To one of the ardent and poetic soul of our young friend, the mere passing glance of so exquisite a creature as Charlotte Clopton had suggested more than one sonnet descriptive of her beauty. Yes, the glance of the lowly poet from beneath the pent-house which constituted the shop of his father, had called forth verses which, even at this early period of his life, surpassed all that ever had been penned; and Charlotte Clopton first caused him to write a stanza in praise of beauty. At this early period of his life, too, his fine mind teemed with the germs of those thoughts which, in afterdays, brought forth so many lovely flowers. The impression of his own passionate feelings in youth furnished him with the ideas from which to pourtray the exquisitely tender scenes of his after-life.
To a youth of spirit, the sight of preparation for the sports of the field was full of excitement. Most men love the chase, but mostly those of a bold determined courage.
Participation in the sports of people of condition was, however, denied to the lad, as his condition in life barred him from aught beside the sight of others so engaged. His capacious mind conceived, however, at a glance, all the mysteries of wood-craft, and his truant disposition leading him to become a frequent trespasser, the haunts and habits of the wild denizens of the woods were familiar to him.
If, therefore, he was debarred from following the chase himself, he loved to see the hunt sweep by—
"When the skies, the fountains, every region near,
Seemed all one mutual cry."
In addition to this, there was an insatiable craving after information of every kind. He had been educated at the Free School of his native town, and had far outstripped all competitors in such lore as the academy afforded, and he now perused every book he could procure, making himself master of the subjects they treated of with wonderful facility. He was drinking in knowledge (if we may so term it) wherever it could be reached; whilst, in his truant hours, no shrub, no herb, no plant in nature escaped his piercing ken.
His exquisite imagination, unfettered and free as the air he breathed in the lovely scenery of his native country, created worlds of fancy, and peopled them with beings which only himself could have conceived. In the solitude of the deep woods he loved to dream away the hours.
"On hill or dale, forest or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook,"
it was his wont to imagine the elfin crew, as they "danced their ringlets to the whistling wind."
It was observed, too, amongst his youthful associates, that he seemed to know things by intuition. Those who were brought up to the different mechanical trades in the town or neighbourhood found in him a master of the craft at which they had worked. "Whence comes this knowledge," they inquired of each other, "and where hath he found time to pick it up?" "Body o' me," his father would oft-times say, "but where hath our William learnt all this lore? Thus worded too! Master Cramboy, of the Free School, albeit he comes here continually to supper, and uses monstrous learned words in his discourse, never tells us of such things as this lad discourses to us." Neither was all this superfluous knowledge, "ill inhabited like Jove in a thatched house." He was already a poet, turned things to shape, and gave to airy nothing
"A local habitation and a name."
CHAPTER III.
CHARLOTTE CLOPTON.
Clopton Hall was situated in a sort of wild chase, or park, in which hundreds of broad, short-stemmed oaks grew at distant intervals; and through this chase a deep trench had been cut in former days by the legions of Rome, the thick plantation which formed the belt immediately around the house being just in rear of the Roman ditch.
The hawking party, on this morning, as they gradually assembled and mounted their steeds in the court of the mansion, rode through the gate-house, along the avenue and into the chase. Here they breathed their coursers and careered about till Sir Hugh had mustered the different servitors and attendants appertaining to a matter of so much moment as his morning diversion, and was ready to go forth.
As they did so, the youth noticed the lady he had before seen, and whose exquisite form had made some slight impression upon his imagination. Nothing could be more skilful than the way in which she managed her horse, he thought—nothing more lovely and graceful than she altogether appeared. The steed she rode was a magnificent animal, and one which none but a most perfect horsewoman could have backed; and as he plunged, and "yerked out his heels," he shewed his delight at being in the free air, and proved "the metal of his pasture."
It was a fair sight to behold one so delicately formed as that lady restrain the ferocity, and, by her noble horsemanship, reduce to subjection the wild spirit of that courser; and so thought the studious boy in the gray jerkin.
Well, however, as she had hitherto managed the animal, now that it was growing even more excited by the number of horses around, it seemed every instant becoming more and more unruly. It was in vain that a tall handsome cavalier, who had kept an anxious eye for some time upon the movements of her horse, now spurred his own steed beside the lady, and kept near her bridle-rein. The brute reared, and stood for a few moments, striking wildly with his fore feet. After a while, however, and whilst all sat in helpless alarm, the lady still keeping her seat, the steed recovered himself, plunged forwards, and bolted from the party.
Few situations could be more perilous than that which Charlotte Clopton now found herself in; few more distressing to the spectators to witness; since to attempt aid is oft-times to hasten the catastrophe.
To follow a runaway steed, in the hope of overtaking it is, perhaps, one of the worst plans that can be adopted, as the very companionship of the pursuing horse is sure to urge on and accelerate the pace of the flyer.
Yet this course the tall dark cavalier (who seemed Charlotte Clopton's principal esquire) unhappily adopted.
As he beheld the maddened horse tearing across the park, swerving amongst the oak trees, and threatening every instant to dash out the brains of the rider amongst the branches, he set spurs to his own courser, and galloped after her. It was in vain that Sir Hugh shouted to him to return. In vain he roared and railed, and called to him that he would murder his child by such folly.
The lady, however, kept her seat. She managed even to guide her steed into the more open part of the chase. For (like the mariner in the storm) she well knew that whilst the tempest roars loudest, the open sea gives the vessel the better chance.
The sound of the horse following, however, totally ruined her plan, and rendered her own steed more determined. He flung aside, turned from the direction his rider had coaxed him into, and galloped towards the spot where our hero was standing amidst the trees. It was by no means difficult to conjecture that destruction to the beautiful creature, thus borne along as if on one of the "couriers of the air," was almost inevitable.
The next minute, as the youth of the grey doublet, in a state of breathless anxiety, stood and watched this race, himself concealed in the thick foliage, the horse (like some wild deer seeking cover) plunged headlong into the Roman ditch.
The entrenchment was of considerable depth, so that both steed and rider, for the moment, disappeared below the grassy ridge. It was, however, but for a moment: the next, the maddened steed sprung up the opposite bank.
The rider was, however, no longer on his back: she had been cast headlong from the saddle, and our hero saw, with terror, that her riding-gear was entangled on the saddle, and that she was being dragged along the ground by its side.
But few minutes of exposure to such a situation,