Such being the relative position of Mr. Aubrey, and the Earl of Dreddlington, at the time when this history opens, it is easy for the reader to imagine the lively interest with which the earl first heard of the tidings that a stranger had set up a title to the whole of the Yatton estates; and the silent but profound anxiety with which he continued to regard the progress of the affair. He obtained, from time to time, by means of confidential inquiries instituted by his solicitor, a general notion of the nature of the new claimant's pretensions; but with a due degree of delicacy towards his unfortunate kinsman, his Lordship studiously concealed the interest he felt in so important a family question as the succession to the Yatton property. The earl and his daughter were exceedingly anxious to see the claimant; and when he heard that that claimant was a gentleman of "decided Whig principles"—the earl was very near setting it down as a sort of special interference of Providence in his favor; and one that, in the natural order of things, would lead to the accomplishment of his other wishes. Who could say that, before a twelvemonth had passed over, the two branches of the family might not be in a fair way of being reunited? And that thus, among other incidents, the earl would be invested with the virtual patronage of the borough of Yatton, and, in the event of their return to power, his claim upon his party for his long-coveted marquisate rendered irresistible? He had gone to the Continent shortly before the trial of the ejectment at York; and did not return till a day or two after the Court of King's Bench had solemnly declared the validity of the plaintiff's title to the Yatton property, and consequently established his contingent right of succession to the barony of Drelincourt. Of this event a lengthened account was given in one of the Yorkshire papers which fell under the earl's eye the day after his arrival from abroad; and to the report of the decision of the question of law, was appended the following paragraph:—
"In consequence of the above decision, Mr. Aubrey, we are able to state on the best authority, has given formal notice of his intention to surrender the entire of the Yatton property without further litigation; thus making the promptest amends in his power to those whom he has—we cannot doubt unwittingly—injured. He has also accepted the Chiltern Hundreds, and has consequently retired from Parliament; so that the borough of Yatton is now vacant. We sincerely hope that the new proprietor of Yatton will either himself sit for the borough, and announce immediately his intention of doing so, or give his prompt and decisive support to some gentleman of decided Whig principles. We say prompt—for the enemy is vigilant and crafty. Men of Yatton! To the rescue!!!—Mr. Titmouse is now, we believe, in London. This fortunate gentleman is not only at this moment in possession of the fine property at Yatton, with an unencumbered rent-roll of from twelve to fifteen thousand a-year, and a vast accumulation of rents to be handed over by the late possessor, but is now next but one in succession to the earldom of Dreddlington and barony of Drelincourt, with the large family estates annexed thereto. We believe this is the oldest barony in the kingdom. It must be a source of great gratification to the present earl, to know that his probable successor professes the same liberal and enlightened political opinions, of which his Lordship has, during his long and distinguished public life, been so able, consistent, and uncompromising a supporter."
The Earl of Dreddlington was not a little flustered on seeing the above paragraph; which he read over half a dozen times with increasing excitement. The time had at length arrived for him to take decisive steps; nay, duty to his newly-discovered kinsman required it.
Messrs. Titmouse and Gammon were walking arm-in-arm down Oxford Street, on their return from some livery-stables, where they had been looking at a horse which Titmouse was thinking of purchasing, when an incident occurred which ruffled him not a little. He had been recognized and publicly accosted by a vulgar fellow, with a yard-measure in his hand, and a large parcel of drapery under his arm—in fact, by our old friend Mr. Huckaback. In vain did Mr. Titmouse affect, for some time, not to see his old acquaintance, and to be earnestly engaged in conversation with Mr. Gammon.
"Ah, Titty!—Titmouse! Well, then—Mister Titmouse—how are you?—Devilish long time since we met!" Titmouse directed a look at him which he wished could have blighted him, and quickened his pace without taking any further notice of the presumptuous intruder. Huckaback's blood was up, however—roused by this ungrateful and insolent treatment from one who had been under such great obligations to him; and quickening his pace also, he kept alongside with Titmouse.
"Ah," continued Huckaback, "why do you cut me in this way, Titty? You aren't ashamed of me surely? Many's the time you've tramped up and down Oxford Street with your bundle and yard-measure"–
"Fellow!" at length exclaimed Titmouse, indignantly, "'pon my life I'll give you in charge if you go on so! Be off, you low fellow!—Dem vulgar brute!" he subjoined in a lower tone, bursting into perspiration, for he had not forgotten the insolent pertinacity of Huckaback's disposition.
"My eyes! Give me in charge? Come, I like that, rather—you vagabond! Pay me what you owe me! You're a swindler! You owe me fifty pounds, you do! You sent a man to rob me!"
"Will any one get a constable!" inquired Titmouse, who had grown as white as death. The little crowd that was collecting round them began to suspect, from Titmouse's agitated appearance, that there must be some foundation for the charges made against him.
"Oh, go, get a constable! Nothing I should like better! Ah, my fine gentleman—what's the time of day when chaps like you are wound up so high?"
Gammon's interference was in vain. Huckaback got more abusive and noisy; no constable was at hand; so, to escape the intolerable interruption and nuisance, he beckoned a coach off the stand, which was close by; and, Titmouse and he stepping into it, they were soon out of sight and hearing of Mr. Huckaback. Having taken a shilling drive, they alighted, and walked towards Covent Garden. As they approached the hotel, they observed a yellow chariot, at once elegant and somewhat old-fashioned, rolling away from the door.
"I wonder who that is," said Gammon; "it's an earl's coronet on the panel; and a white-haired old gentleman was sitting low down in the corner"–
"Ah—it's no doubt a fine thing to be a lord, and all that—but I'll answer for it, some of 'em's as poor as a church mouse," replied Titmouse as they entered the hotel. At that moment the waiter, with a most profound bow, presented him with a letter and a card, which had only the moment before been left for him. The card was thus:
and there was written on it, in pencil, in rather a feeble and hurried character—"For Mr. Titmouse."
"My stars, Mr. Gammon!" exclaimed Titmouse, excitedly, addressing Mr. Gammon, who also seemed greatly interested by the occurrence. They both repaired to a vacant table at the extremity of the room; and Titmouse, with not a little trepidation, hastily breaking a large seal which bore the earl's family arms, with their crowded quarterings and grim supporters—better appreciated by Gammon, however, than by Titmouse—opened the ample envelope, and, unfolding its thick gilt-edged enclosure, read as follows:—
"The Earl of Dreddlington has the honor of waiting upon Mr. Titmouse, in whom he is very happy to have, though unexpectedly, discovered so near a kinsman. On the event which has brought this to pass, the earl congratulates himself not less than Mr. Titmouse, and hopes for the earliest opportunity of a personal introduction.
"The earl leaves town to-day and will not return till Monday next, on which day he begs the honor of Mr. Titmouse's company to dinner, at six o'clock. He may depend upon its being strictly a family reunion; the only person present, besides Mr. Titmouse and the earl, being the Lady Cecilia.
"Grosvenor Square, Thursday.
"Tittlebat Titmouse, Esq., &c. &c."
As soon as Titmouse had read the above, still holding it in his hand, he gazed at Gammon with mute apprehension and delight. Of the existence, indeed, of the magnificent personage who had just introduced himself, Titmouse had certainly heard, from time to time, since the commencement of the proceedings which had just been so successfully terminated. He had seen the brightness, to be sure; but, as a sort of remote splendor, like that of a fixed star which gleamed brightly, but at too vast a distance to have any sensible influence, or even to arrest his attention. After a little while, Titmouse began to chatter very volubly; but Gammon, after reading over the note once or twice, seemed not much inclined for conversation: and, had Titmouse been accustomed to observation, he might have gathered, from the eye and brow of Gammon, that that gentleman's mind was very deeply occupied by some matter or other, probably suggested by the incident which had just taken place. Titmouse, by-and-by, called for pens, ink, and paper—"the very best gilt-edged paper, mind"—and prepared to reply to Lord Dreddlington's invitation. Gammon, however, who knew the peculiarities of his friend's style of correspondence, suggested that he should draw up, and Titmouse copy the following note. This was presently done; but when Gammon observed how thickly studded it was with capital letters, the numerous flourishes with which it was garnished, and its more than questionable orthography, he prevailed on Titmouse, after some little difficulty, to allow him to transcribe the note which was to be sent to Lord Dreddlington. Here is a copy of that courteous document:—
"Mr. Titmouse begs to present his compliments to the Earl of Dreddlington, and to express the high sense he entertains of the kind consideration evinced by his Lordship in his call and note of to-day.
"One of the most gratifying circumstances connected with Mr. Titmouse's recent success, is the distinguished alliance which his Lordship has been so prompt and courteous in recognizing. Mr. Titmouse will feel the greatest pleasure in availing himself of the Earl of Dreddlington's invitation to dinner for Monday next.
"Cabbage-Stalk Hotel, Thursday.
"The Right Honble. the Earl of Dreddlington, &c., &c."
"Have you a 'Peerage' here, waiter?" inquired Gammon, as the waiter brought him a lighted taper. Debrett was shortly laid before him; and turning to the name of Dreddlington, he read over the paragraph which had been already laid before the reader. "Humph—'Lady Cecilia'—here she is—his daughter—I thought as much—I see!" This was what passed through his mind, as—having left Titmouse, who set off to deposit a card and the above "Answer" at Lord Dreddlington's—he made his way towards the delectable regions in which their office was situated—Saffron Hill. "'Tis curious—amusing—interesting, to observe the social progress of this charming little fellow"—continued Gammon to himself—
"Tag-rag—and his daughter;
"Quirk—and his daughter;
"The Earl of Dreddlington—and his daughter. How many more? Happy! happy! happy Titmouse!"
The sun which was rising upon Titmouse was setting upon the Aubreys. Dear, delightful—now too dear, now too delightful—Yatton! the shades of evening are descending upon thee, and thy virtuous but afflicted occupants, who, early on the morrow, quit thee forever. Approach silently you conservatory. Behold, in the midst of it, the dark slight figure of a lady, solitary, motionless, in melancholy attitude—her hands clasped before her: it is Miss Aubrey. Her face is beautiful, but grief is in her eye; and her bosom heaves with sighs, which, gentle though they be, are yet the only sounds audible. Yes, that is the sweet and once joyous Kate Aubrey!
'Twas she indeed; and this was her last visit to her conservatory. Many rare, delicate, and beautiful flowers were there. The air was laden with the fragrant odors which they exhaled, as it were in sighs, on account of the dreaded departure of their lovely mistress. At length she stooped down, and, in stooping, a tear fell right upon the small sprig of geranium which she gently detached from its stem, and placed in her bosom. "Sweet flowers," thought she, "who will tend you as I have tended you, when I am gone? Why do you look now more beautiful than ever you did before?"—Her eye presently fell upon the spot on which, till the day before, had stood her aviary. Poor Kate had sent it, as a present, to Lady De la Zouch, and it was then at Fotheringham Castle. What a flutter there used to be among the beautiful little creatures, when they perceived Kate's approach! She turned her head away. She felt oppressed, and attributed it to the closeness of the conservatory—the strength of the odors given out by the numerous flowers; but it was sorrow that oppressed her; and she was in a state at once of mental excitement and physical exhaustion. The last few weeks had been an interval of exquisite suffering. She could not be happy alone, nor yet bear the company of her brother and sister-in-law, or their innocent and lovely children. Quitting the conservatory with a look of lingering fondness, she passed along into the house with a hurried step, and escaped, unobserved, to her chamber—the very chamber in which the reader obtained his first distant and shadowy glimpse of her; and in which, now entering it silently and suddenly, the door being only closed, not shut, she observed her faithful little maid Harriet, sitting in tears before a melancholy heap of packages prepared for travelling on the morrow. She rose as Miss Aubrey entered, and presently exclaimed passionately, bursting afresh into tears, "Ma'am, I can't leave you—indeed I can't! I know all your ways; I won't go to any one else! I shall hate service! and I know they'll hate me too; for I shall cry myself to death!"
"Come, come, Harriet," faltered Miss Aubrey, "this is very foolish; nay, it is unkind to distress me in this manner at the last moment."
"Oh, ma'am, if you did but know how I love you! How I'd go on my knees to serve you all the rest of the days of my life!"
"Don't talk in that way, Harriet; that's a good girl," said Miss Aubrey, rather faintly, and, sinking into the chair, she buried her face in her handkerchief, "you know I've had a great deal to go through, Harriet, and am in very poor spirits."
"I know it, ma'am, I do; and that's why I can't bear to leave you!" She sank on her knees beside Miss Aubrey. "Oh, ma'am, if you would but let me stay with you! I've been trying, ever since you first told me, to make up my mind to part with you, and, now it's coming to the time, I can't, ma'am—indeed, I can't! If you did but know, ma'am, what my thoughts have been, while I've been folding and packing up your dresses here! To think that I sha'n't be with you to unpack them! It's very hard, ma'am, that Madam's maid is to go with her, and I'm not to go with you!"
"We were obliged to make a choice, Harriet," said Miss Aubrey, with forced calmness.
"Yes, ma'am; but why didn't you choose us both? Because we've both always done our best; and, as for me, you've never spoke an unkind word to me in your life"–
"Harriet, Harriet," said Miss Aubrey, tremulously, "I've several times explained to you that we cannot any longer afford each to have our own maid; and Mrs. Aubrey's maid is older than you, and knows how to manage children"–
"What signifies affording, ma'am? Neither she nor I will ever take a shilling of wages; I'd really rather serve you for nothing, ma'am, than any other lady for a hundred pounds a-year! Oh, so happy as I've been in your service, ma'am!" she added hastily, and burst into an agony of weeping.
"Don't, Harriet!—You would not, if you knew the pain you give me," said Miss Aubrey, faintly. Harriet perceived Miss Aubrey's ill-concealed agitation; and starting aside, poured out a glass of water, and forced her pale mistress to swallow a little, which presently revived her.
"Harriet," said she, feebly, but firmly, "you have never once disobeyed me, and now I am certain that you will not. I assure you that we have made all our arrangements, and cannot alter them. I have been very fortunate in obtaining for you so kind a mistress as Lady Stratton. Remember, Harriet, she was the oldest bosom friend of my"–Miss Aubrey's voice trembled, and she ceased speaking for a minute or two, during which she struggled against her feelings with momentary success. "Here's the prayer-book," she presently resumed, opening a drawer in her dressing-table, and taking out a small volume—"Here's the prayer-book I promised you; it is very prettily bound, and I have written your name in it, Harriet, as you desired. Take it, and keep it for my sake. Will you?"
"Oh, ma'am," replied the girl, bitterly, "I shall never bear to look at it! And yet I'll never part with it till I die!"
"Now leave me, Harriet, for a short time—I wish to be alone," said Miss Aubrey; and she was obeyed. She presently rose and bolted the door; and then, secure from interruption, walked slowly to and fro for some time; and a long and deep current of melancholy thoughts and feelings flowed through her mind and heart. She had but a short time before seen her sister's sweet children put into their little beds for the last time at Yatton; and together with their mother, had hung fondly over them, kissing and embracing them—their destined little fellow-wanderers—till her feelings compelled her to leave them. One by one, all the dear innumerable ties which had attached her to Yatton, and to everything connected with it, ever since her birth, had been severed and broken—ties, not only the strength, but very existence of which, she had scarce been aware of, till then. She had bade—as had all of them—repeated and agonizing farewells to very dear and old friends. Her heart trembled as she gazed at the objects familiar to her eye, and pregnant with innumerable little softening associations, ever since her infancy. Nothing around them now belonged to them—but to a stranger—to one who—she shuddered with disgust. She thought of the fearful position in which her brother was placed—entirely at the mercy of, it might be, selfish and rapacious men—what indeed was to become of all of them? At length she threw herself into the large old easy-chair which stood near the window, and with a fluttering heart and hasty tremulous hand, drew an open letter from her bosom. She held it for some moments, as if dreading again to peruse it—but at length unfolded and read a portion of it. 'Twas full of fervent and at the same time delicate expressions of fondness; and after a short while, her hand dropped, with the letter, upon her lap, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears. After an interval of several minutes, she again took up the letter—read a little farther—still more and more moved by the generous and noble sentiments it contained—and at length, utterly overcome, she again dropped her hand, and sobbed aloud long and vehemently. "It cannot—cannot—no, it cannot be," she murmured; and, yielding to her feelings for a long while, her tears showered down her pallid, beautiful cheeks.
At length, having resumed her perusal of the letter, she came to the conclusion. In a kind of agony she pressed the signature to her lips; and then hastily folding up the letter, replaced it whence she had taken it, and continued sobbing bitterly. Alas, what additional poignancy did this give to the agonies of her last evening at Yatton! She had, however, become somewhat calmer by the time that she heard the door hastily, but gently tapped at, and then attempted to be opened. Miss Aubrey rose and unbolted it, and Mrs. Aubrey entered, her beautiful countenance as pale and sad as that of her sister-in-law. The former, however, was both wife and mother; and the various cares which these relations had entailed upon her, at a bitter moment like the present, served in some measure to occupy her thoughts, and prevent her from being absorbed by the heart-breaking circumstances which surrounded her. Suffering had, however, a little impaired her beauty; her cheek was very pale, and her eye and brow were laden with trouble.
"Kate, dear Kate," said she, rather quickly, closing the door after her, "what is to be done? Did you hear carriage-wheels a few moments ago? Who do you think have arrived? As I fancied would be the case, the De la Zouches!" Miss Aubrey trembled and turned pale. "You must see—you must see—Lady De la Zouch, Kate—they have driven from Fotheringham on purpose to take—once more—a last farewell! 'Tis very painful, but what can be done? You know what dear, dear, good friends they are!"
"Is Lord De la Zouch come, also?" inquired Miss Aubrey, apprehensively.
"I will not deceive you, dearest Kate, they are all come; but she, only, is in the house: they are gone out to look for Charles, who is walking in the park." Miss Aubrey trembled violently; and after evidently a severe struggle with her feelings, the color having entirely deserted her face, and left it of an ashy whiteness, "I cannot muster up resolution enough, Agnes," she whispered. "I know their errand!"
"Care not about their errand, love!" said Mrs. Aubrey, embracing her fondly. "You shall not be troubled—you shall not be persecuted." Miss Aubrey shook her head, and grasped Mrs. Aubrey's hand.
"They do not, Agnes, they cannot persecute me," replied Miss Aubrey, with energy. "It is a cruel and harsh word to use—and!—consider how noble, how disinterested is their conduct; that it is which subdues me!"
Mrs. Aubrey embraced still more closely her agitated sister-in-law, and tenderly kissed her forehead.
"Oh, Agnes!" faltered Miss Aubrey, pressing her hand upon her heart to relieve the intolerable oppression which she suffered—"would to Heaven that I had never seen—never thought of him!"
"Don't fear, Kate! that he will attempt to see you on so sad an occasion as this. Delamere is a man of infinite delicacy and generosity!"
"I know he is—I know he is," gasped Miss Aubrey, almost suffocated with her emotions.
"Stay, I'll tell you what to do; I'll go down and return with Lady De la Zouch: we can see her here, undisturbed and alone, for a few moments; and then, nothing painful can occur. Shall I bring her?" she inquired, rising. Miss Aubrey did not dissent; and, within a very few minutes' time, Mrs. Aubrey returned, accompanied by Lady De la Zouch. She was rather an elderly woman. Her countenance was still handsome; and she possessed a very dignified carriage. She was of an extremely affectionate disposition, and passionately fond of Miss Aubrey. Hastily drawing aside her veil as she entered the room, she stepped quickly up to Miss Aubrey, kissed her, and grasped her hands, for some moments, in silence.
"This is very sad work, Miss Aubrey," said she at length, hurriedly glancing at the luggage lying piled up at the other end of the room. Miss Aubrey made no answer, but shook her head. "It was useless attempting it, dear Kate—we could not stay at home; we have risked being charged with cruel intrusion; forgive me, dearest, will you? They," said Lady De la Zouch, pointedly, "will not come near you!" Miss Aubrey trembled. "I feel as if I were parting with an only daughter, Kate," said Lady De la Zouch, with sudden emotion. "How your mamma and I loved one another!" said she, fondly, and burst into tears.
"For mercy's sake, open the window; I feel suffocated," faltered Miss Aubrey. Mrs. Aubrey hastily drew up the window, and the cool refreshing breeze of evening quickly diffused itself through the apartment, and revived the drooping spirits of Miss Aubrey, who walked gently to and fro about the room, supported by Lady De la Zouch and Mrs. Aubrey, and soon recovered a tolerable degree of composure. The three ladies presently stood, arm-in-arm, gazing through the deep bay-window at the fine prospect which it commanded. The gloom of evening was beginning to steal over the landscape.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Miss Aubrey, faintly, with a deep sigh.
"The window in the northern tower of the Castle commands a still more extensive view," said Lady De la Zouch, looking earnestly at Miss Aubrey, who, as if conscious of some agitating allusion, burst into tears. After standing gazing through the window for some time longer, they stepped back into the room, and were soon engaged in deep and earnest conversation.
For the last three weeks Mr. Aubrey had addressed himself with calmness and energy to the painful duties which had devolved upon him, of setting his house in order. Immediately after quitting the dinner-table that day—a mere nominal meal to all of them—he had retired to the library, to complete the extensive and important arrangements consequent upon his abandonment of Yatton; and after about an hour thus occupied, he went forth to take a solitary walk—a melancholy—a last walk about the property. It was a moment which severely tried his fortitude; but that fortitude stood the trial. He was a man of lively sensibilities, and appreciated, to its utmost extent, the melancholy and alarming change which had come over his fortunes. Surely even the bluntest and coarsest feelings which ever tried to disguise and dignify themselves under the name of STOICISM—to convert into bravery, and fortitude, a stupid, sullen insensibility—must have been not a little shaken by such scenes as Mr. Aubrey had had to pass through during the last few weeks—scenes which I do not choose to distress the reader's feelings by dwelling upon in detail. Mr. Aubrey had no mean pretensions to real philosophy; but he had still juster pretensions to an infinitely higher character,—that of a Christian. He had a firm unwavering conviction that whatever befell him, either of good or evil, was by the ordination of the Almighty—infinitely Wise, infinitely Good;—and this was the source of his fortitude and resignation. He felt himself here standing upon ground which was immovable.
To avert the misfortune which menaced him, he had neglected no rational and conscientious means. To retain the advantages of fortune and station to which he had believed himself born, he had made the most strenuous exertions consistent with a rigid sense of honor. What, indeed, could he have done, that he had not done? He had caused the claims of his opponent to be subjected to as severe a scrutiny as the wit of man could suggest; and they had stood the test. Those claims, and his own, had been each of them placed in the scales of justice; those scales had been held up and poised by the pure and firm hands to which the laws of God, and of the country, had committed the administration of justice: on what ground could a just and reasonable man quarrel with or repine at the issue? And supposing that a perverse and subtle ingenuity in his legal advisers could have devised means for delaying his surrender of the property to the individual who had been solemnly declared its true owner, what real and ultimate advantage could have been obtained by such a dishonorable line of conduct? Could the spirit of the Christian religion tolerate the bare idea of it? Could such purposes or intentions consist for one instant with the consciousness that the awful eye of God was always upon every thought of his mind, every feeling of his heart, every purpose of his will? A thorough and lively conviction of God's moral government of the world secured Aubrey a happy composure—a glorious and immovable resolution. It enabled him to form a true estimate of things; it extracted the sting from grief and regret; it dispelled the gloom which would otherwise have settled portentously upon the future. Thus he had not forgotten the exhortation which spoke unto him, as unto a child: My son, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him. And if, indeed, religion had not done this for Mr. Aubrey, what could it have done, what would it have been worth? It would indeed have been that which dull fools suppose it—a mere name, a melancholy delusion. What hopeless and lamentable imbecility would it not have argued, to have acknowledged the reality and influence of religion in the hour of prosperity—and to have doubted, distrusted, or denied it in the hour of adversity? When a child beholds the sun obscured by dark clouds, he may think in his simplicity that it is gone forever; but a MAN knows that behind is the sun, magnificent as ever; and that the next moment, the clouds having rolled away, its glorious warmth and light are again upon the earth. Thus is it, thought Aubrey with humble but cheerful confidence, with the Almighty—who hath declared himself the Father of the spirits of all flesh—
"Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face!
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His works in vain!
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain!"
"Therefore, O my God!" thought Aubrey, as he gazed upon the lovely scenes familiar to him from his birth, and from which a few short hours were to separate him forever, "I do acknowledge Thy hand in what has befallen me, and Thy mercy which enables me to bear it, as from Thee." The scene around him was tranquil and beautiful—inexpressibly beautiful. He stood under the shadow of a mighty elm-tree, the last of a long and noble avenue, which he had been pacing in deep thought for upwards of an hour. The ground was considerably elevated above the level of the rest of the park. No sound disturbed the serene repose of the approaching evening, except the distant and gradually diminishing sounds issuing from an old rookery, and the faint low bubbling of a clear streamlet which flowed not far from where he stood. Here and there, under the deepening shadows cast by the lofty trees, might be seen the glancing forms of deer, the only live things visible. "Life," said Aubrey, to himself, with a sigh, as he leaned against the trunk of the grand old tree under which he stood, and gazed with a fond and mournful eye on the lovely scenes stretching before him, to which the subdued radiance of the departing sunlight communicated a tone of tender pensiveness; "life is, in truth, what the Scripture—what the voice of nature—represents it—a long journey, during which the traveller stops at many resting places. Some of them are more, others less beautiful; from some he parts with more, from others with less regret; but part he must, and pursue his journey, though he may often turn back to gaze with lingering fondness and admiration at the scene which he has last quitted. The next stage may be—as all his journey might have been—bleak and desolate; but, through that he is only passing: he will not be condemned to stay in it, as he was not permitted to dwell in the other; he is still journeying on, along a route which he cannot mistake, to the point of his destination, his journey's end—the shores of the vast, immeasurable, boundless ocean of eternity—HIS HOME!"