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he sat quietly by himself, when one of the
band hurried into the place in suppressed
agitation, and said, "You had better leave."

I thought I might as well act on the hint,
and as I got out of the door I noticed the
whole set issuing in a band, headed by the
dealer, coming after me. I turned my back, and
walked leisurely away into the High Street,
where I breathed as if I had escaped no slight
danger. When I recounted the adventure to
one of the many hospitable families which
abound in Richmond, the wonder was that I
had not been lynched. A few days after, a
New York paper reached me, containing a
narrative from an eye-witness of the scene
(the writer utterly unknown to me); I learnt
from it what their scheme of revenge was,
upon one they rightly took for an Abolitionist.
They were each to lend a foot to
expel me.


OH! many-voiced is that giant lyre
Swept by the viewless fingers of the Wind,
And sounding Nature's harmonies, combined
In mood of joy or sadness; love, or ire.

At noon, at eve, among the summer leaves
The gentle wind awakes a melody
That leniment to pain and sorrow gives,
Soothing the ear with lulling symphony.

When from the mountain-caves,
And from the ocean-waves,
A stormy choral chant is swelling,
How grand the harmonics that sweep
   Across the foaming deep,
And through the swaying woods,
And flying mists and rain-fraught clouds;
While the loud thunder-tones are knelling
Around the Tempest-Spirit's lofty dwelling!

And now the mingled music, deep and shrill,
Streams o'er the sloping shoulder of the hill,
And, in the vale beyond, in silence dies;
While, from the cloud-barred western skies,
  The setting sun a crimson glow
  Pours on the sea-cliff's beetling brow,
And skimmers on each curling wave's white crest,
And on dim sails of ships far in the louring east.

The Music of the Wind is hushed around;
And, o'er yon valley where it died away,
Steal the long shadows of the fading day.
The darkening hills repeat no other sound
But the wild murmur of the flooded river,
And ocean's distant boom that ceaseth never.



THE housekeeper at Porthgenna Tower had
just completed the necessary preparations for
the reception of her master and mistress, at
the time mentioned in Mrs. Frankland's
letter from St. Swithin's-on-Sea, when she
was startled by receiving a note sealed with
black wax, and surrounded by a thick mourning
border. The note briefly communicated
the news of Captain Treverton's death, and
informed her that the visit of Mr. and Mrs.
Frankland to Porthgenna was deferred for
an indefinite period.

By the same post, the builder who was
superintending the renovation of the west
staircase also received a letter, requesting
him to send in his account as soon as the
repairs on which he was then engaged were
completed; and telling him that Mr. Frankland
was unable, for the present, to give any
further attention to the project for making
the north rooms habitable, in consequence of
a domestic affliction which might possibly
change his intentions in regard to the alteration
proposed in that part of the house. On
the receipt of this communication, the builder
withdrew himself and his men as soon as the
west stairs and banisters had been made
secure; and Porthgenna Tower was again
left to the care of the housekeeper and her
servant, without master or mistress, friends
or strangers, to thread its solitary passages
or enliven its empty rooms.

From this time, eight months passed away,
and the housekeeper heard nothing of her
master and mistress, except through the
medium of paragraphs in the local newspaper,
which dubiously referred to the
probability of their occupying the old house,
and interesting themselves in the affairs of
their tenantry, at no very distant period.
Occasionally, too, when business took him to
the post-town, the steward collected reports
about his employers among the old friends
and dependants of the Treverton family.
From these sources of information, the housekeeper
was led to conclude that Mr. and Mrs.
Frankland had returned to Long Beckley,
after receiving the news of Captain Treverton's
death, and had lived there for some
months in strict retirement. When they left
that place, they moved (if the newspaper
report was to be credited) to the neighbourhood
of London, and occupied the house of some
friends who were travelling on the continent.
Here they must have remained for some time,
for the new year came and brought no
rumours of any change in their place of abode.
January and February passed without any
news of them. Early in March the steward
had occasion to go to the post-town. When
he returned to Porthgenna, he came back
with a new report relating to Mr. and Mrs.
Frankland, which excited the housekeeper's
interest in an extraordinary degree. In two
different quarters, each highly respectable,
the steward had heard it facetiously announced
that the domestic responsibilities of his master
and mistress were likely to be increased
by their having a nurse to engage and a crib
to buy at the end of the spring or the beginning
of the summer. In plain English, among
the many babies who might be expected to
make their appearance in the world in the
course of the next three months, there was
one who would inherit the name of Frankland,
and who (if the infant luckily turned
out to be a boy) would cause a sensation