The French now stand at the head of the civilisation of Europe. They are on the same level as the fine people of the United States of America; and England occupies an inferior grade in the scale.

Alas! that we should be compelled to speak thus of our native land: but the truth must be told!

As yet almost every country in Europe has demanded and obtained something of its rulers, in consequence of the French Revolution;—whereas England has as yet obtained nothing in the shape of Reform!

Oh! shame—shame! what has become of our national spirit?—are we all willing slaves, and shall we not agitate—morally, but energetically agitate—for our rights and liberties?

The aristocracy and the men in power treat the people’s assemblies with ridicule, and denominate the working-classes, when so assembled, as “a mob.” They will not discriminate between honest politicians and the respectable working-classes on the one hand, and the ragamuffinry of society on the other. They confound us all together in the sweeping appellation of “the mob!”

The insensates! Do they not reflect that if ten or fifteen thousand persons meet for the purpose of discussing some grand political question, some five or six hundred pickpockets and mischievous boys are certain to intrude themselves into the assemblage? Why—black sheep even find their way into the Houses of Parliament—aye, and into the very suite of Royalty itself.

But after recording all the above observations, we must once more declare that we do not recommend violence: we insist upon the necessity of a grand moral agitation—an agitation which shall pervade the entire country, as an ocean is roused by the storm into a mass of mighty waves. The people must assume an imposing attitude; and let the memorable words of Lafayette be repeated by every tongue:—“For a nation to love liberty, it is sufficient that she knows it; and for a nation to be free, it is sufficient that she wills it!”

And, oh! my fellow-countrymen, let not this glorious thesis be used in vain! By the misery and starvation which millions of ye endure—by the hopeless entombment to which the Poor Law Bastilles condemn ye, when work fails—by the denial of an honest recognition of the rights of labour, which is insolently persisted in—by the spectacle of your famished wives and little ones—by the naked walls of the wretched hovels in which the labouring population dwells—by the blinding toil of the poor seamstress—by the insults heaped on ye by a rapacious aristocracy and an intolerant clergy—by the right which a despicable oligarchy usurps to hold the reins of power—by the limited suffrage which leaves the millions unrepresented—by the oppressive weight of taxation laid upon the productive classes—by the sorrows which the hard-working operative endures throughout his virility, and the misery that attends upon his decrepitude—by the badge of pauperism that the sons and daughters of toil are compelled to wear in the accursed Union-houses,—by all your wrongs, we adjure ye not to remain at rest—not to endure the yoke which ye can cast off in a moment—not to stand still and gaze listlessly, while all the rest of the civilised world is in motion!

Returning from this digression to the thread of our narrative, we will suppose that Mrs. Mortimer has at length arrived at the house in Park Square, and that she is already seated with the young nobleman, who little suspected the infamous character of the woman whom he had admitted to his confidence.

“I have been looking forward with much impatience and anxiety to your coming,” said Lord William: “but even now that you are here, I know not in which manner you can assist me.”

“Faint heart never won fair lady, my lord,” returned the old woman; “and you must take courage. The maxim which I quoted is a good one.”

“I do not despair, madam,” said the young nobleman: “and yet I seem as if I were involved in a deep mist, through which I cannot even grope my way. Alone and unassisted, I cannot hope to obtain access to that charming creature; and, if assisted, I will do nothing that shall violate the respect due to one so pure of heart as I believe her to be.”

“I should have proposed to become the bearer of a letter from your lordship to Miss Vernon,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, coldly: “but, perceiving beforehand that your scruples are over nice and your notions somewhat of the most fastidious, I really do not see how I can serve you.”

“I am afraid to write to her—she would perhaps be offended to an extent that might be irremediable,” exclaimed Lord William, a prey to the most cruel bewilderment.

“And yet your lordship once endeavoured to bribe the servant-girl to become the bearer of your amatory epistle,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of sarcasm—almost of disgust.

“Now you are offended with me,” cried the young nobleman. “It is true that I did pen a letter to Agnes—telling her how much I loved her and how honourable were my intentions—imploring her likewise to grant me a few moments’ interview, and to pardon the means that I thus adopted of accosting her, having no other mode of procuring an introduction. Such a letter I did indeed write,” continued Trevelyan: “but it was in a fit of despair—of madness—of insensate recklessness.—I know not how to explain myself! The servant refused to deliver that note—and my eyes were immediately opened to the impropriety of the proceeding which I had adopted.”

“And you therefore decline to entrust me, who am well acquainted with Agnes, to deliver a similar letter into her hand? Your lordship is wrong in thus refusing to be guided by me,” continued the crafty old woman. “Think you that with one so innocent, so artless as Agnes, I cannot prepare the way to render your letter acceptable—at least to prevent it from producing a sudden shock to her notions of maidenly propriety?”

“Much as I should be rejoiced could you accomplish that aim,” said Trevelyan, “I should be ten thousand times happier were you able to procure me an interview with her.”

“This is madness!” exclaimed the old woman. “Can I not more easily induce her to read a letter from a stranger, than to receive that stranger in person? Is not the letter the first and most natural step to the visit? Trust to me, my lord: I know the disposition of Agnes—I understand affairs of this nature—and I am also well aware that love blinds you to the ways of prudence.”

“Be it, then, as you propose,” said Lord William, after a long pause, during which be reflected profoundly. “I will write the letter this evening: will you call for it early to-morrow morning?”

“I will,” answered the old woman: “and in less than twenty-four hours I will undertake to bring you tidings calculated to encourage hope—or I am very much mistaken,” she added emphatically.

“You do not believe—you have no reason to suppose that the father of Agnes already destines her to become the bride of some person of his own choice?” asked Trevelyan, now for the first time shaping in words an idea that had haunted him for some days past. “Because,” he continued, speaking with the rapidity of excitement, “I cannot possibly comprehend wherefore he compels her to dwell in that strict seclusion.”

“I do not believe that you have any such cause for apprehension,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of confidence—as if she were well able to give the species of assurance which she so emphatically conveyed. “There is a mystery—a deep mystery attached to the fair recluse,—and what that mystery is, I am myself completely ignorant. But that the father of Agnes has no such intention as the one you imagined, and that Agnes herself has as yet never known the passion of love,—these are facts to which I do not hesitate to pledge myself most solemnly.”

“Oh! then there is indeed room for hope!” exclaimed Lord William, his countenance brightening up and joy flashing in his eyes.

“A nobleman in your position—blessed with wealth and a handsome person—endowed with agreeable manners and a cultivated mind,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “need not despair of winning the love and securing the hand of a maiden dwelling in utter obscurity and totally unacquainted with the world.”

“I would rather that she should learn to love me for my own sake, madam,” observed Lord William, in a serious tone, “than for any adventitious advantages of rank or social position that I may possess.”

“Well, my lord—we shall see,” said Mrs. Mortimer, rising to depart. “To-morrow morning I will call for the letter; and I shall proceed straight over to the cottage: In the afternoon, or evening, I will do myself the honour of waiting upon your lordship again.”

“I shall expect you with impatience, madam,” returned Trevelyan, as he politely hastened to open the door for her.

Mrs. Mortimer took her leave; and the young nobleman sate down to pen a letter to Agnes Vernon.

But this was not so easy a matter as he had anticipated. Sheet after sheet of paper did he spoil,—a hundred times did he commence—and as often did he throw aside his pen in despair. Now he fancied that his style was too bold—then he conceived it to be too tame and vague: now he imagined himself to be too complimentary in his language towards one possessing a mind so chaste and pure—then he felt assured that he was acting indiscreetly to write at all. In the course of an hour he was swayed by such an infinite variety of conflicting sentiments and impressions that he was almost inclined to throw up the task in despair.

At length, however, he made a beginning which pleased him; and his pen then ran fluently enough over the paper, until the letter was composed in the following manner:—

“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence, were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his intentions:—pardon me, I implore you—and refuse not to read these few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you, Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your father’s presence, he solemnly declares.

“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again: let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart—and that, if anything were wanting to render me your slave, the description which the bearer of this letter has given me of your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am rich—and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest—a sincere—and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to know more of me—if I might venture to solicit you to accord me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how fervently I should thank you—how delighted I should feel! Let this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how can I convince you of my sincerity?—how can I testify my devotion?—how can I prove the extent of my love?

“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in order to make my sentiments known to you;—and scorn not the honest—the pure—the ardent affection which an honourable man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I love you;—and your silence would prove a punishment severe and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous Agnes,—(the words—those delightful words, ’beauteous Agnes,’ are written now, and I cannot—will not erase them)—at the same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged—if a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of your hand,—accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never more shall you be molested by me—never again will I intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite an angry feeling in your soul.

“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
“WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”

With this letter the young nobleman was satisfied. He considered it to be sufficiently energetic, and at the same time respectful: he saw nothing in it against which the purest mind could take exceptions; and, in the sanguine confidence natural to his age, and to the honourable candour of his disposition, he already looked upon his aims as half accomplished—his aspirations as half gained.

Having sealed and addressed the letter, he placed it upon the mantel-piece ready for Mrs. Mortimer when she should call in the morning: then, fetching a portfolio from an inner room, he opened it, and from amongst several drawings in water-colours, selected one on which his gaze was immediately rivetted with deep and absorbing interest.

For that painting—executed by his own hand—was a portrait of Agnes Vernon; and even the most fastidious critic, if acquainted with the original, must have pronounced it to be a living likeness.

Yes: on that paper was delineated, with the most perfect accuracy, the fair countenance of the Recluse of the Cottage,—every feature—every lineament drawn with a fidelity to which only a first-rate artist, or an amateur whose pencil was guided by the finger of Love, could have possibly attained. There were the eyes of deep blackness and melting softness,—there was the high, intelligent forehead,—there was the raven hair, silken and glossy, and seeming to flow luxuriantly even in the very picture,—and there was the rich red mouth, wearing a smile such as mortals behold upon the lips of angels in their dreams. How charming was the entire countenance!—how amiable—how heavenly the expression that it wore!

And no wonder that the likeness was so striking—so accurate—so faithful;—for the young nobleman had touched and retouched it until he had delineated on the paper the precise counterpart of the image that dwelt in his mind. Hours and hours had he devoted to that labour of love:—on each occasion when he returned home after contemplating, from behind the green barrier of the garden, the idol of his adoration, he addressed himself to the improvement of that portrait. At one time he had beheld the maiden to greater advantage than at another; and then he studied to convey to the card-board the last and most pleasing impression thus made upon his mind; until he produced a likeness so faithful that not another touch was required—no further improvement could be effected.

And, like Pygmalion with his Galatea, how Lord William Trevelyan worshipped that portrait! No—the simile is incorrect; because the sculptor learnt to adore the statue that was cold and passionless—whereas the young nobleman was blest with the conviction that there was a living original for the image he had so faithfully traced upon his paper,—and it was that living original whom he made the goddess of his thoughts.

The clock had struck ten, and Lord William was still bending over the portrait that lay upon the table, when a footman entered the room to announce that a lady who declined to give her name solicited an interview with the young nobleman.

Lord William, hastily closing the portfolio, desired that she might be immediately shown into his presence.

The domestic bowed and retired.

In a few minutes he returned, ushering in the unknown visitor, who wore a veil over her countenance: but the moment the footman had withdrawn, she raised the veil, and disclosed a face that was strikingly handsome, though pale and careworn. She was apparently about thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age—with dark hair, fine hazel eyes, and good teeth. Tall and well-formed, her figure, which was rather inclined to embonpoint, was set off to advantage by the tasteful—indeed elegant style of her dress; and in her deportment there was an air of distinction denoting the polished and well-bred lady.

Lord William received her with becoming courtesy, requested her to be seated, and then awaited an explanation of her business.

“Your lordship is doubtless surprised at receiving a visit at so unseasonable an hour, and on the part of a complete stranger,” began the lady, in a pleasing though mournful tone of voice: “but I know not to whom else to address myself for the information I now seek—and if you cannot afford it to me, I shall be unhappy indeed.”

“Madam,” said Lord William, somewhat astonished at this mysterious opening of the conversation, “if it be in my power to serve you, I shall render that service cheerfully.”

“You are well acquainted, I believe, my lord, with Sir Gilbert Heathcote?” observed the lady, somewhat abruptly, as she bowed her thanks for the assurance the young nobleman had given her.

“Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though much older than I, is an intimate friend of mine,” observed Trevelyan.

“Do you know where he is—what has become of him?” demanded the lady, in a still more anxious tone than before.

“I really do not, madam,” was the reply.

“Merciful heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in a paroxysm of sorrow.

“I have not seen him for this week past,” continued Trevelyan. “But—are you ill, madam? Can I offer you anything?—shall I summon assistance?”

And, as he spoke, the nobleman rose from his seat and approached the bell-pull.

“No—no, my lord!” cried the lady. “Do not ring—do not call your servants! I shall be better presently. But pardon me if I could not control my feelings,” she added, wiping the tears from her eyes.

The young nobleman, in spite of the adjuration to the contrary, hastened into the adjoining room and speedily returned with a decanter of spring water and a tumbler. He then filled the glass and presented it to his afflicted visitor, who thanked him for his delicate attention with a look expressive of gratitude—the words that she would have uttered being stifled in her throat.

Refreshed with the cooling beverage, she said, after a short pause, “My lord, have you the slightest conception where your friend Sir Gilbert Heathcote is? Did he intimate to you his intention to leave London? did he hint at the probability of his departure from England? Oh! I conjure you to tell me all you know: for—for—you cannot divine how much—how deeply I love him!”

Trevelyan was struck with astonishment at these last words,—words that were uttered in a tone of such convincing, such profound sincerity, that he could not for an instant question their import. And yet—though since the days of childhood Trevelyan had known Sir Gilbert Heathcote—he had never heard that the baronet was married: on the contrary, he had invariably understood him to be a single man. If this latter belief were the true one, then, was the lady now in his presence the mistress of his friend?—for assuredly she had not spoken with the confidence of a sister, but with the hesitation of one who reveals a fact that is in some way associated with shame.

The lady perceived what was passing in the mind of Trevelyan; and in a low but fully audible tone, she said, “My lord, circumstances compel me to reveal myself to you as your friend’s mistress. Yes: though I love him more than ever wife could love—yet am I only his mistress,—for, alas! I am the wife of another! And now, my lord,” she added, with deep feeling, “you may spurn me from you—you may command your lacquey to thrust me from your dwelling: but I implore you to give me tidings of Sir Gilbert!”

“Madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan, the moment he could recover from the bewilderment into which this impassioned address plunged him, “not for worlds could I do or say aught to augment year affliction—much less to insult you. I declare to you most solemnly that I have neither heard nor seen anything of Sir Gilbert Heathcote for a week. I called at his chambers in the Albany the day before yesterday, and was simply informed that he was not at home. I left my card without thinking to make further inquiries—not suspecting that his absence had been for days, instead of hours.”

“Oh! yes—upwards of a week has elapsed since I saw him,” exclaimed the lady, with difficulty subduing a fresh outburst of grief. “Each day have I been to the Albany—and still the answer is the same—‘He has not returned!’ No—he has not returned,” she added, clasping her hands together; “and he has not written to me! O God! I fear that some fatal accident has befallen him!”

“Do not give way to such a distressing belief,” cried Trevelyan, feeling deeply for the unfortunate woman, whose grief was so profound and so sincere. “Shall I make inquiries—immediate inquiries—concerning him? Perhaps I may learn more than a lady possibly can.”

“Generous-hearted nobleman!” exclaimed the visitor; “how can I ever repay you for this kindness towards an utter stranger?”

“Remember also, madam,” said Trevelyan, “that, apart from my readiness to serve you or any lady whom affliction has overtaken, I begin to experience some degree of anxiety on behalf of a gentleman who has ever shown a sincere friendship towards me. Not another minute will I delay the inquiries which, alike for your sake and his, I now deem it necessary to institute.”

Thus speaking, the young nobleman rose from his chair.

“My lord,” said the lady, rising also, and speaking in a tone indicative of deep emotion, “may I hope to receive a communication from you as early as possible? My suspense will be great—it is even now intolerable——”

And she burst into tears.

“Madam,” interrupted the young nobleman, profoundly touched by her affliction, which was evidently most unfeigned, “you can either accompany me, or remain here until my return. Perhaps the latter will be the more desirable—at least if you can restrain your impatience, so natural under the circumstances, for a couple of hours. But perhaps,” he added, an idea striking him,—“perhaps you live at some distance——”

“I am the occupant of a house in Kentish Town,” said the lady; “and therefore my dwelling is not very far from your lordship’s. If you see no impropriety in it—if there be no one here whom my presence would offend,” she continued, speaking in a subdued and almost timid tone, “I would rather—oh! much rather wait until you return.”

“By all means, madam,” exclaimed the generous-hearted young noble. “Should you require anything during my absence, the servants will obey your summons; and they will receive my orders, ere I depart, to pay you every attention.”

“I shall not trouble them, my lord,” was the reply: “but I return you my deepest—sincerest thanks for the kind consideration with which you treat me.”

Trevelyan bowed, and then quitted the room.