(Now and Then. By Samuel Warren, F.R.S. Author of “Ten Thousand a-Year,” and the “Diary of a Late Physician.” William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh and London. 1848.)

It would be an unpardonable affectation of modesty indeed, if Maga suffered any considerations whatever to interfere between herself and the cordial recognition of a success achieved by a favourite child, and acknowledged by all the world. Is the parent alone to hold her peace, when crowds are flinging up their caps rejoicing at the triumph of the son? Is nature to resign her dearest prerogative, in order to comply with the unnatural requirements of a dastard hypocrisy? Must we still hear on all sides the honest congratulations of strangers, and are we not to do homage to the grateful spirit within us, by shaking our own flesh and blood by the hand? Flesh and blood revolt from the insinuation! We know, as well as the dullest, that it is a delicate matter for Maga to speak to mankind, as truth and her heart dictate, with respect to some of her progeny. But what has delicacy to do with justice? Was Brutus delicate when he judged his own son, and hung him up for the public good? Maga suffers the world to judge of her offspring, and contents herself with a simple announcement of the happy verdict. It is her duty, as well as her delight, to chronicle the sentence. If she did less, she would do wrong to her own: she might do more, and still be just to her mighty and confiding public.

The author of the volume whose title heads this article, first appeared before the public as a writer in this Magazine in the month of August 1830. He was then but two-and-twenty years of age; yet, in his “Diary of a Late Physician,” he at once took his place in the front ranks of literature, and seized upon the admiration and respect of his contemporaries. The work is too well known to need minute description here. The variety of incident and character, the extraordinary fidelity of delineation, the vigorous style, the touching pathos, the commanding knowledge of men and human passions which it exhibits, are as familiar to our readers as they were surprising in a youth scarcely out of his teens,—a mere tyro in literature,—and, as he himself informs us, a rejected aspirant, in many quarters,^[9] for those lofty honours which he has since so bravely and so honourably won. “The Diary of a Physician”—carried on at intervals from the year 1830 to the year 1837—maintained its ground from first to last. Since the last chapter appeared in these pages, the series has been printed and published, reprinted and republished, stereotyped for England, pirated for America, and translated for the Continent. The interest which the powerful tales first excited, is unabated to this hour. The regular and steady demand maintained for the volumes indicates their intrinsic value, and declares, in language as emphatic as any that can appeal to either publishers or authors, the enduring character with which they are impressed.

In the year 1839, just nine years after the publication of the first number of the “Diary,” appeared also in these pages the first part of Mr Warren’s tale of “Ten Thousand a-Year.” The second production derived no false lustre from the confirmed success of its predecessor. The new tale presented itself in the columns of the Magazine, as the rule is—anonymously. Mr Warren obtained no advantage whatever from his previously well-earned and conscientiously sustained reputation. His second venture had nothing to rely upon but itself; yet, before six months had elapsed, “Ten Thousand a-Year,” by the mere force of its own unquestioned merit, succeeded in arresting public attention to an extent seldom equalled, and never surpassed by publications of a serial nature. For two years that attention never flagged; the public can attest to this remarkable fact: we are ourselves conscious of the avidity with which number after number of this Magazine was sought, whilst one chapter of the History of Tittlebat Titmouse still remained to be told. “Ten Thousand a-Year” was a wholly different performance from the “Diary of a Late Physician.” The latter contained the fruitful germs of at least a dozen novels. Its short histories, designed to convey a solemn and abiding moral, performed their office with the least possible elaboration. Intricacy and subtlety of plot were not considered, in a scheme in which mankind was to be moved and taught by the influence of example. The faults, the weaknesses, the vices of humanity, were displayed in their simplest forms, and no pains were taken to involve them in the entanglements of an artfully contrived narration. Not so, altogether, in the case of “Ten Thousand a-Year.” Here plot became not a subordinate ingredient in the composition; here the salient and strongly-marked features of individual character were not alone considered. It cannot be denied that the second creation of Mr Warren’s genius indicated at once increased strength of mind, experience more extended, knowledge more ripened. The faculties of the man were allied to the energy and passion of the youth, and the former ruled the latter with a severe and salutary grasp. The secret motives of man had been learnt in the interim; human springs of action had been detected in their distant hiding places; the inner soul of the world had been more deeply penetrated, and more closely scanned by the writer’s understanding. The pictures were no longer sketches—the masterstrokes were something more than indications. The vulgarity of Titmouse was shown with the self-denying patience and enlightened industry of a surgeon laying bare the loathsomeness of a repelling sore. What inclination would have shut away for ever, conscientious duty required to be exposed. Vulgarity is exposed in the history of Tittlebat Titmouse, and is utterly crushed. In nothing, however, is the contrast between Mr Warren in 1830, and the same gentleman in 1839, so remarkable as in the conception of Mr Gammon. The character is a perfect emanation of instructed genius; the admixture of good and evil—good in evil, and evil in good—could have been portrayed only by one knowing thoroughly “all qualities with a learned spirit of human dealings.” None but a creator, conscious of his strength, and fortified by the convictions which knowledge and experience give, would have conceived—or if conceived, dared—to exhibit the incomparable portraiture of which we speak. He, Gammon, stands immortalised in Mr Warren’s pages, neither a monster of good nor a monster of evil, but partaking of both qualities; largely of one, and in a smaller degree of the other, as is nature’s wont. Noble amongst the very base, and base amongst the very noble, he is an object of sorrow more than of execration,—of sympathy, not of hate, in his evil associations; of deep pity, not of vengeance, when he mixes for a season with the pure. Wanting religion and the practice of piety, which alone yields the highest moral rectitude, Gammon fails to earn approval even when he most deserves it, and in his brightest moments leaves no better impression on the mind than that of a wretched bundle of foul weeds, steeped for the time in heroism. The seeming incongruities of the character testify at once to its fidelity: the reality of the picture is heightened by the colours which the master, with infinite skill, has selected from his palette.

The incognito of Mr Warren was preserved till towards the close of the work; and upon its completion, being published in a separate form, it shared the well-deserved success of the “Diary of a Physician,” and travelled with it, either in, its original garb or as a translated book, into every quarter of the globe. Be it remembered that, during the whole long period of which we speak, Mr Warren was passing his days in any thing but the luxurious case of an unoccupied gentleman, or of one engaged only in the prosecution of intellectual pleasures. His entrance into life as a public writer was concurrent with his adoption of the most arduous and difficult of all professions. Literature was less his business than his recreation; his chosen evening pastime after the noonday’s enervating heat; his dignified solace, not his painful necessity. In plain words, whilst he used his pen for the amusement and instruction of his fellows, Mr Warren was a laborious legal plodder on his own account in the Temple; first as a special pleader, and afterwards as a counsel; in which last capacity he produced, as a tribute to law as well as to literature, an important standard law-book, held at this moment in high repute.

Now, if what we have said be true,—and if it be not, we shall be glad to be informed of our error—we hold it to be an utter impossibility for Maga either to look coldly upon Mr Warren’s literary career, or to stand mutely by with her hands behind her, when all honest people are vociferously applauding that gentleman upon his first appearance in an entirely new character. If we don’t clap our hands, who shall applaud? Nobody will respect the mother who thinks her child less worthy than the world esteems him. If we should hold our peace, Maga would be despised—not by the world—that would not affect her much, but by her own honest soul, and her eternal sense of right, which would destroy her. We have held our peace long enough. Impatient as we were to be the first to hail our own, to introduce him to his readers in the columns in which first he introduced himself, we have committed violence to our affection, and bided our good time. Maga watched with natural fond anxiety the proceedings of her son. She called to mind their long connexion, and had maternal apprehensions—the best of mothers have them—lest the third appearance of her offspring on the literary stage of life might dim the lustre of his former efforts in the same arena. Moreover, people of a certain age have whims and fancies. Maga, young, buxom, sportive, and healthy as she looks, has reached a matron’s years. Her contemporaries, judging from her feats, and vexed in heart, will not believe it. We cannot wonder at their scepticism; they look old in their infancy. Maga has the playfulness and elasticity of youth in her prime. If she is so sprightly with a load of years upon her, she may live for ever. Honest contemporaries are right; she may—she WILL! But, as we said, folks of a certain age have whims. Men who have prospered under one system are not eager to adopt and try another. The guardianship of Maga, in Maga’s eyes, casts a halo around the doings of her children. Mr Warren had achieved noble triumphs, walking hand-in-hand with her month after month and year after year. If he should deny himself the aid and run alone, might he not fall? We feared he might, till we had read his book, and then our fear was gone. But though fear departed, modesty—Maga’s ancient fault—remained. The proprieties of the case bade her be silent till the world had spoken. Though she was not bound to withhold her smile and warm approval in her royal privacy, sweet decorum forbade a syllable of public praise until her panegyric might no longer sway the universe. The hour for breaking silence has arrived: Maga seizes it proudly and unreservedly, as her custom is: who shall blame her?

Mr Warren has, indeed, achieved a signal and complete success. The opinion which we formed of his new labour, ere it went to press, is confirmed and echoed by the enthusiastic unanimity of the public; by those who read, and by those useful organs which undertake to guide the reader’s taste and judgment. The first few pages of the volume dispel at once all fears as to backsliding or downsinking on the part of the author. Fresh, vigorous, racy, and pure—such are the well-known characteristics of Mr Warren’s style: they are here as they were present in his earliest productions almost twenty years ago. From the first page to the last, there is not the slightest evidence of exhaustion from over-cropping or superfetation. All is new, healthy, wholesome, and genuine: bright as the purest water, clear as the summer’s sky, and as full of holy promise.

We think we discern a sneer upon the bilious and discontented cheeks of a certain class of writers as they read the last two words. We know the gentlemen well. They have been scribbling for the last few years with a “oneness of purpose,” as creditable to their understandings as it is significant of their ulterior designs. “Now and Then” is by no means written for their especial delectation, although, if properly and humbly read by the “earnest” worthies, it would go far to secure their moral improvement. The volume neither laughs at ecclesiastical institutions, nor ridicules the professors of religion. It does not make fun of every thing serious, until the unsophisticated reader is reduced to wondering whether he is not in duty bound to smile when and wherever his previous education had instructed him to weep: it does not consider that a man born on a dunghill has all the virtues of Adam before he transgressed, and that another, brought into life on a bed of down in Grosvenor Square, has, poor devil, in virtue of his good luck, inherited the vices of Satan and of the whole company of fallen divinities. There are a heap of Cockneys now gaining their miserable bread by the promulgation of such doctrines, who will look down with supreme contempt and biting sarcasm upon the book of which we treat; not, mark you, the believers of such doctrines, but simply the mischievous and impious promulgators. Trust them, they prefer the company of the wealthy and the well-to-do, as they love cheese and beer more profoundly than all the moral beauty that the earth contains. Catch them giving sixpence to a beggar on a snowy day, or uttering a syllable of human kindness, which costs them nothing, to a houseless wanderer, no one being by. We hold it to be a great jewel in the coronet of Mr Warren, that he sets his face manfully, in the present instance, against the fashion which all honest men and true must deprecate. The freedom from the prevailing cant which his book exhibits, is most refreshing; the certain upturning of misshapen noses which its very tendency must effect, the greatest compliment yet paid to his honest exertions in the cause of morality, and of the holy faith which he professes.

“Now and Then” is a Christmas book for a Christian people. It is a tale of fiction, which the most devout may read with no fear of insult, and without risk of being obliged to suspend their orthodoxy for the sake of an hour’s pleasant reading. The book invests Christmas with its legitimate Christian associations. It cannot be denied that the tendency of this species of literature, for the last few years, has been to denude the sacred season of all these associations, and to surround it with others which are at once trifling, irreligious, and heathenish. We dwell upon this fact, because there needs some courage boldly to speak God’s truth in an age rapidly verging towards practical infidelity. In Parliament, the once great leader of a greater Christian party publicly denies the necessity of a declaration of Christian faith as the test of a legislator. In our light literature, we find references enough to the goodness of Providence, but a studious avoidance of the name and properties by which that Providence is recognised when we come to our knees by the bed-side or in the sanctuary. There is, we grant, not so much a denial of the essential doctrines of Christianity every where about us save in the church, as a studious and utter disregard of them; but there is imminent peril in this very disregard. Neglect precedes desertion. Let us be duly grateful, we say, to one who, in the modest pages of a simple tale, recalls us to our obligations, and reminds us that the chief of duties here is to cling firmly to the faith by which the world is saved, and to proclaim first principles when that world is basely shrinking from their free and open recognition.

Let us, however, not be misunderstood. “Now and Then” is not a religious novel—popularly so called. Mr Warren is not on the present occasion a “religious novelist,” as controversial divines, usurping the functions of the tale writer are, for want of a better term, absurdly styled. The Christianity which pervades this book is pure and catholic, and has nothing to do with the quarrels of sects and classes: it is applicable to universal humanity. There is no vulgar presumptuous dabbling with controverted points of Scripture, which, appearing in works of fiction, is utterly abominable and ludicrous, even in its futility: but the author, starting with a high and admirable purpose, and keeping that purpose in view to the very last, confines himself strictly and solely to what we all regard as Christianity’s irrevocable and fundamental principles;—great saying truths which none can blink with safety, and which he brings forward with an evident profound sincerity and reverence, impossible to mistake and difficult to slight.

The story, potently simple in itself, opens with marvellous simplicity. We quote from the beginning:—

“Somewhere about a hundred years ago (but in which of our good kings’ reigns, or in which of our sea-coast counties, is needless to be known) there stood, quite by itself, in a parish called Milverstoke, a cottage of the better sort, which no one could have seen, some few years before that in which it is presented to our notice, without its suggesting to him that he was looking at a cottage quite of the old English kind. It was most snug in winter, and in summer very beautiful; glistening, as then it did, in all its fragrant loveliness of jessamine, honeysuckle, and sweet-brier. There, also, stood a bee-hive, in the centre of the garden, which, stretching down to the road-side, was so filled with flowers, especially roses, that nothing whatever could be seen of the ground in which they grew; wherefore it might well be that the busy little personages who occupied the tiny mansion so situated, conceived that the lines had fallen to them in very pleasant places indeed. The cottage was built very substantially, though originally somewhat rudely, and principally of sea-shore stones. It had a thick thatched roof, and the walls were low. In front there were only two windows, with diamond-shaped panes, one above another, the former much larger than the latter, the one belonging to the room of the building, the other to what might be called the chief bed-room; for there were three little dormitories—two being small, and at the back of the cottage. Close behind, and somewhat to the left, stood an elm-tree, its trunk completely covered with ivy; and so effectually sheltering the cottage, and otherwise so materially contributing to its snug, picturesque appearance, that there could be little doubt of the tree’s having reached its maturity before there was any such structure for it to grace and protect. Beside this tree was a wicket, by which was entered a little slip of ground, half garden and half orchard. All the foregoing formed the remnant of a little freehold property, which had belonged to its present owner and to his family before him, for several generations. The initial letter (A) of their name, Ayliffe, was rudely cut in old English character in a piece of stone forming a sort of centre facing over the doorway; and no one then living there knew when that letter had been cut.”

Such is the scene, and such the small house, in and from which the events evolve, that form the solemn and instructive narrative. The owner of the cot, the foremost though the humblest personage in the drama, was once a substantial, but is now a reduced yeoman, well stricken in years, being, at the opening of the story, close upon his sixty-eighth year.

“The crown of his head was bald, and very finely formed; and the little hair that he had left was of a silvery colour, verging on white. His countenance and figure were very striking to an observant beholder, who would have said at once, ‘That man is of a firm and upright character, and has seen trouble,’—all which was indeed distinctly written in his open Saxon features. His eye was of a clear blue, and steadfast in its gaze; and when he spoke, it was with a certain quaintness, which seemed in keeping with his simple and stern character. All who had ever known Ayliffe entertained for him a deep respect. He was of a very independent spirit, somewhat taciturn, and of a retiring, contemplative humour. His life was utterly blameless, regulated throughout by the purifying and elevating influence of Christianity. The excellent vicar of the parish in which he lived reverenced him, holding him up as a pattern, and pointing him out as one of whom it might be humbly said, Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile. Yet the last few years of his life had been passed in great trouble. Ten years before had occurred, in the loss of his wife, who had been every way worthy of him, the first great sorrow of his life. After twenty years spent together in happiness greater than tongue could tell, it had pleased God, who had given her to him, to take her away—suddenly, indeed, but very gently. He woke one morning, when she woke not, but lay sweetly sleeping the sleep of death. His Sarah was gone, and thenceforth his great hope was to follow her, and be with her again. His spirit was stunned for a while, but murmured not; saying, with resignation, ‘The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.’ A year or two afterwards occurred to him a second trouble, great, but of a different kind. He was suddenly reduced almost to beggary. To enable the son of an old deceased friend to become a collector of public rates in an adjoining county, Ayliffe had unsuspiciously become his surety. The man, however, for whom he had done this service, fell soon afterwards into intemperate and dissolute habits; dishonesty, as usual, soon followed; and poor Ayliffe was horrified one evening by being called upon, his principal having absconded, a great defaulter, to contribute to repair the deficiency, to the full extent of his bond.”

Ayliffe’s property was sacrificed at a blow. At the time of entering into his engagement, he was the freehold owner of some forty or fifty acres of ground, and the master of some sums of money advanced upon mortgage to a neighbour. Much of this went immediately. Nor was this calamity his only one. He had a son, another Adam Ayliffe. Ayliffe the younger was betrothed, at this period of accumulated misfortune, to a young girl, who jilted him in the time of the family poverty. The blow fell upon the young and proud-hearted yeoman, as such blows will fall upon those in whose retired course a first affection comes as an abiding blessing, or an utter curse. A visible change took place both in his character and demeanour after the disappointment. First love in the younger Ayliffe’s case was the curse and not the blessing. All went wrong with the family from this hour. Adam finally married, it is true, a maiden residing with Mr Hylton, the vicar of Milverstoke, but the union, though one of unquestionable affection, yielded no earthly happiness. After the loss of worldly goods, Adam, and his son betook themselves to labour for their subsistence. The father became a hireling, much to the affliction of his son, but not to his own sorrow, for he “heartily thanked God for the strength that still remained to him, and for the opportunity of profitably exerting that strength.” Father, son, and daughter, still resided in the cottage, being its sole occupants. A year and a half of severe and constant exertion in the ordinary out-of-door operations of farming, and old Adam gave way. The spirit was more willing than the flesh. The younger Ayliffe laboured then for the livelihood of all, and another was added to the group, in the shape of an infant son, born about a year after the marriage of his parents, at the peril of its mother’s life.

At this stage of the history, the remnant of old Ayliffe’s land is demanded in the way of purchase by the agent of the Earl of Milverstoke, (whose principal country residence is within a short distance of the cottage,) and steadily refused by the owners. The old man assured Mr Oxley that it would break his heart to be separated for ever from the property of his fathers, to see their residence pulled down, and all trace of it destroyed; but Mr Oxley’s appetite for the property was only whetted by the reluctance of its insignificant proprietor.

“‘Be not a fool, Adam Ayliffe,’ [said Mr Oxley, during one of his frequent visits to the cottage on the subject of this purchase;] ‘know your interest and duty better. Depend upon it, I will not throw all this my trouble away, nor shall my Lord be disappointed. Listen, therefore, once for all, to reason, and take what is offered, which is princely, and be thankful!’

“‘Well, well,’ said Ayliffe, ‘it seems that I cannot say that which will suit you, Mr Oxley. Yet once more will I try, and with words that perhaps may reach the ear that mine cannot. Will you hear me?’

“‘Ay, I will hear, sure enough, friend Adam,’ said Mr Oxley, curiously; on which Ayliffe took down a large old brass-bound book, and, opening it on his lap, read with deliberate emphasis as follows:——

“‘Naboth the Jezreelite had a vineyard, which was in Jezreel, hard by the palace of Ahab king of Samaria.

“‘And Ahab spake unto Naboth, saying, Give me thy vineyard, that I may have it for a garden of herbs, because it is near unto my house: and I will give thee for it a better vineyard than it; or, if it seem good to thee, I will give thee the worth of it in money.

“‘And Naboth said to Ahab, The Lord forbid it me, that I should give the inheritance of my fathers unto thee.’

“When he had read these last words Ayliffe closed the Bible, and gazed at Mr Oxley in silence. For a moment the latter seemed somewhat staggered by what he saw and what he had heard; but at length—‘Oh, ho, Adam! do you make your Bible speak for you in business?’ said he, in a tone of rude jocularity. ‘Well, I shall wish you good day for some little while, it may be, and good luck to you here. It is somewhat of a bit of a place,’ he continued as he drew on his gloves, glancing, at the same time, contemptuously round the little room, ‘to set such store by; but be patient—be patient, Adam; there is one somewhat larger that will be ready for you by-and-bye——’

“This insulting allusion to the workhouse or the county jail old Ayliffe received in dignified silence. Not so his son, who, rising with ominous calmness from the chair on which he had for some time been sitting, as it were, on thorns, and silent only out of habitual deference to his father, approached Mr Oxley in two strides, seized him by the collar with the hand of a giant, and, before his astonished father could interpose, had dragged Mr Oxley to the doorway, near which he had been standing, and with a single jerk flung him out into the open air with a violence which sent him staggering several yards, till he fell down at full length on the ground.

“‘Adam, Adam! what have you done!’ commenced his father, approaching his son with an astounded air.

“‘Nay, never mind me, father,’ muttered his son vehemently, standing with arms akimbo, and watching Mr Oxley with eyes flashing fury. ‘There, Master Oxley; show never here again that wizened face of yours, or worse may happen. Away! Back to the Castle, and tell him that sent you here what you have received! Off! out into the road,’ he added, raising his voice, and moving furiously towards Mr Oxley, who precipitately quitted the garden, ‘or I’ll teach you to speak of the workhouse again! See that the dogs lick not——’

“‘Adam! I charge you hold your peace!’ said the old man, loudly and authoritatively, and advancing towards Mr Oxley, who, however, having, after muttering a few words to himself, and glancing furiously at young Ayliffe, hastily mounted his horse, which had been standing fastened at the gate, had already galloped out of hearing; and about that time in the ensuing day had contrived, during an interview on business with the Earl, to intimate, as if casually only, that the Ayliffes, who owned the roadside cottage, had received the liberal overtures made by Mr Oxley on his lordship’s behalf, with expressions of coarse disrespect, and even malignant hostility. Not a syllable breathed Mr Oxley of the treatment which he had received at the hands of young Ayliffe; nor did he deem it expedient, for reasons of his own, to summon his assailant to answer before the magistrates for what he had done.”

Ayliffe heard no more of Mr Oxley, but his trials sadly increased from the hour of that gentleman’s violent departure from his humble roof. The poor remnant of his patrimonial estate had dwindled down to the cottage and the slip of ground attached to it. Young Ayliffe continued to work from morning till night like any slave in the plantations; but his industry yielded small result. In addition to the other misfortunes, the infant member of this luckless household, feeble from its birth, and likely to be reared with difficulty, became, by an accident, maimed for life. The black cloud had fairly settled over the habitation.

Sarah, the wife, was about to give birth to another child, when misery appeared to have reached its climax. The once comely furniture had been disposed of by degrees to purchase necessary food; and nothing but horror stared the unfortunates in the face, when an accident took place which gave the final touch to a dismal history that appeared already complete.

“Young Ayliffe, with heavy thoughts in his mind, burthening and depressing it, went one day to his work at a farmer’s at some distance from Milverstoke, having only one companion the whole day long: but that companion appearing good-natured and communicative, the frank young Ayliffe could not refrain from talking about that which was uppermost in his thoughts—the feeble condition of his wife, and her doctor’s constant recommendation of nourishing food. ‘And why don’t you get it, if you care for her?’ inquired his companion with a surprised air, resting for a moment from his work.

“‘Surely,’ quoth poor Ayliffe, ‘you should ask me why I do not get one of the stars out of the sky. Is meat to be picked up in the high road?’

“‘No; not in the high road,’ said the other, drily, ‘but there’s dainty eating for the sick and the gentle to be had—elsewhere.’

“In plain English, Ayliffe’s new friend pointed at game; speaking most temptingly of hare, above all other sorts of game, as a dainty dish, whether roast or stewed, for those that were sick and delicate; and assured Ayliffe that his (the speaker’s) wife had lived secretly on hare all through her time of trouble, and had never in her life thriven so well; for naught was so nourishing as hare’s flesh. Poor Ayliffe listened to this with but too willing an ear, though it went clean contrary to all his own notions, and those which he knew to be entertained by his father. He resisted but very faintly the arguments of his new friend; who indeed fairly staggered Ayliffe, by asking him whether he thought that he did wrong if he caught a hedgehog, a weasel, or a snake, in the field or hedge of another; and if not, why was it different with a hare? Much conversation had they of this sort, in the course of which poor Ayliffe, in the frank simplicity of his nature, gave such a moving picture of his wife’s necessities, as greatly interested his companion; who said that he happened to have by him a very fine hare that had been given him by a neighbouring squire, and which was greatly at Ayliffe’s service. After much hesitation he, with many thanks, accepted the gift; and, accompanying his new friend to his cottage, received into his possession the promised hare, (a finer one certainly was hardly to be seen,) and made his way home with his perilous present, under cover of the thickening shades of night. What horrid misgivings he had, as he went along! How often he resolved either to return the hare to the giver, or fling it over the hedge, as he passed! For he was aware of his danger: there being no part of England where game was more strictly preserved, more closely looked after, or poachers more severely punished, than at Milverstoke. But he thought of his wife—of the relish with which she must partake of this hare; and by the inspiriting aid of thoughts such as these, he nerved himself to encounter her suspicions, and his father’s rebuke and reproaches.”

That rebuke and those reproaches he encountered. Happy had he been had he encountered nothing worse! The hare was rejected by the upright father, but the rejection did not save the son. He had been entrapped into accepting the gift by one who had sent a companion to watch him home, and who, in order to obtain half the penalty, forthwith informed against the unfortunate receiver. The receiver was fined, but Mr Hylton, the vicar, paid the sum required, and released him from his trouble.

Whilst matters are looking so black at the cottage, there is joyousness enough at the neighbouring castle. The season is Christmas, and Viscount Alkmond, the only son and heir of the Earl of Milverstoke, has arrived at the castle to pass the Christmas holidays. Here is the castle and its owner.

“Milverstoke Castle, to which its next lordly possessor was then on his way, was a truly magnificent structure, worthy of its superb situation, which was on the slope of a great forest, stretching down to the sea-shore. Seen from the sea, especially by moonlight, it had a most imposing and picturesque appearance; but from no part of the surrounding land was it visible at all, owing to the great extent of woodland in which it was embosomed. The Earl of Milverstoke, then lord of that stately residence, had a personal appearance and bearing which might be imagined somewhat in unison with its leading characteristics. He was tall, thin, and erect; his manner was composed, his countenance refined and intellectual, and his features comely; his hair had been for some years changed from jet-black into iron-gray. His bearing was lofty, sometimes even to repulsiveness; his temper and spirit haughty and self-reliant. Opposition to his will, equally in great or small things, rendered that arbitrary will inflexible, whatever might be the consequence or sacrifice; for he gave himself credit for never acting from impulse, but always from superior discretion and deliberation. He was a man of powerful intellect, extensive knowledge, and admirably fitted for public affairs,—in which, indeed, he had borne a conspicuous part, till his imperious and exacting temper had rendered him intolerable to his colleagues, and objectionable even to his sovereign, from whose service he had retired, to use a courteous word, in disdainful disgust, some five years before being presented to the reader. He possessed a vast fortune, and two or three princely residences in various parts of the kingdom. Of these Milverstoke was the principal; and its stern solitude suiting his gloomy humour, he had betaken himself to it on quitting public life. He had been a widower for many years, and, since becoming such, had become alienated from the distinguished family of his late countess; whose ardent and sensitive disposition they believed to have been utterly crushed by the iron despotism of an unfeeling and domineering husband. Whatever foundation there might have been for this supposition, it contributed to imbitter the feelings of the Earl, and strengthen a tendency to misanthropy. Still his character had fine features. He was most munificent; the very soul of honour; a perfect gentleman; and of irreproachable morals. He professed a firm belief in Christianity, and was exemplary in the discharge of what he considered to be the duties which it imposed upon him. He would listen to the inculcation of the Christian virtues of humility, gentleness, and forgiveness of injury, with a kind of stern complacency; unaware, all the while, that they no more existed within himself, than fire could be elicited from the sculptured marble. Most of his day-time he spent in his library, or in solitary drives, or walks along the sea-shore or in the country. Unfortunately, he took no personal part, nor felt any personal interest in the management of his vast revenues and extensive private affairs; intrusting them, as has been already intimated, implicitly to others. When he rode through the village, which lay sheltered near the confines of the woodland in which his castle was situated, he appeared to have no interest in it or its inhabitants, though nearly all of them were his own tenantry. His agent, Mr Oxley, was their real master.

“Mr Hylton was one of his lordship’s occasional chaplains, but by no means on intimate terms with him; for that the vicar’s firm independent character unfitting him. While he acknowledged the commanding talents of the Earl, his lordship was, on his part, fully aware of Mr Hylton’s strong intellect, superior scholarship, and the pure and lofty spirit in which he devoted himself to his spiritual duties. The good vicar of Milverstoke knew not what was meant by the fear of man—and that his stately parishioner had had many opportunities of observing; and, in short, Mr Hylton was a much less frequent visitor at the Castle than might might have been supposed, and was at least warranted, by his position and proximity.

“Possibly some of the Earl’s frigid reserve towards him was occasioned by the cordial terms of intimacy which had existed between him and the late Countess—an excellent personage, who, living in comparative retirement at Milverstoke, while her lord was immersed in political life, had consulted Mr Hylton constantly on the early education of her two children. The Earl had married late in life, being nearly twenty years older than his Countess, who had brought him one son and one daughter. The former partook largely of his father’s character, but in a somewhat mitigated form; he was quicker in taking offence than his father, but had not his implacability. If he should succeed to that father’s titles and estates, he would be the first instance of such direct succession for nine generations, the Earl himself having been the third son of a second son. The family was of high antiquity, and its noble blood had several times intermingled with that of royalty.”

On one of the more advanced days of the Christmas week, we are told there took place a kind of military banquet at the Castle, in compliment to the officers of a dragoon regiment, one of whose out-quarters was at the barracks at some two miles distance. Lord Alkmond was present at this banquet. During its progress his lordship quitted the company to stroll in the woods—wherefore none knew; but during his evening walk he was barbarously murdered. Young Ayliffe, under fearfully suspicious circumstances, is arrested for the crime. He had been discovered near the body—his sleeves were covered with blood—he had been hunted and tracked to his home. The cup of misery was full.

A coroner’s inquest is held—a verdict of wilful murder returned against Adam Ayliffe, who is formally committed by the magistrate. He is held in custody, and must await his trial. He is not guilty. The reader feels it in spite of the damning evidence that will be brought against the accused on the day of his solemn trial: the father is aware of it, and sustains his manly soul with the consciousness, dreadful as may be the unjust and as yet unspoken sentence. Old Adam has gone to his child in prison. Behold the miserable pair! Listen to the pathetic appeal.

“They were allowed to be alone for a short time, the doctor and nurse of the prison being within call, if need might be. The prisoner gently raised his father’s cold hand to his lips and kissed it, and neither spoke for a few minutes; at length——

“‘Adam! Adam!’ said the old man in a low tremulous whisper, ‘art thou innocent or guilty?’ and his anguished eyes seemed staring into the very soul of his son, who calmly replied,—

“‘Father, before God Almighty, I be as innocent as thou art, nor know I who did this terrible deed.’

“‘Dost thou say it? Dost thou say it? I never knew thee to lie to me, Adam!’ said his father eagerly, half rising, from the stool on which he sate. ‘Dost thou say this before God, whom thou art only too likely,’ he shuddered, ‘to see, after next Assizes, face to face?’

“‘Ay, I do, father,’ replied his son, fixing his eyes solemnly and steadily on those of his father, who slowly rose and placed his trembling arms around his son, and embraced him in silence: ‘How is Sarah?’ faltered the prisoner, faintly.

“‘Ask me not, Adam,’ said the old man; who quickly added, perceiving the sudden agitation of his son, ‘but she is not dead; she hath been kindly cared for.’

“‘And the lad?’ said the prisoner, still more faintly.

“‘He is well,’ said the old man; and the prisoner shook his head in silence, the tears running down his cheeks through closed eyelids.”

There is another too, who, in spite of the circumstances which carry conviction to the minds of others, is morally certain of the innocence of Adam Ayliffe. At the beginning of the narrative we are informed that, “as father and son would stand suddenly uncovered, while the reverend vicar passed or met them on his way into the church, his heart yearned towards them both: he thoroughly loved and respected them, and was in a certain way proud of two such specimens of the English yeoman; and, above all, charmed with the good example which they set to all his other parishioners. Now the vicar had from Adam’s boyhood entertained a liking for him, and had personally bestowed no inconsiderable pains upon his education, which though plain, as suited his position, was yet sound and substantial.” This vicar trusted the manhood of the blood-guiltless Adam as he had affectionately attached himself to his youth. To suppose him guilty of the crime was to have implicit faith in circumstantial evidence, treacherous and deceitful at the best, and to spurn the actual knowledge gained from the decided tenor of a life which could NOT speak false. Adam Ayliffe could not become a murderer and still be Adam Ayliffe. He was himself, rational and sane; he was therefore guiltless. So argued the minister of God: so must the good and pious always argue, similarly placed. A world in arms against the miserable prisoner would not have moved the vicar from his strong conviction, or frightened him from the prisoner’s side. Providence, the just, so willed it!

The trial came. The fiend of circumstance for the hour triumphed over the as yet invisible spirit of truth. Mortal men could do no other than they did. Seeing through a glass darkly, they pronounced judgment, with the veil still undrawn. Adam Ayliffe, the innocent, the well-meaning, the sorely-tried, but the still upright, was condemned to die the death of a malefactor, for the shedding of blood which he had never spilt. The wretched convict is removed at once from the bar of the Court to the condemned cell. He is scarcely there before Mr Hylton, the incredulous clergyman, is at his side. The interview is long, and deeply interesting. The frantic despair of the hapless prisoner is gradually softened, and his mind turned to God by the pious counsels and arguments of his indefatigable pastor. Mr Hylton leaves the cell more than ever satisfied of the innocence of poor Adam Ayliffe.

He is sentenced, not yet hanged. The word has gone forth but the decree is not yet executed. God is just, but as merciful as just, and may interpose and save the long-suffering for His glory and their happiness. Mr Hylton, leaving the prison, is summoned to the neighbouring barracks. Arriving there, he is ushered into a private room, and introduced to one Captain Lutteridge. What has the captain to say to the minister? What does he know of the murder? You shall hear. During the trial, the judge remarked that it was very strange that Lord Alkmond should go out into the woods on the fatal night, and wondered that no one knew the reason. Now Captain Lutteridge did not know the reason, but he had possibly, only possibly, a clue to it. A subject had been mentioned during the dinner on the memorable night, which had evidently distressed his lordship, and, it may be, called him forth. What that subject was, he, the captain, knew, but, without permission from the Earl of Milverstoke, would not state,—he being a soldier, a man of honour, and incapable of betraying confidential intercourse, as it were, spoken at the table of his noble host. It was a case of life and death. Adam Ayliffe had an advocate with the captain more anxious and impressive than the paid counsel who had served him on his trial, and Mr Hylton did his duty faithfully. Before he quitted Captain Lutteridge, that officer had undertaken to wait upon the Earl of Milverstoke, and to obtain, if it might be, his permission to communicate the secret. The captain kept his word, but to little purpose. The Earl forbade all mention of the melancholy scene, and gave his visitor no encouragement. But Mr Hylton waited not for encouragement or aid. Before Captain Lutteridge returned from Milverstoke Castle, the indefatigable minister was already on his road to London, to obtain an interview with the Secretary of State, to inform that functionary that there was a secret, and to entreat a respite upon that ground; but not upon that ground alone. Another gleam of sunshine, thin as hair, stole through the stormy sky. A letter had been received by Mrs Hylton, that hinted at guilt elsewhere, removing it from Ayliffe’s stainless cottage. Fragile as the document was, the ambassador of the condemned relied upon it as though it had been a rock. And not in vain! From the Home Secretary, he was referred to the judge who tried the cause: the judge listened long and patiently to all that Mr Hylton had to urge upon the miserable man’s behalf, and finally ordered a fortnight’s respite, with the view of giving time for confirmation of the important letter’s intimations.

The unconquerable Mr Hylton returned to Milverstoke. He sees the Earl, who spurns him from his door as a reward for his unjustifiable interference between justice and the murderer of his son: he sees the Earl’s daughter, and pleads with her on behalf of the doomed: he sees Captain Lutteridge,—he leaves no stone unturned, to secure, if not the pardon of his client, at least the remission of the punishment to which, in his inmost heart, he believed him most unjustly sentenced. His success is far from equal to his zeal. The proud Earl’s heart is obdurate. Who can wonder at it? The gentle daughter would do much, but has the power to do little; and Captain Lutteridge, a gentleman and a soldier, is disinclined to save a murderer from the gallows, even if he had the ability, which he has not.

The fortnight is coming quickly to an end, and there is no arrival of favourable news. Shortly before its close, Mr Hylton receives a brief message from the unhappy occupant of the condemned cell, which he dares not disregard. It is this—“I go back into darkness while you are away.” Mr Hylton mounts his horse and sets off. It is a melancholy errand, but we will take courage and accompany him. The scene is grand as it is awful:—

“As he rode along, his mind lost sight almost entirely of the temporal in the spiritual, the present in the future, interests of the condemned; and by the time that he had reached the gaol, his mind was in an elevated frame, befitting the solemn and sublime considerations with which it had been engaged.

“A turnkey, with loaded blunderbuss on his arm, leaned against the cell door, which he opened for Mr Hylton in silence, as he approached; disclosing poor Ayliffe sitting on his bench, double-ironed, his head buried in his hands, his elbows supported by his knees. He did not move on the entrance of Mr Hylton, as his name had not been mentioned by the turnkey.

“‘Adam! Adam!—the Lord be with you! Amen!’ solemnly exclaimed Mr Hylton, gently taking in his hand one of the prisoner’s.

“Ayliffe suddenly started up, a gaunt figure, rattling in his irons, and grasping in both his hands that of Mr Hylton, carried it to his heart, to which he pressed it for some moments in silence, and then, bursting into tears, sunk again on his bench.

“‘God bless you, Adam! and lift up the light of His countenance upon you! Put your trust in him: but remember that he is the all-seeing, the omniscient, omnipotent God, who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity!’

“Ayliffe wept in silence, and with reverent affection of manner pressed to his lips the still-retained hand of Mr Hylton.

“‘Come, Adam! speak! Speak to your pastor—your friend—your minister!’

“‘You seem an angel, sir!’ said Ayliffe, looking at him with a dull, oppressed eye, that was heart-breaking.

“‘Why an angel, Adam? I bring you,’ said Mr Hylton, shaking his head, and sighing, ‘no earthly good news whatever; nothing but my unworthy offices to prepare you for hereafter! Prepare! prepare to meet thy God, for he draweth near! And who may abide the day of his coming!’

“‘I was readier for my change when last I saw you, sir, than now,’ said Ayliffe, with a suppressed groan, covering his face with his manacled hands.

“‘How is that, poor Adam?’

“‘Ah!—I was, so it seemed, half over Jordan, and have been dragged back. I see not now that other bright shore which made me forget earth! All now is dark!’

“His words smote Mr Hylton to the heart. ‘Why is this? why should it be? Adam!’ said he, very earnestly, ‘have you ever been, can you possibly ever be, out of God’s hands? What happens but from God? And if He hath prolonged this your bitter, bitter trial, what should you, what can you do, but submit to His infinite power and goodness? He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men, to crush under his feet all the prisoners of the earth! He will not cast off for ever; but though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies!’

“‘Oh, sir! oft do I think his mercy is clean gone for ever! Why—why am I here?’ he continued, with sudden vehemence. ‘He knoweth my innocence—yet will make me die the death of the guilty! That cannot, cannot be just!’

“‘Adam! Adam! Satan is indeed besieging you! Even if, in the awful, inscrutable decrees of Providence, you be ordained to die for what you did not, have you forgotten that sublime and awful truth and fact on which hang all your hopes—the death of Him who died, the just for the unjust?’

“Ayliffe’s head sunk down on his knees.

“‘Ah, sir!’ said he, tremulously, after a while, during which Mr Hylton interfered not with his meditations, ‘these words do drive me into the dust, and then raise me again higher than I was before!’

“‘And so they ought, Adam. Is there a God? Has he really revealed himself? Are the Scriptures true? Am I the true servant of a true master? If to all this you say yea—speak not again distrustfully. If you do—if you so think—then are you too like to be beyond the pale of mercy. I am free, Adam,—you are bound,—yet are both our lives every instant at the command and absolute disposal of Him who gave them, that we might be on trial here for a little while. For aught I know, I may even yet die before you, and with greater pain and grief; but both of us must die, and much of my life is gone for ever. As your frail fellow-mortal, then, I beseech you to listen to me! Our mode of leaving life is ordered by God, even as our mode of living in it. To some he hath ordained riches, others poverty; some pleasure, others misery, in this life; but all for reasons, and with objects best known, nay, known only to himself! Adam, you have now been four days here beyond that which had been appointed you—now that we are alone, have you aught to confide to me, as the minister for whom you have sent? What saith my Master? If you confess your sins, he is faithful and just to forgive you; but if you say that you have no sin, you deceive yourself, and the truth is not in you. And if that last be so, Adam, what shall be said of you, what can be hoped for you?’

“‘If you be thinking of that deed for which I am condemned,’ said Ayliffe, with a sudden radiant countenance, ‘then am I easy and happy. God, my maker, and who will be my judge, knoweth whether I speak the truth. Ay! ay! innocent am I of this deed as you!’

“‘It is right, Adam, that I should tell you that all mankind who know of your case, from the highest down to the lowest, do believe you guilty.’

“‘Ah, sir, is not that hard to bear?’ said Ayliffe, with a grievous sigh, and a countenance that looked unutterable things.

“‘It is, Adam—it is hard; yet, were it harder, it must be borne. Here is Lord Milverstoke, who hath lost his son—his only son—the heir to his title and his vast possessions—lost him in this mysterious and horrid way: is not that hard to be borne? Have you, Adam,—I ask you by your precious hopes of hereafter,—animosity towards him who believes you to be his son’s murderer?’

“There was an awful silence for nearly a minute, at the close of which Ayliffe, with an anguished face, said—

“‘Oh, sir! give me time to answer you! Pray for me! I know whose example I ought to imitate; but’—he suddenly seemed to have sunk into a reverie, which lasted for some time, at the end of which,—‘Sir—Mr Hylton,’ said he desperately, ‘am I truly to die on Monday week? Oh, tell me! tell me, sir! Life is sweet, I own!’

“He sprung towards Mr Hylton, and convulsively grasped his hands, looking into his face with frenzied earnestness.

“‘I cannot—I will not deceive you, Adam,’ replied Mr Hylton, looking aside and with a profound sigh. ‘My solemn duty is to prepare you for death! But—‘

“‘Ah!’ said he, with a desperate air, ‘to be hanged like a vile dog!—and every one cursing me, who am all the while innocent! and no burial service to be said over my poor body!—never—never to be buried!’ With a dismal groan he sunk back, and would have fallen from the bench, but for Mr. Hylton’s stepping forward. ‘Sir—sir,’ said Ayliffe presently, glaring with sudden wildness at Mr Hylton, ‘did you see the man at the door with the blunderbuss? There he stands! all day! all night! but never comes in!—never speaks!—Would that he would put it to my head, and finish me in a moment!’

“‘Adam! Adam! what awful language is this that I hear?’ said Mr Hylton, sternly. ‘Is this the way that you have spoken to your pious and venerable father?’

“‘No! no! no! sir!‘—he pressed his hand to his forehead—‘but my poor head wanders! I—I am better now! I seem just to have come out of a dream. But never should I dream thus, if you would ever stay with me—till—all is over!’

“Feeling it quite impossible to ask the miserable convict such questions as Mr Hylton had wished, he resolved not to make the attempt, but to do it as prudently and as early as might be, through old Ayliffe, or the chaplain or governor of the gaol. He was just about to leave, and was considering in what terms he could the most effectually address himself to Ayliffe, when, without any summons having issued from within, the door was unlocked, and the turnkey, thrusting in his head, said,—

“‘I say, my man, here’s the woman come with thy child, that thou’st been asking for. They’ll come in when the gentleman goes.’

“Ayliffe started up from his seat with an eager motion towards the door, but was suddenly jerked down again, having forgotten in his momentary ecstasy that his irons were attached to a staple in the floor.

“‘Come, come, my man,’ said the turnkey, sternly, ‘thou must be a bit quieter, I can tell thee, if this child is to come to thee.’

“‘Give me the lad! give me the lad! give me the lad!’ said Ayliffe, in a hoarse whisper, his eyes straining towards the approaching figure of the good woman, who, with a very sorrowful and apprehensive look, now came in sight of the condemned man.

“‘Lord bless thee, Adam Ayliffe!’ she began, bursting into tears, ‘Lord love thee and protect thee, Adam!’

“‘Give me the lad!—show me the lad!’ he continued, gazing intently at her, while she tremblingly pushed aside her cloak; and behold there lay, simply and decently clad, his little boy, awake, and gazing, apparently apprehensively, at the strange wild figure whose arms were extended to receive it!

“‘Adam, father of this thy dear child,’ said Mr Hylton, interposing for a moment between Ayliffe and the child, not without some alarm, ‘wilt thou handle it tenderly, remembering how feeble and small it is?’

“On this, poor Ayliffe gazed at Mr Hylton with a face of unspeakable agony, weeping lamentably; and still extending his arms, the passive child, gazing at him in timid silence, was placed within them. He sat down gently, gazing at his child for some moments with a face never to be forgotten by those who saw it. Then he brought it near to his face, and kissed incessantly, but with unspeakable tenderness, its tiny features, which were quickly bedewed with his tears.

“‘His mother!—his mother!—his mother!’ he exclaimed, in heart-rending tones, still gazing intently at its face, which was directed towards his own with evident apprehension. Its little hand for a moment clasped one of the irons that bound his father, but removed it immediately, probably from the coldness of the metal. The father saw this, and seemed dreadfully agitated for some moments; and Mr Hylton, who also had observed the little circumstance, was greatly affected, and turned aside his head. After a while,—

“‘How easily, my little lad, could I dash out thy little brains against these irons,’ said Ayliffe, in a low desperate tone of voice, staring into the child’s face, ‘and save thee from ever coming to this unjust fate that thy father hath!’

“Mr Hylton was excessively alarmed, but concealed his feelings, preparing, however, for some perilous and insane action, endangering the safety of the child. The gathering cloud, however, passed away, and the manacled father kissed his unconscious child with all his former tenderness.

“‘They’ll tell thee, poor lad, that I was a murderer! though it be false as hell! They’ll shout after thee, There goes the murderer’s son!’ He paused, and then with a sudden start said—‘There will be no grave for thee or thy mother to come and cry over!’

“‘Adam,’ said Mr Hylton, very anxiously, ‘weary not yourself thus—alarm not this poor child, by thus yielding to fear and despair; but rather, if it can hereafter remember what passeth here this day, may its thoughts be of thy love and of thy gentleness! If it be the will of God that thou must die, and that unjustly, as far as men are concerned, He will watch over and provide for this little soul, whom He, foreseeing its fate, sent into the world.’

“Ayliffe lifted the child with trembling arms, and pressed its cheeks to his lips. The little creature did not cry, nor appear likely to do so, but seemed the image of mute apprehension. The whole scene was so painful, that Mr Hylton was not sorry when the Governor of the gaol approached, to intimate that the interview must cease. The prisoner, exhausted with violent excitement, quietly surrendered his child to his attendant, and then silently grasped the hand of Mr Hylton, who thereupon quitted the cell; the door of which was immediately locked upon its miserable occupant: who was once again alone!”

From the prison let us to the great Earl’s house. His lordship has become morose and almost vindictive against the supposed murderer of his son, from the very efforts that have been made to save him from the gallows. Had Adam Ayliffe been suffered to die the unpitied death of any other heinous criminal, no one, perhaps, would have more pitied the wretched malefactor than the Earl of Milverstoke himself. The interest taken in the convict, not only by the minister, but by his own daughter, and, as he suspected, by the very widow of the murdered lord, his daughter-in-law, seemed cruel forgetfulness of the dead, and wanton injury to the living. He upbraided the minister who preached the virtues of mercy and forgiveness; he looked with anger and violent impatience when others dared to take up the thread of the clergyman’s unauthorised discourse. During an interview with Lady Alkmond, the Earl had heard the syllables forgive! dropping from the widow’s mouth; he made no answer, but repaired to his library, in which he walked to and fro for some time, meditating with sternness and displacency upon the word. Let us open the door gently and carefully, and, using our lawful privilege, look in.

“On taking his seat at length, his lordship opened with some surprise a Testament which lay before him, and guided by the reference written by the trembling fingers of his daughter, he read as follows:—‘So likewise shall my heavenly Father do unto you, if ye from your hearts for give not every one his brother their trespasses.’ This verse the Earl read hastily, then laid down the book, folded his arms, and leaned back in his seat, not with subdued feelings, but very highly indignant. He now saw clearly what had been intended by the faint but solemn whisper of Lady Alkmond, even could he have before entertained a doubt upon the subject. Oh, why did not thoughts of the heavenly temper of these two loving and trembling spirits melt his stern heart? ’Twas not so, however: and even anger swelled within that FATHER’S breast of untamed fierceness—anger almost struggling and shaping itself into the utterance of ‘Interference! intrusion! presumption!’ After a long interval, in which his thoughts were thus angrily occupied, he reopened the Testament, and again read the sublime and awful declaration of the Redeemer of mankind; yet smote it not his heart. And after a while, removing the paper, he calmly replaced the sacred volume on the spot from which it had been taken by Lady Emily. Not long after he had done so, he heard a very faint tapping at the distant door, but without taking any notice of it; although he had a somewhat disturbing suspicion as to the cause of that same meek application, and the person by whom it was made. The sound was presently repeated, somewhat louder; on which, ‘Who’s there?—enter!’ called out the Earl, loudly, and in his usual stern tone, looking apprehensively towards the door—which was opened, as he had thought, and perhaps feared it might be, by Lady Emily.

“‘It is I, dear papa,’ said she, closing the door after her, and advancing rather rapidly towards him, who moved not from his seat; though the appearance of—NOW—his only child, and that a daughter, most beautiful in budding womanhood, and approaching a FATHER with timid, downcast looks, might well have elicited some word or gesture of welcoming affection and tenderness.

“‘What brings you hither, Emily?’ he inquired coldly, as his daughter, in her loveliness and terror, stood within a few feet of him, her fine features wearing an expression of blended modesty and resolution.

“‘Do you not know, my dearest papa?’ said she, gently; ‘do you not suspect. Do not be angry!—do not, dear papa, look so sternly at me! I come to speak with you, who are my father, in all love and duty.’

“‘I am not stern—I am not angry, Emily. Have I not ever been kind to you? Why, then, this unusual mode of approaching and addressing me? Were I a mere tyrant, you could not show better than your present manner does, that I am such.’

“His words were kind, but his eye and his manner were blighting. His daughter’s knees trembled under her. She glanced hastily at the table in quest of the little book which her hands had that morning placed there; and not seeing it, her heart sunk.

“‘Be seated, Emily,’ said her father, moving towards her a chair, and gently placing her in it immediately opposite to him, at only a very little distance. She thought that she had never till that moment seen her father’s face, or at least had never before noticed its true character. How cold and severe was the look of the penetrating eyes now fixed on her—how rigid were the features—how commanding the expression which they wore—how visibly clouded with sorrow, and marked with the traces of suffering!

“‘And what, Emily, would you say?’ he inquired, calmly.

“‘Dearest papa, I would say, if I dared, what my sister said to you so short a time ago—Forgive!’

“‘Whom?’ inquired the Earl, striving to repress all appearance of emotion.

“‘Him who is to die on Monday next—Adam Ayliffe. Oh, my dearest papa, do not—oh, do not look so fearfully at me!’

“‘You mean, Emily, the murderer of your brother!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Am I right? Do I understand you?’ inquired her father, gloomily.

“‘But I think that he is not—I do believe that he is not.’

“‘But how can it concern you, Emily, to think or believe on the subject? Good child, meddle not with what you understand not. Who has put you upon this, Emily?’

“‘My own heart, papa.’

“‘Bah, girl!’ cried the Earl, unable to restrain his angry impulse, ‘do not patter nonsense with your father on a subject like this. You have been trained and tutored to torment me on this matter!’

“‘Papa!—my papa!—I trained! I tutored! By whom? Am I of your blood?’ said Lady Emily, proudly and indignantly.

“‘You had better return, my child, to your occupations’——

“‘My occupation, dearest papa, is here, and, so long as you may suffer me to be with you, to say few, but few words to you. It is hard if I cannot, I who never knowingly grieved you in my life. Remember that I am now your only child. Yet I fear you love me not as you ought to love an only child, or you could not speak to me as you have just spoken.’ She paused for moment, and added, as if with a sudden desperate impulse—‘My poor sister and I do implore you to give this wretch a chance of life, for we both believe that he is innocent!’

“For a second or two the Earl seemed really astounded; and well he might, for his youthful daughter had suddenly spoken to him with a precision and distinctness of language, an energy of manner, and an expression of eye, such as the Earl had not dreamed of her being able to exhibit, and told of the strength of purpose with which she had come to him.

“‘And you both believe that he is innocent!’ said he, echoing her words, too much amazed to utter another word.

“‘Yes, we do! we do! in our hearts. My sister and I have prayed to God many times for His mercy; and she desires me to tell you that she has forgiven this man Ayliffe, even though he did this dreadful deed, and so have I; wife and sister of the dear one dead, we both forgive, even though the poor wretch be guilty; but we believe him innocent, and if he be, oh, Heaven forbid that on Monday he should die!’

“‘Emily,’ said the Earl, who had waited with forced composure till his daughter had ceased, ‘do you not think that your proper place is in your own apartment, or with your suffering sister-in-law?’

“‘Why should you thus treat me as a child, papa?’ inquired Lady Emily, scarcely able to restrain her tears.

“‘Why should I not?’ asked her father calmly.

“Lady Emily looked to the ground for some moments in silence.

“‘Does it not occur to you as possible that you are meddling? meddling with matters beyond your province? Is it fitting, girl,’ he continued, unable to resist an instantaneous but most bitter emphasis on the word, ‘that you should be HERE, talking to me at all, for one moment even, on a matter which I have never thought of naming to you—a child?’

“‘I am a child, papa but I am your child, and your only one and love you more than all the whole world.’

“‘Obey me, then, as a proof of that love: retire to your chamber, and there wonder at what you have ventured—presumed this morning to do.’

“Lady Emily felt the glance of his eye upon her, as though it had lightened; but she quailed not.

“‘My dear, my only parent, I implore you send me not away; let me—’

“‘Emily, I cannot be disobeyed; I am not in the habit of being disobeyed by any one; it is very sad that I should see the attempt first made by a child.’

“‘Oh papa! forgive me! forgive me!’ She arose, and, approaching him hastily, as she observed him about to advance, sunk on one knee before him, clasping her hands together. ‘Oh, hear me for but a moment. Never knelt I before but to God, yet kneel I now to my father. Oh, have mercy! nay, be JUST!’

“‘Why, Emily, verily I fear that long confinement, and want of exercise, and change, and air, are preying upon your mind; you are not speaking rationally. Rise, child, and do not pursue this folly—or I may think you mad!’ He disengaged her hands gently from his knee, which they had the moment before clasped, and raised her from her kneeling posture, she weeping bitterly.

“I am not mad, papa, nor is my sister; but we fear lest God’s anger should fall upon you, nay, upon us all, if you will not listen to the voice of compassion.’

“‘Be seated, Emily,’ said the Earl. ‘Excited as you are at present,’ he continued, with rapidly increasing sternness of manner, ‘no words of mine will be able to satisfy you of the grievous impropriety, nay the cruel absurdity of all this proceeding. You talk to me like a parrot about mercy, and compassion, and God’s anger, and so forth, as though you understood what you were saying, and I understood not what I am doing, what I ought to do, and what I have done. Child, you forget yourself, me, and your duty to me. How dared you to profane yonder Testament, and insult your father by placing it before him as you did this morning? Did you do so?’

“‘I did,’ she answered, weeping.

“‘You presumptuous girl! forgetful of the fifth commandment!’

“‘Oh, say not so! say not so! I love, reverence you—and I FEAR you, now!’ said Lady Emily, gazing at him with tears running down her cheeks, her dark hair partially deranged, her hands clasped in a supplicatory manner. ‘I prayed to God, first, that I might not be doing wrong; that you might not be angry with me, that if angry, you might forgive me!’

“‘Angry with you? Have I not cause? Never dared daughter do such thing to father before! You presume to rebuke and threaten me—me—with the vengeance of Heaven, if I yield not to your sickly dreaming, drivelling sentimentality. Silence!’ he exclaimed, perceiving her about to speak very earnestly. ‘I have not had my eyes closed, I tell you now, for days past—I have observed your changed manner: you have been deliberating long beforehand how to perpetrate this undutifulness! As though my heart had not been already struck as with a thunderbolt from Heaven—you, forsooth, you idle, unthinking child! must strive to stab it—to wound me! to insult me! This is not your own doing: you dared not have thought of it! You are the silly tool of others. Silence! hear me, undutiful girl!

“‘Papa, I cannot hear you say all this, in which you are so wrong. No tool am I of any body! Twice have you said this thing!’ Her figure the Earl perceived involuntarily becoming erect as she spoke, and her eye fixed with steadfast brightness upon his. Had he been sufficiently calm and observant, he might have seen in his daughter at that moment a faint reflection of his own lofty spirit—intolerant of injustice. ‘And even you, papa, have no right whatever thus to talk to me. If I have done wrong, chide me becomingly; but all that you have said to me only hurts me, and stings me, and I cannot submit to it—’

“‘Lady Emily, to your chamber!’ said the Earl, with a stately air, rising; so did his daughter.

“‘My Lord!’ she exclaimed magnificently, her tall figure drawn up to its full height, and her lustrous eyes fixed unwavering upon his own. Neither spoke for a moment; and the Earl began, he knew not why, to feel great inward agitation, as he gazed at the erect figure of his silent and indignant daughter.

“‘My child!’ said he, at length, faintly, with a quivering lip; and extending his arms, he moved a step towards her; on which she sprang forward into his arms, throwing her own about his neck, and kissing his cheek passionately. His strong will for once had failed him; his full eyes overflowed, and a tear fell on his daughter’s forehead. She wept bitterly; for a while he spoke not, but gently led her to a couch, and sat down beside her.

“‘Oh, papa, papa!’ she murmured, ‘how I love you!’

“For a moment he answered not, struggling, and with partial success, to overcome the violence of his emotions. Then he spoke in a low deep tone—

“‘The voices of the dead are sounding in my ears, Emily! the tranquil dead! ’Tis said, my Emily,’ he paused for some moments, and his agitation was prodigious,—‘that stern was I to your sweet mother—’

“‘Oh, dear, dearest, best beloved by daughter, never!’ she cried vehemently, struggling to escape from his grasp, for beheld her rigidly while gazing at her with agonised eyes.

“‘And I now fearfully feel—I fear—that stern I was, as stern I have this day been to you. Forgive me, ye meek and blessed dead!‘—his quivering lips were, closed for a moment, as were his eyes. ‘Oh, Emily! she is looking at me through your eyes. Oh, how like!’ he remarked, as if speaking to himself. Lady Emily covered her eyes, and buried her head in his bosom. ‘Do you, my Emily, forgive me?’

“‘Oh, papa! no, no; what have I to forgive? Every thing have I to love! my own, sweet papa! Much I fear that I may have done what a daughter ought not to have done! I have grieved and wounded a father that tenderly loved me—’

“‘Ay, my child, I do,’ he whispered tremulously, gently drawing her slender form nearer to his heart. ‘Emily,’ said he, after a while, ‘go, get me that Testament which you placed before me; oh, go, dear child!’ She still hung her head, and made no motion of going. ‘Go, get it me; bring it to me!’

“She rose without a word, and brought it to him; and while he silently read the verse to which she had directed his attention, she sat beside him, her hands clasped together, and her eyes timidly fixed on the ground.

“‘It was in love, and not presumption, my Emily, that you laid these awful words before me!’

“‘Indeed, my papa, it was,’ said she, bursting into tears.

“He appeared about to speak to her, when words evidently failed him suddenly. At length—‘And when that sweet soul’—he paused, ‘this morning whispered in my ear, did she know of this that you had done?’ Lady Emily could not speak. She bowed her head in acquiescence, and sobbed convulsively. Her father was fearfully agitated. ‘Wretch that I am!—I am not worthy of either of you!’ Lady Emily flung her arms round him fondly, and kissed him. ‘I am yielding to great weakness, my love,’ said he, after a while, with somewhat more of composure. ‘Yet, never shall I—never can I—forget this morning! I have long felt, and feared, that I was not made to be loved: I have seen it written in people’s faces. Yet can I love!’

“‘I know you can! I know you do, my own dear papa! Do you not believe that I love you? that Agnes loves you?’

“‘I do, my Emily—I do! Yet till this moment have I felt alone in life. In this vast pile, to me how gloomy and desolate! with these woods, so horrible, around me, I have been alone—utterly alone! And yet were you with me—you, my only daughter—who, I suppose, dared not tell me how much you loved me!’

“‘Oh, do not say so, papa! I knew your grief and suffering. They were too sacred to be touched—I wept for you, but in my own chamber!’

“‘You stand beside me as an angel, Emily!’ said the Earl fondly, ‘as you have ever been: yet I now feel as though my eyes had not really seen and known you!’”

The gentle Lady Emily quits her father’s room with leave to speak again of Christian mercy, but with no further gain. Still there is time to save the unoffending, and it is not lost. When every hope seemed gone, impelled by an irresistible impulse, and fortified by an unwavering conviction of the prisoner’s innocence, Mr Hylton, on the Friday evening preceding the Monday fixed for Ayliffe’s execution, as a last resource, had, relying on the king’s well-known sternly independent character, written a letter to his Majesty, under cover to a nobleman then in London attending Parliament, and with whom Mr Hylton had been acquainted at college. Mr Hylton’s letter to the King was expressed in terms of grave eloquence. It set out with calling his Majesty’s attention to the execution, six months before, of a man for a crime of which three days afterwards he was demonstrated to have been innocent. Then the letter gave a moving picture of the exemplary life and character of the prisoner, and of his father; pointed to testimonials given in his favour at the trial; and added the writer’s own, together with the most solemn and strong conviction which could be expressed in language, that whoever might have been the perpetrator of this most atrocious murder, it was not the prisoner doomed to die on Monday. It then conjured his Majesty, by every consideration which could properly have weight with a sovereign intrusted with authority by Almighty God, to govern according to justice and mercy, to give his personal attention to the case then laid before him, and act thereon according to his Majesty’s own royal and element judgment. The letter suggested by heaven, written by heaven’s minister, and read by heaven’s intrusted servant, achieved its mission. The King read, and commuted the sentence of death to that of transportation. Upon the morning fixed for the execution a reprieve arrived, almost as the doomed man was walking from his cell to the gallows.

The convict departs; his wife follows him; his child and father remain behind. The former is cared for by the daughter of the Earl of Milverstoke, the latter has still the abiding friendship and regard of Mr Hylton. Twenty years elapse. Perpetual banishment was Adam Ayliffe’s sentence, and he is still abroad. His misshapen child has given evidence of commanding abilities, and under another name has been sent, at Mr Hylton’s instigation, to the university of Cambridge, where he is maintained still at the charges of the sweet-hearted Lady Emily. We arrive at the season when the annual contest takes place in the university for its most honourable prizes. The dignity of Senior Wrangler is contested by a young nobleman and a humpbacked youth, of whom little or nothing is known. The rivals, representing as it were the aristocracy and the democracy of the ancient seat of learning, have no unworthy envyings, one against the other; they are friends and friendly co-labourers. The battle comes, the representative of the people is victorious: Viscount Alkmond—for it is he—the son of the murdered man, is beaten by Adam Ayliffe, the offspring of the supposed murderer. The Earl of Milverstoke lives to hear the news!

He lives to hear more! A man in a distant part of the country is executed for a robbery. Before he dies he makes a confession. His name is Jonas Handle. He tells the world, for the relief of his own soul, that he, and none but he, twenty years before, did kill and murder my Lord Milverstoke’s son, for which one Ayliffe was taken and condemned to die, but afterwards was transported, and is since possibly dead. He explains minutely how he proceeded to his work; who was his accomplice. He had determined to kill one Godbolt, the head keeper, and, mistaking the young lord for his intended victim, he struck him dead with the coulter of a plough, which coulter he thrust into the hole of a hollow tree hard by. The confession reaches Mr Hylton; the coulter of the plough is sought and found: the exiled innocent is recalled—returns: this also the Earl of Milverstoke lives to hear!

He lives to hear more! Mr Hylton has not suffered twenty years to elapse without appealing to the proud and uncrucified heart of the great Earl, who seemed to have forgotten, in the midst of his transitory splendour, that the great God of heaven himself became a humble man, the eternal pattern of humility to man on earth. The faithful minister knocked at the soul of the arrogant and overbearing lord, until he shook its hardness, and made it meet for heaven and its blessings. When he brought tidings of the murderer’s confession, he came to one who had heard from the same lips often before happier tidings, and promises bright with celestial splendour. In former days Mr Hylton had approached the Lord of Milverstoke as a meek martyr would have dared the violence of a savage beast; now he comes with his intelligence to one rendered, at the close of his long life, docile as a lamb. He speaks, and the Earl asks tremulously, and with many sighs, whether his reverend monitor tells him of the murderer’s death in judgment or in mercy.

“‘In mercy, dear my Lord! in mercy!’ answered Mr Hylton, with a brightening countenance and a cheerful voice: ‘in you, spared to advanced age, I see before me only a monument of mercy and goodness! Had you continued till now, deaf to the teaching of His Holy Spirit—dead to His gracious influences—hateful, relentless, and vindictive—this which has now occurred would, to my poor thinking, have appeared to speak only in judgment, uttering condemnation in your ears, and sealing your eyes in judicial blindness! But you have been enabled to hear a still small voice, whose melting accents have pierced through your deaf ear, and broken a heart once obdurate in pride and hopelessly unforgiving. Plainly I speak, dear my Lord, for my mission I feel to be now no longer one of terror, but of consolation! It is awful, but awful in mercy only, and condescension!’”

The Earl is old; but there lives another still older, who must be visited without delay. The Saxon patriarch, who, when we first saw him, a man “of simple and stern character” clung to his Bible as to the rock upon which the poor of this world, the sorely beset and the heavily tried, can alone repose in peace, and who referred simply, believingly, and lovingly to that sacred volume, as the cup of sorrow grew fuller and fuller, until at length it overflowed and could hold no more,—this aged man, Ayliffe the grandfather, still lives and owns the cottage which he never would give up. What is the Earl of Milverstoke to do, but to ask pardon from the gray hairs of the man whom the law so much offended, and he still more, by the cruel harshness of his once impenitent spirit? See how he totters to the unpolluted gate!

“Mr Hylton was moved almost to tears at the spectacle which was before his mind’s eye, of these two old men meeting for the first, and it might be for the only, time upon earth; and his offer to accompany his Lordship at once to the cottage, the Earl eagerly accepted, and they both took their departure. As the carriage approached, the Earl showed no little agitation at the prospect of the coming interview.

“‘Yonder,’ said Mr Hylton exultingly, ‘yonder is the humble place where dwells still, and but a little longer, one whom angels there have ministered to; with whom God hath there ever communion; and it is a hallowed spot!’

“The Earl spoke not; and in a few minutes’ time he was to be seen, supported by Mr Hylton and a servant, closely approaching the cottage door, another preceding him to announce his arrival, and standing uncovered outside the door as the Earl entered it; his lordly master himself uncovering, and bowing low as he stepped within, accompanied by Mr Hylton, who led him up to old Ayliffe, saying, ‘Adam, here comes one to speak with you—my Lord Milverstoke—who saith that he hath long, in heart, done to you and yours injustice; and hath come hither to tell you so.’ The Earl trembled on Mr Hylton’s arm while he said this, and stood uncovered, gazing with an air of reverence at the old man, who, when they entered, was sitting beside the fire, leaning on his staff beside a table, on which stood his old Bible, open, with his spectacles lying upon it, as though he had just laid them there. He rose slowly as Mr Hylton finished speaking.

“‘My Lord,’ said he solemnly, and standing more erectly than he had stood for years, ‘we be now both very old men, and God hath not spared us thus long for nothing.’

“‘Ay, Adam Ayliffe, indeed it is so! Will you forgive me and take my hand?’ said the Earl faintly, advancing his right hand.

“‘Ay, my Lord—ay, in the name of God! feeling that I have had somewhat to forgive! For a father am I, and a father wast thou, my Lord! Here, since it hath been asked for, is my hand, that never was withheld from man that kindly asked for it; and my heart goes out to thee with it! God bless thee, my Lord, in these thine old and feeble days—old and feeble are we both, and the grasshopper is a burthen to us.’

“‘Let me sit down, my friend,’ said the Earl gently. ‘I am feebler than thou; and be thou seated also!’ They both sat down opposite to each other, Mr Hylton looking on in silence. ‘God may forgive me (and may He, of His infinite mercy!)—thou, my fellow-creature, may’st forgive me; but I cannot forgive myself, when I am here looking at thee. Good Adam! what hast thou not gone through these twenty years!’ faltered the Earl.

“‘Ay, twenty years it is!’ echoed Ayliffe solemnly, sighing deeply, and looking with sorrowful dignity at the Earl. ‘Life hath, during these twenty years, been a long journey, through a country dark and lonesome; but yet, here is the lamp that hath shone ever blessedly beside me, or I must have stumbled, and missed my way for ever, and perished in the valley of the shadow of death!’ As he spoke, his eyes were fixed steadfastly on the Earl, and he placed his hand reverently upon the sacred volume beside him.

“‘Adam, God hath greatly humbled me, and mightily afflicted me!’ said the Earl; ‘I am not what I was!’

“‘The scourge thou doubtless didst need, my Lord, and it hath been heavily laid upon thee; yet it is in mercy to thee that thou art here, my good Lord!’ said Ayliffe, with an eye and in a tone of voice belonging only to one who spoke with authority. ‘It is in mercy, too,’ he continued, ‘to me, that I am here to receive and listen to thee! I, too, have been perverse and rebellious, yet have I been spared!—And art thou then, my Lord, in thy heart satisfied that my poor son hath indeed suffered wrongfully?’

“‘Good Adam,’ said the Earl sorrowfully, and yet with dignity, ‘I believe now that thy son is innocent, and ought not to have suffered; yet God hath chosen that we should not see all things as He seeth them, Adam. The law, with which I had nought to do, went right as the law of men goeth; but, alas! as for me, what a spirit hath been shown by me towards thee and thine! Forgive me, Adam! There is one here that knoweth more against me’—the Earl turned towards Mr Hylton with a look of gloomy significance—‘than I dare tell thee, of mine own awful guiltiness before God.’

“‘He is merciful! he is merciful!’ said Ayliffe.

“‘Wilt thou give me a token of thy forgiveness of a spirit most bitter and inhuman?’ said the Earl presently. ‘If thy poor son Adam cometh home while I live, wilt thou speak with him that he forgive me my cruel heart towards him?—that he accept amends at my hands?’

“‘For amends, my Lord,’ said Ayliffe, ‘doubtless he will have none but those which God may provide for him; and my son hath no claim upon thee for human amends. His forgiveness I know that thou wilt have, for aught in which, my Lord, thou may’st have wronged him by uncharitableness; or he is not son of mine, and God hath afflicted him in vain.’

“Here Mr Hylton interposed, observing the Earl grow very faint, and rose to assist him to the door.

“‘Good day, friend Adam, good day,’ said Lord Milverstoke feebly, but cordially grasping the hand which Ayliffe tendered to him. ‘I will come hither again to see thee; but if I may not, wilt thou come yonder to me? Say yes, good Adam! for my days are fewer, I feel, than thine!’

“‘When thou canst not come to me, my good Lord, I will come to thee!’ said Ayliffe, sadly, following the Earl to the door, and gazing after him till he had driven away.”

That time came soon. The Earl grows ill; his end approaches. Exquisitely beautiful is the description of that end. Remembering the old man’s plighted word, the sick nobleman sends his servant to the cottage, and demands fulfilment of the promise given. The old man hears and trembles; but with a solemn countenance he gets his hat and stick, puts his Bible under his aged arm, and answers, “Ay, I will go with thee to my Lord.”

“When the Earl saw him it was about evening, and the sun was setting, and its declining rays shone softly into the room.

“‘Adam, see—it is going down!’ said Lord Milverstoke in a low tone, looking sadly at Adam, and pointing to the sun.

“‘How is thy soul with God?’ said the old man, with great solemnity.

“The Earl placed his hands together, and remained silent for some moments. Then he said, ‘I would it were, good Adam, as I believe thine is!’

“‘Nay, my good Lord, think only of thine own, not mine; I am sinful, and often of weak faith. But hast thou faith and hope?’

“‘I thank God, Adam, that I have some little! Before I was afflicted, I went astray! But I have sinned deeper than even thou thinkest, good soul!’

“‘But His mercy, to whom thou art going, is deeper than thy sins!’

“‘Oh, Adam! I have this day often thought that I could die more peacefully in thy little cottage than in this place!’

“‘So thy heart and soul be right, what signifies where thou diest?’

“‘Adam,’ said the Earl, gently, ‘thou speakest somewhat sternly to one with a broken spirit—but God bless thee! thy voice searcheth me! Wilt thou make me a promise, Adam?’ said the Earl, softly placing his hand in that of Ayliffe.

“‘Ay, my Lord, if I can perform it.’

“‘Wilt thou follow me to the grave? I would have followed thee, hadst thou gone first?‘

“‘I will!’ replied Adam, looking solemnly at the Earl.

“‘And now give me thy prayers, dear Adam! Pray for him that—is to come after me—for I go—and in peace—in peace—’

“Lady Alkmond, who was on the other side of the bed, observed a great change come suddenly over the Earl’s face, while Adam was opening the Bible and adjusting his glasses to read a Psalm. She hastened round, she leaned down and kissed the Earl’s forehead and cheek, grasped his thin fingers, and burst into weeping. But the Earl saw her not, nor heard her: he was no longer among the living!”

It need not be said that the Earl of Milverstoke does what justice he may to the falsely banished man and his family, by making such provision for them in his will, as his circumstances allow and his dignity requires. It need scarcely be mentioned that the close of the career of the Ayliffe family is as serene and happy, as it was stormy and disastrous in its beginning. They are not compensated for long-suffering by the money of his lordship; but they are made to see that the ways of God are unsearchable and past finding out, and that now, indeed, men see through a glass darkly, though hereafter they shall see face to face, and know even as they are known. Knowledge and consolation rightly understood, is cheaply purchased, though even with a life of trouble, such as Adam Ayliffe saw.

There remains but a word or two more to say concerning this history, and the tale is told. It has been hinted that Lord Alkmond quitted the banqueting room on the night of his murder on account of the discussion of a subject which seemed greatly to annoy him. That subject, as appears in the course of the story, was DUELLING. Let the author explain the mystery. It might have had much to do with the tragical catastrophe. Explained, it has nothing to do with it whatever.

“Among several letters which come to the Castle shortly after the Earl’s sudden illness, was one marked ‘Immediate’ and ‘Private and Confidential,’ and bore outside the name of the Secretary of State. From this letter poor Lady Emily learnt the lamentable intelligence that her brother, the late Lord Alkmond had, when on the Continent, and shortly before his marriage, slain in a duel a Hungarian officer, whom, having challenged for some affront which had passed at dinner, he had run through the heart, and killed on the spot: the unfortunate officer leaving behind him, alas! a widow and several orphans, all of them reduced to beggary. The dispute which had led to these disastrous results, had been one of really a trivial nature, but magnified into importance by the young Lord’s quick and imperious temper, which had led him to dictate terms of apology so humiliating and offensive, that no one could submit to them. Wherefore the two met; and presently the Hungarian fell dead, his adversary’s rapier having passed clean through the heart. It was, however, an affair that had been managed with perfect propriety; with an exact observance of the rules of duelling! All had been done legitimately! Yet was it MURDER; an honourable, a right honourable, murder: murder as clear and glaring, before the Judge of all the earth, as that by which Lord Alkmond had himself fallen. When thus fearfully summoned away to his account, the young noble’s own hand was crimsoned with the blood which he had shed: and so went he into the awful presence of the Most High, whose voice had ever upon earth been sounding tremendous in his ears,—Where is thy brother? What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. Unhappy man! well might his heart have been heavy, when men expected it to be lightest! Well might his countenance darken, and his soul shudder within him, under the mortal throes of a guilty conscience! From his father’s splendid banqueting table he had been driven by remorse and horror; for his companions, unconscious that they were stabbing to the heart one who was present, WOULD TALK of duelling, and of one sanguinary duel in particular, that bore a ghastly resemblance to his own. Such poor amends as might be in his power to make, he had striven to offer to the miserable family whom he had bereaved, beggared, and desolated, to vindicate an honour which had never been for one instant really questioned, or compromised; and if it had been tarnished, could BLOOD cleanse and brighten it? All the money that he could ordinarily obtain from the Earl, had from time to time been furnished by Lord Alkmond to the family of his victim. For them it was that he had importuned his father for a sum of money sufficient to make for them an ample and permanent provision. Only the day before that on which he had quitted London, to partake of the Christmas festivities, had he written an earnest letter to the person abroad with whom he had long communicated on the subject, assuring him that within a few weeks an ample and satisfactory final arrangement should be made. And he had resolved to make a last strenuous effort with the Earl; but whom, nevertheless, he dared not, except as a matter of dire necessity, tell the nature of his exigency. And why dared not the son tell his father? And why had that father shrunk, blighted, from the mention, by Captain Lutteridge and Mr Hylton, of the conversation which had driven his son out into the solitude where he was slain? Alas! it opened to Lord Milverstoke himself a very frightful retrospect; through the vista of years his anguished, terror-stricken eye settled upon a crimsoned gloom—

“Oh, Lord Milverstoke!—and then would echo in thy ears, also, those appalling sounds,—what hast THOU done?

“For THY—Honour! also, had been dyed in blood!”

We have told as well as we may, but very imperfectly as we feel, the story of “Now and Then.” It is not for us to advise the reader to get the volume and to read it for himself. For this he will, as he should, use his own discretion; but we will, as a faithful Mentor, and a long-tried friend, entreat him, grave, intelligent, and responsible Christian man as he is, should he peruse the volume, to consider well at its close the actual frame of mind in which the book has left him. We hold this to be the true test of all literary metal, whosoever be the coiner, wheresoever be the mint. If the solemn elements brought into the light and pleasant texture of this simple narrative, do not elevate the spirit and brace the heart of all but the thorough sceptic—whom nothing will elevate but liquor, and nothing brace but a good three-inch oak stick—we are content to be set down as the mere slavish flatterer of Mr Warren, and not as his calm and uninfluenced, though warm and devoted counsellor. The organs of public opinion in London have dwelt upon the contrast which “Now and Then” affords to the current literature of the day. We are not surprised at the impression these critics have received. Whether we regard the tendency and object of the story, its conception and execution, the style of the language, or the construction of the plot, we are bound to confess, that between this production and the heap of Christmas and other tales that drop uselessly, and worse than uselessly, into the world, there is all the difference of the bright, fresh, vigorous mountain air, and the thick fusty atmosphere of the lanes.

The current of piety that flows so equably on through the whole of the work, is lucid as a stream, polluted by no admixture of rank weeds or earthly dirt. It has been justly remarked, by the leading journal of the world, that “Now and Then” “is a vindication in beautiful prose of the ways of God to man.” Every actor in the history vindicates these ways: every fact as it arises does the same. The old Saxon Ayliffe, who, from his entrance till his exit, maintains the justice of God’s doings, and walks peacefully and unruffled over burning plough-shares, because he sublimely feels the practical influence of his faith, is one champion. Hylton, the indefatigable clergyman, doing good for his Master’s sake, reproving the high-born, sympathising with the lowly, preaching and acting reconciliation everywhere, is another champion. The Earl of Milverstoke is a champion too. If he be not, our soul has been moved in vain by the childlike piety and humble self-denial of his broken-hearted latter days.

There is one thing more to note, and then we have done. We have said, at the commencement of this article, that there are certain folks in London and the provinces, who, thinking themselves remarkably fine fellows, and quite above the cant of religion and all that sort of thing, will pooh, pooh the noble tendency of “Now and Then,” and talk about “stupid old times,” “superstition,” “humbug,” and the necessity of going a-head in these enlightened days, whereby they mean going to the devil headlong, though they know it not. These worthies, however, will do something more than pooh, pooh. They will retire to their tap-rooms, and fill their little souls with gin in sheer envy and disgust. Mr Warren, in the delineation of the Ayliffe family, has beaten the bilious discontented democrats on their own ground. He has taken for his hero a man of the people, but he has sustained the heroism with ample justice to all the world besides. Although the author of “Nature’s Aristocracy,” and “The Godlike Bricklayer,” may be a paragon of benevolence, yet he has not all the benevolence which this huge world of benevolence contains. We will not venture to hint that there lives a human being better than himself, but perhaps there live a few nearly, if not quite as good.

Mr Warren does justice to the masses: but he is much too honest and too upright—being himself one of the masses—to uphold their privileges at the sacrifice of other men’s lawful and just rights. He does not do it; and the English people, who love fair play, will honour him for his work.

We honour him too, and cordially shake him by the hand! He has not done worse than Maga expected from his industry and genius. Had he done worse, by our immortality! much as we love him, much as he has done for us, and we for him, much as we have done together, he should have felt the force of her frown, and been tapped—gently, perhaps, for the first offence—with the crutch that, ere now, with a blow has dealt death to the charlatan and impostor.

Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh.