Chapter XLV: The Cabinet of a Chef-De-Police (3)

Mayfield Cottage, when the poet and his wife arrived to view it, wore any thing but an inviting aspect. "It was a poor place," Moore wrote, "little better than a barn; but we at once took it, and set about making it habitable and comfortable." He now commenced the formidable task of working himself up into a proper Oriental state of mind for the accomplishment of his work. The first part of this process consisted in reading every work of authority that treated of the topography, climate, zoology, ornithology, entomology, floriculture, horticulture, agriculture, manners, customs, religion, ceremonies, and languages of the East. Asiatic registers, D'Herbelot, Jones, Tavernier, Flemming, and a host of other writers were industriously consulted; and so perfect did Mr. Moore become in these various branches of knowledge, that a great Eastern traveler, after reading "Lalla Rookh," and being assured that the poet had never visited the scenes in which he placed his stories, remarked that if it were so, a man might learn as much of those countries by reading books as by riding on the back of a camel! This, however, was but a part of the requisite preparation. "I am," says Mr. Moore, "a slow, painstaking workman, and at once very imaginative and very matter-of-fact;" and he goes on to say that the slightest exterior interruption or contradiction to the imaginary state of things he was endeavoring to conjure up in his brain threw all his ideas into confusion and disarray. It was necessary, therefore, to surround himself in some way or other with an Eastern atmosphere. How this could be managed in the face of the snows of the Derbyshire winters, during which the four stories which compose "Lalla Rookh" were written, it is difficult to conceive, and perhaps to the fact that it could _not_ be effectually done, must be ascribed the ill success which beset the poet during an entire twelvemonth. Vainly did he string together peris and bulbuls, and sunny apples of Totkahar: the inspiration would _not_ come. It was all "Double, double, toil and trouble," to no purpose. Each story, however trippingly it began, soon flagged, drooped, and, less fortunate than that of

----"The bear and fiddle,
Begun and broke off in the middle,"

expired of collapse after a brief career of a few score lines only, frequently nothing like so many. Some of these fragments have since been published. One of them, "The Peri's Daughter," ran to some length, and is rather pretty and sparkling.

This uninspiring state of things seemed interminable--the three thousand guineas were as far off as ever; and apprehension of the necessity of a bodily journey to the East, in order to get at the genuine "atmosphere," must have suggested itself, when a gleam of light, in the idea of the "Fire-Worshipers," broke in upon the poet; the multifarious collection of Eastern materials deposited in the chambers of his brain arranged themselves in flowing numbers, without encountering any further accident; and at the end of three years "Lalla Rookh" was ushered before an admiring world. Its success was immense, and the work ran rapidly through many editions. "Paradise and the Peri," the second story, although not so much praised as the first and third, is, we fancy, much the most read of the four; and from its light, ringing tone, its delicate and tender sentiment, its graceful and musical flow, will always be a principal favorite with the admirers of Thomas Moore's poetry.

The bow so long bent required relaxation, and in the first flush of his great success, while his ears were still ringing with the applauses, and his nostrils still titillating with the incense which the press showered upon "Lalla Rookh," pronounced by general consent--"when they _do_ agree, their unanimity is wonderful"--to be unrivaled as a work of melody, beauty, and power, Moore set out on a continental tour with his friend and brother-poet Rogers. On his return to England he published the "Fudge Family"--not a very brilliant performance, and which, with the exception of its political hits, is but an imitation of "Les Anglaises Pour Rire." He also worked at the "Melodies," and wrote articles for the "Edinburgh Review." In 1818 one of the most pleasing incidents in his life occurred. A public dinner was given in his honor at Dublin, the Earl of Charlemont in the chair--the poet's venerable father, Garret Moore, being present on the chairman's right hand, the honored and delighted witness of the enthusiastic welcome bestowed upon his son by his warm-hearted fellow-countrymen. Moore made a graceful, cleverly-turned speech; but he was no orator: few literary men are. He could not think upon his legs; and you could see by the abstraction of his look that he was not speaking, in the popular sense, but reciting what had previously been carefully composed and committed to memory. Such speeches frequently read well, but if long, they are terrible things to sit and hear.

The following year Moore accompanied Lord John Russell on a continental tour, taking the road of the Simplon to Italy. Lord John went on to Genoa, and Moore directed his steps toward Venice, for the purpose of seeing Byron. It was during this visit the noble lord made Moore a present of his personal memoirs, for publication after the writer's death. Moore gives the following account of the transaction: "We were conversing together when Byron rose and went out. In a minute or two he returned carrying a white leathern bag. 'Look here!' he said, holding it up, 'this would be worth something to Murray, though you, I daresay, would not give sixpence for it.' 'What is it?' I asked, 'My life and adventures,' he answered. On hearing this I raised my hands in a gesture. 'It is not a thing that can be published during my life, but you may have it if you like: then do whatever you please with it.' In taking the bag, and thanking him most warmly, I added: 'This will make a nice legacy for my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter end of the nineteenth century with it.' He then added: 'You may show it to any of your friends you think worthy of it.' This is as nearly as I can recollect all that passed." These memoirs Moore sold to Murray for two thousand guineas, but at Lord Byron's death, his executors and family induced Moore to repay Mr. Murray and destroy the manuscript. The precise reasons which decided Moore to yield to the solicitations of the deceased lord's friends and family are not known, but there can be little doubt that they were urgent, and in a moral sense irresistible. A man does not usually throw away two thousand guineas for a caprice, even of his own, much less for that of others. It is not likely that the world has lost much by the destruction of these memoirs. Lord Byron's life is sufficiently written in his published works for all purposes save that of the gratification of a morbid curiosity and vulgar appetite for scandal.

During the journey to and from Italy, Moore sketched the "Rhymes on the Road," which were soon afterward published. There is nothing remarkable about them except his abuse of Rousseau and Madame Warens, _a propos_ of a visit to Les Charmettes. Moore was violently assailed for this by writers, who held that as he had himself translated Anacreon, and written juvenile songs of an immoral tendency, he was thereby incapacitated from fy, fying naughty people in his maturer and better years. This seems hardly a reasonable maxim, and would, if strictly interpreted and enforced, silence much grave and learned eloquence, oral as well as written. His denunciations of the eccentric and fanciful author of the "Confessions," which twenty years before he would probably have called the enunciations of "Virtue with her zone loosened;" were certainly violent and unmeasured, and not, perhaps, in the very best taste.

Pecuniary difficulties, arising from the misconduct of his deputy in Bermuda, now threatened Mr. Moore, and flight to France--for process against him had issued from the Court of Admiralty--became immediately necessary. The deputy-registrar, from whom Mr. Moore had exacted no securities, had made free with the cargoes of several American vessels, and immediately decamped with the proceeds, leaving his principal liable, it was feared, to the serious amount of six thousand pounds. Active and successful efforts were, however, made by Moore's friends to compromise the claims, and ultimately they were all adjusted by the payment of one thousand guineas. Three hundred pounds toward this sum were contributed by the delinquent's uncle, a London merchant; so that Moore's ultimate loss was seven hundred and fifty pounds only. During the progress, and at the close of these negotiations, numerous offers of pecuniary assistance were addressed to Mr. Moore, all of which he gratefully but firmly declined.

While the matter was pending, Moore resided near Paris at La Butte Coaslin, on the road to Belle Vue. This was also the residence of some agreeable Spanish friends of the poet. Kenny the dramatic writer lived also in the neighborhood. Here Moore composed his "Loves of the Angels," passing his days, when they were fine, in walking up and down the park of Saint Cloud, "polishing verses and making them run easy," and the evenings in singing Italian duets with his Spanish friends. Previous to leaving Paris, at the close of 1822, he attended a banquet got up in his honor by many of the most distinguished and wealthy of the English residents in that gay city. His speech on this occasion was a high-flown panegyric upon England and every thing English, and grievously astonished Byron, Shelley, Hunt, and others, when they read it in Italy. Either they thought the tone of some of the Irish melodies was wrong, or the speech was. They did not reflect that a judicious speaker always adapts his speech to his audience. Apt words in apt places are the essentials of true eloquence.

Moore's publishers' account, delivered in the following June, exhibited a very pleasing aspect. He was credited with one thousand pounds for the "Loves of the Angels," and five hundred pounds for "Fables for the Holy Alliance." These were the halcyon days of poetry. There was truth as well as mirthful jest in Sir Walter Scott's remark a few years afterward, in reply to Moore's observation, "that hardly a magazine is now published but contains verses which would once have made a reputation." "Ecod!" exclaimed the baronet, "we were very lucky to come before these fellows!"

In 1825 Moore paid a visit to Sir Walter Scott at Abbottsford. The meeting was a cordial one, and the baronet, Mr. Lockhart informs us, pronounced Mr. Moore "to be the prettiest warbler" he ever knew. What somewhat diminishes the value of this praise is, that, according to the warbler himself, Sir Walter--but the thing seems incredible--had no genuine love or taste for music, except indeed for the Jacobite chorus of "Hey tuttie, tattie," now indissolubly united to "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!" which, when sung after supper by the company, with hands clasped across each other, and waving up and down, he hugely delighted in. Scott accompanied Moore to Edinburgh, and both of them, with Mr. Lockhart and his lady, went to the theatre on the same evening that it was honored by the presence of the celebrated Mrs. Coutts, afterward Duchess of St. Albans. Soon after their at first unmarked entrance, the attention of the audience which had till then been engrossed by the lady millionaire, was directed toward the new-comers, and according to a newspaper report, copied and published by Mr. Moore, in one of his last prefaces, considerable excitement immediately prevailed. "Eh!" exclaimed a man in the pit--"eh! yon's Sir Walter, wi' Lockhart and his wife: and wha's the wee body wi' the pawkie een? Wow, but it's Tam Moore just!" "Scott--Scott! Moore--Moore!" immediately resounded through the house. Scott would not rise: Moore did, and bowed several times with his hand on his heart. Scott afterward acknowledged the plaudits of his countrymen, and the orchestra, during the rest of the evening, played alternately Scotch and Irish airs.

At the request of the Marquis of Lansdowne, who was desirous that he should reside near him, Moore at this period took a journey into Wiltshire, to look at a house in the village of Bromham, near Bowood, the seat of the noble marquis, which it was thought might suit him. He, however, pronounced it to be too large, and declined taking it. On his return he told his wife there was a cottage in a thickly-wooded lane in the neighborhood to let, which he thought might be made to do. Mrs. Moore immediately left town, secured it, and there they shortly afterward took up their permanent abode. They have greatly improved and enlarged Sloperton Cottage; and covered almost as its front and two porches are with roses and clematis, with the trim miniature lawn and garden in front, along which runs a raised walk inclosed with evergreens, from which a fine view is obtained, it presents an entirely satisfactory aspect of well-ordered neatness, prettiness, and comfort. It is situated within about two miles of Devizes, and is within easy reach of the country residence of Lord Lansdowne. It was here he wrote the biographies of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Lord Byron, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, of which we need only remark that they are industriously compiled and pleasantly written.

In 1824, five years before the passing of the Catholic Relief Act, Moore published "The Memoirs of Captain Rock, written by Himself." It is a bitter, rhapsodical, and of course one-sided commentary upon the government of Ireland by England, not only since the Reformation, but from the time of Pope Adrian's famous bull, which is twisted into an exclusively English grievance and insult.

The next considerable work of Moore's--for his light Parthian warfare in the politics of the hour continued as usual, and with about the same success, as in his younger days--was "The Travels of an Irish Gentleman in search of a Religion"--a perfectly serious and earnest book in defense of the Roman Catholic faith. There is a vast amount of erudition displayed in its pages; and remembering how slow and painstaking a workman Moore declared himself to be, it must, one would suppose, have been the work of years. The author's object is to prove, from the writings of the early fathers and other evidence, that the peculiar dogmas, and discipline, and practice of the Church of Rome, date from the apostolic age, or at least from the first centuries of the Christian era, and are consequently true. This the writer does entirely, at least, to his own satisfaction, which is the case, we believe, with controversial writers generally. The book concludes with the following words, addressed to the Catholic Church, which his after-life proves to have been earnest and sincere: "In the shadow of thy sacred mysteries let my soul henceforth repose, remote alike from the infidel who scoffs at their darkness, and the rash believer who would pry into its recesses."

These imaginary travels were published anonymously, but the book was always known to be Moore's. Apart from any other evidence, the poetic translations of portions of the writings of ancient bishops would have amply sufficed to determine the authorship.

The last, and, according to Moore's own authority, one of the most successful of his works, as far as a great sale constitutes success, was the prose romance of "The Epicurean." There is much learning displayed in this book, and it contains some striking descriptions. We also meet occasionally with passages of simple and natural beauty and eloquence, the more striking and effective from the contrast they afford to the cumbrous and ambitious rhetoric through which they are sparsely scattered. It was commenced in verse, and gradually reached to a considerable length in that form, but ultimately, like the "Peri's Daughter," broke down irretrievably. No one who respects Mr. Moore's poetical fame will regret this after reading the fragment which has been published. "The Epicurean" is a moral and religious story; and it has this great merit, that it has very little of the merely sensuous imagery in which Mr. Moore generally indulged. The plot is of the most commonplace kind, and the conduct of the story so entirely languid and lulling, that it may be freely indulged in without the slightest fear of ill-consequences by the most nervous and impressionable lady-reader in the three kingdoms.

On the 30th of June, 1827, the day after the publication of "The Epicurean," Moore was one of the gay and distinguished assemblage at a magnificent fete at Boyle Farm, in the environs of London, the cost of which had been clubbed by five or six rich young lords. It appears by Mr. Moore's description to have been a very brilliant affair. There were crowds of the _elite_ of society present of both sexes; well-dressed men and groups of fair women, "all looking their best;" together with dancing, music, the Tyrolese minstrels, and Madame Vestris and Fanny Ayton, rowing up and down the river, singing Moore's "Oh, come to Me when Daylight sets!" and so on. The author of "The Epicurean" relates all this for the purpose of introducing an anecdote concerning his book, and we notice it for the same reason. During one of the pauses of the music, the Marquis of Palmella--Moore _disguises_ the name of the Portuguese embassador in this impenetrable mode, the Marquis of P-lm---a, approaching the poet, remarked upon the magnificence of the fete. Moore agreed. "The tents," he remarked, "had a fine effect." "Nay," said the marquis, "I was thinking of your fete at Athens. I read it this morning in the newspaper." "Confound the newspaper!" Moore had a great aversion to having his best _morceaux_ served up without context in that manner; but worse remained behind. A Mr. D---- accosted him a few minutes afterward, and mentioning the book, added these flattering words, "I never read any thing so touching as the death of your heroine." "What!" exclaimed the delighted author, "have you got so far as that already?" "Oh, dear, no, I have not seen the book--I read what I mentioned in the Literary Gazette." "Shameful!" says Mr. Moore, "to anticipate my catastrophe in that manner!" Perhaps so; but that which we should like especially to know is whether Mr. B----m, who is mentioned as being present at the enunciation of these courtesies, was Mr. Brougham. If so, the flash of the keen gray eyes that followed the compliment on the touching death of Alethe, must, to an observant looker-on, have been one of the most entertaining incidents of the fete.

The smart political squibs, scattered like fire-flies through the dreary waste of journalism during the last active years of Moore's life, are not obnoxious to criticism. Squire Corn, Famished Cotton, Weeping Chancellors, Salmagundian Kings, and knavish Benthamites, as penciled by Moore, have passed from the domain of wit and verse into that of the historian and the antiquary, into the hands of the collector of forgotten trifles; and there we very willingly leave them, pleasant, piquant, and welcome, as we fully admit them in their day to have been. Moore has also written several pieces of religious verse, which, although not of very high merit as poetry, finely at times bring out and illustrate the Christian spirit in its most engaging aspect--unalloyed, unclouded by the mists of fanatic sectarianism.

That Moore was not an inspired creative poet like Shakspeare, Milton, Burns, and a few others, is true; but beneath those heaven-reaching heights there are many still lofty eminences upon which gifted spirits sit enthroned, their brows encircled with coronets bright with gems of purest ray, serene, though pale, indeed, and dim in presence of the radiant crowns of the kings of poetry and song, between whom also there are degrees of glory; for immeasurably above all, far beyond even the constellated splendor of

"The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,"

soars Shakspeare, palm-wreathed and diademed with stars. One of these lesser heights and circlets must unquestionably be awarded to Thomas Moore. His wing, it must be admitted, is feeble, requiring artificial stimulants and help to lift him above the ground a sufficient time for warbling a brief melody. He did not sing as a flower exhales--from the law and necessity of its nature; still there is at times a grace, and tenderness, and music, about his carefully-polished snatches of song, which the world is not sufficiently rich in to willingly let die.

Turning from Moore the poet to Moore the politician, there is not much to remark upon; neither certainly is there place for two opinions. Moore wrote politics at times--pointed, bitter, rankling politics--but he was really at heart no politician. There was no earnestness in what he did in this way, and it was early and abundantly evident from his alternate eulogies and vituperation of democratic institutions, that he had no firmly-based convictions. His love for Ireland was a sentiment only: it never rose to the dignity of a passion. Not one of his patriotic songs breathes the fiery energy, the martyr zeal, the heroic hate and love, which pulsate in the veins of men who ardently sympathize with a people really oppressed, or presumed to be so. But let us hasten to say, that if there was little of the hero or martyr, there was nothing of the renegade or traitor about Thomas Moore. The pension of three hundred a year obtained for him of the crown by his influential friends was not the reward of baseness or of political tergiversation. It was the prize and reward of his eminence as a writer, and his varied social accomplishments. If he did not feel strongly, he at all events felt honestly; and although he had no mission to evoke the lightning of the national spirit, and hurl its consuming fire at the men who, had they possessed the power, would have riveted the bondage of his people, he could and did soothe their angry paroxysms with lulling words of praise and hope, and, transforming their terribly real, physical, and moral griefs and ills into picturesque and sentimental sorrows, awakened a languid admiration, and a passing sympathy for a nation which could boast such beautiful music, and whose woes were so agreeably, so charmingly sung. Liberal opinions Moore supported by tongue and pen, but then they were fashionable within a sufficiently extensive circle of notabilities, and had nothing of the coarseness and downrightness of vulgar Radicalism about them. The political idiosyncrasy of Moore is developed in the same essential aspect in his memoir of Lord Edward Fitzgerald as in his national songs. There is nothing impassioned, nothing which hurries the pulse or kindles the eye--but a graceful regret, a carefully guarded appreciation of the acts and motives of that unfortunate and misguided nobleman, run throughout. Moore was what men call a fair weather politician--which means, not that storms do not frequently surround them, but that by a prudent forethought, a happy avoidance of prematurely committing themselves, they contrive to make fair weather for themselves, however dark and tempestuous may be the time to other and less sagacious men, and who, when their sun does at last shine, come out with extreme effulgence and brilliancy. Moore, therefore, as a politician, was quite unexceptionable, though not eminent. He was at once a pensioned and unpurchased, and, we verily believe, unpurchasable partisan; an honest, sincere, and very mild patriot; a faithful, and at the same time prudent and circumspect lover of his country, its people, and its faith. There are very high-sounding names in the list of political celebrities, of whom it would be well if such real though not highly-flattering praise could be truly spoken.

Moore's prose works require but little notice at our hands beyond that incidentally bestowed upon them in our passage through his works. None of them that we are acquainted with add at all to the reputation for genius acquired by his poetry. The flow and rhyme of verse are indispensable to carry the reader through stories without probability or interest, and to render men and women, not only without originality--that frequently happens--but destitute of individualism, decently tolerable. We are ignorant of the contributions to the "Edinburgh Review;" but they could scarcely have much enhanced the power and attractiveness of a periodical which in his time numbered among its contributors such names as Jeffrey, Brougham, Sidney Smith, Hallam, Macaulay, and others of that mint and standard. Moore is assigned by his friends a high rank among the defenders or apologists of the Church of Rome; and we believe his "Travels," like Cobbett's "Reformation," have been translated by papal authority and command into most of the languages of Europe. Of his merits in this department of literature, which is quite out of our way, we do not presume to offer an opinion. His book unquestionably displays a vast deal of research and learning; but whether it is so entirely perverse as its adversaries contend, or so pre-eminently irrefragable and convincing as its admirers assert, we really can not say.

It is, after all, in the home-life of individuals that their true character must be read and studied. The poet and the politician--the latter more especially--dwell, as regards their vocations, apart from the household tests which really measure the worth, the truth, the kindliness of individual men and women. Moore, we are pleased to be able to repeat, as a son, a husband, a father, a friend, and neighbor, bore, and deservedly, the highest character. His domestic affections were ardent, tender, and sincere; and the brilliant accomplishments which caused his society to be courted by the great ones of the world, shed their genial charm over the quiet fireside at which sat his wife, and in whose light and warmth the children whose loss has bowed him to the grave, grew up only to bloom and perish. There have been much greater poets, more self-sacrificing, though perhaps no more sincere lovers of their country; but in the intimate relations of domestic life, and the discharge of its common, every-day, but sacred obligations, there are few men who have borne a more unspotted and deservedly-high reputation than Thomas Moore.

THE FAIRY'S CHOICE.

Many, many years ago, before fairies were exploded, and when every noble family had a guardian spirit attached to it, the fairy Aquarella, my heroine, existed. The date is so far back, that it belongs to those good old days known as "once upon a time." Now, Aquarella was the spirit of a pretty, sparkling streamlet, which strayed through the grounds of a mighty lord, in whose welfare she had always been interested. She was but a tiny little thing--one of the progeny of Isis and Thames; but people said she inherited the beauties of both her parents. Her little stream was of the purest water, and in her way she carefully avoided all ugly spots, while her banks were always studded with the choicest flowers. Here, the Narcissus found a fitting mirror for his waxen leaves; here, the water-lilies spread their broad petals, and formed cups fit for a fairy's board; and here, the humble forget-me-not crept under the foliage, nestling close to its birth-place, and looking so innocent, you could scarcely believe it had once lured a gay knight to a melancholy death. Aquarella, however, could never become an accessary to so sad a crime--her waters could never injure any one, save in one place, where the young Lord Albert loved to come and bathe.

The lord's bath, as it was called, was in a sweet, shady spot--the weeping willow and gentle aspen shielded it from the sun's rays, and the bright smooth pebbles that lined it seemed quite to form a pavement. This was Aquarella's favorite retreat, and hither she would calmly repose after her capricious wanderings. Sometimes she would almost hide herself under a sedgy canopy, when you could only trace her course by the deeper verdure on either side of her; and this was the chosen lurking-place of the speckled trout, the rosy dace, and other dandy fish, for she would only allow her waters to be inhabited by the choicest of their kind; slimy eels, vulgar tittlebats, or the voracious pike, were forbidden to approach her court. Sometimes she would tire of this quiet life, and suddenly making a prodigious fuss in the world, would splash around a few great stones that lay in her path, spreading herself out as wide as she could, sparkling and dancing in the sunlight, till each tiny ripple seemed to wear a crown of diamonds, and you could hardly fancy the noisy, smiling waters, belonged to the tranquil stream that had been creeping along so gently.

Few mortals were acquainted with Aquarella; but she was well-known to the gallant kingfisher, to the lordly heron, who would pursue their sport by her banks.

It was when the Lord Albert was a baby, that Aquarella first saw and loved him; his nurses had brought him to bask in her waters. The fairy was resting in her chosen retreat, and never before having noticed a mortal infant, was greatly struck with his beauty. She tempered her natural delicious coolness to receive him, and the child crowed, and clapped his pretty pink fingers, as the clear stream closed around him; he laughed as he emerged from his bath, and struggled for another dip; his women could scarcely tear him away. From that day the bath was his favorite amusement; invisibly supported by Aquarella, he sported in her waters, and each day imbibed new virtues from them. Health, strength, good temper, and good looks--these were the fairy's gifts to her protege, and wherever her wanderings led her, she heard him cited as the kindest, the bravest, the wisest, and the best of young noblemen.

Albert knew not of the beneficent being who protected him, and when he occasionally saw a vapory wreath arising from the brook, he little suspected whom it concealed; and yet if he could have seen Aquarella, her loveliness would have charmed him. She was fair--as all English maidens are--and was attired in the highest fashion of her father's court. Her dress was of that changing blue-green--known to aquatic beauties as mackerel-back--spangled with scales from the gold and silver fish. Some of her father's marine friends had brought her pearls and coral, from the great ocean itself, and with them she looped up her drapery, and braided her long tresses, while over all she threw a rich vail of mist which concealed her from the common gaze; and thus she would float along, hearing the praises of her beloved mortal, or busily occupied in increasing his wealth, ornamenting his ground, and shielding him from evil.

So passed Aquarella's days. She was now seldom seen in her father's court; her whole happiness was centred in Albert. She cared not to join in her sisters' gambols, as each brought their tribute to their august parents--she was pining away for love, and only lived when in Albert's domain; elsewhere she dwindled away till her fond mother feared she would lose all her beauty and animation, and become a mere rillet. It was proposed to unite her waters with those of a neighboring river, who wished to marry, but she would not hear of such a thing, and threatened if it were mentioned again to hide herself underground for the rest of her life.

"But, good gracious! what is to be done?" asked Isis; "we can not let the poor child, our youngest and prettiest, incur the unhappy fate of the unfortunate little Fleet River."

"No, no," replied father Thames, "that must not be; I will take her to-morrow to London Bridge; he is older, and has seen more of the world than any one we know. I dare say he can give us some good advice."

"Very well," said Isis, "you may speak to the Bridge, as you go to meet those nauseous salt rivers; I hate them, they are so rough and roar so when they are angry. I will see what I can learn nearer home, at the Universities; there are plenty of doctors there."

"You had better call at Sion House, too, and Richmond."

"To be sure, that I will; there--where fair queens have fretted and have mourned, where noble ladies have dwelt and wept--they must know something of this strange disease, called Love, for I really fear that is Aquarella's disorder."

"Nonsense! where could she get that complaint?"

"On earth, to be sure. It is very prevalent there, and I am told it is infectious; we can but ask, you know."

The two anxious parents now separated, Isis remaining impatiently till old Thames's return from his sea visit allowed her to proceed on her inland course. They gained but little information at any of the places they had mentioned, as, though such things had occasionally happened in Greece, the case was quite new to all the sages here. Aquarella was the first English fairy who had been known to die of love for a mortal. This low attachment of hers made her friends very unhappy, and at last they summoned her godfather Aquarius. As he was the god of all the rivers, and a very high personage, there was a great deal of ceremony in his reception, and he came to the bed of Thames in a special train of thunder, lightning, and rain, accompanied by his friend Boreas. This high honor made the old couple so proud, that they spread out their waters to make room for him, till they even covered their banks, and frightened all who lived near them.

Aquarius, from his long experience and intimate acquaintance with lady-rivers of all nations, was quite the most proper person to treat with the poor fairy. He did not scold, rough as he was, for he knew scolding was of no good in her complaint; he reasoned with her, but that was scarce more efficient.

"Do you know, child, that to marry this mortal, you must take his religion?"

"And is not that better than ours, your Mightiness?"

"Give up your immortality?"

"And gain his. Ours must cease with this world; his can never end."

"But it may be an immortality of grief?"

"Not unless we deserve it, and we will not. I learned much, your Mightiness, while washing the walls of a little chapel, by whose side I flow."

"You must relinquish your high privileges."

"What are they, without love?"

"Aquarella, you are mad! Do you know what the life of a mortal woman is?"

"Oh, yes. Have I not watched Albert's mother? I know how she spends her days; in providing comforts for son and husband, in instructing the ignorant, in relieving the poor, in doing good to all. Hers is indeed a happy and useful life."

"And suppose Albert should not love you?"

"I could still watch over him."

"Suppose he should become poor--should fall from his high estate?"

"I would work for, and comfort him."

"If he live, he will lose his youthful beauty."

"But he will preserve his virtues."

"He will become old and decrepit."

"I will nurse him."

"She has an answer for every thing; there must be a woman's soul in her. After all--listen to me seriously, daughter--you may indeed do all you say, and become the blessing of Albert's life; but to do this, you must leave your parents, your sisters--leave them, and forever."

"Must I, indeed?"

"You must. Albert is of another class; he may be as good as you, still he is not your equal, nor can you enjoy his love and that of your family. Now choose between them."

"My sisters--my father--Albert."

"Choose--weigh them well in the balance; or one, or the other--both you can not have."

"Does my father disapprove?"

"You can not expect he wishes you to leave him for one of another sort. Your separation must be eternal."

"Will Albert be happy?"

"Why not? Even if he knew you, he could not think much of a wife who could sever herself from her earliest ties."

"My mother, too! No, no, you are right; I should never be happy. What! To feel I had offended those who have the best claim to my love and affection! I must not think of it. Still, are they not a little prejudiced?"

"Perhaps they are; but if you do your duty, their prejudices may eventually give way."

"I am afraid all you say is true; I can not leave them. Oh! I am very miserable. What shall I do?"

"Do good to every one, make yourself useful--that is the only cure for a broken heart."

"Can I help Albert?"

"To be sure you can. And now you have shown yourself to be a dutiful daughter, and a fairy of proper sense, I will teach you how to assist him, and all his fellow-men."

I can not tell all the advice the old god gave to the disconsolate Aquarella, but its consequences were of great benefit to the young lord, and ultimately to all the world, for she consented to restrain her vagaries, and become a useful member of society, a working river. The same lively energy that helped her to quarrel with the stones, now enabled her to turn a mill; there is no saying what amount of water power is within her. Like all really benevolent, sensible persons, she considers no good work a degradation; and her activity is boundless. She has turned from her course to assist a paper manufacturer, her waters are invaluable to a calico printer also, and she may be seen in a bleaching ground.

She is not so wildly beautiful as in her early days, but her banks are still charming, and, like a kind old maiden aunt, she is ever indulgent to youth. She has famous bays, where rosy boys can launch their tiny vessels; deep recesses, where sober anglers enjoy their silent sport; and sweet nooks, where Albert's posterity have often mused on pleasant thoughts, have pledged the faith, and vowed the love denied to the poor fairy, and here her course flows placidly and serenely along, as if she still took an interest in human happiness, and the trifles that compose it.

It is even said that for the greater benefit of mankind, and of the loved one's descendents in particular, she has consented to be united with a sluggish, but wealthy canal, who wishes to get some pure water. This report at present wants good authority; however, we shall see.

At all events the fairy's fate may teach us that all--even those who have known great troubles--may be happy if they do their duty; that no lot is without its trials and its reward, and that there is no cure to sorrow so potent as a good conscience.

A GALLOP FOR LIFE.

About twenty years ago, after a fatiguing London season, I was stopping at the decayed port and bathing village of Parkgate, on the Dee, opposite the equally decayed town and castle of Flint. It was a curious place to choose for amusement, for it had, and has, no recommendation except brackish water, pleasant scenery at high water, and excessive dullness. But, to own the truth, I was in love, desperately in love, with one of the most charming, provoking little sylphs in the world, who, after driving me half crazy in London, was staying on a visit with an uncle, a Welsh parson, at dreary Parkgate. Not that it was dreary to me when Laura was amiable; on the contrary, I wrote to my friends and described it as one of the most delightful watering-places in England, and, by so doing, lost forever the good graces and legacy of my Aunt Grumph, who traveled all the way from Brighton on my description, and only staid long enough to change horses. One sight of the one street of tumble-down houses, in face of a couple of miles of sand and shingle at low water, was enough. She never spoke to me again, except to express her extreme contempt for my opinion.

Our chief amusement was riding on the sand, and sometimes crossing to Flint at low water. You know, of course, that formerly the Dee was a great commercial river, with important ports at Chester, Parkgate, and Flint; but, in the course of time, the banks have fallen in, increasing the breadth at the expense of the depth; so that at Parkgate, whence formerly the Irish packets sailed, the fisher-girls can walk over at low water, merely tucking up their petticoats in crossing the channel, down which the main stream of fresh water flows.

But although this broad expanse of sand affords a firm footing, at low water, for the whole way across, except just round Flint, where there are several quicksands, when the tide turns, in certain states of the wind, the whole estuary is covered with wonderful rapidity; for the tide seems to creep up subterranean channels, and you may find yourself surrounded by salt-water when you least expect it.

This was of no consequence to us, as we were never tied for time. I was teaching Laura to ride on a little Welsh pony, and the sands made a famous riding-school. I laugh now when I think of the little rat of a pony she used to gallop about, for she now struggles into a Brougham of ordinary dimensions with great difficulty, and weighs nearly as much as her late husband, Mr. Alderman Mallard. In a short time, Laura made so much progress in horsemanship that she insisted on mounting my hackney, a full-sized well-bred animal, and putting me on the rat-pony. When I indulged her in this fancy--for of course she had her own way--I had the satisfaction of being rewarded by her roars of laughter at the ridiculous figure I cut, ambling beside her respectable uncle, on his cart-horse cob, with my legs close to the ground, and my nose peering over the little Welshman's shaggy ears, while my fairy galloped round us, drawing all sorts of ridiculous comparisons. This was bad enough, but when Captain Egret, the nephew of my charmer's aunt's husband, a handsome fellow, with "a lovely gray horse, with such a tail," as Laura described it, came up from Chester to stay a few days, I could stand my rat-pony no longer, and felt much too ill to ride out; so stood at the window of my lodgings with my shirt-collar turned down, and Byron in my hand open at one of the most murderous passages, watching Laura on my chestnut, and Captain Egret on his gray, cantering over the deserted bed of the Dee. They were an aggravatingly handsome couple, and the existing state of the law on manslaughter enabled me to derive no satisfaction from the hints contained in the "Giaour" or the "Corsair." These were our favorite books of reference for Young England in those days. Indeed, we were all amateur pirates, and felons in theory; but when I had been cast down in disgust at the debased state of civilization, which prevented me from challenging Captain Egert to single combat, with Laura for the prize of the victor, instead of a cell in Chester Castle, my eyes fell on an advertisement in a local paper, which turned my thoughts into a new channel, of "_Sale of Blood Stock, Hunters, and Hackneys_, at Plas * * *, near Holywell."

I determined to give up murder, and buy another horse, for I could ride as well as the captain; and then what glorious _tete-a-tetes_ I could have, with my hand on the pommel of Laura's side-saddle. The idea put me in good-humor. Regimental duties having suddenly recalled Captain Egret, I spent a delightful evening with Laura; she quite approved of my project, and begged that I would choose a horse "with a long tail, of a pretty color," which is every young lady's idea of what a horse should be.

Accordingly I mounted my chestnut on a bright morning of July, and rode across to Flint, accompanied by a man to bring back my intended purchase. It was dead low water; when, full of happy thoughts, in the still warm silence of the summer morning, holding my eager horse hard in, I rode at a foot-pace across the smooth, hard, wave-marked bed of the river. There was not a cloud in the sky. The sun, rising slowly, cast a golden glow over the sparkling sand. Pat-pat-pit-pat, went my horse's feet, not loud enough to disturb the busy crows and gulls seeking their breakfast; they were not afraid of me; they knew I had no gun. I remember it; I see it all before me, as if it were yesterday, for it was one of the most delicious moments of my life. But the screaming gulls and whistling curlews were put to flight, before I had half crossed the river's bed, by the cheerful chatter, laughter, and fragments of Welsh airs sung in chorus by a hearty crowd of cockle and mussel gatherers, fishermen, and farmers' wives, on their way to the market on the Cheshire side--men, women (they were the majority), and children, on foot, on ponies, and donkeys, and in little carts. Exchanging good-humored jokes, I passed on until I came to the ford of the channel, where the river runs between banks of deep soft sand. At low water, at certain points, in summer, it is but a few inches deep; but after heavy rains, and soon after the turning of the tide, the depth increases rapidly.

At the ford I met a second detachment of Welsh peasantry preparing to cross, by making bundles of shoes and stockings, and tucking up petticoats very deftly. Great was the fun and the splashing, and plenty of jokes on the _Saxon_ and his red horse going the wrong way. The Welsh girls in this part of the country are very pretty, with beautiful complexions, a gleam of gold in their dark hair, and an easy, graceful walk, from the habit of carrying the water-pitchers from the wells on their heads. The scene made me feel any thing but melancholy or ill-natured. I could not help turning back to help a couple of little damsels across, pillion-wise, who seemed terribly afraid of wetting their finery at the foot ford.

Having passed the channels, the wheels and footmarks formed a plain direction for a safe route, which, leaving Flint Castle on my right, brought me into the centre of Flint, without any need of a guide. The rest of my road was straightforward and commonplace. I reached the farm where the sale was to take place, in time for breakfast, and was soon lost in a crowd of country squires, Welsh parsons, farmers, horse-dealers, and grooms.

Late in the day I purchased a brown stallion, with a strain of Arab blood, rather undersized, but compact, and one of the handsomest horses I ever saw before or since, very powerful, nearly thorough-bred. When the auctioneer had knocked him down to me, I said to one of the grooms of the establishment who was helping my man--handing him a crown-piece at the same time:

"As the little brown horse is mine, with all faults, just have the goodness to tell me what is his fault?"

"Why, sir," he answered, "he can walk, trot, gallop, and jump, first rate, surely; but he's very awkward to mount; and when you are on, he'll try uncommon hard to get you off, for two minutes; if you stick fast, he will be quiet enough all day."

"Thank you, my man," I replied; "I'll try him directly."

Just before starting I found the chestnut had a shoe loose, and had to send him to the nearest village, two miles off. I had promised Laura to return by eight o'clock, to finish a delightful book we were reading aloud together, until the tiff about Captain Egret had interrupted us. You may judge if I was not impatient; and yet, with fifteen miles to ride to Flint, I had no time to spare.

My friend, the groom, saddled the brown horse, and brought him down to the open road to me. He trotted along, with shining coat and arched neck, snorting and waving his great tail like a lion. As he piaffed and paraded sideways along, casting back his full eye most wickedly, every motion spoke mischief; but there was no time for consideration; I had barely an hour to do fifteen miles of rough roads before crossing the river, and must get to the river-side, cool. I had intended to have ridden the chestnut, who was experienced in water, but the loose shoe upset that arrangement.

Without giving him any time to see what I was about, I caught him by the mane and the reins, threw myself from a sloping bank into the saddle, and, although he dragged the groom across the road, I had both feet in the stirrups before he burst from his hold. Snorting fiercely, he bucked and plunged until I thought the girths would surely crack; but other horsemen galloping past, enabled me to bustle him into full speed, and in five minutes he settled down into a long, luxurious stride, with his legs under his haunches, that felt like a common canter, but really devoured the way, and swept me past every thing on the road. Up hill and down, it was all the same, he bounded, like a machine full of power on the softest of steel-springs.

Ten miles were soon past, and we reached Holywell; up the steep hill and through the town, and down the steep narrow lanes, we went, and reached the level road along the shore leading to Flint, without halt, until within two miles of that town; then I drew bridle, to walk in cool.

By this time the weather, which had been bright all day, had changed; a few heat drops of rain fell, thunder was heard rolling in the distance, and a wind seemed rising and murmuring from the sea.

I looked at my watch as we entered the town; it was an hour past the time when I intended to have crossed--but Laura must not be disappointed; so I only halted at the inn long enough to let the brown wash his mouth out, and, without dismounting, rode on to the guide's house. As I passed the Castle, I heard a band playing; it was a party of officers, with their friends, who had come up on a pic-nic from Chester.

When I reached the cottage of old David, the guide, he was sitting on the bench at the door, putting on his shoes and stockings; and part of the party I had met in the morning, as they passed, cried, "You're late, master; you must hurry on to cross to-night." David was beginning to dissuade me; but when I threw him a shilling, and trotted on, he followed me, pattering down the beach.

"You must make haste, master, for the wind's getting up, and will bring the tide like a roaring lion--it will. But I suppose the pretty lady with the rosy face expects you. But where's the red horse? I wish you had him. I do not like strange horses on such a time as this--indeed, and I do not," he added. But I had no time for explanations, although David was a great ally of ours. I knew I was expected; it was getting dusk, and Laura would be anxious, _I hoped_.

Pushing briskly along, we soon reached the ford of the channel, so calm and shallow in the morning, but now filling fast with the tide; dark clouds were covering the sky, and the wind brought up a hollow murmuring sound.

"Now get across, young gentleman, as fast as you can, and keep your eye on the wind-mill, and don't spare your spurs, and you will have plenty of time; so, good-evening, God bless you! young gentleman, and the pretty lady, too," cried David, honestest of Welsh guides.

I tried to walk the brown horse through the ford where it was not more than three or four feet deep; but he first refused; then, when pressed, plunged fiercely in, and was out of his depth in a moment. He swam boldly enough, but obstinately kept his head down the stream, so that, instead of landing on an easy, shelving shore, he came out where all but a perpendicular bank of soft sand had to be leaped and climbed over. After several unsuccessful efforts, I was obliged to slip off, and climb up on foot, side by side with my horse, holding on by the flap of the saddle. If I had not dismounted, we should probably have rolled back together.