FAMILY PORTRAITS.

No. V.-GOOD SIR WALTER.

"I HAVE been looking," said I to Mr. St. John, "with great delight, at the picture of a middle-aged gentleman, of about the date, and nearly in the costume, of 'Squire Western-but, judging from physiognomy, as unlike that worthy in other respects as can well be conceived. The utmost good humour and single-mindedness pervades his whole countenance. He has the most benevolent eye possible, and the merriest mouth, ready alike to imbibe a bumper, or to utter a joke. Who is the worthy baronet?—for I am sure he was the head of the house of his day, he looks so like a man of lands and beeves."

"There is no mistaking which picture you mean," answered St. John." It is that of one who is called now by tradition, as he was always most deservedly during his life- Good Sir Walter.' He was the most popular man in the country, the favourite companion of his equals, and the beloved benefactor of the poor. He was, indeed, as you have surmised, most single-hearted and kind-natured: but try your physiognomical skill a little farther, and see whether you can discover in what fashion he figures in the pen-and-ink portrait that I have drawn of him."

"Come to the gallery, then, that I may look at him again.”

We went, accordingly-and I placed myself in a due attitude of investigation before the excellent gentleman's picture. The hair was a little thin on the brow, and in the mildness of the eye, upon looking very minutely, I every now and then thought I traced a slight expression of softer feeling; and yet the general aspect of the countenance collectively was happy, even to the very English quality, heartiness: while its bland, as well as frank, good humour prevented it from being, in the least, coarse.

"I am rather puzzled,” I said, turning to St. John-“I should take him to have been a man most benevolent in his nature, lively and social in his habits, and of a strong affection towards his family, and extreme enjoyment of his home."

"All that is perfectly true-but still you do not in the least divine the nature of the tale I am about to give you. And, indeed, I do not wonder: you have read all that appearance gives-but a man's biography is not always written on his brow. What think you of Good Sir Walter being the hero of one of the daintiest love-stories in my whole collection?"

"Truly, I should not have guessed it: for though I doubt not he loved strongly, as well as fondly and truly, yet I should have taken him to have married a daughter of some old friendly family, he being seven, and she one, and twenty-and to have then passed his life in the midst of a happy family, increasing in number and in size every year."

"You are quite out," answered St. John-" but, as I said before, I do not wonder at it. I will send you up my manuscript, as soon as

I get home; and I think you will acknowledge that it well deserves the name of a love-story, and that there is no denying that Sir Walter is its hero."

THE STORY OF GOOD SIR WALTER.

Sir Walter Meynell was born in the last year of the seventeenth century, and was an only son, although he had several sisters. He went through the education which was then becoming fixed as the course proper for the Meynells, and which, in fact, has descended as regularly as the family-plate ever since. Eton, Oxford, and the Grand Tour formed this worthy system of training, which was continued unremittingly till the French revolution, together with one or two other slight changes that it wrought, took away from the rising Meynell of the day the power of travelling with a bear-leader through the principal parts of Europe.

But no such naughty doings existed in the days of Sir Walter's adolescence. He was accordingly presented at the court of the Regent, Duke of Orleans, where nothing naughty was ever heard of, and thence duly performed the whole of that itinerary which has been named the Grand Tour, from the circumstance, I suppose, of the traveller going straight on end, and returning almost precisely the way he came. Sir Walter, however, brought but little of foreign fashions back with him to England. He returned the same hearty, bright-spirited fellow he went-with some additional cultivation, indeed-for his mental qualities were keen and sound-but in no degree warped or made foreign by his residence abroad.

Not long after his return, he succeeded to his title and estate. His mother had been dead some years; and he came and settled at Arlescot, retaining his eldest sister at the head of his household, as she had been in their father's time, and all the others remaining exactly as they had then been. Sir Walter was not the man to put forth his sisters because they ceased to be daughters of the house-he loved them all dearly, and delighted to have them around him. "Arlescot," said he, in answer to his man of business, who spoke to him on the subject, "shall ever be their home till they marry. I wish, in every respect, to fill my poor father's place as much as possible." And, indeed, if it had not been that the face at the head of the table was some thirty years younger than that which had been there so lately, one would scarcely have known that any change had taken place at Arlescot-hall.

There was a very considerable difference between the age of the eldest and the youngest of Sir Walter's five sisters, so that he continued to have a lady-house (—and the word, though I coin it for the purpose, carries with it a most comprehensive signification-) for many years. There was none of that loneliness which so often sheds its chill over a bachelor's dwelling. There were always smiling faces and merry voices, to welcome his return home;-and all those elegancies and amenities, which exist in no society among which there are not women, constantly graced, and at the same time gave added animation to, the circle that congregated within the walls of Arlescot. Indeed, celebrated as that venerable pile has always been for its hospitality and joyous society, the days of Sir Walter and his sisters

have come down in tradition as the most brilliant and festive of all. The numerous Christmas party seldom broke up till it belied its name, and was treading on the heels of Lent; and the beautiful woods of green Arlescot, as they waved in the full pride of summer, ever saw bright and happy groups beneath their shade, and echoed to the sounds of springing voices and young laughter.

In a word, Sir Walter lived during these years a most happy life. He had around him those whom he loved best in the world: he not only saw them happy, but he helped to make them so. Indeed, so thoroughly did the milk of human kindness pervade his heart, that he drew his own chief enjoyment from conferring it. To the poor, he was, indeed, a benefactor. Not contented with an alms hastily given, or a dole regularly meted out at the gate, he would personally enter into their interests-assist the beginner, encourage the rising man, and protect and provide for the destitute, the aged, and the sick. He would give his attention to their representations, and deal to them a merciful justice. He would speak a kind word, as the flower of that beautiful tree of charity of which the kind action was the fruit. Before he was thirty years old, he had acquired, among the peasantry around Arlescot, the epithet of "Good Sir Walter." If any one met with injustice-" Go to good Sir Walter, and he will see you righted"if any one fell into distress-" Go to good Sir Walter, and he will set you on your legs again."

And among persons of his own station, Sir Walter was equally popular. He had, shortly after his coming into the country, been the means of reconciling a most distressing quarrel between two of his neighbours of the highest consideration-and this attracted the attention of the neighbourhood towards him. His constant good humour as a companion-his extreme hospitality-the delightful footing upon which the society at Arlescot was placed-his readiness to perform a friendly office, and the excessive reluctance with which he refused a favour,-all combined to make the gentry adopt the language of the poor, and say-"They have given him the right name-he is, indeed, Good Sir Walter."

One very natural consequence of the position in which Sir Walter was placed, was that he remained a bachelor. The smile of woman constantly cheered his home, while her accomplishments gave to it all the advantages of refinement and taste. In short, even the most manœuvring mammas in ———shire had given up the matter as a bad job-and set Sir Walter down as a man that would never marry.

The youngest of his sisters was very much younger than any of the family; and, indeed, there were almost twenty years between his age and her's. At the time this sister, whose name was Elizabeth, was about ten years old, there was only one of the others left unmarried, and Sir Walter began to feel, with sorrow, how much their happy family circle was diminished. This circumstance drew his affections most vividly towards the little Elizabeth. He felt that she was his last stay that when she left him, he would be widowed quite-and, accordingly, his kindness towards her increased so greatly, that she would have gone near to become a spoiled child-if it had not been that her nature was of a most excellent disposition, and that that

nature had been directed, originally, by her eldest sister, towards the best and most beautiful issues. Accordingly, when, at about ten years old, her brother began to be over-indulgent towards her, the effect produced upon her was scarcely more than to render her affection for him every day stronger and more fond, while it left untouched the admirable temper, and generous character, which were hers already.

It was a year or two later, just after the marriage of their only remaining sister, and when Elizabeth and Sir Walter were left alone, that a particularly-esteemed friend of the latter, who lived in the near neighbourhood of Arlescot, had the calamity to lose his wife. Mr. Adair—so he was named-was left with an only child, a daughter, about a year younger than Elizabeth, who had thus become motherless. Sir Walter had been in the constant habit of going to Mr. Adair's, and had always remarked the extreme beauty and animation of this child. Accordingly, after the first burst of sympathizing sorrow, for the loss his friend had sustained, and it was no common one, for Mrs. Adair had been a woman of a degree of merit indeed rare-Sir Walter's mind turned upon the thought of what the deprivation of such a mother must be to such a child!—" Poor, poor Lucy!" he exclaimed, “what will become of her now!-I pity her from the bottom of my soul. Such a disposition as hers needs most a mother's guidance; and now, at these tender years, she is left without female help, direction, or support!"

And justly was Sir Walter's pity bestowed. What, indeed, can deserve pity more than a girl who, at eleven years old, has a precocity which increases her age by at least half of its real amount-with the promise of an eager and wild temperament, and of singular yet great beauty-who has lost her mother? Such a being as this may escape great misfortunes-but the chances are sadly the other way.

Lucy Adair had been a great playfellow of Elizabeth Meynell's. The difference of age between the latter and her sisters had caused far more companionship to exist between these two, than Elizabeth had ever enjoyed in her own family. Their tendencies of disposition were widely different, and yet their attachment to each other was extreme. Elizabeth was mild and sweet in temper, firm as well as decided in principle, and possessed, as yet almost unknown to herself, a strong and vivid energy, which it needed only some fitting occasion to call forth. Lucy, on the other hand, was all animation, and wildness, and fire-playful as are the most playful of her age, yet occasionally displaying a burst of violence of mingled temper and feeling which was far, far beyond it. In fact, to any one who observed her minutely, she formed a subject for metaphysical study and prophecy, rather than of that sweet and simple contemplation which beautiful children of her age commonly afford.

It was in consequence of the peculiar intimacy subsisting between these young people, that, when he went to pay his visit of condolence to Mr. Adair, Sir Walter took Elizabeth with him. He felt, moreover, and with pride and joy, that she was one who, even now so young, was eminently fitted to administer such consolation as can be administered on an occasion like this. "Lucy, I am sure, suffers deeply," said Nov. 1828.

2 H

Sir Walter to his sister-" it will be for you, dear Elizabeth, to bring her mind to a state of calm, and to infuse into it that resignation which is alike our duty and our refuge when those we love are removed from us by death."

When they arrived at Wilmington, they found Mr. Adair alone. The warm and cordial grasp of Sir Walter's hand was, indeed, cordially, though more feebly, returned-but the widowed man shrank from his friend's glance, and, turning away, covered his face with his hands, to gain a moment to recover his composure. After a short pause, he said, "This visit is, indeed, kind, dear Meynell-I know the goodness of your heart, and what you must feel for me at such a moment as this. I am, indeed, desolate!"

Sir Walter answered his friend with that delicacy, yet depth, of feeling, which shewed how far beyond the formal condolences of the world were his expressions of sympathy-expressions, indeed, which could come only from a most sensitive heart under the influence of warm and strong friendship.

At length, he broke a pause which had supervened, by asking whether his sister might not see her young friend. Assuredly-and yet I fear the meeting will be almost too much for her—Oh, Meynell, you can form no idea of how that child has suffered!" As he spoke, he rang the bell, and desired his daughter to be called.

An object of more beauty and interest than was Lucy Adair, as she entered the room, it would be most difficult to conceive. She was dressed in the deepest mourning, and the contrast between her dress of sorrow, and the feelings of joyous gaiety which ought to be those of her age and more peculiarly so of her individual disposition, was most striking and sad. The change altogether in her appearance struck Elizabeth most painfully. Her jet-black hair, which commonly tossed in a profusion of ringlets, was now plainly parted upon her brow-her large dark eyes, which usually flashed with animation and buoyant life through their lashes of singular darkness and length, were now sunken, and, if I may use the phrase, pale with the cold moisture of protracted tears; and her cheek, instead of flushing and mantling with the brilliant blood of health and youth, was now of a whiteness equal to that of the ivory neck, which shewed in such startling contrast against the mourning dress.

When Lucy entered, her pace was slow, and her eyes were bent upon the ground. She seemed to be under the action of violent feeling, for her breath came and went rapidly, as was shewn by the almost tumultuous heaving of her bosom. At length, she raised her head, and running forward to Elizabeth, uttered one cry, and fell into her arms in a paroxysm of convulsive tears.

Mr. Adair turned to Sir Walter-and merely uttering the words, "You see"-left the room to regain that composure so necessary before his child, and which he found it impossible at that moment to support.

Sir Walter sat down silently, and gazed with emotion upon the picture before him. Two beautiful children, the one wrapt in an agony of grief, sheltered and cherished in the bosom of the other, whose gentle countenance, now tinged with sadness and pity, might