THE family of LADY SARAH BAYLEY, that of VILLIERS EARLS OF JERSEY, is one of the oldest of the realm. Its founder in England, Payan de Villiers, a scion of the house of Villiers, seigneurs of Isle Adam, in Normandy, joined the expedition of the Conqueror, and was by that monarch, after the victory of Hastings, made Lord of Crosby. This Payan was ancestor of Sir Nicholas de Villiers, who, in the reign of Edward I., distinguished himself as a soldier of the Cross, and assumed the arms which are at this day borne by the Earl of Jersey. From Sir Nicholas descended Sir John Villiers, of Brookesby, in Leicestershire, who, in 1487, displayed great valour at the battle of Stoke, whilst fighting under the royal standard at the head of a chosen band of forces which he had raised himself in aid of King Henry VII. He was esquire of the body to that monarch, and a Knight of the Bath. His grandson, Sir George VILLIERS, a person of eminent note, born in 1544, was sheriff of the county of Leicester in 1591, and received the honour of knighthood in 1605. Sir George married, first Audrey, daughter and heiress of William Saunders, Esq., of Harrington, Northamptonshire, by whom, besides three daughters, he had:

Sir William Villiers, created a baronet in 1619, which title became extinct with his male line on the demise of his grandson in 1711.

VOL. III.NO. V.

Sir Edward Villiers, of whom presently. Sir George espoused, secondly, Mary, daughter of Sir Anthony Beaument, of Glenfield, county of Leicester, who, surviving her husband, was, by James I., created Countess of Buckingham. By her he had issue:

JOHN, created Viscount Villiers of Stoke,

and Viscount Burbeck, who died without issue in 1657.

GEORGE VILLIERS, the celebrated DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, who, by the graces of his person and address, rose to a height of power perhaps never possessed by any other British subject, and enjoyed the favour and confidence of two successive sovereigns to a degree unparalleled in history. This nobleman falling by the hand of the fanatic Felton, the 23rd August, 1628, was succeeded by his son, GEORGE, the second Duke, the witty but profligate courtier and minister of King Charles II., at whose death, without legitimate issue, the title became ex

tinct.

SIR EDWARD VILLIERS, the second son of Sir George by his first marriage, having been employed in 1620 as ambassador to Bohemia, was nominated in 1622, through the interest of his half-brother, the Duke of Buckingham, president of the province of Munster, in Ireland, upon the decease of the Earl of Thomond. Sir Edward espoused Barbara, eldest daughter of Sir John St. John, of Lidiard 2 c

Tregose, in the county of Wilts, and niece of Sir Oliver St. John, created, 3rd January, 1620, Viscount Grandison, in the peerage of Ireland, with limitation of the honour to her (Lady Villiers's) posterity. By this marriage Sir Edward had four sons and three daughters. He died 7th September, 1626, lamented more deeply than any governor who had previously ruled the province, and was interred in the Earl of Cork's chapel, at Youghall, where the following lines were engraved on his tomb :

"Munster may curse the time that Villiers came,
To make us worse, by leaving such a name
Of noble parts, as none can imitate,
But those whose hearts are married to the state.
But if they press to imitate his fame,
Munster may bless the time that Villiers came."

WILLIAM VILLIERS, ESQ., the eldest son of Sir Edward Villiers, succeeded to the estate of his father, and upon the demise of his uncle, in 1630, inherited his title as second Viscount Grandison. His Lordship, a staunch adherent of King Charles I., after signalising himself on various occasions, was mortally wounded at the siege of Bristol, in 1643, leaving by Mary, daughter of Paul Viscount Bayning, an only daughter, Barbara (wife of Roger Palmer, Earl of Castlemain), afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, and mistress of King Charles II. His title devolved upon his brother,

JOHN, third Viscount, who was succeeded by his brother,

GEORGE, fourth Viscount, whose granddaughter Harriet wedded Robert Pitt, Esq., by whom she was mother of the immortal William Pitt, first Earl of Chatham, and whose grandson,

JOHN, fifth Viscount, was created EARL GRANDISON, of Limerick, 11th of September, 1721. At this nobleman's death, in 1746, the latter title expired, and the viscounty devolved upon William, third Earl of Jersey, great grandson of Sir Edward, fourth son of the abovementioned president of Munster. This Sir Edward, a distinguished cavalier of the civil wars, being wounded at the battle of Newbury, received the honour of knighthood from King Charles II., and was appointed Governor of Tinmouth Castle. He

had likewise a grant from the same monarch, of the royal house and manor of Richmond. His eldest son and successor,

EDWARD VILLIERS, was founder of the honours of the Earls of Jersey. This gallant gentleman accompanied King William in the successful expedition of 1688, and was by that monarch created BARON VILLIERS OF Hoo, VISCOUNT VILLIERS OF DARTFORD, both in the County of Kent, and subsequently EARL OF THE ISLAND OF JERSEY, 13th of October, 1697. His Lordship was succeeded by his eldest son,

WILLIAM, Second Earl. This nobleman had two sons, the younger of whom was created EARL OF CLARENDON, and the elder,

WILLIAM, succeeded upon his father's demise, in 1721, to the family honours as third Earl, and at the death of his cousin John Villiers, Earl of Grandison, in 1766, became Viscount Grandison in Ireland. His Lordship was succeeded by his son,

GEORGE BUSSEY, fourth Earl, born 9th of June, 1735. This nobleman, who was a Lord of the Admiralty, and Captain of the band of Gentlemen Pensioners, espoused March 26, 1770, Frances daughter and heiress of the Right Rev. Philip Twisden, Lord Bishop of Raphoe, by whom (who died 25th of July, 1821), he had with other issue;

GEORGE CHILDE VILLIERS, who at the demise of his father, 22nd of August, 1805, succeeded as fifth and present EARL OF JERSEY, and,

LADY SARAH, the subject of this month's portrait, who on the 12th of September, 1799, was married to CHARLES NATHANIEL BAYLEY, Esq., and has four children-William-Charles-Augusta, married to Captain Davison-Georgiana.

Mr. Bayley is nephew of the celebrated Bryan Edwards, Esq., author of "The Civil and Commercial History of the West Indies," a work which displayed great ability, and which became extremely popular at the time of its publication, about fifty years since. At his decease he left his West Indian estate to his nephew, Mr. Bayley, whose house has occasionally been the resort of most of the wits and poets of our own day.

"My boy! Henry, I cannot leave my boy!" Such were the words, wildly repeated over and over again, (as if they contained all the reasoning or argument of which she was capable,) uttered by Madeline Wentworth, as she sat convulsively sobbing, her face buried in her hands, and her whole frame shaking with a paroxysm of despairing grief. By her side stood a handsome sickly-looking man, on whose pale brow more perplexity than sympathy was visible, and who seemed impatiently waiting till the fit should subside sufficiently to enable her to hear him. Twice his lips parted, and his arm fell from the marble mantel-piece where he had been leaning, and twice he relinquished the attempt to soothe that misery of which he was at once the cause and the witness. At length the tempest ceased; the weary head sank back on his arm, and the weary eyes looked up to his in melancholy silence, as if hoping for counsel.

"Madeline! my beloved Madeline, calm yourself; believe me, I have not a selfish wish or thought concerning you. If you find you cannot after all make up your mind to take a decided step-if the society of your child can make such a home bearable remain in it; I would not press you to do aught for which hereafter you might reproach me. It is not for the sake of my own wild dream of happiness-to see those sweet eyes shining upon me through the long day-to hear those sweet lips welcome me ever on my return to our home with words of tenderness-to be able to call you mine-my own, that I have urged this measure upon you. It is because my heart is bursting at all that you endure; your tears, your complaints have maddened me. If I could know you away, safe from the brutality of the man to whom you have been sacrificed-if I could know you at peace, I should be happy, though I were doomed never to see your face again! Did not your own letter bring me to your side? that letter so full of love and of despair, that, surrounded as I was by fools and chatterers, I could not repress the groan that burst from my lips as I read it! Did not your own promise embolden me to make arrangements for your departure while he was absent, and now, my Madeline, weakeued by momentary agitation, you would

relinquish plans which have been the work of months to contrive. You leave a home so wretched, that life seems scarce worth having on such terms; a man whose temper and character are so well known, that the harshest of condemning tongues will speak your name in pity and sorrow; and even those whispers," said Henry Marchmont eagerly, as she shrank from his side, 66 even those whispers you shall not hear. We will go to Italy, to Spain, to the wilds of America, where you will, so that we forget all but our own love, our own existence. Your child nay, hear me without weeping, Madeline, hear me and then decide, (you have still the power to decide on remaining.) Your child will not be left desolate—an only son-the heir to a peerage. Do you think that ambition and self-interest will not watch him with as careful a solicitude as your own, if not with the same tenderness? Do you think that the boastful spirit of Lionel Wentworth will suffer the guards of his future prosperity to slumber? Even if the father had no father's feeling, he would foster and cherish his brother's heir. Lord Wentworth has paid his debts, settled an annuity upon him, and shown more apparent kindness than ever he evinced, till the birth of your boy gave a hope of continuing the title and estates in a direct line. Their whole souls are centred in that child. And you, my Madeline, you would relinquish my love, and drag on a life of wretchedness for a vain shadow-the hope of devoted affection from that little being whose first few years are all that ever can be yours. You think of your infant child; but will the boy at Eton, who neither sees nor comprehends your love or your sorrow; will the youth at college, who considers a week at home a tax on his holidays; will the heir presumptive to the Wentworth property, finishing his education on the continent, and rarely writing you a hurried letter, will he be so great a comfort, so dear a pleasure, as to counterbalance all this lonely misery? Will there not be hours, days, years, when you may regret the love that could only end with life, that love which would have haunted your steps like a shadow, and given a new youth to your withering days?"

Madeline Wentworth left her home, her

child, her husband, and learnt that there is no misery like the curse of remorse, no tears so bitter as those in which self-reproach is mingled. It was all true that Henry Marchmont had averred-true that her husband was selfish, brutal, violent; true that many had pitied her for being his wife; true that her boy was the spoilt idol of calculating hearts, in a family where there were no heirs; true that her lover was devoted to her, heart and soul; but which of all these truths quenched the agony of her heart, when, as they sat together, awaiting the arrival of dinner at a comfortless inn on the road, the sunset hour brought to her mind a picture she never again was to witness? A picture of that little rosy head hushed to its innocent and early rest, with the white curtains drawn close round it to mellow the evening light, and herself bending tenderly, cautiously, silently above it; to print the gentle kiss, and breathe the whispered blessing of a mother's good night! It rose-it grew more and more distinctthat imagined scene; and as her head sank on her clasped and quivering hands, and the thought flashed through her brain that it might lisp her name on the morning, or wail for a sight of her familiar face, and be checked by harsh and angry voices, Henry Marchmont's presence, and Henry Marchmont's caress, had no power to check the bitter exclamation-" My child! my forsaken child!"

Years past away-five years, whose comparative happiness might have stifled the voice of self-reproach in Madeline Wentworth's heart. Divorced from the man she hated, married to him she loved, watched, shielded, worshipped, and the mother of two beautiful children; might she not dream that Heaven's justice slept, or that for her there seemed so many excuses, that her crime was judged more mercifully than that of others? She was spared most of the common miseries of her situation. She had not to bewail the inconstaney or growing coldness of the being for whose sake she had forfeited the love and esteem of all beside. She had not to endure the mortification which the scorn of the more prudent could inflict; for no wounded bird ever crept away more wearily to die, than Madeline shrank from human notice. She had not to struggle with hardship and poverty, after having been accustomed to all the comforts and superfluities of a luxurious home. Henry Marchmont was well off; his uncle's tates and baronetcy were to be his; and

not only his, but would descend to his boy; she was spared even that misery, that last worst misery; the consciousness that the innocent were to suffer for her sin — her children were not illegitimate. Of the one she had left, accounts were transmitted from time to time during the first few months which had followed her departure, through the means of the nurse, who was sincerely attached both to the child and its mother; but afterwards Madeline had the sorrow to learn, that this woman had been sent away by Mr. Wentworth when he discovered that she communicated with her late mistress, and that her boy was placed under the care of a stranger who neither knew her love nor felt for her sorrow. Anxiously Madeline used to glean the vague reports which from time to time reached her of the well-being of this precious charge. Eagerly, when they received English newspapers, did she read over and over again the few words in the Morning Post which announced the annual departure of her former husband for his brother's country seat. "The Hon. Lionel Wentworth and family for Wentworth Park.” How often did her eyes peruse and re-peruse that sentence, and fancy that it contained intelligence of the life, at least, of her little one!

Once only she obtained fuller information, though from the same common-place source. As her glance wandered over the columns of the gazette, she was struck by a passage headed "Miraculous escape." The names were familiar to her; with a flushed cheek and beating heart she read the brief account of "an accident which had nearly proved fatal to the son of the Hon. Lionel Wentworth, a promising child aged three years;" the nurse was lifting him on the rails of the balcony to see a cavalcade of gentlemen on horseback, when he suddenly slipped from her hold and fell on the pavement below; it was at first supposed that he was killed, but, on examination, he was found to have escaped without even a bruise! In the agony of her feelings Madeline wrote to Mr. Wentworth, beseeching of him to write but a single line, or even commission another to tell her whether the report in the newspaper were true, and whether the child had suffered any injury. To this appeal no answer was returned, and the next certain intelligence that reached her was the account of the marriage of Mr. Wentworth with a Mrs. Pole, a widow, whose restless spirit and love of meddling had, as Madeline well remembered, been the cause of much and serious

gentle and lovely little Frank, was now under the controul and dependent on the caprice of a stepmother! This was an unexpected blow. Mr. Wentworth was no longer young when she herself had been induced to accept him, and she had never anticipated having a successor. The event would perhaps have made a stronger impression upon her but for one which overwhelmed her with anguish and occupied every feeling: Henry Marchmont broke a blood-vessel.

No paroxysm of passion-no previous illness-no excessive exertion-gave any apparent cause for this terrible and sudden catastrophe. Mr. Marchmont's friends vainly inquired of each other "how Henry had contrived to bring on this attack?" Those appealed to shook their heads-some attributed it to anxiety of mind-some to natural delicacy of constitution-all that was certain was that he had burst a blood-vessel and that he was to die.

He was to die! the graceful gifted being, with whom, in the blindness of human hope, she had looked forward to a life of tranquil comfort-of devoted love ;-for whom, in the blindness of human passion, she had deserted the ties that first bound her, and the station to which she belonged. How often had they vowed that years should pass away and find them unchanged towards each other-how often had they talked over the decline of their days, spent in retirement and cheerful affection;-and Henry had grown eager as he spoke of a residence in England, when, as Lady Marchmont, she would be enabled to occupy herself in acts of charity and kindness to the poor on his estate; aud, forgotten by the great, feel, that sinner as she was, her name was announced by many a humble lip in their evening prayers. Those hopes were over. The decree had gone forth which none could reverse. The heart whose love had so planned and parcelled out her future, was to lie chilled and senseless in the grave 'ere a few more brief months completed the seventh year of their union; and Madeline was to be left alone! Oh, never knelt enthusiast or saint before heaven with a soul full of more agonised fervour than the wretched wife of Henry Marchmont :-she prayed-not as they pray who have been taught to murmur words of supplication as a duty, and repeat them with scarcely a faint consciousness, of their need of the blessings solicited. Her prayer was such as burst from the fasting David's lips when the child of his sin was taken from him—wild-earnest

It was at the dawn of a bright warm day, at a beautiful villa near Nice, and Madeline had just returned to her husband's room, which she had only quitted to bathe and dress after the long night's weary watch. He called her in a more animated tone than usual: and she bent over him with sorrowful affection. " Madeline," said he, "this is our wedding-day." Madeline started; it was the first of those loved anniversaries which had not been foreseen by both-and for which they had not provided some trifling token of mutual regard: the tears rose to her eyes. "You shall do me a service;" said her husband; "you want air-it will give you strength-strength to sit by me-(you see what a selfish fellow I am); take the children, and go in the little poney chaise and buy me an inkstand; I want to write a long letter and an inkstand shall be your gift for to-day." She obeyed, though her heart trembled at leaving him even for an hour; she dared not contradict his whim even by requesting permission to stay. She wept as she besought his servant not to quit the anteroom during her absence; and the man wondered why she should be more anxious and depressed on that day than on any other. She wept as she entered the nursery, and bid her little boy and girl prepare to accompany her; and the children wondered she could feel sad on such a bright and beautiful morning; she wept, as in an almost inarticulate voice she desired the bijoutier to produce the prettiest of the articles she was commissioned to purchase; and the curiosity and surprise visible in the man's countenance reminded her of the necessity of appearing composed. She had no mother-no sisterno virtuous and sympathising friend, to whom she could unburthen her grief; to whom she could say; "It may be the last gift I shall ever present to Henry-the last 10th of October I shall ever spend in his company!"

She hurried home and stole to her hus

band's apartment. He was sleeping on the sofa by the little reading table: a letter, folded but not directed, lay by him; and the materials for writing were scattered on the table. She inquired of the servant and learnt that, after writing the letter, Marchmont had rung for a taper and some sealing wax, but that when the man returned with them his master had sunk back in a deep sleep, from which he had taken care not to disturb him. Madeline sighed, and again