CHAPTER XXXVIII. "To the reader who reads me to praise, JOHN DORY'S POEMS. Two days of almost unalloyed happiness followed. Augustus, however, spoke much, and thought more, of his mother, and a great deal was stated as to the manner in which his being still alive should be broken to her. The old Commodore pertinaciously refused to allow the young Earl to depart, insisting that, as he had preserved him, he had the best right to keep him. However, it was arranged on the third day, that Horace Underdown, who had been so often the maker and the messenger of peace, should be the bearer of the glad-tidings, and, as they knew that he would act with the utmost discretion, they all thought no arrangement could be better. This mission of charity was spared him. Lady Astell, poor, desolate woman, had been in a pitiable state of mind, and, under the mask of piety, in an incessant rebellion against Providence. She, every month, grew more gloomy and more ascetic, conversing with none but her spiritual advisers, and selecting those from the most severe, and may I add, without incurring blame, the most darkly superstitious of the priesthood. But, even in her retreat, the news of her brother's glorious victory reached her; and a reverend sectarian, having acquainted her that vanity fair was held daily at Trestletree-hall, she ordered forth her funeral-like equipage, and proceeded, as she deemed, for the sake of his soul's salvation, to throw the sinner down from his couch of fancied happiness. Mr. Underdown had just made his arrangements to depart, when the porter at the lodge announced that the dark equipage was coming. This excited a great sensation in all. Augustus felt so unnerved that he was forced to seat himself. The Commodore looked serious, but not disturbed. Indeed, a religious serenity pervaded his features. The Commodore caused all his family, without exception, to be assembled, and placing himself in the centre, with Augustus on his right and Rebecca on his left, silently awaited the awful interview. The young lovers trembled excessively. Augustus promised not to speak until bidden by his uncle. The heavy black coach arrived at the door; every male-servant that the establishment could muster was arrayed in the hall to do her reverence, and the groom of the chambers preceded her with more respect than if she had been a queen. Dressed as before, in the deepest black, and the white band of lawn covering her forehead, she advanced with her usual stately step into the centre of the room, and fronted the old Commodore, who rose from his chair and bowed to her solemnly. Many hearts then beat tumultuously. She spoke not until she had taken the letter from her bosom. In doing this, her looks met those of Augustus, from whose eyes the tears were streaming plenteously. She pressed her hand to her bosom, and uttered a sharp cry, then rubbing her eyes, like one awaking from a dream, she shook her head mournfully and spoke. "I am here, the widow, and she whom you made childless." "Sister, you are most welcome," said the Commodore, gravely. "Here is my warrant ;-murderer-my child!" 66 Agnes, I deprived you of one-I restore you two in return. Kneel to her, my children." "What is this-who is the youth?" for Augustus, kneeling before her, had already seized her hand, and, pressing it to his forehead, was bathing it with his tears. "Agnes, it is Augustus, whom I restore to you." "And is it so? and are you even he-my son? Speak!" "Mother!" The word shot like electricity through her bosom. She fell into his arms, and wept. "Let us leave them for a space," said the brother. And they all walked forth, with the awe with which we should tread the sacred floor of the holy of holies, in the inner tabernacle. And was not the spirit of the Eternal there, doing his beneficent work with the long-bereaved mother and her restored child? There was a strange scene, that day, in the park of Trestletreehall. Outriders, grooms, and footmen, in the deepest mourning, with white favours in their hats, and huge bunches of nosegays in their bosoms; and the horses, and the hearse-like coach, were driven full gallop through the park, all the way to Astell House : the men shouting and hallooing like so many boys broken loose from school. The coach, and black horses, and liveries, disappeared, as if by magic-they were never again seen in the county. Lady Astell, from a room to which she had retired, sent a sisterly letter to the old Commodore, telling him that she intended to reside some time with him. She did not make her appearance again until dinner-time; and then, how changed! She was dressed in pure white, and in her matronly cap she wore roses. She entered the saloon, supported, on either side, by her son and her niece. Without speaking one single word, she went up to her brother, and embraced him. What more shall I say? Her morbid illusions were dispelled. She was, perhaps, more supremely happy than any of the others, great as was their happiness. After dinner, the Commodore begged, as a great favour, that he might be allowed to smoke one pipe over his dessert and wine. The pipe was brought, filled, and duly rammed down with the stopper at the end of his arm. The wax candle was burning on the table, but he made no use of it. At length, he spoke, with a voice almost indistinct from emotion, thus-" Agnes, dearest, haven't you some scrap of waste, useless paper, that you can give your poor old brother to light his pipe with?" "I had forgot-I had forgot," said Lady Agnes, in a troubled manner, drawing from her bosom the once terrible letter from Augustus. She took it up, and twisted it carefully; then, rising from her seat, stooped over the old Commodore, and, kissing his forehead, lighted the paper. He took it from her hand, and, in lighting his pipe with it, he took the greatest care that every morsel of it should be burned; that was not enough: he rubbed the ashes of it into a fine powder, and bidding Rebecca sweep them up into the palm of his hand, he stepped out upon the lawn, and scattered them to the winds. He then returned to his pipe, which he smoked out with the sublimest self-satisfaction. I have but little to tell of the after-life of this now united and happy family. It was some days before Peter Drivel would venture into the presence of the old Commodore. At last, his master, Captain Oliphant, compelled him to do so, and that, too, when all the family was assembled, and a large party also. The moment Sir Octavius saw him, he pretended to be in his wonted passion, and to look round for something to fling at his head. "The punning rascal!" he roared out, "and nothing to knock him down with." Peter made for the door, expecting nothing less than the poker to be ringing out the tune of "Down, derry down" upon his skull. But his master prevented his escape, whilst the old sailor, making a pretence of not being able to find anything else, plucked forth from his waistcoat pocket a purse well filled with gold, and flung it, with a purposely bad aim, towards him. "Pick it up!" roared Sir Octavius. Peter obeyed in a tremble. "Pocket the affront; and beat that practical pun, if you can, you grinning varlet." Peter confessed his inability; and, for ever after, was very assiduous in his attendance about the baronet's person. I have but little more to say about Peter, excepting that he endeavoured to reduce punning to a system; and, not having very much to do, he took Ainsworth's English Dictionary, and compiled every possible pun that could be made upon every word in it, beginning at A and ending at Z. He wished to publish this, but I dissuaded him from it; as it would have been the means of starving three fourths of the wits about town. However, I bought it myself, though, upon my honour, I never made use of it; but if any small author is about to dine out, by application at the publisher's, I will allow him to peruse this punning dictionary, at the cheap rate of a guinea an hour-he could not lay out his money better. Playwrights may enjoy the same advantages, at double the price. N. B. No maker of jest-books need apply. I have lived to see strange revolutions. M. Florentin and his daughter returned to France with the Bourbons; the one a count, and the other afterwards became a princess. They were never very intimate with the Earl and Countess of Osmondale; I believe it was not my lord's fault. Mr. Rubasore received a terrible internal hurt when the old Commodore hurled him down stairs. He brought his action, both civilly and criminally. In the civil action, he recovered five pounds odd shillings, which Sir Octavius very cheerfully paid; in the criminal action, the old Commodore was fined one shilling, which, to Rubasore's great mortification, went to the king. He sold his place in Hertfordshire; but, finding himself getting worse, and neglected by everybody, he called Mrs. Dredgely to his assistance, who soon cajoled him, weakened as he was in mind and body, to marry her. He grew worse afterwards, and as she had vowed, she had her revenge; which actually shortened a life that was fast drawing to a conclusion. She administered to him, in some mutton broth, the fatal one pound note, over which she had sworn her revenge, and then told him of it. He is gone. I bear his memory no malice, though he called me fool, driveller, and pensioner; and I trust that the Great Judge of all will try him by himself. Truly, nature had not given him much, wherewithal to fructify into goodness. In due course of time, the Earl of Osmondale married the heiress of Trestletree-hall; and Captain Oliphant the mistress of Jasparhall. I can say no more about it than that they could scarcely be happier; for they had fine children-some of whom are now grown up-and the ladies always ruled their husbands. The Commodore served again and again, and always with credit; and, at last, died at a great age, an admiral of the red. He was latterly, notwithstanding his virtues, not very popular with some people in authority, for he persisted in making his ships the best manned in the fleet, by a steady perseverance in working upon the crew's good principles, and, by kindness, keeping their bad ones as dormant as possible. What a general reproach was this to many other people! Albeit, the admiral spoiled one man, and that was Daniel O'Sullivan. He was the constant loiterer about the Hall; disdaining to work, making all the men jealous and all the women pert, and of no earthly use, excepting building little ships, and sticking commodores' broad pennants upon them. He was a most abominable, and notto-be-restricted liar. Towards the close of his life, Sir Octavius was himself rather given to excess of amplification, more particularly after dinner at a large party. He was terribly prone to fight M. Fresnoy and La Magnifique at every jovial sitting. At first, and for a year or two after the event, he was content with only having ordered Dan to put the admiral in his own locker; then, Sir Octavius did it with his own hand; and, in a year more, he had, with that single hand, not only locked up the admiral, but also his captain of the fleet. When this part of the story was arrived at, O'Sullivan was always sent for to vouch for the accuracy of the statement. What a man he was for vouching! As it often happens, Sir Octavius at last did not know what were the real facts. Latterly, his story ran that he had put the admiral and fifteen of the officers in the ship's coppers; and then, as Peter Drivel said, the Commodore usually made a mess of it. The glorious old man has now gone down-honoured, loved, and mourned-to his grave. In the midst of his grandchildren, his last years were supremely blest. He is now in heaven !-methinks it would be impiety to judge otherwise. His vast estates went to his son-in-law, who makes a noble use of his inherited and acquired wealth. Lady Astell and Miss Matilda are no longer among the happy on earth; they faded from mortality, like fragrant lights send ing up their incense above. I am almost alone. Underdown, the meek, the good, and the kind, is still spared to me. Have I not then, considering all things, enough of happiness? My task is finished. My eventful tale is told. Upon looking back upon it, I am not dissatisfied. No doubt but that the faults are numerous, but I have not been able to discover many of them. Those that have, may they cover them with the mantle of my good intentions. I know that my dates are incorrect; but an anachronism does not necessarily destroy a fact. This confusion of dates I endeavoured to rectify; I compared documents, I consulted authorities, I talked with my principal characters that were then living, with the almanack compiled by Thomas Moore, gentleman and physician, in my hand; and, when my task was done, my dates were no less confused than before, and my mind much more so. What, in such complicated matters, can be expected at my years? There is one date that I shall never read, accurate as it will be-too soon will it be cut deeply in the stone; but this is prosing in the very |