LORD OSSORY.

THE unwavering loyalty and stern honor of James Butler, Duke of Ormond, is almost proverbial. Through the civil wars, his fidelity to the king was never for a moment shaken, though fame, fortune, and power were a necessary sacrifice to his devotion; and when the king did "enjoy his own again," and enjoy it in a manner that disgraced him for ever, Ormond and his family remained unpolluted in that festering court, uncorrupted in the midst of venality. He did indeed stand alone. The degeneracy of the times did not reach him, and such was the power of his strong virtue over even the sensualist Charles, that, when the king frowned upon him, he did it with so poor a grace that Buckingham inquired "whether the Duke were out of his Majesty's favor, or his Majesty out of the Duke's?" But, noble as was the character of Ormond, it did not surpass, and scarcely equalled, that of his wife; and their combined virtues lived again in the Lord Ossory, their son.

To this young nobleman we may look as to a model of all that is noble in character and in person. Tall, strong, active, and with an open, handsome countenance, his outer man was a true exponent of the being that ruled within. As a son, a husband, and a patriot, he was never surpassed in kindness, truth, and courage. The friend of the destitute, the steward of the needy, he was yet the embodied spirit of chivalry, the soul of honor, the lion of England,

the glory of his age, his country, and his race. "No writer," says the historian, ever appeared, then or since, so regardless of truth and of his own character as to venture one stroke of censure on that of the Earl of Ossory."

And yet upon this character there was a blot. Although engaged in every important battle on land or sea until his death, — although he dared accuse the favorite and pander of his king in his king's presence, telling him that he well knew that he, George Villiers, was the instigator of the assassin that had attempted his father's life, and giving him warning that, if by any means the Duke of Ormond was murdered, he would hold him to be the assassin, and pistol him, though he stood by his monarch's chair, — yet was there an enemy to whose might even Ossory bowed, an assassin to whose dagger he bared his heart.

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It was a calm evening, and the Countess lingered longer than usual under the noble oaks, pacing the greensward and listening for the sound of her lord's steed. He had gone the previous morning to the city, to conclude some negotiations respecting certain moneys which, at his wife's request, he had loaned to her father, and she now awaited the success of his endeavours, for they were of much import to her parent. But the twilight faded, and the lady was forced to retire to her chamber alone. Another, and another, and a third hour past, but he came not, and his lady began to fear lest some of those who had sought to hang the father upon Tyburn gallows should be now exulting over the fall of the renowned son. But again, when she remembered his prowess, his band of followers, and, above all, the moral might of the very name of Ossory, she felt that there could be no danger.

The clock had told the hour past midnight, and, save the Countess and one of her women, all within doors were asleep. There was a loud knocking at the gate, then the

ladies heard the porter's voice, the portal opened, and a light step was heard on the stair. Quick as the thought, the noble lady flung open her chamber door, and, seizing for it was her lord's page, "Ron

the page's arm,

ald," she said, and the tones were low and husky, "where is your master ? › The boy stood trembling and silent. "Where?" she repeated, in a tone that would be answered. "In the grove by the old castle," he faltered. "And who was with him?" "No one." The blood went slowly from the lady's countenance, until even her lips were as ashes. "Does he live?" she said, and so sepulchral was the voice that Ronald started for fear. "Assuredly he does, dear lady," cried the child, bursting into tears; "he is not harmed, but only ill in mind. Go to him, and comfort and support him, my more than mother, for he would not let any, not even me, stay by him, he was so ill at ease." As the leaden and livid cloud, when touched by the sunbeam, is moulded into a world of beauty and light, even so did the boy's speech bring back to the noble lady's countenance its wonted life; and even while the tears of joy rolled down her cheek, and the throbbing of the heart choked her voice, she motioned to her tirewoman to prepare her dress for going abroad.

With no other attendant than her lord's hound, whose sagacity, strength, and courage made him a guard of more value than any other with whom she was willing to go into her husband's presence, she passed from the house, and took the well-known path to the Hermit's Hollow. It was a dark and dreary way; the ruined castle frowned over the dell, and the copses were thick and impenetrable. Were there a lion in the path, the lady could not have turned aside; but all was clear, and, preceded by her stately attendant, Emilie de Nassau tripped with a light step, but heavy heart, to the mystic glen, in which tradition said the heathen of old had sacrificed to their false gods other victims than sheep and goats.

In the depth of the dell, by the light of the moon, the Countess saw a human figure seated upon the ground, and at nearly the same moment he was discovered by Cœurde-Lion, whose head was for an instant raised, while his half-stifled growl spoke suspicion, but who the next instant sprang from his mistress's side, and with a few bounds reached and crouched to the sitting figure. The man looked up for a moment, and then his head drooped again.

The Countess was satisfied from the dog's motions that it was her husband, and descended by the narrow pathway until she stood before the seeming sleeper; for, though the hound again went forward to welcome her, he moved not, and to seeming lived not. My Lord," she said. A tremor passed over his frame, but still he said nothing. She stopped, and, kneeling upon the damp earth, "My husband," she said, "speak to me." It was not a tone of entreaty nor of command, but of affection; and, raising his hot brow, England's noblest chief met her eye for one moment, and then bowed his head again in agony and shame. do you turn from me, my Lord," she continued ; done aught to displease you?" Again he raised his head; the drops of sweat stood upon his noble forehead, and his hair was matted and tangled. Even by the moonlight his young wife saw the blush upon his cheek, and the hot hand she grasped told of fever within.

Why

"have I

My Lord," for still he spoke not,-"you suffer." "I do, Emilie,” said the stricken Earl, "I do suffer

the torments of the damned."

"Why, my dear Lord,-why and whence this anguish ? Is it of body or mind? Where have you been?

done? Why seek you this spot?"

What

"To hide my shame," replied he, as over his open face there flitted one of those passing expressions which witness

"huge affliction and dismay

Mixed with obdurate pride."

"For yesterday," he continued, "I could have faced, without blenching, the proudest noble, the bravest foe in Europe, and now I shrink from a woman, and that woman my wife."

"And why, Lord Ossory? Has the first man in England done any thing to disgrace himself?"

"I have, Emilie," cried he, rising as though a thousand weight were upon his stalwart shoulders, “I have disgraced myself, and you, and all that claim us as parents or as children. My word is forfeit, my pledged word, that not this round world should have tempted me to break, has been broken at the first tempter's bidding, — and the whole earth hisses at me," and with clenched hands he pressed his brain, as though to crush the organ of thought that brought thus his sins before him.

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"My Lord of Ossory," said his queen-like wife, stepping back from him, your honor is in your own keeping, and my honor is in mine; no act of yours shall attaint my blood or my character in the courts of God, whatever man may adjudge. Your fault I partly guess, partly, indeed, know. It is a deep and dark one, my Lord, but it may and must be repented; your boasted virtue has been too often proved weak, but this must be so no more. The man whom all Europe dared not impeach of falsehood, I dare and do; and he dare not say nay to the charge."

Twice while she spoke, the young nobleman attempted to seize her arm, but she waved him back with an air which he, who knew so well her virtues and her strength of mind, dared not disobey.

"Emilie," he said, when she ceased, "is this kind? I am already in the dust; cannot my wife wait until a foe gives me the mercy-stroke, that she thus chides?"

"For your own good, and from my love to you, my Lord, I speak. You are not in the dust, and shall not be, if but true to yourself. What is it for which you grieve?"