JOHN DE LANCASTER.

A NOVEL. BY RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ. IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR LACKINGTON, ALLEN, AND CO. TEMPLE OF THE MUSES, FINSBURY-SQUARE. ——— 1809.

{1}

Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John’s Square. JOHN DE LANCASTER.

CHAPTER I. The Experiment, as resolved upon by Mr. Philip De Lancaster, is made.

When Philip’s confidential interview with Colonel Wilson was concluded, he directly bent his course to the chamber of David Williams. It was a station equally well adapted to the studies of the poet, the astronomer or the musician, for it was in the high road to the stars, at the very top of the loftiest turret of Kray-Castle, and far enough exalted above every living thing, that grovelled{2} on the earth. It is to be lamented that the fine prospect it commanded was no recommendation of it to blind David, but the advantages it might have offered to him of inhaling the refreshing breezes in their greatest purity would have compensated in part, had it not so happened, that its only casement was not made to open.

When Philip, whom the love of prospect never could have tempted to ascend this winding staircase, had with infinite pains landed himself in David’s airey, the twilight was drawing on, and the sun sinking red towards his chamber in the west. He found the minstrel seated in his only chair with his harp between his knees, and on the table before him his pitcher, which, though of a capacious girth, had been drained of its contents.

Philip having accosted him and made{3} known his errand in few words, the old man rose from his seat, and stood with his left hand resting on his harp, whilst his right was pressed respectfully on his breast—Be it, he replied, as the son of my patron hath commanded! When David Williams shall hesitate to obey the heir of this castle, and the descendant of the ever-honoured De Lancasters, this heart must have forfeited its duty, and this hand forgotten its accustomed office. Although my brain is even now in travail and only waits the mollifying aid of another jug to bring forth, behold me ready! Speak the word only for my son David to bear my harp, and lead me to the apartment of the lady your spouse, I will incontinently set forward.

Thank you, my old friend, cried Philip! You do it with good will, and that is every thing. But what think you{4} of the experiment? Do you hold with my father in opinion that by the melody of the harp you can drive the evil spirit out of Mrs. De Lancaster?

Who drove the evil spirit out of Saul, replied the minstrel?

You have said it sure enough, rejoined Philip; but we must proceed cautiously, and not give her too much of it. A short strain, and something in her own way, of the pensive cast—You have the name, the instrument and the art of the royal minstrel, but recollect the peril he was in, and be aware how you proceed too far in stirring up and stimulating the passions.

Thus having said, he departed, whilst the hoary-headed enthusiast seized his harp, and full of the muse called amain for his son to lead him.

Whilst this was passing in the turret,{5} Cecilia with our young hero had paid an evening visit to Mrs. De Lancaster in her apartment. She was more than fancifully ill, for her sunken eyes and hectic looks too plainly indicated a constitution breaking up. Her spirits however were just now in that kind of nervous flutter, which carries a resemblance to gaiety, and she was more than ordinarily communicative and disposed to talk.

Their conversation turned upon the preparations making for the approaching festival—You will look in upon us I hope, said Cecilia; and if you apprehend the company will be too much for you, I’ll have the latticed gallery in the hall kept private, where nobody will molest you. There will be music, sister, and I flatter myself you have no dislike to that.{6}

None, replied Mrs. De Lancaster, to music, properly so called, but infinite dislike and horror for trumpets and cudgel-playing, and noisy bawling drunkards, who shout over their cups, and rattle them on the table by way of applause: these are generally the accompaniments of a Welch carousal.

You have none such to expect with us, believe me, said Cecilia. We shall not make it a Saint David’s day, take my word for it.

No, cried the invalid, one such as I experienced, when this poor thing was hurried into the world, has been one too many, and left me more to struggle with than I shall ever overcome—and here her spirits sunk, and her countenance assumed a melancholy cast, whilst she turned her languid eyes upon her son.

I am sorry to hear you talk thus, the{7} gentle Cecilia replied: I was in hopes, that now when all the troubles of that time are over, you would have looked back to that day as a day of happiness and comfort. I am persuaded that your son will never give you cause to regret what you suffered for his sake; and now that he is in train to receive an excellent education, what may we not expect from the brilliancy of his talents, and the virtues of his heart?

Yes, yes, she cried with a desponding sigh, I know what I am to expect from the education he will receive. Every thing I dare say they will teach him but humility and that discernment, which might constitute his happiness. He will split upon the rock, that was so fatal to his wretched mother, and they, on whom his destiny depends, will im{8}molate another victim to ambitious fortune and the pride of family.

John’s ready apprehension caught the words, understood their meaning, and in that instant he resolved to bring them to an explanation, whenever opportunity might favour his design. She had spoken these words with a degree of energy, that apparently exhausted her—Poor fellow, she now said in a faint voice, and reached out her hand, as if inviting him to approach; he sprung from his seat, respectfully received her hand and pressed it to his lips—Am I not to blame, she said, addressing herself to Cecilia, for thus indulging my affection for an object, from whom I must so soon be parted?

No, my dear sister, replied Cecilia; you are only to blame for indulging{9} those melancholy thoughts. Exert yourself for the recovery of your health and spirits; seek amusement in the company of your friends, resort to air and exercise in the place of medicine and confinement, and you may live to see all your apprehensions vanish, and your son made happy, (so may Heaven grant it!) to the completion of your warmest wishes.

Ah my kind comforter, said the mother, I know full well that medicine cannot cure my complaints nor exertion restore my spirits. I am sensible it is not worth my while to seek for a recovery any where, for sure enough it is no where to be found; yet I will acknowledge to you, that unless I were obstinately resolved to devote myself to death, I must not meet another winter in this country. The soft climates of{10} Lisbon or the South of France may give me a few more weeks; and though I have long ceased from enjoying life, I am not reconciled in my conscience to the neglect of any reasonable means for prolonging it. Besides, as I have all the disposition in the world not to disturb Mr. De Lancaster’s repose with certain ceremonials, in which he might think it incumbent on him to take a part, I shall only trouble him to attend upon me to the sea-side, and leave it to other people in another country to follow me to the grave. I perceive myself exactly treading in the steps of my poor mother, and can easily foresee where they will lead me. When she was at

my time of life, (as I well recollect,) she was affected just in the same manner as I am. My father talked to her as you talk now to me: he was a kind and{11} tender husband, which, allow me to observe, was one more comfort in her lot than I have to boast of. She had no child but me, and I was about John’s age when I saw her for the last time. She was not in the habit of bestowing any extraordinary caresses upon me, and I seldom was admitted to her, for her spirits did not allow of it. Upon this last meeting however she was extremely kind to me, and the circumstance is the more strongly impressed upon my memory on account of a very singular occurrence, which I can sometimes reflect upon till I fancy myself in her very situation, and hearing the same sounds, as seemed to summon my poor mother to her death-bed.

Of what sort were those sounds? Cecilia asked—Of the most seraphic sort,{12} Mrs. De Lancaster replied, as she described them; such as we may conceive the angels to excite, when they waft a soul into bliss.

By one of those extraordinary coincidences, that sometimes occur, it so chanced, that in the very moment, whilst Mrs. De Lancaster, was describing these strains, heard by her mother before death, David Williams, who had planted himself in the adjoining gallery, gave a flourish on his harp. It was not one of those imposing preludes, that are calculated to display the execution of the master; it was rather meant to invite attention by its melody, than to arrest it by its violence.

Hark! cried Mrs. De Lancaster; do you hear those sounds?—It is only David Williams, Cecilia replied, going to{13} serenade us. If you wish it to be stopped, I’ll tell him—Upon no account, answered the other, I am convinced these things do not happen by chance; and whether the music is produced by natural or supernatural means, I entreat you not to attempt at interrupting it.

Immediately a symphony was played most exquisitely sweet and melodious: the minstrel never was in a happier moment; young John in the mean time kept hold of his mother’s hand, whilst the strain swelled and sunk at times in cadence so enchanting, as might remind Mrs. De Lancaster of those seraphic airs, which were supposed to have visited her dying mother, especially when the following words were distinctly heard, as the blind minstrel chanted them forth to the accompaniment of his harp.{14}

CHAPTER II. Mr. De Lancaster discourses upon the Tactics of the Ancients.

Whilst David Williams was chanting the extemporaneous lay, with which we concluded the foregoing chapter, the door between him and Mrs. De Lancaster was ajar; the gallery, in which he was playing, was admirably disposed for music, and every note came to the ear, mellowed by the distance without being lost in its passage. The strain was of a character so simple, and the harmony so pure and flowing in it’s course, without any of those capricious and false ornaments, which are too often resorted to, that both the movement and the matter were intelligible to the hearers, till at the close it burst into such a dis{16}play of execution, as called forth all the powers of the instrument, and set off the art of the master in its highest style of excellence.

When Mrs. De Lancaster perceived that the performance was concluded, John was told to open the door, and upon his entering the gallery, the old minstrel was discovered sitting in deep meditation, with his arms folded round his harp, and his head resting upon the frame of it, whilst his white locks, long and flowing, hung profusely over his forehead, and entirely shaded his countenance. He had placed himself opposite to an antique bow-window, through which a ruddy gleam from the descending sun directly smote upon his figure, and threw it into tints, that would have been a study for Rembrandt or Bassan.

The mother and aunt of our hero,{17} who had now joined him in the gallery, stood for a while contemplating the striking effect, which his attitude produced. At length Mrs. De Lancaster said—We are obliged to you, Mr. Williams, for your very charming music: may I ask who is the author of it?

He, who is the author of my being, he replied, rising up and shaking the locks from off his forehead; He, that endowed me with a soul, inspired me with the love of harmony, and what He inspires, I with all humble devotion endeavour to express.

Can you repeat those passages again?

Lady I cannot. It was not from memory that I played them, and having played them, I no longer keep them in remembrance. When the approaching festival shall call on me for my exer{18}tions, I hope to produce something more worthy of your commendation.

Did you come hither of your own accord?

I never come to ladies’ chambers of my own accord.

To whom beside yourself am I indebted for this entertainment?

The son of my patron, your spouse, commanded me to play to you.

Did he so? said Mrs. De Lancaster. I will trouble you no further. She then wished Cecilia a good night, pressed the hand of her son in token of a farewel, and turned into her chamber.

Whilst this was passing above stairs, the venerable chief of the De Lancasters was sitting and conversing over his coffee with Colonel Wilson and his sons Henry and Edward; for the{19} elder of these brothers, who was captain of a troop of dragoons, had taken advantage of a few days furlough to pay a visit to his father before he joined his regiment in Ireland. Henry was an amiable and well-informed young man, and had the character of being a very gallant and good officer. De Lancaster loved a soldier, and was fond of talking to every man upon professional topics: Henry was highly entertained with the singularity of his character, and had won the old gentleman’s heart by listening to his dissertations with the most flattering attention, asking questions and throwing in remarks occasionally, which proved him to have taken a lively interest in the subject under discussion, and to be a hearer to the heart’s content of his communicative host.

Robert De Lancaster had been call{20}ing to mind the several passages, that occurred to him in the grammarians, respecting ancient tactics, and had gone back to the Trojan war for the purpose of remarking to Captain Henry, that it did not appear that the Greeks had any cavalry in the besieging army, except the horses, which they harnessed to their chariots: that even in the battle of Marathon there were no horse in the Athenian army, and that it was not till they repulsed Xerxes and were at peace, that they raised any body of cavalry, and then only three hundred.

Henry let him proceed without interruption till he got amongst the Roman cohorts, who, he informed him, did not use saddles till they copied them from the Germans, and as for stirrups, they had no word, that answered to them in their language. He remarked{21} that Franciscus Philelphus, who lived in the time of the fathers, had indeed coined the word Stapeda to express a stirrup, but Budæus in after times had improved upon it by substituting the compound term of Subex pedancus, which he clearly preferred, and for which he gave Budæus all due credit.

Mr. De Lancaster seemed very candidly disposed to recommend the fashion of riding without saddle or stirrups, though he himself used both in their greatest amplitude and richest splendor; the seat of the one being of blue velvet, and the materials of the other brass proudly gilt. He even doubted if the Numidians were not the best models for cavalry, forasmuch as they made use neither of saddle nor bridle, but turned and stopped their horses with their canes or switches, whilst the Teutonic horsemen were so adroit in shift{22}ing from horse to horse, that they oftentimes charged their enemy double-mounted; nay, they could manage four, as Homer witnesses, and he (Mr. De Lancaster) had authority to say that one of their kings named Teutobocchus, was so excellent a rider, that he could keep six horses alternately under him, and bring them all into action at the same time, which he conceived was a very great advantage to that warlike monarch in a charge. He begged however to be understood as saying this under correction of the captain’s better

judgment, and seemed to wait in expectation of his decision upon the reference.

The captain properly observed, that, if King Teutobocchus had a horse killed under him, he certainly had his choice of five yet left; but if he was killed himself he stood the chance of leaving six without a rider to fall into the enem{23}y’s hands; so that much might be said on both sides.

This answer, which decided neither for nor against King Teutobocchus and his six chargers, left De Lancaster at liberty to hold to his opinion, and proceed with his discourse, which now went back to the Romans, who, till they used saddles, always vaulted on their steeds, training the young recruits to the practice by drilling them upon wooden horses, till they were able to mount and dismount upon either side with all their accoutrements, in which manœuvre the great Pompey was said to be so expert, as to perform it at full speed, drawing and returning his sword at the same time with the utmost expedition and correctness. After the barbarous introduction of saddles Mr. De Lancaster acknowledged that the Roman horse{24}man was forced to mount either by the aid of the hand, or by practising his horse to kneel. He took notice that the sword-belt slung over the shoulder was conformable to ancient custom, but he doubted whether the sword ought not to be slung on the right side, as the Romans wore it, and not of so enormous a length, as it was carried to by the

present fashion. He confessed that the Roman trooper with his massy spear, a shield slung to his horse’s side, a case of three or four stout javelins with broad blades, and with his helmet and coat of mail, must have been a cumbrous load upon his charger, and he admitted that his movements and evolutions could not be very rapid. Speaking of the standards of the cavalry, he said they were very generally of purple with the name of the commander worked in gold;{25} though he was aware they afterwards introduced the figure of the dragon, richly embroidered after the fashion of the Asiatics. That the devices they wore on their helmets were of various sorts, according to the fancy of the wearer, but plumes of peacock’s feathers could only be mounted on the crests of generals of the highest rank and description. Pyrrhus’s crest was distinguished by the horns of the goat curiously modelled in fine gold.

He informed his hearers, that when the Roman cavalry were ordered to the charge, the chief trumpeter, whose station was beside the general, sounded to make ready; this was answered by the band posted near the eagles, and when the horse were going down all the trumpets in the army sounded together, whilst the soldiers shouted out the word for battle,{26} and that word, though not precisely recorded, he had reason to believe was FERI! answering to our Strike home! A chorus so tremendous, that Cato says—The cry of our soldiers is more terrifying to the enemy than their swords. As for the Greeks, it is well known, he observed, that they came down to the charge shrieking out their insulting ALALAGMOS! Of this cry Pân was the inventor, and the terror it created was thence called Panic: the same Greeks had their Pæan before battle, called the Aggressive Pæan, and another after battle, called the Pæan of Victory.

With respect to what we call specifically—the word or parolle—that was given out by the general at pleasure, and was alway of some cheering and auspicious import—as that of Cæsar, which{27} he made use of in his African campaign, Felicitas! that of Brutus, Libertas! that of Augustus, Apollo! whilst Cyrus gave out with the signal for battle—Jupiter socius, dux, servator! Jupiter, our comrade, our leader, our preserver!

CHAPTER III. Mr. De Lancaster relates some curious Properties peculiar to certain Islands.