ARGENTINE. CHAPTER I. "The child is father of the man." WORDSWORTH. "Those ancient feudal towers his natal home; And those wild woods, through which he loves to roam, Hath for itself created, far beyond Their sylvan barriers." I was born in one of the most romantic counties of England, in a huge old castle-so old and grey, that though I have since gazed on many of the most venerable monuments of antiquity in the world, I have never felt as in youth the full measure of awe that architectural ruin can inspire. There was one old tower at the north-west angle of the castle, which was called the Saxon tower, and said to be by far the oldest part of the building: it was by no B means the most interesting, for the bare round wall was all that now remained of it. It had been sadly damaged by fire during the civil wars, and had for weeks together stabled Cromwell's troopers, an indignity, however, which Castle Argentine might overlook, seeing that the temples of God were then desecrated in like manner. The rains of half-a-dozen ages since then had fallen through the roofless pile, soddening its foundation, and smearing the blackened wall with a damp and offensive verdure. The more modern part of the castle, and that which was still habitable, stretched eastward from this tower, along a terraced cliff that overhung the waters of a small but beautiful lake. The base of the castle-wall was at least a hundred feet above the shore of the lake-if the word shore may be applied to an irregular strip of gravel, sometimes scarce a hand broad, which ran between the water and the foot of the rocks. The majesty of by-gone ages frowned in undecaying power from these ivy-crowned battlements. I remember-yes, as if it were but yesterday,―rowing myself, when quite a little boy, across the lake on summer evenings, and mooring my punt to the root of a tree, scrambling up the opposite bank, to feast my eyes for hours together on the richly-wooded and wellwatered scene before and around me; but above all, on those sublime towers— "Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time," at once my admiration and my dread. They were at that time to me as a tragic volume in some unknown tongue, "written within and without," full of mystery and romance, but to which I had not yet found the key. The stern and barren rudeness of the Saxon tower, devoid as it was of all architectural feature, offered no peg on which fancy could hang her cobwebs; and thus its far greater antiquity failed to awaken the solemn and reverential feelings with which I regarded the other portions of the castle-the workmanship of times, and the witnesses of scenes, of which distincter and ampler records remained to quicken curiosity, to feed imagination, and to stir the blood. I could no more sympathize with the blank and speechless antiquity of the old tower, than I but on every other could weep over a mummy; part of Castle Argentine, legendary lore had either flung some particular charm, or the character of the building, in all its military and feudal adaptations, supplied endless materials for the amusement of a romantic mind. There was not a loop-hole, a postern, a buttress, a grating, that had not at length for me its associations or its mysteries. I could have filled volumes with the mere local traditions which were poured into my thirsty ears. The tales themselves have almost entirely vanished from my memory; but their influence on my imagination and future character,-confirmed by an education (if education it could be called) which left a young and enthusiastic mind for years at the mercy of circumstances, this influence has been prodigious, and remains with me to this day. My father was the Earl of Argentine; my mother an Italian lady of the noble Venetian house of Thiepolo. My father was the last surviving inheritor of the surname of his ancient |
