Barnard, failed. From house to house they removed, till
they were reduced to that humble one in which I had found
them. There, Barnard again sought them; there, backed by
the powerful advocate of want, he again pressed his suit, and
at that exact moment her father was struck with the numbing
curse of his disease. " There and then, " said Isc^a, candidly,
" I might have yielded at last, for my poor father's sake, if
you had not saved me."

Once only (I have before recorded the time) did Barnard
visit her in the new abode I had provided for her, and the
day after our conversation on that event Isora watched and
watched for me, and I did not come. From the woman of
the house she at last learned the cause. "I forgot," she said
timidly, — and in conclusion, "I forgot womanhood, and mod-
esty, and reserve; I forgot the customs of your country, the
decencies of my own ; I forgot everything in this world, but
you, — you suffering and in danger; my very sense of exist-
ence seemed to pass from me, and to be supplied by a breath-
less, confused, and overwhelming sense of impatient agony,
which ceased not till I was in your chamber, and by j'our
side ! And — now, Morton, do not despise me for not having
considered more, and loved you less."

"Despise you! " I murmured, and I threw my arms around
her, and drew her to my breast. I felt her heart beat against
my own: those hearts spoke, though our lips were silent, and
in their language seemed to say, "We are united now, and
we will not part."

The starlight, shining with a mellow and deep stillness,
was the only light by which we beheld each other : it shone,
the witness and the sanction of that internal voice, which
we owned, but heard not. Our lips drew closer and closer
together, till they met! and in that kiss was the type and
promise of the after ritual which knit two spirits into one.
Silence fell around us like a curtain, and the eternal Night,
with her fresh dews and unclouded stars, looked alone upon
the compact of our hearts, — an emblem of the eternity, the
freshness, and the unearthly though awful brightness of the
love which it hallowed and beheld !



BOOK III.



CHAPTER I.



WHEREIN THE HISTORY MAKES GREAT PROGRESS AXD IS
MARKED BY ONE IMPORTANT EVENT IN HUMAN LIFE.

Spinoza is said to have loved, above all other amusements,
to put flies into a spider's web; and the struggles of the im-
prisoned insects were wont to bear, in the eyes of this grave
philosopher, so facetious and hilarious an appearance, that
he would stand and laugh thereat until the tears "coursed one
another down his innocent nose." Now it so happened that
Spinoza, despite the general (and, in my most meek opinion,
the just) condemnation of his theoretical tenets,^ was, in
character and in nature, according to the voices of all who
knew him, an exceedingly kind, humane, and benevolent
biped; and it doth, therefore, seem a little strange unto us
grave, sober members of the unphilosophical Many, that the
struggles and terrors of these little winged creatures should
strike the good subtleist in a point of view so irresistibly
ludicrous and delightful. But, for my part, I believe that
that most imaginative and wild speculator beheld in the en-
tangled flies nothing more than a living simile — an animated
illustration — of his own beloved vision of Necessity; and
that he is no more to be considered cruel for the complacency

1 One ought, however, to be very cautious before one condemns a philoso-
pher. The master's opinions are generally pure : it is the conclusions and
corollaries of his disciples that " draw the honey forth that drives men mad."
Schlegel seems to have studied Spinoza de fonte, and vindicates him very
earnestly from the charges brought against him, — atheism, etc. — Ed.



170 DEVEREUX.

with which he gazed upon those agonized types of his system
than is Lucan for dwelling with a poet's pleasure upon the
many ingenious ways with which that Grand Inquisitor of
Verse has contrived to vary the simple operation of dying.
To the bard, the butchered soldier was only an epic ornament ;
to the philosopher, the murdered fly was only a metaphysical
/illustration. For, without being a fatalist, or a disciple of
Baruch de Spinoza, I must confess that I cannot conceive a
greater resemblance to our human and earthly state than the
penal predicament of the devoted flies. Suddenly do we find
ourselves plunged into that Vast Web, — the World; and even
as the insect, when he first undergoeth a similar accident of
necessity, standeth amazed and still, and only by little and
little awakeneth to a full sense of his situation; so also at
the first abashed and confounded, we remain on the mesh we
are urged upon, ignorant, as yet, of the toils around us, and
the sly, dark, immitigable foe that lieth in yonder nook, al-
ready feasting her imagination upon our destruction. Pres-
ently we revive, we stir, we flutter ; and Fate, that foe — the
old arch-spider, that hath no moderation in her maw — now
fixeth one of her many eyes upon us, and giveth us a partial
glimpse of her laidly and grim aspect. We pause in mute
terror; we gaze upon the ugly spectre, so imperfectly beheld;
the net ceases to tremble, and the wily enemy draws gently
back into her nook. Now we begin to breathe again; we
sound the strange footing on which we tread ; we move ten-
derly along it, and again the grisly monster advances on us ;
again we pause; the foe retires not, but remains still, and
survey eth us; we see every step is accompanied with danger;
we look round and above in despair ; suddenly we feel within
us a new impulse and a new power ! we feel a vague sympathy
with that unknown region which spreads beyond this great
net, — that limitless beyond hath a mystic affinity with a part
of our own frame; we unconsciously extend our wings (for
the soul to us is as the wings to the fly !) ; we attempt to rise,
— to soar above this perilous snare, from which we are una-
ble to crawl. The old spider watcheth us in self-hugging
quiet, and, looking up to our native air, we think, — now



DEVEREUX. 171

shall we escape thee. Out on it! "We rise not a hair's
breadth : we have the wings, it is true, but the feet are fet-
tered. We strive desperately again : the whole web vibrates
with the effort; it will break beneath our strength. Not a jot
of it! we cease; we are more entangled than ever! wings,
feet, frame, the foul slime is over all! where shall we turn?
every line of the web leads to the one den, — we know not, —
we care not, — we grow blind, confused, lost. The eyes of
our hideous foe gloat upon us; she whetteth her insatiate
maw; she leapeth towards us; she fixeth her fangs upon us;
and so endeth my parallel !

But what has this to do with my tale? Ay, Reader, that
is thy question; and I will answer it by one of mine. "When
thou hearest a man moralize and preach of Fate, art thou not
sure that he is going to tell thee of some one of his peculiar
misfortunes? Sorrow loves a parable as much as mirth loves
a jest. And thus already and from afar, I prepare thee, at
the commencement of this, the third of these portions into
which the history of my various and wild life will be divided,
for that event with which I purpose that the said portion
shall be concluded.

It is now three months after my entire recovery from my
wounds, and I am married to Isora! — married, — yes, but
l^rivately married, and the ceremony is as yet closely con-
cealed, 1 will explain.

The moment Isora's anxiety for me led her across the
threshold of my house it became necessary for her honour
that our wedding should take place immediately on my recov-
ery : so far I was decided on the measure ; now for the method.
During my illness, I received a long and most affectionate
letter from Aubrey, who was then at Devereux Court: so
affectionate was the heart-breathing spirit of that letter, so
steeped in all our old household remembrances and boyish
feelings, that coupled as it was with a certain gloom when he
spoke of himself and of worldly sins and trials, it brought
tears to my eyes whenever I recurred to it; and many and
many a time afterwards, when I thought his affections seemed
estranged from me, I did recur to it to convince myself that I



172 DEVEREUX.

was mistaken. Shortly afterwards I received also a brief
epistle from my uncle; it was as kind as usual, and it men-
tioned Aubrey's return to Devereux Court. "That unhappy
boy," said Sir William, "is more than ever devoted to his
religious duties ; nor do I believe that any priest-ridden poor
devil in the dark ages ever made such use of the scourge and
the penance."

Now, I have before stated that my uncle would, I knew, be
averse to my intended marriage ; and on hearing that Aubrey
was then with him, I resolved, in replying to his letter, to
entreat the former to sound Sir William on the subject I had
most at heart, and ascertain the exact nature and extent of
the opposition I should have to encounter in the step I was
resolved to take. By the same post I wrote to the good old
knight in as artful a strain as I was able, dwelling at some
length upon my passion, upon the high birth, as well as the
numerous good qualities of the object, but mentioning not
her name; and I added everything that I thought likely to
enlist my uncle's kind and warm feelings ou my behalf.
These letters produced the following ones : —



FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX.

'Sdeath, nephew Morton, — but I won't scold thee, though thou
deservest it. Let me see, thou art now scarce twenty, and thou talkest
of marriage, which is the exclusive business of middle age, as famiharly
as " girls of thirteen do of puppy-dogs." I\Iarry ! — go hang thvself
rather. Marriage, my dear boy, is at the best a treacherous proceeding ;
and a friend — a true friend — will never counsel another to adopt it
rashly. Look you : I have had experience in these matters ; and, I
think, the moment a woman is wedded some terrible revolution happens
in her system ; all her former good qualities vanish, hey presto ! like
eggs out of a conjuror's box ; 'tis true they appear on t'other side of the
box, the side turned to other people, but for the poor husband they are
gone forever. Ods fish, Morton, go to ! I tell thee again that I have
had experience in these matters which thou never hast had, clever as
thou thinkest thyself. If now it were a good marriage thou wert about
to make ; if thou wert going to wed power, and money, and places at
court, — why, something might be said for thee. As it is, there is no



DEVEREUX. 173

excuse — none. And I am astonished how a boy of thy sense could
think of such nonsense. Birth, Morton, what the devil does that signify
so long as it is birth in another country ? A foreign damsel, and a
Spanish girl, too, above all others I 'Sdeath, man, as if there was not
quicksilver enough in the English women for you, you must make a
mercurial exportation from Spain, must you ! Why, Morton, Morton,
the ladies in that country are proverbial. I tremble at the very thought
of it. But as for my consent, I never will give it, — never ; and though
I threaten thee not with disinheritance and such like, yet I do ask
something in return for the great affection I have always borne thee ;
and I make no doubt that thou wilt readily oblige me in such a trifle
as giving up a mere Spanish donna. So think of her no more. If thou
wantest to make love, there are ladies in plenty whom thou needest not
to marry. And for my part, I thought that thou wert all in all with the
Lady Hasselton : Heaven bless her pretty face ! Now don't think I
want to scold thee ; and don't think thine old uncle harsh, — God knows
he is not, — but my dear, dear boy, this is quite out of the question, and
thou must let me hear no more about it. The gout cripples me so that
I must leave off. Ever thine old uncle,

William Devereux.

P. S. Upon consideration, I think, my dear boy, that thou must want
money, and thou art ever too sparing. Messrs. Child, or my goldsmiths
in Aldersgate, have my orders to pay to thy hand's-writing whatever
thou mayst desire ; and I do hope that thou wilt now want nothing to
make thee merry withal. Why dost thou not write a comedy ? is it not
the mode still ?



LETTER FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX.

I have sounded my uncle, dearest Morton, according to your wishes ;
and I grieve to say that I have found him inexorable. He was very .
much hurt by your letter to him, and declared he should write to you
forthwith upon the subject. I represented to him all that you have said
upon the virtues of your intended bride ; and I also insisted upon your
clear judgment and strong sense upon most points being a sufficient
surety for your prudence upon this. But you know the libertine opin-
ions and the depreciating judgment of women entertained by my poor
uncle ; and he would, I believe, have been less displeased with the
heinous crime of an illicit connection than the amiable weakness of an
imprudent marriage — I might say of any marriage — until it was time
to provide heirs to the estate.



174 DEVEREUX.

Here Aubrey, in the most affectionate and earnest manner,
broke off, to point out to me the extreme danger to my inter-
ests that it would be to disoblige my uncle ; who, despite his
general kindness, would, upon a disagreement on so tender a
matter as his sore point, and his most cherished hobby, con-
sider my disobedience as a personal affront. He also recalled
to me all that my uncle had felt and done for me; and in-
sisted, at all events, upon the absolute duty of my delaying,
even though I should not break off, the intended measure.
Upon these points he enlarged much and eloquently; and this
part of his letter certainly left no cheering or comfortable
impression upon my mind.

Now my good uncle knew as much of love as L. IMummius
did of the fine arts,^ and it was impossible to persuade him
that if one wanted to indulge the tender passion, one woman
would not do exactly as well as another, provided she were
equally pretty. I knew therefore that he was incapable, on
the one hand, of understanding my love for Isora, or, on the
other, of acknowledging her claims upon me. I had not, of
course, mentioned to him the generous imprudence which, on
the news of my wound, had brought Isora to my house : for
if I had done so, my uncle, with the eye of a courtier of
Charles II., would only have seen the advantage to be derived
from the impropriety, not the gratitude due to the devotion ;
neither had I mentioned this circumstance to Aubrey, — it
seemed to me too delicate for any written communication;
and therefore, in his advice to delay my marriage, he was
unaware of the necessity which rendered the advice unavail-
ing. Now then was I in this dilemma, either to marry, and
that instant er, and so, seemingly, with the most hasty and the
most insolent decorum, incense, wound, and in his interpreta-
tion of the act, contemn one whom I loved as I loved my
uncle; or, to delay the marriage, to separate Isora, and to
leave my future wife to the malignant consequences that
would necessarily be drawn from a sojourn of weeks in my

1 A Roman consul, who, removing the most celebrated remains of Grecian
antiqxjity to Rome, assured the persons charged with conveying them tliat,
if they injured any, they should make others to replace them.



DEVEREUX 1T5

house. This fact there was no chance of concealing; servants
have more tongues than Argus had eyes, and my youthful ex-
travagance had filled my whole house with those pests of soci-
ety. The latter measure was impossible, the former was most
painful. Was there no third way? — there was that of a pri-
vate marriage. This obviated not every evil ; but it removed
many : it satisfied my impatient love ; it placed Isora under a
sure protection ; it secured and established her honour the mo-
ment the ceremony should be declared; and it avoided the
seeming ingratitude and indelicacy of disobeying my uncle,
without an effort of patience to appease him. I should have
time and occasion then, I thought, for soothing and persuad-
ing hira, and ultimately winning that consent which I firmly
trusted I should sooner or later extract from his kindness of
heart.

That some objections existed to this mediatory plan was
true enough : those objections related to Isora rather than to
myself, and she was the first, on my hinting at the proposal,
to overcome its difficulties. The leading feature in Isora's
character was generosity ; and, in truth, I know not a quality
more dangerous either to man or woman. Herself was inva-
riably the last human being whom she seemed to consider;
and no sooner did she ascertain what measure was the most
prudent for me to adopt, than it immediately became that
upon which she insisted. Would it have been possible for
me, man of pleasure and of the world as I was thought to be,
— no, my good uncle, though it went to my heart to wound
thee so secretly, it would not have been possible for me, even
if I had not coined my whole nature into love, even if Isora
had not been to me what one smile of Isora's really was, — it
would not have been possible to have sacrificed so noble and
so divine a heart, and made myself, in that sacrifice, a wretch
forever. Xo, my good uncle. I could not have made that
surrender to thy reason, much less to thy prejudices. But if
I have not done great injustice to the knight's character, I
doubt whether the youngest reader will not forgive him for
a want of sympathy with one feeling, when they consider
how susceptible that charming old man was to all others.



176 DEVEREUX.

And liere"svith I could discourse most excellent wisdom
upon that mysterious passion of love. I could show, by
tracing its causes, and its inseparable connection with the
imagination, that it is only in certain states of society, as
well as in certain periods of life, that love — real, pure, high
love — can be born. Yea, I could prove, to the nicety of a
very problem, that, in the court of Charles II., it would have
been as impossible for such a feeling to find root, as it would
be for myrtle trees to effloresce from a Duvillier periwig.
And we are not to expect a man, however tender and affec-
tionate he may be, to sympathize with that sentiment in an-
other, which, from the accidents of birth and position, nothing
short of a miracle could have ever produced in himself.

We were married then in private by a Catholic priest. St.
John, and one old lady who had been my father's godmother
— for I wished for a female assistant in the ceremony, and
this old lady could tell no secrets, for, being excessively
deaf, nobody ever talked to her, and indeed she scarcely ever
went abroad — were the sole witnesses. I took a small house
in the immediate neighbourhood of 'London ; it was surrounded
on all sides with a high wall which defied alike curiosity and
attack. This was, indeed, the sole reason which had induced
me to prefer it to many more gaudy or more graceful dwell-
ings. But within I had furnished it with every luxury that
wealth, the most lavish and unsparing, could procure.
Thither, under an assumed name, I brought my bride, and
there was the greater part of my time spent. The people I
had placed in the house believed I was a rich merchant, and
this accounted for my frequent absences (absences which Pru-
dence rendered necessary), for the wealth which I lavished,
and for the precautions of bolt, bar, and wall, which they
imagined the result of commercial caution.

Oh the intoxication of that sweet Elysium, that Tadmor in
life's desert, — the possession of the one whom we have first
loved! It is as if poetry, and music, and light, and the fresh
breath of flowers, were all blended into one being, and from
that being rose our existence! It is content made rapture, —
nothing to wish for, yet everything to feel! Was that air



DEVEREUX. 177

the air which I had breathed hitherto? that earth the earth
which I had hitherto behekl? No, my heart dwelt in a new
worhl, and all these motley and restless senses were melted
into one sense, — deep, silent, fathomless delight!

Well, too much of this species of love is not fit for a worldly
tale, and I will turn, for the reader's relief, to worldly affec-
tions. From my first reunion with Isora, I had avoided all
the former objects and acquaintances in which my time had
been so charmingly employed. Tarleton was the first to
suffer by my new pursuit. "What has altered you?" said
he; "you drink not, neither do you play. The women say
you are grown duller than a Norfolk parson, and neither the
Puppet Show nor the Water Theatre, the Spring Gardens
nor the Eing, Wills's nor the Kit Cat, the Mulberry Garden
nor the New Exchange, witness any longer your homage and
devotion. What has come over you? — speak! "

"Apathy!"

"Ah! I understand, — you are tired of these things ; pish,
man! — go down into the country, the green fields will revive
thee, and send thee back to London a new man ! One would
indeed find the town intolerably dull, if the country were not,
happily, a thousand times duller: go to the country, Count,
or I shall drop your friendship."

" Drop it ! " said I, yawning, and Tarleton took pet, and
did as I desired him. Now I had got rid of my friend as
easily as I had found him, — a matter that would not have
been so readily accomplished had not Mr. Tarleton owed me
certain moneys, concerning which, from the moment he had
"dropped my friendship," good breeding effectually prevented
his saying a single syllable to me ever after. There is no
knowing the blessings of money until one has learned to
manage it properly!

So much, then, for the friend; now for the mistress. Lady
Hasselton had, as Tarleton hinted before, resolved to play me
a trick of spite ; the reasons of our rupture really were, as I
had stated to Tarleton, the mighty effects of little things.
She lived in a sea of trifles, and she was desperately angry if
her lover was not always sailing a pleasure-boat in the same

12



178 DEVEREUX.

ocean. Ko^v this was expecting too mucli from me, and, after
twisting our silken strings of attachment into all manner of
fantastic forms, we fell fairly out one evening and broke the
little ligatures in two. No sooner had I quarrelled with Tarle-
ton than Lady Hasselton received him in my place, and a week
afterwards I was favoured with an anonymous letter, inform-
ing me of the violent passion which a certain dame de la cour
had conceived for me, and requesting me to meet her at an
appointed place. I looked twice over the letter, and discov-
ered in one corner of it two g^s peculiar to the caligraphy of
Lady Hasselton, though the rest of the letter (bad spelling
excepted) was pretty decently disguised. Mr. Fielding was
with me at the time. "What disturbs you?" said he, adjust-
ing his knee-buckles.

" Read it ! " said I, handing him the letter.

"Body of me, you are a lucky dog! " cried the beau. "You
will hasten thither on the wings of love."

"Not a whit of it," said I; "I suspect that it comes from a
rich old widow whom I hate mortally."

" A rich old widow ! " repeated Mr. Fielding, to whose eyes
there was something very piquant in a jointure, and who
thought consequently that there were few virginal flowers
equal to a widow's weeds. "A rich old widow: you are
right, Count, you are right. Don't go, don't think of it. I
cannot abide those depraved creatures. Widow, indeed, —
quite an affront to your gallantry."

"Very true," said I. " Suppose you supply my place?"

"I'd sooner be shot first," said Mr. Fielding, taking his
departure, and begging me for the letter to wrap some sugar
plums in.

Need I add, that Mr. Fielding repaired to the place of as-
signation, where he received, in the shape of a hearty drub-
bing, the kind favours intended for me? The story was now
left for me to tell, not for the Lady Hasselton; and that
makes all the difference in the manner a story is told, — me
narrante, it is de te fabula narratur; te narrante, and it is de
me fabula, etc. Poor Lady Hasselton! to be laughed at, and
have Tarleton for a lover!



DEVEREUX. 179

I have gone back somewhat in the progress of my history
in order to make the above honourable mention of my friend
and my mistress, thinking it due to their own merits, and
thinking it may also be instructive to young gentlemen who
have not yet seen the world to testify the exact nature and
the probable duration of all the loves and friendships they are
likely to find in that Great Monmouth Street of glittering and