Chapter V

_Another Soliloquy of Mr. Philip De Lancaster. Our History returns to the Family at Kray Castle._

When the Irish tailor, who had been a journeyman botcher in London, and was now become a master of journeymen botchers in Lisbon, had invested the well-made person of Mr. Philip De Lancaster in an ill-made suit of rotten black, the mourning bridegroom elect, having paid the bill and dismissed the bill-maker, examined himself in the glass, and thus, as was customary with him, mournfully soliloquized--

“Luckless man that I am, must I put aside this habit on my wedding-day? Wherefore; on what pretence; I have undergone that ceremony once already, and by experience can more than guess to what sad hours that ceremony leads. Marriage, by high authority denominated honourable, is, through perversion of its purposes, to many become disgraceful, burdensome to most, and a blessing, as I verily believe, to few, if any, who know how to compute what is a blessing, and what is their bane. There are indeed a few soft silly things amongst the mass of female spinsters, that a man, who knows the value of their ignorance, might possibly with proper care prevent from growing wiser; but a widow--(Oh my hapless fortune, Rachel Owen is a widow--) who can keep in ignorance? Not I; not any man.

“Her eyes, her air, her action, every movement and every word prognosticate sagacity, that will not be deceived: then what a pipe? Good Heaven, if that voice, which is so shrill whilst only warbling Spanish tonadillas, that to me are unintelligible, shall be roused to exert itself in plain English argumentation, farewel to all repose! nor peace, nor quiet shall I ever know. How am I sure she is not a Jewess? She may, for aught that I can tell, be lineally descended from that wicked king, who put to death all the innocents; and if so, how shall I escape? Happy Devereux, he is on the seas: would I were on them too, or under them, rather than what I may be, aye, and shall be if that sharp-eyed widow sets her wits to work. I begin to think I made a wrong choice, and should have taken my chance of turning out with the son, rather than of turning in where I shall have no chance at all. There seems nothing left for me but to fall extremely sick, and that I may really be so without feigning, I will instantly call in a Portuguese physician, and (which is more than any patient less desperate will promise) I am resolute to take his physic. Ah, where is my good friend and countryman Llewellyn? My poor wife followed his prescriptions, and behold! here am I in his livery, black as the hands of man can make me. Ah Llewellyn, Llewellyn, in Wales it was quite enough for me to endure your company; I never wished to be your patient till now that I am in Lisbon, and under sentence of a dose more bitter and against my palate than you ever mixed--But what if John De Lancaster should come upon my call? There would be a champion worthy of my cause: Glendowr’s magic could not conjure up a braver or a stouter spirit. He is young, not married, not, like me, bent to the yoke, but free, untrammeled and untamed. I’ll cherish hope; I’ll feed upon the thought that my brave boy will come, and vex myself no more.”

Whilst this sad ditty was in recitation Devereux was wafted swiftly over the ocean, favoured by a freshening gale, that blowed direct for England, as if impatient to salute the mother of the winds and mistress of the waves, amidst which she sits safe and encircled on her chalky throne.

Mean time our John De Lancaster, from whose society we have unwillingly been separated for some short while, could hardly count the hours, so quick they passed, when with his loved Amelia by his side,

_They fled away with down upon their feet_.

It might now be most truly said that the good old chief of the family at Kray Castle was surrounded by a groupe of happy subjects, all loyal, free and affectionate, all witnessing his benevolence, regaling themselves in the sunshine of his smile and sharing the enjoyments of his hospitable board: his cooks seemed perfectly persuaded that spits were made to turn, whilst his cellerman probably forgot that the property of a spigot was to stop a barrel. Scarce a day passed, which was not marked by the attention of his neighbouring friends; Sir Arthur Floyd and the new allies were frequent in their visits, for they had a passionate affection for our hero, and whilst their eyes dwelt with approving pleasure on the fair Amelia, they destined him to her arms, and paid her their devoirs as to a bride elect.

Mrs. Jennings, respited from all the anxious responsibility of a governess, seemed to retain nothing but that unalterable affection for her beloved charge, which was natural to her, and began to think of retiring to her independence at Denbigh--I see you now, my dear Amelia, she said, firmly seated in the hearts of this liberal and benignant family, adopted by the excellent Cecilia, and favoured beyond all my hopes by the venerable De Lancaster; and what more have I to do but to lay down my cares, and rejoice in your good fortune? I have to the best of my power fulfilled the promise, that I made to your dear father, whose conscious spirit, now in bliss, looks down upon you; my prayers for your happiness, and for the life of him, on whom your happiness depends, will for the remnant of my days be fervently put up to that Almighty Power, whose attribute is mercy. Go on, my child, in the right course, in which I strove to train you, and from which you never yet have strayed. Cultivate Cecilia: Guard your young heart against the dangerous allurements of sudden elevation, and that unlooked-for prosperity, which is at hand to put your constancy, your piety, your humility to the test. Mean, low-born persons are too apt to turn giddy on the wheel of fortune, when it lifts them from the dirt; but recollect, that in hereditary rank and dignity your pretensions are as high as those of the De Lancasters and Morgans, who in riches, not in ancestry, have an advantage over you, and riches only, as you well know, constitute no actual superiority. Let your humility therefore, though in itself one of the most recommendatory qualities you can possess, be that gentle virtue, which your religion dictates, but never let it sink below the mark, at which true conscious honour has a right to stand.

Cecilia’s lessons, not less edifying, were of another cast; for every word, that fell from her lips, was tinctured with a suavity and grace peculiar to her elegance of character. When she addressed her admonitions to the heart, their object was to inspire it with benevolence, with charity, with resignation and that christian lowliness, which whilst on earth it sinks, secures its happiest surest flight to Heaven. To these Amelia listened with delight; on these she formed herself, and, happily for her, whilst she received the precept, she beheld the example, that confirmed it. Every day gave her new graces, till the charms of beauty were but as ornaments, whose only use is to set off the lustre of the real gem.

As for the grand-father of her beloved, it was something curious to remark how soon she found a strenuous advocate in him. When he descanted she was all attention; nothing could draw her from him. He would say, Amelia listens to me with good sense and apprehension: There is a marked discernment in her silence, that is more pleasing, aye, and more eloquent than all the studied praise that flattery can suggest--I have been thinking, he said one day, as they were sitting in their family circle, I have been thinking, John, that if I live to see the day when you shall be of age, how perfectly it would complete and crown my felicity, would you take it into your gallant mind to make me a present on that joyful occasion. I would have you think it is not a trifle, that will satisfy me. It must be a measure of your esteem for me, and a full satisfaction, recompence and return for all the love, the care, the fond anxiety, that you have merited and I bestowed. Look around, and tell me if you guess my meaning.

John had not far to look, for Amelia sate beside him struggling to conceal her consciousness of the allusion, and dreading to hear that, which would have given her such delight to have overheard without the confusion of being present. In this instant, most opportunely for her rescue, whilst all her efforts could not prevent her blushes from betraying her, the harp of David Williams sounded in the hall, and she exclaimed above her usual pitch--Oh, what a charming strain.

Bid him come in, said the old gentleman, addressing himself to his grandson, and if the muse has visited her votary, perhaps she will supply him with words to that strain, which our dear Amelia seems to be so pleased with--David has a quick invention when his wits are well warmed with his favourite metheglin.

The minstrel entered and was led to a seat in the corner of the room, at the farthest distance from the company assembled. Having lightly sounded the strings of his harp to prove if they were in perfect tune, he asked if the young stranger lady was in the room.

Mr. De Lancaster told him that Miss Amelia Jones was present, and had expressed herself much pleased with the melody, which he had been rehearsing in the hall: Could he play it over to them again?

Perhaps not quite the same: He would attempt something as like it as he could recollect, he hoped it would be not much worse, but he doubted if it would be exactly the same.

David, said De Lancaster again, you have enquired if Miss Jones is present; I have told you that she is, and if you could see her, and be satisfied how fair a lady you are invited to address, your muse, inspired by her beauty, would be propitious, and mere melody would not be all, that we should hear from you.

Roused by this challenge to his genius, the blind old bard spread his hands upon the harp, and having rested his forehead on the frame of it for a very few minutes, after an appropriate prelude, extemporaneously broke forth as follows.

“Lady, they tell me thou art passing fair,
And blest by Heaven with a celestial mind;
I hear thee speaking, but I know not where,
For woe is me, poor minstrel! I am blind.

Yet when the muse inspires me, I can trace
Forms, that to mental vision seem divine;
My fancy can pourtray an angel’s face,
Dress it in angel smiles, and call it thine.

Still through the windings of these antient tow’rs
Your dark musician can explore his way,
For my dear patron’s animating pow’rs
To these benighted orbs can give the day.

Object of all our love, of all our care.
To thee, brave youth, our honest praise is giv’n;
Thy deeds, recorded in the poor man’s pray’r,
With that sweet incense shall ascend to Heav’n.

Oft have I bless’d thee, borne thee in my arms,
And oft have hush’d thy wailing infant cry,
Or witching thy young heart with music’s charms
Chang’d the loud laugh to pity’s melting sigh.

And shall not he, that feels the virgin’s wrongs,
In some fond virgin’s nuptial arms be blest,
Whilst grateful bards record him in their songs
In love the happiest, and in heart the best?

But who is this in bridal robes array’d?
What beauteous vision is it that I see?
Hail, fair Amelia! this celestial shade
Is the bright form my day-dream shapes for thee.”