes.

            Mrs. Gennings’s heart danced with delight at the glorious sight; and her mistress, for the time being, was glad enough to be at rest once more; but to Frances Whippel, the scene before her gave alternately the purest delight, and the most gloomy forebodings; her mind, which had almost been a blank, since the departure of Helen, and which had been agitated by the most agonizing surmises, regarding the fate of her new, though dear friend, was now about to be set at rest; and her impatience to obtain information was intensely betrayed in all her words and actions.

            Hart quickly took a little refreshment, and went down to the beach, to endeavour to obtain some information, if possible, of the parties whom they were seeking, leaving the ladies at the inn, to prepare themselves, if required, to take a water trip, on board Rosse’s ship; he was fortunate; for on arriving, the cutter was waiting to take off the very party for whom he was enquiring; and Helen herself was therefore on shore.

            To account for this, we must now return to the ship, and relate what had taken place in the intermediate time.

            It appears that Mrs. Smith, disappointed in every attempt to place Helen in a false position, either with regard to Daly, or her husband, was determined to try one scheme more to succeed in her machinations; she, therefore, altered her conduct, in appearance, so much for the better, that Helen, unsophisticated and unsuspecting as she was, readily gave her credit for the apparent reformation in her character, and began to congratulate herself on the prospect of future peace and happiness, if it were possible that those terms could with propriety be applied to her peculiar and debased condition.

            Rosse too, who readily took things on trust, gave implicit credence to the belief that Mrs. Smith was sincere in her protestations of good will, and was in consequence profuse in his anticipations of becoming in every respect the happiest of men; for the attacks of Mrs. Smith had not been without effect on his weak mind; though it must be confessed, that he had but too much cause to feel a little uneasiness. Edmund alone doubted her sincerity, and hinted it broadly enough, both to Rosse and Helen.

            She had not been on shore but twice, during the fortnight they had now been in the Downs; and on Mrs. Smith’s kindly asking her the next day to accompany her and her husband thither, Rosse at once wished her to do so.

            Helen hesitated at first, but as Smith himself was to be of the party, for whom every one had a regard, her scruples were easily got rid of by the united pressings of him and his wife, aided by the desire of Rosse.

            Edmund, when he saw her come on the deck, dressed for her short departure, and seeing the company with whom she was going, bit his lips with vexation, at her want of prudence, and Rosse’s stupidity, obstinacy, and short-sightedness, in imagining Mrs. Smith’s sudden change, to an angel of light, from one of darkness, to be real; whilst Smith was, therefore, placing his wife in the chair, he took the opportunity of detaining Helen, and said, “I wonder Rosse allows you to go without him.”

            “I have no particular wish to do so, but Mr. and Mrs. Smith have pressed so earnestly, that he has acceded to their request,” replied Helen.

            With a look of ineffable contempt on the Smiths, added he, “I may take too great a liberty; but I wish, for your own sake, that you were never seen in the company of that woman.

            “Why?” eagerly enquired Helen.

            “Have you not had sufficient experience?” answered he.

            “What’s the matter, Daly?” said Rosse, who now came up to him.

            “Why, I was attempting to dissuade Helen from going on shore with those people.”

            “Oh,” said Rosse, “Smith’s a good fellow, he’ll see her taken care of; it’s a fine day, and the change of scene will do her good.”

            Rosse imagined that Daly’s objections were personal and self-interested, and that they were founded more on his own inability to accompany her, the captain being ashore, than from any well-meaning motive; and Helen herself, knowing how miserable he always was when she was absent from the ship, was half inclined to suspect the same as her husband; she, therefore, good naturedly wished him good-bye, as Smith took her by the hand to place her in the chair.

            “I say, Smith,” said Daly, significantly, “I rely on you to take care of Mrs. Rosse;” and striving to smile with good humour, returned Helen’s salute, with a bow, as evidently ungracious, as he wished it to be otherwise.

            The ship was indeed a desert to the young lieutenant, unless graced by the presence of our heroine. As he was compelled often to be on deck from breakfast-time till the dinner-hour, and hence unable to see her, as she remained in her cabin; yet, still was it registered in his heart and hugged to his breast as a partial consolation, that she was in the same ship; but if she departed from it, he at once became the most melancholy being;—he would then be continually enquiring the time, and if Rosse was on watch, he would walk up and down the deck with him; his question would be every now and then, “Is not the boat coming, Rosse?” and other exclamations, indicative of impatience; and by his eagerness of manner and look on such occasions, would have shown a shrewder man than Rosse, that his passion for his wife burned as fiercely as ever.

            It was the custom of Smith and his wife to visit a country inn, for the purpose of lunching, near upper Deal; hither Helen went with them, where they met two gentlemen, one of whom was married to a relation of Smith, the other was a stranger and a marine officer.

            They were about to depart, when our party arrived; but remained with them, and partook of their lunch.

            The young marine officer, who was a dashing blade, bold and unprincipled, paid great attention to our heroine, who however returned it but too coldly for his satisfaction.

            Mrs. Smith, on the contrary, whose boldness and general imprudence could not be surpassed, endeavoured with all her might to attract his attention several times, but was restrained as often by the severity of look which her husband felt compelled to use towards her.

            On their leaving the inn, Mr. L., the marine officer, with an insinuating tone, said, “do me the favour to accept of my arm, Mrs. Rosse.”

            “Thank you, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Smith, and put her own arm in his.

            Smith was so provoked with this further instance of his wife’s unmannerly and forward conduct, that he could not keep from expostulating on the spot; and said, “Mr. L—— did not address you, Mrs. Smith.”

            “Oh, never mind, Smith,” answered she, “you can take care of Mrs. Rosse.”

            Helen herself was not sorry that such was the case, though she felt herself degraded by being in Mrs. Smith’s company, and now began to wish that she had taken Daly’s advice, and remained on board.

            Smith’s relation was, however, a gentlemanly man, both in behaviour and appearance; and she cheerfully allowed herself to be escorted by him, and Smith in the rear.

            Poor Smith was too much vexed to be cheerful, but the other, by his agreeable manners and conversation, compensated for Smith’s melancholy.

            But Mrs. Smith was differently engaged from what he imagined; she had seen that the young officer had paid more attention to Helen than herself, and that he continued inclined to do the same.

            He was a libertine, and Mrs. Smith knew it; she deemed it, therefore, a good opportunity to wreak her suppressed dislike to Helen, and if possible, make her as infamous as herself. She judged others by her own standard, and could not imagine that the virtue of any woman was incorruptible; having run a career of guilt herself, she felt piqued that any one with whom she was compelled to come in contact should have a reputation as stainless as her own was polluted.

            Her malevolent disposition, therefore, vented itself, in instigating Mr. L. to endeavour to seduce Helen; she praised her, and assured him that she believed her to be no better than others; and that her only fault was a little coquetishness.

            The fellow was delighted with her information; and on enquiring whither they were going, Mrs. Smith hinted to him the propriety of proceeding to a house, well known to herself and him, and calculated for their diabolical purpose.

            “Smith,” said she, “is angry with me, I will join him, and you may have Mrs. Rosse as a companion.”

            They were now near Deal church-yard, and in passing the gate or stile, Mrs. Smith said, good-naturedly, to her husband, “come, Smith, give me your arm, and let Mr. L. be Mrs. Rosse’s partner.”

            At the same moment the officer offered himself as such, and Helen without hesitation, though averse to the exchange, accepted him.

            “Well, madam,” said he, “Mrs. Smith informs me that you come on shore often.”

            “Indeed, I do not, sir; Mrs. Smith has misinformed you,” replied Helen.

            “Well, but you will do so, I hope; may I, therefore, have the pleasure of seeing you to morrow?”

            “I think not, sir,” was the reply.

            “Do not say so, I entreat you; for I shall live but in hope to view that beautiful face again;” and in saying which, he attempted to place her hand in his.

            “Sir,” said Helen, contemptuously, and resisting his freedom, “as strangers we have met today, as strangers we must part, and continue so to be.”

            “What beautiful eyes!” said the puppy, languishingly, “and yet so cruel; surely you will not refuse me to behold again so many charms?”

            Helen’s indignation at such insolence had gradually risen to its climax; with a sudden effort she disengaged herself from the impertinent’s arm, and, with a look of the most expressive contempt, dared him to approach her; the other parties were considerably in the rear, and Helen waited with impatience for their arrival; but before they came up, to her inexpressible joy, she beheld Hart with the Captain; the former of whom came rapidly towards her; whilst the poor devil, who had insulted her, craved, with the most submissive and abject tone, forgiveness for his rudeness; which she, in the plenitude of her pleasure, at the unexpected sight of Hart, coolly granted.

            The parties met simultaneously, and all but Mrs. Smith, who felt with bitterness her disappointed expectations, congratulated each other on their happy meeting.

            Helen eagerly enquired for Frances, and when Hart informed her, that not only she, but her aunt Deborah and Mrs. Gennings were waiting anxiously to see her, at the inn, she burst into tears; her feelings being overpowered by such unlooked for and welcome tidings.

            The Smiths and the Captain took their leave, intending to return on board, Mrs. Smith having had sufficient pleasure, of a negative quality, not to remain longer on shore.

            Hart had desired the Captain to inform Rosse why Helen had not returned with them, and also to send him ashore immediately, to join the newcomers.

            Arrived at the inn, our heroine knew not, in the confusion of her delight, which to embrace first; but Frances Whippel sprang forward with eager delight, and clasped her with fervid joy and affectionate warmth of feeling; and Mrs. Gennings, with an equal portion of good nature and happiness, embraced her tenderly, and was profuse in her congratulations, though she observed, with emotions of sorrow, a wanness in her countenance, and a lack of that fire in her beautifully expressive eyes which formerly so brilliantly animated them.

            Aunt Deborah, less vivacious in temperament, received her niece with demonstrations of heartfelt pleasure; but commenced a series of enquiries as to her future prospects, which Helen wished at her heart might have been deferred to a fitter opportunity.

            Hart saw this, and by introducing refreshments, &c., soon changed the tenour of her discourse, which was becoming of too domestic a nature to satisfy the majority of the company.

            Thus blessed with the company of her real and best friends, Helen, in the felicity of the present moment, forgot the trials and troubles of her former life, and in consequence became lively and conversant; tinged however, with the sad reflection that it would last but for too short a period.

            “How is Mrs. Hart?” said she, to Hart.

            “Why, well,” said he, “when I left her, and in a situation calculated to add another of that cognomen to the family.”

            “For shame, Hart,” said Frances.

            “Murder!” thought Mrs. Gennings, “that was a dagger into Aunt Deborah’s side; and I’ll warrant me, but she’s sick of her gallivanting by this time.”

            “Bless me, sir,” said the maiden, with a faltering voice and a look of the utmost surprize, “you never informed me that you had entered the bonds of matrimony.”

            “I beg your pardon, my dear madam, for the omission; but I am the father of five children and am likely to own a sixth.”

            “Mrs. Gennings, I am sorry,” said she, drawing herself proudly up, “that you have allowed me to be so mistaken; I have been betrayed into a gross impropriety; I thought Mr. Hart to be a respectable, middle aged, single gentleman, or I never should have ventured to place myself under his protection. I shall never be able to show myself in my native place, if this imprudence of mine should be known.”

            “Dear madam,” gently interrupted Hart, “I hope you magnify the unfortunate mistake; and I feel assured that that good-natured face of Mrs. Gennings, never could have meant to affront you; and that your own amiable disposition will readily pardon both her and me, for our mutual deficiency in that politeness which shines so eminently in your excellent person; and for myself I humbly entreat your forgiveness.”

            “Mr. Hart,” sighed the spinster, “you are indeed a gentleman, and from you, I cannot but own, I have received every attention; but I now wish I was home, seeing that Helen is not so badly off as we expected.”

            “Nay, madam,” answered Hart, who was not willing to part with her so soon, “we shall have some friends to visit us soon, with whom I think you will be pleased; gentlemen, madam, of his majesty’s navy—brave fellows!—gallant and gay!—therefore, do compose yourself, and be prepared for much future pleasure.”

            “Bless him!” thought Mrs. Gennings, who had sat mute during this colloquy; an effort amounting almost to a miracle on her part; and seeing the countenance of her quondam mistress brighten up at the intelligence Hart gave her, she deemed it best to continue silent, for fear of disturbing her recovering equanimity of temper.

            They sat down shortly after to tea, and Hart, by his amusing and humourous efforts to beguile the time, completely restored all parties to that state of harmony which it was ever his earnest wish and endeavour to promote.

            Meanwhile Daly and Rosse had been walking the quarter-deck sometime, expecting the return of Helen; Daly was the first to perceive the boat, in which she was supposed to be.

            “It is the captain’s boat,” said Rosse, “and the devil a petticoat is there there; take the glass, perhaps you can tell who’s in it better than I.”
            He did so, and looking for a second or two, exclaimed, with surprise, “by heavens! it is the Captain; Smith and his wife are with him, but Mrs. Rosse is not.”

            “Pho!” said Rosse, “fancy, fancy; here, let me look again. By —— you’re right!—where the devil have they left her!—’Tis some trick of that infernal spit-fire, I’ll be bound.”

            “Why did you not take my advice?” answered Daly, “did I not tell you not to allow her to go in such company; but there, you are obstinacy itself—why should I ever interfere?”

            “Well, ’tis I only have to care about it, you know,” said Rosse; “as soon as the Captain arrives I will go ashore and seek her;” and he went below to prepare for so doing; muttering curses on his folly, for being justly the object of blame in the present instance.

            Meanwhile the boat came alongside, and Daly observed with pain the gloom which sat on the countenance of Mrs. Smith, and he augured the worse from it. Sad forebodings instantly attacked his feeling and interested heart: perhaps, said he to himself, she is ill—perhaps—but no, it cannot, must not be—my angel must be safe. “What is the matter, Mrs. Smith?” eagerly enquired he, as she stepped on the deck, “where is Mrs. Rosse?”

            “I do not know, sir,” was the reply, with the bitterness of a true virago, and passing by him with a mien of contempt.

The Captain, however, soon satisfied him, and with a joyful heart he ran below, and acquainted Rosse, anticipating that he would be as pleased as himself.

But not so: Rosse imagined at once the true motive that had brought the parties in question to Deal; “D—— them,” said he; “why, will they not let me rest? They want to rob me of my little girl, but they shall not—I’ll see them to—first! —I’ll not see them—I’ll send for her—she must come;”—and he began to unbutton his rough flushing jacket, which he had just put on as a preparative for starting.

Daly’s eyes glistened at the sight, and with an eagerness that betrayed his feelings, instantly offered to go on shore for the purpose.

But Rosse interpreted him too well; and eyeing him with a look of distrust, said, “No, Daly, we will go together; though I would sooner face a shark, or be kicked to death by dead butterflies, than meet such a crew of she-devils and land-pirates, as will fall foul of us when we get on shore; there’s a storm brewing, and you must assist me to weather it out.”

Daly, without answering, followed him up the ladder, and when in the boat, they discussed what should be done.

It was agreed, that as things were, it would be better to say nothing at present against what might be urged in favour of Helen’s remaining at home; but to get them on board—make much of them, and thus pave the way for the failure of their expedition.

Daly had acceded to this arrangement under a sudden impulse that it would be impossible for him to live in the absence of Helen, whose fate his heart, like a monitor, told him was linked with his own, that to abandon or lose sight of her would be an act of folly, if not a crime.

The prejudices of aunt Deborah had been so highly excited against Rosse, that she received him with a cold look, expressive of the utmost disdain; and the rough sailor, who had always an antipathy to such cross-grained cattle, as he called them, was not a whit behind her in a scowl from his harsh visage in return.

Daly, however, who readily took his cue from his old friend Hart, soon won the attention of the antique damsel; and the whole party, always excepting Rosse, were soon as merry as crickets.

After an evening spent in the utmost hilarity, and having conquered, rather by jest and compliment, than any thing like argument, the repugnance which Deborah had to trust herself on the water, Rosse and Daly returned to the ship.

CHAPTER XIV.

Still thankful while the flip goes round,

They’re safely moored on English ground,

    With a jorum of diddle,

    A lass and a fiddle,

Ne’er shall care in the heart of a tar be found;

And, while upon the hollow deck,

    To the sprightly jig our feet shall bound,

Take each his charmer round the neck,

    And kiss in time to the merry sound.

Dibdin.

            EARLY the next morning, Daly waited on the Captain, who readily joined with him in preparing for the expected visitors; and offered the free use of his cabin for the purpose.

            “Bye the bye, Daly,” said he, “Why should we not make it a grand gala-day for all hands? We shall sail in a day or two at the furthest; let us invite a few of our friends at Deal; let the young gentlemen join us, and the crew make merry and do as they like.”

            It was approved of, of course, and the news ran though the ship like wild-fire, and created a stir as pleasing as it was unexpected.

            ‘All was now impatience for the commencement of the revels, and every minute was fifty ere dinner was piped. At length came the happy hour; and at eating and drinking, with no duty to trouble him, who is so happy as Jack, either ashore or on board? It is no easy matter, indeed, to convey to our readers even the smallest idea of a man-of-war’s ’tween-deck, with all hands at di