Chapter M: E. Braddon (5)

"Prepare to die!" said Apollyon, straddling over the whole breadth of the narrow way. "I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no further. Here will I spill thy soul."

With that, he threw a flaming dart at his breast, but Christian caught it on his shield. Then Apollyon rushed upon him, throwing darts as thick as hail, and, notwithstanding all that Christian could do, Apollyon wounded him, and made him draw back. The sore combat lasted for half a day, and though Christian resisted as manfully as he could, he grew weaker and weaker by reason of his wounds. At last, Apollyon, espying his opportunity, closed in on Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall, and Christian's sword flew out of his hand.

"Ah!" cried Apollyon, "I am sure of thee now!"

He pressed him almost to death, and Christian began to despair of life. But, as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching his last blow, to make an end of this good man, Christian nimbly reached out his hand for his sword, and caught it, and gave him a deadly thrust. With that, Apollyon spread forth his wings, and sped him away, and Christian saw him no more.

Then, with some leaves from the tree of life, Christian healed his wounds, and with his sword drawn in his hand, he marched through the Valley of Humiliation, without meeting any more enemies.

But at the end of the valley was another, called the Valley of the Shadow of Death. On the right hand of this valley was a very deep ditch; it was the ditch into which the blind have led the blind in all ages, and have there miserably perished. And on the left hand was a dangerous quagmire, into which, if even a good man falls, he finds no bottom for his foot to stand on. The pathway here was exceeding narrow and very dark, and Christian was hard put to it to get through safely. And right by the wayside, in the midst of the valley, was the mouth of hell, and out of it came flame and smoke in great abundance, with sparks and hideous noises. But when the hosts of hell came at him, as he travelled on through the smoke and flame and dreadful noise, he cried out, "I will walk in the strength of the Lord God!"

Thereupon, the fiends gave over, and came no further; and suddenly the day broke, and Christian turned and saw all the hobgoblins, satyrs, and dragons of the pit far behind him, and though he was now got into the most dangerous part of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, he was no longer afraid. The place was so set, here with snares, traps, gins and nets, and there with pits and holes, and shelvings, that, had it been dark, he would surely have perished. But it was now clear day, and by walking warily Christian got safely to the end of the valley. And at the end of the valley, he saw another pilgrim marching on at some distance before him.

"Ho, ho!" shouted Christian. "Stay, and I will be your companion."

"No, I cannot stay," said the other pilgrim, whose name was Faithful. "I am upon my life, and the avenger of blood is behind me."

Putting out all his strength, Christian quickly got up with Faithful. Then I saw in my dream they went very lovingly on together, and had sweet discourse of all things that had happened to them in their pilgrimage; for they had been neighbours in the City of Destruction, and both of them were bound for the Delectable Mountains, and the Celestial City beyond. They were now in a great wilderness, and they walked on together till they came to the town of Vanity, at which a fair is kept all the year long, called Vanity Fair.

_II.--Vanity Fair_

I saw in my dream that Christian and Faithful tried to avoid seeing Vanity Fair; but this they could not do, because the way to the Celestial City lies through the town where this lusty fair is kept. About 5,000 years ago, Beelzebub, Apollyon, and the rest of the fiends saw by the path which the pilgrims made, that their way lay through the town of Vanity. So they set up a fair there, in which all sorts of vanity should be sold every day in the year. Among the merchandise sold at this fair are lands, honours, titles, lusts, pleasures, and preferments; delights of all kinds, as servants, gold, silver, and precious stones; murders and thefts; blood and bodies, yea, and lives and souls. Moreover, at this fair, there are at all times to be seen jugglings, cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every sort.

When Christian and Faithful came through Vanity Fair everybody began to stare and mock at them, for they were clothed in a raiment different from the raiment of the multitude that traded in the fair, and their speech also was different, and few could understand what they said. But what amused the townspeople most of all was that the pilgrims set light by all their wares.

"What will ye buy? What will ye buy?" said one merchant to them mockingly.

"We buy the truth," said Christian and Faithful, looking gravely upon him.

At this some men began to taunt the pilgrims, and some tried to strike them; and things at last came to a hubbub and great stir, and all the fair was thrown into disorder. Thereupon, Christian and Faithful were arrested as disturbers of the peace. After being beaten and rolled in the dirt, they were put into a cage, and made a spectacle to all the men of the fair. The next day they were again beaten, and led up and down the fair in heavy chains for an example and terror to others.

But some of the better sort were moved to take their part; and this so angered the chief men in the town that they resolved to put the pilgrims to death. They were therefore indicted before the Lord Chief Justice Hategood with having disturbed the trade of Vanity Fair, and won a party over to their own pernicious way of thinking, in contempt of the law of Prince Beelzebub. Mr. Envy, Mr. Superstition, and Mr. Pickthank bore witness against them; and the jurymen, on hearing Faithful affirm that the customs of their town of Vanity were opposed to the spirit of Christianity, brought him in guilty of high treason to Beelzebub. No doubt, they would have condemned Christian also; but, by the mercy of God, he escaped from prison, being assisted by one of the men of the town, named Hopeful, who had come over to his way of thinking.

Faithful was tied to a stake, and scourged, and stoned, and burnt to death. But I saw in my dream that the Shining Ones came with a chariot and horses, and made their way through the multitude to the flames in which Faithful was burning, and put him in the chariot, and, with the sound of trumpets, carried him up through the clouds, and on to the gate of the Celestial City.

So Christian was left alone to continue his journey; but I saw in my dream that, as he was going out of the town of Vanity, Hopeful came up to him and said that he would be his companion. And thus it ever is. Whenever a man dies to bear testimony to the truth, another rises out of his ashes to carry on his work.

Christian was in no wise cast down by the death of Faithful, but went on his way, singing,

Hail, Faithful, hail! Thy goodly works survive;
And though they killed thee, thou art still alive.

And he was especially comforted by Hopeful telling him that there were a great many men of the better sort in Vanity Fair who were now resolved to undertake the pilgrimage to the Celestial City. Some way beyond Vanity Fair was a delicate plain, called Ease, where Christian and Hopeful went with much content. But at the farther side of that plain was a little hill, which was named Lucre. In this hill was a silver-mine which was very dangerous to enter, for many men who had gone to dig silver there had been smothered in the bottom by damps and noisome airs. Four men from Vanity Fair--Mr. Money-love, Mr. Hold-the-World, Mr. By-Ends, and Mr. Save-All--were going into the silver-mine as Christian and Hopeful passed by.

"Tarry for us," said Mr. Money-love; "and when we have got a little riches to take us on our journey, we will come with you."

Hopeful was willing to wait for his fellow-townsmen, but Christian told him that, having entered the mine, they would never come out; and, besides, that treasure is a snare to them that seek it, for it hindereth their pilgrimage. And he spoke truly; for I saw in my dream that some were killed by falling into the mine as they gazed from the brink, and the rest who went down to dig were poisoned by the vapours in the pit.

In the meantime, Christian and Hopeful came to the river of life, and walked along the bank with great delight. They drank of the water of the river, which was pleasant and enlivening to their weary spirits, and they ate of the fruit of the green trees that grew by the river side. Then, finding a fair meadow covered with lilies, they laid down and slept; and in the morning they rose up, wondrously refreshed, and continued their journey along the bank of the river. But the way soon grew rough and stony, and seeing on their left hand a stile across the meadow called By-Path Meadow, Christian leaped over it, and said to Hopeful, "Come, good Hopeful, let us go this way. It is much easier."

"I am afraid," said Hopeful, "that it will take us out of the right road."

But Christian persuaded him to jump over the stile, and there they got into a path which was very easy for their feet. But they had not gone very far when it began to rain and thunder and lighten in a most dreadful manner, and night came on apace, and stumbling along in the darkness, they reached Doubting Castle, and the lord thereof, Giant Despair, took them and threw them into a dark and dismal dungeon. Here they lay for three days without one bit of bread or drop of drink. On the third day Giant Despair came and flogged them with a great crabtree cudgel, and so disabled them that they were not even able to rise up from the mire of their dungeon floor. And indeed, they could scarcely keep their heads above the mud in which they lay.

Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence; and when she found that, in spite of their flogging, Christian and Hopeful were still alive, she advised her husband to kill them outright. It happened, however, to be sunshiny weather, and sunshiny weather always made Giant Despair fall into a helpless fit, in which he lost for the time the use of his hands. So all he could do was to try and persuade his prisoners to kill themselves with knife or halter.

"Why," said he to Christian and Hopeful, "should you choose to live? You know you can never get out of Doubting Castle. What! Will you slowly starve to death like rats in a hole, instead of putting a sudden end to your misery, like men. I tell you again, you will never get out."

But when he was gone, Christian and Hopeful went down on their knees in their dungeon and prayed long and earnestly. Then Christian suddenly bethought himself, and after fumbling in his bosom, he drew out a key, saying, "What a fool am I to lie in a dismal dungeon when I can walk at liberty! Here is the key that I have been carrying in my bosom, called Promise, that will open every lock in Doubting Castle."

He at once tried it at the dungeon door, and turned the bolt with ease. He then led Hopeful to the iron gate of the castle, and though the lock went desperately hard, yet the key opened it. But as the gate moved, it made such a creaking that Giant Despair was aroused.

Hastily rising up, the giant set out to pursue the prisoners; but seeing that all the land was now flooded with sunshine, he fell into one of his helpless fits, and could not even get as far as the castle gate.

_III.--The Celestial City_

Having thus got safely out of Doubting Castle, Christian and Hopeful made their way back to the banks of the river of life, and, following the rough and stony way, they came at last to the Delectable Mountains. And going up the mountains they beheld the gardens and orchards, the vineyards, the fountains of water; and here they drank and washed themselves, and freely ate of the pleasant grapes of the vineyards. Now, on top of the mountains there were four shepherds feeding their flocks, and the pilgrims went to them, and, leaning upon their staffs, they asked them the way to the Celestial City. And the shepherds took them by the hand and led them to the top of Clear, the highest of all the Delectable Mountains, and the pilgrims looked and saw, faintly and very far off, the gate and the glory of the Celestial City.

And I saw in my dream that the two pilgrims went down the Delectable Mountains along the narrow way, and after walking some distance they came to a place where the path branched. Here they stood still for a while, considering which way to take, for both ways seemed right. And as they were considering, behold, a man black of flesh and covered with a white robe, came up to them, and offered to lead them down the true way. But when they had followed him for some time they found that he had led them into a crooked road, and there they were entangled in a net.

Here they lay bewailing themselves, and at last they espied a Shining One coming toward them, with a whip in his hand.

"We are poor pilgrims going to the Celestial City," said Christian and Hopeful. "A black man clothed in white offered to lead us there, but entangled us instead in this net."

"It was Flatterer that did this," said the Shining One. "He is a false apostle that hath transformed himself into an angel."

I saw in my dream that he then rent the net and let the pilgrims out. Then he commanded them to lie down, and when they did so, he chastised them with his whip of cords, to teach them to walk in the good way, and refrain from following the advice of evil flatterers. And they thanked him for his kindness, and went softly along the right path, singing for very joy; and after passing through the Enchanted Land, which was full of vapours that made them dull and sleepy, they came to the sweet and pleasant country of Beulah. In this country the sun shone night and day, and the air was so bright and clear that they could see the Celestial City to which they were going. Yea, they met there some of the inhabitants, for the Shining Ones often walked in the Land of Beulah, because it was on the borders of Heaven.

As Christian and Hopeful drew near to the city their strength began to fail. It was builded of pearls and precious stones, and the streets were paved with gold; and what with the natural glory of the city, and the dazzling radiance of the sunbeams that fell upon it, Christian grew sick with desire as he beheld it; and Hopeful, too, was stricken with the same malady. And, walking on very slowly, full of the pain of longing, they came at last to the gate of the city. But between them and the gate there was a river, and the river was very deep, and no bridge went over it. And when Christian asked the Shining Ones how he could get to the gate of the city, they said to him, "You must go through the river, or you cannot come to the gate."

"Is the river very deep?" said Christian.

"You will find it deeper or shallower," said the Shining Ones, "according to the depth or shallowness of your belief in the King of our city."

The two pilgrims then entered the river. Christian at once began to sink, and, crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, "I sink in deep waters! The billows go over my head! All the waves go over me."

"Be of good cheer, my brother," said Hopeful, "I feel the bottom, and it is good!"

With that a great darkness and horror fell upon Christian; he could no longer see before him, and he was in much fear that he would perish in the river, and never enter in at the gate. When he recovered, he found he had got to the other side, and Hopeful was already there waiting for him.

And I saw in my dream that the city stood upon a mighty hill; but the pilgrims went up with ease, because they had left their mortal garments behind them in the river.

While they were thus drawing to the gate, behold, a company of the heavenly host came out to meet them. With them were several of the King's trumpeters, clothed in white and shining raiment, who made even the heavens to echo with their shouting and the sound of their trumpets.

Then all the bells in the city began to ring welcome, and the gate was opened wide, and the two pilgrims entered. And lo! as they entered they were transfigured; and they had raiment put on that shone like gold. And Shining Ones gave them harps to praise their King with, and crowns in token of honour.

And as the gates were opened, I looked in, and behold, the streets were paved with gold; and in them walked many men, with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises withal. There were also of them that had wings and they answered one another saying, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord!" And after that they shut up the gates, which, when I had seen, I wished myself among them. Then I awoke, and behold! it was a dream.

* * * * *

FANNY BURNEY

Evelina

"Evelina" was the first tale written by a woman, and
purporting to be a picture of life and manners, that lived or
deserved to live. It took away reproach from the novel. The
opinion is Macaulay's. In many respects the publication of
"Evelina" resembled that of "Jane Eyre," by Charlotte Brontë,
a century later. It was issued anonymously, by a firm that did
not know the name of the writer. Only the children of the
household from which the book came knew its origin. It
attained an immediate and immense success, which gave the
author, a shrinking and modest little body, a foremost place
in the literary world of her day. Fanny Burney, the second
daughter of Dr. Burney, was born in 1752, and published
"Evelina, or a Young Lady's Entrance into the World," in 1778.
She had picked up an education at home, without any tuition
whatever, but had the advantage of browsing in her father's
large miscellaneous library, and observing his brilliant
circle of friends. She knew something of the Johnson set
before she wrote "Evelina," and became the doctor's pet.
Later, Fanny Burney wrote "Cecilia," for which she received
two thousand guineas, and "Camilla," for which she received
three thousand guineas.

_I.--Deserted_

LADY HOWARD TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS

Can anything be more painful to the friendly mind than a necessity of communicating disagreeable intelligence? I have just had a letter from Madame Duval, who has lately used her utmost endeavours to obtain a faithful account of whatever related to her ill-advised daughter; and having some reason to apprehend that upon her death-bed her daughter bequeathed an infant orphan to the world, she says that if you, with whom she understands the child is placed, will procure authentic proofs of its relationship to her, you may send it to Paris, where she will properly provide for it.

Her letter has excited in my daughter, Mrs. Mirvan, a strong desire to be informed of the motives which induced Madame Duval to abandon the unfortunate Lady Belmont at a time when a mother's protection was peculiarly necessary for her peace and reputation, and I cannot satisfy Mrs. Mirvan otherwise than by applying to you.

MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD

Your ladyship did but too well foresee the perplexity and uneasiness of which Madame Duval's letter has been productive. In regard to my answer I most humbly request your ladyship to write to this effect: "That I would not upon any account intentionally offend Madame Duval, but that I have unanswerable reasons for detaining her granddaughter at present in England."

Complying with the request of Mrs. Mirvan, I would say that I had the honour to accompany Mr. Evelyn, the grandfather of my young charge, when upon his travels, in the capacity of a tutor. His unhappy marriage, immediately upon his return to England, with Madame Duval, then a waiting-girl at a tavern, contrary to the entreaties of his friends, induced him to fix his abode in France. He survived the ill-judged marriage but two years.

Mr. Evelyn left me the sole guardianship of his daughter's person till her eighteenth year, but in regard to fortune he left her wholly dependent on her mother. Miss Evelyn was brought up under my care, and, except when at school, under my roof. In her eighteenth year, her mother, then married to Monsieur Duval, sent for her to Paris, and at the instigation of her husband tyrannically endeavoured to effect a union between Miss Evelyn and one of his nephews. Miss Evelyn soon grew weary of such usage, and rashly, and without a witness, consented to a private marriage with Sir John Belmont, a very profligate young man, who had but too successfully found means to insinuate himself into her favour. He promised to conduct her to England--he did. O madam, you know the rest! Disappointed of the fortune he expected by the inexcusable rancour of the Duvals, he infamously burnt the certificate of their marriage and denied that they had ever been united!

She flew to my protection, and the moment that gave birth to her infant put an end at once to the sorrows and the life of its mother. That child, madam, shall never know the loss she has sustained. Not only my affection, but my humanity recoils at the barbarous idea of deserting the sacred trust reposed in me.

_II.--A Visit to Town_

LADY HOWARD TO MR. VILLARS

Your last letter gave me infinite pleasure. Do you think you could bear to part with your young companion for two or three months? Mrs. Mirvan proposes to spend the ensuing spring in London, whither for the first time my grandchild will accompany her, and it is their earnest wish that your amiable ward may share equally with her own daughter the care and attention of Mrs. Mirvan. What do you say to our scheme?

MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD

I am grieved, madam, to appear obstinate, and I blush to incur the imputation of selfishness. My young ward is of an age that happiness is eager to attend--let her then enjoy it! I commit her to the protection of your ladyship. Restore her but to me all innocence as you receive her, and the fondest hope of my heart will be amply gratified.

EVELINA ANVILLE TO MR. VILLARS

We are to go on Monday to a private ball given by Mrs. Stanley, a very fashionable lady of Mrs. Mirvan's acquaintance. I am afraid of this ball; for, as you know, I have never danced but at school. However, Miss Mirvan says there is nothing in it. Yet I wish it was over.

* * * * *

We passed a most extraordinary evening. A _private_ ball this was called; but, my dear sir, I believe I saw half the world!

The gentlemen, as they passed and repassed, looked as if they thought we were quite at their disposal, and only waited for the honour of their commands; and they sauntered about in an indolent manner, as if with a view to keep us in suspense.

Presently a gentleman, who seemed about six-and-twenty years old, gaily, but not foppishly dressed, and indeed extremely handsome, with an air of mixed politeness and gallantry, desired to know if I would honour him with my hand. Well, I bowed, and I am sure I coloured; for indeed I was frightened at the thought of dancing before so many strangers _with_ a stranger. And so he led me to join in the dance.

He seemed desirous of entering into conversation with me; but I was seized with such panic that I could hardly speak a word. He appeared surprised at my terror, and, I fear, thought it very strange.

His own conversation was sensible and spirited; his air and address open and noble; his manners gentle, attentive, and infinitely engaging; his person is all elegance, and his countenance the most animated and expressive I have ever seen. The rank of Lord Orville was his least recommendation. When he discovered I was totally ignorant of public places and public performers, he ingeniously turned the discourse to the amusements and occupations of the country; but I was unable to go further than a monosyllable in reply, and not even so far as that when I could possibly avoid it.

Tired, ashamed, and mortified, I begged at last to sit down till we returned home. Lord Orville did me the honour to hand me to the coach, talking all the way of the honour I had done _him_! Oh, these fashionable people!

* * * * *

There is no end to the troubles of last night. I have gathered from Maria Mirvan the most curious dialogue that ever I heard. Maria was taking some refreshment, and saw Lord Orville advancing for the same purpose himself, when a gay-looking man, Sir Clement Willoughby, I am told, stepped up and cried, "Why, my lord, what have you done with your lovely partner?"

"Nothing!" answered Lord Orville, with a smile and a shrug.

"By Jove!" said the man, "she is the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life!"

Lord Orville laughed, but answered, "Yes, a pretty, modest-looking girl!"

"Oh, my lord," cried the other, "she is an angel!"

"A silent one," returned he.

"Why, my lord, she looks all intelligence and expression!"

"A poor, weak girl," answered Lord Orville, shaking his head. "Whether ignorant or mischievous, I will not pretend to determine; but she attended to all I said to her with the most immovable gravity."

Here Maria was called to dance, and so heard no more.

Now, tell me, sir, did you ever know anything more provoking? "A poor, weak girl! Ignorant and mischievous!" What mortifying words! I would not live here for the world. I care not how soon I leave.

_III.--An Unlucky Meeting_

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

How much will you be surprised, my dearest sir, at receiving so soon another letter from London in your Evelina's writing. An accident, equally unexpected and disagreeable, has postponed our journey to Lady Howard at Howard Grove.

We went last night to see the "Fantocini," a little comedy in French and Italian, by puppets, and when it was over, and we waited for our coach, a tall, elderly, foreign-looking woman brushed quickly past us, calling out, "My God! What shall I do? I have lost my company, and in this place I don't know anybody."

"We shall but follow the golden rule," said Mrs. Mirvan, "if we carry her to her lodgings."

We therefore admitted her to her coach, to carry her to Oxford Road. Let me draw a veil over a scene too cruel for a heart so compassionate as yours, and suffice it to know that, in the course of our ride, this foreigner proved to be Madame Duval--the grandmother of your Evelina!

When we stopped at her lodgings she desired me to accompany her into the house, and said she could easily procure a room for me to sleep in.

I promised to wait upon her at what time she pleased the next day.

What an unfortunate adventure! I could not close my eyes the whole night.

Mrs. Mirvan was so kind as to accompany me to Madame Duval's house this morning. She frowned most terribly on Mrs. Mirvan, but received me with as much tenderness as I believe she was capable of feeling. She avowed that her intention in visiting England was to make me return with her to France. As it would have been indecent for me to have quitted town the very instant I discovered that Madame Duval was in it, we have determined to remain in London for some days. But I, my dear and most honoured sir, shall have no happiness till I am again with you.

MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA

Secure of my protection, let no apprehensions of Madame Duval disturb your peace. Conduct yourself towards her with all respect and deference due to so near a relation, remembering always that the failure of duty on her part can by no means justify any neglect on yours. Make known to her the independence I assure you of, and when she fixes the time for her leaving England, trust to me the task of refusing your attending her.

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

I have spent the day in a manner the most uncomfortable imaginable. Madame Duval, on my visiting her, insisted upon my staying with her all day, as she intended to introduce me to some of my own relations. These consisted of a Mr. Brangton, who is her nephew, and three of his children--a son and two daughters--and I am not ambitious of being known to more of my relations if they have any resemblance to those whose acquaintance I have already made.

I had finished my letter to you when a violent rapping at the door made me run downstairs, and who should I see in the drawing-room but Lord Orville!

He inquired of our health with a degree of concern that rather surprised me, and when I told him our time for London is almost expired, he asked, "And does Miss Anville feel no concern at the idea of the many mourners her absence will occasion?"

"Oh, my lord, I'm sure you don't think"--I stopped there, for I hardly knew what I was going to say. My foolish embarrassment, I suppose, was the cause of what followed; for he came and took my hand, saying, "I do think that whoever has once seen Miss Anville must receive an impression never to be forgotten."

This compliment--from Lord Orville--so surprised me that I could not speak, but stood silent and looking down, till recollecting my situation I withdrew my hand, and told him I would see if Mrs. Mirvan was in.

I have since been extremely angry with myself for neglecting so excellent an opportunity of apologising for my behaviour at the ball.

Was it not very odd that he should make me such a compliment?

* * * * *

Mrs. Mirvan secured places last night for the play at Drury Lane Theatre in the front row of a side box. Sir Clement Willoughby, whose conversation with Lord Orville respecting me on the night of the ball Miss Mirvan overheard, was at the door of the theatre, and handed us from the carriage. We had not been seated five minutes before Lord Orville, whom we saw in the stage-box, came to us; and he honoured us with his company all the evening. To-night we go to the opera, where I expect very great pleasure. We shall have the same party as at the play, for Lord Orville said he should be there, and would look for us.

_IV.--A Compromising Situation_

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

I could write a volume of the adventures of yesterday.

While Miss Mirvan and I were dressing for the opera, what was our surprise to see our chamber-door flung open and the two Miss Brangtons enter the room! They advanced to me with great familiarity, saying, "How do you do, cousin? So we've caught you at the glass! Well, we're determined to tell our brother of that!" Miss Mirvan, who had never before seen them, could not at first imagine who they were, till the elder said: "We've come to take you to the opera, miss. Papa and my brother are below, and we are to call for your grandmother as we go along."

I told them I was pre-engaged, and endeavoured to apologise. But they hastened away, saying, "Well, her grandmamma will be in a fine passion, that's one good thing!"

And indeed, shortly afterwards, Madame Duval arrived, her face the colour of scarlet, and her eyes sparkling with fury, and behaved so violently that to appease her I consented, by Mrs. Mirvan's advice, to go with madame's party.

At the opera I was able, from the upper gallery, to distinguish the happy party I had left, with Lord Orville seated next to Mrs. Mirvan. During the last scene I perceived, standing near the gallery door, Sir Clement Willoughby. I was extremely vexed, and would have given the world to have avoided being seen by him in company with a family so low bred and vulgar.

As soon as he was within two seats of us he spoke to me. "I am very happy, Miss Anville, to have found you, for the ladies below have each a humble attendant, and therefore I am come to offer my services here."

"Why, then," cried I, "I will join them." So I turned to Madame Duval, and said, "As our party is so large, madame, if you give me leave I will go down to Mrs. Mirvan that I may not crowd you in the coach."

And then, without waiting for an answer, I suffered Sir Clement to hand me out of the gallery.

We could not, however, find Mrs. Mirvan in the confusion, and Sir Clement said, "You can have no objection to permitting me to see you safe home?"

While he was speaking, I saw Lord Orville, who advanced instantly towards me, and with an air and voice of surprise, said, "Do I see Miss Anville?"

I was inexpressibly distressed to suffer Lord Orville to think me satisfied with the single protection of Sir Clement Willoughby, and could not help exclaiming, "Good heaven, what can I do?"

"Why, my dear madam!" cried Sir Clement, "should you be thus uneasy? You will reach Queen Ann Street almost as soon as Mrs. Mirvan, and I am sure you cannot doubt being as safe."

Just then the servant came and told him the carriage was ready, and he handed me into it, while Lord Orville, with a bow and a half-smile, wished me good-night.

When I reached home Miss Mirvan ran out to meet me, and who should I see behind her but--Lord Orville, who, with great politeness, congratulated me that the troubles of the evening had so happily ended, and said he had found it impossible to return home before he inquired after my safety.

I am under cruel apprehensions lest Lord Orville should suppose my being on the stairs with Sir Clement was a concerted scheme.

_V.--A Growing Acquaintance_

EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN

Berry Hill, Dorset.--When we arrived here, how did my heart throb with joy! And when, through the window, I beheld the dearest, the most venerable of men with uplifted hands, returning, as I doubt not, thanks for my safe arrival, I thought it would have burst my bosom! When I flew into the parlour he could scarce articulate the blessings with which his kind and benevolent heart overflowed.

Everybody I see takes notice of my looking pale and ill, and all my good friends tease me about my gravity, and, indeed, dejection. Mrs. Selwyn, a lady of large fortune, who lives near, is going in a short time to Bristol, and has proposed to take me with her for the recovery of my health.

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

Bristol Hotwells.--Lord Orville is coming to Bristol with his sister, Lady Louisa Larpent. They are to be at the Honourable Mrs. Beaumont's, and it will be impossible to avoid seeing him, as Mrs. Selwyn is very well acquainted with Mrs. Beaumont.

This morning I accompanied Mrs. Selwyn to Clifton Hill, where, beautifully situated, is the house of Mrs. Beaumont. As we entered the house I summoned all my resolution to my aid, determined rather to die than to give Lord Orville reason to attribute my weakness to a wrong cause. On his seeing me, he suddenly exclaimed, "Miss Anville!" and then he advanced and made his compliments to me with a countenance open, manly, and charming, a smile that indicated pleasure, and eyes that sparkled with delight. The very tone of his voice seemed flattering as he congratulated himself upon his good fortune in meeting with me.

During our ride home Mrs. Selwyn asked me if my health would now permit me to give up my morning walks to the pump-room for the purpose of spending a week at Clifton; and as my health is now very well established, to-morrow, my dear sir, we are to be actually the guests of Mrs. Beaumont. I am not much delighted at this scheme, for greatly as I am flattered by the attention of Lord Orville, I cannot expect him to support it as long as a week.

* * * * *

We were received by Mrs. Beaumont with great civility, and by Lord Orville with something more.

The attention with which he honours me seems to result from a benevolence of heart that proves him as much a stranger to caprice as to pride. I am now not merely easy, but even gay in his presence; such is the effect of true politeness that it banishes all restraint and embarrassment.

_VI.--A Happy Ending_

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

And now, my dearest sir, if the perturbation of my spirits will allow me, I will finish my last letter from Clifton Hill.

This morning, when I went downstairs, Lord Orville was the only person in the parlour. I felt no small confusion at seeing him alone after having recently avoided him.

As soon as the usual compliments were over, I would have left the room, but he stopped me.

"I have for some time past most ardently desired an opportunity of speaking to you."

I said nothing, so he went on.

"I have been so unfortunate as to forfeit your friendship; your eye shuns mine, and you sedulously avoid my conversation."

I was extremely disconcerted at this grave, but too just accusation, but I made no answer.

"Tell me, I beseech you, what I have done, and how to deserve your pardon."

"Oh, my lord!" I cried, "I have never dreamt of offence; if there is any pardon to be asked it is rather for me than for you to ask it."

"You are all sweetness and condescension!" cried he; "but will you pardon a question essentially important to me? Had, or had not, Sir Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquietude?"

"No, my lord!" answered I, with firmness, "none in the world. He is the last man who would have any influence over my conduct."

Just then Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and in a few minutes we went in to breakfast. When she spoke of my journey a cloud overspread the countenance of Lord Orville, and on Mrs. Selwyn asking me to seek some books for her in the parlour, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door, and approached me with a look of great anxiety.

"You are going, then," he cried, taking my hand, "and you give me not the smallest hope of your return?"

"Oh, my lord!" I said, "surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock me!"

"Mock you!" repeated he earnestly. "No, I revere you! You are dearer to me than language has the power of telling!"

I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraved on my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition; nor would he suffer me to escape until he had drawn from me the most sacred secret of my heart!

To be loved by Lord Orville, to be the honoured choice of his noble heart--my happiness seems too infinite to be borne.

* * * * *

I could not write yesterday, so violent was the agitation of my mind, but I will not now lose a moment till I have hastened to my best friend an account of the transactions of the day.

Mrs. Selwyn and I went early in Mrs. Beaumont's chariot to see my father, Sir John Belmont What a moment for your Evelina when, taking my hand, she led me forward into his presence. An involuntary scream escaped me; covering my face with my hands, I sank on the floor.

He had, however, seen me first, for in a voice scarce articulate he exclaimed, "My God! does Caroline Evelyn still live? Lift up thy head, if my sight has not blasted thee, thou image of my long-lost Caroline!"

Affected beyond measure, I half arose and embraced his knees.

"Yes, yes," cried he, looking earnestly in my face, "I see thou art her child! She lives, she is present to my view!"

"Yes, sir," cried I, "it is your child if you will own her!"

He knelt by my side, and folded me in his arms. "Own thee!" he repeated, "yes, my poor girl, and heaven knows with what bitter contrition!"

* * * * *

All is over, my dearest sir, and the fate of your Evelina is decided! This morning, with tearful joy, and trembling gratitude, she united herself for ever with the object of her dearest, eternal affection.

I have time for no more; the chaise now waits which is to conduct me to dear Berry Hill and the arms of the best of men.

* * * * *

WILLIAM CARLETON

The Black Prophet

William Carleton, the Irish novelist, was born in Co. Tyrone
on February 20, 1794. His father was a small farmer, the
father of fourteen children, of whom William was the youngest.
After getting some education, first from a hedge schoolmaster,
and then from Dr. Keenan of Glasslough, Carleton set out for
Dublin and obtained a tutorship. In 1830 he collected a number
of sketches, and these were published under the title of
"Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," and at once
enjoyed considerable popularity. In 1834 came "Tales of
Ireland," and from that time forward till his death Carleton
produced with great industry numerous short stories and
novels, though none of his work after 1848 is worthy of his
reputation. "The Black Prophet" was published in 1847, and
Carleton believed rightly that it was his best work. It was
written in a season of unparalleled scarcity and destitution,
and the pictures and scenes represented were those which he
himself witnessed in 1817 and 1822. Many of Carleton's novels
have been translated into French, German, and Italian, and
they will always stand for faithful and powerful pictures of
Irish life and character. Carleton died in Dublin on January
30, 1869.

_I.--The Murders in the Glen_

The cabin of Donnel M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, stood at the foot of a hill, near the mouth of a gloomy and desolate glen.

In this glen, not far from the cabin, two murders had been committed twenty years before. The one was that of a carman, and the other a man named Sullivan; and it was supposed they had been robbed. Neither of the bodies had ever been found. Sullivan's hat and part of his coat had been found on the following day in a field near the cabin, and there was a pool of blood where his foot-marks were deeply imprinted. A man named Dalton had been taken up under circumstances of great suspicion for this latter murder, for Dalton was the last person seen in Sullivan's company, and both men had been drinking together in the market. A quarrel had ensued, blows had been exchanged, and Dalton had threatened him in very strong language.

No conviction was possible because of the disappearance of the body, but Dalton had remained under suspicion, and the glen, with its dark and gloomy aspect, was said to be haunted by Sullivan's spirit, and to be accursed as the scene of crime and supernatural appearances.

Within M'Gowan's cabin, which bore every mark of poverty and destitution, a young girl about twenty-one, of tall and slender figure, with hair black as the raven's wing, and eyes dark and brilliant, wrangled fiercely with an older woman, her stepmother. From words they passed to a fearful struggle of murderous passion.

Presently, Sarah, the younger of the two, started to her feet, and fled out of the house to wash her hands and face at the river that flowed past. Then she returned, and spoke with frankness and good nature.

"I'm sorry for what I did. Forgive me, mother! You know I'm a hasty divil--for a divil's limb I am, no doubt of it. Forgive me, I say! Do now; here, I'll get something to stop the blood!"

She sprang at the moment, with the agility of a wild cat upon an old chest that stood in the corner of the hut. By stretching herself up to her full length, she succeeded in pulling down several old cobwebs that had been undisturbed for years, and while doing so, knocked down some metallic substance which fell on the floor.

"Murdher alive, mother!" she exclaimed. "What is this? Hallo, a tobaccy-box! An' what's this on it? Let me see. Two letters--a 'P' and an 'M.' 'P.M.'--arrah, what can that be for? Well, divil may care. Let it lie on the shelf there. Here now, none of your cross looks. I say, put these cobwebs to your face, and they'll stop the bleedin'. And now good-night to you, an' let that be a warnin' to you not to raise your hand to me again."

The girl went off to spend the night at a dance and a wake, and the stepmother having dressed her wound as well as she could, sat down by the fire and began to ruminate.

Presently she took up the tobacco-box, and looking at it carefully, clasped her hands.

"It's the same!" she exclaimed. "Oh, merciful God, it's thrue--it's thrue! I know it by the broken hinge an' the two letters! Saviour of life, how will this end, and what will I do? But, anyway, I must hide this, and put it out of his reach."

She accordingly went out and thrust the box up under the thatch of the roof so that it was impossible to suspect that the roof had been disturbed.

_II.--The Prophet Schemes_

That same evening Donnel was overtaken on the road from Ballynafail, the market-town, by Jerry Sullivan, a struggling farmer, and they proceeded together to the latter's house.

"This woful saison, along wid the low prices and the high rents, houlds out a black and terrible look for the counthry, God help us!" said Sullivan.

"Ay," returned the Black Prophet, "if you only knew it. Isn't the Almighty, in His wrath, this moment proclaimin' it through the heavens and the airth? Look about you, and say what is it you see that doesn't foretell famine. Doesn't the dark, wet day, an' the rain, rain, rain foretell it? Doesn't the rottin' crops, the unhealthy air, an' the green damp foretell it? Doesn't the sky without a sun, the heavy clouds, an' the angry fire of the west foretell it? Isn't the airth a page of prophecy, an' the sky a page of prophecy, where every man may read of famine, pestilence, an' death?"

"The time was," said Sullivan, "an' it's not long since, when I could give you a comfortable welcome as well as a willin' one; but now 'tis but poor and humble tratement I can give you. But if it was betther, you should just be as welcome to it, an' what more can you say?"

"Well," replied the other, "what more can you say, indeed? I'm thankful to you, Jerry, an' I'll accept your kind offer."

The night had set in when they reached the house, where the traces of poverty were as visible upon the inmates as upon the furniture.

Sullivan was strangely excited--he had discovered a stolen interview outside between his eldest daughter and young Condy Dalton.

Mave Sullivan--a young creature of nineteen, of rare natural beauty and angelic purity--turned deadly pale when her father spoke.

"Bridget," Sullivan said, turning to his wife, "I tell you that I came upon that undutiful daughter of ours coortin' wid the son of the man that murdhered her uncle, my only brother--coortin' wid a fellow that Dan M'Gowan here knows will be hanged yet, for he's jist afther tellin' him so."

"You're ravin', Jerry," exclaimed his wife. "You don't mean to tell me that she'd spake to, or make any freedoms whatsomever wid young Condy Dalton? Hut, no, Jerry; don't say that, at all events!"

But Sullivan's indignation passed quickly to alarm and distress, for his daughter tottered, and would have fallen to the ground if Donnel had not caught her.

"Save me from that man!" she shrieked at Donnel, clinging to her mother. "Don't let him near me! I can't tell why, but I am deadly afraid of him!"

Her parents, already sorry for their harsh words, tried their utmost to console her.

"Don't be alarmed, my purty creature," said the Black Prophet softly. "I see a great good fortune before you. I see a grand and handsome husband, and a fine house to live in. Grandeur and wealth is before her, for her beauty an' her goodness will bring it all about."

When the family, after the father had offered up a few simple prayers, retired to rest, Sullivan took down his brother's old great coat, and placed it over M'Gowan, who was already in bed. But the latter immediately sat up and implored him to take it away.

Next morning before departing, Donnel repeated to Mave Sullivan his prophecy of the happy and prosperous marriage.

But Mave, who knew where her affection rested, found no comfort in these predictions, for the Daltons were pressed as hard by poverty as their neighbours.

As for Donnel M'Gowan, cunning and unscrupulous, his plan was to secure Mave for young Dick o' the Grange, a small landowner, and a profligate. To do this he relied on the help of his daughter Sarah and was disappointed. For Sarah was to find Mave Sullivan her friend, and she renounced her father's scheme, so that no harm happened to the girl.

_III.--The Shadow of Crime_

With famine came typhus fever, and the state of the country was frightful beyond belief. Thousands were reduced to mendicancy, numbers perished on the very highways, and the road was literally black with funerals. Temporary sheds were erected near the roadsides, containing fever-stricken patients who had no other home.

Under the ravening madness of famine, legal restraints and moral principles were forgotten, and famine riots broke out. For, studded over the country were a number of farmers with bursting granaries, who could afford to keep their provisions in large quantities until a year of scarcity and high prices arrived; and the people, exasperated beyond endurance, saw long lines of provision carts on their way to the neighbouring harbours for exportation.

Such was the extraordinary fact!

Day after day, vessels laden with Irish provisions, drawn from a population perishing with actual hunger, and with pestilence which it occasioned, were passing out of our ports, whilst other vessels came in freighted with our provisions sent back, through the charity of England, to our relief.

Goaded by suffering, hordes of people turned out to intercept meal-carts and provision vehicles, and carts and cars were stopped on the highways, and the food which they carried openly taken away.

Sarah M'Gowan herself went to the Daltons, where typhus and starvation were doing their worst, to render what service she could, and Mave Sullivan would have done the same but for the entreaties of her parents, who feared the terrible fever.

The Black Prophet alone went on his way unmoved, scheming to accomplish his vile ends. It was not enough for him that Mave was to be abducted; he had also planned a robbery for the same night, and was further resolved to procure the conviction of old Condy Dalton for the almost forgotten murder of Sullivan in the glen.