ONE fine spring morning, in the reign of Charles the First, while the chimes of St. Dunstan's clock were sounding, a stout, ruddy, middle-aged gentleman, arrayed in a fashionable garb, walked with a bold and swaggering air up Fleetstreet, twirling his walking-stick with his right hand, while his left played with the rich gold chain which hung around his neck. He was "perfumed like a milliner," his mustaches were carefully trimmed, and a beautiful little spaniel dog ran before him, seeming to enjoy the morning's walk even more than its master. The gentleman turned up Chancerylane, and having walked about twenty or thirty yards, slackened his pace, and cast an anxious glance at the windows of a commodious house on the opposite side of the way. Master Boyce (for such was the name of the gallant) was a bachelor: he was well known among the wild youths of that neighbourhood, and was deeply tinctured by the vices of that licentious age: he had numbered more than forty summers, but was as reckless and unprincipled as many of his more youthful associates. His race is not yet extinct; rosy-gilled old gentlemen (we scorn to mention names) may often be seen in this neighbourhood performing the dandy, with a success to which their juniors can hardly hope to aspire. But to return to Master Boyce. He passed and repassed the house several times; yet not a soul appeared at the windows, though there was one within who was watching him closely, as he strutted to and fro. The watcher was one Master Courthope, an attorney, whose young and handsome wife (we blush to own it) was the magnet which attracted our middleaged gentleman. The man of law, concealed from the view of his enemy, was eyeing the gallant as a tiger eyes a child that approaches the cage in which it is confined. If Master Boyce had seen that old, sallow, bilious-looking visage glaring upon him from behind the curtain, he would not have remained so much at his ease; but he did not see it, and continued to pace backwards and forwards with the most studied attitudes, while the attorney looked alternately on his foe, and on an old rapier in one corner of the room. Alas! his fighting days were over, or he would, no doubt, have sallied forth, and questioned the ruddy faced gentleman who did him the honour to take so much notice of his dwelling. At length, with a gesture of disappointment, the gallant proceeded up the street, not, however, without casting at intervals a 66 lingering look" behind. Master Courthope watched him out of sight, and then descended to his office, consigning his rival to the devil and his angels. Master Boyce strutted away to the chambers of a wild companion of his in Lincoln's Inn. Here the topics of the day were discussed, and the two cronies sat down to a gammon of bacon and a flask of wine. As the conversation partook of the loose style of that age, the reader will need no apology for its omission here. Boyce, after an hour's chatting and eating, rose to depart, when a knocking was heard at the door, which was opened by his friend, who returned with a smile on his countenance and presented him a letter, which he said had been brought by a boy. "Give the page a crown, Wilmot," said the gallant, as he hastily opened the billet, "I will pay you next week." "I gave my last shilling to the laundress this morning," observed his friend with feigned seriousness: he had long since noted Master Boyce's forgetful ness. "The devil you did!" ejaculated Boyce, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and pretending to grope for that which he well knew was not there. "I have nothing left but a spur-rial, and that's a keepsake-tell the urchin I'll reward him another time;" and he began to peruse the letter. "By this light!" cried he, "I am a lucky fellow! 't is a letter of invitation from one of the fairest dames 'twixt this and Paul's. I will be punctual, sweet mistress! Give you good day, Wilmot: you shall have early tidings of my progress in this adventure. Farewell flask and flagon, while I can bask in the sunshine of my lady's eyes." With these words and much other high flown nonsense, Master Boyce threw on his hat, and quitted the chambers of his friend. We left the attorney in his office, after watching the progress of his rival up Chancery-lane. Master Courthope was old, but he was not a man to be trifled with; his hand was feeble, opposed to that of a gallant in the prime of life; but he had a head to contrive a fitting punishment for the unprincipled coxcomb who was meditating an outrageous attack upon his domestic happiness. His wife was young, but she was virtuous, and readily joined with him in laying a trap for the gallant. From her the old man had learnt, that Boyce constantly haunted the neighbourhood, and, whenever an opportunity offered, pestered her in the street with his unwelcome attentions. Master Boyce, quite intoxicated with what he called his good fortune, at the hour appointed in the letter was knocking at Master Courthope's door, never doubting that the old attorney was far away from the neighbourhood. He was shewn up stairs into a back room by a maid servant, who informed him that her mistress was then at her toilet, but would not detain him long. The gallant being then left alone, stood for some moments gazing with much self-complacency on his figure, which was reflected in a large mirror over the fire-place. His selfadmiration was, however, suddenly disturbed by the sound of loud knocking at the street door. He listened in breathless alarm. Suddenly the maid servant entered, and with a look of well-feigned terror, informed the trembling Boyce that her master had returned unexpectedly. Footsteps were at the same time heard ascending the stairs, and the danger seemed imminent. Boyce looked at the window; it was too high from the ground; and to creep up the chimney was almost as bad as facing Master Courthope, whose voice was now plainly heard. The little Abigail played her part well, and preserving her look of alarm, pointed to a large oak chest which stood in one corner of the room. The gallant took the hint-he tried the lid-it was not locked, and was moreover quite empty. Not a moment was to be lost; he crept into the chest, and the lid closed upon him as Master Courthope entered the room, sword in hand, and swearing vengeance against his wife's paramour. An hour afterwards, a stout porter was seen to quit Master Courthope's house with a heavy chest upon his shoulders. It will be needless to add, that the chest contained the luckless gallant, who, as may be supposed, was in a very unenviable state of suspense and alarm. "What can this mean?" thought he, can she intend to drown me, as the great Turk sometimes drowns his victims? O no! 't is the only way to save her own honour, and protect me from the rage of her jealous-pated husband. Sweet Mistress Courthope, may this be no presage of the future!" A few minutes afterwards, the porter stopped, and Boyce heard him speaking to a waterman at the river-side; then the chest was lowered, and placed in a wherry. He could hear the sound of voices in conversation, but could not distinguish what was said. At length the boat stopped, and the chest was dragged out. "What next?" thought the unlucky Boyce, as he felt himself again shouldered by the porter, who swore loudly at the weight of his load. The man proceeded with his burthen, and the gallant, sweating with fear, and nearly choaking for want of air, awaited the result. He dreaded to make it known to the porter that he was carrying human flesh and blood, alive, like himself, lest the man should be ignorant of the fact; and he therefore remained in his prisonhouse, silent and quaking. All of a sudden the gallant, pent up as he was, distinctly heard the loud voices of men and the yelping of dogs; in fine, a confusion of sounds which brought to his mind the well-known bear garden. The chest was again lowered, and placed on the ground, while the sounds continued to interest its occupant. Boyce crept to the bottom of his chest, like a snail in its shell, when touched by the finger of the school-boy-his heart misgave him-he dreaded the worst. While he lay thus, half-stifled, and in an agony of suspense and terror, he heard the lock of the chest turn; then the hinges creaked, and the lid was raised, when, oh what a scene greeted his astonished sight! He was indeed in the bear garden, on the bankside; and those whom he saw gathered round the chest, were eagerly awaiting the appearance of the badger. A roar of laughter, which stung the gallant to the soul, greeted him on all sides; and two butchers' dogs, with their loud bayings, joined in the merry chorus, while their masters with difficulty pre vented them from tearing the mortified Boyce in pieces. He raised his head, took one peep at the assembly, and then shrunk back into his box. Shame, however, suddenly gave way to rage and indignation; and jumping from his hidingplace, he would have taken signal vengeance on the porter, but for the interference of the bystanders. The "courteous reader" will picture to himself the appearance of the unlucky gallant, as he hurried from the scene of his shame, pursued by the jeers and taunts of the select assembly, to whom he had been so strangely introduced. It is said, that Boyce was seldom seen in Fleet-street and its neighbourhood, after that eventful and inauspicious morning. E. F. Well, John, I think I shall stay with you a few weeks." "Glad of your company, sir," said the landlord entering. "John, get number four ready for the gentleman. You'll find this a fine place-stirring little place -plenty of 'musements-good huntin' about here-tolerable fishin'- and then we have a raft of gals-a fine place this make yourself at home, sir.' Looked out of my window to get a peep at some ladies who were passing. Mary Wharton! on my soul! what in the world brought her here? Yet she's a fine girl, amiable, beautiful, pensive, Almost every country village has some romantic and interesting local traditions connected with its history; some strange incidents, whose relation may have a charm even for the ear of the stranger or the traveller. In the great city the wail of individual suffering is drowned in the din of a thousand voices, and the loss of a single human being is not perceived in the crowd. There is less sympathy and more selfishness there; and the most harrowing casualties, and the strangest events excite comparatively but little attention. But here, such things are registered. The breaking of a single heart, or the severance of a single life, is felt throughout the little community, and is mourned and remembered by all. Sleep on, thou beautiful one! ،، Beautiful and young too, perchance, but who is A?" Alas! my heart told me that there was but one who could have written those lines. I have since learned the history of this strange monument. It is commemorative of the fate of two young orphans and lovers, who whilome resided in the village. In their life-time this grotto was their favourite retreat; and here, when, in her sixteenth year Clara fell a victim to a quick consumption, it was her desire to be buried. Her lover, I understand, entered the navy, and died a few years afterwards in the West Indies, of a tropical fever. I am told these lines are from his pen, written when, upon his return from a distant voyage, he came to visit this spot. Just op'ning its fresh petals to the breeze, We met in life 's young morning. She a flower And I, e'en in the exuberance of youth, A wild, a wayward, and unhappy boy. We met and seldom parted. We knew not Then the name of love; but we were orphans, And we poured forth into each other's hearts The little woes and griefs that childhood hath, And found relief in sympathy. We wept And smiled together. Men deemed it strange, From a long absence, without tears. But we were parted for a time, or met Years fled She grew in beauty-I in strength-and both Had pressed, and I have stood for hours and The light which from her evening lattice streamed, When it hath given to my expectant gaze * * This little shady nook, where I am now sitting and pencilling in idle wantonness these careless lines, while the straggling beams of a summer noontide stream in with mellowed effulgence, through hanging trellises of bending branches and gadding vines, and the murmuring of yon little brook breaks with monotonous music upon my ear, as it pours its dark waters through the rifted fissures of ivy-clad rocks, to sport and sparkle in the sunshine; this little spot, I am told, is associated with a romantic story in the memory of the villagers. I remember when I first fell A transient shadow of her fairy form. upon it, in one of my solitary rambles, how forcibly I was impressed by its singular beauty; but how much more I was struck, when a tasteful little marble monument, and the hillock upon which it rested, told me that death had been here. It seemed like an object of enchantment, which my gloomy fancy had conjured up in its wild day-dreams. I approached this chaste and touching memento of mortality with a mingled feeling of awe and curiosity; awe which the view of man's last resting-place always inspires within me, and curiosity to learn who it was (I felt confident it could be no common being) who had selected this lovely little spot for death's repose. I approached, and read the simple inscription of Clara. Below were these lines: * She had been flush Why the days and weeks of watchfulness and But why recall my bitterness? woe? When drop by drop. hope's fountain ebbed away And in my agony, I prayed to Him With whom life's issues are, that she 'T was evening; and the setting sun, as he I reclined upon the grassy banks of the little stream, which winds through my favourite haunt, and gave loose to the play of a thousand wild and unearthly fancies. The current of disjointed and disorderly thought swept on through my vacant mind, mingling fiction and fact, reality and romance, with that strange inconsistency which sometimes marks the dreams of sleep. The dim memories of the past came upon me; its scenes blended with the lawn and woodland, which lay outstretched in quiet beauty before my eyes, and its voices came with the purling sound of the brooklet which went brawling by. I thought upon the loved ones, whose names and forms were once familiar: upon the bustling world, upon life, my own aimless existence; and anon came up the figures of the young lovers who a few short summers since, animated with life and hope, wandered in happiness side by side, through the calm purlieus of this now deserted valley. "Change-dark, restless, ruthless change," I soliloquized, "is sweeping over all. They are all passing. Earth with its fitful fashions, man with his varying schemes and endless aspirations; life with its countless vicissitudes, its checkered scenes, its mingled joys and sorrows. How forcibly at every step of our devious pilgrimage are we reminded, that this is not our abiding place. That it has nought which time may not destroy, or accident alter; nought which the heart can cling to without fear of bereavement. The things of beauty, and the objects of affection, which come like angel visitants athwart our paths, pass away even while we are gazing at them. The wintry cloud shuts out the summer sky; the frost-blight falls on the beautiful landscape. I felt a light hand upon my shoulder, and looking up, Mary Wharton stood beside me. "You are a strange being," said she. "Not half so strange as I might have been. Suppose nature had given me two heads or a tail, for instance." She did not smile, but continued, "Tell me, why do I find you herehere in the country, shunning society, and wandering about in solitude through the woods and fields? You, whose only element a few weeks since, seemed to be the circle of pleasure, the ball and banquet; whose only thought was mirth, whose very word a jest?" "Suppose we attribute it to the love of novelty, or the love of something else. The disconsolate true-lover, you know, always seeks the fields and forests to brood over his passion. Or, I may be laying in a stock of puns and jokes for the next winter campaign." 66 'Edward," said she, "I have known you but a short time, and have heard little or nothing of your history. But I have looked upon you in a different light from what others have done, and none of your gay acquaintance would have been less surprised than myself at finding you here and thus. I have seen you in merriment and gaiety, and in the giddy whirl of fashionable life, admired for your wit, your presence greeted with smiles, and your words hailed with laughter. Yet I have seldom seen you smile, and never laugh. Your gaiety seemed but lip-deep, your heart was not in it. You are unhappy. "You think then, Mary, that the gayseeming is not always gaiety; that all who tread the circles and wear the garb of pleasure, are not necessarily happy. Alas, and is it from your own feelings, sweet girl, that you have drawn this truth? Have your eyes ever ached as they gazed on the unmeaning mockery of fashion, and the tinsel-glitter of wealth? Have the shout and laugh of meriment ever fallen with bitter dissonance upon your ear, waking no echo in your heart? And have you ever left the scene of fashionable frivolity, to weep over the rankling wounds of private grief? Yes, it is true. Despondence may take the semblance of gaiety, and sorrow may wreath itself in smiles. The bosom may be the cemetery of withered hopes and crushed affections, while the tongue gives utterance to the light accents of mirth. "And is it here you had not thought to find me? Did you never fancy, Mary, that the spirits of the departed might come to linger in a spot like this? That here we might hold commune with the |