GLENARVON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,

1816.

London: Printed by Schulze and Dean, 13, Poland Street.

Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme

Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.

CHAPTER I.

In the town of Belfont, in Ireland, lived a learned physician of the name of Everard St. Clare. He had a brother, who, misled by a fine but wild imagination, which raised him too far above the interests of common life, had squandered away his small inheritance; and had long roved through the world, rapt in poetic visions, foretelling, as he pretended, to those who would hear him, that which futurity would more fully develop.—Camioli was the name he had assumed.

It was many years since Sir Everard last beheld his brother, when one night Camioli, bearing in his arms Elinor his child, about five years of age, returned, 4 after his long absence to his native town, and knocked at Sir Everard’s door. The doctor was at the castle hard by, and his lady refused admittance to the mean-looking stranger. Without informing her of his name, Camioli departed, and resolved to seek his sister the Abbess of Glenaa. The way to the convent was long and dreary: he climbed, therefore, with his lovely burthen to the topmost heights of Inis Tara, and sought temporary shelter in a cleft of the mountain known by the name of the “Wizzard’s Glen.” Bright shone the stars that night, and to the exalted imagination of the aged seer, it seemed in sleep, that the spirits of departed heroes and countrymen, freed from the bonds of mortality, were ascending in solemn grandeur before his eyes;—the song of the Banshees, mourning for the sorrows of their country, broke upon the silence of night;—a lambent flame distinguished the souls of

heroes, and, pointing upwards, formed a 5 path of light before them;—the air resounded with the quivering of wings, as with one accord innumerable spirits arose, fanning the breeze with their extended plumes, and ascending like a flight of birds toward the heavens.

Then, for the first time, Camioli beheld, in one comprehensive view, the universal plan of nature—unnumbered systems performing their various but distinct courses, unclouded by mists, and unbounded by horizon—endless variety in infinite space! Then first he seemed to hear the full harmonious cadences of the angelic choirs—celestial music, uttered by happy spirits in praise of the great Author of Existence, as directing their flight onwards from sphere to sphere, from world to world, they felt joyful in themselves, and rejoiced in the wonders and variety of creation.

From visions so wild, yet delightful, the soft sweet voice of his child awoke him.—“How cold and dreary it is, dear 6 father; how lone these hills. I am weary unto death, yet I fear to sleep.”—“My comforter, my delight, my little black-eyed darling,” said Camioli (enveloping his child in his long dark mantle), “why do I thus sully the purity of your nature by leading you to the abode of misery, and shewing you the haunts of men! They are but as the flowers that blossom and wither, or as the clouds that pass along to shade for a moment the brightness of the heavens:—all here on earth is desolation and woe. But I will soon take you, my lovely one, to a place of safety. My sister, the Abbess of Glenaa, lives in the valley beneath the mountain: she will protect my Elinor; and, in her mansion, my child shall find an asylum. I shall leave you but for a short time; we shall meet again, Elinor;—yes, we shall meet again.—Continue to live with St. Clara your aunt: obey her in all things, for she is good: and may the God of Mercy avert from you the heaviest 7

of all my calamities, the power of looking into futurity.”—He spoke, and descending the rugged mountain path, placed his Elinor according to promise, under the protection of his sister the Abbess of Glenaa, and bidding her farewell, walked hastily away.

The morning sun, when it arose, shone bright and brilliant upon the valley of Altamonte—its gay castle, and its lake. But a threatening cloud obscured the sky, as Camioli raised his eyes and turned them mournfully upon the ruined priory of St. Alvin, and the deserted halls of Belfont.—“Woe to the house of Glenarvon!” he said. “Woe to the house of my patron and benefactor! Desolation and sorrow have fallen upon the mighty. Mourn for the hero who is slain in battle. Mourn for the orphan who is left destitute and in trouble.... Bright shone the sun upon thy battlements, O Belfont, on the morn when the hero bade thee a last adieu. Cold are thy waters, Killarney; and many 8 a tree has been hewn from thy rocky bosom, thou fair mountain Glenaa, since the hour in which he parted. But not so cold, nor so barren is thy bosom, as is that of the widow who is bereft of every joy.... Mourn for the house of Glenarvon, and the orphan who is destitute! No mother—no companion of boyish sports and pleasures yet lives to greet him with one cheering smile.—There is

not left one tongue to welcome him to his native land; or, should he fall, one friend to shed a tear upon his grave!”

Thus sung the Bard, while the red deer were browsing upon the hills, and the wind whistled through the arches and colonades of the Castle of Belfont, as if in hollow murmurs for times which were long past.—“Woe to the house of our patron,” said the frenzied old man, as with bitter tears he departed:—“even in this moment of time, the fairest star of Belfont sets for ever: the widowed Countess of Glenarvon is dead—dead in a foreign 9 country; and strangers hands alone perform her obsequies.” He spoke, and looked, for the last time, upon the land that he loved, then turned from it for ever.... Previous, however, to his departure from Ireland, Camioli again sought his brother, (who was then an inmate in the family of the Duke of Altamonte,) for the purpose of commending Elinor to his care.

Castle Delaval, the property of that nobleman, was situated in a valley sheltered from every keen blast by a dark wood of fir and elm. The river Elle, taking its rise amidst the Dartland Hills, flowed through the park, losing by degrees the character of a mountain torrent, as it spread itself between its rich and varied banks in front of the castle, till it joined the sea beyond the Wizzard’s Glen. The town of Belfont stands close upon the harbour, and from one of the highest cliffs, the ruins of the convent of St. Mary, and a modern chapel may yet be 10 seen, whilst Heremon and Inis Tara, raising their lofty summits, capped with snow, soar above the clouds.

The abbey of Belfont, and the priory of St. Alvin, both the property of the Glenarvon family, were now, in consequence of the forfeiture of the late Earl of that name, transferred to Lord de Ruthven, a distant relation. The deserted priory had fallen into ruin, and Belfont abbey, as yet unclaimed by its youthful master, and pillaged by the griping hand of its present owner, exhibited a melancholy picture of neglect and oppression.—No cheerful fires blaze in its ancient halls; no peasants and vassals feast under its vaulted roofs.—Glenarvon, the hero, the lord of the demesne is dead:—he fell on the bloody field of Culloden:—his son perished in exile:—and Clarence de Ruthven, his grandson, an orphan, in a foreign land, has never yet appeared to petition for his attainted titles and forfeited estates.—Of relations and of friends he has never heard. 11

Where are they who claim kindred with the unfortunate? Where are they who boast of friendship for the orphan that is destitute and in trouble? The Duke of Altamonte, whose domains were contiguous, and whose attachment extended to the son of his ancient friend, had ofttimes written to his sister enquiring into the fate of the child; but Lady Margaret had answered her brother’s letters with coldness and indifference. 12

CHAPTER II.

It is the common failing of an ambitious mind to over-rate itself—to imagine that it has been, by the caprices of fortune, defrauded of the high honours due to its supposed superiority. It conceives itself to have been injured—to have fallen from its destination; and these unfounded claims become the source of endless discontent. The mind, thus disappointed, preys upon itself, and compares its present lowliness with the imaginary heights for which it fancies itself to have been intended. Under the influence of these reflections, the character grows sullen and reserved, detaches itself from all social enjoyments, and professes to despise the honours for which it secretly pines. Mediocrity, and a common lot, a man of this disposition cannot bring 13 himself to endure; and he wilfully rejects the little granted, because all cannot be obtained, to which he once aspired.

In this temper, the Duke of Altamonte had retired from public affairs, and had quitted the splendour and gaiety of the court, to seek in retirement that repose which, of all men, he was the least calculated to appreciate or enjoy. In the society of the duchess, he found all that could sooth his wounded spirit. In Mrs. Seymour, the duchess’s sister, he welcomed a mild and unobtrusive guest; and the project of uniting the Lady Calantha Delaval, his only daughter, to her cousin William Buchanan, heir presumptive to the Dukedom of Altamonte, and son of his sister Lady Margaret Buchanan, for some time occupied his hours and engrossed his attention.

To forward this favourite object, he communicated to them both, that they were destined for each other; and by employing them in the same occupations, 14 instructing them in the same studies, by the same masters, and in every way contriving that they should be continually together he hoped that early habits, and the first affections of childhood, might unite their hearts in indissoluble bonds. But how short-sighted, how little founded in a right knowledge of human nature, was this project! Habituated to the intimacy which subsists between near relations, was it probable that love, when the age of that passion arrived, would be content with objects thus familiar; and that the feelings of the heart would quietly acquiesce in an arrangement which had been previously formed upon the calculations of interest and family pride?—On the contrary, the system pursued in their education, accustomed them to give way to their violent tempers, without restraint, in their intercourse with each other; and the frequent recurrence of petty quarrels, soon produced sentiments,

which bordered on dislike; so that 15 at the moment, when the Duke exulted most in the success of his project, he was painfully undeceived.

Happily, a new event which occurred at this time in the family of the Duke of Altamonte, soon turned his thoughts from the failure of his present system of education, the superintendence of which he relinquished with as much readiness, as he had once shewn anxiety to undertake it.—The Duchess, after a long period of ill health, was pronounced by her physicians to be once more in a situation to realize her husband’s most sanguine hopes.—“If I have a boy,” he cried, “from the hour of his birth all I possess shall be his. Give me but a son, ye powers who rule over destiny, and I am content to yield up every other claim, privilege and possession.”—The wish was heard, and at the appointed time, the Duchess of Altamonte, after a few hours illness, was delivered of a son and heir. It was in vain for the Duke, that until this event 16 he said to himself daily as he arose from his stately bed, that none other was his rival in wealth or power;—it was in vain that friends surrounded him, and flatterers attended upon his least commands:—until

this unexpected, and almost unhoped for event, he could not be said to have enjoyed one hour of felicity, so unwisely did he blind himself to every other blessing which he possessed; and so ardently solicitous did he suffer his mind to become, for that one boon which alone had been refused to his prayers. But since the birth of his son, he looked around him, and he had nothing left to wish for upon earth; his heart became agitated with its own satisfaction; and the terror of losing the idol upon which every feeling and affection was fixed, rendered him more miserable than he was even before the fulfilment of his wishes.

The education of the lady Calantha and William Buchanan was now entirely laid 17 aside; the feuds and tumults in the adjacent countries were disregarded; and he might be said to live alone in those apartments where, robed in state, and cradled in luxury, the little infant lay helpless and unconscious of its honours and importance. Not a breath of air was suffered to blow too rudely upon the most noble and illustrious Sidney Albert, Marquis of Delaval. The tenants and peasantry flocked, from far and near, to kneel and do him homage, gazing in stupid wonder on their future Lord. The Duchess feebly resisted the general voice, which encouraged an excess of care, hurtful to the health of him, whom all were but too solicitous to preserve. Yet the boy flourished, unaffected by this adulation, the endless theme of discussion, the constant object of still increasing idolatry.

Without delay, the Duke resolved to intimate to his sister, Lady Margaret Buchanan, who was at Naples, the change 18 which had taken place in her son’s expectations. He felt the necessity of softening the disappointment by every soothing expression; and, as he loved her most sincerely he wrote to urge her immediate return, with all the warmth of fraternal affection;—informing her at the same time of the circumstance which at once occasioned his delight, and her disappointment. With what fond overweaning vanity did he then flatter himself, that she, who was the next dearest object of his affections, would share his present joy; and forgetful of the entire ruin of her fondest hope, doat like him upon the child who had deprived her son of all his expectations! He knew not Lady Margaret:—less than any other, he knew that fierce spirit which never yet had been controuled—which deemed itself born to command, and would have perished sooner than have endured restraint.

At this very period of time, in the prosecution 19 of her sudden and accursed designs, having bade adieu to brighter climes and more polished manners, with all the gaiety of apparent innocence, and all the brilliancy of wit which belong to spirits light as air and a refined and highly cultivated genius, she was sailing, accompanied by a train of admirers, selected from the flower of Italy, once again to visit her native country. With their voices and soft guitars, they chased away the lingering hours; and after a fair and prosperous voyage, proceeded, with their equipages, horses and attendants, to Castle Delaval.

Lady Margaret was received with delight at the house of her father, in her own native land. A burst of applause hailed her first appearance before the wondering crowd assembled to behold her. Fond of admiration, even from the lowest, she lingered on the terrace, which commanded the magnificent scenery of which Castle Delaval was the central object,—leaning 20 upon the arm of the Duke and bowing gracefully to the people, as if in thanks for their flattering reception. Buchanan alone met his mother without one mark of joy. Cold and reserved, from earliest childhood, he had never yet felt attachment for any other being than himself; and fully engrossed by the splendour with which he was at all times surrounded, he looked with indifference on every event which did not promote or prevent his own personal amusements. He saw many new guests arrive without experiencing the slightest accession of pleasure; and when those departed whom he had been in the habit of seeing around him, it seldom cost him even a momentary regret. He had so long and so frequently been informed that he was heir

of the immense possessions now belonging to his uncle, that he was overpowered by the sense of his greatness; nor did the commiseration of his attendants, on his disappointed hopes, awaken him to the 21 conviction of the great change which had occurred since the birth of the Marquis of Delaval. Indeed he seemed as indifferent on this occasion as on all others. Yet whatever his errors, he was at least in person and manner all that Lady Margaret could wish. She was also much pleased with Calantha, and thought she traced, in her radiant countenance, some resemblance to her own.

The Duchess of Altamonte had, in mind and person, won the affections of all who approached her. She had a countenance in which languor and delicacy added sensibility and grace, to beauty,—an air of melancholy half veiled in smiles of sweetness,—and a form soft and fragile as the bright fictions of a poet’s dream; yet a visible sadness had fallen upon her spirits, and whilst she appeared alone to sooth and bless every other heart, she seemed herself in need of consolation. Lady Margaret’s beauty irresistibly attracted; her wit enlivened; and her manners fascinated—but 22 the dreadful secrets of her heart appalled!

Lady Margaret was not much liked by Mrs. Seymour, nor by many other of the guests who frequented the castle. Her foreign domestics, her splendid attire, her crafty smiles and highly polished manners,—all were in turn criticised and condemned. But neither prejudice nor vulgarity received from her lips the slightest censure. She did not even appear to see the ill will shewn to her. Yet many thought the discords and disasters which occurred after her arrival in Ireland, were the fruits of her intriguing spirit, and all soon or late regretted her presence at the castle, till then, the seat of uninterrupted harmony and almost slumberous repose. 23

CHAPTER III.

Lady Margaret Delaval, only surviving sister of the Duke of Altamonte, was born in Ireland, where she remained until her marriage with Captain Buchanan. She then established herself at Naples; the fleet in which her husband served being stationed in the Mediterranean sea. After the birth of her son William, she immediately sent him to Ireland, there to receive, under her brother’s tuition, an education more fitting the heir of Altamonte, and the future husband of Lady Calantha Delaval.

Freed from the last tie which had bound her to one feeling of honour or of virtue, she, without remorse, gave way during the absence of her child and husband (who accompanied the boy to Ireland) to a life of extravagance and 24 vice, ensnaring the inexperienced by her art, and fascinating the most wary by her beauty and her talents. The charms of her person and the endowments of her mind were worthy of a better fate than that which she was preparing for herself. But, under the semblance of youthful gaiety, she concealed a dark intriguing spirit, which could neither remain at rest, nor satisfy itself in the pursuit of great and noble objects. She had been hurried on by the evil activity of her own mind, until the habit of crime had overcome every scruple, and rendered her insensible to repentance, and almost to remorse. In this career, she had improved to such a degree her natural talent of dissimulation, that, under its impenetrable veil, she was able to carry on securely her darkest machinations; and her understanding had so adapted itself to her

passions, that it was in her power to give, in her own eyes, a character of grandeur, to the vice and malignity, which afforded 25 an inexplicable delight to her depraved imagination.