Emma Mayfield; or, the Rector's Daughter. By an author of celebrity

Front matter

No. 1 [Price One Penny, No. 2 presented Gratis. EMMA MAYFIELD; OR THE RECTOR'S DAUGHTER. By the Author of "Alice Leighton," ktc. To be Completed in 52 Nos. at Id. LONDON: W. M. CLARK, 16 and 17, WARWICK LANE, CITY. SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. EMMA MAYFIELD: OR, cm© miz<£C©&'5 -mm^TOii. BY AN AUTHOR OF CELEBRITY. "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven : the fated sky Give us full scope ; only doth backward pnll Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull." Shakspere. LONDON PUBLISHED BY W. CAFFYN, 31, OXFORD STREET, MILE END ROAD AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

Preface

. It would be an evidence of ingratitude, and exhibit a lack of courtesy if the author of this tale were to lay down his pen, on bringing his pleasing labours to a conclusion, without returning thanks for the favour with which it has been received. As the first production of a young au thor, in this department of literature at least, " Emma Mayfield " has received a degree of popular support far exceeding the most sanguine ex pectations of the author. That his endeavours to please have been appreciated by the reading world, which now comprehends nearly the en tire community, is proved by the large and still increasing circulation to which it has attained, a circulation, with very few exceptions, unprece dented in the history of periodical literature, and which had been at tained without the adventitious aid of literary criticism and advertising puffs.

The reason is evident; the author has not attempted to pour tray — " Those faultless monsters which the world ne'er saw," but has been content to draw his characters and incidents from real Kfe, and to enunciate sentiments which speak to the heart of every human being. There is this point of difference between this and other works of the same description, that it appeals less to the passions than the reason of the reader, and presenting less pleasing characters, the dark spots on the sun of Humanity, not as a stimulus to coarse excitement, but as a salutary warning; and while probing the rottenness of society in all its hideous ramifications, the author has not laid bare the evil without pro pounding the remedy. For this he may justly claim credit, as being the only author in this country at least, who has made a fiction the vehicle of circulating those social doctrines which are destined to rege nerate the world.

To those who have not yet made the acquaintance of Alice JLeighton, the author begs to observe that those -who have derived pleasure from the preceding pages will deprive themselves of an equal gratification if they do not procure his latter work, the character of the heroine forming a marked and pleasing contrast to that of " Emma Mayfield," being a type of the strength, as the latter is of the weakness, of the female mind. The author begs to add that he has completed negotiations with the proprietor of this work for the publication of an original tale abound ing in scenes and characters of the nlost novel and startling interest, and the most astounding revelations in a field of mystery hitherto totally un explored. The new work will make its appearance as soon as the arrangements are complete for its regular issue ; and the publisher, with his usual liberality and spirit, has determined to make a gratuitous pre sent of three numbers to every purchaser of the si ret. March 8th, 1848. EMMA MAYFIELD: OB, Cfvc Hettor's. Daughter.

Chapter I. The Lovers

It was the close of a warm delightful day at that period of the year when the woods and meads hegin to exchange the verdant hues of summer for their more sober livery of autumn, and the sun was shedding his departing raya of ■ «-> kmmunmDi in, purple and gold over the oak-chid hills of Norwood, before he sank to rest on the bosom of the western wave, she lark was carolling bis evening hymn as he slowly dropped to the brown stubble-field, whore matted bis mate ami her young; the merry Harvest sons of the reapers, ever and anon came floating on tlie gentle evening breeze; and the fern owl was occasionally beard from a neighbouring Jormstead, startling the traveller with its hissing note. It was just inchiui evening as lovers choose for a rural stroll, and, as if to render perfect the happy picture we have portrayed, two young persons— it would lie superfluous to say that tlicy were of opposite sexes, were actually rambling through the woodland glades wliich then intervened between tbe old farm-house at Kuight'i Hill and the rectorv. the tall chimneys and Elizabethan gables of which stood out knotureaqnely from' tbe ;ineestr.il elms which shade the village green, adjacent to the little old-fashioned cliureh of Streatham.

The youthful maiden who had v, mdered from her parental home on this delightful evening, was scarce' seventeen years of age — that epoch of woman's life when the future, seen through the coi....v o'e rose glasses of ardent youth, seems bright and gav as a summer's morn. Alas! that such feelings should ever mex:t a change. that th« tlowret should be crushed— hope's chalice shivered! But so it is. As we advance iu life, the picture changes iu the dissolving views of time— the brilliant future, the anticipation of which has hitherto cheered us on. recedes from our anxious gaze, like the waters in the desert and we awake, with an aching heart, from our dream of bliss, and And ourselves in a pandemonium of misery. Aud Emma Mayfield was so confiding, so innocent, so unsuspecting, of all guile. that to entertain the most momentary doubt, of her In art's trut h, her soul's purity, would have seemed a moral iufldelity, a blasphemy against humanity.

Love was rayed in angelic softness, from her mild cerulean orbs, now shaded by their long laslie-s, now upturned in winning confidence to those of her companion; her complexion was of the exquisite whitenesses Tarian marble — the tinge of her cheeks such as a rose would throw upon those of the Meeiieean Venus; MX light brown tresses fell dowu in long ringlets upon her ntx-k and shoulders— a neck hke au alabaster column arising from the contiguity of her gently heaving bosom. Her companion was two years her senior; of a form incline d to tallness, a robust frame was in him united to graceful symmetry of proportion. His dark locks clustered on his open expansive forehead, and intelligence and amiability beamed ffoni his expressive eves. His attire was plain and unpretending, of dark cloth, and fashioned in the sty le of costume which prevailed in this country in the latter half of the last century.

Such a pair were they, as tbe parents of humanity before tbe fall, when the bowers of Eden were witness to the purity of their love, aud the one wish of their hearts arose in sweet orison to heaven. The young man's arm was around the maiden's waist, and. stopping occasionally to pull the ripe hazel nuts, or to gather some pretty wild flowers, they wandered slowly on, crossing the undulating meadows wliich lie between the London Koad and the neighbouring hamlet of Norwood. Now the bright blue eyes of Emma Mayfield, were raised to his in the happy confidence of tlrst love, and now she felt his kiss upon her glowing cheek, as they stooped to avoid some obtrusive bough. Alas! that such bright visions of the future bliss, as then floated before the mind's eye of our young heroine should ever bo dispelled, leaving us, as we have all been. the deceivers or the deceived.

" You cannot imagine, dear Emma, how much I was grieved, to hear of your father's misfortunes," said the young man, '■ and equally was I grieved to hear of your intended departure," "And why so, dear Williams" asked tbe maiden; and as she spoke, her voice sounded clear aud melodious as a silver bell. "Deem 1110 not selfish, my love," returned her companion, " I thought of the loneliness thy gentle heart will experience among strn tigers — of the chilliness whieh the calculating world of London may impart to thy warm feelings — of the dangers to wliich one so young aud guileless as thee, will be exposed in that crowded city. 'Tis such thoughts as these, dear Emma, that fill my heart with fearful forbodiugs — the more fearful, as they are vague and indefinite." " Why so sad and sorrowful, my William?'' exclaimed the lovely girl, turning the melting radiance of her bine eyes upon her lover's countenance, " why do TnE RECTOl.'..

DAUGHTER. 3 you look so sad, and speak to me in so sorrowful a tone? Shall we not sometimes see each other, dear William? and can wenot write often — very often?" " Yes, dearest; and oh! what pleasure willitbeto me to receive the linespenned by thy dear hand — to read the words of love dictated by thy affectionate heart. Nor will this be my only consolation; reminiscences of past happiness will crowd upon my mind, as I thread our favourite walks in the woods and fields, and from the cells of memory, I shall recal every tender word you have breathed upon my car, and dwell upon it with delight. My kooks will afford me increased pleasure, for I shall recur with joy to every passage we have read together, and peruse with , fresh admiration those poems of Goldsmith and Thompson, which I have heard ' you praise."

With conversation such as this, the lovers beguiled the rosy hours, looking lovt into each other's eyes, and catching at every glance, fresh glimpses of that world of happiness of which their young hearts had so long dreamed — that enchanted land of faery, which the winged child of Aprodite reveals to the ken of those whose hearts experience the first springing of that feeling which renovates the world. Oh. Love! wliat an elysium dost thou unfold to the vision of youthful pilgrims in this world of sorrow and blighted hopes! Oh! what a roseate hue dost thou cast over the smiling prospect which spreads before their ardent gaze, gilding the greenery of life's spring, shedding dew on the flowrets of hope! Omnipotent love ! thou art the ruler of the world, of the destinies of nations, for boundless is thy sway over the hearts of men.

Love, when his gentle influence falls like dew from heaven on the tender flower withered by yesterday's sun, into the heart, oppressed and weary with the carking cares of our monotonous individualized existence, causes fresh flowers to spring up in our path — a brighter horizon to glad our eyes — a more glorious sun to illume the morning of life, making our shadows grow more vast until black night comes. Love, bright incarnation of the Supreme, like the rod of Moses, makes the living waters gush from the rocky heart of the selfish — it comes on earth the realization of the Orphean fable— like the melodious breathings of Amphiton's harp, it rebuilds a moral Thebes in the heart of fallen man. Emma Mayfield, whom we have introduced to the reader as the companion of William Langley in his evening stroll, was the only child of the Hector of Streatham, the taper spire of whose church might be seen peeping from among the old elms, as they crossed the fields adjoining Streatham Common.

Her father, the venerable pastor, was a worthy and exemplary man, who modelled his life in accordance with the precepts of the New Testament — who revived in his preaching, the spirit of primitive Christianity, and whose actions were the counterpart of his teaching. Kind and benevolent, deeply imbued with the spirit of his Great Master, in him was realized the Good Parson of Chaucer and Goldsmith. Poor in the wealth of this world, he was rich in the mental stores, which adversity cannot take away. But a mind like that of Hugh Mayfield is usually deficient of those qualities which fit the possessor for temporal elevation and distinction; he had talents which would have adorned the archiepisoopal chair, but not the ambition which would prompt him to aspire to it. Hence he was poor; and at the period at wliich our story opens, Emma had rusolved to seek her own livelihood, and be no longer a burden upon her venerable parent.

Having answered an advertise' mentto that effect which had appeared in a daily paper, she was about to proceei, to London on the day following that on which we have introduced her to the reader, to be installed in the situation she had obtained, as a companion to the young ladies of an aristocratic family at the fashionable end of the metropolis, to which her father's profession had been a certain recommendation. Her kind eld father was loth to part with his darling child, the companion of his widowed loneli ness, but he reflected that his only income was what he derived from tbe exercise of his clerical functions, and though, by the practice of a strict economy, he had be en enabled to give his daughter an excellent education, he would have nothing to bequeath to her at his decease, and he therefore the more readily acquiesced in a step which he hoped would give her the means of maintaining herself in respecta- , bihty.

It was this intended departure of our heroine to the metropolis, which ha4 ; (civen rise to the conversation we have recorded at the commencement of this chapter. William Langley, was the adopted son of a gentleman of that name, a retired merchant of the City cf London who resided at a short distance from the rectory. i THE HECTOR'S DAUOHTEB. He had been picked up by a shepherd, who, while employed in collecting his flock one summer's evening, had found him lying among the furze on Tooting Common. v He appeared to be about twelvemonths old, and was dressed in a ragged bine i cotton frock, though his under clothing was remarkably fine. This singular circumstance attracted the attention of Mr. Langley, who came by on horseback just as the interesting little stranger had been discovered by the shepherd.

He thought • it probable that the child had been stolen by gipsies, from some family of aBaW ' in revenge for some real or supposed injury done them by its parents, and had afterwards been deserted, either wUfully, or through negligence, or in the hurry ot decamping when threatened with ejectment by the constables. This consideration, joined to his natural goodness of heart, and the fact of his having no children ol his own, had induced Mr. Langley to take home the friendless foundling, and adopt him as his own. It was on his return from Eton, that William Langley had first become acquainted with Emma Mayfield; an. accidental meeting at the house of a mutual friend, had laid the basis of a friendship which the winning amiability of our young heroine, and that magnetic sympathy by which kindred hearts are irresistibly attracted to each other, had ripened into love.

CHAPTER IL THE GIPSY.

As our young heroine and her lover crossed the rustic stile at the top of the lane which passed the farm-house before mentioned, they came suddenly upon an incampmeat of the swarthy tribe whose skill in palmistry had made Norwood famous. That now extensive village was then a wild tract of common and woodland, with only a few houses, scattered at wide intervals, without any other mode of conveyance to the metropolis than the carrier's cart, and almost without roads. The lower part of the hamlet, or that part which extends from Tulse Hill and Water Lane to Crown Hill was a wide common, covered with furze and heather, the yellow and purple blossoms of which formed a pleasing contrast to the scanty grass and tufts of rushes, which afforded subsistence to a few sheep; from thence as far as Dulwich and Sydenham on the east, and almost to Croydon and Streatham on the south and west, there extended a large wood, divided by two or three badly-made roads, used only by the farmers in the neighbourhood.

This wild uncultivated tract afforded shelter to numerous tribes of gipsies, and other lawless characters. Various localities still bear witness in their names to the character of those who formerly frequented them, such as Gipsy Hill, near Dulwich; Thieves' Den, in Anerley Wood; and Cutthroat Lane, in the neighbourhood of Streatham. The origin of the gipsy tribe is extremely obscure. It is very probable that the fame which the ancient Egyptians acquired in the study and practice of f astrology, may have caused the name to be assumed by these wanderers. A race of banditti, resembling the gipsies in their habits and features, is to be found among the Tryglodytes, who inhabit the rocky mountains near Thebes, in Egypt. There is scarcely any country in Europe in which they are not met with, though under different denominations.

The French call them Bohemians, the Spanish, Gitanos, the Italians, Zingari, the Germans, Zigeuner, and the Russians, Saracens. They made their first appearance in Hungary in 1517, exceedingly tawny, and in pitiful array, though they affected dignity, and travelled with a train of hunting dogs after them, like nobles. Ten years afterwards they came into France, and from thence entered Spain, from which country they were expelled in 1591. By an ordinance of the states of Orleans, in the year 1560, it was enjoined that all those impostors, under the names of Egyptians and Bohemians, should quit the kingdom on penalty of the galleys. Upon this they dispersed into lesser companies and spread themselves all over Europe. They made their first appearance in this country in the reign of Henry VIHin the year 1530; and from that period to the present time, the village of Norwood has maintained its notoriety as their principal place of resort in the Weald of Surrey, . _.

EMMA MAYFIBLD; OK, 5 As William Langley and his fair companion sauntered slowly down the lane, the latter was accosted by one of the female members of the tribe: — " Let me tell your fortune, young lady; cross my palm with a piece of silver and I will tell you all you seek to know. Give me your hand, young lady — I will tell you your husband's name, the number of children you will have " " Let us hear this prophetess, William," said our heroine, smiling, " it may divert us afterwards." Then holding forth her hand, after giving the woman a sixpence, she added, gaily — " But tell me of nothing but good luck, for your money is lightly earned, and I must have a full equivalent." " Young lady," said the sybil, solemnly, as she took out heroine's hand in her own, and fixed her large dark eyes upon her countenance, " I give not, nor withhold from any the fortune which is foredoomed him.

According to the position and influence of the planets at thy birth, so will be thy good or evil fortune. I am but the interpreter of the mystic signs which mark thy destiny. Ah, young lady!" she continued, shaking her head, as she examined the lines in the small white hand of Emma Mayfield, " here are the cross lines which foretell sorrow and misfortune. I see the signs of violence, and tears, and blood." " Nay, mother," interrupted our heroine, laughing, " tell me of a fond lover, of his truth, of marriage." "Here is the line of matrimony," replied the sybil, " but I see not the ring which should sanction it, and it is crossed with the lines which presage grief and despair. But here, young lady, is a faint line which the smoothness of thy hand scarce permits to reveal its meaning, but I read therein a promise of a happy end to all thy troubles, like a harbour of refuge to the tempesttost bark of the mariner."

" Well, you have boded evil enough," said William Langley, " though, like Pandora's box, there is hope at the bottom. Come, dear Emma, and let our hopes turn the wisdom of the Egyptians into foolishness." Emma regarded the prophecy as little as her companion, and they walked on. At this moment the bells of Streatham Church rung out a merry peal, and their musical sound, borne on the gentle evening breeze, saluted the ears of Emma and her lover. "Listen to the pleasing chimes of those bells," said the latter; "Is not their melody an antidote to the gipsy's prophecy, Emma? To me it sounds as an omen of good." "Do you laugh at the prophetic skill of yonder tawny sybil, and yet give attention to the language of omens?" asked our heroine. "No;" replied her lover, " certainly not in the manner in which you have con strued me, dearest.

But there is a language, notwithstanding, in inanimate objects which have become by mental associations connected with our past lives. The simplest sound may strike a chord in our hearts which may vibrate to joy or melancholy, according to the nature of the circumstances which it recals to our mind. We recur with feelings of happiness or woe to the time when last we heard that sound, or to the period when we expect to hear it again. To me the evening chimes, borne by the Zephyrs to our ears across the meadows, give a thrill of mingled hope and joy to my heart, as their sound awakes the thought of that future day when " "What, William?" asked Emma, averting her head, as the thrilling thought called a richer colour to her cheek. The young man approached Ms lips to the glowing face of Emma Mayfield as he whispered a few words, simple, yet full of meaning, and the crimson flush extended to her neck and bosom, and a smile of modest joy played upon her lips as she returned the warm pressure of her lover's hand.

They had now reached the village tavern, a low-roofed wooden building on the lower part of the common. Some young farmers were playing at quoits in front of the ale-house, from the open window of which came the sounds of noisy merri ment, loud laughter and snatches of song, mingled with profane oaths, and the clatter of pots and glasses. At a little distance some lads were playing at cricket, and a flock of sheep were picking the scanty herbage of the common. The tinkling of the sheep-bells, the distant lowing of cattle, the murmuring hum of summer insects, and the joyous cries of the children at play, formed an assemblage of rural sounds which spoke of peace and happiness; and mingling with the vesper hymn of the soaring lark, and the meny song of the reapers returning EMMA .iattield; or, from the harvest-field, seemed as if all creation were offering a simultaneous thanksgiving hymn to heaven. But oaths and ribald jests resounded loud and fast from the little ale-house, making strange discord in that harmony of sweet sounds.

Chapter III. The Tavern

The " Horns " tavern was formerly a long low-roofed building surrounded by large elm trees, beneath which benches and tables were placed in summer for the accommodation of visiters, and upon one of which was suspended the sign — a pair j f gilt ram's horns. It was a busy evening at the Horns, and the host, a little punchy man, with a red and pimply nose, and a short white apron, was running about, giving a variety of orders, and obstructing every one else, without doing anything himself. The little nicelysanded parlour was full of guests; the window was open to admit the cool air, and to let out the dense clouds of tobacco-smoke, and the fumes of alcoholic liquors which pervaded the apartment. Near the open window sat a man about thirty years of age — tall and athletic; his figure united the grace of the Apollo Belvidere, with the strength of the Farnese Hercules.

He wore a green frock-coat with bright metal buttons, white breeches, and top-boots and spurs. His complexion was dark, and his long black hair hung in ringlets on his collar, giving an air of picturesque wildness to a countenance which would have been decidedly handsome but for certain lines about the mouth, which spoke of the past action of passions, deep and impetuous as the hidden fires of Etna. An air of reckless hardihood sat upon his countenance, the harshly developed lines of which betrayed a life of dissipation, and his large mouth and lustrous watery eye betokened sensual gratification and inordinate passions. Two men of the gipsy fraternity sat at the same table; one was an elderly man, the other seemed his son. The former was near seventy years of age, and might have been the patriarch of his tribe.

His white hair hung carelessly on his shoulders, and his long beard descended on his breast. His coat was of an antique fashion, made of dark cloth, trimmed with tarnished gold lace, and buttons which, on a near examination, proved to have been made of golden guineas of the preceding reign — a singular instance of the eccentric application of wealth. The younger gipsy was a man about forty years of age, tall and muscular, and evidently possessed of the capacity of continued physical exertion. He had the bronzed complexion, and quick dark eyes peculiar to bis race; but a lurking spirit of ferocity gleamed forth from the latter which did not exist, or had become dormant, in his venerable companion. A yellow silk handkerchief was tied loosely round his throat, and large brass buttons adorned his coat of dark velveteen.

The other inmates of the parlour were a young man with sandy whiskers and a red face, who seemed to consider himself a rustic Adonis; and two or three stout farmers, who wore white round frocks, buckskin breeches and top-boots. All were drinking— all smoking— all talking — all laughing, and the hilarity of the evening seemed to have reached its height. " A song! — a song!" shouted one of the rustics; "come, neighbour Woodford, give us a song." The farmer, whose vocal abilities were thus called into requisition, was a big burly fellow, about fifty years of age, with shining black hair cut short, and smoothed down over his forehead; he coughed once or twice, spat upon the floor, and commenced thus: — " The morning was fair, and the sky it was blue, When I walked in the meadows with love-ly Sue; And as we were walking and gent -Iy talking," — " That will do, my ancient!" cried the stranger with the dark love-locks, laughing rudely, " Tom Lee will tip us a stave worth two of ' love-iy Sue.' Here Tom, my jolly Trojan, wet your pipe, and spit us out a gipsy ditty."

THE RECTOR'S DAUGATER. J" The younger of the two gipsies grasped the proffered mug of ale, took a long draught, and after wiping his mouth w ith the back of his hand, sung, in a rough but not unmusical voice, the following stanzas: — "A merry life we gipsies lead, No rent nor tax we pay; The farmer does supply our need, Our life's a holiday. There ruus a pig down yonder hill, As fast as e'pr it can ; And as it runs it cries out still, ' Come steal me gipsy man.'* We read the stars, and mark the hour That tells of good or ill; And never cower to legal power, Our only law's our will. Then fill the glass up to the brink, With foaming bright October, To the gipsies merry life we'll drink, Nor cease while we are sober." When the unanimous applause of the company, manifested in the stamping of feet on the floor, rapping of knuckles on the table, and rattling of mugs and glasses, had somewhat subsided, Tom Lee exclaimed, looking at the dark stranger, "Well, arter that, I think I am entitled to a call; gemmen, I calls upon my worthy frienc1 with the lily tile for the next harmony."

The reckless-looking young man, whom we introduced to the reader at the commencement of this chapter, after a preliminary hem, sang the following ballad in a full melodious voice: — " Yon must all of you heard of that highwayman brave, The famous Dick Turpin, of Epping's famed cave; How he robbed, and he ranted, so jovial and free, Till he danced upon nothing on famed Tyburn's tree. As this famous highwayman wa3 riding along, Though light was his purse, still gay was his song; By the moon's pale light an horseman he spied, Who like the bold Turpin was out for a ride. Dick patted Black Bess, and his pistol did cock, And he cried ' Your money, or your life I will dock!' But the stranger so laughed, wood and welkin did ring, And he cried ' Don't you know me ? my name is Tom King. Henceforward Dick Turpin and gallant Tom King, Rode and robbed together, together fenced the ding; Till King he was shot by the hand of his friend, And Turpin at the nubbing-chit Lis gallant life did end."

"Bravo!" cried Tom Lee, and "bravo! bravo!" echoed from all parts of the room. " Ah !" ejaculated a grey-headed farmer, in a sorrowful tone, " them days are gone by; what the turnpikes began, the Bow Street runners and the new streets will finish, with highway robbery and all that sort of thing. Why, when I was a boy, it was pretty nigh impossible to ride over Wandsworth Common or Putney Heath without being waylaid and robbed. But now its quite different; the age of * The last four lines are a literal translation of a Gitano ballad given in Bor row's Gipsies of Spain. THE EECTOS'S DAUGHTEIU 8 chivalry is gone, u Mr. Burke says, and the knights of the road have had their d»y." A slight smile curled the lip of the dark stranger as he chimed in, in an ironical strain, — "The glorious days of our ancestors are gone for ever.