[Looking out. He comes not yet; how strange! how dull! how tardy! Ter. Your page hath scarce had time to reach the gate, Though he hath run right quickly. Aur. [Pausing and looking out] He comes not yet. Ah! if it be not he, My sinking heart misgives me. O now he comes! the size and air are his. Ter. Not to my fancy: there is no resemblance. As he was wont to do; and o'er his cap His is not found; therefore we must account him Aur. Lamented he shall be! but from my care Let him within thy mind be as the dead. Aur. My heart repels the thought: it cannot be. No, till his corse, bereft of life, is found,Till this is sworn, and proved, and witness'd to me,Within my breast he shall be living still. Ter. Wilt thou yet vainly watch night after night To guide his bark who never will return? Aur. Who never will return! And thinkest thou To bear me down with such presumptuous words? Heaven makes me strong against thee: There is a Power above that calms the storm, Restrains the mighty, gives the dead to life: I will in humble faith my watch still keep; Force only shall restrain me. Gar. Force never shall, thou noble, ardent spirit! Thy gen'rous confidence would almost tempt me To think it will be justified. Aur. Ha! say'st thou so? A blessing rest upon thee For these most cheering words! Some guardian power Whispers within thee.-No; we'll not despair. AURORA. TERENTIA. VIOLA. Viol. A rousing light! Good Stephen hath full well Obey'd your earnest bidding.-Fays and witches Might round its blaze their midnight revelry Right fitly keep. Ter. Ay; thou lov'st wilds and darkness, And fire and storms, and things unsooth and strange: This suits thee well. Methinks, in gazing on it, Thy face a witch-like eagerness assumes. Viol. I'll be a goblin then, and round it dance. That now is flat and spiritless and yet, Bast. If I offend you, madam, 'tis unwillingly. The flickering gleam of these bright flames return. Aur. Make no excuse, I pray thee. I am told Bast. "Tis true, fair lady: I have been, ere now, Aur. How many leagues from shore may such a light By the benighted mariner be seen? Bast. Some six or so, he will descry it faintly, Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering From some caved rock that brows the dreary waste; Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-house, Which through the silent night the traveller spies Upon his doubtful way. Viol. Fie on such images! Thou shouldst have liken'd it to things more seemly. Bast. Well, maiden, as thou wilt: thy gentle mis This solemn chorus chanted by the knights, It is a carol sung by them full oft, When saved from peril dire of flood or field. Aur. The Knights of bless'd St. John from Palestine! Alas! why feel I thus? knowing too well They cannot bring the tidings I would hear. [Chorus rises again very near. Viol. List, list! they've gain'd the summit of the cliff: They are at hand; their voices are distinct; [A solemn song or hymn, sung in harmony, heard without.] Men preserved from storm and tide, Praise him, who hath alway our souls in holy keeping. And wheresoe'er in earth or sea Our swords, in many a glorious field, While we our faithful meed are reaping With him, who hath alway our souls in holy keeping. Enter SIX KNIGHTS of ST. JOHN of JERUSALEM in procession, with their followers. Aur. Speak to them, Bastiani; thou'rt a soldier; As this late hour and scanty means afford. Wilt please ye round this blazing fire to rest? 1st Knight. We thank you, sir, and this most noble dame, Whose Beacon hath from shipwreck saved us. 142 Driven Aur. Thanks for the wish; and may its prayers be Renowned men ye are; holy and brave; NYMPHS. [Mrs. Eliza Lynn Linton, born at Keswick, Cumberland, 1822. She is a daughter of the Rev. J. Lynn, vicar of Crosthwaite, Keswick, and grand-daughter of Bishop Goodenough of Carlisle. She began her literary career when only twenty-three, and speedily established herself as a regular contributor to the principal magazines and reviews. Her works are: Azeth, the Egyptian; Amymone, a romance of the days of Pericles; Realities; Witch Stories; The Lake Country, illustrated by her husband, Mr. W. J. Linton; Grasp your Nettle; Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg: Sowing the Wind; Ourselves, essays; and Patricia Kemball. The series of remarkable articles in the Saturday Review on the "Girl of the Period" and kindred subjects, and the novel entitled The True History of Joshua Davidson are attributed to Mrs. Lynn Linton. She writes with rare vigour, sincerity, and humour-a kindly and appreciative nature apparent in all her work. We are permitted to quote the following from the Saturday Review.] Between the time of the raw school-girl and that of the finished young lady is the short season of the nymph, when the physical enjoyment of life is perhaps at its keenest, and a girl is not afraid to use her limbs as nature 1st Knight. None of us all, fair dame, so honour'd meant her to use them, nor ashamed to take were As in that field to be, save this young knight. Aur. [Going up eagerly to the young Knight] What fate had he upon that dismal day? pleasure in her youth and strength. This is the time when a sharp run down a steep hill, with the chance of a tumble midway, is an exercise by no means objected to; when clambering over gates, stiles, and even crabbed stone walls is not refused because of the undignified display of ankle which the adventure involves; when leaping a ditch comes in as one of the ordinary accidents of a marshland walk; and when the fun of riding is infinitely enhanced if the horse is only half broken or bare-backed. The nymph, an out-of-door, breezy, healthy Young Kt. Whate'er his fate in that fell fight might girl, more after the pattern of the Greek Oread be, He now is as the dead. Aur. Is as the dead! ha! then he is not dead: than the Amazon, is found only in the country; and for the most part only in the remoter districts of the country. In the town she degenerates into fastness, according to the law which makes evil merely the misdirection of force, as dirt is only matter in the wrong place. among the mountains, in the secluded midland villages, or out on the thinly-populated But Thou know'st-full well thou know'st, but wilt not moorland tracts, the nymph may be found in speak. What means that heavy groan? For love of God, [Tears the mantle from his face, with which he had con cealed it.] My Ermingard! My blessed Ermingard! And a very the full perfection of her nature. Dear, dear!--so dear! most dear!-my lost, my found! mother for "letting her go on so." You fall upon the nymph at all hours and in all seasons. Indeed, she boasts that no weather ever keeps her indoors, and prefers a little roughness of the elements to anything too luscious or sentimental. A fresh wind, a sharp frost, a blinding fall of snow, or a pelting shower of rain are all high jinks to the nymph, to whom it is rare fun to come in like a water-dog, dripping from every hair, or shaking the snow in masses from her hat and cloak. She prefers this kind of thing to the most suggestive beauty of the moonlight, or to the fervid heats of summer, and thinks a long walk in the crisp sharp frost, with the leaves crackling under her feet, worth all the nightingales in the wood. And yet she loves the spring and summer too, for the sake of the flowers and the birds and the beasts and the insects they bring forth; for the nymph is almost always a naturalist of the perceptive and self-taught kind, and has a marvellous faculty for finding out nests and rare habitats, and for tracking unusual trails to their hidden homes. There is no prettier sight among girls than the nymph when thoroughly at her ease, and enjoying herself in her own peculiar way. That wonderful grace of unconsciousness which belongs to savages and animals belongs to her also, and she moves with a supple freedom which affectation or shyness would equally destroy. To see her running down a green field, with the sunlight falling on her, her light dress blown into coloured clouds by the wind, her step a little too long for the correct town-walk, but so firmly planted and yet so light, so swift and so even, her cheeks freshly flushed by exercise, her eyes bright and fearless, her teeth just shown below her lip as she comes forward with a ringing laugh, carrying a young bird which she has just caught, or a sheaf of wild flowers for which she has been perilling her neck, is to see a beautiful and gracious picture which one remembers with pleasure all one's life after. Or you meet her quite alone on a wide bleak moor, with her hat in her hand and her hair blowing across her face, looking for plovers' eggs, or ferns and orchids down in the damp hollows. She is by no means dressed according to the canons of Le Follet, and yet she always manages to have something picturesque about her-something that would delight an artist's taste, and that is in perfect harmony with herself and her surroundings, which she wears with a profound ignorance as to how well it suits her, or at least with only an instinctive knowledge that it is the right thing for her. She may be shy as she meets you; if she is passing out of the nymph state into that of conscious womanhood, she will be shy; but if still a nymph with no disturbing influences at work, she will probably look at you with a fixed, perplexing, halfprovoking look of frank curiosity, which you can neither notice nor take advantage of; the trammels of conventional life fettering one side heavily, if not the other. Shocking as it is to say, the nymph may sometimes be met on the top of a hay-cart, and certainly in the hay-field, where she is engaged in scattering the "cocks," if not in raising them, and where even the haymakers themselves-and they are not a notably romantic race-do not grumble at the extra trouble she gives them, because of her evident delight in her misdeeds. Besides, she has a bright word for them as she passes; for the nymph has democratic tendencies, and is frank and "affable" to all classes alike. She needs to be a little looked after in this direction, not for mischief but for manners; for, if not judiciously checked, she may become in time coarse. There are seamy sides to everything, and the nymph does not escape the general law. If the nymph condescends to any game at all, it is croquet, at which she is inexorably severe. She knows nothing of the little weakness which makes her elder sisters overlook the patent spooning of the favourite curate, even though he is opposed to them-nothing of the tender favouritism which pushes on an awkward partner by deeds of helping outside the law. The nymph, who has no weakness or tenderness of that kind, knows only the game; and the game has not elastic boundaries. Therefore she is inflexible in her justice to one side and the other. Is it not the game? she says, when reproached with being disagreeable and unamiable. But even croquet is slow to the nymph, who has been known to handle a bat not discreditably, and who is an adept at firing at a mark with real powder and ball. If she lives near a lake, a river, or the sea, she is first-rate at boating, can feather her oar and back water with the skill of a veteran oarsman, and can reef a sail or steer close without the slightest hesitation or nervousness. She is also a famous swimmer, and takes the water like a duck; and at an ordinary summer seaside resort, if by chance she ever profanes herself by showing off there, attracts quite a crowd of beach loungers to watch her feats by the bathing machines. She is a great walker wherever she lives; and, if a mountaineer, is a clever cragswoman, making it a point of honour to go to the top of the most difficult and dangerous mountains in her neighbour hood, and coaxing her brothers to let her join them and their friends in expeditions which require both nerve and strength. Her greatest sphere of social glory is a picnic, where she always heads the exploring party, clambering up the rocks of the waterfall, or diving down into the close-smelling caves, or scaling the crumbling walls of the ruin before any one else can come up to her. She is specially happy at old ruins, where she flits in and out among the broken columns, and under the mouldering arches, like a spirit of the place disturbed unduly. Sometimes she climbs up by unseen means, till she reaches a point where it makes one dizzy to see her; and sometimes she startles her company by the sudden bleating of a sheep, or the wild hoot of an owl. For she can imitate the sounds of animals for the most part with wonderful accuracy; though she can also sing simple ballads without music, with sweetness, and correctly. She is fond of all animals, and fears none. She will pass through a field thronged with wild-looking cattle without the least hesitation; and makes friends even with the yelping farm-dogs that come snapping and snarling at her heels. In winter she feeds the wood-birds by flocks, and always takes care that the horses have a handful of corn or a lump of carrot when she goes to see them, and that the cows are the better for her visit by a bunch of lucerne, or a fat fresh cabbage leaf. The home beasts show their pleasure when they hear her fleet footstep on the paved yard; and her favourite pony whinnies to her in a peculiar voice as she passes his stable door. These are her friends, and their love for her is her reward. In her early days the nymph was notorious for her dilapidated attire, perplexing mother and nurse to mend, or to understand why or how it had come about. But as her favourite hiding-place was in a forked branch midway up an old tree in the shrubbery, or a natural arbour which she had cut out for herself in the very heart of the underwood, it was scarcely to be wondered at if cloth and cotton testified to the severity of her retreats. She has still mysterious rents in her skirts, got no one knows how; and her mother still laments over her aptitude for rags, and wishes she could be brought to see the beauty of unstained apparel. She is given to early rising-to fits indeed of rising at some quite wild hour in the morning, for walks before breakfast, and the like innocent insanities. Sometimes she takes it in hand to educate herself in certain stoicisms, and goes without butter at breakfast, or without breakfast altogether, if she thinks that thereby she will grow stronger, or less inclined to self-indulgence. For drink she will never touch wine or beer; but she likes new milk, and is great in her capacity for water. The nymph is almost always of the middleclasses. It is next to impossible, indeed, that she should be found in the higher ranks, where girls are not left to themselves, and where no one lives in far-away country places out of the reach of public opinion, and beyond the range of public overlooking. Some years ago, before the railroads and monster hotels had made the mountain districts like Hampstead or Richmond on a Sunday afternoon, the nymph was to be found in great abundance down in Cumberland and Westmoreland. By the more remote lakes, like Buttermere and Hawes Water, and in the secluded valleys running up from the larger lakes, you would come upon square stuccoed houses, generally abominably ugly, where the nymph was mistress of the situation. She might be met riding about alone in a flapping straw hat, long before hats were fashionable head gear for women, and in a blue baize skirt for all the riding-habit thought necessary; or she might be encountered on the wild fell sides, or on the mountain heights, or in her boat sculling among the lonely lake islets, or gathering water-lilies in the bays. In the desolate stretch of moorland country to the north of Skiddaw, the whole female population a few years ago was of the nymph kind; but railroads and the penny post, cheap trains, fashion, and fine-ladyism have penetrated even into the heart of the wild mountains, and now the nymph there is only a transitional type-not, as formerly, a fixed class. The nymph is the very reverse of a flirt. She has no inclination that way, and looks shy and awkward at the men who pay her compliments, or attempt anything like sentimentality. But she is not superior to boys, who are her chosen companions and favourites. A bold, brave boy, who just overtops her in skill and daring, is her delight; but anything over twenty is "awfully old," while forty and sixty are so remote that the lines blur and blend together, and have no distinction. By-and-by the nymph becomes a staid young woman, and marries. If she goes into a close town and has children, very often her vigorous health gives way, and we see her in a few years nervous, emaciated, consumptive, and with a pitiful yearning for "home" more pathetic than all the rest. But if she remains where she is, in the fresh pure air of her native place, she retains her youth and strength long after |