"Rich in these gifts, why should I wish for more?"
P. Whitehead.

Our readers have received an intimation that Horatio Markham, of whom we think highly and deservedly so, had ere this time returned to England, after a very short stay in that situation to which he had been recommended solely by the respectability of his character and the high reputation which he had so early acquired in his profession. The climate did not agree with him; and foreign climates seldom do agree with those who like better to be at home than abroad. A representation to that effect was made to the authorities at home, and he was recalled. As soon as he came to England he waited on the worthy and kind-hearted nobleman to whom he had been indebted for the situation, and whose patronage had come to him spontaneously and unsolicited. Whether or not there appeared in Markham any very strong symptoms of a constitution injured by foreign climes we know not; this only do we know, that his lordship expressed great concern that Mr. Markham should have suffered so much, and great hopes that his native air would restore and confirm his health.

Lords are generally gracious to those whom they patronise. The nobleman in question was particularly and especially so to such as he patronised voluntarily, and on the pure ground of good desert or good promise. He was compelled, as all men high in office must be, occasionally to give his countenance and patronage to those who deserved it not; but whenever the choice was purely his own, it was from the best of motives and with the kindest spirit. Doubly happy did he feel himself in such patronage as this; he was pleased that he could countenance merit, and he was pleased that the state should be well and honestly served. We cannot withhold such a slight tribute as this from public merit; and at the same time there is another tribute of respect to private merit which we cannot withhold from Horatio Markham. We commend him most cordially and sincerely, that being a man of considerable talent and real independence of mind, he did not affect the absurd priggery and puppyism of refusing a situation, in which he might make himself useful, on the ground of being above patronage, or of despising place. Merit there might be and merit there was under the profligate sway of the later Stuarts in refusing bribes to betray the nation into slavery; ingenious however must be the skill of him who can make the parallel hold good in the present day.

To return to our narrative. The worthy nobleman who had thus taken Markham by the hand, having expressed his regret that circumstances did not allow his young friend to continue in that situation to which he had been appointed, added,

"And I am more especially concerned to think, that in all probability your professional practice has been injured by your absence from England, as your stay has not been long enough to justify any public remuneration. Over the public purse I have not an unlimited command; over my own I have, and if you will suffer me to defray the expenses into which I have led you by sending you out of the country you will make me your debtor."

Markham was perplexed. He was absolutely and decidedly against accepting the offer, but he was not ready with the proper language in which to decline it. After the hesitation of a few seconds, he replied,

"Your lordship will pardon me, if I know not how to reply to your very kind offer; and your lordship will be pleased to hear that under present circumstances it is superfluous. I had but little professional practice to lose, and that I trust is not altogether lost; besides, if I begin again it will be under better auspices, with a little more experience and a little more knowledge."

The nobleman was not offended at the young man's proper feeling of independence. Markham's confusion and hesitation arose from not considering the immense difference in station between himself and his patron; his patron was aware of the feeling, and instead of resenting it, regarded it with complacency as a good symptom of a sound and an honest ambition. There are indeed arts by which a man may rise to almost any eminence in political station, but many of them are low creeping arts. It has been pointedly said, that the highest stations in society are like the summits of the Pyramids, accessible only to eagles and reptiles. Markham's aspiring was more of the eagle than the reptile cast. The nobleman with whom he was conversing was aware of this, and glad for the sake of human nature to see it. He had had much intercourse with aspirants, but he had found them for the most part of the creeping sycophantic character, stooping to any body and to any thing which might seem to favor their schemes. It was not so with Markham. The spirit of high station was in his mind long before he reached it; and that kept him in the true feeling of independence and self-esteem. Independence quite free from affectation and conceit, is too uncommon to pass unnoticed. To be at once independent of the great and also independent of the noisy multitude is an acquirement of great value, only to be attained by self converse and reflection. True independence is in and from the mind.

After Markham's interview with his patron, he went down into the country to spend a few weeks with his parents, and in his native air he soon regained what he had lost in point of health. It is not to be supposed that all this time no thought of Clara should have entered his mind. But if our readers imagine that he came home as love-sick as he went abroad, they greatly mistake. Love is not the most rational and reasonable thing in the world, but still it must in ordinarily-constructed minds have some little ground of hope and probability to rest upon. If there had been at parting any expressions on the part of Markham and of Clara that there was a mutual understanding between them, however faint and few those expressions might have been, something would have been afforded for their love to build upon. But they were mutually ignorant of each other's feelings; and though in their separation they thought one of the other, yet those thoughts were rather a species of aerial castle-building, than any regular, calm, deliberate anticipation of probability. Clara thought much of Markham, but knew not that he thought any thing of her; Markham thought much of Clara, but knew not that she had any thoughts to spare for him. They merely thought how delightful, if it should prove eventually that the regard was mutual; but on that point they were ignorant.

Markham had in his situation much business to attend to. New scenes were around him, and new faces were presented to him, and new acquaintances were forming around him. And when his health failed him, and he had thoughts that life might soon be sacrificed to his change of climate, there came into his mind thoughts of real and actual interests which supplanted his consideration of imaginary and possible interests. His mind looked towards the place of his birth, and towards his kind and revered parents; and he thought of their sorrows, and of the bitterness of their bereavement, should he be removed from them. He had not formed such an acquaintance as Clara had with Miss Henderson. He had not met with any thing to keep alive in his mind a romantic or passionate feeling; but, on the contrary, every thing contributed to sober down his thoughts to the level of literal truth and solidity of real life. It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that when he returned to England his romantic tenderness should be a little abated, and that he should think rather more of the actual than the possible. We are sorry for the romantically-disposed that it did so happen. It would have been far more agreeable for them to read, and far more pleasant for us to write, a very tender pathetic scene of the meeting of Clara and Horatio. We should have been very glad of an opportunity to display our eloquence in describing the emotion of Markham as soon as he arrived in England, at the thought that now he was breathing the same air as his beloved and beautiful Clara Rivolta. It would have gratified us mightily to have described the eagerness with which, forgetting every relative, friend, duty, or other consideration, he hurried to pay his respects to his good friend Mr. Martindale, that he might have an opportunity of throwing himself at Clara's feet. It would also have gratified us to have described the emotions, feelings, doubts, tremblings, and fears, at the supposition, the dreaded supposition, that Clara might in his absence have given her heart to another. All this would have been very pretty, but nothing of this kind occurred. Markham soon after he had left England, or at least in a very short time after he had settled down soberly to the duties of his situation, had, comparatively speaking, forgotten Clara. Not that her image was quite erased from the tablet of his memory, or that the lineaments of her pleasant countenance could no more be recollected; but the recollection was more placid, and the memory of her as an ordinary acquaintance supplanted the thought of her as a beloved one: and when, therefore, he returned to England, though he had not quite forgotten that such a person existed, yet his most powerful thoughts were certainly not at that moment with her. After first paying his respects, as in duty bound, to his patron, he next sought the roof of his parents, and gladdened their eyes with the sight of their beloved son in far better health than their fears had anticipated. It may be very well supposed that the good people were proud of their son. Parents mostly are proud of their children, and especially if they hear any thing of a respectable character for moral and intellectual eminence. That certainly was the case with Horatio Markham. He had always borne a high character for integrity and good principle and good understanding. And there was one peculiar satisfaction that the good people enjoyed; namely, that they had absolutely been favored with a letter from Markham's kind friend and patron, the nobleman above alluded to, in which he expressed his approbation of their son's conduct and character, and gave them hopes that he would certainly rise in his profession. And as Markham's parents were vain beyond measure of all this high flattery, they were considerate enough for a length of time to withhold from their son all knowledge of this letter, lest they might fill his mind with too great a conceit of himself. But the gratification of communicating it was too great to be resisted; fortunately, however, for the young man, no very great harm came of it: perhaps it acted as a stimulus, morally as well as intellectually. To be praised for mental powers by a man of talent only, may excite vanity in the heart of a young man; but to be praised and commended morally by a man of high moral character and pure principle, is also a stimulus and excitement to moral diligence. We will not stop to enter very minutely into the inquiry, how far pride may be a component part or prompting motive to high moral principle and dignified integrity of conduct; nor, supposing such to be the case, will we minutely and scrupulously weigh the value of that quality thus supported. It is very well that there is in the world such a virtue as high principle; that there exists in many minds that firm, obstinate, haughty independence, which disdains aught that is morally base and mean. The existence of such a principle is good; and we will not cavil at it, if it be accompanied with a little pride, or even with a great deal. We are indeed very much of opinion that a lack of pride is in many cases an injury, or the cause of injury. But to proceed with our history.

Our observant readers will observe, that we have not said that Markham had absolutely forgotten Clara, but only that he had not preserved a romantic and passionate remembrance of her. As soon, however, as the more important demands on his first thoughts and attentions had been complied with, there came into his mind a recollection of Brigland and its magnificent Abbey, and of the whimsical old John Martindale. A few days, therefore, after his arrival home, he rode over to Brigland to see his old friend, the rich cousin of the Earl of Trimmerstone.

When he came to Brigland, he found the magnificent building still shining in all its splendor, and the broad expanse of water spreading its smooth mirror to the fields and to the sky; but when he came to the old gentleman's cottage, he found it desolate and deserted. There was in it only one elderly female domestic, who had been left to take care of it till she was quite tired of her task. Markham was hardly able to gain admittance at all, but after much knocking and ringing this old lady made her appearance. To the inquiry, whether Mr. Martindale was at home, she only returned a short pettish answer, saying,

"At home! no; and never will be, I think. He is running about all over the country, nobody knows where."

"Then you can't tell me," said Markham again, "where I can find him?"

"No, that I can't; but perhaps they can tell you at the Abbey: that fellow Oliver knows all their movements, but they never condescend to honor me with any information."

Markham thanked the domestic for her answer to his inquiries, and proceeded to the Abbey. When he came near to that fine building, his attention was drawn to symptoms of neglect which he had not observed at a distance. He did not find any difficulty in gaining admittance here: for the trusty Oliver, who had nothing else to do, was constantly on the look-out for strangers who might be attracted by curiosity to visit this splendid mansion during the absence of its occupier. It was a very good source of profit to Oliver; and whenever he saw any one approaching the house, he always stepped officiously forward to introduce the visitor. He presently recognised Markham, and greeted far more courteously than the crabbed old lady at the cottage had done; and when Markham made inquiries concerning the family, then was the tongue of the trusty Oliver set in rapid motion, and his powers of utterance were indeed prodigious. His memory also was remarkably tenacious; for it seemed astonishing to Markham that he should recollect so many various and minute circumstances. He entered into a very particular, full, free and copious narrative of all that had taken place in and out of Brigland, so far as concerned the family of the Martindales. There might be, it is possible, some little invention; for with such gentlemen as Oliver the imagination is somewhat prompt to supply the defects of memory. Among other matters of information which Oliver gave to Markham, he said,

"And fine doings there have been, sir, about Miss Clara; for the poor young lady has been dying for love of a Mr. Skippetson, a very fine young gentleman indeed, such a dandy, sir, as you never heard of. It is said he spends enough in perfumery to keep half a dozen poor families; and when he was down at the sea-side and would have a warm bath, he insisted upon having six bottles of Eau de Cologne put into the water to make it sweet. Well, sir, as I was saying, this gentleman is paying his addresses to Miss Clara; and Miss Clara's mamma declares it shall not be a match, for she does not like the young man; and Mr. Martindale declares it shall; and says that if Clara does not marry Mr. Skippetson, she shall not have a farthing of his money; and Miss Clara has been so ill, that she has been quite at death's-door: indeed, sir, the last accounts I received from the servants that are with them say, that it is very likely that the poor young lady will die of a broken heart. But they say that Madam Rivolta is so proud, she thinks nothing under a lord good enough for her daughter; and the father of the young lady does not seem to care any thing about the matter, he only smokes cigars and lounges about. It is a great pity that Mr. Martindale ever happened of that family, they have done him more harm than good; they have so unsettled him that he hardly knows what he is about, or where he is going to next: he has taken a fine house in town, and is going about from one watering-place to another; and Madam Rivolta rules him as she pleases, only he is quite resolved that he will not give up Mr. Skippetson. That is the only point they disagree about, except the religion; for the family are all the most obstinate papists that ever lived. Then, sir, I suppose you have heard that Mr. Philip is become my lord; he has been made Earl of Trimmerstone, and he has married the daughter of Sir Gilbert Sampson, but the servants say that they don't live happily; for my lord has been a little disappointed about money matters. He did not find Sir Gilbert quite so rich or quite so free as he expected. The servants say, too, that my lord is a most decided gambler; and that since he has been married, he has lost many very heavy sums. Then, sir, they also say that my lord is very jealous of Mr. Skippetson, but there is not the least foundation for his suspicions. Nothing but misfortunes have happened to the family since the discovery of these Italians; I am sure I wish they had all remained in Italy till doomsday. And I suppose, sir, you have heard that this house is to be sold: for Mr. Martindale has paid so many gambling-debts for his lordship, that he will be glad of the money that the house will fetch; but it is said that there are not ten persons in the kingdom who can afford to buy the Abbey at Mr. Martindale's price, and that after all it must be pulled down, and the materials be sold for any thing that they will fetch. For I am told that Mr. Martindale is so tired of Brigland, that he is determined never to live here any more; and I don't wonder at it, I am sure, for I never knew such a censorious, tattling, gossiping set of people any where as there is in Brigland. There's that Mrs. Price, and then there's Mrs. Flint, and Mrs. Denver the parson's wife, those women get together and talk over all the affairs of the parish, and the next parish too. And if this house is sold, I shall lose my place."

Here Mr. Oliver paused to take breath. Markham thanked him for his information; part of which was not new to him, and part of which he hardly believed. He found it very difficult to believe that Clara should ever be attached to such a ridiculous coxcomb as that described by Mr. Oliver. One of the parties he felt assured must have been misrepresented. Either the young gentleman was not such a rank coxcomb as had been described, or the young lady was not really and sincerely in love with him. Markham, for the sake of his own reputation and that he might have a good opinion of himself, was absolutely compelled to this conclusion, for he could not admit that he himself could ever have been so weak and undiscerning as to be attached for a moment to a young lady who was capable of admiring such a ridiculous coxcomb. In order, however, to gain information from as many sources as possible, Markham went into the notoriously gossiping and censorious town of Brigland, and called upon Mr. Denver, from whom he hoped to extract a more agreeable account than had been given to him by Oliver: for if Clara was to be another's, he hoped at least that that other would be a man of some respectability and solidity of character, and not an absolute blockhead or an egregious coxcomb.

From Mr. Denver he received, alas! no consolation. The same tale that he had heard at the Abbey was repeated at the parsonage, and with additional particulars and more mortifying aggravations. For the truth is, that Mr. Denver had received his information from Mrs. Denver, who was indebted for her knowledge of those interesting facts to Mrs. Price, who acknowledged with much gratitude Mrs. Flint as her authority, and it was from Oliver's own self that Mrs. Flint derived her information. Thereupon, Horatio Markham, who thought that what all the world said must be true, began to be very much mortified and sadly perplexed. Notwithstanding the cool temperate manner in which he had borne the recollection of Clara, still, when he revisited the place where he had first seen her, and recollected the readings and quotations with which they had entertained each other, he could not avoid feeling a revival of old emotions and hopes.