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170 to molest a stranger. Their portrait gallery is as rich in character as in art. The Gwynnes have always prided themselves on their pictures, and I cannot but think that painters must have rejoiced over the opportunity of depicting the grim lords and beautiful ladies of their house. It is not my intention to give a list of this pedigree of paintings, for from the tawny panel of Mabuse which represents the black-bearded Gwynne who fought for the Tudor at Bosworth, down to the pink and white ivory of Cosway whereon simpers the high-girdled Gwynne who captivated the Regent, that list would be very long. I shall confine my tale to one picture and its subject. That one picture chained down my attention from the moment I saw it. I was glad to learn by my subsequent inquiries that the remarkable face that seemed to live on its surface belonged to one of the most noteworthy of the family, and one who had her own story. That story may seem very tame in comparison with the melodramatic horrors of much family romance, but such as it is, I heard it with interest. Whether I can repeat it with interest I am too modest to predict.

The story belongs to no dark ages of Smithfield fires or of bloody battles, for the picture is by Reynolds, and professes to represent the grandmother of the present Squire of Gwynne. She appears to be about thirty years old. She is standing, and seems of a stature greater than that of the mass of her sex. Her head is turned over her shoulder, and her face looks the spectator full in his own. The attitude is that of a graceful and high-bred gentlewoman, as is the attitude of all Reynolds’s ladies. Nor is there anything more than Reynolds’s customary success in the foliage of the background, and the arrangement of the grey drapery of the dress. It is the face alone which is remarkable. The forehead is high, and the brows are much more strongly marked, and much darker, than those which are usually found with brown hair. They are arched, and too nearly meet for mere beauty. The eyes are of that dark grey which flashes with the fiercest of all fire when it is roused. The expression of the mouth is a strange mixture of passion, of tenderness, and of resolution. The lips are firmly compressed, but they are too full for meanness, and too wavy for malice. The chin is prominent and large. The whole face beams with intelligence and life. I looked at it at one moment and said within myself, that woman must have been fearful in a rage. I looked at it again and said, that woman must have been one whose love was worth risking much to win. Two lustrous and unfathomable eyes haunted me wherever I went, and the recollection of them haunts me still.

In the days when King George III. was still a blooming young prince, not yet engaged in that romantic love affair with the well-educated Charlotte of Mecklenburg, which the biographer of the four monarchs of his name so amusingly describes, the family of the Gwynnes, after growing less and less numerous for several generations, came to be represented by two brothers. The elder ruled, as his ancestors ruled before him, in the ancestral manor. The younger adopted the traditionary career of the cadets of his house, and served in the army. Both married very suitable helpmates. The soldier lived long enough to speed the last sigh of his wife, and welcome the first smile of his son, and was then killed by a fall from his horse. The Squire’s lady presented him with an heir, and five years afterwards with a daughter, and then died. The widower was left in his home to train and teach his own children, and the child of his dead brother.

The Squire was haughty and passionate, but withal a just man. He clung to his opinions with all the tenacity of an Englishman, and, above all, of an English Tory. He hated a Whig, and he hated a Frenchman. With these exceptions, it might be said that he loved his neighbour. He was condescendingly affable to my Lord Marquess of the adjoining acres, as it became a Gwynne to be to a man who dated his rank not even from the comparatively ancient period of Hastings, but merely from the more recent invasion of Torbay. He was very friendly to the Vicar, and loved the toast of “Church and King.” He was equitable in his dealings with his tenants, and “ne’er forgot the poor.” He swore at his grooms, but they none of them left him. He was as fond of his nephew as of his own son and daughter, and children have rarely had a fonder father.

So matters went on quietly at Gwynne, till grey hairs began to grow on the head of the Squire (though it is almost an anachronism to talk of grey hairs in days of powder), and down to sprout on the cheeks of his boys. His own son Horace went to Christchurch, and was then sent to Paris. The young Squire was committed to the care of a great lady who had known the old Squire at St. James’s. It was hoped that under the auspices of Madame la Duchesse de Hautenbas Mr. Horace Gwynne would receive that mysterious coat of French polish which could only be administered at the Court of Maria Theresa’s beautiful daughter. For a time the Squire had nothing to complain of. The Duchess wrote that the young Englishman had the true air. He had been noticed at the Trianon. He had made a success. Mr. Horace himself thought Paris a charming place. He had performed in a private play as a Milord Anglais, in which a Royal Personage had appeared as a Grisette Française. He was very well seen. Nevertheless this was not altogether pleasant to the Squire. He had the notions of a Roman on the subject of the stage, and would never have acknowledged the celebrated comedian of his name as a kinswoman, even if she had honestly raised herself to fame by her acting, and not by—by other means. He did not like the idea of his boy’s capering before an audience of grinning Frenchmen, though a Queen had capered at his side. Indeed, was it well for the Queen so to occupy her most Christian Majesty’s leisure? All this was not quite satisfactory. But worse news followed. Mr. Horace was seen no more at the little Trianon. Madame de Hautenbas was compelled to ignore him. He had imbibed the strangest ideas, and was associating with the most unnoticeable people. He openly professed sympathy with the third estate. Less openly he became sceptical as to the advantages of monarchy, and, so far from preserving