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Good-bye, ma'am; good-bye, my boys;" and he patted his nephews on the head."

Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily and entered the britska-it had been his brother's: the lawyer followed, and they drove away.

various tutors, trained to show rather than to exact respect; one succeeding another at his own whim and caprice. His natural quickness, and a very strong, hard, inquisitive turn of mind, had enabled him, however, to pick up more know

Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who muttered to himself, "That boy will come to no good!" Little Sydney put his hand into the rich man's, and looked up plead-ledge, though of a desultory and miscellaneous ingly into his face: "Can't you say something nature, than boys of his age generally possess: pleasant to poor mamma, uncie Robert?" and his roving, independent, out-of-door existence had served to ripen his understanding. He had certainly, in spite of every precaution, arrived at some, though not very distinct, notions of his peculiar position; but none of its inconveniences had visited him till that day. He began now to turn his eyes to the future; and vague and dark forebodings-a consciousness of the shelter, the protector, the station he had lost in his father's death-crept coldly over him. While thus musing, a ring was heard at the bell-he lifted his head-it was the postman with a letter. Philip hastily rose, and averting his face, on which the tears were not yet dried, took the letter; and then snatching up his little basket of fruit, repaired to his mother's room.

A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into the conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother: she had scarcely touched food since Beaufort's death. She was worn to a shadow: her hair had turned gray. Now she had at last found tears, and she wept noiselessly but unceasingly.

The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them carefully in his basket: he was about to select a nectarine that seemed riper than the rest, when his hand was roughly seized, and the gruff voice of John Green, the gardener, exclaimed, "What are you about, Master Philip! You must not touch them 'ere fruit!"

"How dare you, fellow!" cried the young gentleman, in a tone of equal astonishment and

wrath.

“None of your airs, Master Philip! What I means is, that some great folks are coming to look at the place to-morrow, and I won't have my show of fruit spoiled by being pawed about by the like of you; so, that's plain, Master Philip!"

The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted to retaliate the insolence he had received, continued,

"You need not go for to look so spiteful, master; you are not the great man you thought you were; you are nobody now, and so you will find ere long. So, march out, if you please: I wants to lock up the glass."

As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by the arm; but Philip, the most irascible of mortals, was strong for his years, and fearless as a young lion. He caught up a watering-pot, which the gardener had deposited while he expostulated with his late tyrant, and struck the man across the face with it so violently and so suddenly that he fell back over the beds, and the glass crackled and shivered under him. Philip did not wait for the foe to recover his equilibrium; but, taking up his grapes, and possessing himself quietly of the disputed nectarine, quitted the spot; and the gardener did not think it prudent to pursue him. To boys under ordinary circumstances-boys who have buffeted their way through a scolding nursery, a wrangling family, or a public school there would have been nothing in this squabble to dwell on the memory or vibrate on the nerves after the first burst of passion; but to Philip Beaufort it was an era in life; it was the first insult he had ever received; it was his initiation into that changed, rough, and terrible career, to which the spoiled darling of vanity and love was henceforth condemned. His pride and his self-esteem had incurred a fearful shock. He entered the house, and a sickness came over him; his limbs trembled; he sat down in the hall, and, placing the fruit beside him, covered his face with his hands and wept. Those were not the tears of a boy, drawn from a shallow source; they were the burning, agonising, reluctant tears that men shed, wrung from the heart as if it were its blood. He had never been sent to school lest he should meet with mortification. He had had

The shutters were half closed on the bright day-oh, what a mockery is there in the smile of the happy sun when it shines on the wretched! Mrs. Morton sat, or rather crouched, in a distant corner, her streaming eyes fixed on vacancy listless, drooping-a very image of desolate wo: and Sidney was weaving flower-chains at her feet.

brother (though I saw very little of him of late years), I am willing to waive those feelings which, as a father and a husband, you may conceive that I share with the rest of my family. You will probably now decide on living with some of your own relations; and that you may not be entirely a burden to them, I beg to say that I shall allow you a hundred a year, paid, if you prefer it, quarterly. You may also select certain articles of linen and plate, of which I enclose a list. With regard to your sons, I have no objection to place them at a grammar-school, and, at a proper age, to apprentice them to any trade suitable to their future station, in the choice of which your own family can give you the best advice. If they conduct themselves properly, they may always depend on my protection. I do not wish to hurry your movements; but it will probably be painful to you to remain longer than you can help in a place crowded with unpleasant recollections; and as the cottage is to be sold-indeed, my brother-in-law, Lord Lilburne, thinks it would suit him-you will be liable to, the interruption of strangers to see it; and, indeed, your prolonged residence at Fernside, you must be sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg to enclose you a draft for £100 to pay any present expenses; and to request, when you are settled, to know where the first quarter shall be paid.

"I shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think, "Mamma! mother!" whispered Philip, as he is the bailiff) to detail my instructions as to sellthrew his arms round her neck; "look up! looking the crops, &c., and discharging the servants, up! My heart breaks to see you. Do taste this so that you may have no farther trouble. fruit: you will die too if you go on thus; and “I am, madam, what will become of us-of Sidney?" "Your obedient servant, "ROBERT BEAUFORT.

Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face, and strove to smile.

"See, too, I have brought you a letter: perhaps good news: shall I break the seal?"

Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took the letter-alas! how different from that one which Sidney had placed in her hands not two short weeks since: it was Mr. Robert Beaufort's handwriting. She shuddered and laid it down. And then there suddenly, and for the first time, flashed across her the sense of her strange position-the dread of the future. What were her sons to be henceforth? What herself? Whatever the sanctity of her marriage, the law might fail her. At the disposition of Mr. Robert Beaufort the fate of three lives might depend. She gasped for breath, again took up the letter, and hurried over the contents: they ran thus:

"Dear Madam,-Knowing that you must naturally be anxious as to the future prospects of your children and yourself, left by my poor brother destitute of all provision, I take the earliest opportunity which it seems to me that propriety and decorum allow, to apprise you of my intentions. I need not say that, properly speaking, you can have no kind of claim upon the relations of my late brother; nor will I hurt your feelings by those moral reflections which at this season of sorrow cannot, I hope, fail involuntarily to force themselves upon you. Without more than this mere allusion to your peculiar connection with my brother, I may, however, be permitted to add, that that connection tended very materially to separate him from the legitimate branches of his family; and in consulting with them as to a provision for you and your children, I find that, besides scruples that are to be respected, some natural degree of soreness exists upon their minds. Out of regard, however, to my poor

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At those accents, so full of suppressed joy and pride, the mother felt at once all that her son had suspected and concealed. She felt that beneath his haughty and wayward character there had lurked delicate and generous forbearance for her; that from his equivocal position his very faults might have arisen; and a pang of remorse for her long sacrifice of the children to the father shot through her heart. It was followed by a fear, an appalling fear, more painful than the remorse. The proofs that were to clear herself and them! The words of her husband that last awful morning rang in her ear. The minister dead-the witness absent-the register lost! But the copy of that register! the copy! Might not that suffice? She groaned, and closed her eyes as if to shut out the future: then starting up, she hurried from the room, and went straight to Beaufort's study. As she laid her hand on the latch of the door, she trembled and drew back. But care for the living was stronger at that mo

ment than even anguish for the dead: she enter-red debt-or fallen into the warm errors most
ed the apartment; she passed with a firm step to
the bureau. It was locked; Robert Beaufort's
seal upon the lock: on every cupboard, every
box, every drawer, the same seal, that spoke of
rights more valued than her own. But Catha-
rine was not daunted: she turned and saw Philip
by her side; she pointed to the bureau in silence;
the boy understood the appeal. He left the room,
and returned in a few moments with a chisel.
The lock was broken: tremblingly and eagerly
Catharine ransacked the contents; opened paper
after paper, letter after letter, in vain: no certifi-
cate-no will-no memorial. Could the brother
have abstracted the fatal proof? A word sufficed
to explain to Philip what she sought for, and his
search was more minute than hers. Every pos-
sible receptacle for papers in that room, in the
whole house, was explored, and still the search
was fruitless..

common with his sex. He was a good husband
-a careful father-an agreeable neighbour-ra-
ther charitable than otherwise to the poor. He
was honest and methodical in his dealings, and
had been known to behave handsomely in differ-
ent relations of life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, in-
deed, always meant to do what was right-in the
eyes of the world! He had no other rule of
action but that which the world supplied: his re-
ligion was decorum-his sense of honour was
regard to opinion. His heart was a dial to which
the world was the sun: when the great eye of
the public fell on it, it answered every purpose |
that a heart could answer; but, when that eye
was invisible, the dial was mute-a piece of
brass, and nothing more.

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This was true: whatever the rights of the case, poor Catharine had no proofs-no evidencewhich could justify a respectable lawyer to advise her proceeding to a suit. She named two witnesses of her marriage: one dead, the other could not be heard of. She selected for the alleg ed place in which the ceremony was performed a very remote village, in which it appeared that the register had been destroyed. No attested copy thereof was to be found; and Catharine was stunned on hearing that, even if found, it was doubtful whether it could be received as evidence, unless to corroborate actual personal testimony. It so happened that when Philip, many years ago, had received the copy, he had not shown it It is just to Robert Beaufort to assure the reader to Catharine, nor mentioned Mr. Jones's name that he wholly disbelieved his brother's story of as the copyist. In fact, then only three years a private marriage. He considered that tale, married to Catharine, his worldly caution had when heard for the first time, as a mere invention not yet been conquered by confident experience of (and a shallow one) of a man wishing to make her generosity. As for the mere moral evidence the imprudent step he was about to take as re-dependent on the publication of her bans in Lonspectable as he could. The careless tone of his don, that amounted to no proof whatever; nor, brother when speaking upon the subject--his on inquiry at A, did the Welsh villagers reconfession that of such a marriage there was no member anything farther than that, some fifteen distinct proofs, except a copy of a register (which years ago, a handsome gentleman had visited Mr. copy Robert had not found)-made his incredu- Price, and one or two rather thought that Mr. lity natural. He therefore deemed himself un- Price had married him to a lady from London; der no obligation of delicacy or respect to a wo- evidence quite inadmissible against the deadly, man through whose means he had very nearly damning fact, that for fifteen years Catharine had openly borne another name, and lived with Mr. Beaufort ostensibly as his mistress. Her generosity in this destroyed her case. Nevertheless, she found a low practitioner, who took her money and neglected her cause; so her suit was heard and dismissed with contempt. Henceforth, then, indeed, in the eyes of the law and the public, Catharine was an impudent adventurer, and her sons were nameless outcasts.

Yes, boy, and decide for us all." She paused, and examined his face as he read. He felt her eye was upon him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. When he had done, he lifted his dark gaze upon Catharine's watch-lost a noble succession-a woman who had not ful countenance.

66

Mother, whether or not we obtain our rights, you will still refuse this man's charity. I am young-a boy; but I am strong and active. I will work for you day and night. I have it in me-I feel it; any thing rather than eating his bread."

"Philip! Philip! you are indeed my sonyour father's son! And have you no reproach for your mother, who so weakly, so criminally concealed your birthright, till, alas! discovery may be too late? Oh! reproach me, reproach me! it will be kindness. No! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Boy! boy! if, as my heart tells me, we fail in proof, do you understand what, in the world's eye, I am-what you are?" "I do!" said Philip, firmly; and he fell on his knees at her feet. "Whatever others call you, you are a mother, and I your son. You are, in the judgment of Heaven, my father's wife, and I his heir."

Catharine bowed her head, and, with a gush of tears, fell into his arins. Sidney crept up to her, and forced his lips to her cold cheek. "Mamma! what vexes you? Mamma, mamma!"

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And now, relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert Beaufort entered upon the full enjoyment of his splendid fortune. The house in Berkeley Square was furnished anew. Great dinners and gay routs were given in the ensuing spring. Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort became persons of considerable importance. The rich man had, even when poor, been ambitious; his ambition now centred in his only son. Arthur had always been considered a boy of talents and promise: to what might he not now aspire? The term of his probation with the tutor was abridged, and Arthur Beaufort was sent at once to Oxford.

even borne his brother's name-a woman whom
nobody knew. Had Mrs. Morton been Mrs.
Beaufort, and the natural sons legitimate children,
Robert Beaufort, supposing their situation of rela-
tive power and dependence to have been the
same, would have behaved with careful and
scrupulous generosity. The world would have
said, "Nothing could be handsomer than Mr.
Robert Beaufort's conduct!" Nay, if Mrs. Mor-
ton had been some divorced wife of birth and
connections, he would have made very different
dispositions in her favour: he would not have
allowed the connections to have called him shabby.
But here he felt that, all circumstances consi-
dered, the world, if it spoke at all (which it would
scarcely think it worth while to do,) would be on
his side. An artful woman-low-born, and, of
course, low-bred-who wanted to inveigle the
rich and careless paramour into marriage: what
could be expected from the man she had sought
to injure the rightful heir? Was it not very
good in him to do anything for her; and, if he
provided for the children suitably to the original
station of the mother, did he not go to the very
utmost of reasonable expectation? He certainly
thought in his conscience, such as it was, that he
had acted well; not extravagantly, not foolishly,
but well. He was sure the world would say so
if it knew all he was not bound to do anything.
He was not, therefore, prepared for Catharine's
short, haughty, but temperate reply to his letter;
reply which conveyed a decided refusal of his
offers-asserted positively her own marriage, and
the claims of her children-intimated legal pro-
ceedings-and was signed in the name of Catha-
rine Beaufort! Mr. Beaufort put the letter in
his bureau, labelled "Impertinent answer from
Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14," and was quite contented "Well, well!" replied Mr. Beaufort, a little
to forget the existence of the writer, until his law-impatiently, "I believe they want for nothing;
yer, Mr. Blackwell, informed him that a suit had I fancy they are with the mother's relations.
been instituted by Catharine. Mr. Robert turned Whenever they address me in a proper manner,
pale, but Blackwell composed him.
they shall not find me revengeful or
hard-hearted;
but, since we are on this topic," continued the
father, smoothing his shirt-frill with a care tha

a

"Pooh, sir! you have nothing to fear. It is but an attempt to extort money: the attorney is

a

Before he went to the University, during a short preparatory visit to his father, Arthur spoke to him of the Mortons.

"What has become of them, sir? and what have you done for them?"

"Done for them!" said Mr. Beaufort, opening his eyes, "What should I do for persons who have just been harassing me with the most unprincipled litigation? My conduct to them has been too generous-that is, all things considered. But when you are my age you will find there is very little gratitude in the world, Arthur.”

"Still, sir," said Arthur, with the goodness that belonged to him, "still, my uncle was greatly attached to them; and the boys, at least, are guiltless."

for one's own person; when moral, the anxiety for one's own interests?

showed his decorum even in trifles, "I hope you |ly heeded, had made her forebode the probability see the results of that kind of connection, and that of an early death for herself. From the age of you will take warning by your poor uncle's ex-sixteen, when she had been placed by Mr. Beau- It was in a small room in a lodging-house in ample. And now let us change the subject: it is fort at the head of his household, she had been the suburb of H that Mrs. Morton was seatnot a very pleasant one, and, at your age, the less cradled, not in extravagance, but in an easy luxu-ed by the window, anxiously awaiting the knock your thoughts turn on such matters the better." ry, which had not brought with it habits of econo- of the postman, who was expected to bring her Arthur Beaufort, with the careless generosity my and thrift. She could grudge anything to brother's reply to her letter. It was, therefore, beof youth, that gauges other men's conduct by its herself, but to her children-his children, whose tween ten and eleven o'clock-a morning in the own sentiments, believed that his father, who had every whim had been anticipated, she had not the merry month of June. It was hot and sultry, never been niggardly to himself, had really acted heart to be saving. She could have starved in a which is rare in an English June. A flytrap, as his words implied; and, engrossed by the pur-garret had she been alone, but she could not see red, white, and yellow, suspended from the suits of the new and brilliant career opened, them wanting a comfort while she possessed a ceiling, swarmed with flies; flies were on the whether to his pleasures or his studies, suffered guinea. Philip, to do him justice, evinced a con- ceiling, flies buzzed at the windows; the sofa the objects of his inquiries to pass from his sideration not to have been expected from his and chairs of horsehair seemed stuffed with thoughts. early and arrogant recklessness. But Sidney-flies. There was an air of heated discomfort who could expect consideration from such a in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring carchild? What could he know of the change of pet, in the very looking-glass over the chimneycircumstances of the value of money? Did he piece, where a strip of mirror lay in an embrace seem dejected, Catharine would steal out and of frame covered with yellow muslin. We may spend a week's income on the lapful of toys talk of the dreariness of winter-and winter, no which she brought home. Did he seem a shade doubt, is desolate-but what in the world is more more pale-did he complain of the slightest ail- dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloom of ment, a doctor must be sent for. Alas! her own nature" the pomp of groves and garniture of ailments, neglected and unheeded, were growing fields"-than a close room in a suburban lodgbeyond the reach of medicine. Anxious-fear- ing-house; the sun piercing every corner; nofamine in the future, she daily fretted and wore seen, felt, or inhaled; all dust, glare, noise, with ful-gnawed by regret for the past, the thought of thing fresh, nothing cool, nothing fragrant to be herself away. She had cultivated her mind dur- a chandler's shop, perhaps, next door? Sidney, ing her secluded residence with Mr. Beaufort, armed with a pair of scissors, was cutting the but she had learned none of the arts by which de- pictures out of a story-book which his mother cayed gentlewomen keep the wolf from the door; had bought him the day before. Philip, who, of no little holy day accomplishments, which in the late, had taken much to rambling about the day of need turn to useful trade; no water-colour streets-it may be, in hopes of meeting one of drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrication those benevolent, eccentric elderly gentlemen he of pretty gewgaws, no embroidery and fine nee- had read of in old novels, who suddenly come to dlework. She was helpless-utterly helpless the relief of distressed virtue; or, more probably, not strong enough even for a servant; and, even from the restlessness that belonged to his advenin that capacity, could she have got a character? turous temperament-Philip had left the house A great change at this time was apparent in Philip. since breakfast. Had he fallen then into kind hands and guiding eyes, his passions and energies might have ripened into rare qualities and great virtues. But perhaps, as Goethe has somewhere said, "Experience, after all, is the best teacher." He kept a ward will; he would not have vexed his mother constant guard on his vehement temper-his wayfor the world. But, strange to say (it was a great mystery in the woman's heart,) in proportion as he became more amiable, it seemed that his mother loved him less. Perhaps she did not, in that change, recognise so closely the darling of the old time; perhaps the very weaknesses and importunities of Sidney, the hourly sacrifices the child entailed upon her, endeared him more to her from that natural sense of dependence and protection which forms the great bond between ing her father's death-he told her plainly and mother and child; perhaps, too, as Philip had very properly that he could not countenance the been one to inspire as much pride as affection, so life she led—that he had children growing up—had fed it, and carried off in its decay some of the the pride faded away with the expectations that that all intercourse between them was at an end, unless she left Mr. Beaufort; when, if she sincere ly repented, he would still prove her affectionate

Meanwhile Mrs. Morton, for by that name we must still call her, and her children were settled in a small lodging in an humble suburb, situated on the high road between Fernside and the metropolis. She saved from her hopeless lawsuit, after the sale of her jewels and ornaments, a sufficient sum to enable her, with economy, to live respectably for a year or two at least, during which time she might arrange her plans for the future. She reckoned, as a sure resource, upon the assistance of her relations; but it was one to which she applied with natural shame and reluctance. She had kept up a correspondence with her father during his life. To him she never revealed the secret of her marriage, though she did not write like a person conscious of error. Perhaps, as she always said to her son, she had made to her husband a solemn promise never to divulge or even hint that secret until he himself should authorise its disclosure. For neither he nor Catharine ever contemplated separation or death. Alas! how all of us, when happy, sleep secure in the dark shadows which ought to warn us of the sorrows that are to come! Still Catharine's father, a man of coarse mind and not rigid principles, did not take much to heart that connection which he assumed to be illicit. She was provided for, that was some comfort: doubtless Mr. Beaufort would act like a gentleman—perhaps, at last, make her an honest woman and a lady. Meanwhile, she had a fine house, and a fine carriage, and fine servants; and, so far from applying to him for money, was constantly sending him little presents. But Catharine only saw, in his permission of her correspondence, kind, forgiv-change, ing, and trustful affection, and she loved him tenderly: when he died, the link that bound her to her family was broken. Her brother succeeded to the trade: a man of probity and honour, but somewhat hard and unamiable. In the only let

ter she had received from him-the one announc

brother.

affection that was intertwined with it. However this be, Philip had formerly appeared the more spoiled and favoured of the two, and now Sidney Though Catharine had at the time resented this seemed all in all. Thus, beneath the younger son's caressing gentleness, there grew up a cer letter as unfeeling, now, humbled and sorrow-tain regard for self; it was latent-it took amiastricken, she recognised the propriety of princi- ble colours-it had even a certain charm and ple from which it emanated. Her brother was grace in so sweet a child, but selfishness it was well off for his station; she would explain to him not the less: in this he differed from his brother. her real situation, and he would believe her story. Philip was self-willed, Sidney self-loving. A She would write to him, and beg him, at least, to certain timidity of character, endearing, perhaps, give aid to her poor children. to the anxious heart of a mother, made this fault But this step she did not take till a considerable in the younger boy more likely to take root; for portion of her pittance was consumed-till nearly in bold natures there is a lavish and uncalculating three parts of a year since Beaufort's death had recklessness, which scorns self unconsciously: expired—and till sundry warnings, not to be light-and what is fear, but, when physical, the regard

"Oh! how hot this nasty room is! exclaimed Sidney, abruptly looking up from his employment. "Sha'n't we ever go into the country again, mamma ?"

"Not at present, my love."

have my pony, mamma?"
"I wish I could have my pony: why can't I

"Because-because-the pony is sold, Sid

ney.'

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"Who sold it?"

"Your uncle."

"He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is not But can't I have another pony? It would be so nice this fine weather!"

he?

"Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it but you shall have a ride this week! Yes," continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself in excuse of the extravagance, "he does not look well: poor child! he must have exercise."

exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands.
"A ride! Oh! that is my own kind mamma!"
"Not
on a donkey, you know!-a pony. The man
down the street, there, lets ponies. I must have
the white pony with the long tail. But, I say,
mamma, don't tell Philip-pray don't—he would
be jealous."

so?"
"No, not jealous, my dear: why do you think

"Because he is always angry when I ask you for anything. It is very unkind in him, for I don't care if he has a pony too-only not the white one.”

Here the postman's knock, loud and sudden, startled Mrs. Morton from her seat. She pressed her hands tightly to her heart as if to still its beating, and went nervously to the door, thence

to the stairs, to anticipate the lumbering step of less creatures!—it is very hard that they should the slipshod maid-servant.

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"Give it me, Jane! give it me." "One shilling and eightpence-charged double-if you please, ma'am! Thank you.' “Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony?" "Not now, my love: sit down-be quiet: II am not well."

Sidney, who was affectionate and obedient, crept back peaceably to the window, and, after a short, impatient sigh, resumed the scissors and the story book. I do not apologise to the reader for the various letters I am obliged to lay before him, for character often betrays itself more in letters than in speech. Mr. Roger Morton's reply was couched in these terms:

"DEAR CATHARINE,-I have received your letter of the 14th inst., and write per return. I am very much grieved to hear of your afflictions; but, whatever you say, I cannot think the late Mr. Beaufort acted like a conscientious man in forgetting to make his will, and leaving his little ones destitute. It is all very well to talk of his intentions; but the proof of the pudding is in the eating. And it is hard upon me, who have a large family of my own, and get my living by honest industry, to have a rich gentleman's children to maintain. As for your story about the private marriage, it may or may not be. Perhaps you were taken in by that worthless man, for a real marriage it could not be. And as you say the law has decided that point, therefore the less you say on the matter the better. It all comes to the same thing. People are not bound to believe what can't be proved. And even if what you say is true, you are more to be blamed than pitied for holding your tongue so many years, and discrediting an honest family, as ours has always been considered. I am sure my wife would not have thought of such a thing for the finest gentleman that ever wore shoe leather. However, I don't want to hurt your feelings; and I am sure I am ready to do whatever is right and proper. You cannot expect that I should ask you to my house. My wife, you know, is a very religious woman-what is called evangelical; but that's neither here nor there: I deal with all people, churchmen and dissenters-even Jews-and don't trouble my head much about differences in opinion. I dare say there are many ways to heaven, as I said the other day to Mr. Thwaites, our member. But it is right to say my wife will not hear of your coming here; and, indeed, it might do harm to my business; for there are several elderly single gentlewomen who buy flannel for the poor at my shop, and they are very particular-as they ought to be, indeed; for morals are very strict in this county, and particularly in this town, where we certainly do pay very high church rates. Not that I grumble; for, though I am as liberal as any man, I am for an Established Church-as I ought to be, since the dean is my best customer. With regard to yourself, I will enclose you £10, and will let me know when it is gone, and I will see what more I can do. You say you are very poorly, which I am sorry to hear; but you must pluck up your spirits, and take in plain work; and I really think you ought to apply to Mr. Robert Beaufort. He bears a high character; and, notwithstanding your lawsuit, which I cannot approve of, I dare say he might allow you £40 or £50 a year, if you apply properly, which would be the right thing in him. So much for you. As for the boys-poor, father

you

6

be so punished for no fault of their own; and my wife, who, though strict, is a good hearted woman, is ready and willing to do what I wish about them. You say the eldest is near sixteen, and well come on in his studies. I can get him a very good thing in a light, genteel way. My wife's brother, Mr. Christopher Plask with, is a bookseller and stationer, with pretty practice, in R. He is a clever man, and has a newspaper, which he kindly sends me every week; and, though it is not my county, it has some very sensible views, and is often noticed in the London papers as our provincial cotemporary.' Mr. Plask with owes me some money, which I advanced him when he set up the paper, and he has several times most honestly offered to pay me in shares in the said paper. But, as the thing might break, and I don't like concerns I don't understand, I have not taken advantage of his very handsome proposals. Now Plask with wrote me word, two days ago that he wanted a genteel, smart lad as assistant and 'prentice, and offered to take my eldest boy; but we can't spare him. I write to Christopher by this post; and if your youth will run down on the top of the coach, and inquire for Mr. Plaskwith-the fare is trifling-I have no doubt he will be engaged at once. But you will say, There's the premium to consider! No such thing; Kit will set off the premium against his debt to me, so you will have nothing to pay. 'Tis a very pretty business, and the lad's education will get him on; so that's off your mind. As to the little chap, I'll take him at once. You say he is a pretty boy, and a pretty boy is always a help in a linen draper's shop. He shall share and share with my own young folks, and Mrs. Morton will take care of his washing and morals. I conclude (this is Mrs. M.'s suggestion) that he has had the measles, cowpock, and whooping-cough, which please let me know. If he behave well, which, at his age, we can easily break him into, he is settled for life. So now you have got rid of two mouths to feed, and have nobody to think of but yourself, which must be a great comfort, Don't forget to write to Mr. Beaufort; and if he don't do something for you, he's not the gentleman I take him for: but you are my own flesh and blood, and sha'n't starve; for, though I don't think it right in a man in business to encourage what's wrong, yet, when a person's down in the world, I think an ounce of help is better than a pound of preaching. My wife thinks otherwise, and wants to send you some tracts; but every body can't be as correct as some folks. However, as I said before, that's neither here nor there. Let me know when your boy comes down, and also about the measles, cowpock, and whooping-cough; also if all's right with Mr. Plaskwith. So now I hope you will feel more comfortable; and remain,

"Dear Catharine,

"Your forgiving and affectionate brother, "ROGER MORTON.

"High-street, N, June 13. "P. S.-Mrs. M. says that she will be a mother to your little boy, and that you had better mend up all his linen before you send him."

As Catharine finished this epistle, she lifted up her eyes and beheld Philip. He had entered noiselessly, and he remained silent, leaning against the wall, and watching the face of his mother, which crimsoned with painful humiliation while she read. Philip was not now the

trim and dainty stripling first introduced to the reader. He had outgrown his faded suit of funeral mourning; his long, neglected hair hung elf-like and matted down his cheeks; there was a gloomy look in his bright dark eyes. Poverty never betrays itself more than in the features and form of pride. It was evident that his spirit endured rather than accommodated itself to his fallen state; and, notwithstanding his soiled and thread-bare garments, and a haggardness that ill becomes the years of paliny youth, there was about his whole mien and person a wild and savage grandeur, more impressive than his former ruffling arrogance of manner.

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Well, mother," said he, with a strong mixture of sternness in his countenance and pity in his voice, well, mother, and what says your

brother?"

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"You decided for us once before, decide again. But I need not ask you; you would never—” "I don't know," interrupted Philip, vaguely; "let me see what we are to decide on.

Mrs. Morton was naturally a woman of high courage and spirit, but sickness and grief had worn down both; and, though Philip was but sixteen, there is something in the very nature of woman, especially in trouble, which makes her seek to lean on some other will than her own. She gave Philip the letter, and went quietly to sit down by Sidney.

"Your brother means well," said Philip, when he had concluded the epistle.

"Yes, but nothing is to be done: I cannot, cannot send poor Sidney to-to-" and Mrs. Morton sobbed.

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No, my dear, dear mother, no; it would be terrible, indeed, to part you and him. But this bookseller-Plask with-perhaps I shall be able to support you both."

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Why you do not think, Philip, of being an apprentice! you, who have been so brought up! you, who are so proud!"

"Mother, I would sweep the crossings for your sake! Mother, for your sake, I would go to my uncle Beaufort with my hat in my hand, for halfpence. Mother, I am not proud; I would be honest if I can; but when I see you pining away, and so changed, the devil comes into me, and I often shudder lest I should commit some crime-what, I don't know!"

"Come here, Philip-my own Philip-my son-my hope-my firstborn!" and the mother's heart gushed forth in all the fondness of early days. "Don't speak so terribly; you frighten me!"

She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him soothingly. He laid his burning temples on her bosom, and nestled himself to her, as he had been wont to do after some stormy paroxysm of his passionate and way ward infancy. So there they remained, their lips silent, their hearts speaking to each other-each from each taking strange succour and holy strength-till Philip rose, calm, and with a quiet smile, "Good-by, mother; I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith."

"But you have no money for the coach-fare; here, Philip;" and she placed her purse in his hand, from which he reluctantly selected a few shillings. "And, mind, if the man is rude, and you dislike him-mind, you must not subject yourself to insolence and mortification."

"Oh, all will go well, don't fear," said Philip, cheerfully; and he left the house.

Towards evening he had reached his destination. The shop was of goodly exterior, with a private entrance; over the shop

was written,

had so used them, in a great chamber at Sir Henry Willoughby's, he asked the young gentlewoman, what she did with such baffled fellows in her company? Incredible things to be suffered by flesh and blood, but that England is the land of peace."

The world laughed at the poet, and the illnatured were delighted at his discomfiture. At an entertainment given shortly afterwards by Lady Moray, he was taxed by his mistress, Lady Dorset, with having run away, and, we are told, "some other ladies had their flirts." His hostess perceiving his discomposure, kindly drew towards him: "Well," she said, "I am a merry wench, and will never forsake an old friend in disgrace, so come and sit down by me, Sir John." He of course obeyed her. His spirits rose, and he again became the delight of the company, and his wit and good humour sparkled as before.

What man is there of so little taste or imagination, with whom the romance of the past has not at times predominated over the reality of the present. Who is there that has not dreamed himself into the society of former days! There is in the retrospect of every age a kind of literary oasis, a particular knot of gifted beings, to whose eloquence it would have been rapture to listen, or in whose social mirth it would have been delight to join. To have drunk sack with Shakspeare and his brother actors; to have made a third with Ben Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden; to have listened to the wild wit of Charles, Buckingham, Rochester, and Killegrew; to have dived into Will's and Button's; to have been with Pope, Swift, Bolingbroke, and Atterbury, or in later times with Johnson, Burke, Reynolds and Garrick; who is there that has not imagined some such intellectual treat, and perhaps improved himself by the contemplation?

There are some who will consider it an affront to such names as the above, to speak of Suckling, D'Avenant, Lovelace and Carew. But wit will always have its charms; and at a period when there was a more universal religious as well as political gloom than perhaps ever pervaded a country, when the people were sad because it was the fashion, and the court because it was in danger; the gay meetings, the wild humour and jollity of the cavalier poets, must have been in strong contrast to the moroseness of the age.

Considering that his literary productions consist of the scattered and careless verses of a fine gentleman, Suckling has great merit as a poet. With the exception of the beautiful love-verses of Sedley, and the general and undoubted claims of Waller, there are none of his school that can compete with him. He has as much wit and poetry as either Rochester, Carew, Dorset, or Lansdowne, and he has more nature than any one of them. Though much of his Session of the Poets has lost its point with modern readers, it is still rich in wit and humour. His verses on Lady Carlisle are as smoothly versified, and have as much real beauty as any thing in the language; and his ballad on a wedding, supposed to be Lord Orrery's, has great merit:

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen, &c. But what can exceed the description of the bride, as she is supposed to be represented by a gaping rustic to his friend?

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale,

For such a maid no Whitson-ale

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Could ever yet produce;

grape that's kindly ripe could be

So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck.

And, to say truth, for out it must,
It looked like the great collar, just
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they feared the light.
But oh! she dances such a way
No sun upon an Easter day

Is half so fine a sight.

He would have kissed her once or twice,
But she would not, she was so nice,

She would not do it in sight;
And then she looked as who would say,
I will do what I list to-day,

And you shall do it at night.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,

Who sees them is undone;
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,

The side that's next the sun.
Her lips were red and one was thin;
Compared to that was next her chin,

Some bee had stung it newly;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small when she does speak,
Thoud'st swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours or better,
And are not spent a whit.

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His "Dream," besides possessing considerable merit as a poem, is perhaps the origin of a conceit which has since become extremely popular. The song, Why so pale and wan, fond lover?" is still a universal favourite. Of Suckling's prose, his "Account of Religion by Reason," addressed to Lord Dorset, is an extraordinary production. It will prove to the philosopher, that the most dissipated have their moments of reflection, and that the gamester, the drunkard, and the debauchee, have at least their conceptions of right and wrong. The letters, published as Suckling's, are without merit. The wit is over-strained, and the sentiment frequently unnatural.

At the expedition against the rebellious Scots, Suckling raised a splendid troop, at the expense of twelve thousand pounds, for the service of the king. We are told that it was one of the most gallant sights of the period. Their dress is described as "white doublets and scarlet breeches, scarlet coats, hats and feathers." They were well armed and horsed. But, alas! in an encounter with the enemy on the English border, in 1639, it was not their lace alone that was tarnished. Poor Sir John! the darling of the wits and the ladies-at whose departure from London casements had been thrown open and white handkerchiefs had waved,-the hour of danger no sooner came, than he and his glittering troopers took to their heels. His former friend, Sir John Mennes, (the poetical admiral,) wrote his once celebrated ballad on this occasion. It was adapted to a gay tune; and not only became popular with the republicans, but for many years afterwards was sung by those, who had, perhaps, never so much as heard of Suckling or his disaster. The following is another song on the same subject. It is less known, but is not without its merit:

Sir John got on a bonny brown beast,
To Scotland for to ride-a;

A brave buff coat upon his back,
A short sword by his side-a:
Alas, young man, we Sucklings can
Pull down the Scottish pride-a.

He danced and pranced and pranked about,
Till people him espied-a;

With pye-ball'd apparel, he did so quarrel,
As none durst come him nigh-a.
But soft, Sir John, e'er you come home,
You will not look so high-a.

Both wife and maid and widow prayed,
To the Scots he would be kind-a;
He stormed the more, and deeply swore
They should no favour find-a.
But if you had been at Berwick and seen,
He was in another mind-a.

His men and he, in their jollity,

Did quarrel, drink, and quaff-a;
Till away he went like a Jack of Lent;

But it would have made you laugh-a,
How away they did creep like so many sheep,
And he like an Essex calf-a.

When he came to the camp he was in a damp,
To see the Scots in sight-a,

And all his brave troops, like so many droops,
They had no heart to fight-a;

And when the alarm called all to arm,
Sir John

They prayed him to mount and ride in the front,
To try his courage good-a;

He told them the Scots had dangerous plots,
As he well understood-a;
Which they denied, but he replied,

It's shame for to shed blood-a.

He did repent the money he spent,
Got by unlawful game-a;

His curled locks could endure no knocks,
Then let none go again-a;

Such a carpet knight as durst not fight,
For fear he should be slain-a.

The lampoon of Sir John Mennes commences,
Sir John he got on an ambling nag,
To Scotland for to go,

With a hundred horse, without remorse,
To keep ye from the foe.

No carpet knight ever went to fight

With half so much bravado:

Had you seen but his look you would swear on a book

He'd conquered a whole armado. About two years from this event, we find Suckling taking a very active part in Lord Strafford's projected escape from the Tower. The plot reached the ears of the commons, who, after an investigation of the circumstances, voted him guilty of treason. Suckling fled into France, and survived his escape but a few days. According to Spence, who quotes Pope as his authority, his death was attended by some singular circumstances:-" Sir John Suckling died about the beginning of the civil war. He entered warmly into the king's interests, and was sent over to the continent by him with some letters of great importance to the queen. He arrived late at Calais, and in the night his servant ran away with his portmanteau, in which were his money and papers. When he was told of this in the morning, he immediately inquired which way his servant had taken; ordered his horses to be got ready instantly; and, in putting on his boots, found one of them extremely uneasy to him; but as the horses were at the door, he leaped into the saddle, and forgot his pain. He pursued his servant so eagerly, that he overtook him two or three posts off; recovered his portmanteau, and soon after complained of a vast pain in one of his

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