Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

each other down her cheeks as she spoke-" I am convinced that she then took her mental farewell of me-she knew that that was her last embrace. Oh God!" she continued in a tone of the bitterest selfreproach-" if I had but spoken to her sooner, my child might have been saved: it was mistaken forbearance on my part-to spare myself and her a slight present pain, I have destroyed her for ever."-Her emotion here choked her utterance-and she wept convulsively. I strove to comfort her, pointing out the extreme improbability of the fears she seemed to entertain being realized. She shook her head mournfully. I asked her if she had seen the letter her daughter was reading. She said she had purposely abstained from doing so, but had requested Lucy to burn it in her presence, which she had done. I then inquired if she had left any letter behind her on her departure --she put into my hand a scrap of paper containing only these words, "I cannot write-I am leaving you for ever-pity and pardon your poor lost child."

I was totally at a loss. To pursue Sir Edward and his victim, or his bride, (which?) seemed to me to be equally hopeless and vain. She had eloped with him-the evil was done-it lay in his breast to remedy it, and there alone. With bitter anxiety did we expect letters;-with trembling eagerness we searched the newspapers, day after day, to see if their marriage was announced. Weeks passed, and all was still suspense-and Mrs. Capel's health began to sink under her trials. At length the mystery was solved-I received a letter from Vernon dated Lausanne-it was as follows:

"You must think me a villain-and I am so-but I am not one wantonly, as I trust to prove to you, if you will read this through patiently. It will explain all that has happened-I will not spare myself—I have acted shamefully-but who could have withstood the temptation under which I fell? But I will not anticipate. You must have seen-indeed, I am sure you did see-how much I was struck with her beauty when I first saw her;-her wild freshness of manner and of spirit next impressed me with an admiration in which surprise and curiosity strongly mingled. I met her frequently, and was prompted by those feelings to search more deeply into her nature. It was something totally new and unknown-I thought my feelings were completely under my controul while I indulged my curiosity, and I strove in no degree to excite in her any sentiments of affection towards myself. But I was selfdeceived in both instances. Such constant collision could not continue with impunity. Towards one so fascinating, it was impossible that my manners should not assume, even unconsciously, a degree of tenderness which spoke far more than I had ever meant to do, and, on the other hand, the continual intercourse with one like her, every day developing some new powers of mind, or qualities of heart, could not but ripen my interest into affection of the strongest and keenest kind, before I knew where I was. In a word, before I had bestowed a thought upon the folly and wickedness of what I was doing, we both passionately loved

we had both confessed it to each other. "It was at this time that you took me to town; I saw you suspected

my conduct, and this opened my eyes to its atrocity. I left the country without taking any leave at the cottage, and determined to see her no more. I wrote to her a last (I then truly meant it should be), a last farewell. She answered my letter with all her characteristic frankness, her whole heart was laid bare before me. I could not adhere to the resolution I had formed,-I wrote again: letter followed letter. At last, I went to the country a second time. It was then that my passions had wholly assumed the mastery over reason and principleit was then I resolved she should be mine, cost what it might. And now, I must confide to you that which up to that time had been a secret to all the world—I am already married. You will start when I tell you that I was so when you knew me at Oxford. I married during the first term I kept there, and before I was eighteen; I will not enter into the particulars of this hateful subject; suffice it, that the match was of a nature which might be expected from the age at which it took place. My father was informed of it by the parties, and, after finding that it was impossible to break it, the whole affair was hushed up for a certain annual sum; that arrangement still continues, and, up to the time of which I speak, there were only three persons in the world, besides myself, who knew the fact. Now, however, I confided it to Fanny. I told her, as was most true, that I might, if I had chosen it, have deceived her-I might have married her-for I was certain that, from motives of interest, my secret would have remained safe. But I would not, I could not, act thus. It is ill to trust too fully to the wicked; and it might have happened that, after years of happy marriage, the whole would have been revealed-she would have been dishonoured, and her children bastardized. Moreover, my estate is, as you know, entailed upon the male heir. How could I, as an honest man, allow an illegitimate son of mine to succeed to it? The thought never dwelled upon my mind for a moment. I told Fanny the whole. Of the particulars of the succeeding month I will not speak. I will only say, that it was but two days before she fled with me that she consented to do so, and she almost retracted her consent the day after it was given. At length, your surprising us, as you did on your return from town, hastened her resolve. We both saw our intercourse could not continue as it had done-we met again that evening; the result you know.

“Such is, as succinctly as possible, the narrative of our conduct. That I have wronged Fanny grievously, my conscience but too severely reminds me every moment that I live; but, by my future conduct, I trust to make her as happy as she can be in our present position. The chief obstacle to that happiness is her feelings with regard to her mother. The forgiveness of that mother she must ever be wretched without. It is through you, my dear friend, that we hope this reconciliation may be effected. It is for that purpose that I have addressed this statement to you. I could not address her, and Fanny dare not. Make of this letter what use you deem most conducive to the end in view. To your friendship for both of us we trust. I need not say

with what feverish anxiety we shall await your answer. remain here till we receive it."

We shall

Such was Vernon's letter. I cannot describe the tumultuous crowd of feelings with which I read it. Poor, poor Luey, I could trace every step in the progress which led to her fall-I could

see her all the way,

And every turn that led her wrong."

Her eager and ardent disposition, mistrusting nothing, and sensitively alive to all that seemed generous and amiable, had hurried her away till, almost before she knew her feelings were implicated at all, they were irrecoverably pledged. And, afterwards, her gratitude for her lover's confidence-a confidence which a few weeks before would have made her break from him for ever-involved her in her final ruin. Her mind had arrived at that "heated state" of which I have spoken, and she could no longer reason justly, she only felt strongly.—And Vernon, deep and irreparable as were the injuries he had inflicted upon both mother and daughter, I could not but pity him. His guilt had not been cold-blooded; true it had latterly been premeditated, but then the barb of passion was fixed in his heart equally as in her's-whatever length of line his principles had, at one time, passion, powerful passion, had subdued him at last.

But if I felt compassion for these guilty sufferers, what must I do for her who was innocent? Alas! what a task had I to perform! Yet, as it was to be done, the sooner the better.

I found Mrs. Capel sitting with her knitting in her hands, but not working her eyes fixed, and swimming in tears. There was a picture, which hung opposite to her, of her daughter, when a cherub of five years old, playing with an orange; and I could see that she was gazing upon the joyous smile of sinless infancy which the countenance bore, with feelings of a deep, despairing sadness, which none but a bereaved mother can know. A person of sterner temperament would have had this picture removed-but she kept it there, and gazed on it.

The moment I entered, she saw I had something to communicate. She saw, also, that it was of an afflicting nature-" Oh God! tell me" she exclaimed-" any thing is better than suspense-tell me the worst at once." I then informed her that I had received a letter from Sir Edward Vernon-and by degrees made known to her its whole substance. She seemed heart-stricken by this confirmation of her worst forebodings. "Forgive her!-aye, indeed, poor, lost, dear, ever dearest child, I do forgive her-from my heart!- -but I cannot see her," she exclaimed abruptly, "I cannot see her while she lives in infamy— that I can't do tell her, Sir, I forgive her from my heart-or bring me your letter, and I will write just those words at the bottom of itand now, Sir, leave me. I must seek consolation, where alone it is to be found."

I did not see Mrs. Capel again till the day but one afterwards. On the intervening day, I had merely sent to enquire after her health, and to say I should call on the morrow. When I saw her, I was shocked at the awful change which those eight-and-forty hours had worked upon her;-despair was seated in her sunken eyes, and death, the death of a broken heart, had laid his finger upon her cheek. She asked me if I had written-I answered I had-"Give me your paper," she said-I placed the sheet before her, with a pen. She wrote with

a trembling hand, these words-"I forgive you, Fanny-God Almighty bless you, my only, my dear child-and may He bring you back to his paths of virtue!" She laid down the pen, and sunk back quite exhausted upon her seat.

In concluding my letter to Sir Edward Vernon, I did not conceal from him the state of Mrs. Capel's health." If any thing can save her," I added, "it is the restoration of her daughter. Vernon, your heart used to be tender and compassionate-unless it be changed to very stone, you cannot resist this appeal. This unhappy woman is dying—and, gracious God! from what cause! Hasten, I implore you, as you value your future peace of mind for ever, to make the miserable reparation which is yet in your power-bring back Fanny to her mother."

But Mrs. Capel's malady was beyond the reach of help or hope. I could not, without some assurance from Sir Edward, venture to hold out to her any prospect of her daughter's return; and, as day after day passed, and still the time was distant when I could receive Vernon's answer, I saw that when it did come it must be too late. She declined gradually, but rapidly: every day she became more and more feeble-she spoke but little-she did not complain-but death had, manifestly, fixed upon her his icy grasp―he could not be far distant. Accordingly, about three weeks after the time when I had communicated to her the contents of Sir Edward's letter, she died. Her end was calm, and she breathed her last, imploring the mercy of heaven upon her daughter!

I attended her funeral to the grave. Her circle of friends in the country had been very limited-and every circumstance rendered it fitting that the ceremony should be as private as possible. There were, as mourners, only her medical attendant, her favourite maid (who had been Fanny's nurse), and myself. The church-yard stands at the extremity of the lane in which Mrs. Capel's cottage is situated. The little procession was just turning in at the gate when the rattling of wheels was heard behind us, and we saw a carriage and four driving furiously up the lane. The truth flashed across me in a moment— I trembled all over, but I said nothing-I might be mistaken.

I was not as the procession arrived at the grave, the carriage reached the churchyard gate-the door was flung open, and a female figure, which we all knew in a moment, rushed up the pathway and threw herself, with an agonizing scream, upon the coffin. We hastened to raise her up; she was senseless. Alas! poor Fanny, she has never recovered those senses since!

ELEMENTARY EDUCATION.-No. II.

VIGER'S "Greek Idiom," abridged and translated into English with original notes, by the Rev. J. Seager, B.A., has just issued from Mr. Valpy's accurate press. The appearance of such a work at such a time cannot surprise any one who has taken the trouble to observe the strong direction which the intellect of this age has taken towards good sense. It is scarcely "sixty years since" that it was an accepted axiom, that a boy, ignorant alike of Greek and of Latin, should be instructed in one unknown tongue by the use of another equally unknown. The Greek Grammar was composed in Latin, and the only thing required to render the absurdity perfect, was that the Latin Grammar should have been composed in Greek; unless, indeed, it might be deemed a still more glorious triumph over the weakness of childhood, to chain its tender faculties down to the hopeless endeavour of comprehending the niceties of Greek syntax, when interpreted in the Greek language, as the mysteries of Latin were explained in Latin! We have often thought that what is vulgarly called a flogging match at one of our large schools, is a revolting mixture of cruelty and absurdity, to which a West Indian slave-driver might appeal for a favourable contrast. To see a man of forty, in the settled vigour of muscular maturity, with a countenance expanded into self-satisfaction by habitual exercise of an unresisted authority, and shoulders cultivated into enormous breadth by the manure of roast beef, and the irrigation of port wine, deliberately assuming all his bodily powers to the duty of inflicting upon an ingenuous youth the very appropriate punishment of "corporal sufferance," for intellectual negligence or incapacityto see this man, bloated with petty greatness, proceeding 66 con amore" under the conscientious persuasion that he is " doing the state some service"-to reflect that the offence under castigation is, nine times out of ten, occasioned either directly by the impossibility of a boy comprehending that which is incomprehensible to boys, or incidentally, in consequence of the natural buoyancy of youth seeking respite from the harassing puzzles set before it-to consider that the finest and most delicate and most effectual motives to excellence, which spring out of the sensitiveness to shame, are indurated and rendered callous; -this, we repeat, constitutes a scene quite sufficient to justify the pity with which we have been accustomed to contemplate the degradation inflicted upon the moral nature of the sufferer; and our contempt, not unmingled with indignation, for the actors in these disgraceful exhibitions. In the war of extermination now waging against remåining barbarisms, we feel no doubt that this abuse will, in time, be compelled to yield to the growing good sense of the country. It is, however, natural to expect that every obstruction will be encountered by those who attempt to reform mankind by beginning with the rising generation. We may safely calculate upon all the arts of war being enlisted into the service of established nonsense; with a characteristic horror of all innovation, the contest between intellect and ignorance will be conducted on the principles approved by legitimate commanders in the fields of blood. Cunning and timidity, the ancient colleagues

« ZurückWeiter »