THE seeming interruption to the espousals of Eliza Hartley and Sir William Judkin, proposed in the serious charge made by his impetuous rival against the young Baronet, did not cause any alteration of the day previously fixed for the ceremony, when that charge had, to the satisfaction of Sir Thomas, been disposed of. Accordingly, upon the very morning subsequent to the scene described in the last chapter, indeed, in the maturity of the morning, during which part of it had occurred, all parties concerned arose from their couches, happily earnest in commencing preparations for the important event. Nor did the public state of things operate to postpone the nuptials; but the contrary. Amid the outward clash of human passion; amid the tumult of hideous rumour, and the positive enacting of acts of frightful character; amid the burning of dwellings by either party, the shedding of blood, the mad shout of popular frenzy, and the screams of terrified fugitives,-Sir Thomas Hartley, having once decided to bestow his daughter on Sir William, only felt increased anxiety that she should now be provided with an additional protector; for he had many reasons to fear that the gathering storm would not pass quietly over his head. To a bride-elect, no matter how much attached, it is a serious consideration to exchange the laughing gaiety of all-fascinating singleness, for the prospect of matronly cares, and, be her rank what it may, the wife's submissive and dependent state. We cannot therefore aver that, previous to the arrival of Sir William to breakfast, Eliza's thoughts were not a little sobered even by a view so selfish. She could not avoid dwelling upon the reflection that this was her last day of empire; and, much as she assured herself that the young Baronet loved her, and willing as she felt to commit her future happiness to his care, our heroine more than once started at the misgiving that he might not prove a perfectly amiable despot. This was strange, and she told her heart it was. But it seemed still more strange to Eliza, as it will seem to the reader, VOL. II.-1 that her very last meditation on the subject would, if reduced to words, have assumed a shape like the following. "After all, if Harry Talbot had been as worthy of being loved-that is-if—I mean, in fact, that if Harry Talbot was Sir William Judkinphoo!-I don't know what I mean-only I wish he was Sir William Judkin." This, to be sure, seems downright nonsense. But, it has often been asked before, and it may be asked again—who shall dive into the workings, wayward as they often appear to be, mysterious as they always are, of that yet-unfathomed mystery, the human heart? The rich bridal robe lay before Eliza during the occurrence of these thoughts; and vainly did Miss Alicia, previous to the entrance of her maid into the dressing-room, suggest, with her usual old-fashioned suavity, divers rules for the best mode of demeanour at and after the ceremony. Not a word of her aunt's harangue did Eliza hear;-scarce a glance of her mind strayed to the subject; or if any did, it was only for the purpose of arranging the matter all her own way. A loud shout, the chorus of a thousand throats broke up her reverie, and interrupted Miss Alicia's lecture on matrimony, which, like other lecturers on equally abstruse subjects, the good old lady could only theoretically discuss. At the present juncture, all unusual clamour caused alarm; but the roar of human voices was especially dreaded: and the one lady, almost forgetting that she was so soon to be a bride, and the other that there was speedily to be a union of sympathetic hearts in her family, and under her immediate patronage, both hurried down-stairs, trembling, and very curious to ascertain the meaning of the noise. They found Sir Thomas Hartley leaning from a window in the drawing-room, and anxiously addressing a throng of persons assembled in the lawn before the house. The crowd was chiefly composed of the men not only of Shawn-a-Gow's village, but of the whole neighbourhood, followed by their women, and by their children of all ages; and they appeared to claim from Sir Thomas a promise, understood to have been given on his part a few hours before, at the smith's lime-tree-namely, that he would become their insurrectionary leader. The Baronet perceived the dangerous situation in which he now stood. It was evident that the persons before him were not to be trifled with; that, in their moments of excitement and wild selfassertion, respect to rank would guide few of their proceedings; and it became a serious question how he should avoid a connexion with them on the one hand, or protect his family and property from them on the other. A motley multitude they were. Almost all among them, able to wield a weapon, appeared rudely armed: some with rusty guns, some with prongs, bludgeons, or scythes; but the greater number, with the formidable pike. Peter Rooney, having long held in his village the character of "a well-spoken man," took a foremost part in public proceedings, so long as strife was only talked of; but now that the furious people resolved on a sanguinary struggle with their opponents, the little man's canonical-looking wig was not able to retain for him that consideration which his diminutive stature destroyed; and though ridiculously enough he had sallied forth with the rest, carrying a pike three times his own length, and, true to his natural taste for the adorning of his person, had mounted a broad green sash over his shoulder, and encircled his hat with a green ribbon, yet Peter Rooney was not destined by "the throops o' the Union o' these parts," to take any lead in actual combat; and he therefore could not be said to be the present admitted head of the assemblage. But the tall grim figure, determinedly and authoritatively resting with one hand on his great pike, in front of the people, and marked in their minds by peculiar strength, peculiar character, and peculiar grievance, for the place he assumedhe seemed to be their temporary leader. And yet did Peter, as he stoutly ranged himself at Shawn-a-Gow's side, hold equal place with the smith, at least, in a tranquil presumption of his own fitness to hold it. The crowd had approached the house, shouting tremendously; and, amid the pauses of the denser vociferation, gleeish "halloos" came, in imitative vigour, from the novelty-loving boys in the rear; who, farther imitating their fathers or brothers, in action merelyfor the impulse was only to merriment in a bustling change of scene-appeared armed with sticks having nails at the ends, or even long rods mounted with pins; the weapon of war being in their minds no more than a plaything. Shrill screams from female throats also joined the hoarser cry: but the greater number of women, leading their children by the hand, or carrying them, gypsey-like, on their backs, were silent; they could only listen to the clamour that announced the abandonment, for a life of hardship, endurance, and fearful danger, of their old homes and "counthry side." When Sir Thomas Hartley appeared at his drawing-room window, the concourse, pausing a moment in their continuous uproar, gave three distinct cheers, and then stood still and silent, while Peter Rooney stepped forward to a parley. The little herald made a very "mannerly" salute, lowering his pike, bowing, and half-raising his Sunday hat. Then, while Shawn-a-Gow stood at his side, resting on his weapon, without speaking or moving, he proceeded to deliver one of his usual verbose speeches, which, it is sufficient to mention, invited Sir Thomas Hartley, "barrow-knight," to take the command of the "throops o' the Union" of his own parish, pursuant to a promise alleged by the speaker to have been given under the lime-tree before the smith's house. error. Sir Thomas eagerly proceeded to disabuse the crowd of their He assured them, that, even to their present spokesman, he had distinctly stated his resolve to decline the appointment. It was a situation he felt himself unfit for, and his mind was made up to remain neuter during the contest. The throng at first seemed inclined to adopt, after this reply, the language of intreaty; unused to assume any but the most humble demeanour in the presence of their superiors, such was their natural impulse. "Your honour always joined the poor, an' you'll join 'em now;" "We'll folly your honour to the world's end!"—“Gineral Hartley is the gineral we'll have, an' no other!" said many voices; and, "Hurra for the brave gineral!" exclaimed another, and again there was a deafening cry. When he could obtain a second hearing, Sir Thomas more pe-. remptorily rejected the appeal; insisting rather warmly, against being now, a second time, misunderstood. Peter Rooney, with much "dacency" of speech, but very obstinately and pertinaciously, insisted, in turn, that, on the former occasion, he had not at all been misunderstood. "What's the rason you have for skulkin' back, Sir Thomas?" abruptly questioned Shawn-a-Gow. The Baronet at first felt inclined to resent the rudeness of this language, but he recollected the recent provocations to ill-humour experienced by the smith; and he had also observed, among the crowd, movements that caused him to judge such would not be the safer mode of proceeding. "I do not skulk, as you choose to call it, John Delouchery; I but act on a long-formed and lately expressed resolution, to take no side in the coming struggle." "Is id becase you think we have no cause to turn out for, that you refuse us?-answer me that, Sir Thomas." "An' if he thinks so, no one bud an Orangeman 'ud think so," said a voice, which Sir Thomas thought he knew. "I must acknowledge that you have many and great grievances to complain of, but I am sure the mode now resorted to will not redress them." "You're afeared, Sir Thomas," resumed the same voice; "an' the curse o' Cromwell on all cowards! But ar'n't you afeared iv us? ar'n't you afeared we'd dhrag you down from that windee, an' make you march wid us, or die by us? "I have never been an enemy to the poor people around me, and I do not now expect to be treated as one.' “All talk,” said Shawn-a-Gow; "an' talk won't stop the Orangeman's bullet, or quench the blaze he lights: them that's not wid |