Read Ebook: Poems by Hensley Sophia Margaretta

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 66 lines and 7019 words, and 2 pages

JOHN DE LANCASTER.

JOHN DE LANCASTER.

A NOVEL.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

PRINTED FOR LACKINGTON, ALLEN, AND CO.

TEMPLE OF THE MUSES,

FINSBURY-SQUARE.

Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John's Square.

JOHN DE LANCASTER.

On the first of March 1751, Robert De Lancaster, a native of North Wales, and grandfather of my hero, had assembled his friends and neighbours to celebrate, according to custom, the anniversary of their tutelary saint.

I enter at once upon my story without any introduction, having already announced this novel in my Memoirs, and I flatter myself, if it is perused with that candour, to which fair dealing has some claim, it will serve to entertain the major part of its readers, disappoint not many and corrupt not one.

Robert de Lancaster was a gentleman of great respectability, and Kray-castle, the venerable seat of his family through many generations, lost nothing of its long-established fame for hospitality on this occasion: the gentry were feasted, and the poor were not forgotten.

The family of this worthy antient Briton consisted of an only son Philip, married to an heiress of the house of Morgan, and a maiden daughter, named Cecilia. He was himself a widower. Mrs. Philip De Lancaster was at this time in that state, which gave speedy hopes of an heir to the very ancient family, into which she had married: in the festivities of the day she had taken little share, and in the superintendence of her father-in-law's household absolutely none: that province she had found in much more able hands, and never sought to interfere with the administration of it: in short she had no ambition for authority, and very great objection to any thing, that might require exertion, or occasion trouble.

Cecilia De Lancaster from the death of her mother, through a period of more than ten years, had patiently and without repining suffered her youth to pass away, amply repayed by the love and approbation of her father, whilst she devoted herself to all those duties, which had devolved upon her, when Kray Castle lost its mistress. Her brother Philip had quite as little disposition to trouble as his lady, so that all things were under the unenvied government of Cecilia; and every guest, that resorted to the house, every domestic, that belonged to it, bore witness to the excellence of her administration.

A character like hers, though located amidst the recesses of Merionethshire, could not be totally divested of attraction; for she had high pretensions on the score of fortune, and a pedigree, that only stopped where the world began: these might have been enough to satisfy any reasonable man, though some perhaps would have rated them the higher for the loveliness of her person, the excellence of her understanding and the virtues of her mind.

This distinguished personage was now in the fifth year of his suitorship, and verging towards the fiftieth of his age, whilst the inexorable Cecilia had already endured a siege half as long as that of Troy, without betraying any symptoms, that might indicate a surrender. In fact Sir Owen seemed now to content himself with a yearly summons, like the Moors before Ceuta, as a compliment to his perseverance, and to keep up appearances and pretensions.

It was now Saint David's day, when he never failed to be a visitor to the castle, and he had brushed out the lining of his coach, and put himself in his best array, to do honour to the festival, at which he knew Cecilia would preside. His person was not eminently graceful, for he was a round, red-faced gentleman, neither tall of stature, nor light of limb; but his apparel bore the faded marks of ancient splendor, and his huntsman had bestowed uncommon pains in frizzing out a huge white perriwig, which he had powdered with no sparing hand. Sir Owen was at no time apt to be an idle looker-on whilst the bottle was in circulation, and on the present occasion he had charged himself more than usually high to encounter an opposition, which he had reason to expect would be more than usually stubborn; for though due consideration had been paid to his rank, and he had been placed at table close beside the lady, who presided at it, fortune had not favoured him with any striking opportunities for displaying his address, or advancing himself in her good graces. On the contrary he had been rather unlucky in his assiduities, and in his eagerness to dispute the ladle had overset the soup, with sundry other little misadventures, incidental to an awkward operator and an unsteady hand.

It is perfectly well understood, that the worthy baronet had pledged himself to his privy counsellor the huntsman for vigorous measures; confessing to him, whilst assisting at his toilette, with the candour natural to his character, that he was ashamed of hanging so long upon a cold scent, and protesting, with a due degree of spirit, that he would that very day either bring the trail to an entapis, or give up the chace, and draw off; for which manly resolution he had all proper credit given him by the partaker of his secrets, and the companion of his sports.

When the gentlemen had sate a reasonable time after the ladies had retired, it was the custom of the house to adjourn to the drawing room, where Cecilia administered the ceremonials of the tea-table. It was here Sir Owen meditated to plant himself once more by her side, and bring his fortune to a crisis; trusting that wine, which had fortified him with courage, would not fail to inspire him with eloquence. High in hope, and eager to acquit himself of his promise to his confidante at home, upon entering the room he pushed his course directly for the tea-table, where the cluster of candles and the dazzling gleams reflected from the polished apparatus, there displayed in glittering splendor, so confounded his optics, that without discovering the person of Mrs. Philip De Lancaster, or computing distances so as to bring up in time, he came foul of the tea-table, and discharged a part of the wreck with a horrible crash into the lap of the aforesaid lady, whilst his head came to the floor amidst the fragments of broken cups and sawcers with an impunity, which no common head would probably have had to boast of in the like circumstance. Dreadful was the consternation of the company, most alarmingly critical were the screams and convulsive throes of the unfortunate lady, whose lap was ill prepared to receive any such accession to the burden, which it was already doomed to carry. The consequences in short were so immediate, and their symptoms so decisive, that had not Mr. Llewellyn been in attendance, and happily not quite so tipsy as to be incapacitated from affording his assistance, the world might have lost the pleasure of reading these adventures, and I the fame of recording them.

A couch being provided, and the lady laid at her length upon it, she was carried up to her chamber, whilst the castle echoed with her piercing screams.

It would be treating this serious misadventure much too lightly, were I only to remark that the love-scene in projectu was of necessity adjourned by Cecilia's leaving the company, and attending upon her sister-in-law, whom a whole bevy of females under the conduct of the sage Llewellyn followed up the stairs. We may well suppose, where one so able was present to direct, and so many were assembled, ready either to obey, or sagaciously to look on and edify, that every thing needful for a lady in her critical situation was provided and administered. Every visitor, whose recollection served to remind him that after such a discomfiture the speediest retreat was the best compliment he could pay to the master of the house, called for their horses and their carriages to the great disappointment of their servants, who had not yet paid all the honours to Saint David, that were by customary right Saint David's due.

Your principle, my good friend, replied De Lancaster, nobody doubts, and if your accident shall be productive of no other mischief than what has happened to Cecilia's tea-cups, Cecilia thinks no more of them than I do. The screams you heard did not proceed from her--

No, no, cried Sir Owen, her sweet pipe never uttered such a shrill veiw-hollah; so if she is safe from hurt and harm, all is well. 'Twas an accident, as you say, and there's an end of it.

A servant now announced to the baronet, that his coach was at the door. De Lancaster entered into no farther explanations, and his awkward guest surrendered himself to the guidance of a coachman luckily not quite so tipsey as his master.

When the wheels of Sir Owen's coach had ceased from rattling over the flinty pavement of the castle court, Robert De Lancaster glanced his eyes round the room, and in a corner of it discovered his son Philip, unnoticed of him before. Neither the cataract and confusion, that had ensued upon Sir Owen's tumble, nor the screams of a lady, in whose safety he might be presumed to have some interest, had provoked this disciple of Harpocrates to violate his taciturnity, or to stir from his seat. At the same instant Colonel Wilson, a friend of the family, entered, and brought tidings from the runners in the service of Mr. Llewellyn, that things above stairs were going on as well as could be expected.

Then with your leave, Colonel, said the lord of the castle, we will adjourn to my library, and there await the event. Upon the word

Oh come, Eurydice! The Stygian deeps are past Well-nigh; the light dawns fast. Oh come, Eurydice!

The gods have heard my song! My love's despairing cry Filled hell with melody,-- And the gods heard my song.

I knew no life but thee; Persephone was moved; She, too, hath lived, hath loved; She saw I lived for thee.

I may not look on thee, Such was the gods' decree;-- Till sun and earth we see No kiss, no smile for thee!

The way is rough, is hard; I cannot hear thy feet Swift following; speak, my Sweet,-- Is the way rough and hard?

"Oh come, Eurydice!" I turn: "our woe is o'er, I will not lose thee more!" I cry: "Eurydice!"

O father Hermes, help! I see her fade away Back from the dawning ray; Dear Father Hermes, help!

One swift look,--all is lost! Wild heaven-arousing cries Pierce to the dull dead skies; My heaven, my all is lost!

The unrelenting gods Refuse me. "No," say they, "Thy chance is thrown away." Fierce unrelenting gods!

The sky is blue no more, The spring-tide airs are bleak, I find not her I seek, The earth is fair no more!

I loathe all earth, all life! These Thracian women gaze And whispering, go their ways, Seeing I loathe my life.

Only my song remains. I may not cease to sing, Though hot tears start and sting, The song that still remains,

Even--"Come Eurydice!" The sea rolls on in pain, Echoing the note again: "Lost, lost Eurydice!"

And still the sea moves on, The woods give back the thrill "Eurydice!" and still The quiet sea moves on.

The years, Eurydice, The long unquiet years Heed not or sighs or tears, Oh Heart, Eurydice!

SLACK TIDE.

My boat is still in the reedy cove Where the rushes hinder its onward course, For I care not now if we rest or move O'er the slumberous tide to the river's source.

My boat is fast in the tall dank weeds And I lay my oars in silence by, And lean, and draw the slippery reeds Through my listless fingers carelessly.

The babbling froth of the surface foam Clings close to the side of my moveless boat, Like endless meshes of honeycomb,-- And I break it off, and send it afloat.

A faint wind stirs, and I drift along Far down the stream to its utmost bound, And the thick white foam-flakes gathering strong Still cling, and follow, and fold around.

Oh! the weary green of the weedy waste, The thickening scum of the frothy foam, And the torpid heart by the reeds embraced And shrouded and held in its cheerless home.

The fearful stillness of wearied calm, The tired quiet of ended strife, The echoed note of a heart's sad psalm, The sighing end of a wasted life.--

The reeds cling close, and my cradle sways, And the white gull dips in the waters' barm, And the heart asleep in the twilight haze Feels not its earth-bonds, knows not alarm.

AN EVENING IN OCTOBER

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet