Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 65, No. 400, February, 1849

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Various. Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 65, No. 400, February, 1849

CAUCASUS AND THE COSSACKS

THE CAXTONS. – PART X

CHAPTER XLVI

CHAPTER XLVII

CHAPTER XLVIII

CHAPTER XLIX

CHAPTER L

CHAPTER LI

STATISTICAL ACCOUNTS OF SCOTLAND

THE POETRY OF SACRED AND LEGENDARY ART

AMERICAN THOUGHTS ON EUROPEAN REVOLUTIONS

DALMATIA AND MONTENEGRO

MODERN BIOGRAPHY

THE ENGLISH UNIVERSITIES AND THEIR REFORMS

THE COVENANTERS' NIGHT-HYMN

THE CARLISTS IN CATALONIA

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My uncle's conjecture as to the parentage of Francis Vivian seemed to me a positive discovery. Nothing more likely than that this wilful boy had formed some headstrong attachment which no father would sanction, and so, thwarted and irritated, thrown himself on the world. Such an explanation was the more agreeable to me, as it cleared up all that had appeared more discreditable in the mystery that surrounded Vivian. I could never bear to think that he had done anything mean and criminal, however I might believe he had been rash and faulty. It was natural that the unfriended wanderer should have been thrown into a society, the equivocal character of which had failed to revolt the audacity of an inquisitive mind and adventurous temper; but it was natural, also, that the habits of gentle birth, and that silent education which English gentlemen commonly receive from their very cradle, should have preserved his honour, at least, intact through all. Certainly the pride, the notions, the very faults of the wellborn had remained in full force – why not the better qualities, however smothered for the time? I felt thankful for the thought that Vivian was returning to an element in which he might repurify his mind, – refit himself for that sphere to which he belonged; – thankful that we might yet meet, and our present half intimacy mature, perhaps, into healthful friendship.

It was with such thoughts that I took up my hat the next morning to seek Vivian, and judge if we had gained the right clue, when we were startled by what was a rare sound at our door – the postman's knock. My father was at the Museum; my mother in high conference, or close preparation for our approaching departure, with Mrs Primmins; Roland, I, and Blanche had the room to ourselves.

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My father shook his head.

"Roland prays that you may preserve the same forbearance you have shown hitherto, and never mention his son's name to him. Peace be to the living, as to the dead. Kitty, this changes our plans; we must all go to Cumberland – we cannot leave Roland thus!"

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