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The  Story  of  our  Lives  from  Tear  to  Tear'' — SnAKEsrEA^i. 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


^  WLtM^  Stournal. 


CONDUCTED   BY 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WITH  WHICH  IS  INCORPORATED  HOUSEHOLD  WORDS. 


l^E^W"      SERIES - 


VOLUME   II. 

From  June  5  to  No\t:mber  27,  18G9. 
Including  No.  27  (o  No.  52. 


ii 


LONDON: 
PUBLISHED  AT  N^-  26,  WELLINGTON  STEEET; 

AND  BY  ilESSRS.  CHAPMAN  AND  HALL,  193,  PICCADILLY. 

1869. 


^= 


I 


LONDON 
C.  WHITIKO,  BKAFPORT  HOUSE,  DUKB  STaEET,  LINCOLN'S  INN  PIBLDS. 


'I 


^ 


I! 


PAQK 

ALPBOROrOH 79 

Ahiwl.-k  Caatle  .  .  .  .  C09 
Am.it'»ur  Ooachmon  .  .  .  270 
Aiuf-11o-1oH-Bains  ....  Al.*) 
AmuHATuenta  of  tbo  People  .  .  2U4 
An  Kxperionce  .  .  .  256, 280 
Ap«:logy  for  V^^rso  ....  65 
Appo-reut  Death      .... 

Art  I*TLrclMU»efi 

Afi  iho  Crow  Flies,  Due  East: 
Saffnin  Walden  and  Thaxstead 
tu  Harwich        .... 
Harwich  U)  Ipawich    . 
Sulbury  to  Lowodtoft . 

Yarmouth 

Caiator  and  Norwich  . 
Norwich  to  Cromer  .       . 

Due  South :  Cbeam  to  Epsom    . 
£pK«»in  Ui  Box  Hill 
]>>rking  and  Wotton  . 
"WincheKtpr  to  Lymington  . 
Due  North :   St.  Albans  to  Bed- 
ford and  Kimbolton . 
Pctcrboroojch  and  Fotherlngay 
Lim'oln  to  Someraby   . 
l>»«la  to  York       .... 
So^rboroogb  and  Whitby  . 
Ha rrojTAto  to  Berwick. 
Atlantic  Yacht  liaoe 
At  the  Britii^h  Moiteam  . 
Au»tralia.  A  Sigbt  in  tbo  Bosh 
Authentic  Singhaleso  Qenoalogy  . 


109 
297 


7 
M 
78 
128 
18A 
224 
278 
319 
878 
487 

465 
C09 
536 
560 
581 
608 
342 
252 
587 
43 


Babies.  The  Show  of 
B4by».m,  A  New  Belief 
B&con,  Lord  Chancellor 
r.ar.  The  Orowth  of  the 
Barristers  and  Lawyers 
Bathing  in  a  Mist    . 
B&ttio  of  St.  Albans 
Bengal  Ma^trate  . 
Berwick    . 
liicycle  Riding . 
Bloaters    . 
Bold  Bigod 
Box  Hill    . 

British  Museum  Visitors 
Bungay  Church 
Bunjan.  Relics  of    . 
Buried  Alire   . 


.  249 

.  158 

.  467 
897,420 
398,420 

.  564 

.  467 

.  87 

.  610 

.  418 

.  181 

.  82 

.  823 

.  252 

.  83 

.  468 

.  109 


Cabh,   Communication  with   the 

Driver 

Caintor  Castle 

Calif >)mian  Miner,  The  . 
•'  Camilia."  Tbo  Author  of      . 
Cardinal  Beaufort   .... 
Cartlinal  Wolsey      .... 
'artir.  Mrs.  Elirabcth    . 

Cuwnporo 

Cbafflnch  (Mr.)  and  Mr  Chllders  . 
Cliampagne  Mynic'ry,  Tho 
Channel  Tunn.*!,  Tho     . 

Cheam 

Children,  Kidnapping   '. 
Children,  Paupf;rBounlers    . 
C-igar  ManufactnreH 
CIvU  S.»rvice  of  liulla  .  . 
(Njoch,  The  Brighton 
Coins,  DiacoTery  of . 


154 
185 
367 
878 
438 
56 
497 
894 
849 
354 
173 
273 
212 
301 
616 
327 
270 
380 


CONTENTS. 


PAOK 

Crabbe,  The  Poet    ....      79 

Cromer 226 

Cnlpeper's  Complete  Herbftl.       .    229 

DASRhelngold  .  .  .  .452 
Deadly  Mist.  A  .        .564 

Death,  Too  Hasty  Burials  .  .  189 
Decoy  Ducks  ....    188 

Defoe,  The  Life  of  .  .     132,156 

Depths  and  Heights  of   Modem 

Opera 450 

Disappearance  of  John  Ackland      3H0 

402,  428,  454,  475 

Dorking 878 

Dreadnought  Hospital  .  .  .  S.'iO 
Drnnkery  Discovery,  Tho  .  .  204 
Duke  Humphrey  ....  466 
Durdans 819 

Earl  of  Essbx,  Tho  .  .  .  273 
Eastern  PriMlIgies  .  .  .  .125 
East  Indian  MoBonm  .  .  .209 
Elizabethan  Adventurer ...  57 
Elizabethan  Writer  .  132 
England  and  Franco,  Tunnel  Be- 
tween     177 

English  Hop  Gardens  .  .  .  102 
Epsom,  Traditions  of  .  .  275, 319 
Evelyn's  House  at  Wotton  .  .  379 
Execution  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  510 
Eyam,  The  Plague  at      .        .        .    161 

Faie  Hair 353 

Falstolft's  Caatle  at  Oaistor  .  .  185 
Farewell  to  an  Artisto     ...    232 

Fasting  Girls 442 

Felixstow 54 

Filly  Decoy 188 

Finds 380,402 

Finnish  Stonr,  A  ....  307 
Fire  of  London  .       .       .817 

Fishers  of  Loch  Boisdole  .  .  669 
Flodden,  The  Battle  of  ...  81 
Fothoringay  Castle         .        .       .510 

Four-in-Iland 270 

Framlingham  Castle       ...      80 
France,  Smoking  in               .        .614 
Fre<lerick  Prince  of  Wales    .       .    820 
FoDiter's  (Mr.)  Biography  of  Lan- 
der         181 


Oainsborocgh,  The  Birthplace 
Ganged,  The  Course  of  the 
(ientleman  of  the  Press 
Ghosts  .... 
Ghost  Story  of  Lord  Lyttelto 
Gold  Miner:)  . 
Golf,  The  Game  of  . 
Great  Druukery  Discovery 
Greenland  Seal  FUsbery  . 
Green  Tea  .  .  501,  525, 
Greenwich  Hospital 
Growth  of  the  Bar  . 

"  Had"  and  "  Would"     . 

Hair  Fashions,  Respecting 

Happy  Jack     . 

Harrogato 

Harwich  .... 

HerU,  Medical  Use  of    . 


of.  18 
.  393 

1:12, 156 
.  3(»5 
.  320 
.  367 
.  544 
.  204 
.  105 

648,  572 
'M9 

397, 420 


256 
137 
228 
608 
8 
229 


Herring  Fishery     . 
Herr  Wagner,  tho  Composer 
Hindoo  Civil  Servants    . 
Honest  Miner  .        .       .       . 
Hop  Gardens  of  England 
Horse  Exercise 


PAOB 
.  130 
451 
.  872 
.  867 
.  102 
.    444 


In  Great  Golflngton        .       .       .  544 

India.    A  Bengal  Mogistrato  87 

Indian  Candidates  f <  >r  Civil  Service  872 

India.    Hindoo  Civil  Servants        .  827 

India,  Loafers  In     .        .       .        .  178 

India.    The  Oriental  Museum        .  209 

Indian  River,  The    ....  892 

Ipswich 65 

Isaac  Walton 438 

Italy,  Popular  Songs  of  .       .       .19 


JohnBustan 

John  Parry      .... 

Judge  Jeffreys  at  Winchester 


KsxT.  The  Orchards  in 
Kid  Gloves 
Kidnapping  Children 
Kimbolton  Castle 
King  Pippin's  Palace 


Ladies'  Education  . 

Landguanl  Fort 

LAndor*B  Life  . 

lawyers  and  Barristers  . 

Lectures  for  Ladies 

Leeds       .... 

Legend  of  Dunblane 

Lighthouses 

Lightships 

LiUey  the  Astrologer 

Lincoln,  A  Story  of  President 

Lincoln,  TraditloriK  of 

Lisle.  Lady,  and  Juil;;o  JcIIreyi 

Little  Pauper  Boarders  . 

Little  Witch  and  the  Misers 

Loafers  in  India 

Luch  Boisdale,  Fishers  of 

Long  Hair  a)id  Short 

Looking  in  Shop  Windows 

Lost  and  Found  In  the  Snow 

Lx)westoft        ... 

Lyttoltou,  Lord,  and  tho  Ghodt 


46S 
232 
489 

102 
853 
212 
468 
211 


.  568 
.  65 
.    181 

398,  420 
.  566 
.    560 

593.  616 
.    328 


.  473 

.  318 

.  226 

.  536 

.  439 

.  301 
116,  189 

.  17* 

.  569 

.  187 

.  37 

.  15 

.  83 

.  320 


Mackerel  Fishory 

Manniugtree 

Mary  and  Philip  of  Spain,  Marriago 

of 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Execution 

of 

Mexico,  The  City  of  Pu'»l)Ia    . 

Milk  Supply  of  L.ondon  . 

Minch,  Xlgbt  on  the        .        .    2!)4, 

Miners  in  California 

MIflt,  Bathing  in  a   . 

Mole,  The  River      .... 

Mr.  Chafllnch  to  Mr.  ChiUlcrs 

Mr.  Nobody  Abroad 

Museum  of  tho  East  India  Com- 


pany 
Museum,  The  Britlfh 
My  First  Money 
My  Neighbours 


131 
8 

439 

570 
60 
351 
569 
367 
664 
322 
349 
33 

209 
254 

85 
469 


«^ 


<& 


=s> 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

NAPOLEON  OiTlng  Aadlenco  .       .      36 
National   Oallery,    Bocent    Pur- 
chases   397 

Natnral  Ghost  ....  305 
Nature 'd  Five  Lessons  .  .  .611 
Naval  Battles  with  the  Dutch        83,  84 

New  Forest 441 

NewUoligion 141> 

New  Uncommercial  Samples.    By 
Charles  Dickens : 
A  Plea  for  Total  Abstinence  13 

Night  on  the  Minch  .  .  197,  50i) 
Nobody  Abroad       .        .       .        .32 

No  Bribery 403 

Nonsuch  Palace  ....  273 
Norfolk.  The  Dukes  of  .  .  .81 
Norwich 188,224 

Offenbach  the  Composer  .  •  450 
Old  Things,  \Vliat  Becomes  of  ?  .  240 
Omnibus  in  London  and  Paris  .  29 
Opera,  Depths  and  Heights  of  .  450 
Oriental  Life  in  Little  .  .  .209 
OrweUBivor 65 

Palet,  D.3ctor  ....  612 
P&ris,  A  Sketch  of  .        .        .       .88 

Paris,  Omnibuses  in       ...  29 

Parry,  John 232 

Pas^on  Letters        .        .       .    187, 325 

Pauper  Boarders     ....  301 

People,  The  Recreations  of  the      .  204 

Persia,  A  New  Religion  in      .       .  149 

Peterborough  Cathedral  .  609 
Plague  at  Eyam  .  .  .161 
Planets  and  Stars    .       .       .       .11 

Plants,  Soils  and  Climates  for       .  891 

Plea  for  Total  Abstinence       .       .  13 

Poetical  Coincidences     .       .        .  416 

Poetry,  An  Apology  for         .       .  66 

Pointers,  Why  Do  They  Point?     .  390 

Poisonous  Herbs     ....  229 

Popular  Songs  of  Italy  ...  19 

Post  Office  and  the  Telegraphs      .  334 

President  Lincoln,  A  Story  of       .  226 

Press  in  the  Time  of  Elizabeth      .  182 

Pretenders 611 

Princess  Tolka        ....  807 

Prize  Babies 249 

Puebla 60 

Purchas,  Doctor      ....  7 

Queen  Caholtnb'r  Funeral  .  .       9 

Queen  Elizabeth  and  Essex   .  .    273 

Queen  Kathcrinc's  Burial       .  468,  610 

Queen  Mary,  Marriage  of        .  .    439 

Rain  and  Bain  Doctors .  .  .  684 
Beccnt  Art  Purchases  .  .  .  297 
Hecreatiuns  of  the  People  .  .  304 
Beliglon,  a  New  Hclief  .  .  .149 
Biding  for  noalth  ....  444 
Robin  Hood's  (inive  .  .  .683 
Robinson  Crusoe,  The  Author  of,  132, 156 

Rokeby 600 

River  Mole 822 

Bivor  Orwell 65 

Bough  Sketch  of  Blodem  Paris  .  33 
Bound  Table,  King  Arthur's  .  .  440 
Buf  us,  Death  and  Burial  Place  of  438, 441 


page 
Saffron  Walden,  Orighi  of  the 

Name 7 

Saint  Martin-Ie-0 rand's  Adopted 

Child 824 

Scarborough    ....     488.680 

Scarcliffe 48S 

Schneider,  Mademoiselle       .       .    4/>l 

Seals 1(6 

Seal  Skin  Cloaks  ....  3.'.2 
Seaside  Stereoscopes  .  .  .  488 
September  the  Second  .  .  .317 
Shop  Windows  ....  37 
Show  of  Babies  .  .  .  .249 
Sight  in  the  Bush,  A       .  .587 

Silence,  Twonty-one  Months  of  .  521 
Singhalese  Genealogy     ...      43 

SlipiwrDay 114 

Smoldng  in  France  .  .  .  614 
Solebay,  The  Naval  Battle  of  84 

Sorrow  and  the  Mermaid        .    330,  355 

Southampton 444 

Southwold 81 

Spain,  Kiog  Pippin's  Palace  .  .  212 
Spanish  Burglars  ....  4«U 
Speaking,  Lost  Power  of  .  .  621 
Spectral  Analysis    .  .        .11 

Spectral  Impressions  .  .  .  805 
Speech,  Long  Loss  of  .  .  .  621 
St.  Albans,  Abbey  and  Traditions  .  466 
Signalling  versus  Shouting  .  .  l!A 
Sir  John  FalstaJf  ....  185 
Stage  Coach  Revival      ...    370 

Stalls 276 

Stories : 
An  Experience     .       .       .    256, 280 
Disappearance  of  John  Ackland    880 

402,  438,  454,  475 
Qreen  Tea  .  .  601,  525,  548,  572 
Little  wntch  and  the  Miiters  116,  13!> 
Legend  of  Dunblane  .  .  693,  616 
Lost  and  Found  in  the  Snow  13 

My  Neighbours  ....  469 
Night  on  the  Minch    .        .    197,  569 

No  Bribery 493 

Princess  Yolka  ....  807 
Sorrow  and  the  Mermaid  .  330,  356 
Tom  Butler   .  .    20,  44,  67,  91 

TontlaWood  ....  688 
Trvst  in  Twin-Tree  Lane  .  .  338 
Withered  Blossom       .       .    164,189 

SkSwithin 438 

Success  of  the  Stage,  A  .       .    256 

Sudbury 78 

Suffolk,  The  Coast  of  .  .  .79 
Superstitious  of  the  Eait  .    135 

Suffolk  Superstitions       .        .       .    .  83 

Tee-Total  Procession  ...  18 
Telegraphs  and  the  Post  OflBce      .    824 

Theatre  Stalls 276 

Tobacco  Smoking  .  .  .  .614 
Tom  Butler      .       .        .     20, 44, 67, 91 

TontlaWood 688 

Tourists  of  the  Year  1800  .  .  34 
Traveller's  Tale,  A .  .  .  .67 
Treasure  Trove  .  .  .  880, 426 
Trees,  The  Antiquity  of  .  .  .  322 
True  Story  of  President  Lincoln  .  226 
Tryst  in  Twin-Tree  Lane  .  .  233 
Tunnel  Under  the  Channel     .       .    173 


PAGE 

Turkish  Superstitions  .  .  .  125 
Twenty-one  Months  of  Silence       .  521 

Under  the  Channel        .       .       .173 

Universe,  The 10 

Unsubjected  Woman,  An      .        .    497 

Velocipede  Riding       .       .       .    44S 

Veronica 217 

241.  265,  239,   313,  337,  061,  385,  409, 
433,  457,  481.  505,  52i>.  553.  677,  601 
Victoria  Park,  The  Peoplo  in .       .    204 

WAIFS .426 

WuLsingham 225 

Walter  Savage  I^andor  .  .  .  ISI 
Walton,  John  Evelyn  at .  .  .  879 
Wars  of  the  Roses  ....  4tJ6 
\Vebb's  Travels  ....  67 
What  Rocomes  of  Things?  .  .  240 
Where    do   Some   Things   Como 

From? 352 

Which  i8>Vhich?    .  .        .416 

Why  Does  a  Pointer  Point?.        .    3^0 

Wigs l:t8 

WUliam  of  Wykeham    .       .        .    4'JS 

Winchester 4:)7 

Witchcraft    in    the     Nineteenth 

Century 541 

Witchcraft.  Persecution  in  Ef^sex  .  8 
Withered  Blossom  .  .  .  1G4,  18U 
Wolf  Rock  Light  ....  32.S 
Wolsey,  Birthplace  of  .  .  .  55 
Woman's  Bights  Convention  .  517 
Women's  College  ....  5(!7 
Wrecked  In  Port  ....  1 
25,  49,  73,  97, 121, 145, 169, 193,  2;JS 

Yacht  Bace  Across  the  Atlantic  .  342 
Yarmouth l-'S 


York  Minster  .... 

.    6fci.' 

POETBY. 

ACBICL       .          .         .         .          • 

.    32^ 

Bold  Rigod       .... 

.      Si 

Columbia  Square  Market 

.      Si 

Confcs  >ion  and  Apology 
Dame  Martha's  W^oll      . 

.    34-< 

5(i4 

Death  of  th'  Owd  Squire. 

.     370 

'■  Donald  Macleod 

540 

Grey  Monk's  Miserere    . 

In  the  Fall       •       .       .       .       . 

4\i-2 

17 

In  the  Tropic* 

4»;n 

Looking  Ba<*k  .... 

.     228 

Mountain  Brook      .        .       .       . 

.     ISl 

Nature's  Five  Lessons    . 

.    611 

No  Work  to  Do 

lOS 

Old  Ballad  Benowed      . 

.    201 

Old  Ballad  Bewriltcn      . 

.    419 

Old  World  and  the  Now 

.      37 

Orphanhood     

Solebay,  The  Battle  of    . 

31»7 

.       82 

Summer  Pool  .... 

.    300 

Summer  Sunset 

252 

Three  Colounul  Flag,  The      . 

.      20 

To  a  Little  Huswife 

.     2K0 

Two  Sonnets 

1:{1 

■  Two  to  One 

CO 

Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara     . 

155 

Wreck  off  Calais      .       .       .       , 

12 

=r 


-STOJiy'QE-OUI\.-  UVES-JHoM-Y^I^TOYtj 


rJOUCTED-BY 
With  which  is  Iivcdi^po^iat'ed 

ATURDAY,  JUNE  5,  18(1 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 

A  Smu  Bmit  mi  tbi  Auraot  oi  -Bitci  Stm 


CHAPTER  IT.      CISTASSIKO. 

Splescid  OB  was  the  opportimit^  jnst 
offered  to  Walter  Joyce  by  the  parbamen- 
taxy  agents,  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
he  would  have  declined  to  profit  by  it  had 
the  scene  of  action  been  laid  anywhere  else 
than  in  Brocfceopp,  had  his  opponent  been 
any  one  other  than  Mr.  Creawell.  Al- 
though utterly  chanffed  from  tho  usher  in 
a  oonntry  school,  who  was  accnstomed  to 
take  life  as  it  came — or  indeed  from  the 
young  man  who,  when  he  obtained  Lord  Hc- 
therington'a  private  eecretarvBhip,  looked 
irpon  himself  as  settled  for  lile — Joyce  had 
even  now  scarcely  any  ambition,  in  the  com- 
mon acceptation  of  the  word.  To  most  men 
brought  up  as  he  bad  been,  membcTBhip  of 
parliament  would  have  meant  London  life  in 
good  society,  excellent  station  of  one's  own, 
power  of  dispensing  patronage  and  confer- 
ring lavours  on  others,  and  very  excellent 
opportonicy  for  getting  something  pleasant 
and  remunerative  for  oneself,  when  the 
chance  offered.  To  Walter  Joyce  it  meant 
the  acceptance  of  a  sacred  tmst,  to  the 
proper  discbarge  and  fulfUment  of  which 
I  all  his  energies  were  pledged  by  tho  mere 
&ct  of  his  acceptance  of  the  candidature. 
Not,  indeed,  that  he  bad  ever  had  any 
tLoughte  of  relinquishing  his  recently  ac- 
quired profession,  the  press ;  he  looked 
to  that  as  his  sole  means  of  support ;  but 
he  felt  that  should  he  be  Bucceesliil  in 
obtaining  a  seat  in  the  House,  his  work 
would  be  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  it 
had  hitherto  been,  ajid  he  shoold  be  able 
to  keep  his  income  at  the  same  amount 


while  he  devoted  the  half  of  his  time  thus 
saved  to  hie  political  duties. 

But  being,  as  has  been  said,  thoroughly 
happy  in  his  then  career,  Joyce  wonld 
never  have  thought  of  entertaining  the 
proposition  made  to  bim  tbrough  tbe  me- 
dium of  Messrs.  Potter  and  E^fe  had  it 
not  been  for  the  desire  of  revenging  liim- 
self  on  Marian  Creswell  by  opposing  to  the 
last,  and,  if  possible,  in  every  honourable 
way,  by  defeating,  her  husband.  Joyce  felt 
perfectly  certain  that  Mr.  Creswell — qniot 
easy-going  old  gentleman  as  be  had  been 
of  late  years,  and  more  likely  than  ever  to 
be  disinclined  to  leave  his  retirement  and 
do  battle  in  the  world  Bince  his  son's  death — 
was  a  mere  puppet  in  the  handa  of  his  wife, 
whose  ambition  had  prompted  her  to  make 
her  husband  seek  the  honour,  and  whoso 
vanity  wonld  be  deeply  wonnded  at  his 
failure.  Walter  Joyce's  personal  vanity 
was  also  implicated  in  the  result,  and  he 
certainly  wonld  not  have  accepted  the 
overtures  bad  there  not  been  a  good  chance 
of  snccess;  but  J£r.  Harrington,  who,  out 
of  his  business,  was  a  remarkably  sharp, 
shrewd,  and  far-seeing  man  of  the  world 
and  of  basinesa,  apoke  very  positively  on 
this  point,  and  declared  their  numbers 
were  so  strong,  and  the  popular  excitement 
eo  great  in  their  fevour,  that  they  could 
scarcely  fad  of  success,  provided  they  had 
the  right  man  to  bring  forward.  To  win 
the  day  against  her,  to  show  her  that  tbe 
man  she  basely  rejected  and  put  aside  was 
preferred,  L^  a  great  struggle,  to  tho  man 
she  had  chosen  ;  that  the  position  which  she 
had  so  coveted  for  her  husband,  and  towards 
the  attainment  of  which  she  had  brought 
into  play  all  the  influence  of  her  wit  and 
his  money,  had  been  snatched  from  her  by 
the  poor  usher  whom  she  had  found  good 
enough  to  play  with,  in  b«T  obxV^  &k^,\!^ 


e5= 


& 


2      [Jnne  fi,  18C9J 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[Conducted  by 


who  was  thmst  aside,  his  fidelity  and  de- 
Totiun  availing  him  nothing,  dircctij  a 
more  eligible  opportunity  offered  iiaelf. 
That  would  be  sweet  indeed !  Yes,  his 
mind  was  made  up ;  ho  would  use  all  his 
energies  for  the  prosecution  of  the  scheme ; 
it  should  be  war  to  the  knife  between  him 
and  Marian  CresweU. 

Joyce's  manner  was  so  thorough  and  so 
hearty,  his  remarks  were  so  practical,  and 
his  spirits  so  high,  when  he  called  on 
Messrs.  Potter  and  Fyfe  on  the  next  day, 
that  those  gentlemen  were  far  better  pleased 
with  him,  and  &r  more  sanguine  of  his 
popularity  and  consequent  success  at  Brock- 
sopp,  than  they  had  been  after  the  first  in- 
terview. Modesty  and  self-  depreciation 
were  qualities  very  seldom  seen,  and  very 
little  esteemed,  in  the  parliamentary  agents' 
offices  in  Abingdon- street.  The  opinion  of 
the  head  of  the  firm  was  that  Walter 
wanted  "  go,"  and  it  was  only  owing  to  the 
strenuous  interposition  of  Mr.  Harrington, 
who  knew  Joyce's  writings,  and  had  more 
than  once  heard  him  speak  in  public,  that 
they  did  not  openly  bemoan  their  choice 
and  proceed  to  look  out  for  somebody  else. 
This,  however,  they  did  not  do ;  neither  did 
they  mention  their  doubts  to  the  deputa- 
tion from  Brocksopp,  the  members  of  which 
did  not,  indeed,  give  them  time  to  do  so, 
had  they  been  so  inclined,  clearing  out  so 
soon  as  the  interview  was  over,  and  making 
back  to  the  Tavistock  Hotel,  in  Covent 
Garden,  there  to  eat  enormous  dinners, 
and  thence  to  sally  forth  for  the  enjoyment 
of  those  festivities  in  which  our  provmcials 
so  much  delight,  and  the  reminiscences  of 
which  serve  for  discussion  months  after- 
wards. The  parliamentary  agents  were 
very  glad  of  their  reticence  the  next 
day.  The  young  man's  heartiness  and 
high  spirits  seemed  contagious ;  the  sound 
of  laughter,  a  phenomenon  in  Abingdon- 
street,  was  heard  by  Mr.  Harrington  to 
issue  from  "the  governors'  room;"  and 
old  Mr.  Potter  forgot  so  far  the  staid  dig- 
nity of  a  chapel-deacon  as  to  clap  Walter 
Joyce  on  the  back,  and  wish  him  luck. 
Joyce  was  going  down  on  his  first  canvass 
to  Brocksopp  by  himself;  he  would  not 
take  any  one  with  him,  not  even  Mr.  Har- 
rington ;  ho  was  much  obliged  to  them ; 
he  knew  something  of  Mr.  South,  the  local 
Liberal  agent  (he  laughed  inwardly  as  he 
said  this,  remembering  how  he  used  to  look 
upon  Mr.  South  as  a  tremendous  gun),  and 
he  had  no  doubt  they  would  get  on  very  well 
together. 

"You  know  South,   Mr.  Joyce?"    said 


Mr.  Fyfe,  "  what  a  very  cuiious  thing  1  I 
should  have  thought  that  old  South 's  cele- 
brity was  entirely  local,  or  at  all  events  con- 
fined to  the  county." 

"Doubtless  it  is,"  replied  Joyce;  "but 
then  you  know  I " 

"  Ah !  I  forgot,"  interrupted  Mr.  Fyfe. 
"  You  have  some  relations  with  the  place. 
Yes,  yes,  I  heard !  By  the  way,  then,  I 
suppose  you  know  your  opponent,  Mr. 
Kerswill---Creflwell — ^what's  his  name  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  remember  Mr.  CresweU  per- 
fectly ;  but  he  never  saw  much  of  me,  and 
I  should  scarcely  think  would  recollect 
me!" 

"Ah!  you'll  excuse  me,  my  dear  sir," 
Mr.  Fyfe  added,  after  a  short  pause ;  "  but 
of  course  there's  no  necessity  to  impress 
upon  you  the  importance  of  courtesy  to- 
wards your  opponent — I  mean  Kerswill. 
You're  certain  to  meet  on  the  hustings, 
and  most  probably,  in  a  swellish  place  like 
Brocksopp,  you'll  be  constantly  running 
across  each  other  in  the  streets  while 
you're  on  your  canvass.  Then,  courtesy, 
my  dear  sir,  before  everything  else !" 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  Mr.  Fyfe," 
said  Joyce,  smiling ;  "  I  shall  be  perfectly 
courteous  to  Mr.  Creswell !" 

"Of  course  you  will,  my  dear  sir,  of 
course  you  vrill !  Musn't  think  it  odd  in 
me  to  suggest  itr— part  of  my  business  to 
point  these  things  out  when  I'm  coaching 
a  candidate,  and  necessary  too,  deuced 
necessary  sometimes,  though  you  wouldn't 
think  it.  Less  than  six  months  ago,  when 
poor  Wiggington  was  lost  in  his  yacht  in 
the  Mediterranean — ^you  remember? — we 
sent  down  a  man  to  stand  for  his  borough. 

Lord .     No !    I   won't    tell    you   his 

name ;  but  the  eldest  son  of  an  earl.  The 
other  side  sent  down  a  man  too — a  brewer, 
or  a  maltster,  or  something  of  that  kind, 
but  a  deucedly  gentlemanly  fellow.  They 
met  on  their  canvass,  these  two,  just  as  you 
and  Kerswill  might,  and  this  man,  like  a 
gentleman,  took  off  his  hat.  What  did 
our  man  do  ?  Stopped  still,  stuck  his  glass 
in  his  eye,  and  stared,  never  bowed,  never 
moved — give  you  my  word !  Had  to  with- 
draw him  at  once ;  his  committee  stood  by 
and  saw  it,  and  wouldn't  act  for  him  any 
more  I  '  Lordship  be  damned !'  that's  what 
they  said.  Strong  language,  but  that's 
what  they  said — give  you  my  word !  Had 
to  withdraw  him,  too  late  to  find  another 
man,  so  our  people  lost  the  seat  1" 

The  first  thing  that  astonished  Joyce  on 
his  arrival  at  Brocksopp  was  the  sight  of 
his  own  name  printed  in  large  letters  on 


■r 


(^ 


^ 


GbarlM  Dickens.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[June  5, 1869.]       3 


flaming  placards,  and  affixed  in  all  the  con- 
spicuous places  of  the  town.  He  had 
not  given  consideration  to  this  sudden 
notoriety,  and  his  first  realisation  of  it  was 
in  connexion  with  the  thought  of  the  effect 
it  would  have  on  Marian,  who  must  have 
seen  it ;  her  husband  must  have  told  her  of 
the  name  of  his  opponent ;  she  must  have 
been  certain  that  it  was  not  a  person  of 
similar  name,  but  her  discarded  lover  him- 
self who  was  waging  battle  against  her,  and 
attacking  her  husband  in  the  stronghold 
which  he  might  have  even  considered  safe. 
She  would  know  the  sentiments  which  had 
prompted  him  in  leaving  her  last  letter  un- 
answered, in  taking  no  notice  of  her  since 
the  avowal  of  her  perfidy.  Up  to  this  time 
she  might  have  pictured  him  to  herself  as 
ever  bewailing  her  loss — as  would  have  been 
the  case  had  she  been  taken  from  liim  by 
death — as  the  prey  of  despair.  Now  she 
must  know  him  as  actuated  by  feelings 
far  stronger  and  sterner;  he  was  pre- 
pared to  do  battle  to  the  death.  This  feel- 
ing was  pre-eminent  above  all  others ;  this 
desire  for  revenge,  this  delight  at  the  occar 
sion  which  had  been  offered  him  for  lower- 
ing the  pride  and  thwarting  the  designs  of 
the  woman  who  had  done  him  such  great 
wrong.  He  never  faltered  in  his  intention 
for  a  moment ;  he  abated  his  scheming  not 
one  jot.  He  had  some  idea  on  the  journey 
down  to  Brocksopp  that  perhaps  the  old 
reminiscences,  which  would  naturally  be 
kindled  by  the  sight  of  the  famiUar  scenes 
among  which  he  would  soon  find  himself, 
and  of  the  once  familiar  faces  by  which  he 
would  be  surrounded,  would  have  a  soften- 
ing effect  on  his  anger,  and  perhaps  some- 
what shake  his  determination.  But  on 
experience  he  did  not  find  it  so.  As  yet  he 
had  religiously  kept  away  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Helmingham ;  he  thought  it 
better  taste  to  do  so,  and  his  duties  in  can- 
vassing had  not  called  him  thither.  He 
had  quite  enough  to  do  in  calling  on  the 
voters  resident  in  Brocksopp. 

As  Walter  Joyce  had  not  been  to  Hel- 
mingham, the  "^^lage  folk,  who  in  their 
old-fiishioned  way  were  oddly  punctilious, 
thought  it  a  point  of  etiquette  not  to  call 
upon  him,  though  such  as  ^ere  politically 
of  his  way  of  thinking  took  care  to  let  him 
know  he  might  reckon  on  their  support; 
and  of  all  the  people  whom  Walter  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  seeing  almost  daily  in  the 
village.  Jack  Forman,  the  ne'er-do-weel, 
was  the  only  one  who  came  over  expressly 
to  Brocksopp  for  the  purpose  of  visiting 
hia  old  friend.     It  was  not  so  much  friend- 


ship as  constant  thirst  that  prompted 
Jack's  visit;  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
looking  on  elections  as  institutions  for  the 
gratuitous  supply  of  ale  and  spirits,  extend- 
ing more  or  less  over  the  term  of  a  month, 
to  all  who  chose  to  ask  for  tliem,  and  hither- 
to he  had  been  greatly  disappointed  in  not 
finding  his  name  on  the  free  list  of  the  Hel- 
mingham taverns.  So  it  was  well  worth 
Jack's  while  to  spend  a  day  in  staggering 
over  to  Brocksopp,  and  on  his  arrival  he  met 
with  a  very  kmd  reception  from  Walter, 
sufficiently  kind  to  enable  him  to  bear  up 
against  the  black  looks  and  ill-suppressed 
growls  of  Mr.  South,  who,  in  his  capacity 
of  clerk  to  the  magistrates,  only  knew  Jack 
as  a  bit  of  a  poacher,  and  a  great  deal  of  a 
drunkard. 

Immediately  on  his  arrival  in  Brock- 
sopp, and  after  one  or  two  preliminary  in- 
terviews with  Mr.  South,  who,  as  he  ima- 
gined, had  forgotten  all  about  him,  and  was 
much  struck  by  his  knowledge  of  neigh- 
bouring persons  and  localities,  Joyce  pro- 
ceeded with  his  canvass,  and  after  a  very 
brief  experience  felt  that  Mr.  Harrington 
had  not  taken  too  rose-coloured  a  view 
of  his  chance  of  success.  Although  to 
most  of  the  electors  of  Brocksopp  he  was 
personally  unknown,  and  though  such  as  re- 
membered his  father  held  him  in  recollec- 
tion only  as  a  sour,  cross-grained  man,  with 
a  leaning  towards  "  Methodee"  and  a  sus- 
picion of  avarice,  the  fact  that  Walter 
was  not  an  entire  stranger  had  great  in- 
fluence with  many  of  the  electors,  and  his 
appearance  and  manner  won  him  troops  of 
friends.  They  liked  his  frank  face  and 
hearty  demeanour,  they  felt  that  he  was 
eminently  "  thorough,"  the  lack  of  which 
quality  had  been  the  chief  ground  of  com- 
plaint against  young  Bokenham,  and  they 
delighted  in  his  lucid  argument  and  terse 
way  of  laying  a  question  before  them  and 
driving  it  home  to  their  understanding. 
In  this  he  had  the  advantage  of  his  op- 
ponent, and  many  wavercrs  with  undefined 
political  opinions  who  attended  the  public 
meetings  of  both  parties,  were  won  over  to 
Joyce's  side  by  the  applause  with  which 
his  speeches  were  received,  and  by  the 
feeling  that  a  man  who  could  produce 
such  an  effect  on  his  hearers  must  neces- 
sarily be  a  clever  man,  and  the  right  person 
to  be  sent  by  them  to  parliament.  The 
fact  was  allowed  even  by  his  opponents. 
Mr.  Teesdale  wrote  up  to  Mr.  Gould  that 
things  were  anything  but  bright,  that  the 
new  man  was  amazingly  popular,  and  quite 
young,  which  wae  not  a  bad  thin^  ^Vissa.  ^ 


V 


^- 


A. 


4      [Jtme  5, 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bj 


great  exertion  was  required,  that  he  was, 
moreover,  a  clever,  rapid,  forcible  speaker, 
and  seemed  to  be  leaving  their  man  very- 
much  behind.  And  old  Croke,  who  had 
been  induced  to  attend  a  meeting  convened 
by  the  Liberals,  and  who,  though  from  re- 
spectability's sake  he  had  made  no  open 
disturbance,  had  been  dreadfully  shocked 
at  the  doctrines  which  he  had  heard,  not 
merely  promulgated,  but  loudly  applauded, 
was  afterwards  compelled  to  confess  to  a 
select  few  at  the  Lion  that  the  manner, 
if  not  the  matter  of  Walter  Joyce's 
speech  was  excellent.  "Our  squire,"  he 
said,  "  speaks  Hke  a  gen'alman  as  he  is, 
sofb  and  quiet  like,  on  and  on  like  the 
droppin*  o*  watter,  but  this'un  du  screw 
it  into  you  hard  and  fast,  and  not  content 
wi'  drivin'  on  it  home,  he  rivets  'un  on 
t'other  side." 

Electioneering    matters    in    BroQksopp 
wore  a  very  different  aspect  to  that  which, 
they  had  borne  a  short  time  previously. 
Mr.  Teesdale  had  seen  from  the  beaming 
that  the  candidature  of  young  Mr.^oken- 
ham  was  not  likely  to  oe  very  dangerous 
to  his  opponent^  however  liberally  he  might 
be  backed  by  his  indulgent  feither.     The 
local  agent,   who  had  Hved  all    his  life 
among  the  Brocksoppians,  was  quite  aware 
that  they  required  a  man  who  would  at 
all  events  pretend  to  be  in  earnest,  which- 
ever suffrages  he  courted,   and  his  keen 
eyes  told  him  at  the  first  glance  that  young 
Tommy  was  a  vacillating,  purposeless  plea- 
sure-lover, who  would  command  no  con- 
fidence and  receive  but  few  votes.     When 
the  Bokenham  escapade  took  place  Mr. 
Teesdale  telegraphed  the  news  to  his  prin- 
cipal, Mr.  Gt)uld,  and  in  writing  to  him  on 
the  same  subject  by  the  next  post  said: 
"It  is  exactly  what  I  always  anticipated 
of  young  B.,  though  his  friends  did  not  ap- 
parently see  it.     I  think  it  will  be  a  shock 
to  the  L's,  and  should  not  be  surprised  if 
our  man  had  a  walk-over.'*     Mr.  Teesdale 
was  essentially  a  country  gentleman,  and 
though  he  thought  Mr.  Hamngton  a  "  turfy 
cad,"  saw  no  harm  in  occasionally  employ- 
ing a  sporting  phrase,  even  in  his  business. 
But  now  all  was  altered ;  the  appearance  of 
Walter  Joyce  upon  the  scene,  tne  manner 
in  which  he  was  backed,  his  gentlemanly 
conduct  and  excellent  speaking  had  an  im- 
mediate   and    extraordmary   effect.      The 
Tory  influence  under  Sir  Greorge  Kent  had 
been  so  all-powerfrd  for  many  years  that 
all  thoughts  of  a  contesthad  been  abandoned, 
and  there  were  scores  of  men,  farmers  and 
Tnanufacturers,  on  the  register,  who  had 


never  taken  the  trouble  to  record  their 
vote.  To  the  astonishment  and  dismay 
of  Mr.  Teesdale,  most  of  them  on  being 
waited  on  in  Mr.  Creswell's  interest,  de- 
clared that  their  leanings  were  more  towards 
Liberalism  than  Conservatism,  and  that 
now  they  had  the  chance  of  returning  a 
candidate  who  would  do  them  credit  and 
be  a  proper  advocate  of  their  views,  they 
should  certainly  give  him  their  support. 
The  fact,  too,  that  Joyce  was  a  self-made 
man  told  immensely  in  his  favour,  especially 
with  the  manu^turing  classes.  Mr.  Har- 
rington, who  had  paid  a  couple  of  flying 
visits  to  the  town,  nad  possessed  himself  of 
certain  portions  of  Walter's  family  history, 
and  disseminated  them  in  such  quarters 
as  he  thought  would  be  advantageous. 

"Father  were  grpcer  in  village  hard 
by  !"  they  would  repeat  to  one  another  in 
wonder,  "  and  this  young  'un  stuck  to  his 
buke  and  so  crammed  his  head  wi'  lumin' 
that  he's  towt  to  three  Lards  up  in  London, 
and  writes  in  newspapers — think  o'  that 
now !"  It  was  in  vain  that  old  Teesdale, 
when  he  heard  of  the  success  of  his  op- 
ponent's move,  went  about  pointing  out 
that  Mr.  Creswell  was  not  only  a  self-made 
man,  having  risen  from  nothing  to  his  then 
eminence,  but  that  all  the  money  which  he 
had  made  was  engaged  in  the  employment 
and  development  of  labour.  The  argument 
was  sound,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  have 
the  same  effect ;  whatever  it  was,  it  had 
the  same  result,  a  decided  preference  for 
Mr.  Joyce  as  against  Mr.  CresweD,  amongst 
those  who,  possessing  votes,  had  hitherto 
declined  to  use  them. 

But  there  was  another  class  which  it  was 
necessary  to  propitiate,  and  with  wliich 
Mr.  Teesdale  was  afraid  he  stood  but  Kttle 
chance.  Many  of  the  "  hands"  had  ob- 
tained votes  since  the  last  election,  and 
intended  making  use  of  their  newly  ac- 
quired prerogative.  There  was  no  fear  of 
their  not  voting;  the  only  question  was 
on  which  side  tliey  would  cast  the 
preponderance  of  their  influence.  This 
was  soon  seen.  Naturally  they  were  in- 
clined to  support  Walter  Joyce,  but  what- 
ever lingering  doubts  they  may  have  had 
were  dispelled  so  soon  as  Jack  Byrne  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene,  and,  despite  of 
Joyce's  protests,  determined  on  remaining 
to  assist  in  the  canvass.  "  Why  not,"  said 
Jack,  "  let  me  have  my  way ;  I'm  an  old 
man  now,  lad,  and  haven't  so  many  fancies 
that  I  mayn't  indulse  one,  now  and  again  ! 
The  business  suffer  r'  he  said,  in  reply  to 
something    that    Walter  had  said,    "the 


I 


«5: 


"■^o- 


Charles  Dickens.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[Jane  6. 1869.]      5 


business,  indeed !  You  know  well  enough 
that  the  bird-stufl&ng  now  is  a  mere  pre- 
text ;  a  mere  something  that  I  keep  for  my 
^idle  hands  to  do,'  and  that  it's  no  neces- 
sity, thank  the  Lord  1  So  let  me  bide 
here,  lad,  and  aid  in  the  good  work.  I 
think  I  may  be  of  use  among  a  few  of  them, 
yet."  And  he  was  right.  Not  merely  was 
the  old  man's  name  known  and  venerated 
among  the  older  "hands"  as  one  of  the 
"  martyrs  of  '48,"  but  his  quaint  caustic 
tongue  made  him  an  immense  favourite 
with  the  younger  men,  and  soon  there  were 
no  meetings  brought  to  a  close  without 
loud  demands  for  a  "  bit  speech"  from  Jack 
Byrne. 

Nor  was  it  amongst  the  farmer  and 
manufacturing  classes  alone  that  Mr.  Joyce 
received  pledges  of  support.  Several  of 
the  neighbouring  county  gentry  and  clergy, 
who  had  hung  back  during  Mr.  Boken- 
liam's  candidature,  enrolled  themselves  on 
the  committee  of  the  new  comer ;  and  one 
of  his  most  active  adherents  was  Mr.  Ben- 
thall.  It  was  not  until  after  due  delibera- 
tion, and  much  weighing  of  pros  and  cons, 
that  the  head -master  of  Helmingham 
Grammar  School  took  this  step ;  but  he 
smiled  when  he  had  thoroughly  made  up 
his  mind,  and  muttered  something  to  him- 
self about  its  being  "  a  shot  for  Madam  in 
more  ways  than  one."  When  he  had  de- 
cided he  was  by  no  means  underhand  in 
his  conduct,  but  went  straight  to  Mr.  Cres- 
well,  taking  the  opporttinity  of  catching 
him  away  from  home  and  alone,  and  told 
him  that  the  Benthall  family  had  been 
staunch  Liberals  for  generations;  and  that, 
however  much  he  might  regret  being  op- 
posed in  politics  to  a  gentleman  for  whom 
he  entertained  such  a  profound  esteem  and 
regard,  he  could  not  forswear  the  family 
political  fEiith.  Mr.  Creswell  made  him  a 
poHte  reply,  and  forthwith  forgot  all  about 
it;  and  Marian,  though  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  questioning  her  husband  pretty 
closely  at  the  end  of  each  day  as  to  the 
progress  he  had  made,  looked  upon  Mr. 
Benthall's  vote  as  so  perfectly  secure  that 
she  never  asked  about  the  matter. 

Notwithstanding  the  favourable  recep- 
tion which  he  met  with  everywhere,  and 
the  success  which  seemed  invariably  to  at- 
tend him  in  his  canvass,  Joyce  found  it 
very  heavy  work.  The  constant  excite- 
ment soon  began  to  tell  upon  him,  and  the 
absurdity  of  the  questions  sometimes  asked, 
or  the  pledges  occasionally  required  of  him, 
irritated  him  so  much  that  he  began  to  in- 
quire of  himself  whether  he  was  really  wise 


in  going  through  with  the  affair,  and 
whether  he  was  not  paying  a  little  too 
dearly  even  for  that  revenge  for  which  he 
had  longed,  and  which  was  almost  within 
his  grasp.  His  fidelity  to  the  cause  to 
which  he  had  pledged  himself  would  doubt- 
less have  caused  him  to  smother  these  mur- 
murings  without  any  extraneous  aid ;  but 
just  at  that  time  he  had  an  adventure  which 
at  once  put  an  end  to  all  doubt  on  the 
subject. 

One  bright  wintry  morning  he  arose  at 
the  hotel  with  the  determination  to  take  a 
day's  rest  from  his  labours,  and  to  endea- 
vour to  recruit  himself  by  a  little  quiet  and 
fresh  air.  He  had  been  up  late  the  previous 
night  at  a  very  large  meeting  of  his  sup- 
porters, the  largest  as  yet  gathered  to- 
gether, which  he  had  addressed  with  even 
more  than  wonted  effect.  He  felt  that  he 
was  speaking  more  forcibly  than  usual ;  he 
could  not  tell  why,  he  did  not  even  know 
what  prompted  him;  but  ho  felt  it.  It 
could  not  have  been  the  presence  of  the 
parliamentary  agent,  Mr.  JFyfe,  who  had 
come  down  from  London  to  see  how  his 
young  friend  was  getting  on,  and  who  was 
really  very  much  astonished  at  his  young 
friend's  eloquence.  Walter  Joyce  was 
speaking  of  the  way  in  which  the  op- 
posite  party  had,  when  in  power,  broken 
the  pledges  they  had  given,  and  laughed  to 
scorn  the  promises  they  had  made  when 
seeking  power,  and  in  dilating  upon  it  he 
used  a  personal  illustration,  comparing  the 
voters  to  a  girl  who  had  been  jilted  and  be- 
trayed by  her  lover,  who  had  been  unex- 
pectly  raised  to  riches.  Unconsciously 
fired  bv  his  own  experience,  he  displayed  a 
most  K)rcible  and  highly-wrought  picture 
of  the  despair  of  the  girl  and  the  vUlany  of 
the  man,  and  roused  his  audience  to  a  per- 
fect storm  of  enthusiasm.  No  one  who 
heard  him,  as  he  thought,  except  Jack 
Byrne,  had  the-  least  inkling  of  his  story, 
or  of  ifs  effect  upon  his  eloquence ;  but  the 
"hands"  were  immensely  touched  and 
delighted,  and  the  effect  was  electrical. 
Walter  went  home  thoroughly  knocked  up, 
and  the  next  morning  the  reaction  had  set 
in.  He  felt  it  impossible  to  attend  to 
business,  sent  messages  to  Mr.  Fyfe  and  to 
Byrne,  telling  them  they  must  get  on  with- 
out him  for  the  day,  and,  after  a  slight 
breakfast,  hurried  out  of  the  hotel  by  the 
back  way.  There  were  always  plenty  of 
loafers  and  idlers  hanging  round  all  sides 
of  the  house,  eager  to  stare  at  him,  to  pre- 
fer a  petition  to  him,  or  to  point  him  out 
to  their  friends ;  but  this  morning  ho  was 


\v 


^= 


CS: 


.; 


6       [Juno  5,  ISCO.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Ckmdncied  by 


/ 


lucky  enough  to  escape  them,  and,  thanks 
to  his  knowledge  of  the  locality,  to  strike 
upon  an  unfrequented  path,  which  soon 
took  him  clear  of  the  town  and  brought 
him  to  the  open  fields. 

He  had  forgotten  the  direction  in  which 
tlie  path  led,  or  ho  would  most  probably 
have  ayoided  it  and  chosen  some  other,  for 
there  lay  Helmiiigham  village  directly  be- 
fore hira.  Hitherto  ho  had  carefully  avoided 
even  looking  towards  it,  but  there  it  was, 
under  his  eyes.  At  some  distance  it  is 
true,  but  still  sufficiently  near  for  him, 
with  his  knowledge  of  the  place,  to  recog- 
nise every  outline.  There,  away  on  the 
horizon,  was  the  school-house,  there  the 
church;  there,  dipping  down  towards  the 
middle  of  the  High-street,  the  house  which 
had  been  so  long  his  father's.  '  What  years 
ago  it  seemed!  There  were  alterations, 
too;  several  newly-built  houses,  a  newly- 
made  road  leading,  he  supposed,  to  Wool- 
greaves.  Woolgreaves !  he  could  not  see 
Qio  house,  he  was  thankfdl  for  that,  but 
he  overlooked  a  portion  of  the  grounds 
from  where  he  stood,  and  saw  the  sun  re- 
flected from  much  sparkling  glass,  evi- 
dently conservatories  of  recent  erection. 
"  She's  spending  the  price  for  which  she 
sold  me  !*'  he  muttered  to  himself. 

He  crossed  a  couple  of  fields,  clambered 
over  a  hedge,  and  jumped  down  into  the 
newly-made  road  which  he  had  noticed, 
intending,  after  pursuiTig  it  a  short  distance, 
to  strike  across,  leaving  Woolgreaves  on 
his  right,  and  make  for  Helmingham.  He 
could  roam  about  the  outskirts  of  the  old 
place  without  attracting  attention  and  with- 
out any  chance  of  meeting  with  her.  He 
had  gone  but  a  very  littfe  way  when  he 
heard  a  sharp,  clear,  silvery  tinkling  of 
little  bells,  then  the  noise  of  horse-hoofs  on 
the  hard,  dry  road,  and  presently  came  in 
sight  a  little  low  carriage,  drawn  by  a  very 
perfect  pair  of  iron-grey  ponies,  and  driven 
by  a  lady  dressed  in  a  sealskin  cloak  and  a 
coquettish  sealskin  hat.  He  knew  her  in  an 
instant.     Marian  ! 

While  he  was  deliberating  what  to  do, 
whether  to  remain  where  ho  was  or  jump 
the  hedge  and  disappear,  before  he  could 
take  any  action  the  x>ony  carriage  had 
noared  him,  and  the  ponies  were  stopped 
by  his  side.  She  had  seen  him  in  the 
distance,  and  recognised  him  too  ;  he  knew 
that  by  the  flush  that  overspread  her 
usually  pale  face.  She  was  looking  bright 
and  well,  and  far  liandsomer  than  he  ever 
remembered  her.  He  had  time  to  notice 
all  that  in  one  glance,  before  she  spoke. 


"  I  am  glad  of  this  accidental  meeting, 
Mr.  Joyce!"  she  fiaid,  with  the  slightest 
tremor  in  her  voice,  "for  though  1  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  see  you  I  did  not  see 
the  opportunity." 

Walter  merely  bowed. 

"Do  you  mind  walking  with  me  for 
five  minutes  ?  I'll  not  detain  you  longer.'* 
Walter  bowed  again.  "  Thank  you,  very 
much.  James,  follow  with  the  ponies." 
She  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  with 
perfect  grace  and  dignity,  just  touching 
with  the  tips  of  her  fingers  the  arm  which 
Walter,  half  in  spite  of  himself,  held  out. 

"You  will  not  expect  me  to  act  any 
part  in  this  matter,  Mr.  Joyce,"  she  said 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "  I  mean  to  make 
no  pretence  of  being  astonished  at  find- 
ing you  here,  in  direct  opposition  to  me 
and  mine!" 

"  No,  indeed  I  that  would  be  time  wasted, 
Mrs.  Creswell,"  said  Walter,  speaking  for 
the  first  time.  "Opposition  to  you  and 
yours  is  surely  the  thing  most  hkely  to  be 
expected  in  me." 

"  Exactly  !  Although  at  first  I  scarcely 
thought  you  would  take  the  breaking  off  of" 
our  relations  in  the  way  you  did,  I  guessed 
it  when  you  did  not  write ;  I  knew  it  of 
course  when  you  started  here,  but  1  was 
never  so  certain  of  your  feelings  in  regard 
to  me  as  I  was  last  night." 

"  Last  night  ?" 

"  Last  night !  I  was  present  at  the  !Mc- 
chanics'  Listitute,  sitting  in  the  gallery 
with  my  maid  and  her  brother  as  escort. 
I  had  heard  much  of  your  eloquence,  and 
wanted  to  bo  convinced.  It  seems  I 
selected  a  specially  good  occasion !  You 
were  particularly  scathing." 

"  I  spoke  what  I  felt " 

"  No  doubt !  you  could  not  have  spoken 
so  without  having  felt  all  you  described, 
BO  that  I  can  completely  imagine  how  you 
feel  towards  me.  But  you  are  a  sensible 
man,  as  well  as  a  good  speaker,  and  that  is 
why  I  have  determined  to  apply  to  you." 

"  What  do  you  want,  Mrs.  Creswell  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  go  out  of  this  place,  Mr. 
Joyce  !  to  take  your  name  off  the  walls, 
and  your  candidature  out  of  the  county  I  I 
want  you  to  give  up  your  opposition  to  my 
husband.  You  are  too  strong  for  him — 
you  personally;  not  your  cause,  but  yon. 
We  know  that;  the  last  three  days  liave 
convinced  everybody  of  that,  and  you'll  win 
the  election  if  you  stop." 

Joyce  laughed  aloud.  "  I  know  I  shall," 
he  said,  his  eyes  gleaming. 

"What  then?"    said   Marian,    quietly. 


& 


&. 


(%«rlM  Dlekcni.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[Juno  5,  1869.] 


^*Do  yon  know  what  a  poor  member  of 
parliament  is,  '  hanging  on*  at  eyery  one's 
beck  and  call,  hnnted  by  all,  respected  by 
none,  not  knowing  which  to  serve  most  as 
most  likely  to  be  able  to  serve  him — 
wonld  yon  like  to  be  that,  wouTd  your  pride 
suffer  that  ?  That's  all  these  people  want 
of  yon — ^to  make  yon  their  tool,  their  party's 
tool;  £ir  yon  yonrself  they  have  not  the 
remotest  care.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

"  I  do.  Bnt  yon  have  not  told  me,  Mrs. 
Creswell,  what  I  should  get  for  retiring  ?" 

**  Your  own  terms,  Walter  Joyce,  what- 
ever they  were.  A  competence  for  life — 
enough  to  eive  you  leisure  to  follow  the 
life  in  which,  as  I  understand,  you  have 
engaged,  in  ease,  when  and  where  you 
liked.  No  drudgery,  no  anxiety,  all  your 
own  settled  on  yourself !" 

^  Ton  are  strangely  anxious  about  the 
result  of  this  election,  Mrs.  Creswell." 

*'  I  am — and  I  am  willing  to  pay  for  it !" 

Joyce  laughed  again — a  very  unpleasant 
laugh.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Creswell,"  said  he, 
**  if  government  could  promise  me  ten  times 
your  husband's  fortune  to  withdraw  from 
this  contest,  I  would  refuse !  If  I  had  your 
husband's  fortune,  I  would  gladly  forfeit  it 
for  the  chance  of  winning  this  election,  and 
defeating  you.  You  will  excuse  my  nam- 
ing a  money  value  for  such  pleasure ;  but 
I  know  that  hitherto  it  has  been  the  only 
one  you  could  understand  or  appreciate ! 
Good  morning  !"  And  he  took  oil'  his  hat, 
and  left  her  standing  in  the  road. 

AS  THE  CROW  FIJES. 

DIE  EAST.      SAFFRON  WALDEN  AND  TIIAXSTED 

TO  ILARWIClf. 

It  is  impossible  for  our  voyajjing  bird  in 
black  to  pass  over  the  chalk  hills  and  seven 
streets  of  Saffron  Walden,  which  is  built  on  a 
tongue  of  land  twenty -four  miles  north-west 
of  Chelmsford,  because  there  exists  so  curious 
and  interesting  a  legend  about  the  origin  of  the 
singular  name  of  that  town.  The  story  is  this. 
Great  quantities  of  saffron  for  dyers  used  to  be 
grown  in  this  part  of  Essex.  The  first  seed  or 
root  of  this  valuable  plant  was  brought  from 
the  East  by  a  shrewd  pilgrim,  concealed,  tradi- 
tion says,  in  the  hollow  top  of  the  staff  which 
supported  his  weary  feet,  and  on  which  he 
harig  his  calabash  of  water.  Lord  Braybrook^s 
umbrageous  park,  with  a  pleasant  wilderness 
of  shade,  shadows  the  approach  to  Saffron 
Walden,  and  girds  that  stately  palace  of  a 
house,  Audley  End,  which  occupies  the  site  of 
a  Benediqtine  monastery  founded  by  Mande- 
^e,  ihe  first  Earl  of  Essex,  ^^  to  the  honour 
of  St  Mary  and  St.  James,"  in  the  year  of 
Gnoe  1136.  At  the  suppression  it  was  granted 
to  Sir  Thomas  Audley,  wno  took  it  as  the  title 


of  his  barony,  and  in  the  time  of  James  the 
First  the  Earl  of  Suffolk  erected  a  many- 
windowed  mansion  here  which  took  an  army 
of  men  thirteen  years  to  put  together,  and  was 
regarded  as  the  largest  residence  in  the  king- 
dom next  to  Windsor  Castle.  A  small  portion 
now  only  remains,  and  is  a  mere  hut  in  com- 
parison with  the  old  greatness.  The  castle  at 
Saffron  Walden  was  built  by  the  same  proud 
Mandeville  who  built  Fleshy. 

Not  far  from  Saffron  Walden  is  Thaxsted,  a 
small  village,  once  a  borough,  rotten  even  in 
James  the  Second's  time,  and  then  disfran- 
chised. Here  in  1577  was  bom  that  laborious 
and  delightful  old  compiler  of  voyages,  Samuel 
Purchas.  Purchas  took  his  B.D.  at  Cambridge, 
where,  at  St.  John's  College,  he  was  educated. 
In  1604  he  became  vicar  of  Eastwood,  but  re- 
sided chiefly  ii(  London,  being  also  rector  of  St. 
Martin's,  Ludgate,  that  vexatious  chorch  that 
keeps  getting  in  a  rude  and  envious  way  before 
St.  Paul's  when  one  is  walking  up  Ludgate-hill, 
and  lonfi:ing  to  get  a  clear  view  of  the  old  black 
giant.  The  great  work  of  the  old  liOndon 
rector  was  his  well-known  and  valued  Pilgrim- 
ages, or  Relations  of  the  World,  a  collection  of 
voyages,  in  five  volumes  folio,  a  stupendous 
labour,  worthy  of  a  nation  of  travellers  like 
ourselves.  How  solemnly  and  yet  humbly  he 
begins  his  work ! 

»'  First,  therefore,  I  beseech  Him,  that  is  the 
First  and  Last,  the  Eternal  Father,  in  the  name 
of  His  beloved  and  only  Sonne,  by  the  light  of 
His  holy  and  all-seeing  Spirit,  to  guide  me  in 
this  perambulation  of  the  world,  and  so  to  take 
view  of  the  time,  places,  and  customs,  therein, 
as  may  testify  my  religious  bond  to  Him,  whoso 
I  am,  and  whom  I  serve,  and  the  service  I  owe 
unto  His  church,  of  at  least  tliis  my  tuiie  [five 
vols,  folio !]  may  be  serviceable  to  the  least  of 
the  least  therein.'' 

After  tliis  fine  and  religious  preamble  the  old 
worthy  goes  steadily  on  through  every  country 
and  region  of  the  world — resolute  as  Drake  and 
as  furious  a  hater  of  the  Spaniards  as  Raleigh. 
His  chapters  on  America  breathe  the  old  Eliza- 
bethan spirit  against  the  Spaniards,  and  he 
seems  never  tired  of  railing  at  the  enormous 
cruelties  of  the  conquerors  of  the  New  World. 
In  his  ninth  book  on  America  (chapter  fifteen) 
he  says,  in  a  whirlwind  of  quaint  invective : 

**  I  was  once  present,  says  Casas,  when  the 
inhabitants  of  the  town  brought  us  forth  vic- 
tuals and  met  us  with  great  kindness,  and  the 
Spaniards,  without  any  cause,  slew  three  thou- 
sand of  them,  and  twenty-two  caciques  met  us, 
whom  the  captain,  against  all  faith,  caused  to 
be  burned.  I'his  made  the  desperate  Indians 
hang  themselves  (which  two  hundred  did),  and 
a  Spaniard,  seeing  them  take  this  course,  made 
as  though  he  would  hang  himself,  too,  and  per- 
secute wiem  even  in  the  region  of  death,  which 
fear  detained  some  from  that  self-execution. 
Six  thousand  children  died  in  three  or  four 
months'  space,  while  I  was  there,  for  the  want 
of  their  parents,  who  were  sent  to  the  mines. 
From  Darien  to  Nicaragua  they  slew  four  hun- 
dred thousand  peop\<^  ^mtk  ^<^^<t  %:«q»^c^^  \.^ve^ 


Cfi: 


^ 


8       [Jane  C,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condacted  by 


and  diverse  tortures.  The  like  they  did  in  the 
kingdom  of  Venezuela,  destroying  four  or  five 
millions,  and  out  of  that  continent  carried  to 
the  islands  for  slaves,  at  times,  in  seventeen 
years  a  million  of  people.  But  why  do  I  longer 
trace  them  in  their  bloody  steps  ?" 

Such  was  the  way  in  which  men  wrote  who 
had  just  heard  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  men 
who,  as  children,  had  seen  their  mothers*  cheeks 
glow  and  their  fathers*  eyes  sparkle  at  the  glori- 
aus  news  of  the  rout  of  the  boastful  Armada. 
It  was  such  cruelties  that  made  the  Spaniards 
hateful  to  all  Europe,  that  corrupted  their 
nation,  that  made  their  climax  so  brief,  that 
rendered  England  their  deadly  and  dangerous 
enemy  for  nearly  a  century,  and,  finally,  that 
left  them  where  they  are  at  present — the  last 
laggards  in  the  race  of  civilisation. 

Manningtree,  near  Harwich,  though  a  mere 
small,  struggling  town  on  the  southern  bank  of 
the  Stour,  is,  like  Fleshy,  a  Shakesperean  place, 
being  mentioned  in  Henry  the  Fourth,  where 
Falstaff  is  compared,  by  the  mad  prince,  to  ^*  a 
roasted  Manningtree  ox,  with  a  pudding  in  its 
belly."  Manningtree  is  a  place  especially  con- 
nected with  one  of  the  most  miserable  and 
cruel  of  old  superstitions— the  belief  in  witch- 
craft. It,  indeed,  went  very  hard  with  all 
poor,  soured,  half  crazed  old  women  for  several 
centuries,  and  Essex  was  especially  debased  by 
the  irrational  persecution.  The  world  had  had 
feverish  fits  of  wild  burning,  as  in  Geneva  in 
1575,  when,  in  three  months  only,  five  hundred 
witches  were  burnt,  or,  as  in  Como,  in  1524, 
when  one  thousand  were  burnt  in  one  year. 
That  notorious  fool  or  knave,  or  both,  Mat- 
thew Hopkins,  **  the  witch  finder,"  in  1645, 
hurried  to  execution  about  one  hundred  per- 
sons in  Essex,  Norfolk,  and  Suffolk.  This  man 
pretended  to  discover  the  diabolical  marks 
(generally  warts)  on  the  old  women,  by  which 
the  devil  had  marked  them  for  his  own.  At 
last,  submitting  to  his  own  tests,  *^  hoist  by 
his  own  petard,"  unlucky  and  over-zealous 
Matthew  was  himself  found  to  be  diabolical, 
and  was  hung  incontinently.  Still  the  miserable 
fear  and  folly  continued.  Even  Hale,  wise  and 
excellent  judge  though  he  was,  burnt  two  un- 
lucky persons  for  witchcraft  in  1664,  and  in 
1676  seventeen  or  eighteen  persons  were  burnt 
at  St.  Osyth's  in  Essex,  in  1716  Mrs.  Hicks 
and  her  child  (nine  years  old)  were  hanged  at 
Huntingdon.  The  last  sufferer  in  Scotland  was 
at  Domach  in  1722. 

Harwich,  a  place  declining  ever  since  the 
French  war  ended  with  that  thunder-clap  at 
Waterloo,  stands  on  a  point  of  land  bordered 
by  the  sea  on  the  east,  and  on  the  north  by  the 
estuaries  of  the  Stour  and  Orwell.  The  Romans, 
wishing  to  guard  the  Saxon  settlements  on  the 
south  and  east  coast  from  fresh  German  pirates, 
established  a  sort  of  sea  patrol  or  coastguard, 
under  the  command  of  ^^  the  honourable  count 
of  the  Saxon  shore,"  whose  jurisdiction 
reached  from  Aldrington  in  Sussex  to  Bran- 
caster  in  Norfolk.  The  Saxons  in  their  turn 
continued  the  same  patrol,  and  this  town  ob- 
taiuecTits  name  from  their  camp,  ^'  Here-wich" 


(the  town  of  the  army).  The  Romans  have 
left  traces  here,  for  there  is  still  a  Roman 
paved  road  leading  to  the  town,  and  a  camp 
with  ramparts  and  fosse  reaching  from  the 
south  side  of  the  town  to  Beacon  Hill  Field. ' 
In  855  King  Alfred  broke  up  the  Danish 
piratical  fleet  at  the  broad  mouth  of  the  Orwell 
and  captured  every  vessel.  After  the  Norman 
invasion,  and  the  decay  of  the  older  town  of 
Orwell,  which  stood  on  a  spot  now  a  shoal  i^ve 
miles  from  the  shore,  Harwich  became  a  place 
of  importance  and  a  favourite  spot  of  embarka- 
tion for  Holland  and  Flanders.  In  September, 
1326,  Isabella,  <|ueen  of  Edward  the  Second, 
landed  at  Harwich,  with  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  Hainaulters,  her  son  the  prince,  and 
her  paramour,  Roger  Mortimer.  Here,  joined 
by  three  bishops,  and  the  Earls  of  Kent 
and  Norfolk,  she  marched  against  her  husband 
and  his  evil  counsellors.  A  year  from  that  day 
the  weak  king  was  cruelly  put  to  death  in  the 
vaulted  room  at  Berkeley,  in  1338  Edward  the 
Third  sailed  from  Harwich  with  five  hundred 
blazoned,  gilded,  and  turreted  vessels  for  his 
first  campaign  against  France.  In  the  follow- 
ing year  eleven  French  galleys,  '^  willing  to 
wound  and  yet  afraid  to  stnke,"  hovered 
menacingly  round  the  mouth  of  the  Orwell, 
but  did  not  venture  within  reach  of  our  cross- 
bow bolts  and  arrows.  In  1340,  Edward  the 
Third  set  sail  a^ain  from  Harwich  on  Mid. 
summer  Eve,  took  half  the  enemy^s  ships,  and 
made  many  prisoners.  In  due  time  Henry  the 
Eighth,  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  Charles  the 
Second  visited  the  town.  William  the  Third 
chose  Harwich  as  his  point  of  departure  for 
Holland,  and  George  the  First  and  Second 
started  joyfully  from  this  same  Essex  town, 
which  modem  travellers  have  malignantly 
branded  as  dull. 

On  September  6th,  1761,  the  great  but  heavy 
Lord  Anson  arrived  at  Harwich  from  Cuxhaven 
with  the  Princess  Charlotte,  of  Mecklenburgh 
Strelitz,  the  destined  bride  of  the  young  King 
George.  They  had  been  a  week  at  sea.  She 
remained  all  the  Sunday  on  board  the  royal 
yacht  in  Harwich  Roads,  landed  late  on  the 
Monday,  was  welcomed  by  the  authorities  in 
the  usual  respectful  and  tiresome  manner,  and 
then  posted  on  to  Colchester,  where  Mr.  Green, 
a  private  gentleman,  gave  her  tea,  and  a  native 
of  the  place  presented  her  with  a  box  of  candied 
eringo  root.  Lord  Harcourt,  the  king's  repre- 
sentative, describes  the  Princess  as  full  of  good 
sense,  vivacity,  and  cheerfulness,  no  regular 
beauty,  but  a  good  figure,  with  a  charming 
complexion,  and  very  pretty  eyes.  The  Prin- 
cess entered  London  by  Whitechapcl,  wearing 
a  fly  cap  with  lace  lappets,  a  diamond  spangled 
stomacher,  and  a  gold  brocade  suit  of  clothes 
with  a  white  ground. 

In  1764,  four  years  after  the  ascent  of 
George  the  Third,  Charles  William  Frederick, 
Prince  of  Brunswick,  landed  at  Harwich,  on 
his  way  to  claim  the  hand  of  the  young  king's 
sister,  the  Princess  Augusta.  The  new  queen 
(Charlotte)  had  a  smfUl  German  jealousy  of 
Brunswick.     The  prince  was  a  knightly,  ugly 


^ 


ObftriMDieknia.] 


AS  THE  CaOW  FLIES. 


[June  S,  1869.]      9 


man,  addicted  to  gallantry.  The  good  people 
of  Harwich  nearly  pnlled  down  his  lodgings  in 
their  eagerness  to  see  him.  Even  the  Quivers 
went  sUghtly  crazed ;  one  Friend^  indeed, 
actually  forced  his  way  in,  doffed  lus  hat,  in 
defiance  of  old  Penn,  kissed  the  princess  hand, 
declared  that  though  on  principle  he  did  not 
fight  himself,  he  liked  those  who  could,  blessed 
huD,  and  departed.  The  marriage  rites  were 
BO  jealously  restricted,  that  not  even  a  congra- 
tulatory salute  was  fired.  The  bridal  pair 
supped  humbly  at  Leicester  House,  and  the 
prmce  was  driven  to  court  the  Opposition — 
foolish  Newcastle,  heroic  Chatham,  and  the 
butcher  Duke  of  Cumberland.  At  Brunswick 
the  couple  were  welcomed  on  their  return  by 
the  Countess  of  Yarmouth,  the  ugly  mistress 
of  George  the  Second,  the  bride*s  grandfather. 
So  much  for  German  propriety  I 

On  August  16th,  1821,  H.M.S.  Glasgow 
sailed  from  Harwich  with  the  dead  body  of 
the  imprudent  and  unhappy  Queen  Caroline. 
It  was  a  singular  fact  that  the  naval  officer 
who  was  charged  to  carry  back  the  queen^s 
body  was  the  same  man  who  from  the  main 
chains  of  the  Jupiter  (fifty-gun  ship)  had 
handed  her  a  rope  when  she  onbarked  in  the 
Elbe,  a  hopeful,  reckless,  and  happy  bride- 
elect,  twenty-nine  years  before.  That  cruel 
scene  at  the  coronation  killed  her.  She  had 
claimed  to  be  crowned,  or  at  least  to  share  in 
the  ceremonial.  The  Priv^  Council  of  course 
decided  against  her,  in  i^ite  of  even  the  elo- 
quence and  subtlety  of  Brougham.  She  was 
repulsed  at  every  door  by  the  half -frightened 
constables,  grenadiers,  and  door-keepers.  That 
cruel  and  tmf  ortunate  ceremony  took  place  on 
the  19th  of  July.  On  the  7th  of  August, 
the  poor,  foolish,  high-spirited  woman,  died 
broken-hearted  at  Hammersmith.  How  could 
the  marriage  have  been  expected  to  be  happy  V 
Caroline  was  the  daughter  of  a  foolish  frivo- 
lous woman,  and  of  a  brave,  handsome,  vicious 
man.  She  grew  up  smart,  clever,  tJiought- 
leas,  and  imprudent.  She  arrived  in  England 
a  romping,  coarse,  vulgar,  dirty  German 
woman,  the  first  approach  of  whom  drove  the 
prince  to  instantly  ask  Lord  Harris  for  some 
brandy.  The  Regent  was  already  married,  and 
had  been  in  love  with  the  most  beautiful  and 
accomplished  women  in  England.  The  polished 
Bcounorel!  he  had  promised  Mrs.  Fitzherbert 
ten  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  had  just 
settled  her  in  splendid  infamy  in  a  mansion  in 
Fark.lane !  On  his  very  first  visit  to  the  punc- 
tilious, snuffy,  duU,  dreary  old  court  at  Windsor, 
he  took  down  the  prettv,  pouting,  spiteful 
Lady  .Fersey  with  his  bride.  The  prince  had 
ODiy  married  this  wilful  German  frau  in  order 
to  get  money  to  pay  his  enormous  debts,  which 
included  such  items  as  forty  thousand  pounds 
to  his  farrier,  and  fourteen  hundred  pounds  a 
year  to  Mrs.  Crouch,  the  actress,  one  of  his 
innmnerable  ex-mistresses.  The  husband  and 
wife  hated  each  other  at  the  first  sight,  and  the 
more  they  knew  of  each  other,  the  more  just  and 
the  more  virulent  the  hatred  became.  Aiter  the 
disgraoef  ol  marriage,  at  which  the  prince  was  so 


drunk  that  he  had  to  be  propped  up  by  two  of 
his  affectionate  and  equally  respectable  brothers, 
there  was  a  dismal  supper  at  Buckingham 
House,  and  at  midnight  the  happy  pair  drove 
off  to  Carlton  House,  wranglmg  with  each 
other  by  the  way,  so  at  least  court  rumour  said. 
Poor,  poor  woman ! 

Her  funeral  procession  to  Harwich  was 
troublous  and  oisgracef  ul !  The  King  by 
Divine  Right  was  just  starting  to  glorify  Ire* 
land,  and  settle  everthing  there  by  a  flying 
visit.  Lord  Liverpool,  determined  there  should 
be  no  exhibition  of  popular  enthusiasm  for  the 
crushed  and  torturea  woman,  ordered  an  escort 
of  cavalry  to  accompany  the  body  at  once 
to  Harwidi,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances  and 
entreaties  of  Lady  Hood,  Lord  Hood,  and 
Alderman  Wood.  The  London  mayor  and 
corporation  wished  to  carry  the  corpse  with 
all  civic  honours  through  the  city.  Lord  liver- 
pool,  in  his  small,  timid,  mean  way,  resolved 
to  smuggle  it  by  the  New  Road  to  Romford 
and  to  Harwich,  or  else  by  water  direct ;  but 
he  was  afraid  of  a  riot  at  London-bridge.  On 
the  14th  of  August —a  wet  and  stormy  day — 
the  miserable,  tawdry  procession  set  out.  At 
Kensington  church  the  cavalry  tried  to  sidle 
off  towards  Bayswater.  Then  the  city  went 
mad,  a  barricade  was  instantly  thrown  up,  and,, 
in  spite  of  the  Life  Guards,  the  cortege  waa 
humed  on  by  force  towards  the  city.  At  Hyde 
Park-gate  and  Park-lane  there  were  fresh  out- 
breaks. At  the  comer  of  Edgeware-road  the 
Life  Guards,  losing  their  temper,  fired  at  the 

nle,  wounded  several,  and  shot  two  men 
.  At  Tottenham-court-road,  however,  the 
people,  passively  stubborn,  forced  the  proces- 
sion down  Drury-lane  into  the  Strand.  After 
the  riot  had  lasted  seven  hours,  the  people 
shook  London  with  their  shouts  of  triumph. 
The  civic  authorities  accompanied  the  heedless 
corpse  as  far  as  Whitechapel,  the  eastern  limit 
of  the  city  "  liberties."  At  Romford  the 
mourners  passed  the  night,  but  the  royal  corpse 
was  sent  on,  and  rested  in  St.  Peter's  churchy 
Colchester.  During  the  night  a  silver  plate,  de- 
scribing the  deceas^  as  *^  the  injured"  or  *^  the 
murdered  queen  of  England"  was  affixed  to  the 
cofiin-lid,  but  afterwards  removed.  At  Har- 
wich seven  vessels  awaited  the  body ;  the  cofiin 
was  carelessly  swung  into  a  barge,  the  squadron 
set  sail  under  a  salute  from  Londguard  Fort, 
and  passed  straight  to  Cuxhaven.  At  Bruns- 
wick some  hundreds  of  the  citizens  drew  the 
funeral  car  to  the  cathedral  gates.  The  un- 
happy and  unfortunate  woman  lies,  says  Dr. 
Doran,  in  the  cathedral  of  St.  Blaize,  between 
two  heroes— her  old  father,  who  fell  fighting 
at  Jena  for  ungrateful  Prussia ;  and  her  brother, 
who,  at  the  head  of  the  savage  Black  Bruns- 
wickers,  fell  avenging  him  at  Waterloo. 

Harwich  has  so  fine  a  harbour  that  it  is  said 
that  one  hundred  sail  of  the  line  and  four 
hundred  sail  of  colliers  could  anchor  there 
together  at  tlio  same  time.  Yet  in  spite  of  the 
two  lighthouses,  warning  vessels  from  the 
shoal  of  the  West  Rocks,  the  navigation  re- 
quires a  pilot.    Still,  somehow  ot  «ji<^\X2kSc^'CQL<^ 


* 


^ 


10      [JoM  5,  ISM.] 


ALL  TEE  TEAR  BOWSTD. 


[CMidiiotedby 


commerco  and  traffic  have  decreased  since  the 
French  war  ended,  and  Harwich  will  some  day, 
unless  it  looks  out  sharper,  become  as  Orwell, 
over  whose  decay  it  once  triumphed.  No  one, 
nevertheless,  can  yet  crow  over  Harwich,  for  it 
still  boasts  one  hundred  vessels  and  a  consider- 
able fleet  of  wherries  that  ply  to  Manningtrce 
and  Ipswich.  In  the  Harwich  docks  seventy- 
four  gun  slups  have  been  built.  The  harbour 
has  a  fine  openine,  is  deep  and  generous,  and 
is,  and  probably  iSways  will  be,  the  only  safe 
sheltering  roadstead  between  Yarmouth  and  the 
Thames,  although  Lowestoft  is  a  dangerous 
rival,  and  Yarmouth  is  more  convenient  for 
Holland,  Germany,  and  Sweden.  Now  the 
garrison  and  government  works  are  gone, 
Harwich  shows  signs  of  age.  Its  miu  began  in 
its  own  greediness  as  early  as  174>3,  when  the 
townspeople  and  innkee|)ers  were  so  rapacious 
with  strangers  from  Holland  and  Germany  that 
sloops  were  started  to  go  direct  between  London 
and  Holland ;  it  was  just  the  same  short-sighted 
greediness,  in  the  latter  case  for  dock  dues, 
that  ruined  Bristol  irreparably,  and  made 
Liverpool. 

There  was  a  day  when  old  Burleigh  shook 
his  wise  head  over  a  chart  of  our  east  coast, 
and  said,  in  his  sententious  way,  "Harwich 
must  be  fortified  against  the  Spaniard."  Sure 
enough  in  1625  a  Spanish  fleet  did  swoop 
rouna  Ilnrwich,  and  rather  scared  the  marsh 
people.  In  Queen  Anne's  time  the  town  was 
fortified  against  the  saQors  of  Louis  Quatorze. 
Tlic  blockhouses  have  now  disappeared,  and  so 
have  the  ancient  gates,  St.  Austin,  Barton's  or 
the  Watergate,  Castle  Gate,  and  St.  Helen's 
Port;  but  there  is  Landguard  Fort,  built  by 
James  the  First  on  the  Suffolk  Point  still,  with 
its  twenty  heavy  traversing  guns,  ito  protect 
the  passage  from  the  sea. 

THE  UNIVERSE. 


/ 


SoMK  readers  may  be  inclined  to  tliink 
it  an  act  of  presumption  to  attempt  to  treat 
so  vast  a  topic  as  the  constitution  of  the 
universe  in  a  slight  sketch  comprised  in  one 
short  paper.  It  would  be  so  were  the  universe 
a  chaos,  a  heterogeneous  medley,  a  system  of 
independent  and  uncurbed  anarchies.  But  the 
universe,  on  the  contrary,  is  symmetry^  order, 
law.  The  most  recent  discoveries  of  science 
tend  to  prove  that  the  universe  is  one,  a  unity, 
made  up  of  like  co-ordinate  |)arts,  and  of  similar 
when  not  identical  materials. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  the  mind  of 
man  is  inca])able  of  comprehending  the  infinite. 
This  may  be  true  in  a  certain  sense,  because  we 
may  entertain  reasonable  doubts  whether  we 
really  and  fully  understand  anythiag.  But  for 
my  own  part,  as  far  as  the  visible  universe  is 
concerned,  I  feel  mucii  less  difficulty  in  com- 
prehending its  infinity  than  in  conceiving  that 
it  can  possibly  be  finite. 

As  to  space :  Can  wo  by  any  effort  imagine 
tAe  existence  of  a  boundary,  a  blank  wall,  an 
iwpasBAbJe  Jimit,  where  there  is  no  furtJier  ox- 


tension  of  space  ?  Where  a  winged  messenger 
or  angel,  sent  on  tlie  errand  of  penetrating 
deeper  into  space,  would  have  to  turn  back 
because  there  was  no  more  space  to  penetrate  ? 
No  ;  we  cannot  figure  to  ourselves  such  a  final 
limit  to  the  extent  of  the  universe,  such  a  ring- 
fence  enclosing  all  things  created.  It  is  far 
easier  both  to  grant  and  to  understand  that, 
space  mitf/  be  iniinitely  extensible. 

Tlien  again,  as  to  time :  We  cannot  conceive 
its  actual  stoppage.  The  events  by  which  we 
measure  time,  the  motions  of  the  heavenly 
bodies  might  alter,  nay,  might  even  cease  ;  the 
planets  might  all  fall  into  the  sun,  suns  might 
coalesce  or  group  together,  making  new 
heavens  and  new  eartlis,  still  there  would  be  a 
change,  a  progress,  which  is  only  another  mode 
and  maiiin3Station  of  time.  Even  supposing 
(what  is  impossible  to  suppose)  that  no  more 
motion  or  event  took  place  in  the  universe — 
that  the  great  All  were  still,  stagnant,  and 
dead — time  nevertheless,  that  is  to  say  eternity, 
would  not  cease.  Immortal  beings  would  yet 
possess  and  enjoy  an  everlasting  now  of  life 
and  happiness.  Here  also  we  can  more  readily 
admit  the  mfinite  than  conceive  the  finite. 

We  liave  now  a  clear  and  comprehensive 
knowledge  of  what,  to  our  forefathers,  was  im- 
penetrable mystery.  The  early  inhabitants  of 
the  earth  would  naturally  take  it  to  be  a  flat 
surface  spread  out  in  all  directions.  The  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  would  be  simple  luminaries 
hung  in  the  heavens  for  their  convenience  to 
afford  them  light.  Travel  might  teach  them 
that  this  flat  surface  was  considerably  larger 
than  they  at  first  suspected ;  but  a  moment's 
reflection  must  soon  convince  them  that  it  could 
not  extend  in  all  directions  indefinitely.  They 
would  witness  regularly,  every  day,  the  sun 
rising  on  one  side  of  tlie  earth  and  setting  on 
the  opposite  side;  and,  moreover,  not  rising 
and  setting  at  the  same  points  of  the  horizon 
for  an  observer  stationed  at  one  and  the  same 
spot.  At  one  season  the  point  of  emergence 
would  advance,  day  by  day,  towards  the  north ; 
at  another  time  of  the  year  it  would  gradually 
shift  towards  the  south.  The  sun's  setting 
would  present  exactly  similar  circumstances. 
The  same  of  the  risings  and  settings  of  the 
moon.  A  great  number  of  the  stars  would 
be  observed  to  rise  and  set  in  the  east  and 
the  west,  like  the  sun  and  the  moon,  with 
the  difference  that  each  star  would  rise  and 
set  always  at  the  same  points  of  the  horizon, 
if  observed  from  the  same  spot  on  the  earth's 
surface. 

Now,  no  doubt  could  be  entertained  that 
the  heavenly  bodies  which  reappeared  daily 
by  rising  in  the  east,  were  the  same  bodies 
which  had  previously  disappeared  by  setting  in 
the  west.  They  must  therefore  have  passed 
either  IfencatA  tiie  earth  or  through  it,  during 
the  interval  of  time  between  their  setting  and 
their  rising.  The  latter  alternative  being  im- 
possible, it  followed,  as  a  necessary  conse- 
quence, that  the  earth  could  not  spread,  in  the 
direction  of  the  horizon,  as  far  as  the  stars. 
There  muul  bo  a  free  passage,  ail  round  the 


<4 


=At 


Cbwies  DIAou  J 


THE  UNIVERSE. 


[June  ft,  1889.]       11 


earth,  allowing  the  hearenlj  bodies  to  make 
their  dailj  peregrinations.  The  earth's  extent 
once  admitted  to  be  limited,  the  idea  of  its 
roundness  would  soon  come  to  explain  it; 
and,  little  by  little,  the  earth  came  to  be  ac- 
knowledged as  a  globe  suspended  in  space,  and 
resting  on  nothing. 

After  this  first  grand  step,  it  was  remarked 
that  the  other  hearenly  bodies  are  also  globes 
whose  real  distances  from  us  are  enormouslj 
greater  than  had  been  supposed.  Gradually, 
the  truth  was  forced  on  men's  minds  that  the 
terrestrial  sphere,  so  yast  in  respect  io  «*,  is 
excessirely  small  compared  with  most  of  the 
stars  which  spangle  the  firmament.  Instead 
of  being  the  centre  of  the  universe,  for  whose 
benefit  all  the  rest  had  been  created,  it  is 
reduced  to  the  rank  of  a  mere  planet,  one  of  a 
numerous  family,  all  regularly  revolving  round 
the  sun.  Moreover,  the  conditions  in  which 
the  planets  exist  and  the  circumstances  notice- 
able on  their  surfaces,  show  that  some  of  them 
at  least  may  be  inliabited,  as  well  as  the  earth . 

Furthermore,  the  stars  which  twinkle  in 
every  part  of  the  firmament,  are  neither  more 
nor  less  than  suns,  of  different  dimensions, 
amongst  which  our  sun  is  certainly  not  the 
largest.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  each  of 
these  suns  is  accompanied  by  a  system  of 
planets  revolving  round  him.  rlanets  are  the 
most  reasonable  explanation  of  the  phenomena 
of  variable  stars ;  the  most  celebrated  of  which 
is  Algol,  or  the  star  fi  of  the  constellation 
Perseus,  whose  period  of  variation  is  extremely 
regular.  For  two  days  and  fourteen  hours 
it  maintains  without  diminution  its  greatest 
degree  of  brightness,  which  is  followed  by  a 
gradual  weakening  of  its  light,  and  then  by  an 
equally  gradual  increase  of  the  same,  the  whole 
of  those  changes  taking  place  in  a  little  less 
than  seven  hours.  It  is  believed  that  there  is  no 
actual  difference  in  the  quantity  of  light  emitted 
by  the  star  itself,  but  that  some  opaque  body, 
such  as  a  very  large  planet,  by  revolving  round 
the  star  at  a  short  distance  from  it,  screens  its 
light  by  passing  before  it,  and  so  causing  a 
considerable  eclipse.  This  supposition  accords 
with  the  regularity  of  the  pnenomenon,  and 
with  the  short  duration  of  the  partial  obscurity 
relative  to  the  total  duration  of  the  period  of 
brightness. 

Each  fixed  star  beiug  accompanied  by  planets, 
it  is  a  natural  inference  that  some  of  them  may 
be  inhabited,  as  are  some  of  the  planets  belong- 
ing to  our  own  solar  system.  The  distances  of 
these  stars  from  each  other  are  immense.  The 
dimensions  of  our  solar  system  are  as  nothing 
in  comparison ;  and,  in  the  solar  system  itself, 
the  earth,  which  appeared  so  vast  at  the  outset, 
is  now  known  to  be  a  mere  point,  a  tiny  speck. 

Spectral  analysis  has  been  mentioned  more 
than  once  in  these  pages,  we  therefore  do  not 
now  repeat  what  has  been  stated  before.  It  is 
enough  to  say,  that  it  is  a  recently-discovered 
mode  of  investigating  the  composition  of  bodies, 
by  examining  the  light  they  emit  while  burn- 
ing or  at  very  high  temperatures.  Now,  with- 
out entering  into  farther  detail,  it  is  found 


that  the  heavenly  bodies  contain  substances 
exactly  the  same  as  those  which  make  up  the 
solid  crust  of  the  earth.  Those  bodies  may 
include  elementary  substances  which  we  have 
not ;  we  have  some  whose  presence  has  not  yet 
been  ascertained  in  certain  stars;  but,  when 
it  is  found  that  the  sun  contains  iron  in  plenty, 
besides  barium,  copper,  and  zinc  in  small 
quantities ;  that  Aldebaran  (the  star  marked 
a  in  the  Bull^  has  soda,  magnesia,  hydrogen, 
lime,  iron,  bismuth,  tellurium,  antimony,  and 
mercury ;  that  Sirius,  the  brilliant  Dog  Star, 
likewise  confesses  to  soda,  magnesia,  hydrogen, 
and  probably  iron ;  and  that  many  others, 
not  only  of  the  stars  but  of  the  nebulse,  have 
been  made  to  avow  their  possession  of  similar, 
if  not  exactly  identical,  elements — would  it  not 
be  the  merest  quibble  to  deny  that  the  universe 
is  One  in  material  constitution  ? 

The  mass  and  volume  of  a  thing,  being 
attested  by  the  force  it  exercises,  may  be  taken 
as  positive  qualities  ;  but  its  magnitude  is  quite 
relative.  Men  are  colossi  for  the  emmet,  puny 
dwarfs  for  the  elephant,  lilliputian  pigmies  for 
the  whale.  There  is  a  curious  but  inseparable 
relation  between  apparent  size  and  actual  dis- 
tance. By  a  strange  illusion  of  our  senses,  the 
appearance  which  any  object  presents  depends 
both  upon  its  actual  size  and  on  the  space 
intervening  between  it  and  us.  If  we  can 
neither  touch  an  object  nor  get  at  it  in  any  way, 
its  actual  distance  remains  unknown,  and  we 
are  liable  to  make  the  most  erroneous  estimate 
of  its  real  dimensions.  At  first  sight  the  sun 
and  moon  appear  very  small  compared  with 
the  earth,  widle  the  stars  might  pass  for 
jets  of  gas,  like  those  used  in  illuminating 
public  buildings.  This  illusion  gave  rise  to  the 
once-current  opinion  that  the  sun  is  not  bigger 
than  a  barrel,  and  caused  the  ancient  Greeks 
to  be  laughed  at  for  asserting  him  to  be  as 
large  as  the  Peloponnesus,  the  modem  Crimea. 

But  it  happens  that  appreciable  size  varies 
inversely  as  the  distance.  The  further  off  a 
thing  is,  the  smaller  it  appears  to  our  senses ; 
and  vice  versa.  The  rule  holds  good  with  the 
smallest  perceptible  objects  as  well  as  with  the 
greatest.  The  microscope  gives  us  the  view  of 
an  object  which  would  be  seen  by  a  properly 
constituted  eye  beholding  it  from  the  distance 
of  its  object-glass.  It  gives  us  a  nearer  view, 
a  closer  insight,  of  what  we  wish  to  inspect, 
and  so  magnifies  it.  And  were  our  faculties 
not  limitecl,  we  should  doubtless  find,  upon 
still  closer  inspection,  that  even  the  elementary 
atoms  of  which  all  bodies  are  composed  have 
«!>(?— even  the  particles  composing  air  and  the 
very  lightest  known  substance,  hydrogen  gas. 

The  relation  between  distance  and  magni- 
tude is  daily  forced  upon  our  notice,  although 
we  may  be  slow  to  draw  from  it  one  inference 
touching  the  constitution  of  the  universe, 
namely,  that  all  is  small  and  all  is  great.  It  is 
true  that  the  adult,  as  well  as  the  child,  may  say, 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  atari 
How  I  wonder  wWt  -jou  «to, 
XJn  above  ihe  woT\d  «o\i\^^ 


4= 


<S: 


^ 


12      [June  5, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


// 


because  the  Yariation  of  the  distance  between 
UB  and  the  stars  is  so  infinitesimal  in  amount, 
compared  with  their  enormous  distance,  that 
for  us  they  are  always  little ;  but  with  terres- 
trial objects,  this  is  not  the  case.  On  climbing 
the  slope  of  a  lofty  mountain,  our  fellow- 
creatures,  seen  on  the  plain  below,  soon  show 
**  scarce  so  big  as  beetles,"  then  as  mites,  and 
finally  become  invisible  animalcules.  We  restore 
to  them  a  portion  of  their  original  size,  and 
render  them  visible,  by  drawing  them  nearer 
to  us  with  the  telescope.  Thus  the  telescope 
is  the  microscope  of  large  distant  things,  while 
the  microscope  is  the  tdescope  of  smaU  things 
in  too  close  approximation  for  their  parts  to 
be  perceptible  by  our  limited  organs.  It  shows 
and  proves  that  between  their  ^arts  there  are 
intervids  which  would  otherwise  escape  our 
observation  and  cognisance;  that  what  we 
think  to  be  contiguous  and  continuous,  is  really 
separate  and  broken  up  into  parts.  The  tele- 
scope extends  our  range  of  vision  outwards, 
the  microscope  enables  it  to  plunge  deeper 
inwards. 

The  intervals  between  the  ultimate  particles 
of  bodies  will  probably  ever  remain  beyond 
our  ken  and  measurement,  visible  only  to  the 
eye  of  the  mind.  Some  philosophers  have 
held  that  the  distances  which  separate  the 
atoms  constituting  solid  bodies,  are  as  great, 
relatively  to  their  actual  size,  as  those  from 
one  fixed  star  to  another.  That  the  atoms  of 
which  everything  —  gas,  liquid,  or  solid  —  is 
made  up  are  not  contiguous,  and  do  not  abso- 
lutely touch  each  other,  is  proved  by  their  ex- 
pansion and  contraction  imder  heat  and  cold. 
A  favoured  hypothesis  maintains  that  those 
atoms  revolve  round  each  other,  like  the  hea- 
venly bodies,  and  that  their  revolutions  are 
made  perceptible  to  us  by  the  sensations  of 
warmth  or  dulliness,  as  the  case  may  be. 

Dr.  Tyndall,  to  explain  the  heating  of  a 
lump  of  lead  by  the  blows  of  a  sledge-hammer, 
says,  **  The  motion  of  the  mass,  as  a  icAole, 
is  transformed  into  a  motion  of  the  molecules  of 
the  mass.  This  motion  of  heat,  however, 
though  intense,  is  executed  within  limits  too 
minute,  and  the  moving  particles  are  too  small, 
to  be  visible.  Here  the  imagination  must 
help  us.  In  the  case  of  solid  bodies,  while  the 
force  of  cohesion  still  holds  the  molecules 
together,  you  must  conceive  a  power  of 
vibration,  with  certain  limits,  to  be  possessed 
by  the  molecules.  You  must  suppose  them 
oscillating  to  and  fro ;  and  the  greater  the 
amount  of  heat  we  impart  to  the  body,  or  the 
greater  the  amoimt  of  mechanical  action  which 
we  invest  in  it  by  percussion,  compression, 
or  friction,  the  more  rapid  will  be  the  mole- 
cular vibration,  and  the  wider  the  amplitude 
of  the  atomic  oscillations."  Now,  if  the  vibra- 
tion describes  a  long  ellipse,  like  the  dance  of  a 
gnat  in  the  air,  it  becomes  precisely  the  orbit 
of  a  revolving  comet  which  remains  in  attend- 
ance on  its  sun,  instead  of  wandering  from 
system  to  system. 

Ji  this  be  true — and  Dr.  Tyndall  adds,  "  the 
moJectUee  hare  been  tbonght  by  some,  notably 


by  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  to  revolve  round  each 
other,  and  the  communication  of  heat,  by  aug- 
menting their  centrifugal  force,  is  supposed  to 
push  them  more  widely  asunder ;" — if  this  be 
true,  there  is  a  complete  analogy  between  the 
smallest  and  the  greatest  of  created  things. 
An  iron-filing,  a  drop  of  oil,  a  bubble  of  air, 
are  galaxies  of  atoms,  obeying  the  laws  of  their 
mutual  attractions  and  repulsions;  w^hile  the 
stars  we  call  fixed,  are  only  the  atoms  com- 
posing some  great  whole  whose  form  and 
contour  are  beyond  the  scope  of  our  vision. 
And  thus,  whether  we  look  outwardly,  to  reach 
the  infinitely  great,  or  inwardly,  to  penetrate 
the  infinitely  small,  the  prospect  that  meets  us 
is  alike,  differing  only  in  magnitude.  And  we 
may  repeat  that  both  in  ita  mechanical  and  its 
matcricd  constitution,  the  universe  is  one — a 
unity. 


THE  WEECK  OFF  CALAIS. 

BATT7SDAT,  OCTOBBS  4,  1866. 

The  waves  broke  over  the  harbour  light,  ^ 

The  women  ran,  screaming,  along  tne  pier. 
The  wind  like  a  wild  beast  howled ;  the  night 

G^w  darker  as,  with  a  shudder  of  fear. 
We  saw  just  then,  by  the  flash  and  flare 

A  hissmg  rocket  a  moment  cast, 
A  tossing  wreck  swept  almost  bare. 

Aye !  the  cruel  end  it  was  coming  fast ! 

A  few  more  blows  from  the  breaking  sea, 

A  few  more  surges  of  angry  wave, 
And  a  floating  spar  and  a  plank  would  be 

All  that  was  left.    Was  there  nono  to  sarc  ? 
None  to  struggle  with  surf  and  tide, 

And  the  foaming  hell  of  the  angry  flood, 
That  raved  and  raged  with  a  deTilish  pride. 

Howling,  as  'twere,  for  human  blood  P 

'Twas  a  little  brig  of  St.  Nazaire, 

That  wrestled  with  Satan  at  sea  that  nigLt  ; 
And  the  steady  lighthouse  flame  fell  there 

On  the  women's  faces,  wan  and  white ; 
The  children  sobbed,  and  the  mothers  wept. 

Hearing  the  sailors'  screaming  cries. 
As  the  torchlight  fell  on  the  waves  that  leapt, 

And  gleamed  on  the  staring  and  sorrowing  ojee* 

And  then  we  could  see  the  savage  rush 

Of  the  wolfish  waves  as  they  bore  along, 
And  swept  o'er  the  wreck  witn  a  ravening  crush. 

Then  the  moon  shone  out  from  the  gloom  bjgonc, 
And  up  in  the  rigging  dark  there  showed, 

Bound  to  the  ropes,  five  half- drowned  men. 
And  one  poor  boy,  who  a  spar  bestrode 

Till  a  breaker  bore  him  into  its  den. 

No  Iwrave  man's  heart  could  bear  that  err. 

As  below,  on  the  moonlit  level  sands, 
The  women  knelt  in  their  agon  j, 

And  wrung  their  tight-clMpcd  pallid  hacdr. 
The  moon  was  fiUl,  but  its  tranquil  light 

Lent  only  a  terror  to  the  snow. 
And  a  horror  and  fear  to  the  rolling  surge, 

And  the  restless  mighty  seethe  and  flow. 

Then  we  English  fellows,  with  cheer  and  shout. 

Ran  eagerly  down  to  the  further  sand. 
And  dragged  the  life*boat  quickly  out 

Not  one  of  us  lads  but  bore  a  hand. 
'Twas  bedded  deep  in  the  silt  and  snow, 

And  the  drift  was  round  it  high  and  fast ; 
But  we  dragged  it  steadily,  though  slow, 

Till  the  <&eper  water  was  reached  at  last. 


^ 


■h> 


GbAriM  IHekflBS.] 


NEW  UNCOMMERCIAL  SAMPLES. 


[June  fi,  1869L]      13 


II 


■ 


Bat  jut  M  we  Unnched  a  aour-faoed  num 

Came  tow'rds  us,  biiinff  hii  lipi,  and  bade 
Tlie  noisy  Frenchmen,  wno  after  him  ran, 

**  Poll  oat  at  onoe."    Well,  they  were  afraid ; 
Still  the^  tumbled  in  in  their  bragging  way, 

Sioutmg  their  gibberish  loud  enougn, 
But  half  way  eame  a  ware  at  pla^, 

And  the  lubbers  were  not  of  a  nght  good  stuff. 

So  they  turned,  and  left  the  men  to  drown ; 

Then  we  went  mad  at  that,  and  raced 
For  the  boat  at  the  other  end  of  the  town ; 

And  we  ferried  across,  but  the  fools,  disgraced, 
Would  not  bring  the  key,  and  were  sullen  and  glum. 

So  we  tore  down  the  riuls,  which  did  quite  as  well, 
And  launched  the  boat,  and  were  cool  and  dumb, 

Till  we  pulled  away  for  that  foaming  hell. 

How  loud  they  cheered  from  the  pier  and  sands 

As  we  shot  like  a  sea  bird  to  the  wreck ; 
Our  hearts  were  good,  but  how  weak  our  hands ; 

Waves  do  not  vield  to  a  coxswain's  beck. 
A  cruel  sea  strurk  our  staggering  boat, 

A  moment,  and  half  of  us  had  gpu^i 
And  I  and  some  others,  on  oars  sloat. 

Saw  the  careless  wave  roll  roaring  on. 

But  English  are  English,  come  what  may ; 

And  life  to  them  is  a  paltry  thing 
Compared  with  duty ;  so  quickly  they 

Pushed  off  while  we  were  still  struggling ; 
And  rescuing  all  that  were  left,  again 

They  pulled  through  the  racing  rolling  tide, 
And  saved  the  last  frenchman,  whose  worn  weak 
brain 

Had  turned  ^hen  his  friends  had  slowly  died. 

And  the  Sunday  morning,  when  all  was  calm, 

Our  steam- boat  left  with  the  five  dead  men, 
And  half  way  across  we  sanga  psalm 

Bende  the  row  of  coffins,  and  then 
The  captain  read  us  a  chapter  or  two. 

Till  presently  up  the  white  difb  came ; 
But  not  for  them,  the  brave  and  true, 

Who  put  Qxe  Calais  men  to  shame. 


NEW  UNCOMMERCLAIi  SAMPLES. 

Bt  Charles  Dickens. 

a  plea  for  total  abstinence. 

One  day  this  last  Whitsimtide,  at  pre- 
cisely eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  there 
suddenly  rode  into  the  field  of  view  com- 
manded by  the  windows  of  my  lodging,  an 
equestrian  phenomenon.  It  was  a  fellow- 
creatnre  on  horseback,  dressed  in  the  ab- 
snrdest  manner.  The  fellow-creature  wore 
high  boots,  some  other  (and  mnch  larger) 
fellow-creatnre's  breeches,  of  a  slack-baked 
doughy  colour  and  a  baggy  form,  a  blue 
shirt  whereof  the  skirt  or  tail  was  puflSJy 
tucked  into  the  waistband  of  the  said 
breeches,  no  coat,  a  red  shoulder  -  belt, 
and  a  dcmi  -  semi  -  military  scarlet  hat 
with  a  feathered  ornament  in  front,  which 
to  the  uninstructed  human  vision  had  the 
appearance  of  a  moulting  shuttlecock.  I 
laid  down  the  newspaper  with  which  I  had 
been  occupied,  and  surveyed  the  fellow- 
man  in  question,  with  astonishment.  Whe- 
ther he  had  been  sitting  to  any  painter 
as   a  frontispiece   for    a   new  edition   of 


Sartor  Resartus;  whether  "the  husk  or 
shell  of  him,"  as  the  esteemed  Herr  Teu- 
felsdroch  might  put  it,  were  founded  on  a 
jockey,  on  a  circus,  on  General  Graribaldi, 
on  cheap  porcelain,  on  a  toy-shop,  on  Cuy 
Fawkes,  on  Wax- Work,  on  Gold  Digging, 
on  Bedlam,  or  on  all,  were  doubts  that 
greatly  exercised  my  mind.  Meanwhile  my 
fellow-man  stumbled  and  slidcd,  excessively 
against  his  will,  on  the  slippery  stones  of  my 
Covent  Grarden  street,  and  elicited  shrieks 
from  several  sympathetic  females,  by  con- 
vulsively restraining  himself  fr^m  pitching 
over  his  horse's  head.  In  the  very  crisis  of 
these  evolutions,  and  indeed  at  the  trying 
moment  when  his  charger's  tail  was  in  a 
tobacconist's  shop,  and  his  head  anywhere 
about  town,  this  cavalier  was  joined  by 
two  similar  portents,  who,  likewise  stum- 
bling and  sliding,  caused  him  to  stumble 
and  slide  the  more  distressingly.  At  length 
this  Gilpinian  triumvirate  effected  a  halt, 
and,  looking  northward,  waved  their  three 
right  hands  as  commanding  unseen  troops 
to  Up  guards  and  at  'em.  Hereupon  a 
brazen  band  burst  forth,  which  caused  them 
to  be  instantly  bolted  with  to  some  remote 
spot  of  earth  in  the  direction  of  the  Surrey 
Hills. 

Judging  from  these  appearances  that  a 
procession  was  xmder  way,  I  threw  up  my 
window,  and,  craning  out,  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  beholding  it  advancing  along  the 
street.  It  was  a  Tee-Total  procession,  as 
I  learnt  from  its  banners,  and  was  long 
enough  to  consume  twenty  minutes  in  pass- 
ing. There  were  a  great  number  of  chil- 
dren in  it,  some  of  them  so  very  young 
in  their  mothers'  arms  as  to  be  in  the  act 
of  practically  exemplifying  their  abstinence 
from  fermented  liquors,  and  attachment  to 
an  unintoxicating  drink,  while  the  pro- 
cession defiled.  The  display  was,  on  the 
whole,  pleasant  to  sec,  as  any  good- 
humoured  holiday  assemblage  of  clean, 
cheerful,  and  well-conducted  people  should 
be.  It  was  bright  with  ribbons,  tinsel,  and 
shoulder-belts,  and  aboxmdcd  in  flowers, 
as  if  those  latter  trophies  had  come  up 
in  profusion  under  much  watering.  The 
day  being  breezy,  the  insubordination  of 
the  largo  banners  was  very  reprehensible. 
Each  of  these,  being  borne  alofl  on  two 
poles  and  stayed  with  some  half  dozen  lincs» 
was  carried,  as  polite  books  in  the  last 
century  used  to  be  written,  by  "  various 
hands,"  and  the  anxiety  expressed  in  the 
upturned  faces  of  those  officers — something 
between  the  anxiety  attendant  on.  tlcia  V^ss^- 
lancing  art,  and  tiiAi  mae^gaitiJcX'fe  ^xQixi.H5cka 


^ 


^ 


& 


14      CJon*  <i  1M>.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bj 


pastime  of  kite  flying,  with  a  toncli  of  the 
angler's  quality  in  landing  his  scaly  prey — 
much  impressed  me.  Suddenly,  too,  a  banner 
would  shiver  in  the  wind,  and  go  about  in 
the  most  inconvenient  manner.  This  al- 
ways happened  oficnest  with  such  gorgeous 
staiidards  as  those  representing  a  gentle- 
man in  black,  corpulent  with  tea  and 
water,  in  the  laudable  act  of  summarily 
reforming  a  family  feeble  and  pinched  with 
beer.  The  gentleman  in  black  distended  by 
wind  would  then  conduct  himself  with  the 
most  unbecoming  levity,  while  the  beery 
fitmily,  growing  beerier,  would  frantically 
try  to  tear  themselves  away  from  his  minis- 
tration. Some  of  the  inscriptions  accom- 
panying the  banners  were  of  a  highly  deter- 
mined character,  as  "  We  never,  never,  will 
give  up  the  temperance  cause :"  with  simi- 
lar sound  resolutions,  rather  suggestive  to 
the  profane  mind  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  "  I 
never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber,"  and  of  Mr. 
Micawbcr*s  retort,  "  Really,  my  dear,  I  am 
not  aware  that  you  were  ever  required  by 
any  human  being  to  do  anything  of  the 
sort." 

At  intervals  a  gloom  would  fall  On  the 
passing  members  of  the  procession,  for 
which  I  was  at  first  unable  to  account. 
But  this  I  discovered,  after  a  little  obser- 
vation, to  be  occasioned  by  the  coming-on 
of  the  Executioners — the  terrible  official 
Beings  who  were  to  make  the  speeches 
bye-and-bye — ^who  were  distributed  in  open 
carriages  at  various  points  of  the  caval- 
cade. A  dark  cloud  and  a  sensation  of 
dampness,  as  from  many  wet  blankets, 
invariably  preceded  the  rolling  on  of  the 
dreadful  cars  containing  these  Headsmen, 
and  I  noticed  that  the  wretched  people 
who  closely  followed  them,  and  who  were 
in  a  manner  forced  to  contemplate  their 
folded  arms,  complacent  coimtenances,  and 
threatening  lips,  were  more  overshadowed 
by  the  cloud  and  damp  than  those  in  front. 
Indeed,  I  perceived  in  some  of  these  so 
moody  an  implacability  towards  the  mag- 
nates of  the  scaffold,  and  so  plain  a  desire 
to  tear  them  limb  from  limb,  that  I  would 
respectfully  suggest  to  the  managers  the 
expediency  of  conveying  the  Executioners 
to  the  scone  of  their  dismal  labours  by 
unfrequented  ways,  and  in  closely  tilted 
carts,  next  Whitsuntide. 

The  Procession  was  composed  of  a  series 
of  smaller  processions  which  had  come  to- 
gether, each  from  its  own  metropoUtan 
district.  An  infrision  of  Allegory  became  per- 
ceptible when  patriotic  Peckham  advanced. 
So  I  judged,  from  the  circumstance  of  Peck- 


ham's  unfurling  a  silken  banner  that  fanned 
Heaven  and  Earth  with  the  words  **  The 
Peckham  Life  Boat."  No  Boat  being  in  at- 
tendance, though  Life,  in  the  hkeness  of  "  a 
gallant,  gallant,  crew"  in  nautical  uniform 
followed  the  flag,  I  was  led  to  meditate  on 
the  fact  that  Peckham  is  described  by 
Geographers  as  an  inland  settlement  with 
no  larger  or  nearer  shore-line  than  the 
towing-path  of  the  Surrey  Canal,  on  which 
stormy  station  I  had  been  given  to  un- 
derstand no  Life  Boat  exists.  Thus  I 
deduced  an  allegorical  meaning,  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  if  patriotic  Peckham 
picked  a  peck  of  pickled  poetry,  this  was 
the  peck  of  pickled  poetry  which  patriotic 
Peckham  picked. 

I  have  observed  that  the  aggregate  Pro- 
cession was  on  the  whole  pleasant  to  see. 
I  made  use  of  that  qualified  expression  with 
a  direct  meaning  which  I  will  now  explain. 
It  involves  the  title  of  this  paper,  and  a 
little  fair  trying  of  Tee-Totalism  by  its  own 
tests. 

There  were  many  people  on  foot,  and 
many  people  in  vehicles  of  various  kinds. 
The  former  were  pleasant  to  see,  and  the 
latter  were  not  pleasant  to  see :  for  the  reason 
that  I  never,  on  any  occasion  or  under  any 
circumstances,  have  beheld  heavier  over- 
loading of  horses  than  in  tliis  public  show. 
Unless  the  imposition  of  a  great  van 
laden  with  from  ten  to  twenty  people  on  a 
single  horse  be  a  moderate  taslong  of  the 
poor  creature,  then  the  Temperate  use  of 
horses  was  immoderate  and  cruel.  From 
the  smallest  and  lightest  horse  to  the  largest 
and  heaviest,  there  were  many  instances 
in  which  the  beast  of  burden  was  so 
shamefully  overladen,  that  the  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  has 
frequently  interposed  in  less  gross  cases. 

Now,  I  have  always  held  that  there  may 
be,  and  that  there  unquestionably  is,  such 
a  thing  as  Use  without  Abuse,  and  that 
therefore  the  Total  AboHtionists  are  irra- 
tional and  wrong-headed.  But  the  Proces- 
sion completely  converted  me.  For,  so 
large  a  number  of  the  people  using  draught- 
horses  in  it  were  clearly  unable  to  Use 
them  without  Abusing  them,  that  I  per- 
ceived Total  Abstinence  from  Horseflesh  to 
be  the  only  remedy  of  which  the  case  ad- 
mitted. As  it  is  all  one  to  Tee-Totallers 
whether  you  take  half  a  pint  of  beer  or  half  a 
gallon,  so  it  was  all  one  here  whether  the 
beast  of  burden  were  a  pony  or  a  cart-horse. 
Indeed,  my  case  had  the  special  strength 
that  the  half-pint  quadruped  underwent  as 
much  Buffering  as  the  half-gallon  quadi'u- 


^^ 


:^ 


AkIm  Diekeni.] 


LOST  AND  FOUND  IN  THE  SNOW. 


IJime  ff,  18i9L]     15 


l| 


pecL  Moral :  Total  Abstinence  from  Horse- 
flesh throngh  the  whole  length  and  breadth 
of  the  scale.  This  Pledge  will  be  in  course 
of  administration  to  all  Tee-Total  proces- 
sionists, not  pedestrians,  at  the  publishing 
office  of  All  the  Year  Bound,  on  the  first 
day  of  April,  One  Thousand  Eight  Hun- 
dred and  Seventy. 

Observe  a  point  for  consideration.  This 
Procession  comprised  many  persons,  in 
their  gigs,  broughams,  tax-carts,  barouches, 
chaises,  and  what  not,  who  were  merciful 
to  the  dumb  beasts  that  drew  them,  and 
did  not  overcharge  their  strength.  What 
is  to  be  done  with  those  unofieuding  per- 
sons ?  I  wiU  not  run  amuck  and  viUfy  and 
defame  them,  as  Tee-Total  tracts  and  plat- 
forms would  most  assuredly  do,  if  the 
question  were  one  of  drinking  instead  of 
driving ;  I  merely  ask  what  is  to  be  done 
with  them  ?  The  reply  admits  of  no  dis- 
pute whatever.  Manifestly,  in  strict  ac- 
cordance with  Tee-Total  Doctrines,  they 
must  come  in  too,  and  take  the  Total  Absti- 
nence from  Horseflesh  Pledge.  It  is  not 
pretended  that  those  members  of  the  Pro- 
cession misused  certain  auxiliaries  which  in 
most  countries  and  all  ages  have  been  be- 
stowed upon  man  for  his  use,  but  it  is  unde- 
niable that  other  members  of  the  Procession 
did.  Tee-Total  mathematics  demonstrate 
that  the  less  includes  the  greater ;  that  tlie 
guilty  include  the  innocent,  the  blind  the 
seeing,  the  deaf  the  hearing,  the  dumb  the 
speaking,  the  drunken  the  sober.  If  any  of 
the  moderate  users  of  draught-cattle  in 
question  should  deem  that  there  is  any 
gentle  violence  done  to  tlieir  reason  by 
these  elements  of  logic,  they  are  invited  to 
come  out  of  the  Procession  next  Whitsun- 
tide, and  look  at  it  fiom  my  window. 


LOST  AND  FOUND  IN  TIIE  SNOW. 

High  up,  below  the  summit  of  the  Brockcn, 
chief  of  the  Ilarz  mountains,  is  a  flat  moorland, 
the  Brockenfeld,  wild,  dreary,  far  from  men. 
The  nearest  town  belongs  to  the  miners  of 
Andreasberg,  three  hours  distant,  and  the  wea- 
ther is  not  often  friendly  to  much  intercourse. 
The  air  of  the  Brockenfeld  is  nearly  always  cold, 
the  trees  are  stunted  and  overgrown  with  a  long 
grey  lichen,  which  apparently  protects  them  from 
the  wintry  blast,  and  looks  like  the  beard  of  an 
old  man.  No  flowery  fields  are  here  ;  no  com, 
not  even  potatoes,  will  thrive  in  this  dreary 
homo  of  cold  weather,  starved  and  deformed 
trees,  long  damp  moss,  reeds,  and  sedges. 

Only  a  rare  wanderer  passes  this  way,  or  an  emi- 
grant trading  in  canary-birds,  which  are  largely 
)ired  among  the  miners,  and  brought  down  to 
llarzburg,  thence  to  be  despatched  over  Europe 


in  the  tiny  wicker  cages  we  often  see  them  sold  in. 
Or  perchance  in  the  height  of  sunmier  visitors 
from  llarzburg,  who  are  using  the  saline  batibs 
there,  or  consumptive  patients  from  the  fir- 
needle cure  of  Andreasberg,  will  drive  to  the 
Brockenfeld  to  see  the  famous  Kehberger 
Graben.  Such  visitors  put  up  and  dine  at  ihe 
forester's  house,  the  only  habitation  in  this 
district. 

It  was  occupied  some  years  ago  by  Paul 
Smitt,  whose  post  was  a  tolerably  lucrative  one, 
the  Hanoverian  government  having  made  some 
amends  in  payment  for  the  lone  position.  But 
even  the  good  pay  tempted  few  to  accept  the 
situation. 

When  it  was  offered  to  Paul  he  accepted  it 
eagerly.  It  was  the  very  spot  for  him.  lie  was 
a  tall,  sturdy,  flnc-looking  man,  his  handsome 
face  bronzed  with  long  exposure  to  the  wind 
and  weather ;  only  when  he  lifted  his  sugar-loaf 
shaped  green  huntsman's  hat  was  there  a  bit  of 
fair  skin  visible  along  the  top  of  his  forehead. 
His  quiet  blue  eyes  lay  deep  in  his  head,  shaded 
by  somewhat  overhanging  brows  which  gave  a 
stem  appearance  to  his  face.  He  had  always 
been  grave  ;  as  a  boy  he  had  not  mixed  in  the 
sports  of  his  companions,  but  kept  aloof  and 
apart  from  them  to  study  his  forester  craft.  He 
loved  his  profession  for  its  own  sake,  but  there 
had  been  a  time  when  he  had  loved  it  also  for 
the  sake  of  another,  hoping  by  steady  work 
sooner  to  bring  about  the  doubhng  of  his  happi- 
ness. He  had  served  his  apprenticeship  under 
a  lowland  forester,  who  encouraged  and  loved 
the  studious  youth,  and  did  not  see  with  any 
dissatisfaction  that  he  worked  harder  after  the 
forester  s  pretty  daughter,  Beatrice,  came  from 
her  city  boarding-school.  Old  Emil  Bergen 
was  glad  to  think  that  a  young  man  he  liked  so 
much  might  become  his  son-in-law,  and  reUcve 
him  of  all  further  care  for  his  one  motherless 
child.  He  therefore  brought  the  young  people 
as  much  together  as  he  could,  and  once  when 
a  ticklish  matter  had  to  be  reported  down  in  the 
town,  instead  of  going  himself,  he  sent  Paul, 
thus  putting  him  in  the  way  for  promotion. 

It  was  then,  before  he  left  for  the  town,  that 
Paul  spoke  his  mind  to  Beatrice.  He  had  been 
working  in  the  wood  all  the  afternoon  looking 
after  the  welfare  of  a  young  spruce  nursery, 
when  she  passed  him  with  a  bunch  of  wood 
camelias  in  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  Paul,"  she  said,  seeing  him,  **  look  how 
many  of  these  I  have  found.  They  arc  my 
favourite  flowers,  I  love  their  simplicity ;  they 
thrive  in  out-of-the-way  places ;  tliey  are  not 
ambitious*'  she  added  with  a  smile.  '*  Not  like 
you,  Paul." 

"  Do  you  dislike  my  ambition  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  but  you  sit  evening  after  evening 
over  your  books,  studying  how  to  improve  your 
position  in  the  world,  and  I  think  you  might 
have  given  us  more  of  your  company." 

"And  for  whom  do  you  think  I  work  so 
hard?"  he  asked,  looking  straight  into  her  face. 

**  How  should  I  know  V"  she  said,  saucily, 
though  she  blushed  and  looked  down. 

"  Do  you  core  to  know  V"  he  resumed,  and  aa 


\ 


SJ= 


<£ 


:fe 


16      IJmo8,U«.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condooted  by 


he  spoke  he  advanced  a  step  nearer  her  and 
to^k  the  hand  that  hung  listless  by  her  side ; 
the  other  held  the  flowers  in  which  she  was  now 
burying  her  blushing  face.  She  knew  what  was 
coming ;  she  dread^  it,  she  longed  for  it,  she 
seemed  rooted  to  the  spot  as  by  some  magic 
spell.    She  neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 

**  Beatrice,  I  love  you.  I  wished  to  work 
to  make  a  position  for  myself  in  which  my 
wife  could  live  at  ease  as  she  had  been  used 
to  do  at  home.  I  did  not  feel  it  honourable 
to  take  a  girl  from  a  good  home  to  offer  her 
a  less  comfortable  one.  You  led  me  on  just 
now,  or  it  would  not  have  been  till  I  nad 
house  and  range  to  call  my  own  that  I  would 
have  stent  to  you  ^nd  said,  Beatrice,  I  love 
you.  Will  you  be  my  wife?  But  as  it  is, 
it  is;  and  if  you  can  give  me  only  a  hope, 
Beatrice " 

She  did  not  answer  him  one  tiny  word.  Her 
head  was  only  buried  deeper  in  the  flowers,  but 
she  did  not  resist  him  either  when  be  drew  her 
closer  to  him,  when  he  held  her  in  his  strong 
embrace,  and  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  bowed  head. 

*^  Say  one  word  to  me,  Beatrice,^'  he  pleaded ; 
"  one  word." 

"I  love  you,  Paul,"  she  stammered.  And 
then  hastily  broke  away  from  him,  and  ran 
into  the  house.       " 

A  week  after  this  the  young  man  left  for  the 
town,  where  he  stayed  three  months,  and  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  was  appointed  to  a  station 
twelve  miles  distant  from  nis  love.  Though  it 
divided  them,  it  made  him  glad,  for  woiSd  it 
not  soon  bring  them  together  ?  It  was  not  an 
advancement  he  could  marry  on,  but  it  was  the 
intermediate  step  to  such  promotion,  and  he 
was  pleased  to  have  got  so  far.  Before  depart- 
ing for  his  new  home,  he  went  once  more  to 
say  farewell  to  his  old  one,  and  to  take  away  his 
few  possessions.  All  was  as  he  had  left  it,  ex- 
cept Beatrice,  and  she  seemed  changed,  how  he 
could  hardly  say. 

There  wa3  a  shyness  and  distance  about  her 
manner  towards  himself  that  pained  him ;  she 
had  more  the  behaviour  of  a  lady  than  those 
simple  girlish  ways  he  had  delighted  in  before. 
When  he  dropped  any  hint  of  this  to  her  father 
he  pooh-poohed  it.  *'  Why,  Paul,"  he  said,  **  the 
maid  must  change  into  the  woman,  and  thought 
of  approaching  matrimony  sobers  every  girl. 
These  are  cobwebs  of  the  brain,  boy,  shake 
them  off,  they  are  not  worthy  of  her  or  of  you." 

Paul  left  the  old  Forsthaus  with  an  anxious 
heart.  But  youth  is  so  trustful  and  love  so 
desirous  to  believe  what  it  hopes,  that  the 
cheerful,  friendly  letters  he  received  fortnightly 
from  kind  old  Emil  Bergen,  full  of  news  and 
messages  from  Beatrice,  dispelled  his  doubts 
and  fears.  The  yoimg  man  worked  on  as  steadily 
as  ever. 

But  one  August  morning  he  received  two 
letters.  One  was  written  in  the  stiff  handwriting 
of  his  old  master,  the  other  sealed  with  the  huge 
governmental  seal.  He  hastily  broke  the  latter 
for  he  thought  it  might  directly  concern  the 
attainment  of  his  aim  in  life ;  nor  was  he  mis- 
taken.    The  writing  offered  to  Paul  Smitt, 


Forster,  the  Forsterei  of  Oderbruck  on  the 
Brockenfeld,  with  a  good  income  and  certain 
privileges  in  consideration  of  its  lonely  position. 

Can  I  take  Beatrice  there?  was  his  first 
thought.  Will  it  be  right  thus  to  bury  her 
alive.  For  himself  he  had  no  thought ;  where- 
ever  she  was  there  was  life  enough  for  him. 

While  thus  considering,  he  opened  the  other 
letter.  His  eyes  flew  over  the  pages,  and  as  he 
read  his  face  grew  hard  and  sad.  When  he 
had  come  to  the  end  he  crunched  the  letter 
wildly  in  his  hand,  threw  it  far  from  him,  and 
tottering  into  a  chair  burst  into  tears. 

The  letter  that  had  changed  the  whole  current 
of  Paulas  being  ran  thus  : 

"  My  WELL  LOVED  Paul, — How  shall  I  find 
words  in  which  to  clothe  my  grief— our  grief — 
for  it  is  yours  as  well  as  mine,  my  boy  ?  E^trice 
is  ours  no  longer ;  yesterday  she  left  her  father^s 

home  to  follow  the  young  squire  of  V .  All 

I  can  learn  is  that  the  gentleman  has  met  her 
much  lately  in  the  wood,  that  they  went  away 

together,   and  were  last  seen  near  G .    I 

shall  not  attempt  to  follow  her,  to  try  and 
bring  her  back.  She  can  be  my  daughter  no 
longer.  To  deceive  her  doting  old  father  and 
affianced  husband ;  no,  Paul,  to  forgive  her, 
is  more  than  I  can  do.  But  you,  my  boy,  you 
must  remain  my  son,  as  such  I  have  always 
loved  you.  Come  to  see  me  as  soon  as  you 
can  leave ;  my  eyes  long  to  behold  you,  my 
ears  to  hear  your  voice.  We  will  grieve  to- 
gether for  our  darling.  Come  to  your  affec- 
tionate fosterfather, 

"  Emil  Bergen." 

Paul  accepted  the  governmental  offer.  What 
place  could  oe  too  lonely  for  him  now  ?  What 
place  lonely  enough  wherein  to  bury  himself 
and  his  grief?  There  was  a  quiet  meeting  of 
the  two  men,  struck  by  the  same  blow,  the  elder 
brought  by  it  nearer  to  the  grave,  the  younger 
having  formed  through  it  a  grave  for  the  full 
pride  of  life  and  youth.  There  was  not  much 
more  for  Paul  to  hear.  The  father  knew  little 
of  his  daughter,  and  had  not  sought  to  learn 
more. 

*'  Paul,  should  she  ever  fall  in  your  way, 
deal  kindly  to  her,  for  her  father's  sake  if  you 
can  no  longer  do  so  for  her  own.  Will  you, 
Paul  ?" 

"  I  will,"  he  replied,  firmly.  **  And  now  fare- 
well, my  good  father ;  may  we  soon  meet  again, 
happy  we  can  never  be,  but  perchance  we  may 
become  more  resigned." 

"Amen,"  said  the  old  man,  but  he  shook  his 
head  doubtfully. 

From  that  day  forth  Paul  Smitt  of  Oderbruck 
had  lived  in  the  lonely  Forsthaus,  and  since 
that  day  there  had  passed  ten  long,  weary,  un- 
eventful years.  He  did  his  work  conscientiously 
and  well,  was  respected  and  feared  by  his  ser- 
vants and  dependants,  but  during  all  those 
years  no  one  had  come  any  nearer  to  the  lonely 
man.  If  any  one  were  ill  or  in  trouble,  he  was 
kind  and  sympathetic,  inexhaustible  in  charity 
and  well  doing,  but  all  thanks,  all  expressicm 


=)P 


Ohftrtes  Diofceiis.] 


LOST  AND  FOUND  IN  THE  SNOW. 


[Jane  6, 1M9.]      17 


of  feeling  he  would  ward  off  sternly.  One  day 
sped  with  him  like  another.  At  six  he  would 
take  his  frugal  breakfast  of  beer,  soup,  and 
coarse  black  bread,  at  one  he  dined  as  frugally, 
at  eight  he  took  his  supper,  read  for  his  instruc- 
tion or  amusement  until  ten,  then  went  to  bed. 

Paul's  grief  had  not  dimini^ed  by  his  brood- 
ing on  it  as  the  years  rolled  on.  Before  he  had 
been  three  weeks  at  his  new  home  old  Emil 
Bergen  died,  and  Paul  was  left  without  a  friend 
in  the  world.  The  only  people  with  whom  he 
might  have  visited  were  the  keepers  of  the 
hotel  on  the  top  of  the  Brocken,  to  whom  it 
was  a  two  hours  walk  over  a  rough,  stony  road. 
But  he  never  sought  their  society ;  besidep,  in 
summer  they  were  too  busy  with  constant  visi- 
tors, and  in  the  winter  they  were  either  totally 
snowed  up,  or  left  the  place  altogether. 

One  wmter  night,  the  wind  howled  and 
moaned,  and  beat  against  the  firm-built  house 
as  though  it  would  level  it  at  one  gust,  and 
when  the  wind  ceased,  the  snow  began  steadily 
to  fall,  and  falling  still  for  eight  whole  days, 
lay  so  high  upon  the  ground  that  the  only  way 
out  of  the  house  was  by  its  roof.  This  was 
not  unusual,  and  when  the  snow  had  hardened 
over,  the  inmates  turned  out  by  the  roof  as 
'diough  it  were  a  most  natural  tlung.  After  a 
few  days  it  snowed  again,  and  one  night  Paul 
was  roused  from  sleep  by  hearing  some  commo- 
tion in  the  house. 

*^  WTiat  is  it?"  he  called  out ;  **  what  is  the 
matter?" 

** Travellers  lost  in  the  snow,  sir;  we  are 
bringing  them  in." 

"Right,"  he  replied,  "I  shaU  be  down  di- 
rectly." And  in  a  few  moments  he  was  standing 
among  his  men  in  the  long  dark  passage,  where 
by  the  dim  light  of  a  candle  a  woman^s  body  was 
beiog  borne  into  the  house,  followed  by  a  man 
carrying  a  child.  The  boy  was  living,  tnere  was 
no  doubt  of  that,  but  the  woman^s  fate  was 
doubtful.  When  he  saw  that  it  was  a  woman, 
Paul  approached  no  nearer. 

"Prepare  a  warm  bedroom  at  once,"  he 
commanded.  "  Hand  her  over  to  the  female 
servants,  and  let  me  know  if  she  be  alive  or 
dead.  For  all  restoratives  come  to  me.  You, 
my  brave  fellows,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
rescuers,  "  come  in  here  and  drink  something 
hot." 

This  invitation  they  were  not  slow  to  obey, 
and  while  drinking,  they  told  how  they  had  been 
belated  at  their  work,  how  they  had  heard  some- 
thing moaning  at  their  feet,  and  how  they  had 
found  this  couple  half  buried  in  the  snow.  Pre- 
sently a  woman  servant  came  in  and  reported 
that  the  mother  was  alive  but  very  ill,  and  Paul 
ordered  that  if  it  were  possible,  some  one  should 
go  over  to  Andreasberg  next  day  to  fetch  the 
doctor.  Meanwhile  they  should  take  the  usual 
precautions  for  her  and  the  child ;  for  the  care 
of  people  rescued  from  the  snow  was  not  a  new 
experience  at  Oderbruck.  Had  the  unfortunate 
wanderer  been  a  man,  Paul  would  have  been 
the  first  at  his  bedside ;  but  a  woman,  such  a 
case  had  not  occurred  before,  and  he  avoided 
women.    For  weeks  this  woman  lay  in  his  house  I 


half  dead.  Daily  he  inquired  after  her,  allowed 
his  two  maids  to  devote  themselves  entirely  to 
her  and  the  child,  but  in  no  other  way  allowed 
this  incident  to  interfere  with  his  life.  The 
child,  which  had  once  run  in  his  way  and  stood 
in  mute  admiration  of  the  splendid  man  in  grey 
and  green,  he  sternly  ordered  to  be  kept  out  of 
sight.  "  Feed  and  keep  the  boy  well,  let  him 
have  all  he  needs,  but  do  not  let  him  run  in  my 
path,"  he  said.    And  it  never  happened  again. 

After  months  of  illness,  weeks  of  convales- 
cence, the  sick  woman  was  restored  to  health,  and 
with  her  complete  restoration  spring  also  had  set 
in,  and  she  was  anxious  to  proceed  upon  her  way. 
But  though  warned  and  dissuaded  bv  all  the 
servants,  she  could  not  be  induced  to  leave  the 
house  without  seeing  its  master,  and  thanking 
him  in  person  for  his  kindness. 

So  one  evening  in  the  twilight,  when  she  had 
heard  his  firm  heavy  tread  along  the  gravel, 
had  heard  him  close  the  outer  door  behind  him, 
and  when  he  was  about  to  enter  his  parlour, 
she  ran  down  from  her  room  and  encountered 
him  in  the  dark  passage. 

"  Who  is  it  ?*'  he  adced ;  he  seeing  still  less 
than  she,  for  he  had  come  from  out  of  the 
Ught. 

"  The  woman  whom  you  have  sheltered  for 
so  long,  sir.  May  I  not  speak  a  few  words  to 
you  ?"  she  asked,  for  he  seemed  inclined  to  enter 
the  room  and  leave  her  standing  without. 

"What  is  it?  Do  you  want  to  know  your 
way?  Mvmen  can  tell  you.  Or  money? — 
you  shall  have  some." 

"  Neither,"  she  said,  taken  aback  by  the  hard- 
ness  of  his  address.  "  I  wanted  to  thank  you." 
As  she  spoke,  she  followed  him  into  the  room. 

He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  window  and 
disembarrassed  himself  of  his  gun ;  she  was  op- 

Eosite  him  and  the  failing  light  fell  full  upon 
er  face. 

"I  do  not  love  thanks.  I  have  done  no 
more  than  common  humanity  demanded."  He 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  mien  that  said,  you 
can  go  now.  But  when  he  saw  her,  he  was 
spell-bound ;  a  wild  glare  came  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  seized  her  fiercely  by  the  hand. 

"  Beatrice,  is  it  you  ?" 

It  was  her  turn  to  be  amazed ;  she  had  not 
seen  him  clearly  before;  now  he  had  turned 
more  to  the  light. 

"My  God!"  she  stammered.  "O  no,  it 
cannot  be  Paul  Smitt !" 

"  It  is,"  he  said,  dropping  her  hand.  The 
wild  look  had  faded,  the  face  had  regained 
its  hardness.  "  I  am  glad,"  he  went  on  stiffly, 
"that  chance  has  thrown  you  in  my  way.  I  can 
now  deliver  the  message  your  dead  father  gave 
me  for  you." 

"  My  father  dead  I*'  she  screamed.  "  Oh 
Heaven,  this  also  I"  She  fell  down  fainting  at 
his  feet. 

Coolly  and  with  seeming  unconcern  Paul  rang 
for  a  servant,  told  him  to  remove  the  fainting 
woman,  said  that  if  she  asked  for  a  message 
from  him,  they  should  give  her  a  letter  he  would 
presently  write,  ordered  that  she  should  be  sped 
on  her  way  with  every  comfort,  but  commanded 


«5= 


v 


(I& 


=^ 


18     [Jane  5,  ISeSil 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondactedby 


sternly  that  she  might  be  brought  no  more  into 
hiB  presence. 

iter  father  dead,  the  father  to  whom  she  was 
now  about  to  go,  to  fall  down  at  his  feet  and 
entreat  his  forgiveness,  to  pray  him  to  grant  a 
home,  if  not  to  herself,  at  least  to  her  child. 
Led  away  by  childish  vanity,  Beatrice  had 
trusted  the  promises  of  the  young  squire  of 

V tliat  ho  would  make  her  a  lady,  elevate 

her  to  his  own  rank.  She  had  firmly  believed 
until  some  few  years  since  that  he  had  married 
her,  that  the  paper  he  had  given  her  to  sign 
was  a  true  document,  and  that  she  had  been 
basely  deserted  by  her  husband.  AVhen  he  left 
her,  she  had  settled  down  quietly  and  soberly 
in  busy  little  Andreasberg,  where  neither  her 
name  nor  her  story  was  known.  There  she  had 
lived,  respected  and  beloved,  working  her  way 
steadily,  keeping  herself  and  educating  her 
child,  and  even  her  own  keen  shame  was  begin- 
ning to  deaden  somewhat  in  feeling  from  its 
having  no  nourishment  from  without.  Till  one 
day,  as  she  was  walking  through  the  market- 
place to  take  some  work  home,  she  met  the  man 
who  had  played  her  false.  He  was  arm  in  arm 
with  another  gentleman,  smoking  and  laughing. 
She  flew  towards  him,  stammering  she  knew 
not  what,  lie  turned  upon  her  fiercely,  and 
muttered :  *^  You  shall  suJOfer  for  this,  woman  T* 
Then  with  some  light  laughing  remark  to  his 
companion,  of  which  she  could  only  distinguish 
*^  Some  mistaken  resemblance — must  bo  mad  !'* 
they  passed  along. 

Irom  that  day,  Andreasberg  was  no  refuge 
for  her.  Her  story,  mutilated  and  aggravated, 
was  in  every  onc^s  mouth,  and  one  day,  goaded 
to  despair  and  frenzy,  she  determined  to  run 
from  the  town  and  seek  her  father's  house 
once  more.  At  least  he  could  not  be  harder 
than  the  world.  An  angry  visit  from  the 
squire,  whom  she  had  crossed  effectually  in  a 
plan  of  marriage,  caused  her  to  pack  her  few 
valuables  about  herself,  take  up  her  child, 
and  fly  from  him  into  the  dark  cold  night 
with  the  snow  lying  thickly  on  the  ground. 
She  had  gone  on  and  on  in  a  condition  of  half 
dream,  with  only  sense  enough  to  cover  her 
boy  from  the  cold ;  she  felt  how  the  chill  air 
was  benumbing  her,  how  the  snow  clogged  her 
footsteps,  and  at  last  knew  nothiug  more  till 
she  found  herself  at  the  forester's  house.  From 
the  wrath  of  the  deceiver  to  the  wrath  of  the 
deceived. 

Beatrice  threw  herself  on  the  floor  in  an  agony 
of  grief.  As  she  lay  thus,  the  servant  Anna 
came  in. 

*'  ]^ladam,"  she  said,  ^*  your  child  is  not  well. 
Will  you  come  to  him  ?" 

Jn  an  instant  all  her  senses  returned,  and  she 
followed  to  the  adjoining  i-oom.  The  boy  lay 
in  his  little  bed,  his  face  re<l  with  fever,  moan- 
ing as  though  in  pain,  and  when  he  saw  his 
mother,  it  was  but  a  very  weak  smile  that  played 
round  his  face. 

**  My  child,  my  child !"  cried  Beatrice,  falling 
on  her  knees  beside  the  cot ;  '^  you  must  not  be 
ill  now,  not  just  now,  we  cannot  stay  here,  we 
must  go.    Do  you  think  it  is  serious,  Anna?" 


(( 


I'm  afraid  he's  sickening  for  some  child's 
illness,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply ;  "  at  any  rate 
you  cannot  move  him  as  he  is,  you  must  wait 
and  see  what  it  turns  to." 

^^But  I  can  stay  in  this  house  no  longer," 
she  cried,  ^*  I  must,  I  must,  go." 

**  The  Herr  Forster  would  never  turn  you  out 
while  he  could  offer  you  a  roof.  You  do  not  know 
him,  niiadam  ;  you  do  not  know  how  good  he  is. 
I  will  go  to  him  and  tell  him  the  child  is  ill,  and 
he  will,  I  am  sure,  press  you  to  remain,"  and 
before  Beatrice  could  prevent  her  the  girl  was 
gone. 

While  Beatrice  was  fighting  with  herself, 
holding  her  child  in  her  arms  meanwhile,  the 
door  opened  and  a  firm  step  passed  along  the 
floor.  She  did  not  need  to  raise  her  head. 
She  knew  who  stood  there. 

**  Beatrice,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  softer 
than  it  had  been  that  morning,  *^  Beatrice,  you 
must  stay  here;  you  must  not  imperil  your 
child  s  Ufe.  I  shall  not  come  into  your  way 
more  than  before ;  had  you  not  sought  me,  you 
would  never  have  known  under  whose  roof  you 
had  been  all  this  while ;  nor  should  I  have 
known,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  failing  him 
somewhat,  *<  whom  I  had  sheltered." 

For  some  seconds  there  was  silence  in  the 
room,  then:  **IIave  you  any  belongings ?"  he 
suddenly  asked,  ''  who  will  be  anxious  at  your 
long  absence  ?  I  will  send  a  messenger  if  you 
will  tell  me  where  and  to  whom." 

It  had  cost  him  much  to  ask  this  question. 

"  None." 

He  felt  strangely  relieved  by  the  answer  ; 
why,  he  did  not  know.     **  Are  you  a  widow  ?" 

*'  I  was  never  a  wife." 

He  said  no  more,  but  stood  for  some  time 
silently  before  her.  His  usually  firm-set  mouth 
worked  ominously,  and  some  tempest  was  brew- 
ing in  his  inner  man  ;  but  he  beat  it  down,  and 
said,  after  some  time  of  silence :  *^  See  that  the 
child  wants  no  comforts,  the  doctor  ^ill,  I  hope, 
be  here  to-morrow  ;  it  is  difficult  to  get  one  to 
come,  we  are  so  out  of  the  world.  1  wish  the 
boy  a  good  recovery.  Farewell !"  He  turned 
to  leave  the  room. 

"Paul!"  she  cried,  "Paul!"  and  she  8tret<:hed 
out  her  hands  imploringly  after  him.  She  under- 
stood that  he  meant  tliis  to  be  a  farewell  for 
ever ;  he  did  not  wish  to  see  her  again ;  and  yet 
she  felt  through  it  all  that  he  loved  her  still. 
She  could  not  bear  to  see  him  depart  thus. 

"Hush!"  he  said,  turning  round,  with  his 
hand  upon  the  lock  of  the  door,  "you  will 
excite  your  child ;"  with  that  he  opened  it  and 
vanished. 

A  fearful  time  followed  this  I  The  child  lay 
for  weeks  ill  of  scarlet  fever,  combatting  be- 
tween life  and  death.  Beatrice  never  left  his 
bedside;  neither  she  nor  the  doctor  diired 
venture  a  hope  for  his  recovery. 

As  for  Paul,  he  went  about  his  daily  work 
steadily  and  sternly  as  usual,  but  there  was  a 
greater  thoughtfulness  about  liis  mouth,  and  a 
deeper  sadness  about  his  eye,  and  his  people 
dared  approach  him  less  than  ever.  For  in- 
wardly a  fierce  battle  was  raging.    He  loved 


I 


t 


.5: 


=&> 


(AuiM  Dickens.] 


POPULAR  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


[Jnno  ff,  18«a]      19 


Beatrice  still,  blindly,  devotedly ;  the  sight  of 
her  had  roused  him  from  his  life  in  death.  He 
had  learnt  that  she  uras  free,  could  still  be  his, 
and  yet  he  hesitated.  All  would  he  forgive  and 
forget,  but  could  he  forget  with  the  child  daily 
under  his  eyes?  Perhaps  he  might  die  in  this 
fever ;  and  that  was  his  one  hope  and  wild  desire, 
that  the  child  might  die.  He  inquired  con  stantly 
as  to  its  welfare  and  if  he  heard  it  was  worse,  a 
fierce  pleasure  would  shoot  through  his  heart. 

At  length,  one  day,  when  he  was  returning 
from  his  work,  he  met  Beatrice  in  the  httle 
wood  behind  the  house.  Her  face  had  become 
thin  and  drawn  with  care,  her  eyes  were  sunk 
and  red  with  weeping,  her  whole  aspect  piteous. 
The  nurse  had  sent  her  into  the  air,  declaring 
that  if  she  did  not  go  out,  she  too  would  be  ill, 
and  then  what  would  become  of  the  boy.  She 
moved  along  the  walks  like  a  sad  spirit,  and 
when  she  saw  the  tall  figure  approaching  from 
the  opposite  side,  she  started  and  turned  paler. 
"  How  is  the  boy?"  asked  Paul,  coming  up 
to  her. 

»*  He  is  dying,  I  fear ;  and  O !  I  cannot  bear 
to  lose  him."  She  rung  her  hands  in  her 
ago^  of  <£strefis. 

AVhen  Paul  saw  her  grief  he  felt  ashamed  of 
his  wicked  hope.  Was  that  true  love,  he  asked 
himself,  to  wish  a  grief  thus  intense  to  her 
whom  he  adored  above  all  else  in  the  world? 
No,  and  it  was  not  worthy  of  a  true  heart. 

"Let  me  see  him,"  he  said,  suddenly.  "I 
have  had  much  experience  of  illness  during  my 
lonely  life." 

She  led  the  way,  and  he  followed.  As  they 
opened  the  door,  the  nurse  motioned  them  to 
Buence,  her  finger  on  her  mouth.  "  He  sleeps," 
she  whispered,  *  *  we  must  not  wake  hi  m .  This  is 
the  crisis,"  she  murmured,  turning  to  the  forester ; 
*^  either  he  will  pass  away  in  this  slumber,  or 
recover." 

They  softly  approached  the  bedside.  Beatrice 
kneeled  down  and  buried  her  head  in  the 
clothes.  She  was  praying.  The  nurse  slipped 
softly  out  of  the  room.  Taul  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  cot  and  looked  on.  The  child's  little  face, 
which  Paul  had  last  seen  so  bonnic  and  bright, 
was  worn  and  thin ;  his  breath  was  drawn 
so  softly  that  at  times  it  seemed  to  come  no 
more ;  one  small  arm  lay  on  the  coverlet,  its 
thin  hand  was  clasped  in  its  mother's  grasp. 
She  remained  on  her  knees  immovable,  he  knew 
not  how  long ;  only  by  her  deep-drawn  sighs 
he  coidd  see  how  earnestly  she  was  wrestling 
and  imploring  for  the  little  life  that  lay  there 
I  Borassively. 

The  blinding  tears  welled  into  his  eyes,  the 
'  first  tears  he  had  shed  since  he  had  learnt  her 
untruth  towards  him. 

llius  the  night  passed ;  he  still  standing ; 
she  kneeling.     When  the  first  cold  streak  of 
dawn  fell  into  the  room  the  child  awoke. 
**  Mamma !"  he  said,  feebly. 
Suddenly  she  arose.     "My  child!"  she  ex- 
daimed.     "  Saved !    Thanks  be  to  God." 

**  Amen  !"  answered  a  deep  voice  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 
She  started.     '*  Paul,  you  here  ?" 


"  I  have  b^en  here  all  night,  and  my  prayers 
have  gone  up  to  Heaven  with  yours  for  the 
recovery  of  your  boy.    May  I  say  our  boy  ?" 

She  disengaged  one  hand  from  the  child's 
neck,  and  gave  it  to  Paul.  He  took  it  and 
pressed  an  ardent  kiss  on  its  attenuated  fingers, 
and  then  he  kissed  the  child. 

"  You  must  go  now,  dear  Paul,"  said  Beatrice, 
softly :  "  we  must  not  excite  the  boy." 

"May  I  not  stay?"  he  pleaded,  his  tone 
gentle  and  the  old  tender  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Not  now,  Paul,  not  just  now.  Wo  will 
meet  soon." 

"  Never  to  be  parted  again  ?" 

"  Pray  Heaven  no  I" 

Six  years  later,  a  lady  and  her  companion 
visited  the  Brockenfeld  and  put  up  at  Oder- 
bruck.  The  lady  was  a  sad  emoittered  woman, 
who  neither  loved  nor  was  loved  in  this  world. 
Walking  in  the  Forester^s  little  garden  after 
dinner,  she  saw  him  sitting  there,  smoking  a 
long  pipe ;  by  his  side  a  bright  woman  who 
held  a  child  upon  her  knee,  with  whom  the 
father  was  playing  and  which  crowed  merrily 
at  him.  A  little  beyond,  a  bigger  boy  was 
coachman  to  a  small  girl,  harnessed  as  his 
horse.  They  were  running  in  full  gallop  to- 
wards their  parents,  unaware  of  the  presence 
of  strangers. 

"  See,  papa !"  cries  the  elder  of  the  two, 
"  Maggie  and  I  have  been  for  a  long  trot,  and 
have  brought  back  mamma  some  of  her  own,  own 
flowers."  They  laid  a  small  bunch  of  wild 
camelias  before  their  mother. 

At  that  moment  Paul  Smitt  perceived  the 
ladies,  and  rising  politely,  accosted  them,  saying 
he  hoped  they  had  been  content  with  the  very 
frugal  hospitality  it  was  in  his  power  to  offer 
them. 

"Oh,  quite,"  said  the  lady.  "Is  that  your 
family,  Herr  Forster  ?  You  all  look  very  happy  : 
more  happy  than  1  have  seen  most  people  look 
in  the  town.  How  do  you  manage  to  exist 
up  here  ?    And  to  be  happy  ?" 

"  One  is  happy  wherever  one's  beloved  are," 
he  answered,  fervently. 

Tlie  reply  was  unexpected,  curiously  solemn, 
and  sounded  strange  to  the  Squire's  wife. 


POPULAR  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

The  songs  the  people  sing  in  Italy  are  very 
different  from  the  doggrcl  verses  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  hear  at  the  Italian  Opera.  They  are 
real  songs,  and  tell  us  something  of  the  habits 
and  customs  of  the  people — something,  too,  of 
their  aspirations.  They  are  like  wild  flowers. 
They  have  sprung  up  everywhere.  No  one 
knows  who  wrote  them ;  you  might  as  well  ask 
who  wrote  the  songs  of  the  linnet. 

Almost  all  their  songs  are  songs  of  the  affec- 
tions :  cradle  songs,  serenades,  and  dirges, 
which  have  been  handed  down — maybe  with 
alterations  —  from  generation  to  generation. 
Every  pretty  girl  has  her  poet-laureate  ;  every 
village  has  its  improvisatore.     ^lany,   many, 


^ 


tJim 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


balUds  relate  to  brigkndiige ;  aome  few  to 
buntJDg  and  the  delighta  of  the  table.  Wine, 
gambling,  and  a.  diagracef  ul  kind  of  gallajitT? 
are  the  rticmea  of  a  thoueand  Honga.  In  Cala- 
bria, it  is  the  fashion  to  idolise  assassins  and 
write  eoQgs  about  them,  which  the  girls  and 
young  men  Eing  at  harvest  time.  In  Corsica, 
it  ia  the  faehion  to  eing  Voceri  (or  Vendetta 
BOngB)  when  an;-  one  dies  a  violent  death. 
Ha^  are  hired  for  the  purpose  (called  Voce- 
ratrid)  ;  it  is  their  da^  to  dance  and  brandish 
kniveB  around  the  coffin  of  the  deceased,  and 
to  drink  wine  (some  say  blood)  to  hia  memory. 
Of  all  the  songs  of  Italy,  the  songs  of  Tus- 
cany are  the  most  poetical  and  the  least  tainted 
with  sensuality.  Being  written  in  pure  Italian, 
they  have  a  strictly  national  character  and 
serve  as  models  to  the  rest  of  the  peninsula. 
The  Stornelli  or  Pastoral  Odes,  and  the  Nanne 
or  Cradle  Songs,  are  all  Tuscan  in  their  cha- 
racter. They  become  corrupted  in  the  different 
vUlages  into  which  they  are  introduced,  but  in 
print  they  are  nearly  always  the  same.  Scratch 
tho  patois  with  your  pen,  and  you  will  find  the 
pure  Tuscan  xmdemeath,  Venice  is  famous  for 
its  serenades ;  Naples  for  ita  love  songs,  pro- 

Kly  eo  called ;  Rome  for  ita  Novelle  or  Sacred 
llada — the  epics  of  the  saints,  the  only  tracts 
tolerated  by  the  Church  of  Rome.  The  Maggi 
(Songs  of  May)  are  sung  in  every  village  in  the 
land,  from  the  borders  of  Istria  and  T'yrol  to 
Cape  tesaro. 

One  reason  why  the  Italians  have  no  na- 
tional ballads  ia  that,  until  recently,  they  had 
no  nationality.  They  never  cared  much  about 
their  history  ;  they  never  took  enoiwh  interest 
in  their  local  patriotiam  to  write  baUads  about 
it.  The  Italians  are  a  brave  people,  but  they  are 
not  self-reliant.  They  are  affectionate,  but  not 
faithful  ;  hospitable  to  strangers,  but  not 
famous  for  gratitude.  They  illuminat«  their 
streets  in  honour  of  the  incoming  dynasty,  but 
they  never  sang  aongs  about  a  dethroned  king 
aa  the  Scotch  did  about  the  Stuarts.  They 
have  plenty  of  old  castles,  but  no  chivalry ; 
plenty  of  old  families,  but  no  old  familiar  name 
hke  Robin  Hood  or  WiUiam  TeU.  Their  oldest 
"  my^"  is  Garibaldi ;  their  oldest  battle  songs 
were  written  in  1850.  One  of  the  beat  of 
these,  the  Three-coloured  Flag,  was  written  by 
a  Garibaldian : 


The  flag  that  ws  Um  i*  m  pretty 
It*  hme  (hall  be  (uog  in  a  ditlj  j 


pretty. 


In  ths  red,  irhitr,  and  green. 
When  it  TSTM  on  Ibe  walli  oT  a  dty ! 
Eumh  for  tbo  Three-coloured  FUg! 

These  Volunteer  songs  are  helping  on  the 
great  work  of  regeneration  .in  Italy.  Borne 
from  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west,  and 
back  again,  by  aoldiers  who  sing  them  in  the 
village  inns  while  on  the  march,  and  at  home 
in  wort  and  play  after  their  term  of  service, 
the  love  songs  of  Italy,  as  well  as  ita  ballads 
and  war  songs,  get  scattered  over  the  length 
and  breadth  of  (Ee  land.  A  few  years  hence, 
I  every  Italian  peasant  who  has  a  brother,  a 
father,  or  a  eon  in  the  army  (and  no  peasant 
in  Italy  is  without  some  such  milita^  con- 
nexion, owing  to  the  conscription)  will  know 
something  or  other  of  his  mother-tongue.  The 
songs  of  Tuscany  will  'work  their  way  into 
the  provinraal  di^ecta,  and  in  process  of  time 
a  united  language  no  less  than  a  united  ter- 
ritory will  be  the  reault.  Never  did  popular 
songs  do  a  better  work  than  the  patriotic 
songs  of  Italy  arc  doing  at  the  present  mo- 
ment. The  conscript  soldiers  of  the  north 
and  south  of  Italy—compelled  to  become 
Tuscans,  or  they  do  not  nnderatand  the  orders 
□f  their  clitefa^are  carrying  the  germs  of  lan- 
guage, of  literature,  into  lonely  places  and  un- 
cultured villages,  and  are  making  boorish  pea- 


aanta  ashamed  of  their  jargon.     It  is  already 

' '  t  of  pride  with  country  giris 

Tuscan  :  perhaps 


becoming  a  point  of  pride  with 
to  sing  in  pure  Tuscan  :  perhap 
brance  of  the  volunteers  who  rushed  wildly 
about  the  countir,  a  few  years  ago,  in  search 
of  foes  and  sweethearts,  finding  both,  and  leav- 
ing with  each  some  strilung  souvenir— a  kiss,  a 
song,  or  a  bullet!  In  no  other  way  can  we 
account  for  the  prodigious  number  of  Tuscan 
aonga  which  village  girls,  who  do  not  know 
how  to  read  or  write,  and  cannot  speak  any- 
thing but  patois,  know  by  heart  The  girls 
will  oecome  matrons,  and  the  children  of  the 
future  will  become  Italians — not  mere  Neapoli. 
tans,  Lombards,  and  Fiedmontese — and  will 
speak  their  mother-tongue  in  the  good   time 


HaiTsh  for  the  Tbrco-colound  Flag, 
The  beet  and  the  brtTeat  o(  all  I 
Hurrah  for  the  nurtjn  who  (Ul 

For  the  loTe  of  (be  Thi>B(i-rolauted  Flag ! 


BurTah  for  the  king  and  th«  CEiisf 
Who  ended  our  national  grief! 
Hurrah  for  the  king. 
And  the  cauae  that  we  aiog, 
When  we  die  for  the  Three^oloured  Flag '. 
Uiurah  for  the  Three-coloured  Flag  ! 


•  Ijk  Baudiera  Trieolore  aempre  t  itala  la  piu 


TOM  BUTLER. 

A  BOI'b  hero,      in  BIX  CHAPTERS. 
CHAFTER  I.      tBE  HILI. 

FoK  every  boy  ttiero  is  his  hero — a 
splendid,  valiant,  noble  creature,  to  whom 
he  looks  up,  physically.  As  the  hero  holds 
the  smaller  hand  in  tue,  and  strides  along, 
tho  boy  admires  and  trcaanrca  every  speech. 
Such  a  one  for  mo  was  once  the  brave  and 
gallant  Tom  Bntler,  who  hiciv  the  n-orUI, 
which  I  did  not ;  who  could  talk,  could  go 
anywhere,  and  do  anything.  Yet  there  were 
not  so  many  years  between  vs.  It  was  clear 
action    that  interposed  the  large  interval. 


^ 


Ghftrles  DickencJ 


TOM  BUTLER. 


[Jane  5, 1869.]      21 


With  this  hero  I  hecame  acquainted  very 
early  in  life.  He  comes  before  me  in  three 
scenes,  and  the  first  scene  was  abroad  in  a 
foreign  conntry. 

At  one  period  I  see  onr  family  in  France, 
on  a  hill  overlooking  Havre,  attended  by 
masters,  watched  over  by  that  conscientious 
governess.  Miss  Simpson,  while  I  myself  was 
in  a  state  of  eternal  protest  and  revolt. 
Never  did  the  bright  blessings — and  such 
cheap  blessings  as  they  are ! — of  sun  and 
tropical  days,  and  balmy  airs,  and  trees,  and 
acres  of  sofb  grass,  eddying  down  towards 
the  town  hr  below,  seem  so  inviting. 
Those  recollections  are  shaded  by  no  dark 
or  lowering  days,  no  gloomy  fogs,  no  weeks 
of  drizzle;  it  was  Italian,  cerulean  blue, 
pleasant  green,  and  most  inviting. 

The  hil],  or  Cote,  as  it  was  called,  was 
an  agreeable  suburb,  looking  down  on  the 
great  seaport,  whose  houses,  docks,  and 
stores  weare  ail  clustered  below :  with  the  sea 
beyond.  A  most  agreeable  amphitheatre  it 
was,  and  the  descent  was  in  tne  main  by 
terraces  and  stages  of  steps.  The  ascent, 
under  the  broiling  Frendb.  suns,  coming 
at  the  close  of  an  important  expedition  to 
the  town,  was  a  very  serious  and  exhausting 
business.  On  the  edge  of  the  hill,  I  see 
now  a  sort  of  comb,  as  it  were,  of  bright 
villas  on  the  roadside,  with  a  fine  common 
m  front.  I  say  "fine,"  because  adapted  to 
boys'  sport  of  every  degree — ^to  fights,  ball 
play,  kite-flying,  and  what  not.  Those  resi- 
dences, that  seem  to  me  now  like  houses  out 
of  an  opera,  for  they  were  always  in  the 
glare  of  the  Havre  sun,  were  cheerful  in 
their  yellow  tone,  their  green  jalousies,  their 
old-fashioned  air,  and  the  luxuriant  gardens 
behind  and  about  them,  where  the  apple- 
trees  abounded,  and  the  oranges  tried  to 
grow,  but  were  cut  off  in  an  untimely  way 
by  organised  parties  of  bandits.  The  grapes 
dufitered  about  the  windows  so  luxuriantly 
that  they  were  held  in  low  estimation,  as 
not  worfli  pillage  and  inferior  in  quality. 

Most  of  these  mansions  were  occupied  by 
English  colonists — one  or  two  by  English 
exiles :  and  I  recal  our  immediate  neighbour, 
seen  within  his  chateau-like  gate  stooping 
over  his  flowers,  a  Captain  Butler,  one  sleeve 
of  his  pepper-and-salt  shooting-coat  growing 
flat  to  his  chest.  A  great  family  swarmed 
about  him,  and  there  were  rumours  of  a 
struggle  and  sore  privations. 

He  was  a  grave  man,  haughty  and 
reserved,  and  seemed  then  to  take  that 
carious  shape  of  a  separate  potentate,  as  I 
have  oflea  remarked,  endowed  with  more 
mysterious  power  and  importance — ^greater 


than  seem  to  iAvest  individuals  of  real 
influence  at  a  later  era.  Our  houses  did 
not  know  each  other,  though  we  were  not 
indisposed  to  intimacy — a  distance,  however, 
that  did  not  extend  to  the  junior  branches. 
His  son,  Tom  Butler,  a  tall  English  lad, 
thin,  wiry,  and  pale,  I  looked  up  to  with 
a  longing  admiration — he  was  so  inde- 
pendent, so  grand,  so  strong,  and  went 
where  ho  Hked.  He  seemed  a  separate 
potentaXe^  too,  and  could  "  <fo  things"  which, 
someway,  I  never  could.  Indeed,  we  saw 
that  he  and  the  one-armed  captain  were  not 
on  good  terms,  and  two  of  us,  one  day,  on 
a  guilty  ascent  up  au  apple-tree  in  the  next 
garden,  heard  below  us  a  &ightfdl  altercation 
between  the  too  men.  Peeping  through  the 
branches — and  not  without  misgiving  lest 
the  scene  might  end  indirectly  in  our  own 
personal  detection,  trial,  and  execution — ^wa 
saw  the  captain's  square  face  glowing  with 
a  sort  of  moum^l  and  suppressed  foiy,  and 
caught  these  memorable  words : 

"  You  disgraced  me  before^  sir,  and  you 
have  now  disgraced  me  again  /'' 

We  had  to  carry  this  denunciation  about 
with  us  for  days,  nearly  bursting,  and 
not  daring  to  reveal  it  to  mortal,  save  an. 
English  maid,  who  could  be  relied  on,  and 
who  shook  her  head  and  said,  '^Idke  enough 
— like  enough !'' 

The  English  complexion  of  the  district 
was  certainly  very  strong.  Not  very  far 
on  was  Mr.  Darbyshire's  house,  a  channing 
English  place,  with  hothouses  and  green- 
houses, and  a  real  Scotch  gardener,  who 
had  been  there  ten  or  fifteen  years,  could 
not  pass  one  of  the  roadside  crosses,  or 
meet  a  procession,  without  his  features  ex- 
pressing open  pain  and  hostility.  They 
were  "a  peeteous  crew,"  he  said,  to  the 
last,  "the  puir,  benighted  creeturs,"  and 
the  like.  He  would  not  mix  with  them. 
His  master,  Mr.  Darbyshire,  was  a  wealthy 
merchant,  in  the  shipping  way,  who  had 
shares  in  the  steamers  between  South- 
ampton and  our  port,  and  was  universally 
known  as  "  M.  Debbisha.'*  A  little  under 
the  hill,  with  its  roof  on  a  level  with  its 
crest,  was  Mr.  Longtail's  English  academy, 
with  its  highest  references,  to  the  Reverend 
William  Short,  British  chaplain ;  to  Captain 
Gunter,  H.  B.  M.  Consul,  Quai  Montpensier^ 
to  the  Lord  Montattic ;  to  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Colman ;  to  W.  H.  Darbyshire,  Esq.^ 
The  C6te,  Havre;  and  to  many  more. 
Mrs.  Longtail  looked  after  the  boys'  linen, 
and  "  was  a  guarantee  for  the  comforts  of 
a  home."  This  was  her  husband's  fond 
and  too  partial  statement,  loudly  dissented 


<& 


:S 


22      [Joiw  5. 186f.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


f  Conducted  by 


firom  by  the  yonng  gentlemen,  who  called 
him  old  "Pig-in- the- Wind,**  the  origin  for 
which  extraordinaiy  sobriquet  I  never  dis- 
covered, nor,  indeed,  thought  of  asking. 
"  Guarantee,  indeed,'*  said  Tom,  contemptu- 
ously, "yes,  guarantee — ^that's  all  the  tea 
we  get  out  of  her! — ^and  fine  swash  it  is!" 
The  young  gentlemen  wore  a  uniform  here, 
gilt  buttons  and  puce-coloured  cufis  and 
collars. 

Our  house,  as  I  have  said,  was  charming 
to  look  at,  with  its  green  jalousies  and  vines 
creeping  all  over,  and  its  cool  porch.  The 
upper  story  took  the  shape  of  a  pediment  or 
tnangle,  with  a  circular  window,  or  hole 
in  the  middle,  an  apartment  which  I  always 
fondly  ambitioned,  not  for  the  elevation  or 
for  the  view,  which  was  fine,  but  for  the 
mechanical  pleasures  associated  with  that 
window ;  for  the  intricacies  and  peculiarities 
were  more  than  are  usually  attached  to  a 
French  window.  It  was  otherwise  allotted. 
It  commanded  a  full  view,  too,  of  the 
charming  conmion,  where  all  the  sports 
went  on,  and  where  the  boys  of  the  district, 
pursuing  their  various  pastimes  with  much 
cheerful  noise  and  spirits,  inflamed  me— 
but  too  often  detained  within,  as  punish- 
ment for  idleness — ^to  the  verge  of  firenzy. 
Then  I  would  see — taking  a  furtive  glance 
askance  from  the  Roman  history — ^that 
the  gentlemanly  Darbyshire  boys — "  young 
princes,"  Miss  Simpson  held  them  up  to 
ufl,  for  their  genteel  deportment  —  were 
playing  "prisoners'  base,**  or,  more  seduc- 
tive still,  flying  the  kite. 

The  advantages  which  residence  in  France 
was  supposed  to  offer  for  educational  pur- 
poses were  not  lost  sight  of.  All  masters 
available  were  duly  "laid  on,*'  as  it  were, 
to  supplement  Miss  Simpson,  whose  very 
universal  range  of  accomplishments,  of 
course,  precluded  her  jBrom  having  a  very 
profound  acquaintance  with  any  specisd 
branch.  I  think,  however,  she  secretly 
rather  resented  this  introduction,  though 
there  was  an  indemnity  in  the  visits  of  the 
professors.  Their  variety  lent  a  piquancy 
to  the  day's  routine. 

When  the  young  ladies  received  their 
lessons  she  always  assisted,  in  right  of  her 
office.  The  French  master's  name  was  M. 
Bernard,  quite  a  picture,  semi- ecclesiastical ; 
with  a  white  neckcloth,  to  which  starch 
was  unknown,  swathed  about  his  neck  on 
the  hottest  days,  and  secured  firmly  by  a 
hair  brooch  set  round  with  imitation 
diamonds.  I  am  thus  particular  because  I 
had  often  studied  him  minutely.  He  had 
a  long  blue  coat;  his  head  was  bald;  he 


had  that  amiable  soft  way  of  talking,  and 
cliirping  air  of  general  assent  to  everything 
that  we  see  in  old  gentlemen  on  the  French 
boards.  Ho  arrived  every  second  day, 
having  a  few  pupils  on  the  C6te,  showing 
the  usual  signs  of  intense  heat.  To  ^y 
that  his  knowledge  of  English  was  merely 
imperfect  would  be  too  indulgent  a  com- 
pliment, it  being  very  much  akin  to  the 
language  in  which  the  British  sailor  con- 
verses with  the  Chinese.  But,  with  the 
innate  gallantry  of  a  Frenchman,  he  was 
always  recognising  "  Mees  Seemsong's"  pre- 
sence— ^was  she  not  a  sister,  too,  in  his 
profession  ? — by  politely  taking  her,  as  it 
were,  into  the  lesson.  And  a  favourite 
formula  of  his  was,  after  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
which  he  carefdlly  brushed  off  the  starch- 
less  neckcloth  with  the  back  of  his  little 
finger,  "Mais  pour  ces  choses  1^  mon  enfant, 
Mademoiselle  Seemsong,  vous  dira  tout 
apres."  Miss  Simpson  always  knew  the 
meaning  of  this  phrase,  much  as  the  native 
Sepoys  pick  up  British  words  of  command, 
and  would  smile  and  nod  and  murmur, 
"  Wee.  Je  ferry !  Now,  Ma^,  attend  to  what 
Moosier  Bernard  says."  With  the  "petites 
dames,"  it  must  be  said,  he  got  on  excel- 
lently. There  was  that  luadable  emulation, 
which  seems  more  found  among  girls,  to 
have  their  "  themes"  ready — "  dict^es"  he 
called  them — ^besides  a  pride  which,  I  think, 
was  unaccountably  wanting  in  myself  and 
other  contemporaries  of  my  acquaintance. 
We  only  gave  grudging  measure,  and  any 
device  was  greedily  seized  to  shirk  work. 
He  would  at  times  lose  temper,  and  make  me 
a  long,  impassioned,  chaleureuse  discourse, 
as  if  he  were  in  a  pulpit.  He  used  gestures 
and  a  variety  of  tones,  telling  me  that  I  had 
a  "lethargic  incroyable,"  and  also  really 
seemed  to  hint  that  the  certain  and  ultimate 
doom  in  store  for  me  was  an  ignominious 
end — ^I  suppose  the  French  guillotine,  if  my 
disgraceful  career  terminated  in  his  country. 
All  this  I  gathered  from  his  manner  more 
than  from  his  words,  though  I  was  picking 
up  French  in  an  astonishing  way,  from 
clandestine  association  with  what  were 
called  the  "  low  boys"  of  the  place.  Every 
month  M.  Bernard's  modest  stipend  was 
paid  Iiim,  with  a  little  solemnity  and  cir- 
cumstance which  gratified  him  not  a  little,  he 
coming  in  uniform,  as  it  were — ^his  Sunday 
coat,  a  genuinely  starched  tie,  and  no  hair 
brooch — the  absence  of  that  ornament  being, 
strange  to  say,  his  grandest  tenue.  Then 
he  was  received  in  the  drawing-room,  an- 
nounced by  the  too  -  familiar  John  as 
"Meshew  Bernard,"  and  after  the  inter- 


=2 


^ 


-xs 


Cliar*.eK  Dickens.] 


TOM  BUTLER. 


[June  5, 18G9.]       23 


passage  of  a  sealed  enyelope,  cake  and 
English  "  sLeiri"  were  introdnced — ^ifc  al- 
ways made  him  cough  and  mc  laugh — ^the 
whole  concluding  with  my  being  abruptly 
hurried  out  to  a  cell.  He  used  sometimes 
to  moralise  over  me  in  my  own  presence, 
first  blowing  his  nose  and  tlien  looking 
fixedly  into  the  handkerchief  as  if  remark- 
ing there  something  quite  unusual.  "  A  ce 
que  me  parait,  madame,  cet  e^ifant  1^  a  un 
naturel  ejfrene  qu'il  faut  tenir  a  main  bride. 
Mais  j'espere*' — sip  from  the  glass  of  sherri 
— "  que  le  bon  Dieu — qu'enfin  les  prieres 
de  sa  bonne  miere,"  he,  &,c.  Then  seeing 
the  eonstemation  this  denunciation  caused^ 
as  it  were  hinting  at  crimes  that  he  could 
not  disclose,  he  would  change  his  note  alto- 
gether. "  Poah !  We  must  have  courage, 
madame.  He  has  a  brave  spirit.  We  shall 
makea  man  of  him  !  As  for  the  good  boys, 
1  would  not  give  that  for  them.  Puer  bona) 
indolis.  II  a  de  Tcsprit,  mais  il  faut  seule- 
ment  le  faire  bomer  !" 

Now  I  see  Mr.  John  showing  in  another 
gentleman,  the  professor  of  music,  M. 
Belcour,  a  handsome  young  man  with  long 
brown  hair,  which  ho  tossed  a  good  deal. 
To  him  Miss  Simpson's  manner  was  quite 
different,  being  curt  and  haughty  to  the 
last  degree,  as  though  she  suspected  him. 
We  could  not  understand  the  motive  of  this, 
which  was  indeed  only  a  frail  guard  for  her 
unprotected  heart.  The  handsome  Belcour 
had,  indeed,  subdued  it  to  his  own.  Not 
that  ho  cared  for  that  cheap  victory — a 
governess,  indeed !  He  dreamed  of  the 
great  English  countess,  with  an  estate  in 
the  rich  &tt  England,  among  ''  cos  gens  de 
bierre  et  puddin. ' '  He  was  full  of  sentiment, 
and  made  his  dark  eyes  roll  for  practice. 
He  used  to  play  with  frantic  energy, 
"splashing*'  the  notes  about,  as  it  were, 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling.  He  had  this 
siogularity,  he  would  teach  nothing  but  his 
own  music,  bringing  **  them  little  wisps  o' 
songs,"  as  Mr.  John  happily  described  them, 
a  picture  of  a  mournful  young  man  on  the 
title,  following  a  flight  of  birds  with  an  inex- 
pressible look  of  depression.  *'  BfevE  de  Bon- 
HECB,"  it  was  called;  and  I  remember  the 
morning  that  he  brought  it,  presenting  it 
with  an  infinite  homage  and  melancholy  em- 
presscment  to  the  head  of  the  house,  convey- 
ing that  it  had  been  composed  expressly  in 
her  honour.  He  fancied,  I  think,  that  the 
vast  estates  of  which  he  dreamed  were  some- 
where, for  there  was  an  air  of  substantial 
comfort,  not  to  say  luxury — ^wine  from 
England,  Sec — ^wbioh  beguiled  him.    Later 


it  was  discovered  the  RSve  de  Bonheur  had 
been  presented,  with  a  similar  declaration 
of  its  production,  to  several  ladies  during 
the  last  three  or  four  years.  Ho  was  too 
romantic  for  the  humble  sphere  he  moved 
in :  actual  instruction  formed  a  very  small 
portion  of  his  school  of  teadiing,  the  main 
principle  of  which  was  to  ramble  in  a 
dreamy  way  over  the  chords,  to  play  and 
sing  "little  things  of  his  own.**  When  at 
last  he  was  firmly  remonstrated  with  upon 
this  unprofitable  system,  ho  answered 
haughtily  that,  "  as  it  seemed  to  him,  there 

was  a  disposition  to  find  fault  ?** "  Well, 

scarcely  that **     "Yes  yes,  there  was. 

Let  it  end,  then;  it  was  a  mere  slavery. 
He  could  not  teach  these  cldldren;  they 
had  no  esprit,  no  emotion — ^point  d'ame  !** 

This  unwarrantable  attack  produced 
quite  a  new  tone,  and  a  quiet  dismissal ;  on 
which  M.  Belcour  quite  lost  his  temper, 
behaved  like  an  enraged  one,  held  out  a 
wrist  that  quivered  as  he  proclaimed  that 
he  had  been  treated  "  brutally,**  and  quite 
unconsciously  revealed  a  not  too- white  shirt, 
with  very  saw-like  edges.  He  withdrew  for 
ever,  but  the  next  day  sent  in  a  charge  for 
two  fi:ancs  fifty  cents,  for  a  piece  of  music, 
which  was  duly  sent  to  him.  Later  a  mys- 
terious story  reached  the  house — ^brought,  I 
believe,  by  M.  Bernard — and  which,  from  the 
secrecy  and  awfal  looks,  we  concluded  was 
nothing  less  than  Housebreaking,  or  a  great 
case  of  Arson ;  but  I  beUeve  the  real  truth 
was,  that  the  music-publisher*s  wife — ahem ! 
— "ce  pauvre  Schneider  !**  said  M.  Bernard 
— ^which  must  have  referred  to  an  elopement 
of  some  description. 

M.  Bclcour*s  successor  was  quite  a  diffe- 
rent sort  of  man,  a  half  German,  Weimar  by 
name,  stout,  red-fiiced,  yellow-haired,  and 
lame.  He  always  seemed  to  be  j&agrant  of 
cherry-brandy ;  not  that  I  had  made  ac- 
quaintance yet  with  that  agreeable  liqueur, 
but  it  seemed  to  have  an  air  of  familiarity. 
He  sometimes  indirectly  apologised  for  in- 
troducing that  aroma,  laying  it  on  "the 
heat  of  the  day.**  He  wa*  a  great  professor, 
in  heavy  practice,  and  had  the  duty  of 
teaching  three  times  a  week,  at  contract 
price,  the  young  ladies  of  a  convent  close 
by.  Tliis  simple  fact  accounted  for  the 
almost  malignant  hostility  of  Belcour,  whom 
the  thought  of  the  various  young  English 
heiresses  there  pursxdng  their  education, 
inflamed  to  madness.  M.  Weimar  was  a 
true  anchorite,  and  cared  only  for  his  piano, 
after,  of  course,  his  well-known  Harmonies 
Pratiques,  a  vast  work,  of  which  he  had 
done  only  the  first  number,  and  in  which  he 


ofc 


:§ 


24 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[June  5,  1808.) 


intended  to  give  specimens  of  modnlations 
from  every 'known  key  into  every  other. 
This,  on  the  doctrine  of  permutation,  in- 
volved a  vast  amonnt  of  paper  and  notes, 
and  he  had  only  ventured  on  what  he  called 
"mon  premier  cahier."  I  confess  I  was 
delighted  with  this  specimen  of  harmony ; 
for  there  was  in  my  abandoned  nature  this 
redeeming  point,  an  intense  love  of  music, 
and  of  harmonies  and  modulations.  Here 
was  a  new  realm ;  and  while  he  showed, 
with  skilfal  touch,  how  to  pass  from 
the  key  of  A  minor  into  C,  hy  some 
skilful  but  exquisite  transitions,  I  would 
steal  up  and  listen,  rapt.  (We  had  sub- 
scribed for  two  copies  of  the  work,  and  I 
am  looking  at  them  now.)  He  had  never 
noticed  me,  as  being  quite  out  of  his  world, 
as  it  might  be  a  s&ingless  and  bridgeless 
violin;  but  one  day  when  he  came,  as 
usual  very  warm,  and  found  me,  all  un- 
conscious, sitting  at  the  piano,  with  his 
ECarmonies  Pratiques  open  before  me,  and 
striving  desperately  to  work  from  A  minor 
into  G,  he  entered  softly,  and,  it  may  be, 
recognising  a  blending  chord,  called  out,  "0 
sharp,  boy !"  He  thrust  one  large  hand  over 
mine,  and  crashed  down  the  right  notes. 
"  What  do  your  know  ?"  he  said ;  "  have 
you  learned  ?     Surely  that  Simpson " 

"No,"  I  said;  "but  O,  sir,  this  is  so 
beautifdl !" 

After  that,  though  he  did  not  like 
strangers  in  tibe  room,  he  would  often  say, 

"  Let  him  stay." 

I  see  him  now,  sitting  at  one  side — ^the 
juvenile  player  he  was  instructing  with  her 
fauce  anxiously  put  close  to  the  music,  the 
small  hands  jerking  spasmodically,  grass- 
hopper-like— ^his  round  figure,  in  a  snuff- 
brown  coat  (and  some  cheap  Order  too), 
stooped  inwards,  while  his  pencil  pointed 
laboriously,  and  head  emphasised  his  move- 
ments. Of  a  sudden  he  had  unconsciously 
pushed  himself  into  the  place,  and  had 
played  it  off  in  a  bold  rattling  style.  With 
Miss  Simpson  he  was  not  at  all  popular,  for 
to  her  he  was  blunt  and  gruff  in  his  manner, 
being  sure,  if  any  one  came  in  with  a  mes- 
sage to  her,  to  turn  round  and  call  out 
sharply,  "  Do  keep  silence,  please !  How 
can  I  teach  if  that  is  to  go  on  ?" 

^^  Really  so  ungentlemanlike  in  his  tone," 
Miss  Simpson  would  protest.  '  ^  I  don't  know 
where  he  can  have  been  brought  up." 

This  feeling,  too,  was  owing  to  another 


reason ;  for  at  an  early  period  of  his  tuition 
he  had  said  despotically,  "  Tell  mo  who  is 
to  look  after  these  children  and  see  that 
they  practise  all  that  I  shall  drill  them  in  ?" 

"  O,  Miss  Simpson,  of  course — she  plays 
very  nicely  herself." 

"  What  does  she  play  ?  Then  here,  made- 
moiselle, sit  down — let  us  have  your  cheval 
de  bataille,  please." 

Miss  Simpson  shrank  away.  She  had  a 
horse  of  battle,  Through  the  Wood,  a 
popular  air  of  her  day,  much  sung  at 
Exeter,  her  natal  town,  and  arranged  with 
variations — six  I  believe — by  the  ingenious 
Hertz.     "  O,  really,  sir !"  she  began. 

"Just  as  you  please,"  he  said,  turning 
away ;  "  it  was  for  the  interest  of  iiie  pupils 
I  asked." 

Scandalised  authority  had  now  to 
intervene :  "  Miss  Simpson,  I  must  request 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  let  M.  Weimar 
hear  you." 

She  went  to  the  instrument.  It  was  a 
fine  piece,  no  doubt,  Litroduction  Maestoso, 
with  sixteen  pages  to  follow.  She  had  barelj 
struck  the  first  two  solemn  chords,  and  had 
launched  into  the  little  gallopade  up  the 
piano,  which  always  follows,  when  he 
quietly  turned  away : 

"  That  will  do,"  he  said.  "  Thank  you— 
quite  enough.  I  see  perfectly.  So  you 
waste  your  time  on  that  stuff?  Now  if  I 
teach  mademoiselle,  and  am  to  make  a 
player  of  her,  I  must  lay  down  this  ^ed 
rule:  that  no  one  interferes  or  touches 
the  piano  when  I  am  absent,  by  way  of  ex- 
ample. Does  madame  agree  ?"  Of  course 
madame  had  to  agree,  impressed  with  this 
sort  of  Abemethy  plainness.  "  After  all, 
you  know  he  had  the  interests  of  the  child 
at  stake."     Miss  Simpson  never  forgave. 

So  he  came  and  laboured,  often  staying 
three  quarters  beyond  his  stipulated  hour, 
labouring,  grinding,  scolding,  at  times  with 
a  severity  that  brought  tears  to  eyes; 
forcing  those  small  fingers  through  the 
heavy  loam  of  the  great  John  Field's 
Concerto  in  B,  still  surly,  still  reeking  of 
the  cherry-brandy,  until  at  last  he  had  per- 
formed his  promise,  and  made  a  player  of  his 
pupil.  He  must  be  long  since  gathered 
into  the  Havre  earth,  for  he  was  then 
elderly ;  and  I  dare  say  it  troubled  his  last 
moments  to  think  he  had  not  got  beyond  the 
opening  number  of  his  grand  work,  the 
Harmonies  Pratiques. 


// 


T4a  J^^A/ ^ 2yafula^in^  Jriiclei/r<m  All  tab  Yhb  Eouhd  it  rearved  by  the  Author*. 


''^^»^'*i'0d  Mt  tb0  omo9,  Kq.^  WeJJiorton  street,  strand.    PrtntedY>7C.'?J1»rt»<l,^«»^«^l«^^o«»«^^^^V 


\ 


■STORJJ'OE-  OUr\:  1.1VES-/R.OMV^'^TO  T^l 


C0rJ3UCTEDEY 


WITH  WHICH  IS  )fgco^\pcn^TE 


SATURDAir,  JUNE  12,  18011 


^ 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


A  GULU  BtDXt  al 


Habiah  remftined  standing  where  Walter 
Jojce  had  left  her,  gazing  after  hia  retreat- 
ing figaro  nnlil  it  had  passed  oat  of  sight. 
At  first  so  little  did  ene  comprehend  the 
fall  meaning  of  the  curt  aeiitenco  in  which 
he  had.  conveyed  to  her  his  abmpt  rejection 
of  the  bribe  which  she  had  propoacd  to  liim, 
hia  perfect  appreciation  of  the  snare  which 
she  had  prepared  for  hiiri,  that  she  had 
3  sort  of  an  idea  that  ho  would  hesitate 
is  career,  step,  turn  back,  and  finally 
consent,  if  not  to  an  immediabe  concession 
to  her  views,  at  all  STonts,  to  some  further 
discnssioii,  with  a  view  to  fnture  settlement. 
Bat  after  his  parting  bow  he  strode  nnre- 
lentangly  onward,andit  waanotnntilhehad 
reat^ed  the  end  of  the  newly-made  road,  and, 
dropping  down  into  the  meadows  leading  te 
Hehningham,  had  entirely  disappeared,  that 
Harian  realised  how  completely  she  had 
been  foiled,  was  able  to  nuderstand,  to  esti- 
mate, and,  in  estimating,  to  wince  under, 
the  bitter  scorn  with  which  her  suggestion 
had  been  received,  the  scathing  terms  in 

Iirhich  that  acom  had  been  conveyed.  A 
money  value  for  anything  to  be  desired — 
that  was  the  only  way  in  which  ho  could 
make  it  clear  to  her  understanding  or  ap- 
preciation— was  not  that  what  he  had  said  ? 
A  money  valne  !  llarion  Creswell  waa  not 
of  those  who  sednloosly  hide  their  own 
bilin^B  from  themselves,  shrink  at  the  very 
thought  of  them,  make  cnpboard- skeletons 
of  them,  to  be  always  kept  nnder  tnmed 
key.  Too  sensible  for  this,  she  knew  that 
this  treatment  only  enhanced  tbo  import- 
aoce  of  tbe  gteJeton,  wiibont  at  aJI  beaeSt- 


t"^. 


ing  its  possessor,  felt  that  much  the  better 
plan  was  te  take  it  oot  and  subject  it  to 
examination,  observe  its  form  and  its  arti- 
culation, dust  its  bones,  see  that  its  joints 
swung  easily,  and  replace  it  in  its  capboard- 
home.  But  all  these  rites  were,  of  course, 
performed  in  private,  and  the  world  was  to 
be  kept  in  strict  ignorance  of  the  existence 
of  the  skeleton.  And  now  Walter  Joyce 
knew  of  it !  a  money  value,  her  sole  standard 
of  appreciation  \  Odd  as  it  may  seem, , 
Marian  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to 
imagine  to  herself  te  what  motive  Walter 
would  ascribe  lier  rejection  of  him,  her  pre- 
ference of  Mr.  Creswell.  True,  she  had 
herself  spoken  in  her  lost  letter  of  the 
impossibility  of  her  enjoying  life  withoot 
wealth  and  the  luxuries  which  wealth  com- 
mands, but  she  had  argued  to  herself  that 
he  would  scarcely  have  believed  that, 
principally,  perhaps,  from  the  fact  of  her 
having  advanced  the  statement  so  boldly, 
and  now  she  fonnd  him  throwing  the  argu- 
ment in  her  teeth.  And  if  Walter  knew 
and  ondersteod  this  to  be  the  dominant 
passion  of  her  soul,  the  great  motive  power 
of  her  life,  the  knowledge  was  surely  not 
confined  tehim — others  would  know  it  too. 
In  gaining  her  position  as  Mr.  Creswell's 
wife,  her  success,  her  elation,  had  been  so 
great  as  completely  te  absorb  her  tlioughts, 
and  what  people  might  say  as  to  the  manner 
in  which  that  success  had  been  obtained, 
or  the  reasons  for  which  the  position  had 
been  sought,  had  never  troubled  her  for 
one  instant.  Now,  however,  she  saw  at 
once  that  her  designs  had  been  suspected, 
and  doubtless  talked  of,  sneered  at,  and 
jested  over,  and  her  heart  beat  with  extra 
speed,  and  the  blood  antfused  Uer  c'tedsa, 
OS  she  thought  ot  kow  etft  \iiA  ^iKjosWtj 
been  the  subject  oE  B.\e-\wi^iBB  jos«v^,Va« 
the  townsfolk  and  vVflagera  asao^gpfc-^^ifin^i 


eS: 


26      [Juno  12. 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  EOUND. 


[Ck>ndaotedb7 


/ 


siuce  the  oanvassing  time,  slie  had  recently 
been  so  mnch,  must  have  all  dificussed  her 
afber  she  had  left  their  houses,  and  all  had 
their  passing  joke  at  the  young  woman  who 
had  married  the  .old  xnan  for  his  money ! 
She  siam|>ed  her  foot  in  rage  upon  the 
gromid  as  the  idea  csame  into  her  mind ;  it 
was  too  horrible  to  think  she  should  have 
afforded  scandal-matter  to  these  low  people, 
it  was  so  galling  to  her  pride.;  sbe  almost 
wished  that — and  just  then  the  Bharp,  olear, 
Bilrery  tinkle  of  the  little  bells  sounded  on 
her  ear,  and  the  perfectly-appointed  carriage 
with  the  iron-grey  ponies  came  in:k>  view, 
and  the  next  minute  she  had  taken  the 
reins  from  James,  had  received  his  salute, 
and,  drawing  her  sealskin  cloak  closely 
round  her,  was  spinning  towards  her 
luxurious  home,  with  the  feeling  that  she 
could  put  up  with  all  their  talk,  and  endure 
all  their  remarks,  so  long  as  she  enjoyed 
the  material  comforts  which  money  had  un- 
doubtedly brought  her. 

Marian  started  on  her  return  drive  in  a 
pleasant  frame  of  mind,  but  the  glow  of 
satisfaction  had  passed  away  long  before 
she  reached  home,  and  had  been  succeeded 
by  very  different  feeUngs.  She  no  longer 
cared  what  the  neighbouring  people  mi^t 
say  about  her;  iSie  had  quite  got  over 
that,  and  was  pondering,  with  gradually 
increasing  fury,  over  the  manner  in  whi(m 
Walter  Joyce  had  received  her  proposition, 
and  the  hght  and  airy  scorn,  never  for 
one  moment  striven  to  be  concealed,  with 
which  he  had  tossed  it  aside.  She  bit  her 
lip  in  anger  and  vexation  as  she  thought  of 
her  tremendous  folly  in  so  speedily  unfold- 
ing her  plan  without  previously  making 
herself  acquainted  with  Joyce's  views,  and 
seeing  how  he  was  hkely  to  i*eceive  the 
suggestion;  she  was  furious  with  herself 
as  ahe  recalled  his  light  laugh  and  easy 
bearing,   so   different  firom  anything  she 

had  previously  seen  in  him,  and 3j  the 

way,  that  was  odd  !  she  had  not  noticed  it 
before,  but  undoubtedly  he  was  very  much 
improved  in  appearance  and  manner;  he 
had  lost  the  rustic  awkwardness  and  bash- 
fulness  which  had  previously  rendered  him 
somewhat  ungainly,  and  had  acquired  con- 
fidence and  ease.  She  had  heard  this 
before;  her  husband  had  mentioned  it  to 
her  as  having  been  told  him  by  Mr.  Tees- 
dale,  who  kept  the  keenest  outlook  on  Joyce 
and  his  doings,  and  who  regarded  him  as  a 
very  dangerous  opponent;  she  had  heard 
this  before,  but  she  had  paid  but  little  atten- 
tion to  it,  not  thinking  that  she  should  so 
soon  have  an  opportumty  of  personally  veri- 


fying the  assertion.  She  acknowledged  it 
now ;  saw  that  it  was  exactly  the  manner 
which  would  prove  wonderfully  winning 
among  the  electors,  who  were  nother  to  be 
awed  by  distant  demeanour,  nor  to  be  cajoled 
by  excessive  familiarity.  In  Walter  -Joyce's 
pleasant  bearing  and  cheery  way  ^ere 
was  a  something  which  seemed  to  say,  "  I 
am  of  you,  and  understand  you,  although  I 
may  have  had,  peorhaps,  a  few  more  brains 
and  A  little  better  education  ;'*  and  there 
was  nothing  that  more  quickly  got  to  the 
hearts  of  the  Brocksoppians  than  the  feel- 
ing that  they  were  about  to  elect  one  of 
themselves.  This  was  a  chord  which  Mr. 
Creswcll  could  never  touch,  although  he 
had  every  claim  to  do  so,  and  although 
Mr.  Gt>uld  had  had  thousands  of  a  little 
pamphlet  struck  off  and  circulated  among 
the  voters — ^a  little  pamphlet  supposed  to 
be  Mr.  Creswell's  biography,  adorned  with 
woodcuts  borrowed  from  some  previous 
publication,  the  first  of  which  represented 
Mr.  Creswell  as  a  cabin-boy,  about  to 
receive  the  punishment  of  the  '*  colt"  from 
the  mate — ^he  had  scarcely  been  on  board 
ship  during  his  life — ^while  the  last  showed 
him,  and  Mrs.  Creswell,  with  short  waist, 
long  train,  and  high  ostrich  feathers  in  her 
head  (supposed  to  have  been  originally 
the  vera  effigies  of  some  lady  mayoress  in 
George  the  Third's  time),  receiving  the 
cream  of  the  aristocracy  in  a  gilded  saloon. 
But  the  people  declined  to  believe  in  the 
biography,  which,  indeed,  did  rather  more 
horai  than  good,  and  cast  doubt  on  the 
real  history  of  Mr.  Creswell's  self-manu- 
£Btcture,  than  which,  in  its  way,  nothing 
could  be  more  creditable. 

Before  Marian  had  reached  her  home 
she  had  revolved  all  these  things  very 
carefully  in  her  mind,  and  the  result  which 
she  arrived  at  was,  that  as  it  was  impossible 
to  purchase  peace,  and  as  the  fight  must 
now  be  fought  out  at  all  hazards,  the  only 
way — ^not  indeed  to  ensure  success,  fur  that 
was  out  of  the  question,  but  to  stand  a  good 
chance  for  it — was  to  pay  fresh  and  unre- 
mitting attention  to  the  canvassing,  and, 
above  all,  to  try  personally  to  enlist  the 
sympathies  of  the  voters,  not  leaving  it,  as 
in  Woolgreaves  it  had  hitherto  been  done, 
to  Mr.  Teesdale  and  his  emissaries.  With 
all  her  beHef  in  money,  Marian  had  a  faith 
in  position,  which,  though  lately  born, 
was  springing  up  apace,  and  she  felt  that 
Squire  Creswell  might  yet  win  many  a 
vote  which  would  be  given  to  him  out  of 
respect  to  his  status  in  the  county,  if  ho 
would  only  exert  himself  to  obtain  it. 


=8 


4 


OhariM  Diokeas.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[Jane  12,  I860.]      27 


i 


Full  of  this  idea,  she  drove  throngh 
the  lodge-gates  at  Woolgreaves,  any  little 
qualms  or  heart- sinkings  which  she  might 
have  recently  felt  disappearing  entirely  as 
she  looked  round  npon  the  trim  gardens, 
trim  even  in  those  first  days  of  winter,  and 
upon  the  long  line  of  conservatories  which 
had  recently  risen  under  her  direction,  as 
the  hall- doors  opened  at  her  approach,  and 
as  she  stepped  oat  of  her  pony-carriage,  tho 
mistress  of  that  handsome  mansion,  warmed 
and  flower-scented  and  luxurious.  Her 
pleasure  was  a  little  dashed  when  she 
found  that  Mr.  Oreswell  had  been  earned 
off  into  Brocksopp  by  Mr.  Qould,  who  had 
come  down  unexpectedly  from  London, 
and  that  Mr.  Benthall  was  seated  in  the 
drawing-room  with  Maud  and  Gertrude, 
evidently  intending  to  remain  to  luncheon, 
if  he  were  invited.  But  she  rallied  in  a 
moment,  and  accorded  the  invitation  gra- 
ciously, and  did  the  honours  of  the  lun- 
cheon table  with  all  proper  hospitality. 
Once  or  twice  she  winced  a  little  at  the 
obvious  understanding  between  Gertrude 
and  Mr.  Benthall;  a  state  of  things  for 
which,  though  to  some  extent  prepared, 
she  was  by  no  means  particularly  gratoful. 
It  wa«  not  entirely  new  to  her,  thu  flirta- 
<aon;  she  had  noticed  something  of  it  a 
while .  ago,  and  her  husband  had  made  it 
the  subject  of  one  of  his  mild  little  jokes  to 
her;  but  she  had  matters  of  greater  im- 
part to  attend  to  just  then,  and  would  see 
how  it  should  be  treated  when  the  election 
was  over. 

After  luncheon  Marian,  recollecting  the 
detennination  she  had  arrived  at  in  her 
homeward  drive,  was  minded  to  put  it  in 
ibroe  at  once,  and  accordingly  said  to  her 
▼iaitor,  "  Are  you  going  back  to  the  school, 
Mr.  Benthall,  or  do  you  make  holiday  this 
afternoon?" 

"  Foiixmaiely,  my  dear  Mrs.  Creswell," 
said  Mr.  Benthall,  with  a  slight  sign  of 
that  indolence  wHch  the  consumption  of 
an  excellent  hmcheon  superinduces  in  a 
aum  of  full  habit — "  fortunately  the  law 
has  done  that  for  mo!  Wednesdays  and 
8atnrdayti  are  half-holidays  by — well,  I 
don*t  know  exactly  by  act  of  parliament, 
bat  at  all  events  l^  Helmingham  rule  and 
system;  so,  to-day  being  Saturday,  I  am 
ahsolved  firom  further  work.  To  my  infi- 
nite satisfaction,  I  confess." 

**  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Marian ;  **  for 
it  will  leave  you  firee  to  accept  my  proposi- 
tion. I  havo  some  business  in  Brocksopp, 
tod  T  want  an  escort.     Will  you  come  ? 

"  I  shall  bo  delighted,"  replied  Mr.  Ben- 


thall, "  though  I  shall  keep  up  my  unfor- 
tunate character  for  plain  speaking  by 
asking  you  not  to  dawdle  too  long  in  the 
shops!  I  do  get  so  horridly  impatient 
while  ladies  are  turning  over  a  countcrful 
of  goods !" 

^'My  dear  Mr.  Benthall,  pray  spare 
yourself  any  such  dreadful  anticipations ! 
The  business  that  takes  me  into  Brocksopp 
is  of  a  widely  different  character." 

"  And  that  is " 

"  How  can  you  ask  at  such  a  crisis  ?" 
said  Marian,  in  a  mock  heroic  style,  for 
her  spirits  always  rose  at  the  prospect  of 
action.  **In  what  business  should  a  wife 
be  engaged  at  suoh  a  time  but  her  hus- 
band's? My  business  of  course  is — elec- 
tioneering ! 

"  Electioneering — ^you  ?" 

*^  Well,  canvassing ;  you  know  perfectly 
well  what  I  mean !" 

"  And  you  want  me  to  go  with  you  ?" 

*'  Why  not  ?  Mr.  Benthall,  what  cm  earth 
is  all  this  bigotry  about  P" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Oreswell,  do  you  not 
know  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  go 
with  you  on  the  expedition  you  propose  ?" 

"  No,  I  do  not  know  it !  Why  is  it  im- 
possible P" 

"  Simply  because  in  politics  I  happen  to 
be  diametrically  opposed  to  Mr.  Oreswell. 
My  sympathies  are  strongly  LiberaL" 

"  Then,  in  the  present  election  your  in- 
tention is  to  vote  against  Mr.  Oreswell,  and 
for  his  opponent  P" 

**  Undoubtedly.  Is  this  the  first  time 
you  have  heard  this  ?" 

"  Most  unquestionably  !  Who  should 
have  told  me  P" 

"  Mr.  Oreswell !  Directly  it  was  known 
that  he  would  come  forward  nn  the  Oonser- 
vative  interest,  I  told  him  my  views !" 

"  He  did  not  mention  the  circumstance 
to  me,"  said  Marian;  then  added,  afler  a 
moment,  "  I  never  asked  him  about  you,  to 
be  sure !  I  had  no  idea  that  there  was  the 
least  doubt  of  the  way  in  which  you  in- 
tended to  vote." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  a  few 
minutes  after  this,  a  pause  during  which 
Gfertrude  Oreswell  took  advantage  of 
Marian's  abstraction  to  catch  Maud  s  eye, 
and  to  shape  hor  mouth  into  the  silent  ex- 
pression of  tho  YTord  "Row" — delivered 
three  times  with  great  solemnitv.  At  last 
Marian  looked  up  and  said,  with  an  evi- 
dently forced  smue,  "  Well,  then,  I  must 
be  content  to  shrug  my  shoulders,  and 
submit  to  these  dreadful  politics  so  &r  drdd.- 
ing  us  that  I  imist  give  tx^  tSSLV^L^oabol^Qrax 


"»* 


^. 


28       [Jnne  12, 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROTIND. 


[Oondnctad  by 


/ 


accompanying  me  into  Brocksopp,  Mr. 
Bentball;  but  I  shall  be  obliged  if  yon 
will  give  me  five  minntes'  conversation— I 
will  not  detain  you  longer — ^in  the  Kbrary." 

Mr.  Benthall,  muttering  that  he  should 
be  delighted,  rose  from  his  chair  and  opened 
the  door  ^r  his  hostess  to  pass  out ;  before 
he  followed  her  he  turned  round  to  glance  at 
the  girls,  and  again  Grertrude's  fresh  rosy  lips 
pressed  themselves  together  and  then  opened 
for  the  silent  expression  of  the  word  "  Row," 
but  he  took  no  notice  of  this  cabalistic 
sign  beyond  nodding  his  head  in  a  reassur- 
ing manner,  and  then  followed  Mrs.  Cres- 
well  to  the  library. 

"  Pray  be  seated,  Mr.  Benthall,"  said 
Marian,  dropping  into  a  chair  at  the  writing- 
table,  and  oonmiencing  to  sketdi  vaguely 
on  the  blotting-book  with  a  dry  pen ;  **  the 
news  vou  told  me  just  now  has  come  upon 
me  qmte  xmexpectedly.  I  had  no  idea — ^look- 
ing at  your  intimainr  in  this  house*-intimacy 
which,  as  &r  as  I  know,  has  continued  un- 
interruptedly to  the  present  moment— -no 
idea  that  you  could  have  been  going  to 
act  against  us  at  so  serious  a  crisis  as  the 
present." 

Mr.  Benthall  did  not  like  Mrs.  Creswell, 
but  he  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  he 
could  not  avoid  admiring  the  delicious  in- 
solence of  the  tone  of  voice  which  lent  addi- 
tional relish  to  the  insolence  of  the  state- 
ment, that  he  had  continued  to  avail  him- 
self of  their  hospitality,  while  intending  to 
requite  it  with  opposition.  He  merely 
said,  however,  "  The  &ult  is  not  mine,  Mrs. 
Creswell,  as  I  have  before  said;  imme- 
diately on  the  announcement  of  the  contest, 
and  of  Mr.  Greswell's  coming  forward  as 
the  Conservative  candidate,  I  went  straight 
to  him  and  told  him  I  was  not  a  free  agent 
in  ilie  matter.  I  labour  under  the  mis- 
fortune— and  it  is  one  for  which  I  know  I 
shall  receive  no  sympathy  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  for  people,  however  good- 
hearted  they  mav  be,  cannot  pity  where 
they  cannot  xmderstand — ^I  labour  xmder 
the  misfortune  of  coming  of  an  old  funily, 
having  had  people  before  me  who  for  years 
and  years  have  held  to  Liberal  opinions  in 
fair  weather  and  foul  weather,  now  profit- 
ing by  it,  now  losing  most  confoxmdedly, 
but  never  veering  a  hair's  breadth  for  an 
instant.  In  those  opinions  I  was  brought 
up,  and  in  those  opinions  I  shall  die ;  i£ey 
may  be  wrong,  I  don't  say  they  are  not ; 
I've  not  much  time,  or  opportunity,  or  in- 
clination, for  the  matter  or  that,  for  going 
yeiT  deeply  into  the  question.  I've  taken 
it  Jkxr  granted,  on  the  straoLgih  of  the  re- 


commendation of  wiser  heads  than  mine ; 
more  than  aU,  on  the  fact  of  their  being 
the  family  opinions,  held  by  the  family 
time  out  of  mind.  I'm  excessively  sorry 
that  in  this  instance  those  opinions  clash 
with  those  held  by  a  gentleman  who  is  so 
thoroughly  deserving  of  all  respect  as  Mr. 
Creswell,  and  firom  whom  I  have  received 
so  many  proofs  of  friendship  and  kindness. 
Just  now  it  is  especially  provoking  for  me 
to  be  thrown  into  antagonism  to  him  in 
any  way,  because — however,  that's  neither 
here  nor  there.  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  to 
run  counter  to  several  of  my  friends  here- 
abouts, but  there  is  no  one  the  opposiUon 
to  whom  will  concern  me  so  much  aa  Mr. 
Creswell.  However,  as  I've  said  before, 
it  is  a  question  of  sticking  to  the  £unily 
principles,  and  in  one  sense  to  the  &mily 
honour,  and — so  there's  nothing  else  to  be 
done." 

Marian  sat  quietly  for  a  minute,  before 
she  said,  *'  Not  having  had  the  honour  of 
belonging  to  an  old  family  so  extensively 
stocked  with  traditions,  not  even  having- 
married  into  one,  I  am  perhaps  scarcely  able 
to  understand  your  position,  Mr.  Benthall. 
But  it  occurs  to  me  that  '  progress'  is  a 
word  which  I  have  heard  not  unfr^quently 
mentioned  in  connexion  with  the  prindplea 
for  the  support  of  which  you  seem  prepared 
to  go  to  the  stake,  and  it  seems  to  me  an 
impossible  word  to  be  used  by  those  who 
maintain  a  set  of  political  opinions  simply 
because  they  received  them  from  their 
ancestors." 

"  Oh,  of  course  it  is  not  merely  that !  Of 
course  I  myself  hold  and  beUeve  in  them  !'^ 

"  Sufficiently  to  let  that  belief  influence 
your  actions  at  a  rather  important  period 
of  your  life  ?  See  here,  Mr.  Benthall ;  it 
happens  to  be  mv  wish,  my  very  strong 
wish,  that  my  husband  should  be  returned 
for  Brocksopp  at  this  election.  I  do  not 
hide  frx)m  myself  that  his  return  is  by  no 
means  certain,  that  it  is  necessary  that  every 
vote  should  be  secured.  Now,  there  are 
certain  farmers,  holding  land  in  oonnexioxL 
with  the  charity  under  which  the  school 
was  founded — ^there  is  no  intended  harm  in 
my  use  of  the  word,  for  my  father  was  paid 
out  of  it  as  well  as  you,  remember — farmers 
who,  holding  the  charity  land,  look  to  the 
master  of  the  school,  with  an  odd  kind  of 
loyalty,  as  their  head,  and,  in  such  matters 
as  an  election,  would,  I  imagine,  come  to 
him  for  advice  how  to  act.     Ajool  1  right  ?" 

"  Perfectly  right." 

"  You  know  this  by  experience  ?  They 
have  been  to  you  ?" 


C& 


=fi3 


(AariM  DidtoBii.]     THE  OMNIBUS  IN  LONDON  AND  IN  PARIS.     [June  la,  im]  29 


*'  Some  of  them  waited  on  me  at  the 
school-honse  several  days  ago  !" 

"  And  yon  made  them  pledge  themselyes 
to  snpport  Mr. — Mr.  Joyce  ?" 

"  No,  Mrs.  Creswell,  I  am  a  schoolmaster 
and  a  clergyman,  not  an  electioneering 
agent.  I  explained  to  them  to  the  best  of 
my  power  the  views  taken  by  each  party 
on  the  great  question  of  the  day,  and, 
when  asked  a  direct  question  as  to  how 
I  should  myself  vote,  I  answered  it^— that 
was  all." 

*'  All,  indeed !  It  is  sufficient  to  show 
me  that  these  unthinking  people  will  follow 
you  to  the  polling-booth  like  sheep  !  How- 
erer,  to  return  to  what  I  was  about  to  say 
when  I  thought  of  these  farmers ;  is  your 
belief  in  your  attachment  to  these  prin- 
ciples so  strong  as  to  allow  them  to  influence 
your  actions  at  what  may  be  an  important 
period  of  your  life  ?  I  know  the  Helming- 
ham  school-salary,  Mr.  Benthall;  I  know 
iiie  life — ^Heaven  knows  I  ought,  after  all 
the  years  of  its  weariness  and  its  drudgery 
which  I  witnessed.  You  are  scarcely  in 
your  proper  place,  I  think !  I  can  picture 
you  to  myself  in  a  pleasant  rectory  in  a 
southern  or  western  couniy,  with  a  charm- 
ing wife  by  your  side !" 

"  A  most  delightful  idea,  Mrs.  Creswell, 
bat  one  impossible  of  realisation  in  my  case, 
I  am  a£raid !" 

"  By  no  means  so  impossible  as  you  seem 
to  imi^ine.   I  have  only  to  say  one  word  to 

my  husband,  and 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Creswell,"  said  Mr. 
Benthally  rising,  and  laying  his  hand 
lightly  on  her  arm,  "  pray  excuse  my  in- 
terrupting you ;  but  I  am  sure  you  don*t 
know  what  you  are  saying,  or  doing! 
Ladies  have  no  idea  of  this  kind  of  thing ; 
they  don't  understand  it,  and  we  cannot 
explain.  I  can  only  say  that  if  any  man 
had — well,  I  should  not  have  hesitated  a 
moment  in  knocking  him  down!"  And 
Mr.  Benthall,  whose  manner  was  disturbed, 
whose  voice  trembled,  and  whose  face  was 
▼ery  much  flushed,  was  making  rapidly  to 
the  door,  when  Marian  called  hrm  back. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  very  calmly,  "  that 
our  last  interview  should  have  been  so  dis- 
agreeable. You  will  understand  that,  under 
present  circumstances,  your  visits  here,  and 
your  acquaintance  with  any  of  the  inmates 
of^lhis  house,  must  cease." 

Mr.  Benthall  looked  as  though  about  to 
speak,  but  he  merely  bowed  and  left  the 
room.  When  the  door  closed  behind  him, 
Marian  sank  down  into  her  chair,  and 
burst  into  a  flood  of  bitter  tears.     It  was  | 


the  second  repulse  she  had  met  with  that 
day,  and  she  had  not  been  accustomed  to 
repulses,  of  late. 

1 

THE  OMNIBUS  IN  LONDON  AND  IN 

PARIS. 


Most  persons  who  have  sojourned  in  the  capi- 
tals of  England  and  France,  and  haye  ayailed 
themselves  of  the  commercial  comforts  proper 
to  either  city,  must  have  noted  that  the  Bpacious 
and  commodious  vehicle,  to  which  from  its  ca- 
thohc  capacities  the  name  *^  omnibus  "  has  been 
apphed  m  both  countries,  plays  a  much  more 
important  part  in  Paris  than  in  London.  It  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  in  the  former  you  can 
go  from  anywhere  to  anywhere  else,  at  a  price 
which  is  not  varied  by  the  length  of  your  jour- 
ney, whereas,  in  the  latter,  there  is  not  only  a 
variation  of  charge,  but  there  are  many  points 
which,  from  certain  other  points,  cannot  be 
reached  by  omnibus  at  all.  In  Paris  all  classes 
are  aUke  accommodated ;  in  London  the  most 
favoured  class  consists  of  the  persons  who  have 
business  in  the  city.  On  this  account  the  Bank 
of  England,  as  a  city  focus,  can  be  reached  from 
almost  any  district  you  could  name,  inhabited 
by  business  men,  and  on  this  account  likewise 
the  privileges  of  the  Bank  of  England  are  ex- 
ceptional. 

The  result  of  the  London  system,  or  rather 
want  of  system,  is  a  great  diversity  in  the  small 
assemblies  that  travel  at  different  hours  by  the 
same  omnibuses.  At  the  time  when  city 
men  leave  their  residences  at  the  West-end  or 
in  the  suburbs,  the  vehicles  which  they  use  are 
crowded,  and  the  same  phenomenon  is  observed 
when  the  time  for  returning  home  has  arrived. 
These  city  men  comprise  employers  as  well  as 
clerks,  and  thus  nine  and  ten  a.m.  and  four  and 
Ave  P.M.,  or  thereabouts,  may  be  termed  the  aris- 
tocratic hours  for  those  omnibuses  that  ply  to 
and  from  the  Bank  of  England,  the  morning 
hours  being  considered  in  reference  to  those 
who  seek,  and  the  afternoon  hours  to  those  who 
leave  that  important  point.  During  the  inter- 
mediate hours,  and  at  those  very  hours  when 
the  course  of  the  omnibus  is  contrary  to  the 
course  of  business,  the  travellers  belong  for  the 
most  part  to  a  far  humbler  class,  and  are  by  no 
means  numerous.  And  with  the  omnibuses 
that  do  notply  city- wards  this  is  almost  always 
the  case.  Indeed,  with  the  exception  of  per- 
sons who  for  some  important  reason  are  impelled 
towards  the  centre  of  traffic,  every  one  who  is 
in  the  sUghtest  degree  opulent  and  luxurious 
makes  a  point  of  patronising  the  more  expensive 
cab.  The  cab  will  at  any  rate  take  us  to  any 
point  we  may  choose  to  name,  whereas  tlie  choice 
for  the  travellers  by  the  omnibus  is  limited. 
Of  course,  we  leave  out  of  the  account  the 
state  of  traffic  on  Sundays  and  holidays,  when 
the  omnibuses  that  ply  to  and  from  the  city 
are  almost  empt^,  and  those  that  convey  the 
passengers  to  Richmond,  and  other  places  of 
pleasant  resort,  are  full. 

Now,  in  Paris  the  traveller  V}  oi&x^^q&  vl% 


•tf 


CS: 


:£ 


30      [June  13, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condaeled  hj 


much  more  numerouB,  and  comprise  throughout 
the  day  a  much  more  opulent  clafis  of  persons 
than  those  who  use  a  smiilar  mode  of  locomo- 
tion in  London.  This  fact  may  be  ascribed,  in 
a  great  measure,  to  a  system  of  so-called  *^  cor- 
respondances,*'  by  means  of  which  there  is 
scarcely  a  point  in  Paris  which  is  not  connected 
with  every  other.  When  the  point  which  the 
traveller  desires  to  reach  lies  in  the  direct  line 
of  tiie  omnibus  which  he  takes,  there  is,  of 
course,  no  difference  between  the  practices  of 
the  two  countries.  It  is  when  the  point  lies 
apart  from  the  track  of  the  omnibus  that  the 
difference  begins.  In  that  case  the  London 
traveller  must  consider  where  he  nrast  get 
out  to  complete  his  pilgrimage  to  the  de- 
rared  spot,  ne  may  perhaps  b«  aware  of  an 
intermediate  point,  whence  another  omnibus 
will  proceed  to  it  directly ;  or  he  may  be  con- 
vinced that  a  cab  or  a  tedious  journey  on  foot 
will  be  indispensable.  At  all  events,  a  judidous 
choice  of  the  course  he  ought  to  pursue  de- 
mands an  amount  of  topographical  knowledge 
which  cannot  be  expected  in  a  casual  visitor  to 
the  ci^tal,  or  even  in  those  confirmed  Cock- 
neys whose  London  movements  have  been  con- 
fined to  a  beaten  track. 

The  difficulty  here  indicated  is  met  by  the 
Frenoh  svstem  of  "  correspondances."  Paris  is 
dotted  all  over  with  omnibus  stations,  which  for 
some  vehicles  are  starting  points,  for  others 
houses  of  call.  To  one  of  these  l^e  traveller 
proceeds,  in  the  first  instance,  and  tells  the 
official  personage  he  finds  t^ere  whither  he  de- 
sires to  go.  If  the  spot  does  not  lie  in  the  route 
of  the  omnibus  at  this  station,  he  is  furnished 
not  only  with  a  ticket  for  his  place,  but  another 
ticket  entitling  him  to  a  seat  in  another  omni- 
bus, which  he  will  enter  at  an  intermediate 
station,  and,  thence  proceeding,  will  complete 
his  journey.  Let  us  make  matters  intelligible 
to  purely  British  traders,  by  imagining  a  similar 
arrangement  in  London.  The  traveUer,  being 
at  the  Bank  of  Elngland,  would  proceed  to 
Russell-square— a  journey  which,  according  to 
the  actual  system,  is  altogether  impossible.  He 
would  find  a  station  erected  (say)  by  the  Wel- 
lington statue,  and,  armed  with  a  **  correspon- 
dancc,"  would  take  an  Oxford-street  ommbus. 
The  conductor  would  set  him  down  at  the  most 
convenient  intermediate  station,  which  would 
be  at  the  comer  of  the  Gray's  Inn-road  or  South- 
ampton-street,  and  there  he  would  find  another 
omnibus,  which  would  take  him  to  Russell- 
square,  or  its  immediate  vicinity.  This  journey 
costs  him  no  more  than  it  would  have  done  had 
the  square  in  question  lain  cm  the  route  of  the 
first  vehicle.  The  uniform  fare  from  any  given 
point  to  any  other  is  thirty  centimes,  or  three- 
pence, for  an  inside  place ;  twenty  centimes,  or 
twopence,  for  a  seat  on  the  roof.  The  first 
conauctor  alone  receives  money;  the  second 
receives,  in  its  stead,  the  correspondance 
ticket. 

As  crowding  at  French  theatres  is  prevented 
by  a  regulation  which  compels  every  one  to 
follow  those  who  have  reacned  the  entrance 
befoare  him,  so  that  fiiBt  come  is  sure  to  be  first 


served,  however  strong  the  will  and  the  muscles 
of  second  come  may  be ;  so  also  is  crowding 
into  omnibuses  prevented,  though  by  a  more 
elaborate  arrangement.  In  a  Parisian  omnibus 
there  are  fourteen  inside  scats  and  twelve  seats 
on  the  roof ;  and  the  tickets  are  inscribed  with 
numbers  corresponding  to  this  capacity,  and 
must  be  used  in  rotation.  For  instance,  the 
ticket  you  obtain  at  the  station  is  numbered 
nine.  The  omnibus  that  is  about  to  start  may 
have  two  vacant  places,  and  if  persons  armed 
with  tickets  numbered  seven  and  eight  are  not 
yet  accommodated,  their  claim  will  be  preferred 
to  yours,  and  you  must  await  the  arrival  of 
the  next  omnibus,  when  you  will  find  your- 
self similarly  privileged  with  regard  to  number 
ten.  When  the  velucle  is  empty,  or  compara- 
tively empty,  this  ticket  system  is  not  regarded. 
You  may  enter  it  without  visiting  the  station 
at  1^1,  and  the  conductor,  when  you  pay  him 
the  fare,  will  furnish  you  with  correspondance 
tickets,  if  these  are  required. 

If  we  have  made  the  French  plan  intelligible 
to  our  readers,  they  will  at  once  perceive  that 
in  Paris  the  use  of  the  omnibus  is  open  to> 
a  larger  number  of  persons  than  in  London. 
We  are  compelled,  in  fairness,  to  admit  that 
the  city  man,  whose  course  is  invariably  fronit 
a  populous  suburb  to  the  Bank,  will  find  an 
advantage  in  the  London  system  to  which 
there  is  nothing  comparable  in  Paris.  Here 
we  have  direct  routes  only,  from  which  we 
have  no  occasion  to  deviate,  and  probably 
in  Paris  there  is  no  omnibus  route  at  once  so 
long  and  so  direct  as  that  which  lies  between 
Paddington  and  the  Bank  of  England.  In 
Paris  tJie  travellers  who  use  correspondances 
are  as  much  considered  as  anybody  else,  and 
these  must  be  set  down  at  the  most  convenient 
stations  before  the  vehicle  which  they  have  en- 
tered in  the  first  instance  completes  its  journey. 
Hence  there  is  much  roundabout  travelling  un- 
known in  England,  the  omnibus  sometimes  pro- 
ceeding southward,  and  then  again  northward,, 
as  if  the  place  of  final  destination  inscribed  on 
the  vehicle  had  been  forgotten  on  the  route.  In 
short,  the  slight  convenience  of  the  few  is  sacri- 
ficed to  the  great  convenience  of  the  many,  and 
this  sacrifice  the  city  gentleman,  who  belongs 
to  the  few  par  excellence,  will  probably  not  be 
disposed  to  admire. 

At  the  principal  omnibus  stations  in  Paris  a 
little  book  is  sold  in  which  the  merits  of  the 
English  and  French  systems  arc  compared  in  a 
very  equitable  way,  on  data  obtained  in  the  year 
1866.  Its  author  is  M.  C.  Lavollde,  an  admin- 
istrator of  the  Omnibus  Company  of  Paris, 
who  evidently  speaks  rather  in  an  official  than 
in  a  personal  capacity,  and  its  object  is  partly 
to  show  that  the  capitalist  will  find  french 
omnibus  shares  a  more  profitable  investment 
than  the  shares  of  the  English  company.  With 
this  object  we  have  nothing  to  do.  Those 
facts,  which  as  presented  by  M.  C.  Lavollec, 
concern  the  general  pubhc — the  people  who 
trust  their  persons  to  the  vehicle,  not  the  per- 
sons who  trust  their  money  to  the  cntcrpriso 
—alone  come  under  our  consideration. 


^ 


cfi: 


& 


CharleaDiekenB.]      THE   OMNIBUS  IN  LONDON  AND   IN  PARIS.       [June  12. 18«9.]     31 


According  to  M.  C.  Lavoll^e — who  always 
speaks,  be  it  remembered,  with  the  year  1866 
before  his  eyes — the  number  of  lines  taken  by 
the  General  Omnibus  Company  of  London, 
whose  pre-eminence  above  other  omnibus 
proprietors  is  incontestable,  is  sixty-eight. 
But  he  remarks  that  these  lines  would  not 
be  considered  so  many  from  a  French 
point  of  view.  When  one  route  is  the  mere 
continuation  of  another,  these,  according  to 
the  French  routes,  constitute  but  one  line; 
whereas,  it  is  otherwise  hero.  Nor  does  the 
competition  of  the  other  omnibus  proprietors 
necessarily  bring  with  it  increased  accommoda- 
tion to  the  people  of  London,  inasmuch  as 
sereral  yehicles,  independent  of  each  other, 
frequently  take  the  same  route,  while  some 
dis^cts  are  altogether  unprovided.  An  ob- 
servation made  on  London  Bridge  on  the 
23ni  of  May,  1865,  gave  a  transit  of  three 
thousand'  nine  hundred  omnibuses  between 
the  hours  of  nine  a.m.  and  eleven  p.m.,  that  is 
to  say,  about  two  hundred  and  seventy-eight 
per  hour,  and  more  than  four  per  minute. 
An  observation  made  on  Westminster  Bridge 
on  the  11th  of  the  following  June,  and  con- 
sequently in  precisely  the  same  season,  gave 
a  transit,  between  the  corresponding  hours,  of 
five  hundred  and  forty  omnibuses,  that  is  to 
say,  about  thirty-eight  per  hour.  These  sta- 
tistics forcibly  illustrate  what  we  have  said 
above  with  regard  to  favoured  routes. 

In  London  the  omnibuses  begin  to  mn  be- 
tween the  hours  of  seven  and  eight  in  the 
morning,  and  some  of  the  latest  return  home 
after  midnight.  But  they  are  only  in  full 
activity  from  ten  a.m.  until  between  nine  and 
ten  P.M.,  after  which  latter  hour  there  are  no 
omnibuses  running,  save  those  bound  for  the 
remote  suburbs.  These  are  the  statements 
made  by  M.  LavoU^e.  It  is  bold  to  question 
80  careful  an  observer,  but  we  cannot  help  re- 
marking that  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  seems 
rather  a  late  hour  for  the  commencement  of 
expeditions  to  the  city,  and  we  know  how  im- 
portant these  are  in  promoting  omnibus  traffic. 

In  Paris  l^e  omnibuses  begin  to  rim  before 
seven  A.M.,  and  most  of  the  lines  continue  till 
after  midnight.  Sunday  increases  the  French 
and  diminishes  the  English  traffic.  This  fact 
does  not  touch  the  question  of  accommoda- 
tion, but  is  to  be  attributed  to  the  different 
habits  of  the  two  countries. 

The  number  of  passengers  carried  by  one 
Tehiele  is  exactly  the  same  in  the  two  capitals, 
riz.,  twenty-six;  but  the  distribution  is  dif- 
ferent, inasmuch  as  there  are  twelve  inside 
places  in  the  London,  and  fourteen  in  the  Pari- 
sian omnibus.  Attempts  have  been  made  in 
Paris  to  find  room  for  two  additional  outside 
passengers,  and  this  would,  of  course,  increase 
the  total  number  to  twenty-eight. 

The  London  omnibus,  when  empty,  weighs 
only  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  kilogrammes, 
whereas  the  Parisian  vehicle  weighs  sixteen 
hundred  and  twenty  or  sixteen  hundred  and 
thirty,  the  former  figure  corresponding  to  the 
newer,  the  latter  to  the  older  construction. 


(The  kilogramme,  it  may  be  observed,  is  equal 
to  rather  less  than  two  pounds  and  a  quarter 
avoirdupois).  This  apparent  a^lvnntage  on  the 
English  side  is  attributed  not  only  to  the 
greater  number  of  passengers  accommodated 
inside  the  French  vehicle,  but  also  to  the  fact 
that  nearly  two  inches  more  space  is  allowed  for 
each  person.  Additional  causes  of  the  weight 
of  the  Paris  omnibus  are  to  be  found  in  the 
dial,  which  registers  the  entrance  of  each  pas- 
senger ;  four  lanterns,  against  which  we  can  only 
set  off  a  small  inside  lamp ;  and  a  casing  of 
sheet  iron,  used  to  lessen  the  damage  caused 
by  collisions.  To  the  dial  which  we  nave  just 
mentioned,  and  which  in  French  is  called 
^*  cadran,'*  there  is  nothing  analogous  in  this 
country.  All  who  know  anything  of  Paris, 
are  familiar  with  it  as  a  matter  of  course ;  for 
those,  not  so  privileged,  the  simple  statement 
will  suffice,  that  it  is  an  apparatus  worked  by 
the  mere  entrance  of  the  passengers,  and  that, 
as  it  records  the  number  of  travellers  by  me- 
chanical means,  over  which  the  conductor  has 
no  control,  it  necessarily  makes  fraud  on  his 

Sart  a  sheer  impossibility.  We  learn  from 
I.  Lavoll^e  that  an  attempt  to  introduce  this 
useful  institution  by  the  General  Omnibus 
Company  of  London  was  effectually  resisted,  not 
only  by  the  conductors  but  also  by  the  public. 
The  fact  is  curious.  That  the  conductors  dis- 
liked such  an  application  of  practical  science 
to  the  prevention  of  petty  fraiid  seems  natural 
enough ;  and  if  one  of  those  useful  members 
of  society  were  represented  on  the  stage  of  a 
transpontine  theatre,  slapping  his  left  side,  and 
declaring  that  the  honour  of  a  poor  man  was 
far  superior  to  machinery,  we  have  not  the 
slightest  doubt  that  a  hearty  round  of  applause 
would  manifest  the  satisfaction  of  the  gallery. 
But  why  the  public,  who  are  by  no  means  the 
necessary  allies  of  the  conductor,  should  be 
equally  sensitive  on  the  subject,  we  cannot  at 
all  understand.  Is  it  possible  that  the  sharp 
tinkle,  which  marks  the  action  of  the  machine, 
is  found  objectionable  to  fastidious  ears  ? 

This  odd  sympathy  between  passengers  and 
conductors  seems  more  difficult  to  explain,  if 
we  consider  that  in  Ix)ndon  the  passengers  can 
easily  be  defrauded  by  the  conductor,  whereas 
in  Paris  the  conductor  can-  cheat  no  one. 
The  passenger  in  the  French  omnibus  knows 
that  however  far  he  goes,  he  has  only  to 
pay  thirty  centimes  (threepence)  if  he  travels 
inside,  and  twenty  ('twopence')  if  he  sits  on 
the  roof;  but  there  is  no  sucn  uniformity  in 
England,  where  prices  are  roughly  measured 
by  distance.  The  absence  of  uniformity 
favours  imposition  on  travellers  in  general 
and  on  foreigners  in  particular,  as  M,  I^voll^e 
shrewdly  observes,  his  remark  being  probably 
groundwi  on  his  own  personal  experience. 
The  interior  of  the  London  omnibus  is  indeed 
decorated  with  a  certain  tin  placard,  on  which 
the  tariff  of  prices,  as  regulated  by  distance, 
is  stated  in  the  blackest  black  and  the  whitest 
white.  But  how  many  are  the  persons,  English 
or  foreign,  who  can  exactly  comprehend  iVx'^ 
tariff? 


* 


c4 


& 


32      [Jane  13, 1809.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondaoted  by 


The  rapidity  of  the  London  omnibuB  exceeds 
that  of  the  rarisian,  the  former  travelling  at 
the  rate  of  from  five  to  six  English  miles  an 
hour  (seldom  six),  that  is  to  say,  of  from  eight 
to  nine  and  a  half  kilometres,  whereas  seven  and 
a  haJf  kilometres  is  the  extent  of  the  French 
rate.  To  reduce  this  fact  to  its  proper  value, 
we  should  recollect  that  the  English  is,  as  we 
have  said,  lighter  than  the  French  vehicle,  and 
take  other  circumstances  into  consideration. 
The  slopes  in  London  are  less  formidable,  the 
streets  are  wider,  and  the  passages  are  less 
numerous  than  in  Paris.  Stoppages  are  also 
less  frequent.  The  system  of  "  correspon- 
dances  ^*  forces  the  French  omnibus  to  stop  at 
various  stations,  thus  causing  a  slight  incon- 
venience, which  is  to  be  taken  into  account 
when  the  two  systems  are  balanced  with  each 
other. 

When  M.  I^voll^e  compares  the  number  of 
omnibus  travellers  in  Paris  with  those  in  Lon- 
don during  1866,  the  advantage  is  unquestion- 
ably on  ^e  side  of  the  former.  Conmiing  his 
observations  to  the  London  General  Omnibus 
Company,  he  tells  us,  that  whereas  the  com- 
pany with  six  hundred  and  two  vehicles 
carried  during  the  year  forty -four  millions 
three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  passengers, 


the   Paris    com 


pany, 


with  six   hundred   and 


twenty-five  vehicles  carried  one  hundred  and 
seven  millions  two  hundred  and  two  thousand, 
that  is  to  say,  considerably  more  than  double 
the  nimiber.  The  searcher  after  truth  will, 
like  M.  Lavoll^e,  balance  this  fact  with  the 
circumstance,  that  in  Pans  there  is  nothing 
analogous  to  the  penny-steamboat,  or  to  the 
Metropolitan  and  North  London  Railways. 
The  steamers  which  connect  all  the  important 
points  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Thames  from 
London  Bridge  to  Chelsea  may  easily  be  over- 
looked by  many  of  the  sojourners  in  London, 
but  their  importance,  derived  from  rapidity 
and  extreme  cheapness,  is  immense. 

The  accidents  that  occur  in  Paris,  through 
the  employment  of  the  omnibus,  are,  according 
to  M.  Lavoll6e,  more  numerous  than  those  that 
take  place  in  London.  To  account  for  this 
difference  he  finds  several  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  the  streets  of  our  capital  are  broader  and 
straighter  than  those  of  Paris,  and  the  advantage 
on  the  side  of  London  is  not  counterbalanced 
by  the  crowd  of  vehicles  which  are  seen  daily  in 
the  city,  but  which  diminishes  at  a  very  early 
hour  in  the  evening.  Li  the  second  place,  M. 
Lavoll^  admits  that  both  in  skill  and  temper, 
the  English  drivers  are  far  superior  to  the 
French,  and  have  to  deal  with  more  docile 
horses.  A  third  cause  of  accident  is  the  number 
of  trucks  and  light  carts  frequently  driven  by 
women,  which  in  Paris  is  greater  than  in  Lon- 
don, and  leads  to  collisions  by  which  the  weaker 
side  suffers.  Fourthly  —  and  this  is  an  ad- 
vantage on  the  side  of  London,  which  at  once 
strikes  every  Englishman  at  the  very  first  walk 
which  he  takes  in  Paris,  unless  he  confines 
hhnselS  to  the  Boulevards  and  such  novelties 
Hue  de  Hi'voli—our  streets  are,  with  ex- 
acarcely  worth  noting^  uniformly  pro- 


vided with  foot-pavements  on  each  side  of  the 
road,  whereas,  in  many  of  the  streets  of  the 
French  capital,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
distinct  path  for  pedestrians,  but  horse  and 
foot  move  in  the  same  track,  the  latter  taking 
care  of  themselves  as  best  they  may.  In  the 
opinion  of  M.  Lavoll^e,  this  Parisian  order,  or 
rather  disorder  of  things,  leads  to  a  general 
habit  of  carelessness,  which  does  not  exist  in 
London.  The  Briton,  accustomed  to  find  his 
foot-pavement  everywhere,  never  thinks  of 
leaving  it ;  the  Gaul,  forced  in  many  cases  to 
dispense  with  this  luxury,  does  not  always  take 
advantage  of  it  when  it  is  offered,  and  hence 
the  carriage-roads  of  Paris  are  often  thronged 
with  pedestrians,  even  where  especial  accommo- 
dation has  been  provided  for  them. 

Conning  over  the  facts  thus  briefly  enume- 
rated, and  perhaps  consulting  also  his  own 
personal  experience,  the  reader  will  perceive 
at  a  glance,  that  if  the  French  streets  were 
widened  and  xmiformly  provided  with  foot- 
pavements,  the  French  drivers  were  better 
trained,  and  the  traffic  in  light  carts  were  di- 
minished, the  comparison  between  London  and 
Pans  would  show  an  unqualified  advantage  on 
the  side  of  the  latter,  and,  moreover,  that  the 
allowances  made  in  favour  of  England  were 
but  trifling  after  all. 

Why,  then,  shoidd  we  not  adopt  the  Parisian 
mode  without  hesitation  ? 

This  question  is  not  to  be  answered  without 
grave  deliberation.  The  great  efficiency  of  the 
Parisian  scheme,  and  the  perfection  of  its  system 
of  correspondances,  are  the  results  of  a  mono- 
poly ;  all  the  omnibuses  in  the  French  capital 
oelonging  to  one  company,  with  whom  it  is 
unlawful  to  compete.  Now,  to  every  thinking 
Englishman  the  very  word  monopoly  is  sug- 
gestive of  fallacy,  and  whenever  a  particular 
case  arises  where  protection  in  any  form  seems 
to  have  an  advantage  over  free  competition,  he 
will  doubt  whether  a  partial  benefit  is  to  be 
sought  by  the  sacrifice  of  a  grand  principle. 
Who  can  say  that,  properly  developed,  the 
London  system  of  free  competition  may  not 
ultimately  attain  in  the  small  matter  of  the 
omnibus,  the  same  degree  of  perfection  that  in 
Paris  is  enforced  by  monopoly  V 


NOBODY  ABROAD. 

Very  early  in  this  present  century,  that  is 
to  say,  in  the  montii  of  October,  1801,  it 
occurred  to  Mr.  Nobody  to  visit  the  famous 
city  of  Paris.  According  to  the  Republican 
calendar,  which  then  obtained  among  our 
neighbours,  the  month  was  not  October,  and 
the  year  was  not  1801.  The  month  was  Bni- 
maire,  and  the  year  was  Ten  of  the  Republic 
one  and  indivisible.  But  Mr.  Nobody  being  au 
Englishman,  the  non-republican  computation 
of  tmie  and  season  may  be  adopted.  I  call  my 
traveller  Mr.  Nobody  because  I  have  not  the 
slightest  idea  who  he  was,  whence  he  came,  or 
whither — when  he  returned  from  his  Parisian 
1  tour — -lie  went.    Hfc  'wsa  certainly  not  Tom 


h 


CharlM  IHokeiiB.] 


NOBODY  ABROAD. 


[June  12. 18<».]      33 


Paine,  but  I  am  not  prepared  to  assert  that  he 
might  not  have  been  tne  author  of  Junius, 
talung  a  shady  and  secretive  holiday,  according 
to  his  inscrutable  wont.  He  wrote  a  book 
ahout  his  travels,  entitled,  "  A  Rough  Sketch 
of  Modem  Paris,**  and  he  caused  it  to  be  pub- 
lished anonymously,  in  a  thin  octavo,  by  a  book- 
seller in  St.  Paulas-churchyard.  He  did  not 
even  favour  the  public  with  his  initials,  or  with 
three  asterisks,  or  with  a  Greek  or  Roman 
pseudonyme.  At  the  end  of  four  pages  of 
preface  he  signs  himself  ^'  the  author,'*  which, 
m  default  of  any  other  explanation,  is,  to  say 
the  least,  baffling.  To  increase  the  bewilder- 
ment of  posterity,  the  work  of  this  occult  tra- 
Teller  takes  the  form  of  a  series  of  letters, 
addressed  to  a  friend,  who  is  qualified  as  **  My 
Dear  Sir  ;'*  but  who  "  My  Dear  Sir*'  was  is  un- 
known to  Everybody — except  Nobody.  At  the 
conclusion  of  each  of  his  letters  Mr.  Nobody 
observes^  *'  As  soon  as  I  have  anything  to  com- 
municate, I  shall  write  again.  In  Uie  mean 
time  I  take  my  leave,  and  am,  &c.**  What  are 
Tou  to  do  wit^  an  author  who  persists  in  saying 
that  he  is  et  cetera? 

Mr.  Nobody,  however,  is  not  to  be  neglected : 
for  two  reasons :  the  first,  that  he  has  drawn  a 
Toy  curious  and  interesting  picture  of  Paris, 
as  it  appeared  to  an  EngUshman  during  the 
brief  peace,  or  rather  truce,  of  Amiens ;  the 
fleeona  that,  his  obstinate  anonymity  notwith- 
standing, Mr.  Nobody's  pages  are  fruitfid  of 
internal  evidence  that  he  must  have  been  Some- 
body, and  somebody  of  note,  too.  He  had  a 
life  who  shared  his  pleasures  and  his  hardships. 
He  was  on  visiting  terms  with  His  Britannic 
Majesty's  ambassador  in  Paris,  and  was  pre- 
sented at  the  Tuileries.  Mrs.  Nobody  even 
diDed  there.  Finally,  he  took  his  own  carriage 
abroad  witli  him,  and  his  letters  of  credit  on 
his  bankers  were  illimitable. 

On  the  twenty-sixth  of  October  he  left  the 
York  House  at  J>over,  and  embarked  on  board 
a  neutral  vessel,  which  he  was  compelled  to 
hire,  no  English  packet-boat  being  yet  per- 
mitted to  enter  a  Iirench  port.  After  a  smooth 
and  pleasant  passage  of  four  hours,  Mr.  No- 
body found  himself  at  Calais.  As  soon  as  the 
ressel  entered  the  port,  two  Custom  House 
officers  in  military  uniform  came  on  board,  and 
took  down  the  names  of  the  passengers.  One 
of  them  retired,  to  make  his  report  to  the 
municipality  of  Calais,  while  the  other  re- 
mained on  board  to  prevent  any  of  the  pas- 
sengers from  landing.  While  the  French 
douanier  was  on  shore,  Calais  pier  was  crowded 
by  spectators,  the  greater  part  of  whom  were 
nulitary  men.  They  seemed  to  derive  great 
gratification  from  staring  at  the  English  ladies, 
and  from  examining  the  body  of  Mr.  Nobody's 
carriage,  which  was  hung  on  the  deck  of  the 
ship  ;  while  Mr.  N.  himself  was  equally  enter- 
tained with  the  great  moustackes^the  italics 
are  his  own — of  the  grenadiers,  the  wooden 
shoes  of  the  peasants,  and  the  close  caps  of  the 
grisettes. 

The  douanier  returning  on  board,  Mr.  No- 
body and  suite  were  penmtted  to  touch  the 


territory  of  the  republic,  and,  escorted  by  a 
guard  of  bourgeois,  desperately  ragged  as  to 
uniform,  were  marched  from  the  quay  to  the 
Custom  House,  from  the  Custom  House  to  the 
mayor,  and  from  the  mayor  to  the  Commissary 
of  Police.  At  each  of  these  offices,  examina- 
tions—oral, impedimental,  and  personal — were 
made.  Mr.  Nobody  was  fain  not  only  to  sur- 
render his  passport,  but  also  his  pocket-book 
and  letters.  The  last-named  were  returned  on 
the  following  day.  These  little  police  ameni- 
ties coming  to  an  end  about  seven  p.m.,  Mr. 
Nobodv  was  then  free  to  sit  down  to  an  excel- 
lent dmner  at  the  celebrated  hotel  formerly 
kept  by  Dessein,  now  succeeded  by  his  nephew 
Quillacq — a  very  respectable  man,  who  met 
Mr.  N.  at  landing,  and,  with  the  utmost  civility 
and  attention,  took  care  of  his  carriage  and 
baggi^e.  The  Unknown  wished  to  set  out  on 
the  f ofiowing  morning  for  Paris,  but,  according 
to  respectable  M.  Quillacq,  that  was  a  simple 
impossibility ;  for,  although  the  Unmentioned 
had  brought  with  him  a  passport  in  due  form 
from  M.  de  Talleyrand,  countersigned  by  M. 
Otto,  the  French  minister  in  London,  and 
backed  by  his  Britannic  Majesty's  own  gracious 
licence  to  travel  in  foreign  parts,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  have  all  these  documents  exchanged  for 
a  laissez-passer  from  the  mayor  of  Paris. 

Mr.  N.  accordingly  passed  the  whole  of  the 
next  day  in  Calais,  and  on  Wednesday  morning, 

accompanied  by  **Mrs. ",  he  left  Calais, 

with  post-horses.  Why  won't  he  cidl  her  his 
Arammta,  or  his  Sophonisba?  Betsy  Jane, 
even,  would  be  preferable  to  this  colourless 
"  Mrs. ".  The  roads  were  very  bad,  par- 
ticularly near  Boulogne ;  the  posting  charges 
were  moderate— six  livres,  or  five  shillings,  a 
stage  of  five  miles ; — say  a  shiUing  a  mile.  How 
much  is  first-class  fare  by  the  Great  Northern 
of  France,  in  1869?  About  twopence-half- 
penny. 

Montreuil,  where  the  travellers  were  to  sleep^ 
was  not  reached  until  sunset.  Here  was  found 
excellent  accommodation  *'  at  the  inn  cele- 
brated by  Sterne."  The  Reverend  Mr.  Yorick 
seems  to  have  been  the  Murray  of  the  eighteenth 
century  and  the  beginning  of  the  present  one, 
and  it  is  astonishing  that  his  publishers  did  not 
put  forth  an  advertising  edition  of  the  Senti- 
mental Journey.  At  Montreuil,  Mr.  N.  (the 
rogue !),  in  true  Yorick-like  spirit,  noticed  '*  the 
snuling  attention  of  two  very  pretty  girls  who 
acted  as  waiters."  He  omits  to  state  whether 
Mrs.  -^«*  noticed  their  smiling  attention.  The 
next  day,  through  a  fine  country  and  bad  roads, 
Amiens  was  reached.  The  cultivation  by  ihe 
wayside  was  good;  the  peasants  were  well 
clad ;  the  beggars  were  numerous.  The  waiters, 
postboys,  and  landlords,  were  everjrwhere  re- 
markably civil,  and  expressed  their  joy  at 
seeing  *' Milords  Anglais"  once  more  among 
them.  Can  Mr.  Nobody  have  been  a  Noble- 
man, and  Mrs. only  a  shallow  delusion 

veiling  an  actual  Ladyship  ?    His  Lordship — 
I  mean  his  Nonentity  —  remarked  that  tAi<& 
lower  classes  were  mote  Tft«^«fc\.l\s\  \)a»si>a^\at^ 
the  revolution.    T\ie  reason  v^r^^iX^  \.o  \saft> 


<^ 


84      [Jane  IS,  1869J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


fOoadnotod  by 


obvious.  The  old  nobility  treated  their  infe- 
riors with  jocular  familiarity — the  familiarity 
which,  it  may  be,  bordered  on  contempt — and 
the  inferiors,  mere  thralls  and  bondsmen  as 
thej^  were,  took  trifling  yerbal  liberties  with 
theur  lords.  Did  not  something  akin  to  this 
prevail  in  Scotland  during  the  last  century,  and 
IB  it  not  very  well  illustrated  in  Dean  Ramsay's 
story  of  the  Scotch  lord  who  picks  up  a  farthing 
in  the  sight  of  a  beggar?  '* Earl  T*  cries  out 
the  gaberlunzie  man,  *'  gie  us  the  siller." 
"Na,  na,''  replies  his  lordship,  pocketing  the 
coin,  ^^  fln'  a  baubee  for  yourser,  puir  bodie." 
When  the  social  gulf  between  classes  is  unfa- 
thomable, do  we  not  sometimes  affect  to  shake 
hands  across  it  ?  But  when  we  stand  foot  to 
foot — **  mensch  zu  mensch,'*  as  SchUler  has  it— 
on  the  same  earth,  do  we  not  often  feel  in- 
clined to  shake  our  fists  in  each  other's  faces  ? 
**The  loss  of  tiieir  rank,"  observes  Mr.  No- 
body, '^has  compelled  the  higher  classes  to 
command  respect  by  a  distance  of  manner, 
which  has,  of  course,  produced  a  similar  course 
of  conduct  in  the  persons  beneath  them."  But 
for  that  merciless  date  —  1801  —  one  would 
think  that  Mr.  Nobody  had  travelled  in  the 
State  of  Virginia  since  the  abolition  of  slavery. 
The  planters  are  no  longer  hail  fellow  well 
met  with  their  serfis,  and  enfranchised  Sambo 
no  longer  addresses  the  white  man  as  ^*  Mas'r," 
but  as  '*  6a."  Liberty  is  a  wonderful  teacher 
of  etiquette. 

At  Amiens  the  Unknown  drove  to  the  H6tel 
d'Angleterre,  where  he  was  magnificently  and 
miserably  lodged.  The  windows  and  doors 
declined  to  keep  out  the  wind  and  rain ;  the 
fires  were  bad,  and  the  supper  was  worse  ;  nor 
was  the  final  touch  of  ertravagant  charges 
wanting.  The  journey  was  resumed  on  Frumy 
morning ;  the  beauty  of  the  country  and  the 
badness  of  the  roads  increasing  at  every  step. 
At  length  the  weary  travellers  clattered  into 
OhantUly,  found  a  comfortable  bed,  and,  on 
Saturday  morning,  visited  the  "  magnificent 
ruins"  of  the  Palace  of  Chantilly.  The  superb 
edifice  of  the  stables  only  remained  intact. 
The  government  of  the  Firat  Consul  had  for- 
bidden the  sale  of  these  buildings,  and  the 
mistress  of  the  inn  told  Mr.  Nobody,  with 
team  in  her  eyes,  that  had  Napoleon  been  at 
the  head  of  a&drs  only  six  months  sooner,  the 
palace  also  would  have  been  rescued  from  de- 
struction. 

A  little  way  out  of  Chantilly,  a  fine  paved 
road  commenced,  extending  to  Paris,  which 
city  Mr.  Nobody  reached  at  two  p.m.  on 
Saturday.  He  had  been  three  and  a  half  days 
and  three  nights  on  the  road.  At  the  Paris 
barrier,  passports  were  asked  for,  but  were  at 
once  ana  civilly  returned.  '*  Carriages,"  Mr. 
N.  adds,  **  are  no  longer  stopped,  as  formerly, 
in  every  town,  to  be  searched  for  contraband 
goods;  but  turnpikes  are  numerous  and  ex- 
pensive." On  entering  Paris,  the  travellers 
drove  to  several  hotels  before  they  could  pro- 
cure accommodation,  and  such  as  they  at  last 
found  was  wretched.  Many  of  the  hotels  had 
i^eea  /stripped  during  the  revoiution,  and  had 


not  been  refurnished ;  and  the  few  remaining 
in  proper  gear  were  crowded  by  foreigners, 
who,  since  the  peace,  had  flocked  hither  in 
vast  numbers  from  every  country  in  the  world. 
Mr.  Nobody  very  strongly  advises  persons  in- 
tending to  visit  Paris  to  write  some  days  be- 
forehand to  their  correspondents,  if  they  desire 
to  be  comfortably  lodged  on  their  arrival.  The 
Mysterious  Man  was  not,  however,  disheart- 
ened by  the  badness  of  the  inn.  So  soon  as  he 
had  changed  his  attire,  he  hastened  to  call  on 
M.  Perregaux,  his  banker,  who,  notwithstand- 
ing his  recent  promotion  to  the  rank  of  senator, 
was  as  civil  and  obliging  as  ever.  Mr.  Nobody 
mutt  have  been  Somebody.  See  how  civU 
everybody  was  to  him ! 

I  nave  been  an  unconscionable  time  bringing 
this  shadowy  friend  of  mine  from  Calais  to 
Paris ;  but  I  hold  this  record  of  his  experiences 
to  be  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  a  Text,  on 
which  a  lay-sermon  might  be  preached  to  the 
great  edification  of  modem,  fretful,  and 
grumbling  travellers.  *^  Young  sir,"  I  would 
say,  were  it  my  business  to  preach,  the  which, 
happily,  it  is  not :  '<  modem  young  British 
tourist,  take  account  of  the  four  days'  suffer- 
ings of  Mr.  Nobody  and  Mrs.  Dash,  and  leam 
patience  and  contentment.  Some  eighty  hours 
did  they  pass  in  hideous  discomfort,  on  dolo- 
rous roads,  or  in  unseemly  hostelries.  Much 
were  they  baited  anent  passports :  much  were 
they  exercised  in  consequence  of  the  stiff -neck- 
edness  of  that  proud  man  the  mayor  of  Calais. 
How  many  times,  for  aught  we  know,  may  not 
their  linchpins  have  disappeared,  their  traces 
snapped,  their  axles  parted  ?  Who  shall  say 
but  tnat  their  postilions,  although  civil,  smelt 
fearfully  of  garlic,  and  (especially  during  the 
stages  between  Beauvais  and  St.  Denis)  be- 
came partially  overcome  by  brandy?  St.  Denis 
has  always  been  notorious  for  the  worst  brandy 
in  Europe.  And  the  dust  1  And  the  beggars ! 
But  for  the  '•  smiling  attentions*  of  those  two 
pretty  waiter  girls  at  Montreuil,  I  tremble  to 
think  noon  what  might  have  been  the  temper 
of  Mr.  Nobody  when  he  found  himself,  at  last, 
in  Paris.  Thus  he  of  1801.  This  is  how  your 
grandpapa,  your  uncle  William,  went  to  Paris ; 
but  how  fares  it  with  you,  my  young  friend  ? 
You  designed,  say  on  Friday  afternoon  last,  to 
take  three  days*  holiday.  You  woidd  have  a  i 
*run  over  to  Paris,*  you  said.  You  dined  at 
six  P.M.  on  Friday  at  the  Junior  Juvenal  Club, 
Pall-mall.  You  smoked  your  habitual  cigar ; 
you  played  your  usual  game  of  billiards  after 
dinner.  It  was  many  minutes  after  eight  when 
you  f oimd  yourself,  with  a  single  dressing-bag 
for  luggage,  at  Charing-cross  terminus.  You 
took  a  *  fust-dass  return*  for  Paris ;  for  which 
you  paid,  probably,  much  less  than  Mr.  No- 
body disbursed  for  the  passage  of  himself  and 
his  high-hung  carriage  (to  saj  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Dash)  from  Dover  to  Calais.  A  couple  of 
hours  of  the  express  train's  fury  brought  you, 
that  Friday  night,  to  Dover — brought  you  to 
the  Admiralty  pier,  to  the  very  verge  and  brink 
of  the  much-sounding  sea,  and  bundling  you, 
so  to  speak,  down  some  slippery  steps,  seat 


ft 


f9 

=>6. 


CbftriM  Dlekena.] 


NOBODY  ABROAD. 


rJnne  IS,  18<9.]      35 


you  Staggering  on  board  a  taut  little  steamer, 
which,  having  gorged  certain  mail-bafs,  pro- 
ceeded to  fight  her  way  through  the  biggest 
waves.  In  two  hours  afterwards  you  were  at 
Calais.  No  passports,  no  botheration  with 
municipalities,  commissaires,  or  stiff-necked 
mayors  awaited  you.  Another  express  train 
waited  for  you,  giving  you  time  to  despatch  a 
comfortable  supper ;  and  by  seven  o^dlock  on 
Saturday  mommg  you  were  in  Paris.  You 
went  to  the  Porte  St.  Martin  on  Saturday 
night,  and  to  Mabille  afterwards.  On  Sunday 
I  nope  you  went  to  church,  and  perhaps  you 
went  to  Versailles.  On  Monday  you  had  a 
good  deal  of  boulevard  shopping  to  get  through, 
for  your  sisters,  or  for  the  Mrs.  Dash  of  the 
future;  and,  after  a  comfortable  five  o'clock 
dinner  at  the  Cafd  Richc  on  Monday  afternoon, 
you  found  yourself  shortly  after  seven  p.m.  at 
the  Chemin  de  Per  du  Noid,  and,  by  six  o^clock 
on  Tuesday  morning,  you  were  back  again  at 
Charine-cross  or  at  Victoria.  Arrived  there, 
vou  had  yet  a  florin  and  a  fifty  centime  piece 
left  of  the  change  for  a  ten-pound  note.  And  yet 
you  murmur  and  grumble.  You  have  spoken 
heresy  against  the  harbour-master  of  Dover. 
You  have  hurled  bitter  words  at  the  directors 
of  the  South-EUtftem  Railway  Company,  and 
have  made  mock  of  the  London,  Chatham,  and 
Dover.  Thrice  have  you  threatened  to  write 
to  the  Times.  Once  did  you  propose  to  •  punch' 
the  head  of  an  obnoxious  waiter  at  tiie  Calais 
buffet.**  To  this  purport  I  coidd  say  a  great 
deal  if  I  preached  sermons. 

My  esteemed  friend  Mr.  Nobody  abode  in 
Paris  for  full  six  months ;  but  the  amount  of 
sight-seeing  he  went  through  was  so  vast  and 
his  account  thereof  is  so  minute  that,  for  rea- 
sons of  space,  I  do  not  dare  to  follow  ^^rn 
from  each  Parisian  pillar  to  its  corresponding 
post    1  can  only  briefly  note  that  he  attended 
a  sitting  of  the  legislative  body  in  the  ci-devant 
Palais  Bourbon,  and  that  he  paid  five  francs 
for  admission  to  the  gallery.    Drums  and  fifes 
announced  the  approach  of  the  legislators,  and 
a  guard  of  honour,  consisting  of  an   entire 
regiment,  escorted  them.  The  president  having 
taken  the  chair,  more  drums  and  fifes  pro- 
daimed  the  arrival  of  three  counsellors  of  state, 
bearing  a  message  from  the  government,  lliese 
high  republican  functionaries  were  preceded 
by  ushers   wearing   Spanish   hats  with   tri- 
coloured  ptkunes;   the  counsellors  themselves 
were  dressed  in  scarlet  doth,  richly  embroi- 
dered.   They  ascended  the  tribune,  read  their 
message,  and  made  three  separate  speeches  on 
the  subject  of   honour,  glory,   ana  France; 
whereafter  the  legislative  body,  with  loud  cries 
of  ''Vive  le  Premier  Consul!"     "Vive  Ma- 
dame Bonaparte  T*  separated.    It  was  the  last 
day  of  the  session.    Abating  the  scarlet  coats 
and  the  Spanish  hats  of  the  nuissiers,  tiie  break 
op  of  a  parliamentary  session  in  1801  must 
have  very  closely  resembled  that  which  we  see 
in  the  French  Corps  L^gislatif,  in  1869.    Mr. 
Nobody  went  away  much  pleased,  especially 
with  the  admiration  bestowed  bj  his  neigh- 
bours in  the  gaUeijr  ou  Lord  CornwaUiBf  who 


I) 


was  present  among  the  corps  diplomatique, 
and  for  whom  Mr.  Nobody  seems  himseli  to 
have  entertained  an  affection  bordering  on 
adoration.  **  Yes,  yes,"  cried  an  enthusiastic 
republican  near  him,  '*  That  tall  man  is  Milord 
Comwallis.  He  has  a  fine  figure.  He  looks 
like  a  military  man.  He  has  served  in  the 
army.  Is  it  not  true,  sir?  Look  at  that  little 
man  near  him.  What  a  difference !  What  a 
mean  appearance !" 

Mr.  Nobody  was  in  one  aspect  an  exceptional 
Englishman.    He  appears  to  have  been  imbued 
with  a  sincere  admiration  for  the  talents  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  and  even  to  have  had 
some  liking  for  the  personal  character  of  that 
individual.    "  My  dear  sir,"  he  writes  to  that 
Nameless  friend  of  his  on  the  sixth  of  De- 
cember, "  my  curiosity  is  at  length  gratified. 
I  have  seen  Bonaparte.    You  will  reamly  con- 
ceive how  much  pleasure  I  felt   to-oay   in 
beholding,  for  the  nrst  time,  this  extraordinary 
man,  on  whose  exertions  the  fate  of  France, 
and  in  many  respects  that  of  £urope,  may  be 
said  to  depend."    Mr.  N.  was  fortunate  enough 
to  obtain  places  in  tiie  apartments  of  Duroc, 
governor  of  the  Tuileriee,  from  which  he  wit- 
nessed a  review  in  the  Carrousel.    The  Con- 
sular, soon  to  become  the  Imperial,  Guard  were 
inspected  hy  the  Master  of  France,  then  in  the 
thirty -third  year  of  his  age.    He  was  mounted 
on  a  white  charger.  As  he  passed  several  times 
before  Mr.  Nobody's  window,  that  Impalpa- 
bility had  ample  leisure  to  observe  him ;  and  it 
appears  to  me  that  the  portrait  he  has  drawn 
of  the  First  Consul,  then  in  the  full  fiush  of 
his  fame,  undarkened  by  D'Enghien*B  murder, 
Pichegru's  imputed  end,  and  Joscphine^s  divorce, 
is  suflldent  to  rescue  Mr.  Nobody's  notes  from 
oblivion.     "His  complexion,"  writes  the  Un- 
known,   **•  is  remarkably  sallow :    his  coun- 
tenance   expressive,    but    stem ;    his   figure 
lithe,  but  well  made ;   and  his  whole  person, 
like   the   mind   which   it    contains,   singular 
and    remarkable.    If   1    were    compelled    to 
compare  him  to   any   one,    I   should    name 
Kemble,    the    actor.     Though    Bonaparte    is 
less  in  size,   and    less    handsome   than  that 
respectable  performer,  yet,  in  the  sonstruction 
of  the  features  and  the  general  ex^ssion, 
there  is  a  strong  resemblance.    The  picture  of 
Boni^>arte  at  the  review,  exhibited  some  time 
back  in  Piccadilly,*  and  the  bust  in  Sevres 
china,  which  is  very  common  in  Paris,  and  has 
probably  become  equally  so  in  London"  (it  was 
soon  to  be  superseded  by  Gillray's  monstrous 
caricatures  of  the  Corsican  Ogre),   "are  the 
best  likenesses  I  have  seen.    As  to  his  dress, 
he  wore  the  grand  costume  of  his  office,  that  is 
to  say,  a  scarlet  velvet  coat,  profusely  em- 
broidered with  gold.    To  this  he  had  added 
leather  breeches,  jockey  boots,   and  a  little 

**  Thia  picture  was  b;^  Carle  Yemet,  the  father  of 
Horace,  and  wax  exhibited  at  Fores's — ancestor  of  the 
present  well-known  print-seller.  At  Force's,  jcut  eight 
jears  preriouslj,  had  been  on  view  an  6nciwvAA!^tll  \.^<^ 
execution  of  Louis  the  ^xiecoiVh,  \>7  Ivml^  Qva\>u^%.T^ 
(father  of  our  Oooxgo),  tmd.  c^  ^^  'voiWuk^imka^ii^'  ^>^ 
guillotixw. 


<^ 


:§ 


36       [June  12, 1869.1 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnctedby 


plain  cocked-hat,  the  only  ornament  to  which 
was  a  national  cockade.  His  hair,  unpow- 
dered,  was  cut  close  to  his  neck/^  Now  this 
(excuse  the  anachronism)  is  a  perfect  photo- 
graph, and  might  serve  as  a  guide  to  any 
English  artist  desirous  of  emulating  as  a  Napo- 
leographer,  the  achievements  of  Meissonnier  or 
Gerome.  We  have  had,  from  English  painters. 
Napoleon  in  blue,  in  green,  in  a  grey  great- 
coat, in  his  purple  coronation  robes,  even 
in  the  striped  nankeen  suit  of  his  exile  on 
the  Rock.  But  the  great  enemy  of  England 
in  scarlet!  the  vanquished  of  Waterloo  in  a 
red  coat  I  But  for  Mr.  Nobody^s  testimony  I 
should  just  as  soon  have  imagined  George  the 
Third  with  a  Phrygian  cap  over  his  wig,  or  the 
Right  Honourable  William  Pitt  weathering 
the  storm  as  a  sans  culotte. 

Again  did  Mr.  Nobody  see  the  Corsican,  and 
at  hSi  own  house — in  the  audience  hall  of  the 
Tuileries.  Mr.  Jackson  was  minister  plenipo- 
tentiary from  Enghmd  prior  to  Lord  Whit- 
worth's  coming ;  and  to  Mr.  Jackson  did  Mr. 
Nobody  apply  to  obtain  presentation  at  the 
court  of  tne  First  Consul.  His  name— tr^o/ 
was  his  name? — ^beinff  accordingly  sent  in  to 
.  Citizen  Talleyrand,  three  years  afterwards  to 
be  Prince  of  Beneventum,  minister  of  foreign 
affairs,  Mr.  N.  drove  to  the  Tuileries  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  was  ushered  into 
a  small  apartment  on  the  ground-floor,  called 
the  Saloon  of  the  Ambassadors,  where  the 
foreign  ministers  and  their  respective  country- 
men waited  until  Napoleon  was  ready  to 
receive  them.  Chocolate,  sherbet,  and  liqueurs 
in  abundance  having  been  handed  around — a 
hint  for  St.  James's  Palace  in  '69— -the  doors, 
after  an  hour's  interval,  were  thrown  open, 
and  the  guests  ascended  the  grand  staircase, 
which  was  lined  by  grenadiers  with  their  arms 
grounded.  Passing  through  four  or  five  rooms, 
in  each  of  which  was  an  officer's  guard,  who 
saluted  the  strangers,  the  cortege  came  into  the 
presence  chamber.  Here  stood  Bonaparte,  be- 
tween Cambac^^s,  the  second,  and  Lebrun,  the 
third  consul.  The  triumvirs  were  all  in  fuU  fig 
of  scarlet  velvet  and  gold.  The  generals,  sena- 
tors, and  counsellors  of  state  who  surrounded 
Napoleon  made  way  for  the  foreigners,  and 
a  circle  was  immediately  formed,  the  nation- 
alities ranging  themselves  behind  their  proper 
ministers.  The  Austrian  ambassador  stood  on 
the  right  of  the  First  Consul;  next  to  him 
Mr.  Jackson;  then  Count  Lucchesini,  the 
Prussian  minister ;  and  next  to  him  the 
Hereditary  Prince  of  Orange,  who  was  to 
be  presented  that  day,  and  who  was  not 
to  meet  Napoleon  again  until  Waterloo.  In 
compliment  to  the  Dutch  prince.  Napoleon, 
contrary  to  his  practice,  began  the  audience  on 
his  side  the  circle.  He  spoke  some  time  to  the 
son  of  the  deposed  Stadtholder,  and  seem^ 
anxious  to  make  his  awkward  and  extraordinary 
situation  as  little  painful  to  him  as  possible. 
According  to  Mr.  Nobody,  the  Napoleonic 
blandishments  were  lost  on  his  Batavian  high- 
zfess,  who  was  sulky  and  mlent.  In  passing 
eacd  /ore/an  minister,  the  First  Consul  received 
the  individuala  of  each  respective  nation  with 


the  greatest  ease  and  dignity.  Where  had  he 
learnt  all  this  ease  and  dignity,  this  young 
soldier  of  thirty-two  ?  From  the  goatherds  of 
Corsica?  From  the  snuffy  old  priests  who 
were  his  tutors  at  Brienne  ?  From  the  bom- 
bardiers at  Toulon?  In  the  camps  of  Italy? 
From  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt  ?  From  Talma  the 
actor,  who,  when  the  conqueror  was  poor,  had 
often  given  him  the  dinner  he  lacked?  When 
it  came  to  Mr.  Jackson's  turn,  sixteen  English 
were  presented.  After  he  had  spoken  to  five 
or  six  of  their  number.  Napoleon  remarked, 
^*  with  a  smile  which  is  peculiarly  his  own,  and 
which  changes  a  countenance  usually  stem  into 
one  of  great  mildness :  ^  I  am  delighted  to  see 
here  so  many  English.  I  hope  our  imion  may 
be  of  long  continuance.  We  are  the  two  most 
powerful  and  most  civilised  nations  in  Europe. 
We  should  unite  to  cultivate  the  arts,  and 
sciences,  and  letters ;  in  short,  to  improve  the 
happiness  of  human  nature.'  "  In  about  two 
years  after  this  interview.  Englishmen  and 
Frenchmen  were  cultivating  the  arts  and 
sciences,  and  doing  their  best  to  improve  the 
happiness  of  human  nature,  by  cutting  each 
other's  throats  in  very  considerable  numbers. 
Did  Napoleon  really  mean  what  he  said  ?  Was 
he  really  anxious  to  be  our  friend,  if  we  would 
only  let  him?  Or  was  he  then,  and  all  times, 
a  Prodidous  Humbug? 

Mrs.  Dash  was  to  nave  her  share  in  the  hos- 
pitalities of  the  Tuileries.  Returning  home 
from  viewing  the  sights  one  afternoon  at  half- 
past  four  o'clock,  Mr.  N.  found  a  messenger 
who  was  the  bearer  of  an  invitation  to  Mrs. 
Dash,  asking  her  to  dinner  that  very  day  at 
five.  The  lady  dressed  in  haste,  and  drove  to 
the  palace.  She  returned,  enraptured.  The 
entertainment  was  elegant ;  the  sight  superb. 
More  than  two  hundred  persons  sat  down  to 
dinner  in  a  splendid  apartment.  The  company 
consisted,  b^des  Napoleon's  family,  of  the 
ministers,  the  ambassadors,  several  generals, 
senators,  and  other  constituted  authorities. 
There  were  only  fifteen  ladies  present.  All 
the  English  ladies  who  had  been  presented  to 
Madame  Bonaparte  were  asked ;  but  only  two 
of  their  number  remained  in  Paris.  The  dinner 
was  served  entirely  on  gold  and  silver  plate, 
and  Sevres  china :  the  latter  bearing  the  letter 
B  on  every  dish;  the  central  plateau  was 
covered  with  moss,  out  of  which  arose  innu- 
merable natural  flowers,  the  odour  of  which 
perfumed  the  whole  room.  The  First  Consul 
and  Madame  Bonaparte  conversed  very  affably 
with  those  around  them.  The  servants  were 
numerous,  splendidly  dressed,  and  highly  at- 
tentive, and  the  dinner  lasted  more  than  two 
hours.  Seven  years  ago,  the  lord  of  this  sump- 
tuous feast  had  been  glad  to  pick  up  the 
crumbs  from  an  actor's  table,  and  vegetated  in 
a  garret  in  Paris,  had  haunted  the  ante-cham- 
bers of  the  War  Minister  in  vain,  had  revolved 
plans  of  offering  his  sword  to  the  Grand  Turk 
if  he  could  only  procure  a  new  pair  of  boots 
wherein  to  make  his  voyage  to  Constantinople. 
O  the  ups  and  downs  of  fortune !  The  First 
Consul  was  fated  to  invite  few  more  English- 
men to  ^iinnet.   ^u\i  \i^  ^«a  doomed  to  dine 


h 


GbsrlM  DiokaiM.] 


LOOKING  IN  AT  SHOP  WINDOWS. 


[Jane  12, 1869.]       37 


with  QB,  not  as  a  host,  but  as  an  unwilling 
guest.  I  can  picture  him  in  the  cabin  of  the 
Northumberland,  rising  wearily  from  heavy 
joints  to  avoid  heavier  drinking,  and  the  ad- 
miral and  hia  officers  scowling  at  him  because 
he  wouldn't  stop  and  take  t'other  bottle. 
"  The  General,"  pointedly  remarked  Sir  George 
Cockbum,  once  when  his  captive  rose  from 
table,  and  fled  from  port  and  sherry,  *^has 
evidently  not  studied  politeness  in  the  school 
of  Lord  Chesterfield."  The  poor  temperate 
Italian,  to  whose  pale  cheek  a  single  glass  of 
champagne  would  bring  a  flush!  ^t  Mr. 
Nobody  thought  him  (hgnity  and  politeness 
itself;  and  my  private  opinion  is  that  Mr. 
Nobody  knew  what  was  what. 


THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE  NEW. 

Thbss's  a  checkmate  unirenal 

In  this  blind  old  world  of  ours, 
The  earth  haa  lost  its  vigour, 

Men's  brains  have'Iost  Uieir  powers. 
Alas !  for  the  young  fruits  blighted. 

And  the  flowers  uiat  cannot  bloom ! 
Alas !  for  the  lack  of  air  and  of  sun, 

Alas !  for  the  lowering  gloom. 

Alas !  for  the  thirsty  barrens. 
And  the  moon  tliat  yield  no  com ! 

Alas !  for  the  lingering  harvests, 
And  the  still  drying  mom  I 

By  millions  starve  the  beggars 

Around  the  untilled  downs. 
And  the  orphans  weep  in  the  alleys 

Of  the  rich  and  sumptuous  towns. 
There's  a  checkmate  unirersal, 

In  this  deaf  old  world  of  ours, 
The  earth  has  lost  its  vigour, 

Men's  brains  have  lost  their  powers. 

Tet  I  hear  an  ^ngel  crying, 

"  Away  to  the  Virgin  Land, 
Away  to  the  boundless  prairie, 

ircsh  from  God's  shaping  lumd." 
And  I  see  the  Eastern  sunbeams 

Point  to  the  broad  free  West, 
And  I  watch  the  sea  birds  leading 

To  the  golden  realms  of  rest. 

There's  a  checkmate  unirersal. 

In  this  dumb  old  world  of  ours, 
The  earth  has  lost  its  vigour, 

Men's  brains  have  lost  their  powers. 

Yet  I  know  the  flowering  prairies 
Shall  soon  roll  with  the  ripening  grain, 

And  the  merry  streams  flow  lavish 
Over  the  desert  phun. 

Break  up  old  tjrpes,  my  brothers, 
Pare  roads  with  Pharaoh's  bones, 

Hew  from  the  pyramids  of  the  Past 
The  Future's  temple  stones. 

LOOKING  m  AT   SHOP  WINDOWS. 


4 


There  ore  some  persons  to  whom  shop 
windows  afford  a  perpetual  and  an  inex- 
haustible feast.  They  wiU  saunter  slowly 
dong  the  streets  for  hours,  stopping  when- 
ever the  fancy  takes  them,  and  will  criti- 
cally and  exhaustively  inspect  the  contents 
of  any  window  that  may  strike  them,  with- 
out ue  least  reference  to  the  nature  of  the 
articles  on  view.    Such  persona  will  wander 


from  the  window  of  the  photograph  dealer 
to  the  window  of  the  jeweller,  and  from  the 
window  of  the  tobacconist  to  the  window  of 
the   hair-dresser,  deriving  equal  satisfac- 
tion from  all.     Neither  is  it  necessary  that 
these  wanderers  should  be  blessed  with 
abundant  leisure.     For,  although  there  is 
doubtless  much  pleasure  to  be  derived  from 
having  plenty  of  time  on  your  hands,  and  a 
long  street  full  of  attractive  shops  before 
you,  there  is,  perhaps,  a  keener  relish  in  the 
contemplation  of  shop  shows  when  you  are 
pressed  for  time.     More  especially  is  this 
the  case  when  you  are  engaged  in  the  trans- 
action of  some  other  person's  business.     It 
has  been  remarked  that  there  is  no  one 
more  industrious  in  his  attendance  at  all 
kinds  of  street  shows  than  the   doctor's 
boy ;  while  the  youth  who  brings  the  news- 
paper from  round  the  comer  may  firequently 
be  noticed  whitening  the  end  of  his  nose 
against  the  windows  of  the  local  shops, 
entirely  oblivious  of  the  customer  and  of 
the  customer's  desire  for  the  day's  news. 
This  peculiarity  may  be  noticed    in    all 
classes  of  society.     You  shall  meet  in  Fleet- 
street,  London  City,  in  the  morning,  the 
hurrying    army    of    clerks.      They    walk 
briskly  and  with   determination,   as  men 
having  no  time  to  lose.     Their  eyes  are 
fixed  cityward,  and  to  reach  their  destina- 
tion appears  to  be  their  only  aim.     Shop 
windows  are  the  last  things  they  are  think- 
ing of     So,  at  least,  it  would  appear.     But 
follow  one  of  these  but  a  short  distance, 
and    you    will    presently    see    him    start 
suddenly,  take  one  or  two  faltering  steps, 
turn  abruptly,  and  make  eagerly  for  a  shop 
just  lefb  behmd.     He  doesn't  want  to  buy 
anything;   something  in  the  window  has 
caught  his  eye,  and,  at  all  costs,  he  must 
inspect  it.     It  is  of  httle  use  for  him,  after 
this,  to  attempt  to  resume  the  brisk  pace  of 
a  minute  ago.     The  spell  is  on  him,  and  he 
must  dawdle  and  stare,  even  at  the  risk  of 
unpunctuality  and  reproof.     So  the  mer- 
chant, his  employer,  hastening  fromi  his 
office  and  making  for  'Change,  frequently 
pulls  up  to  inspect  something  that  he  has 
no     intention     whatever    of    purchasing, 
totally  regardless  of  the  important  con- 
tracts awaiting  completion.     At  the  west 
end  of  the  town,  people  have  more  leisure ; 
but  even  there  business  has  to  be  trans- 
acted,   and    the    shops   at    Charing- cross 
and    Parliament-street    (notoriously  busi- 
ness neighbourhoods),  are  continually  sur- 
rotmded  by  respectable   gentlemen  of  all 
ages,  who  will  clearly  bo  latft  fo^  ^Jc^a  «:^ 
pointmenta  they  or©  on  ^i^ieVt  ^^^  \a\L&c^. 


\ 


To  this   noble   \jaad  oi   eoxL\«iK^^^^ 


Ci  N 


eg 


i 


S8      [Jme  19, 18M0 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoetod  by 


/ 


observers  we  are  proud  to  belong.  From 
the  earliest  periods  of  our  existence  we 
have  been  the  victim  of  this  Piscina- 
tion.  In  our  early  youth  we  fell  into  the 
toils  of  a  shop  window  in  a  mouldy  street 
— ^it  was  mouldy  then,  and  is  a  shade 
mouldier  now — near  Albany-street,  Re- 
gentVpark,  N.W.  It  was  not  N.W.  then, 
but  it  is  N.W.  now.  The  shop  was  a  dim 
little  shop  inside,  and  the  &ont  had  no  pre- 
tensions to  decorative  merit  of  any  sort. 
The  window-panes  were  small,  and  were 
cleaned  at  very  remote  and  uncertain  inter- 
vals. The  window  was  only  to  be  ap- 
proached across  a  terrific  grating,  from 
which  several  bars  were  missing,  and  which 
seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  giving  way, 
and  precipitating  the  boys  who  always 
covered  it,  into  the  area  beneath.  Unhal- 
lowed smells  arose  constantly  from  this 
area.  Water  trickled  frequently  into  it 
from  the  defective  gutter  on  the  roo^  after 
having  dropped  on  the  boys  on  the  way. 
It  was  altogether  scarcely  the  sort  of  situa- 

.  tion  to  be  selected  for  a  comfortable  view. 
The  attractions  that  chained  us  to  the 
spot,  despite  all  dangers  and  difficulties, 
would  not  have  been  obvious  to  the  casual 
observer.  A  few  cheap  weekly  illustrated 
papers,  some  hoop-sticks  and  whips,  a 
forlorn  doll  or  so,  and  two  or  three  bottles 
of  highly  coloured  sweets  would  have  been 
the  first  important  objects  visible.  But  it 
was  for  none  of  these  articles  we  cared. 
It  is  true  that  some  of  the  pictures  in 
the  weekly  miscellanies  gratified  us  ex- 
ceedingly ;  the  pistol  and  dagger  work 
in  those  productions  always  being  dear  to 
the  boyish  mind.  It  is  also  true  that,  in 
a  general  way,  we  felt  no  contempt  for 
sweets;  but  here  they  were  as  nothing. 
Skelt  was  the  attraction  of  this  window. 
Skelt  was  the  magician  who  enthralled  us. 
Here  were  Skelt's  treasures  in  any  quantiiy. 
Skelt's  characters  in  the  Miller  and  his 
Men ;  in  my  Poll  and  my  Partner  Joe,  for 
eighteenpence ;  in  Blue  Beard,  for  two 
shillings  (processions  and  elephants  were 
expensive  even  in  Skelt);  in  the  Forest 
of  Bondy,  delightful  play,  but  difficult 
to  manage,  by  reason  of  the  impossi- 
bilities required  to  be  done  by  a  limp 
dog ;  extra  sheets  of  wings,  slides,  lamps ; 
drop  scenes,  exquisitely  drawn,  as  we 
thought,  and  only  awaiting  the  painter's 
(our)  art  to  eclipse  the  feeHer  productions, 
as  they  seemed  to  us  then,  of  a  Stanfield  or 
a  Roberts.  What  a  shop  window !  Didn't 
we  know  that  that  parcel  in  blue  paper  con- 

tained  blue  £re;  that  that  other  parcel,  in 


red  paper,  held  a  powder  which,  kindled  in 
one  of  those  flat  little  tin  pans  yonder,  would 
produce  a  crimson  light,  and  smoke  enough 
to  suffocate  our  dearest  relations  and  friends  ? 
That  Dutch  metal  we  knew  what  to  do  with ; 
the  powdered  glass  in  the  jar  would  (ex- 
perience told  us),  make  beautiful  spangles, 
if  sprinkled  over  the  lightly  gummed  tunic 
of  Hardiknute  in  One  o'clock,  or  the  Knight 
and  the  Wood  Demon,  and  would  impart  to 
him  a  ravishing  surface,  something  between 
the  track  of  a  slug  or  a  snail,  and  the  celestial 
sheen  upon  a  Bath  bun.  It  was  happiness 
merely  to  gaze  on  these  treasures,  and  to 
feast,  in  imagination,  on  the  splendour  with 
which  the  dramas  should  be  produced 
under  our  management,  as  soon  as  ever  (if 
ever)  the  treasury  should  be  full  enough  to 
justify  the  preliminary  outlay.  But  if  this 
shop  window  were  delightful  to  us  from  the 
outside,  what  was  it  from  the  inside? 
Whenever  we  received  from  enlightened 
capitalists,  who  had  proper  ideas  how  boys 
should  be  treated,  the  grateful  tip,  we  flew 
to  Fairy-street,  Albany-street  (we  have  for- 
gotten what  its  real  name  was  then,  and  the 
Board  of  Works  has  changed  it  since),  and 
enjoyed  ourselves  thoroughly.  Long  con- 
sideration was  necessary  before  a  decision 
could  be  arrived  at.  A  careful  manager 
must  not  decide  rashly.  All  the  plays 
were  earnestly  examined.  As  we  remem- 
ber, we  usually  selected  those  in  which 
small  characters  (supposed  to  be  large 
characters  in  perspective)  had  to  cross  a 
bridge,  or  row  in  a  boat,  at  the  back  of  the 
scene.  The  delight  of  the  stage-direction 
— *'  small  millers  in  plate  five  cross  set  piece, 
plate  three,"  —  was  intense;  and  in  the 
Miller*s  Maid  we  obeyed  the  command, 
"  Put  on  small  Giles  and  Gborge  struggling, 
plate  seven,"  with  rapture :  albeit,  the 
manual  substitution  before  the  eyes  of  any 
grown-up  critic,  of  Gborge  and  Giles  strug- 
gling, for  G«orge  and  Giles  in  the  highest 
state  of  devoted  friendship,  was  usually  con- 
sidered to  require  e^qplanatory  statements 
from  the  management  not  conducive  to 
poetical  effect.  When  the  final  selection 
was  made,  and  all  our  money  spent — ^wo 
took  care  not  to  retain  a  farthing,  and  if  the 
play  were  not  costly  enough,  would  reck- 
lessly buy  extra  sheets  of  supers — ^we  had 
weeks  of  joyous  preparation,  followed  by  a 
few  days  of  unceasing  performance,  until 
we  thirsted  for  fr^sh  managerial  triumphs, 
and  would  repair  once  more  to  Fairy- street 
to  gaae  with  covetous  eyes  on  fresh  Skelts 
and  dramas  new.  Who  was  Skelt  ?  Does 
he  still  exist,  or  does  his  place  (where  was 


c& 


h 


Clurlet  Diekezu.] 


LOOKING  IN  AT  SHOP  WINDOWS.  (Jomi^isw.]     89 


it  ?)  know  liim  no  more  P  In  the  coarse  of 
onr  researches  in  shop  windows,  we  haxe 
been  pained  in  these  degenerate  times  by  an 
absence  of  Skelt's  characters  and  scenes, 
and  fear  that  boys'  theatres,  common  in 
onr  yonth,  are  now  bnt  rare.  Better  or 
more  amnsing  toy  no  boy  can  have,  how- 
ever; and  if  paint,  gam,  and  lamp-oil,  do 
occasionaUy  play  havoc  with  clothes,  still, 
painting,  pasting,  and  catting  oat,  have  at 
any  rate,  the  great  advantage  of  ensaring 
qoict  in  the  hoase — a  point  of  some  im- 
portance in  a  hoase  moch  blessed  with  boys. 
Oar  shop  in  Fairy-street  knows  Skelt  no 
more — has  gone  oat  of  the  trade  altogether, 
as  Skelt  himself  woald  seem  to  have  done. 
It  is  a  small  greengrocer's  now,  with  an 
open  front  fall  of  greens  and  carrots.  Alas ! 
Skelt  never  dealt  in  greens  and  carrots,  ex- 
cept in  his  celebrated  scene  of  '*  Green- 
grocer's Shop  and  Lawyer's  Office"  in  the 
Pantomime  of  Harleqain  Philip  Qaarll,  and 
then  the  greens  and  carrots  flew  ap  into  the 
moon,  and  the  moon  came  down  into  the 
grreengrocer's  window,  and  rolled  (or  oaght 
to  have  rolled,  bat  they  were  always  stiff 
and  wouldn't  work)  two  goggle  eyes. 

There  was  a  shop  in  the  High- street  of 
the  town  in  which  stands  the  pablic  school 
where  we  were  supposed  to  be  educated, 
that  was  an  endless  delight  to  us.  Its  pro- 
prietor was  in  the  sporting  line — the  young 
gentlemen  of  the  school  were  at  that  time 
of  a  sporting  turn — and  combined  the  arts 
of  taxidermy  with  a  little  ratting,  a  little 
pigeon  flying,  and  (our  later  wisdom  sug- 
gests) a  good  deal  of  poaching.  Stuffed 
animals,  which  we  then  thought  marvels 
of  life-like  art,  adorned  the  windows  of  this 
little  shop.  The  celebrated  dog  Jimmy, 
holding  in  his  mouth  a  rat  of  which  he  ap- 
peared entirely  unconscious,  gazed  at  us 
blandly  from  behind  the  glass  of  his  little 
wooden  case ;  and  if  it  were  too  obvious  that 
Jimmy's  eyes  were  the  products  of  art  and 
not  of  nature,  yet  his  skin  was  beautifully 
smooth  and  his  teeth  were  highly  satisfac- 
tory. Birds,  of  all  sizes  and  colours,  stalked 
or  hovered,  behind  other  glasses,  in  atti- 
tudes eminently  impossible,  and  were 
eagerly  bought  up  by  the  young  gentlemen 
with  a  view  to  the  adornment  of  their 
rooms.  The  fish  were  not  so  gratifying; 
they  were  very  homy  and  vamishy ;  but  we 
were  always  pleased  with  the  ingenious 
devices  of  the  artist  for  conveying  to  our 
minds  the  idea  that  the  rigid  monster  was 
still  lithely  disporting  himself  in  his  native 
element.  A  little  sand,  a  pebble  or  two, 
three  or  four  rushes,  and  Bomo  faint  blue 


lines  painted  at  the  back  of  the  box,  and 
there  you  were  !  The  bottom  of  the  river 
to  the  life !  There  was  a  little  yard  behind 
this  shop  where  were  kept  rat^  owls,  dor- 
mice, and  other  small  deer  charming  to  the 
boyish  mind.  Some  of  the  young  gentle- 
men who  were  possessed  of  dogs,  used  to 
keep  them,  as  it  were  at  livery,  here — ^not 
being  allowed  to  keep  them  in  masters' 
houses — and  used  to  bring  their  friends  here 
to  behold  their  dogs  kill  rats  :  a  feat  they 
never  accomplished  in  our  time.  In  a  comer 
was  kept  for  some  years  an  aged  badger  in  a 
tub,  who  was  intended  to  be  periodically 
drawn,  but  who  invariably  declined  the 
honour,  and  who,  dying,  full  of  years,  after 
we  had  venerated  him  for  but  a  few  terms, 
was  stuffed  and  placed  (very  unlike  him- 
self) in  the  window,  to  the  admiration  of 
all  beholders. 

Almost  next  door  to  this  shop  was  another 
shop,  more  delightful  than  any.  It  was 
almost  dangerous  to  look  into ;  it  was 
quite  dangerous  to  go  into.  It  was  a  smart 
little  tobacconist's.  Cigars  of,  as  we  now 
suppose,  surprising  badness  were  tempt- 
ingly dispk^ed  in  all  directions,  relieved 
by  pipes,  tobacco- jars,  pouches,  match- 
boxes, and  the  various  little  requirements 
of  the  smoker.  We  all  smoked  at  our  seat 
of  learning :  more,  because  it  was  a  high 
crime  and  misdemeanour  than  because  wo 
liked  it,  inasmuch  as  most  of  us  certainly 
didn't  like  it.  It  was  the  fashion  to  obtain 
the  materiais  here.  Moreover,  there  was  a 
spice  of  danger  about  laying  in  stores  at 
this  establishment  which  was  irresistible. 
It  had  to  be  done  circumspectly,  and  with 
mysterious  precautions.  Masters  might  bo 
hovering  about ;  we  might  be  detected.  It 
was  very  delightful,  and  there  was  even  a 
fearful  pleasure  in  gazing  in  at  the  window, 
keeping,  with  a  delicious  sense  of  guilt,  a 
sharp  look  out  for  the  possible  advent  of 
the  authorities.  The  windows  of  the  "  sock" 
shops  were  very  attractive,  and  much  of  our 
time  was  passed  in  contemplating  the  jam 
tarts,  the  buns,  and  the  various  other  articles 
with  which  we  proposed  to  go  on  with  the 
work  of  ruining  our  digestions,  so  soon  as 
Smith  major  should  pay  us  back  that  shil- 
ling, or  we  could  borrow  sixpence  from 
Brown  maximus,  or  persuade  the  proprietor 
to  extend  our  tick.  A  sock  shop,  be  it  under- 
stood, is  a  confectioner's.  There  was  one 
of  these  establishments  which  all  "  our  fel- 
lows" regarded  with  secret  awe.  It  was 
not  in  our  town,  but  was  up  the  hill  in 
Eoyalborough  across  tlv^  T\N«t.  Ttea\y^ 
its  windows  we  coii\Aiixi^\aAfc^  ^^^yj^mA  ^^ 


Ij 


C& 


:S 


40      [Jane  12, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


magnificent  tart  and  cake  that  oonld  excite 
a  boy's  appetite.  The  splendonr  of  the 
puffs,  bursting  raspberry  jam  through 
crevices  in  which  we  noticed  a  homely  like- 
ness to  button-holes,  nearly  drove  us  to 
frenzy.  Local  swells,  consuming  ices,  pat- 
ties, soups,  respecting  which  forms  of  re- 
freshment there  were  maddening  legends  in 
the  windows,  goaded  us  into  insane  desires 
to  challenge  them  to  come  forth  into  the 
street,  and  have  it  out,  and  not  sit  there, 
standing  nothing  for  anybody,  and  gorging 
themselves  like  Ogres.  We  very  seldom 
got  further  than  ^e  window  of  this  par- 
ticular paradise.  Business  was  conducted 
on  ready-money  principles  here,  and  it  was 
the  only  neighbouring  establishment  of  the 
kind  where  we  couldn't  get  tick. 

It  delights  us,  now  tiiat  we  have  lefb 
that  school  and  are  a  pupil  in  a  wider  and 
a  harder  one,  in  which  rather  more  is 
learnt,  to  walk  down  one  of  the  great 
West-end  shop  streets  in  the  morning 
before  the  whirl  of  aristocratic  purchasers 
and  gazers  has  set  in.  The  streets  are 
comparatively  empty.  No  roll  of  carriages 
disturbs  the  peripatetic  philosopher.  There 
is  (we  speak  of  the  early  summer — the 
pleasantest  time  in  London)  a  sprinkling 
of  water  going  on  in  front  of  the  shops, 
which  is  cool  and  refreshing.  The  windows 
present  even  gre&ter  attractions  at  such 
times  than  they  do  later  in  the  day.  The 
elegant,  but  haughty,  gentlemen  who  attend 
the  customers,  may  now  be  seen  coatless, 
filling  the  shop  m>nts  with  choice  and 
attractive  goods.  Likewise,  charming  young 
ladies,  their  hair  dressed  in  the  height  of 
the  latest  fashion,  their  costumes  of  the 
trimmest  and  neatest,  are  engaged  in  the 
delightful  task  of  dressing  the  windows. 
But  a  gentle  melancholy  fills  the  soul  and 
a  pensive  doubt  respecting  the  reality  of 
many  appearances  haunts  the  mind,  when 
we  observe  that  what,  a  couple  of  hours 
hence,  will  be  the  counterfeit  presentment  of 
the  coated  torso  of  a  gentleman  of  the  first 
fashion,  is  now  a  block  of  sackcloth  and 
leather,  roughly  dusted  with  a  cane;  and 
eke  that  the  flowing  outline  of  a  magnifi- 
cent woman  in  an  Indian  shawl  is  but  a 
rigid  stand  of  iron  wire,  like  the  cage  of  a 
Cockatoo  in  very  reduced  circumstances. 

Who  buys  all  this  jewellery?  Here, 
within  a  stone's  throw — within  a  stone's 
throw?  say  rather  cheek  by  jowl  —  are 
half-a-dozen  jewellers'  shops  with  fortunes 
displayed  in  each  of  their  windows.  Some- 
body must  have  fortunes  to  buy  up  these 
/bzinnea.      Who  is  it  that  is  not  satisfied 


with  spending  his  money  on  diamonds  and 
pearls,  bracelets,  rings,  and  necklaces,  but 
requires  a  silver  porcupine  with  ruby  eyes 
to  hold  his  toothpicks,  or  an  owl  of  great 
price  for  his  wax  matches  ?  Facetious  pins, 
bearing  devices  of  the  rebus  order,  or 
miniature  pint  pots,  splinter-bars,  tobacco- 
pipes,  death's  heads,  dice,  must  offer  at- 
tractions to  somebody.  All  these  silver 
caps  and  flagons  are  not  manufactured 
solely  for  the  edification  of  street  loungers 
like  ourself.  There  must  be  a  market  some- 
where for  those  suites  of  diamonds,  those 
glancing  emeralds,  those  strings  of  mellow, 
moonlight  pearls.  Would  that  we  might 
make  them  our  own  !  Perhaps,  on  reflec- 
tion though,  we  are  better  off  without  them. 
Perhaps  if  we  had  them  we  should  be 
tortured  with  fears  of  losing  them,  and 
perhaps  they  will  give  less  pleasure  to  their 
possessors  than  to  us  staring  at  them  as 
they  repose  publicly  in  their  blue,  or  white, 
or  maroon  velvet  boxes. 

Consider,  with  admiration  not  unmixed 
with  astonishment,  this  amazing  garment 
at  the  draper's  next  door.  It  is  white,  and 
appears  to  be  composed  of  satin  as  to  the 
skirt,  which  is,  however,  by  no  means  its 
most  important  part.  It  is  excessively 
long  and  remarkably  inconvenient ;  but 
with  that  exception  it  is  scanty.  Clouds 
of  gauzy  tulle  float  from  it.  Bunches  and 
bows  (for  which  there  are  doubtless  techni- 
cal terms,  unknown  to  us)  cover  it  in  all 
directions.  It  surely  is  not  a  dress  very 
admirably  adapted  to  a  crowded  room. 
We  can  see  it  towards  the  close  of  the 
evening's  campaign,  a  mere  skirt,  and  a 
hopeless  tangled  mass  of  diaphanous  ruin. 
Now,  that  other  dress,  also  white,  but  with 
certain  blue  adornments,  is  evidently  meant 
for  dancing,  and  for  plenty  of  it.  It  is  short 
and  sensible.  Why,  if  this  be  sanctioned 
by  fashion — and  we  suppose  it  must  be  or 
it  would  not  be  here — should  ladies  inflict 
on  their  nnfortnnate  partners  yards  npon 
yards  of  unmanageable  trains  ? 

Here,  in  the  bonnet  shop,  is  another 
peculiarity  to  be  remarked.  What  can  be 
prettier  than  the  ladies'  hat  of  the  present 
fashion  ?  It  is  an  elegant,  sensible,  useful 
head  gtor,  becoming  to  a  pretty  face,  and 
not  t^ng  to  a  plain  face.  Contrast  it 
with  what  is  called  a  bonnet.  An  object  use- 
less, unmeaning,  and  inartistic  to  the  last 
degree.  There  must  be  something  remark- 
able in  the  female  mind  that  induces  it  to 
prefer  this  miserable  complication  of  odds 
and  ends  to  the  simplicity  of  the  hat. 

Ha !     A  pleasant  odour !     The  fashion* 


& 


GharlM  Dicktni.] 


LOOKDSra  IN  AT  SHOP  WINDOWS. 


[Jane  12, 1869L]      41 


able  perfmner'B.  It  looks  cool  and  com- 
fortable. Vast  jars  of  dried  roses  and 
▼iolets,  great  glass  vessels  of  divers-colonred 
sweet  eidTacte,  suggest  Inxnrions  repose. 
We  may  or  may  not  beHeve,  as  we  please, 
that  all  tbe  flowers  that  ever  grew,  or  did 
not  grow,  are  distilled  here  into  perfumes, 
resembling  in  aU  respects  the  parent  odour. 
To  our  thinking,  with  one  or  two  grand  excep- 
tions, all  perfumes  are  much  alike.  Lavender- 
water,  if  it  be  properly  prepared,  certainly 
suggests  lavender — it  is  fortunate  that  Eau 
de  Cologne  does  not  suggest  Cologne — ^but 
in  a  scent  called  new-mown  hay,  presented 
to  our  notice  the  other  day,  we  could  no 
more  find  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  than 
of  hot  roaist  beef.  Nevertheless,  a  little 
perfume  is  pleasant  enough,  and  this  is  a 
good  window  to  look  upon,  for  the  Sabeean 
odours  that  hang  about  are  as  grateful  to 
the  nostrils  as  the  coloured  vessels  are  to 
the  eye.  The  hairdresser  next  door  lends 
his  aid  to  the  sweet  scenting  of  the  neigh- 
hourhood,  and  his  wares,  if  not  very  tempt- 
ing by  reason  of  their  beauty,  are  sugges- 
tive. 

Does  any  lady  ever  look  at  the  arrange- 
ment of  any  other  ladies'  hair  ?  Does  any 
lady  ever  look  into  a  hairdresser's  shop  ? 
If  so,  how  does  the  hideous  chignon,  in  its 
present  proportions,  hold  its  ground  ?  If 
any  woman  s  head  grew  into  such  mon- 
strous shapes  as  may  now  be  seen  in  all 
directions  wherever  women  are  congregated 
together,  it  would  be  a  cause  of  mourning 
to  her  &mily,  of  consultation  among  emi- 
nent surgeons,  and  she  would  probably 
spend  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in 
judicious  seclusion.  Here  shall  be  a  womcm 
with  small  deUcate  features,  a  small  head, 
and  of  small  stature.  Instead  of  making 
the  most  of  the  natural  beauties  with  which 
she  is  gifted,  she  frizzles,  and  cuts,  and 
gams  her  front  hair  into  all  sorts  of  un- 
couth forms,  and  surmounts  her  back  hair 
with  an  enormous  ball  of  somebody  else's 
tresses!  The  lady  appears  to  have  two 
heads,  one  (the  artificial)  considerably 
larger  than  the  other.  The  hat  has  to  be 
perched  on  the  nose,  and  a  most  prepos- 
terous result  is  presented.  However,  there 
is  one  virtue  about  the  chignon.  It  is 
honest.  There's  no  deception,  gentlemen. 
Even  if  the  ladies  were  desirous  of  trying 
to  lead  people  to  suppose  that  the  porters' 
knots  on  their  heads  are  composed  of  their 
own  hair  it  would  be  useless.  For  the 
hairdressers,  anxious  to  advertise  their 
wares,  have  rendered  that  deception  an 
impossibility.      Their   shops    are    full    of 


•f 


chignons.  Plain  chignons ;  frizzed  chignons ; 
chignons  woven  into  a  pattern  similar  to 
the  large  basket  work  used  chiefly  for 
waste  paper  baskets;  chignons  with  sup- 
plementary curls;  chignons  with  straight 
flimsy  tresses  pendent  from  them ;  chignons 
of  every  variety,  have  long  been  familiar  to 
the  male  observer^  As  we  look  into  our 
fashionable  hairdresser's,  moreover,  we  be- 
come aware  of  long  and  thick  plaits  of  hair, 
of  arrangements  of  curls,  and  of  similar  de- 
vices, braids,  and  bands,  to  a  most  astonish- 
ing extent.  And  these  hirsute  deceptions 
are  evidently  not  intended  solely  for  elderly 
ladies,  as  were  the  fronts  (hideous  devices!) 
of  the  bygone  generation,  but  for  ladies  of 
all  ages.  It  would  seem  as  if  a  real  female 
head  of  hair  were  not  to  be  found  in  these 
times.  The  '*  glory  of  a  woman  is  in  her 
hair"  we  are  told:  but  nothing  is  said 
about  the  glory  being  attainable  by  the  use 
of  somebody  ebe's  hair.  Men  have  their 
faults.  Heaven  knows,  but  in  matters  of 
this  sort  they  show  a  little  more  sense 
than  women.  It  is  fashionable  to  wear  a 
beard,  and  most  men's  faces  are  improved 
by  it ;  vet  false  beards,  chin-chignons  so  to 
speak,  nave  not  yet  become  popular.  We 
are  afraid,  however,  to  cry  out  too  loudly 
against  the  chignon.  Female  taste  is  a 
greusome  thing  to  meddle  with,  and  it  is 
very  possible  that  a  sudden  change  might 
be  made,  and  we  might  find  ladies  with 
their  hair,  whether  scanty  or  abundant, 
plastered  tight  down  to  tiieir  heads.  So 
it  was  with  crinoline.  In  moderation  and 
in  its  earlier  days  it  was  a  graceful  and 
convenient  fashion.  The  convenient  and 
CTacefol  period  very  quickly  vanished. 
The  era  of  iron  hoops,  of  horsehair  sub- 
stances many  inches  thick,  of  enormous 
size  and  utter  unmanageableness,  set  in. 
The  crinoline  became  an  instrument  of 
torture  to  wretched  men,  and  must  have 
been  most  inconvenient  and  uncomfortable 
to  its  wearers.  When,  at  last,  the  fashion 
changed,  was  the  sensible  part  of  the  dress 
retained,  and  the  absurd  rejected  ?  Not  a 
bit  of  it.  Horrible  straight  clinging  skirts 
with  long  trailing  trains  succeeded,  and  on 
the  whole  it  may  be  said  that  the  tyranny 
of  fashion  is  worse  than  it  was. 

Occasionally  in  some  of  the  more  retired 
streets  in  this  part  of  town  (Regent- 
street  is  not  far  ofl*  from  where  we  stand, 
and  Bond-street  is  handy)  the  shop-win- 
dow amateur  comes  across  mysterious  half- 
blinds  in  ground-floor  windows,  severely 
inscribed  with  a  single  -nomB.  ^x^^^^^xm^-^  ^ 
for  instance,  puta  Yna  nMnfe  ydl  \3Ci&  'sraAss^ 


c5t 


4 


42       [JvM  13, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoeted  bj 


as  if  under  the    impression   that  every- 
body  knows  who  Pngslumby  is,  and  what 
his  business  is.     He  clearly  keeps  a  shop 
of  some  kind,  bnt  scorns  to  intimate  the 
nature  of  his  transactions  to  the  casual 
public.     This  is  unkind  to    the   genuine 
shop-window    lover.      The    blind    is    im- 
pervious.    It  is  impossible  to  make  out 
any   of  Pugslumby's   stock.      Pugslumby 
becomes  a  terrible  subject  of  uneasy  con- 
jecture.    Does  he  sell  anyiiiing?     Is  it 
really  a  shop  ?     K  it  be  really  a  shop,  is 
the  business   so  good,   the  connexion  so 
large  and  steady,  that  no  fresh  customers 
are  required  ?     Or  is  Pugslumby  slow  and 
behind    the   age?      Or    does    (even   this 
suspicion    has    dawned    upon    us)     does 
Pugslumby   discount  paper?     Once,   and 
only  once,  we  saw  a  portion  of  the  stock  of 
one  of  these  establishments,  in  the  likeness 
of  a  burnished  helmet  with  truculent  brazen 
ornaments,  and  a  bloodthirsty  red  plume, 
revealed  for  a  moment  above  the  blind.     A 
tremendous  sword  depended  from  a  nail  in 
the  shutter.     It  was  a  startling  and  an  un- 
expected sight.     Could  PugslimLby  have 
lent  any  hopeful  young  civilian  one  thou- 
sand pounds,  on   condition  that  he  took 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds'  worth  of 
helmet,  red  plume,  and  Castle  of  Otranto 
sword? 

The  photographic  shops  are  always  en- 
circled by  a  crowd  of  gazers.  And,  of  a 
truth,  HieTe  is  always  plenty  to  look  at  there. 
Does  an  individual  achieve  celebrity  ?  He 
or  she  is  to  be  seen  photographed  all  over 
town  within  a  week.  Notoriety?  Same 
result  In£uny  ?  Same  result.  Be  a  thief 
on  a  sufficiently  large  scale,  and  yon  shall 
have  a  prefix  to  your  name.  As  "Mr." 
Higgs.  Men  and  women  of  all  classes,  of 
all  ranks,  and  of  all  sorts  of  characters 
may  be  studied  from  the  pavement.  If  a 
minister  make  a  success,  look  out  all  the 
old  portraits  in  stock  and  put  them  in  the 
window.  Take  his  portrait  again  if  you 
can  induce  him  to  sit  for  it-,  and  label  it 
"the  last;"  if  you  cannot  induce  him  to 
sit,  label  anything  as  the  last  portrait  of 
him.  His  rival  on  the  other  side  of  the 
House  is  also  a  good  card  to  play,  for  it  is 
of  little  importance  to  the  sale  of  these 
wares  whether  their  originals  happen  to 
have  met  with  successes  or  reverses.  It  is 
sufficient  that  they  are  talked  about  at  the 
moment.  With  actors,  authors,  royal  per- 
sonages, and  all  other  public  characters,  the 
rule  holds  good.  Furthermore,  it.  is  not 
even  necessary  to  take  the  actual  photo- 
ffrapJiio portrait  of  the  mdiyiduaX  on  brisk 


sale.  G«t  somebody  to  draw  any  sort  of 
portrait  of  him,  and  have  it  photographed. 
The  public  will  buy  it.  If  it  be  unlike  him, 
the  public  will  resent  his  being  unlike  his 
photograph;  not  his  photograph's  being 
unHke  him.  Perhaps  the  best  harvest  to 
be  got  out  of  any  individual  well  known  to 
the  public,  is  at  the  time  of  his  or  her 
decease.  This  harvest  is  not  of  very  long 
duration,  but  it  is  very  good  whUe  it  lasts. 
Take  your  photograph,  and  frame  it  in  a 
deep  black  border,  and  advertise  it  with  as 
much  dap-trap  as  you  can  compass,  and 
yon  will  sell  a  very  satis&ctory  number  of 
copies. 

The  window  of  a  large  photographic  shop 
affords  a  capital  means  of  judging  of  the 
tone  of  the  pubHc  mind  at  any  given  time. 
From  the  popular  photographs  it  is  easy  to 
discern  what  sort  of  books  are  being  read, 
what  sort  of  plays  acted,  what  sort  of 
frivolity  is  for  the  time  fBLshionable.  An 
experienced  Londoner,  long  absent  from 
home,  and  with  but  an  intermittent  supply 
of  newspapers,  might  say  with  certainty 
from  an  inspection  of  the  cartes-de-visite  in 
the  shop  windows  what  would  be  the  pro- 
minent subjects  of  conversation  at  his  first 
dinner  party. 

When  the  fine  weather  sets  in,  the  win- 
dows of  those  shops  most  set  apart  for  pho* 
tographs  of  scenery  become  terribly  sug- 
gestive to  the  unfortunates  who  know  that, 
by  reason  of  work  or  impecuniosity,  snm- 
mer  jaunts  and  autumn  trips  are  not  for 
them.  There  are  photographs  of  all  the 
places  you  would  like  to  go  to ;  and  the 
more  impossible  it  is  for  you  to  go  to  them, 
the  more  delightful  are  the  scenes  pre- 
sented to  your  longing  eye.  Quiet  English 
lanes,  leafy  Devonshire  retreats,  and  fresh 
reviving  sea  beach,  pleasant  to  think  of  in 
the  dusty  town.  Further  afield,  lo !  the 
grand  Swiss  mountains  reposing  on  the 
glaciers  which  look  (in  the  photograph)  so 
easy  to  traverse,  and  which  turn  out  suck 
very  different  things  when  you  try  them. 
Dark  silent  pine- woods,  shady  and  cool ; 
rushing  torrents,  ice  caves,  snow  fields — 
all  things  beautifrd,  picturesque,  and  un- 
attainable—  are  mercilessly  presented  to 
the  view  of  the  compulsory  stay-at-home. 
Let  him  take  comfort.  The  same  window 
that  shows  him  these  natural  wonders, 
shows  him  also  among  the  bcantiful  woods 
and  by  the  placid  waters  of  old  Thames, 
at  Maidenhead  or  Marlow,  Pangboume  or 
Henley,  holiday  nooks  easily  within  reach 
of  limited  time  and  limited  cash.  And  if 
even  these  be  beyond  his  reach,  let  him 


S 


<t. 


=Sb, 


charietDiokMii.]       AUTHENTIC  SINGHALESE  GENEALOGY.       [June  13,  isss]     43 


4= 


look  his  fill  and  be  thankfxil  that  ho  can 
see  their  likenesses  for  nothing  as  often  as 
he  likes. 


AUTHENTIC  SINGHALESE 
GENEALOGY. 

Let  others  trace  the  birth  of  the  Singhalese 
people  in  a  way  that  would  meet  the  limited 
understanding  of  our  own  ethnologists.  The 
Singhalese — no  doubt,  the  best  authorities  upon 
their  own  past  history — account  for  themselves 
thus. 

In  ancient  days  there  was  a  great  war  in 
Ceylon,  known  as  the  Rawena  Joodd^,  after 
wfajch  the  island  was  oyerrun  by  demons  for 
about  two  thousand  years.  In  his  visits  to 
Ceylon,  Budha  destroyed,  or  drove  away  all  but 
a  few  of  these  malignant  spirits ;  and  foretold 
the  arrival  of  a  warrior,  one  Yijee  Singheba 
Kumaria,  who  with  the  help  of  seven  hundred 
followers  would  finish  the  job.  Before«entering 
on  his  final  rest  (Nirw&na,  cessation  of  existence) 
Budha  gave  a  thread  to  Sekkereh  Devee  Edrya, 
with  instructions  that  it  was  to  be  worn  as  a 
nedL-tie  by  Yijee  on  his  landing,  and  he  left 
also  a  consignment  of  holy-water  with  which 
Yijes's  followers  were  to  be  sprinkled. 

This  Yijee  Singheba  Kumaria  was  the  son  of 
Sinhebahoo,  kin^  of  Yagooratteh.  Who  can 
doubt  a  fact  so  mipressive?  Sinhebahoo  was 
die  son  of  a  father  to  whom  there  belongs  a 
tale. 

There  reigned  in  Yagooratteh  a  king  who 
claimed  descent  from  the  sun,  and  this  monarch 
had  a  daughter  who  was  the  most  beautiful  girl 
in  the  kingdom.    Yagooratteh  was  infested  by 
lions.     One  of  them  was  most  furious  and  kept 
the  people  of  the  country  on  the  qui  vive  to 
know  who  next  should  be  eaten.     This  lion, 
whilst  prowlinff  one  day  in  the  royal  pleasure 
grounds,  espiea  the  king^s  lovely  daughter  and 
became  enamoured  of  her.    The  monwch  of  the 
forest  seixed  the  damsel,  carried  her  off  to  his 
stronghold,  and  made  her  his  mate.    He  was,  in 
fact,  uie  father  with  a  tail.    The  offspring  of  his 
marriage  with  the  loveliest  of  princesses  was  a 
son,  human  in  form,  but  lion-hearted,  to  whom 
his  mother  gave  the  name  of  Sinhebahoo.  This 
mother,  who  never  ceased  to  yearn  after  the 
home  of  her  youth,  and  in  whom  the  affectionate 
remembrance  of  her  parents  was  ever  fresh, 
mstilled  into  the  mind  of  her  son  an  abhorrence 
of  his  noisy,  greedy  father,  and  an  ardent  desire 
to  escape  from  the  paternal  den.    In  course  of 
time  he  took  his  opportunity,   fled  from  the 
only  home  he  knew,  and  foimd  refuge  in  the 
royal  city  of  Yagooratteh.     Now  this  lion,  exas- 
Miated  by  the  conduct  of  his  son,  became  more 
rarious  than  ever,  and  so  ravaged  the  country 
that  he  was  regarded  by  the  people  as  a  tax 
from  which  it  was  the  duty  of  their  king  to  free 
them.     The  king  not  having  enough  confidence 
in  his  own  strength  to  fight  the  lion  personally, 
and  not  being  able  to  persuade  any  of  hia  war- 
liors  to  have  a  bout  with  him,  made  proclamation 


that  whoever  would  destroy  the  lion  should  re- 
ceive the  highest  honours.  Sinhebahoo  then 
went  to  court,  tendered  his  services,  and  re- 
ceived the  royal  mandate  to  go  in  and  win. 
He  proceeded  to  the  forest,  did  go  in,  sought 
out  his  lion-father,  fought  him,  beat  him,  and 
became  a  highly  meritorious  parricide. 

Sinhebahoo  having  abolished  his  father  and 
released  his  mother,  returned  in  triumph  to  the 
capital.  A  day  of  general  rejoicing  was  pro- 
claimed, and  Sinhebahoo  was  summoned  to 
appear  before  the  aged  king  that  high  honours 
might  be  conferred  upon  him,  as  per  agreement. 
The  victorious  warrior,  on  being  admitted  to 
the  royal  presence,  presented  to  the  king  his 
long-lost  daughter ;  and  she  declared  that  the 
hero  was  her  son.  The  monarch,  filled  with 
gratitude  towards  the  deliverer  of  his  daughter, 
and  faint  with  admiration  at  the  valour  of 
Sinhebahoo,  acknowledged  him  as  his  grandson, 
and  made  him  heir  to  the  throne  of  Yagooratteh. 

Sinhebahoo  had  a  son,  whom  he  named  Yiiee 
Singheba  Kumaria — Singheba  means  descended 
from  the  lion,  for  he  was  the  lion's  grandson. 

About  two  thousand  four  hundred  and  ten 
years  ago,*  Yijee,  who  inherited  the  lion-heart 
of  his  father,  conceived  the  idea  of  taking  the 
beautiful  Lankadipa  (Ceylon)  from  the  demons 
who  held  it,  and  of  founding  a  new  kingdom 
for  himself.  He  accordingly  gathered  together 
a  band  of  seven  hundred  giants,  and  at  their  head 
invaded  the  island.  On  landing  he  and  his 
followers  were  met  by  a  she -devil,  named  Co- 
w6nee  Jackinee,  beautiful  in  form  and  bewitch- 
ing in  manners ;  she  fell  in  love  with  Yijee,  and 
wishing  to  preserve  him  from  the  rest  of  the 
demons,  led  him  and  his  companions  into  a 
lonely  part  of  the  island,  where  they  might  Uve 
unmolested.  They  had  many  adventures  in 
eluding  the  search  of  the  other  devils,  many 
flirtations  together,  and  much  love-making,  at 
least  on  the  part  of  Coweuee.  The  adventurous 
Yijee  being  thus  thwarted  in  his  project  of 
making  himself  master  of  the  country,  soon 
yielded  to  Cow^nee's  request  that  ho  would 
nuury  her ;  she  promising  that  as  soon  as  she 
should  become  his  wife,  she  would  give  him 
power  over  all  the  other  bad  ones.  As  soon  as 
the  marriage  rites  were  concluded  Cow^nee 
produced  the  holy-water,  which  Budha  had 
given  to  Sekkereh  Devee  Edrya,  and  with  it 
she  sprinkled  Yijee  and  his  companions  in  arms. 
By  the  efficacy  of  this  holy  sprinkling  and 
guided  by  Cow^nee,  Yijee  and  his  little  army 
soon  fell  in  with  the  devils  and  destroyed  them 
all  but  one,  that  one  being  Cowcuee  herself. 

Cow^nee,  who  had  a  vixenish  temper  and  strong 
passions,  ruled  her  husband  with  a  rod  of  iron ; 
and  as  he  was  impetuous,  and  kicked  under  her 
rod,  domestic  Una  were  frequent.  But  as  soon 
as  he  submitted,  her  old  name  rekindled  and 
she  was  as  kind  as  ever.  One  day,  after  one  of 
these  quarrels  and  reconciliations,  whilst  they 
were  billing  and  cooing  together,  Cowenee  un- 

•  It  is  noteworthy  that  the  period  of  Vijee's  arrival 
in  Ceylon  corresponds  mtVi  \.\iLd  ciomxneT\fi«m.^u\i  qH  ^^ 
Budhist  era,  which  daies  &^©  ^i\m.^ki<A  «xi^  i«tlV3-'"iiix^ 
years  before  the  Christisii  etu. 


^ 


44      [Jaae  12.  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


[Oondneted  \fj 


tied  a  thread  which  she  always  wore  on  her 
arm,  and  playfully  knotted  it  round  Vijee's 
neck ;  on  the  instant  she  began  to  tremble  and 
feel  faint,  whilst  he  felt  increasing  vigour.  For 
this  was  the  thread  neck-tie  which  Budha  had 
given  to  Sekkereh  Devee  EcLrya,  and  it  conferred 
on  Vijee  the  power  of  completing  the  extermina- 
tion of  the  devils.  By  the  power  of  this  thread 
Vijee  transformed  his  she-devil  wife  into  a  rock, 
and  became  sole  master  of  Lank^dipa.  He  de- 
clared himself  king,  under  the  title  of  Vijee 
Singheba  Rajia,  which  means  King  Vijee,  de- 
scendant of  a  Uon ;  and  his  followers  assumed 
the  name  or  designation  of  Singhale,  followers 
of  the  lion,  in  honour  of  their  leader. 

Shortly  after  this  Vijee  entered  the  married 
state  again  ;  but  this  time  he  espoused  a  royal 
princess  of  the  kin^om  of  Pandoowas  Ratteh, 
on  the  Coromandel  coast.  On  her  arrival  in 
Ceylon  this  princess  was  attended  by  seven 
hundred  damsels,  who  became  the  wives  of 
Vijee^s  army  of  seven  hundred  giants ;  and  from 
tliese  gentlemen  and  ladies  the  whole  Singhalese 
race  is  descended. 


// 


TOM  BUTLER. 

A  bot's  hero,    in  six  chapters. 

CHAPTER  II.      THE  FIGHT. 

Besides  our  English  juvenile  colony, 
there  was  another  class  who  frequented  the 
common  to  pursue  their  pastimes.  These 
were  the  nsiial  type  of  blue-frocked,  pale- 
&ced  French  lads,  who  made  an  immense 
deal  of  noise  and  chattered  as  they  pursued 
their  rather  feminine  amusements.  The  feel- 
ing between  the  nations  was  anything  but 
cordial,  and  we  deeply  resented  their  coming 
on  the  same  ground  with  us  at  all.  This 
was  a  little  unreasonable,  as  their  title  to 
their  own  soil  might — on  the  construction  of 
the  law  of  nations — ^be  considered  higher 
than  ours.  We  noticed  that  they  kissed 
each  other  when  they  met — a  proceeding 
received  with  shouts  of  derisive  laughter 
from  our  side.  If  one  of  them  was  touched 
by  the  stroke  of  a  ball,  or  fell  down  and 
scraped  himself,  or  if,  as  Tom  put  it,  "  you 
held  up  your  little  finger,'*  he  forthwith 
began  to  cry.  Tom  himself  protested,  and 
there  was  no  reason  to  doubt  him,  that 
when  on  one  occasion  he  had  slapped  the 
face  of  one  who  had  been  impertinent,  the 
(Jreature  had  spat — yes,  spat,  and  jabbered 
at  him  like  a  monkey.  Lideed,  Tom*s  con- 
tempt for  them  knew  no  bounds.  He  de- 
spised the  French,  he  said ;  "  We  licked 
them  at  Waterloo,  and  if  they  have  the 
courage,  sir,  to  give  us  the  chance  again, 
we'll  Hck  'em  once  more." 

Once,  M.    Bernard   was   coming   along 
AcroBs  the  common,  reading,  and  passed  by 


just  as  Tom  was  in  the  middle  of  some  such 
declaration,  "I  hate  the  French!"  M. 
Bernard  stopped  and  accosted  me,  making 
me  colour,  for  I  knew  there  was  a  loss  of 
caste  in  thus  having  a  "French  fellow" 
over  me. 

"Well,  my  little  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
expect  you  by-and-by.  Good  morning,  Mr. 
Bootlair !" 

"Oh,  good  morning,"  said  Tom,  care- 
lessly. 

"  So  you  dislike  the  French  ?" 

"Well,  since  you  put  the  question  to 
me,"  said  Tom,  promptly,  "  I  really  do." 

"And  yet,  is  not  that  unreasonable?" 
said  the  teacher,  gravely.  "  Your  father,  I 
know,  does  not.  Do  they  not  give  you 
shelter  and  asylum " 

"Which  we  pay  for,"  said  Tom,  scorn- 
fully.    "  Much  obliged  to  'em." 

"Which  you  pay  for,"  repeated  M. 
Bernard,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  him — 
"which  you  pay  for,  as  you  say'^  There 
was  a  deucate  sarcasm  in  his  tone  quite  un- 
intelligible to  us.  "  Your  fother  finds  every 
one  here  good-natured,  indulgent,  patient. 
He  does  not  complain  of  them;  I  will  expect 
you,  my  young  friend,  in  five  minutes." 

Tom  did  not  answer  till  he  had  gone, 
and  then  did  so  with  infinite  heat  and 
impetuosity. 

"A  mean,  glib,  beggarly  pedagogue! 
What  right  has  he  to  speak  to  me  at  all  ? 
Who  wants  anything  of  him  ?  I'd  thrash 
hiTn  and  fifty  like  him  one  after  the  other !" 

This  was  Tom's  invariable  test  of  merit ; 
any  one  that  he  could  thrash,  or  proclaimed 
he  would  thrash,  being  a  poor,  mean,  im- 
worthy  impostor.  I  merely  mention  this 
incident  to  show  that  the  tone  of  the  pubHc 
mind  was  not  by  any  means  a  healthy  one. 
On  our  side,  we  had  really  come  to  believe 
that  we  did  do  these  "beggarly"  French- 
men— and  observe  the  exquisite  propriety  of 
this  word  "beggarly"  as  coming  from  some 
of  our  community,  whom  it  certainly  fitted 
far  more  appropriately — a  great  honour  by 
dwelling  in  their  un-English  land,  and  by 
putting  up  with  their  eccentric  and,  to  us, 
unsuitable  ways  and  habits.  This  was 
Tom  Butler's  favourite  theme.  To  use  his 
own  phrase,  "  he  never  let  a  point  go ;"  and 
even  as  he  passed  a  French  youth,  his  head 
in  the  air,  his  long  arms  swinging,  his  fair 
face  thrown  back,  there  was  this  con- 
temptuous air  of  challenge,  and  a  smile  of 
amusement,  as  it  were,  at  something  ex- 
quisitely ludicrous  in  the  very  existence — 
apart  from  dress  and  bearing — of  a  French 
boy. 


&z 


ft 


Chtrles  Dlekem.] 


TOM  BUTLER 


[June  19,  1869.]  45 


"God  bless  us!"  he  would  say,  ad- 
dressing  us  oratorically,  his  back  against 
the  white  wooden  rail  which  ran  round  the 
common.  "What  are  they  like  at  all? 
Half  babies,  half  girls  ?  Girls !  Why,  one 
of  our  dear  English  girls  at  home  would 
have  more  spirit  in  her  little  finger  than  all 
this  canaille  put  together.  She  wouldn't 
exactly  cry  if  you  held  up  your  Httle 
finger  V* 

On  what  Tom  founded  this  favourite 
image  of  his,  where  he  had  so  held  up  his 
httle  finger,  and  who  had  cried  at  that 
exhibition,  we  were  never  told.  But  we 
finnly  believed  that  some  such  incident  had 
taken  place. 

Now  a  word  or  two  about  the  "  rabble." 
Stretching  to  the  back  of  our  villas 
was  a  level  country  or  table-land  a  good 
deal  covered  with  orchards,  and  behind 
the  orchards  a  veiy  slender  village,  a  dozen 
cottages  or  so.  The  inhabitants,  of  course, 
depended  on  the  sale  or  mantifacture  of 
what  Tom  contemptuously  styled  "their 
eternal  apples,"  either  in  the  shape  of 
cider  or,  as  the  same  authority  explained 
to  ua,  that  "  filthy  mess  of  squash"  we  saw 
in  open  tubs  at  shop  doors  under  the  nets 
full  of  peg-tops.  The  boys  who  were  our 
enemies  were  the  boys  of  this  little  com- 
munity. One  or  two  of  their  sires  were 
Huguenots,  and  I  recal  our  Mr.  John 
standing  in  easy  conversation  with  a  grim 
covenanter-looking  figure  who  was  at  the 
door  of  his  cottage.  Mr.  John  seemed  to 
look  on  it  as  a  sort  of  lusus,  and  often  told  the 
anecdote.  It  was  a  Sunday.  He  was  lying 
against  the  door,  resting  himself,  with  the 
pipe  in  his  mouth.  "  Yous  ally  Legleeze," 
says  I.  "No,  no,"  says  he,  taking  the 
pipe  out;  "moa  Protestong."  "Well, 
well,"  says    I,   "after  that "    "Wee 


says  he,  "  moa  Protestong !" 
The  hoys  of  this  district  cherished  the 
same  feelings  to  us  that  we  did  to  them. 
Of  a  Sunday  was  our  opportunity,  when 
their  parents  were  away  at  the  church,  or 
some  little  fair,  or  junketting.  Then  we 
would  repair,  a  small  band  of  irregulars, 
cautiously  and  secretly,  one  by  one,  some 
of  us  creeping  along  on  our  stomachs  in 
imitation  of  what  we  had  heard  was  real 
"skirmishing  practice."  Then  the  fun 
began,  and  nothing  more  exciting  could 
be  conceived — ^the  shooting,  the  hitting, 
the  "  cutting  out,"  even  the  roar  of  agony — 
as  a  hard  apple,  launched  from  Tom's  un- 
erring hand,  landed  on  a  French  cheek- 
bone, and  was  cloven  into  fragments.  So 
the  excitiDg  sport  went  on,  we  of  course 


having  the  best  of  it,  and  gradually  driving 
the  enemy  out  of  cover  and  out  of  reach  of 
ammunition.  As  we  advanced,  pouring  in 
our  shot  like  hail,  they  were  pressed  back 
into  the  cover,  and  fairly  fled,  while  we 
showed  ourselves  and  shouted.  We  had 
at  least  two  such  victories,  but  on  the  third 
occasion  something  occurred  which  led  to 
a  change  of  fortune. 

There  was  a  cooper  who  made  casks  for 
the  apples,  and  this  cooper  had  a  tall  son, 
a  head,  at  least,  over  Tom,  and  whose  name 
was  Leah.  From  this  circumstance,  I  sus- 
pect, he  was  connected  with  the  old  "  moa 
Protestong"  of  our  Mr.  John,  or  was  per- 
haps the  actual  son  of  the  grim  Huguenot. 
This  I  never  learned.  This  Leah,  the  son, 
had  only  returned  home  on  the  preceding 
Saturday,  and  was  new  to  the  parish. 
During  the  heat  of  the  conflict  a  young 
recruit  had  been  struck  down  by  a  large 
baking  apple.  He  ran  crying  into  a  house, 
whence  he  emerged  in  a  few  moments  with 
Leah.  We  were  a  little  surprised  at  this 
reinforcement — his  size,  apparent  strength, 
indiflerence.  In  a  moment  he  was  at  work, 
sending  his  missiles  with  a  short,  quick, 
and  steady  fire,  that  upset  all  our  calcula- 
tions. He  advanced,  too,  instead  of  keep- 
ing imder  shelter.  It  must  be  owned  that 
we  were  thrown  into  confusion,  but  it  was 
all  from  the  surprise.  Some  said  it  was  a 
ma/n.  At  the  same  time  the  fathers  of  the 
village — ^with  the  old  Huguenot  himself-r- 
began  to  make  their  appearance.  It  was 
time  to  retire.  As  one  of  us  remarked, 
"  We  had  done  all  we  had  wanted."  As 
we  drew  off",  Leah  made  a  low  gesture  of 
contempt  and  defiance,  such  as  an  Indian 
would  do  in  derision  of  his  foes.  He  then 
walked  into  his  hut,  to  renew  the  sleep 
which  I  suppose  we  had  interrupted. 

Tom  was  quite  excited  about  this. 
"That's  my  man,"  he  said.  "Wait  for 
another  Sunday,  my  buttercups,  and  you 
shall  see."  That  other  Sunday  came,  but 
Leah  did  not  appear.  Meanwhile  another 
event  took  place,  which  contributed  a  good 
deal  to  the  catastrophe. 

Down  below  in  the  town  there  was  to  be 
a  Httle  festival,  or  gala,  associated  with  I 
know  not  what,  but  among  other  pastimes 
it  was  determined  there  should  be  A  beoatta. 
Les  yachtsmen  were  all  invited,  and  did 
not  come,  but  some  English  sailors  from 
the  Southampton  steamer  had  entered  for 
the  rowing  races.  International  courtesies, 
or  contests,  were  then  not  at  all  in  fashion ; 
there  was  no  entente  coxdval^^^  est  ^\r»A:^ 
jog-trot  alAiance  -w^doi  iio^   cia&\A.   ^^>aft 


\ 


// 


<^ 


^ 


46      [June  12, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND, 


[Oondnotedby 


thing  was  quite  a  novelty,  and  caused  a 
sensation.  Frenchmen's  eyes  flashed  fire 
as  they  talked  of  it,  but  they  were  uneasy. 
There  would  be  something  un&ir  .they 
were  certain.  No  one  laughed  so  loud  as 
Tom.  "  They  row  !"  he  said,  "  the  poor 
weak  fools !  why,  one  of  our  tars  would 
beat  them  with  his  left  hand  tied  behind 
his  back  !'* 

Without  going  so  far  as  this,  there  was 
a  certain  impression  in  the  colony  on  the 
hill  that  victory  would  be  with  our  country- 
men ;  and  on  the  morning  of  the  struggle 
the  Cdte  was  crowded  with  people  having 
old  glasses  and  telescopes,  and  all  eagerly 
looking  down  to  the  blue  sea  below  Honfleur . 
The  blouses  gathered  behind,  gesticulating 
and  chattering,  their  eyes  darting  Are  and 
bostihty  at  the  English.  Tom  was  in  a 
real  excitement,  his  father's  old  spyglass 
under  his  arm,  and  striding  about  as  if  he 
were  captain  of  a  ship. 

The  race  was  duly  rowed.  We  could  see 
the  four  boats — ^four  faint  dots — ^far  below 
on  the  blue  sea^  a  Paris  dot,  a  Rouen  one, 
a  Havre  dot,  and  an  English  one — ^the 
glorious  scarlet ! 

*'  Six  as  fine  of  our  tars,  sir,"  said  Tom, 
the  glass  to  his  eye,  "with  their  iron 
muscles,  as  ever  you  saw !" 

Three  minutes  did  the  work.  One  boat 
gradually  drawing  yards,  then  furlongs, 
ahead*  At  the  end  of  the  boat  was  a  little 
faint  patch  of  red.  Tom  actually  threw 
his  iroyglass  into  the  air. 

"  Old  England  for  ever,  boys !  GKve'  em 
a  British  cmeer,  lads !  I  knew  we*d  lick 
'em!" 

And  we  all  raised  a  shout,  and  &om  the 
windows  of  the  English  villas,  where  the 
ladies  were,  fluttered  white  pooket-hand- 
kerchiefs.  The  looks  of  the  Frenchmen 
were  black  as  night. 

Mr.  John,  who  rarely  missed  anything 
"  sporting,"  had  gone  down  into  the  town 
to  see  the  race  as  a  gentlemanly  spectator. 
Of  course  he  got  into  the  best  place  on 
board  an  English  steamer,  having  made 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  steward. 
He  brought  back  strange  stories  of  the  ex- 
citement. 

"  Well,  well,  well !  modyee !  modyee !" 
(A  shape  in  his  dialect  for  *'  Mon  Dieu !") 
*'0h  the  creatures!  It  was  skyandalous 
how  they  were  treated;  the  hustUn*,  and 
then  the  beatin*  and  then  the  crowd — ^forty- 
five  thousand  people,  no  less,  round  the 
creatures.  Oh,  it  was  shocking!  A  re- 
gular E-mute !" 
I2i£sr  wedid  DotuuderstaiLd  for  a  long  time, 


for  it  was  a  new  word,  and  he  was  pleased 
with  it,  and  repeated  it  with  great  satisfac- 
tion, "  th*  mute."  More  careful  considera- 
tion helped  us  to  his  meaning ;  yet  it  was 
too  gentle  a  name,  for  Tom  Butler  had  the 
whole  particulars,  which  he  related  to  us  in 
boxing  language.  The  cowardly  French 
had  made  a  brutal  attack  on  our  brave 
tars,  and  had  beaten  them — ^a  great  mob. 
The  "brave  tars"  had  put  their  backs 
against  a  wall,  and  had  thrashed  and 
smashed  right  and  left,  knocking  over  the 
cowardly  sneaks,  and  pounding  and  maim- 
ing them  on  good  old  English  prinrnpleB. 

"  But  they  were  too  many  for  thfim,"  went 
on  Tom,  in  a  glowing  indignation.  "An 
Englishman  is  a  matdb  for  half  a  dozen 
Frenchmen  easy;  but  not  for  a  thousand. 
And  only  fancy  the  scoundrels — ^they  draw 
their  penknives  and  get  behind  the  brave 
fellows,  and  stab  them  in  the  back.  That's 
manly — ^that's  brave !    Ain't  it  ?" 

Tom  made  many  harangues  that  day  to 
various  audiences,  and  within  hearing, 
whenever  he  could  manage  it,  of  various 
natives  of  the  country — a  Freoich  genide- 
man  or  two,  who  only  smiled  and  pafised 
on.  Onoe  the  great  Leah  went  by,  fiercely 
gesticulating,  stooping  down  to  lus  friend, 
and  describing  with  infinite  animation. 
He  had  been  down  to  see  the  contest,  and 
was  clearly  enjoying  the  retribution  that 
had  overtaken  the  vile  English.  Tom 
raised  his  voice,  threw  more  scorn  in,  and 
said  very  proudly,  and  with  insufieorable 
offenaiveness,  "  We  shall  have  to  give  'em 
Waterloo  over  again !" 

It  was  like  galvanism.  The  two  French 
youths  twitched  and  started,  their  eyes 
became  bloodshot ;  they  turned  back,  and 
Tom,  scenting  battle,  repeated  his  phrase, 
with  the  talismanic  word.  Leah  oame 
striding  up,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  arms 
going,  his  blouse  actually  trembling.  There 
was,  indeed,  something  going  to  happen, 
and  we  all  held  our  breath.  Tom  waited 
for  him,  his  lips  curling,  his  breath  getting 
a  little  short,  his  fingers  unconsciously 
clenched  into  appropriate  fighting  shape. 
The  two  Frenchmen  oame  on,  and  at  onoe 
poured  out  a  volley  of  ferocious  vitupera- 
tion utterly  unintelligible,  Leah  swaying 
his  arms,  putting  his  chest  close  to  Tom's, 
and  his  mouth  close  to  Tom's — ("  Anything 
like  his  rank  garlic  breath  you  never!" 
said  Tom) — and  chattering  all  the  time; 
his  head  over  Tom's,  who  remained  quite 
calm,  never  -stirred  or  retreated  an  inch. 
"  But  I  was  ready  for  him  all  the  time,  and 
at  the  first  motion  would  have  had  my  fist 


\ 


A 


=&. 


OhuiM  Dickens.] 


TOM  BUTLER, 


[June  13. 1869.]      47 


II 


smafih  on  his  face."  At  that  moment  one 
of  the  gensdarmes,  whom  I  have  never  seen 
fincc  those  days,  save  in  Robert  Macaire, 
where  I  feel  kmdly  to  them,  like  old  fneods 
of  childhood,  came  lounging  leifiurolj  down. 
He  was  the  one  peace  officer  of  the  district, 
and  was  really  as  resplendent  as  white  and 

CUow  braid  could  make  him.  This  official 
d  reasons  for  being  specially  wary  on 
this  occasion,  and  came  down  to  ns,  on 
which  the  crowd  dispersed,  and  Mr.  Leah 
''drew  off/'  taUdng  very  lond,  and  banging 
down  his  arm,  add  addressing  an  imaginary 
audience. 

*'  I  thought  he  meant  nothing,'*  said  Tom, 
"all  wind  and  froth ;  just  like  'cm  all  round. 
He's  doubLe  my  weight,"  added  Tom, 
addressing  a  real  audience  in  his  im- 
petuosity, ''  and  a  head  over  me ;  but  I  am 
lo  be  found  anywhere,  at  any  time.  And 
that  Jack-in-the-box," — so  he  contemptu- 
ously alluded  to  the  gendarme — "  can  tell 
him  ?ie  knows  me."  Wonder^  creature, 
Tom ;  so  much  at  home  in  the  world,  brave, 
gallant,  insolent  perhaps,  but  certainly 
wonderfuL  "I  tell  you  what,"  went  on 
Tom,  hastily,  ''  we'll  do  something  to  take 
down  the  oonoeit  of  these  frog-eaters.  Let 
us  show  them  what  we  are  made  of,  and 
that  we  ajne  not  ashamed  of  our  country. 
We'll  have  a  procession,  boys,  and  hoist  the 
British  flag,  in  honour  of  the  day." 

At  the  time  we  thought  this  was  merely 
fine  and  figurative  language,  like  the  *'  nail- 
ing to  the  mast»"  which  so  often  followed 
—an  operation  even  then  familiar  to  us. 
A  British  flag  could  not  be  had  nearer  than 
the  Southampton  packet.  But  we  did  not 
know  what  Tom,  as  he  himself  assured  us, 
could  do  ''  when  he  was  excited. ' '  We  were 
delighted  at  something  coming,  something 
to  look  forward  to,  and  waited  anxiously 
for  the  hour  appointed. 

It  was  one  of  the  fine  summer  evenings 
—cheap  here  from  their  very  plenty — soft 
and  fragrant,  with  the  light  lasting  till  past 
ten  o'clock,  and  no  cloudy  night.  At  nine 
the  common  re-echoed  with  the  cheerful 
notes  of  talk  and  laughter ;  and  along  the 
roadside  down  to  the  right,  where  the  high 
road  joined,  and  the  trees  set  in  and  made 
an  avenue,  and  the  lamps  himg  across  from 
a  string,  various  of  the  natives  sauntered 
by,  taUdng  over  the  day.  There  was  a 
pleasant  lull  abroad.  Suddenly  Tom  ap- 
peared among  us,  emerging  from  the  prison- 
like gate  hurriedly. 

"Another  row  with  the  governor,"  he 
said,  "but  I  wouldn't  fail.  Here  we  are," 
and  to  our  wondering  eyes  prod  need  what 


seemed  a  little  counterfeited  union-jack! 
"  I  got  Yictorine  to  make  it,  and  gave  her 
instructions  myself.  Bless  you  !  I  know  the 
colours  by  heart.  Now,  boys,  &!!  in,  I  say." 
Clearly  some  great  "fun"  was  coming, 
and  we  did  as  we  were  bid,  and  fell  in.  We 
started  in  a  sort  of  procession,  marshalled 
by  TouL  He  walked  at  the  head.  A  few 
loungers  stopped  to  look,  and  wondered,  I 
suppose.  But  when  the  glorious  "jade" 
was  unfurled,  carried  by  Tom  in  person, 
they  understood  perfectly.  "There"  he 
said,  "there  could  be  no  mistskke."  At 
fixed  points  we  were  ordered  to  halt  and 
cheer,  which  we  did  with  a  wiH.  A  few 
squibs,  purchased  at  a  sou  a  piece  for  the 
occasion,  gave  quite  the  air  of  a  feu-de-joie. 
Naturally  this  excited  attention.  Suddenly 
a  little  English  lad  calls  out, 

"  But  I  say,  Tom,  the  orchard  follows  are 
coming!"  And  looking  in  that  direction 
we  saw  about  a  dozen  of  the  blouses  run- 
ning out  from  the  apple-trees. 

"  Halt !"  cried  Tom.  "  Steady,  lads !" 
We  drew  up  in  a  line.  We  assumed  by 
instinct  that  their  errand  must  be  hostile. 
Were  they  not  our  natural  enemies  P  And 
as  they  came  on,  another  called  out,  "And 
Tom,  I  say,  there's  that  Leah !" 

Tom  looked  out  curiously,  shading  his 
eyes,  and  said,  "  I  knew  when  they  saw 

the  Jack "     He  was  not  at  all  fimiiliar 

with  the  sacred  volume,  or  he  would  have 
said  that  the  Lord  had  delivered  the  French- 
man into  his  hands.  As  it  was,  I  recollect 
some  expression  answering  to  the  sentiment 
came  into  his  &ice. 

The  "fellows"  came  on,  gesticulating 
and  chattering,  Tom  at  once  stepping  in 
front  and  waving  his  flag  to  them  in  cheer- 
ful encouragement.  It  really  had  the  effect 
of  scarlet  on  a  bull,  and  Leah, — foaming  at 
the  mouth  like  such  a  steer,  sputtering 
awful  consonants,  in  which  the  sound  of 
"s'crayl"  and  "tz!"  were  conspicuous — 
strode  up  close,  and  made  a  grasp  at  our 
ensign. 

Tom  spoke  French  well,  put  his  hand  on 
Mr.  Leali*s  chest,  and  said  sliarply,  "  Stand 
back !     Que  voulez-vous !" 

The  answer  was  unintelligible.  But  in 
a  moment  we  heard  him  speaking  very 
£Bist  and  fiercely,  and  Tom  answered  very 
lightly  and  slowly : 

"  With  all  my  heart !  Make  a  ring,  boys. 
I  am  going  to  thrash  this  fellow." 

In  a  moment  the  ring  was  made,  the 
blues  on  one  side,  the  blacks  on  the  other ; 
the  "  gentlemen"  one  way,  the  plebeians 
the  other.    Tom.  -woxA^  iio\.  \aik^  cfS.  \sv& 


// 


^ 


^ 


48 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Jmie  11, 18Sf .] 


coat,  though  invited  to  do  so.  He  merely 
buttoned  it  tight.  The  Frenchman  throw 
off  his  blonse,  and  appeared  in  his  waist- 
coat. He  had  a  broad  chest,  a  strong  arm, 
and  the  nsnal  tendency  of  most  yonng 
Frenchmen  to  fxdness  below.  Tom's  was  a 
narrow,  wiry  chest,  slight  arms,  a  slighter 
throat,  and  a  pale,  delicate  face.  He  was  a 
little  overgrown,  and  surveyed  his  opponent 
smiling. 

Many  years  later,  seeing  a  piece  called 
the  Floating  Beacon,  in  which  a  combat 
takes  place  on  the  deck  of  a  vessel  between 
the  atrocious  captain  of  the  craft  and  a 
guileless  passenger — ^the  way  in  which  the 
abandoned  captain  prepared  himself  for  the 
combat,  his  starts,  his  drawing  back,  his 
advance  on  one  leg,  his  gaimt  spasmE  of 
preparations — all  suggested  sometlung  fiuni- 
liar.  It  soon  took  titie  shape  of  Mr.  Leah, 
who  tried  his  wrists,  had  them  tried  by 
others,  whispered  his  friends,  and  was  whis- 
pered by  them.  We  did  not  know  till  later 
that  Mr.  Leah  was  a  man  of  reputation  in  le 
boze.  Tom  remained  quite  quiet,  smiling, 
while  these  preparations  were  being  made. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  way  that  French- 
man came  on.  It  struck  us  with  something 
as  like  horror  as  with  astonishment.  For, 
advancing  as  if  on  the  ordinary  system,  he 
suddenly  dropped  his  head,  and,  with  his 
bullet-like  os  frontis,  drove  straight  at  Tom's 
middle.  The  shock  was  tremendous,  and 
it  sent  the  blood  up  into  Tom's  pale  &,ce. 
Then  the  struggle  began.  The  savage, 
strong  arms  were  wound  tightly  round 
Tom's  slender  limbs,  Leah  striving  to  heave 
him  off  his  legs,  and  go  with  him  to  the 
ground,  where,  as  we  all  knew^  he  would 
hite,  and  kick,  and  stamp  at  his  fedlen  foe — 
all  £air  in  the  French  mode  of  fighting. 
Such,  at  least,  was  our  belief.  But  Tom, 
though  taken  by  surprise,  contrived  a  clever 
trip — he  was  from  Cumberland — and,  while 
the  native  was  thus  unsupported,  gave  hiin 
a  desperate  heave  over  to  one  side,  and 
shook  himself  free.  The  savage  looked 
wildly  and  thirsting  for  blood,  as  we 
thought,  and  a  little  scared. 

"  Now,  boys,  see  how  I'll  match  him  this 
time  and  his  wild  Indian  tricks  I" 

Tom  waited,  still  with  the  old  contemp- 
tuous smile,  something  out  of  breath, 
something  flushed,  but  with  his  woman- 
like fiste  in  a  new  and  suspicious  attitude ; 
the  other,   very  red,   and  breathing  hard 


from  his  incipient  corpulence,  was  crouched 
down  like  a  tiger  about  to  spring.  He 
came  on  as  he  had  done  before ;  but  Tom 
received  the  bullet-head  in  the  part  he  had 
received  it  before,  and  having  got  it  there, 
we  saw  with  delight  the  splendid  reception 
it  met  with.  He  had  the  round  coarse 
head,  and  a  shower  of  blows  rained  on 
it — ^rained  on  the  ear,  on  the  cheekbones 
— ^four  times.  The  delicate  fists,  worked 
as  if  by  steam-power — ^tho  Frenchman  had 
unwittingly  placed  his  own  head  '*in  Chan- 
cery," a  distinction  other  pugilists  are  most 
anxious  to  avoid.  We  rcMured  and  cheered 
with  delight  as  the  combatants  went  round 
and  round,  Tom's  fists  going  up  and  down 
like  a  piston,  smashing,  pounding,  batter- 
ing, until  at  last  the  wretched  Franchman 
had  to  abandon  his  strategy,  and  raise  a 
blazing,  flaming,  mauled  face,  all  stripes 
and  welts,  from  the  place  into  which  it  had 
been  thrust.  Then  Tom  saw  his  opportunity, 
and  following  the  great  Duke  s  tactics 
towards  the  close  of  the  ever  glorious  day 
at  Waterloo,  rushed  at  the  face  which  was 
lifted  and  came  on  him  with  a  cmshiDg 
"left-hander."  It  was  "Up,  Guards,  and 
at  'em !"  now.  Then  he  came  on  with 
the  right,  and  Leah  staggered  and  reeled 
back.  The  combat  was  virtually  over. 
The  great  Leah  was  defeated,  and  defearfied 
for  ever ! 

That  splendid  victory  of  the  British 
arms  was  long  remembered.  The  French 
power  was  utterly  humiliated.  They  never 
rallied.  We  might  turn  into  their  orchards 
for  challenge  or  even  plunder,  but  they 
never  showed.  Alas !  the  hero  of  that 
glorious  day  had  but  a  short  time  to  enjoy 
his  glory.  One  morning  some  strange 
men  were  seen  at  the  captain's  gate,  striv- 
ing, it  would  seem,  to  get  in,  and  rattling 
it  savagely.  Some  of  the  English  ex- 
perienced in  such  matters  said,  "  Bailiffs,  of 
course  !"  It  was  not,  of  course ;  it  was  the 
landlord  of  the  premises.  The  one-armed 
captain  had  gone  in  the  night  with  hi& 
family.  The  English  steamer  sailed  at 
midnight.  The  IVench  were  "done,"  as 
they  have  been  done  so  often  since. 

Now  Ready,  price  6e.  6d.,  bound  in  green  oloth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OF  THB  New  SxBm  ov 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  bad  of  all  Bookaellen. 


// 


J!i^  Jiipht  of  Tramlating  AriicUtfrom  All  the  Yeak  Rouhd  is  reserved  by  the  Authors, 


PttbJJabed  MS  the  OIBce,  Ko  26,  WeUJngton  Street.  Strand.    PrtnUA  Y>^  C.  VJ  mm*,  ^a»!olwVllwaft>«»»l. 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


B00£  in. 

CHAFTBB  YI.    AM  INCOMPLETE  YICTOBI. 

Ub.  Bbnthall'b  neat  cob  was  not  stand- 
ing in  a  looeo  box  in  the  WoolgreaTee 
etable,  as  was  he  nFnal  wont  when  its 
l«r  bad  pud  a  Tiait  to  tbat  hoapitable 
aion.  On  this  occasion  the  Bcbool- 
ber  bad  walked  over  &om  Helming- 
,  and,  though  by  natore  an  indolent  man, 
Mr.  Bentfaall  was  exceedingly  pleased  at  the 
{ffYMpect  of  the  walk  before  bim  on  i^merg- 
'ag  from  Woolgreavea  after  his  interview 
□  the  library  with  Mrs.  Creswell,  He  felt 
that  he  required  a  vent  for  the  excitement 
under  which  he  was  labouring,  a  vent 
which  conld  only  be  found  in  sharp  and 
prolonged  exercise.  Tbo  tmth  was  that 
he  was  very  mach  excited  and  very  angry 
indeed.  "It  is  a  very  charitable  way  of 
looking  at  it — amoro  than  charitable  way," 
he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  strode  over 
the  gronnd,  "to  fancy  that  Mrs.  Creswell 
was  ignorant  of  what  she  was  doing !  did 
not  know  that  she  was  o&ering  me  a  bribe 
to  vote  for  her  hnsband,  and  to  inilaence 
the  farmers  on  this  estate  to  do  the  same ! 
Bhe  knew  it  fast  enough ;  she  is  by  &i  too 
clever  a  woman  not  to  understand  all 
about  it !  And  if  she  would  try  tbat  game 
on  with  US,  who  hold  a  comparatively  supe- 
rior position,  what  won't  she  do  with  those 
lower  on  the  electoral  roll  ?  Clever  woman, 
too,  thorough  woman  of  the  world!  Iwonder 
at  her  forgetting  herself  and  showing  her 
hand  so  completely.  How  admirably  she 
emphasised  Oio  'any  of  the  inmates,'  in 
that  sentence  when  she  gave  me  my  cong^ ! 
It  was  really  remarkably  well  dose.'  When 
I  tell  Qertrvde  thiM,  it  will  show  her  the 


real  facts  at  once. 
pression  that,  up  to  the  present  time, 
'madam,'  as  she  calls  Mrs.  Creswell,  1 
had  no  idea  as  to  the  state  of  the  ct 
between  ns ;  but  I  don't  think  even  i 
credulous  Gertrude  would  have  much  doubt 
of  it  if  she  had  been  present,  and  caught 
the  expression  of  Mrs.  Croswell's  face  as 
she  forbade  my  communication  with  'any' 
of  the  inmates  of  her  honse.  Neither  look 
nor  tone  admitted  of  the  emaUeet  am- 
biguity, and  I  took  care  to  appreciate  both. 
Sometbbgmnst  be  done  to  circumvent  our 
young  friend  the  hostees  of  Woolgreaves." 
Thus  soliloquised  the  Reverend  George 
Bentball,  as  he  strode  across  the  bleak 
barren  fields,  chopping  away  with  his  stick 
at  the  thin,  naked  hedg^  as  he  passed 
them,  pushing  his  hat  back  from  his  brow, 
and  uttering  many  sounds  which  wer 
least  impatient,  not  to  say  unclerical,  a 
progressed.  After  his  dinner,  feeling  that 
this  was  an  exceptional  kind  of  evening,  and 
one  which  must  be  exceptionally  treated, 
he  went  down  to  his  cellar,  brought  there- 
from a  bottle  of  excellent  Burgundy,  lit  up 
his  favourite  pipe,  placed  his  feet  on  the 
fender,  and  prepared  himself  for  a  carefril 
review  of  the  occurrences  of  the  day.  On 
the  whole,  he  was  satisfied.  It  may  si 
strange  that  ft  man,  indolent,  uncaring 
about  most  things,  and  certainly  desirous 
of  the  opportunity  for  the  acquiBition  of 
worldly  goods,  should  have  refnsed  the 
cbance  of  such  a  position  as  Marian  hinted 
he  might  aspire  to — a  position  which  her 
own  keen  natnral  instinct  and  worldly 
knowledge  suggested  to  her  as  the  very 
one  which  he  would  most  covet— but  it 
must  bo  remenihered  that  Mr.  Bentball  was 
a  man  of  birth  andfamiH,'oOTm4\ncni.'3«fc\ 
the  family  politics  m¥\B  o"kq  -jErMmiMA-^ 
likely  \o  ebrink  from  tiae  metee^.  sag^s^Gioa.  > 


di 


j 


50      [June  19, 1869.] 


ALL  THB  TEAR  BOUND. 


(OoBdmltdby 


of  a  briba  m  the  highest  insult  and  indig- 
nity that  ooold  possibly  be  offered  him. 
One  of  Marian's  hints  went  home ;  when 
die  told  him  that  all  acquaintance  bfltwtsMi 
him  and  any  mamber  of  the  Woolgrcaves 
household  most  oease,  the  bolt  penetrated. 
The  msff  attention  which  Mr.  Benthall  had 
JASt  jMid  to  the  rather  odd,  bat  decidedly 
amusing,  niece  of  rich  Squire  CrcswoU  had 
developed  into  a  great  liking,  wfaiah  had 
grown  into  a  passion  deeper  anyd  stronger 
thaa  this  calm,  placid — well,  not  to  dis- 
gniae  ihe  &ct^  selfish — clergyman  had  ever 
imagined  he  oonld  hare  enerienoed ;  and 
although,  in  his  homeward  walk,  he  was 
pleased  to  smile  in  his  complimentary 
fiishion  at  Mrs.  Croswell's  skill  in  aiming 
the  arrow,  when  he  turned  the  whole 
matter  over  in  his  mind  after  dinner,  ho 
was  compelled  to  allow  that  it  was  6i>- 
oeedingly  unpleasant,  and  that  he  did  not 
see  how  afbirs  between  himself  and  Oer- 
trode  were  to  be  carried  out  to  a  happy 
issue  without  bringing  matters  to  a  crisis. 
For  this  crisis  long-headed  and  calculating 
Mr.  Benthall  had  been  for  some  time  pie- 
pared — ^that  is  to  say,  he  had  long  enter- 
tained the  idea  that,  after  a  time,  Mrs. 
Greswell,  getting  tired  of  the  altematiooa 
in  the  state  of  armed  neutrality  or  aotual 
warfare,  in  one  or  other  of  which  she  always 
lived  with  the  young  ladies,  and  feeling 
towards  them  as  FraTna.n  felt  towards  Mor- 
decai,  with  the  aggravation  of  their  all 
being  women,  would  certainly  do  her  best 
towu*ds  getting  them  removed  £rom  Wool- 

ryes ;  and  doing  her  best  meant,  when 
Greswell  was  the  person  to  be  acted 
upon,  the  accomplishment  of  her  desigpu. 
But  Mr.  Benthsdl  felt  tolerably  certain, 
from  his  knowledge  of  Mr.  Greswell,  and 
the  conversation  in  some  degree  bearing  on 
the  subject  which  they  had  had  toge&er, 
that  though  the  old  gentleman  would  not. 
be  able  to  withstand,  nor  indeed  would  for 
a  moment  attempt  to  fight  against  the  pres- 
sure whidi  would  be  put  upon  him  by  his 
wife  for  the  accomplishment  of  her  purpose, 
even  though  that  preference  were  to  the 
disadvantage  of  his  blood  relations,  thait 
result  once  achieved,  he  would  do  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  ensure  the  girls' 
^ture  comJEbrt,  and  would  not  abate  one  jot 
of  the  liberal  pecuniary  allowance  which  he 
had  always  intended  for  them  on  the  occa- 
sion of  their  marriage.  It  was  very  comfort- 
ing to  Mr.  Benthall,  after  due  deliberation  to 
come  to  this  conclusion ;  for  thougli  he  was 
ii  veij  much  attached  to  Gertrude  Greswell, 


she  was  so  indispensable  to  his  future  hap- 
piness that  he  could  almost  have  married 
oer  without  any  dowry,  yet  it  was  pleasant 
to  think  that — well,  that  she  would  not  only 
make  him  a  charming  wife,  bat  bring  a 
very  handsome  increase  to  his  inoome — 
when  the  storm  arrived. 

The  storm  arrived  sooner  than  Mr.  Bei^ 
thall  anticipated ;  it  must  have  been  brew- 
ing while  ho  was  seated  with  his  feet  on 
the  fSuider,  qpjoyiiig  that  special  bottle  of 
Burgundy  and  that  favourite  pipe.  As  he 
sat  at  his  breakfast  he  received  a  note  firom 
Oertrude^  which  said,  "  There  has  been  the 
most  terrible  fuss  here  this  evening !  I 
don't  know  what  you  and  madam  can  have 
fought  about  during  that  dreadfully  solemn 
interview  in  the  library  to  which  she  in- 
vited you,  but  she  is  fttnaua  agadnsi  you  I 
She  and  uncle  were  closeted  together  for 
nearly  an  hour  after  he  came  in  ftom 
Brocksopp,  and  when  they  joined  us  in  the 
dining-room,  his  eyes  were  quite  red  and 
I'm  sure  he  had  been  crying.  Poor  old 
darling !  isn't  it  a  shame  for  that — ^never 
mind !  After  dinner,  just  as  we  were  aboot 
to  run  off  as  usual,  madam  said  she  wanted 
to  qieak  to  us,  and  mardied  us  off  to  the 
drawing-room.  When  we  got  there  she 
harangued  us,  and  told  us  it  was  only  right 
we  should  know  that  you  had  behaved  in 
a  most  treacherous  and  unfriendly  manner 
towards  undo,  and  that  your  candnot  had 
been  so  base  that  she  had  been  compelled 
to  forbid  yon  the  house.  I  was  going  to 
speak  at  this,  but  Maud  dashed  in,  and  said 
she  did  not  beHeve  a  word  of  it,  and  that 
it  was  all  madam's  concoction,  and  that 
you  were  a  gentleman,  and  I  don't  know 
what — ^you  understand!,  all  sorts  of  nice 
things  about  you !  And  then  madam 
said  you  had  thrown  over  uncle,  to  whom 
you  owed  such  a  debt  of  gratitude — 
what  for,  goodness  knows !  —  and  were 
going  to  vote  for  uncle's  opponent,   Mr. 

Joyce,  who But  then  I  dashed  in,  and  I 

said  that,  considering  what  people  said 
about  her  and  Mr.  Joyce,  and  the  engage- 
ment that  had  existed  between  them,  she 
ought  not  to  say  anything  against  him. 
And  Maud  tried  to  stop  me ;  but  my  blood 
was  up,  and  I  would  go  on ;  and  I  said  all 
kinds  of  things,  and  madam  grew  very 
pale,  and  said  that,  though  she  was  dis- 
posed to  make  every  allowance  for  me,  con* 
sidering  the  infatuation  I  was  labouring 
under — that's  what  she  said,  in&tuation  I 
was  labouring  under — she  could  not  put 
up  with  being  insulted  in  her  own  house, 
.and  she  should  appeal  to  uncle.     So  she 


4^ 


=&. 


Oteries  Dtekeu.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[Jane  19. 1869.]      51 


went  away,  and  presently  she  and  nncle 
cune  back  together,  and  he  said  he  was 
deeply  grieved  and  aJl  that — ^poor  old  dear, 
he  looked  awful — bnt  he  could  not  have  his 
wife  treated  with  disrespect — disrespect, 
indeed ! — and  he  thought  that  the  best 
thing  that  could  be  done  would  be  for  us 
to  go  away,  for  a  time,  at  least — only  for  a 
time,  the  dear  old  man  said,  trying  to  look 
cheerful — for  if  he  succeeded  m  this  elec- 
tion he  and  Mrs.  Creswell  would  necessarily 
be  for  several  months  in  London,  during 
which  we  could  come  back  to  Woolgreaves; 
but  for  a  time,  and  if  we  would  only  settle 
where  we  would  go,  Parker,  our  maid,  who 
is  a  most  staid  and  respectable  person, 
would  go  with  us,  and  all  could  be  ar- 
ranged. I  think  Maud  was  going  to  fly 
out  again,  but  a  look  at  the  dear  old  man's 
woe-begone  &co  stopped  her,  and  she  was 
silent.  So  it's  decided  we're  to  go  some- 
where out  of  this.  But  is  it  not  an  awful 
nuisanoe,  George?  What  shall  we  do? 
Where  shall  we  go  ?  It  will  be  a  relief  to 
get  rid  of  madam  for  a  time,  and  out  of  the 
reach  of  her  eyes  and  her  tongue;  but 
doesn't  it  seem  very  horrible  altogether  ?" 
**  Horrible  altogether !  It  does,  indeed, 
seem  very  horrible  altogether,"  said  Mr. 
Benihall  to  himself,  as  he  finished  reading 
this  epistle,  and  laid  it  down  on  the  break- 
&8t-table  before  him.  *'  What  on  earth  is 
to  be  done  P  This  old  man  seems  perfectly 
besotted,  while  this  very  strong-minded 
young  woman,   his  wife,   has  completely 

geaned  the  brains  out  of  his  head  and  the 
ndliness  out  of  his  heart.  What  can  he 
be  thinking  about  to  imagine  that  these 
two  girls  are  to  take  some  lodging  and 
fenn  some  course  for  themselves?  Why 
the  thing  is  monstrous  and  impossible! 
They  would  have  to  live  in  seclusion;  it 
would  be  impossible  for  any  man  ever  to 
call  upon  them,  and — oh,  it  won't  do  at 
all,  won't  do  at  all!  But  what's  to  be 
done  ?  I  can't  interfere  in  the  matter,  and 
I  know  no  one  with  whom  I  could  consult. 
Yes,  by  George !  Joyce,  our  candidate,  Mr. 
Jojce ;  he's  a  clear-headed  fellow,  and  one 
who,  I  should  think,  if  Mrs.  Covey's  story 
be  correct,  would  not  object  to  put  a  spoke 
in  Mrs.  Creswell's  wheel.  I'll  go  and  see 
him.  Perh^s  he  can  help  me  in  this  fix." 
No  sooner  said  than  done.  The  young 
gentlemen  on  the  foundation  and  the  head 
master's  boarders  had  that  morning  to 
make  shift  with  the  teaching  of  the  u^ers, 
while  the  neat  cob  was  taken  from  his  stable 
at  an  unwonted  hour,  and  cantered  down  to 
Brockaopp.      Mr.  Joyce  waa  not  at  hia 


head-quarters,  he  was  out  canvassing ;  so 
the  cob  was  put  up,  and  Mr.  Benihall 
started  on  a  search- expedition  through  the 
town.  Afber  some  little  time  ho  came  up 
with  the  Liberal  candidate,  with  whom  he 
had  already  struck  up  a  pleasant  acquaint- 
ance, and  begged  a  few  minutes  of  his 
time.  The  request  was  granted ;  they 
adjourned  to  Joyce's  private  sitting-room 
at  the  inn,  and  there  Mr.  Benthall  laid  the 
whole  story  before  him,  showing  in  detail 
Marian's  machinations  against  the  girls, 
and  pointing  out  the  final  piece  of  strategy, 
by  which  she  had  induced  her  husband  to 
grive  them  the  route,  and  tell  them  they 
could  no  longer  be  inmates  of  his  house. 
Joyce  was  very  much  astonished,  for  al- 
though the  film  had  gradually  been  with- 
drawn from  his  eyes  since  the  day  of  the 
receipt  of  Marian's  letter,  he  had  no  idea 
of  the  depth  of  her  degradation.  That 
she  could  endeavour  to  win  him  from  the 
tournament  now  he  stood  a  good  chance  of 
victoiy ;  that  she  would  even  endeavour  to 
bribe  a  man  like  BenthaU,  who  was  suffi- 
ciently venal,  Walter  thought,  who  had  his 
price,  like  most  men,  but  who  had  not 
been  properly  "g^  at,"  he  could  under- 
stand; but  that  she  could  endeavour  to 
attempt  to  wreak  her  vengeance  on  two 
unoffending  girls,  simply  because  they 
were  remotely  connected  with  one  of  the 
causes  of  her  annoyance,  was  beyond  his 
comprehension.  He  saw,  however,  at  once, 
that  the  young  ladies  were  delicately 
situated,  and,  partly  from  an  innate  feeling 
of  g^aUantry,  partly  with  a  desire  to  oblige 
Benthall,  who  had  proved  himself  very 
loyal  in  the  cause,  and  not  without  a  de- 
sire to  thwart  what  was  evidently  a  pet 
scheme  with  Mrs.  Creswell,  he  took  up  the 
question  with  alacrity. 

*'  You're  quite  right,"  he  said,  after  a 
little  consideration,  "  in  saying  that  it  would 
be  impossible  that  these  two  young  ladies 
could  go  away  and  live  by  themselves,  or 
rather  with  tiieir  maid.  I  know  nothing 
of  them,  beyond  seeing  them  a  long  time 
ago.  I  should  not  even  recognise  them 
were  we  to  meet  now ;  but  it  is  evident 
that  by  birth  and  education  they  are 
ladies,  and  they  must  not  be  thrown  on 
the  world,  to  rough  it  in  the  manner  pro- 
posed by  their  weak  uncle,  at  the  insti- 
gation of  his  charming  wife !  The  ques- 
tion is,  what  is  to  be  done  with  themP 
Neither  you  nor  I,  even  if  we  had  the 
power  and  will,  dare  offer  them  any  hospi- 
tality, miserable  bachelors  ^a  yi^  wc^\  '^V^ 
laws  of  etiquette  {orVadti^^  mA^^Alq^^ 


eft 


52      [June  19, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


(Condaetedby 


/ 


have  Mrs.  Gnmdy,  egged  on  by  Mrs.  Ores- 
well,  caUing  us  over  ihe  coals  and  bring- 
ing us  to  book  very  speedily.  It  is  clear 
that  in  their  position  the  best  thing  for 
them  wonld  be  to  be  received  by  some  lady 
relative  of  their  own,  or  in  defanlt  of  that,  by 
some  one  whose  name  and  character  wonld 
be  a  complete  answer  to  anything  which 
onr  Mends  Mrs.  Ghnndy,  or  "Mtb.  Creswell, 
might  choose  to  say  abont  them.  Have  they 
no  snch  female  relations  ?  No  !  I  fear  then 
that,  for  their  own  sakes,  the  best  thing  we 
can  do  is  not  to  interfere  in  the  matter. 
It  is  very  hard  for  yon,  I  can  see  clearly, 
as  yon  will  be  xmdonbtedly  deterred  from 

paying  any  visits  to  Miss  Q^rtmde  nntil 

Stay,  I've  an  idea :  it*s  come  npon  me  so 
suddenly  that  it  has  almost  taken  my 
breath  away,  and  I  don't  know  whether  I 
dare  attempt  to  carry  it  ont.  Wait,  and 
let  me  think  it  over." 

The  idea  that  had  occurred  to  Joyce  was, 
to  lay  the  state  of  afiairs  before  Lady  Oaro- 
line  Mansergh,  and  ask  her  advice  and 
assistance  in  ihe  matter.  He  felt  certain 
that  she  would  act  with  promptitude,  and  at 
the  same  time  with  great  discretion.  Her 
knowledge  of  the  world  wonld  tell  her 
exactly  what  was  best  to  be  done  under 
the  circumstances,  while  the  high  position 
which  she  held  in  society,  and  that  not 
alone  by  reason  of  her  rank,  would  effec- 
tually ffllence  any  malicious  whisperings 
and  critical  comments  which  would  inevi- 
tably be  made  on  the  proceedings  of  a  less 
favoured  personage.  The  question  was, 
dare  he  ask  her  to  interfere  in  the  matter  ? 
He  had  no  claim  on  her,  he  knew;  but 
she  had  always  shown  him  such  great 
&vour,  that  he  thought  he  might  urge  his 
request  without  offence.  Even  in  the  last 
letter  which  he  had  received  from  her,  just 
before  he  started  on  his  election  campaign, 
she  reminded  him  of  his  promise  to  allow 
her  to  be  of  service  to  him  in  any  possible 
way,  and  never  to  permit  any  idea  of  the 
magnitude  or  difficulty  of  the  task  to  be 
undertaken  to  influence  him  against  asking 
her  to  do  it.  Yes,  he  felt  sure  that  Lady 
Oaroline  would  be  of  material  assistance  to 
him  in  his  emergency;  the  only  question 
was,  was  he  not  wasting  his  resources? 
These  young  ladies  were  nothing  to  him ; 
to  him  it  was  a  matter  of  no  moment 
whether  they  remained  at  Woolgreaves,  or 
were  hunted  out  to  genteel  lodgings.  Stay, 
though !  To  get  rid  of  them  from  their 
uncle's  house,  to  remove  them  from  her 
presence,  in  which  they  were  constantly 
jfeadzidingberofhygone  tun^,  had,  accord- 


ing to  Mr.  Benthall's  story,  been  Marian 
Oreswell's  fixed  intention  from  the  moment 
of  her  marriage.  Were  they  to  leave  now, 
outcast  and  humbled,  she  would  have 
gained  a  perfect  victory;  whereas  if  they 
were  received  under  the  chaperonage  of  a 
person  in  the  position  of  Leuiy  Oaroline 
Mansergh,  it  would  be  anything  but  a  de- 
gradation of  station  for  the  young  ladies,, 
and  a  decided  blow  for  Mrs.  OreswdL 
That  thought  decided  him ;  he  would  in- 
voke Lady  Oaroline's  aid  at  once. 

"Well,"  said  he,  after  a  few  minutes' 
pause,  when  he  had  come  to  this  determi- 
nation, "you  have  waited,  and  I  have 
thought  it  over         " 

"And  the   result  is ?"   asked  Mr. 

Benthall. 

"  That  I  shall  be  bold,  and  act  upon  the 
idea  which  just  occurred  to  me,  and  which 
is  briefly  this :  There  is  in  London  a  lady 
of  rank  and  social  position,  who  is  good 
enough  to  be  my  Mend,  and  who,  I  feel 
certain,  will,  if  I  ask  her  to  do  so,  interest 
herself  in  the  fortunes  of  these  two  young 
ladies,  and  advise  us  what  is  best  to  be 
done  for  them  under  present  drcumstanoes. 
It  is  plain  that  after  what  has  occurred 
they  can  stay  no  longer  at  Woolgreaves." 

"  Perfectly  plain.  Maud  would  not  listen 
to  such  a  thing  for  a  moment,  and  Oertrude 
always  thinks  with  her  sister." 

"  That's  plucky  in  Miss  Maud,  and  pluck 
is  not  a  bad  quality  to  be  possessed  of  when 
you  are  thrown  out  into  the  world  on  your 
own  resources,  as  some  of  us  know  from 
experience.  Then  they  must  leave  as  soon 
as  possible.  Lady  Caroline  Mansergh,  the 
lady  of  whom  I  have  just  spoken,  will 
doubtless  be  able  to  suggest  some  place 
where  they  can  be  received,  and  where 
they  would  have  the  advantage  of  her  oc- 
casional surveillance." 

"Nothing  could  possibly  be  better," 
cried  Mr.  Benthall,  in  great  glee.  "  I  can- 
not tell  you,  Mr.  Joyce,  how  much  I  am 
obliged  to  you  for  your  disinterested  co- 
operation in  this  matter." 

"  Perhaps  my  co-operation  is  not  so  dis- 
interested as  you  imagine,"  said  Joyce, 
with  a  grave  smile.  "  Perhaps — ^but  that's 
nothing  now." 

"  Will  you  write  to  Lady  Caroline  Man- 
sergh at  once  ?     Time  presses,  you  know." 

"  Better  than  that,  I  will  go  up  to  Lon- 
don and  see  her.  There  will  necessarily 
be  a  lull  in  the  canvassing  here  for  the  next 
two  or  three  days,  and  I  shall  be  able  to 
explain  far  more  clearly  than  by  letter. 
Besides  I  shall   take  the  opportunity  of 


h 


Ohtrlet  DlokenB.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[Jane  19, 186ft.]       53 


Beeing  onr  friends  Potter  and  Fjfe,  and 
bearing  the  best  news  from  head-quarters." 

^Tbat  is  merely  an  excuse,"  said  Mr. 
Benthall ;  *'  I  am  snre  you  are  undertaking 
this  jonmey,  solely  with  the  view  of  serving 
these  yonng  ladies  and  me." 

"  And  myself,  my  good  friend,"  replied 
Joyce;  *'and  myself,  I  assure  you." 

Lady  Caroline  Mansergh  had  a  very 
charming  little  house  in  Chesterfield-street, 
Mayfair,  thoroughly  homely  and  remark- 
ably comfortable.  Since  she  had  been  left 
a  widow  she  had  frequently  passed  the 
winter,  as  well  as  the  season,  in  London, 
and  her  residence  was  accordingly  arranged 
with  a  due  regard  to  the  miseries  of  our 
delightful  climate.  Her  ladyship  was  in 
town,  Joyce  was  glad  to  find,  and  after  he 
had  sent  up  his  name,  he  was  shown  into 
a  veiy  cosy  drawing-room,  with  a  large 
fire  blazing  on  the  hearth,  and  all  the 
draughts  carefully  excluded  by  means  of 
portieres  and  thick  hanging  curtains.  He 
had  merely  time  to  notice  that  the  room 
was  eminently  one  to  be  lived  in,  and  not 
kept  merely  fur  show,  one  that  was  lived 
in,  moreover,  as  the  sign  of  a  woman's 
hand,  everyv^here  recognisable,  in  the 
management  of  the  flowers  and  the  books, 
in  the  work-basket  and  the  feminine  writing 
anrangements,  so  different,  somehow,  from  a 
man's  desk  and  its  appurtenances,  plainly 
showed,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Lady 
Caroline  entered  the  room. 

She  was  looking  splendidly  handsome. 
In  all  the  work  and  worry  of  his  recent 
life,  Joyce  had  lost  all  except  a  kind  of 
general  remembrance  of  her  fisice  and  figure, 
and  he  was  almost  betrayed  into  an  excla- 
mation of  astonishment  as  he  saw  her  ad- 
vancing towards  him.  There  must  have 
been  something  of  this  feeling  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  for  Lady  Caroline's 
cheeks  blushed  for  an  instant,  and  the  voice 
in  which  she  bade  him  welcome,  and  ex- 
pressed her  pleasure  of  seeing  him,  was 
rather  unsteaidy  in  its  tone. 

"  I  imagined  you  were  at  Brocksopp," 
she  said,  after  a  minute ;  "  indeed  I  have 
some  idea  that  quite  recently  I  saw  a  report 
in  the  paper  of  some  speech  of  yours,  as 
having  been  delivered  there." 

"  Perfectly  correct :  I  only  came  up  last 
night." 

"  And  how  goes  the  great  cause  ?  No, 
seriously,  how  are  you  progressing ;  what 
are  the  chances  of  success?  You  know 
how  interested  I  am  about  it !" 

"  We  are  progressing  admirably,  and  if 


we  can  only  hold  out  as  we  are  doing, 
there  is  very  little  doubt  of  our  triumph !" 

"  And  you  will  enter  upon  the  career 
which  I  suggested  to  you,  Mr.  Joyce,  and 
you  will  work  in  it  as  you  have  worked  in 
everything  else  which  you  have  undertaken, 
with  zeal,  energy,  and  success  !"  said  Lady 
Caroline,  with  flashing  eyes.  "But  what 
has  brought  you  to  London  at  this  par- 
ticular time  ?" 

"You,  Lady  Caroline!" 

"  I  ?"  and  the  flush  again  overspread 
her  face. 

"  You  !  I  wanted  your  advice  and  as- 
sistance !" 

"  Ah !  I  recollect  you  said  just  now,  *  if 
we  could  only  hold  out  as  we  are  doing.* 
How  foolish  of  me  not  at  once  to— Mr. 
Joyce,  you — ^you  want  money  to  pursue 
this  election,  and  you  have  shown  your 
friendship  for  me  by " 

"No,  indeed.  Lady  Caroline,  though 
there  is  no  one  in  the  world  to  whom  I 
would  so  gladly  be  under  an  obligation. 
No  !  this  is  a  matter  of  a  very  different 
kind  !"  and  he  briefly  explained  to  her  the 
state  of  affairs  at  Woolgreaves,  and  the 
position  of  Maud  and  Gertrude  Creswell. 

After  he  had  concluded  there  was  a 
momentary  pause,  and  then  Lady  Caroline 
said,  "And  you  do  not  know  either  of 
these  young  ladies,  Mr.  Joyce  ?" 

"  I  do  not !  I  have  scarcely  seen  them 
since  they  were  children." 

"  And  it  is  for  the  sake  of  revenge  on 
her  that  he  is  taking  all  this  trouble !" 
thought  Lady  Caroline  to  herself;  "that 
woman  threw  away  a  priceless  treasure ; 
the  man  who  can  hate  like  this  must  have 
a  great  capacity  for  loving."  Then  she 
said  aloud,  "  I  am  very  glad  you  came  to 
me,  Mr.  Joyce,  as  this  is  plainly  a  case 
where  prompt  action  is  needed.  When  do 
you  return  to  Brocksopp  ?" 

"  To-night." 

"  Will  you  be  the  bearer  of  a  note  from 
me  to  Miss  Creswell  P  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  have  her  and  her  sister  here,  in  this 
house,  as  my  guests,  as  long  as  it  may  suit 
them  to  remain !" 

"  Lady  Caroline !  how  can  I  thank  you !" 

"  By  asking  me  to  do  some  service  for 
you  yourself,  Mr.  Joyce !  This  is  merely 
general  philanthropy !" 

Marian  Creswell  was  in  great  exultation, 
for  several  reasons.    Mr.  Joyce  had  hurried 
suddenly  to  London,  and  a  report  had  been 
started  that  he  was  about  \a5  ^^sAotdl  ^sJaa 
contest.     That  waa  otv^  ca.\v&^  iot  V^t  ^^ 


<£: 


54      [June  19, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[(Tondaded^ 


light.  Another  wa43  that  the  girls  had  evi- 
dontly  accepted  their  defeat  in  the  last  con- 
test as  final,  and  she  should  be  rid  of  them 
for  ever.  She  had  noticed  various  prepara- 
tions for  departure,  had  seen  heavy  boxes 
lumbering  the  passages  near  their  rooms, 
but  had  carefully  avoided  making  any  in- 
quiries, and  had  begged  her  husband  to  do 
hkewise. 

"  They  will  go,"  she  said,  "  and  it  will 
be  for  the  best.  Either  they  or  I  must 
have  gone,  and  I  suppose  you  would  prefer 
it  should  be  they.  It  is  their  duty  to  say 
where  they  purpose  going,  and  what  they 
purpose  doing.  It  will  be  time  enough 
for  you  to  refase  your  consent,  if  the  place 
of  selection  be  an  objectionable  one,  when 
they  tell  us  where  it  is." 

Two  days  after  that  conversation  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Creswell  were  sitting  together 
after  luncheon,  when  Maud  entered  the 
room.  She  took  no  notice  of  Marian,  but 
said  to  her  uncle,  "  dertrude  and  I  are 
going  away  to-morrow,  uncle,  for  some 
time,  if  not  for  ever.  You  won't  be  as- 
tonished to  hear  it,  I  know,  but  it  is  our 
duty  to  tell  you." 

"  Well,  Maud,  I — going  away — ^I  confess, 
not  entirely  news  to  me" — said  Mr.  Ores- 
well,  hopelessly  feeble — "where  are  you 
going,  child  P" 

"  Wo  have  accepted  an  invitation  we 
have  received,  uncle !" 

"  An  invitation  ?  I  did  not  know  you 
knew  any  one,  Maud !  From  some  of  your 
old  school  companions  ?" 

"  No,  uncle :  from  Lady  Oaroline  Man- 
sergh — a  friend  of  Mr.  BenthaH's  and  Mr. 
Joyce's,  uncle !" 

Marian  looked  up,  and  the  Hght  of 
triumph  faded  out  of  her  eyes.  It  was  but 
an  incomplete  victory,  after  all ! 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  EAST.      HABWICH  TO  IPSWICH. 

The  sea  gives  and  takes  all  along  our  coast. 
The  history  of  its  greedy  and  ceaseless  annexa- 
tions in  our  island  would  be  geologically  curious 
and  valuable.  Slowly  the  ocean  is  sucking  our 
island  away,  as  a  boy  sucks  a  sugarplum.  Har- 
wich presents  several  curious  instances  of  this. 
Beacon  Cliff,  on  the  south  of  the  town,  is  an 
eminence  of  clay  separating  Orwell  Haven  from 
Walton  Bay.  It  once  had  a  signal-house  and 
telegraph  on  its  summit,  and  it  now  boasts  the 
largest  martello  tower  in  England,  mounting 
ten  guns.  With  the  day  stone  of  this  hill,  that 
hardens  with  exposure,  Ilarwich  is  paved,  and 

/the  stout  walls  of  Orford  and  Framlingham 
Castles  were  long  ago  built.    It  is  a  day  full 
of  fossils,  blralvea,  sheila,  and  elephants^  teeth. 


Captain  Washington,  says  Mr.  Walcott,  baa 
measured  the  speed  of  the  sea^s  progress  at 
Harwich.  The  cliff  lost  ten  feet  between  1709 
and  1756,  eighty  feet  between  1756  and  1804, 
and  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  between  the 
latter  date  and  184L  The  vicar's  field  has  been 
swallowed  up  since  1807,  and  part  of  a  battery, 
built  in  1805,  at  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  sea,  was  swept  away  in  1 829,  and  the  ruins 
now  overhang  the  shore.  The  sea,  if  not  built 
out,  will  make  a  breach  in  time,  the  best  autho- 
rities think,  at  Lower  Dovercourt,  turn  the 
peninsula  into  an  island,  and  destroy  well-in- 
tentioned but  somewhat  somnolent  Harwich. 
Felixstow  shows  other  dangers  awaiting  Har- 
wich. Fdixstow  has  one  charming  feature 
— a  straggling  place  several  miles  long,  it 
has  no  shops,  and  sends  for  everything  to 
Walton,  a  village  two  miles  distant.  In  q>ite 
of  a  salt  marsh,  unsavoury  at  night,  it  is 
not  an  u^y  place,  for  the  cliffs  are  full  of 
springs.  There  was  once  a  castle  behind  the 
church,  and  a  Roman  fort,  said  still  to  exist, 
somewhere  out  at  sea ;  and  altogether,  when  it 
is  once  built,  it  really  will  be  a  town,  and 
Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker  poet,  who  waa 
easily  pleased,  has  sung  of  it : 

On  that  shore  where  the  waters  of  Orwell  and  Deben 
Join  the  dark  heaving  ocean,  that  spot  may  be  found — 
A  scene  which  reoals  the  lost  beauties  of  Eden, 
And  which  Fancy  might  hail  as  her  own  fairy  ground. 

Such  are  the  delusions  of  local  attachment. 
At  Felixstow  Point,  where  the  cliff,  from 
reddish  yellow  darkens  to  brown  and  jrellow, 
striped  black  like  the  carcase  of  a  mammoth 
tiger,  the  sea  has  been  at  it  again.  Waggon- 
loads  of  coprolites  have  been  scratched  and 
washed  out  of  the  cliff,  and  day  by  day,  with 
this  dangerous  diminution,  has  grown  a  still 
more  fatal  gift,  for  the  sea,  changing  from 
sliallow  green  to  grey,  shows  where  a  tongue  of 
shingle  has  grown  southward  from  Landguaid 
Fort.  This  sou' -west  drift  of  shingly  sand, 
centuries  ago,  filled  up  the  northern  one  of  the 
two  useful  entrances  to  Harwich  Haven,  and 
joined  this  fort,  originally  on  an  island  (vide 
old  engravings),  to  the  mainland.  In  1804  this 
fatal  ^^  blue  tongue  of  shingle"  was  five  hundred 
feet  lon^,  and  at  its  outer  edge  seven  fathoms 
deep.  Ine  cement  works  dug  out  huge  slices  of 
fossil  earth  from  Felixstow  for  "  cement  stone.** 
Certain  blind,  selfish  seekers  for  money  re- 
moved a  useful  ledge  of  coprolite  that  had 
hitherto  barred  the  drift  at  Felixstow  Point. 
The  burrowing  at  Beacon  Cliff,  on  which  stands 
Harwich  Lighthouse,  hastened  the  evil.  The 
invisible,  ccasdcss  workers  for  mischief  went 
on.  In  1841  the  Demon's  tongue  had  grown 
eighteen  hundred  feet  long,  and  in  1859  nearly 
three  thousand  (no  operation  could  remove  it 
now),  and,  moreover,  its  base  had  reduced  the 
practicable  channel  to  eleven  feet.  Then  the 
sleepers  at  last  awoke.  Harwich  harbour 
spoiled,  there  would  be  no  place  of  refuge  on  the 
east  coast  from  the  Thames  to  the  Humbef ; 
and  civilisation  having  had  no  effect  as  yet  in 
emolliating  the  manners  of  the  North  Sea,  this 
was  impoTtanl.  TVi^  Ajdroiialty  had  long  talked 


fi: 


53 


ChAries  Dtokens.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLEES. 


fJime  19,1889.)      55 


and  flurreyed,  and  now,  for  onco,  it  acted.  In 
IS  17  it  began  a  long  breakwater  stretching 
outwards  from  Beacon  Cliff,  hoping  to  drive, 
SA  Mr.  White  thoughtfully  observes,  the  tidal 
scour  back  to  the  I^ndguard  side,  and  to  sweep 
away  or  shorten  the  Demon^s  tongue.  In  doing 
this,  and  dredging  the  shoals  to  the  depth  of 
eighteen  feet,  the  Admiralty  have  already  swept 
away  one  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  pounds 
of  public  money ;  but  the  fatal  tongue  is  BtUl 
cruel,  obstinate,  and  devilish  enough  to  gn>w, 
and  some  day,  when  that  tongue  does  speak,  it 
win  scream  these  ominous  words,  **  Harwich 
is  gone,"  and  that  wiU  be  true.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  amber  and  ambergris,  and  some 
shipwrecked  gold  among  that  fatal  shingle,  but 
it  will  never  produce  enough,  even  if  found  to 
pay,  for  a  new  Harwich. 

A  former  governor  of  that  some  Landeuard 
Fort  that  the  crow  has  already  inspected  was 
Philip  Thicknesse,  the  patron  of  that  delight- 
ful painter,  lliomas  Gainsborough,  who  was 
the  son  of  a  small  clothier  at  Sudbury.  Thick- 
nesse bought  a  fiaherman^s  house  at  Felix- 
stow,  and  turned  it  into  a  pretty,  seaward- 
looking  cottage.  The  old  fort  of  dark  red 
brick,  with  its  ancient  honeycombed  and  pro- 
bably useless  guns,  was  built  by  James  the 
Fint  against  the  Spaniards,  and  was  useful  in 
Charles  the  Seconas  time  against  the  dogged 
Dutch,  who  in  1667)  in  their  daring  days  auer 
De  Buyter^B  battles  with  Monk,  and  beioro  we 
finally  quelled  them,  and  swept  the  seas  of 
their  clumsy  veasels,  actually  landed  three 
thousand  men  here.  The  crow  likes  to  asso- 
ciate the  old  fort  garden,  with  its  ragged  tama- 
risks and  views  of  the  expanding  Woodbridge 
Haven,  with  that  delightful  Suffolk  painter 
whose  cottage  children  are  so  artless  and  so 
simple,  and  whose  glorious  portraits  of  Lady 
Lvudoch,  the  wilful  young  beauty,  acnd  of  the 
Blue  Boy,  most  sturdy  of  lads,  surpass  even 
Revnolda  in  grace  and  nature. 

Up  the  OrweU,  here  wide  as  an  aim  of  the 
lea,  and  snakily  winding  between  flat  muddy 
reaches  and  broad  sloping  green  meadows  that 
rise  to  woody  uplands,  we  skim  past  Grimaton 
Hall,  the  birthplace  of  Thomas  Cavendish,  the 
first  Englishman  who  followed  Drake's  track 
round  the  world.  Cavendish  fitted  out  three 
ships  against  the  robbing  and  murdering  Spani- 
sros,  and  sailed  from  Plymouth  in  1586,  six 
yean  after  Drake.  He  took  great  prizes, 
among  others  an  Acapulco  gaUeon  brimming 
with  gold,  returned  home  hi  1688,  squandered 
his  money  like  a  brave,  fooHsh  buccaneer  as  he 
was,  sailed  forth  again,  greedy  for  more,  tried 
fortune  too  far,  and  died  off  the  coast  of  Brazil 
in  1592. 

These  estuaries  breed  sailors.  A  little  fur- 
ther up  the  Orwell  stands  Naoton,  where 
another  man,  brave  and  unfortunate  as  Caven- 
dish, once  lived.  Admiral  Vernon  was  a  Staf- 
fordshire man,  son  of  a  secretary  of  state  to 
King  William  the  Third.  He  had  fought  under 
Rooke  (which  is  naturally  a  very  interesting 
fact  to  tho  crow)  at  Malaga.  After  many  great 
services  he  sailed  with  a  brave  squadron  to 


South  America,  and  all  but  destroyed  Porto 
Bello.  In  1741,  the  fickle  nation  was  enraged 
at  his  repulse  at  Carthagena.  On  his  return 
home  he  was  employed  to  patrol  and  guard  the 
Kent  and  Sussex  coasts  during  the  Pretender's 
rebellion,  but,  acting  in  opposition  to  the 
ministers,  was  suspended  and  struck  off  the  list 
of  admirals.  The  London  people  illuminated 
in  his  honour,  and  there  were  riots  in  conse- 
quence. Walpole  has  constant  mention  of  the 
admiral  and  his  factious  supporters  and  op- 
ponents. Tlie  Admiralty,  however,  never  gave 
him  another  chance. 

The  crow  is  now  in  Suffolk,  and  knowing  what 
he  is  about  even  there,  drops  upon  Ipswich, 
"  the  Eye  of  Suffolk,"  built  so  pleasantly  on  its 
hill-slope,  with  a  park  at  its  brow,  and  a  quay 
at  ita  foot.  The  cnanncl  of  the  Orwell  is  very 
narrow  between  Nacton  and  Ipswich,  and  only 
great  energy  and  labour  could  have  made  it 
navigable  so  far  as  twelve  miles  from  the  sea, 
for  vessels  drawing  thirteen  feet  of  water.  At 
the  lock  hard  by  the  town  the  Gipping  joins 
the  Orwell. 

In  spite  of  Raiisomes^  factory,  with  its  dozen 
busy  acres  tenanted  by  one  thousand  workmen, 
Woi^EY  is  tho  great  name  that  haunts  one  in 
Ipswich.  This  great  Ipswich  man,  who  all 
but  attained  the  Papacy,  was  born  in  this 
pleasant  Suffolk  town  m  1471,  ftud  was  educated 
in  the  Ipswich  Grammar  School.  He  went  to 
Magdalene  College,  Oxford,  studied  hard,  and 
became  in  one  term  fellow  and  tutor.  In  1500, 
while  curate  in  Somersetshire,  where  he  was 
rather  dissolute  and  wild,  he  is  said  to  have  been 
on  one  occasion  put  in  the  stocks  by  Sir  Amias 
Pawlett,  an  indignity  the  proud  priest  never 
forgot.  When  he  came  to  be  chancellor,  years 
after,  he  confined  Sir  Amias  to  the  Temple, 
and  made  him  build,  as  a  punishment,  uiat 
oM  house,  now  a  hairdresser  s,  near  the  gate, 
a  little  to  the  west  of  Chancery-lane.  The 
butcher's  son  soon  working  his  way  to  court, 
in  1508  became  chaplain  to  Henry  the  Seventh, 
and  his  ambassador  to  Brussels.  His  course 
upward  was  then  easy.  Fox,  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester, introduced  Wolsey  to  the  young  King 
Henry,  in  order  to  supplant  the  Earl  of  Surrey, 
and  Wolsey  soon  grew  the  king^s  boon  com- 
panion as  well  as  minister.  Flattering  him 
and  sharing  his  pleasures,  he  grew  so  indis- 
pensable that  he  was  by  turns  made  almoucr  to 
the  king,  privy  councillor,  canon  of  Windsor, 
registrar  of  the  garter,  dean  of  York,  bishop  of 
Uncoln,  archbishop  of  York,  and  chanccUor. 
The  temporalities  of  Bath  and  Wells,  Wor- 
cester, and  Hereford  were  given  him,  and  first 
the  bishopric  of  Durham  and  then  that  of  Win- 
chester. The  Pope  made  him  cardinal  and 
legate,  the  French  king  gave  him  a  bishopric, 
the  French  regent  sent  him  a  present  of  one 
hundred  thousand  crowns;  the  emperor,  in 
compensation  for  his  two  disappointments  of 
the  papacy  (Julius  the  Second  and  Leo  the 
Tento),  awarded  him  a  pension  of  nine  thou- 
sand crowns  of  gold  and  two  bishoprics.  But 
the  king's  divorce  from  Ki)kt\i«tv^^  tH  Krt^MstL 
led  to  Wolaey's  xmtv.     Xww^i  ^^Xrjti  Vji&s^ 


f 


rO: 


A 


56      [Jane  19. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondnetedby 


upon  the  proud  cardinal  as  her  enemy.  He 
fell,  as  Shakespeare  says,  like  Lucifer,  never 
to  rise  again.  The  king  stripped  the  gourd 
leaf  by  leaf.  Henry,  with  one  hand,  seized 
York-place,  renaming  it  Whitehall,  and  with 
the  other  clutched  at  Hampton  Court.  Wol- 
sey^s  retinue  of  one  hundred  persons  was  dis- 
banded. Even  his  cloth  of  gold  and  silver 
hangiuffs  were  taken  by  the  master  who  had 
given  mem.  His  gold  plate  was  confiscated. 
He  was  accused  by  his  enemies  of  claiming 
equal  rank  with  the  king  and  of  monopolising 
royal  power,  and  that  was  nearly  all  that  could 
be  alleged.    Wolsey  might  have  been 

A  man  of  most  unbounded  stomach. 

He  certainly,  to  judge  by  his  portraits  (always 
we  believe  in  profile),  was  uncommonly  stout, 
but  he  was  also  a  man  of  grand  views,  of  princely 
generosity,  and  of  far-seeing  and  honourable 
ambition.  It  speaks  well  for  him  that  his  ser- 
vants loved  him,  and  that  he  fell  at  last  only 
from  resisting  a  wicked  and  unjust  divorce. 
Above  all,  we  honour  him  for  having  founded 
Christ  Church  and  Ipswich  College.  Wol- 
sey^s  Tudor  gateway  of  Ipswich  College  of 
moulded  red  bricks,  still  stuiding  on  the  east 
side  of  St.  Feter^s  churchyard,  is  now  the 
entrance  of  a  private  house.  It  looks  rather 
helpless,  and  leans  over  towards  tiie  street. 
Ipswich  College  had  first  been  an  Austin 
Canon^s  Prioiy,  founded  in  1177i  and  rebuilt  in 
the  reign  of  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion.  Wolsey 
suppressed  the  old  priory,  and  founded  a  college 
for  a  dean,  twelve  secular  canons,  eight  clerlu, 
and  eight  choristers,  to  the  honour  of  the  Virgin 
Mary,  and  also  a  granmiar  school,  which  he 
designed  as  a  nursery  for  his  great  college  at 
Oxford.  In  lus  lavish  way  he  then  endowed 
the  college  with  all  the  lands  of  ten  sup- 
pressed monasteries.  Henry  the  Eighth  gave 
the  college  lands  to  one  Thomas  Alverde,  and 
James  the  First  bestowed  them  on  Richard 
Percival  and  Edmund  Duffield.  It  is  a  singular 
fact,  that  ^*  up  to  within  the  last  ten  years," 
says  Mr.  Walter  White,  writing  in  1865,  **  there 
was  a  Wolsey,  a  butcher,  living  in  this  town — 
a  fact  which  leads  me  to  imagine  an  unbroken 
succession  of  butchers  of  the  same  name  from 
the  days  of  the  original  Wolsey." 

Skelton,  the  rugged  satirist,  who  had  to  fiy 
from  Wolsey^s  wrath  and  take  sanctuary  at 
Westminster,  has  left  some  savage  verses  on  the 
proud  **  butcher's  cur,"  who  snubbed  the  nobles 
at  the  Privy  Council,  and  struck  them  dumb  by 
one  dash  of  his  hand  upon  the  table.  Sir  Thomas 
More  has  also  (according  to  Dr.  Wordsworth^ 
sketched  Wolsey  in  his  **  full-blown  dignity." 
He  describes  him  sitting  alone  at  dinner  under 
the  dais  in  his  hall,  and  asking  his  cour- 
tiers how  they  liked  an  oration  he  had  just 
delivered.  "Then  I  ween,"  says  More,  "no 
man  eat  another  morsel  of  meat.  Every  man 
was  fallen  into  so  deep  a  study  for  the  finding 
of  some  exquisite  priuse,  for  he  that  should 
have  brought  out  but  a  vulgar  and  a  common 
commendation  would  have  thought  himself 
abAmed  for  ever.     Then  saidi  we  oar  sentences 


by  row  as  we  sat,  from  the  lowest  unto  the 
highest,  in  good  order,  as  it  had  been  a  ^reat 
matter  of  the  common  weal  in  a  right  solemn 
counsayle.  A  world  it  was  to  see  how  a  man 
before  me  marked  every  man's  word,  and  the 
more  proper  it  was  the  worse  he  liked  it  for  the 
cumbrance  that  he  had  to  study  out  a  better  to 
pass  it.  He  even  sweat  with  his  labour,  so  that 
ne  was  fain,  now  and  then,  to  wipe  his  face. 
This  man  when  he  had  to  speak  said  nothing, 
and  yet  surpassed  all  the  preceding  flatterers 
who  had  euiausted  trope  and  metaphor  upon 
the  subject.  For  as  he  were  ravashed  unto 
heavenward  with  the  wonder  of  the  wisdom  and 
eloquence  that  my  Lord's  Grace  had  uttered  in 
that  oracvon,  he  fette  a  long  sigh  with  an  oh ! 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  and  held  up  both 
lus  hands,  and  lift  up  his  head,  and  cast  up 
his  eyes  unto  the  welkm,  and  wept."  What  an 
Hogarthian  picture  of  a  coarse  flatterer.  No 
king  could  luave  lived  more  sumptuously  than 
Wolsey ;  even  his  head  cook  wore  damask  and 
satin,  and  had  a  chain  of  gold  round  his  neck.  In 
his  chapel  he  kept  twelve  singing  boys,  and  in 
his  private  ecclesiastical  processions  it  was  not 
unusual  to  count  forty-one  wearers  of  sump- 
tuous copes,  besides  cross-bearers  and  pillar- 
bearers.  Forty  cup-bearers,  carvers,  and  servers 
waited  at  his  table,  and  nine  or  ten  lords  were 
daily  in  attendance  on  him.  He  had  forty-six 
yeomen  of  the  chamber,  and  kept  sixteen  doc- 
tors and  chaplains  to  say  daily  mass.  His  four 
running  footmen  were  superbly  apparelled,  and 
he  had  also  constantly  in  attendance  a  herald, 
a  physician,  four  minstrels,  a  tent-keeper,  an 
armourer,  and  other  servants,  and  to  every 
officer,  gentleman,  or  young  lord  in  his  court 
he  allowed  two  or  three  domestics. 

Cavendish,  Wolsey's  faithful  and  loyal  gentle- 
man usher,  has  left  an  elaborate  account  of  the 
Cardinal's  appearance  and  state  as  he  rode 
daily  to  Westminster  Hall  or  through  Thames- 
street  to  take  boat  and  meet  the  King  at  Green- 
wich. He  would  emerge  from  his  privy 
chamber  at  York  House  (afterwards  White- 
hall) attired  in  the  flowing  splendour  of  scarlet 
or  crimson  taffety,  or  damask,  "  a  round  pil- 
lion on  his  head,  with  a  noble  of  black  velvet 
on  its  inner  side."  Round  his  neck  would 
be  a  tippet  of  costly  sables,  and  he  held  in  his 
hand  an  orange  filled  with  a  sponge  dipped  in 
aromatic  vinegar  to  smell  at  in  the  crowd,  or 
when  he  was  pestered  with  importunate  suitors. 
Before  him  was  always  borne  first  the  great 
seal  of  England,  and,  secondly,  the  scarlet 
Cardinal's  Imt,  both  carried  by  noblemen  or 
gentlemen,  bareheaded.  From  his  presence 
chamber  he  set  forth  with  two  huge  silver 
crosses  upraised  before  him,  followed  by  two 
men,  carrying  tall  pillars  of  silver,  and  a  pur- 
suivant-at-arms,  carrying  a  large  silver  gilt 
mace.  The  ffentlemen  ushers  cried  out,  "  On 
my  lords  and  masters,  on  before ;  make  way 
for  my  Lord's  Grace !"  And  at  the  hall  door 
he  mounted  a  mule  trapped  in  crimson  velvet 
with  gilt  stirrups.  His  cross -bearers  were 
mounted  upon  horses  trapped  in  red,  and  near 
him  always  marched  four  footmen  carrying  gilt 


06 


h 


ClurtoalMekfBs] 


AN  ELIZABETHAN  ADVENTURER. 


[Jane  19, 18«9.]      57 


4" 


^ 


pole-axes.     No  wonder  choleric  Harry  soon 
grew  jealous  of  snch  a  riyal ! 

Ipswich  can  boast  of  very  old  houses.  The 
Grammar  School  was  once  the  refectory  of  a 
Dominican  friary,  built  in  the  reign  of  Uenry 
the  Third.  The  brick  town-hall  was  once  part 
of  St  Mildred's  Church,  erected  in  1449.  The 
Tankard  public-house  waa  once  the  mansion  of 
Sir  A.  Wingfield  (temp.  Henry  the  Eighth).  The 
archdeacon's  house,  near  St.  Mary-at-Tower, 
waa  built  in  1471,  the  very  year  of  Wolsey's 
birth.  Sparrow's  House,  says  Mr.  Walcott,  an 
excellent  judge  of  these  matters,  is  a  fine 
specimen  of  domestic  architecture  of  Charles 
the  Second's  reign,  and  in  the  side  streets 
through  which  the  Orwdl  crescents  there  are 
many  fine  old  Tudor  buildings,  and  none  finer 
than  **the  Old  House,"  now  a  bookseller's, 
which  is  very  quaint,  with  its  carved  panels, 
pilaflters,  and  brackets. 


AN  EUZABETH/LN  ADVENTURER. 

Adventures  were  to  the  adventurers  in 
Queen  Elizabeth's  time  in  the  largest  sense  of 
the  words.  The  British  subject  of  those  days, 
who  left  his  native  shores,  had  no  occasion  to 
seek  for  exciting  incidents  to  give  colour  to  his 
travel.  They  crowded  on  him  thick  and  fast, 
crossing  his  course  in  rapid  succession,  and  now 
and  then  crushing  a  hapless  wayfarer  remorse- 
lessly out  of  existence.  To  danger  and  diffi- 
culty, however,  the  stubborn  Englishman  op- 
posed daring  and  enterprise,  and  followed  for- 
tune where  ne  listed.  Wild  spirits  carried  their 
turbulence  from  home  to  expend  it  in  fighting 
the  Spaniard  **  beyond  the  Ime,"  or  in  sharing 
the  perils  of  a  continental  campaign.  Treaties 
might  be  made  between  London  and  Madrid, 
but  there  was  no  peace  then,  nor  for  many  a 
day  afterwards,  on  *'  the  Spanish  Main,"  where 
"  gentlemen  adventurers"  fought  stoutly  on 
their  own  account,  sometimes  for  honour,  but 
always  for  gold.  Chronic  war  is  the  phrase, 
perhaps,  which  best  describes  the  state  of 
Europe.    There  was  always  fighting  in  one 

auarter  or  other  sufficient  to  give  occupation  to 
^e  wandering  apprentices  of  tiie  trade  of  arms. 
The  Mediterranean  was  infested  by  Mahomme- 
dan  rovers,  who  strove  earnestly  to  give  the 
sea-going  Christian  an  opportunity  of  varying 
his  experiences  by  a  probation  of  davery.  All 
beyond  the  Mediterranean  and  Central  Europe 
was  a  terra  incognita,  shrouded  in  dim  haze, 
and  peopled  by  &e  popular  imagination  with 
strange  and  uncouth  forms.  These  were  the 
days  when  Prester  John  had  an  acknowledged 
existence  somewhere  in  Africa,  or  Asia — autho- 
rities differed ;  when  the  great  Cham  of  Tartary 
was  a  mighty  potentate ;  when  Golconda  had 
store  of  diamonds ;  when  the  loadstone  moun- 
tain of  eastern  seas  drew  the  iron  bolts  out  of 
ships ;  and  when  the  **  voyages  of  Sindbad  the 
Sauor"  would  have  been  accepted  by  the  mass  as 
truthful  narratives  of  discovery  and  adventure. 
Several  of  the  ohBcurer  Engliabf  who  wan- 
dered he^and  tbeir  island  Mmite  at  tbia  period,  | 


set  the  example,  since  too  faithfully  followed, 
of  rushing  into  print  with  accounts  of  their 
wanderings.  But,  unlike  most  of  their  modem 
imitators,  the  Elizabethan  travellers  had  stories 
worth  telling.  Some  of  the  narratives  are 
of  consideraUe  interest  in  themselves,  and  de- 
rive more  from  the  quaint  simplidty  of  their 
narrators.  One  of  these,  which  was  very 
popular  in  the  author's  lifetime,  bears  the 
title — almost  a  story  per  se^^'The  rare  and 
most  wonderful  thinges  which  Edward  Webbe, 
an  Englishman  borne,  hath  seene  and  passed 
in  his  troublesome  trauailles  in  the  citties  of 
lerusalem,  Damasko,  Bethelem,  and  Gallely : 
and  in  the  landes  of  lewrie,  Egipt,  Gteaa, 
Russia,  and  in  the  land  of  Prester  lohn. 
Wherein  is  set  foorth  his  extreame  slauerie 
sustained  many  yeres  togither  in  the  gallies 
and  wars  of  the  ^eat  Turk  against  the  lands 
of  Persia,  Tartana,  Spaine,  and  Portugall, 
with  the  manner  of  his  releasement,  and 
comming  into  Englande  in  May  last"  ri589]. 
In  the  course  of  these  long  wanderings  and  vicis- 
situdes, Webbe  inevitably  saw  much  that  was 
strange  and  beyond  the  experience  of  the  nar- 
row home  life ;  and  what  he  saw  he  tells  roundly* 

The  traveller,  who  was  bom  at  **  St.  Katha- 
rine's, neere  the  Tower,"  in  1554,  was  the  son  of 
Richard  Webbe,  master  gunner  of  England. 
His  father's  influence  procured  the  younger 
Webbe,  at  the  early  age  of  twelve,  a  post  in 
the  train  of  Captain  Anthony  Jenkinson,  on 
the  third  mission  of  that  officer  as  ambassador 
from  England  to  Russia.  In  this  service  he  re- 
sided **  some  space  in  the  head  cittie  of  Russia, 
called  Musko,"  and  began  those  observations  of 
men  and  manners  which  he  committed  to  the 
press  in  the  leisure  of  after  life.  He  particularly 
notes  that  the  Russians  '^  are  a  kind  of  tyranous 
people,  as  appeareth  by  their  customs,"  one  of 
the  latter  being  a  pleasant  fashion  of  punishing 
debtors  by  a  daily  infliction  of  blows  "  on  the 
shinnes  or  on  the  foreheade"  with  a  wooden 
mallet  A  ready  mode  of  getting  rid  of  peers 
who  made  themselves  duagreeable  to  the 
sovereign  is  thus  described  :  **  I  also  noted  that 
if  any  nobleman  do  offend  ye  Emperor  of 
Russia,  the  saide  nobleman  is  taken  and  im- 
prisoned with  al  his  children  and  kinsfolkes, 
and  the  first  great  frost  that  commeth  (ioT  the 
cuntrey  is  wonderfully  cold,  and  subiect  to 
much  frost)  there  is  a  great  hole  made  in  the 
ise  over  some  great  river,  and  then  the  partie 
principal  is  put  in,  and  atter  him  his  wife,  his 
children,  and  all  other  his  kinsfolkes,  and  so 
leave  none  of  his  posteritie  to  possesse  his  lands 
or  goodes,  but  the  same  are  bestowed  uppon 
others  at  the  emperor's  pleasure." 

While  Webbe  was  in  Moscow  in  attendance 
upon  Captain  Jenkinson,  the  city  was  besieged 
and  taken  by  the  Crim  Tartars,  into  whose 
hands  the  English  lad  fell  in  the  confusion  con- 
sequent upon  the  assault,  and  was  carried  by 
his  captors  into  slavery  in  the  Crimea.  In  this 
wretched  thraldom,  where  he  waa  litetQll^  ^ 
hewer  of  wood  and  toiiwct  ol  'v%X«t^\i^»^K«^ 
thrice  a  week  witii  a  ^^\iOT^-\Ai\ft''— ^  ^sQftfsoa.  "^ 
but  charaetenEdoaXLy  CowwSk.  VnateroaaRss*.  «^  > 


4 


■^ 


58     [Jaiwl9,lSt«.] 


ALL  THE  TKAB  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bj 


flagellation — poor  Webbc  spent  Ave  miserable 
years.  Finding  means  eventually  to  communi- 
cate with  hii  relatives,  he  was  ransomed  for 
three  hundred  crowns  of  **  vij.  s.  vj.  d.  a  piece, 
of  English  money/'  which  is  eqmvalent  to  a 
very  considerable  sum  in  our  day,  and  shows 
that  Webbe's  family  ma  in  affluent  circum- 
stances. His  hard  servitude  with  the  Tartars 
appears  to  have  duUed  his  powers  of  observa- 
tion, for  his  sole  remark  regarding  them  is, 
"Among  that  people  called  ye  Tartarians  I 
noted  especially  this  one  thing,  that  their 
diildren,  oeing  new  borne,  do  never  open  their 
eyes  vntiil  they  be  ix.  dayes  and  ix.  nights  olde  " 
With  all  reipect  for  Mr.  Webbers  veracity,  and 
carefulness  m  ** noting,"  only  what  he  "saw," 
it  must  be  admitted  that  he  seems  to  be  pulling 
the  long  bow  in  attributing  to  the  Tartar  infants 
a  peculiarity  of  puppies.  On  returning  to  Eng- 
land, he  "  staiea  some  smal  time"  to  recruit,  it 
may  be  aasumed,  after  his  sufferings  in  slavery. 
Undeterred  by  the  memory  of  past  mis- 
fortune^  Webbe  sailed  again  for  Russia — this 
time  with  ih»  trading  fleet — but  in  what  capacity 
he  does  not  mention.  On  the  v<^age  tiie  ships, 
which  were  oonyoyed  by  a  man-of-war,  en- 
countered a  squadron  of  five  Danish  pirates, 
which  they  attacked  and  captured,  carrying  the 
yessels  into  Narva,  whither  the  fleet  was  bound. 
"  There,"  Webbe  writes  in  his  pithy  way,  "  the 
men  [the  pirates]  ware  massacred  in  this  manner 
by  the  Russians :  first  groat  stakes  driven  into 
the  groimde,  and  they  spitted  vppon  Fowles,  as 
a  man  woulde  put  a  pig  vpon  a  sfHtte,  and  so 
vij.  acore  were  handled  in  that  manner  in  very 
tpMiouM  aort."  Webbe  waa  still  haunted  by 
misfortune.  Twelve  miles  out  of  port,  on  the 
voyage  home,  his  ship  was  wrecked,  and  he  lost 
all  he  had.  His  reverse  did  not  affect  him  seri- 
ously, for  he  says  quite  simply  that  he  "  came 
againe  into  EngLande  and  gathered  a  new 
stoeke." 

Once  more  Webbe  tempted  fate  upcm  the 
ocean,  sailing,  as  master  gunner  of  the  Henry, 
of  London,  on  a  trading  cruise  up  the  Mediter- 
ranean. In  this  sea,  the  greatest  mishap  of 
his  life  befel  the  adventurous  but  unfortunate 
voyager.  He  narrates  the  event  as  follows: 
"But  heere  fortune  began  to  lowrc  on  me 
againe,  and  tume  her  wheele  in  such  sort 
against  me,  as  that  I  was  soone  alter  brought 
to  liue  in  greater  slauerie  tjian  ever  I  did 
before ;  for  we,  hauiug  saflie  arriued  at  Alex- 
andria, dischardged  our  burthen,  and  f  raughted 
our  ship  with  great  store  of  that  cuntrey  oom- 
modlties,  and  returning  back  to  Legorne,  sud- 
dainly  in  the  way  wc  met  with  fiftie  saile  of 
the  Turkcs  gallies,  with  which  gallies  we 
fought  two  £ycs  and  two  nights,  and  made 
great  slaughter  amongst  their  men,  we  being 
in  all  but  three  score  men,  very  weake  for  sucn 
a  mukytude,  and  having  lost  fifty  of  sixty 
men,  fiuntnes  constrayned  vs  for  to  yecld  vnto 
them,  by  reason  we  wanted  winde  to  helpe  our 
selues  withall ;  and  the  calme  was  so  great  a 
/leJjpe  mto  Hhrna  as  there  was  no  way  for  vs  to 
GsoMpe. "  Webbe,  aa  modest  as  he  was  brave, 
f^^Mg  emMaat  action  without  the  alightest 
trace  of  pride  in  ite  dsuing  obstinacy  of  resist- 


ance to  an  overwhelming  force.  Indeed  he  is 
rather  apologetic  than  otherwise  for  the  ship 
having  been  taken  at  all,  notwithstanding  the 
odds  against  which  she  fought.  The  Turks  had 
not  the  generosity  to  treat  their  brave  enemies 
with  iiumanity.  Luckless  Webbe  and  nine 
shipmates,  who  were  found  living  when  the 
Henry  was  boarded,  were  soundly  bastinadoed. 
The  prisoners  were  despatched  to  Constanti- 
nople, where,  as  was  the  custom  with  Christian 
captives,  they  were  sent  to  the  galleys  and 
barbarously  treated.  Loaded  with  chains,  half 
starved,  and  cruelly  beaten,  Webbe  passed  six 
years  at  the  oar.  But  on  the  outbreak  of  war 
between  Turkey  and  Persia,  his  knowledge  of 
gunnery  stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  he  was 
attached  to  the  artillery  of  the  Sultan's  army. 
His  notes  regarding  the  places  he  visited  at 
this  time,  give  one  an  amusing  idea  of  "  tra- 
vellers* wonders"  three  hundred  years  ago. 

Cairo,  he  states,  "  is  threescore  miles  in  com- 
passe,  and  is  the  greatest  cittie  in  the  world 
It  standeth  upon  the  riuer  of  Nilo,  and  in  the 
said  cittie  there  is  twelve  thousand  churches, 
which  they  tearme  muscots.  ^  .  .  The  houses 
are  of  a  very  olde  building,  all  of  lyme  and 
stone,  and  in  most  of  the  houses  the  roofcs  are 
couered  with  fine  gold  in  a  very  workemanly 
sort."  The  phenomenon  of  the  inundation  of 
the  Nile  of  course  attracted  his  notice ;  but 
not  being  well  up  in  hydrostatics,  he  describes 
it  rather  oddly  as  a  "  swelling  of  the  water 
vpright  without  any  stay  at  ^,  on  the  one 
side  thereof  it  is  to  ye  height  of  a  huge  moun- 
tain !"  It  is  difficult  to  recognise  the  crocodile 
in  the  following  description :  "  In  the  river  of 
Nilo  there  is  long  fishes  that  are  of  tcnne  or 
twelve  foote  long,  which  swimmeth  neere  the 
shore ;  they  are  called  the  fishes  of  King  Pharao, 
they  are  like  vnto  a  dolphin.  These  fishes  are 
so  subtile,  that  swimming  neere  the  shore  side 
they  will  pull  men  or  women  sodeinly  into  the 
river  and  devoure  them."  Webbe  is  at  no 
loss  whatever  in  solving  the  problem  of  the 
Pyramids,  though  his  solution  differs  mate- 
rially from  that  attained  by  Professor  Piazzi 
Smith.  He  says,  "Moreover,  in  the  land  of 
Egipt,  neere  to  the  river  of  Nilo,  within  sixe 
miles  of  the  Gran  Caer,  there  are  seauen 
mountaines  builded  on  the  out  aide  like  vnto 
ye  point  of  a  diamond,  which  mountaines  were 
builded  in  Him  Fharoes  time  for  to  keepe 
come  in,  and  uiey  are  mountaines  of  great 
strength.  It  is  also  saide,  that  they  were 
builded  about  that  time  when  loseph  did  lade 
home  his  brethrens  asses  with  corne,  in  the 
time  of  the  great  dearth  mentioned  in  the 
Scripture  :  at  which  time  all  their  come  lay  in 
those  mountaines." 

From  Egypt  tlie  captive  gunner  passed  to 
Syria,  where  he  relates,  "  There  is  a  river  that 
no  lew  can  catch  any  fish  in  at  all,  and  vet  in 
the  same  river  there  is  great  store  of  fish  like 
vnto  samon  trouts.  But  let  a  Christian  or  a 
Turke  come  tiiither  and  fish  for  them,  and 
evther  of  them  shall  catch  them  in  great 
aooundanoe,  if  they  do  but  put  their  hande 
into  the  waXcc  wi^k  t^'^iVJtXj^Vc^ad.^iTid  an  hun- 
dred w\\i  be  a\)ou\.  \na  WiA<& '^    ^\3c^  ^a  t^^Skivsl 


S: 


■^ 


CkftriM  DIekenB.] 


AN  ELIZABETHAN  ADVENTURER. 


[June  19, 18t9L]     59 


hard  on  the  Hebrews,  bnt  it  may  be  qHestioned 
whether  in  this  passage  Mr.  Webbe  has  not 
forgotten  a  prefatory  protest  that  **in  this 
booke  there  is  nothing  mentioned  or  expressed 
but  that  which  is  of  truth :  and  what  mine  own 
eies  have  perfectly  seene." 

During  Webbe's  campaigning  with  the  Turks 
in  Asia,  he  asserts  that  they  waged  war  with 
that  doubtful  entity  **  Prester  lohn,"  of  whose 
court  he  gives  an  account  which  is  strongly  sug- 
gestive of  the  worthy  narrator  having  been  an 
ancestor  of  the  veracious  Baron  Munchausen. 
The  story  is  curious  enough  to  be  worth  quo- 
tation. **  This  Prester  lohn,"  writes  Webbe, 
^*  is  a  king  of  great  power  and  keepcth  a  very 
beautifull  court,  after  the  manner  of  that 
enntrey,  and  hath  every  day  to  serve  him  at 
his  table,  sixty  kinges  wearing  leaden  crownes 
on  their  heads,  and  those  serve  in  the  meat 
vnto  Prester  lohn's  table  :  and  continually  the 
first  dish  of  meat  set  vpon  his  table  is  a  dead 
man*s  scull,  cleane  picked,  and  laidc  in  black 
earth :  putting  him  in  minde  that  he  is  but 
earth,  and  that  he  must  die,  and  shal  become 
earth  againe."  The  appetites  must  have  been 
sharp  set  that  were  not  scared  away  by  such  a 
ghastly  reminder.  "  In  this  Court  of  Prester 
lohn  there  is  a  wilde  man,  and  an  other  in  the 
high  street  at  Constantinople  whose  allowance 
is  every  day  a  quarter  of  raw  mutton;  and 
when  any  man  dyeth  for  some  notorious  offence, 
then  are  they  allowed  every  day  a  quarter  of 
man's  flesh.  These  wilde  men  are  chained  fast 
to  a  post  every  day,  the  one  in  Prester  lohn's 
Court,  and  the  other  in  the  high  street  of  Con- 
stantinople, each  of  them  having  a  mantel  cast 
about  their  shoulders,  and  all  over  their  bodies 
they  have  wonderfull  long  haire,  they  are 
chained  fast  by  the  neck,  and  will  speedily  de- 
voure  any  man  that  cometh  in  their  reach. 
There  is  also  a  beast  in  the  Court  of  Prester 
lohn  called  arians,  having  four  heads ;  they  are 
in  shape  like  a  wilde  cat,  and  are  of  the  height  of 
a  great  mastif  dog.  In  this  court,  likewise,  there 
is  foules  caled  pharses,  foules  whose  feathers 
are  very  beautif ull  to  be  wome,  these  foules 
are  as  big  as  a  turkie,  their  flesh  is  very  sweet, 
and  their  feathers  of  all  manner  of  collours. 
There  is  swannes  in  l^at  place,  which  are  as 
hrdge  again  as  the  swannes  of  Englande  are, 
and  their  feathers  are  as  blew  as  any  blew 
death.  I  have  seen  in  a  place  like  a  park,  ad- 
joining vnto  Prester  lohn's  Court,  three  score 
and  seventecne  unicorns  and  elephants,  aUaliT9 
at  one  time,  and  they  were  so  tame  that  I  have 
played  with  them  as  one  would  play  with 
young  lambes.  When  Prester  lohn  is  served 
at  his  table,  there  is  no  salt  at  all  set  one  [on], 
in  any  salt  cellar  as  in  other  places,  but  a  loafe 
of  bread  is  cut  crosse,  and  then  two  knives  are 
layde  acrosse  vpon  the  loafe,  and  some  salt 
put  vpon  the  blades  of  the  knives  and  no 
more.  This  last  little  bit  of  commonplace 
about  the  great  Presbyter's  table  service  is 
rather  in  the  manner  of  Be  Foe,  and  casts  an 
imposing  air  of  truthfulness  over  the  roman- 
cing in  which  the  story-teller  has  just  previously 
indulged. 

Amr  bis  Ajiatic  oamptugning  was  orety  and  I 


Webbe  had  returned  to  slavery  and  wretched- 
ness in  Constantinople,  he  made  an  attempt  to 
escape  with  five  hundred  of  his  fellow-captives. 
Their  plan  was  ''  to  breake  a  wall  of  fourteen 
foote  broad,  made  of  earth,  lyme,  and  sand, 
which  we  greatly  moistened  with  strongvinegar" 
(Webbe  must  have  read  of  Hannibal's  chemical 
experiment  on  the  Alpine  masses)  *^  so  that  the 
wall  being  made  moist  there  with  through  the 
help  of  a  spike  of  yron  five  hundred  of  vs  had 
almost  escaped  out  of  prison."  But  the  attempt 
was  frustrated  by  the  barking  of  a  dog,  more 
vigilant  than  its  masters,  and  Webbe  and  his 
companions  were  dragged  back  to  captivity  by 
their  jailers,  "  who  gave  vs,"  he  reports  with 
rueful  humour,  '^  in  recompence  of  our  paines 
taking  herein,  seaven  hundred  blowes  a  peece 
upon  the  naked  skinne,  mz,  three  hundred  on 
the  belly,  and  foure  hundred  on  the  back." 
Release  at  length  came  through  the  intervention 
of  *^  Maister  Harbome,  ambassadour  to  Con- 
stantinople for  the  Company  of  Marcbants,'* 
and  Webbe  set  out  overland  for  England,  eager 
to  visit  the  place  of  his  birth  after  an  ab- 
sence of  upwards  of  twelve  years  passed  in 
slavery  to  tne  unbehever. 

His  journey  home  exposed  him  to  almost  as 
much  hardship  and  persecution  as  he  had  en- 
countered at  the  hands  of  the  Turks.  It  was 
customary  in  Catholic  countries  in  those  days 
to  roast  perverse  heretics  in  honour  of  the  true 
religion,  and  Webbe  was  more  than  once  in 
peril  of  the  stake.  At  Venice  he  was  accused 
of  being  a  **  hereticke,"  but  contrived  to  get 
out  of  the  difliculty  by  paying  a  fine  of  fifteen 
crowns  towards  finishing  the  Virgin's  shrine  at 
Padua ;  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  having  his 
accuser  *'  an  Englishman  who  lived  in  the  state 
of  a  Frier,"  punished  for  bearing  false  witness. 
By  the  Buke  of  Ferrara  he  was  "  wel  enter- 
tained and  liberally  rewarded  with  a  horse  and 
five  and  twentie  crownes  for  the  sake  of  the 
Queenes  Maiestie  of  England."  In  Rome 
Webbe  continued  **  nineteene  daies  in  trouble 
with  the  Pope  and  the  English  Cardinall  Boctor 
Allen,  a  notable  Arch  papist,"  but  these  high 
authorities  ultimately  allowed  him  to  pass,  and, 
understanding  that  he  had  been  a  long  time 
captive  in  Turkey,  generously  gave  him  twenty- 
five  crowns.  His  troubles  in  the  Eternal  City 
were  not  over,  however.  Before  he  left  he  was 
again  taken — this  time  by  **  ye  English  Col- 
ledge,"  and  **  put  there  into  the  holy  house  3 
daies  with  a  f  ooles  coate  on  my  backe  half  e  blew, 
half  yellowe,  and  a  cockes  combe  with  three 
bels  on  my  head,  from  whence  I  was  holpen  by 
means  of  an  Englishman  whom  I  found  there, 
and  presented  my  petition  and  cause  to  the 
Pope,  who  again  set  me  at  libertie." 

Proceeding  to  Naples,  Webbe  was  once  more 
overtaken  by  the  ill-fortune  which  so  persis- 
tently followed  him  by  sea  and  land.  A  Genoese 
apprehended  him  and  brought  him  before  the 
viceroy  on  a  charge  of  being  *^  a  man  of  great 
knowledge  and  an  English  spie."    On  thu  in- 
formation the  authorities  coxv^v^^^'H^  OcNi^  ''''\» 
a  darke  Bungcon  xv\  daiea"'  ^X^JCi^  Vivs^ti  ^^a 
made  into  bia  antecedenfea.    TVi^  *\3K^«iu\ffk^yi^ 
doea  not  teem  to  Yiwe  «a\aa&^>Mi^'^^V«»«^ 


^. 


&3 


60      [Jone  19, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondnctedby 


jailers,  for  they  **  put  him  to  the  question/* 
I.e.,  tortured  him.  Their  method  of  extracting 
evidence  from  an  unwilling  witness  was  diaboli- 
cally clever  in  its  cruelty.  The  process  is  thus 
described  by  the  su£ferer:  **  Thrice  had  I  ye 
strapado,  hoisted  vp  backward  with  my  hands 
bound  behinde  me,  which  strooke  all  the  ioynts 
in  my  armes  out  of  ioynt,  and  then  constrained 
me  to  drinke  salt  water  and  quick  lime,  and 
then  fine  Lawne  or  Callico  thrust  down  my 
throate  and  pluckt  vp  againe  ready  to  pluck 
my  hart  out  of  my  belly  "  (Webbe  is  weak  in 
physiology)  *^  al  to  make  me  confesse  that  I  was 
an  English  spie.  After  this,  there  were  four 
bard  horses  prepared  to  quarter  me,  and  I  was 
still  threatened  to  die  except  I  would  confesse 
some  thing  to  my  harme."  All  their  tortures 
proved  unavailing  with  the  stout  Englishman, 
who  ^^  endured  seven  months  in  this  miserie," 
but,  as  before  among  the  Mahommedans,  now 
among  the  Christians,  his  knowledge  of  artillery 
proved  of  service,  and  he  was  employed  in  '^  a 
gunners  Roome,  at  a  salary  of  35  crowns  a 
month."  Pining  still  for  his  native  country, 
Webbe  took  advantage  of  the  sailing  of  three 
Enelish  vessels  homeward  bound,  and  escaped 
in  the  Grace  of  London,  by  the  help  of  Nicholas 
Nottingham,  master.  "Thus,"  he  writes,  *^came 
I  into  England  with  great  joy  and  hearts  de- 
light, both  to  myselfe  and  all  my  acquaintance." 

He  mentions  with  grateful  acknowledgment, 
in  reference  to  his  hberation  from  slavery  at 
Constantinople,  the  bounty  of  the  citizens  of 
London,  who  appear  to  have  given  liberally  of 
their  means  towards  the  ransom  of  captives. 
Passing  allusion  is  also  made  to  the  steadfast 
piety  of  the  slaves,  which  enabled  them  to 
resist,  as  well  the  allurements  of  their  pro- 
selytising masters,  as  the  tortures  to  which 
they  were  subjected  for  refusing  to  abandon 
the  cross  for  the  crescent.  Webbe  says  of  him- 
self, with  unsophisticated  sincerity,  touching  in 
its  earnestness,  "  Though  I  were  but  a  simple 
man  void  of  learning,  yet  stil  I  had  in  remem- 
brauncc  that  Christ  dyed  for  me  as  appeareth 
by  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  that  Chiist  therein 
saith :  He  that  denyeth  me  before  men  I  loill  deny 
him  before  my  father  iohich  is  in  heauen :  and 
again  he  saitn,  fFhosoeuer  beleiueth  on  me  shall  be 
saued  and  haue  life  euerlastina.  This  comfort 
made  me  resolute,  that  I  would  rather  suffer  al 
the  torments  of  death  in  the  worlde,  then  to 
deny  my  Saviour  and  Redeemer  Christ  lesus." 

Webbe  spent  six  months  in  England  visiting 
his  friends,  and  then  his  restless  spirit  prompted 
him  again  to  venture  abroad.  He  passed  into 
France,  where  he  took  service  with  Henry  of 
Navarre,  who  was  then  at  war  with  the  League. 
This  prince  gave  the  English  adventurer  the 
appointment  of  "  chief e  maister  gunner  in  the 
fielde ;"  and  in  this  capacity  Webbe  saw  **  the 
white  plume  shine,"  at  the  famous  battle  of 
Ivry,  where  he  informs  us,  *'  1  gave  three 
charges  vppon  the  enemie,  and  they  in  steede 
thereof,  gave  vs  fifteen  shot,  and  yet  God  be 
thanked  prevailed  not  against  vs."  The  field 
was  very  hard  fought,  and  the  gunners  had 
iheir  full  ahare  of  the  work.  **  There,"  the 
o^rntor  Btatea,  "  irere  wee  coii«trained  to  make 


bulwarkes  of  the  dead  bodies  of  our  enemies 
and  of  the  carcasses  of  dead  horses ;  where  for 
my  paines  taking  that  day  the  king  greatlye 
commended  me  and  honourably  rewiurded  me." 
The  favour  in  which  the  soldier  of  fortune  was 
held  at  court  aroused  the  jealousy  of  the  French 
artillery  officers.  **  These  lewde  gunners," 
Webbe  says  in  his  quaint  way,  "  practised 
against  me,  and  gave  me  poyson  in  dnnke  that 
night ;  which  thmg  when  the  king  vnderstoode 
he  game  order  to  wie  gouemor  of  Deepe,  that 
his  phisition  should  presently  see  vnto  me, 
who  gaue  mespeadely  unicorn's  home  to  drinke, 
and  then  by  God  and  the  king^s  great  good- 
nesse,  I  was  againe  restored  to  my  former 
health."  This  is  the  last  event  in  his  personal 
experiences  which  Webbe  records.  And  now, 
after  an  interval  of  nearly  three  hundred  years, 
the  curious  autobiography  is  revived  by  Mr. 
Edward  Arber,  in  the  interesting  series  of 
English  reprints,  which  he  edits  with  much 
care.  Whether  Webbe  does  not  require  to  be 
taken  with  at  least  as  many  grains  of  salt  as 
Prester  John  used,  is  another  question. 

TWO  TO  ONE. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  the  mischievouB  urchin/* 

Was  my  mother's  unceaaisg  refrain  ; 
"  He  fulfils  every  promise  of  pleasure 

With  shame,  oiMippointment,  and  pain. 
Though  yoime,  when  your  friend  he's  a  serpent ; 

Though  little,  a  giant,  your  foe." 
How  strange !  that  a  diUd,  and  so  naughty, 

To  maidens  full  grown  can  work  woe. 

Yet  one  evening  my  cousin  and  Colin, 

Where  violets  bloom  in  the  wood 
Like  the  sky  shedding  blue  through  the  branches, 

Were  calUng  him  all  that  is  good. 
They  murmured,  in  passionate  whispers. 

His  praises ;  then  worshipped  anew, 
Till  my  heart  beat  quite  fast  as  I  listened. 

And  I  wondered  which  story  was  true. 

By  chance  (so  he  said)  I  met  Robin, 

And  mentioned  the  doubt  I  was  in. 
His  busy  black  eyes  became  downcast, 

And  he  blushed  from  his  hat  to  his  chin  ; 
"  Single-handed  in  yain  I  have  fought  him." 

Ho  sighed :  "  Your  dear  mother  is  right ; 
But  the  boy  we  together  might  conquer. 

Being  then  two  to  one  in  the  fight." 

I  agreed.    We  began  with  a  struggle. 

On  seahng  the  bond  in  his  way ; 
Next,  with  jealousy,  heart-ache,  and  pouting. 

Love  seemed  to  he  losing  the  day. 
But  his  art !  spite  of  mother's  remonstrance, 

Backed  by  cousin,  how  think  you  he  won  ? 
By  reducing  the  odds  down  to  even. 

And  tummg  us  two  into  Ore. 


PUEBLA 

AND   THE   VrVANDIl^RE. 

"  Rataplan,  plan,  plan  !  Rataplan,  plan, 
plan  !  Plan  !"  These  v^ere  the  sounds  we 
heard  as  wo  entered  Puebla ;  nor  was  there 
much  surcease  in  this  staccato  of  drmn- 
ming  during  the  time  we  abode  in  the  City 
of  the  Angels. 

It  was  a  fiesta,  a  holiday,  and  the  an- 
.  gelic  people  were  dressed  in  their  Sun- 
l  day  \>est.     A.  'Po\Jba^  p«UB»iA>  ^cstoasL  is 


Is 


h 


Ohiriet  Dfekena.] 


PUEBLA. 


fJime  19, 1869.]       61 


a  yerj  comely  sight  to  look  npon,  and 
in  sniartness  of  attire  may  vie  with  the 
mnchacha  of  the  Valley  of  Hicho  y  Ans6, 
or  even  with  the  famous  Maja  of  Seville. 
A  white  chemise  of  the  manta,  or  fine 
cotton  cloth  woven  at  Tepic,  and  trimmed 
with  lace  ronnd  the  neck  and  sleeves,  which 
last  are  plaited;  a  short  petticoat  of  two 
colonrs,  scarlet  and  black  stuff  beneath, 
and  amber  satin  above ;  a  crimson  satin 
jacket  embroidered  with  gold,  open  in 
front  and  without  sleeves ;  the  hair  plaited 
in  two  long  tails  behind,  which  are  turned 
up  and  passed  through  a  golden  ring ;  long 
earrings  of  gold  hammered  into  rude 
patterns,  and  at  least  four  necklaces  of 
coral,  and  amber,  and  mock  pearls,  inter- 
spersed with  crosses  and  blessed  medals — 
th^e  are  the  principal  portions  of  the  Po- 
blana's  attire.  Nor  must  a  long  broad 
sash  of  bright  colours  be  forgotten,  tied 
bdiind,  and  into  the  front  of  which  is  stuck 
a  dirty  cigar-case.  Then,  a  small  striped 
handkerchief  of  silk  is  fastened  at  the 
throat  by  a  silver  brooch.  The  Poblana 
seldom  wears  the  mantilla,  so  dear,  and 
indeed  so  essential,  to  the  costume  of  a 
Castilian  dame.  -  The  Mexican  substitute 
for  the  mantilla  is  the  riboso* — a  scarf, 
generally,  of  some  very  dark  colour  and  of  a 
striped  pattern.  The  thread  is  almost  as  fine 
as  that  of  a  Cashmere  shawl,  but — let  it  not 
he  told  in  Ghith — it  is  firom  cotton  thread 
only  that  this  scarf  is  woven.  I  brought  a 
riboso  home  with  me  as  a  present  to  a  lady. 
She  was  exceedingly  disgusted  when  I  con- 
fessed to  the  cotton  of  me  fabric,  but  was 
somewhat  mollified  when  I  mentioned  the 
&ctthat  her  riboso  had  cost  me  five  ounces 
of  gold,  or  nearly  twenty  pounds.  I  have 
seen,  in  Mexico  City,  rilx)80s  worth  a  hun- 
dred pounds.  This  picture,  however,  of 
the  Foblana  would  be  sadly  incomplete 
did  I  omit  to  mention  her  dainty  shoes 
and  stockings.  The  invariable  gear  for 
her  graceful  extremities  is  composed  of 
pink  silk  stockings,  open- worked  in  front, 
and  white  satin  shoes,  sandalled.  Her 
ankles,  as  a  rule,  look  as  though  they  had 
heen  turned  in  a  lathe,  and  the  insteps  of 

*  The  riboflo  u  the  tmivenal  head  and  shoulder 
corering  of  the  Mexican  female,  from  the  hishest  to  the 
lowni  gradei.  It  if  not  exactly  in  accordance  with 
etiquette  to  make  aaj  earl j  morning  calls  in  Mexico ; 
but  should  jou  happen  to  have  the  honour  to  be  re- 
caved,  during  the  forenoon,  either  by  a  countess  or  a 
shoj^eeper's  wife,  jou  may,  on  entering  the  saloon  of 
the  sefiora,  reckon  en  four  things ;  that  the  seiiora  will 
be  mal  peinada,  or  unkempt;  that  her  uncombed  locks 
will  be  shrouded  by  a  riboso ;  that  she  will  be  smoking 
a  papelito ;  and  tnat,  at  no  great  distance  from  her, 
Ihflw  will  be  a  cup  of  dtooohtte. 


her  feet  are  most  dehcately  arched.  Her 
satin  shoes  have  no  heels ;  it  is  only  the 
flat-footed  who  require  artificial  heels. 

Crowds  of  these  Poblanas  and  their  at- 
tendant cavaliers  were  gathered  round  the 
Fonda  de  las  Diligendas  when  our  carriage 
drew  up.  The  costume  of  the  attendajit 
cavaliers  was — ^if  I  may  use  an  expression 
unsanctified  by  the  authority  of  either 
Johnson  or  Richardson,  Webster  or  Wor- 
cester— generaUy  "  grubby."  The  Mexican 
cavalier  appears  to  the  best  advantage 
under  the  influence  of  photography.  He 
makes  a  capital  carte  de  visite.  His  oval 
face,  high  cheek  bones,  flashing  black  eyes, 
and  long  drooping  moustaches;  his  gaily 
braided  jacket  and  chappareros,  or  overalls 
of  leather,  with  pufis  of  the  white  linen 
drawers  beneath  bulging  through  the 
slashes  of  the  trousers;  his  sash  full  of 
daggers  and  pistols;  his  striped  blanket 
cloak,  which,  in  the  day  time,  hangs  over 
his  left  shoulder,  but  which  has  a  hole 
in  the  centre  through  which,  at  night,  he 
puts  his  head ;  his  huge  plated  spurs,  and, 
finally,  his  coach-wheel  hat  of  enormous 
circumference,  with  a  "  pudding'*  round 
the  low  crown  to  protect  him  ^om  sun- 
stroke ;  all  these  give  him,  in  photography, 
a  dashing,  devil-may-care,  and  essentially 
romantic  appearance,  which  claims  for  him 
at  once  a  place  in  the  picture-gallery  of 
theatrical  scoundrels.  But  he  shouldn't  be 
seen  out  of  a  photograph.  His  lights  and 
shades,  translated  only  in  black  and  white, 
leave  nothing  to  be  desired  on  the  score 
of  picturesqueness  ;  but  when  you  come 
to  look  at  him  in  the  flesh,  and  examine 
his  attire  in  its  hues  and  textures,  you  will 
discover  your  Mexican  caballero  to  be  a 
dirty,  ragged,  sooty,  unsavoury  varlet. 
His  leathern  jacket  and  overalls  will  be 
found  torn  by  briers,  patched,  and  smirched 
by  stains  of  pulque,  and  sometimes  of 
blood.  His  coach-wheel  hat  turns  out  to 
be  battered  as  regards  the  brim,  and 
"caved  in"  about  the  region  of  the  crown. 
His  sash  is  a  greasy  old  rag,  and  his  toes 
are  peeping  through  his  upper  -  leathers. 
You  have  seen  an  Italian  brigand  on  the 
stage  ?  Yes ;  and  there  are  photographers 
the   Via    Condotti,    Rome,    who   per- 


in 


suade  more  or  less  genuine  highwaymen 
from  Terracina  or  Albano  to  come  and  sit 
to  them,  in  order  that  they  may  sell  their 
effigies  to  the  Forestieri  at  three  pauls 
apiece.  How  very  picturesque  they  look, 
both  at  the  theatres  royal  and  in  the  print- 
shops  in  the  Coxso,  mt\i  ^ra  ^'B2&fcSL\iaX& 
their  velvet  smailB)  tineir  TaftdaAa  oi  ^^"^^a*- 


f= 


<C9: 


62      t^noe  19, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAJa  ROUND. 


[Oondocied  ^7 


donna,  and  their  *' ribbons,  chains,  and 
sashes*' !  But  did  you  ever  see  a  convoy 
of  brigand  prisoners  brought  into  Rome 
through  the  Porta  del  Popolo  by  the  Pope's 
dragoons?  La.  a  waggon,  on  Lidian  com 
straw,  and  perhaps  with  a  few  leafy  boughs 
humanely  arched  over  them  to  keep  away 
the  flies  (if  the  captives  be  badly  woxmded), 
sprawl  half  a  dozen  incredibly  horrible  and 
miserable  creatures,  chained  hand  and  foot, 
their  lean  bodies  half  draped  in  greasy  tat- 
ters. They  are  unshaven  and  unkempt,  blood 
has  dried  upon  their  faces,  foam  has  dried 
upon  their  lips ;  and  foul  clouts,  in  Heu  of  the 
perky  peaked  hate  mth  the  streaming  rib- 
bons,  are  bound  around  their  heads.  Now 
and  again  they  begin  to  growl  and  wriggle 
and  kick,  in  the  straw,  like  the  cubs  of 
some  wild  beast  in  a  den;  and  then  the 
Pope's  dragoons  ride  up  and  hit  them 
sounding  thwacks  with  the  flat  of  their 
sabres.  It  is  quite  as  probable  that  Claude 
du  Val,  the  ladies'  highwayman,  who  is 
just  now  taking  the  town  with  comic 
songs  and  breakdowns  at  a  London  theatre 
(the  rascal,  as  every  student  of  the  New- 
gate Calendar  knows,  was  a  tumed-ofi* 
lacquey  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland's) 
was  just  as  deplorable  and  repulsive  a 
ragamuffin  as  any  one  of  these  tatterde- 
malions on  the  maize  stalks.  As  for 
Jack  Sheppard,  I  bought  a  contemporary 
etching  of  him  lately  as  he  sat  in  the  con- 
demned hold  in  Newgate,  shackled  and 
padlocked  to  the  floor,  and  with  I  know  not 
how  many  hundredweight  of  iron  on  his 
wrists  and  ankles.  The  etching  is  not  a 
flattering  one.  He  looks  the  vulgar,  gin- 
drinking  housebreaker  that  he  was,  and  a 
very  diflerent  Jack  Sheppard  from  the  trim 
little  figure  in  loud  clothes  and  silk  stock- 
ings who  used  to  fascinate  us  at  the 
Theatre  Royal,  AdelphL  A  hundred  years 
hence,  perhaps,  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Salis- 
bury Plain  (one  of  the  suburbs  of  London, 
within  five  minutes'  balloon  journey  of  the 
Bank),  Bill  Bodger  of  Flower-and-Dean- 
street,  Spitalfields,  now  lying  in  Newgate 
awaiting  the  advent  of  Mr.  Calcrafb,  in 
connexion  witli  that  little  afiair  in  the 
Minories,  and  his  jumping  on  the  old  lady 
aged  seventy-three,  and  robbing  her  after 
death  of  a  five-pound  note  and  a  set  of 
false  teeth,  may  appear  as  Bodger  the 
brave,  the  Hero  of  the  East- end.  Miss 
Tightlegs  may  enact  Bill,  and  her  shorts 
and  ankle  jacks  may  entrance  the  town. 

It  is  but  due  to  the  Mexican  caballero  to 
admit  that  he  has  one  advantage  over  his 
Barope&n  brothers  ia  bladsguardisnL     He 


is  a  first-rate  horseman,  and  his  movements, 
when  mounted,  being  necessarily  rapid  and 
shifting,  you  lose  sight  of  his  rags  and  his 
dirt  in  the  picturesqueness  of  his  ensemble. 
His  business,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  (at 
least,  this  was  the  case  in  1864),  is  to  rob  ike 
stage  coach,  or  to  connive  at  the  robbery, 
and  foregather  with  the  robbers  thereof; 
but,  astride  on  his  nag  in  his  high  demi- 
pique  saddle,  with  his  lasso  wound  round 
the  cantel,  and  his  long  lance  with  its 
gay-ooloured  pennon  sticking  from  one  of 
his  stirrups,  the  fellow  has  something  semi- 
military  about  him.  Ho  becomes  a  member 
of  some  very  irregular  corps  of  very  irre- 
gular cavalry.  You  may  ask  why  the  fVench, 
while  in  military  occupation  of  Mexico, 
permitted  these  hordes  of  savage-looking  . 
vagabonds — ^and  the  majority  of  their  num- 
ber were  really  as  savage  as  they  looked — to 
ride,  armed  to  the  teeth,  through  the  streets 
of  the  towns  they  held,  and  into  their  very 
barrack -yards  ?  The  answer  ia  simple. 
Why  did  they  not  disarm  the  well-aflected 
population,  in  order  to  prevent  them  from 
becoming  disaflected?  They  could  not 
help  themselves.  If  you  went  to  a  whist 
party  at  a  Mend's  house  in  Mexicp  after 
nightfall,  you  took  care  to  walk  in  the 
middle  of  the  roadway  when  you  returned 
home,  and  with  a  loaded  revolver  in  each 
hand,  lest  robbery  and  assassination  shoxdd 
be  lurking  in  the  doorways.  I  went  to  a 
little  Protestant  church,  once,  among  the 
mountains  in  the  great  silver  -  mining 
district  of  Aral  del  Mente.  We  were 
escorted,  having  ladies  with  us,  by  a  troop 
of  lancers :  gentlemen  who  had  once  been 
highwaymen,  but  who  were  now  paid  by 
the  mining  company  a  dollar  a  day  and 
the  keep  of  a  horse,  each,  to  be  honest 
and  protect  travellers.  As  we  entered 
the  pretty  little  place  of  worship,  the  con- 
gregation left  their  revolvers  and  sabres 
and  Sharpe's  rifles  on  the  vestry-room 
table,  to  shoulder  or  buckle  them  on  again 
after  the  benediction.  And,  on  returning 
to  Mexico,  to  attend  a  grand  dinner  and 
ball,  our  departure  was  delayed  for  some 
time  because  the  brass  field-piece  which 
was  to  form  part  of  our  equipment  was 
not  quite  ready.  Thus  the  peaceable  and 
honest  were  compelled  to  arm,  in  order  to 
repel  the  onslaughts  of  the  bloodthirsty 
and  dishonest.  The  French  had  scarcely 
any  light  cavalry,  and,  to  patrol  the  roads 
and  scour  the  country  of  the  guerrilleros, 
were  fain  to  employ  native  mercenaries. 
It  was  the  principle  of  setting  thieves  to 
catch  thieves,  but  very  frequently  Marshal 


=ftD- 


Chute  BietaoiL] 


PUBBLA. 


[Jane  1*,  U69i]      63 


i 


it 


Bazame  was  incited  to  catch  both  thieves 
and  thief-catchers,  and  hang  or  shoot  them 
all  impartially.  Deprive  the  people  of  their 
acms,  the  French  could  not.  The  rancheros, 
«r  formers,  pleaded  that  without  g^nns, 
swordo,  and  lances,  thej  could  not  hold 
their  **  haciendas,"  and  that,  in  order  to 
csny  on  their  agricultural  pursuits,  their 
sous,  stock-keepers,  and  labourers,  must 
all  be  armed.  Hence  the  crowd  of  cavaliers, 
mounted  and  unmounted,  in  Puebla,  with 
daraers  and  pistols  stuck  in  their  girdles. 

When  we  had  brushed  from  our  gar- 
meois  a  few  of  the  innumerable  layers  of 
dust  which  had  been  accumulating  there 
finr  the  best  part  of  a  week,  we  proceeded 
to  take  a  walk  about  the  City  of  the 
AngeAs.  The  canonigo  had  his  breviary 
to  saf",  and  we  left  him  reciting  it  in  his 
bedrooin  at  the  hotel,  smoking  his  cigar 
meaawhile.  I  tiiought  it  strange,  when 
we  descended  into  the  streets,  that  the 
angelio  chorus  should  bo  '*  Bataplan,  plan, 
plfui,  plan!" — an  incessant  and  most  in- 
tolerable drumming.  But  it  was  not  the 
Pohktfia  who  drummed.  Not  so  much  as 
a  tambourine  was  banged  by  the  Foblana. 
They  twang  a  little  on  the  guitar,  and 
dance  prettily  enough  to  that  wiry  music ; 
but  tills  melancholy  race,  in  their  fiestas 
even,  are  sad :  the  Indians,  save  when  they 
get  tipsy  on  "  pulque,"  always  appear  to  be 
musiog  on  the  decadence  of  the  Aztec  race, 
and  to  be  preoccupied  by  internal  visions  of 
Monteaunia's  ghost;  while  the  half-castes 
are  perpetually  absorbed  in  schemes  for  rob- 
bing the  stage-ooach  and  cutting  the  throate 
of  capitalists ;  and  the  whole-castes,  or  pure 
white  Spaniards,  dwell  with  moody  sJOTec- 
tion  on  the  good  old  days  of  the  viceroys 
and  the  monks,  and  brood  over  the  mo- 
Biofj  of  Cortes.  Mexico  is  a  country  in 
which  every  man  seems  to  have  something 
on  his  mind ;  and  the  shadow  of  La  Noche 
Triste — ^I  have  a  piece  of  the  bark  of  the 
tree  against  which  the  conquistador  set  his 
back  on  that  fearful  night  when  all  the 
causeways  ran  with  blood — ^yet  hangs  over 
the  land. 

Tho  rataplans  came  from  the  French. 
They  had  only  recently  taken  tho  city  by 
storm.  They  had  a  strong  garrison  in 
Puebla,  and  seemed  determined  to  make 
their  pres^ioe  felt,  by  continuous  rever- 
berations of  sheepskin.  Shade  of  old  John 
Ziska — did  ho  not,  when  dying,  order  that 
luB  skin  might  be  tanned  to  cover  a  drum 
withal,  that  his  fbes  might  be  frighted  afbcr 
his  departure  ?  What  a  din  the  Fronch  , 
drums  made  in  Paebla'a  streets!    Partiea  I 


of  drummers  seemed  to  be  marching  up 
and  down  every  one  of  its  thorough£Etres ; 
and  in  one  of  the  Plazas  there  was  an  entire 
IVench  miUtary  band,  with  a  big  drum, 
and  a  side-drum,  and  an  indefinite  number 
of  little  dl'ums,  discoursing  martial  music, 
which  was  actually  deafening.  The  per- 
formance of  a  military  band  is,  however, 
to  me  invariably  a  delight.  It  is  amicable 
and  social:  it  is  humanising,  and  soften- 
ing, and  civilising.  It  pleases  the  chil- 
dren ;  it  mollifies  the  mob ;  and,  especially, 
it  brings  out  the  pretty  girls.  They  always 
dress  in  their  best,  and  look  their  nicest,  to 
hear  the  warlike  music  play.  Even  the 
Italian  ladies  at  Milan,  in  the  days  of  the 
Austrian  occupation  of  Lombardy,  could 
not  resist  the  evening  mazurkas  and  schot- 
tisches.  It  was  only  in  Venice  that  they 
kept  away  in  obstinate  sulkincss  from  the 
drums  and  trombones  of  the  Tedcschi.  Now, 
here  in  Puebla,  the  red-legged  warriors  of 
Napoleon  the  Third  were  quite  as  cordially 
hated  as  ever  had  been  the  white-coated 
warriors  of  Francis  Joseph  in  Lombardo- 
Yenetia.  The  French  had  bombarded 
Puebla  mercilessly ;  and  the  first  phases  of 
their  occupation  subsequent  to  the  sur- 
render had  been  a  very  close  imitation  of  a 
sack.  The  Poblanas  had  made  a  fierce 
attack ;  the  majority  of  their  number  were 
known  to  be  Spanish  to  the  core ;  already 
was  the  expected  Maximilian  as  a  dog  from 
the  north — the  Poblanan  notions  of  geo- 
graphy being  somewhat  hazy.  Still  they 
could  not  resist  the  French  militaiy  bands 
in  the  Plaza ;  and  in  the  evening  not  only 
were  they  to  be  seen  there,  but  Mexican 
ladies  and  Mexican  dandies  in  the  most 
elaborate  toilettes  of  the  newest  Paris 
fiishion. 

In  this  same  Plaza — of  which,  perhaps, 
the  area  is  as  vast  as  that  of  Russell-square, 
London — there  were  some  two  thousand 
quiet  and  subdued  listeners  to  the  invaders* 
music,  of  that  race  which  makes  up  the 
vast  bulk  of  the  Mexican  people,  the 
Red  Indian ;  '^  red,"  inasmuch  as  the  hue 
of  the  Mexican  aborigines,  as  compared 
with  the  complexion  of  the  Indians  of  the 
more  northern  portions  of  the  American 
continent,  is  as  that  of  a  bright  copper 
kettle  by  the  side  of  a  cake  of  chocolate. 
They  have  just  a  tinge  of  European  blood 
in  them ;  the  late  Gt^neral  Almonte  had 
about  a  tenth;  and  Don  Benito  Juarez, 
the  actual  President  of  the  Republic,  an 
even  smaller  admixture  of  S^ani&\v  tw5»\ 
so  small  indeed  tYvait  \ift  \a  ^.csci^VATQSi^ 
in  diapaxagenient  tefrmed  ^^^Wn.^o?^    ^Y\ia 


c& 


64      [JnM  19, 1«S.] 


ALL  THE  YBAB  ROUND. 


[Ooiidiifited1>7 


/ 


Mexican  red  man  may  aspire  to  become  a 
general,  a  senator,  a  lawyer,  a  landed  pro- 
prietor, a  nu^istrate,  a  robber — ^all  kinds  of 
grand  things,  in  fine.  But  as  an  unadul- 
terated Indian,  only  one  career  is  open  to 
him,  by  means  of  which  he  may  raise  him- 
self above  the  position  of  a  mere  hewer  of 
wood  and  drawer  of  water.  He  may  enter 
the  church.  And  although  he  may  no  more 
dream  of  becoming  Archbishop  of  Guada- 
layara  than  the  gardener  of  Lambeth  Palace 
may  aspire  to  become  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, he  is  suffered  to  undertake  the  ill- 
paid  office  of  a  village  priest.  High  offices, 
rank,  wealth,  are  aJl  for  the  Creole  Spa- 
niards and  half-  castes.  With  extreme 
rarity  do  you  find  an  Indian  alcalde  in  some 
country  place,  or  occupying  the  status  of  a 
well-to-do  "  ranchero"  or  farmer.  Now  and 
then  he  is  a  "maguey"  grower  on  a  small 
scale,  but  is  usually  found  to  pawn  his 
slender  possessions  in  cactus  plants  to 
wealthy  higglers,  who  make  "pulque"  from 
the  "  maguey' '  in  large  quantities.  He 
seldom  feels  any  inclination  to  turn  guer- 
rillero  or  brigand.  He  robs  in  a  small 
way,  when  he  can  do  so  without  detec- 
tion ;  but  very  few  real  Indians  are  among 
the  professed  highwayman  class  —  into 
the  army  he  is  found  to  enter  ;  and  a 
deplorable,  weak-minded,  spiritless,  sol- 
dier he  makes;  not  through  any  lack  of 
courage,  but  simply  through  a  despairing 
inability  to  discuss  what  the  deuce  he 
should  fight  for.  During  the  French  ex- 
peditionary campaign,  the  invaders  were 
terribly  harassed  by  the  Mexican  light 
cavalry — dare-devil  fellows  of  mixed  blood, 
and  often  commanded  by  Spaniards  or  Eu- 
ropean adventurers ;  but  the  Mexican  in- 
fantry, being  mainly  Indians,  were  usually 
scattered  like  chaff  before  the  wind.  It  was 
not  that  they  wouldn't  fight ;  it  was  that 
they  did  not  perceive  the  utility  of  fighting. 
Santa  Anna  or  Miramon,  Juarez  or  Maxi- 
milian, it  was  all  one  to  them.  If  they  had 
been  asked  to  nominate  a  sovereign,  they 
would  probably  have  declared  for  Monte- 
zuma; but  the  great  cacique  has  been 
dead  three  hundred  years  and  more ;  and 
the  "  Noche  Triste,"  when  they  strove  so 
hard,  and  with  so  near  an  approach  to 
success,  to  rid  themselves  of  the  European 
intruders,  will  return  no  more.  They  have 
made  up  their  minds  to  take  things  quietly. 
The  soft,  half-whispering  tone  of  voice 
habitual  with  them,  bespeaks  meek  and 
hopeless  resignation.  The  Indians  I  saw, 
Izx>m  the  sea  coast  to  a  distance  of  four 
hundred  milea  tbere&vm,  were  neither  tall 


nor  athletic.  Numbers  of  them  were, 
even,  almost  dwarfishfy  diminutive;  the 
females  especially.  They  are  labourers, 
and,  to  a  certain  extent  skilful.  Save 
when  they  get  tipsy  on  "  pulque,"  they 
are  peaceful  and  idSable.  They  are  the 
devoutest  of  Homan  Catholics,  as  Roman 
Catholicism  is  understood  in  Mexico.  They 
are  farm-labourers  or  "peons,"  grooms, 
horse  -  coupers,  blacksmiths,  mechanics, 
porters,  water  -  carriers,  and  especially 
florists.  One  of  the  prettiest  sights  in 
Mexico  city  is  to  see  the  Indian  canoes 
come  up  the  canal  which  skirts  the  prome* 
nade  known  as  El  Paseo  de  la  Vega, 
crammed  from  stem  to  stem  with  the  love* 
liest  flowers.  The  bird-like  Aztec  phy- 
siognomy, so  familiar  in  ancient  Mexican 
sculptures  and  pictures,  is  exceedingly  com* 
mon  among  the  modem  Mexican  Indians, 
and  in  their  apparel  they  have  nothing 
of  the  savage.  They  go  simply  clad  in 
striped  blankete :  the  men  in  loose  drawers 
of  white  calico  or  "  manta :"  the  women  in 
dark-coloured  skirts  of  cotton  stuff.  Both 
sexes  wear  hats  of  palm  fibre,  or  coarse  maize 
straw.  As  a  whole,  the  Mexican  TudiaTis 
reckon  for  nothing,  and  are  as  nothing,  in 
the  political  scheme  of  the  country. 

Bataplan,  plan,  plan,  rataplan,  plan, 
plan,  pla-a-a-n !  Confound  those  drums  ? 
To  avoid  the  parchment  thunder  I  fled 
down  a  narrow  "calle,"  which,  from  ita 
narrowness  and  its  skirting  of  melancholy 
stone  walls,  broken  only  here  and  there  oy 
a  dark  doorway  or  a  barred  window, 
seemed  to  offer  some  prospects  of  peace 
and  quietness. 

I  had  not  advanced  many  paces,  how- 
ever, before  more  music  was  audible.  But 
it  was  not  a  drum.  It  was  a  guitar, 
villanously  out  of  tune,  and  seemingly 
lacking  at  least  two  strings,  but  twanged 
with  a  certain  amount  of  dexterity.  And 
to  this  accompaniment  came  a  song  in 
which  three  voices  were  audible — one  a 
gruff  bass,  the  other  a  terribly  shrill  tenor, 
both  of  men,  of  course;  the  third  a 
woman's  voice,  somewhat  strident,  but  not 
wholly  unpleasing. 

It  was  an  old  camp  and  barrack  song 
the  trio  were  singing:  a  song  you  may 
have  heard  among  the  tents  at  Chalons  or 
Boulogne,  somewhat  in  this  wise : 

La  vivandi&re  fait  d'la  bonne  aoupe  ; 

Elle  est  I'amie  des  enfants  de  troupe ; 

Dans  la  paix  comme  k  la  f^erre. 

On  a  beeoin  de  la  yirandi&e : 
Blaguons  la,  blaguons  la, 
£t  quequ*  fois,  embrassonfl  la. 

(Bii.) 


I 


ff5: 


&. 


I 


i! 


|- 


QiatIm  Dlckena.] 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR  VERSE. 


[Jana  19, 1M9.]       65 


It  was  the  yiyandiire  herself  who  was 
playing  the  guitar,  and  joining  merrily  in 
the  chant  in  her  own  praise.  I  looked  into 
the  little  conrtrard,  where  she  and  the 
dmm-major  and  the  senior  clarionet  were 
fiittinc:  at  a  table,  with  a  bottle  and  classes 
betw^  them.  "  WiU  monsien/  give 
himself  the  pains  to  be  seated  ?"  qnoth  the 
▼iyandi^re;  and  she  fell  to  twanging  the 
guitar  more  merrily  than  ever. 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR  VERSE. 


As  we  have  allowed  the  Vindicator  of  Prose* 
to  advocate  freely  the  cause  of  his  client,  it  is 
but  fair  that  the  apologist  for  Verse  shoold 
have  an  equal  opportunity  for  justifying  his 
preference.  As  prose  identifies  itself  with 
history,  so  verse  readily  associates  itself  with 
poetry.  The  vindicator  properly  concedes  the 
priority  of  the  latter,  ana  dates  its  origin  and 
existence  in  some  pre-historic  age,  which  was 
eminently  the  age  of  poetry.  Natious  appear 
to  have  passed  a  long  poetic  life,  before  arriving 
at  the  condition  of  becoming  states,  or  even 
societies.  Tradition  reaches  beyond  the  re. 
gistry  of  the  founding  of  either,  and  intimates 
that  even  then  many  changes  had  already  hap- 
pened. Language  itself  gives  abundant  proof 
of  what  no  hterature  has  narrated ;  for  philo- 
logy affords  plentiful  evidence  that  the  na- 
tions of  antiquity  had  proceeded  from  Asia  as 
a  centre,  and  more  than  assiunes  an  extensive 
range  of  events  which  have  had  no  historian, 
though  dinJy  shadowed  forth  in  Norse  and 
Caledonian  legends,  which  were  originally  said 
or  sung,  not  written.  Empires  lie  concealed 
beneath  the  ground  whicn  once  shone  so 
gloriously  in  the  sunlight,  such  as  that  of  the 
aoUtary  Nile,  whose  speechless  dead  are  now 
dog  up  and  transported  to  all  quarters  of  the 
^obe,  and  whose  majestic  habitations  stimulate 
the  fancy  to  suggestions  of  departed  greatness ; 
like  splendid  but  empty  tombs  that  serve  as 
cenotaphs,  in  remembrance  of  those  who  once 
▼ere  nch  and  brave  and  fair,  but  whose  very 
ashes  have  long  since  been  distributed  among 
surviving  nations. 

There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  records 
of  ante-historical  or  poetic  periods  have  been 
lost,  or  accidentally  perished ;  they  are  want- 
ing, simply  because  their  existence  was  impos- 
sible. The  requisite  subjects  which  render 
snnals  desirable  had  not  yet  been  revealed, 
though  no  doubt  there  was  plenty  of  incident, 
many  revolutions,  nomadic  wanderings,  and 
the  strangest  mutations,  which,  though  they 
give  occasion  to  poetry,  have  no  historic  value, 
because  not  being  yet  related  to  law  they  may 
boast  of  no  distinclniess  as  transactions,  and  no 
deamess  as  objects  of  human  consciousness.  In- 
dian literature  abounds  in  illustration  of  this, 
by  which  we  are  made  acquainted  with  a  land 
rich  in  intellectual  products,  and  those  of  the 

Bteptigo  H6,  rol  L,  New  Seriea. 


Erofoundest  order  of  thought,  but  without  any 
istory.  Instead  of  this,  India  presents  us 
with  ancient  books  relating  to  religion,  splendid 
poems,  and  early  codes,  which,  under  certain 
conditions,  might  have  served  as  the  material 
for  history,  but  under  those  that  actually 
existed  were  never  employed    for  any  such 

Eurpose.  A  German  writer  accounts  lor  this 
y  the  impulse  of  orgtmisation,  which,  in  be- 
ginning to  develop  social  distinctions,  was  in 
that  country  immediately  petrified  in  the 
classification  according  to  castes.  The  sub- 
jective, or  spiritual,  element,  was  not  yet  de- 
veloped, and  in  its  absence  the  laws  concerning 
civil  rights  were  made  dependent  on  exclusive 
natural  distinctions,  lliey  were  especially  oc- 
cupied with  determining  the  relations  (Wrongs 
rather  than  Rights)  of  the  various  classes 
towards  each  other,  and  especially  the  privi- 
leges of  the  higher  over  the  lower. 

Under  such  conditions,  imagination,  to  supply 
a  great  social  want,  generated  what  we  have 
called  poetry,  which  supplied  in  the  ideal  what 
was  absent  from  the  actual.  In  this,  and  the 
need  for  this,  lies  the  required  apology  for  the 
origin  of  poetry,  which  filled  a  void  that,* while 
it  remained  unoccupied,  was  doomed  to  waste 
and  desolation.  Here  was  room  for  its  crea- 
tions, and  for  the  exercise  of  its  fancies.  And 
now  the  wilderness  began  to  blossom  as  the  rose. 
A  new  pleasure  had  been  invented ;  also  a  new 
pain.  For  Byron  was  correct  when  he  wrote 
that  '*  Pain  and  Pleasure  are  two  names  for 
one  feeling.^*  A  state  of  consciousness  was 
awakened  that  till  then  had  slumbered;  the 
instrument  and  agent  of  such  awakening  being 
the  feeling  of  pain.  Such  pain  even  becomes 
an  element  of  worship,  for  in  it  the  sorrowful 
worshipper,  according  to  the  learned  dictum  of 
a  great  modem  sage,  realises,  in  a  certain  anta- 
gonism, his  own  subjectivity  ;  at  once  indulging 
self -consciousness  and  recognising  the  presence 
of  actual  existence.  Two  principles  are  blended 
in  one,  and  a  unity  produced  in  which  light 
and  darkness,  life  and  death,  are  reconciled. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  poetry  was,  in  the 
earliest  times,  found  assisting  in  the  worship  of 
Adonis ;  the  best  of  worship,  namely,  that  of 
grief.  It  is  in  the  celebration  of  the  death  of 
Adonis,  we  are  told  by  the  authority  just  re- 
ferred to,  and  of  his  resurrection,  that  the 
concrete  is  made  conscious.  For  poetry  only 
improves,  not  invents.  The  story  of  Adonis 
is  that  of  a  youth  who  is  torn  from  his  parents 
by  a  too  early  death,  an  accident  regaixied  by 
the  ancients  as  exceptional.  To  them  it  bore  a 
miraculous  sort  of  character,  and  was  thus 
elevated  into  a  spiritual,  even  a  divine  event. 
The  death  of  parents  is  natural — a  debt  to  be 
duly  and  unreluctantly  paid.  "But  when  a 
youth,"  says  the  critical  interpreter  of  the 
myth,  "  is  snatched  away  by  death,  the  occur- 
rence is  regarded  as  contrary  to  the  proper 
order  of  things.  While  affliction  at  the  death 
of  parents  is  no  just  affliction,  in  the  case  ot 
youth  death  is  a  paisAoiL.  kii^  >i}ttNa  Sa  >5}wi 
deeper  element  Va  tYve  conee^WoTL— \Xv^"<»*v£^  *^^ 
divmity    supposed,    iiei^\.Vv\\;^,    KnXaJiJassft^N  *^ 


t 


^ 


& 


66      r^imo  19, 1869.] 


AUi  THE  YEAR  ROUOT}. 


[Condoetedtiy 


manifested ;  and  that  the  worship  rendered  to 
him  involyes  both  elements — the  pain  felt  for 
the  diyinity  snatched  away,  and  tke  joy  oeca- 
sioned  by  his  being  foimd  again/* 

In  this  beautiful  myth,  after  all,  poetiy  has, 
perhaps,  but  sublimated  the  phenomenal,  and 
transformed  the  simply  natural  into  the  divine. 
The  culture,  however  spiritual  in  its  results, 
differed  nothing  from  the  method  by  which  the 
political  idea  related  itself  to  social  conditions. 
Adonis  was  probably  the  sun.  The  festival  in 
his  honour  resembled  the  worship  of  Osiris :  a 
funeral  festival,  at  which  the  women  broke  out 
into  extravagant  lamentations  over  the  departed 
deity.  These  lamentations  were  embodied  in  a 
song  which  Herodotus  called  Maneros,  after 
the  only  son  of  the  first  king  of  the  Egyptians, 
who  died  prematurely.  It  is  the  only  song  the 
Egyptians  have,  ana  the  same  as  the  Linus 
song  of  the  Greeks.  In  this  the  divinity  of 
pain  is  recognised.  Three  leading  ideas  are 
recognisable  in  the  poetic  embodiment  and  the 
devout  ceremoniaL  Osiris,  the  sun,  the  Nile, 
are  all  employed  as  symbols,  and  referred  to 
the  same  primitive  imity.  And  thus  the  ima- 
gination, in  initiating  a  religion  of  sorrow, 
uttered  its  complaints  in  lyric  verse,  in  which 
the  moral  nature  of  man  and  the  physical 
structure  of  the  imiverse  combined  with  each 
other  in  forming  a  mythology,  the  two-fold 
elements  of  which  refer  us  to  the  opposite 
principles  in  which  it  originated,  and  render  it 
equally  capable  of  an  ideal  and  a  sensuous  in- 
terpretation. 

Fanciful  as  these  creations  were,  they  might 
have  changed  daily,  but  for  the  invention  of 
verse,  which,  by  means  of  a  metrical  arrange- 
ment and  a  peculiar  diction,  fixed  in  a  perma- 
nent form  the  verbal  expression  of  poetical 
ideas,  together  with  their  rhythmical  flow,  and 
thus  enabled  the  memory  to  preserve  them  as 
precious  utterances  of  truth.  Before  the  art 
of  writing  existed,  such  an  aid  to  memory  was 
specially  welcome,  and  the  golden  verses  thus 
enunciated  were  repeatedly  sung  by  their 
hearers,  and  transmitted  to  others,  even  of  a 
distant  day  and  generation.  It  also  became 
an  art  to  invent  symbolic  poems,  in  which  the 
natural  and  the  spiritual  should  mutually  illus- 
trate each  other,  not  by  way  of  allegory,  but 
as  twin  portions  of  an  original  whole,  botli  of 
which  were  supposed,  though  erroneously,  to 
be  equally  knowable  to  the  wise.  The  poet 
and  the  philosopher  were  the  same,  and  con- 
tinued to  be  so  long  after  poetry  was  written  ; 
nor  could  the  introduction  of  prose  avail  to 
separate  them,  until  comparatively  modern 
times,  when  the  distinction  was  seen  to  be 
convenient  to  prevent  the  confusion  which 
had  so  long  identified  the  fields  of  fancy 
and  fact.  Even  history  was,  at  first,  written 
in  verse,  and  imagination  permitted  to  domi- 
nate in  its  statements ;  and  it  remains  to  this 
day  difficult  for  the  student  to  distinguish  be- 
tween actual  occurrences  and  the  fables  sub- 
stituted  for  them  in  the  earliest  records  of  the 
jTtce,  in  which  poetry  and  religion  are  almost 
inextricably  idenU&ed,     Mmy    arts,    indeed, 


were  then  represented  by  the  same  individual, 
who  was  at  once  theologian,  physiologist, 
speculative  and  practical  philosopher,  states- 
man, lawgiver,  poet,  orator,  or  musician.  And 
while  the  doctrines  and  precepts  connected 
with  these  were  delivered  orally,  and  until 
they  were  collected  and  recorded,  the  form  of 
verse  preserved  them  in  the  memory  of  the 
hearers,  who  were  thus  enabled  to  repeat  them 
to  their  children,  and  at  their  public  festivals 
and  ceremonial  observances,  for  the  diversion 
and  instruction  of  the  whole  community. 

Even  at  a  later  period,  the  Greeks  had  no 
other  term  than  mvtic  for  naming  that  part  of 
their  system  of  education  which  had  express 
reference  to  the  cultivation  of  mind;  which 
term  is  therefore  employed  by  their  writers, 
both  historians  and  philosophers,  in  a  most 
comprehensive  sense.  The  fact,  indeed,  that 
the  term  music  was  thus  used  in  such  a  large 
and  inclusive  manner,  and  was  united  with 
poetry,  rehearsals,  and  imitative  gestures,  has 
helped  the  general  student  to  appreciate  more 
justly  the  *' musical  contests^  of  the  Greeks, 
which  exerted  the  greatest  influence  on  the 
people,  being  connected  with  the  four  most 
solenm  of  the  national  games,  the  Olympian, 
Pythian,  Isthmian,  and  Nemean,  and  also,  at 
Athens,  with  the  Fanathenaean  festival.  This 
last  was  one  of  the  highest  interest,  and 
attended  by  vast  multitudes.  By  the  anoint- 
ment of  Pericles,  the  contests  were  held  m  the 
Odeum,  an  edifice  specially  appropriated  for 
the  purpose.  The  competitors  in  these  contests 
were  required  to  possess  natural  abilities,  long 
and  laborious  preparation,  theoretical  and  prac- 
tical knowledge  of  their  art,  a  well-modulated 
voice,  and  skill  upon  the  musical  instruments 
which  accompanied  the  exercise,  usually  the 
lyre  or  harp.  Verse  and  music  were  wedded 
on  these  occasions,  as  the  ministers  of  beauty, 
and  were  assisted  by  the  eloquence  of  such 
men  as  Isocrates,  who  recited  his  famous  pane- 
g^c  at  one  of  these  festivals.  Dramatic  ex- 
hibitions were  also  given,  the  dialogue  pertain- 
ing to  which  was  always  written  in  verse. 
Both  verse  and  prose  had  due  honour  on  these 
occasions  ;  nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that  the 
writers  in  both  were  in  Greece  accustomed  to 
make  their  works  known  by  recitation  or  re- 
hearsal. They  read  or  rehearsed  by  themselves, 
or  by  proxy,  sometimes  procuring  it  to  be  done 
by  others,  in  order  to  avail  themselves  of  t3xe 
opinion  of  hearers  and  judges ;  and  this  they 
did  both  publicly  and  privately.  The  practice 
has  been  partly  revived  in  our  days,  and  more 
than  one  author  has  recently  appeared  on  the 
platform  to  read  in  public  his  effusions.  It  had 
its  origin  in  an  early  Greek  custom,  mentioned 
by  Homer;  according  to  which,  lyric  songs 
and  epic  rhapsodies  were  sung  by  the  poets 
themselves,  or  by  other  singers,  who,  as  well 
as  the  poets,  played  upon  musical  instruments. 

There  is  the  same  motive  and  occasion  fw 
verse  in  modem  as  in  ancient  times.  It  is  the 
appropriate  expression  of  delicate  and  refined 
ideas  and  sentiments,  which  will  scarcely  bear 
the  compwcSitiyeLy  rough  handling  of  robust 


TOM  BUTLER. 


[June1>,l«aj     G7 


prow.  Soatbvj  hu  jnstty  obeerred  on  thiK 
point,  that,  "alUionch  it  u  in  Tsrse  that  the 
moat  coaaammAte  skiB  in  oompiMition  h  to  be 
looked  for,  and  all  the  arUncc  of  languagt' 
dispUycd,  jet  it  is  in  verse  only  that  we  throw 
off  the  joke  o!  the  world,  and  arc  os  it  were 
priTileged  to  utter  oor  deepest  and  holicat  feeU 
mps."  What  mnttitodes  in  this  day  beocfit  by 
thiB  piivileKe  I    Heaoe  the  number  of  metrical 

I  TolamcB  wUch  hare  no  other  value  than  that 
of  personal  note-books,  and,  are  probably 
read  only  by  thdr  writers,  or  glanced  at  only 
by  their  renewera  to  bo  ridiculed.  There  ia 
some  craelty  in  this,  though  tlie  treatment  is 
natural,  for  by  worldly  men  the  feelings  them- 
wires  which  Buch  renes  register  are  gene- 
rally receiTCd  with  derinon.  Yet,  ae  Soathoy 
■gain  remark!,  in  rmpect  to  such  feelings, 
"  poetry  may  be  called  the  salt  of  the  earUi ; 
for  we  express  in  it,  and  receive  in  it  aenti. 
meuta  for  which,  were  it  not  in  this  peroiitted. 
medium,  tlie  usages  of  tlie  world  would  neither 
allow  utterance  nor  acceptance."  Verse,  then, 
even  in  these  days  when  prose  is  in  the  as- 
cendant, has  its  vocation  ;  and  its  use  is  of  a 
beoeflceat  character,  good  in  its  primary  ex- 
ereiw,  aitd  good  in  the  influence  which  it  eierts 
«a  otbeiB,  in  the  first  place  on  the  friends  and 
acquaintance  of  the  metrical  amateur,  and  in 
the  next,  perhaps,  on  the  world  beyond.  Kone, 
indeed,  can  tell,  as  Southey  haa  asserted.  Low 
mnch  more  selfish,  how  much  worse  we  should 
bave  been  in  all  moral  and  intellectual  respects, 
had  it  not  heen  for  the  unnoticed  and  unsus- 
pected influence  of  this  preservative.  Much 
even,  he  says,  of  that  poetry,  which  is  i 
oompoaition  worthless,  or  absolutely  bad, 
tribotes  to  this  good.  Surely,  tins  consideration 
alone  ia  a  sufficient  Apology  for  Verse. 

I  


TOM   BUTLER. 

A  BOT'S  UBBO.      in  BIX  GH&PTEKS. 
OBAPHB  lU.      UHCLB  JACK. 

About  &iee  years  later,  when  I  am  ont 
on  some  foray  through  the  streets,  a  large 
hand  claps  me  on  the  back,  and  a  larger 
voice  ainga  out  cheerily,  "  Halloa,  my  boy, 
I  this  yon!"  For  the  moment,  I  conld  not 
reccdlect;  bnt  having  only  a  limited  ronnd 
of  aoqnaintaucee;  memory  in  a  second  laid 
ita  finger  npon  the  nohlc,  chivalrous,  valiant, 
aod  ^lant  Tom.  Not  mnch  changed  in 
his  face,  thongh  his  nose  had  grown  more 

Soiline,  bnt  a  great  deal  in  his  clothes. 
)  was  an«yed  in  a  snperb  blue  &ock  coat, 
with  gold  down  the  &ont,  a  crimson  sash, 
and  golden  oyster  shells  on  his  shoulders ; 
in  fact,  he  was  an  officer,  and  this  he  called 
histmdrcss.  "Well,  who'd  have  thought 
itf"  he  said;  "and  how  have  yon  bcenF 
Do  yoa  ramember  the  licking  t  gave  the 
Frenchman?  Now  we  can  go  at  tfacm  in 
the  regnlitr  injr,  aad  no  oao  can  atop  na. 


Comp,  where  are  yom  going  ?"  We  walked, 
and  he  told  me  all  his  adventures.  I  think 
now  Achat  a  realbj  good-natured  and  quite 
a  chivalrous  fellow  he  was,  and  how  few  of 
his  cloth  would  be  inclined  to  "  be  bothered" 
with  a  boy.  He  told  me  how  the  "poor 
governor  had  gone  under  at  lost,  and  was 
buried  in  the  English  burying- ground. 
He  never  liked  me  \  and  the  poor  old  duffer 
was  shamed  into  getting  me  this.  It 
only  cost  him  a  letter,  but  faith  it  costs  mo 
a  deal.     That  don't  matter,  so  long  as  it 

The  renewing  of  this  acqnaintancebrongbfc 
.  some  delightful  days.  He  gmoionsly  said 
he  would  make  a  point  of  coming  to  see 
"  my  people,"  who  received  him  with 
distinction,  though  he  did  not  know  liow 
often  I  had  been  warned  against  his  com- 
pany. His  ready  off-band  manner,  his  loud 
laugli,  his  stories,  his  honest  good  humour, 
at  once  established  bim  as  a  bvourite.  Ho 
came  to  dine  very  often  ;  he  had  infiuencc 
with  the  head  of  the  house,  and  could  make 
her  do  what  ho  pleased^in  reference  to 
me.  But  poor  Simpson,  ouv  governess,  he, 
so  to  speak,  floored.  Her  be  could,  indeed, 
persnadeto  do  whathe  pleased.  Her  heart, 
never  before  invaded  by  the  sweet  seduction 
of  the  gentle  passion,  and  which,  at  most, 
bad  but  a  severe  and  intellectnat  communion 
with  Lindlcy  Murray  and  Mr.  Mangnall, 
was  now  literally  bunt  into  by  the  gallant 
Tom.  He  was  very  good-natured  to  her. 
He  was  so  amneing.  He  used  to  sing,  too, 
in  a  rude  way ;  but  like  such  inbarmonions 
songsters  was  passionately  fond  of  the  uli. 
Ho  was  always  interposing  between  me  and 
retribution  or  ruin.  As  this  pleasant  friend- 
ship was  renewed,  an  event  occnrrcd  which 
seemed  to  mo  to  combine  extraordinary 
dramatic  significance ;  and  the  circumstances 

One  morning  t^erc  was  an  astonishing 
commotion.  Up  on  the  Mont  Blanc  of  onr 
house  wo  heard  betimes  strange  sounds  and 
ecufflings  towards  the  Grand  Mulets  below. 
Scouts  at  the  window,  half  dressed  scouts, 
too,  hanging  out,  reported  with  delight, 
"  That  there  was  a  horae  walking  up  and 
down."  This  was  always  an  incident  of 
surprise  and  speculation,  much  as  would 
bo  the  entry  of  such  aa  object  on  the  stage. 
Tbere  were  presently  agitated  deacendings 
and  rustlings.  Miss  Simpson  abandoned 
her  sentry-boJt  and  musket,  onr  vigilant 
maid  did  the  same,  and  the  whole  barrack, 
rrith  a  true  and  amazing  insCCi'LCI, IWV.  %i^- 
ticipated  logic  or  mformatxo'a,  "\nierr&i  'Ona.^. 
something  oE  vast  inv^cfitoaica  ^-aA  ^s^tt-a 


<tB: 


68      [Jvne  19, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condaotad  by 


place,  and  that  we  might  give  OTirselves 
over  to  uniyersal  riot  and  breakage— which 
we  did  accordingly. 

The  morning  went  on,  and  we  heard 
nothing.  First,  because  no  one  felt  bonnd 
to  offer  OS  the  courtesy  of  an  explanation, 
and  naturally  enough  thought  we  had  no 
need  of  it ;  and,  secondly,  because  so  long 
as  we  were  assured  of  liberty  and  relaxed 
discipline,  we  were  not  inclined  to  be  too 
nice  on  the  point.  I  am  bound  to  say,  it 
was  to  the  bursting  importance  of  a  superior 
intelligence  that  we  at  last  owed  the  news. 
For  Miss  Simpson,  restless  and  swelling 
with  importance,  could  not  long  restrain 
herself,  and  imparted  the  cause  of  the  com- 
motion. The  man  on  the  horse,  who  had 
long  since  ridden  away,  was  an  "  express  " 
from  the  country. 

"  Come  here,  Jane,  come  here.  You^  sir, 
come  here,  and  be  serious  for  a  moment. 
Let  that  chair  alone.    I  declare  if  he  hasn't 

cracked  the  leg "     Thus  grouped  we 

listened. 

A  dreadful  and  unexpected  business  had 
taken  place.  It  was  slowly  and  impres- 
sively broken  to  us.  Miss  Simpson  began : 
**  Death  was  a  dreadful  and  an  awful  thing. 
Wo  must  all  submit  to  it,  the  highest  as 
well  as  the  lowest — ^there  was  no  escape. 
Even  Lady  Jane  Mortimer  opposite,  who 
drove  the  lovely  greys."  Adopting  the 
more  immediate  illustration,  entirely  to  the 
prejudice  of  what  it  was  meant  to  illustrate, 
I  instinctively  turned  to  look  out  of  the 
window,  and  see  the  spectacle  alluded  to, 
which  for  me  had  an  exquisite  charm.  On 
this  I  was  dragged  rudely  round,  and  told, 
as  usual,  that  I  would  end  disgracefully. 
But  the  point  of  the  whole  was  this :  our 
dear  great  uncle,  of  whom  we  had  often 
heard  our  good  mamma  speak,  one  of  the 
best  of  men  (my  eyes  were  widening  with 
wonder,  who  could  it  be  ?),  the  kind  friend 
who  was  so  thoughtful,  who  used  to  send 
up  the  hampers  at  Christmas  (now  I  knew), 
had  gone,  had  lefb  this  weary  world,  and 
wo  would  never,  never  see  him  again ! — a 
prospect,  considering  that  I  had  never  yet 
seen  him,  which  did  not  affect  me  much. 
But  I  had  logic  enough  to  see  that  his  de- 
parture would  matenally  affect  the  recur- 
ring hampers. 

But  we  little  anticipated  the  surprises  of 
that  most  dramatic  day.  There  was  advice 
and  consultation  with  Mr.  John ;  his  sug- 
gestions were  received  with  docility  and 
respect.  I  caught  those  words  of  his: 
^^T^e  captain  would  he  home  at  nine 
'clock,  please  God,  and  then  we'd  know.  \ 


Don't^  don't  worry  yourself  ma*am,  and 
we'll  all  come  right  in  time."  Then  ar- 
rived Mr.  Bickers,  who  on  occasions  of 
moral  crises  was  as  indispensable,  and  came 
up  the  stairs  in  the  same  way,  as  the  great 
family  doctor  in  an  illness.  He  had  been 
sent  for,  and  he  came,  as  it  were,  pro- 
fessionally. All  that  day  he  was  on  the 
premises,  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
drinking  sherry,  declaiming,  giving  advice, 
generally  speaking,  as  to  himself  and  his 
advice,  not  worth  a  rush.  He  read  out, 
"  A  fine  passage,  ma'am,"  from  Bowdler's 
sermons,  which  I  was  sent  for  to  listen  to. 
"The  great  leveller,  ma'am,"  he  was  say- 
ing as  I  entered — "  the  scythe,  the  scythe, 
ma'am  !  Well,  sir,  how  do  you  feel  now — 
under  the  valley  of  the  shadow  ?  Have 
you  come  to  that  chapter  in  your  cate- 
chism ?" 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Bickers,  I  am  sorry  to  say 
he  seems  very  little  aJive  to  the  awful 
visitation  that  has  occurred.  There  is  a 
sort  of  levity  about  him  that  is  incompre- 
hensible. But  it  will  break  on  him  at  last. 
How  fine  the  words  of  the  burial  service. 
Ah!" 

Here  entered  my  two  sisters,  who  were 
composed,  amiable  little  hypocrites !  to  a 
decent  and  subdued  bearing.  There  was 
apparent  even  such  hasty  tributes  of  respect 
to  the  deceased,  as  a  black  ribbon  tied 
round  their  waists  in  an  enormous  bow. 
This  was  of  course  provisional,  en  attendant 
a  more  organised  display  of  grief  which 
Miss  Simpson  was  at  this  moment  pur- 
chasing at  a  shop. 

"Nothing  could  have  been  nicer,"  I 
heard  it  whispered  to  Mr.  Bickers,  "  than 
the  behaviour  of  those  girls.  I  assure  you 
women  of  fifty  would  not  have  shown  more 
sorrow." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  people  at  that 
time  of  life  would  have  exhibited  less ;  and 
if  I  had  not  been  living  under  penal  laws, 
I  should  perhaps  have  ventured  on  the  re- 
mark ;  but  at  this  moment  I  already  saw 
the  artist  who  had  made  the  famous  green 
frock  crossing  the  street,  and  coming  up 
our  steps  with  an  air  of  recognition.  He 
had  seen  me,  and  pleasantly  imitated,  in  a 
sort  of  pantomime,  the  art  of  measurement. 
Mr.  Bickers  was  at  that  moment  sonorously 
expatiating  on  "the  fine  passage"  in  the 
burial  service,  to  which  the  little  ladies,  so 
well  brought  up,  were  listening,  I  fear, 
with  only  the  respect  of  unintelligence, 
Avhen  the  spectacle  ot  the  arriving  artist 
seemed  to  me  of  such  overwhelming  im- 
portance, and  ^a&  so  dramatic,  that  I  burst 


A 


%^ 


CSharies  Diokens.] 


TOM  BUTLER. 


[June  19, 1861.]       69 


in  on  the  "fine  passage  in  onr  bnrial 
service"  with  the  inopportnne  remark, 
made  in  a  rude,  enthusiastic, "  blurted- out" 
&ahion : 

"  Oh,   I  say  !  here's  the   tailor.      He's 
coining  to  measure  me  !" 

Mr.  Bickers  looked  angry  and  offended. 
"Take  him  away !"  was  Qie  cry.  "  Go  up 
stairs,  sir  !"  But  it  was  true — quite  true. 
The  tailor  had  been  sent  for  to  accom- 
modate me  with  a  suit  which  would  figure 
in  the  bill  as  "  an  extra  double-milled  wire- 
wove  superfine  black  jacket,"  with  every- 
thing to  match;  and  the  operation  was 
got  through  with  speed.  More  marvellous 
still,  it  was  to  be  sent  home  in  the  morn- 
ing. There  were  other  signs  and  wonders. 
My  quick  eye  had  noted  motion  and 
general  operafions  in  the  stable,  and,  steal- 
ing oat,  I  found  John  in  the  act  of  what 
he  called  "  shamying "  the  green  chariot. 
But  he  was  mysterious  about  that  great 
&mily  monument,  and  declined  to  admit 
me  into  confidence.  "  We'd  see  to-morrow 
or  next  day  " — ^a  term  which,  unknown  to 
Hm,  corresponded  to  the  popular  ;relega- 
tion  to  the  Greek  kalends  —  things,  of 
oonrse,  of  which  he  had  never  heard.  A 
more  interesting  spectacle  was  his  opera- 
tions with  the  lamps,  into  which  he  was 
fitting  candles.  He  said  this,  too,  would 
be  explained  "to-morrow  or  next  day." 
It  was  most  singular.  Death,  it  really 
seemed  to  me,  without  irreverence,  was 
a  most  singular,  mysterious,  yet  not  un- 
interesting thing,  since  it  brought  with  it 
such  dramatic  events,  carriage  lamps,  &c., 
and,  above  all,  suspension  of  house  dis- 
cipline. Dinner,  even,  of  which  Mr. 
Bickers  was  induced  to  stay  and  partake, 
was  got  over  in  a  spasm,  after  which  he 
walked  np  and  down,  and  I  well  remember, 
in  the  absence  of  the  head  of  the  house, 
got  into  a  discussion  with  Miss  Simpson, 
who,  presuming  on  the  crisis  and  general 
hasaez  fidre  established,  had  supported  an 
opinion.  "Ma'am,"  I  heard  him  say, 
distinctly,  "  you  are  a  fool .'" — a  rudeness 
to  which  she  replied  by  rising  and  leaving 
the  room,  saymg  that  *'he  quite  forgot 
himself,  and  that  no  gentleman  would  ad- 
dress any  lady  in  that  way."  Everybody 
sat  up  verj  late  that  night. 

On  the  next  morning  there  was  greater 
joy  and  excitement  in  the  house.  John 
was  heard  below  in  the  hall  saying  to  some 
one,  "  Then,  indeed,  it's  I  that  am  glad  to 
see  yon,  captain!  Welcome  a  thousand 
times  finom  over  the  mountains,  captain," 
fer  with  a  profnsian  ofibia  sort  of  Eastern  I 


salutation  did  he  usuaDy  love  to  greet  his 
friends.    Down  we  came  stumbling,  scram- 
bling ;  female  voices  were  heard  more  faintly 
behind,  for  "  the  captain  " — Uncle  Jack — 
was  infinitely  popular  in  that  house.     Be- 
tween me  and  him  especially  there  was  a 
community  and  fellowship,  bom  of  similar 
tastes.     He  understood  me ;  every  one  un- 
derstood him.     He  was  long  and  lame,  had 
a  hooked  "  Duke's"  nose,  and,  indeed,  he 
was  said  to  resemble  that  eminent  com- 
mander, but  with  the  gentlest,  softest  blue 
eyes.     His  history  was  said  to  be  curious ; 
the  youngest  of  innumerable  younger  sons, 
with  a  conmiission  begged  for  him,  cer- 
tainly not  purchased,  he  had  been  sent  out 
from  his  native  bogs  with — ^he  often  told  it 
— "  a  five-pound  note  in  his  pocket."     Yet 
from  that  hour  he  wanted  nothing,  and  his 
own  father  owned  sometimes,  "  he  must 
say  that  from  the  day  Jack   left  him  he 
had  never  written  for  so  much  as  twenty 
pounds  in  all  his  life."     A  scarcely  fair 
way  of  putting  it,  as  implying  that  appli- 
cation had  been  made  for  sums  lower  in 
amount  by  Uncle  Jack,  who  owned  to  me 
modestly,  that  he  could  never  bring  him- 
self to  trouble  them  for  sixpence.     God 
knows,  he  said,  they  had  mouths  enough  to 
fill.     From   that  hour  he    never  wanted 
anything,  simply  because  he  never  wanted 
friends.     Generals  clung  to  him  with  an 
almost  romantic  friendship,  and,  as  these 
were     "jobbing"     days,     one     of    them 
triumphantly    carried    through     a    most 
flagrant  job,  triumphing  in  the  interest  of 
his  friend  Jack.     He  was  not  forty,   but 
was  placed  on  the  retired  list  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  full  pay.     He  used  to  relate  the 
stages  of  that  corrupt    transaction,   half 
comically,  half  with  a  little  shame.     "  To 
think  of  my  useless  four  bones  costing  the 
country  all  that,  and  with  all  those  honest 
hard-working  feUows  struggling  to  make 
both  ends  meet."     He  had  a  charming 
little  villa  and  farm  combined,  far  down  in 
the  country,  which  bore  the  name  of  Lota, 
and  where  it  was  known  that  Uncle  Jack 
kept  the  best  horse,  and  the  neatest  little 
carriage,  and  the  best  dog,  with  a  good 
gun,  and  a  good  bottle  of  wine,  and  a  jar 
of  whisky   "that  was  worth    drinking." 
Indeed,  these  things  came  to  him  without 
trouble,   of  course  allowing  for  his  own 
nice  judgment  in  such  matters,  having  the 
"best  eye  for  a  horse  in  the  whole  country." 
As  may  be  conceived,  his  gentle  nature  was 
turned  to  profit  by  numerous  redxxo.^^  t^ 
lations   who   liad   B\at\jed  i^x   Twyc^  «vxar 
piciously  in  tlie  -worVd,  and  ^^io  xlq^  cRra.- 


#= 


^ 


-^ 


70      [Jane  19. 1869] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


[Gondnctedby 


sidered  "  Jack  "  as  one  who  liad  had  un- 
fair advantages.  Many  was  the  ten-pound 
note  that  went  off  to  these  applicants,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  little  annuity  here  and 
there.  By  gentlemen  of  his  jGaimily  the 
honour  of  Uncle  Jack*s  name  to  their  bills 
was  eagerly  sought ;  but  on  this  point  he 
was  inflexible.  Here,  too,  they  considered 
they  were  scurvily  treated,  and  loudly  in- 
veighed against  tfack's  selfishness,  he  who 
had  such  advantages,  being  "  pushed  on  " 
in  every  way;  and  they  grudgingly  ac- 
cepted the  twenty  pounds  or  so,  which  was 
humbly  offered  afi  a  solatium.  Such  a  loan 
was,  of  course,  but  a  handsome  synonym 
for  gifl. 

It  was  always  gala  time  for  us  when 
Uncle  Jack  arrived  from  the  country, 
and  put  up  at  our  hostelry.  Between 
him  and  me  there  was  the  most  perfect 
accord,  chiefly  as  to  mechanical  taste — 
repairs,  shaxpenings,  &c.  He  knew  the 
most  acceptable  present  he  could  offer  me 
was  a  penknife,  which  he  usually  chose 
of  beautiful  workmanship,  and,  knowing 
beforehand  that  it  would  be  seized  by  the 
officers  of  justice  and  confiscated,  he,  with 
rare  delicacv,  stipulated  with  the  authorities 
that  I  should  be  allowed  to  retain  it.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  this  engagement  was  only  held 
to  during  his  presence,  as  some  fatal  wilful- 
ness was  sure  to  precipitate  me  into  an 
unmeaning  overt  act,  such  as  cutting  open 
a  "  darby  '  to  look  at  his  springs,  or  in 
gashing  my  thumb  frightfully.  Imbrued 
in  my  own  blood,  I  was  seized  and  never 
saw  the  instrument  again. 

CHAPTER  IV.      AN  EXPEDinON. 

The  present  occasion  was  too  serious  for 
these  delassements.  An  agitated  council 
was  held  almost  in  the  hall,  and  I  heard 
the  question  put,  "  Well,  can  you  go  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  my  dear,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Then  that's  all  right.  And  the  chariot 
is  ready,  and  John,  and " 

"O,  tut,  nonsense!"  protested  Uncle 
Jack.  "  Indeed,  no.  To  be  battering  your 
beautiful  carriage  all  down  the  country 
roads.  No.  I'll  just  get  a  chaise  comfort- 
ably from  Baker's." 

He  shrank  from  the  profanity  of  laying 
hands  on  the  sacred  vehicle,  which  he  re- 
verenced as  though  it  had  newly  come  from 
Hooper's.  But  such  protest  was  unavail- 
ing. That  good  fellow,  Tom  Butler,  had 
at  once  volunteered  to  go  down,  and  repre- 
sented affecting  even  a  kind  of  interest  in  the 
deceased,  having  met  him,  he  said,  some- 
--*—  -^  dinner.     This kindneaa  waa  so  like 


Tom,  and  was  really  delicacy  on  his  side, 
for  he  knew  that  in  these  mortuary  arrange- 
ments, a  handsome  show  and  an  air  of  crowd 
and  pomp,  while  it  soothes  the  poignancy 
of  grief,  at  the  same  time  ministers  to  the 
pride  of  the  living.  Mr.  John  was  presently- 
taken  into  council,  as  if  he  was  an  "  elder, ' 
and  seemed  to  speak  with  great  collected- 
ness,  graviiy,  and  weight,  with  many  a  "  So 
best,"  "  So  be  it,"  and  was  listened  to  with 
respect.  The  past  was  utterly  forgotten, 
and  the  captain,  who  respected  him  highly, 
said  he  must  own  that  John  had  made  the 
coach  "  look  better  than  the  first  day.  Tou 
could  see  yourself  in  it."  Mr.  John  took  this 
compliment  modestly,  and  '*  must  say  that, 
as  fiEir  as  '  shamying'  went,  and  polishing 
he  had  spared  neither  wind,  limb,  or  bone> 
I  almost  think  he  was  going  to  add  some- 
thing about  being  "heart-scalded;"  hxA, 
in  delicacy  to  the  situation,  he  refrained. 
After  we  were  led  away  up  to  bed,  a  new 
surprise  was  in  store  for  us.  We  were  just 
going  to  sleep,  when  a  deputation  seemed 
to  fill  the  room,  dazzling  lights  to  multiply, 
and  a  crowd  to  enter.  The  crowd  was 
only  the  head  of  our  house  and  the  captain. 

"  There's  news  for  you,  my  boy,"  he  said. 
^*  Mamma  has  given  leave,  and  you  can  go 
in  the  back  seat.  Will  you  be  ready  at 
seven  sharp  ?" 

**  Miss  Simpson  will  get  him  up,  and  his 
new  clothes  have  come  back." 

"  That's  a  good  lad,"  said  the  captain. 
"  And  I'll  bet  my  new  hat  it's  a  fine  account 
I'll  bring  back  of  him.  Tou  won't  mind 
sitting  behind  with  John  in  the  dickey^-for 
a  time,  that  is ;  but  we'll  have  you  in  now 
and  again,  my  boy,  on  the  foldii^-up  seat." 

Mind  the  dickey  behind !  Why,  it  was 
the  very  spot  I  would  have  chosen — ^the 
paradise  of  the  vehicle— with  the  soxmy 
day,  the  quick  motion,  above  all,  that  trans- 
lation into  a  genuine  actual  reality,  instead 
of  the  meagre  coach-house  pantomime  oi 
clambering  into  a  merely  stationary  back 
seat — ^poor  enough  entertainment.  Now,  if 
I  was  so  minded,  I  could  rehearse,  with 
real  danger,  that  performance  of  mounting 
and  scaling  the  seat  hastily. 

It  was  hard  to  sleep  that  night,  but  it 
was  contrived  somehow.  Betimes  I  was 
awake,  and  saw  with  exquisite  delight  the 
new  extra  superfine  black  suit  lying  meeXty 
folded  beside  me.  There  was,  besides,  a 
hat,  about  the  size  of  a  little  flower-pot,  an 
article  without  which  it  was  inopossible  to 
have  the  true  air  of  mourning.  I  had  never 
had  one  on  my  head  before,  save,  of  course, 
in  the  way  of  sportive  experiment.     Once^ 


^ 


^ 


:&) 


Gkarlas  DickaiM.J 


TOM  BUTLER 


[June  19, 1869.]       71 


too,  I  had  fortively  tried  on  one  of  the 
€kK)dmans*  hats  wnich  was  lying  in  the 
halL 

^yerj  one  was  down.     The  captain  was 
exqnisitely  shaved,  even  at  that  early  honr, 
as  by  machinery.     The  brave  and  noble 
Tom  Butler  came  rattling  up  in  a  cab,  just 
in  time  for  the  really  sumptuous  meal  that 
was  set  out.     I  was  encouraged  to  partake 
laxgely  of  the  delicious  broiled  ham  and 
mutton  chops,  and,  more  succulent  still,  the 
richly  buttered  muffins,  which  strewed  the 
board  in  profosion.     Surely  the  only  moral 
I  triad  to  draw  was  that  mourning,  and  the 
stroke  that  brings  mourning,  must  be  a 
more  agreeable  thing  than  it  was  generally 
depicted,    and    that    those    well-meaning 
clergymen  whom  I  had  heard  from  the 
pulpit  asking  death  where  its  sting  was, 
and  the  grave  where  its  victory,  might  well 
panse  for  a  reply.    Victories  and  stings, 
indeed  1     The  embodied  muffins  and  fr^ 
ham  were  not  to  be  spoken  of  thus  unfairly. 
We  were  all  in  g^od  spirits,  too,  and  even 
gay,  the  captain  making  a  passing  allusion 
to  "poor  old  Ned's  wake,"  and  l^e  hearty 
Tom  rallying  Miss  Simpson  pleasantly.  At 
last  we  were  ready.    There  was  a  sound  of 
wheels,  and  soon  the  green  chariot  came 
dattermg  up  to  the  window,  shaking  and 
bobbing  on  its  C  springs.     The  postilion 
bad  quite  a  festive  air,  as  if  he  was  about 
to  take  in  a  wedding  party.    Heads  came 
to  the  other  windows  in  our  modest  street, 
finr  John  had  taken  care  to  let  the  news  get 
wind,  and  this  pagea&t  and  journey  imphed 
a  sort  of  magnificence  both  for  the  deceased 
and  those  who  mourned  him.     Finally  we 
emerged,  the  whole  family  on  the  steps  and 
about  the  hall,   the  captain,  in  his  dark, 
scarcely  black  suit,  I  alone  glistening  like  a 
litde  snake,  while  Tom,  who  had  ^ood- 
aatnredly  made    an   attempt    to  jom  in 
barmony  with  his  afflicted  companions,  did 
■ot  set  beyond  mere  neutral  tmts.    John, 
who  nad  ranged  down  the  steps  with  need- 
lasB  violence— a   recollection    of   his  old 
lacquey  days — stood  holding  the  door  open 
in  genuine  though   slightly  rusty  sables. 
To  say  the  truth,  these  mournful  occasions 
were  highly  to  his  taste,  and  ho  always 
requested  permission  to  attend  when  he 
thought  there  was  the  least  excuse  for  pay- 
ing that  last  mark  of  respect.     He  never 
lacked  a  seat,  and  there  were,  besides,  the 
inducements  of  the  dismal  decorations,  scarf 
and  hatband,  which  ornaments,  unbecoming 
to  a  degree,  he  wore  with  a  pride  and  com- 
placency the  most  splendid  livery  could 
not  have  extorted.  / 


The  captain  and  the  bravo  Tom  Butler 
were  both  seated  inside.  I  was  already  in 
the  "  dickey,"  yet  having,  alas  !  unluckily 
"blocked"  the  new  hat  against  the  G 
spring !  It  crushed  in  fearfully,  with  a 
half  crackle,  half  rustla  The  misfortune 
was  seen  by  Miss  Simpson  only,  but  she 
was  generous,  out  of  decency,  I  supposed, 
to  the  occasion;  otherwise  I  expected  to 
have  been  dragged  down  and  brought  up 
summarily  before  the  justices.  Then  the 
whip  cracked,  and  we  were  ofif. 

Delightfol  day!     We  were  posting  it, 
and  were  to  go  about  sixty  miles.    For  me 
it  was  a  new  sensation — ^the  freedom,  the 
keen  air,  the  motion,  the  commanding  ele- 
vation, even  the  jolting !  Above  all,  I  began 
to  be  gifted  with  an  amazing  fluency  and 
volubility,  and  invited  John  to  unfold  to 
me  experiences  of  his  amaziag  life,  which 
seemed  to  me  worthy  to  be  placed  beside 
some  of  the  adventurous  voyagers  whose 
stories  I  had  read  with  such  interest.     But 
with  an  almost  dramatic  relevancy,  he  con- 
fined himself  to  details  that  sprang,  as  it 
were,  from  our  present  attitude.      There 
was  a   posting  journey  from.  London  to 
Cheltenham,  "  on  the  loveliest  road,"  and 
on  which  he  had  met  the  famous  Colonel 
Berkeley,    himself  driving   four-in-hand, 
"and  the  two  grooms  sitting  up  behind 
with    their    arms    crossed — uie    loveliest 
brown  and  gold  liveries  on  them,  and  a 
lady,  the  creature !  alongside  of  him."  Then 
we  got  out  in  the  fine  smooth  country  roads 
— sfirips  of  grey  and  yellow  winding  out  like 
aribbon  of  arich green  silk  dressTuienahill 
rose  up  before  us  like  a  ladder,  and  we  had 
to  get  out  and  walk,  and  the  glass  was  let 
down  and  a  cloud  of  smoke  came  out — the 
captain  and  the  brave  Tom  Butler  smoking 
together.     They  talked  to  me  dieerfuUy, 
and  when  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill  there 
was  a  halt,  while,  mysterious  operation! 
we  all  assisted  in  putting  on  the  drag,    I 
loved  the  grinding  sound  as  we  scraped 
down  the  hilL     The  postilion  had  an  inte- 
rest for  me,  owing  to  the  strange  mechanism 
of  his  inner  boot— a  protection  against  the 
pole.     We  passed  little  villages,  all  scraps 
of  white  in  a  very  green  ground.     Then 
came  a  snowy  "  'pike,"  where  I  should  like 
to  have  Hved  and  taken  the  money,  and  in 
about  two  hours  drew  up  handsomely  at  an 
inn  called  The  Plough,  where  we  were  to 
change  horses.     Ostlers  came  out,  and  re- 
tired with  our  horses,  grown  very  lanky  of  a 
sudden.     I  heard  our  late  postilion  wishing 
"  long  life"  to  the  captain — \  \i^  no  ^wi!S\. 
a  sincere  wish — ^for  t\ie  ca-pVa^E  TCkKoaaax  oS. 


t 


(tS: 


^ 


72 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[June  19,  iset.] 


bestowing  a  half-crown  made  it  five  shil- 
lings, and  there  was  a  supplemental  wish 
that  he  might  drive  at  the  captain's  wedding. 
Then  we  rattled  off  with  a  plnnge,  Mr.  John 
being  savage,  for  I  had  called  aJI  right  from 
behind,  and  he  had  to  run  hard,  and  with 
difficulty  got  up. 

At  the  next  stage  all  the  voyagers  de- 
scended at  "  McCallum*s,'*  where  the  cap- 
tain recollected  stopping  fifteen  years  ago, 
and  where  there  was  actually  some  one  that 
recollected  him,  or  seemed  to  recollect  him. 
But,  in  truth,  there  was  in  the  captain's 
face  always  such  a  gracious,  kindly  recog- 
nition  of  his  fellow- creatures  who  were 
below  him  in  station,  that  it  seemed  the 
renewal,  as  it  were,  of  quite  an  old  acquaint- 
ance. So  when  he  had  greeted  Mrs. 
McCallum  warmly  and  gallantly,  also  tell- 
ing her  she  was  as  dangerous  as  she  was 
twenty  years  ago,  that  smart  lady  fair  re- 
collected the  visit  and  the  compliments  paid 
to  her. 

We  were  to  lunch  here.  I  remember  to 
this  hour  the  peculiar  fragrance  of  the  inn 
parlour,  the  air  half  of  beer,  half  the  flavour 
of  sawdust,  and  yet  not  disa^eeable.  Such 
ale — such  a  round  of  heel— such  cheese ! 
But  in  those  days  everything  had  "such" 
before  it,  from  the  want  of  a  frequent 
standard  of  comparison.  "  Cut  and  come 
again,"  said  the  captain,  who  took  good 
care  that  Mr.  John  should  be  carefully  at- 
tended to — ^possibly  a  superfluous  precau- 
tion. The  brave  Tom  was  in  boisterous 
spirits,  making  jokes,  and  eating  pro- 
digiously. What  I  admired  in  both  gentle- 
men was  their  amazing  command  of  easy 
conversation,  and  the  pleasant  rallying  they 
kept  up  with  Mrs.  McCallum — the  imagina- 
tion, the  ready  wit,  so  it  seemed  to  ma 
Nor  was  she  behindhand,  and,  I  dare  swear, 
talked  long  after  of  the  green  chariot  and 
the  two  pleasant  gentlemen  it  brought.  I 
was  greatly  delighted  with  the  series  of 
paintings,  as  they  appeared  to  me,  that 
hung  out  firom  the  walls  in  a  beetling 
manner,  as  if  they  were  going  to  fall  down 
on  our  heads.  Tney  were  of  an  absorbing 
dramatic  interest,  representing  passages  in 
the  life  of  a  huntsman — a  vast  and  confused 
crowd  of  red  coats,  and  a  number  of  very 
high  stocks  and  painted  "  gills."  The  cap- 
tain recognised  them  at  once.  "  Ay,  Tom 
Moody — ^poor  Tom  Moody — I  have  them  all 
down  at  Lota.     See,  there  he  is  going  over 


the  ha-ha,  and  there  they're  all  like  ourselves, 
bound  for  a  funeral.  We  haven't  as  long 
faces  as  they  have,  quite ;  eh,  Tom,  my  boy  r 
See  here.  Look  at  this  horse,  with  bis  whip 
and  his  spurs.     Immensely  well  done." 

Now  we  were  on  again,  with  fresh  horses^ 
and  Mrs.  McCallum  stands  curtsejring  and 
smihng  at  the  door,  and  I  am  oonvinoed 
she  feels  the  loss  of  the  captain  very  mndL 
I  recollect  now  the  captain  rallying  brave 
Tom,  on  something  that  occurred  in  the 
passage.  "When  my  back  was  turned 
too,"  said  the  captain — "  a  shame !  takmff 
advantage  of  an  elderly  veteran."  I  did 
not  know  then  what  this  joking  was  refeiv 
ring  to ;  but  I  think  I  can  make  a  guess 
now.  I  was  taken  inside  and  seated  on  a 
little  seat  contrived  to  let  up  and  down,  and 
never  was  so  entertained,  contributing  my- 
self no  inconsiderable  share  of  the  conversa- 
tion, and  being  invited  to  do  so.  Then  I 
was  asked  to  sing,  and  greatly  pressed  by 
the  captain,  who  said,  "  Mark  his  words ; 
but  I  would  astonish  them  yet  with  an  un- 
common fine  organ  of  my  own !"  I  gave 
them  my  cheval  de  bataiUe — ^the  Pilgrim  of 
Love,  Mr.  Incledon's,  I  believe,  favourite 
ditty,  which  I  had  found  in  an  old  red  music 
book  between  The  Battle  of  Prague  and  a 
song  called  the  Rosy  Beam  of  Morning.  I 
am  not  a  little  amused  to  see  that  this 
old  favourite  has  since  come  seriously  into 
fashion,  voiced  by  welkin-  splitting  tenors. 
The  captain's  own  gifts  were  of  a  modest 
sort,  confined  chiefly  to  a  gentle  accom- 
paniment of  "Turn,  ti,  tum,  de,  dee,  ti, 
turn,  tum,  toy."  Yet  he  could  play  on  a 
violin,  and  often  delighted  us  by  an  account 
of  doings  at  "  Mrs.  Dodd's  boarding  house 
— a  tip-top  place,"  where  he  lived  "  with 
the  best,"  about  the  time  quadrilles  came 
over  from  Prance,  and  where  the  passion 
for  the  dance  was  so  strong  that  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  would  begin  at  once  after 
luncheon,  closing  "  Dodd's"  shutters,  and 
lighting  up  the  rooms,  while  Uncle  Jack, 
good-natured  always,  would  sit  at  the  head, 
and  fiddle  "Payne's  Quadrille"  over  and 
over  again.     But  I  am  digressing. 

Kow  Beadj,  price  68.  6d.,  bound  in  green  cloth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

07  THl  NXW  SB&IB8  07 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  bad  of  til  Booluellers. 


The  Right  of  Translating  Articles  from  All  the  Yeab  Bound  is  reserved  ly  the  Authors. 


PubJiMhed  at  Ou  OOee,  No.  29,  Wdllfagtoo  Street,  Strand.    Printed  \yf  C.  Yl  nwa*,  ^••»l«n.  )^Q(«M,^\a«»4. 


HE5T0^-aE-0l/H:ll'?S5-JKpM-7^«<;TCi-Y£/il 


CONDUCTtOBY 

IS 

v;iTHWHlCBl5  rpcoFifartATED 

SATURDAY,  JUNE  2C,  18(il 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


BOOK  III. 

C3APTEE  Vn.  THB  SHATTERraO  01  TffH  IDOL. 
Tbb  tact  that  his  nieces  had  actually  loft 
the  shelter  of  his  roof,  although,  &a  he  had 
hitherto  believed,  that  roauit  hud  been 
hroaght  abont  by  their  own  wilfulness  and 
impatience  of  control,  came  upon  Mr.  Cres- 
well  with  almost  stunning  force.  Tme, 
Uarian  had  mentioned  to  him  that  it  was 
impossible  that  ahe  and  the  girls  conld  ever 
Ere  together  in  amity — true,  that  ho  him- 
self had  on  more  than  one  occasion  been 
9se  of  painiut  sconea  between  them — 
tme,  that  the  girls'  departnre  had  been 
talked  of  for  a  week  past  as  an  expected 
event,  and  that  the  preparations  for  it 
lay  before  his  eyea ;  bat  be  had  not  realised 
the  &ct;  his  mind  waa  so  taken  np  with 
the  excitement  of  the  coming  electicn 
contest,  that  he  bad  scarcely  noticed 
the  loggftge  throngh  which  he  had  oc- 
casion^y  to  thread  his  way,  or,  if  he  had 
noticed  it,  had  regarded  its  presence  there 
as  merely  a  piece  of  self-assertion  on  the 
part  of  impetnons  Maud  or  silly  Gertrnde, 
determined  to  show,  foolish  children  as 
they  were,  that  they  were  not  to  be  pnt 
down  by  Marian's  tlireats,  but  were  ready 
lo  start  independently  whenever  ench  a 
step  might  become  necessary.  That  Marian 
wonld  erer  allow  them  to  take  this  step, 
Mr.  Creswell  never  imagined;  bo  thonght 
there  had  always  been  smonldering  embers 

f  warfare,  needing  but  a  touch  to  hurst 
into  a  blaze,  between  his  wife  and  his 
nieces;  he  knew  that  they  had  never  "  hit 
it,"  as  he  phrased  it;  but  his  opinion  of 
Marian  was  ao  high,  and  big  truat  in  her 

1  gma^    tbAt  he  eoald  not  believe  she 


wonld    be    sufficiently   affected    by    these 
"  women's  tifis"  as  to  visit  them  with  s    ' 
disproportionate  pnnishment.     Even  in 
moment  of  adieu,  when  Gertrude,  making 
no  attempt  to  hide  her  tears,  had  eobbingly 
kissed  him  and  clung  abont  his  neck,  and 
Maud,   leas    demonstrative,    but  not    1 
affectionate,  had  prayed  God  bless  him  ij 
broken   voice — she  passed  Mrs.    Creswell 
with   a  grave   bow,   taking  no  notice  ( 
Marian's  extended  hand — the  old  man  conld 
scarcely  comprehend  what  was  taking  place, 
bnt  looked  across  to  his  wife,  hoping  she 
would  relent,  and  with  a  few  affectionate 
words  wish  the  girls  a  plea.sant  visit  t 
London,  bnt  bid  tiicm  come  back  soon  t 
their  home. 

But   Marian    never    moved    a    muscle, 
standing  there,  calm  and  statuesqne,  until 
the  door  had  closed  upon  them  and  the 
carriage  had  rolled   away;  and    thei 
first  sound  that  issued  from  her  lips  ' 
sigh  of  relief  that,  so  far,  her  determination 
had  been  fnltilled  without  much  overt  oppo- 
sition, and  without  any  "scene."    Not  that 
she  was  by  any  means  satisfied  with  what 
she  had   done ;  she  had  accomplisht 
much  of  her  purpose  as  consisted  ii 
moving  the  girls  from  their  nncle's  home, 
bat  instead  of  their  being  reduced  in  social 
position   thereby — which,    judging    other 
people,  as  ahe  always  did,  by  her  own  Etan- 
dard,  she  imagined  would  be  the  greatest 
evil  she  conld  inflict  upon  them — she  found 
her  plans  had  been  attended  with  an  ex- 
actly opposite  result.      The  entrance  into 
society,  which  she  had  so  long  coveted,  and 
which  sho  had  hoped  to  gain  by  her  hus- 
band's election,    not  merely  now  seemed 
dim  and  remote,  owing  to  the  strong  ^b&v 
bility  of  Mr.  CrcsmeU'a  6«\rac,\iut  -woiAi.^ 
now    bo   open    to    Maui    aiii    GftAT^ie,  V^ 
throngb   the   inttoiacticfa.   ot   Viaa   \»Ai  >^ 


;\ 


o5= 


j 


74      [JaaeM,lM9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


(GoBdoatodby 


Caroline  Maasergli,  of  whose  high  stand- 
ing, eren  amongst  her  eanals,  MiLriaiL  had 
heard  frequently  from  Mr.  Gonld,  her  one 
link  with  the  great  world.  TLis  was  a 
hitter  blow ;  but  it  was  eyen  worse  to  think 
that  this  introduction  had  been  obtained 
for  the  girls  Uirough  the  medium  of  Walter 
Joyce — the  man  she  had  despised  and  re- 
jected on  account  of  his  poverty  and  social 
insignificance,  and  who  bow  not  merelj  en- 
joyed himself,  but  had  appaumtiy  the  power 
of  dispensing  to  others,  benefits  for  which 
she  sighed  in  vain.  Now,  for  the  first  time, 
she  began  to  appreciate  ihe  estimation  in 
which  Walter  waa  held  by  those  whose 
esteem  was  worth  having.  Hitherto  she 
had  only  thought  that  the  talent  for 
"writing"  which  he  had  unexpectedly  de- 
veloped had  made  him  use^  to  a  political 
party,  who,  availing  themselves  of  his  ser- 
vices in  a  time  of  need,  gave  him  the 
chance  of  establishing  hiTUHelf  in  hh ;  but 
80  far  as  position  was  concerned,  he  seemed 
to  have  already  had,  and  already  to  have 
availed  himself  of^  that  chance;  for  here 
was  the  sister  of  an  earl,  a  woman  of  rank 
and  acknowledged  position,  eager  to  show 
her  delight  in  doing  him  service !  "  And 
that  position,'*  said  Marian  to  herself  '*  I 
might  have  shared  with  him!  Marriage 
with  me  would  not  have  sapped  his  brain 
or  lessened  any  of  those  wonderful  quahties 
which  have  won  him  such  renown.  To 
such  a  man  a  career  is  always  open,  and  a 
career  means  not  merely  sufficient  wealth, 
but  distinction  and  &me.  And  I  rejected 
him — ^for  what  ?" 

These  reflections  and  others  of  similar 
import  formed  a  constant  subject  fisr 
Marian's  mental  excrdtation,  and  invi^ 
riably  left  her  a  prey  to  discontent  and 
something  very  like  remorse.  The  glamour 
of  money-possession  had  faded  away ;  she 
had  grown  accustomed  to  all  it  had  brought 
her,  and  was  keenly  alive  to  what  it  had  not 
brought  her,  and  what  she  had  expected  of 
it — pleasant  society,  agreeable  Mends,  ele- 
vated position.  Li  her  own  heart  she  felt 
herself  undervaluing  the  power  of  great 
riches,  and  thinking  how  much  better  was 
it  to  have  a  modest  competence  sufficient 
for  one's  wants,  sufficient  to  keep  one  from 
exposui'e  to  the  shifts  and  pinclies  of  such 
poverty  as  she  had  known  in  her  early  life, 
when  combined  with  a  position  in  life 
which  gave  one  the  chance  of  holding  one's 
own  amongst  agreeable  people,  rather  than 
to  be  the  Croesus  gaped  at  by  wondering 
/r  ^kels,  or  capped,  to  by  fiivour-sceking 
//  t^aantG.  A  few  months  before,  such 
tiufogrhtg  would  have  been  esteemed  almost 


I 


bksphemous  by  Marian ;  but  she  held 
thsm  now,  and  felt  half  inclined  to  resent 
on  her  hoshand  his  ignorant  and  passive 
share  in  Ae  arrangement  which  hid  snb» 
riituted  him  for  Walter  Joyce. 

That  was  the  worst  of  all.  AAbt  Mand 
and  Qertrude  Creswell  left  Wodgreaves, 
an  unseen  but  constantly  present  inTnai^ 
was  added  to  the  household,  who  mt  be- 
tween husband  aad  wife,  and  whispered 
into  their  ears  alternately.  His  name  was 
Doubt,  and  to  Mr.  Cresweli  he  said — 
"  What  has  become  of  all  these  fine  re- 
Bohitions  which  you  made  on  jour  farotfaer 
Tom's  death?  —  resolatums  about  taking 
his  children  under  your  roof,  and  never 
losing  sight  of  them  until  they  left  as 
happy  bndes  ?  Where  are  they  now  ? 
Those  resolutions  have  been  broken,  have 
they  not?  The  girls,  Tom's  daughters 
—  orphan  daughters,  mind  —  have  been 
sent  away  from  what  you  had  taught 
them  to  look  upon  as  their  home — sent 
away  on  some  tnvial  excuse  of  temper — 
and  where  are  they  now  ?  You  don't 
know ! — ^you,  the  uncle,  the  self-consti- 
tuted guardian  —  positively  don't  know 
where  they  are !  You  have  had  her  ad- 
dress given  you,  of  course,  but  yon  cannot 
imagine  the  place,  for  you  have  never  seen 
it ;  you  cannot  picture  to  yourself  the  lady 
with  whom  they  are  said  to  be  staying,  finr 
you  never  saw  her,  and,  until  your  wife 
explained  who  she  was,  you  haa  scarcely 
even  heard  of  her.  Your  wife  !  Ah !  that 
is  a  pleasant  subject !  YouVe  found  her 
all  that  you  expected,  have  you  not  ?  So 
clever,  clear-headed,  bright,  and,  withal,  so 
docile  and  obedient  ?  Yet  she  it  was  who 
quarrelled  with  your  nieces,  and  told  you 
that  either  she  or  tlicy  must  leave  your 
house.  She  it  was  who  saw  them  d^mrt 
with  delight,  and  who  never  bated  one  jot 
of  her  satisfaction  when  she  noticed,  as  ^e 
cannot  have  &iled  to  notice,  your  emotion 
and  regret.  Look  back  into  the  past,  man 
— ^think  of  the  woman  who  was  your  trusted 
helpmate  in  the  old  days  of  your  poverty 
and  struggle ! — ^think  of  her  big  h^urt,  her 
indomitable  courage,  her  loving  womanly 
nature,  beaming  ever  more  brightly  when 
the  dark  shadows  gathered  round  your 
lives  ! — think  of  her,  man,  compare  her 
with  this  one,  and  see  the  difibrenoe  !'* 

And  to  Marian  the  dim  personage  said — 
'*  You,  a  young  woman,  handsome,  clever, 
and  with  a  lover  who  worshipped  you,  have 
bartered  yourself  away  to  that  old  man  sit- 
ting there — for  what  ?  A  fine  house,  which 
no  one  comes  to  see — carriages,  in  which 
yon  ride  io  a  d\]3\  oountrj  ^owglUi  teoeive 


&> 


QbtflM  IMofceu.] 


WBECEED  IN  PORT. 


[June  M,  I860.]       75 


the  bows  of  a  dozen  shopkeepers,  and  drive 
home  again — hawbuck  servaiits,  who  talk 
against  you  as  thej  talk  against  ereiy  one, 
but  aWrays  more  maHcionslj  against  any 
one  whom  they  have  known  in  a  different 
degree  of  life— «nd  the  title  of  the  squire's 
lady!  Yon  are  cakmlated  to  enjoy  life 
which  yon  will  nerer  behold,  and  to  shine 
in  society  to  which  yon  will  never  be  ad- 
mitted. Yon  wanted  money,  and  now  yon 
hare  it,  and  how  much  good  has  it  done 

Sn  ?  Would  it  not  hare  been  better  to 
Ye  waited  a  little,  just  a  little,  not  to 
have  been  quite  so  eager  to  throw  away  the 
worahipping  lover,  who  has  done  so  well, 
as  it  has  turned  out,  and  who  is  in  every 
way  but  ill  replaced  by  the  old  gentleman 
sitting  there  ?** 

The  promptings  of  the  dim  presence 
worked  uncomfortably  on  both  the  occu- 
pants of  Woolgreaves,  but  they  had  the 
greatest  effect  on  the  old  gentleman  sit- 
tiiu^  there.  With  the  de^Nurture  of  the 
girls,  and  the  impossibility  which  attended 
his  dfforts  to  soften  his  wife's  coldness  and 
do  away  with  the  vindictive  feeling  which 
she  entertained  towards  his  nieces,  Mr. 
Oreswell  seemed  to  enter  on  a  new  and 
toially  different  sphere  of  existence.  The 
bright  earnest  man  of  business  became 
doddering  and  vagfte,  his  cheery  look  was 
supplanted  by  a  worn,  haggard,  fixed  reeard; 
Im  step,  which  had  been  remarkably  elastic 
and  vigorous  for  a  man  of  his  years,  became 
feeble  and  slow,  and  he  oonstantiiy  sat  with 
his  hand  tightly  pressed  on  his  side,  as 
though  to  endeavour  to  ease  some  gnawing 
pain.  A  certain  amount  of  coldness  and 
estrangement  between  him  and  Marian, 
which  ensued  immediately  afber  his  nieces' 
departure,  had  increased  so  much  as  entirely 
to  change  the  ordinary  current  of  their 
lives ;  ihe  pleasant  talk  which  he  used  to 
originate,  and  which  she  would  pursue  with 
Buch  brightness  and  earnestness  as  to  cause 
him  the  greatest  deHght,  had  dwindled 
down  into  a  few  careless  inquiries  on  her 
part,  and  meaningless  replies  from  him ;  and 
the  evenings,  which  he  had  looked  forward 
to  with  such  pleasure,  were  now  passed  in 
almost  unbroken  silence. 

One  day  Mr.  Gould,  the  election  agent, 
arrived  jErom  London  at  Brocksopp,  and, 
without  g^ing  into  the  town,  ordered  the 
fly  which  he  engaged  at  the  station  to  drive 
lum  straight  to  Woolgreaves.  On  his 
arrival  there  he  asked  for  Mrs.  Oreswell. 
The  servant,  who  recogaiscd  him,  and 
knew  his  business — ^what  servant  at  bouses 
which  we  are  in  l^e  habit  of  B^qnentmg 
does  no^  know  our  bnsineaa  and  oil  about 


us,  and  has  his  opinion,  generally  unfavour- 
able, of  us  and  our  affairs  ?— doubted 
whether  he  had  heard  aright,  and  replied 
that  his  master  had  eone  to  Brocksopp, 
and  would  be  found  either  at  the  mills  or 
at  his  committee-rooms.  But  Mr.  Gould 
renewed  his  inquiiy  for  Mrs.  Oreswell,  and 
was  conducted  by  the  wondering  domestic 
to  that  lady's  boudoir.  The  London  agent, 
always  sparse  of  compliments,  spoke  on 
this  occasion  with  even  more  than  usual 
brevity. 

"  I  came  to  see  you  to-day,  Mrs.  Ores- 
well,  and  not  your  husband,"  said  he;  ^  as 
I  think  you  are  more  likely  to  comprehend 
my  views,  and  to  offer  me  some  advice." 

"  Regarding  the  election,  Mr.  Gould  ?" 

"  Regarding  the  election,  of  course.  I 
want  to  put  things  in  a  clear  light  to  you, 
and,  as  you're  a  remarkably  clear-headed 
woman — oh  no,  I  never  flatter,  I  don't  get 
time  enough — ^you'll  be  able  to  turn  'em  in 
your  mind,  and  think  what's  best  to  be 
done.  I  should  have  made  the  communica- 
tion to  your  husband  six  months  ago,  but 
he's  grown  nervous  and  fidgetty  lat^y,  and 
I'd  sooner  have  the  advantage  of  your  clear 
brain.' 

"  You  are  very  good — do  yon  think  Mr. 
Oreswell's  lookis^  ill  ?" 

"  Well — I  was  going  to  say  you  mustn't 
be  frightened,  but  that's  not  likely — ^you're 
too  strong  minded,  Mrs.  Oreswell.  The 
fact  is,  I  do  see  a  great  difference  in  the 
old — I  mean  Mr.  Oreswell — during  the  last 
few  weeks,  and  not  only  I,  but  the  people 
too." 

"  You  mean  some  of  the  electors  ?" 

"Yes,  some  of  his  own  people^  good 
staunch  friends  !  They  say  they  can't  get 
anything  out  of  him  now,  can't  pin  him 
to  a  question.  He  used  to  be  clear  and 
straightforward,  and  now  he  wanders  away 
into  something  else,  and  sits  mumchance 
and  doesn't  answer  any  questions  at  all." 

"  And  yon  have  come  to  consult  me 
about  this  ?" 

"  I've  come  to  say  to  you  that  this  won't 
do  at  all.  He  is  pledged  to  go  to  the  poll, 
and  he  must  go,  cheerily  and  pleasantly, 
though  there  is  no  doubt  about  it  that  we 
shall  get  an  awful  thrashing." 

"  You  think  so  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  so.  We  were  doing  very  well 
at  first,  and  Mr.  Oreswell  is  very  much 
respected  and  all  that,  and  he  would  have 
beat  that  young  What's-his-name — ^Boken- 
ham  —  without  very  much  trouble.  But 
this  Joyce  is  a  horse  o£  «i.  diS^iT^tA.  ^Olw«  . 
Directly  be  started  t\v^  cutt^iA  «»%cirift^\Ai 
turn.      He's   a   good-\ooVdi\^  ic\WN>  wA 


>& 


^ 


76    [Jomscisc*.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


(OoBdaeted  bj 


they  like  that ;  and  a  self-made  man,  and 
they  like  that;  and  he  speaks  capitally, 
tells  'em  facts  which  they  can  understand, 
and  they  like  that.  He  has  done  capitally 
from  the  first,  and  now  they've  got  np 
some  stoiy — ^Harrington  did  that,  I  fiuicy, 
young  Harrington  acting  for  Potter  and 
Fyfe,  very  clever  fellow — ^they've  got  up 
some  story  that  Joyce  was  jilted  some 
time  ago  by  the  girl  he  was  engaged  to, 
who  tm^w  him  over  because  he  was  poor, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  I  can't  recollect 
the  details,  and  that  has  been  a  splendid 
card  with  the  women ;  they  are  insisting  on 
their  hnsbands'  voting  for  him,  so  that 
altogether  we're  in  a  bad  way." 

"  Do  yon  think  Mr.  Creewell  will  be  de- 
feated, Mr.  Gonld  ?  Yon'll  tell  me  honestly, 
of  conrse !" 

'*It's  impossible  to  say  nntil  the  day, 
qnite  impossible,  my  dear  Mrs.  Creswell; 
but  I'm  bound  to  confess  it  looks  horribly 
like  it.  By  what  I  understand  from  Mr. 
Croke,  who  wrote  to  me  the  other  day, 
Mr.  Creswell  has  given  up  attending  public 
meetings,  and  that  kind  of  thing,  and 
that's  foolish,  very  foolish !" 

"  His  health  has  been  anything  but  good 
lately,  and " 

"  I  know,  and  of  course  his  spirits  have 
been  down  also !  But  he  must  keep  them 
up,  and  he  must  go  to  the  poll,  even  if  he's 
beaten." 

''And  the  chances  of  that  are,  you 
think,  strong  p" 

"  Are,  I  fear,  very  strong !  However, 
something  might  yet  be  done  if  he  were  to 
do  a  little  house-to-house  canvassing  in  his 
old  bright  spirits.  But  in  anv  case,  Mrs. 
Cresw^  he  must  stick  to  his  guns,  and 
we  look  to  you  to  keep  him  there  !" 

'*  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Marian,  and 
the  interview  was  at  an  end. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  Mr.  Gould, 
Marian  flung  herself  into  an  easy  chair, 
and  the  bitter  tears  of  rage  welled  up  into 
her  eyes.  So,  it  was  destined  that  this 
man  was  to  cross  her  path  to  her  detriment 
for  the  rest  of  her  life.  Oh,  what  terrible 
shame  and  humiliation  to  think  of  him 
winning  the  victory  from  them,  more  espe- 
cially ^ter  her  interview  with  him,  and  the 
avowal  of  her  intense  desire  to  be  suc- 
cessful in  the  matter !  There  could  be  no 
doubt  about  the  result.  Mr.  Gould  was 
understood,  she  had  heard,  to  be  in  general 
inclined  to  take  a  hopeful  view  of  affairs ; 
but  his  verdict  on  the  probable  issue  of 
the  Brocksopp  election  was  unmistakably 
dolorous.   Tf^^  a  i&i^tor  draught  to  swallow, 


what  frightful  mortification  to  undergo! 
What  could  be  done  ?  It  would  be  impoUtic 
to  tell  Mr.  Creswell  of  his  agent's  fears,  and 
even  if  he  were  told  of  them,  he  was  just 
the  man  who  would  more  than  ever  insist 
on  fighting  until  the  very  last,  and  would 
not  imagine  that  there  was  any  disgrace 
in  being  beaten  after  gallant  combat  by  an 
honourable  antagonist.  And  there  was  no 
possible  way  out  of  it,  unless  —  Gbeat 
Heaven,  what  a  horrible  thought ! — ^unless 
he  were  to  die.  That  would  settle  it ;  there 
would  be  no  defeat  for  him  then,  and 
she  would  be  lefl  free,  rich,  and  witii  the 
power  to She  must  not  think  of  any- 
thing so  dreadfrd.  The  noise  of  wheela 
on  the  gravel,  the  carriage  at  the  door,  and 
her  husband  descending.  How  wearily  he 
drags  his  limbs  down  the  steps,  what  lassi- 
tude there  is  in  every  action,  and  how  wan 
his  cheeks  are  !  He  is  going  towards  the 
drawing-room  on  the  groxmd-floor,  and  she 
hastens  to  meet  him  there. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?    Are  you  ill  ?" 

"  Very — ^veiy  iU !  but  pleased  to  see  you,, 
to  get  back  home !"  This  with  a  touch  of 
the  old  manner,  and  in  the  old  voice. 
"  Very  ill,  Marian,  weak,  and  down,  and 
depressed.  I  can't  stand  it,  Marian,  I  feel 
I  can't." 

''What  is  it  that  seems  too  much  for 
you?" 

"  All  this  worry  and  annoyance,  th]» 
daily  contact  with  all  these  horrible  people  I 
I  must  give  it  up,  Marian  !     I  must  give  it 


up 


i»» 


"  You  must  give  what  up,  dear  ?" 

"  This  election !  all  the  worry  of  it,  the 
preliminary  worry,  has  been  nigh  to  kill 
me,  and  I  must  have  no  more  of  it !" 

"  Well,  but  think " 

"I  have  thought,  and  I'm  determined, 
that  is,  if  you  think  so  too !  I'll  give  it 
up,  I'll  retire,  anything  to  have  done  with 
it!" 

"  But  what  will  people  say ?" 

"  What  people,  who  have  a  right  to  say 
anything  ?" 

"Your  committee,  I  mean — ^those  who 
have  been  working  for  you  so  earnestly  and 
so  long !" 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say!  My 
health  is  more  important  uian  anything 
else — and  you  ought  to  think  so,  Manan !' 

He  spoke  with  a  nervous  irritability 
such  as  she  had  never  previously  noticed 
in  him,  and  looked  askance  at  her  from 
under  his  grey  eyebrows.  He  began  to 
think  that  there  might  be  some  foundation 
of  truth  in  Gertrude's  out-blurted  senti* 


h> 


Ohftiiea  Diekani.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[Jmne  36, 1869.]       77 


ment,  that  Mrs.  Creswell  thought  of  no- 
thing in  comparison  with  her  own  self- 
interest.  Certainly  her  conduct  now  seemed 
to  give  colour  to  the  assertion,  for  Marian 
seemed  annoyed  at  the  idea  of  his  with- 
drawal from  seeking  a  position  by  which 
«he  would  be  benefited,  even  where  his 
health  was  concerned. 

Mr.  Creswell  was  mistaken.  Marian,  in 
her  inmost  heart,  had  hailed  this  determi- 
nation of  her  husband's  with  the  greatest 
delight,  seeing  in  it,  if  it  were  carried  out, 
an  excellent  opportunity  for  escaping  the 
ignominy  of  a  defeat  by  Walter  Joyce. 
But  after  this  one  conversation,  which  she 
brought  to  a  close  by  hinting  that  of  course 
bis  wishes  should  be  acted  upon,  but  it 
would  perhaps  be  better  to  leave  things  as 
they  were,  and  not  come  to  any  definite 
conclusion  for  the  present,  she  did  not 
allude  to  the  subject,  but  occupied  her 
whole  time  in  attending  to  her  husband, 
who  needed  all  her  care.  Mr.  Creswell 
was  indeed  very  fiur  from  well.  He  went 
into  town  occasionally,  and,  at  Marian's 
earnest  request,  still  busied  himself  a 
little  about  the  affairs  of  the  election,  but 
in  a  very  spiritless  manner ;  and  when  he 
<»me  home  he  would  go  straight  to  the 
library,  and  there,  ensconced  in  an  easy 
chair,  sit  for  hours  staring  vacantly  before 
him,  the  shadow  of  his  former  self.  At 
times,  too,  Marian  would  find  his  eyes  fixed 
on  her,  watching  all  her  motions,  K>llowing 
her  about  the  room,  not  with  the  lingering 
loving  looks  of  old,  but  with  an  odd  furtive 
glance ;  and  there  was  a  pitiful  expression 
about  his  mouth,  too,  at  those  times  which 
was  not  pleasant  to  behold.  Marian  won- 
dered what  her  husband  was  thinking  of. 
it  was  a  good  thing  that  she  did  not  know ; 
for  as  he  looked  at  her — and  his  heart  did  not 
refuse  to  acknowledge  the  prettiness,  and  the 
grace,  and  the  dignity  which  his  eyes  rested 
on — the  old  man  was  wondering  within  him- 
flelf  iidiat  could  have  induced  him,  at  his  time 
of  life,  to  marry  again — ^what  could  have  in- 
duced her,  seemingly  all  sweetness  and  kind- 
ness, to  take  an  inveterate  hatred  to  those 
two  poor  girls,  Maud  and  Gertrude,  who 
bad  been  turned  out  of  the  house,  forced 
to  leave  the  home  which  they  had  every 
right  to  consider  theirs,  and  he  had  been  too 
weak,  too  much  infatuated  with  Marian  to 
prevent  the  execution  of  her  plans.  But 
that  should  hot  be.  He  was  ill  then,  but 
he  would  soon  be  better,  and  so  soon  as 
he  found  himself  a  little  stronger  he  would 
assume  his  proper  position,  and  have  the 
girk  back  again.    Me  had  been  giving  way 


too  much  recently,  and  must  assert  him- 
self. He  was  glad  now  he  had  said  nothing 
about  giving  up  the  election  to  any  one 
save  Marian,  as  he  should  certainly  go  on 
with  it — ^it  would  be  a  little  healthy  excite- 
ment to  him;  he  had  suffered  himself  to 
fall  into  very  dull,  moping  ways,  but  he 
would  soon  be  all  right.  If  he  could  only 
get  rid  of  that  odd  numbing  pain  in  the 
left  arm,  he  should  soon  be  cdl  right. 

Little  Dr.  Osborne  was  in  the  habit  of 
retiring  to  rest  at  an  early  hour.  In 
the  old  days,  betore  his  "  girl"  married, 
he  liked  to  sit  up  and  hear  her  warble 
away  at  her  piano,  letting  himself  be  gra- 
dually lulled  off  to  sleep  by  the  music ;  and 
in  later  times,  when  his  fireside  was  lonely 
and  when  he  was  not  expecting  any  special 
work,  he  would  frequently  drive  over  to 
Woolgreaves,  or  to  the  Churchills  at  the 
Park,  and  play  a  rubber.  But  since  he 
had  quarrelled  with,  Mrs.  Creswell,  since 
her  ^'  most  disrespectful  treatment  of  him," 
as  he  phrased  it,  he  had  never  crossed  the 
threshold  at  Woolgreaves,  and  the  people 
at  the  Park  were  away  wintering  in  Itidy, 
so  that  the  little  doctor  generally  finished 
his  modest  tumbler  of  grog  at  half-past  ten 
and  ^'turned  in"  soon  after.  He  was  a 
sound  sleeper,  his  housekeeper  was  deaf, 
and  the  maid,  who  slept  up  in  the  roof,  never 
heard  anything,  not  even  her  own  snoring, 
so  that  a  late  visitor  had  a  bad  chance  of 
making  his  presence  known.  A  few  nights 
after  the  events  just  recorded,  however, 
one  of  Mr.  Creswell's  grooms  attached  his 
horse  to  the  doctor's  railings  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  performing  on  the  bell  with  such 
energy  and  determination,  that  after  two 
minutes  a  window  opened  and  the  doctor's 
voice  was  heard  demanding  "  Who's  there?" 

"  Sam,  from  Woolgreaves,  doctor,  wi'  a 
note." 

"  From  Woolgreaves ! — ^a  note  !  What's 
the  matter  ?" 

"  Squire's  bad,  had  a  fit,  I  heerd  house- 
keeper say,  and  madam  she  have  wrote  this 
note  for  you!  Come  down,  doctor;  it's 
marked  'mediate,  madam  said.  Do  come 
down!" 

"  Eh  ? — what — ^Woolgreaves — ^had  a  fit 
— Mrs.  Creswell — I'm  coining!"  and  the 
window  was  shut,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
Sam  was  shivering  in  the  hall,  while  the 
doctor  read  the  note  by  the  gaslight  in  his 
surgery.  "  Hum  ! — '  No  doubt  you'll  be 
surprised' — should  think  so,  indseA. — -^V-as^ 
been  long  ill' — ^thought  bo  \^\iea.\  «aw  ^K^sft- 
in  the  Com  Exchange  on  Si^jAAii^^'^ — J-yas?^ 


T 


<& 


78       [Jane  26, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoctedby 


now  had  6ome  kind  of  firigbtfal  seizure' — 
poor,  dear,  old  friend — *  calls  for  yon — in- 
sists on  seeing  you — for  God's  sake  come' — 
dear  me,  dear  me  !"  And  the  doctor  wiped 
his  honest  old  eyes  on  the  back  of  his  tattcnred 
old  dressing-gown,  and  poured  out  a  glass 
of  brandy  for  Sam,  and  another  for  hiznself, 
and  gave  the  groom  the  k^  of  the  stable, 
and  bade  him  harness  the  pony,  for  he 
should  be  ready  in  five  minutes. 

The  house  was  all  aroused,  lights  were 
gleaming  in  the  windows,  as  the  doctor 
drove  up  the  avenue,  and  Marian  was 
standing  in  the  hall  when  he  entered.  Slie 
stepped  forward  to  meet  him,  but  there 
was  scHnething  in  the  old  man's  look  which 
stopped  her  from  putting  out  her  hand  as 
she  nad  intended,  so  they  merely  bowed 
gravely,  and  she  led  the  way  to  her  hus- 
band's room,  wheore  she  left  mm. 

Half  an  hour  elapsed  before  Dr.  OsborDe 
reappeared.  His  &oe  was  very  grave  and 
his  eyes  were  red.  This  time  it  was  he 
who  made  the  advance.  A  year  ago  he 
would  have  put  his  arm  round  Mfurian's 
neck  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  Those 
days  were  past,  but  he  took  her  hand,  and 
in  reply  to  her  hurried  question, "  What  do 
you  tlunk  of  him  ?''  said,  "  I  think,  Mrs. 
Creswell,  that  my  old  friend  is  very  ill.  •  It 
would  be  useless  to  disguise  it — ^very  ill 
indeed.  His  life  is  an  important  one,  and 
you  may  think  it  sueoesssfy  to  have  another 
opinion" — this  a  little  pompously  said,  and 
met  with  a  gesture  of  dissent  firom  Marian — 
**  but  in  mine,  no  time  must  be  lost  in  re- 
moving him,  I  should  say,  abroad,  fiir  away 
from  any  chance  of  &.tigue  or  excitement." 

"  But,  Dr.  Osborne — fibe — ^the  election !" 

'*  To  go  through  the  election,  Mrs.  Cres- 
well, would  kill  him  at  once  !  He  would 
never  survive  the  nomination  day !" 

"  It  will  be  a  dreadful  blow  to  him,"  said 
Marian.  But  she  thought  to  herself,  "Here 
is  the  chance  of  our  escape  from  the  humilia- 
tion of  defeat  by  Walter  Joyce !  A  means  of 
evoking  sympathy  instead  of  contempt !" 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  EAST.      SUDBURY  TO  LOWESTOFT. 

The  crow  can  hardly  resist  a  short  slant 
flight  from  Ipswich  to  Sudbury,  which  lies  em- 
bowered among  its  deep  sunken  green  lanes  in 
the  valley  of  the  willowy  Stour,  which  is  heie 
gay  with  quick  wherries. 

The  quiet  thorough  English  scenery  in  which 
Gainsborough  delighted,  is  to  be  found  all 
round  "  Subbry ;"  deep  lanes,  winding  between 
s^eep  fern-oorered  banka,  and  under  the  shade 
of  huge  elms.     The  aab  feathers  at  the  edge  of  \ 


the  swaying  cornfields,  and  beech  trees,  mantled 
in  ivy,  guarding  leafy  ponds ;  the  church  tower, 
the  cot^ge  doors,  the  rustic  children,  all  remind 
us  of  Gainsborough,  who  was  bom  here  in  1727. 
A  wood  is  still  shown  where  Gainsborough, 
when  a  child,  used  to  play  truant  that  he  might 
sketch.  One  of  his  earliest  efforts  was  to  dniw 
tite  fnce  of  a  rustic  thief,  whom  he  had  seen  from 
behind  some  bushes,  suspiciously  eyeing  a  pear- 
tree  in  his  (Gainsborough's)  father's  gaiden. 
The  clever  boy,  reluctantly  confessed  to  be  a 
genius,  was  presently  sent  to  London  to  study 
under  Gravelot  and  under  Hayman,  the  rollick- 
ing friend  of  Hogarth.  He  returned  to  Suffolk  at 
eighteen,  and  tl^re,  while  sketching  the  wood- 
land scenes,  fell  in  love  with  a  prettyfigorein 
the  foreground,  one  Margaret  Burt,  a  young 
Scotch  lady  of  good  faimly,  supposed  to  be 
the  natural  dau^ter  of  tiie  Pretender.  The 
young  pair  left  Sudbury,  took  a  small  house 
at  Ipswich  at  a  rent  of  six  pounds  a  year,  and 
were  patronised  by  Philip  Thicknesse,  the 
governor  of  Landguard  Fort,  who  afterwards, 
when  the  painter  had  the  audacity  to  become 
independent,  maligned  him,  as  Waloott  had  also 
mal^^ed  his  refractory  prot^g^  Opie.  The 
governor,  a  great  man  at  Ipswich,  taught  the 
young  paint^  the  violin,  and  gave  him  a  thirty- 
guinea  commission. 

This  picture  of  Landguard  and  the  port  of 
Harwich,  being  engraved  by  Major,  gained  the 
painter  great  fame;  and  in  1758,  growing  like 
a  flower  too  big  f<Mr  his  first  pot^  he  removed 
to  Bath,  and  took  grand  lodgings  In  the  Circus. 
In  spite  of  the  alarms  of  lus  good  but  thrifty 
wife,  Gainsborough  now  threw  off  the  oppressive 
patronage  of  Thicknesse,  and  gradually  pushed 
on  his  prices  for  a  head  from  five  guineas  to 
eight,  and  for  whole  lengths  to  a  hundred.  He 
grew  up  a  rough,  hiunorous,  intractable  genius, 
passionately  fond  of  music  and  landscape  paint- 
ing, but  obliged  to  drudge  at  portraits  to  earn 
bread  and  cheese.  He  was  always  bu3nng  some 
new  musical  instrument,  and  trying  to  learn  it, 
and  he  filled  his  house  with  theorbos,  violins, 
hautboys,  and  viol-di-gambas.  Gainsborough 
next  removed  to  London,  and  took  the  Duke  of 
Schomber^*s  house  in  Pall  Mall.  He  had  already 
exhibited  for  thirteen  years  in  the  Royal  Aca- 
demy, and  his  success  was  sure.  Even  Reynolds 
grew  jealous  at  his  fame.  He  paiiited  the  Royal 
Family,  and  that  at  once  made  him  fashion- 
able, in  spite  almost  of  himself;  for  he  was 
brusque,  proud,  and  blunt,  and  had  no  more 
tact  than  a  Bozjesman.  He  confessed  that  the 
Duchess  of  Devonshire's  beauty  bafQed  his 
pencil,  and  he  fairly  threw  up  the  sponge 
when  Garrick  and  Foote  grimaced  before 
him.  Though  subject  to  irresistible  depres- 
sions, Gaini»)orough  was  delightfully  original 
in  society,  and,  in  the  company  of  Johnsos, 
Sheridan,  or  Burke,  appeared  in  his  best  colours. 
The  landscapes  of  this  Suffolk  painter  were  not 
popular  dunng  his  life,  nor  did  his  natural 
and  entirely  ingenuous  and  bright  village  chfl- 
drcn  by  any  means  delight  the  mass.  He 
died,  in  1788,  of  cancer,  arising  from  a  cold 
caucht  at  \^^  tc\«i  ot  'Warren  Hastings.    Al- 

! 


e£: 


Obftrlas  DiekcDB.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[June  26. 1869.]       79 


most  hia  last  words  were,  <'  We  are  all  going 
to  heaven,  and  Vandyke  is  of  the  company.*^ 
Gainaborongh'a  letters  are  the  most  delightful 
compound  <rf  sunj^e-hearted  sense  and  nonsense 
almost  erer  written. 

Along  the  Suffolk  coast  now  drifts  the  crow, 
from  the  Landgnaxd  sand-hills  to  those  low 
gravel  diflb  that  reach  to  Bawdsey.  It  is  the 
conntiry  painted  for  us  in  the  Dutch  thmiw^f  so 
admirably  by  Crabbe. 

We  are  beuing  away  for  Aldborough  and  the 
sea-side  hannts  <rf  George  Crabbe,  «'  the  poet 
of  nstore  and  of  troth,"  the  simple-minded,  re- 
flectiye  old  Snffolk  clergyman,  who  straggled 
upwaids  towards  the  hght,  and  ponder^  so 
deeply  and  sadly  orer  the  mysteries  of  our  poor 
hmnan  natore. 

At  Aldborough  Bay  a  shingly  beach  parts 
the  marshes  of  the  iJde  frem  the  sea,  while 
northward  the  coast,  low  and  Hat  for  a  prerions 
seven  monoionous  miles,  gradnaUy  nses  into 
dife  ci  sand  and  shingle. 

From  Ihmwieh  to  Sonthwold  the  cliffs  of 
chalk,  mbble,  and  sand,  with  ^avel  and  red 
loam  below,  tell  wonderful  stones  of  the  slow 
changes  of  the  earth^s  snrface.    Almost  a  com- 

e'A  coral  reef  exists  between  Aldborongh  and 
ord.  Shells  of  the  Indian  ocean  are  found 
in  what  was  once  probably  the  bed  of  the  dd 
German  Ocean — the  grandfather,  we  mean,  of 
the  present  one.  From  it  have  been  dag  teeth 
of  mastodons,  bones  of  rhinoceros,  teeth  of 
bear  and  whale,  antlers  of  deer,  Enukes  of  rays, 
and  teeth  of  leopards  and  hogs.  In  this  flnvio- 
marine  formation,  says  Sir  C.  Lyell,  abont 
twenty  species  of  land  and  freshwater  shells 
have  been  discovered,  and  about  ninety  marine 
■pedes;  of  these  the  proportion  resembling 
those  now  Hving  does  not  exceed  the  ratio  of 
nx^  per  cent. 

The  Aide  once  entered  the  sea  at  Aldborongh, 
bat  the  flood  tides,  gradually  throwing  up  ridges 
of  sand  and  shingle,  deflected  the  river  to  the 
soath,  and  its  ancient  outlet  was  transferred  ten 
miles  to  the  south-west.  An  ancient  sea-ctiif 
has  been  left  stranded  and  deserted  far  inluid. 
The  Aide  now  flows  within  two  hundred  yards 
of  the  coast  southward,  then  suddenly  runs 
parallel  to  the  sea  with  strange  wilfulness,  and 
runs  divided  from  it  only  by  a  long,  narrow, 
fenny  spit  of  land.  At  Or^rd  the  stream  widens 
into  the  grandeur  of  an  estuary.  The  not  too 
lively  town  consists  of  one  long  street  in  the 
valley  of  the  Slaughden,  and  is  sheltered  by  a 
steep  hill.  The  bay  is  bounded  by  Thorpe  Point 
and  Orf ordness. 

Crabbe  the  poet  is  the  great  name  here,  and 
his  memory  consecrates  the  dulness  of  a  place 
the  sea  seems  bent  on  slowly  swallowing.  The 
Crabbes  are  numerous  both  in  Norfolk  and 
Suffolk.  It  was  a  pilot  named  Crabbe,  of 
Walton,  who  was  consulted  about  the  fleet  of 
Edward  the  Third,  not  long  before  Creasy. 
The  poet*s  grandfather  was  a  collector  of  the 
enstoms  at  Aldborough,  and  his  son  George 
(the  poet*B  father)  kept  a  parish  school  in  the 
porch  of  the  church  at  Orford,  and  was  after- 
waids  parish  deik  Mt  Norton,  near  Loddon, 


in  Norfolk.  Returning  to  Aldborough,  he 
became  first  warehouse-keeper,  then  collector 
of  the  salt  dues.  He  was  a  man  of  strong, 
vigorous  mind,  renowned  for  business  tact  and 
powers  of  calculation.  George  Crabbe,  the 
poet,  was  bom  in  1754 ;  his  next  brother  was 
a  glazier ;  and  the  third  became  captain  of  a 
Liverpool  slaver,  and  was  set  adrift  to  perish 
by  some  slaves  who  had  mutinied  ;  the  fourth 
brother,  also  ^  sailor,  was  taken  prisoner  by 
Spaniards,  and  sent  to  Mexico,  where  he  be- 
came a  prosperous  silversmith,  tOl  the  priests 
persecuted  him,  and  he  then  fled  to  Honduras. 
Aldborough  was  at  first  only  a  wretched  duster 
of  small  fishermen's  houses,  lying  between  the 
Church  Cliff  and  the  German  Ocean.  There 
were  two  paralld,  unpaved  streets  running  in 
dirty  and  noisome  competition  between  rows 
of  mean  and  scrambling  houses ;  those  nearest 
to  the  sea  were  often  destroyed  by  storms. 
From  a  plan  of  the  town  in  1559,  says  the 
Reverend  J.  Ford,  it  appears  that  a  range  of 
denes  then  existed  between  the  town  and  the 
sea,  and  that  the  church  was  then  more  than 
ten  times  its  present  distance  from  the  shore. 
The  beach  spread  in  three  ridges :  large  rolled 
boulders,  loose  shingle,  and  at  the  fall  of  the 
tide  a  long,  yellow  stripe  of  fine  hard  sand. 
There  were  vessels  of  all  sorts  lolling  with 
pitchy  sides  upon  the  shore,  from  the  large 
heavy  troll  boat  to  the  yawl  and  prame.  There 
were  fishermen  drying  their  brown  nets  or 
sorting  their  fish,  and  near  the  gloomy  old 
town-hall  a  group  of  pilots  taking  their  short, 
quick,  to-and-fro  walk,  as  if  longing  for  the 
old  restrictions  of  the  narrow  and  rolBng  deck, 
or  watching  for  signals  in  the  offing.  Nor  was 
the  inland  landscape  either  grand  or  smiling — 
only  open,  dull,  sandy,  rusty  commons  and  ste- 
rile farms,  with  trees  rusted  and  stunted  by  the 
salt  winds.  Crabbe  has  painted  every  featiu^ 
of  the  scene.  Slaughden  quay  he  touches  like 
a  Httle  Vandervelde : 

Here  samphiro  banks  and  salt  wort  bound  the  flood, 
There  stakes  and  seaweeds  withering  on  the  mud ; 
And  higher  up  a  ridr^e  of  all  thinffs  base, 
Which  some  strong  tide  has  rolled  upon  the  place ; 
Yon  is  our  quay  !  those  smaller  hoys  from  town 
Its  yarious  wares  for  country  use  bring  down. 

By  the  impetuous  salt -master,  the  quiet, 
studious,  awkward  boy  was  somewhat  despised. 
"  That  boy,"  he  used  to  say  "  must  turn  out  a 
fool.  John,  and  Bob,  and  Will  are  of  some  use 
about  a  boat,  but  what  will  that  iAin^  be  good 
for  ?"  Crabbe  was  known  at  Aldborough  as  a 
boy  of  reading,  and  was  regarded  with  a  cer- 
tain respect.  One  day,  when  a  rough  lad  he  had 
angered  was  going  to  thrash  him,  an  elder  boy 
gravely  put  in  his  veto. 

"  No,  no,  you  mustn't  meddle  with  him,"  he 
said  ;  "let  Aim  alone,  for  he  ha'  got  laming." 

When  first  sent  to  school  at  Bungay,  Crabbe 
did  not  yet  know  how  to  dress  himself,  and  the 
first  morning,  in  great  confusion,  he  whispered 
to  his  bedfellow, 

**  Can  you  put  on  your  own  shirt,  for — for — 
I'm— afraid  I  can't." 

In  this  rough  SnftoCt  i^c^ho^  C^t^Wofc  lAwffi^ 


^ 


^ 


80      [Jane  26, 1M9.] 


AJiL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condaeted  by 


met  his  death,  he  and  other  boys  were  beinff 
punished  for  playing  at  soldiers  by  being  stuffed 
into  a  large  dog-kennel,  known  as  ^^  The  Black 
Hole."  Orabbe  was  suffocating.  In  d^ipair 
he  bit  the  hand  of  the  boy  next  him.  There 
arose  a  cry  of  **  Crabbe  is  dying!"  and  the 
sentinel  not  a  moment  too  soon  released  the 
stifling  boy. 

On  leaving  school,  Crabbe  was  apprenticed 
to  a  surgeon ;  and  while  waiting  for  this  situa- 
tion was  employed  by  his  stem  father  in  piling 
cheese  and  butter  kegs  at  Slaughden  qu^.  He 
concluded  his  apprenticeship  with  Mr.  Fage,  a 
surgeon  at  Woodbridge,  a  market  town  seren. 
teen  miles  from  Aldborough.  There  was  a 
long  struggle  before,  in  1781,  Crabbe  visited 
London,  won  Burke  by  his  simple-hearted 
ways,  took  orders,  became  (^plain  to  the 
Doke  of  Rutland,  and  eventuaUv  at  Parham, 
Gleinham,  and  Readham,  devoted  his  tranquil 
life  to  doing  good. 

This  quiet  watering-place  was  first  frequented 
about  the  beginning  of  the  century  by  a  few 

S arsons  of  rank,  who  found  Hastings  and 
righton  too  gay  and  restless. 
A  noble  modem  writer,  who  has  made 
Suffolk  the  background  of  some  of  his  best 
novels,  has  taken  up  arms  gallantly  in  defence 
of  the  scenery  of  East  Anglia.  He  contends 
that  the  county  that  fostered  the  genius  of 
Gainsborough  and  Constable,  and  nurtured 
that  contemplative  and  mournful  poet,  ^^  na- 
ture's sternest  painter  yet  the  best,"  Crabbe,  is 
neither  flat,  dull,  nor  monotonous.  From  the 
brow  of  its  hillocks,  the  crow  may,  he  thinks, 
obtain  gratifying  glimpses  of  verdant  and 
thickly-wooded  landscape,  of  umbrageous  park, 
of  rivers  glancing  from  dark  recesses  of  shade, 
and  of  peaceful  church  towers,  grey  sentinels 
of  leafy  hamlets.  *'  As  tiie  traveller,"  he  says, 
in  Crew  Rise,  **  gets  away  from  the  heaths  on 
the  sea-coast  on  ike  one  side,  or  the  broad  open 
fields  of  *  the  liffht  lands'  on  the  other  side  of 
the  county,  and  works  his  way  into  what  is 
called  by  the  aborigines  '•  the  garden  of  Suf- 
folk,' he  unceasingly  comes  to  breaks  in  the  high 
fences  which  bor&r  the  lanes  he  passes  throng, 
and  these  openings  rejoice  us  with  the  sight  of 
some  snatch  of  scenery  tliat  refreshes  the  eye ." 
And  truly  the  crow,  cutting  his  swift  path  from 
Aldborough  to  Framlingham,  does  get  by  the 
way  many  pleasant  glimpses  of  abbey  ruins,  of 
f  araihouses  built  out  of  half  demolished  man- 
sions, of  snug  cottages  at  the  comers  of  woods, 
of  old  halls  almost  hidden  by  broad-armed 
oaks,  and  of  high  roads,  cool  and  umbrageous 
as  park  avenues. 

A  continued  series,  indeed,  of  quiet  Gains- 
borough landscapes  surround  Framlingham,  the 
old  town  of  the  Iceni,  standing  on  hilly  ground 
near  the  sources  of  the  river  Ore,  which  falls 
into  the  sea  at  Oreford.  Britons,  Romans, 
Saxons,  and  Danes  chased  each  other  in  and 
out  of  this  fortified  place,  till  at  last  a  sort  of 
sensible  compromise  was  effected,  and,  shaking 
down  altogetner  in  a  clubbable  way,  the  Danes 
>pr(^  ^he  ^rood-nAtared  place  the  Saxon  name  of 
^'remdliDgbain  (BtrADgera*  home).    The  town 


of  the  mere  and  the  river  soon  became  a  strong- 
hold, and  Redwald,  one  of  the  earliest  of  the 
East  Anglian  kings,  is  said  to  have  occupied  the 
castle  with  his  spearmen.  More  certain  it  is 
that  King  Edmund  was  enthroned  at  Fram- 
lingham, and  here  enjoyed  some  happy  days  of 
a  troublous  reign.  After  the  battles  of  Thet- 
ford  and  Dunwich,  the  king  was  besieged  at 
Framlingham  by  the  ravenous  sea  robbers. 
The  defeated  monarch  fled,  but  was  pursued, 
shot  to  death  with  arrows,  and  then  beheaded. 
His  head  was  found  under  a  bush  at  Hoxne,  a 
small  village  on  the  Waveney,  and  there  the 
martyr's  lK>dy  lay  till  it  was  removed  to  Beo- 
drics-worth,  which  soon  became  a  much-fre- 
quented shrine  of  special  sanctity,  and  acquired 
its  present  name  of  Bury  St.  Edmunds. 

liVery  place  of  this  kind  has  had  its  culmi- 
nating time  of  greatness  up  to  which  it  rose, 
and  alter  which  it  fell  The  coronation  period 
came  to  Framlingham  in  1553.  Young  King 
Edward  had  died  at  Greenwich  in  July  of  that 
year.  The  moment  he  appeared  to  be  dying,  the 
crafty  andambitious  Nortnumberland  attempted 
to  get  the  two  princesses  into  his  power.  Mary 
was  already  within  half  a  dav's  journey  of  the 
wolfs  den  when  the  Earl  of  Arundel  sent  her 
secret  intelligence  of  the  conspiracy.  She  in- 
stantly hurried  to  Framlingham,  and  gathered 
together  an  army  of  thirteen  thousand  men 
under  its  walls.  The  Tudor  blood  burned  within 
her ;  her  father's  lion  spirit  asserted  itself.  She 
wrote  to  the  chief  nobles  and  gentlemen  of 
England,  calling  on  them  to  defend  her  crown 
and  person,  and  to  the  council  desiring  them  to 
proclaim  her  accession  in  London.  Worst  come 
to  the  worst,  she  could  easily,  on  a  defeat,  fly  to 
Yarmouth,  and  from  there  embark  to  Flanders. 
Nobles  and  yeomen  flocked  to  her  daily,  and 
still  faster  came  the  billmen  and  bowmen  di- 
rectiy  they  biew  that  she  had  promised  not  to 
alter  the  laws  of  good  King  Edward.  The 
Earls  of  Bath  and  Sussex,  the  eldest  sons  of 
Lord  Wharton  and  Lord  Mordaunt,  Sir  Wil- 
liam Drury,  Sir  Henry  Benningfield,  and  Henry 
Jemingham,  ereat  Suffolk  landowners,  rode 
into  l^amlingham  at  the  head  of  their  re- 
tainers. Sir  Edward  Hastings  brought  over  a 
small  army.  Northumberland's  fleet,  driven 
into  Yarmouth  by  a  storm,  also  declared  for 
Mary.  In  the  mean  time  poor  Lady  Jane  Grey 
reigned  unwillingly  in  the  To¥rer.  The  duke 
(the  r^  monarch),  as  he  left  London  to  join 
his  army,  said  to  Lord  Grey : 

*'  Many  come  out  to  look  at  us,  but  I  find 
not  one  who  cries,  *  God  speed  us.' " 

The  moment  Northumberland  left  London, 
the  coimcil  quitted  the  Tower,  and,  going 
to  Baynard's  Castle  near  St.  Paul's,  procl^med 
Mary  queen.  Suffolk  surrounded  the  Tower, 
and  the  poor  queen  of  a  ten  days'  reign  returned 
to  her  quiet  country  life  and  those  books  which 
had  been  the  dear  companions  of  her  studious 
youth.  Northumberland,  finding  his  army  of 
six  thousand  men  rapidly  disbanding,  laid  down 
his  arms  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  Mary  soon  after 
entered  London  in  triumph,  and  was  welcomed 
by  her  brave  uster  Elizabeth  at  the  head  of  * 


i 


:Sb> 


CSttrlei  DiektMB.] 


AS  THE  CROW  PLIES. 


[Jane  26, 1869.]      81 


^ 


thoiLBand  hone,  which  she  had  levied.  On  the 
22nd  of  AugoBt  Northumberland  deservedly 
lost  his  misdiieTonB  head  on  Tower  Hill,  and 
two  of  his  enpecial  abettors  were  also  executed 
with  him.  Sentence  was  pronounced  against 
Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Lord  Guildford,  but  they 
were  so  young,  neither  of  them  being  seven- 
teen, that  it  seemed  murder  to  carry  severity 
further  than  imprisonment.  But  in  February 
of  the  next  year  Wyatt^s  unsuccessful  march 
on  London,  with  four  thousand  Kentish  men, 
proved  fatal  to  Lady  Jane  and  her  husband, 
who  were,  soon  after  Wyatt*s  defeat,  executed 
privately  on  Tower  Green. 

In  the  old  flint  church  of  St.  Michael  at 
Framlingham— a  fine  decorated  building,  with 
a  perpendicular  clerestory,  a  very  rich  timber 
roof,  and  a  grand  tower  ninety  feet  high — 
there  are  some  interesting  monuments  of  the 
Norfolk  family.  On  the  south  side  of  the  chancel 
is  the  effigy  of  that  Thomas,  third  Duke 
of  Norfolk,  who  led  our  English  knights  and 
archers  at  Flodden  to  the  slaughter  of  ten 
thousand  Scotchmen  and  their  chivalrous,  hot- 
blooded  King  James.  That  heavy  blow  stopped 
the  inroads  of  our  warlike  neighbours  for  many 
a  day ;  yet,  after  all,  the  dogs  of  war  were 
"  tcoieied,  not  killed  ;^'  and  in  Charleses  time 
the  Lowknders  and  Highlanders  were  down  on 
08  again,  till  Cromwell  beat  them  small  as 
dust  at  Dunbar,  and  scattered  them  like  chaff 
before  the  wind.  On  the  north  side  of  Fram- 
lingham  chancel  rests  the  counterfeit  of  the 
poet  Earl  of  Surrey — he  and  his  countess, 
the  successful  rival  of  the  fair  Geraldine 
(who  was  bom  here),  rest  hand  in  hand 
imchangeably  on  a  tomb  erected  1617.  It 
has  never  been  discovered  who  the  Geraldine 
really  was  to  whom  he  addressed  his  sonnets. 
Horace  Walpole  tried  to  prove  it  was  Lady 
Elizabeth  Fitzgerald,  but  she  was  only  a  child 
(twelve  or  thirteen^  when  those  verses  were 
▼ritten.  Surrey,  tnough  not  a  genius,  was 
naeful  to  our  succeeding  poets ;  for  he  trans- 

Slanted  for  us  the  Italuin  sonnets  and  intro- 
need  blank  verse. 

Near  the  Earl  of  Surrey  rests  that  friend 
with  whom  he  was  brought  up,  and  to  whom 
he  alludes  in  his  poem,  **The  Prisoner  at 
Windsor,''  Henry,  the  Duke  of  Richmond, 
the  bastard  son  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  who 
married  Mary,  a  sister  of  the  Earl.  There 
are  also  here  effigies  of  Mary  Fitzalan  and 
Margaret  Audley,  first  and  second  wives  of 
Thomas,  the  fourth  Duke  of  Norfolk,  beheaded 
in  1572. 

On  to  Southwold,  the  centre  of  later  history 
and  of  many  old  sea  legends  of  the  great  wars 
with  the  Dutch,  that  ensanguined  the  North  Sea 
and  the  east  coast  all  through  the  reckless 
reign  of  Charles  the  Second.  Southwold  is 
the  wreck  of  a  larger  town  destroyed  by  fire 
in  April,  1659,  and  was  once  the  rival  of 
Dunwich.  This  latter  place  was  the  abode 
of  East  Anglian  kings  and  of  prelates  also, 
till  the  see  became  part  of  the  diocese  of  Nor- 
wich. It  fonnerly  boasted  eight  churches,  be- 
■dfis  oonveDtfl^  hoepitak,  aod  a  chantry.    It  I 


was  so  wealthy  a  place,  indeed,  that  when 
Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  fined  the  East  Anglian 
ports  for  supplying  his  enemies  with  com, 
Ipswich  and  Yarmouth  only  paid  two  hundred 
marks  each,  while  Dunwich  paid  one  thousand 
and  sixty  marks.  An  inundation  of  the  sea 
eventually  destroyed  the  town,  now  a  mere 
cluster  of  sloping  cornfields  round  some  grey 
monastic  ruins.  The  King^s  Holm,  tradition 
says,  was  buried  under  a  flood  of  shingle,  and 
the  Cock-and-Hen  hills  were  at  the  same  time 
washed  away  with  all  the  chief  buildings  of  the 
town. 

The  coast  between  Dunwich  and  Southwold 
is  flat,  and  terraced  with  shingle.  The  low 
coast  line  with  level  pastures  and  dykes  be- 
hind is  broken  only  by  the  tall  tower  of  Wal- 
berswick  and  the  rounded  height  that  termi- 
nates Solebay.  At  the  mouth  of  the  Blythe 
long  timber  piles  stretch  out  to  form  a  port, 
whSe  a  broad  tongue  of  shingle  spreads  across 
the  entrance,  and  through  the  neck  so  nar- 
rowed the  tide  runs  in  furiously.  The  inland 
scenery  is  Dutch  in  character.  The  meadows 
are  surrounded  by  high  banks,  on  the  tops  of 
which  run  the  paths,  and  the  common  LEUidB 
are  under  the  cnarge  of  ^^fen  reeves.'^  The 
town  once  depended  on  its  trade  with  Iceland 
for  ling,  but  the  Southwold  fishermen  (one 
hundred  boats  or  so)  now  depend  on  the 
catching  of  soles  and  shrimps,  and  on  the 
visitors,  who  are  attracted  by  the  breezy  crags 
and  the  dry  healthy  gravel  on  which  the 
houses  are  built.  The  fishermen  congregate  on 
the  outer  side  of  the  bluff,  round  their  two 
shelter  sheds,  watching  the  boatbuilders, 
smoking  beside  the  capstans,  or  on  clear  nights 
trying  to  make  out  Urford  light.  There  are 
two  government  batteries  (twelve  eighteen- 

Eounders)  at  Eyecliff,  where  the  Danes  once 
ad  a  fort,  and  at  Gunhill  is  a  battery  of 
six  old-fashioned  guns  taken  at  Preston  by  the 
Pretender,  and  re-captured  at  Culloden.  The 
Duke  of  Cumberland  gave  them  to  the  town. 
The  temperature  of  Southwold  is  so  mild  that 
it  is  always  honoured  by  the  earHest  arrival  and 
latest  departure  of  that  distinguished  visitor  of 
ours — ^the  swallow.  Amber  and  jet  are  dredged 
up  here,  and  cornelians  and  agates  hide  them- 
selves among  the  vulgar  pebbles  of  the  beach. 
Beyond  Southwold  the  crow  discerns  new  fea- 
tures of  the  Suffolk  coast  scenery  in  the  Broads 
(as  at  Euston  and  Covehithe),  where  large 
sheets  of  water  collect  near  the  shore,  and 
after  heavy  rains  are  allowed  to  escape  by 
sluices  into  the  sea. 

Rough  paths  through  scrub,  rushes,  and  sea 
holly,  over  a  rugged  beach  strewn  with  lumps 
of  dieWj  red  crag,  then  shingle  and  sand  hills, 
low  cliffs  covered  with  fern  and  heath,  hollows 
of  loose  sand,  and  bluffs  honeycombed  by 
sand  martins,  guide  the  crow  to  Solebay. 
On  the  calm  blue  waters,  under  these  silent 
cliffs,  took  place  on  May  2nd,  1672,  a  tre- 
mendous naval  battle,  when  sixty-five  English 
sail,  commanded  by  the  Duke  oi  Xq»xV^  «t^- 
countered  thirty-fiLve  YtenOa.  TDftTi-Qll-^«c  \aA« 
the  Cotint  d?£tttoi^  ttsA  uanft^j^-^'Wk  \i^6^.  > 


\ 


=^ 


[Juu  K  lB«tJ 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


COoBdMttdbr 


vefwels  led  by  tiie  fBiuous  Ue  Ruyter.  He  and 
Tromp  hod  tormented  and  inEulted  ua  long 
cnouph,  und  wu  owed  him  and  Van  Ghent  one 
for  haring  in  1G67  taken  Sheemcaa,  Biuled  up 
the  Medway,  and  l>urnt  sii  mea-oi-yru.  The 
Dutch,  too,  had  had  th^  wronKs:  and  they 
■were  BBvafie  with  us  for  lioving  tried  bo  hard  to 
HWOOp  down  on  their  Smyrna  Heet  and  its  two 
miUionH  of  treasure.  They  were  etolid  dodged 
old  enemies,  who  had  learned  to  diai'egard  our 
Helf-aasumvd  aoTercignty  of  the  seua,  and  they 
took  a  good  deal  of  '■  punishment."  DeWitwaa 
eager  to  pvc  us  a  final  crip[>ling  hlow  at  sea 
and  leave  him  free  to  jiour  the  muoketeeri  of 
Utrecht  and  Guelderiand  on  the  French,  who 
under  Turenne  and  Coiidc  were  then  taking 
and  gubduio^  Holland,  town  by  town,  and  pre- 
paring tor  the  famous  passage  of  the  Khiae. 
Pepys'  friend,  the  Earl  of  Sandwich,  had  warned 
the  duke  of  the  danger  of  buing  netted 
Sonthwold  Bay.  where  the  Dutch  fire-^ 
could  have  burnt  us  like  so  many  chips  in 
gmtc.  The  duke  (never  very  sweet  tempered) 
replied  to  the  earl's  cantious  by  a  sneer  at  hi« 
timidity.  The  taonta  rankled  in  the  carl'i  soul, 
knd  he  resolved  to  conquer  or  peri^.  The 
moment  the  Dutch  appeared,  closing  their  nets 
in  upon  us,  he  bore  out  of  the  bay  to  tfive  the 
duke  and  the  French  admiral  time  to  dubouche, 
1  went  straight  at  the  enemy  like  a  mad 
1.  He  killed  our  old  foe  Von  Ghent,  and 
beat  off  his  ntajp  after  a  furious  fight.  Ue  then 
sank  a  Dutch  man-of-war  aud  three  lire-Bhipa 
tliat  jrra^pted  nith  iiim.  Hia  own  vesaul  was 
now  Bbattfired  and  pierced,  and  two-thirdfl  of 
nine  hnndrud  men  were  killed  or  wounded, 
yet  ho  Htill  continued  to  blaze  at  the  eneuty  till 
a  third  fire-ship  closed  upon  him,  and  refusing 
to  escape,  he  Uien  perished  fi<;hting  to  the  hut. 
Nor  was  the  duke  oil  this  time  idle.  Be  bore 
down  on  De  Iluyter,  and  hanunered  at  him  for 
two  hours  till  night  came.  Two-ond 'thirty 
battleathe  grey  old  Dutch  veteran  had  fought, 
but  ocver,  he  declared,  so  hard  a  one  as  this. 
In  the  morning  the  Duke  of  York  (certainly 
nota  Nelson)  thongiitit  prudent  to  retire.  Tlie 
Dutch,  though  disabled,  beginning,  however,  to 
harass  his  retreat,  he  turned  on  them,  and 
renewed  the  fight,  wiiile  Sir  Joseph  Jordan, 
who  led  our  van,  got  the  weather  gauge  of 
De  Rjiyter,  who  then  fairly  fled,  pursued  by 
the  duke  to  the  coast  of  Holland.  We 
were  close  at  his  rear,  and  only  a  timely 
Ontch  fog  saved  fifteen  of  his  leaky  aad 
hgging  Tesseis.  The  French  took  little  part 
in  the  fray,  their  captnius  being  instructed  by 
Louis  tiie  Fourteenth  to  leave  the  Kngliah  and 
the  Dutch  to  fi^t  it  out  between  tb«n.  The 
French,  however,  lost  two  shipB  and  their  rear 
kdmiral  ;  we  six  ships  (one  tAea.  two  burned, 
three  souk)  and  two  thousand  men.  The  Dutch 
lost  thr«e  large  vessels.  It  was  not  much  of  a 
Tictory,  that  must  be  confessed,  and  far  un- 
like ^e  tramendoua  overthrow  of  the  Dutch 
by  Monk  in  1653,  when  Van  Ttomp  perished. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  about  this  battle  of  Sole  bay 
^  that  the  Boaad  oi  the  cannonading  was  heard 
Oir^  laiJea.      lie  Earl  ot  Oeaoij,  then  M 


EustoD,  eight  miles  north  of  Bury  St.  Ed> 
Dtunds,  hearing  the  firing,  instantly  took  horse 
and  galloped  the  thirty  miles  to  join  the  fleet. 

But  this  story  is  quite  surpassed  by  a  Cam- 
bridge tradition  of  Newton,  In  June,  1GG6— 
those  three  days  that  the  English  and  Dntcb 
deela  were  incessantly  wrangling  and  fighting 
between  the  Naze  and  the  NortL  Foreland, 
distant  at  least  seventy  miles  from  Cambridge 
— Newton,  then  a  Bachelor  of  Arts  at  Trinity, 
and  just  commencing  his  optical  discoveries, 
came  one  day  into  the  boll  and  told  the  fellows 
that  a  battle  w.ta  being  fought  between  the 
Dutch  and  the  English,  and  that  the  latter 
were  having  the  worst  of  it.  He  had  been 
studying,  he  said,  in  the  obecrratory  over  the 
gateway,  and  had  there  heard  the  vibration  of 
cannon.  It  seemed  to  grow  louder  as  it  came 
nearer  our  coast  *  he  therefore  concluded  that 
we  had  bad  tJie  worst  of  it.  A  recent  writer 
on  Solebay  quotes  the  following  fine  old  naval 
baUad: 

Of  all  Ihe  (hipa  (bat  fought  with  Junu, 

Their  niuabcT  or  their  Cormaga ; 

But  this  I  My,  tbp  nobis  ban 

Bigfat  galliDtlT  did  take  ill  poit, 

And  cover'd  all  the  hallow  ooaat 

Fram  WBldenvyck  to  Donvich. 

Wf  II  migbt  JOB  heir  their  goat  I  guan 


ill  Gup  to 
Tho  abow  wu  rare  and  lightly 
IVy  hattw'd  (ritbout '  ' 
Until  Ibf 


itaj 


le  erpning  of  that  day- 
hen  thr  Dutchmen  raa  away, 

Ths  Duko  bad  best  thsra  lightiy. 

Of  all  the  batt1«a  gained  at  iva, 

This  wia  (be  lanat  riotory 

Siocp  Phtlip'a  grand  AnoadL 

I  will  not  name  tbs  cebd  Blake ; 

He  fought  for  Eoundhead  Craaiwelr.  eakp, 

And  jeL  wu  forced  three  dajft  io  take 

To  quell  the  Patch  brayado. 

So  ntrw  weVe  wen  them  lake  to  flight— 

Tbia  way  and  that  wben>'«c  tb»y  migbt, 

To  wintiward  or  to  laowaid. 

Sdio'a  to  King  Cimrlea,  and  bere'a  to  Jomea, 

ikud  here's  to  all  tbe  captaina'  namea, 

And  bere'a  to  all  the  Suffolk  dameB, 

And  bere'a  to  the  bouae  of  Btuart. 
Up  the  Waveney  now  for  tie  crow ;  Waveney, 
■'  the  waving  water"  of  the  Saxons,  the  stream 
that  winds  through  broad  green  tranquil 
meadows  spotted  red  with  cattle,  and  past 
ruithy  flats  and  draining  mills,  and  rows  of 
poplars,  and  heathy  slopes,  and  patches  of  fir, 
and  golden  swaying  oceans  of  com,  with  towers 
and  spires  for  instant  landmarks.  Bungay  "  le 
boB  Eye"  (the  beantiful  island)  we  strike  for, 
a  sleepy  old  East  Anglian  town,  with  a  round- 
towered  church,  and  old  flint  walls  of  Hugh 
Bipod's  Castle  that  are  now  embowered  in  " 

"  King's  Head"  gardens.    Hugh  Bigod  was  i 

nf  those  proud  barons  who  rebelled  against 
Henry  the  Second.  It  was  in  1174  that  the 
King  sent  for  Hagh  Bigod,  and  the  story  still 
livi-8  in  a  ballad.  The  very  old  chant  (so  old  it 
can  hardly  go  alone)  says: 


cS 


GhMlM  DiekMiB.]  AS  THE   CROW  PLIES.  CJone  26,  IMD.]     83 


**  Wen  I  in  mj  castle  of  Bnngaj  is,  the  toft  or  cluster  of  Koufies  bj  the  Loth 

Upon  the  liTcr  of  Warenay,  flow)  river,  and  he  supposes  that  Lother  and 

I  would  not  ewe  for  the  King  of  Cokenay  Irling,  the  Danes,  after  the  conquest  of  Essex, 

Hot  aU  his  braTery.  j^  ^^^^^  established  a  station  hero  to  receive 

The  Baily  he  rode  and  the  BaUy  ho  ran,  Danish   colonists.      The    old    Danish    fishing 

Ti„^*V^*f.!^l?f^' ^  ^'^^  town,   on    which   a   modem    watering    place 

I,  Bat  for  every  mile  the  Bauy  rode,  ,         *  *x  j   •*  ^ir    ^^     j      ^  ^.^ 

'  The  Earl  he  rode  more  than  twJ).  ^^  engrafted  itself,  stands  on  an   eminence 

I  xsn.     *!.   T>  '1   t  J  -jj     X   n      It  M     I  backed  by  hills  and  with  broad  sands  at  its 
When  the  Baily  had  ndden  to  Bramficld  oak,  f^.       ii^i^-,  ♦!,«  k^,«.^  /^«  ♦u^  i^..^»  ^t   ♦!.« 

II  Sir  Hugh  wi  at  Hksale  bower,  ^^-     ^^^^^T  ^^^  *^9^^  T       .     x?^  ?i^   *?'? 
!,          When  the  Baily  had  ridden  to  Holsworth  cross,  "dge,  hanging  gardens   slope  to  the  alluvial 

He  was  singing  in  Bungay  tower.  land  lying  between  Lake  Lothing  and  the  sea. 

li  We  regret,  however,  to  state  that  the  bold  5?y<>°d  }^  ^^\  ^»?.*^  *^^  ,.?^^.^.  ,"***    ^* 

\    Bigod,  spite  of  all -his  bragging  and  his  five  KirUey  into  another  Ime  of  cbffs,  which  stretch 

hundred   soldiers   from  FrSmlingham,  proved  along  the  Suffolk  coast,  broken  through  here 

dnnghiU  at  last,  and  instead  of  replying  to  the  *J»^  *?^^  ^T  "Y^";    ,The  beach  along  the 

king  with  arrows  and  crossbow  bolts,  craftily  shore  is  a  strip  of  shmgle,  from  which  runs  the 

capitulated  after  the  following  unworthy  man-  «^*  8"^1  <»"/a  the  Pakefield  Flats,  probably 

ner.     When  the  king  arrived,  submerged  land ;  but  the  sands  of  the  denes. 

Sir  Hufh  took  th  ck    f    Id  ^  front  of  Lowestoft,  are  never  overflowed. 

And  lung  thonTo^Uirwalir  ^  Th«  flood-stream  and  the  ebb-tide  have  both 

Savs,  "  Gk>  your  way  in  the  deril's  name,  scooped  out  bays  and  formed  shoals  of  the 

Yoonelf  and  your  merr^  men  all ;  displaced  material. 
But  leaTe  me  my  castle  of  Bungay  Tlie  legends  of  Lowestoft  are   chiefly  of  a 
L«m  the  river  of  WaT«ey.  naval  and  piscatorial  kind.    In  the  Civil  War 
And-Illpaymy  diot  to  the  fcing  of  Cokenay."  ^^^  ^^^  <5avaliers  of  Lowestoft  were  always 
St.  Mary's  church  at  Bungay  once  formed  privateering  against  Yarmouth,  and  the  cliffs 
wt  of  a  Benedictine  nunnery,  founded  by  between  the  rival  towns  were  constantly  vibrat- 
Roger  de  Glanvil  and  his  Countess  Gundrida,  ing  to  the  sound  of  their  cannons.    There  has, 
m  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Second,  that  very  indeed,  always  been  a  jealousy  between  the 
reign  m  wWch  Bigod  was  beaioged  by  the  King  two  places,  and  it  existed  even  in  tlie  times 
li  of  Cockayne.    In  Edward  the  First's  time,  this  of  old  Potter  (1789—1804),  the  worthy  and 
nunnery  contained  a  prioress  and  fifteen  re-  learned  vicar  of  Lowestoft,  gratefully  known 
|i  hgious  siaters,  but  at  the  Diaaolution  there  were  to  us  in  our  school  days  for  those  flowery  trans- 
only  seven  nuns  there  Uving  on  a  yearly  in.  lations  of  JEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides, 
;,  come  of  sixty-two  pounds  two  shillings  and  handy  **  cribs"  much  resorted  to  by  '»  first- 
j  fourpence.    Henry  the  Eighth  gave  this  nun-  form"  boys.    Old  Potter  was  jealous  for  the 
il  nery  to  tiie  Duke  of  Norfolk.    It  was  upon  honour  of  Lowestoft,  and  when  the  primate  of 
:i  this  same  St.  Mary's  church  that  a  tremendous  those  days  once  wrote  to  him,  and  addressed 
'  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  broke,  August  the  letter  «*  Lowestoft,  near  Yarmouth,"  the 
i  1577.     Several  persons  were  struck.      In  vicar  expostulated  in  his  grand  and  flowing 
this   same   awful   storm  —  which    burst    out  manner:  "The  next  time  your  grace  will  be 
between    nine    and  ten   A.M.,  during  divine  pleased  to  write  simply  Lowestoft.    Lowestoft 
,1  aerrice,  which  was  earlier  m  those  days  than  Joes  not  want  Yarmouth  for  a  direction  post, 
|,  now  —  forty  persons   were  struck  down    by  for  Lowestoft  was  ere  Yarmouth  rose  out  of 
,  ughtning  at  the  church  in  the  adjoining  village  the  azure  main." 
of  Blythburgh.    The  superstition  of  the  Suffolk        The  Swan  Inn  on  the  east  side  of  High-street 
people  was  roused  to  the  utmost  by  this  falling  ig  still  pointed  out  as  the  head-quarters  of 
of  lire  from  heaven,  and  some  excited  imagi-  Cromwell  in  1644.     Short  as  that  visit  was, 
nations  declared  they  saw  between  the  flashes  the  bronze  face,  the  plain  steel  corselet,  and 
*  huge  black  dog,  of  Satanic  origin,  rush  down  the  simple,  soldierly  dress  will  always  haunt 
the  aisle  and  ffr^  one  person  in  the  back,  and  the  memory  of  Lowestoft.    The  fishing  people 
wring  the  necks  of  two  others.   The  Waveney,  here  were  always  proud  of  their  sea  trophies  ; 
at  Bungay,  is  the  boundary  of  Norfolk  and  formerly  at  weddings,  rows  of  ship  fliags  used 
Suffolk,  and  the  small  barges  upon  its  waters  to  be  hung  across  the  streets,  and  some  of 
bring  from  and  carry  into  Suffolk  stores  of  these  had  been  captured  by  Arnold,  a  Lowes- 
com,   malt,   flour,   coal,    and  Ume.    Bungay,  toft  man,  from  the  Royal  Philip,  a  Spanish 
^uiet  and  even  sleepy  as  it  is  now,  has  had  its  man-of-war.      Close   by  Lowestoft    at    Bar- 
deep  sorrows   and   its  stormy  troubles.      In  gham  rectory  house,  Catherine,  Lord  Nelson's 
March,   1688   (James  the   Second),   an  irre-  mother,  was  bom,  1725.    Admiral  Sir  'Diomas 
aatible  fire  destroyed,  in  four  hours  only,  the  Allin,   who,   in    the  time    of    the    Common- 
church,  the  market  cross,  and  four  hundred  wealth,   snapped  up  the   rich    Smyrna  fleet, 
houses,  leaving  only  one  small  street  and  a  few  was  a  Lowestoft  man  ;   and  from  the  same 
cottages  standing.  part  of  the  coast  came  also  those  two  brave 
On  to  Lowestoft,  that  fijrst  seamen.  Sir  John  Ashby  and  Sir  Andrew  Leake : 
Of  all  old  Enffhmd'f  busy  townf,  uplifts  the  latter,  *' the  handsome  captain,"  admired 
Its  oriaoni  and  greeta  the  riaiog  mom.  )>y  Qncen  Anne,  who  aaft\&ie^  YUwSt'ft  Va.  ^Jafe 
According  to  Mr.  Walcott,  the  name  oi  the  taking  of  Gibraltar  irom  t\ie  ^f^Tv\a.T^  ^^^^ 
town  in  Domesdajrinw  Lother-Wistoftt  that  He  waa  desperately  ^oxmdftdi  m  «.tiw:.\a&^  cj& 


I 


•f 


<^ 


84      [June  96, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YBAB  BOUND. 


[Conducted  by 


MaJa^  bnt  would  not  go  below,  and  eat  erect 
and  grand  in  hig  cocked  hat  and  gold-laced 
coat,  and  kept  his  post  in  an  arm-chair  on  his 

3uarter-deck  till  he  saw  the  shattered  sails  of 
[le  enemy  fade  back  into  the  smoke.  Then 
he  arose,  smiled,  and  fell  dead.  There  is  a 
monument  to  this  resolute  old  warrior  in  the 
chequered  flint- work  church  of  Saint  Margaret. 
The  same  church  contains  monuments  of  old 
"  Crib"  Potter  (bless  himl),  of  John  Tanner, 
who  edited  the  Monasticon  of  his  learned  and 
ponderous  brother,  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph ;  of 
Lord  Chief  Justice  Holt ;  and  of  poor  heretical 
Whiston,  the  heterodox  Holbom  rector  and  the 
suspected  professor  of  mathematics  at  Cam- 
bridge. Whiston  was  vicar  here  from  1698  to 
1702.  Swift  wrote  terrible  verses  upon  him, 
and  held  him  up  to  the  most  scathing  ridicule, 
but  he  really  seems  to  have  been  only  a  clever, 
eccentric,  wrong-headed  enthusiast,  always 
doing  odd  and  mistaken  things. 

But  the  greatest  event  of  which  Lowestoft 
ever  was  a  witness  was  the  great  pounding 
match  between  the  English  and  Dutch  fleets 
in  June,  1665.  The  Duke  of  York,  Rupert, 
the  Earl  of  Sandwich,  Fenn,  Ayscough,  and 
Lawson  led  our  grand  fleet  of  one  hundred 
and  fourteen  ships  of  war,  not  including  flre- 
ships  and  ketches.  The  Dutch  had  only  one 
hundred  sail ;  but  then  they  were  led  by  Opdam 
and  Van  Tromp,  and  their  presence  was  worth 
twenty  frigates.  We  lost  only  one  vessel. 
The  Dutc^  bleeding  and  beaten,  hauled  off 
eventually  to  the  Texel,  with  a  loss  of  eighteen 
ships  taken  and  fourteen  burnt  or  sunk.  It 
was  a  glorious  victory ;  Pepys,  proud  of  his 
patron,  the  Earl  of  Sandwich,  says  the  Dutch 
neglected  the  opportunity  of  the  wind,  and  so 
lost  the  benefit  of  their  flre-ships.  It  was 
very  hot  in  the  duke^s  ship,  the  Royal  Charles, 
where  one  and  the  same  shot  killed  the  Earl  of 
Falmouth,  Muskerry,  and  Sir  Richard  Boyle 
(the  Earl  of  Burlington^s  second  son).  It  was 
reported  that  Mr.  Boyle's  head  struck  down 
the  duke,  who  was  covered  with  his  blood  and 
brains.  We  lost  about  seven  hundred  men, 
the  Dutch  eight  thousand.  At  this  very  time 
the  Plague  hsA  just  broken  out  in  Loudon, 
and,  indeed,  only  the  day  before  the  entry  of 
this  victory,  Pepys  says  : 

"  The  hottest  day  that  ever  I  felt  in  my  life. 
This  day,  much  against  my  will,  I  did  in  Drury- 
lane  see  two  or  three  houses  marked  with  a  red 
cross  upon  the  doors,  and  *Lord  have  mercy 
upon  us'  writ  there,  in  which  was  a  sad  sight 
to  me,  being  the  firat  of  the  kind  that,  to  my 
remembrance,  I  ever  saw." 

The  Lowestoft  two -masted  luggers  are 
famous  in  the  North  Sea.  The  town  boasts 
some  twenty-five  luggers  and  fifty  **  half-and- 
half"  boats.  In  1802  the  Lowestoft  men 
caught  thirty  thousand  mackerel ;  in  1853  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  in  only  ten  weeks. 
They  were  valued  at  ten  thousand  pounds.  It 
is  calculated  that  the  nets  of  the  Lowestoft 
and  Yarmouth  fishermen,  if  placed  in  a  straight 
y/ne,  would  reach  two  hundred  miles.  The 
herring  £ahery  commences  on  this  cast  coast 


a  fortnight  before  Michaelmas,  and  it  lasts  to 
Martinmas. 

The  prosperity  of  Lowestoft  commenced  in 
1827,  when  Mr.  Cubitt  began  operations  to 
form  Lake  Lothing,  with  its  one  hundred  and 
sixty  acres  to  the  south-west,  into  an  inner 
harbour  and  part  of  a  ship  canal  to  Norwich. 
Before  that,  a  rampart  of  sand  had  formed 
between  Lake  Lothmg  and  the'  sea,  and  at 
times  the  lowlands  used  to  be  flooded,  and  the 
bridge  at  Mutf ord,  two  miles  from  the  coast, 
to  be  carried  away  by  the  spring  tides.  In 
1831  the  works  were  completed  at  a  cost  of 
eighty-seven  thousand  pounds,  and  the  river 
T^veney  re- wedded  to  the  sea.  Government 
took  possession  of  the  harbour  in  1842,  in  de- 
fault of  the  liquidation  of  advances  made  for  the 
works,  and  in  1844  it  was  sold  to  Mr.  Feto. 

The  inner  harbour,  two  miles  long  with  three 
thousand  feet  of  wharfage,  will  acconmiodate 
vessels  of  four  hundred  tons,  and  those  which 
draw  fifteen  feet  at  any  time  of  the  tide.  The 
railway  was  opened  in  1847.  The  south  pier 
is  one  thousand  three  hundred  feet  long,  llie 
north  pier,  devoted  chiefly  to  the  Danish  cattle 
trade,  has  often  sheltered  five  hundred  sail. 
The  dry  dock  cost  ten  thousand  pounds.  In 
1845  there  were  only  four  hundred  and  ten 
vessels  frequenting  Lowestoft ;  in  1851  one 
thousand  six  hundred  and  thirty-six  vessels  of 
one  hundred  and  thirty-three  thousand  nine 
hundred  and  fourteen  tons  entered  the  harbour. 
The  town  now  boasts  one  thousand  six  hun- 
dred houses  and  a  population  of  more  than  six 
thousand  seven  hunc&ed  and  eighty-one  per- 
sons. The  herrijig  curing-houses  are  on  the 
Denes,  the  sands  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs.  In 
the  north  and  south  roads  seven  hundred  sail 
are  sometimes  seen  at  anchor,  sheltered  by  the 
Corton  and  Newcome  sand-banks ;  the  light- 
house for  the  chief  channel  is  movable.  A 
gong  sounds  on  the  Stanford  sand  floating-light 
during  fogs. 


COLUMBIA-SQUARE  MAEKET. 

A  DBEAM,  AlID  THB  IirTXBPBSTATIOH  THSBEOV. 

"  Must  it  be  always  thus  ?"    I  woke  and  wept, 

For  in  my  dream  a  horror  o'er  me  crept. 

Methought  I  wandered  through  a  dreary  maze 

Of  alleys  foul,  and  dim  and  durkened  ways. 

And  all  the  faces  as  they  passed  me  by, 

Pale  men  and  women,  a^  and  infancy. 

Hurried  along  amid  a  dismal  din, 

Wearinc;  an  aspect  dark  of  care  and  sin  ; 

While  through  the  doleful  night  from  sunset  to  sunns^ 

Bose  curses,  women's  groans,  and  children's  cries. 

Again  I  dreamed,  and  in  my  troubled  sleep 

I  heard  a  voice  that  whispered,  "  Cease  to  weep ; 

A  change  is  passing  o'er  this  suffering  throng. 

There  shall  bs  li^ht  and  gladness,  prayer  ana  song; 

Mark  well  the  vision  !"    Sudden,  as  in  air. 

Arose  a  piincely  pile  on  pillars  fair. 

And  through  the  open  gate  and  arches  wide, ' 

The  crowd  pressed  in  from  mom  to  eventide  : 

And  in  the  pauses  of  the  vision  came 

Loud  benedictions  on  a  woman's  name. 

•  «  •  • 

But  when  the  dream  had  ended,  all  in  vain  I  sought 
I  To  hnni^  ihafc  f^We  ioaxnA  before  mj  waking  tfaoogk^ 


=J 


^ 


ft» 


CliiTlni  T>^fWnf  3 


MY  FIRST  MONEY. 


[Jime  S6, 18C9L]      85 


At  Ust  tbara  oune  an  April  morning  l>riffht ; 

Fair  roae  the  tun,  touching  the  roon  witn  light. 

Wondering,  I  itood,  within  a  stately  square, 

Bidi  with  carred  capitalfl  on  pillars  flur; 

And,  in  the  midst,  the  palace  and  the  hal^ 

And  the  wide  gateway  open  now  for  all ! 

I  knew  the  plMe,  and  in  mj  heart  I  knew 

The  time  had  oome  to  prove  the  rision  true— 

Now  shall  I  know  her  name  by  whom  this  change  is 

wrought ; 
"  Snrel J  a  crownM  qneen  !*'  I  ignorantly  thought. 

Prince,  peer,  and  prelate,  pass  along  the  street. 

The  crowds  are  silent ;  the j  are  there  to  greet 

One  onlj :  so  they  care  not  for  the  state 

Of  those  die  world  deems  noble,  fair,  or  great. 

There  is  a  hnsh,  and  then  a  deafening  cheer — 

A  ptopU^t  votes !    She  comes,  she  comes— she's  here ! 

No  sovereign  she,  saye  that  she  roles  by  loye, 

Brawine  her  sway  from  the  pure  Fount  aboye. 

O,  gentle  lady,  may  thy  work  be  blest 

Tothonsands  when  thou  art  thyself  at  rest ! 

And  may  the  name  of  Avoxla.  remain 

Watchword  of  pity  in  the  homes  of  pain  ! 

So  shall  thy  memory  through  the  years  endure 

Mort  gracious  woman— frimid  of  England's  poor ! 


MY  FIEST  MONEY. 

It  was  a  sixpence!  New,  clean,  and 
shiny,  bearing  npon  it  the  image  and  su- 
perscription of  onr  qneen :  Victoria,  D.  G. 
Britanniamm,  &c.,  jnst  like  other  sixpences, 
bat  so  white,  so  glossy,  and  so  well- struck, 
that  no  other  sixpence  on  earth  could  have 
borne  comparison  with  it. 

This  was  not  a  fact  open  to  question.  I 
had  already  classed  it  among  the  articles 
of  my  belief,  when  taJdng  the  "  sixpence'' 
delicately  between  my  fingers  I  laid  it 
tenderly  upon  my  bed,  and  then  knelt 
dofwn  on  the  floor  in  order  to  have  a  better 
Tusw  of  it.  This  was  my  first  adoration  of 
Mammon,  my  first  worship  of  the  golden 
— or,  to  speaJc  by  the  card,  the  silver — calf. 
I  was  five  years  old ;  the  sixpence  was  four 
years  and  a  half  my  junior.  Four  years 
and  a  half!  This  was  a  great  deal,  the 
advantage  of  age  was  manifestly  on  my 
side,  and  this,  I  suspect,  had  not  a  little  to 
do  with  the  semi-patronising  glances  which, 
notwithstanding  my  immense  veneration 
for  this  idolised  sixpence,  I  occasionally 
ventured  to  throw  upon  it.  For  I  should 
not,  I  feel,  have  gassed  thus  at  an  elder  six- 
pence. An  octogenarian  coin,  for  instance, 
would  have  impressed  me  with  a  certain 
degree  of  awe.  It  might  have  been  round 
the  world  in  the  breeches-pocket  of  Captain 
Cook,  it  might  have  witnessed  Trafalgar 
from  the  waistcoat  of  Lord  Nelson,  it  might 
have  passed  through  the  hard  fingers  of 
the  Iron  Duke.  A  sixpence  of  that  sort 
could  not  have  been  viewed  with  flippancy. 
No,  it  was  better  to  have  a  young  and  in- 
experienced sixpenc£^  a  sixpence  with  all 


its  troubles  before  it,  like  a  youthful  bear. 
It  and  I  were  more  on  a  footing  of  equality ; 
there  was  no  need  for  me  to  stand  upon  cere- 
mony with  it,  and  I  could  freely  give  vent 
to  my  sentiments  in  its  presence  without 
transgressing  the  laws  of  propriety.  There 
was  no  fear  of  its  looking  sourly  at  me,  as 
much  as  to  say,  **  You  little  simpleton,  it  is 
lamentable  for  a  coin  like  me  to  fall  into 
such  ill-bred  hands  as  yours.  Nor  Burke, 
nor  Sheridan,  nor  Charles  James  Fox,  all 
of  whom  I  knew  most  intimately,  ever 
pfrinned  at  me  as  you  do ;  and  the  young 
William  Pitt  (to  whom  I  was  introduced 
by  his  illustrious  fiskther  the  Earl  of  Chat- 
ham), never  laughed  at  me." 

That  was  the  great  advantage  of  a  young 
sixpence,  it  being  so  fi'esh  to  the  ways  of 
society.  There  was  no  danger  of  its  having 
learned  its  manners  frrom  the  Prince 
Kegent,  or  modelled  its  demeanour  upon 
that  of  Lord  Castlereagh.  It  could  afford 
to  be  indulgent  if  I  chuckled  too  loud,  and 
could  make  allowances,  if  in  the  jubilant 
pride  of  possession,  I  rubbed  my  hands 
too  ecstatically.  Besides,  considering  tho 
matter  from  a  more  material  point  of  view, 
a  young  sixpence  was  larger,  brighter, 
heavier,  than  an  old  one ;  there  seemed  to 
be  more  of  it ;  there  were  no  disgracefriL 
patches  of  black  about  it,  such  as  spoke  of 
a  sojourn  in  a  dust-bin,  in  the  till  of  a  rag- 
shop,  or  in  the  purse  of  an  economical 
sweep.  The  features  of  the  queen  upon  it 
were  not  disfigured  by  scars,  crosses,  or 
knife-marks  to  prove  that  its  former  pos- 
sessors suspected  the  honesty  of  their 
familiars,  and  were  obliged  for  prudence 
sake  to  mark  their  coins.  It  had  no  un- 
seemly holes  bored  in  it,  and  no  Hebrew 
had  sweated  it  to  the  thinness  of  a  bit  of  tin. 
It  had  everything  in  its  favour — ^beauty, 
youth,  distinction,  and  novelty.  Foryoumust 
remember  it  was  mj  first  sixpence,  tho  first 
coin  upon  which  I  had  ever  gazed  as  my 
own,  the  first  money  of  which  I  had  ever 
had  the  free  disposal.  True,  a  few  speci- 
mens of  the  currency  had  occasionally 
passed  through  my  hands,  in  the  shape  of 
fugitive  halfpence ;  but  as  my  mother  had 
always  requested  me  to  put  these  into  the 
poor-box,  I  could  scarcely  be  said  to  have 
had  the  full  enjoyment  of  them.  Hence 
this  money  was  indeed  my  first,  and,  O 
Plutus !  the  gold  mines  of  Peru,  made  over 
to  me  by  bond,  duly  signed  and  sealed, 
would  have  delighted  me  less  than  this 
sixpence. 

It  was  my  fatlieT  "viYio  "^aai^  ^^^ja.  \\»TS!kSs 
and  under  memoTdXAib  cnxe>'ux!is^sttsic&%«   ^^ 


4 


<^ 


:& 


86      ['one  26,  ISO.] 


ALL  THE  TEAS  BOimD. 


[aoadaoltdbj 


bad  been  a  long  while  inyolvcd  in  one  of 
those  snits  in  GbaQoery,  which  are  the 
triumphs  of  our  legislation.  Seven-and- 
twontj  years  liad  it  lasted,  but  at  the  end 
of  that  time,  hj  a  happy  dispensation  of 
Proyidence,  he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
gain  his  cause.  Lawyers,  solicitors,  and 
barristers  had,  however,  been  to  work  so 
merrily  that  all  costs  and  expenses  paid, 
there  was  lefl  of  the  estate  which  formed 
the  bone  of  contention,  the  exact  sum  of 
five  pounds  ten  shillings  and  twopence. 
Three  letters  and  a  consultation  from  our 
&mily  solicitor,  informing  us  of  this  edify- 
ing result,  swallowed  up  the  five  pounds  of 
this  total,  and  the  conscientious  member  of 
liincoln's-inn  then  scrupulously  forwarded 
to  us  the  remaining  ten  shillings  and  two- 
pence, merely  deducting  therefrom  six  and 
eightpence,  price  of  the  envelope  in  which 
the  residue  was  enclosed. 

My  father  hereupon  ranged  seven  six- 
pences on  our  break6afit  table.  "  My  boy,'' 
he  said,  *'  see  what  comes  of  going  to  law 
in  Qrcat  Britain  !  Your  mother  has  told 
you  that  I  have  won  my  suit  in  chancery  ?" 

"Yes,  papa." 

"Well,  then,  look  !  That  is  all  I  get  of 
it;"  and  he  pointed  grimly  at  the  six- 
penoes. 

I  opened  wide  my  eyes. 

"All  that  you  get  of  the  whole  iuUr* 
I  echoed,  with  a  puzsled  air,  firmly  con- 
vinced that  a  suit  in  chancery  was  composed 
as  other  suits  are,  of  a  coat,  waistcoat,  and 
trousers.  "  Why,  papa^  those  are  only  the 
buttons !" 

This  deplorable  joke  had  earned  me  my 
sixpence.  My  father  had  thrown  it  over 
to  me,  laughing,  and,  like  a  dog  who  is 
pelted  with  a  bone,  I  had  rushed  hastily 
off  with  it  for  fear  they  should  think  of 
taking  it  back  again. 

Six... PENCE ! 

For  a  time  anything  like  cool  reflection 
was  impossible.  I  was  too  giddy,  too 
startled,  to  think.  How  think,  indeed, 
when  one  has  sixpence  !  My  sixpence  was 
as  a  mooB  of  which  the  rays  dazed  me; 
my  head  swam,  my  fingers  tingled,  my  eyes 
saw  whirling  through  the  air  in  a  fimtastic 
gallop  several  millions  of  sixpences,  all 
white,  all  lately  issued  from  the  mint,  all 
bearing  upon  them,  like  my  sixpence, 
Victoria,  D.  G.,  Britanniarum,  &c.,  with 
her  Majesty*s  head  and  the  royal  arms. 

At  last,  however  (and  happily,  too,  for  I 
was  a  small  boy,  and  unused  to  these  emo- 

/tioas),  iihe  intenmij  of  my  sensations  sub- 
sj'ded.      I  grew  more  pbilosopbdosA,  and 


after  a  time  was  enabled  to  bring  upon  the 
subject  that  was  absorbing  me,*  a  becoming 
amount  of  self-possession.  You  know,  of 
course,  what  it  was,  this  subject  that  was 
absorbing  me  ?  It  was  the  expenditure  of 
my  sixpence.  Like  a  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  with  the  surplus  of  a  year's 
budget,  I  was  wondering  what  I  should  do 
with  it. 

Momentous  question  !  But  it  needed  a 
refreshing  breeze  of  out- door  air  to  enable 
me  to  solve  it  with  coolness.  I  accordingly 
rose  from  my  bedside,  where  I  knelt  like  a 
Persian  worshipping  the  sun,  and  having 
laid  my  elbows  and  my  sixpence  upon  the 
sil],  of  the  open  window,  "multa  oorde 
volutans,"  began  deeply  to  meditate. 

Now,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  accepted  as  a 
symptom  of  my  great  precocity  of  spirit 
that  I  had  not  been  merged  above  ten 
minutes  in  reflection  before  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  upon  one  capital  point,  to  wit, 
that  there  were  only  three  things  upon 
which  my  sixpence  could  worthily  be  ex- 
pended :  a  donkey,  a  gold  hunting  watch, 
or  a  pewter  squirt. 

The  only  question  to  decide  was  upon 
which  of  these  three  my  choice  should 
pitch;  and  here  was  the  rub.  I  had  an 
artistical  admiration  for  squirts — ^pewter 
squirts  especially — ^which  I  classed  amongst 
the  sublimest  contrivances  due  to  the  m- 
genuity  of  man.  Their  use  as  mediums 
for  the  conveyance  of  ink  or  soapy  water 
upon  the  passers-by  in  the  street  had 
always  struck  me  as  peculiarly  practicaJ, 
and  I  think,  on  the  whole,  my  sixpence 
would  have  gone  to  the  purchase  of  one  of 
these  astonishing  instruments  had  not  a 
reflection  suddenly  fallen  upon  me,  and 
drenched  my  enthusiasm  as  under  a  bucket 
of  cold  water.  I  could  not  remember  ever 
having  seen  a  grown-up  man  make  use  of 
a  squirt !  My  father,  for  instance,  had,  to 
my  certain  knowledge,  never  spent  his 
morning  in  squirting  ink  upon  the  public 
through  the  drawing-room  window ;  and  I 
could  not  recollect  ever  having  heard  my 
uncles  advocate  this  species  of  pastime. 
This  was  important.  Yesterday  I  had 
been  a  boy,  and  could  do  boyish  things ; 
to-day  the  case  was  altered,  my  sixpence 
had  laid  upon  me  the  duties  of  manhood ; 
it  was  necessary  to  be  cautious  and  digni- 
fied. ...  I  discarded  the  squirt,  and  two 
things  then  remained,  the  donkey  and  the 
gold  watch.    Once  more  I  began  to  ponder. 

The  purchase  of  a  donkey,  I  reasoned, 
offered  unquestionable  indHcements.  There 
were,  fiiati  of  all^  the  advantages  of  loco- 


0(: 


AariM  IXckeDB.] 


A  BENGAL  MAGISTRATE. 


:& 


[Jane  39, 1869.]       87 


motion ;  in  the  second  place,  there  was  the 
satisfaction  of  personal  vanity,  for  it  was 
not  to  be  doubted  that  upon  my  first  ap- 
pearance in  public  upon  the  back  of  an  ass 
I  should  become  the  cynosure  of  neigh- 
bouring' eyes,  and  at  once  take  rank  amongst 
the  parish  celebrities.  This  consideration 
neariy  carried  my  Tote  by  storm ;  but  then, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  donkey,  I  conld  not 
but  admit,  was  a  less  handy  possession 
than  a  gold  hunting  watch.  The  latter 
would  go  into  one's  pocket,  whereas  the 
former  would  not.  Indeed  it  was  more 
than  probable  that  the  donkey  would  need 
a  certain  amount  of  space  to  move  about 
in,  and  if  so,  what  was  to  be  done,  for  we 
had  no  stables  ?  Second  thoughts  bring 
counsel.  I  was  a  sharp  boy,  and  I  remem- 
bered the  staircase.  If  the  difficulty  of 
bringing  the  donkey  up  to  the  third  floor 
could  be  once  overcomae,  I  should  be  happy 

00  allow  him  to  sleep  in  my  bedroom; 
there  would  be  ample  space  for  him  in  the 
comer  close  by  the  wash-hand-stand ;  and 
he  would  be  a  sodable  companion  when  it 
rained.  There  was  no  fear  of  his  catching 
a  ooid  or  a  cough,  as  he  might  do  if  left 
down-fltairs  in  the  yard.  Yes;  but  how 
about  his  food  ?  The  postchaise  of  my 
tfaoogbts,  which  was  at  that  moment  going 
twenty  miles  an  hour,  here  stuck  of  a 
sadden  in  a  deep  rut.  I  had  never  thought 
of  the  food.  I  was  like  the  Irishman  who 
had  a  clock.     I  had  forgotten  the  works. 

1  oould  not  think  of  asking  my  father  to 
board  the  donkey.  The  thing  would  be 
isdelicate  after  he  had  generously  given 
me  sixpence ;  and  yet  from  whatever  point 
of  view  I  considered  the  matter,  the 
dooikej,  I  was  compelled  to  own,  must 
eat  ...  I  became  miserable.  I  think  I 
cried.  I  saw  laj  donkey  depart  at  a 
gallop,  and  scamper  away  into  darkness, 
Claying  away  with  him  upon  his  back 
my  hopes,  my  illusions,  and  my  dreams  of 
gfory. 

But  after  a  few  seconds  my  donkey  re- 
turned as  he  had  departed,  at  full  gallop. 
The  idea  had  struck  me  that  his  main- 
teaanoe  oould  be  effected  by  an  equitable 
distribution  of  my  daily  meals  with  him. 
This  was  tiie  straw  to  the  drowning  man. 
Having  decided  tiiat  my  coming  donkey 
should  be  nourished  upon  roast  mutton 
and  batter  pudding,  I  was  about  to  rush 
oat  to  effect  my  purchase  when,  attracted 
by  a  noise  below,  I  thrust  my  head  out  of 
the  window  and  saw  a  small  boy,  aged  ten, 
throwing  cherries  in  the  air  and  trying  to 
eatch  them  in  his  mouth. 


At  this  sight  I  forgot,  for  the  minute, 
the  donkey,  the  roast  mutton  and  the  batter 
pudding,  and  considered  the  cherries.     It 
was  a  hot  day,  and  I  was  thirsty.     The 
cherries  rose  and  fell,  but  always  into  the 
small  boy's  moutli  and  never  into  mine. 
Like  Tantalus  with  the  flow  and  ebb   of 
waters,   I  began  to  find  the  thing    mo- 
notonous.    If  one  or   two  cherries  would 
only  have  &llcn  on  the  ground  now  and 
then,   the  interest  would  have  been  en- 
Hvened ;  but  no ;  one,  two,  tlireo,  four,  all 
came  down   like    plummets    without   de- 
viating an  inch  from  the  right  course,  and 
each  laugh  of  the  small  boy  (for  he  was 
meny)  gave  me  a  violent  inclination  to  see 
his  head  punched.     I   don't  know  what 
spirit  of  ovU  prompted  me,  but  some  such 
spirit  inspired  me  with  a  baleful  desire  to 
substitute  for  one  of  the  falling  chciTies,  a 
pebble,  a  piece  of  coal,  or  a  bit  of  soap.  My 
eyes  sparkled.     The  youth  had  thix)wn  a 
plump  bigaroon  rather  higher  than  usual, 
and  stood  with  his  hands  extended,   his 
head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  shut,  and  his 
mouth  gaping  until  it  should  return.     The 
temptation  was  too  strong.  I  felt  frantically 
around  me  to  find  a  projectile,  and  in  sweep- 
ing my  hand  over  the  window-sill  caught 
at  something  which,   without  pausing  to 
look,  I  threw  with  all  my  might  and  main 
at  the  small  boy.     The  thing  struck  him  in 
the  eye,  and  then  bounded  on  the  pave- 
ment.     A  shout  of  triumph  escaped  me ; 
but  at  the  same  instant  I  burst  into  a  cold 
sweat  and  staggered.   The  boy  had  stooped 
to  pick  up  the  thing  that  had  hit  liim,  and 
was  holding  it  in  his  fingers.     "Thank 
you !"  he  shouted  joyously,  and  disappeared 
in  the  distance. 

I  had  thrown  him  my  sixpence ! 

A  BENGAL  MAGISTRATE. 


A  NATIVE  of  the  soil,  yet  legal  representative 
of  her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria,  the  ma^trate 
of  the  Bengal  village  to  which  I  had  the  honour 
of  introducmg  the  reader  in  a  previous  paper, 
is  a  foreshadower  of  the  time  when  India  shall 
be  self-governed.  By  birth  he  is  the  son  of  a 
small  zemindar,  or  landowner,  an  ignorant  and 
downtrodden  unit  of  an  ignorant  and  down- 
trodden nation ;  by  education  he  is  a  member 
of  an  exalted  community  whose  interests  and 
influence  cover  the  whole  surface  of  the  globe. 
He  commenced  hia  studies  at  the  government 
academy  of  his  native  town,  but,  having  soon 
mastered  all  the  information  he  could  there 
acquire,  he  transferred  the  scene  of  his  labours, 
at  a  still  early  a<^,  to  the  Calcutta  University. 
By  the  interest  of  an  influential  native^  a  friend 
of  his  father's,  he  waa  oft^x^du,  aX*  W^  Olqais^  <A 


^ 


88      [Jmie  ae,  1M9.1 


ATX  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bj 


his  educational  career,  an  appointment  in  the 
Uncoyenanted  Civil  Service,  and,  having  imme- 
diately accepted  it,  und  made  his  seat  therein 
secnre  by  fiufilling  all  the  behests  of  the  Civil 
Service  examiners,  he  found  himself,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-seven,  in  the  undisputed  possession 
of  a  snug  and  pretty  bungalow,  a  salary  of 
nearly  iive  hundred  a  year,  and  a  district 
that  gave  him  but  little  trouble  in  its  manage- 
ment. 

In  person,  he  is  a  man  of  middle  height ;  his 
frame,  of  fair  proportions,  adds  the  uprightness 
and  suppleness  natural  to  his  fellow-countryinen 
to  the  orilled  carriage  of  the  Western  nations. 
His  complexion  is  dark,  even  more  so  than 
is  generally  observable  in  the  people  of  the 
country  ;  but  his  features  are  wdl  shaped,  and 
his  eyes  bright  and  sparkling.  His  face  be- 
tokens the  kindliness  of  his  heart,  and  his  bear- 
ing the  manliness  of  his  epirit.  His  conversa- 
tion bears  no  trace  of  his  foreign  origin. 

The  court-house  or  cutcherry,  wherein  our 
Bengal  magistrate  performs  the  chief  part  of  his 
public  duties,  is  situated  in  the  same  compound 
as  that  which  surrounds  his  private  bungalow. 
It  is  a  structure  formed  of  four  mud  widls, 
surmounted  by  a  thatched  roof,  which,  pro- 
jecting for  several  feet,  serves  as  a  verandah 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  attendants  and 
suitors  of  the  court,  or  as  a  depository  for 
the  books  and  other  articles  required  in  the 
office. 

It  is  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  magistrate  has 
just  taken  his  seat ;  the  groups  of  natives  who 
rose  and  respectfully  s^aamed  to  him  as  he 
passed  from  nis  house  to  the  court,  have  once 
more  settled  themselves  down  in  various  atti- 
tudes expressive  of  pathetic  patience.  Some  are 
extended  at  full  length  on  the  grass ;  some  sit- 
ting under  the  shade  of  trees,  which,  stretch- 
ing their  wide  branches  over  the  compound, 
have  long  served  to  shelter  alike  accuser  and 
accused.  Some  are  squatted  on  the  ground ; 
some,  bending  down,  are  balancing  themselves 
in  a  posture  more  comfortable  than  elegant, 
their  elbows  resting  on  their  knees ;  others  are 
standing  about,  watching  the  scene  with  coun- 
tenances expressive  of  anything  but  intelligence ; 
all,  whether  standing  or  sitting,  whether  at 
rest  or  in  motion,  are  in  an  extreme  state 
of  excitement  and  satisfaction.  This  satisfac- 
tion is  produced  by  the  conviction  that  what- 
ever they  have  come  there  for,  or  whether 
justice  or  injustice  be  the  object  of  the  whole 
proceedings,  a  **tumasha*'  is  a  delightful 
thing,  and  a  commotion  of  any  kind  a  pleasure 
to  the  heart  of  man.  What  seduction  dwells 
in  that  magic  word  *Humasha"  or  its  equi- 
valent !  To  a  native,  dinner  would  be  no  con- 
sideration, a  day's  wages  but  as  a  feather  in  the 
balance,  the  probable  starvation  of  himself  and 
his  family  a  trifle— nay,  I  believe,  that  even 
the  fear  of  personal  punishment  would  not  pre- 
vent him  from  being  present  at  a  "signt." 
And  so  it  is  all  the  world  over ;  the  feeling 
that  makes  Guyaram  Dass  run  where  he  sees  a 
number  of  his  countrymen  gathered  together, 
is  the  same  that  drives  us  to  endure  the  toil  of 


pleasure-hunting,  or  to  become  one  of  a  much- 
suffering  crowd  collected  to  hdar  the  last  new 
opera-singer. 

As  I  pass  across  the  compound,  the  silence 
imposed  on  the  attendant  crowds  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  magistrate  has  been  broken, 
and  the  Babel  of  voices  is  growing  wilder  and 
wilder,  until  at  last  the  inspector  of  police  at* 
tendant  at  the  court,  or  one  of  his  myrmidons, 
appears  at  the  door  of  the  cutcherry,  and  with 
a  few  words  of  full-mouthed  authority,  f oUowed 
by  some  common-place  and  low-murmured  epi- 
thets of  abuse,  lulls  the  storm  of  voices  for 
awhile. 

The  lawyers  and  court-officials,  raising  their 
hands  to  their  faces,  bow  and  make  obeisance 
as  I  reach  the  verandah.  I  stoop  under  the 
low  portal,  and  entering  the  court  find  myself 
in  a  small,  ill-ventilatid,  and  worse-lighted, 
room.  The  thatch  is  unconcealed  by  any 
attempt  at  a  ceiling,  and  the  walls  bear  the 
hue  of  the  virgin  earth.  At  one  end  of  the 
apartment  on  a  raised  platform,  stands  a  table, 
behind  which  sits  the  magistrate.  At  the 
foot  of  the  platform,  and  on  either  side  of  it, 
stand  two  other  tables  for  the  use  of  the 
officials;  two  rows  of  rails  placed  at  right 
angles  to  the  bench  form  separate  apartments 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  various  parties 
to  the  suits.  The  room  is  crowded  with 
natives,  silent  and  expectant.  The  magistrate 
observes  my  entrance,  and  beckoning,  wdeomes 
me  with  a  smile,  and  a  shake  of  the  hand. 

**  Don't  let  me  interrupt  your  proceeding!) 
baboo,"  I  say,  as  I  take  a  chair  by  nis  side. 

**  You  don't  disturb  me  at  all,"  he  replies. 
"  I  am  not  very  busy  to-day.  Will  yon  take  a 
glass  of  wine  ?" 

**  Thank  you,  I  am  not  thirsty ;  still  I 
shouldn^t "  and  a  half- denial  giving  a  half- 
consent— for  in  India  one  .can  never  refuse  an 
invitation,  why  I  cannot  tell,  unless  the  heat 
produces  a  laxity  in  self-control  as  well  as  in 
bodily  energy — he  immediately  orders  wine 
and  glasses  to  be  brought  over  nrom  his  house. 
Refreshed,  or  otherwise,  by  the  inevitable 
"peg,"  which,  usually  in  the  shape  of  **  brandy- 
pawnee,"  that  is,  brandy  mixed  with  water,  or 
with  some  effervescing  drink,  the  magistrate 
bids  me  light  a  cigar,  and  offering  me  his  case, 
makes  a  selection  therefrom  on  his  own  ac- 
count. *'  Og  laou  !*'  or  **  bring  fire !"  is  the  im- 
mediate cry  of  obsequious  attendants.  £v^- 
thing  necessary  for  our  comfort  being  now  pro- 
vided, I  beg  him  to  proceed  with  his  (Uty^s  work : 
for  I  am  anxious,  1  inform  him,  to  witness  an 
Indian  trial.  He  turns  to  his  table  and  calls  for 
the  next  case. 

This  proves  to  be  one  sent  up  by  the  super- 
intendent  of  police  from  charges  laid  at  the 
police  station.  Ruyal  Mitter  accuses  Abdool 
iiohaman,  a  lad  twelve  years  of  age,  of  steal- 
ing a  quantity  of  rice,  worth  one  pice,  a  coin 
equivalent  in  value  to  a  farthing  and  a  half. 
Surely  a  matter  of  no  great  moment,  one  would 
think,  but  the  loss  appears  to  weigh  heavily 
upon  the  spirits  of  the  prosecutor,  who,  when 
summoned  to  give  his  evidence,  states  ^e  cir- 


4 


5: 


Olnrtos  DlekenB.] 


A  BENGAL  MAGISTRATE. 


[June  M,  1869.]      89 


i 


cumstanceB  of  the  case  with  many  piteous 
lamentations  and  protestations  of  injored  in- 
nocence. The  crime,  too,  to  judge  from  Abdool 
Bohaman's  terror-stricken  look  and  imploring 
attitude,  has  awakened  terrible  remorse,  and 
created  dread  visions  of  punishment  in  the 
breast  of  its  perpetrator.  He,  it  appears,  did 
in  a  boyish.freak,  or  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of 
hunger,  go  to  the  private  grain  store  of  the 
pliuntiff  and  feloniouBly  extract  therefrom  a 
nandfnl  of  rice,  with  wMch,  intending  to  enjoy 
it  at  his  leisure,  he  immediately  retired  into 
a  field  hard  by  the  prosecutor*s  house.  His 
purpose,  however,  was  summarily  frustrated  by 
the  unexpected  appearance  of  the  injured  RuyaJ 
ICLtter,  who,  having  observed  the  boy's  exit 
from  his  house,  and  his  subsequent  munchings 
by  the  way,  had  from  the  premises  drawn  a 
conclusion,  which  induced  hun  first  of  all  to 
give  the  lad  a  sound  cuffing  and  then  lead  him 
away  to  the  nearest  police  station.  The  police 
inspiector  having  taken  him  in  charge,  deposited 
him  for  safe  custody  in  the  village  lock-up,  in 
which  primitive  receptacle  the  unfortunate 
urchin  was  confined  umH  the  next  morning,  in 
company  with  a  lunatic  and  a  party  of  dacoits, 
when  with  other  malcontents  ne  was  dragged 
before  the  magistrate.  The  result  of  the  trial 
is  an  infliction  on  the  culprit  of  a  fine  of  one 
anna,  of  which  sum  one  pice  is  to  be  handed 
over  to  the  public-spirited  prosecutor.  The 
poor  boy,  witn  evident  glee  at  the  unexpected 
mildness  of  the  sentence,  fumbles  in  the  cloth, 
which,  surrounding  his  waist,  is  the  only  cover- 
ing he  wears,  and  after  untying  a  great  many 
knots,  at  length  arrives  at  a  hoard  of  small 
copper  pieces,  from  which,  having  extracted 
four  pice,  he  hands  the  amount  to  an  officer  of 
the  court. 

The  next  case  wears  a  more  serious  aspect;  but 
tains  out  to  be  one  of  the  instances  m  which 
Bengalees  evince  their  predilection  for  making 
a  mock  at  Justice.  The  plaintiff  states  that 
daring  his  absence  one  night  from  his  home,  a 
oow  was  stolen  from  his  yard ;  and  he  asserts 
that  on  his  return  the  missing  animal  was,  with 
the  help  of  the  gomasta,  or  head  man  of  the 
village,  discovered  on  the  premises  of  one  of 
his  neighbours.  But  the  gomasta  has  been 
bribed,  and  the  chokedar,  or  native  watchman, 
has  accepted  four  annas  to  bear  witness  against 
the  defendant,  and  to  state  that  he  himself 
Baw  the  cow  in  the  defendant's  house.  The 
latter,  however,  when  called  on  for  his  defence, 
throwing  a  perfect  light  upon  the  rather  ob- 
scure evidence  of  his  persecutors,  proves  the 
whole  case  to  be  a  &bncation,  and  shows  that 
the  charge  was  brought  against  him  from  a 
feeling  of  revenge,  he  having  declined  to  part 
with  a  piece  of  land  to  the  prosecutor  of  wnich 
the  latter  greatly  coveted  the  possession.  The 
case  is  speedily  dismissed,  and  as  the  parties 
leave  the  court  the  police  inspector  says  some- 
thing to  the  magistrate  about  prosecuting  the 
plaintiff  for  bringing  a  false  accusation. 

Another  chokedar  then  appears  to  answer  a 
charge  of  attempting  to  extort  money  from  a 
traveller  by  threatening  to  arrest  him.     The 


evidence  being  conclusive,  he  is  at  once  sen- 
tenced to  a  fine  of  four  annas  (sixpence). 

"  Nay,  sahib  !'*  exclaims  the  village  watch- 
man, a  stalwart  youn^  man  of  six-and-twenty, 
"  have  pity  on  me,  sahib!  I  won't  do  it  again!" 
His  feelings  here  become  too  much  for  him, 
and  he  weeps  bitterly,  lifting  his  clasped 
hands  towar<u  the  dispenser  of  justice.  **  I 
can't  pay  four  annas,  great  king !  I  shall  be 
ruined!  Oh,  spare  me,  mighty  lord,  spare  me !" 
The  magistrate  is  inexorable,  and  the  con- 
stables in  attendance  hustle  the  chokedar  out 
of  the  court,  whence  he  disappears,  howling,  in 
a  manner  dismal  to  hear,  at  the  dark  prospect 
of  being  obliged  to  pay  four  annas  himself 
instead  of  extorting  that  sum  from  an  innocent 
and  inoffensive  fellow-countryman. 

So,  with  a  constantly  repeated  exhibition  of 
the  smallest  and  meanest  passions  of  human 
nature,  the  morning  wears  away.  At  about 
two  o'clock  the  magistrate,  inviting  me  to 
join  him,  leaves  the  court  and  goes  to  his 
own  house,  to  refresh  himself,  after  the  exer- 
tions of  the  morning  and  his  long  sitting  in  the 
stiffing  atmosphere  of  the  smali  and  closely- 
crowded  room,  with  tiffin  or  lunch.  This  is 
served  in  English  fashion,  for  our  magistrate 
can  enjoy  his  meal  and  his  glass,  after  the 
maimer  of  white  men,  and  can  even  share  with 
them  the  same  dish,  as  though  the  Vedas  were 
an  unwritten  book,  and  Brahma  a  divinity  of 
the  Greek  mythology. 

But  the  virtues  of  the  bench,  and  the 
amenities  of  civilised  and  social  life,  are  not  the 
only  evidences  of  the  superiority  of  the  ma- 
gistrate to  the  body  of  his  countrymen ;  for 
municipal  improvements,  local  institutions,  and 
public  charities,  alike  bear  testimony  to  his 
assiduous  and  fostering  care.  Therefore,  I 
express  a  wish  to  visit  them,  and  to  that  end 
he,  returning  after  tiffin  to  his  court,  and 
leaving  me  to  enjoy  another  cigar,  and  amuse 
myself  with  the  books  lying  on  his  well- 
furnished  table,  brings  to  a  speedy  conclu- 
sion the  proceedings  of  the  day,  and,  to  the 
great  mortification  of  the  Utigious  Bengalees, 
and  to  the  personal  discomfort  of  the  yet  un- 
tried prisoners,  dismisses  his  court,  and  pre- 
pares to  accompany  me. 

As  we  walk  along,  my  companion  points 
out  all  the  improvements  he  has  made,  or  is 
making,  in  and  about  the  village.  Culverts, 
drains,  bridges,  direction-posts,  railings,  mended 
roads,  and  new  footpaths,  appearing  in  every 
direction,  show  that  even  the  wuds  of  Bengal  arc 
amenable  to  civilisation  ;  while  lamps,  spring- 
ing up  by  the  side  of  the  principal  nighways, 
act  at  once  as  a  public  assurance  company,  and 
as  a  powerful  arm  of  the  executive :  m  the  one 
case  by  guiding  the  weary  traveller  safely  to  his 
home  :  in  the  other  by  depriving  the  dacoit  of 
his  cloak  of  darkness. 

Entering  the  village,  we  stop  at  a  small 
house  whence  issues  a  monotonous  chorus  of 
childish  voices.  It  is  the  village  academy,  a 
private  institution  presided  over  by  a  vene- 
rable moonshee,  who,  to  judge  from  his  ap- 
pearance and  that  of  his  surroundings,  lays 


\., 


Cfi: 


90      [Jono  ii6,  I860.] 


■ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


[Condact«d  by 


daim  to  no  great  erudition  or  hiffh  position 
among  the  learned  of  the  earth.  In  matters 
temporal  he  seems  to  be  on  a  level  with  his 
juvenile  scholars,  some  twenty  half  naked  brats 
of  from  four  to  eight  years  old,  who,  seated  in 
a  semicircle  round  him,  are  taking  their  first, 
and  apparently  most  naoseous,  sip  of  the 
Pierian  spring.  The  schoohnaster  rises,  and 
greets  his  patron  with  a  grateful  smile  and  a 
respectful  obeisance. 

*'  Well,  and  bow  are  your  scholars  getting 
on  ?^^  asks  the  magistrate. 

*^  As  well  as  they  can,  poor  little  fellows,*' 
replies  the  dominie,  turning  with  a  pleasant 
smile  to  his  class  of  little  urchins,  whose  chubby 
faces  immediately  reflect  their  master's  good 
humour. 

^^Will  you  let  them  repeat  the  alphabet, 
moonshee?  My  friend  here  wishes  to  hear 
them." 

The  schoolmaster  turns  to  his  scholars,  elon- 
gates his  face,  and,  opening  his  moutii  imtil 
all  his  other  features  seem  to  disappear  in  the 
capacious  cavity,  eUminates  therefrom  a  loud 
^^  ar ;"  a  cry  which  his  younff  pupils  take  up 
with  equal  gusto,  if  not  witii  equal  impres- 
siveness.  So  they  go  through  the  whole 
alphabet,  chanting  in  chorus  every  letter. 
This  method  of  attaining  a  knowledge  of  the 
elements  of  learning  has  been  handed  down  to 
the  present  time  from  the  earliest  ages  of  the 
country. 

But  the  course  of  instruction  pursued  at  the 
government  school — which,  as  its  name  im- 
plies, \B  under  the  patronage  and  protection  of 
the  Indian  Yiceroyalty — soars  higher.  The 
branches  of  education  taught,  or  att<»npted  to 
be  taught,  are  those  in  common  use  through- 
out the  academies  of  England,  divinity  ex- 
cepted ;  but  an  English  chiM  ten  years  old  will 
show  a  more  appreciative  understanding  of 
every  subject  than  any  of  the  students  at  our 
government  academy.  These  latter  will,  indeed, 
if  required,  writ€  you  out,  from  memory,  a 
problem  of  Eudid,  or  translate  you  a  portion 
of  Delectus ;  but  the  former  production  will  be 
a  mere  hotch-potch  of  mathematical  teims,  un- 
connected by  any  shade  of  reasoning,  and  the 
latter  will  be  a  mass  of  nonsense,  bearing  no 
likeness  whatever  to  the  original. 

The  school-house,  which,  after  leaving  tlie 
village  academy,  we  next  visit,  is  a  long  low- 
roof^  building,  announcing  itself  by  a  large 
board  placed  above  the  coping  of  the  roof,  on 
which  are  painted  the  words,  "Anglo- Ver- 
nacular Academy."  It  in  pleasantly  situated 
in  its  own  grounds,  the  trees  planted  in  which 
effectually  ^ut  out  from  the  ardent  students 
the  disturbing  sights  and  sounds  of  the  work- 
a-day  world.  The  pupils  are  a  sickly -looking 
race,  wearing  on  their  bodies  a  great  amount 
of  clean  white  muslin,  and  on  their  faces  very 
vacant,  curious,  or  impertinent  expressions. 

Young  Bengal  is  at  best  but  a  sickly, 
forced  plant ~a  child  whose  limbs  are  still 
cramped  with  the  weight  of  the  chains  of  igno- 
rance and  superstition,  which  have  so  recently 
fallen  from  them,  and  whose  intellect,  having 


at  length  discovered  that  its  old  beliefs  are 
mere  fables,  is  still  dazed  and  dizzy  with  the 
overwhelming  light  of  new  truth.  It  has  a 
certain  precocity  and  adaptiveness  to  the  state 
of  things  introduced  by  the  EngUsh,  which 
enables  it  to  bear  smoothly  and  with  unroffled 
temper  the  yoke  to  which  it  has  become  sub- 
jected, and  it  has,  too,  a  dreamy  acquieacence 
m  the  new  and  advanced  teachines  61  its  rulers ; 
but  the  precocity  is  the  forwardness  of  a  mde 
and  inquisitive  child,  and  the  adaptability  and 
the  acquiescence  are  the  result  c^  a  dull,  mer- 
cury -  engendered,  opium  -  nurtured  apathy. 
True  progress  has  scarcely  dawned  as  yet  on 
the  Bengalee  mind ;  the  sleep  of  foolish  ages 
has  scarcely  been  wiped  from  its  eyes ;  but  BtiH 
the  mind,  though  ignorant,  is  there,  and  is 
every  urchin  of  the  plains  lie  the  germs  of  a 
shrewd  and  mighty  nation. 

The  magistrate  next  attends  a  meeting.    It 
is  held  in  the  schoolroom,  and  its  object  is 
to  consider  the  means  best  to  be  emj^oyed  to 
relieve  the  distress  inflicted  by  the  famine  which 
is  ravaging  his  district.    My  companion,  o£Fcr- 
ing  me  a  seat  by  his  rfde,  takes  the  place  re- 
served for  him  at  the  head  of  the  table,  around 
which  are  already  seated  our  nussionary  and 
our  police  superintaiident,  besides  many  other 
local  authorities  and  native  gentlemen.     While 
waiting  for  the  arrival  of  sllll  other  influential 
persons,  the  magistrate  exchanges  salutations 
and  courtesies  with  the  assembled  Europeans 
and  natives.     Many  of  the  native  gentlemen 
are     arrayed    in    garments    of    costly    and 
striking    appearance,    ornamented   with    gold 
and  silver,  and  of  exquisite  pattern  and  work* 
manship;  one  gentleman  has  brought  two  of 
his  little  chUdiren  with  him:   they  are  even 
more  exquisitely  dressed    than    their  father, 
and    look    on    at    the   proceedings   with    all 
the  wondering  gravity    of    childhood.     Ihey 
are   both  very  pretty;  their  features  are  ex- 
quisitely sliaped;  and  their  large  dark  eyes, 
beaming  with  happiness  and  excitement,  pale 
the  duskiness  of  their  skins,  and  make  them 
almost  fair  by  comparison.     When  every  one 
has  arrived,  the  proceedings,  which  are  con- 
ducted in  Bengalee,  are  opened  by  the  magis- 
trate, who,  in  a  sensible  and  suitable  speech, 
invites  the  attention  and  advice  of  his  mends 
in    connexion    with    the    subject    which    has 
brought  them    together.     A   subscription   is 
proposed   by  another  native  genUcman  (the 
Europeans  present  being  unable  or  unwilling 
to  address  the  meeting)  and  a  subscription-list 
is  soon  opened,  and  with  every  assurance  of 
success. 

Though  a  married  man,  the  magistrate  never 
appears  in  society  with  his  wife;  she,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  religion  of  her  forefathers, 
passes  her  life  in  the  seclusion  of  her  chamber. 
His  children,  however,  are  being  brought  up 
under  better  auspices;  for  the  magistrate's 
sons  and  daughters  are  being  prepared  by  edu- 
cation and  admixture  with  society,  to  take  a 
more  fitting  position  in  the  ranks  of  their 
fellow-creatures.  Uninfluenced  by  prejudice, 
aid  completely  free    from  the  yoke  of  the 


HP 


t 


jb 


Ohailes  DIokttu.] 


TOM  BUTLEE. 


[Jnac  26,  IU».]      91 


prieatbood,  'which  for  man j  years  has  bound  his 
countrymen,  our  magistrate  has  rccofi^sed  the 
nhere  which  woman  is  fitted  to  fill,  and  in 
the  persons  of  his  daughters  has  bravely  deter- 
mined to  restore  to  them  their  social  rights. 
Unbigoted  by  a  morbid  love  of  coimtry,  he  is 
cosmopolitan  in  all  his  ideas  and  affections, 
and  cmn  recognise  in  an  Englishman  a  friend 
and  a  benefactor;  though  at  the  same  time, 
judging  aU  men  by  the  one  standard  of  mental 
worth,  he  bows  not  the  knee  at  the  shrine  of 
any  man^s  wealth  or  lineage.  In  him,  too,  an 
Englishman  would  perceive  not  a  mere  flatterer 
and  place-seeker,  but  a  friend  and  a  com- 
panion, full  of  the  same  sympathies  as  him- 
self, and  capable  of  the  same  emotions. 

Perhaps  the  magistrate  is  a  man  you  would 
not  have  expected  to  find  in  such  an  out-of- 
the-way  place ;  but  as  I  have  described  him,  so 
he  is ;  and  in  him  I  see  a  sign,  not  only  of 
the  timeSf  but  also  of  the  future,  when  Indians 
children,  educated  by  our  help,  shall  throw  off 
our  yoke  and  form  a  government  of  their  own, 
and  when  the  violence  and  bloodshed  of  our 
oonqnest  shall  be  expiated  by  the  blessings 
of  dvilisatioii,  planted  and  nurtured  by  our 
handa. 


TOM  BUTLER. 

▲  BOT*S  HERO.      IN  SIX  CHAPTERS. 
CHAPTER  y.      THE  FUNERAL. 

It  wonld  be  hard  upon  me  to  give  in 
detail  the  incidents  of  this  most  deSghtful 
of  days.     I  conld  have  gone  on  thus  for  a 
week,  now  in  the  back  seat,  now  walking, 
now  mnning,  now  inside.     I  only  regretted 
the  absence  of  Vixen  the  First,  who  would 
have  run  under  the  carriage  the  whole  way, 
her  red  jaws  open,  and  enjoying  all  far  more 
than  I  did.   The  anecdot^i  and  good  things 
I  heard  were  indescribable.     But  at  last, 
about  ten  o'clock,  when  it  had  grown  dusk, 
and  Mr.  John's  lamps  were  blazing,  throw- 
ing out  a  fierce  glare  on  both  sides,  like  two 
wicked  eyes,  the  trees  began  to  grow  thick, 
and  the  plantations  to  duster,  and  the  road 
to  grow  more  like  a  green  lane.     Mr.  John 
set  about  looking  round,  and  breaking  into 
exclamations, "  Modye, Modye!  well,  well!" 
which  I  assumed  was  regret,   as   certain 
memorials  brought  back  the  memory  of  the 
late  owner.     Here  were  cottages,  and  people 
standing  at  the  doors,   and  here  was  a 
narrow    five-barred    gate    open,    through 
which  we  turned — ^the  back  avenue.     We 
now  went  along  smoothly,  plunged  into  a  yet 
darker  avenue  cut  in  a  plantation,  which 
wound  round  and  round  about,  through 
whose  trees  we  saw  sparkling  the  lights  of 
the  house.     "  Modye,  Modye !  well,  well !" 
again  came  from  mj  companion.     And  now 
we  came  up,  with  a  sweep  and  crunching 


of  gravel,  to  a  great  solid  house,  burly, 
strong,  and  massive,  and  full  of  many 
windows.  The  door  was  wide  open,  and  a 
young  man,  that  seexued  to  me  all  black, 
was  coming  out. 

"Very,  very  kind  of  you,  Uncle  Jack,  to 
come — ^very ! 

The  brave  Tom  was  not  in  the  least  em- 
barrassed to  account  for  his  sympathising 
presence ;  in  fact,  did  it  so  well  that  the 
black  gentleman  said  it  was  very  good  of 
himiy  and  that  he  felt  it  exceedingly.     I  was 
a  little  hurt  to  find  that  no  one  seemed  to 
think  it  good  of  me  to  come  so  far ;  and, 
though  the   captain  whispered  him,   and 
evidCTitly  spoke  about  me,  he  merely  said, 
"  To  bo  sure,  to  be  sure ;  quite  right." 
There  was  a  great  hall,  with  hats  on  the 
table,  and  it  seemed  to  me  full  of  "  grand" 
things;  a  billiard  table,  antlers,  pictures, 
and  innumerable  doors,  which  led  every- 
where.    **  I'll  show  you  your  rooms,  and 
then  we  can  have  dinner  when  you  like," 
he  said;  a  speech  which  still  seemed  to 
leave  me  out.     Then  we  went  up  a  large 
staircase,  they  talking  in  a  low  voice ;  "  Poor 
Jenny  bears  up  wonderftil,"  I  heard  him 
say,  "  wonderftdly  on  the  whole.     But  to- 
morrow morning  will  be  the  pull."     What 
pull  could  he  mean?     "Aye,  aye!"  said 
the  captain.     "  I  am  an  old  horse  myself, 
and  can't  expect  to  draw  for  ever."     Then 
he  asked  "  how  was  Bill,"  and  Bill  himself 
came  in ;  a  jolly  young  man  with  a  very 
large  red  beard,  his  hands  in  his  pockets ; 
and  a  very  limp  old  servant-man,  whose 
head  shook  mysteriously,  and  who,  I  must 
say,  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  be 
really  in  grief.     He  was  called  "  Old  Dan." 
Dinner  was  in  the   large   dining-room, 
which,    I  recollect,    had   a  largo  folding- 
screen  near  the  door,    all  over  the  most 
diverting  coloured  caricatures.     The  meal 
began  in  a  rather  ghostly  manner,  though 
the  guests  sat  down  with  alacrity,  and  tho 
brave  Tom,  who  had  now  got  quite  on  the 
footing  of  a  private  relation,  declared  he 
could  "  eat  oats  like  a  horse."  After  the  first 
course,  the  conversation  grew  almost  cheer- 
ful, without  any  unpleasant  reference  to 
the  deceased.     As  I  said,  "  Old  Dan"  was 
the  only  one  who  seemed  to  feel  tho  situa- 
tion, and  the  man  in  the  beard  apologised 
for   his   neglect,   saying   "that  these   old 
fellows    really   revelled    in    funerals."     I 
noticed  that  they  spoke  with  infinite  zest 
and  satisfaction  "  of  the  way  Lord  Love- 
land  had  behaved,"  "  such  a  friendly,  con- 
siderate note,"  and  who  was  going  to  post 
ten  miles  in  the  morning  to  attend  the 


T= 


\ 


^ 


92      [Jone  26, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Gondootad  by 


ceremony.  That  "stnck-np  fellow,  Sir 
John,"  had  just  behaved  as  he  always  did, 
neither  better  nor  worse :  conld  not  leave 
town,  and  all  that.  Many's  the  bottle  he'd 
had  at  this  hotLse.  Not  a  word  of  sending 
his  carriage  even.  The  captain  said  he 
always  thought  he  had  ''the  sonl  of  a 
snipe;"  and  the  brave  Tom,  who  seemed 
to  be  now  raised  into  an  authority,  said  it 
seemed  to  him  "  damned  low."  The  man 
with  the  beard  said  that  was  it :  he  began 
low  and  he'd  end  low.  Then,  in  the  same 
enjoyable  way,  they  talked  over  "  Dobbyn," 
who  had  "  done  everything  nicely,  capitally, 
and  quietly."  No  ftiss,  you  know.  She, 
poor  thing  (and  they  motioned  up  to  the 
ceiling),  was  for  having  Fulkes,  of  London, 
down,  and  doing  it  in  the  swell,  reckless 
style,  bring  down  his  own  men,  and  aU 
that.  ("  Folly,  folly,"  said  the  captain.) 
Ridiculous.  Why,  Dobbyn,  here,  has  done 
it  just  as  well,  and  for  half  the  money.  "  I 
can  make  my  own  terms  with  him."  Then 
they  spoke  of  other  arrangements.  How 
well  the  dean  had  behaved ;  he  had  written 
in  the  handsomest  way  (here  his  letter  was 
duly  read  out)  to-day ;  "  that  their  little 
differences  were  all  buried  in  the  grave, 
and  that  he  would  be  glad  to  pay  his  last 
tribute  of  respect  by  officiating."  "  To  tell 
you  the  truth,"  said  our  host,  rubbing 
his  hands,  ^'  nothing  could  have  fallen  out 
more  nicely,  for,  really,  to  have  that  low 
beast  of  a  Busby  grunting  out  the  service, 
would  have  spoiled  everything.  It  was 
very,  very  nice  of  the  dean ;  it  will  give 
quite  an  air,  you  know." 

"  I  declare  it  was,"  said  the  captain,  "  de- 
licate and  handsome ;  and  it  will  read  well 
in  the  papers ;  a  tip- top  fellow  like  that." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  other,  secretly  rub- 
bing his  hands  under  the  table,  '*  every- 
thing has  fallen  out  in  the  nicest  way." 

That  night  I  lay  in  a  vast  chamber  in  a 
vast  bed,  with  old  red  chintz  curtains, 
grown  quite  limp  and  soft.  At  one  comer 
I  had  to  raise  my  voice  to  address  the 
captain,  who  was  to  occupy  another  vast 
four-post  structure  at  the  other  side.  He 
was  quite  in  spirits,  for  he  owned  this 
i  was  one  of  the  best  houses  for  old  whisky 
in  the  country.  I  see  him  now  bent  over 
his  portmanteau,  layiog  out  his  brushes 
and  razors  for  the  morning,  and  talking 
pleasantly  as  he  did  so.  "  I  wonder  how 
it's  going  with  the  poor  old  boy  up-stairs  ?" 

Later,  when  he  was  getting  into  bed,  he 

said :  "  Egad,  1*11  lose  my  way  here,  if  I 

don't    take    care.     Any  way,    these    are 

roomier  quarters  than  the  poor  old  Buck 


has  got  into  now.  An'  Gt>d  forgive  me. 
Sure,  I  ought  to  be  in  griefi  but  by-and-by 
they'll  be  coming  to  measure  Uncle  Jack. 
Good  night,  my  boy." 

On  the  next  morning  I  was  up  early.  I 
heard  the  rooks,  chief  mourners,  very  noisy 
outside,  and  stole  down.  It  was  a  very  fine 
fresh  morning,  and  I  was  in  delight  with  the 
nobleness  and  grandeur  of  the  place.  The 
solid,  vast  old  trees,  the  rich  demesne,  the 
noble  openings,  the  grand  old  trunks,  the 
sweet  air,  the  general  sense  of  dignify  and 
magnificence — all  this  was  new  and  even 
overpowering  to  me.  No  one  was  abroad 
save  these  early  rooks,  who  might  have 
known  there  was  a  funeral  on  foot.  Then 
I  got  round  by  the  back,  towards  where 
the  gardens  lay,  with  a  high  brick  wall 
encircling  them.  The  delight  of  that  early 
walk  I  did  not  soon  forget. 

By  the  time  I  returned  it  was  past  eight 
o'clock,  and  I  saw  carriages  winding  up  the 
avenue  already ;  a  crowd  of  peasants  and 
beggars,  for  whom  the  day  was  a  sort  of 
festival,  were  beginning  to  be  grouped  about 
the  door.  Inside,  it  seemed  to  me,  people 
were  always  going  up  and  down  stairs  ;  but 
what  most  excited  my  curiosity  and  interest, 
was  a  florid  man,  very  eager  and  busy,  who 
was  at  work  in  the  hall  fitting  long  pieces 
of  crape  "  on  all  the  gentlemen's  hats."  The 
old  retainers  and  Mr.  John  were  equally 
busy  and  excited  in  collecting  such  of  these 
articles  as  were  absent  from  rooms  up- 
stairs. I  noticed  the  nice  anxiety  of  the 
florid  man  that  no  one  should  be  lefb  out  or 
forgotten,  and  his  evident  trouble  about 
two  missing  ones,  which  could  not  "be 
got,  high  or  low,"  but  now  I  trace  this 
feeling  to  a  mere  natural  professional 
anxiety.  He  had  a  box,  too,  of  very 
dumsily-shaped  black  gloves,  which  looked 
as  if  they  would  fit  no  one,  and  no  doubt 
did  not.  But  for  Mr.  John  the  transfoima- 
tion  was  amazing.  He  was  everywhere; 
but  he  had  undertaken  with  delight  the 
office,  with  assistance,  of  course,  of  fitting 
on  every  coachman  and  footman  an  almost 
massive  white  Hnen  scarf  and  hat-band,  of 
which  grotesque  gear  a  perfect  pile  lay  on 
the  hall  table.  The  general  alacrity  and 
air  of  business  was  surprising.  Every 
moment  a  carriage  drove  up,  and,  after  due 
setting  down  of  <he  owner,  the  ceremony  of 
investiture  of  driver  and  footman  was  pro- 
ceeded with.  The  guest,  I  noticed,  always 
entered  with  a  well-meant  eflbrt  at  so- 
lemnity on  his  fiice,  which  was  quite 
thrown  away  on  the  audience.  Every  such 
arrival  Mr.  Dobbyn  surveyed  narrowly,  or 


k 


Sb> 


OhariM  IMokflBL] 


TOM  BUTLER 


[juM  se,  1M9.]     98 


rather  his  hat,  donbiM  whether  he  was 
down  on  his  list  for  crape  or  gloves.  The 
dean's  shorel  he  seized  on,  actually  before 
it  was  off  that  dignitary's  head. 

The  host  seemed  to  be  always  coming 
down^stairs  in  a  reckless  way.  W  onld  then 
go  off  laterally,  and  after  an  interval  mys- 
teriously come  down-stairs  again.  There 
was  a  vast  breakflEist  going  on  in  the  large 
dining-room,  and  every  one,  after  their 
hats  had  been  taken  £rom  them,  was  mo- 
tioned in  by  one  of  Mr.  Dobbyn's  men. 
The  solemn  faces  immediately  cleared,  and 
I  mnst  say  snch  a  hearty  meal,  snch  tre- 
mendonfl  *' cutting  and  coming  again," 
the  captain's  phrase,  snch  going  to  the 
ride  table,  snch  hewing  there,  BuSa.  crack- 
ling sonnds  of  the  division  of  bones  and 
joints,  I  have  never  heard  sinoe.  In  the 
midBt  of  which  scene  we  saw  the  host 
ftittang  in  now  and  again,  and  surveying 
QB  all  nneasUy.  The  fisanily  doctor  ana  the 
local  clergy  and  others,  taking  this  for  a  sign 
of  grief,  would  get  rid  of  their  mouthful  as 
luwfcily  as  they  could,  and  offer  imnpathy 
with  a  severe  wring  of  the  hand,  and  a 
**My  dear  friend"  which  I  heard  the  host 
answer  in  the  same  mechanical  way,  with  a 
"Ah,  yes  !"  Then  his  eye  wandered  round 
again :  **  Is  Lord  Loveiand  in  here  ?" 

At  last  there  was  a  great  slow  crunch- 
ing on  the  gravel.  We  all  looked  up,  and 
we  all  knew  by  an  instinct  that  this  was 
the  &tal  vehicle,  which  comes  to  the  door 
of  most  of  us,  and  gives  us  a  ride  in 
state  at  least  once.  "From,  the  window  we 
oould  not  see  it,  but  we  could  note  all  faces 
tamed  in  one  direction.  At  the  same 
moment  my  lord  must  have  driven  up, 
and  the  sounds  of  wheels  became  mingled ; 
for  the  host  was  entering  eagerly,  with  a 
sort  of  ship's  figure-head,  whom  he  held  by 
ihe  hand,  to  whom  he  was  saying  in  a  low 
Toioe,  "  BeaDy,  my  lord,  so  kind,  I  shall 
never  forget  it."  Every  one,  I  saw,  the 
country  doctors,  the  clergy,  had  a  sort  of 
instinct  to  rise  up  and  bow  in  homage ;  at 
least,  every  one  moved  on  their  cha&s  un- 
easily, as  if  that  was  the  first  prompting. 
His  lordship  would  take  nothing.  Oh  dear 
no,  he  said,  except  indeed  a  httle  chasse 
after  his  long  ride.  '*To  be  sure,  to  be 
sure,"  and  he  was  at  once  removed  to  the 
study,  while  in  a  moment  the  host  passed 
through,  leading  the  way  for  glasses  and 
a  case  bottle. 

Now  the  captain,  and  I,  and  brave  Tom 
are  out  in  the  hall.  Every  one  is  looking 
for  their  hats,  which  are  hard  to  find,  so 
diflgnised  are  they.   Dobbyn  full  of  business 


to  the  last  hour,  assisting  the  captain  to  a 
dismal  cloak  without  folds,  and  of  a  shrunken 
curtailed  simplicity,  which  hung  close  to 
the  person.  I  did  not  stop  then  to  think 
over  how  many  despairing  hearts  and 
broken  spirits,  those  rusty  winding  sheets 
for  the  living  had  been  wrapped,  and  how 
they  must  have  become  charged,  as  it  were, 
with  all  the  agonies  of  bereavement.  The 
captain,  who  had  real  heart  and  feelinff — 
indeed,  when  I  long  after  made  acquamt- 
ance  with  Sterne's  Captain  Shandy,  I 
found  his  correct  likeness — ^always  honestly 
said  that  he  felt  to  his  relations  very  mum 
as  he  did  to  strangers ;  and  that  the  friends 
he  had  made  were  more  tender  and  kind 
to  him  than  any  blood  relations  in  the 
world.  So  I  did  not  think  him  xmfeeling 
as  I  looked  at  him,  with  wander,  in- 
vested in  his  new  uniform,  his  hat  swathed 
in  a  cumbrous  crape  bandage,  when  he 
looked  down  at  me,  and  whispered,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  Egad !  they've  made 
a  guy  of  me  at  last,  eh  ?"  As  for  the  bold 
Tom,  he  was  hurrying  about^  a  perfect 
friend  of  the  fiaomly,  carrying  his  black 
bandage,  his  face  composed  to  an  expres- 
sion of  sympathy,  whii^pering  now  with  Mr. 
Dobbyn,  and  now  consulting  with  the  host. 
But  now  that  dismal  procession  down 
the  stairs,  of  which  I  have  seen  many  pat- 
terns since,  was  taking  place ;  which,  indeed, 
then  struck  me  with  a  sort  of  chill  and  awe. 
I  recal  distinctly  the  sort  of  scuffling  and 
struggle  as  it  came  round  comers,  and  the 
mutt^«d  and  familiar  directions  of  the 
overburdened  men.  Then  every  one  was 
serious  and  impressed,  and  the  women  of 
the  household,  whom  Mr.  Dobbyn  had  taken 
care  to  encase  in  perfect  mainsails  of  linen, 
began  to  weep  and  sob.  Then  came  the 
mourning  coaches,  and  the  captain  was 
seized  on,  borne  off  by  Dobbyn,  and  shut  in 
with  three  other  gentiemen  m  a  sort  of  jet- 
black  cell.  The  brave  Tom  I  really  thmk 
secured  a  place  in  the  second  mourning 
coach.  I  know  I  saw  him  giving  directions, 
his  crape  fluttering  and  tossing  like  a  weep- 
ing willow,  and  the  last  thing  I  heard  him 
say  to  the  host  was,  "We  can  put  Mr. 
Auchmuty  in  our  chariot,"  a  proposal  re- 
ceived with  a  tumult  of  gratitude.  Though 
considering  I  was  next  heir  male  to  the  green 
chariot,  I  might  have  been  a  Httle  piqued  at 
this  disposal  of  the  chattel,  especially  as  I 
was  rather  curtly  told  I  must  stay  behind. 
This  was  of  course  well  meant.  But,  indeed, 
all  through  this  momentous  business  I  was 
quite  passed  over,  almost  oontemgtaoTi&V^. 
However,  I  saw  t\i©  "pToceeea^on  VoA  cSi, 


c& 


^ 


M      [Jane  S6, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OoDdaotfldbj 


aud  for  long  after  saw  it  far  away,  winding 
snake- like  among  the  far-off  trees,  the  great 
six-horse  wain  leading  and  nodding 
gloomily,  Dohbjn's  white  linen  flasliing 
ont  grotesquely,  as  thongh  the  drivers 
were  all  jackdaws.  The  rooks  made  a 
prodigious  commotion  among  themselves, 
and  seemed  to  know  that  something 
moi*taary  and  congenial  was  up,  as  in- 
deed, the  old  servants  about  the  place 
took  pains  to  remark  with  much  shaking 
of  the  head. 

That  was  a  curious  morning  for  me. 
The  house  seemed  to  bo  deserted,  every 
one  having  gone  off.  But  they  all  came 
back  very  soon  in  a  sort  of  rabUe  rout, 
pell-mell,  and  anyhow.  Every  one  seemed 
eagei*  to  be  off,  and  I  noted  there  seemed 
to  be  a  great  weight  off  the  host's  mind. 
The  chariot  then  came  round,  but  we  had 
not  nearly  so  pleasant  a  journey  back. 

VI.  tom's  finale. 

Aftks  this  Tom  BuUer  became  more  and 
more  regarded  by  the  family.  He  was 
worth  a  dozen,  said  the  captain,  "  of  those 
fashionable  skipjacks,  who  wouldn't  just 
crook  their  little  finger  to  save  you  from 
starving.  A  dozen — a  thousand  I  should 
say."  He  was  always  doing  some  good- 
natured  and  useful  service  for  the  ladies. 
And  he  always  contrived  to  succeed,  not 
being  one  of  those  who  came  back,  as  the 
captain  said  again,  ''with  their  finger  in 
iheir  mouth."  He  was  so  amusing  and 
such  good  company.  At  the  same  time 
stories  would  come  to  the  £aunily  of  strange 
acts  of  wildness,  debts,  biUs,  and  what  was 
kno^\ni  generally  as  "  scrapes."  These  he 
would  unfold  at  private  interviews,  fi*om 
which  I  was  summarily  ordered  out.  They 
lasted  for  hours,  and  he  submitted  to  being 
gravely  lectured,  and  went  away  vexy 
grateful  and  quiet.  At  our  more  public 
table  he  was  less  reserved,  and  used  to 
dwell  loudly  on  "  that  tyrant  Baker,"  "that 
Jock  of  a  major,  as  miserable  a  little  cur 
as  ever  put  on  uniform."  He  was  again 
gently  reproved  and  remonstrated  with,  yet 
in  a  sort  of  good-humoured  toleration,  as 
though  the  right  were  still  on  his  side.  He 
should  restrain  himself,  it  was  for  his  in- 
terest, &c.  But  if  we  only  knew  what 
"a  beast"  that  Baker  was,  what  a  low, 
overbearing,  mean  cub,  that  officers  and 
men  both  hated,  the  very  horses  would 
have  a  kick  at  l"'ni  if  he  gave  them  a 
chance.  And  who  was  he,  afbor  all,  to  be 
taking  airs  over  gentlemen  ?  Why,  would 
TF&  believe  it,  hia  lather  is  an  oil  aud  pickle 


fellow  in  the  city,  seUs  over  the  very 
counter !  A  nice  chap  to  be  set  over  gentle- 
men !  The  colonel  is  a  gentleman,  but  he 
is  nothing  but  a  shopman.  I  doubt  if  these 
doctrines  woxdd  be  approved  of  coming 
from  any  other  lips. 

One  day,  however,  comes  the  noble  Tom 
with  a  proposal  of  the  most  startling  and 
even  dazzling  nature.     I  must  come  and 
dine  with  him :  see  what  the  mess  was  like. 
This  extraordinary  proposal  seemed  really 
absurd,  as  wild  and  daring  as  going  off  to 
Australia  in  a  clipper  ship,  and  coming 
from  another  would  have   convulsed  the 
house ;  but  the  brave  Tom  had  the  art  of 
importing  an  air  of  easy  feasibiliiy  to  all 
his  schemes.     The  gallant  feUow  could  do 
what  he  liked.     He  would  take  care  of  me^ 
send  me  home  in  a  cab  ¥dth  his  orderly 
sergeant,  or  come  himself.     There  was  bat 
£unt  opposition.     It  was  time,  indeed,  that 
the  boy  should  begin  to  see  something  of 
men,  it  woxdd  rub  him  up  a  bit^  and  i^w 
him  life.     I  had  no  objection,  it  may  be 
well   conceived.     A   smnptuous   banqusti 
that  involved  rare  wines  and  dishes,  was 
what  had  not  yet  entered  into  the  economy 
of  my  life.     I  had  read  of  such  things  in 
the  Scriptures,  and  in  Boman  history.    The 
high-spirited  Tom  said  that  the  enjoyment 
of  the  evening  would  be  more  unshackled,  as 
"  the  oil  and  pickle  fellow"  would  be  away. 
"  Gone  to  the  shop,"  he  supposed,  and  he 
was  to  be  senior  officer  of  the  evening. 

It  was  an  exciting  day.  Dinner,  halntually 
for  me  at  five,  was  on  this  occasion  at  eight 
Dressing,  as  usual,  was  a  laborious  and 
even  painful  operation,  but  I  bore  those 
vestiary  tortures  cheerfully.  The  hour  at 
last  arrived,  and,  carefully  admonished  to 
keep  a  guard  over  myself  as  though  all  my 
eternal  interests  were  at  stake,  as  though! 
was  habitually  given  to  excess  both  in  eat- 
ing and  drinking,  and  oould  not  bo  trusted 
in  sight  of  those  dangerous  seductions  with- 
out falling,  I  was  driven  away  in  a  cab. 

Not  without  awe  and  nervousness  did 
we  turn  into  the  archway  of  the  barrack. 
It  was  the  first  time,  also,  I  had  been  sent 
into  the  world,  as  the  high-spirited  Tom 
would  say,  "  on  my  own  hook."  That  hook 
I  felt  gradually  bending  away  out  of  all 
shape  under  me,  or  in  me.  The  soldier  at 
the  gate  rose  on  his  toes,  looked  in  at  me  a 
little  suspiciously,  and  said  something  to 
the  cabman.  The  row  of  lights  in  the  mess- 
room  windows  quite  awed  me,  so  did  the 
lounging  soldiers  at  the  door.  But  the 
noble  and  gallant  Tom,  with  careful  fore- 
thought, was  there  to  receive  me,  and  led 


1^ 


:&. 


OhftrlM  Diekeftaj 


TOM  BUTLER. 


[June  26, 1869.]      95 


me  in  tliroagli  the  ranks  of  glittering 
warriors,  though  np  a  rather  dirty  stone 
staircase,  which  did  not  correspond.  "I 
made  a  mistake,"  he  whispered,  as  wc  went 
up,  his  arm  on  my  shoulder.  *'  That  pickle 
fdlow  is  actually  senior  officer  to-night, 
and  the  colonel  is  away.  What  a  swell 
we  are !  'Pon  my  word,  a  blue  and  sUver 
waistcoat!"  A  kind  compliment  that  almost 
made  me  blush. 

Tom  was  in  a  loose  open  "  shell  jacket" 
that  seemed  the  perfection  of  elegit  ease 
and  oomfort.  A  number  of  officers,  very 
noifiy,  w&ce  standing  round,  also  in  loose 
•hell  jackets ;  and  by  putting  their  hands 
deep  in  their  pockets  and  throwing  their 
jackets  far  back  q0l  their  shoulders,  they  also 
seemed  to  convey  the  perfection  of  elegant 
ease.  They  were  of  all  sizes,  some,  tail  stout 
men  with  rusty  mousiaehes ;  others,  little 
round  chubby  men,  while  some  seenoed  only 
two  or  three  years  older  than  I  was.  One, 
howeyer,  stood  by  himself,  his  back  to  the 
fire  and  one  haind  behind  his  back.  He 
was  reading  a  letter.  A  bald-headed, 
bloodless,  pinch-lipped  person,  without  any 
moustache.  He  looked,  indeed,  as  the 
hrave  Tom  said,  as  if  he  had  turned  all  the 
Uood  he  had  into  anchovy  sauce  for  the 
shop,  and  a  poor  condiment  it  would  make. 

Tom  led  me  in,  and  actually  brought  me 
np  to  this  stiff  b^g. 

"  Major  Baker,"  he  said  boldly,  "  this  is 
my  friend  and  guest."  The  other  read  on, 
turned  over  the  page,  finished  the  sentence, 
and  then  looked  up. 

"What!  thisladP" 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Tom,  reddening ;  "  we 
were  once  such  a  thing  as  a  lad  ourselves." 

"You  won't  find  me  denying  that, 
Captain  Butler;  though  some  people  be- 
have as  lads  all  their  lives." 

Tom  was  going  to  reply,  when  some  of 
the  officers  came  round,  and  the  burly  one, 
whose  chest  stuck  very  much  out  of  his 
jacket,  stooped  down  and  spoke  to  me,  and 
asked,  *'  was  I  going  to  be  a  soldier  ?  I 
answered  readily,  no :  that,  unfortunately, 
it  had  been  resolved  I  should  go  to  the  bar 
when  I  came  to  the  proper  age  to  be  called. 
That  it  had  been  my  own  wish  to  follow 
their  profession,  but  that  it  seemed  wiser 
on  the  whole  to  choose  the  bar,  owing  to 
the  chances  of  becoming  Lord  High  Chan- 
cellor, or  Judge,  or  Attorney- General.  At 
this  they  said,  "  O,  indeed,"  and  seemed 
greatly  Interested.  Seeing  this,  I  would 
have  enlarged  much  more  on  this  subject, 
only  some  one  announced  dinner  in  a  soft 
voice,  and  we  all  moved  in.  I 


Such  a  scene  of  splendour  I  such  gold 
and  silver,  glass  and  flowers !  I  sat  next 
to  the  noble  Tom  (*'You  are  my  guest, 
you  know"),  and  close  to  the  grim  oil  and 
pickle  major.  Tom  explained  everything  to 
me.  The  four  golden  soldiers  carrying  a 
casket  on  their  heads  in  the  centre,  was  a 
"  trophy"  presented  by  a  late  colonel. 

'*  Poor  Stapleton,"  said  Tom,  raising  his 
voice,  and  speaking  across  to  Griffin,  "  as 
fine  a  fellow  as  ever  stepped,  and  a  true 
gentleman,  who,  let  me  tell  you,  are  get* 
ting  uncommon  scarce.  We  didn't  care  for 
his  bit  of  plate,  though  it  cost  him  a  thou- 
sand  pounds;  we  missed  hia  good  nature 
and  gentlemanly  heart." 

There  was  g^reat  adhesion  to  this  senti- 
ment, the  stout  man  saying  shortly,  '^devilish 
good  follow,  Stapleton. ' '  Tom  then  pointed 
me  out  the  Silver  Tower,  which  the  regi- 
ment had  bought  in  India,  and  paid  five 
hundred  pounds  for.  An  exquisite  bit  of 
native  wx)rkmanship. 

"An  exquisite  bit  of  useless  extrava- 
gance," said  the  nu^or,  austerely;  "  recol-^ 
lect  I  opposed  it  at  the  time.  We  haven*t 
money  to  throw  away  on  such  gewgawa" 

"  X  es ;  you  opposed  it,"  said  Tom,  toss- 
ing off  chiunpa^^ne.  "  I'll  bear  you  out  in 
that^  Major  Baker,  you  do  thai  always." 

"  I  said  at  the  time,"  went  on  the  mc^or, 
coldly,  "  when  you  have  got  it  you  won't 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  And  I  was 
^g^t ;  you,  Captain  Butler,  wero  the  main 
author  of  the  scheme,  and  forced  it  on,  and 
to  this  hour  you  can't  tell  what  use  it  could 
be  turned  to." 

"I  think,"  the  stout  Griffin  said,  "it 
would  bo  a  very  neat  thing  for  Yorkshire 
pie  in  the  morning  at  bres^fast." 

"  Only  the  good  bits  would  get  all  stuck 
in  the  towers.     You're  a  precious  one." 

"  No,"  said  the  major,  coldly,  "  not  half 
so  much  so  as  the  original  promoter  of  the 
scheme.  Making  it  a  dish  for  a  pic  is 
better  than  planning  what  could  be  of  use 
to  no  mortal  bom." 

The  brave  Tom  Butler's  cheeks  were 
flaming,  and,  in  a  steady  voice,  he  said, 
slowly,  "  I  tell  you  what  I  think  we  could 
make  of  it — a  handsome  cruet-stand,  with 
compartments  for  the  pepper  and  pickles, 
and  mustard  and  anchovies.  It's  the  very 
thing." 

Even  I  understood.  There  was  a  silence 
for  a  moment,  but  the  good-natured  £&t 
man  struck  in,  and  changed  the  subject. 

"  The  pleasure  of  a  glass  of  champagne 
with  you,  Mr.  Fitz- Carter,"  ba  «aJA,\j<iN^- 
ing  to  me.    I  bowed  to  \\\m  m  xd^-oiTL,     ^ 


cB 


96  ALL  THE  TBAB  ROUND.  [June  ae.  ism.] 

waiter  flew  with  a  glorified  bottle,  and        "  Qx>  to  yonr  room,  sir !  I  have  you  now, 

allowed  the  ambrosial  liquor  to  flow  into  and  will  see  what  a  court-martial  will  say 

my  open-mouthed  goblet.     It  was  nectar,  to  this.'* 

indeed.     It  was  the  first  time,  too,  I  had       "  I  don't  care,"  said  Tom,  fnrionsly.    "  I 

tasted  it.     Tom  Butler  and  the  major  were  tell  it  to  yonr  face  again.  You  are  a  tjrrant, 

looking  at  each  other  steadily.     In  a  mo-  and  the  worst  tyrant  the  men  ever  had." 
ment  Tom  whispered  to  me :  '*  Hush,  hush,  Butler !   you  don't  know 

"  I  had  him  there,  my  friend ;  I  think  what  you  are  talking  about,"   interposed 

that  shot  holed  him,  went  through  him,  good-natured  voices, 
shivered  him   like  a  bottle  of  Harvey's        "Yes,  I  do,"  said  the  undatmted  Tom, 

sauce.     Well,  I  hope  you  are  enjoying  your  making  a  frantic  speech ;  "  and  I  am  glad 

dinner.     I  am  getting  into  spirits  again,  it  has  come  to  this  at  last.     Let  us  have  a 

Gome,  have  a  glass  of  champagne  with  me.  court-martial  by  all  means,  and  see  what 

These  mess  waiters,   you  know,   are  all  that  will  bring  out.     Others  can  be  tried 

soldiers ;  you  see  they  have  got  moustaches,  ^it  too.     Officers  and  gentlemenj  indeed ! 

and  that  makes  'em  so  smart.     That's  my  What  a  mockery !      Unless    you    ctre  a 

fellow.  Bob,  that  filled  your  glass.    Bob's  gentleman  you  can't  understand  the  acts 

worth  his  weight  in  gold,  and  would  die  of  gentlemen." 

for  me.     Old  Baker,  there,  any  one  of  the       *'  Go  to  your  room  at  once,"   said  the 

r^^ent  would  just  shoot  for  sixpence."  major — he  seemed  awful  to  me—"  or  shaU 

This  terrible  state  of  things  quite  scared  I  send  for  the  guard  P'* 
me,  not  merely  the  general  tone  of  mind  as       j^  rpom  went  down  with  me  to  the  cab 

to  the  projected  assassination,  but  the  small  ^^  ^^  tremendously  excited.     "  I  am  glad 

sum  for  ^oh  it  was  proposed  to  l^  exe-  ^  ^^»  j^^  repeated  very  often,  "that  it  has 

cuted.     He  told  me  many  other  details  ^^^^  ^o  this.     It  must  have  come  to  it.    I 

about  this  new  world,  which  both  amazed  i^g^ted  him  as  hard  as  I  could,  and  I  am 

and  delighted  me.   Thw  narrative  he  puncv  ^^^  ^£  ^^     j^  haa  been  coming  to  it  for  a 

tuated,  as  it  were,  with  many  a  gass,  and  j         j        ^^^^     B^^  ^^  ^^^^^  ^^  g^^ 

rose  every  moment  in  spints.     He,  how-  influence,  and  I  am  so  unlucky.     You  tefl 

ever,  owmg  to  a  promise  he  had  made  else-  ^^^  ^^  j^^^j^g  j.^  ^^^^  ^^  g^  ^^^  ^^ 

where,  checked  me  aiter  mv  second  glws.  ^ell  'em  about  it,  if  I  can  get  out  at  all ;  on 

IS^dearW,     he  said,    just  at  first,  baU,  or  any  way.    Gk)d  bless  you,  old  fellow. 

you.lmow.     Wh^  Jon  have  made  your  you  behaved  like  a  trump,  and   Gbiffin 

head,  then  it  wiU  be  all  right.  ,  says  you  were  more  amusing  than  many  a 

After  dinner,  we  adjourned  to  the  ante-  grown-up  man." 
room,  where  smoking  and  card-playing  set  °  __.  _  .  ....,,-«  -r^  .,  ,  .  -i 
in.  Some  of  the  stout  men  were  really  ^  ^^^^  »  fortnight  Tom  Butler  waa  tned 
most  good-natured  to  me,  and  seemed  so  ^7  court-martial,  and  withm  three  weeks 
anxious  to  know  all  about  me,  and  Kstened  ^^  sentenced  to  be  disnussed  the  army, 
so  attentively,  that  I  felt  I  could  do  no  bnt,  through  desperate  mtereg,  wasal- 
less  than  be  as  communicative  as  I  could.  ^^"^^  ^  s?H  his  commission.  He  paid  us 
So  I  told  them  all  about  myself  and  who  *  diraaal  visit.  He  was  gomg  to  Australia, 
my  tutor  was,  and  what  I  was  learning ;  "  «•  disgraced  man,  where,  too,  he  never 
and  also  the  history  of  my  first  acquaint-  "  ^^/*  "^^  ^^^^^  *  ^^^  ^®  ^^  ^ 
ance  abroad  with  Tom,  and  of  his  Hcking  f^^  m  a  stormy  wav.  But  before  he  died 
tiie  Frenchman,  of  which  glorious  day  I  ^^  If^ed  by  an  English  paper  that  what 
found  the  brave  and  modest  fellow  had  ^^  had  prophesied  for  the  oil  and  pidde 
never  told  them  a  word.  I  began  at  the  ^"il^^  Baker  had  adiually  come  true,  for 
beginning,  and  went  on  to  the  end.  They  *}^*  cold-blooded  officer  was  one  mormng 
were  dehghted  and  laughed,  and  the  &t  s^^**  ^^^n  standing  at  his  wmdow  at  Col- 
man  hit  his  thigh,  and  said :  f H^*^'  ^^  *  bjoodmg  private  soldier  whom 

"  It  was  Tom  all  over."  he  had  treated  unjustly. 

Alas  !    it  was  more  like  to  be  all   over  j^ow  Beady,  price  6i.  6d.,  bound  in  green  eloth, 

with  Tom!     For  at  that  moment,  as  the  tup  ptdct  itat  rruf i? 

words  were  spoken,  up  started  from  the  ^^'^  l^lKbl   VULUML 

end  of  tho  room  two  figures,  and  two  loud  *"  ™  ^*^  ^"*  ^  _ -p^m 

and  angry  voices  broke  out.     And  there  was        ALL   THE   YBAIv  ROUND. 
one  flaming  face  defying  a  very  pale  one.  To  be  had  of  all  Bookflellen. 


^!h  .^A^  qf  Tfamsiaiing  Ariielei/rom  Kll  tbi  Xeau'Eotiisid  is  reaer^d  (jf  the  Amtion. 


PaiOlabBd  mt  tbm  Oflot^  No.  M,  WelUngton  Str^i,  Straad.    Pxtaxtad  b^  C.  VI  aif»»,  ^«Ml«^ia«M^^ttwA. 


■HE-ST0RyaE-OVl^-ilVES/R,OW-Y^'^I\TO*£/^l 


COHDOCTEDBY 

mmzs  mam$ 

With  which  is  I pcoi\po[f^T<D 
"^OJSEHOLD^PORPS 

SATURDAY,  JTILT  3,  1869. 


Phice  Twopence. 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 

A  SUllL  StOBI  BT  TBI  ACTBaB  DT  "BuCK  SbBEP." 

BOOK  ni. 

CHAPTER  Till.    TOO  UTE. 

Da.  OsBOHSE'a  opinion  of  Mr.  CresTeH'a 
Berions  state,  and  the  absolute  necessity  for 
the  old  gentleman's  immediate  ■withdrawal 
from  everything  calculated  to  cause  worry  or 
excitement,  and  consequently  from  tbe  elec- 
tion, was  Boon  promulgated  through  Brock- 
eopp,  and  caused  the  greatest  consternation 
amongst  the  supporters  of  the  Tory  policy. 
Mr.  Teesdaio  was  summoned  at  once  to 
Woolgreaves,  and  there  had  a  long  interview 
with  Mrs.  Crcawell,  who  convinced  him — 
he  had  been  somewhat  incredulous  at  first, 
being  a.  wary  man  of  the  world,  and  holding 
the  principle  that  doubt  and  disbelief  were 
on  the  whole  the  safest  and  moat  remune- 
rative doctrines — that  it  was  physically 
impossible  for  her  husband  to  contiDuo  the 
contest.  The  interview  took  place  in  the 
large,  carpeted,  and  furnished  bow-window 
recess  on  the  landing  immediately  outside 
the  door  of  Mr.  Creswell's  room,  and,  a.i 
Mr.  Teesdale  afterwards  remarked,  in  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Gould,  whom  he  sum- 
moned by  telegraph  from  London,  there 
was  no  question  of  any  malingering  or 
shamming  on  the  old  gentleman's  part,  as 
he  conid  be  heard  groaning,  poor  old  boy, 
in  a  very  lamentable  manner,  and  Dr. 
Osborne,  who  called  at  the  time,  said  his 
patient  was  by  no  means  ont  of  the  wood 
yet.  Mr.  Teesdale 's  talk,  professional  as  it 
was,  was  tinged  with  more  sympathy  and 
respect  for  the  sufferer  than  were  Mr. 
Gould's  remarks.  Mr.  Teesdale  had  other 
relations  in  business  with  Mr.  Creswoll ;  ho 
was  bis  land  agent  and  general  business 
represenlative,  had  known  him  intimately 


for  years,  and  had  experienced  innumerable 
kindiiegsee  at  his  hands  ;  whereas, 
Gonid  had  simply  made  Mr.  Creswoll'f 
quaintance  in  Ins  capacity  of  Conservative 
candidates'  diy-nurso,  and  Mr.  Creswell 
waa  to  him  merely  an  errant  and  peccant 
nine-pin,  which,  from  fate  or  its  own  short- 
comings, it  was  impossible  for  him,  skilful 
"  setter- up"  thongh  hewei'e,to  put  properly 
on  end.  He  saw  thia  after  five  minutes' 
conversation  with  his  local  representative, 
Mr.  Teesdale,  and  saw  that  there  was  an 
end  of  hia  chance,  so  far  as  Brocksopp  was 
concerned.  "It  won't  do  here,  Teesdale," 
he  said ;  "  this  finishea  our  business !  It 
hasn't  looked  veiy  promising  throughont, 
but  if  thia  old  character  had  gone  to  the 
poll,  and  specially  if  he  had  said  one  or  two 
things  yon  could  have  crammed  him  with 
on  the  nomination  day,  wo  might  have 
pulled  through  !  You  see  he's  so  eminently 
respectable ;  though  he,  of  course,  is  not 
to  be  compared  with  this  young  chap  that 
Potter  and  Fyfe'a  people  have  got  hold  of — 
and  where  they  dng  him  up  astonishes  me  ! 
Newspaper  office,  eh  ?  'Gad,  we  haven't  got 
mneh  of  that  sort  of  stuff  in  the  newspaper 
offices  of  our  party — however,  though  the 
old  gentleman  conldn't  hold  a.  candle  to 
this  young  Joyce,  I'm  not  sure  that  we 
couldn't  have  got  him  in.      They'd  have 

the  show  of  hands  and  the  hurraying 
and  all  that,  but  we  know  how  much  that's 
worth,  and  what  with  Sir  George  Neal'a 
people  and  oar  own,  we  conld  liave  run 
him  deuced  close,  even  if  we  didn't  win. 
Nuisance  it  is,  too,  for  he's  kept  ns  from 

ling  anybody  else.  There  was  young 
Clare,  Sir  Willis  Cliu'o's  eldest  son,  was  up  in 
Pall  Mall  the  other  day,  ready  to  go  in  for 
anything,  and  with  ratier  a  hankering  for 
this  place,  which. h\H  fe.t\i6t  MiUcft  otiCR-.V-i'i.^-N 
said  we  wercbotited,  wi4iiQ-« — wi^<:iTiai.v\>;' 


<* 


98      [1^\7  3, 16C0.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


* 


[paiidiMlMlbj 


Mr.   Teesdide  was   scaxcely  loss  upset. 
He  talked  yagnclj  of  gebtkig  Mr.  CreswcQ*» 
oenseDt',  so  soon  as  lit  wfts  snffieuixilj  re^ 
coTered  to  bo-  aUo  to  eiiiertain  tii#  topie^ 
to  the  subsAitataoB  of  aome  good  ConserTa- 
tiye  cttadviate  in  his  place ;  but  Mr.  Gould 
treated  this  proposition  with  a    sconiful 
laugh,  and  told  him  that  they  would  have 
had  to  do  all  they  knew  to  pull  Mr.  Cres- 
we!l  through,  and  that  to  ^enpt  to  mn 
anybody  else  at  that  late  period  would  be 
nadziesa.     So  a  private  nueeting    of   the 
principal  supporters  of  the  party  was  held 
at  the  LioB,  and  Mr.  Gould' — who  had  run 
up  to  Tjondon  in  the  xaimrmi,  and  had  an 
interview  with  the   chief  wire  -  pullers* — 
announced  that    in    consequence    of  Mr. 
Crcswell's  unfortunate  illnees,  it  had  been 
decided  to  withdraw  him  fit>m  the  cuot- 
didature,  and,  as  there  was  no  prospect 
of  success  for  any  on^  else  who  might  be 
atarted  m  the  same  interest,  to  refrain  from 
contesting  the  borough  at  this  election.   This 
announcement  was  received  in  dead  silence, 
broken  by  Mr.  Croke's  frank  and  outspoken 
denunciation  of  the  cowardice,  the  "  trem- 
'lousness,*'  the  "  not  to  put  too  foin  a  pint 
upon  it,  the  funk''  which  seemed  to  have 
seized  upon  some  as  "  owt  t'  knaw  better !" 
The  meeting  was  held  in  the  evenings  most 
of   the    company    present    had    steaming 
glasses    of    grog  before    than,   and    Mr. 
Croke's  outspoken  oratory  eUcited  a  vast 
amount  of  applause  and  knocking-  on  the 
tables  with  the  stalwart  feet  of  the  tum- 
blers.    A  young  farmer  of  the  neighbour- 
hood,   popular   from  his  openhandedness 
and  his    skill    in    rifle- shooting — ^he   was 
champion  badge-holder  in  the  local  volun- 
teers— rose  and  suggested  that  any  such 
abject  surrender  as  that  proposed  was  iU- 
ad^dsed  and  inexpedient,   and  sat  down, 
after  finishing  a  long  rambling  speech,  the 
purport  of  which  was  that  some  one  should 
De  put  forward  to  fill  the  gap  created  by  Mr. 
Creswell's  lamented  but  unavoidable  illness. 
That  the  gap  should  be  filled,  seemed  to  bo 
a  popular  idea;  but  each   of  the   ten  or 
twelve     speakers    who    subsequently,    ad- 
dressed the  meeting  had  dificrent  people 
for   tlie  post:    and  it  was  not  until  Mr. 
Teesdale  pointed  out  the  utter  futility  of 
attempting  to  begin  the  fight  anew  under  a 
frosh  banner,   confessing  that  they  would 
have  liad  very  groat  difficulty  in  biinging 
matters  to  a  successful  issue  even  with  all 
the  prestige  of  Mr.  CresweU's  name  and 
position,  tlmt  it  seemed  to  dawn  upon  the 
meeting  that  their  chance  was  hopeless. 
TJiis  had  hecn  told  them  at  the  outset  by 


Mr.  €rould ;  but  he  was  from  London,  and, 
coBsequoatly,  in  the  ideas  of  the  fanneni 
l^roient,  steeped  in  duplicity  of  every  kin^ 
and  lab^uruig;  under  an  imposaibiiity  of 
.  trath*Bpcakiug.  Mr.  TeesdaJbe  had  infinitely 
more  weight  with  his  audience.  Tliey  knew 
him  aa  a  man  whose  word  wae  to  be 
rehed  on,  and  the  impossibility  cf  doing 
anything  beyond  swallowing  the  bitter 
pill  was  acikneflsirtadged  among  them  froHL 
thai  moment.  True,  that  the  pill  was  so 
bitter  as  to  require  the  consumption  of  an 
extraordinary  amount  of  brandy-and-wator 
to  get  it  down,  a  &ct  which  helped  to 
console  old  Tilley,  the  landlord^  for  the 
shock  to  his  political  principles.  It  is  to 
be  noted,  also,  that  after  the  withdrawal  of 
Messrs.  Gronld  and  Teesdale,  the  meeting 
gave  itself  up  to  harmony  of  a  lugubrious 
character,  and  dismal  ditties,  mixed  with 
fierce  denunciations  of  democrats  and  re- 
formers, were  borne  away  on  the  still  night 
air. 

So,  within  a  day  or  two,  the  walls  of 
Brocksopp  were  covered  with  placards 
signed  in  Mr.  Greawell's  name,  setting 
forth  the  sad  canse  which  prevented  him 
from  farther  exertion  in  the  interests  of 
freedom  and  puiity  of  election,  lamenting 
the  impos&ibiHty  of  being  able  conscien- 
tiously to  recommend  a  proper  candidate 
to  the  constituency  at  so  short  a  notice,  but 
bidding  the  electors  not  to  despair  so  long 
as  there  remained  to  them  a  House  of 
Lords  and  an  onmisoient  aristocracy.  This 
document,  which  was  the  production  of 
Mr.  Teesdale  (Mr.  Gould  had  been  caUed 
away  to  superintend  certain  other  strong 
holds  where  the  fortifications  showed  signs 
of  crumbling),  was  supplemented  by  thn 
copy  of  a  medical  certificate  from  Dr. 
Osborne,  which  stated  that  Mr.  Creswell's 
condition  was  such  as  to  imperatively 
demand  tho  utmost  quietude^  and  that  any 
such  excitement  as  that  to  be  caused  by 
ent^iug  on  an  election  contest  would  pro- 
bably cost  him  his  life. 

The  news  was  already  known  at  the 
enemy's  head-quarters.  On  the  morning 
a&er  the  meeting  at  the  Lion,  Mr.  Harring- 
ton, who  had  been  duly  informed  of  all  that 
liSid  taken  place  by  a  spy  in  whom  he  could 
placo  implicit  confidence,  walked  over  to 
Shuttleworth,  the  nearest  telegraphic  sta- 
tion, and  thence  despatched  tho  Ibllowing 
enigmatic  message  to  his  firm :  "  Brocksopp 
Stakes.  Old  Horse  broken  down  in  train- 
ing. Our  Cok  will  walkover."  It  happened 
that  Mr.  Potter  was  alone  when  this  tele- 
gram anivcd,  and  to  him  it  was  utterly 


=^ 


(X: 


^ 


Ohartea  Dlckeni.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[July  3.  isea.]     99 


unintelligible ;  but  Mr.  Fyfe,  wlio  came  in 
shortly  i^erwards,  and  who  was  acqoainted 
with  and  tolerant  of  the  vagaries  of  his 
clerk's  intellect,  soon  gncssed  at  the  situa- 
tion, and  explained  it  to  his  partner.  So 
it  fell  out  that  the  election  for  Brock- 
sopp,  which  had  attracted  attention  even 
amongst  great  people  in  the  political 
world,  and  which  was  looked  forward 
to  with  intense  interest  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, passed  off  in  the  quietest  and 
tamest  manner.  The  mere  fsyct  of  the 
knowledge  that  there  was  to  be  no  opposi- 
tion,  no  contest,  robbed  the  nomination  day 
of  all  its  interest  to  hundreds  of  farmers  in 
outlying  places,  who  did  not  care  to  give 
up  a  day's  work  when  there  was  to  be  no 
**  scrimmage"  as  a  requital  for  their  sacri- 
fice of  time;  and  the  affair  was  conse- 
quently thoroughly  orderly  and  common- 
place. There  were  comparatively  few 
persons  present,  and  five  minutes  after 
Joyce's  speech,  in  which  he  returned  thanks 
for  the  honour  done  to  him,  and  alluded 
with  much  nice  feeling  to  his  late  opponent's 
illness,  had  concluded,  the  market  square 
was  deserted,  and  the  clumsy  hustings  re- 
mained the  sole  memorial  of  the  event  to 
which  so  many  had  looked  forward  £ar  so 
long. 

Jack  Byrne  was  horribly  disgusted  at 
the  tame  manner  in  which  the  victory  had 
been  won.  The  old  man's  life  had  been 
passed  in  the  arena :  he  was  never  so  happy 
as  when  he  or  some  of  his  chosen  friends 
were  on  the  verge  of  conflict ;  and  to  see 
the  sponge  thrown  up,  when  the  boy 
whom  he  had  trained  with  so  much  care, 
and  on  whom  he  placed  every  dependence, 
was  about  to  meet  with  a  foeman  worthy 
of  his  steel,  who  would  take  an  immense 
deal  of  beating,  and  whom  it  would  be  a 
signal  honour  to  vanquish,  annoyed  the 
old  free  lance  beyond  measure.  It  was 
only  by  constantly  repeating  to  himself 
that  hiB  boy,  his  Walter,  whom  he  had 
picked  up  starving  and  friendless  at  Bliff- 
kins's  coffee-house,  was  now  a  member  of 
parliament,  with  the  opportunity  of  utter- 
ing in  the  British  senate  those  doctrines 
which  he  had  so  ofbon  thundered  forth 
amidst  the  vociferous  applause  of  tho  club, 
those  opinions  with  which  he,  old  Jack 
Byrne,  had  indoctrinated  him,  that  he  was 
able  to  perceive  that,  although  without 
any  g^nd  blaze  of  triumph,  a  great  re- 
sult had  been  achieved.  Mr.  Harrington, 
too,  was  by  no  means  pleased  that  all 
his  jockeyship  should  have  been  thrown 
away  on  so  tame  an  event.     He  admitted 


as  much  to  Mr.  South,  the  local  agent, 
who  was  mildly  rejoicing  in  the  bloodless 
victory,  and  who  was  grateful  for  the  acci- 
dent by  which  success  had  been  secured. 
Mr.  Harrington  entirely  dissented  from 
this  view  of  the  case.  "  I  call  it  hard," 
he  said,  "deuced  hard,  that  when  I  had 
reduced  the  thing  to  a  moral,  when  I  had 
made  all  arrangements  for  a  w^aiting  race, 
letting  the  other  side  go  ahead,  as  I  knew 
they  would,  making  the  running  like  mad, 
and  getting  pumped  before  the  distance; 
we  waiting  on  them  quietly,  and  then  just 
at  the  last  coming  with  a  rush,  and  beat- 
ing them  on  the  post,  I  say  it  is  deuced 
hard  when  a  fellow  has  given  all  his  time 
and  brains  to  arranging  this,  to  find  he's 
reduced  to  a  mare  w.  o.  To  be  sure,  as 
you  say,  one  collars  the  stakes  all  the  some, 
but  stul,  it  ain't  sport !" 

There  was  one  person,  however,  to  whom 
the  knowledge  that  the  election  had  gone 
off  flatly  waB  delightftd — Marian  CresweU. 
As  she  nad  stood  that  night  in  her  dressing- 
gown,  with  her  dishevelled  hair  hanging 
over  her  shoulders,  listening  to  Dr.  Osborne's 
verdict  on   her  husband's  state,,  she  had 
seen  in  his  strongly  pronounced  opinion  a 
safe,   plausible,   sad  immediate  chance  of 
escape  from  that  most  dreaded  defeat  by 
Walter  Joyce  at  the  election ;  and  though 
she  had  apparently  received  the  decision 
with  deepest  regpret,  she  was  inwardly  de- 
lighted.    At  all  events,  there  would  be  no 
absolute  victory.     Walter  Joyce  could  not 
go  away  and  tell  his  friends  in  the  great 
world  in  London   that    he  had  defeated 
his  adversary.     No  one  could   say  what 
might  have  been  the  issue  of  the  contest 
had  Mr.  Creswell's  health  not  given  way, 
and  Marian   was  perfectly  confident  that 
Walter's    chivalrous    nature    would    pre- 
vent his  ever  mentioning  to  any  one  the 
interview  which  had  taken  place  between 
him  and    her,    or   what    passed    thereat. 
On  tho  whole,  it  was  the  best  thing  that 
could  have  liappened  for  her.      She  had 
for  some  time  foreseen  that  there  was  no 
chance  of  establishing   herself  in  society 
through   the   election    as    she    had    once 
hoped,  and  anytliing  would  be  better  than 
tliat    she    should    suffer    defeat — absolute 
defeat — in  a  matter  which  she  had  so  nearly 
at  heart. 

Anything  ?  her  husband's  illness,  dan- 
gerous illness,  for  instance?  Yes;  any- 
thing. She  had  never  pretended  to  herself 
that  she  had  loved  Mr.  Crcswcll.  She  had 
done  her  duty  by  him  strictly,  even  to  cast- 
ing out  all  tliouglafcs,  uX\.  TVi\xv>iix3L<iT^\\^^>  ^^ 


I 


^ 


dj 


100      [July  3,  1869 1 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


the  lover  of  her  youth ;  and  it  is  an  odd  and 
not  a  very  gratifying  sign  of  the  weakness  of 
the  hnman  heart  to  think  that  Marian  had 
frequently  taken  credit  to  herself  for  the 
sense  of  wifely  duty  which  had  indnced  her 
to  eliminate  all  memories  of  early  days,  and 
all  recollections  of  Walter  Joyce,  from  her 
mind.  Her  hnsband  was  very  mnch  her 
senior;  she  could  not  have  hoped  that  he 
would  live  very  long,  and  if  he  were  to  be 
removed .  There  was,  however,  no  ques- 
tion of  that  at  present.  Within  a  few  days 
of  the  attack  to  which  Dr.  Osborne  had 
been  called,  Mr.  Creswell  had  recovered 
consciousness,  and  gradually  had  so  far 
mended  as  to  be  able  to  tc^e  interest  in 
what  was  passing  round  him.  One  of 
his  first  expressed  wishes  was  to  see  Mr. 
Beiithall,  and  when  that  gentleman,  who 
was  very  much  touched  by  the  sight  of  the 
old  man's  altered  expression,  and  wander- 
ing eyes,  and  strange  twitching  face,  was 
left  ^one  with  him,  he  asked  hurriedly, 
but  earnestly,  for  news  of  the  girls,  his 
nieces,  and  seemed  much  relieved  when 
he  heard  th^  were  well  and  happy.  To 
Marian  her  husband's  manner  was  won- 
derfully altered.  He  was  kind  always,  oc- 
casionally affectionate,  but  he  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  that  utter  trust,  that  reliant 
worship,  which  had  so  characterised  his  at- 
tentions to  her  in  the  early  days  of  their 
marriage.  Of  the  election  ne  spoke  freely, 
expressing  his  sorrow  for  the  disappoint- 
ment which  his  friends  would  suffer  owing 
to  his  forced  defection,  and  his  pleasure 
that,  since  a  representative  of  opposite 
politics  must  necessarily  be  chosen,  the 
town  would  have  the  advantage  of  return- 
ing a  man  with  the  high  character  which 
he  had  heard  on  all  sides  ascribed  to  Mr. 
Joyce.  When,  on  the  evening  of  the 
nomination  day,  Mr.  Teesdale  waited  on 
his  chief,  and  detailed  to  him  all  that 
had  taken  place,  dwelling  on  the  mention 
which  Joyce  had  made  of  his  absent  op- 
ponent, and  the  high  opinion  which  he 
had  expressed  of  him,  the  old  gentleman 
was  very  much  moved,  and  sank  back  on 
his  pillows  perfectly  overcome.  Marian  by 
no  means  appreciated  Mr.  Teesdale  that 
evening,  and  got  rid  of  him  as  soon  as 
possible.  She  was  *  much  pained  at  the 
display  of  what  she  considered  her  hus- 
band's weakness,  and  determined  on  follow- 
ing Dr.  Osborne's  advice  as  to  removing 
him  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  travel.  It 
was  noted  just  at  that  time  that  Mrs. 
Creswell  spoke  far  more  favourably  of  her 
Iinsband's  state  of  health   than  she  had 


done  for  some  time  previously,  and  be- 
trayed an  unmistakable  desire  to  get  him 
away  from  Brocksopp  neighbourhood  and 
influences  without  delay. 

When  Dr.  Osborne  was  consulted  on  the 
matter,  he  said  that  as  the  election,  which 
was  the  greatest  risk  of  excitement  for  his 
patient,  had  now  passed  by,  it  would 
depend  greatly  on  Mr.  Creswell's  own  feel- 
ings and  wishes  as  to  whether  he  should 
leave  his  home.  A  change  would  most 
probably  be  beneficial ;  but  the  doctor 
knew  that  his  old  friend  had  always  been 
wedded  to  his  home,  and  had  a  great  aver- 
sion to  being  away  fix>m  it  when  no  abso- 
lute necessity  for  his  absence  existed. 
However,  Mr.  Creswell,  when  appealed  to, 
seemed  to  have  lost  any  vivid  interest  in 
this  as  in  all  other  matters  of  his  life.  He 
answered,  mechanically,  that  he  would  do- 
just  as  they  thought  best,  that  he  had  no- 
feeling  one  way  or  the  other  about  it,  only 
let  them  decide.  He  said  this  in  the 
wearied  tone  which  had  now  become  ha- 
bitual to  him ;  and  he  looked  at  them  with 
dim,  lustreless  eyes,  out  of  which  all  ex- 
pression seemed  to  have  faded.  Dr.  Os- 
borne tried  to  rouse  him,  but  with  such 
Httle  success  that  he  began  to  think  Mr. 
Creswell's  malady  must  have  made  rapid 
progress,  and  he  took  an  early  opportunity 
of  submitting  him  to  another  examination. 

Marian  was  not  aware  of  this.  She  met 
the  doctor  coming  out  of  her  husband's 
room.  They  were  on  semi-friendly  terma 
now,  and  she  said  to  him  : 

"  I  was  coming  to  you,  doctor,  this  after- 
noon. I  have  just  settled  to  take  Mr. 
Creswell  away  for  a  few  weeks,  but  of 
course  I  wanted  you  to  see  him  before  he 
went.     And  now  you  have  seen  him  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  just  left  him." 

"  And  what  do  you  say  ?" 

"  I  say  that  he  must  not  be  moved,  Mrs. 
Creswell;  that  he  must  remain  here  at 
home,  with  every  comfort  that  he  may  re- 
quire, and  that  he  must  be  carefully  watched 
and  tended  by  us  all." 

"  Do  you  find  him  changed — for  the 
worse?      I  thought   myself  that    I    had 

noticed  during  the  last  few  days Do 

you  apprehend  any  immediate  danger  ?" 

"  He  is  very  much  changed  for  the 
worse ;  the  diseatSe  has  made  great  progress^ 
and  if  he  were  suddenly  disturbed  or  ex- 
cited I  woxdd  not  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences." 

"  I  did  right,  then,  in  refusing  Mr.  Tees- 
dale access  to  him,  yesterday.  There  is 
some  disputed  election  account,  and  Mr. 


<A 


h 


GluriM  Dickens.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[July  8, 1869.]       101 


// 


Teesdale  was  most  urgent  to  see  Mr.  Ores- 
well,  but  I  thought  it  better  to  prevent 
him." 

"  You  did  perfectly  right ;  he  must  be 
denied  to  everybody  save  those  inmiediately 
around  him,  and  all  matters  of  business, 
and  anything  likely  to  excite  or  worry 
him  in  the  least,  must  be  studiously  kept 
firom  him." 

They  were  descending  the  stairs  as  the 
doctor  spoke,  and  in  ^e  hall  they  found 
Mr.  Teesdale,  who  had  iust  ridden  up  in 
hot  haste,  and  was  parleymg  with  one  of  the 
servants.  Ho  took  off  his  hat  when  ho 
saw  Mrs.  Creswell  and  the  doctor,  and  was 
about  to  speak,  but  Marian  was  before 
him — "  I  hope  you  are  not  again  wishing 
to  see  my  husband,  Mr.  Teesdale,  as  I  shall 
be  compelled  again  to  refuse  you  !  Dr.  Os- 
borne here  will  tell  you  that  I  am  acting  in 
accordance  with  his  strict  orders."  And  the 
doctor  then  repeated  Jbo  the  agent  all  that 
he  had  just  said  to  Marian. 

"  It's  an  uncommonly  vexatious  thing," 
mid  Mr.  Teesdale,  when  the  doctor  had 
concluded :  "  of  course  it  can't  be  helped, 
and  whatever  you  say  must  be  attended  to, 
t)ut  it's  horribly  annoying." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Dr.  Osborne. 

'^  A  matter  of  Ramsay's,  that  truculent 
brute  of  a  fellow  who  holds  the  White 
Farm  down  Helmingham  way.  He's  made 
a  claim  that  I  know  the  chief  wouldn't 
acknowledge,  and  that  consequently  I 
daren't  pay ;  though,  knowing  the  fellow  as 
I  do,  I'm  not  sure  it  wouldn't  be  safest  and 
best  in  the  long  run." 

"^VTiy  don't  you  act  on  your  own  re- 
sponsibility, then  ?" 

"  Not  I.  The  chief  had  a  throw- up  with 
this  man  before,  and  declared  he  would 
never  give  in  to  him  again.  He's  an  ill- 
<:onditioned  scoundrel,  and  vows  all  kind  of 
vengeance  if  he  isn't  paid." 

"  My  good  friend,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you 
and  I  know  pretty  well  that  Mr.  Creswell 
is  able  to  laugh   at  the  threatened  ven- 

fAuce  of  a  person  like  this  Mr.  Ramsay, 
must  not  have  my  patient  disturbed  for 
any  such  matters.  Carry  on  the  business 
yourself,  Teesdale.  I  know  what  trust  Mr. 
Creswell  places  in  you,  and  I  know  how 
well  it  is  deserved." 

"Then  I  shall  tell  Mr.  Ramsay  to  go 
to " 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  doctor,  interrupting. 
"  Yon  could  not  consign  him  to  more  fitting 
company." 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  from 
this  oolloquy>  Marian  returned  G^m.  a  long 


drive  in  her  pony  carriage,  during  which 
her  thoughts  had  been  of  anything  but  a 
cheerful  character.  She  had  been  suffering 
from  that  horrible  sinking  of  heart  which 
comes  sometimes,  we  know  not  why,  bring- 
ing with  it  the  impression  that  something, 
we  know  not  what,  save  that  it  is  unplea- 
sant, is  impending  over  Us.  When  she 
alighted,  she  inquired  whether  Mr.  Cres- 
well had  rung  for  anything,  and  whether 
Dr.  Osborne  had  called,  and  received 
answers  in  the  negative  in  both  cases.  A 
letter  marked  "immediate"  had  come  for 
master,  that  was  aU.  A  letter !  Wliere 
was  it  ?  Mr.  Barlow,  the  butler,  had  taken 
it  up  to  master's  room,  the  valet  being  out. 
Marian  heard  of  the  arrival  of  this  letter 
with  a  strange  sense  of  fear,  and  hurried 
up  to  her  husband's  room. 

She  entered  noiselessly  and  advanced 
quickly  to  the  bed.  Mr.  Creswell  was 
lying  back,  his  hands  xslasped  in  front  of 
him,  his  eyes  closed,  his  face  very  grey  and 
rigid.  She  thought  at  first  that  he  was 
d^^,  and  half  screamed  and  called  him  by 
his  name,  but  then,  without  speaking,  with- 
out looking,  he  unclasped  his  hands,  pointed 
to  a  folded  paper  on  the  coverlet,  and  then 
resumed  his  former  position.  The  letter ! 
She  took  it  up  and  read  it  eagerly.  It  was 
dated  from  the  White  Farm,  and  signed 
John  Ramsay.  It  commenced  with  set- 
ting forth  hifi  claims  to  money  which  was 
due  to  him,  and  which  he  knew  woidd 
have  been  paid  "  had  tho  squire  been 
about,"  and  it  proceeded  to  revile  Mr. 
Teesdale,  and  to  declare  that  he  was  rob- 
bing his  employer,  and  "  feathering  his 
own  nest."     The  last  paragraph  ran  thus  : 

"  And  you  must  be  sharp  and  get  about 
again,  squire,  and  look  to  your  own.  You 
are  bamboozled  and  cheated  in  every  way 
right  under  your  nose,  in  your  own  house, 
by  your  own  wife.  Why  it's  common  talk 
in  file  town  how  you  was  done  in  the  elec- 
tion by  Mrs.  C.  She  had  yoimg  Joyce  for  a 
sweetheart  long  before  she  know  you,  when 
he  was  a  school  usher,  and  gave  him  the 
sack  and  threw  him  over  when  she  wanted 
you  and  your  money,  which  she  always 
hankered  after,  and  took  on  with  him  again 
when  she  saw  him  down  here,  and  got  that 
old  thief  Osborne,  which  overcharges  tho 
poor  for  his  beastly  drugs,  to  square  it  and 
keep  you  out  of  the  fun." 

As  Marian  read  and  re-read  this  para- 
graph she  turned  sick  at  heart  and  thought 
she  should  have  fainted,  but  was  Te.cA]LL^^ 
to  herself  by    a  co\^  cAasoxK^  \»\v.Osv  ^"^ 
her  wrist,  and  \ook\njg  dov^XL  ^^  ^ww  ^^"^ 


^. 


102       [July3.1«9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUNT). 


[Oondncted  liy 


husband's  eyes  open  and  his  lips  moving. 
Standing  over  him  she  heard  him  say — 
"  Is  it  true  ?" 

"  True !  how  can  yon  ask  me  snch  a 
question  !     I  sweai*  it  is  not.** 

"  No,  no,  not  the  last  part  of  course  !  but 
any  of  it,  that  young  man — was  he  fond  of 
you — ^were  you  engaged  ?'* 

A  bright  flush  suffused  her  face,  but  she 
answered  steadily,  "  We  were.** 

**  And  what  made  you  break  with  him  ? 
Why  did  you  quarrel?  You  don't  an- 
swer. Is  the  letter  right  ?  Did  you  give 
him  up  for  me?  Did  you  let  my  posi- 
tion, my  money,  weigh  more  wi^  you 
than  his  love  and  his  heart  ?  Did  you  do 
this  ?" 

"  And  suppose  I  did — ^what  tJien  ?'*  said 
Marian,  with  flashing  eyes — "  are  you  here 
to  plead  his  cause  ?  Have  I  not  been  a 
dutiftd  and  a  proper  wife  to  you?  You 
yourself  have  just  spoken  of  this  vile 
slander  with  the  scorn  it  deserves !  Of 
what  then  do  you  complain  ?** 

**  Of  nothing.  I  complain  of  nothing, 
save  perhaps  of  your  ignorance  of  me ! 
Ah,  good  Heavens !  did  you  know  me  so 
Httle  as  to  think  that  your  happiness  was 
not  my  aim,  not  so  much  my  own  !  Did 
you  not  know  that  my  love  for  you  was  so 
little  selfish,  that  if  I  had  had  the  least  dream 
of  your  engagement  to  this  young  man,  I 
should  have  taken  such  delight  in  forward- 
ing it  and  providing  for  you  both.  You 
would  have  been  near  me  still,  you  would 

have  been  a  daughter  to  me,  and Lift 

me  up !  the  cordial — quick  !'*  and  he  fell 
back  in  a  faint. 

Dr.  Osborne  was  sent  for,  and  came  at 
once,  but  it  was  plain  to  all  that  Mr.  Cres- 
well's  end  was  at  hand.  He  had  two  severe 
paroxysms  of  pain,  and  then  lay  perfectly 
still  and  tranquil.  Marian  was  sitting  by 
his  bedside,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
she  felt  his  hand  plucking  at  the  sleeve  of 
her  gown.  She  roused  herself  and  looked 
at  him.  His  eyes  were  open,  and  there  was 
a  bright,  happy  expression  on  his  thin  face. 
His  mind  was  wandering  far  away,  back 
to  the  early  days  of  his  poverty  and  his 
struggles,  and  she  who  had  shared  both 
was  with  him.  He  pulled  Marian  to  him, 
and  she  leaned  eagerly  forward ;  but  it  was 
not  of  her  he  was  thinking.  "  Jenny  !**  he 
said,  and  his  tongue  reverted  to  the  old 
familiar  dialect  which  it  had  not  used  for 
80  many  years  —  "  Jenny  !  coom  away, 
lass!  Taim's  oop  ! — that's  t*  mill  bell 
ringin*  !  Thou'rb  a  brave  las.s,  and  we've 
Jiad  hard  taim   of  it;  but  we're   near  t' 


end  now  !    Kiss  me,  Jenny  !     Always  good 

and  brave,  lass — always '*     And  so  he 

died. 


ENGLISH  HOP  GARDENS. 


Along  the  valley  of  the  Medway,  between 
Tunbridge  and  Maidstone,  through  Tunbridge 
Wells  by  way  of  Frant,  Wadhurst,  Ticehurst, 
and  Mayfield,  to  Battle  and  Rye,  one  traverses 
the  principal  hop  districts  of  Kent  and  Sussex. 
It  is  part  of  the  gec^ogical  formation  which  passea 
from  Hastings  to  Tunbridge  Wells,  and  rises  in 
lofty  hills  at  Crowborough  in  Ashdown  forest. 
The  hills  are  irregular  and  tossed  about  in  all  di- 
rections,  for  the  earth's  surface  was  the  scene  of 
strange  vagaries  before  it  settled  to  its  present 
form.  The  district  is  as  mixed  in  sou  as  in 
outline.  Much  of  the  land  is  very  good,  es- 
pecially among  the  hops.  In  the  midst  of 
the  rich  farmiug  of  Kent  one  remembers  witii 
pleasure  Cobbett's  love  of  rural  punuits,  \a& 
attadmient  to  his  Indian  com  and  bis  bonnet- 
grass,  and  his  hatred  of  the  potato,  that  ^^  soul- 
debasing  root."  Attracted  by  a  creeper  with  a 
very  h^iidsome  blossom,  growing  over  some 
houses  in  the  main  street  of  Tuubridge,  I  in- 
quired its  name.  The  name  was  lost,  but  the 
plants,  I  was  told,  had  been  brought  there  by 
William  Cobbett. 

Around  Tunbridge  there  are  various  little 
streams  and  brooks  running  into  the  Medway ; 
among  these,  the  hops  are  found.  Following 
the  river  towards  its  source,  through  Hartiield 
to  East  Grinstead,  where  it  is  but  a  little 
brook,  I  find  that  hops  still  choose  to  grow 
on,  or  near,  its  banks.  From  Tunbridge 
to  Maidstone — fourteen  miles — through  Had- 
low,  Peckham,  Mereworth,  Wateringbury, 
Tcston,  and  Barmiug,  there  are  hops  and 
orchards  all  the  way.  The  prettiest  orchards 
are  those  in  which  rows  of  apple-trees  are 
mixed  with  filberts,  cherries,  and  other  low- 
growing  trees.  Filberts  and  cob-nuts  do  not 
want  80  much  sun  as  the  larger  fruits;  they 
need  shelter,  and  they  do  not  suffer  from  a 
httle  shade.  The  apple-trees,  therefore,  are 
planted  wide  apart,  as  tall  standards,  and  are 
allowed  to  grow  to  a  consideriible  height ;  under 
them,  grow  smaller  trees,  filberts,  cherries, 
plums,  damsons,  and  sometimes  currants  and 
gooseberries.  The  lower  trees  are  kept  smaU, 
and  the  filberts  are  pruned  as  bushes.  Ihey  are 
all  planted  in  rows,  but  a  mixed  orchard  in  full 
bearing  looks  like  one  mass  of  foliage  and  fruit. 
Inside,  it  is  a  busy  scene.  The  orchards  are 
often  secluded  within  high  hedges  and  close 
gates,  and  when  picking  is  going  on  a  merry 
humming  is  heard  from  within.  The  cost  of 
picking  a  good  crop  of  apples  is  from  twopence 
to  threepence  a  bushel.  They  are  sent  to  Lon- 
don in  bushel  and  half -bushel  baskets  (sievesV 
These  belong  to  the  salesman,  who  often  sella 
and  delivers  the  fruit,  without  unpacking  it. 
Very  few  pears  are  seen  in  Kent ;  they  prefer 
•tiffer  soils;  the  ax>plo-tree  delights  in  Imd 


c£: 


Sh 


Ohsrlaa  Dtekens.] 


ENGLISH  HOP  GARDENS. 


[July  8,  I860.]       103 


4 


V 


neither  stiff,  nor  heavy,  but  good,  dry,  and  deep. 
Some  writers  have  recommended  mere  miniature 
trees,  bashes,  pyramids,  and  cordons,  which 
can  be  kept  small  by  occasionally  lifting  them, 
and  by  simimer  pnming.  llicse  are  very  in- 
teresting toys  for  those  who  have  a  taste  that 
way,  and  very  fine  fruit  can  be  so  grown  by 
garideners  who  understand  the  culture.  But 
in  growing  fruit  for  market  there  must  bo 
economy  of  labour  and  space ;  there  must  be  no 
fancy  wcwk.  These  little  trees  are  only  one 
story  high,  whereas  the  apple-trees  of  Kent  are 
five  or  six  stories  high,  and  produce  ^re  or 
six  times  as  many  apples,  on  an  equal  space, 
besides  leaving  room  for  a  harvest  of  filberts 
and  cherries  beneath. 

From  the  toll-gate  at  Maidstone  I  looked, 
on  a  fine  August  day,  down  the  famous  valley. 
Oreat  billowy  clouds  were  rolling  about  the  sky. 
The  forests  of  hops  were  seen  in  lights  and 
shadows  tiiat  changed  every  moment ;  and  these 
contrasts,  with  the  well-known  effect  of  a  rainy 
atmosphere,  made  the  grounds,  far  and  near, 
wonderfully  distinct.  In  the  coarse  of  this 
natural  illumination  I  could  sec,  throughout 
the  green  "forest,"  numerous  patches  tinged 
with  red.  These  patches  were  the  prey  of  the 
"  red  spider :"  a  disease,  which  sometimes  de- 
stroys the  hops,  causing  every  leaf  to  curl  up  as 
if  scorched  by  a  fire-blast.  I  saw  hop  gardens, 
in  which  the  blasted  leaves  had  all  dropped  off, 
leaving  the  poles  with  the  naked  bine  on  them. 
If  the  attacK  be  early,  the  leaves  and  laterals 
push  afpain,  and  some  hops  may  be  grown. 
Signs  of  the  presence  of  red  spider  cause  great 
alarm,  even  when  the  pest  appears  in  it«  mildest 
form.  The  Borough  market  becomes  agitated, 
and  hops  rise  in  price.  A  heavy  rain  falls, 
{Treat  improvement  is  reported,  and  then  hops 
j?o  down  !  This  troublesome  parasite  is  ana- 
logous to  that  which  attacks  vines,  cucumbers, 
and  melons ;  and  it  generally  makes  its  ap- 
pearance in  very  dry  weather.  If  hop  growers 
could  repeal  the  red  spider,  as  they  did  the 
duty,  they  would  be  happy  men  ;  there  would 
then  ONLY  be  blight,  fly,  mould,  mildew, 
wnd.  season,  and  foreign  growers  to  contend 
against. 

The  inmiediate  effect  of  the  repeal  of  the 
hop  duty  was  a  rise  of  price,  until  the  foreign 
growers  could  plant  their  ground  and  learn  the 
art  of  hop  growing,  which  they  have  now  ac- 
complished. The  permanent  effects  are  the 
enormous  increase  of  supply  and  a  consequent 
reduction  of  price. 

Trudging  up  liill  from  Fairlcigh  T  fell  in  with 
a  man  tall,  upright,  and  in  full  vigoiu*,  at  sixty- 
five.  He  carried  a  basket  of  fish,  caught  in 
the  Medway  since  three  that  morning.  No  one, 
I  afterwards  foxmd,  could  fill  a  basket  quicker 
than  this  old  angler,  and  ho  could  do  most 
things  well  that  depended  upon  skill  of  eye  and 
hand,  lliis  man  is  a  labourer,  whose  abilities 
have  raised  him  to  the  position  of  a  sort  of  pro- 
fessional man.  He  can  prune  a  fruit-tree,  dress 
the  hops,  tally  at  picking,  thatch  a  stack,  make  a 
hunlle,  and  do  whatever nwtfc  labour  ia  the  most 
in  demsndand  the  best  paid,  Aa  bia  services  are 


always  in  demand,  he  is  not  bound  dowu  to  one 
employer.  When  the  hops  are  safe  in  pocket, 
he  forsakes  the  fields  for  the  ganku.  11  is 
winter  master  is  the  owner  of  a  green-house, 
and  for  several  months  Dick  is  busy  ivith 
the  geraniums  and  on  the  lawn  among  the 
shrubs.  While  people  of  less  perception  would 
puzzle  over  the  meaning  of  botanical  terms,  he, 
without  knowing  the  words,  baa  discovered 
some  of  the  subtleties  they  express.  It  was  in- 
teresting to  hear  Dick,  as  we  walked  on  to- 
gether, describe  his  experiments  in  raising  new 
varieties  of  potatoes,  or  grafting  several  varieties 
of  geraniums  on  one  stem.  That  last  is  a  simple 
operation  to  an  adroit  hand ;  but  there  is  great 
wonderment  at  the  Waggon  and  Team,  where 
neighbours  meet  to  smoke  a  friendly  pipe  and 
settle  the  hop-crop,  when  Dick  produces  his 
geranium,  with  scarlet  Tom  Thumb,  white 
Madam  Vaucher,  and  Rose  Superb,  all  bloom- 
ing on  one  stem.  The  potato  seed  is  sown  in 
his  winter  master's  green-house.  The  tubers 
are  as  big  as  walnuts  by  Christmas ;  these  are 
sown  out  of  doors  in  the  spring,  and  thns  the 
new  variety  is  obtained  and  a  year  saved.  Plants 
renewed  by  cuttings  or  grafts — as  the  vine, 
apple,  or  potato — become  weak  sooner  or  later. 
Renewal  by  seed  produces  a  new  individual, 
with  renewed  strength ;  but  the  cutting,  or 
graft,  is  only  a  slice  of  the  old  stock.  **  How- 
s'ever,"  says  Dick:  "you  are  not  agoing  to 
keep  your  new  sort  to  yourself  in  Kent  I  If 
anybody  has  a  good  thing,  it  will  be  sure  to 
spread.  It  may  be  in  my  garden  this  year,  but 
it  will  be  in  everybody's  next  year.  And  they 
are  right.  A  good  thing  should  do  good  to  us 
all.  When  the  *  golden  tipped  *  hops  wci'e  first 
raised,  the  grower  meant  to  keep  them  to  him- 
self ;  but  a  small  slip  of  hop  will  grow,"  says 
Dick,  with  a  wink,  '*and  sure  enough,  they 
hops  will  grow  all  over  the  county  in  a  year  or 
two !" 

My  companion  agreed  to  be  my  guide  through 
eight  or  nine  miles  of  orclianls  and  hops,  by 
(•ox  Heath,  over  the  hill  to  Hunton,  and  to 
Yalding  railway  station.  Presently  we  met  a 
young  woman,  his  niece,  with  a  letter  for  the 
post.  This  Dick  took  into  his  hand  to  see  that 
all  was  right,  and  detecting  a  flaw,  said:  "  How 
Qjin  Ampstead  spell  HampstcadV  The  maiden 
departed  with  strict  injunctions  to  ins^Tt  a 
capital  II,  and  a  good  one.  If  an  intellectual 
man  be  one  who  delights  to  cultivate  his  mind, 
and  prefciti  that  to  the  pleasure  of  sense,  Dick 
is  an  intellectual  man.  His  face  shows  it.  The 
three  prominent  features,  nose,  chin,  and  fore- 
head, are  cast  in  nature's  best  mould.  'ITie  Bible 
and  a  few  other  books  have  formed  Dick's  sole 
reading,  but  it  is  astonishing  how  cultivated  his 
mind  is.  His  daily  labour,  not  too  severe,  has 
been  amidst  the  works  of  nature,  and  an  acute 
and  superior  mind  has  found  in  them  materials 
for  ob8er\'ation  and  reflection.  Dick  is  clear- 
headed and  a  fluent  talker,  expressing  himself 
in  forcible  language.  A  jumble  of  words  ^ 
without  meaning  com\<\  tv^n^t  ^civtva  \\^\sv\vy6»  ^ 
lips,  because  \ie  \\aa  Vv».^  \;ci  \oYm\ive»  qthwW^w.^  \ 
and,  baving  abated  out.  \oa  osra.  ^Oanpa-^^A  x\. 


:S 


104      [Jaly  8. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoeted  by 


would  be  strange  if  he  could  not  tell  us  what 
they  are. 

We  reach  Dick^s  cottage.  His  "  dame  "  is 
bu^  in  the  garden.  He  points  her  out  with 
priae,  and  describes  her  as  the  most  industrious 
of  women,  and  the  best  of  housewives.  He 
was  a  widower  when  he  married  Doll,  his  present 
helpmate,  twelve  years  ago.  It  was  at  hop- 
picking  time,  and  she  was  the  best  of  the  pickers. 
Dick  was  foreman  of  the  work.  It  was  not  the 
first  season  he  had  '^  minded  "  her.  But  this 
time,  when  the  work  was  over,  Dick  minded 
her  in  another  sense,  and  asked  whether  she 
would  return  home  with  the  others,  or  stay  in 
the  country  with  him  ?  So  she  and  her  friends 
came  to  sup  at  Dick^s  house.  Dick  had  boiled 
a  plum-puading  beforehand.  Doll  cooked  the 
steaks  and  potatoes,  and  Doll  has  cooked  Dick^s 
steaks  and  potatoes  ever  since.  The  cottage  is 
his  freehold,  standing  in  a  bright  and  cheerful 
spot,  and  he  says  there  is  not  a  man  in  the  three 
kingdoms  happier  than  he  is.  So  he  thinks, 
and  so  it  must  oe,  since  *^  there's  nothing  good, 
or  bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so.*' 

We  now  reach  uiat  part  of  the  road  which 
passes,  by  a  deep  cutting,  through  the  crest  of 
the  hill ;  on  reaching  the  spot  where  the  road 
passes  straight  down  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hill,  a  beautSul  and  extensive  view  of  the  Weald 
of  Kent  comes  suddenly  upon  us.  The  hill  we 
have  just  passed  consists  of  the  famous  Kentish 
rag,  which  forms  the  subsoil  of  one  of  the  richest 
tracts  in  England.  There  are  four  soils :  the 
rag,  brick-earth,  hassock  sand,  and  *^  red  pin," 
the  last  an  irony  earth  comparatively  poor ;  the 
sand  is  tolerable,  but  has  too  much  sand  and 
too  little  of  other  things  in  it.  But  the  rag  and 
brick-earth  are  splendid.  The  rag  is  a  dark  grey 
sandstone  containing  clay  and  (1  suppose),  the 
phosphates,  silicates,  ana  all  otner  good  things. 
The  soil  formed  from  it  is  never  wet,  because 
the  fissures  in  the  rock  below,  allow  the  water 
to  escape.  I  passed  through  a  fine  hop-garden 
at  Cox  Heath,  where  the  ragstones  might  have 
been  gathered  from  the  surface  with  a  shovel. 
But  usually  this  soil  and  the  brick-earth  are  of 
great  depth ;  there  is  no  fear  of  breaking  the 
staple  ;  the  deeper  the  soil  is  ploughed,  the 
deeper  and  richer  the  seed-bed  will  be.  But 
many  are  the  soils— especially  chalks,  gravels, 
and  poor  clays — where  the  staple  must  not  be 
broken,  and  the  soil  can  only  be  deepened  and 
improved  by  very  slow  degrees.  It  will  take 
two  lives  and  constant  manuring  to  give  some 
soils  six  inches  of  depth,  and  here  the  same  may 
be  got  in  two  years  without  manure.  The  rags 
of  Kent  mean  riches. 

Behind  a  hill,  near  Battle,  I  passi3d  under  a 
railway  arch  and  came  to  a  hop-garden,  con- 
taining what  was  said  to  be  the  finest  crop  of 
the  year  in  England.  I  saw  none  to  compare 
with  it  in  Kent  and  Sussex.  There  were  three 
poles  to  a  hill,  llie  poles  bent  with  the  heavy 
weight  of  flowers  which  hung  in  festoons  from 
pole  to  pole,  and  from  hill  to  hill.  The 
tender  shoots  of  bine  crossed  every  path  with 
^e/r  iragrant  load  of  hops,  so  dehcate  and 
£^zneeful  tbat  the  cJamaiest  nutic  passed  through 


it  gently.  This  hop  is  the  sort  called  Jones's ; 
and  as  it  grew  in  a  damp  bottom  with  a  brook 
running  through  it,  and  an  osier  bed  close 
by,  it  had  withstood  excessive  drought.  The 
flower  was  very  large.  In  the  same  garden  was 
a  piece  of  that  beautiful,  late,  long,  square,  four- 
sided  hop,  the  Colgate. 

This  IS  the  way  to  estimate  a  crop.  At 
two  yards  apart  from  hill  to  hill,  the  number 
of  hills  to  an  acre  is  one  thousand  two  hun- 
dred and  ten.  A  bushel  of  dried  hops,  of 
average  quality,  weighs  a  pound  and  a  half. 
Therefore  a  bushel  to  a  nill  weighs  sixteen 
hundredweight  an  acre,  and  this  is  a  great  crop, 
though  even  this  has  been  greatly  exceeded.  The 
average  growth  of  the  kingdom  between  1 S40  and 
1849  inclusive  was  six  and  a  half  hundredweignt 
to  the  acre,  as  appears  by  the  amount  of  duty 

Eaid.  The  ground  covered  with  hops  in  Eng- 
ind,  now  sixty-four  thousand  acres,  has  in- 
creased in  quantity  by  one  half  in  the  last  ten 
years.  In  Kent,  the  space  taken  for  hops,  now 
for^-one  thousand  acres,  has  nearly  doubled ; 
in  Sussex,  it  remains  at  about  ten  thousand. 
Meanwhile  the  duty  on  importation  and  the 
excise  duty  on  English-grown  hops  have  both 
been  repealed,  and  the  growth  of  hops  abroad 
has  been  greatly  encouraged.  In  Bavaria,  there 
is  a  finer  climate  than  in  Kent,  and  a  nobler 
river  than  the  Medway.  The  plains  of  the 
Danube,  are  perhaps  unrivalled  for  fertility. 
Kentish  labourers  were  sent  out  in  1863  to  show 
German  farmers  the  English  system  of  hop  cul- 
tivation, especiallv  the  process  of  drving  and 
preparing  for  market.  The  result  is,  that  some 
of  the  best  flavoured  hops  used  for  our  bitter 
beer,  come  from  Bavaria.  France,  Germany, 
Belgium,  Poland,  and  America,  compete  with 
the  home  grower.  Hops  therefore  must  find 
their  level  in  price.  They  must  be  culti- 
vated only  on  uie  soils  best  suited  for  them  ; 
and  in  all  probability,  the  acreage  of  English 
hop^grounds,  which  increased  so  greatly  under 
the  sudden  stimulus  of  the  repeal,  will  be  re- 
duced. 

Hops  were  first  introduced  from  Flanders  in 
1525,  and  soon  afterwards  there  was  a  petition 
to  parliament  against  their  use  in  beer,  on  the 
ground  that  the  hop  was  "  a  wicked  weed  that 
would  spoil  the  taste  of  the  drink,  and  endanger 
the  people."  Our  annual  consumption  is  now 
about  five  hundred  thousand  hundredweight  a 
year ;  and  within  the  next  ten  years  the  repeal 
of  the  malt  tax  and  the  increase  of  the  popula- 
tion will  probably  double  it.  Thus,  hop-growing 
has  room  for  expansion ;  and  whatever  hap- 
pens, it  must  always  be  a  favourite  pursuit : 
interesting  as  regards  the  cultivation  and  the 
details  of  management :  fascinating  because  of 
the  speculative  nature  of  the  trade.  The  crop 
ranges  from  nothing  up  to  twenty  hundred- 
weight per  acre,  and  the  price  is  almost  as  vari- 
able. Nothing  per  hunaredweight  may  easily 
be  realised,  by  overstanding  the  market  till  the 
hops  become  old;  for  every  year  they  degenerate 
in  quality.  The  very  high  prices  of  former  times 
are  hardly  likely  to  return,  now  that  the  area 
of  growthi  is  so  widened.    But  the  range  is  still 


<= 


^ 


OhariM  Diek«Bf.] 


SEALS. 


[Jaly8»18«.]     105 


considerable.  In  ^sixty-seyen  the'  early  sellers 
made  ten  ^oineas  per  hundredweight,  but  the 
price  rapidly  fell  to  five  pounds,  and  later  sales 
were  made  at  three  pounds.  Two  hundred 
pounds  per  acre  woula  be  the  return  from  one 
garden  ;  and  over  the  hedge,  or  across  the  river, 
twenty  or  twenty-five  pounds — less  than  the 
cost  of  cultivation.  These  contrasts  often 
occur,  and  constitute  the  excitement  of  hop- 
growing — but  it  is  a  lottery  in  which  the  good 
farmer  must  win  in  the  end,  and  in  which  skill, 
though  it  may  now  and  then  be  baffled,  is  in 
the  long  run  well  rewarded. 


SEAL& 

There  are  about  thirty  species  of  seals  at 
present  known  to  naturalists ;  but  of  these  not 
one  half  are  **  fur  seals/*  The  ^*  hair  seals"  are, 
however,  hunted  for  their  blubber  and  hides, 
out  of  which  leather  is  made ;  they  are  only 
found  in  northern  latitudes,  while  the  fur  seals 
are  confined  to  the  southern  re^ons  and  to  the 
North  Pacific :  no  species  yielding  valuable  fur 
skins  being  found  m  the  Atlantic,  or  on  the 
II  shores  of  the  Northern  hemisphere.  There 
are,  therefore,  a  Northern  and  a  Southern  seal 
fishery,  so  called ;  but  in  reality  the  seal,  though 
living  in  the  sea  so  far  as  is  necessary  to  obtsun 
itsfc^,  is  not  a  fish,  but  a  warm-blooded  suck- 
giving  animal,  belonging  to  the  order  Pinni- 
pedia,  or  oar-footed  mammals,  and  passes  the 
greater  portion  of  its  time  sleepiDg  on  the 
shore  or  on  the  ice-fields.  The  seals  also  in- 
habit the  southern  coasts  of  Europe  and  the 
British  islands ;  but  it  is  only  in  hign  northern 
latitudes,  among  the  ice-fields  of  Newfound- 
land, Spitzbergen,  and  Greenland,  that  they 
are  found  in  sufficient  quantities  to  render 
their  pursuit  profitable.  In  the  Spitzbergen, 
or,  as  it  is  sometimes  erroneously  called,  the 
"  Greenland  seal  fishery,*'  the  seals  which 
form  the  quarry  of  the  sealer  are  chiefly  four 
species  —  the  ground  seal ;  the  saddleback, 
or  harp  seal,  from  the  saddle  or  harp-shaped 
marking  on  the  backs  of  the  adult  male ;  the 
bladder-nosed  seal,  or  klapmutz  of  the  Conti- 
nental sealers,  so  called  from  the  inflated  blad- 
der or  cap  on  its  forehead ;  and  the  floe  rat, 
the  smallest  species  of  seal  in  the  Arctic  seas. 
Spring  is  the  time  when  the  pursuit  of  these 
s^  is  followed,  because  at  that  time  the  seals 
assemble  in  incredible  numbers  on  the  great 
ice-floes,  which  have  not  as  yet  broken  up  in 
the  Arctic  seas,  to  produce  their  young.  The 
young  of  the  seal  is  generally  of  a  creamy 
coloured  white,  and  is  particularly  fat,  and  his 
dun,  though  small,  is  covered  with  a  thick 
coatinff  of  hair.  For  fourteen  or  twenty  days 
after  birth  they  are  unable  to  swim ;  and  it 
often  happens  that  seals  of  this  age  are  blown 
off  the  noes  by  the  spring  gales,  and  drowned. 
The  sealer,  therefore,  endeavours  to  reach  the 
North  Sea  before  they  have  taken  the  water ; 
for  then  the  helpless  young  fall  an  easy  prey  to 
the  hunters. 
Now-a-days  there  are  tew  whalers  saiiing 


from  British  ports,  and  most  of  these  are 
'steamers  belonging  to  Dundee,  Hull,  Kirk- 
caldy, Peterhead,  or  Aberdeen.  Nearly  all  of 
these  vessels,  since  the  failure  of  the  whale 
fishery  on  the  east  side  of  Davis  Strait  (to 
which  inlet  whaling  is  now  almost  entirely  con- 
fined), make  a  preliminary  trip  to  the  seal 
fishery;  and  those  vessels  which  pursue  the 
Spitzbergen  whaling  do  so  as  a  matter  of  neces- 
sity, because  they  are  unable  to  penetrate  to 
the  more  northern  haunts  of  the  whale  until 
the  ice  barrier  breaks  up  later  in  the  season. 
There  are  also  a  number  of  German,  Norwe- 
gian, and  Dutch  ships  engaged  in  the  seal 
fishery ;  all  being  comprehended  by  the  non- 
political  British  seamen  under  the  generic  name 
of  **  Dutchmen."  The  French  had  at  one  time 
a  few  ships  ;  but  of  late  years  they  have 
abandoned  the  enterprise.  The  **  Dutchmen" 
sail  directly  for  the  **  sealing  ground ;"  but  the 
British  ships  rendezvous  towards  the  end  of 
February  and  the  first  days  of  March,  in  Bressa 
Sound,  off  Lerwick,  in  Shetland,  the  most 
northern  town  in  HerMajesty^s  dominions.  As 
most  of  the  seamen  are  drunk  before  starting, 
this  halt  is  looked  upon  as  a  convenient  stoppage 
to  put  all  in  order  before  encountering  the 
tempestuous  North  Sea.  Here  are  bought  fresh 
stores  of  fish,  fowls,  and  eggs  at  a  very  low 
price,  vegetables,  leather  *^  sealing  caps,"  and 
the  numerous  articles  of  Shetland  hosiery,  com- 
forters, mits,  guernseys,  &c.  Here  also  arrive 
from  the  Nor'  Isles  stalwart  fellows,  with  very 
big  sea-chests,  and  a  small  stock  of  clothing, 
to  be  taken  on  as  **  green  hands"  to  assist  in 
the  sealing.  They  are  shrewd  lazy  customers, 
little  liked  by  the  regular  hands,  and  poorly 
paid,  and  kicked  about  briskly ;  but  they, 
nevertheless,  come  in  such  numbers  that  there 
is  generally  little  difficulty  for  each  ship,  in 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight,  to  make  up  its  com- 
plement of  men  to  from  forty  to  seventy. 
Lerwick  is  then  quite  alive.  It  is  the  annual 
holiday  of  the  old  Scandinavian -looking  village, 
which  for  the  rest  of  the  year  stagnates  in  more 
than  Shetland  dulness.  The  crooked,  narrow 
streets  are  alive  with  hundreds  of  seamen,  who 
are  always,  more  or  less,  under  the  influence  of 
rum,  though  there  is  not,  or  was  not,  at  the 
time  of  our  visit,  a  single  licensed  house  in  the 
whole  village.  But  the  people  are  hospitable, 
and  half-a-crowu  will  go  as  far  in  producing 
from  private  stores  botues  of  ardent  spirits,  as 
anywhere  else  in  the  world.  The  boatmen  and 
fishermen  seem  to  keep  open  house,  and  vie  with 
each  other  in  showing  kindness  to  and  in  making 
a  harvest  out  of  the  sealers.  At  last,  one  by 
one,  cheered  in  turn  by  the  other  vessels  of  the 
fleet,  and  by  a  demoniacal  yell  from  a  crowd 
of  boys,  and  girls  decked  with  caps  and  rib- 
bons, at  the  landings,  the  vessels  sail  out  of 
the  Sound,  and  soon  lose  sight  of  Shetland. 
High  seas  generally  prevail  in  these  latitudes 
80  early  in  tne  year ;  but  if  you  are  in  a  steamer 
it  will  not  last  long ;  in  about  a  week  little  bits 
of  oozy-looking  ice,  tossing  about  oxi  W^  ««^ 
of  the  waves,  w\V\  teW  tYiaX,  "joxsL^i^^^'vt^^'i^^s^^ 
the  scene  oi  your  \&\)oai%.  In  «k  i«v  ok^^  tmsia 


\ 


4= 


^ 


:£» 


106      [Joly  8, 186t.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


[Gondnotodbf 


larger  pieces  will  appear,  and  ghortly  afterwards 
dreary  floea  will  heave  in  Bight  to  the  north- 
ward. 

The  sealer  now  coasts  along  these  fields  of 
ice,  observing  the  nature  of  the  ice,  and  whether 
it  is  snitable  for  his  purpose,  and  occasionally 
consulting  with  the  captains  of  the  other  ships 
regarding  their  chances  of  a  good  cargo.  Now 
and  then  he  will  push  in  among  the  broken-up 
floes  to  test  the  nature  of  the  ice,  or  whether  any 
seals  are  in  that  direction,  and  if  unsuccessful 
will  push  out  again,  and  continue  coasting 
rouna  what  he  calls  the  *^  cant'^  of  the  ice.  All 
this  time  the  men  are  busily  getting  up  the 
tools.  These  consist  of  seahng  clubs — a  sharp 
spike  at  the  end  of  a  handle  three  feet  long — long 
sharp  knives  for  skinning  the  seals,  seal  guns 
suitable  for  throwing  ball,  &c.  The  nights  are 
long  and  dark  at  this  season  of  the  year,  for  Ihe 
bright  continual  daylight  of  the  Arctic  regions 
has  not  yet  begun  to  prevail,  and  snow  and 
sleet  arc  of  hourlv  occurrence.  Altogether  it  is 
cheerless  work  wnen  there  are  no  seals.  Every- 
bod V  is  muffled  from  head  to  foot  in  the  warmest 
clothing,  and  a  fur  cap  which  only  leaves  the 
tip  of  the  nose,  the  eyes,  and  the  mouth  ex- 
posed.. Hoar  frost,  and  sometimes  a  miniatiuro 
crop  of  icicles  hang  from  the  shaggy  moustadics 
of  the  men  as  they  trot  backward  and  for- 
ward on  the  snow-covered  deck  to  keep  their 
feet  warm,  or  hang  dreamily  over  the  side  dis- 
cussing the  chances  of  a  long  purse  versus  a 
short  one.  For  every  man  on  board,  from  the 
captain  and  the  surgeon  to  the  cabin  boy,  is 
directly  interested  in  the  result  of  the  voyage. 

**  Things  look  roughish,"  the  old  skipper  re- 
marks. *'  For  twenty  years  I  haven^t  seen  such 
a  nasty  look-out."  So  he  coasts  along  until  he 
sees  an  opening  wide  and  clear  between  the 
floes,  and  pushes  in.  Coming  from  the  open 
fiiendlesB  sea,  it  looks  quite  homelike  among 
the  great  floes.  The  ^*  leads"  of  open  water 
look  like  streams  meandering  through  a  snow- 
covered  country.  A  lazy  seal,  with  its  young 
at  its  side,  staring  up  with  great  glassy  eyes, 
also  takes  away  from  the  appearance  of  utter 
desolation;  and  now  and  then  a  few  seals, 
attracted  by  the  whistling  of  the  seamen, 
peep  up  above  the  oozy  sea  to  see  what  is 
the  matter.  Darkness  is  settling  down,  but 
the  old  skipper  still  pushes  on,  trusting  to  the 
ironshod  bows,  and  doubling  and  trebling  of 
his  ship.  At  last  ho  finds  the  ice  beginning 
to  form  around  the  vessel,  so  he  anchors  on  to 
a  floe  and  waits  for  morning.  Before  daylight 
is  well  on,  the  captain  is  shaken  in  his  bunk  by 
one  of  the  watch  to  tell  him  that  they  think  seals 
are  not  far  off,  for  though  the  night  is  so  dark 
that  it  is  impossible  to  see  ten  yards  ahead,  yet 
they  can  hear  the  cries  of  seal  pups.  Morning 
shows,  to  the  delight  of  these  hardy  hunters 
after  pinnipeds,  that  in  the  darkness  they  have 
run  in  among  a  huge  herd  of  seals  quietly  en- 
joying the  dolcc  far  niente  of  Arctic  life.  Not 
an  hour  is  to  be  lost,  for  the  ice  may  shift  or  a 
storm  ariae,  and  the  fortune  at  their  sliip^s  side 
■may  bo  snAtched  out  from  before  tlicir  eyes. 
-^5wai  iAo  *' crow's  nest''  a  sight  may  be  seen 


almost  impossible  to  be  described.  Far  aa  the 
eye  can  reach  the  spotless  pmity  of  the  snow  ia 
speckled  by  huge  flocks  of  seals  r^osing  beside 
tneir  escape  holes  which  communicate  with  the 
sea  beneath,  and  at  tlieir  side  are  Uieir  helpless 
young.  Long  lines  of  huntens  are  leaving  the 
ship,  some  anned  with  rifles,  others  with  the 
sealiiig  clubs,  and  other  vessels  having  scented 
the  plunder  from  afar  are  huniedly  making* 
fast  to  the  floe,  or  despatching  parties  over  to 
the  scene.  Crack  1  crack !  Every  minute  the 
noise  rings  throng  the  clear  Arctic  air,  telling 
that  an  old  seal  making  for  the  water  has  been 
arrested  in  its  career.  These  are  generally  the 
males,  for  the  females  will  rarely  desert  their 
young  until  the  last  extremity,  and  will  not 
unfrequently  remain,  and  in  attempting  to 
defend  their  hapless  offspring  meet  the  same 
fate.  As  for  the  young  which  are  unable  to 
escape,  a  kick  of  the  heavy  sea  boot  or  a  blow 
of  the  sharp-spiked  club  settles  their  fate.  No 
sooner  is  one  killed  than  it  is  flayed :  an  opera- 
tion which  does  not  occupy  more  than  two 
minutes,  if  so  much.  A  rapid  turn  of  the  sharp 
sheath  knife  round  the  neck,  another  round 
each  flipper,  and  a  last  one  down  the  belly 
completes  the  operation ;  a  few  touches  of  the 
knife  serving  to  take  off  the  *'  jacket"  or  skin, 
to  which  is  attached  a  layer  of  three  inches 
or  more  of  blubber,  a  white  fatty  substance 
streaked  rod  with  the  blood-vessels.  A  man 
has  rarely  to  stir  over  a  few  feet  before  he 
stuns  or  brains  another,  and  so  on  he  goes  until 
he  has  collected  quite  a  trophy  around  him. 
He  now  fastens  the  rope  or  ^'rueraddy"  with 
which  he  is  provided,  to  the  skins  and  blubber, 
and  drags  them  over  the  ice  to  a  place  where 
the  boats  are  receiving  them  and  carrying  them 
to  the  ship.  The  man  retiuns  to  his  murderous 
work  until  he  has  completed  a  sufiicient  number 
to  be  again  attached  to  his^^rueraddy"  and 
dragged  to  the  boats.  On  board  the  ship  they 
are  dropped  into  the  hold,  a  tally  being  kept  of 
the  quantity  obtained,  for  entry  in  the  log-book. 
Every  seal  which  is  dropped  into  the  hold  of 
the  i^p  is  something  in  the  pocket  of  every- 
body, so  that  hard  as  is  the  work,  and  cruel 
the  sport,  the  men  go  into  it  with  a  gusto,  all 
the  more  vigorous  that  it  is  a  bret^  in  the 
monotony  of  a  sea  voyage.  The  c^)tain,  from 
the  crow's  nest  on  the  main  ro3ral-ma8t-head, 
is  not  forgetful  of  his  faithful  lieges,  as  is  sub- 
stantially shown  by  the  *'  tots"  of  rum,  which 
are  now  and  then  served  out  by  the  steward 
on  the  ice.  All  day  long  this  work  goes  on,  until, 
towards  evening,  a  change  is  seen  to  have  come 
over  the  morning  purity  of  the  snow.  Every- 
where the  floe  is  scattered  with  the  bleeding 
carcases  of  seals,  and  the  snow  is  dyed  scarlet 
in  the  lines  of  the  slaughtering  parties.  On 
the  morrow  the  sealer  renews  his  search,  and, 
if  successful,  he  may  fill  his  vessel  in  a  few 
days.  The  business  is  not,  however,  without 
its  perils.  Sometimes  a  sudden  gale  arises,  and 
before  the  boats  can  get  the  men  collected  to- 
gether, the  floe  will  break  up,  and  while  the 
ship  is  driven  out  to  sea,  the  unfortunate  sea- 
men wili  be  loit  dxiiluxg  Obboiwt^  exposed  to  the 


^ 


^ 


QhuteDlokMu.] 


SEALS. 


fJuly  S,  1609.)       107 


storni  on  the  swaying  ice-fields ;  or  a  man  will 
suddenly  plump  through  a  broken  place  in  the 
ice,  and  before  he  can  attract  the  attention  of 
the  eager  hunters,  will  be  carried  away  by  the 
current  under  the  floe  and  lost  for  ever.  Storms 
will  even  occasionally  destroy  the  vessel,  but 
these  mishaps  are  rarer  here  than  in  Baifin^s 
Bay ;  and  as  another  ship  is  nsually  at  hand, 
there  is  seldom  any  loss  of  life.  Frost  bites  are 
of  daily  occurrence,  but  are  nothing  compared 
with  the  condensed  frozen  vapour  of  the  sea 
which  pierces  the  face  like  a  shower  of 
needles.  The  feeling  after  being  subjected 
to  it  for  an  hour  or  two  is  that  of  being  shaved 
by  a  ragged  razor,  hence  the  seaman  terms  it 
"the  barber."  Again,  he  may  be  unlucky 
enough  to  get  frozen  in  with  his  ship,  with 
the  seals  in  sight  through  the  telescope  from 
the  mast-head,  too  far  off  to  be  of  any  use 
to  him.  So,  Tantalus-like,  he  sees  riches  and 
is  unable  to  grasp  them,  while  the  lucky 
Dutchman,  who  bears  the  reputation  of  being 
the  best  sealer  in  the  Greenland  sea,  is  filling 
his  ship.  But  there  is  no  help  for  it.  So  the 
skipper  goes  down  to  take  his  meridian  rum 
and  water — the  sun  being  over  the  foreyard — 
growling  something  about  a  certain  personage 
taking  care  of  his  own,  and  makes  up  his 
mind  to  meet  a  cold  reception  from  ^*his 
owners,"  as  he  relates  the  tale  of  his  ill- 
lack.  He  has  another  competitor  besides  the 
Dutchman :  a  grim  old  gentleman  in  a  shaggy 
▼kite  coat.  The  sailors  call  him  **  the 
firmer  ;"  but  he  is  more  widely  known  as 
the  Polar  bear.  Seals  form  the  greater  por- 
tion of  the  polar  bear's  food,  though  he  will 
often  clear  an  islet  of  eider  ducks*  eggs  in  the 
course  of  a  few  hours.  Every  ice  hummock 
sends  forth  its  bear,  and  if  you  are  to  credit 
the  Esquimaux  report,  the  she  bear  makes  for 
seals,  with  her  cub  hanging  about  her  neck. 
Hunters  will  tell  you^  among  other  tradi- 
tions ci  the  sealing  craft,  how  Jim  Bilboe  or 
Sandy  McWhuddin,  a  messmate,  was  flensing  a 
seal  in  the  spring  of  *47,  and  felt  a  rough 
hand  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  cried  out— 
"What  the  Something  do  you  want?  None  of 
TOUT  skylarking!"  but  getting  no  response, 
looked  up,  and  was  astonished  to  find  a  huge 
white  bear  with  its  paw  on  his  shoulder,  in- 
quiring, in  its  own  way,  why  he  trespassed  on 
his  northern  domains?  Then,  again,  you  will  be 
told  how  Jan  van  der  Drunk,  **  skipper  of  a 
Dutchman,"  was  walking  along  the  ice  one 
afternoon,  thinking  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  when  he 
became  suddenly  conscious  of  being  steadily 
accompanied,  cheek  by  iowl,  by  a  bear.  As 
Captain  Jan  halted  so  did  Bruin,  and  as  the 
skipper  walked  so  did  the  bear,  until  Jan's 
men  relieved  him  by  a  sortie  from  the  ship. 

The  seal  itself  is  generally  harmless  enough  ; 
but  it  will  sometimes  endanger  the  scaler's 
peace  of  mind  and  *^  continuity  of  tissue." 
The  bladder-nose  will  boldly  meet  his  oppo- 
nent, and  even  the  quiet  sober  saddlc-back, 
in  the  fury  of  maternal  affection,  will  some- 
times, when  the  sealer  is  flaying  its  pup^  stretch 
her  head  out  of  the  Huter  uud  seize  bim  by 


the  calf  of  the  leg,  inflicting  with  its  powerful 
tusks  very  severe  wounds. 

A  score  of  such  yams,  you  will  hear  whUe  the 
gooil  ship,  Spoutin^  Whale,  is  filling  up  with 
seals  in  the  "  Greenland  Sea  of  the  Dutch," 
as  Mr.  Norrie's  old  chart,  which  hangs  up  in 
the  cabin,  styles  it.  This  is  about  the  end  of 
April,  and  now  the  great  fields  of  ice  are  broken 
into  fragments,  and  the  carcases  of  the  seals 
covering  it  are  either  left  to  the  polar  l)ear  or 
sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  where  they  must 
now,  with  those  of  whales,  form  such  a  bed, 
that  I  would  like  to  hear  the  theory  which 
geologists  (saj  a  couple  of  million  yeai*s  or  so 
hence)  will  form  regarding  this  *'  deposit," 
when  the  bed  of  the  Spitzbergen  sea  forms 
fields  of  yellow  grain,  and  England  perhaps 
is  a  tropicad  forest ! 

The  sealers  care  nothing  for  the  flesh, 
though  the  livers  are  sometimes  eaten.  The 
Esquimaux,  however,  look  upon  the  flesh  in 
quite  a  different  light,  and,  indeed,  when 
cooked  it  is  far  from  contemptible  as  the  piece 
de  resistance  of  an  Arctic  dinner,  and  very 
much  superior  to  a  burgomaster  gull.  The 
sealer,  however,  thinks  it  is  unwholesome,  for 
now  and  then  he  sees  the  young  affected  by  a 
disease  not  unlike  scrofula :  an  inflammation  of 
the  glands  of  the  neck :  and  curiously  enough 
this  goitre-like  disease  induces  dwarfishncss  in 
the  seals,  as  it  does  in  the  Cretins  of  the  Alps 
and  elsewhere.  Some  of  the  sealers,  if  they 
intend  to  pursue  the  Spitzbergen  whaling  in 
the  ensuing  summer,  follow  ihe  flocks  of  ^als, 
which  have  now  taken  to  the  water,  north- 
ward, and  in  the  month  of  May  often  fall  in 
with  considerable  numbers.  This  is  called  the 
*^  old  sealing,"  but  as  the  seals  are  apt  to  sink 
when  shot  late  in  the  year,  though  early  in 
the  spring  they  are  so  fat  as  to  float,  this  kind 
of  biisiness  is  not  popular  with  the  sealers,  and 
most  of  them  return  home,  to  deposit  their 
cargo,  and  to  refit  for  the  ^'  Straits  fishing"  in 
Davis  Strait  and  Baffin's  Bay.  As  they  steam 
gaily  southward,  the  men  get  up  the  seals  and 
pare  the  layer  of  blubber  off  the  skins.  If  the 
voyage  is  likely  to  be  a  long  or  a  warm  one,  a 
little  salt  is  sometimes  thrown  over  the  skins, 
but  generally  the  weather  is  cold  enough  for 
their  preservation  in  perfectly  good  condition 
until  they  are  unshipped.  The  old  skipper  is  in 
high  trim  at  his  success,  and  over  his  evening 
grog  tells  all  sorts  of  traditions  of  the  trade.  For 
instance,  he  relates  how  in  the  year  '11,  when  he 
was  'prentice  on  board  the  Nancy  Dawson, 
a  square  old  bluff-bowed  snuff-box  of  a  Hull 
whaler,  we  were  at  war  with  France,  and 
French  cruisers  liked  nothing  better  than  to 
take  a  run  up  in  the  North  Sea  and  cut  out  an 
old  whaler.  There  wasn't  much  in  her,  no 
doubt,  but  still  she  was  a  prize,  and  if  nothing 
better  she  made  a  good  blaze  when  burnt.  They 
didn't  dare,  however,  to  venture  in  among  the 
ice,  as  their  vessels  were  not  fortiticd  for  such 
work,  and  accordingly,  when  one  summer  day 
the  Nancy  Dawson  had  JuBt\«vVvooV^^\xwsv'ORft  ^ 
floe,  and  a  FrcT\c\i  mou-o"  -^w  "Viot^.  ^o^xv  xx^tv  ^ 
her,  she  ran  immc^B^Vy  m  oxn^ii^  >X^^  ^B&^ 


#= 


c£ 


^ 


108    C«>ir  *.  18W.] 


ALL  THE  TEAE  ROUND. 


(Ooadoefeedby 


where  pursuit  was  out  of  the  question.  There 
she  remained  until  the  Frenchman  was  out  of 
sight,  but  the  whaler  hadn^t  well  got  out  before 
the  cruiser  heaved  in  sisht  again,  but  with  the 
same  result,  her  intended  victim  running  in 
among  the  ice.  In  those  days  a  convoy  used  to 
accompany  the  whalers  north,  but  the  skipper 
of  the  Nancy  Dawson  was  of  an  independent 
turn  of  mind,  and  not  believing  much  in  the 
judgment  of  the  whaler's  admiral,  he  used  to 
go  off  where  he  chose,  and  run  his  risk,  and 
now  he  was  runniug  it  with  a  vengeance.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  Frenchman  would  cage  him. 
At  last  she  cleared  off  for  good,  as  he  thought, 
and  after  remaining  for  more  than  a  week 
among  the  ice,  a  ship  heaving  in  sight  made  all 
sail  towards  the  Nancy  Dawson  to  hear  the  news. 
The  vessel  certainly  looked  like  a  whaler.  There 
was  her  **  crow's  nest,"  there  were  her  guys, 
there  was  her — but  stop !  the  old  skipper  was 
at  the  mast-head,  shouting  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  **Fort  your  helm  there!  It's  the 
Frenchman  again !  He*s  £ot  his  blocks  hoisted 
the  wrong  way.  'Bout  ship  !"  so  back  to  the 
ice  they  steered.  The  cruiser's  disguise  was  not 
complete.  In  his  attempt  to  imitate  a  whaler, 
he  had  erred  in  a  few  technical  points,  and 
finding  his  victim  was  not  to  be  entrapped,  he 
steered  off  for  a  more  promising  chase.  Then 
he  tells  of  the  old  sealer  who  was  chased  by 
a  French  sloop  of  war,  off  Shetland,  and  how 
they  kept  up  a  running  chase.  First  the 
whaler  fired  all  his  ball,  then  he  fired  broken 
harpoons,  then  half  cheeses,  until  at  last,  in 
despair,  he  fired  the  poker  and  tongs,  cutting 
through  the  Frenchman's  rigging.  He  could 
hear  the  men  on  board  the  cruiser  shouting, 
**he  has  chain  shot  on  board!"  and  the 
cruiser  dropped  pursuit.  In  those  days  nearly 
all  the  better  class  of  whalers  were  fitted 
out  as  privateers  or  letters  of  marque,  and  the 
skipper  tells,  with  many  sage  nods,  how  it  is 
generally  supposed  that  a  certain  wealthy 
family  of  whaling  owners  made  their  money 
more  by  the  capture  of  a  French  merchantman, 
which  was  driven  by  storms  into  their  course 
to  Davis  Strait  one  summer's  day,  than  by 
their  legitimate  trade.  The  whalers  in  those 
times  had  another  enemy  to  dread  nearer  home, 
and  that  was  our  war  vessels.  These  men-o'- 
war  used  to  lie  in  the  Pentland  Frith  and  off 
the  Shctlands,  watching  for  the  return  of  the 
whalers,  when  they  would  press  every  man  on 
board  except  the  apprentices  and  the  officers, 
who  were  exempt.  Knowing  this,  when  they 
arrived  off  the  coast,  the  men  Uable  to  be  pressed 
would  take  the  boats  and  work  their  way 
secretly  down  the  coast,  sleeping  in  quiet  coves 
or  secreted  by  the  fishing  folk  during  the  day, 
and  rowing  by  night,  until  they  arrived  home, 
when  they  would  conceal  themselves  until  their 
vessel  was  ready  to  sail  again.  In  the  mean- 
time their  ship  would  be  brought  into  port  by 
the  apprentices  and  officers. 

All  this  time  we  steam  south  with  our  cargo, 

past  the  dreary  island  of  Jan  Mayen,   with 

its  now  extinct  voJc&do,  and  near  Iceland,  until 

^4?  can  see  the  north  ialee  of  Shetland,  like 


clouds  on  the  horizon.  At  Lerwick  we  pre- 
sent the  collector  with  a  bottle  of  frozen 
beer,  and  discharge  our  Shetland  men,  towards 
whom  Her  Majesty's  officials  have  a  kindly 
feeling,  and  whom  they  do  not  search  over 
strictly.  These  islemen  have  a  knack,  when 
on  board  a  sealer,  of  living  on  oatmeal  almost 
entirely  (as  they  have  the  run  of  it),  and 
saving  th^  provisions  for  winter  use.  £ven 
the  medicines  are  not  safe.  The  doctor  will 
tell  you  that  when  he  gives  them  a  dose  he 
makes  them  swallow  it  before  him,  otherwise 
they  will  save  it  for  winter  use,  supposing  that 
all  medicine  is  equally  the  same  for  all  diseases. 
The  ribbon-capped  damsels  at  the  landing  give 
a  cheer,  and  we  steam  south  for  Dundee.  Here 
the  cargo  is  discharged,  more  coal  and  more 
provision  are  taken  m,  and  by  the  beginning 
of  May  the  vessel  is  off  to  the  Davis  Strait 
whaling. 

We  have  only  spoken  of  the  Spitzbergen  seal- 
ing :  but  there  are  many  more  seals  got.  The 
Russians  kill  many  in  the  White  Sea ;  and  the 
Esquimaux,  on  the  shores  of  Davis,  kill  numbers 
during  the  whole  year  on  the  ice  and  in  their 
little  *' Kayaks."  From  Danish  Greenland  alone 
there  are  exported  every  year  from  forty  to  fifty 
thousand  seal  skins,  besides  blubber.  The  New- 
foundland and  Labrador  seal  fishery  will  yield 
as  many  as  the  Spitzbergen.  Up  to  April, 
last  year,  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  seals 
had  been  brought  by  the  Newfoundland  sealers 
into  St.  John's  and  Harbour  Grace  alone.  All 
of  these  seals  are  '*  hair  seals,"  and  their  skins 
are  only  used  for  leather,  of  which  an  excellent 
description  is  manufactured.  The  blubber  yielda 
a  good  quality  of  oil,  each  ton  being  worth  on 
an  average  forty  pounds :  while  the  skins  ar& 
worth,  take  one  with  another,  five  shillings  a- 

Eiece,  in  the  European  market,  so  that  it  may 
e  considered  that  the  European  (i.e.  Spitz- 
bergen and  White  Sea)  and  American  Arctic 
(Greenland  and  Newfoundland)  seal  fishery 
cannot  be  worth  much  less  than  three  hundred 
thousand  pounds  sterling  annually.  The  fine 
fur  seals  come,  as  has  been  already  said,  mostly 
from  the  South  Seas  and  the  North  Pacific ;  but 
in  both  regions,  the  former  especially,  they  are 
getting  rapidly  exterminated. 


NO  WOEK  TO  DO. 

A  VEW  809G  TO  ▲  VKBY  OLD  TUKS. 

Wb'ks  a  set  of  luiaves  and  laxy  loons. 

Who'd  rather  beg  than  toil. 
And  rather  steal  tluin  either,  my  boys. 

If  we  saw  the  chance  of  spoil. 
Hard  work's  a  curse  and  a  punishment 

We've  heerd  the  parson  say, 
And  we  won't  be  cursed,  if  we  can  help, 
neither  by  night  nor  day. 
'lis  money  we  seek,  'tis  money  we'll  have-. 

If  we  howl  till  all  is  blue ; 
Money  for  baccy,  and  monev  for  gin ; 
Ws  dos't  want  work  to  ao. 

Six  hours  of  shouting  in  the  streets 

Is  jolly  good  fun,  and  free. 
And  brings  more  shillinf^  than  ten  hours'  work; 

Bttcib  fools  thft  ^eopls  be  1 


^^ 


h 


GharlM  Diektm.] 


APPARENT  DEATH. 


[July  8, 186a]      109 


The  girlt  and  women  think  of  oar  wiTei, 

Ti^  men  diilike  our  braj. 
And  throw  us  pence  for  kck  of  sense. 
If  we'n  onl  J  go  awar. 
Tia  money  we  seek,  'tis  money  we'll  hare. 

If  we  howl  till  all  is  blue ; 
Money  for  'baccy,  and  money  for  gin ; 
Wm  Doir'T  want  work  to  do. 

Snecesi  to  gammon  and  false  pretence, 

Saecess  to  the  Barley  Mow, 
And  may  nerer  the  world  be  less  <tf  an  ass 

Than  we  dl  of  us  find  it  now  ! 
lis  well  to  work  if  there's  no  escape, 

*Tb  better  to  cadge  and  crawl ; 
So  throw  us  the  coppers  as  fast  as  you  can, 
Good  people,  one  and  all ! 
For  'tis  money  we  seek,  'tis  money  we'll  hare, 

IfwehowltiUaUisblue; 
Money  for  baccy,  and  money  for  gin ; 
Wm  bov't  want  work  to  do. 


APPARENT  DEATH. 


Vbet  lately,  the  present  writer  was 
requested  to  attend,  on  a  Monday  morning, 
the  funeral  of  a  lady  sixty-seren  years  of 
age,  the  wife  of  the  mayor  of  a  small 
^ench  town,  who  had  died  in  the  night 
between  the  Thnrsday  and  the  Friday 
prerions.  On  the  company  assembling, 
the  cnr^  informed  ns  that  the  body  wonld 
remain  where  it  was  for  awhile,  bnt  that 
the  nsnal  ceremonies  (except  those  at  the 
cemetery)  wonld  be  proceeded  with  all  the 
same.  We  therefore  followed  him  to  the 
diutih,  and  had  a  faneral  service  withont 
ft  burial.  It  transpired  that  the  body  was 
sdll  qnite  warm,  and  presented  no  signs  of 
decomposition. 

In  the  ordinary  oonrse  of  things,  this 
drcomstance  might  not  have  prevented  the 
interment ;  bnt  the  poor  lady  herself  had 
requested  not  to  be  buried  until  decompo- 
sition should  have  begun  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  mistake ;  and  the  family  remem- 
bered, and  regretted,  that  her  brother  had 
been  put  into  the  ground,  three  days  after 
his  death,  while  still  warm,  and  with  his 
countenance  unchanged.  They  had  occa- 
sionally felt  uneasy  about  the  matter,  fear- 
ing that  they  might  have  been  too  pre- 
cipitate in  their  proceedings.  So  in  this 
case  they  resolved  to  take  no  irrevo- 
cable step  without  the  full  assurance  of 
being  justified  in  doing  so.  The  corpse 
was  kept  uninterred  long  after  every  doubt 
was  set  at  rest.  Certainly  we  manage 
wme  things  better  in  England  than  in 
France ;  amongst  them  being  the  interval 
allowed  to  elapse  between  death  and  in- 
terment. Still,  there  are  circumstances 
and  cases  which,  even  here,  afford  matter 
for  seriouB  reflection. 

It  will  easily  be  supposed  HhBt  the  dan-  | 


gerous  briefness  of  this  interval  has  been 
urged  upon  the  attention  of  the  French 
Legislature,  and  been  ably  discussed  by 
the  French  medical  press.  In  1866,  a  peti- 
tion was  presented  to  the  Senate  from  a 
person  named  De  Comol,  pointing  out  the 
danger  of  hasty  interments,  and  suggesting 
the  measures  he  thought  requisite  to  avoid 
terrible  consequences.  Amongst  other 
things,  he  prayed  that  the  space  of  twenty- 
four  hours  between  the  decease  and  the 
interment  now  prescribed  by  the  law  should 
be  extended  to  eight-and- forty  hours.  A 
long  debate  followed,  in  which  Cardinal 
Donnet,  Archbishop  of  Bordeaux,  took  a 
leading  part.  He  was  decidedly  of  opinion 
that  the  petition  should  not  be  set  aside  by 
the  "  order  of  the  day,"  but  that  it  should 
be  transmitted  to  the  minister  of  the  inte- 
rior for  further  consideration  and  inquiry. 
Some  of  the  venerable  prelate's  remarks 
produced  so  great  an  effect  on  his  auditors 
as  to  merit  particular  mention.  He  said 
he  had  the  very  best  reasons  for  believing 
that  the  victims  of  hasty  interments  were 
more  numerous  than  people  supposed.  He 
considered  the  regulations  on  this  head 
prescribed  by  the  law  as  very  judicious,  but 
unfortunately  they  were  not  always  executed 
ae  they  should  be,  nor  was  sufficient  import- 
ance attached  to  them.  In  the  village 
where  he  was  stationed  as  assistant  curate 
in  the  first  period  of  his  sacerdotal  life,  he 
saved  two  persons  from  being  buried 
alive.  The  first  was  an  aged  man,  who 
lived  twelve  hours  after  the  hour  fixed  for 
his  interment  by  the  municipal  officer. 
The  second  was  a  man  who  was  quite 
restored  to  life.  In  both  these  instances  a 
trance  more  prolonged  than  usual  was 
taken  for  actual  death. 

The  next  case  in  his  experience  occurred 
at  Bordeaux.  A  young  lady,  who  bore  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  names  in  the 
department,  had  passed  through  what 
was  believed  to  be  her  last  agony,  and 
as,  apparently,  all  was  over,  the  father 
and  mother  were  torn  away  from  the  heart- 
rending spectacle.  At  that  moment,  as 
Grod  willed  it,  the  cardinal  happened  to 
pass  the  door  of  the  house,  when  it  occurred 
to  him  to  call  and  inquire  how  the  young 
lady  was  going  on.  When  he  entered  the 
room,  the  nurse,  finding  the  body  breath- 
less, was  in  the  act  of  covering  the  face, 
and  indeed  there  was  every  appearance 
that  life  had  departed.  Somehow  or  other, 
it  did  not  seem  so  certain  to  him  as  to  the 
bystanders.  He  resolved  to  try.  Hax^iSa^^ 
bis  voice,   called  loudVy  \v5011  >iJtifi  ^wra\^ 


a5= 


110      [JnlyS.  1868.] 


ALL  THE  YBAB  BOUKD. 


CCoadMledbf 


lady  not  to  give  np  all  hope,  said  that  he 
^VB8  come  to  core  her,  and  that  he  was 
about  to  pray  by  her  side.  "  Yon  do  not 
see  me,"  he  said,  "  but  yon  hear  what  1  am 
saying.*'  Those  singnlar  presentiments 
were  not  nnfonnded.  The  words  of  hope 
reached  her  ear  and  effeeted  a  marvollons 
change,  or  rather  called  back  the  life  that 
was  departing.  The  young  girl  surrived, 
and  in  1866  was  a  wife,  the  mother  of 
children,  and  the  chief  happiness  of  two 
most  respectable  families. 

The  last  instance  related  by  the  arch- 
bishop is  so  interesting,  and  made  such  a 
sensation,  that  it  deserveB  to  be  given  in 
his  own  words. 

^*  In  the  summer  of  1826,  on  a  close  and 
sultry  day,  in  a  church  that  was  excessively 
crowded,  a  young  priest  who  was  in  the 
act  of  preaching  was  suddenly  seised  with 
giddiness  in  the  pulpit.  The  words  he  was 
uttering  became  indistinct ;  he  soon  lost  the 
power  of  speech,  and  sank  down  upon  the 
floor.  He  was  taken  out  of  the  church,  and 
carried  home.  Everybody  thought  that  all 
was  over.  Some  hours  afterwards,  the  funeral 
beU  was  tolled,  and  the  usual  preparations 
were  made  for  the  interment.  His  eye* 
sight  was  gone ;  but  if,  like  the  young  lady 
I  have  mentioned,  he  could  see  nothing,  he 
could  nevertheless  hear;  and  1  need  not 
say  that  what  reached  hi^  ears  was  not 
calculated  to  reassure  him.  The  doctor 
came,  examined  him,  and  pronounced  him 
dead;  and  after  the  usual  inquiries  as  to 
his  age,  the  place  of  his  birth,  &c.j  gave 
permission  for  his  interment  next  morning. 
The  venerable  bishop,  in  whose  cathedral 
the  young  priest  was  preaching  when  he 
was  seized  with  the  fit,  came  to  his  bedside 
to  recite  the  Do  Profondis.  The  body  was 
measured  for  the  coffin.  Night  came  on, 
and  you  will  easily  feel  how  inexpressible 
was  the  anguish  of  the  Kving  being  in  such 
a  situation.  At  last,  amid  the  voices  mur- 
muring around  him,  he  distinguished  that 
of  one  whom  he  had  known  from  in&ncy. 
That  voice  produced  a  marvellous  effect, 
and  excited  ]iim  to  make  a  superhuman 
effort.  Of  what  followed  I  need  say  no 
more  than  that  the  seemingly  dead  man 
stood  next  day  in  the  pulpit,  from  which 
he  had  been  taken  for  dead.  That  young 
priest,  gentlemen,  is  the  same  man  who  is 
now  speaking  before  you,  and  who,  more 
than  forty  yeiirs  after  that  event,  implores 
those  in  authority  not  merely  to  watch 
vigilantly  over  the  careful  execution  of  the 
legal  prescriptions  with  regard  to  inter- 
menta,  bat  to  enskct  heak  ones^  in  order  to 


prevent  the  recurrence  of  irreparable  mis- 
fortunes." 

A  remarkable  pamphlet,  Lettre  sur  La 
Mort  Apparente,  Les  Consequences  Reell^ 
des  Inhumations  Pr^cipit^es,  et  Le  Temps 
Pendant  lequel  pent  persister  L' Aptitude 
a  etre  Rappele  a  la  vie,*  by  the  late  re- 
gretted Dr.  Charles  Londe,  records  acci- 
dents which  are  more  likely  than  the  pre- 
ceding to  occur  in  England.  Even  were 
the  bathing  season  not  at  hand,  deaths  by 
drowning  are  always  to  be  apprehended. 
We  therefore  cite  the  following : 

On  the  13th  of  July,  1829,  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  near  the  Pont  des 
Arts,  Paris,  a  body,  which  appeared  life- 
less, was  taken  out  of  the  river.  It  was 
that  of  a  yoang  man,  twenty  years  of  age, 
dark-complexioned,  and  strongly  built.  The 
corpse  was  discoloured  and  cold ;  the  fiu» 
and  lips  wera  swollen  and  tinged  wiik' 
blue;  a  thick  and  yellowish  froth  ezndad. 
from  the  mouth ;  the  eyes  were  open,  fixed, 
and  motionless ;  the  limbs  limp  ukL  dsoop- 
ing.  1^0  pulscUion  of  the  heart  nor  trciM  rf. 
respiraiion  was  perceptible.  The  body  bed- 
remained  under  water  for  a  considareUe 
time;  the  search  after  it,  made  in  De. 
Bourgeois's  presence,  lasted  frilly  twenbf 
minutes.  That  gentleman  did  not  hesitete' 
to  incur  the  derisKHL  of  the  lookars-on^  bj 
proceeding  to  attempt  the  resurrection  oif 
what,  in  their  eyes,  was  a  mere  lump  of 
clay.  Nevertheless,  several  hours  aftei^ 
wards,  the  supposed  corpse  was  restoeed.  to 
life,  thanks  to  the  obstinate  perseverance 
of  the  doctor,  who,  although  strong  and 
enjoying  robust  health,  was  several  timw 
on  the  point  of  losing  courage^  and  afaeiH 
doning  the  patient  in  despair. 

But  what  would  have  happened  if  Dr. 
Bourgeois,  instead  of  persistently  remain- 
ing stooping  over  the  inanimate  body,  with 
wabchful  eye  and  aMentwe  ear,  to  catch  the 
first  rustling  of  the  heart,  had  left  the 
drowned  man,  after  half-an-hour's  frmtleflt 
endeavour,  as  often  happens  ?  The  un- 
fortunate young  man  would  have  been,  lead 
in  the  grave,  although  capable  of  re$toraUom 
to  life  I  To  this  case.  Dr.  Bourgeois,  in  the 
Archives  de  Medecine^  adds  others,  in  whidb 
individuals  who  had  remained  under  water 
as  long  as  six  HOURS  were  recalled  to  life  bf 
efforts  which  a  weaker  conviction  than  his 
own  would  have  refrained  from  making. 
These  facts  lead  Dr.  Londe  to  the  oondn* 
sion  that,  every    day,  droimied  inditfidmU 


*  Paris,  cbez  J.  B.  Bailli&re,  libratra  de  VAadiaa0 
Imp^riale  de  Midecme. 


==ft» 


Cbvlw  DIokenp.] 


APPARENT  DEATH. 


[July  8. 1869.]      HI 


are  buried^  who^   tvUh  greaJbsr  perseverancej 
iBigJd  he  restored  to  life. 

Nor  is  snfibcation  bj  foul  air  and  me- 
p^itical  p^as,  a  rare  form  of  death  in  the 
United  Kingdom.  It  is  possible  that  sus- 
pended animation  may  now  and  then  have 
txen  mistaken  for  the  absolute  extinction 
of  life.  Dr.  Londe  gives  an  instructive 
case  to  the  purpose.  At  the  extremity  of 
a  large  grocer's  shop,  a  close  narrow  comer, 
or  rather  hole,  was  the  sleeping-place  of 
the  shopman  who  managed  the  night  sale 
till  the  shop  was  closed,  and  who  opened 
the  shutters  at  four  in  the  morning.  On 
the  IGth  of  January,  1825,  there  were  loud 
knocks  at  the  grocer's  door.  As  nobody 
stizTed  to  open  it,  the  gi*ocer  rose  himself, 
gnunbling  at  the  shopman's  laziness,  and 
proceeding  to  his  sleeping-hole  to  scold 
him.  He  found  him  motionless  in  bed,  com- 
pletely deprived  of  consciousness.  Terror- 
struck  by  the  idea  of  sudden  death,  he  im- 
mediately sent  in  search  of  a  doctor,  who 
suspected  a  case  of  asphyxia  by  mephitiem. 
His  suspicions  were  confirmed  by  the  sight 
of  a  night-lamp,  which  had  gone  out  al- 
thou^  well  supplied  with  oil  and  wick; 
and  by  a  portable  stove  containing  die 
remains  of  charcoal  partly  reduced  to 
tflhro 

In  spite  of  a  severe  frost,  he  immediately 
had  the  patient  taken  into  the  open  air,  and 
kept  on  a  chair  in  a  position  as  nearly 
vertical  as  possible.  The  limbs  of  the  suf- 
ferer hung  loose  and  drooping,  the  pupils 
were  motionless,  with  no  trace  either  of 
favcatiiiug  or  pulsation  of  the  heart  or 
arteries ;  in  short,  there  were  all  the  signs 
of  death.  The  most  approved  modes  of 
rfstoring  animation  were  persisted  in  for  a 
kmg  while,  without  success.  At  last,  about 
three  in  the  afternoon,  that  is  after  clever* 
loun^  continued  exertion,  a  slight  move- 
ment was  heard  in  the  region  of  the  heart 
A  few  hours  afterwards,  the  patient  opened 
his  eyes,  regained  consciousness,  and  was 
able  to  converse  with  the  spectators  at- 
tracted by  his  resurrection.  Dr.  Londe  draws 
the  same  conclusions  as  before;  namely, 
that  persons  suffocated  by  mephitism,  are 
not  onfrequently  buried,  when  they  might 
be  saved. 

We  have  had  cholera  in  Great  Britain, 
tad  may  have  it  again.  At  such  trying 
times,  if  ever,  hurried  interments  are  not 
merely  excusable,  but  almost  unavoidable. 
Norertheless,  one  of  the  peculiarities  of 
that  fearful  disease  is  to  bring  on  some  of 
the  symQtoms  of  death,  the  prostration, 
the  coldness,  and  the  dull  livid  hues^  Joiig  , 


before  life  has  taken  its  departure.  Now, 
Dr.  Londe  states,  as  an  acknowledged  fact, 
that  patienta,  pronounced  dead  of  cholera, 
have  been  repeatedly  seen  to  move  one  or 
more  of  their  limbs  after  death.  While  M. 
Trachez  (who  had  been  sent  to  Poland  to 
study  the  cholera)  was  opening  a  subject 
in  the  deadhouse  of  the  Bagatelle  Hospital 
in  Warsaw,  he  saw  another  body  (Uiat  of 
a  woman  of  fifty,  who  had  died  in  two 
days,  lia\dng  her  eyes  still  briglit,  her  joints 
supple,  but  tlie  whole  surface  extremely 
cold),  wliich  visibly  moved  its  left  foot  ten 
or  twelve  times  in  the  course  of  an  hour. 
Afterwards,  the  light  foot  participated  in 
the  same  movement,  but  very  feeblv.  M. 
Trachez  sent  for  Mr.  Searlo,  an  English 
surgeon,  to  direct  his  attention  to  the  phe- 
nomenon. Mr.  Searle  hud  often  remarked  it. 
The  woman,  nevertheless,  was  left  in  the 
dissecting-room,  and  thence  taken  to  the 
cemetery.  Several  other  medical  men  stated 
that  they  had  made  similar  observations. 
From  which  M.  Trachez  draws  the  infe- 
rence :  *'  It  is  allowable  to  think  that  many 
diolera  pationt-s  have  been  buried  alive." 

Dr.  Yeyrat,  attached  to  the  Bath  Esti^ 
blishment,  Aix,  Savoy,  was  sent  for  to  La 
Boche  (Department  of  the  Yonne),  to  visit 
a  cholera  patient,  Therese  X.,  who  had  lost 
all  the  members  of  her  family  by  tlio  same 
disease.  He  found  her  in  a  complete  state 
of  aspliyzia.  He  opened  a  vein ;  not  a 
drop  of  blood  flowed.  He  applied  leeches ; 
they  bit,  and  immediately  loosed  tlieir  hold. 
He  covered  the  body  with  stimulant  appli- 
cations, and  went  to  take  a  little  rest,  re- 
questing to  be  called  if  the  patient  manifested 
any  signs  of  life.  The  night  and  next  day 
passed  without  any  change.  While  making 
preparations  for  the  burial,  they  noticed  a 
little  blood  oozing  out  of  the  leech-bites. 
Dr.  Veyrat,  informed  of  the  circumstance, 
entered  the  chamber,  just  as  the  nurse  was 
about  to  wrap  the  corpse  in  its  winding- 
sheet.  Suddenly  a  i*attling  noise  issued 
from  Tberese's  chest.  She  opened  her 
eyes,  and  in  a  hollow  voice  said  to  the 
nurse :  "  "Wliat  arc  you  doing  hei-e  ?  I  am 
not  dead.  Get  away  with  you."  She  reco- 
vered, and  felt  no  other  inconvenience  tlian 
a  deafness,  which  lasted  about  two  months. 

Exposure  to  cold  may  also  induce  a  sus- 
pension of  vitality,  liable  to  be  mistjikcn 
for  actual  death.  This  year,  the  FrcncOi 
senate  has  again  received  several  peti- 
tions relative  to  prematui-o  interment. s. 
The  question  is  seiious  in  a  country 
where  custom  (to  say  nothing;  o^  X^w"^ 
rules  that  burials  B\\aii  \ak<i  -i^^lvjwi  V\^\vd^ 


^ 


112      [Jal7S,l«».) 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


[Condoetedbj 


eight-and-forty,  seventy-two,  or  at  most 
ninety- six  honrs  after  death.  And,  consi- 
dering the  length  of  time  that  trances, 
catalepsies,  lethargies,  and  cases  of  sus- 
pended animation  have  been  known  occa- 
sionally to  continue,  it  is  scarcely  in  Eng- 
land less  interesting  to  ns,  though  pnbHc 
feeling,  which  is  only  an  expression  of  na- 
tural affection,  approves,  and  indeed  almost 
compels,  a  longer  delay.  The  attention  of 
the  French  government  being  once  more 
directed  to  the  subject,  there  is  little  doubt 
that  all  reasonable  grounds  for  fear  will  be 
removed. 

The  petitioners  have  requested,  as  a  pre- 
caution, that  all  burials,  for  the  future, 
should,  in  the  first  instance,  be  only  provi- 
sional. Before  filling  a  grave,  a  conmiuni- 
cation  is  to  be  made  between  the  coffin  and 
the  upper  atmosphere,  by  means  of  a  respira- 
tory tube ;  and  the  grave  is  not  to  be  finally 
closed  unto  all  hope  of  life  is  abandoned. 
These  precautions,  it  will  be  seen  at  once, 
however  good  in  theory,  are  scarcely  prac- 
ticable. Others  have  demanded  the  general 
establishment  of  mortuary  chambers,  or 
dead-houses,  like  those  in  Germany.  And 
not  only  the  petitioners,  but  several  senators, 
seem  to  consider  that  measure  the  fuU  solu- 
tion of  the  problem.  Article  77  of  the 
Civil  Code  prescribes  a  delay  of  twenty- 
four  hours  only ;  which  appears  to  them  to 
be  insufficient.  Science,  they  urge,  admits 
the  certainty  that  death  has  taken  place, 
only  after  putrefactive  decomposition  has  set 
in.  Now,  a  much  longer  time  than  twenty- 
four  hours  may  elapse  before  that  decom- 
position manifests  itself.  Deposit,  there- 
fore, your  dead  in  a  mortuary  chapel  until 
you  are  perfectly  sure,  from  the  evidence 
of  your  senses,  that  life  is  utterly  and 
hopelessly  extinct. 

In  Germany,  coffins,  with  the  corpses 
laid  out  in  them,  are  placed  in  a  building 
where  a  keeper  watches  day  and  night. 
During  the  forty  years  that  this  system 
has  been  in  force,  not  a  single  case  of 
apparent  death  has  been  proved  to  occur. 
This  negative  result  cannot  be  cited  as  con- 
clusive, either  for  or  against  the  system. 
In  a  country  where  a  million  of  people 
annually  die,  an  experiment  embracing 
only  forty-six  thousand  corpses,  is  too 
partial  to  be  relied  on  as  evidence.  More- 
over, mortuary  chambers  exist  only  in  a 
few  great  centres  of  population ;  and  it  is 
especially  in  small  towns  and  country  dis- 
tricts, where  medical  men  are  too  busy  to 
mspect  the  dead,  that  premature  interments 
are  to  be  aPprehended. 


Out   of  Germany,   as  in  England  and 
France,  there  might  be  a  great  difficulty  in 
getting  the  poptuation  to  accept  and  make 
use  of  mortuary  chambers.     And  even  if 
favourably  looked  upon  in  large  cities,  the 
rich,  as  in  Germany,  would  refuse  to  expose 
their  dead  there  to  the  public  gaze.     In  the 
country  and  in  isolated  villages  the  plan 
would  be  impossible   to    carry    out.     M. 
Henri  de  Parville,  while  announcing  the 
existence  of  an  infallible  test  for  distin- 
guishing apparent  from  real  death,  protests 
that  to  wait  xmtil  a  body  &lls  into  decom- 
position,   is   just    as  opposed  to  Frendi 
habits,  to  hygiene,  and  to  the  public  health, 
as  mortuary  chambers  are  xmacceptable  bj 
the  public  in  general.     He  holds  that  mb 
legislature  has  already  adopted  the  wiser 
and  more  practical  measure.      The  per- 
mission to  inter  a  corpse  cannot  be  granted 
xmtil  the  civil  officer  has  gone  to  see  the 
body  of  the  deceased.  When  the  Article  77 
of  the  Civil  Code  was  under  discussion  1^ 
the  Council  of  State,  Fourcrov  added :  **It 
shall  be  specified  that  the  civil  officer  be 
assisted  by  an  officer  de  sant^ — a  medical 
man  of  inferior  rank  to  a  doctor  of  me- 
dicine— ^because  there  are  cases  in  which 
it  is  difficult  to  make  certain  that  death 
has  actually  occurred,  without  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  its  symptoms,  and  because 
there  are  tolerably  numerous  examples  to 
prove  that  people  have  been  buried  aKve.*' 
In  Paris,   especially  since  Baron  Hauss- 
mann's  administration.  Article  77  has  been 
strictly  fulfilled ;  but  the  same  exactitude 
cannot  be  expected  in  out-of-the-way  nodtf 
and  comers  of  the  country,  where  a  docfor 
cannot  always  be  found,   at    a  minute's 
warning,  to  declare  whether  death  be  real 
or  apparent  only.   It  is  clear  that  the  legis- 
lature  has  hit  upon  the  sole  indisputable 
practical  solution ;  the  difficulty  lies  in  its 
rigorous  and  efficient  application. 

It  has  been  judiciously  remarked  that  it 
would  be  a  good  plan  to  spread  the  know- 
ledge of  the  sure  and  certain  characteristics 
which  enable  us  to  distinguish  every  fi)nn 
of  lethargy  from  real  death.  It  cannot  be 
denied  that,  at  the  present  epoch,  the  utmost 
pains  are  taken  to  popularise  every  kind  of 
knowledge.  Nevertheless,  it  makes  sloif 
way  through  the  jungles  of  prejudice  and 
vulgar  error.  Not  long  ago,  it  was  over 
and  over  again  asserted  that  an  infaJHblo 
mode  of  ascertaining  whether  a  person  were 
dead  or  not,  was  to  inflict  a  bum  on  the 
sole  of  the  foot.  If  a  blister  full  of  water 
resulted,  the  individual  was  not  .dead;  if 
the  contrary  happened,  there  was  no  fbrther 


5d 


Ohaiiea  IHekeiu.] 


APPARENT  DEATH. 


[Jnlj  8. 1869.]      113 


i 
t 


hope.     This  error  was  unhesitatingly  ac- 
cepted as  an  item  of  the  popular  creed. 

The  Council  of  Hjgienc,  applied  to  by 
the  government,  indicated  putrefaction  and 
cadaverous  rigidity  as  in&tUible  signs  of 
actual  death.  In  respect  to  the  first,  putre- 
&ction,  a  professional  man  is  not  likely  to 
make  a  mistake ;  but  nothing  is  more  pos- 
sible than  for  non-profcssiouals  to  confound 
hospital  rottenness,  gangrene,  with  true 
pofifc-mortem  putre&ction.  M.  de  Parville 
dedines  to  admit  it  as  a  test  adapted  for 
popular^application.  Moreover,  in  winter, 
the  time  required  for  putrefaction  to  mani- 
fest itself  is  extremely  uncertain. 

The  cadaverous  rigidity,  the  stiffness  of 
ft  coipse,  offers  an  excellent  mode  of  verify- 
ing death;  but  its  value  and  importance 
are  not  yet  appreciable  by  everybody,  or 
faj  the  first  comer.      Cadaverous  rigidity 
oocnrs  a  few  hours  after  death ;  the  limbs, 
hitherto  supple,  stiffen;  and  it  requires  a 
certain  effort  to  make  them  bend.     But 
when  once  the  faculty  of  bending  a  joint 
is  forcibly  restored — to  the  arm,  for  in- 
stance— ^it  wiU  not  stiffen  again,  but  will 
retain  its  suppleness.     If  the  death  be  real, 
the  rigidity  is  overcome  once  for  all.     But 
if  the  death  be  only  apparent,  the  limbs 
quickly  resume,  with  a  sudden  and  jerking 
moyement,  the  contracted  position  which 
they  previously  occupied.      The   stiffness 
he^uQS  at  the  top,  the  head  and  neck,  and 
descends  graduaJly  to  the  trunk. 

These  characteristics  are  very  clearly 
narked ;  but  they  must  be  caught  in  the 
&et,  and  at  the  moment  of  their  ap- 
pearance :  because,  after  a  time,  of 
Yiriable  duration,  they  disappear.  The 
contraction  of  the  members  no  longer 
exists,  and  the  suppleness  of  the  joints 
returns.  Manv  other  symptoms  might  be 
added  to  the  above ;  but  they  demand  still 
greater  clearness  of  perception,  more  ex- 
tended professional  knowledge,  and  more 
pnctised  habits  of  observation. 

Although    the   French   Government    Ls 
anzioos  to  enforce  throughout  the  whole 
Empire,  the  rules  carried  out  in  Paris,  it  is 
to  be  feared  that  great  difficulties  lie  in  the 
way.     The  verification   of  deaths   on   so 
enormous  a  scale,  with  strict  minuteness, 
is  almost  impracticable.     But   even  if  it 
were  not,  many  timid  persons  would  say : 
"  Who  is  to  assure  us  of  the  correctness  of 
the  doctors'  observations  ?     Unfortunately, 
too  many  terrible  examples  of  their  falli- 
bility are  on  record.     The  professional  man 
ii  pressed  for  time.     He  pays  a  passing 
fisity  gives  a  hurried  glance ;  and  a  f&t&l  j 


mistake  is  so  easily  made  !"  Public  opinion 
will  not  be  reassured  until  you  can  show, 
every  time  a  death  occurs,  an  irrefutable 
demonstration  that  life  has  departed. 

M.  de  Parville  now  announces  the  possi- 
bility of  this  great  desideratum.  He  pro- 
fesses to  place  in  any  one's  hands,  a  self- 
acting  apparatus,  which  would  declare,  not 
only  whether  the  death  be  real,  but  would 
leave  in  tlie  hands  of  the  &tpcrimcnior  a 
written  'proof  of  the  reality  of  the  death. 
The  scheme  is  this  :  It  is  well  known  that 
atrophine — ^the  active  principle  of  bella- 
donna— ^possesses  the  property  of  consider- 
ably dilating  the  pupil  of  the  eye.  Oculists 
constantly  make  use  of  it,  when  they  want 
to  perform  an  operation,  or  to  examine  the 
interior  of  the  eye.  Now,  M.  le  Docteur 
Bouchut  has  shown  that  atrophine  has  no 
action  on  the  pupil  when  death  is  real.  In 
a  state  of  lethargy,  the  pupil,  under  the 
influence  of  a  few  drops  of  atrophine, 
dilates  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes ;  the 
dilatation  also  takes  place  a  few  instants 
after  death ;  but  it  ceases  absolutely  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  or  half  an  hour  at  the 
very  longest;  consequently,  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  pupil  is  a  certain  sign  that  death 
is  only  apparent. 

This  premised,  imagine  a  little  camera- 
obscura,  scarcely  so  big  as  an  opera-glass, 
containing  a  slip  of  photographic  paper, 
which  is  kept  unrolling  for  fivo-and-twcnty 
or  thirty  minutes  by  means  of  clockwork. 
This  apparatus,  placed  a  short  distance  in 
front  of  the  dead  person's  eye,  will  depict 
on  the  paper  the  pupil  of  the  eye,  which 
will  have  been  previously  moistened  with 
a  few  drops  of  atrophine.  It  is  evident 
that,  as  the  paper  slides  before  the  eye  of 
the  corpse,  if  the  pupil  dilate,  its  photo- 
graphic image  will  be  dilated;  if,  on  the 
contrary,  it  remains  unchanged,  the  image 
will  retain  its  original  size.  An  inspection 
of  the  paper  then  enables  the  experimenter 
to  read  upon  it  whether  the  death  is  real  or 
apparent  only.  This  sort  of  declaration 
can  be  handed  to  the  civil  officer,  who  will 
give  a  permit  to  bury,  in  return. 

By  this  simple  method  a  hasty  or  care- 
less certificate  of  death  becomes  impossible. 
The  instrument  applies  the  test^  and  counts 
the  minutes.  The  doctor  and  the  civil 
officer  are  relieved  from  further  responsi- 
bility. The  paper  gives  evidence  that  the 
verification  has  actually  and  carefully  been 
made ;  for,  suppose  that  half  an  hour  is  re- 
quired to  produce  a  test  that  can  be  relied 
on,  the  length  of  the  strip  of  paper  xiaxoWa^, 
marks  the  time  during  'w\n.ci^i  VXi^  ^^x^erv- 


<^ 


114       [July  3. 186^ 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnoted  bj 


ment  has  been  continued.  An  apparatus 
of  the  kind  might  be  placed  in  the  hands  of 
the  minister  or  one  of  the  notables  of  every 
parish.  Such  a  system  would  silence  the 
apprehensions  of  the  most  timid.  Fears — 
natural  enough — would  disappear,  and  the 
world  would  be  shocked  by  no  fresh  cases 
of  premature  burial. 

A  SLIPPER  DAY. 


It  must  be  a  happy,  comfortable  house.  It 
must  be  away  from  the  town,  but  not  too  far 
for  the  arrival  of  pleasant  news  from  the  world 
without.  A  garden  is  indiBpenflable.  A  yard 
where  there  are  fowls.  A  coujple  of  pigs,  whose 
hams  are  destined  to  glorify  the  ample  kitchen. 
At  hand,  a  green-house,  graced  by  a  noble 
vine.  A  sunny  fruit  wall,  where  perfect  peaches 
arc  kissed.  A  fair,  not  over  spacious,  meadow, 
with  a  meek -eyed  cow  to  meet  one  at  the  gate, 
and  scent  the  air  with  milky  vapour.  A  hand- 
some garden,  rich  in  varieties  of  background 
shrubl^ry  for  the  flowers :  with  a  kitchen 
garden  beyond,  in  which  there  must  be  sly 
comers  of  pet  fruit-bushes. 

This,  my  scene.  In  it,  I  have  for  this 
day  made  up  my  mind  to  do  nothing.  I  will 
neither  sow  nor  reap.  The  idle  hands  now 
lifting  my  dressing-room  window  to  admit  the 
flower-scented  morning  air,  shall,  when  the 
sun  goes  down,  be  gmltless  of  work  to-day. 
I  shall  not  want  the  morning  paper,  except  for 
a  glance  at  the  births,  marriages,  and  deaths, 
with  my  cigarette  after  breakfast.  A  cold  bath 
at  seven  refreshes  me,  for  the  CDJoyment  of 
idleness;  a  cold  bath  and  a  lazy  toilette.  I 
am  perfectly  indifferent  as  to  time.  My  spaniel 
whines  about  my  feet,  hinting  that  the  hour 
for  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  bacon 
has  come;  but  to-day  bacon  and  eggs,  and 
sardines,  and  brawn,  must  wait  my  good 
pleasiu'e.  I  survey  the  remote  mystery  of  my 
wardrobe's  treasures.  I  discover  waistcoats  and 
kerchiefs  that  had  passed  out  of  my  memory. 
Why  do  I  never  wear  that  blue  cravat  my  wife's 
aunt  gave  me  ?  Graceless  fellow  that  I  am, 
the  breast-pin  my  mother-in-law  bestowed 
upon  me,  has  not  sparkled  from  my  bosom 
twice  this  year.  I  linger  over  the  parting  of 
my  liair.  Bless  me,  how  the  grey  is  gaining 
upon  my  locks  apace !  My  wife  will  be  pro- 
nouncing a  blessing  on  my  frosty  pate,  as  that 
of  her  John  Anderson.  The  clematis  nods  in 
at  the  window  :  a  bee  settles  upon  the  honey- 
soap,  and  flies  off  in  a  passion.  A  head  shaking 
a  rare  tangle  of  golden  curls  is  pushed  into  the 
room— a  head  1  saw  pillowed  asleep,  an  hour 
ago.  Will  I  never  come  down  to  breakfast  ? 
I  beg  to  remind  my  dear  that  I  am  master  of 
my  time.  I  have  no  train  to  catch,  no  post  to 
make  up,  no  appointments  to  keep,  nothing  to 
do.  An  arm  is  twined  within  mine,  a  little 
hand  is  thrust  through  my  over-brushed  hair 
^/  bad  contrived  to  cover  the  snowy  skein),  and 
lam  drawn  down^tam. 


AVhile  tea  and  coffee  are  brewing,  or  while  I 
choose  to  pretend  they  are  brewing,  I  escape 
into  the  garden,  followed  by  Boswell,  my 
spaniel.  I  make  for  my  favourite  fruit  comer, 
dallying  with  the  flowers,  and  drawing  in  plen- 
tiful oxygen  by  the  way.  Boswell  is  maater  of 
my  manly  mind,  as  I  am  of  his  canine  penoB. 
He  knows  whither  my  idle  steps  will  tend. 
Therefore,  being  a  dog  with  a  taste  for  pro- 
specting among  gooseberry  bushes,  he  gravely 
precedes  me ;  and  we  are  presently  bou 
found,  and  pronounced  pigs,  by  the  saucy 
owner  of  that  same  pretty  head  of  curls  whieh 
flashed  upon  my  dr«9Bing-TOom  just  now.  A 
saunter  back  to  the  breakfast-parlogr,  broken 
by  a  gossip  with  the  gardener  about  the  unto* 
ward  season  which  will  not  exactly  adapt  itadf 
to  the  growth  of  my  vegetable-marrows  for  the 
exact  moment  I  want  them. 

A  happy  family  looks  best  at  breakfast,  and 
breakfast  is  at  its  best  in  srunmer  time :  albeit 
Leigh  Hunt— a  notable  authority  on  domeslie 
graces  and  celebrations — says:   **One  of  the 
first  things  that  belong  to  a  breakfast  is  a  ^ood 
flj?e.  There  is  a  deliglrtful  mixture  of  tlie  hrely 
and  snug  in  coming  down  into  one^s  bmakfait 
room  of  a  cold  morning,  and  finding  evoy- 
thing  prepared  for  us;  a  blazing  grate,  clean 
table-doth,    and    tea-things,    newly -washed 
faces  and  combed  heads  of  a  set  of  good- 
humoured  urchins,  and  the  sole  empty  cbdr 
ready  for  its  occupant.'*    I  grant  the  tea,  ike 
coffee,  the  dry  toast,  the  butter,  the  eggs,  fte 
ham,  something  potted,  the  bread,  the  salt, 
the  mustard,  tlie  knives,  the  forks ;  but  I  will 
not  give  up  the  summer  time,  the  dishes  of 
fruit,  the  fresh -cut  flowers,  the  lilac  of  Maj, 
and  the  roses  of  June.     Breakfast,  I  main- 
tain,  is  at  its  sweetest  and  best  when  tiM 
lark,   having  built  its  nest    in  the  corn,  ii 
singing   over   the    ripening    harvest.      I  eaa 
part  with  the  fire,  in  favour  of  the  fruit  and 
flowers,   the  open  window,    and  the   inseeta 
murmuring  by  the  petals  of  the  floral  richM 
we  have  brought   forth   from  the  hothoiua 
I  concede  the  washed  faces  and  combed  headi 
—  in  moderation  as  to  niunbers ;  and  I  am  par- 
ticular as  to  the  heads  being  only  a  trilfe 
higher  than  the  table.    A  little  sprightly  miBi 
is  bearable    at  the  breakfast  hour ;    but  so 
romp,  nor  clatter  of  tongues,  no  confosioii  in 
the  number  to  be  helped.     So  easily  contented 
am  I,  that  I  can  bear  an  idle  breakfast,  with  onlf 
those  golden  curls  opposite  me,  and  one  silveiy  - 
voice  to  read  me  gossip  from  the  crisp  paj)er. 

I  like  to  be  startled  from  the  table  witli  a 
**  Gracious  me,  dear,  it's  eleven  o'clock !"  and 
a  pretty  dash  at  the  key-basket.  I  survey  A* 
crimson  which  has  been  lovingly  added  to  tb* 
gay  macaw  of  my  slippers;  pondering  tke 
power  the  gentle  worker  has  over  me,  to^ 
twisting  my  cigarette,  with  which  I  am  to  be 
dismissed  back  to  the  garden.  The  mere  senie 
of  existence  is  enough  for  me  now.  I  keep  in 
the  shade  of  the  hme  or  elm ;  but  mostly  in 
that  of  the  hme,  the  blossoms  of  whioh  miogie 
their  perfume  with  my  tiny  blue  veiDS  of 
,  smoke.    I  beg  to  observe  that  I  do  not  read, 


& 


Diekens.] 


A  SLIPPER  DAY. 


•tJnly».lM9.]       115 


.t  I  neyer  admit  within  my  slipper  day 
llest  intention  of  reading.  My  castle 
ence  owes  nothing  to  the  printer.  No 
church  door  can  show  a  lazier  biped 
am,  advisedly,  on  a  slipper  day.  I 
.  up  in  ordinary.  1  lounge  from  the 
inder  the  Hme,  to  the  lawn.  The  gar- 
who  is  cutting  the  grass  under  the 
;  sun,  imagines  1  am  boring  myself 
r,  because  I  set  leaves  floating  upon  the 
id,  and  lie  watching  the  tiny  eddies 
master  them,  and  am  next  engrossed 
e  flittings  of  a  dragon-fly.     His  pitying 

rmc  while  I  lift  the  lilies  and  gaze 
yellow  cups,  and  drop  them  again, 
the  bees  free  access.  I  can  count  the 
.  ripening  upon  the  red  wall.  The 
»  at  the  wall's  base  remind  me  ci  same- 
have  to  say  to  Mrs.  Goldencurls  about 
-at  lunch  time  will  do. 
e  resources  enough  left.  I  am  keeping 
le  poultry-yard.  I  haven't  seen  the 
ers.  The  plants  I  saw  potted  out,  are 
g  my  visit.  How  much  milk  has  the 
m  yielding?  Gossip  with  the  groom. 
[ildeDCurls  has  not  niade  her  appearance 
her  round  gipsy  hat,  to  the  uUer  oon- 
if  the  gardener,  who,  I  am  sure,  would 
eful  to  her  if  she  would  speak  to  him 
erer  voice.  The  morning  nies  away.  I 
ng  in  the  acacia  bower,  and  am  restless 
lan-sleep,  with  flies  tickling  my  cheeks 
mplcs.  A  silvery  little  laugh  awakes 
d  I  catch  a  certain  lady,  with  a  guilty 
in  her  hand,  who  has  been  enacting 
t  of  fly.  I  am  good  enough  to  be  sport- 
igry :  and  to  protest  that  her  ladyship 
it  luncheon  alone.  Hereupon,  Mrs. 
curls  acts  the  commanding  queen ; 
the  impossible  little  feet  that,  cased 
ize  slippers,  look  like  June  flies ;  and 
ing  with  the  feather,  commands  her 
)  follow.  "Who  follows. 
',  for  luncheon,  and  plenty  of  it ;  the  cake 
olden  curls  lias  made;  the  dainty  sand- 
she  has  cut;  the  little  cider-cup  she 
ide,  just  enough  for  two,  with  her  lipa 
it  now  and  then  for  sweetening.  It 
^  this  time  appear  to  the  reader  that  the 
day  of  which  I  am  now  noting  a  few  of 
ient  points,  belongs  essentially  to  the 
g  days  of  married  life :  to  the  sweet  time 
3ie  bride  is  settling  into  the  wife,  and 
t  ceased  to  cry  on  her  lord's  departure 
iness  in  the  morning.  Well,  a  slipper 
i  most  enjoyable  in  this  May-time  of 
»ial  life;  but  the  slippers  need  not  be 
I  away  when  the  wedding-gown  has  been 
for  the  children.  I  have  two  little  heads 
len  curls,  and  I  am  not  by  any  means 
d  to  throw  my  slippers  away,  and  for- 
in  idle  day  henceforth.  I  still  find  my- 
essed  to  give  up  ^^  the  nasty  city"  for  an 
our-and-twcnty  hours ;  and  the  reader 
ten  confidentially  admitted  to  perceive 
rs,  Goldencurls  is  playful  enough  to  wake 
.h  a  feather  in  the  acacia  arbour.  Like- 
he  picks  mx  Btrawberriea,  and  Bpzinkles 


them  with  sugar,  and  opens  the  ball  by  tasting 
them  for  me :  taking  care  still  (as  her  wont 
was  when  we  were  a  bridal  pair  in  the  Isle 
of  Wight),  to  pop  the  first  mto  my  mouth, 
with  her  own  fingers. 

I  am  good  enough  to  listen,  over  luncheon, 
to  the  lighter  stories  of  domestic  management  ^ 
or  to  the  gossip  from  the  near  township.  Mrs. 
Cousens  came  down  yesterday  for  the  first  time. 
Ralph's  good-for-nothing  son,  who  opened  his 
career  of  infamy  by  breucin^  the  doctor's  bell, 
has  just  come  back  from  the  Cape,  and  not 
in  the  leatt  improved.  Mr.  Silenus  was  seen 
driving  home,  tipsy  again,  last  night.  Some 
night  Mr.  S.  will  break  his  neok.  There  is  no 
more  beer  in  the  house.  The  luncheon,  sea- 
soned with  this  light  discourse,  which  I  like, 
as  tending  to  carry  a  man  away  from  his  own 
•elfish  matters,  is  got  through.  I  run  my  eye  Ta- 
cantly,  mudngly,  along  the  backs  of  the  books 
in  the  library.  I  muster  the  energy  on  occasions, 
to  pull  down  a  volume,  but  I  never  go  beyond 
the  title-page  before  I  put  it  back  again.  My 
wife  telk  me  it  is  more  than  my  place  is  worth, 
to  lay  a  finger  on  the  plants ;  although  when  I 
return  home  Tery  tired  from  the  city,  and  the 
gardener  has  neglected  his  duties  (being  much 
of  Mr.  Silenus's  way  of  thinking),  I  am  not 
refused  ihe  privilege  of  watering  the  garden. 

The  afternoon  slips  away.  Shpping  away  is 
the  feeliDg  proper  to  a  slipper  day.  I  have  left 
my  watch  nanging  in  my  dressing-room.  O 
yes,  I  dare  say !  I  am  allowed  in  the  kitchen  to 
day,  but  sometimes  I  am  chased  out  of  it— when 
I  am  not  wanted  to  plant  my  heavy  forefinger 
upon  the  string,  in  order  that  Mrs.  Goldencurls 
may  tie  down  the  jelly  tight.  I  have  been 
made  useful  in  the  shelling  of  peas  before  now, 
but  have  ever  protested,  as  I  protest  now,  that 
the  dignity  of  manhood  does  not  appear  im- 
pressiveiy  in  the  process. 

Getting  through  the  afternoon !  I  shall  be 
left,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  wondering  how  the 
time  managed  to  escape,  even  without  croquet 
or  bowls.  I  return  to  observe  whether  the  big 
fish  I  saw  imder  the  water-lilies  is  still  lazily 
balancing  himself  there,  until  tho  gloaming 
shall  usher  him  to  his  feast  of  flies.  Boswell, 
diving  for  pebbles,  is  diverting  for  half  an  hour. 
I  compare  my  knowledge  of  the  notes  of  birds 
with  that  of  the  gardener.  The  swallows  whirl 
under  my  eaves,  and  I  gaze  pensively  at  them  ; 
then  the  odours  of  coming  dinner  steal  through 
the  kitchen  windows  into  the  stable-yard,  where 
I  deprecate  the  waste  of  corn  and  hay  with 
Reuben  the  groom,  who  is  quite  certain  that 
no  horse  was  ever  kept  in  prime  condition  so 
cheaply  as  mine. 

Henceforth  my  idle  day  is  filled,  for  Mrs. 
Goldencurls  is  always  quoting  I^dy  Mary 
Wortley  Montague :  "The  most  trivial  con- 
cerns of  economy  become  noble  and  elegant 
when  exalted  by  sentiments  of  affection ;  to 
prepare  a  meal  is  not  merely  giving  orders  to 
my  cook ;  it  is  an  amusement  to  regale  tho 
object  I  dote  on."  lieanng  to^  no\<i^  Va.  >\\^ 
stable -yard,  her  goVden  Yv^aA  t^Y^etJct^  ^X»  ^J^ 
kitchen  window,  and.  a  tomaXo  \a  \i^\^  x^^^  '""^ 


116      (July  »,  188».] 


ALL  THE  TBAE  ROUND. 


[CendDcWdbf 


token  of  tim  obedience  wbicli  is  p&ying  to  my 

hint  atthc  luncheon  table.  A  tom&to  coiieignea 
to  the  stewpan  by  the  beloTed  hand  1  A  ciga- 
rette ;  BoBwetl  by  my  side ;  the  shady  side  of 
the  garden;  forty  winks;  and  a  light  waking 
dream.  He  shadows  of  the  elms  Btretch  across 
the  tuif.  The  cow  is  waiting  at  the  yard  gate. 
I  steal  to  my  lady's  window,  and  cast  some 
gravel  at  it.  The  golden  curls  are  being  put 
in  order  for  dinner.  I  am  asked  whether  1  am 
going  to  sit  at  toble  that  fright?  1  am  bidden 
to  make  myself  respectable  directly.  Suppose 
somebody  should  call !  Whoever  heard  of  dining 
in  slippers  1     Men  are  such  untidy  creatures  1 

1  remain  firm  in  my  slippers,  and  effect  a 
compromise  by  passing  through  my  drcseing- 
room.  When  I  am  told  that  I  am  the  very 
laziest  man  in  the  whole  country,  my  pride  is 
aroused.  The  rising  snn  greeted  a  certain 
person  who  vowed  that  he  would  do  a  day's 
idleness,  and  that  person  is  now  strolling  into 
the  dining-room,  guiltless  of  one  nsefu]  act  since 
the  siin  rose.  He  is  told  that  he  should  have 
taken  a  long  walk  to  get  him  an  appetite  ;  that 
he  might  have  Bpent  his  afternoon  in  balancing 
the  household  expenses.  But  be  has  done  no- 
thing—absolutely nothing — and  he  is  honeatly 
proud  of  the  achievement. 

Pleasant  dinner,  when  order  and  taste  are  of 
the  company  t  Few  dishes,  but  each  stamped 
with  the  learned  approval  of  Mrs,  Goldencurls 
before  the;  appear.  Bright  eyes  watching  the 
pleasure  with  which  the  proprietor  (or  dave) 
of  Mrs.  Goldencurls  commends  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  pet  delicacy,  the  tomato. 

'■The  c(dfee  is  my  husineas."  Such,  the 
observation  of  Mrs.   Goldencurls ;   one.  I  ei- 

Gct,  the  sly  puss  stole  from  Brillat  Savarin. 
queur,  some  Benedictine  I  brought  from 
Normandy.  Gossip  about  the  monlu  turned 
liqueur  merchants,  and  gathering  herbs  upon 
the  fiowery  downs  round  about  Fecamp  for 
their  exquisite  strong  water,  carries  the  sunset 
quite  out  of  the  room,  and  the  fingers  that 
picked  the  strawberries,  and  stewed  the  tomato, 
and  roughened  my  hau  in  the  morning,  are 
busy  at  the  lamp. 


LITTLE  WITCH  AND  THE  MISEKS. 

IN  TWO  CUAPTER8.    CHAPTEB  I. 

"  Caw  !  caw !"  ciied  an  old  rook,  ttirn- 
ing  out  of  his  nest  in  the  wood,  sweeping 
down  tlio  street,  and  dashing'  his  wings 
against  little  Witch's  window-pane.  Just 
at  the  same  moment  the  snn,  very  red  in 
the  face,  struggled  above  the  heads  of  the 
trees  and  shot  a  forioua  glance  nfter  the 
rook,  who  had  dared  to  get  np  before 
him.  Between  tho  rook  and  the  siin 
little  Witch  was  well  wakened :  and  she 
got  up  too. 

"What  noise  ia  that?"  cried  the  elder 
of  tho  two  old  Miss  Scarecrows,  sitting  up 
a  her  bed  with  ber  dreadful  carl-papers  on 


end.  She  was  shonting  into  the  next  room 
to  her  sister.  Yon  see  the  rooms  were 
rather  empty,  and  the  walls  were  thin,  and 
the  voices  could  be  hrard  quite  well  calling 
from  one  chamber  to  the  other ;  which  was 
very  convenient  in  a  house  where  there  was 
no  servant  to  answer  the  bell. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  replied  the  voice  of  the 
other  MisH  Scarecrow,  "  nothing  but  the 
little  wench  next  door  raking  ont  tho 
kitchcn-gratc.  Very  w&sfefnl  of  her  to 
be  lighting  fire  so  early.  It  happens  everj 
morning.  Can't  jou  get  aecnstoiued  to  i^ 
Tabitha  ?" 

"No,  I  can't!"  retnraed  Tabithk, 
"Troublesome  busybody  that  the  girl  ia!" 

When  the  Scarecrow  family  met  that 
day  to  eat  what  they  called  Sieir  break- 
fast, it  was  found  that  the  Brother  Scare- 
crow had  also  been  startled  out  of  hii 
sleep  hj  a  noise  in  the  next  hoiua  And 
he  complained  of  ifc  bitterly. 

"  Sleep,"  he  said,  "  is  a  luxiuy  whid 
one  may  indulge  in  with  safety.  It  costa 
nothing.  Once  yon  have  invested  mow^ 
in  a  bed  and  covering  there  is  no  more 
expense.  It  ia  as  cheap  to  sleep  twelve 
hours  as  three,  and  the  more  sleep  yon 
toko  the  less  food  you  require.  Ton  an 
not  hungry  when  you  are  unconscioiu. 
Therefore  I  hold  it  a  criminal  thing  to 
disturb  the  rest  of  others  by  nntimdr 
rising.  Something  most  be  done  to  cheo: 
our  neighbours  in  a  dangerous  career. 
They  run  the  risk  of  robust  health,  with  its 
ruinous  accompaniment — a  keen  appetite 
for  meals.  It  is  pitiable  to  see  young  people 
rushing  thus  headlong  to  destruction." 

"  Besides,  being  up  so  early  leavM  a 
great  deal  of  time  on  their  handH,"BaidHin 
Tabitha ;  "  and  if  they  should  take  to  climb- 
ing— young  people  are  fond  of  climbin^- 
and  should  begin  to  dig  in  our  garden !' 

Brother  Scarecrow  turned  pale  and  hii 
head  drooped. 

"How  foolish!"  squeaked  Miss  Sei»- 
phina.     "  Those  tall  young  women  climb 

"  The  youngest  is  not  so  tall,"  said  ths 
gruff  Tabitha,  "and  she's  as  nimble  as  a 
kid.  I  saw  her  in  her  own  garden  the 
other  morning  digging  op  the  earth  with* 
spade.  It  i^  she  who  rises  so  early.  I  am 
sure  there  is  something  in  it." 

"  This  ia  too  dreadful !"  said  Brother 
Scarecrow,  faintly.  And  he  immediatdy 
became  so  ill  tliat  they  were  obliged  to  put 
him  to  bed. 

It  was  generally  believed  by  the  iaha- 
Ibitaaits  oi  tW  s^xoei  that  the  Scarecrow 


^ 


Chftrlea  Diekeaa.] 


LITTLE  WITCH  AKD  THE  ^HSERS. 


[July  8, 18«9.]       117 


&niil J  had  been  Kving  in  number  two  ever 
since  the  street  had  been  btiilt,  and  judging 
by  the  aspect  of  the  place,  without  even 
consnlting  the  almost  obliterated  date  upon 
the  gable,  this  was  a  long  time  ago.  So 
long  ago,  indeed,  that  the  above-mentioned 
popular  faith  cast  a  lurid  gleam  of  ghostli- 
ness  over  the  existence  of  these  Scare- 
crows. The  family  consisted  of  Tabitha 
and  Seraphina,  and  the  brother,  who  was, 
if  possible,  older  than  the  sisters.  Upon 
the  parchment  visages  of  all  three  Time 
had  scribbled  such  innumerable  hiero- 
glyphics that  it  had  become  impossible  to 
decipher  what  any  of  them  meant.  They 
were  all  three  ugly  to  look  upon,  with 
featnres  that  reminded  one  of  ancient 
wooden  idols,  so  hacked  and  notched,  and 
dinged  were  they  by  a  curious  co-operation 
of  years  and  Nature.  In  fieure  they  re- 
minded one  of  the  besom  which  was  ordered 
to  stand  forth  upon  two  legs  surmounted 
by  ahead. 

The   two  ladies  frightened  Witch  and 
her  Bisters  when  they  passed  by  the  win- 
dows to  take  an  airing.     They  wore  short 
black  gowns,  and  their  elbows  were  pinioned 
to  their  sides  under  their  scanty  shawls. 
Their  bonnets  were  huge  black  things  that 
fluttered  dreadfully  as    the  heads  shook 
under    them,  malang  them  nod  like  the 
pinnies  on  a  hearse.     When  they  walked, 
they  threw  their  feet  about  as  if  those 
members  had  been  loose  at  the   ankles. 
When  an  echo  of  their  conversation  could 
he  heard,  things  became  worse;  for  Miss 
Tabitha  had  a  gruff  guttural  voice,  while 
MisB  Seraphina  spoke  in  shrill  tones  like 
the  rasping  of  a  file  upon  wires.     As  for  the 
old  gentleman,  ho  was  seldom  seen,  except 
waBdnff  up  and  down  the  waste  garden  at 
the  bade  oi  the  house,  cleaning  a  bunch  of 
keys,  and  stopping  often  to  gaze  down  on 
one  spot  of  the  earth  in  a  comer.     Into 
this  mould  he  would  stare  for  hours  at  a 
time,  as  if  some  precious  seed  were  buried 
there,   and  he  watched  so  earnestly,   so 
patiently,  fbr  the  first  green  speck  that 
should  tell  him  it  had  not  rotted    into 
nothinffness  in  its  gmve.     Thus  much  was 
seen  of  the  Scarecrow  family  by  the  outer 
world.   A  charwoman,  who  had  been  in  and 
out,  told  how  the  two  old  women  uncovered 
their  scramy  shoulders,    like  the    finest 
ladies  in  tne  land,  before  they  sat  down  to 
iheir  dinner  of  dry  crusts  and  scraps  of 
mool^  cheese.    Also  of  how  the  morsels 
of  coal  were  counted  as  they  were  dropped 
into  the  kitchen  grate,  and  how  the  sisters 
nft^  eadi  with  her  feet  upon  a  cat  for 


warmth;  said  cats  living  exclusively  upon 
mice,  with  chance  bones  from  a  neighbour's 
larder. 

Now,  Witch,  the  offensive  neighbour, 
was  a  seventh  daughter ;  and  so  it  was  no 
wonder  that  there  was  somethinff  unusual 
about  her.  She  looked  like  a  changeling 
among  her  six  sisters,  who  were  all  very 
tall  and  slim,  with  long  throats  and  noses, 
pale  eyes  and  mouths,  and  very  li^ht  hair, 
which  they  dressed  in  the  fashion,  and 
which  occupied  most  of  their  time.  When 
they  all  swooped  into  a  room,  it  was  like 
the  perching  and  pluming  of  a  flight  of 
storks.  Little  Witch  was  quite  swallowed 
up  in  the  crowd  that  they  made,  and  when 
one  did  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  she  looked^ 
as  I  have  said,  like  a  changeling,  so  different 
was  she  from  the  rest.  It  was  not  that 
Witch  was  so  little,  but  that  the  sisters 
were  so  big.  She  scarcely  reached  up 
to  their  shoulders.  And  then  her  eyes 
were  brown,  each  carrying  a  spark  of  fire, 
though  shaded  about  by  many  dark  touches 
under  the  brows.  Her  lips  made  a  deep 
red  against  her  white  teeth,  and  her 
cheeks  were  almost  always  dimpled,  for 
she  had  a  habit  of  smiling.  There  was 
nothing  magnificent  about  her  nose,  and 
her  hsir  twined  back  from  her  face  and 
hung  in  a  mass  on  her  shoulders.  Her 
head  was  subject  to  fits  of  cold  bathing, 
and  was  often  seen  to  go  shaking  itself 
merrily  like  a  water  dog,  to  the  dismay  of 
the  sisters,  who  frizzed  their  locks  with 
hot  irons:  a  process  utterly  ruined  by 
damp.  She  did  not  possess  one  feature  or 
attribute  of  the  family.  She  was  short, 
where  the  sisters  were  long ;  round,  where 
the  sisters  were  square;  red,  where  the 
sisters  were  pale,  and  pale  where  the 
sisters  were  red.  But  then  the  sisters 
were,  all  six,  fine  women,  and  Witch  was 
only  a  comely  little  girl.  As  for  her  name, 
that  came  of  her  being  so  quick-witted; 
for  wnen  she  hit  upon  things  that  they 
never  could  have  thought  of,  the  sisters 
would  nod  their  fair  heads,  and  say,  "  She 
is  a  perfect  witch!"  And  so  "witch" 
came  to  be  a  household  word. 

The  household  consisted  of  Witch  and 
the  sisters.  These  seven  had  neither 
father,  mother,  brother,  nor  servant.  The 
eldest  of  all  was  old  enough  to  be  a  mother 
to  the  rest,  but  she  had  no  taste  for  being 
a  mother ;  and  so  the  duty  devolved  upon 
little  Witch;  for,  next  to  the  eldest,  the 
youngest  is  the  most  important  member  of 
a  fisimily.  Witch  was  mother  and  servant 
too.     She  wheedled  the  butcbftx^  \»xvgbxaa^ 


\ 


<5= 


118      [July  3,  I860.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROOTO). 


[Conducted  by 


'^' 


/ 


with  the  chimneysweep,  handled  brush  and 
frying-pan,  and  darned  stockings  for  all 
the  seven  pairs  of  feet.  And  the  sisters 
thought  very  highly  of  themselves  for 
allowing  her  to  make  herself  so  useful. 
Besides,  they  had  seen  better  days,  which 
made  things  come  hardly  upon  them ; 
whereas  Witch  had  only  seen  just  so  much 
of  those  days  as  furnished  a  sort  of  golden 
rim  to  the  little  memories  of  a  very  short 
childhood.  And  she  took  as  kindly  to  the 
rough  side  of  life  as  if  she  had  been  made 
for  it. 

They  had  seen  their  better  days  in  their 
paternal  dwelling  at  OThriflless-Town,  in 
the  county  of  Mayo,  where  their  dear 
father  had  faithfully  followed  the  hounds 
as  long  as  his  old  red  coat  would  hold 
together.  The  six  elder  sisters  had  had 
their  seasons  in  Dublin,  had  danced  at  the 
castle,  and  promenaded  in  the  squares,  and 
gone  a-riding  in  the  Phoenix  Park ;  while 
little  Witch  was  enjoying  a  delicious  little 
bogtiHDtting  life  of  her  own,  among  the 
sweet  mountain  wilds ;  while  father 
0' Thriftless  was  fallizig  under  the  table  at 
fox-hunting  dinners,  and  the  poor  mother 
was  striving  hard  to  do  her  duty  by  elders 
and  youngers,  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the 
door,  and  to  hold  her  head  high.  In  this 
struggle  she  had  broken  down  at  last,  and, 
in  spite  of  debt  and  vengefal  tradesmen, 
had  been  allowed  to  retire  peacefully  under 
the  mould,  where  not  the  most  impertinent 
dun  would  dare  to  knock  upon  the  door  of 
her  narrow  house.  Hither,  to  tliis  home 
of  freedom,  her  husband  soon  followed  her, 
exchanging  his  gay  old  hunting- coat  for  a 
Rhroud.  Then  did  the  wolf  at  last  cuter 
at  that  door,  long  so  bravely  guarded — en- 
tered at  a  bound,  and  devoured  everything 
in  one  meal.  Then  did  the  sisters,  amid 
their  tears,  gather  up  the  mite  that  was 
left  for  them  to  live  upon,  and  fly  oiS*  out  of 
«ight  and  hearing  of  their  pitying  neigh- 
bours. Witch  had  been  for  staying  in  the 
country,  in  a  cabin,  if  need  be,  within 
hearing  of  the  sea,  and  within  reach  of  the 
old  graveyard  where  the  two  loved  heads 
had  their  rest;  for  remaining  on  good 
terms  with  the  birds  and  the  lambs,  at 
least,  if  not  with  the  best  country  families. 
She  would  have  dressed  herself  all  in  the 
red-flannel  peasant  garb  of  the  country,  and 
walked  to  and  fro  on  the  heather  in  her 
pretty  bare  feet,  under  the  very  noses  of 
the  gentry,  i-athcr  tlian  have  left  her  happy 
hills.  But  this  was  not  to  be.  The  six 
sisters  packed  up  their  tiny  all,  and  flew  ofi* 
to  burj  themselves  in  the  city.  , 
ITcre,   in    this    dingy  Btrcct,   they  had 


bui'icd  themselves.  A  very  small  house 
would  not  hold  so  many  tall  young  women, 
and  when  they  took  up  their  abode  in  a 
dwelling  that  would  contain  them,  they 
shook  their  bewildered  heads  and  saidy 
"We  must  do  without  a  servant."  This 
was  very  sad.  Bella  burnt  her  Angers  and 
blackened  her  face  trying  to  light  the  fire ; 
Barbara  cut  her  hands  chopping  the  vege- 
tables ;  Kathleen  shed  tears  into  the  frying- 
pan,  through  mingled  grief  and  smoke; 
and  Alice  fell  down  the  stairs,  whilst  de- 
scending them  backwards  fqr  sweeping 
purposes.  By  the  time  Witch  had  done 
eking  out  morsels  of  carpet,  and  coaxing 
scanty  hangings  to  clothe  naked  window- 
frames,  she  found  that  she  had  now  got 
to  nurse  every  one  of  her  six  sistera  in 
turn.  Things  were  not  mended  when.  090. 
day  a  carriage  dashed  up  to  the  doop« 
Some  acquaintance  of  other  times  had 
found  them  out,  and  come  to  caJL  Sisten 
stood  wringing  their  hands,  in  the  parionr, 
in  the  hall,  on  the  stairs.  Which,  of  them 
would  be  bold  enough,  to  open  that  dingy 
hall- door  P  It  was  bad  enough  to  answer 
to  the  butcher  and  the  baker;  but  l^dj 
0'Dowd*s  footman  had  carried  their  prayer- 
books  to  church  before  now.  A  subaued 
howl  of  anguish  arose  from  six  mouths. 

"  They  do  not  know  me,"  said  WitcL 
"  Let  me  go."  She  twisted  her  long  hair 
into  a  tight  knot  on  her  head,  pinned  over 
it  a  white  handkerchief,  in  the  shape  of  a 
round  cap,  tied  a  white  muslin  windoiv^ 
blind  before  her  for  an  apron :  aad  had  the 
hall-door  open  in  a  trice. 

The  ladies  were  not  at  home  to  visitona^ 
said  the  neat  little  maid  to  the  tall  foot^ 
man ;  but  cards  were  graciously  received; 
A  few  of  the  sisters  cried  over  the  oocnr- 
rence  all  the  evening.  But  Witch  though:k 
they  had  had  a  lucky  escape.  And  it  wa& 
acknowledged  that  Witch  had  found  her 
vocation. 

On  the  morning  before  mentioned,  after 
disturbing  her  neighbours  as  has  been  de- 
scribed. Witch  fulfllled  her  usual  tasks  aad 
flnished  making  her  noises.  She  put  the 
kettle  on  the  Are.  She  drew  down  tiie 
blind  in  the  parlour  so  that  the  sun  might- 
not  make  away  with  the  small  bit  of  colour 
that  was  lefl  in  the  carpet.  The  milk  had  ' 
been  taken,  and  the  breakfast  bread,  when 
Witch  put  on  her  little  old  cloak  ajid  her 
shabby  brown  hat,,  tucked  a  battered  tin 
colour-box  under  her  arm,  shut  her  hallp 
door,  and  set  off  at  a  swift  trot,  out  of 
the  shabby  street,  all  along  a  golden  patii 
towards  the  bristling  Avood  where  the  rook 
lived  who  came  to  call  her  of  mornings. 


^ 


esDIokaDB.] 


LITTLE  WITCH  AND  THE  MISERS. 


[July8,18«9.]      119 


1  was  going  to  make  a  little  money  till 
£ft8t  time.  Not  a  great  deal,  bnt  with 
Btdber  00  nrgent  about  his  bill,  and 
in  tc^ars  over  a  shabby  bonnet,  nothing 
BOO  small  to  be  despised.  Drawing 
&e  one  accomplishment  which  this 
poesessed.     Each  of  her  sisters  conld 

a  noise  on  the  old  piano  if  required, 
¥itch  had  nerer  learned  a  note  of 
!.  GKve  her,  howcyer,  that  old  tin 
p-l»z,  a  sunbeam,  a  patch  of  yellow 

a  red*breafit  swaying  on  a  tangle  of 
briers,  a  purole  cave  hollowed  among 
sares,  and  I  warrant  yon  stte  would 

jon  a  little  picture  which,  would  set 
longing  £br  a  taste  of  the  fbesh  air. 

hukj  power  she  owed  to  nobody 
^  A  forgotten  ancestor  had  willed  it 
!F,  aoad  tiie  capital  of  talent  having 
onlated  through  lying^  untouched 
^  many  generations,  had  swelled 
Bffhlly  by  the  time  it  was  delivered 
to  Witch.  It  came  amongst  her 
rs  quite  natmtJly  at  the  waving  of  a 
wwd  which  is  used  to  be  cdUed  a 
L  It  had  supplied  her  childhood  with 
stic  joys,  and  now  it  helped  to  satisfy 
rirUiood's  healthy  appetite  for  bread- 
nstter,  besides  giLding  her  eaxiy  hours 

such  a  sheen  of  delist  as  cast  a 

tioa  over  all  the  afiierrdrudgezT  of  the 

For  Witch  was  accustomed  to  re- 

nmdry  pieoss  of  silver  counted  out 
le  till  of  an  important  shop  in  the 
in  exchange  for  so  many  inches  of 
ler  morning  mounted  on  white  board. 
«  which  brought  a  greater  number 
ineas  to  the  shopkeeper's  pocket  than 
IS  pleased  to  give  of  shillings  to  little 

VBOOL  Witdi  had  gained  her  favourite 
in  the  wood,  some  one  started  out  of 
saves  to  meet  her.     '^  Qood  morning ! 

moming !"  rang  two  eager  voices, 
sring  one  another  joyously,  and  the 
I  flapped,  and  also  seemed  to  clasp 
i,  and  the  birdk  to  twitter  echoes  of 
raeting.  Witch's  friend  was  a  slender 
I,  rather  starved-looking,  with  a  sweet 
ed  face,  and  large  sad  eyes.  He  looked 
Ins  spirit  had  quite  outgrown  his  body, 
s  his  body  had  outgrown  his  clothing. 
ieeves  wore  short  and  his  shoes  were 
id  large,  and  the  soul  of  a  poot  was 
ig  out  of  his  wan,  boyish  face. 

thought  you  would  never  come,"  ho 
as  they  sat  down  each  on  a  mossy 
,  and  looked  at  one  another,  shading 
in  from  their  eyes  with  their  hands. 
ive  been  here  since  the  first  light." 


and  no  fires  to  kindle,"  said  Witch,  as  she 
unpacked  her  box,  and  began  to  flourish 
her  brushes. 

"No,  but  I  worked  very  late  last  night 
to  finish  this,"  he  said,  shaking  out  some 
flashing  folds  of  silk  into  the  sunshine. 
"  See,  it  is  to  tie  over  your  head  while  you 
paint." 

"  What  a  gorgeous  little  kerchief!"  cried 
Witch.  "  It  is  the  work  of  a  poet- weaver 
indeed  !  It  is  as  good  as  a  little  poem !" 
she  said,  turning  it  on  this  side  and  that  in 
the  sun.  The  pattern  was  a  wonderful 
arabesque  of  the  most  soft  and  brilliant 
colours  interwoven  with  gold.  '*  Oh  dear ! 
oh  dear !  these  bright  silks  cost  money. 
Where  did  you  get  it,  Barry  ?" 

"  I  saved  it,"  said  the  huL 

*^And  went  without  your  dinner,  and 
your  break£wst,  and  your  deep !  Oh,  you 
foolish  boy  !"     And  Witch  bc^n  to  cry. 

"Don't,  Witch!"  said  Barry.  "It  was 
good  for  me.  I  am  not  hungry,  indeed,  and 
it  was  as  you  say,  as  good  as  a  poem  to 
me — at  least  it  is  part  of  one — ^1  mean  I 
made  one  out  of  it.  See  here,  all  the 
colours  were  ideas  to  ma  This  purple 
was  moumfulness^  this  crimson  was  love, 
these  gold  threads  were  little  rays  of  joy 
darting  backward  and  forward  through  my 
fkncy  with  my  shuttle^  The  little  song  is 
about  yon.     Shall  I  show  it  to  you  P" 

The  poem  was  read.  Any  one  who  would 
care  to  see  it  will  find  it  m  the  volume  of 
Weaver's  Songs,  afterwards  published  by 
Barry,  and  received  into  &vour  by  i^e  world. 

"  It  is  beautiful,  beautiftd  !"  cried  Witch, 
with  the  tears  flashing  from  her  eyes  into 
her  lap,  "  and  aU  the  more  wonderful  be- 
cause pure  imagination.  The  Witch  of  your 
poem  is  not  this  hum-drum  little  person. 
But  it  will  delight  the  world  all  the  same." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Barry,  eagerly,  "  it  is  the 
poetry  that  is  mean.  1  have  iiiings  in  m^ 
heart  which  I  cannot  put  into  words, 
ache  with  them  tossing  about  at  night.  I 
dream  of  them  sitting  at  my  loom  all  day. 
I  see  things  in  nature,  in  lifb,  in  you,  which 
I  strive  to  grasp  that  I  may  sing  of  them 
over  the  earth.  They  float,  float  away  from 
my  touch.  The  words  that  I  put  upon  my 
thoughts  are  like  fix)lish  masks.  One  can 
hardly  see  any  eyes  of  meaning  shining 
through  them.  Sometimes  I  think  that  if 
I  had  been  bom  to  the  speaking  of  some 
other  tongue,  I  should  have  been  able  to 
utter  myself." 

The  lad  flung  himself  against  a  tree,  with 
a  great  glow  of  sadness  in  his  eyes. 

You  deceive  yourseV?,"   S8b\i^\\*3ti^'^^ 


'? 


Ji,  bat  yon  had  no  gntea  to  polish,  /  hemently.  "  Yon  have  too  muf^  ^ox^  vi^^ 


^ 


120 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[JalyS,  IflML] 


too  little  to  eat,  and  you  get  sick  fancies. 
Yon  are  a  poet  in  yonr  own  tongne,  and  if 
yon  had  been  bom  a  negro  yon  wonld  have 
made  poetry  ont  of  broken  English.  The 
whole  world  will  get  np  in  a  mass  and  tell 
yon  abont  it  one  day." 

The  boy  grasped  both  her  hands,  and 
trembled  with  delight.  "  How  beantifnl  it 
is  to  be  believed  in !"  he  said. 

Then  Witch  spread  her  brilliant  kerchief 
over  her  shonlders  to  divert  Barry  from  his 
sad  thonghts,  and  danced  abont  softly  in 
the  snn,  so  as  to  make  the  colonrs  bnm, 
and  the  gold  threads  gUtter.  Her  drawing 
was  finished,  and  perhaps  she  shonld  get 
seven  shillings  for  it  to-doj.  So  there  was 
gaiety  of  heart,  as  well  as  leisnre  for  a 
dance.  Witch's  eyes  were  radiant  above  the 
red  and  pnrple  and  gold  on  her  bosom,  and 
her  long  dark  tresses  rose  and  fell  with  the 
motion  of  her  figure,  half  shrouding  the 
dazzling  garment.  She  and  the  sun  danced 
together  among  the  trees. 

"  You  are  a  living  poem,  indeed  !*'  said 
Barry,  rushing  to  follow  her.  But  Witch 
waved  him  softly  backwards  with  her  pretty 
brown  hands,  singing  mock  incantations  to 
the  wood  sprites  iJl  the  time :  then  suddenly 
linked  her  arm  in  his,  and  these  two  children 
went  flying  down  the  chequered  slope  of 
the  wood,  through  the  light,  through  the 
shade,  snatching  at  the  branches,  and 
balancing  one  another,  till  they  arrived  at 
the  bottom,  laughing  and  breathless. 

Witch  did  not  show  her  kerchief  to  the 
sisters.  If  it  had  been  anything  they  could 
wear  to  make  them  smart  going  to  church, 
or  for  a  walk,  she  would  have  held  herself 
to  be  selfish  in  possessing  it.  But  as  well 
might  one  wear  a  macaw  in  one's  bonnet 
as  display  such  a  kerchief  in  the  street.  It 
was  too  precious  and  wonderful,  and  re- 
dolent of  poetry  to  be  handled  and  coveted, 
and  turned  to  some  foolish  use.  Witch 
owned  a  little  box  with  a  key.  And  in  it 
she  deposited  her  treasure. 

But  sometimes  she  took  it  out  veiy  early 
of  mornings,  when  she  could  not  go  to  the 
wood  to  see  Barry,  and  gave  it  an  airing  up 
and  down  the  little  ragged  garden,  just  to 
see  the  sun  flashing  on  it,  and  to  feel  it 
glittering  on  her  bosom,  as  Barry's  love 
gUttered  on  her  life.  Now  it  chanced  one 
morning  that  Miss  Seraphina  Scarecrow  had 
wakened  very  early,  and  had  come  down  a 
part  of  her  staircase,  wrapt  in  unsightly 
gear,  to  take  a  stolen  peep  at  the  world 
from  her  lobby  window.     Poor  Miss  Sera- 


phina had  a  half  worn-out  touch  of  senii- 
mentahty  in  her  composition.  Starving, 
and  saving,  and  growing  drearily  ugly,  had 
not  taken  it  from  her.  Only  she  was  oaie- 
fal  to  keep  it  out  of  sight  of  her  sister  and 
brother.  So  sometimes  of  momingpi  she 
came  thus  to  the  lobby  window,  pressing 
her  sad  gnome-like  fistce  to  the  pane,  and 
gazing  across  one  firowsy  &ded  tree  to 
the  light  of  the  breaking  dawn.  Thus 
doing  she  beheld  Witch,  a  gay  fluttering 
little  figure,  dancing  lightly  and  slowlf 
up  and  down  the  path  with  her  briUimft 
kerchief  spread  over  her  shoulders,  and  hat 
hair  rising  and  fiiUing  and  floating  bddsd 
her,  while  the  sunlight  picked  wonderfol 
glories  out  of  Bany  s  gilded  web.  Wm 
Seraphina  saw,  and  remained  riveted  where 
she  stood,  gazing  with  distended  eyes.  She 
tottered  backward,  and  sat  down  feeUf 
upon  the  nearest  step,  while  all  her  coi^ 
papers  shook  and  rustled.  By-and-by  she 
arose  and  went  back  to  the  window,  hat 
dancing,  dazzling  Witch  was  gone. 

Seraphina  climbed  her  flight  of  stain^ 
and  went  into  her  sister's  room. 

"Tabitha!"  she  said. 

Tabitha,  waking,  responded  g^mffly. 

''  Tabitha^  the  little  girl  next  doixp  }m 
got  a  paroquet  kerchief." 

"Nonsense!"  ejaculated  Miss  Tabitha. 

"But  she  has,"  moaned  Seraphina.    "I 

have  seen  it  on  her  shoulders.     Gbeen  snd 

crimson,  and  pnrple  and  yellow.     They  aie 

*all  there,  burning  and  glistening  just  u 

they  used." 

"  Some  tenpenny  plaid  out  of  the  neareii 
shop,"  growled  Tabitha. 

*'No,  no,"  said  Seraphina,  "it  baxned 
with  gold.     It  is  the  paroquet." 

"  And  what  if  it  be  ?"  said  Tabitha. 

"  There  is  only  one  in  the  world,"  sobbed 
Seraphina. 

"  You  are  an  idiot !"  said  Tabitha.  "  WiB 
you  try  and  get  a  little  sense?  If  yo* 
don't  begin  soon  it  will  be  too  late.  Thettr 
get  away  !  What  an  appetite  you  will  hat© 
for*  breakfast  after  being  up  at  such  aa 
hour  V '  And  snubbed  Serapluna  went  bedc 
to  her  bed,  and  lay  staring  at  the  pictoreB 
in  the  damp  on  the  ceiling.  And  her  poocr 
heart  ached. 

Now  Beady,  price  69.  6d.,  bound  in  green  clotbi 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OT  TUB  NlW  SSBIES  OT 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  had  of  all  Booktellen. 


.^!%f  Jg^J/  q/" TraiulaiiMg  Jrtiehifrom  All  tk%  I^^^tsisit^  it  reterted  h%  ikM  Jmikon. 


Pablisbed  «l  the  Offlce,  Ko. »«.  Wellington  StreeV  BuuiA.    Vttoxed\»,  C.  >««:n»^ tk««l«^^~iK««»ft. 


CD|1DUCT£0-BY 

mmzs  mems 

WITH  WHICH  IS  Ipeot^PoFy^TtD 
SATURDAT,  JULY  10,  18G! 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


BOOK  III. 
;r  is.     for  osce  qektrude  takes  the 

LEAD. 

'.  lives  of  the  two  girls  at  Lady  Caro- 
were  bo  completely  happy,  that  they 
induced  to  donbt  whetiier  they  liad 
eally  lived  before.     The  difference  be- 

their  racketty,  disorderly,  Bohemian 
nee  while  their  father  was  alive,  the 
ed  and  pnTcrty- stricken  home  which 
shared  with  their  mother  nntil  her 
,  and  the  refined  comforts  and  luxaries 
I  awaited  them  at  their  nnoie'a,  waa,  of 
5,  very  great.  Bnt  they  were  too  yoang 
1  it  at  the  time,  and  they  had  come  to 
ipon  Woolgreaves  aa  their  home,  and 

Marinn  Ashnrst  entered  upon  it  aa 
istre^,  a.s  an  epitome  of  everything 
vas  charmiiig.  Lady  Caroline's  honse 
nncb  smaller  than  Woolgreaves ;  her 
le,  prohabty,  was  nothing  like  their 
'a;  and  yet  abont  her  honse  and  her 
nts,  her  carriage,  and  everything  she 
Lhere  was  a  stamp  of  refinement  and 
lod  taste,  springing  from  high  breed- 
iTich  as  they  had  never  witnessed,  even 
-  Mrs.  Creswell's  regime ;  and  what- 
other  fault  the  girls  found  with  Mrs. 
veil,  they  invariably  allowed  her  the 
asion  of  good  taste.  And  Lady  Caro- 
herself  was  so  different,  ho  immea- 
ily  superior  to  any  woman  they  had 
seen.  With  the  exception  of  Lady 
chill,  tbey  had  known  no  one  save  the 
;e  people  and  the  wives  of  the  prin- 
m&nofactnrera  at  Brocksopp,  who  had 

daughters  of  other  princi[)al  manu- 
rera  at  Shnttleworth  and  Combcar- 
lam,  and  might  have  been  made  in 


one  mould,  or  punched  out  of  one  piece ; 
and  Lady  Churchill  was  a  atnpid  old 
woman  in  a  brown  front,  who,  as  Gertrude 
knew,  said  "obleege,"  and  "  apurn" 
apron,  and  "know-ledge,"  and  nearly  drove 
yon  mad  by  the  way  in  wliich  she  stared 
at  yon  and  rubbed  her  nose  with  a  knit- 
ting-needle, while  yon  were  attempting  to 
find  conversation  for  her.  But,  in  the 
girls'  eyes.  Lady  Caroline  was  perfection ; 
and  it  would  have  been  indeed  odd  had 
they  not  thought  her  so,  as,  for  reas 
best  known  to  herself,  she  went  in  more 
determinedly  to  make  herself  agreeable  to 
them  than  she  had  done  to  any  one  for 
some  years  previous. 

One  reason  wa.';  that  she  liked  the  girls, 
and  was  agreeably  disappointed  in  them ; 
slie  had  expected  to  find  them  provincial 
parvennes,  thrown  npon  her  by  their  quarrel 
with  a  person  of  simihlr  position  and  dispo- 
sition with  themselves,  and  liad  found 
tiiem  quiet  lady-like  young  women,  nnpre- 
tentiona,  un  obtrusive,  and  thoroughly 
grateful  to  her  for  the  home  which  she 
had  offered  them  in  their  time  of  need. 
From  the  step  which  she  had  taken  so  chi- 
valrously Lady  Caroline  never  shrank,  but 
she  told  the  girls  plainly,  in  the  presence 
of  Mr.  Joyce,  that  she  thought  it  highly 
desirable  that  the  fiict  of  their  being  there 
B&  her  guests  shotild  be  officially  m 
known  to  Mr.  Creawell,  to  whom  every 
consideration  was  due.  As  to  Mrs.  Crea- 
well, there  was  no  necessity  to  acknowledge 
her  in  the  matter;  but  Mr.  Creswcll  was 
not  merely  their  nearest  blood  relation,  but, 
nntil  adverse  inflnencea  had  been  bronght 
to  bear  npon  him,  he  had  proved  himself 
their  most  eicellent  friend,  and  even  at  I 
the  lost,  so  far  aa  IacV-j  tisno\\i\ft  co^ft."^ 
gather  from  GerVruAe,  nai  ituvfte  Bt«QB  i\ 
feeble  kind  ot  figbt  agavnst  tVeii  \ea.wi%^ 


■it 


eS: 


Jo 


122     [July  10,  ie««.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondnetedbr 


his  liouse.  Mr.  Joyce  and  the  girls  them- 
selves were  also  of  this  opinion,  Gortmde 
jumping  at  the  prospect  of  any  seconciiioi- 
tion  with  "dear  old  unele/*  but  aw^owing 
lier  determination  to  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  "  tliat  homd  madam ;"  and  it  was 
on  Msmd's  suggestion,  baoked  by  Walter, 
tliat  the  services  of  !Mr.  Gould  were  cm- 
ployed  for  mediatory  pui-poses.  This  was 
just  before  the  election,  and  ifr.  Gould  de- 
clared it  was  utt^'rly  impoBsibio  jfor  him  to 
attend  to  anything  that  did  not  relate  to 
blue  and  yellow  topics  ;  but  a  little  later  he 
wrote  a  very  kind  letter,  announcing  Mr. 
Creswell's  illness,  and  deploring  the  strict 
necessity  for  keeping  from  the  old  gentle- 
man any  subjects  of  an  exciting  nature. 

The  corroboration  of  this  bad  news  was 
brought  to  the  little  household  in  Chester- 
field-street by  Mr.  Benthall,  who,  about  tliat 
time,  ran  up  to  London  for  a  week,  and,  it 
is  needless  to  say,  lost  very  little  time  in 
presenting  himself  to  Miss  Gertrude.  The 
relations  between  the  Helmingham  school- 
master and  Gertrude  Creswell  were,  of 
course,  perfectly  well  knoAvn  to  Lady  Caro- 
line through  Walter  Joyce ;  who  had  ex- 
plained to  her  ladyship  that  the  causeless 
exclusion  of  Mr.  Benthall  from  Woolgreaves 
had  been  the  means  of  bringing  about  the 
final  domestic  catastrophe,  and  had  led 
more  immediately  than  anything  else  to  the 
departure  of  the  yoimg  ladies  from  their 
uncle's  house.  So  that  Lady  Caix)line  was 
predisposed  in  the  clergyman's  favour,  and 
the  predisposition  was  by  no  means  de- 
creased when  she  made  his  acquaintance, 
and  found  him  to  be  one  of  the  Shropshire 
Benthalls,  people  of  excellent  family  (a 
fact  which  always  has  inmienso  weight 
with  other  people  who  can  nmke  the  same 
.boast),  and  essentially  a  man  of  the  world 
and  of  society.  A  girl  like  Gertrude  Cres- 
well, who,  charming  though  she  was,  Avas 
clearly  nobody,  might  think  herself  lucl:y 
in  getting  a  man  of  family  to  marry  her. 
Of  course  Mrs.  Creswell  could  not  under- 
stand that  kind  of  thing,  and  took  a  mere 
pounds- shillings- and- pence  view  of  the 
question;  but  Mrs.  Creswell  had  no  real 
dominion  over  her  husband's  nieces,  and  as 
that  husband  was  now  tt;)o  ill  to  be  appealed 
to,  and  the  girls  were  staying  undei*  her 
chapei'onage,  she  should,  in  the  exercise  of 
her  discretion,  give  Mr.  Bentliall  full  oppor- 
tunity f<.)r  seeing  as  much  of  Gertrude  as 
ho  chose. 

Lady  Caroltno   did    not    come   to    this 
determination    without   consulting  Walter 
Joj'ce,    and    Walter  did   not  express  his 


opinion  without  consulting  Maud  Creswell, 
of  whose   clear  head  and  calm  common 
sense   ha   hod:  conceived   a  high  opinion. 
The  joint  diocision  being  favourable,  Mr. 
Bbnthall   had    a   very    happy    holiday  in 
London,    finding,    if    such  a  thing    were 
possible,  his  regard  for  Gertrude  increased 
by  the  scarcely  hidden  admiration  which 
the  bright  complexion,  pretty  hair,  and  trim 
figure  of  the  country-girl  evoked  from  the 
passers-by  in  the  public  places  to  wliich 
he  escorted  her.      Indeed,  so   completely 
changed  by  an  honest  passion  for  an  honest 
girl,  was  this,  at  one  time,  selfish  and  cal- 
culating man  of  the  world,  that   he  waft 
most  anxious  to  marry  Gertrude  at  once, 
without    any   question    of    settlement    or 
reference  to  her  uncle ;  declaring  that,  how- 
ever Mrs.  Creswell  might  now  choose  to 
sneer  at  it,  the  school  income  had  maintained 
a  gentleman  and  his  wife  before,  and  could 
Ix)  made  to  do   so  again.      Mr.  Benthall 
spoke  Avith  such  earnestness  that   Joyce 
conceived  a  much  higher  opinion  of  him 
than    he    had    liitherto   entertained,    and 
would  have  counselled  Lady  Caroline  to 
lend  her  aid  to  the  accomplishment  of  the 
schoolmaster's  wish,  had  it  not  been  for 
Maud,  who  pointed  out  that  in  such  a  case 
a  reference  was  undoubtedly  due  to  their 
uncle,  no  matter  what  might  be  his  sup- 
posed state  of  health.     If  he  were  really 
too  ill  to  have  the  matter  submitted  to 
him,    and  an  answer — ^which,   of  course, 
would  be  unfavourable — ^were  to  be  received 
fix)m  Mrs.  Creswell,  they  might  then  act 
on  their  own  responsibility ;  with  the  feel- 
ing that  they  had  done  their  duty  towards 
tho  old  gentleman,  and  without  the  smallest 
care  as  to  what  his  wife  might  say.     This 
view  of  Maud's,  expressed  to  Joyce  with 
much  diffidence,  at  once  convinced  him  of 
its    soundness,    and  a  Httle   conversation 
with  those  most  interestod,  showed  them  the 
wisdom  of  adopting  it.    Mr.  Bentliall  wrote 
a  straightforward  manly  letter  to  Mr.  Cres- 
well, asking  consent  to  his  marriage  with 
Gertrude.      Tho    day   after  its  despatch, 
Maud  the  impassible,  who  was  reading  the 
Times,  gave  a  suppressed  shriek,  and  let  the 
paper  fall  to  the  ground.      Joyce,  who  was 
sitting  close  by  talking  to  Lady  Caroline, 
picked  it  up,  and  read  in  it  the  announce- 
ment of  !Mr.  Creswell's  death. 

Of  course  this  news  caused  an  indefinite 
postponement  of  the  marriage.  The  two 
girls  grieved  with  deep  and  heartfelt  sorrow 
for  the  loss  of  the  kind  old  man.  All  little 
tliflerences  of  the  past  few  months  were 
forgotten.     Marian  had  no  part  in  their 


&: 


■Sh> 


OharlAB  Diokeas.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[July  10, 1869.]       128 


tliouglits,  which  were  all  of  the  early  days, 
when,  two  miserable  little  orphans,  they  were 
received  at  Woolgreaves,  at  once  put  into 
the  position  of  daughters  of  the  house,  and 
where  their  every  wish  was  studied  and 
gratified.  Gertrude's  grief  was  especially 
violent,  and  she  raved  against  the  hard 
fat€  which  had  separated  them  from  their 
uncle  at  a  time  w^hen  they  would  have  so 
mucli  wished  to  have  bc^n  near  him  to 
minister  to  and  nurse  him.  Evidence  soon 
came  that  Mr.  Cresweirs  sense  of  what 
was  honourable  and  right  had  prevented 
him  from  allowing  any  recent  events  to 
influence  liis  intentions  towards  his  nieces. 
In  his  will  they  were  mentioned  as  *'  my 
dearly  loved  Maxid  and  Gertrude,  daugh- 
ters of  my  deceased  brother  Thomas,  who 
have  been  to  me  as  my  own  daughters 
during  the  greater  part  of  their  lives;" 
and  to  each  of  them  was  left  the  sum  of 
ten  thousand  pounds  on  their  coming  of 
age  or  marriage.  There  were  a  few  lega- 
cies to  old  servants  and  local  charities, 
five  hundred  pounds  each  to  Dr.  Osborne 
and  Mr.  Teesdale,  his  two  eiLecutors,  and 
'*  all  the  rest  of  my  property,  real  and  per- 
sonal, of  eveiy  kizid  whatsoever,  to  my 
beloved  wife  Marian." 

"  And  my  beloved  wife  Marian  will  have 
about  fifteen  thousand  a-year,  as  near  as  I 
can  fix  it,"  said  Mr.  Teesdale,  as  he  left 
Woolgreaves,  after  the  reading  of  the  will ; 
*'and  if  the  railway  people  take  that 
twenty  acres  off  that  infernal  Jack  Ramsay's 
farm,  about  a  couple  of  thou'  more !" 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mr. 
Benthall  professed  himselt'  indifferent  to 
the  splendid  legacy  which  Gertrude  had 
inherited.  As  he  had  been  willing  and 
anxious  to  take  her  for  herself,  a^  to 
share  what  he  had  with  her,  so  he  was 
very  much  pleased  to  find  that  their 
fature  would  be  rendered  considerably  less 
anxious,  and  more  comfortable  than  they 
had  anticipated,  and  in  his  honest  open- 
hearted  way  he  did  not  scruple  to  say  so. 
The  death  of  their  uncle  did  not  make 
any  difference  in  the  course  of  the  girls' 
li^es.  They  still  remained  with  Lady  Car 
roline,  whose  regard  for  them  seemed  to 
increase  daily,  and  it  was  xtnderstood  that 
they  would  continue  to  inhabit  Chesterfield- 
street  until  Gertrude  was  married,  and 
that  after  that  event  Maud  would  fre- 
quently return  there,  making  it  her  Lon- 
don home,  and  visiting  it  whenever  she 
was  not  staying  with  her  sister.  So  at 
least  Ladv  Caroline  proposed,  and  begged 
Mr.  Bentnall  to  midce  the  suggestion  to 


Maud  at  tlie  first  convenient  opportunity. 
The  opportunity  occuiTcd  very  shortly,  and 
arose  from  Maud's  saying,  when  they  Avcro 
sitting  together  one  morning, 

*'  I  saw  Ml*.  Joyce  yesterday,  Gcx)rge, 
and  took  occasion  to  ask  his  advice  on  that 
matter." 

*'  And  what  might  tha;t  matter  bo,  Maud  ? 
There  are  so  many  matters  of  importance 
on  just  now,  that  you  must  be  more  de» 
finite." 

"  It  is  well  Gertrude  is  not  here  to  hear 
you!  In  your  present  condition  thei*e 
should  be  only  one  matter  of  any  im- 
portance to  you,  and  that  of  course  io  ■     ■" 

"  Our  marriage — to  be  sure  !  Well,  you 
asked  Joyce — ^what  a  wonderful  fellow  he 
is,  by  the  way ;  his  parliamentary  business 
does  not  seem  the  least  to  have  int^ered 
with  his  writing,  and  with  it  all  he  seems 
to  find  time  to  come  up  here  two  or  three 
times  a  week." 

*'  Ho  has  the  highest  regard  for  Lady 
Caroline,  and  the  greatest  respect  for  her 
judgment,"  said  Maud. 

**  Naturally,  so  have  we  all;"  said  Mr. 
Benthall,  with  a  gradually  spreading  smile. 

"  Yes,  but  Mr.  Joyce  consults  her  in — 
how  ridiculous  you  are,  George !  you're 
always  saying  stupid  things  and  forgetting 
your  subject.  What  were  we  talking 
about?" 

"  I  like  that ;  and  ycu  talk  about  fbrget- 
ftdness!  You  were  saying  that  you  had 
spoken  to  Mr.  Joyce  about  my  marriage, 
though  why  you  should  have—" 

"  Don't  bo  tiresome,  you  know  what  I 
moan!  He  perfectly  agrees  with  you  in 
thinking  there  is  no  necessity  for  post- 
poning the  marriage  any  further.  Poor 
uncle  has  now  been  dead  throe  months, 
and  you  have  no  necessity  to  consider  whe- 
ther Mrs.  Crcswell  might  think  it  too  soon 
after  that  event  or  not !" 

"  We  have  no  reason  to  be  bound  by  what 
she  would  say,  but  I  think  it  would  be 
only  riglit  in  Gertrude  to  write  and  tell  her 
that  the  wedding  is  about  to  take  place." 

*^  That  you  and  Gertrude  must  settle 
between  you.  For  my  part,  I  should  not 
think  of However,  I  confess  my  judg- 
ment is  not  to  be  relied  on  when  that  person 
is  in  question."  Then  she  added  in  a  low 
voice,  and  more  as  if  speaking  to  herself, 
*'  How  strange  it  will  seem  to  be  away  &om 
Gerty !" 

Benthall  heard  the  remark,  and  he  took 
Maud's  hand  as  he  said,  '*  But  you  won't 
be  away  from  her,  dear  Maud  !  We  Vmk^^ 
all  of   us  talked  over  ^out  i».\?a£^  ^sA 


«5 


=fii 


124     [JQiy  10. 1800.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condneted  by 


Gertmde  and  I  hope  yon  will  make  yonr 
home  with  ns,  thongh  Lady  Caroline  insists 
on  claiming  yon  for  some  portion  of  the 
year." 

"  Yon  are  all  of  yon  very  good,  George," 
said  Maud ;  "  yon  know  how  mnch  I  shonld 
love  to  be  with  yon  and  Gerty,  and  what 
gratitude  and  affection  I  have  for  Lady 
Caroline.  Bnt  I  don*t  think  the  life  yon 
have  proposed  wonld  exactly  snit  me." 

"Not  snit  yon,  Mand  ?"  cried  Mr. 
Benthall,  in  astonishment ;  "  why,  what 
wonld  yon  propose  to  do  ?" 

"I  cannot  say  exactly,  thongh  I  have 
some  ideas  about  it  which  I  can't  clearly 
express.  You  see  I  shall  never  be  married, 
George,  don't  laugh  at  me,  please,  I'm 
spealang  quite  seriously,  and  there  is  this 
large  sum  of  money  which  uncle  left  me,  and 
which  I  don't  think  should  be  either  squan- 
dered away  or  left  lying  idle  !" 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  on  earth  do  you 
propose  to  do  with  the  money?"  asked 
practical  Mr.  Benthall. 

"  To  put  it  to  some  good  use,  I  hope ; 
to  use  it  and  my  own  time  and  services 
in  doing  good,  in  benefiting  those  who 
need  it " 

"  You're  not  going  to  give  it  to  the 
missionaries,  or  any  mbbidb  of  that  kind, 
I  trust,"  interrupted  Mr.  Benthall.  "  Look 
here,  Maud,  depend  upon  it — oh!  here's 
her  ladyship,  don't  say  a  word  about  it 
before  her.  Good  morning,  Lady  Caroline ! 
This  young  lady  and  I  have  been  dis- 
cussing the  propriety  of  writing  to  Mrs. 
Creswell  announcing  Gertrude's  approach- 
ing marriage." 

"  I  don't  think  there  can  be  a  doubt  as 
to  the  propriety  of  such  a  course,"  said 
Lady  Caroline.  "  Of  course,  whatever  she 
might  say  about  it  wonld  not  make  the 
slightest  difference  to  us.'* 

"  Of  course  not." 

"But  I  don't  think  you  need  fear  any 
disagreeables.  Mrs.  Creswell  is  in  a  very 
different  position  now  to  that  which  she 
held  when  she  thought  fit  to  behave  badly 
to  those  young  ladies,  and  their  relations 
with  her  are  also  quite  altered.  And  by  all 
accounts  she  is  quite  sufficient  woman  of  the 
world  to  understand  and  appreciate  this." 

Lady  Caroline  was  right.  In  reply  to 
Gertrude's  letter  announcing  her  marriage, 
came  a  most  affectionate  note  from  Marian 
to  her  "  dearest  Gertrude,"  congratulating 
her  most  heartily ;  complimenting  her  on 
her  choice  of  a  husband ;  delighting  in  the 
prospect  of  their  living  so  near  to  her; 
hoping  to  see  much  of  them ;   r^retting 


that  her  recent  bereavement  prevented  her 
being  present  at  the  ceremony,  or  having 
it  take  place,  as  she  shonld  so  mnch  have 
wished,  at  Woolgreaves,  and  begging  per- 
mission to  send  the  enclosed,  as  her  contri- 
bution to  aid  in  the  setting  up  of  the  new 
household ;  and  the  enclosure  was  a  cheque 
for  tliree  hundred  poxmds. 

Mr.  Benthall  winced  a  little  when  he 
saw  the  cheque,  and  Mr.  Joyce  gave  a  very 
grim  smile  when  his  firiend  informed  him 
of  the  affair ;  bnt  advised  Mr.  Benthall  to 
pocket  the  money,  which  Mr.  Benthall  did. 
As  has  been  said,  he  did  not  pretend  to 
despise  money;  but  he  was  essentially  a 
gentleman  in  his  notions  as  to  the  accept- 
ance of  favours.  He  had  thought  several 
times  about  that  conversation  with  Maud, 
in  which  she  had  mentioned  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  wished  to  dispose  of  her 
fortune  and  her  future.  This  had  caused 
Mr.  Benthall  some  uneasiness ;  he  had  no 
hankering  after  his  future  sister-in-law's 
fortune ;  there  was  nothing  he  would  have 
liked  so  much  as  to  see  her  happily  mar- 
ried ;  but  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  the 
money  being  foolishly  invested  in  useless 
charity  or  gotten  hold  of  by  pseudo-philan- 
thropists. A  conversation  which  he  had 
with  Gertrude  a  few  days  before  their 
marriage  seemed,  however,  to  do  away  with 
all  his  fears,  and  render  him  perfectly  easy 
in  his  mind  on  this  point.  A  short  conver- 
sation which  ended  thus : 

"  And  you're  sure  of  it^  Gerty  ?" 

"  Positive !  I've  thought  so  a  long  time 
— ^now  I'm  sure !  And  you  must  be  a  great 
goose,  George,  not  to  have  noticed  it  your- 
self" 

"  I  am  not  a  great  goose,  and  I  certainly 

had  some  suspicions  at  one  time ;  but 

Well,  now,  that  would  be  liighly  satis- 
factory." 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  anything  remain- 
ing from — from  the  other  one,  George  ?" 

"  From  the  other  one  ?     You  mean  from 

Mrs. Not  the  remotest  thought  of  her 

even." 

"  Well,  then,  it  rests  with  him  entirely. 
Wouldn't  it  be  nice  for  them  both  ?" 

"  It  would,  indeed ;  and  for  us  too.  Well, 
we'll  see  what  can  be  done." 

Enigmatical,  but  apparently  satisfactory. 

So  George  Benthall  and  Gertrude  Cres- 
well were  married  at  St.  James's  Church 
in  Piccadilly,  by  the  Reverend  John  Bon- 
tein,  a  High  Church  rector  of  a  Worcester- 
shire parish,  and  an  old  college  chum  of 
the  bridegroom's.    A  very  quiet  wedding, 


=^ 


P: 


& 


CSurlM  DiokenB.] 


EASTERN  PRODIGIES. 


[July  10. 1869.]       125 


1 1 


with   Mand   as  the  sole  bridesmaid,  and 
Joyce  as  best  man,  and  Ladj  Caroline,  and, 
oddly  enough.  Lord  Hetherington,  who  had 
just  come  up  to  town  from  Westhope,  and, 
calling  at  his  sister's,  had  learned  what  was 
going   to   take   place,    and   "thought    ho 
should   like    to    see  it,    don't  you  know. 
Had  never  been  at  any  wedding  except  his 
own,  and  didn't  recollect  much  about  that, 
except  that — curious  thing,  never  should 
forget  it — when  he  went  into  the  vestry  to 
sign  his  name,  or  something  of  that  kind, 
saw  surplice  hanging  up  behind  the  door, 
thought  it  was  ghost,  or  something  of  that 
kind,  give  you  his  word !"     So  the  little 
earl  arnved  the  next  morning  at  eleven  at 
the  church,  and  took  his  place  in  a  pew 
near  the  altar,  and  propped  his  ear  up  vrith 
his  hand  to  listen  to  the  marriage  service, 
at  which  he  seemed  to  be  much  affected. 
When  the  ceremony  was  over,  he  joined 
the  party  in  the  vestry,  insisted  on  bestow- 
ing a  formal  salute  upon  the  bride,  Lady 
Hetherington,  he  knew,  was  safely  moored 
at  Westhope,  and,  as  some  recompense  for 
the  infliction,  he  clasped  on  Grertrude's  arm 
a  very  handsome  bracelet,  as  his  bridal  gifb. 
Such  a  marriage  promised  to  prove  a 
happy  one.     In  its  early  days,  of  course, 
€?erything  was  rose-coloured,  those  days 
when  Maud  went  down  to  stay  with  George 
and  Gertrude  at  the  school,  and  when,  a 
little  later,  Walter  Joyce  ran  down  for  the 
Easter  holidays  to  las  old  quarters.     He 
was   glad   of  the  chance  of  seeing  them 
once   again,   he  said,   and  determined  to 
avail  himself  of  it ;  and  then  George  Ben- 
thall  looked  in  his  ^e  and  smiled  know- 
ingly.     Walter   returned    the    grin,    and 
added,  "  For  it's  a  chance  that  may  not 
happen    to   mo   again!"     And  when  his 
friend   looked   rather  blank   at  this,    and 
asked  him  what  he  meant,  Joyce  laughed 
again,    and  finally    told    him    that   Lord 
Hetherington    had   just  had    a    piece  of 
patronage  fall  to  his  share,  the  rectory  of 
Newmanton-by-Perringden,  a  lovely  place 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  the  stipend 
was  not  sufficiently  largo  to  allow  a  man 
with  a  large  family  to  live  on  it,  but  the 
€xact  place  for  a  parson  with  a  little  money 
of  his  own.     And  Lord  Hetherington  had 
inquired  of  Joyce  whether  his  friend,  that 
remarkably  pleasant  fellow — bless  my  soul, 
forget  my  own  name  next !    him   wo   saw 
married,  don't  you    know? — whether    he 
was  not  exactly  the  sort  of  fellow  for  this 
place,    and    would    he    like    it?     Walter 
thought  that  he  was  and  he  would;  and 
Lord  Hetherington,    knowing  Joyce  was 


going  down  to  see  his  friend,  bid  him 
inquire,  and  if  all  were  straight,  assure 
Mr.  Benthall  that  the  living  was  his. 
And  this  was  how  Walter  Joyce  executed 
his  commission,  and  this  was  how  George 
Benthall  heard  this  most  acceptable  news. 

"By  the  way,  what  made  you  grin, 
Benthall,  when  I  said  I  had  come  down 
here  for  my  holidav  to  look  at  my  old 
quarters  ?"  asked  Walter. 

"  Because  I  thought  there  might  be  yet 
another  reason,  which  you  had  not  stated ! 
Anxiety  to  see  some  one  here  !" 

"Anxiety  is  the  wrong  word.  Strong 
wish  to  see  you  and  your  wife  again, 
and " 

"  My  wife  and  I  are  out  of  the  affair ! 
Come,  confess!" 

"  I  give  you  my  honour,  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean !" 

"  Likely  enough ;  but  I'm  older  than  you, 
and,  parson  though  I  am,  I  declare  I  think 
I've  seen  more  of  the  world !  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  brought  you  down  here  ?  I  shall ! — 
then  I  will ! — to  see  Maud  Ores  well." 

"  Maud  Creswell !  What  on  earth  should 
I — what — why — I  mean — ^what,  is  Miss 
Creswell  to  me  ?" 

"  Simply  the  woman  who  thinks  more 
about  you  than  any  other  creature  on  earth. 
Simply  the  girl  who  is  raving — ^head  over 
ears  in  love  with  you.  Don't  pretend  you 
don't  know  it.  Natural  instinct  is  too  strong 
to  allow  any  doubt  upon  that  point." 

"  I  swear  you  surprise  me  beyond  behef ! 

I  swear  that Do  you    mean  this, 

Benthall?" 

"  As  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian,  I've 
told  you  what  I  believe ;  and  as  a  man  of 
the  world  I  tell  you  what  I  think ;  whether 
wittingly  or  unwittingly,  you  are  very  far 
gone  in  returning  the  young  lady's  senti- 
ments !" 

"  I — that  is — there's  no  doubt  she  is  a 
girl  of  very  superior  mind,  and— by  Jove, 
Benthall,  you've  given  a  most  singular 
twist  to  my  holiday  1" 

EASTERN  PRODIGIES. 

Of  one  Eastern  city,  in  which  I  lived  for 
some  time,  the  Turks  told  me  that  at  the 
creation  of  the  world  Allah  provided  three 
sacksful  or  bags  of  lies,  and  that  he  appro- 
priated two  of  the  three  to  that  particular 
place,  and  one  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  I 
had  strong  reason  to  believe  this  legend. 

What    the  Mussulmen   want    in   inventive 
power,  they  make  up  for  in  capacity  of  belief. 
Numerous  as  are  the  cUiea  on  \a\^  wiAacc^^  wiov^ 
nomerous  still  (accorOikvg  \*o  Wicvbl^  «x^  >iaa 


r^ 


<£ 


=&. 


126     poly  10, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Conilucted  by 


cities  beneath.  The  precise  situation  of  most 
of  these  is  imkuowu,  but  in  one  case  it  is 
known,  and  the  entrance  to  it  is  visible  ;  I  have 
seen  it,  in  fact. 

This  entrance  is  in  the  face  of  a  mountain 
not  many  miles  from  the  city  of  Ephesus.  It 
is  a  flat  niche,  which  looked  to  me  as  if 
some  one  had  begun  a  small  tunnel  or  drift- 
way, and  then  stopped.  No  doubt  I  must 
be  wrong.  If  we  could  get  the  key  of  the 
door  (and  that  is  perhaps  in  the  keeping  of 
some  African  magician),  we  should  iina  it 
readily  swing  on  its  hinges,  and  the  population 
would  stream  forth.  Their  carriages  and 
horses,  however,  they  could  not  possibly  bring 
with  them,  for  the  door  (granting  an  invisible 
door)  is  too  low.  There,  within  that  moun- 
tain, is  a  vast  people  in  a  large  city,  with  all  the 
establishments  needful  for  such  a  concoui-se. 
They  are  within  a  few  feet  of  us.  I  wonder  how 
their  streets  and  palaces  are  lighted  ?  I  have 
been  over  that  mountain  range,  but  I  never 
could  find  a  clue  to  this  mystery. 

It  is  enchanted  ground,  however.  I  re- 
member once  passing  there  on  horseback ; 
none  but  my  own  party  in  sight.  High  above 
in  the  air,  we  heard  the  ringing  of  beUs  and  of 
cathedral  chimes,  like  some  carillon  of  Flan- 
ders! It  came  from  no  fixed  station;  but 
floated  up  and  down  in  the  air  above  us.  There, 
we  clea.rly  heard  it,  awakening  old  thoughts  of 
our  western  cities,  when  on  some  Sunday  or 
holiday,  or  in  the  summer  evening,  the  bells 
cheerily  rang  forth  from  the  spires.  I  could 
see  no  one ;  but  I  have  little  doubt  that  this 
sound  from  the  subterranean  city  was  an  echo 
of  the  bells  of  strings  of  camels  moving  in  the 
distance. 

The  city  is  closed ;  but  it  may  yet  give  forth 
its  men.  In  holy  Ephesus,  near  by,  did  not 
tlie  seven  sleepers  take  shelter  in  a  cave,  and 
did  they  not  there  remain  for  one  hundred  years, 
when  they  and  their  dog  came  out,  and  hardly 
found  the  way  to  their  own  neighbourhood, 
when,  what  they  thought  had  been  the  hurried 
sleep  of  a  night,  had  been  the  long  epoch  of 
revolutions  in  religion,  and  in  the  state  ?  The 
street  boys,  who  mocked  at  them,  wei-e  their 
great  grandchildren.  Old  men,  to  whom  they 
appealed  for  information  and  protection,  were 
their  own  grandsons,  llieir  beards  had  turned 
grey,  and  their  dog  had  become  decrepit ;  as 
well  he  might  at  a  time  of  life  unknown  to 
dogs  before.  The  citizens  of  Ephesus  could  be 
little  surprised  to  see  men  of  past  ages  reap- 
pear, and  treated  them  with  honour ;  but  the 
sleepei-s  found  none  whom  they  knew,  of  wives, 
or  infants,  late  or  early  friends.  The  seven 
sleepers  went  into  a  convent  with  their  dog, 
and,  after  a  further  lease  of  mortal  life,  were 
buried  in  holiness  in  their  own  cave,  in  trathf  ul 
commemoration  of  the  event. 

I  heard  of  two  aged  men  near  Mekka,  who 

were  known  to  many  Moslem  pilgrims  as  being 

six   hundred  years   old  or  more.      Our  own 

i^randfathers  lived  when  George  the  Third  was 

£infr^   not  a  hundred  years  ago ;  but  one  of 

^Aese  sboikhs  might  have  seen  a  sheikh  who  by 


like  communication  woiUd  have  learnt  from  an 
eye-witness  the  events  of  two  thousand  years 
ago,  when  the  memory  of  Alexander  still  was 
young,  and  before  Julius  fought  for  the  empire 
of  tlie  East. 

The  British  Assocuition  at  its  last  meeting 
reduced  by  five  thousand  years  the  age  of  the 
Wellingtonia  gigantea,  and  unlucky  inquiries 
have  also  brought  down  the  ages  of  the  shcikliB. 
Those  who  had  not  been  on  the  pilgrimage, 
fixed  them  at  six  hundred  or  eight  hundred 
years ;  those  who  had  been  part  of  the  way, 
said  four  hundred;  I  was  afraid  to  inquire 
nearer,  lest  the  old  men  should  be  reduced  to 
boys,  and  I  should  lose  the  pleasure  of  the 
marvel. 

I  was  told,  however,  by  a  learned  Turk,  that 
the  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  a  sheikh 
taking  possession  of  the  tent  or  abode  of  a 
famous  sheikh,  is  known  by  that  name,  and 
that  the  ignorant  multitude  see  in  the  perpetual 
succession  of  men  of  like  name  only  one  long- 
lived  individual. 

Often  have  age<l  and  bowed  men  been  pointed 
out  to  me  as  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  old ; 
but  I  could  never  get  such  an  age  proved.  A 
Turk  can  always  gain  a  few  years  in  age  by 
the  shortness  of  the  Turkish  year. 

A  Turkish  friend  who  had  been  in  Roomeli& 
told  me  that  at  a  groat  fair  in  the  Adrianople 
district  he  had  seen  an  old  Greek  woman 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  selling  wares ;  her 
age,  she  said,  was  a  hundred  and  fifty ;  but  she 
point<*d  out  her  mother  and  grandmother,  and 
said  that  her  great-grandmother  was  at  home 
in  the  village,  being  now  too  infirm  to  attend 
the  fair.  The  old  women  got  much  custom, 
including  some  from  my  friend,  but  he  did 
not  go  to  the  village  to  sec  the  eldest  of  the 
family. 

People  so  gifted  as  to  tenure  of  life,  are  like- 
wise privileged  as  to  other  faculties,  ubiquity 
not  excepted.  There  is  now,  or  was  lately,  an 
imam  in  the  city  of  Diarbekir,  who  on  the 
same  day,  and  within  an  hour's  time,  preached 
in  the  great  mosques  of  Diarbekir  and  Aleppo, 
two  or  three  hundred  miles  apai*t.  TTiis  was 
attested  by  merchants  and  others,  who  had 
known  him  in  both  places.  He  HkeT^ise 
preached  simultaneously  in  the  cities  of  Mosul 
and  Diarbekir. 

An  African  friend — ^who  made  arithmetical 
mistakes  in  many  matters  of  mine — told  me 
some  singular  tales.  He  informed  me  of  men 
and  women  in  his  part  of  the  world  who  had 
three  eyes  each :  and  of  another  population 
having,  besides  the  front  eyes,  twobehmd,  and 
a  tail.  These  gentry  were  cannibals.  The  people 
were  named  Kya  Nyas,  and  they  had  teeth 
filed  in  a  saw  shape,  and  there  were  Nya  Nyas 
in  Tiurkey. 

At  Constantinople,  in  Santa  Sophia,  Maho- 
met Ghazi,  the  conqueror,  rode  on  horseback 
to  the  altar,  and  devoted  it,  by  the  recital  of 
the  consecrated  formula,  to  the  worship  of  the 
one  God  of  the  Osmanli.  The  bishop  who  was 
officiating  stepped  into  the  wall,  gospel  in 
\\\anOL,  aud  Vvaa  been  waiting  with  mitre  and 


4 


I 


:& 


OhftrtoB  Dickens.] 


EASTERN  PRODIGIES. 


[July  10, 1869.]       127 


crozier  in  the  wall,  four  hundred  years,  for  the 
return  of  the  Byzantine  empire. 

Alas !  the  Ottomans  have  prophets  too ; 
they  came  to  Byzantium  under  holy  guidance. 
Eyoob  or  Job,  a  follower  of  the  prophet,  himself 
led  the  first  attack  on  those  triple  walls,  and 
falling,  left  his  body  and  the  prophecy  of  the 
apostle,  as  a  pledge  to  those  who  were  to 
achieve  success.  By  a  vision  granted  to  a  holy 
man,  all  this  was  revealed  to  Mahomet,  and 
little  reck  he  and  his  successors  of  the  bishop 
of  the  idolaters.  The  tomb  of  Eyoob,  sur- 
rounded by  the  many  sepulchres  of  sultans 
and  warriors,  stands  on  its  holy  ground,  a 
monument  to  them  of  divine  assurance. 

But  for  their  enemies,  the  bishop  is  not  the 
only  testimony.  In  the  monastery  of  Balukli, 
outside  the  doomed  walls,  at  the  moment  when 
the  last  of  the  Constantines  died  like  a  warrior 
on  a  mountain  of  slain,  the  monks  of  Balukli 
were  frying  fish.  And  the  fish,  more  sensible 
to  the  events  of  this  world  than  the  monks, 
jumped  off  the  gridiron  into  a  sacred  tank, 
where  they  still  live  to  commemorate  the  dread 
event,  and  keep  up  hope  in  faithful  Greeks. 
There  they  may  oe  seen  on  their  yearly  festival ; 
and  I  have  seen  them  at  other  times  by  the 
(Bering  of  a  silver  coin.  They  still  bear  the 
stripes  of  the  gridiron,  as  any  one  can  witness. 
If  a  few  fish  can  live  for  four  hundred  years, 
why  should  not  the  shiekhs  near  Mckka  live 
twice  that  time ! 

Though  the  underground  people  are  hidden, 
their  treasures  are  sometimes  found.  Treasiu-e- 
finding  is  a  recognised  way  of  attaining  to 
fortune.  Just  as  every  poor  family  in  England 
thinks  an  unknown  uncle  may  bring  them  sud- 
den wealth  from  India,  so  the  native,  nay,  the 
European  resident,  in  Tiurkey,  never  knows 
but  in  his  very  garden  the  tent  of  some  Lydian 
kiDg  may  give  way  to  the  mattock,  and  deliver 
up  its  wealth  of  gold  and  jewels.  Silver  is 
.seldom  expected,  for  it  is  better  to  have  gold 
and  jewels.  According  to  received  notions,  but 
unrecorded  by  history,  the  old  kings  of  these 
countries  had  the  peculiarity  of  burying  with 
them  immense  masses  of  treasure,  jars  upon 
jars  of  gold.  Why  they  did  it,  reason  saith 
not ;  but  who  knows  who  may  have  the  luck 
to  find  the  store  ? 

There  are  tales  enough  of  these  discovered 
hoards  received  as  profound  truth.  I  have 
seen  the  spots  where  the  tombs  were  rifled,  and 
I  have  heard  the  names  of  the  finders.  I  know 
a  beautiful  pass,  with  clumps  of  poplars  and 
planes,  called  the  Kavakli  Dere,  or  Poplar 
bale,  where  a  Hellander,  in  the  last  century, 
is  recorded  by  the  universal  popular  voice  to 
have  discovered  a  tomb  and  treasure.  He  went- 
back  to  the  city,  and,  taking  a  negro  slave  as 
an  assistant,  gradually  and  steadily  carried  off 
the  enormous  prize.  TTiis  he  smuggled  on 
hoard  the  fleet  in  the  bay,  and,  lest  the  secret 
should  leak  out,  he  poisoned  the  black  before 
sailing  ;  jret  the  full  and  authentic  particulars 
seem  to  be  just  as  well  known  as  if  the  dead 
negro  had  revealed  them.  Perhaps  he  did,  for 
there  is  no  want  of  ghosts  in  the  East     There  I 


was  one  in  a  well  near  my  house  that  sorely 
troubled  the  neighbourhood. 

Treasure  adventures  are  not  of  the  past  only. 
I  have  been  asked  to  join  in  more  than  one.  It 
is  always  necessary  to  begin  by  buying  the  piece 
of  ground  in  which  the  treasure  is.  1  have  lost 
more  than  one  certain  fortune  by  neglecting  this 
preliminary  step.  One  chance  I  lost,  was  very 
strong.  TTic  lucky  discoverer  had  made  a  mid- 
night venture  on  the  ground,  had  opened  a  jar, 
and  had  handled  costly  jewels.  Fearful  of  being 
discovered,  he  put  them  back  again,  and  came 
post  haste  to  me,  next  morning,  for  fifty  pouuds 
as  an  instalment  on  the  land,  and  to  get  the 
jewels  out.  He  did  not  get  the  fifty  pounds 
from  me,  nor,  I  fear,  from  any  one  else  ;  for  he 
died  some  years  afterwards  without  bequeath- 
ing gold,  silver,  or  diamonds,  to  his  heirs.  The 
secret  died  with  liim. 

One  is  not  limited  to  gold.  Luck  may  turn 
up  in  other  ways.  Statues  are  very  good ;  for 
a  small  investment  you  may  come  upon  a  find 
like  a  Ballarot  nugget ;  a  thousand  or  two  thou- 
sand pounds  being  a  small  sum  for  an  English 
lord  to  pay  for  a  statue.  In  my  time  the  finds 
have  been  few,  and  of  limited  value ;  though 
fragments  are  being  constantly  turned  up.  One 
man  told  me  he  had  found,  in  a  villa  in  the 
interior,  twelve  statues  as  good  as  the  Apollo 
Belvidere,  and  he  offered  me  a  half  share  of  the 
find,  on  payment  of  a  few  himdred  pounds 
down.  K  any  statues  were  found,  I  believe 
they  were  garden  images.  A  Turkish  proprie- 
tor told  mc  I  might  dig  for  statues  or  bas-reliefs 
on  many  parts  of  his  property ;  and  I  believe 
him,  for  he  was  owner  of  the  site  of  a  city  as 
large  as  Bristol  or  Norwich.  It  was,  how- 
ever, an  inconvenient  spot  to  transport  hca^vy 
marbles  from ;  and  when  it  was  not  covered 
with  the  winter  floods,  it  was  poisonous  with 
malaria.  Such  are  the  drawbacks,  where  there 
are  real  chances ! 

Visions  beset  the  Levantine  of  cities  in  the 
interior,  desolate,  but  with  temples  perfect  and 
statuary  standing.  Some  will  tell  you  that  they 
have  found  such  places,  when  diivcn  by  brigands 
off  the  beaten  route :  cities  unmarked  on  the  maps 
and  mmamed  by  the  ancient  geographers  and 
historians.  They  could  not  stay,  and  have 
wished  to  return  ;  but  years  have  passed  away, 
and  their  business  has  not  yet  permitted.  The 
coliunns  they  saw  were  as  polished  as  when 
new,  and  gleaming  in  snowy  white  brightness. 
Tombs  are  ever  and  anon  said  to  be  opened,  in 
wliich  lamps  were  found  burning,  which  only 
went  out  when  the  fresh  air  entered.  By  the 
last  flicker  of  such  a  lamp,  the  king  whose 
body  the  light  watched,  visibly  faded  from 
his  life-like  coloiu*,  and  his  solid  flesh  and 
embroidered  robes  fell  to  dust. 

All  is  fleeting,  and  all  may  perish.  How 
sweet  is  the  small  valley,  with  its  vines  and 
figs  and  olives,  its  orange  and  citron  trees  yet 
scenting  the  air,  its  gardened  houses,  its  lanes 
and  hedgerows,  the  trickling  stream  and  flower- 
ing shrubs !  How  charming  yonder  street — 
the  palace,  gaily  palwted,  txs>  ?l  \\\^\,wt^\»^  \V^A\  \ 
the  free  fountain  next  \ta  ^^\.<i  ^^^^i^^*  <^^  *0\.\vik 


rfl: 


:S 


128     [July  10, 1869.3 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoctadby 


bounty  of  its  founders,  mindful  of  the  future  ; 
the  coffee-house  gives  shelter,  in  its  shady  bal- 
cony, to  the  reposing  guests !  All  is  calm,  with 
just  so  much  air  as  cools  and  mellows  the  sun- 
shine, and  leaves  us  to  enjoy  its  brilliancy  un- 
wearied ;  yet  in  one  moment  shall  all  this,  and 
all  who  live  in  it,  be  shaken  to  death  and  ruin ; 
one  second  more  of  the  frequent  earthquake, 
one  further  strain  of  power,  and  even  the  fallen 
ruins  are  engulfed,  the  sea- wave  rolls  over  the 
spot,  and  black  floods  burst  forth  from  the 
chasms  in  the  soil. 

There  was  one  spot  I  often  passed  before  I 
knew  its  story.  A  cathedral  with  jingling 
bells  sent  up  a  huge  tower  aloft,  and  around 
its  precincts  quiet  monks  filled  the  numerous 
chambers.  The  shops  had  their  busy  occu- 
pants, and  climbing  vines  made  canopies  over 
the  narrow  ways ;  many  a  traveller  has  marked 
the  scene.  One  day,  while  1  rested  in  a 
counting-house  near  there,  an  aged  merchant 
told  me  how,  in  the  great  earthquake,  his 
family  had  occupied  the  house  at  the  corner  of 
the  cathedral  yard.  There  they  took  refuge, 
and,  after  the  first  shocks,  sought  repose.  His 
father,  then  a  baby,  lay  on  a  mattress  b^  a 
servant.  Suddenly  the  ground  opened,  drawmg 
in  four  men  who  lay  next  him,  and,  closing 
again,  entombed  them  for  ever.  I  seldom  tra- 
versed the  marble  pavement  but  I  thought  what 
if  the  earth  should  yawn  again,  as  of  yore ! 

In  mere  worldly  things,  none  know  what 
eyes  behold  them,  even  in  the  open  streets. 
Those  veiled  Turkish  women  wander  about 
observant  of  all,  and  known  to  none.  Yon 
lady  in  a  dove-coloured  ferijee,  whom  you 
cannot  distinguish,  is  perhaps  a  bosom  con- 
fidante of  your  own  wife.  ITiat  coarse  native 
woman  in  crinoline,  the  suspicious  Greek  may 
fear  to  be  the  governor-general  in  person, 
disguised,  watching  evil-doers.  He  who  ven- 
tures forth  at  night  does  so  at  the  risk  of 
encountering  Haroun  Alraschid  and  his  at- 
tendant, Mesrour ;  and  if  he  stop  at  home 
they  may  be  listening  under  his  windows.  An 
Armenian  may  be  scared  to  death  by  an  un- 
known soap-vendor,  who  follows  him  about, 
pressing  soap  and  conversation  on  him,  and 
whom  he  believes  to  be  the  Sultan  Caliph  of 
Islam  so  arrayed,  or  the  Grand  Vizier. 

What  seems  and  is  not,  or  what  is,  who 
knows— in  the  East  ?  Philosophy  and  theology 
flourish  on  the  borders  between  the  real  and 
the  imaginary.  The  power  of  magic  comes  to 
relieve  unsettled  minds  and  to  reassure  the 
vulgar,  who  are  more  numerous  than  the  select, 
if  there  be  any  select,  who  believe  not  in 
magic  and  its  kindred  sciences.  Islam  could 
not  conquer  magic ;  it  only  consecrated  its 
power  and  furnished  it  with  new  means  of 
mcantation.  The  magi  of  the  East  are  defunct, 
but  the  magician  ol  Africa,  the  Moor,  the 
Maghreli,  rules  with  traditional  might,  adapts 
the  science,  and  weaves  the  cuneiform  charac- 
ters of  Babylon  into  his  weii-d  alphabet.  All 
Islam  confirms  the  power  of  magic.  What 
the  magician  does  to  find  stolen  napkins  or 
bring  back  lost  lovers,   the  dervish  acknow- 


ledges as  potent  to  expel  disease  and  restore 
life.  The  great  name  of  God  may  be  written 
in  wondrous  shapes.  Here,  such  an  emblem 
protects  a  house  from  fire ;  there,  in  a  tablet 
it  shields  the  tailor  from  the  temptations  of 
dishonesty.  It  is  over  the  doorway  of  the 
mosque  and  the  shop  of  the  magician.  The 
magician  is  not  now  so  favoured  as  of  old, 
but  his  shop  is  sometimes  to  be  seen,  with 
specimens  in  the  windows  of  white  and  holy 
charms,  horoscopes,  tables  of  magic  letters 
and  magic  squares,  inefiFable  names.  I  re- 
member one  fellow's  shop,  and  he  had  a  talk- 
ing parrot  hanging  over  the  door.  An  incre- 
didous  passenger  remarked  to  me  that  the 
parrot  was  cleverer  than  the  magician;  but 
the  magician  drove  an  excellent  trade. 

In  warding  off  evil,  securing  fickle  love,  pro- 
mising children,  curing  sickness,  and  discover- 
ing theft,  the  taHsman-dealer,  the  magician, 
and  the  astrologer,  yet  thrive  throughout  the 
East.  The  gipsy  is  a  missionary  to  be  found 
in  every  house.  There  is  nothing  too  impos- 
sible for  credulitv.  A  modem  conjuror  drew 
five  francs  a  heaa  from  a  large  community  by 
sending  round  his  carte-de-visite,  representing 
him  with  his  head  at  his  feet.  An  intelligent 
audience  of  educated  persons  was  highly  indig- 
nant that  this  part  of  the  performance  did  not 
come  off. 

One  marvel  I  have  read  in  a  veracious  book: 
to  wit,  that  the  heads  of  beheaded  ladies  and 
slaves  are  to  be  seen  floating  down  the  Bos- 
phorus  in  hampers  daily,  wherefore  people  are 
not  allowed  to  catch  fish,  and  are  afraid  to  eat 
fish.  I  have  eaten  fish  and  seen  hampers,  but 
I  never  had  the  good  luck  to  see  a  hamper  of 
ladies'  heads,  or  to  meet  with  any  one  who  had 
One  head  would  raise  a  mob  of  the  women  of 
Constantinople. 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  EAST.     TARMOUTH. 

YARMOurn,  with  its  population  of  thirty 
thousand  herring  catchers  and  eaters,  stands  on 
the  confluence  of  the  Yar,  the  Waveney,  and 
the  Bure,  in  the  centre  of  a  low  sandy  peninsula, 
surrounded  by  those  rivers  and  the  German 
ocean.  The  scenery  on  the  Bure,  as  the  crow 
approaches  Yarmouth,  strikes  that  restless  bird 
as  peculiarly  Dutch.  Towards  the  sea,  the 
pumps  driven  by  wind  are  superseded  by  scoop 
wheels  driven  by  more  resolute  and  active 
steam.  There  are  cattle  swimming  across  the 
river  at  Runham  and  Mantby,  where  the  banks 
are  protected  with  flints ;  the  water  becomes 
gay  with  flashing  wherries  ;  and  presently  there 
appear  houses  with  quaint  gables  and  dormer 
windows,  lines  of  trees,  and  masts  of  ships 
rising  among  roofs ;  presently  sand-hills  glisten 
against  the  sun,  and  the  curious  crow's  nest 
look-out  at  Caistor  shows  conspicuously  against 
the  sky.  More  gai'dens,  orchards,  and  boats, 
an  old  round  tower,  with  a  conical  roof,  on  the 
left  bank,  and  the  crow  has  Yarmouth  all  before 
him  where  to  choose. 

The  sea  has  not  encroached  upon  the  Yar- 


==« 


* 


^ 


(SiArlet  Dickeni^ 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[July  10, 1869.]       129 


month  sands  since  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
Abont  Cromer  way,  the  earth  is  yielding  to 
the  sea  in  all  directions ;  here  at  Yarmouth 
the  earth  is  conquering.  The  theory  (and  it 
gives  a  curious  notion  of  the  vast  agencies 
at  work  in  reshaping  the  outer  surface  of  the 
earth)  is  this :  only  a  portion  of  the  great  tidal 
wave  of  the  Atlantic  passes  up  the  channel 
through  the  Straits  of  Dover ;  the  great  mass 
moving  more  swiftly  up  the  west,  sweeps 
round  the  Orkneys,  and  pours  down  southward 
between  Norway  and  Scotland.  Wherever, 
therefore,  a  river  stream  breaks  a  passage 
through  this  southward-beating  pulsation  of  the 
great  ocean's  heart,  there  sund-banks  are  depo- 
sited at  the  angle  where  the  two  forces  meet. 

Yarmouth,  first  mentioned  in  1081,  was  ori- 
ginally a  mere  cluster  of  tarry  fishermen's  huts 
on  a  sand-bank  at  the  mouth  of  the  Yare. 
Ita  first  charter,  establishing  Yarmouth  as  a 
sort  of  herring  kingdom,  was  granted  in  1108, 
and  confirmed  by  successive  sovereigns  until 
1702 ;  the  year  before  Queen  Anne  came  to 
the  throne.  Henry  the  Second  allowed  a  wall 
to  be  built,  enclosing  the  houses  on  the  land 
Bide.  The  serviceable  old  rampart  is  still  to 
be  traced  through  the  quaint  narrow  streets  of 
Yarmouth.  At  Kamp  Row  the  wall  is  supported 
within  by  arched  recesses  seven  feet  deep.  The 
poor  people,  who  here  live  in  tumble-down 
tenements,  use  the  recesses  as  pantries  or 
bedrooms.  "A  Ramp  Row  goose,"  is  the 
Yarmouth  metonym  for  a  herring.  Close  by 
the  Priory  national  schools,  there  is  more  of 
the  wall,  while  a  ruined  tower  is  to  b?  found 
in  an  adjoining  nursery  garden.  Southward  it 
nms  to  a  third  tower,  now  used  as  a  dwelling- 
house.  The  wall  appears  again  in  solid,  unim- 
paired fiintwork  facmg  the  North  Denes.  It 
18  cut  in  two  by  a  street,  but  reappears  in 
the  rear  of  a  yard  where  anchors  are  stored ; 
and  presently  the  versatile  rampart  forms  one 
side  of  a  rope-walk.  It  turns  up  often  again 
behind  hovels,  sheds,  stables,  and  smoke  houses : 
such  are  the  crow's  flying  glimpses  of  it. 

French  and  Flemish  Protestant  refugees,  es- 
caping from  the  Guises  and  from  Spanish 
Philip,  established  themselves  at  Yarmouth 
daring  the  reigns  of  James  and  Charles,  and 
gave  to  the  crowds  in  the  lanes  of  this  Norfolk 
Genoa,  a  republican  and  anti-state  church  tone. 
Bradshaw,  the  Puritan  law  sergeant,  who  pre- 
sided at  King  Charles's  trial,  and  who  declared 
with  his  dying  breath  that  if  the  deed  were  to 
do  again  he  would  do  it,  resided  for  some  time 
at  the  Star  Inn,  Yarmouth. 

On  July  9,  1642,  Yarmouth  had  declared 
openly  for  the  Parliament,  and  was  thencefor- 
ward harassed  by  the  Lowestoft  Cavaliers' 
cruisers.  The  consequence  was  that  when  the 
tide  turned  Yarmouth  had  to  turn,  and  within 
a  few  days  of  eaoh  other  presented  enthusiastic 
addresses  to  Richard  Cromwell  and  Charles  the 
Second.  The  swarthy  "  mutton -eating  "  king 
came  to  the  town  for  some  reason  or  other  in 
1671,  and  having  received  a  present  of  three 
golden  herrings,  dubbed  three  of  the  ricbeBt 
herring  selleiv  lauglitA 


4= 


At  various  periods  all  sorts  of  great  men 
embarked  and  disembarked  at  Yarmouth. 
But  the  most  honoured  name  among  them 
is  that  of  Nelson.  He  landed  on  this  Norfolk 
coast  close  to  his  own  birthplace,  November  6, 
1800,  after  the  great  victory  of  the  Nile,  when 
he  had  captured  all  the  French  fleet  except 
four  ships,  and  blown  up  L'Orient  in  spite 
of  the  batteries  of  Aboukir.  The  memory  of 
the  great  admiral  is  treasured  at  the  Star 
Hotel,  once  the  residence  of  the  Howards,  then 
of  Bradshaw.  **  The  Nelson  Room"  is  still  the 
palladium  of  the  building.  In  this  oak -panelled 
chamber,  with  its  arched  fillets  and  diaper 
work,  its  quaint  female  figures  with  animals* 
heads,  and  its  scroll  -  bordered  ceiling  with 
pendants,  Nelson  once  dined ;  and  his  portrait 
painted  by  Keymer,  a  quaker  admirer,  still 
hangs  on  the  wall. 

Yarmouth  has  been  often  compared  to  Genoa, 
and  a  writer,  by  no  means  unknown  to  the 
public,  has  named  the  many-alleyed  town  **  the 
Norfolk  Gridiron."  The  five  principal  streets 
are  crossed  at  right  angles  by  one  hundred  and 
fifty-six  rows  or  narrow  lanes,  which  are,  on 
an  average,  about  eight  feet  wide.  The  reason 
of  this  minute  subdivision  of  street  way  is 
that  in  the  old  time  the  teeming  city  was 
pressed  in  by  a  wall  on  the  north,  south,  and 
east  sides  two  hundred  and  forty  yards  long, 
and  on  the  west  by  a  wall  two  thousand  and 
thirty  yards  long.  Within  this  box  the  popu- 
lation lay,  to  use  a  simile  not  inappropnate 
to  the  herring  town,  like  herrings  in  a  barrel. 
These  little  lanes  are  so  narrow  that  you  can 
touch  both  walls  by  stretching  out  your  hands 
while  passing.  They  necessitated  a  special 
low,  long,  narrow  vehicle,  first  introduced  in 
Henry  the  Seventh's  time,  and  hence  popularly 
known  as  **  Harry -carries."  These  Dutch- 
looking  trolley  carts  are  sledges  twelve  feet 
long  by  three  feet  six  inches  broad;  are  mounted 
on  wheels  two  feet  nine  inches  high  ;  and  are 
drawn  by  one  horse,  the  driver  standing  on  the 
cross-staves.  A  topographical  writer  of  1777 
shows  how  simple  Norfolk  society  was  at  that 
era,  when  many  of  these  Harry-carries,  painted 
red,  green,  and  blue,  plied  for  hire,  and  were 
let  out  to  visitors  wishing  to  drive  to  the  Fort, 
the  Quay,  or  the  Denes. 

Yarmouth  quay  has  been  compared  to  the 
Boompjes  at  Rotterdam,  with  its  commingled 
trees,  masts,  and  houses.  The  Dut<^h  Clock, 
the  quaintest  spot  on  the  banks  of  the  Y'are,  is 
an  old  sixteenth-century  building,  now  used  as 
a  public  library  and  an  office  for  toll  receivers 
and  Haven  commissioners ;  it  was  formerly  a 
place  where  Dutch  and  Flemish  refugees  cele- 
brated in  quiet  and  phlegmatic  gratitude  their 
morning  prayers  ;  and  here  Brinsley,  the  non- 
conformist, when  driven  from  St.  Nicholas 
church,  preached  the  tenets  of  toleration.  In 
olden  times  the  town  waits  assembled  on  the 
roof  on  summer  Sunday  evenings.  The  old 
clock,  that  has  seen  out  many  generations^  atvll 
counts  the  hours*,  and  Wie  w[vc\e\\\*  csvx^vi^^\.^Ti^ 
mariner's  compaaa,  tVitee  ieeV.  'va.  ^2k3aiafiX^t.^T^- 
mains  in  front  oi  the  oVd'bMJX^iMiVL. 


!■ 


^ 


^ 


130     CJuiyio,i8e».i 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bj 


/ 


ITie  crow  perceives  that  the  houses  iu  the 
market-place  are  old,  and  have  a  character  of 
their  own  ;  also,  that  the  fish-market  displays 
on  its  shields  the  half  fishes,  half  lions,  which 
are  the  heraldic  glory  of  Yarmouth.  The  Fisher- 
man^s  Hospital,  a  low,  quadrangular  building, 
with  curious  gables,  dates  back  to  the  last 
year  of  William  of  Orange.  A  carved  ship, 
tossed  ceaselessly  on  stormy  waves,  is  placed 
over  an  inner  doorway  :  and  a  large  statue  of 
Charity  guards  a  contribution-box  iu  the  middle 
of  the  court.  No  ancient  mariner  is  admitted 
within  this  tranquil  precinct  until  he  has  battled 
the  storms  and  waves  of  this  troublesome  world 
three  score  years. 

The  four  rustling  avenues  of  lime-trees,  de- 
licious when  in  blossooL,  lead  to  the  old  priory 
church  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  great  saint  of  the 
Norfolk  fishermen.  'llie  enormous  building, 
which  will  hold  six  thousand  if  tightly  and  pro- 
fessionally packed,  is  the  great  composite  of 
many  pious  ages.  In  133S  the  bacnelors  of 
Yarmouth  began  to  build  an  aisle  in  this  church, 
but  were  stayed  by  a  plague.  After  that,  it 
boasted  of  seventeen  chapels  and  the  right  of 
sanctuary.  It  has  known  various  desecrations. 
For  more  than  three  hundred  years  the  ignoble 
corporation  picked  up  all  the  brasses  and  melted 
them  into  weights.  Still  worse,  a  little  later,  all 
the  grave-stones  were  drawn,  like  so  many  t<^eth, 
and  shamefully  sent  to  Newcastle  to  be  shaped 
into  grindstones.  During  the  Puritan  period 
three  congregations  met  at  the  same  time  in 
this  enormous  church,  llie  partitions  dividing 
the  three  enclosures  were  only  finally  removed 
about  twenty  years  ago. 

After  the  '^Ballast  Keel,"  with  its  foiurtcenth- 
centuiy  arch  and  Jacobean  ceiling — the  ruins  of 
the  Franciscan  friary  in  the  road  leading  to 
Gaol-street— and  the  old  house  with  herriug- 
bone  masonry  in  George  and  Dragon-row — the 
most  remarkable  bit  of  antiquity  in  Yannouth, 
is  Mr.  Palmer's  house  on  the  quay,  built  1590 ; 
the  date  appears  on  a  chunney-piece  cai'ving. 
Tliis  house  once  belonged  to  Jolm  Carter,  a 
baihff  of  Yarmouth  in  the  parliamentary  times. 
(!Jromwcll  often  visited  him,  and  his  son  maiTied 
jVIaiy  Ireton,  daughter  of  the  stern  general. 
Tradition  says  that  in  this  house  was  held  the 
final  consultation  of  the  parliamentary  leaders, 
at  which  thev  decided  upon  the  death  of  the 
king ;  that  the  principal  Puritan  oilicers  as- 
sembled in  the  oak-pannellod  drawing-room 
up-stairs  for  privacy  ;  and  that  it  was  strictly 
commanded  that  no  person  should  come  near 
the  room  except  one  man  appointed  to  attend. 
The  dinner  (tradition  adds)  was  ordcre<l  at  f our 
o'clock,  and  was  put  off  from  time  to  time  till 
past  eleven  at  night:  when  the  council  came 
dawn  to  a  very  short  repast,  and  unmediately 
all  set  off  post,  some  for  London,  and  some 
for  the  (luai-ters  of  the  army. 

Whatever  wind  blows,  blows  hard  here,  and 
the  friendly  lights  of  Caistor  and  Gorleston  are 
too  often  powerless  to  save  the  driven  vessel. 
In  1602  out  of  two  huwlrt'd  sail  of  those  colliers 
if^Ajc/i  always  nmko  Yannouth  their  favourite 
roadstead  on  their  way  from  Newcastle,  cue 


hundred  and  forty  were  battered  to  pieces  on 
the  Yare  shoals.  In  May,  1860,  upwards  of  two 
hundred  fishermen  were  lost  here.  Nor,  in  men- 
tioning n»al  Yarmouth  wrecks,  must  we  forget 
the  novelist's  or  the  poet's  wrecks.  It  was  off 
this  place  that  Robinson  Crusoe  got  into 
trouble ;  here,  too,  a  certain  person  named 
Steerf orth  was  overtaken  by  his  destiny.  Indeed, 
tlie  harbour  planned  by  Joas  Johnson,  a  Dutch- 
man, in  1507.  the  south  pier  (two  thousand  feet 
long,  and  built  on  oak  trunks),  the  leafy  Com- 
mercial quay,  the  south  quay,  improved  by  Sir 
John  Rennie,  and  still  more  than  all  these,  the 
Britannia  jetty  (which  cost  five  thousand 
pounds),  recals  to  the  crow  other  passages  of 
David  Copperfield's  Y'armouth  career,  as,  for 
example,  his  picture  of  the  fishermen's  qiuirter. 
^*  I  smelt  the  lish,  and  pitch,  and  tar,  and  oakum, 
and  saw  the  sailors  walking  about,  and  the  carts 
jingling  up  and  down  over  the  stony  lanes,  be- 
strewn with  bits  of  chip  and  little  hillocks  of 
sand ;  past  gasworks,  ropewalks,  boat-builders' 
yards,  sliipwrights'  yards,  shipbreaker's  yards, 
riggers'  lofts,  smiths'  forges,  and  a  great  litter 
of  such  places,  until  we  came  out  upon  a  dull 
waste  and  desolate  fiat."  In  this  quarter  tarry 
palings  are  hung  with  blackish  brown  nets,  and 
tar-coloured  saii  are  everywhere  being  dried  or 
patched,  rolled  up,  or  unfolded.  Here  are  herring 
yawls,  and  mackerel  boats,  and  those  sturdy 
cobles  that  come  from  Whitby  and  Scarborough, 
bringing  periwinkles  and  pickled  mushrooms. 
Here,  too,  Jire  the  decked  boats  that  brave  the 
wolfish  gales  of  the  North  Sea,  and  that  nscd 
in  old  times  even  to  defy  the  crushing  ice  floes 
of  Greenland,  in  search  of  the  whale. 

Herrings  are  not  alone  the  arms  ;  they  are  the 
very  legs  of  Yannouth.  The  town  lives  on  them, 
and  stands  by  them.  In  1798  Yarmouth  had  only 
sixteen  fishing  boats,  Lowestoft  twenty-four, 
and  the  Yorkshire  men  forty.  In  1S33  there 
were  one  hundi'eti  Is'orfolk  boats  (chiefly  Yar- 
mouth) to  the  forty  or  fifty  of  Yorkshire,  the 
whole  employing  a  capital  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  pounds.  In  these  present  times, 
a  recent  able  writer  says,  there  are  two  hnndred 
Yarmouth  boats  and  forty  Yorkshire  and  Sussex 
cobles,  catching  eveiy  season  six  or  seven  score 
million  herrings,  of  the  value  of  two  hundred 
thousand  pounds.  The  mackerel  fishing  employs 
one  hundred  boats  and  f  oiu-teen  hundred  men 
and  women.  Every  mackerel  lugger  costs  seven 
or  eight  hundred  pounds,  and  carries  eighty  or 
a  hundred  nets,  each  twenty  yards  long  by  eight 
and  a  half  broad  Every  herring  boat  is  worth 
from  six  hundred  to  a  thousand  pounds.  It  is 
calculated  that  half  a  million  of  money  is,  in  one 
way  or  other,  invested  at  Yarmouth  in  reaping 
the  fish  harvest.  The  herring  harvest  com- 
mences at  the  end  of  September,  and  the 
glittering  millions  of  over  population  with 
which  the  North  Sea  then  teems  are  dragged 
out  for  ten  consecutive  weeks.  A  recent  topo- 
graphical traveller  has  collected  with  patient 
care  and  skill  some  cmious  close-preesed  facts 
the  subject  of  Yarmouth's   ceaseless  in- 


011 


\ 


dufetry.    Otv  those  rough  October  nights,  when 
the  BawOLa  lto\.\i  tcsi^  ^oi^  cznsswm^  ia  the  alant 


A 


OhiflM  IXekens.] 


TWO  SONNETS. 


CJalylO,18«9.]      131 


light  of  the  red  beacon,  thcae  Norfolk  seas  arc 
literally  coagulated  with  herrings,  and  the  nets 
bring  them  up  in  tumbling  heaps  of  Iooho  and 
spangled  silver.  A  single  Yarmouth  boat  has 
been  known  to  bring  in  from  twelve  to  six- 
teen lasts,  each  last  being  ten  barrels,  or  ten 
thousand  herrings ! 

Oak-logs,  the  crow  is  informed,  are  used  to 
smoke  the  best  herrings ;  but  the  Birming- 
ham bloater  being  of  a  lower  caste  is  seasoned 
by  hazel  wood  and  fir  loppings.  A  smoke 
house,  half  malt-kiln,  half  ''oast"  house,  is 
a  large  oblong  tower,  forty  or  fifty  feet  high, 
without  floors.  Above  are  transverse  compart- 
ments divided  by  partitions  of  horizontal  rails. 
In  these  open  racks  or  ''loves"  lie  the  laths 
or  "  gpeets."  The  herring,  arriving  br  cart  from 
the  beach  to  fulfil  his  destiny  for  the  good  of 
a  higher  species,  is  first  thrown  with  his  fellows 
into  a  bnck  recess,  sprinkled  with  salt,  and 
left  for  several  days.  The  duration  of  the 
vaporoua  purgatory  depends  on  the  destination 
of  the  fish.  If  he  be  a  Belgravian  bloater,  a 
bloated  aristocrat,  he  merely  hangs  twenty- 
four  hours  until  he  begins  to  swell  with  self- 
importance,  and  is  prq)ared  for  packing ;  if  a 
''Straits  man"  for  the  Mediterranean  portB,  he 
lingers  longer ;  if  he  be  a  mere  black  herring, 
for  the  chandlers,  or  the  tally  shop,  he  serves 
his  full  ten  days,  and  emerges  hard,  dark,  and 
salt.  On  emerging  from  their  bath  the  herrings 
are  run  through  the  gills  by  gangs  of  skilful 
women  called  "ryvers,"  who  "speet"  them  on 
long  sticks ;  eight  women  speetmg  eight  lasts 
of  herrings  (thirteen  thousand  two  hundred 
herrings  to  a  last)  in  a  day.  For  each  last  the 
women  get  three  shillings  and  ninepence.  The 
^>eets  are  then  placed  by  climbing  men  on  the 
loves,  tier  by  tier,  until  the  smoke-house  is 
full.  The  fire  is  then  lighted,  the  oil  begins 
to  distfl,  and  the  herrings  slowly  turn  yellow, 
dusky  orange,  dingy  red,  or  black,  according 
to  the  duration  of  the  smoking.  "  I-Ast  scene 
of  all  that  ends  this  strange  eventful  history," 
ccmes  the  packer,  who  removes  the  speets,  and 
strips  the  fish  into  the  barrels  in  the  radiating 
(Htier  in  which  they  are  to  He,  until  each  barrel 
has  its  regulated  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
(tiiirteen  dozen  to  the  hundred). 

The  scenes  on  the  old  jetty  when  the 
mackerel  boats  are  coming  m  and  the  fish 
auctions  are  beginning,  are  very  picturesque. 
This  moment  there  is  nothing  visible  but  a  few 
bald  flag-staves  marking  the  auction  stands, 
tangles  of  straw,  piles  of  madder-coloured  nets, 
heaps  of  baskets  and  empty  oily  tubs,  some  old 
mermaids  in  blue  aprons,  and  some  old  fisher- 
men in  oilskin  dreadnaughts  and  long  boots. 
Some  tan-coloured  sails  lop  round  in  sight. 
Instantly  the  jetty  comes  to  life.  The  ferry 
boats  mounted  with  iron  skates  are  shoved  down 
to  the  water  and  warped  out ;  the  tubs  are 
also  rolled  down  and  got  ready.  The  boats 
come  in,  crowded  with  mackerel  baskets.  The 
naatical  women  gather  round  the  auctioneer, 
who  stands  with  a  red  book  in  one  hand,  and 
a  bell  in  the  other.  He  rings  the  bell,  and 
amioimces,  with  true  Saxon  hrevitj:  "Here  I 


have  so  many  hundred  and  so  many  quarters 
at  so  much  a  hundred."  ITie  baskets  are  in- 
stantly emptied  into  tubs  half  full  of  water, 
and  the  women  wash  and  pack  the  perishable 
fish  in  layers  (sixty  mackerel  to  a  basket),  six 
score  to  the  hundred,  the  largest  fish  on  the 
top.  Straw  is  spread  over  the  fish,  down  go 
the  lids  of  the  baskets,  scaly  hands  tie  the 
reddened  strings,  scaly  hands  Uft  the  loads  into 
quick  railway  carts,  and  off  they  fly  to  ex- 
pectant London  and  hungry  Birmingliam. 

But  the  editorial  tnunpet  sounds,  and  the 
crow  must  strike  off  towards  Cromer  and  the 
northern  part  of  the  North  Sea :  first  recalling 
that  on  this  dangerous  north  shore,  brave 
Captain  Manby,  in  1808,  tested  liis  apparatus 
for  saving  the  crews  of  stranded  ships  by 
throwing  them  a  line  attached  to  a  shot  from  a 
mortar.  By  night,  fireworks  are  used  with  this 
apparatus,  which  burst  at  the  height  of  three 
hundred  yards,  and  diffuse  a  clear  light  over 
every  object,  so  that  the  aim  can  be  properly 
directed.  In  twenty  years  the  Manby  system 
saved  fifty-eight  vessels,  and  four  hundred  and 
ten  human  beings.  Turner,  never  tired  of  the 
sea,  painted  a  fine  grave  picture  of  the  Yar- 
mouth sands  at  twilight,  with  the  Manby  mortar 
just  discharging  its  shell. 

Swift  now  on  the  wing  over  the  Denes — broad 
green  levels,  with  dull  patches  here  and  there 
of  loose  sand,  sprinkled  with  selfheaL,  stone- 
crop,  and  sand-wort.  Poising  over  the  Nelson 
Column,  our  black  friend,  who  needs  no  stair- 
cases, no  towers  along  the  steep,  catches  at  one 
glance  of  his  intelligent  eye,  miles  of  the  flat 
level  across  Breyden  water,  along  the  Yai-e,  and 
sees  from  Gorleston  heights  to  the  Suffolk  cliffs, 
stretching  towards  Lowestoft.  Yarmouth  way 
lies  the  great  sapphire  pavement  of  the  sea, 
speckled  with  flocks  of  brown  fishing-boats. 
He  sees,  too,  the  light -ships  marking  the  en- 
trance, and  a  tossing  line  of  froth  where  the 
shoals  begin,  as  he  looks  towards  Amsterdam. 

TTVO    SOITNETS. 

I.  DEBPO^TDENCT. 

Mt  life  IB  as  a  weaiy  bridge  of  eig^hs, 
'*  A  palaee  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  :*' 
But  1  have  loft  my  youth's  brif^ht  palaces, 
And  passed  the  portals  of  love's  fairy  land, 
And  entered  on  that  dark  and  dreary  pnth 
Which  every  earth-born  traveller  must  tread, 
Wherein  the  soul  no  joy  or  solace  hath, 
No  rcfu^E^e  from  its  anguish  or  its  dread, 
Save  in  that  prison-house  the  grave. 
Seirret,  remorse,  for  time  misspent  and  gone. 
Jailors,  whoso  cruelty  I  daro  not  brave, 
Walk  at  my  side,  and  goad  me  sternly  on, 
While  through  the  arches  moan  contmually 
The  stranded  wrocks  of  life's  fast  ebbing  soa. 

II.  aBFBOOl. 

Oh,  saj  not  thus ;  thy  life  is  as  a  stair, 
Of  which  the  first  steps  loan  upon  the  earth ; 
With  each  ascent  you  rise  to  purer  air : 
Below  are  clouds;  above  the  stars  have  birth. 
Though  fair  and  sunny  Earth's  alluring  bowers, 
Brc'uk  through  her  dear  enchantments  and  pursue 
Thy  path  right  onward ;  all  those  fruits  and  ilowers 
O'er  which  thou  treadcst  now  shall  bloom.  «iue^^  , 
And  live  eternal  ihToug;\v  eUiTii«\\io>w%\ 
And  a«  you  hif^her  ciimb,  snii  ixoixv  ^omx  N\<y« 


<& 


& 


132      [July  10, 186a] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condtieted  by 


Earth's  soft  green  pleasance  fades,  faint  not,  nor  fear. 
Though  solemn  in  its  loneliness  the  road, 
Death's  stars  shine  high  above  thee,  bright  and  clear, 
And,  won  the  height,  the  last  step  leads  to  God ! 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  PRESS. 

IN  TWO  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  I. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  be  "  a  gentleman 
of  the  press,"  in  the  qniet  times  of  Queen 
Victoria,  but  it  was  not  so  very  well  in 
the  troublous  days  of  good  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, or  those,  scarcely  less  troublous,  of 
good  Queen  Anne.     Those  who  by  the  pen 
and  the  printing  machine  offended  Queen 
Elizabeth,   or  her  administration,  or  any 
member  thereof,  might,  and  did,  have  their 
hands  cut  off,  their  tongues  slit,  or  their 
necks  subjected  to  the  unpleasant  process 
which  rids  the  world  of  murderers.     In 
Queen  Anne*s  days,  it  was  not  so  bad, 
but  still  it  was  bad  enough ;  for  the  pillory 
and  long  imprisonment  were  not  agreeable 
commentaries  upon  a  mere  difference  of 
political  or  theological  opinion.     And  of  all 
the  gentlemen  of  the  press  who  ever  lived, 
Daniel  Defoe — ^whose  lot  was  cast  in  the 
middle  term,  between  the  disgrace  and  ad- 
versity of  the  Elizabethan  and  the  honour 
and  prosperity  of  the  Victorian  era — ^may 
serve  as  a  doughty  specimen  of  the  class  that 
has  done  so  much  for  the  liberty  of  England. 
And  Defoe  was  not  merely  a  gentleman  of 
the  press,  and  a  journalist  of  rare  powers, 
but  a  literary  genius  of  the  highest  rank. 
Never  since  books  began  to  be  printed, 
was  there  so  popular  a  story  as  Robinson 
Crusoe,  and  that  not  alone  in  the  language 
in  which  it  was  first  written,  but  in  tnat  of 
every  European  tongue  into  which  it  has 
been  translated.  Next  to  the  Bible,  the  Ara- 
bian Nights  Entertainments,  and  -^sop's 
Fables,  the  not  altogether  fictitious  history 
of  the  shipwrecked  mariner  of  Hull  is,  per- 
haps, the  best-known  book  in  the  world. 
Had  its  author  produced  nothing  else,  he 
would  have  established  a  claim  to  a  fore- 
most place  in  the  illustrious  company  of 
the  English  authors  who  have  made  the 
world  happier  by  their  genius.     But  this 
book,  delightful  as  it  is,  is  not  the  only  one 
which  England  owes  to  the   sound  sense 
and  cultivated  intellect  of  Daniel   Defoe. 
Robinson   Crusoe   enshrines    him   in    our 
hearts,  but  hundreds  of  tracts  and  volumes 
on  all  the  great  questions  of  his  day  and 
ours,  in  the  discussion  of  which  he  was  in- 
variably found  on  the  side  of  conmion  sense 
and  justice,  mark  him  out  as  a  grandee  of 
//  Jitcratnre.      His  mind   was  alike   logical 
/(  and  dramatic,  and  to  sum  up  his  personal 
ff  and jutellectnal  charsLcter^  he  may  be  briefly 


described  as  a  brave,  simple,  honest,  in- 
dustrious, far-seeing  man  of  genius,  one  of 
the  noble  souls  who,  with  the  greatest 
amount  of  brain  as  well  as  heart,  have 
helped  to  build  up  the  liberties  of  Eng- 
land, risking  reputation,  fortune,  and  life 
in  the  great  struggle  of  the  people  to 
achieve  the  civil  and  religious  liberty  which 
arbitrary  power  would  resist  or  deny.  It 
is  true  that  long  after  all  the  heats  and 
animosities  which  this  great  writer  excited 
in  his  lifetime,  have  been  cooled  and  laid  at 
rest  in  the  grave,  a  spot  has  been  discovered 
on  his  hitherto  unsullied  name.  Before 
discussing  the  spot  in  question,  which  may 
not,  after  all,  be  so  very  large  or  so  very 
black  as  those  who  love  to  disparage  g^reai- 
ness  because  they  themselves  are  little, 
have  sought  to  represent  it,  let  us  dis- 
course upon  the  life  and  character  of  Defoe,, 
as  if  no  such  discovery  had  been  made,, 
until  we  come  to  the  period  of  his  career 
w^hen  it  is  necessary  to  mention  it,  along 
with  those  discoveries  of  his  hitherto  un- 
known and  unsuspected  writings  which 
grew  out  of  it. 

The  father  of  Daniel  Defoe  was  one 
James  Foe,  a  wealthy  butcher  and  well- 
known  Dissenter,  in  Cripplegate,  in  the 
city  of  London.  His  son  Daniel  was  born 
in  the  year  1661.  Daniel,  who  did  not 
begin  to  call  himself  Defoe  till  he  was- 
twenty-five,  received  a  good  education, 
and,  in  due  course  of  time,  was  placed 
by  his  father  in  the  establishment  of  a 
hosier.  At  the  age  of  twenty-four  he  was 
enabled,  by  his  father's  assistance,  to  start 
in  business  on  his  own  account  in  Free- 
man's-court,  Comhill.  But  his  mind  was 
not  wholly  in  the  shop,  and  his  heart  as 
well-  as  his  intellect  was  stirred  by  the 
great  events  of  his  time.  Believing  that 
the  Protestant  religion  was  endangered  by 
the  bigotry  and  misgovemment  of  James 
the  Second,  and  sympathising  warmly  in 
the  objects  of  the  gallant  but  luckless, 
enterprise  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  the 
gallant  hosier,  leaving  for  awhile  his  busi- 
ness to  his  assistants,  or  shutting  up  shop 
altogether  (for  on  neither  of  these  twa 
points  have  his  biographers  been  able  to 
tell  us  anything  authentic),  took  up  arm» 
in  support  of  the  Protestant  Prince,  and 
fought  in  the  ranks  as  a  private  soldier. 
"  The  religion  and  liberties  of  his  country, 
and  especially  of  the  Dissenters,  were 
at  stake,"  says  Mr.  Lee,  whose  Life  and 
Recently  Discovered  Writings  of  Defoe 
form  the  text  upon  which  we  write ;  "  the 
I  agitation  OLinong  his  friends  in  the  city  of« 
\  LondoTL  "w^ls  ^eaX.\  \aa  ^T^t^^Vr^  oC  firce- 


h 


GhvAeelHiSlMni.] 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  PRESS. 


[July  10, 18*9.1      188 


# 


doia  led  him  to  join  with  them,  and,  car- 
ried away  hy  the  tide  of  popular  excite- 
ment, he  armed  and  followed  the  Dnke  of 
Honmonth's  standard."  This  was  all  very 
well  for  a  patriot,  but  it  was  not  very 
well  for  a  tradesman.  Nor  was  it  the  only 
time  during  his  commercial  career  that  he 
grasped  the  sword  or  shouldered  the  gun 
as  a  rebel  and  a  revolutionist.  A  short 
time  previous  to  the  flight  of  James  the 
Second  from  the  coxmtry  he  had  endeavoured 
to  betray,  and  the  temper  and  character 
of  whosi  people  he  so  eg^egio^lj  xnisnn. 
derstood,  Defoe,  unable  to  confine  his  atten- 
tion to  his  business,  threw  in  his  lot  with  the 
Revolution.  No  sooner  did  the  news  of 
the  landing  and  advance  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  arrive  in  London,  than  Defoe,  then 
in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  rode  out, well  armed  and  equipped, 
to  meet  the  army  of  liberation  at  Henley- 
on-Thames.  Though  he  had  no  occasion 
to  fight  for  the  cause  he  had  adopted,  he 
was  ready  to  do  so,  and  marched  back  with 
the  army  towards  the  capital.  On  tho  18th 
of  December,  the  Prince  of  Orange  made 
his  triumphal  entry  into  London,  and 
Defoe,  full  of  the  greatness  of  the  occasion, 
narrates,  "that  it  was  with  inexpressible 
joy  that  he  heard  dehvered,  at  the  bar  of 
the  House  of  Lords,  in  a  message  from  the 
Commons,  by  Mr.  Hampden,  of  Bucking- 
hamshire, '  that  it  is  inconsistent  with  the 
constitution  of  this  Protestant  kingdom  to 
be  governed  by  a  Popish  prince.'  "  And 
Defoe  not  only  offered  his  sword  when  it 
might  have  been  needed,  but  for  years 
aflewards  gave  his  time,  his  intellect,  and 
his  pen  to  the  cause  he  had  at  heart, 
writing  and  publishing  a  series  of  tracts 
and  pamphlets  in  support  of  the  principles 
of  the  Revolution. 

After  a  time  his  commercial  affairs 
began,  as  was  not  at  all  extraordinary 
under  the  circumstances,  to  be  seriously 
disordered ;  and  in  1692  an  angry  creditor 
took  out  a  commission  of  bankruptcy 
against  him.  This,  however,  was  soon 
superseded  on  the  petition  of  other  credi- 
tors, who  had  faith  in  Defoe's  probity,  by 
whose  means  a  composition  was  effected. 
Ten  years  afterwards,  when  Defoe  had 
made  many  enemies  by  his  writings  among 
the  Jacobite  party,  and  even  among  his 
own  friends,  by  a  satire  entitled  The 
Shortest  Way  with  tho  Dissenters,  a  po- 
litical opponent  bore  striking  testimony 
to  his  commercial  integrity.  "  I  must  do 
one  piece  of  justice  to  tho  man,''  says 
Turchin,  in  a  Dialogue  between  a  Dis- 
senter and  Observator,  ''though  I  love  him 


no  better  than  you  do.  It  is  this ;  that 
meeting  a  gentleman  in  a  coffee-house  when 
I,  and  everybody  else,  were  railing  at  him, 
the  gentleman  took  us  up  with  this  short 
speech.  Gentlemen,  said  he,  I  know  this 
Defoe  as  well  as  any  of  you,  for  I  was  one 
of  his  creditors,  who  compounded  with  him, 
and  discharged  him  fully.  Several  years 
afterwards  he  sent  for  me,  and  though  he 
was  clearly  discharged,  he  paid  me  all  the 
remainder  of  the  debt,  voluntarily  and  of 
his  own  accord,  and  he  told  mo  that  so  far 
as  God  should  enable  him,  he  intended  to 
do  the  same  with  everybody.  When  he 
had  done,  he  desired  me  to  set  my  hand  to 
a  paper  to  acknowledge  it,  which  I  readily 
did,  and  found  a  great  many  names  in  the 
paper  before  me ;  and  I  think  myself  bound 
to  own  it,  though  I  am  no  fi-iend  to  the 
book  he  wrote,  no  more  than  you  are." 

Tho  hosiery  business  had  not  prospered 
with  Defoe  the  soldier ;  neither  did  that  of 
a  trade  in  skins  and  furs,  in  which  he  after- 
wai*ds  became  interested.  His  thoughts 
were  on  affairs  of  state,  and  not  in  liis 
ledger  and  daybook.  To  aid  him  to  pay 
his  way  in  the  world,  he  accepted,  about  tho 
year  1700,  the  oflBce  of  secretary  to  a  com- 
pany established  near  Tilbury  in  Essex,  for 
tho  manufacture  of  bricks  and  pantiles. 
He  ultimately  became  owner  of  this  con- 
cern, and  devoted  to  its  interest  as  much 
time  as  he  could  spare  from  the  cause,  by 
no  means  assured  in  that  day,  of  religious 
liberty.  Had  he  left  off"  writing,  and  at- 
tended solely  to  his  bricks  and  pantiles  he 
might  have  become  a  rich,  a  prosperous, 
and  contented  citizen ;  and  leit  a  fortune, 
though  possibly  not  a  name,  behind  him. 
But  Defoe  was  a  bom  poHtical  genius,  and 
was  never  happy  but  when  he  had  the  pen 
in  his  hand,  using  it  in  defence  of  the 
right,  in  denunciation  of  the  wrong,  some- 
times earnestly,  sometimes  jestingly,  but 
always  forcibly.  He  had  the  art  of  placing 
himself  so  exactly  in  the  position  of  his 
fictitious  characters,  as  to  make  the  world 
believe  them  to  be  real.  His  unlucky 
satire,  A  Short  Way  with  the  Dissenters,  in 
which  he  assumed  the  part  of  an  intolerant 
persecutor  who  would  serve  the  Dissenters 
of  England  as  Torquemada  did  the  religious 
malcontents  of  Spain,  deceived  both  parties. 
The  high  Tories  of  the  time  at  first  believed 
the  book  to  be  genuine,  and  were  never 
weary  of  chanting  its  praises.  The  Dis- 
senters also  believed  it  to  be  the  true  utter- 
ances of  a  persecutor  who  meant  what  he 
said,  and  were  equally  loud\tv.\\A  csyaj^stsstsa/- 
tion.  But  when  \t  came  \jo  \wi  \aicr?ra.  >(Jwa.^. 
Defoe  was  the  author,  V\»  x^aX  ^^^  ^^ 


<^. 


4 


134     [Joiy  10, 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND^ 


EOondnetodby 


apparonty  and  the  High  Church  party,  in- 
dignant that  they  should  have  been  the 
victims  of  such  a  hoax,  clamoured  lustily 
for  the  author's  punishment.  The  Tory  go- 
vernment of  the  day  no  sooner  discovered 
that  its  grave  irony  was  to  be  taken  in  a 
contrary  sense,  irom  that  in  which  it  ap- 
peared to  be  written,  than  they  resolved  to 
crush  the  author,  if  possible,  by  a  State 
prosecution.  Defoe  fled,  and  the  govern- 
ment advertised  him  in  the  London  Gaa^tte 
of  the  10th  of  January,  1703,  offering  a 
reward  of  thirty  pounds  for  his  appre- 
hension. He  was  described  as  "  a  middle 
sized,  spare  man,  about  forty  years  old,  of 
a  brown  complexion,  and  dark  brown 
coloured  hair — but  wearing  a  wig,"  and  as 
having  "  a  hooked  nose,  a  sharp  chin,  grey 
eyes,  and  a  large  mole  near  his  mouth." 
Defoe  lay  in  liiding  for  some  time,  to  the 
serious  injury  of  liis  business;  but  ulti- 
mately surrendered  to  take  his  trial,  with 
the  hope  that  no  punishment  would  be  in- 
flicted upon  him,  for  a  piece  of  political 
irony.  In  this  hope,  as  ^vi]l  appear  here- 
after, he  was  grievously  disappointed ;  and 
the  pantile  works,  in  the  absence  of  their 
directing  head,  had  to  be  closed  and  the 
manufacture  discontinued.  In  this  venture 
Defoe  lost,  or  became  responsible  for,  about 
three  thousand  Ave  hundred  pounds. 

After  this  collapse,  trade  and  commerce 
knew  the  bravo  man  no  more.  He  had  long 
ago  discovered  liis  tme  vocation,  and  hence- 
forth he  determined  to  make  it  his  only  one. 
Trade,  as  ho  knew  to  his  cost,  required  a 
constant  and  unfaltering  allegiance,  if  the 
trader  were  not  to  flounder  into  bank- 
ruptcy ;  and  such  allegiance  it  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  bestow.  For  the  future  his 
pen  became  liis  main  if  not  his  sole  reli- 
ance for  his  daily  bread  and  the  support  of 
liis  family.  Here  let  us  take  leave  of  him 
in  his  character  of  a  tradesman :  with  the 
sole  remark,  that  if  he  were  unfortunate, 
he  was  never  dishonest.  He  failed,  it  is  true ; 
bat  without  a  stain  upon  his  integrity, 
and  in  the  case  of  the  brick  and  pantile 
manufactory,  his  ruin  was  the  work  of  his 
political  enemies,  and  not  in  any  degree  of 
his  own  commercial  mismanagement.  And 
fiu'thermore  it  must  be  recorded  to  his 
honour,  that  not  only  his  brick  and  pantile 
debts,  but  every  other  debt  contracted  in 
his  commercial  life,  was  discharged  to  the 
uttermost  farthing — before  the  strong  soul 
shuffled  off  this  mortjil  coil,  and  rested  in 
peace  fi*om  its  manifold  labours. 

Had  he  lived  in  our  day,  Defoe  would 
most  probably  Iislyo  been  the  editor  of  some 
^3^ea^  daily  or  weekly  newspaper,  or  the 


writer  of  its  most  powerful  leading  articles. 
In  his  day,  to  a  great  extent,  Hie  pamphlet 
performed  the  functions  of  the  newspaper ; 
and  as  a  pamphleteer  he  occupied  the  very 
flrst  rank  among  his  contemporaries.  From 
the  Revolution  of  1688  to  the  accession  of 
Greorgo  the  First,  his  pen  was  never  idle. 
Unavowedly  and  unknown,  he  was  equally 
busy  through  the  whole  reign  of  George 
the  First,  and  a  portion  of  ioat  of  George 
the  Second.  During  all  this  time  he  em- 
ployed himself  on  every  subject,  no  matter 
what,  that  interested  the  crown,  the  parlia- 
ment, or  the  people.  In  attack  or  in  defence, 
in  solemn  earnest,  or  in  grave  and  some- 
times grim  banter,  he  was  always  power- 
ful, and  always  just.  And  it  was  known  of 
him  in  his  own  day,  as  is  remembered  to  his 
honour  in  ours,  that  he  never  attacked  the 
weak  and  the  defenceless.  *'From  being 
a  boxing  English  boy,"  as  he  said  of  him- 
self in  an  autobiographical  passage  in  his 
Review,  "I  learned  this  early  piece  of 
generosity,  not  to  hit  my  enemy  when  he 
is  down." 

Defoe  wrote  many  pamphlets  and  papers 
in  support  of  the  principles  of  which  King 
William  was  the  representative  and  the  de- 
fender, and  soon  became  known,  at  least  by 
name,  to  that  monarch,  as  one  of  the 
staunchest  supporters  of  his  throne  against 
the  reactionary  Jacobites.  The  services 
thus  rendered,  recommended  him  to  the 
government  as  a  powerful  writer  who 
ought  both  to  be  encouraged  and  employed, 
and  in  the  year  1694,  as  he  himself  states, 
he  was,  without  the  least  application  on  hifl 
own  part,  appointed  accountant  to  the  com- 
missioners for  the  glass  duty,  in  which 
service  he  continued  till  the  glass  duty  was 
abolished  in  1699.  This  employment,  while 
it  lasted,  never  interfered  with  his  literary 
work.  On  the  first  of  August,  1 700,  there  ap- 
peared what  Defoe  called  "  a  vile  abhorred 
pamphlet,  in  very  ill  verse,  written  by  one 
Mr.  Turcliin,  and  called  The  Foreigners ;  in 
which  the  author  (who  he  was  I  then  knew 
not)  fell  personally  upon  the  king  himself, 
and  then  upon  tiie  Dutch  nation.  And 
after  having  reproached  his  majesty  with 
crimes  that  his  worst  enemies  could  not 
think  of  without  horror,  he  sums  up  all  in 
the  odious  name  of  a  Foreigner.  This  filled 
me  with  a  kind  of  rage  against  the  book, 
and  gave  birth  to  a  trifle  which  I  never 
could  hope  should  have  met  with  so  general 
an  acceptance  as  it  did  :  I  mean  The  True 
Born  Englishman."  This  work,  was  the 
first,  known  to  be  by  Defoe,  which  achieved 
great  popularity.  It  took  the  town  by  storm, 
\  and  no\i  onVy  tk&  T%;^\dl^  >ikccra^h.  several 


:& 


Charlm  DIokflBB.] 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  PRESS. 


[July  10, 1889.]       135 


legal  editions  to  the  anthor's  profit,  but 
was  pirated  on  every  hand,  and  sold  in 
penny  copies  at  the  comer  of  every  street. 
*-  It  is  very  probable,"  says  ^fr.  Lee,  "  that 
from  the  invention  of  printing  to  1701,  an 
equal  number  of  copies  of  any  book  had 
never  been  sold  within  the  space  of  one 
year. 

This  tract  did  more  for  Defoe  than  make 
him  popular  with  the  multitude ;  it  gained 
him  the  friendship  of  the  king,  the  man 
'  whom  of  all  others  in  England,  ho  most 
esteemed,    and    in  wlioso    cause    he  had 
l'  wrought  and  fought,  and  the   success  of 
whose  principles  he  looked  upon  as  iden- 
tified with  tne  happiness  of  his   country. 
"  The  king  sought  and  obtained  his  Mend- 
ship,  and  was  accustomed  to  consult  him 
privately  on  affairs  of  state;    but  Defoe 
never  divulged  their  confidence,  and  he 
.  only  informed  the  world  incidentally  afler 
the  king's  death,  that  on  the  subject  of  the 
:  French   war  of  1703,   to  which    he  had 
'  opposed  himself  in  several  pamphlets,  the 
I  long  asked  him,  this  war  having  been  irre- 
vocably determined  upon,   to   draw  up  a 
scheme  of  operations  by  which  it  might  be 
'  made  as  little  onerous  as  possible  to  the 
people,  in  which  he  recommended  an  attack 

I  ftgainst  the  Spanish  West  Indies,  which  the 

I I  long  frilly  approved.  Had  his  majesty 
I  fired  Defoe  was  to  havo  had  an  honour- 
able part  in  its  execution.  Reverting  after 
the  king's  death  to  the  kindnesses  he  had 
received  at  his  hands,  Defoe  wrote  in  his 
Review,   **  1  am  not  at  all  vain  in  saying  1 

•  had  the  honour  to  know  more  of  his  majesty 
than  some  of  those  who  insulted  him  knew 

'  of  his  house,  and  I  think,  if  my  testimony 
was  able  to  add  to  his  bright  reputation,  1 
could  give  such  particulars  of  Ids  being  not 

'  a  man  of  morals  only,  but  of  serious  piety 
and  religion  as  few  kings  in  the  world,  in 
these  latter  ages  of  time,  can  come  up  to." 

i      The  death  of  King  William  was  a  serious 

'  Wow  to  the  rising  political  fortunes  of  Defoe. 
But  there  was  much  work  to  do,  and  he 
did  it  in  his  own  way,  though  doubtful 
whether  the  favour  of  the  new  court  would 
be  extended  to  a  man  who  was  so  strong 
an  opponent  of  the  pretensions  of  her  ma- 
jesty's Koman  Catholic  father,  to  which 
ner  majesty  herself,  Protestant  as  she  was, 
was  supposed  to  have  a  leaning.  The 
Whigs  who  served  King  William  were 
dismissed,  and  a  Tory  ministry  appointed 
within  two  months  after  Queen  Anne's 
accession;  &cts  that  preficrured  to  Defoe 
that  a  stormy  time  was  before  the  nation, 
and  before  him  as  an  individual  whose  duty 
and  arocadtm  and  sole  business  in  Ufe  it 


was  to  keep  the  nation  true  to  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Revolution.  The  opening  of 
the  year  1 702  had  seen  Defoe  the  honoured 
and  confidential  friend  of  a  powerful  sove- 
reign, and  apparently  on  the  high  road  to 
fiime  and  fortune.  The  king's  death 
changed  all.  The  court  knew  him  not, 
except  to  mistrust  him.  The  new  House 
of  Commons,  if  not  in  a  Jacobite  majority, 
had  a  majority  opposed  to  the  Wliig  and 
Protestant  principles,  that  drove  out  James 
the  Second  and  seated  William  the  Third 
on  tho  throne.  This  majority  favoured 
Roman  Catholicism  and  English  High 
Churchism,  and  was  bitterly  opposed  to 
the  Dissenters,  of  whom  Defoe  was  the 
most  eminent  champion.  But  he  held  on 
the  even  tenor  of  his  way ;  convinced,  and 
as  he  said  "positively  assured,"  that  he 
was  in  the  right.  Queen  Anne  had  been 
less  than  six  months'  upon  the  throne 
when  Defoe  published  the  pamphlet  al- 
ready alluded  to.  The  Shortest  Way  with 
the  Dissenters.  Defoe's  intention,  when  he 
eventually  surrendered  to  take  his  trial  for 
this  publication,  was  to  justify  his  pam- 
phlet, and  to  prove  that  everything  he  had 
said  in  jest  and  irony,  as  to  the  best  mode 
of  exterminating  the  Dissenters,  had  been 
said  in  solemn  earnest  by  leading  members 
of  the  High  Church  party.  But  he  was 
prevailed  upon  to  witlidraw  the  plea  of  jus- 
tification, and  simply  confessing  tho  author- 
ship, to  throw  himself  upon  tlie  mercy  of 
the  queen.  Tlie  result  proved  that  he 
acted  unwisely.  There  was  to  be  no  mercy 
on  this  occasion.  He  was  sentenced  to 
pay  a  fine  of  two  hundred  marks,  to  stand 
three  times  in  the  pillory,  to  bo  imprisoned 
during  the  queen's  pleasure, .  and  to  find 
sureties  for  liis  good  behaviour  for  seven 
years.  The  sentence  was  intended  to  be 
an  infamous  one ;  and  it  teas  infamous — not 
to  Defoe,  but  to  tho  government  which 
pronounced  it.  He  was  removed  from  the 
dock  to  Newgate,  there  to  remain  for 
twenty  days,  until  ho  was  placed  in  the 
pillory.  Even  in  this  dreary  interval  his 
pen  was  not  idle,  for  he  found  ti'Jie  and 
means  to  complete  and  send  to  the  printer, 
a  work  on  which  ho  had  been  previously 
engaged,  entitled  Tho  Shortest  Way  to 
Peace  and  Union,  by  the  author  of  The 
Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters.  The 
object  of  this  tract  was  to  reconcile  the 
Church  to  the  Dissenters,  and  the  Dis- 
senters to  the  Church.  **  Thus  the  noble 
Christian  peacemaker,"  as  Mr.  Lee  well 
says,  "  endcavoui'ed  to  return  good  for 
evil  to  the  enetnies  \»f\\o  WOi  oxA^oNWix^^ 
to  crush  hiTn^  and.  to  tYi©  irieiM^a  ^Vo  ^aaA. 


fA 


136      [Jnly  10«  1M9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condacted  by 


/ 


forsaken  him."  He  also  composed  in  this 
interval  his  celebrated  Hymn  to  the  Pillory, 
in  which  he  placed  his  persecutors  in  a 
moral  pillory,  worse  than  the  physical  pil- 
lory, in  which  he  was  to  stand ;  and  gibbeted 
their  names,  not  for  a  day  only,  but  for 
all  time. 

Both  of  these  works  were  published  on 
the  29th  of  July,  on  the  very  day  on  which 
he  was  first  made  a  public  speckle  before 
the  Royal  Exchange  in  Comhill.  But  a 
strong  reaction  had  set  in  in  favour  of  this 
martyr  of  liberty,  and  lest  any  Tory  in 
the  crowd  should  think  it  incumbent  to 
pelt  Defoe  with  eggs,  cabbages,  filth,  or 
stones,  with  which  it  was  the  custom  to 
pelt  the  petty  criminals  exhibited  in  the 
pillory,  the  crowd  merely  pelted  his  feet 
with  summer  flowers,  and  formed  a  guard 
of  honour  to  protect  him  firom  insult  or  in- 
jury, ornamented  the  steps  and  beams  of 
the  pillory  with  wreaths  and  garlands, 
drank  to  his  health,  long  life,  and  prospe- 
rity, in  bumpers  of  flowing  liquor;  inter- 
mingling their  expressions  of  gratitude  to 
Defoe  with  shouts  of  execration  against 
the  judge  who  had  sentenced  him,  and  the 
ministers  of  the  crown  who  had  incited  his 
prosecution.  On  the  following  day  he  was 
again  placed  in  the  pillory,  opposite  the 
conduit  in  Cheapside,  and  on  the  third  day 
on  the  Westminster  side  of  Temple  Bar, 
on  both  of  which  occasions  his  shame  was 
turned  iato  his  triumph  by  the  crowd,  and 
he  whom  the  pillory  had  failed  to  shame, 
sanctified  the  very  pillory  by  his  bravery 
and  innocence.  The  Hymn  to  the  Pillory, 
which  in  a  manner  recommitted  the  offence 
which  had  brought  the  author  face  to  face 
with  the  law,  had  a  large  sale  among  the 
crowd  assembled  to  witness  his  exposure. 
Expostulating  with  the  Pillory,  he  indig- 
nantly bade  it  speak  to  the  people  and 

Tell  them  the  men  that  placed  him  there 

Are  Bcandala  to  the  times, 
Are  at  a  loss  to  find  his  guilt, 

And  can't  commit  his  crimes. 

The  government  was  politic  enough    to 
take  no  notice  of  this  new  composition. 

After  these  three  exposures,  which  might 
have  been  called  ovations,  Defoe  was  re- 
consigned  to  Newgate,  where,  it  is  to  be 
supposed,  he  had  private  accommodation 
not  accorded  to  ordinary  prisoners,  inas- 
much as  ho  continued  his  literary  labours 
in  the  cause  which  he  had  at  heart,  and  to 
support  a  wife  and  six  children  by  their 
sale.     Having,  as  it  seemed,  ruined  Defoe 
pecuDmiily,  the  Tory  government  of  Queen 
Anne  bethought   themselves   whether,    in 
liis  misery  and  diatreaB,  he  might  not  be 


bought  over  to  their  side,  and  whether, 
for  a  valuable  consideration,  release  fix)m 
prison,  and  the  promise  of  employment,  he 
might  not  be  induced  to  betray  the  confi- 
dence of  the  late  king.  The  Earl  of  Not- 
tingham appears  to  have  either  gone  or  sent 
to  hiTTi  in  Newgate  on  this  errand ;  but 
Defoe,  to  use  his  own  brave  words,  "  scorned 
to  come  out  of  Newgate  at  the  price  of  be- 
traying a  dead  master,  or  discovering  those 
things  which  nobody  would  have  been  the 
worse  (or  the  better)  for."  During  the 
next  six  or  eight  months,  while  he  lay  in  ' 
prison,  he  wrote,  or  published,  having  pre- 
viously written,  a  whole  library  of  pam- 
phlets, the  mere  list  of  which,  if  it  prove 
nothing  else,  proves  a  marvellous  industry, 
— a  marvellous  courage;  and  a  soul  that 
no  misfortune,  or  adverse  circumstance, 
could  daunt,  as  long  as  there  was  work  to 
undertake  in  the  service  of  the  people. 
These  pamphlets,  amounting  in  all  to  six- 
teen, and  supplemented  before  his  release 
from  prison  by  almost  as  many  more,  were 
but  the  recreations  of  the  massive  intellect 
that  still  craved  for  work.  On  the  19th  of 
February  appeared  Hihe  first  number  of  a 
weekly  periodical,  entitled  The  Review, 
started  by  Defoe,  and  carried  on  by  him, 
alone  and  unaided,  and  in  the  midst  of  all 
but  incredible  difficulties,  for  nine  years 
afterwards.  It  was  published  once  a  week 
for  the  first  two  months,  afterwards  twice  a 
week,  and  finally,  when  he  had  recovered 
his  liberty,  thrice  a  week ;  and  claims  notice, 
not  only  as  being  Defoe's,  but  as  being  the 
forerunner,  and  to  some  extent  the  model,  of 
the  weekly  reviews  and  newspapers  of  the 
present  day.  While  thus  working,  striving, 
and,  like  the  equally  brave  John  Milton 
before  him,  "  bating  no  jot  of  heart  or 
hope,"  a  gleam  of  better  fortune  shone  into 
his  prison.  Legion's  Address  to  the  Lords, 
supporting  the  House  of  Peers  in  their  hos- 
tility to  the  reactionary  policy  of  the  Jaco- 
bite and  Tory  majority  in  the  Commons, 
excited  more  than  ordinary  attention,  and 
was  generally  suspected,  but  not  positively 
known,  to  bo  Defoe's.  It  has  never  be«i 
included  in  the  list  of  his  works,  but  ^s 
traced  to  his  pen  by  Mr.  Lee,  on  what 
appear  to  be  satisfactory  groxmds.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  the  pamphlet  did  good 
service  to  the  Protestant  and  liberal  cause, 
and,  like  a  straw  upon  the  wind,  showed 
the  way  in  which  the  current  of  opinion 
was  blowing.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
month  in  which  it  appeared  a  ministerial 
crisis  occurred :  the  Tory  administration 
.was  dismissed,  the  Wliigs  returned  to 
\ power:   aud  'BaxV^^  ^J^j^vc^  EacI  of 


&) 


Charles  Dickenc] 


LONG  HAIR  AND  SHORT. 


[July  10, 1869.]       137 


' 


!l 


Oxford,  becamo  prime  minister.  Harley 
had  been  but  a  short  time  in  office  when 
he  endeavoured  to  procure  Defoe's  release, 
with  the  view  of  securing  his  services  as  a 
paid  writer  for  the  new  government.  His 
efforts  were  not  immediately  successful. 
Harley,  who  only  knew  Defoe  by  his 
writings,  as  Defoe  only  knew  Harley  by 
his  public  character  and  services,  was 
slow  at  the  work  of  release,  on  account  of 
obstacles  in  the  way,  but  was  steady  and 
sure ;  and  the  case  having  been  personally 
brought  under  the  notice  of  Queen  Anne, 
"her  Majesty,"  as  Defoe  narrates,  "was 
pleased  particularly  to  inquire  into  my 
circmnstances  and  family,  and  by  tho  Lord 
Treasurer  Gk)dolphin  to  send  a  consider- 
able supply  to  my  wife  and  family,  and  to 
send  me  tho  prison  money  to  pay  my 
fine  and  the  expenses  of  my  discharge. 
Here,"  he  adds,  "is  the  foundation  on 
which  I  first  built  my  first  sense  of  duty 
to  her  Majesty's  person,  and  the  indelible 
bond  of  gratitude  to  my  first  benefactor 
(Harley)." 

Here  let  us  leave  Defoe  for  this  while ; 
in  the  new  sunshine  of  favour  and  apprecia- 
tion that  was  bursting  upon  him  when  his 
prospects  seemed  the  gloomiest. 


LONG  HAIR  AND  SHORT. 

St.  Paul  held  that  it  was  a  shame  to  a  man 
(o  wear  his  hair  long,  and  he  tells  the  Corin- 
thians so  in  his  first  epistle  to  them.  On  the 
other  hand,  Huychius,  patriarch  of  Jerusalem, 
AJ>.  600,  declared  the  outward  visible  signs  of 
manly  perfection  to  consist  in  an  ample  beard 
and  in  hair  flowing  down  the  shoulders. 

In  remote  ages,  the  Persians,  who  now  have 
their  heads  shaved,  were  hairy.  Darius  had  a 
most  luxuriant  poll,  and  Alexander,  who  con- 
qaered  him,  probably  paid  few  visits  to  the 
haircutter^s  in  the  course  of  his  life.  Alcibiades 
and  his  chque  of  rou6s  introduced  the  effeminate 
fashion  of  long  hair  into  Greece.  Before  their 
time  the  Athenians  were  roundheads^  and  it  is 
fair  to  suppose  that  Aristides  the  Just,  who  did 
not  pride  himself  above  measure  on  his  devotion 
to  the  Graces,  n>orted  a  crop  of  bristles  and 
ignored  a  comb.  Herodotus  relates  that  in  token 
Si  mourning,  the  Persians  were  wont  to  cut  off 
not  only  their  own  hair,  but  the  manes  of  their 
horses.  The  same  historian  tells  us  that  the 
Argians,  being  defeated  by  the  Lacedsemonians, 
made  a  sacrifice  of  their  locks,  and  vowed  that 
they  would  remain  shorn  as  long  as  they  had 
not  reconquered  Thyraea.  At  Sparta,  Lycurgus 
had  decreed  the  wearing  of  long  hair ;  but  this 
law,  to  which  Plutarch  alludes,  was  never 
much  obeyed.  The  Spartans  when  they  at- 
tained their  sixteenth  year  did  as  the  young 
Athenians,  and  burned  their  hair  upon  the  aJtar 
of  either  Diana  or  Mara,     The  fact  ia,  all  the 


barbarians  who  used  to  come  from  across  the 
seas  in  those  times  wore  flowing  locks,  and  the 
Greeks  had  no  wish  to  resemble  them. 

Our  primitive  ancestors,  the  Britons,  and 
like  them  the  Gauls,  allowed  their  hair  to  grow 
undisturbed.  It  often  reached  below  the  waist, 
and  men  like  Caractacus  must  have  looked 
curiosities.  Conquered  by  the  Komans,  the 
Gauls  and  Britons  were  ignominiously  clipped. 
In  his  enumeration  of  the  Gallic  tribes  led  mto 
captivity  by  Csesar,  Lucian  speaks  of  the 
Liguses  **  now  shorn  but  erewhile  possessed 
of  an  abundant  mass  of  hair."  Those  of  the 
Gauls  who  obtained  their  liberation  hastened 
to  let  their  hair  grow  again ;  in  order  the  more 
to  mark  the  importance  they  attached  to  flow- 
ing locks,  they  took  to  shaving  their  slaves.  It 
is  thus  that  Ausonius  speaks  of  four  young 
boys  and  four  young  girls,  all  shorn,  as  bemg  a 
customary  present  to  a  rich  Gaul  on  his  wed- 
ding-day. At  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century 
Pharamond  established  his  kingdom  in  the 
province  which  thenceforth  took  the  name  of 
France.  The  Gauls  were  reduced  to  a  state  of 
bondage,  and  the  conquerors  laid  ruthless  scissors 
upon  their  victims^  polls.  From  this  time  it 
became  a  generally  understood  thing  all  over 
Europe  that  long  hair  was  the  exclusive  appan- 
age of  the  great  and  noble.  Not  only  seris,  but 
free  peasants  and  burgesses,  were  forbidden  to 
go  about  otherwise  than  cropped.  The  glebe 
slaves  on  a  nobleman^s  estate  were  even  (during 
the  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  centuries)  shorn 
altogether ;  and  it  is  from  this  custom  that  the 
practice  of  saluting  by  taking  off  the  hat  arose. 
The  act  of  uncovering  the  head  amounted  to 
saying:  "  See,  sir;  I  am  your  servant ;  I  have 
no  hair." 

When  a  nobleman  was  convicted  of  any  felo- 
nious offence,  the  razor  was  invariably  applied  to 
his  pate.  Clotaire  the  First,  King  of  France, 
caused  his  own  son,  Gondebaud,  to  be  shorn  for 
conspiring  against  him.  And  by  way  of  adding 
to  the  disgrace  of  this  sentence,  he  inmiediately 
afterwards  issued  an  edict  condemning  to  the 
severest  penalties  any  one  who  should  by  stealth 
or  violence  cut  off  the  hair  of  an  honest  man. 

When  the  hai-sh  ferocity  of  the  early  Gothic 
times  had  a  little  subsided,  and  when  Chris- 
tianity had  introduced  a  few  humane  notions 
into  the  minds  of  men,  certain  plebeians  began 
to  mmmur  at  the  obligation  of  wearing  bristles. 
At  that  period  the  large  majority  of  priests  and 
church  dignitaries  were  sprung  from  the  people  ; 
the  scholars,  masters  of  schools,  and  public  pro- 
fessors, were  also  '*  churls"  or  *' knaves" — as 
it  was  the  polite  fashion  to  call  them ;  and 
as  for  the  lawyers,  clerks,  petty  magistrates, 
and  government  secretaries,  there  was  not  one 
of  them  but  was  of  base  blood.  Still,  these  base- 
blooded  people  formed  the  most  intelligent  part 
of  the  nation,  and  it  was  humiliating  to  them  to 
have  no  hair,  while  jolter-headed  boobies  in 
armour,  who  could  neither  read  nor  write, 
were  wearing  matted  locks  all  down  their  backs. 
God  save  the  mark !  But  why  did  not  these 
reflecting  "  knaves"  push  th^vt  t^«j^otm\^  ^XvJO^Xfc 
further  ?  Why  did  \\ve,y  iiO\.  x^A^^i  ^  or^  ^^^ywe.\. 
all  other  privilegea,  and  so  m*^  mwv^  ^s3LVss^^R«^^ 


^ 


I 


138    CJniy  10. 18W.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Coxidnctod  by 


which  have  gro>;\'n  tip  rank  for  centuries  V  But, 
we  Bupptwe,  there  is  n  time  for  everything. 
The  hnir  question  assumed  dii^riuietiug  propor- 
tions in  France,  for  in  the  year  1201,  Pierre 
Ixjmhard,  Archbishop  of  Paris  (whose  own 
hea<l  left  much  to  1k»  desired  in  the  matter  of 
capillary  adornment)  was  prevailed  upon  by 
the  malcontents  to  become  their  champion.  He 
was  a  learned  and  a  good  man.  No  doubt  he  had 
often  pondered  in  the  silence  of  the  closet  upon 
the  unseemly  appearance  of  his  close-clipped 
crown,  and  he  took  up  the  cudgels  like  a  man 
determined  to  win.  'I'he  King  of  France  at 
that  time  was  the  gallant  Philip  the  Second, 
generally  known  as  Philip  Augustus.  He  was 
not  by  any  means  a  monarch  averee  to  progress, 
for  he  had  already  excited  no  little  dissatisfac- 
tion amongst  his  subjects  by  insisting  that  they 
should  wash.  He  had  erected  extensive  bath 
houses,  and  the  people  had  been  politely  re- 
quested to  make  use  of  them  as  one  of  the  l>est 
preservatives  against  scurvy  and  fever,  which 
then  had  hold  upon  all  the  working  classes. 
Philip  Augustus,  after  giving  the  matt-er  his 
most  attentive  consideration,  signed  the  Magna 
Charta  of  capillary  liberty,  at  about  the  time 
when  his  royal  compeer,  John  of  England,  was 
pulling  a  dismal  face  over  the  Charter  of  Run- 
nymede.  (icnerally  speaking  the  English  follow 
the  French  in  the  matt<?r  of  personal  adornment, 
but  in  this  case  we  had  been  beforehand  •^^'ith 
our  neighboiu^.  So  early  as  the  reign  of  Henry 
tlie  Second,  our  plebeian  forefathers  had  ob- 
taine<l  exemption  from  the  obligation  of  having 
their  hair  cut,  and  they  had  obtained  it  without 
mucli  ado. 

As  was  natural,  the  repeal  of  the  long-hair 
law  caused  immense  dissatisfaction  among  the 
nobles.  The  chief  hardship,  they  alleged, 
was,  that  it  would  be  thenceforth  impossible 
to  discern  a  gentleman  from  a  boor  at  a  hun- 
dred yards  oif ;  and  they  vented  their  spleen 
upon  Pierre  Ix)mbard  by  prosecuting  him 
before  the  ecclesiastical  court  of  Paris  for  a 
work  of  his  entitled  Les  Sentences,  a  theolo- 
gical treaty  which  his  enemies  affirmed  to  be  he- 
retical. The  book  was  pronounced  subversive, 
and  was  burned  by  the  hands  of  the  hangman. 
Pierre  Lombard  did  not  resign  his  see  in  con- 
secjuence,  but  he  died  soon  after,  broken- 
hearted by  persecution,  and  wishing,  very 
likely,  that  he  had  allowed  the  hair  of  his 
countiymen  to  remain  cut  close  in  bristles, 
without  int<irference. 

We  hear  nothing  more  about  short  hair 
until  the  sixteenth  centurv.  From  the  time 
of  Philip  Augustus  to  that  of  Francis  the  First, 
every  one,  lord  or  bumi)kin,  let  his  hair  fall 
down  kis  back.  Historians  and  chroniclers 
speak  a  great  deal  about  the  oils  and  ointments 
that  were  used  by  the  wealthy  and  noble  of 
the  middle  ages ;  and  it  appears  to  have  been 
a  pretty  pi*evalent  custom  to  powder  one's 
locks  with  gold-dust. 

Fre(]ut'nter8  of  picture-galleries  nmst  have 

obsLTveil  that  all  portraits  of  French  noble- 

lucn  duiing  the  jnedi»val  times,  and  up  to  the 

yenr  1530,  represent  men  with  abundant  locks, 

out  that  from  the  year  15'60  there  is  an  abrupt 


change:    the    hair   of    Frenchmen   becoming, 
from  that  date,  as  short  as  that  of  a  modem 
jail -bird.     The  reason  of  this  is  as  follows : 
His  Majesty  Francis  the  First,  happening  to 
spend  the  C'liristmas  of  1529  at  Fontainebleau, 
organised  a  series  of  routs  and  revels,  in  honour 
of  the  new  year.      On  the  sixth  of  January, 
it  used  to  be  customary  for  the  mummers  to 
elect  a  king,    and  engage   in   a   mimic  war 
against  a  rival  jMirty,  who  would  pretend  to 
dethrone  the  mock  monarch.     Francis,  hear- 
ing that  the  lord  of  a  neighbouring  castle  had 
been  electeil  **  king*'  by  some  friends  of  his, 
disguised  himself,  and  went  with  a  party  of 
twenty  courtiers  to  offer  battle  to  the  revel- 
lers.   The    challenge  was  accepted.     A    fort 
was  erecteil  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle, 
and  Francis  endeavoured  to  cany  it  by  storm. 
It  was  usual  to  fight  with   eggs  in   guise  of 
shot,  and  bags  of  flour  in  lieu  of  maces ;  but 
after  a  while  tlie  strife  waxed  hot,  and  somebody 
threw  a  lighted    brand,  which  fell  upon  the 
disguised  king's  head  and  felled  him  senseless. 
The  wound  was  a  very  serious  one.     For  some 
time  Francis  remained  in  bed,   and  when  he 
made  his  reappearance  amidst  his  court,  \m 
hair  was  cropped  quite  close :  while  his  beard, 
on  the  contrary,  which  he  had  always  up  to 
that  time   siiaved  off,   had  been  suffcrca  to 
grow  luxiu*iautly.  Imitation  being  the  sincerest 
flattery,  the  courtiers  hunied  off  to  put  them- 
selves into  the  haircutter's  hands.     GradiiaUy 
the  people  followed  the  example.    Hair  became 
short,  and  beards  lengthened.     From  France, 
the  fashion   passed  into   England  and   other  , 
countries.  It  lasted  for  nearly  a  hundred  years.    ! 

As  every  one  knows,  long  hair  and  fihort 
hair  had  a  marked  political  signiflcance  dur- 
ing the  wars  of  Charles  the  First  against  his 
parliament.  It  was  no  joke,  then,  to  be  caught 
with  bristles  in  Prince  Ivupert's  camp ;  and  to 
have  come  with  curling  locks  under  Crom- 
v/ell's  eye  would  have  been  to  run  the  risk  of 
being  sent,  not  to  the  hair,  but  to  the  head, 
cutter's.  Charles  the  Second  brought  back  the 
fashion  of  long  cavalier  locks,  but  these  were 
soon  Buperserled  by  the  towering  wigs  intro-  j 
duced  by  Louis  the  Foiuleenth.  He  had  a  very 
poor  head  of  hair ;  thin,  lank,  and  of  a  dirty 
l)ufl  coloiu* ;  and  his  barber  devised  a  most  vo- 
hmiinous  penique  to  meet  the  emergency.  Of 
coui-sc  the  fashion  **took,"  and  this  big  ud- 
sightly  headdress,  which  must  have  been  insup- 
portable in  siunmer,  remained  in  uae  until  the 
middle  of  Louis  the  Fifteenth's  reign,  when  it 
gave  way  to  the  famous  powdered  wig. 

The  great  Republic  swept  away  the  wigs,  i 
and  many  of  the  heads  that  were  in  them.  It  was 
then  that  the  pigtail  fashion  came  in,  both  for 
high  and  low,  and  last^ni  long  enough  to  be  re- 
membered by  some  men  of  the  present  day. 
Napoleon  the  First  mercilessly  cut  off  the  pig- 
tails of  his  n^'publican  soloiers,  and  Uiarly 
caused  a  mutiny  among  the  army  of  Egypt  by 
so  doing.  Similarly,  immense  discontent  was 
excited  in  the  British  Navy  when  the  Admiralty 
abolished  the  pigtail  some  half  century  ago.  ^so 
we  come  down  to  the  present  times,  when  we 
\  graUiy  owx  m<d^V\^x]A\  \ac&leA  in  the  matter  of 


% 


&. 


Odarles  DlduiiB.] 


LITTLE  WITCH  AND  THE  MISERS. 


[Jiilyl0,18«9.]     139 


our  heads  of  hair  and  our  beards,  unless  indeed 
we  are  private  soldiers,  or  paupers,  or  convicts, 
or  are  put  into  a  reformatory ;  when,  for  the 
general  good,  we  must  yield  to  sanitary  crop- 
ping laws. 


HTTLE  WITCH  AND  THE  MISERS. 

IN  TWO  CHAPTEBS.   CHAPTER  U. 

One  day  Witch  was  busy  making  the 
strap  for  the  dinner.  She  was  covered  to 
^e  chin  in  a  large  apron,  and  hor  sleeves 
were  rolled  np  to  her  shoulders.  She 
wielded  a  wooden  spoon  in  stirring  the 
pot,  and  chopped  vegetablee  as  she  was 
accnstoined ;  but  the  Httle  maid  was  in  an 
Tumsnal  state  of  anxiety.  Hot  cheeks  were 
hot,  and  her  heart  was  thumping  under 
her  checked  apron.  The  matter  that 
troubled  her  was  also  unusual.  Barry  had 
invited  her  to  breakfast  with  his  mother. 
Witcb  was  longing  to  go,  but  did  not  know 
how  to  ask  permission  to  absent  herself 
from  home.  In  her  distress  she  ventured  to 
appeal  to  Kathleen,  who  came  down  to  the 
lotchen  with  a  tattered  novel  in  her  hand, 
to  warm  hor  feet,  and  to  taste  the  sonp. 

Now  Elathleen  was   not  an  ill-natured 

I  person.     She  knew  that  she  was  a  larp^, 
ij  selfish,  nseless  young  woman,  and,  in  the 

I I  abstract,  she  could  have  wished  to  be  dif- 
ferent. She  secretly  admired  Witch's 
energy  and  industry,  and  often  wished  that 
there  were  servants  to  do  the  work  of  the 
house  in  her  stead.  Thinking  tlms  she  felt 
herself  to  bo  a  most  affectionate  sister.  She 
had  once-  got  up  an  hour  earlier  in  the 
morning  with  tiie  intention  of  helping 
Witch  to  arrange  the  breakfast-table,  but, 
having  so  much  unusual  timo  on  her  hands, 
had  been  lured  by  her  vanity  into  mazes 
of  elaborate  hair-dressing,  from  which  sho 
could  not  BatisL&ctorily  extricate  herself  till 
the  break&st  was  nearly  over.  This  was 
now  some  months  ago,  and  she  had  just 
been  feeling  that  it  was  time  to  make  an- 
other effort  to  aasist  Witch.  So  that  Witcli 
got  a  favourable  hearing  while  Kathleen 
performed  the  duty  of  tasting  the  soup. 

And  Kathleen  went  to  Barbara,  the  eldest 
sister,  who  had  no  taste  for  being  a  mother, 
and  found  her  making  paper  flowers  to  wear 
in  her  bonnet,  and  laid  little  Witch's  re- 
quest before  her. 

"  K  they  had  even  been  rich  and  re- 
spectable people!"  said  Barbara.  **But 
low  acquaintances  whom  she  has  picked 
np  by  chance — for  all  the  world  like  a 
servant  maid !" 

**  Very  like  a  servant  maid,"  said  Kath- 
leen^ TCSDoiraefolfy't 


"  Don't  take  me  up  in  that  manner," 
said  Barbara.  "I  am  your  elder  sister, 
and  it  is  very  disrespectful.  Pray,  who 
will  make  my  toast  ?  and  you  know  that 
I  cannot  eat  my  breakfast  without  it." 

'*  I  will  do  it,"  said  Kathleen,  magnani- 
mously ;  and,  not  to  be  outdone  in  gene- 
rosity, Barbara  consented  to  exist  without 
Witch  for  a  whole  summer  morning  till  ten 
o'clock. 

The  young  poet  and  liis  mother  lived  in 
a  strange  old  comer  of  Dublin  called 
Weavers'-square.  It  is  all  paved  with 
stones  in  the  middle,  quite  shut  in  from 
the  world,  and  the  houses  are  queer  and 
ancient,  with  their  fronts  rising  up  and 
naiTowing  to  a  peak,  as  if  they  had  been 
originally  intended  for  gables,  and  the 
builder  had  changed  his  mind.  Up  a  wind- 
ing stair  went  Witch,  and  into  the  presence 
of  Barry's  mother. 

One  of  the  small  deep-set  windows  lay 
open,  and  a  sweet-looking  old  woman  sat 
beside  it  in  a  rude  aiTu-chair.  She  was 
sorting  a  variety  of  coloured  silks  in  her 
lap,  though  her  eyes  were  closed,  for  she 
was  blind.  But  she  had  learned  to  know 
the  colours  by  her  touch.  A  coarse  brown 
pitcher,  crammed  full  of  blooming  haw- 
thorn, was  on  the  sill  beside  her ;  and  the 
scanty  white  curtain  was  drawn  aside  and 
the  fresh  air  coming  in. 

Never  before  had  Witch  been  in  posses- 
sion of  three  whole  hours  to  be  expended  in 
idleness  with  her  fiiends.  As  she  took  her 
seat  at  the  frugal  breakfast-table,  she  gazed 
in  delight  through  her  rose-coloured  specta- 
cles at  the  weaver's  poverty-stricken  home. 
The  room  had  a  chirk  sloping  roof  and 
crooked  walls.  The  most  important  0111010 
of  fumitui'o  was  the  heavy  loom,  at  which 
Barry  must  work  night  and  day.  Upon  it 
was  stretched  tho  unfinished  cloth,  and  a 
little  ledge  held  some  paper,  an  ink-horn,  and 
pen.  Here  were  writt/Cn  the  poems  which 
were  so  beautiful  to  Witcli,  and  which,  later, 
the  whole  world  was  to  extol.  The  sun  was 
shining  on  Witch's  brilliant  kerchief,  which 
she  wore  upon  her  shoulders  in  honour  of 
the  occasion.  And  the  mother,  who  could 
not  see,  had  been  told  of  this,  and  of  how 
bravely  the  colours  sparkled,  and  of  how 
fire  flashed  out  of  the  gold. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "you  would  prize 
it  indeed  if  you  knew  how  my  boy  worked 
three  nights  without  sleep  to  linisli  it.  And 
it  is  a  rare  little  garment  with  a  wonderful 
story,  Barry,  have  you  told  hei'  the 
story  ?" 

"No,"  said  "Bairy,  ''uo^  ^\!Oi:iSi\x\.  ^^^a 
permission.*' 


4 


140      [July  10, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoetedby 


"We  will  tell  her  the  first  part,"  said 
the  mother ;  "  never  mind  the  second ;  we 
need  not  spoil  our  morning.*' 

"  Well,  my  dear,  the  Sultan  of  the  East 
had  a  beautiful  Sultana,  and  the  Sultana 
had  a  favourite  bird,  which  was  a  paroquet. 
And  the  paroquet  would  perch  on  the 
shpulder  of  the  Sultana,  making  so  lovely 
a  picture,  that  the  Sultan's  delight  knew 
no  bounds.  The  bird's  brilliant  plumage 
mingled  with  the  lady's  raven  hair.  The 
Sultan  had  the  eye  of  a  painter.  This 
I     living  picture  caused  him  rapture. 

"But  the  Sultana  was  haughty  and 
wilful,  and  she  did  not  choose  to  be  kept 
sitting  with  a  bird  on  her  shoulder.  Her 
love  for  the  creature  changed  to  hate.  She 
secretly  gave  it  poison,  and  it  died. 

"  The  Sultan  was  so  afflicted  at  the  death 
of  the  poor  bird,  that  his  temper  became 
intolerable,  and  the  Sultana  had  good  cause 
to  repent  her  cruel  deed.  She  bethought 
her  of  how  she  might  repair  the  loss.  She 
employed  a  skilful  artist  to  design  for  her 
a  kerchief,  from  which  should  shine  forth 
all  the  colours  of  the  plumage  of  the  bird ; 
these  to  bo  enhanced  by  a  mixture  of  gold 
and  silver,  and  jewels  to  be  sewn  upon  the 
fringe.  She  wore  the  kerchief.  The  Sultan 
was  enchanted  by  her  sympathy  and  affec- 
tion, and  his  temper  became  at  once  less 
unbearable.  The  harmony  and  brilliance 
of  the  colours  in  the  web  wore  more 
splendid  than  the  presence  of  the  bird. 
The  Sultana  was  charmed  with  her  success, 
and  henceforth  never  appeared  before  the 
Sultan  without  taking  care  to  have  the 
kerchief  on  her  shoulders. 

"  Things  went  on  very  well  for  a  time 
after  this,  till  one  of  the  Sultana's  women 
began  to  covet  the  curious  garment  of 
which  her  mistress  was  so  fond.  Her 
desire  became  strong,  and  the  kercliief  dis- 
appeared. 

"  Then  there  arose  a  storm  in  the  palace. 
The  Sultana  flew  to  the  Sultan.  The  Sul- 
tan pronounced  sentence  of  death  on  that 
person  with  whom  the  kerchief  should  be 
found.  A  search  commenced,  and  the  ter- 
rified thief  flew  from  hiding-place  to  hiding- 
place  with  her  prize.  A  traveller  with 
sacks  upon  a  mule  came  tramping  past 
the  gates  of  the  palace.  The  woman  ran 
to  meet  him,  and  thrust  the  dangerous 
kerchief  into  one  of  his  sacks.  The  man 
thought  her  mad,  and  passed  on,  congratu- 
lating himself  upon  his  luck.  '  I  shall  sell 
it,*  he  thought,  '  for  a  good  price.'  But  a 
gossip  on  the  road  soon  enlightened  him  as 
to  the  story  of  tho  kerchief.  *  I  shall  be 
caught,  'he  now  said,  'and  put  to  death  as 


the  thief !'  Arrived  at  the  nearest  town, 
he  rushed  into  the  first  door  he  saw  open. 
A  young  girl  was  coming  out.  The  tra- 
veller threw  the  kerchief  over  her  face,  and 
ran  away.  When  the  girl  drew  the  ker- 
chief from  her  eyes,  he  had  disappeared. 

"  Now  this  young  girl  had  not  yet  heard 
the  story  of  the  kerchief,  and  was  delighted 
with  the  present  which  the  strange  man 
had  brought  her.  She  put  the  kercliief  on 
her  head,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
Very  soon  there  arose  a  tumult  in  the 
street.  Here,  then,  was  the  thief,  and  she 
was  doomed.  It  was  useless  for  her  to 
tell  how  she  came  by  the  kerchief.  She 
had  been  seen  with  the  Sultana's  precious 
garment  on  her  head,  and  she  must  die. 

"  She  had  friends,  however,  and  in  terror 
and  with  difficulty  she  escaped  out  of  the 
country.  In  the  course  of  a  few  years  she 
made  her  way  to  France.  She  was  an  in- 
telligent young  woman,  and  comely,  though 
copper- coloured,  and  with  a  ring  in  her 
nose.  That  ring  used  to  awe  me  very 
much ;  for  she  was  my  nurse.  My  mother 
happened  to  meet  with  her  while  ^veiling 
through  France,  and  engaged  her  as  an 
attendant  on  her  children.  Her  strange 
story  was  a  delight  to  my  childhood.  A  sight 
of  the  Sultana's  kerchief  was  her  reward 
for  my  good  conduct.  She  loved  me  veiy 
dearly,  as  I  loved  her.  The  kerchief  was 
her  one   curiosity  and  treasure,   and  she 

gave  it  to  me  when  I parted  from  my 

fiimily,"  said  the  mother,  sadly.  "  She 
gave  it  with  her  blessing,  and  foretold  that 
it  would  bring  me  good  fortune.  I  could 
not  part  with  it,  my  dear,  even  after  all 
these  years.  But  Barry  has  copied  it  for 
you.  And  I  know  by  the  touch  that  he 
has  copied  it  right  well." 

When  Witch  went  home  that  day,  step- 
ping on  tiptoe  with  happiness,  she  per- 
ceived that  all  the  dingy  shutters  were 
shut  in  the  next  house  ;  which  gave  her  a 
great  shock.  She  had  been  humming  a 
song  of  Barry's,  to  which  she  had  set  a 
little  tune  of  her  own;  but  she  stopped 
short  and  her  voice  was  heard  no  more. 
"  This  must  be  death,"  thought  little  Witch. 
"  Nothing  else  can  it  be !" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  said 
Barbara.  "  I  expected  that  some  of  them 
must  have  been  starved  long  ago." 

Alice  now  remembered  that  she  had 
heard  a  great  noise  going  on  next  door 
during  the  night,  and  Kathleen  secretly 
determined  to  liave  a  little  private  conver- 
sation with  tho  charwoman.  This  she  in- 
genioxisly  arranged,  and  the  truth  was 
ascertained.    'I^e  "BTO^'et  ^^skkccow  was 


9: 


& 


dufles  DIokeoB.] 


LITTLE  WITCH  AND  THE  MISERS. 


[July  10, 18W.]      141 


dead.  He  had  been  fonnd  dead  in  that 
comer  of  the  garden  where  he  was  accns- 
tomed  to  stare  into  the  mould.  He  had 
been  carried  into  the  house  by  the  two 
poor  old  sisters,  where  he  now  lay  waiting 
for  the  undertaker. 

"  How  terribly  lonely  and  wretched  they 
must  be,"  thought  little  Witch,  with  a  sigh 
finom  the  very  bottom  of  her  pitiful  heart. 
And  then  the  strangest  idea  came  into  her 
mind,  and  she  shivered  and  crept  a  little 
nearer  to  the  fire.  But  the  idea  remained, 
and  its  presence  in  her  mind  made  her 
start  whenever  Barbara  looked  at  her.  It 
would  not  go  away,  and  when  the  sisters 
were  all  in  bed,  and  she  had  slacked  the 
kitchen  fire,  she  sat  down  upon  the  stairs 
with  her  candle  in  her  hand,  and  thought 
about  the  two  miserable  old  women  sittmg 
kmely  with  their  dead.  And  the  fantastic 
pictore  which  had  been  hovering  before 
her  eyes  all  the  evening  was  there  now 
more  plainly  than  ever.  It  was  a  picture 
of  herself  Witch,  knocking  at  the  hall  door 
of  the  next  house,  walking  down  an  xin- 
known  hall  and  up  a  strange  staircase,  and 
sitting  in  a  dreary  death-room  between 
those  frightful  old  ladies.  It  was  a  horrible 
picture,  Witch  thought,  yet  fascinating,  for 
ner  heart  was  bleeding  for  the  sufferers. 

At  last  she  went  to  bed,  but  it  was 
useless  her  trying  to  sleep,  and  after  half 
an  hour  she  got  up.  "  What  on  earth  will 
Barbara  say  ?*'  she  said,  shivering  as  she 
dressed  herself.  She  wrapped  her  cloak 
around  her,  and  took  the  latch  key.  Very 
soon  she  had  closed  her  own  door  softly, 
and  was  standing  trcmbHng  before  the  next. 

"  Dump !  dump  !'*  said  the  mufiled 
knocker;  but  Witch's  heart  seemed  to 
make  more  noise. 

It  seemed  almost  a  year  before  there  was 
any  response  to  that  timid  appeal  of  Witch. 
At  last  a  dismal  ray  appeared  glimmering 
down  the  darkness  of  the  staircase.  A 
chain  and  many  bolts  were  withdrawn,  and 
Witch  stood  face  to  face  with  Miss  Tabitha. 

"Prom  the  undertakers  ?"  asked  Miss 
Tabitha,  scowling  forth. 

"No,"  said  Httle  Witch,  timidly. 

"  Who  then  ?"  said  Miss  Tabitha,  a  note 
of  alarm  in  her  gruff  voice. 

"  I  am  only  the  little  girl  from  next 
door,"  said  Witch ;  "  and  please,  madam,  I 
thought  you  might  like  some  one  to  be 
useful,  to  sit  up  at  night,  or  to  make  a  cup 

of  tea,    or — or    anything   like   that " 

stammered  trembling  Witch. 

"No!"  shrieked  Miss  Tabitha,  growing 
larger  and  more  dreadfnl  with  horror, 
"  nothing  like  tb&t  do  we  want     Nothing 


in  the  least  like  that.  Go  off — at  once — or 
I  shall  call  the  police !"  Her  eyes  glared, 
she  extended  her  arms  before  the  door  to 
keep  Witch  out.  Suddenly  she  slammed 
the  door  in  her  face,  and  refastened  all  the 
chains  and  bars. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  asked  Miss 
Seraphina,  coming  down-staii*s  with  red 
rings  round  her  withered  eyes. 

"  Thieves  !"  groaned  Miss  Tabitha,  who 
was  rolling  herself  against  the  wall  in  a 
convulsion  of  fear. 

"What?"  shrieked  Seraphina,  "a  gang 
of  robbers  ?" 

"Worse!"  said  Tabitha.  "We  shall  be 
torn  to  pieces.  They  will  leave  us  without 
a  farthing  to  bury  us !" 

"Will  they  beat  in  the  door?"  said 
Seraphina,  shuddering. 

"  She  might  do  anything  after  daring  to 
knock  and  ask  for  admittance,"  growled 
Tabitha ;  "  but  she  will  be  more  likely  to 
take  cunning  means,  steal  over  the  garden 
wall,  or  come  down  the  chimney." 

"  She ! — who  ?"  asked  Miss  Seraphina. 

"Who!  why  the  girl  from  the  next 
house,"  barked  Tabitha. 

"The  httle  girl  with  the  kerchief!" 
murmured  Miss  Seraphina,  and  a  dazzling, 
dancing,  beautifol  vision  came  suddenly 
hovering  before  her  aching,  half-blind  eyes. 

"  Coming  to  make  tea  for  us  !"  groaned 
Tabitha.  "Who  told  her  that  we  could 
afford  to  drink  tea  ?  She  will  break  in  yet, 
and  eat  us  out  of  house  and  home.  Poor 
old  creatures  who  hve  in  daily  danger  of 
starvation  !  And  we  shall  be  left  without 
a  farthing.  I  will  go  and  I  will  watch ;  I 
will  not  leave  the  spot.  There,  you  guard 
the  hall  door  while  I  watch  in  the  garden. 
They  shall  not  make  us  paupers.  They 
shall  not     ■    " 

She  had  now  groped  her  way  to  the  back 
door.  She  was  outside  among  the  dank 
weeds  and  grass  in  the  garden.  The  moon 
had  risen,  warm,  and  yellow,  and  round, 
above  some  ragged  gables,  and  a  lank,  evil- 
looking  tree,  was  slowly  waving  a  stealthy 
arm.  Here  was  a  dark  creeping  body 
moving  upon  the  wall  against  the  sl^.  This 
must  certainly  be  a  robber  climbing  the 
wall.  Miss  Tabitha  threw  up  her  arms, 
tottered,  gasped,  and  dropped  down  in  a  fit. 

But  little  Witch  had  crept  back  to  her 
bed,  and,  having  done  what  she  could,  was 
now  fast  asleep. 

When    the  undertaker  arrived    at   the 
misers*  dwelling  he  was  asked  to  provide 
two  coffins.      Forlorn  Mi^.^  ^^t«^\tv^  ^s^ 
by  her  dead,  the  last  o^   ^^kt^^  ^Vo  Va.^ 
clung   togetlaer  lieT©  iox   iot\,^    ^«kc^  ""^^ 


a£: 


142      [-July  10,  1S60.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Cond  acted  bf 


h 


I 


huiic^or  and  inadness ;  keeping  jsriiarcl  over 
the  secret  wliicli  was  buned  in  their  pirden. 

*'  Oh,  that  any  one  would  stay  with  me  !*' 
said  the  lonely  old  woman.  **  I  shall  die 
of  fear  and  grief!'*  And  she  besought  the 
charwoman  who  had  been  helping  her  not 
to  leave  the  house.  But  the  cliarvvoman 
was  obliged  to  go. 

So  Si'raphiua  was  left  alone.  The  closed 
shutters  and  the  fastened  doors  shut  her 
out  from  the  summer  world,  even  such  as 
it  was  in  the  street.  That  clump  of  trees 
against  the  distant  horizon  was  as  far  from 
her  vision  as  if  it  had  been  ten  thousand 
miles  away.  The  sun  streamed  in  through 
the  cracks  of  the  dilapidated  shutters,  and 
ventured  a  Httle  way  along  the  floor  \,o 
smile  at  that  miserable  living  creature,  so 
old  and  so  ugly  and  so  utterly  forlorn,  who 
sat  watching  beside  two  cotfins.  And  it 
was  worse  when  evening  came,  and  the 
children  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  had 
been  at  school  all  duy,  came  out  to  romp 
and  sing  under  the  window  ;  but  worse  still 
when  supper  time  had  called  them  home,  and 
the  street  Ava.s  deserted,  and  the  night  was 
gi'owing  darker  and  more  silent  every 
moment. 

"  I  shall  go  quite  mad !"  said  Seraphina, 
striking  her  poor  breast  in  despair. 

"  Oh,  little  girl !— little  girl  next  door  !" 
moaned  she.  "Would  that  you  would 
come  knocking  to  this  house  again  !" 

Just  then  little  Witch  was  getting  her 
bouse  put  in  order  for  the  night,  and  her 
sisters  put  to  bed.  Whether  some  echo  of 
that  cry  reached  her  thix)ugh  the  wall,  I 
will  not  say;  but  certain  it  is  that  no 
sooner  was  she  alone  in  her  own  room  than 
she  began  to  pray  for  the  one  solitaiy  old 
woman  now  alone  in  the  neighbounng 
house,  and  to  think  of  her  even  more  piti- 
fully than  she  had  thought  when  there  had 
been  two.  It  appeared  that  there  was  a 
fascination  about  those  poor  old  ugly  neigh- 
bours, living  and  dead;  for  Witch,  could 
not  S(^ttle  to  take  her  rest. 

"  Little  gii'l !  little  girl  !'*  moaned  Sera- 
pliina  at  the  other  side  of  the  walL 

"Oh,  poor  old  woman!"  sighed  Witch, 
who,  nevertheless,  of  course,  could  not  hear 
her.  And  at  last  little  Witch,  being  very 
tilled,  fell  asleep,  and  desolate  Sei'aphina 
sat  alone  through  the  long  night,  almost 
crazed  with  fear  and  despiur. 

AVhen  Witch  went  out  to  the  garden 
next  morning,  she  saw  Serapldna's  poor 
gpaome-like  face  looking  wistfully  down  on 
her  from  the  Ic^bby  ^vnndow. 

"  It  is  awful  to  think  of  anything  human 


being  so  ugly,"  thought  Witch ;  but  still 
she  went  on  pitying  the  poor  neighbour. 

Looking  up  again  she  imagined  that  the 
old  woman  stretched  her  arms  towards  her; 
and  this  remained  upon  her  mind. 

"  That  is  not  the  one  who  turned  me  j 
back,"  thought  Witch  ;  and  then  she  went  j 
indoors,  trembling.  It  was  as  if  she  had  : 
seen  a  goblin  looking  out  of  a  haunted 
house. 

At  last  the  dreary  night  camo  round 
again,  and  Seraphina  tottered  about  her 
miserable  home,  in  and  out  of  the  blank 
empty  rooms,  and  back  again  to  the  death- 
chamber.  The  companionship  of  that  dead 
brother  and  sister  was  too  dixjadful.  Ha\'ing 
feared  them  in  life  she  feared  them  more  in 
death,  and  the  rooms  in  which  they  were 
not  seemed  more  terrible  than  the  rooms  in 
which  they  were.  Presently,  sitting  in  all 
her  woe,  Seraphina  heard  a  gentle  little 
knock  come  on  the  street  door  of  her 
house. 

Seraphina  raised  her  head  and  listened. 

Could  it  be  a  robbei'  ?  Or  could  it  be  the 
little  gii'l  come  in  ans^ver  to  her  call  ? 

The  knock  was  repeated,  and  Seraphina 
took  her  rushlight  in  hand,  and  stumbled 
down  the  dark  staircase  to  the  haU. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  called  through  the 
keyhole. 

"  I  live  next  door,  and  my  name  is  little 
Witch,"  was  the  answer.  Whereupon  So- 
rapliina  at  once  set  down  her  rushlight,  and 
withdrew  the  chain  from  the  door. 

"  Come  in,  come  in  I"  she  said,  holding 
her  shaking  hands  towards  the  visitor, 
while  teai's  and  a  human  light  came  into 
her  poor  dreary  eyes. 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  lonely,"  said 
Witch,  apologetically,  "  and  that  yoti  might 
let  me  stay  mth  you  till  morning.** 

"  My  dear,  my  dear  !"  cried  the  old  wo- 
man, "how  will  you  bear  this  dreadful 
house  ?"  And  then  getting  quite  sick  with 
joy  at  hearing  so  pleasant  a  young  voice  in 
her  ears,  she  fainted  in  the  hall  at  Witch's 
feet. 

Witch  was  terrified,  thinking  she  was 
dead.  "  I  have  killed  her,"  she  said  to 
herself.  But,  after  great  efforts,  she  suc- 
ceeded in  restoiing  poor  Seraphina's  senses, 
and  assisted  her  to  an  old  settee  in  the 
dingy  parlour,  where  she  covered  her  with 
her  own  little  cloak.  Then  she  set  about 
making  a  fire  in  the  rusty  parlour  grate, 
where  a  fii*e  had  not  been  landled  for  half  a 
century.  She  stole  back  to  her  own  house, 
and  out  of  her  scanty  stores  brought  Bome 
tea,  besides  other  matters  not  to  be  found 


=^ 


:&^ 


Quiles  DickenB.] 


LITTLE  WITCH  AND  THE  MISERS.         fJniy  lo,  im.]     143 


in  the  misers'  hoasehold.  And  when  Sera- 
phina  saw  the  bountiful  little  spirit  making 
itself  so  busy  for  her  comfort,  she  wept 
enough  of  tears  to  wash  all  the  dryness  out 
of  her  withered  life.  And  when  a  savoury 
meal  was  set  before  her  she  ate  it  with 
great  appetite,  moaning  all  the  time,  and 
wondering  that  a  judgment  did  not  descend 
xxpofn  her  greediness. 

Witch  remained  all  night,  bearing  the 
poor  neighbour  company,  and  early  in  the 
morning  returned  to  her  home  and  her 
household  work.  A  scanty  procession  car- 
ried the  two  dead  misers  to  the  grave.  And 
after  this  was  over,  and  the  evening  had 
come  round  again,  Witch  went  boldly  up  to 
Barbara,  saying  she  wished  to  spend  an  hour 
with  the  lonely  lady  next  door. 

"  You  are  a  strange  creature !"  said 
Barbara;   but  she  did   not    prevent  her 

'  ig.  So  Witch  went  and  came,  and 
ihina  grew  more  human  every  day. 

"  My  dear/*  she  said  once,  **  I  am  afraid 
of  this  house  except  when  you  are  in  it. 
But  I  dare  not  leave  it,  because  of  some- 
thing that  is  in  the  garden.  It  is  a  curse 
which  is  upon  me,  and  which  I  am  obliged 
to  bear.'*  And  then  she  drooped  her  poor 
iace  and  groaned. 

At  other  times  she  cried  aloud,  "  Oh,  I 
bftve  such  a  secret,  such  a  terrible  secret ! 
How  could  they  go  and  leave  me  with  it !" 

And  more  than  once  Witch  got  a  fit  of 
^htcned  wonder  about  the  secret.  Could 
it  be  that  a  creature  had  been  murdered, 
and  was  buried  in  the  garden  ?  But  this 
idea  was  too  dreadful  to  be  harboured. 

One  bright  autumn  evening  there  came 
a  whim  into  Witch's  head,  a  whim  for  the 
amusement  of  Seraphina.  She  had  just 
finished  a  very  radiant  little  picture,  and 
she  had  got  some  brilliant  wild  flowers 
which  Barry  had  plucked  for  her  in  the 
wood  that  morning.  She  made  a  little 
nosegay,  and  she  took  the  picture  under 
her  arm,  and  put  the  paroquet  kerchief  in 
her  pocket.  Here  were  tliree  treasures 
which  she  had  brought  for  Seraphina's 
amusement.  She  first  presented  her  flowers 
to  the  delighted  old  woman,  who  snuffed 
them  eagerly,  holding  them  off*,  holding 
them  near,  and  trembling  all  the  time. 

"  Time  was  when  I  gathered  flowers," 
quavered  she;. 

Then  Witch  exhibited  her  picture.  It 
was  a  group  of  young  girls  sitting  on  a 
mossy  wall,  with  an  orchard  in  full  bloom 
behind  them.  At  this  sight  the  old  woman 
most  strangely  began  to  weep. 

"It  is  my  old  home,"  she  said;   "my 


home  of  long  ago.  And  there  am  I,  and 
there  ai'e  my  sisters.  Ah,  before  the  money 
aiTived  from  India.  There  is  Margaret's  fair 
face,  as  I  Hve ;  and,  my  dear,  Tabitha  and  I 
were  not  then  so  ugly  as  we  afterwards 
became.  There  was  a  little  green  lane  at 
the  other  side  of  that  wall,  and  people  used 
to  go  up  and  down  on  smnmer  evenings. 
My  child,  you  have  brought  me  a  picture 
of  my  youth j  and  it  is  only  cruelty  now." 

Little  Witch  stood  aghast.  She  had 
composed  this  picture  from  a  tender  de- 
scription given  by  Barry's  mother  of  the 
home  of  her  childJiood.  And  wonderingly 
she  remembered  that  Margaret  was  that 
poor  mother's  name.  She  had  painted  that 
sweet  face  pointed  out  by  Seraphina  from 
her  fancy  of  what  that  blind  mother  must 
have  been  in  her  youth.  Now  here  was  a 
curious  coincidence.  And  it  seemed  that 
she  had  brought  trouble  instead  of  pleasure. 
But  she  remembered  the  kerchief,  and 
triumphantly  pulled  it  from  her  pocket. 

"See,"  she  said,  flinging  it  over  her 
shoulders ;  "  does  it  not  shine  splendidly  ? 
Ah,  if  you  could  but  see  it  in  the  sun !" 

Serapliina  screamed,  and  laid  hold  of 
Witch's  skirts. 

"  Then  I  was  not  deceived  when  I  saw 
you  "with  it  before  frt)m  the  window,"  she 
said.  "  Oh,  it  is  the  paroquet,  the  pai^o- 
quet!"  feeling  it  all  over.  "Girl,  where 
did  you  get  this  tiling  ?" 

"I  got  it  from  Barry,"  said  Witch,  now 
truly  in  dismay. 

"  Who  is  Barry  ?"  gasped  Seraphina. 

"His  mother  and  he  are  my  dearest 
friends,"  said  Witch.  "  He  wove  this  for 
me  on  his  loom." 

"No;  he  must  have  stolen  it!"  said 
Seraphina,  in  great  excitement.  "There 
was  only  one  kerchief  like  this  in  the  world. 
With  a  wonderful  story.  Oh,  such  a 
wonderful  story !" 

"  I  know  the  story,"  said  Witch,  nodding. 

"  You  know  the  story  ?"  shrieked  Sera- 
phina. 

"  Yes,"  said  Witch,  "  about  the  bird  and 
the  Sultana.  But  this  is  not  that  one. 
This  is  copied  from  it.  Barry's  mother 
has  the  original  and  would  not  part  with 
it  for  the  world." 

"  Where  did  she  get  it  ?"  moaned  Sera- 
phina. "  Oh,  where  did  she  get  it  ?  The 
bird  and  the  Sultana.  Yes,  that  was  part 
of  the  story.  But  the  rest  of  it,  do  you 
know  the  rest  of  it  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Witch ;  but  she  remembered 
that  there  had  been  a  sec^uel  ifs  tW  V^SaA 
mother's  story. 


(.4 


144 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Jii]7l0.18«,l 


"  Then  I  will  tell  it  to  you,"  said  Se- 
raphina.  "  The  kerchief  was  stolen,  and 
handed  from  one  to  another  till  it  came  into 
the  possession  of  a  nnrse  in  onr  family.'* 

"  In  your  family  ?*'  interrupted  Witch. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sei'apliina ;  "  we  had  ser- 
vants enough,  and  pleasures  and  comforts. 
We  were  not  wretched  creatures  then.  We 
lived  in  a  beautiful  country.  Your  picture 
is  a  morsel  of  our  home.  We  were  as 
happy  as  young  creatures  could  be.  The 
oidy  vexation  we  had  as  children  was  the 
quarrelliug  of  Tabitha  and  Roger  about 
which  would  save  up  the  most  cherry- 
stones or  halfpence  in  a  drawer.  Our 
nurse  often  scolded  them  for  that,  and  told 
of  how  there  had  been  misers  in  our  family 
once;  and  bade  them  take  care  lest  an 
evil  spirit  should  get  into  them.  Our 
mother  was  dead,  and  she  was  a  mother 
to  Kttle  Margaret,  who  was  by  many  years 
the  youngest  of  us  all.  She  loved  little 
Margaret  as  well  as  her  own  life. 

"  At  last  there  came  a  great  fortune 
from  India,  and  Tabitha  and  Roger  be- 
came miserable.  After  this  they  could  not 
endure  the  spending  of  a  halfpenny.  Little 
Margaret  was  just  then  grown  up,  and  as 
sweet,  oh  as  sweet  as  the  face  in  your 
picture.  Home  became  terrible  by-and-by, 
and  poor  Margaret  ran  away  from  it  and 
made  a  sad  marriage.  She  came  back  once 
begging  a  little  help  for  her  sick  husband 
and  cluldren.  But  they  would  not  give 
her  a  penny.  Our  old  nurse  was  dying  at 
that  time,  but  she  got  up  on  her  feet  to 
curse  Tabitha  and  Roger.  She  was  folding 
and  pinning  the  paroquet  kerchief — ^the 
only  gift  she  had  to  give — upon  Margaret's 
bosom  with  her  dying  hands  at  the  same 
time  that  she  was  uttering  her  curse.  It 
withered  me  up  for  evermore,  that  curse 
did.  And  it  seemed  to  pass  into  the  colours 
of  that  paroquet  kerchief,  and  they  seemed 
to  bum  and  bum  with  it.  That  is  why  it 
is  so  dreadful  to  me  now.  I  heard  that 
Margaret  and  her  husband  and  children 
all  died.  I  never  could  go  to  seek  them, 
for  I  never  had  any  money.  And  oh,  what 
a  life  I  have  had,  all  along  !"  moaned  Se- 
raphina,  "  till  ithsis  ended  like  this,  through 
the  money  and  the  curse !" 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Miss  Seraphina," 
said  Witch,  promptly.  "  My  friend  Barry 
is  your  nephew,  and  his  mother  is  your 
sister  Margaret !" 


**  You  would  not  make  a  fool  of  a  poor, 
old,  lonely  wretch  ?"  said  Seraphina,  with 
a  wistful  look  in  Witch's  face. 

"  Come  and  see,"  said  Witch. 

"  Stay,"  said  Seraphina ;  "  are  they 
poor  ?  I  hope  they  are  poor,  for  there  is 
such  a  heap  of  money  in  the  garden !" 

A  bright  light  dawned  before  Wiiob. 
Barry's  good  fortune  shone  out  upon  her. 
And  she  and  Seraphina  made  their  way  to 
Weavers'-square. 

"  Sister  Margaret !  Sister  Margaret !" 
cried  Seraphina,  "  will  you  come  and  take 
the  curse  off  that  Indian  money  P  It  is  all 
buried  in  the  earth  for  your  son.  Let  him 
go  and  dig  it  up  !" 

Some  time  afterwards,  a  busy,  active  old 
lady  might  have  been  seen  stepping  briskly 
about  a  handsome  country  house.  There 
were  the  gardens  to  be  put  in  order,  and 
Margaret's  pretty  rooms  to  be  furnished. 
Seraphina  arranged  it  all,  for  the  young 
people  were  away  on  their  wedding  tour. 
The  sweep  and  the  milkman  out  of  a  cer- 
tain dreary  street  could  hardly  have  recog- 
nised this  old  lady,  if  they  had  seen  her. 

The  world  has  got  Barry's  name  on  the 
tip  of  its  busy  tongue.  Little  Witch  is  a 
great  hk^>  a>nd  paints  pictures  of  foreign 
lands.  She  does  not  forget  her  kitchen, 
nor  her  paroquet  kerchief.  How  do  they 
get  on  at  home  ?  she  will  oft«n  wonder. 

Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  Kathleen  has  to 
make  the  tea,  I  am  afraid.  Alice  has  to 
mend  the  broken  stockings.  Bella  has  to 
dust  the  little  tambourine-girl  on  the 
chimney-piece !  True,  there  is  now  a  ser- 
vant, with  arms  much  stronger  than 
Witch's  ever  were.  But  yet  there  is  such  a 
great  deal  to  be  done,  after  all.  Why  did 
Httle  Witch  go  away  ? 

On  Saturday  7tli  August,  1869, 
Will  be  commenced  in  **  All  thb  Yxab  BoxniD : " 

VERONICA. 

Bj  the  Author  of  "  Amrr  Masgabet'b  Tbovblb." 

A  NEW  SERIAL  STOEY, 
To  be  continued  from  week  to  week  until  completed. 

—       -      --^  -1 -* 

Now  Beady,  price  5s.  6d.,  bound  in  grMn  doth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OF  THB  New  Ssbieb  oi 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  bo  had  of  all  Booksellers. 


/= 


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PttbliMbed  «i  the  OtBoe,  Ko.  SO,  WelUogum  Street,  Strand.    ?T\ntAd  Yrg  C.  "^*  u\-t«o,  ^«%.u\«v  >i<nM^«ttM*. 


J 


WEECKED  IN  PORT. 


A  Suiu.  SiOBr  II  rat  Adtbob  or  "Blici  Sitiir." 

BOOS  HL 
CBAPTEB    i.      lADT   CiKOLDIB   ADVISES    ON    1 

DELICATE   SUBJECT. 

Thb  oommimicatioii  which  Mr.  Benthal], 
in  his  bluff  off-hand  ina.tmer,  had  made  to 
Walter  Joyce,  had  enrprised  the  latter  very 
ornch,  and  embarrassed  hira  not  a,  little. 
Etct  since  the  receipt  of  Marian  Ashnrst'a 
letter  announcing  her  intention  of  marrying 
Mr.  Creawell,  Joyce  hadlived  absolutely  free 
&Dm  any  inflnence  of  "  the  crael  madneas 
of  love,  the  poison  of  honey  flowers,  and  all 
the  measiirclesa  ill."  All  his  thoughts  had 
been  given  np  to  labour  and  ambition,  and, 
with  the  exception  of  his  deep-rooted  and 
cenaine  regaid  for  Lady  Caroline,  and  his 
friendly  liking  for  the  Creswell  girla,  he 
entert^ned  no  feeling  for  any  woman 
Hving,  unless  a  suspicion  of  and  an  aversion 
to  Marion  Creswell  might  be  so  taken  into 
■oeonnt.  Had  he  this  special  paj'tiaUty  for 
Maod  Creswell,  of  which  Benthall  had 
spoken  so  plainly  ?  He  set  to  work  to 
catechise  himself,  to  look  back  through 
the  events  of  the  past  fow  months,  noting 
what  he  remembered  of  their  relations  to 
each  other. 

Yes,  he  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  Maud ; 
he  remembered  very  frequent  occasions  on 
which  they  had  been  thrown  together.  He 
had  not  noticed  it  at  the  time ;  it  seemed 
to  come  naturally  enough.  Gertrude,  of 
conrse,  was  engaged  with  Benthall  when 
he  was  in  town,  in  writing  to  him  or 
thinking  of  him  when  he  was  away,  and 
Loidj  Caroline  had  to  go  through  all  the 
hard  work  which  falls  upon  a  great  lady  in 
•ociety,  work  the  amount  of  which  can 
only  be  appreciated  by  those  who  hare  per- 


formed it  or  seen  it  performed.  So  that, 
as  Joyce  then  recollected,  he  and  Maud  had 
been  thrown  a  great  deal  together,  and,  as 
he  further  recollected,  they  had  had  a  great 
many  discDssions  on  topics  very  far  removed 
from  the  mere  ordinary  frivoUtj  of  society- 
talk  ;  and  he  had  noticed  that  she  seemed 
to  have  clear  ideas,  which  she  understood 
how  to  express.  What  an  odd  thing,  that 
what  Benthall  said  had  never  atmck  him 
before !  It  must  have  been  patent  to  other 
people,  though ;  and  that  put  the  mat- 
ter, unpleasantly,  in  rather  a  ridicnlous 
light.  Ailor  all,  though,  what  was  there 
ridiculous  in  it  P  Maud  was  a  very  hand- 
some girl,  a  clever  girl,  and  an  unmis- 
takable lady.  What  a  pretty,  slight,  girlish 
figure  she  had !  such  a  graceful  outline  ! 
her  head  was  so  well  posed  upon  her  neck  ! 
And  Joyce  smiled  as  ho  found  himself 
drawing  lines  in  the  air  with  the  paper- 
knife  which   he   was  idly  toasiiig  in   bis 

And  he  had  Benthalt's  assurance  that 
tlie  girl  cared  for  him ;  that  was  some- 
thing. Benthall  was  a  man  careful  in  the 
extreme  as  ta  what  ho  said,  and  he  would 
not  have  made  such  a  statement  where  a 
girl  was  concerned,  and  that  girl  his  own 
sister-in-law,  unless  he  were  tolerably  cer- 
tain of  being  right.  His  own  sister-in-law ; 
he  had  it  then,  of  course,  from  Gertrude, 
who  was  Maud's  second  self,  and  woold 
know  all  about  it.  It  was  satislactory  to 
know  that  there  was  a  woman  in  the  world 
who  cared  for  him,  and  though  without 
the  smallest  particle  of  vanity  he  accepted 
the  behof  very  readily,  for  his  rejection  by 
Marian  Aahnrst  and  the  indignity  which 
he  had  suffered  at  her  hands  had  by  no 
means  rendered  him  genev&Wj  w^iarai  ^^  \. 
flU-spidona  of  t\io  sex,  MAvvon.  k:^iH*'\'ft^ 
what  an  age  ago  it  seemed  auuca  Vfce  &a.-^ft  '^ 
.—  -         I  — ^^ 


d3. 


146     [Joiyn.ucsj 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


[Ooadactad^ 


wben  ihe  mention  of  that  name  would  have 
sent  the  blood  flowing  to  his  cheek,  «id 
his  heart  thumping  4indibly,  a»d  nvw  liwe 
he  was  stBying  in  tiie  old  house  ^cvliCTe  aHl 
the  love  floenes  hsA  taken  place,  walking 
round  tlia  garAen  where  all  the  sofl  words 
had  hecn  «p»kQn,  ail  the  vows  made  which 
she  had  thrown  to  the  winds,  when  the  last 
parting,  with  what  he  then,  and  for  so  long 
after^^Eirds,  tliougM  its  nevc^to-he-ferrot- 
ten  agony  had  occtDred,  and  he  had  not  felt 
one  single  extra  palpitation.  Mrs.  Crcswell 
was  staying  away  from  Woolgreaves  just 
then,  at  some  inland  watodng-place ;  for  the 
bend&t  of  her  health,  which  it  was  said  had 
suffered  somewhat  from  her  constant  at- 
tendance on  her  husband,  or  Joyce  might 
have  met  her.  Such  a  meeting  would  not 
have  caused  him  an  emotion.  When  he 
had  encountered  her  in  the  lane,  during  the 
canvassing  time,  there  was  yet  lingering 
within  his  breast  a  remembrance  of  the 
great  wrong  she  had  done  him,  and  that 
was  £umed  into  additional  fury  by  the 
nature  of  her  request  and  the  insolence 
with  which  she  made  it.  But  all  those 
feelings  had  died  out  now,  and  were  he 
then,  he  thought,  to  come  across  Marian 
Greswell's  path,  she  would  be  to  him  as  the 
merest  stranger,  and  no  more. 

If  he  were  to  marry,  he  knew  of  no  one 
more  likely  to  suit  him  in  all  ways  than 
Maud.  Pretty  to  look  at,  devcr  to  talk  to, 
sufficiently  accustomed  to  him  and  his  ways 
of  life,  she  would  make  him  a  far  better 
wife  than  nine-tenths  of  the  young  ladies 
he  was  accustomed  to  meet  in  su&  little 
socieiy  as  he  could  spare  the  time  to  cul- 
tivate. Why  should  he  marry  at  all  ?  He 
answered  the  question  almost  as  soon  as 
he  asked  it.  His  life  wanted  brightening, 
wanted  refining,  was  at  present  too  nar- 
row and  ^confined ;  all  his  hopes,  thoughts, 
and  aspirations  were  centred  on  himself. 
He  was  all  wrong.  There  should  be  some 
one  who— the  chambers  were  confoundedly 
dreary  too,  when  he  came  liome  to  them 
from  the  office  or  the  House;  he  should 
travel  when  the  House  rose,  somewhere 
abroad,  he  thought,  and  it  would  be  dull 
work  moving  about  by  himself^  and 

What  pretty,  earnest  eyes  Maud  had,  and 
shining  hair,  and  delicate  ''  bred  "  looking 
hands !  She  certainly  was  wonderfully 
nice,  and  if,  as  Benthall  avowed^  she  really 
cared  for  him,  he — who  was  this  coming  to 
break  in  on  his  pleasant  day-dream  ?  Oh, 
Grertrude. 

**I  was    wondering    where  you    w€__, 
-Mr.  Joyce  I    Ton  saul  you  wanted  your 


■\ 


IxAiday,  and  you  seem  to  be  passing  it  ia 
skmbor !" 

''^NotUfiijg  mt>  ■'oommonplace,  Mrs.  Ben* 
liiaU '» 

"  One  momeift,  whynio  rou4Mil  sie  Mn. 
Benthall  ?  What  has  mane^wa  «o  fomd 
and  ridiculous  all  of  a  sudden  ?  Ton  mefl 
to  call  me  Gertrude,  in  London  ?^ 

"  Tea,  but  then  you  were  an 
girl,  ncmyou  mte  a  wedded  woman, 
there's  a  oertain  amount  of  respect  due  te 
matronhood." 

"  What  nonsense !  Do  call  me  HS«r- 
trude  again,  please,  Mrs.  iBeothall  Bounds 
so  horrid !  I  shoidd  like  the  boarders  hen 
in  the  house  to  call  me  Gertrude,  only 
George  says  it  wouldn't  be  proper  !  And 
so  you  weren't  asleep  ?" 

"  Not  the  least  bit !  Although  I'm  ready 
to  allow  I  was  dreaming." 

"  Dreaming !  what  about  P" 

'*  About  the  old  days  which  I  spent  in 
this  place — and  their  association !" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know — I  mean  to  say        " 

'*  No,  no,  Gertrude,  say  what  you  had  on 
3rour  lips  then!  -No  prevarication  and 
no  hesitation ;  what  was  it  P" 

"  No,  really,  nothing— it  is  only ^ 

"I  insist  I" 

"  Well,  what  I  mem  to  say  is,  of  oonzBe 
people  will  talk  in  a  village,  you  know, 
and  we've  heasd  about  your  engagement^ 
you  know,  and  how  it  was  broken  ofi^  and 
how  badly  you  were  treated,  and  Oh, 

how  silly  I  was  to  say  a  word  about  it ! 
I'm  sure  George  would  be  harzibly  cronif 
he  knew !" 

"  And  did  you  imagine  I  was  grinliBg 
over  my  past,  cursing  the  day  when  I  fint 
saw  the  fidthless  fur,  and  indulging  in 
other  poetic  rhapsodies  i  My  dcttr  G«^ 
trade,  it's  not  a  pleasant  tlung  being  jilted, 
but  one  lives  to  get  over  it  and  forget  all 
about  it ;  even  to  forgive  her  whom  I  be- 
lieve it  is  correct  to  call  the  fiJae  one  1" 

^'  Yes,  I  dare  say  1  In  fetot  George  and 
Maud  both  said  you  didn't  think  anythiBg 
about  it  now,  and—" 

"  Maud !  did  she  know  of  it  too  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  we  all  knew  of  it  1  The  old 
woman  who  had  been  housekeeper,  er 
cook,  or  something  here  in  the  old  Ashunrti 
time  told  George,  and      ■  ■" 

"  What  did  Maud  say  about  it  ?"  inte^ 
ruptcd  Joyce. 

'<  She  said— I  forget  what  I  No  I  I  xe- 
ooUeot  I  she  said  that — ^that  Mbrs.  Oreswell 
was  just  the  sort  of  woman  that  would  A3 
to  appredato  you !" 

"  That  may  be  taken  in  two  senses  tf 


K» 


Ghjirl««  Dickens.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[July  17. 1JJ69.]       147 


a  compliment  or  otlierwise,"  said  Joyce, 
langliing. 

'^  I'la  sure  Maud  meant  it  nicelv,"  said 
Gertrude,  earnestly.  Then  added,  "  ]3y  the 
way,  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  Maud, 
Mr.  Joyce.'* 

"About  Maud!"  said  Walter.  Then 
thonght  to  himself,  "  Is  it  possible  that  the 
seeds  of  match-making  are  already  deve- 
loping themselves  in  ihia  three  months'  old 
matron  P" 

"  Yes.  I  don't  think  Greorge  mentioned 
it  to  you,  but  ho  had  a  talk  with  Maud, 
just  before  our  marriage,  about  her  future. 
George,  of  course,  told  her  that  our  house 
would  be  her  home,  her  permanent  home  I 
mean ;  and  he  gave  her  the  kindest  message 
from  Lady  Caroline,  who  bargained  that  at 
least  a  portion  of  the  year  sliould  be  spent 
with  her." 

'*  Wliat  did  your  sister  say  to  that  ?" 

"Well,  she  was  much  obliged  and  all 
that,  but  she  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
settle  down.  She  has  some  horrible  no- 
tkms  about  duty  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  thinks  her  money  has  been  given  to 
her  to  do  good  with ;  and  George  is  afraid 
she  would  get,  what  he  calls,  'let  in'  by 
seme  of  those  dreadful  hypocritical  people, 
and  we  want  you  to  talk  to  her  and  reason 
her  out  of  it.''^ 

"I?    Why  I,  my  dear  Gertrude  ?" 

''Because  she  believes  in  you  so  much 
mve  than  in  anybody  else,  and  is  so  much 
mate  likely  to  do  what  you  advise  her." 

"  She  pays  me  a  great  compliment,"  said 
Joyce,  rising,  "and  I'll  see  what's  to  be 
done.  The  first  thing,  I  think,  is  to  consult 
Lady  Caroline,  who  would  be  sure  to  give 
good  advice.  I  shall  see  her  to-morrow, 
and  ril " 

*^  See  Lady  Caroline  to-morrow !  I 
ihonght  you  were  not  going  back  till 
Saturday  ?" 

^  I've  just  thought  of  some  special  busi- 
nen  about  which  I  must  see  Lady  Caroline 
at  once,  and  I'll  mention  this  at  the  same 
time.  Now,  lot  .us  find  George.  Come  for 
A  turn. 

They  found  Greorge  and  went  for  their 
torn,  and  when  their  turn  was  over,  and 
Gertrude  was  alone  with  her  husband,  she 
told  him  the  conversation  which  she  had 
had  with  Walt^  Joyce.  The  schoolmaster 
laughed  heartily. 

"  *Pon  my  word,  Gerty,"  he  said,  "  match- 
making appears  to  be  your  forte,  bom  and 
bred  in  you !  I  never  believed  in  the  re- 
ality of  those  old  dowagers  in  Mrs.  TroUope's 
novels,  until  I  saw  you," 


"  Well,  I  declare,  George,  you  are  com- 
plimentary !  old  dowagei's,  indeed !  But, 
seriously,  I  wish  Walter  wasn't  going  to 
Lady  Caroline !" 

"Why,  what  on  earth  has  that  to  do 
with  it  ?" 

"Well,  I  mean  speaking  in  Maud's  in- 
terest!" 

"  Why,  one  would  think  that  Lady 
Caroline  was  in  love  with  Walter  Joyce 
herself!" 

"  Exactly !" 

"Why — ^why — ^you  don't  think  so,  my 
dear  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  so,  my  dear !" 

And,  as  response,  the  Reverend  George 
Benthall  whistled  in  a  loud  and  underiod 
manner. 

When  Walter  Joyce  arrived  in  Chester- 
field-street, he  found  Lady  Caroline  was 
absent,  passing  the  holidays  with  Lord 
and  Lady  Hetherington  at  Westhope,  and, 
after  a  little  hesitation,  he  determined  to 
go  down  there  and  see  her.  He  had  not 
seen  anything  of  the  Hetheringtons  since 
his  election :  his  lordship  was  occupied  with 
some  new  fiskd  which  kept  him  in  the 
country,  and  her  ladyship  did  not  care  to 
come  to  town  until  after  Easter.  Lord 
Hetherington  had  viewed  the  prog^ss  of 
his  ez-seoretary  with  great  satisfaction. 
His  recollections  of  Joyce  were  all  pleasant ; 
the  young  man  had  done  his  work  carefully 
and  cleverly,  had  always  been  gentlemanly 
and  unobtrusive,  and  had  behaved  deuoed 
well — ^point  of  fact,  deuoed  well,  brave, 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  in  that  matter 
of  saving  Car'line  on  the  ice.  Her  lady- 
ship's feelings  were  very  different.  She  dis- 
liked self-made  people  moro  than  any 
others,  and  those  who  were  reckoned 
clever  were  specially  obnoxious  to  her. 
She  had  heani  much,  a  neat  deal  too 
much,  of  Joyce  from  Mr.  Gould,  who,  in 
his  ooeasional  visits,  delighted  in  dilating 
on  his  recent  focman's  abilities,  eloquence, 
and  pluck,  partly  because  he  respected 
such  qualities  wherever  he  met  with  them, 
but  principally  because  he  knew  that  such 
comments  were  very  aggravating  to  Lady 
Hetherington  (no  great  &vourite  of  his)  ; 
and  she  was  not  more  £Bivourably  disposed 
towards  him,  becaxLse  he  had  adopted  poli- 
tical principles  diametrically  opposed  to 
those  in  which  she  believed.  But  what  ac- 
tuated her  most  in-  her  ill-fiBeling  towards 
Mr.  Joyce  was  a  fear  that,  now  that  he  ha^ 
obtained  a  certain  'posit\oT^\iQ  tii\^\>«a'^^ 
ix)  Lady  CaroUne  iSlaiiBieT^,  ^\kO,  »&  Ya^-^ 


<A 


j 


148      [Jalyl7,lM!>.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondactodbf 


Hetherington  always  suspected,  would  be 
by  no  means  indisposed  to  accept  him. 
Hitherto  the  difference  in  their  social  status 
had  rendered  any  such  proceeding  tho- 
roughly unlikely ;  a  tutor,  or  a,  what  did 
they  call  it? — ^reporter  to  a  newspaper, 
could  scarcely  have  the  impertinence  to 
propose  for  an  earl's  sister ;  but,  as  a  mem- 
ber of  parliament,  the  man  enjoyed  a  posi- 
tion in  society,  and  nothing  could  be  said 
against  him  on  that  score.  There  was 
Lady  Violet  Magnier,  Lord  Haughton- 
forest's  daughter.  Well,  Mr.  Magnier  sold 
ribbons,  and  pocket  -  handkerchiefs,  and 
things,  in  the  City ;  but  then  he  was  mem- 
ber for  some  place,  and  was  very  rich,  and 
it  was  looked  upon  as  a  very  good  match 
for  Lady  Violet.  Mr.  Joyce  was  just  the  man 
to  assert  himself  in  a  highly  disagreeable 
maimer;  he  always  held  views  about  the 
supremacy  of  intellect^  and  that  kind  of 
rubbish ;  and  the  more  he  kept  away  from 
them  the  less  chance  he  would  have  of 
exercising  any  influence  over  Lady  Caroline 
Mansergh. 

It  may  be  imagined,  then,  that  her  lady- 
ship was  not  best  pleased  when  her  sister- 
in-law  informed  her  that  she  had  had  a 
telegram  from  Walter  Joyce,  asking  whether 
he  might  come  down  to  Westhope  to  see 
her  on  special  business,  and  that  she  "  sup- 
posed Margaret  had  no  objection."  Mar- 
garet had  strong  objections,  but  did  not 
think  it  politic  to  say  so  just  then,  so  merely 
intimated  that  she  would  be  happy  to  see 
Mr.  Joyce  whenever  he  chose  to  come. 
The  tone  in  which  this  intimation  was  con- 
veyed was  so  little  pleasing  to  Lady  Caro- 
line that  she  took  care  to  impress  on  her 
sister-in-law  the  fact  that  Joyce's  visit  was 
to  her.  Lady  Caroline,  and  that  she  had 
merely  mentioned  his  coming  as  a  matter 
of  politeness  to  her  hostess,  which  did  not 
tend  to  increase  Lady  Hetherington's  re- 
gard for  Walter  Joyce. 

But  the  biens^ances  were  never  ne- 
glected on  account  of  any  personal  feeling, 
and  when  Joyce  arrived  at  the  station  he 
recognised  the  familiar  livery  on  the  plat>- 
form,  and  found  a  carriage  in  waiting  to 
convey  him  to  Westhope.  During  the  drive 
he  occupied  himself  in  thinking  over  the 
wondrous  changes  which  had  taken  place 
since  his  first  visit  to  that  neighbourhood, 
when,  with  a  wardrobe  provided  by  old 
Jack  Byrne,  and  a  scanty  purse  supplied 
from  the  same  source,  he  had  come  down  in 
a  dependant  position,  not  knowing  any  of 
^os0  amongst  whom  his  lot  in  life  was  to 
be  paaaed,  and  without  the  least  idea  as  to 


the  kind  of  treatment  he  might  expect  st 
their  hands.  That  treatment,  he  knew, 
would  have  been  very  different  had  it  not 
been  for  Lady  Caroline  Mansergh.  But 
for  her  counsel,  too,  he  would  have  suffered 
himself  to  have  remained  completely 
crushed  and  vanquished  by  Marian  Ash- 
urst's  conduct,  would  have  subsided  into  a 
mere  drudge  without  energy  or  hope.  Tes, 
all  the  good  in  his  life  ne  owed  to  the 
friendship,  to  the  kindly  promptings  of  that 
sweetest  and  best  of  women«  He  felt  that 
thoroughly,  and  yet  it  never  Btmck  him 
that  in  asking  her  to  advise  him  as  to  loB 
marriage  with  some  one  else,  he  was  com- 
mitting, to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  solecism. 
The  axiom  which  declares  that  the  cleverest 
men  have  the  smallest  amonnt  of  common 
sense,  has  a  broader  foundation  ihan  is 
generally  believed. 

On  his  arrival  at  Westhope,  Joyce  was 
informed  by  the  buUer  that  Lord  Hethe^ 
ington  had  gone  ronnd  the  Home  Fann 
with  the  bailiff,  and  that  her  ladyship  was 
out  driving,  but  that  they  would  both  be 
home  to  Inncheon,  when  they  expected  the 
pleasure  of  his  company ;  meanwhile  would 
he  walk  into  the  library,  where  La^  Caro- 
line Mansergh  wonld  join  him  ?     He  went 
into  the  library,  and  had  just  looked  ronnd 
the  room  and  viewed  his  old  associationi^ 
glanced  at  the  desk  where  he  had  sat  work* 
ing  away  for  so  many  hours  at  a  stretch, 
at  the  big  tomes  whence  he  had  extracted 
the  subj^st-matter  for  that  great  historical 
work,  still,  alas !  incomplete,   at  the  Hne 
of  Shakespearean  volumes  which  formed 
Lady  Caroline  Mansergh's  private  readin^^ 
when  the  door  opened,  and  Lady  Caro- 
line came  in.     Country  air  had  not  had  its 
usual  beneficial  effect,  Joyce  thought  as  bt 
looked  at  her  ;  for  her  mce  was  varr  pal^ 
and  her  manner  nervous  and  odd.   Tet  she 
shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  bade 
him  be  seated  in  her  old  cheery  tone. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  yon  to  let  me  come 
down  here,  breaking  in  upon  the  restwludi 
I  have  no  doubt  you  want^  and  boring  'JQ^ 
with  my  own  private  affairs,"  said  Joyo^ 
seating  himself  in  the  window-sill  dose  bf 
the  arm-chair  which  Lady  Caroline  bid 
taken. 

"  It  is  not  very  good  of  you  to  talk  oon^ 
ventionalities,  and  to  pretend  that  yon 
don't  know  I  have  a  deep  interest  in  aD 
that  concerns  you,''  replied  Lady  Caro- 
line. 

"  I  have  every  reason  to  know  it»  and 

my  last  words  were  merely  a  foolish  ntio^ 

\  Qnoe  oi  Bociety-talk        ' ' 


■.h 


OhariM  Diekena.] 


A  NEW  RELIGION. 


[July  17. 1869.]       149 


"  Whicli  yon  always  declare  yon  despise, 
and  whicli  yon  know  I  detest." 

^  Qnite  tme ;  think  it  nnspoken  and  ab- 
solve me." 

•'  I  do ;  bnt  if  we  are  to  have  what  yon 
used  to  call  a  'bnsiness  talk,'  we  mnst 
Lave  it  at  once.  In  half  an  honr  Lord  and 
Lady  Hetherington  and  the  Inncheon  will 
arrive  simnltaneonsly,  and  oar  chance  is  at 
an  end.  And  yon  did  not  come  from  Lon- 
don, I  snppose,  to  discnss  tenant  right,  or 
to  listen  to  Lady  Hetherington's  diatribes 
against  servants  r ' 

"  No,  indeed ;  with  all  deference  to  them, 
I  came  to  see  yon,  and  yon  alone,  to  ask 
yoor  advice,  and  to  take  it,  which  is  qnite 
a  different  thing,  as  I  have  done  before  in 
momentons  periods  of  my  life." 

"  And  this  is  a  momentons  period  ?" 

"  Undonbtedly,  as  mnch,  if  not  more  so, 
than  any." 

Had  she  any  notion  of  what  was  coining? 
Her  pale  £ace  grew  paler ;  she  pnshed  back 
her  chesnnt  hair,  and  her  large  eyes  were 
fixed  on  him  in  grave  attention. 

"  Yon  alone  of  any  one  in  the  world, 
man  or  woman,  know  the  exact  story  of 
my  first  love.  Yon  knew  my  confidence 
and  tmst,  yon  knew  how  they  were  abnsed. 
Yon  saw  how  I  snfiered  at  the  time,  and 
yon  cannot  be  ignorant  of  what  is  absolute 
fiust ;  that  to  yonr  advice  and  enconrage- 
ment  I  owe  not  merely  recovery  from  that 
wretched  state,  bnt  the  position  to  which  I 
liave  since  attained !" 

"Well?" 

"That  first  love  fell  dead;  yon  know 
when !  Ambition,  the  passion  that  supplied 
its  place,  was  sufficient  for  a  time  to  absorb 
idl  my  thoughts,  hopes,  and  energies.  But, 
to  a  certain  extent  it  has  been  gratified, 
and  it  suffices  me  no  longer.  My  heart 
wants  some  one  to  love,  and  turns  to  one 
to  whom  it  owes  gratitude,  but  whom  it 
would  sooner  meet  with  a  warmer  feeling. 
Are  you  not  well.  Lady  Caroline  ?" 

"  Quite  well,  thanks,  and — and  interested. 
Pray  go  on  I" 

"  To  go  on  is  difficult.  It  is  so  horrible 
in  a  man  to  have  to  say  that  he  sees  he  has 
awakened  interest  in  a  woman,  that  she 
shows  all  unknowingly  to  herself,  but  still 
sufficiently  palpable,  that  he  is  the  one 
person  in  the  world  to  her,  that  she  re- 
joices in  his  presence,  and  grieves  at  his 
absence ;  worst  of  all  that  all  this  is  pointed 
oat  to  him  by  other  people " 

Lady  Caroline's  cheeks  flushed  as  she 
echoed  the  words,  "  Pointed  out  to  him  by 
other  people !" 


"  Exactly.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  How- 
ever, all  this  being  so,  and  my  feelings  such 
as  I  have  described,  I  presume  I  shouldn't 
be  repeating  my  former  error,  inviting  a 
repetition  of  my  previous  fate,  in  asking 
her  to  be  my  wife  r" 

"I— I  should  think  not."  The  flush 
still  in  her  cheeks.  "  Do  I  know  the 
lady  ?" 

**  Do  you  know  her  ?  No  one  knows 
her  so  well  I  Ah,  Lady  Caroline,  kindest 
and  dearest  of  friends,  why  should  I  keep 
you  longer  in  suspense  ?  It  is  Maud  Cres- 
well !" 

Her  face  blanched  in  an  instant.  Her 
grasp  tightened  rigidly  over  the  arm  of  the 
chair  on  which  it  lay,  but  she  gave  no 
other  sign  of  emotion.  Even  her  voice,  - 
though  hollow  and  metallic,  never  shook 
as  she  repeated  the  name,  "Maud  Cres- 
well !" 

"Yes.  Maud  Creswell!  You  are  sur- 
prised, I  see,  but  I  don't  think  you  will 
blame  me  for  my  choice  !  She  is  eminently 
ladylike,  and  clever,  and  nice,  and " 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  possibly 

what  is  it,  Thomas  r" 

"  Luncheon,  my  lady." 

"  Very  welL  I  must  get  you  to  go  in  to 
luncheon  without  me,  Mr.  Joyce ;  you  will 
find  Lord  and  Lady  Hetherington  in  the 
dining-room,  and  I  will  come  down  directly. 
We  will  resume  our  talk  afterwards." 

And  she  left  the  room,  and  walked 
swiflly  and  not  too  steadily  up  the  hall 
towards  the  staircasa 


A  NEW  RELIGION. 

A  NEW  religion  has  within  the  last  few  years 
been  founded  in  Persia,  which  seems  destined 
to  exercise  a  powerful  antagonism  to  Mo- 
hammedanism. Amongst  the  doctrines  of  the 
Babys,  as  these  new  sectaries  are  called,  none 
are  more  likely  to  attract  attention  than  those 
which  are  intended  to  effect  a  radical  change  in 
the  condition  of  women  in  the  East.  Babysm 
was  founded  in  1843  at  Shiraz  by  Mirza-Ali- 
Mohammcd,  a  young  man  of  nineteen  years  of 
age,  who  gave  out  that  he  was  the  genuine 
successor  of  Ali,  the  true  prophet  of  Iran.  He 
was  endowed  with  singular  beauty  of  form  and 
features ;  with  an  eloquence  which  seemed  in- 
spired ;  and  with  great  earnestness  of  purpose. 
The  example  of  Mohammed  induced  him  to 
prepare  himself  for  his  mission  by  an  assiduous 
study  of  the  ancient  systems  of  religion,  and 
he  listened  also  to  the  teachings  of  Protestant 
missionaries,  of  orthodox  Jews,  and  of  followers 
of  the  Kabbala.  He  made  the  pilgrimage  to 
Mecca,  and  visited  the  tomb  of  the  •^xQi^\\s.\.\ 
yet  in  the  very  undst  oi  tk^a  VoY^  ^vVj  >km^  i^NJo. 


c& 


^ 


150       [July  17, 18fi9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condvpted  hf 


first  wavered,  and  after  a  viot  to  the  ruins  of 
the  mosque  at  Kufa,  where  Ali,  his  ancestor, 
liad  been  murdered,  h6  returned  to  Shiraz,  de- 
t<}rmincd  to  wage  open  war  against  the  national 
religion.  Many  of  his  fellow-travellers  had 
been  so  charmed  by  his  eloquence  and  agree- 
able manners,  that  they  had  followed  hun  to 
Shiraz,  and  when  he  began  to  explain  the 
Koran  in  a  totally  new  fashion,  they  eagerly 
adopted  his  interpretation.  Mirza-Ali -Mo- 
hammed commenced  by  inveighing  against  the 
vices  of  the  Mullahs,  and  he  showed  that  their 
actions,  their  habits,  and  their  doctrines  were 
totally  at  variance  with  the  commands  of  the 
holy  book.  He  preached  daily  against  them 
in  the  mosques,  and  daily  gathered  roimd  him 
a  larger  following  of  disciples.  The  Mullahs 
attempted  to  refute  his  assertions  in  public 
discussions,  but  they  were  worsted  in  argu- 
ment, and  Mirza^s  fame  was  enhanced  by  his 
triumph.  Had  he  been  satisfied  with  the  part 
of  a  reformer  only,  he  would  have  been  safe 
in  the  strength  of  his  popularity;  but  he 
chose  to  found  a  new  religion  on  the  ruins 
of  the  one  he  condemned,  and  thus  eventually 
led  his  followers  into  a  fatal  struggle  with  the 
government. 

He  announced  to  his  disciples  that  he  was 
the  Bab,  that  is  to  say,  the  gate,  the  mystic 
gate,  by  which  alone  one  could  enter  into  the 
true  faith,  and  acquire  a  knowledge  of  God  ; 
and  from  this  name  his  followers  have  re- 
ceived their  appellation  of  BAbys.  Soon  after- 
wards he  ventured  to  assume  a  still  higher 
rank,  and  revealed  to  his  numerous  dis- 
ciples that  he  was  not  only  the  gate  which  led 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  Creator,  but  to  a 
certain  degree  the  very  object  of  that  know- 
ledge, that  is  to  say,  a  divine  emanation.  Ho 
declared  that  not  only  was  he  a  prophet,  and 
the  greatest  of  prophete,  but  th,at  he  was  pro- 
phecy itself  :  the  truth,  the  Spirit  of  God  in  a 
human  form.  Thus  ho  returned  to  the  old 
idea  of  emanation,  and  following  the  theology 
of  the  Kabbalists,  he  taught  that  the  creative 
power  was  exercised  by  seven  attributes  or 
emanations  of  the  Deity.  To  speak  without 
figures,  the  Creator  divides  himself,  so  to  say, 
in  order  to  manifest  himself  in  creation.  In 
the  Book  of  Precepts,  translated  by  M.  de 
Gobineau,  are  to  be  found  these  words  attri- 
buted to  the  Creator,  which  express  this  idea 
still  more  forcibly,  **  In  truth,  U  my  Creation, 
thou  art  myself !"  In  the  same  work  may  be 
i-ead  the  creed  of  the  new  religion  :  **  We  have 
all  begun  in  God,  and  we  shall  all  return  into 
God,  and  we  draw  all  our  joy  from  God." 
According  to  the  Bab,  in  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment, which  is  not  far  distant,  this  terrible 
sentence  will  be  heard:  "All  things  shall 
perish,  except  divine  nature.''  But  this  uni- 
versal destruction  will  not  fall  upon  those 
who  have  known  the  truth,  who  have  read  the 
holy  books,  or  who  shall  implore  the  divine 
mercy  at  the  last  moment.  Paradise  is  defined 
by  the  Bab  as  *'the  love  of  God  which  has 
nothing  more  to  desire,  the  love  of  God  fully 
satisGed. "    It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  doctrines 


of  the  B&b  could  not  be  reconciled  with  the 
traditions  and  faith  of  Islam,  and  the  social 
morality  taught  therein  was  more  likely  even 
than  the  theology  to  render  the  B&b  hostile  to 
the  oilicial  religion.    He  attacked  the  funda- 
mental vices  of  Mohammedan  society ;  he  con- 
demncd  polygamy  and  censured  the  seclusion 
and  veiling  of  women,  and  by  abolishing  the 
laws  which  forbade  the  intercourse  of  trufr 
believers  with  unbelieyers,  he  introduced  a  new 
element  of  progrt^ss  into  Persian  society.    The 
rank  which  the  Bab  assumed  did  not  fail  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  authorities.     His 
pantheistic  mysticism  led  liim  to  promulgate  a 
particular  doctrine  with  reference  to  revelation, 
and  especially  with  reference  to  lumself  as  the 
expounder  of  revelation.     Thus,  although  all 
men  were  said  to  come  forth  equally  from  the* 
bosom  of  the  Deity,  yet  they  did  not  aU  re- 
present him  in  the  same  degree,  and  only  & 
very  few  of  them  received  the  mission  of  dis- 
closing the  di>'ine  thoughts  to  mortals :  these 
are  the  prophets,  whom  the  B&b  describes  as* 
the  living  word  of  God.    Each  of  the  prede- 
cessors of  the  Bftb  had  prepared  the  way  for 
his  successor,  but  in  the  Bab  himself  it  was  no 
longer  a  mere  prophet  who  had  come  down 
upon  earth,  but  prophecy  itself,  of  which  he- 
was  the  culminating  point,  and  which  he  exer- 
cised   simultaneously  and    mysteriously  with 
eighteen  other  persons,  male  and  female,  who- 
were   imbued  with  the    same  spirit.      These 
nineteen  holy  persons  have  but  one  common 
soul,  and  each  on  his  death  transmits  to  his^ 
successor  that  part  which  he  possessed  of  the 
common  soul,  wtiich,  when  added  to  the  original 
soul,  fits  him  for  the  mysterious  labours  he  is  to 
perform. 

Jn  addition  to  these  innovations,  he  wished 
to  effect  a  total  revolution  in  the  daily  habits 
and  customs  of  his  dificiples.  Having  fixed 
upon  the  number  nineteen  as  the  sacreti  number, 
and  as  the  mystic  bond  which  united  earth  to 
heaven,  he  determined  that  that  number  should 
govern  all  things  capable  of  enumeration  and 
division.  Thus  the  year  was  lUvided  into  nine- 
teen months,  the  month  into  nineteen  days,  the 
day  into  nineteen  hours,  and  the  hour  into 
nineteen  minutes ;  and  so  also  with  the  division 
of  weights,  of  measures,  and  of  coins ;  the 
same  number  was  also  to  be  used  in  the  diWsion 
of  the  offices  for  the  administration  of  the  new 
society  when  it  was  thoroughly  establislied. 

The  exasperated  Mullahs  now  thought  they 
had  found  a  golden  opportunity  for  revenge; 
they  cried  out  loudly  against  his  apostasy,  lus 
sacrilege,  and  his  blasphemy ;  and  they  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  the  c\\il  functionaries- 
tliat  they  had  discovered  the  germs  of  a 
dangerous  political  conspiracy.  Both  partica 
appealed  to  the  government  at  Teheran  to 
crush  the  bold  innovator. 

Mohammed  Shall,  who  was  then  ruling  over 
Persia,  was  an  indolent  and  invalid  prince ;  the 
only  course  he  took  was  to  impose  silence  on 
all  the  parties ;  and,  to  provide  against  any  dis- 
turbance, he  ordered  the  governor  of  Shira* 
not  to  allow  the  Bub  to  go  beyond  the  limits 


=^ 


=fe 


Ck«rie«  DIekeu.] 


A  NEW  RELIGION. 


[July  17,  ISfift)       151 


of  hu  own  hotuse.    These  mild  measures  only 

{i  serreii  further  to  exasperate  the  Mullahs,  and 

j'  to  swell  the  ranks  of  the  Babys.    A  crowd  of 

I-  ijroKlytes  joined  them,  coming  from  all  classes 

in  Persia:  merchants,  artizans,   learned  men, 

!  and  even    ministers  of   the    official  religion, 

flocked  to  Shiraz. 

The  strength  to  which  the  B&bys  had  now 
ittainod  stined  up  the  ambition  of  some  rest- 
leas  spirits,  and  mduced  a  belief  that  they 
might  triumph  by  yiolence  over  the  followers 
of  other  creeds.  The  Bab  took  no  part  in  this 
change  from  the  original  constitution  of  the 
society;  whether  from  natural  gentleness  of 
character,  or  from  respect  to  the  sovereign,  or 
from  a  sincere  feeling  that  violence  was  foreign 
to  a  divine  mission,  ho  remained  quietly  at 
^liFaz.  But  a  fiery  apostle,  a  priest  of  Kho- 
rusan,  named  Hossein,  succeeded  in  infusing 
a  irarlike  spirit  into  the  Babys,  and  in 
giving  a  military  form  to  the  ranks  of  the 
believciB.  Hoaseln^s  vast  learning,  unflinching 
daring,  and  wonderful  capacity,  rendered  him 
an  object  of  admiration  even  to  his  bitterest 
enemies.  He  took  upon  himself  the  part  of 
action,  leaving  to  the  B&b,  who  was  called  the 
Sublime  Highness,  the  part  of  speeulation. 
Hossein  was  the  first  mis^onary  of  the  new 
faith,  and  he  preached  its  doctrines  with 
immense  success,  not  only  in  the  Khorassan, 
his  native  country,  but  also  in  the  province  of 
Irak^  at  Ispahan,  and  as  far  as  Eashan.  He 
set  out  for  Teheran  in  the  hope  of  accomplishing 
there  the  work  he  had  so  successfully  com- 
menced ;  but  on  his  arrival  there  he  was 
rilenced  by  the  same  means  which  had  checked 
his  master's  progress.  He  was  forbidden  to 
preach  in  public,  but  he  was  not  prevented 
from  expounding  his  religion  privately.  Mo- 
hammed Shah  and  his  prime  minister,  ex- 
cited by  their  curiosity,  condescended  to  listen 
to  one  of  his  addresses;  but  enjoined  him, 
under  penalty  of  death,  to  go  and  preach  his 
doctrines  elsewhere  than  in  the  capital. 

The  zeal  of  Hossein  soon  attracted  two  other 
converts  to  imitate  his  example.  One  of  these 
was  a  learned  man  like  Hossein,  and  a  devout 

Eerson  whom  the  people  up  to  that  time  had 
onoured  as  a  saint,  his  name  was  Hadjy-Mo- 
hammed ;  the  other  was  a  lady  of  high  rank, 
named  Zerryn  Tadj,  "The  Crown  of  Gold," 
who,  on  account  of  her  extraordinary  beauty, 
had  received  the  surname  of  Gourret-onl-Ayn, 
or  "The  Consolation  of  the  Eyes."  Her  beauty 
was.  however,  amongst  the  least  of  her  good 
q^oalities ;  learning,  eloquence,  spotless  reputa- 
tion, and  fervid  enthusiasm  combined  to  render 
her  a  most  important  convert,  and  a  fit  leader. 
She  received  from  the  B&bys  the  appellation  of 
Her  Highness  the  Pure ;  and  while  sue  inveighed 
against  the  seclusion  to  which  her  sex  was  con- 
demned, she  had  the  courage  to  show  herself 
in  public  unveiled,  to  the  great  scandal  of  all 
orthodox  Mohammedans.  Her  purity,  her 
courage,  and  her  eloquence  gave  a  wonderful 
impulse  to  the  religion  of  the  Bab,  and  yet, 
stnnge  to  say,  she  had  never  even  seen  the 
Bab  himself.     Her   father    was  one    of  the 


most  celebrated  lawyers  and  theologians  of 
the  country,  whilst  her  husband  and  her 
father-in-law  were  ministers  of  high  rank  of 
the  Mussulman  religion;  thus  they  were  all 
naturally  hostile  to  the  tenets  of  Ali.Mo- 
hammed.  It  was  in  their  fierce  and  angry 
denunciations  of  the  Bab,  that  she  first  heard 
of  the  new  religion,  and  struck  by  the  chance 
which  it  seemed  to  afford  to  her  sex  of 
escaping  from  the  slavery  and  degradation 
imposed  upon  it  by  Eastern  society,  she  de- 
termineil  to  inquire  for  herself,  and  entering 
upon  a  correspondence  with  Mirza-Ali-Mo- 
hammed,  she  became  converted  to  his  religion, 
by  the  arguments  contained  in  his  letters.  In 
spite  of  the  prayers  and  threats  of  the  two 
families,  she  left  all  that  was  most  dear  to  her, 
and  went  forth  to  preach  the  religion  of  liberty 
in  the  streets  and  public  places  of  her  native 
town  Kaswyn,  and  afterwards  throughout  the 
neighbouring  towns.  The  three  apostles  of  the 
religion  of  the  B&b  now  determined  to  hold  a 
conference;  and  at  their  meeting  the  task  of 
the  spiritual  conquest  of  Persia  was  divided 
between  them.  Hossein  took  the  southern  pro- 
vinces, Hadjy-Mohammed  the  nortliem  pro- 
vinces, and  the  "  Consolation  of  the  Eyes*' 
undertook  the  western  provinces.  It  was  not 
yet  time  for  a  second  attack  upon  the  capital, 
and  the  eastern  parts  of  the  empire.  At  first 
their  work  progressed  smoothly,  and  as  long 
as  their  adversaries  were  content  with  abusing 
and  denouncing  them,  the  apostles  of  the  new 
faith  were  satisfied  with  simply  preaching  its 
doctrines ;  but  as  soon  as  they  discovered  that 
their  adversaries,  taking  advantage  of  the 
anarchy  which  reigned  in  many  parts  of  Persia, 
had  determined  to  destroy  them  by  force,  they 
rose  up  in  arms,  and  Hossein  became  their  com- 
mander. The  small  band  of  followers  which 
Hossein  had  collected  in  the  Khorassan  united 
with  the  recruits  drawn  from  the  Mazenderan 
by  Hadjy- Mohammed,  and  the  two  leaders 
found  themselves  at  the  head  of  a  compact 
little  army.  tJie  numbers  of  which  increased 
daily  as  new  disciples  fiocked  to  their  standard. 
They  now  thought  themselves  strong  enough 
not  only  to  ward  off  attack,  but  even  to  subdue 
their  opponents.  To  rouse  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  soloiers  of  the  new  faith,  a  popular  leader 
was  required ;  such  a  one  was  found  in  the 
**  Consolation  of  the  Eyes,"  who,  putting  herself 
at  their  head,  boldly  and  successfully  fulfilled 
the  mission  wliich  had  been  allottcKi  to  her. 
Her  presence  in  the  camp  was  alone  sufficient 
materially  to  increase  the  number  of  the  fol- 
lowers of  the  Bab,  and  crowds  of  people  came 
from  all  sides  to  see  her,  and  to  listen  to  her 
impassioned  eloquence. 

By  a  stroke  of  policy,  Hossein  gave  to  his 
superior  officers  the  names  of  the  twelve  imams 
and  of  the  other  descendants  of  Ali,  whose 
souls  he  asserted  lived  again  in  them.  Ilius 
he  gave  new  enthusiasm  to  his  followers,  while 
he  supplied  a  link  by  which  the  new  religion 
was  connected  with  the  ancient  national  form 
of  worship.  All  were  now  eager  for  the  fray  ; 
but  it  c^me  sooncT  tVvatv  -?!»&  ^x^c^fc^   ^^- 


.S-. 


152      (July  17, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[CondootedbJ 


reddin  Shah,  the  successor  of  the  indolent 
Mohammed  Shah,  after  a  successful  campaign 
aj^nst  the  insurgents  who  disturbed  the  be- 

S inning  of  his  reign,  determined  to  crush  the 
abys.  Orders  were  given  to  the  authorities 
of  Mazenderan  to  march  at  once  on  the  fol- 
lowers of  the  Bab,  and  to  destroy  them  utterly. 
The  first  place  attacked  was  the  fortress  which 
Hossein  had  erected  in  a  place  called  the  Pil- 
grimage of  the  Sheikh  Tebersy,  and  which  con- 
tained a  garrison  of  two  thousand  men,  fur- 
nished with  provisions  and  with  all  the  means 
of  resLsting  a  siege  of  some  duration.  M.  Go- 
bineau  says  that  three  small  armies,  under  the 
conmiand  of  one  of  the  best  Persian  generals, 
successively  assailed  the  walls  of  the  fortress, 
and  were  beaten  off  with  great  loss.  The 
government  felt  that  it  must  put  forth  all 
ita  strength  if  it  wished  to  crush  the  new 
sectaries. 

A  fourth  expedition,  consisting  of  a  much 
laraer  number  of  troops,  was  sent  against  the 
Bftbys,  who  now  had  to  endure  the  miseries  of 
a  protracted  siege.  Their  nrovisions  were  soon 
exnausted,  and  they  barely  contrived  to  sus- 
tain life  by  eating  the  flesh  of  the  few  horses 
which  were  killed  in  battle,  and  by  feeding  on 
the  bark  of  trees,  and  on  the  scanty  grass 
which  grew  in  the  ditches  of  the  fortress.  For 
four  months  they  had  to  seek  shelter  in  holes 
which  thev  dug  behind  the  ruins  of  the  for- 
tress which  was  set  on  fire  by  their  opponents, 
and  whence  they  had  to  rush  at  any  moment 
to  repel  the  constant  attacks  of  the  besiegers. 
Their  chief  was  killed  in  their  last  final 
struggle,  and  there  only  remained  two  hun- 
dred and  fourteen  dpng  persons,  including 
many  women,  who  in  vain  tried  to  assuage 
the  pangs  of  hunger  by  chewing  the  leather  of 
their  belts,  and  of  the  scabbards  of  their  sabres. 
Thev  had  attempted  to  make  flour  bv  grinding 
the  bones  of  the  dead.  Reduced  to  the  last  ex- 
tremity, they  resolved  to  capitulate  on  condition 
of  their  lives  being  spared ;  but  the  leaders  of 
the  royal  army,  regardless  of  their  word, 
caused  them  to  be  put  to  death  with  horrible  tor- 
ture. In  the  bodies  of  many  of  them  was  found 
raw  grass  on  which  they  had  made  their  last 
meal.  This  disaster  did  not  prevent  the  B&bys 
from  making  progress  in  other  parts  of  Persia, 
and  their  great^  success  was  at  Zendj&n, 
where,  however,  a  most  terrible  trial  awaited 
them,  and  where,  in  a  dreadful  struggle,  not 
less  sanguinary  than  that  at  the  fortress  of  the 
Sheikh  Tebersy,  B&bysm  was  to  lose  its  most 
influential  leaders. 

At  ZendjAn,  Mohanmied  Ali  held  the  same 
position  wnich  Hossein  had  held  in  the  Kho- 
rassan  ;  he  had  gathered  fifteen  thousand  men 
around  him,  and  in  his  first  encounters  with 
the  royal  troops  he  had  driven  back  forces 
twice  as  large  as  his  own.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
Babys  would  now  have  succeeded  in  establishing 
their  republic,  but  they  were  overwhelmed  by 
the  superior  numbers  of  their  enemies,  and 
Zendjfin  fell  after  a  most  gallant  and  protracted 
resistance.  Mohanmied  Ali,  like  Hossein,  fell 
/^  /a  JbattJe  st  the  head  oi  his  troops,  and  the 


few  who  survived  were  caught  in  the  same 
trap  as  those  who  capitulated  at  the  fortress  of 
Sheikh  Tebersy.  Tney  were  promised  their 
lives,  but  were  treacherously  put  to  death  or 
carried  to  Teheran  to  undergo  torture  at  the 
hands  of  their  victors 

The  Shah  now  thought  that  he  could  put  an 
end  to  Babysm  by  the  death  of  its  founder, 
forgetting  that  nothing  could  give  greater 
str^igth  to  the  religion  he  had  found^l  than 
his  martyrdom.  After  the  capture  of  Zendj&n, 
the  B&b  was  taken  to  the  citadel  of  Tebriz. 
He  continued  quietly  to  work,  to  study,  and 
to  pray ;  his  gentleness  and  his  courage  sur- 
prised his  enemies ;  he  was  loaded  with  chains, 
and  dragged  through  the  streets  and  bazaars 
of  Tebriz ;  he  was  pelted  with  mud  and  struck 
in  the  face,  without  giviuff  vent  to  a  sin^^e 
murmur.  Two  of  his  disciples  who  had  sharod 
his  captivity  were  chained  with  him.  One 
of  them,  Seyd  Hossein,  beiag  informed  that 
he  might  obtain  pardon  by  insulting  him, 
suddenly  turned  round  and  cursed  him,  spit- 
ting in  his  face ;  but  even  this  last  outrage  did 
not  move  the  Bftb  from  his  resignation.  He 
was  suspended  by  ropes  from  the  ramparts  of 
Tebriz,  and  a  troop  of  soldiers  ordered  to 
shoot  him,  but  he  escaped  as  if  by  a  mirade, 
the  shot  only  cuttlag  the  ropes  without 
wounding  him,  and  the  soldiers  cut  him  to 
pieces  with  their  swords.  His  only  consolatioB 
was  to  hear  the  disciple  who  had  remained 
faithful  to  him,  ask  him  as  he  was  on  the  point 
of  death,  '*  Master,  art  thou  satisfied  with  me?" 

Of  the  leaders  of  Babvsm,  Gourret-aal- 
Ayn,  **  the  Consolation  of  the  Eyes,"  was  now 
the  sole  survivor;  she  had  not  long  to  wait 
before  she  also  suffered  the  same  ute  as  her 
master.  A  general  proscription  was  decreed 
i^inst  the  Babys ;  to  be  a  follower  of  the 
Bab  was  to  be  declared  guilty  of  high  treason ; 
and  thousands  of  innocent  persons  were  tor- 
tured and  put  to  death ;  the  victims,  many  of 
them  women  and  children,  singing  as  they 
were  being  massacred  the  words,  *^  In  truth  we 
come  from  God  and  we  return  to  God :  in 
truth  we  belong  to  God  and  wo  return  to 
Him."  Gourret-oul-Ayn'was  seized  by  Mah- 
moud  Khan,  but  treated  with  great  respect ; 
and,  whether  from  admiration  for  her  beanty 
and  her  virtue,  or  out  of  fear  of  the  popnlur 
favour  on  her  side,  she  was  promised  me  and 
liberty  on  condition  of  denying  the  faith  to 
which  she  belonged.  Mahmoud  Khan  came 
back  one  day  from  the  royal  camp,  and  told  her 
that  he  had  good  news  for  her.  "  You  will  be 
taken  to  Niaveran,  and  thev  will  ask  yon  if 
you  are  one  of  the  Babys ;  all  you  have  to  say 
is  *No,*  and  no  one  will  molest  you."  Her 
answer  was,  ^*  You  are  wrong,  Mahmoud  Khan, 
you  should  give  me  a  better  message,  but  you 
do  not  know  it  yourself ;  to-morrow  you  your- 
self will  have  me  burnt  alive,  and  I  shall  render 
a  fitting  testimony  to  God  and  to  His  Eternal 
Highness."  Mahmoud  could  not  believe  that 
she  would  not  save  her  life,  and  again  and 
again  he  begged  her  to  reflect.  She  said  she 
scorned  to  preserve  for  a  few  days  longer  a 


h 


Charles  Dickens.] 


A  NEW  RELIGION. 


[July  17, 186».]       153 


form  wliich  must  soon  perish,  and  warned  him 
to  prepare  also  for  death.  "■  For,"  said  she, 
**tne  king  whom  you  serve  so  zealously  will 
not  reward  you ;  on  the  contrary,  he  will  cause 
you  to  perish  by  a  cruel  death."  Four  years 
afterwards  her  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  Mah- 
moud  SIhan,  by  order  of  the  king,  had  his 
beard  puUed  out,  was  beaten  with  rods,  and 
finally  strangled ;  she  herself,  as  she  had 
foretold,  being  burnt  alive  on  the  day  fol- 
lowing her  conversation  with  Mahmoud,  but 
her  name  became  holy  in  the  memory  of 
the  B&b^  and  the  example  of  her  heroic 
self-sacnfice  attracted  more  partisans  to 
B&bysm  than  all  the  exhortations  of  its 
preachers.  The  same  day  the  penitent  Seyd 
Hofisem,  who  had  denied  his  master,  came  to 
lay  down  his  life  with  his  fellow-disciples, 
fiabysm  now  lost  its  political  and  mihtary 
character,  and  once  more  became  simply  a 
religion.  A  youth  sixteen  years  old,  named 
Mina  Tahya,  was  chosen  as  successor  to  the 
Bab,  and  took  up  his  residence  at  Baghdad. 
Here,  sheltered  from  persecution,  on  the  fron- 
tier of  two  Mohammedan  empires,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  concourse  of  travellers  and 
pilgrims,  the  new  religion  has  planted  its 
standard,  and  continues  its  mission,  which 
seems  far  from  being  as  yet  completed. 

We  have  already  given  a  sJcetch  of  the 
theology  of  B&bysm,  and  it  now  remains  to 
describe  the  most  marked  characteristics  of  its 
morality  and  policy;  for  as  the  Babys  were 
confident  that  they  would  conquer  the  world, 
it  was  necessary  that  they  should  publish  to 
the  world  the  principles  on  which  they  in- 
tended to  found  their  government  of  it.  The 
religion  of  the  Bab  ad^esses  itself  to  the  mind 
rather  than  to  the  body;  thus  it  prefers  medi- 
tation to  prayer,  and  solitary  prayer,  as  being 
most  akin  to  meditation,  to  prayer  in  public. 
The  functions  of  its  ministers  are  limited  to  the 
duties  of  praying  and  teaching. 

The  rebgion  of  the  Bftb  does  not  desire  any 
painful  samfices  from  mankind.  **  All  that  is 
demanded  of  you  by  the  Most  High  is  love  and 
contentment,"  says  the  Bflb.  The  general  cha- 
racter of  its  morality  is  summed  up  in  two  obli- 
gations :  '*  Charity  towards  others,  and  circum- 
ipection  as  regards  oneself."  Tlie  first  form 
m  charity  IS  doing  good  to  the  poor  and  the 
wretched.  Hospitality  is  just  as  much  an  obli- 
gation as  almsgiving ;  it  must  be  practised  at 
ItBBt  once  a  year  towards  a  poor  man  or  a 
stranger,  even  if  one  have  nothing  more  to 
offer  than  a  cup  of  cold  water ;  and  rich  men 
are  to  invite  to  their  table  a  number  of  poor 
niests  proportionate  to  their  wealth.  In  the 
Book  of  Precepts  it  is  written,  "  O  ye  rich, 
enrich  the  poor  on  the  part  of  your  Lord ;"  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  forbidden  to  give  to 
beggars,  for  to  be^  is  sinful.  If  the  religion 
of  the  Bab  requires  its  followers  to  contribute  as 
much  as  possible  to  the  common  happiness,  still 
more  does  it  require  that  one  should  do  no 
harm  to  one>  neighbour,  even  though  one 
should  have  received  injury  at  his  hands. 
Violence  is  not  to  be  met  with  violencey  nor  i 


injury  by  injury ;  discourtesy  and  want  of 
civility  is  stigmatised  as  a  sin,  and  moderation 
of  language  in  argument  is  classed  amongst  the 
virtues.  Women  and  children  are  especially 
to  be  cared  for ;  and  the  Bab  is  not  satisfied 
with  having  delivered  women  from  the  slavery 
to  which  they  are  subjected  in  the  East ;  he  is 
not  satisfied  with  raising  them  to  the  proper 
rank  of  wives  by  abolishing  polygamy  and 
divorce,  nor  with  prohibiting  their  forced  seclu- 
sion, but  he  lays  down  that  they  must  be  espe- 
cially respected  and  honoured,  and  that  they 
should  be  allowed  to  act  with  perfect  liberty  in 
all  matters  which  cannot  hurt  their  honour  or 
their  health.  Their  natural  taste  for  elegance 
should  be  indulged  as  much  as  possible ;  with 
true  Eastern  gidlantry,  he  says,  "  Adorn  your 
ornament;  glorify  your  glory."  Contrary  to 
the  usages  of  all  Asiatic  countries,  he  admitted 
women  to  the  tables  and  meetings  of  men  ;  but 
he  warns  the  ministers  of  religion  not  to  enter 
into  long  conversations  with  them — "beyond 
eighteen  words  forbear  to  continue  your  speech 
with  them  ;  you  can  derive  no  good  from 
more." 

Remembering  the  severity  with  which  he  had 
been  punished  at  school,  he  forbids  any  one  to 
beat  a  child  who  is  under  five  years  of  age,  and 
after  that  age  he  enjoins  that  he  should  be 
chastised  with  gentleness.  He  warns  parents 
to  consider  the  health  of  their  children  as  much 
as  their  education,  and  adds,  with  true  affection 
for  them,  "  allow  them  all  that  can  make  them 
happy."  He  orders  his  disciples  not  to  over- 
work or  overburden  the  animalB  they  employ. 
The  true  believer  is  to  be  charitable  and  indul- 
gent to  others,  and  not  to  be  too  severe  with 
himself ;  fasting  and  other  trials  of  endurance 
are  forbidden  him  after  the  age  of  forty-two, 
and  long  and  distant  journeys  aro  to  be 
avoided.  His  virtues  are  to  be,  so  to  say, 
every-day  virtues — not  heroic  virtues,  which 
require  to  be  brought  forth  by  extraordinary 
circumstances.  All  that  can  render  life  agree- 
able and  increase  his  gratitude  to  his  Creator, 
is  allowed  to  the  true  believer,  so  long  as  he 
does  nothing  which  can  injure  him ;  but  opium 
and  fermented  liquors  are  forbidden.  The 
Bab  and  his  eighteen  colleagues  hold  almost 
all  the  property  of  the  society,  and  have  the 
right  to  levy  very  heavy  taxes.  With  the 
money  thus  collected  they  are  able  to  maintain 
the  priests,  keep  up  the  religious  buildings, 
assist  the  poor,  alleviate  distress,  and  educate 
the  faithfuL  There  is  not  much  originality  in 
this  system,  and  its  dogmas  are  chiefly  bor- 
rowed from  ancient  systems.  Its  morality  is 
even  below  that  of  the  Stoics.  Its  ideal  city  is 
an  Utopia,  which  would  infallibly  degenerate 
into  a  despotism.  Its  most  original  feature  is 
the  principle  of  the  permanent  incarnation  of 
the  Deity  m  a  body  of  nineteen  persons.  It  is, 
however,  so  much  more  imaginative,  more 
liberal,  and  more  enlightened  than  Islamism  ; 
and  it  has  done  so  much  good  by  abolishing 
polygamy  and  raising  the  status  of  womew^  t\i«^ 
it  possesses  advantages  ON«t  Si  ^\v\Oq.  iMJigAKX*  ^ 
formidable  rival,  destined^  ^T\i«^,  wixafc  ^i  ^ 


^ 


^ 


I    154}    cJniyi7.iW9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnoted  by 


displace  the  official  religion,  and  to  form  the 
connecting  link  of  transition  between  Europe 
and  Asia. 


SIGNALLING  VERSUS  SHOUTING. 
To  TiiE  Editor. 

Sir, — I  regret  exceedingly  that  I  am  under 
the  necessity  of  opening  this  letter  by  allading 
to  a  purely  personal  matter.  To  do  this  is 
against  my  principles,  but  if  I  would  give  full 
weight  to  what  is  to  follow,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  those  principles  should  be  sacii- 
iiced.  Let  me  state,  then,  that  I  have  recently 
had  the  misfortune  to  partially  lose  my  speaking 
voice.  The  inconvenience  of  this  loss  is  very 
great,  for  though  I  can  manage,  under  specially 
favourable  circumstances,  to  make  myself 
heard  when  conversing  quietly  with  my  friends 
in  a  comer,  I  can  do  no  more.  When  I  am  in  a 
room  in  which  general  conversation  is  being 
carried  on  in  at  all  a  loud  key,  when  I  am  in  the 
street  and  exposed  to  competition  with  all  sorts 
of  street  noises,  above  all  when  I  am  riding  in 
a  carriage  of  any  sort  or  kind,  however  easy  or 
skilfully  hung,  any  remarks  I  may  be  tempted 
to  make  are  totally  inaudible. 

Imagine,  then,  to  what  a  condition  of  com- 
plete practical  dumbness  I  find  myself  reduced 
when  rattling  over  the  London  stones  in  a 
street  cab.  'the  tremendous  din,  the  rattling, 
the  bumping,  the  jingling,  and  the  grinding 
which  attend  the  progress  of  these  noisy 
little  vehicles  through  the  streets  of  our 
metropolis  are  familiar  to  us  all.  We  all 
have  to  shout  at  the  top  of  our  voices  when 
wo  desire  to  make  a  remark,  and  the  con- 
sequence is  that  it  may  be  observed  that  most 
people  when  making  a  cab  voyage  are  decidedly 
prone  to  be  taciturn. 

But,  however  uncommunicative  we  may  bo 
with  regard  to  our  fellow-passengers,  how- 
ever severely  we  may  repress  our  conversational 
tendencies,  dismissing  many  a  tempting  ob- 
servation which  rises  to  our  lips,  and  steadily 
snd  consistently  repressing  any  inclination  to 
the  narration  of  anecilote,  there  is  still  one  form 
of  conversation  which  we  cannot  dispense  with, 
and  that  is  the  kind  of  conversation  which, 
imder  certain  circumstances,  is  carried  on  in 
yells  and  shouts  between  the  ]}asseiiger  in  the 
interior  of  the  cab,  and  the  driver  on  the  box. 
Dialogue  of  this  sort  there  is,  for  the  most 
part,  no  evading.  It  is  true  that  if  you  want 
to  go  to  the  Polytechnic  Institution,  or  the 
St.  James's  Hall,  you  can  inform  your  cab- 
man of  your  desire  at  starting,  and  he  will 
probably  drive  you  straight  to  your  destina- 
tion ;  but  when  you  are  bound  for  some  little 
known,  and,  above  all,  some  new  neighbour- 
hood in  the  subiurbs — some  Elizabeth-terrace, 
or  Upper  Shrewsbury-gardens,  Notting-hill, 
for  instance— then,  from  the  moment  of  your 
leaving  the  great  main  thoroughfare  which 
leads  in  the  direction  of  your  suburb,  it  behoves 
jou  to  have  your  head  and  the  greater  part  of 
j^oiir  body  out  olwindow^  and  to  howl  uninter- 
mitUDgly,   '^To  tho  rightr     *'To  the  leitl" 


"No,  no,  not  up  there — stop!  you  can't  get 
through — you  must  turn  back !"  and  the  like. 
This  is  a  highly  disagreeable  exercise.  The 
possessor  of  the  strongest  voice  can  barely 
make  himself  heard  by  dint  of  immense 
exertion,  and  even  that  favoured  personage 
generally  finds  that  he  has  been  carried  some 
quarter  of  a  mile  past  Ids  proper  taming  before 
he  has  been  able  to  convince  the  driver  that 
his  road  lies  to  the  right  or  left  instead  of 
straight  on.  Living  in  Elizabeth-terrace,  as 
above,  for  some  years,  I  used  to  find  the  wild 
screams  of  wanderers  in  cabs  as  they  were 
driven  about  that  intricate  neighbourhood,  to- 
wards dinner  time,  a  serious  and  alarminc 
annoyance.  No  cab  ever  approached  which  did 
not  exhibit  a  contracted  human  being  protrnding 
through  its  window,  howling  and  gesticulatiiig 
madly. 

But  what  is  this  necessity  of  making  one^s 
voice  heard  above  the  noise  ground  by  the 
wheels  of  a  cab  out  of  a  newly  macadamiBed 
street ;  there  is  not  traffic  enough  to  wear  the 
road  smooth  in  Elizabeth-terrace ;  to  one  whom 
drcumstances  and  asthma  have  temporarily  left 
in  a  nearly  voiceless  condition !  Carried  past 
any  turning  with  which  I  had  any  concern, 
wlurlcd  round  comera  entirely  out  of  my  line 
of  route,  unable  to  reach  the  driver  with  my 
umbrella,  unable  to  let  down  the  front  windows, 
in  consequence  of  an  absence  of  straps  for 
that  purpose,  and  wholly  incapable  of  making 
myself  heard  though  trying  till  I  was  black  in 
the  face,  and  presenting  so  alaming  an  appear- 
ance to  passers-by,  that  they  would  stop  in 
their  walk  expectant  of  my  demise  by  suffoca- 
tion, I  have  sometimes  sunk  back  in  my  seat, 
and,  giving  way  to  despair,  have  suffered  in- 
exorable Fate  to  conduct  me  whither  it  would. 

It  has  been  necessary  for  me  to  enter  into 
all  these  particulars,  for  which  I  beg  himibly 
to  apologise,  in  order  that  I  might  make  known 
to  you.  Editorial  Sir  (and  through  you  to  a 
discerning  public),  how  it  came  about  that, 
urged  on  and  stimulated  by  that  necessity  which 
is  the  mother  of  inventioiv,  I  came  to  lut  upon 
an  idea. 

That  idea  is,  that  those  who  ride  in  cabs 
should  have  the  means  of  directing  the  driver 
which  way  to  go,  without  moving  from  their 
si'ats,  without  putting  their  heads  and  bodies 
out  of  window,  without  screaming  themselves 
hoarse. 

There  are  two  ways  in  which  this  might 
be  accompUshcd :  either  by  means  of  a  flexible 
speaking  tube  passing  through  the  front  of 
the  vehicle,  and  with  its  mouth  l)rought 
close  to  the  cabman^s  oar;  or,  still  more 
simply,  by  moans  of  a  couple  of  check-stringi« 
one  attached  to  the  right  arm,  and  the  other 
to  the  left  arm  of  the  driver.  To  the  first  of 
these  plans  objection  may  be  made.  Although 
the  speaking  tube  answers  perfectly  well  for 
private  carrisgos,  it  might  not  be  equally 
suitable  to  public  conveyances.  In  the  case 
of  your  own  carriage  you  know  who  uses  the 
instrument;  but  in  the  case  of  a  cab  many 
\  pcTftona  im%lLt  object  to  put  their  lipa  to  a 


■SU 


OliailatDlokens.] 


THE  WAKE  OF  TIM  O'HAKA, 


CJlll7l7.188».]      155 


month-piece  which  had  been  publicly  used. 
There  wooild  also  be  some  expenditure  necessi- 
tated in  fitting  the  London  cabs  with  such  an 
apparatas.  ^o  such  objection  could  possibly 
jtpply  to  the  other  plan.  A  couple  of  holes 
.inmd  in  the  wooden  diTision  which  separates 
ike  two  front  windows  of  the  conyeyance,  and 
s  piece  of  worsted  oord  passed  through  each, 
would  be  all  that  need  be  provided. 

Were  some  plan  of  this  sort  once  adopted,  there 
need  be  no  more  struggling  through  windows, 
no  more  ineffectual  attempts  to  reach  the  driver 
with  umbrellas,  no  more  shouting  directions 
rendered  inaudible  by  the  sound  of  the  wheels. 
When  the  <^  fare*^  wanted  to  go  to  the  riffht,  he 
would  touch  the  right  oheck-striugf  when  he 
wanted  to  .go  to  the  left,  he  would  touch  the 
left  ehedL-string,  and  when  he  desired  to  stop, 
he  could  pull  both.  Thus  the  occupant  of  the 
Tefaide  would  be  virtually  his  own  coachman ; 
he  would  drive  the  cabman,  and  the  cabman 
would  drive  the  horse. 

In  our  open  hansom  cabs,  a  system  of  tele- 
gnmhy  jb  already  established  between  the  fare 
and  the  drivar,  ike  former  joommunicating  his 
wishes  to  the  latter  by  means  of  certain  in- 
dicative movements  of  his  stick  or  umbrella. 
This  plan  answers  completely,  and  the  being 
able  to  dispense  with  the  shouting  process,, 
-even  in  the  mstance  of  those  who  have  voicea 
to  shout  with,  is  conducive  to  good  temper,  a; 
innqnil  expression  of  countenance,  ana  the 
dignity  of  personal  repose ;  all  irreconcileable 
wSh  anxious  struggling  and  shouting,  even  if 
such  shouting  were  emcacious,  whidi  is  cer- 
taibly  not  the  case,  for  his  efforts  will  infallibly 
dnappoint,  as  well  as  discompose,  the  shouter, 
and  will  bring  him  to  the  melancholy  convic- 
tion that  under  such  circumstances  at  any 
ate»  if  under  no  other, 

Uka  voce  poco  fa. 


XH£  WAKE  OF.TIK  O'SiOU. 

z. 

ToiheWakeofO'Haza 
Game  oompanie  ;— 

All  St  BitridL's  Alley 
Wm  them  to  lee. 

With  the  friends  and  lunemen 
Ofthefiunily. 
On  Ihe  old  deal  table  Tim  ky,  in  white, 
And  at  hie  pillow  the  bumine  light ; 
While  pale  aa  himeelf,  with  the  tear  on  her  cheek. 
The  mother  reoeived  ue, — ^too  fall  to  epeak. 
But  she  heap*d  the  fire,  and  with  never  a  word, 
get  the  blaofc  bottle  upon  the  board, 
While  the  oompany  gathered,  one  aiod  a]), 
lien  and  women,  big  and  small, — 
.  Kofe  one  in  the.aUey  but  f^t  a  call 

To  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

XI. 

At  the  fkoe  of  O'Hara 
All  white  with  sleep, 
tfot  one  of  the  women 

But  took  a  peep, 
And  the  wives  new  wedded 
Becan  to  weep. 
The  Mothers  dustered  around  about. 
And  praised  the  lineai  and  laying  out. 


For  white  as  snow  was  his  winding-sheet. 
And  all  looked  peaceful,  and  dean,  and  sweet. 
The  old  wives,  praising  the  blessed  dead. 
Clustered  thick  round  the  old  press-bed. 
Where  O'Hara's  widow,  tattend  and  torn. 
Held  to  her  bosom  the  babe  new  bom. 
And  stared  all  round  her,  with  eyee  forlorn. 
At  the  Wake  of  1^  aJSan. 

xn. 

For  the  heart  of  O'Hara 
Was  true  as  gold. 

And  the  life  of  O'Hara 
Waabnght  and  bold. 

And  his  smile  was  preotaas 
To  young  and  olo. 
Ghiy  aa  a.guinea,  wet  or  dtj, 
With  a  smiling  mouth  and  a  twinkling  eye ! 
Had  ever  an  answer  for  diaff  or  fun. 
Would  fif^ht  like  a  lion  with  any  one  f 
Not  a  neighbour  of  any  trade 
But  knew  some  joke  that  the  boy  had  made ! 
Not  a  neighbour,  dull  or  bright, 
But  minded  something,  froho  or  fight, 
.And  whiqwred  it  round  the  fire  i&t  niisht. 

At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'HaraT 

IV 

"nbGodbeglofj 
In  death  and  life ! 

He's  taken  O'Hara 
From  trouble  and  strife," 

Said  one-eved  Biddy, 
The  applcowife. 
**  Ood  bless  old  Lfdandr*  said  Mistress  Hart, 
-Mother  to  Mike  of  the  dcakey-cart : 
"  €k>d  bless  old  baland  tiU  aU  be  done  I 
6he  never  made  wake  for  a  better  son !" 
And  all  joined  chorus,  axid  each  one  said 
Something  kind  of  the  boy  that  was  dead. 
The  bottle  wont  round  froim  iipto  hp. 
And  the  weeping  widow,  for  leUowsoip, 
Took  the  glass  of  old  Biddy,  and  had  asip. 

At  the  Wake  of  tua  O'Hanu 

V. 

Then  we  drank  to  O^Hara 
With  drams  to  tiie  bHpp, 

While  the  face  of  O'Hara 
Looked  on  so  grim. 

In  the  eorpse-li^t  shining 
Yellow  And  dim. 
The  drink  went  round  again  and  again; 
The  talk  grew  louder  at  every  drain ; 
.Louder  the  tongues  of  the  women  grew ; 
The  tongues  of  the  boja  were  loosing  too  f 
But  the  widow  her  weary  eyelids  dosed. 
And,  soothed  by  the  drop  of  drink,  she  doied ; 
The  mother  brightened  and  laughed  to  hear 
Of  O'Hara's  fight  with  the  gremidier. 
And  the  hearts  of  us  all  took  better  cheer 

At  the  Wakeof  Tim  O'Hara. 

VI. 

Tho'  the  face  of  O'Hara 
Looked  on  so  wan, 

Li  the  ohimney  comer 
The  row  began ; 

Lame  Tony  was  in  it, 
The  0T8ter*man. 
Eor  a  dirty  low  thief  from  the  north  came  near 
And  whistled  "  Boyne  Water"  in  his  ear. 
And  Tony,  with  never  a  word  of  graoe. 
Hit  out  his  fist  in  the  blackguaras  face. 
Then  all  the  women  screaoMd  out  for  fright ; 
The  men  that  were  drunkest  began  to&f^; 
Orer,  the  chairs  and  tables  they  t^w ; 
The  corpse-light  tumbled,  the  trouble  grew; 
The  new-bom  joined  in  the  hullahsUno^ 

At  the  YTakfi  oilmO'iajbXK. 


«5: 


j 


166      [July  17»  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Coodaeted  by 


VII. 

"Be  still!    Be  silent! 

Ye  do  a  sin ! 
Shame  be  his  portion 

Who  dares  oegin !" — 
'Twas  Father  O'Connor 
Just  entered  in ; 
And  all  looked  shamed,  and  the  row  was  done : 
Sorry  and  sheepish  looked  every  one ; 
But  the  priest  just  smiled  quite  easy  and  free — 
"Would  you  wake  the  poor  boy  firom  his  sleep? 

said  he. 
And  he  said  a  prayer,  with  a  shining  face. 
Till  a  kind  of  a  brightness  filled  the  place ; 
The  women  lit  up  tne  dim  oorpse-light ; 
The  men  were  quieter  at  the  sight ; — 
And  the  peace  of  the  Lord  feU  on  all  that  night 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  aHara. 


» 


/ 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  PRESS. 

IN  TWO  CHAPTERS.   CHAPTER  II. 

We  left  Defoe  in  our  last,  emerging  from 
the  chrysalis  of  his  prison  into  the  fnll- 
fledged  butterfly  state  of  liberty.  As  soon 
as  he  had  paid  his  fees,  and  left  the  doors 
of  Newgate  behind  him,  he  sought  the 
fresh  breezes  of  the  rural  districts.  With 
his  bodily  health  somewhat  impaired  by 
his  long  confinement,  but  with  a  spirit 
undaunted  as  of  old,  he  retired  for  awhile 
to  Bury  St.  Edmunds  with  his  family,  to 
recruit  his  energies.  But  the  brain,  and 
the  right  hand  with  the  pen  in  it,  were 
not  idle.  Pamphlet  followed  upon  pam- 
phlet, treatise  upon  treatise,  book  upon 
book,  in  such  profusion,  that  the  mere  cata- 
logue of  them  would  occupy  pages.  But 
in  addition  to  his  writings  in  support  of 
the  Whig  government,  he  seems  to  have 
been  otherwise  employed  in  its  behalf. 
Writing  ten  years  afterwards  of  this  period 
of  his  Hfe,  he  states  that  "  being  delivered 
from  the  distress  I  was  in,  her  Majesty, 
who  was  not  satisfied  to  do  me  good  by  a 
single  act  of  her  bounty,  had  the  goodness 
to  think  of  taking  me  into  her  service,  and 
I  had  the  honour  to  be  employed  in  ho- 
nourable though  secret  services  by  the  in- 
terposition of  my  first  benefactor."  But 
Defoe,  notwithstanding  this  royal  and  minis- 
terial favour,  was  not  yet  in  smooth  water. 
The  ruin  of  the  brick  and  pantile  business 
sat  heavily  upon  him,  and  merciless  cre- 
ditors (some  of  them  let  loose  upon  him  by 
his  political  enemies),  harassed  him  with 
vexatious  law-suits  and  exorbitant  demands. 
To  such  an  extent  did  the  persecution  pre- 
vail, that  he  found  it  expedient  for  awhile 
to  absent  himself  from  his  home,  and  travel 
incognito  in  the  south-west  of  England. 
But  even  in  this  emergency  Harley  con- 
tinued to  be  his  friend,  and  gave  him  a 
commission,  wherever  he  could  act  with 


safety,  to  lend  a  helping  hand  at  ihe  gene- 
ral election  to  any  Whig  and  liberal  can- 
didate in  the  south-western  boroughs  who 
might  need  the  support  of  his  pen  or  his 
advice.  During  this  somewhat  mysterious 
peregrination,  Defoe  travelled  about  eleven 
hundred  miles  on  horseback,  and  not  only 
found  time  to  attend  meetings,  public,  pri- 
vate, and  social,  to  advise  and  consult  with 
candidates  and  local  celebrities,  but  to 
carry  on  his  Review,  and  write  the  whole 
of  it  from  beginning  to  end. 

Defoe's  most  important  work  after  this 
time,  and  when  he  had  settled  with  his 
pantile  creditors  under  the  supervision  of 
the  Court  of  Bankruptcy,  was  his  Essay 
on  Removing  National  Prdudices  against 
a  Union  with  Scotland:  Part  the  First. 
This  union,  as  Defoe  well  knew,  had  been 
the  favourite  project  of  his  beloved  master, 
King  William;  and  when  the  idea  was 
taken  up  by  the  administration  of  which 
his  friend  Harley  was  the  leading  spirit, 
Defoe  went  into  the  matter  with  heart 
and  soul.  The  First  Part  of  the  Essay 
being  weU  received,  was  followed  by  Part 
the  Second,  and  rendered  such  good  service 
that  the  author  was  employed  by  the  go- 
vernment on  a  mission  to  Scotland,  to 
carry  on  in  that  country  the  good  work  he 
had  performed  in  England,  by  rendering 
popular  the  proposed  legislative  union  of 
the  two  countries.  Before  starting  on  his 
mission,  Defoe  was  introduced  for  the  first 
time  to  Queen  Anne,  and  had  the  honour 
of  kissing  hands  on  his  appointment.  He 
resided  in  Edinburgh  for  three  years,  and 
appears  to  have  made  many  friends  in  the 
Scottish  capital,  and  to  have  taken  a  liking 
both  to  the  people  and  the  country. 

He  had  been  two  years  in  Edinburgh, 
doing  his  utmost  to  popularise  the  Union, 
wliich  was  still  under  debate  in  the  Scottish 
Parliament,  when  he  published  his  first 
avowed  work  since  he  had  quitted  London, 
entitled  Caledonia :  a  Poem  in  Honour  of 
Scotland  and  the  Scots  Nation :  in  Three 
Parts.  The  love  for  Scotland  exhibited  in 
this  composition  remained  in  his  heart  as 
long  sua  he  lived.  At  one  time,  indeed,  he 
had  serious  thoughts  of  taking  up  his  per- 
manent residence  in  that  country.  He  paid 
it  several  visits  in  the  service  of  the  govern- 
ment, edited  for  awhile  the  Edinburgh 
Courant,  and  interested  himself  in  plans  for 
the  development  of  its  trade  and  commerce, 
its  linen  manufactures,  and  its  fisheries. 
He  also  published  his  ideas  on  the  subject 
of  the  improvements  to  be  effected  in  the 
picturesque  old  city  of  Edinburgh,  reoom- 


& 


:fc 


ChftrlM  DIdkent.] 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  PRESS. 


[Jnlyl7.18e9.]     157 


mended  the  fillisg  np  of  the  North  Loch  at 
the  foot  of  the  Castle  Rock,  and  suggested 
the  laying  ont  of  a  new  city,  on  the  very  site 
on  wmch  it  was  afterwards  bnilt.  In  Edin- 
bm^h  he  published  his  History  of  the  Union 
of  weat  Britain :  a  work  which  his  exer- 
tions had  greatly  aided  to  bring  to  the  his- 
torical point.  So  intimate  a  knowledge  did 
he  acquire  of  Scotland,  that  after  the  Act 
of  Union  had  been  accomplished,  and  when 
there  was  reason  to  believe  that  a  Jacobite 
rebellion,  instigated  by  France,  was  in  pro- 
gress, Defoe,  who  had  in  the  interval  returned 
to  London,  was  despatched  to  Scotland  on 
a  second  secret  mission.  Previous  to  his 
departure  he  had  his  second  interview  with 
Queen  Anne,  upon  which  occasion,  he  says, 
**  Her  Majesty  was  pleased  to  tell  me,  with 
a  goodness  peculiar  to  herself,  that  she  had 
much  satisfaction  in  my  former  services, 
that  she  had  appointed  me  for  another 
afiair,  which  was  something  nice  (sic),  and 
that  my  lord  treasurer  should  tell  me  the 
rest"  This  mission,  the  precise  object  of 
which  appears  never  to  have  been  divulged 
by  Defoe,  though  he  says  *'  it  was  an 
errand  which  was  far  from  being  unfit  for 
a  sovereign  to  direct  or  an  honest  man  to 
perform,"  was  probably,  as  Mr.  Lee  and  his 
other  biographers  suppose,  to  direct  the 
public  opinion  of  Scotland  against  the  prin- 
ciples and  purposes  of  the  Jacobites,  and 
to  confirm  the  minds  of  the  people  in  favour 
of  the  Hanoverian  succession.  Defoe  felt 
strongly  on  the  subject,  and  at  the  first 
rumour  of  a  French  invasion  of  Scotland,  to 
support  a  rising  in  feivour  of  the  Pretender, 
reoonoonended  the  offer  of  a  reward  for  the 
capture  of  the  Pretender,  and  the  arrest  of 
forty  or  fifty  of  the  Highland  chieftains 
and  other  foremost  Jacobites.  *'  This 
done,"  he  added,  "the  Pretender  may 
come  when  he  pleases ;  he'll  meet  with  but 
cold  entertainment  in  the  North  of  Britain." 
Space  would  fail  us  if  we  were  to  attempt 
to  go  minutely  through  the  services  and  the 
writings  of  Defoe  from  this  period  to  the 
imprisonment  of  his  friend  and  benefactor, 
Harley,  Earl  of  Oxford,  and  the  death  of 
Queen  Anne.  His  pen  was  never  idle, 
and  as  he  took  his  side  in  politics,  and  a 
very  marked  and  decisive  one,  at  a  time 
when  men's  passions  were  greatly  excited, 
and  the  bosom  of  society  was  still  throb- 
bing and  heaving  with  tlie  under -swell 
of  a  revolution  that  had  not  yet  consoli- 
dated itself  into  an  unchangeable  fact,  it 
is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  number  of 
his  enemies  was  not  as  great  as  that  of  his 
friends,  and  that  his    enemies  were  not 


louder  in  their  attacks  upon  him  than  his 
friends  in  their  defence  of  him.  One  of  the 
most  pertinacious  charges  brought  against 
him  was,  that  he  wrote  for  hire,  always 
coupled  with  the  dirty  inuendo  that  he  wrote 
for  the  side  which  paid  best,  and  that  he 
had  no  personal  predilections  for  one  side 
more  than  the  other.  Defoe  never  denied 
that  he  lived  by  the  rewards  of  his  Hterary 
labour,  but  with  manly  indignation  re- 
pelled the  calumny  that  he  ever  wrote  in 
opposition  to  his  honest  conviction.  "If," 
said  he,  in  a  strain  of  true  eloquence,  "  I 
have  espoused  a  wrong  cause ;  if  I  have 
acted  in  a  good  cause  in  an  unfair  manner ; 
if  I  have  for  fear,  favour,  or  by  the  bias  of 
any  man  in  the  world,  great  or  small,  acted 
against  what  I  always  professed,  or  what> 
is  the  known  interest  of  the  nation ;  if  I 
have  in  any  way  abandoned  that  glorious 
principle  of  truth  and  liberty  which  I  was 
ever  embarked  in,  and  which  I  trust  I  shall 
never,  through  fear  or  hope,  step  one  inch 
back  from ;  if  I  have  done  thus,  then,  as 
Job  says,  in  another  case,  let  thistles  grow 
instead  of  wheat,  and  cockles  instead  of 
barley.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  may  I  be 
esteemed  a  mercenary,  a  missionary,  a  spy, 
or  what  you  please.  But  if  the  cause  be 
just ;  if  it  be  the  peace,  security,  and  hap- 
piness of  both  nations ;  if  I  have  done  it 
honestly  and  effectually,  how  does  it  alter 
the  case  if  I  have  been  fairly  encouraged, 
supported,  and  rewarded  in  the  work,  as 
God  knows  I  have  not  ?  Does  the  mission 
disable  the  messenger,  or  does  it  depend 
upon  the  merit  of  the  message?  Cease 
your  inquiry,  then,  about  my  being  sent 
by  this  or  that  person  or  party,  till  you  can 
agree  who  it  is,  when  I  shall  be  glad  of  an 
opportunity  to  own  it,  as  I  see  no  cause  to 
be  ashamed  of  my  errand.  Oh,  but  'tis  a 
scandalous  employment  to  write  for  bread ! 
The  worse  for  him,  gentlemen,  that  he 
should  take  so  much  pains,  run  so  many 
risks,  make  himself  so  many  enemies,  and 
expose  himself  to  so  much  scurrilous  treat- 
ment for  bread,  and  not  get  it  neither. 
Assure  yourselves,  had  not  Providence 
found  out  other  and  unlooked-for  supplies 
by  mere  wonders  of  goodness,  you  had 
long  ago  had  the  desire  of  your  hearts — to 
starve  him  out  of  this  employment.  But, 
after  all,  suppose  you  say  true — that  all  I 
do  is  for  bread — which  I  assare  you  is  very 
false — what  are  all  the  employments  in  the 
world  pursued  for,  but  for  bread  ?  Bat 
though  it  has  been  quite  otherwise  in  my 
case,  I  am  easy,  and  can  depend  upon  that 
promise,  '  Thy  bread  ^Vi«i\\  \ie  ^^«tv  >iXv^fc^ 


t 


«5=- 


158    tJoirn.isra.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


/ 


and  thy  water  fihall  bo  snre.'  I  have  es- 
ponsed  an  honest  interest,  and  have  steadily 
adhered  to  it  all  my  days ;  I  never  forsook 
it  when  it  wa^  oppressed,  I  never  made  a 
gain  by  it  when  it  was  advanced ;  and  I 
tliank  God  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  all  the 
courts  and  parties  in  Christendom  to  bid  a 
price  high  enough  to  buy  me  off  from  it, 
or  make  me  desert  it." 

Before  coming  to  tlie  third  and  con- 
cluding period  of  Defoe*s  life,  when,  after 
the  accession  of  George  the  First,  he  is 
supposed  to  have  retired  from  the  political 
arena,  and  to  have  devoted  the  remainder 
of  his  days  to  the  composition  of  less 
ephemeral  works,  the  immortal  story  of 
Bobinson  Crusoe  among  the  number,  let 
us  glance  a  little  while  at  the  subjecte  un- 
connected with  party  politics  that  occupied 
him.  Free  trade  was  familiar  to  his  thoughts 
a  dozen  years  before  Adam  Smith  was  bom, 
and  a  generation  before  the  grandfathers  of 
Peel,  Cobden,  and  Bright  were  thought  of. 
In  a  pamphlet  published  in  1713,  on  the 
recently  concluded  treaty  of  peace  and  com- 
merce with  France,  he  expatiated  largely 
on  the  advantages  of  free  trade :  asserting 
that  the  international  reduction  and  aboli- 
tion of  the  Customs  duties  would  increase 
trade,  cheapen  commodities,  promote  na- 
tional and  individual  wealth,  and  become, 
in  the  course  of  time,  the  truest  guarantee 
of  peace  among  all  nations.  What  more 
or  wliat  better  could  Mr.  Gladstone  or  Mr. 
Bright  say  in  the  year  1869  ?  Under  the 
pseudonym  of  Andrew  Moreton,  in  a  pam- 
phlet entitled  Augusta  Triumphans;  or, 
the  Way  to  make  London  the  most 
Flourishing  City  in  the  World,  he  sug- 
gested six  methods  for  the  moral,  intellec- 
tual, and  physical  advancement  of  the  me- 
tropolis. These  were,  first,  *'  the  establish- 
ment of  a  university  where  gentlemen  may 
have  academical  education  under  the  eye  of 
their  friends."  This  idea  of  Defoe  was 
brought  into  practice  a  hundred  years  after- 
wards, and  University  College,  in  Gower- 
strcet,  and  Eling's  College,  in  the  Strand, 
testify  to  this  generation  the  forethought 
of  this  remarkable  man.  Second,  "  to  pre- 
vent child  murder,  &c.,  by  establishing 
a  hospital  for  foundlings."  The  good 
Captain  Coram,  in  an  after  time,  carried 
out  this  idea.  Third,  ''the  suppression 
of  pretended  madhouses,  where  many  of 
the  fair  sex  are  unjustly  confined  by  their 
husbands  and  others,  and  many  widows  are 
locked  up  for  the  sake  of  their  jointure." 
The  law  in  due  time  took  up  this  idea 
also,   and  the  licensiDg  and  visitation  of 


public  and  private  madhouses  and  Innaiic 
asylums  were  made,  as  Defoe  suggested,  a 
matter  of  public  poli<^.  Fourth,  "  to  save 
our  youth  from  destnustion  by  clearing  the 
streets  of  impudent  strumpets,  suppressing 
gaming  tables,  Ac."  This  retarm  has  only 
been  partially  carried  out  in  our  day,  bat 
none  the  less  is  the  merit  of  Defoe  for  having 
suggested  and  urged  it  a  century  and  a  half 
ago.  Fifth,  "to  avoid  the  extensive  im- 
portation of  foreign  musiciana  by  fanning  an 
academy  of  our  own."  This  also  has  been 
done,  though  without  the  national  effects 
anticipated.  Sixth,  "to  save  our  lower 
class  of  people  from  utter  ruin,  by  preventing 
the  immoderate  use  of  Gedeva  and  other 
spirituous  liquors."  This,  too,  has  been 
attempted,  and  still  occupies  the  attention 
of  theorists  and  philanthropists,  ihou^ 
the  end  aimed  at  seems  still  as  distant  as 
when  Defoe  wrote.  Another  of  Defoe's 
projects  was  to  supersede  the  London 
watchmen  of  his  day,  whom  he  called  "de- 
crepit superannuated  wretches,  with  one 
foot  in  the  grave  and  the  other  ready  to 
follow,  and  so  feeble  that  a  puff  of  breath 
could  blow  them  down,"  and  replace  them 
by  a  watch  of  stout  able-bodied  men,  "one 
man  to  oveiy  forty  houses,  t?renty  on  one 
side  of  the  way,  and  twenty  on  the  other^ 
the  said  men  to  be  armed.  It  was  fully  a 
hundred  years  after  Defoe's  time  ihat  the 
late  Sir  Robert  Peel  acted  on  Defoe's  idea, 
abolished  the  stupid  old  watchmen,  and 
established  what  even  now  is  sometimes 
called  the  "  new"  police.  What,  after  all, 
would  mere  statesmanship  be,  if  genius  had 
not  gone  before  it,  preparing  the  way,  and 
accustoming  the  noinds  of  men  to  the  nvfr 
thing,  which  men  will,  somehow  or  other, 
never  consent  to  accept  until  the  idea  of 'it 
has  grown  old  and  faTniliar  ? 

The  death  of  Queen  .Anno,  like  that 
of  Eang  William,  marks  an  important 
epoch  in  the  career  of  Defoe,  who,  as  he 
says,  had  been  "thirteen  times  rich  and 
thirteen  times  poor,  and  felt  all  the  dif- 
ference between  the  closet  of  a  king  (or 
queen),  and  the  dungeon  in  Newgate!" 
Yet  Defoe,  who  had  been  in  the  eonfidenoe 
of  two  sovereigns  and  their  advisers,  was 
not  destined  to  fall  either  into  obscurity  or 
idleness.  The  new  king  could  not  speak  a 
word  of  English,  differing  in  this  respect 
from  all  his  predecessors  since  the  days  of  the 
earliest  Plantagenets ;  and  could  not  there- 
fore know,  except  by  report,  how  powerful 
an  English  writer  Defoe  was,  an^  what  good 
service  he  had  i*eudercd,  and  was  yet  ca- 
pable of  rendering,  to  the  principles  which 


<: 


=fc 


durlM  Dlekans.] 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  PRESS. 


[July  17, 1M9.]       ll>9 


Lad  seated  the  Hanoverian  family  upon  the 
throne.  Qneen  Autip^  who  had  always,  as  a 
bom  Stnurt,  been  coqnetting  more  or  less 
openly  with  the  Jacobites  and  Tories,  and 
other  friends  of  her  exiled  father,  had  lefb 
%  Tory  minisiry  in  power  when  she  died. 
The  new  king,  replshced  it  by  a  Whig  ad- 
ministration;  and  dismissed  &bm  public 
office,  great  or  small,  every  person -who  had 
been  appointed  by  the  ministers  of  his  pre- 
decessors, whether  those  ministers  were 
Whig,  Tory,  or  Coalition.  Among  the  num- 
ber Defoe  lost  his  employ  in  the  secret 
service  of  the  court,  and  was  reduced  to 
depend,  as  at  an  earlier  period  of  his  literary 
career,  wholly  upon  his  pen  for  his  daily 
bread.  He  was  growing  old  by  this  time, 
not  so  mnch  by  ihjo  pressure  of  years,  he 
was  bnt  fifty-four,  as  hy  the  pressure  of 
bard  woik  and  anadety,  and  he  could  not 
labour  so  diligently  as  of  old.  Early  in  the 
king's  reign,  and  witlun  a  few  months  of  the 
loss  of  the  certain  source  of  income  which 
he  had  long  enjoyed,  the  strong  brain  of  the 
ready  writer  was  smitten  with  apoplexy. 
For  six  weeks  be  lay  in  a  precarious  con- 
dition,  but  ultimately  recovered  so  far  as  to 
take  once  more  the  keen  interest  in  public 
affiurs  which  be  bad  always  exhibited.  The 
Jaoohites^  seeing  no  longer  the  chance  of 
&vour  from  George  the  First  that  they 
had  enjoyed  fix)m  Queen  Anne,  began  to 
plot  the  rebellion,  which  soon  afterwards 
culminated  in  Scotland,  under  the  leader- 
ship of  the  Pretender,  called  by  his  Eng- 
lish fi:iends  James  the  Third,  and  by 
Ids  Scottish  friends  James  the  Eighth. 
Bishop  Atterbury  xmblished  at  this  junc- 
ture his  well-known  pamphlet,  English 
Advice  to  the  Freeholders  of  England,  in 
which  be  all  but  openly  advocated  rebel- 
Eon  ;  spoke  disrespectfully  of  the  king ;  de- 
nounced the  new  ministers;  and  branded  the 
whole  body  of  the  Whig  and  liberal  party, 
•8  enendes  to  the  Church,  and  the  best  in- 
terests of  the  nation.  A  proclamation  offer- 
ing a  reward  of  one  thousand  pounds  for 
the  discovery  of  the  author,  and  of  five 
hundred  pounds  for  the  arrest  of  the  printer, 
was  speedily  offered.  Atterbury  fled  to 
avoid  the  consemienccs.  Defoe,  who  had 
scarcely  recovered  from  the  severe  attack 
which  bad  prostrated  him,  wrote  and  pub- 
lished a  reply  to  that  Traitorous  Libel  (so  he 
called  it),  in  which  there  was  no  falling  off 
of  his  literary  energy,  no  diminution  of  his 
logical  power,  no  cooling  of  his  warm  spirit 
of  patriotism.  This  pamphlet,  and  one  or 
two  others  of  less  note,  written  under  the 
pseudonym  of  Ono  of  the  people  called 


Quakers,  have  hitherto  been  considered  the 
last  political  works  of  Defoe,  before  he  re- 
tired finally  to  the  pleasanter  and  quieter 
fields  of  general  litera.ture. 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  accidental  dis- 
covery in  1864,  in  the  State  Paper  Office, 
of  six  previously  unknown  letters  of  Defoe, 
in  his  own  handwriting,  and  undoubtedly 
genuine,  addressed  to  Charles  De  la  Faye, 
Esq.,  private  secretary  to  the  Lords  Justices 
of  Ireland  in  1715,  and  confidential  secre- 
tary to  the  Secretary  of  State  in  1718. 
These  letters  range  from  the  12th  of  April 
to  the  13th  of  June,  1718,  and  prove,  on  the 
decisive  testimony  of  Defoe  himself,  that  he 
was  once  more  taken  into  the  secret  service 
of  the  government ;  that  be  again  received 
a  salary,  or  as  he  calls  it  '* capitulations;*' 
and  that  his  pen,  so  far  from  being  quiescent 
on  party  and  political  topics,  and  so  wholly 
engrossed  with  fiction  and  general  litera- 
ture as  had  hitherto  been  supposed,  was  as 
active  as  ever  on  all  the  party  polemics  of 
his  day.  Not,  it  would  appear,  without  the 
suspicion  of  his  contemporaries. 

It  were  to  be  wished  that  tbe  service 
had  been  as  honourable  as  the  mission 
he  had  undertaken  for  the  ministers  of 
William  the  Third  and  Queen  Anne ;  and 
that  a  man  of  such  high  character  had  not 
towards  the  close  of  his  career  done  evil  that 
good  might  come.  Defoe  himself  explains 
his  task  to  Mr.  De  la  Faye  in  the  second 
letter  of  the  series.  *' My  Lord  Sunderland,  to 
whose  goodness  I  had  many  years  ago  been 
obliged,  when  I  was  in  a  secret  commission 
sent  to  Scotland,  was  pleased  to  approve 
and  continue  this  service  and  the  appoint- 
ment annexed;  and  with  his  lordship's 
approbation  I  introduced  myself  in  the 
disguise  of  a  translator  of  the  foreign 
news,  to  be  so  fiir  concerned  in  this  weekly 
paper  of  Mist's,  as  to  be  able  to  keep  it 
within  the  circle  of  a  secret  management, 
also  to  prevent  the  mysterious  part  of  it, 
and  yet  neither  Mist,  nor  any  of  those  con- 
cerned with  him  to  have  the  least  guess 
or  suspicion  by  whose  direction  I  do  it." 
And  Defoe,  the  Whig  par  excellence,  not 
only  committed  this  deception  upon  Mist, 
the  proprietor  of  the  leading  Tory  and 
Jacobite  paper  of  the  day,  but  upon  the 
proprietors  of  two  other  Tory  papers,  equally 
unsuspicious  of  treachery,  Dormer's  News 
Letter  and  the  Morcurius  Politicus.  '^  Upon 
the  whole,  however,"  adds  Defoe  in  the 
same  confidential  letter  to  Mr.  De  la  Faye, 
so  unexpectedly  brought  to  light ;  "  tiis 
is  the  consequence,  that  by  this  majiQ.^<^- 
ment  the  Weekly   SoTxm&X  (^^^H;!^^  ^^si^ 


)^ 


^ 


160      IJnly  17, 1869.1 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


CpondiKted  by 


Dormer's  Letter,  as  also  the  Mercnrius 
Politicns,  which  is  in  the  same  natnre  of 
management  as  the  Jonmal,  will  always  be 
kept,  mistakes  excepted,  to  pass  as  Tory- 
papers;  and  yet  be  disabled  and  ener- 
vated so  as  to  do  no  mischief,  or  give  no 
offence  to  the  government."  .  .  .  "I 
am  posted  for  this  service,  among  Papists, 
Jacobites,  and  enraged  high  Tories;  —  a 
generation,  who  I  confess,  my  very  sonl 
abhors;  I  am  obliged  to  hear  traitorons 
expressions  and  outrageous  words  against 
his  majesty's  person  and  government,  and 
his  most  faithfnl  servants ;  and  smile  at  all 
as  if  I  approved  it.  I  am  obliged  to  father 
all  the  scandalous  and  indeed  villanotis 
papers  that  come,  and  keep  them  by  me  as 
if  I  would  gather  materials  from  them  to 
put  them  into  the  News;  nay,  I  often 
venture  to  let  things  pass  which  are  a  little 
shocking,  that  I  may  not  render  myself  sus- 
pected. Thus  I  bow  in  the  house  of  Rim- 
mon,  and  most  heartily  recommend  myself 
to  his  lordship's  protection ;  as  I  may  be 
undone  the  sooner,  by  how  much  the  more 
faithfully  I  execute  the  commands  I  am 
under." 

This  service  was  so  base  toward  the 
newspaper  proprietors  and  the  political 
party  deceived,  and  was  so  unworthy  of 
Defoe,  as  to  have  induced  most  people 
when  the  letters  were  discovered  to  in- 
dulge in  the  hope,  that  the  letters  might 
be  rorgeries.  It  is  not  so,  however.  The 
suspicion  is  baseless,  the  hope  is  fallacious, 
and  the  great  Daniel  Defoe  did  really  act 
the  unworthy  part  he  describes,  and  did 
really  sell  the  birthright  of  his  personal 
honour  for  a  mess  of  very  dirty  pottage. 
Mr.  Lee,  who  looks  with  a  kindly  eye,  and 
bears  with  a  lenient  hand,  even  upon  this 
aberration  from  the  line  of  strict  moral  rec- 
titude on  the  part  of  his  favourite  author, 
employed  himself  very  earnestly  and  as- 
siduously for  eighteen  months  on  the  track 
thus  opened  out,  to  discover  the  contribu- 
tions of  Defoe  to  the  political  literature  of 
the  fifteen  last  years  of  his  life.  The 
gatherings  he  has  thus  made,  fill  two  large 
octavo  volumes  of  nine  hundred  and  ninety 
pages.  Some  of  these  are  doubtless  the 
work  of  Defoe's  hand ;  but  as  Mr.  Lee  had 
no  other  clue  for  his  guidance  than  that 
afforded  by  the  letters  to  Mr.  De  la  Faye — 
and  as  he  can  only  judge  by  his  own  con- 
struction of  the  internal  evidence  of  style, 
that  they  were  written  by  Defoe  in  the 
various  periodicals  with  which  he  is  thus 
known  to  have  been  connected,  it  is  very 
possible  that  he  may  have  included  many  ar- 


ticles and  papers  which  belong  to  a  meaner 
parentage.  At  all  events,  they  can  by  no 
means  be  unequivocally  accepted  as  the 
mintage  of  Defoe's  brain,  though  presenting 
more  or  less  similarity  in  tone,  manner, 
and  style,  to  hundreds  of  others  whidb 
are  known  to  be  his.  Whether  his  or 
not,  these  waifs  and  strays  of  a  bygone 
time  form  a  valuable  seed-ground  of  his- 
tory, and  cannot  be  overlooked  by  any 
historian  who  would  follow  up  the  work 
begun  by  Macaulay,  and  give  the  world  a 
true  account  of  the  troublous  times  between 
the  Revolution  of  1688  and  the  last  dis- 
appearance of  the  Stuarts  from  the  scene 
of  British  politics. 

There  were  obscure  passages  in  the  history 
of  the  latter  years  of  Defoe,  which  the  dis- 
covery of  these  six  letters  helps  materially 
to  elucidate.  Though  Defoe  had  been  really 
the  good  genius  of  Mist^  and,  by  his  sup- 
pression of  treasonable  articles  intended  for 
his  journal,  had  saved  him  from  imprison- 
ment, the  pillory,  if  not  death  upon  the 
scaffold.  Mist,  when  he  became  aware,  after 
seven  years,  of  the  real  position  which 
Defoe  occupied  in  his  publishing  office,  and 
of  the  personal  as  well  as  party  treachery 
involved,  sought  Defoe's  life,  and  made  a 
violent  attack  upon  him  with  the  sword: 
which  Defoe  repelled.  At  least,  Mr.  Lee, 
citing  Defoe's  own  words,  makes  out  a  very 
good  case  for  this  supposition.  And  at  the 
last,  when  Defoe's  Kfe-long  fight  was  well 
nigh  fought  out,  he  was  either  threatened  by 
Mist,  or  supposed  himself  to  be  threatened 
by  Mist,  to  such  an  extent  as  to  cause  him 
to  lose  the  balance  of  his  mind.  The  &ct 
of  a  persecution,  real  or  imaginary,  which 
embittered  the  close  of  his  Hfe^  and  sent 
him  sorrowfully  to  the  grave  at  the  age 
of  seventy- one,  rests  entirely  upon  a  letter 
of  Defoe  to  his  son-in-law,  Henry  Baker, 
written  on  the  12th  of  August,  1730,  after 
he  had  fied  from  his  home,  and  hidden 
himself  from  his  family.  "  My  mind,"  he 
said,  "  is  sinking  under  the  weight  of  an 
affliction  too  heavy  for  my  strength,  and  I 
look  upon  myself  as  abandoned  of  every 
comfort,  every  friend,  and  every  relative, 
except  such  only  as  are  able  to  give  me 
assistance.  ...  I  am  sorry  to  open  my 
grief  so  far  as  to  tell  her"  (his  dau^tar 
Sophie,  married  to  Mr.  Baker)  "  it  is  not 
the  blow  which  I  received  from  a  wicked, 
perjured,  and  contemptible  enemy  that  has 
broken  in  upOn  my  spirit,  which,  as  she 
well  knows,  has  carried  me  through  greater 
disasters  than  these.  But  it  has  been  the 
injustice,  unkindness,  and,  I  must  say,  the 


=4 


3 


GhaclM  DIekenB.] 


THE  PLAGUE  AT  EYAM. 


[Jnly  17, 1869.]      161 


inhmnaii  dealing  of  my  own  son,  which  has 
both  mined  my  hjialy,  and,  in  a  word,  has 
broken  mj  heurt."  it  does  not  appear  that 
this  heavy  charge  against  his  son  was  other 
than  the  hallucination  of  a  diseased  mind, 
for  Defoe  had  amply  provided  for  his  wife 
and  two  daughters,  and  his  son  had  not 
the  power,  even  if  he  had  the  will,  which 
nowhere  appears,  to  ruin  either  them  or 
his  £sither.  "  I  depended  upon  him,"  adds 
Defoe;  "I  trusted  him;  I  gave  up  two 
dear  unprovided  children  into  his  lutnds; 
but  he  has  no  compassion,  but  suffers  them 
and  their  poor  dying  mother  to  beg  their 
bread  at  ms  door,  and  to  crave,  as  it  were, 
an  alms,  which  he  is  bound  under  hand 
and  seal,  besides  the  most  sacred  promises, 
to  supply  them  with,  himself  at  the  same 
time  beiag  in  a  profusion  of  plenty.  It 
18  too  mudi  for  me.  My  heart  is  too  full." 
This  would  be  very  tragical  if  true.  It 
is  equally  tragic  if  it  be  the  mere  phan- 
tasm of  a  strong  mind  weakened  by  old 
age,  hard  work,  and  disappointment.  Mr. 
Lee  conjectures,  and  probably  with  reason, 
that  "  ihe  mean,  contemptible,  and  perjured 
enemy"  who  sent  Defoe*s  poor  brain  wrong 
was  no  other  than  Mist,  wnom  he  had  de- 
ceived and  betrayed ;  and  that  in  alarm,  well 
or  ill-founded,  at  something  terrible  which 
Mist  might  do  to  him,  he  had  made  over  all 
his  property  to  his  son.  However  this  be, 
Defoe  never  returned  home  to  the  wife 
and  children  whom  he  loved,  but  fled  from 
comer  to  comer,  hiding  himself  &om  the 
world  during  several  months. 

He  at  last  returned  to  London  early  in 
1731,  and,  on  the  26th  of  April  in  that 
Tear,  died,  in  his  seventy-first  year,  '^  of  a 
lethargy,"  at  a  lodging  in  Ropemaker's- 
slley,  Moorfields.  It  does  not  appear  that 
Ids  eyes  were  closed  by  filial  hands,  or  that 
hiS  £unily  were  able  to  discover  him.  The 
brain  had  given  way,  the  strong  intellect 
had  worn  itself  out,  and  he  died  the  victim 
of  his  own  delusions,  knowing  not  of  the 
kind  hearts  that  were  yearning  to  receive 
bim,  and  pay  the  last  attention  to  a  beloved 
husband  and  &,ther. 

Peace  to  his  memory  !  He  was  not  the 
&ultless  monster  whom  the  world  never 
aaw,  nor  was  he  the  first  man  who  did  evil 
tiiat  good  might  come  of  it,  and  who  paid 
the  penalty  always  exacted,  sooner  or  later, 
firom  the  evil-doer.  Let  him  who  is  with- 
out sin  cast  the  first  stone  at  his  memory, 
and  let  those  who  are  not  without  sin,  and 
know  how  to  make  allowances  for  human 
finilty,  speak  with  respect  of  the  great 
Daniel  Defoe :  who  sinned  a  little,  but  suf- 


fered much,  and  left  behind  him  a  name  as 
a  statesman,  a  patriot,  a  philosopher,  and 
a  novelist,  that  shall  last  as  long  as  the 
English  language. 

THE  PLAGUE  AT  EYAM. 


In  August,  sixteen  ^sixty-five,  the  wakes 
were,  according  to  old  custom,  celebrated  at 
Eyam,  in  Derbvshire,  on  the  Sunday  after  St. 
Helen's  Day.  It  is  said  that  on  this  occasion  an 
unusual  number  of  yisitors  attended  the  wakea 

The  plague  was  raging  in  London  when,  on 
the  second  or  third  of  September  following  the 
wakes,  a  box,  containing  patterns  of  cloth  and 
some  clothes,  was  received  by  the  tailor  of 
Eyam  from  a  relation  in  town,  who  had  got 
them  very  cheap,  and  sent  the  bargain  on ; 
though  men  well  understood  the  danger  from 
contact  with  clothes,  bedding,  or  furniture  from 
infected  houses.  The  journeyman  of  the  tailor 
was  one  George  Vicars,  not  a  natite  of  Eyam. 
It  was  he  who  opened  the  box,  and,  it  would 
seem,  in  taking  out  the  patterns  and  clothes, 
he  at  once  observed  a  peculiar  smell ;  for,  ex- 
claiming **  How  very  damp  they  are  1"  he  hung 
them  before  the  fire  to  dry.  Even  while  at- 
tending to  them  a  violent  sickness  seized  him, 
and,  other  serious  symptoms  following,  the 
family  and  neighbours  were  greatly  alarmed. 
Next  day  he  was  much  worse,  and  became  de- 
lirious. Large  swellings  rose  on  his  neck  and 
groin ;  on  the  third  day  the  fatal  plague  spot 
appeared  on  his  breast,  and  on  the  following 
m^t,  September  6th,  he  died  in  horrible  agony. 

Thus  began  the  plague  at  Eyam :  a  place 
now  of  seventeen  hundred,  then  of  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty,  inhabitants.  With  some  the 
first  symptoms  would  be  so  slight  that  the 
earlier  sts^es  were  endured  without  suspicion, 
and  they  would  go  about  as  usual,  until  a 
sudden  faintness  seized  them,  and  the  dark 
token  on  the  breast  appeared. 

The  second  victim  at  Eyam  was  Edward, 
son  of  Edward  Cooper,  who  died  fourteen 
days  after  George  Vicars,  and  by  the  end 
of  September  six  others  were  dead  of  plague  ; 
two  of  these  were  named  Thorpe,  and,  as 
four  more  of  the  same  name  were  carried  off 
in  October,  it  is  likely  that  this  was  the  name  of 
the  tailor  to  whom  the  cloth  was  sent :  it  being 
stated  that  his  whole  family  were  among  the 
first  destroyed.  Twenty-three  persons  died  in 
October.    The  approach  of  winter  checked  the 

Sestilence,  and  the  register  shows  but  seven 
eaths  in  November,  d  December,  there  were 
nine  ;  in  January,  five ;  in  March,  six ;  in  April, 
nine ;  in  May,  four.  But,  then,  with  the  in- 
crease of  heat  came  rapid  increase  of  mortality. 
In  June,  nineteen  died ;  in  July,  fifty-six ;  m 
August,  seventy-eight ;  in  September,  twenty- 
four  ;  in  October,  twenty,  in  which  month  the 
ph^ue  was  staved.  Adding  these  numbers 
together,  we  find  a  total  of  two  hundred  and 
seventy-three  deaths  registered  in  rather  ticvqtc^ 
than  a  year  from  a  "pop\SaA.\oxiol  VJccc^i^Vxs.^^^^ 


<IX= 


162    [Jniy  17,  i8a».] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


(Oondaetedtr 


and  fifty.  Kight  of  these  are  said  to  have  been 
deaths  from  other  causes,  leaving  two  hundred 
and  sixty-five  as  the  number  destroyed  by  the 
plague. 

The  clergyman  of  the  parish  was  the  Re- 
verend William  Mompcsson.  It  w^as  early  in 
June  when  his  wife,  a  young,  beautiful,  and  de- 
licate woman,  threw  herself  at  his  feet  with  their 
two  little  children  of  the  ages  of  three  and  four, 
imploring  him  to  depart  with  them  from  the  de- 
voted viUage.  He  was  deeply  moved  by  her 
appeal,  but  firmly  withstood  it.  He  positively 
refused  to  quit  Eyam ;  showing  his  wife  that  duty 
to  his  flock  forbade  his  desertion  of  it  in  the  hour 
of  danger ;  and  that  the  providence  of  God  had 
placed  him  there  to  counsel,  strengthen,  and 
comfort  his  people.  But  at  the  same  time  he 
urged  her  to  fly  with  the  children.  This  she  re- 
fused to  do,  pleading  fulfilment  of  her  marriage 
vow  in  abidmg  wim  him  for  better  and  for 
worse,  in  sickness  or  health.  It  was  finally 
agreed  to  send  the  children  away  to  a  relative 
in  Yorkshire, 

The  mortality  of  Eyam  has  no  parallel  in  the 
history  of  the  plague.  It  has  been  naturally 
supposed  that  ill  treatment  of  the  disorder 
through  the  ignorance  and  poverty  of  the 
people,  and  some  peculiarly  unwholesome  local 
circumstances,  caused  the  unheard-of  havoc. 
There  is  little  doubt  that  one  reason  was  the 
rt«olve  of  many  people  living  close  together 
not  to  fly  from  the  infected  spot.  At  the  time 
of  the  appearance  of  the  pest  the  more  wealthy 
inhabitants  left,  and  some  erected  solitary  huts 
in  the  valleys  and  on  the  hills,  where  they  lived 
out  the  season  of  danger  in  strict  sedusion. 
These  separated  themselves  from  the  rest  before 
any  taint  had  reached  them. 

\Vhen  the  fearful  advance  in  June  aroused 
the  keenest  dread  the  people  were  disposed  to  fly 
the  place.  It  was  then  that  their  pastor  ener- 
getically sot  himself  against  their  purpose.  He 
showed  them  the  frightful  consequences  their 
flight  would  bring  on  the  surrounding  villages. 
He  told  them  how  surely  disease  was  already  at 
work  with  many  among  them,  lying  invisible 
in  their  bodies  and  clothes;  he  warned  them 
against  the  guilt  of  carrying  the  plague  far  and 
wide ;  and  he  prevailed  with  tnem  to  lessen 
their  own  hope  of  safety  in  consideration  for 
the  lives  of  others.  On  his  part,  Mompcsson 
promised  to  remain  with  them,  and  do  all  in  his 
power  to  help  and  guide  them.  Associated 
with  him  in  his  labours,  we  find  another  clergy- 
man named  Stanley,  then  Uvin^  at  Eyam,  wno 
shared  the  danger  and  the  toil  of  the  time. 
These  two  arranged  a  plan.  Mompcsson  wrote 
a  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  then  at 
Chatsworth  (five  miles  from  Eyam)  telling  him 
that  if  they  could  depend  on  adequate  supplies 
of  necessaries,  he  had  little  doubt  of  prevailing 
with  the  people  to  remain  in  the  village.  The 
prompt  reply  was  an  expression  of  deep  sym- 
pathy, and  a  promise  that  supplies  should  be 
provided.  Mompesson  and  Stanley  then  fixed 
upon  certain  points  at  which  such  supplies 
should  be  left  A  \yQ\\  or  rivulet  to  the  north 
of  Eyam,  bUU  called  **  JVIompesson's  well,"  "waa 


one  of  these.     Another  was  at  the  cliiT  between 
Eyam  and  Stony  Middleton,   where  stood  a 
large  stone  trough :  one  of  many  to  be  found 
on  tlie  waysides  of    Derbyshire,   into    which 
little  riUs  trickle  for  the  refreshment  of  tra- 
vellers  and  their  cattle  on  the  steep  roads. 
These  places  were  chos^i   as   convenient  for 
purification  of  money  left  by  the  villagers  for 
special   purchases:    lest   infection    should   be 
passed  with  it  from  hand  to  hand.     Here,  very 
early  in  the  morning,  supplies  were  left,  whidb 
were   fetched  by  persons  whom  Mompesson 
and  Stanley  appointed  for  the  purpose.     And 
here  would  be  left  the  record  of  deaths,  with 
other  information  for  the  world  outside  Eyam. 

A  line  was  drawn  around  the  village,  marked 
by  well-known  stones  and  fences ;  and  it  was 
agreed  upon  by  all  within  it  that  tjie  boundaiy 
should  not  be  overstepped.  No  need  to  caution 
those  beyond  it  1  The  fear  of  entering  Eyam 
was  general,  and  its  inhabitants  were  left  to 
meet  their  enemy  alone. 

Towards  the  end  of  Jime  the  plague  in- 
creased, the  passing  bell  ceased,  tlie  chiirchyanl 
was  no  longer  used  for  interment^  the  church 
doors  were  closed.  Mompesson  proposed  to  his 
daily-diminishing  flock  to  meet  on  the  border 
of  a  secluded  dingle  called  *'  the  Delf."  There, 
he  read  prayers  twice  a  week,  and  preached  on 
Sundays,  under  a  beautiful  natural  archway  of 
grey  rock,  which  is  still  called  "  Mompesson's 
pulpit,"  or  "  Cuckleth  Church."  His  hearers 
seated  themselves  apart  from  one  another,  on 
the  grassy  slope  before  him.  July  came.  Fune- 
ral rites  were  suspended,  and  the  dead  wees 
buried,  as  soon  as  life  had  departed,  by  the 
hands  of  the  survivors  of  the  household,  ft  any 
remained.  Coffins  and  shrouds  were  no  longer 
provided.  An  old  door  or  chair  would  serve  as 
a  bier,  and  a  shallow  grave  in  a  near  field  or 
garden  would  receive  the  corpse.  Some  were 
buried  close  to  the  doors,  and  some,  it  is 
affirmed,  in  the  back  part  of  the  houses  in 
which  they  died.  Day  saw  dead  bodies  hurried 
along  the  village ;  night  heard  the  frequent 
footsteps  of  those  who  bore  them  out.  During 
July  and  August,  dead  and  dying  were  in  th» 
same  houses,  dreadful  wailings  were  heard  on 
every  side ;  on  every  face  was  seen  unutterable 
grief.  So  long  as  any  remained  of  a  household 
it  was  difficult  to  find  neighbours  who  would 
touch  or  bury  its  dead ;  but  when  tlie  last  of  a 
household  died,  or  there  were  none  but  dying 
in  the  house  beside  the  dead,  it  was  needfu 
that  some  stranger  should  undertake  the  dan- 
gerous office. 

Marshall  Howe,  a  native  of  Eyam,  now  stood 
forward.  He  was  a  man  of  undaunted  courage 
and  gigantic  stature.  His  name  yet  survives 
in  Eyam.  He  had  taken  the  distemper  and 
recovered  from  it  soon  after  its  fintappeaxanoe 
at  Eyam,  and  to  the  belief  that  no  one  was 
liable  to  a  second  attack  may  be  ascribed  much 
of  his  intrepidity.  Covetousnesa  also  greatly 
influenced  him ;  he  received  money  from  the 
kindred  of  those  he  interred,  and  when  he 
buried  the  last  of  a  plague-destroyed  household 
he  claimed  all  that  was  in  the  cottage.    When 


:Gh) 


Charles  Diekens.] 


THE  PLAGUE  AT  EYAM. 


[JnlylT,  1869.1       163 


he  beard  of  one  dying,  or  dead,  for  Vhose 
interment  there  was  no  relative  left  to  provide, 
he  wotdd  hasten  to  a  neighbouring  garden  op 
field,  open  a  grave,  and  then,  tying  a  cord 
ronnd  the  yet  'warm  corpse,  throw  the  other 
end  over  his  shoulder,  and  drag  it  to  the  hole 
he  had  made. 

The  boundary  line  was  generally  well  ob- 
served, but  a  few  instances  in  winch  it  was 
broken  are  on  record.  One  person  who  crossed 
it  from  without,  was  a  young  woman  from 
Corbor,  two  miles  distant,  who  had  married 
from  Eyam  just  before  the  breaking  out  of  the 
plagrne,  leaving  a  mother  there.  Moved  by 
anxiety,  the  daughter,  unknown  to  her  hus- 
band, went  to  visit  her  mother,  and  found  the 
poor  woman  attacked  by  the  disorder.  Greatly 
terrified,  she  returned  home,  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing night  was  taken  ill.  Her  husband  and 
neighbours,  learning  where  she  had  been,  were 
nearly  frantic  with  terror.  On  the  next  day  she 
grew  worse,  and  before  night  every  symptom 
of  the  pest  was  manifest,  and  she  died  on  this 
second  day  of  her  illness.  Strange  to  say, 
no  one  was  infected  by  her.  Another  who 
GTOflsed  the  line  from  without,  was  a  man  living 
*t  Bubnall,  near  Chatswortii.  His  employ- 
ment was  carrying  wood  from  the  Chatsworth 
▼oods  to  the  neighbouring  villages.  Against 
advice  and  entreaty,  he  insisted  upon  going, 
as  usual,  through  Eyam.  The  day  was  wet 
and  boisterous ;  he  could  get  no  one  to  help  him 
onload  his  cart ;  he  caught  a  severe  cold ;  and 
shortly  after  returning  was  attacked  with 
fever.  So  great  was  the  alarm  in  Bubnall,  that 
a  man  was  set  to  watch  his  house,  and  the 
neighbours  declared  they  would  shoot  him  if  he 
attempted  to  leave  it.  The  Duke  of  Devonshire 
interfered  to  remove  their  alarm  ;  he  sent  his 
doctor  to  make  due  inquiry,  but  the  doctor 
would  not  go  near  the  man.  He  took  his  sta- 
tion on  one  side  the  river  Derwent,  and  spoke 
across  the  river  to  his  patient  on  the  other 
liank.  The  man  had  simply  caught  a  cold,  and 
▼as  by  this  time  better.  It  is  evident,  from 
Bcveral  records,  that  strict  watch  was  kept  on 
some  of  the  roads  leading  from  Eyam.  llius, 
in  the  constables*  account  at  Sheffield  is  an 
entry  of  charges  "for  those  who  kept  the 
people  of  Eyam  from  Hullwood  Springs**  (ten 
miles  from  Eyam)  "  the  time  the  plague  was 
there."  On  the  road  between  Tideswell  and 
Eyam.  a  watch  was  set  to  prevent  any  person 
from  Eyam  entering  the  town  on  any  pretext 
whatever.  A  poor  woman,  living  in  a  part 
of  Eyam  called  Orchard  Bank,  impelled  by 
some  pressing  need,  made  her  way  to  Tides- 
wdl  one  market  day.  She  was  duly  stopped 
by  the  watch,  and  thus  questioned :  *'  Whence 
oomest  thou  ?"  Fearing  to  say  from  Eyam, 
she  replied,  »*  From  Orchard  Bank."  "  Where 
ia  that  V"  asked  the  man.  "  Why,  verily,"  an- 
swered she,  being  a  wary  woman,  **  in  the  land 
of  the  living."  She  was  suffered  by  the  watch 
to  pass,  and  hastened  to  the  market.  There, 
acme  person  soon  recognised  her,  and,  raising 
the  cry,  '*  The  plague  !  the  plague  !  a  woman 
from  Eyam  I  the  pk^e  J  the  pla^e !  a  woman 


from  Eyam  !"  the  words  resounded  from  all 
sides,  and  the  jwor  frightened  creature  flod  :  a 
crowd  gathering  behind  her,  who,  with  shouts, 
stones,  and  sods,  hunted  her  as  they  would  liave 
hunted  a  mad  dog,  for  a  full  mile  out  of  Tides- 
well.  It  is  also  told  that,  fuel  being  scarce  at 
Eyam,  some  men  attempted  to  get  coal  from 
some  coal-pits  beyond  the  line ;  but,  impru- 
dently telling  whence  they  came,  were  driven 
off. 

Eyam  is  divided  east  and  west  by  a  small 
stream,  which  crosses  its  street  uudergroimd. 
The  eastern  side  was  the  part  visited  so  fear- 
fully ;  the  dwellers  on  the  western  side  were 
but  few,  and  those  shut  themselves  up  very 
closely,  avoiding  all  intercourse  with  the  other 
bank.  It  was  towards  the  latter  end  of  August, 
that  a  man  living  in  this  healthy  portion  heard 
by  chance,  late  in  the  evening,  that  a  dear 
sister  of  his,  who  lived  in  the  eastern  part,  waa 
taken  with  plague.  Unknown  to  his  family,  he 
rose  very  early  next  day,  determined  to  visit 
her.  In  great  anxiety,  he  traversed  the  silent 
street,  and  reached  her  cottage.  The  door 
opened  at  a  touch  ;  the  place  was  empty.  His 
sister  had  died  the  preceding  night,  Marshall 
Howe  had  buried  her  in  the  adjoining  garden, 
and  rified  the  house  long  before  break  of  day. 
Full  of  grief,  th€f  man  returned  home,  but 
not  alone.  The  plague  went  with  him.  and  he, 
and  all  his  family,  were,  in  a  few  days,  laid  in 
their  graves. 

ITie  Reverend  Thomas  Stanley,  one  of  the 
two  ministering  clergymen,  had  been  for  a  short 
time  rector  of  Eyam,  but  from  some  scruple  of 
conscience  had  left  its  ministry,  and  resigned 
the  living  in  1662 ;  but  he  continued  to  reside 
in  Eyam  until  his  death  in  1670,  serving  his 
people  still,  and  greatly  beloved  by  them. 
His  memory  is  still  green  in  Eyam,  where 
he  is  spoken  of  as  the  "great,  good  man." 
The  house  in  which  he  lived  was  known  as 
long  as  it  stood,  by  the  name  of  **  Stanley's 
House."  Moinpesson  had  been  inducted  to 
Eyam  only  one  year  previous  to  its  visitation  ; 
and  the  power  he  acquired  over  the  wills  and 
minds  of  his  people  would  be  inexplicable  did 
we  not  remember  that  the  loved  and  long- 
known  Stanley  was  there  to  second  every  sug- 
gestion. 

Mompesson  was  not  a  strong  man,  but  he 
retained  health  during  the  whole  of  this  trying 
time,  though  he  was  unremitting  in  visiting 
from  bouse  to  house.  Mrs.  Iklompesson  is  said 
to  have  been  exceedingly  beautif  id  and  amiable, 
but  of  very  delicate  health,  with  consumption 
in  her  family.  In  the  spring  of  the  year  her 
lungs  had  appeared  affected,  and  Mompesson 
walked  each  morning,  with  her  on  his  arm,  in 
the  fields  contiguous  to  the  rectory,  in  the 
hope  that  she  would  regain  strength  by  this 
gentle  exercise.  On  the  morning  of  the  22nd 
of  August  they  had  walked  together  as  usual, 
and  she  had  been  conversing  with  him  on  tlie 
accustomed  theme  of  their  absent  children, 
when  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "Oh.,  tb.<i  ws., 
how  sweet  it  Bme\\a\"  It  \^  «aA^  \3aa.\.  VJci^^^ 
wordfl  fell  witb  leaden  'w^^X*  oi^^oxK^Rwwt^^ 


<& 


164      [July  17, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetedlij 


heart ;  but  why  he  was  so  oppressed  by 
them,  is  not  stated.  We  can  only  conjec- 
ture that  they  revealed  to  him  some  secret  of 
the  plague,  which  long  and  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  its  workings  had  led  him  correctly  to 
interpret.  The  fears  the  words  aroused,  were 
painiully  realised  in  a  few  hours.  She  had  in- 
deed taken  the  plague ;  the  worst  symptoms 
were  speedily  shown,  and  before  night  no  hope 
remained.  She  struggled  till  the  24th,  and 
then  died  in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  her 
age. 

We  are  told  that  those  who  were  left  at 
Eyam  nearly  forgot  their  own  griefs  and  fears 
in  sorrow  for  the  death  of  Mrs.  Mompesson, 
and  in  pity  for  her  husband.  Doubtless  it  was 
more  as  a  legacy  to  his  children,  than  as  a 
document  fitting  their  tender  years,  that  Mom- 
pesson  penned  an  affectionate  letter  to  them 
concermng  the  loss  of  their  mother ;  and  at  the 
same  time  he  wrote  to  the  patron  of  the  living. 
Sir  George  Saville,  clearly  stating  his  expectation 
of  his  own  immediate  death. 

About  a  mile  east  of  Eyam,  Riley -hill  com- 
mands a  lovely  prospect ;  it  is  swept  by  the 
freshest  breefes,  and,  being  so  far  distant  from 
Eyam,  it  might  be  thought  would  have  escaped 
unscathed.  How  the  plague  was  brought 
there,  to  the  house  of  a  family  of  Talbots, 
early  in  July,  is  not  recorded.  But  a  house 
still  stands  on  the  spot  occupied  by  that  in 
which  these  Talbots  lived,  and  in  the  orchard 
belonging  to  it  may  be  seen  an  old  monument 
inscribed  to  the  memories  of  Richard  Talbot, 
Catherine  his  wife,  two  sons,  and  three 
daughters,  buried  July,  1666.  There  was  but 
one  other  house  then  on  the  hill ;  it  was  occu- 
pied by  a  family  named  Hancock.  K,  as  we 
suppose,  the  last  burial  at  the  Talbots  was 
performed  by  the  Hancocks,  it  is  likely  that 
the  father  and  his  son  John  gave  their  hands 
to  the  task,  for  we  find  the  son  John,  and  his 
sister  Elizabeth,  dving  three  days  after  the  last 
grave  of  the  Talbots  was  closed,  and  learn 
that  they  were  buried  by  their  unhappy  mother. 
This  seems  to  point  at  the  serious  illness  of  the 
father,  whose  death  is,  in  fact,  registered  as 
occurring,  four  days  later,  on  the  7th  of  August, 
with  those  of  the  two  other  sons  living  at  home. 
Two  more  short  days,  and  Alice  med;  one 
day  more,  and  the  wretched  mother  dug  the 
grave  of  Ann,  the  last  daughter.  Between  the 
3rd  and  the  10th  of  August  this  poor  woman 
lost  her  husband  and  five  children,  and  buried 
them  all  with  her  own  hand,  side  by  side,  a 
very  httle  way  from  her  own  door.  Fearing 
to  touch  the  corpses,  she  tied  to  the  feet 
of  each,  a  towel,  and  so  dragged  the  bodies 
in  succession  to  their  graves.  The  poor 
woman  fled  from  her  home  to  a  surviving 
son  at  Sheffield,  with  whom  she  passed  the 
sad  remainder  of  her  days.  The  gi-aves  are 
still  there,  with  their  memorial  stones,  placed 
by  the  surviving  son. 

Now  there  remained    but  a  hundred    and 
forty-nine  persons  in  Eyam.  September  was  un- 
usually  hot,  and  sfciU  the  plague  raged.     A  year 
U  bad  gone  hy  aince  its  first  appearance  in  the 
village.     The  aeaaoa  for  the  wakes  had  comc\ 


// 


again,  and  passed  uncelebrated  Twenty-four 
died  this  month,  of  the  one  hundred  and  forty- 
nine.  One  of  these  was  a  little  maid  named 
Mary  Darby,  who  died  September  4th.  She 
had  lost  her  father  by  the  plaffue  on  July  4th, 
and  he  was  buried  in  the  field  in  which  their 
dwelling  stood.  Here  she  was  gathering  daisies 
from  the  grave  when  the  pest  seized  ner ;  on 
the  following  day  she  was  laid  under  the  daisies, 
by  her  father's  side.  Two  stones  with  their  re- 
spective names  mark  the  spot.  Margaret  Black- 
well,  aged  seventeen,  had  lost  all  her  family  bi 


the  plague  except  one  brother,  when  she  h 
was  attacked  by  it.     Her  brother  was  obliged 
to  leave  her  in  extremity  in  order  to  fetch  coals, 
and  before  quitting  the  house  cooked  himself 
some  bacon.   He  then  went  out,  feeling  assured 
that  he  would  find  her  dead  on  his  return.  Mar- 
garet, suffering  from  excessive  thirst,  contriyed 
to  leave  her  bed  to  get  something  to  drink, 
and,  seeing  in  a  basin  the  warm  fat  of  the  bacon 
which  had  so  recently  been  fried,  she  hastOy 
seized  it,  in  the  belief  that  it  was  water,  and 
drank  it  off.     Returning  then  to  bed,  she  felt 
rather  better,  and,  when  her  brother  came  back 
he  found  her,  to  his  great  surprise,  revived. 
Eventually  she  recovered,  and  hved  to  a  good 
old  age  to  tell  the  story  of  the  plague  at  Eyim. 
There  were  no  fresh  cases  aixter  the  11th  of 
October.  The  plague  at  last  left  Eyam,  i^ter  a 
sojourn  there  of  rather  more  than   thirteen 
months.     One  of  the  fugitives,  named  Merrill, 
of  HoUins  House,  Eyam,  lived  in  a  hut  near 
the  top  of  a  hiU  called  ''  Sir  William,"  whither 
he  haa  carried  a  cock  to  be  his  sole  companion. 
He  would  often  go  to  a  certain  point  on  the 
hill,  from  which  he  could  overlook  the  fated 
village,  and  mark  the  number  of   mtves  in- 
creasing in  the  fields  around    One  cuiy,  at  the 
time  the  plague  ceased,  his  companion,  uie  cock, 
after  strutting  about  the  heath  for  some  tiine, 
rose  from  the  ground,  and,  flapping  his  wings, 
flew  straight    away  to  his    old  Quarters  at 
Hollins  House.    Merrill  waited  a  day  or  two, 
and  then,  interpreting  the  cock's  desertion,  hy 
the  story  of  Noah's  bird,  concluded  that  the 
plague,  like  the  waters  of  the  Delude,  had 
*^  abated."    So  he  also  descended  to  his  old 
home,  where  he  and  the  cock  hved  some  yean 
longer  together. 


WITHERED  BLOSSOM. 

IX  TWO  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  I. 

So  long  as  Lucy  lived,  so  long  did  her 
children  in  the  nursery  liye  glad  and  happy 
lives.  Every  evening  before  the  six  o'clock 
dinner,  she  ran  up  to  the  nnrsery,  sat  down  | 
on  the  little  low  bine  chair — ^mamma's 
chair — and  gathered  the  children  around 
her.  The  three-year-old  baby  on  her  lap, 
the  eldest  little  girl  beside  her,  lost  in  ad- 
miration of  the  shining  jewels  on  mamma's 
pretty  hands.  When  the  children  grew 
up  and  had  lost  her,  they  could  just  re- 
niember  the  scone.  The  warm  bright 
nursery,  t\iQ  ^y  c\LA<3^\i  pictures  pinned 


=^ 


A 


b 


CluulM  Dlckena  J 


WITHERED  BLOSSOM. 


[July  17, 1869.]        165 


npon  the  walls,  the  nursery  tea-table. 
And  oyer  and  above  all,  beyond  the  bread 
and  bntter,  b^ond  the  white  mngs,  "A 
present  firom  fiognor,"  "A  present  firom 
the  Isle  of  Wight,"  there  rose  np  the 
mother.  The  pnre  sweet  face,  the  low 
black  dress,  the  pretty  white  neck  with  its 
shining  white  cross.  Lake  a  ministering 
angel  she  lived  with  them,  helping  and 
cahning  Belle^  petting  and  hm^iing  her 
baby  Eunice.  At  length  there  came  a  time 
when  mamma's  pretty  neck  was  always 
covered  with  a  shawl,  and  the  fingers  that 
were  so  clever  in  mending  all  the  toys, 
grew  almost  as  helpless  as  those  of  little 
Belle.  Then  a  shade  npon  the  honse, 
darkening  blinds,  the  passionate  nnbe- 
fieving  grief  of  the  children,  and  a  blank. 

They  grew  np  qnick,  ^dfn],  morbid. 
Qoick,  in  their  almost  instinctive  facnlty 
for  reading  other  people's  thoughts  and 
goessine  at  their  motives.  Fancifdl,  so 
that  their  caprices  were  endless,  their  likes 
and  dislikes  withont  nnmber,  and  morbid 
to  an  extent  that  wonld  have  almost  broken 
their  poor  mother's  heart  had  she  known  it. 
For  instance,  the  one  lamp  in  the  long 
iU-Hghted  street  was  opposite  their  honse, 
and,  of  oonrse,  thronghont  the  long  dreary 
winters  threw  a  weird  sort  of  radiance  on 
the  puddles,  and  the  children  in  the  nnrsery 
wonld  sob  and  cry,  taking  it  as  an  omen  of 
long,  cheerless  lives.  They  were  imagina- 
tive  children.  Between  eveiy  conrse  &ere 
was  played  a  story,  when  the  silver  fork 
Oabnel  met  his  love  Rosalie  the  spoon,  at 
their  rendezvous  the  mug.  Every  domino 
in  the  box  had  a  name ;  every  b^  on  the 
solitaire  board ;  the  hoops  were  princesses 
in  disguise. 

They  were  old-fashioned  children  in  old- 
fiiahioned  dress.  They  had  curious  long 
&oes,  with  plaintive  dissatisfied  eyes,  plaited 
hair  tied  at  the  sides  with  bows  of  brown 
ribbon,  and  voices  alternately  passionate  and 
pettish. 

So  time  led  them  firom  the  nursery  to  the 
school-room. 

Eunice  and  Belle  had  governess  afber 
covemess,  with  whom  they  fought  pitched 
battles  and  did  veiy  few  lessons.  Dreamy, 
obstinate,  perverse,  the  children  were  most 
difficult  to  manage.  They  were  quick  at 
learning,  with  magnificent  memories,  which 
retained  the  smallest  things  with  the  clear- 
ness of  a  photograph ;  but  they  chose  what 
they  would  learn,  and  it  was  very  limited 
liability.  They  drew  veiy  well,  and  so 
wofrked  hard  at  their  drawing.  They 
would  §at  fdr  hozm  at  the  pitaiOf   com- 1 


posing,  and  then  singing,  their  songs.  To 
a  certain  extent  they  were  fond  of  their 
books — ^poetry,  fiction,  any  touch  of  ro- 
mance; no  fact,  nothing  that  had  ever 
really  happened,  would  they  learn. 

They  were  dreadful  children  to  argue, 
requiring  everything  proved  to  them,  and, 
unlike  children,  were  hard  and  exacting; 
but  there  was  a  &scination  about  them  in 
spite  of  it  all. 

Their  loyalty  to  each  other,  which,  when 
one  incurred  punishment,  caused  the  other 
instantly  to  share  it  by  committing  the 
same  fault;  their  love  of  the  beautiful, 
amounting  almost  to  a  worship ;  their  in- 
tolerance of  slander ;  their  dislike  of  gossip ; 
their  invariable  siding  with  the  weak ;  and, 
above  all,  their  faithful  clinging  to  their 
dead  mother's  memory ;  were  very  notice- 
able traits  in  them. 

But  they  led  wretched  lives. 

Their  father  did  not  choose^  but  accepted 
the  first  governesses  that  presented  them- 
selves. Gaimt<,  time-serving,  ignorant 
women,  who  first  bullied  and  then  toadied 
the  children ;  and  on  both  these  points  the 
little  judges  were  merciless. 

Eunice  and  Belle  behaved  as  if  they  were 
devoid  of  all  conscience  or  feeling.  They 
delighted  in  nothing  so  much  as  exaspe- 
rating their  governess  until  she  lost  her 
temper,  and  then  keeping  their  own :  stu- 
diously every  day  giving  as  much  trouble 
as  possible,  and  overwhelming  themselves 
with  self-reproach  at  night. 

Lessons  over,  they  would  spend  long 
hours  in  composing  anthems,  and  sketching 
plain  faces  with  plenty  of  character.  Their 
greatest  pleasure  was  analysing  themselves, 
and  it  was  very  bad  for  them.  They  treated 
their  sense  of  the  ludicrous  to  a  representa- 
tion of  their  own  peculiarities,  and  so  greatly 
encouraged  both,  becoming  each  day  more 
hopelesdy  self-concentrated. 

So  they  passed  into  womanhood,  and  the 
years  wrought  marvels. 

Their  appearance  was  now  very  good. 
Their  figures  were  magnificent,  and  their 
faces,  though  still  peculmr,  very  handsome ; 
with  complexions  of  a  cream  white,  capable 
of  dark  flushing,  and  eyes  long  and  dreamy. 
They  were  immensely  admired  for  their  good 
looks,  quaintness,  and  the  fascination  that 
had  grown  with  them. 

It  is  here  my  story  begins. 

I  first  made  their  acquaintance  in  a  large 
old  country  house  down  in  Devonshire, 
where  we  were  all  staying.  They  arrived 
late  one  afternoon  in  dark  travelling  closkks^ 
and  veils  on  tl[ieir  \i8Aa^  «o  ^^V.  \  ^^  ^^*^ 
see  them  tiitt  tliey  entet^  ^^  \cpa^Vy« 


r= 


^: 


166       [July  17, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnctedby 


/ 


drawing-room  dressed  for  dinner.  Then, 
the  simplicity  of  their  white  untrimmed 
muslins  particularly  plca^ied  me.  Judging 
them  from  it,  I  held  them  to  be  quiet,  simple 
girls :  though  I  have  no  doubt  now,  they 
wero  perfectly  aware  that  their  pliant 
figures,  cream-tinted  faces,  and  dark  coiled 
hair,  were  so  shown  off  to  advantage. 

The  girls  took  to  me  directly,  and  so  fiir 
as  I  could  see,  to  no  one  else.  Originally, 
I  suppose,  they  wero  attracted  to  me  by 
pity,  seeing  me  an  invalid,  middle  aged, 
and  plain.  But  afterwards  I  fancy  Uiey 
liked  dropping  down  on  the  floor,  and  tell- 
ing me  all  that  went  on  in  that  large  house. 

They  had  just  returned  &om  Paris,  I 
found ;  indeed,  they  seemed  to  travel  con- 
tinuaUy. 

The  hjct  was,  they  were  so  quick  in  fore- 
seeing the  effect  of  their  words  and  actions, 
that  though  by  no  means  naturally  sociable, 
they  had  made  a  large  quantity,  not 
perhaps  of  true  steady-going  friends,  but 
desirable  acquaintances — ^I  use  the  word 
from  their  point  of  view — wbo  took  them 
to  Paris,  gave  them  a  London  season,  or, 
as  in  this  instance,  brought  themi  to  spend 
the  autumn  in  their  country  house.  They 
much  preferred,  I  fancy,  being  together, 
but  for  all  that,  they  not  un£:equently 
separated,  one  going  east,  while  the  other 
went  west.  Besides  their  two  faces,  there 
was  one  other  &ce  at  our  pleasant  dining- 
table  in  which  I  took  an  interest.  It  be- 
longed to  a  Captain  Frogmore :  a  large, 
healthy-looking  man,  with  a  loud  voice,  who 
was  home  on  sick  leave,  he  told  us,  and  who 
roared  when  we  doubted  the  sickness.  Ho 
admired  the  simple  muslin  dresses  to  the  full 
as  much  as  I  did,  and,  in  his  heavy  way, 
danced  a  devoted  attendance  on  them.  The 
girls  were  so  alike  both  in  appearance  and 
character,  that  I  scarcely  wondered  he 
should  distribute  his  attentions  equally, 
oven  to  the  extent  of  seeming  indifferent  as 
to  which  he  should  ultimately  make  Mrs. 
Frogmore. 

I  was  not  uneasy  about  it,  for  Eunice 
and  Belle  were  not  responsive,  taking  his 
admiration  simply,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
very  muck  as  if  tbey  were  princesses  of  the 
blood,  clearly  showing,  however,  that  they 
liked  it,  and  would  have  been  displeased 
had  it  been  withdrawn. 

But  it  was  not  possible  that  for  very  long 
Captain  Frogmore  should  go  on  showing  no 
preference ;  the  girls  themselves  helped  him 
to  a  decision.  His  attentions  increasing, 
they  began  to  bore  Belle,  while  Eunice  stHl 
^olc  them  in  good  part.  This  being  the 
oaae,  Ckptain  i'So^fziiore's  attentions  rapidly 


ran  in  one  direction,  so  that  while  Eunice 
had  less  and  less  time  to  set  aside  from 
flirtation.  Beliefs  whole  day  was  now  at  her 
own  disposal,  and  so  I  saw  more  of  her. 

I  think  of  the  two  I  liked  Eunice  the 
better,  not  from  any  special  good  point  in  her, 
but  negatively,  because  she  was  perhaps  just 
a  shade  less  morbid,  non- practical,  self-con- 
centrated than  her  sister ;  but  despite  my- 
self there  was  every  little  while  some  look 
in  Belle's  eyes  that  banished  the  headstrong, 
self-opiniated  girl,  and  conjured  up  before 
me  the  nursery  picture  they  were  so  fond 
of  describing.  I  saw  as  in  some  old  dream 
the  dead  mother  alive,  the  children  around 
her,  and  this  girl  Belle,  innocently  happ^, 
with  an  untrodden  life  stretching  before 
her ;  and  the  rush  of  love  to  my  heart,  arose 
from  sheer  pity.  Knowing  her,  how  could 
I  even  hope  that  her  life  would  be  smooth  ? 

For,  so  far  as  I  understood  it,  their  story 
ran  thus.  Their  father,  never  a  very  virtuous 
character,  was  now  rapidly  drinking  himself 
into  his  grave,  and  tke  girls,  at  his  death, 
would  have  nothing— from  him,  that  is.  An 
old  maiden  aunt  had  bequeathed  a  small 
fortune  to  Eunice  as  her  god-daughter,  com- 
pletely passing  over  poor  Belle.  Eunice 
would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to 
share  it;  but  no  talking,  no  argomentB, 
could  bring  this  to  pass ;  Belle  always  re- 
turned the  same  answer.  She  wooJd  accept 
her  life  from  no  one,  not  even  her  sister. 
When,  therefore,  their  present  income  should 
cease,  Eunice  might  do  what  she  would  with 
.  her  money ;  Belle  was  going  out  as  a.  gover- 
ness. I  believed  her  implicitly.  To  be 
obstinate  oame  as  naturally  to  Belle  as 
yielding  might  come  to  another.  The  idea 
haunted  me.  That  original  little  governess ! 
I  saw  her  in  the  school-room  teaching  com- 
monplace children  the  exact  things  she  had 
liked,  bewildered  at  dulness,  getting  morhsd 
and  distressed.  I  saw  her  in  the  drawing- 
room  pale  and  unhappy,  not  courting,  but 
repelling  attention  with  proud  eyes  and  an 
unconciliating  voice ;  defiance  even  in  the 
erectness  of  her  attitude.  I  confessed  to 
myself  sadly  that  I  could  not  see  the  end. 
Marriage  would  have  solved  the  difiionliy) 
but  after  a  certain  time  every  one  she 
knew  bored  Belle,  and,  under  these  da- 
cumstances,  marriage  might  have  been 
dangerous.  Just  now,  however,  the  days 
were  passing  pleasantly,  and  on  the  unquiet 
sea  of  their  troubled  lives  the  girls  were 
resting  on  their  oars,  when  there  came  a  * 
change  that  broke  it  all  up.  fihall  I  ever 
forget  that  evening  ? 

The  gentlemen  were  out  on  the  venndab, 
\  away  d^Emu  ^^  ^^den^  or  on  the  &r-off 


2= 


:&. 


OhATles  Dickens.] 


WITHERED  BLOSSOM. 


[July  17, 1869.]       167 


terrace,  Bmoking  their  cigars,  tlic  red  light 
ahowing  prettily  in  the  distance ;  we  ladies 
were  amusing  ourselves  in  their  absence. 

Our  hostess  and  another  lady  were  match- 
ing wools  by  lamplight ;  but  the  glare  hurt 
my  eyes,  and  my  couch  was  wheeled  to  the 
far  window.  There  the  moonlight  coming 
in  showed  Eunice  dreamily  playing  a  sad 
old  German  waltz,  and  Belle  on  the  ottoman 
beside  me,  discussing  a  drawing. 

A  grey  stone  wall,  the  height  of  the  pic- 
ture, and  the  insects  in  the  crevices,  brown 
and  very  hideous,  were  really  beautifully 
done,  and  some  so  minute  as  almost  to  re- 
quire a  microscope. 

It  was  very  clover,  and  I  told  her  so ;  but 
I  thought  the  subject  unfortunate,  and  it 
was  this  she  was  contesting.  She  was  so 
vehement  that  I  grew  tired  of  her,  and 
b^an  to  listen  to  the  voices  at  the  centre 
table.     My  hosteis  was  saying, 

"  I  am  expecting  a  visitor  to  arrive  to- 
night. He  should  be  almost  here  now,  I 
tiiink " 

"Mr.  Curzon,"  said  tbe  servant,  as  Mr.. 
Corzon,  passing  him,  walked  into  the  room. 
A  remarkably  sligbt  man,  fair-haired,  with- 
cold  blue  eyes,  and  a  good  carriage. 

This  I  saw  on  the  instant,  and  also  that 
BeUe  had  started  from  her  seat,  vnth  her 
breath  coming  quickly  in  little  gasps. 

""What,  Jack !  Tou  know  Belle  ?"  cries 
onr  hostess,  surprised  at  her  manner.  ■ 

"Yes;  I  know  Miss  BeUe,"  says  Jack,! 
tenderly,  and  he  todk  her  hand  and  held  it.! 

And  then  there  was  a  pause,  which  I  felti 
hj  instinct  Belle  could  never  break. 

Our  hostess  comes  to  the  rescue. 

"  Well,  Jack,  manners.  Do  not  you  know 
Eunice  ?" 

Jack  turns  and  bows  towards  the  piano. 

"No;  I  have  not  that  pleasure.  You 
must  introduce  me." 

We  chat  and  talk  through  the  evening. 
Belle  has  met  this  Mr.  Curzon  away  on 
Bome  visit,  and  they  seem  to  be  pretty  well 
acquainted. 

When  we  make  a  move  for  bed,  and 
come  towards  the  light.  Belle  is  crimson 
with  exGitemant,  and  there  is  enchantment 
in  her  eyes.  The  hand  that  takes  up  the 
bedroom  lamp  trembles ;  and  do  what  she 
will,  her  lips  quiver.  Some  of  the  gentle- 
men coming  in  now,  our  hostess  gives  them 
Corzon  in  chai^. 

"Oood- night,  gentlemen!"  she  says, 
cheerily.  "You  may  take  back  another 
recruit  to  your  smoking." 

Most  of  them  are  off  to  the  billiard-room, 
and  have  had  enough  of  smoking ;  but  not 
Frogmoi«.    This  last  feature  is  never  ap- 


parent in  Frogmore.  Curzon  and  ho  go  off 
together.  The  verandah,  where  they  smoke, 
is  under  my  bedroom,  and  their  words  come 
up  to  me  through  the  open  window. 

They  are  talking  of  the  girls,  their  quaint- 
ness  and  beauty.  Frogmore  is  descanting 
on  Eunice's  generosity. 

"  She  would  have  shared  it  all.  Generous 
ofher,  wasn't  it?"  • 

"  Charming,"  Curzon  says,  but  his  tone 
is  careless,  as  though  he  were  not  attending. 

Presently,  their  talk  grew  more  private ; 
I  shut  the  window  and  retired. 

The  next  morning,  on  going  down-stairs, 
I  found  the  whole  .parl^  assembled  in  the 
breakfast-room,  our  pleasure-loving  hostess 
gaily  planning  out  the  day.  We  were  to 
take  our  dinner  to  an  old  ruin  that  we 
knew ;  and  we  were  all  to  put  on  our  oldest 
clothes.  I  laughed  with  the  girls  about 
their  oldest  clothea ;  they  who  were  always 
so  daintily  fresh ! 

We  drove  on  the  side  of  the  cliff,  and  the 
view  the  whole  way  was  like  one  of  Hook's 
pictures.  Sharp,  jagged  rocks  in  a  green 
sea ;  white,  foaming  waves  coming  crashing 
against  them.  The  cri^pness  upon  every- 
thing was  a  sort  of  champagne  to  us. 

Eunice  and  Frogmore  were  in  the  rumble 
of  one  carriage ;  Curzon  and  Belle  were  in 
the  rumble  of  the  other.  Our  hostess,  I  saw, 
thought  she  had  arranged  us  all  cleverly. 

I  was  in  the  carriage  whose  rumble  held 
Belle,  and  I  noticed  how  the  old  dreaminess 
had  vanished  from  her  eyes,  and  how  con- 
tented and  happy  they  looked. 

Every  now  and  then  I  caught  her  fresh 
voice,  but  oftener  she  spoke  in  a  whisper. 
Whenever  I  turned,  I  saw  her  face  chang- 
ing, and  there  seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  her 
companion's  admiration.  I  fully  believed  I 
was  spectator  at  a  love-soene,  and  when  we 
reached  the  ruins,  I  let  them  ramble  off  to- 
gether. Very  soon  the  whole  party  was 
scattered,  and  as  I  sat  on  the  rocks  on  the 
shelving  beach,  the  prettiest  visions  began  to 
float  towards  me.  My  eyes  saw  everything 
couleur  do  rose ;  the  far-^off  future  grow  fair 
and  bright ;  vaguely,  what  I  wished  seemed 
coming  to  pass.  It  was  the  old  thing  after 
all,  that  I  wished;  the  realisation  of  the 
old  jingling  rhyme, 

Jack  shall  havo  Jill, 
Nought  shall  go  ill. 

"  Mrs.  F.,"  said  Frogmore,  coming  up 
towards  me,  "  I  don't  care  for  the  ruins. 
May  I  sit  on  these  rocks  and  have  a  talk 
with  you  ?" 

"  As  you  like.  Captain  Frogmore,"  said 
I.     But  there  was  iiot\\\t\^  m  \sv^  \siajKaet 
that  encouraged  \ivm,  iot  'v^^i  ^JbNr  ^"a  wix  ^c^ 


#= 


(A 


168 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Juijir,  18M13 


Bpcctive  rocks  in  ntter  silence.     At  la43t  he 
said  in  his  abrupt  matter-of-fact  way  : 

"  Yon  see  a  good  deal  of  those  girls,  Mrs. 
F.,  and  know  all  their  ways.  Ennice,  for 
instance.  I  want  her  to  marry  me :  now, 
before  I  ask  her,  do  yon  think  I  have  much 
chance  ?'* 

I  was  not  surprised,  but  I  was  very,  very 
glad,  and  my  answer  was  ready.  I  recalled 
a  thousand  instances  where  Eunice  had 
seemed  to  flush  at  his  approach,  and  where 
her  shafts  of  ridicule  had  passed  hy  his  name. 

"  I  do  think  so,  Captain  Irogmore," 
said  I,  and  then  the  whole  world  grew 
bright  for  him  too.  The  visions  that  had 
been  only  for  my  eyes,  floated  and  danced 
before  his.  There  were  little  pools  of  green 
water  all  around  us,  and  I  knew  how  lovely 
were  the  pictures  he  saw  shadowed  forth  in 
their  depths.  The  dust  on  the  air  was  pure 
gold,  and  it  went  blinding  into  his  eyes, 
and  settling  round  his  heart. 

"  Faith,  Love,  and  Trust,"  sang  the  birds, 
and  woke  up  the  echoes  in  the  place.  Ah 
me,  it  is  but  touch  and  go  with  visions ! 
Suddenly,  with  a  rush  they  were  all  gone, 
and  in  iiieir  stead  was  Eunice,  pontine  her 
lips,  and  making  objections  to  everythmg. 

"  Take  our  dinner  on  the  rocks !  But 
that  will  be  very  horrid.  Captain  Frogmore. 
No,  I  don't  at  all  know  how  we're  going 
home.  One  can't  settle  everything  in  a 
moment." 

Then  the  others  came  up,  Curzon  looking 
very  quiet  and  gentlemanly  in  his  sea-side 
get-up,  with  the  white  gauze  veil  round  his 
hat^  readjusted,  I  saw,  oy  feminine  fingers, 
and  Belle,  handsomer  than  I  had  ever  seen 
her,  with  a  warm  dark  flush  on  her  &oe, 
and  clematis  in  her  jacket. 

"  Bea/r  Mrs.  F.,"  she  said,  sinking  down 
beside  me,  "  what  a  day !  Mrs.  F.,  I  should 
like  this  to  last  always." 

Yes,  it  was  Belle  who  said  that — the 
would-be  instructress  of  extreme  youth. 
The  incompatibility  of  the  whole  thing 
began  to  press  upon  me.  We  had  the 
brightest  little  picnic  imaginable.  The 
girls  sang  to  us.  Gky  little  songs,  made  up 
of  their  own  words  to  their  own  music,  but 
with  strange,  ringing  changes  that  stirred 
my  heart  to  its  depths. 

"  Sit  still.  Belle,"  said  Eunice,  "  and  I 
will  draw  you.     You  have  &.llen  into  a  good 

f)sition ;  the  sun  is  on  your  flowers.     How 
wiah  I  had  colours  here  !" 
"  ChaUenged  !"   said  Curzon.      "  I  will 
draw  your  sister." 


They  both  set  to  work,  but  Curzon  not 
on  slowly,  from  looking  too  much  at  uie 
model. 

When  the  sketches  were  done,  Eunice's 
was  very  much  the  better,  but  Curzon  had 
caught  the  dreamy  wistful  look  in  BeDe'a 
eyes. 

"  You  have  done  it  before  !"  cried  Eunice. 
'*  Belle's  &.ce  is  ver^  difficult  to  draw.  I 
was  months  before  I  could  do  it." 

Curzon  did  not  answer  her. 

'*  Jack  is  so  clever,"  said  our  hostess  aside 
to  me;  she  was  pleased  at  the  success  of 
her  day,  and  her  kind-hearted  plans.  *'  He 
can  do  everything,  and  he  is  so  lovable." 

Somehow,  in  spite  of  the  way  they  had 
come,  going  home  the  young  ones  maiiaged 
a  difierent  arrangement.  Eunice  was  in 
her  seat  somewhat  before  the  others,  and  I 
myself  saw  Curzon  go  up  to  her,  and  heard 
him  say :  "  Won't  you  let  me  go  back  with 
you?    Do!" 

Eunice  smiled  assent,  there  was  perhaps 
nothing  else  left  her  to  do ;  but  Frogpnore 
looked  supremely  disgusted,  as  he  took  up 
his  seat  by  Belle.  They  looked  so  dis- 
satisfied and  cross,  sitting  there  side  hy 
side,  that  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to 
spoil  my  drive  by  going  with  them,  and  I 
took  refuge  with  Eunice. 

It  certainly  was  as  our  hostess  had  said. 
Jack  was  very  clever.  I  had  not  noticed 
it  so  much  when  he  had  been  with  Bella 
Eunice  was  flattered  by  this  new  division 
of  forces  and  Mr.  Curzon's  unexpected 
attention.  She  did  not^  perhaps,  obserye^ 
as  I  did,  that  no  matter  how  he  talked,  or  to 
whom  he  talked,  his  glances  went  straight 
throu£:h  the  ffatherincF  crloom  over  to  Bdle. 

said  Eumce  at  length,  when  we  alighted; 
"  have  we  not,  BeUe  ?" 

But  Belle  had  gone  stone  deaf  with  one 
ear,  and  that  was  the  ear  nearest  her  sister. 

—  ,  ,^  ■■!»!  11^  _iM    -I I  — ^f^m ^—^^ 

,  ,^  ■■!»!  11^  _IM       -I I  ^K^m —^-^^ 

On  SaturdAy  7t]i  Augoit,  1869, 
Will  be  commenced  in  '*  All  thi  Ybab  Bowd:" 

VERONICA. 

Bj  the  Autlior  of  "  Amrr  Masgaxkt's  Tboubli.'* 

A  NEW  SERIAL  8T0SY, 
To  be  continued  from  wedc  to  week  until  oompleted. 

Now  Beady,  price  5e.  6d.,  bound  in  green  elotb, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OV  THB  NXW  SbSXB  01 

ALL  THB  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  had  of  all  Bookaellflrt. 


j7  JJi^  JUi^jf/  qfTraiulaiiMff  ArtieUi/nm  All  th£  Y £a&  Round  m  reterved  Ity  the  Amtkon* 


FatUaked  mi  the  omoe,  Ko.  9$,  Welltogtoii  SJiwet,  StniuL    Prtowi  ^  C.  >Nbit»<^  >i«woi«\.^^«ai». 


^ 


■HE-ST0B^C[E-OllI^:_l.re]eS-JB.gM^y^W;TD^l 


cofiaiiQTLa-BY 

WITH  WHICH  IS  IpcoHfof^ATrD 
"  '^QlfeEHOlpToRpS 


SATURDAY,  JULY  24,  1800. 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


or  "Buck  Sbi 


BOOK  IIL 

CHiPTEB  XI.    mam  ahs 

Both  Lord  and  Lady  HetheringtoTi  \ 
JO  the  dining-room  when  Joyce  entered, 
former  with  his  brown  velveteen  suit 
iplaflted  and  clay-stained,  and  his  thick 
boota  rich  with  the  spoil  of  many  a  farrow 
(he  waa  bitten  with  a  farming  and  agrjcul- 
tnral  mania  just  then),  and  the  latter  calm 
und  collected  ae  Walter  ever  remembered 
her.  She  received  the  visitor  with  perfect 
politeness,  expressed  in  a- few  well-choscu 
Hntences  her  pleasure  at  seeing  him  again, 
uid  the  Efttisfaction  with  which  she  had 
learned  of  hia  improved  poaition ;  then,  after 
Branning  him  with  rather  a  searching 
glance,  she  tamed  to  the  footman,  and  asked 
where  waa  Lady  Caroline,  and  whether  she 
knew  Inncheon  was  ready.  Joyce  replied 
for  the  man.  Lady  Caroline  had  heard  the 
■oDouncement  of  loncheon,  but  had  asked 
him  to  oome  in  by  himself,  saying  she  wonld 
foUow  directly.  Her  ladyship  had  gone  np 
to  her  room,  the  footman  added ;  he  did  not 
think  her  ladyship  waa  very  well.  TJie 
footman  was  new  tJs  Weathope,  or  he  wonld 
have  known  that  the  domestics  of  that  es- 
Ubliahment  were  never  allowed  to  think,  or 
at  least  were  expected  to  keep  their  thoaghts 
tothcmselvea.  LadyHetherington  ofconrse 
Ignored  the  footman's  remark  entirely,  but 
sddressed  herself  to  Joyce. 

"  I  hope  yon  did  not  bring  down  any  ill 
news  for  Lady  Caroline,  Mr.  Joyce  ?" 

"  Not  I,  indeed.  Lady  Hetherington.  I 
loerely  came  to  ask  her  ladyship's  advice  on 
—well,  on  a  matter  of  bnsiness." 

"  Li  which  she  was  interested  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  J    J  waa  BelSsh  onongh  to 


lay  before  her  a  matter  in  which  my  own 
interests  were  alone  concerned." 
_  "  All !"  said  Lady  Hetherington,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  "  I  waa  afraid  it  might  be 
some  basiness  in  which  ahe  would  have  to 
involve  herself  for  other  people,  and  really 
she  is  snch  an  extraordinary  woman,  con- 
stituting herself  chaperon  to  two  young 
women  who  may  be  very  well  in  their  way, 
I  dare  say,  bat  whom  nobody  ever  heard  of, 
and  doing  such  odd  things,  but — ^however, 
that's  all  right." 

Her  ladyship  subsiding,  his  lordship  here 
had  a  chance  of  expressing  his  delight  at 
hia  ex- secretary' a  aJivaacement,  which  he 
did  warmly,  but  in  his  own  peculiar  way. 
So  Joyce  had  gone  into  Parliament ;  right, 
qnite  right,  but  wrong  side,  hey,  heyp 
Radicals  and  those  sort  of  fellows,  heyP 
Republic  and  that  sort  of  thing !  Like  all 
young  men,  make  mistakes,  hey,  bat  know 
better  soon,  and  come  round.  Live  to  see 
him  in  the  Carlton  yet.  Knew  where  he 
picked  up  those  atrociona  doctrines — didn't 
mind  his  calling  them  atrocious,  hey,  hey? 
— from  Byrne;  strange  man,  clever  man, 
deuced  clever,  well  read,  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing,  but  desperate  free-thinker.  This- 
tlewood,  Wolfe  Tone,  and  that  kind  of  thing. 
Never  live  to  aee  him  in  the  Carlton.  No, 
of  coarse  not;  not  the  place  for  him.  Recol- 
lect the  Chronicles  ?  Ah,  ofconrse ;  denced 
interestin',  all  that  stofT  that — that  I  wrote 
then,  wasn't  it  i*  Had  not  made  mncb  pro- 
greas  since.  So  taken  up  with  farmin'  and 
that  kind  of  thing ;  most  take  him  into  the 
park  before  he  left,  and  show  him  some 
alterations  juat  going  to  be  made,  which 
Id  be  an  immense  improvement,  im- 
se  imp Ob,  here  waa  Lady  Caro- 
line!" 

What  did  Uiat  \i^o\ac  ^witaaMi  ineKn.  ^vj 
saying  he  thongbt  \aA-^  Caw^afis  "W*a 


c£ 


170    yniyM,iBwj  ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND.  [Oontotadbf 


well?     Bhe  came  in  looking  radiant,  and  for  ber,  and  yet  there  was  the  addzfss, 

iock  her  seat  at  the  table  -with  all  her  usuai  Walter  Joyce,  Esq.,  in  her  bold  firm  huid. 

oomposnre.     Lady  Hetherington  looked  at  There 'most  be  an  enclosure  wliich  he  wms 

her  in  surprise,  and  said,  *' Anything  the  to  deliver  or  to  post !  And  then  he  did  what 

matter,  Caroline  P"  he  might  have  done  at  first — ^brbke  (^en  tke 

"  The  matter,  Margaret !     Nothing  in  the  seal  of  the  envelope  and  took  o«it  the  coo- 
world.     Why  r"  tents.     One  sheet  of  note  paper,  with  then 

"  Ton  told  Mr.  Joyce  to  come  in  to  Inn-  words  : 

cheon  without  you,  and  Thomas  said  you  ..  j  ^^^^^          ^  ^  ^^.       ^^^^    ^ 


jmi.     -i      £>  '  xi     f     x^    I     T    is     handsome,    clever,    and    exceptionallT 

«Th«ik8  for  your  sympathy!     ^o  !     I    <thorou<rh.'     Fi-om  what  1  have  se4  of  hii 


the   only   chance   I   had,   and   ran   off  to  fe"rweek,  M"?di^s7°thl3"lp?cially'cold 

"^'Deuced  odd  that!"  said  Lord  Hether-  ^P^'^S-  '^^    slmll  probably  run  away  to 

•  _i.        .<!.      .    Ti  -i-  i_  "'"7' '^'            ,     .  Torquay,   or  perhaps    even  to  Nice,  but 

ington ;     here  s  Bntish  post-office,  gre^st  ,^^^^1^^  ^  Chesterfield-street  will  always  find 

institution  in  the  country      Rowhvnd  Hill,  ^^^  j  ^^^„,,  ^j          j^^^,^  ^^^^  ^^^^t 

and  that  kmd  of  thing;  take  your  letters  ^^^^    ^^            j^^^^^J    ^               ^^^^ 

everywhere  for  a  penny— penny,  by  Jove,  p     ,  ,^    CM" 

and  yet  yon  11  always  find  women  want  •' 

fellows  to  make  postmen  of  themselves,  and  "She    is    a    woman    of    extraordinaiy 

carry  thoii*  letters  themselves."  mental,  calibre,"  said  Joyce  to  himself^  as  he 

"This  is  a  special  letter,  West,"  said  refolded  the    note  and  placed    it  in  his 

Lady  Caroline.     "  You  don't  understand !"  pocket.     "She  grasps  a  subject  immedi- 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do,'*  said  liis  lordship  with  ately,  thinks  it  through  at  once,  and  writes 

a  chuckle ;    "  women's   letters    all  special  an    unmistakable   opinion   in  a   few  terse 

letters,  hey,  hey  ?  order  to  the  haberdasher  Hues.     A  wonderful  woman !    I've  no  doubt 

for  a  yard  of  ribbon,  line  to  Mitchell's  for  she  liad  made  up  her  mind,  and  had  written 

stalls  at    the  play ;  all   special,  hey,  Mr.  that  note  before  she  came  down  to  luncheon, 

Joyce,  hey?"  though  she  did  p.ot  give  it  to  me  until  just 

Wlien  luncheon  was  over  Joyce  imagined  now." 
that  Lady  Caroline  would  return  with  him  Walter  Joyce  was  WTong.  The  interval 
to  the  library,  and  renew  their  conver-  between  leaving  him  and  her  arrival  in  the 
sation.  He  was  acoordingly  mudi  surprised,  dining-room  had  been  passed  by  Lady 
when  she  suggested  to  Lord  Hetherington  Caroline  on  her  bed,  where  she  fell,  prone, 
that  he  should  show  Mr.  Joyce  the  altera-  as  the  door  closed  behind  her.  She  lay 
tions  wliich  were  about  to  be  made  in  the  there,  her  face  buried  in  the  pillow,  her 
park.  His  lordship  was  only  too  glad  to  hands  tightly  clasped  behind  her  head,  her 
be  mounted  on  his  hobby,  and  away  they  hair  escaped  from  its  knot,  and  creeping 
went,  not  returning  until  it  was  time  for  down  her  back,  her  heart  beating  wildly. 
Joyce  to  start  for  the  station.  He  did  not  Ah,  what  minutes  of  agony  and  humilia- 
see  Lady  Hetherington  again,  but  his  lord-  tion,  of  disappointment  and  self-contempt ! 
ship,  in  great  delight  at  the  manner  in  It  had  come  upon  her  very  suddenly,  and 
which  his  agiicultural  discourse  had  been  had  found  her  unprepared.  She  had  never 
listened  to  was  voiy  warm  in  his  odieux,  dared  to  analyse  her  feeling  for  Joyce ;  knew 
and  expressed  his  hope  that  they  would  of  its  existence,  but  did  not  know,  or  would 
meet  in  town.  "  Politics  always  laid  aside  not  admit  to  herself,  what  it  was.  Tried  to 
at  the  dinner- table,  Mr.  Joyce,  hey,  hoy  P"  persuade  herself  that  it  was  "  interest"  in 
and  Lady  Caroline,  after  bidding  him  fare-  him  ;  but  laughed  contemptuously  at  the 
well,  placed  a  note  in  his  hand,  saying  "  Tliis  poor  deceit  when  she  found  her  heart  beat- 
was  the  letter  I  spoke  of!"  He  glanced  at  ing  double  pace  as  she  read  of  his  progress 
it  and  saw  it  was  addressed  to  himself,  and  at  the  election,  or  her  cheek  fianaiug  and 
the  next  instant  the  carriage  started.  Ad-  her  lip  quivering  as  she  did  battle  against 
dressed  to  himself!  Did  she  not  say  at  Lady  Hctherington's  occasional  imperii- 
luncheon  that  she  had  been  writing  a  note  neuces  about  him.  Tliose  were  tlie  signs 
//  wiiich  Bho  waaied  him  to  take   to  town  of  something  more  than  interest — of  love, 


% 


A> 


(SiartaA  Dickens.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


[Julj  24,  I86a.j       171 


] 


real,  nniuistakablc  pa£sion.     What  a  future 
might  it  not  have  been  for  her  ?     She  had 
respected  her  first  husband  for  his  kindness, 
hu  confidence,  his   equable   temper.     She 
would   have   respected  this   man   too,   re- 
spected liim  for  his  talent,  his  bravery,  the 
skill  and  courage  witli  which  ho  had  fought 
the  great  battle  of  life,  but  she  would  have 
loved  him  too — cloved  him  with  that  wild 
passion,  with  that  deep  devotion.     For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  had  learned  what 
it  was  to  love,  and  learned  it  too  late.     On 
those  few  occasions  when  she  had  dared  to 
reveal  to  herself  what  was  hidden  in  tlie 
inmost    recesses    of     hei*    soul,    she    had 
como   to   the   conclusion  that  though   the 
liappincss  for  which  she  pined  would  never 
be  realised,  and  she  never  concealed  from 
herself  the  improbability  of   tliat,  yet  she 
should  always  hold  the  first  position  in  his 
thoughts.    The  bitter  disappoiutment  wliich 
lie  liad   sufiered  at  Miss  Ashurst*s  hands 
had,  she  thought,  eficctually  extinguished 
all  idea  of  maniage  in  his  mind.     And  now 
he  came  to  her,  to  her  of  all  women  in  the 
world,  to  tell  her  of  his  loneliness,  his  want 
of  some  one  to  sympatliise  with  and  be  hifi 
companion,  and  to  ask  her  advice  as  re- 
garded his  selection  of  Maud   Creswell ! 
It  was  too  hard  upon  her,  too  much  for  her 
to  bear  this.     A  score  of  schemes  fixLslied 
through  her  brain.     Suppose  she  were  to 
temporise   with   this   question  ?     A   word 
irom  her  would  make  Joyce  defer  taking 
any  steps  in  the  matter  for  the  present,  and 
in  the  interval  she  could  easily  let  him  see 
bow  she —     Ah,  the  shame,  the  wretched 
homUiation !  Was  she  bewitched,  or  was  she 
in  sober  seriousness,  she,  Caroline  Manscrgh, 
whose  pride  as  Caroline  West  was  a  byword, 
was  she  going  to  throw  herself  at  the  head  of 
a  man  who  had  not  only  never  shown  any 
intention  of   proposing  to    her,   but  had 
actually  come    to   consult  hA*  about  his 
marriage  with  another  woman !     It  was  im- 
pos8ibl&     Noblesse  oblige.     Lady  Caroline 
West's  pride,  dormant  and  overlaid  with 
other  passions,  yet  lived  in  Lady  Caroline 
Uansei^gh,  and  asserted  itself  in  time.    She 
^Me  from  the  bed,  bathed  her  face,  adjusted 
her  hair,  poured  some  sal- volatile  in  a  glass 
with  a  shaking  hand,  and  swallowed  it 
through  her  set  teeth,  then  went  down  to 
luncheon,  as  we  have  seen.     She  expressly 
avoided  any  chance  of  future  conversation 
witii  Walter,  and  the  note  was  written 
while  he  was  out  with  Lord  Hetherington. 
Of  oourse,   Walter  Joyce    was  utterly 
iJH^rant  of  Lady  Caroline's  feelings.     Aa 
she  hid  them  from  herself  as  much  as  pos- 


sible, it  was  unlikely  that  she  would  suffer 
him  to  catch  the  smallest  inkling  of  them ; 
and  it  is  very  questionable  whether,  had 
his   powers   of  divination   been    infinitely 
stronger  than  they  were,   he  would  have 
understood  them.     The  one  spark   of  ro- 
mance with  which   nature  had  endowed 
him  had  been  completely  stamped  out  by 
Marian  Ashurst,  and  the  rest  of  his  organi- 
sation  was    commonplace   naturally,    and 
made  more  commonplace  by  practical  ex- 
perience of  the  world.     Ho  wondered  Lady 
Caroline  had  not  aiTauged  to  have  a  further 
talk  with  him.    She  had  left  him,  or  rather 
they  had  been  interrupted  just  at  the  criti- 
cal moment,  just  when  he  had  told  her  the 
object  of  his  visit ;  and  it  was  odd,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  that  she  did  not  seek  an 
early  opportunity  for  letting  him  know  her 
opinion  on  the  really  weighty  question  on 
which  he  had  consulted  her.     Ajid  yet  she 
always  knew  best ;  no  doubt  she  thought 
it  was  essential  that  ho  should  please  Lord 
Hetherington,  who  was  evidently  bent  on 
showing  him  those  alterations,  and,   per- 
haps, she  thought,  too,  that  he  might  like 
to  have  her  answer  in  writing  to  refer  to 
on   occasion.     What   a   capital   answer   it 
was  !     He  pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
looked  at  it  again,  so  clear  and    concise 
and  positive.    An  excellent  helpmate.  Yes, 
that  was  what  he  wanted.     How  exactly 
she  appreciated  him  !     llunning  to  Torquay 
or  Nice  ?     Wliat  a  fuimy  thing  !     He  had 
never  heard  her  complain  of  being  affected 
by   the    cold    before,    and — however  she 
approved  of  Ids   intentions   in  regard  to 
]^Iaud  Creswell,  that  was  the  great  point. 
So    ruminated   Walter  Joyce,    the   hard- 
headed  and    practical,    sUding   gradually 
into  a  hundi'ed  other  thoughts  of  work  to 
be  done  and  schemes  to  be  looked  into,  and 
people  to  be  seen,  with  which  he  was  so 
much  engaged  that,  until  he  reached  Lon- 
don, both  Maud  and  Lady  Caroline  were 
fiurly  obliterated  from  his  mind. 

He  slept  at  his  chambers  that  night,  and 
went  down  to  Helmingham  the  next  day. 
There  was  a  station  now  at  the  village,  and 
it  was  here  that  Joyce  aUghted,  not  merely 
because  it  was  more  convenient  than  going 
to  Brocksopp,  but  because  it  saved  him  the 
annoyance  of  having  to  rmi  the  gauntlet  of 
a  walk  through  the  midst  of  his  consti- 
tuency, eveiy  other  member  of  which  liad 
a  complaint  to  make  or  a  petition  to  prefer. 
The  Helmingham  people,  of  course,  were 
immensely  impressed  by  the  sight  of  a  man 
who,  originally  known  to  them  as  pursuing 
the  mysterious  proicaavon  o^  q»  ^Oao^ixiafi*- 


^ 


h 


172      [July  H 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetad  bj 


ter,  had  grown  into  that  yet  more  in- 
scrutable being  a  Member  of  Parliament ; 
bnt  their  wonderment  was  simply  ex- 
pressed in  gaping  and  staring.  They  kept 
their  distance  peasant-like,  and  never 
dreamed  of  bntton-holing  their  member, 
as  did  the  Brocksoppians.  The  road  that 
led  from  the  station  to  the  village  skirted 
the  wall  of  the  school-garden.  It  was  a 
low  wall,  and,  looking  over  it,  Joyce  saw 
Maud  Creswell  tying  up  a  creeper  which 
was  trained  round  the  study  window.  Her 
attitude  was  pretty,  a  sunbeam  shone  on 
her  hatless  head,  and  the  exertion  given  to 
her  task  had  brought  a  bright  colour  to 
her  usually  pale  face.  Never  before  had 
she  looked  so  attractive  in  Joyce's  eyes. 
Ho  dismissed  from  his  mind  the  interesting 
question  of  compxdsory  education  for  fac- 
tory children,  which  he  had  been  revolving 
therein  for  the  last  hour  and  a  half,  and 
quickened  Lis  pace  towards  the  house. 

Maud  was  in  the  study  when  he  entered. 
The  flush  had  left  her  foce,  but  returned 
when  she  saw  him.  He  advanced  and 
took  her  hand. 

"So  soon  back!"  she  cried.  "When  I 
came  down  yesterday,  they  told  me  you 
had  gone  to  town,  and  probably  would  not 
return ;  and  I  was  so  horribly  vexed !" 

"Were  you?  That's  kind  of  you, 
indeed !" 

"  Well  you  know — I  mean " 

"  What  you  say.  I  believe  that  firmly, 
for  you  have  the  credit  of  being  quite  un- 
conventional. No,  I  merely  went  to  London 
on  business,  and,  that  finished,  I  returned 
at  once.     Where  is  your  sister  ?" 

"  Out." 

"  And  her  husband  P" 

"How  can  you  ask  such  a  question? 
With  her,  of  course.  They  have  gone  to 
pay  a  visit." 

"  A  visit ;  where  ?  I,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
how  very  rude  of  me  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion !  What  a  tell-tale  face  you  have,  Miss 
Creswell.  I  saw  the  rudeness  I  had  com- 
mitted by  your  expression." 

"  You  g^ve  me  credit  for  more  power  than  I 
possess.  There  was  no  rudeness  in  your  ask- 
ing.    They  have  gone  to  Woolgreaves." 

"To  Woolgreaves!" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Creswell  called  here  two 
days  ago,  the  day  you  went  to  London, 
but  Gertrude  and  Greorge  were  out,  so  she 
left  a  note  stating  she  was  very  anxious  to 
see  them,  and  they  have  gone  over  there 
to-day.  They  had  no  notion  you  would 
have  come  down,  or  they  would  not  have 
£vne.     I  am  so  sorry  they're  not  here." 


"  I  confess  I  am  not." 

"  Not  sorry  !  That's  not  polite.  Wliy 
are  you  not  sorry  ?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you." 

"  To  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  you.  I've  something  to  oonEult 
you  about,  in  relation  to  my  recent  visit  to 
town,  rather  a  difficult  matter,  but  I  have 
all  faith  in  your  good  judgment." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  rate  my  judgment  too 
highly,  Mr.  Joyce;  but  at  all  events  you 
may  be  assured  of  my  answering  you 
honestly,  and  to  the  best  of  my  power." 

"  That  is  all  I  ask.  That  granted,  I  can 
make  sure  of  the  rest.  And  really  it  is  not 
such  a  great  matter  after  all.  Only  a  Httle 
advice,  but  such  advice  as  only  a  woman, 
more  than  that,  only  a  peculmr  kind  of 
woman,  can  give." 

"  Do  I  fulfil  the  requirements  ?" 

"  Exactly." 

"Then  proceed  at  once.  And  I  will 
promise  to  answer  exactly  as  I  think." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  a  friend,  about  my 
own  age,  of  sufficiently  mean  birth,  whose 
father  was  a  man  of  restricted  views  and 
small  mind,  both  cramped  and  narrowed 
by  the  doctrines  of  the  religious  sect  to 
which  he  belonged,  but  whose  mother  was 
an  angeL  Unfortunately  the  mother  died 
too  soon  after  the  boy's  birth  to  be  of  much 
good  to  him,  beyond  leaving  him  the  re- 
collection of  her  sweet  face  and  voice  and 
influence ;  a  recollection  which  he  cherishes 
to  this  day.  After  his  wife's  death  the  bov's 
father  became  more  and  more  imbued  with 
the  sectarian  doctrines,  an  undue  observance 
of  which  had  already  had  its  effisct  in  his 
home,  and,  djing  shortly  after,  left  his  son 
almost  unprovided  for,  and  friendless,  save 
in  such  friendship  as  the  lad  might  have 
made  for  himself.  This,  however,  proved 
sufficient.  The  master  of  the  school  at 
which  the  lad  attended  took  great  interest 
in  him,  half  adopted  him  as  it  were,  and 
when  the  youth  was  old  enough,  took  him 
as  his  assistant  in  the  school.  This  would 
have  met  my  friend's  views  sufficiently,  for 
he  was  a  plodding  hardworking  fellow,*  had 
he  had  no  other  motive ;  but  he  had  another : 
he  was  in  love  with  the  schoolmaster's 
daughter,  and  she  returned  his  passion. 
Am  I  wearying  you  with  this  rigmarole  ?" 

"You  know  you  are  not.  Please  go 
on ! 

"  So  thoy  proceeded  in  their  Arcadiai 
simplicity,  until  the  schoolmaster  died, 
leaving  his  wife  and  daughter  unprovided 
for,  and  my  friend  had  to  go  out  into 
the  world  to  seek  his  fortune — to  seek  his 


J 


UkulM  DIckeM.7 


UNDBE  THE  CHANNEL. 


b 


[Joly  di.  1809L]      178 


bread  rather,  I  should  say  I  bread,  to  be 
shared,  as  soon  as  he  had  fonnd  enongh 
of  it,  with  his  betrothed.  But  while  he  was 
floundering  away,  throwing  out  a  grappHng- 
iion  here  and  there,  striving  to  attach  him- 
self to  something  where  bread  was  to  be 
earned,  the  young  lady  had  a  slice  of  cake 
offered  to  her,  and,  as  she  had  always  pre- 
ferred cake  to  bread,  she  accepted  it  at 
once,  and  thought  no  more  of  the  man  who 
was  hunting  so  eagerly  for  penny  rolls  for 
her  sake,  xou  follow  me ?" 
"  Yes,  yes  !  Pray  go  on !" 
"Well,  I*m  nearly  at  the  end  of  my 
story!  When  my  friend  found  that  the 
only  person  in  the  world  who  was  dear  to 
him  had  treated  him  so  basely,  he  thought 
he  should  die,  and  he  said  he  should,  but  he 
didn't.  He  suffered  frightfully ;  he  never 
attempts  to  deny  that ;  thought  there  was  an 
end  of  all  things  for  him;  that  life  was 
henceforth  a  blank,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  for  which  see  the  circulating  library. 
Bat  he  recovered;  he  threw  himself  into 
the  penny-roll  hunting  with  greater  vigour 
than  ever,  and  he  succeeded  wonderfully. 
For  a  time,  whenever  his  thoughts  turned 
towards  the  woman  who  had  treated  him 
80  shamefully,  had  jilted  him  so  heart- 
lessly, he  was  fall  of  anger  and  hopes  for 
revenge,  but  that  period  passed  away,  and 
the  desire  to  improve  his  position,  and  to 
make  progress  in  the  work  which  he  had 
undertaken,  occupied  all  his  attention. 
Then  he  found  that  this  was  not  sufficient ; 
that  his  heart  yearned  for  some  one  to  love, 
for  some  one  to  be  loved  by,  and  he  found 
that  some  one,  but  he  did  not  ask  her  to 
become  his  wife  l" 

"He  did  not.     Why  not?" 

"  Because  he  was  afraid  her  mind  might 
have  been  poisoned  by  some  warped  story 
of  his  former  engagement,  some " 

**  Gould  he  swear  to  her  that  his  story, 
as  you  have  told  it  to  mo,  is  true  ?'* 

"He  could,  and  ho  would  !" 

**  Then  she  would  not  be  worthy  of  his 
kve  if  she  refused  to  believe  him !" 

"Ah,  Maud,  dearest  and  best,  is  there 
any  need  to  involve  the  story  farther ;  have 
you  not  known  its  meaning  fix)m  the  out- 
set? Heart-whole  and  intact,  I  offer  you 
my  hand,  and  swear  to  do  my  best  to  make 
the  rest  of  our  lives  happy  if  you  take  it. 
You  don't  answer.  Ah,  I  don't  want  you  to. 
Thanks,  dear,  a  thousand  times,  for  giving 
me  a  new,  fresh,  worthy  interest  in  life !" 


"  You  here,  Mr.  Joyce  ?     Why,  when  did 
you  get  back  ?" 


"Half  an  hour  since,  Gertrude.  You 
did  not  expect  me,  I  hear !" 

"  Certainly  not,  or  we  shouldn't  have 
gone  out.     And  we  did  no  good  after  all." 

"  No  good  ?     How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  madam  was  out.  However,  bother 
madam.     Did  you  see  Lady  Caroline  ?" 

"  I  did." 

"  And  did  you  settle  about  Maud's  stay- 
ing with  us  ?" 

"  No." 

"Nor  about  her  going  to  her  lady- 
ship's?" 

"No." 

"Why,  what  on  earth  was  the  use  of 
your  going  to  town?  What  have  you 
settled  ?" 

"  That  she's  to  stay  with — ^me." 

"With  you?" 

"  With  me." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're 
going-^that  she's  going ?" 

"  I  do,  exactly  that." 

"  Oh,  you  dear  Walter !  I  am  so  de- 
lighted !  Here,  George  !  What  did  I  say 
about  those  three  crows  we  saw  as  we  were 
driving  in  the  pony  chaise?  They  did 
mean  a  wedding,  after  all !" 

UNDER  THE  CHANNEL. 


Perhaps  there  is  no  journey  bo  well  known 
to  80  many  people  as  the  water  journey  that 
has  to  be  made  in  passing  between  England 
and  France.  Perhaps  there  is  none  which,  with 
a  fair  reference  to  its  length,  excites  such  strong 
feelings  of  repugnance  m  so  many  travellers. 
It  is  wonderful  that  the  many  inconveniences 
attendant  on  the  passage  across  the  British 
Channel  should  have  been  so  long  and  so 
patiently  borne.  Rich  and  poor,  sea-sick  and 
sound,  dukes  andCook^s  excursionists,  pleasure- 
seekers  and  men  of  business,  no  matter ;  the 
same  brush  is  prepared  for  their  general  tar- 
ring. To  the  complexion  of  being  made  tho- 
roughly wretched  for  a  certain  (or  uncertain) 
number  of  hours,  must  we  all  come,  who  wish 
now  and  again  to  improve  our  minds  or  estates 
by  foreign  travel. 

Consider  the  arrival  of  the  train  from  Paris, 
facetiously  termed  of  grande  vi(esse,  at  the 
Railway  Terminus  at  Boulogne,  on  a  wet  night 
when  there  is  a  nice  breeze  blowing.  It  is  not 
comfortable,  that  omnibus  drive  to  the  boat 
which  has  to  be  achieved  after  you  have  extri- 
cated yourself  from  the  railway  carriage  of  the 
Chemin  de  Per  du  Nord.  To  slide  and  stagger 
down  a  wet  and  slippery  ladder  with  the  rain 
beating  in  your  face,  and  the  wind  madly 
striving  to  get  rid  of  your  hat,  is  not  pleasant. 
To  dispose  safely  and  satisfactorily  of  the  small 
articles  of  luggage  which  it  is  necessary  to  carrj 
in  the  hand,  ia  ttowYAeaom^.    \\.  \&  ^  wstrj 


T 


i 


A 


174      tJa»yM*M«9.3 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Cond acted  by 


/ 


buaiDesa  to  watch  your  pet  boxes,  marked,  it 
may  be,  "with  care,"  forming  part  of  an  ava- 
lanche of  luggage  crashing  down  a  wooden 
slide  on  to  tlie  wet  deck.  But  these  are  minor 
difficulties,  and  may  occur  under  many  other 
circumstances.  It  is  when  the  boat  clears  the 
pier-head  and  takes  that  first  convulsive  leap 
at  the  bar,  like  a  buck- jumping  horse  at  an 
unexpected  hurdle,  that  you  may  look  foi;  the 
commencement  of  your  real  troubles.  You,  Mr. 
Reader,  are  travelling  with  Mr.  Writer  and 
Mr.  Friend.  It  has  long  been  notorious  to 
Mr.  Writer's  family  and  friends  that  he  has  a 
gift  of  becoming  sea-sick  on  the  shortest  provo- 
cation. It  accordingly  affords  you  no  surprise  to 
find  your  friend  diving  hurriedly  into  the  cabin, 
obviously  surrendering  himself  to  his  fate.  But, 
if  it  so  happen  that  you  are  strange  to  the 
boats  appropriated  to  the  service  of  the  South- 
Eastcrn  Ball  way,  it  will  8uri)ri8e  you  to  see 
him  very  shortly  tumble  up-stairs  again  with 
horror  depicted  on  his  pale  face  ;  and  you 
will  be  astonished  to  see  him  cast  himself 
down  in  the  rain  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Friend, 
who,  equally  sea-sick  but  more  knowing,  has 
not  attempted  the  cabin.  A  sniff — one  sniff 
will  prove  the  fact— down  the  cabin  stairs,  will 
explain  all.  The  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta 
would  have  had  few  terrors  for  an  acclimatised 
steward  of  a  Channel  boat.  Perhaps,  being 
yourself  a  good  sailor,  you  are  prepared  to 
enjoy  the  passage?  No  expectation  could  be 
more  fallacious!  The  narrow  boat,  built  for 
speed  alone,  is  driven  through,  not  over,  the 
tumbling,  chopping  waves  of  the  Channel ;  and 
takes  whole  seas  aboard  at  every  pitch  and  roll. 
Add  the  driving  spray,  and  from  being  wet 
through  there  is  no  escape.  The  cabin  is  al- 
ready crammed  with  victims,  too  miserably 
HI  to  be  conscious  of  the  villanous  atmosphere 
they  breathe,  and  there  would  be  no  getting 
into  it  even  if  you  wished.  You  must  stay 
on  deck  exposed  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the 
weather.  In  all  directions  are  ladies,  prone 
and  prostrate,  vainly  endeavouring  to  protect 
themselves  with  shawls,  or  rugs,  or  oUiskin 
garments,  lent  ^f or  a  consideration)  by  the  crew, 
who  drive  a  bnsk  and  profitable  trade  in  such 
articles.  Clothes  are  spoilt,  tempers  suffer, 
and  a  dripping  and  moody  band  emerge  on  the 
Folkestone  pier.  The  two  hours'  railway 
journey  up  to  town,  with  salt  water  sticky  in 
your  hair,  stiffening  your  clothes,  and  nmning 
out  at  the  cuffs  of  your  many  coata ;  with  evil 
suggestions  of  stale  cabin  pervading  your  fel- 
low-travellers ;  and  somebody  in  a  middle  seat 
becoming  retrospectively  ill  on  peppermint 
drops,  and  plunging  at  the  window,  is  a  weari- 
ness to  the  flesh.  The  excellent  general  ar- 
rangements and  the  marvellous  punctuality  of 
the  run  between  Paris  and  London,  stand  a 
great  chance  of  being  forgotten  in  the  remem- 
brance of  the  horrors  and  discomforts  of  the 
middle  passage. 

In  diy  weather  it  is  not  so  bad ;  but,  even 

in  dry  weather,  if  there  be  any  sea  on  (and  the 

vexed  waters  of  the  Channel,  like  the  course 

o/  true  love,  rarely  nm  smooth)  to  remain  on 


deck  is  to  be  drenched  with  spray,  while  to  go 
below  is  as  repugnant  to  the  mind  of  any  one 
witli  even  nulimentary  ideas  of  cleanliness  and 
ventilation,  in  dry  weather  as  in  wet.     It  is 
amazing  that  while  the  land  service  improves  so 
much  and  80  steadily  (a  little  more  liberality  in 
some  of  the  train  arrangements  on  the  French 
side,  being  now  almost  all  that  can  be  asked 
for),  the  sea  arrangements  should  remain  abso- 
lutely barbarous.  Except  in  the  matters,  im- 
portant enough  no  doubt,  of  speed  and  safety,   j 
the  Channel  steamboats  are  as  far  behind  the 
age,  and  the  requirements  of  the  ser\'ice  on 
which  they  are  employed,  as  if  they  were  so 
many  ^largate  hoys. 

In  a  greater  or  less  degree  the  Boulogne  and 
Folkestone  passage  is  representative  of  all, 
with  one  strong  point  in  its  favour.  It  la  the 
shortest. 

It  would  seem,  on  the  face  of  the  case,  that 
the  remedy  for  this  disagreeable  state  of  things 
is  simple,  llie  employment  of  larger  and  more 
commodious  steamers  seems  the  tirst  thing  to 
ask  for.  Unfortunately,  the  greater  number  of 
the  Channel  harbours  on  either  side,  are  not 
suited  for  the  reception  of  very  large  vessels ; 
and,  to  combine  comfort  with  the  high  rate  of 
speed  which  the  travelling  public  has  learned 
to  insist  upon,  steamers  of  considerable  site 
would  be  necessary.  This  consideraticm  would 
shelve  the  whole  question  with  many  people. 
'Iliey  would  be  satisfied  to  go  on  with  the 
existing  system,  however  wretched,  comfort- 
ing themselves  with  the  reflection  that  there 
is  no  help  for  it,  and  that  people  whose  busi- 
ness or  pleasure  leads  them  across  the  Chan- 
nel, must  make  the  best  of  what  they  can  get 
there. 

But  there  is  another  and  an  important  point 
to  be  considered :  a  point  which,  aa  it  touches 
the  pocket,  is  likely  to  receive  very  respect- 
ful attention  from  two  great  commercial 
countries.  Business  men  have  long  complained 
sadly  of  the  great  cost  attaching  to  the  w^d 
cariiagc  of  goods  between  Franco  and  Eng- 
land, owing  to  the  heavy  extra  expenses  at- 
tendant on  transliipment.  Experienced  heads 
have  been  laid  together,  to  ejideavour  to  devise 
some  scheme  by  which  a  continuous  railway 
service  between  liondon  and  Paris  might  be 
secured.  As  in  most  cases  where  some  great 
change  is  involved,  or  where  some  strikingly 
novel  application  of  the  arts  of  the  engineer  is 
required,  the  general  public  has  smiled  rather 
contemptuously  on  the  suggestions  made,  and 
has  looked  upon  some  of  the  schemes  proposed 
as  purely  visionary.  But  those  whose  business 
it  has  been  to  discuss  the  question  practically, 
and  who  are  well  aware  of  the  vast  amount  of 
money  that  is  yearly  lost,  not  only  in  shipping 
charges,  but  in  actual  damage  to  goods  m  the 
various  loadings  and  unloadings  to  which  they 
are  subjected,  are  convinced  that  the  time  hai 
arrived  when  this  important  question  must  be 
seriously  taken  in  hand.  Moreover :  the  pas- 
senger traffic  alone  shows  an  increase  soffi- 
ciently  great  to  warrant  considerable  improve- 
ments, even  of  a  costly  nature.    It  is,  and  has 


<& 


& 


Oharioa  Dickexiii.J 


UNDER  THE  CHANNEL. 


E  July  24,  lSfi9.]       175 


boen  for  eome  years,  steadily  increasing  at  tlie 
rate  of  ten  per  cent  per  annum. 

Throe  plana  have  been  pi-oposed  to  ciTect 
the  desired  object. 

llie  lirst,  which  naturally  jn*ow8  out  of  the 
instinctive  cry  for  larger  steamers,  can  scarcely 
be  calie<l  a  plan  for  a  continuous  railway.  It  is 
proposed  to  employ  very  large  steam-Tessels 
of  a  peculiar  build,  on  to  which  the  trains 
shall  be  run  bodily.  The  ferry  vessel  will 
then  steam  across  to  tlie  opposite  side,  where 
the  train  will  be  run  oflE  it  and  on  to  the 
shore  line.  All  trouV)le  and  discomfort  at- 
tendant even  on  a  change  of  carriage  will  be 
avoided.  A  truck  mav  be  loaded  in  London 
and,  untouched  by  the  way,  be  unloaded  in 
Paris. 

At  first  sight  this  seems  a  sufficiently  in- 
genious plan.  Mr.  Scott  l^ussell  has  clearly 
demonstrated  its  practicability  on  a  consider- 
able scale,  by  the  example  of  the  I^e  of  Con- 
Rtance :  across  whose  occasionally  stormy  waters 
heavy  trains  have  been  successfully  ferried  daily 
for  some  months. 

But.  unfortunately,  the  running  of  the  trains 
on  to  the  steam-vessels,  the  running  of  them  off 
again,  the  lashings  on  the  one  side  and  the  cast- 
ing loose  on  the  other,  must  occupy  a  consider- 
able time.  And  the  question  of  time  is  one  that 
in  this  matter  must  be  steadily  kept  in  view. 
Again,  this  plan  does  not  get  rid  of  the  Channel, 
and  it  may  reasonably  be  argued  tliat  the  dif- 
ficnlties  arising  from  tempest,  fog,  or  other 
delay  and  danger-bringing  causes,  would  be 
ineomparably  greater  in  the  Channel  than  on 
the  Boden  See.  After  all,  then,  the  ferry  plan, 
though  in  many  respects  a  good  remedy,  is  a 
partial  one  only:  while  the  expense  of  con- 
strueting  harbours  of  sufficient  magnitude,  and 
of  building  steamers  fitted  for  the  great  strain 
they  would  be  called  upon  to  bear,  would  be 
very  large. 

Is  it  possible  to  construct  a  really  continuous 
railway  between  France  and  England?  And 
is  it  possible  to  do  the  work  at  a  cost  admitting 
of  a  remimerative  profit  ?  These  are  the  two 
qnestions  to  which  it  is  of  importance  to  obtain 
satisfactory  replies. 

An  eminent  French  engineer  proposed  some 
years  ago  a  magnificent  scheme  for  the  con- 
Btniction  of  no  less  a  work  than  a  railway 
bridge  across  the  Straits  of  Dover.  In- 
genious calculations,  elaborate  plans,  and 
highly-coloured  drawings,  have  not  been  want- 
ing to  attract  public  attention  to  this  scheme. 
Royal  personages  are  reported  to  have  looked 
upon  it  with  favour.  It  received  closo  and 
careful  attention  from  experts  and  others  in- 
terested in  the  matter.  But,  however  pleasant 
the  prospect  of  being  able  to  crosp  the  Cliannel 
with  no  break  of  gauge,  with  no  apprehension 
of  sea-sickness,  and  with  no  burrowing  or 
tonnelliug  in  the  dark,  the  plan  developed  for- 
midable difliculties  when  it  came  to  be  practi- 
cally examined ;  the  closer  the  criticism,  the 
more  serious  and  obvious  the  objections.  In 
the  first  place  the  engineering  difliculties  were 
found  to  be  of  a  most  startling  description.  For 


the  purposes  of  the  ordinary  navigation,  such  a 
bridge  must  be  at  least  two  hundred  feet  above 
liigli- water  mark.  The  pioi-s,  which  would 
have  to  be  carried  up  some  four  hundred  feet, 
would  require  to  be  strong  enough  to  with- 
stand, not  only  the  weight  and  vibration  of  the 
traitic,  but  the  violence  of  the  most  furious 
winter  stormp.  In  addition  to  these  piers  (in 
themselves  a  serious  addition  to  the  difliculties  of 
a  navigation  already  sutficiently  overcrowded 
and  hazardous),  the  engineer  proposed  the  con- 
struction in  mid-channel  of  an  island  and  port  of 
refuge  :  the  existence  of  whieh,  in  such  a  situa- 
tion, Avould  probably  have  proved  a  fruitful 
source  of  trouble  and  danger  to  passing  vessels. 
Apart  from  these  considerations,  the  question 
of  cost,  by  no  means  to  be  lost  sight  of  even 
in  the  consideration  of  magnificent  proposals 
such  as  this,  was  found  to  be  decidedly  against 
the  adoption  of  the  plan,  or  any  mollification  of 
it.  Piers  four  hundrcKl  feet  high,  artificial 
islands,  harbours  of  refuge  out  at  sea,  and 
divers  works  on  a  similarly  grand  scale,  are  not 
to  bo  constructed  for  nothing :  especially,  when 
the  distance  to  be  spanned  is  some  four-and- 
twenty  miles.  Kven  supposing  the  engineering 
difficulties  to  be  surmountecT—and  with  the 
wonderl'ul  examples  we  have  before  us,  it  seems 
difhcult  to  beheve  that  there  is  practically  any 
Umit  to  engineering  achievements  —  then  it 
beca.me  a  question  whether  the  over-channel 
railway  bridge  could  ever  be  successful,  com- 
mercially. The  estimated  cost  of  such  a  bridge 
was  some  fifty  millions  sterling :  so  hopeless  a 
sum  that  the  plan  was  speedily  relegated  to  the 
limbo  of  abortive  projects. 

If  you  have  to  cross  the  sea  in  a  railway 
carriage,  and  can  neither  cross  on  the  water  in 
a  ferry  vessel,  nor  over  the  water  on  a  bridge, 
the  only  remaining  way  lies  either  in  the  water, 
or  under  the  water. 

To  cross  ifi  the  w.iter  would  necessitate  the 
sinking  of  a  tube  or  tubes.  Of  that  operation  the 
])racticabiUty  is,  to  say  the  least,  doubtful. 
Even  when  you  had  got  your  tube  to  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  its  troubles  would  only 
begin.  It  would  alwavs  be  liable  to  external 
injury ;  and  it  would  be  next  to  impossible  to 
protect  it  from  continual  leakage.  Continual 
leakage  would  in  no  long  time  prove  fatal  to  its 
usefulness,  and,  finally,  to  its  existence. 

What,  then,  about  passing  under  the  water? 
What,  in  a  woi-d,  about  tunnelling  below  the 
bed  of  the  Channel  from  coast  to  coast? 

The  con<litinns  on  which  the  success  of  such 
an  enterprise  depend,  are  comparatively  few 
and  simple.  The  first  condition  relates  to  the 
geological  formation  in  which  the  work  would 
have  to  be  done. 

It  has  frequently  been  pointed  out,  and  there 
appears  to  be  no  difference  of  opinion  on  the 
subject,  that  there  are  to  be  found,  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  Channel,  tracts  of  coast  present- 
ing geological  features  almost  identical.  ITie 
English  coast  between  Deal  and  Folkestone, 
for  instance,  corresponds  in  every  parti- 
cular with  three  mvlcft  oi  tVvft  ¥t«w.^^  <w»aV,  % 
little  to  the  weatwM^V  ol  C^«».   '^tAX.  ^Jaa 


?= 


^^■- 


:S 


176      [Joly  24, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condneted  by 


same  formations  continue  under  the  bed  of  the 
sea  is  a  probability  that  has  been  noticed 
in  a  report  to  the  Geological  Society  on  "  the 
Chalk  Ridges  which  extend  parallel  to  the 
Cliffs  on  each  side  of  the  Channel  tending 
towards  the  North  Sea/^  by  Captain  J.  B. 
Martin,  in  1839.  Careful  geological  investiga- 
tion has  been  made  with  a  view  to  discover 
whether  the  chalk  formations  obtaining  on  each 
coast  continue  imbroken  for  the  whole  dis- 
tance dividing  them;  and  there  appears  no 
reasonable  cause  to  doubt  that  this  is  the 
case. 

Lnpressed  by  these  facts,  Mr.  William  Low' 
an  engineer  who  for  many  years  had  been 
confident  of  the  feasibility  of  connecting  the 
English  and  French  railway  systems,  by 
means  of  a  sub-channel  timnel,  set  himself 
earnestly  to  examine  for  himself  the  geological 
formations  of  the  two  shores.  After  most 
careful  examination,  Mr.  Low  became  satisfied 
that  the  deductions  of  the  geologists  were 
correct.  His  examination  of  the  borings  for 
several  artesian  wells  on  both  sides  of  the 
Channel,  strengthened  his  opinion  as  to  the 
regularity  of  the  strata.  It  became  his  firm 
conviction  that  along  a  certain  line,  about  half 
a  mile  west  of  the  South  Foreland,  and  four 
miles  west  of  Calais,  the  tunnel  could  be  made 
entirely  through  the  lower,  or  grey,  chalk: 
which,  owing  to  its  comparative  freedom  from 
water,  and  other  qualities,  would  be  a  most 
desirable  stratum  in  which  to  work.  With  the 
result  of  these  investigations,  and  with  plans 
of  the  tunnels  he  projected,  Mr.  Low,  in 
1867,  betook  himself  to  the  Emperor  of  the 
French:  who,  giving  the  English  projector  a 
most  cordial  reception,  desired  him  further  to 
organise  his  plans,  and  to  come  again  when  he 
might  be  prepared  to  submit  definite  proposals. 
In  1856,  M.  Thom6  de  Gamond,  a  French 
engineer  of  repute,  who  had  for  many  years 
been  advocating  the  construction  of  a  tunnel 
between  England  and  France,  obtained,  by 
order  of  the  emperor,  an  investigation  of  his 
plans  at  the  hands  of  a  scientific  commission. 
This  body,  satisfied  with  the  substantial  accu- 
racy of  M.  de  Gamond's  geological  conclu- 
sions, recommended  that  his  investigations 
should  be  practically  tested  by  sinking  pits  on 
the  two  coasts,  and  driving  a  few  short  head- 
ings imder  the  sea  at  the  expense  of  the  two 
governments.  Owing  possibly  to  the  back- 
wardness of  the  Great  British  Circumlocution 
Office,  this  recommendation  does  not  appear 
to  have  had  any  practical  result.  In  1857, 
M.  de  Gamond  published  the  upshot  of  his 
researches,  and  the  report  of  the  commis- 
sion ;  and  at  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1867,  he 
publicly  exhibited  his  plans.  It  was  very 
natural  that  Mr.  Low,  after  his  interview 
with  the  emperor,  should  put  himself  in  com- 
munication with  M.  Thom6  de  Gamond.  This 
gentleman  unreservedly  placed  his  experience 
at  Mr.  Low^s  disposal,  and,  after  a  tmie,  the 
results  of  their  jomt  labours  were  laid  before 
Mr,  James  BrunleeB.  He,  after  careful  exa- 
miaatioB,   consented   to  co-operate  with  the 


two  engineers  in  the  prosecution  of  the  work. 
A  committee  of  French  and  English  gentle- 
men of  influence  and  position  was,  by  desire 
of  the  emperor,  formed  to  further  the  project ; 
and  it  is  by  the  executive  committee  of  this 
body,  under  the  chairmanship  of  Lord  Richard 
Grosvenor,  that  the  matter  is  now  practically 
brought  before  the  public. 

But  the  opinions  of  Messrs.  Low  and  Brun- 
lees,  and  of  M.  Thom6  de  Gamond,  received 
further  confirmation. 

Mr.  John  Hawkshaw,  whose  name  is  well 
known  to  the  public  at  large  and  to  the 
engineering  world,  was  induced  to  test  the 
question,  and  to  ascertain  by  elaborate  in- 
dependent investigation  the  possibility  of  a 
sub- channel  tunnel.  AVith  characteristic  care 
and  caution  he  took  nothing  for  granted,  but 
went  himself  over  the  whole  ground  already 
traversed  by  Mr.  Low  and  by  M.  de  Gamond. 
His  geological  researches  led  him  to  the  same 
conclusions,  and  his  expression  of  opinion  ia 
favour  of  the  grey  chalk  was  very  decided. 
Not  even  satisfied  with  the  theoretical  re- 
sults of  these  investigations,  carefully  though 
they  were  made,  Mr.  Hawkshaw  held  it  neces- 
sary to  make  borings  on  each  coast,  at  the 
precise  points  at  which  the  ends  of  the  tunnel 
would  be  situated.  Thus  Mr.  Hawkshaw  and 
the  French  commission  came  to  the  same  de- 
cision. Now ;  the  well  at  Calais,  from  which 
a  considerable  part  of  the  geological  inferences 
had  been  drawn,  was  at  some  distance  from 
the  spot  where  it  was  proposed  to  begin  the 
tunnel  on  the  French  side,  and  possibly  the 
strata  might,  in  the  precise  place  indicated, 
not  run  as  anticipated. 

This  did  not,  however,  turn  out  to  be  the 
case,  llie  actual  borings  conclusively  proved 
the  correctness  of  the  views  entertained. 

The  boring  on  the  English  coast  was  com- 
menced at  St.  Margaret^s  Bay,  near  the 
South  Foreland,  in  the  beginning  of  1866,  and 
was  satisfactorily  completed  in  1867.  It  was 
carried  completely  through  the  chalk  and 
into  the  green  sand,  which  was  reached  at  a 
depth  of  five  hundred  and  forty  feet  below 
high  water.  ITie  boring  on  the  French  coa^t, 
three  miles  westward  of  Calais,  was  carried  to 
a  depth  of  five  hundred  and  twenty  feet  below 
liigh  water.  It  was  intended  to  pass  through 
the  chalk,  as  on  the  English  side,  but  accident 
frustrated  this  design. 

Simultaneously  with  these  borings,  the  bot- 
tom of  the  Channel  was  carefully  examined  hy 
means  of  a  steamer  provided  with  all  Buitahle 
apparatus.  The  main  useful  results  esta- 
blished by  these  experiments  appear  to  be,  that 
on  the  English  coast  the  depth  of  chalk  is  four 
hundred  and  seventy  feet  below  high  water— of 
which  two  hundred  and  ninety -five  feet  are  of 
the  grey  formation,  in  which  it  is  proposed  to 
work  ;  that  on  the  French  coast,  the  depth  of 
chalk  is  seven  hundred  and  fifty  feet— four 
hundred  and  eighty  being  grey  ;  and  that 
there  appears  to  be  no  room  to  doubt  the 
regularity  of  the  strata  between  the  two  shwes 
along  t\i^  '^^  ^TO\kQi&^ 


A 


■'h 


ChulM  IMekeni.] 


UNDER  THE  CHANNEL. 


[July  24,  IW.]      177 


So,  it  would  seem,  firstly,  that  the  chief  con- 
dition is  satisfactorily  ensured,  and  that  the  geo- 
logical formation  of  the  sea^s  bed  is  such  as  to 
sdinit  of  the  excavation  of  a  tunnel  through 
the  lower  grey  chalk;  and  secondly,  that  it 
is  not  necessary  to  go  to  a  depth  unsuitable 
for  railway  traffic.  It  is  calculated  that  the 
approaches  to  the  tunnel  can  be  constructed  at 
gradients  not  exceeding  one  foot  in  eighty. 

The  next  point  of  paramount  importance  to 
the  travelling  public,  is  the  question  of  the 
safety  of  the  tunnel  when  made.  The  dangers 
most  carefully  to  be  guarded  against,  arc  two  : 
any  possible  irruption  of  water  from  the  sea, 
or  from  unexpected  land  -  springs ;  any  de- 
ficiency in  ventilation. 

There  need  be  little  apprehension  of  spring 
waters.  The  difficulty  in  sinking  wells  through 
the  chalk,  on  either  side  of  the  Channel,  has 
been,  not  to  keep  the  water  out,  but  to  get  at  it. 
A  well  sunk  at  Calais  to  the  depth  of  a  thousand 
feet,  failed  to  find  water  at  all ;  and  in  sink- 
ing deep  wells  at  Dover,  water  was  not  to  be 
found  either  until  the  driving  of  headings  was 
resorted  to.  Even  the  CasUe  well,  which  is 
three  hundred  and  sixty-three  feet  deep,  and 
below  high-water  mark,  is  pumped  dry  by 
a  thirty  horse-power  engine  in  three  hours. 
Firm  chalk,  in  fact,  not  split  by  fissures  and 
defects,  is  not  a  good  water-conducting  stratum. 
In  the  Paris  district,  for  instance,  the  artesian 
wells  have  been  sunk  through  the  chalk,  which 
18  there  at  least  thirteen  hundred  feet  thick. 

If  the  dangers  of  land- water,  so  to  speak,  be 
thus  slight,  the  dangers  to  be  apprehended  from 
sea-water  appear  to  be  even  slighter.  The 
proposed  excavation  would  be  nowhere  nearer 
the  bed  of  the  sea  than  a  hundred  feet. 
It  would  seem  to  be  most  unlikely  that  the 
sea  should  make  its  way  through  this  thick- 
ness of  chalk.  Many  Cornish  mines  ex- 
tend for  considerable  distances  below  the  sea, 
and  their  comparative  immunity  from  inroads 
of  the  sea  is  remarked  by  Pryce  in  his  treatise 
on  Minerals,  Mines,  and  Mining,  published  in 
1778.  His  explanation  is,  that  su^  fissures  as 
may  possibly  exist,  and  which  might  be  per- 
meable by  water,  have  been,  in  long  course  of 
time,  filled  up  by  some  impervious  substance 
deposited  by  the  action  of  the  water  itself,  and 
thus  a  massive  ceiling,  as  it  were,  of  concrete 
has  been  formed  above  the  mines.  In  the 
opinion  of  the  eminent  engineers  who  are  ad- 
vising Lord  Richard  Grosvenor's  Executive 
Committee,  this  is  probably  the  case  in  the 
Channel  grey  chalk ;  and  looking  at  this  cir- 
cmnstance  and  at  the  nature  of  the  chalk, 
they  do  not  anticipate  being  troubled  with 
more  water  than  can  be  easily  disposed  of  by 
ordinary  pumping  operations. 

The  financial  part  of  the  question  may  be 
considered  -with  the  ventilation  question.  At 
present,  with  the  imperfect  data  we  have  to 
go  upon,  it  is  matter  of  great  difficulty  to  say 
what  such  an  excavation  would  be  likely  to 
eoflt.  Given  no  unforeseen  impediment,  given  no 
incursion  of  unexpected  water,  given  no  break 
in  the  strata,  a  trustworthy  calculation  might 


be  arrived  at.  But  in  the  face  of  the  imknown 
possibilities  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  the 
committee  wisely  abstain  from  yet  addressing 
themselves  to  the  cost  of  the  tunnel,  or  to 
the  commercial  questions  of  profits,  capital, 
and  dividends.  They  propose,  first— following 
the  suggestions  of  their  eminent  scientific 
advisers,  and  the  original  proposal  of  Mr.  Low 
— to  commence  their  work  by  sinking  pits 
on  each  shore,  and  by  driving  thence  two 
small  headings,  or  galleries,  from  each  country, 
connected  by  transverse  driftways.  Ventila- 
tion would  thus  be  secured  in  the  manner 
customary  in  coal  mines  and  works  of  a  similar 
nature,  and  the  feasibility  or  otherwise  of  con- 
necting England  and  France  by  a  submarine 
tunnel  would  be  proved.  When  this  is  done, 
or  when  so  much  of  it  is  done  as  fairly  to 
prove  the  case,  then  the  committee  will 
consider  the  time  arrived  for  carrying  out  their 
great  enterprise  in  all  its  magnificent  details. 
All  points  relating  to  the  permanent  tunnels 
would  be  settled  by  the  experience  gained  in 
making  the  headings.  The  point  of  ventilation 
could  be  satisfactorily  determined  in  the  pre- 
liminary workings.  It  is  computed  that  to 
preserve  perfect  ventilation  in  the  completed 
tunnel,  currents  of  air  should  be  driven  through 
it  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour  by  steam- 
engines  of  from  six  to  seven  hundred  horse 
power. 

The  cost  of  these  preliminary  headings  is 
reckoned,  upon  careful  calculation,  at  two  mil- 
lions sterling ;  and  to  that  amount  the  loss,  in 
the  event  of  non-success,  would  be  confined. 
For  the  purpose  of  raising  this  sum  of  money, 
the  committee  ask  for  a  joint  guarantee  from  the 
two  governments,  of  interest  at  the  rate  of  five 
per  cent  on  any  amount  they  shall  expend  up 
to  two  millions — that  is  to  say,  for  an  annuid 
guarantee  of  fifty  thousand  pounds  from  each. 
It  is  not  necessary  that  the  whole  of  the  two 
millions  should  be  expended;  for  should  the 
guaranteeing  governments  be  dissatisfied  with 
the  progress  of  the  works,  or  with  their  nature 
or  results,  they  would  at  any  time  have  power 
to  stop  the  works.  At  the  worst,  and  sup- 
posing the  whole  sum  to  be  expended  and  no 
satisfactory  result  attained,  nfty  thousand 
pounds  a  year  for  a  certain  number  of  years 
(for  the  operation  of  a  sinking  fund  would  in 
process  of  time  replace  the  capital)  is  not  a 
very  large  sum  f  oi^  a  great  nation  to  expend  in 
so  great  an  attempt.  If  the  preliminary  head- 
ings turn  out  successful,  there  will  be  no 
dilhculty  in  raising  the  capital  necessary  to 
complete  and  to  work  the  tunnel;  and  the 
guaranteeing  governments  will  speedily  be  re- 
leased from  their  obligations. 

As  relates  to  the  French  government,  the 
committee  have,  it  is  understood,  every  reason 
to  be  satisfied  with  their  prospects.  On  this 
Ride  of  the  Channel  things  progress  more 
slowly,  and  Circumlocutionism  is  a  little  difficult 
to  move.  The  matter  has  lately  been  brought 
before  the  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade, 
and  will  probably,  at  no  distant  period,  assume 
a   definite    shape.    TVi^   ftVx   ^<iTi\\ssiftsa  ^'^^ 


dt 


178    [July  2*,  im,] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


(OoBdMlediV 


sign  the  report  to  the  Executive  Committee, 
on  which  we  have  largely  drawn  in  this 
paper,  distinctly  express  their  opinion  that  the 
risk  in  Channel  Tunnelling  is  confined  to  one 
contingcncj  only,  and  that  is  the  possibility  of 
sea  water  finding  its  way  by  some  unforeseen 
fissure  into  the  workings,  in  quantities  too  great 
to  be  overcome.  O&erwise,  they  consider 
that  the  work  may  be  done  with  comparative 
ease  and  rapidity,  llie  six  gentlemen  in 
question  are  Messrs.  John  Hawkshaw,  James 
Brunlees,  and  William  Low ;  MM.  Paulin 
Talabot,  Michel  Chevalier,  and  Thomd  dc 
Gamond. 

If  the  scientific  advisers  of  the  two  govern- 
ments be  satisfied  with  the  exactness  of  these 
gentlemen's  researches,  and  with  the  sound- 
ness of  their  deductions,  it  is  probable  that  the 
Channel  Tunnel  will,  before  long,  take  its 
place  as  one  of  the  things  to  be  tried,  at  leasts 


LOAFERS  IN  INDIA. 


/ 


*«  A  STRANGER  asks  to  SCO  the  Lord  of  life,*' 
said  my  bearer.  Strangers  were  then  rare  in 
the  Upper  Provinces  of  India,  and  strangers  who 
don't  tell  who  they  are,  seldom  prove  welcome 
anywhere.  But  the  man,  said  my  servant,  was 
an  European,  and  I  could  not  refuse  to  see 
him.  A  more  miserable-looking  object  I  have 
seldom  seen.  He  was  about  thirty  years 
old,  tall,  lean,  and  gaunt :  with  groat  hungry 
eyes,  hollow  cheeks  tanned  by  exposure  to 
the  sun,  neglected  hair  and  beard.  On  his 
head  was  an  old  felt  hat,  which  he  removed 
when  making  his  approach ;  on  his  back  was 
a  ragged  alpaca  coat ;  on  his  legs  were  an 
equally  ragged  pair  of  native  pyjamas ;  a  pair 
of  shoes  that  would  scarcely  hold  together,  were 
on  his  feet.  His  neck  was  bare,  and  if  he 
wore  any  part  of  a  shirt  it  must  have  been  the 
skirt  only.  He  came  of  coiurse  to  beg.  Before 
deciding  how  to  deal  with  him,  I  bade  him  sit 
down  and  tell  me  his  story. 

He  started  conversation  by  informing  me  that 
he  had  not  eaten  since  yesterday.  I  called  to 
the  khitmutgar  whom  I  saw  laying  the  table 
within  the  house,  to  bring  him  some  curry. 
My  visitor  went  to  work  upon  the  curry,  like  a 
wolf,  and  then  asked  for  some  water.  His  tone 
had  a  whine  about  it  quite  different  from  its 
clear  ring  when  he  told  his  honest  want  of 
food.  I  was  sure  he  had  never  come  to  his 
present  condition  upon  water,  so  I  told  the 
khitmutgar  to  bring  brandy  as  well. 

My  guest's  eyes  brightened  when  ho  heard 
the  order.  He  despatched  the  brandy  and  water 
as  he  had  despatched  the  curry;  and  the  double 
stimulus  produced  a  magical  effect.  I  had  noticed 
an  improvement  in  his  manner  when  he  took 
a  seat.  Now  that  he  had  eaten  and  drunk,  I 
saw  tliat  he  had  lived  on  equal  terms  with 
gentlemen ;  so  it  appeared  when  he  proceeded 
to  give  an  account  of  himself. 

He  had  come  out  to  India  as  a  cadet  in  the 
company's  service,  some  twelve  years  before. 
F^nxm  the  mnk  ol  ensign  he  had  passed  to  that 


of  lieutenant  in  the  ordinary  oonne  of  seniority. 
But  he  had  got  into  debt,  and  done  a  few  shabby 
things  to  get  out  of  it.  They  were  not  military 
offences,  nor  indictable;  but  they  got  him  a 
bad  name,  and  for  an  officer  who  has  onee 
got  a  bad  name,  there  is  not  much  hope  in  the 
service.  Sooner  or  later  he  will  be  caught 
tripping,  and  then  probably  cashiered.  My 
visitor  nad  a  reputation  for  unruliness,  under 
the  influence  of  brandy-and- water ;  so  when, 
after  a  time,  he  got  into  a  drunken  quanei, 
and  nuscondHcted  himself  so  far  as  to  be  brought 
to  court-martial,  he  was  cashiered  and  cast  upon 
the  world. 

Had  he  been  a  man  of   rank  or  fortune 
there  might  have  been  hope.     But  he  was 
neither.    His  father  had  made  him  an  allow- 
ance when  in  the  army,  but  considered  that 
it  would  *'*'  do  him  no  good  "  when  he  had  shut 
himself  from  that  career.    From  other  branches 
of  the  public  service  he  was  necessarily  ex- 
cluded.    But    he   was    not  without   friends. 
One  of  these,  a  merchant  in  Calcutta,  took 
him  into  his  office.      He  soon  tired    of   the 
regularity  of  the  employment,  and  sought  in- 
dependent action.    So  he  started  a  carrying 
company,  with  himself   for  treasurer.     Thu 
might   have   succeeded;    but  he    confounded 
profits  with  receipts,  in  a  not  uncommon  man- 
ner, and  the  shareholders,  with  a  prejudice  in 
favour  of  dividends,  wound  up  the  concern, 
llien  he  obtained  employment  from  a  speco- 
lator  to  go  to  Australia  and  buy  horses.    He 
was  fit  for  this  kind  of  work,   and  bought 
well,  but  had  very  little  money  to  receive  on 
his  return,  for  his  accounts  went  wrong,  and 
this  failure  was  fatal  to  his  obtaining  more  of 
the  same  kind  of  business.    He  had  all  this 
time  been  increasing  his  debts  instead  of  paying 
them ;  and  Calcutta  being  hot  with  creditoxs, 
he  sought  the  French  settlement  of  Chandema- 
gore.    How  he  lived  there  he  could  scarcely 
say,  but  he  got  a  small  remittance  from  home, 
borrowed  a  little  more,  ran  up  as  many  bills  as 
his  credit  would  permit,  and  when  other  re- 
sources failed,  managed  to  make  pocket-mon^ 
at  billiards.     He  h^  considered  Calcutta  too 
hot  for  him,  but  Chandemagore  became  hotter. 
So  he  went  back  to  the  capital,  and,  bebg 
arrested  there,  obtained,  in  time,  relief  under  the 
bankruptcy  law.    Being  then,  as  he  said,  *^  free 
as  air,"  he  went  to  the  North- West.    There  he 
found  some  men  driving  a  roaring  trade  as 
retail  store-keepers,  who  agreed  to  advance  him 
a  Uttle  capital,  and  with  Uiis  he  set  up  a  news- 
paper.   In  his  prospectus  he  announced  his 
new  venture  to  be  an  uncompromising  champion 
of  liberty ;  and,  in  pursuance  of  his  prognunme, 
he  attacked,  with  the  utmost  ^-iolence,  everj 
person  in  any  authority,  from  the  governor^ 
general  down  to  the  deputy-collector  of  the 
station.     Below  that  grade  he  seemed  inclined 
to  think  that  honesty  was  possible.    He  was 
equally  hard  upon  the  military  departmeot. 
Nobody  in  the  service  found  favour  in  his 
patriotic  journal  but  the  non-commissioned 
oliicers,  except  commiHsioned  officers  below  the 
rank  of  major,  when  they  chanced  to  get  into 


A 


SU 


OkvlMlMokm.] 


LOAFERS  IN  INDIA. 


[JulyK,lW»J       179 


iroable.  AH  this  he  told  me  Tery  candidlj, 
and  with  a  humorons  sense  of  his  claims  to  the 
censorship  of  public  morals.  He  was  not 
sparing,  either,  of  people  in  private  life,  and  his 
eolnmns  were  seldom  free  from  personal  scan- 
dals. But  to  his  astonishment  he  found  that  all 
these  attractions  failed  to  make  the  paper  pro- 
fitable. His  patrons,  the  tradesmen,  enjoyed 
the  fun  for  a  time,  but  after  six  months  or  so 
ibond  it  expensive ;  whereupon  the  organ  of 
liberty  collapsed,  and  its  editor  vanifshed. 

He  found  his  next  home  in  the  hills,  where  he 
got  the  post  of  assistant-master  at  a  school,  but 
leoeivea,  after  a  few  weeks,  a  summary  dis- 
missal under  some  circumstances  of  scandal. 
Betnminff  to  the  plains,  and  finding  no  further 
opening  for  his  tideuts  iu  civil  life,  he  enlisted 
in  a  foot  regiment  under  an  assumed  name. 
Hiaoriginal  training  fitted  him  for  a  soldier,  but 
aobordination  was  not  in  his  way,  and  he  was 
lapidly  coming  to  grief  again  when  he  hit  on  a 
happy  idea.  This  involved  a  commercial  specula- 
lion  ;  and  one  of  his  friends  who  had  found  the 
money  for  the  paper  was  so  pleased  with  it,  that 
he  bought  the  discharge  of  the  speculator,  who 
was  now  in  a  fair  way  of  being  set  up  again  in 
the  world.     He  enjoyed  for  some  time  a  hand- 
some salary  for  helping  to  work  out  his  idea, 
sod  his  share  of  the  idtlmate  gains  promised 
to  secure   him    a    fortune,   when    he    eloped 
with  a  friend's  wife.     He  had  every  reason  to 
repent  of  what  he  called  this   *■''  aristocratic 
foUy,**  lor  his  absence  lost  him  his  appoint- 
ment, prospects,  and  all.     I  lis  fortunes  never 
prospered  from  that  time.     He  tried  a  native 
state,   got    a    conmiission    in    the    service  of 
the  rajah,  but  left  this  sei-vicc  to  become  tlie 
a^ent  of  another  rajah,  who  had  been  dispos- 
aesaed,  and  whose  claims  he  undertook  to  agitate 
against  the  government.     He  received  a  con- 
siderable advance  of  money  wherewith  to  be- 
gin operations,  but  lost  it  all  in  one  m'ght  at 
blind  nookey.    The  patron  would  not  advance 
more  until  some  work  was  done,  and  as  the 
aeent  could  not  work  without  funds,  he  was 
obliged  to  give  up  his  trust  altogether.     His 
latest  misadventure  had  occurred  at  Bombay, 
whither  he  had  sone  on  his  way  to  England,  to 
ky  the  case  of  his  client  before  the  throne  of 
justice.     From  Bombay  he  had  made  Ids  way 
to  where  he  now  was ;  mostly  on  foot ;  obtaining 
shelter  in  native  bazaars  and  seraid ;  proviiiing 
for  Imnaelf  as  long  as  ten  rupees,  with  wliich 
he  had  set  out,  would  provide  for  him ;  and 
then  depending  upon  charity. 

What  did  he  intend  doing  now?  I  asked 
him  the  question  without  making  any  com- 
ment on  his  career ;  for  comment  would  have 
been  useless.  He  did  not  seem  quite  certain 
what  he  intended  doing  now,  but  had  an  idea 
of  obtaining  some  employment  in  Calcutta,  if 
he  could  manage  to  get  so  far.  However,  he 
was  in  no  state  to  travel,  and  looked  a  great 
deal  too  much  like  a  half-famished  hva^tia  to 
be  admitted  into  any  respectable  business,  so 
I  advised  him  to  sUiy  where  he  was — not  in 
my  house,  but  in  quarters  which  I  promised  to 
obtain  for  him.  The  mean.s  of  payment  and  a 


small  allowance  for  his  subsistence  were  ob- 
tainable, to  some  extent  at  any  rate,  from 
a  local  fund  provided  for  such  purposes.  In 
the  mean  time  I  gave  him  a  decent  suit  of 
clothes,  and  saw  to  his  accommodation  for  the 
night. 

1  am  particular  in  my  account  of  this  man*8 
case,  because  he  is  a  representative  of  a  laree 
and  increasing  class  in  India,  where  the 
^*  loafer"  has  for  some  years  past  been  a  nui- 
sance to  society  and  an  embarrassment  to  the 
state.  The  loafer  is  not  always  a  cashiered 
officer,  or  a  gentleman  even  in  the  lowest  con- 
ventional sense  of  the  term.  He  belongs  as  a 
general  rule  to  lower  grades  of  life.  He  has 
come  to  the  country,  perhaps  as  a  private 
soldier,  perhaps  as  a  railway  guard  or  driver, 
perhaps  as  a  clerk,  perhaps  on  speculation, 
to  take  his  chance  of  employment.  In  former 
times,  any  European  of  moderately  good  cha- 
racter and  conduct  might  be  sure  of  a  certain 
position  in  the  country.  It  waa  only  when 
his  habits  actually  disabled  him  for  work, 
or  when  he  committed  some  offence  involving  a 
flagrant  breach  of  the  law,  that  he  was  liable 
to  fall  to  a  state  of  actual  destitution.  But 
the  establishment  of  the  new  regime  in  India, 
with  its  attendant  results  in  opening  new  fields 
of  industry  and  enterprise,  and  inducing  over- 
speculation,  has  brought  the  usual  conse- 
quences. Englishmen  with  energy  and  skill 
are  now  exposed  to  competition ;  and  those 
who  fail  in  either  of  these  requirements  must 
expect  a  very  hard  life.  Large  numbers  do  so 
fail.  They  have  expected  too  much,  and  de- 
served too  little ;  at  best,  t^y  have  proved 
unqualified  for  the  task  before  them.  Their 
physical  health  or  their  moral  health  has 
been  below  the  requirements  of  the  climate. 
They  have  yielded  to  temptations:  of  w^hich 
excessive  drinking  is  one.  Such  men  neces- 
sarily go  to  the  dogs. 

There  are  loafers  by  nature,  and  there  are 
loafers  by  circumstance.  Some  men  inevitably 
fall  into  the  condition,  in  a  country  like  India ; 
and  it  is  only  when  they  can  command  money, 
that  they  escape  from  ita  worst  consequences. 
Others  make  a  few  downward  steps,  and  can 
never  muster  strength  to  recover  lost  ground. 
Sailors  were  the  first  class  that  took  to  loafinc 
in  large  numbers.  For  sailors,  however,  speciu 
proviaion  has  been  made  by  benevolence  and 
legislation;  and  their  chances  of  falling  into 
permanent  loaferism  are  far  less  than  tlicy  were 
a  few  years  ago.  Soldiers  are  still  exposed  to 
temptation  in  a  very  large  degree.  The  re- 
straints of  military  discipline,  tiiough  relieved 
by  a  great  deal  of  accommodation  to  circum- 
stances, are  still  very  irksome  in  Lidia,  and  the 
majority  of  "  time-expired"  men  never  re-enlist, 
but  take  their  tlischarge  as  soon  as  they  are  en- 
titled to  it.  Some  do  so  iu  reckless  indifference  to 
the  future ;  others  with  the  view  of  im- 
jjroving  their  position  in  a  land  where  Euro- 
peans enjoy  by  tradition  a  prescriptive  right 
to  make  their  fortunes,  and  where,  even  in 
these  days,  moderately  well  -  conduct<Jd^  atvd 
even  moderately  iW-condMcA^^  "Ui^xv  "wvXXv  Vv\\\fc  ^ 


1^ 


c& 


180      [July  34,  IMS.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


(CondBOtod  by 


faees  manage  to  make  far  better  positioDfl  for 
themselves  than  they  could  make  m  their  own 
country.  Re-enlistment,  then,  has  become 
the  exception  rather  than  the  rule.  Besides 
railway  employ^  who  have  been  dismissed  for 
drunkenness  or  other  misconduct,  and  mis- 
cellaneous people  who  have  sunk  from  better 
positions,  or  nave  never  been  able  to  get 
positions  to  sink  from,  a  large  number  of 
ticket-of -leave  men  have  of  late  years  migrated 
from  Western  Australia,  and  a  great  many  other 
undeniably  queer  characters  have  also  swelled 
the  number  of  immigrants  from  the  ^^  fifth 
quarter  of  the  globe.*^  ManV  of  these  come 
in  charge  of  consignments  of  horses,  but  many 
on  speculation,  to  make  their  fortunes  from 
the  shakings  of  the  pagoda  tree.  Most  of  both 
classes  are  loafers  ready  made. 

In  every  part  of  the  country,  European 
vagrants  have  become  a  nuisance  and  a  pest. 
They  corrupt  our  soldiers;  they  infuse  false- 
hood concerning  us  among  the  natives,  espe- 
ciaUy  in  native  states,  where  the  most  intel- 
ligent among  them  do  their  best  towards 
fomenting  political  intrigues ;  they  lower  our 
national  diaracter  everywhere  ;  and  they  bring 
lawlessness  and  violence  upon  our  highways, 
and  to  our  very  doors.  But  there  is  one 
cause  for  congratulation  in  their  development 
of  late  years.  An  amiable  French  gentleman 
said  that  he  liked  to  hear  a  child  cry,  because 
then  he  knew  that  it  would  be  taken  out  of  the 
room.  Upon  the  same  principle  I  like  to  hear 
of  the  loafer  being  dangerous  m  India,  because 
then  I  am  sure  that  the  government  must  take 
steps  for  his  repression. 

This  is  just  wnat  the  government  is  about  to 
do.  The  question  has,  for  some  time  past,  occu- 
pied the  attention  of  the  authorities  at  Cal- 
cutta, in  consequence  of  representations  made 
from  all  parts  of  the  countiy ;  and  Mr.  Maine, 
the  legal  member  of  council,  who  has  prepared 
a  bill  dealing  with  the  difficulty,  has  issued 
a  statement  concerning  that  measure. 

Two  specific  proposals  for  the  repression  of 
vagrancy,  have,  it  appears,  been  made  by  local 
governments.  The  government  of  Bombay 
has  proposed  that  European  vagrants  should 
be  brought  under  a  certain  provision  of  the 
penal  code  which  permits  the  detention  of 
persons  of  suspicious  character  unable  to  find 
security  for  their  good  conduct.  But  Mr.  Maine 
considers  that  this  arrangement,  though  ap- 
plicable to  native  society,  would  be  unjust 
to  the  British  loafer,  who  is  remote  from  his 
own  country.  The  government  of  MadMls,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  in  favour  of  treating  the 
case  specially ;  this  is  Mr.  Maine's  opinion  also, 
and  he  has  availed  himself  of  some  of  the  sug- 
gestions from  Madras  in  the  measure  which  he 
has  laid  before  the  council.  In  this  he  follows, 
to  some  extent,  the  analogies  of  the  English 
law  of  pauper  removal.  Ihe  first  step  which 
it  contemplates,  is  the  establishment,  by  govern- 
ment, of  workhouses  for  Europeans  :  there 
being  no  regular  poor  law  in  India.  Inas- 
much, however,  as  several  houses  of  industry 
already  exist,  powers  will  be  given  to  bring 


the  latter  within  the  meaning  of  the  act. 
Having  regard,  too,  to  the  probability  that 
many  charitable  persons  will  be  willing  to  co- 
operate in  the  reclamation  of  the  vagrant,  the 
government  is  empowered  to  appoint  a  com- 
mittee of  management,  if  it  shall  tiunk  fit,  and 
to  place  the  governor  of  the  workhouse  under 
the  orders  of  the  committee.  The  working  of 
the  system  will  be  in  this  wise :  A  police  officer 
finding  a  person  of  European  extraction  asking 
for  alms,  or  wandering  about  without  em- 
ployment, may  require  him  to  proceed  to  the 
nearest  authority,  who  will  institute  an  in- 
vestigation into  his  case,  and  if  satisfied  of  his 
vagrancy,  will  make  a  declaration  to  that 
effect.  If  there  be  no  prospect  of  procuring 
employment  for  him,  the  person  so  declared 
to  be  a  vagrant  will  be  at  once  forwarded  to  a 
workhouse.  If  there  be  a  prospect  of  his  ob- 
taining employment  at  any  particular  place, 
he  will  be  forwarded  to  that  place.  When 
he  coes  to  the  workhouse,  every  effort  will  be 
made  towards  his  reclamation  from  bad  habits; 
but  he  will  be  under  rules  of  labour  and  disci- 
pline, and  he  will  be  punished  for  breaking 
them.  Endeavours  will  also  be  made  to  find 
employment  outside  the  workhouse,  for  those 
who  are  fit  for  such  employment. 

It  is  necessary,  however,  not  only  to  meet 
the  evil,  but  to  check  it  at  its  source.  For 
this  purpose,  Mr.  Maine  considers  that  pro- 
vision must  be  made  for  preventing  the  land- 
ing in  India  of  certain  descriptions  of  persons* 
Notwithstanding  precedents,  ne  is  very  scrupu- 
lous in  not  proposing  any  too-general  enact- 
ment upon  this  nead.  He  limits  the  prohibi- 
tion to  well-defined  classes.  But,  with  a  view 
to  keep  out  time-expired  convicts  and  ticket- 
of-leave  men  from  Australia,  he  has  intro- 
duced a  section  into  the  bill  providing  for  the 
fine  and  imprisonment  of  a  shipmaster  know- 
ingly landing  in  India  any  person  who,  in  any 
English  dependency,  has  at  any  tune  been 
convicted  of  an  offence  which,  if  committed  in 
England,  would  amount  to  felony.  And  it  is 
further  intended  that  the  Indian  government 
shall  address  the  governors  of  the  Australian 
colonies,  requesting  them  to  give  all  possible 
publicity  to  the  provision  in  question,  and  to 
the  fact  that  unskilled  European  labouren 
of  all  classes  have  little  or  no  prospect  of  em- 
ployment in  India.  Also  to  the  fact  that  they 
will  be  dealt  with  in  the  manner  described. 

The  bill  further  confers  on  the  government 
an  ultimate  power  of  deporting  the  confinned 
loafer,  who  is,  however,  to  be  provided,  when 
he  reaches  his  destination,  with  funds  for  a 
month's  subsistence.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
about  the  wisdom  of  the  arrangement,  for 
nothing,  as  Mr.  Maine  observes,  could  be  more 
hopeless  than  the  condition  of  a  vagrant 
remaining  in  an  Indian  workhouse,  unre- 
claimed or  incapable  of  employment.  But  the 
question  has  arisen  whether  the  government, 
or,  in  other  words,  the  tax-paying  communist 
can  fairly  be  charged  with  the  passage  and  sub- 
sistence money  of  the  deported  man,  in  cases 
where  he  has  been  brought  to  India  for  the 


4 


1= 


& 


Dldknm] 


LANDOR'S  MFB. 


[July  24^  186$.]     181 


purpose  of  serving  a  company  or  private  em- 
ployer. Mr.  Maine  meets  the  difficulty  in  this 
war.  He  proposes  that  if  a  person,  brought  to 
India  hj  a  company  or  a  private  empoyer, 
become  chargeable  to  the  government  as  a 
vagrant,  veithm  one  year  after  his  arrival,  the 
oort  of  deportation  shall  be  recoverable  from 
Uie  importer ;  for  the  reason  that  if  any  Euro- 
pean Dreak  down  within  so  short  a  time, 
whether  from  physical  or  nu>ral  causes,  there 
must  have  been  carelessness  or  error  in 
selecting  him,  and  the  perBon  who  made  the 
mistake  must  pay  for  it.  The  bill  includes 
provisions  for  the  good  treatment  of  the  loafer 
dming  his  voyage  home,  and  the  due  pay- 
ment to  him  of  his  money  on  landing.  It 
is  also  made  compulsory  on  masters  of  sailing 
vessels,  to  receive  as  passengers  persons  so 
deported  on  the  tender  of  proper  payment. 
Theae  provisions  are,  to  a  great  extent,  taken 
from  smalogous  enactments  of  the  British  par- 
liament relative  to  the  removal  to  their  native 
jJaoe  of  Lascars  found  vagrant  in  England, 
md  of  Ehiglish  seamen  left  destitute  in  colonial 
ports.  There  is  further  provision  (intended 
to  meet  certain  difficulties  in  the  way  of  cri- 
minal justice  over  British  subjects  in  the  pro- 
vinces), to  the  effect  that  British  subjects  being 
rep;iBtered  as  vagrants,  shall  be  subject  to  the 
cnminal  code  in  sJl  parts  of  the  country  equally 
irith  Europeans  generally,  who  are  now  under 
the  code.  This  is  considered  the  more  de- 
arable,  as  a  not  inconsiderable  number  of  the 
vagrant  class  are  found  to  belong  to  foreign 
oationalitiea. 

These  are  the  main  provisions  of  the  new 
measure  for  dealing  wiw  loafers  in  India.  It 
treats  them  with  a  tenderness  unknown  to 
kgidation  in  England,  where  such  classes  are 
concerned;  and  even  when  it  forces  them 
back  upon  our  poor  laws,  it  at  least  gives  them 
t  fair  start.  A  judicious  loafer,  J  should 
think,  might  date  the  foimdation  of  a  new 
cireer  from  the  day  when  he  was  taken  in 
liand  by  ^e  government. 

The  wretched  man  who  came  to  me  in  my 
verandah,  so  abject  at  first,  and  so  soon  re- 
stored to  his  social  status  by  brandy-and-water, 
ironld  at  least  have  had  a  fair  chance  under 
Mr.  Maine's  act  As  it  was,  I  doubt  if  he 
ever  did  much  good  for  himself  or  anybody 
cbe.  After  waiting  a  sufficient  time  in  the 
station  to  find  that  his  prospect  of  employment 
came  to  nothing,  he  went  his  way.  With 
a  little  help  whidi  I  gave  him,  he  set  up,  after 
passing  the  necessary  examination,  as  a  va- 
keel, that  is  to  say,  an  advocate  who,  in 
inferior  courts,  is  entitled  to  the  same  privi- 
leges as  a  barrister  in  Calcutta.  But  I  soon 
heard  tliat  his  old  habits  were  too  strong  for 
him,  and  tliat,  although  he  possessed  undoubted 
abilities,  clients  would  not  trust  him.  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  he  eventually  died  of 
delirium  tremens  in  the  China  Bazaar.  Under 
Mr.  Maine^s  act,  he  would  have  been  sent  back 
to  England ;  there,  rescued  from  old  associa- 
tions, and  with  money  enough  to  keep  him  for 
a  month,  he  would  have  had  one  last  chance  of 


retrieving  his  position.  I  by  no  means  assert 
that  he  would  have  turned  it  to  good  account ; 
but  he  would  have  had  it. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BEOOK. 

IVTHBEESOVVBTS 
I. 

HsAVzv  help  me !  Whither  would  my  dark  thoughts 
run! 

I  look  around  me,  trembling  fearfully ; 
The  dreadful  silence  of  the  Silent  One 

Freezes  my  lips,  and  all  is  sad  to  see. 

Hark !  hark !  what  small  Toice  murmurs  ''  Qod.  made 
mer 
It  is  the  brooklet,  singing  all  alone. 
Sparkling  witth  silver  pleasure  of  its  own. 

And  running,  self-contented,  sweet  and  firee. 
O  Brooklet,  bnghtenine  from  woods  of  fir. 

Finding  the  open  hill  and  flowing  fl«et, 
Thou  comest  as  a  little  messenger, 

With  shining  wings  and  silvcr-sandal^d  feet ; 
Faint  falls  thy  music  on  a  soul  astir, 

And,  in  a  moment,  all  the  world  looks  sweet ! 

II. 
WheDce  thou  hast  come,  thou  knowest  not,  little  brook. 

Nor  whither  thou  art  bound.    Yet  wild  and  gay. 
Pleased  in  thyself,  and  pleasing  all  that  look. 

Thou  wendest,  all  the  seasons,  on  thy  way. 

Whether  the  sunbeams  shine,  or  lightnings  play 
Into  thine  asure  ejes,  thro'  light  or  shade ; 
To  think  of  solemn  things  thou  wast  not  made. 

But  to  sing  on,  for  pleasure,  night  and  day. 
Such  happy  nearts  are  wanderiifg,  crystal  clear. 

In  the  ^reat  world  where  men  and  women  dwell. 
Earth's  mighty  shows  they  neither  lore  nor  fear, 

They  are  content  to  be,  while  I  rebel. 
Out  of  their  own  delight  dispensing  cheer. 

And  ever  softly  whispering  "  all  is  well  I" 

III. 
0  sing,  sweet  brook,  sing  on,  while  in  a  dream 

I  feel  the  sweetness  ot  the  years  go  by ! 
The  crags  and  peaks  are  softened  now,  and  seem 

Gently  to  sleep  against  the  gentle  sky ; 

Old  scenes  ana  faces  glimmer  up  and  die. 
With  outlines  of  sweet  thought  obscured  too  long  ; 

Like  boys  that  shout  at  play  far  Toices  cry ; 

0  sing !  for  I  am  weeping  at  the  song. 

1  know  not  what  I  am,  but  only  know 

I  have  had  glimpses,  tongue  may  never  speak ; 
No  more  I  balance  human  jo^  and  woe. 

But  think  of  my  transerressions,  and  am  meek. 
Father !  forgive  the  child  who  fretted  so. 

For  lo ;  a  shower  of  grace  is  on  his  cheek ! 


LANDOR'S  LIFE. 


Prefixed  to  the  second  volume  of  Mb. 
Fobster's  admirable  biography  of  Walteb 
Savage  Landob,*  is  an  engraving  from  a  por- 
trait of  that  remarkable  man  when  seventy- 
seven  years  of  age,  by  Boxall.  The  writer  of 
these  lines  can  testify  that  the  original 
picture  is  a  singularly  good  likeness,  the 
result  of  close  and  subtle  observation  on 
the  part  of  the  painter ;  bnt,  for  this  very 
reason,  the  engraving  gives  a  most  inade- 
quate idea  of  the  merit  of  the  picture  and 
the  character  of  the  man. 

•  Walter    Savage   Landor,  a   Biogta^b.^  V>^  i^-a 
Forstor,  2  vols.  Chapman  and  ILsW. 


t£ 


182      [July  31,1869.] 


ALL  THE  YBAB  SOUND. 


gOwidiwiidty 


From  the  engraving,  the  arms  and  hands 
are  omitted.  In  the  picture,  they  are,  as 
they  were  in  nature,  indispensable  to  a  cor- 
rect reading  of  the  vigorons  face.  The  arms 
were  very  peculiar.  They  were  rather 
short,  and  were  curiously  restrained  and 
checked  in  their  action  at  the  elbows ;  in 
the  action  of  the  hands,  even  when  sepa- 
rately clenched,  there  was  the  same  kind 
of  pause,  and  a  noticeable  tendency  to 
relaxation  on  the  part  of  the  thumb.  Let 
the  face  be  never  so  intense  or  fierce,  there 
was  a  commentary  of  gentleness  in  the 
hands,  essential  to  be  taken  along  with  it. 
Like  Hamlet,  Landor  would  speak  daggers 
but  use  none.  In  the  expression  of  his 
hands,  though  angrily  closed,  there  was 
always  gentleness  and  tenderness ;  just  as 
when  they  were  open,  and  the  handsome 
old  gentleman  would  wave  them  with  a 
little  courtly  flourish  that  sat  well  upon 
him,  as  ho  recalled  some  classic  compli- 
ment that  he  had  rendered  to  some  reign- 
ing Beauty,  there  was  a  chivalrous  grace 
about  them  such  as  pervades  his  softer 
verses.  Thus,  the  fictitious  Mr.  Boytliom 
(to  whom  we  may  refer  without  impro- 
priety in  this  connexion,  as  Mr.  Torster 
docs)  declaims  "  witli  unimaginable  energy*' 
the  while  his  bird  is  "  perched  upon  his 
thumb,"  and  he  "  softly  smooths  its  fea- 
thers with  his  forefinger." 

From  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Torster's  Bio- 
graphy these  characteristic  hands  are  never 
omitted,  and  hence  (apart  from  its  literary 
merits)  its  great  value.  As  the  same 
masterly  writer's  Life  and  Times  of  Oliver 
Goldsmith  is  a  generous  and  yet  conscien- 
tious picture  of  a  period,  so  this  is  a  not  less 
gene]*ous  and  yet  conscientious  pictm*e  of 
one  life ;  of  a  life,  with  all  its  aspirations, 
achievements,  and  disappointments ;  all  its 
capabilities,  opportunities,  and  irretrievable 
mistakes.  It  is  essentially  a  sad  book,  and 
herein  lies  proof  of  its  truth  and  worth. 
The  life  of  almost  any  man  possessing 
great  gifts,  would  be  a  sad  book  to  himself; 
fluad  this  book  enables  us  not  only  to  see  its 
subject,  but  to  be  its  subject,  if  we  will. 

Mr.  Forster  is  of  opinion  that  '^  Lander's 
fame  very  surely  awaits  him."  This  point 
admitted  or  doubted,  the  value  of  the  book 
remains  the  same.  It  needs  not  to  know 
his  works  (otherwise  than  through  his  bio- 
grapher's exposition),  it  needs  not  to  have 
known  himself,  to  find  a  deep  interest  in 
these  pages.  More  or  less  of  their  warn- 
ing is  in  every  conscience ;  and  some  ad- 
miration of  a  fine  genius,  and  of  a  great, 
wild,  generous  naiarCy  incapable  of  mean 


flelf-eztenuation  or  dissimulation — if  un- 
happilv  incapable  of  self-repression  too— 
should  be  in  every  breast.  "  There  maybe 
still  living  many  persons,"  Walter  Lander's 
brother,  Robert,  writes  to  Mr.  Forster  of 
this  book,  "  who  would  contradict  any  nar- 
rativD  of  yours  in  which  the  best  qualities 
were  remembered,  the  worst  forgotten." 
Mr.  Forster's  comment  is :  '^  I  had  not 
waited  for  this  appeal  to  resolve,  that,  if 
this  memoir  were  written  at  all,  it  should 
contain,  as  far  as  might  lie  within  my  power, 
a  fair  statement  of  the  truth."  And  this 
eloquent  passage  of  truth  immediately  fol- 
lows :  '*  Few  of  his  infirmities  are  without 
something  kindly  or  generous  about  them ; 
and  we  are  not  long  in  discovering  there  is 
nothing  so  mildly  incredible  that  he  will  not 
himself  in  perfect  good  fietith  believe.  When 
he  published  his  first  book  of  poems  on 
quitting  Oxford,  the  profits  were  to  be  j 
reserved  for  a  distressed  clergyman.  YHiea 
he  published  his  Latin  poems,  the  poor 
of  Leipzig  were  to  have  the  sum  they 
realised.  When  his  comedy  was  ready  to 
be  acted,  a  Spaniard  who  had  sheltered 
him  at  Castro  was  to  be  made  richer  by  it. 
When  ho  competed  for  the  prize  of  the 
Academy  of  Stockholm,  it  was  to  go  to  the 
poor  of  Sweden.  If  nobody  got  anything 
from  any  one  of  these  enterprises,  the  fiiuH 
at  all  events  was  not  liis.  With  hia  extra- 
ordinary power  of  forgetting  disappoint- 
ments, ne  was  prepared  at  each  successive 
failure  to  stai't  afresh,  as  if  each  had  been 
a  triumph.  I  shall  have  to  delineate  this 
peculiarity  as  strongly  in  the  last  half  as  in 
the  first  lialf  of  his  life,  and  it  was  ccrtaialy 
an  amiable  one.  He  was  ready  at  all  times 
to  set  aside,  out  of  his  own  possessions, 
something  for  somebody  who  might  please 
him  for  the  time;  and  when  frailties  of 
temper  and  tongue  are  noted,  this  other 
eccentricity  should  not  be  omitted.  He 
desired  eagerly  the  love  as  well  as  the  good 
opinion  of  those  whom  for  the  time  he 
esteemed,  and  no  one  was  more  affectionate 
while  under  such  influences.  It  is  not  a 
small  virtue  to  feel  such  genuine  pleasure^ 
as  he  always  did  in  giving  and  receiviii|( 
pleasure.  His  genei*osity,  too,  was  bestowed 
chiefly  on  those  who  could  niake  small  ac- 
knowledgment in  thanks  and  no  return  in 
kind." 

Some  of  his  earlier  contemporaries  may 
have  thouglit  him  a  vain  man.  Most 
assuredly  he  was  not,  in  the  common  ac- 
ceptation of  the  term.  A  vain  man  has 
little  or  no  admiration  to  bestow  upon 
[  competitors.     Landor  had  an  inexhaustible 


H 


& 


4 


LANDOB'S  LIFE. 


[JidrHinn]     188 


fimiL  He  thought  well  of  his  writiiigs,  or 
he  would  not  hare  preserred  them.  He  said 
and  wrote  that  he  thought  well  of  them, 
hecanse  that  was  his  mind  abont  them, 
and  he  said  and  wrote  his  mind.  He  was 
<me  of  the  few  men  of  whom  you  might 
always  know  the  whole:  of  whom  yon 
might  always  know  the  worst,  as  well  as 
the  best.  He  had  no  reservations  or  du- 
plicities. ^' No,  by  Heayen  I"  he  would  say 
{**  with  nmmaginable  energy"),  if  any  good 
adjeotiTe  were  coupled  with  lum  which  he 
did  not  deserve :  "  I  am  nothing  of  the 
kind.  I  wish  I  were ;  but  I  don't  deserve 
the  attribute,  and  I  never  did,  and  I  never 
shall !"  His  intense  consciousness  of  him- 
self nerer  led  to  his  poorly  excusing  himself, 
and  seldom  to  his  violently  asserting  himself. 
When  he  told  some  little  story  of  lus  bygone 
social  eiqieriences,  in  Florence,  or  where 
not,  as  he  was  fond  of  doing,  it  took  the 
innocent  form  of  making  all  the  interlo- 
cutors. Landers.  It  was  observable,  too, 
that  they  always  called  him  "  Mr.  Landor" 
— ^rather  ceremoniously  and  submissively. 
There  was  a  certain  '*  Caro  Padre  Abdte 
Marina" — invariably  so  addressed  in  these 
anecdotes — who  figured  through  a  great 
many  of  them,  and  who  alvvays  expressed 
himself  in  this  deferential  tone. 

Mr.   Forster  writes    of   Lander's    cha- 
Taoter  thus: 

"A  man  must  be  judged,  at  first,  by 
what  he  says  and  does.  But  with  him 
Boch  extravagance  as  I  have  referred  to 
was  little  more  than  the  habitual  indul- 
gence (on  such  themes)  of  passionate  feel- 
ings and  language,  indecent  indeed  but 
utterly  purposeless ;  the  mere  explosion  of 
wrath  provoked  by  tyranny  or  cruelty; 
the  irregularities  of  an  overheated  steam- 
engine  too  weak  for  its  own  vapour.  It  is 
very  certain  that  no  one  oould  detest  op- 
pression more  truly  than  Lander  did  in  all 
seasons  and  times ;  and  if  no  one  expressed 
that  scorn,  that  abhorrence  of  tyranny  and 
fraud,  more  hastily  or  more  intemperatoly, 
iD  his  fire  and  fury  sig^fied  really  little 
dse  tiban  ill-temper  too  easily  provoked. 
Not  to  justify  or  excuse  such  language,  but 
to  explain  it,  this  consideration  is  urged. 
If  not  uniformly  placable,  Lander  was 
always  compassionate.  He  was  tender- 
^  hearted  rather  than  bloody-minded  at  all 
I  times,  and  upon  only  the  most  partial  ac- 
quaintance with  his  writings  could  other 
opinion  be  formed.  A  completer  know- 
ledge of  them  would  satisfy  any  one  that 
ihe  had  as  little  real  disposition  to  kill  a 
kine  as  to  kill  a  moaso.  In  fact  there  is 
___ 


I 


not  a  more  marked  peculiarity  in  his  genius 
than  the  union  with  its  strexigth  of  a  most 
uncommon  gentleness,  and  in  the  personal 
ways  of  the  man  this  was  equally  mani- 
fest."—Foi.  I.  p.  496. 

Of  his  works,  thus : 

*'  Though  his  mind  was  cast  in  the 
antique  mould,  it  had  opened  itself  to  every 
kind  of  impression  through  a  long  and 
varied  life ;  he  has  written  vnth  equal 
excellence  in  both  poetry  and  prose, 
which  can  hardly  be  said  of  any  of  his 
contemporaries;  and  perhaps  the  single 
epithet  by  which  his  books  would  be  best 
described  is  that  reserved  exclusively  for 
books  not  characterised  only  by  genius,  but 
also  by  special  individuality.  They  are 
tmique.  Having  possessed  them,  we  should 
miss  them.  Their  place  would  be  supplied 
by  no  others.  They  have  that  about  them, 
moreover,  which  renders  it  almost  certain 
that  they  will  frequently  be  resorted  to  in 
future  time.  There  are  none  in  the  lan- 
guage more  quotable.  Even  where  impul- 
siveness and  want  of  patience  have  left 
them  most  fivgmentary,  this  rich  compen- 
sation is  offered  to  the  reader.  There  is 
hardly  a  conceivable  subject,  in  life  or 
literature,  which  they  do  not  illustrate  by 
striking  aphorisms,  by  concise  and  pro- 
found observations,  W  wisdom  ever  appli- 
cable to  the  needs  of  men,  and  by  wit  as 
available  for  their  enjoyment.  Nor,  above 
all,  will  there  anywhere  be  found  a  more 
pervading  passion  for  liberty,  a  fiercer 
hatred  of  the  base,  a  wider  sympathy  with 
the  wronged  and  the  oppressed,  or  help  more 
ready  at  ail  times  for  those  who  fight  at 
odds  and  disadvantage  against  the  powerful 
and  the  fortunate,  than  in  the  writings  of 
Walter  Savage  Lander." — Last  page  of 
second  volume. 

The  impression  was  strong  upon  the  pro- 
sent  writer's  mind,  as  on  Mr.  Forster's, 
during  years  of  close  friendship  with  the 
subject  of  this  biography,  that  his  animo- . 
sities  were  chiefly  referable  to  the  singular 
inability  in  him  to  dissociate  other  people's 
ways  of  thinking  from  his  own.  He  had,  to 
the  last,  a  ludicrous  grievance  (both  Mr. 
Forster  and  the  writer  have  often  amused 
themselves  with  it),  against  a  good-natured 
nobleman,  doubtless  perfectly  unconscious 
of  having  ever  given  him  offence.  The 
offence  was,  that  on  the  occasion  of  some 
dinner  party  in  another  nobleman's  house, 
many  years  before,  this  innocent  lord  (then 
a  commoner)  had  passed  in  to  dinner, 
through  some  door,  before  him,  ai>  h«  Vivo^- 
self  was  about  to  poaa  m  t\MC0Tx^  ^j^\aXJ  «si3s^^ 


<s 


184      [July  94,1860.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[Ckmdoetodtv 


door  with  a  lady  on  his  arm.  Now,  Landor 
was  a  gentleman  of  most  scmpnlons  polite- 
ness, and  in  his  carriage  of  himself  towards 
ladies  there  was  a  certain  mixture  of  state- 
liness  and  deference,  belonging  to  qnite 
another  time  and,  as  Mb.  Pbfts  wonld 
observe,  "mighty  pretty  to  see."  If  he 
could  by  any  effort  imagine  himself  com- 
mitting such  a  high  crime  and  misdemean- 
our as  that  in  question,  he  could  only 
imagine  himself  as  doing  it  of  a  set  pur- 
pose, under  the  sting  of  some  vast  injuiy, 
to  inflict  a  great  al&ont.  A  deliberately 
designed  affix)nt  on  the  part  of  another 
man,  it  therefore  remained  to  the  end  of 
his  days.  The  manner  in  which,  as  time 
went  on,  he  permeated  the  unfortunate 
lord's  ancestry  with  this  offence,  was 
whimsically  characteristic  of  Landor.  The 
writer  remembers  very  well,  when  only 
the  individual  himself  was  held  responsible 
in  the  stor^  for  the  breach  of  good  breed- 
ing; but  in  another  ten  years  or  so,  it 
began  to  appear  that  his  faUier  had  always 
been  remarkable  for  ill  manners;  and  in 
yet  another  ten  years  or  so,  his  grandfather 
developed  into  quite  a  prodigy  of  coarse 
behaviour. 

Mr.  Boythom — ^if  he  may  again  be  quoted 
— said  of  his  adversary.  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock :  "  That  fellow  is,  and  hia  father  was, 
and  his  grandfaiher  was,  the  most  stiff- 
necked,  arrogant,  imbecile,  pig-headed  num- 
skull, ever,  by  some  inexplicable  mistake  of 
Nature,  bom  in  any  station  of  life  but  a 
walking-stick's  i" 

The  strength  of  some  of  Mr.  Lander's 
most  captivating  kind  qualities  was  trace- 
able to  the  same  source.  Ejiowing  how 
keenly  he  himself  would  feel  the  being  at 
any  small  social  disadvantage,  or  the  l^ng 
unconsciously  placed  in  any  ridiculous  ligh^ 
he  was  wonderfully  considerate  of  shy 
people,  or  of  such  as  might  be  below  the 
level  of  his  usual  conversation,  or  other- 
wise out  of  their  element.  The  writer  once 
observed  him  in  the  keenest  distress  of  mind 
in  behalf  of  a  modest  young  stranger  who 
came  into  a  drawing-room  with  a  glove  on 
his  head.  An  expressive  commentary  on 
this  sympathetic  condition,  and  on  the 
delicacy  with  which  he  advanced  to  the 
young  stranger's  rescue,  was  afterwards 
^u^shed  by  himself  at  a  friendly  dinner  at 
GJore  House,  when  it  was  the  most  delight- 
ful of  houses.  His  dress — say,  his  cravat 
or  shirt- collar — ^had  become  slightly  dis- 
arranged on  a  hot  evening,  and  Count 
D'Orsay  laughingly  called  lus  attention  to 
tie  circnmatAuce  as  we  rose  from  table. 


Landor  became  flushed,  and  greatly  agi- 
tated :  "  My  dear  Count  D'Ors^,  I  thank 
you !  My  dear  Count  D'Orsay,  I  thank  you 
frofTCL  TDj  soul  for  pointing  out  to  me  the 
abominable  condition  to  which  I  am  re- 
duced !  If  I  had  entered  the  Drawing- 
room,  and  presented  myself  before  Lac^ 
Blessington  in  so  absurd  a  light,  I  would 
have  instantly  gone  home,  put  a  pistol  to 
my  head,  and  blown  my  brains  out !" 

Mr.  Forster  teUs  a  similar  story  of  his 
keeping  a  company  waitiag  dinner,  through 
losing  his  way;  and  of  his  seeing  no 
remedy  for  that  breach  of  politeness  but 
cutting  his  throat,  or  drowning  himself, 
unless  a  countryman  whom  he  met  could 
direct  him  by  a  short  road  to  the  house 
where  the  party  were  assembled.  Surely 
these  are  expressive  notes  on  the  gravity 
and  reality  of  his  explosive  inclinations  to 
loll  kings! 

His  manner  towards  boys  was  charming, 
and  the  earnestness  of  his  wish  to  be  on 
equal  terms  with  them  and  to  win  their 
confidence  was  quite  touching.  Few,  read* 
ing  Mr.  Forster's  book,  can  fail  to  see  in 
this,  his  pensive  remembrance  of  that 
'*  studious  wilful  boy  at  once  shy  and  im- 
petuous," who  had  not  many  intimacies  at 
Rugby,  but  who  was  **  generally  popular 
and  respected,  and  used  his  influence  often 
to  save  the  younger  boys  from  undue  harsh- 
ness or  violence."  The  impulsive  yeamingB 
of  his  passionate  heart  towards  his  owb 
boy,  on  their  meeting  at  Bath,  after  yean 
of  separation,  likewise  bum  through  this 
phase  of  his  character. 

But  a  more  spiritual,  softened,  and  im» 
selfish  aspect  of  it,  was  to  be  derived  from 
his  respectful  belief  in  hawinesB  which 
he  himself  had  missed.  Mis  marriage 
had  not  been  a  felicitous  one — ^it  may  he 
fairly  assumed  for  either  side — ^but  no  trace 
of  bitterness  or  distrust  concerning  other 
marriages  was  in  his  mind.  He  was  never 
more  serene  than  in  the  midst  of  a  domestie 
circle,  and  was  invariably  remarkable  fat 
a  perfectly  benignant  interest  in  young 
couples  and  young  lovers.  That^  m  hii 
ever-fresh  &ncy,  he  conceived  in  this  asso* 
ciation  innumerable  histories  of  himsdf 
involving  far  more  unlikely  events  that 
never  happened  than  Isaac  D'Israeli  ever 
imagined,  is  hardly  to  be  doubted ;  but  as 
to  this  psurt  of  his  real  history  he  was  mute^ 
or  revealed  his  nobleness  in  an  impulse  to 
be  generously  just.  We  verge  on  delicate 
ground,  but  a  slight  remembrance  riaea  in 
tiie  writer  which  can  grate  nowhere.  Mr. 
Forster  relates  how  a  certain  friend,  being 


:^<3) 


OhariM  I>iek«a.] 


AS  THE  CROW  PLIES. 


[ Jnlj  H 186S.]     185 


in  Florence,  sent  him  home  a  leaf  from  the 
ra-den  of  his  old  house  at  Fiesole.  That 
mend  had  first  asked  him  what  he  should 
send  him  home,  and  he  had  stipulated  for 
this  gifl — ^fonnd  by  Mr.  Forster  among  his 
papers  after  his  death.  The  friend,  on 
coming  back  to  England,  related  to  Landor 
that  he  had  been  much  embarrassed,  on 
going  in  search  of  the  leaf,  by  his  driver's 
suddenly  stopping  his  horses  in  a  narrow 
lane,  and  presenting  him  (the  friend)  to 
"La  Signora  *Landora."  The  lady  was 
walking  alone  on  a  bright  Italian-winter- 
day;  and  the  man,  haying  been  told  to 
drive  to  the  Villa  Landora,  inferred  that  he 
must  be  conveying  a  guest  or  visitor.  **  I 
pulled  off  my  hat,"  said  the  friend,  "apolo- 
gised for  the  coachman's  mistake,  and 
drove  on.  The  lady  was  walking  with  a 
rapid  and  firm  step,  had  bright  eyes,  a  fine 
fresh  colour,  and  looked  animated  and 
agreeable."  Landor  checked  off  each  clause 
of  the  description,  with  a  stately  nod  of 
more  than  r^dy  assent,  and  repHed,  with 
all  his  tremendous  energy  concentrated 
into  the  sentence :  "  And  the  Lord  forbid 
that  I  should  do  otherwise  than  declare 
that  she  always  was  agreeable — to  every 
one  but  me .'" 

Mr.  Forster  step  by  step  builds  up  the 
evidence  on  which  he  writes  this  life  and 
states  this  character.  In  like  manner,  he 
gives  the  evidence  for  his  high  estimation 
of  Lander's  works,  and — ^it  may  be  added 
—for  their  recompense  against  some  neglect, 
in  finding  so  sympathetic,  acute,  and  de- 
voted a  champion.  Nothing  in  the  book  is 
more  remarkable  than  his  examination  of 
each  of  Lander's  successive  pieces  of  writ- 
ing, his  delicate  discernment  of  their 
bwuties,  and  his  strong  desire  to  impart 
Us  own  perceptions  in  this  wise  to  the 
great  audience  that  is  yet  to  come.  It 
mrely  befals  an  author  to  have  such  a  com- 
mentator: to  become  the  subject  of  so 
mnch  artistic  skill  and  knowledge,  com- 
hmed  with  such  infinite  and  loving  pains. 
Alike  as  a  piece  of  Biography,  and  as  a  com- 
mentary upon  the  beauties  of  a  great  writer, 
the  book  is  a  massive  book ;  as  the  man  and 
the  writer  were  massive  too.  Sometimes, 
when  the  balance  held  by  Mr.  Forster  has 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  turn  a  little  heavily 
against  the  infirmities  of  temperament  of  a 
grand  old  friend,  we  have  felt  something  of  a 
•hock;  but  we  have  not  once  been  able  to 
||ainsay  the  justice  of  the  scales.  This  feel- 
mg»  too,  has  only  fluttered  out  of  the  detail, 
here  or  there,  and  has  vanished  before  the 
whole.  We  folly  agree  with  JlihjParetor  that 


"  Judgment  has  beien  passed" — as  it  should 
be—"  with  an  equal  desire  to  be  only  just  on 
all  the  qualities  of  his  temperament  which 
affected  necessarily  not  his  own  life  only. 
But,  now  that  the  story  is  told,  no  one  will 
have  difficulty  in  strilang  the  balance  be- 
tween its  gocKi  and  ill ;  and  what  was  really 
imperishable  in  Lander's  genius  will  not 
be  treasured  less,  or  less  understood,  for 
the  more  perfeot  knowledge  of  his  cha- 
racter." 

Mr.  Forster's  second  volume  gives  a  fiic 
simile  of  Lander's  writing  at  seventy- five. 
It  may  be  interesting  to  those  who  are 
curious  in  caligraphy,  to  know  that  its  re- 
semblance to  the  recent  handwriting  of 
that  great  genius,  M.  Victoe  Hugo,  is 
singularly  strong. 

In  a  military  burial-ground  in  India, 
the  name  of  Walter  Landor  is  associated 
with  the  present  writer's,  over  the  grave  of 
a  youDg  officer.  No  name  could  stand  there, 
more  inseparably  associated  in  the  writer's 
mind  with  the  dignity  of  generosity :  with  a 
noble  scorn  of  all  littleness,  all  cruelty, 
oppression,  fraud,  and  false  pretence. 

AS  THE  CROW  FUES. 

DUE  EAST.      CAISTOR  AND  NORWICH. 

From  Caistor  look-out,  sixty  feet  high,  the 
itinerant  bird  watches  the  brown-winged  her- 
ring boats  beating  up  against  the  wind;  he 
sees  miles  of  grassy  sand-hills,  and  white  belts 
of  shore,  gleaming  almost  as  snowy  as  the 
racing  foam ;  on  the  foreshore,  like  stranded 
turtles,  loll  red-bottomed  boats  among  patches 
of  coarse  gorse,  and  on  the  inner  slopes  of  the 
hills,  clear  of  the  long  loose  drifts  which  here 
and  there  encroach  on  the  marshes,  rise  the  red 
roofs  and  black  tarred  walls  of  fishermen's 
villages ;  the  fishermen's  gardens  and  hedgerows 
bordering  the  waste,  gradually  lead  on  to  belts 
of  trees  and  chequerings  of  fertile  fields ;  and 
at  the  doors  of  the  Caistor  cottages  the  crow  can 
clearly  discern  rugged-faced  fishwives  sitting 
netting  among  lobster-pots  and  heaps  of  fishing 
furniture.  The  church  tower  at  Caistor  has  a 
legend  of  its  own,  for  over  the  centre  of  its 
parapet  a  long  low  ridge  marks  the  tomb  of  a 
Norfolk  maiden,  who,  losing  her  lover  by  ship- 
wreck on  this  treacherous  coast,  directed,  before 
her  heart  quite  broke,  that  her  body  should  be 
buried  up  there  under  a  pyramid,  which  should 
be  high  enough  to  serve  as  a  sea  mark.  The 
pyramid  is  gone,  even  the  lover's  name  is  for- 
gotten, but  the  woman's  true  devotion  is  still 
remembered.  About  a  mile  from  Caistor,  over 
the  fields,  a  long  line  of  old  brick  wall,  beyond 
a  moat  screened  by  tall  trees,  marks  the  ruins 
of  the  Falstolfs'  old  fortified  mansion,  Caistor  II 
Castle,  built  in  the  reign  of  Henry  th<&  ¥\$^]su  >N. 
It  was  then  three  bundled  leeV.  «kv3ax^^  wi^\sa^  ^ 


<t&: 


186      [Jalf  It  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[GoBdnctedby 


]■ 


towers  nowremainfi.  Inside,  the  ruins  are  hidden 
by  fruit-trees,  elderrtrees,  and  ivy,  but  there 
are  still  traces  of  the  ruffling  days  of  brave  Sir 
John  and  the  letter-writing  Pastons  who  suc- 
ceeded him.  The  old  gateway  still  stands,  but 
it  now  leads  only  to  poultry  sheds.  The  bay 
window  of  the  hall  also  exists ;  you  can  trace 
the  gable  mark  of  the  roof,  and  there  is  still 
the  tower  near  the  chapel  where  a  priest  lived, 
to  pray  for  those  who  nourished  him.  The 
tower  18  famous  for  its  jackdaw's  nest— a  great 
pile  of  loose  sticks,  reaching  from  the  winding 
stairs  to  the  window,  and  expressing  years  of 
industry.  On  the  ground-floor  is  a  small  cham- 
ber with  groined  ceiling  and  two  light  foliated 
window's,  but  there  is  no  roof  above  but  the  sky, 
and  the  old  fireplaces,  black  against  the  walls 
above,  are  no  longer  warmed  by  friendly  fires. 
The  Sir  John  Fal^-tolf  who  built  this  castle 
(one  of  the  earliest  fortified  brick  houses  in  the 
kingdom)  was  a  groat  warrior  in  the  French 
wars  of  Henry  the  Fifth  and  Sixth.  It  was  this 
commander  who,  just  before  Joan  of  Arc  ap- 
peared to  scare  the  P3nglish,  left  Paris  one  Ijent 
with  one  thousand  five  hundred  men  to  convey 
four  hundred  waggons  of  herrings  and  other 
provisions  to  the  English  besiegers  of  Orleans, 
just  then  dishearten^  by  the  death  of  the  Earl 
of  Salisbury,  their  commander.  He  was  at- 
tacked at  Rouvrai  by  four  thousand  French  and 
Scotch  cavalry,  but  surrounding  his  men  with 
a  rampart  of  his  waggons,  he  and  his  archers 
repulsed  two  savage  attacks,  killed  six  him- 
dred  of  the  enemy,  and  reached  triumphantly 
the  English  camp.  When  Orleans  had  been 
rescued  by  the  maiden  of  Domremy ,  the  English 
forts  burned,  and  the  Earl  of  Suffolk  taken  pri- 
soner, Talbot  and  Falstolf  retreated  together 
towards  Paris.  At  Patay,  Talbot,  bull-do^  as 
he  was,  would  retreat  no  further,  so  stood  at 
bay,  lost  twelve  thousand  men,  and  was  struck 
from  his  horse  and  taken.  Falstolf  refosing, 
however,  to  fight  with  soldiers  demoralised  by 
the  recent  loss  of  three  fortresses,  left  Talbot 
there  to  suffer  for  his  obstinacy.  The  English, 
in  a  rage  at  his  desertion  of  Talbot,  bnuded 
him  as  a  coward,  and  condemned  him  to  forfeit 
his  garter.  But  the  Norfolk  worthy  calmly 
persisted,  and  proved,  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  Regent,  that  nothing  but  defeat  was  pos- 
sible with  soldiers  that  Jeanne  d'Aro  had  re- 
cently cowed.  This  Sfar  John,  who  died  in  1459, 
aged  eighty,  had  a  mansion  also  at  Yarmouth, 
and  traded  there  in  com  and  wool. 

If  the  crow  may  be  allowed  to  be  for  once 
biographical,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  here 
briefly  sketch  the  career  of  a  gentleman  soldier 
in  the  reigns  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  Fifth,  and 
Sixth,  in  order  to  show  the  life  men  led  in 
those  stormy  ages.  Sir  John,  bom  about 
I37S,  was  the  son  of  a  gentleman  of  Yarmouth, 
renowned  for  his  piety  and  charity.  His  father 
dying  when  he  was  young,  John^s  person 
and  estate  were  committed  to  the  guardian- 
ship of  John,  Duke  of  Bedford,  our  regent 
in  FThnoe.  It  is  snpposed  that  when  a  youth, 
learning  arms  under  T/iomas  of  Luicastcr,  the 
seoond  eon  of  Henry  the  Fourtii,  the  yonmg 


Norfolk  squire  accompanied  that  noble  (after- 
wards Duke  of  Clarence)  to  Ireland,  where 
Thomas  was  lord-lieutenant,  and  fleshed  his 
maiden  sword  against  the  rough  kerns  and 
savage  gallowglasscs  of  Munster  and  Con- 
naught.  He  married,  in  Ireland,  a  daughter 
of  Lord  Tibetot,  and  bound  himself,  on  the 
Feast  of  St.  Hilary,  which  was  their  marriaj^ 
day,  in  the  sum  of  one  thousand  pounds,  to 
pay  her  one  hundred  poimds  a  year  for  j^in 
money.  Hardened  to  steel  in  the  wars  of  Nor- 
mandy, Anjou,  ]Mayne,  and  Guiennc,  Sir  John, 
now  a  knight  banneret,  and  knight  companion 
of  the  most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter,  grew 
abroad  a  brave  and  wise  general,  and  at  home 
a  charitjihle  and  hospitable  man,  a  founder  of 
religious  buildings  and  stately  edifices ;  more- 
over, an  enlightened  patron  of  worthy  and 
learned  men,  and  a  benefactor  to  the  pious  and 
poor,  especially  those  of  Norfolk.  In  1413, 
the  first  year  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  he  had  the 
castle  and  domain  of  Veires,  in  Gascony,  given 
him  to  guard.  When  his  chivalrous  young 
king  landed  in  France,  Sir  John  joined  him  at 
Harfleur  with  ten  men-at-arms  and  thirty 
archers,  and  the  Earl  of  Derby  then  appointed 
him  governor  of  the  town.  At  tho  great 
melee  at  Agincourt  Sir  John  bore  himself  nobly. 
Next  we  meet  Sir  John  pushing  deep  into 
Normandy,  then  driven  slowly  to  Harfleur,  and 
there  besieged.  For  taking  Caen,  Courcy, 
Falaise,  and  other  towns,  he  was  granted  the 
manor  of  Fritcusc,  near  Harfleur,  and  in  1433 
was  made  lieutenant  for  the  king  in  Normandy. 
Many  towns  he  thundered  down,  at  many 
barred-up  gates  he  knocked  for  admittance. 
His  prowess  at  the  ^*  Battle  of  the  Herrinn" 
we  have  before  mentioned.  After  that,  tke 
aging  warrior  reaped  more  laurels.  He  was 
an  ambassador  at  the  Council  of  Basle ;  he  led 
our  succours  to  the  Duke  of  Britany;  he  was 
our  ambassador  at  the  final  peace  with  bellieose 
France,  and  when  the  Regent  died.  Sir  John  wM 
one  of  his  executors.  In  1440,  the  old  warrior 
returned  to  the  new  moated  house  at  Caistor, 
and  there  hung  up  his  battered  helmet  and  hii 
cloven  target,  in  1450,  the  king  ordered 
Thomas  DanycU,  Esq.,  to  pay  one  hundred 
pounds  for  having  seized  a  ship  of  Sir  John*i 
called  The  George  of  I*msaia.  He  died,  worn 
out  with  old  man's  fever,  after  a  lingering  one 
hundred  and  forty-eight  days  of  asthma,  on  the 
Festival  of  St  Leonard,  in  the  last  year  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  the  Sixth.  The  old  acaned 
hulk  was  buried  with  great  solenmity  imder 
an  arch  in  the  Chapel  of  our  Lady,  of  his  own 
building,  at  the  abbey  of  St.  Bennet  in  the 
Holm,  Norfolk ;  and  so  much  was  he  vene- 
rated in  the  county,  that  in  the  fifteenth  of 
Edward  the  Fourth,  John  Beauchamp  ap- 
pointed a  chantry  there,  more  espedally  for 
the  soul  of  Sir  John  Falstolf.  The  old  knij^ 
left  Caistor  to  John  Paston,  eldest  ecm  of 
Judge  Paston,  to  found,  with  the  manors  and 
lan£,  a  college  of  seven  priests  and  seven  poor 
men.  The  Duke  of  Norfolk,  however,  elauncd 
Caistor,  and  in  1469  came  before  the  old  tor- 
\  T«ted\»iOL  xaaxoaoik  with  three  thooBaad  men 


^- 


& 


QiArlM  DIokraa.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


fJnly  24,  I860.]       18? 


Armed  with  gans  and  cnlvcrins,  and  besieged  it 
doggedly  for  five  weeks  and  three  days.  A 
wicked  justice  named  Yclverton  and  other  law- 
yers al80  tried  to  get  pickings  out  of  the  place, 
and  at  one  time  Ijord  Scales  took  actual  pos- 
session of  it  in  the  name  of  King  Edward  the 
Fourth,  who,  however,  eventually  restored  it 
to  the  Pastons,  who  soon  afterwards  nearly  lost 
it  by  fire.  Besides  Caistor,  Sir  John  had  a 
house  at  Norwich  in  Pokethorp,  opposite  St. 
James's  Church.  This  large-minded  soldier  was 
a  great  benefactor  to  Cambridge,  helping  to 
found  philosophical  schools  ;  nor  did  he  forget 
the  sister  seat  of  learning,  for  he  gave  broad 
lands  to  Magdalene  College,  out  of  friendship 
to  William  Wain  fleet,  the  founder  (who,  in- 
deed, bad  the  intention  of  founding  a  special 
college  where  Sir  John^s  soul  might  be  prayed 
for).  It  is  a  singular  fact  (considering  that, 
following  some  vague  old  story,  Shakespeare 
has  traduced  this  excellent  man)  that  among 
other  property  left  by  Falstolf  to  Magdalene 
College  was  the  Boar  a  Head  in  Southwark, 
where  the  poet  might  have  found  the  name  still 
traditionaL  By  a  strange  caprice  of  genius  the 
invincible  old  warrior  was  changed  into  that 
delightful  fat  rascal  to  whose  sins  we  are  so 
lenient ;  that  bragging,  toping,  witty,  good- 
for-nothing  master  of  Nym  and  Bardolph. 

There  is  a  wild  legend  about  Caistor  (worthy 
of  some  old  German  tower  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Brocken)  that  on  cei-iain  midnights  a  black 
eoach  drawn  by  headless  horses,  and  driven 
by  a  skeleton,  or  some  such  appropriate  coach- 
man, toUh  silently  into  the  mined  and  echoing 
court-yard  and  carries  off  a  freight  of  un- 
earthly passengers ;  whether  ghosts  of  sinful 
knights  long  dead,  or  a  relieved  guard  of  demon 
tentJIIels,  is  not  exactly  known.  But  indeed 
Norfolk  legends  are  of  ton  wild  enough,  for  at 
Over-Strand  the  country  people  believe  in  a 
httdlesB  coal-black  demon  dog,  with  flaming 
hair,  known  to  mortals  as  *^  Old  Shock,"  which 
on  stormy  nights  chaseS'along  the  desolate  and 
dangerous  shores  between  Over-Strand  and 
Be»ton,  exulting  at  the  frequent  shipwrecks. 

Bat  the  crow  must  by  no  means  leave  the 
old  brick  ruin  without  a  word  about  those  de- 
Hehtful  **  Paston  Letters,"  many  of  which 
Where  here  indited  by  anxious  Yorkists.  They 
pRwnt  a  perfect  picture  of  social  life  during 
the  bloodthirsty  wars  of  the  Hoses.  One  al- 
most wonders,  when  England  was  streaming 
with  blood,  how  people  could  have  the  heart 
to  propose  marriage,  or  to  write  for  figs  and 
laisms,  and  **  ij  pots  off  oyle  for  saladys." 
Soon  after  the  battle  of  Mortimer  Croas,  when 
Henry  the  Sixth  was  in  London  lying  feebly 
in  the  iron  grip  of  the  king-maker,  one  of  the 
Pastons  writes  about  the  troubled  state  of 
Norfolk,  that  traitors  had  risen  after  the  Battle 
oi  Wakefield  to  murder  John  Dameme  (who- 
ever he  might  be) ;  that  the  people  at  Castle 
Riling  were  gathering  and  hiring  armour ;  also 
that  plunderers  in  Yarmouth  had  robbed  a  ship 
**nnaer  colour  of  my  Lord  of  Warwick."  In 
December,  1463i  John  Paston,  tho  youngest, 
vnling  home  to  the  old  Norfolk  house  from 


Northumberland,  whither  he  had  gone  to  be- 
siege three  castles  recently  taken  by  Queen 
Margaret,  says : 

**  I  pray  you  let  my  father  have  knowledge 
of  this  letter,  and  of  the  other  letter  that  1 
sent  to  my  mother  by  a  Folbrigg  man,  and  how 
that  I  pray,  both  him  and  my  mother  lowly 

of  their  blessings I  pray  you  that  this 

bill  may  reccomend  me  to  my  sister  Margery 
[he  had  before  sent  remembrances  to  his  gran- 
dam  and  cousin  Clcrc],  and  to  my  mistress 
Joan  (xayne,  and  to  all  good  masters  and  fellows 
within  Caster."  Then  what  a  picture  of  Cax- 
ton's  times  is  given  in  the  letter  dated  Coventry, 
Tuesday  after  Corpus  Chriati  Day  (circa  14-45). 
It  is  addressed  by  one  John  Koithwood,  to 
Viscount  Beaumont,  a  nobleman  afterwards 
slain  by  Jack  Cade's  men. 

"  On  Corpus  Christi  even  last  passed  be- 
tween eight  and  nine  of  the  clock  at  after- 
noon. Sir  Humphrey  Stafford  had  brought  my 
master  Sir  James  of  Ormond  towards  his  inn 
from  my  Lady  of  Shrewsbury,  and  returned 
from  him  towards  his  inn ;  ho  met  with  Sir 
Robert  Harcourt,  coming  from  his  mother  to- 
wards his  inn,  and  passed  Sir  Humphrey,  and 
Richard  his  son  came  somewhat  behind,  and 
when  they  met  together,  they  fell  in  hands 
together,  and  Sir  Robert  smote  him  a  great 
stroke  on  the  head  with  his  sword,  and  Sir 
Richanl  with  his  dagger  hastily  went  towards 
him,  and  as  he  stumbled  one  of  Ilarcourt's  men 
smote  him  in  tho  back  with  a  knife ;  men  wot 
not  who  it  was  readily;  his  father  heard  a 
noise  and  rode  towards  them,  and  his  men  ran 
before  him  thitherward ;  and  in  the  going  down 
off  his  horse,  one,  he  wot  not  who,  behind 
him  smote  him  on  the  head  with  an  edged  tool, 
men  know  not  with  us  with  what  weapon,  that 
he  fell  down,  and  his  son  fell  down  before  him 
as  good  as  dead,  and  all  this  was  done  as  men 
say  in  a  paternoster  while— and  forthwith  Sir 
Hmnphrey  Stafford's  men  followed  after  and 
slew  two  men  of  Harcourt's,  one  Swynnerton 
and  Bradshawe,  and  more  be  hurt,  some  be 
gone,  and  some  bo  in  prison,  in  the  jail  at  Co- 
ventry ....  and  Almighty  Jesu  preserve  your 
high  estate,  my  special  lord,  and  send  you  long 
life  and  good  health." 

Such  were  the  rough-and-ready  times  when 
the  streets  of  English  towns  were  crowded  by 
the  quarrelsome  Montagues  and  Capulets  of 
those  gusty  days. 

And  now  the  burd  darts  through  the  Norfolk 
air  to  Filby  decoy,  to  other  scenes  and  far  dif- 
ferent associations,  going  back  to  those  days  of 
bolster  breeches  and  peasecod  doublets,  when 
King  James  splutterea  out  his  alarm  at  Jesuit 
plots  in  clumsy  Latin  or  uncouth  Scotch.  But 
i^anworth  decoy,  lucidly  explained  by  a  recent 
traveller  in  Norfolk,  gives  even  a  better  notion 
of  the  Norfolk  decoys  than  tliat  at  Filby.  At 
Ran  worth,  where  the  marshes  vein  the  flat 
pastures  with  a  deep  green,  and  where  the 
pools  and  dykes  are  marked  in  the  ground  plan 
by  waving  green  patches  and  loiv^  ^\dx^ 
lines,  where  gnata  darV.cn  Wife  «t^\^  «^t^  ^'^^ 
all  day  and  night  you  Vicwc  \Jlck<i  tw*Xck^  c^sM^^K- 


<4 


188    [Jiiija4.iM»o 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


CCondaotadby 


of  the  pump  mills  that  are  draining  the  levels 
which  look  bo  flat  and  so  Dutch,  you  come 
to  a  wood  on  the  margin  of  a  lake.  The 
first  glimpse  of  the  decoy  is  an  arch  of  brown 
network  among  the  trees,  and  glimpses  of  pale 
fences  of  reeds.  In  the  centre  of  a  hundred 
acres  of  reedy  and  oozy  water,  thick  with 
water-lilies  and  ranunculuses,  spread  eleven 
shallow  creeks,  star  fashion.  These  rays,  about 
six  yards  wide  at  their  mouth,  narrowing 
gradually  as  they  recede,  and  craftily  curved  to 
tiie  right,  run  about  seventy-five  yards  each, 
and  terminate  in  a  point.  At  about  thirty  feet 
from  the  mouth  of  each  there  rises  an  iron-rod 
arch  some  ten  feet  high,  smaller  arches  fol- 
lowing, the  end  one  sinking  to  less  than  two 
feet  high  and  wide.  These  arches  are  covered 
with  a  cord  net  which,  staked  to  the  ground, 
forms  a  long  cage  broad  and  open  to  the  pool. 
These  are  what  Norfolk  men  call  **  pipes.**  On 
each  side  of  the  airy  traps  are  screens  of 
greyish  yellow  reeds  five  feet  high  ;  these 
screens  run  in  zigzag  about  a  foot  from  the 
water*s  edge,  and  traverse  the  edge  of  the  pipe 
alternately  high  and  low.  Wild  fowl  always 
fly  against  the  wind,  so  that  a  pipe  to  be  suc- 
cessful must  have  the  wind  blowing  down  it 
from  the  narrow  end  towards  the  mouth.  In 
Norfolk  the  north-east  pipe  is  a  special 
favourite.  There  is  no  mystery  in  decoying, 
it  needs  only  a  man,  some  decoy  ducks,  and  a 
trained  dog.  The  ducks  are  taught  to  rise  and 
come  to  Uie  man  for  the  bruised  barley  he 
sprinkles  on  the  water  at  the  signal  of  a  very 
faint  yet  clear  whistle.  The  "  piper  "  dog  may 
be  a  mongrel,  but  it  must  be  of  a  grey  colour, 
and  of  quiet,  obedient,  staid  habits.  The  decoy 
season  is  almost  exactly  contemporaneous  with 
the  oyster  season.  The  time  cnosen  is  often 
noon  on  a  bright  day.  The  decoy  man  carries 
with  him  a  piece  of  lighted  peat  to  neutralise 
any  scent  of  himself  tlutt  might  scare  tiie  fowl. 
Stealing  along  like  a  murderer,  the  man  slips 
behind  the  screen,  and  looks  through  loopholes 
prepared  in  the  reed  walls.  If  there  be  any 
signs  of  emerald  necks  and  brown  backs  he  gives 
the  whistle,  fatal  as  Vamey^s  signal  to  Amy 
Bobsart.  The  moment  the  decoy  ducks  swim  to- 
wards the  mouth  of  the  pipe  the  wild  birds  gain 
confidence,  and  enter  more  or  less  eagerly  into 
the  pipe,  allured  by  the  floating  barley ;  at  the 
same  moment  the  piper  dog,  running  along  the 
screen,  leaps  back  through  the  first  break  in 
search  of  the  biscuit  thrown  him.  This  instantly 
allures  the  teal  and  widgeon,  who  then  flock  in 
with  greater  confidence.  They  are  now  safe  in 
the  toils,  and  the  decoy-man  having  fitted  a 
purse-net  about  as  large  as  a  corn-sack  to  the 
narrow  end  of  the  opening,  an  assistant,  on  a 
given  signal,  shows  lumself  at  one  of  the  breaks 
in  the  screen  in  the  rear  of  the  ducks,  and, 
without  shouting,  throws  up  his  arms  or  waves 
his  hat.  The  sensitive  birds,  always  suspicious 
of  man,  instantly  with  splash,  flap,  and  scream- 
ing quack,  race  up  the  pipe  in  utter  panic,  and 
Ij  making  for  the  first  opening,  find  themselves 
//  in  the  mhoapitahle  poise-net.  The  decoy-man 
IJ  Boon  Bppean  to  the  joatUng  capUveB,  and  in 


five  minutes  they  are  ready  for  Leadenhall 
Market. 

But  the  decoy -man  has  many  vexations. 
There  is  one  artful  species  of  duck  known 
as  the  Pochard,  which  is  always  fatal  to  his 
schemes.  A  demoniacal  craft  is  possessed  by 
these  birds,  who,  the  moment  there  is  an 
alarm,  turn,  dive  and  re-emerge  beyond  the 
pipes.  Often  do  they  form  a  vanguard  and 
swim  forward  in  line,  taking  precedence  pro* 
bably  on  the  strength  of  superior  subtlety, 
and  so  keep  back  their  unsuspecting  com- 
panions. Decoy-men  have  tried  to  capture 
these  sagacious  wretches  by  sunken  bait,  brist- 
ling with  ambushed  hooks,  but  the  pochard's 
dying  struggles  are  scarcely  very  alluring  to 
the  inquiring  widgeon.  A  heron  perching  on 
the  crown  of  the  netted  arch  will  often  scare 
the  suspicious  birds,  a  sullen  pike  splashing  in 
the  shallows,  or  the  sight  of  even  the  tip  of 
the  black  nose  of  an  otter  is  also  fatal  to  sport 
A  gunshot  in  a  distant  field,  the  rine  of  • 
hammer,  or  the  rumbling  of  cart  wheels,  will 
frighten  away  ducks  for  weeks.  Decoying, 
says  a  very  sound  authority,  was  more  profit- 
able before  steam -boats  brought  over  such 
heaps  of  Dutch  and  Flemish  ducks.  Yet  there 
are  still  times  when  wild  ducks  fetch  eight 
shillings  a  couple  in  Leadenhall  Market.  'Two 
thousand  birds  idl  but  thirty-seven  were  cap- 
tured at  Ranworth  decoy  in  1858-59. 

Fast  now  to  Norwich  beam  the  voyaging 
bird,  for  how  can  any  crow  of  sacacity  crow 
at  all  if  he  neglect  the  old  cathedral  city  of 
Norfolk  with  its  seventy-five  thousand  people, 
its  thirty-six  churches,  its  narrow,  crooked, 
steep  streets,  its  busy  factories,  and  its  crowd 
of  low  and  even  thatched  cottages,  its  Bigod'i 
Castie,  now  a  prison,  on  a  centralmound,  and  all 
these  treasures  heaped  in  a  deep  basin,  scooped 
out  of  the  level  table -land  ?  St.  Andrew*ii 
Hall,  where  concerts  are  given  and  corporatioii 
feasts  held,  was  once  a  church  of  the  Bene- 
dictine friars,  and  in  it  Charles  the  Second  and 
the  ill-favoured  swartiiy  Portuguese  queen 
whom  he  neglected  so  shamelessly,  dined  im 
1671.  Some  good  memorial  pictures,  expressing 
various  paroxysms  of  national  gratitude,  loyalty, 
and  party  feeling,  adorn  the  walls.  Meretri- 
cious, graceful  I^wrences ;  delightful,  sketdnr 
Gainsboroughs;  vigorous,  coarse  Opies;  ana, 
above  aU,  Sir  William  Beechey*s  xnanly  p<ff- 
trait  of  that  great  Norfolk  worthy — ^Nelson. 

Apropos  of  art,  Norwich  is  the  city  in  which 
to  see  old  Crome*s  fine  landscapes.  This  great 
artist,  the  son  of  a  poor  journeyman  weaver,  waf 
bom  in  a  humble  Norwich  public-house,  in  1769. 
At  first  an  errand-boy  to  a  doctor,  who  found 
him  clumsy  and  slovenly,  he  was  afterwardi 
apprenticed  to  a  house  and  sign-painter.  He 
lodged  with  a  painter's  apprentice,  who  had  a 
certain  rude  taste  for  art,  and  the  two  boys  drew 
and  painted  together.  Sir  William  Beechey; 
who  was  kind  to  the  Norfolk  lad,  obsenred 
with  surprise  his  rapid  progress.  Manying, 
however,  early,  Crome  became  so  poor  that  he 
had  to  paint  sugar  ornaments  for  the  confeo- 
\  tionoca^  V>  c»U^  hia  cat's  tail  to  make  broiheii 


ObutaDUsMj 


WITHERED  BLOSSOM. 


rJQlyiiJ 


and  to  oee  pieces  of  bed-tick  or  old  apron 
instead  of  caoTis.  But  there  is  do  Etopping  a 
■un  of  that  kind.  Crome  soon  mastered  his 
art,  and  learned  with  naive  Bimplicity  to  show 
the  beauty  of  the  simplest  natural  effects  ;  he 
could  coDjnre  with  the  radeat  apella  — a  few 
old  trees,  a  broken  cottage,  a  rough  scrap  of 
heath ;  yet  whateTer  he  painted  was  alwaya 
himinoas,  broad,  and  massiTe.  He  always  clucg 
to  Norfolk  and  to  eimplo  BubjecU,  and  never 
M  over  the  fatal  Grand  Style,  like  poor  Hay- 
don  and  others.  Founding  the  Norwich  Society 
ot  Artiste,  he  became  its  president,  and  did 
good  seryice  to  art  in  originating,  in  1805,  the 
mt  provincial  exhibition  of  pictures  in 
England.  Cromo  died  in  1321,  and  the  same 
year  one  hun'bred  and  eleven  of  hia  paintings 
were  ejdiibited,  beginning  with  "  Tlie  Sawyers," 
a  sketch  made  for  a  public-honae  in  1790,  down 
teafine  wood  scene,  painted  within  amonth  of 
hisdeparture.  Mo  use  hold  Heath  waa  old  Crome 'a 
tiTonrite  hunting  ground. 

With  Norwich,  as  with  ao  many  other  spots 
the  crow  has  viaited,  Shatespeare  has  asso- 
dated  himself.  The  old  black  flint  wall  that 
mce  girdled  the  town  wears  for  a  brooch  at 
one  spot  the  Erpingbam  Gate,  a  line  pointed 
arch  of  the  foortecnth  eentnry,  with  panelled 
buttresses,  and  a  statue  of  the  builder,  aenti- 
nelled  high  up  in  a  niche.  This  ftrey,  silent 
sentinel  was  an  old  soldier  whom  Shakespeare, 
with  an  affection  for  the  character,  calla  "a  good 
old  commander  and  a  most  kind  gentleman." 
He  lent  his  cloak  to  Henry  the  Fifth  on  the  eve 
of  Aginconrt,  and  bore  himself  nobly  in  that 
(tordy  encounter.  Sir  John  favoured  the  Lol- 
lards, and  for  this  heresy  was  sentenced  by 
Bishop  Spencer,  a  fighting  bishop,  to  build 
this  gate  aa  a  penauce.  Norwich  is  full  of  old 
houses,  old  churches,  and  oldbitsof  wall,  stolen 
originally  from  the  Roman  station  at  Caiator, 
for  the  legend  says  r 

Cuistnr  iraa  a  city  whiMi  If  onrich  waa  none, 
And  Norwich  win  buUt  of  Caiitor  tlono. 

The  churches,  too,  are  ot  great  antiquity. 
St.  Julian's,  with  the  round  and  very  ancient 
tower ;  St.  John's,  Maddcnnarkct,  earlier  tlian 
the  ConfcESor's  coronation ;  and  St.  Peter's, 
Uancroft,  the  finest  parish  church  in  England, 
excepting  St.  Mary's,  Rcdcliffc.  The  cathedral, 
though  begun  by  Bishop  Losinga  in  1094-,  was 
notfioUhedtUllElO. 


WITHERED  BLOSSOM. 

IS    TWO  CHAPIER3.      CHAPTER  II. 

Latb  that  night  I  went  to  look  at  the 
tDOonlight  from  the  stone  parapet  that  ran 
ronnd  the  hoase.  Belle  was  there  already, 
■taring  strsigbt  out  before  her.  She  Lad 
on  &a  old  dark  bine  wrapper,  and  her  nn- 
coQed  hair  lay  heavily  upon  it.  I  had  never 
seen  her  look  so  moody,  and  sho  did  not 
ttir  at  my  approach. 

"Maldng  onfc  pictures,  Belle  ?" 

The  water  broke  on  the  shinglo  with 


silver  foam ;  there  was  a  barge  with  lights 
on  it;  n,  lull  had  dropped  on  the  village. 

"  Yes,"  soid  Belle,  shortly. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?" 

"  Darkness,"  she  replied,  in  the  morbid, 
exaggerated  style  I  especially  disliked.  As 
she  spoke,  the  moon  passed  behind  a  cloud, 
and  the  lighted  bargo  wag  hidden  by  a  rock. 
A  (gloomy  blackncsa  had  suddenly  fiillen. 

Bello  shivered. 

"Who  would  he  a  prophet,"  she  said, 
"  with  a  future  like  that?" 

I  was  so  vexed  with  her  mood,  that  I  did 
not  care  to  stay. 

"  Good.night,  Belle,"  I  aaid.  "  I  don't 
think  prophets  ore  very  much  in  my  style. 
I  can't  see  your  visions,  and,  I  am  ttiankful 
to  say,  I  don't  dream  your  dreams." 

After  this  Btllo  grew  every  day  more 
fitful.  Ono  hour  her  oyes  would  bo  bright 
and  her  colour  high,  and  the  neit,  perhaps, 
it  would  have  faded,  and  her  fece  have  re- 
lapsed into  its  n-inal  pallor.  T,  who  was 
watching  her,  found  the  elne.  It  depended 
a  good  deal  on  tho  newcomer,  Jack  Cnrzon. 
Every  day,  as  it  passed,  confirmed  my  idea, 
until  at  last  it  grew  clear  to  every  one.  Ho 
WB9  making  love  to  Eontce. 

Frogmore  came  to  mo  in  despair. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  too  long,"  te  eaid. 
"  Nothing  that  I  could  say  tiotp  to  Eunice 
would  be  of  any  uso.  Sho  cares  for  him, 
and  it  is  too  late  for  me." 

"  They  are  not  engaged  P"  I  said,  my 
voice  alono  making  it  a  question. 

"  They  soon  will  be,"  he  returned,  with 
a  groan,  and  T  was  too  much  his  friend  to 
dispute  it. 

Eunice  came  to  me,  a  changed  character 
in  her  happiness. 

"  Dear,  dear  Devonshire,"  she  said,  "  and 
this  dear  house.  Mrs.  F.,  if  ever  I  have  a 
house,  it  shall  be  nice  like  this.  There  shall 
be  a  hall  with  nil  those  painted  stones  let  in, 
and  roses  and  geraniums  in  the  fireplace, 
and,  in  the  winter,  scented  fires;  and  I  would 

have  a  grey  soft  furry  shawl,  and it's 

aU  rather  confused  ill  my  mind  just  now, 
bat  I  would  have  the  jirc/(ies(  things." 

"You  httle,  foolish,  vague  girl,"  I  said, 
"  that  is  not  half  wliat  I  should  have  ex- 
pected you  to  say.  How  will  you  ever  be 
content  with  anything  so  perfectly  ordi- 
nary? Could  you  not  manage  a  running 
stream  through  your  hon.se,  with  the  '  pret- 
tiest' flowers  growing  in  the  water,  and 
little  golden  arrows  all  along  it?  This 
way  to  the  blue  room — to  the  guest's  best 
chamber — to  the  larder!  My  dew,  ■^•^"'Si. 
will  have  nothing  t\iat  w  oi^l  ul  \.\ie  -wa.-^  -' 


^= 


^ 


190       [Joly  24, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EOUND. 


lOoiidMtedlV 


Eunice  looked  up,  too  shj  to  saj  what 
her  eyes  said  for  her : 

"  But ^I  shall  have  Jack." 

Belle  came  to  me  with  an  endless  head- 
ache, that  I  could  not  cure.  She  would  sit 
by  iDY  conch  in  Bileuce.  watching  Eunice 
and  Curson  in  the  garden,  till  her  eyes,  I 
should  have  thought,  would  have  been 
tired.  I  cotdd  not  understand  it.  Our 
proud  Belle  to  tlunk  of  a  man  who  did  not 
care  for  her !  And  if  he  did  not  care  for 
her,  then  why  were  his  eyes  always  seeking 
her  face  ?  If  he  did  care  for  her,  then  why 
make  love  to  Eunice  ?  I  wearied  myself  to 
death  with  these  questions. 

Once,  I  remember,  when  Eunice  had  a 
headache  that  kept  her  in  her  room,  and 
Curzon  was  in  the  garden,  not  looking  up 
at  her  window,  as  is  the  wont  of  lovers, 
but  smoking  in  a  calm  content,  Belle  went 
out  to  him. 

"  Am  I  disturbing  you  ?"  she  asked ;  for 
at  her  approach  he  held  his  cigar  in  his 
hand. 

Curzon  looked  at  her  steadily  for  some 
instants,  and  then,  throwing  away  his  cigar, 
turned  and  walked  with  her. 

I  had  never  seen  silence  so  effective. 

I  become  very  anxious,  and  spoke  to  our 
hostess.  He  wajs  the  son  of  a  clergyman ; 
she  had  known  him  all  her  life.  A  flirt  ? 
Well,  she  had  never  thought  so ;  she  sup- 
posed he  did  admire  the  girls,  but  not  one 
she  thought  more  than  the  other.  He  was 
oftener  with  Eunice.  Well,  you  know.  Belle 
was  peculiar,  and  men  do  not  like  oddity. 
His  looking  at  her  so  much  would  be  easily 
explained.  She  had  expressions  of  face 
which  rivetted  the  attention. 

It  was  all  true,  and  I  was  not  satisfied. 

One  day,  I  was  more  than  usually  un- 
well, and  did  not  leave  my  couch  in  the 
drawing-room  window.  Sunset  coming 
round,  found  me  there.  BeUe,  who  had 
petting  ways  with  her  when  she  chose,  was 
lying  curled  up  beside  me,  quiet  and  still, 
with  her  hand  in  mine.  It  was  I,  at  last^ 
who  broke  the  long  silence. 

*'  Is  Captain  Frogmore  with  Eunice  ?*' 

"  No,  Mr.  Curzon." 

She  sjpoke  coldly,  which  was  her  way 
when  she  was  pained,  and  I  dropped  the 
subject. 

But  there  are  some  subjects  that  will  not 
be  dropped:  this  one  revived  within  our 
hearing. 

**  No,  I  am  not  diarming,"  said  Eunice, 

oontradicting.     "  For  a  great  many  people 

I  should  not  be  at  all  a  good  wife.     I  always 

£fe0  things  so  wretchedly  black,  and  I  am 


so  often  unhappy;  but,  of  course,  I  shall 
never  be  that  when  I  am  with  you." 

''  My  darling  !*'  said  Jack.  Belle  gave  a 
little  cry  of  pain. 

I  said  some  word  to  her  as  to  the  ex- 
pediency of  moving,  but  she  held  me  &st 

''Hush!"  she  said,  sharply.  '' I  vnU 
listen." 

''  I  never  thought  I  ehould  have  a  very 
hs^py  life,"  Eunice  went  on.  "  I  am  so 
glsbd  you  love  me.  Jack.  Belle  and  I  were 
always  sure  we  should  know  who  were 
going  to  love  us,  the  very  first  time  we  saw 
them.  Belle  always  declared  she  should 
knyow." 

"Did  she?"  said  Jack,  speaking  almoit 
as  dreamily  as  the  girls  might  have  done. 

I  supposed  he  did  not  care  very  much  to 
talk  about  Belle  just  then.  Eunice  evi- 
dently took  it  so. 

"  You  must  love  Belle,"  she  said.  "  She 
must  come  and  stay  with  us.  Afler  yon, 
there  is  no  one  I  love  like  Belle,  and  no  one 
understands  her  as  I  do.  You  do  not  know 
what  Belle  could  be  if  she  were  only  hap- 
pier. There  must  be  no  more  talk  of  go- 
vemessing  and  no  fuss.  BcUo  and  I  have 
had  horrid  lives,  but  it  must  bo  over  now. 
From  the  day  I  marry  she  must  never  be 

unhappy  i^in,  and  I oh,  Jack,  Jack, 

the  old  life  is  dropping  away.  I  do  not 
believe  in  sorrow.  I  love  you,  Jack,  I  love 
you." 

You  may  imagine  it  all.  The  hot  broil- 
ing day,  just  ^udually  turning  cool ;  the 
scents  that  rose  upward  from  the  red,  rich 
earth;  the  golden  bees  on  the  scented 
flowers,  and  Eunice  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  ^vith  her  curling  lashes  drooping  on 
her  dear  grey  eyes,  and  her  colour  rismg 
as  she  yielded  to  his  kiss.  I  glanced  H 
Belle.  Her  face  was  grey  and  her  eyos 
were  leaden.  She  did  not  stay  to  be  looked 
at,  but  escaped  from  the  room. 

Soon  after  this,  I  remember  on  evenings 
when  we  were  all  out  togetiier  on  the  lawn, 
listening  in  the  still  twihght  to  Curzon,  who 
was  addressing  himself  to  Eunice. 

He  was  imagining  situations,  and  asking 
her  what  she  ^ould  do  in  them. 

'^  Suppose,"  he  said,  *'  for  instaenco,  a  man 
goes  and  fiedls  in  love  with  a  girl  who  haa 
no  money,  and — in  brief,  he  leaves  her  fiir 
one  who  has.  Should  you  say  that  £eUow 
could  have  no  good  in  him,  no  heart,  that 
he  never  regretted  what  he  had  done  F" 

The  gathering  darkness  came  ooa  apaoe, 
but  I  saw  that  while  most  of  ns  gave  him 
eager  answers,  Belle  sat  silent  with  trouble 
in  her  eyes. 


=^ 


^ 


1 


&) 


Charles  Dickena.] 


WITHERED  BLOSSOM. 


[July  21, 18C9.]       191 


'*  What  do  you  thiiik  ?"  he  asked,  eud- 
denlj  txiniing  to  her. 

'^That  it  is  all  very  common,"  ahe  said, 
clear]  J  and  distinctly ;  "  that  for  anght  we 
know,  cases  like  that  may  be  going  on 
around  as  ;  that  impossible  as  it  would  be, 
the  girl  who  loved  him  might  think  he  re- 
tained good  throngh  it  all." 

Belle,  though  ^c  spoke  clearly,  did  not 
raise  her  voice,  and  I  do  not  know  that  her 
words  reached  any  bnt  Corzon  and  me. 

Eunice's  engagement  was  now  an  ac- 
knowledged thing.  It  came  to  be  nnder- 
stood  that  when  we  all  drove  and  rode  out 
together,  she  and  Jack  should  linger,  or 
be  always  a  little  in  advance.  Eunice  was 
kind-hearted,  and  too  fond  of  her  sister  to 
like  to  take  it  for  granted  that  she  sliould 
neyer  ride  with  them,  and  was  continually 
calling  her,  so  that  poor  Belle  was  always 
liable  to  catch  some  word  that  told  her  the 
never-ending  subject  of  their  talk.  Thus, 
it  was  in  one  of  these  long  Devonshire  rides 
by  the  Bea>  that  Eunice's  happiness  came  to 
an  end. 

Our  hostess  and  I  were  driving,  but  the 
riders  were  holding  in  their  horses  to  wsdk, 
and  BO  we  kept  all  pretty  well  together. 

Eunice  had  been  more  than  usually 
happy,  letting  her  words  fall  gaily  on  the 
still  air,  and  on  one  suiTocating  heart. 
There  was  a  tightening  round  Belle's 
heart,  sobs  rose  in  her  thi*oat,  and  a 
mist  was  before  her  eyes,  as  she  rode 
rapidly  on ;  on,  on,  away  from  theiL*  happy, 
heurtleas  words.  Her  pretty  figure  no 
kmger  held  straight  up,  her  dark  proud 
eyes,  proud  no  more,  but  glittering  and 
■hining  with  tears,  and  the  reins  hanging 
loosely  in  her  hands.  There  wei*e  great 
stones  along  the  road,  and  Belle  sat  her 
horse  so  listlessly,  that,  ujiohecked  by  any 
restraining  hand,  he  had  already  made 
several  sharp  swerving  movements,  that 
had  each  time  nearly  unseated  her,  with- 
out in  the  least  awakening  her  from  her 
dream.  I  called  Curzon's  attention  to  this, 
and  he  followed  her  instantly,  his  face  set, 
and  rigid  with  a  fear  that  was  not  ground- 
less. So  completely  had  Belle  lost  con- 
sciousness of  time  and  place,  that  what  we 
were  fearing  came  actually  to  pass. 

In  an  instant,  before  he  coidd  reach  her, 
there  was  a  cry  of  "Jack!"  The  horse  had 
thrown  her,  and  before  she  could  rise,  his 
hoof  had  struck  her  as  she  lay. 


t 


I  can  bear  Eunice's  shriek  as  her  sister 
felL  I  can  feel  again  the  faintness  of  that 
moment.     The  world  seemed  breaking  into 


stars  around  me ;  I  could  scarcely  see.  She 
was  not  dead.  I  heard  them  saying  it,  with 
their  voices  sounding  fiu:  off. 

Ah !  Belle,  Belle,  I  could  almost  have 
wished  that  you  were !  Her  arm  was  broken 
in  the  fall,  and  the  horse,  striking  her,  had 
done  her  some  internal  injuiy  that  made 
her  recovery  hopeless. 

At  such  a  time,  outward  sensations  are 
not  to  bo  relied  on.  I  doubt  my  senses, 
else  I  should  tlunk  that  Jack,  bending  over 
the  white  face,  had  kissed  it,  and  cncd : 

"  My  first  darling ;  my  one  love !" 

If  it  were  so,  the  words  struck  on  my  ear, 
and  penetrated  to  my  memory,  without  their 
sense  entering  my  mind.  Everything  but 
fear  seemed  ciiished  out  of  me,  even  sorrow. 
I  seemed  to  know  nothing  till  Belle  opened 
her  eyes,  and  looked  at  us. 

Then  the  flow  of  feeling  I'cturned,  and  I 
knew  we  had  all  lost  sometliing. 

I  took  Belle  into  my  own  room,  for  she 
was  fiightened  she  said,  when  she  woke  at 
night,  to  find  only  the  strange  nui"sc  watch- 
ing her,  and  Eunice  would  get  so  h^'steri- 
caily  excited,  that  at  last  she  was  forbidden 
to  enter  the  room. 

Down  to  the  end.  Belle's  old  dreams  and 
visions  kept  her  company.  It  was  dreadful 
to  hear  her,  for  in  her  delirium,  everything 
that  she  saw  seemed  to  be  broken. 

"  Oh  !"  she  would  say,  "  the  room  is  full 
of  broken,  white  wings.  A\Tiat  shall  I  do?" 

The  old  jealousy  of  Eunice  and  Jack 
haunted  her  like  a  haJf-forgotten  tliought. 

She  would  begin  to  call  to  her  sister,  and 
then  break  off,  while  her  eyes  grew  im- 
ploring and  dark.  One  string  of  words  I 
had  never  heard  before ;  she  said  them  over 
and  over  again : 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  in  mc  to  love  any 
one  as  I  do  you,  Belle." 

This  passed.  The  fever  wore  it«olf  out, 
and  Belle  woke  cool  and  sensible,  and  made 
me  call  for  Eunice. 

Poor  Eunice  !  Wlien  she  came,  she  got 
up  on  the  bed,  and  hid  her  face,  that  Belle 
might  not  see  her  eyes. 

** Don't  go,  Mrs.  F.,"  said  Belle;  "stay 
and  listen.  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you, 
Eunice.  Will  you  hear  it  r"  Eunice  sig- 
nified assent,  without  lifting  her  face. 

"  Hold  mo  higher,"  said  Belle ;  "  I  must 
soe  the  waves.  I  don't  suppose  I  could  tell 
this  story  ivithout  them." 

It  was  a  rough  sea,  and  there  was  a 
strong  undercurrent  that  sent  all  the  waves 
westward. 

"  It  is  a  love-story,"  said  Bclk,  "  ^:sA^ 
it  will  interest  you,  EiTxmce  " 


<^ 


=Si 


192 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[JtdyHlMI] 


Eanico  stirred  with  an  instinctive  know- 
ledge of  what  was  coming. 

"It  is  rather  commonplace,  perhaps," 
Belle  went  on ;  *'  one  of  the  characters  is 
desperately  so;  jnst  a  stnpid,  happy  girl, 
looking  at  the  world  across  some  red 
flowers,  beyond  which  stood  her  lover. 
Ah !  it  was  pretty,  Eunice !  The  hedges 
were  red  in  the  evening  glow,  red  stresmis 
of  light  ran  down  the  hills  npon  the  heather, 
and  even  the  cattle  seemed  stained.  I  was 
so  happy,  dear !  What  yonr  lover  has  said 
to  yon,  more,  mnch  more,  mine  then  said  to 
me.  I  love  the  very  dress  I  heard  it  in. 
Ah,  me,  mo !" 

**  Yon  never  told  me,"  whispered  Eunice, 
great  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes. 

"  What  should  I  teU  yon  ?  That,  after 
this  day,  there  arose  something  that  chilled 
me,  as  cold  and  invisible  as  a  wind  ?  That, 
evening  after  evening,  through  the  red 
light,  the  old  sweet  dream  passed  further 
away?  He  let  it  pass,  as  though  it  had 
never  been,  and  ignored  it  all.  He  went 
away,  without  one  more  word,  and  I  stood 
on  the  beach  and  watched  the  boat  go.  The 
waves  receded  from  me,  leaving  the  stones 
wet  with  what  had  been  there.  They 
seemed  to  be  following  him,  I  thought-—- 
going  westward,  as  his  boat  had  gone. 
There  is  no  more,  Eunice ;  you  know  his 
name." 

"  No,  no,  no  r  cried  Eunice.  "  Oh,  dear 
Belle,  say  it  was  not  he  !" 

'^  It  was  Jack,"  said  Belle.  And  then  there 
came  on  a  great  paroxysm  of  her  old  pain, 
and  we  were  told  she  would  probably  not 
last  out  the  night.  Delirium  took  posses- 
sion of  her.  She  talked  again  of  the  broken, 
white  wings,  of  her  mother  and  Eunice,  of 
the  waves  and  Jack. 

"Jack!  Jack!  Jack!"  till  one's  heart 
ached  at  the  sound. 

We  tried  at  last,  bringing  him  to  her. 
But  it  was  too  late  then.  She  lay  in  a  sort 
of  trance,  from  which  she  never  woke. 

She  died  while  the  sea  was  still  rough 
and  the  current  strong ;  with  the  moonlight 
she  had  loved,  shining  on  her  face. 

Jack  saw  her  often  thus.  The  dead  girl 
lying  so  white  and  still,  had  recovered  all 
her  old  power.  The  greatest  beauiy  in  the 
land  could  only  keep  her  lover  at  her  side, 
and  through  all  the  long  hours  poor  Belle 
could  do  ^ns.  Jack,  as  he  held  her  clasped 
in  his  arms,  now  loved  her  as  vainly  as  she 
had  loved  him. 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  in  me  to  love  any 
one  as  I  do  you,  Belle !" 


So  he  moaned.  It  seemed  to  me  thai 
the  dead  girl  spoke,  and  I  knew,  for  obn 
tain  now,  who  had  said  those  words. 

I  had  a  long  talk  with  Eunice,  and  ei- 
plained  to  her  Curzon's  motives,  and  the 
mercenary  spirit  that  had  risen  in  his 
breast  against  love ;  but  she  knew  it  all 
now  as  well  as  I  did,  knew  that  the  ima- 
ginary case  he  had  put  to  her  was  his  own, 
and  never  exchanged  another  word  wA 
him. 

Later,  Frogmore  made  his  long-deftned 
proposal,  but  was  not,  to  my  sorrow,  ao> 
cepted.  I  left  Devonshire  after  this,  and 
the  others  scattered :  Eunice  going  home  to 
her  father.  Just  before  I  left,  she  came 
and  hung  round  my  neck,  smoothing  my 
hair  with  her  soft  hands,  and  speaking  in 
a  pathetic  voice. 

"  I  shall  never  marry,"  she  said.  "  Belie 
rises  between  me  and  Jack.  And,  besides,  I 
know  that  he  never  loved  me." 

"  But  Captain  Frogmore,"  I  said,  eager 
for  her  answer. 

"  Oh  no,  oh  no  !"  cried  she,  and  was  still 
so  crying  when  I  left  her. 

Several  years  later,  returning  to  Englaiid, 
after  a  long  absence,  I  found  a  letter  await* 
ing  me  from  my  Devonshire  hostess,  asking 
me  again  to  her  country-house. 

"Eunice  is  here,"  she  wrote,  "and  1 
know  you  will  like  to  see  her." 

And  truly,  when  I  drove  up  the  kng 
avenue  to  the  house,  there  was  Ennioe  in 
the  verandah,  with  her  dark  eyes  Bhimng 
as  in  the  olden  times.  And  a  little,  fearieu 
child  came  running  out  at  the  door,  pntixng 
up  her  arms  to  be  tskken  in  mine,  emd  hoUt 
ing  out  her  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

"What  is  your  name,  littfe  darling?"! 
asked.     "  Whose  dear  little  girl  are  yon  P" 

"Mamma's  little  girl,"  said  the  little 
dark-eyed  thing,  "  and  papa's  Pnssy,  and 
my  name  is  Belle  Frogmore." 

On  SatnrdAj  7Ui  Angnat,  1868, 
Will  be  comxneneed  in  "  All  th>  Tsae  Bouvp:" 

VERONICA, 

Bj  the  Author  of  <*  Amrr  MAxeisn^f  Tbousis.* 

A  mSW  SBBIAL  8T0BT, 
To  he  continued  from  week  to  week  until  oomplflei 


Now  Heady,  price  5i.  6d.,  bound  in  green  doth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

01 THB  Nsw  SiBxn  Ol 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  had  of  ell  BodknUen. 


I^  Hi^i^  qf  Tratuiating  JriieUtfrm  All  tbi1iia"Ro\st8lt>  it  retewei  h%  ih§  Jmikon. 


J 


rabUgked  al  ttae  OlBoe,  No.  Si,  WeUinfwn  Strecv  Strwnd.    VtSnMtV  \ri  C  ^ ' 


;^ESTORyQE-OllH.-J.IvzS-JE.oMY^«\,TOY£AlO 


CONDUCT  to -Ey 
WITH  WHICH  IS  InCORfOF^Tl^D 

t  ^0  JsEHOLp'WbUpS  Z 


SATUBDAT,  JULY  ;;i,  1860. 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


BOOK  in. 

CHAPTER  III.      MAEIAN'e  RESOLVE. 

To  have  an  income  of  fifteen  thonsand  a 
year,  and  to  be  her  own  miatresB,  would, 
one  would  have  imagined,  have  placed 
Marian  Creswell  on  the  pinnacle  of  worldly 
»8,  and  rendered  her  perfectly  happy. 
In  the  wildest  day-dreams  of  her  jonth  she 
had  never  thought  of  attaining  such  an 
income,  and  such  a  position  ag  that  income 
afforded  her.  The  pleasnrea  of  that  poai- 
tion  she  had  onlyjnst  begun  to  appreciate ; 
for  the  life  at  WoolgreavcH,  though  with 
its  domeetie  comforts,  its  oarriBges  and 
horses  and  attentive  servants,  infinitely 
superior  to  the  life  in  the  Helmingham 
school-house,  had  no  flavour  of  the  outside 
world.  Her  place  in  her  particnlar  sphere 
was  very  much  elevated,  but  that  sphere 
was  as  circnmscribed  as  ever.  It  was  not 
tmtil  after  her  husband's  death  that  Marian 
felt  she  had  really  come  into  her  kingdom. 
The  industrious  gentlemen  who  pnbhflh  in 
the  newspapers  ejttracts  from  the  last  wills 
and  testaments  of  rich  or  di.stinguished 
persons,  thereby  planting  a  weekly  dagger  in 
the  bosoms  of  the  impecunious,  who  are  led 
by  a  strange  kind  of  fascination  to  read  of  the 
enormous  sums  gathered  and  bequeathed, 
had  of  couTBe  not  overlooked  the  testamen- 
tary disposition  of  Mr.  Creswell.  "  of  Wool- 
gTfkves,  and  Charleyoourt  Mills,  Brock- 
BOpp,  cotton-spinner  and  mill-owner,"  but 
had  nobly  placed  him  at  the  head  of  one  of 
their  weekly  lists.     So  that    when    Mrs. 

I  Creswell  "  and  anite,"  as  they  were  good 
enough  to  describe  her  servants  in  the 
local  papers,  arrived  at  the  great  hotel  at 
Tnntnidge  Welia,  the  faaatiouaries  of  that 


magnificent  establishment — great  creatures 
aeonstomed  to  associate  with  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  and  having  a  proper  contempt,  which 
they  do  not  sufier  themselves  to  disguise 
for  the  ordinary  traveller — were  fiun  ti 
smile  on  her,  and  to  give  her  snch  a  wel- 
come as  only  the  knowledge  of  the  extent 
to  which  they  intended  mulcting  her  in 
the  bill  could  jjossihly  have  extorted  from 
them.  The  same  kindly  feeUng  towards 
her  animated  all  the  sojourners  in  that 
pleasant  watering- place.  No  sooner 
her  name  appeared  in  the  Strangers'  List, 
no  sooner  had  it  been  bneeed  about  that 
she  was  the  Mrs.  Creswell,  whose  husband 
had  recently  died,  leaving  her  so  wonder 
faUy  well  ofi',  than  she  became  an  object  of 
intense  popular  interest. 

Two  ladies  of  title — the  widow  of  : 
viscount  (Irish),  and  the  wife  of  a  baronet 
(English),  insolvent,  and  at  that  moment 
in  exile  in  the  island  of  Coll,  there  hiding 
from  his  creditors — left  cards  on  her,  and 
earnestly  desired  the  pleasure  of  her  a 
quaintance.  The  roistering  youth  of  the 
place,  the  East  India  colon eis,  the  gay  d 
saperannnated  from  the  government  ofBi 
the  retired  basiness  men,  who,  in  the  fellow 
leisure  of  their  lives,  did  what  they  wonid 
— all  looked  en  her  with  longing  eyes,  and 
set  their  wits  to  work  on  all  sorts  of 
schemes  to  compass  knowing  her.  Oi 
laymen  the  clergy  have  a  great  advs 
tage,    their    mission    is   in   itself  sufficient 

troduction,  and  lists  of  all  the  local 
charities,  district  churches  to  be  erected, 
parsonages  to  be  repaired,  and  schools  to 
be  established,  had  been  presented  by  those 
interested  in  them  to  the  rich  widow  in 
person  before  she  had  been  forty-eight 
hours  in  the  place. 

It  was  very   pWsa.TA,  ftaa  ■^w^'a.vi.Nrj,^ 
this  being  aought  atter  a.ii4.  cwii^Ai  wtA^ 


di 


I 


194f    [Juiy8i,i8sa.> 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


COoBflMtedby 


o£^  and  MaiHan  enjoyed  it  tho- 
roBgUr.  TTnqucstiflial^,  she  kad  nGwer 
mijtrfed  anything  so  wmAi  in  her  peeviovB 
lift>,  and  Iwr  (mjoyiaenl  Imd  no  alhyf.  T-er 
althoi^jii  just  Ubm  kcr  finsbsnd's  death, 
and  Sgm  aosne  little  tiao  after,  she  had  had 
cerbum  tmngcs  of  ovnscience  as  to  the  part 
she  kad  act<.'d  in  leaving  him  ignorant  of 
an  her  relations  >vith  Walter  Joyce  when 
8he  niATried  him,  that  iralixig  I^ODoa  died 
SMntf.  Before  leavng  home  slie  had  Had 
a  ¥nb&  experience  of  absolute  enjoyment  in 
mgmg  cdieqpes  with  her  own  name,  and 
in  being  eonSBlted  by  Mr.  Teesdale  as  to 
same  Iwmuie—  af  herwtativand  this  feeling 
increased  veiy  much  during  her  stay  at 
Tunbridgc  Wells.  Nevertheless,  she  did 
not  remain  there  very  long;  ehe  was 
pleased  at  being  told  that  her  duties  re- 
qnired  her  at  home,  and  sho  was  by  no 
means  one  to  shirk  such  duties  as  the 
management  df  an  enormous  property  in- 
volved. 

So  Marian  Creswell  went  back  to  Wool- 
greaves,  and  busied  herself  in  learning  the 
details  of  her  ii^eritanoe,  in  receiving  from 
Mr.  Teeedale  an  acoonnt  of  his  past  stew- 
ardship, and  listening  to  his  propositions 
for  the  future.  It  was  very  {feasant  at 
first;  there  were  so  many  figures,  the 
amounts  involved  were  so  enormous ;  there 
were  huge  parchment  deeds  to  look  at,  and 
actaal  painted  maps  of  her  estates.  She 
hsd  imagined  that  during  that  period  just 
prior  to  their  marriage,  when  she  made 
herself  useful  to  Mr.  Creswell,  she  had  ac- 
quired some  notion  of  his  wealth,  but  sho 
now  found  she  had  not  heard  o(  a  tenth 
part  of  it.  There  was  a  slate  quarry  in 
WateSy  a  brewery  in  Leamington,  interest 
in  Australian  ships,  liens  on  Indian  rail- 
ways, and  house  property  in  London. 
There  seemed  no  end  to  the  wealth,  and 
for  the  first  few  weeks,  looking  at  the  de- 
tails of  it  with  her  own  eyes,  or  listening 
to  the  account  of  it  in  Mr.  Teesdale*s 
sonorous  voice,  afforded  her  real  pleasure. 
Then  gradually,  and  almost  imperceptibly, 
came  back  upon  her  that  feeling  which  had 
overwhelmed  her  in  her  husband*s  lifetime, 
of  which  she  had  gotten  rid  for  some  little 
space,  but  which  now  returned  with  fifby- 
fold  force,  "  What  is  tlie  good  of  it  aU  ?" 

What  indeed  ?  She  sat  in  the  midst  of 
her  possessions  more  lonely  than  the  poor- 
est cotter  on  any  of  hei*  estates,  less  cared 
for  than  the  worn-out  miner,  for  whom, 
nUber  his  day's  toil,  his  wife  prepared  the 
evening  meal,  and  his  children  huddled 
al  luB  knee.     Formerly  her  husband  had 


bee»  there,  with  his  kindly  fhoe  and  hii 
fioit  voioe»  and  she  had  known  that,  net- 
wiftistan&i|;  M  cbfierence  of  age  and  tem- 
perament bgtiwua  them,  so  long  aa  he  lived 
there  was  one  to  love  her  with  a  devotion 
which  is  the  lot  of  few  in  this  world.  Now 
he  was  gone,  and  she  was  alone.  Aloue! 
It  was  a  maddening  thought  to  a  wonMn 
of  Marian's  condition,  without  the  oonsola' 
tian  of  retigios,  wgthomt  the  patience  calmly 
to  aceapt  her  &te,  without  the  power  of 
bowing  to  the  inevitable.  Where  money 
was  concerned  she  could  hardly  bring  her- 
self in  recognise  the  inevitable,  conld 
scarcely  understand  that  people  of  her 
wealth  should,  against  their  own  will,  be 
leffc  alone  in  this  world,  and  that  love, 
friendship,  and  all  their  sweet  associations, 
could  not  be  bought. 

Love  and  friendship  !  Of  the  latter  she 
could  scarcely  be  said  to  have  had  any  ex- 
perience ;  for  Marion  Ashurst  was  not  a 
girl  who  made  friends,  and  Mrs.  Creswell 
found  no  one  equal  to  being  admitted  to 
such  a  bond ;  and  as  to  the  former,  though 
she  had  enjoyed  it  once,  she  had  almost  for- 
gotten all  about  it.  It  came  back  to  her, 
however,  as  she  thought  over  it;  aU  the 
sweet  words,  the  soft  endearing  epitheto, 
and  tlie  loving  looks  came  back  to  her;  all 
the  fond  memory  of  tliat  time  when,  for  a 
period,  the  demon  of  avarice  was  stilled,  the 
gnawing  desire  for  money,  and  what  monej 
in  her  idea  might  brings  was  quenched; 
when  she  was  honestly  proud  of  her  lover, 
happy  in  the  present,  and  expectant  <^  tbe 
future.  She  recollected  the  poor  dresses 
and  the  dieap  trinkets  which  she  had  in 
those  days ;  the  wretched  little  presents 
which  she  and  Walter  had  exchanged,  and 
the  pleasure  she  exporienoed  at  receiving 
them  at  his  hands.  She  remembered  the 
locket,  with  her  portrait,  which  she  had 
given  him,  and  wondered  what  had  become 
of  it.  He  had  it,  doubtless,  still,  for  he  had 
never  returned  it  to  her,  not  even  in  that 
first  wild  access  of  rage  which  he  may 
have  felt  at  the  receipt  of  the  letter  an- 
nouncing her  intended  marriage,  nor  since, 
when  he  had  cooled  down  into  comparative 
carelessness.  S  urely  that  argued  something 
in  her  favour  ?  Surely  that  showed  that 
he  had  yet  some  lingering  regard  for  her? 
In  all  that  had  been  told  her  of  him,  and 
specially  during  the  election  time  she  had 
heard  much,  no  mention  had  ever  been 
made  of  any  woman  to  whom  he  was  pay- 
ing attention.  She  had  thought  of  that 
before ;  sho  remembered  it  deh'ghtedly 
now.     Could  it  be  that  in  the  secret  re- 


I 


I. 


S-. 


:&> 


OhuiM  Dlckena.] 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


fJnly31.18e9.]      195 


oesses  of  his  heart  there  glimmered  yet, 
nnqaenchedy  a  spark  of  love  for  her,  the 
idol  of  his  youth  ?  It  was  not  nnlOcely, 
she  thonght ;  he  was  very  romantic,  as  she 
remembered  him,  just  the  sort  of  man  in 
whom  commerce  with  the  world  wonld  be 
insufficient  to  blot  out  early  impressions, 
to  e&ce  cherished  ideals. 

Gould  it  be  possible  that  the  great  crisis 
in  her  life  was  yet  to  come  ?  That  the  op- 
portunity was  yet  to  be  given  her  of  hav- 
ing wealth  and  position,  and,  to  share  them 
with  her,  a  husbemd  whom  she  could  love, 
sod  of  whom  she  could  be  proud  ?  Her 
happiness  seemed  almost  too  great ;  and  yet 
it  was  there  on  the  cards  before  her.  For^ 
getting  all  she  had  done,  and  shutting  her 
^es  to  ihe  fact  that  she  herself  had  made 
an  enormous  gulf  between  them,  she  blindly 
argued  to  herself  that  it  was  impossible  sucm 
bve  as  Walter  Joyce's  for  her  could  ever 
be  wholly  eradicated,  that  some  spark  of 
its  former  fire  must  yet  remain  in  its  ashes, 
and  needed  but  tact  and  opportunity  on 
her  part  to  &n  it  again  into  a  flame.  What 
would  not  life  be,  then,  were  that  accom- 
plished ?  She  had  been  pleased  -with  the 
notion  of  entering  society  as  Mr.  Greswell's 
wife  (poor,  prosaic  Mr.  Creswell  1),  but  as 
the  wife  of  Walter  Joyce,  who  was,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Gould,  one  of  the  most  rising 
men  of  the  dav,  and  who  would  have  her 
fortune  at  his  oack  to  further  his  schemes 
and  advance  his  interests,  what  might  not 
be  done !  Marian  glowed  with  delight  at 
this  ecstatic  day-dream ;  sat  cherishing  it  for 
hours,  thinking  over  all  kinds  of  combi- 
nations ;  finally  put  it  aside  with  the  full 
determination  to  take  some  steps  towards 
seeing  Walter  Joyce  at  once. 

How  lucl^  it  was,  she  thought,  that 
she  had  behaved  amiably  on  the  announce- 
ment of  Gertrude  Greswell's  marriage,  and 
not,  as  she  had  felt  inclined  at  first  to  do, 
returned  a  savage,  or  at  best  a  formal, 
answer  1  These  people,  these  Benthalls, 
were  just  those  through  whose  agency  her 
designs  must  be  carried  out.  They  were 
Tory  friendly  with  Walter,  and  of  course 
fiaw  somethmg  of  him ;  indeed,  she  had 
heard  that  he  was  expected  down  to  stay 
at  Helmingham,  so  soon  as  he  could  get 
away  £rom  London.  If  she  played  her 
cuds  well — ^not  too  openly  at  first,  but 
with  circumspection  —  she  might  make 
good  use  of  these  people;  and  as  they 
would  not  be  too  well  ofi*,  even  with  the 
interest  of  Qertrude^s  money,  if  they  had  a 
&mily  (and  this  sort  of  people,  poor  par- 
sons and  schoolmasters — James  Ashurst's 


daughter  had  already  learned  to  speak  in 
that  way — al^vays  had  a  large  number  of 
children)  she  might  be  able,  in  time,  to 
buy  their  services  and  mould  them  to  her 
will. 

It  was  under  the  influence  of  such  feel- 
ings that  Marian  had  determined  on  being 
exceedingly  polite  to  the  Benthalls,  and 
she  regretted  very  much  that  she  had  been 
away  from  home  when  they  called  on  her. 
Slie  wrote  a  note  to  that  efi*ect  to  Mrs. 
Bentliall,  and  intimated  her  intention  of 
returning  the  visit  almost  immediately. 
Mrs.  Benthall  showed  the  note  to  her 
husband,  who  read  it  and  lifted  his  eye- 
brows, and  asked  his  wife  what  it  meant, 
and  why  the  widow  had  suddenly  become 
so  remarkably  attached  to  them.  Mrs. 
Benthall  professed  her  inability  to  answer 
his  question,  but  remarked  that  it  was  a 
good  thing  tliat  'Hhat'*  was  all  settled 
between  Maud  and  Walter,  before  Walter 
came  in  madam's  way  again. 

^*  But  he  isn't  likely  to  come  in  her  way 
ag^ain,"  said  the  Reverend  G-eorge. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Gteety ;  "  this 
sudden  friendship  for  us  looks  to  me  very  ' 
much  as  though " 

*^  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  think  Mrs. 
Greswell  intends  making  a  convenience  of 
us  ?"  asked  Mr.  Benthall. 

"  I  think  she  did  so  intend,"  said  Ger- 
trude; "but  she " 

"We'll  have  nothing  of  that  sort!" 
cried  Mr.  Benthall,  going  through  that 
process  which  is  known  as  "  flaring-up ;" 
"  we  can  get  on  well  enough  without  her, 
and  her  presents,  and  if " 

"  Ah,  you  silly  thing,"  interrupted  G^eav 
trude,  "  don't  you  see  that  when  Walter 
marries  Maud,  there  will  be  an  end  of 
any  use  to  which  we  could  be  put  by  Mrs. 
Creswell,  even  if  we  were  not  going  away 
to  the  Newmanton  living  in  a  very  few 
weeks  ?  You  may  depend  upon  it,  that  as 
soon  as  she  hears  the  news — and  I  will 
take  care  to  let  her  know  it  when  she  calls 
here — she  will  gracefully  retire,  and  during 
the  remainder  of  our  stay  in  Helmingham 
we  shall  see  very  little  more  of  the  rich 
widow." 

On  the  night  of  his  acceptance  by  Maud 
Greswell,  Walter  wrote  a  long  letter  to 
Lady  Goroline.  He  wrote  it  in  his  room, 
the  old  room  in  which  he  used  to  sleep 
in  his  usher  days,  when  all  the  household 
was  in  bed,  after  an  evening  passed  by 
him  in  earnest  conversation  with  Maud 
and  Gertrude)  while  Mr.  BeiiN^Qsi^ \sv^^ 


r= 


^ 


196      [July  31, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oonrlactedlij 


/ 


himself  with  an  arrangement  of  affairs 
consequent  npon  his  giving  up  the  school, 
which  he  had  decided  upon  doing  at 
Midsummer.  In  the  course  of  that  long 
conversation  Walter  mentioned  that  he  was 
about  to  write  to  Lady  Caroline,  acquaint- 
ing her  with  what  had  taken  place,  and 
also  told  the  girls  of  his  having  consulted 
her  previous  to  the  step  which  he  had 
taken.  He  thought  this  information,  as 
showing  Lady  Caroline's  approbation  of 
the  match,  woxdd  be  hailed  with  great 
delight;  and  he  was  surprised  to  see  a 
look  pass  between  Maud  and  Gertrude,  and 
to  hear  the  latter  say : 

"  0  Walter,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you 
asked  Lady  Caroline's  advice  as  to  your 
marrringMand?" 

"  Certainly  I  did ;  and  I  am  sure  Maud 
will  see  nothing  strange  in  it.  She  knows 
perfectly  well  that " 

"  It  is  not  for  Maud's  sake  that  I 
spoke  ;  but — but,  Walter,  had  you  no  idea, 
no  811  picion  that " 

"  1  hat  what,  my  dear  Gertrude  ?  Pray 
finish  your  sentence." 

"  That  Lady  Caroline  cared  for  you 
herself?" 

"  Cared  for  me !" 

"  Cared  for  you !  loved  you  !  wanted  to 
marry  you !  Can  I  find  plainer  language 
than  that  ?" 

"  Good  heavens,  child,  what  nonsense 
are  you  talking !  There  is  not  the  re- 
motest foundation  for  any  such  belief. 
Lady  Caroline  is  my  kindest  and  best 
friend.  If  there  were  no  social  difference 
between  us,  I  should  say  she  had  behaved 
to  me  as  a  sister ;  but  as  for  anything  else 
— nonsense,  Gertrude !" 

Gtirtrude  said  no  more  ;  she  merely 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  changed  the 
subject.  But  the  effect  of  that  conversa- 
tion was  not  lost  on  Walter  Joyce.  It 
showed  in  the  tone  of  his  letter  to  Lady 
Caroline  written  that  night,  softening  it 
and  removing  it  entirely  from  the  brusque 
and  business-hke  style  of  correspondence 
which  he  generally  indulged  in. 

The  next  day  he  left  Helmingham  early, 
having  had  a  stroll  with  Maud — ^in  which 
he  expressed  his  wish  that  the  marriage 
should  take  place  as  soon  as  possible — and 
a  short  talk  with  Gertrude,  in  which,  how- 
ever, he  made  no  reference  to  the  topic 
discussed  on  the  previous  evening. 

It  was  a  lucky  thing  that  Mr.  Joyce 

had  started  by  an  early  train ;  for  the  Ben- 

thalls  had  scarcely  finished  their  luncheon, 

before  there  was  a  violent  ringing  at  the 


gate-bell  —  there  was  no  servant  in  the 
county  who,  for  his  size,  could  make  more 
noise  than  Marian's  tiger — and  Mrs.  Cres- 
well  was  announced.  She  had  driven  the 
ponies  slowly  over  from  Woolgreaves,  and 
had  been  enjoying  the  bows  and  adulation 
of  the  villagers  as  she  came  along.  Though 
of  course  she  had  driven  through  the  vil- 
lage scores  of  times,  she  had  never  been 
to  the  schoolhouse  since  she  lefl  it  with 
her  mother  on  their  memorable  visit  to 
Woolgreaves,  that  visit  which  resulted  in 
her  marriage. 

Mrs.  Creswell  was  not  an  emotional  wo- 
man ;  but  her  heart  beat  rather  &ster  than 
was  its  placid  wont  as  she  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  gate,  and  stepped  at  once 
into  the  garden,  where  so  many  of  the 
scenes  of  her  early  history  had  been  passed. 
There  was  the  lawn,  as  untidy  as  in  her 
poor  father's  days,  bordered  by  the  big 
elm-trees,  under  whose  shadow  she  had 
walked  in  the  dull  summer  evenings,  as 
the  hum  from  the  dormitories  settled  down 
into  silence  and  slumber;  and  her  lover 
was  free  to  join  her  there,  and  to  walk 
with  her  until  their  frugal  supper  was 
announced.  There  were  the  queer  star- 
and  pear-shaped  flower-beds,  the  Virginia- 
creeper  waving  in  feathery  elegance  along 
the  high  wall,  the  other  side  of  which  was 
put  to  far  more  practical  purposes :  bore 
stucco  instead  of  climbers,  and  re-echoed 
to  the  balls  of  the  fives  players.  There 
were  the  narrow  walks,  the  old  paintless 
gate-bell,  that  lived  behind  iron  bars,  the 
hideous  stone  pine-apples  on  either  side  of 
the  door,  just  as  she  remembered  them. 

In  the  drawing-room,  too,  where  she 
was  received  by  Mrs.  Benthall,  with  the 
exception  of  a  smell  of  stale  tobacco,  there 
was  no  difference:  the  old  paper  on  the 
walls,  the  old  ftimiture,  the  old  dreary 
out-look. 

After  the  first  round  of  visiting-talk, 
Marian  asked  Gertrude  how  she  liked  her 
new  home. 

Gerty  was,  if  anything,  frank. 

"  Well,  I  hke  it  pretty  well,"  she  said. 
"  Of  course  it's  all  new  to  me,  and  the  boys 
are  great  fun." 

"  Are  they  ?"  said  Marian,  with  an  odd 
smile ;  "  they  must  have  changed  a  great 
deal.  I  know  I  didn't  think  them  *  great 
fun'  in  my  day." 

"Well,  I  mean  for  a  little  time.  Of 
course  they'd  bore  one  awfully  very  soon; 
and  I  think  this  place  wotdd  bore  one 
frightfully  after  a  time,  so  dull  and  grim, 
isn't  it  ?" 


^ 


diaries  DIckeiiM.J 


NIGHT  ON  THE  MINCH. 


[July  31, 1861).]       197 


u 


ll 

I- 


It's  very  qtiiet ;  but  jou  mustn't  let  it 
bore  yon,  as  yon  call  it.*' 

"  O,  that  won't  matter  mnch,  becanse  it 
will  only  be  for  so  short  a  time." 

*•  So  short  a  time !  Are  yon  going  to 
leave  Helmingham  ?" 

"  0  yes ;  haven't  yon  heard  ?  George  has 
got  a  living,  snch  a  jolly  place,  they  say, 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  Newmanton  they  call 
it ;  and  we  give  np  here  at  Midsnmmcr." 

"  I  congratulate  you,  my  dear  Gertrude, 
as  much  aa  I  bewail  my  own  misfortune. 
I  was  looking  forward  with  such  pleasure 
to  having  you  within  reachable  distance  in 
this  horribly  unneighbourly  neighbourhood, 
and  now  you  dash  all  my  hopes !  Whence 
did  Mr.  Benthall  get  this  singular  piece  of 
good  fortune  ?" 

*'  George  got  the  presentation  from  Lord 
Hetherington,  who  is  a  friend  of  Wal — 
I  mean  of  a  great  friend  of  ours.  And 
Lord  Hetherington  had  seen  George  'in 
London,  and  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  as 
so  many  people  do ;  and  he  begged  his 
friend  to  offer  this  living  to  George." 

'^  That  is  very  delightful  indeed ;  I  must 
congratulate  you,  though  I  must  say  I 
deserve  a  medal  for  my  unselfishness  in 
doing  so.  It  will  be  charming  for  your 
sister,  too ;  she  never  liked  this  part  of  the 
couniry  much,  I  think ;  and  of  course  she 
will  live  with  you  ?" 

"  No,  not  live  with  us  ;  we  shall  see  her 
whenever  she  can  get  away  from  London, 
I  hope." 

"  From  London !  ah,  I  forgot.    Of  course 

she  will  make  your  friend  Lady — Man — 

Lady  Mansergh's  her  head-quarters  ?" 

"No ;  you  are  not  right  yet,  Mrs.  Cres- 

1^  well,"  said  Gertrude,  smiling  in  great  de- 

il  light,  and  showing  all  her  teeth.     "The 

li  fact  is,  Maud  is  going  to  be  married,  and 

(I  afl«r  her  marriage  she  will  live  the  greater 

!;  part  of  the  year  in  London." 

"To  be  married  !  indeed  !"  said  Marian 

— «he  always  hated  Maud  much  more  than 

Gertrude.     "  May  one  ask  to  whom  ?" 
"  Oh,  certainly ;  every  one  will  know  it 

SOW; — to    the    new    member    here,    Mr. 

Joyce." 
''Indeed!"    said  Marian,   quite  calmly 

(trust  her  for  that).     "  I  should  think  they 

^otdd  be  excellently  matched !     My  dear 

Gertrude,  how  on  earth  do  you  get  these 

flowers  to  grow  in  a  room  ?     Mine  are  all 

lighted,  the  merest  brown  horrors." 


"Would  he  prefer  that  pale  spiritless 
P^\ — not  spiritless,  but  missish,  knowing 
i^othing  of  the  world  and  its  ways — to  a 


woman  who  could  stand  by  his  side  in  an 
emergency,  and  help  him  throughout  his 
life  ?  Am  I  to  be  for  ever  finding  one  or 
other  of  these  doll-children  in  my  way? 
Shall  I  give  up  this  last,  greatest  hope, 
simply  because  of  this  preposterous  ob- 
stacle ?  Invention  too,  perhaps,  of  the 
other  girl's,  to  annoy  me.  Walter  is  not 
that  style  of  man — last  person  on  earth  to 

fancy   a  bread-and-butter  miss,    who 

We  will  see  who  shall  win  this  time.  This 
is  an  excitement  which  I  certainly  had  not 
expected." 

And  the  ponies    never    went    so    fast 
before. 


NIGHT  ON  THE  MINCH. 

"  She  is  a  poor  thing,  a  bit  toy  !'*  said  the 
skipper  of  the  Lowland  trader,  regarding  the 
Uttle  yacht  Tern  from  the  deck  of  his  big 
vessel,  while  we  lay  in  Canna  Harbour  :  **  She's 
no'  for  these  seas  at  all ;  and  the  quicker  ye 
are  awa'  hame  wi*  her  round  the  Rhu«  ye'U  be 
the  wiser.  She  should  never  hae  quitted  the 
Clyde." 

Set  by  the  side  of  the  trader's  great  hull,  she 
certainly  did  look  a  **  toy"  :  so  tiny,  so  slight, 
with  her  tapering  mast  and  slender  spars.  To 
all  our  enumeration  of  her  good  qualities,  the 
skipper  merely  rephed  with  an  incredulous 
^^  oomph,"  and  assured  us  that,  were  she  as 
"good  as  gold,"  the  waters  of  the  Minch  would 
drown  her  like  a  rat  if  there  was  any  wind  at  all. 
Few  yachts  of  thrice  her  tonnage,  and  twice 
her  beam,  ever  cared  to  show  their  sails  on  the 
outside  of  Skye.  Why,  even  the  skipper,  in  his 
great  vessel,  which  was  like  a  rock  in  the  water, 
had  seen  such  weather  out  there  as  had  made 
his  hair  stand  on  end ;  and  he  launched  into 
a  series  of  awful  tales,  showing  how  he  had 
driven  from  the  point  of  Sleat  to  Isle  Omsay 
up  to  his  neck  in  the  sea,  how  a  squall  off 
Dunvegan  Head  had  carried  away  his  topmast, 
broken  his  mainsail  boom,  and  swept  his  decks 
clean  of  boats  and  rubbish,  all  at  one  fell 
crash ;  and  niunberless  other  terrific  things,  all 
tending  to  show  that  we  wore  likely  to  get 
into  trouble.     When  he  heard  that  we  actually 

Purposed  crossing  the  Minch  to  Boisdale,  and 
eating  up  along  the  shores  of  the  Long  Isle 
as  far  as  Stomoway,  he  set  us  down  as  mad- 
men at  once,  and  condescended  to  no  more  ad- 
\'ice.  After  that,  till  the  moment  we  sailed,  he  re- 
garded us  from  the  side  of  his  vessel  in  a  solemn 
sort  of  way,  as  if  we  were  people  going  to 
be  hanjjed. 

He  frightened  us  a  little.    The  Wanderer, 
who  had  planned  the  expedition,  looked  at 
the  skipper  —  or  the  Viking,   as  we  got  in 
the  habit  of  calling  him,  because  he  wasn't    .. 
like  one.    The  Viking,  who  had  tvevet  >q^qt^  ^ 
ventured  with  Vua  yaci\\\.  >De^o\i^  ^iX^fe  C\^^^>  ^ 
was  pale,   and    on\y   -wwite^    t»x\c.o\vcu«stsv<^x\V  \ 


^ 


^ 


198       [July  31, 1869.J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


LCondacfcd  by 


to  turn  aud  fly.  But  Ilarnish  Shaw,  the  pilot, 
setting  his  lips  together,  delivered  himself 
so  violently  against  flight,  vowed  so  staunchly 
that  having  come  thus  far  we  must  pro- 
ceed, ol^bo  for  evermore  branded  as  pretenders, 
and  finally  sworo  so  roundly  by  his  rt^puta- 
tiou  as  a  seaman  to  carry  us  safely  through 
all  perils,  that  even  the  Viking  shook  his 
liorrent  locks  and  became  for  the  instant 
nearly  as  courageous  as  he  looked.  **  Nothing," 
said  the  Viking,  in  a  glow  of  reckless  ardoui', 
'*  nothing  gives  nie  so  much  pleasure  as  tear- 
ing through  it,  with  the  wind  blowing  half  a 
gale,  and  the  boat's  side  buried  to  the  cockpit 
coaming." 

We  had  all  great  confidence  in  llamish 
Shaw,  for  two  very  goo<l  reasons ;  firstly,  be- 
cause he  had  long  been  accustomed  to  sailing 
all  sorts  of  boats  in  these  waters  ;  aud  secondly, 
because  he  was  steady  as  a  rock,  and  cool  as 
snow  in  times  of  peril.  Again  and  aj^ain, 
during  the  voyage,  did  we  find  reason  to 
bless  ourselves  that  we  had  such  a  man  on 
board.  He  was  fond  of  talk,  and  had  much 
to  say  well  w^orth  list4,*ning  to,  but  at  critical 
moments  he  was  like  the  si)hinx — only  rather 
more  active.  To  see  him  at  the  helm,  with 
his  eye  on  the  waves,  steadily  helping  the  little 
craft  through  a  t<?mpcstuous  sea,  bringing 
her  bow  up  to  the  V>illows,  and  burying  it 
in  them  whenever  they  would  have  drowned 
her  broadside  ;  or  shaqjly  watching  the  water 
to  windward,  with  the  mainsail  sheet  in  his 
hand,  shaking  her  through  the  squalls  off  a 
mountainous  coast. — these  were  things  worth 
seeing,  things  that  made  one  proud  of  the 
race.  As  for  the  Viking,  though  he  had  con- 
siderable experience  in  sailing  in  smooth  water, 
and  though  he  wjis  a  very  handy  fellow  in  the 
ship's  carpenter  line,  he  was  nowhere  when  it 
began  to  blow.  lie  had  been  su>)ject  to  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart  for  many  years,  and  it 
always  troubled  him  most  when  he  was  most 
wanted:  making  him  very  pale,  feeble,  and 
flutt<'ring.  He  took  a  great  deal  f>f  whisky  to 
cure  his  complaint,  but  it  had  merely  the  effect 
of  exciting  him  without  relieving  his  unfortu- 
nate symptoms.  The  "Wanderer  could  do  a 
little  in  an  emergency,  but  his  nautical  know- 
ledge was  very  slight,  just  enabling  him  to 
distinguish  one  rope  from  another  if  he  were 
not  particularly  hurried  in  his  movements.  The 
cook  was  a  lady,  and  of  course  could  be  of  no 
use  on  deck  in  bad  weather  :  thf>ugh,  as  Hamish 
Shaw  expressed  it,  she  showed  a  man's  spirit 
throughout  the  voyage. 

In  plain  point  of  fact,  there  was  only  one 
sailor  on  board  ;  and  as  he  had  only  one  pair  of 
hands,  and  could  not  be  everywhere  at  the 
same  moment,  it  was  a  miracle  that  the  Tern 
escaped  destniction. 

As  the  distance  from  Canna  to  Loch  Bois- 
dale,  the  nearest  point  in  the  outer  Hebrides, 
was  about  thirty  miles,  all  quit«  open  water, 
without  the  chance  of  any  kind  of  harbour,  and 
/IS  the  Tern,  even  with  a  fair  wind,  could  not 
bo  expected  to  run  more  than  six  miles  an  hour 
ru  a  sou,  it  was  ailviaabJc  to  choose  a  very  g(K>^ 


day  indeed  for  the  passage.  As  usual  in  such 
cases,  we  began  by  being  over-cautious,  aud 
ended  by  being  over-impatient.  This  day  was 
too  calm,  and  that  day  was  too  windy.  We 
ended  by  doing  two  things  which  we  had  com- 
menced by  religiously  avowing  not  to  do — 
that  is  to  say,  never  to  start  for  a  long  passage 
except  at  early  morning,  and  never  to  venture 
on  such  a  passage  without  a  fair  wind.  We 
weighed  anchor  at  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
afteraoon,  with  the  wind  blowing  north-west — 
nearly  dead  in  our  teeth. 

But  it  was  a  glorious  day,  sunny  and  cheer- 
ful ;  the  clouds  were  high  and  white,  and  the 
waters  were  sparkling  and  flashing,  far  as  the 
eye  could  see.  As  soon  as  the  wind  touched  the 
white  wings  of  the  little  Tern,  she  slipped  out 
of  the  harbour  with  rapid  flight,  plunged 
splashing  out  at  the  harbour  mouth,  and  was 
soon  swimming  far  out  in  the  midst  of  the 
spray,  happy,  eager,  tilting  the  waves  from  her 
breast  like  a  swimmer  in  his  strength.  Next 
to  the  rapturous  enjoyment  of  having  wing» 
oneself,  or  being  able  to  sport  among  the 
waves  like  a  great  northern  diyer,  is  the  plea- 
sure of  sailing  duiing  such  weather  in  a  boat 
like  the  Tern. 

Canna  never  looked  more  beautiful  than  to- 
day— her  cliffs  wreathed  into  wondrous  fonns 
and  tinted  with  deep  ocean  dyes,  and  the 
slopes  above  rich  and  mellow  in  the  light.  Bnt 
what  most  fascinates  the  eye  is  the  southera 
coast  of  Skye,  lying  on  the  starboard  bow  as  we 
are  beating  northward.  The  Isle  of  Mist  is  clear 
to-day,  not  a  vapour  lingers  on  the  heights ; 
and  although  it  must  be  admitted  that  much  of 
its  strange  and  eerie  beauty  is  lost,  still  we 
have  a  certain  gentle  loveliness  in  its  place.  Can 
that  be  Skye,  the  deep  coast  full  of  rich  warm 
imdor-shadow,  the  softly-tinted  hills,  "  na- 
kedly visible  without  a  cloud,"  sleeping  against 
the  '*  dim  sweet  harc^bcU  -  colour  ''  of  the 
heavens  V  Where  is  the  thunder-cloud,  where 
are  the  weeping  shadows  of  the  cirrus,  where 
are  the  white  flashes  of  cataracts  through  the 
black  smoke  of  rain  on  the  mountain -side? 
Arc  these  the  Cuchullins  — the  ashen -grey 
heights  turning  to  solid  aml>er  at  the  peaks,  the 
dry  seams  of  the  torrents  softening  in  the  son- 
light  to  golden  shades  ?  Why,  Blaavin,  with 
hooked  forehead,  would  be  bare  as  PrimroBC 
Hill,  save  for  one  slight  white  wf oath  of  vi^ur, 
that,  glittering  with  the  hues  of  the  prism, 
floats  gently  away,  to  die  in  the  delicate  blue. 
Dark  are  the  headlands,  yet  warmly  dark,  pro- 
jecting into  the  sparkling  sea  and  casting  sum* 
mer  shades.  Skye  is  indeed  transformed,  yet 
its  beauty  is  still  spiritual,  still  it  keeps  the 
faint  feeling  of  the  glamour.  It  looks  like 
witch-beauty,  wondrous  and  unreal.  Yon  fed 
that  an  instant  may  change  it,  and  so  it  msy 
and  will.  Ere  we  have  sailed  many  miles  more, 
Skye  will  be  clouded  over  with  a  misty  woe, 
her  face  will  be  black  and  wild,  she  will  sob  in 
the  midst  of  the  darkness  with  the  voice  of  fall- 
ing rain  and  eerie  winds. 
We  were  flying  along  swiftly,  and  the  breexe 
\  waa  Yi«A)(Vixi^  us  less  and  less.    The  sea  siill 


&. 


US.] 


NIGHT  ON  THE  MINCH. 


[July  81.  lB6a]       199 


r  as  the  eye  could  ace,  a  flashing 

pplod  o'er  with  shadows  flung 
jany  a  broodinf;  cloud  : 

lite  cloud  above,  the  soft  shadow 
jre  was  no  danger,  and  the  Viking 
on.  All  went  merry  as  a  marriage 
re  after  picture  rose  up,  grew  into 
liness,  and  faded  like  a  fairy  palace 
Now  it  wtis  Macleod's  Maidens,  tiic 
^eaks  on  the  western  coast  of  Skye, 
ler  by  a  dim  rainbow,  and  glimmer- 
j  through  a  momentary  shower; 
I  the  far-off  mouth  of  Loch  Braca- 
ith  the  darkest  purple  tints,  with  a 
;d  fishing-boat  in  the  foreground  to 
3  picture,  just  as  Turner  would  have 
the  C4invas  ;  and  still  again,  it  was 
ns,  already  wreathed  in  mist,  mag- 
1  more  gigantic  size  by  their  own 
id  looking  as  forlorn  as  if  no  sun- 
er  fallen  on  their  hoary  brows. 

frequently,  with  keener  interest, 
ixious  longing,  our  eyes  were  turned 
lo  the  far-olf  isles  whither  we  were 
could  see  them  better  now,  misted 
Etuce — part  of  the  Barra  highland, 
?at  hills  of  Uist,  and,  dimmest  of 
ti  hills  of  Harris.  As  the  vapours 
the  coast,  the  shape  of  the  land 
k^hat  had  looked  like  mountains 
before  the  wind  ;  what  had  seemed 
ined  itself  darkly  and  more  dai'kly ; 
J  to  say,  the  whole  coast  seemed, 

nearer,  to  retreat  further  away, 
lat  when  we  had  beaten  ten  or 
J  of  the  actual  distance  to  Loch 
?  outer  Hebrides  looked  as  distant 
we  almot>t  tliought  there  must  have 
mistake  in  our  calculation  of  the 
liles  across. 

strange  feeling,  riding  out  there  in 
[ich  in  that  little  boat,  and  know- 
omi,  if  it  did  catch  us  there,  would 
Je  time  to  say  oui*  prayers.     The 

00  small  and  crank  to  lie  to,  and 
:ore  the  wind  she  would  have 
reelf  in   no   time.     True,  we  had 

1  a  kind  of  wooden  scuttle  for  the 
ch  might  be  of  some  service  in  a 
actually  save  us  from  some  peril ; 

was,  tiie  boat,  as  llamish  Shaw 

wanted  **  body,"  and  would  never 
I  weather  in  the  open.  It  was  a 
liiih  ever  accompanied  us  at  all — 
a  profoun<l  contempt  for  the  Tern, 
ig  with  the  skipper  in  Canna  that 
ely  a  toy,  a  plaything.  We  sup- 
T,  that  he  had  confidence  in  him- 
cw  that  if  any  one  could  save  her 
e  could. 

artcd  so  late,  that  before  we  were 
ross,  it  was  growing  quite  dark, 
bo  be  a  good  night,  however.    The 

situation  just  then,  was,  that  the 
eginning  to   fall,    and    wc    were 

little  way  through  the  rough  roll 


I 


One  certainly  did  not  feel  quite  comfoi-table, 
timibling  out  there  in  the  deepening  twilight, 
while  the  land  on  either  side  slowly  mingled 
itself  with  the  clouds.  After  taking  our  bear- 
ings by  the  compass,  and  getting  a  drop  of 
something  warm,  we  could  do  nothing  but  at 
and  wait  for  events,  llie  Viking  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  unwell  with  his  old  compUnot.  Shi- 
vering he  looked  to  windw4UNl,  teeing  all  sorti 
of  nameless  horrors.  Twenty  times,  at  leMt, 
he  asked  Hamish  what  sort  of  a  night  it 
promised  to  bo?  Twice  he  rushed  down  to 
examine  the  weather-glass,  an  aneroid,  and,  to 
his  horror,  it  was  slowly  sinking.  Then  he 
got  lights  and  buried  himself  among  the  oharta, 
feebly  gazing  at  a  blank  space  of  paper  labelled 
''  The  Minch."  At  last,  unable  to  dinguiM  it 
any  longer,  he  began  to  throw  out  dark  hints 
that  we  were  doomed ;  that  it  was  madness 
sailing  at  night ;  that  he  had  seen  it  from  t^ 
beginning,  and  should  not  have  ventured  so  far ; 
that  he  knew  from  the  colour  of  the  sky  that 
we  should  have  a  storm  in  the  night ;  ana  that, 
only  let  him  get  safe  back  ^*  round  the  Rhu," 
no  temptation  on  earl^  should  tempt  him  again 
beyond  the  Orinan  Canal 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Hamish  Shaw  was 
rather  short  with  the  Viking,  and  attributed 
his  trepidation  to  ignoble  causea  Hamish 
Shaw  was  in  his  glory.  He  loved  sailing  at 
night,  and  had  been  constantly  urging  us  to 
it.  He  had  learned  the  habit  as  a  fisherman, 
it  was  associated  with  much  that  was  wildest 
and  noblest  in  his  life,  and  he  was  firmly 
persuaded  that  he  could  sec  his  way  anywhere 
in  the  waters,  by  dark  as  well  as  by  day. 
Owl-like,  wakeful  and  vigilant,  he  sat  at  the 
helm,  with  his  weather-beaten  face  looming 
through  his  matted  ringlets,  his  black  pipe  set 
between  \m  teeth,  and  his  eyes  looking  keenly 
to  windward.  He  was  not  a  sentimental  man  : 
he  did  not  care  much  for  **  scenery."  But  do 
you  think  there  was  no  dreamy  poetry  in  liis 
soul ;  that  he  had  no  subtle  pleasure,  concealed 
almost  from  himself,  as  the  heaven  bared  its 
glittering  breast  of  stars,  and  the  water  that 
darkened  beneath,  glimmered  back  the  light, 
and  the  wind  fell  softly,  till  we  could  hear  the 
deep  breathing  of  the  sea  itself  ?  What  me- 
mories drifted  across  his  brain  ;  of  wild  nigfarts 
at  the  herring-fishing,  of  rain,  snow,  and 
wind  ;  of  tender  nights  in  his  highland  home, 
when  he  wont  courting  in  highland  fiishion  to 
the  lassie's  chaml>er-door  I  He  is  a  strange 
study,  Hauiish  Shaw.  To  hear  hiiti  speak 
directly  of  any  scene  he  has  visited,  you  would 
not  credit  him  with  any  insight.  But  he  sees 
more  than  he  knows.  His  life  is  too  full  to  take 
in  separate  effects,  or  wonder  anew.  What 
light  he  throws  for  us  on  old  thoughts  and 
superstitions,  on  tender  affections  of  the  race ! 
His  speech  is  full  of  water  and  wind.  He  uses 
a  fine  phrase,  as  naturally  as  nature  fashions  a 
bud  or  a  leaf.  He  speaks  in  natural  symbols, 
as  freely  as  he  uses  an  oar.  His  clear  fresh 
vision  penetrates  even  into  the  moral  worlds 
quite  open  and  fearkea  evc^ii  \;}|[i<e!t«^  NiYfiit^  ^^ 
best  of  UB  become  p\iT\>^^ 


II 


!l 


I 


eS: 


^ 


200      [Jaly  31. 18fi».] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OoadiietKlbj 


We  have  tiied  again  and  again,  for  our  own 
amusementf  to  reprodace  a  little  of  Shaw's 
EngiisL  He  is  a  true  Gael,  and  is  speaking  a 
foreign  tongue,  acquired  in  early  youth.  His 
language  is  at  once  remarkable  for  its  obscurity 
and  the  use  of  big  words,  and  yet  for  a  strange 
felicity  of  verbal  touch.  He  attaches  a  certimi 
meaning  to  words,  and  tries  hard  to  be  explicit. 
For  example,  speaking  once  of  the  Gaelic,  and 
becoming  warm  in  its  praise :  '^  the  Gaelic," 
he  said,  **  is  a  kind  of  guttural  language,  a 
principal  and  positive  language;  a  language, 
d'ye  see,  full  of  knowledge  and  essence, ^^  It 
would  be  difficult  to  find  anything  obscurer 
than  the  beginning  of  the  explanation,  or  more 
felicitous  than  its  conclusion.  The  one  word 
^i  essence"  is  perfect  in  its  terse  expression  of 
meaning. 

^'Tm  of  the  opinion,"  said  Hamish,  quietly 
surveying  the  heavens,  *^  that  the  nicht  will  be 
good.  Yen's  a  clear  sky  to  windward,  and 
there's  nae  kerry.  I  would  a  heap  sooner  sail 
a  craft  like  this  by  nicht  than  by  day,  the 
weather  is  mair  settled  between  gloaming  and 
sunrise ;  and  you  have  one  great  advantage : 
the  light  is  aye  gaining  on  ye,  instead  o'  the 
darkness." 

*'  But  Shaw,  man,"  cried  the  Viking,  **  we 
are  creeping  closer  and  closer  to  the  land,  and 
it  will  be  a  fearful  business  making  it  out  in 
the  mirk !" 

Shaw  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

**  If  we  canna  see  it,  we  maun  just  smell  it," 
he  said.     *^  It's  useless  to  fash  your  head." 

^^A  coast  sown  with  rocks  as  thick  as  if 
they  had  been  shaken  out  of  a  pepper-box! 
Reefs  here,  danger  everywhere !  And  not  a 
beacon  nearer  t£an  Rhu  Hunish  lighthouse! 
O  my  God !" 

And  the  Viking  wailed. 

By  this  time  the  summer  night  had  quite 
closed  in  ;  Canna  and  Skye  had  long  faded  out 
of  sight  behind,  but  we  could  stiU  make  out 
the  form  of  the  land  ahead.  The  wind  was 
rising  again,  and  blowing  gently  on  our 
quarter,  so  we  bade  fair  to  make  the  coast 
of  the  Long  Island  sooner  than  was  ad- 
visable. StUl,  it  would  have  been  injudicious 
to  remain  any  longer  than  was  necessary 
out  in  the  open ;  for  a  storm  might  come  on 
by  morning,  and  seal  our  fate.  The  best 
plan  was  to  creep  to  within  a  couple  of  miles 
of  the  land,  and  nang  about  until  we  had  suffi- 
cient daylight  to  make  out  our  situation.  It 
was  even  possible,  if  it  did  not  grow  much 
darker,  that  we  might  be  able  to  make  out 
the  mouth  of  Loch  Boisdale  in  the  night. 

The  Viking  plunged  below  to  the  charts. 
To  while  away  the  time,  the  Wanderer  began 
talking  to  the  steersman  about  superstition. 
It  was  a  fine  eerie  situation  for  a  talk 
on  that  subject,  and  the  still  summer  night, 
with  the  deep  dreary  murmur  of  the  sea, 
gathered  powerfully  on  the  imagination. 

**  Hamish,"  said  the  Wanderer,  abruptly, 
**  do  you  believe  in  ghosts?" 

Hamiab  puffed  Mb  pipe  leisurely  for  some 
time  before  replying. 


*'  I'm  of  the  opinion,"  he  replied  at  last,  be- 
ginning with  the  expression  habitual  to  him— 
"'  I'm  of  the  opinion  that  there's  strange  things 
in  the  world.  I  never  saw  a  ghost,  and  I 
don't  expect  to  see  one.  If  the  Scripture  says 
true — I  mean  the  Scripture,  no'  the  ministers- 
there  has  been  ghosts  seen  before,  and  there 
may  be  now.  The  folk  used  to  say  there  was 
a  Ben-shee  in  Skipness  Castle,  a  Beu-shee 
with  white  hair  and  a  much  lik»  an  old  wife, 
and  my  father  saw  it  with  his  own  een  before 
he  died.  They're  curious  people  over  in  Barra, 
and  they  believe  stranger  things  than  that.' 

"  In  witchcraft,  perhaps  ?" 

"  There's  more  tnan  them  believes  in  witch- 
craft. When  I  was  a  young  man  on  board  the 
Petrel  (she's  one  of  Middlcton's  fish-boats  and 
is  over  at  Howth  now)  the  winds  were  that 
wild,  that  there  seemed  sma'  chance  of  winning 
hame  before  the  new  year.  Weel,  the  skipper 
was  a  Skye  man,  and  had  great  faith  in  an  aiild 
wife  who  lived  alone  up  on  the  hillside ;  and 
without  speaking  a  word  to  any  o'  us,  he  went 
up  to  bid  wi'  her  for  a  fair  wind.  He  crossed 
her  hand  wi'  siller,  and  she  told  him  to  bury  a 
live  cat  wi'  its  head  to  the  airt  wanted,  and 
then  to  steal  a  spoon  from  some  house,  and  get 
awa'.  He  buried  the  cat,  and  he  stole  8ie 
spoon.  It's  curious,  but  sure  as  ye  live,  the 
wind  changed  that  night  into  the  north-west, 
and  never  shifted  till  the  Petrel  was  in  Tober- 
mory." 

^^  Once  let  me  be  the  hero  of  an  affair  hke 
that,"  cried  the  Wanderer,  **  and  I'll  believe 
in  the  devil  for  ever  after.  But  it  was  a  queer 
process." 

**  The  ways  o'  God  are  droll,"  returned  Shav, 
seriously.  ^^  Some  say  that  in  old  times  the 
witches  made  a  causeway  o'  whales  from  Bha 
Hunish  to  Dunvegan  Head.  There  are  sold 
wives  o'er  yonder  yet,  who  hae  the  name  of 
going  out  wi'  the  deU  every  night,  in  the  shaoe 
o'  blue  hares,  and  I  kenned  a  man  who  thoai^t 
he  shot  one  wi'  a  siller  button.  I  dinna  beliere 
all  I  hear,  but  I  dinna  just  disbelieve  either. 
Ye've  heard  of  the  Evil  Eye?" 

"  Certainly." 

'*  When  we  were  in  Canna,  I  noticed  a  fine 
cow  and  calf  standing  by  a  house  near  the 
kirkyard,  and  I  said  to  the  wife  as  I  passed 
(she  was  syning  her  pails  at  the  door),  *•  Yon  s 
a  bonnie  bit  calf  ye  hae  with  the  auld  cov/ 
'  Aye,'  says  she,  *  but  I  hope  ve  didna  look  at 
them  o'er  keen' — meaning,  ye  ken,  that  maybe 
I  had  the  Evil  Eye.  I  laughed  and  told  her 
that  was  a  thing  ne'er  belong't  to  me  nor  mine. 
That  minds  me  of  an  auld  wife  near  Loch 
Boisdale,  who  had  a  terrible  bad  name  for 
killing  kye  and  doing  mischief  on  com.  She 
was  gieed,*  and  had  black  hair.  One  day« 
when  the  folk  were  in  kirk,  she  reached  o'er 
her  hand  to  a  bairn  that  was  lying  beside  her, 
and  touched  its  cheek  wi'  her  finger.  Weel 
that  moment  the  bairn  (it  was  a  lassie  and  had 
red  hair)  began  greeting  and  turning  its  head 
from  side  to  side  uke  folk  in  fever.    1%  kept  on 


\ 


*  She  squinted. 


4 


I^ 


h 


ChMxiiBB  DiekenK.] 


NIGHT  ON  THE  MINCH. 


[Joly  tl,  1869.3       201 


|l 


|i 


I 


± 


Bae  for  dajs.  Bat  at  last  anither  woman,  who 
saw  what  was  wrang,  recommended  eiffht  poul- 
tices o^  kyeshaim  (one  eyery  night)  from  the 
innermost  kye  i'  the  byre.  They  gied  her  the 
poultices,  and  the  lassie  got  weel." 

**That  was  as  strange  a  remedy  as  the 
bmied  cat,"  observed  the  Wanderer  •  **  but  I 
did  not  know  such  people  possessed  the  power 
of  casting  the  trouble  on  human  beings." 

Ilamisn  puffed  his  pipe,  and  looked  quietly 
at  the  sky.  It  was  some  minutes  before  he 
spoke  again. 

--  There  was  a  witch  family,"  he  said  at  last, 
^*  in  Loch  Carron,  where  I  was  bom  and  reared. 
They  lived  their  lane  close  to  the  sea.  There 
were  three  o^  them — the  mither,  a  son,  and  a 
daughter.  The  mither  had  great  lumps  all 
o'er  her  arms,  and  sae  had  the  daughter ;  but 
the  son  was  a  dean-hided  lad,  and  he  was  the 
cleverest.  Folk  said  he  had  the  power  o^  heal- 
ing the  sick,  but  only  in  ac  way,  by  trans- 
ferring the  disease  to  him  that  brought  the 
message  seeking  help.  Ance,  I  mind,  a  man 
was  sent  till  him  on  horseback,  bidding  him 
come  and  heal  a  fisher  who  was  up  on  the  hill 
and  like  to  dee.  The  warlock  mounted  his 
pony,  and  said  to  the  man,  *  Draw  back  a  bit, 
and  let  me  ride  before  ye.'  The  man,  kenning 
nac  better,  let  him  pass,  and  followed  ahint. 
They  had  to  pass  through  a  glen,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  glen  an  auld  wife  was  standing 
at  her  door.  When  she  saw  the  messenger 
riding  ahint  the  warlock,  she  screeched  out  to 
him  as  loud  as  she  could  cry  :  *  Bide,  ride,  and 
reach  the  sick  lad  first,  or  ye're  a  dead  man !' 
At  that,  the  warlock  looked  black  as  thunder, 
and  galloped  his  pony;  but  the  messenger 
heing  better  mounted,  overtook  him  fast,  and 
got  first  to  the  sick  man's  bedside.  In  the 
nicht  the  sick  man  died.  Ye  see,  the  warlock 
had  nae  power  o'  shifting  the  complaint  but  on 
him  that  brought  the  message,  and  no'  on  him 
if  the  warlock  didna  reach  the  house  before  the 
messenger." 

Here*  the  Viking  emerged  with  the  whisky- 
bottle,  and  Hamish  Shaw  wet  his  lips.  We 
were  gliding  gently  along  now.  and  the  hills  of 
Uist  were  stilT  dimly  visible.  X^e  deep  roll  of 
the  sea  would  have  been  disagreeable,  perhaps, 
to  the  uninitiated,  but  wc  were  hardened. 
While  the  Viking  sat  by,  gazing  gloomily  into 
the  darkness,  the  Wanderer  pursued  his  chat 
with  Shaw,  or,  rather,  incited  the  latter  to 
further  soliloquies. 

"  Do  you  know,  Hamish,"  he  said,  slyly,  "  it 
seems  to  me  very  queer  that  Providence  should 
suffer  such  pranks  to  be  played,  and  should 
entrust  such  marveUous  power  to  such  wretched 
hands.  Come,  now ;  do  you  actually  fancy  that 
these  things  have  happened  ?" 

But  Hamish  Shaw  was  not  the  man  to  com- 
mit himself.    He  was  a  philosopher. 

*•  I'm  of  the  opinion,"  he  replied,  *•  that  it 
would  be  wrong  to  be  o'er  positive.  Provi- 
dence does  as  queer  things,  whiles,  as  either  man 
or  woman.  There  was  a  strange  cry,  like  the 
whi.<)t]e  of  a  bird,  heard  eveij  nicht  cloee  to 
the  cottage  "before  Wattie  Macleod*BBmack  was 


ii 


tl 


lost  on  St.  John's  Point,  and  Wattie  and  his  son 
were  drowned ;  then  it  stoppit.  Whiles  it  comes 
like  a  sheep  crying,  whiles  like  the  sound  o' 
pipes.  I  heard  it  mysel'  when  my  brither  Angus  ! ! 
died.  He  had  been  awa'  o'er  the  country  and  i ' 
his  horse  had  fallen,  and  kickit  him  on  the  |! 
navel.  But  before  he  heard  a  word  about  it, 
the  wife  and  I  were  on  the  road  to  Angus's 
house,  and  were  coming  near  the  bum  that 
parted  his  house  from  mine.  It  was  nicht,  and 
bright  moonlicht.  llie  wife  was  heavy  at  the  | 
thne,  and  suddenly  she  grippit  me  by  the  j' 
arm  and  whispered,  '  Wheesht !  do  ye  hear  V  ' 
I  listened,  and  at  first  I  heard  nothing,  ' 
**  Wheesht,  again !"  says  she  ;  and  then  I  heard  | 
it  plain — like  the  low  blowing  o'  the  bagpipes, 
slowly  and  sadly,  wi'  nae  tune.  *  O,  Hamish,' 
said  the  wife,  '  wha  can  it  be  ?'  I  said  nae- 
thing,  but  I  felt  my  back  all  cold,  and  a  sharp 
thread  running  through  my  heart.  It  followed 
us  along  us  far  as  Angus's  door,  and  then  it 
went  awa'.  Angus  was  sitting  by  the  fire ; 
they  had  just  brought  him  hame ;  and  he  told 
us  o'  the  fall  and  the  kick.  He  was  pale,  but 
didna  think  much  was  wrang  wi'  him,  and 
talked  quite  cheerful  and  loud.  The  wife  was 
sick  and  frighted,  and  they  gave  her  a  dram ;  ] 
they  thought  it  was  her  trouble,  for  her  time  | 
was  near,  but  she  was  thinking  o'  the  sign  we  ' 
had  heard.  Though  we  knew  fine  that  Angus  ( 
wouldna  live,  wc  didna  dare  to  speak  o'  what  j 
we  had  heard.  Going  hame  that  nicht,  we  , 
heard  it  again,  and  in  a  week  he  was  lying  in  ; 
hiscrave."  I 

Ine  darkness,  the  hushed  breathing  of  the  ' 
sea,  the  sough  of  the  wind  through  the  rig-  ' 
ging,  greatly  deepened  the  effect  of  this  tale. 
The  Viking  listened  intently,  as  if  he  expected 
every  moment  to  hear  a  similar  sound  presag- 
ing his  own  doom.  Hamish  Shaw  showed  no 
emotion.  He  told  his  tale  as  mere  matter-of- 
fact,  with  no  elocutionary  effects,  and  kept  his 
eye  to  windward  all  the  time,  literally  looking 
out  for  squalls. 

**  For   heaven's  sake,"    cried   the    Viking 
'*  choose  some  other  subject  of  conversation. 
We  are  in  bad  enough  plight  already,  and  don't    ;. 
want  any  more  horrors."  i 

' '  What !     Afraid  of  ghosts  ?"  | ; 

**  No,  dash  it !"  returned  the  Viking  ;  **  but     > 
— but— as  sure  as  1  live,  there's  storm  in  yon    . 
sky !" 

The  look  of  the  sky  to  windwanl  was 
not  improving ;  it  was  becoming  smoked  over 
with  thick  mist.  Though  we  were  now  only 
a  few  miles  off  the  Uiat  coast,  the  loom 
of  the  land  was  scarcely  visible  ;  the  vapours 
peculiar  to  such  coasts  seemed  rising  and  gra- 
dually wrapping  everything  in  their  folds.  Still, 
as  far  as  we  could  make  out  from  the  stars,  , 
there  was  no  carry  m  the  sky. 

**  I'll  no'  say,"  ob8er>'od  Hamish,  taking  in 
everything  at  a  glance :    "  I'll  no*   say    but 
there  may  be  wind  ere  morning;  but  it  will 
be  wind  off  the  shore,  and  we  hae  the  bi\b^  iwt 
shelter." 

"  But  the  BquaWa  \    T^^e  ^cvjxaXNA^r  ^^^^^  ^^^'^ 
Viking. 


\' 


«* 


202    Nnir  3I«  IMI.] 


ALL  THE  TKAR  ROUND. 


(Oondiial»a  by 


*^  The  land  if  no*  tliat  high  that  ye  need  to 
be  scared.  Leave  ron  the  vessel  to  me,  and 
ril  tak'  her  through  it  snug.  But  we  may  as 
weel  hae  the  ikM  reef  in  the  mainsail^  and 
mak'  things  ready  in  case  o*  need." 

This  was  soon  done.  The  mainsail  was 
reefed,  and  the  second  jib  substituted  for  the 
large  one ;  after  a  glance  at  the  compass, 
Hamiah  again  sat  quiet  at  the  helm. 

^*  Barra,"  he  said,  renewing  our  late  subject 
of  tidk^  **  is  ft  gr^t  place  for  superstitioQ,  and 
sae  is  Uiat.  The  folk  are  like  weans,  simply 
and  kindly.  There  is  a  Ben-shee  weel-k^^d 
at  Uw  head  o'  Loch  Eynort,  and  anither  haunts 
one  o*  the  auld  castles  o*  the  great  MacaeU  o^ 
fiaira.  I  hae  heard,  too,  that  whiles  big  snakes 
wi'  manes  Mke  horses  come  up  into  tke  fresh- 
water lakes  and  lie  in  wait  to  devour  the  i&eah 
o'  man.  In  a  fresh-water  loch  at  the  Harris, 
tiiere  was  a  big  beast  like  a  bull,  that  came  up 
ae  day  and  ate  half  the  body  o'  a  lad  when  he 
was  bathing.  They  tried  to  drain  the  loch  to 
get  at  the  beast,  but  there  was  o^er  muckie 
water.  Then  they  baited  a  great  hook  wi*  the 
half  0*  a  sheep,  but  the  beast  was  o'er  wise  to 
bite.  Lord,  it  wwi  a  droll  fishing !  They're  a 
ourioua  people.  But  doe  ye  no'  think,  if  the 
sea  and  the  lochs  were  drainit  dry,  there  would 
be  all  manner  o*  strange  animals  that  nae  man 
kens  the  name  o'  ?  There's  a  kind  of  water- 
worid.  Nae  man  kens  what  it's  like — ^for  the 
drowned  csnna  see,  and  if  they  could  see,  they 
oouldna  speak.  AyeT'  he  added,  sudduily 
changing  the  current  of  his  thoughts,  **  aye ! 
the  wind's  rising,  and  we're  no'  &r  off  the 
shore,  for  I  can  smell  the  land." 

By  what  keenness  of  sense  Hanush  managed 
to  **  smell  the  land,"  we  had  no  time  just  then 
to  inquire ;  for  all  our  wits  were  employed  in 
looking  after  the  safety  of  the  Tern.  She  was 
bowling  along  under  tiiree-recfed  mainsail  and 
storm- jib,  and  was  getting  just  about  as  much 
as  she  could  bear.  With  the  rail  imder  to  the 
cockpit,  the  water  lapping  heavily  against  the 
coaming,  and  ever  and  anon  splaidiing  right 
over  in  the  cockpit  itself,  she  made  her  way 
fast  through  the  rising  sea.  Li  vain  we  strained 
our  eyes  to  see  the  shore : 

The  blinding  mitt  csme  down  and  liid  tho  land, 
As  far  as  eye  oould  see ! 

All  at  once,  the  foggy  vapours  peculiar  to  the 
country  had  steeped  everything  in  darkness ; 
we  could  guess  from  the  wmd  where  the  land 
lay,  but  were  at  a  loss  to  tell  how  neav.  What 
with  the  whistling  wind,  the  darkness,  the 
surging  sea,  we  felt  bewildered  and  amazed. 

Tho  Wanderer  looked  at  his  watch,  and  it 

was  past  midnight.     Even  if  tho  fog  cleared 

off,  it  would  not  be  safe  to  take  Loch  Boisdale 

without  good  light,  and  there  was  nothing  for 

it  but  to  beat  about  till  sunrise.    This  was  a 

prospect  not  at  all  comfortable,  for  we  might 

even  then  be  in  the  neighbourhood  of  dangerous 

JveJcsf,  and,  if  the  wind  rose  any  higher,  there 

WW  nothing  for  it  but  running  before  the  wind, 

God  Juiew  whither.     Meantime,  it  waa  deter- 


of  coming  to  over-close  quarters   with   the 
shore. 

Uiamish  sat  at  the  hdm,  stem  and  imperturb- 
able.    We  knew  by  his  silence  that  he  was 
anxious,  but  he  expressed  no  anxiety  whatever. 
Ever  and  anon  he  slipped  down  his  hand  on 
the  deck  to  leeward,  feeling  how  near   the 
water  was  to  the  cockpit,  and,  as  there  seemed 
considerable  danger  of  foundering  in  the  heavy 
sea>  he  speedily  agreed  with  us  that  it  would 
be  wise  to  close  over  the  cockpit  liatohes.    That 
done,  all  was  done  that  hands  could  do,  save 
holding  the  boat  with  the  hehn  steady  and 
close  to  the  wind— a  task  which  Hamiah  fulfilled 
to  perfection.    Indeed,  we  were  in  no  slight 
danger  from  squalls,  for  the  wind  was  off  the 
land^  and  nothing  saved  us,  when  struck  by 
heavy  gusts,  but  Uie  firmness  and  skill  of  the 
helmsman.    He  had  talked  about  smelling  the 
land,  but  it  is  oertain  that  he  seemed  to  smell 
the  wind.    Almost  before  a  squall  touched  her, 
the  Tern  was  standing  up  to  it,  tight  and  firm, 
when  ever  so  slight  a  falling  off  might  have 
stricken  ns  over  to  the  mast,  and  perhaps  (for 
the  oockpit  hatches  were  a  small  protectixm) 
foundered  us  in  the  open  sea. 

The  Viking  was  a  wreck  by  this  time,  too 
weak  even  to  scream  out  his  prophecies  of 
doom,  but  Ijring  anticipating  his  fate  in  his 
forecastle  hammock,  with  the  grog  at  his  side 
and  his  eyes  closed  despairingly  against  all  the 
terrors  of  the  scene.  The  cook  was  lying  in 
the  cabin,  very  sick,  in  that  hiq)py  frame  of 
mind  when  it  is  indifferent  wheth^  we  float  on, 
or  go  to  the  bottom.  The  Wanderer,  drenehsd 
through,  clung  close  beside  the  pilot,  and 
strained  his  eyes  against  wind  and  salt  spray 
into  the  darkness.  It  would  be  false  to  lay 
that  he  felt  comfortable,  but  as  false  to  say 
that  he  felt  frightened.  Though  dreadfully 
excitable  by  nature,  he  was  of  too  sanguine  a 
temperament  to  be  overpowered  byhuf-seen 
perils.  On  the  whole,  tiiough  the  situation  was 
precarious,  he  had  by  no  means  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  drowned ;  and  there  was  something 
so  stimulating  in  the  brave  conduct  of  the  Utile 
ship,  which  seemed  to  be  fighting  out  the  battle 
on  ner  own  account,  that  at  times  he  was  ^dit- 
hearted  enough  to  sing  out,  loud,  a  verse  «  Ui 
favourite  Tom  Bowlmg.  No  man,  however, 
could  have  sat  there  in  the  <^ftjrlrn<>Mi^  amid  the 
rush  of  wind  and  wave,  without  at  times  ^-^tpfciwr 
of  thepower  of  God ;  so  again  and  again,  through 
the  Wanderer  B  mind,  with  a  deep  sea-mnae ol 
their  own,  rolled  the  wondrous  verses  of  the 
Psahn :  ''  They  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships, 
that  do  business  in  great  waters.  They  see  ve 
works  of  the  Lord,  and  his  wondsn  in  the 
deep.  For  He  commandeth,  and  raiseth  ^ 
stoimy  wind,  which  lifteth  up  the  waves  thereof. 
They  mount  up  to  the  heaven,  they  go  down 
again  to  the  depths;  their  soul  is  nselted  be- 
cause of  trouble.  They  reel  to  and  fro,  and 
stagger  like  a  dnuikeu  man,  and  are  at  their 
wits'  end.  Then  they  cry  unto  the  Lord  an 
their  trouble,  and  He  bringeth  them  out  of  their 
dia^teraea.    He  maketh  uie  storm  a  cahtt,so 


J^^  iF/utAer.     Meantime,  it  was  deter-  \  dia^teraea.    He  maketh  the  storm  a  cahn,  so 

mnea  to  stand  off  a  Uttle  to  the  open,  ia  dread  \  thiit  t]bA^«?«aV!b»cw>l  «m  iAuUu   ThMi  an  ihsj 


y 


ft 


ChftriM  Diekans.] 


NIGHT  ON  THE  MINCH. 


[Jnly  81, 1869.]       208 


glad  because  they  be  quiet,  so  He  bringeth  them 
unto  their  destined  haven.  O  that  men  would 
praise  the  Lord  for  his  goodness,  and  for  his 
wonderful  works  to  the  children  of  men !" 

It  was  now  so  dark  that  we  could  see  nothing 
on  any  side  of  us,  save  the  glitter  of  the  crests 
of  the  waves  playing  close  to  us,  and  the  phos- 
phorescent glimmer  of  the  beaten  water  behind 
the  rudder.  ITie  wind  was  pretty  steady,  and  the 
squalls  were  not  too  frequent.  We  were  running 
through  the  darkness  at  considerable  speed, 
burying  our  bowsprit  in  every  wave,  and  wash- 
ing our  decks  as  clean  as  salt  water  could  make 
them.  So  low  was  the  Tern's  rail,  and  so  close 
to  the  sea,  even  on  the  weather  side,  that  it 
was  like  being  dragged  through  the  water 
bodily,  with  the  chilly  waves  lapping  round  the 
waist. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  darkness  ahead,  shot  a 
sharp  glimmer  of  light ;  then,  there  was  a  loud 
Bound  like  the  creaking  of  cordage  and  noise  of 
sails ;  and  then,  before  we  could  utter  a  cry,  a 
lir«i  brig  dashed  across  our  bows,  running 
with  a  free  sheet  before  the  wind.  Ghostly 
and  strange  she  looked,  in  the  mist,  driving  at 
tremendous  speed,  and  churning  the  sea  to 
sparkling  foam.  With  a  loud  oath,  Hamish 
tooved  uke  helm  hard  a-port,  and  brought  the 
bead  of  the  Tern  up  to  the  wind,  so  that  we 
ahnost  brushed  the  strange  vessels  quarter. 
We  had  narrowly  escaned  death.  With  fasci- 
nated eyes  we  watched  the  bng  dash  on,  until 
she  was  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness.  When 
the  was  quite  gone,  we  drew  a  heavy  breath  of 
relief. 

*'  Lord,  that  was  a  close  shave  for  life !'' 
mnttered  Shaw,  drawing  his  cuff  across  his 
month :   his  manner  when  agitated.     ''  Wha 

I  would  hae  thought  o'  meeting  strange  craft 
hereabouts?  We'd  maybe  better  ri^  out  the 
mast-head  lantern,  in  case  o'  mair  accidents." 

i  This  was  soon  done,  and  although  the  lantern 
barnt  blue  and  dim,  we  felt  more  secure.  After 
to  narrow  an  escape,  what  reasonable  creature 
<oiikl  have  refused  to  drink  his  own  health  in 
the  water  of  life?  The  grog  bottle  was  passed 
ronnd,  and  never  was  a  **  nip  of  the  screech  " 
reeeiwed  with  more  affectionate  unction. 

It  was  weary  work,  that  waiting  on  in  the 
darkness.  The  wind  sang,  the  water  sobbed, 
the  sail  moaned,  until  the  Wanderer  began  to 
get  sleepier  and  sleepier.    At  last,  wet  as  ho 

I  was,  he  sank  off  into  a  doze,  wherein  he  was 
half  ooDBciouB  of  the  boat's  motion  through  the 
water,  and  half  dreaming  of  things  far  away. 
Soddenly,  he  was  startled  by  a  roar  in  his  ear, 
and  rabbmg  his  eyes  wildly,  listened,  it  was 
only  Hamian  Shaw,  saying  quietly : 

*^  It^s  beginning  to  get  licht.  £  see  the  loom 
o'  the  land/' 

Shivering  like  a  half -drowned  rat  in  the  cold 
damp  air  of  the  dawn,  and  dashing  the  wet  hair 
ont  of  his  weary  eyes,  the  Wanderer  stared  all 
round  him,  and  saw  (when  his  obfuscated  wits 
were  able  to  concentrate  themselves)  that  it 
was  nearly  daybreak,  though  all  was  dark 
abore.  A  dim,  ailvem,  misty  glimmer  was  on 
the  eea^  and  mboat  two  miles  to  the  westward 


the  land  lay  black  in  a  dark  mist  like  the  smoke 
nearest  the  funnel  of  a  newly-coaled  steamer. 
The  Viking  was  poking  his  head  through  the 
cabin  hat<)h  and  gazing  shoreward. 
•  **  Can  ye  mak'  out  the  shape  o'  these  hills?" 
he  asked  of  the  pilot.  **  Loch  Boisdale  should 
be  hereabouts." 

Hamish  shook  his  head. 

**  We  maun  creep  in  closer  to  mak'  certain," 
he  replied.  "It's  o'er  dark  yet.  Yon  bit  place 
yonder,  where  ye  see  a  shimmer  like  the  gleam 
o'  herring-scales,  looks  like  the  mouth  o'  the 
loch,  but  we  maun  creep  in  canny  and  get  moir 
licht." 

Although  Shaw  had  been  herring-fiBliing  on 
the  coast  for  so  many  years,  he  was  not  as 
familiar  with  it  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. He  knew  its  general  outline,  but  had 
not  made  close  observation  of  details.  With 
the  indifference  peculiar  to  the  Ushers,  he  had 
generally  trusted  to  Providence  and  his  own 
sagacity,  without  making  any  mental  note  of 
his  experiences.  So  it  was  not  until  we  had 
twice  or  thnce  referred  to  the  chart,  that  he 
remembered  that  just  south  of  Boisdale,  about 
half  a  mile  from  shore,  there  was  a  dangerous 
reef  called  Mackenzie  Rock,  and  that  on  this 
rock  there  was  a  red  buoy,  whicli,  if  descried 
in  the  dim  light,  would  be  a  certain  index  to 
the  whereabout  of  the  mouth  of  the  loch. 

*'  Tam  Saunders  put  the  Wild  Duck  on  that 
rock  when  I  was  up  here  in  the  Gannet,"  said 
Hamish;  '^but  she  was  as  strong  as  iron, 
different  frae  this  wee  bit  shell  o'  a  thing,  and 
they  keepit  her  fixit  there  till  the  flood,  and 
then  floated  her  off  wi'  scai'ce  a  scratch.  AVe'U 
just  put  her  about,  and  creep  in  shore  on  the 
other  tack." 

Though  the  day  was  slowly  breaking,  it  was 
still  very  misty,  and  a  thin  cold  *•  smurr"  was 
beginning  to  creep  down  on  the  sea.  The  wind 
was  still  sharp  and  strong,  the  sea  was  high, 
and  the  squalls  were  dangerous  ;  but  we  knew 
now  that  the  worst  of  our  perils  must  be  over. 
As  we  approached  closer  to  tiic  shore,  we  noticed 
one  dark  bluff,  or  headland,  from  which  the 
land  receded  on  either  side,  leaving  it  darkly 
prominent ;  a  reference  to  the  chart  soon 
convinced  us  that  tliis  headland  was  no  other 
than  the  Ru  Uordag,  which  lies  a  few  miles  to 
the  south  of  Boisdale.  So  we  put  about  again, 
and  slipped  up  along  the  land,  lying  very  close 
to  the  wind.  It  was  soon  clear  that  the  dawn, 
though  it  had  fully  broken,  was  not  going  to 
favour  us  with  a  brilliant  exliibitiou,  nor  to 
dispel  the  dangerous  vapours  in  which  the  land 
was  shrouded.  The  whole  shape  of  the  land 
was  distorted.  One  could  merely  conjectui*e 
where  land  ended,  and  mist  began;  all  was 
confusion.  No  sun  came  out — only  the  dull 
glimmer  through  the  miserable  **  bmurr"  be- 
tokene<l  that  it  was  dav. 

Suddenly,  with  a  shriek  of  joy,  the  Viking 
discovered  the  buoy,  and  pointed  it  out  through 
the  rain.     Yes,  there  it  was,  a  reil  s\)ot  uv  ^   v\ 
circle  of  white  foam,  a\iO>x\,  a  ?\)o»sct\ft,T  qI  \v  wv^'i  ^ 
on  the  weather  quarter.    YJVVk  V>n»  «j»\a\««vw^  ^ 
it  was  decid^  that  tYie  w^'^iVji^^s^^*'^^*^*^ 


& 


4i 


204      [July  31, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CoDdxffited  by 


/ 


compared  to  the  '^  gleam  of  herring-scales'^  was 
indeed  the  mouth  of  the  loch.  Never  did 
voyagers  hail  the  sight  of  haven  with  greater 

joy- 
It  was  a  run  of  nearly  a  mile  up  to  the  anchor- 
age, and  the  passage  was  by  no  means  a  safe 
one  ;  but  Hamish,  once  in  the  loch,  knew  every 
stone  and  shallow  perfectly.  When  we  cast 
anchor,  the  thin  ^'  smurr^'  had  changed  into  a 
heavy  rain,  and  all  the  scene  around  was  black 
and  wild.  But  what  cared  we  ?  The  fire  was 
lighted  in  the  forecastle,  Hamish  put  on  the 
kettle,  and  the  kettle  began  to  sing.  Then, 
after  putting  on  dry  clothes,  we  sat  down  as 
merry  as  crickets.  The  cook  recovered,  and 
poached  the  eggs.  The  Wanderer  dozed 
smilingly  in  a  comer.  The  Viking  swore 
roundly  that  it  had  been  the  "jolliest  night" 
he  had  ever  spent,  and  that  such  nights  made 
him  in  love  with  sailing.  Hamish  Shaw,  to 
whom  all  the  glory  of  the  night  belonged,  first 
lit  his  black  cuttv  pipe  as  he  rested  his  head 
against  the  side  of  the  forecastle  ;  and  then,  in 
an  instant,  dropped  off  heavy  as  a  log,  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  and  still  gripping  the  cutty 
firmly  between  his  teeth  as  he  slept. 


AN  OLD  BALLAD  KENEWED. 

The  princess  she  was  a  winsome  thing, 
Only  seventeen  years  that  spring. 

She  Baid  to  her  love,  "  I  fain  would  see 
Tour  pack  of  hounds  loose  on  the  lea. 

*'  Saddle  thy  horse  and  ^d  thee,  Brand, 
And  we  will  ride  to  a  friendlier  land.'* 

"  Lady  fair,  IVe  no  steed  but  one  ; 
But  thou  shalt  ride  and  I  will  run.'* 

"Earl  Brand,  my  father  has  horses  three : 
More  than  enough  for  you  and  me." 

So  away  they  gallopped  o'er  moss  and  moor 
And  these  lovers  met  neither  rich  nor  poor 

They  never  slackened  for  sun  or  rain 
On  the  hill'Side,  or  over  the  plain. 

Fox  mieht  bark,  or  the  wild  hawk  scream. 
Life  wiu  them  was  a  summer  dream. 

Till  at  last  they  met,  at  the  side  of  a  wood, 
With  one  who  was  evil  and  never  good. 

'*  Earl  Brand,"  said  the  maiden,  "  if  ye  love  mo. 
Slay  that  traitor,  or  he'll  slay  thee." 

"  I  cannot  slay  him,  my  lady  fair. 

For  bent  is  his  back,  and  grey  his  hair." 

"  Why,  sir  knight,  in  such  haste  to  ride. 

And  where  have  you  stolen  that  bonny  bride  P" 

"  She  is  my  sister,  and  not  my  wife, 

And  I  fear  me  much  for  the  maiden's  life." 

"  If  she  is  weary,  and  all  but  dead. 
Why  does  she  wear  that  hood  of  red  ? 

"  If  she's  been  sick  and  like  to  die. 
Why  do  I  gold  and  jewels  spy  ?" 

Ho  ran  back  fast  to  her  kith  and  kin, 
And  beat  nt  the  door  till  they  let  him  in. 

"  Now  where  is  the  lady  of  this  hall  ?" 
Out  at  piny  with  the  cowslip  ball." 

'No  y*  he  cried,  "  vou  are  all  mista'en  ; 
C?o  count  jour  maiaena  o'er  again. 

**I  met  her  but  now  in  headlong  flight 
WithjrouDg  Earl  Brand,  the  E^gliah  knight  J 


c< 


tt 


Her  father  he  mounted  with  fifteen  men. 
And  rode  swift  down  the  moxmtain  glen. 

The  lady  looked  back,  as  the  stream  they  ford. 
And  cried,  "  Bide  faster,  or  draw  your  sword." 

"  If  they  oome  on  me  one  by  one. 

You  must  stand  by  till  the  fight  be  done ; 

"  But  if  they  charge  on  me  one  and  all, 
Tou  must  stand  by  and  see  me  falL*' 

Then  one  by  one  they  on  him  ran. 
And  fourteen  times  ne  slew  his  man : 

Ten  of  the  rascals  dead  by  the  bum. 
Four  rogues  dead  on  the  trampled  fern ; 

Then  the  fifteenth  traitor  stealing  round, 
Ghtve  him  a  deep  and  deadly  wound. 

The  knieht  of  his  wound  took  little  heed. 
And  set  his  lady  upon  her  steed. 

They  rode  till  they  came  to  the  brimming  tide, 
And  there  he  bound  his  bleeding  side. 

"  O,  Earl,  I  see  vour  red  heart's  blood !" 

"  Nay,  'tis  but  the  gleam  of  your  scarlet  hood." 

They  rode  till  he  came  to  his  mother's  door. 
Then  he  fell  dead  on  the  chamber  floor. 


THE    GREAT    DRUNKERY 
DISCOVERY. 


»( 


\ 


Not  long  ago,  the  mighty  Head  of  the 
Honourable  Court  of  Aldermen  of  the  City 
of  London,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  even 
of  that  terrible  Assembly,  The  (very)  Com- 
mon Council,  authoritatively  made,  at  the 
Mansion  House,  from  that  judgment  seat 
which  the  magnificent  potentate  occupies 
in  virtue  of  being  what  it  is  the  facetious 
custom  to  call  the  chief  magistrate  of  this 
great  city,  the  remarkable  statement :  That 
Recreation  was  a  special  cause  of  crime. 
The  wise  experience  of  the  civic  sovereign, 
prompted  hun  to  this  great  utterance. 

The  close  observation  and  accurate  know- 
ledge on  which  this  dictum  is  founded,  are 
beyond  praise.  Leaving  out  of  the  ques- 
tion the  small  consideration  that  a  people 
without  recreation  might  be  rather  diflBcnlt 
to  govern,  and  might  (so  History  teaches 
common  men  who  are  not  Lord  Mayors) 
in  fact  have  an  avenging  tendency  to  turn 
and  rend  their  governors,  consider  how 
exquisitely  timed  this  Pearl  of  the  nin©' 
teenth  century  !  Among  the  younger  men 
of  the  day,  what  demorahsing  sports,  what 
brutal  pastimes,  are  fostered  and  encon- 
raged  by  the  degrading  system  of  early 
closing,  and  by  the  Saturday  half-holiday ! 
Take  the  wicked  and  ciniel  game  of  cricket,  | 
for  instance,  in  which  it  is  notoriously  im- 
possible to  attain  exceUence  without  de- 
fiance of  rule  and  order,  and  the  habitual 
consumption  of  large  quantities  of  strong 
drink.  Consider  the  rowing  matches,  <» 
which  large  numbers  take  place  on  Satur- 
day a^TxxQOiv^  Vl  \)t:j^  Ud<^  be  fikYonrabtei 


^ 


Gliartos  Diekeas.] 


THE  GREAT  DRUNKERY  DISCOVERY.       [Jiiiy8i.i«t.]    205 


and  the  training  for  which,  by  the  very 
nature  of  the  case,  requires  nproarions  con- 
duct, late  hours,  iJie  constant  imbibition  of 
ardent  spirits,  and  a  systematic  shattering 
of  the  constitution.  Think  with  disgust  of 
the  orgies  that  take  place  at  the  rifle  butts, 
where  marksman's  badges  and  bulls'-eyes 
can  never  be  attained  unless  the  hand 
shakes  with  the  palsy  consequent  upon 
excessive  drinking.  As  for  drilling,  it  is 
so  well  known  that  military  precision  is 
impossible  to  be  reached,  without  the  fal- 
tering gait  and  general  bearing  of  delirium 
tremens,  that  it  is  needless  to  dwell  upon 
the  unpleasant  topic. 

The  popularity  of  these  enervating  and 
dissipated  pursuits  may  account  for  the 
evil  doings  of  the  foul  fiend,  Recreation. 
So  may  the  abominable  custom  of  running 
cheap  excursion  trains:  particularly  now, 
when  railway  refreshment -rooms  are  im- 
proving. So  may  the  disgracefol  facilities 
afforded  for  intoxication  by  the  system  of 
afternoon  performances  at  places  of  public 
CQtertainment :  where,  let  us  by  all  means 
declare,  the  major  part  of  the  audience — 
or  say  the  whole,  while  we  are  about  it — 
is  invariably  dead  drunk. 

The  Lord  Mayor  on  Recreation  is  but 
the  old  platform  principle,  on  the  Mansion 
House  Bench.  Some  people  alloy  recrea- 
tion ;  no  people  shall  enjoy  recreation. 
Some  people  misuse  Everything ;  no  people 
shall  enjoy  Anything. 

Lord  Mayors,  unlike  Poets,  are  made: 
not  born.  And  before  you  can  be  a  Lord 
Mayor,  O  aspiring  Reader,  you  must  be  an 
Alderman.  Yet  take  heart.  Though  only 
an  Alderman,  you  may,  if  bom  under  a 
lucky  star,  be  as  wise  as  a  Lord  Mayor. 
There  is  actually  an  Alderman  as  wise  as 
a  Lord  Mayor,  in  the  present  House  of 
Conmions.     Think  of  it ! 

Mr.  Layard,  the  First  Commissioner  of 
Works,  whose  government  of  the  public 
Parks  is  influenced  by  a  sound  common 
sense,  and  a  responsible  anxiety  for  the  com- 
fort and  enjoyment  of  their  frequenters, 
worthy  of  such  a  man,  was  engaged  a  few 
weeks  ago  in  carrying  the  estimates  of  his 
department  through  committee  of  supply, 
when  "  Mr.  Alderman  Lusk  objected,"  says 
the  Times'  report,  '*  to  the  licensing  of  a 
place  for  the  sale  of  beer  in  Victoria  Park. 
He  objected  to  the  sale  of  beer  in  any  park. 
It  was  offensive  to  Tee-Totallers  to  set  up  a 
Drunkery  in  the  middle  of  a  park.  He 
was  not  a  Tee- To  taller,  but  he  sympathised 
with  those  who  were,  and  he  did  not  want 
needlessly  to  give  them   offence.     It  did 


not  become  Parliament  to  set  up  a  beer- 
shop  in  the  middle  of  a  park,  and  there- 
fore he  protested  against  it." 

As  fsir  as  we  know,  Drunkery  is  a  new, 
as  well  as  an  elegant,  addition  to  the 
English  language.  It  is  a  forcible  word  too. 
A  suggestive  word  besides.  The  Alderman 
objects  to  setting  up  a  Drunkery  in  the 
middle  of  a  park.  As  though  one  should 
object  to  setting  up  a  Hee-Hawery  or  a 
Gruntery,  in  the  middle  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  We  suppose  the  noun-substan- 
tive, Drunkery,  to  mean  a  low  kind  of 
public-house  frequented  by  persons  for  the 
purpose  of  getting  drunk.  Mr.  Layard, 
knowing  that  a  minister  getting  his  Esti- 
mates through,  is  set  up — not  to  write  it 
irreverently — ^Kke  an  Aunt  Sally,  to  be 
shyed  at,  and  that  he  must  take  all  tho 
sticks  that  are  set  a  flying  at  him,  did  not 
evade  even  this  poor  stick.  He  conde- 
scended to  explain  that  he  was  not  going  to 
set  up  a  Drunkery,  but  merely  to  provide 
sober  refreshment  for  sober  people.  He 
endeavoured  to  hammer  into  the  Alder- 
manic  head  that  the  state  of  things  so  much 
deprecated  had  for  years  existed  in  this 
very  Victoria  Park,  and  in  Battersea  Park : 
although  in  tents  on  the  cricket-fields,  and 
not  in  brick  and  mortar  Drunkeries.  Of 
course  the  Alderman  was  ignorant  of  the 
facts,  and  the  vote  passed,  after  he  had,  as 
above,  released  his  mighty  mind. 

Is  it  generally  known  in  Fiusbury,  which 
returns  Mr.  Alderman  Lusk,  that  there 
is  such  a  place  as  the  South  Kensington 
Museum  ?  Have  his  meek  constituents 
heard  that  there  is  in  that  building,  which 
is  frequented  at  all  times  by  vast  numbers 
of  sight-seers,  many  of  whom  are  of  that 
working  class  which  one  of  our  Finsbury 
M.P.'s  affects  to  think  much  of  at  election 
time,  but  which  he  calumniously  mistrusts, 
when  elected,  a  most  appalling  Drunkery  ? 
Do  they  know,  down  in  Finsbury,  that 
besides  the  dinners  which  can  be  procured 
there,  beer  and  wine  are  sold,  and  not  only 
beer  and  wine,  but  spirits?  And  do  they 
know  that  the  people  do  not  get  drunk 
there,  do  not  destroy  the  art-treasures  of 
the  place,  and  do,  on  the  whole — as  they 
do  on  the  whole  everywhere — behave  them- 
selves almost  as  well  as  the  Court  of  Com- 
mon Council  ?  If  so,  will  they  do  them- 
selves the  justice  to  point  this  out  to  their 
shining  light  ? 

What  do  they  say,  down  in  Finsbury, 
to  that  enormous  and  pestilent  Drunkery 
known  as  the   Crystal  Palace^  ^\»  ^^^^tsl- 
ham  ?     Did  they  ever  «u\X«iA  >2t\a*\»  \i\jSv^- 


I  ■ 


^: 


=Si 


206      [Jalytl,18<9.1 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


(Ooadncted  bf 


/ 


ing  on  a  popular  day  when  the  shilling 
pnblic  was  on  hand  ?  Let  some  Finsbmy 
voters  inquire  of  the  officers  of  the  estab- 
lishment, and  they  will  find  that  although 
the  visitors  have  the  privilege  of  obtaining 
as  much  beer  as  they  like,  they  are  not 
in  the  habit  of  leaving  Messrs.  Bertram 
and  ^Poberts's  counter  and  running  amuck 
down  the  centre  transept,  or  getting  up 
fights  in  the  Nineveh  court,  like  Drury-lane 
ruffians  in  a  gin-shop  bar. 

Will  they  ask  the  worthy  Alderman,  down 
in  Finsbury,  distinctly  by  what  moral  right 
he  stigmatises  a  well-regulated  place  for 
the  sale  of  beer  in  a  park,  as  a  Drunkeiy  ? 
Will  they  ask  him  by  what  other  word  he 
will  describe  the  &vourite  places  we  have 
instanced,  and  tweniy  more  of  a  similar 
kind  for  the  recreation  of  decent  people 
grossly  libelled,  all  over  and  about  London  ? 
Li  this  Journal,  and  in  its  predecessor, 
a  conscientious  and  consistent  stand  has  al- 
ways been  made  against  the  monstrous  ex- 
travagance and  injustice  of  the  Tee-Totahsm 
that  persists  in  attacking  and  defiuning 
those  who  use  and  do  not  abuse.  In  our 
knowledge  of  the  daiker  ways  of  great  cities 
we  yield  to  few  men  living,  if  any.  Of  the 
miseries  and  vices  that  accompany  drunken- 
ness— sometimes  its  causes,  sometimes  its 
effects — ^we  have  seen  wofiil  sights.  We 
should  be  hopeless,  alike  of  a  drunken  ser- 
vant and  a  drunken  son.  If  either  were  dis- 
posed to  take  the  Tee-Total  pledge,  we  would 
urge  him  to  take  it,  as  a  last  txial.  Butwe 
protest,  and  always  will  protest  "while  life 
remains  to  us,  against  the  restraining  of  the 
moderate  by  the  immoderate,  against  the 
domination  of  the  virtuous  by  the  vicious.  If 
a  hundred  thousand  people  such  as  ourselves 
were  to  become  Tee-Totallers  to-morrow,  our 
reason  is  convinced  that  every  slave  to  drink 
would  still  remain  in  slavery.  In  the  last 
hundred  years,  in  the  last  fifty  years,  in  the 
last  quarter  of  a  century,  drunkenness  has 
steadily  decreased.  Judging  by  all  reason- 
able analogy,  it  will,  in  the  next  hundred 
years,  in  the  next  fifty,  in  the  next  twenty- 
five,  yet  steadily  decrease,  though  more 
rapidly.  By  all  means  let  all  drunkards 
who  can  be  got  to  take  the  pledge  and  to 
keep  it,  take  it  and  keep  it.  Meanwhile, 
let  the  sober  people  alone.  And  take  well 
to  heart  the  truth  that  nothing  will  eradi- 
cate the  black  sediment  of  drunkenness 
deposited  by  poverty,  misery,  and  ignorance, 
save  a  gradual  awakening  of  self-respect 
in  low  depths,  through  a  wise  and  beneficent 
system  pervading  all  legislation. 
-fti4  to  return  to  the  Aiderman  returned 


by  Finsbury.  His  nature  is  00  delicate,  it 
seems,  that  '*  though  he  is  not  a  Tee-TotaUer 
he  sympathises  with  those  who  are,"  and 
he  "  does  not  want  needlessly  to  give  thsm 
offence"  !  Is  there  any  logic  down  in  Fins- 
bury ?  Some  voters  who  profeas  Tee-To- 
talism,  there  evidently  are ;  but  is  there  any 
aldermanically-damaging  fragment  of  logic 
among  those  who  are  not  ?  Are  we  sober 
people,  and  our  wives,  and  our  children, 
and  our  neighbours  and  friends,  to  submit 
to  be  charged  with  frequenting  a  Drunkeiy, 
because  we  choose  to  take  a  pint  of  beer 
in  Victoria  Park  ?  Are  our  charact^s 
to  be  blackened  by  the  imputation  of  a 
shamed  vice,  and  are  the  comfort  and 
convenience  of  us  the  vast  majonfy  to  be 
as  nothing  ?  A  pint  of  beer  in  V  ictoria 
Park  may  be  a  stumbling-block  to  some- 
body who  doesn't  want  it,  and  who  won't 
have  ifc ;  and  therefore  everybody  who  does 
want  it,  shall  go  without  it !  Cigars  may 
be  sold  in  Victoria  Park.  Let  us  have  no 
Smokery  there,  or  we  may  give  offence  to  the 
Anti-Tobacco  League !  Chops  may  be  an- 
nounced in  Victoria  Park.  Let  no  Flesh- 
eatery  be  established  there,  or  we  shall  nerer 
be  voted  for  by  a  member  of  the  Vegetanin 
Society !  Is  everything  to  be  forbidden 
everywhere  that  is  offensive  to  somebody  ? 
Why,  some  day  it  might  strike  some  mem- 
bers of  the  House  of  Commons  that  the 
presence  in  that  assembly  oi  some  Alder- 
man, might  be  offensive  to  some  persons  in 
Finsbury ! 

The  combination  of  the  Victoria  P^ 
Drunkery,  and  the  great  Recreation  theory, 
s^^^g^sted  to  us  the  expediency  of  a  Sator- 
day  visit  to  Victoria  Park.  Firstly,  for  the 
reason  that  though  we  had  seen  many 
Saturday  half-hoHdays,  our  way  had  not 
lain  in  a  north  -  easterly  direction ;  and, 
secondly,  because  we  were  anxious  to  see 
the  Drunkery,  and  the  stroke  of  business 
done  in  it.  So,  on  the  Saturday  succeeding 
the  brilliant  parliamentary  achievement  m 
Finsbury's  Anointed,  we  proceeded  thither. 

There  was  no  doubt,  anywhere  on  onr 
road,  about  its  being  a  holiday.  Every- 
body had  a  general  look  of  being  cleaned 
up  for  the  aflemoon,  and  little  hand-baskets 
were  being  carried  to  the  railway  stations 
leading  suburb- ward,  by  many  excursionists. 
An  eruption  of  flannel  cricketing  trousers 
had  broken  out  on  the  knifeboards  of  the 
omnibuses.  Volunteers,  in  unifonn  of  all 
hues  and  cuts,  were  hurrying  toward  all 
points  of  the  compass,  to  drilL  Shops  were 
being  shut  up  in  all  directions.  Bat  even 
under  tke^  circumstances  the  publio-Iunisas 


\ 


A 


Diekana.] 


THE  GREAT  DRUNKBRT  DISCOVERY.      [July  «i.  i9».]    207 


irere  nofc  nmumally  full,  and  there  was  no 
sign  of  that  sad,  aad,  inorease  of  dninken- 
neoi.  We  preaentlj  emerged  into  the 
Sacknej-road,  and  became  satisfied,  owing 
bo  the  niinLber  of  cricketers  all  moving  in 
me  direction,  that  Hackney-road  mnat  be 
SOT  right  road.  Presently,  passing  oyer  a 
preMy  bridge  across  an  ngly  canal,  we  were 
in  the  scene  of  the  Drunkery — the  Park. 

The  first  impressions  of  Victoria  Park 
ire  not  striking.  It  is  large  and  rather 
banen.  Dismal  and  mangy  tracts  of  land 
Borronnd  it,  belonging  (as  we  afterwards 
fonnd)  to  the  Woods  and  Forests,  and  to 
be  let  for  building  pnrposes.  Not  attractiyc 
to  builders,  however,  as  it  would  seem. 
Ihe  sun  was  very  hot,  and  there  was  a 
deal  of  dust,  and  the  north-east  wind 
was  sharp.  On  further  acquaintance,  Vic- 
toria Park  unproves.  Closer  inspection 
diBcems  pleasant  gardens,  and  shady 
dimbberies  laid  out  with  taste,  and  kept 
vnth  great  neatness.  Wherever  a  seat  can 
be  put  under  the  shade  of  a  tree,  there  a  seat 
will  be  found ;  wherever  there  is  a  chance 
for  a  pleasant  little  resting  place  among  the 
green  shrubs,  there  such  a  resting  place 
is  oontriyed.  It  cannot  be  said  ^bat  the 
gardens  of  Victoria  Park  are  equal  to  those 
of  Hyde  Park ;  but  they  are  very  pretty,  for 
all  that,  and  no  doubt  give  as  much  plea^ 
sore  to  their  visitors.  On  holidays,  it  is* 
bahionable  to  visit  Victoria  Park,  in  num- 
bers quite  extraordinary.  Nor  is  it  found, 
thou^  the  great  mass  of  the  visitors  is 
of  tiie  poorer  class,  and  though  the  park 
is  surrounded  by  public-houses,  that  this 
leads  to  any  particularly  disorderly  con- 
duct, or  that  Uie  people  are  less  carefal  of 
the  shrubs  and  flowers,  here,  than  else- 
where. The  park — or  at  least  the  orna- 
mental portion — is  not  very  full,  however, 
this  Saturday  afternoon.  Monday,  or  even 
Tuesday,  is  a  greater  day  than  Saturday. 
The  oki  custom  of  keeping  St.  Monday  has 
not,  in  these  parts,  yet  been  quite  super- 
seded by  the  more  modem  and  more  hu- 
manising institution  of  St.  Saturday.  Still, 
there  is  a  very  respectable  number  of  half- 
holiday  makers,  who  show  no  outward  signs 
of  that  evil  condition,  which,  according  to 
the  Lord  Mayor,  should  be  normal  to  them. 

Turning  a  comer,  we  came  imexpect- 
edly  upon  a  pretty  scene:  new  to  us,  al- 
though something  like  it  may  be  seen  on 
the  Serpentine.  A  long  lake,  or  piece  of 
ornamental  water,  covered  with  the  glancing 
white  sails  of  model  yachts,  its  banks 
covered  by  an  eager  busy  crowd  of  nortli- 
esst  London  yachtsmen.     From  the  little 


boat  sold  at  the  conventional  toy-shop,  and 
which  capsizes  witii  singular  readiness,  up 
to  the  complete  model,  six  feet  or  more  in 
length,  which  makes  ite  way  along  as  if  it 
were  smartly  handled  by  pigmy  mariners, 
every  sort  of  boat  is  to  be  seen  on  this 
miniature  Southampton  water.  Artful  ar- 
rangemente  of  tillers  enable  the  larger 
models  to  sail  where  they  will,  and  even, 
assisted  by  cunning  sticl^  on  shore,  to  go 
about  when  the  land  is  too  nearly  made. 
The  latest  fashions  in  sails  may  here  be 
seen.  Fashionable  square  topsails,  spin- 
nakers, balloon  jibs,  and  what  not ;  and,  like 
their  larger  sisters  of  the  rivers  and  seas, 
some  of  these  little  vessels  carry  a  Mont 
Blanc  of  canvas,  to  a  Chamounix-ch&let  of 
hull.  As  we  wateh  the  proprietors  tenderly 
setting  the  sails  of  their  Httle  craft,  anxiously 
adjusting  the  tillers,  proudly  launching  their 
humble  Gambrias  and  Julias,  or  eagerly, 
widi  long  stick  in  hand,  following  th^ 
course  down  the  lake,  it  strikes  us  that  this 
is  surely  an  innocent  amusement,  and  one 
not  specially  calculated  to  lead  to  an  im- 
moderate consumption  of  strong  drink. 

Further  on,  and  past  Miss  Burdett 
Goutts's  beauti^  drinking  fountain,  which 
appears  highly  popular,  is  an  arid  waste 
and  a  stony.  Here,  swings  and  rpund- 
aboute  axe  set  up,  somewhat — O  name  it 
not  in  Finsbury ! — after  the  manner  of  a 
Fair,  and  giddiness  is  dispensed  to  those 
who  like  it  at  so  much  a  whirl.  Business 
is  slack  to-day,  however. 

If  the  half-holiday  makers  be  not  dis- 
coverable in  great  numbers  anywhere  else, 
there  are  plenty  of  them  on  the  cricket- 
ground,  which  is  absolutely  covered  with 
players.  Balls  fly  about  in  a  showery 
manner  terrifying  to  the  nervous  or  short- 
sighted spectator ;  and  the  cries  of  ^'  Thank 
you,  sir  P'  '*Ball,  please!'*  and  the  like, 
would  do  honour  to  the  Playing  Fields  at 
Eton,  or  Parker's  Piece  at  Cambridge,  on  a 
busy  day.  Sixteen  matehes  go  on  here 
simultaneously,  on  Saturday  afternoons: 
regular  matehes,  be  it  understood,  without 
reference  to  scrateh  games  and  desultory 
practice.  He  must  be  a  wise  batsman  in 
Victoria  Park  who  knows  his  own  ball; 
and,  if  he  be  so  minded,  a  man  Adding 
may  cateh  (irrespective  of  the  immediate 
interests  of  his  side)  as  many  balls  as  Bamo 
Samee.  As  we  make  our  way  cautiously, 
along  a  ridge  or  high  ground  that  divides 
this  battle-field,  we  have  just  time  to  note 
that  the  taste  in  flannel  shirte  and  caps  is 
florid  in  this  part  of  the  worlds  coTn\»sAlSKn^ 
of  scarlet  aaid  ^\i\i  AaVoift  >oeai^  tm»\.  Ssi. 


\ 


^ 


k 


20S    [J^Qiy  8i«  iB^^O 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetodby 


// 


favour,  when — 0  Heaven  and  Finsbury ! — 
we  come  upon  a  Dronkery !  Here  is  abso- 
lutely a  tent,  nnblnshingly  holding  itself  ont 
to  mankind  as  The  Morpeth  Castle: — ^too 
obviously  an  offshoot  of  the  Morpeth  Castle 
Tavern,  which  is  to  be  observed  defiantly 
flying  its  flag  outside  the  park  yonder! 
Beer  is  being  consumed  here :  not  only  by 
cricketers,  but  by  spectators,  and  the  feel- 
ings of  Tee- Total  players  are  in  course  of 
being  outraged  frightfuUy.  Yet  somehow 
nobody  gets  drunk.  Do  we  not  know  on 
the  best  authority  that  these  people  ought 
to  do  what  they  ought  not  to  do  ?  Say, 
Finsbury  !  And  yet,  Finsbury,  they  don't, 
and  they  won't. 

But  a  canvas  Drunkery  is  not  what  we 
seek.  Our  more  substantial  Drunkery  must 
be  sought  elsewhere. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  park  is  a  lake, 
studded  with  small  islands,  on  whose  placid 
waters  the  athletic  youth  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood pursue  the  sport  of  rowing. 
It  is  a  tranquil  spot,  pleasantly  shaded 
with  trees,  and  made  as  much  of  as  possible 
by  the  landscape  gardener's  art ;  so  that, 
though  in  reality  but  a  pond,  it  seems  a  lake 
of  fair  proportions.   On  its  otherwise  virtu- 


ous banks,  is  the  Dnmkery.     It  looks  a^>  temper,  a  passage  from  an  Address,  veiy 


modest  building  enough,  and  is  a  very,  a 
very,  little  Drunkery.  At  present  it  has  not 
arrived  at  any  distinct  position  in  the  world, 
inasmuch  as  it  has  been  made  the  subject  of 
a  small  trade  "  dodge."  A  licence  cannot  be 
granted  to  its  lessee  until  it  has  been  rated 
for  the  relief  of  the  poor.  The  local  vestry — 
whether  inspired  by  a  regard  for  the  feelings 
of  Tee-Totallers,  or,  which  is  much  more 
likely,  the  interests  of  the  publicans  near  the 
park — ^has  refused  the  application  for  as- 
sessment, and  so,  for  the  moment,  private 
interests  stand  in  the  way  of  a  public  ac- 
commodation. 

If  the  exterior  of  this  Drunkery  be  inoffen- 
sive, its  interior  is  even  more  so.  It  is  quite 
clear  that  bar  drinking  is  not  the  object  here. 
There  is  a  sufficiency  of  chairs,  and  little 
tables  (doubtless  considered  un-English  by 
the  neighbouring  pubUcans),  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  the  correctness  of  Mr.  La- 
yard's  declaration  that  the  place  is  intended 
for  the  rational  entertainment  of  respectable 
people.  The  guarantees  for  the  proper 
conduct  of  the  place,  and  for  the  due  ob- 
servance of  the  First  Commissioner's  regu- 
lations, are  two;  one,  is  the  power  that 
the  Commissioner  possesses  of  turning  out 
the  lessee  if  any  improprieties  be  permitted ; 
tho  other,  is  the  well-known  respectability 
of  the  existiDg  lessee :  who  has  filled  most 


of  the  chief  offices  of  the  Licensed  Victual- 
lers' Society,  and  against  whom  even  the 
opponents  of  the  Dnmkery  have  not  a  word 
to  say. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  water  is  a  sort 
of  arcade,  now  devoted  to  the  sale,  by  the 
wife  of  a  park  constable,  of  ginger  beer, 
biscuits,  nuts,  and  similar  nuld  articles. 
Even  this  humble  refreshment-room  has 
been  objected  to  by  the  landlord  of  a  pubho 
house  at  the  park  gates,  as  injurious  to  his 
business  !  (Notice,  Finsbury,  how  needfiil 
it  is  that  the  little  model  yacht.  The  Alder- 
man, on  the  lake  yonder,  should  trim  its 
sails  and  manage  its  tiller  so  as  to  keep  off 
both  shores !) 

Mr.  Layardwill  be  too  strong  in  the  long 
run  for  the  disinterested  opponents  he  has 
had  to  encounter.  The  combination  of  pub- 
licans and  saints  is  novel ;  but,  as  the  tem- 
per of  the  House  of  Commons  was  clearly 
with  him,  and  not  with  Finsbury,  so  the 
common  sense  and  the  sense  of  justice  of 
the  public  will  be  with  him  too. 

To  the  Tee-Totallers  (of  whom  the  shin- 
ing light  of  Finsbury  is  not  one,  though  so 
keenly  considerate  of  their  feelings)  we 
commend,  in   conclusion,  without  loss  of 


famous  in  America,  of  Governor  Andrew, 
of  the  State  of  Massachusetts : 

"  Do  you  tell  me  that  these  arguments 
have  a  tendency  indirectly  to  encourage 
and  defend  useless  and  harmfid  drinking, 
and  that  silence  would  have  been  better— 
for  the  sake  of  a  great  and  holy  cause  ? 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  the  people  of 
every  class  and  persuasion — taught  by 
professors  and  practitioners  of  medical 
science  of  every  school  to  take  wines  and 
beer  as  tonics,  and  restoratives,  and  as  put 
of  their  diet,  in  illness,  in  age,  or  on  occa- 
sions of  physical  depression — ^will,  in  their 
hearts,  believe  your  declaration  that  they 
are  essentially  and  characteristically  poi- 
sonous ?  Do  you  think  that  the  children  at 
our  firesides  will  believe  that  the  Apostle 
was  a  perverter  when,  instead  of  com- 
manding total  dbsthience^  he  enjoined 
freedmn  from  excess  of  wine  ?  Do  you  ima- 
gine they  will  forget,  that  he  who  made 
the  best  wine  which  the  guests  enjoyed  at 
the  marriage  feast  in  Graliiee  (because  He 
came  'eating  and  drinking'  while  John 
the  Baptist  was  a  Nazarite  and  drank  no 
wine)  was  aspersed  by  the  Jewish  Phari- 
sees as  a  *  wine-bibber  and  a  friend  of  pub- 
licans and  sinners'  ?  ' 

"The  people  and  the  children  are  nc^ 
\  blind  ^  tlie  inconsistencies  and  sophistries 

A 


OBIENTAL  LIFE  IN  niTTLE. 


[juirai,  ist*.] 


!  of  those  who  claim  to  lead  them.  They 
I  can  distinguish  the  trathfl  of  the  Oospel, 
.  and  the  practical  dictates  of  Reason,  from 
,  the  coutroveraial  theories  of  '  contentions 
■   conscientiDiisness.' '' 


ORIENTAL  LIFE  IN  LmLE. 

Those  who remenit'cr  the  dark  poking  toodib 
at  the  India  House  in  l.eadenhall-street.  and 
the  Gurioas  things  which  rendered  tlioae  rooms 
interesting,  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  our  old 
friend  the  Tiger  is  Btill  in  preserration,  although 
much  dinuned  hj  the  dust  a!  time.  We  have 
(till  the  incentive  to  njeditste  on  that  glitter- 
ing aarage,  Tippoo  Sultan,  to  whom  the  tiger 
belonged  ;  and  we  maj,  if  we  like,  ask  whether 
a  later  Bavage.  Nana  Sahib,  would  have  felt  an 

3uaI  pleasnre  in  listening  to  the  mimic  shrieks 
B  wooden  or  papier-mach^  Englishman  (or 
woman,  or  child).  But  this  tiger  is  only  one 
thing  among  a  thousand ;  although  certainly  a 
Tery  Bpecial  thing  of  its  kind. 

Dnnng  the  couple  of  centuries  marked  by 
the  career  of  the  East  India  Company,  and 
vpeeially  during  the  second  of  the  two  cen- 
tnriea,  many  odds  and  ends  collected  in  the  East 
were  transmitted  to  London,  and  there  placed 
in  spare  rooms  in  the  old  East  India  House — 
now  replaced  by  a  ohister  of  commercial  chani- 
beia.  When  there  was  enough  of  these  miscel- 
laneons  objects  to  merit  the  dignified  name  of 
t  Musetun,  an  order  From  a  director  of  the 
company  would  admit  a  visitor  to  nee  it ;  but 
It  a  later  date  a  more  liberal  plan  was  adopted. 
by  admitting  the  public  generally  for  three 
houTB  on  Saturdays.  You  entered  the  central 
Ttatibole ;  you  wound  about  two  or  three 
passages,  and  ascended  forty  stairs ;  and  then 
you  found  eii  or  eight  rooms,  very  scantily 
lupplicd  with  window -light,  fn  tlicae  rooms  the 
canoutiea  were  stowed,  some  in  very  dark 
coroera,  and  some  on  shelves  too  high  up  lo 
be  seen ;  but  there  was  wherewithal  lo  whet 
one's  interest  in  the  doings  an<l  the  products 
of  the  East.  In  process  of  time  came  the 
Mutiny,  and  its  consequent  fierce  encounters  : 
then  the  virtual  extinction  of  the  great  com- 
pany ;  next  desolation  of  the  old  East  India 
Hoose  :  and  the  final  demolition  of  the  build- 
ini;.  The  removal  of  the  Museum  being  ne- 
cessary, an  arrangement  was  made  with  the 
Srpmment  for  the  use  of  Fife  House,  White- 
1 :  and  there  the  Mu!ieum  was  open  to 
the  iinblic  for  about  seven  years.  Towards 
the  close  of  what  may  he  called  the  I.#adenhall 
period,  the  directors  had  increased  the  number 
of  hours  in  the  year  when  the  collection  was 
open  tor  public  inspection,  to  tour  hours  in  the 
(lay  on  two  days  in  the  week  i  and  when  the 
transference  to  a  new  house  was  completed, 
tbe  facility  was  further  incieascd  to  six  hours  a 
day  on  three  days  in  the  week.  Then  came  the 
building  of  the  new  India  Office :  a  sort  of  twin 
brother  of  the  new  Foreign  Office.  In  this  new 
InSa  Uffice,  some,  at  least,  of  the  contents  of 
die  Moseoo)  are  now  deposited. 


And    here    we   will    give   eipresaion    to    a 

bundle  of  hopes.  We  hope  that  the  stair' 
case,  mounting  up  to  infinite  altitude,  and 
about  as  broad  as  that  of  an  ordinary  eight' 
roomed  house,  is  only  a  temporary  one.  \S'e 
hope  that  the  |>rescnt  exhibited  collection 
is  only  to  be  regarded  aa  an  instalment 
of  that  which  will  be  placed  open  to  us  one 
day,  when  the  stores  possessed  by  the  India 
Department  shall  hare  been  made  fully  avail' 
able.  We  hope  that  Dr.  Forbes  Wataon,  the 
indefatigable  curator  of  the  Museum,  will  bo 
able  to  supply  a  few  more  labels  or  inscriptions, 
in  the  absence  of  a  catalogue.  We  hope  that 
the  time  for  pubhc  admission  will  be  something 
more  than  three  hours  on  one  day  in  the  week. 
And  we  hope  that  the  formality  of  giving  one's 
card  to  the  door-keeper  is  not  to  be  iuaiated 
on.  Many  symptoms  lead  us  to  beUeve  that 
the  architect  was  not  originally  instructed  to 
include  a  Museum  in  his  plan  ;  that  ths 
J^luseum  was  an  after  thought ;  and  that  the 
restrictive,  exclusive  system  which  has  been 
adopted,  is  a  result  of  cramping  for  room,  aris- 
ing from  this  want  of  architectural  fitness.*  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  arrangements  will  probably 
improve  as  they  gradually  got  into  working 
order:  in  the  mean  time  we  may  congratulate 
all  concerned  on  the  capital  manner  in  which 
the  place  is  lighted ;    everytliing  can  be  v 

This  Moseum  illustrates,  more  completely 
than  the  British  or  the  South  Kensington 
Aluseums  can  do,  the  habits  and  customs,  tho 
arts  and  sciences,  the  growths  and  products, 
the  utiUties  and  luxioies,  of  Oriental  conntries. 
Take  the  case  of  warlike  arms.  Every  pos- 
sible scimitar  and  dagger  that  could  have 
been  used  by  Blue  Beard  and  by  Timour  the 
Tartar,  by  rojahG  and  nabobs,  by  shahs  and 
moguls,  by  Sikhs  and  Rajpoots,  by  Afghanit 
and  Scindians,  may  here  be  seen.  Also,  the 
oddest- looking  muskets  and  matchlocks,  som 
of  them  decorated  with  that  peculiar  kind  o 
wavy  surface  known  by  the  name  of  damas 
cening.  It  would  be  an  interesting  point  fur  on 
Snider  and  Whitworth  folks  to  ascertain  how 
far  the  two  guiding  principles  of  barrel-rifling 
and  breech -loading  have  been  known  to  the 
ingenious  Orientals ;  and  how  far  the  same 
Orientals  have  studied  the  differencea  between 
steel  and  other  metals  as  the  luaterial  for 
various  kinds  of  arms. 

'Ihe  fibrous  products  of  India  havo  engaged 
a  large  amount  of  attention  on  the  part  of 
Dr.  Koyle  and  Dr.  Forbes  Watson.  The 
subject  is  an  important  one,  seeing  that  the 
manufacturers  of  textile  materials,  of  paper, 
of  bagging  and  sacking,  of  ropes  and  matting, 
are  greatly  dependent  on  the  supply  of  su^ 
fibres.      The    otScial    precuicts   of   Downing' 


•  Our  hope)  uro  likely  lo  be  ronliaed  in  due  time. 
It  it  now  aonounenl  that  Iho  Council  of  todiB  Li< 
BUthoriaeil  the  arehilect  to  prcparo  plnni  for  a  new 
itructuTe:  tacODtuia  (bo  whals  cnllecnon  belonging  In 
tlio  lIuMura,  ■*  w*U  M  «  gcographipal  degsrtnwnJ,. 
Tuo  iii^w  Imil.Uns  is  W  oeci'jj  muiV^iim  tiiK  o^  *>! 
qiuulFangle. 


4: 


h 


210       [July  31, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[C<mdiiolAd  by 


/ 


street  illustrate  some  only  of  the  collected 
stores  which  are  available ;  but  we  believe 
that  Dr.  Forbes  Watson  is  laudably  endea- 
vouring to  get  these  fibres  well  known  in  the 
manufacturing  districts :  a  mode  of  really 
benefitting  both  India  and  England.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  the  drugs,  oils,  dyes, 
tanning  mateiials,  and  vegetable  foods,  of  the 
East;  the  more  they  are  known  in  this 
country,  the  more  probability  there  is  that  the 
industrious  Hindu  will  *'8ee  the  colour''  of 
English  money,  and  feel  the  benefit  of  English 
manufactures.  Tliis  is,  indeed,  the  depart- 
ment to  which  the  greatest  additions  have 
been  made  by  the  India  authorities  during 
the  last  dozen  years  or  so ;  and  although  the 
exhibited  contents  of  the  Museum  comprise 
only  a  per-centage  of  the  whole  store,  there 
are  materials  for  many  a  useful  lesson  there. 
Nor  is  the  animal  kingdom  neglected  ;  the 
hair,  wool,  fur,  feathers,  skins,  hides,  vellum, 
horn,  bone,  silk,  &c.,  of  Oriental  animals  are 
variously  illustrated. 

But  to  see  the  Hindu  at  home  is  perhaps 
the  most  instructive  part  of  the  Museum  ;  to 
see  him  surroimded  by  the  material  requisite 
for  his  daily  existence.  In  regard  to  his  trade 
or  employment,  we  find  models  of  looms, 
ploughs,  mills,  smiths'  bellows,  windlasses, 
pestles  and  mortars.  In  his  travelling  appli- 
ances we  find  the  gorgeous  howdah,  the  lazy 
palanquin,  the  di'tk  postchaise,  and  the  rude 
cart.  In  his  culinary  and  table  arrangemeut<R, 
very  marvels  of  simplicity,  we  have  the  hand- 
mill  with  which  the  women  grind  the  com ; 
the  pans  for  parching  the  grain,  and  the  rice  ; 
the  dough-trough  for  making  the  cakes ;  the 
suspended  crock  for  the  boilings  and  steam - 
ings ;  the  bite  of  skewers  that  serve  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  the  roasting-jack ;  the  vessels  for 
drinking,  which  must  be  used  exclusively  by 
their  owners,  under  pain  of  loss  of  caste  by 
pollution  from  other  lips.  The  little  models, 
constructed  by  Hindu  fingers,  are  especially 
valuable  as  illustrations  of  this  kind,  seeing 
that  they  represent  at  once  the  people  and  the 
implements.  The  tailor  is  shown,  exactly  as 
he  sits  while  making  or  mending  a  garment ; 
the  shoemaker  has  his  own  traditional  mode  of 
using  a  lapetone  ;  the  bricklayer,  plasterer, 
mason,  carpenter,  and  smith,  are  shown  with 
their  house-building  tools  and  implements ; 
the  painter,  glazier,  plimiber,  gilder,  decorator, 
are  duly  present ;  the  quarrynian,  brickmaker, 
sower, reaper,  ploughman,  irrigator;  the  makers 
and  users  of  all  sorts  of  things  ;  are  here  to  be 
seen  in  great  variety.  The  family  groups,  too, 
include  models  of  women  wrapped  up  in  their 
clothing  in  an  odd  way,  cliildren  with  no 
clothing  at  all,  and  babies  packed  and  strapped 
into  oblong  bundles  without  power  of  using  a 
limb,  poor  little  wretches!  One  group  of 
models  represents  a  native  court  of  appeal, 
the  contending  litigants,  the  counsel,  the  wit- 
nesses, the  judge,  the  clerks,  the  police,  and 
the  public :  wonderfully  like  Westminster 
Hall,  in  g>irit,  if  not  in  outward  form.  Another 
rerjr  gorgeous  aff&ir,   an  Indian  prince 


js  a 


being  entertained  with  a  nautch  or  dance; 
the  prince,  courtiers,  dancing  girla,  musicians, 
hookahs,  refreshment  trays,  dresses,  cushions, 
curtains,  all  are  as  glittering  as  gold  and  colour 
and  embroidery  can  make  them. 

Hie  musical  instruments  brought  from  the 
East  are  in  many  cases  very  curious,  showing  pe- 
culiar modes  of  applying  the  same  principles  as 
those  with  which  we  are  all  familiar.  One  con- 
sistfi  of  about  three  octaves  of  sounding  sticks, 
flattish  pieces  of  hard  wood  from  ten  to  fifteen 
inches  in  length ;  they  are  ranged  along  a 
double  string,  with  the  surfaces  horiiontal,  and 
emit  a  dullish,  wooden  soimd  when  struck  with 
a  cork  hammer.  Yes,  Master  Bonnay's  Xiflo- 
phone  was  long  ago  anticipated  in  the  East,  bat 
in  a  primitive  way  which  that  young  performer 
would  by  no  means  have  recognised.  The 
monotonous  tom-tom  is  here,  in  its  glory  of 
tinsel  and  tinkling  appendages,  ready  to  be 
tapped  by  the  nimble  fingers  of  the  Hinda. 
The  wind  instruments  and  stringed  instru- 
ments, of  whatever  forms  they  may  be,  impress 
one  with  the  idea  that  the  national  music  for 
which  they  are  suited,  must  be  of  a  very  primi- 
tive and  undeveloped  kind ;  and  this,  indeed, 
we  know  to  be  the  case :  rhythm,  melody,  and 
harmony,  all  being  deficient. 

The  costume  of  the  natives  of  India,  from 
the  rajah  to  the  pariali,  can  here  be  studied 
with  great  completeness.  The  kind  of  spun 
fibres  employed,  the  kind  of  stuff  woven 
from  the  fibres,  and  the  shape  of  the  gar- 
ment. The  study  can  best  be  carried  on  by 
means  of  several  splendid  volmnes  of  photo- 
graphs and  specimens,  prepared  at  the  cost  of 
the  India  Department,  by  Dr.  Forbes  W^atsoD ; 
but  even  without  these,  there  is  wherewithal 
at  the  Museum  to  excite  the  interest  of  our 
spinners,  weavers,  tailors,  and  dressmakers 
W^e  find,  for  instance,  that  a  large  proportion 
of  India  clothing  is  made  entirely  in  the  loom : 
that  is,  not  merely  the  material,  but  the  gar- 
ment itself  is  made  by  weaving,  without  the 
aid  of  the  scissors  or  needle.  Among  these 
loom-made  garments  are  the  pugaree  or  turban, 
made  of  a  quadrangular  piece  of  woven  ma- 
terial, twisted  up  in  an  almost  infinite  number 
of  ways ;  the  loonghie  or  body-garment,  a  kind 
of  long  shawl  wound  round  in  even  a  greater 
number  of  ways  than  the  turban  ;  the  dhotce, 
a  sort  of  loin-clotJi,  sometimes  the  only  cover- 
ing except  the  turban,  of  the  poorest  class  of 
natives:  the  cummer-bund  or  waist-band,  a  veiy 
long  strip  about  a  foot  wide,  and  wrapped 
around  the  person  as  voluminously  as  the 
wearer  may  choose :  the  pitambus,  a  sort  of 
silken  dliotee  worn  by  the  Brahmins  when  at 
meals  ;  the  saroe,  a  shawl  so  large  as  to  serve 
a  Hindu  woman  for  shawl,  head-dress,  and 
even  petticoat,  according  to  the  way  in  which 
it  is  thrown  around  the  person  ;  the  booka,  an 
enormous  veil  worn  instead  of  the  sarec,  with 
holes  for  the  eyes  to  peep  through.  If  we  wish 
to  know  the  infinite  capal)ilities  of  a  quadran- 
gular piece  of  cloth  as  a  garment,  we  may  learn 
something  from  the  Scotch  plaid,  and  something 
from  the  Spanish  mantilla,  but  very  much  more 


&) 


OhsrlesDickenB.]  KING  PIPPIN'S   PALACE.  [July  31. 1889.]      211 


from  the  Hindu  pugaree,  loonghie,  imd  saree.  of  which  the  purpose  is  not  uow  quite  clear, 

Some  of  the  sarees  are  nine  yards  Long,  by  a  there  were  eighteen  organ  pipes,  nine  studs 

yard  and  a  half  wide.  Of  course  there  are  other  or  keys  to  play  them,   two  stops   to  divide 

garments  made  up  with  the  aid  of  the  scissors  them  into  qualities  of  sound,  and  bellows  to 

and  needle,  such  as  the  taj  or  small  conical  cap ;  blow  them.     Such  was  Tippoo's  tiger,  which 

the  col,  or  cap  with  a  knob  at  the  top ;  the  he  used  to  enjoy  as  a  musical  instrument : 

topee,  or  large  and  elegant  state  cap  ;  the  long  listening  alternately  to  the    shrieks    of    the 

calico  coat ;  the  paejama,  or  trousers  for  both  biped,  and  the  growls  of  the  quadruped.    It 

sexes;   the  choice,  or  closely-fitting  bodice;  has  travelled  from Seringapatam to Leadenhall- 

the  peskwaz  or  skirt.     It  is  also  interesting  street ;  thence  to  Fife  House,  and  now  to  the 

to  note  the  extent  to  which  the  native  dyers  new  India  office.    It  is  certainly  none  the  better 

and  weavers  and  calico  printers,  have  been  for  its  migrations.     The  stripes  of  the  tiger  are 

able  to  produce  pattern,  by  means  of  stripes,  nearly  gone,  and  the  paint  is  chipped  off.    TTie 

checks,    spot^,    twills,    chmtz  -  glazing,    em-  pijies,  ulb  keys,  and  the  stops  are  there,  it  is 

l»oidery,  and  fringe  work.    As  to  muslins,  it  is  true ;    but  the  bellows  have  lost  their  wind, 

marvellous  what  the  fingers  of  the  Hindu  are  and  we  suspect  there  will  be  no  more  shrieking 

able  to  accomplish .      Dr.  Forbes  Watson,  a  or  growling.    As  to  the  Englishman,  he  cer- 

few  years  ago,  caused  the  finest  known  spe-  tainly  is  the  very  picture  of  misery,  with  his 

cimen  of  Dacca  muslin  to  be   examined  by  stiff  legs,  black  shoes,  yellow  painted  buckles, 

the  microscope  ;  it  was  found  that  the  thread  round  black  hat,  scarlet  coat,  green  breeches, 

which    the    weaver    employed,    was    only   a  and  yellow  stockings,  all  begrimed  with  seventy 

seven -hundred -and -fiftieth  part  of  an  inch  years  of  dost  and  tarnish. 

in  thickness :    that  is,    seven    such  threads,  

hid  side  by  side,  would  be  less  than  a  hundredth 

of  an  inch  in  width.     Each  thread  contained  KING  PIPPIN'S  PALACE. 

about  nine  of  the  ultimate  cotton  filaments.  

The  filagree-working  and  the  ivory  carvmg        j  ^^^^^^^  ^^      ^  that  it  should  be  my  duty 

at  the  Museum,  show  us  that  those  two  arts  .  j  xi,      i  i^x  t  /   ♦     % 

have  arrived  in  India  at  a  degree  of  perfection  ^  «^^^  the  aknn ;  but  I  am  constarmned 

acarcely  equalled  in  any  other  country.     We  ^  ^^^  ^7  ^^^^  **^**'  ^^^^  ^^  somethmg 

can  understand  this  better,  when  we  remember  the  matter  vnth   our  old,  and,  generally, 

how  small  is  the  value  of  time  in  those  parts,  esteemed  friend  the  Dwarf.     I  don't  meet 

Where  men  can  live  upon  twopence  a  day,  it  is  him  in  society,  that  is  to  say,  at  the  fairs 

not  a  matter  of  serious  concern  that  an  oma-  as  I  was  wont  to  do  ;  and  although  I  do 

ment^  piece  of  work  should  sometimes  take  not  overlook  the  fact  that  I  have  ceased  to 

a  workman  months,  or  even  years,  ^  execute  ^^^^^^  ^y       ^^^  ^^mi,  indeed,  there  are  very 

Among  the^thonsand  and  one  oddities  that  /.      ^  .        r.  .i       i  j  i  •   j  i  rx  x     r  x   •'i 

meet  the    view,    in  this   instahneiit  only  of  few  W  of  the  old  W  left  to  frequent,  it 

the  collection  possessed  by  the  India  Depart-  i?  difficult  to  avoid  the  unpleasant  convic- 

ment,  are  pictures  relating  to  Oriental  subjects,  tion  that  dwarfs,  as  a  race,  are  dying  out. 

vrints  and  drawings  of   Indian   scenery  and  Very   recently,    in    his    strange,    eloquent 

tmildings,   models    of   proas  and  catamarans  romance,  L'homme  qui  rit,  M.  Victor  Hugo 

and  other  kinds  of  boats,  stuffed  animals  and  has   told   us   that   the    pigmy,    preferably 

dried  fishes,  small  specimens  iUustrating  the  monstrous  and  deformed,  whose  pictured 

natu^  history  of  India,  cases  of  butterflies  semblance  is  to  be  found  in  so  many  works  of 

and  beetles,   cases  of   eggs  and  birds,  pipes  ^i.      u  tx  r  j  n  i  ± 

and  hookahs  from   the  very  humble  to  the  the  old  Itahan  and  German  masters  was,  to 

very  gorgeous,  models  of  temples  and  sacred  ^^^  mtents  and  purposes,  a  manufactured 

buildings,  idols  that  are  in  favour,  some  among  article.      That    mysterious    association    of 

the  BraSimins  and  some  among  the  Buddhists,  the    "  Comprachicos,"  of  whom  M.  Hugo 

But  a  few  words  must  be  spared  for  the  has  told  us  so  many  strange  things,  pur- 

Tiger.     Surely  the  world  contains  not  such  sued,   among  their  varied  branches  of  in- 

another !    When  Tippoo  Sultan  was  defeated  dustry,  the  art  of  fabricating  hunchbacked, 

«ad   kiUed    at    Seringapatam,    in   1799,    the  abdominous,  hydrocephalouS,  and  spindle- 

iiJiglish  troops  found  in  the  palace,  a  fiffure  of  ,      ijj/x'      iu-c^  ix 

a  ti|er  tearing  to  pieces  a  prostrate  soldier,  in-  shanked  dwarfs  for  the  European  market : 

tended  to  represent  an  Englishman.    The  tiger  ^^e  purchasers  being  the  pnnces,  potentates, 

was  moderately  well  modelled  ;  the  soldier  was  and  wealthy  nobles  of  the  continent.     The 

lodicrously  bad  :    made  to  be  laughed  at,  it  Gomprachicos  would  seem  to  have  borrowed 

would  seem.     This  tiger  was  a  musical  instru-  the   mystery   of    dwarf-making   from   the 

nient.      A  handle  in  the  shoulder  turned  a  Chinese,   who   had   an   agreeable   way   of 

spindle  and  crank;  and  this  crank  was  con-  patting  a  young  child  into  a  pot  of  arbi- 

nccted    with    mechanism    which  fiUed  nearly  f         ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^    ^^  ^^^^ 

the  whole  of  the  tiger  and  the  man.    One  part  ,    jV         i        i    j       x        j  •     ^i.      -j        ^ 

of  the  music  consistid  of  the  shrieks  and  groans  ^'^^,  ^^^^  knocked  out,  and  m  the  sides  of 

of  the  man  ;  another,  of  two  or  three  roaring  which  were  two  holes,  through  which  the 

sounds,  intended  to  imitate  the  growl  of  the  juvenile   patient's   arms  protruded.      Tha 

tiger;  while, to  produce  certain  musical  effects,  merry  eonaequence  vf«k&^i^^vv\»'30vl\\^TSv1M^^*2c^^ 


A 


& 


212      [July  31, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


{pondnetedb; 


1 1 


1 1 
I 


body,  if  he  did  not  die  during  the  pro- 
cess, grew  to  be  of  the  shape  of  the  pot, 
and,  so  far  as  the  torso  went,  the  order  of 
amateurs  for  a  spherical  dwarf,  or  an  oval 
dwarf,  or  an  hexagonal  dwarf,  or  a  dwarf 
with  knobs  on  his  chest,  or  an  "  egg-and- 
tongue"  pattern  on  his  shoulders,  could  be 
executed  with  promptitude  and  despatch.* 

But  we  have  another  informant,  of  per- 
haps greater  weight  and  authority,  who  has 
told  us  in  what  manner  dwarfs,  and  bandy, 
and  ricketty,  and  crooked-spined  children 
can  be  manufactured  without  the  aid  either 
of  the  Comprachicos  or  of  the  Chinese 
potters.  The  learned  and  amiable  Cheselden 
has  dwelt  minutely  in  his  Anatomy  on  the 
wickedly  cruel  and  barbarous  folly  which 
marked  the  system  of  nursing  babies  in  his 
time,  and  has  shown  how  the  practice  of 
tightly  swaddling  and  unskilfally  carrying 
infants  was  calculated  to  cripple  and  deform 
their  limbs,  and  to  stunt  their  growth.  We 
have  grown  wonderfully  wiser  since  Chesel- 
den*s  time,  although  I  have  heard  some 
cynics  mutter  that  the  custom  of  growing 
children  in  pipkins  could  not  have  been 
more  detrimental  to  health  or  to  the  sym- 
metry of  the  human  form  than  is  the  mo- 
dem fashion  of  tight  lacing. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  I  still  hold 
that  the  dwarf — well,  the  kind  of  dwarf 
who  can  be  seen  for  a  penny  at  a  fair — 
continues,  as  the  French  say,  "to  make 
himself  desired."  Surely  his  falling  oflT 
must  be  due  to  the  surcease  of  the  manu- 
facture. Old  manufactured  dwarfs  are  as 
difficult  to  light  upon  as  Mortlake  tapestry 
or  Chelsea  china,  simply,  I  suppose,  be- 
cause tapestry  is  no  longer  woven  at 
Mortlake,  and  Chelsea  produces  no  more 


*  Setting  M.  Hugo's  wild  myth  of  the  Comprachicos 
entirely  on  one  side,  most  students  of  the  social  history 
of  England  arc  aware  that  the  custom  of  kidnapping 
children  (generally  to  be  sold  as  slaves  in  the  West 
Indies  or  the  American  plantations)  was  frightfully 
prevalent  in  this  country  in  the  seventeenth,  and  during 
the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  that 
Bristol  was  dishonourably  distinguished  as  the  port 
whence  the  greater  number  of  the  napless  victims  wore 
despatched  beyond  sea.  And  it  is  a  very  curious  cir> 
cumstance,  which  appears  to  have  been  overlooked  by 
Lord  Macaulay  in  nis  notice  of  Jeffries,  tl^t  the  in< 
famous  judfre,  shortly  before  the  Bloody  Assize,  went 
down  to  Bristol,  and  delivered  to  the  grand  jury  at  the 
assizes  a  most  eloquent  and  indignant  charge,  over< 
flowing  with  sentiments  of  humanity,  bearing  on  the 
practice  of  kidnapping  children  for  the  plantations — a 
practice  which  his  lordship  roundly  accused  the  cor- 
poration of  Bristol  of  actively  aiding  and  abetting  for 
their  own  advantage  and  gain.  Jeffries'  charge  is  pro- 
served  in  the  library  of  the  British  Museum,  and  is  as 
edifying  to  read  as  the  sentimental  ballad  What  is  Love  r 
by  Mr.  Thomas  Paine,  or  as  would  be  an  Essay  upon 
Cruelty  to  Animals,  with  proposals  for  the  suppression 
thereof}  by  the  Jate  Emperor  Nero, 


porcelain  ware.  To  an  amateur  of  dwarfs 
it  is  positively  distressing  to  read  the  nu- 
merous detailed  accounts  which  the  histo- 
rians have  left  us  of  bygone  troglodytes. 
Passing  by  such  world-&mous  manikins 
as  Sir  Jeffery  Hudson  and  Count  Bora- 
lawski,  where  can  one  hope,  in  this  dege- 
nerate age,  to  light  on  a  Madame  Teresia, 
better  known  by  the  designation  of  the 
Corsican  Fairy,  who  came  to  London  in 
1773,  being  then  thirty  years  of  ago,  thirty- 
four-inches  high,  and  weighing  twenty-sii 
pounds  ?  '*  She  possessed  much  vivacity 
and  spirit,  could  speak  Italian  and  French 
with  fluency,  and  gave  the  most  inquisitive 
mind  an  agreeable  entertainment.'*  Eng- 
land has  produced  a  rival  to  Madame 
Teresia  in  Miss  Anne  Shepherd,  who  was 
three  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  and  was 
married,  in  Charles  the  First's  time,  to 
Richard  Gibson,  Esq.,  page  of  the  back- 
stairs to  his  majesty,  and  a  distinguished 
miniature  painter.  Mr.  Gibson  was  just 
forty-six  inches  high,  and  he  and  his  bride 
were  painted  "  in  whole  length  '*  by  Sir 
Peter  Lely.  The  little  couple  are  said  to 
have  had  nine  children,  who  all  attained 
the  usual  standard  of  mankind ;  and  three 
of  the  boys,  according  to  the  chronicles 
of  the  backstairs,  enlisted  in  the  life 
Guards. 

But  what  arc  even  your  Hudsons  and 
your  Gibsons,  your  Corsican  Fairies,  and 
your  Anne  Shepherds  to  the  dwarfs  of 
antiquity  ?  Where  am  I  to  look  for  a 
parallel  to  the  homunculus  who  flourished  in 
Egypt  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Theo- 
dosius,  and  who  was  so  small  of  body  ih&t 
he  resembled  a  partridge,  yet  had  all  the 
functions  of  a  man,  and  would  sing  tune- 
ably  ?  Mark  Antony  is  said  to  have  owned 
a  dwarf  called  Sisyphus,  who  was  not  of 
the  full  height  of  two  feet,  and  was  yet  of 
a  lively  wit.  Had  this  Sisyphus  been 
doomed  to  roll  a  stone  it  must  surely  have 
been  no  bigger  than  a  schoolboy's  marble. 
Ravisius — who  was  Ravisius? — narrates 
that  Augustus  Ceesar  exhibited  in  his  plays 
one  Lucius,  a  young  man  bom  of  honest 
parents,  who  was  twenty-three  inches 
high,  and  weighed  seventeen  pounds;  yet 
had  he  a  strong  voice.  In  the  time  of 
Jamblichus,  also,  lived  Alypius  of  Alex- 
andria, a  most  excellent  logician,  and  a 
famous  philosopher,  but  so  small  in  body 
that  lie  hardly  exceeded  a  cubit,  or  one 
foot  five  inches  and  a  half  in  height.  And, 
finally.  Garden  tells  us — but  who  believes 
Garden  ? — that  he  saw  a  man  of  full  age  in 
Italy,  not  above  a  cubit  high,  and  who  was 


&> 


OhariM  DickeBi.] 


KING  PIPPIN'S  PALACE. 


[July  81, 1M9.1     213 


carried  abont  in  a  parrot^s  cage.  "  This," 
remarks  Wanley,  in  his  Wonders  of  the 
Little  World,  "  wotdd  have  passed  my  belief 
had  I  not  been  told  by  a  gentleman  of  a  clear 
reputation,  that  he  saw  a  man  at  Sienna, 
abont  two  years  since,  not  exceeding  the 
same  statnre.  A  Frenchman  he  was,  of  the 
coimty  of  Limosin,  with  a  formal  beard,  who 
was  l&ewise  shown  in  a  cage  for  money,  at 
die  end  whereof  was  a  little  hatch  into  which 
he  retired,  and  when  the  assembly  was  fall 
came  forth  and  played  on  an  instrument." 
The  very  thing  we  have  all  seen  at  the  fairs, 
sabstitnting  t£e  simnlacmm  of  a  three- 
itoried  house  for  a  cage,  and  not  forgetting 
the  modem  improvements  of  the  diminutive 
imoate  ringing  a  bell,  and  firing  a  pistol 
out  of  the  first-fioor  window  ! 

And  after  banquetting  on  these  bygone 
dwar&,  who  were  scholars  and  gentlemen, 
M  well  as  monstrosities,  for  was  not  Alypius, 
cited  above,  a  £unous  logician  and  philo- 
Mpher  ?  and  did  not  Richard  GKbson,  Esq., 
teach  Queen  Anne  the  art  of  drawing,  and 
proceed  on  a  special  mission  to  Holland  to 
impart  artistic  instruction  to  the  Princess  of 
OnngeP  after  dwelling  on  the  dwarfs  who 
formed  part  of  the  retinue  of  William  of 
Normandy  when  he  invaded  England,  and 
who  held  the  bridle  of  the  Emperor  Otho's 
bone ;  after  remembering  the  dwarfs  whom 
Dominichino  and  Rafaelle,  Velasquez  and 
had  Veronese  have  introduced  in  their 
pictures;  after  this  rich  enjoyment  of 
dwarfish  record  I  am  thrown  back  on  Ge- 
neral Tom  Thumb.  I  grant  the  General, 
tnd  the  Commodore,  and  their  ladykind  a 
decent  meed  of  acknowledgment.  I  confess 
them  calm,  self-possessed,  well  bred,  and 
innocuous ;  but  I  have  no  heart  to  attend 
their  "lev^s."  Nutt,  in  the  caricature  of 
«  naval  uniform,  does  not  speak  to  my 
Heart;  I  have  no  ambition  to  see  Thumb 
trayestied  as  the  late  Emperor  Napoleon — 
that  conqueror  could,  upon  occasion,  cause 
hhnself  to  appear  even  smaller  than  Thumb 
"-nor  am  I  desirous  of  purchasing  photo- 
Rraphic  cartes  de  visite  of  Minnie  Warren. 
^y  dwarf  is  the  gorgeously  attired  little 
psigod  of  the  middle  ages ;  the  dwarf  who 
pops  out  of  a  pie  at  a  court  banquet ;  the 
dwarf  who  runs  between  the  court  jester's 
Jegs  and  trips  him  up ;  the  dwarf  of  the 
Jring  of  Brobdingnag,  who  is  jealous  of 
Gulliver,  and  souses  his  rival  in  a  bowl  of 
cream,  and  gets  soundly  whipped  for  his 
pains.  Or,  in  defaxdt  of  this  pigmy,  give 
me  hack  the  dwarf  of  my  youth  in  his  sham 
three-storied  house,  witn  his  tinkling  bell 
.  and  sounding  pistol. 


It  is  not  to  be,  I  presume.  These  many 
years  past  I  have  moodily  disbursed  in 
divers  parts  of  the  world  sundry  francs, 
lire,  guilders,  florins,  thalers,  reals,  dollars, 
piastres,  and  mark-banco  for  the  sight  of 
dwarfs;  but  they  (Thumb  and  his  company 
included)  have  failed  to  come  up  to  my 
standard  of  dwarfish  excellence.  Did  you 
ever  meet  with  anything  or  anybody  that 
could  come  up  to  that  same  standard? 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest ;  still, 
although  my  dreams  of  dwarfs  have  not  as 
yet  been  fully  realised,  I  have  been  able  to 
enjoy  the  next  best  thing  to  fulfilment.  I 
call  to  mind  perhaps  the  wonderfollest 
dwarfs*  house  existing  on  the  surface  of 
this  crazy  globe.  It  is  a  house  in  the  con- 
struction and  the  furniture  of  which  many 
thousands  of  pounds  were  expended ;  and 
it  was  built  by  a  king  for  his  son.  It  is 
for  this  reason  that  I  have  called  the  di- 
minutive mansion  "The  Palace  of  King 
Pippin." 

King  Pippin's  Palace  is  in  Spain,  and 
has  b^n  shamefully  neglected  by  English 
tourists  in  that  interesting  coimtry.  For 
my  part  I  think  that  it  would  be  a  great 
advantage  to  picturesque  literature  if  the 
Alhambra  ana  the  Alcazar,  the  Bay  of 
Cadiz,  and  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar,  the 
Sierra  Morena  and  the  Mezquita  of  Cor- 
dova, the  Cathedral  of  Burgos,  and  the 
Bridge  of  Toledo,  could  be  eliminated  al- 
together from  Spanish  topography.  By 
those  means  travellers  in  Spain  would  have 
a  little  more  leisure  to  attend  to  a  number 
of  **  cosas  de  Espana"  which  are  at  present 
passed  by  almost  without  notice.  Among 
them  is  this  incomparable  dwarf  house  of 
mine.  You  will  observe  that  I  have  ex- 
cluded the  Escorial  from  the  catalogue  of 
places  which  English  sight- seers  in  the 
Peninsula  might  do  well,  for  a  time,  to 
forget.  The  Real  Monasterio  de  San 
Lorenzo  must  needs  be  visited,  for  King 
Pippin's  Palace  is  a  dependency  of  that 
extraordinary  pile.  Few  toxuists  have  the 
courage  to  admit,  in  print  at  least,  that 
this  palace-monastery,  or  monastery- palace 
of  the  Escorial  is  a  gigantic  bore.  When 
it  was  my  lot  to  visit  it,  my  weariness 
began  even  before  I  had  entered  ita  halls ; 
for  in  the  railway  carriage  which  conveyed 
our  party  from  Madrid  to  the  "Gridiron 
station"  there  was  a  fidgetty  little  Anda- 
lusian,  a  maker  of  guitar  strings,  I  think 
he  was,  at  Utrera,  who  was  continually 
rebounding  on  the  cushions  like  a  parched 
pea  in  a  fire-shovel,  and  crying,  out  to  us, 
"  El  edificio,  caballeroa,  donde  «eXk  <^  ^^- 


»^: 


o 

■^ 


214      [Jnly  31,  1869.] 


AliL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OondnetvdliT 


I 


1 1 


ficio?"  It  was  his  first  'vdsitto  the  Northeni 
provinces  of  his  native  country,  and  he  was 
burning  to  see  the  **edificio."  To  him, 
evidently,  there  was  but  one  edifice  in  the 
world,  and  that  was  the  Escorial.  When 
at  last  he  caught  sight  of  its  sullen  facades, 
its  stunted  dome  and  blue  slate  roofs,  the 
little  Andalusian  fell  into  a  kind  of  ecstasy, 
and  protruded  so  much  of  his  body  out  of 
the  carriage  window,  that  I  expected  him 
every  moment  to  disappear  altogether.  To 
my  surprise,  however,  when  the  train  drew 
up  at  the  station  he  did  not  alight,  but  mur- 
muring the  conventional  "Pues,  Seuores, 
echemos  un  cigarito,"  "Well,  gentlemen, 
let  us  make  a  little  cigar,'*  calmly  rolled 
up  a  tube  of  paper  with  tobacco,  lit  it,  and 
adding,  "Yamos  al  Norte,"  subsided  into 
sleep,  and,  the  train  aiding,  pursued  his 
journey  to  the  Pyrenees,  or  Paris,  or  the 
North  Pole,  or  wheresoever  else  he  was 
bound.  He  wafi  clearly  a  philosopher.  He 
had  seen  "  El  edificio"  from  afar  off.  Was 
not  that  enough  ?  I  dare  say  when  he 
went  back  to  L^rera  he  talked  guide-book 
by  the  page  to  his  friends,  and  minutely 
described  all  the  marvels  of  the  interior  of 
the  palace.  I  rarely  think  of  the  little 
Andalusian  without  recalling  Sheridan's 
remark  to  his  son  Tom,  about  the  coal 
pits :  "  Can't  you  say  you've  been  down  ?" 
The  "  Edifice"  itself  is  reaUy  and  with- 
out exaggeration  a  bore.  The  good  pic- 
tures have  all  been  taken  away  to  swell  the 
attractions  of  the  Real  Museo  at  Madrid ; 
the  jolly  monks  have  been  driven  out  and 
replaced  by  a  few  meagre,  atrabihous- 
looking,  shovel  -  hatted  seminarists  (even 
these,  since  the  last  political  earthquake  in 
Spain,  may  have  disappeared)  audit  is  with 
extreme  difficulty  that  you  can  persuade 
the  custodes  to  show  you  the  embroidered 
vestments  in  the  sacristy,  or  the  illuminated 
manuscripts  in  the  library.  The  guardians 
of  every  public  building  in  Spain  have  a 
settled  conviction  that  all  foreign  travellers 
are  Frenchmen,  who,  following  the  notable 
example  of  Marshals  Soult  and  Victor  in 
the  Peninsular  War,  are  bent  on  stealing 
something.  Moreover,  the  inspection  of 
embroidered  copes,  dalmatics,  and  chasubles 
soon  palls  on  sight-seers  who  are  not  crazy 
upon  the  subject  of  Ritualism ;  and  as  for 
being  trotted  through  a  vast  library  when 
you  have  no  time  to  read  the  books,  all  I 
can  say  is,  that  in  this  respect  I  prefer  a 
bookstall  in  Gray's -inn- lane,  with  free 
access  to  the  "twopenny  box,"  to  the 
library  of  the  Escorial,  to  the  Bibliotheque 
ImpSnaJe,  the  Bodleism^  Sion  College,  and 


the  library  of  St.  Mark  to  boot.     The  ex- 
terior of  the  Escorial,  again,  is  absolutely 
hideous ;  its   grim   granite   walls,   pierced 
with  innumerable  eyelet-holes,  with  green 
shutters,  remind  the  spectator  equally  of 
the   Welliugtcm   Barracks,   Colney  Hatch 
Lunatic  Asylum,  and  the  Great  Northem 
Hotel  at  King's-crosB.  The  internal  decora- 
tions pnncipally  consist  of  huge,  sprawling, 
wall-and-ceiling  frescoes  by  Luca  (Hardano, 
sumamed  "  Luca  &>  Presto,"  or  Luke  in  a 
hurry.     This  Luke  the  Labourer  has  stnck 
innumerable    saints,    seraphs,    and  other 
celestial  personages  upon  the  plaster.    He 
executed  his  apotheoses  by  the  yard,  fiv 
which  he  was  paid  according  to  a  fixed  tariff^ 
a   reduction,  I  suppose,  being   made  &r 
clouds ;  and  the  result  of  his  work  is  about  as 
interesting  as  that  of  Sir  James  Tbomhill 
in  the  Painted  Hall  of  Greenwich  Hospitd. 
Almost  an  entire  day  moat  be  spent  if  yon 
wish  to  see  the  Escorial  thoroughly,  and 
you  grow,  at  last,  fretW  and  peevish  w«U- 
nigh  to  distraction  at  the  jargon  of  the 
guides,  with  their  monotonous  statistics  d 
the  eleven  thousand  windows  of  the  place, 
the  two  thousand  and  two  feet  of  its  area^ 
the  sixty-three  fountains,  the  twelve  ckas- 
ters,  the  sixteen  "  patios  "  or  oourtyaidB, 
the  eighty  staircases,  and  so  forth.     As  ftr 
the  relics  preserved  of  that  nasty  old  man 
Philip  the   Second,   his    greasy  hat,   luB 
walking-stick,  his  sliabby  elbow-chair,  thB 
board  he  used  to  rest  his  gouty  leg  upon, 
they  never  moved  me.     There  is  somfithing 
beautifully  and  pathetically  intexestiiig  ia 
the  minutest  trifle  which  remains  to  reamiiid 
us  of  Mary  Queen  of  Soots.      Did  job 
ever  see  her   watch,   in  the  shi4)e  cf  a 
death's  head,  the  works  in  the  b»in-paii» 
and  the  dial  enamelled  on  the  base  of  tlie 
jaw  ?     But  who  would  care  about  a  per- 
sonal memento  of  Bloody  Qneen  "Mjucji 
She  was  our  countrywoman,  but  moat  of 
us  wish  to  forget  her  bad  individnalikjrf 
utterly.      Should  we  care  anything  moc* 
about  her  Spanish  husband  ? 

To  complete  the  lugubrious  impressioitf 
which  gather  round  you  in  this  museomof 
cruelty,  superstition,  and  madness,  you  aie 
taken  to  an  appalling  sepulchre  undtf^ 
ground:  a  circular  vault,  called,  absurd^ 
enough,  the  "  Pantheon,"  where,  on  raoptf 
of  marble  shelves,  are  sarcophagi  containiiig 
the  ashes  of  all  the  kings  and  queens  who 
have  afflicted  Spain  since  the  time  of 
Charles  the  Fiftli.  This  bonehouse  is  ren- 
dered all  the  more  hideous  by  the  &ct  of 
its  being  ornamented  in  the  most  garishly 
theatrical  manner  with  porphyry  and  verie. 


A 


:23 


OurlM  DickensJ 


KING  PIPPIN'S  PALACE. 


fJulySUlSC^.]        215 


r 


antique,  with  green  and  yellow  Jasper, 
witli  bronze  gilt  bas-reliefs,  and  car\'^ings  in 
Tariegatcd  marble,  and  other  gimci*aeks. 
There  is  an  old  English  location  which 
laughs  at  the  man  who  would  put  a  brass 
kuockcr  on  a  pigsty-door.  Is  such  an  ar- 
chitect worthier  of  ridicule  tlian  he  who 
paints  and  gilds  and  tricks  up  a  charnel- 
house  to  the  similitude  of  a  playhouse  ? 
As,  with  a  guttering  wax-taper  in  your 
hand,  you  ascend  the  staircase  leading  from 
this  Pantlicon  into  daylight  and  the  world 
again,  your  guide  whispers  to  you  that  to  the 
light  is  another  and  ghastlier  Golgotha, 
where  the  junior  scions  of  Spanish  royalty 
are  buried,  or  rather  where  tJieir  coffins  lie 
huddled  together,  pell-mell.  The  polite  name 
for  this  place,  which  might  excite  the  indig- 
nation of  "  graveyard'  *  Walker  (he  put  a  stop 
to  intramural  interments  in  England,  and 
got  no  thanks  for  his  pains)  is  the  ''  Pan- 
theon of  the  InDemtes."  The  common 
people  call  it,  with  much  more  brevity  and 
infinitely  more  eloquence,  '*  El  Pudridero," 
the  ^'  rotting  place.*'  The  best  g^de-book 
you  can  take  with  you  to  this  portion  of 
the  Escorial  is  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermon  on 
Death. 

Once  out  of  the  Escorial,  "  Luke's  iron 
crown" — I  mean  the  crown  of  Luca  fa 
Presto's  ponderous  heroes — ^is  at  once  re- 
moved from  your  brow,  on  which  it  has 
been  pressing  with  the  deadest  of  weights. 
Once  rid  of  the  Pantheon,  and  the  stone 
staircases,  and  the  slimy  cloisters,  and  you 
feel  inclined  to  chirrup,  almost.  The  gar- 
dens are  handsome,  although  shockingly 
out  of  repur ;  but  bleak  as  is  the  site,  swept 
by  the  afanost  ceaseless  mountain  blasts  of 
the  Gnadarrama  range,  it  is  something  to 
be  rid  of  Luca  fa  Presto,  and  Philip  the 
Second,  and  St.  Lawrence  and  his  gridiron, 
and  all  their  gloomy  company.  You  breathe 
again;  and  down  in  the  village  yonder 
there  is  a  not  bad  inn  called  the  Biscaina, 
where  they  cook  very  decent  omelettes,  and 
where  the  wine  is  drinkable.  But  before 
you  think  of  dining  you  must  sec  King 
Pippin's  Palace. 

Tlliis  is  the  "Gasita  del  Principe  de 
ahajo,"  the  ''  little  house  of  the  prince  on 
the  heights,"  and  was  built  by  Juan  de 
Villanueva,  for  Gharles  the  Fourth,  when 
heir  -  apparent.  The  only  circumstances, 
perhaps,  under  which  a  king  of  Spain  can 
be  contemplated  with  complacency  are 
those  of  childhood.  In  Madrid,  I  used 
always  to  have  a  sneaking  kindness  for 
the  infantes  and  infantas — "los  ninos  de 
E.spaQa" — who,  with  their  nurses  and  go- 


vernesses, and  their  escort  of  drar]^)ons  and 
lancei*s,  used  to  be  driven  every  afternoon 
in  their  gilt  coaches  di-awn  by  fat  mules, 
through  the  Puerta  del  Sol  to  the  lletiro. 
The  guard  at  the  Palace  of  the  Gober- 
ntvciou  used  t,o  turn  out,  the  trumpets 
would  be  flourished  bravely  as  "  los  ninos" 
went  by.  Poor  little  urchins !  In  the 
pictures  of  Don  Diego  Velasquez,  the  niiios, 
in  their  little  rulFs,  and  kirtles,  and  far- 
thingales, or  their  little  starched  doublets 
and  trunk  hose,  with  their  chubby  peachy 
cheeks,  their  ruddy  lips,  and  pp:'eat  melting 
black  eyes  look  irresistibly  fascinating.  Ah ! 
my  infantes  and  in&utasof  Don  Diego,  why 
did  you  not  remain  for  aye  at  tlie  Toddle- 
kins'  stage?  why  did  you  grow  up  to  be 
tyrants,  and  madmen,  and  bigots,  and  im- 
beciles, and  no  better  than  you  should  liave 
been  ?  This  Carlos  the  Fourth,  for  instance, 
for  whom  King  Pippin's  Palace  was  built, 
made  an  exceedingly  bad  end  of  it.  He  was 
the  king  who  was  led  by  the  nose  by  a 
worthless  wife,  and  a  more  worthless 
&vourite,  Godoy,  who  was  called  "  Prince 
of  the  Peace,"  and  who  lived  to  be  quite 
forgotten,  and  to  die  in  a  garret  in  Paris. 
Carlos  the  Fourth  was  the  idiot  who  allowed 
Napoleon  to  kidnap  him.  He  was  the  feither 
of  the  execrable  Ferdinand  the  Seventh,  the 
betrayer  of  his  country,  the  restorer  of  the 
Inquisition,  and  the  embroiderer  of  petti- 
coats for  the  Virgin. 

King,  or  rather  Prince  Pippin,  Charles 
the  Third's  son,  is  represented  in  a  very 
curious  style  of  portraiture,  in  one  of  the 
apartments  of  the  Escorial  itself,  a  suite 
fitted  up  by  his  father  in  anti-monastic  style, 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  worst  kind  of  Louis 
Quinze  rococo.  The  king  employed  the 
famous  GU)ya  to  make  a  series  of  designs  to 
be  aften;>'ards  woven  on  a  large  scale  in 
tapestry,  and  Goya  consequently  produced 
some  cartoons  whicli,  with  their  reproduc- 
tions in  loom- work,  may  be  regarded  as  the 
burlesque  antipodes  to  the  immortal  pat- 
terns which  RafaeUo  set  the  weavers  of 
Arras.  In  one  of  the  Goya  hangings  you 
see  the  juvenile  members  of  the  royal  family 
at  their  sports,  attended  by  a  select  number 
of  young  scions  of  the  sangre  azul.  At 
what  do  you  think  they  are  playing?  at 
bull  fifjhtiiiff :  a  game  veiy  ])0piLlar  among 
the  blackguard  little  street  boys  of  Madrid 
to  this  day.  One  boy  plays  the  buU.  He 
has  merely  to  pop  a  cloth  over  his  head, 
holding  two  sticks  passing  through  holes  in 
the  cloth  at  obtuse  angles  to  his  head,  to 
represent  the  horns  of  the  animal.  The 
"  picadores"  are  childicii  i^\c\uaJo(w^>  ^V^, 


^ 


216 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[July  31,18011] 


with  canes  for  lances,  tilt  at  bull.  The 
"chnlos"  ti'ain  their  jackets,  the  **  banda- 
rilleros'*  fling  Avreathed  hoopsticks  for  darts, 
in  admirable  caricature  of  the  real  blood- 
thirsty game  you  see  in  the  bull-ring. 
Prince  Pippin  of  course  is  the  "matador," 
the  slayer.  He  stands  alone,  superb  and 
magnanimous,  intrepidity  in  his  mien,  fire 
in  his  eye,  and  a  real  little  Toledo  rapier  in 
his  hand.  Will  the  bull  dare  to  run  at  the 
heir-apparent  of  the  throne  of  Spain  and  the 
Indies  i  Quicn  sabe !  Train  up  a  child  in 
the  way  he  should  go ;  and  a  youth  of  bull- 
fighting is  a  fit  preparative  for  a  manhood 
of  cruelty  and  an  old  age  of  bigoted  super- 
stition. 

It  is  somewhat  difficult  to  give  an  idea 
of  the  precise  size  of  Pippin's  Palace.  Mr. 
Ford,  who  speaks  of  the  entire  structure 
with  inefiable  contempt,  says  that  it  is  "just 
too  small  to  live  in,  and  too  large  to  wear 
on  a  watch  chain ;"  but  I  maintain  that  the 
Casita  del  Principe  is  quite  big  enough  to 
be  the  country  residence  of  Thumb,  or  Nutt, 
or  Miss  Warren,  or  Gibson,  or  Hudson,  or 
Ann  Shepherd,  or  Madame  Teresia,  or 
Wybrand  Lolkes,  the  Dutch  dwarf;  a 
wonderful  little  fellow  with  a  head  like  a 
dolphin's,  no  perceptible  trunk,  and  two 
little  spindle-shanks  like  the  legs  of  a 
skeleton  clock.  There  should  properly  be  a 
statue  cast  from  the  Manikin  at  Brussels 
in  the  vestibule  of  the  Casita;  but,  if  I 
recollect  aright,  the  only  object  of  sculp- 
ture in  the  hall  is  a  life-size  ca4st  of  the 
Apollo  Belvedere,  whose  head  of  course 
touches  the  palatial  ceiling.  Could  that 
inanimate  effigy  stand  on  tiptoe  he  would 
assuredly  send  the  first  floor  flying,  and 
could  he  perform  but  one  vertical  leap,  he 
would  have  the  roof  off*  the  palace  in  the 
twinkling  of  a  bed-post.  There  is  a  tiny 
grand  staircase  which  (from  dolorous  ex- 
perience) I  know  to  be  somewhat  of  a  tight 
fit  for  a  stout  tourist ;  and  to  increase  the 
exquisite  grotesqueness  of  the  whole  affair, 
the  walls  are  panelled  in  green  and  yellow 
jasper  and  porphyry,  and  there  are  verde 
antique  columns  and  scagliola  pilasters, 
and  bas-reliefs  in  gilt  bronze  on  every  side, 
just  as  there  are  in  the  hoirible  tomb-house 
hard  by.  There  are  dozens  of  rooms  in 
King  Pippin's  Palace  :  dining-rooms,  audi- 
ence chambers,  council  chambers,  bed- 
rooms, libraries,  ante- chambers,  boudoirs, 
guard-rooms,  and  ball  rooms,  the  dimen- 


MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 

MESSSS.  CH APPELL  ahd  CO.  have  great  plMaure 
in  Bnuouncinj;  that  Mr.  CniALES  Dickehs,  haTing  Mnne 
time  since  become  perfectly  restored  to  health,  will  re* 
same  and  conclude  his  interrupted  series  of  FARE- 
WELL HEADINGS  at  St.  James's  Hall,  Loodoo, 
early  in  the  New  Year. 

The  Reading  will  be  Twelti  in  Nuvbeb,  and  none 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

In  redemption  of  Mb.  Dickens's  pledge  to  those 
ladies  and  ^ntlemen  of  the  theatrical  profession  who 
addressed  him  on  the  subject,  there  will  wi  Two  Moi9* 
ivo  Kbadxhos,  one  on  Friday,  January  14,  and  one  oa 
Friday,  January  21,  1870.  The  ETSsriiro  RxADivei 
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ruary 1,  8,  15,  22 ;  March 'l,  8,  and  16.  The  Prices  and 
all  other  arrangements  will  be  as  before.  The  aimouiucd 
number  of  Readings  will  on  no  account  be  exceeded. 

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sions  of  which  vary  between  those  of  so 
many  storo-cnpboards,  and  so  many  mid- 
shipmen's sea-chestR.  Bnt  the  pearl,  the 
cream,  the  consummation  of  the  crack- 
brained  joke  is  that  the  ftimitnre  does 
not  in  any  way  harmonise  with  the  pro- 
portions of  the  building.  The  honse  is  a 
baby  one,  but  the  furniture  is  grown  np. 
The  chairs  and  tables  are  suited  for  the 
accommodation  of  adults  of  fnll  g^rowth. 
The  walls  are  hung  with  life-size  poriraitf 
of  the  Spanish  Bourbons.  The  busts,  sta- 
tuettes, French  clocks,  chandeliers,  China 
gimcracks,  and  ivory  baubles  are  precisely 
such  as  yon  might  see  in  a  palace  inhabited 
by  grown-up  kings  and  princes.  The  whole 
place  is  a  pippin  into  which  a  crazy  king 
has  endeavoured  to  cram  the  contents  of  a 
pumpkin;  and,  but  for  the  high  sense  I 
entertain  of  the  obligations  of  decorum,  and 
the  indelicacy  of  wounding  the  susceptibili- 
ties of  foreigners,  I  might,  had  the  proper 
appliances  been  at  hand,  have  wound  np  my 
inspection  of  the  Palace  of  Eling  Pippin,  by 
ringing  a  shrill  peal  on  a  hand-bell,  or  firing 
a  pistol  out  of  the  first-floor  window. 

On  Saturday  7th  Aug:ust,  1869, 
Will  be  commenced  in  "  All  tus  Tbas  Boim> :" 

VERONICA. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Anrr  Masoakkt*8  Txovbli.*' 

A  NEW  SERIAL  STORY, 
To  bo  continued  from  week  to  week  until  completed.    | 
■  ^— ^»— — ^— ^p^— 

Now  Ready,  price  6s.  6d.,  bound  in  green  doth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

07  THB  NXW  SSSISS  OP 

ALL  THB  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  had  of  all  Booksellers. 


Poblimbed  at  fib«  cw»oe.  Ko  SB,  Welllugton  Strecv  airand.    rrtn^ft^yj  C.l?  wnwk^iB^wilwrt.'ftniia, 


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CQtiO\i<iTLD-BY 

'^oJSEHDLp'Wbiyis'!, 


SATURDAY,  AUGUST  : 


In  Five  Bookb. 


CHAPTER  I.      A  KEW  VICAR 

The  Church  Intelligence  anaonnced 
day,  much  to  the  flattering  of  tho  villftge 
of  Shipley,  and  alao  to  the  fluttering  of 
some  disappointed  heartB  in  clerical  breasts, 
that  the  Reverend  Charles  Levinconrt  was 
presented  to  the  vacant  living  of  Shipley- 
in-the-Wotd. 

The  Reverend  Charles  Lcvincoart  was 
preeentcd  to  the  living  of  Shipley-in-the- 
Wold  by  Sir  William  Delaney,  to  whose 
only  son  he  had  been  tntor. 

Sir  William  had  always  espreeBed  liis 
sense  of  ohHgation  to  Mr,  Levincourt  for 
the  nnremittmg  and  jndicions  care  he  had 
bestowed  on  hia  son  James's  education. 
The  young  man  was  sickly  in  body  and 
inert  in  mind ;  nevertheless  he  had  passed 

,  through  big  university  career  in  a  fairly 
creditable  manner.  This  was  mainly  owing, 
ae  every  one  admitted,  to  his  tutor's 
talents  and  zeal.  Therefore  when  tlio  not 
very  lucrative  living  of  Shipley  fell  vacant, 
it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 

1  that  Sir  William  should  bestow  it  on  a 
gentleman  for  whose  services   he  professed 

.  himself  sincerely  grateful.  But  neither 
Shipley- in-the- Wold  nor  the  world  out  of 
the  Wold  by  any  meaaa  understood  the 
Qftinspring  of  this  sincire  gratitude. 

James  was  the  bHj\>net'8  only  son,  but 
Sir  William  was  also  the  father  of  two 
daaght«rs.  While  the  older  of  these 
young  ladies — Hilda — was  going  through 
the  gaieties  of  a  London  season  (at  the  end 
of  which  she  became  Lady  Tallis),  Clara 
— a,  girl  of  seventeoa- — wfis  quietly  IhJling 


in   lovo  with   her  brother's  tutor  i 
coantry. 

The  Dclaneys  were  Irish  people.  They 
lived  chiefly  at  the  place  which  bore  their 
family  name  :  an  estate  called  Delaney 
Park  in  the  South  of  Ireland.  James 
passed  the  long  vacation  at  homo,  and  Mr. 
Levincourt  came  with  him.  Clara  n 
dehcate,  shy,  sweet  -  natured  creature ; 
motherless,  and  more  innocent  of  world- 
liaess  in  her  eighteenth  year,  than  many  a 
precocious  iiimate  of  a  Belgravian  nursery. 

Charles  Levincourt  lovedhcr,  better 
he  was  destined  ever  to  love  another 
man  being.     Bnthe  "behaved admirably," 
Sir  William  always  declared. 

How  ?  Well,  in  a  word,  he  went  abroad 
with  a  rich  minor  to  whose  guardians 
William  Delaney  warmly  recommended  hia 
son's  tutor. 

Before  two  years  were  over,  the  family 
at  Delaney  Park  learned  that  Mr.  Levin- 
court was  married  in  Italy,  to  a  foreign 
lady  of  great  beauty,  bnt  no  fortune. 

Soon   afterwards    Clara   yielded   to   her 
father's  solicitations  and  accepted  the  hand 
of  Sidney   Power    Desmond,    Esquire,    of 
Desmond    Court,   county  Cork :    a  gentle- 
man of  good  family,  whose  estate  adjoined 
her   father's.     On   his    second   daughter' i 
wedding  morning,  Sir  William   wrote   to 
Charles    Levincourt,    promising    him    tl 
next    presentation,    then    likely  to    fall    i 
very    shortly,    to    the    English    hving    i 
Shipley-in-the-Wo!d.     No  one    save  hi 
father  knew   that  it  was   Clara   who  had 
asked  and  obtained  this  boon. 

But  she  had  said  to  Sir  William  in  her 
quiet  sweet  voice,  "  Papa,  Jamea  had  a  letter 
the  other  day  from  Mr.  Levincourt.    He  has 
not  succeeded  in  getting  apipointieito  ^3nft  \ 
foreign  chaplaincy  \ie  -wsis  tvyva^  tot.    ^'^ 
wife  has  just  bad  a  \\tt\c  git\-    ^  ^-^^  ^ 


di 


218      [AQ0D»t7.1868k] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


[Camtactedby 


'I 


thoy  a»  "vesy  poor.  I  wish  you  would 
promise  him  the  nexi  preeentaiiou  to  Shij^ 
hdj.  You  could  not  de  better.  Ebis  m 
clever  and  so  learaed^  aud — and}  lie  was 
rerj  good  to  James,  papa  dear." 

LiSiifrway,  tike  Reverend  Charles  Levin- 
court  became  vicar  of  Shipley-in-the-Wold. 

CHAPTER  IT.      SHIPLEY  VICARAGE. 

The  small  and  obacaxe  TillBge  of  Shipley- 
iU'tke-Wold,  stands  in  oae  of  the  westem- 
moat  of  the  midland  counties. 

Itfr  name  was  given  in  days  before  the 
whole  of  that  part  of  England  had  been 
marked  by  the  plough  and  spade,  like  a 
page  by  the  tracings  of  a  pen.  Generation 
afl<;r  generation  has  left  its  sign-manual 
on  the  face  of  the  land :  each  writing  the 
record  of  its  labours  in  straight  farrows 
on  many  a  fertile  field:  furi'ows  effaced 
and  changed  and  renewed,  from  season  to 
season,  and  from  age  to  age,  as  are  tlie 
waving  ripples  on  a  seaside  sand,  wafihed 
by  the  eternal  tides. 

A  stretch  of  furze-gi*o^vn  common  is, 
perliaps,  the  only  remnant  of  that  charac- 
teristic aspect  of  the  country  which  gave 
Shipley  its  distinctive  appellation. 

Thei'e  are  wide,  flat  meadows  all  round 
about  it,  where  herds  of  cattle  graze  on 
the  dew-fed  grass.  The  principal  farms 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Shipley- 
in-the-Wol(f,  are  grazing  farms.  All  the 
land  is  flat  and  monotonous  as  hr  as  the 
eye  can  see ;  save  to  the  westward,  where 
the  horizon  line  is  broken  by  a  range  of  low 
turf- covered  hills,  called  by  the  inhabitants 
of  those  parts,  emphatically  ^'ihe  Hills.'* 
Behind  "the  Hills*'  lies  another  Shipley; 
Shipley  Magna,  a  tiny  market  town. 

If  it  could  be  reached  by  a  direct  line 
cut  tlirough  one  swelling  green  moimd, 
Shipley  Magna  would  not  be  more  than 
t^vo  or  three  miles  distant  &om  Shiploy-in- 
tl  10- Wold.  But  the  road  winds  about  and 
over  the  hills ;  and  it  is  six  miles  from  the 
village  to  the  town.  Southward  the  land- 
scape grows  prettier  and  more  smiliag. 
There  are  trees,  and  there  is  arable  land 
where,  in  summer,  wide  fields  of  sunburnt 
gi-ain  wave,  and  rock,  and  change  colour 
in  the  breeze,  as  a  face  pales  or  flushes  at 
a  sudden  whisper. 

But  Shipley-in-the-Wold  only  beholds 
these  things  from  afar.  The  stretch  of 
furze-grown  common  already  mentioned, 
and  beyond  tliat-,  a  considerable  extent  of 
oozy  marshland,  separate  it  from  the  smil- 
ing southern  country. 
In  iho  winter  season^  bleak  winds  sweep 


scjftiie-winged  over  Shipley ;  the  snow  lies 
;  deep  aboat  it ;  and  oilen  a  single  track  of 
hoofs,  ancH  whaoi^  and  feet  may  be  traced 
in-  long  bbtdc  lines  and  uncoutk  dots,  for 
sdles  across  the  otherwise  unbroken,  wliito- 
ness  of  tlie  level. 

Tlie  village  straggles  over  »  considerablb 
extent  of  ground,  but  its  houses  are  few 
and  its  population  is  scanty.  There  u 
nothing  whieb  oaiL  be  called  a  main  street 
belonging  to  it. 

The  dwellings  stand  scattered  irregularly; 
here  a  cottage,  and  there  a  cottaffe,  and 
each  one  is  set  within  its  own  little  patch 
of  kitchen-garden. 

The  place  is  remote  from  any  great 
centre  of  commerce  and  activity.  No  rail- 
way passes  near  it. 

Twenty  miles  to  tho  southward,  among 
the  trees  and  the  cornfields,  lies  the  cathe- 
dral city  of  Danecester ;  with  its  bishop,  and 
its  dean,  and  its  minster,  and  many  other 
civilising  and  excellent  institutions.  But 
Danecester  is,  after  all,  but  a  silent,  sleepy, 
old-fashioned  city ;  and  it  wots  little,  and 
cares  less,  about  poor  little  Shipley  out  on 
the  bleak,  wind-swept  flats. 

There  is  a  very  ancient  church  in  Shipley: 
a  low-roofed,  stone  church  with  round 
arches,  pillars  of  disproportionate  tliickness^ 
and  a  squai-e,  squat  tower.  It  has  a  deep 
porch,  to  enter  which  you  descend  two  steps 
from  the  graveyard.  The  labouring  cen- 
turies have  piled  their  dust  high  around 
the  massive  masonry  of  St.  GKldas's  church, 
and  the  level  of  the  outside  earth  is  con- 
siderably above  that  of  the  stone  pavement 
within  tiie  httle  temple. 

The  graveyard  is  enclosed  by  a  low  wall, 
and  its  gateway  is  a  relic  of  antiquity  coeval 
with  the  chm*ch  itself.  The  saul  gateway 
is  of  hown  stone,  with  a  projecting  pentp 
house  roof,  and  beneath  it  on  one  side  is 
a  large  stone  slab,  cracked,  weather-stained, 
and  half  sunk  into  the  earth.  Here,  in  the 
old  time,  the  cofl^-bearers  were  wont  to 
set  down  their  burthen,  and  a  preliminary 
prayer  for  the  dead  was  said  before  entering 
the  churchyard. 

There  is  no  beauty  in  St.  Gildas's  grave- 
yard. It  lies  defenceless  and  exposed  to 
every  wild  north-easterly  gale  that  swe^ 
over  the  flats.  Its  clustered  mounds  are 
turf- grown.  Sheep  graze  there  sometimes 
in  summer.  The  few  grave-stones,  as  yet 
undefaced  by  time  and  weather,  bear  hmo- 
bio  names  of  yeomen  and  peasants,  bom, 
living,  and  dying,  at  Shipley,  generation 
after  generation. 

There  are  some  rank  flaunting  marigolds 


fi= 


=X3 


ObariM  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[August  7,  1S69.]       219 


growing  beside  the  porch,  and  a  sickly-hued 
chrjsanthemnm  raises  its  head  to  peer 
over  the  low  rongh  wall  of  the  graveyard. 
Other  growth,  save  nettles,  dock  leaves, 
and  dank,  shadow-loving,  nameless  weeds, 
there  is  none. 

Hard  by  the  chnrch  stands  the  vicarage 
honse.  It  is  a  lonely  dwelling.  There  is 
no  habitation  of  any  kind  within  a  mile  of 
it :  none  above  the  rank  of  a  peasant's 
cottage  within  two  miles. 

Shipley  vicarage  is  either  not  old  enough 
or  too  old,  to  be  picturesque.  It  was  built 
in  the  middle  of  what  may  be  termed, 
emphatically,  the  ugly  age;  the  period, 
namely,  during  which  the  four  Greorges 
successively  occupied  the  throne  of  these 
realms.  It  is  a  nearly  square  house  of  yel- 
lowish-brown brick.  Its  rooms  are  oblong 
and  rectangular,  its  windows  mean,  its  stair- 
cases narrow.  There  is  no  break  or  relief 
in  the  flat  wall-surfaces,  nor  in  the  blank 
desert  of  the  whitewashed  ceilings. 

Behind  the  house  extends  a  large  garden, 
the  high  wall  of  which  skirts  a  bye-lane 
branching  from  the  main  high-road  to  Ship- 
ley Magna.  In  front  is  a  lawn,  cut  in  two 
by  a  long  straight  gravel  path  that  leads 
from  an  iron  wicket  in  the  box  hedge,  up  to 
the  hall  door.  This  lawn  is  only  divided  by 
a  paddock  from  St.  Gildas's  churchyard. 

Two  quivering  poplars  whisper  to  each 
other  and  nod  mysteriously  from  either 
aide  of  the  iron  gate :  and  the  windows  of 
the  lower  rooms  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
are  dai^ened  by  clumps  of  evergreens, 
among  which  an  old  yew-tree  rises  gloomily 
ccmspicuous. 

The  vicarage  faces  due  south,  and  looks 
across  the  common  and  the  marsh,  to  where 
tufty  woodlands  break  the  level,  and  hide 
the  distant  spires  of  Danecester. 

The  Reverend  Charles  Levincourt,  vicar 
of  St.  Gildas,  arrived  to  take  possession 
of  his  new  home  on  a  dreary  day  in  the 
latter  autumn ;  when  the  rain  dripped  sadly 
from  the  sombre  evergreens,  and  low,  lead- 
coloured  clouds  were  melting  into  slant 
showers  over  the  common. 

"  It  is  not  a  hopeftil  scene,"  said  he,  as  he 
looked  about  him,  and  shivered. 

He  afterwards  saw  the  scene  under  a 
countless  variety  of  aspects ;  but  that  first 
dispiriting  impression  of  Shipley  struck  the 
key-note  of  the  place,  and  became  an  abiding 
nnder-tone,  sounding  through  all  subsequent 
diangcs. 

CHAPTER  III.      A  WARD. 

Me.  Levincourt  had  been  established 
some  years  at  Shipley,  when  one  day  he 


received  a  letter  from  the  junior  partner 
in  a  London  firm  of  solicitors.  Frost  and 
Lovegrove,  informing  him  that  he  (the 
Reverend  Charles  Levincourt,  vicar  of 
Shipley-in- the- Wold),  had  been  appointed 
co-executor  with  the  writer  (Augustus 
Lovegrove)  of  the  will  of  the  late  Mrs. 
Desmond,  relict  of  Sidney  Power  Desmond, 
Esquire,  formerly  of  Desmond  Court, 
county  Cork;  and  further  requesting  the 
vicar's  presence  in  town  as  soon  as  might 
be. 

Communication  between  the  country 
clergyman  and  the  family  of  his  old  pupil 
had  long  since  worn  away  and  died  out. 
The  old  pupil  himself  had  died,  at  fivc- 
and-tweniy ;  his  sorrowing  father  had  not 
long  survived  him ;  and  this  was  the  first 
intimation  Charles  Levincourt  received  of 
the  widowhood  and  death  of  his  old  love. 

He  journeyed  without  delay  to  London, 
and  saw  Mr.  Lovegrove.  The  latter  in- 
formed him  that  their  joint  responsibility, 
as  regarded  the  administration  of  Mrs. 
Desmond's  will,  would  not  be  an  onerous 
one:  the  property  she  had  had  to  leave 
being  very  smaU. 

"But,"  added  the  solicitor,  "your  ahare 
of  the  business  will  be  more  troublesome. 
Here  is  a  letter  which  I  solemnly  pro- 
mised our  poor  friend  to  deliver  into  your 
own  hand.  She  informed  me  of  its  main 
object.  It  is  to  request  you  to  undertake 
the  guardianship  of  her  daughter." 

"  Her  daughter  ?" 

"  Yes ;  a  nice  little  girl  about  nine  years 
old.  The  only  surviving  child  of  a  large 
family.  But  I  thought  you  knew  all  the 
circumstances.  You  were  one  of  Mrs. 
Desmond's  oldest  friends,  were  you  not  ?" 

"I — I — yes;  I  was  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Desmond's  family  many  years  ago.  But 
Time  flics  away  very  fast ;  and  many 
things  fly  with  him.  Was  not  Mr.  Des- 
mond wealthy  ?     I  had  always  understood 


so. 


"  My  dear  sir,  Sidney  Power  Desmond 
ran  through  a  fine  fortune,  and  sent  his 
paternal  acres  to  the  hammer.  I  saw  a 
good  deal  of  him,  and  of  her  too,  at  ono 
time,  when  I  was  professionally  engaged 
in  'winding-up  his  affairs,'  as  he  would 
persist  in  calling  it.  A  tangled  skein,  that 
refused  to  bo  wound,  I  can  tell  you.  Mrs. 
Desmond  was  a  sweet  woman.  She  had 
a  bad  life  of*  it,  I'm  afraid.  Not  that  ho 
treated  her  ill.  He  was  fond  of  her, 
in  his  way.  But  ho  shook  her  children's 
inheritance  away  out  of  the  dice-WsL^  «x^^ 
then  he  died,  Bever^A  -jcot^  \^\«t  >5>mvxi  V^ 


^ 


220      [A!i«OBt7. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Cotuluoted  by 


/ 


ought  to  liave  done  for  the  welfare  of  his 
family." 

The  vicar  declined  Mr.  Lovegrove's  prof- 
fered hospitality,  and  went  back  to  his 
dingy  hotel  chamber  to  read  Clara's  letter 
in  solitnde. 

The  letter  was  short  and  simple.  It 
appealed  to  him,  on  the  gronnd  of  old 
friendship,  not  to  decline  the  trust  imposed 
on  him. 

"  My  husband's  relatives,"  thus  it  ran, 
"  have  long  been  estranged  ^m  us.  Papa 
and  poor  James  are  dead,  and  distant 
cousins  who  know  little  and  care  less  about 
me  or  mine,  possess  my  old  home.  My 
sister.  Lady  Tallis,  is  childless,  and  she 
would  gladlv  adopt  my  little  one,  and 
would,  1  well  know,  be  tender  and  kmd  to 
the  orphan.  But  her  unhappy  domestic  cir- 
cumstances render  this  impossible.  Neither, 
to  say  truth,  is  Hilda's  husband  a  man  be- 
neath whose  roof  I  should  like  my  daughter 
to  be  brought  up,  even  were  he  willing 
to  permit  it.  Hilda  has  her  own  troubles. 
I  mention  these  things,  not  in  any  spirit 
of  bitterness,  but  simply  that  you  may 
understand  how  utterly  friendless  my  Maud 
will  be  when  I  am  gone :  for  I  know  her 
helplessness  will  appeal  strongly  to  your 
kind  heart." 

The  letter  was  common-place  and  prosaic 
enough  in  form  and  expression:  but  to 
Charles  Levincourt,  sitting  there  with  the 
sheet  of  folded  paper  in  his  hand,  and  think- 
ing of  the  dead  woman  whom  he  once  loved 
so  well,  there  was  both  pathos  and  elo- 
quence in  the  sharply  written  characters. 
He  mused  long  and  sadly  on  the  events  of 
the  past  years  that  had  so  strangely  resulted 
in  giving  Clara's  only  surviving  child  to 
his  care.  But  whatsoever  reflections  or 
regrets  these  musings  awakened  in  his 
mind  he  imparted  to  no  one. 

The  next  day  the  vicar  returned  to 
Shipley,  bringing  with  him  a  new  inmate 
to  Uie  vicarage  house.  The  little  orphan 
was  kindly  received  by  the  mistress  of  her 
new  home.  Mrs.  Levincourt  was  an 
Italian  by  birth.  Her  mother  had  been 
an  Englishwoman,  her  father  a  Neapo- 
litan. She  had  lived  abroad  all  her  life 
until  her  marriage ;  was  very  uneducated, 
veiy  frivolous,  and  very  beautiful.  She 
haa  perhaps  as  small  a  share  of  imagination 
as  ever  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  human  being. 
The  self-confidence  arising  from  this  total 
inability  to  conceive  another  person's  point 
of  view,  to  imagine^  in  short,  how  others 
might  feel  or  ijiink,  was  a  power  which 
carried  her  triumpbantiy  over  many  diflEi- 


culties.  She  would  reply  to  an  argument 
or  a  remonstrance,  by  some  irrelevant 
platitude  which  made  her  husband  tingle 
with  shame,  but  which,  to  her  apprehen- 
sion, was  entirely  convincing.  On  the 
whole,  however,  she  did  her  duty  well  (as 
far  as  she  understood  it)  by  the  little  stray 
lamb  brought  into  her  fold.  Gentle,  it 
was  not  in  Stella  Levincourt's  nature  to 
be,  but  she  was  kind  and  attentive  to  the 
child's  bodily  requirements.  Mrs.  Levin- 
court's  first  impression  of  the  little  girl,  she 
confided  to  her  husband  on  the  night  of 
his  return  from  London. 

"I  have  put  her  to  bed  in  a  crib  in 
Veronica's  room,  Charles.  She  is  a  quiet 
docile  child,  enough.  But,  oh,  care  mio^ 
what  a  stolid  little  thing !  Just  lost  her 
mother,  and  as  cool  and  as  calm  as  pos- 
sible!" 

The  vicar  remembered  the  child's  quiver- 
ing lip,  pale  cheek,  and  anxious  veaming 
look  into  the  strange  £Etces  that  had  sur- 
rounded her ;  and  he  made  answer,  '*  Maud 
is  quiet,  but  I  think  not  stolid,  my  dear." 

''  She  is  English,  English,  English  to  the 
bone!"  retorted  Mrs.  Levincourt<,  shrugging 
her  graceful  shoulders.     "  Only  figure  to 

yourself  if  I  were  to  die  !  Veronica 1 

but  then  our  darling  is  so  sensitive  !" 

In  Charles  Levincourt's  mind  there  arose 
a  vision  of  a  sweet,  pale,  girlish  fieu^e,  which 
he  had  last  seen  gazing  after  the  coach 
that  carried  him  away  from  Delaney  Park 
for  ever.  And  the  yiion,  from  some  unex- 
plained  cause,  stung  him  into  the  utterance 
of  a  sarcastic  speech.  He  had  long  ago 
ceased  to  use  sarcasm  or  irony  habitually^ 
in  talking  with  his  wife. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  my  dear,"  said  he» 
"  that  if  Veronica  were  suffering  in  mind 
or  body  she  would  take  care  that  every  one 
around  her  should  sufier  too." 

"  That  she  would,  poverina !"  exclaimed 
Stella,  energetically. 

When  little  Maud  Desmond  came  to  Hve 
at  the  vicarage  she  was  nine  years  old,  and 
Veronica,  the  vicar's  only  child,  was  elevei. 
After  a  short  time  the  two  little  girls  were 
sent  to  school  at  Danecester.  Veronica 
had  hitherto  refused  to  go  fi*om  home,  and 
her  refusal  had  sufficed  to  prevent  her  going. 
Her  mother  indulged  her  and  worshipped 
her  with  a  blind  devotion,  which  was  repaid 
(as  such  devotion  often  is)  by  a  mingling 
of  fondness,  disdain,  and  tyranny. 

But  now  that  Maud  was  to  go  to  school, 
Veronica  declared  that  she  would  accom- 
pany her;  and  she  did  so.  And  between 
their  home  and  the  quiet  Danecester  school 


=&. 


durtes  DickeDB.] 


VERONICA. 


(August  7, 186&]      221 


ihe  two  girls  passed  several  years  of  their 
lives. 

Daring  the  long  Midsmnmer  holidays 
(hey  rambled  over  the  common  at  Shipley- 
in-me-Wold,  or  rode  about  the  conntry 
lanes  on  a  rongh  pony  provided  for  their 
joint  nse.  In  the  winter  time  they  wonld 
steal  into  the  kitchen  of  an  evening,  and 
coax  old  Joanna,  the  cook,  to  tell  them 
some  of  her  qnaint  conntry  legends,  or 
stories  of  ghosts  and  runaway  marriages, 
and  mysterions  warnings,  which  were  sup- 
posed to  be  the  exclusive  (and  one  wonld 
think  unenviable)  privileges  of  sundry 
ancient  county  femiliefl  in  whose  service 
Joanna  had  lived. 

Or  else  they  would  sit  in  the  gloaming 
at  Mrs.  Levincourt's  knee  and  listen  to  her 
tales  of  the  brilliant  life  she  had  led  in 
Florence,  the  gaiety,  the  brightness,  the 
company!  The  bafis  at  the  Pitti  and  at 
the  noble  mansions  of  the  Principessa  della 
Scatola  da  Salsa  and  the  dowager  Countess 
Civetta,  and  the  Russian  lady,  whose  exact 
rank  was  not  known,  but  who  was  supposed 
to  be  the  wife  of  a  hospodar.  Only  she 
and  the  hospodar  did  not  agree,  and  so 
they  lived  apart ;  and  they  met  once  a  year 
in  Paris,  and  were  admirably  polite  to  each 
other;  and  the  hospodaress  allowed  the 
hospodar  several  millions  of  roubles  per 
annum  to  stay  away  from  her ;  and  she  had 
a  necklace  of  emeralds  as  big,  very  nearly, 
as  pigeons'  eggs ;  and  she  smoked  the  very 
finest  tobacco  extant,  and  she  was  altogether 
a  most  charming  person. 

These  narratives,  and  many  more,  did 
Maud  and  Veronica  greedily  devour.  Maud 
believed  them  with  the  same  sort  of  good 
feith  with  which  she  threw  herself  into 
Aladdin,  or  the  exquisite  fancies  of  Undine. 
She  was  willing  to  accept  the  Russian  lady, 
pigeons*-egg  emeralds  and  all. 

Such  people  might  exist,  did,  no  doubt, 
but  in  a  far-off  way,  altogether  out  of  her 
sphere.  She  no  more  expected  to  meet 
such  an  individual  hung  with  chains  of 
barbaric  splendour,  and  pufling  forth  clouds 
of  incense  from  an  amber  pipe,  than  she 
anticipated  the  appearance  of  a  geni  twenty 
feet  high,  when  she  rubbed  her  little  tur- 
quoise ring  to  keep  it  bright. 

Veronica,  however,  being  two  years  older, 
and  owning  a  different  turn  of  mind,  looked 
at  matters  in  a  much  more  practical  light. 

"  And  did  you  go  to  balls  nearly  every 
night,  mamma  ?  Ajid  did  you  wear  white 
chesses  with  short  sleeves,  and  have  flowers 
in  your  hair  ?  Oh,  how  beautiful  you  must 
have  looked  !*' 


*'  I  was  never  half  so  handsome  as  thou, 
tesoro  mio,"  the  fond  mother  would  reply. 

"  When  I  am  grown  up,  I  won't  stay  at 
Shipley." 

That  was  the  burthen  of  the  song,  the 
moral  of  the  story,  the  issue  of  it  j3i,  for 
Veronica. 

On  the  whole  the  family  at  the  vicarage 
led  an  isolated  life,  and  the  tone  of  thought 
and  feeling  that  pervaded  their  home  was 
very  singularly  at  odds  with  the  general 
notion  of  their  neighbours  as  to  what  was 
becoming  in  the  household  of  a  clergyman. 

In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Levincourt  was 
entirely  devoid  of  the  least  tincture  of  what 
may,  without  offence,  be  called  professional 
parsonism.  It  is  by  no  means  asserted  that 
he  was  altogether  tne  better  for  having  no 
such  tincture.  Men  are  naturally  and 
legitimately  influenced  in  their  outward 
bearing  by  the  nature  of  their  calling  in 
life.  The  work  which  a  man  does  heartily, 
earnestly,  and  constantly,  will  most  as- 
suredly communicate  a  certain  bent  to  his 
mind,  and  even  a  certain  aspect  to  his 
body.  But  the  work  which  a  man  does 
grudgingly,  without  thoroughness  and  fiuth, 
will  be  to  him  as  irksome  as  an  ill-fitting 
garment,  and  will,  like  such  a  garment,  be 
laid  aside  and  put  out  of  sight  altogether 
whensoever  its  wearer  can  get  rid  of  it. 

People  did  not  get  intimate  at  the  vicar- 
age. The  neighbourhood  was  but  sparsely 
peopled  with  families  of  the  rank  of  gentle- 
folkis.  Without  the  command  of  some 
vehicle,  visiting  was  out  of  the  question. 

At  first  Mrs.  Levincourt  had  gone  out 
rather  frequently  to  formal  dinner-parties 
at  great  dull  country  houses,  and  also  to 
some  country  houses  that  were  not  dull. 
The  hosts  sent  their  carriages  for  the  vicar 
and  his  wife,  if  they  lived  at  a  great  distance 
from  Shipley.  Or  a  lumbering  old  chaise 
was  hired  from  the  Crown  at  Shipley  Magna* 

But  gradually  such  intercourse  dropped. 
Mrs.  Levincourt  was  not  strong.  Mrs. 
Levincourt  did  not  care  for  dinner-parties. 
Mrs.  Levincourt  had  her  little  girl  to  attend 
to.  The  fact  was,  that  Stella  Hked  society, 
and  she  was  by  no  means  conscious  of  the 
surprise  which  her  sayings  and  doings 
were  apt  to  excite  among  the  Daneshrre 
magnates.  But  her  husband  was  very 
thoroughly  conscious  of  it.  And,  as  the 
only  land  of  visiting  they  could  have, 
afiRorded  Mm  no  amusement,  their  life  be- 
came more  and  more  secluded. 

When  the  two  girls  were  aged  respec- 
tively seventeen  and  fifteen,  Mrs.  Levin- 
court died,  and  t\LdL  "STeromcab  -w^roaraR^ 


^ 


222       [AngiiBt  7, 1869  J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condacted  by 


/ 


homo  to  "take  charge,"  as  thej  said,  of 
her  father's  house. 

Maud  also  came  back  to  Shipley  vicar- 
age, having  "completed  her  education"  ;  in 
other  words,  having  learned  all  that  they 
could  teach  her  at  the  Danecester  school. 

For  two  years,  Veronica  reigned  mistress 
of  her  father's  household.  Perhaps  the 
burthen  of  the  sopg,  Veronica  being  nine- 
teen, had  only  so  far  changed  as  to  run 
tlius :  "  Now  that  I  am  grown  up,  I  won't 
stay  at  Shipley"  ? 

We  shall  see. 

CHAPTER  rV.      AN  ACCIDENT. 

Some  subtle  influence — ^a  sight,  or  sound, 
or  smell — touched  the  long-<&awn  links  of 
association  in  the  vicar's  mind  as  he  stood 
at  his  own  door  one  February  afiemoon, 
and  made  him  remember  that  dreary 
autumn  day  on  which  he  had  first  seen 
Shipley. 

His  thought  flashed  back  along  the  past 
years,  as  t^e  electric  spai'k  thrills  through 
a  long  chain  of  clasping  hands. 

"  Poor  Stella  !"  he  said,  half  alomd. 

Mr.  Levincourt  was  apt  to  spend  a  good 
deal  of  his  available  store  of  compassion  on 
himself.  But  there  is  no  more  eflectual 
check  to  the  indulgence  of  our  own  failings 
and  weaknesses,  than  ihe  exaggerated  mani- 
festation of  the  same  detect  in  another. 
That  which  in  us  is  only  a  reasonable 
and  well-grounded  dissatis&ction,  becomes 
mere  selfish  unjustifiable  repining  in  our 
neighbours. 

So  long  as  his  wife  hved,  therefore,  Mr. 
Levincourt  was  shamed  by  her  loud  and 
frivolous  complainings  from  expressing  one- 
half  the  distaste  he  really  felt  for  his  life 
at  Shipley-in- the- Wold,  although  he  had 
secretly  deemed  his  wife  far  less  entitled  to 
pity  than  he  was,  whose  quaUties  of  mind 
and  refinement  of  education  enabled  him  to 
understand  much  better  what  he  had  lost 
in  being  thus  buried  alive  at  Shipley. 

But  Stella  Levincourt,  bom  Barletti, 
slept  in  St.  Gildas's  graveyard,  and  a  white 
tablet  glimmering  out  of  tlie  gloomiest 
comer  in  the  dark  little  church  bore  an 
inscription  to  her  memory.  And  since  her 
death  he  had  occasionally  felt  much  retro- 
spective sympathy  with  his  wife. 

'*  Poor  Stella  !"  he  said  again  ;  and,  shut- 
ting the  door  behind  him,  he  walked  down 
the  gravel  pathway,  passed  through  the 
iron  wicket,  crossed  the  paddock,  and  pro- 
ceeded thus  through  St.  Gildas's  church- 
yard towards  the  village. 
It  was  not  A  day  to  loiter  in.     It  had 


snowed  a  good  deal  the  previous  night-,  but 
since  ten  o'clock  that  morning,  a  steady 
thaw  had  set  in.  The  roads  were  deep  in 
mud,  whose  chill  penetrated  the  stoutest 
shoe-leather.  An  ice-cold  dew  seemed  to 
exude  from  everything  one  touched,  and  the 
sky  spread  a  lead-coloured  canopy  from 
horizon  to  zenith. 

Mr.  Levincourt  made  for  the  sdiool-house. 
This  was  a  bare  lath-and-plaster  building, 
erected  at  the  cost  of  the  late  vicar  to  serve 
as  a  Sunday-schooL  The  present  incum- 
bent, while  adhering  to  its  founder's  first 
intention,  had  found  an  additional  use  for 
the  whitewashed  school-roonL  It  served, 
namely,  as  a  place  for  the  choir  of  St.  Gildas 
to  practise  in. 

Before  Mr.  Leviucourt's  day,  the  music 
at  divine  service  in  St.  Gilda8  consisted 
solely  of  portions  of  Tate  and  Brady,  bawled^ 
or  snuffled  out  in  monotonous  dissonance. 
Mr.  Levincourt' s  refined  and  critical  ear 
suffered  many  a  shock  from  his  congrega- 
tion's strenuously  iqilifted  voices.  He 
resolved  to  amend  the  singing,  and  flattered 
himself  that  he  would  find  support  and 
encouragement  in  this  undertaking.  But 
folks  were  as  loath  to  be  amended  in  Shis- 
ley,  as  in  most  other  places :  and  Mr. 
Levincourt's  first  attempts  to  teach  them 
harmony,  resulted  in  discord  dire. 

By  degrees  he  lowered  his  pretensions. 
He  had  begun  with  high-flown  ideas  of 
foreign  mass-music  adapted  to  English 
words.  Then,  some  of  the  simpler  composir 
tions  of  our  English  cathedral  writers  were 
attempted.  At  length  he  resolved  to  be 
satisfied  with  Martin  Luther's  Hymn,  and 
Adeste  Fideles,  sung  in  parts.  Things 
began  to  go  better.  The  yoxmger  genera- 
tion, trained  to  some  knowledge  of  music, 
became  capable  of  sucoeeding  in  such 
modest  attempts  as  these.  Nor  was  it, 
indeed,  from  the  younger  generation  that 
the  great  difficulties  had  arisen. 

Farmer  Meggitt,  and  Farmer  Sack,  and 
other  middle-aged  farmers  and  graziers, 
could  not  be  got  to  understand  tliat  it 
behoved  them  to  be  passive  listeners  to  the 
music  during  service. 

"  What  do  ye  mean  then,  by  *  Let  us  siog^ 

to  the  praise '  ?  Let  ti«,"  Farmer  Meggitt 

said  008,  *'  sing !  Not  *  let  the  Httle  lads  and 
wenches  in  the  organ-lofb,  sing  to  the 
praise'!  Parson  Levincourt's  on  a  wrong 
tack  altogether.  And  as  to  his  new- 
fangled tunes — why  they're  Popish :  that's 
wliat  they  are :  and  I  don't  care  who  hearts 
me  say  so !" 

The  imphed  slight  to  Farmer  Meggiti's 


c^ 


iCD 


OluuiflB  DiekeiiB.] 


VERONICA. 


[Ax«UBt  7. 1899.]       223 


Tocal  alnlitieB  mado  him  Yery  Protestant 
indeed.  And  the  charge  of  Popery  against 
Mr.  Levinoonrt  was  supposed  to  be  a  very 
colourable  and  serious  one,  seeing  that  ho 
had  a  foreign  wife. 

However,  Time  went  on  in  his  task  of 
taming  "  new-fimgled'*  things  into  old- 
&ngled.  And  the  congregation  of  St. 
Gildas  had  long  grown  very  prond  of  their 
singing.  Miss  Desmond  had  a  class  of 
Tillage  children  to  whom  she  tanffht  some 
of  the  mysteries  contained  in  the  queer 
black-headed  hieroglyphics  on  the  musical 
staff;  and  the  choir  met  to  practise  evray 
Saturday  afternoon.  And  on  this  one 
special  Saturday  afternoon  in  February, 
Mr.  Levincourt  having  floundered  through 
the  thick  mud  of  the  lane,  arrived  at  the 
school-house  door,  turned  the  handle,  and 
walked  in,  when  the  practising  was  just 
over. 

The  duldren  were  making  ready  to  troop 
out.  Some  of  the  little  boys,  uneasy  under  the 
stem  glance  of  Mr.  Mugworlhy,  the  parish 
clerk,  still  sat  on  the  wooden  benches,  from 
which  their  corduroy-clad  legs  dangled  and 
swung,  as  unrestingly  as  the  pendulum  of 
the  big  white-feced  clock  that  ticked  away 
the  hours  above  the  door. 

At  a  little  deal-cased  harmonium  sat 
Herbert  Snowe,  the  son  of  a  rich  Dane- 
cester  banker.  Tliis  young  gentleman  had 
been  educated  in  Germany,  where  he  had 
caught  a  taste  for  music.  His  dilettanteism 
was  strong  enough  to  induoe  him  to  make 
the  journey  from  Danecester  nearly  every 
week,  in  order  to  supply,  at  the  Saturday 
rehearsals,  the  place  of  the  professional 
organist,  who  was  only  engaged  to  come 
to  Shipley  for  the  Sunday  services. 

Not  fir  from  him,  stood  Mr.  Plew, 
the  village  doctor,  talking  to  the  vicar's 
daughter.  Mr.  Plew  had  the  meekest  and 
weakest  of  high  tenor  voices,  and  gave  the 
choir  the  benefit  of  his  assistance  whenever 
his  professional  avocations  would  permit 
him  to  do  so. 

Then,  there  were  Kitty  and  Cissy  Meg- 
gitt,  with  their  governess,  Miss  Turtle. 
Mrs.  Meggitt  was  of  an  aspiring  nature, 
and  had  prevailed  on  her  husband  to  en- 
gage a  "real  lady"  to  teach  her  girls 
manners.  Farmer  Meggitt  paid  the  "  real 
lady"  five-and-twenty  pounds  per  annum, 
and  he  thought  in  his  heart  that  it  was  an 
exorbitantly  high  price  for  the  article. 

Then,  there  were  Captain  and  Mrs.  Shear- 
down,  of  Lowater  House.  They  did  not 
sing;  but  they  had  come  to  fetch  their 
son,   Master  Bobby  Sheardown,   who  sat 


on  a  high  school-bench  among  the  'Hre- 
bles.*' 

Lastly,  there  was  Maud  Desmond. 
"  Good  evening,"  said  the  vicar,  walking 
into  the  room. 

Immediately  there  was  a  shuffling  and 
scraping  of  feet.  Every  boy  slid  down 
irom  his  bench,  and  drew  each  one  a  hob- 
nailed boot  noisily  over  the  bare  floor  in 
homage,  raising  at  the  same  time  a  bunch 
of  simbamt  knuckles  to  his  forehead.  The 
little  girls  ducked  down  convulsively,  the 
smaller  ones  assisting  themselves  to  rise 
again  with  an  odd  struggling  movement  of 
the  elbow. 

This  was  the  ceremony  of  salutation  to  a 
superior  among  the  rustic  youth  of  Shipley. 

"  How  have  you  been  getting  on,  Her- 
bert ?'*  said  Mr.  Levincourt.  "  How  do 
you  do,  Mrs.  Sheardown  ?  Captain,  when 
I  saw  that  the  West  Daneshire  were  to 
meet  at  Hammick,  I  scarcely  expected  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  this  even- 
ing !" 

*'No;  I  didn't  hunt  to-day,'*  answered 
the  captain. 

Captain  Sheardown  was  a  broad-shoul- 
dered man  of  some  five-and-fifty  years  of 
age.  His  bluff  face  was  fringed  with  white 
whiskers.  His  eyes  were  surrounded  by  a 
network  of  fine  Hnes,  that  looked  as  though 
they  had  been  graven  on  the  firm  skin  by 
an  etching-needle,  and  he  generally  stood 
with  his  legs  somewhat  wide  apart,  as  one 
who  is  balancing  himself  on  an  unsteady 
surface. 

The  gentlemen  gathered  together  into  a 
knot  by  themselves  while  they  waited  for 
the  ladies  to  put  on  their  warm  shawls  and 
cloaks. 

**  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  run  they  had 
with  the  West  Daneshire  ?"  said  Herbert 
Snowe. 

"  I  heard,  sir,  as  there  were  a  accident 
on  the  field,"  said  Mr.  Mugworthy,  who 
had  edged  himself  near  to  the  group  of 
gentlemen. 

"  An  accident  !"  repeated  the  \acar. 
"  What  was  it  ?  Nothing  serious,  I  trust  f" 

"  No,  sir ;  fi*om  what  I  can  reap  out  of 
the  rumour  of  the  boy,  Sack,  it  warn't  a 
very  serious  accident.  Jemmy  Sack,  he 
seen  it,  sir.  It  happened  close  up  by  his 
father's  farm." 

"  Sack's  farm,  eh  ?"  said  Captain  Shear- 
down.     "  Why  that's  at  Haymoor  !" 

"Well,  sir,  it  is:"  rejoined  Mr.  Mug- 
worthy,  after  a  moment's  pause,  as  though 
he  had  been  casting  about  in  his  mind  for 
some  reasonaVAe  "measi^  o^  ^Qr£A7c^^\RJC\xv^ 


v= 


<A 


224      [AngnU  7, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoetetlbj 


the  statement,  bnt  finding  none,  was  re- 
solved to  be  candid,  and  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  "It  is,  sir,  at  Haymoor,  is 
Sack's  farm.     I  can*t  say  no  otherways." 

"Whew!"  whistled  the  captain.  "Who'd 
have  thonght  of  a  fox  out  of  the  Hammick 
cover,  maJdng  for  Haymoor!  With  the 
wind  as  it  is,  too — and  as  it  has  been  all 
day." 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  ?"  asked  Herbert 
Snowe,  whose  foreign  education  had  left 
him  lamentably  ignorant  on  certain  matters 
of  which  Captain  Sheardown  conceived 
that  an  English  gentleman  ought  to  know 
a  good  deal. 

" Why  shouldn't  he?"  echoed  the  cap- 
tain, screwing  up  his  eyes  and  mouth  into 
an  expression  of  comical  vexation,  and 
thereby  deepening  the  finely-graven  lines 
before  mentioned.  "Why  shouldn't  he? 
Bless  my  soul,  Herbert !  Because  a  fox 
going  from.  Hammick  to  Haymoor  to-day, 
must  have  run  straight  up  wind  the 
whole  time  !  That's  why.  Why  shouldn't 
he?     Tshah!" 

"A  dog-fox,  sir,"  put  in  Mugworthy, 
solemnly,  "  wUl  sometimes  run  up  wind  at 
this  time  of  year  when  he's  agoing  home, 

Q1T»   *' 


sir. 


"Well,  well,"  said  the  vicar,  with  the 
slightest  possible  air  of  contempt  for  the 
whole  subject :  "  we  will  suppose  that  this 
was  a  Haymoor  fox,  who  had  been  visiting 
his  relations  at  Hammick.  But  about  the 
accident,  Mugworthy  ?" 

"  Jenmiy  Sack,  he  seen  it,  sir.  Come  up 
here,  Jemmy,  and  tell  his  reverence  about 
the  gentleman  as  was  precipitated  off  of 
his  horse  alongside  of  the  five-acre  field." 

Jemmy  Sack,  a  lank  lad  of  thirteen, 
came  and  stood  before  the  vicar,  and  with 
many  writhings,  and  in  agonies  of  bashful- 
ness,  delivered  himself  of  his  story. 

The  story  simply  amounted  to  his  having 
seen  a  gentleman  flung  firom  his  horse  with 
a  good  deal  of  violence.  The  others  had 
ridden  on,  either  not  seeing  or  not  heed- 
ing. After  a  while  the  gentleman's  ser- 
vant had  galloped  up  to  his  assistance. 
The  gentleman  had  risen  and  mounted 
again :  but  not  the  same  horse.  He  took 
the  beast  that  his  servant  had  been  riding, 
and  sent  the  groom  away  with  the  animal 
that  had  thrown  him.  The  gentleman  had 
then  ridden  after  the  rest  of  the  hunt 
towards  Upper  Haymoor. 

"  Ah  !     Well,  there  was  not  much  harm 

done,  I'm  happy  to  find.    If  the  gentleman 

went  on  following  the  hounds,  he  could  not 

Iiare  been  much  hurt,''  said   the    vicar. 


"You  didn't  know  the  gentleman  by 
sight.  Jemmy,  did  you  ?" 

Jemmy  did  not  know  the  gentleman's 
name ;  but  he  knowed  that  he  was  a  staying 
at  the  Crown  Inn,  Shipley  Magna,  and  that 
he  had  four  horses  in  the  stables  there, 
and  that  the  people  said  as  he  was  a 
friend  of  Lord  G-eorge  Segrave's,  him  as 
had  taken  Hammick  Lodge  for  the  hunting 
season.  And  Jemmy,  becoming  accustomed 
to  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  addressing 
gentlefolks,  and  finding  himself  listened 
to,  began  to  grow  loquacious,  and  to  volun- 
teer his  opinion  that  the  gentleman  had 
a-got  a  oogly  spill,  for  he  turned  welly 
green,  and  seemed  all  queer  in  his  head 
like.  But  he  was  a  good  plucked  'un,  for 
he  would  go  on  a-horseback  again,  and  he 
(Jemmy)  had  run  nigh  enough  to  hear  him 
a-cussin'  and  a-swearin'  at  the  groom  like 
foon. 

In  fact  so  loquacious  and  graphic  in  his 
narrative  did  Jenmiy  become,  that  Mug- 
worthy peremptorily  ordered  him  to  hold 
his  tongue,  and  begone,  with  the  other  lads. 

The  boys  shuffled  out,  glad  to  be  re- 
leased, and  were  presently  heard  whooping 
down  the  lane  after  the  manner  of  tiieir 
kind. 

AS  THE  CROW  FUES. 

DUE  EAST.     NORWICH  TO  CROMER. 

Norwich  originally  rose  out  of  the  decay  of 
the  adjacent  Roman  station,  and  in  early  ages 
became  a  fishing  town  of  such  importance, 
that  in  Edward  tie  Confessor^s  time  it  boasted 
one  thousand  three  hundred  and  twenty  bur- 
gesses, and  twentv-five  churches.  The  place 
was  roughly  handled  by  the  Conqueror,  wlu> 
hated  opposition  from  Saxon  boors  who  did 
not  know  what  was  good  for  them.  When  he 
levied  his  contribution,  the  twenty-five  ori- 
ginal churches  had  grown  to  fifty-four.  In 
1122,  Henry  the  First  kept  royal  GhriBtmas 
in  the  Norfolk  capital,  and  pleased  with  him- 
self and  the  world,  endowed  Norwidi  with 
a  franchise  equal  to  that  of  London.  About 
this  time  Jews  began  to  settle  in  Norwidi; 
but  the  wealth  and  heresy  of  the  bearded 
men  "  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  eye," 
alarmed  the  bigotted  monks,  and  the  sus- 
picious citizens,  and  the  populace,  roused  by 
the  story  of  a  Christian  child  having  been 
crucified  by  the  Jews,  at  their  Paschal,  a  hor- 
rible massacre  ensued.  In  the  same  reign  a 
colony  of  Flemings  brought  a  blessing  to  the 
hospitable  city  that  opened  its  arms  to  them. 
They  introduced  woollen  manufactures  into  the 
city,  and  getting  their  long  wool  spun  at  a  vil- 
lage called  Worsted,  about  nine  miles  north  of 
Norwich,  drew  from  the  place  a  name  for  their 
goods  there  prepared.  Norwich  has  ever  since 
remained  a  great  mart  for  crape,   bombasne, 


=^ 


^ 


OhAriM  Dfekeni.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


rADgOBt  7, 1869.]      225 


ind  hone-hair  cloth.  Blomefield,  the  Norfolk 
histonan,  records  that  in  the  reini  of  Henry  the 
Eighth  the  yearly  sale  of  Norwich  stuffs  alone 
amounted  to  two  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
and  of  stockings  to  sixty  thousand  pounds.  In 
1770,  Arthur  Young  (who  by-the-by  was  here 
burnt  in  effigy)  represents  the  analogous 
amount  at  one  million  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds. 

Many  of  our  kings  and  (][ueens  visited  this 
city,  generally  when  on  their  way  as  pilgrims 
to  WaLdngham. 

There  is  a  Paston  letter  extant  which  records 
some  particulars  of  the  visit  of  Henry  the 
Sixth.  William  Paston,  writing  from  Sheen, 
in  1473,  writes  that  the  king  was  just  setting 
out  for  Norwich.  "  He  will  be  there,"  he  says, 
'*  on  Palm  Sunday  even,  and  so  tarry  there  all 
Easter,  and  then  to  Walsingham  ;  wherefore  ye 
had  need  warn  William  Gognez  and  his  fellows 
to  purvey  them  of  wine  enough,  for  every  man' 
beareth  me  in  hand  that  the  town  shall  be 
drunk  dry  as  York  was  when  the  king  was  there ; 
and  all  the  best-looking  gentlewomen  were  to 
be  assembled,  for  my  Lord  hath  made  great 
boast  of  the  fayre  and  good  gentlewomen  of 
the  country,  and  so  the  king  said  he  would  see 
them  sure."  An  earlier  letter  of  the  same  col- 
lection incidentally  mentions  that  as  much 
victuals  could  be  bought  at  Norwich  for  one 
penny,  as  at  Calais  for  fifteenpence,  and  ^*  a 
pye  of  Wymondham"  to  boot. 

Household  Heath,  to  the  east  of  Norwich,  is 
a  practising  ground  for  riflemen  now,  as  it 
was  for  archers  when  Kctt,  the  tanner,  sat  in 
royal  state  under  the  Gospel  Oak.  It  was 
here  that  Parker,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
came  out  to  preach  to  the  fierce  insurgents  who 
built  on  the  heath  rude  huts  made  of  boughs 
and  sods  of  turf.  On  the  same  height  dwelt 
Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, when  at  Norwich,  visited  his  mansion. 

In  the  church  of  St.  Peter,  Mancroft,  whose 
lofty  tower  overhangs  the  market-place,  lies  a 
great  Norwich  worthy.  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
the  author  of  those  strange  but  delightful 
books,  Religio  Medici,  Urn  Burial,  and  The 
Garden  of  Cyrus.  His  life,  written  by  Dr. 
Johnson  in  1756,  first  recalled  public  atten- 
tion to  this  learned  physician  of  Charles  the 
Second's  time,  of  whom  his  editor  said :  ^^  There 
is  no  science  in  which  he  does  not  discover 
aome  skill,  and  scarce  any  kind  of  know- 
ledge, profane  or  sacred,  abstruse  or  elegant, 
which  he  does  not  appear  to  have  cultivated 
with  success." 

The  crow  cannot  leave  Norwich  without  re- 
membering that  Bishop  Corbet  lies  in  the 
cathedral.  **  Where  be  nis  gibes  now  ?"  This 
jo?ial,  jocular  prelate,  now  so  quiet  at  the 
Qpper  end  of  the  choir,  was  chaplain  to  King 
James  the  First,  who,  in  1627,  made  him  Dean 
of  Christchurch,  where  he  wrote  those  lines  on 
Great  Tom,  which  end  with 

And  though  we  are  grieyed  to  see  thee  thumpt  and 

banffed. 
We'll  all  be  glad.  Great  Tom,  to  see  thee  hanged. 

Biahop  Corbet  (the  bod  of  a  gardener)  was 


fond  of  a  joke,  and  never  too  careful  of  his 
own  digftity.  Once,  on  a  market-day,  a  ballad 
singer  complaining  to  him  of  want  of  custom, 
Corbet  put  on  the  man's  leather  jacket,  and 
being  a  handsome  person  with  a  clear,  full 
voice,  soon  sold  o£f  the  man^s  songs.  Once, 
when  he  was  confirming,  and  the  country  people 
pressed  on  him,  he  shouted  to  them,  *^  Bear 
oflf  there,  or  I'll  confirm  you  with  my  staff !" 
It  is  said  that  he  and  his  chaplain.  Dr.  Lush- 
ington,  used  to  sometimes  visit  the  wine-cellar. 
Then  Corbet  would  throw  off  his  episcopal 
hood  and  cry,  **  Lie  there,  doctor,"  tnen  nis 
gown,  with  "Lie  there,  bishop."  Then  the 
toasts  went  round :  *'  Here's  to  thee,  Corbet," 
**  Here's  to  thee,  Lushington." 

At  Walsingham  the  crow,  though  bound  for 
Cromer,  alights  for  a  survev,  the  quiet  town 
at  the  foot  of  the  wooded  slope  having  been 
the  great  centre  of  medieeval  pilgrimages,  and 
more  celebrated  even  than  Becket's  tomb  at 
Canterbury.  Erasmus  came  here,  when  he 
was  professor  at  Cambridge,  sneering  safely 
under  the  shadow  of  his  hood.  He  calls  it, 
in  his  Colloquies,  "  the  most  celebrated  place 
throughout  all  England,  situated  at  the 
extreme  coast  of  England,  on  the  north- 
west ^north-east),  at  about  three  miles  dis- 
tance irom  the  sea."  He  goes  on  to  say  that 
the  glitter  of  gold  and  jewels  at  the  shrine 
"mi^e  it  resemble  the  seat  of  the  gods." 
Nor  does  he  forget  a  gibe  or  two  on  the  monks 
in  his  sly  way,  when  he  mentions  "the  un- 
doubted milk  of  the  Virgin,"  which  had  been 
brought  from  Constantinople,  and  looked  like 
chalk,  or  the  dried  white  of  eggs ;  and  the  frag- 
ments of  the  true  cross,  which  were  so  numerous 
in  Europe,  that  if  put  together  they  would  load 
an  East  India  ship.  Great,  too,  was  his  quiet 
enjovment  of  the  fact  that  the  Walsingnam 
monis  mistook  a  Greek  inscription  for  Hebrew. 
He  also  listened  complacently  to  lus  monkish 
guide,  who  took  him  to  the  old  gate-house, 
still  standing,  and  told  him  the  miracle  that  had 
happened  there,  when,  in  1314,  Sir  Raaf  Boute- 
tourt,  a  Norfolk  knight,  being  hotly  pursued 
by  an  enemy,  prayed  Our  I^dy  for  deliver- 
ance, and  was  instantly  projected,  horse, 
armour,  and  all,  through  a  wicket  only  an  ell 
high  and  three-quarters  broad ;  the  best  proof 
of  the  miracle  being  that  a  brass  commemo- 
rating the  event  was  to  be  seen  nailed  to  the 
gate. 

Many  of  our  kings  came  to  Walsingham  with 
cocked  hat  and  sandlcd  shoon,  with  wallets  at 
their  side,  and  calibashcs  banging  from  their 
staves.  Henry  the  Third  was  there  in  1248  ; 
Edward  the  First  twice— 1280,  1296  ;  Edward 
the  Second  and  Edww>d  the  Third  also  visited 
the  shrine,  and  in  the  reign  of  the  lattermonarch 
David  Bruce,  King  of  Scotland,  and  twenty  of 
his  knights,  obtained  a  safe  conduct  to  come 
hither  from  the  wardens  of  the  marches.  Henry 
the  Sixth  was  the  next  king  to  seek  the  Norfolk 
shrine ;  Henry  the  Seventh,  too,  after  keeping 
his  Christmas  at  Noi^wich,  visited  Our  Lady's 
Church  at  Walsingbaiii,  wvd  Tx\»A^Vve»  ^xvs«^^ 
and  vows  lor  lielp  and  dfc^ivct«xic».   '^V^wa.  >Osi^ 


:& 


226      [August  7, 1809.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condncted  bj 


battle  of  Stoke  ended  the  wars  of  the  Roses, 
and  Lambert  Simnel  fell  into  his  hands,  the 
king,  after  offering  supplications  and  thanks- 
givings at  Lincoln,  sent  his  banner  to  be  offered 
to  Our  Lady  of  Walsingbam,  who  had  gra- 
ciously answered  his  prayers  for  victory.  Ue 
gave  also,  at  the  same  time,  an  image  of  silver 
gilt.  Henry's  burly  son  inherited  the  respect  of 
his  subtle  father  for  the  Norfolk  shrine,  for  in 
the  second  year  of  his  reign  the  young  king 
walked  from  Barsham,  two  pebbly  miles  off, 
barefoot,  to  the  sacred  shrine,  and  there  hung 
a  chain  of  gold  and  jewels  round  the  neck  of  the 
holy  doll,  which,  years  after,  was  derisively 
burnt  at  Chelsea.  At  the  time  of  the  suppres- 
sion, Cromwell  and  King  Henry's  searchers  sot 
their  faces  like  flints  against  this  shrine,  issuing 
nineteen  articles  of  inquiry,  and  pressing  cruelly 
hard  these  two  special  bitter  questions : 

^^AVliether  Our  Lady  hath  done  so  many 
miracles  nowe  of  late,  as  it  was  said  she  did 
when  there  was  more  offerings  made  unto  her? 

*^  YThether  Our  Lady's  milke  be  liquid  or  no, 
and  whether  the  former  sexton  could  not  tes- 
tify that  he  had  renewed  the  milk  when  it  was 
like  to  be  dried  up  ?" 

Fragments  of  the  ancient  ecclesiastical  gran- 
deur are  still  strewn  about  this  Norfolk  town. 
Close  by  the  **  Common  Place"  there  is  an  old 
domed  conduit,  with  bricked-up  niches  and  the 
stump  of  A  broken  cross ;  and  not  far  from  the 
station,  built  up  among  stables  and  low  sheds, 
there  are  remains  of  the  stately  house  of  Fran- 
ciscan or  Grey  Friars,  founded  in  134!6  by 
Elizabeth  de  Burgo,  Countess  of  Clare. 

One  side  dart  to  Lynn,  not  because  of  its  old 
fliut-chequcred  town-liall,  or  its  venerable  Grey 
Friars'  tower,  nor  for  the  Chapel  of  Our  Lady 
on  the  Mount,  nor  for  the  cup  and  sword  King 
John  gave  to  the  faithful  town,  dear  to  his 
heart,  but  for  the  sake  of  a  deeper  and  a  more 
tragic  memory.  Li  one  of  the  nnest  poems  of 
that  gentle  lover  of  his  kind,  Tom  Hood,  it  will 
be  remembered  that  Eugene  Aram,  after  the 
crime  in  the  cave  by  the  river-side  at  Knares- 
borough,  became  usher  at  a  school  in  Picca- 
dilly, and  afterwards  at  one  at  Lynn,  held  in 
an  ancient  chapel  near  St.  Margaret's,  the  site 
of  which  is  now  used  as  a  meat  market.  Here, 
while  the  bright-faced  children  leaped  like 
**  troutlets  in  a  pool,"  brooded, 

Apart  from  all, 
A  melancholy  man, 

till  that  dreadful  day  came  when 

Two  stem- faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 
Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist, 
And  Eugene  Aram  valk'd  between 
With  gjvet  upon  his  wriflts. 

The  crow,  scenting  the  sea  air  and  sea  free- 
dom, strikes  now  with  fleeter  wings  for  Cromer, 
where  the  greedy  sea  is  at  its  old  work,  its  last 
bite  being  a  mouthful  of  twelve  acres  at  once, 
on  a  January  day  in  1825.  Li  the  present 
generation  twenty  houses  have  given  way  on 
these  cliffs.  The  jetty  went  in  1820,  and  a 
second  one  in  1835  ;  the  shore  bath-house  was 
washed  off  in  1S36,  and  every  year  the  inhabit- 


ants have  to  sullenly  fall  back  before  the  in- 
vading waves  that  here  roll  in,  unimpeded,  the 
whole  way  from  Spitzbergen«     Even  the  light- 
house has  had  to  retreat  from  its  old  enemy 
two  hundred  and  ei^ty  yards,  which  is  a  great 
concession  for  a  lighthouse,  which  is  always  of 
conservative  tendencies.    Forty  years  the  geo- 
logists give  Cromer,  and  the  all-devouring  Ger- 
man Ocean  is  to  roll  over  its  conquered  oppo- 
nent, and  the  bay  of  "  The  Devil's  Throat'^  is 
to  roar  no  more  threats  at  the  defiant  fisher- 
men.   In  the  mean  time,  let  the  Cromer  fisher- 
men imload  their  tiles  and  coals,  and  smoke 
their  pipes  in  peace ;  at  all  events  they  have  one 
thing  to  boast  of,  and  that  is,  Roger  Bacon,  the 
rugged  old  mariner  who  discovered  Iceland, 
and  took  young  James  of  Scotland  prisoner  off 
Flamborough  Head,  was  one  of  them.    If  Cro- 
mer goes  under,  as  crokers  threaten,  itwillonlv 
sliare  the  fate  of  those  antediluvian  forests,  full 
of  elephants'  teeth  and  deers'  antlers,  that  are 
found  in  the  cliffs  close  by  at  Welyboume  and 
Mundesley.  The  soil  of  the  present  was  ground 
out  of  the  fossils  of  the  past. 

And  now  with  one  quick  glance  across  the 
sea,  that  flashes  in  the  sunlight,  the  crow  turns 
tail  and  bears  straight,  steady,  and  undeviatinc 
for  his  old  perch  on  the  black,  gold-tipped 
mountain  dome  of  St.  Faults,  hia  next  night 
being  to  the  sea  southward. 


A  TRUE  STORY  OF  PRESIDENT 
LINCOLN. 


During  the  summer  of  the  most  disastrous 
and  doubtful  year  of  the  late  American  war, 
the  colonel  of  a  New  Hampshire  Regiment  lay 
for  some  weeks  extremely  ill  of  camp  fever, 
near  Hampton  Roads,  in  Virginia.  Hearing  of 
his  critical  condition,  his  wife  left  her  northern 
home,  and,  after  much  difficulty,  made  her  way 
to  his  bedside.  Her  cheerful  presence  and 
careful  nursing  so  far  restored  him,  that  he 
was  in  a  short  tune  able  to  be  trane^rred  to 
Washington 

In  the  Potomac  River,  the  steamer  in  which 
the  invahd  officer,  Colonel  Scott,  and  his  wife 
had  taken  passage,  was  sunk,  in  a  collision  with 
a  larger  vessel,  in  the  night  time.  The  crew  and 
nearly  all  the  soldiers  on  board  were  rescued,  or 
saved  themselves;  but  amid  the  horrible  con- 
fusion of  the  scene,  Colonel  Scott  became  sepa- 
rated from  his  wife,  and  she  was  lost  The  co- 
lonel was  picked  up  in  the  water  by  the  crew  of 
the  larger  steamer,  and  imder  his  direction  every 
effort  was  made  to  discover  his  wife,  or  rather 
her  body,  for  all  hope  of  finding  her  alive  was 
soon  abandoned.  'Die  sad  search  was  fruit- 
less ;  it  was  resumed  in  the  morning,  the  people 
along  the  shore,  humane  Confederates,  lendmff 
their  aid.  But  the  grey,  sullen  liver  refused 
to  give  up  its  dead,  and  the  young  officer,  half 
frantic  i^ith  grief,  was  compelled  to  go  on  to 
Washington.  Within  a  week,  however,  he 
received  word  from  below  that  the  body  of  the 
lady  had  been  washed  on  shore — ^thi^  those 
good  country  people,  generous  foes,  had  le* 


h 


^ 


& 


ohariMDieknis.]     A  TRUE  STORY  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN.   cAtign8t7.i889.]    227 


cured  it,  cared  for  it,  and  were  keeping  it  for 
him. 

It  happened  that  just  at  that  time  impera- 
tiye  orders  were  issued  from  the  War  Depart- 
ment, prohibiting  all  intercourse  with  the 
peninsula — a  necessarj  precaution  against  the 
premature    disclosure    of   important   military 

?lans.  So  it  was  with  some  misgiyings  that 
!olonel  Scott  applied  to  Mr.  Sccretarj^  Stanton 
for  leave  to  return  to  Virginia,  on  his  melan- 
choly duty. 

'*  Impossible,  colonel,"  replied  Mr.  Stanton, 
firmly ;  *'  no  one  can  have  leayo  to  go  down 
the  riyer,  at  this  time,  on  any  private  mission 
whatever.  Our  present  exigencies  demand  the 
most  stringent  regulations ;  and  I  hope  I  need 
not  say  to  yon  that  no  merely  personal  consi- 
derations should  be  allowed  to  interfere  with 
great  national  interests.  Your  case  is  a  sad 
one ;  but  this  is  a  critical,  perilous,  cruel  time. 
*The  dead  must  bury  the  dead.'" 

The  colonel  would  have  entreated,  but  the 
busy  secretaary  cut  him  short  with  another 
**  impossible,"  from  which  there  was  absolutely 
no  appeaL  He  went  forth  from  the  presence, 
and  returned  to  his  hotel,  quite  oyerwnelmed. 

Fortuntttely,  he  was  that  afternoon  visited 
by  a  friend^  to  whom  he  told  the  story  of  his 
nnsuccesaful  application  and  sad  perplexity, 
and  who  immediately  exclaimed,  "  Why  not 
apply  to  the  president  ?" 

rhe  colonel  had  but  little  hope,  but  acknow- 
ledging that  the  plan  was  worth  trying,  drove 
irith  lu8  friend  to  the  White  House. 

They  were  too  late.  It  was  Saturday  even- 
ing, and  Mr.  Lincoln  had  gone  to  spend 
Sunday  at  Soldier's  Rest,  his  summer  retreat. 
This  was  but  a  few  miles  from  town,  and  the 
colonel's  indomitable  friend  proposed  that  they 
should  follow  him  out,  and  they  went. 

There  was  then  a  popular  belief  that  all  the 
wronged,  the  troubled,  and  suffering  could  find 
a  refuge  in  ^^  Father  Abraham's"  capacious 
bosom ;  a  belief  that  was  not  far  out  of  the 
way.  Yet  there  were  times  when  overburdened, 
wearied,  tortured,  the  patriarch  longed  to  clear 
that  asylum  of  its  forlorn  inmates,  to  bolt  and 
har  and  double-lock  it  against  the  world ;  times 
when  life  became  too  hard  and  perplexing  for 
his  genial,  honest  nature,  too  serious  and  tragic 
and  rascally  a  t^ing  by  half. 

it  happ^ed,  unluckily,  that  the  poor  colonel 
and  his  friend  found  tbo  president  in  one  of 
his  most  despondent  and  disgusted  moods.  He 
was  in  his  little  private  parlour,  alone  in  the 
gloaming.  He  was  lounging  loosely  in  a  large 
rocking-chair,  jutting  over  it  in  all  directions. 
His  slippered  feet  were  exalted,  his  rough  head 
was  thrown  back,  his  long  throat  bare — he  was 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  I  Yes,  dear,  fastidious 
£ngUsh  reader,  it  was  genuine  Yankee  abandon^ 
-Hmake  the  most  of  it ! 

He  turned  upon  his  visitors  a  look  of  almost 
savage  inquiry.  There  was  indeed,  in  his  usually 
pleasant  eyes,  a  wild,  angry  gleam ;  a  something 
like  the  glare  of  a  worried  animal  at  bay. 

Colonel  Scott  proceeded  very  modestly  to 
tell  his  story;  bat  the  president  interrupted 


him,  to  say  brusquely,  "  Go  to  Stanton  ;  this 
is  hU  business." 

**  I  have  been  to  him,  Mr.  President,  and 
he  will  do  nothing  for  me." 

"  You  have  been  to  him,  and  got  your 
answer,  and  still  presume  to  come  to  me ! 
Am  I  to  have  no  rest?  no  privacy?  Must  I 
be  dogged  to  my  last  fastnesses  and  worried  to 
deathTy  inches  ?  Mr.  Stanton  has  done  just 
right.  He  knows  what  he  is  about,  xour 
demands  are  unreasonable,  sir." 

*'  But,  Mt.  Lincoln,  I  thought  yo»  would 
feel  for  me." 

»*  Fealfor  you  !  Good  God  I  I  have  to  feel 
for  five  hundred  thousand  more  unfortunate 
than  you.  We  are  at  war,  sir :  don't  you  know 
we  are  at  war  ?  Sorrow  is  the  lot  of  all ;  bear 
your  share  like  a  man  and  a  solcfier." 

"  I  try  to,  Mr.  President,  but  it  seems  hard. 
My  devoted  wife  lost  her  life  for  coming  to 
nurse  me,  in  my  sickness,  and  I  cannot  e^'cn 
take  her  body  home  to  my  children." 

"  Well,  she  ought  not  to  have  come  down  to 
the  army.  She  should  have  stayed  at  home. 
That  is  the  place  for  women.  But  if  they  mil 
go  tearing  about  the  country,  in  such  times  as 
these,  imd  running  into  all  sorts  of  danger, 
they  must  take  the  consequences !  Not  out 
that  I  am  sorry  for  you,  colonel.  As  for  your 
wife,  she's  at  rest,  and  I  wish  I  were." 

Saying  this,  the  president  leaned  back  wearily 
in  his  chair,  and  closed  his  eyes,  not  noticing, 
except  by  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  the  de- 
partnre  of  his  visitors. 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  my  hero 
tossed  restlessly  that  night,  upon  a  pillow  wet 
with  manly  tears,  that  he  was  desperate  and 
resentful,  utterly  unresigned  to  the  decrees  of 
Providence  and  the  War  Department,  and  that 
he  thought  Abraham  Lincoln  as  hard  as  he 
was  ugly,  and  as  inhumane  as  he  was  ungaiiJy. 

Towsjd  momiug  ho  fell  asleep,  imd  slept 
late.  Before  he  was  fully  dressed  there  came 
a  quick  knock  at  the  door  of  his  chamber,  and 
he  opened  to  President  Lincoln ! 

The  good  man  came  forward,  pale  and  eager, 
tears  glistening  in  his  eyes,  and  grasped  the 
colonel's  hand,  saying,  "  I  treated  you  brutally 
last  ni^t.  I  ask  your  pardon.  I  was  utterly 
tired  out,  badgered  to  death.  I  generally 
become  about  as  savage  as  a  wild  cat  by 
Saturday  night,  drained  dry  of  the  *milk  of 
human  kindness.'  I  must  Imvo  seemed  to  you 
the  very  gorilla  the  rebels  paint  me.  I  was 
sorry  enough  for  it,  when  you  were  gone.  / 
could  not  sleep  a  moment  last  ninht^  so  I  thought 
I'd  di-ive  into  town,  in  the  cool  of  the  mominff , 
and  make  it  all  right.  Fortunately,  I  had  little 
diiliculty  in  finding  you." 

*'Thi8  is  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  President," 
said  the  colonel,  deeply  moved. 

*'  No  it  isn't ;  but  that  was  very  had  of  me, 
last  night.  I  never  should  have  forgiven 
myself,  if  I  had  let  that  piece  of  ugly  work 
stand.  That  was  a  noble  wife  of  yours, 
colonel !  You  were  a  happy  man  to  have  such 
a  noble  woman  to  love  you ;  aud"jo\k\S!iSia»\»\i^\N. 
good  fellow,  or  Bac\i  st  noni&ii  niceq^  tan^^ 


y= 


<:£: 


h 


228      lAogut  7, 18«*.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUITD. 


[Oondoctedbf 


/ 


]  have  risked  so  much  for  you.  And  what  grand 
women  there  are  in  these  times,  colonel! 
What  angels  of  devotion  and  mercy,  and  how 
brave  and  plucky ! — going  everywhere  at  the 
call  of  duty,  facing  every  danger !  I  tell  you, 
if  it  were  not  for  uie  women,  we  should  all  go 
to  the  devil,  and  should  deserve  to.  They  are 
the  salvation  of  the  nation.  Now,  come, 
colonel ;  my  carriage  is  at  the  door.  Ill  drive 
you  to  the  War  Department,  and  we*ll  see 
Stanton  about  this  matter." 

Even  at  that  early  hour,  they  found  the 
secretary  at  his  post.  The  president  pleaded 
the  case  of  Colonel  Scott,  and  not  only  re- 
quested that  leave  of  absence  should  be  given 
him,  but  that  a  steamer  should  be  sent  down 
the  river,  expressly  to  bring  up  the  body  of  his 
wife.  *^  Humanity,  Mr.  Stanton,"  said  the 
good  president,  his  homely  face  transfigured 
with  me  glow  of  earnest  tender  feeling,  ^^  hu- 
manity should  overrule  considerations  of  policy, 
and  even  military  necessity,  in  matters  like  this." 

The  secretary  was  touched,  and  he  said  some- 
thing of  his  regret  at  not  having  felt  himself  at 
liberty  to  grant  Colonel  Scott^s  request  in  the 
first  place. 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Stanton,"  said  the  president, 
^^  you  did  right  in  adhering  to  your  own  rules ; 
you  are  the  right  man  for  uiis  place.  K  we  had 
such  a  soft-hearted  old  fool  as  I  here,  there 
would  be  no  rules  or  regulations  that  the  army 
or  the  country  could  depend  upon.  But  this  is  a 
pecuUar  case.  Only  think  of  that  poor  woman  !" 

Of  course,  the  **  impossible  was  accom- 
plished. 

To  the  surprise  of  the  colonel,  the  president 
insisted  on  oriving  him  to  the  navy  yard,  to 
see  that  the  secretary's  order  was  carried  out 
immediately ;  seeming  to  have  a  nervous  fear 
that  some  obstacle  might  be  thrown  in  the 
way  of  the  pious  expedition.  He  waited  at 
the  landing  tall  all  was  ready,  then  charged  the 
officers  of  the  steamer  to  give  every  attention 
and  assistance  to  his  **  friend,  Colonel  Scott." 
With  him  he  shook  hands  warmly  at  parting, 
saying,  *^  God  bless  you,  my  dear  fellow!  I 
hope  you  will  have  no  more  trouble  in  this  sad 
affair — and,  colouel,  try  to  forget  last  night." 

Away  up  in  a  New  Hamp^iire  churchyard 
there  is  a  certain  grave  carefully  watched  and 
tended  by  faithful  love.  But  every  April  time 
the  violets  on  that  mound  speak  not  alone  of 
the  womanly  sweetness  and  devotion  of  her 
who  sleeps  below — they  are  tender  and  tearful 
with  the  memory  of  the  murdered  president. 

LOOKING  BACK. 

Tbts  lb  the  old  farm-houBO 

With  its  deep,  rose-tangled  porch, 
Where  hoTer  and  rise  white  butterflies, 

And  honey-bees  hold  debauch. 
Oh,  many  a  time  and  oft 
In  the  dear  familiar  croft, 

With  a  lifted  eve  to  the  summer  sky 
I  have  followed  the  lark  aloft ! 

And  mj  heart,  mj  heart,  flies  back 

On  the  dead  years'  shadowy  track, 
And  now  in  the  lane,  on  a  loaded  wain, 
Tm  a  luLppj  tmd  hot  liitie  boj  again  1 


Just  such  a  windless  noon 

As  this,  in  a  buried  June, 
When  the  scented  hay  in  the  meadows  lay, 

And  the  thrushes  were  all  in  tune. 
On  the  staggering  load  I,  exultant,  rode. 
And  the  red-faced  waggoner  "  wey'd"  and  "  woa'd** 

Long  ago  in  a  buried  June  ! 

Davs  when  to  breathe  was  bliss, 

Ferfect,  and  pure,  and  strong ; 
No  pulse  of  the  heart  amiss, 

No  beat  of  the  brain- work  wrong : 
When  care  was  a  word,  and  love  an  absurd 

Fabrication  of  story  and  song. 

Is  it  so  long  ago, 

This  life  of  colour  and  light  P 
Will  it  not  show  some  aftei^low 

Ere  the  day  dips  iuto  the  night  P 
O  youth,  have  ye  left  me  quite  ? 
O  years,  haye  ye  dimmed  my  sight  P 

Lo,  the  light  is  shade,  and  the  colours  fade. 
And  the  day  dips  into  the  night. 

HAPPY  JACK. 


"  Why  are  you  called  Happy  Jack  ?  " 
I  inquired  of  a  very  worthy  man  of  my 
acquaintance;  a  man  of  the  people;  a 
man  in  a  fustian  jacket ;  with  good  thick 
substantial  shoes  on  his  feet,  a  wide-awake 
on  his  head,  a  blackthorn  walking-stick 
in  his  hand,  a  wallet  at  his  back,  and  a 
short  black  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He  slowly 
removed  his  pipe  to  answer  me. 

"  The  people  all  calls  me  Happy  Jack," 
he  said.  ^'  It  seems  to  please  iliem,  and 
doesn't  do  me  any  harm.  But  my  name, 
as  you  may  have  perhaps  heerd,  is  not 
Jack,  but  Giles;  and  a  very  good  name 
too.  But  Jack  somehow  or  other  stands  to 
being  honest  and  handy;  and  that's  why 
they  call  sailors  Jacks,  I  suppose.  And  a 
Jack-of-all-Trades  means  a  clever  chap  as 
can  turn  his  hand  to  anything.  And  when 
people  calls  me  Happy  Jack,  I  suppose 
they  mean  it  as  a  compliment.  And  as  the 
world  goes,  I  am  happy  enough.  Anyhow 
I  never  complain.  I  make  a  pretty  feir 
living;  and  I  don't  mind  telling  ^ou,  that 
I've  laid  by  a  little  bit  of  money  in  the 
savings  bank,  and  shan't  come  upon  the 
union  if  I  grow  ever  so  old  and  worn  out. 
The  secrets  of  my  happiness  are  a  good 
wife,  a  good  appetite,  a  good  conscience, 
and  a  business  as  I  likes  and  sticks  to; 
and  which,  if  I  were  proud,  which  I 
ain't,  I  might  call  a  perfession.  I  would 
not  change  it  for  ne'er  another  business  in 
the  world." 

Hereupon  he  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth 
again,  drew  several  whifis,  and  meditated. 

I  knew  Giles's  business  well  enough, 
and  knew  also  that  he  took  a  pleasure  in 
it ;  as  I  took  a  pleasure  sometimes  in  hear- 
ing him  talk  about  it.  Giles,  whom  I  shall 
call  Happy  Jack,  as  more  descriptive  of 


:8a 


OhailM  DIekeni.] 


HAPPY  JACK. 


[Aignst  7, 1M9.]       229 


his  character  than  his  legal  and  baptismal 
cognomen,  was  a  wandering  herbaJist,  or 
gatherer  of  simples,  and  somewhat  of  a 
physician  in  his  hmnble  fashion  among  the 
poorer  order  of  ferm-labonrers  and  cot- 
tagers. He  was  a  diligent  student  of 
botany,  the  botany  of  the  meadow,  the 
garden,  and  the  road-side ;  with  Nature  for 
his  first  great  teacher,  and  old  Nicholas 
Cnlpeper,  student  in  physic  and  astrology, 
for  his  guide  and  universal  referee. 

An  ancient  edition  of  Culpeper,  entitled 
The   Complete  Herbal   [with  nearly  four 
himdred  medicines    made    from    English 
herbs,  physically  applied  to  the  cure  of  all 
disorders  incident  to  man,  with  rules  for 
compounding    them;    also    directions   for 
making  syrups,  ointments,  <&c.  <&c.  <&c.,  and 
bearing  for  its  motto  on  the  frontispiece 
the  Bible  text,    "  And  he  spake  of  trees, 
bom  the  cedar  tree  that  is  in  Lebanon, 
eren  unto  the  hyssop  that  springeth  out  of 
tibe  wall"]   was  the  constant  companion 
of  Jack's  wanderings.      A  well-thumbed, 
greasy,    time-stained,    dog's-eared  book  it 
was ;  and  annotated  by  hundreds  of  marks, 
not  illegible  to  Jack,  though  looking  very 
like  Egyptian  hieroglyphics  to  all  eyes  but 
his  own.      In  the  pursuit  of  herbs,  such 
&s  the  herbalists  sell  in  most  of  the  great 
towns  and  cities  of  England;   which  the 
homodopathic  chemists  will  sometimes  pur- 
chase,  to   revend  in   infinitesimal   doses; 
which  hospitals  require  for  the  purposes 
of  plasters  and  poxdtices ;  and  which  poor 
women  of  the  old  school,  though  young 
perhaps  in  years,   are  fond   of  using  as 
infidlible  nostrums  for  their  own  ailments, 
and  those  of  their  husbands  and  children. 
Jack  made  regular  circuits  into  the  mid- 
land,   southern,     eastern,     and     western 
counties  of  England;    from    Margate   to 
&e  Land's    End   in    one   direction,    and 
fifom  Warwick  to  Southampton  and  Ports- 
mouth in  another.     A  sturdy  man  he  was, 
about  sixty  years  of  age,  though  as  hale 
•nd  hearty  as  if  he  had  been  but  forty,  and 
witii  an  appetite,  never  very  small,  that 
had  been  kept  large  by  fresh  air,   daily 
exercise,  and  a  mind  at  ease.     He  was  an 
educated  man  in  every  thing  except  the 
education  of  books,   me   great   Culpeper 
J^one  excepted;  and  able  to  discourse  on 
many  things  hidden  from  the  philosophy 
of  people  who,  had  they  been  brought  into 
juxtaposition  ^with  him,    might  have  con- 
odered  themselves  to  be  very  much   his 
superiors. 

"  What  simples  are  most  in  request,  now- 
a-dajB  ?"  I  inquired  of  him. 


"  Well,  I  can't  say  exactly,"  he  replied ; 
"  but  I  think  there  has  of  late  been  more  call 
for  henbane,  deadly  nightshade,  and  briony, 
than  there  used  to  be.  The  homopopathic 
doctors"  —  so  he  called  them  —  "  makes 
great  use  of  all  these  herbs,  and  so  does 
file  other  doctors  too,  I  believe.  Mighty 
useful  herbs  they  be,  every  one  on  'em." 

"  All  poisons  ?"  I  said. 

"  Pisons!"he  said,  emphatically.  I  knew 
he  would  take  exception  to  the  word,  and 
used  it  of  malice  prepense.  "Pisons!" 
he  repeated.  "  There  are  no  pisons  in  the 
world,  and  everything  is  a  pison  if  you 
don't  know  how  to  use  it.  Beef  is  pison, 
if  you  eat  nothing  else  for  breakfast,  dinner, 
and  supper ;  and  bread  is  pison,  and  taters 
uncommon  pisonous.  Henbane  is  pison, 
ne'er  a  doubt,  if  you  swallow  an  improper 
dose  of  it;  and  so  is  deadly  nightshade, 
it  has  a  flower  uncommon  like  ti^e  flower 
of  the  tater ;  and  white  briony,  one  of  the 
prettiest  and  handsomest  things  as  grows, 
with  fingers  as  fine  as  a  lady's,  has  a  root 
as  well  as  a  berry,  as  is  good  for  more  ail- 
ments than  I  can  count  on  my  ten  fingers. 
Pisons  !  Look  here  !"  he  said,  stretching 
his  hand  towards  the  meadows  and  the 
woods  beyond  them,  "  there's  not  a  herb, 
or  flower,  or  weed,  if  there  be  anything  as 
grows  as  deserves  to  be  called  a  weed,  that 
you  could  pluck  in  a  long  summer's  day, 
as  is  not  good  for  summut  or  other.  Only 
men,  as  a  rule,  are  so  ignorant !  The  very 
dogs  and  cats  knows  better  than  some 
men  ;  and  when  they  are  unwell  after 
eatin'  too  much  stuff*  as  is  not  good  for 
'em,  they  goes  to  the  herbs  appointed  for 
'em  by  God  Almighty,  and  eats  'em,  to 
purge  out  the  ill-humours.  And  the  rooks 
and  the  crows  too,  after  they  have  gorged 
'emselves  with  worms  and  grubs,  knows 
where  to  go  for  physic,  and  eats  nettle 
seeds.  They  can't  afford  to  pay  doctors, 
and  they  doctors  'emselves,  as  men  might 
do,  if  they  looked  into  Culpeper  as  much 
as  they  ought.  I  don't  like  to  hear  the 
plants  and  herbs  called  pisons  and  weeds. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  a  real  pison. 
Milk  is  pison  if,  instead  of  drinking  it,  you 
cuts  a  vein  open  and  pours  a  drop  or  two 
in.  Some  herbs  are  pison  out'ardly,  and 
some  are  pison  in'ardly.  But  not  one  as 
grows,  I  don't  care  what  the  doctors  say, 
is  pisonous  in  itself,  if  you  knows  how  to 
use  it,  and  the  right  quantity  to  take. 
Pisons  indeed  !  I  don't  believe,  wise  as 
people  think  'emselves  in  our  day,  y(\'  ^jV^avc 
steam  engines  and  eVectric  l^^^wc'^tia.j  ^s^t^ 
all  the  rest  of  tlie  new-ion^^d  ciOTi\.Tv:'j«a^^«» 


4 


230      [August  7, 18090 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


CCoBdiMtedtf 


/ 


that  we  hear  on  every  day  of  our  lives, 
that  we  have  found  ont  half  the  virtues  of 
the  plants;  no,  nor  a  tenth  part  of  'em. 
It's  my  belief  that  Nebuchadnezzar,  when 
he  ate  grass,  took  a  physic  as  was  good  for 
him,  and  that  there  is  a  great  d^  more 
virtue  in  grass  than  the  world  knows  on, 
with  all  its  wisdom.  For  of  all '  herbs,'  is 
not  grass  called  in  Scripture  the  herb  of  the 
field,  as  if  it  was,  which  I  sometimes  think 
it  is,  the  best  as  well  as  the  commonest  of 
all  i^e  herbs  ?  I've  many  a  time  wished, 
when  I've  seen  a  doe  a  eatin'  on  it,  as  I 
could  ax  him  what  he  was  a  doin'  it  for. 
Of  course  I  can  ax  the  dog  the  question, 
but  by  wuss  luck  I  can't  get  his  answer. 
The  only  fault  in  old  Culpeper  as  ever  I 
could  &id  is,  as  he  says  nothing  about 
grass.  If  I  was  a  scholard  and  comd  write 
as  well  as  him,  or  only  half  as  well  for  the 
matter  of  that,  I'd  write  about  grass  my- 
self. I  knows,  because  I've  tned,  that 
what  the  people  calls  mountain-grass  is  a 
certain  cure  for  the  rheumatics,  that  is  to 
say,  the  tea  or  broth  made  of  it  by  boiling. 
And  it's  my  opinion  that  there  ian't  anv 
kind  of  grass  as  isn't  good  for  man  as  well 
as  beast,  only,  as  I  said  before,  men  are,  for 
the  most  part,  such  fools,  and  has  to  be 
taught  what  the  beasts  knows  without 
teaching." 

"Have  you  any  particular  favourite  of 
your  o>vn  among  the  simples  you  gather  ?" 
I  inquired ;  "  any  one  more  valuable  than 
the  rest  in  your  opinion,  and  of  a  greater 
benefit  to  mankind  ?" 

"  Well,  I  dunno !  I  can't  tell.  So  many 
on  'em  *  deserve  honourable  mention,'  as 
they  used  to  say  of  things  sent  to  the 
Great  Exhibition,  that  I  can't  fix  upon  any 
one  in  particular.  Now,  there's  poppy,  for 
instance.  What  a  blessing  poppy  is,  let 
alone  its  juice  in  the  shape  of  lodnum  and 
opium,  which  brings  the  blessed  sleep  to 
the  weary  eyes  and  brains  of  many  a  sick 
man  and  woman  as  couldn't  get  a  wink 
without  it ;  but  as  a  relief  to  swelling  and 
inflammation  of  every  kind.  There's  the 
common  field  poppy,  now,"  and  Jack  (we 
were  walking  along  the  road  as  we  dis- 
coursed) stooped  to  gather  one  as  he  spoke, 
"which  some  folks  calls  the  corn-rose,  is 
good  for  more  things  than  causing  sleep. 
Hear  wliat  old  Culpeper  says  about  it.  I 
have  it  all  by  heart.  '  The  wild  i)oppy,  or 
corn-rose,  is  good  to  prevent  the  falling 
sickness.  The  syrup  made  with  the 
flowers  is  with  good  effect  given  to  those 
^ha^  have  the  plewci&j  ;  and  the  dried 
Uowera  also,   either  boiled  in   water,    or 


made  into  powder,  and  drank,  eidier  in  the 
distilled  water  of   them,    or  some  other 
drink,  worketh  the  like  effect.     The  dis- 
tilled water  of  the  flowers  is  held  to  be  of 
much   good    use    against   surfeits,    being 
drank  evening  and  morning.     It  is  more 
cooling  than   any  of   the  other  poppies, 
and  effectual  in  hot  agues,  frenzies,  and 
other  inflammations,  inward  or  outward.' 
Ah !"  added  Jack,  ia  corroboration  of  what 
his  great  nmter  had  said,  "  poppy's  quite 
as  good  in  its  way  as  the  com  that  it 
grows  among ;  though  the  farmers  doesn't 
know  it.     Then,  again,  there's  chiekweed 
and  grunsel,  that  the  London  people  take 
such  mighiy  carir-loads  of  every  week  to 
feed  their  singing  birds,  but  which  are 
quite  as  good  for  men  and  women  as  fiat 
goldfinches  and  canaries. " 

I  suppose  that  I  looked  doubtful  on  this 
point,  for  Jack  went  on  with  renewed 
earnestness:  "  I  tell  you  chiekweed  and 
grunsel  is  good  for  many  kinds  of  sick- 
ness. I  knows  it,  and  Culpeper  says  it; 
and  surely  lie  knowed.  '  Chiekweed,'  he  * 
says,  'is  a  fine,  soft,  pleaaLng  herb,  bom 
under  the  dcHninion  of  the  moon.' " 

"  Why  of  the  moon  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Every  plant  as  grows,"  said  Jack, 
with  as  much  gravity  as  a  judge  when 
laying  down  the  law,  "grows  under  the 
infiuence  of  the  sun,  or  the  moon,  or  its 
own  particular  planet.  That's  positive  I 
Many  grows  under  Venus,  many  under 
Mars,  and  many  under  Saturn.  What 
plant  was  I  talking  on  ?  Chiekweed.  Yes ! 
chiekweed  belongs  to  the  moon.  And,  as 
you  might,  perhaps,  not  beHeve  me,  hear 
what  Culpeper  says.  *  This  herb  bruised, 
or  the  juice  applied  with  cloths  or  sponges 
dipped  therein,  to  the  region  of  the  liver, 
doth  wonderfully  temperate  the  inflamma- 
tion thereof  It  is  effectual  for  all  swell- 
ings and  in^osthumes ;  for  all  redness  in 
the  face,  wheals,  pushes,  itch,  and  scabs. 
The  juice,  cither  simply  used,  and  boiled 
with  hog's  lard,  and  applied  to  the  part, 
helpeth  cramps,  convulsions,  and  {Mdsy. 
The  juice  or  distilled  water  is  of  much 
good  use  for  all  heats  and  redness  in  the 
eyes,  to  drop  some  thereof  into  thesn.  It 
is  good,  also,  in  virulent  sores  and  ulcers  of 
the  leg  and  any  other  parts  of  the  body.  The 
leaves  boiled  with  marsh  mallows  and  made 
into  a  poultice  with  fenugreek  and  linseed 
helpeth  the  sinews  when  they  are  shrank 
by  cramp  or  otherwise.'  That's  what 
Culpeper  says  of  chiekweed,'  which  you 
may  see  is  not  sent  by  a  kind  Providaace 
^fox     the     birds     only.      And     *  gmnael' 


-^ 


CteilM  Diekana.] 


HAPPY  JACK. 


CAognst  7,  WW.]       281 


(gronndsel)  is  just  as  good,  if  not  better ; 
for  gronsel  is  under  the  dominion  of  Venns. 
I  shan't  tell  you  what  I  think  of  it,  'cause 
joa  might  think  I  was  a  exaggerating,  or 
that  I  was  a  drawin'  on  my  fancy,  which  I 
assnre  yon  I  never  does  in  the  matter  of  any 
pknty  big  or  litUe,  common  or  uncommon. 
Calpeper  was  in  1oy«  wi'  g^mnsel,  I  do 
believe.  He  says,  'This  herb  is  Venns's 
masterpiece,  or  mistress  piece,  and  is  as 
gallant  and  nniversal  a  remedy  for  all 
diseases  coming  of  heat,  in  whatever  part 
of  the  body  they  may  be,  as  any  that  the 
son  shines  upon.  It  is  very  safe  and 
friendly  to  the  body  of  man ;  yet  causeth 
vomiting  if  the  stomach  be  affected,  if 
not,  purging,  which  it  doth  with  more 
gentleness  than  might  be  expected.'  Old 
Cnlpeper  didn't  Iflce  the  doctors,  they 
got  the  guineas  out  of  people  in  his  time, 
as  they  do  in  ours,  a  vast  deal  too  easily. 
'Lay  by  your  learned  Latin  receipts,'  he 
says ;  ^  about  so  many  grains  of  senna»  and 
leammony,  and  colocynth,  and  crocus 
metallora,  and  gnmscl  alone  in  a  syrup,  or 
distilled  water,  shall  do  the  deed  for  you  in 
all  hot  diseases,  speedily  and  safely.  Nor 
is  this  all ;  it  is  excellent  for  jaundice,  the 
choHc,  sciatica,  and  the  gravel.'  In  short," 
added  Jack,  "  it's  about  the  best  physic  as 
goes." 

I  plucked  &  nettle  as  Jack  concluded, 
with  a  gloved  hand,  and  asked  him,  '*  Has 
this  vile  iMng  any  virtue  ?" 

"  Vile  thing,"  he  responded  indignantly. 
''Why  vile?  it  is  one  of  the  best  plants 
as  grows ;  a  prime  gift  of  God  to  poor  un- 
nateM  hunoan  kind.  Call  a  nettle  vile  ! 
But  you  don't  mean  it^  I  know  you  don't ! 
Bless  your  hearty  the  nettle  is  good  for 
scores  of  diseases.  Mars  is  the  lord  of  it ; 
tnr  tiie  nettle  like  Mars  is  fiery.  Nettlis 
broth  is  good  for  shortness  of  breath, 
and  the  asthma;  look  into  Cnlpeper  and 
see  if  it  isn't  good  also  for  pleurisy  and 
acre  throat ;  good  for  the  gravel ;  good  for 
worms  in  children ;  and  as  I've  heerd  say, 
and  believe,  good  for  the  sting  of  adders  and 
naonoDa  snakes ;  and  the  bite  of  mad  dogs, 
xfettles !  why  you  can  make  beer  of  'em, 
and  very  good  beer  too." 

I  think  Jack  would  have  gone  on  for  an 
hour  or  more  about  the  nettles  had  I  not 
stopped  to  pluck  a  daisy  as  Jack  finished 
Us  Iftodation,  and  offering  it  to  him,  asked 
if  thero  were  any  medicinal  properties  in 
thai,  and  under  what  planet  he  supposed 
daisies  to  be  boni? 

**  Suppose  them  to  be  bom  ?"  he  replied, 
^I  mow  them  to  be  bom  under  yenns. 


Gulpeper  says  so.  That's  enough  for  me. 
As  for  the  virtues  of  the  daisy,  it  has  lots 
an'  lots.  Its  juice  distilled  is  good  for  the 
liver  complaint.  For  ulcers  in  the  gums, 
the  lips,  or  the  tongue,  it  is  the  best  thing 
in  the  world.  But  look  to  Cnlpeper  if  you 
want  to  know  more ;  all  I  say  is,  that  its  leaves 
and  flowers  as  well  as  its  juice,  is  good  for 
inflammations  and  swellings,  and  ease  the 
pains  of  gout,  rheumatism,  and  sciatica.  I 
eather  cart-loads  of  daisies  cverv  year  and 
sVem;  and  xnany  a  poor  oldli^r  and 
ditcher,  or  his  poor  old  wife,  troubled  with 
the  rheumatics  can  get  as  good  a  remedy 
for  their  ailment  for  a  pennorth  of  daisies, 
as  they  could  have  got  from  the  queen's 
own  doctor,  if  thev  had  paid  him  a  guinea 
fifty  times  over.  And  how  kind  and  boun- 
tiful Qod  Almighty  is,"  said  Jack,  with  a 
feeling  of  real  piety,  surging  up  in  his 
simple  heart,  "  to  make  all  the  good  things 
of  this  world  so  common.  Fresh  air  now  ! 
what  a  good  physic  and  medicine  is  that ! 
And  free  to  the  poorest  creature  as  crawls, 
if  he  will  only  crawl  out  ftt)m  his  hole  and 
condescend  to  breathe  it.  And  sunshine  ! 
What  is  so  good  as  sunshine  ?  I  have  often 
thought  to  myself  that  if  I  had  the  value 
in  my  pocket  of  one  day  of  sunshine  in 
harvest  time,  that  I  should  be  the  richest 
man  in  all  the  universal  world !  Not  that 
I  wants  to  be  the  richest  man  in  the  world, 
or  rich  at  all  for  that  matter.  For  if  I 
was  rich,  could  I  eat  my  dinner  with  a 
better  appetite  than  I  do  now  ?  And  sleep 
better  o'  nights  ?  And  have  more  pleasure 
in  my  long  walks  ?  Not  that  I  objects  to 
a  little  bit  of  money,  mind  ye,  by  no 
means.  But  when  I  hears  of  people 
scrapin',  and  scrapin',  and  scrapin'  up 
money,  and  cheatin'  other  people  so  as  they 
may  scrape  deeper  and  pile  up  higher,  and 
never  enjoyin'  themselves  a  bit,  or  even 
so  much  as  laughin'  except  when  they  have 
diddled  somebody,  I  thinks  as  money  may 
be  bought  too  dear,  and  that  them's  the 
happiest  folks,  who  takes  a  little  pleasure 
as  they  goes,  doesn't  cheat  nobody,  and 
thinks  more  of  the  sunshine  out  o'  doors, 
at  least  once  in  a  way,  than  they  does  of  a 
good  bargain." 

"Well,  Jack,"  I  said,  "you  enjoy  yourself, 
any  how.  You  always  seem  happy,  and  I 
know  you  are  strong." 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  it's  a  grand  tiling 
Ui  enjoy  your  business,  if  it  be  a  innocent 
one.     And  mine  is  innocent,  and  I  likes  it.    |. 
Lord  love  ye !  I  would  not  be  a  tailor^  «• 
carpenter,  a  eihoemakeT,  ot  ^  ^o^ee^^x^ 
for  all  the  money  tlio  c\aocii  ^oxiXii  olSsst  xa^ 


^ 


232       [Aiignst7,1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


tOondvetodby 


I  love  the  open  air,  the  rcfad-side,  the  path 
through  the  woods  and  meadows,  or  by  the 
river.  I  love  to  hear  the  birds  singing, 
and  to  see  the  herbs  and  plants  a  growing ; 
and  to  feel  at  the  same  time  that  they  are 
all  a  growing  for  mo,  and  that  I  knows  how 
to  nse  'em,  and  make  a  decent  and  a 
honourable  living  out  of  'em.  And  then 
yon  see,  I'm  different  from  a  former.  He 
has  to  sow  afore  he  can  reap.  I  never  sow, 
and  I  always  reaps.  The  wind  and  the 
birds  sows  tiie  seeds  for  me,  and  they  grow 
without  my  care,  and  for  my  benefit ;  the  rain 
soaks  'em  and  the  snn  ripens  'em,  and  all 
for  me,  because  I  knows  what  they  are, 
what  they  can  do,  and  where  I  can  look 
for  'em  when  I  wants  'em." 

"You  told  me,"  I  said,  "that  you  made 
a  good  living  by  this  business  of  gathering 
and  selling  simples.  Would  you  think  it 
rude  in  me  if  I  asked  you  how  much  you 
earn  on  the  average  in  a  week,  or  whether 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end  you  are  as 
well  paid  as  a  gardener  or  a  &rm  labourer  ?" 

"  There's  ne'er  a  gardener  or  farm 
labourer  in  all  England  as  I  would  change 
places  with,"  answered  Jack,  somewhat 
contemptuously.  "  Farm  labourers  get  ten 
or  twelve  shillings  a  week,  and  gardeners 
eighteen  or  twenty  and  their  beer.  If  I 
did  not  earn  five  times  as  much  as  any 
farm  labourer,  or,  at  least,  three  times 
as  much  as  any  gardener  as  ever  mowed 
a  lawn,  or  dug  a  potato,  I  should  think 
my  business  was  a  going  to  the  dogs. 
Farm  labourers,  poor  things,  knows  very 
little,  and  gardeners  doesn  t  know  much  ; 
and  it  stands  to  reason,  as  I  knows  more 
than  they,  that  I  should  make  a  better 
living  than  they  do.  Howsomever,  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  like  my  business, 
and  my  business  likes  me ;  and  I  wouldn't 
change  it — ^no,  not  to  be  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury!" 

Grood  bye,  Happy  Jack !  Long  may 
you  flourish !     You  deserve  your  name  ! 

FAREWELL  TO  AN  ARTIST. 


The  career  of  John  Parry,  a  thorough  artist 
who  has  amused  the  English  public  without  in- 
termission for  thirty-five  years  past,  and  more 
— during  a  larger  part  of  the  time  amused  it 
single-handed — is  not  to  be  closed  without  a 
few   words  of  retrospect  and  cordial  recog- 
nition.   We  could  wish,  perhaps,  that  it  might 
have  closed  without  the  attendant  common- 
place of  a  **  Testimonial,"  for  it  has  always 
been  above  such  ordinary  things. 
Tlie  son  of  an  estimable  Welsh  harpist,  who 
did  much  to  make  the  delicious  and  symme- 
in'cal  melodies  of  the  Principality  popular  in 


England,  John  Parry  seemed  destined  at  his 
entrance  into  life,  to  follow  the  footsteps  of 
his  father.  But  he  followed  them  with  a  dif- 
ference, presenting  himself  not  merely  as  a 
player  on  the  most  graceful,  but  most  limited 
of  keyed  and  stringed  instruments,  but  like- 
wise as  a  singer ;  possessing  a  light  but  agree- 
able bass  voice,  perfectly  well  trained,  and 
great  musical  reaoiness.  It  was  not  ^  he 
had  been  before  the  EInglish  public  for  a  con- 
siderable period  as  a  sentimental  Welsh  melo- 
dist, an  accessory  singer  in  oratorios,  and  a 
reciter  of  such  a  lugubrious  platitude  as  Na- 
poleon^s  Midnight  Reriew,  that  he  could  indi- 
cate the  number  of  strings  to  his  bow,  and 
that  the  exhibition  of  these  established  for  him 
an  individuality,  unique  in  the  annals  of  Eng- 
lish music. 

Comedy  in  music  has  until  now,  as  a  subject, 
been  carelessly  touched.  Apart  from  words  con- 
veyed by  voice  and  aided  by  personation  and 
gesture,  it  is  a  matter  of  no  common  difficulty 
to  express  anything  like  intrinsic  humour  by 
the  aid  of  a  language  so  vague  as  the  musi- 
cian's. Much  of  his  descriptive  effect  most  be 
owing  to  association.  *^  Nothing,"  says  a 
German  writer,  **lies  so  far  from  music  as 
irony."  And  yet  a  man  with  a  fine  sense,  and  a 
fine  touch,  and  a  fine  command  of  the  gamut 
of  his  art,  may,  within  limits,  suggest  no  less 
than  illustrate,  without  a  servile  use  of  con- 
ventions **  made  and  provided  for,"  or  direct 
imitation. 

Proof  of  this  will  be  found  in  the  irre- 
SLBtible  whimsicalities  with  which  John  Parry 
made  a  public  for  himself,  after  working  for 
years  in  a  groove  which  his  eccentric  geniuB 
obviously  unfitted  him  to  fill  with  any  hope  of 
progress.  There  is  something  in  his  talent 
akin  to  Thomas  Hood's,  a  grotesque  and 
quaint  drollery,  to  the  utterance  of  which  in 
music  he  brought  the  accomplishments  of  a 
first-class  pianist,  dehcacy  of  touch,  variety 
of  tone,  volubility  of  execution.  The  "  calmest 
and  most  classical"  of  musicians  (to  quote  Mn. 
Jarley)  delighted  to  hear  his  drolleries  on 
the  piano,  for  their  own  sake,  as  heartily  u 
the  less  deeply  learned  portion  of  his  aa- 
dience,  who  were  convulsed  by  the  mother  "  of 
the  accomplished  young  lady,"  or  his  personi- 
fication of  that  never-to-be-forgotten  nosteflB, 
Mrs.  Roseleaf. 

This  possession  of  technical  science  and  ac- 
complishment as  a  singer  and  a  pianist,  both 
subservient  to  a  thorough  sense  of  enjoyment 
of  characteristic  whimsicality,  separate  John 
Parry  from  all  other  comic  entertainers  wl«> 
have  preceded  him.  The  skill  with  whidi,  by 
rapid  and  certain  changes  of  singing  voice,  b^ 
could  suggest  concerted  music ;  with  which  by 
speaking,  the  free  use  of  three  languages  being 
granted,  and  by  gesture,  he  could  conjure  np 
the  idea  of  a  crowd,  could  not  be  exceeded; 
if  (as  may  be  doubted)  it  has  ev^  been 
equalled.  There  was  the  complete  artist,  ^ 
all  his  mirth ;  more  than  one  published  coUee- 
l  tiou  of  *'  Ridiculous  Things,"  a  book  « 
\  &ke\A\iQa,  «A.Va«X&  >i?K\a.\i  \ift  conmianded  the  penc» 


tfi: 


&. 


ChMles  Diokeiu.] 


THE  TRYST  IN  TWIN-TREE  LANE.         [August  7,  i869.]     233 


as  well  as  the  key-board.  Though  the  humour 
of  his  sketches  is  generally  grim  and  dry,  the 
clevemees  of  many  of  them,  and  the  correct- 
ness of  hand  displayed,  are  not  to  be  over- 
looked, as  so  many  ingredients  which  helped 
to  make  up  a  whole,  that  there  is  small  chance 
of  seeing  reproduced. 

During  tlie  earlier  period  of  John  Parry^s 
humorous  career,  he  was  associated  with 
Albert  Smith,  as  the  contriver  of  his  drolleries. 
It  must  be  noted  that  by  neither  word,  look,  nor 
sign,  had  either  author  or  actor,  in  their  freest 
moments  of  fun,  one  second^s  recourse  to  the 
coane  allusions  and  appeals,  which  were  too 
generally  introduced  in  former  days,  to  spice 
washy  comedy,  or  to  eive  the  finishing  touch 
of  ^'  breadth'*  (so  ran  uie  jargon)  to  dramatic 
personation.  But  in  this,  both  author  and  in- 
terpreter, may  be  said  to  have  followed,  as  well 
as  helped  to  lead,  the  improved  taste  of  our 
middle  classes.  Double  entendre  is  to  be  seen 
sparingly  in  our  theatres  and  concert-rooms 
pretending  to  any  respectability,  save  when 
they  are  imported  from  foreign  parts,  shame- 
less in  rouge,  blazing  with  mamonds,  and 
(pro  pudor !)  caressed  and  patronised  by  those 
who  ought  to  lead,  and  not  lag  behind,  the 
intelligence  and  refinement  of  the  class  beneath 
and,  in  this  respect,  above  them. 


THE  TRYST  IN  TWIN-TREE  LANE. 


At  midnight  between  the  ninth  and  tenth  of 
May,  18 —  (it  is  less  than  thirty-five  years  ago), 
there  occunred  a  meeting  which,  whether  for 
the  incongruity  of  its  constituent  elements,  the 
difficulties  with  which  it  was  encompassed,  its 
^oom  and  mystery,  or  its  actual  purpose,  has, 
to  the  best  of  the  writer*s  belief,  no  parallel  in 
social  history. 

During  the  period  that  has  since  elapsed, 
many  minor  particulars  have  come  to  light,  and 
supplied  the  materials  for  as  circumstantial  a 
narrative  of  this  singular  transaction  as  the 
most  curious  inquirer  could  desire. 

On  the  evening  of  the  eighth  of  JVlay,  that 
is,  the  day  prec^ng  the  incident  about  to  be 
related,  the  family  of  Mr.  Newton  Horsf all,  of 
Cowling  Priors,  Herts,  noticed  something  un- ' 
Qsoal  in  that  gentleman's  demeanour. 
I     Mr.  Horsffdl  was  the  representative  of  an 
1  old  and  loyal  county  family.    Though  of  some- 
I  ^h&t  quiet    and  retiring  habits,   he  was  an 
I  »ctive  county  magistrate,  and,   the  previous 
,  year,   had  served  the  office  of  high  sheriff, 
^ged,  at  this  period,   about  forty-eight,   he 
w  married  seven  years  before  a  lady  twenty 
Tears  his  junior,  by  whom  he  had  a  son  and 
daughter. 

At  dinner,  on  the  day  above  mentioned,  Mr. 
Borsfairs  disturbance  seemed  to  increase.  He 
^  but  little,  was  silent  and  abstracted,  and, 
Contrary  to  his  wont,  appeared  relieved  when 
be  wife's  departure  l^t  mm  to  his  own  medi- 
tations. He  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  got 
^  and  paced  the  room,  and,  finally,  sitting 
^wn  at  a  bureau  that  stood  in  a  comer  of 


the  room,  fell  to  examining  some  papers  he 
selected  from  its  contents.  These  he  divided 
into  two  portions,  one  of  which  he  tore  up 
to  the  minutest  particles,  the  other  he  placea 
under  seal  and  restored  to  its  former  place. 
It  was  known  at  an  after  period  that  he  had 
also  opened  and  reperused  his  will. 

This  done,  he  rested  his  head  on  both  hands 
and  resumed  his  anxious  meditations.  Sud- 
denly he  spoke  aloud. 

"  I  will— yes,  I  will  do  it.  Yes,  come  what 
may,  the  reproach  of  being  absent  shall  not 
attach  alone  to  me.  Let  £nger,  let  what  Ls 
worse,  ridicule,  attend  this  proceeding,  I  am 
of  a  race  that  keep  their  faith,  and ^" 

**  Newton !"  said  a  gentle  voice,  and  a  white 
hand  glistened  on  his  shoulder.  ^^  I  have  not 
been  your  wife  for  seven  years,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Horsf  all,  "  without  learning  to  read  your  face. 
You  have  a  trouble,  dear ;  the  first,  I  hope  and 
believe,  you  have  not  permitted  me  to  share. 
Forgive  my  eavesdropping.  My  anxiety  was 
intolerable.    What  has  happened  ?" 

Mr.  Horsfall  smiled. 

"  Happened,  my  love  P  Nothing,  nothing 
in  the  world.  The  worst  is— the  very  worst  is, 
that— that — I  must  leave  you  for  some  thirty- 
six  hours,  and  that,  imfortunately  this  very 
night." 

**  To-night !" 

"  I  understand  your  consternation,  my  dear," 
said  her  husband,  trying  to  speak  lightly ; 
"  we  have  people  to  dinner  to-morrow,  and 
unless  they  would  consent  to  wait  till  six  in 
the  morning,  my  Lucy  must  be  host  and  hostess 
too." 

*'  Oh,  Newton,  it  is  impossible !" 

"  Try." 

"  But  will  you  tell  me  nothing  more  ?" 

"  Every  word,  dear ;  but  not  «c«7." 

»*  Newton,  I  have  a  petition  to  make  to  you." 

"  Sjpeak  it,  love." 

**  Take  me  with  you." 

**  Not  if— ahem— my  dear,  it  is  impossible," 
said  the  magistrate.  ^*  You  must  remain  to 
receive  our  friends,  and  assure  them  that 
nothing  short  of  business  that  would  not  brook 
an  hour^s  delay,  compelled  me  to  be  absent  from 
my  post.  Now,  if  you  love  me,  not  another 
question.  Ring  the  bell,  like  a  sensible  woman, 
and  order  the  carriage  at  four." 

**Four  in  the  morning?"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Horsfall,  faintly,  and  burst  into  tears. 

*^  The  idea  is  terrible,"  said  the  magistrate, 
smiling ;  "  but  take  courage.    Duty  calls." 

**  May  I  go  with  you  part  of  the  way  ?" 

"To  London?  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it. 
All  the  way." 

It  was  not  in  his  very  gentlest  accents  that 
Jacob  Gould,  the  coachman,  acquainted  his 
pampered  horses  with  the  astounding  fact  that 
they  were  required  to  turn  out  of  their  com- 
fortable nests,  as  he  himself  had  done,  at  four 
in  the  morning.  As  for  Mr.  Horsfall  himself, 
now  that  he  had  apparently  resolved  upon  his 
course  of  action,  he  grew  more  c\ve«d>3\^  «cA 
jested  gaily  with  Yv\a  V\ie  aa\i^  ^M\,\ietVDXAi>iXv^ 
carriage.     At  the  top   oi  ^RA^t^iiV^to^'J^*  >asi 


^ 


234       [August  7. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


[Condnotod  by 


stopped  the  carriage  and  beckoned  to  a  hackney 
coach. 

**  God  bleas  you,  iiiy  love !"  he  cried,  leaning 
from  the  window  ;  and,  adding  a  word  of  direc- 
tion to  the  driver,  was  jolted  away. 

*'  Where  did  your  master  say,  Robert?" 
asked  Mrs.  Horsfall. 

"  Whyto'seller,  Piccadilly,  m/'  retorted  Ro- 
bert, w^ith  a  slight  cough,  meant  to  intimate 
tiiat  travelling  so  early  did  not  agree  with  him. 

*'I  will  alight  here  also,"  said  Mrs.  Hors- 
fall. *^Let  the  carriage  be  put  up  for  an 
hour  or  two.  You  and  Jacob  get  some  break- 
fast, then  return  home,  and  see  that  the 
letters  I  have  left  be  delivered  immediately.  I 
sliall  not  be  back  tUl  to-morrow,  with  your 
master.    Call  that  coach." 

^'FiccadLUy,"  was  the  direction  she  gave, 
but,  stopping  the  coach  in  a  minute  or  two, 
she  asked  the  driver  what  was  the  White  Horse 
CeUar. 

**  Place  wheer  the  Brighton  coaches  plies 
from,"  was  the  answer. 

^^  Drive  to  the  Elephant  and  Castle,"  said 
Mrs.  Horsfall,  *'  and  be  quick." 

**  Is  there  a  Brighton  coach  about  to  start  ?" 
Mrs.  Horsfall  inquired,  eagerly,  as  they 
mingled  with  the  mass  of  coaches  which,  at 
that  period,  congregated  round  the  well-known 
hostel. 

"  Yes,  *m,  the  Age,  in  a  moment ; — one  in- 
side ?"  telegraphed  a  porter  to  the  Brighton 
driver,  who  nodded. 

Mrs.  Horsfall  was  in  her  place  in  a  moment, 
and  whisking  along  through.  Tooting,  lialf  an 
hour  ahead  of  her  husband,  supposing,  indeed, 
he  had  taken  that  road.  But  she  was  far 
from  content  with  herself.  Twenty  times, 
during  the  journey,  she  wished  the  step  lui- 
taken.  As  often  she  succeeded  in  persuading 
herself  that  her  disobedience  was  pardonable, 
and  preferable,  whatever  its  consequence,  to 
the  anxiety  she  would  have  had  to  endure  :  for 
that  her  husband  was  bound  on  an  expedition 
of  danger,  she  entertained  no  manner  of 
doubt. 

It  was  a  period  of  discontent,  and  much  un- 
easiness. From  causes  not  necessary  here  to 
recal,  the  working  classes  in  several  counties 
had  allowed  themselves  to  be  moved  to  serious 
outrage.  Incendiarism  was  the  order  of  the 
day,  or  night,  and  it  was  no  imcommon  thing 
to  see  the  horizon  lit  up  in  twenty  places  with 
the  iires  that  guilty  hands  had  kindled.  Every- 
where there  was  a  vague  apprehension  of  a 
visit  from  the  "  mob,"  which  noun  of  multitude 
was  supposed  to  be  prowling  about,  burning 
and  pillaging  the  houses  of  the  rich,  and,  in 
more  than  one  instance,  justifying  the  fear. 
Mrs.  Horsfall  trembled,  as  it  occurred  to  her 
that  her  husband^s  excursion  was  connected 
with  the  repression  of  these  disturbances. 

She  had  resolved  upon  her  course  of  action  ; 

and,  accordingly,  quitted  the  coach  at  a  small 

hotel  at  the  very  entrance  of  Brighton,    at 

whJab  most  oi  the  coaches  halted  for  a  moment. 

Here  bUo  obtained  an  apartment  facing  the 

road,  aod,  abrouded  in  the  curtains,  set  lieraeli 


to  scrutinise  the  passengers  of  each  vehicle,  as 
they  successively  amv^ 

The  vigil  was  tedious,  but,  at  six  o'clo<^,  her 
patience  was  rewarded.  Aa  the  Red  Rover 
dashed  up  to  the  door,  the  familiar  face  was 
discernible  at  the  coachman^s  side. 

Mrs.  Horsfall  had  concluded  that  he  would 
certainly  go  on  to  Castle-aquare,  and  had  pre- 
pared herself  to  step  into  a  fly,  and  follow.  To 
her  astonishment,  however,  if  not  alarm,  he 
quietly  descended,  obtained  hiA  valise,  and 
entered  the  same  modest  hostel  in  which  his 
wife  had  already  taken  refuge. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Mrs.  HorsfaU, 
by  skilf  id  inquiry,  contrived  to  loam  that  the 
magistrate  hiud  dined,  by  himself,  in  the  ocriSee- 
room,  had  subsequently  smoked  a  cigar,  aod, 
that  finished,  gone  to  the  play ! 

i«  To  the "  Mrs.  Horsfall  had  some  dif- 
ficulty in  checking  her  ejaculation  of  aurprise. 

But  the  gentleman  wonld  return  at  eleven ; 
only  the  porter  was  not  to  go  to  bed,  as  he  was 
going  out  again,  and  aii^t  be  absent  some 
hours. 

Mrs.  Horsfairs  heart  gave  a  throb. 

^*  That  is  it,  then,"  she  munnurcd,  and  sank 
into  trembling  meditation.  In  this  oonditioD 
we  must  leave  her,  and  repair  to  another  part 
of  the  country. 

Doctor  S.,  who  at  this  time  presided  over 
an  important  inland  diocese,  and  was  in  the 
prime  of  intellectual,  if  not  phyvioal  life,  was 
a  man  w^ho  never  spared  himself  in  his  Master's 
service.  It  was  therefore  an  unmistakable 
token  of  overtaxed  energies,  when  the  biaboi), 
sinking  into  his  chair  on  the  evening  of  toe 
seventh  of  May,  acknowledged  that  a  brief 
respite  from  labour  would  not  be  unacceptafafe 
to  him.  His  wife  caught  at  the  idea.  For 
the  last  few  days,  a  sort  of  harassed  look,  not 
habitual  with  him,  had  attracted  her  attention. 
He  wanted  rest. 

**  How  I  wish,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  S., 
^^  that  you  could  escape,  if  it  were  but  for  foor 
or  five  days,  from  trll  hard  work!  !Kow  I 
really  think  tliat,  with  the  asaiatance  you  eio 
command,  and—" 

'^  My  dear,  you  anticipate  my  thought,"  the 
good  bishop  replied.  **  !Notliing  would  recnat 
me  more  effectually  than  a  fair  three  days*  holi- 
day, exclusive  of  the  travelling ;  a  little  bb- 
fatiguing  journey,  some  whithcnr— aay,  towards 
the  sea.  i  ought ,  yes,  certainly,  I  ought  to  do 
it,"  he  added,  half  to  hiraiself. 

**  TAat  you  ought !"  exdairaed  his  wife» 
triumphantly.  '*  1  shall  order  William  to  pr^ 
pare  your  things,  so  that,  if  you  please,  we  (^ 
leave  this  very  day." 

**  Gently,  gently,  my  dear,"aaid  the  bishop- 
"'  *  jreP  nay,  nay;  I  must  not  take  all  BJ 
comforts  with  me,  and  expect  to  find  health  to 
boot.  It  is  enough  that  1  find  rest,  and— •n'* 
change.  I  shall  make  my  little  expeditioQ  €B- 
tirely  alone." 

''  Alone r  echoed  Mrs.  S.  "My  dear,  1 
shall  be  so  nervous." 

**  On  behalf  of  which  of  us,  my  love?"  »• 
\  quis^  tAi<&  bishop,  laughing.    "  Come,  ooaet 


& 


8.] 


THE  TRYST  IN  TWIN-TREE  LANE.         [Augun  7. 18M.3     235 


Df  the  highway  arc  reduced  to  a 

Vs  regards  tlic    perils   of  damp 

loubtful  fare,   I   can  make  your 

[  shall  ask  the  hospitality  of  my 

.  Meadows,  at  tiieir  pretty  place 

I,  and  occupy  the  bachelors'  room." 

you  will  take  Charles  V" 

us  the  bishop's  nephew,  his  chap- 

'tary.) 

)  hositatod.    It  was  clear  he  pur- 

e  gone  alone,  but  his  wife's  tone 

revailed.    Moreover,  he  was  very 

iohew. 

ill,  Charles  shaU  go." 

•ff  that  day,  and  the  next.  May 

jaw  tlioni,  to  the  delight  of  their 

and  hostess,  comfortably  estab- 
churst  Dene.  Mrs.  ^leadows  was, 
tie  disappmnted  next  morning, 
^ht  reverend  guest  announced, 
uctance,  that  a  business  engage- 
essing  nature  would  compel  him 
iself  for  that  evening  and  night, 
rould  return  early  on  the  mon>ow. 
lis  destination  was  Brighton,  the 

no  further  particulars,  and,  the 
g  but  eight  miles,  the  carriage 
»red  till  four  o'clock,  at  which 
inied  by  his  nephew,  he  took  his 
tie  had  made  a  feeble  effort  to 

faithful  com])anion,  but  Charies 
ly  reminded  him  of  the  promise 

exact(Hi  from  him,  not  to  lose 
bishop  till  the  latter  returned  in 
ic  pn'late  had  given  way. 

drive,  their  conversation  turned 
ite  of  the  agricultural  districts. 
;en  some  threatening  of  disturb- 
eral  inccndiarv  fires  visible  from 
b  the  presence  of  a  large  cavalry 
latter  ])lace  kept  the  fashionable 
at  their  ease,  as  regarded  a  visit 
>b." 

ig  through  the  village  of  Port-s- 
op began  to  scrutuiise  the  locality 
.•rest. 

spots,"  he  observed,  **in  which 
icealment  would  not  be  difficult 
uided  persons,  should  these  ample 
upt  til  em  to  fresh  crime.     AV^e  are 

a    still  more    broken My 

\  the  bishop,  taking  advantage 
e  walking  up  a  hill  to  accost  a 
is  at  hand,  *'  do  you  know  Cold- 
— and— -and  Twin-Tree-lane  ?" 
o,"  said  the  man,  **  whereby  I've 
stone  better  nor  twenty  years, 
le  left,  handy." 
uaiuder  of  the  drive  the  bishop 

meditative.  They  were  quickly 
wlicn  the  bishop  drove  to  the 
ismissed  the  carriage,  and  ordered 

line  together,  Charles,  at  seven," 
s  nephew ;  *•  the  evening  is  at 
posal,  for  my  work,  which  may 
1  me  to  a  late  hour,  admits  of  no 
aterference."  j 


There  was  an  emphasis  on  the  latter  words 
that  forbade  remonstrance.  But  the  Reverend 
Charles  Lileham  w^as  sensible  of  an  undefined 
anxiety  which  induced  him  to  resolve  that, 
happen  what  would,  he  must  not  let  his  ho- 
noured relative  wa&der  far  from  his  sight.  It 
was  a  little  before  eleven  when  the  bishop, 
suddenly  rising,  put  on  his  greatcoat,  took  his 
hat  and  stick,  and  affectionately  pressing  his 
nephew's  hand,  walked  quietly  forth  alone. 

rhat  night,  the  ninth  of  May,  was  a  festival 
one  at  Brighton.  A  gentleman  of  the  highest 
distinction,  in  his  Une,  was  receivijog  the 
complime&t  of  what  might  be  justly  called  a 
'*  public'*  dinner^  inasmuch  as  it  was  Iield 
at  the  Clenched  Fists,  Birdcage-lane,  North- 
street,  and  was  open  to  any  gentleman  inte- 
rested in  the  matter  to  the  amount  of  three- 
and-sixpence,  liquors  not  included. 

It  was  well  attended,  for  Mr.  William  Boekes, 
far  bettor  known  as  the  '^  Bradford  Dum- 
pling," retired  champion  of  England,  was  the 
son  of  a  much-respect«d  yeoman  farmer  in  the 
vicinity,  and,  though  making  Bradford  the  city 
of  his  ad(^tion,  had  never  forgotten  the  peace- 
ful village  that  gave  him  birth.  The  heads  he 
had  punched  in  youth  were,  like  his  own, 
tinged  with  grey — for  the  Dumpling  had  at- 
tained the  (for  the  ring)  patriarchal  age  of 
forty-five — ^but  his  visits  were  hailed  with  un- 
diminiifhed  enthusiasm,  and,  moreover,  this 
ninth  of  May  was  the  anniversary  of  the  last 
groat  triumph  of  his  professional  career. 

The  festivities  were  prolonged  to  a  late  hour. 
At  that  disturbed  penod  it  was  felt  that  the 
usual  loyal  toasts  should  be  received  with 
double  honours,  if  not  with  doable  draughts, 
and  it  was  past  ten  o'clock  before  the  chair- 
man arrived  at  the  great  toast  of  the  evening. 

A  song  (patriotic),  and  another  (pugilistic), 
with  choruses  to  both,  wound  up  the  evening ; 
when,  as  closing  time  approached,  it  was  pro- 
posed to  escort  the  ex-champion  to  his  private 
residence  in  Burr-alley,  West-street,  give  him 
three  cheers,  and  dismiss  him  to  his  slumbers. 
But  to  this  little  attention  the  Dumpling  op- 
posed a  strenuous  opposition.  He  preferred 
walking  home  quietly,  alone  and  unrecognised, 
indeed  he  waa  not  going  home,  leastways, 
not  yet.  He  liad  an  engagement  beyond  the 
town,  Patcham  way,  and  it  was  near  upon 
the  time.  To  the  playful  comment  of  one 
of  his  friends  that  it  was  a  ^^  rum  start,'^  the 
Dumpling  merely  responded  with  a  wink.  To 
another,  a  little  fluttered  with  drink,  who 
affectionately  insisted  upon  bearing  him  com- 
pany whithersoever  he  was  bound,  the  Dum- 
pling offered  just  sufficient  personal  violence  to 
disable  him  from  doing  anything  of  the  sort, 
and,  having  at  length  shaken  off  his  friends, 
strode  away.  It  was  at  this  time  nearly  half- 
past  eleven. 

The  same  evening  Colonel  Spurrier,  com- 
manding the  gaUaut  Hussar  regiment  at  that 
time  occupying  Brighton  barracks,  had  dined 
at  the  mess.    The  circumstance  "w^j^  \iQk\*  o\ 
frequent  occurrenacc,  tiie  coVyM\  \je\\^^  «bTw«- 
ried  man,  and  hoviiig  a  '^ioxjai^  Vxv  'tevasassiVS*.." 


(dB 


M 


236      [August  7, 1869.]. 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condaoted  by 


square.  Duriog  the  meal  a  letter,  bearing  the 
police  official  seal,  was  delivered  to  him.  The 
colonel  read  it  with  a  serious  look,  but  not  till 
later  in  the  evening  did  he  communicate  the 
contents  to  the  officers  present.  It  seemed  that 
the  authorities  had  been  warned  of  the  proba- 
bility of  a  meeting  of  the  chief  promoters  of 
discontent,  at  some  spot  near  Bnghton,  and, 
fearing  that  the  ordinary  civil  force  might 
prove  insufficient  to  effect  the  capture,  the 
magistrates  requested  that  a  small  military 
detachment  might  be  held  in  readiness  to  act 
in  case  of  need. 

The  colonel  supplemented  his  information  by 
issuing  the  necessary  directions,  and  added 
that  he  should  himself  sleep  in  barracks  that 
night,  although,  for  the  next  two  hours  at 
least,  he  must  unavoidably  be  absent. 

'^  Perhaps,"  he  added,  smiling,  as  he  threw 
on  a  cloak  and  lit  his  cigar,  *^  I  may  bring  back 
some  information  of  the  cnemy^s  movements. 
I  am  not  going  into  the  town." 

**  Permit  me,  sir,"  said  the  young  adjutant, 
*'to  recommend  you  not  to  go  entirely  un- 
armed. Your  face  is  known,  and  if  these 
lurking  rascals  are  in  earnest " 

**Well,  well ;  lend  me  your  pistols,  Baird," 
said  the  colonel,  and,  thrusting  them  into  his 
pocket,  walked  away. 

The  clock  struck  eleven  as  the  sentry  at  the 
gate  saw  the  colonel  suddenly  quit  the  high 
road,  and  strike  across  the  rising  grounds  in 
rear  of  the  barracks. 

Anoiher  event  of  some  interest  had  signalised 
this  especial  evening,  the  ninth  of  May,  at 
Brighton.  That  admirable  comedian,  Mr. 
L.,  had  wound  up  a  starring  engagement  of 
six  nights,  with  a  benefit  that  attracted 
nearly  all  the  play.going  world  of  that  gay 
watering-place.  He  had  acted  in  three  pieces 
with  unsurpassable  humour,  marked,  however, 
as  the  night  drew  on,  with  a  haste  and  excite- 
ment unusual  with  him,  and  which  did  not 
escape  the  notice  of  his  fellow-performers.  He 
was  perpetually  glancing  at  his  watch ;  fell 
into  quite  a  passion  at  a  trifling  delay  between 
the  second  and  last  pieces ;  ordered  a  fly  to  be 
in  waiting  at  the  sti^e-door,  and,  the  moment 
the  curtain  fell  (it  was  then  full  half-past 
eleven),  threw  himself,  dressed  as  he  was,  into 
the  vehicle,  and,  calling  out  **  Patcham!  quick !" 
drove  furiously  away,  disregarding  the  very 
treasurer,  who,  with  his  hands  full  of  notes  and 
gold,  stood  prepared  to  settle  accounts  with  the 
fortunate  star,  in  order  that  the  latter  might 
start,  as  he  proposed,  early  on  the  morrow. 

The  traveller  who  passes  old  Brighton 
church,  and,  crossing  the  top  of  the  hill,  takes 
a  by-path  on  the  right,  leadmg  in  the  direction 
of  Patcham,  would,  thirty  years  ago,  have 
traced  the  windings  of  a  very  pretty  rural  lane, 
bordered  on  the  one  hand  by  beech  and  ches- 
nut  trees,  on  the  other  by  a  high  bank,  beyond 
which  corn-fields  stretched  away  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Dyke  downs.  Half  way  down  the 
Janef  the  path,  widening  for  a  few  yards,  left 
room  for  a  rude  seat,  which  was  under  the  im- 
medUte  shelter  and  protection  of  two  large 


beech-trees,  so  precisely  similar  in  shape  and 
size,  as  to  have  imparted  to  the  path  in  ques- 
tion the  title  of  Twin-Tree-lane.  It  was,  at 
the  time  of  which  we  speak,  a  sequestered  place 
enough,  and  was  approachable  alike  from  the 
high  road  Uirough  Patcham,  and  from  that 
wMch  crosses  the  Old  Church-hill. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  only  short  of  midnight, 
on  the  eventful  ninth  of  May,  that  a  lady, 
muffled  in  a  cloak  and  hood,  stopped  her  car- 
riage at  the  entrance  of  Patcham,  and,  desiring 
the  driver  to  await  her  return,  struck  across 
the  fields  to  the  left.  The  night  was  fair  and 
still ;  with  occasional  bursts  of  radiance,  as 
the  moon  struggled  from  one  blue-black  clond- 
bank  to  another. 

Whenever  this  occurred  the  lonely  wanderer 
strained  her  eyes  to  the  utmost,  as  ^  in  search 
of  some  receding  object,  but  seemingly  in  vain. 

At  last  she  pauseo,  and  gave  a  sudden  sniff. 

"■  Thank  heaven  I"  she  exclaimed,  clasping 
her  hands  in  real  thankfulness.  **  That  is  his 
pipe !  I  should  know  it  among  a  thousand.  He 
must  be  close  before  me." 

In  effect,  she  fancied  she  could  discern  her 
husband^s  form  not  far  in  advance,  and, 
shrinking  closer  into  the  shadow  of  the  hedge, 
she  continued  to  follow  him.  At  the  mouth  of 
what  was  apparently  a  wooded  lane  the  guid- 
ing shape  suddenly  disappeared  I  Mrs.  Horsfsll 
hurried  forward,  and,  pausing  to  listen,  thought 
she  could  now  hear  both  the  step  and  voice 
of  her  husband.  He  was  passing  up  the  lane, 
evidently  with  one  or  more  persons,  but  with 
little  thought  of  danger,  for  sue  heard  his  frank 
laugh  ring  through  the  quiet  air. 

^*  If  they  should  have  betrayed  him  into 
some  ambush !"  thought  the  anxious  wife.  ^*  He 
is  so  unsuspecting !" 

The  party  a-h^ul  seemed  to  make  a  sudden 
halt.  Instinctively,  Mrs.  Horsfall  shrank  tOr 
ward  the  border  of  trees,  and,  in  doing  so, 
almost  came  in  contact  with  a  man  who  wis 
stepping  from  them.  Fortunately,  she  did  not 
cry  out,  and  the  manner,  unmisttuiabh'  gentle- 
manly; in  which  the  stranger  tenaered  bis 
apologies,  at  once  disarmed  her  fears.  He 
looked  at  her,  however,  with  a  Utile  astmush- 
ment,  hesitated,  then,  as  if  a  thought  liad 
struck  him,  said : 

"Is  it  possible,  pray  forgive  me,  that  ve 
are  here  on  a  similar  errand?  My  name  n 
lileham,  Charles  lileham,  a  minister  of  tbe 
church." 

»'Mine  is  Horsfall,"  said  the  lady,  quidc^T- 
"  I — I  am  in  some  anxiety  about  mj  hnsbtfw* 
who  is  just  before  us,  in  company  with  I  kno^ 
not  what  dangerous  and  despeimte  men.  0, 
what  shall  we  do  ?" 

"  For  the  inoffensive  character  of  o«»  •^ 
least,  of  his  companions,  I  am  prepared  ^ 
answer,"  said  the  young  clergyman,  witk » 
smile.     "  It  is  the  Bishop  of  L.,  my  uncle." 

"The  bishop!" 

"  Of  his  business  here  at  this  hour,  I  vn  |j 
completely  ignorant  as  you  apparently  aie  w 
(  Mr.  Horsfall's.    I  fear  I  am  transgressing  Atf 
\  w^e«  Vn  ioWo^rai^  him  thus  doeely.'' 


A 


QiArias  DiekeuB.] 


THE  TRYST  IN  TWIN-TREE  LANE. 


[August  7, 1869.]       237 


**  Hark !  There  are  more  voices !"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Horsfall.  **  They  seem  raised 
in  anger." 

"In  amusement,  rather,  if  I  mistake  not," 
said  Mr.  lileham.  *  *  But  come :  if  you  will  accept 
my  guidance,  you  shall  see  what  is  passing, 
lliey  have  assembled  under  those  two  large 
trees.  WiU  you  permit  me  to  show  you  the 
way?" 

Urs.  Horsfall  assented.  In  less  than  ten 
minutes  they  had  reached  the  point  indicated 
by  Mr.  Lileham.  A  bright  stream  of  moon- 
light was  pouring  right  into  the  recess  canopied 
by  the  twm  trees,  and  made  the  singular  party 
therein  assembled  distinctly  visible.  It  was 
composed  of  five  individuals,  seated  on  the 
cured  bench,  engaged  in  earnest  and  animated 
discussion.  In  iJ^e  centre  might  be  recognised 
the  reverend  and  stately  form  of  t^e  BieJiop 
of  L.,  immediately  on  whose  right  sat  the 
Bradford  Dumpling,  supported  in  his  turn  by 
Mr.  Newton  Horsfidl,  of  Cowling  Priors,  Herts. 
On  the  left  of  the  prelate  might  be  seen  the 
familiar,  mirth-awakening  lineaments  of  Mr.  L., 
the  celebrated  low  comedian,  flanked  by  the 
commanding  presence  of  Colonel  Reginald 
Spurrier,  of  the  — th  Hussars. 

The  subject  of  their  conversation  was  mani- 
festly of  the  deepest  interest.  Of  what  could 
they  possibly  be  talking  ?  And  why— oh,  why 
this  mystery  P  Mrs.  Horsfall  saw  that  her  com- 
panion was  as  puzzled  as  herself,  and  that  his 
eoimtenance  had  become  very  serious  indeed. 

Suddenly  they  tew  the  colonel  start  to  his 
feet.  A  horse-tramp  approached  from  below, 
and  his  quick  ear  had  been  the  first  to  catch 
the  sound. 

"I  fear  we  are  suspected,"  he  said  aloud. 
'^Listen.  I  thought  so.  They  are  upon  us 
irom  both  sides !" 

And  in  truth,  next  moment,  an  armed  horse- 
patrol  rode  in  from  either  side,  and  halted  in 
tbe  front  of  the  party  beneath  the  trees. 

"  Pleasant  night,  gentlemen,"  said  the  first 
patrol.  **  Ciirious  time,  though,  to  be  sittin* 
lere,  ain't  it  ?" 

Mr.  Horsfall  conceded,  in  the  name  of  him- 
Klf  and  friends,  that  it  mi^ki  seem  a  curious 
^,  but  inquired  what  business  that  was  of 
the  officer's? 

"My  business  is  to  obey  orders,  that's  all," 
replied  the  man.  "  And  one  of  'em  is  to  per- 
^t  any  gatherings  at  night  we  don't  know 
Jhe  meaning  of.  It's  our  duty,  gentlemen, 
to  demand  your  names  and  ockipations,  pre- 
P^fttory  to  re<]^uesting  you  to  move  on." 

"The  man  is  right,"  said  the  bishop.  "I 
ponldhave  wished  it  otherwise,  but  the  fault 
^  our  own.  My  friend,  I  am  a  diurchman.  My 
^e  is  S.,  Doctor  S.,  Bishop  of  L." 

"  Wery  likely,"  was  the  reply.  "  And  this 
Ijeregent"  (pointing  to  the  Dumpling^  »'he's 
the  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  I  suppose  V" 

"  Come,  my  man,  you  are  mistaken,"  said 

volonel  Spurrier,  striding  out  into  the  full 

^^oonlight.     **  If  you  are  unacquainted  with 

tke  face  of  the  reverend  gentleman,  perhaps 

^oa  know  mine?"  I 


He  took  off  his  hat. 

**  Colonel  Spurrier!"  cried  the  men,  sa- 
luting. 

**  This  is  Mr.  Horsfall,  a  magistrate  of  Hert- 
fordshire," resumed  the  colonel.  **My  other 
two  friends  are  already  known  to  you." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
patrol.  "There  was  notice  give,  you  see,  of  a 
hillegal  meeting  to-night,  near  Brighton,  and 
seeing  parties  pinting  this. way,  we  thought  we 
was  down  upon  'em.  Whatever  you  was 
adoing  here's  best  known  to  yourselves." 

"  Stay,"  said  the  bishop ;  *^  I  feel  that  some 
fuller  explanation  is  needea.  Whatever  jesting 
comments  our  meeting  may  provoke,  I  for  one 
am  content  to  bear  them,  for  the  pleasure  it  has 
afforded  me.  Have  I  your  permission,  gentle- 
men, to  state  the  facts  ?" 

Every  one  consenting,  the  bishop  continued : 

**  We  five  whom  you  find  assembled  here, 
were  in  early  youth  schoolmates  at  an  esta- 
blishment situated  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  spot  on  which  we  stand.  Twin-Tree-lane, 
as  I  find  it  is  still  called,  was  a  favourite  half- 
holiday  resort.  Here  we  discussed  our  school 
affairs,  or  speculated  upon  the  wide  uncertain 
future  that  awaited  us  in  the  tumult  of  the  world. 
The  death  of  our  excellent  master  caused  the 
sudden  dispersion  of  the  school,  and  it  was  on 
the  evening  before  the  general  departure  that 
we  five,  sitting  together  under  our  favourite 
trees,  entered  into  a  solemn  agreement  to  meet, 
if  Grod  permitted,  that  day  tAirty  years,  at  the 
same  spot  at  midnight,  with  the  purpose  of 
declaring  how  Providence  had  hitherto,  dealt 
with  us  in  our  several  ways  of  life,  and  com- 

Earing  our  actual  experiences  with  the  brilliant 
opes  of  boyhood. 
"  So  far  asunder  have  our  duties  separated 
us  (I  myself  for  some  years  presided  over  a 
colonial  see,  and  my  friend,  Colonel  Spurrier, 
has  served  in  India)  that  for  the  whole  period 
of  thirty  years  no  two  of  us  have  ever  met  to- 
gether, nor,  indeed,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  held 
communication  of  any  sort.  It  was  a  doubt 
with  me  whether  every  member  of  the  party 
had  not  long  since  forgotten  this  boyish  com- 
pact. There  were  also  the  difficulties  that 
might  have  arisen,  if  remembered,  in  keeping 
it.  But  the  solemnity  with  which  it  was  made 
had  left  upon  my  mind,  as  it  did  upon  others, 
an  abiding  impression.  My  pledge  had  been 
given  and  never  withdrawn.  I  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  one  of  us,  at  least,  faithful  to  his 
word,  groping  his  way  hither  in  the  faint  hope 
of  grasping  an  old  friend's  hand,  and  finding 
only  darkness  and  a  void.  I  was  altogether 
wrong  and  mistrustful ;  here  we  are,  all  five, 
grateful  for  many  mercies,  cordially  rejoicing 
to  have  met  again  ;  and,  if  our  vocations  in 
life  have  been  widely  diverse,  I  may,  I  think, 
say  with  truth,  that  we  have  wrought  in  them 
with  honesty  and  singleness  of  purpose,  with- 
out wrong  to  any,  in  thought,  word,  or  deed. 
You  are  satisfied,  my  friends?** 

The  officers  bowed,  and  apologising  foic  tbk.^\£ 
interference,  pxejared  \xy  mo'*?^  oxi. 
"  Not  a  'word,^  aaid  ^«^  \>\a\io^  \  "'•  ^oa^aa.^^ 


C^: 


^ 


238       [An.^'ust  7,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetedby 


only  rloiu;  your  duty.  Good-nij;ht,  and  may 
you  meet  with  no  loss  loyal  and  peaceable  men 
timn  you  liiivc  sui-pridcd  here." 

''  Here  are  two  more  watchers  t^)  be  f Gr- 
aven,*'  said  a  voice  familiar  to  the  bishop,  as 
two  lij^ures,  male  and  female,  suddenly  de- 
scendetl  into  the  road,  and  Mrs.  Horafall, 
bathed  in  tears,  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of 
her  astonished  hnsband,  while  Mr.  IJleham,  in 
a  few  words,  explained  the  anxiety  which  had 
prompted  their  pursuit.  Anger  was  out  of  the 
question  ;  a  general  laugh  announced  that  all 
was  forgiven.  Only  the  bishop  ottempted  to 
frown,  and  that  was  a  failure. 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 

A  Serial  Stout  dt  tiik  Authok  or  **  Black  SsrEBP." 

BOOK  III. 
CHAPTER  Xlir.      THE  KESULT. 

The  second  day  after  Mrs.  Creswell's 
visit  to  Helmiugham,  Walter  Joyce  was 
sitting  in  Ids  chambers,  hard  at  work.  The 
approaching  change  in  his  condition  had 
affected  him  very  little  indeed.  Ho  had 
laughed  to  himself  to  think  how  little.  He 
would  have  laughed  more  had  he  not  at 
the  same  time  reflected  that  it  is  not  a 
particularly  good  sign  for  a  man  to  be  so 
much  oven^'helmed  by  business  or  so  gene- 
rally careless  as  to  what  becomes  of  him, 
as  to  look  upon  his  marriage  with  very 
little  elation,  to  prepare  for  it  in  a  very 
matter-of-fact  and  unroniantic  way.  That 
no  man  can  serve  two  masters,  we  know ; 
and  there  are  two  who  certainly  will  not 
brook  being  served  at  the  same  time  by 
the  one  worshipper  —  love  and  ambition. 
Joyce  had  been  courting  the  latter  deity  for 
maTiy  months  with  unexampled  assiduity, 
and  with  veiy  excellent  success,  and,  in 
reality,  had  never  swerved  in  his  allegi- 
ance. The  love  wliich  he  felt  for  Maud 
Creswell  differed  as  much  from  the  passion 
with  whicli,  in  the  bygone  years,  Marian 
Ashurst  had  inspired  him,  as  the  thick, 
brown,  turgid  Rhine-stream  which  flows 
past  Emmerich  differs  from  the  bright, 
limpid,  dmmond  -  sprayed  water  which 
flashes  down  at  Schaffhausen ;  nevertheless 
there  was  "  body'*  in  it,  as  there  is  in  the 
Rhine- stream  at  Emmerich,  suEicient  to 
keep  him  straight  from  any  of  the  insidious 
attacks  of  ambition,  as  he  soon  had  occasion 
to  prove.  • 

Not  t]]at  the  news  which  Gertrude  Bcn- 
thall  lijid  confided  to  him  in  regard  to 
Lady  Caroline  Miinsergh  had  touched  him 
one  whit.  In  the  first  place,  ho  thought 
Gorirudc  had  deceived  herself,  or,  at  all 
eraats,  hiul  misconstrued  the  feelingB  by 
n'Jjjc/i   Lady  Carolino  was  actuated*,   and 


in  the  second,  supposing  the  girl  was 
right,  and  all  was  as  she  believed,  it 
would  not  have  had  the  smallest  infln- 
ence  in  altering  anything  he  had  done. 
He  was  not  a  brilliant  man,  Walter  Joyce, 
clever  in  liis  way,  rather  lacking  in  savoir- 
faire;  but  he  had  a  rough,  odd  kind  of 
cimimon  sense  which  stood  him  in  better 
stead  than  mere  worldly  experience,  and 
that  showed  him  that  in  his  true  position 
the  very  worst  thing  he  could  have  done 
for  himself  would  have  been  to  go  in  for 
a  great  alliance.  Such  a  proceeding  would 
have  alienated  the  aflections  and  the  confi- 
dence of  all  those  people  who  had  made 
him  what  he  was,  or  rather  who  had  seen 
him  struggle  up  to  the  position  he  enjoyed, 
and  given  him  a  helping-hand  at  the  last. 
But  it  was  because  he  had  struggled  up 
himself  by  his  own  exertions  that  they 
liked  him,  whereas  any  effort  in  his  favour 
by  the  aid  of  money  or  patronage  would 
have  sent  them  at  once  into  the  opposition 
ranks.  No,  Lady  Caroline  was  still  the 
kindest,  the  dearest,  the  best  of  his  friends ! 
He  found  a  letter  from  her  on  his  return 
to  chambers,  full  of  warm  congratolationBi 
telling  him  that  she  was  compelled  to 
follow  the  medical  advice  of  which  she 
had  spoken  to  him,  and  to  leave  London 
for  a  few  weeks;  but  she  hoped  on  her 
return  to  welcome  him  and  his  bride  to 
Chesterfield- street,  and  retain  them  ever  on  j 
the  very  narrow  list  of  her  chiefest  inti-  j 
mates.  He  was  engaged  on  a  letter  to  | 
Jack  Bjrne  when  tliero  came  a  sharp,  dear 
knock  at  the  door ;  such  a  different  knock 
fi-om  that  usually  given  by  the  printer's 
boy,  his  most  constant  visitor,  that  he 
laid  down  his  pen,  and  called,  "  Come  in !" 

The  handle  was  turned  quietly,  the  door 
was  opened  quickly,  and  Marian  Creswell 
came  into  the  room. 

Walter  did  not  recognise  her  at  first; 
her  veil  was  half  over  her  fiaoe,  and  she 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  light.  A  minute 
after,  he  exclaimed,  "  Mrs.  Creswell!" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Joyce ;  Mrs.  Creswell !  You 
did  not  expect  me." 

*'  I  did  not,  indeed.  You  are,  I  confess, 
one  of  the  last  persons  I  shoold  have  ex- 
{^ected  to  see  in  these  rooms." 

"No  doubt;  that  is  perfectly  natural; 
but  I  come  on  a  matter  of  business." 

"  As  docs  every  one  who  &voiirs  mo  with 
a  visit.  I  cannot  imagine  any  one  coming 
liere  for  pleasure.  Pray  bo  seated;  take 
the  '  client's  chair.'  " 

'<  You  arc  very  bright  and  genial,  Mr. 
.  Joyce*,  «La  every  successful  man  is." 
\     "  Aa  every  "CQiMv  otl^\»  \o  \»,  Mrs.  Ores- 


^ 


^ 


(jhulM  Dickena.] 


YnaECKED  IN  PORT. 


[August  7, 1869.]     239 


well;   as  every  tolerably   snccessful  man 
can  afford  to  be." 

"  I  snppose  you  wonder  how  I  found 
your  address  ?" 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  Unfor- 
tunately I  know  too  well  that  it  is  in  the 
archiTes  of  the  Post-Office  Directory.  Be- 
hold the  painful  evidences  of  the  fact !" 
and  he  pointed  to  .a  table  covered  with 
papers.  ^'Petitions,  begging  letters,  all 
kinds  of  unreadable  literature.'' 

"  Yes ;  but  I  don't  study  the  Posi^Office 
Directory,  as  a  rula" 

''  No ;  but  you  looked  at  it  to-day,,  be- 
cause you  had  an  object  in  view.  Given 
the  object,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  depart 
from  your  usual  course,  Mrs.  Greswell." 

^*  I  will  not  pretend  to  ignore  your 
sarcasm,  nor  will  I  say  whether  it  is  de- 
served or  undeserved ;  though  perhaps  my 
presence  here  just  now  should  have  in- 
duced you  to  spare  me." 

''I  did  not  mean  to  be  sarcastic;  I 
simply  gave  utterance  to  a  thought  that 
came  into  my  mind.  You  said  you  came 
on  a  matter  of  business  P  I  must  be  rude 
enoogh  ta  remind  you  that  I  am  very  busy 
just  now." 

^'  I  will  detain  you  a  very  short  time ; 
but,  in  the  first  place,  let  us  drop  this 
fencing.  You  know  my  husband  is  dead  P" 

Joyce  bowed. 

"  And  that  I  am  lefl  with  a  large,  a 
very  large,  fortune  at  my  disposal  ?*' 

'*  I  heard  so,  not  merely  when  I  was 
down  at  Helmingham  the  other  day,  but 
here  in  London.     It  is  conmion  talk." 

"You  were  down  in  Helmingham  the 
other  day  ?  Ah,  of  course  I  However,  sup- 
pose I  had  come  to  you  to  say "  and 

shepQxused. 

Joyce  looked  at  her  with  great  com- 
posure.    "  To  say !"  he  repeated. 

**  I  must  go  through  with  it,"  she  mut- 
t«nd  beneath  her  breath.  "  To  say  that 
the  memoir  of  old  days  is  always  rising 
ui  my  mind,  the  sound  of  old  words  always 
i^Qging  in  my  ears,  the  remembrance  of  old 
^ks  almost  driving  me  mad  !  Suppose  I 
"^  come  to  say  all  this ;  and  this  besides, 
«We  that  fortune  with  me  !" 

** To  say  that  to  me/" 

"To  you!" 

"  It  is  excessively  polite  of  you,  and  of 
^^oiirse  I  am  very  much  flattered,  neces- 
^^y.  But,  Mrs.  Creswdl,  there  is  one 
^iiiig  that  woxdd  prevent  my  accepting 
^r  very  generous  offer." 

"  And  that  is— ^" 

"  I  am  engaged  to  be  married." 

^'  I  had  heard  some  report  of  thai  kind ; 


but,  knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  had  set  very 
little  store  by  it.  Walter  Joyce,  I  have 
followed  your  fortunes,  so  far  as  they  have 
been  made  puUic,  for  many  months,  and 
I  have  seen  how,  step  by  step,  you  have 
pushed  yourself  forwaini.  You  have  done 
well,  very  well ;  but  there  is  a  ftiture  for 
you  far  beyond  your  present,  if  you  but 
take  advantage  of  the  opportimity  which  I 
now  offer  you.  With  the  fortune  which 
I  offer  you — a  fortune,  mind;  not  a  few 
thousand  ^unds  such  as  you  are  anticipa- 
ting with  Maud  Creswell,  but  with  a  for- 
tune at  your  back,  and  your  talents,  you 
may  do  anything ;  there  is  no  position  which 
might  not  be  open  to  you." 

"  You  are  drawing  a  tempting  picture." 

"  I  am  drawing  a  true  one  ;  for  in  addi- 
tion to  your  own  brains,  you  would  have 
those  of  a  woman  to  aid  you :  a  woman, 
mind,  who  has  done  for  herself  what  she 
proposes  to  do  for  you;  who  has  raised 
herself  to  the  position  she  always  longed 
for — a  woman  with  skill  to  scheme,  and 
courage  to  carry  out.    Do  you  follow  me  P" 

"  Perfectly." 

"  And  you  agree  ?" 

**  I  think  not.  Fm  afraid  it's  impossible. 
I  know  it's  not  an  argument  that  will  weigh 
with  you  at  all,  or  that,  perhaps,  you  ynU 
be  able  ^to  understand ;  but  you  see,  my 
word  is  pledged  to  this  young  lady." 

"  Is  that  all  P  I  should  think  some  means 
might  be  found  to  compensate  the  young 
lady  for  her  loss." 

Walter  Joyce's  face  was  growing  very 
dark,  but  Marian  did  not  perceive  it. 

"  No,  it  is  not  all,"  he  said,  coldly ;  "  the 
tiling  would  be  impossible,  even  if  that 
reason  did  not  exist." 

She  saw  that  her  shafl  had  missed  iis 
mark,  but  she  was  determined  to  bring  him 
down,  so  tried  another. 

"  Ah,  Walter,"  she  said,  "  do  you  answer 
me  like  this  P  In  memory  of  the  dear  old 
days " 

**  Stop !"  he  cried,  bringing  Ids  hand 
down  heavily  on  the  writing-table  before 
him,  and  springing  to  his  feet.  "  Stop  !" 
he  cried,  in  a  voice  very  different  from  the 
cold  polite  tone  in  which  he  had  hitherto 
spoken  :  "  don't  name  those  times,  or  what 
passed  in  them,  for  in  your  mouth  such 
allusions  would  be  almost  blasphemy. 
Marian  Creswell — and  the  mere  fact  that  I 
have  to  call  you  by  that  name  ought  to 
have  told  you  what  would  be  my  answer 
to  your  proposition  before  you  came  here — 
perhaps  if  I  were  starving  1  T£i\^\.  \jsJkfe  ^\v 
alms  of  you,  \)\it  uuOKiY  xvo  o>i£feT  cvscKosi. 
stance  would  1  touc\\  a  iw^m^  o^  '^^J^^'^ 


4 


240 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROtraD. 


[AofMt  1.  IBIlLI 


money  which  yon  pride  yonreelf  on  having  ' 
Becnred,  Ton  must  hare  been  etrangely  ! 
forgetful  when  yon  talked  to  me,  as  yon  did  I 
jnst  now,  of  having  '  raJBed  yonreelf  to  the  | 
position  yon  always  longed  for,'  and  of; 
having  '  skill  to  scKeme  and  conrage  to  I 
carry  ont '  what  you  desire.  Yon  forgot,  ' 
surely,  that  in  those  words  yon  reminded 
me  that  yon  longed  for  your  present  posi- 
tion while  yon  were  my  promised  wife ;  and 
that  yon  were  bringing  yonr  skill  and  your 
conr^e  to  work  to  obtain  it,  while  T  was 
striving,  and  hoping,  and  slaving  for  yon." 

"  We  had  better  put  an  end  to  this  in- 
terview," said  Karian,  attempting  to  rise. 
"  Ah,  Walter,  spare  me  !" 

"  Spare  yon!"  he  cried  in  unaltered 
tones.  "  Did  yon  spare  me  while  all  this 
was  going  on  ?  Did  you  spare  me  when — " 
he  opened  a  drawer  at  his  side  and  took 
ont  a  folded  paper,  "when  yon  wrote  me 
this  cmel  letter,  blasting  my  hopes  and 
driving  me  to  despair,  and  almost  to  mad- 
ness? Spare  yon!  Whom  have  yon  spared  F 
Did  yon  spare  those  ^Is,  the  nieces  of 
the  kindly  old  man  ^om  yon  married, 
or,  becanse  they  were  in  yonr  way,  did  not 
have  them  turned  out  of  his  house,  their 
natnral  homeP  Did  yon  spare  the  old 
man  himself,  when  you  saw  him  fretting 
against  the  step  which  yon  had  compelled 
hun  to  takeP  Whom  have  yon  spared, 
whom  have  yon  not  over-ridden,  in  your 
reckless  career  of  avarice  and  ambition  P" 

She  sat  cowed  and  trentbling  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  raised  her  head  and  looked  at 
faim  with  flashing  ^es. 

"  I  am  mnch  obliged  to  you  Mr.  Jiyce," 
she  said  in  a  veiy  hard  voice,  "  I  am 
mnch  obliged  to  yon  for  permitting  me 
to  be  present  at  a  private  rehearsal  of  one 
of  yonr  speeches.  It  was  very  good,  and 
does  yon  great  credit.  Ton  have  decidedly 
improved  since  I  saw  yon  on  the  platform 
at  Brocksopp.  Tour  style  is  perhaps  a 
little  turgid,  a  little  bombastic,  but  that 
is  doubtless  in  accordance  wUh  the  ta^te 
of  those  of  whose  sentiments  you  are  the 
chosen  and  the  popular  exponent.  I  most 
ask  you  to  see  me  to  the  cab  at  the  door. 
I  am  unaccustomed  to  London,  and  have 
no  footman  with  me.  Thanks !"  And 
she  walked  oat  of  the  door  which  he  had 
opened  for  her,  with  a  volcano  raging  in  her 
breast,  but  with  the  most  perfect  outward 
composure. 


this  little  drama — comedy  of  manners, 
rather — where  nothing  and  no  one  has  been 
in  extremes ;  where  the  virtuooa  people 
have  not  been  wholly  virtaons ;  and  where 
the  wickedest  have  had  far  less  carmine 
and  tinsel  than  the  Author  has  on  former 
occasions  found  a  necessity  to  nse.  There 
is  no  need  to  "  dress"  the  characters  with 
militaiT  precision  in  a  straight  line,  fi>r 
there  is  no  "tag"  to  be  Spoken,  no  Bet 
speech  to  be  delivered,  and,  moreover,  tlie 
characters  are  all  dispersed. 

Gertrude  and  her  husband  are  in  tlinr 
seaside  home,  W>F7  in  each  other  and 
their  children.  Walter  and  his  irife  are 
very  happy,  too,  in  their  quiet  way.  He 
has  not  made  any  wonderfnl  position  for 
himself,  as  yet ;  bnt  he  is  doing  well  and 
is  highly  thought  of  by  his  party.  Dr. 
Osborne  has  retired  from  practioe,  but  most 
of  the  Helmingham  and  Brooksopp  folk  are 
going  on  mnch  in  their  usual  way. 

And  Marian  Oreswell  P  The  woman 
with  the  peaked  iace  and  the  acaaity  hair 
turning  grey,  who  is  seldom  at  her  own 
house,  but  appears  suddenly  at  Brighton, 
Bath,  Chelteiiham,  or  Torquay,  and  dis- 
appears as  snddenly,  is  Marian  CresweU. 
The  quarry  of  impostors  and  sycophants, 
she  has  not  one  Mend  in  whom  to  confidsi 
one  creature  to  care  for  her.  She  is  ^one 
witli  her  wealth,  and  it  is  merely  a  bnrden 
to  her,  but  has  not  the  power  of  affording 
her  the  OnaUest  gratification. 

THE  END  OF  "  WRECKED  IH  POET." 


Now  Readj,  price  Gf.  Sd.,  bound  in  gTMn  cMk, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

0>  TBI  SkW  SsBUC  01 

ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 

To  ba  lud  of  lU  B 


MR.  CHARLES  0ICKEN3'8  FINAL  REAOttlGS. 

HEBSBS.  CHAPPELLudCO.  hkre  gr^tiiluMMl 

in  uuHHincing  Uut  Ub.  P.nni.TJ  Dicexb*,  hanuMM 
tiiaa  once  bcoome  perrectly  leatond  to  hailtfa,  ml  n> 
lums  ud  conclude  his  intairuptcd  •eriai  of  FASX- 
TTELL  BEASIN6B  at  St.  Junn't  Ball,  Xoodoa, 
mtIt  in  the  New  Yeu. 

The  Resdingi  will  be  Twitvi  in  Nuiun,  uid  MM 
will  take  plus  out  of  London. 

In  TedemptioD  of  Hb.  Sicinri's  pladg*  to  Umw 
ladiei  and  gentlemen  of  the  thMtrical  profeMion  who 
addressed  Iiitti  on  the  lubject,  there  will  be  Two  HoiX' 
iKsSEiDinoe,  one  on  FridaT,  Juraary  14,uidaoefli 
Frida7,  January  21,  1870.    The  KvBnM*  bUDDM 


number  of  Keadini 


»ee  tne  cnrtam  now  about  to  drop  on  .  Coappjuj.  ai 


CBAPTEB  V.      AH  rSTOLlTNlAET  GUEST. 

Bi  ibis  tune  Mrs.  Sheanlown  Lad  enve- 
loped herself  and  Bobby  in  waterproof 
wrappings.  Maud  Desmond  was  waiting, 
wamly  protected  by  a  thick  shawl,  at  the 
Ticar's  Sbow,  Herbert  Snowe  shat  and 
locked  the  harmoninm.  Every  one  was 
preparing  to  depart. 

"  Veronica !"  called  the  vicar. 

Miss  Levinconrt  was  still  conTCrsing 
Kith  Mr.  Plew. 

"Veronica!"  repeated  her  father,  impa- 
tiently, "are  yon  not  coming?" 

She  tnmed  round  at  the  sninmoiiB,  giving 
her  hand  in  a  farewell  grasp  to  the  doctor 
u  she  did  so. 

She  was  very  handsome. 

The  first  thing  that  strnck  you  on  look- 
ing at  her  face,  was  its  vivid  colouring. 
Her  skin  was  of  a  clear,  pale,  brown  tint ; 
and  on  each  smooth  cheek  there  glowed  a 
rich  blush  like  the  heart  of  a  June  rose. 
She  had  large,  dark  eyes,  fringed  round 
with  thick  lashes,  and  snrmonnted  by  semi- 
drcular  eyebrows,  black  as  ebony.  Her 
hair  was  also  black,  shining,  and  very 
kbundaiit.  It  was  disposed  in  elaborate 
coils  and  plaits,  which  displayed  its  luxnri- 
snee  to  the  fnll,  and  was  brought  down  low 
on  the  forehead  in  crisp  waves.  Her  lips 
were  very  red,  and  her  teeth  veir  white. 
There  were  defects  in  the  form  of  her  face. 
But  the  bnlliant  eyce,  glancing  under  their 
arched  brows,  so  attracted  attention  to 
themselves,  that  few  obaervera  were  dispas- 
sionately critical  enough  to  observe  that 
the  lower  part  of  the  face  overbalanced  the 


upper;  that  the  nose  was  insigmficant , 
the  mouth  so  full  us  to  be  almost  coarse , 
and  the  eheeks  and  chm  so  rounded  as  to 
threaten  to  logo  all  ctmehness  of  ontlme, 
and  to  become  heavy  m  middle  lift  Now 
however,  at  nineteen  ytars  of  age  Veronica 
Levincourt  was  a  verj  btantifnl  creature 
But  there  was  something  la  her  face  which 
was  not  GO  easily  analysed  by  a  casual  ob- 
server as  the  form  and  colour  of  it  There 
was  a,  dissonance  in  it  somewher 
women  perceived  this  Many  me 
also.  But  they  ptrceived  it  as  a  person 
with  a  good  car  bnt  ignorant  of  harmony 
perceives  a  iaise  note  m  a  chord.  Some 
thing  jars;  what,  he  knows  not.  The 
skilled  musician  comes  and  puts  his  finger 
on  the  dissonant  note. 

When  Veronica  laughed,  her  whole 
countenance  grew  haainonious  at  onc€ 
And  herein  lay  the  key  to  the  puzzle. 

The  habitual  expression  of  her  face  ii 
repose  seemed  to  contradict  the  brilliant 
glow  of  youth  and  healtli  which  made  her 
BO  strikingly  beautiful.  The  rich  gipsy 
colour,  the  ripe  red  lips,  the  sparkling  eyes, 
the  gleaming  teeth,  seemed  made  to  tell 
of  light-hearted,  abounding,  girlish  hap- 
piness. Bnt  the  espi-essioii  of  Veronica's 
face  when  she  let  it  fall  into  its  habitual 
lines,  was  wistful,  sad,  sometimes  ahnost 

For  the  rest,  her  figui'e  was  alight  and 
straight,   and  she  carried  herself  v  '  ' 
erect  and  yet  easy  grace. 

"  Coming,  papa,"  said  she,  carelessly. 
And  then  she  gathered  about  her  shoulders 
a  scarlet  cloak  with  a  hood  to  it. 

"  You  should  have  bad  your  shepherd's 
plaid,  Veronica,"  said  her  father.  "  That 
red  thing  ia  not  nearly  warm  enough  for 
such  an  evening  as  Ibis." 

"  0,  it  is  so  \)ecommg  \jo  "^vta  "Viw^s 


!:\ 


•ii 


CS: 


=1 


242      [AAf^t  K  UML] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[ObadMCtedHy 


eatut,**  said  little  Miw  Tmrtle,  the  gover- 
nei«.  She  and  her  p«pili  had  been  watch* 
\  ing  Veronica  unwinkiiigly  all  the  aA«r^ 
noon,  as  their  onatom  was. 

The  choir  of  St  Gildas  dispersed.  The 
SbeardowsB  drove  away  in  their  little  pony- 
oarriageii  carrying  with  them  Herbert 
Snowe,  who  nsnaUy  stayed  with  them  on 
Salmrday  evenings.  Mka  Turtle  took  her 
popiLa,  one  on  each  arm,  aodd  ber  grey  cloak 
a&d  slmbby  hat  with  its  Hack  feather  dis- 
appeared down  the  lane.  The  vicar,  with 
fais  ward  and  bia  daughter,  walked  in  the 
opposite  direction  towards  their  home. 

The  nearest  way  to  the  vicarage  house 
was  across  St.  Gildas's  chnrohyard.  But 
the  melted  snow  lay  in  death-cold  pools 
between  the  swelling  grave-mounds,  and 
although  the  lanes  afforded  no  good  walk- 
ing in  the  present  state  of  the  weather, 
they  were  yet  rather  better  than  the  way 
by  the  churchyard. 

Mention  has  been  made  of  a  bv-road 
through  the  village  from  Shipley  Magna 
which  skirted  the  garden  wall  of  the  vicar- 
age. Mr.  Levincourt  and  the  two  girls 
had  not  gone  many  paces  down  this  by- 
road, when  they  perceived  through  the  fast- 
gathering  dusk  a  figure,  which  had  evidently 
been  on  the  watch  for  them,  start  and  run 
fcowards  them  very  swiftly. 

"  I  do  believe  it  is  Jemmy  Sack  !**  ex- 
claimed Maud  Desmond. 

Jemmy  Sack  it  was,  who  presently  came 
to  a  sudden  stop  in  front  of  the  vicar,  and 
began  a  breathless  and  incoherent  speech. 

"  Dunnot  ye  be  frighted,  please  sir,  Joe 
Dowsett  says.  They  ha'n't  a  took  him 
into  the  house,  please  sir.  And  it's  the 
same  un  as  I  seed  tumble  off  afore.  OnV 
this  here  time  he's  in  a  reg'lar  swound 
like.  But  Joe  Dowsett  says  as  yo  hain't 
to  be  frighted,  nor  yet  the  young  ladies 
nayther,  please  sir." 

Long  before  the  combined  cross-exami- 
nari^ion  of  the  vicar  and  the  young  ladies 
had  succeeded  in  eliciting  any  explicit 
statement  from  Jemmy,  they  arrived  at  the 
garden  door,  and  then  the  matter  to  a 
certain  extent  explained  itself. 

A  man  in  a  scarlet  liunting  coat  thickly 
crusted  Avith  mud  Lay  on  his  back  in  the 
road  beneath  the  garden  wall,  and  close  by 
a  heap  of  flint  stones  piled  up  for  the  use 
of  the  road-menders.  On  to  these  he  had 
apparently  been  flune,  for  hLs  face  was  cut, 
and  a  thin  stream  of  blood  trickled  slowly 
down  his  forehead. 

Ti7©/>rostrate  man  was  totally  insensible. 
Jf/s  head  was  supported  on  the  knee  of  Joe 


Dofwaett,  the  vicar's  gardener,  groom,  and 
geaaral  faototum,  who  was  endeavouring 
to  pour  gome  bnaxidy  down  his  throat.  A 
carter,  in  %  wmodk-frock,  held  a  handsome 
hone  by  the  bridle.  Three  of  the  -village 
boya  who  had  been  practising  in  tin  school- 
room stood  at  a  little  distance  looking  on, 
and  two  frightened  women- servants,  with 
their  aprons  hnddled  round  their  shiver* 
ing  ahonldvSy  peeped  nervously  from  the 
garden  door,  and  plied  Joe  Dowiett  with 
shrill  questions,  of  which  ke  took  no  notice 
whatever. 

A  clamour  of  voicee  arose  as  soon  as  the 
vicar  was  perceived :  but  a  few  words  will 
suffice  to  put  the  reader  in  possession  of 
the  t&cts  of  the  case.  The  fallen  man  was 
the  same  gentleman  whom  Jemmy  had 
seen  thrown  earlier  in  the  day.  The  day's 
sport  had  terminated  at  a  considerate 
distance  from  Shipley  Magna.  The  gentle- 
man was  a  stranger,  had  probably  missed 
his  way,  and  gone  by  roundabout  roads. 
He  had  evidently  at  last  been  making  for 
Shipley  Magna,  having  struck  into  ^as- 
sett  s-lane,  as  the  by-r^kd  was  called.  His 
horse  and  he  wore  Doth  tired  out,  and  he 
had  begun  to  feel  the  effects  of  his  first  M 
more  severely  than  he  had  felt  them  in  the 
heat  of  the  chase  and  at  the  beginning  of  the 
day.  The  carter  liad  perceived  the  gentle- 
man's horse  stumble,  and  at  the  same  instant 
the  boys  returning  from  the  school-house 
had  appeared  shouting  and  whooping  at 
the  end  of  the  lane.  In  a  moment  the 
gentleman  had  been  pitched  heavOy  off 
his  horse,  and  had  finlten  on  the  heap  of 
flint  stones.  The  carter  couldn't  say  for 
sure,  but  he  believed  that  the  horse 
stumbled  before  the  lads  startled  him. 
And  now  what  vras  to  be  done?  This 
question  was  put  by  Joe  Dowsett,  looking 
up  at  his  master  with  the  brandy  bottle 
in  his  hand. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  send 
for  a  doctor.  Mr.  Plew  would  probably 
not  have  reached  his  own  home  yet 
Jemmy  Sack  was  despatched  to  fetch  him, 
and  set  off  running  at  a  famous  rate,  throw- 
ing out  his  long  legs,  and  followed  by  the 
other  boys,  to  all  of  whom  the  occasion 
seemed  to  be  one  of  intense  and  concen- 
trated ecstasy. 

But  pending  Mr.  Plew's  arrival,  the 
swoonine  man  could  not  lie  there,  with  the 
night  fsjfling  fast,  and  a  bitter  wind  blow- 
ing from  the  marshes,  that  was  fit,  Joe 
Dowsett  said,  to  fr'ceze  the  very  marrow 
in  your  bones. 

There  was  no  other  house  at  hand.     The 


4 


^ 


=& 


Ohtftas  Dickmi.] 


VERONICA. 


[Angast  14,  18«9l]      243 


ncarage  was  a  lonely,  isolated  dwelling.  Joe 
Dowsett  and  the  carter,  with  a  little  assist- 
fince  from  Mr.  Levinconrt^  carried  the 
stranger  into  the  house.  The  women  hmried 
to  take  from  an  old  oaken  press,  blankets 
and  coTcrlets  for  the  spare  bed.  A  fire  was 
lighted  in  the  guest's  chamber — a  room 
on  the  gronnd-floor,  looking  towards  the 
garden.  For  that  night  at  least,  the  injnred 
man  must  remain  at  the  vicarage. 

Mr.  Levinconrt  was  very  uneasy,  and 
asked  Joe  over  and  over  again  if  he  thought 
it  was  serious?  To  wUch  queries  Joe 
invariably  replied  that  it  might  be  or  it 
mightn't,  but  that  for  his  part  he  didn't 
think  't  wouldn't  be  much:  an  oracular 
utterance  in  which  his  master  seemed  to 
find  some  comfort.  Veronica  sat  at  the 
window,  straining  eye  and  ear  to  catch  the 
first  signal  of  the  doctor's  coming. 

"  He's  quite  old,  this  poor  man,  isn't  he, 
papa  P"  said  she,  with  her  ^ace  pressed 
against  the  glass. 

*^01d?  No.  What  do  you  call  *quite 
old?'  It  is  difficult  to  jndge  under  the 
cireomstazioes,  but  I  should  say  he  can't 
be  more  than  fifty." 

**  Ah  !  well — Uiat's  what  I  meant.  Here 
is  Mr.  Plew  at  last !  I  hear  his  step  on 
ihe  gravel,  although  I  can't  see  him  yet." 

Mr.  Plew's  opinion  was  not  very  reassur- 
ing. If  the  patient  were  not  oetter  by 
to-morrow,  he  should  fear  that  he  could  not 
safely  be  moved  for  a  day  or  two.  Mean- 
while Mr.  Plew  would  Hke  Dr.  Ghmnery  of 
Daaeoester  to  be  called  in,  in  consultation. 

When  Dr.  Gkmnery  arrived  on  the  fol- 
lowing afternoon,  he  shook  his  head  very 
grKwmjj  and  said  that  he  had  no  hope  of 
the  patient  being  able  to  leave  his  bed  for 
some  weeks.  Even  if — and  here  Dr.  Gun- 
nery lowered  his  voice,  and  reversed  the 
movement  of  his  head :  nodding  it  up  and 
down  instead  of  shaking  it  from  side  to 
side — even  if  he  pulled  through  at  all ! 

CHAPTEB  VL      SUSPENSE. 

The  vicar's  first  thought  on  hearing  Dr. 
Gunnery's  opinion,  was  diat  it  behoved  him 
(the  vicar)  to  communicate  with  the  fieunily 
of  the  stranger  whom  Fate  had  thrown 
— Uterolly  thrown — ^into  the  midst  of  the 
quiet  household  at  the  vicarage.  As  it 
was,  ihey  oould  hardly  have  known  less 
about  him,  had  he  dropped  among  them 
from  the  moon,  instead  of  from  the  back 
of  a  startled  horse. 

But  for  many  hours  the  injured  man  was 
incapable  of  communicating  with  his  host. 
Fever    set    in.     He    became   delirious    at 


intervals.  And  on  no  account  must  he  be 
disturbed  or  annoyed  by  questions.  Dr. 
Gunnery  confirmed  Mr.  Plew's  first  state- 
ment, that  no  in'oparable  injury  had  been 
done  to  the  stranger  by  his  fall. 

*'But^"  said  he,  "he  is  a  bad  subject. 
If  we  had  a  young  constitution,  or  even  a 
sound  constitution  for  his  years,  to  deal 
with,  the  whole  affair  would  be  a  mere 
trifle.  But  in  this  case  it  is  veiy  different." 
"Very  different,  indeed,"  assented  Mr. 
Plew. 

*^  No  stamina,"  continued  the  Danecester 
physician.  "  The  whole  machine  is  in  a 
worn-out  condition — constitution  gone  to 
the  deuce." 

"  To  the ahem  !  quite  so  !"  assented 

Mr.  Plew,  again. 

"Then,  Dt.  Gunnery,"  said  Mr.  Levin- 
court,  nervously,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
he  is  in  danger?  Dear  me,  this  is  dreadful! 
Beollydreadfiil!" 

But  to  ao  direct  a  question  Dr.  Gunnery 
could,  or  would,  give  no  direct  rejdy.  Ho 
merely  repeated  that  in  his  opinion  Mr. 
Levinconrt  ought  to  lose  no  time  in  com- 
municating with  the  sick  man's  fkmily. 
And  then,  saying  that  he  would  return  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  and  that  meanwhile 
the  patient  could  not  possibly  be  in  better 
hands  than  those  of  Mr.  Plew,  the  great 
Danecester  doctor  drove  away. 

Beyond  the  facts  that  had  come  under 
his  own  eyes,  the  vicar  knew  but  two  cir^ 
cumstonces  regarding  his  involuntary  guest. 
The  first  circumstance  was,  that  he  had 
been  staying  at  the  Grown,  in  Shipley 
Magna ;  the  second  was,  that  Lord  George 
Segrave  was  said  to  be  a  friend  of  his. 

Mr.  Levinconrt  despatched  a  note  to 
Lord  George,  and  ordered  Joe  Dowsett  (to 
whom  the  note  was  entrusted),  to  ride  on 
from  Hammick  Lodge  to  Shipley  Magna, 
and  tell  the  people  at  the  Crown  what  had 
happened. 

fVom  Hammick  Lodge,  Joe  Dowsett 
brought  back  a  very  polite  note. 

It  appeared  that  the  acquaintance  be- 
tween Lord  George  Segrave  and  the 
stranger  was  of  the  slightest  possible  kind. 
They  had  met  in  Rome  one  season,  and 
had  hunted  side  by  side  on  the  Campagna. 
Lord  George  knew  nothing  whatever  of 
the  gentleman's  family.  His  name  was 
Gale,  Sir  John  Gale.  Lord  George  was 
deeply  distressed  that  the  vicar  of  Shipley 
and  his  family  should  be  so  seriously  in- 
convenienced by  this  accident.  At  the 
same  time  he  could  hardly  regret,  on  Sir 
John  Gkle's  account,  that  tK^^  \a^\et  ^qti^^ 


cfi: 


^ 


244      tAiignBtl4,lM9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


(Oondoctodby 


/ 


have  fistUen  into  such  hands.  Lord  George 
would  do  himself  the  honour  of  calling  at 
Shipley  vicarage,  and  meanwhile  he  begged 
to  Imow  if  there  were  any  way  in  which  he 
conld  be  of  service,  either  to  Mr.  Levin- 
court  or  to  the  invalid,  under  these  painful 
circumstances. 

This  note,  although  extremely  civil,  left 
matters  pretty  much  as  they  had  been  be- 
fore. But  from  the  Crown  inn,  Joe  Dow- 
sett  brought  back  something  more  tangible 
and  unexpected. 

He  brought  back,  that  is  to  say,  Sir  John 
Ghrle's  foreign  servant,  who  announced  him- 
self as  ''  Paid,"  and  who  immediately  took 
upon  himself  all  the  duties  of  waiting  on 
the  sick  man. 

"  If  you  will  permit,  sir,"  said  Paid,  in 
very  good  Engli^,  *'  I  will  have  a  mattress 
laid  by  the  side  of  my  master's  bed  for  a 
few  nights.  When  Sir  John  g^ts  better, 
and  needs  not  to  have  me  all  night,  I  shall 
find  to  sleep  at  the  village.  There  is  a 
small  cabaret  tlsere,  as  I  have  informed 
myself." 

The  arrival  of  this  man,  which  was  at 
first  looked  upon  with  disonay  by  the  in- 
mates of  the  vicarage,  proved  before  long 
to  be  an  inestimable  coinfort  and  relief. 

In  the  first  place,  he  eased  the  vicar's 
mind  by  taking  upon  himself  the  re- 
sponsibiUty  of  communicating  with  Sir 
John's  friends.  Or  rather  he  proved  that 
no  such  responsibility  existed.  Sir  John 
had,  Paul  declared,  no  relative».  He 
had  neither  wife  nor  child,  brother  nor 
sister,  xmde  nor  cousin.  He  had  lived  a 
great  deal  abroad.  Paul  had  not  been 
with  Sir  John  in  England,  before  this 
winter.  He  would  write  to  Sir  John's 
agex^t  and  man  of  business.  That  was  all 
that  would  be  necessary. 

Mr.  Levincourt,  never  unwilling  to  shift 
responsibility  on  to  the  shoulders  of  others, 
told  Paul  that  he  must  do  as  he  thought 
best.  There  was  something  in  the  grave, 
steady  aspect  of  the  little  man  that  inspired 
confidence.  Then  Paul  took  upon  himself 
the  whole  business  of  the  sick  room.  He 
waited  by  day,  and  watched  by  night.  He 
administered  the  medicines.  Ho  reported 
progress  to  the  doctors,  with  an  intelligence 
and  accuracy  which  won  those  gentlemen's 
good  opinion  very  soon.  He  relieved  the 
vicar's  servants  of  all  trouble  as  regarded 
Sir  John  Gkde.  He  even  went  into  the 
kitchen,  and,  with  a  certain  grave  tact 
which  characterised  him,  won  over  old 
Joanna  to  allow  him  to  prepare  sundry 
artioleB  of  invalid  diet  for  his  master.     He 


was  always  at  hand  when  wanted,  and 
yet  entirely  unobtrusive.  He  was  never 
tired,  never  sleepy,  never  sulky,  never  in- 
discreet. 

In  a  word,  before  many  days  of  his 
sojourn  at  the  vicarage  had  passed  over, 
the  whole  household  began  to  wonder  how 
they  had  managed  to  get  through  the  few 
hours  that  had  intervened  between  the 
accident,  and  the  arrival  of  the  admirahle 
Paul. 

He  very  soon  contrived  to  let  it  he 
understood  that  money  expenses  would  not 
at  all  events  be  added  to  the  burthen 
thrown  on  the  vicar's  &milybyhis  master's 
accident  and  illness.  Sir  John  was  rich : 
very  rich.  No  expense  need  be  spared. 
I^  even,  it  were  deemed  necessary  to  send 
to  London  for  additional  medical  assistance, 
they  need  not  hesitate  to  do  so.  This, 
however,  did  not  appear  to  be  desirable. 
And  as  soon  as  Sir  John  was  enabled  to 
understand  his  own  condition,  he  expressed 
himself  entirely  satisfied  with  the  skill  and 
care  of  the  doctors  who  were  attending  him. 

Lord  George  Segrave  fulfilled  his  promise 
of  calling.  Lord  George  vras  a  bachelor. 
He  was  a  great  sportsman,  and  some  folks 
said  that  he  was  too  fond  of  other  pursuits 
which  persons  holding  strict  views  could 
not  approve.  Lord  George  was  well  known 
on  the  turf;  and  in  his  youthful  days  had 
been  a  patron  of  the  Prize  Ring.  Without 
belonging  to  the  category  of  those  whose 
lives  were  openly  scandalous,  he  yet  was  a 
man  whose  acquaintance  could  by  no  means 
be  taken  to  be  a  certificate  of  good  cha- 
racter. 

Retired  as  was  Mr.  Levincourt's  life  at 
Shipley -in -the -Wold,  he  yet  knew  this 
much  of  the  present  occupant  of  Hammick 
Lodge,  and  the  knowledge  had  not  served 
to  make  Sir  John  Chile's  enforced  presence 
beneath  his  own  roof  the  more  agreeable 
to  him. 

But  Lord  George  Segrave  soon  made  it 
apparent  that  his  acquaintance  with  Sir 
John  was  really  and  truly  no  closer  than 
he  had  stated  in  his  note.  It  need  scarcely 
be  said  that  Lord  George  had  no  idea  whi^ 
a  signal  service  he  was  rendering  to  the 
invaUd  in  his  host's  opinion,  by  disclaiming 
anything  like  intimacy  with  the  former. 

Lord  George  was  rather  good-natured, 
and  extremely  selfish,  and  he  desired  that 
it  should  be  at  once  clearly  understood 
that  while  he  was  willing  to  send  his 
servants  scouring  the  country  on  any 
errand  for  Sir  John  that  the  vicar  might 
suggest,  he  (Lord  George)  by  no  means 


=^ 


Ci 


h 


0liArl6B  DiokenaJ 


VERONICA. 


[AugoBtU.  1869.]      245 


intended  to  put  himself  to  the  personal 
inoonvenience  of  making  freqnent  visits  of 
inquiry  at  the  vicarage. 

"  Pray  conunand  me,  Mr.  Levincourt," 
he  said,  as  he  took  his  leave,  "  in  any  way. 
I  quite  feel  what  an  nncommon  bore  this 
business  mnst  be  for  you.  Though,  as  I 
said  before,  Gtde  may  think  himself  in  luck 
that  he  didn't  get  spilt  on  any  other  heap 
of  flint  stones  than  the  one  at  your  door. 
Fm  snre  I  hope  he*ll  pull  through,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  know  I  had  only 
inst  a  kind  of  bowing  acquaintance  vdih. 
him  in  Home.  And  then  he  hailed  me  on 
the  bunting-field  at  Stubbs's  Comer  the 
other  day,  you  know,  and — and  that  sort 
of  thing.  Hanmiick  Lodge  is  twelve  miles 
fix)m  Shipley  as  the  crow  flies,  you  know, 
and — and  so  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  able  to 
look  him  up  myself  very  often,  you  know. 
But  I  hope  you  will  do  me  the  favottr  to 
command  me  if  there's  anything  in  the 
world  my  fellows  can  do,  or — or  that  sort 
ofthing." 

And  then  Lord  George  Segrave  departed, 
feeling  that  be  had  done  all  that  could 
reasonably  be  expected  of  him. 

Dr.  Gunnery  came  again  and  again. 
And  Mr.  Plew  was  unremitting  in  his  at- 
tentions. 

The  house,  always  quiet,  was  now  hushed 
into  stillness.  The  piano  remained  closed. 
Joe  Dowsett  ceased  to  whistle  as  ho  worked 
in  the  garden.  The  servants  stole  up  to 
bed  past  the  door  of  the  guest-room,  mak- 
ing every  board  of  the  staircase  creak 
nnder  their  elaborately  cautioxus  footfall. 
Paul's  noiseless  step  glided  through  the 
passages,  and  he  came  on  you  like  a 
ghost. 

Riot  and  merriment  are  contagious.  So 
are  silence,  and  the  husb  of  suspense.  But 
though  the  vicarage  was  stiller  than  it  was 
wont  to  be,  it  was  less  dull.  All  the  house- 
hold was  conscious  of  a  suppressed  excite- 
ment, which  was  merely  stirring,  and  did 
not  reach  to  pain.  Every  day,  every  hour 
of  the  day,  presented  a  question  whose 
answer  was  deferred — Will  he  live  or  die  ? 
And  on  the  answer  to  this  question  hung 
no  agonised  human  heart — none,  at  least, 
within  that  house. 

Was  there  anywhere  a  breast  fluttered 
by  hopes,  oppressed  by  fears,  for  the  sick 
man  who  lay  feverish  and  uneasy  on  the 
stranger's  bed  in  Shipley  vicarage  ? 

Ko  letters  came  for  him.  No  friends 
inquired. 

He  was  discussed  in  the  vicarage  kitchen, 
and  in  other  kitchens  in  the  neighbourhood. 


He  was  discussed  in  the  village  ale-house, 
in  the  farm-houses,  in  the  tap-room  and 
the  stables  of  the  Crown  at  Shipley  Magna. 
He  was  spoken  of,  once  or  twice,  at  the 
different  meets  of  the  West  Daneshire 
hunt.  Lord  George  Segrave  mentioned 
that  he  believed  Grale  was  going  on  all 
right,  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
That  was  a  niceish  nag  of  his,  not  the  one 
he  had  been  riding  when  he  was  thrown, 
you  know ;  no,  that  little  chesnut.  Lord 
George  wouldn't  mind  having  him.  He 
wondered  what  the  figure  would  be.  If 
Ghde's  horses  were  stiU  at  the  Crown,  he 
had  a  good  mind  to  go  over  and  have  an- 
other look  at  the  chesnut,  and  to  ask 
Gale's  groom  whether  he  thought  his 
master  would  sell  him.  He  supposed  that 
Gale  had  had  enough  of  hunting  in  Eng- 
land. He  was  dooced  sorry  for  him,  you 
know,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  what  the 

could  he  expect  ?     With  that  seat,  he 

(Lord  George)  only  wondered  how  Grale 
had  been  able  to  stick  on  his  saddle  five 
minutes !  And  most  of  the  field  wondered 
too.  For  it  has  been  observed  that  of  all 
the  trials  to  which  human  candour,  modesty, 
and  magnanimity,  are  ordinarily  apt  to  be 
subjected,  the  tnal  of  comparing  your  own 
ridmg  with  another  man's  is  the  one  that 
most  jfirequently  developes  mortal  frailty. 

There  was  probably  not  a  man  who 
habitually  hunted  with  the  West  Dane- 
shire, who  did  not  secretly  nourish  the 
conviction  that  his  own  seat  on  horseback 
was  admirable,  and  that  the  majority  of 
his  friends  and  acquaintances  rode  hke 
tailors ! 

Little  it  mattered  to  Sir  John  Gule  what 
was  said  of  him  in  parlour,  kitchen,  stable, 
or  hunting-field.  Little,  perhaps,  would  it 
ever  matter  to  him  more.  For  although, 
as  Dr.  Gunnery  had  said,  the  absolute 
injuries  resulting  from  the  accident  were 
trifling,  and  to  a  young  and  vigorous  con- 
stitution would  have  been  matters  of  small 
importance,  yet  in  this  case  there  seemed 
to  be  no  elasticity,  or  power  of  rebound  in 
the  sick  man's  frame.  A  low  fever  took 
hold  of  him:  a  dreadful  insidious  fever, 
that  might  be  figured  as  a  weird  phantom 
invisible  to  the  eyes  of  men,  but  with  two 
bony  cruel  hands,  whose  touch  was  terrible. 
Of  these  hands,  one  was  cold  as  ice ;  the 
other  burning,  like  the  heart  of  a  furnaoe. 
Alternately  the  viewless  fingers  stroked  the 
sick  man's  body,  drawing  long  shuddering 
thrills  through  every  limb;  or  clutched 
him  with  a  hngeniig  ^;rv^^  \)cA»Vt  tm^Ar  \si& 
very  heart  ^cV.    "Sorw^  \vft  ^^'reJ^  cfirososas^ 


246      [Ancnn  14,  IMf  j 


ALL  THE  YBAB  BOUND. 


with  Ecorcliing  heat ;  anon,  he  Bhivercd  to 
tliB  marrow  of  his  bones. 

Mr.  Plew  did  not  trouble  hia  brain- 
perhaps  it  were  better  to  say  his  brain 
not  tronblcd ;  aeeiiig-  that  such  fancies  c 
to  a,  man,  or  stay  away  from  him,  withont 
any  couscioos  eiercdBe  of  his  will— with 
any  fantastic  embodiment  of  a  Fever  Phao- 
torn.  Bnt  he  reported  day  after  day,  that 
Sir  John  was  in  a  nasty  low  way — a  ve-ry 
na-asty,  low  way — and  that  he  couldn't 
get  him  to  rally. 

"  Do  yon  tiiink  he  is  tronbled  in  his 
mind  ?"  asked  Mr.  Levicoonrt.  "  Is  his 
heart  iU  at  ease  P  He  is  perfectly  conscious 
now ;  and,  I  think,  clear-headed  enough  to 

E've  orders.  And  yet  Puol  tells  me  that 
s  master  has  entirely  approved  what  has 
been  done,  and  what  has  been  left  undone. 
He  desires  to  see  no  one ;  has  received  no 
letters — except,  as  Panl  tells  mc,  one  from 
his  agent  sent  to  the  Post  Office  at  Shipley 
Magna — and,  in  short,  appears  to  be  singu- 
laHy  isolated  in  the  world,  for  a  man  of 
his  wcaltli  and  position.  I  should  fear  his 
life  has  not  been  a  very  happy  one." 

"WeU,"  said  Mr.  Plew,  musingly,  "I 
don't  know,  of  course.  But  —  but  he 
doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  at  all  that  sort 
of  man." 

Mr.  Plow's  statement  was  vague  tmough : 
and  the  vicar  did  not  care  to  be  at  the 
pains  of  probing  the  Httle  surgeon's  mean- 
ing. Yet  the  hitter  had  a  meaning,  al- 
though he  would  have  fomid  it  difficult 
to  pnt  it  into  clear  words. 

His  meaning  was  this ;  thai  from  his 
observation  of  Sir  John  Gale,  ho  had, 
half  instinctively,  drawn  the  conclusion 
that  his  rich  patient  was  not  a  man  to 
allow  sentimental  troubles  to  prey  on  him. 

Wounded  love,  tender  regrets,  aflec- 
tionate  yearnings  aftsr  a  lost  friendship, 
or  a  longing  for  softer  tendance  and  closer 
companionship  than  could  be  had  from 
Bervants  and  strangers,  did  not  seem  to 
Mr,  Plew  Kkely  to  enter  into  the  category 
of  drawbacks  to  Sir  John's  recovery. 

Material  comforts,  nay  loxuries,  he  did 
not  lack.  As  to  sentiment — Mr.  Plew  of 
course  had  encoontered  ailments  arising 
from  purely  spiritual  causes.  Very  trou- 
blesome ailments  they  were,  and  very 
inefficacious  proved  the  power  of  physic 
to  cure  them.  He  remembered  a  saying 
of  an  old  clergyman  who  had  been  a 
fiimons   preacher  in  the  days  when  Ben- 

tin  Flew  was  walking  the  hospitals  in 

•doti.  The  eaybig  was  to  the  effect 
that  the  bodily  health  of  half  the  world 


ft 


wonld  bu  nutrvellonsty  improved,  if  ■ 
mechanical  cunningly  contrived  piece  of 
granite  could  be  substituted  for  a  heart 
of  flesh  in  the  human  breast.  "  We  might 
deiy    the    doctors    then,"    said    this    old 

clergyman,    "and life  wonld   not  be 

worth  having  !"  Bat  of  Sir  John  Gale, 
neither  Mr.  Plew  nor  the  reader,  as  yet 
knows  enough  to  enable  him  to  judge 
whether  the  baronet's  heart  be  of  flesh  or 
of  stone. 

A  fortnight  passed :  three  weeks :  a 
month  had  nearly  dragged  itself  away 
since  the  accident,  when  the  doctors  pro- 
nounced that  Sir  John  wa£  somewhat 
stronger, 

The  phantom  hands,  the  hand  of  fire 
and  the  band  of  ice,  slowly  reUnqniahed 
their  prey.  By  degrees  the  intervals  be- 
tween theii-  alternate  touches  grew  wider. 
At  last  they  ceased.  Danger  was  over; 
and  from  the  beginning  of  March,  the 
invalid  began  slowly,  bnt  anrely,  to  mend. 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THINGS? 


What  becomes  of  the  enormous  quantity  of 
objects,  natuial  and  artificial,  which  are  dailj, 
weekly,  monthly,  annually,  perennially,  pro- 
duced and  sent  forth  into  the  world? 

What  becomee  (to  plunge  in  medias  res)  of 
all  the  pictures  which  our  painters  paint,  sad 
exhibit,  at  the  metropolitan  and  provincial 
exhibitions,  season  after  season,  year  after 
year  1  We  see  them  at  the  Boyal  Academy, 
at  the  Asylum  for  Rejected  ContributionB  to 


Rooms.  What  bcnomcB  of  tbem  all  ?  Of  Home 
of  them— the  best— we  know  the  fate.  Thej 
go  into  the  hands  of  certain  collectors  iatlie 
maniifactaring  districta  who  luckily  hare  ■ 
taste  tor  art.  Of  some  others  wc  also  know 
the  fate.  They  hang  up  in  the  stadios  of  our 
friends  who  painted  them.  Sometimes,  again, 
ne  come  npon  one  in  some  carver's  and 
gilder's  shop.  But  where  are  all  the  rest? 
Whore  are  the  views  of  "  Bett«8-y-ooed  "  kA 
of  "  Loch  Comisk,"  the  production  of  which 
has  necessitated  long  jDumeyings  and  mucli 
sitting  ont  under  white  umbreUaa  ?  Where  bid 
the  representations  of  Dead  Game,  the  Italian 
Peasants,  the  "Studies  of  Heads"? 

The  books,  apiin,  what  becomes  of  them? 
These  come  out  in  legions,  season  after  season, 
representing,  in  additiuo  to  an  enormous  amoonC 
of  labour  of  different  kinds,  a  considerabk 
accumulation  of  actual  material :  of  puKr,  of 
metallic  types,  of  ink,  of  millboard,  of^cloth, 
of  leather.  What  becomes  of  all  this  matter? 
What  sort  of  proportion  do  the  number  of 
books  that  are  sold,  bear  to  those  iisa^,  are 
broivght  out?  And,  again,  of  those  that  art 
soW,  w\ia,t\»cwjtttes''.  '^twtWaitire  see  oo  the 


^ 


h 


GbtflM  Diokeas.] 


WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THINGS  ? 


fADgniit  14, 18590       247 


Bhelves  of  librarieA,  or  even  lying  about  upon 
tables  and  chiffonniers,  are  but  a  small  per 
centage  of  the  number  continually  issuing  from 
the  press.  What  becomes  of  the  thousand-page 
novels  which  appear,  in  great  numbers,  in  the 
course  of  every  season  ?  How  does  it  happen 
that  our  rooms  are  not  entirely  surrounded 
with  full  book-shelves,  or  that  there  exists  in 
any  apartment,  hall,  or  passage,  aay  vacant 
portion  of  flat  space  unoccupied  by  books  on 
which  to  put  things  down  ?  Hundreds  of  thou- 
Muads  of  volumes  are  csst  upon  the  world  every 
year,  and  have  been  since  one  is  afraid  to 
say  when ;  where  are  they  all  at  this  present 
writing?  The  booksellers'  shops  furnish  an 
account  of  some,  the  librarians  of  others,  and 
some  the  trunkmakers  and  the  buttermen  know 
about,  but  the  rest — ^where  are  they  ? 

In  these  days,  as  in  all  the  days  which  have 
preceded  these  days,  all  sorts  of  articles  of 
wearing  apparel  become  the  mode,  are  worn 
for  a  short  time  by  everybody,  and  are  then  by 
everybody  cast  off  and  rejected.  What  is  thie 
destiny  of  those  rejected  articles?  When  steel 
petticoats  disappear,  what  becomes  of  them? 
\Vlien  the  ordinary  hat  worn  by  Enn^ishmen  is 
reduced  to  a  height  of  from  six  to  six  and 
a  half  inches,  what  becomes  of  the  hats, 
seven  and  eight  inches  high,  of  which  the 
hatters'  shops  were  full  a  few  months  ago? 
Where  are  the  Wellington  boots,  of  which 
the  shoemakers'  shops  used  to  display  long 
rows  ?  Where  are  the  steel  chatelains  which 
ladies  used  to  carry  at  their  girdles  ?  Where 
are  the  Malacca  canes  of  our  youth?  Even 
the  footmen  have  discarded  their  use,  we 
know ;  but  what  has  become  of  them?  They 
must  be  somewhere,  in  some  form.  Where  ? 
And  in  what  form  ? 

Numbers  of  people  have  entirely  bewildered 
and  stupefied  tnemselves  in  endeavours  to  ar- 
rive at  some  rational  conclusion  on  the  subject 
of  pins.  The  statistical  accounts  of  the  num- 
bers of  nins  turned  out  annuaUv  at  Birming- 
ham and  Sheffield  alone,  woulil  lead  one  to 
expect  that  the  earth  itself  would  present 
the  appearance  of  a  vast  pincushion.  Where 
an  those  pins  of  which  the  yearly  fabrication 
is  on  so  vast  a  scale  ?  Pins  are  not  consumed 
as  an  article  of  diet.  Fins  do  not  evaporate. 
Pins  must  be  somewhere.  All  the  pins  which 
have  been  made  since  civilisation  set  in,  must 
be  in  existence  in  some  shape  or  other ;  we 
ought  to  see  nothing  else,  look  in  what  direc- 
tion we  might,  but  pins.  This  island,  not  to 
meddle  with  other  countries,  ought  to  be  knee 
deep  in  j>uis.  Reader,  how  many  pins  are  im- 
ported into  your  own  house  in  the  course  of 
the  year?  Do  you  know  what  becomes  of 
those  pins?  There  aie  a  few  in  your  wife's 
pincushion,  and  one  may  occasionally  be  seen 
gleaming  in  the  housemaid's  waistband;  but 
where  are  the  rest  ?  It  is  perfectly  astounding 
how  seldom  one  encounters  a  pin  ^*  on  the 
loose."  Now  and  then,  by  rare  chance,  as 
when  «  carpet  is  taken  up,  you  may  catch  a 
dimpse  of  a  pin  lying  in  a  crevice  ;  but  even 
tills  is  an  uncommon  occoircnce^  and  not  to  be 


counted  upon.  You  often  want  a  pin,  and 
take  trouble  to  get  a  pin.  Where  arc  all  the 
pins  that  ought  to  be  always  in  attendance 
everywhere  ? 

AVhat  can  possibly  become  of  all  the  steel 
pens,  of  which  myriads  are  continually  turned 
loose  upon  the  world  ?  Each  individual  pen 
does  not  last  for  a  very  long  time.  Left  un- 
wiped,  as  they  generally  are,  steel  pens  soon 
begin  to  corrode  and  to  get  unfit  for  use. 
AVhat  do  we  do  with  them?  AVe  take  them 
out  of  their  holders,  replace  them  witli  others, 
and  leave  the  old  pens  lying  about  in  the  pen- 
trays  of  our  desks,  or  where  not.  They  are 
awkward  things  to  get  rid  of,  and  mostly  lie 
about  uncared  for.  Still  the  pens,  like  the 
pins,  do  at  last  disappear.  Whither?  The 
earth  is  not  prickly  with  steel  pens.  It  ought 
to  be ;  why  isn't  it  ? 

What  becomes  of  all  the  old  gloves  P  (Our 
present  inquiries  leave  us  too  breathless  to 
make  others  as  to  the  new  gloves.)  Old  gloves 
are  among  the  old  things  whose  fate  is  ludden 
in  the  densest  obscurity  of  all.  Tliink  of  the 
numbers  of  old  gloves  that  are  cast  off,  and 
of  the  few  old  gloves  that  one  sees  about  in 
the  world.  AVhere  are  they  all?  Where— if  I 
may  be  allowed  to  introduce  a  personal  matter 
— where  are  my  old  gloves?  There  are  one  or 
two  pairs,  dirty  and  open  at  the  seams,  lurking 
about  in  my  drawers.  There  is,  in  my  medi- 
cine cupboard,  a  bottle  of  sal- volatile,  and  one 
of  essence  of  peppermint,  respectively  covered 
on  the  stoppers,  the  one  with  a  grey,  and  the 
other  with  a  yellow,  kid  glove,  which,  if  they 
had  voices,  might  cry,  with  the  lepers  of  old, 
*•  Unclean !  Unclean !"  But  what  are  these  in 
proportion  to  the  vast  numbers  of  my  old 
gloves?  Where  are  the  rest?  Where,  not  to 
confine  this  inquiry  too  much,  are  the  old 
gloves  of  my  friends?  Where  are  the  old 
gloves  of  my  enemies?  Where  are  the  old 
gloves  of  those  who  are  neither  my  friends  nor 
my  enemies  ?  AVhere  are  the  old  gloves  of 
all  mankind  ? 

It  is  a  difficult  question  to  solve,  this.  A 
glove  is  a  tough  and  uncompromising  customer 
to  deal  with.  We  cannot  conceive  of  him  as 
dissolved  into  a  pulp,  and  made  paper  of ;  nor 
can  we  imagine  a  thousand  or  so  of  him  in- 
terdigitated  and  sown  together  to  make  a 
patchwork  quilt.  Yet  some  function  or  other 
must  bo  fulfilled  by  these  old  servants,  and 
when  their  career  at  balls,  at  concerts,  at 
opera  celebrations,  at  garden  parties,  at  horti- 
cultural shows,  at  weddings,  at  funerals,  is 
brought  to  a  close,  there  must  be  something 
still  in  store  for  them.  For,  if  it  were  otherwise, 
and  they  were  simply  left  to  kick  about  the 
world  imheeded,  it  could  not  be  but  that  we 
should  continually  meet  old  gloves  in  society, 
or,  retiring  into  the  wilderness  to  meditate, 
should  find  them  flying  before  the  wind,  like 
the  sands  of  the  desert. 

The   question   what    becomes  of   the    old 
boots  and  shoes,  is  not  quite  so  hard  of  solxx- 
tion.    They  aie  'vom.  \oTi\gcT^  «a!^  -si^^wssa^  Xa 
a  much  moT«  a\)\ee\i  clOli<^^iQI^  ^  n»tw3«.  \?s»^ 


2^ 


c5= 


:&) 


248      [AngoBt  14, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YBAB  ROUND. 


ICondncted  by 


vious  to  abandonment,  than  the  old  gloves. 
We  see  them,  indeed,  if  we  look  about  us,  in 
use  as  long  as  fragments  of  leather  will  hold 
together,  and,  even  aft^ir  that  grievous  hour, 
when  they  will  hold  together  no  longer,  when 
patching  and  sewing  and  nailing  are  alike 
ineffective,  we  still  see  shreds  and  patches 
of  them  lying  about  on  dunghills  and  cinder- 
heaps,  decaying  until  they  become  at  last  un- 
recognisable, and  are  old  boots  and  shoes 
no  longer. 

What  becomes  of  a  great  proportion  of  the 

{)roduce  with  which  nature  supplies  us  so 
iberally?  What,  to  take  an  entirely  mad- 
dening instance,  becomes  of  cabbages?  The 
number  of  cabbages  which  the  earth  brings 
forth,  in  comparison  to  the  number  of  which 
man  is  able  to  take  cognisance  in  a  cooked 
state,  is  disproportionate  in  the  extreme.  Go 
where  you  will  (except  in  the  paved  streets  of 
our  towns),  you  find  cabbages  growing.  In  the 
country,  in  the  suburbs,  in  the  dingy  back 
regions  where  the  town  melts  into  the  suburbs, 
there  are  cabbages.  The  market  gardens  of 
Fulham,  Chelsea,  Battersea,  Dulwich,  Clap- 
ham,  of  the  whole  neighbourhood  round  about 
London,  seem  to  contain  nothing  but  cabbages. 
In  amateur  gardens,  walled-in  acres  or  half 
acres  lying  outside  the  pleasure-garden,  I  ob- 
serve the  fruits  of  the  earth  to  be  cabbages ; 
the  markets  seem  to  be  organised  almost  ex- 
clusively for  the  development  of  the  cabbage 
trade  ;  the  stalls  rouna  Covent  Garden  are 
piled  up  with  cabbages ;  the  great  carts  which 
pursue  an  eastward  course  through  Piccadilly, 
rolling  along  that  thoroughfare  Si  the  night, 
are  piled  up  to  the  height  of  the  second-floor 
windows  with  cabbages. 

But  what  becomes  of  the  cabbages?  How 
rarely  does  one  see  a  cabbage  either  on  one^s 
own  table,  or  on  the  tables  of  friends !  Once 
or  twice  in  the  course  of  the  spring,  a  cabbage 
may  appear  as  an  item  in  the  bill  of  fare,  but 
no  of  tener.  It  is  said  that  cabbages  are  largely 
consumed  in  the  poorer  neighbourhoods;  but 
to  account  for  the  number  of  cabbages  pro- 
duced, it  would  be  necessary  for  the  inhabi- 
tants of  all  kinds  of  neighbourhoods,  rich  and 
poor,  not  only  to  consume  cabbages  largely, 
but  to  live  upon  cabbages. 

What  a  mass  of  matter  must  be  furnished 
by  the  uneatable  portions  of  the  shell-fish 
which  appear  on  our  tables !  What  legions 
of  oyster-shells  must  accumulate  during  the 
long  period  when  there  is  an  R  in  the 
month.  The  grottoes  do  not  account  for 
many ;  and,  besides  —  what  becomes  of  the 
grottoes?  At  all  times  of  the  year,  both 
when  there  is  an  R  in  the  month  and  when 
there  is  not,  there  is  a  steady  consumption  of 
lobsters  and  crabs ;  yet  the  roads  are  not 
crimson  with  their  uneatable  remains.  They 
do  not  the  **  multitudinous"  fields  ^incarnadine, 
making  the  green  one  red."  May  I  ask  what 
becomes  of  the  shells  of  the  peas,  of  the  egg- 
shells, of  the  potato  parings,  of  the  asparagus — 
o/ every  head  of  which  bo  little  is  eaten  and  so 
much  18  left?    Send  away  your  plate,  after 


eating  an  artichoke.  Not  to  ask  what  becomes 
of  the  plate  (though  I  should  like  to  know),  I 
entreat  you  to  consider  the  leaves. 

Seriously  speaking,  and  all  exaggeration 
apart,  it  seems  as  if  the  bulk  of  matter  which 
all  this  accumulation  of  objects  suggests,  must 
be  something  so  enormous  as  sensibly  to 
increase  the  mass  of  the  earth.  One  would 
expect  to  find  great  hillocks  of  all  sorts  of 
heterogeneously  formed  material  obstructing 
our  road-ways,  rising  up  to  the  first-floors  (3 
our  houses,  impeding  our  progress  when  we 
would  move,  obliging  us  to  force  our  way 
through  with  steam  rams.  Yet  it  is  not 
so.  I  do  not  suppose  that  there  ib  any 
material  difference  in  the  elevation  of  the 
soil,  caused  by  this  accumulation  of  things, 
even  in  the  now  thickly  populated  neighbour- 
hoods. Yet  I  would  expect  to  find,  added  on 
to  the  earth^s  crust,  a  new  modem  stratum 
of  the  conglomerate  sort,  made  up  of  pins, 
penny  newspapers,  old  gloves,  cabbage-stalks, 
orange-peel,  old  tooth-brushes,  worn-out 
boots,  steel  pens,  used  lucifer-matches,  and 
all  the  other  produce  which  goes  on  for  ever 
accumulating  around  and  about  us,  and  of  the 
ultimate  fate  of  which  we  know  little  or  nothing. 
It  is  possible  that  such  a  stratum  exists,  but 
one  hears  nothing  about  it.  It  is  not  re- 
ported on  by  learned  societies,  nor  recorded  in 
scientific  journals,  nor,  when  cuttings  are  made 
through  metropolitan  soil,  in  order  to  the  con- 
struction of  district  railroads,  do  we  see  streaks 
of  soil  made  up  of  these  objects,  exhibited  in 
section. 

There  certainly  would  appear  to  be  some 
process  in  nature,  causing  thmgs  to  disappear. 
At  all  events,  they  do  disappear.  I  have 
seen  a  road  mended  in  the  country,  and 
that  in  some  district  where  there  has  been 
very  little  traffic,  with  such  extraordinarj 
and  anomalous  materials  as  broken  bottles, 
brickbats,  old  saucepans,  battered  hats,  hob- 
nailed shoes,  and  the  like;  and  I  have  seai 
many  of  these  objects  lying  for  weeks  and 
months  without  becoming  incorporated  with 
the  main  substance  of  which  the  road  was 
made.  And  yet  at  last  they  have  disappeared! 
For  half  a  year  at  least,  the  old  boot  or  the 
battered  saucepan  has  been  there,  drifting 
from  place  to  place,  occupying  now  the  centre 
of  the  lane,  now  the  side,  and  by-and-by 
lurking  in  a  secret  place  under  the  heoge ;  still 
there  the  thing  has  been,  and  I  have  seen 
no  cause  or  just  reason  why  it  should  not 
remain  there  in  its  integrity  a  hundred  years. 
But  I  have  left,  for  a  time,  the  part  of  the 
country  in  which  the  saucepan-mended  road 
was ;  and  when  I  came  back  a  year  afto- 
wards,  that  battered  vessel  was  gone.  It 
is  so,  again,  with  indoor  rubbish,  or  with 
things  not  exactly  coming  under  that  de- 
nomination which  you  never  use  and  never 
want.  The  things  disappear.  You  do  not  con-  ' 
sign  them  to  the  dust-hole,  or  put  them  in 
the  fire ;  you  merely  cease  to  use  thea,  or  to 
take  note  of  their  existence ;  and  in  the  course 
\  oi   tvm^,  loiig<er    or    shorter,    as    tho  cue 


^ 


GhMln  ZHflkMii.] 


PBIZE  BABIES. 


[AngiutKlMfll]      249 


may  be,  they  go.  They  dissolve,  or  eva- 
porate, or  in  some  other  way  cease  to  exist, 
and,  to  our  great  relief,  we  see  them  no  more. 
One  of  the  last  phases  of  all  under  which 
matter  that  has  lost  all  distinctness  and  identity, 
appears,  is  that  most  mysterious  substance 
which  we  ctMflue.  What  a  strange  institution 
is  that,  requiring  for  ita  development  nothing 
but  neglect!  PassiDg  a  decorator's  shop  the 
other  day,  I  noticed,  on  a  coat  of  arms  with 
which  he  had  embeUished  his  wire  blind,  the 
motto,  *»  Nil  sine  labore" — "  Nothing  witliout 
labour.^'  It  struck  me  at  the  time  as  much 
too  sweeping  a  statement;  and  now,  pausing 
for  a  moment  to  reflect  on  flue,  I  find  a  means 
of  confuting  this  reckless  assertion.  Flue  is  to  be 
had  without  labour.  Let  things  alone,  and  flue 
is  the  result.  Let  your  bedstead  alone,  and 
see  how  the  flue  accumulates  underneath  it.  Let 
your  chest  of  drawers  alone,  and  observe  how 
the  flue  gathers  behind  that  piece  of  furniture. 
L«t  your  pockets  alone,  and  note  what  a  curious 
little  pellet,  composed  of  flue,  forms  in  the 
corners  of  each  of  those  receptacles.  I  have 
just  extracted  such  a  pellet  mm  one  of  the 
pockets  of  an  old  waistcoat.  I  wonder  of  what 
It  may  be  the  remains — Julius  CsBsar's  toga — 
the  stuffing  of  the  great  Alexander's  saddle  ? 
Both  existed  once— and  what  became  of  them  f 


PRIZE  BABIES. 

Rising  early  one  morning  in  July,  bent 
on  visiting  Wimbledon  and  seeing  the  prize 
shooting,  I  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find 
myself,  later  in  the  day,  sailing  down  the  river 
to  Woolwich  to  see  the  prize  babies.  Chance 
had  caused  this  change  m  my  plans,  and  had 
also  given  me,  as  a  travelling  companion,  a 
poet  who  pledged  himself  to  beguile  the 
journey  (if  required)  by  reciting  his  own  verses 
and  abusing  Tennyson's.  At  Westminster  we 
embarked  upon  the  good  steamer  Heron,  Cap- 
tain Wattles,  and  found  the  boat  crowded  with 
people,  also  bound  for  the  Baby  Show.  After  an 
mterval  that  seemed  long  enough  for  a  voyage 
to  New  York,  the  steamer  approached  the  North 
Woolwich  Gardens,  at  which  the  Baby  Show 
was  held.  We  saw  the  flags  flying ;  we  heard 
the  drums  beating ;  but,  in  accordance  with  a 
peculiarly  English  institution,  we  were  not  yet 
allowed  to  go  on  shore.  There  is  a  ferry  be- 
tween North  Woolwich  on  one  side  of  the 
river,  and  South  Woolwich  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  and  it  is  necessary  that  this  ferry 
shall  be  made  to  pay.  Consequently,  the 
steamer  crept  past  North  Woolwich,  made 
fast  to  the  pier  at  South  Woolwich,  and 
left  us  to  be  reconveyed  across  the  river,  at 
an  additional  charge,  by  the  ferry-boat.  Two 
4all  and  handsome  soldiers,  indignant  at  what 
they  considered  an  imposition,  refused  to  go 
on  board  the  ferry-boat,  and  hired  a  skiff  in 
which  to  row  across.  As  no  two  tall  and 
handsome  soldiers  were  afterwards  to  be  seen 
in  Woolwich  Gardens,  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that  these  rebels  paid  with   their  iives  the 


penalty  of  their  rashness  in  opposing  the 
authorities.  At  least,  this  is  the  poet^s  theory, 
and  he  intends  to  work  it  out  in  a  song  which 
shall  quite  eclipse  Kingsley^s  story  of  the  three 
fishers  who  went  sailing  out  into  the  west, 
out  into  the  west  when  the  sun  went  down. 

The  gardens  at  Woolwich  are  very  prettily 
laid  out.  There  is  a  miniature  lake,  backed 
by  scenery ;  there  are  two  orchestras  and  two 
dancing-floors ;  there  is  a  fine  esplanade  along 
the  river ;  there  are  all  sorta  of  games,  from 
Aunt  Sally  to  rifle  galleries;  and  there  are 
trees  and  flowers  in  plenty.  Altogether, 
an  excellent  place  at  which  '*to  spend  a 
happy  day,"  and  one  would  say  as  favourite 
a  resort  for  the  people  of  the  east  end  of  Lon- 
don, as  Cremome  for  the  people  of  the  west 
end. 

Obviously,  the  thousands  of  spectators  at 
the  Baby  Show  came  mostly  from  the  lower 
part  of  the  city.  Servants  out  for  a  holiday, 
mechanics  with  their  wives  and  children, 
young  people  who  had  come  to  loin  in  the 
dancing  after  nightfaU,  composed  the  majority 
of  the  visitors.  Everybody  rushed  off  at  once 
to  see  the  babies,  who  were  exhibited  in  a 
small  hall  aAd  in  a  tent  adjoining.  The  sight 
was  by  no  means  pleasant.  A  single  baby  is 
not  only  endurable,  but  is  often  absolutely  at- 
tractive ;  but  a  misceUaneous  collection  of  babies 
is  the  reverse  of  either.  About  one  hundred 
and  twenty  children,  of  ages  ranging  from 
seven  weeks  to  eighteen  months,  were  on  view. 
Railings  had  been  erected  up  and  down  the 
hall,  and,  behind  these,  lookmg  disagreeably 
like  pigs  in  theirpens,  sat  the  mothers  holding 
their  infants.  Tne  weather  was  very  warm, 
and  the  odour  of  boiled  milk  and  pap  mingled 
with  the  steaming  perspiration  of  the  crowd. 
Many  of  the  children  were  asleep,  and  were 
laid  out  on  the  benches  or  on  the  nurses* 
knees,  in  attitudes  horribly  suggestive  of  their 
being  dead.  There  was  but  one  pretty  baby 
in  the  show.  This  was  a  little  girl,  about  a 
year  and  a  half  old,  with  bright  black  eyes,  and 
enough  hair  to  serve  a  dozen  grown-up  women 
in  this  age  of  chignons.  This  pretty  little  girl 
was  greatly  petted.  All  sorts  of  sweets  were 
offered  for  her  acceptance,  and  pennies  and 
halfpennies  were  pushed  into  her  hands.  The 
other  children  suffered  by  comparison.  Indeed, 
when  the  poet  casually  remarked  that  he  had 
never  thought  that  babies  could  be  so  ugly, 
the  sentiment  was  cordially  endorsed  by  several 
matrons,  who  had  overheard  it,  and  it  was  ap- 
provingly repeated  throughout  the  hall  as  a 
very  original  and  accurate  bit  of  criticism. 

But  although  there  were  no  beautiful  babies, 
there  were  numbers  of  fat  babies,  and  large 
babies,  and  healthy  babies.  A  gipsy  woman 
carried  in  her  arms  a  perfect  little  Hercules, 
as  brown  and  rosy  as  herself,  and  with  eyes 
almost  as  keen  and  quick  as  hers.  Half-a- 
dozen  stupid  little  monsters  sprawled  in  a  row, 
the  flesh  lying  in  rolls  upon  their  anns  and 
legs,  and  their  checks  bulging  with  fatness.  As 
a  contrast  to  these,  there  'wet^  \k^  ''^^tv<;^^\a>^ 
only  seven  weeka  o\d— ^^oot  ^y^jsk^S  cswaXjoaftA'VNi^ 


4 


i 


250      [AogoRt  H  18C9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[CoodDflftedlqr 


flat,  idiotic  faces.  It  ia  difficult  to  avoid  being 
haiinteKl  by  these  Triplets.  They  were  like  the 
ghosts  of  babies.  A\  ith  their  piuched  features 
they  seemed  prematurely  old,  aad  yet  they 
were  so  incomplete  as  to  give  one  the  idea  that 
they  were  prematurely  new.  If  this  appear 
paradoxical,  it  is  the  fault  of  the  Triplets.  All 
the  children  present  beiug  competitors  for 
prises,  I  was  astonished  to  see  so  many  purely 
ordinary  babies.  The  most  of  them  were 
remarkable  for  nothing.  They  were  neither 
very  large,  nor  very  small,  nor  very  anything, 
except  very  clean.  That,  the  proprietor  of 
the  show  insisted  upon,  as  a  condition  of 
admission.  The  mothers,  too,  were  very 
neatly  dressed.  It  waa,  however,  apparent 
that  they  were  mostly  poor  people  who  had 
brought  their  babies  to  the  show  solely  for  the 
sake  of  the  money  prizes.  The  proprietor  had 
also  bound  himself  to  furnish  the  women  with 
refresliments  during  the  exliibition,  and  the 
prospect  of  unlimited  porter  and  tea  waa 
doubtless  a  powerful  inducement  to  exhibitors. 
I  noticed  that  the  majority  of  the  women  had 
come  from  the  country.  London  was  in  a 
decided  minority  of  mothers,  aa  compared 
with  Lancashire.  They  all  seemed  very  con- 
tented, pleased  with  the  attentions  bestowed 
by  the  visitors  upon  their  charges,  but  still 
moi'e  pleased  when  those  attentions  assumed 
the  form  of  a  pecuniary  offering,  however 
limited.  They  all  agreed  that  Mr.  Holland, 
the  proprietor  of  the  show,  was  *^  a  real 
gentleman^'  and  **had  acted  fair  and  honest 
in  everything  he  said  and  done."    The  pro- 

Srietor  was  equally  well  pleased  with  the  con- 
uct  of  the  exhibitors,  and  liberally  added 
silver  cupa  to  the  money  premiums  he  had 
promised. 

The  prizes  were  for  tiiplets,  twins,  the  finest 
boy,  and  the  finest  girl.  They  varied  in 
value  from  fifteen  to  five  pounds.  Little  dif- 
ficulty waa  found  by  the  judges  in  making 
their  selections,  and  the  awards  appeared  to 
satisfy  all  concerned.  When  the  idea  of  a 
Baby  Show  waa  originated,  several  years  ago, 
by  American  Bamum,  it  was  thought  in  the 
first  place,  that  nobody  would  be  willing  to  ex- 
hibit a  baby,  and  in  the  second  place,  that  no- 
body would  be  willing  to  pay  to  see  the  babies 
if  any  were  exhibited.  Those  fears  turned 
out  to  be  groundless,  and  there  is  really  no 
other  show  so  ea.sy  to  get  together  and  so 
popular.  In  the  present  case,  the  proprietor 
merely  inserted  his  prospectus  in  a  few  country 
papers,  and  more  than  two  thousand  babies  were 
offered  for  exliibition.  The  day  on  which  the 
show  opened,  will  long  be  memorable  at  Wool- 
wich. Twenty-three  hundred  mothers,  pro- 
vided with  more  than  that  number  of  infants, 
appeared  at  the  gardens,  many  having  travelled 
hundreds  of  miles  for  the  puii)ose.  To  con- 
vince most  of  these  women  that,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  their  children  were  ineligible, 
was  an  almost  hopeless  task.  Tlio  women 
screamed ;  the  children  screamed ;  a  baby 
Babel  waa  improvised  on  the  instant,  'llie 
/proprietor,  frightened  at  the  storm  he  bad 
innocentlj  provoked,  was  compelled  to  Vude 


himself  from  the  furious  mob  of  mothers. 
Several  hours  elapsed  before  the  ground  could 
be  cleared  of  superfluous  infants  and  the 
fortunate  few  arranged  in  rows  for  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  public.  About  tJiirty  thousand  spec- 
tators are  reported  to  have  attended  the  snow 
during  the  four  days  on  which  it  waa  kept  open. 
These  people  paid  a  shilling  each,  and  also  be- 
nefitted the  proprietor  by  purchasing  refresh- 
ments. As  a  pecuniary  speculation,  there- 
fore, the  Baby  Show  waa  successful,  and  will 
surely  be  repeated  in  other  parts  of  the 
country.  A  portion  of  the  press  has  protested 
against  it  very  vigorously,  on  account  of  iU 
indecency,  and  the  danger  of  infecting  children 
with  each  other^s  diseases.  As  to  indecency, 
it  is  unquestionably  true  that  for  a  Baby  Show 
there  must  be  babies ;  that  babies  in  warm 
weather  wear  very  littie  clothing ;  that  nois- 
ing mothers  of  the  class  of  these  mothers  are 
not  particularly  diifident  in  regard  to  the 
display  of  the  upper  part  of  their  figures.  But 
the  spectators  were  nearly  all  of  the  same 
class  as  the  exhibitors,  and  took  the  maternal 
displays  as  a  matter  of  course.  There  were 
no  indecencies.  The  conversation,  though  not 
refined,  was  certainly  not  grosa.  Aa  to  danger 
of  infection,  all  the  babies  on  exhibition  were 
presumed  to  be  in  good  health.  Such  a  show 
IS  unquestionably  an  offence  against  good 
taste ;  but  as  it  is  prepared  by  persons  who 
have  no  good  tttste,  and  is  patronised  by  those 
who  do  not  trouble  themselves  with  sesthetic 
questions,  this  objection  goes  for  nothing.  I 
Uiink  that  the  poet  put  the  matter  very  neatly 
when  he  said  :  **  It  is  a  very  good  show — for 
those  who  like  it.^' 

As  a  rule,  I  do  not  believe  that  people 
do  like  it.  Crowds  go  out  of  curiosity, 
but,  after  seeing  the  show,  do  not  look 
pleased.  In  point  of  fact,  a  Baby  Show  is  veiy 
commonplace.  After  all,  it  is  only  one  hun- 
dred children  in  one  room.  The  pretematurally 
largo  babies,  or  the  remarkably  sooaII  babiei, 
are  in  too  great  demand  for  booths  and  cars* 
vans  at  country  fairs  to  waste  their  sweetneM 
on  a  Baby  Show  for  the  sake  of  a  doubtful  prixe. 
Many  of  the  inothers  who  bring  their  children 
are  women  who  would  beg  with  the  babies,  or 
hire  the  babies  out  to  ower  beggars,  or  tell 
fortunes  with  the  babies  in  their  aims,  or 
do  anything  else  with  the  babies  to  get 
mon^.  Free  food  and  drink  for  four  days, 
and  the  chance  of  ten  or  fifteen  pounds  at  the 
end  of  four  days,  to  be  earned  by  aimply  sit- 
ting on  a  stool  and  nursing  a  child,  this  ii 
an  opportunity  very  seldom  offered  to  poor 
women,  and  no  wonder  that  it  ia  gladly  ac- 
cepted by  those  who  have  no  delicate  scruplei 
about  facing  the  public.  It  is  easier  thin 
doing  charwork.  It  is  not  more  public  thin 
attending  the  customers  at  a  coatermonger'i 
barrow,  or  picking  up  the  sticks  at  Aunt 
Sally.  It  ia  more  pleasant  than  many  of  the 
occupations  in  wliich  these  women  are  ordi- 
narily engaged.  The  babies,  also,  are  deaner, 
better  fed,  and  better  nursedi,  than  they  would 
have  been  during  the  same  time  al  hame. 
TVieTC  «r^  iova  &^  ^<^»x  \gttL^\A  the  babiesi 


\ 


=^ 


Ohariet  Dioksas.] 


PRIZE  BABIES. 


[Aafattl4,1809J     251 


that  is  qnite  erident.  The  hall  may  bo  crowded 
and  the  atmoBf^eie  bad ;  but  the  crowd  and 
the  atmosphere  in  the  garret  at  home  arc  worse. 
Granted  the  danger  of  contagious  disease,  if 
you  insist  upon  it ;  but  there  is  most  danger 
where  there  is  most  dirt ;  and  the  hall  at  Wool- 
▼ich  is  a  paradise  compared  with  the  homes 
of  the  babies.  Thus,  as  the  proprietor  in- 
creases his  profits,  and  the  mothers  pick  up  a 
little  extra  money,  and  the  babies  are  more 
comfortable  than  usual,  the  only  people  who 
hare  anything  of  which  to  complain  are  the 
nwctators,  who  really  do  not  got  the  worth  of 
their  shillings.  You  are  promised  a  show  of 
babies,  and  you  behold  the  babies ;  but  still  you 
are  disappomted  by  the  babies.  You  know 
that  you  have  no  cause  of  complaint  against 
the  proprietor,  and  yet  you  feel  that  you  have 
been  deluded,  and  you  would  hke  to  call  him  a 
hombug.  This  is  very  irrational,  but  very 
natural.  Most  persons  find  it  impossible  to  be 
interested  in  other  people's  babies. 

Among  the  viaitors  to  the  show  at  Woolwich 
the  women  outnumbered  the  men,  at  least  three 
I  to  one.     I  asked  seyend  women  why  they  had 
eome  to  the  show  ?   Some  said  that  they  wanted 
to  see    *^what  it   was   like.''      Others  were 
anziouB  to  see  how  the  prize  babies  compared 
with  their  own  particular  babies.     Questions  as 
to  the  result  of  this  comparison,  they  invariably 
replied  to  by  a  smile,  a  simper,  and  a  quick, 
tnnmphant   toss   of  the    head  which    spoke 
volumes  of  satisfaction.      After  the  visitors 
relieved  the  exhibitors  byttaking  care  of  the 
babies  for  s  few  moments,  a  few  yoimg  men 
made  themselves  conspicuous  by  setting  up  as 
amateur  nurses.    Babies,  passed  from  hana  to 
hand,  often  made  the  circuit  of  the  hall  before 
they  were  returned  to  their  mothers.  The  poet 
having  gloomily  suggested,  in  rather  a  loud 
voice,  his  fears  lest  the  children  should  get 
mixed,  a  shout  of  dissent  and  reprobation  broke 
^nt  unanimously.   Great  excitement  was  caused 
by  the  appearance  of  a  woman  attended  by  a 
police  detective.     Her  baby,  whom  she  de- 
scribed as  *'  a  very  fine,  lar^e,  stout  boy,"  had 
been  stolen  from  her  lodgmgs  the  night  be- 
fore; and  the  detective,  in  his  wisdom,  had 
suggested  that  it  micht  have  been  taken  by 
some  speculator  with  a  view  to  securing  a 
valuable  prize  at  Woolwich.     This  was  too 
clever  to  be  true.    The  woman  examined  all 
the  babies,  and  dedsred  that  her  own  was  not 
among  them.    This  incident  struck  the  poet 
very  forcibly.    He  saw  in  it,  the  basis  for  a 
romance  that  would  surpass  the  best  efforts  of 
the  elder  Dumas.     You  had  only  to  suppose 
that,  by  some  accident,  there  happened  to  be 
a  baby  on  exhibition  which,  without  being  the 
child  that  was  stolen,  sufficiently  resembled  it 
to  deceive  the  mother.    Then  the  child  would 
be  claimed;  the  detective  would  insist  upon 
taking  it  away  with  him;    the   real  motner 
would  be   overwhelmed.     "There!   you  can 
easily  work  it  out  for  yourself,"  said  the  poet. 
Thanking  him  warmly   (but  inBincerely)   for 
this   valuable    contribution    to    literature,    I 
proceeded    to    remark    the    absence    of   the 
lidien  of  the  babiaa.     All  the  women  were 


married,  two  or  three,  indeed,  were  widows, 
but  the  husbands  and  fathers  who  permitted 
the  exhibition  did  not  make  their  appearance. 
Some  men  came  at  night,  to  help  carry  the 
babies  home;  but  I  was  infonnca  that  these 
declared  themselves  to  be  brothers  or  cousins 
of  the  exhibitors.  We  missed  verv  little,  how- 
ever, by  not  being  indulged  with  a  sight  of 
the  fathers  ;  for  all  the  women  who  were 
questioned  on  the  subject,  asserted  that  the 
babies  were  the  images  of  their  fathers,  and 
we  could  readily  enlarge  the  pictures  for  our- 
selves if  we  felt  incUned.  In  truth,  I  be- 
lieve that  the  fathers  acted  prudently  in 
staying  away.  There  was  a  deal  of  i'«ngh 
chaff  lying  about  during  the  day,  and  the 
chaffers  would  have  made  it  very  hot  for  any 
father  who  had  offered  himself  to  public  in- 
spection. To  do  the  spectators  justice,  none  of 
them  approved  of  the  exhibition  except  by  their 
presence.  None  had  a  good  word  to  say  of  it. 
Some  called  it  "  a  lark,"  and  some  "  a  rum 
go,"  and  "  a  queer  start ;"  but  if  any  one  had 
proposed  that  the  women  and  the  babies  should 
be  sent  home  forthwith,  I  don't  believe  that 
one  of  the  spectators  would  have  objected,  or 
would  have  demanded  his  money  back. 

Sitting  over  our  whitebait  in  the  neat  little 
hotel  attached  to  the  gardens,  the  poet  and  I 
tried  to  think  of  some  other  exhibition  that 
should  bo  as  absurd  and  as  profitable  as  the 
Baby  Show.    Finally,  we  hit  upon  the  exhibi- 
tion of  married  couples,  and  communicated 
our  discovery  to  the  waiter,  with  all  the  pride 
of  Columbus.    Bless  you!  the  proprietor  had 
thought  of  that  long  ago,  and  was  even  then 
labouring  over  the  idea  in  his  mind,  trying  to 
give  it  some  practicable  shape.     He  rather 
thought  he  should  hinge  it  upon  something 
like  the  old  flitch  of  bacon    Dusiness,   with 
a  grand  procession,  a  jury  of  old  maids  and 
bachelors,  and  all  the  ancient  paraphernalia. 
This  was  a  secret,  however,  and  must  not  be 
let  out  just  yet.    A  secret  it  should  have  re- 
mained,  so   far  as   I  am   concerned  but  for 
the  fact  that  the  manager  of  another  garden, 
at  the  west  end,  has  already  anticipated  the 
idea  and  advertised  the  married-couples  show. 
But  will  any  married  couples  consent  to  ex- 
hibit themselves  for  such  a  purpose  ?    With- 
out doubt,  dozens.    The  manager  will  have  an 
embarrassment  of  applicants.    Do  not  suppose 
that  the  matter  will  end  with  the  distribution 
of  prizes  for  matrimonial  felicity.    The  mania 
for  this  sort  of  show  will  have  its  day,  and 
will  go  much  further.    There  are  thousands 
of  persons  ready  to  run  wildly  after    every 
new  thing,  and  to  run  all  the  more  wildly 
if  it  bo  suggested  that  the  new  thing  is  rather 
improper.    Let  these  people  go  but  once  out 
of  curiosity,  and,  no  matter  whether  they  like 
the  show  or  not,  the  manager  is  enriched.    It 
is  upon  this  principle  that  speculations  of  the 
character  of  the  Woolwich  Baby  Show,   are 
undertaken ;   and  the  shrewdness  of  this  ma- 
nagerial Judgment  of  human  nature  is  shown 
by  the  fact  that  such    speculations  succeed 
where  sensible  enterpn&QA  l«iL. 
The  pnbUc  ia  to  fAasna  lot  ^>a^  wAtssmbJu 


\ 


252      [AngOBt  14, 1M9J 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoctedby 


accept  the  regponsibility.  Let  us  reform  the 
public  and  it  will  be  easj  to  do  away  with 
objectionable  shows.  At  tiie  Baby  Show  there 
was  nothing  to  justify  police  interference; 
but  nevertheless  some  writers  called  upon  the 
police  to  break  it  up,  with  a  childlike  faith  in 
the  efficiency  of  the  constituted  authorities 
that  would  be  admirable  if  it  were  not  ridi- 
culous. The  Woolwich  manager  might  have 
exhibited  the  babies  in  a  state  of  numty  had 
he  been  so  minded,  and  the  show  would  have 
been  successfully  concluded  before  the  autho- 
rities had  decided  whether  they  ought  to  in- 
terfere, whose  business  it  was  to  interfere,  and 
under  what  law  interference  would  be  strictly 
legaL  Getting  on  by  degrees,  we  may  get  a 
Show  before  very  long,  that  will  sugg^  to 
Somebody,  M.P.  for  Somewhere,  the  vast  idea 
of  hinting  the  propriety  of  a  revision  of  the 
licensing  system  in  connexion  with  public  en- 
tertainments. At  about  the  same  time,  perhaps, 
the  public  will  grow  so  refined,  as  to  asx  for  tnis 
revision,  or  to  demand  it.  Anyhow,  both  the 
poet  and  m^lf  are  hopeful  enough  to  believe 
that  the  pnze  babies  at  Woolwich  will  never 
send  their  babies  to  a  Baby  Show. 

A  SUMMEE  SUNSET. 

Gbbsr  isUnds  in  a  golden  sea, 
TVith  amethjst  cliffs  that  melt  away 
At  every  wash  of  the  sleepy  wave. 
White  towering  Alps  that  greet  the  day ; 
And  still  through  rents  in  the  further  space 
Glimpses  of  distant  ocean  bed, 
Bumm|^  with  restless  changeful  light, 
And  Temed  with  flushes  of  glory  spread, 
Far  as  the  living  are  from  the  dead. 
Ear  as  the  blesMd  are  from  hell's  night. 

Then  the  islands  grow  to  radiant  realms, 

And  shoot  forth  golden  tongues  of  land, 

And  the  Alps  fac&  down  to  a  level  plain. 

Where  monsters  troop  in  a  threatening  band ; 

Then  murky  towers,  where  ghosts  can  reign. 

Rise  like  a  wizard's  dying  dream ; 

While  low  in  the  west  in  a  narrow  vein 

There  spreads,  through  the  dusk,  one  golden  beam, 

like  heaven's  last  and  lingering  glMm 

Seen  through  hell's  vista  by  those  in  pain. 

Nature  is  changeful,  and,  like  the  sea. 

Has  its  autumn  ebb  and  its  summer  flow. 

Cloudlets  of  morning  pass  with  dawn  ; 

Who  can  tell  where  the  sunbeams  go ; 

Dead  flowers  turn  to  mere  earth  at  last. 

Earth  to  blossoms  breaks  forth  in  May, 

life  and  death  are  ever  at  war 

On  this  great  chameleon  world,  I  say ; 

Tet  doim  or  river,  or  leaf  on  the  tree 

Is  not  so  changeful,  it  seems  to  me, 

As  a  woman's  mind — that  a  feather  can  sway. 

AT  THE  BRITISH  MUSEUM. 


He  was  a  etnrdy  thick-set  man  in  a 
holiday  suit  of  new  fustian,  and  with,  be- 
wilderment written  in  every  line  of  his 
honest  face.  The  oracle  of  his  party,  and 
the  guide-in-chief  to  three  male  and  two 
female  Mends,  as  well  as  to  their  com- 
mingled families,  he  had  evidently  pledged 
hunself  to  carry  Hhein  through  the  Museum 
sncceasiully,  and  was  now  in  mortal  dread 


of  losing  his  reputation.  To  see  him  dodg- 
ing the  statues  in  the  Egyptian  Ghllery 
was  a  spectacle  for  gods  and  men.  The 
numerous  effigies  of  the  cat-headed  divinity, 
Pasht,  and  the  two  colossal  heads  of  Ame- 
nophis,  caused  him  deep  anxiety ;  for  the 
attention  of  the  ladies  was  riveted  on  the 
first,  and  the  children  put  an  infinite  variety 
of  perplexing  questions  respecting  the 
second.  "  Here's  another  one  of  that  there 
Pasht,"  remarked  one  of  the  former,  on 
reading  the  name  on  the  pedestaL  '*  What 
made  her  so  fond  of  *aving  herself  took,  I 
wonder,  for  she  ain't  no  beauty  to  look 
at?"  "Is  she  Egyptian  for  Puss  in 
Boots?"  asked  another.  "Was  Menny- 
oppis  a  good  man,  &.ther  ?"  chimed  in  a 
sharp  lad  of  twelve,  who  had  begged  to 
carry  the  green  guide-book  in  his  own 
hand,  and  was  puzzling  himself  over  the 
names  and  descriptions  it  gives.  The  other 
three  men  looked  profoundly  miserable, 
and,  as  they  paced  the  long  chamber,  pre- 
served a  moody  silence,  now  and  again 
looking  askance  at  the  first  hapless  mortal, 
addressed  as  Joe,  but  forbearing  to  add  to 
his  troubles  by  a  single  word.  One  of 
these  was  a  corpulent^  florid  being,  with  a 
shiny  &uce  and  a  merry  eye,  whose  frock- 
coat  evidently  impressed  him  with  a  sense 
of  unusual  responsibility ;  for  he  stuck  ont 
his  chest  like  a  black  pouter  pigeon,  and 
until  the  one  button  fastened  over  it  seemed 
bursting  with  indignation,  and  moved  his 
arms  ro^d  and  ro^d  in  windmiU  fashion 
with  a  slow  regularity  curious  to  see. 
There  is  a  curve  in  the  stuck-up  elbow, 
which  could  only  have  been  acquired  in 
one  way.  Not  by  driving — ^that  gives  a 
more  jerky  and  knowing  upward  twist; 
not  by  carrying  heavy  weight* — ^that  makes 
the  hands  big  and  the  knuckles  wrinkled 
and  rugose,  and  our  friend's  fist  is  smooth 
and  podgy ;  not  by  digging,  nor  hammer- 
ing, nor  by  severe  manual  labour  of  any 
kind,  for  there  is  a  certain  daintiness  abont 
his  movements  which  does  not  come  from 
violent  exercise,  but  which  yet  suggests 
shirt-sleeves  and  busy  hands.  An  odd  re- 
membrance  of  a  cert4i  metropoUtan  shop- 
window  flits  before  you,  and  you  have  your 
friend's  calling  at  last.  That  oleaginous 
look  about  the  hair  and  skin,  that  meaty 
plumpness,  those  full  lips  and  rosy  cheekSr 
mark  the  professional  carver  at  a  well- 
known  ham-and-beef  sliop ;  and  those  large 
elbows  have  acquired  their  curve  in  supply- 
ing ounces  from  the  brisket  and  slices  from 
the  round.  A  snow-white  apron  ordinarily 
covers  that  capacious  paunch,  and  a  Hnen 
\  jacket  or  a  -vmie^/codi^  t^svd  shirt  do  dniy  fin* 


<\ 


lb 


GhftriMDlekflni.] 


AT  THE  BRITISH  MUSEUM. 


[Angiut  14, 1869.]      253 


i}iat  most  unoomfortable  coat.    Mentally 
tickmg  him  off  as  Ham,  yon  tnm  to  the  tall, 
thin,  cadayerons  man  by  his  side,  whose 
long  legs  striye  in  yain  to  keep  step  with  his 
companion's  waddle,  and  see,  or  think  yon 
see,  that  he  is  a  jonmeyman  tailor ;  and 
that  the  shorter  man  in  the  shabby  shooting 
jacket)  sells  buttons  and  trimmings  on  com- 
mission.   They  haye  gone  to  make  a  day  of 
it  at  the  Briti^  Mnscnm,  at  the  suggestion 
of  the  worried  guide  in  fiistian,  and,  nnding 
it  an  utter  failure,  are  now  thinking  ruefully 
of  a  certain  dry  skittle-alley,  where  the  mild 
porter  is  unexceptionable  ;    of  Grayesend 
steamers  and  shrimps ;  of  yans  to  Hampton 
Court ;  of  Grreenwich  Park ;  of  the  Eagle 
Tayem ;  of  snug  pipes  in  suburban  arbours, 
with  a  glass  of  something  comfortable  after 
tea.     For  they  are  not  happy  among  the 
reHcs  of  ancient  Egypt ;  the  scarabsBus  and 
amulets  tell  them  nothing  they  can  under- 
stand, and  can,  they  say,  be  outmatched 
any  day  in  the  Lowther  Arcade ;  the  statues 
only  seem  stiffer  and  uglier  than  those 
adorning  their  fayourite  Sunday  pleasure- 
garden  ;  the  mummies  are  curious,  "  if  you 
really  belieye   they've   eyer   been  aliye," 
but  they'ye  rather  a  fusty  smell,  my  dear, 
and  one  gets  tired  of  lookmg  at  them,  eyen, 
after  a  time ;  and  as  for  the  *'  specimens  of 
unbumt  bricks,   and  the  stupid  rows  of 
little  birds  and  queer  marks  on  stone,  which 
Joe  says  was  their  way  of  writing,  why, 
they  only  proye  what  confounded  fools  the 
Egyptians  must  haye  been  not  to  bake 
their  clay  and  to  write  like  other  people. 
The  stuffed  monkeys  were  funnier  than 
those  bits  of  broken  stone,  and  I  yote  we 
go  up-stairs  again,  if  we're  to  stay  any 
longer  in  the  musty  old  crib."    Thus  Ham, 
when  the  Lrycian  Galleiy  was  reached.   Joe 
had  read  out,  slowly  ana  lugubriously,  from 
the  catalogue,  '*  No.  125,  Eastern  pediment, 
with  yarious  figures,  probably  divinities. 
No.  126,  Half  of  the  Western  pediment ; 
six  warriors  fighting."     And  the  informa- 
tion feU  upon  them  like  a  knell.     There 
was  no  help  for  it.     They  were  all  tremen- 
dously bored,  and  made  tiieir  way,  penitent 
and  mute,  back  to  the  Zoological  collection. 
It  was  the  day  after  Mr.  Walpole  had 
moved  the  vote  for  the  British  Museum,  in 
the  House  of  Commons  on  19th  July  last, 
that  the  foregoing  experience  occurred.  An 
increase  of  some  fourteen  thousand  pounds 
over  the  amount  required  last  year  was  then 
asked  for,  and  granted  by  our  national  purse- 
keepers  ;  and  it  was  to  ascertain  how  far  the 
pleas  put  forth  for  this  extra  expenditure 
would  be  justified  by  personal  observation 
ihMtimrjjdgruaage  was  made.  Before  dwelU 


ing  further  upon  the  results  of  that  pilgrim- 
age, it  will  be  well  to  epitomise  the  Museum 
statistics,  taking  Mr.  Walpole's  figures  as 
our  guide.  The  estimate  for  1868-9  was 
ninefy-nine  thousand  three  hundred  and 
eighty  pounds,  and  that  for  the  ensuing 
financial  year  one  hundred  and  thirteen 
thousand  two  hundred  and  three  pounds, 
the  increase  being  caused,  according  to 
Mr.  Walpole,  by  twelve  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  eighty-nine  pounds  being 
required  for  new  buildings  and  repairs, 
and  an  extra  sum  of  one  thousand  one 
hundred  and  forty  pounds  being  needed 
for  additional  catalogues.  The  steady 
increase  in  the  number  of  "persons  ad- 
mitted to  see  the  general  collections  of  the 
Museum,"  and  for  "purposes  of  study," 
was  properly  quoted  as  a  matter  for  public 
congratulation,  and  the  House  of  Commons 
cheered  on  learning  that,  whereas  there 
were  but  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
thousand  nine  hundred  visitors  to  the 
general  collections  in  1864,  there  were  four 
hundred  and  sixty-one  thousand  in  1868, 
while  those  admitted  to  the  reading-room 
in  the  same  period  rose  from  four  hundred 
and  seventy-seven  thousand  to  five  hundred 
and  seventy-five  thousand.  Mr.  Walpole 
urged,  too,  the  "  enormous  utility  of  accu- 
rate and  exhaustive  catalogues,"  and  ex- 
plained that  those  relating  to  Hebrew 
literature  were  completed,  and  that  the 
one  of  Spanish  literature  was  in  progress, 
and  wound  up  his  statement  by  saying 
that  the  accounts  of  the  British  Museum 
were  now  submitted  periodically  to  the 
Audit  Office,  and  were  "specifically  au- 
dited from  month  to  month,"  so  that  the 
House  of  Commons  had  every  check  upon 
the  disbursement  of  the  money  it  was  asked 
to  vote. 

There  is  not  a  word  to  be  said  against 
any  of  these  statements.  The  wretched  sheds, 
like  worn-out  photographic  vans,  or  the 
superannuated  bathing-machines  of  a  race 
of  giants,  which  have  lumbered  up  the 
court-yard,  and  disfigured  the  entrance  to 
the  British  Museum  for  years,  conceal,  as 
is  well  known,  some  of  the  choicest  speci- 
mens of  ancient  sculpture,  and  other  objects 
of  antiquarian  interest.  These  last  have 
been  stowed  out  of  sight,  like  things  to  be 
ashamed  of,  ever  since  they  came  into  the 
hands  of  the  trustees;  and  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  room  containing  the  Elgin 
marbles,  and  the  final  excavation  for,  and 
recovery  and  display  of,  many  noble  mastftx- 
pieces  is  matter  for  naUoTi^X  coTv^c^Vc^>asyB. 
Students,  too,l[iaymg  mcDC^«A^^\iwT^  ^».T\a.^ 
for  thankfulneaa  xn  t\ie  caxo  \»)fcftTL\»  wj:^"^! 


2^      [August  14, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactedtj 


tlicir  wants;  and  tho  grandest  aind  best 
appointed  public  reading-room  in  the  world 
will  become  an  even  greater  boon  than  it 
is  to  men  of  letters,  as  the  guide  books  and 
other  facilities  for  consulting  its  treasures 
increase.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  ''the 
Museum  Flea,"  and  the  many  other  abuses 
of  the  old  reading-room,  as  utterly  extir- 
pated ;  and  of  most  of  ihe  strikingly 
trenchant  evidence  given  by  Mr.  Carlyle 
as  obsolete.  Idle  loungers  still  take  up 
the  room  which  might  be  more  profitably 
occupied  by  diligent  workers ;  but  it  seldom 
happens  that  any  of  these  last  are  unable 
to  obtain  a  scat,  and  the  imbecile  who  was 
sent  every  day  to  the  reading-room  by  pious 
relatives,  wishing  to  keep  him  out  of  harm's 
way,  has,  we  would  fain  hope,  no  representa- 
tives in  our  day.  Not  that  there  are  not 
plenty  of  eccenixio  people  always  to  be  seen 
in  the  reading-room.  The  untidy,  the  un- 
kempt, the  unwashed,  the  chattering,  the 
vacuous  of  both  sexes  find  their  way  there ; 
and  that  the  trustees  had  to  remonstrate, 
not  very  long  ago,  upon  the  parasitically  ani- 
mated condition  of  a  reader's  coat,  and  out 
of  deference  to  his  fellow-readers,  to  exclude 
him  till  it  was  purified,  seems  to  prove  that 
the  keeper  of  printed  books  does  not  err 
on  the  side  of  exclusiveness  in  the  condi- 
tions under  which  he  grants  tickets  for 
the  library. 

The  man  of  education  is  thoroughly  pro- 
vided for  at  the  British  Museum.  It  ad- 
drosses  itself  to  his  tastes  and  instincts 
throughout;  and  though  the  terrible 
crowding  and  confusion  of  the  various 
collections  jars  upon  his  sense  of  fitness, 
he  is  generally  able  to  find  what  he  wants, 
and  knows  that  a  staff  of  accomplished, 
courteous,  and  specially  qualified  gentle- 
men will  delight  in  guiding  him.  But  to 
such  visitors  as  Ham  and  his  fellows 
the  Museum  is  an  appalling  enigma;  the 
solution  of  which  is  an  impossibility-.  They 
understand  not  a  tittle  of  what  they  see ; 
there  is  nothing  in  any  of  the  rooms  they 
wander  through  so  listlessly,  to  make  the 
dry  bones  live;  and  upon  this  class  the 
great  national  treasure-house  is  effecting 
a  minimum  of  good.  It  is,  of  course, 
pleasant  to  learn  from  Mr.  Walpole,  that  a 
hundred  thousand  more  visitors  entered  the 
Museum  during  the  last  twelve  months  than 
was  the  case  four  years  since,  but  the  satis- 
faction is  greatly  modified  when  the  nature 
of  their  inspection  and  tho  tenor  of  their 
remarks  are  known.  In  the  opinion  of 
^hose  best  capable,  from  opportunities  of 
observation,  of  judging,  the  British  Museium  [ 


is  neither  appreciated  nor  understood  by 
the  average  visitor,  and  repeated  visits  of  in- 

?)ection  have  led  us  to  the  same  conclusion, 
here  is  a  manifest  want  of  sympathy  with 
the  wants  and  wishes  of  the  taxpayer  who 
needs  improvement  most,  and  to  whom  the 
Museum  should  be  a  national  elevator. 

But  let  us  accompany  poor  Joe  and 
his  friends  up  the  principal  staircase  and 
to  the  chamber  where  our  old  friend  the 
stuffed  giraffe  rears  his  graceful  head; 
where  the  walrus  exhibits  his  vast  bulk; 
and  full-grown  gorillas  from  the  Graboon 
stare  with  fixed  and  rigid  ugliness  at  all 
comers.  There  is  more  animation  here 
and  in  the  room  adjoining  than  we  found 
down-siairs.  The  atteno^t,  who  stands 
wand  in  hand,  is  not  unfrequently  ap- 
pealed to  for  information,  and  a  couple 
of  sea&xing  men  have  a  group  of  lis- 
teners round  them,  while  they  relate 
anecdotes  of  an  extremely  marvellous 
character  concerning  their  own  personal 
adventures  with  gorillas.  These  two  sailors 
supply  the  element  of  human  interest  to 
the  show,  and  it  is  instructive  to  mark  the 
faces  near  them  light  up  as  after  each  story 
their  owners  turn  again  to  the  central  case 
to  examine  the  paws,  arms,  and  mouths 
of  the  hideous  creatures  within  it.  When 
these  sailors  depart,  not  without  our  re- 
ceiving a  shrewd  and  humorously  inte> 
rogative  glance  from  one  of  them,  as  if  to 
gauge  the  extent  of  our  credulity,  the 
sight-seers  become  duU.  The  antelopes  ai« 
not  popular.  Crowded  together  like  iqj- 
animals  shut  up  in  a  N^ih's  Ark,  they 
present  a  confused  medley  of  heads  and 
horns,  legs  and  tails,  and  elass  eyes.  Ham 
regards  their  quarters  and  haunches  with 
an  evidently  professional  eye,  and  has 
"heerd  they  is  good  eating  though  stringy;" 
Joe  reads  from  the  green  guide  -  book 
troublously,  that  ^*  antelopes  are  beasts 
with  hollow  horns,  and  chew  the  cud," 
a  statement  which  provokes  the  sallow 
tailor  into  contradiction  and  queraloaa- 
ness.  "  They  must  put  something  in  the 
book"  he  supposes,  captiously ;  "  though 
for  his  part  he  doesn't  see  why  the  'oms 
must  be  hollow  at  alL"  Mildly  reminded 
that  the  horn  of  the  domestic  cow  is  occa- 
sionally turned  to  use  as  a  drinking  vessel, 
and  that  there  is  nothing  daringly  unrea- 
sonable  in  tho  supposition  that  the  horns 
of  antelopes  are  similarly  formed,  he  gives 
a  discontented  grunt  and  wanders  into  the 
next  room  alone.  Here  are  some  foreign 
excursionists  who  are  profoundly  gratified 
with  the  proboscis  monkey;   one  of  the 


"HAD"  AND  "WOULD." 


[Angut  11, 1BS9J     255 


many  eL-ntimental  oonplca  alwuya  lo  be 
fonad  in  the  Unseani,  its  Tuely  solitudes 
making  it  a  charming  meeting-plnce  to 
Utose  wishing  to  be  alone;  some  children 
vho  gaze  awPBtmck  at  the  baboona ;  nnd 
two  women  who  pace  slowly  on,  absorbed 
in  talk,  and  look  ueitfaer  to  the  right 
nor  left.  The  attendants  answer  all  qnea- 
tioca  politely,  bnt  seldom  volunteer  in- 
brmation,  and  the  general  impression 
oonveyed  here,  as  down-stairs,  is  that  both 
officJaJa  and  visitora  are  weary,  and  that 
I  Hie  first  are  longing  for  the  hour  of  closing, 
Uui  the  second  to  accomplish  the  task  of 
inspection  they  have  set  Uiemselves.  The 
OTercrowding  is  painfdlly  effioient  in  weak- 
I  ening  interest  and  in  confosing  the  mind. 
Qo  where  yon  will  you  see  incongTnity  and 
elose  packing;  and  throngh  the  Zoological 
collectinDS  and  the  long  cases  fiUed  with 
birds,  Joe  and  his  &iends  i\*andcr  opeu- 
monthed  and  unhappy,  thongh  with  a  vague 
conviotion  that  their  eniojmeut  should  be 
of  the  most  rapturous  kind.  Even  the  por- 
tiaita  give  them  no  plea^nre,  for  they  hang 
ahfjve  the  cases,  and  are  too  far  from  the 
Kne  of  eight  for  saoh  merits  as  they  have 
to  be  discerned. 
Bat  it  is  when  the  North  Gallery,  de- 
I  voted  to  mineralfl  and  fossils,  is  reached, 
that  the  general  dissatisfaction  eolmi- 
nates.  The  guide -book  is  Ml  of  in- 
atmctive  informatinn,  but  nnfortunately  it 
seeds  more  education  than  our  friends 
poBseBB  to  understand  it,  It^  style  is  rather 
close  ilian  popular,  and  "  fossil  plants  with 
Small  whiris  of  leaves  (AsterophyUites). 
from  the  coal-shale,"  or  "  Stigmaria  in  this 
ease,  and  on  the  top  of  case  four  are  the  roots 
of  the  Sigiliaria,  which  occur  in  the  fire-clay 
beneath  seama  of  coal,"  are  extracts  which 
«onvey  nothii^when  read  aloud  by  Joe  to 
his  friends.  This  is  plainly  felt,  and  60 
the  book  is  shnt  up,  and  they  march  silently 
ttiroQgh  the  galleries.  That  the  depart- 
ment of  minerals  with  "  Components  of  the 
Arscnoid  ondThionicf  elements,"  and  thon- 
auids  of  other  specimens,  as  well  fis  the 
botanical  rooms  with  their  excellent  classi- 
fication, should  be  shirked,  was  not  sar- 
prising.  The  visitora  who  linger  hero  are 
Blndents ;  and  Joe  and  his  friends  need 
more  stimnlating  mental  food  dating  their 
rare  holidays.  It  was  vexing,  though,  to 
tee  them  in  the  Assyrian  room,  and  the 
Vase  room,  either  of  which  would  have 
been  rendered  replete  with  interest  by  the 
briefest  oral  explanation,  for  they  evidently 
TeG;arded  one  as  a  collection  of  stupid 
«^ias  and  old  stones,  and  the  other  as  an 


exhibition  of  crockery  on  a  large  scale.  Yet 
not  one  of  the  party  but  would  have  en- 
joyed the  baa-reliefs  had  tliey  known  that 
they  actnaliy  represented  the  life  of  a 
people  which  flourished  nearly  thrco  thon- 
saud  years  ago ;  if,  in  a  word,  what  they 
saw  could  have  been  explained. 

At  St.  Peterabnrg  and  Moscow  popular 
explanatory  loctaroa  arc  given  gratuitously 
at  the  national  maseuns  on  certain  days  in 
the  week,  which  the  people  flock  to  hear. 
Without  advocating  any  such  revolutionaiy 
change  as  this,  may  we  not  ask  onr  legis- 
lators to  consider  whether  the  British 
Mnsenm  may  not  bo  made  to  perform  its 
miaaion  better ;  whether  the  illiterate  tax- 
payer and  aight-seer  has  not  some  claim  to 
consideration;  whether  the  noble  galleries 
and  the  priceless  curiosities  stored  in  them 
should  continue  a  sealed  book  to  the  vast 
majority  of  those  visiting  them  ?  Some 
such  query  may  have  suggested  itself  to 
some  of  those  who  silently  voted  the  one 
hundred  and  thirteen  thousand  two  hundred 
and  three  pounds  aaked  for  by  Mr.  Walpole ; 
but  as  it  found  no  expression  in  Parliament, 
wo  venture  to  give  it  shape  now. 


"HAD"  AND  "WOULD." 

Can  aay  learned  lexicographer,  Brammftrian, 
or  plulologist  inform  tlie  world  at  what  time 
the  words  ■'  had ''  and  "  wonld  "  bocame  ayno- 
nymous  in  English  speech,  when  joined  with 
the  words  hctter,  sooner,  and  rather?  Ordi- 
narily these  worila  are  by  no  means  synony- 
mous. "I  iitd  a  dinner"  and  "1  kouUI  have 
adioner"  are  two  sentencfs  between  which  an 
hungry  man,  whether  a  grammarian  or  not, 
would  Bpeedily  detect  the  difference.  Hamlet, 
iu  his  address  to  the  players,  says,  "If  you 
mouth  it,  as  some  of  your  players  do,  !  d  its 
het  the  town  crier  spoke  my  hnes."  Most  of 
(he  editions  of  Shakespeare  print,  "  I  had  as 
Uef."  Why  not  "  tcimld  as  lief  ?"  It  ia  a  pity 
that  Sbakcbpeare  did  not  correct  his  pruof- 
sheeta  ;  for  if  snch  had  been  hia  practice,  we 
should  have  known  to  wtiich  of  the  two  words 
he  leat  hia  great  example  in  this  instance.  Ilie 
fact  that  "I  had"  and  "I  would"  ore  both 
abbreviated  colloqaially  into  "  I'd,"  explains 
how  the  convertibihty  of  the  two  words  in 
certain  forms  of  expresaioa  became  so  commoa 
among  talkers,  thouj;h  it  by  no  means  justifies 
the  inaccuracy  in  writing.  To  use  had  where 
tcQuld  ia  the  proper  word  ia  a  aoledsm  which  it 
would  be  better  to  avoid ;  or,  aa  the  olTendera 
ogainatthc  true  grammatical  conatructiou  would 
say,  "lifld  better  be  avoided." 

Ko  doubt   there  is  great   authority  for  the 
use  o£  "had"   where '■  would"  would.  Vie -nxtne 
correct;  but  is  an^  ftuftioiA^,VQr««Ket  %^e»&, 
to  bo  allowed,  without  ^to\«a.V,  '-   "  ' 


^ 


^ 


256       [Auguit  14. 1869.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Ooodiieledby 


OP  help  to  degrade,  our  English  tongue? 
The  following  examples,  cited  from  some 
of  the  most  noted  Englii^  periodicals  of  the 
present  day,  will  serve  to  show  how  unne- 
cessary, as  well  as  how  inelegant  and  incor- 
rect, is  the  use  of  *'  had  "  instead  of  **  would," 
in  phrases  which  imply  preference  for  the 
doing  of  one  thing  instead  of  another,  and  in 
whi(m  an  exercise  of  the  will  is  always  latent 
and  presupposed. 

Next  to  the  great  authority  of  Shakespeare 
comes  that  of  Milton  for  the  colloquial  use  of 
had  instead  of  would,  as  in  Comus : 

But  had  we  best  retire  P    I  see  a  ttorm. 

This  sentence  means,  *^  tcould  it  not  be  best 
that  we  should  retire?"  And  there  can  be  no 
denying  that  the  word  **  had,"  if  strictly  ad- 
missible, conduces  to  brevity.  But  brevity  is 
not  to  be  purchased  at  the  expense  of  ele- 
gance and  accuracy,  even  by  so  great  a  master 
of  the  language  as  Milton. 

The  followmg  are  more  recent  examples 
of  the  imnecessary  substitution  of  ^*  had"  for 
"  would  " : 

**  I  Aad  as  lief,  she  (Queen  Caroline)  added, 
be  Elector  of  Hanover  as  King  of  England." — 
Lord  Hervey's  Letters,  Blackwood^s  Magazine, 
February,  1868.  This  should  be,  "  I  icould  as 
lief." 

"  The  man  who  touches  them  Aad  better  have 
put  his  head  into  a  hornets'  nest." — Ilereward 
the  AVake,  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley.  [It 
would  have  been  better  for  the  man  who  touches 
them  to  have  put,  &c.] 

**  Conway  Dalrymple  knowing  that  he  had 
better  not  argue  any  question  with  a  drunken 
man." — Last  Chronicle  of  Barset,  by  Anthony 
Trollope.  [Knowing  it  icould  be  better  not  to 
argue,  &c.] 

'^  Had  the  author  done  so,  even  under  such 
professional  revision,  there  had  doubtless  been 
fewer  misdemeanours  against  nature,  good 
taste,  and  propriety."  —  Douglas  Jerrold, 
Weekly  News,  October  15,  1854.  [There 
would  doubtless  have  been,  &c.] 

**  llie  case  was  one  which  at  all  events  in  the 
interest  of  the  defendant,  had  far  better  not 
have  been  brought  into  court." — Speech  of  Mr. 
Coleridge,  Q.C.,  in  the  Court  of  Queen's 
Bench,  February  1,  1868.  [It  would  have  been 
far  better  in  the  interests  of  the  defendant  if 
the  case  had  not  been  brought  into  court.] 

"  Iler  fearless  crew  confess,  that  tiey  had 
rather  not  make  the  voyage  again." — Daily 
Telegraph,  August  22,  1S66 :  in  an  article  on 
the  arrival  of  the  Red,  AVhite,  and  Blue,  from 
New  York.  [The  substitution  of  would  for  had 
is  all  that  is  necessary  to  convert  this  quotation 
into  correct  English.] 

*'The  account  of  the  suggestion,  however, 
had  better  be  given  in  Richardson's  own 
words."— Blackwood's  Magazine,  March,  1869. 
[The  account  would  be  better  if  given  in  Rich- 

/.    ardson's  own  words.] 
It  must  ho  B&id  for  the  writers  of  the  present 
dsj^,  that  though  great  offenders  in  the  use  oi 
tbeae  coUoquitdisms,  they  are  but  the  copyiBtB  oi 


their  predecessors  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
In  No.  71  of  the  Tatler,  Sr  Richard  Stede 
writes :  ^^  Mr.  Bickerstaffe,"  said  he,  **  had  you 
been  to-night  at  the  play  you  had  (would  have) 
seen  the  force  of  action  in  perfection,"  and  in 
No.  45,  the  same  writer  says,  *'  Had  the  family 
of  the  Beadlestaffs  known  of  your  beine  lately 
at  Oxon,  we  had  in  our  own  names  and  in  the 
University's  made  you  a  compliment  ?"  instead 
of,  **  we  icould  in  our  own  name  have  made  you 
a  compliment,"  Addison,  whose  reputation,  u 
one  of  the  correctest  and  most  elegant  of  Eng- 
lish writers,  has  not  been  impaired  by  the 
lapse  of  more  than  a  century  and  a  half,  con- 
stantly makes  use  of  "  had"  for  "  would  have." 
Telling,  in  No.  407  of  the  Spectator,  the  story 
of  a  barrister  who  was  accustomed  to  twist 
and  untwist  a  piece  of  thread  around  his  finger 
when  pleading  in  Westminster  Hall,  he  adds, 
*^  one  of  his  clients,  who  was  more  merry  than 
wise,  stole  the  thread  from  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  pleading ;  but  he  hadhetier  have  let  it  alone, 
for  ne  lost  his  cause  by  this  jest." 

So  many  examples,  old  and  new,  are  suffi- 
cient to   show  that,  rightly  or  wrongly,  the 
substitution  of  "  had"  for  **  would"  and  "  would 
have"  has  been  accepted  in  English  literature. 
Whether  this  short  form  is  a  gain  to  the  lan- 
guage is  a  question  that  might  be  profitably 
discussed.     Whatever  may  be  the  advantage 
in  brevity  in  some  of  the  instances  dted,  it 
can  scarcely  be  alleged  that  either  in  brevity  or 
in  elegance  *'  I  had  rather"  is  an  improvement 
upon  "I  would  rather,"  and  that  the  actors 
would  not  do  well,  when  they  address  the 
players  in  that  memorable  piece  of  good  advice, 
to  say,  ''  I  would  as  lief  the  town  crier  spoke 
my  lines,"  instead  of  ''I  had  aa  lief."    This 
last  unfortunate  expression  seems  to  be  the 
foimt  and  origin  of  what  must  be  considered  a 
perversion  of  the   word   had   from  its  true 
meaning,  and  which  has  thence  spread  into  | 
literature,   and    produced   other    perversions, 
made  after  its  own  image.    Great  writers  lead 
and  the  people  preserve,  though  they  do  not 
create  the  language  ;  and  our  great  writers  as 
well  as  the  small  should  look  to  it,  that  they 
do  not  corrupt  the  very  noble  inheritance  of 
language  which  they  have  derived  from  their 
ancestors. 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 

IN  TWO  CUAPTEKS.      CHAPTEB  I. 

It  was  on  a  warm,  early  June  afternoon 
that  I  was  called  into  the  consulting-rooin 
to  see  her. 

It  was  out  of  the  usual  hours  for  seeing 
patients,  and  I  remember  that  I  resented 
the  interruption,  and  the  irregfniarity;  f<^ 
I  was  busy  in  the  anatomical  department 
of  the  hospital,  deep  in  the  study  of  an  ex- 
traordinarily interesting  specimen  of— ^^^w 
you  won't  care  for  these  details. 

However,  when  I  read  tJhe  note  of  m* 
trod\iel\oii   ^^  \Adi  \nQ^lht  with  liefi  ^ 


\ 


.-., 


'-. 


i3> 


dukriMDIckeiii.] 


AN  EXPBRIENCB. 


[AngnBklilSM.]       257 


waa  reconciled  to  the  distnrbance;  the 
rather,  because  it  seemed  that  just  snch  a 
case  as  we  had  long  been  lying  in  wait  for, 
now  presented  itself. 

I  was  then  young ;  an  enthusiast  in  my 
profession,  fall  of  faith  in  science  and  in 
one  whom  I  will  call  Dr.  Feamwell,  under 
whom  I  had  chiefly  studied ;  without  any 
consciousness  of  other  kind  of  faith. 

I  was  ambitious ;  up  to  this  time,  iron- 
nerved  and  hard-headed ;  possibly,  I  should 
add,  hard-hearted.  Yet  1  don't  know  that 
I  was  specially  callous,  careless,  or  cruel. 
It  was  more  because  such  culture  as  I  had 
had,  was  exclusively  of  the  head,  that  I 
knew  nothing  about  having  a  heart,  than 
that  I  did  not  care  to  have  one. 

I  believed  myself  to  have,  and  I  gloried 
inhaving,  unusual  power  of  brain.  As  many 
men  I  knew,  boasted  of  the  many  hours 
they  could  run,  row,  or  ride,  I  boasted  of 
the  many  hours  I  could  read  hard  and 
work  hara.  I  had  never  spared  myself, 
and,  up  to  this  time  of  which  I  write,  had 
never  had  any  warning  that  it  might  be 
wise  to  do  so. 

I  dimly  suspect,  however,  that  this  warn- 
ing was  on  its  way,  that  even  without  the 
shock  of  which  I  am  going  to  teU,  some 
crash  would  have  come. 

I  remember  that  when  I  was  interrupted 
to  read  the  note  which  the  porter  brought 
me,  the  perspiration  was  streaming  from 
my  forehead.  And  yet  the  afb^oon, 
though  warm,  was  not  sultry.  And  I  had 
been  employed  in  a  way  that  called  for 
extreme  delicacy  and  accuracy  of  investi- 
gation and  observation:  not  for  physical 
lorce. 

"  Won't  you  wash  your  hands,  sir,  first  ? 
It's  a  woman  and  a  child,"  was  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  good-hearted  porter. 

Though  with  some  muttered  expletives 
•gainst  the  folly  of  such  "  fiddle-faddle,"  I 
took  the  man's  hint,  and,  also,  buttoned 
JQy  coat  over  my  shirt  front,  and  pushed 
^y  wristbands  up  out  of  sight. 

The  venetian-blinds  were  down  in  the  con- 
•^ting-room,  for  the  afternoon  sun  poured 
•gainst  its  windows.  Thus,  until  my  eyes 
*  Httle  accustomed  themselves  to  the  dim- 
^  of  the  room  I  could  not  well  distin- 
S^  its  occupants. 

After  a  few  moments  I  saw  the  palest 
^oman,  of  the  most  corpse-like  pallor,  I 
^er,  before  or  since,  beheld.  She  was 
'^ated  near  a  table,  with  a  female  child  of 
■ome  two  or  three  years  old  upon  her  knees. 

She  did  not  rise  when  I  went  in.  Pos- 
^J — probably — she  could  not    A  wo-  J 


man  with  a  face  like  that,  could  hardly 
stand  up  and  hold  so  large  a  child.  She 
wore  a  widow's  cap,  its  border  brought  so 
close  round  her  feice  as  hardly  to  show  an 
indication  of  hair.  Her  eyebrows  were 
dark,  at  once  decided  and  delicate;  her 
eyelashes  were  peculiarly  long  and  fall, 
still  darker  than  the  brows,  and  almost 
startlingly  conspicuous  on  the  dead  white 
of  a  fair- skinned  fiw3e.  Not  even  on  her 
lips,  was  there,  now,  any  tinge  of  other 
colour. 

The  child  upon  her  knees  was  a  little 
miracle  of  exquisite  loveliness.  But  I  no- 
ticed little  of  this  then. 

At  the  first  moment  of  being  in  this  wo- 
man's presence,  I  felt  some  slight  embar- 
rassment. I  had  expected  to  see  "  a  com- 
mon person."  I  felt  that  about  this  wo- 
man there  was  something,  in  all  senses, 
unconmion. 

My  embarrassment  was  not  lessened  by 
the  steady  earnestness  with  which  she 
fixed  her  deep  dark  eyes  on  mine,  nor  by 
the  first  words  she  spoke,  slowly  moving 
those  white  lips : 

"  You  are  very  young ;  surely  it  is  not 
to  you,  the  letter  I  brought  was  addressed ! 
You  are  very  young." 

The  voice  was  the  fit  voice  to  come  from 
such  a  corpse-like  face.  It  was  not  her 
ordinary  voice,  any  more  than  that  was 
her  ordinary  (or  could  have  been  any 
living  woman's  ordinary)  complexion. 

I  was  still  young  enough  to  be  annoyed 
at  looking  "  very  young."  I  was  impa- 
tient of  my  own  embarrassment  under  her 
searching  study  of  my  face.  I  answered, 
rather  roughly : 

"Mj  time  is  valuable;  let  me  know 
what  I  can  do  for  you — unless,  indeed,  you 
think  me  *  too  young'  to  do  anything." 

"  It  may  be  the  better  that  you  are  so 
young,"  she  said.  There  had  been  no  re- 
laxation in  her  study  of  me,  and  her  voice 
now  was  a  little  more  like  a  natural  voice 
— like  her  natural  voice,  as  I  afterwards 
learned  to  know  it  only  ixx>  well ;  soft  and 
sweet;  a  slow  and  measured,  but  intense, 
music.  "Being  so  young,  you  must  re- 
member something  of  your  mother's  love. 
It  is  not  likely  your  mother  loved  you  as  I 
love  this  child  of  mine;  still,  no  doubt, 
she  loved  you ;  and  you  remembering  her 
love,  may  have  some  pity  left  in  you  for 
all  mothers.  This  child  of  mine  is  all  I 
have ;  my  only  hold  on  hope  in  this  world, 
or  in  another.  Life  does  not  seem  lon^ 
enough  to  love  hex  m\  -mVJtvsyoXi  >Mst,  ^t^^ 
day's  life  would  seem.  \iii50«Ba^^er 


258    [A]igiiitii,i8»j 


ALL  THB  TEAR  BOUND. 


{OoBdoettdbj 


Striving  against  the  awe  that  wonM 
steal  oyer  me,  looking  into  that  solemn 
£Gtce,  fixed  by  those  deep  still  eyes,  hearing 
that  solemn  voice,  I  said,  with  bmsque  im- 
patience : 

"  I  have  told  yon  my  time  is  valuable. 
K  yon  wish  mo  to  do  anything,  at  once  tell 
me  what." 

"  Have  you  not  read  the  letter  I 
brought  ?" 

''  I  have ;  but  that  explains  nothing." 

"  My  child  is  lame." 

"  That  much  I  know." 

'*I  am  ready  to  answer  any  questions 
about  what  you  do  not  know." 

Then  I  questioned  her  as  to  the  nature, 
extent,  and  what  she  thought  probable 
cause,  of  her  child's  lameness.  She  answered 
always  in  few,  fit  words.  I  examined  the 
child:  she  watching  me  with  those  deep, 
still  eyes  of  hers.  My  heightened  colour, 
my  increasing  animation,  my  eager  looks, 
seemed  to  stir  her  a  little. 

My  interest  was  thoroughly  roused.  This 
was  exactly  such  a  case  as  we  desired  to 
experiment  upon ;  a  case  in  which  to  try 
a  new  operation,  on  the  success  of  which, 
under  fair  conditions,  I  was  ready  to  stake 
all  I  cared  for  in  life.  She,  with  that 
monstrous  egotism  of  maternity,  mistook 
me  so  far  as  that  she  took  my  intes'est  to  be 
concentrated  on  this  one  sufferer. 

'*  Can  she  be  cured  P"  was  asked  so 
hungrily  by  the  whole  &ce  that  there  was 
no  need  for  the  lips  to  form  the  words. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !"  I  answered,  with  joyous 
triumphant  confidence.  "  She  can  be 
cured  !  She  shall  be  !  She  shall  walk  as 
well  as  the  best  of  us  !" 

Before  I  knew  what  was  happening — 
not  that  there  was  any  quickness  of  move- 
ment, but  that  I  was  utterly  unprepared 
for  any  such  demonstration — the  woman 
was  on  her  knees  at  my  feet.  With  one 
hand  she  held  the  child;  with  the  other 
she  had  taken  my  hand,  on  which  she 
pressed  her  lips. 

There  was  a  speechless  rapture  over  her 
&ce,  and  the  most  exquisite  soft  flush  upon 
it,  as  she  did  this. 

A  queer  feeling  came  over  me,  as  I 
awkwardly  withdrew  my  hand — my  hand 
that  for  a  long  time  afterwards  tingled 
with  consciousness  of  the  touch  of  the 
woman*s  lips. 

She  rose,  with  no  awkwardness,  no 
haste;  reseated  herself,  bent  over,  and 
kissed  her  child. 

The  child  had  been  always  watching 
OF,  ita  Bofb  seriouB  Tmnhildlilrft  eyes  fixed 


sometimes  on  me,  and  sometimeB  on  its 
mother.  I  had  never  before,  and  have 
never  since,  seen  anything  Hke  that  child's 
eyes.  They  —  but  why  voluntarily  recal 
them,  when  the  effort  of  my  life  for  so 
long,  was  to  keep  them  from  always  floating 
before  me ! 

Suddenly  the  wanuA's  face  resumed  its 
deadly  pallor. 

"  Will  it  be  very  painful?"  aho  aaked. 

"  That  is  as  you  wilL" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

I  explained.  It  was  my  advice  that  she 
should  let  her  child  be  put  to  sleep  with 
the  then  newly-discoverad  agent^  chl(»o> 
form. 

''  Is  there  danger  in  it  ?" 

'*  None — if  tiie  stuff  is  carefully  admin- 
istered, as,  I  need  not  say,  it  sLubJI  be  tf> 
your  child.  You  can  understand  bow 
difficult  it  is  to  keep  a  child  still  enough 
under  pain,  to  give  an  operator  a  fiur 
chance." 

*'  It  would  be  difficult  with  any  other 
child,  perhaps :  with  mine  it  is  not  cufficoli 
She  is  so  docile,  so  patient:  she  would 
keep  still,  and  bear,  uncompkiningly,  any- 
thing I  asked  her  to  bear.  She  has  ab-eady 
undergone  great  agony  from  a  fruitless 
attempt  at  cure.  But,  of  course,  if^  indeed, 
there  is  no  danger,  I  would  wish  " — here 
she  paused — "  oh  the  weak  folly  of  wcnrdi ! 
to  save  my  darling  pain." 

"  Do  you  judge  your  child  to  have  a 
good  constitution  ?  The  extreme  defailiij 
you  speak  of^  is  preteomataral." 

She  answered  me  eagerly,  assuring  bib 
that  her  child,  except  for  this  lamenesi, 
which  she  considered  to  be  not  the  remit 
of  constitutional  disease  but  of  an  acci- 
dent, had  always  had  perfect  health.  She 
added : 

"  You  are  too  young  for  me  to  tell  nj 
story  to,  or  I  might,  by  the  circumstattoeB 
of  her  birth,  acooimt  to  you  ior  her  exifen^ 
docility." 

I  then  questioned  her  as  to  what  had 
been  done  in  attempt  to  cure  the  child,  tf^ 
I  blamed  her  for  not  having  at  first  0000 
to  us. 

With  perfect  simplicity  she  gave  me  th^ 
incredible  answer  that  she  had  never,  w 
a  few  weeks  since,  heard  of  "us."  Thep» 
when  she  had  replied  to  all  my  questioDSy 
seeming  to  win  confidence  in  me,  becaoi^ 
of  my  confidence  in  cure,  she  spoke  to  d^ 
with  quiet  intensity,  of  the  child's  pecsliif 
preciousness  to  her. 

To  this  I  listened,  or  seemed  to  listeoi 


<£: 


^ 


GhftriMDiekMit.] 


AN  EXPERBBNCB. 


[▲iiga8tl4,1869.]       259 


I  was  oonscioiis  that  she  was  speaJdng 
to  me ;  I  was  also  conscious  of  her  child's 
eyes  watching  me ;  but  while  she  spoke  and 
the  child  watched,  I  was  arranging  for  the 
operation,  the  when,  the  how,  all  the  details. 
There  were  difficulties  in  my  way,  ob- 
stacles to  be  snrmonnted.  I  was  not  at  all 
snre  of  winning  Dr.  Feamwell's  consent 
that  this  child  should  be  the  first  subject 
upon  which  the  new  operation  should  be 
tried.  Dr.  Feamwell  had  said,  I  remembered, 
"  We  must  first  try  this  on  some  coarsely- 
born  child,  some  child  of  robust  peasant 
parents :  some  child,  too,  who,  should  its 
life  be  sacrificed,  would  be,  poor  little 
wretch !  no  loss,  and  no  great  loser." 

I  had  more  faith  in  Dr.  Feamwell  always, 
than  Dr.  Feamwell  had  in  himself.  I  had, 
also,  more  £aith  in  science  than  the  more 
ezperienoed  man  had.  Besides  this.  Dr. 
Feamwell  was  of  extreme  sensitiveness  and 
tender-heartedness ;  his  hand  could  be 
firmer  than  any,  and  his  courage  cooler, 
but  he  required  first  to  be  convinced  of  the 
nnquestionahle  beneficence  of  the  torture 
he  inflicted. 

Dr.  Feamwell's  seeing  this  child  before- 
hand would  be  a  risk  (when  I  looked  at  it 
with  Dr.  Feamwell*6  eyes,  I  recognised  its 
extreme  fragility),  but  his  hearing  the 
mother  speak  of  i1^  and  of  its  extreme  pre- 
doaanesB  to  her,  would  be  fifttal.  He  would 
warn,  and  question,  and  caution,  till  the 
woman's  coiirage  would  fail ;  he  would 
think  it  better  that  the  widow  should  keep 
her  lame  child,  than  run  the  risk  of  losing 
it  to  core  its  lameness.  He  was  quite  capable 
of  telling  her  that  this  lameness  would  not 
kiD,  and  that  the  attempt  to  cure  it  might ; 
and  then  how  could  one  expect  a  poor, 
weak,  selfish  woman  to  decide  ? 

Qnoe  interested  in  the  woman,  Dr.  Feam- 
well would  think  nothing  of  the  glory  to 
science,  and  the  gain  to  the  human  race, 
of  successful  operation,  compared  with  the 
loss  to  this  woman  if  she  eiiould  lose  her 
child, 

This  "weakness"  (so  I  thought  it)  of 
Dr.  Feamwell's  filled  me  with  something 
as  like  contempt  as  it  was  possible  for  me 
to  ieek  towards  one  who  was  my  hero. 
Against  it,  I  determined  as  fiur  as  possible 
to  protect  him.  Though  I  had  no  con- 
sckmsneBS  that  the  child's  eyes  touched 
me,  I  knew  how  they  would  appeal  to  Dr. 
FeamwelL 

While  the  mother  talked,  therefore,  I  was 
■^^ihfwttTig  and  contriving.  I  received  the 
•oimdB  of  her  words  on  my  ear,  and  they 
OQiiYejed  corresponding  idea^  to  my  brain ; 


for  afterwards  I  knew  things  she  then, 
and  only  then,  told  me.  But  at  the  time 
I  heard  without  hearing,  in  the  same  way 
that  we  often  sec  without  seeing,  things 
that  vividly  reproduce  themselves  after- 
wards. 

"  When  can  it  be  done  ?" 

That  question  brought  her  speaking  and 
my  thinking  to  a  pause. 

"  Do  you  stay  here  long  ?" 

"Not  longer  than  is  needfulk  for  my 
child.  I  am  poor.  It  is  dear  living  in  a 
strange  placa  But  anything  that  is  needful 
for  my  duld  is  possible." 

*'  J£  it  can  be  done  at  all,  it  shall  be  done 
within  the  week." 

'* '  K  it  can  be  done  at  all !'  You  said  it 
could  be  done ;  you  said  it  should  be  done." 

The  way  in  which  this  was  said,  the 
look  in  the  eyes  with  which  it  was  said, 
revealed  something  of  the  stormy  possi- 
bilities of  this  woman's  nature. 

"  I  spoke  with  indiscreet  haste  when  I 
said  it  could  and  should  be  done.  There 
arc  many  difficulties." 

I  then  explained  the  nature  of  those 
difficulties  in  the  manner  I  thought  most 
politic,  and  most  calculated  to  induce  her  to 
connive  with  me  in  overcoming  them.  I 
dwelt  much  on  the  morbid  over-sensitive- 
ness which  would  paralyse  the  hand  of  the 
good  doctor,  were  she  to  speak  to  him  as 
she  had  spoken  to  me  about  the  extreme 
preciousness  of  her  child. 

She  studied  my  face  with  a  new  inten?- 
sity ;  then  she  said : 

^'  He  need  know  nothing  about  me.  I 
need  not  see  him  till  all  is  arranged.  The 
child  can,  for  him,  be  anybody's  child." 

'*  Exactly  what  I  would  desire.  I  am 
glad  to  find  you  so  sensible.  Bring  the 
child  here  to-morrow  morning,  at  ten." 

White  to  the  lips  again,  she  faltered : 

*^  You  don't  mean  that  it  will  be  done 
to-morrow  ?" 

^'  No,  no,  no.  No  such  luck  as  that,"  I 
answered,  impatiently.  "  There  are  preli- 
minaries to  be  gone  through.  The  child 
will  have  to  bo  examined  bv  a  council  of 
surgeons.  All  that  is  nothing  to  you. 
Bring  her  to  me,  here,  at  ten  to-morrow. 
That  is  all  I  ask  of  you.  This  is  my 
name" — giving  her  a  card — "  You  know 
from  the  superscription  of  the  note  you 
brought  me,  that  my  name  is  Bertram 
Dowlass.  You  may  trust  me  to  do  the  best 
I  can  for  you." 

She  rose  to  take  leave. 

The  quiet  intensity  of  her  g;nbi\iTii^%^  «sl\ 
her  impUdt,  paUont  "biJ^csi  m  xsift,  ^^  i^<aK» 


«s 


^ 


260      [August  14,1869.] 


ALL  THE  YBAB  ROUND. 


[Oondneledby 


touch  me.     I  let  these  things  pass  me  by ; 
there  was  no  contact. 

"  I  have  no  claim  whatever  on  your 
gratitude,"  was  my  most  true  answer  to 
what  she  said.  "It  is  not  the  cure  of 
your  child  that  I  care  about,  but  the  proof 
that  human  skill,  aided  by  science,  can 
cure  thousands." 

She  smiled  slightly,  in  gentle  depreca- 
tion of  my  self-injustice — ^perhaps,  too,  in 
incredulity  of  my  indifference  towards  her 
child. 

That  was  the  end  of  our  first  interview. 

All  the  rest  of  that  day  I  worked  with 
divided  attention,  and  with  a  strange  un- 
settled feeling.  This  was  a  new  experience, 
and  it  made  me  uneasy.  Ordinarily  I  was 
my  own  master.  I  now  put  on  the  screw  as 
I  had  never  had  to  do  before,  and  with  little 
result  beyond  a  painful  sense  of  strain  and 
effort.. 

It  was  natural  that  I  should  be  under  some 
excitement.  I  would  not  own  to  myself 
that  my  excitement  was  more  than  na- 
tural ;  nor  would  I,  for  an  instant,  listen  to 
any  internal  suggestion  that  it  had  any  other 
cause  than  that  to  which  I  chose  to  attri- 
bute it. 

At  the  appointed  time  next  morning, 
she  brought  the  child. 

There  was  no  quailing  yet,  as  I  had 
feared  there  might  be.  She  was  still 
intent  upon  the  cure,  still  full  of  confidence 
in  me. 

When  she  gave  the  small  soft  creature 
into  my  hold,  and  it  put  one  of  its  little 
arms  round  my  neck,  voluntarily,  con- 
fidingly— I  experienced  a  sensation  I  had 
never  before  known. 

It  turned  out  as  I  had  expected.  I  had 
a  hard  battle  to  fight;  my  patience  and 
temper  were  pretty  well  tried. 

Dr.  Feamwell  took  the  small  being  upon 
his  knee,  stroked  its  hair,  looked  into  its 
eyes,  felt  its  arms,  and  declared  that  this 
was  not  a  safe  case  for  operation ;  that  the 
child  was  too  delicate. 

I  and  one  or  two  others,  equaUy  bent  on 
testing  the  new  discovery,  at  last  overruled 
his  judgment,  and  carried  our  point— not 
till  I  was  conscious  of  the  perspiration 
standing  in  great  beads  on  my  forehead. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  exactly  lied  about  the 
little  thing,  but  I  deliberately  allowed  Dr. 
Feamwell  to  suppose  that  the  child's  posi- 
tion was  suoh  that  it  had  far  better  die 
than  live  a  cripple — possibly  had  better  die 
than  livo  at  all ;  that  ft  was  a  child  whoso 
existence  in  the  world  was  an  iiioonvc-\ 


nience  rather  than  anything  else,  and  a  con- 
stant memorial  of  what  was  best  forgotten. 

I  was  flushed  with  triumph  when  I  re- 
turned to  Mrs.  Rosscar — so  she  called  her- 
self— ^bearing  the  child  in  my  arms. 

"With  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  I  have 
earned  the  healing  of  your  child,"  I  said  to 
her,  as  I  vnped  my  forehead. 

She  was  standmg  up  close  to  the  door; 
her  arms  eagerly  received  the  burden  of 
mine;  her  tongue  made  me  no  answer, 
but  her  face  replied  to  me. 

"On  Monday  at  eleven,"  I  told  her. 
"  This  is  Thursday.  In  the  intervening 
days,  keep  your  child  as  quiet  as  yon  can : 
give  her  as  much  fresh  air  and  as  much 
nourishing  food  as  you  can.  Dr.  Feamwell 
sent  you  this" — slipping  five  sovereigoB 
into  her  hand — "  to  help  to  pay  your  ex- 
penses. He  will  help  you  as  mucn  as  jou 
may  find  necessary.  He  is  rich  and  kind. 
You  need  have  no  scruples." 

The  money  was  my  own  ;  it  would  have 
been  more,  but  that  I  was  short  of  funds 
just  then.     Her  face  had  flushed. 

"  I  take  the  money  for  my  child's  saka 
I  thank  him  for  my  child's  sake,"  she  said, 
proudly. 

I  was  now  waiting  for  her  to  go. 

The  door  of  the  Toam  was  open; 
stood  facing  the  opening,  and  the  fight  firom 
the  great  steir- window  fell  full  upon  her. 

For  the  first  time  I  noted  her  great 
beauty. 

She  was  still  young,  I  daresay,  but  hen 
was  not  the  beauty  that  depends  upon  the 
first  freshness  of  youth.  It  was  the  beaatf 
of  perfectly  harmonious  proportion.  Her 
form  was  at  least  as  perfect  as  her 
countenance.  She  had  the  most  stataesqnfl 
grace  I  ever  saw  in  living  woman,  as  she 
stood  there  holding  her  child;  holding  i^ 
with  no  more  effort  than  a  Hebe  shows  in 
holding  the  cup  of  nectar. 

Her  deep,  still  eyes  were  fastened  upon 
me.  A  curious  shock  went  through  m^ 
even  before  she  spoke. 

Her  face  had  now  again  that  exirenie 
pallor,  such  as  I  had  never  seen  on  soj 
other  living  face. 

"  On  Monday,  at  eleven,"  she  repeated. 
Her  marble-pale  lips  seemed  stiffening  to 
marble-rigidity.  They  seemed  to  (otbl 
the  words  with  difficulty.  "Yon  would 
not  deceive  me?  There  is  not  nwrs 
danger  than  you  tell  me?  Forgive  nwi 
but,  now  it  is  settled,  my  heart  seems 
turning  to  ice.  You  would  not  deceive 
me  ?  I  know  something  of  the  oallons- 
ness,    \!lck!d    Qt\i&VVf\    of    men;    bob   tfail 


5: 


^ 


Charlas  Dickaiu.] 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 


[A«gixitl4,lM9.]       261 


wonld  be  too  cniel.  In  all  this  world  I 
have,  as  I  have  told  yon,  nothing  bnt  this," 
hngging  the  child  as  she  spoke,  closer  to 
that  breast  whose  snperb  lines  were  not  to 
be  wholly  hidden  by  the  heavy  mnffling 
weeds  she  wore.  ''  I  have  nothing  bnt  this 
to  hope  for,  to  work  for,  to  live  for.  This  is 
all  I  have  saved  from  the  x>^^  ^U  that  is 
left  to  me  in  the  fntnre." 

Her  delicate  dark  brows  gathered  them- 
selves threateningly  over  her  intense  eyes, 
as  she  added,  in  a  soft  deep  voice : 

**  Th^e  wonld  be  one  thing  left,  for  me 
to  do  if  I  lost  my  child.  One  thing,  and 
only  one.  To  cnrse  the  hand — ^whether  it 
were  the  hand  of  God  or  of  man — that 
took  her  from  me." 

I  answered  her  coldly ;  as  far  as  I  conld, 
GKreLesslj.  I  steeled  myself  against  the 
tragic  tmth  of  her  words ;  bnt  I  was  con- 
scions  of  a  creeping  of  my  flesh. 

" Madam,"  I  said,  ''yon  are  at  liberty 
to  cbange  yonr  mind.  All  arrangements 
thit  have  been  made,  can  be  nnmade.  I 
wonld,  however,  advise  yon  to  avoid  agi- 
tating the  child." 

This  drew  her  eyes  from  mine  to  the 
small  &ce  on  her  breast.  She  had  not 
raised  her  voice,  had  not  indnlged  in  any 
gestnre;  had  not  betrayed,  except  in  the 
blanching  of  her  hce  and  the  intense  pas- 
sion of  her  eyes,  her  agitation ;  the  child 
was  too  yonng  to  nnderstand  her  words. 
And  yet»  as  we  both  looked  at  it  now,  its 
lips  had  parted,  its  fitce  had  flnshed,  its  eyes 
and  mouth  and  chin  were  quivering  with 
emotion. 

PerhapB  the  little  creature  was  distressed 
by  the  vibrations  of  its  mother's  strongly- 
pulsating  heart,  against  which  it  was  held 
•o  closely. 

She  bent  over  it,  held  her  fitce  against 
ita  &oe,  mnrmnred  soothing  sounds.  I  was 
holding  the  door  open,  ohe  now  passed 
out  without  another  word,  and  began  to 
descend  the  stairs.' 

I  stood  looking  after  her :  my  eyes  were 
caught  by  the  glorious  great  knot  of  bright 
hair,  which,  all  pulled  back  from  her  face, 
escaped  from  her  bonnet  behind.  A  slant- 
ing beam  from  the  window  had  touched 
and  fired  it  as  she  passed  down  the  stairs. 

Half-way  down  she  stopped,  turned,  and 
looked  back  and  up  at  me.  When  the 
mother  looked,  her  child  looked  too.  They 
xemained  so,  for  perhaps  half  a  minute. 

How  often  afterwards,  in  dreams  of  the 
night,  in  waking  visions  of  the  dark,  and 
worse,  &r  worse,  in  the  broad  daylight  and 
peopling  the  sunshine,  looking  up  from  the 


grass,  or  from  the  water,  looking  forth 
from  the  trees,  or  the  flowers,  hovering  be- 
tween her  and  other  &ces,  did  I  meet  those 
haunting  eyes:  the  two  pairs  of  eyes,  so 
like  in  their  difierence,  gazing  at  me  with 
varying  expressions  of  appeal,  reproach, 
agony,  or — ^worst  of  all — resignation  ! 

"  (iood-evening,  Mrs.  Bosscar." 

I  tnmed  back  into  the  room,  but  could 
not  hinder  myself,  a  few  moments  after, 
from  looking  out  to  see  if  she  were  still 
there.     She  was  gone. 

During  the  Friday  and  Saturday  inter- 
vening between  that  day  and  the  Mon- 
day, I  hardly  thought  of  the  mother  and 
child.  I  thought  constantly,  and  with 
feverish  eagerness,  of  the  operation,  and 
of  the  triumph  of  its  success ;  but  I  did 
not  realise  the  quivering  agony  of  body 
and  spirit — ^the  child's  body  (even  if  aU 
sensation  were  deadened  for  the  moments 
of  operation,  there  must  be  keen  sufiering 
afterwards),  the  mother's  spirit — ^implied 
even  in  success.  As  to  £ulure,  I  did  not 
admit  its  possibility. 

On  the  Sunday  I  was  restless.  I  felt  it 
needful  to  do  something.  I  could  not 
apply  to  book-study,  and  from  the  more 
practical  part  of  study  the  day  shut  me  off. 
I  got  on  board  one  of  the  river  steamers, 
not  designing  anything  but  to  get  out  in 
the  country,  and  have  a  good  walk.  But 
the  first  person  my  eye  fell  on,  when  I 
looked  round  the  crowded  deck,  was  Mrs. 
Bosscar ;  her  child,  of  course,  in  her  arms. 

For  a  moment  I  felt  afraid  lest  this  might 
mean  that  my  patient  was  escaping  me. 

'^  Where  are  you  going  ?"  I  a&ed  her, 
abruptly. 

''  1  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  with 
her  quiet  voice  and  rare  smile.  ''  You 
recommended  me  to  give  the  child  all  the 
air  I  could.  I  thought  of  landing  at  one  of 
the  pleasant  green  places,  and  sitting  about 
in  the  fields  for  a  few  hours,  and  then 
taking  the  evening  boat  back  again.  I 
thought,  at  some  farmhouse  or  small  inn, 
I  conld  get  some  food  for  her — at  all  events, 
milk  and  eggs  and  bread-and-butter." 

I  was  standing  on  the  deck,  in  front  of 
her.  I  said,  what  suddenly  occurred  to 
me: 

*'You  are  much  too  beautiful  and  too 
young,  to  go  about  alone  in  this  way,  among 
such  people." 

''  I  dare  say  I  am  beautifril,  and  I  know 
I  am  not  old ;  but  my  beauty  is  not  of  the 
sort  to  draw  on  me  the  impertinence  of 
common  people.  I  am  not  young  in  my 
soul.     I  know  how  to  protect  myself." 


X 


c& 


:S 


262      [AngOMt  14, 1M0.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


(QoiidBOted  I7 


a 


<( 


"If  jon  don't  mind  my  company,  1*11 
manage  for  jon.  You  are  not  strong 
enough  to  slave  about  with  that  weight 
always  in  your  arms.  You  can  do  it,  I 
know;  but  you  should  not  overtax  your 
strength  to-day ;  your  nerves  should  be  in 
good  order  to-morrow." 

She  blanched,  suddenly,  to  that  absolute 
pallor  again. 

"Will  they  let  me  be  in  the  room  ?  Will 
tiiey  let  her  lie  in  my  lap  ?"  she  asked. 

1  shook  my  head. 

"  In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred 
this  would  not  answer,  though  it  might  in 
yours;  it  is  difficult  to  make  exceptions." 

She  gave  a  patient  sigh ;  sat  some  time 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sliding  shore ; 
then  said,  looking  at  me  agam : 
WiU  it  iake  long  ?" 
Oh,  no,  no  ;  a  veiy  short  time ;  a  few 
moments. 

"  And  she  will  feel  no  pain  ?*' 

**None." 

She  said,  as  if  to  herself^  her  eyes  sub- 
siding from  my  face  to  settle  on  the  shore 
again: 

"After  all,  G-od  is  sometimes  mercifbl. 
I  almost  feel  as  if  I  could  love  Him.  When 
these  little  feet" — touching  them  with  a 
tender  hand — "walk,  I  will  try  with  all 
my  soul  to  love  Him." 

I  don't  know  what  possessed  me  this 
day.  I  laid  aside  all  my  habitual  shyness. 
I  hardly  thought  of  exposing  myself  to  the 
ridicule  of  my  colleagues,  should  I  encoun- 
ter any  of  them.  But  thinking  of  this 
chance,  I  glanced  at  Mrs.  Rosscar's  dress ; 
tiying  to  discover  how  she  would  strike  a 
shunger,  and  to  what  rank  she  would  be 
supposed  to  belong. 

Of  the  dress  I  could  make  nothing ;  it 
was  aU  deep  and  long- worn  mourning.  As 
&r  as  I  could  tell,  nothing  of  her  station 
could  be  learned  from  her  dress. 

She  was  standing.  She  had  moved  to 
the  side  of  the  vessel,  a  little  way  apart 
from  me.  She  was  pointing  out  something 
to  the  child.  From  the  poise  of  her  head, 
down  all  the  lines  of  her  form,  to  the 
firmly-planted  beautifril  foot^  from  which, 
by  times,  the  wind  swept  back  the  drapery, 
there  was  something  regal  about  her.  The 
child  was  daintily  dressed  in  white;  it 
looked  all  soft  swansdoMm  and  delicate 
embroideries.  It  might,  I  thought,  have 
been  a  queen's  child. 

I  went  to  her  side,  and  proposed  that  we 
should  land  at  the  first  stopping  place,  and 
take  a  row-boat.  She  agreed.  She  would 
Jiare  agreed  to  anything  I  proposed ;  she 


had  a  feeling  that  the  child's  life  was  in 
my  hand.  So,  we  were  soon  gliding  along 
the  shady  bank  of  the  river — she  ana  I  and 
the  child — sometimes,  among  the  water- 
lilies  and  close  to  the  swazus;  sometimes, 
almost  touched  by  drooping  boi:^hs ;  some- 
times, for  a  moment  held  entangled  by  the 
sedgea.    All  very  silent. 

firs.  Rosscar  was  one  of  those  women 
who  have  a  talent  for  silence,  and,  more 
than  that,  who  seem  hardly  to  need  speecL 
To-day  she  was  content  to  watch  the  child. 
The  child  sat  on  her  knees,  with  musing 
eyes  and  tranquil  hcoj  watching  the  glid- 
ing water. 

Now  and  then,  the  child  smiled  up  into 
the  mother's  face;  now  and  then,  the 
mother  bent  over  and  kissed  the  child; 
there  seemed  no  need,  between  them,  for 
any  other  kind  of  speech.  That  child's 
snulc  was  of  the  most  wonderful  sad  Sfreet- 
ness.  It  was  the  loveliest  and  tenderest 
expression.  I  did  not  then,  you  mnat 
understand,  consciously  note  all  the  thinga 
I  speak  of  as  I  go  along;  they  retimed 
upon  me  afterwards.  I  had  time  enongli, 
in  time  to  come,  to  remember  the  past 
Time  enough,  Heaven  knows  ! 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  we  stopped  st 
a  comparatively  unfrequented  plaoe^  and 
dined. 

Mrs.  RosBcar's  quiet  nndemonstiatnr^ 
and  yet  pleased  and  gpmteful,  acceptance  of 
all  my  services,  her  acquiescence  in  ill  I  y 
proposed,  did  not  seem  to  me  strange.  | 
The  day  was  altogether  a  dream-day.  I 
was  in  the  sort  of  mood  in  which  to  find 
myself  the  hero  of  a  feiry-tale's  adventares 
would  hardly  have  surprised  me :  a  moel 
unwonted  mood  for  me. 

I  have  thought  about  it  since,. and  won- 
dered if  she  acted  as  she  did,  from  inezpe- 
rienoe,  or  from  indifference.  Was  die 
ignorant,  or  was  she  careless,  as  to  wbai 
might  be  ooncloded  about  her  ?  I  believe 
the  fact  was,  that  she  thought  neither  of 
herself,  nor  oif  me,  but  merely  of  "  a  good 
day  "  for  the  child. 

She  laid  aside  her  bonnet,  and  her  cap 
mth  it,  before  she  sat  down  to  table :  shov- 
ing that  wealth  of  brown  hair,  and,  what 
much  more  interested  me,  that  head  fit  to 
be  the  head  of  a  goddess.  "  And  yet, 
I  thought,  ''she  seems  a  very  orduMiy 
woman ;  she  seems,  even  moire  fooHshlf 
than  most  women,  absorbed  and  satiafied 
by  the  possession  of  a  child." 

In  laying  aside  her  bonnet  and  cap,  she 
had  laid  aside,  also,  her  shapeless  doak; 
her  close-fitting  black  dress  displiqrod  tiie 


M^V* 


:&. 


ChftrlM  Diekeiii.] 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 


[Angost  14^  1869.]     263 


lines  of  shoulders,  bust,  and  waist,  fit  to  be 
those  of  that  same  goddess. 

She  was  a  splendid  woman.  The  well- 
formed  white  soft  hands  made  me  conclude 
that  she  was  also,  by  conycntional  rank,  a 
hdj. 

We  retnmed  as  we  had  come ;  only  that 
the  sunset  mirrored  in  the  river,  the  swans, 
the  sedges,  the  rippling  mn  of  the  water, 
the  capricions  warm  br^things  of  the  soil 
wind  seemed,  yet  more  than  the  morning 
brightness,  things  of  a  dream.  We  reached 
tiie  widow's  lodging  at  about  the  child's 
bedtime. 

She  did  not  ask  me  to  go  in,  but  I  went 
in. 

She  told  the  child  to  thank  me  for  *'  % 
h^ypy,  happy  time;"  which  the  little  thing 
did  with  a  prettiness  pathetic  to  think  oi 
tfterwards,  adding,  of  her  own  accord : 

"  And  for  showing  me  the  lilies  and  the 
pretty  swans." 

The  mother  hong  on  her  words  with 
nptnre,  and  then,  raising  her  &oe  to  mine, 
fluid: 

**  If  yon  make  my  child  able  to  walk  in 
the  warm  siumy  grass,  on  her  own  little 
ii9ei,  I  will  learn  to  believe  in  a  loving  God, 
that  I  may  call  His  choicest  blessings  down 
vpon  yon.  I  will  entreat  Him  to  prosper 
joa  in  all  yonr  doings,  to  gladden  yonr 
whole  life,  to  let  the  love  of  women  and  of 
little  children  sweeten  all  your  days." 

I  pressed,  in  parting,  the  hand  she  held 
oat  to  me.  After  I  had  left  her,  her  last 
words  went  echoing  through  my  brain. 

When  I  got  home  I  tried  to  apply  myself 
to  hard  study — quite  vainly.  But  I  do  not 
think  that  ^le,  alone,  was  responsible  for 
this.*  I  believe  that,  just  at  the  time  when 
I  first  met  her,  my  bndn  was  on  the  point 
of  giving-in,  and  of  resenting  the  strain  of 
some  years. 

This  phase,  at  all  events,  of  my  collapse, 
had  a  strange  deliciousness  about  it.  Soft 
thoughts  and  sweet  &ncies  thronged  upon 
me.  I  gave  myself  up  to  them,  weary  of 
the  effort  of  self-mastery. 

Again  and  again,  as  I  fell  asleep,  I  was 
gliding  softly  down  a  sunny  river.  I 
teemed  to  hear  the  dip  and  splash  of  oars, 
to  feel  the  movement  of  the  boat  imdor  the 
impulse  given  by  them,  and  then  the  words, 
*May  the  love  of  women  and  of  little 
children  sweeten  all  your  days !"  sounded  in 
my  ears  with  such  chstinctness,  and  seemed 
to  come  firom  a  voice  so  near,  that  I  awoke 
with  a  start,  and  a  feeling  that  I  should  sec 
the  speaker  standing  beside  my  bed,  and 
that  I  had  felt  her  breath  upon  my  brow. 


Then,  like  a  fool  as  I  was,  I  lay  thinking 
of  the  woman  who  had  spoken  those  words. 
"  What  a  rich  low  voice  she  has ;  what 
sweet  deep  eyes  she  has ;  what  a  shapely 
foot  she  has ;  what  a  splendid  form  it  is ; 
what  a  soft  white  steady  hand  she  has  !" 

"  Yes,"  I  then  said  to  myself,  trying  to 
deceive  mysel£  "  She  would  make  a  first- 
rate  hospital  nurse ;  strong,  calm,  gentle, 
wise." 

Next  day,  a  day  of  intense  excitement  to 
me,  the  operation  was  performed.  It  was 
successfully  performed.  Everything  that 
happened  at  about  this  time,  after  that 
Sunday  on  the  river,  seems  wrapped  in  a 
dream-haze. 

But  I  have  a  distinct  recollection  that 
Dr.  Feamwell  said  to  me,  "  Dowlass,  you 
are  over- doing  it ;  I  don't  like  the  look  of 
your  eyes ;  t&e  a  holiday."  But  whether 
this  was  before  the  openition,  or  after  it^ 
I  don't  know.  I  know  that  I  made  him 
some  jesting  answer,  and  laughed  at  his 
grave  concern. 

I  know  that  late  in  that  day,  when  I 
first  saw  Mrs.  Bosscar  after  the  operation, 
her  expression  of  her  passionate  joy  and 
gratitude  made  me  half  delirious  with  an 
unoomprehended  feeling — and  that  part  of 
it  was  year. 

The  diild,  after  the  operation,  was  placed 
in  one  of  the  wards  of  the  hospitaL  The 
mother  loft  it  neither  night  nor  day.  I 
had  prevailed  in  getting  this  exception  to 
rule  allowed;  and  for  this  her  gratitude 
was  almost  as  great  as  for  our  other 
success. 

Through  the  day  after  the  operation,  and 
the  day  following  that,  I  often  stole  a  few 
moments  to  go  and  look  at  the  Httle  patient 
sufferer,  and  at  the  joy-illumined  radiant 
&ce  of  the  mother.  The  moro  radiant  the 
mother's  face  was,  and  tho  more  entirely 
all  seemed  well,  the  more  I  fisH  afraid. 

When,  on  tho  third  day,  the  dhild  sank — 
died  in  its  sleep — ^I  knew  it  was  of  that,  I 
had  been  afraid. 

I  cannot  even  now  account  for  the  child's 
death.  It  should  ha\'e  Hved  and  grown 
strong;  there  was  no  inflammation;  the 
success  of  tho  operation  was  perfect. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  child  bom  not  to  live- 
Perhaps  the  constant  presence  of  its  mother 
made  it  keep  up  too  strong  a  strain  of  self- 
control,  for  its  strength.  It  must  have 
suffered,  but  it  did  not  moan,  or  cry,  or  give 
any  sign  of  suffering,  except  what  was  to 
be  read  on  the  often-damp  brow  and  in 
the  over-dilated  eyes.  "  Eyes !"  Yes.  It 
is  always  "  eyes."     Eyes  are  always  haunt- 


=^ 


<tfi: 


fc 


264 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[August  14.  U»J 


ing  me.  Often  tlie  child's  eyes,  as  they 
looked  up  at  me,  when  I  bent  over  it. 
I  have  fancied  since  that  it  wonld  have 
spoken  to  me  then,  complained  of  pain, 
bnt  for  the  mother  being  always  close  and 
within  hearing.  I  have  fancied  since,  that 
it  looked  at  me,  with  that  intent  look, 
hoping  that  I  shonld  nnderstand. 

A  poor  sickly  tree — I  think  a  sycamore — 
grew  outside  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
ward  in  which  the  child  lay.  It  was  sway- 
ing and  swinging  in  the  evening  wind  and 
evening  snnlight,  and  its  shadow  was 
waving  to  and  fro  on  the  child's  bed  when 
I  went  into  the  ward  on  the  afternoon  of 
that  third  day. 

The  child  liked  to  watch  the  shadow  and 
had  begged  not  to  have  the  blind  pnlled 
down. 

"  Had  I  best  wake  her  P"  Mrs.  Rosscar 
asked  me,  the  moment  I  approached  the 
bed.  She  was  looking  strained  to-day, 
and  anzions.  "  It  is  rather  long  since  she 
took  nonrishment.  And  last  time  she  was 
awake,  I  thought  she  seemed  more  weak  and 
fidnt  than  she  has  seemed  since  Monday." 

*'  When  vras  she  last  awake  ?*' 

Mrs.  Rosscar  looked  at  her  watch. 

'*  Half  an  hour  and  three  minutes  ago ; 
but  she  took  nothing  then,  for  she  smiled 
at  me,  and  then  dozed  off,  just  as  I  was 
going  to  give  her  her  arrowroot  and  wine. 
It  is  an  hour  and  a  half  since  she  had  any- 
thing." 

"  By  all  means  wake  her,"  I  said.  It 
struck  me    that   her    little    face    looked 

E inched  and  cold.  ''The  sleep  of  ez- 
austion  wiQ  do  her  no  good,"  I  added. 

Mrs.  Rosscar  bent  her  &oe  over  the 
child's  &ce.  I  stood  by,  with  my  heart 
striking  sledge-hammer  blows  against  me. 

''  Mamma  wants  her  darling  to  wake  up 
and  take  some  wine,"  she  said,  with  her 
cheek  lying  against  the  child's  cheek. 

No  movement  or  murmur  of  reply. 

Lifting  her  head,  and  looking  into  my 
face,  she  said,  in  what  then  seemed  to  me 
an  awful  voice : 

**  She  is  very  cold !" 

I  pushed  the  mother  aside,  I  bent  over 
the  child,  I  felt  for  its  pulse,  watched  for 
its  breath.     In  vain. 

I  ordered  flannels  to  be  heated,  and  the 
little  body  to  be  wrapped  in  them  and 
rubbed  with  them.  I  tried  every  means 
I  knew  of,  for  restoring  animation. 


In  vain. 

While  the  mother  was  preparing  fiood 
for  it,  the  child,  having  smiled  at  her, 
had  fallen  into  a  doze.  That  dose  was  the 
doze  of  death. 

When  wc  desisted  from  our  efforts  to 
wake  it,  and  left  the  poor  tortured  litUe 
body  in  peace,  Mrs.  Rosscar,  who  had  been 
kneeling  by  the  bed,  rose.  She  stood  mo- 
tionless and  speechless  for  moments  that 
seemed  to  me  no  portion  of  time,  but  an 
experience  of  eternity. 

I  resolved  that  I  wotdd  not  meet  her  eyei ; 

but  she  was  the  stronger  wiUed,  and  our  ejOB 

did  meet.   I  shrank ;  I  shivered ;  I  looked, 

I  know,  abject,  craven,  self-convicted.    I 

/elt  I  was  the  murderer  she  thought  me. 

Slowly,  with  her  eves  on  mine  which 
watched  her  with  a  horrible  fiiscination, 
she  lifted  her  grand  arms,  and  clasped  her 
hands  above  her  head. 

The  uplifted  arms,  the  awful  eyee,  Ihe 
indefinite  horror  of  that  pause  before 
speech  were  enough  for  me. 

As  her  lips  opened,  to  give  utterance  to 
the  first  words  of  her  curse,  I,  lifting  my 
own  arms,  as  if  to  ward  off  frcun  my  head  an 
imminent  blow  (they  told  me  afterwardt 
of  these  things),  and  struggling  for  power  to 
articulate  some  deprecation — ^I,  meeting  her 
eyes  with  unspeakable  horror  in  my  owxi, 
staggered  a  moment,  then  fell,  as  if  she 
had  struck  me  down. 

Now  Beady,  price  5»,  6d.,  bound  in  green  doth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

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ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

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PaUlab§d  a<  Uia  Oflos^  No.  98,  WeUlngton  Stttet,  Btrsad.   Printed  by  C.  WBimro,  Beanfort  Hovt, 


<Mms  mems 


VERONICA. 


Is  Five  Books. 
BOOK    I. 

CHAPTER  Til.      XR.  FLEW. 

r  8hipley-in-tlie-Wold,  people  dined  at 
o'clock  and  took  tea  at  six  or  Beren. 
a-timc"  was  the  Ticar's  favourite  hour 
le  twenty-four,  especially  in  the  winter 
TO.  The  work  of  the  day  was  over.  The 
blazed  up  companionably,  and  filled  the 
les  of  conTenatioii  with  light  and 
uth.  And  if  a  forlorn  wind  went  moan- 
withont  npon  the  "  glooming  fiats,"  its 
B  only  heightened,  by  imt^ined  contrast, 
Bomforts  of  the  ingle  nook. 
he  &mily  sitting-room — named  in  Dane- 
3  parlance,  the  parlonr — was  no  exoep- 


igly  honse.  Yet  even  here 
io  of  Oie  leaping  flame  and  glowing 
3  worked  wonders.  It  sent  flickering 
lows  to  play  over  the  bare  ceiling ; 
lade  the  glass  panes  of  a  tali  book-case 
kle  with  flashing  mbies ;  it  fonnd  out 
J  gleam  of  gilding  on  the  tarnished 
inge  of  the  well-worn  books ;  it  mel- 
)d  the  bne  of  the  &ded  crimson  window- 
ainB,  snbdned  the  staring  pattern  of 
mil-paper,  and  made  the  old-fa«hioned 
tc  covering  on  the  fomitnre  seem  rich 
h^rmonioofl  as  an  T-nfTmTi  carpet. 
Oive  me  another  cnpof  tea,  Veronica," 
tlie  vicar,  sitting  in  the  parlour  on  a 
T  Uarch  evenii:^. 

ifl  danghter  and  his  ward  were  both 
1  him.  On  each  of  the  three  faces  there 
for  once,  a  look  of  cheerfolnese.  That 
aiiig  their  goeet  had  been  prononnoed 
of  daager.  The  shadow  which  had 
sued  the  hoose  was  passing  away. 


_  "  Give  me  another  cnp  of  tea,"  said  the 
vicar  once  more,  mbbing  his  hands  to- 
gether. And  then  he  pnrsned  the  discourse 
which  his  demand  had  interrupted.  "  Yes ; 
and  I  Bflsnre  yoa  I  am  v^y  mnch  pleased 
with  Sir  John  altogether.  Kothing  ooold 
be  better  chosen  than  his  manner  of  ex- 
pressing himsel£" 

"  What  did  he  say,  papa  ?" 

"  Oh,  well !  I  cannot  recollect  word  for 
word.  Thanks,  of  conrse,  and  gratitnde, 
and — and  so  on.  But  not  over-done.  Very 
earnest  and  gentlemanlike.  He  appears  to 
be  a  man  M  the  world,  yet  not  exactly 
worldly.  He  has,  in  short,  I  shonld  say,  a 
great  deal  of  savoir  vivre," 

"Savoir  vivre!"    repeated  Mand,  i 
singly.     "  That  would  be  an  art  to  learn ; 
how  to  live  !" 

"  The  quintessence  of  all  arts,  Uandie." 

"  Yea ;  and  it  wonld  inclnde — would  it 
not  ? — how  to  die ;  if  one  did  but  consider 

"Maud!"  cried  Veronits,  with  a  httle 
shudder,  "  I  do  bee  of  ;^ou  not  to  be  solei 
Don't  talk  of  sucn  things.  It  makes  me 
cold.  Yon  are  worse  uian  a  north-e 
wind  blowing  over  the  anow-drifts." 

Veronica  inherited  from  her  mother  a 
more  than  childish  horror  of  death.  The 
slightest  allnsion  to  it  sufficed  to  cloud  her 
bright  face  and  make  her  irritable. 

"  Well,"  answered  Maud,  quietly.  "  Sir 
John  Gale  is  not  going  to  die  just  yet,  tliey 
80  there  is  no  need  to  be  solemn,  as  yon 
It  is  to  be  hoped  he  will  give  up 
hunting,  or  leun  to  get  a  better  seat  on 
horsebftck.  Joe  Dowsett  says  that  that 
hunter  of  his  is  ae  gentle  as  a  lamb,  and 
has  such  a  month  thai  a  baby  might  ride 
him.  And  yet  Sir  John  could  not  contrive 
to  stick  on  his  back." 

"  That's  not  qaite  iair,  Maud,"  observed 


say,  B 
callil 


g5= 


200     [.xnsttftaumu 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CoBdotftEdbf 


the  vicar.  "  Wlien  Sir.  Jului  was  tlirown 
oppo^ta  tho  prai'den  gfitCf.ho  wiiftiu  .'ubnlf^ 
foiiiting  condition,  joa-.  mnst  lemambcr. 
But  it  wan  net  thou  Aaii  tbo  mLicliief  was 
done.  It  ^vas.aa  Qgly  fiUl  lie  got  earlier  in 
the  dajf^from  a.  fresh,,  hot- tempered  l)oast. 
Htt  (duiQged  horses  afterwaixls,  and  per- 
sisted in  continuing  to  *  assault  tho  chase,* 
as  Mugworthy  says.  So  1  do  not  think  wo 
aro  justified  in  conclbdiiig  aayiitingitD'the 
disadvantage  of  his  horsemanship." 

"  But  don't  you  know,  papa,"  Veronica 
put  in,  "tliat  Joe  has  inoculated  Maud 
with  the  tme  Daneahira  notion  that  only 
Dancshire  folks  bom  and  bred,  can  ride  ?" 

Mnud  smiled  and  shook  her  liead. 

"  Sir  John  charged  me,"  said  tho  vicar, 
with  *  a  thousand  heartfelt  thanks  to  my 
amiable  daughters.'  " 

"  Thanks  ?"  exclaimed  Veronica.  "  Truly 
wo  have  done  nothing  for  him.  Paul  takes 
care  that  his  master  shall  lack  no  service. 
So  then,  Sir  John  thinks  that  Maud  is  your 
daughter  as  well  as  I  ?" 

**  I  suppose  so.  It  matters  nothing.  In 
a  short  iime  he  will  go  away,  and  in  a— 
perhaps — rather  longer  time,  will  have  for- 
gotten all  about  us ;  so  that  it  was  very 
unnecessary  to  trouble  him  with  ikmily 
details.'* 

**If  he  forgets  all  about  ^ou,  it  will 
be  very  ungi*ateful.  Uncle  Charles,"  said 
Maud. 

From  the  earliest  days  of  her  coming  to 
the  vicai-age,  Maud  Desmond  had  been 
used  to  call  Mr.  Levincourt  and  his  wife 
"uncle"  and  "aunt;**  although  she  was, 
of  amrse,  aware  that  no  relationship  really 
existed  between  tliem  and  herself. 

"  Ungi-ateful  ?  Well  I  don't  know.  It 
would  scarcely  have  been  pi'acticablo  to 
Iwive  liim  outside  the  garden  gate  all  night. 
Oo  you  know  any  one  who  would  have 
shut  the  door  and  gone  in  quietly  to  bed 
under  the  circumstances?** 

**  Forget  us  !**  cried  Veronica,  with  an 
impatient  shrurj  of  her  shoulders;  "no 
doubt  he  will  forget  us  !  Who  that  once 
turned  his  back  on  Shipley  would  cai'oever 
to  tliiuk  of  it  again  ?" 

"  T  would,"  replied  ^laud,  very  quietly. 

"  Would  you  ?  I  am  not  sure  of  that. 
But  at  all  events  the  cases  are  widely  dif- 
ferent. Sir  Jolm  is  wealthy.  Ho  can 
travel.  He  lias  seen  many  countiies,  Paul 
says  :  France,  Italy,  tho  East.  He  can  go 
where  he  pleases:  can  enjc»y  society.  O, 
Shiploy-in-the-Wold  must  be  a  mere  little 
Vffiy  )Aot  on  his  maji  of  the  world  !" 
The  vicar  sighed,  uncrossctl  his  legs,  and 


>« 


:^c 


sii'tiiahed  them  out  straight  before  him,  so 
as  to  bnug.hi8  feet  nearer  to  the  fire. 

"  Wliat  mada^him  come  to  the  little  ugly 
blot,  then,  wlian  he  had  all  the  sunny 
plaoiaa  to  choose  from  r*'  demanded  Maud, 
indignantly. 

"  He  came  for  the  hunting,  X  suppose. 

"  Very  well,  then ;  you  see  tliero  waa 
something  iu  Shipley  that  he  couldn't  get 
in  his  Fr^oa^  and  Bis  Italy,  and  his  East !" 

Veronica  burst  out  Iftugldng.  She  seated 
herself  on  the  inig  at  Inland's  feet,.aiid  leas- 
ing back  looked  up  into  her  &ob.  **  What 
a  ofaild  you  ara,  Maadie !"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Hi4i  France  and  lUs  East !  Yea :  I  sup- 
pose rich  people  find  good  things  cveij- 
where — even  in  Sliiplcy.*' 

"  And  they  get  pitched  off  their  horses, 
and  are  bruised  and  cut,  and  burnt  bj 
fever,  and  prostrated  by  weakness,  in  spite 
of  their  riches,**  observed  Maud,  philoso- 
phically. 

"  Children,*'  said  the  vicar,  suddenly, 
"do  you  want  to  go  to  Lowater  on  the 
nineteenth  ?'* 

"Of  course  we  do,  papa.  What  is  it? 
Have  yon  hiui  an  invitotion  ?" 

Veronica's  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  rosy 
lips  smiled,  and  she  clapped  her  slender 
hands  together  joyously.  Maud,  too,  looked 
eager  and  interested. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Levincourt;  "I 
have  had  an  invitation  for  us  all  to  dine 
with  the  Shcardowns  on  the  nineteenth.  It 
is  their  wedding-day.'* 

"  How  exquisite !"  cried  Veronica,  seii- 
ing  one  of  Maud's  hands  that  rested  on  her 
shoulder,  and  squeezing  it  hard.  "A 
dinner  party !  A  well  in  the  desert !  A 
tnfl  of  palm-trees  in  a  barren  land !" 

"  I  suppose  we  must  go,"  said  tho  view, 
plaintively. 

"  I  '  suppose  we  must,'  indeed.  Why, 
papa,  you  know  you  like  the  idea  of  it  as 
much  as  wo  do.** 

"I  am  always  charmed  to  meet  Mrs. 
Slieardown  and  the  captain.** 

"No  doubt  of  it,'*  cried  Veronica,  now 
in  a  full  glow  of  excitement.  "  W^o  know 
that  you  are  Mistress  Nelly  Sheardown'B 
most  devoted  cavalier.  But  it  isn't  only 
that.,  papa  mio.  You  like  the  idea  of  a 
change,  a  break  in  the  monotony,  a  peep 
at  something  beyond  Shipley.  You  would 
like  to  go,  if  it  were  even  to  dine  at  Hay- 
moor  T^-ith  old  Lady  Alicia.  And  quite  right 
too,  say  I.** 

Tiie  vicar  made  an  attempt  to  assert  his 
prerogative  of  victimhood,  but  in  vain. 

The  varying  thermometer  of  Veronica's 


=4 


^ 


OhartM  Diokenfl.] 


VERONICA. 


[AogOBtSl,  1869.]       267 


spirits  had  risen  to  fever  heat,  and  she 
rattled  on  volubly,  speculating  as  to  who 
there  would  be  at  Lo water ;  whether  Mrs. 
Sheardown  would  contrive  to  give  them  a 
dance  in  the  evening;  what  she  should 
wear  (exhaustless  theme),  and  so  forth. 

At  length  the  stream  of  words  slackened, 
end  then  ceased.  The  rival  merits  of  scarlet 
and  amber  ribbons  demanded  an  absorbed 
and  silent  consideration. 

"  Don't  you  think.  Uncle  Charles,"  said 
Maud,  "  that  Mrs.  Sheardown  is  the 
sweetest  woman  you  ever  saw  ?" 

"  She  is  charming,  in  truth ;  charming 
and  excellent ;  and,  moreover,  possesses  a 
mind  of  a  very  superior  calibre." 

"  Bravo,  Uncle  Charles !  And  then  she 
is — in  my  eyes,  at  least — so  pretty.  That 
quality  must  not  be  omitted  in  the  cata- 
kgoe  of  her  perfections." 

'*I  am  not  quite  sure  on  the  point, 
Maudie.  Is  she  very  pretty?  I  don't 
think  that  any  man  would  ever  have 
ftllen  in  love  with  Mrs.  Sheardown  for 
her  beauty." 

"  Peiiiaps  not.  And  if  so,  all  the  better. 
Sure  I  am  that  any  who  once  loved  her 
would  nevc^  cease  to  think  her  beautiful." 

Veronica  looked  up.  "All  true,"  she 
said.  ^'  I  agree  with  your  euloffium.  And 
observe  that  it  is  pure  magnanimity  which 
prompts  me  to  do  so.  For,  sweet  Mistress 
Nelly  does  not  like  me  one  bit." 

"  O  Veronica !" 

"  O  Maud !  It  is  so.  I  have  a  sixth 
sense,  which  never  deceives  me  in  these 
matters.  I  knouj  that  to  Mrs.  Sheardown 
I  am  not  simpatica." 

"Simpatica!  Nonsense.  Whenever  you 
use  an  Italian  word  where  an  English  one 
would  serve,  I  know  that  you  are  saying 
something  that  won't  bear  delight.  Why 
should  not  Mrs.  Sheardown  lie  you  ?" 

Veronica  clasped  her  hands  behind  her 
head,  and  rested  both  head  and  arms  on 
Maud's  knee.  Tlien,  with  her  eyes  cast 
contemplatively  upward,  "Because  I  am 
not  good,"  said  she. 

The  vicar's  brows  contracted  into  an  un- 
easy pucker  as  he  looked  down  on  his 
da^hter's  beautiful  face. 

**  Veronica,"  he  said,  almost  sternly,  "I 
wish  you  would  not  say  such  things." 

"  VeiT  well,  papa;  I  won't." 

*'  Still  more,  I  wish  that  you  would  not 
think  such  thoughts." 

"  Ah,  questo  poi 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Catherine,  the 
maid,  putting  her  rosy  face  into  the  room, 
**  here  is  Mr.  Plew." 


»> 


Mr.  Plew  was  hospitably  invited  to  enter. 
The  surgeon  of  Shipley  was  a  small  man, 
with  a  fringe  of  straight  light  hair  round 
a  bald  crown.  His  eyes  were  of  a  weak 
blue  tint,  his  skin  usually  pale  yellow.  On 
the  present  occasion,  however,  it  burnt  with 
a  fiery  red,  in  consequence  of  the  change 
fix>m  the  piercing  outer  air  to  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  vicar's  well- warmed  and  well- 
lighted  parlour.  His  eyes  watered,  and  his 
frost-inflamed  nose  glowed  like  a  hot  coal, 
above  the  white  woollen  comforter  that  en- 
veloped his  throat. 

"  I  fear  I  am  intruding  at  an  unseason- 
able hour,"  said  Mr.  Plew,  speaking  with  a 
strong  provincial  accent  and  a  gentle,  de- 
precating manner. 

"By  no  means.  Pray  come  in.  It  is 
our  idle  hour,  you  know.  Veronica,  ring 
for  a  clean  cup,  and  give  Mr.  Plew  some 
tea,"  said  the  vicar. 

"  Not  any,  thank  you.  Pray  don't  move. 
Miss  Levincourt.  I  have  just  left  our 
patient's  room.  I  could  not  resist  coming 
to  congratulate  you  on  the  favourable 
verdict  that  Dr.  Gxmnery  pronounced  this 
morning.  Paul  told  me.  I  was  unable 
to  be  here  eariier  in  the  day.  But  from 
my  own  observation  of  Sir  John's  condition 
this  evening,  I  am  quite  able  to  endorse 
what  Dr.  Unnnery  said.  Danger  is  over 
for  the  present." 

Mr.  Plew  spoke  in  a  rather  hesitating, 
shy  way.  And,  although  he  seemingly 
tried  to  control  his  wandering  glances,  he 
could  not  help  turning  his  eyes  at  every 
minute  towards  the  hearth,  where  Miss 
Levincourt  still  remained  in  her  nonchalant 
attitude  on  the  rug. 

"  Veronica,  get  up,'*  whispered  Maud. 

"  Why  ?  I  am  very  comfortable.  Mr. 
Plew  is  an  old  friend.  We  don't  treat  him 
with  ceremony;  do  we,  Mr.  Plew?"  said 
Veronica  aloud. 

"  0  dear.  Miss  Levincourt,  I  trust  not. 
I  beg — tliat  is — I  hope  you  would  not 
think  of  disturbing  yourself  on  my  account." 

"  Then  you  must  seek  another  cusliion," 
said  Maud,  bluntly.  "  I  am  weary  of  your 
weight.  You  are  as  well  able  to  support 
yourself,  as  I  am  to  support  you." 

With  that.  Miss  Desmond  rose,  crossed 
the  room,  and  took  a  chair  beside  the  vicar. 
Mr.  Plew's  face  uttered  a  mute  and  dis- 
approving commentary  on  the  action. 

Veronica  caught  his  look,  and  instantly 
answered  it  by  speech. 

"  Is  Miss  Desmond  bound  to  give  way  to 
my  whims,  pray  ?     I  have  iqoy^  «»\SL^^K\vft«» 
in  my  UtUe  fingOT  t\iB20L  ^"a  \Maa  m  "^^^ 


<dJ 


268       [Augntt21, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Gondnctadbf 


whole  composition.  She  is  worth  three 
times  my  weight,  in  pure  gold.  Ain't  yon, 
Mandie?" 

"  I  shonld  say,"  answered  Maud,  stiffly, 
*Hhat  a  discussion  of  our  comparative 
merits  would  be  highly  uninteresting  to 
Mr.  Plew." 

Mr.  Plew  looked  amazingly  uncomfort- 
able.    The  vicar  came  to  his  rescue. 

"We  are  much  obliged  to  your  unre- 
mitting attention,  Mr.  Plew.  And  to  it 
is  owing,  under  Providence,  the  happy  issue 
of  this  affair.  I  can  venture  to  say  that 
Sir  John  is  very  sensible  of  his  debt  to 
you.  I  have  seen  and  spoken  with  him 
to-day  for  the  first  time." 

"  0,  indeed,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes ;  a  veiy  agreeable  man,  Sir  John." 

"  I  dare  say  he  is,  Mr.  Levincourt.  But 
you  know  the  circumstances  under  which  I 
have  seen  him  have  not  been  favourable 
exactly."     Here  Mr.  Plew  tittered  faintly. 

"  H'm !  Not  a  good  patient,  eh  ?" 

"  I  won't  say  that,  sir.  But  I  should  say 
he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  be  restrained 
in  any  way.  His  servant  manages  him, 
though." 

"  Paul  is  a  capital  fellow ;  one  of  those 
excellent  servants  that  one  never  finds  in 
England." 

"  Indeed,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  our  soil  won't  grow  them.  Or,  if 
one  is  to  be  found  hero  and  thero,  they  aro, 
at  any  rate,  not  indigenous  to  Dane- 
shiro." 

"  Daneslure  people,  high  or  low,  are  not 
remarkable  for  civility,"  observed  Veronica. 

"Nor  servility,"  aaded  Maud. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  soon  be  losing  our 
guest,"  resumed  the  vicar.  "  He  spoke  to- 
day of  relieving  us  of  his  presence,  et  cetera. 
The  fact  is,  that  to  us  personally  his  stay 
involves  scarcely  any  inconvenience.  But 
he  will  naturally  be  anxious  to  be  gone  as 
soon  as  may  be.  How  soon  do  you  think 
he  will  be  able  to  travel  ?" 

Mr.  Plew  could  not  tell.  He  would  be 
able  to  judge  better  on  that  point  when  the 
sick  man  should  have  left  his  couch.  He 
anticipated  that  Sir  John  would  find  him- 
self very  weak.  There  had  been  much 
prostration. 

"I  hear,"  proceeded  Mr.  Plew,  "that 
Sir  John  (bale's  groom  and  three  hunters 
have  been  sent  away  from  the  Crown.  I 
was  at  Shipley  Magna  to-day,  and  was 
told  that  the  servant  and  horses  had  left 
for  Danecester  on  Wednesday.  They  are 
bound  for  a  place,  that  Sir  John  owns,  in 
II  the  Bontb^  Bomewhere.    I  forget  the  name 


of  it.     He  is  inmiensely  rich,  from  what  I 
can  gather." 

As  thus  Mr.  Plew  gossipped  on,  in  a  mono- 
tonous tone,  the  vicar  listened,  or  seemed  to 
listen,  with  half-closed  eyes.     His  thoughts 
were  in  reality  harking  back  to  Veronica's 
phrase  that  Shipley  must  be  "  a  mere  little 
ugly  blot "  in  Sir  John's  map  of  the  world. 
And  then    the    vicar    indulged  in    some 
"sweet  self-pity;"    contrasting    his  days 
spent  among  Daneshire  hinds,  and  under 
Daneshire  skies,   with   the    brightness  of 
his  three  years'  sojourn  abroad.     And  yet 
those  years  spent  in  foreign  lands  had  been 
haunted  by  tne  ghost  of  a  lost  love,  and  by 
a  vain  regret. 

Presently  Mr.  Plew's  talk  turned  on  the 
choir  of  Sti  GKldas,  the  progress  it  had 
made,  and  the  desirability  of  introdudng 
still  further  improvements.  Then  Mr. 
Levincourt  roused  himself  to  attend  to  what 
was  being  said.  He  began  to  talk  himself^ 
and  he  talked  very  well.  Veronica  and 
Maud  sat  a  little  apart,  away  from  the 
glare  of  the  fire,  and  held  a  whispered 
consultation  as  to  their  toilets  on  the 
nineteenth. 

Maud  had  her  share  of  natural  girlish 
interest  in  the  topic;  but  she  tired  of  it 
long  before  her  companion.  With  a  qniet 
movement  she  drew  a  book  from  beneath 
a  heap  of  coloured  wools  and  canvas  in  her 
work-basket,  and  began  to  read,  almost 
stealthily,  half  hidden  behind  the  vioar'a. 
arm-chair. 

Veronica  advanced  to  the  hearth,  drew 
her  chair  up  opposite  to  Mr.  Plew,  and 
disposed  one  foot,  coquettishly  peeping 
from  under  the  folds  of  her  dress,  on  the 
polished  steel  bar  of  the  fender. 

Mr.  Plew  stumbled,  stammered,  and  lost 
the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  vicar,  "  I 
don't  comprehend  your  last  remark.  I 
was  saying  that,  there  are  some  pretty 
quaint  bits  of  melody  in  those  sonatas  of 
Kozeluch.  Mifls  Desmond  plays  the  piano- 
forte part.  Bring  your  fiute  some  evening, 
and  try  them  over  with  her.  The  piano- 
forte may  be  unlocked  again  now,  I  sup- 
pose. When  I  said  that  Sir  John's  stay 
involved  no  personal  inconvenience  to  us,! 
reckoned  on  our  being  allowed  to  hear  the 
voice  of  music  once  again." 

"Mr.  Plew's  flute  has  the  softest  of 
voices,  papa.  I  am  sure  its  aerial  breath- 
ings could  not  penetrate  to  the  blue 
chamber." 

"  Ah,  there,  now — ^there.  Miss  Veronica 
— ^Miss  Levincourt — ^you're  chafiKng  xne." 


! 


& 


J 


VERONICA. 


[AagnBt91«18«9.]      269 


u 


Eh  ?"  (with  wide-opened  eyes,  and 
superb  arching  of  the  brows.) 

"  I  beg  pardon — laughing  at  me." 

"  How  can  you  think  so,  Mr.  Plew  ?'* 

"Oh,  I  know.  But  you  are  privileged, 
of  course." 

«  Am  I  ?" 

"I  mean  young  ladies  in  general  are 
privileged  to  say  what  they  please.  I'm 
sure,  now,  that  you  don't  really  care  about 
my  flute  playing.  You  would  not  like  to 
hear  it." 

"But  it  is  papa  and  Miss  Desmond 
whom  you  play  for.  If  they  are  satisfied, 
all  is  well.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a 
virtuosa.  And  I  will  say  this  for  your 
ihite,  Mr.  Plew;  it  is  very  unobtrusive." 

The  sparkle  of  raillery  in  her  eyes,  the 
saucy  smile  on  her  lip,  ^e  half  disdainful 
grace  of  her  attitude,  appeared  to  entrance 
the  little  surgeon.  His  eyes  blinked  as  he 
looked  at  her.  There  was  no  revolt  in  his 
meek  soul  against  the  scarcely  disguised 
insolence  of  her  manner. 

The  vicar  was  a  man  of  fine  breeding. 
His  daughter's  behaviour  to-night  jarred 
on  his  taste.  Mr.  Levincourt  did  not 
QsnaUy  trouble  himself  to  pbserve,  still  less 
to  correct,  such  shortcomings.  But  his  in- 
terview with  Sir  John  G^e  had  awakened 
old  associations.  He  was  conscious  of  the 
impression  which  his  own  polished  address 
had  made  on  his  guest. 

When  Mr.  Plew  had  departed,  the  vicar 
said,  in  a  tone  more  of  complaint  than  re- 
bake,  "You  should  not  tease  that  mild 
little  man,  Veronica.  He  does  not  under- 
stand raillery,  and  wiU  either  presume  on 
it  to  become  familiar,  or  else  suffer  from 
wounded  feeling.  .  Neither  alternative  is  to 
be  desired." 

"  Papa  mio,  he  likes  it !" 

"  But  I  do  not.  Besides,  it  is  of  you 
that  I  am  thinking.  Flippancy  in  a 
woman  is,  of  all  things,  the  most  detest- 
able. Not  to  speak  of  the  matter  on 
higher  grounds"  (the  vicar  habitually 
avoided  all  appeal  to  "  higher  grounds  "  in 
his  non-professional  moments)  ;  "  it  is  ut- 
teriy  in  bad  taste — ^mauvais  genre." 

Veronica  flushed  high  with  anger,  for  her 
amour  propre  was  stung ;  but  by  the  time 
that  she  and  Maud  retired  for  the  night, 
the  cloud  of  temper  had  dispersed.  Yc- 
Toniea  came  into  Maud's  room,  and  began 
chatting  gaily  about  Mrs.  Sheardown's 
dinner  party. 

"Maud,  said  she,  "Maud,  I  have 
decided  on  amber — a  good  rich  amber, 
yoa  know.     I  ahaU  wear  an  amber  satin 


sash  with  my  white  dress,  and  a  streak  of 
the  same  colour — just  a  band  of  it — ^in  my 
hair." 

"Very  well." 

"  Very  well  ?  Are  you  in  one  of  your 
frozen  moods,  Maud  Hilda  Desmond?  If 
so,  thaw  as  quickly  as  may  be;  I  want 
to  talk  to  you." 

Maud  wrapped  a  white  dressing-gown 
around  her,  seated  herself  by  the  fire,  and 
proceeded  to  loosen  her  straight  silky  hair 
from  its  plaits. 

After  a  pause  she  said,  "  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  frozen,  Veronica;  but  your  sudden 
changes  of  temperature  are  fatiguing. 
Just  now,  you  were  like  a  brooding  thunder 
cloud.  At  present,  all  is  sunshine  and  blue 
sky.  Do  you  suppose  you  are  likely  always 
to  find  persons  able  and  willing  to  follow 
these  capricious  variations  ?" 

Veronica  took  this  speech  very  meekly. 
"  I  can't  help  it,  Maudie,"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  you  can ;  you  can  command  your- 
self when  there  is  a  sufficient  object  in 
view.  You  don't  exhibit  these  vagaries  in 
the  presence  of  people  whom  you  desire  to 
charm." 

"  I  wonder  why  I  let  you  talk  so  to  me  ! 
I  am  your  elder  by  two  years,  you  little 
solemn  white  owl !" 

Maud  quietly  released  the  last  coil  of  her 
hair  from  its  bonds,  and  said  nothing. 
Suddenly  Veronica  knelt  down  by  her 
companion's  side  and  clasped  her  arms 
round  her  waist.  So  she  remained,  still 
and  silent  for  some  minutes.  Then  she 
slid  down  into  her  favourite  posture  on  the 
rug,  and  exclaimed,  without  looking  up :  "I 
wish  I  could  be  good  like  you,  Maud  !" 

"  Nonsense !  Orood  like  me  ?  I  am  not 
very  good.  But  wo  can  all  be  better  if  we 
tryhaopd." 

"  I  cannot.  No ;  I  cannot.  I — ^I — ^want 
so  many  things  that  good  people  despise — 
or  protend  to  despise." 

"  What  things  ?" 

"0,  I  don't  know,  all  sorts  of  things. 
Is  there  nothing  you  want  ?" 

"  Plenty  of  tibings  I  should  like.  But  I 
don't  see  how  wanting  things  should  pre- 
vent your  being  good." 

"But  I  want  vain,  wicked,  worldly, 
things,  Maudie !" 

"  And  do  you  think  vain,  wicked,  worldly, 
things  would  make  you  happy  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  There  !  Don't  look  so  scared 
and  open  your  eyes  so  wide,  white  owL 
That's  the  truth.  You  always  advocate 
speaking  the  truth,  you  know.  Gx)od- 
night." 


V 


>\ 


^ 


i 


270      [Angiut  21, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROIHSTD. 


rOOBdnetedlv 


"  Good-night,  Veronica.  You  are  in  one 
of  your  perverse  moods  to-night.  There  is 
no  use  in  arguing  with  you." 

"Not  a  bit  of  use!" 

**But  you  are  iiviser  than  your  words. 
You  know  better." 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it !  I  wish  I  didn't 
know  better.  The  fools  are  never  troubled 
by  knowing  better.  I  know  the  better 
and  want  the  worse.  There  now,  you  are 
frozen  into  an  ice-maiden,  again !" 

Maud  remained  pale  and  silent,  gazing 
straight  before  her. 

Veronica  waited  a  minute,  lingering  near 
the  door,  and  then  with  a  httlo  defiant  toss 
of  the  head,  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
lefc  the  room,  without  another  word. 

The  house  was  still;  the  vibrations  of 
the  last  stroke  of  eleven,  boomed  out  by  the 
deep- voiced  bell  of  St.  GKldafi,  were  dying 
away ;  tlie  glow  of  the  fire  had  died  down 
to  a  faint  red  glimmer,  when  a  white  figure 
gUded  noiselessly  to  Maud's  bedside. 

"  Maudie !     Maudie !     Are  you  asleep  ?" 

"  Veronica !  What  is  it  ?  What  is  the 
matter  ?" 

"Nothing.  Kiss  me,  Maud.  I  cannot 
sleep  until  you  have  done  so." 

Maud  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow 
and  kissed  the  other  girl's  cheek. 

"  Good  -  night,  dear  Veronica,"  she 
whispered. 

"  God  bless  you,  Maudie  !" 

A  SUCCESS  ON  THE  STAGE. 


Two-AND-TWENTT  ycars  have  passed  since 
the  present  writer,  then  for  the  first  time  mak- 
ing tlic  acquaintance  of  celebrated  places  and 
people  in  Loudon,  had  pointed  out  to  him  a 
tall  wiry  old  man  with  bleared  eyes,  a  ffrizzled 
moustache,  and  a  general  appearance  of  naving 
often  heard  (as  at  the  moment  ho  was  hear- 
ing), the  chimes  at  midnight.  A  noticeable 
man,  too,  with  his  broad  shoulders  and  sinewy 
hands  showing  the  remains  of  great  power,  and 
with  his  tightly-fitting  trousers— which  in 
those  days  when  men  wore  flowing  garments 
looked  even  more  peculiar  than  they  would 
in  these  times  —  his  enormous  drab  great- 
coat, and  his  low-crowned  hat.  This  was  Sir 
Wliinny  Trotman,  whose  claim  to  celebrity 
was,  that  he  was  the  last  of  that  famous  band 
of  amateur  coachmen,  who  used  to  drive  the 
stage-coaches  in  various  parts  of  England :  he 
being  the  identical  person  who  would  have  a 
silver  sandwich-box  handed  round  among  his 
paasengurs,  and  who,  at  the  end  of  the  journey, 
would  come  up  and  touch  his  hat  to  them  for 
half-crowns.  He  was  the  last  of  them,  and 
even  ho  Jiad  retired  from  the  box,  for  the 
f/  coachiuff-dayB  bad  retired  from  him.  On  the 
Brighton  road  there  BiHl  ran  one  coach,  "The 


Age,"    but  it  went  a  round-about  way  by 
Leatherhead  and  Horsham,  carried  very  few 
^'  through "  passengers,  and  for  its  existence 
depended   mostly   on   parcels.     '*  Gentleman 
l^rackenbury"  too,  one  of  the  best  whips  and 
pleasantest  fellows  among  professional  coach- 
men, was  reported  to  be  driving  a  good  team 
between  Dorking  station  and  GnildH)rd  town ; 
but  save  in  remote  districts  those  were  the 
only  coaches  extant.    A  box-coat  of  portentous 
size,  with  huge  pockets  and  buttons  as  large 
as  cheese-plates,  made  of  mother-of-pearl  and 
oniamented  with  cleverly  executed  pictures  of 
stage-coaches,  which  stood  in  the  windows  of 
a   tailor's   shop   in   the  Quadrant,   and   the 
spirited  sketches  of  coaching  incidents  pub- 
hshed   by  Messrs.   Fores,  were  ail  that  re- 
mained to  ahow  to  the  living  generati6n  the 
glories  of  the  bygone  time,    ^le  Four-in-haod 
Club,  at  one  time  so  fashionable,  bad  dwindled 
away  to  nothing.     "  You  see  occasionally  in 
Hyde  Park,  one  dismal  old  drag  with  a  lonelj 
driver,"  says  Mr.  Thackeray,  writing  so  re- 
cently as  1864.    And  again,  "Where  are  you, 
charioteers?    Where  are  you,  O  ratting  Qniok- 
silver,  O  swift  Defiance?    You  are  past  b^ 
racers  stronger  and  swifter  than  you.    Your 
lamps  are  out,  and  the  music  of  your  honis  has 
dieci  away." 

But  the  whirligig  of  Time,  which  reproducee, 
slightly  modified,  the  garments,  the  mannera 
and  customs,  the  tastes  and  pleasures,  of  onr 
grandsires,  as  novelties  for  our  sons,  has 
brought  coaching  once  more  into  fashioxL 
This  was  to  be  expected.  A  love  for  horse- 
flesh is  inherent  m  all  EngUshmen ;  the 
English  coach-horse  is  a  style  of  animal  not 
to  be  met  with  in  any  other  country  ;  and  in 
carriage- building  and  harness-making  we  are 
immeasurably  ahead  of  the  world.  No  wonder, 
then,  that  the  old  tastes  should  revive.  No 
wonder  that  in  the  Park  this  season  one  has 
seen  daily  a  dozen  drags,  each  vieing  witii 
the  other  in  the  quaUty  of  its  cattle,  the 
taste  of  its  appointments,  the  skill  of  its 
driver.  No  wonder  that  societies  of  gentlemen 
have  started  pubUc  coaches  on  various  roads 
out  of  London.  Coaches  which  they  horse 
with  their  own  teams,  and  generally  drive 
themselves,  for  tliey  are  thus  enabled  to  baye 
all  the  pleasures  of  a  private  drag  at  a  some- 
what reduced  expense,  and  they  luve  a  lorelj 
country  to  drive  through,  and  a  destinatiffli  to 
make  for,  instead  of  that  never-varying  circiiit 
of  the  Park,  that  perpetual  exchange  of  Bays- 
water  for  Kensuigton,  and  vice  veraft,  which, 
after  a  time,  must  become  soul-harrowing 
work. 

Let  us  attend  one  of  these  most  agreeable 
of  ^'revivals,"  and  see  whether  any  of  the 
romance  of  the  road  yet  survives.  So  fast  has 
the  infection  spread  that  whereas,  three  •jaais 
ago,  we  could  not  have  found  a  foor-horBe 
coach  within  a  hundred  miles  of  the  metro- 
polis, we  can  now  take  our  choice  of  three 
different  routes  from  London.  We  can  go 
into  Kent,  and,  in  contented  possession  of  the 
box-acsbt,    «ii\oy    simultaneoualy   the  lorelj 


'^^ 


4 


Ghuias  Dickens.] 


\  SUCCESS  ON  THE  STAGE. 


rAiigii8t2l,  1869.]      271 


scenery  and  the  quaint  idiomatic  conycrsation 
of  the  coachman :  a  jovial,  genial  gentleman, 
who  bears  the  whole  of  the  expense  of  the 
affair.  We  can  be  carried  into  Berks  under 
the  auspices  of  a  noble  lord,  or  under  those 
of  his  partner,  that  well-known  sporting  per- 
sonage, Mr.  Cherubim.  (Ah,  Cherubim,  how 
long  is  it  since  you  and  I  rode  on  a  drag  to- 
gether for  a  trip  from  Oxford  to  Henley  and 
Maidenhead,  and  how  many  of  that  pleasant 
company  have  '*  gone  under*'  since  that  time !) 
Or,  we  can  go  to  Brighton  by  the  coach,  the 
starting  of  which  gave  life  to  the  present 
revival  movement.  That  sounds  pleasantest — 
a  drive  to  Brighton,  a  swim  at  Brill's,  a  little 
dinner  at  the  Albion,  and  home  by  the  evening 
train.    AVe  decide  for  Brighton. 

The  Brighton  coach  starts  from  the  Ship  at 
Charing  Cross  punctually  at  eleven.  When 
we  arrive  there,  a  few  minutes  before  tlie  time, 
a  little  crowd  has  already  collecti^d,  which  eyes 
the  vehicle,  the  team,  and  the  Intending  pas- 
sengers, vrith  curiosity  mingled  with  admira- 
tion. There  are  boys  with  newspapers,  and 
children  with  dgar-Ughts ;  but  what  has  be- 
come of  the  man  with  the  net  of  lemons,  the 
man  with  the  many-bladed  knife — ^which  he 
was  always  proving  on  his  tattered  leather 
glove,  and  the  man  with  a  silver  watch-guard 
extended  between  the  forefingers  of  his  hands, 
who  always  used  to  haunt  the  AVhite  Horse 
Cellar  and  the  Ship,  on  the  departure  of 
the  coaches?  AVhile  we  are  lookmg  at  the 
coach,  which  is  bcautifuUy  built  and  hung, 
with  an  imder  carriage  singularly  light  for 
its  strength,  and  is  coloured  dark  blue  with 
red  wheels,  the  honorary  secretary  intrmluces 
himself  to  us,  and  from  him  —  bright, 
active,  and  intelligent — we  learn  some  par- 
ticulars of  the  business  arrangements  of  the 
concern. 

There  arc,  it  seems,  five  proprietors  by  whom 
the  coach  is  horsed :    one  of  theui,   who  is 
perhaps    the    finest  whip    in   England,    pro- 
viding the  teams  for  two  stages.    The  sclwmc 
was  entered  on  as  a  hobby  by  these  gentle- 
men, and  as  such  it  continues ;   but  our  in- 
formant expects  that  this  year  the  balance  sheet 
will  show  that  the  returns  equal  the  expenses ; 
not  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  horses,  of  course, 
for,  as  we  shall  see,  nearly  all  the  teams  are 
composed  of  valuable  horses;   but  the  corn- 
chandler's  bill,  the  stabling  and  the  wages  of 
the  professional  coachman  and  guard.    The 
professional    coachman  ?     Oh    yes,    there    is 
always  a  professional  coachman,  ready  to  take 
the  ribbons  in  case  all  the  gentlemen  should 
be  engaged,  and  one  of  the  strict^>Kt  rules  is 
that   no  amateur — ^the  proprietors  have  been 
driving  all  their  lives  and  can  scarcely  be  re- 
garded as  amateurs — shall  on  any  pretext  be 
allowed  to  have  anytliing    to    do    witli  the 
horses.     **  I  want  to  learn  to  drive,  and  I'm 
thinking  of  taking  some  shares  in  your  coach !" 
nid  a  young  gentleman  last  sumnior.    **  When 
you  have  learned  to  drive,  it  will  be  time  enough 
to  think  whether  we  will  allow  you  to  take 
any  aharea,"  was  the  reply.    Our  professional, 


even  when  not  dri\'ing,  rarely  misses  a  journey ; 
he  is  heart  and  soul  in  the  concern,  and  tokest 
as  much  pride  and  interest  in  it  as  any  of  us. 
Here  he  is  ;  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Te<lder. 
(lliere  is  no  reason  why  Alfred  Tedders  name 
should  not  appear  here.  He  was  for  many 
years  a  first-class  coacliman  on  the  Oxford 
road,  and,  as  we  are  assured,  has  the  good 
word  of  every  one  who  knows  him.)  Tedder 
will  not  drive  to-day,  however.  This  is  rather 
a  gala-day;  three  out  of  the  five  proprietoi's 
are  coming  down,  and  the  first  stage  will  be 
driven  by  the  Colonel. 

The  busy  hands  are  slipping  over  Big  Ben's 
great  face,  the  crowd  of  bystanding  idlers  is 
increased,  the  helpers  are  ready  at  the  horses' 
heads,  and  there  are  other  signs  of  departure. 
Two  big  sacks,  one  of  them  labelled  as  contain- 
ing ice,  are  slung  up  beneath  the  bacdc  seat,  two 
ladies  are  inside,  and  the  outside  passengers 
are  enjoined  to  take  their  places.    Two  of  th<^ 
proprietors — brothera,  portly,  pleasant,  jovial 
gentlemen,  in  figure  and  hearty  geniali^-  re- 
calling the  Cheeryble  brothers — get  up  behind, 
where  they  are  joined  by  Tedder  and  the  guard. 
To  us  is  allotted  the  honour  of  the  box-seat. 
The  others  climb  to  their  seats,  then  tlie  Colonel 
swings  himself  up  beside  us,  the  helpers  loose 
their  hold  on  the  horses,  the  horn  sounds,  and 
we  ore  off.    Whitehall  is  pretty  full.  Parlia- 
ment-street is  thronged,  and  there  is  a  crowd 
on  W^estminster-bridge  ;  but  the  Colonel,  who 
is  a  slight,  slim,  wiry  man  of  middle  age,  with 
a  clear  blue  eye,  which  shows  you  at  once 
that  he  could  never  be   surprised  or  taken 
aback,   heeds  not  such  obstacles.     With  liis 
whi])  in  the  socket,  he  quietly  tools  his  team  of 
four  handsome  brown  horses  along,  tolkhig  to 
us  that  airiest  and  pleasantest  gossi]),   that 
cliit-cliat  which  is  so  light  and  yet  so  difiicult 
to  sustain,  which  none  but  accomplished  men  of 
tlic  worl(l  manage  to  rattle   on  with.     Now, 
amidst  Ktares  of  the  populace  and  hat  touches 
from  all  the  omnibus  orivers,  we  bowl  along 
through  that  strange  region  between  West- 
minster   and     Kennington    Park,    region    of 
marine-store    shops,    fried-fish    vendors,   and 
cheap  photographic  artists.    Elderly  merchants 
and  City  men,  who  can  afford  to  take  things 
easily,   are  driving  townward  in    their    mail 
phaeton.    On  the  box  of  one  of  the  omnibuses 
we  meet  a  well-known  theatrical  manager,  deep 
in  his   newspaper;    and  at  Kennington-gate 
cheery  greetings  are  exchanged  between  several 
of  our  party  and  a  weather-stained  veteran, 
who  was  for  many  years  a  four-horse  whip, 
but  who.  under  pressure  of  circumstances,  has 
descended  to  a  'bus.     At  Kennington-gate, 
did  we  say?     That  stronghold  of   tolls  has 
been  swept  away,  long  since,  and  tlie  actual 
turnpike-gate,  over  which  there  were  so  many 
hard  fights  on  Derby  days,  may  be  seen  close 
by  Brixton-hill,    liaving   been  bought  by  an 
omnibus  proprietor,  and  converted  into  part  of 
the  fence  for  his  property. 

Now,   through  Streatham,  where  the  new 
villas  and  the  old  brick  ho\ifi&«^  ^\jKCk!^\i^\»RSEw 
from  the  road  in  ^\ve\i  \iuii  ^bi^^t\&,\^n^  «». 


If 


<A 


^ 


272      [AiigaBt21,18«».] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoetedt; 


1 1 


air  of  health  and  comfort  not  unmixed  with 
Dissent ;  where  troops  of  young  ladies,  in  regi- 
mental order,  cast  demure  glances  at  us  as  we 
hurry  by,  and  where  the  air  rings  with  the 
overture  to  Semiramide  and  Czemy's  exercises, 
which  come  pealing  through  the  windows  of 
the  innumerable  ^^  seminaries^'  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Within  the  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  we  have  done  our  first  stage,  and  arrive 
at  Croydon,  where  the  *'  change'*  is  awaiting 
us.  The  new  team,  having  a  longer  and 
a  heaWer  stage  to  get  through,  are  of  a 
different  stamp  —  two  roans,  model  coach- 
horses,  and  two  bays.  Now,  we  pass  our  first 
toll-bar,  Foxley  Hatch— pass  it,  too,  unno- 
ticed ;  for  the  novelty  of  the  coach's  appear- 
ance has  worn  off,  and  the  tollman,  secure  of 
his  money,  does  not  trouble  himself  to  rise 
from  his  seat.  Here  we  come  into  close  prox- 
imity with  our  rival,  the  rail,  dropping  down 
upon  him  just  at  what  he,  in  his  ridiculous 
language,  calls  Caterham  Junction,  and  run- 
ning parallel  with  him  along  that  road  which 
all  Brighton  travellers  know  so  well,  where  the 
prettiest  miniature  farm  lies  between  the  rail- 
way and  the  road,  and,  in  the  distance,  the 
white  chalk  quarry  gleams  in  the  green  face  of 
the  hill.  Just  before  arriving  at  Redhill,  at 
one  o'clock,  the  Hon.  Sec,  leaning  over,  tells 
us  that  the  next  stage  is  horsed  by  the  squire*s 
brother,  and  will  probably  be  driven  by  the 
squire  himself.  The  smile  with  which  the  in- 
telligence is  received,  is  false ;  the  ardour  with 
which  the  remarkable  exclamation,  "Oh,  in- 
deed?" is  uttered  is  assumed;  for,  truth  to 
tell,  we  have  never  heard  of  the  squire,  and 
have  not  the  remotest  idea  who  he  is. 

Not  long  arc  we  left  in  doubt.  The  four  magni- 
ficently matched  grey  horses — the  only  obser- 
vable difference  in  them  being  that  the  leaders 
are  a  trifle  lighter  and  more  "  peacocky"  than 
the  wheelers — are  no  sooner  **to,"  than  the 
stouter  of  the  Cheeryble  brothers  presents 
himself,  gives  the  team  a  rapid  but  apparently 
satisfactory  look  over,  and  then,  with  singular 
agility  for  such  a  heavily-built  man,  swings 
himself  to  the  box.  Not  much  doubt  that  the 
compliment  paid  to  him  of  being  the  best 
whip  in  England  is  well  deserved!  One 
glance,  like  the  celebrated  "  one  trial "  of 
the  advertisement,  will  **  prove  the  fact." 
Mark  the  way  in  which  he  holds  the  ribbons, 
his  left  hand  well  down  on  his  thigh  ;  the  ease 
with  which  he  slips  into  its  proper  place  the 
rein  which  the  dancing  near  leader  had  switched 
under  its  tail ;  the  knowledge  which  points  out 
the  exact  place  where  the  break  should  be 
applied,  and  the  quickness  with  which  he 
works  it.  The  Colonel  had  been  anecdotical, 
not  to  say  loquacious ;  the  squire,  though  per- 
fectly courteous,  is  not  particularly  communi- 
cative. He  is  a  tall  man,  and  he  stands  on 
the  splashboard,  backed  up  by,  rather  than  sit- 
ting on,  his  box ;  so  that  conversation  is  more 
difficult,  his  mouth  being,  as  it  were,  out  of 
earshot.  But  it  is  evident  that  he  does  not 
think  talking  business-like,  and  contents  him- 
acll  with  polite  repliea  to  leading  queationa, 


and  a  perpetual  refrain  of  sotto  voce  encou- 
ragement to  the  team,  each  member  of  which 
is  addressed  by  name.  So  on,  cheerily,  up  the 
steep  red  hill,  and  round  the  comer  by  the 
boys'  school,  where  the  lads  in  the  playground 
give  us  a  shrill  shout  of  welcome,  down  the 
aescent,  and,  at  a  hard  gallop,  over  the  glorious 
breezy  £arlswood  Common,  so  often  looked  at 
with  longing  eyes  from  the  railway,  and  now 
visited  at  last !  Far  away,  now,  from  omni- 
buses, theatrical  managers,  and  ladies'  schools. 
"Toot- toot!"  Give  them  a  taste  of  your 
horn,  guard,  and  let  them  know  we^re  coming. 
Pull  off  to  your  near  side,  Taylor,  with  your 
enormous  cumbersome  furniture-van,  the  two 
men  in  the  paper  caps  and  the  green  aprons 
sitting  here,  as  in  London,  ever  on  the  tail- 
board! Run  to  your  leader's  head,  carter, 
for  he  does  not  like  our  looks,  and  is  beginning 
to  potter  and  shy,  and  will  wheel  round  and 
have  you  all  in  the  ditch  in  an  instant,  if  yon 
don't  look  out !  Morning,  fanner !  Up  goes 
the  elbow  of  the  good  old  boy's  whip-hand  in 
true  professional  salutation.  Cheerily  on,  past 
haymakers,  leaning  on  scythes  and  rakes,  and 
gazing  at  us  with  hand-shaded  eyes;  past 
brown-skinned  tramps,  male  and  female,  all 
sitting  with  their  backs  turned  to  the  road,  and 
their  feet  in  the  ditch  in  front  of  them,  and 
who  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  look  round  at 
us;  past  solitary  anglers,  seen  afar  off  in 
distant  windings  of  gleaming  streams;  past 
lovely  ladies  playing  croquet  on  smooth  lawns, 
and  attended  upon  by  gallant  gentlemen, 
among  whom  the  village  curate  is  conspicuous, 
until  the  squire  drops  his  left  hand  still  lower, 
and  brings  us  up,^^  all  standing,"  at  Lowfield 
Heath,  where  luncheon  is  awaiting  us.  And 
such  a  luncheon !  arranged,  not  on  the  Mngbj 
Junction  system,  but  on  the  old-fashioned  inn 
principle.  Large  smoking  joint  of  prime  roast 
beef,  delicious  potatoes,  succulent  peas,  straw- 
berries, and  cheese,  for  two  shillinga!  We 
suspect  the  strawberries  were  part  of  uie  '*  gala 
day ;"  we  are  certain  something  else  was.  For 
the  placards  hung  about  the  room  announced 
that  in  addition  to  the  joint  we  were  entitled 
to  ^^half-a-pint  of  draught  ale;"  but  we  did 
not  have  (taught  ale ;  we  were  proffered  re- 
freshment from  a  fat  bottle  with  a  tinfoil 
cravat,  and  we  felt,  with  Mr.  Tennyson,  that, 
on  such  an  occasion, 

Our  drooping  mcmorj  should  not  thun 
Tho  foaming  grape  ol  Eastern  France. 

So  we  took  it.  And  the  old  lady  who  had  been 
our  inside  passenger  was  of  one  mind  with  us 
and  Mr.  Tennyson.  She  tried  the  draught  ale, 
and  did  not  like  it,  and,  beckoning  to  our 
friend,  Mr.  Tedder,  who  was  apparently  the 
only  person  in  whom  she  believed,  asked  if  ahe 
could  not  have  some  of  ^'  that"--designati]kg 
the  champagne-bottle.  She  was  told  that 
she  could  have  some  of  it,  and  she  did  hAT« 
some  of  it,  and  drank  it,  and  then  emulated 
the  behaviour  of  Oliver  Twist  in  asking  for 
more.  We  were  told  that  they  often  had  dd 
\  Vaidie^  «a  ixxside  passengers  by  the  ooftch.    If  all 


=4 


^ 


0  jsrles  Dlckeoa.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[Aagust  21, 1869.]       273 


are  treated  in  this  fashion,  we  don^t  wonder 
at  it. 

The  favonrite  sarcasm  of  schoolmasters  in 
old  days  to  gobbling  youth,  that  there  was  no 
hurry,  the  coach  was  not  waiting,  would 
have  lost  its  sting  on  this  occasion ;  for  the 
coach  was  waiting,  but  there  wad  no  hurry. 
The  proprietors  of  the  Brighton  coach  are 
quite  aware  that  they  can  enter  into  no  com- 
petition with  the  raU;  the  physician,  who  is 
telegraphed  for  in  case  of  life  and  death,  the 
barman,  whose  chance  of  securing  a  large 
order  depends  on  the  speed  with  which  he 
arrives  at  his  destination,  will  rattle  down 
by  the  express.  The  coach  is  for  those  who 
have  leisure,  and  who  wish  to  enjoy  the  plea- 
gnres  of  fresh  air  and  lovely  scenery,  in  comfort, 
80  a  liberal  half  hour  is  allowed  for  luncheon, 
and  then  we  start  afresh,  and  after  three 
stages,  all  admirably  horsed,  the  squire  draws 

Si  his  chesnuts,  lus  favourite  team,  before 
e  Albion  Hotel,  on  the  Steyne  at  Brighton. 
And  there  stands  the  proprietor,  whose  talent 
for  catering  we  proved  in  bygone  years  at 
those  capital  schools,  the  Ship  at  Greenwich, 
and  the  Star  and  Garter  at  Richmond.  So  we 
place  ourselves  in  Mr.  Lawrence's  hands,  letting 
iiim  do  as  he  likes  with  us  for  dinner,  and 
rush  off  to  get  rid  of  the  dust  in  a  plunge  at 
Brill's,  and  to  put  the  keenest  edge  on  to  our 
appetites  in  a  turn  up  the  I^ng's-road  after- 
wards. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  is  a 
most  sensible  and  enjoyable  airing.  To  a 
London  man  it  is  a  splendid  panacea  for 
worries  and  overwork,  and  city  dust  and 
drouth.  The  novelty  of  the  position  makes  him 
forget  his  business  cares,  the  drive  invigorates 
him,  and  the  pleasant  companionship  always 
to  be  met  with,  takes  him  out  of  himself,  and 
consigns  stocks,  and  shares,  and  briefs,  and 
leading  articles,  to  temporary  oblivion.  If  he 
be  pressed  for  time  he  can  come  back  to  town 
by  train,  reaching  home  before  eleven  the 
same  evening ;  if  he  have  leisure,  he  can  sleep 
in  Brighton,  pitching  pebbles  off  the  beach  and 
asking  the  wild  waves  what  they  are  saying, 
daring  the  evening,  and  renewing  his  pleasur- 
able impressions  in  his  return  journey  on  the 
coach  the  next  day.  And  perhaps  it  is  well 
for  us  occasionally  to  remember  the  Arabic 
proverb,  that  **  Hurry  is  the  Devil's,"  and  that, 
like  life,  a  journey  has  sometimes  such  plea- 
sures that  we  need  not  fret  eagerly  to  get 
to  the  end  of  it. 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  SOUTH.  — CHEAM  TO  EPSOM. 

Just  outside  a  village  a  little  off  the  Brighton 
road,  a  village  so  leafy  and  embowered  that 
twenty  years  ago  the  gardens  were  in  summer 
twilignt  so  noisy  with  nightingales,  that  dying 
persons  in  that  retired  hamlet  have  been 
xnown  to  have  had  their  last  trance -like 
sleeps  painfully  broken  in  upon  by  the 
■weet  unceasing  jangle,  the  crow,  swooping 
down  from  his   ** coign  of  vantage"  at  St. 


Paul's,  alights  on  a  grave  avenue  of  old  an- 
cestral elms.  Here  you  see  the  special  tree 
of  Surrey  to  perfection.  The  huge  free-grown, 
close-grained  limbs  bear  aloft  with  triumphant 
ease  their  thick,  green  clouds  of  foliage,  and, 
meeting  over  hes^,  cast  a  carpet  of  mottled 
shadows  beneath.  This  avenue  at  Cheam  (a 
place  skirted  by  all  persons  who  drive  to  the 
Derby)  was  one  of  the  old  approaches  to  None- 
such, one  of  Queen  Elizabetn's  palaces.  Henry 
the  Eighth,  following  the  deer  from  Hampton 
Court  to  the  very  foot  of  Banstead  Downs, 
one  day,  in  1539,  took  a  fancy  to  the  quiet 
spot  where  he  had  rested  and  dined  under 
the  trees  after  the  mort  was  blown  and  the 
deer  broken  up  by  the  eager  knives.  He 
bought  the  manor  of  Sir  Richard  de  Cudding- 
ton,  in  exchange  for  a  Norfolk  rectory,  and, 
pulling  down  the  old  manor  house  ana  parish 
church,  he  began  a  palace.  Leland  calls  it  the 
"nulli  que  parem" — the  matchless  or  **  none- 
such"—  but  the  king  dying  before  it  was 
finished.  Queen  Mary  gave  it  to  the  Earl  of 
Arundel,  "in  free  socage,  to  hold  of  the  honour 
of  Hampton  Court ;"  and  the  earl,  for  love 
of  his  old  master,  completed  the  palace. 

Queen  Elizabeth  liked  well  the  spot  selected 
by  her  father,  and  often  came  here  when  the 
Earl  of  Arundel  was  its  owner,  and  also  when 
it  passed  to  the  earl's  son-in-law,  the  Lumley. 
(**  Did  ye  ever  ken  that  Adam  was  a  Lumley  V" 
King  James  once  said  to  a  proud  lord  of  this 
family  who  was  boasting  of    his   pedigree.) 
Eventually  she  bought  the  palace,  and  spent 
many  of  her  later  summers  nere.    There  her 
well- guarded  maids  of    honour  rambled  and 
laughed  between  the  close-cut  green  hedges, 
and  her  pretty  pages  played  at  the  brim  of 
the  fountains,  and  Raleigh  and  his  rivals  clat- 
tered their  rapiers  up  the  flight  of  eight  stops 
that  led  through  the  clock  tower  to  the  inner 
court,  and  grave  men  like  Burleigh  and  Wal- 
singham  looked  from  the  turret  roof  over  the 
downland  and  the  woodland,  and  keepers  slew 
fallow  deer  under  the  elms,  and  many  wise 
and  foolish  actors  fretted  their  little  hour  upon 
the  stage  and  then  were  seen  no  more.    Here, 
especially,  took  place  an  interview  that  was 
the  turning  point  in  the  fortune  of  the  wrong- 
headed,  rashly-brave  Earl  of  Essex.    This,  the 
last  of  her  favourites  (Gloriana  was  only  sixty- 
seven,  thin  as  a  herring,  painted,  and  addicted 
to  fuzzy  red  wigs,  stuck  with  jewels,  and  ruffs 
as  big  as  cart  wheels),  had  distinguished  himself 
by  tossing  his  hat  on  shore  at  Cadiz,  and  leading 
the  way  to  the  capture  of  Spain's  strongest 
fortress,  where  Raleigh  captured  and  destroyed 
thirteen  men-of-war  and  immense  magazines  of 
provisions  and  naval  stores.    The  India  fleet, 
with  twenty  millions  of  dollars,  might  have 
been  also  captured,  but  for  the  jealous  opposi- 
tion to  the  impetuosity  of  Essex.     Proud  Spain 
had  never  received  such  a  blow  in  the  teeth 
before,    and    threatened    a    second    Armada. 
Essex— disdainful  of  all  rivals,  and  always  in  a 
pet  with  the  queen,   who,   provoked   at   his 
factious  insolence,  once  struck  him.  m  \,Vkfc  Wfe 
at  the  council  table —^%a  i^eii^  ^o^  '^\s;f^€\^^ 


i 

I. 


^ 


274      [AngoBt  31«  18C0.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condocted  by 


I; 


:  I 


l| 


|: 


1 1 


1 1 


the  "  old  fox,"  who  hatod  him,  with  great  ex- 
pectations to  Ireland,  to  quell  the  rebellion  of 
the  O'Neil  in  Ulster.  To  the  queen's  alarm 
and  infinite  vexation,  Ksscx  wjisted  his  tune 
in  Mimster,  and  ended  hy  concluding  a  treaty 
with  Tyrone,  tolerating  tlio  Catholic  religion. 
On  Michaelmas  eve,  about  ten  o'clock  of  the 
morning,  PiLssex,  booted  and  spurred  and 
splashed  with  mud,  even  to  his  face,  threw 
himself  off  his  horse  at  tlie  court  gate  of  None- 
such, made  haete  up  to  the  privy  chamber,  and 
thence  to  the  queen's  bedchamber. 

The  queen  was  newly  up  but  not  dressed, 
and  her  hair  all  about  her  face,  llie  earl 
knelt  unto  her,  kissed  her  hands  and  had 
private  speech,  wliich,  says  a  court  letter- writer 
of  that  day,  **  seemed  to  give  him  great  con- 
tentment, for  coming  from  her  Majesty,  to  go 
shift  himself  in  his  chamber,  he  was  very  plea- 
sant, and  thanked  God  tliough  he  had  suffered 
much  trouble  and  stormii  abroad,  he  found 
a  sweet  calm  at  home.  The  courtiers  were 
ogliast  at  the  temeiity  of  this  coup  de  main, 
but  all  at  first  seemed  halcyon  weather  with 
the  returned  favourite.  About  eleven  the  earl, 
resplendent  in  satin  and  jewels,  went  up  again  to 
the  queen,  and  had  a  gracious  interview  of  an 
hour  and  a  half.  Tiien  slight  symptoms  of  a 
squall  appeared,  and  after  dinner  her  Majesty 
seemed  much  changed  for  so  smail  a  time,  and 
began  to  question  sharply  about  his  precipitate 
return,  and  to  complain  of  his  leaving  suddenly, 
and  all  tilings  at  hazard.  She  appointed  that 
very  afternoon  a  council  where  the  lords  might 
hear  him.  That  same  liight  between  ten  and 
eleven  a  commandment  came  from  the  queen 
to  my  Lord  of  Essex,  that  he  should  keep  his 
chamber,  and  on  the  following  Monday  he  waa 
committed  to  the  custody  of  the  keeper  at 
York  House.  When  Sir  Jolm  Harrington, 
her  godson,  went  to  the  ({ueen,  she  chafed, 
walked  to  and  fro,  and  cried,  snatching  at  his 
girdle, 

**  By  G ,  sir,  I  am  no  queen !  That  man  is 

above  me.  Who  gave  him  command  to  come 
here  so  soon  ?  I  did  send  him  on  other  business. 
Go  home !" 

**  And  home  I  went,"  says  Harrington.  "  I 
did  not  stay  to  be  bidden  twice.  U  all  the 
Lish  rebels  had  been  at  my  heels,  I  should 
not  have  made  better  speed." 

Essex  was  equally  tossed  by  passion.  Raleigh 
says  of  liim,  "  he  uttered  strange  wonis,  border- 
ing on  such  strange  designs,  that  made  me 
hasten  forth  and  leave  his  presence.  Thank 
heaven!  I  am  so  far  home,  and  if  I  go  in 
such  tit)uble  again  I  deserve  the  gallows  for  a 
meddling  fool.  The  queen  never  kuoweth  how 
to  humble  the  haughty  spirit,  the  haughty 
spirit  knoweth  not  how  t*^  yield,  and  the  man's 
soul  seemed  tossed  to  and  fro  like  the  waves  of 
a  troubled  sea." 

His  last  letter  repulsed,  the  earl  grew  des- 
perate, and  resolved  to  seize  the  queen  and 
win  over  her  councillors.  To  his  house  near 
Temple  Bar  he  invited  the  leading  Puritans, 
Scotch  emissaries,  and  all  disaffected  noblemen 
aad  oaptaina,    Jji  Felwiiary,  1601,  took  place 


liis  foolish  outbreak,  and  before  the  same  month 
was  over  the  head  of  Essex  fell  from  his 
shoiUders  in  the  courtyard  of  tlie  Tower.  What 
really  cost  him  his  head,  said  Ualeigh,  was  not 
the  departure  from  Ireland,  or  the  ill-hatched 
rebellion,  but  his  saying  that  ElizaT)eth  ^'  was  an 
old  woman,  as  crooked  in  mind  as  in  body."  Per- 
haps, however,  she  had  never  forgotten  being 
seen  without  her  wig — who  knowa  ?  Nonesuch 
was  given  by  the  parliament  to  Algernon  Sidney 
and  General  Lambert ;  afterwards,  during  the 
Plague,  the  office  of  the  Exchequer  was  trans- 
ferred there ;  and  after  that  Charles  the 
Second  gave  tiie  palace  to  the  Duchess  of 
Cleveland,  who,  on  the  same  principle  which 
makes  thieves  instantly  melt  stolen  jplate, 
pulled  it  down,  sold  the  materials,  and  divided 
the  park  into  farms.  There  are  but  few  traces 
of  the  palace  now,  only  one  lon^  deep  ditch, 
always  wet  in  winter,  which  is  caucd  ^^  Diana's 
Ditch"  by  the  poor  people,  and  is  supposed 
to  be  the  site  of  a  great  Diana  and  Actson 
fountain.  A  sorry  ending.  In  the  centre  of  a 
ploughed  field,  in  a  rejoicing  old  age,  there 
stands  a  wonderful  elm,  twenty-two  feet  nx 
inches  in  girth  and  eighty  feet  high.  It  is  still 
full  of  vigour,  and  one  of  the  earliest  trees  in 
the  neighbourhood  to  bud  and  bloom.  The 
legend  is  that  it  springs  from  the  site  of  the 
palace  kitchen,  but  it  is  really  one  of  thoee 
'*'  Queen  Elizabeth  elms"  imder  which,  when 
hunting,  she  used  to  stand  with  her  small 
steel  crossbow  to  kill  the  deer  when  driven 
past  her. 

Cheam,  during  the  great  Plague,  was  selected 
as  the  site  of  a  school  for  citizens*  children, 
which  still  flourishes,  and  an  old  wooden 
house  called  *' Whitehall"  yet  exists,  where 
business  of  the  palace  used  to  bo  transacted. 
The  tower  of  the  old  church,  a  square  ugly 
stump,  has  a  large  clamp  bracing  it  together, 
to  restrain  a  crac^  which  gaped  open  as  long 
ago  as  when  Archbishop  Land  was  in  prison. 
I^d  had  been  curate  here,  and  being  a  supers 
stitious  man,  who  even  shuddered  at  cunont 
spots  coming  on  his  nails,  he  trembled  at 
this  omen,  lost  heart,  and  soon  after  lost  his 
head. 

And  now  the  crow  bears  away  with  a  slant 
flight  to  Banstead  Downs,  that  rolling  prairie 
all  in  a  golden  blaze  with  gorse  blossom,  and 
spotted  purple  with  the  dry,  fragrant  netwoik 
of  wild  thyme,  and  here,  where  the  throbbing 
windmill  tosses  its  broad  giant  arms,  the  larks 
are  up  by  dozens  above  the  clover  and  the 
green  com  that  now,  with  a  grey  bloom  on 
every  blade,  imdulates  in  rippling  waves.  Mfles 
of  blue  distance,  and  the  crow  sees  St.  Paul's, 
no  bigger  th^  a  chimney  ornament  in  the  far 
distance ;  Windsor  Castle,  visible  to  a  keen 
eye,  appears  no  bigger  than  a  toy  castle ;  and 
on  Penge  Hill  a  little  diamond  speck,  which  is 
the  Crystal  Palace,  is  pointed  out  by  the  golden 
finger  of  an  admiring  sunbeam.  By  day  the 
smoke-cloud  of  the  monster  city  broods  on  the 
eastern  horizon  like  a  phantom  ship,  and  at 
night  the  glare  of  its  million  lamps  ifiununates 
the  sky. 


^ 


^ 


^ 


Ghuln  Dickani.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[ATigost  21, 1869.]      275 


There  is  no  certainty  as  to  when  racing 
b^an  at  Epsom  Downs ;  but  most  antiquaries 
befieve  in  tne  reign  of  James  the  first,  who 
loFcd  a  good  horse  and  liked  to  sweep  up  a 
stake.  Certain  it  is  that  in  1648,  six  hundred 
Cavalier  gentlemen  assembled  at  Epsom  Downs 
under  pretence  of  a  horse  race,  and  marched 
from  there  to  Reigate.  Major  Andely,  with 
fiye  troops  of  horse  and  three  of  foot,  over- 
took them  at  Ewell,  skirmished  with  them  in 
Nonesuch  Park,  and  charged  and  routed  them 
on  a  hill  half-way  to  Kingston.  The  Dnke  of 
Biickin^ham->a  noble,  brave,  handsome  youth 
—set  his  back  to  an  elm  tree,  and  there  fought 
desperately  at  bay  till  he  was  struck  down. 
At  Kingston  the  Cavaliers  rallied,  and  drove 
back  the  Puritan  cavalry.  The  Epsom  races 
ean  only  be  clearly  traced  back  as  far  as  the 
jear  1780,  when  the  famous  Madcap  won  the 
prixe,  and  proved  the  best  plate  horse  in  Eng- 
mad.  The  races  were  at  first  held  in  the  spring 
and  autumn,  and  being  then  comparatively  local, 
began  at  eleven,  and  were  conducted  in  a  quiet 
leisorelT  way,  the  company  usually  trooping 
off  to  tne  town  for  a  general  dinner  after  the 
first  and  second  heat,  and  returning  to  another 
tranquil  race  after  their  wine.  In  18S5,  sixty 
thousand  persons  was  thought  a  grand  assem- 
blage at  the  D6rby.  The  London,  Dorking, 
Worthing,  and  Chichester  coaches  brought 
down  the  few  yisitors,  but  there  were  no  trains 
to  pour  their  two  hundred  thousand  at  once 
npon  the  town.  The  day  had  not  become  the 
carnival  it  now  is :  no  green  boughs,  false  noses, 
or  oak  apples  enlivened  the  noisy,  jostling 
procession.  It  must  have  been  a  sober  trotting 
along  of  long-coated  men  in  cocked-hats  for 
a  mere  day^s  fresh  air  and  pic-nic. 

Epsom,  a  place  proud  of  its  traditions,  has 
a  name  of  very  doubtful  derivation.  Some 
e^mologists  trace  it  back  to  Ebbs-ham  (the 
village  of  the  Ebb),  from  an  intermittent 
spring  that  here  gushes  out  of  the  chalk,  and 
at  certain  periods  is  drawn  back  into  the 
earth;  others  from  the  Princess  Ebba,  who 
was  baptised  a.d.  660,  and  gave  her  hand  to 
one  of  the  earliest  of  the  Saxon  kings.  The 
palace  of  the  fair  Christian  stood  where  Epsom 
Court  now  is.  In  Doomsday  Book,  Ebesham 
stands  good  for  thirty-four  villains  and  six 
bondmen,  two  churches,  two  mills,  and  a  wood 
that  fed  twenty  swine.  The  manor  belonged 
to  the  monastery  of  Chertsey,  about  whose 
Black  Abbot  there  is  a  legend  preserved,  not 
unworthy  of  the  crowds  record.  A  certain  gay 
princess  became  enamoured  of  a  handsome 
abbot  of  the  river-side  monastery,  and,  unable 
to  allure  the  holy  man  from  his  vows  of 
celibacy,  the  wanton  lady  sent  a  troop  of  her 
maidens  to  lie  in  ambuscade  for  the  austere 
priest,  and  bring  him  by  gentle  force  to  her 
castle.  The  maidens  fell  upon  him  and  over- 
{Kiwercd  him.  The  abbot  prayed  only  for 
time  to  repeat  his  prayers  at  the  altar  of  a 
neighbouring  chapel;  and  his  captors  laugh- 
ingfy  granted  his  request.  Prostrating  himself 
before  the  altar,  the  abbot  prayed  to  the 
Virgin  to  save  him  by  rendering  him  at  once 


loathsome  to  all  women.  The  Virgin  granted 
his  prayer,  and  when  the  abbot  returned  to 
the  rejoicing  escort  he  was  black  as  a  negro, 
and  an  object  of  horror,  and  not  of  love.  The 
manor  of  Epsom,  seized  by  Henry  the  Eighth, 
was  given  by  him  to  one  of  his  companions  at 
the  tournament.  Sir  Nicholas  Carew,  of  Bod- 
dington,  who  was  soon  after  executed  for 
treason.  Queen  Elizabeth  gave  it  to  Edward 
Darcy,  a  groom  of  the  Privy  Chamber,  who 
soon  sold  it  to  pay  his  gambling  debts. 

Now,  Muse,  arise  and  sing  of  Epsom  Salts !  It 
was  the  discovcryof  this  nauseous  but  efficacious 
sediment  that  first  made  Epsom  famous.  A 
donkey,  and  not  a  philosopher,  first  discovered 
the  medical  spring  in  1618,  by  wisely  refusing  to 
drink  its  waters.  Fuller  and  Aubrey  both  men- 
tion the  pool  as  aluminous,  and  with  a  deposit  of 
snowy  niBikes.  About  1619,  certain  learned 
physicians,  following  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
learned  ass,  analysed  the  water  and  pronounced 
it  to  be  impregnated  with  **  a  calcareous  nitre," 
or  rather  a  soluble,  bitter,  cathartic  salt,  the 
practical  effects  of  which  were  beyond  all  argu- 
ment. 

About  1631  the  wells  were  enclosed  and 
a  shed  erected  for  patients.  The  doctors  soon 
began  to  sing  the  praises  of  Epsom.  In  Charles 
the  Second^s  time,  Shadwell  lays  the  scene 
of  one  of  his  plays  at  Epsom,  and  intro- 
duces a  bubbling  projector  who  proposes  to 
supply  London  with  fresh  air  m  bladders 
from  Banstead  Downs.  Nell  Gwynne,  at 
this  time  under  the  protection  of  Lord  Buck- 
hurst,  one  of  her  early  lovers,  lived  in  a 
house  next  the  Ring's  Head  Hotel,  now  a 
shop,  some  years  ago  remarkable  for  its  low 
bay  windows  and  bfdcony.  There  Nell,  tossing 
her  golden  curls,  used  to  sit  laughing  and  ban- 
tering, watehing  the  company  parading  to  and 
fro.  She  remained  always  fond  of  Epsom,  and 
Charles  afterwards  built  her  stables  near  Pittas- 
place,  close  to  the  parish  church.  In  1723  a 
fantastic  old  writer  named  Toland,  who  con- 
cocted An  Itinerary  through  England,  and  who 
had  known  Epsom  in  Queen  Anne's  time,  when 
dull  Prince  George  of  Denmark  came  there  to 
drink  the  waters,  bequeathed  us  a  curious  picture 
of  a  fashionable  country  spa  in  the  old  tune.  It 
seems  to  have  been  then  a  long,  straggling 
village  about  a  mile  in  length,  open  to  the  corn- 
fields and  the  fresh  breezy  down,  a  church  at  one 
end.  Lord  Guildf ord*s  palace  (Durdans)  at  the 
other,  and  gardens  and  trees  before  every  door. 
The  ruddy-faced  coimtry  people  rode  round 
daily  with  fish,  venison,  and  Banstead  Down 
mutton,  fruit  and  flowers,  and  bargained  with 
the  court  and  city  ladies,  who  made  it  their 
custom  of  a  morning  to  sit  on  benches  outside 
their  doors. 

Epsom,  at  this  period,  boasted  two  rival 
bowling  greens,  to  which  *'  the  company " 
devoted  themselves  every  evening,  especially 
on  Mondays,  music  playing  most  of  the  day, 
and  dancing  sometimes  crowning  the  night. 
Indeed  this  intense  coxcomb  Toland  tells  his 
fair  correspondent  Eudoxia  that  '*  Oi  IdXT^^ 
circle  was  not  to  be  seendX.  CivrVi^c«A  at  Kvr.Aaw- 


276     [August  21. 18W.1  ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND.  [Condnctodhj 

Chapelle,  as  at  Epsom  High  Green  and  Long  neglected  old  spring  still  exists,  and  is  as  full 

Room  on  a  public  day."    The  raffling  shops  of  sulphate  of  magnesia  as  ever,  but  no  one 

brought  together  as  many  sharpers  as  Tun-  cares  to  be  cured  by  it  now. 

bridge ;  and  the  writer  takes  care  to  observe  

"  that  it  was  very  diverting  for  a  stander-by  to  a  t  t  a 

observe  the  different  humours  and  passions  of  STALLS. 

both  sexes,  which  discover  themselves  with  

less  art  and  reserve  at  play  than. on  any  other  It  may  not  have  occurred  to  yon,  serene 
occasion ;  the  rude,  the  sullen,  the  noisy,  and  reader,  to  trouble  yourself  much  concem- 
tiie  affected,  the  peevish,  the  covetous,  the  ^^  the  Philosophy  of  StaUs,  if,  indeed, 
htigious  and  the  sharpmg  the  proud,  the  pro-  ^^  ^  ^{^^.^  -^  ^^y^  ^^ile 
digal,  the  mipatient,  and  the  mapertment,  be-  f  .  .  i.  xi.  xi.  _j.i.' 
come  visible  foils  tl)  the  weU-bred,  prudent,  ^^^./^^T®  whether  there  was  anything 
modest,  and  good-humoured."  At  the  taverns,  philosophical  connected  with  a  stall,  io 
inns,  and  coffee-houses,  all  distinctions  of  my  mind  there  is,  and  much.  To  me  a 
Whig  and  Tory  were  forgotten.  Aft<ir  an  stall  typifies,  in  an  intense  degn:*ec,  the  qua- 
early  dinner,  the  visitors  to  the  wells  rode  on  lity  of  selfishness.  I  draw  a  direct  alliance 
the  Downs  or  took  coach  for  the  Ring,  where,  between  a  stall  and  celibacy.  I  hold  the 
on  a  Sunday  evenmg,  this  detestable  prig  had  possession  of  a  staU  to  be  linked  with  the 


display ;  and,   next  to  that,  Monday,   when  a  stall,  properiv  so  termed,  you  cannot  put 

there  was  a  public  ball  in  the  Assembly  Rooms,  two  people.     The  stalled  ox  is  alone,  and 

On  Sundays,  in  the  forenoon,  the  ever  restless  may   look  with  infinite   contempt  on  th& 

"company"  that  did  not  ride  the  four-mile  poor  sheep   huddled   together  in   a  fold; 

course  past  the  old  warren  (still  existing)  to  the  cobbler  who  lived  in  his  stall,  which 

Carshidton,  drove  to  Boxhill,  where  they  par-  ^^^^^  Ynm  for  kitchen  and  parlour  and  all, 

took^of  refreshments  m  arbours  out  among  the  ^^^^  j  ^„  ^  ^^^^  ^  bachelor.     Robinson 

Epsom  was  no  doubt  a  pretty  countrified,  Crusoe,  for  a  very  long  time,  occupied  a 

quaint  place  when   Toland  (who  must  have  stall,  and  was  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed, 

been  a  stupendous  bore)  was  there,  for  nearly  When  Man  Friday  came,  the  recluse  began 

all  the  houses  had  porticos  of  cUpped  elms,  to  yearn  to  mingle  with  the  world  again, 

lime  trees,  and  an  avenue  of  trees  shaded  the  Diogenes  in  his  tub   perfectly   fulfils  the 

long  terrace  that  ran  from  the  watchhouse  j^ea  of  an  installed  ejrotist.     From  his  tub- 

(where  the  clock  tower  now  stands)  as  far  as  ^^all  he  could  witness  at  leisure  the  entire 

the  chief  tavern,  now  the  Albion  Hotel.    The  ,               i»r<*xi.Ti,         uj«^ 

citizens    and    gentlemen    took    breakfast  and  grand  opera  of  Connth.     I  have  heard  of 

supper  al  fresco  under  these  whispering  bowers,  a  royal  duke— one  of  the  past  generation 

and   pretty  Ilogarthian  pictures  the  groups  of   royal    dukes ;    burly,   bluff  princes  in 

must  have  formed  blue   coats  and  brass  buttons,  who   said 

**  By   the   conversation  of   those    walking  everything  twice  over,  drank  hard,  swore 

in  these  avenues,"  says  Toland,  **  you  would  a  good  deal,  and  were  immensely  popular 

fancy  yourself  to  be  this  minute  on  the  Ex-  ^^  the  Crown  and  Anchor  and  the  Thatched 

change,  and  the   next   at   bt.  James  s;   one  jj^^^^  Tavems-who,  being  in  Windsor, 

while  m  an  East  India  factory,  and  another  oj        a.                xi-t.j.i.            i^ 

while  A^-ith  the  army  in  Flanders  [how  they  ^^^  Sunday  afternoon,  thought  he  would 

swore  there.  Uncle  Toby !],  or  on  board  the  hke  to  attend  di\ine  service  m  fc>t.  Ueorge  s 

fleet  on  the  ocean ;  nor  is  there  any  profession,  Chapel.     Of  course  he  was  a  Knight  of  thft 

trade,  or  calling,  that  you  can  miss  of  here  either  Gfarter,  and  had  his  stall  in  the  old  gothic 

for  your  instruction  or  your  diversion."  Indeeii,  fane,   with  his  casque  and  banner  above, 

considering  the  races  and  packs  of  hounds,  the  and   a   brass  plate   let   in   to   the  oaken 

angling  in  the  Mole,   and  the  rides  on  the  carving,  recording  what  a  high,  mighty, 

Downs,    one    can    scai-cely  wonder  that,    as  .  rjnioRont  tirince  he  was      The  chaiil 

Toland  says,  the  place  was  well  fiUed  with  ?^^  pnissant  pnnce  ne  was.     ine  cnapei 

bankrupts,   fortune -hunt^^rs,  crazed  supcran-  ^PP^??^    *^    ^    very    crowded,    and  as 

nuated   beaux,   married  coquettes,   intriguing  H.  R.  H.  essayed  to  pass  through  the  throng 

prudes,  richly  dressed  waiting-maids,  and  com-  towards  his  niche  in  the  choir,  a  verger 

plimentiug  footmen.  whispered  him,  deferentially,  that  a  distin- 

By-and-by  knavery  and  quackery  invaded  guished   foreign   visitor,    his    Decrepitude 

the    wells.      A    rascaUy    apothecary,    named  ^he  Grand  Duke  of  Pfbnningwurst-Schin- 

Levingstone,  started  a  sham  new  wells,  gave  tenbraten,  had  been  popped  into  his  stall 

concerts  and  balls,  boutrht  and  shut  up  the  real    u  t^     u  iT        «    i.  >»      «^*ii 

spring,  and  procured  testunonials  of  cures  and  "  ^^^^  «^^^  .^   "^^  "  \  f^^^'       ^?^*^ 

medical  certificates  (you  can't  do  that  sort  of  H.  K.  H.,   poking   his   walkmg-cane  into 

/thing  now).    The  cures  began  to  cease,  the  the  spine  of  a  plebeian  m  front  of  hun. 

restless  company  to   grow  shy.     The   poor  "  Want  to  get  to    my   stall — mj  stall" 


^ 


Oharltn  Df  ckena.] 


STALLS. 


[AiignBt21,106«.]      277 


And  from  it,  I  suppose,  he  eventnally  siic5- 
ceeded  in  onsting  the  intmder  from  Ger- 
many. Was  not  H.  R.  H.  in  the  right  ? 
His  stall  was  his  vine  and  his  fig-tree,  and 
who  was  there  to  make  him  afraid  ? 

So  much  for  stalls  in  the  abstract. 
Practically,  a  stall  may  be  defined  as  a 
place  of  occupation,  in  relative  degrees,  of 
a  canon,  a  chorister,  a  cow,  a  cobbler,  or  a 
connoissenr.  To  study  stalls  most  profit- 
ably in  their  ecclesiastical  or  monastic 
aspect,  yon  shonld  go  to  Flanders  or  to 
Spain.  In  the  grand  old  cathedrals  in 
those  conntries,  the  traveller  has  always 
firee  access  to  the  choir,  and  can  take 
his  snrfeit  of  contemplation  of  the  stalls. 
They  will  be  fonnd,  to  the  observant  mind, 
replete  with  hnman  interest.  They  may  be 
peopled  with  priests.  Pursy  prebendaries, 
dozing  the  doze  of  the  just,  and  dreaming 
placidly,  perchance,  of  good  fat  capon  and 
clotted  cream,  while  the  brawny  choirmen 
at  the  lecterns  are  thundering  from  huge 
oak-bound  and  brass-  clamped  folios,  on 
the  parchment  pages  of  which  corpulent 
minims  and  breves  flounder  over  crimson 
Hues;  pale,  preoccupied  priests,  fretfully 
crimping  the  folds  of  their  surplices,  and 
enviously  eyeing'  my  Lord  Archbishop 
yonder,  awfully  enthroned,  with  his  great 
mitre  on  his  head,  and  his  emerald  ring 
glancing  on  the  plump,  white  hand  which 
he  complacently  spreads  over  the  carved 
ann  of  his  chair  of  state.  Will  they  ever 
come  to  sit  in  that  chair  ?  those  pale,  pre- 
occupied men  may  be  thinking.  Will  they 
ever  wear  a  mitre,  and  hold  out  their  hands 
for  an  obedient  flock  to  kiss  ?  Or  will 
dignity  and  power  and  wealth  fisdl  to  the 
lot  of  those  drowsy  prebendaries. 

More  absorbing,  even,  in  interest  to  the 
stalls  in  the  choir  of  a  cathedral,  are  those 
in  a  convent  chapel.  The  reason  is,  I  sup- 
pose, that  a  moi]^  has  always  been  to  me  a 
mystery.  A  nun  I  can  more  easily  under- 
stand, for  the  monastic  state,  in  its  best  and 
purest  acceptation,  is  a  dream  or  an  ecstasy ; 
and  there  are  vast  numbers  of  women  who 
pass  their  whole  lives  in  a  dreamy  and 
ecstatic  frame  of  mind,  and  in  a  species  of 
unobtrusive  hysterics.  But  the  monk,  with 
his  manhood,  and  his  great  strong  frame, 
and  the  fire  of  ambition  lambent  in  his  eye, 
and  his  lips  firm  set  in  volition,  always 
puzzles  me.  Continental  physicians  will 
tell  you  that  in  every  monastery  there  will 
be  found  a  certain  proportion  of  mad  monks, 
friars  who  have  strange  lunes,  and  hear 
voices  while  they  are  sweeping  out  the 
chapel  or  extinguishing  the  altar  candles, 


and  to  whom  the  saints  and  angels  in  the 
pictures  on  the  walls  are  living  and  breath- 
ing personages.  I  remember  a  dwarfish 
Cappuccino  at  Rome  once  executing  a  kind 
of  holy  jig  before  Guide's  famous  painting 
of  the  Archangel  vanquishing  the  Demon, 
and,  as  he  jigged,  taunting  the  fiend  on 
the  canvas  on  the  low  estate  to  which  he 
had  fallen,  and  derisively  bidding  him  to 
use  his  claws  and  fangs.  Nor  do  I  think 
that  I  was  ever  more  terrified  in  my  life 
than  by  the  behaviour  of  a  gaunt  young 
friar  in  the  Catacombs  of  San  Sebas- 
tiano,  who,  opposite  the  empty  tomb  of  a 
renowned  martyr,  suddenly  took  to  waving 
his  taper  above  his  head,  and  to  abusing  the 
Twelve  CaBsars.  He  was  our  guide,  and  I 
thought  the  candle  would  go  out.  But  mad 
monks,  or  dreamy  or  ecstatic  monks,  are 
sufficiently  rare,  it  is  to  be  surmised.  Most 
of  the  wearers  of  the  cowl  and  sandals  with 
whom  I  have  made  acquaintance,  seemed  to 
be  perfectly  well  aware  of  what  they  were 
about ;  and  a  spirit  of  shrewd  and  pungent 
humour  and  drollery  is  not  by  any  means 
an  uncommon  characteristic  of  male  inmates 
of  the  cloister. 

As  for  a  Knight  of  the  Garter  in  his  stall, 
I  regard  him  simply  as  an  Awful  Being. 
Understand  that,  to  strike  one  with  suf- 
ficient awe,  he  should  be,  not  in  plain 
dress,  but  in  the  "fiill  fig"  of  his  most 
noble  order :  a  costume  more  imposing 
than  the  fall  uniform  of  the  captain  of 
a  man- o*- war;  and  that,  backed  by  the 
man-o*-war  herself  in  the  offing,  can  be 
warranted  to  send  any  black  king  on  the 
West  Coast  of  Africa  into  fits.  But  a 
K.G.,  with  his  garter  on,  with  his  sweeping 
velvet  robe,  with  his  collar  and  his  George, 
with  his  tassels  and  badges  and  bows  of 
ribbons,  next  to  Solomon  in  all  his  glory 
is  the  most  sumptuous  sight  I  can  conceive. 
The  very  stall  he  sits  in,  is  historical;  a 
knight  of  liis  own  name  occupied  it  three 
hundred  years  ago.  It  bears  brazen  chro- 
nicle of  the  doughtiest  barons  that  ever 
lived.  What  should  one  do  to  get  made  a 
K.G.,  and  to  earn  the  privilege  of  sitting  in 
such  a  stall  ?  Would  the  genius  of  Shake- 
speare or  Dante,  would  the  learning  of 
Boyle  or  Milton,  would  the  imagination 
of  a  Tennyson,  the  graphic  powers  of  a 
Millais,  the  researches  of  a  Faraday — would 
even  the  giant  intellect  of  a  Brougham,  help 
a  man  in  the  climbing  upward  to  that  stall  ? 
Not  much,  I  fancy.  Its  occupancy  is  to  be 
obtained  only  by  one  process,  ridiculously 
simple,  ye£  to  be  mastered  only  by  very  few 
children   of  humanity*    "'^o\SL&'^crQL%  ^V«^ 


eft: 


278      [AngOBt  31,  18690 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


tCoBdnetMlbj 


// 


doiin6  la  peine  do  naitre,"  says  Figaro  to 
Count  ALmaviva,  in  the  play.  To  be  K,G.*d, 
yon  mnst  take  the  tronble  to  bo  bom  of  the 
^G-.  caste. 

But  envy,  ayannt !  Social  fate  is  not 
without  its  compensations,  and  there  are 
stalls  and  stalls.  Lend  mo  a  guinea,  and 
for  a  whole  evening,  from  eight  to  nearly 
midnight,  I  can  sit  supreme  in  a  stall, 
solitary,  grand,  absolute ;  for  who  shall  daro 
to  turn  me  out  ?  The  stall  is  mine,  to  have 
and  to  hold  corporeally  imtil  the  cui'tain 
has  fallen  on  the  last  tableau  of  the  ballet, 
and  (in  imagination  at  least)  I  can  hang  my 
banner  and  my  casque  over  mj  stalL  and 
deem  mTself  a  high!  mighty,  a^  pnLaut 
princa  As  the  process,  put  into  practice, 
might  interfere  with  the  comfort  of  the 
patrons  of  the  Royal  Italian  Opera,  I 
content  myself  with  hanging  my  overcoat 
over  the  back  of  my  stall,  and.  placing  my 
collapsible  GKbus  beneath  it.  I  notice  a 
large  pariy  of  beautifrd  dames  and  damsels, 
in  a  box  on  the  pit  tiexv  who,  I  am  vain 
enough  to  think,  axe  intently  inspecting 
mo  through  tiieir  opera-glasses.  I  plume 
myself.  I  pull  down  my  wristbands,  I 
smooth  my  shirt-front,  and  caress  the  bows 
of  my  cravat.  I  turn  the  favonrito  facet 
of  my  diamond  ring  well  on  to  the  box 
on  the  pit  tier.  If  you  are  tho  sun,  shall 
you  not  shine?  I  am  taken,  I  fondly 
hope,  for  one  of  tho  Upper  Ten.  I  am 
aware,  frt>m  eyesight  acquaintance  with 
the  aristocracy,  that  my  neighbour  on  the 
right,  with  the  purple  wig,  tho  varnished 
pumps,  and  the  ear  trump,  is  Field  Marshal 
Lord  Viscount  Dumdum,  that  great  Indian 
hero ;  and  tiiat  the  yellow-faced  little  man 
on  my  leflb,  with  the  yellow  ribbon  at  his 
button-hole,  is  the  Troglodyte  ambassador. 
Behind  mo  is  Sir  Hercules  Hoof,  of  the 
Second  Life  Guards.  In  front  of  me  is  the 
broad  back — I  wish,  in  respect  to  the  back, 
that  it  wasn't  quite  so  broad — of  Mr.  Barge- 
beam,  Q.C.  How  are  that  family  in  the 
pit  tier  to  know  that  I  am  not  a  nobleman, 
a  diplomatist,  a  guardsman,  or  a  Queen's 
Counsel  ?  I  am  clean.  I  had  my  hair  dyed 
tho  day  before  yesterday.  My  boots  are 
polished,  my  neckcloth  is  starched  stiff: 
my  stall  is  as  big  as  anybody  else's.  How 
is  beauty  in  the  boxes  to  tell  that  I  came 
in  (maybe)  with  an  order. 

The  playhouse  stall  is  a  thoroughly  mo- 
dem innovation,  and  even  the  pit  of  the 
Italian  theatres  of  the  Renaissance  was 
destitute  of  seats.  When  Sterne  first  visited 
the  opera  in  Paris,  tho  groundlings  stood  to 
witneBB  the  performance,  and  sentinels  ^vith 


fixed  bayonets  were  posted  to  appease  tu- 
mults, as  in  the  well-known  case  quoted  in 
the  "  Sentimental  Journey,"  when  the  irate 
dwarf  threatened  to  cut  off  the  pigtail  of 
tho  tall  German.  I  am  old  enough  to  re- 
member when  the  pittites  in  the  Scala 
at  Milan  stood.  You  paid,  I  think,  an  Aus- 
trian florin — one  and  eightpence — for  bare 
admission  to  the  house,  and  then  you  took 
your  chance  of  lighting  upon  some  lady 
who  would  invite  you  to  a  seat  in  her  box ; 
or  some  bachelor  acquaintance  who,  having 
had  enough  of  the  performance,  would  sur- 
render to  you  his  reserved  seat,  near 
the  orchestra,  for  the  rest  of  the  eveninz. 
Seated  pits  have  always  been  common  in 
English  theatres,  owing  to  the  strong  de- 
termination of  the  people  to  make  them- 
selves comfortable  whenever  it  was  possi- 
ble to  do  so;  and  these  reserved  seats  of 
the  Scala  were  the  beginning  of  the  ex- 
clusive seats  we  call  stalls.  They  are  not 
older  than  the  era  of  the  dominion  of  the 
Austriana  in  Lombardy,  after  the  down&Il 
of  Napoleon  tho  First.  There  were  many 
Milanese  nobles  not  wealthy  enough  to  take 
boxes  for  the  season,  and  too  proud  to 
spunge  on  their  friends  every  evening  for 
a  back  seat  in  a  *'  palco,"  and,  too  patriotic 
to  mingle  in  the  standing-up  area  with  the 
Austriaii  officers  who,  according  to  gEurnson 
regnlatinns,  were  admitted  to  tho  Scala  ai 
the  reduced  price  of  ninepence  halfpenny. 
So  the  manager  ot  the  ScaJa  hit  upon  the 
crafby  device  of  dividing  the  rovrs  of  benches 
near  the  03*chestra,  into  compartments,  each 
wide  enough  to  accomniodate  a  single  per- 
son, and  the  seats  of  which  could  bo  turned 
up  as  in  the  choir  of  a  cathedraL  Moreover, 
these  seats  were  neatly  fitted  with  hasps 
and  padlocks,  so  that  the  subscriber  could 
lock  up  his  seat  when,  between  the  acte, 
he  strolled  into  the  caffe  for  refreshment. 
Perhaps  he  was  absent  from.  Milan  dnnng 
the  whole  operatic  season ;  and,  if  he  did 
not  choose  to  lend  the  key  of  his  staD  to  a 
friend  of  the  right  political  way  of  think- 
ing, the  seat  remained  inexorably  closed. 
The  system  had  a  triple  charm:  Yiis^ 
tho  subscriber  could  revel  to  the  fullest 
extent  in  the  indulgence  of  that  dog- 
in- the- manger- like  selfishness,  which  I 
have  held  to  bo  inseparably  connected 
with  stall-holding ;  next,  ho  could  baffle  ihe 
knavish  boxkeepcrs,  with  whom,  in  an 
Italian  theatre  you  can  always  drive  an  im- 
moral bargain,  and  by  a  trifling  bribo  secure 
a  better  seat  than  that  for  which  you  have 
originally  paid ;  finally  he  could  obviate  the 
possibility  of  his  stall  being  contaminated 


HP 


^ 


OhailMDlek0D&] 


STALLS. 


[Angnstai,  1869.]    279 


bj  the  sedentary  preeenco  of  any  Austrian 
general  of  high,  rank  who  happened  to  be 
an  amatenr  of  L^^.  High-handed  as  were 
the  proceedings  of  the  Tedeschi  in  Italy, 
they  were  wisely  reluctant  to  interfere  with 
the  social  habits  of  the  people. 

Jnst  before  the  great  French  Rovo- 
lotion,  it  became  the  fashion  to  place 
arm-chairs  close  to  the  orchestra  of 
the  academy  of  music  for  the  nse  of  noble 
visitors,  who  came  down  from  their  boxes 
to  take  a  closer  survey  of  the  coryphees ; 
but  these  were  &nteuils  at  large ;  they  were 
&w  in  number,  and  could  be  shifted  from 
place  to  place  at  wilL  Veritable  stalls  are 
thoae  which,  albeit  they  are  fitted  with  arm^ 
rests,  are  still  immovably  screwed  to  the 
floor;  and  such  stalls,  old  playgoers  will 
bear  me  out,  are  things  of  very  recent  in- 
troduction in  our  theatres^  The  pit  of  Her 
Majesty's  Theatre  was  once  the  resort  of 
tJie  grandest  dandies  in  London.  Gt)ing 
over  the  new  structure  the  other  day,  I  ob- 
served that  the  pit  proper  had  been  almost 
entirely  suppressed,  and  that  stalls  mono- 
polised  seven-tenths  of  the  sitting  room  of 
the  ground  area.  Li  English  theatres  a 
similar  monopoly  has  been  frt>m  year  to 
year  gradually  gaining  strength.  The  most 
rubbishing  little  houses  have  now  numerous 
lows  of  stalls,  from  which  bonnets  are  of 
oonrse  banished;  and  the  pit  is  being 
quietly  elbowed  out  of  existence.  The 
"third  row  of  the  pit"  was  once  a  kind 
of  bench  of  judgment — I  don't  say  of 
justice — on  which  those  tremendous  dis- 
pensers o£  dramatic  fame  and  fortune,  the 
critics,  sat.  Our  papas  and  mamTnafl  did 
not  despise  the  pit  of  old  Drury;  and  I 
have  heard  tell  of  a  lady  of  title  who  paid 
to  the  pit  to  see'  Master  Betty,  and  who 
took  with  her  a  bag  of  sandwiches,  and 
some  sherry  in  a  bottle.  I  think  I  heard 
tell  that  sno  lost  her  shoe  in  tiie  crowd 
before  the  doors  were  opened. 

Should  this  remarkaDle  extension  of  the 
stall  system  be  considered  as  a  blessing  or 
an  e^?  Has  it  not  tended  to  the  vast 
increase  of  selfishness,  superciliousness, 
and  the  pride  of  place  ?  Dear  sir,  if  I 
were  a  Professor  of  Paradoxes,  I  might  tell 
you  that  the  more  selfish,  the  more  super- 
cilious, and  the  prouder  of  our  places  wo  are, 
the  likelier  vnll  be  the  attainment  of  imi- 
versal  happiness.  I  might  whisper  to  you 
that  virtue  is  only  selfishness  in  a  sublime 
degree.  But  I  am  a  professor  of  nothing ; 
and  I  dread  paradoxes — ^having  had  a  re- 
lative once  wno  was  afflicted  with  them, 
and  died.     So  I  go  back  to  stalls. 


The  stalled  ox,  and  the  stalled  cows  in 
the  byres  of  Brock,  in  Holland,,  with  their 
tails  tied  up  to  rings  in  the  rafters,  I  leave 
to  their  devices,  for  my  talk  is  of  men  and 
not  of  beasts.  Just  lovingly  do  I  glance 
at  the  cobbler  in  his  stall — a  merry  man 
with  twinkling  eyes,  a  blue-black  mazzard, 
and  somewhat  of  a  copper  nose,  for  ever 
cuddling  his  lapstonc,  smoothing  his  lea- 
ther with  sounding  thwacks,  drawing  out 
hifl  waxed  string,  working  and  smging, 
and  bandying  repartee  with  the  butchers' 
boys  and  the  fishwives  passing  his  hutch. 
I  would  Mr.  Longfellow  had  sung  of  that 
cobbler ;  for  as  many  tuneful  things  could 
bo  said  about  Crispin,  as  about  tho  Village 
Blacksmith.  That  he  has  been  left  unsung, 
I  mourn,  sincerely ;  for  times  change  and 
types  of  humanity  vanish,  and  I  am  be- 
ginning to  miss  that  cobbler.  Metropolitan 
improvements  are  un&vonrable  to  him; 
our  pride  and  vanity  miKtate  against  him ; 
for  somehow  we  don't  care  about  seeing 
our  boots  mended  in  public,  now-a-days. 
In  old  times  the  cobbler's  staQ  was  per- 
mitted to  nestle  in  the  basement  of  mansions 
almost  aristocratic  in  their  respectability ; 
but,  at  present,,  no  arohitect  would  dres^ 
of  building  a  new  cobbler's  stall  in  a  new 
house,  and  the  old  ones  are  fitst  disappear- 
ing. Crispin  has  risen  in  the  world.  Ho 
has  taken  a  shop,  and  ^'  repairs  ladies'  and 
gentlemen's  boots  and  shoes  wiHh  punc- 
tuality and  despatch." 

The  term  "  stall,"  as  applied  to  the  board 
on  tresscls,  or  supported,  perchance,  by  a 
decayed  washing-tub,  laid  out  with  apples, 
sweetstuff,  or  oysters,  and  presided  over  by 
an  old  Irishwoman  vrith  a  stringless  black 
bonnet  flattened  down  on  a  mob  cap, 
I  consider  a  misnomer.  It.  lacks  the  idea 
of  exclusive  possession  which  should  attach 
to  a  stall.  The  apple,  or  sweetstufP,  or 
oyster  woman,  jb  but  a  tenant  at  wilL  She 
has  no  fee  simple.  She  may  be  harried  by 
the  police,  and  petitioned  agaSnst  by  churlish 
shopkeeping  neighbours,  j«idous  of  her  poor 
outdoor  traffic.  Drunken  roysterers  may 
overturn  her  frail  structure;  a  reckless 
Hansom  cab-driver  may  bring  her  to  irre- 
trievable crash  and  ruin.  Rival  apple- 
women  may  compete  with  her,  at  the  oppo- 
site street  comers,  and  passing  coster- 
mongers,  with  strong-wheeled  barrows,  may 
gird  at  her,  and  disparage  her  ware&  'Tis 
not  a  stall,  at  which  she  sits,  but  a  stand, 
a  mere  thing  of  tolerance  and  sufierance : 
here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow,  if  the 
Road  Man  chooses  despitefully  to  use  poor 
Biddy.     But  once  give  ma  Bit^"a%  TwsoLSa^. 


<£ 


.     280      [AiignBt21,18«9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condiieted  hj 


/ 


a  cathedral  stall,  and  by  cock  and  pye,  I 
will  not  bud^  !  Yon  may  threaten  to  dis- 
establish and  disendow  me,  but  I  will  cany 
my  stall  abont  with  me,  as  old  gentlemen 
at  the  sea-side  carry  their  camp-stools. 
And  if  at  last,  by  means  of  a  measnre  forced 
on  an  nnwilling  nation  by  ministers  more 
abandoned  in  their  principles,  Sir,  than  Se- 
janns,  Empson,  Dndley,  Folignac,  Peyron- 
net,  or  the  late  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  yon 
declare  that  my  stall  no  longer  exists,  you 
shall  compensate  me  for  it  at  a  rate  as 
rich  as  though  I  had  always  had  it  clamped 
with  gold,  and  stuffed  with  bank  notes. 

TO  A  LITTLE  HUSWIFE. 

O  little  Huswife  clean  and  spruce, 

Thy  use  one  heart  diyines ; 
A  rosy  apple,  full  of  juice, 

And  polish'd — till  it  shines ! 
A  tidy,  tripping,  tender  thing, 

A  foe  to  lasy  litters, 
A  household  angel,  tidying 

Till  all  around  thee  glitters ! 

To  see  thee  in  thy  loyeliness. 

So  prudish  and  so  chaste ; 
No  speck  upon  the  cotton  dress 

Girdled  around  thy  waist ; 
The  ankle  peeping  white  as  snow 

Thy  tuck'd-up  kirtlo  under ; 
While  shining  oushes,  row  on  row. 

Behind  thee,  stare  and  wonder ! 

While  round  thy  door  the  millions  «»*»j 

While  the  great  markets  fill, 
Tho*  public  sorrow  strike  us  fdl. 

Singing  thou  workest  still ; 
Tea,  all  thy  care  and  all  thy  lot 


Is  ever,  sweet  and  willing 

BCD  one  litti 
As  clean  as  a  new  shilling ! 


ig. 
To  keep  one  little  household  spot 


The  crimson  kitchen  firelight  dips 

Thy  cheeks  until  they  glow ; 
The  white  flour  makes  thy  finger  tips 

Like  rosebuds  dropt  in  snow, 
When  all  thy  little  gentle  heart 

Flutters  in  exultation 
To  compass,  in  an  apple  tait. 

Thy  noblest  aspiration  I 

O  Huswife,  may  thy  modest  worth 

Keep  ever  free  from  wrong. 
Blest  be  the  house  and  bright  the  hearth 

Thou  blessest  all  day  long ! 
And  nightly,  may  thy  sleep  be  sound, 

While  o'er  thee,  softly,  stilly, 
The  curtains  dose,  like  learcs  around 

Hie  husht  heart  of  the  lily! 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 

IN  TWO  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  II. 

When  I  was  again  aware  of  anything 
that  conld  have  belonged  to  the  real  world 
— and  not  to  the  dreadfnl  world  of  horrors, 
some  terrible,  some  grotesqne,  in  which 
my  diseased  brain  had,  dnring  an  inex- 
plicable period,  lived  snch  Hfe  as  it  had 
known — I  was  in  my  own  room  in  Strath- 
caim-street.  One  of  the  first  things  I  con- 
Bdonaly  noticed  and  thought  abont,  was 


the  fact  that  my  bed  had  been  moved, 
from  the  sleeping  and  dressing  closet  in 
which  it  nsnally  stood,  out  into  the  open 
room. 

My  dreamy  eyes  took  this  fisujt  in  slowly; 
ailer  a  while,  my  drowsy  brain  languidly 
decided  that  this  meant  I  had  been  some 
time  ill,  and  that  the  bed  had  been  moved 
in  order  to  give  me  more  air. 

This  settled,  my  weak  mind  was  free  to 
take  note  of,  and  feebly  to  speculate  about, 
other  facts. 

A  woman  sat  at  work  not  for  from  my 
bedside.  Which  of  the  hospital  nurses 
would  this  be,  I  wondered.  She  was  work- 
ing by  the  light  of  a  shaded  lamp.  This 
was  night,  then,  I  supposed,  or,  at  leasts 
evening. 

Was  it  summer  or  winter  ? 

There  was  no  fire  burning  in  the  grate, 
and,  by  the  moving  to  and  fro  of  a  bfind,  I 
knew  a  window  was  open ;  so  I  concluded 
it  was  summer. 

Night-time  and  sunmier-time.  I  had, 
then,  settled  something. 

Next,  who  was  this  woman  ?  I  seemed 
to  need  to  settle  this  also. 

I  could  not  see  her  face  fit)m  where  I 
lay.  I  watched  the  swift  out-flying  and 
return  of  the  busy  hand,  and  wondered 
about  her,  and  impatiently  fretted  for  her 
to  turn  round  towards  me,  that  I  might 
see  her  face. 

But  she  worked  on. 

I  remember  a  lady  once  saying  to  me 
(long  years  after  this  time,  but  when  she 
said  it  this  scene  returned  upon  me), 
"  Work,  indeed  !  needle- work  !"  she  spoke 
with  a  bitter  intonation  and  an  infinite 
contempt.  "  Amuse  myself  with  my 
needle  !  How  often  have  1  been  counselled 
to  do  that !  Such  a  sweet,  soothing,  quiet, 
gracious  employment !  So  it  is,  for  the 
satisfied,  tho  happy,  the  occupied.  No- 
thing can  be  sweeter  than  to  sit  at  one's 
needle  through  a  long  summer-day,  and 
dream  over  one's  happiness,  and  think  out 
one's  thoughts.  But  if  one  be  not  happy, 
and  if  one's  thoughts  be  dangerous  ?  Or, 
if  one  bo  utterly  weary  and  ennuy^  and 
the  mind  seems  empty  of  all  thought  ? 

"To  you  men  it  is  all  one.  To  see 
a  woman  sitting  at  her  needle  makes  you 
content.  You  think  she  is  safe,  out  of 
mischief,  just  suflBciently  amused,  and  so 
suitably  occupied  !  Not  too  much  engrossed 
to  be  ready  to  listen  to  and  to  serve  your 
lordships;  not  so  far  ennuyee  as  to  be 
disposed  to  make  exacting  claims  upon 
your  attention  and  your  sympathy. 


^ 


f 


& 


GharlM  Dickena.] 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 


[AvgoBt  91,1869.]       281 


i 


"Yonr  eyes  rest  o&  her  with  satisfac- 
tion; she  forms  such  a  charming  pictnre 
of  honsewifely  repose  and  industry — *  Ohne 
Hast  ohne  Kast.'  Tou  like  to  let  your 
ejes  rest  upon  her  when  you  choose  to 
look  up  firom  your  paper,  your  rcTiew,  or 
your  wine.  Tou  feel  at  liberty  to  study 
her  at  your  leisure,  as  you  might  a  pic- 
ture. It  never  occurs  to  you  that  mock- 
ing, miserable,  mad  thoughts  may  be 
haunting  her  brain — that  passion,  despe- 
ration, despair,  or  that  utter  weariness, 
worse  than  all,  may  be  in  her  soul !" 

This  woman,  sitting  by  the  shaded  lamp 
m  my  room,  worked  on  and  on. 

By-and-by,  some  lines  of  the  throat  and 
bust  and  shoxdders  began  to  be  suggestive 
to  my  slow  brain.  They  seemed  to  belong 
to  some  remembered  person.     To  whom  ? 

As  well  as  I  coxdd  see,  this  woman  was 
dressed  in  white ;  a  white,  short  gown, 
jsuch  as  the  peasant  women  wear,  open  at 
the  throat,  loose  at  the  sleeve;  probably 
because  of  the  heat,  she  had  taken  off  her 
outer  dress.  As  I  was  straining  to  remember, 
a  great  sense  of  pressure  upon  my  brain, 
descending  on  me,  and  gprasping  mo  with 
the  tightening  grasp  of  a  cold  and  heavy 
hand,  stopped  me.  I  should  have  swooned 
into  sleep,  but  just  tlien  the  woman  laid 
down  her  work,  looked  at  a  watch  hanging 
near  her,  rose,  and  came  towards  the  bed. 

Immediately,  I  closed  mj  eyes ;  but  vo- 
luntarily. 

She  came  close,  bent  over  me,  as  if 
listening  for  my  breath.  I  felt  her  breath  : 
was  conscious  even  of  the  warmth  and 
fragrance  of  her  vitality,  as  she  stooped 
over  me.  Presently  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
my  clammy  forehead. 

Instinct  revealed  to  me  who  she  was : 
without  opening  my  eyes,  I  saw  her.  A 
cold  sweat  of  horror  broke  out  over  me ; 
such  life  as  was  left  me,  seemed  oozing 
away  through  my  pores;  I  was  ready  to 
SLok  into  a  swoon  of  death-like  depth. 

But  I  heard  these  words  : 

'*  That  he  may  not  die,  great  Gt)d,  that 
he  may  not  die  P'  And  they  arrested  me 
on  the  brink  of  that  horrible  sinking  away, 
to  hold  me  on  the  brink  instead  of  letting 
me  &11  through. 

Somehow,  those  words,  though  they 
saved  me  for  that  moment,  did  not  remove 
my  sense  of  horror  and  fear,  any  more  than 
is  the  victim  who  knows  himself  singled 
out  for  death  by  slow  torture,  comforted  and 
reassured  by  the  means  taken  to  bring  him 
back  from  his  first  swoon  to  consciousness 
of  his  next  agony. 


Was  it,  that  physical  weakness,  and 
nearness  to  death,  gave  me  clearer  vision 
than  that  with  which  I  saw  later,  when  my 
senses  had  gathered  power  ? 

It  was  fear,  1  now  experienced — there 
is  no  denying  it — a  most  horrible  fear.  A 
shrinking  of  the  spirit  and  of  the  flesh. 

Why  was  I  given  over  to  her  ? 

Was  this  another  world,  in  which  she 
had  power  given  her  to  torment  me  ?  Was 
this  my  hell? 

I,  weak  as  a  child,  was  alone  with 
her.  That  awful  woman  with  the  terrible 
eyes,  and  the  arms  uplifted  to  curse  me ! 
The  woman  of  my  dread  and  dreadful 
dreams  and  fever-fEincies. 

Here,  I  believe,  the  icy  waters  of  that 
horrible  cold  swoon  closed  over  my  con- 
sciousness. 

But  by-and-by  (and  whether  after  mo- 
ments, hours,  or  even  days,  I  had  no 
means  of  knowing),  when  I  felt  the  gentle- 
ness of  the  hand  that  was  busy  about  me — 
wiping  the  clammy  moisture  from  my  fore- 
head, bathing  it  with  ether,  holding  to  my 
nostrils  a  strong  reviving  essence,  wetting 
my  stiff  lips  with  brandy ;  when  I  ifelt  a  soft 
strong  arm  under  my  neck,  slightly  raising 
my  head  to  lean  it  on  the  yielding  breast — 
when  I  felt  the  soothing  comfort  of  the 
warmth,  the  softness,  tJ^e  fragrance  of 
vitality,  after  tiie  wormy  chill  of  the  grave, 
whose  taste  and  smell  seemed  to  linger  in 
my  mouth  and  nostrils — then  it  seemed  not 
hell  but  heaven  to  which  I  was  delivered. 

Presently  she  gave  me  to  drink  some 
restorative  medicine  which  was  measured 
out  ready  for  me.  I  swallowed  it.  She 
wiped  my  Hps.  I  closed  my  eyes.  Silence 
was,  as  yet,  unbroken  between  us. 

That  medicine  was  strong  stuff :  a  few 
moments  after  I  had  taken  it,  life,  and  con- 
scious delight  in  the  sense  of  life,  went 
tingling  through  me. 

Almost  afraid  to  speak,  and  yet  too  full 
of  wonder  to  remain  silent,  after  I  had  for 
some  moments  listened  to  the  steady, 
somewhat  heavy,  pulsations  of  the  heart 
so  near  which  I  leaned,  I  asked : 

"  Have  I  been  long  iU  ?" 

"  A  month." 

She  had  paused  before  she  spoke,  and 
her  breast  had  heaved  high — ^was  it,  I  have 
wondered  since,  in  proud  disgust  to  bear 
my  hated  head  upon  it  ? 

She  did  not  look  at  me  as  she  spoke,  I 
knew,  for  I  didn't  feel  her  breath. 

"  What  sort  of  illness?" 
Congestion  of  the  brain." 
Is  the  danger  "^^aXt?^ 


(( 


(C 


cS: 


282       CAugiMt21,18«0.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetedbj 


"  If  you  can  be  kept  from  dying  of 
weakness." 

"  And  how  comes  it  that  yownnrse  me  P" 

"  I  have  given  myself  up  to  be  a  nurse." 

"  And  have  you  nursed  mo  all  this 
month  ?" 

"  No,  not  the  first  week :  not  till  after 
my  child  was  buried." 

The  tone  of  that  last  answer  made  me 
shudder.  It  was  so  unnatural,  in  its  perfect 
freedom  from  all  emotion. 

"  I  shall  tire  you,"  I  said ;  "  lay  me 
down." 

Fear  was  regaining  its  empire  over  me. 

She  did  as  I  asked  her,  and,  after  she 
had  arranged  my  pillows  and  the  bedclothes 
neatly,  moved  to  her  work-table.  The 
delicious  sense  of  warm  life  was  fast  dying 
away  out  of  me. 

**  Are  you  Mrs.  Bosscar  P"  i  aeked,  pre- 
sently, raising  myself  on  one  elbow,  for  an 
instant,  to  look  at  her. 

"  I  am  your  nurse,"  she  answered  me, 
without  looking  up  from  her  work. 

I  made  another  effort  to  try  and  get 
things  explained  and  disentangled ;  but 
they  were  too  much  for  me.  Before  I  had 
frfimed  another  question  I  was  overwhelmed 
by  sleep. 

That  was  my  second  "lucid  interval." 
The  first  in  wliich  I  was  capable  of  speech, 
I  believe.  A  week  elapsed  before  I  had 
another. 

I  knew  something  of  what  passed ;  I  dis- 
tinguished voices ;  I  know  that  Dr.  Feam- 
well  was  oft  en  in  the  room ;  I  was  conscious 
that  I  had  a  second  nurse.  I  knew  who  she 
was :  one  of  the  hospital-nurses,  a  good, 
honest,  hearty  creature,  but  coarse  and 
rough — a  woman  never  entrusted  with  the 
care  of  delicate  cases ;  but  she  seemed  to 
act  here  as  servant  to  Mrs.  Bosscar.  I 
knew  all  these  things,  but  they  seemed  to 
concern  some  other  person.  When  I  tried 
to  recognise  myself  in  things,  to  take  hold 
of  anything  with  distinot  self- consciousness, 
then  came  those  horrible  sweats  and  swoons, 
and  overwhelmed  me. 

It  was  a  strange  wild  phase  of  semi- 
existence,  instructive  to  a  man  of  my  pro- 
fession to  pass  through. 

For  some  time  aftier  I  had  got  on  a  good 
way  towards  recovery,  I  talked  and  thought 
of  myself  as  "that  siok  man:"  seemed 
to  watch  what  was  done  to  me,  as  if  it  were 
being  done  to  some  other  person. 

When  this  phase  cleared  off,  the  sense  of 

relief   was  not  unmixed:    for   I   had   so 

lahonouslj  to  take  myself  to  myself  again 

— ^  Jcam  that  that  sick  man's  history  was 


mine,  that  his  memories  were  mine,  his  re- 
morses mine,  that  I  often  groaned  at  the 
labour  of  it. 

'•  You  would  never  have  struggled 
through,  but  for  the  skill  and  the  devotion 
of  your  nurse,"  Dr.  Feamwell  said  to  me.     , 

"  So  he  thinks  I  have  struggled  through 
now,"  I  remarked  to  Mrs.  Rosscar  when 
he  was  gone.  "  I  must  call  you  something 
different  from  *  nurse.*  "  I  went  on.  "  It 
is  impossible  that  you  and  that  good  rough 
creature  should  share  one  title  between 
you." 

"  I  should  share  no  title  with  any  good 
creature." 

"  You  know  it  was  not  that  I  meant." 

**  I  know  it  was  not  that  you  meant." 

"  What  may  I  call  you  ?" 

"  You  may  call  me,  if  you  choose,  by  my 
own  name,  Uuldah." 

"Huldah!"  I  repeated.  "I  wish  jou 
had  a  softer  name.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
Huldah  softly,  and '' 

"  I  have  laiown  it  said  softly,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  have  never,  sinoe  I  was  a 
child,  been  called  by  that  name,  except  by 
one  person.     You  may  call  me  by  it." 

Saying  this,  she  let  her  eyes,  which  I  had 
hardly  ever,  till  then,  for  one  moment, 
been  able  to  meet,  rest  on  mine  with  a 
heavy  fiilness  of  expression  that  sent  a 
languid  subtle  fire  through  my  veins — ^that, 
also,  made  mo  again  afraid :  aft^r  meet  ing 
it,  I  watched,  covertly,  for  its  recurrence. 

Mine  was  a  long-protracted  uncertain 
convalescence.  I  did  not  set  my  will 
towards  growing  well.  I  yielded  myself  np 
rather  to  the  luxury  of  my  position,  yielded 
myself  up,  body  and  soul,  as  it  were.  I 
was  imder  a  spell  of  &Bcination  not  devoid 
of  fear.  The  shock  that  felled  me  had 
come  upon  me  when  my  whole  health  of 
mind  and  body  was  at  a  low  ebb.  In  look- 
ing back,  I  recognise  this,  though  I  had 
not  at  the  time  been  conscious  of  it.  I 
had  never,  since  I  was  a  boy,  given  myself 
a  holiday ;  never  given  one  hour's  indul- 
gence to  any  passion  but  that  of  ambition, 
till  I  knew  Mrs.  Rosscar. 

At  the  time  of  my  meeting  her,  I  had 
just  come  to  the  dregs  of  my  powers,  bnt 
was  not  yet  conscious  of  the  Inttemess  of 
those  dregs. 

Now,  it  seemed  as  if  my  whole  nature — 
moral,  intellectual,  physical — vohintarily 
succumbed.  I  lay,  as  I  have  said,  xmder 
a  spell,  and  luxuriated  in  my  own  power- 
lessness.  As  yet  it  was  not  the  bitter  but 
the  sweet  dregs  of  the  cup  -that  were  paw- 
ing over  my  lips. 


A 


&> 


GhMtoi  DIckeiu.] 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 


[AiigiiBtsi,i80.]    283 


The  weather  was  hot ;  boxes  of  migno- 
nette,  Rome  heliotropes,  and  lemon-scenfced 
verbcnan,  were  in  my  balcony.  She  watered 
them  of  an  evening,  and  let  the  windows 
he  open  and  the  scent  of  them  float  in  to 
me  as  I  lay  and  watched  her  at  her  work. 

While  this  delicious  languid  Inxnry  of 
convalescence  lasted,  and  did  not  pall 
upon  me,  why  shonld  I  wish  to  get  well  ? 
While  she  was  there  to  feed  me,  I  would 
not  raise  a  hand  to  feed  myself. 

The  truth  was,  that  my  nurse,  my  perfect 
nurse,  of  whom  Dr.  FeamwcU  now  and 
again  spoke  with  an  enthusiasm  and  efinsion 
that  would  fire  my  weak  brain  with  sudden 
jealousy;  my  nurse,  who  would,  in  un- 
tiring wntchmlness  and  self-forgetting  de- 
votion to  her  task,  have  been  a  perfect 
nurse  for  any  man  who  had  been  iiidif- 
ferent  to  her,  to  whom  she  had  been 
indifferent,  was  now  a  most  pernicious 
nurse  to  me. 

I  loved  her  with  a  desperate  sort  of 
passion :  a  love  far  more  of  the  senses  than 
the  heart. 

She  was  neither  an  innocent  nor  an  ig- 
norant woman.  She  know  exactly  what  to 
do  and  what  to  leave  undone.  She  gavo 
me  no  chance  of  growing  indifferent  through 
familiarity,  if,  indeed,  with  such  beauty  as 
hers  tliat  could  have  been  possible.  As  I 
grew  better,  though  always  on  duty  near  mo, 
she  was  less  and  less  in  my  room;  ever 
oftencr  and  ofiener,  when  I  longed  in  thoso 
eold  half-BWoonings  and  icy  sweats  of 
weakness,  with  an  almost  delirious  longing 
to  feel  myself  soothed  and  cherished,  as  on 
that  first  season  of  consciousness,  by  her 
dose  presence,  there  camo  to  my  call,  not 
ICrs.  BoBScar,  but  tho  other  nurse,  with  her 
ooarse  good-tempered  face,  and  her  form, 
fix)m  which — reducing,  as  it  did,  the  sub- 
lime to  tho  ridiculous,  and  tho  lovely  to 
the  loathsome,  in  its  caricaturing  exagge- 
ration of  aU  feminine  charms — ^I  turned  in 
disgust. 

Every  day  Mnu  Rossoar  seemed  to  mo 
more  beautiful.  Every  day  I  seemed  to 
iecl  her  beauty  more  bewildcringly  and 
overpoweringly.  Not  so  much  the  beanty 
of  her  face ;  it  was  strange  how  unfamiliar 
that  remained  to  me,  and  how  seldom  I  had 
a  full  look  into  it ;  whenever  it  was  possible, 
it  was  averted  from  me ;  her  eyes  shunned 
mine,  and  she  kept  the  room  so  dim,  tliat 
I  had  littlo  chance  of  studying  her  ex- 
prBBsion.  If  I  noticed  this,  I  accounted 
to  myself  for  it  by  supposing  her  to  be 
growing  conscious  of  the  burning  fever  of 
my  passion.     Not  so  much  did  tho  beauty 


of  her  feco,  I  say,  bind  mo  prisoner.  It 
was  tho  beauty  of  her  presence  that  so 
grew  upon  mo :  of  her  whole  physical  self, 
as  it  were.  Of  her  mind  and  heart  I  knew 
nothing.  With  the  music  of  her  move- 
ment', the  gracious  doHcaoy  and  harmony 
of  all  she  did,  I  was  more  and  moro  cap- 
tivated. 

The  accidents  of  the  sick  room,  the  per- 
fect postures  into  which  her  hmbs  would 
fall  when  she  slept  the  sleep  of  exhauHtion, 
on  the  couch  at  the  far  end  of  my  chamber, 
made  me  more  and  more  conscious  of  tho 
wonderful  and  rare  perfection  of  propor- 
tion of  her  physical  beauty.  And  yet  it 
was  something  beyond  this  that  enchained 
me. 

Has  the  body  a  soul  apart  from  the 
soul's  soul  ? 

Is  there  a  soul  of  physical  beauty  ? 

But  what  I  mean,  escapes  me  as  I 
struggle  to  express  it. 

In  my  strange  passion  for  her,  there  was 
always  something  of  fear. 

Sometimes,  in  the  night,  I  would  lie 
awake,  leaning  on  my  elbow,  and  watch  her 
sleep,  and  follow  the  rising  and  the  falling 
of  the  now  childless  breast.  At  those  times 
I  always  thought  about  the  child,  and  won- 
dered how  she  thought  and  how  she  suffered, 
and  I  wondered  with  a  great  awe.  Was  her 
heart  dead  ?  About  all  her  soil  gentleness 
there  was  no  touch  of  tenderness.  Did  sho 
nurso  me  mechanically,  not  caring  whether 
it  was  I  or  another  i^  Then  recurred  to 
me  the  first  words  I  had  heard  her  speak 
when  I  revived  to  consciousness:  "That 
he  may  not  die,  great  Grod,  that  ho  may 
not  die !" 

Remembering  these  first  words  of  hers,  I 
could  hardly  tibiuk  her  tendanco  mecha- 
nical or  indifforent.  Was  she  gratefol  to 
me,  knowing  I  would  have  saved  and 
healed  her  child?  Then  returned  to  me 
tho  scene  by  the  small  bod — tho  awful  eyes, 
the  uphited  arms.  Often,  at  this  point  of 
my  thinking,  I  would  cry  aloud  to  find 
myself  bathed  in  that  terrible  cold  sweat, 
and  my  cry  would  wake  her,  and  her  ap- 
proach would  then  fill  me  with  dread. 

For  a  long  time,  things  went  on  witliout 
change.  I  got  neither  worse  nor  better. 
Dr.  Fearnwell  grew  impatient. 

"  Your  heart  continues  strangely  weak 
and  iiTitable,"  ho  said  one  day ;  saying  it, 
he  lookt»d — I  believe  it  was  a  pure  accident 
— ^from  me  to  Mrs.  Rossoar,  and  back  to 
me.  The  sudden  rush  of  heat  to  my  face, 
then,  possibly,  suggested  somcthm^  "U^ 
him;   lor  lie  considfix^^  xaa  ^cv^i^^,  «a^ 


^ 


284      [AogOBt  SI,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condndadlif 


Mrs.  Rosscar  jndiciallj.  I  wished,  how 
I  wished,  that,  for  the  time  of  the  good 
doctor's  eyes  being  on  her,  she  could  have 
looked  "Ugly ! 

"  We  must  try  change,"  he  said.  "  It 
will  not  do  to  go  on  like  this  ;  we  must  try 
change.  Yon  are  a  man  with  work  to  do 
in  the  world;  yon  mnst  be  braced  np  to 
do  it.  The  air  of  the  town,  and  especially 
of  yonr  room,  is  enervating  in  this  warm 
weather." 

"  I  am  far  too  weak  to  go  out,"  I  said. 
"  It  would  kill  me  to  more." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  that;  he  was 
reflecting. 

" To-morrow,"  he  went  on,  "I  will  call 
for  you,  in  the  afternoon;  you  can  quite 
well  bear  a  short  journey  in  my  carriage. 
I  will  take  you  k>  a  farm-house  in  the 
country,  pretty  high  up  among  the  hills. 
There,  you  will  soon  get  strong  and  well. 
You  will  be  yourself  again  before  the  cold 
weather  comes." 

"  I  shall  die  of  weariness,"  I  answered, 
peevishly. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind;  you  will  grow 
calm  and  strong." 

"I  can't  possibly  do  without  a  great 
deal  of  nursing  yet." 

"  The  good  woman  of  the  farm  is  a  kind 
motherly  creature ;  she  will  do  all  that  is 
necessary — she  and  one  of  her  cows,  from 
which  you  must  take  plenty  of  new  milk." 

At  that  moment  I  hated  Dr.  Feamwell. 
I  do  not  know  what  answer  I  might  not 
have  made  him,  but  Mrs.  Rosscar  spoke, 
and  my  attention  was  immediately  arrested. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  proposed  this 
change.  Dr.  Feamwell,"  she  said.  "  It 
relieves  me  of  a  difficulty.  I  am  unable  to 
remain  here  longer.  I  have  had  news 
from  my  own  neighbourhood  that  calls  me 
south.  Nurse  WiUdns  is  hardlv  competent 
to  undertake  the  sole  charge  of  my  patient 
in  his  present  stage  of  convalescence ;  but 
the  farmer's  wife  and  the  cow,  between 
them" — she  smiled,  one  of  her  very  rare 
and  very  brief  smiles — "  will  get  me  over 
my  difficulty." 

"  We  are  to  lose  you  ?  You  are  unable  to 
remain  here  longer  ?"  Dr.  Feamwell  said. 

He  paid  me  a  long  visit  that  day,  but 
very  little  of  his  attention  was  given  to 
me ;  he  seemed  to  bo  studying  Mrs.  Rosscar 
with  roused  interest. 

"  She  is  too  beautiful  and  too  young  for 

the  vocation  she  has  chosen,"  he  said,  by- 

and-by,  when  she  had,  for  a  few  moments, 

left  the  room.     "Besides   that,    she   is  a 

woman  with  a  preoccupied  mind,  with  a 

memorj,  or  a  purpose." 


\ 


His  last  words  made  me  shudder,  but  I 
retumed  him  some  sull^  dissenting  answer. 
That  this  woman  was  the  mother  of  the 
poor  little  child  on  whom  we  had  operated, 
he  did  not  know,  or  suspect. 

"  My  poor  fellow,  I  see  you're  in  a  devil 
of  a  temper.  But  I  don't  care ;  what  I'm 
doing  is  for  your  good — ^if  only  I  have  done 
it  soon  enough." 

"  Oh  !  People  are  so  very  brave,  always, 
in  their  operations  for  other  people's  good," 
I  remarked,  still  as  sulky  as  a  bear,  and  yet 
troubled  by  the  sound  of  my  own  words. 
I  was  mad  enough  to  believe  that  Dr. 
Feamwell  was  himself  in  love  with  my 
nurse,  and  jealous  of  me ! 

"  You'll  live  to  thank  me  for  what  I'm 
doing,  or  to  reproach  me  for  not  having 
done  it  sooner,"  he  said,  and  then  took  leave 
of  me. 

Mrs.  Rosscar  retumed  to  the  room,  find- 
ing me,  of  course,  in  the  deepest  dejection 
and  sullenness.  She  looked  at  me,  as  she 
entered,  with  some  curiosity  or  interest 
It  was  very  rarely  that  she  spoke,  exo^ 
in  reply ;  very  rarely  that  she  approached 
me,  except  when  some  service  made  it 
needful  she  should  do  so.  To-day,  she 
spoke  first,  coining  to  my  side,  within  read 
of  my  hand,  but  averting  her  face  from  me. 
She  took  up  her  work,  and  then  said : 

"So  it  is  settled  ?  You  go  into  the 
country  to-morrow  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  at  all  settled 
I  am  not  an  idiot,  or  a  baby,  that  I  shoidd 
do  exactly  what  I'm  told.  I  am  well 
enough  now,  to  have  a  will  of  my  own. 
Profattbly,  when  he  calls  for  me,  I  shall  say, 
'  I  will  not  go  !'  " 

"  Do  not  say  that,"  she  returned,  earnestly. 
"  Go,  I  advise  you.  It  is  true  that  I  cid- 
not  stay  here  longer." 

"  It  is  true  that  here,  or  there,  or  any- 
where, I  cannot  live  without  you,"  I  said, 
in  a  passionate  outburst. 

"  I  own  that  you  are  not  yet  well  enough 
to  go  without  your  accustomed  nurse,"  she 
answered,  "  and  your  nurse  does  not  like 
to  have  an  incomplete  case  taken  out  of 
her  hands.  But,  after  the  way  in  which 
Dr.  Feamwell  spoke  to-day,  after  the  in- 
sinuations contained  in  his  look  to-day,  I 
could  no  longer  nurse  you  here^  where  I  am 
always  liable  to  be  seen  by  him." 

"  Do  you  mean "  I  began,  with  a 

great  tlirobbing  joy. 

"  I  mean  that  if  you  go  with  the  doct(ff 
to-morrow,  you  may  find  that  your  nurse 
Avill  soon  join  you,  ijf " 

"  I  will  promise  anything,"  I  cried,  grasp- 


1^-1 


\ 


& 


diftrles  Dtckeat.] 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 


[Augasi  2U  1869.]       285 


"  If  yon  will  be  controlled  and  pmdent, 
and  will  not  again  expose  me  to  the  doctor's 
remarks." 

**  I  will  do,  or  not  do,  anything  yon  tell 
me  to  do,  or  not  to  do." 

"  Have  yon  a  sister  ?" 

"  No." 

"Does  Dr.  Feamwell  know  yon  have 
no  sister  ?" 

"  He  knows  nothing  of  me,  except  as  a 
fltndent." 

"  Tell  him  to-morrow,  then,  and  tell  the 
people  at  the  farm,  that  yonr  sister  is  coming 
to  join  yon.  Dr.  Feamwell  won't  come 
ont  often :  when  he  does,  it  will  be  easy  to 
devise  some  reason  for  his  not  seeing  '  yonr 
sister.* " 

She  stopped  the  ontbnrst  of  my  grati- 
tttde  by  rising  to  leave  the  room.  Not 
only  by  this,  but  by  the  look  she  gave 
me — a  dark,  inscmtable,  terrible  look — ^pon- 
dering over  which  I  grew  cold. 

N^  day,  she  asked  Dr.  Feamwell,  when 
he  came  to  fetch  me,  how  to  address  to  me  at 
tiie  &rm,  giving  no  reason  for  her  qnestion, 
which,  indeed,  required  none.  It  was 
natural  that  she  shonld  wish  to  write  to 
the  patient  to  whom  she  had  for  two 
monuis  devoted  herself  nnwearyingly. 

In  late  Angnst  and  early  September,  the 
Hannted  HoUy  Farm,  nnder  the  edge  of 
the  Qrej  Moor,  was  a  delicious  place. 
Dr.  Feamwell,  who  had,  no  donbt,  chosen 
it  for  its  austere  severity  of  situation, 
tnd  the  absence  of  all  softness  and  luxu- 
riance in  its  surroundings,  had  no  know- 
ledge of  the  old  walled  south-sloping  garden, 
lying  at  some  distance  from  the  house, 
where,  because  of  the  bleakness  of  the  spot, 
sU  flowers  blossomed  late:  Midsummer 
Uofisoms  postponing  themselves  often  till 
August;  and  where,  because  of  the  good 
soil  and  the  pure  air,  they  blossomed  pro- 
fusely. Nor  did  he  take  note  of  the  one 
peat  meadow,  now  grey  for  the  scythe, 
mto  which  the  flagged  path,  rose-bordered, 
of  this  garden  opened  through  a  grand  old 
gate,  with  carved  pillars  and  sculptured 
urns,  and,  on  each  side,  an  ancient  lime- 
tree,  the  sole  remnants  of  a  glorious  old 
avenue.  The  farm  had  been  one  of  the 
dependencies  of  a  great  mansion. 

On  the  second  afternoon  after  I  had 
come  to  the  farm — ^for  more  than  four-and- 
twenty  hours  she  had  let  me  know  what  it 
was  to  be  without  her — ^Mrs.  Rosscar,  *  my 
sister,'  sat  with  me  in  the  old  garden,  a 
profuse  wilderness  of  roses  and  of  honey- 
suckles; and  in  the  meadow  before  us  the  hay 
was  down,  and  the  air  full  of  its  fragrance. 
She  let  me  hold  her  hand  in  mine,  she  let 


me  press  close  to  her  with  a  passionate 
desire  to  satisfy  the  hunger  for  her  presence, 
created  by  her  absence. 

"  God  bless  Dr.  Feamwell !"  I  cried. 
"  To  bo  ill  in  that  dingy  room  in  Strath- 
caim-strect  was  exquisite  beyond  anything 
I  have  known,  while  you  nursed  me ;  but 
to  grow  well  in  this  enchanting  place, 
where  the  air  feels  like  the  elixir  of  life, 
with  you  always  beside  me !" 

She  smiled,  a  smile  of  which  I  saw  the 
beginning  only;  for  she  turned  her  head 
aside.     Then  she  sighed,  and  said,  sofUy : 

"  And  when  you  are  well  ?  When  you 
have  no  longer  any  excuse  for  claiming 
*  nurse*  or  *  sister'  ?** 

There  was  in  her  voice,  as  she  said  this, 
for  the  first  time,  a  slight  tremulousness. 

"  Then,*'  I  cried,  passionately;  the  air,  the 
beauty  of  the  place,  her  beauty,  completely 
intoxicating  me;  ''I  shall  claiin  a  wife.  I 
can  never  again  do  without  you.  You 
must  marry  me  1" 

Her  hand  moved  in  mine,  but  not  with 
any  eflbrt  to  withdraw  itself.  She  turned 
her  face  still  further  aside,  but  through  the 
muslin  that  covered  her  bosom — she  had 
in  these  days  discarded  her  close  black 
dresses,  though  wearing  always  mourning 
— I  saw  that  tiie  warm  blood  rushed  across 
her  snowy  neck  and  throat. 

By  that  emboldened,  I  pressed  her  for ' 
an  answer,  for  a  promise  of  her  love.     She 
turned  on  me. 

"That  I  should  love  yot*.'*'  she  said. 
"  Is  it  credible  ?** 

She  rose  and  left  me.  I  sat  where  she 
had  left  me,  pondering  what  might  be  the 
meaning  of  those  words,  of  the  voice  in 
which  they  were  spoken,  of  the  look  that 
accompanied  them.  The  voice  had  none 
of  the  music  of  her  voice ;  the  look  was 
incomprehensible;  I  could  read  in  it,  it 
seemed  to  me,  anything  rather  than  love. 
And  yet  I  confidently,  audaciously,  believed 
that  she  loved  me,  but  that  she  struggled 
against  her  love. 

What  motive  could  she  have,  but  love, 
for  devoting  herself  to  me  thus  ?  Why 
risk  good  name  and  fame,  which  to  so 
proud  a  woman  as  I  thought  her,  could 
hardly  be  indifferent.  What  could  I  con- 
clude but  that  she  loved  mc?  And  yet 
with  what  a  strange  fashion  of  love — so 
cold,  so  passive,  so  irresponsive  !  With  so 
slight  a  difference,  if  with  any  difference, 
one  might  so  ea^ly  express  disgust. 

I  must  have  sat  a  long  time  where  she 
had  left  me ;    for  when  a  hand  "^^kS*  VjcA 
on  my  shouldeT,  and  «u  -^cagci  «kA^  Ts^wt  tk^ 
ear :   "  My  pat^esnt,  ^ou  Ta?aaV>  ^»ts\s^  v^  '^^ 


<& 


28G        [August  91,1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoctad  bu 


dew  begins  to  fell,"  looking  np,  I  found 
that  the  snnset  was  burning  in  the  west, 
and  that  the  stars  were  beginning  to  show. 

Somehow,  the  way  that  hand  touched  my 
shoulder,  and  the  slight  aooentuation  on  that 
word  "  my,"  made  me  shudder.  She  was 
like  Fate  claiming  a  victim.  It  was  only 
the  chill  of  the  evening  that  sent  such  a 
thought  through  me.  Indoors,  by-and-by, 
when  the  curtains  were  drawn  and  the 
logs  blazed  on  the  open  hearth,  and  she 
made  my  tea  and  brought  it  to  me,  and 
tended  me  with  all  watchful  observance, 
I  entered  again  into  my  fool's  paradise. 

And  so,  again,  next  day,  as,  through  the 
hot  drowsy  afternoon  hours,  she  sat,  and  I 
lay  beside  her,  on  the  warm  hay,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  still  fragrant  boughs  of  one 
of  those  late-blossoming  limes.  My  head 
was  in  her  lap,  and  my  cheek  was  pressed 
against  the  blue-veined  inner  side  of  that 
warm  white  arm. 

Beyond  this  meadow,  stretched  wave 
after  wave  of  yellow  com,  all  in  a  shim- 
mer and  glimmer  of  heat,  running  down 
the  hill,  overflowing  the  plain,  seeming,  from 
where  wc  were,  to  wash  up  to  the  very  feet 
of  ihe  castle- dominated  romantic  old  city. 

With  eyes  growing  more  dreamy  and 
more  drowsy  every  moment,  I  watched  the 

f listen  and  sheen  tUl  I  fall  asleep.  I  fancy 
slept  some  time.  I  awoke  suddenly  and 
with  a  sense  of  alarm.  I  had  had  a  strange 
and  dreadful  dream ;  words  of  deadly  hiUe 
had  been  ]^issed  into  my  ear  by  a  serpent, 
and  its  cold  coil  had  been  wound  rouiAl  my 
throat. 

My  hand  went  quickly  to  my  throat 
when  I  awoke,  and  there  lay  across  it — 
nothing  dreadful— <mly  a  heavy  tress  of 
Mrs.  Rosscar's  hair,  which,  slipping  loose, 
bad  uncoiled  itself  as  she  bent  over  me. 

I  looked  up  into  her  eyes  with  the  horror 
of  my  dream  still  on  me.  Did  I  expect  to 
find  love  shed  down  on  me  from  them? 
They  held  mine  a  moment ;  they  were  full 
of  darkness,  but,  as  I  looked  up  something 
softened  the  darkness.  She  sxxuled ;  in  her 
smile  there  was  some  pity. 

"  I  was  half  afraid  to  let  you  sleep,"  she 
said,  "  but  on  such  an  afternoon,  I  thought 
there  could  bo  no  danger." 

"  Danger !     What  danger?" 

"  Of  your  taking  cold.  What  other 
danger  could  there  be  p  You  look  as  if 
you  had  been  dreaming  painfully,  my  poor 
boy." 

She  had  never  so  addressed  me  before. 

"I  have  been  dreaming  horribly,"  I  said. 
"Lying  on  yovLv  hip,  on  such  a  day,  in  such 
aplaoe,  how  could  that  be  possible  l" 


She  would  not  meet  my  eyes. 

*'  I  am  not  at  all  sure  I  have  not  take 
cold,"  I  said,  with  a  shudder,  half  real  an 
half  assumed. 

'*  You  must  come  in  at  once,  and  tali 
some  hot  drink.     Come." 

Wc  both  rose  and  walked  to  the  house, 
leaned  on  her  arm :  not  that  I  now  neede 
its  support,   but  I  liked  to  feel  the  sof 
warm  arm  under  my  hand,  and  I  liked  t 
remind  her  of  my  dependence  upon  her. 

I  often  wondered,  and  with  uneas 
wonder,  that  she  never  spoke  of  her  child 
never,  so  far  as  I  knew,  wept  for  it.  Bu 
she  was  a  strangely  silent  woman.  As 
have  said,  she  very  rarely  spoke  first,  oi 
as  it  were,  voluntarily ;  and  when  she  re 
sponded  to  what  was  said  to  her,  it  wa 
always  as  briefly  as  possible.  It  seemei 
as  if  she  understood  how  expressive  wa 
every  movement  of  her  gradoua  fimn 
how  needless  for  her,  compared  with  othe 
beings,  vras  speech,,  even  of  the  eyes,  & 
more  of  the  lips.  Anytiiing  approaching  t 
liveliness  of  movement,  or  of  voice,  wouL 
have  been  out  of  harmony  with  her  being 
She  was  more  fit  to  be  set  an  a  oostlr 
pedestal  and  gased  at,  than  to  move  in  tii 
common  ways  of  this  common  world, 
thought.  AndeachunconscuniBpoaeafher 
was  so  completely  beautiful  thafe  I  alwi^ 
thought  until  I  noted  the  next— "that  i 
how  I  would  have  you  stand,  thai  I  migh 
gaze  on  you  for  ever !" 

Though  I  believed  she  loved  xne,  I  ^a 
not  satisfied.  I  remembered  her  aa  tdie  luu 
been  upon  the  river  tiiat  day,  and  I  M 
that  she  was  changed.  I  remembered  tb 
smiles  she  had  shed  upon  her  child.  I 
only  she  would  smile  so,  onoe,  at  me— bn 
she  never  did.  Once,  I  had  implored  he 
for  a  full  eye  to  eye  look,  and  for  a  amik 
Then,  she  had  turned  her  £M9e  to  mine;  hai 
fixed  her  eyes  on  mine ;  but  the  dark  qob 
eyes  were  inscrutable.  Suddenly,  jurt  a 
I  believed  I  was  going  to  read  them,  bIm 
covered  them  with  her  hands,  and  tuznec 
her  head  away. 

One  evening,  as  we  sat  together  in  tb 
warm  twilight  by  the  hearth,  I  tried  ii 
break  down  the  silence  between  us  abon 
the  child. 

"Huldah!"  I  said,  "you  have  not  tol( 
mo  where  your  little  child  is  lying.  Let  a 
go  together  to  the  grave.     Let  me  wee] 

there  with  you — ^let "     I  stopped  sud 

deuly,  with  a  cold  damp  on  my  Inow,  as  . 

remembered  the   awful    eyes,    the    arm 

raised,  and  the  lips  moving  to  cnrae  me^  o 

.this  very  woman  by  whom  I  saL    I  ^ 

\a  a^i^\*  efonix^A^Voiii  o^  tbe  frame   touv 


^ 


:& 


Clivies  UlckenB.1 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 


[Anguit  21. 186&.]   287 


which  I  had  drawn  my  arm ;  but  when  she 
spoke  it  was  in  tho  quietest  voice : 

"  We  will  go  ikhere  together ;  but  not  yet." 

"When?*' 

"When  you  are  stronger.;  wheu  I  am 
your  wife." 

"  And  you  wrill  let  that  bo  soon  ?'* 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  soon." 

It  seemed  to  mo  her  heart  was  beating, 
very  heavily.     I  told  her  so. 

"  It  is  fdll,"  she  said,  drawing  a  deep 
breath.     "  It  is  over-full." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Cannot  you  guess  ?"  She  leaned  her 
feice  close  down  to  nunc,  too  close  for  me 
to  be  able  to  read  it.  "  It  is  strange  if 
jou  cannot  ^uess,"  she  added. 

"  Konly  1  dared  to  read  it  by  my  own," 
I  said. 

"Dare  to  read  it  hy  your  own^"  sho 
answered. 

"  My  heart  is  heavy  and  over-full  Tvith 
love  of  you,  Huldah." 

"  And  must  not  mine  be  heavy  and  full 
with  love  of  you  ?  Of  you  so  generous  that 
you  arc  willing,  to  make  of  an  unknown 
woman  your  wife :  to  give  her  your  name, 
not  asking  her  right  to  tho  name  she  bears, 
or  to  any  name." 

She  spoke  more  quickly  than  I  had  ever 
heard  her  speak :  still  with  her  face  so  close 
to  mine  that  I  could  not  read  it. 

"  Generous  ?  I  generous  in  being  ready 
to  give  for  that  without  which  everything 
else  is  worthless,  all  that  is  only  any  worth 
through  that." 

"  That  is  it !"  she  said,  with  something 
approaching  to  eagerness  (so  answering,  I 
thought  afterwards,  some  inward  scruple). 
"  It  is  to  yourself  you  are  ready  to  sacrifice 
yourself:  not  to  me.  Suppose  I  tell  you  I 
have  no  right  to  the  name  you  call  me  by, 
or  to  any  name;  that  though  a  mother, 
I  have  never  been  a  wife;  that  I  shame 
your  name  if  I  take  it ;  that " 

"  You  can  shame  nothing ;  you  and 
shame  are  not  to  be  named  together.  I 
want  to  know  nothing  of  your  past.  What 
yon  are,  is  enough  for  me,  and  what  you 
will  be- — ^my  irae !" 

She  answered  me  never  a  word.  Sho 
suffered  my  caresses  as  she  suffered  my 
other  foi*ms  of  speech.  Not  one  slightest 
hand-pressure,  even  of  a  finger. 

My  wooing  of  her,  was  Hke  tho  wooing  of 
a  statue,  if  only  a  statue  could  have  been 
exquisitely  warm  and  soft  and,  by  contact, 
could  have  thrilled  one  with  inteusest  life. 

A  day  was  fixed  for  our  marriage.  The 
time  w^ent  on.  I  cannot  say  that  it  lin- 
gered, or  that  it  flew;  it  was,  to  me,   a 


time  of  intoxication — not  quite  untroubled 
by  occasional  pangs,  and  pauses  of  sobriety, 
for  sometimes  in  those  deep  dark  eyes  of 
hers  I  surprised  expressions  that  troubled 
me — sometimes  looks  of  pity — sometimes 
dai*ker  looks  than  I  could  understand. 

At  last  there  came  an  evening  when,  as 
we  parted  for  the  night,  I  said :  *'  After  this 
night-,  only  one  night  more,  and  then  a  day 
after  which  nothing  but  Death  shall  part 
us!" 

An  hour  afterwards,  not  being  able  to 
sleep,  I  came  back  into  the  sitting-room  for 
a  book.  Sho  was  sitting  before  tho  embers, 
which  threw  a  Imid  light  upon  her  face, 
and  upon  her  hands  clasped  round  her 
knees. 

She  was  so  far  absorbed  that  she  did  not 
hear  the  approach  of  my  slippered  feet  across 
the  floor. 

I  spoke  to  her,  tlirowing  myself  at  her 
feet.  I  poured  out  a  passion  of  foolish 
eloquence.  To  my  wonder,  to  my  horror, 
to  my  fear,  to  my  dehght,  she  burst  into 
a  terrible  storm  of  weeping. 

I  tried  to  soothe  her  as  a  lover  might ; 
but  she  rose,  withdrew  herself^  and  leaned 
against  tho  oaken  chinmey-pieco  until  the 
storm  subsidcnl. 

I  pressed  to  know  the  cause  of  this,  grasp- 
ing her  hands  to  detain  her. 

"  I  find  I  am  not  a  fiend,  not  an  aveng- 
ing spirit,  only  a  woman — a  weak,  mise- 
rable, wretched  woman."  She  would  tell 
mo  no  more ;  sho  rid  herself  of  my  grasp, 
as  if  my  hands  had  had  no  more  strength 
in  them  than  an  infant's.  "  To-morrow," 
sho  said,  "  by  my  child's  grave,  I  will  tell 
you  more."  So,  she  left  mo ;  to  bo  all  that 
night  sleepless,  and  haunted  by  her  per- 
plexing words. 

Soon  after  breakfast  wo  set  out,  through 
the  soft  grey  autumn  morning,  for  the  child's 
grave. 

I  had  not  known,  until  now,  where  the. 
little  creature  was  buried. 

It  was  not  a  sliort  walk ;  chiefly  across 
the  moors  till  the  close  of  it,  when  wo 
dropped  down  suddenly,  into  a  little  jewel 
of  a  green  dell,  where  was  the  smallest  of 
churches,  overshadowed  by  tho  biggest  of 
yew-trees. 

Through  all  tho  walk  sho  had  hardly 
spoken.  The  few  times  I  spoke  to  her,  she 
(Hd  not  seem  to  hear  me.  Perhaps  she 
had  never,  since  tho  loss  of  her  child, 
looked  so  softly  beautiful.  I  had  never  felt 
myself  held  further  aloof  from  her,  had 
never  been  more  afraid  of  her.  I  followed 
her  tlirougli  the  c\\\x.rc\\"^tcc\  ^\ft  \-^  "Ocva 
little  grave. 


c& 


288 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Aiigartn,lS«»J 


/ 


"  She  lies  here." 

The  tnrf  on  that  small  grave  had  not  yet 
drank  deep  enongh  of  the  autnmn  rains,  to 
look  fresh  and  green. 

"  It  has  had  no  tears  shed  on  it.  It 
is  dry  and  scorched,  like  my  heart,  like 
my  heart !" 

She  stood  motionless  and  speechless  for 
a  time  that  seemed  to  me  immense;  her 
drooped  eyes  seemed  to  bo  looking  into 
the  earth.  Presently  she  sank  upon  her 
knees,  then  dropped  npon  the  graye,  press- 
ing her  breast  against  it,  and  laying  on 
it,  first  one  cheek  and  then  the  other. 
By-and-by,  she  rose  again  to  her  knees. 
When  she  spoke  it  was  brokenly,  pite- 
onsly. 

''1  cannot  do  it,  I  cannot  do  it !  The 
mother  in  me  will  not  let  me.  My  child 
will  not  let  me.  Yon  were  once  kind  to 
her.  Yon  made  her  happy  for  one  bright 
blessed  day.  Bertram,  poor  boy !  I  had 
thonght  to  do  it,  when  I  was  yonr  wife. 
But  here,  on  my  child's  grave,  I  recal  the 
curse  I  invoked  upon  you  by  her  death- 
bed. I  am  only  a  weak  miserable  woman, 
not  even  able  to  hate  or  to  curse !  Every- 
thing, even  revenge,  is  lost  to  me  with 
what  lies  here  !*' 

She  threw  herself  down  again  upon  the 
grave  in  utter  abandonment  of  grief;  and  I, 
Waning  against  the  yew-tree,  watched  her, 
weeping  there.  I  have  not  much  con- 
sciousness of  what  transacted  itself  in  my 
brain,  meanwhile.  I  think  I  realised  no- 
thing clearly.  I  fancy  I  had  a  feeling  of 
saying  to  myself,  "  I  told  you  so" — as  if 
someSiing  I  had  been  expecting  long,  had 
happened  at  last.  A  sofl  drizzling  rain 
that  blotted  out  the  distance,  and  blurred 
the  landscape,  began  to  fall.  Of  this  she, 
lying  always  with  her  face  pressed  down 
upon  the  turf,  was  not  aware,  though  I 
saw  her  shawl  grow  sodden  under  it.  I 
remember  well  the  words  with  which  I 
recalled  her  to  herself.  They  showed  the 
blankness  of  my  brain  and  how  little  I  com- 
prehended the  situation;  yet,  even  as  I 
spoke  them,  I  was  smitten  by  their  im- 
becility. 

"It  is  raining,"  I  said.  "I  am  cold 
and  wet.  It  dnps  through  this  shelter. 
I  shall  be  ill  again.     Let  us  go  home." 

I  was  tired,  benumbed,  mind  and  body. 
I  stumbled  and  walked  vaguely.  She 
made  me  lean  on  her  arm,  and  led  me 


home.     Even  more  silently  than  we  had 
come,  we  went. 

I  was  trying  to  believe  all  the  way,  that 
I  beHeved  that  to-morrow  everything  would 
be  as  it  was  to  have  been,  in  spite  of  this 
episode,  and  in  spite  of  my  sense  of  my 
utter  powerlessness  under  my  bondage  to 
her.  When  we  reached  the  house  she  was 
tenderly  careful  of  me. 

That  evening  she  told  me  her  histozy, 
and  what  had  been  her  proposed  revenga 
She  had  designed  to  make  me  love  aee 
madly.  That  she  had  done.  She  had  de- 
signed to  let  me  many  her,  who  had  been 
a  mother  and  not  a  wife.  She  had  designed, 
as  the  wife  of  my  infatuated  love  and  un- 
speakable passion,  to  have  cursed  me  w 
her  child's  butcher,  at  her  child's  grave* 
She  had  designed — or  was  the  namelesB 
dread  and  horror  of  my  illness  taking  this 
terrific  form  in  its  flight  P — when  she  had 
thus  slowly  ground  down  my  heart  to  its 
last  grain  of  misery  and  grief,  to  murder 
me  in  my  bed. 

"  I  could  have  married  you  for  hate,'* 
she  said ;  "  but  for  such  love  as  has  arisen 
in  mv  soul  for  you — ^if  indeed  it  is  love,  or 
anything  but  compassion  and  kindness  to- 
wards the  poor  wretch  I  have  helped  back 
to  life — ^never !" 

She  left  the  fiirm  that  night.  I  never 
saw  her  again. 

Now  Beady,  price  5t.  6d.,  bound  in  green  doth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OV  THB  NbW  SiKIBS  OV 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUOT). 

To  be  had  of  all  Bookaellen. 

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MESSRS.  CHAPPELLavdCO.  hare  great  pleaiaie 
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ruary 1,  8, 1.5,  22 ;  March  1,  8,  and  16.  ThePrioBsand 
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PnbUabed  at  the  Offloe,  Ko  20,  WeUington  Str««V8«nAd.    rrtBla^Xx^  C.^w»<K^«»i«^'^w>i^' 


■STOBy-OF  •  OUR;  i!VX5  -JKoM  Y^I^TD  \ijii 


co;JoucTEOBY 

amMS  m 

With  which  is  iNcoFycs^TtD 
No.  39.  NewSekiee.II       SATURDAY,  AL^GUST  -^H. 


VERONICA. 


In  Five  Books. 


"Pacl  !"  cried  a  harsh,  qaerulona  voice 
from  behind  the  cnrtaina  of  the  bed  in  tho 
Mcst-chamber  at  Shipley  vioamge.  "Paul! 
Where  the  dovil " 

Then  followed  a,  string  of  oaths  in  Eog- 
liah,  French,  and  Italian ;  not  pretty  rose- 
water  expletives,  snch  as  are  occaaiorally 
ateributed  in  the  pagea  of  fashionable 
novels  to  irresistible  yonng  gnardsmea  and 
mch-Iike  curled  darlings  of  the  world. 
There  was  no  odour  of  roae-water  about 
theee  oatha.  They  were  vile,  fierce,  hlas- 
phemons  phrases,  borrowed  from, the  vo- 
cabola^  of  the  i^orant  and  degraded. 

Sir  John  Gale  was  the  speaker.  Sir  John 
Gale  was  impatient  and  angry.  When  that 
was  the  case.  Sir  John  Gale  waa  apt  to  ex- 
press lumseif  in  the  strongest,  coarsest, 
mort  ferocions  language  with  which  his 
tongae  was  acquainted. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  Paul 
came  into  the  room.  Paolo  Paoh  was  a 
Piedmontese.  He  waa  a  »hort,  thick,  i^ly, 
middle-aged  man,  with  grave,  light-coloured 
Byes,  set  under  overhanging  brows.  He 
iad  a  shock  of  grizzled  hair,  and  a  broad 
forehead,  and  his  face  was  clean  shaven. 

Paul  had  been  a  courier,  and  iu  this 
upacity  had  attracted  the  attention,  and 
woa  the  favourable  opinion,  of  Sir  John 
Gale.  The  latter  had  elevated  Paul  to  the 
post  of  confidential  and  personal  attendant 
OQ  himself.  A  "  confidential"  attendant 
taight  seem  at  first  sight  to  he  of  small 
™Jue  to  Sir  John,  considering  that  ho 
never  volunlarilj-  made  a  conSdence  to  any 
X'-Ttr    I  I    -  -  ■   -      -    I  II  . 


human  being.  But  there  are  iiivolantary 
confidences  which  we  all  make  daily  and 
hourly  respecting  ourselves.  The  recipient 
of  these  iu  Sir  John's  case  needed  to  be 
staunch,  patient,  and  discreet.  Paul  was 
all  three. 

He  entered  tho  chamber,  bearing  in  his 
hand  a  tray  covered  with  a  napkin,  on 
which  was  placed  a  small  basin  of  soup. 

TTia  master  saluted  him  witii  a  volley  of 
abuse  for  having  delayed. 

Paul  veiy  gravely  eet  down  the  tray, 
raised  his  master  in  the  bed,  supported  lus 
back  with  pillows,  threw  a  dressing-gown 
over  his  shoulders,  and  then,  pulhng  from 
hie  waistcoat- pocket  a  large  silver  watch 
attached  to  a  black  ribbon,  said,  "  It  is 
time  for  your  sonp,  air." 

Sir  John  tasted  the  soup,  made  a  grimace 
of  disgust,  and  launched  another  volley  of 
oaths  at  Panl. 

"  This  is  uneatable — beastly !  They  have 
put  sage,  or  some  damned  thing  into  it. 

Dghr 

"  Very  good  soup,  sir,"  replied  Paul, 
impei'turbably.  "  No  sage.  I  saw  it  made. 
You  eat  it  warm,  sir.  It  will  give  strength. 
Very  good  soap," 

The  convalescent  continued  to  grumble 
at  every  spoonful;  but  he  swallowed  the 
savoury,  nourishing  broth  to  the  last  drop. 
And-then  Paul  removed  tho  tray,  mended 
the  fire,  and  proceeded  to  lay  out  his 
master's  clothes;  for  the  invabd  was  to 
leave  his  room  to-day,  for  the  first  time 
since  his  accident. 

Sir  John  looked  upward  from  among  hia 
pillows  to  where  the  window  gave  a  glimpse 
of  pale  blue  March  sky,  fretted  by  the 
skeleton  branches  of  the  yet  hare  trees. 

"  It's  a  fine  day,  eh?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sic,  OoVd-  Ton.  ra-iia^i  "Naa  "stSv 
wrapped,  mt." 

■Jft 


c£ 


200      [August  28, 18«l.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oontloetcd  bf 


G»> 


/ 


*'  Wl»t  sort  of  place  is  the  sitting-room  ? 

Panl  described,  as  well  ns  he  could,  tihe 
apartment  >yhich  ho  called  tlio  «alaii|  and 
M-ith  tho  aspect  of  which  the  reader  is 
already  acquainted.  He  fai*ther  stated 
that  there  imis  a  comfortable  ann-chair  at 
Sir  JoTm's  disposal;  that  a  screen  and  a 
ourtai&  had  been  arranged  behind  this  chair 
so  as  to  exclndo  all  draughts ;  and  that  a 
footstool  had  been  ])laoed  in  front  of  it. 

**  How  devilish  weak  I  am !"  exclaimed 
Sir  John,  with  an  almost  piteous  expression 
of  face,  as  he  essayed,  with  his  servant's 
assistance,  to  dress  himself. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  left 
his  bed.  Ho  had  been  wrapped  in  a  dress- 
ing-gown, and  seated  in  an  easy  chair  by 
the  fireside  in  his  own  chamber,  on  several 
previous  occasions.  But  now  ho  was  to 
ventm*e  into  the  sitting-room,  liavo  tea 
with  the  vioar's  family,  and  mako  tho  ac- 
quaintance of  the  young  ladies. 

On  the  part  of  these  latter,  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  curiosity  respecting  their 
gnest.  The  two  girls  did  not  even  know 
with  any  accuracy  what  his  personal  ap- 
pearance might  be.  True,  they  had  seen 
him — if  it  could  be  called  seeing — ^when 
ho  was  swooning,  bleeding,  mud  -  be- 
spattered, on  the  ground  at  theii*  gate.  But 
who  could  judge  of  a  gentleman's  looks 
under  such  circumstances  ? 

When  Sir  John  Gale  stood  for  a  moment 
at  the  open  door  of  the  parlour  leaning  on 
PauFs  arm,  and  looking  I  lis  first  look  at 
the  vicar's  daughter  and  ward,  this  is 
what  their  eyes  beheld :  a  man  of  middle 
height,  slenderly  made  and  somewhat  high 
shoulderud,  dressed  with  scrupulous  neat- 
ness— even  with  el^i^ancc — and  bearing 
traces  in  liis  fiioe  and  his  attitude  of  recent 
severe  illness. 

How  much  of  the  worn  aspect  of  his  face, 
and  the  unwholesomencss  of  the  skin — 
which  looked  as  though  it  should  naturally 
have  been  ruddy  and  plumply  tilled  out, 
but  which  now  hung  wliite  and  flaccid  over 
the  cheeks,  and  in  baggy  wrinkles  beneath 
the  prominent  dark  eyes — how  much  of  the 
sickly  whiteness  of  the  bony  hands,  whit<? 
as  a  woman's,  but  knotted  and  ploughed 
with  deep  lines  like  those  of  a  veiy  aged 
man — how  much,  in  bnef,  of  the  general 
debility,  and  air  of  being  used-up,  now  per- 
ceptible in  Sii'  John's  aspect,  wjus  due  to 
recent  suileiing,  and  how  mu(jh  of  all 
this  had  belonged  to  it  for  years  past,  the 
vicar's  family  could  not  tell.  They  ae- 
ecpted  his  appearance  as  being  the  natural 
apjyeiwance  of  a  man  no  longer  young,  who 


Lad  just  arisen  from  a  bed  of  sickness 
where  his  mind  and  body  had  both  been 
severely  tried. 

He  had  sandv  hair,  slightly  ^frizzled, 
carcfnlly  brushed,  and  so  disposod  as  to 
hide,  as  far  as  possible,  a  bald  patch  on 
the  crown  of  the  head.  He  wore  a  pointed 
beard,  and  moustaches  that  curved  fiercehr 
upward.  His  noso  was  well  shaped,  al- 
thongh  rather  sharp  and  beak-like.  Tho 
tell-tele  mouth  was  partly  concealed  by 
the  firingo  of  moustache.  Altogether  he 
might  have  been  pronoonced  a  handsome 
man ;  and  he  was  pronounced  to  be  so  hy 
many  persons. 

In  the  sitting-room  awaiting  him  were 
Mr.  Levincoui*t  with  Maud  and  Veronica. 
The  latter  wore  a  winter  dress  of  rich 
claret  colour,  relieved  at  tho  throat  and 
wrists  by  ruffles  of  white  lace — very  fine  old 
lace  tliat  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  and 
that  was,  in  truth,  a  little  out  of  place  on 
her  plain  stufl'  gown. 

Maud  was  an  inch  or  two  shorter  than 
her  companion;  she  had  broad,  finely 
moulded  shoulders,  and  a  noble  white 
throat  supporting  a  head  whose  form  and 
proportions  were  almost  perfect.  Her  fea- 
tures were  irregular,  and  not  one  of  them 
could  be  called  handsome,  save  the  abncmd- 
shaped  blue  eyes  set  ratlier  deeply  under 
broad  brows.  Her  wide  mobile  mouth 
was  not  beautiful,  though  its  sweetness, 
when  she  spoke  or  smiled,  was  irresistible. 
But,  one  beauty  Maud  Desmond  possessed 
which  appealed  to  the  least  cultivated 
appreciation  :  this  was  her  hair,  which  was 
of  a  rare  golden  hue.  When  tho  snnh^t  : 
fell  on  it,  it  shone  as  though  each  separate  : 
hair  had  been  drawn  out  of  burnished 
metal,  and  it  was  softer  to  the  touch  than 
silk. 

On  these  two  girls,  and  on  their  enr- 
roun dings,  looked,  for  the  first  time,  Sir 
John  Gale. 

The  vicar  hastened  forward  to  offer  liis 
guest  the  support  of  his  arm,  which  the 
latter  gentleman  accepted  after  a  moment's 
hef^itation. 

**  I  am  ashamed,"  said  Sir  John,  with  a 
frank  smile,  which  showed  a  bright  range 
of  false  teeth,  "  ashamed  and  sorry  to  be 
such  a  bore  and  a  nuisance.  Bat  the  troth 
is,  I  had  no  idea,  until  I  began  to  dress  just 
now,  how  entii'ely  my  strength  was  pros- 
trated. It  seems  absurd,  but  I  am  ob- 
solntc'ly  as  weak  as  a  baby." 

*'  We  ai'o  truly  rejoiced,  most  truly  so, 
to  welcome  you  among  us.  Your  strength 
will  come  back,  undoubtedly.     It  is  now 


1^ 


-su 


Cli.irles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[August  2ft,  18ML  J      291 


only  a  question  of  time,  lldvo  patience 
yet  awhile.  My  daughter,  Sir  John  Gale. 
My  ward,  Miss  Desmond.  Paul,  bo  so 
good  as  to  wheel  your  master's  chair  a 
Sttlc  more  this  way.*' 

Tho  baronet  took  the  hand  which  Ve- 
ronica had  half  offered,  half  withheld,  and 
bowed  low. 

Maud  saluted  him  by  a  smile  and  a  bend 
of  the  head,  which  he  returned  by  a  still 
lower  bow  than  the  first. 

"  I  ti*ust,"  said  Sir  John,  when  he  was 
seated,  "  that  Mr.  Levincourt  has  been  so 
rery  kind  as  to  explain  to  you  how  im- 
possible I  find  it  to  express  in  any  adequate 
way  my  sense  of  your  great  goodness  and 
hospitality." 

His  ghance,  as  he  spoke,  included  the 
two  young  ladies. 

**  Wc  are  very  glad  to  sec  you  so  much 
better,"  said  Maud. 

"  And  tho  truth  is,  we  have  done  nothing 
at  all  for  you,  Sir  John ;  Paul  would  not 
let  us,'*  added  Veronica. 

"That  man  of  yours  is  an  excellent 
fellow,"  said  tho  vicar,  when  Paul  had  left 
the  room.  "  There  are  no  such  servants  to 
be  had  in  England  now-a-days.  Veronica, 
give  Sir  John  some  tea,  and  then  ring  for 
another  large  cup  for  me.  I  cannot  be 
persuaded  to  drink  my  tea  out  of  a  thing 
no  bigger  than  an  egg-shell,"  he  added, 
taming  to  his  guest. 

"  Not  to  mention,  papa,  that  these  tiny 
tea-cups  are  quite  old-fashioned  now !"  ex- 
claimed Veronica,  with  a  bright,  saucy 
smile,  which  became  her  infinitely. 

**  Are  they  P  How  do  you  know  ?  Wo 
live  here,  Sir  John,  in  the  most  countrified 

of  country  parsonages,  and  yet .  But, 

upon  my  honour,  I  beHeve  that  if  you  were 
to  stick  a  woman  on  the  top  of  the  column 
of  St.  Simeon  Stylites,  she  would  never- 
theless contrive  in  some  mysterious  way  to 
know  what  was  *ia  fashion'  and  what 
wasn't." 

*'  Perhaps  it  is  a  sixth  sense  implanted 
in  us  by  nature,  Undo  Charles,*'  said 
Maud,  demurely.  "  You  know  the  inferior 
ainnials  have  these  mysterious  instincts," 

Sir  John's  eyes  had  hitherto  been  con- 
templating the  glossy  coils  of  Veronica's 
ebon  hair,  as  she  bent  her  head  over  the 
tea  equipage.  Now,  he  turned  and  regarded 
tfaud  more  attentively  than  he  yet  had 
done. 

**  I  beg  pardon,"  said  he  to  the  vicar.  "  I 
thought  that  when  you  did  me  the  honour 
to  present  me  to  Miss — Miss  Dermott — ^you 
called  her  your  ward  P" 


I 


*'  Yes ;  and  so  I  am,"  answered  Maud, 
taking  no  notice  of  the  mispronunciation 
of  her  name.  "  I  have  no  right  whatever 
to  call  Mr.  Levincourt  *  Uncle  Charles,'  Sir 
John.  But  I  liave  been  let  to  do  so  over 
since  I  came  here  as  a  very  small  child.  I 
began  by  calling  him  *  Zio,'  as  Mrs.  Levin- 
court taught  me,  in  Italian  fashion.  But 
very  soon  my  British  tongue  translated  tho 
appellation,  and  my  guardian  has  been 
*  Uncle  Charles'  ever  since." 

Sir  John  did  not  appear  profoundly  in- 
t<>rest€d  in  this  explanation,  although  he 
listened  ynth  poHto  attention  while  Maud 
spoke. 

Presently  he  and  the  vicar  began  dis- 
coursing of  foreign  travel  and  foreign  places, 
and  the  girls  listened  almost  in  silence. 

"All!"  sighed  the  vicar,  plaintively. 
"  Bel  cielo  d'ltalia !  I  know  not  what 
price  I  would  not  pay  for  another  glimpse 
of  that  intense  living  blue,  after  the  fogs 
and  clouds  of  Daneshire." 

Mr.  Levincourt  had  succeeded  in  per- 
suading himself  that  the  three  years  he  had 
spent  abroad  had  been  years  of  unmixed 
enjoyment. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mr.  Levincourt," 
said  Sir  John,  passing  his  bony  white  bund 
over  his  moustache ;  "  Italy  is  not  tho  plea- 
sant residence  for  foreigners  that  it  must 
have  been  when  you  first  knew  it.  What 
with  their  unionism,  and  constitutionalism, 
and  Kberahsm,  they've  sent  tho  whole  thing 
to  the ;  they've  spoilt  tho  society  al- 
together," concluded  the  baronet,  discreetly 
changing  the  form  of  his  phrase. 

"  Keally  ?" 

**  Well,  in  fifty  ways,  things  are  altered 
for  the  worse,  even  in  my  experience  of 
Italy,  which  dates  now,  at  intervals,  some 
twelve  or  fourteen  years  back.  For  one 
thing,  that  British  Moloch,  Mrs.  Grundy, 
has  begun  to  be  set  up  there." 

Veronica  raised  her  eyes  and  uttered  a 
little  exclamation  expressive  of  disgust. 

"  I  should  not  tlimk  that  mattered  very 
mudi,"  said  Maud,  half  aloud. 

Sir  John  caught  the  impulsively-uttered 
words,  and  replied  at  once.  "  Not  matter  ? 
Ah,  Jeunesse !  I  assure  you,  my  dear  young 
lady,  that  it  matters  a  gi'cat  deal.  Mrs. 
Grundy  is  a  very  terrible  and  hideous  old 
idol  indeed.  She  can  bully  you,  and  worry 
you,  and  rap  you  on  the  head  with  her 
twopenny  wooden  staff." 

Maud  coloured  high  at  being  thus  ad- 
dressed, but  she  answered  bravely.  "  Still 
I  cannot  see  that  she  has  power  to  hurt 
good  people.    I  t\ia\3L^\i\.  \\»  ^«&  <3i^i  ^'^ 


<r^ 


292       [August  28,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[(Conducted  bj 


/ 


professional  pickpocket  who  objected  to 
seeing  a  constable  at  every  street  comer  !" 

Sir  John  Gale's  studied  good  breeding 
partook  less  of  the  nature  of  polish — ^wliich 
beautifies  and  displays  the  natural  grain  of 
the  wood — than  of  veneer.  The  veneer, 
though  not  unskilfully  applied,  occasionally 
cracked,  revealing  glimpses  of  a  rather 
coarse  and  ugly  material  beneath  it.  He 
had  especially  an  egotistical  proneness  to 
attribute  chance  allusions  to  himself. 

"  Really  !**  he  exclaimed.  "  I  am  to 
conclude  that  you  suppose  that  I  dislike 
Mrs.  Grundy  because  I  fear  her  ?  She  is 
the  policeman  at  the  street  comer,  and 
your  humble  servant  is  the  professional 
pickpocket?" 

Maud  looked  painfully  shocked.  The 
colour  receded  from  her  face,  and  then 
flushed  back  brighter  than  ever  as  she  said, 
"  Oh,  Sir  John  !  How  could  you  sup- 
pose  ?     I — I  beg  your  pardon.     I  had 

no  intention  or  idea  of  any  such  meaning." 

But  Sir  John  had  already  begun  a  dis- 
cussion with  the  vicar  as  to  the  comparative 
merits  of  Tuscan  and  Neapolitan  wines, 
and  seemed  to  have  dismissed  Maud's  un- 
lucky speech  from  his  mind. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  pleasantly, 
until  the  early  hour  at  which  it  was  deemed 
well  for  the  invalid  to  retire. 

The  vicar  was  delighted  with  his  guest. 
Mr.  Levincourt  declared  that  he  felt  like 
some  shipwrecked  mariner  who  had  passed 
years  in  a  savage  island,  and  to  whose 
door  the  winds  and  the  waves  had  drifted 
a  stranger  from  the  distant  lands  of  civili- 
sation. 

"It  would  be  more  civil,  papa,  if  you 
had  said  that  we  were  three  shipwrecked 
mariners.  A  kind  of  Swiss  Family  Robin- 
son," observed  Veronica,  laughing. 

The  exaggeration  of  all  this  grated  on 
Maud's  common  sense.  But  she  repressed 
the  protest  which  trembled  on  her  lips. 

"  Maudie  looks  sagely  disapproving," 
said  Veronica,  glancing  at  her. 

"  I  am  disapproving  myself,"  replied 
Maud.  "  How  pert  and  flippant  Sir  John 
must  have  thought  me  !  My  impulsive 
speeches  are  always  getting  me  into 
trouble." 

"  O  !  I  do  not  believe  that  Sir  John  will 
give  the  matter  another  thought.  But  if 
it  weighs  on  your  conscience  you  can  ex- 
plain, the  next  time  you  see  him,  that " 

"  Ah,  no  :  there  are  some  things  that 
cannot  be  explained — to  Sir  John  Gale." 

"  Why  not  to  him  ?     He  is  not  stupid." 

"-No,  he  is  not  stupid,  but He  is 


like  some  lichly  embroidered  stuff  I  once 
saw :  very  gorgeous  and  magnificent  at  a 
distance,  but  a  little  coarse  in  the  grain, 
and  not  to  be  touched  "with  impunity  by  a 
sensitive  skin." 

"  H'm  !  You  little  shy,  proud,  English 
owl!"  exclaimed  Veronica. 

And  then  for  a  full  half  hour  she  re- 
mained staring  silently  into  the  fire,  until 
her  satin  checks  were  quite  scorched  and 
crimson. 

The  next  day  was  the  nineteenth,  and 
the  two  girls  were  in  a  state  of  agreeable 
excitement  at  the  prospeot  of  the  dinner 
party  which  awaited  them. 

The  kitchen  was  pervaded  by  a  smell  of 
ironing.  Joanna  was  smoothing  out  dainty 
little  tuckers,  and  a  long  white  mushn  skirt 
over  which  Veronica's  gold-coloured  sash 
was  presently  to  stream  gracefully.  Early 
in  the  afternoon,  a  wooden  box  arrived  bj 
a  special  messenger  from  Danecester,  and 
was  found  to  contain  two  bouquets  care- 
ftilly  wrapped  in  cotton  wool. 

Sir  John  Grale — ^who  had  not  yet  left  his 
room  at  that  early  hour — sent  Paul  inta 
the  vicar's  study  with  a  little  note,  in  which 
Sir  John  begged  that  the  young  ladiea 
would  do  him  the  honour  to  wear  a  few 
flowers  that  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of 
procuring  for  them. 

"A  few  flowers !"  cried  Veronica,  with 
sparkling  ^es.  "They  are  exquisite. 
They  come  from  Govent  Garden.  There's 
the  man's  name  in  the  box.  Look  at  these 
white  moss-roses,  and  the  Cape  jasmine! 
Your  bouquet  is  mixed,  Maudie ;  mine  is 
all  white.  How  perfect !  Do  look  pleased^ 
Httle  icicle !" 

"  I  am  pleased,"  said  Maud,  with  a  cer- 
tain constraint.  "And  very,  very,  much 
obliged." 

Veronica  carried  the  superb  exotics  into 
the  kitchen,  and  exhibited  them  with  trans- 
port to  the  servants.  The  ypung  lady  had 
a  genuine  passion  for  applause  and  admirar 
tion.  She  could  not  be  entirely  happy  with- 
out an  audience  to  witness  her  happiness. 
It  had  been  the  same  from  her  baby  days. 
When,  as  quite  little  girls,  they  had  ownied 
a  shaggy  pony  which  was  supposed  to  be 
the  joint  property  of  the  two  children^ 
Maud  had  heartily  enjoyed  trotting  out 
into  the  wildest  bits  of  country  she  oonld 
find;  but  Veronica's  delight  had  been  to  find 
an  excuse  for  riding  through  the  viUage^ 
or  even,  if  that  might  be,  into  Shipley 
Magna.  And  her  cSiubby  cheeks  wonld 
glow,  and  her  eyes  would  brighten,  when 
she  heard  passers-by  exclaiming  that  that 


I 


5 


:S3 


dhaiin  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[AngnBt  28, 1869.]      293 


was  the  vicar*s  little  lass ;  and  hadn't  she 
a  pair  of  eyes  ?  And  didn't  she  look  like  a 
fairy,  flying  along  with  her  hlack  curls 
Btreaming  over  her  shoulders  ?  So  now, 
when  she  had  the  costly  flowers  in  her 
hand,  she  could  not  resist  (Usplaying  them 
to  the  serrants;  and  she  took  a  creamy 
spotless  camellia  ^m  the  outside  of  her 
own  bouquet  and  laid  it  amongst  the  rich 
waves  of  her  hair,  and  stood  with  a  beam- 
ing &ce  to  be  admired. 

Catherine  was  in  ecstasies,  and  declared, 
when  her  young  mistress  had  gone  away 
again,  that  she  liked  Miss  Veronica,  that 
she  did,  for  she  had  such  pleasant  good- 
natured  ways  with  her. 

But  old  Joanna  smiled  shrewdly,  and 
observed  that  the  lass  was  the  very  moral 
«f  her  poor  mother  in  some  things ;  and 
that  a  Int  of  show-off  was  the  breath  of  her 
nostrils.  "  Not  but  what,'*  added  Joanna, 
^*  Miss  Veronica  has  more  sense  in  her  little 
finger  than  the  poor  missis  had  in  all  her 
body.  And  a  will  she  has — has  the  lass — 
that's  as  stout  as  steel !  A  will  for  anything 
she  fancies,  I  mean :  she  can't  be  stubborn 
<and  strong  about  doing  things  as  is  only 
her  duty.  But  if  there's  summat  as  she 
wants  for  her  own  good  pleasure,  you'll 
«ee  she'll  get  it.  It  was  ^e  same  wi'her 
since  she  could  toddle,  poor  lass !  Many  a 
forbidden  fruit  she's  aten,  an'  many  a 
£tomach-ache  she's  had  for  her  pains !" 

CHAPTER  IX.   THE  DINNER  AT  LOWATEE. 

Very  jolly  Captain  Sheardown  looked, 
'  and  very  radiant  his  wife,  as  they  welcomed 
I  the  party  from,  the  vicarage  into  their  warm, 
well-lighted  drawing-room. 

"  Your  reverence  has  had  a  cold  dnve," 
said  Captain  Sheardown,  jocularly.  And 
then  ho  and  the  vicar,  and  Mr.  Snowe — 
who,  with  his  son,  Herbert,  had  arrived 
not  many  minutes  previously — stood  on  the 
hearth-mg  and  talked  of  the  weather,  and 
the  hunting,  and  the  Colenso  controversy, 
or  whatsoever  topic  was  then  chiefly  arous- 
ing the  attention  of  the  British  public. 
iCs.  Sheardown,  meanwhile,  welcomed 
the  girls,  and  installed  them  in  comfort- 
able arm-chairs,  one  on  either  side  of  her. 
Nelly  Sheardown  was  about  thirty- five 
years  old.  She  had  not  been  married  more 
than  eight  years,  for  she  and  the  captain 
had  been  constant  to  each  other  through  a 
long  engagement;  and  Tom  Sheardown's 
head  was  grey  before  he  could  declare  that 
hit  fight  with  fortune  was  fought  out,  and 
could  claim  Nelly  Cherbrook  for  his  ^\'ife. 
He  was  twenty  years  her  senior ;  and  thcro 


appeared  to  bo  even  more  difference  be- 
tween their  ages.  For,  Mrs.  Sheardown 
looked  younger  now  than  she  had  done 
before  her  marriage,  during  the  weary 
years  of  waiting  that  had  sickened  the 
heart  with  hope  deferred,  and  graven  lines 
in  the  face. 

**  How  is  your  guest  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Sheardown  of  Veronica. 

"  Sir  John  is  getting  much  better :  nearly 
well,  thank  you.  It  is  such  a  comfort  for 
papa  to  feel  assured  that  all  danger  is  over. 
It  was  a  great  responsibility,  you  know, 
having  a  total  stranger  in  the  house  in  that 
state ;"  thus,  Veronica. 

"  None  of  his  relations  came  to  see  him  ?" 

"  He  has  lived  abroad,  and  has  no  family 
ties  in  England,  Mrs.  Sheardown." 

"  Poor  old  man  !  It  is  a  lonely  jposition 
for  him." 

Veronica  gave  a  rapid  glance  at  her 
hostess's  honest  face,  and  then  buried  her 
own  amongst  her  flowers. 

Maud  laughed  heartily.  "  Dear  Mrs. 
Sheardown,"  she  said,  **do  you  know  I 
have  a  notion  that  Sir  John  Gale  does  not  by 
any  means  look  upon  himself  in  that  light." 

"In  what  light?" 

"  As  a  *  lonely  old  man.'  " 

"  Oh  !  I  thought— I  didn't  know " 

"  Lady  Alicia  Renwick,"  cried  Captain 
Slieardown's  old  servant,  throwing  open 
the  door.  And  the  hostess  rose  and  went  to 
welcome  the  new  arrival. 

Lady  Alicia  Renwick  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Scotch  peer,  and  the  widow  of  a  gentle- 
man who  had  made  a  largo  fortune  in  some 
ironworks.  Still  further  to  the  south 
than  Danecester,  was  a  great  black  dis- 
trict whose  horizon  glared  at  night  with 
a  hundred  lurid  fires.  And  there  the  de- 
deased  Mr.  Renwick  had  owned  strange- 
looking  brick  structures,  like  pyramids 
with  the  angles  rounded  off,  and  with 
smoke  and  flame  issuing  from  their  sum- 
mits. Lady  Alicia  did  not  inherit  all  the 
gold  that  was  melted  out  of  the  iron-ore 
in  these  grimy  crucibles.  Mr.  Renwick 
had  a  numerous  family  by  a  former  wife, 
and  had  provided  for  them  all,  handsomely. 
But  his  relict  enjoyed  an  income  which 
would  have  appeai'cd  princely  in  her 
maiden  eyes,  and  which  she  now  charac- 
tensed  as  "  genteel  starvation."  For  there 
is  nothing  we  become  more  easily  accus- 
tomed to,  than  the  possession  of  riches. 
And  a  genuine  love  of  money  is  one  of  the 
few  passions  that  age,  with  its  hollow 
voice  crying  "Allis  vanity !"  has  no  ^o^^x 
to  weaken. 


T 


^ 


I 


294      [Aiiga8t28,  IMS.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoetedby 


Lady  Alicia  was  a  tall,  handsome,  stiff 
old  lady,  who  took  a  gloomy  view  of  life, 
and  who  had  a  good  deal  of  wit  of  a  dry, 
bitter,  biting  flavour. 

Her  ladyship's  entrance  into  the  room 
was  closely  followed  by  that  of  a  gentleman. 
Captain  Sheardown,  after  having  greeted 
Lady  Alicia,  called  to  him. 

"  Come  here,  Hugh.  I  want  to  introduce 
you  to  the  vicar  of  Shipley.  Mr.  Levin- 
court,  this  is  my  young  fiiend  Hugh 
Lockwood.  Tou  may  have  heard  me  speak 
of  his  father." 

"  Who  is  the  gentleman  ?"  asked  Lady 
Alicia,  half  aside,  of  Mrs.  Sheardown,  and 
looking  across  the  room  as  she  spoke,  with 
a  not  unfavourable  glance. 

"  Mr.  Hugh  Lockwood,  Lady  Alicia.  You 
may  remember,  perhaps,  that  his  father 
was  a  great  prot6g6  of  the  old  Admiral 
many,  many  years  ago,  that  is,  before  I  ever 
saw  my  huslmnd." 

"  Oh,  aye,  to  be  sure  !  I  recollect  it  all 
very  well  now.  Robert  Lockwood  was  a 
Daneshirc  man  bom  and  bred.  He  came 
of  humble  folks,  small  tradespeople  in 
Sliipley  Magna^  but  ho  had' an  aspiiing 
soul,  and  he  got  it  into  his  head  that  ho 
was  born  to  be  a  great  painter.  Admiral 
Sheaixlown  had  a  taste  for  tho  arts,  and 
helped  the  lad  to  an  education.  And  that 
is  his  son,  eh  ?    Not  bad  looking  !*' 

Mrs.  Sheardown  explained  in  a  few 
words  that  Hugh's  father  had  done  credit 
to  his  patron's  discrimination,  and  had 
attained  a  good  position  amongst  British 
artists.  Robert  Lockwood  had  died  some 
years  ago.  His  son  was  articled  pupil  to 
an  architect  in  London:  and  having  had 
occasion  to  visit  Danecester  on  professional 
business.  Captain  Sheardown  had  invited 
the  young  man  to  stay  for  a  few  days  at 
Lowater  House. 

Presently  arrived  Dr.  Begbie,  rector  of 
Hammick,  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  and 
Miss  Boyce :  a  lady  who  was  staying  at  the 
rectory  on  a  visit;  and  these  completed 
the  number  of  invited  guests. 

Betsy  Boyce,  as  her  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances called  her,  was  a  simpering, 
lively  old  lady  who  prided  herself  on  her 
thorough  knowledge  of  "society."  She 
lived  in  London  when  she  did  not  happen 
to  be  visiting  at  some  country  house. 
But  her  residence  in  tho  metropolis  was 
never  protracted;  and  her  addi'ess  when 
there,  was  not  revealed  to  many  persons. 
She  called  cousins  with  half  the  names 
in  the  Peerage:  and  indeed  Miss  Boyce 
found  a  pbraso  or  two  out  of  that  august 


volume  act  as  an  "open  sesame"  to 
many  a  comfortable  home  where  bed 
and  board  were  at  her  service  for  as 
long  as  sho  chose  to  remain.  She  was 
herself  perfectly  good-hnmoured  and  hum^ 
ble  minded ;  and  despite  her  eccentricities 
she  was  liked  and  esteemed  by  those 
people  who  knew  her  best.  But  she  had 
taken  up  the  Peerage  as  a  kind  of  profes- 
sion, just  as  some  reverend  Mussulman 
divine  adopts  the  Koran.  She  lived  b}'  its 
aid  very  comfortably ;  whereas  Miss  Eliza- 
beth Sophia  Augusta  Boyce,  with  very  few 
pounds  per  annum  to  call  her  own,  and 
without  any  aristocratic  connexions,  would 
have  founa  it  a  rather  hard  task  to  make 
both  ends  meet.  "  Besides,  my  dear,"  she 
would  say  confidentially  to  some  intimate 
friend,  "  I  don't  really  humbug  anybody. 
Papa  and  mamma  were  both  thoroughly 
well  connected.  It  never  did  them  any  good 
that  I  know  of;  but  you  see  it  is  a  great 
mercy  for  me.  If  it  were  not  for  my  &2nilj 
and  my  knowledge  of  who's  who,  I  might 
mope  by  myself  in  a  dingy  lodging  fixnn 
January  to  December.  And  for  me,  who 
am  the  most  sociable  creature  living,  mid 
who  detest  soKtude,  ii  is  really  and  truly  a 
blessing  and  a  most  providential  circum- 
stance that  there  are  persons  who  care  very 
much  for  that  kind  of  thing." 

Miss  Boyce,  then,  was  not  unduly  proud 
of  her  descent,  but  she  had  a  pot  vanityt 
founded — as  are  not  most  of  our  pt-t 
vanities  ? — on  a  much  less  real  and  solid 
basis  of  fact;  she  had  somehow  lost  her 
reckoning  of  time,  thought  herself  still  an 
attractive-looking  woman,  and  devoutly 
believed  that  mankind  was  deluded  by  her 
wig. 

Captain  Sheardown  gallantly  led  oat 
Lady  Alicia  Renwick  to  dinner,  and  the 
rest  followed  in  due  order. 

To  old  Mr.  Snowe,  the  banker,  was 
allotted  the  honour  of  conducting  Hiss 
Boyce.  Mr.  Snowe  was  a  slow-witted, 
matter-of-fact  man.  His  manner  was 
pompous,  and  the  habitual  expression  of 
his  heavy  face  seemed  to  say,  with  an  air 
of  puzzled  surprise,  "  Grod  bless  my  sold ! 
If  I  did  not  know  myself  to  bo  so  very  iin^ 
portant  a  personage,  I  should  suspect  yon 
to  be  laughing  at  me." 

During  the  early  part  of  the  dinner  Mr. 
Snowe  was  too  honestly  engrossed  in  eat- 
ing and  drinking  to  pay  much  attention  to 
his  neighbour :  but  when  the  later  stages  cjf 
the  repast  arrived  he  found  himself  com- 
pelled to  observe  Miss  Boyce's  lavish  ooils 
of  £Use  hair,  flowing  cutIbi  and  colossal 


=^ 


cfi: 


:33 


QkrlesDiekeni.] 


VERONICA. 


TAngmitSS,  I8C9.]      295 


I 


cbignon.  He  became  a  prey  to  a  species 
of  fascination  that  obliged  him  to  watch 
some  delicate  artificial  flowers  whicli 
crowned  the  lady's  head-gear,  and  which 
nodded,  shook,  and  trembled,  without  in- 
termission, in  dnmb  accompaniment  to  their 
wearer's  vivacions  flow  of  talk. 

The  dinner  passed  pleasantly  nndor  the 
genial  influence  of  the  host  and  hostess. 
When  Dr.  Begbie  rose,  and,  in  an  effec- 
tiye  speech,  rolled  out  in  his  richest  tones, 
proposed  the  health  of  his  dcarfncnds.  Cap- 
tain and  Mrs.  Shoardown,  and  wished  them 
many  happy  returns  of  that  auspicious  day, 
the  general  enthusiasm  was  quite  ardent. 
Even  Lady  Alicia  desired  the  servant  to 
fill  her  glass  a  bumper,  and  grasped  her 
best's  hand  with  her  bony  fingers  as  she 
tossed  off  the  champagne. 

Mrs.  Begbie  shed  tears.  But  that  may 
liave  been  from  habit:  for  Mrs.  Begbie 
always  made  a  point  of  crying  at  her  hus- 
band's sermons.  And  perhaps  his  mianly 
Toice,  alone,  had  power  so  to  aflect  her. 
As  compensation,  however,  wlien  Captxun 
Shcardown  returned  thanks  Mrs.  Begbie 
was  perfectly  dry-eyed. 

When  the  ladies  left  the  table — ^by  which 
time  Mr.  Snowo  was  openly  and  undis- 
goiscdly  contemplating  Miss  Boyce's  lux- 
uriant locks  with  a  fised  and  stuny  glare 
— and  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  they 
resumed  a  theme  which  had  been  discussed 
at  the  dinner-table,  and  on  which  Lady 
Alicia  and  Betsy  Boyco  were  the  chief 
talkers. 

"  Gale  ?  QvlLq  ?"  said  Miss  Boyce,  medi- 
tatively. "No  such  name  amongst  the 
people  I  know.  Sir  John  Gale!  Never 
heard  of  him." 

"How  verif  strange!"  murmured  Mrs. 
Begbie. 

"  But  there  must  be  some  people,  I  sup- 
pose, of  whom  Miss  Boyce  never  heard  ?" 
said  Lady  Alicia.  She  spoke  with  a  strong 
Scotch  accent,  rolling  her  r's  very  much,  and 
pronounced  "  never  heard"  "  neverr  harrd." 

"  Millions  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Boyce,  ab- 
Bolutely  squeaking  in  her  desire  to  be  em- 
phatic. "  Oh,  miUions  !  Your  ladyship's 
married  name,  for  instance,  was  qxdte  un- 
familiar to  me,  although  I  remember  very 
well — ^that  is,  I  have  often  heard  mamma 
speak  of  your  father.  Lord  Strathgorm." 

Lady  Alicia  smiled  grimly. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "my  dear  Miss  Boyce, 
yo  might  very  well  remember  poor  papa 
yourseLf,  for  he  only  died  in  the  spring  of 
tiiirty.'  " 

"  Goodness !"    exclaimed    Miss  Begbie, 


i>, 


clasping  her  hands.  "  Snpi)oso  Sir  John 
Gale  should  tm-n  out  to  bc^  an  impostor ! 
A  highwayman,  or  something.  No:  I 
don't  mean  a  highwayman ;  I  believe  there 
are  no  highwaymen  now,  but  I  mean  a 
swindler,  or  something ;  don't  you  know  ? 
Goodness !" 

"Nonsense,  Emmy!"  said  Miss  Begbic's 
mamma.  Veronica's  face  looked  unutter- 
able scorn,  but  she  said  nothing.  The 
hostess  asked  Miss  Begbie  to  play  for  them, 
and  that  young  lady  complied,  not  unwill- 
ingly. She  drew  very  good  music  out  of 
the  grand  piano  Her  mother  was  com- 
placent. Lady  Alicia  listened  with  a  softened 
lace.  Betsy  Boyce's  ringlets  quivered  again 
as  she  nodded  her  head  in  time  to  a  waltz 
of  Chopin.  Upon  this  peaceful  scene,  the 
gentlemen  entered  in  a  body.  Captain 
Sheardown  took  a  seat  beside  Miss  Boyce, 
and  made  her  a  few  gallant  speeches. 

"Go  along,  you  false  creature!"  cried 
Miss  Betsy,  smiling  and  tossing  her  head. 
"Men  wei-e  deceivers  ever.  One  foot  on 
sea,  and  one  on  shore.  Exactly !  And 
you  sailor  animals  are  the  most  fidthless  of 
all.  But  I  always  loved  the  blue  jackets 
from  a  girl,  from  a  mere  child !  I  recollect 
a  most  charming  creature  with  whom  I 
once  fell  desperately  in  love.  He  was  an 
Admiral  of  the  Red,  and  had  only  one  leg, 
and  a  frightftil  scar  on  his  face  where  a 
cutlass  had  gashed  one  of  his  eyebrows  in 
two.  He  was  seventy- four,  and  I  adored 
him.  It  was  in  Ireland,  at  Delaney  Park, 
in  the  year  after — in  short,  I  was  a  mere 
baby,  not  fifteen !" 

"  At  Delaney  Park  ?  Really !  That  was 
your  grandpapa's  place,  Maud,  was  it  not?" 
asked  Mrs.  Sheardown. 

"  Possible !  Are  you  of  the  Delaney s 
of  Delaney,  JVIiss  Desmond  ?  Ah,  I  re- 
member tlie  youngest  girl  married  Sidney 
Desmond.  To  bo  sure  !  The  eldest,  Hilda, 
made  a  great  marriage  at  the  end  of  her 
first  season.  Poor  girl !  H'm,  h'm,  h'm  ! 
What  is  she  doing,  poor  Lady  Tallis  ?  And 
where  is  she  ?  No  one  hears  or  sees  any- 
thing of  her  now." 

"  We  do  not  hear  very  often  from  my 
Aunt  Hilda,"  said  Maud,  gravely.  "Do 
you  want  me  to  accompany  tliat  song  of 
Schumann's  for  you,  Mr.  Snowo  ?" 

Maud  walked  away  to  the  piano,  and 
Betsy  Boyce  poured  into  tlie  greedy  ears  of 
Mrs.  Begoie  and  the  old  banker,  a  recital 
of  Lady  TaUis's  troubles. 

"  It  was  considered  a  great  match,  the 
match  of  the  year  (excepting,  of  course^ 
the  young  Earl  of  MiniNViT^\«\v5i"^^^^^w^ 


II 


:  I 


|i 


il 


<A 


£9G      [August  38, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetedby 


know,  the  richest  minor  in  England,  and 
married  Lady  Ermengarde  Ermine,  the  day 
after  he  came  of  age)  ;  and,  I  remember, 
poor  old  Sir  William  Delaney  was  so  de- 
lighted." 

Mrs.  Begbie,  who  was  transported  with 
delight  at  hearing  her  friend  and  visitor 
so  fluent  and  familiar  with  these  noble 
names,  shook  her  head  gently,  and  said  that 
that  was  what  came  of  worldliness.  And 
how  strange  it  was  that  parents  should 
seek  heartless  grandeur  for  their  children  ! 
For  her  part,  she  fervently  trusted  that 
Emmy  would  choose  the  better  part.,  and 
look  for  sound  principles  in  her  husband, 
preferring  them  to  wealth  or  rank.  Though, 
on  the  score  of  birth  (if  Emmy  were  in- 
fluenced by  such  mundane  attractions), 
there  were  few  families  to  whose  alliance 
she  might  not  aspire,  her  grandfather  on 
one  side  having  been  a  Grafier — and  it  was 
unnecessary  to  say  that  the  Guffers  were 
among  the  few  old  pure  Saxon  families  ex- 
tant— ^and  her  paternal  great-grandmamma 
a  De  Wynkyn. 

"  How  was  it,  then  ?"  asked  Mr.  Snowe, 
senior,  in  his  pompous,  deliberate  tone. 
"Do  I  follow  you?  Was  Lady  Tallis's 
marriage  an  inauspicious  one,  hey  ?" 

"Mercy  on  us!'*  cried  Betsy  Boyce. 
"  Liauspicious !  Her  husband  is  one  of  the 
most  dreadful  persons!  Hilda  Delaney 
was  a  pretty,  good-natured  fool  when  he 
married  her.  It  was  like  the  wolf  and  the 
lamb;  he  gobbled  her  up  in  no  time — 
crunched  her  bones." 

"  Law  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Emmy. 

Mr.  Snowe  cast  a  rolling  and  rather 
bewildered  glance  around.  "  That,"  said 
he,  impressively,  "  is  shocking,  indeed." 

"But  how  do  you  mean,  Miss  Boyce?" 
said  Emmy,  who  took  things  a  little  hte- 
rally,  and  was  excessively  inquisitive.  "  Of 
course  I  know  that  Lady  Tallis  was  not 
really  gobbled  up — ^he,  he,  he  I  you  have 
such  funny  sayings — but  what  did  her 
husband  do  ?" 

Herbert  Snowe*s  song  ceased  at  this 
moment,  and  the  conversation  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  came  to  an  abrupt  close. 

Before  the  party  broke  up  Mrs.  Shear- 
down  came  and  sat  by  the  vicar  of  Shipley, 
and  told  him,  smilingly,  that  she  had  a 
petition  to  prefer  to  him.  She  wanted  him 
to  allow  Maud  to  remain  at  Lowater  for  a 
few  days.  The  captain  and  she  would 
bring  Maud  in  to  Shipley  when  they  came 
to  church  on  Sunday;  meanwhile  they 
would  send  to  the  vicarage  for  anything 
//  she  might  need.     In  short,  they  had  set 


their  hearts   on    it,   and  Mr.    Levincourt 
must  not  refuse. 

"  I  suspect  you  are  not  often  accustomed 
to  have  any  request  of  yours  refused,  Mrs. 
Sheardown,"  said  the  vicar,  gallantly.  "  If 
Maud  be  willing — as,  no  doubt,  she  is — ^I 
consent  with  pleasure  to  her  remaining." 

Presently,  Maud  made  her  way  quietly 
across  the  room  to  Veronica.  The  lattcar 
was  seated  on  a  small  ottoman,  which  was 
made  to  hold  only  two  persons,  and  was  so 
contrived  tli^t  one  of  its  occupants  must 
turn  his  back  on  the  company  in  the  draw- 
ing-room while  the  other  faced  them. 
Veronica  was  leaning  back  against  the 
crimson  cushion.  The  dark  rich  back- 
ground enhanced  the  purity  of  her  white 
dress  and  the  pearly  tints  of  her  shoulders. 
Familiar  as  her  beauty  was  to  Maud,  shti 
yet  paused  an  instant  to  look  adminngly 
on  the  picture  presented  by  the  vicar's 
daughter.  Veronica  was  radiant  with 
gratified  vanity  and  the  consciousness  of 
being  admired.  It  heightened  the  bloom 
on  her  cheek,  and  made  her  eyes  bright 
with  a  liquid  lustre. 

As  Maud  approached,  a  gentleman,  who 
had  been  occupying  the  other  seat  on  the 
ottoman,  rose  to  yield  it  to  her. 

"  Do  not  let  me  disturb  you,"  said  Maud. 
"  I  merely  wished  to  say  a  word  to  Miss 
Levincourt." 

The  young  man  bowed,  and  walked  a 
few  paces  apart. 

Maud  told  her  friend  of  Mrs.  Shear- 
down's  invitation. 

A  strange  look  passed  over  Veronica's 
face.  At  first  it  seemed  like  a  flash  of 
satisfaction ;  but  then  came  an  expressi(»i 
of  regret ;  almost,  one  would  have  said,  of 
a  momentary  alarm.  "Shall  you  stay, 
Maudie  ?"  said  she,  taking  the  other  girl's 
hand  in  both  her  own. 

"  Uncle  Charles  has   said   that  I  majt 

and But  I  will  not  stay,  dear,  if  you 

think  it  selfish,  or  if  you  fancy  you  will 
miss  me." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  miss  you,  Maudie.*' 

"Then  I  won't  stay.  I  will  tell  Mrs. 
Sheardown  so." 

At  this  moment  Emma  Begbie  came  up 
to  them,  giggling  after  her  manner,  whidi 
was  half  spiteful,  whole  silly. 

"My  goodness,  Miss  Levincourt!"  she 
exclaimed,  bending  over  the  ottomaii} 
^^ivhat  a  flirtation  you  have  been  having 
with  that  young  Lockwood !  What  is  he 
like  to  talk  to  ?" 

"  Very  much  like  a  gentleman,"  answered 
Veronica,  with  cold  hauteur. 


1 


Sb> 


Charles  DIckena.] 


RECENT  ART  PURCHASES. 


[AngOBt  2$,  1869.]      297 


"  0  gracious  !  But  he  isn't  reallj  one, 
TOR  know.  Lady  Alicia  knows  all  about 
his  father.  He  was  quite  a  common  person. 
But  isn't  he  handsome,  this  jonng  man  ? 
You  must  mind  what  you're  about  if  you 
stay  in  the  same  house  with  him,  Miss 
Desmond,  for  I  am  sure  Miss  Levincourt 
would  never  forgive  you  if  you  were  to 
make  yourself  too  agreeable  to  him.  She 
evidently  looks  upon  him  as  her  conquest. 
Don't  you,  Miss  Levincourt  ?    He,  he,  he  !" 

Veronica  looked  after  he^  scornfully,  as 
she  went  away.  **  What  an  ill-bred  idiot 
that  girl  is,"  she  said.  Then,  aft^r  a  mo- 
ment, she  added,  "  Of  course  I  shall  miss 
you,  Maudie.  But  you  must  stay.  You 
will  not  be  away  very  long  ?" 

"Only  till  Sunday.  Was  that  gentle- 
man who  was  talking  to  you  Mr.  Lock- 
wood  ?    I  had  not  been  introduced  to  him." 

"  Yes.  Good-night,  Maudie.  The  fly  is 
come,  I  suppose,  for  I  see  papa  telegraph- 
ing across  the  room.     Good-bye." 

Veronica  threw  herself  back  in  a  comer 
of  the  fly,  wrapped  in  her  warm  shawl  and 
hood,  and  remained  silent.  The  vicar  fell 
asleep.  In  about  ten  minutes  their  vehicle 
drew  aside  to  allow  another  carriage  to 
pass.  It  was  the  well-appointed  equipage 
of  the  rector  of  Hammick.  The  horses 
dashed  along  swiftly,  their  silver-mounted 
harness  glistening  in  the  moonlight. 

Veronica  drew  still  further  back  into  her 
comer,  and  closed  her  eyes.  But  she  did 
not  sleep.  Her  brain  was  busy.  And  the 
jolting  of  the  crazy  old  fly  from  the  Crown 
Inn  at  Shipley  Magna  kept  up  a  sort  of 
rhythmic  accompaniment  to  the  dance  of 
stmnge  fancies,  hopes,  and  plans,  that 
whirled  through  her  mind. 

RECENT  ART  PURCHASES. 


There  is  a  special  subject,  which  comes  up 
inevitably  at  periodical  intervals  of  irregular 
length,  in  discussisg  which  a  curious  contrast 
of  sentiments— of  reckless  confidence  on  the 
one  side,  and  of  extreme  diffidence  on  the 
other — is  manifested  by  the  persons  concerned 
m  handling  it.  One  faction  evinces  a  great 
readiness  to  take  shelter  behind  the  judgments 
of  all  sorts  of  constituted  aiithorities ;  and  the 
other  finds  itself  in  a  position  to  pronounce 
opinions  of  an  oracular  or  ex  cathedra  sort, 
couched  sometimes  in  such  technic£tl  terms  as 
even  professional  persons  do  not  in  the  least 
understand.  It  will  be  readily  divined  that 
the  special  subject  in  question  is  Art. 

On  no  occasion  is  a  more  marked  diffidence 
shown  than  is  manifested  by  the  more  modest 
of  these  two  factions  when  any  discussion  upon 
matters  connected  with  Art  is  mooted,  eitner 


in  those  grave  assemblies  in  which  all  the  great 
public  questions  of  the  day  are  discussed,  or  in 
the  less  formidable  gatherings  in  private  Ufe. 
There  is  an  amount  of  humility  displayed  by 
certain  among  these  illustrious  persons  which 
is  almost  ostentatious;  those  two  or  three 
special  individuals,  even,  who  are  supposed  to 
know  something  more  about  art  matters  than 
their  fellows,  being  very  apt  to  get  behind  each 
other,  as  it  were,  and  quote  each  other,  and 
so  to  elude,  as  far  as  possible,  the  necessity  of 
expressing  any  distinct  opinion  of  their  own. 
Nothing  can  be  more  complete  than  the  con- 
trast to  this  mental  attitude  presented  by  the 
conduct  of  that  other  class,  the  members  of 
which  are  afflicted  with  no  doubts  or  misgivings 
respecting  the  amount  of  their  art-knowledge 
and  the  accuracy  of  their  art-instincts.  The 
extent  to  which  these  good  people  know  **  all 
about  it"  is  altogether  surprising.  They  are  in 
a  position  to  enlighten  us,  not  only  as  to  the 
actual  doings  of  the  old  masters,  but  even  as  to 
their  intentions  and  innermost  motives.  They 
know  what  every  one  of  them  meant  by  every 
touch  in  every  one  of  his  compositions,  and 
what  was  the  favoimte  manner  of  working  of 
each. 

A  certain  art  question  which  has  recently 
been  the  subject  of  much  discussion  has  given 
to  the  adherents  of  each  of  these  two  schools — 
the  confident  and  the  diffident — many  oppor- 
tunities of  displaying  their  respective  charac- 
teristics. AVithin  the  last  year  or  two,  there 
have  been  added  to  the  national  collection  in 
Trafalgar-square,  three  pictures,  all  of  con- 
siderable note.  Two  of  them  have  been  made 
the  subject  of  an  uncommon  amount  of  dis- 
cussion; first,  as  to  whether  they  be  really 
by  the  masters  to  whom  they  are  ascribed; 
secondly,  as  to  their  intrinsic  merit  as  pictures, 
by  whomsoever  painted.  These  three  works  of 
art  are:  an  Entombment,  said  to  be  an  un- 
finished work  by  Michael  Angelo ;  a  picture  of 
Christ  Blessing  Little  Children,  ascribed  to 
Rembrandt ;  and  a  representation  of  the  court- 
yard of  a  house  in  Holland,  by  De  Hooge. 

In  the  judgment  of  probably  all  who  visit 
the  National  Ciallcry,  with  the  special  intention 
of  examining  these  comparatively  new  pur- 
chases, the  first-mentioned  will  be  the  least 
popular.  To  begin  w^ith :  it  is  a  picture  in  an 
unfinished  and  fragmentary  condition,  and  that 
alone  is  a  great  defect  in  the  eyes  of  the  public. 
Considerable  portions  of  the  panel,  or  canvas, 
on  wliich  it  is  painted,  are  left  entirely  bare, 
and  no  one  of  the  figures,  though  they  are 
blocked  out  very  carefully,  and  fitted  into  their 
places  with  much  labour,  is  completely  finished. 
It  may  be,  to  some  extent,  because  the  painting 
of  these  figures  is  thus  incompletely  carried  out 
that  they  present  an  ungainly  and  awkward 
appearance,  wliich  is  very  ugly  and  uninviting. 
It  is  not,  however,  wholly  their  unfinished 
condition  which  causes  this  impression  to  be 
conveyed.  The  positions  and  attitudes  of  the 
principal  figures  are  constrained  and  un- 
natural, and  would  probabl'j  Vl-k^^  V^^ts.  t^w- 
dered  very  little  leas  ao^\>^  wi"^  «niw«i\.  o^l  ««^* 


.•.*= 


^ 


298       [August  23,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Ckuadnctad  taj 


i: 


I  ■ 


I  ■ 


II 


ii 


I 


;i 


sequent  finish  which  niijrht  liave  been  bestowed 
upon  them.  This  awkwimhiesfl  and  ungainli- 
ness,  both  of  the  general  j^ouping  and  of  the 
individual  attitude's  of  each  of  the  persons 
represented,  is  indeed  very  striking  and  dis- 
tressing. The  figure  of  the  Saviour  is  being 
carried  towards  the  spectator,  down  an  incline, 
composed  appan^ntly  of  long  shallow  steps. 
It  is  supported  by  thi'ee  persons ;  one — the  face 
only  inchcated — sustaining  the  head  and  chest 
from  behind ;  two  othei"s,  one  on  each  side, 
supporting  the  main  weight  of  the  body  by 
means  of  a  linen  cloth  past^ed  under  the  lower 
limbs.  The  dead  figure  is  thus  held  up  in  a 
nearly  perpendicular  position,  unreposeful  and 
unseemly,  the  position  of  the  legs  and  feet 
conveying  the  idea  that  they  are  dangling,  and 
catching  against  the  ground  as  the  body  is 
dragged  along.  There  is  nothing  of  tender- 
ness or  feeliug  in  the  action  of  either  of  the 
figures  which  support  the  weight  of  the  dead 
Saviour,  nor  even,  as  it  seems  to  the  writer, 
of  truthfulness  in  action.  The  picture  is  a 
fragment,  and  a  very  unpleasant  fragment, 
appealing  only  to  the  aitist,  and  to  him  alone, 
by  any  po8.sibility,  proving  of  the  slightest 
interest.  To  those  thus  initiated,  it  will  be 
seen  tliat  there  is  in  the  drawing — the  head 
of  the  Saviour,  for  instance  —  considerable 
indication  of  power.  This  head  of  the  Saviour 
is,  indeed,  in  all  respects,  in  form,  in  pose, 
and  in  ex])ressiou,  exceedingly  beautiful.  Tlie 
upper  i>art  of  the  figure,  too,  is  finely  and 
subtly  drawn.  The  professional  artist  will 
be  able  to  detect  other  instances  of  fine  ex- 
pression of  individual  form  :  as  in  the  female 
figure  to  the  right  of  the  spectator.  He  will, 
moreover,  see  a  certain  gracefulness  in  this 
same  figure,  and  much  expression  of  nervous 
force  and  energy  in  the  strained  look  of  the 
arms  and  hands  by  which  the  weight  of  the 
corpse  is  sustained.  It  is  probably  because  of 
these  things,  because  of  a  certain  swing  in 
the  lines  of  these  two  figures  which  support 
the  body  of  the  Saviour,  and  because  of  the 
strong  grasping  action  of  the  hands,  and  other 
indications  of  a  feeling  for  drawing,  that  this 
picture  has  been  ascribed  to  Michael  Angelo  ; 
but  its  internal  evidence  is  far  from  convincing, 
and  there  is  much  in  the  look  of  the  whole 
composition  more  suggestive  of  an  early  Ger- 
man than  of  an  Italian  origin,  lie  the  picture 
by  whomsoever  it  may,  it  is  a  very  unpleasant 
picture,  and  capable  of  affording  gratification 
only  to  the  strictly  professional  spectator. 

As  a  curiosity ;  as  a  picture  affording  in  its 
very  incompleteness  some  sort  of  evidence  as 
to  the  manner  in  which  tlie  painters  of  a  par- 
ticular time  prepared  their  work ;  and  as  a  spe- 
cimen i>i  art  containing  some  passages  of 
technical  meiit;  this  purchase  may  be  pro- 
nounced to  have  been  one  on  which  the  pubhc 
money  has  Iwcn  well  expended.  But  tliis  is 
surely  all  that  can  be  granted.  That  it  is  a 
beautiful  or  attractive  work  seems,  to  the 
humble  individual  who  writes  these  lines,  a 
judgment  entirely  impossible  to  be  sustained. 
But  perbapa  the   most  important  of   tke 


recent  additions  to  the  national  collection  is 
the  new  Kembrandt,  Christ  Blessing  Little 
Children.  It  was  purchased  for  no  less  a  sum 
than  seven  thousand  poimds,  and  occupies 
what  used  to  be,  in  the  days  of  the  old  Royal 
Academy,  the  place  of  honour  in  the  groat 
room. 

In  this  picture  there  is  much  that  is  cal- 
culated to  set  every  man  who  looks  at  it 
thinking.  He  will  think  when  he  first  looks 
at  it  what  an  ugly  and  repulsive  picture  it  is, 
and  he  vnW  in  all  probability  go  on  thinking  so, 
until  the  happy,  moment  anives  when  he  gets 
up  from  his  seat  l>efore  it  and  goes  away. 
It  is  a  picture  calculated  in  an  eminent 
degree  to  depress  the  mind  of  the  spectator. 
The  order  of  things  adhered  to,  is  low  and 
squalid,  every  person  represented  is  of  the 
commonest  and  most  vulgar  type.  I  suppose 
that  no  representation  of  the  Saviour  has  ever 
been  attempted,  into  which  so  little  of  eleva- 
tion and  grandeur  has  been  infused.  There 
is  nothing  actnally  repulsive  about  this  fignre, 
indeed,  there  is  some  expression  of  kiudli- 
ness  and  patience  about  the  features,  but 
the  typo  is  most  disastrously  common.  The 
figure  IS  that  of  a  much  older  man  than  we 
ordiuaiily  see  represented  in  pictures  of  Christ, 
and  is  short  and  ungainly  in  a  i)ainful  degree. 
The  hands  are  thick  and  ponderous,  and  the 
foot  which  is  shown  is  so  coarse  and  ugly  that 
one  can  hardly  bring  oneself  to  Iook  at  it 
There  is  no  relief  from  the  distressing  vulgarity 
which  pervades  this  picture.  The  women  who 
bring  their  children — nay,  the  children,  too 
— are  coarse  hideous  boors,  entirely  without 
any  touch  of  beauty  or  sentiment.  There  is 
no  charm  of  colour  in  the  picture,  which  is  full 
of  hot  browns  and  reds,  nor  any  of  that  magic 
of  effect  which  we  look  for  in  the  works  of 
Kembrandt,  and  which  we  count  npon  to  cover 
the  multitude  of  his  sins  against  what  we  call 
the  '*  Beautiful." 

But  when  all  this  has  been  said,  and  a  great 
deal  more  might  be  added  to  prove  what  a 
disheartening  work  of  art  this  is  to  sit  before 
for  half  an  hour,  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  it 
is  a  picture  which  may  be  considered  as  having 
some  right  to  appear  in  our  national  coUectiou, 
though  not  perhax)s  to  occupy  a  post  of  high 
honour  in  it. 

In  the  first  place,  as  far  as  internal  evidence 
goes,  there  seems  no  very  special  reason  to 
conclude  that  it  is  other  than  a  genuine  Kem- 
brandt, though  assuredly  it  is  not  one  of  hi> 
finest  works.  The  very  faults  of  the  picture 
are  the  f aidts  of  Kembrandt.  It  is  well  known 
that  the  veiy  lowest  standard  of  form  and 
beauty  we  can  conceive,  must  be  accepted 
before  we  proceed  to  criticise  this  master  st 
all,  and  this  should  be  always  borne  in  mind  in 
approaching  his  work.  It  is  said  of  some 
people  that  they  have  certain  qualificationB, 
connected  with  the  senses,  which  specially  fit 
them  for  pursuits  of  various  kinds.  Of  one 
we  say  that  he  has  an  eye  for  colour,  and  of 
another  that  he  has  an  car  for  harmony. 
Kembrandt  possessed  a  special  fitness  for  the 


^ 


Obuies  Dlckesa.] 


EECENT  AET  PURCHASES. 


[AnsQBt  28,  isca]     299 


study  of  ugliness.  He  had  an  eye  for  the  ufrly. 
He  revelled  in  it.  He  selected  liis  tjrpes  with 
a  view  to  it,  and,  having  done  so,  represented 
them  as  even  uglier  than  they  were  in  nature. 
The  only  kind  of  beauty  which  he  seemed  able 
to  feel,  and  the  only  kind  of  sentiment,  were 
the  beauty  and  sentiment  of  cliiarosouro,'  or, 
in  plain  English,  of  light  and  shade.  Beauty 
and  refinement  of  form  were  a  dead  letter  to 
him. 

Accepting  this  low  standard,  and  expecting 
nothing  in  the  way  of  elevation  or  of  noble- 
ness, w^e  shall  find  many  things  in  this  picture 
which  indicate  undoubted  power  and  originality 
m  the  painter.  It  possesses  one  great  negative 
merit,  at  all  events,  which  is  exceedingly  rare 
in  representations  of  this  subject :  it  is  not 
mawlush.  It  is  common  in  pictures  in  which  this 
particular  scene  has  been  chosen  for  pictorial 
presentation,  to  find  an  unnatural  and  forced 
assumption  of  exalted  feeling  expressed  in  the 
hces  and  bearing  of  the  children  who  arc 
brought  to  be  blessed  by  Christ.  This  is 
hardly  true  to  nature.  The  children  are  spoken 
of  in  the  New  Testament  narrative  as  being 
"brought,"  not  as  coming.  Their  approach  to 
the  Saviour  was  the  doing  of  their  parents,  or 
those  who  had  charge  of  them,  and  any  signs 
of  devotional  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  chil- 
dren indicated  by  the  artist,  would  be  out  of 
place.  The  painter  of  this  picture  has  gone,  in 
hiB  pursuit  of  matter-of-fact  reality,  to  the  very 
opposite  extreme.  The  little  girl  on  whose  head 
the  Saviour  lays  his  hand,  and  who  occupies 
the  central  place  in  the  composition,  is  as  far 
as  can  be  imagined,  from  manifesting  any 
feeling  of  a  devout  or  reverential  sort.  Her 
head  is  turned  away,  and  she  is  looking  eagerly 
out  of  the  picture  ae  if  after  some  pmyfello^ 
or  companion.  Her  left  hand,  which  Christ 
has  taken  in  his,  holds  an  apple  with  a  piece 
bitten  out  of  it ;  and  the  forefinger  of  her  right 
hand  is  thrust  into  her  mouth,  conveying  the 
idea  that  she  is  poking  with  it  at  some  frag- 
ment of  the  apple  which  has  stuck  between  her 
teeth.  Nothing  can  be  more  ungainly,  more 
common,  more  ugly,  than  this  child's  action ; 
but  the  conception,  as  indicating  insensibility 
3n  the  part  of  the  child,  is  daring  and  original, 
though  somewhat  shocking,  and  proves,  at  least, 
that  the  artist  who  elaborated  it  u^ust  have 
been  possessed  of  an  unconventional,  if  of  a 
coarse  and  untendcr,  habit  of  mind. 

The  woman  carrying  a  baby,  which  is 
soon  to  be  a  candidate  for  the  Saviour's  at- 
tention, is  the  next  most  prominent  figure 
:n  the  composition ;  and  she,  too,  presents  an 
I'ntirely  careless  and  unreverential  appearance. 
rfae  action  of  her  hand,  with  which  she  seems 
to  be  pushing  away  the  child  with  the  apple, 
ind  a  slight  frown  upon  her  brow,  appear  to 
indicate  that  she  considers  that  this  particular 
nfant  has  had  quite  as  much  attention  be- 
stowed upon  her  as  she  can  lay  claim  to,  and 
that  it  18  time  for  her  own  baby  to  be  noticed. 
rhe  other  figures  in  the  composition  are 
nerely  those  ol  peasants  standing  around :  one 
>f  them  in  the  background  lifting  up  a  child, 


whicli  stretches  out  its  hands  as  if  eager  for  a 
share  of  attention  with  the  others. 

Originality  of  treatment  and  a  certain  power 
of  rendering  rugged  and  ungainly  truth,  as 
shown  in  the  sturdily  drawn  figures  of  the 
Dutch  peasants,  these  are  the  strong  ])oints  of 
tlie  so-called  Rembrandt.  Whether  these  are 
suthcieut  to  compensate  us  for  an  expenditure 
of  seven  thousand  pounds  of  the  public  money, 
must  remain  an  open  question. 

It  is  pleasant  to  turn  from  these  two  works 
of  ai-t  to  the  now  De  Hooge,  which  has  been 
recently  hung  in  the  rooms  in  Trafalgar- 
square,  and  which  is  so  good  a  specimen  of  this 
charming  artist's  work,  as  to  merit  any  amount 
of  eulogy. 

There  seems  abundant  reason  to  believe  that 
some  artists  of  the  great  Flemish  school  were 
of  opinion  that  a  whole  lifetime  was  barely  long 
enough  for  the  acquisition  of  the  power  of  doing 
some  one  thing,  in  connexion  with  their  art, 
perfectly  well.  To  be  able  to  paint  the  in- 
terior of  a  spotlessly  clean  kitchen,  or  of  a 
family  living-room,  with  a  woman  sitting  read- 
ing by  the  window,  or  making  herself  more 
practically  useful  by  peeling  a  carrot  or  a 
turnip,  was  all  that  some  of  these  unambitious 
Dutchmen  desired.  But,  then,  how  well  these 
men  got  to  do  it  at  last ;  with  what  exquisite 
truthfulness  and  fidelity  to  nature  ;  and  more 
than  that,  with  what  an  extraordinary  capa- 
bility of  investing  what  one  would  think  must 
be  entirely  common-place  and  uninteresting 
with  a  certain  charm  of  sentiment ! 

Among  the  artists  of  the  Flemish  school  who 
most  rigidly  confined  themselves  to  this  exclu- 
sive kind  of  study,  Peter  de  Hooge  was  one  of 
the  most  remarkable.  There  was  a  certain 
scene  which  appeared  to  be.  his  notion  of  a  ter- 
restrial paradise,  in  truth,  just  the  back-yard 
of  a  comfortable  Flemish  residence  (probably 
his  own),  which  ho  seems  to  have  deter- 
mined in  early  life  that  he  would  acquire  the 
power  of  reproducing  as  no  other  scene  was 
ever  reproduced  by  mortal  man.  This  back- 
yard was  liis  delight.  Sometimes  he  would  for 
a  brief  season  abimdon  it,  and,  going  inside  the 
comfortable  Dutch  residence  of  whidi  it  formed 
a  part,  would  make  a  study  of  an  interior 
by  way  of  a  cliange.  Sometimes,  even,  as  in 
the  magnificent  specimen  of  this  artist's  work 
lately  sold  at  Paris  for  upwards  of  seventeen 
thousand  pounds,  he  would  put  forth  all  his 
power,  and  show  that  he  could  deal  with  a 
composition  containing  a  great  nmnber  of 
figures ;  still,  when  he  wanted  to  enjoy  him- 
self, he  always  went  back  to  his  favourite  in- 
closure,  to  its  cleanliness,  its  shade,  its  pearly 
coolness,  and  always  with  fresh  appreciation  and 
relish ;  and  here  he  would  place  those  figures  of 
Dutch  men  and  women  which  were  as  unvary- 
ingly the  same  as  were  the  backgrounds  by 
which  they  were  hemmed  in  and  smTounded. 

The  picture  lately  added  to  our  public  collec- 
tion is  one  of  these  favourites  of  the  painter. 
Here  is  the  courtyard  with  its  pavement  of 
little  bricks  set  crosswise,  and  traver€«^  ^^^ 
gonally  by  a  t\mi  eattXieti-vta^  ^xwsi  at  v^  N 


<r5: 


800      [Angosft  28, 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondnetedby 


/ 


here  are  the  pump,  and  the  stone  sink  and  the 
pail,  and  the  broom  propped  against  the  wall. 
Here  is  the  invariable  wooden  partition  dividing 
the  yard  from  the  red-brick  and  tiled  dwelling- 
house,  and  with  a  door  (open)  through  which 
the  little  prim  garden  peeps  deliciously.  A 
scullion  plumped  down  on  her  knees  is  cleaning 
a  fat  turbot  in  the  middle  of  the  yard ;  a  house- 
wife with  her  back  to  the  spectator  looks  on, 
and  takes  care  that  all  is  done  as  it  should 
be ;  the  proprietor  of  the  establishment  is  seen 
in  the  distance,  advancing  along  the  path 
which  borders  the  little  prim  garden  beyond 
the  partition.  He  is  coming  home  to  smoke 
his  pipe,  and  wait  calmly  until  the  turbot  is 
ready,  when  he  will  sit  down  and  make  a  com- 
fortable meal.  This  is  all ;  there  is  nothing 
of  dramatic  incident,  no  splendour  of  gorgeous 
tints,  no  display  of  beautiful  scenery.  The 
colouring  is  sober  and  sedate  in  the  extreme. 
The  house-mistress  is  habited  in  a  black  sort  of 
jacket,  trimmed  with  swans' -down,  and  wears  a 
grey  dress ;  the  servant  is  clad  in  grey  likewise ; 
the  distant  figure  of  the  bourgeois  in  black.  The 
background  tints  are  warm  and  mellow,  but 
chiefly  negative,  with  delicate  greys,  and  glow- 
ing but  subdued  red  bricks  and  tiles,  backed  by 
a  cool  fresh  sky,  such  as  we  know  well  in  the 
damp  climates  of  England  and  Flanders,  with 
tender  haze  of  thinly  veiled  blue,  seen  through 
a  medium  of  atmosphere  thick  enough  to  be 
distinctly  visible  in  all  weathers. 

Not  interesting  materials  these,  it  will  be 
said,  of  which  to  make  up  a  picture.  And 
yet  the  fact  remains  that  the  picture  is  de- 
lightful in  a  most  uncommon  degree,  and  that, 
strange  to  say,  not  by  any  means  from  a 
purely  technical  point  of  view.  True,  that 
from  that  point  of  view  it  is  perfect  beyond 
all  description  ;  true,  that  the  manipulation 
is  so  delicate  that  no  thought  or  remembrance 
of  jiaint  is  suggested  as  one  examhies  the 
delicious  surface  ;  true,  that  the  tone  of  colour 
which  pervades  the  whole  is  so  inexpressibly 
harmonious,  that  the  substitution  of  any  shade 
that  is  not  here,  for  any  sha<ie  that  is  here, 
would  offend  the  eye,  as  a  false  note  in  music 
docs  the  ear;  true,  that  the  balance  of  the 
composition  is  accurate  to  a  hair,  and  the  ar- 
rangement of  light  and  shade  a  very  triumph 
of  that  hidden  art  which  is  too  proud  to  show 
itself  —  granted  all  this,  granted  that  the 
picture,  as  a  piece  of  technical  achievement, 
leaves  positively  nothing  to  be  desired,  and  still, 
though  you  have  said  much,  you  have  not  said 
all.  For  wonderful  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  yet 
cei-tainly  the  case  that,  in  pictures  as  in  some 
other  matters,  it  is  not  the  bringing  together 
of  the  grandest  and  most  elevated  materials 
that  wiU  insure  the  production  of  a  noble 
result.  This  may  be  done  indeed,  and  nothing 
come  of  it  whatsoever :  just  as  you  will  some- 
times see  in  nature,  a  face,  all  the  parts  of 
which  are  grand  and  symmetrical,  but  which 
will  fail  to  move  you  in  any  way :  while 
another,  of  which  the  features  are  compara- 
tiveJy  homely,  will  have  about  it  something  of 
aentiment  which  ahall  be  inezpresaibly  touch- 


ing and  attractive.      So  it  is  with  this  pic- 
ture of  De  Hooge  in  the  National  Gallery. 
It  is  a  question  of  a  scullion,  and  a  turbot, 
and  a  pump,  and  a  slop-pail,  and  yet  out  of 
these  materials  a  picture  is  got  which  has  about 
it  more  of  sometning,  which  is  almost  poetry, 
than   many  an    ambitious    representation  of 
mountain    passes,    and    pine-clad    hills    with 
figures  in  the  foreground  placed  in  all  sorts  of 
romantic  situations,  or  doing  nothing  in  the 
most  approved  classical  style.     In  this  Flemish 
courtyard,  and  in  the  prim  garden,  and  round 
about  the  comfortable  homestead  seen  beyond, 
there  lingers  a  sense  of  tranquil  home  existence, 
of  harmless  enjoyment,  of  a  decorous  and  well- 
ordered  life,   wnich   conveys  what  it  is  the 
highest  achievement  of  any  work  of  art  to  con- 
vey :  the  suggestion  of  a  sentiment,  intensely 
felt,  though  it  cannot  be  logically  defined. 

In  conclusion,  it  may  be  remarked  of  all  three 
pictures  that,  as  additions  to  a  collection  in 
which  the  achieving  of  a  certain  fulness  and 
completeness  is  quite  as  distinctly  an  object  as 
the  affording  of  pleasure  and  gratification  to  the 
lovers  of  beautiful  works  of  art,  their  purchase, 
— even  though,  in  the  case  of  the  alleged  Rem- 
brandt, at  an  enormous  expense,  has  been 
upon  the  whole,  a  justifiable  proceeding. 


THE  SUMMEE  POOL. 

TiTERB  IB  a  singing  in  tho  summer  air, 
Tho  blue  and  brown  moths  flutter  o*er  the  graas^ 
The  stubble  bird  is  creaking  in  tho  wheat. 
And  perch'd  upon  tho  honeysuckle-hedgo 
Pipes  the  gi]cen  linnet.    O  the  golden  world  I 
Tho  stir  oflifo  on  every  blade  of  grass, 
The  motion  and  the  joy  on  every  Dough, 
Tho  glad  feast  everywhere,  for  things  that  love 
Tho  sunshine,  and  for  things  that  love  the  shade  f 

Aimlessly  wandering  with  weary  feet, 

Watching  the  woolly  clouds  that  wander  by, 

I  come  upon  a  lovely  place  of  shade, 

A  still  green  pool  where  with  soft  sound  and  stir 

The  shadows  of  o'er-hanginff  branches  deep, 

Save  where  they  leave  one  dreamy  space  of  bloe, 

0*er  whose  soft  stillness  ever  and  anon 

The  feathery  cirrus  blows.    Here  unaware 

I  pause,  and  leaning  on  my  staff  I  add 

A  shadow  to  the  shadows ;  and  behold ! 

Dim  dreams  steal  down  upon  me,  with  a  hum 

Of  little  wings,  a  murmuring  of  boueha. 

The  dusky  stir  and  motion  dwelling  here 

Within  this  small  green  world.    O'er  shadowed 

By  dusky  greenery,  tho'  all  around 

The  sunshine  throbs  on  fields  of  wheat  and  bean. 

Downward  I  gaze  into  the  dreamy  blue. 

And  pass  into  a  waking  sleep,  wherein 

The  green  boughs  rustle,  feathery  wreaths  of  ek)ad 

Pass  softly  piloted  by  golden  airs. 

The  air  is  still,  no  bird  sings  any^  more. 

And,  helpless  as  a  tiny  flying  thing, 

I  am  alone  in  all  the  world  with  God. 

The  wind  dies — not  a  leaf  stirs — in  the  pool 
Tho  fly  scarce  moves ; — earth  seems  to  hold  her  bMw 
Until  her  heart  stops,  listening  silentl]^ 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  the  coming  Bun  I 

While  thus  I  pause,  it  seems  that  I  have  gained 
Xew  oycs  to  sec ;  my  brain  g^ws  sensitive 
To  trivial  things  that,  at  another  hour. 
Had  passed  unheeded.    Suddenly  the  air 
Shivers,  the  shadowi  in  whoie  audit  I  wUaA 


=4 


A 


h 


OlMriM  Dlekena.] 


LITTLE  PAUPER  BOARDERS. 


[AaguBt  28, 1869.]     301 


Tremble  and  blacken ; — ^the  blue  eye  o'  the  pool 
Is  closed  and  clouded ;  with  a  ahrill  sharp  cry, 
Oiling  its  wings,  a  swallow  dartcth  past, 
And  weedling  flowers  beneath  my  feet  thrust  up 
Their  leaves  to  feel  the  coming  shower.    O  hark ! 
The  thirsty  leaves  are  troublea  into  sighs, 
And  up  above  me,  on  the  glistening  boughs, 
Pstters  the  summer  rain ! 

Into  a  nook, 
Soreen'd  by  thick  foliage  of  oak  and  beech, 
I  creep  for  shelter ;  and  the  summer  shower 
Murmurs  around  me.    In  a  dream  I  watch 
And  listen.    O  the  sweetness  of  the  sounds. 
The  pattering  rain,  the  murmurous  sigh  of  leaves, 
The  deep  warm  breathing  of  the  scented  air, 
They  sink  into  my  soul — until  at  last 
Comes  the  soft  ceasing  of  the  gentle  fall. 
And  lo !  the  eye  of  blue  within  the  pool 
Opens  again,  while  in  a  silvern  gleam 
The  jewels  twinkle  moistly  on  the  leaves. 
Or,  shaken  downward  bv  the  summer  wind, 
Pall  molting  on  the  pool  in  rings  of  light ! 


LITTLE  PAUPER  BOARDERS. 


One  of  the  most  important  and  pressing 
of  all  the  important  and  pressing  problems 
connected  with  the  workhonse  system,  con- 
cerns the  rearing  and  education  of  panper 
children ;  of  those  panper  children,  that  is 
to  say,  who  by  reason  of  the  death  or  dis- 
appearance of  their  parents  are  thrown 
entirely  npon  the  hands  of  the  parish,  or, 
in  other  words,  are  dependent  solely  npon 
the  Stat«.  According  to  the  practice  gene- 
rally adopted  at  the  present  time,  these 
unfortunates  •  receive  the  whole  of  their 
education  within  the  walls  of  the  work- 
house. However  well  conducted  the  work- 
house, however  much  pains  and  care  be 
taken  with  the  children,  the  results  are  not 
satisfactory.  The  monotonous,  semi-prison 
life  of  the  "  House**  is  a  most  unsuitable 
atmosphere  for  the  growth  of  a  child's  in- 
telligence; the  sordid,  hopeless  pauperism 
of  its  surroundings  must  degrade  and 
depress  the  child's  mind.  Hence  it  is  not 
surprising  to  find  that  when  a  child  who 
has  from  birth,  orfix)m  earliest  youth,  been 
reared  and  educated  in  the  workhouse,  is 
sent  forth  to  make  its  first  start  in  life,  it 
is  found  to  bo  but  seldom  fitted  for  the 
struggle.  School  education  it  may  have 
had,  and  may  carry  away  with  it  a  fair 
amount  of  book-knowledge ;  but  of  that 
other  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  human 
life,  which  is  only  to  be  got  by  freedom  of 
thought  and  actual  contact  with  the  world 
itself,  it  possesses  no  jot.  What  little 
contact  with  the  outer  world  it  may,  unfor- 
tunately for  itself  and  for  society,  have  had, 
is  of  the  worst  kind.  It  is  almost  impossi- 
ble to  orer-estimato  the  amount  of  damage 
that  may  be,  and  is,  done,  to  these  perma- 
nent pauper  children,  by  the  casoal  chil- 


dren who,  with  their  parents,  pass  through 
the  workhouse  from  time  to  time,  and 
whose  workhouse  lives  are  interludes  in 
lives  of  vagrancy  and  crime.  So,  either 
the  workhouse-bred  child  on  its  entrance 
into  active  life  is  unable,  in  its  helpless 
awkwardness,  to  avail  itself  of  the  little  it 
actually  does  know,  or  it  is  already  ripe  for 
evil-doing.  In  either  case  it  is  naturally 
looked  at  with  some  dislike  in  the  labour  . 
market.  So,  too  often,  many  such  children 
are  gradually  drafted,  willing  recruits,  into 
the  great  army  of  crime,  or  are  content  to 
drift  back  to  the  workhouse  and  a  life  of 
lazy,  shiftless  pauperism. 

The  plan  of  removing  the  children  alto- 
gether from  the  workhouse,  and  of  csta- 
bhshing  district  schools,  has  been  tried  in 
many  parishes.  Although  this  system  is 
an  improvement  on  the  other,  the  results 
are  far  from  satisfactory.  The  tide  of 
casual  children  flows  through  the  district, 
as  through  the  workhouse  school,  and  con- 
tamination surely  follows.  The  children 
from  the  district  schools  are  better  able  to 
hold  their  own  in  the  world  than  those 
brought  up  exclusively  in  the  workhouse ; 
but  it  is  doubtful  whether,  in  the  long  run, 
they  turn  out  any  better.  For  instance : 
seven  years  ago,  chance  brought  to  light 
the  existence  of  an  amount  of  evil  in  the 
Eton  workhouse  school,  that  necessitated 
its  being  forthwith  broken  up.  The  guar- 
dians sent  their  pauper  children  to  the 
district  school  at  Hanwell.  Two  years 
sufficed  to  put  the  guardians  out  of  conceit 
with  this  system,  and  the  children  were 
removed.  We  may  suppose  they  had  good 
reasons  for  this  step.  They  most  certainly 
ought  to  have  known  what  a  bad  school 
was,  as,  in  the  investigation  into  the  condi- 
tion of  their  own  workhouse  school,  it  had 
been  discovered  that  between  January, 
1858,  and  December,  1861,  forty  per  cent 
of  the  children  had  turned  out  ill.  An 
officer  of  the  separate  schools  for  the  Man- 
chester and  Liverpool  Unions,  is  reported 
to  have  said,  in  answer  to  a  question  as  to 
what  proportion  of  pprls  sent  from  that 
estabhshmcnt  had  gone  wrong :  "  Do  not 
ask  me  :  it  is  so  painful  that  I  can  hardly 
tell  you  the  extent  to  which  evil  will  predo- 
minate in  those  proceeding  from  our  insti- 
tution.*' Similarly,  we  read  of  the  report 
of  the  Kirkdale  separate  school  being  : 
"  The  number  of  girls  who  came  to  grief, 
who  went  out  from  that  institution,  was 
painful  to  think  of,  it  was  so  large.**  And 
these  are  by  no  means  isolated  e^'s^.'s^* 
Leaving  out  oi  ^\^\*  ioT  ^  Tasya^eci^  >iiaa 


i 


«& 


302  '    [August  28,  I860.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUKD. 


XCoodnetMl  by 


// 


question  of  bodily  health,  there  can  be  no 
donbt  that  the  establishment  of  large  dis- 
trict schools  haa  not  conduced  in  any  appre- 
ciable degree  to  the  impi-ovement  of  the 
moral  tone  of  the  children.  Neither  is  the 
education  imparted  in  such  schools  at  all  a 
satisfactory  preparation  for  the  business  of 
life.  As  to  the  question  of  health,  it  is  now 
almost  universally  admitted  that  the  gather- 
ing together  under  one  roof  of  large  num- 
bers of  children  of  the  pauper  class,  ill- 
nourished  and  poor  in  the  vital  principle 
as  they  almost  invariably  are,  is  in  the 
liighest  degree  detrimental  to  their  physical 
well-doing. 

It  would  seem,  then,  that  the  solution  of 
the  problem  must  lie  in  some  system  dij9e- 
rent  from  either  of  those  in  general  use. 
If  the  pauper  children  who  are  entirely 
dependent  on  the  parish,  or,  to  spcalc  more 
correctly,  the  State,  cannot  be  satisfactorily 
educated  to  be  good  citizens  and  useful 
members  of  society,  under  existing  circum- 
stances, how  can  flie  desired  result  be  more 
nearly  approached  ? 

The  only  alternative  system  appears  to 
bo  that  under  which  the  children  are 
boarded-out  with  such  persons  as  may  be 
willing  to  take  charge  of  them  and  to  look 
after  their  education  in  consideration  of  the 
weekly  amomit  to  be  received  from  the 
guardians,  and  the  value  of  such  services 
as  the  children  may,  as  they  come  to  be  of 
an  ago  to  work,  be  able  to  render.  And, 
as  the  miserable  results  of  the  old  plan  of 
parish  apprenticeship  are  still  fresh  in  the 
pubHc  mind,  it  is  well  that  this  boarding- 
out  system  should  bo  carefully  considered 
and  impartiaUy  judged  of;  without,  on  the 
one  hand,  allowing  it  to  suffer  by  bemg 
confounded  with  the  old  bad  plan ;  and 
without,  on  the  other,  allowing  the  defects 
and  positive  harmfulness  of  the  present 
workhouse  and  district  schools  to  prejudice 
us  in  favour  of  the  boarding-out  system,  on 
the  ground  of  any  cliange  being  a  cliango 
for  the  better. 

Nothing  could  have  been  worse  tlian  the 
t)ld  system  of  parish  apprenticeships.  The 
children  were  simply  got  rid  of  by  the 
pansh  authorities,  and  handed  over  with 
little  inquiry  or  care  to  the  first  comer; 
their  subsequent  fate,  as  a  rule,  was  a 
matter  of  supremo  indifference  to  their 
legal  guardians.  The  gentleman  in  the 
white  waistcoat,  it  will  be  remembered, 
was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  securing 
for  Olivor  Twist  so  amiable  a  master  as 
Mr.  Gamfield,  and  we  may  bo  very  certain 
ilmt  if  the  fates  had  destmed  Oliver's  ribs 


to  have  made  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  chimney-sweep's  cudgel,  the  gentleman 
in  the  white  waistcoat  would  nave   con- 
sidered the  arrangement  highly  eatisfac- 
tory.     Supervision,   without    which,    con- 
stantly and  carefully  exercised,  the  system 
was  one  of  mere  slavery,  was  rarely  cm- 
ployed  at  all ;  and  even  when  Mr.  Bumble, 
the  beadle,  went  now  and  then  through  the 
form  of  visiting  and  inquiry,  it  was  a  per- 
functory   ceremony    worse    than    useless. 
But,  it  must  bo  borne  in  mind,  that  in 
those  days  public  opinion  concerned  itself 
far  less   about  the  condition  of  the  pauper 
class  than  it  docs  now ;.  in  fact,  as  to  such 
matters    there  was    little    or    no    public 
opinion.     Now-a-days  there  is  an  increased 
certainty  of  pubUcity,  and  the  acts  of  boards 
of  guardians  and  thodr  subordinates  are  sub- 
jected to  a  careful  and  jealous  scrutiny  in 
all  parts  of  the  country.     It  is  worth  while 
to  consider  whether,  out  of  the  wreck  of  the 
system  of  parish  apprenticeships,  and  parish 
child- farming,  under  which  so  many  OHvers 
and  Dicks  suffered  miserably,  some  board- 
ing-out system,  at  once  simple  and  humaaei 
cannot  be  adopted. 

An  excellent  report  on  this  important 
subject,  dravm  up  by  a  committee  of  the 
Bath  Board  of  Cruardians,  is  before  us.  Its 
contents  will  assist  us  in  the  consideration 
of  what  is  to  bo  said  in  favour  of  the  plan. 

It  appears,  from  a  report  of  Sir  John 
McNeil,  head  of  the  Scottish  poor-law  au- 
thorities, dated  July  22,  1862,  that  the 
system  of  boarding-out  pauper  children 
singly,  or  in  twos  or  threes,  has  been  in 
practical  and  successful  working  in  Scot- 
land for  many  years.  The  children  are 
placed  witli  persons  of  the  working  class, 
selected  by  an  officer  of  the  parochial  board, 
and  a  close  supervision  is  exercised  over 
the  manner  in  which  the  children  Hve,  and 
the  kind  of  treatment  tliey  niceive.  The 
cost  of  their  board  and  lodging,  clothing, 
<&c.,  is  rather  more  than  it  would  be  in  the 
workhouse,  but  it  is  considered  that  this 
increase  is  far  more  than  counterbalanced 
by  the  improvement  in  the  children's  con- 
dition, physical  and  moral.  They  appear 
to  lose  sight  of  their  connexion  with  the 
workhouse  in  a  very  short  time,  and  to 
acquire  habits  of  independence  and  con- 
tinuous industry,  almost  impossible  to  be 
attained  by  children  whose  experience  hai 
not  been  drawn  from  out-of-door  life.  Sir 
John  is  strongly  in  favour  of  the  system. 

Mr.  Kemp,  governor  of  tho  Edinburgh 
Union,  writes,  in  18G9 :  "  We  have  no  ae- 
jxiratc  build^^  for  tho  children  who  are 


& 


OhariasDlekanB.] 


LITTLE  PAUPER  BOAEDBRS. 


[AugVBt  38, 18«9.]      303 


inmates,  nor  is  there  sncli  in  any  work- 
house in  Scotland  to  my  knowledge;  all 
attempts  to  separate  children  in  the  larger 
workhonses  have  been  given  up  years  ago." 
Mr.  Kemp  adds  that  the  boarding  system 
is  **  a  plan  which  long  experience  has  tested, 
and  which  we  find  to  work  well  ;*'  and  he 
gives  this  valuable  testimony  to  its  prac- 
tical success:  "We  very  seldom  indeed 
have  any  of  our  children  brought  back  to 
the  workhouse,  or  falling  into  pauper 
habits;  the  orphan  and  the  outcast  are 
especially  saved  from  these  results.  We 
have  at  this  moment  three  hundred  and 
thirty  boys  and  girls  boarded  in  the 
wuntry."  Mr.  Kemp's  evidence  is  the 
more  valuable,  seeing  that  when  he  first 
went  to  Scotland  he  was  disappointed  to 
find  the  boarding  system  in  force.  "I 
looked  upon  the  plan  at  first  with  no  great 
&vour,"  he  says,  but  after  a  time,  and 
after  practical  investigation,  the  result  was, 
"a  conviction  strongly  forced  upon  my 
mind  th»t  the  plan  of  boarding-out  children 
with  the  cottagers  around  the  country  was 
the  best  mode  of  rearing  orphan  children  I 
had  yet  seen."  And  to  this  opinion  Mr. 
Kemp  adheres. 

Experience  has  shown  the  assistant  in- 
spector of  the  Aberdeen  Union  "  that  the 
country  is  the  best  place  for  the  children, 
as  they  merge  into  the  rural  population, 
and  give  us  no  further  trouble."  It  may 
he  hoped  that  this  means  no  further  trouble 
when  they  are  gri>wn  up ;  while  they  are  still 
Uttle  pauper  boarders  it  is  clear  that  trouble, 
in  the  shape  of  needfal  supervision  and 
watchful  care,  they  must  cause.  The  in- 
spector of  workhouse  children  in  Glasgow 
bears  similar  testimony  to  the  value  of  the 
practice  which  "  is  of  long  standing  hero, 
and  much  liked."  Indeed  from  all  parts  of 
Scotland  there  comes  but  one  opinion,  and 
that  most  fiivourable. 

In  England,  the  system  has  not  yet 
made  so  much  progress.  Possibly  this  is 
in  great  part  due  to  the  £ulure  of  an 
attempt  to  introduce  something  of  the 
sort  in  the  metropolitan  parishes  seventy 
or  eighty  years  ago.  Want  of  proper 
supervision  ruined  this  attempt.  Again, 
from  their  great  size  and  the  largo  num- 
bers which  have  to  bo  dealt  with,  the 
Bietropolitan  parishes  are  scarcely  the 
most  favourable  field  for  the  first  working 
of  such  a  system.  But  oven  here  the 
parish  authorities  seem  to  be  discovering 
the  dangers  and  inconveniences  of  the 
workhouse  system.  The  parishes  of  Ken- 
sington and  St.  Margaret's,  Westminster, 


for  instance,  are  about  to  B}>end  upwards 
of  twenty-seven  thousand  pounds  for  a 
district  school,  which  will  accommodate 
only  eight  hundred  and  fifty  children:  a 
small  number  compared  with  those  in 
receipt,  at  the  date  of  the  last  returns,  of 
outdoor  relief  But  it  would  be  a  difficult 
matter  to  deal  with  tlie  fifty-three  thou- 
sand two  hundred  and  eighty-fivo  children 
in  rec^pt  of  outdoor  relief  in  the  metropo- 
litan parishes,  according  to  the  returns 
for  March  of  the  present  year,  by  the 
boarding-out  system;  and  in  London,  at 
least,  it  could  only  be  resorted  to  as  one  of 
several  means  of  disposing  of  the  chil- 
dren. 

But  in  the  country,  where  the  numbers 
are  far  more  manageable,  the  case  is 
very  different.  The  Bath  committee  have 
gathered  evidence  from  all  parts  of  the 
country;  and  wherever  the  system  has 
been  tried,  the  testimony  borne  to  its  value 
is  invariably  fiivourable. 

Mr.  Archer,  chairman  of  the  Highworth 
and  Swindon  Board  of  Guardians,  reports 
very  favourably  of  its  success  in  his  dis- 
trict, where  it  has  been  in  operation  seven 
or  eight  years.  The  Highworth  and 
Swindon  guardians  board  out  as  many 
children  as  they  possibly  can,  and  are 
satisfied  with  the  system,  which  they  find 
cheaper  as  well  as  better  than  keeping 
them  in  the  workhouse.  Mr.  Evans,  of 
Bovenoy  Court,  Windsor,  a  guardian  of  the 
Eton  Union,  reports,  "  Wo  are  fully  satis- 
fied with  our  plan  of  boarding-out  chil- 
dren in  the  neighbourhood,"  and  also 
bears  witness  to  its.  cheapness.  "  The 
system,"  according  to  Mr.  Evans,  "  has 
always  worked  satisfactorily."  We  have 
seen  in  the  early  part  of  this  paper,  how 
the  old  system  broke  down  utterly  in  this 
district.  Mr.  Newman,  of  the  Leominster 
Board  of  Guardians  who  administers  the 
afi*air8  of  a  small  union,  hits  the  right  nail 
on  the  head  when  he  says  that  the  plan 
requires  most  careful  watching,  and  this 
expression  of  opinion  renders  his  further 
remark,  that  when  successful  the  result  is 
worth  any  pains,  of  all  the  more  value.  It 
is  the  custom,  it  seems,  in  tlie  Leominster 
Union,  to  board  children  with  relatives — 
in  fact,  of  thirty-two  cliildren  boai-ded  out, 
twenty-two  are  with  relatives.  Possibly 
this  state  of  things  arises  in  some  way 
from  the  peculiarities  of  a  rural  district. 
It  may  be  doubtful  how  far  this  arrange- 
ment is  desirable.  From  the  Homcastle 
Union,  where  the  boarding-out  plan  has 
been  but  recently  adop\.\i^  viiA  ^V<5st^  'Oaa 


cS 


304      CAtignBtS8,lM9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


[Conda 


persons  who  take  the  children  are  nsnally 
small  farmers  or  tradesmen,  the  report  is 
favourable.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  English 
experience  asserts  the  superior  economy  of 
the  boarding-out  system  as  against  keeping 
the  children  in  the  workhouse;  and  that 
in  this  respect  it  differs  from  Sir  John 
M'Neil's  report. 

Some  of  the  chief  objections  to  the  plan 
were  very  concisely  put,  in  a  letter  ad- 
dressed, in  April  last,  to  Colonel  C.  W. 
Grant,  the  chairman  of  the  Boarding-out 
Committee  of  the  Bath  Union,  from  the 
Poor  Law  Board.  The  board,  they  say, 
"  have  hitherto  been  consistently  opposed 
to  the  scheme,  influenced  mainly  by  the 
consideration  that  the  guardians  would  be 
unable  to  exercise  the  necessary  control 
and  supervision  of  the  children  who  may 
be  removed  from  the  workhouse  and  placed 
under  the  charge  of  those  whose  chief 
object  in  taking  the  children  would  be  to 
make  a  profit  of  the  sums  allowed  for  their 
maintenance.*'  Here  the  Poor  Law  Board 
most  undoubtedly  detects  the  weakest  part 
of  the  scheme.  "  Other  strong  objections 
occurred  to  the  board,  such  as  the  difficulty 
of  insuring  that  some  regular  education 
for  the  children  is  given,  as  in  the  schools 
attached  to  the  union."  These  considera- 
tions, however,  do  not  appear  to  have  had 
a  strong  deterrent  effect  on  the  board,  for 
they  go  on  to  say :  "  On  the  other  hand, 
the  board  are  aware  that  the  system  of 
boarding-out  children  has  been  in  operation 
for  many  years  in  Scotland  with  apparent 
success.  The  board  are  fully  sensible  of 
the  many  arguments  which  can  be  urged 
in  favour  of  the  plan,  and,  provided  that 
they  could  be  satisfied  that  a  thorough 
system  of  efficient  supervision  and  control 
would  be  established  by  the  guardians,  and 
the  most  rigid  inquiry  instituted,  at  short 
intervals,  into  the  treatment  and  education 
of  the  children,  the  board  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  they  ought  not  to  dis- 
courage the  guardians  from  giving  the  plan 
a  fair  trial." 

Armed  with  this  authority,  and  fortified 
by  the  testimony  from  other  unions,  of 
which  we  have  given  examples,  the  Bath 
committee  set  on  foot  inquiries  as  to  whe- 
ther there  would  be  any  difficulty  in  find- 
ing fit  and  proper  persons  to  take  charge 
of  the  children  for  a  fair  remuneration. 
Satisfactory  replies  being  obtained,  the 
ifiBxt  thing  that  remained  was  to  fix  what 
that  remuneration  should  be.  And  here  it 
was  necessaiy,  above  all  things,  to  bear  in 
mind  the  warning  of  the  Poor  Law  Board, 
Bud  to  be  sure  that  the  stun  offered,  wbile 


sufficient  to  induce  respectable  pec 
receive  pauper  boarders  into  their  fa 
should  not  be  so  large  as  to  tempi 
greed. 

In  the  Edinburgh  Union  half-a-cr 
week  is  paid  with  each  child,  and  in  i 
cases  even  more:  clothing  is  give] 
school  fees  and  medicine  are  paid  fo 
the  Glasgow  and  Aberdeen  Unioi 
amount  allowed  is  about  the  same, 
these  Unions,  it  is  sensibly  and  wise! 
vided  that  the  clothing  provided  f 
children  shall  not  be  such  as  to  make 
conspicuous  among  their  fellows, 
burgh  says,  "  clothing  not  of  a  worl 
character."  Glasgow  "  supplies  cl 
of  such  a  kind  as  to  prevent  their 
known  as  pauper  children;**  while 
deen,  still  more  explicit,  gives  "cL 
of  the  same  style  and  quality  that  a  c 
child  usually  wears.**  One  of  the 
reconmiendations  in  fevour  of  the  boa 
out  system,  is,  that  it  tends  to  enoc 
the  children  to  shake  themselves  fr«< 
the  clinging  vices  engendered  by  a  si 
pauperism,  to  cultivate  their  self-r< 
and  to  become  worthy  and  indepc 
members  of  society.  It  is  clearly  i 
sible  that  these  desirable  results  c 
brought  about,  if  the  "  charity -s< 
system  of  a  hideous  distinctive  dr 
maintained:  a  system  that  has  bee 
bane  of  many  otherwise  excellent  ii 
tions,  and  which  still  survives  amo] 
very  much  to  the  national  disgrace. 

Of  the  English  unions  consulted, 
minster  gives  half-a-crown  a  week  w 
clothes  :  a  good  outfit  being  given  t< 
with  ;  but  if  there  is  entire  satisfactio 
the  child  is  well  done  for  (a  curioi 
pression,  but  Leominster's  own),  cl( 
is  occasionally  given :  in  which  caj 
chairman  always  requires  the  child 
shown  to  the  board.  The  Highwori 
Swindon  Board  give  half-a-crown  a 
and  half  a  guinea  a  quarter  for  clo 
besides  an  outfit  of  clothing  to  begin 
Eton  is  liigher  in  the  money  scale,  { 
three  shillings  and  sixpence,  as  w 
an  outfit,  and  six  shillings  and  su 
a  quarter  for  clothes  after  the  first 
months.  At  Caistor,  the  payment  i 
shillings  and  nincpcnce  per  week, 
thirty-five  shiHings  for  outfit.  Horn 
gives  for  the  first  year  three  shilli 
week  and  outfit,  and  makes  a  fresh  an 
ment  after  the  first  year.  King's  I^ 
and  Chorlton  each  give  three  shilling 
clothes. 

I      Not  only  are  these  payments  consi 
\  RuffiideiiV.  ioT  >i)£i'&  c\v^Ldreu*8  weU-doin| 


a& 


X3 


Qh*rlaa  Dickens.] 


NATURAL  GHOSTS. 


[Angast  23, 1869  ]       305 


they  result  in  great  saving  to  the  rate- 
payers. Taking  the  yearly  cost  of  a  boarder 
at  ten  ponnds,  which  is  about  the  average 
amount,  the  charge  contrasts  favourably 
with  such  figures  as  are  presented  by  the 
Leeds  Industrial  School,  where  each  child 
costs  more  than  fifteen  pounds  a  year, 
without  reckoning  interest  of  money  on  the 
school  buildings,  which  cost  some  seventeen 
thousand  pounds,  and  which,  at  five  per 
cent,  would  raise  the  cost  of  each  child 
by  about  two  pounds  annually.  In  the 
eighteenth  annual  report  of  the  Poor  Law 
Board,  it  appears  that  in  twenty-five  years 
six  distnct  schools  have  been  established, 
at  an  annual  average  expense  per  child  of 
nearly  twenty  pounds.  At  the  Central 
London  School,  Hanwell,  the  expense  con- 
trasts still  more  unfavourably  with  the 
boarding-out  charges  :  being  twenty-eight 
pounds  for  each  child. 

The  Bath  Committee,  who  appear  to 
have  set  about  their  work  with  an  earnest 
sense  of  their  responsibihty,  and  with  a 
business-like  determination  to  do  the  best 
they  could  for  their  helpless  charges — ^which 
example  we  take  this  opportunity  of  com- 
mending to  the  attention  of  certain  guardians 
of  the  poor  in  the  disagreeably  renowned 
parish  of  St.  Pancras,  London — upon  consi- 
deration of  all  this  evidence,  advised : 

That,  the  boarding-out  system  should 
be  adopted  in  the  Bath  Union.  That,  with 
each  child  should  be  given  three  shillings  a 
week,  an  outfit  of  clothes  such  as  are  worn 
I  by  the  children  of  the  labouring  poor,  and 
six  shillings  and  sixpence  a  quarter  after 
the  first  three  months  for  repairing  clothes 
and  replacing  them  as  required;  school 
fees ;  and  attendance  of  medical  officers. 

On  the  7th  of  April  in  this  year,  this 
report  was  adopted  by  the  guardians  with 
only  two  dissentient  voices  out  of  a  board 
of  thirty- three;  and  the  boarding -out 
^stem  is  consequently  now  in  full  opera- 
tion in  the  Bath  Union. 

Excellent  rules  have  been  drawn  up  for 
the  supervision  of  the  children ;  and  the 
particulars  required  to  be  ascertained  by 
the  relieving  officer,  and  countersigned  by 
a  guardian  of  the  parish,  arc  extremely 
sensible  and  well  calculated  to  get  at  the 
truth.  The  visitors  at  schools  attended  by 
boarder  -  children,  are  also  required  to 
furnish  periodically,  answers  to  a  set  of 
questions.  There  is  no  encouragement  to 
masj  amateur  interference,  harmful  to  the 
interests  of  the  children,  and  likely  to  lead 
to  remissness  on  the  part  of  the  official 
inspectors.  The  work  is  directed  to  be 
done   in  a  business-like  way    by  proper 


officials,  and  the  Bath  Guardians  begin 
their  instructions  to  persons  receiving 
boarders  from  the  union  in  these  words : 

"The  Guardians  of  the  Bath  Union, 
anxious  for  the  welfare  of  the  children 
whom  the  failure  of  their  natural  protectors 
have  thrown  upon  their  care,  beHevo  that 
they  will  best  discharge  their  trust  by 
placing  the  children  with  families  in  wliich 
they  will  learn  lessons  of  industry,  frugaHty, 
and  self-reliance,  and  be  brought  up  in  the 
fear  of  God  and  the  practice  of  virtue." 

The  Bath  Guardians  have  already  been 
met,  pretty  frequently,  by  references  to 
Mrs.  Mann  and  Mrs.  Sowerberry,  to  the 
value  of  Mr.  Bumble's  inspections,  and  to 
the  cruel  treatment  of  Oliver  Twist.  Even 
the  ghost  of  Mother  Brownrigg  has  been 
invoked  by  their  opponents.  Having  some 
authority  to  speak  in  the  name  of  Oliver 
Twist,  we  here  record  on  his  behalf  that  he 
suffered  froxji  no  system,  but  suffered  from' 
an  utter  absence  of  system ;  and  that  it 
was  his  misfortune  to  be  a  pauper  child  in 
days  when  pauper  children  were  out  of 
sight  and  out  of  mind.  The  light  has  been 
let  in  upon  them  since,  and  no  Csdsar,  in- 
dividual or  corporate,  can  hide  their  sun 
with  a  blanket,  or  so  much  as  make  the 
attempt,  without  being  publicly  tossed  in  it. 


NATURAL  GHOSTS. 

Without  saying  a  word  for  or  against  the 
supernatural  appearance  of  dead  and  dying  men, 
ministering  spirits,  bad  spirits,  and  all  the 
demons  that  are  found  in  fire,  air,  flood,  or 
underground,  let  us  give  a  good  word  to  the 
ghosts  that  are  no  ghosts.  Some  of  them  arc 
quite  natural  and  wholesome,  seen  by  healthy 
persons,  and  often  by  more  than  one  person  at 
the  same  time.  Others  are  natural  and  un- 
wholesome, seen  usually  by  sick  persons,  an<i, 
in  nearly  all  cases,  by  one  person  only.  The 
familiar  form  of  the  healthy,  natural  apparition 
is  our  good  old  friend,  our  other  self,  whom  wo 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  great  many 
times  in  print,  the  giant  of  the  Brock  en.  I 
climb  the  Brocken  to  see  the  sunrise  on  a  calm 
morning,  and  standing  on  the  granite  rocks 
known  as  the  Tempelskanzel,  observe  that  the 
other  mountains  towards  the  south-west  lyin^ 
under  the  Brocken  are  covered  with  thick 
clouds.  Up  rises  the  sim  behind  me,  and  forth 
starts  the  giant,  five  or  six  hundred  feet  high, 
who  bestrides  the  clouds  for  a  couple  of  seconds 
and  is  gone.  To  see  one's  shadow  in  this  fashion 
there  needs  a  horizontal  sunbeam  and  a  bank  of 
vapour  of  the  right  sort  in  the  right  place.  AVe 
may  go  up  the  Brocken  at  sunrise  a  dozen  times 
and  hardly  have  a  chance  of  finding  sunbeam 
and  vapour-bank  disposed  to  favour  \i«»  'wAX^nXx^ 
raising  of  tbia  gVvoa^.,  T\i^  ^o^X.  oi  Vl\R!»Kt  xJoa^* 
appeared  to  Btulxxa  «A,  ^\a[Nx^^\\&  wmssl>x^  ^"i^ 


^ 


306       [August  28. 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetedlij 


commonplace  as  the  spectre  of  the  Rrocken, 
and  as  natural.  Was  not  Hobbes  of  Malmes- 
bury  a  great  philosopher,  who  ought  to  kuow  ? 
*'  We  re^i,"  says  Ilobbcs,  **  of  Marcus  Brutus 
(one  that  had  his  Hfe  giveu  him  by  Julius  C»sar, 
and  was  also  his  favourit<\  and  notwithstand- 
ing murdered  him)  how  at  Philippi  the  night 
before  he  gave  battle  to  Augustus  Csesar  he  saw 
a  fearful  appaiition,  which  is  commonly  related 
by  historians  as  a  vision  ;  but  considering  the 
circumstances,  one  may  easily  judge  to  have 
been  a  short  dream.  For  sitting  in  his  tent 
pensive  and  trouble<l  with  the  horror  of  his  rash 
act,  it  was  not  hard  for  him,  slimibering  in  the 
cold,  to  (beam  of  that  which  most  affrighted 
him ;  which  fear,  as  by  degrees  it  made  him 
awake,  so  also  it  must  needs  make  the  appari- 
tion by  degrees  to  vanish  ;  and  having  no  as- 
surance that  he  slept,  he  coiUd  have  no  cause  to 
think  it  a  dream  or  anything  but  a  vision." 
Then  there  is  moonshine.  It  makes  many 
things  half  visible,  which  timid  folks  interpret 
into  shapes  of  terror ;  bm'glars,  perhaps,  if  tneir 
fears  are  of  the  mundane  sort ;  and  if  their  taste 
incline  to  the  eerie,  when  the  light  is  dim  and 
silence  rules,  they  will  know  how  to  suspect, 

In  orory  bush  a  ho\ierinff  shade, 
A  ^oan  in  every  sound. 

Moreover,  there  is  hocus-pocus  in  its  regular 
commercial  aspect,  as  it  was  abroad  in  the  days 
of  the  Egyptians,  and  as  it  is  at  home  in  these 
l)resent  days.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand 
how  tlie  Egyptian  priests  showed  visions  on 
their  temple  walls,  or  reflected  pictures  from 
the  surface  of  great  bowls  of  water.  The 
devils  shown  by  a  conjuror  to  Benvenuto  Cellini 
were  doubtless  let  loose  from  a  magic  lantern. 
Some  drugs  give  a  man  spectral  illusions.  A 
conjuror  offered  Dr.  Ahlei'sou  a  prescription 
for  a  mixture  of  antimony,  sulphur,  and  other 
things,  which  should  cause  the  person  taking  it 
to  be  haunted  by  spectres, 

A  philosoiiher  older  than  Ilobbcs,  the  poet 
Lucretius,  supposed  that  all  gliosts  were  natural 
productions,  being  merely  thin  pellicles  cast  off 
from  the  body. 

Koxt,  for  'tis  time,  my  Muac  declares  and  sings, 

aecliires  and  sings  through  the  medium  of 
Creech, 

What  those  are  wo  eall  images  of  things, 

Which,  liko  thin  films,  from  bodies  rise  in  streams. 

Flay  in  the  air,  and  dance  upon  the  beams : 

lij  day  these  meet,  and  strike  our  minds  and  fright ; 

And  show  pale  ghosts  and  liorrid  shapes  by  nic^ht : 

Those  break  our  sloop,  these  check  our  gay  dehght, 

For  sure  no  airy  souls  got  loose,  and  fly 

From  Hell's  dark  slmdcs,  nor  flutter  in  our  sky : 

For  what  remains,  beyond  the  greedy  Urn, 

Since  soul  and  body  to  their  soc<ds  return  P 

A  stream  of  forms  from  every  surface  flows, 

Which  may  bo  called  the  film  or  shell  of  those : 

Because  they  bear  the  shape,  they  show  the  frame 

And  figure  of  the  bodies  whence  they  came. 

About  the  michile  of  the  seventeenth  century 
the  doctrine  of  Palingenesis  prevailed.  This 
was  a  chemical  explanation  of  the  theory  of 
Lucretius.  It  asserted  that  if  a  flower  were 
hiirnt  and  ptilverised,  a  salt  might  be  obtained 
which  was  the  essential  part  of  t£e  flower :  that 
oa  mixing  this  substance  with  somcthmg  W\uc\i 


I 


was  not  disclose<l,  and  applying  heat>  a  spectral 
flower  would  arise,  corresponding  to  that 
which  was  burnt.  This  was  explained  by  sup- 
posing that  the  particles  of  the  salt,  when 
heated,  attracte<l  one  another,  and  flew  off  into 
the  respective  places  they  had  occupied  when 
in  the  living  plant,  so  that  they  tbus  formed  a 
shadowy  representation  of  it.  That  being  taken 
for  an  established  fact,  it  was  easy  enough  to 
apply  it  to  the  human  body,  which,  when  fer- 
menting underground,  threw  off  such  particles 
of  the  essential  salt  to  rise  into  the  air,  be 
diawn  into  their  old  relative  positions,  and  thus 
form 

horrid  apparitions  tall  and  ghastly, 

To  walk  at  dead  of  m^ht,  or  take  their  stand 

0*er  some  new-opened  grave. 

But  why  the  winding-sheet  threw  off  this  { 
salt,  and  not  the  coflui — for  the  ghost^s  always  | 
came  up  dressed  in  their  grave-clothes,  nevCT  \ 
cased  in  their  coffins — Faliugenesists  have  not  | 
explained. 

Another  theory,  metaphysical,  not  chemical, 
made  Fancy  an  incomprehensible  material  thing 
lodged  in  the  middle  lobe  of  the  brain,  which 
acts  the  part  of  a  servant  to  the  mind  in 
aiTanging  together  the  different  material  ideas 
brought  to  the  brain  by  its  other  servants.  The 
over-zealous  industry  of  this  servant  in  working 
after  the  others  were  gone  to  bed,  was  supposed 
to  produce  the  appearance  of  spectres,  which 
were  thus  taken  to  be,  in  a  very  literal  sense, 
the  workings  of  Fancy. 

Now  we  come  to  the  unwholesome  class— 
the  natural  ghosts ;  ideas  made  unusually  rivid 
by  some  morbid  condition  of  the  mind  or  body. 
Ghosts  of  this  kind  are  as  natural  as  those  of  the 
other  class.  Ideas  arc  copies  of  sensations,  only 
loss  intense.  If  any  unhealthy  excitement  adds 
to  the  intensity,  they  may  be  indistinguishable 
from  impressions  or  things  actually  seen  and 
heani.  fhe  writer  of  this,  having  seen  a  large 
niunber  of  ghosts,  and  heard  many  ghostly  voices 
in  his  childhood  and  youth,  has,  as  a  wise  man 
once  put  it,  seen  too  many  ghosts  to  believe  in 
them.  And  yet  how  clear  and  distinct  they 
were.  A  long  flaming  sword,  for  example,  in 
the  air  at  noonday  over  London,  at  the  time  of 
the  cholera  visitation  of  'thirty-one,  or  there- 
about-s ;  and  not  only  a  flaming  sword,  bnt 
the  clouds  aiTanged  in  a  frame  about  it  to 
bring  out  the  picture,  as  they  certainly  wtie 
not  really  arranged  in  the  sky.  Bah !  the 
pattern  of  the  sword  was  that  chosen  by  tlifi 
artist  of  the  flrst  illustrated  edition  of  Paradise 
Lost,  whose  pictiu^es  were  often  pored  over  by 
the  young  natural-ghost-scer ;  and  it  was  a 
shape  reflecting  little  credit  on  the  genius  of 
the  heavenly  swordsmiths,  if  they  have  sword- 
smiths  in  heaven. 

Take  the  third  experiment  of  Sir  Ilomphiey 
Davy  in  an  atmasphere  of  nitrous  oxide.  He 
says,  ^'  A  thrilling,  extending  from  the  chest 
to  the  extremities,  was  almost  immediately 
produced.  I  felt  a  sense  of  tangible  extension, 
highly  pleasurable,  in  every  limb  ;  my  visible 
impressions  wore  dazzling,  and  apparently  mag- 
nified. I  heard  distinctly  every  sound  in  the 
Toom^  aTkdL\;i)A'^Ti«^V^  aware  of  my  KtaatioD. 


I 


o:: 


Charles  DU^keniu] 


THE  PRINCESS  YOLKA. 


:^-r  -^^^_-^th. 


[Ausuat  28,  l&JO.]     307 


* 


By  (li?<;Teo9,  as  the  pleasurable  BOiisation  in- 
mastMl,  I  lost  all  connoxiou  with  external 
tliiiij(s ;  trnuis  of  vLvi«.l  viKiblo  ima'^s  rapidly 
paiftcil  thruu'^h  my  miuil,  and  were  cornier  tod 
with  wordd  in  snch  a  nianuer  as  to  produce 
pi.TOoi)tion3  perfectly  novel.  I  existed  in  a 
world  of  newly  connectiid  and  newly  modified 
ideas.  When  I  was  awakened  from  this  semi- 
delirions  trance  by  Dr.  Kinj^lake,  who  took  the 
baf»  from  my  mouth,  indignation  and  juidc 
were  tin;  first  fcclinp)  produce* I  by  the  sight 
of  llie  persons  about  me.  My  emotions  were 
enthusiastic  and  sublime  ;  and  for  a  moment  1 
walked  roimd  the  room,  perfectly  regardless  of 
what  was  said  to  me.  As  I  recovered  my 
former  state  of  mind,  I  felt  an  inclination  to 
commnnicato  the  discoveries  I  had  made  during 
the  experiment.  I  emleavoureil  to  recal  the 
ideas— they  were  fei'ble  and  indistinct." 

Inhalation  of  nitrous  oxide  increases  fulness 
of  the  puLse,  expamis  tlie  blood.  A  like  effect  is 
produced  by  the  febrile  miasma  of  Cadiz,  in 
which  the  siiectnd  impressions  are  of  a  painful 
character.  Suppose  we  say,  then,  that  expansion 
of  the  blood  is  favourable  to  the  producing  of 
spectral  impressions.  If  not  that,  some  other 
fact  Jis  natural,  accounts  for  the  appearance  of 
spectres  in  hectic  and  other  fcvei-s.  i'he  ghosts 
seen  by  Nicolai,  the  philosophical  bookseller  of 
IxtUu,  disappeared  gradually  on  tlie  ajiplication 
of  leeches.  Spectral  impressions  may  result 
also  from  direct  irritation  of  the  brain,  or  from 
a  high  state  of  nervous  irritability  acting  upon 
tic  bwly  generally.  The  s^DCCtres  will  agree 
mostly  with  the  mind  they  spring  from.  A 
philosophical  man  like  Nicolai  has  visions  of 
men.  dogs,  and  horses,  such  }is  he  would  see  in 
daily  life.  Others,  who  have  their  minds  full 
of  supcmatunil  talcs,  and  who  ass(.)ciate  with 
darkncF^  instead  of  nature's  rest,  the  spirit's 
nnrest,  will  see  the  sort  of  ghosts  they  occupy 
their  minds  with.  Others,  again,  whose  philo- 
sophy leads  to  a  faith  in  visible  intercourse  be- 
tween the  lining  and  the  dead,  will  not  fail  to 
obtain  excellent  corroborations  of  their  doctrine. 

When  supernatural  forms  are  not  repetitions 
of  familiar  shapes,  but  follow  current  suj)er- 
fttitions,  it  has  been  always  observed  that  they 
corresi>(>nd  to  the  forms  adopted  by  popular 
belief  from  familiar  i>aintiugs  and  sculptures. 
Tlie  witches  of  Lorraine,  who  professed  to  be 
familiar  with  devihj,  were  (piestioned  particu- 
larly as  to  the  appearance  of  these  devils  by 
M.  Remv,   the  commissioner  for  their  trial. 

■Ma  ^ 

They  had  simply  realised  them  by  the  nide 
allegorical  painting  and  sculpture  of  the  middle 
ages.  They  said  they  were  black-faced,  with 
sunk  but  fiery  eyes,  their  mouths  wide  and 
smelling  of  sulphur,  their  hands  hairy,  with 
claws,  their  feet  horny  and  cloven.  The  clovi-n 
foot  comes  of  a  tradition  that  the  devil  was  in 
the  habit  of  appearing  to  the  Jews  in  the  form 
of  a  hairy  goat.  Saints,  when  they  appear, 
corrrspond  in  the  same  way  with  the  conven- 
tional form  of  chui'ch  painting  and  Hculiiture. 
Visions  seen  in  tlie  ccsta.sies  of  saints  them- 
selves  were  conunoulv  true  visions  ;  natural,  as 
results  of  an  overstrained  mind  in  a  wasted 
and  often  tortured  hodf.     The  visions  seen  by 


the  dying  may  be  explained  also  by  the  con- 
dition of  the  body  in  the  last  stagt^  of  n«any 
diseases,  when  the  commonness  of  spt'ctrid 
delusions  has  given  rise  to  a  strong  faith  in 
our  frequent  visible  commmuon  with  angels 
and  departed  spirits  in  the  hour  <»f  drath. 

Next  to  sight,  hearing  is  the  sens«*  most  fre- 
quently imposecl  on,  and  no  sound  is  t^o  im»iii- 
monly  imagined  as  the  call  of  a  familiar  com- 
panion. Dr.  Johnson  fancied  he  heard  his 
mother  call  "  Sam,"  when  shr  was  a  hundred 
miles  away,  and  was  much  disiip))ointiHl  when 
nothing  ensued.  That  call  by  a  familiar  voice 
was  a  frequent  experience  of  the  presi^nt 
wnt<?r.  It  was  commonly  a  home  vc>ioe,  and  a 
loud,  clear,  and  abrupt  mtmosyllabic  call.  IJut 
he  has  heanl  the  voice  of  a  brother  miles  away, 
speaking  as  from  behind  his  shoulder  in  a 
college  library,  and  tunied  to  answer  in  a  voice 
itself  so  insensibly  subdued  to  harmony  with 
the  impression,  as  considerably  to  surprise  a 
fellow-student  who  was  stanrling  near.  15nt 
the  delusions  of  hearing  were,  in  his  ease,  not 
confined  to  voices ;  the  sound  of  ojiening  <h)or8 
within  the  bedroom  at  night,  M'hen  thnv  was 
no  door  opened,  and  other  such  tricks  on  the 
ear,  were  also  not  uncommon,  but  these 
(though  not  the  sudden  voices,  which  seemed 
to  be  connect^'d  with  some  momentary  lea]>  of 
the  blood,  as  in  the  sensation  that  une  has 
somethiies  when  going  to  sleep,  of  falling  sud- 
denly with  a  great  jolt),  were  always  to  be 
explained  by  traceable  relation  to  a  thought 
within  the  mind. 

Next  to  hearing,  touch  is  said  to  be  the 
sense  most  frequently  imposed  on  ;  as  when 
l)eo])le  have  fancied  themselves  beatini  l.»y  in- 
visible or  visible  iiends,  and  felt  eonsidiri\ible 
pain  from  it.  The  present  writer  can  re- 
member in  his  own  ghostly  experience  but  one 
delusion  of  the  sense  of  touch.  It  was  avsso- 
eiated  with  delusion  of  luiaring,  and  repeated 
nightly  for  a  week  or  ten  days.  Sometimes 
the  sense  of  smell  is  deceived,  as  when  the 
spectral  sight  of  a  demon  is  joined  to  a  spectral 
smell  of  brimstone,  (.'onsidering  how  often 
people  are  saying  that  they  **  fancy  they  smell'* 
something,  one  might  think  play  upon  this 
sense  to  l.)e  more  common  than  it  is.  Least 
liable  to  delusion  is  said  to  be  the  sense  of  taste. 
Thus,  a  lunatic  mentioned  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
fancied  his  poiTidge  dinner  to  consist  of  every 
dehcacy,  but  complained  that  everything  he  ate 
tasted  of  porridge. 

THE  TRINCESS  YOLKA. 


[The  following  story,  which,  towards  its 
close,  somewhat  rescrablos  Cinderella,  is 
Imsed  upon  one  of  the  popular  talcs  of 
Esthoniii  (or  Kcvel),  tlio  inhabitants  of 
which  province  constitute  a  portion  of  the 
Finnish  race.  The  egg,  which  may  remind 
classical  readers  of  the  mTtli  of  Leda,  con- 
nocts  it  with  the  national  Estlvvsxvvvvw  ^e^viwv 
Kiilewpoeg,  Aa\e\y  \iTow\i\\\.  Vo  \\^\\.  >i^  ^^'^''^ 
Esthouiaii  sc\\o\v\y,  Xir.  \s.Te\x2.v?^^?^ 


* 


308      [Aagnst  28, 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


ICoodnctedl^ 


A  certain  king,  who,  like  many  other 
potentates,  hved  once  npon  a  time,  was 
excessively  annoyed  by  the  circumstance 
that  he  had  no  direct  heir  to  his  throne,  and 
his  annoyance,  in  which  the  queen  largely 
participated,  was  increased  by  the  reflection 
that  many  of  his  poorer  subjects  were 
blessed  witli  families  so  large  that,  viewing 
their  scanty  means,  they  did  not  highly 
appreciate  the  blessing.  While  the  royal 
pair  were  together,  they  could  console  each 
other  with  reciprocal  expressions  of  dissa- 
tisfaction ;  but  on  one  occasion,  when  the 
king  was  absent  on  some  foreign  expedi- 
tion, the  queen,  left  to  her  own  meditations, 
found  her  condition  absolutely  intolerable. 
There  she  sat  in  her  garden  day  after  day, 
under  the  shadow  of  a  wide- spreading 
linden  trod,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  look- 
ing so  exceedingly  dismal,  that  her  maids 
of  honour  said  confidentially  to  each  other 
that  she  gave  them  the  "  horrors.** 

One  day,  however,  raising  her  eyes  from 
the  ground,  on  which  they  were  habitually 
fixed,  she  saw  a  little  old  woman  hobbling 
along  on  a  crutch,  till  she  came  to  the 
neighbouring  fountain,  where,  stooping 
with  difficulty,  she  quenched  her  thirst. 
Gaining  new  strength  from  the  refreshment, 
the  diminutive  hag  then  approached  the 
linden  tree,  and  cheerfully  nodding  her 
head,  told  the  tearful  queen  that  she  had 
come  to  bring  her  good  luck. 

Now,  in  the  modern  work-a-day  world 
we  frequently  find  persons  who,  totally 
unable  to  manage  their  own  affairs,  show  a 
marvellous  degree  of  shrewdness  in  direct- 
ing those  of  their  neighbours.  We  have 
heard  of  a  spirited  gentleman  who  ran 
through  three  estates  with  unaccountable 
rapidity,  and  then,  taking  in  hand  the 
accounts  of  a  society,  which  seemed  to  be 
involved  in  an  insoluble  tangle,  brought 
them  into  the  most  perfect  ship-shape.  This 
financial  feat  performed,  ho  ran  through 
his  fourth  estate  with  a  velocity  far  sur- 
passing that  exliibitcd  on  three  previous 
occasions.  A  merchant  who  has  been 
twice  in  the  Grazetto  is  not,  on  that 
account,  deemed  a  whit  less  competent 
than  any  of  his  neighbours  to  write  a  pam- 
phlet on  the  currency,  showing  how  na- 
tional bankruptcy  may,  without  the  slightest 
difficulty,  be  converted  into  national  wealth. 
Facts  like  these,  however,  not  having  fallen 
witliin  the  sphere  of  the  queen's  observa- 
tion, she  felt  doubtful  of  the  old  woman's 
ability  to  bestow  good  luck,  when  she  ob- 
yiously  possessed  so  little  for  home  con- 
samption. 


The  old  woman  read  her  thoughts,  and 
bade  her  not  to  be   despondent,   but  to 
hold    out   her   left    hand    and   have   her 
fortune  told.     Predicting   good  luck  and 
bringing  it  are  widely  different  functions, 
and   the    queen,    aware   that  the   gift   of 
palmistry  is   frequently    accompanied   by 
extreme  shabbiness  of  attire,  made  no  diffi- 
culty in  extending  her  hand  as  requested. 
Taking  hold  of  the  delicate  finger- tips,  the 
old  woman,  after  tediously  hemming  and 
hawing  over  the  lines  on  the  queen's  pahn,  { 
at  last  spake  thus : 

**  You  have  two  causes  of  uneasiness. 
Li  the  first  place  you  are  anxious  about 
your  absent  husband,  but  with  your  ma- 
jesty's good  pleasure  we'll  set  down  that 
as  nothing"  (the  queen  bowed  assent); 
"  though  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  within 
a  fortnight  the  king  will  be  at  home  again, 
looking  as  well  as  ever.  But  the  grand 
truth  is  a  total  lack  of  olive-branches " 

The  queen,  pulling  her  hand  a  little,  and 
deeply  blushing,  asked : 

"  Who  are  you,  that  can  read  the  feelings 
of  my  heart  in  the  palm  of  my  hand  ?" 

"  That,"  retorted  the  old  lady,  sharplj, 
"  is  my  business.  So,  without  asking  any 
more  irrelevant  questions,  you'll  just  have 
the  goodness  to  listen  to  me,  while  I  tell 
you  how  to  get  out  of  your  present  diffi- 
culty.    Look  here !" 

So  saying,  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a 
tiny  bundle,  which  she  gradually  un- 
wrapped, till  she  produced  a  small  basket, 
which  she  gave  to  the  queen,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded : 

*^  In  this  basket  you  will  find  a  bird's 
Qggy  which  you  will  condescend  to  carry 
in  your  bosom  for  three  months.  When 
these  are  passed  a  very  small  child  will  be 
hatched " 

*'  Ridiculously  small  ?"  inquired  the 
queen. 

"  About  half  the  size  of  my  little  finger," 
explained  the  old  woman.  "  Well,  you  wiU 
put  this  extremely  small  cluld,  which,  by 
the  way,  I  cannot  connect  with  anything 
ridiculous,  in  a  basket  of  wool,  which  must 
always  be  kept  in  a  warm  place." 

"  And    the     ndicu  —  extremely    small 

child   is  to  be  fed  with "  the  queen 

paused. 

"  Nothing,"  supplemented  the  old  woman. 
"  It  will  require  neither  food  nor  drink. 
Well,  nine  months  after  the  birth  of  the 
extremelv  small  child- 


Birth  ?"  objected  the  queen.     "  Shall 
we  not  rather  say  hatchment  ?" 

"  Say  what  you  like,  as  long  as  jou  do 


A 


53> 


Ohtrles  Diekent.] 


THE  PRINCESS  YOLKA. 


[August  28, 1S60.]      :3()9 


what  I  tell  you,"  replied  the  old  woman, 
pettishly.  "  Nine  months  after  the  hatch- 
ment, as  yon  elegantly  phrase  it,  yon  will 
^ve  birth  to  a  son." 

"Likewise  ridicn  —  extremely  small?" 
asked  the  qneen. 

"  No,  no,  of  the  average  size,"  answered 
the  old  woman ;  "  and  what  is  more,  when 
this  son  is  born,  that  extremely  small  child 
vill  be  of  the  average  size  also.  Yon  will 
therefore  take  the  latter  ont  of  the  basket 
and  place  it  in  the  cradle  with  the  yonng 
prince,  informing  yonr  royal  hnsband  that 
you  have  given  birth  to  twins — a  son  and  a 
daughter." 

"  Then  the  extremely  small  child  will  be 
female  ?"  asked  the  queen. 

"  I  thought  I  had  said  as  much  by  im- 
plication," observed  the  old  woman,  with  a 
shrug.  "  Please  hear  me  out.  You  your- 
self will  act  as  nurse  to  the  boy " 

"  My  own  child,"  interposed  the  queen. 

"  Of  course ;  but  for  the  girl  you  must 
engage  another  person.  And  mind,  when 
the  christening  of  the  two  children  is  about 
to  take  place,  you  will  invite  me  to  stand 
as  the  little  girl's  godmother." 

"  Your  address  ?"  said  the  queen,  sug- 
gestively. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  require  an  address," 
said  the  old  womian.  "  All  you  have  to  do 
is  to  search  the  basket,  at  the  bottom  of 
which,  underneath  the  wool,  you  will  find 
a  small  feathery  substance." 

"  What  one  might  call  a  fluff?"  sug- 
gested the  queen. 

"  Yes — true — ^perhaps  one  might,"  was 
the  reply.  "  Well,  you  will  just  blow  this — 
ahem — fluff  out  of  the  window,  and  you  will 
consider  not  only  that  I  am  invited,  but 
also  that  I  have  accepted  the  invitation. 
Mind,  not  a  word  of  what  has  passed  to 
any  living  soul." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  the  old 
woman  hobbled  off,  and  before  she  had 
gone  many  steps,  changed  into  a  young 
woman,  who  trod  the  ground  so  lightly, 
that  she  seemed  rather  to  fly  than  to  walk. 
Was  the  apparition  a  mere  di'eam  ?  Cer- 
tainly not.  Though  the  old-young  woman 
was  gone,  the  tiny  basket  still  remained  in 
the  hand  of  the  queen,  who  took  it  home, 
folded  it  in  a  silk  kerchief,  and  placed  it  in 
her  bosom,  feeling  happier  than  she  had 
felt  for  many  a  long  day. 

Jnst  before  a  fortnight  had  elapsed  the 
king  came  baek  with  the  glad  tidings  that 
he  had  thoroughly  routed  the  enemy ;  and 
this  accurate  fulfilment  of  the  old  woman's 
first  prediotion  increased  the  queen's  confi- 


dence in  the  second.  A  little  gold  case 
wafl  made,  which  presei'vcd  the  precious 
egg  from  even  the  possibility  of  danger ; 
and  in  three  months  the  miniature  child 
was  duly  hatched,  and  put  in  the  basket  of 
wool  to  gi*ow.  A  few  months  afterwards 
the  son  made  his  appearance,  and  the 
hatched  child  having  thi*iven  according  to 
expectation,  and  being  placed  in  the  boy's 
cradle,  the  little  fiction  about  the  twins 
was  accepted  without  hesitation,  and  the 
joy,  not  only  of  the  court,  but  likewise  of 
the  land,  was  universal.  When  the  day 
appointed  for  the  christening  amved,  the 
"  fluff"  was  blown  out  of  the  window,  and 
was  answered  by  the  appearance  of  a 
wonderfully  fine  chariot,  drawn  by  six 
horses,  yellow  as  the  yolk  of  an  cgg^  from 
wliich  stepped  a  young  lady,  whose  bril- 
liant attire  dazzled  all  beholders,  and 
whose  face,  when  she  "withdrew  her  veil, 
proved  even  more  dazzling  than  her  attire. 
In  the  arms  of  this  glittering  visitor  the 
baby-girl  was  conveyed  to  the  font,  and  at 
the  request  of  her  godmother  was  chns- 
tened  "Yolka" — a  name  which  sounded 
odd  to  all  except  the  queen ;  but  she,  re- 
membering the  eggj  divined  its  hidden  sig- 
nificance. An  ordinary  noble  was  the  god- 
father of  the  boy,  who  received  the  ordi- 
nary name,  William. 

Wlien  the  ceremony  was  over  the 
sparkling  godmother  took  an  opportunity 
to  whisper  some  good  advice  into  the  ear 
of  the  queen,  enjoining  her  always  to 
let  the  tiny  basket  lie  by  Yolka' s  side  in 
the  cradle,  adding  that  as  soon  as  tho 
child  was  able  to  understand  anything, 
the  importance  of  always  preserving  this 
apparently  insignificant  treasure  was  to 
be  deeply  impressed  on  her  mind.  The 
sparkling  godmother  then  took  her  leave, 
and  those  of  the  august  assembly  who 
ventured  to  inquire  who  she  was,  were 
quietly  informed  by  the  queen  that  she  was 
a  princess  of  her  acquaintance,  who  lived 
a  long  way  off;  and  that  explanation  was 
found,  in  every  respect,  satisfactory. 

The  two  children  throve  wonderfully, 
Yolka  growing  so  exceedingly  pretty,  that, 
in  the  opinion  of  some  wiseacres,  she  pro- 
mised to  be  the  very  image  of  her  god- 
mother. Nay,  the  nurse  told  the  queen, 
that  sometimes  at  midnight  a  beautiful 
lady  would  unaccountably  make  her  ap- 
jieai-ance,  and  look  lovingly  on  the  sleeping 
child,  a  piece  of  information  which  tho 
queen  gratefully  received,  at  the  same  timo 
delicately  hinting  that  it  had  better  \i^\»\ii^ 
carried  fuTthcr. 


d?: 


310       [Angiwt  23,  18C0.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condacted  by 


// 


After  the  lapse  of  two  years  the  calm 
liappiiieris  of  the  court  was  intormpted  by 
the  death  of  the  queen,  who  in  her  lost 
moDients  sent  for  Yolka*s  nurse,  and  placed 
in  her  hands  tlie  tiny  basket,  in  which  the 
fragments  of  the  wonderful  egg  were  still 
preserved. 

"  Observe  tliis,"  she  said;  "it  contains 
the  future  welfare  of  your  young  cliargc. 
Wlien  she  is  ten  years  old  you  will  transfer 
it  to  her  keeping,  fully  making  her  under- 
stand its  importance.  And,  above  all,  never 
say  a  word  on  the  subject  to  any  one 
else." 

"  But  with  respect  to  the  young  prince  ?" 
said  the  nurse,  with  a  fragmentaiy  in- 
quiry. 

"Boys,"  replied  the  expiring  queen, 
"  are  able  to  look  after  themselves." 

"  That's  very  ti-ue,  your  Majesty,"  ob- 
served Uie  nurse,  forgetting  for  a  moment 
the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  and  indulg- 
ing in  a  chuckle,  which  was  cut  short  by 
the  entrance  of  the  king. 

"  My  beloved  lord,"  said  the  queen. 
**  Before  I  leave  this  world  "  (the  king 
blew  his  nose),  "  I  have  a  solemn  request 
to  make,  which  I  trust  you  will  not  re- 
fuse  " 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  the  king,  looking 
anxious. 

"  In  the  name  of  all  you  love  and  revere, 

I  imj)lore  you  to  allow  little  Yolka " 

• "  Our  little  Yolka,"  interposed  the  king. 

"  Little  Yolka,"  repeated  the  queen, 
dexterously  avoiding  tlie  pronoun.  "  You 
will  allow  her,  when  she  is  too  old  for  a 
nurse,  still  to  retain  in  her  service  the  ex- 
cellent person  who  now  acts  in  that  ca- 
pacity." 

"  Most  cei*tainly,"  ejaculated  the  king, 
feeling  his  mind  infinitely  relieved.  "  My 
only  wonder  is  that  you  should  bo  so  em- 
phatic in  sohciting  such  a  mere  trifle.  But 
every  one  knows  his  own  business  best." 

Years  passed  away.  The  good  queen 
was  dead,  and  the  king  had  taken  unto 
himself  another  wife,  who,  on  principle, 
hated  the  two  children,  and  made  hoi^f 
so  exceedingly  unpleasant  that  the  king, 
hoping,  at  his  advanced  age,  to  enjoy  occa- 
sionally a  quiet  home,  removed  them  to  a 
distance  from  the  palace,  under  the  charge 
of  their  ever-faithful  nurse.  Sometimes 
they  would  accidentally  come  across  the 
now  queen,  but  so  great  a  storm  was  inva- 
riably tlie  result  of  such  encounters,  and 
the  royal  lady  had  so  confirmed  a  liabit  of 
repelling  nnwvlcomo  objects  with  her  foot. 


that  they  instinctively  avoided  all  chance 
of  collision. 

When  Yolka  had  reached  the  tenth  anni- 
versary of  her  nominal  birthday,  tlic  nui-sc 
placed  in  her  liands  the  wonderful  basket, 
exhorting  her  to  take  care  of  it,  with  a 
solemnity  that  by  no  means  produced  the 
desired  result.  A  tiny  basket  could  scarcely 
appear  precious  in  the  eyes  of  a  heedless 
cliild ;  so  she  tossed  the  treasure  into  a 
box  where  she  usually  kept  her  toys. 

About  two  years  afterwards,  when  the 
king  was  out  of  the  way,  the  perverse 
queen,  strolling  in  the  garden,  found  Yolka 
sitting  under  a  linden  tree,  and  the  conse- 
quence of  the  discovery  was  a  box  on  tho 
ears,  administered  so  smartly  that,  to  tlie 
dazzled  eyes  of  the  poor  giii,  the  world 
became  one  vast  kaleidoscope.  When  sho 
had  reached  her  own  room,  she  began  to 
bethink  herself  of  the  neglected  basket,  and 
to  wonder  whether  it  would  prevent  the 
recurrence  of  a  similar  infliction.  So  slic 
looked  it  up,  but,  finding  that  it  contained 
nothing  but  a  broken  egg-shell,  and  what 
her  supposed  parent  had  called  a  '*  fiufi^" 
she  pitched  the  rubbish  out  of  window. 

Fortunately  the  wind  caught  tho  fluffi 
which  had  lost  none  of  its  inviting  prope^ 
ties,  and  a  wonderfully  beautiful  and  spark- 
ling lady  stood  before  the  astonished  Yollck 
Had  she  ever  seen  a  pantomime,  she  would 
have  expected  to  bo  chuigod  into  columbine; 
but  pantomimes,  in  her  days,  were  not 
invented. 

"  Do  not,  my  beloved  child,"  said  the 
lady,  in  very  stately  style — "  do  not  feel  in 
the  shghtcst  degree  intimidated  by  the  sad- 
den manner,  certainly  nnofinal,  in  whidi  I 
make  my  appearance.  I  am  your  god- 
mother, iiud  the  best  friend  you  have  in 
the  world.  From  the  swollen  condition  of 
your  eyelids,  I  could  easily  infer  that  your 
existence  is  far  from  happy ;  but  I  stand  in 
need  of  no  such  indications,  since,  by  ft 
process  unnecessary  to  explain,  I  know  the 
condition  of  everybody  in  general,  and  of 
you  in  pai*ticular.  That,  indeed,  is  my 
idiosyncrasy.  At  present,  let  me  exhort 
you  to  endure  youi*  troubles  bravely,  sinoob 
take  my  word  for  it,  they  will  soon 
come  to  a  close,  and  vanish  like  the  mirage> 
When  you  have  reached  tho  yean  of  ma- 
turity,  your  stepmother,  as  you,  pcrchanoe 
not  quite  accurately,  call  her,  will  have  lost 
all  power  of  controlling  you,  and  no  one  else 
will  be  able  to  injnro  you :  provided,  that  is, 
you  take  care  of  the  minute  basket,  and 
do  not  lose  sight  of  the  shells.  For,  lo  1  * 
day  will  come  when  tho  fragments  inU 


:& 


Charles  Dickens.] 


THE  PRINCESS  YOLKA. 


[August  28,  ISCD.]       311 


unite,  and  form  an  unbroken  egg  once 
more.  Tlien  will  days  of  happiness  be  at 
band.  In  the  meanwhile,  make  a  small 
silken  bag,  as  a  case  for  the  basket,  and 
wear  it  constantly  in  yonr  bosom ;  for,  if 
this  precaution  be  adopted,  neither  your 
stepmother,  nor  indeed  any  one  else,  will 
be  capable  of  doing  you  harm.  However, 
should  any  unforeseen  mischance  arise,  just 
take  the  small  feathery  substance  out  of  the 
basket,  and  blow  it  into  the  air.  My 
appearance  will  be  instantaneous,  and  to 
assist  you  will  bo  my  object.  We  will  now 
take  a  turn  into  the  garden,  where,  seated 
onder  the  branches  of  the  linden  tree,  we 
can  have  a  little  further  talk.'* 

Astounded  at  this  uninteiTupted  flow  of 
words,  Yolka  thought  that  her  godmother 
bod  talked  enough  for  a  month,  but  as  she 
wrould  not  offend  so  kind  a  benefactress, 
she  accompanied  her  into  the  garden,  where 
another  flow  of  speech  commenced  and  lasted 
till  nightfiill.  The  godmother  then  uttered 
a  few  mysterious  words  over  the  basket, 
and  a  table  laden  with  delicate  viands  rose 
from  the  ground  as  a  substantial  supple- 
inent  to  tbe  feast  of  reason.  Aft<3r  they 
bad  partaken  of  the  repast  they  returned 
to  the  palace,  and  on  their  way,  the  god- 
mother conmiunicated  to  Yolka  the  myste- 
rious words  which  had  been  uttered  over 
the  basket,  and  wliich,  of  course,  we  should 
not  feel  justified  in  conununicating  to  the 
reader.  The  boekct  too,  as  was  afterwards 
proved,  had  a  manifest  effect  upon  the 
queen's  tamper,  since  Yolka,  from  the  time 
she  wore  it,  was  scarcely  ever  vexed  by  a 
cross  word. 

Again  years  passed  away,  and  Yolka,  a 
fine  girl  in  her  advanced  teens  ^vas  so  cx- 
oeedinglj  beautiful,  that  the  young  gene- 
ntioD  declared  nothing  so  lovely  had  ever 
been  seen ;  while  the  old  and  middle-aged 
rowed  that  nobody  could  be  compared  with 
ber,  except  her  godmother,  whose  appcar- 
ince  at  the  christening  had  never  been 
forgotten.  A  war,  resulting  in  a  siege  of 
the  city  where  the  king  resided,  and  a 
scarcity  of  provisions,  recently  caused  people 
to  think  of  other  matters,  and  the  royal 
larder  being  nearly  exhausted,  even  Yolka 
tierself  forgot  to  look  into  hor  own  mirror. 
Under  these  distressing  circumstances  sho 
blew  the  fluff  into  the  air  and  besought  her 
godmother,  who  immediately  appeared,  to 
ieU  her,  briefly  if  possible,  how  tho  giund 
laisery  could  be  alleviated. 

"My  dearest  child,"  conmicnced  the 
brilliant  godmother,  ''  the  vii'tues  of  that 


basket  arc  not  tmnsferablc.  I  sec  you  do 
not  apprehend  my  meaning.  Let  mc, 
therefore,  dilate.  When  I  say  that  the 
wtucs  of  the  basket  are  not  imnsferable,  I 
mean  that  they  arc  only  available  to  you 
yourself  Indeed,  if  we  beings  of  a 
superior  order  assisted  everybody  in 
trouble^  as  a  matter  of  course,  we  should 
have  enough  work  upon  our  hands.  You, 
as  you  ought  to  be  aware,  are  a  pecu- 
liarly favoured  personage — do  not  ask 
why — and  you,  therefore,  1  will  assist. 
As  for  the  others,  they  must  manage  as 
well  as  they  can." 

So  saying,  the  glittering  godmother  led 
Yolka  out  of  the  city,  rendering  her  invi- 
sible to  the  eyes  of  the  besieging  soldiers, 
and  proceeded  to  a  quiet  spot,  where  sho 
presented  her  with  the  dress  of  a  peasant 
girl,  and  so  altered  her  features  (not  for 
the  bettei')  that  she  could  not  have  been 
recognised  by  her  most  intimate  friends. 
If  she  wished  to  regain  her  lost  good  looks 
she  was  to  use  tlie  power  of  the  basket. 

Yolka  had  not  left  the  city  an  hour  too 
soon,  for  on  the  follo>ving  day  it  was  taken 
by  storm,  and  all  sorts  of  horrora  ensued. 
The  king  and  all  the  members  of  the  royal 
family  and  all  the  nobihty  were  made 
prisoners,  with  the  exception  of  lucky 
Prince  William,  who  got  out  of  tho  way, 
and  the  unlucky  queen,  who  was  killed  by 
a  spear  in  the  general  tumult.  Moreover, 
the  ruthless  foes  so  devastated  tho  sur- 
roimding  country,  that  for  whole  days 
Yolka  wandered  from  place  to  place  unable 
to  find  a  sheltering  roof,  though  her 
"  board,"  as  we  should  now  say,  was  libe- 
rally supplied  by  the  basket.  At  last  she 
came  to  a  farm,  where  she  was  hired  as  a 
servant,  and  though  she  at  first  found  the 
work  too  hard,  she  became,  in  three  days, 
so  handy  and  active  that  no  drudgery  was 
too  much  for  her  strength.  Soon  her  con- 
dition improved.  While  one  morning  she 
was  scouring  her  milk-pails  in  the  yard,  a 
fine  lady  passed  in  her  carriage,  and  with 
the  consent  of  the  farmer  engaged  Yolka 
as  her  "  own  maid." 

After  she  liad  been  half-a-year  in  her  new 
place  at  the  lady's  country  seat,  where  she 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  set  the  room 
straight  and  to  attend  to  the  duties  of  the 
toilette,  news  arrived  to  tho  effect  that 
Prince  William  had  raised  an  army  and  re- 
covered the  kingdom,  of  which  he  was  now 
the  rightful  sovereign,  as  his  father  had  died 
in  captivity.  When  the  year  of  mourning 
had  ex3>ired,  a  proclamation  went  forth ., \\.^\.vi^  ^v 
the  good  old  iashioxi,  \fi  Sk^^  ^SiWiX.  >^^  '^^  ^ 


\ 


cfi: 


/ 


312  ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND.  [Aiiga)rt28.i8«.] 

young  king  was  about  to  take  unto  himself        As  usual,  that  august  lady  prepared  her- 

a  wife,  and  that  he  invited  all  the  young  self  for  tall  talk. 

ladies  far  and  near  to  assemble  at  a  grand        "  The  young  person,'*  she  said,  **  who  has 
festival  to  bo  held  in  his  palace,  that  he  made  an   impression  deep,  but  not  unao- 
might  have  ample  opportunity  to  make  a  countable,  in  the  assembly,  more  particularly 
suitable   choice.     The  three  daughters  of  upon  our  royal  host,  and  who  is  so  uncom- 
Yolka's   mistress  were   only  too   glad    to  monly  like  me,  was  once  wrongly  supposed 
accept,  and  for  some  weeks   the  damsel's  to  be  his  sister ;  but  the  hypothesis  was 
work  in  fitting  up  the  ladies  for  the  festival  incorrect.     She  is  the  grand-daughter  of  a 
was  nearly  as  hard  as  the  toil  at  the  farm-  king,  whose  realm  is  separated  from  this 
house.  But  she  was  consoled  eveiy  night  by  by  a  distance  of  several  million  miles,  and 
her  brilliant  godmother,  who  visited  her  in  I  had  the  honour  of  dissolving  the  spell 
her  dreams,  and  who,  while  she  charged  her  which  a  fell  enchanter  had  cast  upon  the 
to  do  her  duty  in  dressing  the  young  ladies,  princess,  her  mother.     The  best  thing  you 
urged  her  to  follow  them  to  the  ball,  where  can  do.  King  William,  is  to  put  the  other 
she  would  outshine  all  present.  Accordingly,  young  ladies  out  of  their  misery,  by  marry- 
when  the  mother  and  daughters  had  taken  ing  the  lovely  Yolka — that  is  her  name — 
their  departure,    Yolka  held  private    dis-  without  delay." 

course  with  her  basket.     Would  that  all        "  I  will !"  exclaimed  King  William,  with 

discourse    led  to  such    practical    benefit,  delight. 

Wonderfully  fine  garments,  after  the  fashion  Then  came  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  the 
set  by  her  godmother,  lay  upon  the  bed ;  brilliant  godmother  was  gone, 
her  own  features  came  back  again  as  soon  "  Look  here,"  said  an  old  courtier  to  his 
as  she  had  washed  her  face,  and  when  she  neighbour.  "  That  story  about  the  en- 
looked  at  the  glass,  she  found  that  she  was  chanted  princess  is  all  very  well  for  younger 
literally  a  fright ;  for  she  was  frightened  heads  than  ours,  and  some  greenhorns  may 
out  of  her  wits  by  her  own  surprising  believe  in  the  several  milHon  miles.  But 
beauty.  Down  the  stops  she  floated,  and  if  the  lady  who  came  in  the  fog  isn't  the 
at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  was  a  carriage  mamma  of  the  lady  who  came  in  the  car- 
drawn  by  four  horses,  yellow  as  the  yoUc  riage,  I'm  a  Dutchman." 
of  an  egg,  and  off  she  went  with  the  speed  of  - 

lightning.   But  when  she  reached  the  palace         xr     t>    j       •     r    oj   v      j  •  i^i. 

n  l^_     -^  i/»        jji        1  ^ii,  Now  Beady,  pnce  os.  od.,  bound  m  ereen  cloth, 

of  the  kmg,  she  found  to  her  horror  that  ^-,/  r-Tnorn  ,rAT  ttixp 

she  had  left  the  basket  behind!   What  was  1  Hfc  t  IRbT  VOLUME 

to  be  done  ?     Should  she  go  all  the  way  ^^  t="  N»^  Smim  of 

ta^?  ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

Do  not  be  needlessly    excited,    gentle  TobehadofallBookaelleri. 

reader.     Nothing  important  came  of  this  . 

little  incident   wHch  is  only  intended  to  ^R.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 

cause  a  gentle  twitter.     While  Yolka  was  

hesitatmg,    the    poHtest    of    swallows     ap-  .   MESSRS.  CpPTELLANDCO.  hare  great  pleaioit 

•1     P.i         •    1  x«  XI.  'F-i  maimouncinetnatMB.CnAiiLB8DiCKXir8,haTuiffMme 

pearcd  at  the  wmdow  Ot  the  carnage  with  time  since  become  perfectly  restored  to  health,  wiU  le- 

tho  basket  in  its  beak,  which  was  duly  and  sumo  and  conclude  his  interrupted  series  of  FAKE- 

eratofully  received.  WELL  READINGS  at    St.  James's  Hall,  London 

-KT     J  J       n.i      i.  /"J*  early  in  the  New  Year. 

^  JNeed  we  dwell  on   the  buzz  Ot  admira-        The  Readings  will  be  Twelve  in  Numbkx,  and  none 

tion  that  arose  when  Tolka  entered  the  will  take  place  out  of  London. 

hall,  or  the  rapture  of  King  WilHam,  or  the  ,  J?  redemption  of  Mr  Dickeij^s  i>led«)  to  ihm 

j./*Ii-       11^111  1         1  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  theatrical  profession  wbo 

comments  ot  the  old  folk,  who  remembered  addressed  Mm  on  the  subject,  there  will  be  Two  Mobs- 

the  brilliant  godmother,   and  declared  that  iwQ  Readihgs,  one  on  Fridajf^.  January  14^  and  one  on 

the  new-comer  was  a  chip  of  that  exquisite  ^^.^f^;  "^"f^"*^  ^1^  ^^^'    ^**«  ^^'?J'?o 'L^SSI 

1.1     1    Q      -KT    I     -xxr        "^^  ^  .  ^      .  i  ''^"1  ^»®  plaoo  on  Tuosdavs,  January  11, 18, 2o ;  Feb- 

block  r'     JNo  !     Wo  will  hurry  on  to   mid-  puary  1,  8,  15,  22;  March"l,  8,  and  16.    The  Prices  tnd 

night,  when  the   hall  was  wrapped  Avith  a  all  other  arrangements  will  be  as  before.  The  announced 

gaTizy  fog,   which     gradually   dispersing.  ""^If' "L^^^S^  to  ^'tS3^Tlta» 

revealed  the  brilliant  godmother.  Chappbll  and  Co.,  50,  New  Bond-street,  W.  i 


Tie  Right  of  TraMlating  Articles  from  All  the  Year  Houkd  is  reserved  by  the  jMthoru 


rubilMbed  at  the  Offloe,  Ko.M,  Wayiasum S\x««V ^tnad.    VrtaV6<i\ii  C. ^ ^Mma<^^««A«^^ sw^i 


CONDUCTED- ay 

mkWB,s  mems 

With  WHICH  IS  I ficoi^p oFt^ycD 

SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBKR  4, 


VERONICA. 

n  tni   ATTSOB  or   "  ADBT   lUEOlKCT't 

1m  Five  Books, 
BOOK    I. 

CHAPTER  X.   THE  GAUNTLET. 

S(B  John  Oalb,  after  his  Bret  appeamnoe 
in  the  vicar's  parlour,  came  dailj  to  sit 

Hia  afternoon  visit  became  an  established 
costom,  and,  after  the  second  time,  it  seemed 
U  though  he  had  been  familiar  there  for 
7«ar8, 

He  grew  stronger  very  quickly.  It  was 
cot  long  before  he  began  to  speak  of  de- 
puting. There  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  do 
n^d  reason  why  he  shonld  linger  at  the 
ncarage.     And  yet  he  stayed  on. 

"  I  shall  go  abroad  as  soon  aa  we  have 
lotDe  aasorauce  of  milder  weather,"  he  said 
to  Mr.  Lovinconrt.  "  Spring  is  delicious 
in  Italy.  I  shall  wait,  however,  until  I 
hear  tl^t  the  Alps  are  not  too  impassable  ; 
for,  of  all  things,  I  detest  a  sea  voyage,  and 
Uie  two  hours  in  the  Channel  are  always 
*orae  t»  me  than  a  week's  land  travelling. 
Heanwhile ' ' 

"  Ueenwhile,  why  not  remain  here  ?" 
"tid  the  vicar.  "  There  ie  no  need  for  yon 
to  make  a  move  noti!  yon  set  off  for  the 
■ ■onth." 

To  this,  Sir  John  Gale  replied  that  his 
Ditmsion  at  Shipley  vicarage  had  already 
Wen  long  enough ;  that  he  shonld  never 
forget  hia  host's  kindness,  but  it  behoved 
'um  not  to  trespass  on  it  too  far;  that, 
although  he  certainly  had  no  ties  of  fricnd- 
>Edp  or  relationship  which  specially  claimed 
Wg  presence  just  tjien,  in  any  other  part  of 
England,  he  must  nevertheless  make  np  his 
Bund  to  Bay  farewell  to  Shipley  aa  soon  as 


the  doctor's  permission  to  travel  conld  be 
obtained. 

All  this,  and  more  to  the  same  purpose, 
said  Sir  John  Gale.     And  yet  he  lingered 

The  spring  set  in  early,  after  n  severe 
winter.  By  the  beginning  of  April,  there 
came  soft,  bright  days,  with  a  soutiierly 
breeze  which  tempted  the  inmates  of  the 
vicarage  forth  from  the  house. 

Some  sncb  days  immediately  followed 
the  dinner-party  at  Mrs.  Sheardown'a. 

One  afternoon,  Sir  John,  beholding  from 
hia  chamber  window,  Miss  Levincoart  strol- 
ling in  the  garden,  preaently  ventured  forth 
to  join  her. 

"  May  I  walk  here,  Misa  Levincourt  P" 
he  asked,  pausing  at  the  threshold  of  the 
glass-door  that  led  into  tbe  garden. 

"  O,  by  ail  means.  But  ia  it  snnny 
enough  here  ?  The  evergreens  give  a  veiy 
damp  shade.  If  yon  are  not  a&Sid  to  ven- 
ture further,  yon  wonld  have  more  warmth 
and  a  southern  aspect,  there,  beyond  the 
gate." 

So    Veronica   and    her    father's    guest 

wandered  slowly  on  and  on,  looking  out 

over    the    common    dappled    with    cloud 

shadows,  gazing  at  the  far,  hazy  horizon, 

pausing  now  and  again  for  a  moment,  but 

still  proceeding  in  their  course  until  they 

reached  the  churobyard  of  St.  Gildaa. 

Sir  John  declared   that  the   bnlmy  air 

IS  a  cordial  that  did  hini  more  good  than 

ly  medicines.     Still,  warm  as  it  was  for 

the  season,  bo  dared  not   sit  in  the  chorch- 

jard  to  rest,  and,  as  he  turned  to  go  back, 

'  I  was  evidently  tired. 

A  frown  darkened  his  face.     "  I  ought 

it  to  have  come  so  far  without  Paul,"  he 

id.     "  I  am  still  BO  dev — so  uoaiyaatiiA,- 

ably  weak." 

■  It  is  my  taolt,"    exc\&\m(si  "S  eiwics- 


eS: 


314     [September  4yU«X 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[QoBdaetBdtGr 


i 


"  Lcfc  mm  "be  Paul's  substitute.'*  She 
ofiered  Sir  John  the  snfport  of  hor  arm 
yrith  perfect  tact  aad  aelf-posacakisa^  a» 
tliongh  it  wvre  tke  moit  matural  and  ordr- 
naiT  proceediiig  m  tibe  wtn^M. 

After  that  oeeasioni  the  daily  walk  be- 
came a  mattev  of  course. 

The  temporary  absence  of  Miss  Desmond 
from  the  vicarage  was  by  no  means  re- 
gretted by  Sir  John.  In  truth,  he  did  not 
ISka  Maud.  Some  word  to  that  effect 
eseapcd  him  in  speaking  to  Veronica. 

"  lou  must  not  say  that  to  papa,  Sir 
John,"  said  she,  looking  quietly  up  at  him. 

"  Say  what  ?" 

"  That  you  do  not  like  Miss  Desmond." 

"  Of  course  not.  I  never  said  so  to  any 
one.  It  would  be  untrue.  Miss  Desmond 
is  a  very  charming  young  lady,  very 
charming  and  very  young,  and  perhaps 
her  youth  explains  a  slight  touch,  tiie  very 
slightest  touch,  of — of  self-sufficiency.  We 
grow  tolerant  and  sceptical  as  we  get  older. 
Holas !'' 

'^  ^laud  is  not  self-sufficient.  She  is  only 
very  earnest  and  very  honest." 

*^  Miss  Desmond  is  happy  in  having  so 
warm  and  generous  a  friend.  And  pray  do 
not  accuse  mo  of  any  want  of  respect  for 
Miss  Desmond.     I  liave  no  doubt  that  she 

Possesses  the  most  admirable  qualities ;  only 
er  manner  is  a  little — a  little  hard  and 
chilly,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so." 

"  At  heart  she  is  really  very  impulsive." 

"Is  she?" 

"But  she  has  great  self-command  in 
general." 

"  I  am  bound  to  say  tliat  she  must  have. 
Anything  less  impulsive  than  Miss  Des- 
mond's manner  I  have  seldom  seen.  But 
forgive  me.  I  will  not  say  another  word 
that  shall  even. seem  like  disparagement  of 
one  for  whom  yau  entertain  so  warm  an 
affection." 

Sir  John  spoke  with  a  winning  defe- 
rential softness  of  manner,  and  looked  with 
undisguised  admiration  into  the  beautiful 
face  by  his  side. 

Such  looks  were  now  not  rare  on  his 
part.  Veronica,  in  her  retrospective  medi- 
tations, could  recal  many  such  glances; 
could  recal,  too,  many  soft  words,  so  soft 
as  to  be  almost  tender,  spoken  in  her  ear 
during  the  afternoon  stroll  in  meadow  or 
garden.  She  was  flattered  and  touched  by 
the  deference  towards  herself  of  this  man, 
whose  character  she  perceived  to  be  im- 
perious, almost  arrogant,  to  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

Others  had  been  admiring  and  deferen- 


tial 'before  now.  Mr.  Flew  woeld  endare 
her  sconrful  raillery  with  abject  snbiiii»» 
liom;  but  tbea  llr.  Flew  was  habitually 
submissnrt  !»  every  one,  and  wa*,.  after  all 
(sbe  reflected),  a  very  inaigniicaB.i  indi- 
vidual indeed. 

That  young  man,  that  Mr.  Lockwood, 
the  other  evening  had  shown  himself  very 
sensible  to  the  fascinations  of  her  bright-  ^ 
ness  and  her  beanlty.     He  was  not  abject, 
truly.    No ;  he  was  manly  and  modest,  and 
he  looked,  and  spoke,  and  mored  in  a  way 
which  showed  that  he    thengiii   himsen 
the  equal  of  any  one  among  Caf^aiii  Shear- 
down's  guests.   Nevertheless,  in  Veronica's 
apprehension,   he  was  not  so.     Although 
she  had  chosen  to  put  down  Emma  Beg- 
bie's  ill-breeding,  she  had  been,  to  a  certain 
degree,  mortified  by  her  contemptuous  tone. 

Sir  John  Chile  was  a  different  kind  of 
person  from  this  young  Lockwood,  whose 
lather  had  been  educated  by  the  bounty  of 
Admiral  Shcardown. 

To  be  "  my  Lady  Gale"  ! 

The  words  rang  in  her  ears.  She 
whispered  them  to  herself  in  the  solitude 
of  her  chamber.  Wealth,  station,  and  all 
that  was  alluring  to  the  girl's  vanity  and 
ambition,  were  in  the  sound. 

In  those  earliest  years  of  existence  dur- 
ing which,  as  some  think,  the  deepest  and 
most  abiding  impressions  are  made  on  the 
character,  the  ideal  of  happiness  held  up 
before  Veronica's  eyes  was  an  essentiallj 
ignoble  one.  The  possession  of  such  de- 
lights as  may  be  summed  up  in  the  vulgar 
word  "  finery"  she  was  directly  or  indi^ 
rectly  taught  to  look  upon  as  an  aim  to  be 
attained.  As  she  grew  older,  and  the  life 
that  lay  before  her  in  Shipley-in-the-Wdd 
became  clear  to  her  apprehension,  an  eat- 
ing discontent  took  hold  upon  her  like  a 
slow  poison.  At  times,  in  recalling  her 
mother's  stories  of  her  young  days  in 
Florence,  a  passion  of  envy  and  longing 
would  make  the  girl's  heturt  sick  within 
her.  Not  that  those  things  which  had  made 
Stella  Barletti  gay  and  happy  would  have 
altogether  satisfied  her  daughter.  The 
latter  had  more  pride  and  less  simphcity. 
SteUa  liked  to  "far  figura,"  as  the  Italian 
phrase  goes  :  to  make  a  figure,  in  the  w(^d. 
But  her  ambition  never  soared  on  a  veiy 
daring  wing.  She  was  perfectly  contented 
to  accept  Unssian  hospodaresses  laden  wilh 
emeralds,  or  even  Piincesses  Delia  Scatoli 
da  Salsa,  crowned  with  paste  diamonds  and 
enamelled  with  effrontery,  as  her  social 
superiors,  and  to  enjoy  the  Bpectade  of 
their  real  or  sham  splendours  exacUy  as 


^ 


Churlea  Dickena.] 


VERONICA. 


tSeptembcr  4, 1869.  ]      315 


she  enjoyed  tho  spangles  and  tinsel  of  the 
ballet  in  carnival. 

Not  so  Veronica.  She  would  willingly 
be  second  to  none.  There  were  inoments 
when  the  chance  mention  of  Maud  Des- 
mond's family,  or  an  allusion  to  the  glories 
of  the  ancestral  mansion  at  Delaney,  made 
her  sore  and  jealous.  She  would  even  be 
rendered  irritably  impatient  by  Maud's 
simple  indifference  on  the  scoi-e  of  her 
ancestry :  though  the  least  display  of  pride 
of  birth  on  the  part  of  her  father's  ward 
would  have  been  intolerable  to  Vei'onica's 
haughty  spirit. 

Yet  Veronica  was  no  monster  of  selfish 
consistency.  She  was  often  visited  by 
better  impulses  and  a  longing  for  a  nobler 
aim  in  life.  But  the  first  shock  of  practi- 
cal effort  and  self-denial  repulsed  her  like 
a  douche  of  ice-cold  water.  There  came  no 
reaction,  no  after-glow,  and  she  shrank  back 
shivering,  with  a  piteous  cry  of,  "  I  cannot 
be  good." 

She  knew  herself  to  be  wretchedly  dis- 
satisfied. And,  although  her  youth  and 
bodily  health  at  intervals  asserted  their 
elasticity,  and  broke  forth  into  a  wild  flow 
of  gaiety  and  good  spirits,  she  was  yet,  at 
nineteen  years  old,  secretly  consumed  by 
dreary  discontent. 

Then  she  told  herself  that  it  was  easy 
for  happy  people  to  be  good.  "  If  I  were 
but  happy,  I  should  be  good,  and  kind,  and 
generous,"  she  said. 

And  latterly  the  thought  had  taken  pos- 
session of  her  that  it  would  make  her  happy 
to  become  my  Lady  Gkde. 

Opportunity  is  the  divinity  which  shapes 
the  ends  of  most  love  affairs,  let  them  be 
rough-hewn  how  they  wiU.  Under  the 
fevouring  influence  of  residence  beneath 
the  same  roof,  daily  walks  together,  and 
evenings  spent  in  each  other's  society,  the 
intimacy  between  the  vicar's  daughter  and 
the  stranger  sojourning  in  her  father's 
houAO  grew  rapidly.  The  disparity  of  ago 
between  them  offered  no  obstacle  to  the 
fiuniliarity  of  their  intercourse. 

There  are  some  men  who  accept  the  ad- 
Tance  of  age,  and  even  make  a  step  to 
meet  it;  there  are  others  who  painfully 
and  eagerly  fend  it  off;  again,  there  are 
some  who  simply  ignore  it.  To  this  latter 
category  belonged  Sir  John  Gale.  You 
could  not  say  that  ho  indulged  in  any  un- 
due affectation  of  juvenility.  He  merely 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  such 
affectation  would  have  been  entirely  super- 
fluous. 

From  tho  first  moment  of  seeing  Veronica 


ho  had  been  struck  by  her  remarkable 
beauty.  And  not  her  least  attraction  in 
his  eyes,  was  the  contrast  between  her 
character  and  her  position. 

"  Who  the  deuce  would  have  dreamed  of 
finding  such  a  girl  as  that,  in  an  English 
country  parsonage  !"  he  said  to  hhnself. 

In  their  conversations  together,  Veronica 
had  spoken  of  her  mother's  early  life,  and 
had  not  attempted  to  conceal  her  own  long- 
ing to  quit  Shiplcy-in- the- Wold,  and  Dane- 
shire  altogether,  for  other  and  brighter 
scenes.  He  had  noted,  with  a  sort  of  cynical 
good-humour,  the  girl's  aspiration  after 
wealth  and  display ;  her  restless  discontent 
with  the  obscui'ity  of  the  vicarage ;  the  love 
of  admiration  which  it  required  no  very 
acute  peneti*ation  to  discover  in  her.  But 
these  traits  of  character  were  by  no  means 
distasteful  to  Sir  John.  Coupled  with  a  plain 
face,  or  an  awkward  manner,  they  would 
have — not  disgusted,  so  much  as — ^bored 
him.  United  to  i-are  beauty,  and  a  quick 
intelligence,  they  amused  and  attracted 
him.  And  then,  to  complete  the  spell,  came 
that  crowning  charm  without  which  all  the 
rest  would  have  wasted  their  sweetness  on 
Sir  John  Gule;  the  fact  that  this  young, 
brilliant,  and  beautiful  girl,  desired  very 
unmistakably  to  be  pleasing  in  his  eyes. 

If  she  bo  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  P 

might  have  been  said,  and  said  truly,  by 
the  baronet,  respecting  the  loveliest  woman 
ever  cast  in  mortivl  mould.  Time  and  self- 
indulgence,  in  proportion  as  they  had  in- 
durated his  heart,  had  rendered  his  egotism 
more  and  more  keenly  sensitive. 

It  gratified  his  egotism  to  be,  from 
whatever  cause,  an  object  of  attention  to 
Veronica.  He  cared  not  to  ask  himself 
whether  she  would  have  lowered  her  beau- 
tiful eyes  to  regard  him  for  an  instant,  had 
he  been  poor  and  obscure.  His  wealth  and 
his  rank  were  part  of  himself;  inseparable 
from  that  Capital  I,  which  filled  up  for 
him  so  large  a  space  in  God's  universe. 

"  The  girl  would  make  a  ftirore  if  she 
were  known,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Her 
colouiing,  hair,  and  eyes,  are  perfect.  And 
she  has  spirit  enough  for  Lucifer  !" 

Nevertheless  he  had  not  gauged  the 
height  of  Veronica's  ambition. 

fiay  hy  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  the  at- 
traction exercised  over  him  by  her  beauty, 
grew  stronger. 

"  You  are  not  such  a  votary  of  Mrs. 
Grundy  as  your  friend,"  he  said  to  her  one 
day. 

"  As  Maud  ? ' '  aivawet^^N  c^o\2^c03K^l^gcv- 


c^ 


816      D3eptomber4,18e9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetodbj 


ll 


ing.  Then  she  contmned,  with  a  disdainfxd 
toss  of  her  head,  "No,  tmly;  I  snppose 
my  Italian  blood  renders  me  incapable  of 
worshipping  at  that  shrine.  Dio  mio ! 
Life  is  so  short !  And  so  little  sweet ! 
Why  embitter  it  volnntarily  with  Mrs. 
Grundy  ?" 

"  Yet  in  your  heart — confess  now — ^yon 
are  a  little  afraid  of  her  ?" 

"  I  might  answer  you  as  you  answered 
Maud :  am  I  a  pickpocket  to  be  afraid  of 
the  policeman  ?*' 

"Miss  Desmond's  retort  did  not  hit  the 
case.  The  policeman  merely  administej-s 
laws  :  Mrs.  Urundy  makes  them." 

"  She  shall  msJ^e  none  for  me,"  said 
Veronica,  looking  very  handsome  in  her 
scorn. 

Sir  John  gazed  upon  her  curiously ;  but 
he  said  no  more  at  that  time.  The  subject, 
however,  seemed  to  have  a  pecxdiar  at- 
traction for  him,  and  he  returned  to  it 
fi^quently. 

On  the  Friday  morning  preceding  the 
Sunday  fixed  for  Maud's  return  home, 
there  came  a  letter  to  the  vicar  from  his 
ward.  The  purport  of  it  was,  to  ask  his 
leave  to  stay  a  short  time  longer  at  Lowater 
House.  There  was  to  be  a  concert  at 
Danecester,  to  which  Mrs.  Sheardown  had 
promised  to  take  her.  At  the  end  of  the 
letter  were  a  few  words  about  Hugh  Lock- 
wood. 

"  Do  you  know,  Uncle  Charles,"  wrote 
Maud,  "that  Mr.  Lockwood  knows  my 
Aunt  Hilda  ?  He  heard  accidentally  that 
I  was  a  niece  of  Lady  Tallis,  and  he  then 
mentioned  that  he  and  his  mother  had 
made  her  acquaintance  at  a  watering-place 
three  or  four  years  ago;  and  that  Mrs. 
Lockwood  and  my  aunt  became  quite  inti- 
mate. They  have  not  seen  her  for  a  long 
time ;  but  she  promised  to  let  them 
know,  whenever  she  came  to  London.  I 
cannot  have  seen  Aunt  Hilda  since  I 
was  seven  years  old,  when  she  came  one 
day  to  see  poor  mamma;  yet  my  recol- 
lection of  her  is  a  correct  one,  for  Mr. 
Lockwood  describes  her  as  a  small  slight 
woman  with  delicate  features  and  beautifrd 
eyes.  This  is  just  what  I  remember.  Only 
he  says  she  is  now  sadly  faded." 

"  Dear  me !"  said  the  vicar,  "  odd  enough 
that  these  Lockwoods  should  have  come 
across  Lady  Tallis !  Here  is  a  postscript 
for  you,  Veronica,  asking  you  to  send  back 
some  dress  or  other  by  Captain  Sheardown's 
man.  See  to  it,  will  you?"  Then  the 
vicar,  having  handed  his  daughter  the  letter, 
weni  away  to  hia  study. 


Veronica  read  the  letter  from  beginning 
to  end.  She  read  it  more  than  once.  There 
was  a  good  deal  in  it  about  that  Hugh 
Lockwood,  she  thought.  She  remembered 
what  Miss  Begbie  had  said  about  him,  and 
her  lip  curled.  She  care  for  the  attentions 
of  such  a  one  as  Mr.  Hugh  Lockwood! 
Emma  Begbie  should  change  her  tone  some 
day.     Pazienza ! 

Veronica  got  together  the  articles  for 
which  Maud  had  adced,  and  as  she  did  so, 
she  scarcely  knew  whether  she  were  glad 
or  sorry  that  Maud  was  going  to  remain 
a  while  longer  at  Lowater  House. 

"  Dear  old  Maudie !  I  hope  she  will 
enjoy  herself."  Then  she  wondered  what 
Maud  would  say  to  her  daily  walk  with  Sir 
John  Gtde,  and  whether  M!aud  would  per- 
ceive the  growing  devotion  of  his  manner 
towards  herself.  And  then  she  looked  in 
the  glass  with  a  triumphant  smile.  But  in 
a  moment  the  blood  rushed  up  to  her  brow, 
and  she  turned  away  impatiently.  Was  she 
afraid  in  her  secret  heart,  as  Sir  John  had 
said?  No:  not  afraid  of  the  gossiping 
malice  of  the  world:  not  afraid  of  Mrs. 
Grundy.  But  she  had  a  latent  dread  of 
Maud's  judgment.  Maud  had  such  a  loflj 
standard,  such  a  pure  ideal.  Bah !  People 
all  wished  to  be  happy;  all  strove  and 
struggled  for  it.  She,  Veronica,  was  at 
least  honest  to  herself.  She  did  not  gild 
her  motives  with  any  fine  names.  She 
longed  to  be  happy  in  her  own  way,  in- 
stead of  pretending  to  be  happy  in  other 
people's  way. 

That  very  afternoon.  Sir  John  GWe  an- 
nounced that  Mr.  Plew  had  told  him  he 
might  quite  safely  venture  to  traveL  He 
made  the  communication  to  Veronica  as 
they  stood  side  by  side  leaning  over  the  bw 
waU  of  St.  Gildas's  churchywd,  and  look- 
ing at  the  moss-grown  graves,  all  velvety 
and  mellow  under  the  slanting  rays  of  the 
declining  sun. 

"  Mr.  Plew  was  very  hard  and  cruel," 
said  Sir  John  in  a  low  voice.  "  Very  hard 
and  inexorable.  I  tried  to  hint  to  him 
that  my  strength  was  not  yet  sufficiently 
recovered  to  render  my  taking  a  joumCT;  a 
safe  experiment.  But  it  was  in  vain.  Was 
he  not  cruel?" 

Veronica  stood  still  and  silent,  support- 
ing her  elbow  on  the  low  wall  of  the  grave* 
yard,  and  leaning  her  cheek  on  her  hand. 

"  Was  he  not  cruel,  Veronica  ?" 

His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  as  he  uttered 
her  name,  and  drawing  nearer,  he  took  the 
unoccupied  hand  that  hung  listlessly  bf 
her  side. 


<i: 


:&> 


ChtriM  IHekeiiB.] 


THE  SECOND  OF  SEPTEMBER.        [September  4,  iseoj     817 


Her  heart  beat  qnickly;  a  hnndred 
thoughts  seemed  to  yflnrl  confusedly 
through  her  brain.  But  she  stood  im- 
movably steady,  with  her  eyes  still  turned 
toward  the  green  graveyard. 

"  I — ^I  don't  know.  I  suppose — I  should 
think  not.  You.  ought  to  be  glad  to  be 
well  enough  to  go  away." 

He  drew  yet  nearer,  and  pressed  the 
hand  that  lay  passive  in  his  clasp. 

"You  think  it  natural  to  be  glad  to 
leave  Shipley  ?" 

"  Very  natural." 

"You  hate  this  place  and  this  life.  I 
have  seen  how  uncongenial  all  your  sur- 
jronndings  are  to  you..  You  are  like  some 
bright  tropical  bird  carried  away  from  his 
native  sunshine,  and  caged  under  a  leaden 
sky.  Leave  it,  and  fly  away  into  the  sun- 
shine !" 

"  That  is  easily  said !" 

"  Yon  are  not  angry  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly, 
as  she  made  a  move  to  walk  back  towards 
the  house. 

"  Why  should  I  be  angry  ?  But  the  sun 
is  sinking  fast,  and  papa  will  expect  me. 
We  had  better  return  to  the  house." 

"  Stay  yet  an  instant !  This  may  be  our 
last  walk  together.  What  would  papa  do, 
if  yon  did  not  return  home  at  aU  ?" 

"  Really  I  do  not  see  the  use  of  discussing 
so  absnrd  a  hypothesis." 

"Not  at  all  absnrd.  It  must  happen 
some  day." 

"  There  is  Catherine  at  the  gate,  looking 
for  us.     I  must  go  back." 

"  Ah,  Veronica,  you  a/re  angry  with 
me!" 

"No." 

"  Then  it  is  the  shadow  of  Mrs.  Grundy 
that  has  darkened  your  face.  Wliy  does 
she  come  between  poor  mortals  and  the 
sunshine  ?'* 

"  Nonsense !" 

"  I  told  you  that  you  were  afraid  of  Mrs. 
Grundy  in  your  heart." 

"  And  I  told  you  that  you  were  mis- 
teken." 

They  had  been  walking  towards  the 
house,  side  by  side,  but  apart,  and  had  by 
this  time  reached  the  little  iron  wicket 
which  gave  access  to  the  lawn.  Hero  Sir 
John  paused,  and  said,  softly :  "  Well,  I 
have  been  obedient.  I  have  come  home: 
or  rather,  you  came,  and  I  followed.  Per- 
haps  there  was  no  great  merit  in  that. 
But^  Veronica,  if  you  are  not  angry  that  I 
have  dared  to  call  you  so,  give  me  a  token 
of  forgiveness." 

"  I  nave  told  you  that  I  am  not  angry." 


"Yes;  but  you  say  so  with  your  face 
turned  away.  Not  one  look?  See — ^that 
glove  that  you  are  pulling  off — give  me 
that." 

'*  Pray,  Sir  Jolm !"  murmured  Veronica, 
hurrying  up  the  gravel  path,  "  I  request 
that  you  will  not  touch  my  hand.  The 
servant  is  there,  within  sight." 

"  The  glove,  then  1  FUng  it  down  as  a 
gage  of  defiance  to  Mrs.  Grundy,  if  you 
refuse  to  give  it  as  a  token  of  pardon  to 
me ! 

She  ran  past  him  quickly,  up  the  steps 
and  into  the  house. 

As  she  entered ,  it,  a  little  brown  glove 
fluttered  in  the  air,  and  fell  at  the  feet  of 
Sir  John  Grale. 

THE  SECOND  OF  SEPTEMBER, 


Chroniclers  and  calendar-makers  tell  us 
that  the  second  of  September  was  marked  by 
the  births  of  St.  Justus  and  St.  Margaret,  of 
William  of  Roschild  and  Stephen  of  Hungary, 
and  of  Howard  the  philanthropist;  by  the 
deaths  of  General  Moreau,  the  napless  Prin- 
cess of  Lamballe,  Alice  lisle,  ana  the  Lady 
Mary  Hervey,  celebrated  for  her  wit  and 
beauty  at  the  court  of  George  the  Second. 
But  a  much  more  important  and  exciting  event 
marks  this  date.  The  Great  Fire  (it  deseryes 
capital  letters)  of  London,  burst  out  on  the  se- 
cond of  September,  1666.  There  is  in  existence 
a  record  of  this  catastrophe,  ferreted  out  no 
longer  than  three  years  ago,  corroborative  in 
its  main  features  of  the  older  narratives. 
We  all  know  the  leading  particulars ;  how 
the  fire  began  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  at  a 
baker's  house  in  Pudding-lane ;  how  it  raged 
for  throe  days  and  nights;  how  it  swept 
away  nearly  everything  from  the  Tower  to 
the  Old  Bailey ;  how  it  destroyed  something 
like  twelve  thousand  houses,  besides  churches, 
the  Cathedral  of  St.  PauPs,  the  Royal  Ex- 
change, hospitals,  public  halls,  and  institutions 
in  great  number.  All  this  we  know  from  the 
narratives  by  Evelyn  and  other  writers.  An  in- 
teresting confirmation  of  those  narratives  has 
been  recently  brought  to  light.  In  1866  Mrs. 
Everett  Green,  while  making  researches  at  the 
Record  Office,  discovered  a  letter  which  had 
been  addressed  to  Viscount  Conway  in  Sep- 
tember, 1666.  The  name  of  the  writer  does 
not  appear,  but  internal  evidence  shows  him  to 
have  been  some  kind  of  confidential  agent  to 
the  viscount,  having  a  certain  control  over  said 
viscount's  town  residence  in  Queen-street, 
Cheapside,  The  letter  gives  an  account  of  the 
dreadful  fire,  quite  consistent  with  the  narra- 
tives already  known.  Three  passages  we  will 
quote. 

Of  tlie  panic  which  seized  the  citizens  gene- 
rally, the  writer  says :   "So  great  was  the 
general  despair,  that  when  the  fire  w9A  ^\}cl^ 
Temple,  houaea  m  \Xi<ft  ^Xx^sy^  ^Y^Ycosi^  \ft 


<c3 


318      [Septombor4, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


COondaeledbj 


Somerset  House  were  blown  up  on  purpose  to 
save  that  house  ;  and  all  men,  ooth  m  city  and 
suburbs,  carried  away  their  goods  all  day  and 
night  by  carts,  which  were  not  to  be  had  but 
at  most  inhumane  prices.  Your  lordship^s  ser- 
vant in  Queen-street  made  a  shift  to  put  some 
of  your  best  chairs  and  fine  goods  into  your 
rich  coach,  and  sent  for  my  horses  to  draw  them 
to  Kensington,  where  they  now  are." 

The  writer  gives  Charles  the  Second  credit 
for  spirit  and  courage  on  this  occasion.  Very 
likely,  ardent  loyalty  coloured  the  picture ; 
but  let  us  give  the  king  the  benefit  of  it  so 
far  as  it  goes :  "  'TLs  fit  your  lordship  should 
know  all  that  is  left,  both  of  city  and  sub- 
urbs, is  acknowledged  (under  God)  to  be 
wholly  due  to  the  king  and  the  Duke  of  York,* 
who,  when  the  citizens  had  abandoned  all 
further  care  of  the  place,  and  were  intent 
chiefly  upou  the  preservation  of  their  goods, 
undertook  the  work  themselves,  and,  with  in- 
credible magnanimity,  rode  up  and  down, 
giving  orders  for  blowing  up  of  houses  with 
gunpowder,  to  make  void  spaces  for  the  fire  to 
die  m,  and  standing  still  to  sec  their  orders 
executed,  exposing  their  persons  to  the  very 
flames  themselves  and  the  ruins  of  buildings 
ready  to  fall  upon  them,  and  sometimes  labour- 
ing with  their  own  hands  to  give  example  to 
others,  for  which  the  people  do  now  pay  them, 
as  they  ought  to  do,  all  ix)S8ible  reverence  and 
admiration.  The  king  proceeds  to  relieve  daily 
all  the  poor  people  with  infinite  quantities  of 
bread  and  cheese." 

A  very  terrible  state  of  feeling  agitated  the 
public  mind  at  the  time,  arising  from  doubts 
concerning  the  cause  of  the  Great  Fire.  Multi- 
tudes of  persons  insisted  on  believing  that  the 
catastrophe  was  the  result  of  design,  not  accident. 
The  writer  of  the  letter  alludes  to  this  subject  in 
the  following  sensible  way :  "  Without  doubt 
there  was  nothing  of  plot  or  design  in  all  this, 
though  the  people  would  fain  think  it  other- 
wise. Some  lay  it  upon  the  French  or  Dutch, 
and  are  ready  to  knock  them  all  on  the  head 
wheresoever  they  meet  them  ;  others  upon  the 
fanatics,  because  it  broke  out  so  near  the  third 
of  September,  their  so  celebrated  day  of 
triumph  ;f  others  upon  the  Papists,  because 
some  of  them  are  now  said  to  be  accused. 
All  the  stories  of  making  and  casting  of 
fire  -  balls  are  foimd  to  be  fictitious  when 
traced  home ;  for  that  which  was  said  to  be 
thrown  upon  Dorset  House  was  a  firebrand 
[burning  billet]  seen  by  the  Duke  of  York 
upon  the  Thames  to  be  blown  thither ;  and 
UiX)n  notice  thereof  given  by  his  royal  highness, 
was  for  that  time  quenched.  But  there  could 
be  no  plot  without  some  time  to  form  it  in  ; 
and  making  so  many  parties  to  it,  we  must 
needs  have  had  some  kind  of  int^jlligence  of  it. 
Besides,  no  rising  follows  it,  nor  any  one 
appears  anywhere  to  second  such  a  aesign. 


*  Afterwards  James  the  Second. 
f  The  Parliamentarians  won  the  battle  of  Dunbar  on 
the  third  of  80j>tomber,  1650,  and  the  battle  of  Wor- 
ogistaron  the  tmrd  of  September,  1651. 


Above  all,  there  hath  been  no  att^npt  upon 
the  king  or  duke^s  person,  which  eafiOy  might 
have  been  executed." 

The  suspicions  connected  with  the  Great 
Fire  form  a  chapter  very  little  known  except 
to  those  who  have  read  the  political  pamphlets 
of  that  day.     William  Lilly,  the  astrologer, 
was  much  mixed  up  with  the  discufision :  he 
having  been  one  of  the  persons  examined  by  a 
parliamentary  committee  touching  the  cause  of 
the  dire  calamity.  TTiere  can  be  very  little  doubt 
that  Lilly  was  a  crafty  knave,  who  traded  on  the 
credulity  of  those  around  him.    He  had,  during 
many  years,    been    applied    to    for  his  aid, 
by  persons  who,   in  reference  to  birth  and 
education,  ought  to  have  been  superior  to  such 
foUies.     On  one  occasion,  the  authorities  of 
Westminster  Abbey  requested  him  to  try,  by 
means  of  the  '^  Mosaical  rods"  (divining  rods) 
whether  or  not  there  was  vahiable  treasuie 
hidden  beneath  the  abbey.    During  the  strug- 
gles between  Charles  the  First  and  his  parlia- 
ment, both  parties  had  applied  to  Lilly — ^the 
Royalists  to  tell  them  whether  the  king  ought 
to  sign  the  propositions  of  the  parliament,  the 
Parliamenturians  to  furnish  them  with  *^  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  chieftest  concerns  of  France." 
Such  a  man  was  pretty  sure  to  make  a  harvest 
out  of  such  clients.    For  six-and-thirty  yea» 
continuously,  Lilly  published  an  almanac,  the 
predictions  of  whicn  were  sought  for  with  so 
much  avidity  that    he  amassed  considerable 
wealth.    Like  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  he  changed 
his  opinions  to  suit  the  changes  in  public  affairs, 
and  seems  fidly  to  have  deserved  the  character 
given  to  huu  by  Dr.  Nash,  of  being  a  '*  time- 
serving rascal." 

A  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  was 
appointed  on  the  twenty-lif th  of  September,  to 
collect  evidence  bearing  on  the  subject  of  the 
Fire.  The  Report  of  the  Proceedings*  is  very 
curious,  showing  that  the  members  of  the  com- 
mittee were  ready  to  receive  any  evidence, 
however  trivial  or  doubtful,  which  might  tend 
to  show  that  the  Fire  had  been  the  work  of 
incendiaries.     Let  us  cull  a  few  specimens. 

*^  Mr.  Light,  of  Ratcliff,  having  some  dis- 
course with  ^Ir.  Longhorn  of  the  Middle 
Temple,  barrister  (reputed  a  zealous  pa- 
pist), about  February,  16G5,  after  some  dia- 
course  in  disputation  about  religion,  he  took 
him  by  the  hand  and  said  to  him,  *Yoa 
expect  great  things  in  ^sixty-six,  and  thmk 
that  Rome  will  be  destroyed ;  but  what  if  it 
be  London  ?' " 

''Miss  Elizabeth  Styles  infonns:  That  in 
April  last,  in  an  eager  discourse  she  had  irith 
a  French  servant  of  Sir  Vere  Fane,  he  hastily 
replied :  '  You  English  maids  wHl  like  tha 
Frenchmen  better  when  there  is  not  a  house 
left  between  Temple  Bar  and  London  Bridge.' 
To  which  she  answered,  *  I  hopeyour  eyes  will 
never  see  that.*  He  replied,  '  This  will  come 
to  pass  between  June  and  October.' " 

•  The  Ri^port  of  Sir  Robert  Brook,  chairmaBtodit 
committee  that  was  appointed  by  Uie  Hoiiie  of  Ccof 
\  moii&  to  inquire  into  tno  firing  of  the  GSiy  of  J/m^^'^ 


4 


& 


Charles  Dlokons.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


rSeptcniber  4, 1860.]      319 


*'  Xewton  Killiijg>vort}i,  Ksquire,  infonns : 
Tliat  he  had  appivhendwl  a  jKirson  during  the 
Fire,  about  whom  he  found  much  combustible 
matter,  and  certain  black  thin^ifa  of  a  long 
fi|2fure,  -which  he  could  not  endure  to  hold  in 
his  hand  by  reason  of  their  extreme  heat. 
This  person  was  so  surprised  at  first,  that  he 
would  not  answer  to  any  question ;  but  being 
oil  his  way  to  AVhitehall,  he  acted  the  part 
'  of  a  macbnan,  and  so  continued  while  he 
was  with  him." 

"  Mr.  Richard  Harwood  informs :  That  being 
near  the  Feathers  Taveni,  by  St.  Paul's,  ui)on 
the  fourth  of  Sept^jmber,  he  saw  something 
tlirough  a  grate  in  a  cellar,  like  wildfire ;  by 
the  s|)arkling  and  sjjitting  of  it  he  could  judge 
it  to  be  no  other."  But  this  was  rather  lame 
evidence,  relating  to  a  date  two  days  after  the 
breaking  out  of  the  fire. 

"  A  letter  directed  and  sent  by  the  post  to 
Mr.  Siunnel  Thurlton,  in  Leicestershire,  from 
8  person  unknown,  as  followeth,  dated  Oc- 
tober sixteen,  1666  :  *  Your  presence  is  now 
more  necessary  at  London  than  where  you  are, 
that  you  may  determine  how  to  dispose  of  your 
estate  in  Southwark.  For  it  is  detennined  })y 
Human  Counsel  (if  not  frustrated  by  Divine 
Power)  that  the  suburbs  will  shortly  be  de- 
Btroyed.  Your  cajiacity  is  large  enough  to 
tmderstand.  Proceed  as  your  genius  shall  in- 
struct you— florr-*;  Tuge:  VoleV'' 

Another  bit  of  evidence  was  to  the  following 
effect :  '*  A  maid  was  taken  in  tlic  street  with 
two  tire-balls  in  her  lap.  Some  did  demand  of 
her  '  Where  she  had  had  them  V  She  sai<l  one 
of  the  king's  life-guard  threw  them  into  her 
lap.  She  was  asked  why  shi?  had  not  caused 
him  to  be  apprehende<l  V  She  said  that  she 
knew  not  what  they  were.  She  was  indicted 
for  this,  and  the  bill  found  against  her,  and 
turned  over  to  the  Old  Bailey ;  but  no  prose- 
cati(m  upon  it.'' 

Lilly's  examination  was  due  to  a  book  which 
he  had  published  some  years  before,  under  the 
title  of  Monarchy  or  no  Monarcliy,  and  which 
contained,  among  other  liieroglyphies,  a  repre- 
sentation of  a  city  in  flames.  Some  of  the 
members  of  the  committee,  remembering  this 
picture,  caused  him  to  be  sent  for.  Sir  Robert 
Brook,  chairman  of  the  committee,  said  to 
him:  **Mr.  Lilly,  this  committee  thought  fit 
to  summon  you  to  appear  before  them  this  day, 
to  know  if  you  can  say  anything  as  to  the 
cause  of  the  late  Fire,  or  whether  there  might 
be  any  design  therein.  Y^ou  are  called  the 
rather  hither,  liecausc  in  a  book  of  yours  long 
iinec  printed,  you  hinted  some  such  thing 
by  one  of  your  liieroglyrihics."  Lilly  was 
accom|ianied  by  Elias  Ashmole,  to  keep  up 
his  courage;  and  he  replied  thus:  *'May 
it  please  your  honour,  after  the  death  of  the 
late  king,  considering  that  in  the  three  sub- 
sequent years  the  parliament  aci;ed  nothing 
wluch  concerned  the  settlement  of  the  nation 
in  peace ;  and  seeing  the  generality  of  people 
diflsati-sfied,  the  citizens  of  London  discon- 
tented, the  soldiers  prone  to  mutiny,  I  was 
desirous,  according  to  the  best  knowledge  God 


had  given  me,  to  make  inquiry  by  the  art  I 
studied,  what  might  from  that  time  happen 
unto  the  parliament  and  nation  in  general. 
At  last,  having  satisfied  myself  as  well  as  I 
could,  and  jierfected  my  judgment  thereon, 
I  thought  it  most  convenient  to  signify  my 
intentions  and  conceptions  thereof  in  forms, 
shapes,  tj'pes,  hieroglyjihics,  &c.,  witliont  any 
commentary ;  so  that  my  judgment  might  be 
coticealed  from  the  vulgar,  and  made  manifest 
only  unto  the  wise.  I  herein  imitat<id  the 
examples  of  many  wise  pliilosophers  who  hatii 
done  the  like." 

The  rogue !  He  made  his  hieroglyphics 
alarming  enough  to  cause  the  book  to  sell,  and 
then  left  eveiy  one  to  interpret  the  pictures 
according  to  taste.  We  have  not  even  yet 
quite  seen  tlie  last  of  that  class  of  almanac- 
makers  ! 

Lilly  proceeded :  "  Having  found,  sir,  that 
the  City  of  London  should  be  sadly  atUicted 
with  a  great  plague,  and  not  long  after  with 
an  exorbitant  lire,  I  framed  these  two 
liieroglyi)hics  as  represente*!  in  the  book, 
wliich  in  effect  have  j)roved  very  true." 

*' Did  you  foresee  the  year?"  asked  a 
member  of  the  conmuttee. 

**  I  did  not,  nor  was  desirous:  of  that  I  made 
no  surety.  Whether  there  was  any  design 
of  burning  the  city,  or  any  employed  to  that 
l>ury»ose,  1  must  deal  ingenuously  with  you, 
that  since  the  Fire  1  have  taken  much  pains  in 
the  search  thereof,  but  cannot  or  could  not 
give  myself  any  the  lejuit  satisfaction  therein. 
1  conclude  that  it  ^tis  alone  the  finger  of  God ; 
but  what  instruments  ho  used  thereunto  I  am 
ignorant." 

It  is  impossible  not  to  see  the  cimning  wilb 
which  Lilly  managed  liis  replies :  feeding  the 
popular  belief  in  his  prophetic  powers,  and 
yet  keeping  himsi^lf  free  from  dangerous  sus- 
picions concerning  the  Great  Fire. 

The  ui)8hot,  in  Lilly's  own  words,  was : 
''  The  committee  sei'med  well  pleased  with 
what  I  spoke,  and  dismissed  me  with  great 
civility."  No  other  witness  gave  evidence  Of 
any  value  ;  and  the  nation  settled  do\ni  gra- 
dually into  a  bflicjf  that  the  conilagratiou  of 
the  second  of  September  was  purely  accidental. 


i! 


1 1 


AS  THE  CllOW  FLIES. 

DUE  scum.      KrSOM  TO  BOX  niLL. 

DniPANS  (the  seat  of  the  Ileathcotes)  was 
built  by  liCird  Berkeley  from  the  ruins  of 
Xoncsuch,  and  very  fidl  of  old  memorials  the 
place  is.  Pepys  mentions  (Sq>t.  10,  1660) 
going  to  St.  .James's  to  see  the  Duke  of  Y^'ork, 
on  Acbniralty  business,  and  finding  him  start- 
ing with  the  king,  queen,  and  Prince  Kupert, 
to  dine  at  Durdans.  Evelyn,  too,  mentions, 
in  his  quiet,  amiable  way,  going  to  Durdans, 
in  1005,  and  finding  an  assembly  of  savans — 
Dr.  Wilkins,  Sir  William  Petty,  and  Mr. 
Hooke — '*  contriving  chariots,  new  rigging  for 
ships,"  and  of  all  tilings  in  the  world — what 
was  no  doubt  a  sort  of  bicycle — **  o.  'vV^sy^  \Ki 
run  racca  in."    ll(i  ;)A(\&\  ^''  \ycx\i3sc^'^  ^Ciix^fc  ^».^ 


^ 


820      [September  4. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoctedliy 


// 


persons  together  were  not  found  elsewhere  in 
Europe  for  parts  and  ingenuity."  Wilkins 
was  tne  man  who  tried  to  establish  a  universal 
language,  and  so  nullify  the  fatal  curse  of 
Babel;  Hookc  was  an  astronomer,  who  was 
jealous  of  Newton,  and  claimed  to  have  disco- 
vered the  law  of  gravitation  ;  and  Petty  was  one 
of  the  most  active  founders  of  the  Royal  Society. 
The  great  days  of  Durdans  were  when  Fre- 
derick, Prince  of  Wales,  the  son  of  George 
the  Second,  came  to  reside  there.  It  was  this 
patron  of  dancing-masters  and  toadies  who 
first  gave  rise  to  the  saying,  "  That  whether 
there  was  peace  or  war  abroad,  there  was  sure 
to  be  family  discord  among  the  Guelphs."  His 
sisters  despised  him;  his  strutting,  little,  de- 
moralised father  pronounced  him  a  puppy, 
fool,  and  scoundrel ;  his  mother  cursed  the 
hour  in  which  he  was  bom ;  and  the  prime 
minister  described  him  as  a  poor,  weak,  irre- 
solute, false,  lying,  dishonest,  contemptible 
wretch.  While  still  a  lad  he  drank  and 
gambled.  **  Ah !  the  tricks  of  pages,"  said  his 
mother  to  his  father.  "  No,"  replied  the  bear 
leader;  **I  wish  to  Heaven  they  were — they 
are  the  tricks  of  lacqueys,  rascals  I"  One  day 
looking  out  from. a  window  at  St.  James's,  he 
saw  Bubb  Doddington  roll  by.  ''There," 
said  the  estimable  prince,  ''  there  goes  a  man 
they  call  the  most  sensible  fellow  in  England ; 
yet,  with  all  his  cleverness,  I  have  just  nicked 
him  out  of  five  hundred  pounds."  He  joined 
the  Opposition  to  spite  his  father  and  Sir 
Robert  vValpole ;  ana  earned  his  father's  un- 
dying hate  by  removing  his  wife  when  she  was 
in  actual  labour  from  Hampton  Court  to  St. 
James's  Palace,  from  whence  he  was  very  soon 
**  quoited"  to  Kew.  His  mother  on  her  death- 
bed refused  to  insult  his  father  by  seeing  him. 
During  the  '45  Rebellion,  he  showed  some 
feeble  desire  to  lead  the  army,  being  jealous 
of  his  truculent  brother,  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land; but  the  fool's  ambition  subsided  into 
having  a  model  of  Carlisle  Castle  made  in  con- 
fectionery, and  bombarding  it  with  sugar- 
plums at  the  head  of  his  maids  of  honour  and 
mistresses.  Eventually  the  poor  creature  died 
from  a  cold  caught  by  putting  on  a  thin  silk 
coat  in  the  month  of  March,  during  a  fit  of 
pleurisy.  In  a  fit  of  coughing,  he  broke  an  in- 
ternal abscess,  which  had  been  caused  by  a 
blow  from  a  tennis  ball,  cried  out  **I  feel 
death!"  and  died  almost  immediately.  The 
bitter  Jacobite  epitaph  upon  him  was  only  too 
just: 

Here  lies  Fred, 

Who  was  alive,  and  is  dead. 

Had  it  been  his  father, 

I  had  much  rather ; 

Had  it  been  his  brother, 

Still  better  than  another ; 

Had  it  been  his  sister, 

No  one  would  have  missed  her ; 

Had  it  been  the  whole  generation, 

Still  better  for  the  nation ; 

But  since  'tis  only  Fred, 

Who  was  alive,  and  is  dead. 

There's  no  more  to  be  said. 

Some  traditions  of  Fred  still  linger  about 
JEJpsom, 


An  obelisk  (the  flint  of  which  went  to  face 
St.  jMartin's  Church,  in  the  town)  that  formerly 
stood  at  the  end  of  an  avenue  of  walnut  trees 
in  the  Conmion  Fields,  marked  the  spot  of 
Fred's  only  victory.    The  prince,  one  morning, 
walking  alone  in  his  white  silk  coat,  espied  a 
specially  sable  sweep,  sitting  contemplatively 
under  one  of  the  trees,  perhaps  fatigued  with 
the  ascent  of  the  palace  chimneys.     Fred,  in- 
dignant at  such  an  unmannered  churl  coming  ' 
between  the  wind  and  his  nobility,  bade  him 
begone,  and  at  once.  The  tired  sweep,  espying  a 
fop  or  a  footman,  he  hardly  knew  which,  refused, 
point  blank.    The  prince  flourished  his  clouded 
cane,  which  the  sweep  wrenched  from  his  hand 
and  threw  away,  then  stripped  and  offered 
combat.    The  prince,  with  a  spark  of  the  spirit 
of  his  grandsire  at  Dettingen,  removed  his  silk 
coat  and  fell  to.    Tradition,  generally  loyal, 
affirms  that  the  sweep  was  beaten  ;  but  there 
certainly  are  calumnious  reports  that  the  sweep 
conquered,  and  set  his  black  foot  on  the  wizen 
neck  of  Bubb  Doddington's  noble  friend.  Other 
local  historians  make  George  the  Third  (when 
a  boy)  the  adversary  and  conqueror  of  the 
sweep ; — such  is  History.    Soon  after  Fred's 
lamented  deatii,  a  Mr.  Belchier  rebuilt  Durdans, 
but  a  fire  destroyed  the  place,  and  one  of  the 
Hcathcotes  reared  the  present  structure  of  red 
brick  bound  with  stone.    Certain  it  is  that 
young  Prince  George  was  much  here  at  the 
time  when  the  populace  were  so  jealous  of  his 
mother's  unwise  intimacy  with  handsome  Lord 
Bute.    The  6nly  other  recollection  of  royalty 
at  Epsom  is  at  Woodcoto  Park,   where  thi 
drive  to  the  Racecourse  has  been  closed  ever 
since  the  Queen  used  it  in  1840,  her  last  visit 
to  Epsom,   at  which  place  she  is  then  sup- 
posed to  have  taken  umbrage. 

The  crow  flutters  down  for  a  moment  on 
Pitt-place,  that  old  mansion  by  the  church. 
This  house  was  the  scene  of  one  of  the 
best  authenticated,  and  yet  most  easily  ex- 
plained ghost  stories  than  ever  befooled  the 
superstitious.  It  was  the  residence  of  Lord  I 
Lyttleton,  secretary  to  Frederick,  Prince  of 
Wales,  and  author  of  the  History  of  Henry  the 
Second,  and  who  leading  the  prince  to  patro- 
nise Mallet,  Thomson,  Pope,  Glover,  and  Dr. 
Johnson,  gained  him  the  only  credit  he  erer 
got  or  deserved.  It  gives  us  pain  to  observe 
that  the  worthy  nobleman's  History  is  wretch- 
edly dull,  and  his  poetry,  all  but  the  monody 
to  his  wife,  intolerable.  The  son  of  thu 
worthy  peer  was  a  celebrated  rake,  who,  a 
short  time  before  his  death,  declared  that  he 
had  seen  a  white  dove  flutter  over  his  bed, 
look  mournfully  on  him,  then  disappear.  A 
short  time  after,  the  corpse  of  a  woman  clothed 
in  wliit^  appeared  by  his  bedside,  and  waved 
her  livid  hand,  as  she  placed  her  face  dose  to 
him,  and  uttered  the  words,  **  Lord  Lyttletoa, 
prepare  to  die !"  he  felt  her  cold  breath,  and 
saw  that  her  eves  were  glazed.  He  gasped 
out,  *'When?''  and  the  apparition  repbed, 
**Ere  three  days  you  must  die."  This  dead 
woman  was  a  Mrs.  Amphlett,  who  had  died  of 
grief  in  Ireland  on  the  seduction  of  her  two 


A 


&> 


GbtrlM  I>ielnii&] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLEES. 


[September  4, 1869L]      821 


daughters  by  Lord  Lyttleton.  On  the  fatal 
third  day  the  rake,  so  the  local  tradition  goes, 
breakfasted  in  London  with  Mrs.  Amphlett's 
two  daughters  and  some  friends,  was  m  high 
spirits,  and  remarked  confidently,  '*If  I  live 
oyer  to-night,  I  shall  have  jockied  the  ghost/* 
The  party  then  ordered  post-horses,  and  set 
off  for  Pitt-place.  On  their  arrival  his  lord- 
ship had  a  sharp  attack  of  illness,  but  reco- 
vered. He  went  early  to  bed,  first  laughingly 
Sitting  back  the  dock  to  deceive  the  ghost, 
e  then  sent  his  valet  for  a  spoon  to  stir  his 
medicine.  On  his  return  the  servant  found 
that  his  lordship  had  got  out  of  bed,  and  had 
fallen  dead  on  the  floor.  The  simple  fact  is, 
tiiat  the  miserable  trickster  had  invented  the 
whole  story,  having  resolved  to  poison  him- 
self. There  was,  therefore,  no  miracle  in  the 
tolerably  accurate  fulfilment  of  a  self-made  pre- 
diction. *''  It  was  no  doubt  singular,'*  says  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  who  was  generally  only  too  cre- 
dulous, '*  that  a  man  who  meditated  his  exit 
from  the  world  should  have  chosen  to  play 
such  a  trick  upon  his  friends;  but  it  is  still 
more  credible  that  a  whimsical  man  should 
do  so  wild  a  thing,  than  that  a  message  should 
be  sent  from  the  dead  to  tell  a  libertine  at 
what  precise  hour  he  should  expire." 

When  the  wells  were  beginning  to  be  dis- 
regarded, Epsom  became  notorious  as  the  re- 
sidence of  Mrs.  Mapp,  the  bone-setter,  a  cha- 
racter whom  Hogarth  has  immortalised  in  his 
pcture  of  The  Consultation  of  Physicians. 
This  Mrs.  Mapp  was  the  daughter  of  a  Wilt- 
shire bone-setter  and  sister  of  Polly  Peachum, 
whom  Gay  enlisted  into  the  Beggar's  Opera. 
The  bone-setter  and  the  wise  woman  were  at 
this  period  much  resorted  to  by  English 
country  people,  who  preferred  a  doctor  who  was 
also  a  little  of  the  astrologer.  This  woman, 
after  wandering  about  the  country  as  a  sort  of 
privileged  mad  woman,  suddenly  became  an 
authority  in  surgery,  and  settled  at  Epsom, 
where  the  company  at  the  wells  supplied  her 
with  occasional  dislocations.  Her  success, 
indeed,  is  said  to  have  brought  her  so  many 
patients  tbat  the  people'  of  Epsom  paid  her 
to  settle  amongst  them.  Broken  arms  and 
legs  she  dexterously  set,  dislocated  shoulders 
and  elbows  she  refitted.  Gifted  with  amazing 
strength,  she  would  plant  her  foot  against 
a  patient's  chest  and  drag  his  bones  back  to 
their  true  position.  **  Crazy  Sally"  was  a  dan- 
gerous woman  to  offend.  Some  surgeons, 
jealous  of  her  fame,  once  sent  her  a  *^  pos- 
ture maker,"  as  acrobats  were  then  called, 
with  a  wrist  apparently  dislocated.  The  man 
groaned  and  screamed,  but  Sally  felt  in  a  mo- 
ment that  the  bones  were  in  their  proper 
order ;  so,  to  have  her  revenge,  she  gave  the 
man's  arm  such  a  wrench  as  to  dislocate  it. 
"  Gro,"  she  said,  '*  to  the  fools  who  sent  you 
and  tay  their  skill,  if  you  like,  or  come  back  here 
m  a  month  and  I'll  put  you  straight."  In  her 
flowery  days,  Mrs.  Mapp,  the  bone  -  setter, 
drove  a  carriage  and  four,  and  received  as  much 
as  twenty  pounds  in  the  dav.  At  last  Mapp, 
footman  to  a  mercer  in  Ludgate-hill,  won  by 


her  full  purse,  married  her,  robbed  her,  and 
forsook  her,  all  within  the  fortnight.  She  never 
recovered  this,  and  died  in  London  in  1737  so 
poor  that  she  had  to  be  buried  by  the  parish. 

The  Reverend  Jonathan  Bouchier,  who  be- 
came rector  of  Epsom  in  1784,  deserves  a 
word  as  a  sturdy  Royalist  and  a  great  scholar, 
of  whom  several  interesting  stories  are  told. 
Before  the  American  war  broke  out,  Mr.  Bou- 
chier was  rector  of  several  parishes  in  Virginia 
and  Maryland.  He  once  thrashed  a  rebel 
Yankee  blacksmith  who  had  insulted  his  king 
and  country,  and  to  the  very  last  he  persisted 
boldly  in  preaching  Royalist  sermons.  On  one 
occasion  the  Tory  rector  had  been  informed  that 
if  he  dared  pray  for  King  George  he  would  be 
fired  at  in  nis  pulpit.  Nothing  daunted,  the 
next  Sunday  the  resolute  man  ascended  the 
pulpit  stairs  armed  with  two  horse-pistols,  one 
of  which  he  laid  on  cither  side  of  his  pulpit 
cushion;  with  this  preamble  he  preached  an 
unflinching  sermon,  endiug  with  tnis  stinging 
passage: 

"  Unless  I  forbear  praying  for  the  king  I 
have  been  notified  that  I  am  to  pray  no  longer. 
No  intimation  could  be  more  distressing  to  me; 
but  I  do  not  require  a  moment's  hesitation, 
distressing  as  the  dilemma  is.  Entertaining  a 
respect  for  my  ordination  vow,  I  am  firm  in 
my  resolution,  whilst  I  pray  in  public  at  all, 
to  conform  to  the  unmutilated  Liturgy  of  my 
Church,  and  reverencing  the  injunctions  of  the 
Apostle :  ^  I  will  pray  for  the  king  and  all  who 
are  in  authority  under  him,  as  long  as  1  live.' 
Yes,  whilst  I  have  my  being,  I  will,  with 
Zadok,  the  priest,  and  Nathan,  the  prophet, 
proclaim  GrOD  save  the  Kino."  The  Amencans- 
nad  no  heart  to  fire  at  so  bold  and  honest  a 
man,  and  Jonathan  Bouchier  descended  the 
pulpit  stairs  unharmed.  This  learned  clergy- 
man married  a  descendant  of  Addison's,  a 
very  beautiful  Virginian  girL  A  curious  and 
authentic  instance  of  presentiment  preceded 
their  first  meeting.  Miss  Addison  had  dreamed 
that  she  saw  her  future  husband,  and  awoke 
with  a  vivid  remembrance  of  his  face  and 
manner.  The  next  day  Mr.  Bouchier  called  on 
her  father  with  letters  of  introduction,  and 
on  Miss  Addison  entering  the  room,  she  saw 
in  the  handsome  stranger  the  lover  of  her 
dream.  This  rector  of  Epsom  devoted  many 
years  to  a  completion  of  Johnson's  Dictionary. 
He  left  it  at  his  death  unfinished,  and  the 
manuscript,  down  to  the  letter  I,  is  said  to 
have  been  used  by  the  compilers  of  Webster's 
Dictionary. 

The  crow  passing  over  Surrey  on  his  swift 
way  to  the  sea,  alights  at  Ashtead  Park,  on 
one  of  the  limes,  )in  avenue  of  which  light- 
leafed  trees  was  planted  when  William  of 
Orange  came  here  to  visit  his  loyal  adherent. 
Sir  Robert  Howard,  a  poor  dramatist,  the  pro- 
totype of  Bayes,  in  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's 
comedy  of  the  Rehearsal,  and  the  Sir  Positive 
Atall  of  Shadwell's  Sullen  Lovers.  His  ro- 
mantic plays,  stuffed  full  of  extravagant  meta- 
phors and  false  tropes,  seem  to  have  deserved 
all  the  ridicule  showered  \i^ii\kL<«si« 


=jb 


ALL  THE  TilAR  BOUND. 


Evelyn  teOt  us  of  n  man  ho  knew  vho 
plaoted  an  aah-tree.  and  before  his  ilcatb  cut 
it  down  an<l  BoLil  it  for  tortj  ahillings ;  and  he 
goes  on  to  mention,  as  a  proof  of  the  profits  of 
growinf;  tre«a,  that  he  knew  three  acrca  of 
barren  land  sown  with  acoma,  that  in  sixty 

J 'ears  becnmo  a  thriving  wood,  worth  three 
lundrcd  jiounda.  The  records  of  Ashtead 
help  DH  to  Bnme  facta  about  the  age  of  treesi 
which  art'  iliHicult  to  obtain  elsewhere.  Here 
at  least  we  get  at  certainty,  lliere  arc  some 
fine  Spauisili  chesniits  p'owiug  near  the  lake  on 
this  demesne  that  have  reached  the  girth  of 
twenty-two  feet.  These  fiou  trees  were  plnoted 
by  Thomaa  Uavie,  an  old  gardener,  aii  yeara 
before  tlie  battle  of  Culloiien.  When  a  boy 
Davie  brought  from  London  three  shiliingB' 
worth  of  Spanish  chesnuls  as  a  treat  for  his 
fellow  -  servantti,  but  the  fruit  being  then 
little  eaten  in  Kngland,  the  servants  took  n 
prejudice,  and  would  not  touch  them.  Davie, 
not  wishinfc  to  wnste  the  cheaniits,  sowed 
them  in  a  l)e<l  in  the  garden  at  Aslitead,  and 
afterwariis  planted  them  out  where  they  now 
Stand.  The  alieltered,  moist,  warm  park 
exactly  suited  them.  'Hiese  facta  convince  un 
more  than  ever  that  the  age  of  eclebmted 
trees  is  often  overrated.  Trees  supposed  to 
be  of  iumicn.Bc  antiquity  are  often  only  the 
descendants  of  historic  trees,  but  they  have 
grown  lip  in  tlie  same  place  ami  retained 
the  QOtne  of  their  progenitors.  But  for  the 
facta  wc  have  noted,  the  Spanish  chesnuta  of 
Ashtead  would  paas  muster  fur  veterans  of 
three  centuries,  and  the  topogmpher  might 
have  sworn  they  were  iilanted  the  year  Cathe- 
rine of  Arra^on  came  to  Knglanil. 

A  certain  euriona  legend  is  told  of  two  large 
antlers  preserved  in  Ashtead  Hall.  They  once 
belongeil  to  a  king  of  the  herd,  a  stag  of  great 
ago  \o  whom  all  the  other  deer  paid  homage, 
obeying  all  his  bphcsts,  and  aUowing  him  even 
to  gore  to  death  offenders  against  his  authority. 
Wh^i  be  reached  extreme  old  age  the  monarch 
remained  almost  entirely  by  the  banks  of  the 
lake  where  the  grass  grew  thickest  and  greenest, 
and  where  he  could  drink  witJiout  having  to 
walk  far.  It  is  even  said  that  his  spedat  fol- 
lowers used  to  bring  him  leaves  and  chewed 
cjaaa,  and  wNted  upon  him  with  undeviating 
loyalty  till  the  last. 

A  Uttle  further  south .  at  Leatherheiul,  where 
the  "  nousling"  Mole  slips  Iietwoon  the  trees, 
and  just  by  the  briilge,  stands  an  old  inn,  now 
tho  liunning  Uoree,  au  ale  house,  that  has 
for  liunilreda  of  years  opciieil  its  cloors  to 
thinity  and  dusty  travellera.  This  is  where 
Eleanor  Rummyuge,  the  famous  ale  wife  live<l, 
upon  whom  Stelton  once  Vrotc  one  of  his 
rough  and  ready  satires  in  jolting  vcrac,  not 
unlike  what  Kabelaia  might  liave  written.  The 
enemy  of  Wolsuy  describes  the  old  huidlady. 

Footed  like  >  plan*, 


Hnv  tbui  liiT^  yev. 

Bho  bnwcth  nappy  ala. 

And  Dakelh  pot  ute 

To  tiKTpllcn  uul  tinkpn. 

To  (WMten.  Id  iwrnken. 

To  all  ipod  ale  dnnkera, 

lliat  will  nothtDg  ■P^'Vf 

But  driak  till  thav  itMir, 

And  bring  tlunuclvpi  ban. 
And  then,  in  his  reckless  steeplechaae  wmj,  the 
rongh  poet  sketches  Eleanor's  gposainB  with 
almost  Chaucerian  breadth  end  more  tnan  Ra- 
belais coareenexs.  as  they  come  in  with  e^s, 
nnd  woo],  and  Ijondon  pins,  and  rabliit-akms, 
anil  strings  of  beads,  to  baiter  for  the  dime* 

Tlien:  is  stiK  extant  a  cnrions  old  woodcat  of 
"K^T-  jovial  Eleanor  holding  an  ale-pot  in  either 
liand,  with  below  the  following  inscription  : 

Wlirn  fflidton  wore  tlie  lanrpl  irown, 
Mj  hJ«  put  All  the  alfl  vim  down. 
And  here  at  Ix'.itherhead,  where  .ludgc  Jeffreji 
once  hid  his  ugly  head  when  jfi'i  time  of  trouble 
came,  the  crow  feels  a  duty  to  give  a  word  to 
the  peculiarities  of  that  strange  and  wdni 
river,  the  Mole,  whom  topographic*!  Draytwi 
dcacribes,  in  rather  an  extravagant  allegoij,  u 
beloved  by  the  'iliames : 

But  u  thny  thuj  in  pomp  amp  ipnrtin^  on  thr  sludA. 
'Gaingt  Qumpton  Court  ho  mcrti  the  ■oft  sad  nulla 

Mokt, 
^Vime  ej-o  w  purred  hii  bre«Bt 
The  pan^nts  of   Mnitcr   Thames  refuse  their 
consent,  but  the  lad  is  obstinate  : 

But  Ttumn  would  hardly  on;  oft  turning'  back  ki 
From  liit  mueh-lored  Mole,  how  ha  warn  loath  to  gn. 
The  parents,  still  obdurate,  mise  hills  to  shut 
in  their  wilfnl  daughter ;  but  nil  in  \-ain ;  Mole 
U  so  artful : 

Mole  din  henctf  a  patfa  by  working*  day  and  night, 
(Anivdinif  to  heraune)  to  ihow  ber  natura  rignt; 
And  uDdnssath  the  saith  Ibi  tbie*  mild'  ipfca  iMh 

Till,  goitniDut  ofaSght.  far£nimhsTiaother'ik«ap. 
Her  loro'lnlfinded  counc  tho  wanton  nymph  doth  ral, 
A*  lonipng  to  embrace  old  Tamo  and  Ina'  ion. 

'Hie  river  is  said  to  derive  its  name  from 
the  Celtic  word  melyn,  a  mill  (in  Doomsday 
Itook  it  is  noted  as  turning  twenty  milli]i 
but  it  is  just  oa  likely  that  it  was  first  called 
the  Mole  trom  its  singular  tendency  to  bnmw. 
It  tiprings  from  a  cluster  of  little  rivulets  on 
the  borders  of  Sussex  that  meet  at  Gatwick,  in 
i^uirey,  and.  coursing  underlie  arches  of  Kin- 
nurslcy  IJritlgc.  push  on  for  the  leafy  vole  of 
Micklchnm.  l"here  is  an  erroneous  notion  pre- 
valent that  the  rivet  Mole  suddenly  dives  mto 
the  earth,  disappears,  and  re-emerges  at  a  spot 
further  on.  'I'wo  uf  the  laiUkict,  as  they  sM 
ealleil,  can  be  seen  near  the  Fridley  mcadoMi 
and  otJiers  near  the  little  pictuiesqno  roadfida 
inn  at  Burfunl  Bridge,  where  Kt-ats  wrote  the 
latter  part  of  his  Endynrdon,  These  swallowL 
into  wljicli  the  I^tole  soaks  rather  than  divct) 
are  really  oceaaioned  by  the  river  a*  it  swiris 
round  bends  of  the  hills,  ^'asking  swAJ  the 
mud,  sand,  and  softer  strata  from  under  the 
more  resisting  and  less  impressionable  cbtlk. 


^ 


•  DfadEMU.]  AUEIEL.  [September  4^  18B0.]     828 

ndergroiind  channels  continne  beneath  by  a  lady  in  early  life,  and  whose  brain  even- 

avitiea.     Gossipping  Aubrey,  a  contem-  tually  gave  way  under  the  strain  of  that  bitter 

of  the  excellent  Evelyn,  says  that  in  regret.    His  old  friend  tiie  Duke  of  Deyon- 

le  a  great  pit,   thirty  feet  deep,  and  shire,  pitying  his  misfortune,  allowed  him  one 

inning  water  at  the  bottom  of  it,  opened  hundred  pounds  a  year.    His  humour  was  to 

ght  near  the  Mole.    Defoe  mentions  a  revel  in  rags  and  chrt  till  he  became  a  sort  of 

>f  gentlemen  damming  up  this  river,  the  walking  dung-hiD.   His  last  eccentricity  was,  on 

suddenly  sinking  all  away ;  the  experi-  his  death -bed,  to  leave  an  expectant  friend  a 

-s  caught  in  the  dry  fields  a  vast  quantity  curiously-folded,  sealed,  and  promising  parcel, 

not  by  any  means  to  be  opened  till  after  his 

above  the  >tole,  which  flows  like  a  moat  death.  It  proved,  unfortunately,  to  contain  no- 

'oot  of  the  cliff,  rises  that  scarped  rampart  thing  but  a  plain  memorandum-book.    By  his 

Hill,  which  is  one  of  the  great  chalk  own  request,  the  major  was  buried  on  the  brow 

that  spread  from  Famham  to  Folkestone,  of  the  mil  (perhaps  a  favourite  resting-place 

re  meet  the  red  sandstone.    The  chalk  of  the  crazed  whilom  man  of  fashion),  wimout 

it  here  in  a  long  pier-head,  four  hundred  church  rites,  and  with  his  head  downwards ;  it 

-ty-five  feet  high,  so  barren  and  desolate  being  one  of  the   gallant    major's  favourite 

ts  of  its  escarpment  where  the  rain  has  axioms  that  the    world   was   turned  upside- 

off  in  long  furrows  all  the  surface  earth,  down,  and  so  at  the  last  day  he  should  come 

t  even  a  blue  hare-bell  can  fix  its  roots  or  up  right. 

>urishment ;  but  its  south  side  is  covered        That   little    inn,    the   Hare    and   Hounds, 

ith  bosky  groves  of  box-trees,  planted,  as  nestling  at  the  foot  of  Box  Hill,  is  specially 

tiink,  by  the  Romans,  but  most  probably  dear  to  the  crow,  because  in  1817  it  sheltered 

lous.      One   tradition   attributes    their  Keatfi,  who  here  wrote  that  wild  poem  of  Diana^s 

ig  to  some  Earl  of  Arundel,  two  or  three  love,  that  begins, 
es  ago;  but  in  old  deeds,  as  early  as  A  thm^  of  beauty  ie  a  joy  for  ever. 

Fohn  and  Henry  the  Third,  "  Henry  of  Here,  in  the  clefts  of  Box  HHl,  he  found  the 

ill"  and  "  Adam  of  Box  Hill"  are  found  scenes  he  describes : 
ned  as  witnesses.     The  box-tree  is  fond  Under  the  brow 

k,  and  grows  equally  well  at  Bexley,  in        Of  gome  ateep  moesy  hill,  where  iry  dun 

at  Boxwell,  on  the  Cotawolds  ;  and  on        Would  hide  as  up,  although  apriag  leaves  be  none, 
ilk  hills  near  Dunstable.     Another  proof        -^d  where  rank  yew-treee,  as  we  rustle  through, 
he   box  is   indigenous    in   this  part  of        Will  drop  their  scarlet  berry  cups  of  dew. 

is  that  at  Betchworth,  close  by,  it  is        In  *^c  same  sunny  little  inn,  beside  the  river, 

in  equally  wild  luxuriance,  and  at  least  Lord  Nelson  spent  several  days  of  retirement 

feet  high.  The  groves  at  Box  Hill— dark  with  the  syren  who  beguiled  him,  before  start- 

ose,  with  the  long  whitish  stems  bare  ing  for  Trafalgar.  Mrs.  Barbauld  has  left  some 

and  no  vegetation  growing  beneath  or  pleasant  lines  on  this  little  caravanserai,  and 

.  them— have  an  unusual  bewitched  and  they  end  prettily  enough  : 

appearance,  so  different  from  the  ordi-  From  the  smoke  and  the  din,  and  the  hurry  of  town, 

ch  hazel  underwood  of  England,  purpled  ^*  *^  care-wearied  cit  to  this  spot  hasten  down ; 

.uu  ^..^u;.  ^-  I,-*  «^*i»  .^,.^r».^^«a  And  embosomed  m  shades  hear  the  lark  tinging  uaUL 

ith  orchis  or  ht  with  pranroses.  I^  ^^^  ^^^     ^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^l^^  ^^  ^^  ^^^     ^ 

close-grained    cnsp    box  has  always  •  #  «  • 

raluable  for  cabinet-makers  and  wood  ^r     »  -u -uu  *^  ♦!.«-«**—.- k««uk  *«♦!.«  •»!-:«-. 

T    1  nf\n  n£A.  J  t       _j.i.    r  i.  Here  8  a  health  to  the  cottage,  a  health  to  the  plams; 

ers.     In  1608  fifty  pounds  worth  of  box-  ^ver  bUthe  be  your  damsels  and  constant  your  swains  : 

vere  cut  down  here  on  one  sheep-walk.  Here  may  industry,  peace,  and  contentment  reini  still, 

1  a  year  or  two  of  1712  three  thousand  While  the  Mole  softly  creeps  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

r  worth  were  sold  ;  and  in  1795,  when 

id  reduced  the  supply  of  the  superior  AUBTEL, 

3od  from  the  Levant,  Sir  W.  Mildmay       i  ^^^^  ^  ^^^  ^  ^  ^^^  t^^t  ^y^  ^ 
the  trees  (uncut  for  sixty-nve  years)  at  »*  Auriel !  Auriel  V 

thousand  pounds.     This  cutting  it  was        The  night  was  dark,  and  nothing  could  I  see, 
should  last  over  twelve  years,  so  that        Yet  knew  I  by  the  voice  that  it  wsa  she 
I  was  never  shaved  too  bare.     Over  the       ^^..,.,.11  7^^?^^  ™^  T^  ^^T®f  ^  ^*"' 
,f  the  hill  the  «>il  Budderdv  ceases  to       ^^tK^c^tm'li^tXr fr^mhrfS: 
>ox,  turns  purple  and  gold  with  gorse  and 

r,  and  is  studded  with  odorous  juniper-        Then  to  the  voice  I  said,  "  What  is  thy  will  P" 
Just  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  that  rises        But,  for  sole  response,  through  the  darkness  fell 
I  Dorking,  there  is  a  small  cottage,  and        Nothing  but  mine  own  name  repeated  still, 

,  looking  down  on  the  valley,a  table  for       ?°"iT!i%^Tfi^dJ  t);;['n  L^ 
* ,  ^j        ^       .         n  J       xi.  •  I  could  not  sleep,  nor  rest  upon  my  bed. 

nkers  and  resting  travellers ;  under  this        g^  i  ^^  ^    ^^^  ^tj,  uncertain  tread, 

ies  Major  Labelliere^ — an  odd  place  for  a       Out  thro'  the  darkness  of  the  night  I  pass'd 
'     Well,  it  is  ;  but  this  was  a  major  of        On  to  the  heath  ;  and  on  before  me,  fast 
rines,  who  went  mad  from  a  disappoint-        Over  the  heath,  that  wandering  voice  did  flit :, 
.  lov^and  what  eccentricity  mig£t  not        Ov- the  ^-^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
>ected    of    a   marme   crossed  m   love?        Methought  I  stilmbled on  a  dead  mw,  laid 
ere  was  a  handsome,  fashionable  man,        j^^^^  ^th  upslanted  face  and  unshut  eye^ 
yer  quite  recovered  having  been  rejected       Stonily  staring  on  the  TmLdm^N.  i^. 


«^ 


824      [September  i  1M9  J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


IGondoetBd  bj 


/ 


Hamess'd  was  eacli  dead  man  firom  liead  to  heel. 

In  heavy  hamees  of  nut-eaten  eteel, 

And  every  dead  man  held  in  his  riffht  hand 

The  blooay  hilt  of  a  blade-broken  brand. 

And  unto  me  it  seemed  that  I  had  seen 

Those  dead  men's  faces,  somewhere,  long  ago ; 

But  when,  or  where  (if  it  were  ever  so) 

Was  gone  out  of  my  mind.    On  this  dark  plain 

Doubtless  some  deadly  battle  must  have  been, 

And  no  man  left  by  the  relentless  foe 

To  bury  those  that  were  in  battle  slain* 

I  feared  to  tread  upon  them. 

Suddenly 
A  wind  arose  that,  roaring,  rent  the  sky 
Into  lean  swarthy  rags,  where  thro*  there  fell 
A  moony  light.    And  suddenly  all  those 
Arm'd  corpses  in  that  roaring  wind  arose. 
And  shouted  to  mo,  "  AurielT  Auriel !" 
Waving  aloft  their  broken  brands. 

I  cried, 
"  Who  are  ye  P"    And  the  dead  men  all  replied, 
"  Dost  thou  not  know  us  P    Thine  of  old  we  were. 
Look  on  our  faces,  for  they  once  were  fair. 
Are  they  so  changed  P    Our  leader  then  wert  thou, 
And  we  fought  bravely.    But  thy  foes,  and  ours. 
Were  strongest.    And  the  strife  is  over  now, 
And  we  be  all  dead  men.    And  all  the  towers 
We  built  are  fallen,  all  our  banners  torn, 
All  our  swords  broken,  we  ourselves  forbm 
Of  sepulture,  tho'  sons  of  noble  sires. 
Bom  to  sit,  crown'd,  on  thrones,  and  be  obeyed ; 
Sprung  of  high  hopes,  proud  thoughts,  and  bright 

desires; 
Who  should  have  been  immortal,  not  being  made 
Of  common  clay.    Auriel  I  Auriel ! 
The  winds  of  heaven  pursue  us.    Fare  thee  well." 
And  while  they  spake  the  night  wind  from  my  sight 
Swept  them  away  into  the  weltering  night. 
And  all  the  plain  was  bare. 

Again  there  fell 
Upon  mine  ear  the  first  voice,  calling  me. 
And  I  look'd  up,  but  nothing  could  1  see. 
And  still  the  voice  called  "  Auriel !  Auriel!" 
Sa^  to  that  familiar  voice  I  said, 
"  Wnat  heart  or  hope  have  I  to  follow  theeP 
Are  they  not  lost,  all  those  whom  at  thy  call 
To  mine  own  overthrow,  and  theirs,  I  led  P 
Where  be  my  friends  in  arms  that  followed  me  P 
Where  all  my  peerless  comrades,  my  dear  dead  P 
For  now  I  know  again  their  faces  all, 
But  they  are  gone !" 

Then  on  mine  ear  did  fall 
The  selfsame  voice,  but  clearer,  "  Here  are  we. 
Thy  friends  in  arms,  thy  comrades  of  the  past, 
And  followers  once,  but  leaders  now  at  last ; 
Whom,  by  remembering  us,  thou  hast  revived. 
Alive  we  are,  but  not  as  once  we  lived. 
Many  our  lives  were,  but  those  lives  are  done ; 
And,  lest  death  make  us  dust,  love  made  us  one. 
Whiles  wo  were  many,  then  we  followed  thee, 
Wh<^  needs  must  follow  us  now  one  we  be : 
One  presence,  made  of  many  pleasures  past ; 
One  perfect  image,  in  whose  mould  are  cast 
And  kept  together  all  the  imaginings 
Of  many  beautiful  defeated  thmgs ; 
One  fair  result  of  many  foird  intents ; 
One  music,  made  of  many  instruments ; 
One  form,  for  ever  feminmely  fair. 
Of  many  jforces  that  in  manhood  were ; 
One  face  with  many  features,  and  one  name 
With  many  meanings." 

While  the  voice  thus  cried. 
With  utterance  louder,  but  in  tone  the  same, 
The  black  ribb'd  clouds  aloof  were  bursten  wide. 
And  the  strong  moon  sprang  thro*  them,  and  became 
A  sudden  living  presence  on  the  night. 
Making  it  beautiful.    Then  I  beheld 

i Bathed  in  the  beauty  of  that  sudden  light) 
iike  a  white  angel,  her  my  soul  loves  well, 
floating  thro'  heaven  above  the  barren  field ; 
And  Mtm  ahe  caiJ'd  me  "  Auriel  i  Auriel  1" 


And  still  I  follow*d.    And  it  seem'd  that  dayi. 

And  nights,  and  weeks,  and  months,  and  yeaa  went  liy. 

As  we  went  on,  by  never-ending  ways. 

Across  the  world ;  and  ever  was  mine  eye 

Fix'd  on  that  floating  form  with  faithful  gase. 

And  seasons,  little  cared  for — shine  or  shade. 

Or  heat  or  cold — changed  round  us.    Many  a  springs 

And  many  a  summer,  many  an  autumn,  strmy'a 

Across  mj  path,  and  did  around  me  fling 

Their  flond  arms ;  and  many  a  winter  made 

His  icy  fingers  meet,  and  strove  to  cling 

About  me :  but  I  struggled  on,  afiraid 

Lest  I  should  lose  that  form  bj  lin^ring. 

And,  if  I  linger'd,  ever  the  voice  said, 

"  Auriel,  wherefore  lingerest  thou  P" 

At  last 
We  reach'd  what  seem'd  the  end  of  all  the  world ; 
Frontier'd  by  scornful  summits  bare  and  vast. 
Where  thro'  a  single  perilous  {Mitiiwt^  curl'd 
Into  an  unknown  lima,  'twixt  ice  and  snow. 
There  was  a  heap  of  human  bones  below ; 
Above,  a  flock  of  vultures.    And,  'twixt  these, 
Hard  by  a  stream  which  long  had  ceased  to  flow, 
Bein^  frost-bound,  a  squalid,  lean  old  man, 
Nursing  a  broken  harp  upon  his  knees, 
Sat  on  the  froxen  pass.    His  eyes  were  wan 
But  full  of  wicked  looks. 

She  my  soul  loved 
Before  me  up  that  perilous  pathway  moved, 
Calling  me  from  above,  and  beckoning. 
But  bi  that  sat  before  the  pass  began 
To  twang  his  harp,  which  had  but  one  shrill  string 
(Whoso  notes  like  icy  needles  thro'  me  ran) 
And,  with  a  crack'd  and  querulous  voice,  to  sing 
"  O  fool !  O  miserable  fool,  forbear ! 
For  yonder  is  the  land  of  ice  and  snow. 
And  she  is  dead  that  bcckoneth  to  thee  there. 
And  dead  for  ever  are  the  dead,  I  know." 
AVliile  thus  the  old  man  sang  to  me  below. 
Those  vultures  scrcam'd  above  i'  the  icy  air, 
*<  Dead  are  the  dead  for  ever !" 

"What  art  thou. 
Malignant  wretch  P"  I  cried. 

The  old  man  said, 
"  I  am  the  ancient  porter  of  this  pass. 
Beyond  which  lies  tne  land  of  ice  and  snow. 
And  all  the  dwellers  in  that  land  are  dead. 
And  dead  for  ever  are  the  dead  I  know. 
And  this  my  harp— I  know  not  when,  alas ! 
But  all  its  strings  were  broken  long  ago 
Save  one  which  Time  makes  tough.    The  others  woe 
Of  sweeter  tone,  but  this  the  more  intense. 
And,  for  my  name—some  say  it  is  Despair, 
And  others  say  it  is  Experience." 

Thereat  he  laugh'd,  and  shook  his  squalid  rags, 
And  in  his  sheamy  eyes  grim  mockery  gleam  d. 
And  loud  again,  upon  the  icy  crags 
Above,  the  roused  baldheaded  vultures  scream'd. 


SAINT    MARTIN-LE-GRAND'S 
ADOPTED  CHILD. 


The  bill  for  the  transference  of  the  tele- 
graphs in  the  United  Eangdom,  from  pnTate 
control  to  the  control  of  tho  State — that  is 
to  say  for  the  purchase  by  government  of 
the  existing  telegraphic  lines  and  appli- 
ances, and  the  placing  of  them,  under  the 
direction  of  the  Post  Office  has  becomfi 
law.  As,  while  the  matter  was  in  abey- 
ance,* we  took  occasion  warmly  to  recom- 
mend tho  adoption  of  the   proposal  then 

*  See  All  thb  Yeas  Bouvd,  First  Seriei^  toL  xXf 
p.  87. 


& 


:fc) 


GhiiieiDickeiu.]     ST.  MAETIN-LE- GRAND'S  ADOPTED  CHILD.    [Sept.  4.1869.]    325 


before  the  House  of  Commons,  we  think 
we  have  reason  to  render  due  homage 
both  to  the  Tory  government  which  pro- 
posed an  essentially  liberal  mcasnre,  and 
to  the  Liberal  government  which  had 
the  magnanimity  to  carry  ont  an  ar- 
rangement which  was  obviously  for  the 
pubHc  benefit,  notwithstanding  tnat  it  was 
not  originated  by  themselves.  Of  course 
this  happy  result  has  not  been  arrived  at, 
without  a  certain  amount  of  trouble  and 
opposition.  That  magnanimous  creature. 
Vested  Interests  (who  had  thought  but 
little  of  his  property  invested  in  telegraphic 
shares,  for  some  years  past),  no  sooner 
heard  of  the  proposition  than,  like  the 
merry  Swiss  boy  mentioned  in  song,  he 
took  up  his  milking  pail,  and  was  "  off 
and  to  labour  away,"  determined  to  drain 
the  last  drop  from  that  finest  and  fattest 
of  milch-kine,  the  public.  Holders  of 
telegraphic  stock,  to  whom  such  a  thing 
as  a  dividend  was  unknown,  began  to  study 
the  auctioneers'  advertisements  of  '*  estates 
to  be  sold,"  and  asked  their  friends  if  they 
knew  of  any  three  hundred  guinea  weight- 
carriers  likely  to  come  into  the  market  at 
the  end  of  the  season  ?  The  names  of  the 
Electric  and  International,  and  the  British 
and  Irish  Magnetic,  began  to  be  bandied 
about  among  flannel- clothed  stockbrokers 
making  Saturday  holiday,  but  never  for- 
getting business,  going  through  Shep- 
perton  Lock  or  dropping  into  the  Bells  at 
Ousely;  in  the  fast  morning  train  from 
Teddington  there  was  much  speculation; 
the  noble  army  of  jobbers  and  riggers 
saw  a  new  field  for  their  exertions,  and 
made  harvest  therein  accordingly ;  the  City 
spectres  who  haunt  the  purlieus  of  the 
Exchange  gibbered  to  each  other  over 
their  mouldy  Abemethy  biscuits,  of  a  new 
chance  for  obtaining  a  few  half-crowns 
without  the  outlay  of  a  sixpence  ;  and 
monied  respectability,  which  did  not  at  the 
moment  see  its  way  to  realising  at  a  profit, 
wanted  to  know  where  this  government 
interference  was  going  to  stop  ? 

In  the  House  of  Commons  also  the 
scheme  had  its  opponents.  The  honour- 
able member  to  whom  the  mere  notion  that 
the  government  proposes  to  carry  on  any 
business  hitherto  carried  on  by  private  in- 
dividuals or  public  companies  acts  as  a 
red  rag  acts  on  a  bull,  had  his  say.  The 
honourable  member  who  won  the  first  prize 
for  arithmetic  at  St.  Beomulph's  Grammar 
School,  Market  Drayton,  and  the  wooden 
spoon  at  Cambridge,  who  has  ever  since  been 
"  nuts"  on  his  statistical  powers,  and  who 


thinks  rather  meanly  of  the  abilities  of  the 
people  who  check  the  income  and  outlay 
of  the  entire  Post-office  service  and  prepare 
the  estimates  for  parliament,  had  his  say — 
in  which  he  demonstrated  the  absurdity 
of  the  generally-received  axiom  that  two 
and  two  make  four,  and  that  only  depart- 
mental sophistry  would  have  the  hardihood 
to  assert  that  three  being  taken  from  six, 
so  many  as  three  remain.  The  honourable 
member  who  dabbles  in  the  milder  and 
less  recondite  Latin  quotations,  stepped  in 
promptly  and  glibly  with  his  "caveat 
emptor :"  the  classic^  expression  of  his 
distrust  in  the  gift- bearing  Greeks  (in  neat 
allusion  to  the  advantages  offered  by  the 
government)  ;  and  his  belief  in  those  prin- 
ciples of  fair  play  which  were  summed  up 
in  three  words,  "audi  alteram  partem." 
Other  honourable  members  were  there 
who  thought  the  Post  Office  clerks  would 
rush  wildly  through  the  streets,  proclaim- 
ing the  secrets  with  which  they  might 
become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  their 
telegraph  duties :  as  though  Post  Office 
clerks  were  more  given  to  gossip  than  tele- 
graph  clerks,  who  have  always  had  that 
opportunity;  honourable  members  who 
thought  that  the  wires  might  be  surrepti- 
tiously and  dishonestly  "tapped,"  and 
messages  thus  extracted  in  course  of  trai^- 
sit ;  honourable  members  who  thought  that 
the  obstructive  and  lethargic  Post  Office 
would  object  to  the  employment  of  private 
wires  between  houses  of  business ;  honour- 
able members  who  grieve  the  human  soul 
on  every  subject  under  the  sun,  and  sug- 
gest to  the  unparliamentary  mind  that  the 
last  Reform  Bill  must  have  endowed  Bed- 
lam with  at  least  one  hundred  members. 
But  men  of  tact,  ability,  and  honest  pur- 
pose have  overcome  all  this  nonsense, 
the  bill  has  become  law,  the  whole  tele- 
graphic system  of  the  United  Kingdom 
will  from  the  first  of  January  next  be 
under  the  sole  control  of  the  Postmaster- 
General,  and  will  bo  worked  wholly  by  his 
clerks  and  servants.  Let  us  see  what  ad- 
vantages will  accrue  to  the  public,  beyond 
those  broadly  stated'  in  our  former  article 
on  the  subject :  premising  that  the  public 
has  no  doubt  paid  dearly  for  its  telegraphic 
whistle,  but  that  wo  hold  it  to  be  a  whistle 
far  better  worth  its  money  than  any  whistle 
the  public  has  bought  for  a  very  long 
time. 

The  existing  telegraphic  system  is  mainly 
defective  in  this  respect :  that  the  telegraph 
offices  are  situated  at  railway  stations^  and 
out  of  the  principal  eesitr^  ol\yQsa^^^«^  ^a^ 


eg 


326      [September  4,  }8<nL] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CoBdiietedlqr 


population.  The  Postmaster- General  pro- 
poses to  remedy  this  defect  by  carrying 
the  wires,  at  as  early  a  date  as  possible,  to 
the  post-offices  of  all  the  towns  and  villages 
at  which  there  is  a  money-order  office. 
At  the  same  time,  as  the  railway  com- 
panies will  have  the  means  of  transmitting 
messages  for  the  public,  along  the  wires 
which  they  will  mainfjiin  for  their  own 
pecnliar  business,  it  has  been  decided  that 
they  shall  transmit  snch  messages  on  behalf 
of  the  Postmaster-General,  and  shall  ac- 
coimt  to 'him  for  the  produce.  The  popu- 
lations which  have  grown  np  around  rail- 
way stations,  and  the  persons  who  are 
taken  to  those  stations  by  business  or 
pleasure,  will  therefore  lose  none  of  the 
accommodation  which  they  have  hitherto 
enjoyed. 

The  offices  which  the  Post  Office  will 
maintain  for  the  coUection  and  transmission 
of  messages  will  bo  of  three  kinds,  namely : 

Offices  of  deposit  for  messages.  Every 
pillar  or  wall  box  will  bo  a  place  of  deposit 
for  messages,  which  will  be  carried  from  it 
at  the  ordinary  hours  of  collection  to  an 
office  from  which  they  can  be  sent  by  wire. 
Every  receiving  office  which  is  not  a  money- 
order  office,  will  also  be  a  place  of  deposit 
for  messages,  which  will  bo  carried  from  it 
at  the  ordinary  hours  of  collection  to  the 
telegraph  office :  unless,  indeed,  the  senders 
of  the  messages  be  willing  to  pay  for  imme- 
diate transmission,  in  which  case  the  means 
of  immediate  transmission  will  be  provided. 

Sub-telegraphic  offices. 

Head  telegraphic  offices. 

Every  money-order  office  will  be  either  a 
sub  or  a  head  telegraphic  office.  K  it  be  a 
sub-office,  it  will  be  at  the  terminal  point 
of  a  telegraphic  line,  and  will  merely  have 
to  transmit  or  receive  messages.  If  it  be 
a  head  office,  it  will  occupy  an  intermediate 
point  between  two  or  more  offices,  and  will 
have,  not  merely  to  transmit  and  receive 
messages  on  its  own  account,  but  to  repeat 
the  messages  of  other  offices;  it  will,  in 
fact,  bo  a  "  forward'*  office. 

Over  and  above  the  extension  of  the 
wires  to  every  town  and  village  in  which 
there  is  a  money-order  office,  it  is  proposed 
that  district  systems  shall  be  established  in 
some  of  the  large  towns.  The  classifica- 
tion of  the  offices  into  offices  of  deposit, 
sub- telegraphic,  and  head  telegraphic  offices, 
will  prevail  in  the  urban  or  district,  as  well 
as  in  the  extra  urban  or  general,  systems. 

In  those  places  in  which  there  is  neither 

receiving  office  nor  pillar  box,  and  where 

11  the  inhahitantB  give  their  letters  to  a  rural 


^ 


post  messenger,  or  mail-cart  driver,  for 
transmission  to  the  head  office,  they  may^ 
in  like  manner,  if  it  be  convenient  to  them, 
hand  their  telegrams  to  such  messenger. 

It  is  intended  that  all  charges  for  the 
transmission  of  messages,  porterage  in- 
cluded, shall,  so  far  as  is  practicable,  be 
pre-paid  by  postage  stamps.  Even  in 
those  cases  in  which  some  portion  of  the 
charge  is,  paid  in  money  by  the  sender  or 
addressee,  it  is  probable  that  the  post- 
master who  receives  the  money  payment 
will  be  required  to  af&x  postt^  stamps 
of  corresponding  value  to  the  message 
paper,  and  to  cancel  them. 

Tlie  advantages  of  pre- payment  by  post- 
age stamps  are  obvious.  The  department 
will  be  spared  the  cost  of  making  several 
denominations  of  special  telegraph  stamps^ 
and  of  stocking  twelve  thousand  receiving 
offices  with  them.  The  public  will  be 
much  more  likely  always  to  have  a  suf- 
ficient supply  of  stamps  near  at  hand  than 
they  would  be  if  the  telegraph  stamps  were 
distinct  from  the  postage  stamps ;  and  the 
account  of  telegraphic  revenue  collected 
will  be  at  least  as  simple  as  it  would  be  if 
two  classes  of  stamps  were  used. 

The  limits  within  which  delivery  by 
special  messenger  will  be  covered  by  the 
ciiarge  of  one  shilling  for  twenty  words, 
Ac.  Ac,  are  prescribed  by  the  act :  which 
also  prescribes  the  extra  charge  for  special 
foot  messenger  beyond  those  limits.  Where 
the  public  do  not  care  to  incur  that  extra 
chaise,  the  delivery  is  to  bo  effected  free 
of  extra  charge,  with  the  next  ordinary 
delivery  of  letters. 

Let  us  consider  what  increase  will  be 
produced  by  the  alteration  of  rate  which 
the  Post  Office  proposes  to  effect.  In  all 
cases  but  one,  the  alteration  effected  bj 
the  Post  Office  will  be  reduction;  but  as 
there  will  be  no  rate  bdow  one  shilling, 
the  rato  in  the  case  of  messages  now  car- 
ried for  sixpence  will  be  doubled.  These 
messages  are  town  messages.  In  his  exa- 
mination  before  the  Committee  last  year, 
it  was  stated  by  Mr.  Scudamobb,  to  whose 
signal  ability  and  indomitable  energy  the 
successful  development  of  the  scheme  is 
due,  that  as  under  the  government  system 
the  town  offices  woxQd  be  much  more  nii- 
merous,  i.e.,  much  closer  to  the  popu- 
lation than  are  the  town  offices  of  the  tele- 
graph companies,  it  is  probable  that  the 
charge  of  one  shilling,  which  would,  in 
many  cases,  include  postage,  would,  as  a 
general  rule,  not  exceed  the  existing  charge 
of  siaqyence ;  plus  the  extra  charge  for  per- 


terage,  which  is  levied  in  the  great  ma- 
jority of  cases.  During  the  first  twenty- 
two  weeks  of  1867  the  London  *  and  Pro- 
vincial Telegraph  Company  had  a  sixpenny 
rate  for  messages,  and  carried  ninety-three 
thousand  three  hundred  and  forty-six  mes- 
sages. During  the  first  twenty-two  weeks 
of  1868  they  had  a  shiUing  rate  and  carried 
only  eighty-eight  thousand  and  fifty  mes- 
si^es.  There  was  no  marked  cha;nge  be- 
tween their  area  of  operations  or  number 
of  offices.  The  above  figures  show  a  falling 
ofiP  of  between  five  and  six  per  cent ;  and 
of  course  the  company  lost  also  the  annual 
growth  which  would  have  accrued  if  they 
had  not  raised  the  rate. 

If  we  assume  that  when  the  uniform 
rate  of  one  shilling  is  estabHshcd,  the 
messages  now  earned  for  sixpence  will  fall 
off  by  one-hal^  we  shall  probably  make  a 
much  more  than  ample  allowance  for  the 
effect  of  the  alteration.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  contended  that  the  increase  of 
fifteen  per  cent  expected  to  follow  from 
the  increased  facilities  given  by  the  Post 
Office,  will  go  to  coxmterbalancethe  falling 
off  produced  by  the  change  of  rate. 

Li  the  case  of  the  messages  now  carried 
for  one  shilling,  there  will  be  no  change  of 
rate.  In  all  other  cases,  the  Post  Office 
proposes  to  effect  reductions  :  that  is,  a 
reduction  of  thirty-three  per  cent  in  the 
rate  for  messages  transmitted  over  dis- 
tances exceeding  one  hundred,  but  not 
exceeding  two  hundred,  miles;  a  reduc- 
ticHi  of  fifty  per  cent  for  messages  trans- 
mitted over  distances  exceeding  two  hun- 
dred miles  in  Great  Britain  or  in  Ireland ; 
and  a  reduction  of  from  sixty  to  seventy- 
five  per  cent  for  messages  transmitted  be- 
tween Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  That 
reductions  of  rate  tend  largely  to  in- 
crease the  transmission  of  telegraphic  mes- 
sages, is  abundantly  proved.  The  precise 
effect  of  each  reduction  may  bo  matter 
of  dispute,  but  no  one  can  doubt  that 
eseh  i^uction  will  have  an  effect.  The 
inrincipal  witness  before  the  Committee 
last  year,  attempted  to  deduce  from 
the  experience  of  foreign  countries  the 
precise  effect  of  each  of  the  contemplated 
reductions.  His  deductions  were  consi- 
dered sound,  and  his  estimates  of  increase 
moderate;  but,  of  course,  deductions 
dnwn  firom  the  experience  of  foreign 
oountries  are  always  open  to  the  objection 
that  this  country  differs  in  some  respect  or 
other  from  foreim  countries,  and  that  cir- 
cumstances which  operate  powerfully 
abroad  will  be  less  effective  here.    It  seems 


to  us  that  this  objection  is  not  very 
weighty.  It  may  be  fairly  reckoned  that 
a  franc  goes  about  as  far  on  the  Continent 
as  a  shilling  goes  here ;  and  that  &om  the 
effect  produced  abroad  by  a  reduction 
from  a  franc-and-a-half  to  a  franc,  the 
effect  of  a  reduction  here  from  eighteen- 
pence  to  a  shilling  may  be  safely  inferred. 

The  managers  of  the  principal  telegraph 
companies  agree  with  this  view. 

The  extension  of  the  existing  system  of 
wires  to  the  money-order  offices  of  the 
United  Kingdom,  whereby  the  telegraph 
will  be  brought  closer  to  the  population, 
will,  it  is  expected,  add  greatly  to  the  busi- 
ness done.  By  reducing  the  distance  be- 
tween the  telegraph  stations  and  the 
senders  and  receivers  of  messages,  the 
charges  for  porterage  (which  are  consider- 
able, and  in  many  cases  almost  prohi* 
bitory),  are  reduced,  and  the  rapidity  of 
transmission  is  increased.  The  difficulty 
of  finding  porterage  in  rural  districts,  irre- 
spective of  the  chajrge  for  it,  is  at  present, 
in  many  cases,  very  great.  This  <6fficulty 
will  of  course  be  lessened  as  the  wires  are 
brought  closer  to  the  population. 

Under  the  new  regime,  the  rules  relative 
to  the  lease  of  special  wires  to  newspaper 
proprietors,  and  to  special  press  messages  ; 
and  the  collecting  and  editing  of  news ; 
will  be  somewhat  different  to  those  now  in 
force.  The  existing  companies  let  special 
wires,  but  at  high  and  almost  prohibitive 
rates ;  convey  special  messages  for  the  press 
at  rates  lower  than  those  charged  to  the 
general  public ;  and  also  collect,  edit,  and 
transmit^  intelligence  to  the  press. 

Per  umum. 
They  receive  for  special  wirei        ...    £  3,953 

For  press  messages 2,782 

For  oollectiiig,  editing,  and  trans- 
mitting newa        ...        M.        ...       25,197 


In  all 


£31,882 


The  Post  Office  will  continue  to  let 
special  wires,  and,  as  its  maximum  annual 
charge  for  a  special  wire  is  to  be  five  hun- 
dred pounds,  whereas  the  maximum  chargo 
at  present  is  one  thousand  pounds,  and  the 
minimum  charge  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  it  may  fairly  be  expected  to  derive 
the  existing  amount  of  revenue,  namely, 
four  thousand  pounds,  or  the  rent  of  eight 
special  wires.  With  the  special  press 
messages  and  the  intelligence,  the  case  is 
different.  The  Post  Office  will  not  collect 
and  edit  news  for  the  press,  but  will  merely 
transmit  that  which  is  collected  and  edited 
by  individuals  or  associations  acting  on 
behalf  of  the  press.     The  cbaiX^^Ji,  *OasBste>- 


A 


328      [September  4,  ISM.] 


ATiTi  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


Ipoodaetodbj 


/ 


fore,  to  the  press  will  merely  be  a  charge 
for  transmission ;  but  the  Post  Office  will 
be  relieved  of  the  cost  incnrred  by  the 
telegraph  companies  in  the  collection  and 
editing  of  news,  which  latter  cost  will  fidl 
directly  upon  the  press. 

The  system  of  remitting  money  by  tele- 
graph will,  it  is  expected,  be  extensively 
cultivated  by  the  Post  Office.  This  system 
is  already  used  by  the  Electric  and  Inter- 
national Company,  bnt  is  confined  to 
eighteen  of  their  principal  stations.  The 
charges  for  money  remittances  and  retire- 
ment of  bills,  are,  np  to  twenty  ponnds, 
two  shillings;  one  shilling  for  each  ten 
pounds,  or  part  of  ten  pounds  in  addition. 
The  usual  tariJOT  for  messages  is  charged 
plus  the  foregoing  sums.  There  is  no  limit 
to  the  sums  to  be  remitted,  because  the 
larger  the  sum  the  greater  the  profit. 

The  mode  of  conducting  the  remittance 
business  seems  to  be  this :  the  person  de- 
sirous of  efiecting  a  remittance,  say  fit)m 
Liverpool  to  London,  attends  at  the  Liver- 
pool telegraph  office  and  addresses  a  tele- 
gram to  the  secretary  of  the  Electric  and 
International  Telegraph  Company  in  Lon- 
don, specifying  the  sum  about  to  be  re- 
mitted and  instructing  him  where  to  pay 
it.  After  defraying  the  ordinary  message 
charge  and  the  conmiission,  the  remitter 
hands  over  to  the  manager  of  the  telegraph 
office  the  amount  of  the  remittance. 

The  amount  of  money  remitted,  varies 
with  the  state  of  trade.  When  speculation 
is  rife,  remittances  are  large  and  fi^uent. 
In  the  absence  of  speculation,  not  much 
remittance  business  is  done.  About  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  pounds  a  year  is  the 
average  aggregate  of  the  remittances.  At 
half  per  cent  this  represents  seven  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  for  commission 
alone:  to  which  must  be  added  the  pro- 
duce of  the  telegrams  at  ordinary  rates. 
This  means  of  effecting  remittances  seems 
to  be  resorted  to,  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of 
"  retiring"  bills  at  the  last  possible  moment. 
The  largest  amount  known  to  be  remitted 
in  one  sum,  is  eleven  thousand  pounds. 

In  Switzerland  and  Belgium, "  money- 
order  telegrams  "  are  in  much  tise.  A  card 
is  filled  up  by  the  remitter,  in  the  usual 
manner,  and  on  his  handing  it  in,  with  the 
amount  of  the  order,  he  is  supplied  with  a 
form  of  "  money-order  telegram."  This  he 
fills  up  in  the  same  way  as  the  card,  but 
has  to  state  the  amount  in  words  as  well  as 
figures.  Card  and  telegram  are  then  handed 
back  to  the  postmaster,  who  compares  them, 
enters  the  amonnt  in  figures  in  a  space 


left  for  that  purpose  in  the  telegram,  sig^ 
it,  and  stamps  it  with  his  dated  stamp. 

If  the  remitter  desire  to  add  nothing  to 
this  telegram,  the  post-office,  on  his  paying 
the  price  of  it,  calculated  in  the  ordinary 
way,  despatches  it  to  the  telegraph  office; 
but  if  the  remitter  wish  to  add  anything  to 
the  telegram,  it  is  given  back  to  him,  and, 
after  adding  to  it  his  communication  to  the 
payee,  he  takes  it  himself  to  the  telegraph 
office,  and  pays  the  price  corresponding  to 
the  length  of  the  message.     The  telegraph 
office  which  has  to  deliver  the  message  at 
its  destination,  makes  out  two  copies :  one 
for  the  payee ;  the  other  for  the  post-office. 
The  latter  copy  contains  only  the  particu- 
lars of  the  order,  but  not  the  private  mes- 
sage.    On  the  payee  presenting  himself  at 
the  post-office  with  his  telegram,  he  is  at 
once  paid,  and  his  receipt  is  taken  on  the 
office  copy  of  the  telegram.     (About  eight 
hundred  money  orders  per  month  are  sent 
by  telegram.)     All  money  orders  must  be 
paid  within  ten   days  of  receipt   at  the 
paying  office.     If   the    payee    cannot  he 
found,   if  the  order  be  addressed  "poste 
rcstante,"   and   it  should  not  have  been 
applied  for,   or  if  the  payee  cannot  giye 
sufficient  proof  of  his  identity,  the  money- 
order  card  is  sent  back  to  the  office  from 
which  it  was  received,  and  the  amount  is 
returned  to  the  remitter;  who  signs  the 
receipt  on  the  back  of  the  card,   in  the 

Elace  where  the  payee  would  have  signed, 
ad  the  money  been  paid  to  him. 
No  decision  has  as  yet,  we  believe,  been 
come  to  by  the  Post  Office  as  to  which 
system  it  will  adopt  for  the  remittance  of 
money ;  buf  the  authorities,  we  have  no 
doubt,  will  render  the  process  as  convenient 
and  as  reasonable  as  possible. 

THE  WOLF-ROCK  LIGHT. 

All  round  our  coasts,  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
twinkling  lights  break  out  on  each  headland, 
and,  as  the  twilight  deepens  and  darkness  grom 
over  the  sea,  their  brilliancy  increases  until 
they  shine  out  from  the  blackness  of  night 
with  a  **  strange  unearthly  splendour  in  the 
glare."  ITie  sailor,  too,  overtaken  by  the 
night,  finds  here  and  there,  starting  as  it  were 
out  of  the  sea,  friendly  lights,  which  guide 
him  on  his  way,  or  warn  him  of  treacherous 
rocks  or  shoals.  These  pUlars  of  light  fu 
away  from  land,  surrounded  by  a  dark  and 
often  angry  sea,  are  glorious  witnesses  of  oar 
civilisation ;  and  they  stand  as  monuments  of 
human  skill  and  perseverance  and  of  man's 
triumph  over  the  dangers  and  difficulties  of 
building  firm  and  enduring  structures  upon 
isolated  rocks  at  sea. 


«  • 


4 


<A 


c 
:i3) 


OhtflMDickeiiB.] 


THE  WOLF-ROCK  LIGHT. 


rSeptember  4, 1M9.]      829 


The  Wolf  Rock,  whicli  rears  its  lagged  head 
about  nine  miles  south-west  of  the  Liuid^s  EInd, 
and  on  which  many  a  ship  has  struck,  is  on 
the  eve  of  being  converted  from  a  treacherous 
enemy  of  the  mariner  into  a  trustworthy  guide 
and  a  true  friend.  The  last  stone  of  a  light- 
house on  this  rock  was  laid  a  short  time  since, 
and  comforting  beams  of  light  will  soon  shine 
out  from  it  over  the  neighbouring  waters. 

The  magnitude  of  the  work  of  building  a 
lighthouse  out  at  sea,  is  not  enough  considered. 
Before  we  revert  to  the  tower  on  the  Wolf 
Rock,  it  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  devote 
a  few  words  to  some  of  the  most  remarkable 
lighthouses  built  on  isolated  rocks. 

Every  one  has  heard  of  the  Eddystone  Light- 
house, and  the  story  of  Winstanley,  the  Ply- 
mouth mercer,  is  one  of  those  heroic  tales 
which  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 
Moved  with  sorrow  on  account  of  the  many 
ill-fated  vessels  which  struck  on  the  dreaded 
rock,  he  determined  to  try  to  place  a  light- 
house there.  After  numerous  and  disheartening 
failures,  he  at  length  managed  to  raise  a 
wooden  tower,  and  having  made  it  the  purpose 
of  his  life  and  bestowed  much  thought  and 
labour  on  the  work,  he  believed  it  to  be  of 
such  wonderful  strength,  that  he  expressed 
the  hope  that  he  might  be  in  the  tower  diu'ing 
the  fiercest  storm  that  ever  stirred  the  deep. 
He  had  his  wish,  poor  fellow !  Miss  Ingelow 
relates  the  story  in  charming  verse.  She  tells 
us  of  a  night,  when  the  inhabitants  of  Fly- 
mouth  were  all  in  great  fear  because  of  a  ter- 
rible storm  which  raged  outside,  when 

The  great  mad  waves  were  rolling  graves, 
And  each  fluxig  up  its  dead ; 
The  seethioG^  flow  was  white  below, 
And  black  Uie  sky  o'erhead. 

And  when  the  dawn — the  dull  grey  dawn~ 
Broke  on  the  trembling  town, 
And  men  looked  south  from  the  harbour  mouth, 
The  lighthouse  tower  was  down. 


Winstanley,  who  had  gone  out  with  some 
workmen  to  do  some  repairs,  perished  with  it. 
Anot&er  wooden  tower  was  shortly  after  built 
by  John  Rudyerd,  which,  after  standing  forty 
years,  was  destroyed  by  fire.  Last,  came 
^meaton,  who,  after  three  years'  labour,  in 
1759  completed  the  present  stone  lighthouse, 
which,  for  more  than  a  century,  has  staunchly 
fulfilled  its  purpose.  '  The  old  wise  men  of  the 
beach  shook  their  old  heads  and  muttered  evil 
forebodings  about  the  new  tower ;  and  on  the 
occasion  of  an  unusually  violent  storm,  they 
agreed  that,  if  the  tower  stood  through  that^ 
it  would  stand  until  the  day  of  judgment.  It 
would  seem  that  their  words  are  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  realised,  for  the  lighthouse  stands  now 
as  firm  as  ever  it  did,  and  is  virtually  part 
and  parcel  of  the  rock  itself. 

There  is  a  rock  on  the  east  coast  of  Scotland 
right  in  the  way  of  the  up  and  down  naviga- 
tioii,  and  twelve  miles  from  the  land.  It  is 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Bell,  or  Inchcape 
Bock,  and  has  been  a  terror  to  many  a  sailor. 
On  this  rock  was  placed  a  bell,  as  tradition 
says  by  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock,  which 


a  sea  pirate  once  took  down.  The  pirate, 
a  short  time  after,  perished  on  the  same  rock, 
^4n  the  righteous  judgment  of  God,*'  as  the 
story  goes.  A  lighthouse  now  stands  there. 
The  difficulties  encountered  in  building  the 
tower  seem  to  have  been  very  great.  The 
rock  is  just  barely  uncovered  at  a  low  spring 
tide,  and  then  only  could  work  be  done  upon 
it.  The  superintending  engineer  and  the  work- 
men lived  for  a  long  time  in  a  floating  vessel 
anchored  off  the  rock,  in  which  they  rode 
out  many  a  gale,  and  passed  many  anxious 
hours.  Afterwards,  they  built  a  temporary 
wooden  barrack  on  the  rock,  and  were  a 
little  more  comfortable,  though  rather  closely 
packed.  But  they  overcame  all  difficulties, 
and  after  five  years  of  persevering  labour — 
1807  to  1811— completed  the  lighthouse. 

Again,  there  is  the  Skerryvore  Rock  off 
the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  the  most  elevated 
point  of  a  low-lying  reef,  fourteen  miles  from 
the  island  of  Tyree,  and  fifty  miles  from  the 
mainland,  and  exposed  to  the  full  force  of  the 
Atlantic  Ocean.  The  sea  manifested  a  fierce 
objection  to  anything  in  the  way  of  a  building 
bemg  established  on  this  rock.  The  workmen 
built  themselves  a  wooden  barrack,  as  at  the 
Bell  Rock;  but  before  they  had  finished  it, 
the  building  was  washed  away,  and  the  thick 
iron  stanchions  were  torn  out  of  their  places, 
or  bent  and  twisted  like  pieces  of  wire.  They 
tried  again,  and  eventually  succeeded  in  erect- 
ing a  firmer  and  more  substantial  dwelling- 
place  for  their  company  of  thirty,  which  re- 
sisted the  power  of  the  waves.  They  began 
the  lighthouse  in  1838,  and  during  six  years 
their  labour  was  marked  by  great  risks,  nume- 
rous delays,  and  heavy  disappointments.  But 
skill  and  energy  were  at  last  triumphant.  In 
February,  1844,  the  work  was  successfully 
finished. 

The  great  works  at  the  Bishop^s  Rock,  the 
westernmost  of  the  Scilly  Isles;  the  tower 
on  the  Smalls  Rock,  in  the  Bristol  Channel ; 
the  lighthouse  on  the  Hanois  Rock  off  Guern- 
sey ;  all  tell  the  same  story  of  engineering  skill, 
of  indomitable  energy  and  perseverance,  cul- 
minating in  successful  and  beneficent  results. 

The  erection  of  the  lighthouse  on  the  Wolf 
Rock,  rivals  the  great  works  of  former  days. 
The  rock  is  completely  covered  at  high  water, 
and  shows  only  two  feet  above  low  water. 
In  1861,  the  Trinity  House  authorities  re- 
solved to  commence  the  building  of  a  light- 
house on  it ;  in  March,  1862,  wort^was 
begun  on  the  rock.  Slowly  and  surely  it  has 
progressed,  in  spite  of  innumerable  obstacles. 
A  workyard  was  established  at  Penzance, 
where  the  stones  were  prepared  and  fitted  into 
one  another,  by  dovetailing  horizontally  and 
vertically,  before  being  sent  off  to  the  rock  ;  in 
fact,  the  tower  was  built  at  Penzance.  Then, 
as  opportunities  of  tide  and  weather  occurred 
for  working  on  the  rock,  so  shipments  of  stones 
were  despatched.  During  the  whole  seven 
years  from  1862,  the  men  have  not  been  able 
to  work  on  the  rock,  more  than  one  hundred 
and  seventy-three  dayft  oi  \;^\i  Yio\a%  %i  ^i .  ^"^ 


dS 


830      CSeptainl)er4,1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Ooodncfdby 


/ 


conrse  such  hazardous  work  could  not  be  free 
from  disaster,  and  it  is  recounted  how,  at 
different  times,  the  sea  swept  away  masonry, 
and  bent  great  iron  bars,  and  how,  in  the 
winter  of  18 05,  thirty-two  of  tlie  large  stones 
(the  whole  of  one  course  of  masoniy,  and  nearly 
a  season^s  work),  were  carried  away,  the  strong 
iron  bolts  being  wtenched  completely  out  of 
their  places  by  the  force  of  the  sea.  Landing 
on  the  rock  and  getting  off  again  was,  and  is 
now,  a  hazardous  performance.  The  workmen 
have  frequently  found  it  so.  Sometimes  it 
would  happen  that  while  the  men  were  work- 
ing, a  sudden  wind  would  spring  up  and  rouse 
the  sea  into  a  furious  state  ;  or  perhaps  there 
wo||ld  be  a  dead  calm,  and  the  sea  would  seem 
like  glass,  when  all  at  once,  without  apparent 
cause,  great  rollers  would  come  ^*home'^  and 
dash  themsclYcs  on  the  exposed  rock,  creating 
a  tremendous  uproar.  These  rollers  are  known 
to  be  the  results  of  violent  storms  somewhere 
in  mid-ocean  ;  they  come  in,  swollen  witli 
pent-up  wrath,  probably  from  dreadful  scenes 
of  tempest  and  wreck  far  away,  and  dash 
their  gathered  fury  with  tremendous  violence 
on  the  rock.  Then,  the  men,  who  always  work 
in  cork  jackets,  cling  to  their  ropes,  with  their 
heads  to  the  sea,  and  hold  on  like  grim  death, 
while  the  great  waves  rush  over  and  past  them. 
If  there  be  no  chance  of  a  cessation  of  the 
violence,  they  look  out  for  a  rope  from  the 
little  vessel  that  lies  pitching  and  tossing  out- 
side, so  that  they  may  be  hauled  off  the  rock 
while  the  great  waves  are  dashing  and  crasliing 
with  tremendous  fury  all  around  them.  Just 
such  a  scene  as  this  occurred  when  the  first 
stone  of  the  tower  was  laid.  But  at  last  our 
engineers  have  overcome  the  tremendous  ob- 
stacles which  threatened  to  make  it  impossible 
to  place  a  light-tower  on  the  dreaded  AVolf ; 
and  now,  in  this  fearfully  exposed  situation,  a 
stately  column  lifts  its  head. 

It  is  hoped  that  the  light  will  be  shown  at 
the  beginmng  of  next  year.  We  are  promised 
something  unusually  splemlld  in  the  way  of 
illumination.  The  Ught  is  to  be  a  first  order 
dioptric,  revolving  light.  This  sounds  grand, 
and  ought  to  be  magnificent.  In  order  to  give 
it  a  distinctive  character,  it  is  intended  that 
there  shall  be  alternate  flashes  of  red  and 
white  light.  Of  course  it  is  necessary  so  to 
arrange  the  different  light<s  round  the  coast  as 
that  they  may  not  be  mistaken  by  the  sailor ; 
consequently  as  many  changes  as  possible  have 
to  be  rung  on  the  different  vaiieties  of  lights ; 
there  are  revolving,  flashing,  intermittent,  fixed 
and  double  lights,  and  these  may  be  fm-ther 
varied  by  colours  of  red,  white,  or  green.  In 
a  hundred  miles  of  coast  it  is  probable  that  no 
two  lights  exactly  alike,  could  be  found,  lliese 
alternate  flashes  of  red  and  white  light  have  not 
yet  been  adopted  anywhere,  but  it  is  thought 
they  will  have  a  very  brilliant  and  striking  effect. 
We  have  given  a  true  picture  of  the  Wolf 
Rock,  and  no  doubt  many  readers  of  this  article 
will  feel  inclined  to  pity  the  men  who  will  have 
to  live  in  the  solitary  tower  and  keep  a  good 
I/S'Iit  huming  at  night  We  who  have  com- 
fortable  bomea,  who  can  wander  about  the 


country  at  our  own  sweet  will,  who  can  look 
out  on  the  lovely  face  of  nature  with  hearts 
full  of  joy,  can  hardly  realise  a  life  in  a  wave- 
beaten  tower,  with  only  a  great  canopy  of  sky- 
above,  and  a  wide  expanse  of  sea  below :  the 
nearest  approach  of  humanity  in  any  shape 
being  passing  vessels,  which  take  care  to  give 
the  rock  and  its  lighthouse  a  i^-ide  berth.    Pe- 
culiar tales  are  told  of  the  keepers  at  some  of 
the  rock  lighthouses — how  some  have  been 
brought  ashore  raving  mad,  and  how  otheis 
have  committed  suicide;    but  such  cases  are 
happily  very  rare.     Actual  experience  show» 
that  there  is  a  reliable  class  of  men  to  be  found 
who  are  well  suited  to  the  work,  who  do  not 
go  mad  or  commit  suicide,  or  do  anything  else 
that  is  mischievous.  They  go  about  their  work 
in  a  steady  matter-of-fact  way,  are  quite  ac- 
customed to  the  fury  of  the  elementa,  and  ore 
not  at  all  put  out  by  the  most  violent  weather. 
They  accept  their  position  without  much  regard 
to  risk  or  discomfort,  apparently  content  to 
earn  their  daily  bread  without  stoppiug  to 
count  the  cost.    There  is  some  amount  of  plea- 
sure in  almost  any  state  of  bein^,  and,  as  & 
rule,  lightkeepers  are  happy  after  their  fashion. 
Certainly  they  are  not  jovial,  merry  fellows; 
there  is  not  much  scope  for  rollicking  fun  in 
their  silent  watches  of  the  night;  but,  they 
are  pleasant  men,  who  do  not  assert  their  own 
individuality    with    loud-tongued    assurance; 
they  are  mild,  clear-eyed,  meditative  men,  for 
whom  one  cannot  help  feeling  a  considerahle 
amomit  of  respect.    And  they  take  great  pride 
in  their  calling;  the  reflectors  must  not  show 
the  tiniest  speck  of  dust;  the  glass  of  the 
lanterns    must  be   made   so    clean  that  one 
doubts  if  there  really  is  any  glass  there ;  the 
brass  and   copper-work  must  never  lose  its 
original  brightness;  the  light  must  be  made 
to  throw  out  as  much  light  as  the  resources  at 
command  will  allow ;   altogether,  the  whole 
establishment  must  be  a  model  of  order  and 
cleanliness.     Of  course,  the  keepers  at  rock 
stations  have  turns  on  shore— one  month  in 
every  three — and   they  have  their  joys  and 
sorrows,  their  hopes  and  fears,  connected  with 
the  every-day  world.  In  truth,  theirs  is  a  much 
hapjDier  existence  than  many  lives  on  which  we 
expend  no  sympathy. 


SORROW  AND  THE  MERMAID. 

IN  TWO  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  spring  of  1855  I  waa  at  Canstan- 
tinople. 

Perhaps  no  one  will  ever  know  ezactir 
liow  some  of  the  wires  were  polled  whiii 
influenced  the  movements  of  the  dipkv 
matists  who  were  at  Constantinople  in  that 
eventful  year,  and  produced  important  re- 
sults on  the  whole  Crimean  War.  What  I 
am  abont  to  tell  may  bo,  by  a  side  ligbt^ 
suggestive  of  strange  secret  workingB  in 
this  direction,  but  is  not  otherwise  elncidi^ 
tive  of  diplomacy.  What  I  ahall  tell  ii 
tme,  anA.  known  to  many.     In  the  casti*! 


•^ 


jh> 


ChftrIesDIelcei|i.] 


SORROW  AND  THE  MERMAID. 


[September  4, 1869.]     331 


introduction  of  a  mention  of  two  English 
officers,  I  have  given  them  fictitious  names. 

I  was  dining  at  Misseri's,  having  been 
but  four  and  twenty  hours  in  Constanti- 
nople, when  I  was  addressed  thus  by  my 
vis-a-vis: 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  Eden,  is  that  you  ?** 

"It  is." 

"  How  did  you  get  hero  ?" 

"  By  steamer." 

"Why?" 

"I  scarcely  know;  but  I  must  cross- 
examine  you,  Caradoc,  in  my  turn.  How 
long  have  you  been  hero  ?" 

"A  twelvemonth.  I  am  first  attache, 
pu  know." 

"  Do  you  remain  ?" 

"  Yes,"  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
which  suggested  that  the  prospect  was 
not  considered  a  happy  one. 

"  I  am  very  glad." 

**  Dear  old  fellow,  it  will  bo  less  of  a  bore 
now  you  are  here.  Come  to  my  rooms 
after  dinner,  and  tell  me  the  news  from 
England,  and  I  will  explain  some  of  the 
diplomatic  and  social  mysteries  of  this 
place.  Bless  you,  it's  like  a  spider's  web — 
it's  so  intricate  and  full  of  snares." 

My  dear  old  schoolfellow  was  an  incar- 
nate benedicito.  He  blessed  up  and  down, 
right  and  left,  through  the  whole  length 
and  breadth  of  the  vocabulary.  The  per- 
son he  spoke  to,  the  person  he  spoke  of, 
the  subject  which  he  spoke  on,  were  always 
larded,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  with  blessings. 
It  was  a  kind  of  inverted,  wrong  side  out, 
species  of  swearing.  I  nodded  and  con- 
tmued  my  dinner.  The  crowded  table- d'h6to 
of  this  crowded  caravanserai  was  even  fuller 
than  usual,  but  none  of  the  persons  present 
were  very  interesting  to  me,  though  there 
were  some  striking  individuals,  and  some 
grotesque  femily  groups,  present.  In  some 
moods,  either  these  or  those  would  have 
been  enough  to  divert  mo  for  a  whole 
evening  or  more ;  now,  I  was  in  a  state  of 
mind  that  made  me  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind 
to  external  things. 

I  had  left  England  in  a  fury  of  love  and 
disappointment.  I  had  been  jilted.  My 
youw,  and  my  six  feet  of  not  uncomely 
manhood,  niy  ardent  love,  weighed  amaz- 
ingly light,  I  had  found,  against  a  coronet 
and  twenty  thousand  a  year. 

I  had  quitted  England  on  the  eve  of  her 
marriage,  and  had  been  wandering  about 
on  the  CcNitinent  xmtil  now.  During  the 
paiueB  of  the  dinner,  through  the  polyglot 
hum  of  voices  around,  I  heard  one  word 
repeated  in  almost  every  known  dialect.  It 
was  ^*  Mermaid."    At  firot  I/Mud  80  little  | 


attention  to  what  was  said,  that  I  heard  it 
without  attaching  any  sense  to  the  word. 
Then  my  languid  intclHgence  was  suffi- 
ciently roused  to  suppose  they  were  speak- 
ing of  some  sliip  in  the  harbour.  I  was 
surprised  at  so  much  animation  about  it, 
however,  and  then  it  dawned  upon  me  that 
it  must  be  a  nickname  given  to  a  woman. 

"  Russian,  I  tell  you." 

"  I  could  take  my  oath  she  is  French." 

"  She  might  bo  Icelandic,  firom  her  cold- 
ness." 

"  Icelandic  ?  Yes,  possibly,  but  remem- 
ber there  are  boiling  springs  in  those  snow- 
bound valleys  of  Iceland." 

"  Very  true,  and  in  her  there  is  fire  also, 
at  times.  She  has  gestures,  movements, 
which  are  almost  volcanic." 

"  Movements  ?" 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  say  ? — ^in  her  aspect 
and  under  the  warmth  something  that 
freezes  you." 

I  looked  at  the  speaker.  It  was  one  of 
the  attaches  of  the  French  embassy.  A 
pale  careworn-looking  young  man,  with  the 
uncertain  glance  and  weak,  tremulous 
mouth  which  one  often  observes  in  men 
who  have  more  passion  and  self-will  tlian 
intelligence.  There  was  an  air  of  gi*oat 
excitement  about  him  as  ho  spoke,  and 
though  he  apparently  sought  to  restrain 
himself,  ho  did  not  succeed  in  doing  so. 
The  conversation  still  continued  on  this 
subject,  but  became  so  fast  and  loud,  that 
I  could  no  longer,  without  an  effort  of  whicli 
I  was  incapable,  continue  to  comprehend  it. 
Every  now  and  then,  however,  I  caught 
such  phrases  as  the  following : 

"  Remember  Barham,"  I  heard  one  of 
them  say ;  "  Barham  was  one  of  her  vic- 
tims. You  knew  what  promise  he  gave, 
what  a  splendid  officer  he  was.  She  got 
possession  of  him  while  he  was  here  waiting 
for  despatches,  drove  him  nearly  mad  with 
her  sorceries  and  charms,  and  then  woke 
him  pitilessly  from  his  dream." 

"  What  became  of  liim  ?" 

"  He  joined  his  regiment,  volunteered  to 
serve  in  the  trenches  the  very  night  lie 
aiTivcd  out  there,  was  all  but  fatally 
wounded,  his  leg  shot  off  from  the  thigh, 
and  is  left  now  a  mutilated  cripple  for  Ufe, 
heart  broken,  wrecked  in  the  midst  of  his 
career,  and  all  for  her.  And  Needham; 
ah !  if  he  could  hav^  spoken,  he  must  have 
seen  that  fiital  face  smiUng  on  the  chargo 
of  tlie  light  brigade,  and  urging  him  on. 
I  tell  you,  she  has  been  the  evil  genius  of 
the  allied  armies." 

"  Bless  her,  she's  a  \\tXXa  «»yc«Q.i^  \>ttRas^ 
Caradoc  say. 


* 


332      [September  4, 18«9  J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bj 


"  Yes,  syren  truly,  Inring  men  to  destmc- 
tion  by  robbing  them  of  their  intelligence, 
their  courage,  their  sense  of  duty  by  her 
wiles  and  fascinations.  Woman  to  the 
waist — ^monster  in  all  else." 

"  She  befriends  the  French  now,"  whis- 
pered another.  "  Heaven  knows  what 
devil's  game  she's  up  to  now." 

I  left  the  table  and  went  up  to  Caradoc's 
room,  and  for  a  while  we  were  both  too  busy 
in  asking  and  telling  English  news  to  think 
of  anything  else.  We  had  not  met  for  four 
years,  and  had  been  as  intimate  as  brothers, 
so  it  wa^not  surprising  that  we  talked  late, 
and  I  had  not  yet  come  to  the  end  of  my 
budget. 

At  last  Caradoc  pulled  open  his  window. 
We  were  nearly  suffocated  from  the  smoke 
of  our  cigars. 

"  It  is  actually  not  far  from  sunrise,"  he 
fiaid,  as  he  pointed  to  the  blood-red  gleams 
which  shot  one  after  another  into  the  grey 
sky  from  the  east.  "  Good  night,  Paul.  I 
am  dead  beat,  and  am  going  to  have  my 
night's  rest  now.  Bless  you,  my  dear 
fellow,  you  look  as  wide  awake  as  if  sleep 
was  an  abnormal  condition  of  the  species,  to 
be  dreaded  like  fever  or  apoplexy." 

"  I  have  lost  the  habit  of  it,  I  think. 


// 


smce 

"  I  know,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  will  bet  any- 
thing you  please  that  in  a  fortnight  the 
Countess  Irene  makes  you  forget  Lady 
Jane." 

I  smiled  incredulously.  "  Man  delights 
not  me  nor  woman  either." 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  Austnan  embassy 
to-night." 

"I  never  go  into  society  now,"  I  said, 
I'esolutely.  "  I  am  sick  of  the  shams,  and 
the  falsehoods,  and  the  hypocrisies  which 
form  what  is  called  polite  society." 

Caradoc  smiled.  "  All  right,  old  fellow ; 
the  proper  thing  to  say  with  that  Timon  of 
Athens  face,  but  every  society  wears  its 
motley  with  a  difference,  and  everything 
here  is  new  to  you.  Bless  us,  our  decep- 
tions are  on  a  broader  scale  than  any  you 
have  ever  met  with.  Come,  by  way  of  an 
experiment." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  I  said.  I  was  too 
lazy  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  we  parted. 
I  £d  not,  however,  take  his  advice  and  go 
to  bed.  I  wrote  for  two  or  three  hours  in 
my  own  room,  and  then  went  out  for  a 
morning  walk. 

I  left  Pera  and  went  on  through  gardens 
and  detached  houses  into  the  country  be- 
yond. It  was  about  six  o'clock.  As  I  passed 
the  Iron  gates  of  a  largo  house  on  my  right, 


four  men  coming  out  of  it  overtook  me.  They 
bore  a  litter  with  closed  curtains.  I  stood 
aside  to  let  them  pass,  and  went  on.  I 
took  a  two  hours'  walk,  and  then  retraced 
my  steps.  As  I  passed  the  house  with  the 
iron  gates,  I  saw  a  few  poor  persons  were 
collected  in  the  road  outside.  Just  at  that 
moment  the  men  with  the  litter  returned 
with  their  burden.  I  saw  the  beggars  close 
round  the  litter,  and  I  heard  quite  a  chorus 
of  greetings  and  thanks.  I  did  not  under- 
stand the  language,  but  there  was  no  mis- 
taking the  tones. 

I  heard  a  sweet,  mellow,  woman's  voice 
answering  them.  The  bearers  then  tuiaied 
inside  the  gates,  which  were  instantly  shut, 
but  not  before  a  magnificent  black  and  tan 
spaniel  had  rushed  in. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  I  asked  of  the  loiterers, 
who  were  still  looking  through  the  iron 
bars  of  the  gate. 

"  Sorrow,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Sorrow  ?" 

"Yes!" 

I  felt  very  much  mystified,  but  in  true 
English  fiiahion  preferred  remaining  so 
rather  than  hazard  any  more  inquiries  in  a 
language  I  was  nnfkmiliar  Trith. 

That  evening  I  accompamed  Caradoc  to 
the  Austrian  ambassador's.  He  had  fetched 
me  as  I  sat  brooding  over  my  cigar, 
stretched  full  length  on  the  sofa,  in  a  state 
of  misanthropic  contentment,  but  he  in- 
sisted on  making  me  dress,  and  forced 
me  to  accompany  him.  The  rooms  were 
very  full.  I  saw  the  French  attache  leaning 
against  the  door  as  we  entered  the  principal 
drawing-room,  watching,  as  it  seemed,  for 
the  arrival  of  some  one,  and  watched,  as  I 
saw,  by  a  plain,  fair  woman  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

"That's  his  wife,"  whispered  Caradoc. 
"  A  good  creature,  but  as  jealous,  bless  her, 
as  the  deuce.  They  have  only  been  married 
a  year,  and  I  know  he  wishes  himself  un- 
married  a  hundred  times  a  day.  He  is  an 
American.  Her  family — the  Mortons — are 
also  here.  They  have  the  next  house  to 
this.     Pleasant  people." 

I  was,  I  confess,  m  spite  of  my  Hamlet- 
ism,  both  interested  and  amused.  There 
was  so  much  animation ;  such  a  vivid  stir  d 
life  pervaded  the  whole  atmosphere ;  every 
one  in  this  circle  was  living  in  the  fulled 
sense  of  the  word.  I  found  some  old 
acquaintances,  and  exchanged  greetings 
with  them.  I  observed  that  the  French- 
man still  stood  at  his  post.  As  I  mingled 
with  the  different  groups,  I  heard  much 
astonishment  and  more  regret  exprofisod  at 


=* 


&> 


OiAilMDiekflnfl.] 


SORROW  AOT)  THE  MERMAID. 


[September  4, 1869.]      333 


the  non-arrival  of  some  expected  lady. 
There  was  qnite  a  buzz  of  inquiries  about 
her,  and  great  disappointment  seemed  felt 
at  tiie  answers  to  these  inquiries. 

"  Who  are  they  expecting  ?**  I  asked  of 
Caradoc,  as  I  stood  beside  him  for  a  moment. 

"  The  Mermaid,  of  course."  He  passed 
on  without  saying  anything  more. 

The  large  windows  of  the  reception-room 
were  open  to  the  ground,  and  I  strolled  out 
into  the  beautifully  illuminated  gardens. 

I  sauntered  about  for  a  while  and  fol- 
lowed a  side-path  which  was  less  lighted 
than  the  rest  of  the  garden.  It  was  bor- 
dered by  beautiful  plants,  and  I  found  my- 
self walking  on  out  of  the  region  of  light 
into  a  realm  of  soft  darkness  through  which 
ihe  moonshiny  face  of  some  white  rose 
appeared  with  misty  and  ghost-like  aspect. 
The  stars  were  gleaming  with  a  veiled 
hstre  through  the  interlaced  branches 
overhead.  I  came  at  last  to  a  gate.  It 
was  open.  I  passed  through  into  a  path, 
at  the  end  of  which  was  a  kiosk.  As  I 
walked  towards  it  a  do&r  suddenly  rushed 
out  from  the  interior,  barking  farionsly, 
■nd  niaking  a  most  noisy  demonstration  by 
way  of  defence  against  my  aggression. 

I  tried  to  quiet  him,  but  it  was  in  vain. 
Every  step  I  made  in  advance  he  became 
more  and  more  enraged,  and  would  cer- 
tainly have  attacked  me  more  energetically 
rtill,  wh^  a  bell  rang  hastily  fix.m  the  in- 
tenor  of  the  little  summer-house,  which 
I  had  now  reached.  The  dog  stopped  his 
barks  and  growls,  listened,  and  as  the  bell 
was  heard  again  sprang  back,  and  nestled 
down  by  a  low  couch  which  I  could  now 
distinguish  as  I  stood  on  the  threshold. 

A  small  alabaster  lamp  hung  from  the 
pointed  roof  of  the  kiosk,  and  its  light  fell  on 
a  face  of  great  beauty  beU)w  it.  Supported 
by  pillows,  in  almost  a  sitting  attitude,  a 
hdj  was  propped  up  on  this  couch.  Over 
the  couch,  and  completely  concealing  her 
limbs  from  the  waist,  was  a  coverlet  of 
shining  bluish- white  satin  embroidered  in 
crescents  of  mother-of-pearl.  Soft  glitter- 
ing gulden  hair  hung  loose  and  bright  over 
the  pillows,  and  framed  a  pale  but  lovely 
fiice.  In  the  lamp-light  the  face  looked 
Ijke  one  of  the  white  roses  I  had  passed. 

**  Pardon,  madame,*'  I  said. 

"  I  must  beg  yours,"  she  said,  in  correct 
baft  foreign  iSo^lish.  "  I  am  afraid  my 
dog  atta(S:ed  you." 

•*  He  is  a  very  good  guardian,"  I  replied ; 
""Init  I  had  no  idea  I  was  intruding  on  any 
one  as  I  was  pursmng  my  solitary  walk." 

** I  oame  hero  for  a  littie  fr^shair ;  when 


I  am  not  "well  there  is  something  soothing 
in  this  silence  and  solitude,  listening  to  the 
echoes  from  the  voices  and  music  yonder. 

At  that  moment,  even  as  she  spoke,  a 
burst  of  joyous  melody  was  wafled  on  the 
night  breeze  to  our  ears. 

"Is  it  not  lovely?"  she  said,  as  she 
clasped  her  white  hands  together  with  de- 
light like  a  cliild's.  "  Yes,  music  is  the  best 
part  of   all  our  festivals.     Do  you    like 


music  ?" 


"  Yes,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  love  it  too  much,"  she  sighed,  and 
leaned  back ;  "  but  then  I  have  been  de- 
prived of  it  for  years." 

"You  would  hear  it  better  from  the 
house." 

"  No,  I  am  best  here." 

By  this  time  the  dog  crept  out  from 
under  the  couch,  and  judging  from  the 
length  of  our  dialogue  that  my  presence 
was  not  hateful  to  his  mistress,  began  re- 
connoitring me  from  a  little  distance,  and 
then  trotted  up  and  licked  my  hand. 

"  He  has  made  friends  with  you." 

"  He  feels  that  I  am  not  so  suspicious 
a  character  as  I  seem." 

"  He  has  great  physiognomical  quickness, 
and  if  he  trusts  you,  you  may  take  it  as 
a  compliment." 

"  I  hope,  therefore,  that  with  the  certifi- 
cate of  liis  approval  you  will  pardon  my 
intrusion." 

"  Certainly." 

I  made  my  bow,  for  I  heard  steps  ap- 
proaching. The  French  secretary  bustled 
by  me  as  I  passed  on  to  the  house,  and  as 
I  turned  round  I  saw  he  was  making  his 
way  through  the  garden  to  the  kiosk.  I 
did  not  see  Caradoc  again  that  evening, 
but  as  we  were  breakfasting  the  next  morn- 
ing, I  asked  him  if  he  knew  the  lady  I  had 
been  talking  with  the  previous  evening.  I 
described  her  appearance  and  her  dog. 

"What,"  said  he,  "have  you  already 
made  acquaintance  with  the  Countess 
Irene  ?" 

I  could  not  for  the  life  of  me  help  a 
slight  quickening  of  the  pulse  as  I  asked, 
"  Who  is  the  Countess  Irene  ?" 

"  She  is  a  lady  staying  with  the  Mertons, 
a  rich  American  family  here.  They  live 
next  door  to  the  Austrian  Minister,  or 
rather  the  gardens  are  side  by  side." 

"  She  is  a  foreigner  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  Swede,  or  may  be  a  Russian, 
bless  her.  Her  family  name  is  Vassilli. 
It  tells  nothing  of  her  nationality.  She 
calls  herself  a  cosmopolitan." 

"  She  seems  a  g;teaV>  m^^i^^i?^ 


>> 


\ 


^ 


334      [September  4,  I860.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


"  Yes,  there  arc  the  most  romantic  stories 
afloat  about  her." 

"  Married,  or  a  widow  ?" 

"  Married,  but  separated  from  her  hus- 
band. It  is  supposed  that  some  ill-treat- 
ment from  him  caused  her  infirmity — a 
spinal  injury.     She  is  paralysed." 

"  Good  Heaven !" 

"A  thousand  pities,  is  it  not?  What 
she  would  be,  however,  if  she  had  the  ftdl 
use  of  her  limbs,  it  is  impossible  to  imagine, 
for  there  can  hardly  be  anything  more 
active,  more  energetic,  more  zealous  and 
persevering  than  she  is  in  her  present  con- 
dition. She  does  double  or  treble  the  work 
of  any  ordinary  woman.  I  fancy  there 
would  be  rather  too  much  of  it,  if  she  were 
as  able-bodied  as  she  is  restless  and  quick- 
witted— she  and  Sorrow." 

"  Sorrow !" 

"  I  forgot  for  the  moment  that  you  were 
80  new  a  comer  into  these  parts  as  not  to 
know  that  she  has  given  her  dog  as  odd  a 
name  as  people  give  her.  She  is  popularly 
called  The  Mermaid,  and  she  calls  her  dog 
Sorrow." 

I  now  understood  that  tbe  lady  was  the 
Mermaid,  respcctiog  whom  I  had  heard 
that  broken  talk  at  the  table-d*h6te. 

**  What  is  her  condition  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Tliat  is  exactly  what  one  can  never 
realise.  Her  eyes  are  so  bright,  her  brain 
so  busy,  her  hands  so  active,  that  one  feels 
inclined  to  suspect  it  is  only  a  temporary 
caprice  that  keeps  her  on  that  couch ;  that 
instead  of  having  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs, 
she  is  only  remaining  quiet  till  her  wings 
are  full  grown,  there  is  so  much  of  the 
'Psyche,  my  soul,'  about  her.  But  the 
consequence  is,  that  there  is  also  a  good 
deal  of  disappointment  to  be  gone  through 
on  her  account,  and  the  headlong  admirers 
of  to-day  are  often  changed  into  the  bitter 
detractors  of  to  -  nlorrow ;  but  you  will 
never  find  trwo  or  three  persons  gathered 
together  in  Constantinople  without  hearing 
her  name.  It  is  certain  that  those  who 
know  her  best  love  her  most.  The  Mer- 
tons  met  her  at  Ems,  and  were  so  fascinated 
by  her  that,  finding  she  was  coming  south 
for  her  health,  they  invited  her  to  join 
them,  and  thus  it  came  about  that  they 
live  together.  The  Mertons  and  Madame 
de  Beaufort,  their  daughter,  are  as  the 
opposite  poles,  however,  respecting  the 
countess.  Madame  de  Beaufort  hates  her ; 
Monsieur  do  Beaufort  is  her  devoted  ad- 
mirer, which  may  bo  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
perhaps." 

Three  months  passed  away,  and  I  was 


still  at  Constantinople.  The  news  fi^m  the 
seat  of  war  was  most  fluctuating  and  con- 
tradictory, and  it  is  possible  that  we  who 
were  supposed  to  be  at  the  head-quarters 
of  information  knew  less  than  was  known 
in  England  and  France.  Never  was  there 
such  a  cradle  of  serpent  intrigues  as  Con- 
stantinople at  that  time,  and  there  was  no 
Hercules  to  strangle  them.  Check  and 
counter- check,  thrust  and  feint  and  parry, 
were  the  order  of  the  day. 

I  was  interested  in  it  all,  but  I  did  not 
dare,  all  at  once,  to  whisper  to  myself  that 
there  was  one  being  who  interested  me 
more  than  aught  else.  The  day  after  our 
first  meeting  I  had  been  fomially  intro- 
duced to  the  Countess  Irene,  and  since  then 
I  had  seen  her  repeatedly. 

I  had  kept  a  little  aloof  at  first,  but  my 
grave,  distant  manner  seemed  to  please 
her,  and  she  frankly  showed  it.  I  am  sure 
it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  meet  with  a  man 
who  talked  to  her  without  any  flighty  rap- 
tures. I  was  so  disinterested,  too,  in  all 
the  diplomatic  fencing  going  on,  that  it 
gave,  I  know,  a  zest  to  all  our  conversa- 
tions.  We  talked  about  books,  not  gossip. 

I  found  her  highly  cultivated,  but  with 
the  cultivation  of  a  person  who  had  edn- 
cated  herself.  She  would  astonish  me  with 
pretty  ignorances,  and  then  suddenly  make 
me  marvel  still  more  at  her  knowledge. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  would  say,  langhin^y, 
"  that  what  I  have  learned  has  not  assimi- 
lated with  my  mental  constitution.  In 
some  respects  my  mind  is  in  an  atrofd^y, 
in  others  it  is  plethoric." 

"  But  you  are  so  young  to  have  devoted 
yourself  to  such  studies." 

"Young?  In  years  I  am  eight-and- 
twenty,  in  heart  I  am  seventy-eighty  and  in 
temperament  sixteen." 

It  was  these  contrasts  which  made  her  so 
winning. 

She  had  the  most  mobile  face  I  have  ever 
seen.  Large  dark-blue  eyes,  with  at  times 
a  violet^  at  times  a  steely  iron-grey,  tinge 
in  them,  small  regular  features,  and  a  gloiy 
of  golden  hair.  This  hair  was  quite  un- 
earthly in  its  lightness  and  brighfaaess.  It 
was  a  glittering  fleece ;  it  was  a  flake  of 
spun  glass;  it  was  an  aureole  powdered 
with  diamond-dust !  It  seemed  to  have 
spring  and  volition  of  its  own,  and  eiUier 
hung  round  her  shoulders  like  a  smilii 
cloud,  or  wreathed  round  her  head  like  ft 
nimbus. 

She  was  carried  on  her  oouoh  into  thd 
drawing-rooms  of  the  houses  where  she 
visited,  and  this  couch  was  always  ibB 


=4 


A 


:&. 


Gharies  Dlckeni.] 


SORROW  AND   THE   MERMAID.  [September 4, 1869]       335 


centre  of  attraction  in  the  room.  Some- 
thing more  than  the  superficial  conrtesj  of 
society  was  shown  to  her.  Her  misfortunes 
invested  her  with  a  pathos  which  inspired 
tenderness  towards  hor  in  all  who  ap- 
proached her. 

Women — ^Madame  do  Beanfort  always 
excepted — adored  her.  They  petted  her 
and  worshipped  her,  and  list^ed  to  her  as 
to  an  oracle.  She  received  their  confidences 
with  the  softest  sympatliy  and  the  most 
genial  interest,  though  I  have  seen  at  such 
times  a  shade  of  melancholy  overspread  her 
perfect  face,  as  if  she  could  not  but  contrast 
her  miserable  fate  with  theirs.  The  un- 
quenchable desires  of  life  and  youth  were 
^1  living  in  her  brain  and  heart,  but  the 
passionate  soul  was  imprisoned  in  a  dead 
body.  No  one  ever  heard  a  complaint  from 
her  lips.  She  was  eagerly  interested  in 
public  news,  and  attaches  and  secretaries 
woold  throng  around  her  bringing  her  the 
latest  intelligence,  and  it  was  said  that 
even  the  grecUiest  diplomatic  authorities  did 
not  disdain  pausing  by  her  couch  when 
present  at  any  entertainment  where  she  was, 
to  listen  to  her  animated  and  suggestive 
remarks. 

I  often  met  her  during  my  early  walks, 
and  soon  she  permitted  mc  to  walk  some- 
times beside  her  litter,  or  to  take  Sorrow 
for  a  run  while  she  and  her  bearers  rested. 

"How  fond  my  dog  is  of  you,  Mr. 
Eden,*'  she  said,  one  day. 

"  Yes,  and  I  like  him,  too.  I  like  every- 
thing about  him  but  his  name.*' 

She  sighed  as  I  said  this. 

"  How  could  you,**  I  continued — "  you 
who  are  so  simple  and  genuine  in  every- 
thing^— giv©  bim  such  a  name  ?*' 

"  Why  do  you  disHke  it  ?** 

"  Because  there  is  a  false  sentiment  in  it 
which  jars  on  me." 

"False  sentiment?  Surely  everything 
belonging  to  me ** 

"  Why  do  you  check  yourself?** 

"I  do  not  like  speaking  of  myself.*' 

**  Did  you  give  him  his  name  ?" 

"No!" 

"Then  pray  change  it." 

"I  cannot  do  that.*' 

"  Was  the  name  given  to  him  by  some 
one  you  love  ?" 

"Yes." 

A  faint  blush  rose  to  her  ttmples,  and 
her  eyes  deepened  into  blue  as  a  tender 
reverential  expression  rose  in  them.  After 
my  question  and  her  monosyllabic  answer 
there  was  silence  between  us.  The  air 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  chill ;  she 


dropped  the  curtains  of  her  litter,  and  wo 
parted  at  the  gates  of  the  Mortons'  house. 

I  thought  I  was  getting  a  little  tired  of 
Constantinople,  for  I  felt  very  dull  all  that 
day. 

In  the  evening  I  intended  to  stay  at 
home,  but  was  persuaded  by  Caradoc  to  go 
with  him  to  the  French  attache's.  I  did  not 
tell  myself  that  I  consented  the  more  readily 
that  his  was  almost  the  only  house  in  Pera 
where  I  knew  I  should  not  meet  the 
Countess  Irene. 

M.  do  Beaufort  had  a  private  fortune  of 
his  own,  and,  though  ho  occupied  no  very 
high  rank  in  diplomacy,  was  able  to  live  in 
good  deal  of  luxurious  stylo  in  this  most 
barbaiic  and  yet  expensive  capital. 

The  rooms  were  well  arranged  arid  spa- 
cious, but  the  unhappiness  and  division 
between  the  husband  and  wife  had  im- 
pressed itself  upon  everything  around  them. 
On  entering  it,  one  felt  that  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place  was  dreary  and  harsh. 

Both  husband  and  wife  had  a  worn,  re- 
pressed look.  The  two  sat  in  the  same 
room,  only  a  table's  width  apart,  but  their 
hearts,  their  thoughts,  their  feelings,  were 
evidently  wide  asunder. 

The  company  had  broken  up  into  little 
knots  and  were  scattered  about  the  room. 
They  were  speaking  of  some  changes  in  the 
corps  diplomatique,  then  of  some  rumours 
of  bad  news  from  Sebastopol,  some  faint 
whisperings  of  differences  of  opinion  as  to 
the  termination  of  the  war — further  off 
than  ever  according  to  some,  imminent  as 
to  others. 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  madamo  ?"  said 
some  one,  addressing  Madamo  de  Beaufort. 

"  I  scarcely  venture  to  give  it,"  sho  said. 
"  It  would  be  difficult  to  unravel  the  in- 
trigues on  every  side,  or  to  obtain  a  clue  as 
to  the  probable  result  of  it  all.  Of  one  thing  I 
am  satisfied,  that  Russian  spies  and  Russian 
machinations  are  evcrvwhero." 

Pi'esently  De  Beaufort  went  out,  and  the 
visitors  began  to  leave. 

Some  one  asked  for  the  master  of  tho 
house. 

"  He  has  gone  to  tho  Mortons." 

A  faint  smile  might  be  read  on  some  of 
tho  faces  in  spite  of  the  usual  settled 
vacuity  of  expression  habitual  to  them. 

"  Are  you  going  ?**  I  asked  Madame  do 
Beaufoii:,  more  by  way  of  filling  up  an  un- 
comfortable silence,  than  fi-om  any  other 
motive. 

"No.  But  doubtless  you  are  going  to 
mamma's  reception  to-night  ?" 

"  I  am  not  indeed." 


<A 


336 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Soptember  4, 1860  J 


/ 


"  No  ?    You  amaze  me !" 

Madame  de  Beaufort  was  a  plain  wo- 
man, bnt  she  had  steadfast  honest  eyes,  and 
she  now  raised  them  to  mine  with  a  quick 
inquiring  glance.  She  had  leaped  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  was  disillusion^  as  to 
Irene.     By  this  time  we  were  alone. 

"  Do  you  not  at  last  agree  with  me  that 
papa  and  mamma  have  been  grossly  de- 
ceived?" she  asked  me. 

"  Pardon  me,  by  no  means." 

"You  are  right  to  be  cautious,"  she  re- 
torted, with  provoking  scorn  in  her  tone. 

"  Why  should  I  be  cautious  ?" 

"  Who  knows  ?"  she  answered  petulantly. 
**  There  may  be  listeners ;  we  may  be  over- 
heard. I  never  feel  safe,  even  in  my  own 
house.  I  trust  it  may  be  reserved  to  me  to 
unmask  one  of  the  most  infamous  hypo- 
crites the  world  has  ever  been  deceived 
by."  She  said  this  in  a  subdued  voice; 
but  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  the  water 
came  to  her  eyes  with  the  energy  with 
which  she  spoke. 

Her  manner  and  tone  appalled  me.  I 
had  tried  to  speak  as  if  in  jest,  but  there 
was  a  deadly  vehemence  about  her  which 
made  the  jest  pointless.  Detective  ?  She 
was  more  like  a  Nemesis  than  anything 
else. 

Good  God !  how  little  I  dreamed  what 
would  be  the  final  result  of  her  suspicions. 

The  result  of  this  dialogue  was  to  efface 
the  temporary  irritation  against  Irene  which 
our  little  discussion  as  to  her  dog*s  name 
had  caused.  I  felt  I  could  have  laid  down 
my  life  to  attest  the  truth  and  purity  of 
hers.  As  Balzac,  with  his  profound  know- 
ledge of  human  nature,  makes  one  of  his 
heroes  say  of  a  calumniated  heroine,  "  I 
will  love  her  more  and  more  to  compensate 
to  her  for  all  those  who  have  misjudged  her 
and  blamed  her." 

The  next  morning  we  did  not  take  our 
usual  walk,  for  by  some  accident  I  was 
later  than  usual,  and  the  Countess  Irene 
had  already  been  carried  down  to  one  of  the 
ships  in  the  harbour  when  I  reached  her 
house.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  sometimes 
varying  her  morning  excursions  by  going 
on  board  one  or  other  of  the  numerous 
vessels  stationed  at  Constantinople  at  that 
time.  It  was  good  for  her  health  to  remain 
for  an  hour  or  two  on  deck,  inhaling  the 


sea  breezes.     She  went  by  daybreak,  and 
returned  for  the  Mertons*  breakfeist  hour. 
I   sometimes  accompanied    her,   but   this 
morning,  as  I  stood  on  the  steps  of  the 
quay,  I  saw  the  boat  with  the  litter  in  it 
had  reached  the  man-of-waf  she  intended 
to  visit  that  morning.     A  gleam  of  the 
early  sunlight  fell  on  her  glittering  coverlet 
as  she  was  borne  up  in  the  arms  of  the 
sailors.     There  were  some  idlers  standing 
by  me.     Their  eyes  had  caught  the  same 
glimmer.     One  poor  fellow  uncovered  him- 
self and  muttered  in  the  lingua  Franca  of 
the  place  something  which  sounded  very 
like  a  prayer.   The  others  spoke  with  great 
feeling  about  her.      There  was  a  single- 
hearted  fervour  of  gratitude  in  their  ex- 
pressions which  showed  how  great  had  been 
her  kindness  to  them.     She  had  built  ft 
hospital,   and  established  more  than  one 
school  in  Constantinople  since  her  arrival 

" Grod  has  afflicted  her,"  said  one;  "bnt 
if  the  day  of  miracles  be  not  passed,  and 
our  priest  tells  us  it  has  never  passed  and 
will  never  pass,  she  will  be  h^ed,  for  I 
never  forget  her  in  my  prayers." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  another,  "being as 
she  is,  wo  can  all  take  care  of  her  and  help 
her." 

They  were  rough  sailors  who  thus  spoke, 
but  their  voices  were  very  tender. 

Now  Heady,  price  5s.  6d.,  bound  in  green  clofli, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

ov  TUB  New  Sbsibs  ow 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  had  of  all  Bookeellen. 

MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  REA0INQ8. 

MESSBS.  CHAPPELL  afd  CO.  hayo  great  plMfOt 
in  announcing  that  Mb.  Chablbs  Dioubs,  haTug  not 
time  since  become  perfectly  restored  to  health,  will  !•• 
sumo  and  conclude  his  interrupted  series  of  FARE- 
WELL SEADINGS  at  St.  James's  Hall,  Londoi, 
early  in  the  New  Year. 

The  Readings  wHl  be  TwBLyB  in  ^uusMR,  and  dob0 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

In  redemption  of  Mb.  Dickbks's  pledge  to  thof* 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  theatrical  pin^eMon  who 
addressed  hmi  on  the  subject,  there  will  be  Two  MoiS* 
iNO  Readings,  one  on  Friday,  January  14,  and  one  oi 
Friday,  January  21,  1870.  The  EyssiBO  RbadhW 
will  take  place  on  Tuesdays,  January  11, 18, 25 ;  FeW 
ruory  1,  8,  15,  22 ;  March  1,  8,  and  15.  The  PrieasaBi 
all  other  arrangements  will  be  as  before.  The  annooneei 
number  of  Bei^ings  will  on  no  aooount  be  exceeded. 

All  communications  to  be  addressed  to  MtMOL 
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YEROmCA, 


Is  FiTE  Books. 


BOOK    L 


CHAPTEB  XI.     Sm  JOHN  IB  DISCDSSED. 

DuBiNO  the  first  fojir  or  five  years  of 
Hand  Desmond's  stay  at  Shipley,  Lady 
TklliB  had  writt«ii  seTeml  times  to  Mr. 
Levinconrt,  asking  news  of  her  niece,  and 
pcnmog  ont  tidings  of  her  own  tronbles 
and  injnries  in  long,  tangled  skeins  of  sen- 
tences, wherein  verbs  and  their  nominative 
were  involved  together  in  ineitricablo 
sion.  Moreover,  as  sho  wrot«  with 
very  paSe  ink,  on  very  thin  paper,  and 
crossed  each  page  of  writing,  the  trouble  of 
deciphering  her  epistles  speedily  became  a 
greater  one  than  Mr.  Levinconrt  was  willing 
te  give  himself. 

Her  ladyship's  mode  of  expressing  her- 
iclf  was  singnlarly  enigmatical.  This  did 
not  arise  from  any  intention  of  being  mys- 
terions,  bat  simply  from  what  the  vicar 
Btyled  "  puzzle- headed ness,"  and  from  a 
Conception  of  the  grammatical  construction 
of  the  English  language  considerably  at 
TBrionce  with  the  beat  authorities. 

lady  Tallis  invariably  wrote  of  her  hus- 
bwd  as  "  he."  This  was  intelligible  until 
xme  other  male  individual  requiring  the 
•une  personal  pronoun  appeared  in  the 
letter.  But  when  that  other  individual — 
■whoever  he  might  be — had  to  be  mon- 
tioned,  the  difficulty  of  diatingnishing  the 
"he's"  became  considerable. 

Add  to  this  that  every  word  which  could 
be  abbreviated  was  cut  down  to  two  or 
three  letters:  "which"  became  wh, 
"your"  yr,  "morning"  mrg,  and  so  forth. 
A*  though  time  and  letter-paper  were  ao 


itimably  precious  to  the  writer  that 
they  must  be  economised  at  all  hazards. 
Though,  in  truth,  she  had  quite  as  much 
both  of  the  one  and  the  other  as  she  knew 
what  to  do  with. 

Jfr,  Levinconrt  would  glance  at  the  be- 
ginning and  tbo  end,  and  then  wonld 
up  the  letter,  saying  to  himself,  as  ho  pli 
it  in  his  desk,  that  be  would  read  it  carefully 
"bv-and-by." 

As  years  went  on  the  commnnieationg 
between  Lady  Tallis  and  the  lamily  at 
vicarage  grew  rarer  and  rarer.  Her  1. 
ship  was  travelling  about.  The  town- 
house  was  let  on  a  long  lease.  Her  address 
was  uncertain.  It  became  more  and  r 
apparent — or  would  have  become  ao,  to  any 
one  taking  the  trouble  to  consider  tho  poor 
lady's  epistles  with  patience  and  sympathy 
— that  her  married  life  was  wretched.  She 
would,  she  said,  very  gladly  have  received 
her  niece  for  a  while,  but  "  circnmstanoes 
forbade  her  doing  so."  What  those  cir- 
cumstances wore,  tho  vicar  knew  with 
tolerable  accuracy. 

Veronica,  too,  had  learned  from  her 
mother  more  of  Lady  Tallis 's  history  than 
■was  known  to  Maud.  Mrs.  Levincourt  bad 
often  eicpressed  her  contempt  for  Lady 
Tallis's  weakness  in  submitting  to  bo 
crushed  and  tyrannised  over  by  her  hus- 
band, and  had  said  that  the  woman  must 
be  an  imbecile ! 

Veronica  was  inclined  to  think  so  too. 

Occasionally  Maud  had  spoken  of  her 
aunt  to  tho  vicar.  "  I  shonld  like  to  see 
Aunt  Hilda,"  she  had  said.  "  She  is  the  only 
one  left  of  dear  mamma's  relatives.     And 

I  know  mamma  loved  her  very  much." 

Then   the   vicar  had  explMned  that  al- 
though Mrs.  Desmond  loved  her  sister,  fttift 
by  no  mcane  lovci  ov  es>tcem.<i6.\iCT 'ift?.'«iT'*N 
bnsbond :  and  tiiaiL  ^exe  ■«*«  ixo  ■^oftsiffi*! 

II  _  I    ml  I  I        ^ 

4l\ 


^ 


S3S      CSeptMftbn  U,  MM.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUNIX 


CCoodaaitdty 


// 


of  MandTs  dew  re  to  see  her  annt  being 
gratified,  unless  Lady  Tikllis  sliioild  coqm 
to  Sfcipley-in-the-WoMb. 

Once  ]yfoiid  had  said  %  few  ifcvd^  io 
Yeroniea  am  th»  subject. 

"I  can  "Dsndcrstand  plainly,"  said  she, 
"that  poor  Annt  Hilda  is  very  liarshly 
treated,  and  very  mnch  to  be  pitied.  Dur- 
ing dear  mamma's  life-time,  I  was,  of 
cocirse,  too  mere  a  child  to  know  aajtfanig 
aboQjt  it.  I  remember  once,  Annt  Hilda 
caiQ»  to  see  mamma ;  and  she  cried  and 
talked  very  excitedly,  and  mamma  sent  me 
out  of  the  room." 

"I  think,"  answered  Veronica,  "that 
Lady  Tallis's  history  may  be  snnamed  up 
in  a  few  words.  She  was  good-natured 
and  weak.  Her  husband  was  bad-natured 
and  strong.     Ecco !" 

"  But  1  wonder  why  he  does  not  love 
her  I  Aunt  Hilda  had  beauty  and  gentle 
birth  and  a  kind  sweet  nature." 

"  I  believe,  Maud,  that  men  love  what 
amuses  them.  Now  it  is  possible  to  bo 
handsome,  and  well-bom,  and  good-natured, 
and  yet  to  bore  people  to  death." 

when,  during  the  first  day  of  her  stay 
at  Lowater  House,  Maud  discovered  that 
Mr.  Lockwood  knew  her  aunt,  she  asked 
liim  many  questions  about  her. 

"  I  am  unfortunately  not  able  to  tell  you 
as  much  of  Lady  Tallis  as  my  mother  would 
be,"  answered  Hugh  Lockwood- 

"  Mrs.  Lockwood  and  my  aunt  were  quite 
intimate,  were  they  not  ?" 

"  They  lived  in  the  same  boarding  house 
at  Torquay  for  some  time.  My  mother 
was  an  mvalid,  and  had  been  advised  to  go 
to  Devonshire  for  the  winter.  Lady  Tallis 
was  there  alone ;  so  was  my  mother ;  and 
they  found  each  other's  society  more  con- 
genial than  tliat  of  the  rest  of  the  people 
in  the  house." 

"  And  Aunt  Hilda  was  quite  alone  ?" 

"  Quite  alone.  At  first  we  supposed  her 
to  be  a  widow ;  but  after  a  short  time  she 
became  very  confidential  with  my  mother, 
and  explained  that  her  husband  was  still 
living,  but  that — that — ^her  marriage  was 
not  a  fortunate  or  happy  one.  You  must 
understand.  Miss  Desmond,"  proceeded 
Hugh,  seeing  Maud's  countenance  fall,  and 
the  colom*  flush  into  her  cheek,  "  that  Lady 
Tallis  volunteered  this  statement.  My 
mother,  however,  has  a  singular  power  of 
winning  confidence.  It  has  more  than  once 
happened  to  her  to  receive  the  most  curious 
particulars  of  their  private  history,  fi-om 
almost  total  strangers.  I  think  that  if  you 
kneir  her,  jou  would  not  distrust  her." 


^1  never  distrust  people,"  answered 
Msad,  looking  up  candidly  into  his  fkee* 
Thm  a  thou|g;fa[t  cMue  into  her  mind,  and 
Bhe  addtd  hastily,  ^  Not  quite,  tuver ;  of 
eovrso  I  am  bomid  in  conscience  to  owb 
that  there  arc  some  fkces,  and  tapccially 
some  voices,  which  inspire  me  vfith  difr> 
trust;  perhaps  unjustly." 

She  was  sitting  alone  with  her  hostess 
next  evoning  ^enare  dinner.  The  twilight 
still  struggled  with  the  blaze  of  the  &re. 
It  was  that  peaceful  hour  between  day  and 
night,  when  old  people  ore  apt  to  dream  of 
the  past,  and  young  people  of  the  fdtnre. 

"Maud,"  said  Ifas.  Sheardown,  "  do  you 
know  when  your  guardian's  guest  is  to 
take  his  departure  ?" 

"  Not  certainly.  As  soon  as  he  was  well 
enough  to  travel,  he  said,  when  I  left  the 
vicarage.  That  is  vagaey  of  com*se.  But 
I  should  think  he  might  go  by  tliis  time." 

"  That  sounds  a  Uttle  like  '  I  wish  he 
would  go.' " 

"  Does  it  ?" 

"You  don't  like  this  Sir  John  Gale, 
Maud.  Have  you  any  reason  for  not  liking 
him,  or  has  he  one  of  those  fiices  or  voices 
which  inspire  you  with  distrust  P  rU 
make  a  confession,  Maud.  I  have  a  straage 
distrust  of  this  man,  ajid  with  less  cxciue 
than  you ;  fi>r  I  have  never  spoken  to,  nor 
even  seen,  hina.  It  is  ono  of  what  I  call 
my  prescntimenjbs,  and  what  Tom  calls  my 
unreasonable  feminine  prejudices  I  I  Tnrish 
the  man  were  fairly  away  out  of  the  vicajcage. 
Does  Mr.  Levincourt  like  him  ?" 

"  Very  much.  Uncle  Charles  finds  him 
amusing,  and  able  to  talk  upon  subjects 
which  my  guardian  seljdom  has  an  oppor- 
tunity of  discussing." 

"And  Miss  Lcvincom»t — does  she  like 
him  too?" 

"  Oh Yes :  I  think  so." 

"That  he  admires  her,  is  a  matter  of 
course.     She  is  very  handsonoe." 

"  Veronica  has  the  most  beautiful  fiice  I 
know." 

"  Yes,  she  is  strikingly  handsome.  Our 
young  fnend,  Hugh  Lockwood,  was  quite 
captivated  by  her  beauty  the  other  even* 
ing." 

"Yes." 

"  I  warned  him  not  to  bum  his  wings, 
for  I  do  not  tliink  a  poor  man  would  have 
much  chance  with  Miss  Levincourt" 

"  N— no— I  don't  know." 

*'  I  don't  say  that  she  would  be  deliho- 
ratcly  mercenaiy — only— only  I  don't  tliink 
she  would  happen  to  fell  in  love  with  a 
poor  man." 


Sii 


GbiriM  Dlcktns.] 


VERONICA. 


[Septembor  11, 1SC9.]      339 


"Dear  Mrs.  Sheardown,  I  always  cite 
you  as  one  of  the  most  just  persons  I  know. 
But — don't  be  angry  with  me — I  do  think 
you  are  a  little  unjust  to  Veronica." 

*'  Am  I  ?     I  will  try  not  to  be,  Maudie." 

"  It  would  seom  presumptuous  in  me  to 
talk  to  you  in  this  way,  only  that  I,  of 
course,  know  Veronica  so  thoroughly. 
She  has  fine  qualities ;  indeed  she  has." 

**  She  has,  at  all  events,  one  good  quality, 
which  I  am  willing  to  admit ;  she  is  fond 
of  yon,  I  truly  believe." 

"  Indeed  she  is,  Mrs.  Sheardown.  And 
yoa  don't  know  how  I  try  her.  I  lecture 
otr  and  scold  her  sometimes,  terribly.  And 
jcm  know  I  am  two  yeara  younger  than 
ahe  is.  And  yet  she  bears  it  all  so  well. 
I  am  sure  thai  if  Veronica  loved  only 
flMtterers,  she  would  detest  me." 

^Who  is  it  that  does  not  detest  Miss 
Desmond  P"  demanded  Captun  Sheardown, 
entering  the  room  at  this  moment  with 
Mr.  Hugh  Lockwood. 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  his  wife ;  "  the 
feference  you  h«Effd  on  coming  in  concerned' 
needier  you  nor  Mr.  Lockwood." 

*  We  have  been  to  Shiplcy-in-the-Wold, 

"What  took  you  to  Shipley-in-the- 
Wdd?" 

**  Captain  Sheardown  was  kind  enoneh 
to  go,  partly  on  my  account,"  said  Hugh. 
^  I  wanted  to  have  a  look  at  the  church 
iiiere ;  and  as  we  are  to  go  to  Danecester 
fbr  tlie  Sunday  service  at  the  cathedral,  I 
thought  I  mig^t  not  have  another  oppor^ 
timity  of  seeing  St.  GKldas,  which  is  curious, 
and  veiy  complete  in  its  way." 

^  Had  I  known  we  were  going  to  Shipley, 
Miw  Desmond,"  said  the  captain,  '*  I 
ahonld  have  asked  if  you  had  any  com- 
mands to  give  me.  But  we  only  made  up 
our  minds  to  push  on  when  we  were  already 
&  good  mile  on  the  road.  This  voung  gentle- 
waajt  found  my  description  or  St.  Gildas's 
church  irresistibly  attractive.  He  was 
niher  disappointed  when  I  told  him  I  was 
going  to  call  at  the  vicarage.  But  he 
consoled  himself  with  the  hope  that  Miss 
Levincourt  might  not  be  at  home." 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Sheardown,"  said 
Hugh,  turning  to  his  hostess  with  a  vehc- 
uent  earnestness  that  made  her  smile :  "  I 
assure  you  that  I  did  not  even  know,  until 
we  were  within  sight  of  the  vicarage  house, 
that  Miss  Levincourt  lived  there !  If  I  had 
been  told,  I  had  forgotten." 

"  Did  you  see  Uncle  Charles  ?"  asked 
Hand  of  Captain  Sheardown. 

**  Ko;  ihere  was  no  one  at  home.     The 


vicar  was  at  Haymoor  on  parish  busLaess, 
and  Miss  Levincourt  was  out  walking." 

"  Then,"  continued  Maud,  "  you  £d  not 
see  Veronica  ?" 

"  Stop  a  bit !  We  had  left  our  cards  at 
the  vicaragfc,  and  had  walked  to  St.  Gildas 
and  thoroughly  inspected  that  veir  squat 
specimen  of  Saxon  archit'ecture — on  yes,  I 
diare  say  it  isn't  Saxon  at  all,  Hugh,  but 
never  mind ! — Miss  Desmond  does  not  know 
any  better! — and  we  were  crossing  the 
churchyard,  when  whom  should  we  see  but 
Miss  Levincourt  and  Sir — Sir — ^what  is  the 
man's  name  ?" 

"  Sir  John  Gale,"  said  his  wife,  gravely. 

''  Of  course !  Sir  John  Gale !  Hugh  saw 
them  first." 

"  Miss  Levincourt  wore  a  red  cloak,  and 
the  colour  caught  my  eye,"  Hugh  ex- 
plained. 

**'  Something  caught  your  eye  ?'  Tes,  and 
fixed  it,  moreover !  For  it  was  your  intense 
gaze  that  made  me  look  iir  the  direction  of 
the  common.  And  there  I  saw  Miss  Le- 
vincourt and  Sir  Thingumbob  strolEng 
along  arm-in-arm. 

"  The  dressing-ben  has  rune,  Tom," 
said  Mrs.  Sheardown,  rising  from  her  chair. 

"  All  right,  Nelly.  But  I  was  surprised 
to  see  such  a  young-looking  man !  I  fan- 
cied he  was  quite  an  old  fogey !" 

"  No ;"  said  Maud,  "  he  is  not  what  one 
would  call  an  old  fogey.  Did  Veronica  see 
you.  Captain  Sheardown  ?" 

"  We  walked  half  across  the  common  to 
have  the  honour  of  accosting  Miss  Levin- 
court. Hugh  sacrificed  his  inclination  to 
a  sense  of  politeness.  Miss  Veronica  re- 
ceived us  very  graciously,  wanted  us  to 
go  back  to  the  vicarage;  but  Sir  John 
looked  uncommonly  black.  I  don't  think 
he  half  liked  being  interrupted  in  his 
t^te-^t^te.     And  upon  my  word " 

"  Please  go  and  dress,  Tom,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Sheardown.  "  And  you,  too,  Mr.  Lock- 
wood.      Tou  will  both  be  late,  as  it  is." 

While  the  captain  was  finishing  his 
toilet,  his  wife  came  into  his  dressing-room, 
and  said,  '*  Oh  you  blundering,  tiresome 
Tom!" 

"  What  have  I  done  now  ?"  asked  Cap- 
tain Sheardown,  wheeling  round  with  a 
huge  hair-brush  in  each  hand. 

*'  I  didn't  want  you  to  talk  about  that 
man  before  Maud." 

"  What  man  ?" 

"  That  Sir  John  Gale." 

"  Why  upon  earth  shouldn't  I  ?" 

"  Well,  it  does  not  so  much  matter  your 
speaking  about  him,  «ia  co\r^Vai^\^aTawaft 


cS= 


340      [September  11,18690 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondactedby 


with  Veronica's.  It  makes  Maud  uneasy. 
I  always  knew  Veronica  to  be  a  flirt ;  but, 
upon  my  word,  I  think  her  conduct  with 
this  man  passes  all  limits.  What  is  the 
vicar  about  ?  He  knows  nothing  whatever 
of  this  man  with  whom  he  lets  his  daughter 
wander  about  the  country." 

"  Gently,  Nelly !  They  were  not  wan- 
dering about  the  country.  They  were 
taking  an  afternoon  stroll  within  sight  of 
her  father's  house." 

"  It's  aU  the  same !" 

"  Not  quite,  my  dear." 

"  Tom,  would  you  like  your  daughter  to 
do  so  ?" 

"  My  dear  Nelly,  if  you  are  speaking 
serioudy " 

"  Quite  seriously." 

"  Then,  seriously,  I  think  you  are  making 
a  mountain  of  a  molehill.  The  man  is  not 
a  pleasant-looking  fellow,  though  I  suppose 
he  is  handsome  after  a  fEishion.  Neither 
was  he  particularly  civil  in  his  manner.  I 
dare  say  he  thinks  himself  a  very  magni- 
ficent three-tailed  bashaw.  But,  afler  all, 
neither  his  looks  nor  his  manners  constitute 
a  crime.  And  if  the  vicar  and  his  daughter 
are  satisfied,  I  don't  think  we  have  any 
business  to  object." 

"Why  should  Sir  John  (}ale  linger  at 
Shipley  ?  He  is  quite  well  enough  to  travel. 
Maud  was  saying " 

"  Oh,  it  is  Maud  who  has  been  putting 
this  into  your  head  ?" 

"  No.  But  she  distrusts  and  dislikes  the 
man.  I  am  not  fond  of  Veronica  Levin- 
court,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  I 
ought  to  hold  out  a  hand  of  womanly  help 
to  her — ought  to  give  her  a  word  of  counsel. 
The  girl  is  motherless,  and  in  spite  of  all 
her  self-confidence,  we  must  remember  that 
she  is  but  nineteen.  I  wish  I  had  invited 
her  here  with  Maud !  But,  to  say  the  truth, 
I  was  afiraid  of  Hugh  Lockwood  getting 
entangled  by  her.  He  was  greatly  taken 
with  her  beauty.  And  her  love  of  admira- 
tion would  lead  her  to  encourage  him 
without  the  smaUest  compimction." 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  captain, 
"  this  Sir  John  Gule  will  be  gone  in  a  few 
days  and " 

"  Is  he  going  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure !  Oh  I  forgot  to  tell 
you.  His  man — a  little  foreign  fellow, 
who  opened  the  door  to  us  at  the  vicarage 
— said  that  his  master  would  be  leaving 
Shipley  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

"  Oh  how  relieved  and.  glad  I  am  !  Tou 
stupid  boy,  not  to  tell  me  that,  the  very 
£r3t  thing  r 


"  So  you  see,  you  need  not  attempt  the 
very  disagreeable  duty  of  giving  a  word  of 
counsel  to  Miss  Levincourt." 

"  Disagreeable  enough !  And  ten  to  one 
I  should  have  done  no  good  by  it.  Well, 
Sir  John  is  going,  and  it  is  all  smooth 
Maud  will  be  delighted  to  get  rid  of  him." 

**I  cannot  understand  why  you  two 
should  take  such  a  hatred  to  tiie  man, 
though!  As  for  you,  Mrs.  NeUy,  you 
know  simply  nothing  whatever  about  him. 
He  may  be  a  model  of  manly  virtue  for 
anything  you  can  tell." 

"  I  hardly  think  that  a  boon  companion 
of  Lord  George  Segrave's  is  likely  to  be 
that !  But  I  am  willing  to  allow  him  every 
virtue  under,  the  sun  if  he  wiU  only  relieve 
Shipley  vicarage  of  his  presence." 

"  There's  the  dinner-belL  Come  along, 
you  illogical,  prejudiced,  unreasonable- 
dear  little  woman !" 

CHAPTER  XII.      THE  VICAB  IS  NOT  ALABMED. 

Rain,  rain,  rain!  It  poured  down  on 
the  open  roads.  It  plashed  and  dripped 
from  gutter  and  gargoyle.  It  sank  de^ 
into  Sie  miry  uplands,  and  covered  the 
marsh-rushes  on  the  wide  flats  with  beaded 
pearls. 

The  sun  went  down  amid  clouds  thai 
looked  like  dun  smoke  reddened  by  the 
reflex  of  a  distant  conflagration. 

Splash,  splash,  from  the  slated  eaveff 
came  the  water-drops  on  to  the  evergreens 
outside  the  sitting-room  window  at  Shipley 
vicarage.     Splash,  splash,  splash  ! 

The  log  hissed  in  the  chimney.  They 
always  crowned  their  coal  fire  with  a  log 
of  wood  at  the  vicarage  of  an  evening. 
It  was  a  custom  which  Stella  Levincourt 
had  brought  with  her  from  foreign  part8» 
She  said  she  liked  the  smell  of  the  wood. 

Not  that  the  pimgent,  acrid  odour  was 
grateful  in  her  nostrils ;  not  that  the  Una 
flame  leaped  brighter  than  the  deep  glow 
&om  the  steady  coal;  no;  not  for  these 
reasons  did  the  economical  housewife  (who 
had  learned  to  cherish  a  sixpence  with  the 
lingering  grip  that  had  been  wont  to  caress  ■ 
her  Tuscan  paul)  insist  on  the  extravagance  I 
of  a  log  of  wood  upon  the  evening  fire.        \ 

It  was  the  memory  of  her  youth  that  \ 
she  loved,  and  to  which  she  o£fered  this  | 
burnt-sacrifice.     Phantoms  of  old  days  re- 
visited her  in  the  pale  grey  smoke  that 
curled  up   on  her  hearth- stone,   like  the 
smoke  of  the  Tuscan  fires,  fer  away. 

And  the  custom  survived  her.  It  was 
continued  on  the  same  ostensible  ground 
as  that  on  which  she  had  commenced  ii 


«*: 


^h 


OhftilM  Diokeni.] 


VEROOTCA. 


[September  11, 1869.]      341 


The  vicar  "  liked  the  smell  of  the  wood." 
Veronica  "thought  the  bright  flame  so 
mnch  prettier  than  the  nasty  coal-gas,  that 
flared,  and  glared,  and  scorched  one." 

The  vicar  of  Shipley-in-the-Wold  sat 
alone  by  his  hearth.  He  was  depressed, 
and  a  little  out  of  humour.  His  guest 
had  left  him,  and  the  vicar  missed  his 
evening  chat. 

Maud  was  still  at  Lowater,  and  Veronica 
bad  gone  to  pay  a  long-promised  visit  to 
old  Mrs.  Plew,  the  surgeon's  mother. 

"  Mrs.  Plew  has  asked  me  to  drink  tea 
with  her  so  .often,"  Veronica  had  said.  "  I 
ought  to  go.  I  will  walk  over  there  after  the 
afternoon  practice  in  the  school-room." 

The  vicar  had  made  no  opposition  at  the 
time.  But  now  that  he  was  alone,  he  began 
to  think  himself  hardly  used.  Veronica 
could  stay  at  home,  evening  after  evening, 
while  there  was  a  stranger  in  the  house. 
But  she  cared  nothing  for  her  father's 
society.  She  never  considered  that  he 
might  feel  solitary.  She  had  declared  her- 
self to  be  moped  to  death,  and  so  had  gone 
out  to  seek  a  change.  Selfish,  selfish !  How 
selfish  and  inconsiderate  people  were ! 

Splash,  splash,  splash,  fell  the  drops 
fi*om  the  slates  of  the  roof.  On  the  garden 
the  spring  rain  was  falling,  fine  and  close. 
Now  and  again  came  the  west  wind,  flying 
&8t,  and  with  a  swoop  of  his'  wings 
scattered  the  trembling  drops,  and  dashed 
them  against  the  window-panes. 

Each  time  that  the  vicar  heard  the  rain 
pattering  against  the  glass  he  looked  up 
firom  his  book  and  moved  uneasilv  in  his 
ehair.  Sometimes  he  stirred  me  fire. 
Sometimes  he  moved  his  reading  lamp. 
Once  he  rose,  went  to  the  window,  drew 
back  the  curtains  and  put  his  face  close 
to  the  glass.  There  was  not  much  to  be 
seen.  As  his  eyes  got  used  to  the  darkness 
he  could  distinguish  the  outline  of  the 
old  yew-tree,  solidly  black,  against  the 
Tague,  shadow-like  clouds.  A  wet  stormy 
night!  How  would  Veronica  get  home? 
Joe  Dowsett  had  gone  to  Shipley  Magna 
to  buy  com,  or  the  vicar  would  have  made 
him  take  a  mackintosh  and  waterproof 
shoes  to  his  yoimg  mistress.  He  could  not 
send  either  of  the  women  out  in  this  wea- 
ther. Then  he  sighed,  and  went  back  to 
his  chair  and  his  book. 

In  the  kitchen  old  Joanna  was  knitting 
a  coarse  grey  stocking,  feeling  rather 
than  seeing  her  work,  and  Catherine,  with 
the  solitary  candle  drawn  close  to  her,  was 
trimming  a  smart  cap. 

How   solitary  like    the  house    seems 


u 


now!"  exclaimed  the  latter,  after  having 
pHed  her  needle  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"  Quiet,"  responded  Joanna,  briefly. 

**  Oh,  quiet  enough !  But  for  that  matter 
it  wam't  never  noisy.  I  like  a  httle  life 
in  a  place.  Somehow,  Sir  John  being 
here,  and  Paul,  Hvened  us  up  a  bit." 

"You've  a  queer  notion  of  liveliness, 
Catherine.  It  was  more  like  deadliness 
a  deal  for  one  while !  And  very  nigh  being 
deadliness  too."  The  old  woman  nodded 
her  head  in  grim  satisfaction  at  her  joke. 

"  Well,  but  there  was  something  going 
on  all  the  time.  Not  but  what  Paul  gave 
us  little  enough  of  his  company:  and  as 
for  Sir  John,  I  didn't  hardly  set  eyes  on 
him  from  week's  end  to  week's  end." 

"  No  great  loss  neither !" 

"  Laws,  Joanna,  why  are  you  so  set  agin* 
Sir  John  ?  I'm  sure  he  was  quite  a  hand- 
some-looking gentleman  for  his  time  of  life. 
And  behaved  handsome  too,  when  he  went 
away." 

"Jfy  liking  ain't  to  be  bought  with 
guineas.     Nor  yet  with  five-pound  notes." 

"  Well,"  observed  Catherine,  reflectively, 
"I  think  guineas  helps  liking.  I  hate 
stingy  folks." 

"  You're  young  and  foolish.  It's  a  piiy 
as  wisdom  and  judgment  mostly  comes 
when  folks  hasn't  no  more  need  on  'em." 

There  was  another  and  a  longer  silence, 
during  which  the  wind  rose  higher,  and 
the  rain  rattled  against  the  casement. 

"We  shall  have  Miss  Maud  back  to- 
morrow, I  suppose,"  said  Catherine.  "  She's 
a  nice  young  lady  :  only  a  bit  high.  I  don't 
mean  high  exactly,  neither :  but — she  has 
a  kind  of  way  of  keeping  you  at  a  distance 
somehow.  Miss  Veronica's  more  to  my 
taste." 

"  H'm  !"  grunted  out  old  Joanna,  with 
closed  lips. 

"  She's  a  bit  overbearing  sometimes," 
pursued  Catherine.  "  But  then  she  has 
such  pleasant  ways  with  her  when  she  is 
in  a  good  humour." 

"  Did  ye  over  remember  Miss  Veronica 
taking  any  trouble  about  you  ?  I  don't  mean 
telling  somebody  else  to  take  trouble  and  her 
getting  the  credit  of  being  very  kind  and 
generous  for  it!  But  right-down  putting 
of  herself  out  of  the  way  for  you  quietly, 
where  there  was  no  show-ofi'in  the  matter  ? 
Because  I've  know'd  her  ever  since  she 
was  born,  and  J  can't  call  such  a  thing  to 
mind." 

•  Catherine  opined  under  her  breath  that 
Joanna  was  "  crusty"  to-night. 

The  old  womasi'^  eat^'?i«t^  ^3^^  ^osy^^ga. 


<^ 


342      CSeptonber  U.  Itt9  J 


ALL  THE  TEAE  HOUND. 


[OondnetedliT 


/ 


to  oatch  the  words,  and  she  answered,  cm- 
pliatically,  "No,  Gatherino;  you're  mis- 
taken. It  ain't  C37U8tiness  as  makos  me 
speak  as  I  spoke  then.  But  I'm  nigh 
upon  fifty  year  longer  in  the  world  than 
you.  And  I'ye  seen  a  deal  of  people,  high 
and  low.  I'd  do  more  for  that  young  lass 
than  you  would.  But,  all  the  same,  I  read 
her  as  plain  as  print.  I  tell  you,  it  makes 
me  sorry  to  see  her  sometimes." 

"  Sorry !     What  for  ?" 

"  What  for  ?  Well,  there's  no  need  to 
say  whether  it's  for  this  op  for  that ;  but  I 
am  sorry  to  see  a  young  creature  with  no 
more  religion  than  a  heathen — Lord  for- 
give me ! — and  her  head  turned  with  vanity 
and  vain-glory,  and  caring  for  nothing  but 
show-off  and  being  admired.  I  tell  you,  if 
Miss  Veronica  was  sent  to  live  among  black 
Indians,  she'd  paint  herself  blacker  than 
any  of  'em,  if  that  was  what  they  considered 
handsome.  Ah,  deary  me,  Catherine,  child ! 
don't  get  to  think  too  much  of  that  rosy 
fiKje  of  yours.  It  is  pretty  now.  Ton 
needn't  plume  yourself  up.  God  made  it^ 
and  he  didn't  make  it  to  last  very  long." 

"  There's  the  door-bell !"  said  Catherine, 
jumping  up,  not  unwilling  to  escape  from 
Joanna's  moralising. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  hall-door  was  shut 
heavily,  and  almost  immediately  afterwards 
the  vicar  rang  his  bell. 

"  Was  that  Miss  Veronica  P"  he  asked, 
as  the  girl  entered  the  room. 

"  No,  sir ;  it  was  Jemmy  Sack,  sir.  Ho 
brought  a  message  from  my  young  lady  to 
say  as  she  wouldn't  be  home  to-night." 

"  Not  be  home  to-night !" 

"  No,  sir.  Jemmy  Sack  saw  Miss  Ve- 
ronica at  the  school-house,  and  she  bad  him 
say,  as  it  threatened  rain,  she  should  very 
likely  stay  at  Mrs.  Plew's  for  the  night. 
And  you  wasn't  to  be  alarmed,  please  sir." 

"  Alarmed !     No,   of   course  I  am  not 

alarmed.     But Where  is  Jommy  ?     Is 

he  gone  ?" 

*' Yes,  sir;  he's  gone.  He  wouldn't 
hardly  stay  long  enough  to  give  his  mes- 
sage.    Ho  was  running  down  with  rain." 

^'  Ha !     It  is  raining  stiU,  then,  is  it  p" 

"  Pouring,  sii*.  And  the  w^ind  beats  the 
rain  against  your  face  so  as  I  couldn't  hardly 
shut  the  door." 

'^  Let  me  know  when  Joe  Dowsett  comes 
back." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ?" 

"  After  eight.  I  looked  at  tho  kitchen 
clock  just  afoi'e  I  came  up-stairs." 

When  CaUieruw  related  to  her  fellow* 


servant  what  had  passed,  the  old  woman 
shook  her  head. 

"Ah,"  saidi^e,  "that's  the  way.  The 
strange  face  is  gone.  Thcire's  nobody  at 
home  to  amuse  my  lady,  so  off  she  goes  to 
make  a  fool  of  that  sofl-liearted  little 
surgeon,  that  would  iust  lay  down  and  let 
her  walk  over  him,  if  she  had  a  mind  to." 

"  But,  Joanna,  it's  a  real  bad  night.  I 
don't  wonder  as  she  didn't  like  ihe  walk 
home,  all  along  that  sloppy  lane,  or  throu^^ 
the  churchyard,  as  is  worse  a  deal,  and 
lonesomer." 

''  It  ain't  sloppiness,  nor  yet  churchyards 
that  could  keep  Miss  Veronica  if  she  wanted 
to  come.  And,  what's  more,  if  Miss  Maud 
had  been  at  home  she  wouldn't  have  stayed 
at  old  Mrs.  Plew's.  For  Miss  Maud  she  do 
take  her  up  pretty  short  about  her  goings 
on  with  that  soft  httle  man.  If  there^s 
anybody  on  Ckd's  earth  as  Veronica  minds, 
or  looks  up  to,  it's  Miss  Desmond.  And 
I've  wi^ed  more  than  onoe  lately  that  Miss 
Maud  hadn't  been  away  this  fortnight." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Catherine,  gazing  wiili 
open- mouthed  curiosity  at  Joanna. 

"  Well,  it  B  no  matter.  I  may  ha'  been 
wrong,  or  I  may  ha'  been  right ;  but  all's 
well  that  ends  well,  as  the  saying  goes." 

And  with  this  oracular  response  Cathe- 
rine was  £Etin  to  content  herself. 

THE  ATLANTIC  YACHT  RACE. 

It  was  not  an  ancient  mariner — it  was,  on 
the  Qoatrary,  a  rather  young  and  inexperienoed 
mariner — who  suggested  the  ocean  yacht  raoein 
1$6<>.  At  a  dinner  in  New  York  (all  of  the  eon- 
pany  being  members  of  the  New  York  Yacht 
Club),  the  discussion  happened  to  turn  upon  the 
sea-worthiness  of  centre-board  boats,  or  boats 
fitted  with  a  false  movable  keel.  Thereupon, 
Mr.  Peter  Lorillard  offered  to  match  his  centre- 
board yacht,  the  Vesta,  against  Mr.  George 
Osgood's  keel  yacht,  the  Fleetwing,  for  a  race 
across  the  Atiautic.  In  orderto  more  thoronghly 
test  the  question  whether  centre-board  yachta 
could  saU  only  in  smooth  water,  the  race  was 
fixed  for  the  month  of  December,  when  rough 
weather  upon  the  Atlantic  is  a  certainty. 
The  matcn  having  been  made,  Iklr.  Ben- 
n/Btt  asked  to  be  allowed  to  enter  his  yacht, 
the  Henrietta,  for  the  race,  and  this  request 
was  at  once  granted.  The  joint  stakes  amounted 
to  one  hundred  tliousand  dollars  in  greenbada 
— about  sixteen  thousandpoimds— and  wereduly 
deposited  in  the  hauds  of  the  stakeholders.  Hr. 
AViUiam  M^Vickar,  then  commodore  of  the  yacht 
club,  consented  to  cross  to  England  in  a  steamer, 
await  the  arrival  of  the  competitors,  and  act  as 
referee  for  the  race.  It  was  further  airangfd 
that  the  race  should  be  sailed  according  to  the 
yacht  club  regulations  concenaing  canTSt  and 


=^ 


&. 


Ohjtriae  Dickena.] 


THE  ATLANTIC  YACHT  RACE.         rseptember  ii,  i8C9.]     343 


ballast ;  and  that  each  yacht  should  carry  two 
judges  to  certify  that  these  regulations  were 
strictly  observed.  Sandy  Hook,  New  York, 
was  to  be  the  starting-point :  the  Needles,  off 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  winning-post. 

At  first  the  American   press   roundly  de- 
nounced the  proposed  race  as  a  foolhardy  un- 
dertaking, almost  sure  to  end  in  the  drowning 
of  all  concerned.     Such  gloomy  prognostica- 
tions, however,  only  increased  the  public  in- 
terest in  the  event ;  and,  as  the  time  for  the 
race  approached,  the  popular  excitement  vented 
itself  in  tremendous  wagers,  only  to  be  paral- 
leled by  the  betting  in  England  upon  the  Derby. 
The  Flectwing  waa  decidedly  and  justly  the 
favourite  ;  the  Vesta  being  entirely  untned  at 
sea,  and  ihe  Henrietta  being  regarded  as  very 
slow,  though  perfectly  seaworthy.    In  their 
previous  performances,  the  Vesta  had  beaten 
the  Fleetwing,    and  both  had  outsailed   the 
Henrietta.    To   an    inexperienced    eye  there 
seemed  very  little  differences  in  their  build  and 
rigging.    Their  burdens,  too,  were  very  nearly 
equal,  the  Fleetwing  registmng  two  hundred 
aad  twelve  tons,  the  Henrietta  two  hundred 
and  five,  and  the    Vesta  two    hundred  and 
one,  American  measurement.    Bv  the  Eng- 
lish   system    of    measurement   this   tonnage 
would  be  largely  increased.      Some  difficulty 
was  experienced  in  securing  seamen  to  cross 
the   Atlantic   in    such   vessels  and    in  such 
weather.    The  men  were  willing  enough  to 
engage,  but  their  mothers,  wives,  and  sweet- 
hearts interfered,  and  persuaded  them  not  to 
sign  articles.    Moved  by  such  feminine  solici- 
tations, the  picked  crew  of  the  Henrietta  de- 
serted her,  a  few  days  before  the  start,  and  their 
places  had  to  be  supplied  by  a  lot  of  land- 
lubbers, few  of  whom  could  climb  a  mast.    To 
make  up  for  a  similar  deficiency  on  board  the 
Fleetwing,    half   a  dozen  mej^hant  captains 
volunteered  for  the  voyage,  and  those  brave 
fellows   were,    unfortunately,  the    very  men 
whom  Neptune  doomed  to  death.    To  find  the 
necessary  complement  of  judges  for  the  yachts 
was  aLso  not  an  easy  matter.    Invitations  to 
prominent  yachtsmen  were  declined  for  various 
reasons,  and  the  gentlemen  who  finally  served 
in  this  capacity  were  almost  all  volunteers. 
Messrs.  Lorillard  and  Osgood,  the  owners  of 
the  Vesta  and  the  FleetvSng,  were  detained 
at  home  by  business,  and  reluctantly  relin- 
^[uishod  their  intention   of  sailing  their  own 
yachts  in  the  race.    Thus  it  happened  that, 
although  the  Henrietta  was  an  outsider  in  the 
original  match,  although  she  had  the  reputa- 
tion of    being  slow,    and  although  she  was 
very  ill  manned,  yet  the  people  suddenly  made 
her  their  pet,  and  loudly  noped  that  she  would 
win,  because  Mr.  Bennett  adhered  to  his  de- 
termination to  sail  in  her.     Public  sympathy 
was  unanimously  with   **  the  only  man  who 
goes  in  his  own  boat.'' 

On  the  morning  of  the  eleventh  of  December, 
1866,  the  three  yachts  layoff  Staten  Island  ready 
to  start.  They  had  been  very  carefully  equipped. 
The  trip  was  estimated  to  occupy  about  twenty 
days ;  but  the  yachts  were  provisioned  for  at  I 


least  two  months.  Up  to  the  last  moment 
hampers  of  provisions,  boxes  of  wine  and  spirits, 
cigars,  and  all  sorts  of  comforts  and  luxuries  were 
sent  on  board  by  anxious  friends.  The  day  was 
clear,  cold,  and  bright ;  the  ice  was  forming  in 
the  harbour ;  and  the  wind  was  as  westerly  as 
could  be  desired.  All  the  flags  in  New  York  City- 
were  flying;  the  wharves  were  crowded  with 
spectators ;  the  harbour  was  dotted  with  ex- 
cursion steamers.  At  seven  o'clock  a.m.  the 
dark  blue  racing  flag  of  the  Henrietta  was  dis- 
played, and  the  yachts  were  taken  in  tow  by 
tugs  to  be  drawn  to  their  starting  stations. 
From  this  time  no  communication  was  per- 
mitted between  the  yachts  and  the  shore :  partly 
to  prevent  any  fm'ther  difficulties  in  regard  to 
the  crews :  and  partly  because  several  kmd  but 
frightened  friends  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
subpoenaing  some  of  the  yachtsmen  as  witnesses 
in  trials  of  which  they  knew  nothing,  in  order 
to  preserve  them  from  the  perils  of  the  sea.  As 
the  yachts  were  towed  down  the  Narrows,  fol- 
lowed by  scores  of  steamers,  propellers,  sail- 
boats, and  pilot-boats,  the  enthusiasm  was 
absolutely  painful  to  those  on  board,  and 
it  was  a  reuef  when  the  calling  of  the  roll 
came  to  distract  their  overstrained  feelings. 
In  the  Fleetwing  sailed  Messrs.  Centre  and 
Staples,  of  the  New  York  Yacht  Club,  who 
went  as  judges ;  Captain  Thomas,  who  com- 
manded the  yacht ;  and  a  crow  of  twenty-two 
men.  In  the  Vesta,  were  Messrs.  George  Loril- 
lard and  Taylor,  the  judges ;  Captain  Dayton, 
and  twenty-three  petty  officers  and  seamen.  In 
the  Henrietta,  were  Mr.  Bennett,  the  owner : 
Messrs.  Jerome,  Knapp,  and  Fisk,  judges  ana 
guests;  Captain  Samuels, formerly  of  the  clipper 
shipDreadiiought:  Sailing-Master  Lyons ;  and 
a  crew  of  twenty-four  seamen,  including  petty 
officers,  carpenter,  sailmaker,  and  stewards. 

At  precisely  One  o'clock  p.m.,  Mr.  Fearing, 
the  club  starter,  gave  the  sigmd  for  the  race. 
Simultaneously  the  tugs  were  cast  off,  the 
sailors  flew  aloft,  and  the  yachts  were  covered 
with  canvas.  The  Fleetwing,  having  the  most 
northerly  position,  and  by  far  the  best  crew, 
easily  gained  an  advantage  at  the  start-,  and 
dashed  away  before  the  fresh  breeze  as  if  in- 
spired to  win.  The  Vesta  followed  almost  as 
quickly;  but  the  Henrietta,  lying  close  in 
snore,  had  the  worst  of  the  start,  and  lagged 
behind  despondingly.  The  tugs  and  excursion 
steamers  sailed  in  a  line  after  the  yachts,  bands 
and  bells  and  cheers  uniting  in  an  cncouradng 
clamour.  As  a  striking  contrast,  the  wreck  of 
the  Scotland  lay  abeam,  sternly  suggesting  the 
dangers  that  were  to  be  encountered  on  the 
voyage.  Presently  the  bright  sun  was  obscured 
by  heavy  clouds  ;  the  wind  rapidly  freshened ; 
the  gooa-byes  shouted  from  the  steamers  were 
but  faintly  heard ;  the  mournful  strains  of  Auld 
Lang  Syne  sadly  reminded  the  yachtsmen  of 
the  friends  they  were  leaving.  Then  Sandy 
Hook,  the  extreme  point  of  land,  sunk  out  of 
sight;  the  Nevcrsink  Highlands  faded  into  a 
cloud  and  soon  disappeared;  the  last  tie  to 
home  was  dissolved  ;  the  open  sea  was  before 
the  voyagers  •,  and  tVix^^  wi^^t^  ItcsiSL  ^i^  *Ciia 


<c& 


344       [September  11, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


[Conducted  bj 


/ 


yachts  bade  farewell  to  the  United  States.  The 
yachts  were  at  this  time  almost  abreast,  driven 
through  the  water  by  a  ten-knot  breeze.  As 
the  sun  set  in  a  glory  of  crimson  and  gold, 
each  captain  took  the  course  he  had  pre- 
viously selected.  The  Fleetwing  kept  to  the 
northward;  the  Henrietta  held  straight  on 
for  the  European  steamer  track ;  the  Vesta 
dropped  away  to  the  southward,  hoping  to 
meet  with  weather  more  favourable  to  her 
peculiar  construction.  At  six  o^clock  p.m.  the 
yachtsmen  on  the  Henrietta  lost  sight  of  the 
Fleetwing  in  the  darkness.  The  Vesta  was 
visible  imtil  eight  o'clock,  and  then  she, 
too,  vanished  in  a  moment.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  we  felt  the  terrible  loneliness  of  the 
sea.  But  the  lights  were  bright  in  the  cabin  ; 
a  sumptuous  dinner  was  served,  and,  what  with 
songs  and  stories  below,  and  a  succession  of 
heavy  snow-squalls  on  deck,  there  was  no 
chance  to  be  melancholy.  Fortunately,  sea- 
sickness did  not  succeed  home-sickness.  The 
Henrietta  rocked  as  gently  as  a  cradle,  and  no 
person  on  board  experienced  a  moment's  illness 
At  any  period  of  the  voyage. 

The  next  day  was  very  bright,  but  very  cold. 
TVe  were  up  betimes,  and  on  the  look-out 
for  the  other  two  yachts.    Neither  of  them 
was  ever  in  sight  imtil  we  arrived  at  Cowes. 
We    were    not    long    in    ignorance    of    the 
quality  of  the  Henrietta's  crew.      One  man 
after  another  was  sent  up  to  reeve  a  signal- 
halyard,  and  one  man  after  another  slipped  up 
ana  down  the  topmast,  like  a  toy-monkey  on  a 
stick.    Li  any  case  of  emergency,  we  should 
have  to  rely  upon  Captain  Samuels,  sailing- 
master  Lyons,  and  Jones  and  Coles,  the  firat 
and    second    officers:    who    seemed  to    have 
as  many  lives  and  as  much  agility  as  a  pair  of 
cats,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  manner  in 
which  they  jumped  and  climbed  about,  eager 
to  atone  for  the  lubberliness  of  the  rest  of  the 
crew.    We  carried  all  sail,  and  made  eleven 
knots  an  hour  until  noon,  when  we  were  struck 
by  a  snow-squall,  and  hail  to  take  in  topsails. 
The  wind  came  in  angry  gusts  from  the  north. 
At  one  o'clock,  the  end  of  our  first  nautical 
day,  we  found  that  the  Henrietta  had  sailed 
two  himdred  and  thirty-five  knots  by  obser- 
vation, and  two  hundred  and  thirty-seven  by 
log.     In  the  afternoon  we  showed  our  racing 
signal  to  two  steamers,  and  received  prompt 
replies.     Several  sailing  vessels  were  in  sight ; 
but  whenever  we  hoisted  our  dark  blue  flag 
they  kept  away  from  us.  This  was  our  constant 
experience  throughout  the  race.    Whether  the 
captains  of  these  sliips  took  the  Henrietta  for 
a  pirate,  or  a  Fenian  privateer— for  in  those 
days  there  were  all  kinds  of  mad  tales  about 
the  Fenians— has  not  been  satisfactorily  ex- 
plained; but  we  were  never  able  to  speak  a 
vessel,  although  several  were  in  our  direct 
course,  until  we  neared  the  coast  of  England. 
As  night  fell,  the  weather  grew  more  stormy, 
and  the  mainsails  were  reefed.     Every  now  and 
then,  as  the  gale  moderated,  the  reefs  were 
shaken  out,  only  to  be  taken  in  again  when 
the  wind  increased.    During  this  storm — and. 


in  fact,  throughout  the  whole  voyage — it 
wonderful  to  observe  the  tact  and  x)atienc& 
with  which  Messrs.   Lyons  and  Jones,  who 
commanded  the  two  watches  into  which  the 
crew  was  divided,  managed  to  get  the  utmost 
speed  out  of  the  yacht.    At  all  hours  the  Hen- 
rietta carried  all  the  canvas  she  could  safely 
bear,  but  not  a  shred  more.    The  sails  were 
taken  in  and  set,  a  score  of  times  a  day,  as  the 
weather  varied.    Not  a  moment  was  lost,  not 
a  rope  strained,  not  an  inch  of  canvas  carried 
away.    These  incessant  manoeuvres  singularly 
resembled  those  of  a  physician  who  administers 
stimulants  to  a  x)atient  with  his  hand  upon  the 
pulse,  carefuUy  noting  every  change.     The 
Henrietta  could  not  have  had  better  doctoia, 
and  could  not  have  done  them  greater  credit 

And  now,  if  the  gentle  reader  be  willing  to 
trust  himself  upon  a  yacht  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean 
on  a  stormy  mght  in  the  middle  of  December, 
he  shall  be  invited  on  board  the  Henrietta, 
and  shown  over  the  vessel.    The  yacht  is  in- 
clined at  an  angle  of  about  forty-five  degrees, 
and,  as  she  has  no  bulwarks,  the  seas  break  over 
her,  amidships.    Having  secured  a  firm  and 
moderatelv  dry  position  on  deck,  the  gentle 
reader  looks  about  him  and  sees,  first  of  ul,  the 
man  at  the  wheel,  who  is  illuminated  by  the  little 
lamp  placed  above  the  compass.    Near  this 
seaman,  leaning  over  the  rope  that  serves  as  a 
bulwark  for  the  yacht,  is  Master  Lyons,  who 
commands  the  watch.    The  cabin  doors  are 
closed,  to  shut  out  the  intruding  sea.    The 
deck  is  encumbered  amidships,  on  the  one  side 
by  spare  spars,  and  on  the  other  bv  the  jolly- 
boat,  which  is  more  ornamental  than  usefol, 
since  no  row-boat  could  swim  when  the  Hen- 
rietta must  sink.    None  of  the  crew  is  visible. 
One  watch  is  asleep  in  the  forecastle;  the 
other  is  coiled  up  imder  tarpaulins  forward. 
All  sail  is  cracked  on  for  the  moment.    Those 
queer  oblong  boxes,  hauled  half-way  up  the 
masts,  contain  canvas-back  ducks — appropriate 
game  for  a  yacht  race— intended  as  presents 
for  English  friends,    and  especially  for  her 
Majesty  the  Queen.    There  is  nothing  else  of 
interest  to  be  seen  on  deck ;   neither  Master 
Lyons  nor  the  helmsman  cares  to  talk,  and  out- 
side the  yacht  the  scriptural  '^blackness  of  dark- 
ness" rests  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.    So 
we  had  better  descend  to  the  cabin,  whence 
scraps  of  songs  and  shouts  of  lauffhter  issae 
invitingly.     Stay!    Those  port-hmes  attract 
attention.    The  Henrietta  served  as  a  revenue 
cutter  during  the  late  Civil  War,  and  those 
port-holes    were    for   her    carronades.     Her 
length  ?    About  equal  to  the  frontage  of  three 
ordinary  houses.    Her  breadth  ?    Very  nearly 
that  of  an  ordinary  room.    The  quarter-deck, 
so  styled  by  courtesy,  is  about  ten  feet  by  six, 
and  to  that  space,  inclined  at  the  angle  afore- 
said, almost  all  our  exercise  is  confined.    It  ifl 
hardly  as  large  as  a  barn-door. 

In  the  cabin  behold  five  persons,  known  on 
board  as,  respectively,  the  chief,  the  captun, 
the  lieutenant,  the  joker,  and  the  journalist. 
The  chief  is,  of  course,  the  owner  of  the  yacht 
llie  captain  is  Captain  Samuels,  who  com- 


=f 


Oh«rI«iD{ck«iiB.] 


THE  ATLANTIC  YACHT  RACE.   [Sep«Mnb«ii.i8«ij  845- 


&> 


1 


mands  the  Henrietta.  He  ran  away  from 
school;  went  to  sea  as  a  common  sailor; 
tamed  out  to  be  an  uncommon  sailor ;  worked 
his  way  up  unaided,  to  the  rank  of  captain ; 
taught  himself  navigation  and  all  other  useful 
knowledge;  lived  a  pure  Christian  amid  the 
dissipations  of  the  merchant  service ;  made  him- 
self respected  equally  by  his  virtues  and  his 
fists ;  crossed  the  Atlantic  on  seven  occasions  in 
the  quickest  time  on  record  for  a  sailing  ship  ; 
encountered  adventures  which  would  have  put 
Othello  to  the  blush,  in  spite  of  the  Moor's 
complexion,  and,  above  all,  retained,  developed, 
or  acquired,  the  manners  and  motives  of  a 
thorough  gentleman.  The  lieutenant  is  a 
little,  quiet  fellow,  brimfull  of  cool  courage, 
never  losing  his  presence  of  mind  except  when 
ladies  are  m  sight.  He  owes  his  title  to  his 
service  in  the  Henrietta  during  the  war.  You 
will  probably  have  stumbled  over  the  joker  in 
descending  the  companion-way.  It  is  his  custom 
to  sit  on  the  stairs,  wrapped  in  a  waterproof 
coat,  and  endeavour  to  seduce  one  of  his  com- 
panions to  sit  beside  him,  in  the  hope  that  a 
wave  may  drench  the  imwary  victim.  In  ap- 
pearance and  humour  he  is  a  combination  of  Sir 
John  Falstaff,  Artemus  Ward,  and  Joseph  Miller. 
He  laughs  at  everybody,  and  everybody  laughs 
at  him.  In  rough  weather,  he  wins  the  cap- 
tain's heart  by  attentively  perusing  a  pocket- 
bible.  In  pleasant  weather,  ne  makes  the  hours 
pass  like  seconds  with  his  jokes,  songs,  and 
stories.  In  a  word,  no  yacht  race  would  be 
complete  without  him.  The  journalist  is  the 
very  reverse  of  the  joker,  against  whom  he  is 
often  pitted  in  single  combat  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  company.  His  weakness  is  an 
ambition  to  be  doing  something,  when  there  is 
absolutely  nothing  to  be  done.  He  keeps  the 
log;  he  volunteers  to  assist  the  captain  in 
working  out  his  observations;  he  scribbles 
songs  and  attempts  to  teach  his  comrades  to 
sinfi;  them ;  he  makes  himself  obnoxious  by 
wifiubing  for  a  tremendous  storm  so  that  he  may 
have  something  to  describe. 

The  cabin  itself  is  the  size  of  a  small  room — 
say,  of  the  gentle  reader's  library.  On  the 
starboard  side,  is  a  divan,  upon  which  two  men 
may  sleep  comfortably.  The  joker  sleeps 
there,  having  been  turned  out  of  his  bed  in 
the  chiefs  state-room  by  a  leaky  seam.  The 
journalist  also  sleeps  there — though  he  has  a 
berth  in  the  state-room  with  the  lieutenant — 
because  he  labours  under  the  idea  that  he  must 
be  at  hand  whenever  the  captain  stirs,  in  order 
to  see  what  is  happening.  On  the  larboard 
side,  are  piles  of  spare  sails,  and  upon  these  the 
captain  sleeps,  whenever  the  exigencies  of  the 
race  permit  him  to  close  his  eyes,  which  is  but 
very  seldom.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  when- 
ever anybody  else  invades  the  captain's  couch, 
by  day  or  night,  the  yacht  jibes,  and  the  result 
is  an  awful  tmnble.  In  the  centre  of  the  cabin 
is  a  table,  with  a  rim  to  restrain  refractory 
plates.  Around  this  table,  the  company  are 
gathered.  They  have  just  finished  a  supper 
of  fried  oysters  and  ^ame.  Before  them  are 
BQDg-books,  bottles  of  Chateau  Margaux,  and 


boxes  of  fragrant  Havannahs.  There  are  cards 
on  board,  but  they  are  never  used ;  books,  but 
they  are  never  read.  Even  the  bottles  are 
used  moderately.  The  overwhelming  excite- 
ment of  the  race  supersedes  all  other  forms 
of  excitement.  Cigars,  however,  are  in  constant 
demand.  To  the  right  and  left,  at  the  end  of 
the  cabin,  are  doors  leading  to  the  state-rooms 
already  mentioned.    Between  them  is  a  narrow 

fiassage  connecting  the  cabin  with  the  kitchen, 
f  the  gentle  reader  be  not  averse  to  a  glass  of 
grog  on  this  cold  December  night,  he  has  only 
to  signify  his  wish,  and,  in  response  to  shouts 
of  Tom,  Albert,  or  Edward,  two  stewards  and 
one  cabin-boy  rush  into  view.  Experience 
has  taught  them  that  whenever  anybody  wants 
anything,  the  rest  of  the  company  are  sure  to 
join  in  the  demand,  and  hence  this  triple  appa* 
rition,  like  the  witches  in  Macbeth. 

On  the  second  nautical  day  we  had  siuled 
two  hundred  and  ten  miles  by  observation,  and 
twenty  miles  more  by  log.  Captain  Samuels 
accounted  for  this  discrepancy  oy  a  current 
that  had  drifted  us  to  the  south-west.  The 
afternoon  was  clear  and  sunshiny;  the  night 
was  bright  with  moonlight,  obscured  by  occa- 
sional  snow-squalls.  The  next  day,  the  four- 
tefenth  of  December,  the  weather  was  sultry 
and  the  sea  comparatively  smooth.  All  day  lone 
nothing  was  in  sight  except  flocks  of  gulls  and 
Mother  Carey's  chickens.  At  noon,  we  had 
made  two  hundred  and  four  miles  more.  In 
the  evening,  the  moon  showered  silver  upon 
a  sea  as  placid  as  the  Thames.  We  were 
aU  aroused  at  midnight  by  a  change  in  the 
weather.  Repeated  squalls  of  rain  and  hail, 
like  the  quick  blows  of  an  accomplished  pugi- 
list,  struck  the  Henrietta,  and  knocked  her 
through  the  heavy  seas  at  the  rate  of  eleven, 
twelve,  thirteen,  fourteen,  knots  an  hour.  This 
battering  by  Boreas  continued  until  sunrise, 
when  a  snow-storm  set  in.  The  waves  foamed 
upon  the  deck,  as  if  showing  their  white  teeth 
at  the  presumptuous  little  yacht.  To  leeward, 
a  spar  from  some  recent  wreck  lifted  itself 
to  view,  like  a  warning  finger.  Scudding 
before  the  wind,  the  Henrietta  fairly  flew  over 
the  waves ;  but  the  silence,  which  no  one  felt 
disposed  to  break  except  by  whispers,  wafr 
most  depressing.  No  observation  could  be 
taken,  as  the  sun  was  totally  obscured,  but 
the  dead  reckoning — suggestive  phrase!— as- 
sured us  that  we  had  s^led  two  hundred  and 
twenty-five  miles  during  the  past  twenty-four 
hours.  There  was  some  comfort  in  this.  Even 
the  storm  was  helping  us  to  victory. 

As  night— which  was  but  a  darker  day — 
closed  in  upon  us,  the  Henrietta  sailed  faster 
and  faster.  This  was  a  habit  of  the  little 
yacht.  Often  at  sunset  we  used  to  pat  her 
as  if  she  had  been  a  living  thing,  and  cry, 
encouragingly,  *'  Now,  Henrietta !  This  is 
your  time,  dearie  I"  Perhaps  the  dew  wetted 
the  sails,  and  thus  ensured  our  superior  speed 
after  nightfall.  But  on  this  especial  evening 
the  little  boat  shuddered  as  she  went,  like  a 
racehorse  overdriven.  The  pumps  wer^  tA^\AA.  ^ 
every  hour  \  \yoX  ^oxi^  ^^«^  «av)sA^  >Ska  ^  ^ 


4 


846      [Septemlier  11, 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactedbr 


I. 


knell,  they  showed  no  leakage.  Sea  after  aea 
boarded  the  yacht,  but  did  no  damage.  Not 
even  a  spare  spar  was  moved.  Running  freely 
before  the  wind,  the  Henrietta  never  pitched 
nor  tossed,  and,  full  of  confidence  in  her 
strength  and  buoyancy,  all  hands  slept  as 
soundly  as  if  the  yacht  had  been  the  Great 
Eastern.  In  the  grey  of  the  foUo^dng  morn- 
ing wc  were  crossing  the  Grand  Banks  of 
Newfoundland.  Through  the  thick  mist,  we 
saw  a  heavily-laden  brig  bearing  down  upon 
us.  We  were  sailing  at  tremendous  speed, 
and  cut  boldly  across  hor  course.  Iler  crew, 
startled  by  an  apparition  which  must  have 
seemed  to  them  like  the  Flying  Dutehman, 
manned  the  rigging  to  stare  at  us;  but  we 
dashed  swiftly  by  in  silence,  and  as  swiftly 
disappeared.  At  noon,  wc  reckoned  that  wc 
had  made  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  miles 
during  the  last  nautical  day,  and  had  accom- 
plished one-third  of  the  distance  to  Cowes. 
The  wind  had  been  west  by  north,  and  north 
by  west,  since  our  start,  and  the  yacht  had 
kept  her  course  without  perceptible  variation. 
The  captain  reminded  us  that  this  day,  the 
sixteenth  of  December,  was  the  Sabbath,  and 
at  two  o^clock  the  yachtsmen  and  the  officers 
assembled  in  the  cabin  for  divine  service.  The 
prayers  for  the  day,  a  chapter  from  the  Bible, 
and  one  of  Jay's  brief  sermons  were  read  in 
turn ;  but  this  simple  ceremony  acquired  a 
remarkable  solemnity  from  the  circumstances 
by  which  we  were  surrounded.  The  swash  of 
the  seas  that  swept  over  the  vessel  often 
drowned  the  voice  of  the  reader.  During 
the  service,  one  of  the  crew  was  carried  over- 
board, and  all  rushed  on  deck  to  rescue  him. 
The  passage,  ^^  Surely  in  the  midst  of  life  we 
are  in  death''  seemed  to  us  transposed ;  for 
surely  in  the  midst  of  death  we  were  in  life ! 

A^&in  the  night  came,  and  we  had  cleared 
the  Grand  Banl^  and  were  ofif  soundings.  The 
sea  still  hammered  awav  at  the  yacht,  as  if 
Neptune  had  surrenderea  his  trident  to  Vulcan ; 
but  the  wind  held  from  the  northward,  and  the 
gallant  Henrietta  registered  her  eleven  and 
twelve  knots  an  hour.  The  next  morning  we 
were  in  the  "roaring  forties*' — degrees  of  longi- 
tude which  the  captain  had  taught  us  to  dread. 
The  character  of  the  waves  entirely  altered. 
Instead  of  dancing  over  short  chopping  seas, 
like  those  of  the  English  Channel,  we  passed 
between  ranges  of  water-hills.  Sailing  in  the 
trough  of  the  sea,  the  sensation  was  precisely 
similar  to  that  which  is  experienced  in  passing 
through  a  railway  cutting,  except  that  our 
banks  were  movable.  As  they  rose  and  fell 
they  disclosed  mirages  in  the  dim  distance. 
Ships  under  full  sail,  ocean  islands,  even 
momentary  towns  and  cities,  were  pictured 
upon  the  waves,  the  views  changing  like  those 
of  a  kaleidoscope.  The  water  was  glazed  by 
the  snow,  and  appeared  to  be  of  the  consistency 
of  oil.  There  was  no  horizon.  The  sky  was 
veiled  with  leaden  clouds.  Nevertheless,  we 
were  in  excellent  spirits,  for  the  barometer 
promised  us  fair  weather ;  the  wind,  which  had 
been  warering  for  some  hours,  again  blew  from 


the  north ;  and  our  reckoning  showed  that  the 
yacht  had  gained  two  hundred  and  eighty  miles 
during  the  jiast  dav.    Thus  in  six  days  and 
fourteen  hours  we  had  sailed  half  across  the 
Atlantic.    In  the  afternoon  a  magnificent  rain- 
bow decorated  the  sky  and  endorsed  the  pro- 
mises of   the  barometer.    Amid  the  general 
jubilance,  the  captain  alone  was  morose.    He 
declared  that  wo  had  been  too  fortunate,  aud 
that  our  luck  was  too  good  to  last.    The  baro- 
meter was  wrong;  the  rainbow  was  wrong; 
Captain  Samuels,  as  usual,  was  right.    During 
the  night  the    wind   shifted  to    west-south- 
west, and  we  were    compelled  to  jibe  ship, 
throwhig  all  the  sleepers  out  of  tlieir  berths 
remorselessly.    Bain  and  hail-squalls  followed 
each  other  in  rapid  succession,    oigns  of  dirty 
weather  ominously  increased.     For  the  first 
time,  the  mainsail  was  double-reefed.   At  noon 
we  had  sailed  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles :  but 
with  the  dreaded  south-west  wind  to  bafSe  us 
we  had  no  hope  of  such  splendid  progress  in 
the  future.    Clearly,  we  shoidd  have  to  face  an 
adverse  gale.     The  journalist  was  about  to 
have  his  wishes  realised ;  but  the  rest  of  the 
company  regarded  him  as  a  Jonah,  and  glared 
at  him  as  wrathf  ully  as  if  he  had  been  per- 
sonally responsible  for  the  storm. 

At  four  o'clock  p.m.  the  gale  had  set  in  with 
all  its  fury.  The  mainsail  was  furled,  the  iibi 
were  taken  in,  and  the  foresail  was  trebly  reaed. 
Under  this  small  spread  of  canvas,  the  yacht  was 
driven  at  the  rate  of  nine  knots  an  hour.  The 
rain  and  spray  now  dropped  around  the  vessel 
like  a  watery  curtain,  as  if  the  sea  would  conceal 
from  us  the  terrors  it  was  preparing.  The 
Henrietta,  tormented  by  the  wind  and  waves, 
lost  all  patience,  and  pitched  and  tossed  about 
like  a  thing  possessed  of  evil  spirits.  Tlie  yacht 
was  put  in  order  for  the  worst.  A  bucket  was 
placed  near  the  cabin  stove,  to  extingoish 
the  fire  if  necessary.  The  dead-lights  leaked. 
Water  came  dripping  in  through  seams  hitherto 
seaworthy.  Needless  to  say,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  sleep.  The  servants,  attemjitinj:  to 
comply  with  innumerable  orders,  were  nung 
about  the  cabin,  as  if  discharged  from  catapults. 
TTie  seamen  moved  about  dejectedly,  as  thouch 
some  great  peril  were  impending.  The  ready 
cry,  "  If  you're  not  satisfied,  take  your  carpet- 
bag and  go  ashore,"  that  had  hitherto  pre- 
vented all  gnunbling,  no  longer  preserved  good 
humour  among  the  yachtsmen.  At  last  the 
order,  **  Lie  down  and  take  it  easy,"  sent  the 
company  to  their  couches,  and  transfonned 
them  into  marine  Mark  Tapleys.  It  was  so 
pleasant  to  lie  there  and  watch  the  men  boring 
holes  in  the  floor  to  let  out  the  water  in  case 
the  waves  broke  through  the  skylight !  Suppoee 
the  waves  did  break  thi-ough  the  skyb'ght— what 
then  ?  As  if  in  answer,  there  came  a  frightful 
crash  on  deck.  A  tremendous  sea  had  hurst 
over  the  quarter,  struck  full  upon  the  foresail,  ! 
and  glanced  off  upon  the  iolly-boat,  staving  in  | 
the  boat's  side  like  a  blow  from  a  sledge-  \ 
hammer.  If  that  sea  had  struck  the  deck 
first,  the  Henrietta  must  have  foundered  with 
all  on  board.     Simultaneously,  the  carpenter 


^ 


^ 


Charles  DIskeni.] 


THE  ATLAimC  YACHT  RACE.       [September  11.1889.]    347 


I 


threw  himself  into  the  cabin,  crying:  *'Mr. 
Bennett,  we  must  heaTo  her  to  I  She  is  open- 
ing forward,  sir!  For  God's  sake,  heave  her 
to!"  In  an  instant  Captain  Samuels  was  below, 
examining  the  supposed  leak.  The  yacht  had 
been  lengthened;  the  joining  had  not  been 
properly  spliced;  the  sea  had  found  out  this 
vnlnerable  heel  of  Achilles,  and  was  working 
hard  to  tear  it  open.  Mr.  Bennett  calmly  in- 
formed his  friends  of  the  extent  of  the  danger. 
Everybody  lighted  a  fresh  dgar,  and  left  the 
affair  in  the  hands  of  the  captain,  llie  captain 
began  by  informing  the  carpenter,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  crew,  that  the  apparent  leakage  was 
cAused  by  the  oozing  of  the  bilge -water.  Then 
he  decided  that  the  yacht  could  be  driven  no 
longer,  even  though  the  race  were  lost.  Next, 
he  gavo  orders  to  heave  to.  This  nautical 
manoeuvre  consists  in  laying  the  ship  with  her 
head  to  the  wind,  under  close  canvas,  so  that 
she  rides  as  if  at  anchor.  As  the  sailors  came 
into  the  cabin  and  carried  the  storm-trysails  on 
deck,  it  was  as  if  they  had  brought  forth  a  pall. 
To  stop  in  the  midst  of  a  race  seemed  equivalent 
to  losing  it.  This  was  the  burial  of  all  our  hopes ! 
Thus  the  Henrietta  was  hove  to  in  the 
roaring  forties,  rocking  ladly  upon  the  sea, 
the  wind  howling  by,  and  the  waves  dashing 
past  her,  but  neither  disturbing  her  well-earned 
repose  at  this  halfway  house  in  the  middle  of 
thie  Atlantic.  It  turned  out  afterwards  that 
we  hid  been  caught  in  a  cyclone,  from  which 
large  steamers  suffered  severely.  During  this 
dr^idful  night,  the  Fleetwing,  further  to  the 
northward,  had  six  men  washed  overboard 
and  was  nearly  lost.  The  Vesta,  sailing  to 
the  southward,  escaped  all  but  tho  fringes 
of  the  storm.  But  the  captain  assured  us 
that,  though  we  had  lost  time,  we  had  not 
been  driven  from  our  course,  and  that,  during 
his  thirty  years^  experience,  he  had  never 
seen  any  other  vessel  that  could  have  wea- 
thered such  a  gale  so  long.  By  noon  the  next 
day,  tho  wind  had  moderated,  and  we  wore 
again  under  way.  Up  to  this  time,  in  accor- 
dance with  an  old  superstition  of  seamen,  we 
had  not  been  allowed  to  change  our  clothes 
since  leaving  New  York.  The  wind  had  been 
iiTourable,  and  the  captain  was  resolved  that 
no  fancy  for  a  new  necktie  or  another  coot 
should  alter  it.  You  might  take  off  your  cloth- 
ing as  often  as  you  pieced,  so  long  as  you  put 
the  same  things  on  again ;  but  to  change  a 
single  garment  would  ho  fataL  Indeed,  it  is  a 
disputed  point  whether  all  our  troubles  in  the 
roaring  forties,  were  not  attributable  to  the 
joker,  who  would  persist  in  borrowing  other 
people's  clothes.  However,  on  the  morning 
after  the  gale,  the  wind  still  holding  from  the 
south  while  the  captain  desired  it  to  blow  from 
the  northward,  permission  was  given  to  vary 
our  attire.  One  of  the  stewards  was  disco- 
vered to  be  a  professional  barber,  and  every- 
body made  an  elaborate  toilet.  For  a  wonder, 
the  old  superstition  proved  true;  the  wind 
shifted  to  north-by -west,  and  at  three  p.m.  we 
were  going  at  the  rate  of  fifteen  miles  an 
hour.    During  the  storm  of  the  day  before. 


we  had  nm  our  shortest  distance — one  hun- 
dreil  and  fifty-three  miles.  Now,  with  a 
favouring  wind,  we  scored  two  hundred  and 
sixty  miles  in  the  same  time.  The  day  was 
very  pleasant,  with  bright  sunshine  and  a 
cloudless  sky ;  but  the  waves  still  ran  moun- 
tain high,  as  if  feeling  the  farewell  unpetus  of 
the  gale.  At  night,  the  mellow  moonlight 
marked  our  course  before  us,  and  the  Henrietta 
danced  gaily  along  between  walls  of  water.  Tho 
weather  was  so  warm  that  the  cabin  fire  was  al- 
lowed to  die  out,  and  overcoats  were  discarded. 

The  next  day  was  even  warmer,  and  passed 
without  incident,  the  yacht  making  eleven 
knots  an  hour,  and  the  clouds  prognosti- 
cating a  continuance  of  the  fair  wind.  But, 
on  the  day  following  this,  summer  itself 
seemed  to  have  come  upon  us.  There  was 
a  dead  calm,  and  the  heat  was  oppressive. 
The  clouds  of  the  previous  day  had  been  as 
deceitful  as  the  barometer  and  the  rainbow 
already  mentioned.  The  Henrietta  simply 
drifted  through  the  water,  her  sails  flapping 
idly  against  the  masts.  The  ocean  was  as 
smooth  as  a  millpond,  and  no  ripple  of  tho 
waves,  no  creaking  of  the  cordage,  oroke  the 
profound  silence.  Another  superstitious  change 
of  toilet  was  suggested,  and  again  the  charm 
proved  effectual.  By  noon  we  were  making 
eleven  knots  an  hour.  The  next  day  was  the 
twenty-second  of  December.  The  yacht  was 
gliding  along,  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  per  day.  In  the  midst  of  a  Scotch 
nust  we  spoke  the  packet-ship  Philadelphia, 
eleven  days  out  from  Liveri)ool.  We  were  also 
eleven  days  out — ^from  New  York.  The  cap- 
tain of  the  Philadelphia  hoisted  the  American 
colours  in  our  honour,  and  further  endeared 
himself  to  us  by  two  items  of  good  news,  to 
wit :  that  he  had  heard  nothing  of  the  other 
yachts,  and  that  the  winds  were  westerly.  This 
was  the  only  vessel  spoken  by  tho  Henrietta 
during  the  voyage.  From  this  moment,  the  ex- 
citement in  regard  to  the  result  of  the  race, 
which  had  been  dulled  by  the  greater  excite- 
ments of  the  sea,  again  seized  upon  us.  Divine 
service  was  performed  on  Sunday,  but  was 
constantly  interrupted  by  false  reports  of  sails 
in  sight. 

Every  night  the  Henrietta  seamed  to  sail 
more  swiftly.  Nothing  was  talked  about  but  the 
other  yachts  and  the  probable  fate  of  our  rivals. 
Nobody  could  spare  an  hour  for  sleep.  Tho 
light  green  water  and  the  sullen  sky  perpe- 
tually reminded  us  how  close  wo  were  to  Eng- 
land. At  three  P.M.  the  captain  informed  us 
that  we  were  on  soundings;  at  midnight  wo 
were  off  Cape  Clear;  early  next  morning 
wo  were  in  the  chops  of  the  Channel.  Tho 
goal  was  close  at  hand.  Had  we  won  the 
race  ?  ITie  carpenter,  who  had  treated  us  to 
one  sensation  by  liis  discovery  that  the  yacht 
had  parted  forwards,  now  indulged  us  with 
another,  by  suddenly  discovering  the  Fleetwing 
to  larboard.  The  scramble  for  binocular  glasses, 
telescopes,  spectacles — anything  to  see  through 
— was  most  ludicrous  ;  and,  after  all,  the  iina- 
ginary  yacht  revealed  hcrwi\i  «&  «t\.  '^iv^gLV^ 


4= 


C& 


S4i3      [September  11,  ISOL] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  Ifj 


topsail  schooner,  bound  in  the  other  direc- 
tion.   Bat  it  was  Christmas-eve,  and  we  were 
ahnost  in  the  land  of  Christmas.    A  full  table 
was  spread,  and  a  venerable  figure  of  Father 
Chiistmas,  carefully  concealed  since  we  left 
New  York,  was  produced  by  the  chief.    There 
was  high  wassail,  but  there  was  also  much 
anxiety  at  heart.    While  the  festivities  were 
in  progress,  we  were  called  on  deck  to  see  the 
Scmy  Island  lights.    This  marvellous  landfall 
won  us  the  race.  Captain  Samuels  had  brought 
the  Henrietta  from  Sandy  Hook  to  the  Scilly 
Islands,  without  making  a  single  tack,   and 
having  varied   only  eleven    mues  from    the 
straightest   possible  route  between  the  two 
places.    Seamanship  had  conquered  speed,  and 
the  slowest  yacht  was  to  be  the  first  to  pass 
the  winning-post.    On  Christmas  Day,  under 
every  stitch  of  canvas,  with  even  her  stay-sail 
set,  and  with  her  colours  floating  lightly  in  the 
breeze,  the  Henrietta  flashed  by  the  Needles, 
and  the  judges  on  board  decided  that  the  con- 
ditions of  the  race  had  been  rigidly  observed. 
Down  went  our  racing  flag.    As  it  fell,  the 
yacht  turned  into  the  Cowes  Channel,  the  hills 
shut  out  the  wind,  and,  like  a  racer  who  drops 
into  a  walk  when  the  contest  is  over,  the  Hen- 
rietta slackened  her  speed  and  floated  leisurely 
along.    The  people  waved  her  a  welcome  from 
the  hill-tops,  and  Hurst  Castle  dipped  its  flag 
as  a  salute.    Nobody  had  expected  her  so  soon. 
When,  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  her  blue  lights 
and  rockets  announced  her  arrival  off  Cowes, 
the  town  was  taken  by  surprise.    In  thirteen 
days  twenty-two  hours  and  forty-six  minutes, 
she   had  crossed  the  Atlantic.      Commodore 
M^Vickar,  who  was  to  come  over  in  a  steamer 
to  decide  the  race,  had  not  yet  arrived.    Only 
one  member  of  the  Royal  Yacht  Squadron  was 
at  Cowes  to  do  the  honours  of  the  club-house. 
The  cry  of  all  visitors  was :  "  You  are  before 
your  time !"  Nevertheless,  an  English  welcome 
was  not  lacking,  and  before  midnight  all  hands 
were  at  home  in  Cowes.    An  hour  or  two  later 
the  Fleetwing  and  the  Vesta  dropped  into 
harbour  in  the  darkness,  beaten  but  not  dis- 
graced.   The  Fleetwing  brought  the  dreadful 
story  of  the  loss  of  six  brave  men.    The  Vesta 
had  not  shipped  a  sea,  and  claimed  to  have 
been  carried  out  of  her  course  by  an  incompe- 
tent channel  pilot.    But  the  charts  of  the  race 
reveal  the  real  secret.    While  the  Henrietta 
had  been  steering  a  straight  course,  the  other 
two  yachts  had  been  rig-zagging  to  the  north- 
ward and  southward.  The  Henrietta  had  teJcen 
the  shortest  line ;  they  had  chosen  the  longest. 
Then  another  triumph  awaited  the  little  yacht. 
By  direction  of  the  Admiralty.  Captain  Luard, 
of  Her  Britannic  Majesty's  ironclad  Hector, 
sent  a  midshipman  on  Doard  to  offer  Mr.  Ben- 
nett the  facilities  of  the  royal  dockyard  for 
repairs;  but  nothing  was  out  of   order,    no 
r^airs    were  necessary;    and  the    generous 
offer  was  gratefully  declined.    To  have  made 
such  a  voyage  without  the  loss  of  a  spar,  a 
shred  of  canvas,  or  a  bit  of  rope,  was  almost  a 
modem  miracle. 

/Butf  BtroDgely  enough,  the  victory  of  the 
Henrietta  diivtracted  attention  from  the  very 


point  which  the  Ocean  Yacht  Race  of  1866  was 
originally  designed  to  settle.    Had  the  Vesta 
won,  yachtsmen    on  both  sides  the  Atlantic 
would  have  been  immersed  in  the  mysteries  of 
centre-board  yachts,  and  we  might  have  had 
another  revolution  similar  to  that  caused  by  the 
triumph  of  the  America.  The  Vesta  did  not  win ; 
but  she  crossed  the  Atlantic  with  perfect  safety, 
rode  out  severe  gales  easily,  and  sailed  into 
Cowes  only  a  few  hours  behind  the  winner, 
though    she    was     less    skilfully    navigated. 
That  the  Vesta  was  much  faster  than  either 
of  her  rivals  on  smooth  water,  seems  to  have 
been  conceded,  and  we  have  seen  that  she  held 
her  own  with  them  upon  the  ocean.     The 

Eroblem  in  regard  to  centre-board  boats  which 
er  .record  presents,  has  been  shirked  by  the 
opponents  of  that  style  of  yacht-building ;  hat 
its  advocates  claim  for  it  greater  speed,  in- 
creased soliditv  in  rough  water,  and  unequalled 
buoyancy  in  all  waters.  It  is  remarkable  that, 
in  a  race  arranged  to  test  these  very  clainiB, 
the  performances  of  the  Vesta  should  be  ig- 
nored as  though  they  had  decided  nothing. 
The  Vesta  and  the  Fleetwing  still  belong  to 
the  New  York  Yacht  Club,  and  will  doubtless 
have  to  be  encountered  by  those  English 
yachtsmen  who,  sooner  or  later,  will  emulate 
the  example  of  the  Americans  and  cross  the 
ocean  to  regain  the  trophy  won  by  the  America 
and  now  held  as  a  challenge  cup  for  foreign 
yachts.  The  Henrietta,  having  been  offered 
as  a  New  Yearns  gift  to  Prince  Alfred,  who 
was  not  at  libertv  to  accept  so  valuable  a 
present,  has  since  been  sold  oy  her  owner  for 
fifty  thousand  dollars.  Her  victory,  though 
it  neither  confirmed  nor  upset  any  ^eories  as 
to  models,  has  yet  led  indurectly  to  important 
results.  The  hospitalities  extended  to  her 
owner  and  his  friends  by  English  yachtsmen 
have  encouraged  other  American  yachtsmen  to 
visit  England,  and  opened  the  way  to  the  recent 
contest  between  the  Harvard  and  Oxford  crews. 
Such  international  contests  and  courtesies 
benefit  both  countries.  Two  American  yachts, 
the  Sappho  and  the  Dauntless,  are  now  in 
English  waters  and  have  contended,  as  yet  not 
very  successfully,  with  English  yachta.  As  it 
is  no  further  from  England  to  America,  than 
from  America  to  England,  and  as  the  hos* 
pitalities  of  both  countnes  are  equally  generous, 
we  hope  that  in  another  year  these  yachting 
visits  will  be  returned.  And,  like  the  Americans, 
we  wish,  in  advance,  the  best  of  good  fortune 
^*  to  the  yachtsman  who  goes  in  his  own  boat.** 


A  CONFESSION  AND  APOLOGY. 

'Tis  time  that  I  should  looae  from  life  at  lait 
This  heart's  unworthy  longing  for  the  past. 

Ere  life  be  turned  to  loathing. 
For  love,  at  least  this  love  of  one  for  one, 
Is,  at  the  best,  not  all  beneath  the  sun. 

And  at  the  worst,  'tis  nothing. 

Not  that,  of  all  the  past,  I  would  forget 
One  pleasure  or  one  pain.    I  cherish  yet^ 

And  would  dishonour  neTer, 
All  I  have  felt.  But,  chcrish'd  tho*  it  be, 
'Tis  time  my  p«ut  should  set  my  future  frea^ 

For  life's  renew'd  endeavoor. 


=4 


=fc 


OhaileiDleltani.]  MR.   CHAFFINCH  TO  MR.   CHILDERS.    [September  II^IMA]      349 


Kot  much  I  reyerence  that  remone  -which  flief 
To  desert  cavee,  and  bide  ita  dupes  despise 

Themselves  on  whom  it  projs; 
Wasting  the  worth  of  life  on  worthless  pain, 
To  make  the  Aiture,  as  the  past  was,  vain, 

By  endless  self-dispraise. 

As  tho*,  forsooth,  because  a  man  is  not 

His  self-madeeod,  he  needs  must  curse  his  lot 

With  self-contempt !  astho* 
Some  squalid  maniac,  that  with  life-long  moan 
Insults  man's  flesh  and  blood,  with  these  hath  done 

The  best  that  man  can  do ! 

Nor  am  I  keen  to  urge  that  common  claim 
On  this  world  or  another — here,  for  fame, 

Which  only  ffrows  on  graTea— 
Or  there  for  so  much,  purchaseable  here 
By  earth's  joy  stinted,  of  celestial  cheer ; 

The  stimulant  of  slayes. 

Not  for  reward,  not  for  release  from  pain, 
But  with  a  man's  imperatiTC  disdain 

Of  all  that  wastes  man's  nature, 
Bise,  O  my  soul,  and  reach  to  loftier  things, 
TTntrammell'd  by  this  florid  weed  that  clings. 

Stunting  a  spirit's  stature ! 

I  was  not  bom  to  sit  with  shrouded  head, 
Piping  shrill  ditties  to  the  unburied  dead, 

While  life's  arm'd  host  sweeps  by. 
I  hear  the  clarion  mU,  the  war-steed  neigh, 
Ihe  banner  fluttering  in  the  wind's  free  play. 

The  brave  man's  battle  cry. 

And  I  am  conscious  that,  where  all  things  strire^ 
Tis  shameful  to  sit  still.    I  would  not  live 

Content  with  a  life  lost 
la  ehanng  mine  own  fancies  thro'  void  air. 
Or  decking  forth  in  forms  and  phrases  fair 

The  miserable  ghost 

Of  personal  joy  or  pain.    The  ages  roll 
forward ;  wad,  forward  with  them,  draw  my  sovl 

Into  time's  infinite  se|i. 
And  to  be  glad,  or  sad,  I  care  no  more ; 
But  to  haye  done,  and  to  have  been,  before 

I  cease  to  do  and  be. 

From  the  minutest  struggle  to  excel. 

Of  things  whose  momentary  myriads  dweU 

In  drops  of  dew  confined. 
To  spirits  standing  on  life's  upmost  stair. 
Whose  utterances  alter  worlds,  and  are 

The  makers  of  mankind. 

All  things  cry  shame  on  lips  that  squander  speech 
In  words  which,  if  not  de^,  are  worthless  each. 

Not  here  are  such  words  wanted. 
Where  all  bestirs  itself,  where  dumb  things  do. 
By  nobly  silent  action,  speak,  and  go 

Forth  to  their  fates  undaunted. 

Shame  on  the  wretch  who,  bom  a  man,  forgoes 
Man's  troublous  birthright  for  a  brute's  repose ! 

Shame  on  the  eyes  that  see 
lUs  mighty  universe,  yet  see  not  there 
Something  of  difficult  worth  a  man  may  dare 

Bravely  to  do  and  be ! 

Yet  is  there  nought  for  shame  in  anything 
Once  dear  and  beautiful.    The  shrivell'd  wing. 

Scathed  by  what  seem'd  a  star. 
And  proved,  alas !  no  star,  but  withering  fire. 
Is  worthier  than  the  wingless  worm's  desire 

For  nothing  fair  or  far. 

Bather  the  ground  that's  deep  enough  for  graves. 
Bather  the  stream  that's  strong  enough  for  wares, 

Than  the  loose  sandy  dnit 
Whose  shifting  surface  cherishes  no  seed 
of  any  flower  or  any  weed, 

Which  ever  way  it  shift. 


Or  stagnant  shallow  which  the  storms  despise, 
Nought  finding  there  to  prey  upon,  I  prise. 

Vvhv  should  man's  spirit  shrink 
From  feeling  to  the  utmost — be  it  pain 
Or  pleasure — all  'twas  form'd,  nor  form'd  in  vain. 

To  feel  with  force?    I  think 

That  never  to  have  aim'd  and  miss'd  is  not 
To  have  achieved.    I  hold  the  lo^er  lot 

To  ennoble,  not  escape, 
life's  sorrows  and  love's  pan£s.    I  count  a  man, 
Tho'  sick  to  death,  for  something  nobler  than 

A  healthy  dog  or  ape. 

I  deem  that  nothing  suffer'd  or  enjoy*d 
By  a  man's  soul  deserves  to  be  destroy'd ; 

But  rather  to  be  made 
Means  of  a  soul's  increased  capacity 
Either  to  suffer,  and  to  gain  thereby 

A  more  exalted  grade 

Among  the  spirits  purified  by  pain  ; 
Or  to  enjoy,  and  thereby  to  attain 

That  loveher  influence 
Beserved  for  spirits  that,  'mid  the  general  moan 
Of  human  griefs,  praise  Qod  with  dearest  tone 

Of  joyous  trust  intense. 

And  for  this  reason,  I  would  yet  keep  fair 
And  fresh  the  memory  of  all  things  that  were 

Sweet  in  their  place  and  season : 
And  I  forgive  my  life  its  failures  too. 
Since  failures  ola,  to  euide  endeavours  new, 

I  prise  u>r  the  same  reason. 


MR.  CHAFFINCH  TO  MR.  CHILDERS. 


Mr.  Chaffinch — ^the  present  writer — 
wonders  bow  the  scions  of  the  pennltimate 
generation,  solemn  little  prigs !  addressed 
their  parents,  solemn  old  prigs!  when 
they  wanted  to  be  taken  out  for  a  holiday  ? 
Most  probably  they  dared  not  ask  for  snch 
a  favour  at  all ;  but  if  by  any  chance  they 
had  managed  to  screw  their  courage  to 
tho  sticking-place,  they  would  have  said : 
"Honoured  sir,  our  studies  having  been 
pursued  with  diligence  and  zeal,  we  would 
regard  it  as  a  high  token  of  our  parent's 
inestimable  approbation,  if  he  would  con- 
siderately consent  to  let  us  enjoy  a  little 
relaxation,  and  would  add  to  the  zest  of 
that  relaxation  by  sharing  it  with  us." 
When  the  eldest  of  Mr.  Chafilnch's  two 
boys  said  to  him  this  morning,  "I  say, 
pup" — a  fond  abbreviation  for  papa — 
"take  us  somewhere  to-day,"  and  Mr. 
Chaffinch  replied,  "  All  right ;  where  shall 
it  be?"  Mr.  C.  thought  that  the  tone  of 
our  social  relations  had  on  the  whole 
improved.  Where  should  it  be?  The 
mrty  had  "  done"  the  Polytechnic  and  the 
Zoological  Grardens,  had  ridden  donkeys 
on  Hampstead  Heath,  and  swam  boats  in 
the  Highgate  ponds ;  had  elaborated  a 
plan  for  spending  a  happy  day  at  Rosher- 
ville;  and,  so  far  as  ]$£:.  Chaffinch  could 
see,  had  thus  drained  Pleasure's  goblet  to 
the  dregs.  Mr.  Chaffinch  was  com^^M^ 
to  allow  tlaat  l[na\3(waxi  ^«j&\«jcic«ii  5l  «a>|- 


Qt 


350      [September  11.  ISeS.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


LCoB^netad  b7 


I 


gestion,  when  his  youngest  hope  inmiired, 
innocently,  "  I  say,  pup,  what's  Green- 
wich ?"  Hail,  required  clue  !  Mr.  C.  fore- 
bore  to  mention  that  Greenwich  was  the 
home  of  whitebait ;  for,  in  the  first  place, 
the  season  was  over;  and  in  the  second 
place,  the  introduction  to  the  mysteries 
is  costly  and  not  sufficiently  appreci- 
able— at  the  price — ^by  small  birds  under 
fourteen  years  of  age.  But  Mr.  Chaf- 
finch dilated  with  such  eloquence  on  the 
glories  of  the  hospital^  the  pensioners, 
and  the  park,  pictured  so  skilfully  the 
delights  of  the  passage  down  the  river, 
climaxed  so  admirably  with  a  hint  at  a 
meat-tea  to  be  procured  from  a  hospitable 
relative  resident  in  the  neighbourhood — 
that  the  boys  shouted  for  Greenwich  with 
one  Yoioo,  and  the  parental  Chafi&nch  saw 
his  way  to  giving  iJiem  a  successful  treat 
at  a  moderate  expense. 

Mr.  Chaffinch  found  himself,  during  the 
voyage  down,  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
like  Mr.  Barlow  as  he  pointed  out  (to 
Sandford  and  Merton)  the  Monument,  the 
Custom  House,  the  Tower,  Execution  Dock, 
and  other  riverside  objects  of  interest,  and 
answered,  as  he  best  might,  the  questions 
with  which  S.  and  M.  plied  him.  Chaf- 
finch and  party  landed  at  Greenwich,  and 
passed  the  Ship,  where  one  melancholy 
waiter  was  yawning  at  the  upper  win- 
dows, and  where  a  man  was  dining  off 
hot  boiled  beef — fancy  hot  boiled  beef  at 
Greenwich  !  —  in  the  coffee-room.  They 
noticed  the  lump  of  red  granite,  which, 
erected  as  a  memorial  of  Lieutenant  Bellot, 
does  greater  credit  to  British  gratitude  than 
to  British  taste ;  they  inspected  the  Hos- 
pital, the  Painted  Hall  with  its  pictures  of 
sea-fights  and  its  wonderful  portraits  of 
wonderful  admirals ;  they  peered  in  at  the 
glass  case  containing  Nelson's  coat  and 
waistcoat;  and  they  went  away  happy. 
Then  they  adjourned  to  the  Park,  and  did 
the  pensioners :  who  returned  the  compli- 
ment by  doing  them  (out  of  a  shilling)  for 
looking  through  their  telescopes,  and  who 
greatly  gratified  Mr.  Chaffinch's  youngest 
hope  by  showing  him  the  exact  spot  on 
which  the  parental  mansion.  Number  Four, 
Adalbert  Villas,  Dagmar-road,  Canonbury, 
N.,  was  situated.  After  declining  to  run 
more  than  once  up  and  down  One  Tree  Hill, 
holding  a  hand  of  each  of  the  boys — an 
athletic  proceeding  for  which  his  figure  is 
scarcely  suitable  —  and  after  failing  to 
catch  and  receiving  many  stinging  cuts  from 
a  ball  which  the  boys  had  brought  with  them 
— ^Mr.  Chaffinch  began  to  be  rather  bored 
bj"  the  hoys.    Yon  see  they  had  been  more 


than  three  weeks  at  home,  and  the  small 
family   circle  had  exhausted  most  of  the 
topics  of  conversation  possessing  common 
interest,  and  Mr.  Chaffinch  was  beginning 
to  feel  that  he  had  not  done  proper  justice 
to  that  priggish  era,  when,  under  similar 
circumstances,  he  could  have  bade  his  off- 
spring, in  sonorous  sentences,  to  retire  and 
leave  nim  to  his  own  meditations ;  when  the 
triumvirate  fortunately  came  across  three 
young  gentlemen   (sons  of  the  meat-tea 
relative  before  aUuded  to),  in  whose  com- 
pany the  youthful  Chaffinches   most  wil- 
lingly remained. 

The  meat-tea  relative  though  hospitable 
is  not  amusing,  and  Mr.  Chaffinch  thought 
he  should  be  better  by  himself,  but  was  very 
much  put  to  it  for  something  to  do  during 
two  hours.  The  town  of  Greenwich  one 
would  think  the  nastiest  in  the  world  unless 
one  had  seen  Dcptford,  its  neighbour;  it 
occurs  to  its  streets  to  be  perpetually  under 
repair,  and  it  has  a  floating  population  of 
'longshore  loafers,  river  scum,  and  navvies. 
Mr.  Chaffinch  made  his  way  down  to  the 
pier,  looked  at  the  boats  coining  and 
going,  had  half  a  mind  to  walk  into  the 
Ship  and  see  what  kind  of  monstrous  fish 
they  would  offer  him  as  whitebait,  had  an 
idea  of  crossing  by  the  feny-steamer  and 
penetrating  into  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  when 
suddenly,  looking  up  stream,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  Dreadnought^  the  hospital 
ship  for  sailors,  belonging  to  the  Seamen's 
Hospital  Society,  which  he  had  oflen  heard 
of  but  had  never  seen.  This  decided  him; 
he  hailed  a  boat,  and  five  minutes  aft^ 
wards  stepped  on  the  deck  of  the  Dread- 
nought. 

A  big  line-of-battle  ship,  formeriy  die 
Caledonia,  and  carrying  one  himdrea  and 
twenty  guns,  but  now  named  the  Dread- 
nought, after  her  immediate  predecessor 
(the  first  floating  hospital-ship  was  called 
the  Grampus,  was  a  small  fiifW-gun  crafty 
and  was  moored  off  Ghreenwicn  in  1821)i 
with  her  ports  open,  but  filled,  instead  of 
with  grim,  black  gun-muzzles,  with  the 
pale  faces  and  light-capped  hecids  of  con- 
valescent patients.  The  upper  deck,  white 
and  bare,  and  with  the  exception  of  a  juiy- 
mast  quite  devoid  of  rigging.  Mr.  Chaf- 
finch waited  there  looking  round  him  while 
some  one  fetched  the  resident  medical 
officer :  a  courteous  gentleman,  under 
whoso  gniidance  he  made  the  tour  of  the 
ship,  and  from  whom  he  received  all  neces- 
sary information. 

Mr.  Chaffinch  and  his  guide  firot  de* 
sccnded  to  the  main-deck,  where  are,  ih6 
chapel,  elaborately  fitted  up  wiih  oaned 


=f 


^ 


:& 


ChHiMDiekens.]  MR.   CHAFFINCH  TO  MR.   CHILDERS.      September  ll,  imsj      351 


wood;  the  snng  quarters  of  the  medical 
staff:  for  the  establishment  on  board  the 
Dreadnought  is  precisely  on  the  footing 
of  other  hospitals,  with  a  superintendent, 
snrgeons,  assistant-surgeon,  visiting  phy- 
sicians, apothecary,  chaplain,  &c. ;  and  an 
open  space  where  the  convalescent  patients 
sleep  at  night  in  hammocks.  Down 
the  hatchway  to  the  middle,  or  deck  de- 
voted to  surgical  cases,  the  lower  being 
given  up  to  medical  cases,  and  the  orlop  to 
special  complaints.  The  orlop  opens  flush 
with  the  ordinary  height  of  a  boat,  and 
there  is  an  apparatus  by  which  a  patient 
thus  brought  alongside  can  be  lifted  to  the 
deck,  and  even  to  the  bed  where  he  is 
to  be  treated.  Sick  seamen  of  every  nation, 
on  presenting  themselves  alongside,  are 
immediately  received,  without  any  recom- 
mendatory letter,  their  own  condition  being 
sufficient  to  insure  their  admission.  This 
&cihty  of  admission  is  in  itself  productive 
of  grreat  benefit,  as  the  cases  are  imme- 
diately attended  to,  and  the  patients  are 
effectually  relieved  in  a  much  shorter 
period  than  would  otherwise  be  practic- 
able. The  only  testimony  required  from 
the  sailor  seelang  admission,  that  he  is 
what  he  represents  himself  to  be,  is  his 
letter  of  discmarge  from  his  last  ship. 

The  average  number  of  inmates  is  from 
one  hundred  and  seventy  to  one  hundred 
and  eighty.  The  number  of  patients  ad- 
mitted last  year  was  of  in-patients  two 
thousand  one  hundred  and  tliirty-five,  and 
of  out-patients  one  thousand  and  fifty. 
Since  the  establishment  of  the  hospital, 
forty-eight  years  ago,  upwards  of  one  hun- 
dred thousand  seafaring  men  have  received 
its  benefits.  Of  these,  between  seventy- 
two  and  seventy  -  three  thousand  were 
British;  then  next  in  number,  as  in  be- 
haviour and  gratitude,  are  the  Swedes  and 
Norwegians,  the  East  and  West  Indians, 
and  Yimkees.  There  are  as  many  Africans 
as  French,  Russians,  and  Spaniards,  twice 
as  many  South  Sea  Islanders  as  Greeks, 
nineteen  Turks,  fifly-three  New  Zealanders 
— who  had  got  over,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  their 
cannibalistic  tendencies — fifty-five  Chinese, 
and  nearly  two  hundred  persons  "bom  at 
sea,"  and,  therefore,  supposed  to  be  ac- 
creditable  to  the  parish  of  Stepney.  There 
is  not  much  trouble  in  keeping  order  and 
discipline.  The  patients  are,  as  a  rule, 
very  well  behaved ;  occasionally  the  Irish 
or  American  fighting  element  crops  out, 
but  it  is  easily  reducible.  A  patient  can 
leave,  at  any  time  he  likes,  but,  if  he  leave 
before  the  medical  officers  consider  him  in 
ft  proper  state  for  removal,  it  is  entered 


against  him  that  he  insisted  upon  going, 
"  contrary  to  advice."  There  is,  however, 
no  necessity  for  patients  to  quit  the  ship 
immediately  upon  their  cure ;  they  can  stop 
on  board  as  convalescents,  assisting  in  the 
work  that  must  bo  done,  and  receiving 
diet-rations  accordingly.  The  number  of 
deaths  is  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  a 
year.  The  Dreadnought  Hospital  is  the 
only  hospital  in  the  kingdom  which  has 
to  pay  for  the  burial  of  its  inmates.  The 
dead  &om  the  Dreadnought,  whose  "  heavy- 
shotted  hammock  shroud"  one  somehow 
absurdly  fimcies  would  be  hurled  over- 
board into  the  Thames,  are  pauper-coffined 
and  buried  after  the  usual  fashion  in  the 
cemetery  of  Shooter's  HilL 

The  decks  are,  indeed,  larger  than  the 
wards  of  any  civil  hospital  in  England, 
but  are  not  too  well  adapted  for  their  re- 
quirements in  several  ways.     For  instance, 
in  the    matter    of  ventilation:    the    sole 
channel  for  air  is  the  port;   when  it  is 
open  the  draught  is  excessive,   and  the 
occupant  of  a  bed  in  its  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood has  the  chance  of  sufiering  from 
that  absolute  necessity,  the  admission  of 
fresh  air.     The  size  of  the  wards  is  also  a 
drawback.     In  the  medical  ward,  for  in- 
stance, there  are  sixty-three  beds,  and  one 
noisy  fellow  suflTering  from   dehrium-tre- 
mens,  or  some  such  ailment,  will  keep  all 
the  other  patients  awake,  and  thus  do  some 
of  them  unspeakable  harm.     Moreover,  in 
wards  of  such  size,  the  distance  to  be  tra- 
versed by  the  nurses  is  unquestionably  too 
great.     The  nursing  staff  seemed  capable 
of  improvement  and  increase.    At  present, 
there  are  six  male  and  six  female  nurses : — 
clearly  an  insufficient  number,   as  in  the 
medical  ward  there  are  only  three  nurses, 
or  one  to  every  twenty-one  patients.     A 
male  nurse  is  scarcely  a  satisfactory  person, 
however  well-intentioned  he  may  be.  Where 
pain  and  sickness  wring  the  brow,    it  is 
woman  who  is,  or  should  be,  the  mihistcr- 
ing  angel ;  but  there  is  a  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining the  services  of  the  best  class  of 
nurses,  the  "  sisters  *'  who  are  attached  to 
many  of  the  metropolitan  hospitalB,  on  ac- 
count of  the  want  of  proper  accommodation 
for  them  on  board. 

The  patients  were  very  quiet ;  some  were 
asleep — the  happiest,  perhaps;  some  were 
reading  newspapers ;  here  and  there  was  a 
couple  playing  draughts ;  some  were  lying, 
looking  straight  before  them,  with  that 
look  so  frequently  seen  in  illness,  that  clear 
sad  look  which  rests  nowhere — ^nowhere, 
at  least,  within  human  ken.  Above  each  bed 
was  the  usual  Uttle\iOMd^\3»^sr^i(^"'N^SQ-^^ 


r 


^ 


^ 


852      [September  11, 1M9L] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CoBdaotedbj 


patient's  name,  his  diet-table,  and  other 
particnlars  of  his  case.  Each  man  on  admit- 
tance has  his  money  and  effects  taken  care  of 
by  the  boatswain,  and  is  supplied  with  the 
society's  clothes :  his  own  being  taken  from 
him  for  the  nonce,  as  a  very  necessary  pre- 
caution in  many  cases  against  yermin.  At 
the  end  of  the  medical  deck,  is  the  dis- 
pensary, and  beyond  that  again  the  ope- 
rating-room :  a  poor  place  enough,  having 
no  skylight,  and  being  altogether  behind 
the  requirements  of  modern  civilisation. 
After  his  visit  to  the  patients,  Mr.  Chaffinch 
ascended  to  the  upper  deck,  and  was  taken 
to  see  the  galley,  and  then  strolled  aft,  and, 
without  violating  their  sanctity,  looked  at 
the  quarters  of  the  commander  in  the  poop. 
For  this  Dreadnought,  though  lent  to  the 
Seamen's  Hospital  Society  for  benevolent 
purposes,  is  still  on  the  Admiralty  books, 
and  consequently  is  under  the  command  of 
an  officer  of  the  Royal  Navy,  who  takes 
care  that  she  is  not  "cut  out"  by  the 
pirates  of  Bugsby's  Reach,  or  boarded  by 
the  corsairs  of  Deptford  Creek. 

The  revenues  of  the  hospital,  originating 
in  a  fund  subscribed  in  the  winter  of 
1817-1818  for  the  temporary  relief  of  dis- 
tressed seamen  (who  were  at  that  time  to 
be  found  in  great  numbers  in  the  streets  of 
the  metropolis),  may  be  considered  to  have 
been  rendered  permanently  available  by 
the  munificence  of  Mr.  John  Lydekkar, 
who,  in  1832,  lefl  to  them  stock  worth 
nearly  fifty  thousand  pounds.  In  addition 
to  this,  collections  are  constantly  made  on 
board  ships  belonging  to  the  Royal  Navy, 
and  the  mercantQe  marine ;  and  subscrip- 
tions are  received  through  official  channels 
from  all  civilised  nations,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  United  States.  The  American 
Consul,  it  is  true,  takes  a  lively  interest  in 
the  institution,  and  has  been  the  means  of 
obtaining  for  it  many  good  subscriptions 
firom  Jiis  wealthy  countrymen  resident  in 
England ;  but  this  is  privately  and  on  his 
own  account.  Applied  to  officially,  he 
quotes  the  Act  of  Congress  as  forbidding 
him  to  take  any  cognizance  of  the  institu- 
tion. While  on  the  subject  of  revenue,  one 
is  inclined  to  ask  why  the  anniversary  din- 
ners, which  seem  to  have  been  always  largely 
profitable,  have  been  given  up  since  1862. 

An  institution  like  this,  which,  in  the 
course  of  forty-eight  years,  has  been  of 
incalculable  service  and  benefit  to  upwards 
of  one  hundred  thousand  seamen,  is  clearly 
entitled  to  a  considerable  amount  both  of 
public  and  private  support.  As  regards 
//  private  support,  the  published  lists  of  sub- 
Bcriptiona  abow  that  Jack  "  hove  down  in  t\ie 


bay  of  sickness,"  as  the  nautical  dramatist 
puts  it,  is  not  forgotten  by  the  gentlemen 
of  England  who  live  at  home  at  ease ;  and 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  account  of  the 
hospital  thus  simply  set  forth  may  have  some 
efiect  towards  increasing  the  annual  income. 
With  regard  to  public  support,  it  is  desirable 
to  point  out  that  the  government  has  now, 
or  will  have  shortly,  an  opportunity  of 
doing  a  graceful  and  liberal   act  whidi 
would  be   singularly   efficacious  and  tho- 
roughly appreciated.  Under  the  new  Order 
in  Council,  which — by  no  means  too  soon 
— reorganises  and  rehabilitates  the  splendid 
charity  of  (Greenwich  Hospital,  the  build- 
ing known  as  the  "  Infirmary "  will  be- 
come vacant.     Let  this  building  be  handed 
over  to  the  Seamen's  Hospital  Society  for 
their  inmates.  Standing  isolated,  as  it  does, 
there  can  be  no  pretence  that  such  a  dis- 
position of  it  would  interfere  with  the  pen- 
sioners, the  officers,  or  anybody  concerned: 
while  it  would  enable  the  officials  of  the 
society  to  remedy  a  great  many  shortcom- 
ings necessarily  inseparable  from  this  ex- 
cellent institution  while  afloat.     Mr.  Chaf- 
finch has  the  boldness  to  hope  that  he  here 
offers  Mr.  Childers,  to  whom  all  credit  is 
due  for  the  skill  and  boldness  with  which 
ho  has  encountered  and    slain  the  twin 
dragons   of    Circumlocution    and   Lavish 
Expenditure,  guarding  his  department,  a 
wrinkle  which  shall  suit   his   notions  of 
proper  economy.     The  porous  and  spongej 
old  Dreadnought  costs  every  year  a  sum 
of  some  three  hundred  pounds  for  caulk- 
ing; when  once  her  inmates  are  happilj 
housed  in  the  infirmary,  this  item  will  be 
wiped  off  the  estimates. 

With  this  great  notion  sprouting  in  his 
mind,  Mr.  Chaffinch  bade  adieu  to  las 
courteous  conductor,  was  pulled  ashore^ 
walked  through  the  streets  of  Grreenwich, 
and,  arriving  at  the  house  of  the  meat-teft 
relative,  found  his  boys  steeped  to  the  eazs 
in  strawberry  jam.  He  penned  the  present 
article  under  those  succulent  cxrciim- 
stances,  and  presents  it,  with  his  respectfbl 
homage,  to  Mr.  Childers. 

WHERE  DO  SOME  THINGS  COME 

FROM? 


It  IB  not  difficult  to  understand  that  thinff 
made  of  wood  and  stone  and  metal,  of  whicn 
the  supply  is  virtually  unlimited,  as  ▼ell 
as  fabrics  of  cotton,  mushn,  gauze,  and  wool, 
should  be  turned  out  as  fast  as  they  are  wanted. 
It  is  comprehensible,  too,  that  such  dsTelop- 
ments  of  silk  and  satin  and  velvet  as  may  hit 
the  humour  of  the  moment  should  be  forth- 
coismi^^  m  a  degree  commensonite  with  the  re- 


=* 


A: 


Sh 


GhMTlesDiokeBB.]    WHERE  DO  SOME  THINGS  COME  FROM  ?     [September  ll.  186».]      353 


quirements  of  the  public :  though  this  is  less 
easy  to  understand  when  one  reflects  that  the 
whole  supply  is  due  to  the  exertions  of  a  finite 
number  of  small  caterpillars.  The  multipli- 
cation of  objects,  the  material  for  constructing 
which  is  practically  unlimited,  is  tolerably  com- 
prehensible ;  but  what  seems  unaccountable  is 
the  extritordinary  way  in  which  certain  pro- 
ducts of  nature— animal,  vegetable,  and  mineral 
—seem  to  rush  into  existence  on  the  shortest 
notice,  whenever  a  demand  for  them  springs  up. 

How  wonderfully  accommodating — to  take  an 
instance— has  Nature  proved  of  lat«  years  in 
connexion  with  the  increased  prolificness  of  the 
Seal  Tribe,  or  at  any  rate  that  portion  of  it 
which  furnishes  the  material  that  goes  by  the 
name  of  seal -skin !  It  is  only  within  the  last 
dozen  years  or  so,  that  this  particular  kind  of 
fur  has  become  furiously  popular.  It  is  mar- 
vellous to  observe  how  strangely,  within  that 
comparatively  short  time,  the  supply  has  in- 
creased and  multiplied  also.  A  few  years  ago, 
a  seal-skin  cloak  was  an  uncommon  garment, 
a  rarity :  whereas,  now,  during  the  whole  of 
the  autumn  and  winter  seasons,  we  are  so  sur- 
rounded by  all  sorts  of  seal-skin  garments — 
cloaks,  jacxets,  waistcoats,  hats,  caps,  muffs, 
tippets,  and  the  like :  not  to  speak  of  cigar- 
caaes,  purses,  tobacco-pouches,  blotting-books, 
and  other  miscellaneous  objects— that  we  might 
suppose  seal-skin  to  be  not  merely,  as  Jaques 
aaid  of  Motley,  **  Your  only  wear,"  but  your 
only  decorative  fabric  available  for  any  purpose 
whatsoever.  For,  look  where  one  may,  it  is 
still  seal-skin,  seal-skin,  seal-skin,  everywhere. 
On  the  shoulders  of  ladies;  on  the  breasts 
of  the  lords  of  creation  ;  in  the  shop-windows ; 
in  the  circulars  which  are  thrust  into  our  letter- 
boxes, announcing  a  consignment  of  ever  so 
man^  thousand  seal-skin  jackets;  in  the  ad- 
vertisement sheets  of  the  newspapers,  from 
the  Times  Supplement  to  the  columns  of  the 
Exchange  and  Mart — in  which  last  journal  the 
yearnings  of  humanity  after  seal-skin,  audits 
readiness  to  barter  all  other  property,  of  what- 
soever kind,  in  exchange  for  this  idoUsed  fur, 
are  more  touchingly  expressed  than  in  any  other 
— ^under  each  and  all  of  these  aspects  the  seal- 
akin  rage  is  continually  kept  before  us. 

But  the  supply  with  which  this  phocal  rage 
IB  appeased,  is  tne  marvellous  thing.  How  is 
it  that  such  supply  has  suddenly  come  into  ex- 
istence ?  Or,  was  it  always  there,  though  there 
was  no  demand  ?  Has  the  genus  phoca  been 
wearing  seal-skin  jackets  ever  since  the  creation, 
retaining  unmolested  their  possession  of  those 
priceless  wares  through  countless  ages ;  or  has 
this  obliging  tribe  of  animals  increased  in 
numbers  of  late  years,  out  of  reajiiness  to  gra- 
tify the  caprice  of  the  fashionable  world  ? 

rhen  there  are  the  kids  again— what  shall 
we  say  of  the  kids  ?  If  it  be  matter  of  wonder 
where  all  the  seals  come  from,  how  much  more 
wonderful,  how  stupefying  and  stunning,  is  the 
thought  of  the  myriads  of  young  goats,  whose 
existence  is  absolutely  necessary  to  furnish  the 
^oves  of  the  whole  civilised  world?  Kids!  How 
IB  it  that  there  exist  six  yards  of  ground  any- 
where, without  kids  browsing  thereon  ?    One 


would  expect  that  the  earth  would  be  teeming 
and  swarming  with  kids.  In  every  town  in  Eng- 
land, in  France,  in  Europe,  gloves  made  of  what 
at  least  professes  to  be  the  skin  of  the  kid,  are 
exposed  for  sale ;  while  in  the  large  capitals 
the  number  of  shops  devoted  exclusively  to 
the  diffusion  of  kid  gloves  is  almost  incre- 
dible. Taking  Paris  and  Xx)ndon  alone,  and 
occupying  ourselves  only  with  a  few  of  the 
principal  thoroughfares,  we  should  find  enough 
of  such  shops  to  suggest  the  existence  some- 
where of  such  flocks  of  kids  as  would  overrun 
at  least  all  the  pasture  lands  of  the  civilised 
earth.  How  many  such  shops  are  there  in  the 
Palais  Royal,  the  Boulevards,  the  Rue  de  RivoU, 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix ;  how  many  in  Regent-street, 
Oxford-street,  Bond-street,  the  Strand,  Cheap- 
side,  and  Piccadilly  ?  How  many  in  other  great 
capitals?  How  many  in  South  America,  how 
many  in  Australia,  how  many  in  New  Zealand? 
If  we  take  the  trouble  to  enter  on  the  field  of 
conjecture  which  is  thus  opened  out  before 
us,  we  shall  be  cast  out  in  imagination  on 
immeasurable  unknown  Prairies  where  the  foot 
of  man  has  never  trod  (except  to  capture 
kids),  and  where  skipping  kids  disport  tnem- 
selves  in  such  prodigious  numbers,  that  the 
American  herd  of  buffaloes  who  took  six  weeks 
to  pass  a  man  in  a  ditch  at  full  gallop,  would 
be  as  an  every-day  drove  in  the  comparison. 

I  speak  of  the  supply  of  the  raw  material,  and 
not  the  enormous  multiplication  and  sale  of  the 
gloves  themselves.  When  one  remembers  how 
many  are  the  occasions  of  show  and  ceremony 
where  gloves  of  the  palest  and  most  delicate 
tints  are  alone  admissible,  and  how  soon  (cover- 
ing as  they  do  a  part  of  the  human  frame  which 
comes  in  continual  contact  with  all  sorts  of  ob- 
jects) thev  become  soiled  and  unfit  for  use,  there 
IS  no  difficulty  in  understanding  the  sale  of 
almost  any  number  of  gloves  that  can  be  manu- 
factured. It  is  the  multiplication  of  the  kids 
of  whose  skins  the  gloves  are  made,  that  is  the 
staggering  subject  of  reflection,  and  it  is  in 
connexion  with  this,  and  remembering  how 
comparatively  rare,  even  in  France,  Italy, 
and  Switzerland,  and  other  goat-producing 
countries,  are  the  occasions  when  the  traveller 
encounters  kids  in  any  number,  that  I  find 
myself  again  and  again  constrained  to  ask,  O 
where,  and  O  where  are  your  glove-producing 
kids? 

Is  it  not  a  fact  that  there  are  more  fair-haired 
children  to  be  seen  in  this  country  than  there 
used  to  be  ?  Any  one  who  can  find  leisure  in 
the  early  part  of  the  day,  to  visit  those  portions 
of  our  parxs  and  public  gardens  where  children 
most  resort,  will  infallibly  be  struck  by  the  great 
increase  in  the  number  of  children  wnose  hair  is 
to  bo  classed  as  belonging  to  the  group  of  colours 
which  we  call  "light."  Now,  we  Know  that 
fair  hair  has  lately  been  very  much  the  rage, 
and  we  also  know  that  various  inventions  have 
been  published  for  taking  the  natural  darkness 
out  of  the  hair,  and  imparting  to  it  a  flaxen  or  a 
golden  shade.  The  use  of  such  medicaments  has, 
however,  always  been  confined  to  grown-up 
people,  and  in  none  of  the  T^QOxdft^SsfflX»JW5«^^V 
that  tampering  m^\Xi^  i^aXxiwiJL  wJvssva  <A  "^^ 


«= 


cfi= 


-#v-« 


354      [Septonber  11,1 8G9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[C'mOiicted  by 


/ 


hair  wliieh  has  been  cominoD  of  lato  vears,  havo 
children  hnd  any  ^tart :  so  their  adaptation  to 
the  fashion  of  tlie  time  in  this  respect  would 
seem  to  bo  purely  attributable  to  an  oblig- 
in^iess  on  the  pait  of  Dame  Nature  i^imilar 
to  the  politeness  of  the  seals  and  the  philan- 
thropy of  tlie  kids. 

There  was  a  tagte  the  other  day  for  pug- 
dogs.  Fashion  had  no  sooner  issued  her  man- 
date on  the  subject ,  than  behold  in  all  direc- 
tions there  were  pugs !  The  earth  appeared  to 
toem  with  short  noses  and  black  muzzles ;  and 
any  one  who  wanted  a  pug  (and  chose  to  pay 
for  it)  was  straightway  provided  with  one  of 
those  fascinating  animals.  Is  there  any  room 
for  doubt  tliat  if  phoenixes  or  unicorns  w^ere  to 
become  the  fashion,  they  would  turn  up  by  the 
score  as  soon  as  wanted  ? 

It  is  not  possible  that  any  one,  possessed  of 
any  reilective  power,  and  being  in  the  habit  of 
frequenting  the  various  kinds  of  social  oelcbra- 
tions.  slavery  to  which  forms  the  principal  oc- 
cupation of  a  large  i)ortion  of  civiliscHi  society, 
can  have  failed  to  sjjoculate  on  the  momen- 
tous question,  AVhere  do  all  the  plovere'  eggs 
eome  from?  They  appear  at  all  sorts  of  meals 
—  dinners,  wedding  breakfasts,  show  lun- 
cheons, pic-nies,  evening-party  refreshment 
tables,  ball  suppers.  In  all  sorts  of  forms,  too, 
do  they  appear  :  nestling  in  moss,  held  in  bond- 
age cai-essingly  by  succulent  jelly,  pearly  and 
cool,  the  golden  yolk  just  suggested  through 
the  semi-transparent  white.  Prodigiously  good 
they  are,  in  whatever  shape  presented,  but  pro- 
digiously mystei-ious  also,  in  their  faculty  of 
tui'ning  up  in  enormous  quantities  for  the  Lon- 
don season,  and  then  di^lappearing  with  equally 
strange  and  inexplicable  despatch.  Very  rarely 
does  one  encouiit<»r  these  plovers'  eggs  except 
during  the  Loudon  season  ;  and  as  to  the 
I»lovers  themselves,  now  and  then,  in  crossing 
a  breezy  upland,  the  pedestrian's  attention  is 
caught  by  their  shrill  plaintive  cry  and  their 
rapid  flight  round  and  round  his  head,  as  they 
seek  to  draw  him  away  from  the  nest  whicn 
lies  close  by  ;  but  it  is  only  now  and  then  that 
the  plovers  arc  thus  met  with,  and  even  where 
they  are  thickest,  their  numbers  do  not  account 
for  those  innumerable  dishes  full  of  their  eggs. 

And  naturally  associat-ed  with  the  plovers* 
e^g  dilliculty,  is  another:  I  mean  the  gi'eat 
champagne  mystery.  The  consumption  of  this 
beverage  is  confined  to  no  particular  place,  nor 
to  any  especial  season  of  tlie  year.  Always, 
everywhere,  by  everybody,  this  favourite  drink 
is  appreciated.  One  would  think  that  the 
supply  T(»quired  for  this  country  alone,  and 
during  that  one  period  of  the  year  which  we 
call  *'tlie  season,"  would  exhaust  the  produce 
of  all  the  vincyanis  the  champagne  districts  can 
furnish.  Let  the  reader  crmsider  the  Derby  Day, 
or  merely  take  it  in  conjunction  with  the  Cup 
Day  at  Ascot,  and  then  endeavour  to  form 
some  dimly  approximate  notion  of  the  (piantity 
of  champagne  re(iuired.  There  are  those  who 
have  seen  the  chamimgne  dripj)ing  through  the 
floors  of  carriages  on  Epsom  Downs :  and  even 
t/ioae  who  have  not  been  favoured  with  that  rich 


experience,  but  have  merely  witiiesswl  the  oi-di- 
nary  performances  during  the  luncheon  hours 
there,  are  able  to  form  a  tolerably  accurate  idea 
of  the  rate  at   which  champagne   disappeani 
on  the  occasion  of  those  wondrous  orgies.    At 
the  Ascot  3kleeting  it  is  the  same  story.    The 
same  at  ftooiiwood,  Doncaster,  Newmarket.  At 
all  the  minor  races,  at  Henley,  at  every  regatta 
held  at  Cowes  or  Ryde,  or  anywhere,  and  on  all 
those  occasions  of  a  more  private  nature  at 
which  we  have  ju.st  seen  the  dishes  of  plovers' 
eggs  making  a  goodly  appearance,  it  is  again 
the*  same,     l^he  thought  of  all  the  champagne 
required  for  England,  not  to  speak  of  the  still 
greater  quantities  needed  for  the  supply  of 
Continental  capitals,  and  there  not  alone  for 
those  great  festal  occasions  when  royal  person- 
ages  meet    together  and  are  entertained  at  , 
banquets,  balls,  and  the  like,  but  for  all  the  I 
smaller  and  snugger  meals  which  come  cS  at 
restaurants,    caf^,   hotels,   and  taverns— the  j 
thought.  I  say,   of  all  this  champagne,  and  , 
all  this  society  as  I  may  say  floating  in  it, 
becomes  distracting.  | 

But  where  does  that  same  creamy  liquor  all 
come  from?    We  all  know  that  we  are  ex-  ' 
l>ected  to  swallow  a  great  deal  in  oonnexioa 
with  our  wine  besi<les  the  liquid  itself.    It  re-  i 
quires    a    most  remarkable  amount  of  faith 
to  suppose  that  those  small  tracts  of  land  , 
which  give  their  name  to  the  more  renowned  i 
growths  of  France  and  (iemiany,  can  supply  all  , 
the  cellars  throughout  Europe.  An  enigma  this,  ■ 
which,  with  regard  to  other  wines,  may  be  I 
looked  upon  as  simply  a  tiitticulty :  but  which, 
when  champagne  is  in  question,  culminates  into 
an  impossibility.  | 

The  milk  and  cream,  again,  supplied  twice 
a  day  to  the  inhabitants  of  England,  and 
for  the  fumisliing  of  which  —  since  fresh 
milk  cannot  be  imported  fiom  other  countries  | 
— vre.  are  dependent  on  the  resources  of  the 
British  cows  —  the  enormous  daily  yield  of  ( 
this  article  of  consumption  is  a  thing  not  to  be 
thought  of  without  wonder.  Simmion  before  the 
mind  the  vast  ar^-a  of  London  and  its  suburbs, 
and  rtanember  that  in  every  street,  square, 
place,  terrace,  court,  blind  alley,  throughout  its 
enormous  extent  from  Highgate  and  Honisey 
in  the  north,  to  Camberwell  and  Dulwich  in 
the  south,  and  from  Wimbledon  and  Putney  in 
the  west  to  Kotherhithe,  Hackney,  Bow,  in  the 
east,  the  clink  of  the  mUk-pail  is  heanl  twice 
every  cLiy  throughout  the  year,  Sundays  in- 
cluded. And  all  t  his  professes,  remember,  to  be 
new  milk,  so  that  in  addition  there  must  be  taken 
into  account  an  entirely  separate  reservoir  of 
milk  set  aside  for  the  development  of  all  that 
mass  of  cream  which  is  required,  at  certain  times  ! 
of  year,  for  the  supply  of  the  metropolis.  What 
a  supply  must  that  be !  Think  of  all  the  ice- 
creams sold  at  all  the  i>astry-cooka'  shops  be- 
sides those  which  are  ser\'ed  tip  in  private 
houses!  Think  of  all  the  cream  eaten  with 
strawberries,  of  the  cream  required  for  cooking 
purposes,  of  the  recipes  of  those  great  artists 
who  are  always  ilirecting  their  disciples  to 
"  take  a  quail  oi  cream."  or  to  *'  add  a  pint 


I 


I 


:Sha 


Chsrlm  DicMQB.] 


SORROW  AND  THE  MERMAID. 


[September  11, 1609.]     355 


of  good  cream,"  or  *'  now  throw  in"  a  pint 
or  so  of  cream !  And,  besides,  what  be- 
eomes  of  all  this  supply  of  milk  and  cream 
when  it  is  no  longer  wanted  in  the  metropolis  ? 
On  the  thirtieth  of  .Time  it  is  required ;  on  the 
thirtieth  of  July  it  is  not.  The  main  body  of 
ercam-consmners  have  by  that  time  left  London 
and  are  dispersed  oyer  the  world.  Do  the  cows 
follow  them  ? 

A  solution  of  some  of  the  above-stated  diffi- 
euIticB  Slight  be  afforded  by  supposing  the 
existence — not  a  very  wide  stretch  of  imagina- 
tion— of  a  wholesale  system  of  adulteration.  It 
is  possible  to  make  champagne,  for  instance, 
ind,  alas  !  I  fear,  milk  and  cream  too,  to  order ; 
but  no  manufactory  can  turn  out  plovers'  eggs 
to  order.  And  where  are  the  iron -works, 
sawmills,  or  galvanised-zinc  factories  that  can 
eontract  to  supply  an  unlimited  number  of 
cweetbreads — hiy  the  by,  another  delicacy  re- 
Guired,  like  the  plovers'  eggs,  on  a  huge  scale 
Quring  the  London  season,  and  bardly  wanted 
at  other  times ! 


SORROW  AND  THE  MERMAID. 

IN  TWO  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  II. 

One  morning,  Irene  told  me  she  could 
not  remain  out  our  usual  time,  for  she  had 
letters  to  write  before  breakfast ;  but  ihsbt 
if  I  liked  I  oould  oome  and  see  her  after 
twelve  o'clock. 

When  I  went  she  was  not  alone.  A 
man,  evidently  a  messenger,  was  with  her, 
to  whom,  she  was  giving  instructions  and 
letters.  She  shook  hands  with  me,  and 
went  on.  He  bowed,  and  she  dismissed 
him  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  am  so  tired,"  she  said,  and  she 
looked  thoroughly  overcome  ;  more  fi*agile 
than  the  white  rose  in  her  bolt. 

**  You  have  been  writing  too  much." 

"  It  seems  strange,  does  it  not,  to  hear 
a  poor  cripple  say  so,  but  I  have  been  doing 
a  great  deal  to-day." 

«  Why  do  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Why  ?  What  would  become  of  me  if  I 
did  not  put  my  life  to  some  use  ?  Do  you 
think  I  could  submit  to  be  like  a  log  here 
day  after  day,  deprived,  bereaved  of  all,  if 
there  were  not  some  duties  I  had  made  for 
myself?     I  beg  your  pardon." 

She  had  spoken  with  a  flushed  clicck 
and  flashing  eyes.  She  must  have  over- tired 
herself,  or  the  rigid  self-control  which  made 
her  so  reticent  as  regarded  her  own  suffer- 
ings, would  not  have  permitted  even  this 
d^;iit  allusion  to  her  state. 

"There  are  some  who  serve  God  and 
&eir  fellow-creatures  actively,  others  pas- 
sively. *  They  also  serve  who  only  stand 
and  wait.'  You  know  it  was  Milton  who 
said  so." 


Her  face  relaxed  into  a  smile,  a  mournful, 
gentle  one ;  but  it  was  more  pathetic  than 
teai's.  I  would  not  continue  a  subject 
which  had  so  much  of  emotion  in  it. 

"  Where  is  Sorrow  ?" 

"Is  he  not  there  ?"  She  looked  over 
the  side  of  the  couch. 

"  No,  I  do  not  see  him." 

"  Sometimes  he  finds  my  letter  writing 
tedious,  and  goes  off*  marauding  in  the 
garden,  or  he  pays  a  visit  to  the  Mortons. 
He  nsually  gets  very  mischievous  if  ho  finds 
I  am  not  attending  to  him.  He  tore  up  a 
cushion  the  other  day,  and  I  had  to  send 
him  away  with  one  of  the  servants  for  a 
walk.  Sometimes  he  takes  off  something 
of  mine,  and  hides  it,  or  buries  it,  or 
carries  it  in  great  triumph  to  the  Mer- 
tons.  The  other  day  he  went  off*  with  a 
pair  of  my  gloves  which  had  slipped  off* 
the  couch,  and  ho  took  them  and  de- 
posited them  at  Mr.  Morton's  feet.  An- 
other day  ho  found  a  photograph,  and 
carried  it  in  with  him,  and  put  it  on  tho 
English  secretary's  knee.  It  was  a  cari- 
cature of  Lord  Raglan.  You  may  fancy 
the  effect  it  produced." 

"  I  came  through  your  Mend's  drawing- 
room  just  now,  but  your  dog  was  not 
thero.'^ 

"  Was  their  salon  fuU  ?" 

"  Pretty  well."  I  named  several  per- 
sons who  were  there,  among  them  Madame 
de  Beaufort. 

"  Madame  de  Beaufort !" 

"  Yes.     I  did  not  see  her  husband." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  know  he  went  away  an 
hour  ago."  She  said  this  hastily  and  in- 
voluntarily, and  seemed  sorry  she  had 
said  it. 

"  Poor  Madame  de  Beaufort !" 

She  sat  up  on  her  couch  and  looked 
very  grave. 

"  Why  do  you  say  poor  ?" 

"  Because  her  husband  does  not  mako 
her  happy,  and  gives  her  cause  for  jea- 
lousy." 

"  Of  whom  ?"  she  asked,  imperiously. 

The  question  and  the  tone  irritated  me. 

"  I  am  not  responsible,  of  course,  for  tho 
gossip  of  Pera,  but  it  is  said  that  Monsieur 
de  Beaufort  has  no  eyes  but  for " 

"Pray  do  not  hesitate;  the  Countess 
Irene,  is  it  not  ?** 

''Yes!'; 

"  I  should  have  supposed,"  she  an- 
swered, "  that  I,  of  all  women,  ought  to  be 
s])arod  such  suspicions,  fenced  away  as  I 
am  by  my  cruel  helplessness  from  tho  ordi- 
nary weaknesses  of  niy  bcx." 


cfi= 


4 


356      [September  11, 18«9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  ROUND. 


CCondnctedby 


"  You  know  I  was  not  speaking  in  my 
own  name.  Last  night  Madame  do  Bean- 
fort  seemed  very  miserable,  and  I  was 
sorry  for  her.  Her  hnsband  neglects  her, 
and  she  meets  with  no  sympathy  from  her 
family." 

"  That  may  be,  bnt  is  it  my  fault  ? 
The  one  only  social  intimacy  I  have  ever 
permitted  myself  is  this  friendship  with 
her  parents.  I  like  them  for  themselves, 
am  gratefal  for  their  unvarying  kindness, 
and  with  me  gratitude  is  a  duty,  a  passion, 
a  religion ;  and  I  like  them  because  they 
are  what  they  are — Americans,  and  not 
Europeans.  Why  should  I  separate  from 
them  to  please  her  ?  As  to  her  husband — 
but  I  scorn  to  justify  myself,  let  her  think 
what  she  pleases.  At  least,  I  have  two 
firm  friends  in  you  and  Sorrow." 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand.  Her 
words  touched  me  to  the  heart.  "Two 
firm  friends  !'*  I  repeated,  as  I  pressed  her 
hand. 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  minute  or  two 
and  then  opened  them  suddenly,  and  asked 
me  abruptly, 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  face  P" 

i  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes.  Op- 
posite her  couch  was  a  photographic  por- 
trait, life  size,  of  a  man. 

There  was  something  very  noble  and 
commanding  in  his  air.  The  eyes  were 
keen  and  penetrating.  There  was  force 
and  energy  in  evcrv  lineament  of  the  face. 
Its  predominant  characteristic  was  utter 
ruthlessness.  It  was  a  &ce  more  to  fear 
than  to  trust.  In  the  eyes  was  an  ex- 
pression of  dauntless  daring,  which  seemed 
as  if  they  must  have  compeUed  obedience  in 
the  most  rebellious.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
leader,  but  not  of  a  patriot  or  a  hero. 

"  It  is  a  striking  countenance,"  I  said. 
"  Who  is  it  ?  .  .  .  Beg  your  pardon." 

"  It  is  the  portrait  of  the  man  to  whom 
I  owe  everything." 

"Your ?" 

"My  nothing,"  she  said.  "The  tie  be- 
tween us  is  of  his  making  alone.  He  has 
been  my  benefactor,  my  saviour,  my  earthly 
providence.  He  is  my  guide  and  my  con- 
science, and  I  am  a  thing  in  his  hands,  to 
bo  bent  and  moulded  according  to  his  will. 
Like  the  corpse  which  the  Jesuits  think  is 
the  proper  ideal  to  be  held  up  for  the  imi- 
tation of  their  neophytes.  The  Ego  dead, 
and  the  brain  and  heart  but  instruments 
for  others  to  use." 

These  words  gave  me  exquisite  pain,  I 
do  not  know  why.  Did  they  solve  the 
enigma  of  her  life  ? 


At  that  moment  her  servant  entered  and 
spoke  to  her  hastily  in  German. 

"Yes,"  I  heard  her  say,  "let  him 
come  in." 

The  same  messeng^er  who  had  been  with 
her  when  I  entered  returned.  He  spoke 
volubly,  and  she  started  up  with  dis- 
pleasure. 

"  How  extraordinary  !  I  gave  him  three 
packets,  and  he  says  I  gave  him  but  two. 
He  must  have  dropped  one." 

The  man  brought  her  desk,  she  opened 
it  and  examined  its  contents,  but  the 
missing  packet  was  not  there.  They  looked 
about  the  room,  under  the  couch,  but  it 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  I  must  write  it  all  over  again,  and  he 
leaves  this  evening.  I  would  not  have 
this  happen  for  the  world." 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  Cannot  you  dictate 
to  me  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  curions  expres- 
sion. "  It  would  be  a  great  help,  but  I  do 
not  write  in  English  or  French." 

"  I  can  write  German." 

"  No,  I  had  better  do  it  myself,  and  at 
once.  Au  revoir."  She  held  out  her  hand. 
It  was  burning,  the  blue  veins  under  the 
transparent  surface  could  have  been  counted, 
they  were  so  distinctly  traced.  On  her 
cheek  were  two  red  spots,  and  her  ejei 
looked  dilated  and  dazzlingly  bright.  I 
took  my  leave,  descended  the  stairs  of  her 
private  apartments,  for  I  did  not  care  to 
go  through  the  drawing-room  again,  and 
passed  through  the  garden.  Had  I  known 
that  I  should  never  be  in  that  garden 
again  with  Irene,  I  should  not  have  dashed 
through  it  so  hastily,  I  think,  but  I  wu 
angry — angry  with  myself  and  perhaps 
with  her  too. 

Grubbing  in  a  comer  of  it  I  saw  Sorrow. 
He  was  scratchingwith  his  fore-paws  behind 
some  bushes  in  ^lat  quick  frirtive  manner 
with  which  dogs  bury  a  bone.  When  he 
had  concluded  he  tore  after  me  (I  had 
reached  the  outer  gate),  as  if  to  ask  me 
why  I  left.  I  stooped  down  and  caressed 
him,  and  saw  a  paper  between  his  jaws, 
which  I  took  from  him,  and  threw  awaj 
as  I  caressed  him.  I  told  the  intelligent 
beast  his  mistress  was  waiting  for  him, 
and  after  looking  in  my  face  with  those 
great,  bro^vn,  wistful  eyes  of  his,  he  turned 
and  rushed  into  the  house.  As  I  looked 
after  him  I  saw  a  white  dress  coming  to- 
wards the  spot  where  I  stood,  and  not 
wishing  to  meet  any  one,  I  left  at  once. 

That  same  evening  I  heard  she  was  too 


<s 


&> 


OiftrlatDIektni.] 


SORROW  AND  THE  MERMAID.       rseptember  11,1869.]     857 


tired  to  appear  at  the  Mertons,  and  when  I 
went  to  inqnire  for  her,  thev  told  me  she 
liad  had  a  fainting  fit,  which  had  lefb  her 
so  exhausted,  that  she  had  gone  to  bed. 
For  several  days  she  was  too  ill  to  see  any 
one.  One  morning  I  was  told  that  if  I 
waited  she  wonld  come  into  the  balcony  of 
the  sitting-room  appropriated  to  her.  The 
morning  excnrsions  had  not  been  recom- 
menced, bnt  she  still  came  on  to  the  bal- 
cony for  a  little  fi:«sh  air.  Her  maid  told 
me  that  the  motion  of  the  litter  was  too 
much  for  her  now. 

"  Surely,"  I  said,  "  shemnst  be  suddenly 
much  worse  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  maid,  a  Frenchwoman, 
"ever  since  that  morning  my  lady  went  to 
Bee  the  English  ship,  her  strength  has 
Beamed  ebbing  away.      - 

She  returned  to  her  mistress's  rooms. 
As  I  stood  waiting  in  the  ante-room,  I 
flaw  Madame  de  Beaufort  coining  towards 
me  from  the  Mertons'  drawing-room.  Her 
whole  person  and  manner  seemed  eager  and 
excited  as  she  approached. 

"  I  have  been  more  fortunate  than  I  ex- 
pected when  I  saw  you  last." 

She  held  up  to  me  a  crumpled  half-torn 
fold  of  paper. 

"  It  is  all  written  in  cipher,  but  I  shall 
study  it  till  I  have  deciphered  it." 

"  Did  you  find  it,  or  did  Sorrow  bring  it 
you?"  I  asked,  ironically.  "It  looks  like 
a  piece  of  paper  I  took  from  between  his 
teeth  the  other  day.  I  dare  say  he  has 
buried  the  rest.  I  am  afraid  you  will  find 
it  is  much  ado  about  nothing." 

She  passed  on.  I  was  glad  she  had  left 
me,  for  I  saw  through  the  open  doors  the 
gHtter  of  Irene's  coverlet  as  she  was 
brought  into  her  sitting-room  and  placed 
on  her  couch. 

I  was  shocked  to  see  the  alteration  in 
her.  She  was  painfully  changed.  Her 
bee  was  marble  white,  lier  eyes  looked 
unnaturally  lar^e  and  bright,  and  her 
features  were  ^blarpened  and  attenuated, 
as  after  a  fever.  Her  voice  was  almost 
inaudible.  Sorrow  was  beside  her,  Hcking 
her  hand  and  caressing  her.  The  thin  little 
pale  hand  stroked  his  head  with  a  tender- 
ness which,  I  confess,  I  was  fool  enough 
to  envy. 

^Sorrow  has  been  more  than  usually 
•ffeetionate  these  last  few  days.  He  seems 
fall  of  contrition  for  having  played  truant. 
He  returned  out  of  breath  and  in  the 
greatest  tribulation  after  you  lef^  me.  I 
told  him  I  suspected  him  of  having  gone 
off  with  my  missing  letter,  and  of  having 


swallowed  it,  and  he  by  no  means  denied 
it.  In  fact,  he  looked  as  if  he  confessed  it, 
and  to  confess  is  almost  to  atone,  so  I 
have  absolved  him." 

She  smiled  one  of  her  rare  sweet  smiles. 
A  chill  went  to  my  heart  as  I  listened  to 
her.  Was  that  the  letter  in  cipher  which 
Madame  de  Beaufort  had  found  ? 

About  a  fortnight  aflerwards  a  murmur 
of  indignation  arose  among  the  English  in 
Constantinople,  in  consequence  of  a  ru- 
mour that  the  French  had  made  peace,  or 
rather  that  negotiations  for  the  purpose  of 
making  peace  were  going  on  between  them 
and  the  Czar. 

It  was  hard  on  Madame  de  Beaufort 
that  every  one  belonging  to  her  should 
swell  the  court  of  a  woman  she  disliked 
and  suspected.  But  no  change  arose  in 
this  regard,  either  in  her  dislike  or  her  sus- 
picion :  and  in  her  presence  Irene  seemed 
under  some  fatal  charm.  She  was  no 
longer  bright  and  charming,  but  pale, 
silent,  and  drooping. 

One  day  Caradoc  expostulated  with  me 
gently  on  my  being  so  engrossed  with  her. 

*'  I  cannot  understand  it,  Eden.  De 
Beaufort's  infatuation  is  explicable — ^he 
has  a  spice  of  madness  in  him,  but 
yours " 

"  Do  not  class  us  together,  I  beg." 

"Your  countess  does,  I  think.  After 
talking  sentiment  and  high  art  with  you 
in  the  morning,  she  admits  De  Beaufort  in 
the  afternoon." 

"  Say  he  inflicts  himself  upon  her." 

Caradoc  smiled.  "As  you  please;  you 
are  as  mad  as  he  is.  I  do  not  pretend, 
however,  to  say  that  they  talk  of  sentiment 
or  art." 

I  parted  from  Caradoc  moodily. 

That  evening  I  went  to  her  as  usuaT. 
Her  litter  had  been  placed  in  the  balcony. 
There  was  a  mysterious  and  solemn  shadow 
on  her  face,  though  it  was  white  as  a  lily. 
Her  hands  were  clayey  cold. 

"  You  are  ill,"  I  said,  anxiously. 

"  Almost  worn  out ;  there  are  only  a 
few  grains  of  sand  lefl  in  the  hour-glaM — 
it  is  nearly  run  out." 

I  stooped  down  to  kiss  her  hand.  I  did 
not  wish  her  to  see  the  terror  which  had 
blanched  my  cheek  as  I  looked  at  her. 

**  Ah !  friend,"  she  said,  with  an  accent 
I  cannot  describe,  "  how  thankful  I  am  to 
have  known  you!  Your  friendship  has 
given  a  glorious  sunset  to  my  stormy  life. 
No,  you  must  not  contradict  me,  I  am  very 
contented.      I  have  even  been  \mk^"^"^  ^ 


^ 


358      [September  11, 186AJ 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


IConduetcd^ 


// 


times ;  but  you  must  confess  that,  for  me, 
death  is  best.  You  cannot  look  mc  in  the 
face  and  not  say  so." 

**  I  can  !  I  do  !  you  have  made  your  life 
so  rich  in  good  deeds  and  good  influences, 
that  no  one  could  honestly  echo  such  a  sen- 
timent." 

"  The  end  is  coming,  I  feel.  There  is 
only  one  thing,  Paul,  you  must  promise 
me :"  she  now  spoke  with  feverish  excite- 
ment. "  After  my  death,  do  not  condemn 
me,  whatever  you  may  hear  of  me,  until 
you  have  read  a  letter  which  I  have 
written,  and  which  will  then  be  given  to 
you.  There  are  mysteries  in  my  Hfe  which, 
while  I  breathe,  I  cannot  disclose ;  bat  I 
could  not  rest  in  my  gmve  without  justi- 
fying myself  to  you.  Until  I  am  laid  in  it, 
liave  fiiith  in  me." 

I  scaled  my  promise  by  kissing  the  hand 
which  lay  outside  the  coverlet. 

"  There  is  another  thing ;  will  you  take 
my  dog  home  with  you  to^nigld  ?" 

I  answered,  yes,  with  a  tightening  at  my 
heart  which  taught  me  that  her  emotion  was 
contagious.  After  a  time  I  tried  to  rouse 
myself  to  cheer  her,  and  our  succeeding 
conversation  was  not  wholly  sad.  She 
said  she  had  known  unparalleled  sorrows, 
but  had  also  known  most  exquisite  joys. 
By-and-by,  after  a  silence,  she  repeated, 
with  a  return  of  that  uncommon  agitation, 
half  raising  herself  from  her  couch : 

"  Mind!  If  you  hear  me  accused, 
suspend  your  judgment.  Within  the  last 
six  weeks  a  hideous  doubt  has  sprung  up 
in  me,  that  I  have  done  wrong — buti — I 
was  deeply  grateful  to  him,  and  I  had 
•worn  obedience " 

She  sank  back  and  was  silent  for  a  few 
minutes ;  then  I  saw  her  lips  part,  and  heard 
her  mui-mur  fiiintly,  "  Father,  forgive  me, 
I  knew  not  what  I  did,"  There  was  silence 
again,  and  then  she  said,  with  a  shudder, 
"  It  is  cold;  let  me  be  canicd  in," 

I  i*ang  the  little  silver  bell,  and  her 
attendants  came,  and  she  was  carried  back 
into  the  drawing-room.  I  followed  her. 
The  couch  was  placed,  as  usual,  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  The  lamps  were  not 
lighted,  but  the  faint  moonlight  struggling 
in  at  the  windows  fell  on  the  couch.  It 
might  luive  been  a  tomb  with  the  white 
indication  of  a  recumbent  effigy  on  it.  I 
sate  near  lier  with  Sorrow  (strangely  quiet) 
at  my  feet.  Tlie  quiet  was  intense.  I  do 
not  know  how  many  minutes  were  so  passed 
when  I  heai'd  a  distant  door  open  abmptly 
and  voices  speaking  liastily.  Then,  with  a 
qmclL  step,  Madame  de  Beaufort  entered. 


"  I  am  glad  I  find  you  here,   Mr.  Eden : 
you  will  witness  what  I  say.     I  have  long 
suspected  what  I  now  know.     Seizing  the 
clue  given  me  by  your  remark  that  this 
paper,  picked   up   by  me  in   the   sarden 
below,  had  been  torn  by  the  dog,  I  snowed 
it  to  the  dog.     He  recognised  it,  and  piece 
by  piece  bror^ht  me  ail  that  was  missing 
of  the  document  of  which  it  is  a  part.    I 
told  you  that  I  would  master  the  cipher  in 
which  it  is  written,  and  I  have  mastered  ii 
It«  writer — ^that  woman  who  hears  me — 
wnll  contradict  mc,  if  what  I  charge  hss 
with  is  false.     I  charge  her  with  being  a 
Russian  Spy.     She  has  deceived,  she  hM 
entrapped,  she  has  betrayed.     It  has  been 
her  in&,mous  trade  to  deceiva,  entsap,  and 
betray.     She  has  broken  my  heart,  but  I 
fear  £er  no  more,  for  she  i*  a  Spy !" 

The  scorn  of  her  voice  was  terrible. 

No  word  of  reply.  The  hand  I  held  did 
not  tremble,  there  was  not  a  quir^  in 
the  frail  form. 

At  thia  moment  the  door  waa  agta 
opened,  and  M.  de  Beaufort  mahed  in.  Be 
did  not  see  his  wife^  or  ma. 

*'  Irene,  rejoice !  the  news  is  confirmed^ 
France  has  made  peace  with  the  Cxar  !'* 

"  She  has  fainted,"  I  said. 

The  servants  had  now  entered  with 
lights.  I  took  one  in  my  hand  and  bant 
over  her.  Good  God !  what  look  was  that 
on  the  still,  pale  face !  Was  it  appealing,  iar 
ploring,  upbraiding  ?  Be  it  what  it  mi§^ 
it  was  the  last  look  of  the  Dead!. 

Madame  de  Beaufort  asked  ma^  **  Have 
I  killed  her?"  I  answered  "No!  She 
was  so  nearly  dead  when  you  came  in,  ^t 
I  think  she  did  not  even  hear  you  speaL*' 
She  rose,  drew  down  her  veil  and  left  tiie 
room. 

I  took  Dc  Beaufort^s  nerveless  hand  and 
led  him  from  the  room.  I  closed  the  eyes 
that  had  so  enchanted  and  entranced  ma 
The  fi^co  was  as  the  face  of  the  Angel  of 
Death. 

This  a  Spy ! 

With  throbbing  brain  and  beating  heart 
I  recalled  our  intercourse,  so  brief  in  tiiB^ 
so  long  if  counted  by  the  power  of  its 
influence  over  my  soul 

0  look  upon  her,  look  upon  her !  TkU, 
a  Spy  !  And  I  loved  her.  Yes,  at  this 
supreme  moment  I  knew  I  had  loved  her. 
I  loved  her  with  a  love  which  had  so  little 
of  earth  in  it  tliat  Death  had  no  power 
over  it.  Selfishness,  Passion  had  no  pift 
in  it.  But  as  I  over  and  over  again  re- 
peated, without  meaning  or  purpose,  the 
shameful  words  "  A  Spy  1"  an  overwhab&* 


A 


:&. 


Cluirlefi  Dickeni  ] 


SORROW  AND  THE  MERMAID.         [September  11.1869.]     359 


ing  pity  arose  in  me,  and  solemnly  hovered 
over  t£e  silent  form,  like  the  spectre  of  m j 
love. 

I  went  home,  and  a  few  hours  afterwards 
Merton  came  to  me.  Ho  had  found  a  letter 
addressed  to  himself  on  her  writing-table. 
She  had  foreseen  that  she  would  cSe  sud- 
denly, and  had  written  her  last  wishes  in  it. 
A  telegram  announcing  her  decease  was  to 
be  sent  to  a  certain  address  in  St.  Peters- 
burg. No  time  was  lost  in  despatching  it. 
An  answer  came,  requesting  that  seals 
might  be  put  on  all  her  effects  until  a  con- 
fidential person  should  arrive  from  St. 
Petersburg  and  take  charge  of  them.  And, 
in  compliance  with  her  strict  direction,  she 
was  to  be  buried  in  the  sea. 

The  coffin  containing  her  remains,  was 
placed  on  the  litter  she  had  used  in  life, 
and  carried  on  board  a  small  yacht  belong- 
ing to  the  Mertons,  wherein  those  fiiithfol 
friends  of  hers,  and  I,  put  out  to  sea.  The 
prayers  of  the  Greek  church  were  read, 
and  the  cofiin,  covered  with  its  shining 
pall  (the  coverlet  which  had  caused  her  to 
De  called  the  Mermaid),  was  lowered  into 
the  peaceful  Deep. 

Not  many  tides  had  rolled  over  it,  when 
a  packet  sealed  with  the  imperial  arms  of 
Russia,  was  put  into  my  hands. 

This  packet  contained  the  letter  she  had 
spoken  of.  Nothing  besides  the  letter. 
Thus  it  ran : 

I  am  a  Spy.  Know  how  and  why  I 
came  to  be  that  infamous  and  shameful 
thing.  At  sixteen,  I — a  child  even  younger 
than  my  age,  in  feeling,  in  education,  in 
principle  —  was  married  to  Count  Ivan 
Vassiloff,  a  man  sixty  years  old.  Up 
to  the  time  of  my  marriage  I  had  lived 
in  the  happiest  homo  in  the  world.  I 
played  and  danced,  and  thought  Life  meant 
laughter  and  mirth  and  pleasure.  3kly 
husband  was,  without  a  doubt,  the  most 
cruel  of  men:  Ho  was  stern,  ^^ndictive, 
and  eruspicious.  He  was  madly  in  love 
with  me,  and  madly  jealous  of  me. 

I  had  ma  mod  liim  to  please  my  parents. 
I  had  no  prepossession  in  favour  of  any  one 
else,  and  1  could  have  learned  to  love  him ; 
but  ho  modo  me  abhor  him,  and  defy  him. 

One  day,  aflbcr  two  yeai-s  of  hard  usage, 
he  informed  me  that  he  intended  takin^; 
me  to  a  country  house  he  possessed  near 
Moscow,  where,  in  solitude  and  quiet,  I 
might  learn  to  forget  the  fnvolities  of  my 
youth.  I  w^ent  with  him.  For,  in  spite  of 
all,  I  liad  not  learned  to  fear  him. 

We  arrived  at  a  gloomy  house  in  the 


centre  of  a  yet  gloomier  forest,  some  forty 
milfs  south  of  Moscow,  and  fifteen  miles 
away  from  the  nearest  village.  In  the 
forest  were  the  hovels  of  a  few  serfs,  but 
no  other  habitation,  save  his. 

My  heart  sank  as  I  retired  to  rest.  "  He 
will  murder  me,"  I  thought,  "  and  no  one 
will  ever  know  it."  I  believe  the  wine  I  had 
drank  at  supper  was  dragged. 

When  I  awoke,  I  was  in  the  dark.  I 
felt  about,  but  instead  of  papered  walls  or 
carpeted  floor,  I  touched  nothing  but  cold 
stone.  I  screamed,  and  the  echoes  of  my 
screams  seemed  to  resound  as  from  a  vault. 
At  last  I  feinted.  When  I  came  to  my 
senses,  my  husband,  with  a  lamp  in  his 
hand,  was  bending  over  me.  I  was  on  a 
low  pallet  bed  covered  with  woollen  cloth, 
in  a  lofty  stone  dungeon. 

"You  are  now  wholly  in  my  power," 
said  my  husband,  "  and  until  your  wicked 
temper  is  subdued,  you  shall  remain  hero. 
When  you  have  learned  to  obey  me  in  all 
things  and  submit  yourself  wholly  to  me, 
I  will  restore  you  to  liberty,  and  we  will 
travel.  You  shall  never  see  St.  Petersburg 
again,  for  I  intend  to  announce  your  death 
to  your  parents  and  to  the  world." 

I  was  like  a  favy,  and  I  had  the  triumph 
for  a  moment  of  making  even  him  turn 
pale,  but  I  was  wholly  in  his  power,  and 
that  fact  restored  him  to  himself,  and  made 
him  insensible  to  my  denunciatious.  Ho 
told  me  that  twice  a  week  he  would  bring 
me  food,  and  that  at  those  times  I  would 
have  the  opportunity  of  begging  his  pardon 
and  beseeching  his  indulgence. 

I  took  an  oath  to  rot  in  that  dungeon 
i*athcr  than  yield  to  him.  I  kept  my  oath, 
but  how  I  suffered !  An  ardent,  bright, 
joyous  temperament  like  mine  condenmed 
at  eighteen  to  darkness  and  solitude.  How 
I  did  not  go  mad,  I  cannot  di\Tne.  I  was 
buoyed  up,  perhaps,  with  a  sense  that  my 
wretched  captivity  could  not  last,  that  de- 
liverance 7nust  come.  I  used  to  sing  while 
I  could ;  but  after  the  first  year  my  voice 
became  too  weak  for  that,  and  then  I  used 
to  compose  verses  and  repeat  them  aloud, 
and  try  to  remember  all  I  had  read,  and 
invent  stories,  and  declaim  scenes  out  of  the 
pla3-s  I  had  seen.  I  never  once  spoke  to  him, 
in  five  long  dreary  years.  He  spoke  fiercely 
to  me,  as  often  as  ho  came;  but  I  never 
answered.  Sometimes  I  believe  he  thought 
I  had  grown  deaf,  he  would  shout  so  loudly 
to  me.  He  had  shown  me  the  notice  of  my 
death  sent  to  my  parents  and  tlieii*  reply  : 
so  I  knew  I  was  cut  ofi*  from  the  livin'r. 
Still    I   hoped.     Morning  and   eveniw^^   ^ 


<^ 


^ 


360 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[September  ll,UCiO 


prayed  to  be  rescued.  At  last  the  honr 
came.  On  one  of  the  days  of  his  coming,  his 
angiy  threats  and  reproaches,  raising  the 
echoes  of  the  place,  were  heard  without  by  a 
child  at  play  near  a  mined  well.  It  had 
always  been  a  wonder  to  the  poor  serfs  in 
the  forest,  why  their  master  should  per- 
sistently remain  in  a  house  he  had  never 
before  Visited.  There  had  been  a  rumour 
that  his  wife  had  accompanied  him  on  his 
arrival,  had  been  taken  ill,  and  had  died  a 
day  or  two  later.  There  had  been  a  ftmeral, 
but  the  whole  transaction  had  been  mys- 
terious, and  no  one  had  seen  me.  The 
Coxmt  had  brought  with  him  but  one  ser- 
vant wholly  devoted  to  him,  and  he  had 
been  sent  away  after  the  ftmeral.  The 
mother  of  the  child  at  play,  could  not  be- 
lieve his  story  when  he  ran  home,  frijf^htened, 
to  tell  it ;  but  she  determined  to  listen  for 
herself  next  day,  and  returned  to  listen 
day  by  day  until  she  heard  the  voice.  She 
recognised  it  (as  the  child  had  done),  and 
could  almost  distinguish  the  words  spoken. 
With  a  reticence  marvellous  in  one  of  her 
class,  she  told  no  one,  but  made  her  way 
to  the  village  fifteen  miles  off,  and  con- 
fided her  secret  to  a  priest  there!  She 
convinced  him,  and  he  went  to  St.  Peters- 
burg. 

Passing  from  mouth  to  mouth,  his  story 
at  length  reached  the  emperor,  who  put 
my  wrong  at  once  into  the  hands  of  one 
able  and  willing  to  right  it.  It  was  his 
portrait  you  saw  in  my  room.  Within  a 
month,  I  was  borne  up  into  the  light  of 
day  and  the  world  of  the  living,  after  an 
entombment  of  more  than  five  years. 

I  had  preserved  my  life  through  the 
darkness  and  the  silence,  but  my  limbs 
were  dead.  No  relative  remained  to  me. 
Very  slowly  I  came  to  bear  the  light  and 
to  recover  health.  It  was  then  that  I  set 
myself  to  fulfil  another  vow  I  had  made  in 
that  horrible  tomb.  I  had  sworn  there  to 
devote  myself  body  and  soul,  to  my  deli- 
verer, if  deliverance  should  ever  come.  I 
had  sworn  to  be  his  slave,  and  to  subject 
myself,  body  and  brain,  to  his  will.  I  told 
tms  to  my  deliverer.  He  looked  at  me 
steadfastly.  "  Are  these  only  words  ?"  he 
said.     "  Try  me,"  I  replied. 

I  did  not  at  first  comprehend  the  full 
scope  of  the  service  required  of  me. 
Vassiloff  had  been  sent  to  Siberia,  his 
great  wealth  had  been  transferred  to  me 


for  my  life,  and  every  external  circum- 
stance was  in  favour  of  my  doing  that 
service  well.  Travelling  was  needful  for 
my  health,  and  I  had  that  ostensible 
reason  for  visiting  the  various  places  to 
which  I  was  sent.  I  was  furmaned  witk 
letters  to  the  most  important  persons  in 
the  countries  I  visited,  and  the  political 
events  and  personages  of  those  oountnei 
were  to  be  watched  and  influenced  with 
my  utmost  skill,  according  to  directions  I 
received. 

He  understood  me  thoroughly,  and  knew 
that  I  should  die  if  I  had  not  some- 
thing to  love.  When  I  first  left  Si 
Petersburg  he  brought  me  my  poor  dog. 
It  was  my  most  stringent  order  to  make  no 
European  friend.  The  name  of  the  dog 
was  to  be  a  perpetual  reminder  of  my 
deliverance,  and  my  bondage  and  fealty  to 
my  deliverer.  I  ooeyed  my  benefactor  ii 
all  things,  untO.  I  disobeyed  him  by  making 
a  friend  of  you,  and  I  pay  the  penalty. 
Until  some  six  weeks  since,  I  had  no 
scruple,  no  doubt  or  hesitation.  At  about 
that  time  my  eyes  seemed  suddenly  opened 
to  my  disgrace.  I  owe  that  enlightenment 
to  the  change  wrought  in  me  by  my  asso- 
ciation with  you.  But  the  knowledge  his 
killed  me.  Better  that  I  had  perie^edin 
my  dungeon  than  been  released  to  do  thfl 
eviL  1  have  done— God  knows  how  blindlf 
and  unwittingly  !  You  know  all  now.  1 
have  tried  to  atone  to  the  woman  who  is 
my  bitter  enemy  by  writing  her  an  avowil 
of  my  purpose  in  fascinating  her  husband. 

I  have  told  her  it  is  for  his  eyes  too. 
She  had  no  small  need  to  be  jealonB  of 
me,  and  she  will  be  avenged  in  his  detes- 
tation of  my  memory.  You  can  forgive  me^ 
can  you  not  ? 

Now  Ready,  price  58.  6d.,  bound  in  green  doth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OP  THE  NsW  SIBIS8  OF 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROTJOT). 

To  be  had  of  all  Bookaellen. ^ 

MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 

MESSES.  CHAPPELL  avd  CO.  hare  gnat  pleaint 
in  announcing  that  Mb.  Ciiablbs  Dickxvs  wiUiciuMy 
and  condudo  his  interrupted  seriei  of  FASEWSU 
READINGS  at  8t.  James's  Hall,  London,  early  ii 
tho  New  Year. 

The  Readings  will  bo  Twelys  in  NUMBIB,  and  soM 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

All  communications  to  be  addiened  to  Umk»> 
Chaffsll  and  Co.,  60,  Now  Bond-ttreet,  W. 


..-A  v.~  o    VI2u««Mr«t\   V*«3B\caA.^ 


VERONICA. 

Is  FiTE  Books. 

BOOK    I. 

CHAFTEB  IIU.    JOE  DOWEETT'S  SEWB. 

It  was  not  far  from  ton  o'clock  when 
Joe  Dowsett  rctnmed  from  Shipley  Magna. 
Joe  was  in  some  respects  an  exceUent 
KTvant,  bat  he  had  his  failinga — among 
which  might  be  reckoned  an  inability  to 
rewst  strong  liquor  when  proffered  era- 
biitoasly.  Daring  twenty  years  Joe  had 
not  been  known  to  be  dmnk  at  Ilia  own  ex- 
pense. Bnt  avisit  to  the  Crown  at  Shipley 
Magna,  where  he  was  an  old  crony  and 
customer  of  tho  head  ostler,  was  pretty 
tore  to  resnlt  in  Joe's  partial  intoxication. 

On  the  present  occasion  ho  had  ridden 
to  Shipley  and  back  on  the  old  pony,  the 
wlo  beast  of  burthen  belonging  t<j  the 
vicar.  And  Joe  attributed  the  enormous 
amount  of  time  occnpied  in  the  journey,  tc 
his  own  remarkable  hnraariity  to  tlic  jwoy. 

"  JTuatn't  press  him  hard,  the  old  beast," 
SMd  Joe,  on  his  return,  standing  before  the 
kitchen  fire,  the  heat  of  which  caused  his 
*rt  clothes  to  steam  again. 

■  So  fear  of  yoMpreseing  him  hard  to  come 
iway  from   the  Crown,"   retorted  Joanna. 

I  advise  Jim.  to  get  to  yonr  bed,  and  take 
off  them  damp  things.  Else  you'll  be  get- 
ting a  fever,  or  the  rheumaticfce,  or  aome- 
^ng.  Only,"  she  added,  under  her 
wfftth,  "  only  wo  know  there's  a  special 
providence  for  certain  folks ;  and  I'm  sure 
Jon're  one  on  'em  this  night,  Joe  Dowsett," 

"  All  right,  Jo-anna,  I  feel  pretty  com- 
fcrtable,  tbank  'ee.  No,  no ;  mustn't  press 
the  old  pony.  The  merciful  man  is  merci- 
Ailtohis  beast." 


At  this  moment  Catherine  came  back 
from  the  sitting-room,  whither  she  had 
been,  according  to  orders,  to  give  her 
master  the  tidings  of  Joe's  return, 

"  Master's  fine  and  vexed,"  she 
Joe  being  so  late.     He  said  he  wanted  to 
send  Joe  to  fi'tch  home  Miss  Veroni 
had  come  at  any  reasonable  hour.     But 
now  it's  too  late." 

"  Wliy  was  he  unwilling  to  let  her  stay 
at  Mrs.  Plew'a  ?"  asked  Joanna. 

"0,  I  don't  know.  Miss  Veronica  has 
stayed  there  before.  But  the  vicar  said 
he'd  have  gone  to  fetch  her  hissclf,  only  it's 
such  a  night,  and  been  getting  worse  and 
worse  since  sundown.  1  think  master  feels 
lonely  atler  being  used  to  Sir  John 
pany.  And  then  both  the  young  ladies  being 
sway  the  first  evening  and  all — it's  made 
him  cross.  He  says  he  shall  go  to  bed,  and 
you're  to  send  him  up  a  slice  of  dry  toast 
and  a  glass  of  negus,  with  not  too  mucli 

"  Negus  ain't  a  bad  thing,"  observed  Joe 
Dowsett. 

"Yon  go  to  your  bed,  Joe,  for  mercy's 
sake  !"  cried  the  old  woman,  impatiently, 
"  Don't  stand  a  steaming  there  like  a  cop- 
per on  washing  day." 

"  I  feel  pretty  comfortable,  Jo-anna.  I 
seo  a  friend  of  yoors  at  the  Crown  this 
evening — Mr.  Paul." 

"  Paul  at  the  Crown  !"  exclaimed  Cathc> 

"  Tea,  Panl  at  the  Crown.  He  pretended 
not  to  see  me,  and  skulked  through  the 
tap-room  like  a  rat.  Sir  John's  a  gentle- 
man. I  say  nothing  against  Sir  John, 
Bnt  Panl — Paol's  a  sneak." 

"  Don't  you  talk  nonsense.     Paul  neve* 
did    you   no  harm,"  said  Joanna.     "And 
I   don't  believe  ■jou  bjot  \ifla.  a.t  ■»&. 
night." 


«5= 


^ 


362      [September  18. 1809.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUKD. 


"  Tou  don't  4>olicvc- 


,?- 


'^  No,  I  doTi*t.  Him  and  his  master  wa8 
to  sloep  at  Daneccstcr  kuit  night,  and  go 
off  bj  on  earlj  train  tliis  nu>niing.  It  ain't 
likely  as  Paul  should  be  at  the  Cro'vvii 
at  Shipley  Ma^a  all  alone.  You  must 
have  took  somebody  else  for  him.  Paul 
would  have  spoke  to  you,  if  it  had  been 
him.     Why  shouldn't  he  ?" 

Joe  turned  on  her  with  crushing  sereritj. 

"  P'raps  you'll  say  I  was  <kiiink  nejrt, 
Jo-anua  !*' 

"O  Lord  no,  I  shan't  say  so.  iMaybe 
you  were  dreaming.  But  never  mind  now. 
(xo  to  bed ;  there's  a  good  man." 

It  proved  very  difficult  indeed  to  induce 
Joe  to  go  to  bed,  however.  He  protested 
over  and  over  again  that  he  felt  pretty  com- 
fortable. Then  he  required  Joanna  and 
Catherine  to  declare  solemnly  that  they  be- 
lieved his  statement  about  having  seen  Paul : 
which,  finding  it  hopeless  to  get  him  to  go  to 
bed  on  any  other  terms,  they  unscrupulously 
did.  Then  he  very  unexpectedly  declared 
that  he  and  Paul  had  lived  together  like 
brothers ;  that  there  was  no  one  for  whom 
he  felt  a  warmer  regard  ;  and  that  Paul's 
cold  and  unkind  behaviour  had  cut  him  to 
the  heai't.  At  last,  by  dint  of  scolding  and 
coaxing,  he  was  got  to  his  own  room  ;  the 
door  of  which  Joanna  shut>,  with  a  fervent 
prayer  that  they  might  not  all  be  burnt  in 
their  beds,  and  with  a  gleam  of  comfort  in 
the  knowledge  that  the  end  of  candle  en- 
trusted to  Joe  could  not  last  above  five 
minutes. 

"  Ain't  it  queer,  Joe  taking  that  notion 
about  seeing  Paul  ?"  said  Catherine,  when 
she  and  Joanna  were  alone  together.  "  Do 
you  think  it  could  ha'  been — could  ha'  been 
— what's  that  you  call  it  when  a  person's 
ghost  walks  before  they're  dead,  as  a  kind 
of  a  warning.  Like  that  story  you  tell 
of  the  eldest  son  where  you  lived  kitehen- 
maid  long  ago?  Oh,  I  know — a  feteh. 
That's  the  name.  Do  you  think  it  could 
ha'  been  Paul's  fetch  ?" 

"  Pooh,  child  !  Servants  don't  have  no 
fetehes.  Them  kind  of  things  only  belongs 
to  great  families.  Don't  you  go  scaring 
your  wits  with  such  fancies,  or  I  shall 
never  teW  you  no  more  of  my  stories." 

"  But,"  persisted  the  girl,  "  Joe  said  that 
the  figure  passed  through  the  room  very 
quick  and  silent,  and  with  its  head  turned 
awav,  and " 

"  Well,  if  its  head  was  turned  away,  how 
was  Joe  to  know  who  it  was  P  It's  just  a 
drunken  man's  fancy,  I  tell  you.  &o  to 
j^oni'  bed.     It* 8  nigh  upon  eleven,  and  I 


hav^  seen  to  the  fastenings  of  the  doora. 
Grood-nigkl  When  Joe's  sober  to-morrow, 
lie  will  tell  anoliier  story,  I  warrant." 

But  the  next  morning  Joe  told  no  other 
stofj.      On  the  contraiy,  he  persisted  in 
his  former  assertion,  and  oonfinnsd  it  by 
proof,  which  it  was  impossible  to  doubt. 
He  had  remarked  Paul's  presence  at  tiie 
Crown  to  his  friend  the  head  ostler,  ajod 
the  osUer  had  said,  yes ;  he  knew  him  well 
enough.      He  was  the  foreign  servant  of 
that   rich  barrowknight,  as  owned  such 
neat  nags,  and  had  put  up  at  tke  Crown 
for  hie  hunting  quartern.     Bat  in  reply  to 
a  question  as  to  what  Paul  had  oome  there 
for,  the  ostler  professed  ignorance.  It  might 
be  to  feteh  some  traps  of  his  master's.   The 
ostler  belicTcd  that  there  had  been  a  pork- 
manty  or  something  of  that  kind  left  in 
the  landlord's  care.     Paul  had  brought  a 
fly  from  the  hotel  at  Danecester,  and  was 
to  go  back  in  it.     So  he  (the  ostler)  sup- 
posed that  he  had  to  carry  luggage. 

"  But  why  Paul  shouldn't  speak  to  me  I 
don't  know,  nor  I  don't  much  care,"  said 
Joe  Dowsett,  whose  feelings  towards  his 
dear  friend  had  come  down  to  their  ordinarj 
level  of  stolid  indifference,  since  the  in* 
fiuenoe  of  his  potations  had  subsided. 

"  I  couldn't  have  believed  as  Paul  wonld 
have  give  hisself  such  airs,"  exclaimed 
Catherine,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  She 
felt  that  Paul's  slight  of  Joe  Dowsett  vu 
a  reflection  on  the  rest  of  the  vicar's  houM- 
hold. 

About  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon 
Maud  arrived  from  Lowater.  Captain 
Sheardown  had  driven  her  to  Shipley,  and 
had  set  her  down  at  the  vicarage  without 
alighting  himself^  purposing  to  proceed  to 
Haymoor. 

**  Where  is  Veronica  ?"  was  Maud's  first 
question  to  her  guardian. 

*'  Veronica  has  displeased  me  very  mucb,'* 
answered  the  vicar.  "  She  went  to  drink 
tea  with  old  Mrs.  Plew,  and  chose  to  renudn 
there  all  night,  although  she  knows— <ff 
might  know  if  she  had  any  sort  of  filif^ 
desire  to  ascertain  my  sentiments  on  *^J 
subject  whatever  —  that  I  object  to  her 
putting  herself  under  any  obligation  of  that 
kind  to  the  Plows." 

Maud  looked  grave,  but  said  sweetly, 
"Please  don't  l^  very  angry  with  her, 
Uncle  Charles,  It  was  a  dreadfully  stomT 
night.  Perhaps  she  was  afraid  of  the  walk 
home." 

"  She  was  assuredly  not  afraid  of  in- 
curring my  displeasure,  whatever  else  aha 
may  have  feared,"  said  the  vicar. 


?= 


& 


Oharies  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[September  18, 1.H69L]      363 


Maud  made  no  further  direct  efforts  to 
avert  her  guardian's  wrath ;  but  she  took 
the  most  effectual  means  of  putting  him 
into  a  good  humour,  by  gaily  chatting 
about  all  the  httle  incidents  of  her  visit  to 
Lowatcr,  the  concert  at  Danecester,  and 
the  people  who  had  been  to  the  house. 

She  was  in  the  midst  of  her  talk,  sitting, 
still  with  her  hat  in  her  hand,  in  the  vicar's 
study,  when  the  door  of  the  room  was 
opened  a  very  little  way,  and  a  voice  cried : 
^'Miss  Maud,  Miss  Maud!  Would  ye 
please  step  here  a  moment  ?'* 

The  voice  was  old  Joanna's;  but  so 
strange  and  muffled  in  its  tone,  that  an  un- 
reasoning apprehension  of  impending  evil 
fell  upon  Maud's  heart. 

She  sprang  up,  and  forcing  a  smile, 
said:  '^Unde  Charles,  I  must  go  for  an 
instant  to  say  a  word  to  Joanna.  I'll  bo 
back  as  soon  as  possible.  The  dear  old 
woman  has  some  mighty  mystery  on  hand." 

She  closed  the  study  door  with  an  in- 
stinctive care,  for  which  she  could  never 
afterwards  account,  and  faced  a  oounte- 
luuioe  which  seemed,  like  Medusa's  £abled 
head,  to  turn  her  into  stone. 

The  countenance  was  Joanna's.  But  so 
changed,  ghastly,  and  aged  was  it  that 
Mand  would  hardly,  under  other  circum- 
stsnoes,  have  recognised  the  familiar  fea- 
tures. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Joanna?"  she 
I  asked,  in  quick  low  tones,  whose  firmness 
surprised  herself. 

''  My  dear  Maudie,"  answered  the  trem- 
bling old  woman,  *'  my  sweet  young  lady, 
don't  ye  lose  your  head.  It's  sdl  we've  got 
to  depend  on !  I  feel  my  years  now,  as  I 
never  felt  'em  before." 

Maud  made  a  silent,  eloquent  gesture  of 
impatience. 

*'  Yes,  1  will  speak,  deary.  Mr. — Mr. 
Plew's  here.  He  looked  in  by — by — chance 
like.  And — 0  Lord  be  merciful  to  us,  and 
spare  us  ! — he  says,  Miss  Veronica  is  not  at 
his  mother's,  and  what's  more,  hasn't  been 
there  all  night  And  what  to  do,  or  what 
to  say,  or  what  will  become  of  the  vicar,  I 
don't  know  !" 

"Hush!  Where  is  Mr.  Plew?  Take 
me  to  him.  There  is  some  mistake,  some 
misunderstanding.  Ko  harm  can  have  hap- 
pened to  Veronica,  here,  in  her  own  home, 
amongst  her  own  people  !  It  is  impossible ! ' ' 

*•  O  my  deary,  Mr.  Plew  is  more  like  a 
mad  creature  than  anything  else.     And  as 

to  harm .     My  innocent  young  lady,  it 

goes  to  my  heart  to  hurt  you,  but  I'm 
aftaid — ^I'm  sore  afhdd " 


"Of  what?" 

The  old  woman  made  no  answer,  but 
moaned  and  wrung  her  hands. 

A  dreadful  apprehension  took  hold  of 
Maud  that  Mr.  Flew  had  brought  some 
fatal  and  decisive  tidings;  that  Veronica 
was  dead,  and  that  the  old  servant  was  en- 
deavouring to  break  the  news  to  her. 
Collecting  her  senses  as  well  as  she  could, 
she  bade  Joanna  take  her  to  Mr.  Plew  at 
once,  and  let  her  know  the  worst. 

Joanna  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  dining- 
parlour,  and  Maud  sprang  into  the  room. 

CHAPTER  XIV.      FLED, 

Joanna  had  not  much  exaggerated  in 
saying  that  Mr.  Plow  was  "more  like  a 
mikdman  than  anything  else."  He  did 
seem  to  have  nearly  lost  his  senses. 

"  O,  Miss  Desmond !"  he  cried,  as  soon 
as  he  caught  sight  of  Maud,  and  then  stood 
dumb  with  clasped  hands. 

"  Please  to  tell  me  at  once.  It  will  be 
kinder,  indeed  it  will !     Is  she  dead  P" 

The  utterance  of  the  word  seemed  to 
force  a  gush  of  tears  from  Maud's  eyes, 
but  she  struggled  hard  to  command  her- 
self. 

The  little  surgeon  recovered  some  spark 
of  manhood  and  oourage,  at  sight  of  the 
young  girl's  piteous,  innocent  faoe.  His 
professional  helpfulness  came  to  his  aid, 
and  took  him  away  from  the  contemplation 
of  his  own  distress. 

"Don't  try  too  violently  to  force  back 
your  tears,"  he  said.  "Let  them  come. 
Yon  will  not  let  them  master  you.  No ;  I 
do  not  think  Veronica  is  dead.  No,  on  my 
honour.     I  would  not  deceive  you !" 

"What  is  it  then?  Is  she  ill?  Has 
there  been  any  accident  ?  Is  she  in 
danger?" 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven,  Miss  Desmond,  that 
I  could  answer  your  questions.  All  I  know 
is,  that  Miss  Levinoourt  did  not  sleep  at 
my  mother's  house  last  night— did  not 
even  go  there  at  all — and  yet  she  sent  word 
hero  by  the  boy  that  she  meant  to  do  so." 

"But  the  boy  may  have  mistaken  her 
message.  She  may  have  said  that  she  was 
going  elsewhere.  Have  you  asked  ?  Have 
you  inquired  in  the  village  ?  Joanna's  £aco 
and — and  yours  have  infected  mo  with 
terror.  But  I  cannot— I  cannot — believe 
that  there  is  any  real  ground  for  alarm." 

"Alarm!"  echoed  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Levincourt,  and  the  next  instant  he  stood 
in  the  room. 

Any  attempt  at  concealment  was  out  of 
the  question.     A  g\abTiei^  «X»  \2Dd6  W:«9^  ^^ 


<d5=— 


364     [September  18. 18W0  IlL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactedby 


Maud  and  Mr.  Plew  suflBced  to  show  the 
vicar  that  some  terrible  misfortnne  had 
happened. 

"  Dear  Uncle  Charles/*  said  Mand, 
taking  his  hand,  "Mr.  Plew  has  told  us 
that  Veronica  was  not  at  his  mother's 
house  last  night.  Don't,  pray  don't,  give 
way  to  terror,  dear  Uncle  Charles.  It  has 
been  some  mistake  of  Jemmy  Sack.  I  am 
sure,  quite  sure  of  it.  What  harm  can 
have  happened?  We  should  have  been 
sure  to  hear  of  any  accident,  you  know.  Ill 
news  always  travels  quickly.  We  were 
startled,  at  first,  but  now  I  am  coming  to 
my  senses  a  little,  and  I  see  how  fooli^  it 
was  to  be  so  frightened !" 

The  poor  child  was  trembling  in  every 
limb,  and  the  hand  with  which  she  clasped 
the  vicar's  was  as  eold  as  marble. 

Some  men  in  Mr.  Levincourt's  cbbq 
would  have  rushed  instantly  forth ;  would 
have  sought  here  and  there;  would  have 
inquired  feverishly;  would,  in  brief,  have 
been  spurred  by  their  anxiety  into  imme- 
diate energy  and  action. 

But  the  vicar  was  at  first  stunned,  not 
stimulated,  by  the  blow.  He  sank  down 
in  a  chair  like  one  whose  bodily  powers 
had  been  suddenly  paralysed. 

"  The  first  thing  to  be  done,"  said  Maud, 
"  is  to  send  Joe  into  the  village.  Let  him 
go  to  Sack's  &u*m  and  try  to  find  Jemmy. 
Then  he  might  go  or  send  to  the  Meggitts. 
It  is  possible  that  Veronica  may  have  gone 
there.  Miss  Turtle  and  the  girls  were 
always  asking  her.  And  you  will  make 
inquiries,  won't  you  Mr.  Plew?  I  see 
more  and  more,  how  foolish  it  was  to  be 
so  frightened!" 

The  vicar,  as  he  recovered  from  the  first 
shock  and  as  Maud's  elastic  courage  and 
young  hopefulness  rose  higher  and  higher, 
and  began  to  chase  away  the  first  ghastly 
fear  that  had  crushed  him,  displayed  an 
unexpected  phase  of  feeling :  he  grew  angry. 
He  resented  the  pain  he  had  been  made  to 
suffer. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Plew,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
whose  trembling  tones  were  by  no  means 
under  control,  "  I  must  say  that  I  think  it 
highly  inconsiderate  on  your  part  to  come 
here  and  cause  so  very  terrible — so  un- 
speakably terrible  —  an  alarm,  without 
having  better  grounds  for  it." 

The  little  man,  who  seemed  to  be  en- 
tirely uninfluenced  by  Maud's  cheering  sug- 
gestions, stood  silent,  and  cast  an  appealing 
glance  at  the  young  girl. 

"Law  dear,  sir !"  cried  old  Joanna,  who 
had  remained  in  the  room,  "  don't  ye  say 


that !  Mr.  Plew  came  here  without  know- 
ing a  thing  about  Miss  Veronica. .  He  was 
took  aback  and  scared  well-nigh  as  much 
as  you  was,  when  I  opened  the  door  and 
asked  him  where  she  was,  and  why  she 
hadn't  come  home  with  him." 

"  Is  Joe  gone  ?  Is  he  going  ?"  exclaimed 
the  vicar,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  speak- 
ing now  with  nervous  rapidity.  "Why 
does  no  one  exert  any  ener^  ?  I  shall  go 
in  one  direction  myself— -Joe  must  take 
another — ^to  Sack's  farm — d'ye  hear?  And, 

Plew,   you   will  —  you   will    search " 

Then  a  sudden  terror  overcame  him,  and 
he  fell  back  into  the  chair  again  with  a 
groan.  "  My  child !  my  child !"  he  cried. 
"Oh,  my  child  !  At  this  moment  she  may 
be— dead!" 

"No,  no,  no — ^not  that !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Plew,  eagerly.  "  Not  that !  I  do  not 
beUeve  she  is  dead.  I  do  not  believe  she  is 
hurt.     That  is  not  what  I  fear." 

"  Then,  sir,  what  is  it  you  do  fear  ?  It 
is  not  this,  and  it  is  not  that !  What  means  I 
have  you  of  knowing  ?  And  how  should 
you  understand  a  parent's  natural  appre- 
hensions, (XT  undertake  to  limit  them? 
Have  you,"  he  added,  suddenly,  having 
caught  a  glance  of  intelligence  that  passed 
between  the  surgeon  and  Joanna:  "have 
you  any  information  that  you  are  concav- 
ing from  me  ?" 

"No!     No!" 

"  You  have !  I  see  it  in  your  face — and 
in  hers.  Joanna,  I  insist,  I  command,  yon 
to  speak  !  Plew,  if  you  think  it  kind  to 
keep  me  in  suspense,  you  are  cruelly  mis* 
taken.     Tell  me  the  truth !" 

"  Mr.  Levincourt,  as  Ghid  is  my  witness, 
I  know  nothing  !  I  do  not,  upon  my  sonl ! 
But  I — I  had  a  momentary  fear — a  msre 
momentary  suspicion — ^that " 

"  Suspicion,  sir !" 

"That  —  that  Miss  Levincourt  migli* 
have  left  her  home,  purposing  not  to  retnnk 
to  it."  ^        [ 

"  H — ^how  dare  you  ?"  gasped  the  vicar;  I,' 
and  then  suddenly  ceased,  as  though  tb^  i' 
words  were  arrested  in  his  throat  and  ^^^ 
almost  choking  him. 

"Untie  his  neckcloth!"  cried  the  sui^ 
geon,  springing  forward.  The  vicar  waved 
him  off;  but  suffered  old  Joanna  to  obey 
Mr.  Plow's  directions. 

Maud  looked  from  one  to  another  in  «d 
agony  of  bewilderment. 

"  Left  her  home !"  she  exclaimed   " Ve- 
I  ronica  leave  her  home^purposing  not  to 
return  to  it !     How  ?     Why  r 

"  Whisht,  my  deary !"  muttered  Jowii«» 


& 


diaries  Dickexu.] 


VERONICA. 


[September  18. 1869.]      365 


u 


still  busied  about  her  master.  "  Don't  ye 
give  way.  It  may  not  be  so  bad  as  we're 
afeard.'* 

"  So  bad  as  what  ?  What  does  Mr. 
Plew  mean  ?  What  are  you  all  a&aid  of  ? 
Oh,  Veronica !" 

"  Here  he  is,  sir !  Here's  Jemmy  !"  cried 
Joe  Dowsett,  dragging  Jemmy  Sack  into 
the  room  after  him.  "  I  was  on  my  way 
to  the  farm  when  I  met  him.  Now  speak, 
you  young  rascal,  and  tell  his  reverence 
what  Miss  Veronica  said  to  you  !" 

The  boy  was  flushed,  panting,  and  very 
much  frightened.  Joe  had  expended  a 
great  part  of  his  own  painful  excitement 
in  halmg  Jemmy  Sack  to  the  vicarage  with 
Tery  unnecessary  violence. 

"  I  bain't  a  young  rascal !"  said  Jemmy, 
driven  to  bay.  "  And  I  told  the  message 
here  last  night  as  Miss  Veroniky  said,  so 
I  did." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Jemmy,"  said  Maud, 
trying  to  soothe  the  boy.  "  No  one  will 
hurt  you.     You  have  done  no  harm." 

"  No,  I  knows  I  haven't !"  retorted 
Jemmy. 

"  But  you  will  tell  us  what — ^what  Miss 
Veronica  said,  won't  you,  Jemmy  ?  We  are 
all  in  sad  trouble  because  we're  afraid  some 
harm  has  happened  to  her,  and  we  want  to 
find  out  where  she  is." 

The  sight  of  the  sweet,  pale  face,  down 
which  the  tears  were  now  streaming  fast, 
and  the  sound  of  the  sweet,  tremulous 
Toice,  instantly  melted  the  boy's  heart-, 
and  he  professed  his  readiness  to  say  all 
that  he  knew.  But  that  amoimted  to  very 
little.  He  had  seen  Miss  Veronica  at  the 
Bchool-houae.  But  she  had  not  remained 
nntil  the  emd  of  the  practising.  Before 
leaving,  she  had  said  to  Jemmy  that  she 
was  going  to  Mrs.  Plew's  house  to  drink 
tea,  and  that,  as  the  evening  was  turning 
out  wet,  she  should  sleep  there.  Jemmy 
was  to  go  and  take  that  message  to  the 
vicarage.  But  he  was  not  to  go  until  quite 
late ;  not  until  after  seven  o'clock  at  all 
events.  And  Miss  Veronica  had  given  him 
a  silver  sixpence,  and  bade  him  earn  it 
honestly  by  doing  exactly  as  she  told  him. 

"  And  so  I  did,"  protested  Jemmy.  '*  I 
nivcr  goe'd  near  the  vicarage  until  nigh 
Upon  eight  o'clock,  and  it  was  powering 
wi'  rain,  and  I  was  soaked  through,  and 
when  I  got  home,  daddy  thrashed  me." 

Old  Joanna  stood  by,  emphasising  every 
word  that  the  boy  uttered,  by  a  nod  of  the 
head,  a  sigh,  or  a  gesture  with  uplifted 
hands ;  as  who  should  say,  "  Aye,  aye  !  It 
is  just  as  I  thouffht  1 ' '  Ever  since  the  speak- 


ing of  those  words  by  Mr.  Plew,  which 
so  aroused  the  vicar's  indignation,  the 
latter  had  sat  passive — almost  sullen — in 
his  chair.  He  had  listened  to  Jemmy  Sack's 
story  in  silence,  and  had  apparently  relin- 
qtiished  his  pTirpose  of  going  forth  to  seek 
his  daughter.  Now  he  rose,  as  though 
struck  by  a  sudden  idea,  and  hastily  left 
the  room.  His  footsteps  were  heard  ascend- 
ing the  staircase,  and  entering  the  apart- 
ment overhead.  It  was  Veronica's  chamber. 
The  steps  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  in 
the  house.  The  little  group  in  the  dining 
parlour  stood  staring  blankly  at  each  other. 

Maud's  tears  had  ceased  to  flow.  She 
was  frozen  by  a  new,  and  but  half-com- 
prehended fear. 

Presently  Catherine  ran  in  from  the 
kitchen.  People  had  come  to  give  what 
information  they  could.  By  this  time  the 
whole  village  was  acquainted  with  Ve- 
ronica's disappearance.  Boger  the  plough- 
man's wife  had  seen  Miss  Levincourt  by 
herself,  walking  along  the  Shipley  Magna 
road  very  fssi.  Miss  had  not  said  good 
afternoon  to  her.  But  she  (Roger's  wife) 
thought  she  might  not  have  seen  her,  for 
she  was  going  along  in  a  quick,  scared 
kind  of  a  way,  looking  straight  before 
her. 

Immediately  after  this  woman,  appeared 
a  witness  who  testified  to  having  seen  the 
vicar's  daughter  in  a  carriage,  driving 
swifUy  on  the  road  between  Shipley  Magna 
and  Danecester,  between  five  and  six 
o'clock  on  the  previous  evening. 

This  man  was  the  Shipley-in-the-Wold 
and  Danecester  carrier,  who  knew  Veronica 
well  by  sight,  as  he  did  most  people  within 
a  circuit  of  twenty  miles  round  Shipley. 
He  had  just  heard,  he  said,  down  at  the 
Red  Cow,  that  the  young  lady  was  missing. 
So  he  thought  he  would  step  up  and  say 
when  and  where  he  had  last  seen  her. 

On  hearing  the  first  words  of  this  man's 
story,  Maud  had  rushed  breatlilessly  up- 
stairs to  call  her  guardian.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  returned  alone  to  the  door  of 
the  dining-room,  and  beckoned  Mr.  Plew 
to  come  to  her. 

The  babble  of  voices,  which  had  arisen 
high  and  confused  when  she  had  left  the 
room,  ceased  suddenly  as  soon  as  her  white 
face  was  seen  again  in  the  doorway.  There 
was  a  pause  of  expectation. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  Mr.  Plew, 
obeying  !Maud's  summons. 

**  Will  you  please  step  into  the  study  to 
Uncle  Charles  for  a  mom^wt,^  "MlT»  ^V^T^ 

She  preceded  Ymn  VnVo  NiXjkft  %"oqAc^  .    ^\\si 


c3 


& 


8G6      [SaptembMrlS.  1M9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[pondaetedby 


vicar  was  sittiiig  there  with  a  paper  in  his 
hand. 

"  Is  there  news  ?"  cried  Mr.  Plew, 
eagerly. 

The  vicar's  foLce  showed  a  strange  agita- 
tion :  an  agitation  different  from  the  first 
emotions  of  surprise  and  alarm  which  he 
had  exhibited  on  learning  that  his  daughter 
was  not  to  be  found. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  there  is  news.  I  am 
— ^PPy — ^thankfal — that  Veronica  is  in 
safety.  It  has  been  a  false  alarm — a — a 
mistake.     I  am  quite  relieved." 

"Thank  Gk)d!"  cried  the  surgeon,  fer- 
vently. 

Mr.  Levinoourt  tried  to  speak  with  some 
degree  of  self-control.  His  hand  shook,  and 
his  features  twitched. 

"  I  have  cause  to  be  thankful,"  he  began, 
and  then  suddenly  broke  down  and  turned 
away.  "  Tell  him  what  I  wanted,  Maud," 
he  murmured  in  a  stifled  voice.  Then  he 
bent  his  arms  on  the  table,  and  bowed 
his  head,  and  hid  his  £k»  in  his  hands. 

"Will  you  do  us  the  great  kindness," 
8ai4  Maud,  addressing  the  surgeon,  "to 
get  rid  of  all  those  people  ?  Thank  them, 
and  say — what  is  fitting." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  say  ?" 

Maud  glanced  at  the  vicar,  but  seeing 
him  motionless,  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  she  answered : 

"  Mr.  Levincourt  wishes  them  to  be  told 
that  Veronica  is  in  perfect  safety.  There 
is  no  cause  for  alarm.  He  has  found  a 
letter  from  her." 

"Impress  upon  them,"  murmured  the 
vicar,  with  still  averted  face,  "  that  there 
has  been  a — ^misunderstanding.     If  I  had 

seen  the  letter  sooner Miss  Levincourt 

did  not  leave  my  house  without  informing 
me." 

Mr.  Plew,  still  hesititting,  Maud  mode 
an  imploring  gesture. 

"  Pray,  pray,  Mr.  Plew,  send  those  people 
away !" 

Mr.  Plew  proceeded  to  obey  the  vicar's 
directions  as  well  as  he  could.  The  poor 
little  man's  heart  was  aching  and  his  spirit 
was  troubled.  At  length  he  succeeded  in 
inducing  the  little  crowd  to  depart.  They 
went  unwillinpcly  and  with  a  perfect  hunger 
of  xmsatisfied  curiosity.  They  would  fein 
have  lingered  in  the  kitchen  to  talk  and  to 
hear,  but  old  Joanna  very  unceremoniously 
bade  them  begone,  and  was  obdurate  to- 
wards all  attempts  at  discussing  the  ques- 
tion of  Miss  Vei-onica's  departure. 
jj  "  I  know  no  more  than  my  betters 
V  chooses  to  tell  me, "  said  Joanna.     "  Thank  I 


God  the  lass  isn't  murdered,  nor  any  way 
hurt,  nor  yet  drowned,  nor  yet  kidnapped. 
That's  all  I  know.  And  her  father  laiows 
where  she  is.  And  so  I  don't  see  as  the 
rest  is  any  of  our  businesses." 

"Mr.  Plew,"  said  the  vicar,  when  the 
surgeon,  having  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
study,  had  been  re-adznitted  by  Maud: 
"  Mr.  Plew,  if  I  showed  undue  resentment 
for  what  you  said  just  now,  I  ask  your 
pardon." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Levineonrt !  Don't,  pmy  don't 
speak  of  my  pardon !  But — ^Miss  Desmond 
said  you  had  found  a  letter " 

"  I  have  found  a  letter  firom  mj  daughter, 
and  I  am  going  to  Lcmdcm  to-mgbi." 

"  To-night !" 

"  Yes." 

"  To  meet  Miss  Levincourt  ?" 

"  To  meet  Miss  Levincourt  if  possibki 
I  take  Maud  with  me.  I  may  be  absent 
some  time,  and  she  cannot  remain  here 
alone.  I  shall  place  her  under  the  pro- 
tection of  her  aunt.  Lady  Tallis,  who  is 
in  London.  If  you  are  asked  about  Miss 
Desmond,  I  wish  you  to  be  able  to  say  that 
«Ae,  at  least,  is  in  safety." 

There  was  a  bitterness  in  the  vicar's 
tone  as  he  spoke  the  last  words,  whick 
sent  a  pang  through  the  sorgeon's  heart 
Ho  was,  as  Joanna  had  called  him,  "  a  soft 
little  man." 

"  I  hope,"  said  he,  wistfully,  "  that  I  maj 
bo  able  to  say  so  of  Ve — of  Miss  Leyin- 
court  too." 

"  Mr.  Plew,  I  believe  yon  are  a  sincere 
friend,  and  that  you  wish  well  to  us  aU," 
said  the  vicar,  suddenly.   "  I  will  trost  yoa." 

"  You  may,  Mr.  Levincourt.  I — of 
course  I  knew  all  along  that  it  was  of  no 
use  ;  and  I  never — scarcely  ever — allowed 
myself  to  feel  anything  like  hope.  She 
was  so  superior  in  every  way.  But  I  am  • 
not  altogether  selfish.  Veronica's  happi- 
ness is  very  dear  to  me.  It's  all  over 
now,  of  course.  But  if — ^if  there  is  any- 
thing in  the  world  I  can  do  for  you,  or  for 
her,  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  not  flinch." 

The  vicar  took  the  little  man's  huzid. 
"  Ah  !"  he  moaned,  with  the  cruiJ  candour 
of  a  man  absorbed  in  his  own  trouble :  **  it 
might  have  been  better  if  she  had  been 
able  to  bnng  herself  to  care  for  you.  Any- 
thing would  have  been  better  than  this! 
She  has  run  away,  Mr.  Plew ; — run  away 

with  that "  he  checked  himself;  "  with 

Sir  John  Gale." 

"I  knew  it!"  cried   the  surgeon.     "I  ' 
am   not  surprised."      But  his   face  grew 
deadly  pale  as  he  spoke. 


=^j 


Sh> 


GharlM  Dickens.] 


THE  HONEST  MINER. 


[September  18, 18^9.]      367 


*'  Let  it  tnm  out  as  it  may,"  resumed  the 
vicar,  "I  camiot  easily  forgive  her.  She 
has  been  ungrateful  and  deceitful.  But  she 
is  my  child,  my  only  child.  I  cannot 
abandon  her  to  her  fate.  She  writes  me 
here,  that  Sir  John  had  private  reasons  for 

making  a  secret  marriage " 

"  Marriage !  Is  she  married  ?" 
"  If  she  is  not,  he  shall  answer  it,  the 
infernal  villain !  But,"  added  the  vicar, 
recovering  himself  somewhat,  "  you  pcr- 
eeive  how  all-important  it  may  be  not  to 
give  evil  tongues  a  handle.  You  will  speak 
of — you  will  defend — a  runaway  match, 
nothing  more.  That  is  bad  enough.  I 
must  go  to  London  to-night.  A  train  leaves 
Danecester  at  midnight.  I  might  drive  to 
a  bye-station  at  once,  but  I  should  be  no 
better  off.  "We  must  wait  for  the  twelve 
o'clock  mail;  there  is  no  direct  train  to 
London  between  this  hour  and  midnight. 
Every  hour  seems  an  age." 

"  Yes,  ves ;  you  must  go.  God  grant 
you  may  find  her !  Have  you  any  clue  ?" 
"  A  few  words  dropped  by  that  man*s 
servant.  And  his  own  intention,  expressed 
some  time  ago,  of  going  to  Italy.  If  I  can 
but  be  in  time  to  prevent  their  leaving 

England " 

"  And  Miss  Desmond  goes  with  you  ?" 
*'  Yes.   My  poor  Mauoie  !  Ah,  how  little 
your  mother  thought  to  what  contact  with 
misery  and  disgrace  she  was  exposing  you 
when  she  bequeathed  you  to  my  care  !" 

They  were  the  first  words  of  considera- 
tion for  any  human  being's  suffering,  save 
his  own,  that  tl^e  vicar  had  spoken. 

Arrangements  were  hastily  made  for  the 
departure  that  evening.  Mr,  Plew  was 
helpful  and  active.  He  ordered  a  vehicle 
to  take  the  vicar  and  his  ward  to  Dane- 
cester at  seven  o'clock.  Old  Joanna  was 
to  be  in  charge  of  the  house.  Catherine 
sobbed  as  she  packed  up  a  few  clothes  for 
Maud. 

"  Seems  like  as  if  a  earthquake  had 
coined  and  swallowed  us  all  up,  miss,"  said 
Catherine.  The  vicar  had  fought  hard  to 
ahow  a  brave  front  to  the  servants,  to 
keep  up  appearances;  but  without  much 
success ;  for  there  was  no  conviction  at  the 
bottom  of  his  own  heart  to  enable  him  to 
persuade  others  that  all  would  be  well  with 
liis  daughter.  He  was  too  much  a  man  of 
;he  world  to  give  credence  to  the  asser- 
rion  nnade  in  the  hurried  letter  lefl  behind 
ler  by  Veronica,  that  weighty  private  rea- 
Kms  had  prevented  Sir  John  Grale  from 
ipenly  demanding  her  hand,  and  had  in- 
iuced  him  to  urge  her  to  consent  to  a  I 


clandestine  marriage.  "  For  a  man  of  his 
age  and  position,  there  can  exist  no  such 
reasons,"  muttered  the  vicar  between  his 
clenched  teeth.  "Miserable,  wretched,  mis- 
guided, degraded,  girl !  But  if  there  is  jus- 
tice on  earth  he  shall  marry  her.  He  shall 
find  that  he  cannot  thus  outrage  and  defy 
the  world.     He  shall  marry  her  by ." 

The  dusk  was  falling  when  the  vicar  and 
his  ward  drove  away  from  the  garden  gate 
of  the  vicarage.  As  they  passed  the  spot 
where  Sir  John  Galo  had  been  found 
bleeding  and  insensible  on  the  ground, 
Mr.  Levincourt  closed  his  eyes  and  groaned 
aloud. 

Maud  started,  as  the  scene  recalled  to 
her  mind  the  fact  that  the  accident  had 
happened  little  more  than  two  months  ago. 

"  Two  months  !"  she  said  to  herself, 
while  the  tears  blinded  her  eyes  and 
streamed  down  her  cheeks.  "  How  happy 
we  were,  only  two  months  ago !" 


THE  HONEST  MINER. 


One  autumn,  a  year  or  two  ago,  in  pursuit 
of  my  travels,  I  struck  into  the  wild  mountain 
region  of  Southern  Oregon,  just  north  of  the 
California  boundary  line.  I  had  not  gone  far 
on  the  trail  before  1  overtook  a  stalwart,  grey- 
shirted,  knee-booted  individual.  He  had  a 
pack  of  scarlet  blankets  8tn^x>ed  on  his  back, 
and  as  he  trudged  along,  for  want  of  better 
company,  he  held  an  auinoated  conversation 
with  himself:  an  oath  being  most  innocently 
intaroduced  every  now  and  then,  when  the  merits 
of  the  case  seemed  to  call  for  it.  lie  was  an 
old  gold-digger  returning  to  his  favourite 
**  creek,"  He  had  been  off,  on  one  of  the  usual 
digger  wild-goose  chases,  after  some  fancied  El 
Dorado  at  a  distance  ;  but  was  returning,  dis- 
appointed, to  the  place  where  he  had  mined  for 
many  a  year.  Every  locality  was  familiar  to 
him.  As  we  walked  together  over  the  moun- 
tain, or  by  the  banks  of  the  creek  or  stream, 
down  in  the  wooded  valley,  my  companion 
would  point  out  to  me,  with  a  half-regretful 
pride,  the  places  where  *'  big  strikes"  had  been 
made  in  former  times.  Pointing  to  a  mined 
log  cabin,  out  of  the  door  of  which  a  coyote 
wolf  rushed,  he  assured  me  that  the  owner  of 
that  cabin  had  washed  some  forty  thousand 
dollars  out  of  a  patch  twenty  or  thirty  yards 
in  extent. 

**  Was  he  a  white  man  P"  I  asked ;  for  there 
are  numbers  of  Chinese  miners  in  that  section 
of  country. 

"  Wal,"  was  the  reply,  "  not  muchly ;  he  war 
a  Dutchman." 

In  Pacific  Coast  parlance,  it    appeared  a 
"  white  man"  did  not  altogether  refer  to  the 
colour  of  his  face  but  to  the  quality  of  his 
Roul,  and  meant  a  good  fellow  and  a  right  sort     xv 
of  man ;  and  that.  D\xtAV!m\<&iv  oit  VoiftTinMcA.^  «kAw  ^^^ 


^— 1^%- 


A 


368      [September  18. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Gondacted  by 


// 


tliu  inhabitants  of  the  north  of  P^urope  gene- 
rally are  not  classed  under  that  title.  ITiey 
are  too  saving,  too  steady,  and  possibly  too 
clannish ;  for,  though  he  does  become  an  Ame- 
rican citizen  as  soon  as  he  arrives,  this  is 
with  no  view  to  any  political  principles  he 
-entertains,  but  solely  to  facilitate  the  pre- 
emption of  land,  the  acquisition  of  a  lager- 
beer  brewery,  or  the  opening  of  a  corner 
grocery. 

Caiion  Creek,  as  the  locality  was  named,  had 
once,  I  was  told,  been  a  '*  bully  old  diggin'," 
but  the  stream  having  been  pretty  well  washed 
out,  the  miners  had  decamped  to  parts  un- 
known, leaving  no  addi'ess  behind  them.  Like 
the  Arabs,  they  folded  their  tents,  and  silently 
moved  away.  Here  was  a  half -ruined  build- 
ing, choked  up  with  weeds,  bearing  record  that 
it  had  been  once  the  El  Dorado  Saloon — in 
other  words,  a  gambling  hell,  or  worse — and 
around  it  were  a  few  cabins.  This  had  been 
the  town  site,  and  the  projectors  no  doubt 
imagined  that  it  was  to  be  '*  the  right  smart 
chance  of  a  city."  However,  fate  had  decided 
otherwise,  and  the  only  traces  of  former  great- 
ness to  be  seen,  were  piles  of  stones  and  gravel, 
and  long  trenches,  and  half-ruined  dutches, 
which  gave  the  spot  the  appearance  of  a  place 
where  some  great  engineermg  operations  had 
been  left  half  finished.  Here  and  there,  a  soli- 
tary Chinese  slunk  about,  intent  on  his  own 
business,  and,  if  my  companion  were  to  be 
believed,  in  pursuit  of  stray  cats.  As  we  turned 
&  comer  of  the  rough  trail,  we  suddenly  emerged 
in  front  of  the  store ;  by  the  door  were  sitting 
half  a  dozen  of  the  old  habitues  of  the  creek, 
lazily  talking.    My  friend  was  delighted. 

"  There  they  are !"  he  cried,  "  loafing  about, 
chawin'  baccy,  jest  as  natural  as  anythin^ !" 

He  seemed  to  be  a  popular  man  among 
them.  As  his  friend  (friendships  are  quickly 
made  in  the  AVest)  I  was  received  with  voci- 
ferations of  welcome,  and  the  choice  of  half  a 
dozen  shanties  to  ^'  spread  a  blanket  in."  In 
this  way  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  honest  miner 
of  Cation  Creek,  and  learned  not  a  little  of 
his  ways  of  life  and  thought,  in  this  lonely 
little  aell  in  the  Californian  mountains.  Of 
course,  we  have  all  read  about  the  miner  in 
California,  British  Columbia,  or  Australia ; 
about  his  extravagance,  his  boisterousness,  and 
his  conduct  generally ;  and  we  are  all  too  apt 
to  think  of  him  only  as  the  roystering  blade 
in  the  palmy  days  of  1849  or  1853,  when  gold 
«ould  be  had  for  the  picking  up.  The  typical 
miner  in  1869  is  a  very  different  man  from  that 
of  1849,  even  though  he  be  the  same  individual. 
No  longer  do  you,  as  a  rule,  see  the  many 
fine-looking  handsome  fellows  of  the  early  days 
of  California,  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago. 
Tliey  were  all  young  then,  but  hardsliii)  has  told 
upon  them  ;  for,  in  many  cases  they  iiave  pur- 
sued, with  varying  luck,  that  business  of  gold- 
<iiffg:»ng  ever  since.  The  'forty-niners  arc  the 
"blue  blood"  of  the  coast,  but  they  are  pro- 
verbially poor.  Accordingly,  these  men,  among 
wliom  I  associated  on  Caiion  Creek,  were  very 
different  from  our  usual  notion  of  the  gold- 


miner,  but  were  yet  at  the  same  time  very 
characteristic  types  of  what  is  well  known  on 
the  Rocky  Mountain  slopes  as  the   *'  honest 
miner.*'   He  is  a  peculiar  individual,  and  differs 
in  many  respects  from  the  settler  of  late  years. 
Enter  his  cabin,  and  there  is  always  indubit- 
able evidence  of  a  miserable  life    of    single 
blessedness.     The  gold-digger  is  almost  wii- 
versally  immarried«   The  rough  blanket-spread 
cot ;    the  axe-hewn  table,    with    its    scanty 
array  of  crockery ;  the  old  battered  stove,  or 
fire-place  built  of  clay  and  stones ;  the  inevit- 
able sack  of  flour,  half  sack  of  potatoes  and 
junk  of  pork ;  the  old  clothes  and  old  boots, 
and  a  few  books  and  newspapers ;  go  far  in 
making  out  the  extent  of  the  miner  s  worldly 
possessions.  A  little  patch  of  cultivated  ground 
enclosed  by  old  **  sluice-box"  lumber,  is  some- 
times an  accompaniment,  as  well  as  a  dog,  a 
cat,  or  a  few  fowls.    The  inhabitant  of  this 
cabin  is  often  rough,  grey,  and  grizzly.     He 
came  out  twenty  years  ago,  and  his  residence 
has,  with  few  exceptions,  always  been  on  the 
gulch  where  we  now  find  him.     Probably  it 
rejoices  in  the  euphonious  name  of  Horse-beef 
Bar,  Bull  Dog  Point,  Jackass  Gulch,  or  Ground 
Hogs  Glory;  by  these  names  it  may  or  may 
not  be  found  on  the  surveyor-general's  mm 
but  at  aU  events  it  goes  by  no  other.     He 
^*  does  his  trading,"  at  a  store  at  Digeerburgh. 
Credit  he  calls  *'  jaw-bone,"  and  t^cs  about 
"running  his  face"  for   '*grub,"  but  some- 
times this  is  objected  to  by  the  storekeeper, 
as  the  gulch  is  not  *  Spaying"  well,  and  be- 
hind the  counter  you  may  see  a  mule^s  "  }»▼- 
bone"  significantly  suspended,  and  below  the 
words  "played  out!"  Here,  the  honest  miner 
purchases  a  few  pounds  of  flour,  a  little  tet, 
coffee,  and  brown  sugar,  and  as  much  aa  he  can 
buy  of  whisky. 

He  can  teU  where  aU  the  rich  spots  haTe 
been  in  the  rivers,  bars,  gulches,   and  flats; 
but  that  was  in  the  glorious,'  wicked,  cuttLog, 
shoutinff,  fortune-making,  times  of  yore.    He 
can't  tell  where  there  are  any  rich  spots  now. 
He  is  certain  there  is  a  rich  quartz  ledge  in  the 
mountain  yonder,  and,  if  he  could  get  water  on 
the  flat,  he  is  sure  it  would  pay  good  wages. 
Excess  of  fortune  spoiled  him  in  'forty-nine. 
Economy  is  a  myth  with  him,  and  he  cheerfully 
entertains  half  a  dozen  friends,  though  his  ma- 
gazine of  provisions,  as  well  as  of  money,  be  in 
an  advanced  state  of  exhaustion.     His  BJxppa 
cooked,  he  thinks  of  home— that  is,  the  home 
of  twenty  years  ago.      In  reality  he  has  no 
home.  Mentally,  he  sees  the  faces  of  his  youth, 
fresh  and  blooming ;  but  they  are  getting  old 
and  withered  now.     He  sees  the  peach  orcnard 
and  the  farm-house,  from  which  lie  wandered, 
a  young  rover,  when  first  the  news  of  golden 
California  bui-st  upon  the  astoidshed  ears  of 
the  world.     That  home  is  now  in  the  hands  of 
strangers.    AVere  he  to  "  go  East,"  as  he  caUs 
it,    he   would    find  himself  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.    He  thinks  he'll  go  back  "  some 
time  or  otiier."    Fortune  occasioiiaUj  favours 
him  a  tiitic  more  than  usual ;  and  then  he  may 
make  a  trip  to  **the  Bay,"  as  he  calls  San 


=+ 


h 


:& 


Caiarles  DIckeni.] 


THE  HONEST  MINER. 


[September  18. 1969.7      3^ 


Francisco.    He  stops  at  the    "What  Cheer 
House."    He  may  be  seen  there  by  hundreds. 
Poor  fellow !    He  came  here  to  enjoy  himself, 
but  he  doesn't  well  know  how.    The  novelty 
of  the  city  wears  off  in  a  day  or  two.   Without 
occupation,    his    routine    of    life  broken,    he 
becomes  a  victim  to  a  disease  for  which  the 
French  could  alone  have  invented  a  name — 
ennuL    At  night  he  can  go  to  the  theatre; 
but  by  day  he  sits  in  rows  in  the  hall  of  the 
hotel,  crowds  the  entrance,    and   sometimes 
blocks  up  the  street.  If  he  have  money  enough, 
and  be  so  inclined,  he  may  "  go  on  the  spludge,'' 
and  possibly  get  drunk;    but  that  with  this 
class  of  miner  is  not  very  likely.  His  face  wears 
an  expression  of  wild  bewilderment  and  in- 
tense weariness.     Unaccustomed  to  the  hurry 
and  bustle  of  the  city,  he  collides  frequently 
with  the  denizens    of    the    metropolis.    The 
spruce,    fashionably  -  dressed,    frizzle  -  headed 
clerks,  who  flit  by,  excite  in  him  feelings  of 
contempt  and  inoignation.     The    swarms  of 
youthful  females  in  the  streets  astonish,  de- 
ti^t,  and  tantalise  him.     It  is  something  so 
new  to  him.    There  are  few  on  Jackass  Gi3ch, 
and  they  would  be  better  away.     When  he 
knew  "  Frisco,"  it  was  not  much  more  than 
a  collection  of  cotton  tents  on  some  sand-hills. 
Now,  it  is  a  fine  city  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  inhabitants.     Females  were  almost 
unknown,  and  the  announcement  by  a  steam- 
boat proprietor  of  "  four  lady  passengers  to- 
night" was  quite  enough  to  ensure  a  crowded 
patronage  for  his  vessel.    But  the  digger  of  the 
auriferous  soil  often  leaves  the  city  with  the 
knowledge  that  the  world  has  gone  far  ahead  of 
him  during  his  lonely  residence  in  the  mountains. 
He  had  far  better  not  have  come.    In  Digger, 
burgh  he  is  somebody.    In  San  Francisco  he  is 
lost  among  the  crowd,  or  at  best  is  only  a 
•*  rusty  old    miner ;"    those   who   thus    con- 
temptuously talk  of  him,  forgetting  that  he  and 
such  as  he  were  the  founders,  and  are  yet,  to  a 
great  extent,  the  stronghold,  of  California. 

I  fancy  I  do  not  really  wrong  the  honest 
miner  in  saying  he  does  not  possess  much 
religion.  Tet,  if  a  clergyman  by  any  chance 
come  into  his  camp,  he  makes  a  point  of 
attending  "  meeting,"  on  much  the  same  prin- 
ciple, and  with  feelings  of  about  equal  reve- 
rence, with  which  he  would  go  to  a  dog- 
fi^t  or  a  tight-rope  performance  :  because  he 
looks  upon  it  as  the  right  thing  to  paironUc 
the  affair.  If  the  parson  look  on  as  he  is 
washing  for  gold,  he  will  ask  him  if  he  would 
lUte  to  **  wash  out  a  pan,"  and  as  this  invita- 
tion is  usually  accepted,  the  worthy  fellow  will 
contrive  to  slip  in  among  the  gravel,  a  tolerable 
nngget,  so  that  the  washer  may  be  nothing 
the  worse  for  his  clerical  visit :  custom  in  such 
cases  providing  that  the  contents  of  the  pan 
go  to  the  visitor.  At  one  time  there  was 
a  "revival  of  reUgion"  among  the  miners. 
Never  was  there  such  a  demand  for  tracts. 
Indeed,  so  great  was  the  demand,  that  a  special 
appeal  had  to  be  issued  by  a  certain  religious 
body,  whose  mission  it  was  to  look  after  such 
matters,    for   increased  contributions  to  the 


^ 


"  dear  gold-diggers'  tract  fund."  To  use  the 
words  of  the  "appeal,"  "the  cry  comes  o'er 
the  western  wave,  more  iracts,  more  tracts  !" 
At  last  the  painful  truth  oozed  out  (though 
I  hardly  think  it  was  related  at  the  May 
meetings)  ihai  the  miners  used  the  tracts  to 
paper  their  log  shanties!  A  friend  of  mine, 
whose  lot  it  was  to  officiate  as  a  clergyman 
among  them  at  one  time,  used  often  to  tett 
me  that  he  had  to  ring  a  bell  in  the  morn- 
ing, all  through  the  apology  for  a  street, 
inviting  his  parishioners  to  divine  worship^ 
and  tli^t,  finding  nobody  in  church  when  he- 
came  in,  he  first  looked  into  one  gambling" 
saloon  or  tavern,  and  then  into  another,  inviting 
those  assembled  there  to  come  to  church.  "  AU- 
right,  parson,"  would  be  the  good-nature<f 
reply ;  "  we'll  be  there  as  soon  as  we've  played* 
out  this  hand  for  the  whiskies.  Jest  be  goen* 
ahead  with  the  prayers  and  things,  and  we^U* 
be  along  for  the  preachin' !" 

This  taking  of  "drinks"  is  characteristic 
of  the  miner.  No  bargain  can  be  made,  or  any 
other  matter  of  business  or  sociality  settled, 
without  the  indispensable  drinks.  The  same 
clerical  friend,  whose  experience  I  have  just 
related,  was  shocked  on  his  first  arrival  among 
the  miners  at  being  asked  to  "  stand  drinks," 
after  he  had  received  a  very  liberal  subscrip- 
tion towards  the  building  of  his  church.  Two 
mining  companies  that  I  know  something  about, 
threw  dice  to  determine  which  of  them  should 
treat  the  "  whole  creek  "  to  champagne,  and  a» 
that  wine  was  sold  at  fifteen  dollars  per  bottle, 
the  cost  to  the  loser  may  be  guessed.  In  most 
mining  localities  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  cause  of 
mortal  offence,  to  decline  drinking  with  the 
first  fellow  who  shouts,  "  Let's  put  in  a  blast, 
colonel  I"  In  some  places  it  is  quite  a  serious 
breach  of  etiquette  not  to  ask  all  who  are  sitting 
round  in  the  bar-room  of  a  tavern,  though 
total  strangers,  to  "  Step  up  and  take  a  drink.'* 
Sometimes  they  do  not  require  any  invitation, 
A  friend  of  mine  having  had  a  long  ride  one 
day,  dismounted  at  a  tavern  to  take,  more 
Americano^  some  refreshment,  when,  to  his  utter 
astonishment,  fourteen  men  who  were  sitting' 
around  stepped  up,  and  "  'lowed  they  would 
take  sugar  m  thar'n."  He  paid  for  the  fifteen 
"  drinks,"  as  it  was  in  strict  accordance  with 
the  custom  of  the  country ;  but  he  took  care 
not  to  go  back  to  that  hostelry  again. 

The  Australian  gold-digger  is  in  many  re- 
spects different  from  the  Califomian,  but  still 
he  evinces  the  same  carelessness  of  money.  It 
used  to  be  the  custom  for  these  men  to  come- 
down to  some  village  after  they  had  made  a 
slight  "  pile,"  go  each  to  his  favourite  public- 
house,  and  give  the  money  into  the  landlord's 
hands,  with  the  information  that  he  "  shouted" 
Cot  asked  all  and  sundry  to  drink)  until  it  was 
nnished.  Then  the  landlord  at  intervals  would 
say,  "  Step  up,  boys,  it's  Jim  Jenkins's  shout !" 
Then  they  all  wished  Jim  luck,  until  Jim's  shout 
was  out,  and  then  he  went  back  to  his  gully, 
proud  that  he  had  *  *•  spent  his  money  like  a  man." 
On  one  occasion  a  miner  came  down  and  handed 
his  money  over  to  the  landlord  \  bui^  <y»^«srf 


1 


=:S: 


3  70       [Scptombor  1  ft.  IftGS.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Cofidaeted  by 


/ 


to  expectation,  nobody  would  respond  to  his 
Khout.  He  had  been  a  convict,  and  "lagged" 
for  some  grievous  offence.  The  man  wa«  at 
his  wit's  end.  At  last  he  struck  upon  the  bril- 
liant expedient  of  engaging  an  idler  at  labourer's 
daily  wages — eight  shillings — to  drink  with  him. 
And  so  he  got  through  his  holiday ! 

No  one  can  tell  where  a  rich  mine  will  be  dis- 
covered, or  where  it  will  not.  Even  quartz 
mines,  w^hich  require  skill  to  diagnose,  have 
been  equally  discovered  by  chance.  A  robber 
fired  at  a  man  standing  with  his  back  to  a  rock, 
but  missed ;  as  the  ball  splintered  the  moss- 
grown  quartz,  the  miner  wno  was  attacked  saw 
specks  of  gold  s}xirkle  in  the  moonlight.  It 
afterwards  ])roved  one  of  the  richest  miues  in 
Oaliforuia.  Two  miners  about  to  leave  the 
country,  just  to  celobrat<i  the  ei\'Qnt,  got  *'  on 
the  spludge  "  the  night  before  their  intended 
departure.  As  they  were  coming  home  to  thoir 
cabins,  in  mere  foolishness  they  conunenced 
rolling  stones  down  a  slope.  One  of  these 
struck  off  the  point  of  a  rock :  which,  on  being 
examined,  was  found  rich  with  specks  of  gold. 
This  changed  their  plans,  and  tiiey  stayed,  and 
stayed  to  some  purpose,  for  they  afterwards 
became  very  wealthy  men. 

Tlie  honest  miner  is  far  from  being  what  may 
be  called  a  ^'  domestic  cliaraeter."  If  he  were 
making  iive  dollara  j^er  diem  to  ^^theliand" 
at  ''  Greaser  8  Camp,"  and  heard  that  some- 
body was  making  six  at  "  Udlgate  Cafion," 
in  ^^  Mountain  Goat  Gulch,"  the  chances  are 
that  he  would  presently  disappear  to  the  new 
El  Dorado.  Now,  Gold  Bluff  was  the  point 
to  which  all  were  rushing ;  that  failed,  bu^  it 
didn't  diflheart'Cn  the  men.  Tliey  next  runhed 
in  thousands  to  Gold  Lake  ;  and  then  the  ory 
was  Eraser  Kiver ;  which  disappointed  so  many 
thousands,  that  eventually  it  became  a  matter 
of  as  serious  personal  offence  to  ask  a  gentle- 
man if  he  had  been  to  Eraser  River,  as  to  tell 
him  to ''  Go  to  Jericho."  In  1863,  the  infuriated 
miner  was  blocking  all  the  mountain  trails  and 
Washoe  was  the  cry.  In  1SG4,  it  was  Blaok- 
foot.  In  18G6, 1  saw  hundreds  rushing  through 
slush  and  snow  for  Big  Bend,  in  the  heiurt 
of  the  Kocky  Moimtains,  declaring  that  ^'  Cari- 
boo wasn't  a  patch  on  it,"  and  that  at  all 
events  they  would  **  see  the  elephant."  It  is 
curious  that  men  who  have  been  on  the  Pacific 
coast  since  idie  conmiencement  of  gold  mim'ng, 
who  have  knocked  about  the  Kocky  Mountain 
slopes,  and  have  been  the  victims  of  a  dozen 
disappointments,  should  be  so  easily  tempted 
again  to  rlak  fortune;  but  it  is  so,  and  the 
country  would  never  have  been  what  it  is, 
if  they  had  all  been  as  sensible  as  they  might 
have  been.  This  vagabond  propensity  will 
faston  on  a  man  who  allows  himself  to  sit  in 
front  of  a  frying  pan  and  a  bundle  of  blankets 
on  the  ridge  pole  of  a  sore-backed  horse,  and 
I  verily  believe  there  are  many  men  who,  if 
their  history  were  known,  have  travelled  more 
and  endured  greater  hardship  in  this  way  than 
many  whose  names  are  famous  in  the  annals  of 
travel,  and  w,hom  the  Geographical  Society 
delighte  to  honour.     The  true  aeeker  after 


El  Dorado  does  not  stop  at  distance  or  diffi- 
culties. 

The  Pacific-coast  gold-miner  does  not  care  to 
be  called  like  the  Australian,  a  *^  digger :"  the 
t^irm  in  the  fonner  region  being  applied  to  and 
associated  with,  a  miserable  race  of  Indians 
who  inhabit  the  mountains.  He  likes  to  be 
called  by  the  title  I  have  put  at  the  head  of  this 
paper,  '*  Tlie  Honest  Miner."  That  he  is  honest 
enough,  as  honesty  goes  in  America,  nobody 
will  deny  to  the  profession  as  a  whole,  but  still 
there  is  occasionally  the  dishoneat  miner.  We 
do  not  speak  of  the  rascal  who  is  caught  stealing 
gold  out  of  the  '^  sluice -box,"  and  gets  lynched 
for  his  pains ;  but  of  the  equally  rascally  indi- 
vidual who  '^aalts"  a  cdaim  before  selling  it 
That  is,  he  scatters  a  few  pieces  through  the 
gravel  before  the  buyer  comes  to  test  it.  In 
California  some  of  the  claims  arc  wrought 
summef  and  winter ;  indeed  the  winter  is  more 
favoui*able  than  the  summer,  because  water  is 
more  plentiful ;  but  in  British  Columbia  and  in 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  the  frost  causes  working 
to  be  suspended.  Tlien  the  claims  are  ''laid 
over"  and  the  great  body  of  the  miners  come 
down  to  >'ictoria  and  other  towns  to  paas  the 
winter  months,  and  to  spend  the  money  they 
have  made  during  the  smumer.  They  also  tiy 
to  dispose  of  rather  doubtful  claims  at  this 
time,  and  one  of  the  means  adopted  is  to  re- 
port having  ^*  struck  a  good  prospect"  jnrt 
before  leaving.  It  is  remarkable,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  how  many  good  prospecta  are 
**  struck"  in  tlus  way.  The  endless  swindles 
connected  with  quartz  companies  are,  I  dare  say, 
vividly  enough  in  the  memory  of  certain  gentle- 
men in  the  City  of  London  and  elsewhefe, 
whose  purses  were  longer  than  their  foresight. 

Gold  mining  will  always  be  a  staple  industry 
of  the  Rocky  Mountain  slope,  and  the  increased 
immigration  and  attention  excited  by  the 
Pacific  Railroad  will  greatly  increase  the  boai- 
ness  ;  but  the  old  miner  will  bo  ^*  killed  off.^ 
Large  companies  will  work  his  *^  claims,"  and 
shoals  of  new  hands  will  crowd  his  solitary 
valleys — men  who  know  not  the  old  traditians 
and  have  no  sympathy  with  the  old  manners. 
He  himself  will  meet  them  half-way,  and  will 
unconsciously  lose  many  of  his  characteristia 
and  peculiarities.  He  will  get  toned  down  to 
the  duller  routine  of  other  workmeD,  as  hia 
pursuit  takes  its  place  among  the  '^  induatriot." 


THE  DEATH  OF  TH7  OWD  SQUIBE. 

'TwAS  A  wild,  mad  kind  of  night,  as  blackaa  the  bottoa- 

lets  pit, 
The  wind  was  howling  awn  j,  like  a  Bedlamite  in  a  fit, 
Tearing  the  aah-boughfl  off,  and  mowing  the  poplan 

down. 
In  tho  meadows  beyond  the  old  flour-milI»  wheve  yoa 

turn  off  to  the  town. 

And  tho  rain  (well,  it  did  rain)  daihing  the  windo* 

gl*M* 
And  delugiog  on  the  roof,  aa  the  ]>evfl  wen  come  to 

pus; 
The  gutters  were  running  in  floods  outside  the  stable- 

door. 
And  the  apoats  splashed  from  the  tilai,  as  tf  tiuf  vonid 

never  give  o'or. 


li 


I 


& 


OhariM  DiekMU.] 


THE  DEATH  OF  TH'  OWD  SQUIRE.     £a»pteinb«ri«.iW9.]     871 


Lor'    how  tiw  wiaden    nttladl    yon-d    almost    ha 

thought  th&t  thievea 
Were  wrenehing  at  the  ahutten,  whilo  a  oeaseleas  polt 

ot  leaves 
Flew  at  the  door  in  |^ntle;  and  I  eo«ld  hear  the  beck 
Calling  flo  loud  I  koev  at  once  it  was  up  to  a  tall  man's 

ncclt. 

We  was  huddling  in  the  hamefls-room,  by  a  little  scrap 

of  fire. 
And  Tom,  the  fwanhman  he  was  there,  a  pmetising  for 

the  choir ; 
But  it  sounded  dismal,  anthem  did,  for  squire  was  djing 

fast. 
And  the  doeior'd  said,  do  what  he  would,  "  Squire's 

breaking  up  at  last." 

The  Death  watch,  sure  enough,  ticked  loud  just  over 

th'  owd  mare's  head, 
l^u^  he  had  never  onee  been  heard  up  there  since 

master's  boj  la j  dead ; 
And  the  onlv  sound,  beindeB  Tom*s  toon,  was  the'stirring 

in  the  staUs, 
And  the  gnawing  and  the  aaratching  of  the  rats  in  the 

owd  wuis. 

We  couldn't  hear  Death's  foot  pa»  by,  but  we  knew 

that  he  was  near ; 
And  the  chill  rain,  and  the  wind  and  cold  made  us  all 

diake  with  fear ; 
We  listened  to  the  clock  upstairs,  'twas  breathing  soft 

and  low, 
fm  the  nurse  said  at  the  turn  of  night  the  old  squire's 

soul  would  go. 

Master  had  been  awildish  man,  and  led  a  roughish 

hfe; 
Didn't  he  shoot  the  Bowton  squire,  who  dared  write  to 

his  wife? 
He  beat  the  Bads  at  Hzndon  town,  I  heard,  in  twenty- 

When  every  pail  in  market  place  was  brimmed  with  red 
port  wine. 

And  as  for  hunting,  Uesa  your  soul,  why  for  forty  year 
or  more 

He'd  kept  the  Ifiarley  hounds,  man,  as  his  fayUier  did 
afare; 

And  now  to  die,  and  in  his  bed — the  season  just  begun — 

It  made  him  fret,  the  doctor  said,  as  t  might  do  any- 
one. 

And  when  the  young  sharp  hnryer  eame  to  see  him  sign 

his  will. 
Squire  made  me  blow  my  horn  outside  as  we  were  going 

tokiD; 
And  WB  turned  the  hounds  cmt  indie  court — ^that  seemed 

to  do  him  good; 
For  he  swore,  and  sent  us  off  to  seek  a  fox  in  Thomhill 

wood. 

But  then  the  fiffver  it  rose  high,  and  he  would  go  see  the 

loom 
Where  missuB  died  tsnTBan  MTO  when  Lammastide  shall 


I  mind  the  year,  because  onr  mare  at  Salisbuiy  broke 

down; 
Moreover  the  iowA  haQ  was  burnt  at  Steeple  Dintoa 

town. 

It  Bught  be  iwo^  or  half  past  two,  the  wind  seemed 

quite  asleep ; 
Tom,  he  was  off,  hut  I  swi&e,  nt  watch  and  ward  to 

'Ir— '-^— -- 

When  all  at  onee  ost  dashed  and  clanged  the  rusty 
tsBetbelL 

That  hadnt  bosniisud  fbr  twenty  yasr,  not  since  the 

lAiddite  days, 
Tom  he  leaped  np^  and  I  leaped  up,  for  all  the  house 

ablaze 
Had  sure  not  scared  ns  half  as  much,  and  out  we  ran 

like  mad; 
I,  Tom,  and  Joe,  the  whipper  in,  and  t'  little  stable  lad. 


"  He^  kflled  himsalf,''  thtft^  the  idea  that  eame  into 

my  head ; 
I  felt  as  sure  as  though  I  saw  Squire  Barrowby  was 

dead; 
When  all  at  onoe  a  door  flew  back,  and  he  met  us  £ice 

to  face; 
His  scarlet  coat  was  on  his  back,  and  he  looked  like  the 

old  race. 

The  nurse  was  clinging  to  his  knees,  and  crying  like  a 

child; 
The  maids  were  sobbing  on  the  stairs,  for  he  looked 

fierce  and  wild : 
"  Saddle  «io  Lightning  Bess,  my  man,"  that's  what  he 

said  to  me ; 
"The  moon  is  up,  we're  sure    to   And  at  Stop  or 

Ettorby. 

"  Get  out  the  dogs ;  Tm  well  to-night,  and  young  again 
and  sound; 

ni  have  a  run  once  more  hefore  they  put  me  under- 
ground; 

Troy  brought  my  faliher  home  feet  first,  and  it  never 
shall  be  said 

That  his  son  Joe,  who,  rode  so  straight,  died  quietly  in 
his  bed. 


Brandy !"  he  cried ;  **  a  tumbler  full,  you  women  howl- 
ing there ;" 

Then  damped  tho  old  blaek  velvet  eap  iq>on  his  long 
grey  hair, 

Thrust  on  his  boots,  snatched  down  his  whip ;  though 
he  was  old  and  weak, 

There  was  a  devil  in  bis  lerje,  that  would  not  let  me 
speak. 

We  loosed  the  doge  to  humour  him,  and  sounded  on  the 

horn; 
The  moon  was  np  above  tiie  woods,  just  east  of  Haggard 

Bourne; 
I  budded  Lightning's  thwat  lash  £sst;  the  squire  was 

watcbmg  me ; 
He  let  the  stirrups  down  himself,  so  quick,  yet  caie- 

faUy. 

Then  up  he  got  and  spurred  the  mare,  and,  ere  I  well 

could  mount, 
He  drove  the  yard  gate  open,  man,  and  called  to  old 

Dick  Blount, 
Onr  huntsman,  dead  five  years  ago— for  the  fever  rose 


aeam, 
na  was 


And  was  spreading,  like  a  flood  of  flame,  fast  up  into 
his  brain. 

Then  off  he  flew  before  the  dogs,  yelling  to  call  us  on. 

While  we  stood  there,  all  pale  ana  dumb,  scarce  know- 
ing he  was  gone ; 

We  mounted,  and  below  the  hill  we  saw  the  fox  break 
out, 

And  down  the  covert  ride  we  heard  the  old  squire's  part- 
ing shout. 

And  in  the  moonlit  meadow  mist  we  saw  him  fly  the 

raU 
Beyond  the  hurdles  by  the  beck,  just  half  way  down  the 

vale; 
I  saw  him  breast  fence  after  fence — ^nothing  could  turn 

him  back; 
And  in  the  mootnlight  afler  him  sinsmed  out  the  brave 

old  pack. 

'Twas  like  a  dream,  Tom  cried  to  me,  as  we  rode  free 

and  fast; 
Hoping  to  turn  him  at  the  brook,  that  could  not  well 

be  past. 
For  it  was  swollen  with  the  rain ;  but»  Lord,  'twas  not 

to  bo; 
Nothing  could  stop  old  Lightning  Bess  but  the  broad 

breast  of  the  sea. 

The  hounds  swept  on,  and  well  in  firont  tiie  mare  had 

got  her  stride; 
She  broke  across  the  fsllow  land  that  runs  by  the  down 

side; 


^= 


& 


372      [September  18,  IMflL] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


tOondncted  bj 


We  pulled  up  on  Chalk  Linton  Hill,  and  as  we  atood  ut 

there. 
Two  fields  beyond  we  aaw  the  squire  fall  stone  dead 

from  the  mare. 

Then  she  swept  on,  and,  in  full  cry,  the  hounds  went 

out  of  sight ; 
A  cloud  came  over  the  broad  moon,  and  something 

dimmed  our  sight, 
As  Tom  and  I  hme  master  home,  both  speaking  under 

breath; 
And  that's  the  way  I  saw  th'  owd  squire  ride  boldly  to 

his  death. 


HINDOO  CIVIL  SERVANTS. 


A  MISTAKE  has  been  made  lately  by  the 
Civil  Service  Commissioiiers  whicn  is  not 
the  less  grave  for  being  the  mistake  of  able 
men,  who,  on  the  whole,  discharge  ardnons 
dnties  very  efficiently.  The  mistake  is  that 
the  commissioners  have  sacrificed  to  an 
official  crotchet,  two  out  of  four  Hindoo 
candidates  who,  at  the  recent  open  compe- 
tition for  the  Civil  Service  of  India,  earned 
fairly  their  right  to  serve  the  Queen.  Two 
of  these  four  EEindoos,  who  won  good  places 
among  the  selected  fi^  out  of  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty- three  candidates  for  public 
office  in  India,  were  civilly  strangled  before 
the  altar  of  the  said  crotchet ;  and  a  third, 
upon  the  same  groimds,  was  scarified  with 
a  reservation  that  might  set  a  lasting  mark 
upon  his  character.  Before  we  tell  how 
this  was  done,  let  us  show  what  is  meant 
by  open  competition  for  the  Civil  Service 
of  India. 

Before  the  year  eighteen  'thirty-four  no 
native  of  India  could  hold,  xmder  the 
British  government  of  India,  any  high  em- 
ployment in  the  public  service.  But  in 
that  year  an  Act  was  passed  ordaining 
"  that  no  native  of  British  India,  or  natural- 
bom  subject  of  His  Majesty,  should  by  rea- 
son of  his  religion,  place  of  birth,  descent 
or  colour,  be  disabled  from  holding  any 
place,  office  or  employment  under  the  said 
company."  And  when  all  imperial  rights 
of  the  East  India  Company  were  resumed 
by  the  Crown,  it  was  emphatically  declared 
to  be  Her  Majesty's  will  "  that  so  far  as  may 
bo,  our  subjects  of  whatever  creed  or  race 
be  fairly  and  impartially  admitted  to  offices 
in  our  service,  the  duties  of  which  they 
may  be  qualified  by  their  education,  ability, 
and  integrity  duly  to  discharge."  Wc  come 
now  to  the  means  taken  for  testing  these 
qualifications. 

Before  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and 
fifty- three,  offices  in  India  were  obtained 
by  private  interest  with  the  East  India 
Directors.  But  the  old  system  was  suc- 
ceeded in  that  year  by  the  annual  distribu- 


tion of  appointments  in  the  Indian   Civil 
Service  among  the  best  men  in  open  com- 
petitive examination.     The  scheme  of  the 
examinations  was  devised  by  a  committee 
which  had  Lord  Macaulay  for  its  chairman. 
The  plan  of  this  committee  was  meant  to 
ensure  the  &ir  testing,  not  of  one  particular 
form,  but  of  any  form,  of  good  education. 
It  assigned  to  each  of  twelve  branches  of 
knowledge,  a  certain  number  of  marks,  and 
allowed  candidates  to  offer  themselves  for 
examination  in  as  many  or  as  few  of  the 
twelve  as  they  pleased.     It  did  not  en- 
force knowledge  of  Latin  and  Ghreek.    A 
youth  trained  upon  Latin,  Chreek,  and  Ma- 
thematics, might  get  to  the  head  of  the  list 
with  knowledge  of  that  sort ;  but  another 
might  get  to  the  head  of  the   list  with 
scarcely  any  knowledge  of  Mathematics, 
little  Latin,  and  no  Greek,  by  passing  a 
good  examination,  say,  in  English,  French, 
Italian,  German,  G^logy,  and  Chemistry. 
In  the  scale  of  marks  no  value  was  givea 
to  the  vernacular  languages  of  India,  which 
were  to  be  studied  at  a  later  stage;  but 
there  was  recognition  of  the  two  great 
classical  languages  of  the  East,  Sanskrit 
and  Arabic.     '*  These  two  languages,"  said 
the  report  of  the  committee,  **  are  already 
studied  by  a  few  young  men  at  the  great 
English  seats  of  learning.     They  can  be 
learned  as  well  here  as  in  the  East ;  and 
they  are  not  likely  to  be  studied  in  the 
East  unless  some  attention  has  been  paid 
to  them  here."     To  the  native  of  India 
they  are  very  much  what  Latin  and  Greek 
are  to  the  Englishman.     In  the  year  'fifiy-  ' 
three,   the   Indian   Universities   were  not 
established;  and  there  was  practically  no 
expectation  of   a    native   candidate  fixna 
India.   But,  for  the  recognition  of  Sanskrit 
and  Arabic  studies  in  England,  there  were 
allowed  to  each  of  those  subjects  three 
hundred  and  seventy-five  marks  in  a  scale 
which  gave   seven  hundred  and  fifty  to 
Greek  or  Latin.     The  examinations  thus 
established  were  conducted  by  the  India 
Board  till  the  year  'fifty-eight,  when  the 
control  of  them  was  made  over  by  Lord 
EUenborongh  to  the  Civil   Service  Com- 
missioners. In  the  preceding  year,  during 
the  mutiny,  the  University  of  Calcutta  had 
been  established. 

The  Universities  of  Bombay  and  Cal- 
cutta belong  to  a  plan  devised  by  the  East 
India  Company  before  its  extinction  by  the 
Sepoy  Mutiny  of  eighteen  'fifty-seven.  A 
despatch  of  the  Court  of  Directors,  pre- 
pared in  the  year  'fifty-four  under  the 
direction  of  Sir  Charles  Wood,  laid  down  a 


=* 


fi= 


h 


Charles  Dtekeni.] 


HINDOO  CIVIL  SERVANTS. 


[September  18, 1869.]     873 


plan  for  the  spread  of  education  in  India, 
which  left  no  form  of  it  nntouched,  from 
university  and  college  training  to  village 
schools.     Universities  were  planned  npon 
the  model  of  the  University  of  London; 
with  dne  allowance  for  the  dififerent  condi- 
tions and   requirements  of  the  students. 
Professorships  of  science  were  established, 
with  special  recognition  of  proficiency  in 
the  vernacular  languages,   as  well  as  in 
Sanskrit,  Arabic,  and  Persian.    Schools  for 
the  education  of  the  natives  throughout 
India  were  encouraged  by  grants  in  aid, 
without  distinction  of  creed.     At  Calcutta, 
besides  an  excellent  Medical  College,  there 
is  the  £[indoo   College,   founded  by  Ra- 
muhan  Roy  and  Mr.  David  Hare :  which, 
on  the  establishment  of  the  university,  was 
split  into  a  Hindoo  school  and  a  college 
mown  as  Presidency  College.     There  is 
Doveton  College,  originating  in  a  school 
founded  by  Anglo- Indians  for  the  educa- 
tion of  their  children,  to  which  a  college 
was  added  after  the  munificent  bequest  to 
it,  about  twelve  years  ago,  of  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  from  Major  Doveton.     There 
is  a  Mahometan  College  founded  by  Warren 
Hastings,  for  the  study  of  oriental  litera- 
ture, to  which  a  general  department  was 
added,  upon  the  foundation  of  the  univer- 
sity; also  a  Sanskrit  College  founded  by 
Horace  Hayman  Wilson,  which  has  been 
extended  in  like  manner.     Besides  these, 
Calcutta  has  a  Free  CHurch  College  founded 
by  the  liberal  and  able  Scotch  missionary, 
Dr.  Alexander  Duff;  a  Cathedral  Mission 
College ;  and  a  General  Assembly  Institu- 
tion,  to  which  a  college   department  has 
been  lately  added.     At  Bombay,  where  the 
university  began  to  grant  degrees  in  the 
year  'sixty-two,  there  is  the  Elphinstone 
Institution,  originating  in   a  subscription 
to  do  honour  to  Mr.  Elphinstone,  at  the 
dose  of  his  government,   in  'twenty-six. 
There  is  also  a  Grant  College,  founded  in 
memory  of  Sir  Robert   Grant,   after  his 
death  in   'thirty-seven.     It  is  a  well-ap- 
pointed medical  school,  recognised  by  our 
Royal  College  of  Surgeons,  and  has  near 
it  a  ho^ital  founded  by  the  munificent  gift 
of  Sir  tiamsetjee  Jejeebhoy,  whose  benefac- 
tions   to    Bombay    during    twenty  years 
amounted  to  two  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Among  other  examples  of  the  liberal  aid 
given  by  native  gentlemen  to  the  advance 
of  education,  is  the  founding  of  a  travelling 
fellowship  for  Hindoos  in  the  Bombay  Uni- 
versity, by  Mr.  Premchund  Roychund,  who 
has  sAso  endowed  a  Professorship .  of  Eco- 
nomic  Science,   and    provided  funds    for 


building  the  Civil  Engineering  College  at 
Poena. 

It  may  be  noted,  that  xmder  the  iTiflmTi 
Council  Act — a  supplement  to  the  legisla- 
tion of  'fifty-eight  for  the  better  govern- 
ment of  India,  which  became  law  in  'sixty- 
one — ^natives  of  high  mark  have  been 
invited  to  take  part  in  the  deliberations  of 
the  Viceroy's  Council.  The  bench  and  the 
bar  of  India  have  been  open  to  natives 
since  the  establishment  of  the  High  Court 
at  Calcutta  and  the  introduction  of  the 
circuit  system;  measures  which  had  an 
earnest  and  accomplished  advocate  in  Mr. 
Henry  Sumner  Maine.  In  this  Court,  for 
the  first  time,  natives  might  be  admitt<ed  to 
the  bench,  judge  causes  of  Europeans,  both 
in  civil  and  criminal  cases,  and  be  paid  as 
well  as  their  English  brother  judges.  Of 
the  Hindoos  who  came  to  London,  several 
have  entered  as  students  of  the  Inns  of 
Court  without  offering  themselves  for  the 
Civil  Service;  and  to  some  of  those  who 
offer  for  the  Civil  Service,  eating  terms 
and  law  studies  have  supplied  a  second 
chance  of  a  career.  For  the  Covenanted 
Civil  Service  has  been  nominally  open, 
practically  closed;  and  too  many  of  the 
lower  class  Eurasians,  instead  of  support- 
ing the  liberal  policy  adopted  by  their 
coxmtiy,  desire  nothing  better  than  a  happy 
maintenance  of  the  old,  exclusive  state  of 
things. 

One  of  the  first  acts  of  the  Civil  Service 
Commissioners  in  connexion  with  the  open 
examinations  for  the  Civil  Service  of  India^ 
when  they  passed  under  their  control,  was 
to  raise  from  three  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  to  five  hundred,  the  number  of  marks 
assigned  for  the  Sanskrit  or  Arabic  lan- 
guages and  literature.  The  reason  given 
for  5ie  change  was,  that  "  without  depart- 
ing from  the  principle  of  not  requiring  in 
the  first  examination  acquaintance  with 
special  branches  of  knowledge,  the  com- 
missioners consider  that  such  knowledge, 
when  it  is  admitted,  should  be  adequately 
rewarded."  The  two  Civil  Service  Com- 
missioners of  that  year,  'fifty- eight — one  of 
whom,  Sir  John  Shaw  Lefevre,  had  been  a 
member  of  the  original  committee  which 
settled  the  plan  of  competition  for  t^e 
Indian  Civil  Service — recognised  at  once 
and  generously,  the  probable  effect  of  the 
establishment  of  the  Calcutta  University. 
"  Although,"  they  said  in  their  report, 
"  this  important  institution  is  too  recent  to 
have  produced  any  results,  yet,  looking  to 
the  curricula  which  have  been  established, 
the  curricula  for  its  degree^^  t/5  ^^l^  «sa.- 


I 


h 


<& 


^ 


374      [September  18, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAJB  ROUNIX 


[Conducted  by 


/ 


mination  papers  which  have  been  set,  and 
to  the  numerous  native  students  which  it 
has  ab-eady  attracted,  we  cannot  doubt  that 
it  will  afford  sufficient  opportunities  of  a 
sound  education  to  enable  those  who  re- 
ceive it  to  compete  successfully  with  the 
young  men  of  this  country  in  the  examina- 
tions for  the  Civil  Service  of  India."  In 
the  same  report  it  was  said:  "They  will 
undoubtedly  be  at  some  disadvantage  as 
compared  with  natives  of  the  United  King- 
dom in  respect  of  tlie  ordinary  subjects  of 
classical  education;  but  this  will  be,  in 
part,  compensated  by  the  greater  facilities 
they  possess  as  regards  Sanskrit  and 
Arabic." 

In  the  following  year,  there  was  the  first 
arrival  from  India.  A  Parsee  came  over 
to  compete :  the  limit  of  ago  for  com- 
petitors being  then  twenty-three,  and  he 
in  his  twenty-third  year.  While  he  was 
working  in  London  for  examination,  the 
limit  of  age  was  reduced  to  twenty-two, 
and  he  became  disqualified.  It  was  not 
until  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty- 
three  that  tlie  first  of  the  expected  Hindoo 
candidates  appeared  in  the  examination- 
room,  in  the  persons  of  Mr.  Satyendra 
Nath  Tagore  and  Mr.  Manomohan  Ghose. 
In  that  year  there  were  a  hundred  and 
eighty-nine  competitors.  Mr.  Tagore  of- 
fered liimself  for  examination  in  six  sub- 
jects— English  literature  and  history,  Eng- 
lish composition,  French,  moral  science, 
Sanskrit  and  Arabic — got  the  highest 
marks  of  his  year  in  Sanskrit  and  Arabic, 
passed  a  fair  examination  in  his  four  other 
subjects,  and  came  out  forty-third  of  the 
selected  fifty.  The  place  of  the  other 
Hindoo  candidate  was  outside  the  border 
line  of  the  selected.  Mr.  Tagore  was  thus 
the  first,  and  for  the  next  six  years — in 
fact,  until  last  June  —  ho  was  the  only 
native  Indian  who  won  his  way  into  the 
Indian  Civil  Service  by  success  in  open 
competition.  He  won  it  in  June,  'sixty- 
three,  and  he  did  so  because  he  could  add 
to  a  competent  knowledge  of  four  other 
subjects,  a  very  good  knowledge  of  Sanskrit 
and  Arabia  In  October  of  the  same  year, 
the  number  of  marks  obtainable  by  Sans- 
krit was  reduced  from  five  hundred  to  three 
hundred  and  seventy-five ! 

In  eighteen  'sixty-four  there  was  a  gene- 
ral raising  of  the  required  minimum  of 
knowledge. 

Mr.  Ghoso  tried  ag;ain  once  or  twice  and 
fiiiled,  and  then  in  'sixty- five,  the  limit  of 
ago  was  again  reduced  by  a  year,  and  be- 
came— as  it  now  is — twenty-one.     This,  of 


course,  put  another  difficulty  in  the  way  of 
native  Indian  candidates ;  who  have  special 
difficulties  to  overcome,  in  conquest  of  do- 
mestic prejudices,  before  they  can,  at  great 
cost  to  themselves  or  their  families,  come 
four  thousand  mUes  to  the  place  of  examina- 
tion, and  there  compete  in  a  foreign  lan- 
guage with  men  bom  to  it.     No  wonder  | 
that  a  native  Indian  paper  wrote,  in  Janu-  , 
ary,  'sixty-six :  "  The  impression  is  gaining  1 
ground  amongst  the  people  of  India  that 
the  Civil  Service  examination  is  a  delusioti ; 
that  the  Queen's  proclamation  is  destined 
to  remain  a   dead  letter;    and  that  it  is 
useless  to  send  to  England  Indian  youths 
at  enormous  expense  and  trouble,  for  the 
chances  of  their  success  are  remote." 

No  more  Indian  candidates  appeared.  Mr. 
Tagore  was  still  the  only  Hindoo  who  had 
passed. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  there 
appeared,  a  few  weeks  ago,  the  list  of  fifty 
candidates  selected  from  among  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty-three  for  the  Indian  Civil 
Service,  in  the  open  competition  of  June, 
eighteen  'sixty-nine.  There  appeared  in  it 
not  merely  the  name  of,  at  last,  another 
Hindoo,  but  the  names  of  four  Hindoos, 
who,  moreover,  all  stood  in  good  places 
among  the  fifty,  and  one  of  whom  had  the 
distinguished  position  of  third  in  the  hBt. 
It  fortunately  happens  that  this  gentleman, 
Mr.  Bomesh  Chunder  Dutt,  is  not  open  U) 
the  technical  objection  brought  against  the 
other  throe,  and  adopted,  by  misjudgment 
of  the  commissioners,  for  the  discrediting  of 
one  and  the  exclusion  of  two  frtsm  the  plaices 
they  so  hardly  and  well  earned. 

Of  the  four  Hindoos  who  took  rank 
among  the  selected  candidates  st  the  last 
open  competition  for  the  Indian  Civil  Ser- 
vice, three  are  from  Calcutta,  one  is  J&om 
Bombay.  The  three  from  Calcutta  are 
Messrs.  Dutt,  Gupta,  and  Banerjea:  who 
passed  third,  fourteenth,  &nd  thirtv^eighth 
in  the  list  of  the  selected  fifty.  The  one 
from  Bombay,  is  Mr.  Thakur,  who  passed 
thirty-ninth.  Messrs.  Dutt  and  unpta, 
before  they  came  to  England,  had  been 
studying  for  three  yean  at  Presidency  Col- 
lege, and  had  passed  their  first  exammatioa 
in  arts  at  the  Calcutta  University.  Hr. 
Banerjea  had  studied  for  four  years  at 
Doveton  College,  and  was  B.A.  of  the  Cal- 
cutta University.  These  gentlemen  reached 
England  in  April,  'sixty-eight,  entered 
themselves  at  once  to  classes  in  University 
College,  London,  and  worked  hard  during 
vacation  with  those  professors  and  teachers 
who  had  time  to  spare  for  them.   Wherever 


h 


^ 


Ohtflw  Diokens.] 


HINDOO  CIVIL  SERVANTS. 


[September  18, 1869.]      875 


they  became  knvwii,  they  zoade  friends. 
They  came  to  this  comitiy  well  ednca^d, 
were  liberal  of  mind,  most  friendly  to  Eng- 
land, amiable,  upright^  and  indofatigably 
hard-irorkingmen,  in  character  and  general 
attainment  answering  to  the  best  cdass  of 
English  students.  They  worked  steadily 
for  at  least  twelve,  nsnally  fourteen,  fifteen, 
sixteen  hovrs  a  day,  as  men  well  might  who 
had  staked  so  much  as  they  were  staking 
on  success  in  the  required  examination.  It 
was  against  their  coming  that  they  must 
break  caste,  oppose  reHgioas  prejudices  of 
their  friends,  cut  themselves  off  in  many 
things  frtmi  their  own  people,  travel  four 
thousand  miles,  and  maintain  themselves 
alone  in  a  strange  country,  for  the  chance 
— ^which  experience  declared  to  be  a  bad 
chanoe— of  beating  two  or  three  hundred 
Englishmen  on  their  own  ground  in  their 
own  subjects  of  study. 

Mr.  Thakur,  who  is  of  a  high  caste 
Brahmin  fkmily,  came  from  Bombay,  where, 
after  education  at  Elphinstone  College,  he 
had  taken  .the  degree  of  B.A.  in  his  uni- 
versity. He  aarived  in  England  only  about 
five  months  before  the  examination,  and 
did  not  connect  himself  with  any  English 
college.  We  have  heard  less  of  his  story 
than  of  the  others,  and  only  assume  its 
gfeneraJ  resemblanco  to  that  of  the  three 
Hindoos  from  Calcutta. 

All  those  gentlemen  had  fulfilled  every 
Kquirement  of  the  law.  Each  had  deposited 
exact  evidence  of  his  age  with  the  commis- 
sioners, passed  his  examination,  received 
formal  notification  of  the  place  obtained 
among  selected  candidates,  and  seen  it  an- 
nounced in  the  newspapers,  when  the  diffi- 
culty was  first  raised  which  disturbed  the 
official  judgment.  Justioe  was  then  tied 
hand  and  fi)ot,  and  lies  now  in  some  danger 
of  being  strangled  with  red  tape.  One  even- 
ing during  their  pe^od  of  study  in  London, 
these  Hindoos,  being  in  friendly  talk  yrith 
fellow-countrymen  (one  of  whom,  settled 
in  London  afi  a  teacher  of  his  language  to 
selected  candidates,  we  will  call  Mr.  Blank), 
were  discussing  what  chance  any  of  them 
had  of  offering  himself  for  a  second  exa- 
mination if  he  were  rejected  at  the  first. 
Bat,  said  Mr.  Blank  to  two  of  them,  you 
were  entered  as  sixteen  when  you  matricu- 
lated at  Calcutta,  and  by  that  reckoning  you 
would  already  be  over  twenty-one. 

Now  the  university  of  Calcutta  requires 
that  a  student  upon  matriculating  should 
have,  "to  the  best  of  his  belief,  attained 
tke  age  of  sixteen  years.''  The  university 
of  Bombay  requires  that  he  shall  have 


"  completed  his  sixteenth  year.**     The  uni- 
versity of  Madras  sets  no  limit  of  age ;  and 
at  the  two  other  universities  there  is  good 
evidence  to  show  that  there  has  been  mucli 
looseness  of  practice  in  registering  the  age 
of  students  at  their  entrance.      It  is  the 
known  and  legal  custom  of  a  Hindoo  to 
reckon  age  by  the  true  year  of  his  life,  or 
that  which  he  will  complete  on  his  next 
birthday.     This  custom  is  accepted  in  the 
Indian  law  courts ;  it  was  fully  argued  and 
admitted,  years  ago,  in  the  case  of  a  con- 
version of  a  Hindoo  boy  by  a  missionary ; 
and  the  best  evidence  of  its  common  ac- 
ceptance is  the  rule  that  a  Hindoo  is  of  age 
when  sixteen :  which,  in  the  chief  text  book 
of  native  law,  !Macnaghten*s  Principles,  is 
rightly  laid  down  as  meaning  that,  "ac- 
cording to  the  doctrine  of  Bengal,  the  end 
of  fifteen  years  is  the  limit  of  minority.** 
This  is,  indeed,  a  custom  beyond  question. 
Mr.  Chifiholm  Anstey,  who  has  been  a  judge 
in  the  Bombay  High  Court,  adds  to  a  state- 
ment of  it,  that,  "according  to  his  judg- 
ment and  belief,  no  native  of  British  Lidia, 
upon  whom  the  condition  of  attaining  a 
certain  age  is  imposed  by  law  would,  unless 
the  sense  thereof  were  previously  explained 
to  him,  understand  it  to  be  a  condition  of 
having  completed  such  age.**     The  reader 
will  observe  that  we  are  now  coming  to  the 
mistake  nmde  by  the  conomissioners.  Misled 
by  a  reference  to  the  Indian  University 
G&londars,  they  assumed  against  two  of 
these   Hindoos    that    their    age   exceeded 
twenty-one  on  the  first  of  March  last.  Take 
one  as  an  example.      Mr.  Banerjea  duly 
deposited  with  the  commissioners,  before 
his  examination,  the  required  evidence  of 
the  exact  date  of  his  birth :  which  was  the 
tenth  of  November,  eighteen  *forty-eight. 
This  evidence  having  been  accepted  as  suf- 
ficient, he  was  duly  admitted  to  examina- 
tion, and  in  every  respect  had  fulfilled  his 
part  in  the  conditional  contract  by  which 
he  was  tempted  to  leave  home  four  thou- 
sand miles  behind  him.    After  this,  in  fact, 
the  commissioners  had  nothing  to  do  witli 
the  books  of  the  Calcutta  University.     But 
grant  that  they  had,  the  source  of  the  mis- 
understanding was  most  clear.     That  any 
question  could  arise  out  of  it,  did  not  occur 
to  the  young  Hindoos  until  they  heard  it 
first  raised  by  their  countryman,  Mr.  Blank, 
who  had  been  for  some  time  in  England. 
They  proposed  at  once  to  take  steps  to 
avoid  future  misunderstanding.     But  Mr. 
Blank,  as  they  afterwards  explained  to  the 
commissioners,  and  had  witnesses  to  prove, 
"  told  us  very  emphatically  that  it  wouId^Vs^ 


dt 


-I  '  p 


876      [September  18, 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


tCoodaet6d1)j 


/ 


absurd  to  do  so,  as  it  would  be  suggesting 
difficulties  where  none  existed,  and  that  if 
any  one  had  his  attention  drawn  to  the 
matter  it  yras  easy  enon^h  to  explain  it." 
After  his  conntiymen  bad  passed,  Mr. 
Blank,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself, 
informed  against  them.  When  called  npon 
to  explain,  they  did  explain.  Bnt  the  de- 
cision of  the  commissioners  is  told  in  these 
sentences  from  their  subsequent  petition  for 
its  reconsideration,  showing  *'  that  they 
forwarded  to  the  commissioners  the  expla- 
nations asked  of  them,  and  offered  to  pro- 
cure from  Lidia  further  corroboration  of  the 
^t  that  they  had  in  respect  of  age  at  the 
time  of  examination  strictly  and  faithfully 
fulfilled  the  conditions  required  of  candi- 
dates in  the  open  competition  for  the  Civil 
Service  of  India.  That  four  days  after 
their  explanation  had  been  forwarded  they 
received  letters  from  the  secretary  to  the 
commission,  informing  them  that  the  Civil 
Service  Commissioners  had  carefully  con- 
sidered their  reply,  and  that  they  removed 
their  names  from  the  list  of  selected  candi- 
dates because  they  regarded  the  statement 
of  age  made  by  them  on  matriculation  as 
'  foraial  and  authentic  evidence.'  There- 
fore they  did  not  so  regard  the  affidavits 
sworn  by  the  fathers  of  their  petitioners, 
supported  in  the  case  of  one  of  them  by  the 
certificate  of  the  Honourable  Dwarkanath 
Hitter,  a  judge  of  the  High  Court  of  Cal- 
cutta, and  in  the  case  of  the  other  by  the 
original  of  his  horoscope,  with  his  father's 
solemn  affirmation  of  its  genuineness." 

They  argued  modestly  in  their  memo- 
rial that  the  exact  and  legal  evidence  as  to 
their  age  was  not  rebutted  by  the  entries 
made  at  their  matriculation  in  the  Univer- 
sities of  Calcutta  and  Bombay,  because 
those  entries  included  no  sworn  evidence ; 
were  never  designed  as  exact  evidence  of 
age ;  and,  moreover,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom among  Hindoos,  and,  in  the  case  of  the 
Calcutta  University,  according  to  the  ordi- 
nary meaning  of  words  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, they  were,  and  are,  true,  and  also 
not  inconsistent  with  the  declarations  of 
age  made  before  the  commissioners  in  the 
more  precise  form  then  required. 

Mr.  Banerjea  matriculated  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Calcutta  in  December,  1863. 
Upon  matriculation  he  was  asked  his  age 
by  the  Principal  of  the  Doveton  College, 
who  was  filling  up  a  form  of  particulars. 
He  replied,  "Sixteen,''  following  the  uni- 
versal custom  of  his  country.  He  had 
never  read,  or  been  required  to  read,  the 
Calendar  of  the  University,  or  seen  any 


part  of  it  in  print  or  in  writing.     No  part 
of  it  was  read  or  explained  to  him  at  the 
time  when  he  stated  his  age,  nor  was  any 
intimation  given  to  him,  that  by  stating 
his  age  to  be  sixteen  he  would  be  under- 
stood to  say  that  he  had  completed  his 
sixteenth  year.     Again,  this  statement  of 
age  at  matriculation  was  made  by  himself 
only,  and  no  corroborative  document  waa 
required  of,  or  put  in  W,  any  relative  or 
friend  on  his  behalf;  and  upon  this  state- 
ment of  his  own  was  founded  a  certificate 
by  the  Principal  of  Doveton  Collie,  to  the 
effect  that  Surendra  Nath  Banerjea  had, 
"  to  the  best  of  his  belief  attainea  the  age 
of  sixteez^  years."     The  certificate  was  pro- 
bably signed  vrith  a  mistaken  belief  that 
the  boy  had  completed  the  age  of  sixteen, 
Doveton  College  being  attended  chiefly  by 
students  who  are  not  Hindoos.     But  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  his  country,  and 
according  also  to  what  happened  to  be  the 
meaning  of  the  words  of  the  certificate,  he 
answered  truly,  although  he  had  only  at> 
tained  or  entered  upon  it.     For  the  word 
''attained"   is   defined  in  Johnson's  Dic- 
tionary to  mean,  in  the  only  connexion  in 
which  it  could  be  applied  to  a  period  of 
time,   ''to  come  up  to,   to  enter  upon;" 
meaning,   according  to  its  etymology,  to 
touch  upon,  and  even,  as  Professor  Key 
has  shown  in  a  page  of  a  volume  of  philo- 
logical essays  pumished  last  year,   "only 
jtut  to  touch   upon."     Therefore,  neither 
technically  nor  equitably,  was  there  at  that 
time  supplied  to  the  Civil  Service  Commis- 
sioners  "the  formal  and    authentic    evi- 
dence" that  Mr.  Banerjea  had,  in  Decem- 
ber, 1868,  completed  his  sixteenth  year, 
which  is  held  to  supersede  the  precise  and 
legally  attested  evidence  which  had  been 
laid  before  the  commissioners  in  due  and 
exact  accord  with  their  requirements. 

The  case  is  one  that  should  not  have 
needed  argument.  The  commissioners  made 
short  work  of  it  by  determining  that  they 
would  not  hear  argument.  Th^  would 
accept  nothing  but  a  boy's  loose  statement 
of  age,  not  made  to  them,  made  without 
caution,  and  in  accordance  with  the  custom 
of  his  country ;  to  this  they  would  give  a 
false  interpretation,  and  this,  so  interpreted 
— this  evidence  not  properly  before  them — 
they  would  affirm  to  be  "  formal  and  au- 
thentic evidence."  In  favour  of  this,  they 
resolved  to  exclude  all  the  exact  evidence 
of  horoscope  (which  is,  for  an  Indian, 
legally  equivalent  to  our  certificate  of 
birth),  and  sworn  testimony  which  had 
been  produced  before  them,  and  aocq»ied 


Sh 


dutfles  Dlokens.] 


HDSTDOO  CIVIL  SERVANTS. 


[September  18,  1869.]       377 


by  them,  and  which  the  yictiins  of  their 
mistake  declared  that  they  were  able  to 
corroborate  by  farther  testimony.  One  of 
the  two  gentlemen  rejected,  Mr.  Thaknr, 
wonld  have  been  under  the  required  limit 
of  age  by  either  reckoning ;  either  by  the 
books  of  his  university  or  by  the  more 
exact  evidence  deposited  with  the  commis- 
sioners. But  by  assuming  the  year  of  his 
birth  from  one  statement  and  the  month 
from  another,  he  could  be  excluded.  That 
was  done,  and  he  also  was  rejected.  One  of 
the  three  gentlemen  whoso  evidence  of  age 
was  questioned  would  have  been  still  under 
twenty-one  by  any  way  of  calculation.  To 
him,  therefore,  the  secretary  to  the  com- 
missioners wrote:  "The  discrepancy  is 
important  as  affecting  your  character,  it 
being  obvious  that  a  motive  for  understating 
your  age  on  the  later  of  the  two  occasions 
may  have  existed  in  the  wish  to  be  able  to 
compete  again  in  1870,  if  unsuccessful  in 
1869.  Having  carefully  considered  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  the  commis- 
sioners now  desire  to  acquaint  you  that 
they  do  not  think  there  is  sufficient  ground 
for  regarding  you  as  disqualified  in  respect 
of  character  for  the  Civil  Service  of  India, 
and  that  your  name  will  therefore  remain 
on  the  list  of  selected  candidates." 

One  need  not  say  how  this  ungracious 
acceptance  was  felt  by  a  young  man  who  is 
not  only  high-minded  and  accomplished, 
but  modest  and  keenly  sensitive.  One 
thing,  however,  is  clear  from  it.  The  mon- 
strous blunder  of  the  commissioners  is  not 
only  conspicuous  for  size,  but  is  also  well 
de&ied.  The  native  candidates  who  are 
deprived,  for  the  present,  of  the  prize  they 
have  honestly  won,  are  not  excluded  on  the 
ground  of  character.  The  case  is  limited 
to  the  simple  question  of  fact :  How  old 
are  they?  Nobody,  we  believe,  doubts 
that  the  true  date  of  birth  was  given  to  the 
commissioners,  and  that  the  apparent  error 
is  accounted  for  by  the  loose  usage,  on  a 
point  in  itself  not  so  material  as  to  induce 
much  strictness,  at  the  Indian  univer- 
sitiee.  There  are  several  gentlemen  now 
in  England  who  have  been  connected  with 
the  Indian  universities:  two  of  them,  in- 
deed, as  registrars.  But  their  evidence  as 
to  tliat  looseness  of  usage  was  offered  in 
vain  to  the  commissioners.  The  commis- 
sioners had  spoken,  and  the  commissioners 
are  supreme.  To  be  sure  they  had  not 
spoken  wisely,  but  what  will  supremacy 
come  to  next,  if  it  bc£:in  by  coming  to  con- 
fession ?  Their  mistake  is  manifest  to 
every  one  outside  theii*  office ;  to  members 


of  the  Indian  government;  to  old  Indian 
authorities ;  and  to  the  judges  of  the  Court 
of  Queen's  Bench.  No  matter.  The  com- 
missioners are  almost  irresponsible.  They 
are  beyond  the  reach  of  the  Council  for 
India;  and  a  court  of  law  has  only  a 
limited  though,  in  this  case  let  us  hope, 
sufficient  power  over  their  decisions.  When 
they  refused  to  receive  any  evidence,  or  to 
consider  anything,  and,  in  reply  to  Mr. 
Banerjea's  statement  clearly  showing  that 
he  was  within  the  prescribed  age,  wrote 
back  that  he  had  "  admitted"  he  was  be- 
yond it,  the  only  hope  left  to  the  young 
man  was  appeal  to  English  justice.  The 
feicts  of  the  case,  with  the  documents  re- 
lating to  it,  were  brought  before  the  Court 
of  Queen's  Bench,  on  the  last  day  but  one 
of  last  term :  when  motion  was  made  on 
the  part  of  one  of  the  rejected  Hindoos  for 
a  mandamus  to  the  Civil  Service  Commis- 
sioners to  hear  and  receive  evidence  on  the 
matter.  Pour  judges  were  on  the  bench, 
and  their  opinions  of  the  course  taken  by 
the  commissioners  are  thus  reported  in  the 
Times  of  the  twelfth  of  June : 

"  The  Lord  Chief  Justice :  They  say  in 
effect,  *  Any  evidence  you  may  adduce,  we 
shall  set  at  nought/ 

"  Mr.  Justice  Mellor :  They  say,  *  You 
are  estopped  by  your  statement  at  Cal- 
cutta,* though  it  plainly  appears  that  it  is 
quite  consistent  with  his  present  state- 
ment. 

"Mr.  Justice  Blackburn:  They  totally 
misapprehend  his  statement,  and  then  they 
tell  the  applicant  that  upon  their  mistaken 
construction  of  it,  they  consider  it  con- 
clusive against  him,  whereas  in  reality  it  is 
not  so. 

"  Mr.  Justice  Hannen :  They  appear  to 
represent  it  as  imperative  upon  them  to 
take  the  eastern  mode  of  computation. 

"  The  Lord  Chief  Justice :  Show  us  that 
we  have  jurisdiction,  and  I  think  there  is 
no  doubt  we  shall  exercise  it." 

The  mandamus  accordingly  was  issued, 
but  the  following  day  was  the  last  day  of 
term,  and  the  case  cannot  be  heard  until 
November.  Are  the  commissioners  now 
waiting  to  be  just  under  compulsion,  or  do 
they  hold  that  even  the  Queen's  Bench 
cannot  force  their  will  ?  The  power  of  the 
judges  over  them  is,  we  believe,  paralleled 
by  a  man's  power  of  taking  a  ho«e  to 
the  water,  but  not  being  able  to  make  him 
drink.  The  commissioners  may  say,  "Well, 
you  are  for  convincing  us  aeainst  our  will. 
Produce  the  evidence  you  bind  us  to  re?- 
ceivc.     And  now,  li^^m^  cwijJSii^^T^  H^\i»^  ^ 


c& 


6) 


878    [s«pteinb*pi8,i8C9.]  ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND.  [Oowiactedbf 


yon  toll  US  to  consider,  we  are  of  the  same  only  li*d  to  toil  up  Rainmore  Hill  to  Folesden, 

opinion  still."     The  very  fact  that  they  arc  ^  ^  8"re  if  tliey  did  not  get  their  biU  paid, 

bl^yond  all  donbt  men  of  high  and  honour-  J?  *'  \^^^  ^^''^.  Ia^^u    P'^  I^e  for 

,  V      ,  .  1       '^  I  r  themselves  and  fnenda.    If  stones  were  true 

able  cliarae  er,  may  make  it  less   easy  for  ,,  ^^^^„  ^^  ^^^  ^^^  scrupulous  in  his  er- 

them  to  yield.     They  feel  how  conscienti-  pedicnts  for  raising  ready  supplies,  relying  on 

onsly,  and  even  with  a  wish  to  deal  justly,  his  ultimate  power  of  always  obtaining  money, 

and — as  far  as,    in    law,   waa   possible  to  On  one  occasion  he  sold  a  batcher  a  drore  of 

them — even  generously,  by  India,  they  ar-  hogs  that  he  had  allowed  a  friendly  farmer 

rived  at  their  original  decision.  Knowledge  ^  ^^^^  ^^  J"»  stubbles,  and    on  another 

of  this  may  make  them  only  the  more  te-  *'«;«  ^'^^f^^  f  '^''^^  and  refractory  butcher 

«««:«««  ^4^  u  ,..i,^«  «n  4^v^  J^^i/i  .y^^  ««+  refused  to  leave  a  jmcy  leg  of  mutton  that 

naciousof  it,  whenallthe  world  cnes  out  j^^   ^^^  ^^^^^  Without  being  first  paid 

upon  it  as  a  blunder.     Here  seems  to  be  a  £^^  j^^  g^^^  ^^^  ^  servant,  while  the  jW 

new   example   of  an   old   experience,  that  ^^^s  in  the  parlour  for  approval,   to  thrust 

sometimes    the  most  ingenious   and  mon-  it  in  the  pot,  and  begin  to  aodden  it,  so  as 

strous  blunders  are  those  of  the  ablest  and  to  checkmate  the  irascible  timdesman  when  he 

most  conscientious  men.  asked  for  its  return. 

Not  far  from  Polesden,  is  Ranmore  Com- 

men,  the  breezy  summit  of  a  hill  that  com- 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES  mauds  Dorking,  a  wild  undulating  sweep  of 

DUE  sc)CTH.-D0RKi3^G  AND  WOTFOX.  fox-hauutcd  furze  and  brake  with  a  twenty- 

..      ,  _^ ,        ^,  ...  ,      ,  five  miles  range  of  landscape. 

One  c^rtfrOTi  the  road  the  crow  mrftes  be-        ..(.,„    you   see   St.    Rwl's  from  heier 

breaoDg 
down, 
said  the  old 

±o  irus  pieasanii  rcircaii  ••  ljuio  r  anny  y  at-  ^^  pushing  back  the  wire  shade  from  liis  eyes ; 

blay    caiue  wlien  she  gave  the gcMieral her hand^  ,.  and  geneiuUy  just  before  a  shower-its  al- 
and  hero  she  wrote  Camilla,  one  of  her  most  *  j^     ^o  be  wet,  master,  when  we  see 

successful  novels,  drawing  some  of  her  clia-  ^^^  \.^^^y     so  we  calls  it  hereabouts  oar 

racters  from  the  family  of  Mr.  Locke.  Madame  ^eather-irlass  " 
D'Arhlay    wrote    Camilla,    or    a    Picture    of        ''I'Ktio  ♦iiv.o  or 
Youth — for  which  she  rec€ 
poimds— in  1795,  two  yean 

ami  the  year  her  tra^wly  of  Edwy  and  El^ya  ri;'tence7comte^^'8  w^ther-glil^ 
frnltMl  at  Drury  Lane,  fhe  world  may  forgctMiss  rj^  Aladdin's  Palaceof  a  mansion  thatcrowus 
nurnoy  the  noyohst,  but  t hoy  wiU  never  forget  jy^  embowered  hill,  and  rises  like  a  fortress 
the  keeper  of  that  adnurable  Diary,  for,  amid  ^^ove  Dorking,  U  Denbies,  now  Mr.  Cubitt^ 
much  silly  toadyism  and  sentunental  >^nrty,  she  „„g„  ji,  UenSon's,  and  originally  built  on  the 
has  left  us  an  extnwrduiaiy  «|ncs  of  pictures  ^5^^  „£  ^  ^^^^  f ann-howe  by  Mr.  Jonatlum 
of  internal  court  life  It  is  the  only  book  m  j  ^^at  ingenious  and  eccentric  gentlemsn 
which  we  reaUy  see  the  respectab  e  old  royal  ^^^  i„  1^30  i^nght  VanxhaU,  in  the  Borough, 
couple  and  their  wUd  and  sellishcluldrcn  di-awn  ^j  ^j  ^  „igjjt,y  Ridotto  al  fresco.  An 
luiletail.  hypochondriac,  like  his  son  Tommy  Tyers.  who 
Not  far  away  over  these  hills  is  Polewlen,  ^^^  ^  amateur  poet,  and  a  friend  of  Dr.  John- 
among  wliose  beech  woods  w  the  house  gj,^,  ^^^  proprietor  of  the  centre  of  faahioa 
w-here  Shcnclan  retired  dunug  one  of  the  lulls  ,^  f„jj  tJ^ned  the  place  into  a  sort  of  si-nU- 
of  hm  rcvellmg  life,  just  after  his  mamage  niental  cemetery.  One  wood  of  eight  acres  he 
with  his  secoiid  w^e.  Miss  Ogle,  a  daughter  of  called  "  the  Penseroso,"  and  it  was  supposed  to 
tlie  Dwn  of  Winchester.  It  was  here  in  l/9a,  resemble  the  pleasantest  side  of  theViSey  of 
just  after  hi.s  famous  reply  on  the  Begum  the  Shadow  of  Death.  ITiere  was*  mmJI  temple  ■ 
cliarge,  and  his  four  days  deluge  of  eloquence  ^^j,  ^^^^  inscriptions,  and  a  load  but  «»-  I 
and  invective,  that  this  extraorduiary  meteor  ^^^  ^^^^  t<,  bJ«ak  the  intolemUe  "  soiind 
of  a  man  expended  twenty  thou-sand  pounds  „£  nothing."  A  dismal  alcove  with  paintings 
(Heaven  and  the  Jews  only  knew  where  he  got  by  roystering  Hayman,  of  The  Dying  Chris- 
it)  He  wafl  bving  here  d.inng  the  great  ^j^^^  ^„,i  rj^^^  p  ;„  UnbeUever,  and  the  stem 
debates  on  the  mutiny  at  the  >«re  and  the  gt^^ue  of  Truth  trampling  on  a  mask,  had  as  a 
drcwUiil  Insli  Betel  ion  A  tootliless  old  man  ^i„d-up  and  final  co^ctor,  at  the  tenninatioii 
IS  still  iving  at  Polesden.  who,  when  young  ^f  ^  ^j^  two  "  elegantly  carved  ped«*tol»- 
and  curly-hwided,  waa  a  foot-lM.y  m  !>hmdau8  ^j^^  t^„  g^^Hg  Beneath  one,  »  lidr's,  was 
house.     He  lias  preserved  many  tniditions  of  written  • 

those  wild  and  reckless  days.     It  was  not  un-  '  

frequent,  says  the  old  boy,  for  Sheridan  to  drive  J'"'!'  ""':•  ^*      i  ^  «>wb  mo— b«t  1m  wm. 

out  with  foilr  horses,  an?l  before  the  first  stage  *"'  *""  *"""  "^  """^'^  ^^  •'"> 

to  have  the  leaders  seized  by  an  ambuscade  of  aid  so  on,  ending  thus : 
hook-nosed    sheriff's    olRcers.      It    was    well  When  coxcomb,  flatter,  and  when  ftwU  adow, 

known  to  the  Dorking  tradesmen  that  they  Here  Ivarn  the  lenon  to  be  vain  00  mom. 


&, 


Cbwies  Diokeus.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[September  16, 1869.]       379 


Beneatii  the  gentleman's  cranium  was  this 
poetical  rap  on  the  knuckles : 

YThj  Btart  ?    The  case  is  joun— or  will  be  soon. 
Some  years  perhaps — perhaps  another  moon. 

life,  &c.  &c. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Farewell !  remember !  nor  my  worda  despise, 
The  only  happy  are  the  only  wise. 

All  this  sham  asceticism  of  the  proprietor  of 
the  Lambeth  tea-gardens,  was  swept  away  by 
the  next  proprietor  in  17G7i  and  instead  of 
dismal  graves  there  are  now  broad  sweeps  of 
sonny  lawn,  and  instead  of  ladies^  and  gentle- 
men's skulls,  a  scarlet  blaze  of  geranium-beds 
and  golden  billows  of  calceolarias. 

The  crow  drops  from  Ranmore  Hill  upon 
Dorking,  which  stands  close  to  the  old  Roman 
road,  or  "'  stone  street^'  leading  from  Arundel 
to  the  Sussex  coast.  There  is  one  long  street 
with  an  ugly  church  of  the  Georgian  (xothic, 
lying  back  shily  behind  the  houses,  as  if  ashamed 
of  itself,  llie  whole  town  is  guarded  by 
wooded  hills. 

The  literary  pilgrim  looks  in  vain  for  his 
special  throne— the  Marqnis  of  Granby.  The 
famed  house,  where  the  fatal  widow  beguiled 
old  Weller,  and  where  the  Shepherd,  after 
imbibing  too  deeply  of  his  special  vanity,  was 
cooled  in  the  horse- trough,  is  gone.  Let  the 
pilgrim  be  informed  that  the  real  *'^Iarkis" 
was  the  King's  Head  (now  the  Post  Office), 
a  great  coaching  house  on  the  Brighton  road 
in  the  old  days,  and  where  many  a  smoking 
team  drew  up  when  Sammywell  was  young. 
Long  before  old  Weller  mounted  his  chariot 
throne  Dorking  was  a  quiet  place,  much  fre- 
quented by  London  merchants  (chiefly  the 
Dutch)  who  came  down  to  sec  Box  Hill,  and 
to  eat  fresh-caught  perch.  Here  and  there  a 
gable  end  marks  a  house  of  this  period,  but 
the  only  history  the  town  claims  is  that  its 
church  has  the  honom-  of  containing  the  body 
of  that  fat  Duke  of  Norfolk,  who  died  in  1815, 
and  who  was  famous  for  eating  more  beef 
steaks  at  a  meal  than  any  other  Englishman 
living.  This  portly  peer  was  the  sworn  boon 
companion  of  Fox  and  the  Regent,  and  the 
daring  man  who,  in  1798,  consistently  opposed 
war  with  revolutionary  France,  and  was  dis- 
miseed  from  the  Lord-Lieutenancy  of  York- 
shire for  having,  at  the  Whig  Club,  toasted 
"  the  Majesty  of  the  People."  At  Deepdene, 
that  beautifully  wooded  estate,  with  hilly  plan- 
tations rising  above  it  in  three  dark  green 
billowB,  **  Anastatius"  Hope  resided,  and  col- 
lected his  stores  of  Etruscan  vases,  ancient 
statues,  and  Thorwaldsen  sculptures.  At  Deep- 
dene  >lr.  Disraeli  wrote  Coningsby. 

Through  Deepdene  Park,  with  its  huge 
twiiited  Spanish  chesnuts,  and  its  defaced 
castle  ruin,  approached  by  a  funereal  triple 
avenue  of  limes,  the  crow  skims  to  an  uuob- 
tmsive  cottage  near  Brockham  Green,  that 
many  a  midnight  has  echoed  to  the  songs  of 
that  Bacchanalian  veteran  of  the  Regent's 
times,  Captain  Morris,  to  whom  the  fat  Duke 
of  Norfolk,  after  much  pressure,  gave  this 
asjliim  for  his  old  age      Under  this  quiet  roof 


the  Regent  has,  perhaps,  joined  in  the  chorus 
of  "  Billy's  too  Young  to  drive  Us,"  or  "•  Billy 
Pitt  and  the  Farmer."  The  captain  not  only 
won  the  gold  cup  from  the  Anacreontic  Society 
for  his  song  ^^  Ad  Poculum,"  but  carried  his 
poems  through  twenty-four  editions,  and  was 
for  years  the  choicest  spirit  of  the  Beef  Steak 
Club,  where  he  was  always  the  chosen  brewer 
of  the  punch.  What  a  contrast,  this  quiet 
haven  with  noisy  Ofiiey's  and  the  club  revelries 
that  never  shook  the  Captain's  iron  constitu- 
tion! He  has  been  described  as  one  night 
heartlessly  reading  a  funeral  service  from  the 
back  window  of  Chffiey's  that  opened  on  Covent 
Garden  churchyard,  and  pouring  out  as  a  swil- 
ling libation  a  crown  bowl  of  pimch  on  the 
grave  of  the  original  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  Costi- 
gan,  a  poor,  clever,  worn-out  sot,  who  had 
been  recently  buried  there.  If  this  was  the 
fun  of  the  Regency  times,  Heaven  guard  us 
from  its  revival  under  whatever  Prince. 

The  crow  cannot  tear  himself  away  en  route 
for  Southampton  without  one  swoop  on  Wot- 
ton,  close  to  Dorking,  where  John  Evelyn  was 
born.  His  life  was  uneventful ;  first,  a  traveller 
and  student  in  Italy,  then  a  secret  correspond- 
ent of  the  Royalists,  and  after  the  Restoration 
one  of  the  first  and  most  active  fellows  of  the 
Royal  Society.  After  much  public  employ- 
ment, and  much  patronage  of  all  good  and  useful 
discoveries,  Evelyn  inherited  Wotton,  and  was 
here  in  the  great  storm  of  1703,  when  above  a 
thousand  trees  were  blown  down  in  sight  of 
the  house.  Evelyn  was  a  great  promoter  of 
tree  planting,  and  he  particularly  mentions,  in 
his  quiet,  amiable  way,  so  devoid  of  all  self- 
assertion,  that  his  grandfather  harl  at  Wotton 
timber  standing  worth  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  Of  that  timber  in  Evelyn's  own  life- 
time thirty  thousand  pounds'  worth  had  fallen 
by  the  axe  or  storm. 

They  show  at  Wotton  an  old  beech  table, 
six  feet  in  diameter,  which  is  pr()l>ably  as  old 
as  the  days  of  *'  Silvy  Evelyn ;"  but  the  oak 
table  he  huuself  mentions,  five  feet  broad, 
nine  feet  long,  and  six  inches  thick,  is  gone. 
The  worthy  man,  whose  life  was,  as  Horace 
Walpole  says,  "  a  course  of  inquiry,  study, 
curiosity,  instruction,  and  benevolence,"  has 
described  his  own  house  at  Wotton,  where  he 
wished  to  found  his  ideal  college,  as  *'  large 
and  ancient,  suitable  to  those  hospitable  times, 
and  so  sweetly  environed  with  delicious  streams 
and  venerable  woods  as,  in  the  judgment  of 
strangers  as  well  as  Englishmen,  it  may  be 
compared  to  one  of  the  most  pleasant  seats  in 
the  nation,  most  tempting  to  a  great  person 
and  a  wanton  purse,  to  render  it  conspicuous ; 
it  has  rifcing  grounds,  meadows,  woods,  and 
water  in  abundance." 

Skirting  the  woods  Evelyn  loved  so  well,  the 
crow  passes  to  Leitli  Hill.  From  the  tower, 
under  whose  pavement  the  builder,  Mr.  Hull, 
an  eccentric  old  barrister,  who  had  known 
Pope  and  Bishop  Berkeley,  and  who  had  lived 
for  years  close  by,  in  learned  retirement,  was 
buried  in  1772,  the  bird  sees  a  region  ot  Txi<i«t 
and  sandbank^  tba  de^\^\i\.  ol^^iAiavTi^^Wi^^^ 


«5: 


^ 


880      [September  18, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condncted  fay 


II 


i; 


i; 


!i 


host  of  landscape  painters.  The  eye  has  a  radius 
of  enjoyment  here  two  hundred  miles  in  circum- 
ference. Surrey,  Sussex,  Hampshire,  Berk- 
shire, Rucks,  Herts,  Middlesex,  Kent,  Essex, 
and  Wiltshire  are  visible  in  miniature.  That 
little  misty  spot  of  firs  is  Nettlebed,  in  Oxford- 
shire ;  that  glimmer  through  a  blue  dimple  of 
the  horizon  is  the  sea  glittering  through 
Shoreham  Gap,  a  cleft  in  the  South  Downs, 
thirty  miles  distant. 

The  time  to  catch  the  glimpse  of  the  sea  is 
about  eleven  a.m.  of  a  clear  but  not  too  hot  a 
morning,  when  no  mist  rises  from  the  inter- 
vening valleys.  Then  the  sea  sparkles  for  a 
moment  or  two  as  the  sun  passes  Shoreham 
gap,  and,  with  a  glass,  you  can  even  catch  a 
white  glimpse  of  a  passing  sail. 

One  of  the  greatest  finds  ever  made  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  coins  was  in  1817f  at  Winteriield  Farm, 
near  Dorking.  Seven  hundred  coins  in  a 
wooden  box  were  turned  up  by  the  plough  in 
a  field  near  an  old  Roman  road,  not  far  from 
Hanstiebury  camp,  which  is  generally  thought 
to  have  been  Danish.  The  coins,  caked  together 
by  coppery  alloys,  which  had  decomposed  since 
the  owner  had  buried  them  here  with  fear  and 
doubt,  were  lying  twelve  inches  below  the  sur- 
face, in  a  patch  of  dark  earth,  always  observed 
to  be  specially  fertile.  There  was  money  of 
many  kings,  but  chiefly  of  Ethelwolf  (265)  and 
Ethelbert  (249).  It  is  supposed  they  were  not 
buried  here  before  870,  the  year  Athelstan 
began  to  reign.  Mr.  Barclay,  of  Bury  HiU,  a 
descendant  of  the  Apologist  for  the  Quakers, 
and  of  that  Mr.  David  Barclay,  the  wealthy 
London  merchant,  who  feasted  three  successive 
Georges  at  his  house  in  Cheapside,  bought 
most  of  this  great  find,  and  generously  gave 
it  to  the  British  Museum. 


THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN 

ACKLAND. 

A  Teue  Story. 

IN  THIRTEEN  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  following  exfra ordinary  narrative 
nothing  is  fictitious  hut  the  names  of  the 
persons. 

About  thirty-five  or  forty  years  ago, 
before  the  border  territory  of  Texas  had 
become  a  state  of  the  great  American 
Union,  a  Virginian  gentleman,  living  near 
Richmond,  received  from  a  gentleman  of 
Massachusetts,  living  near  Boston,  a  letter 
pressing  for  pnnctnal  payment  of  a  debt 
owing  to  the  writer  of  it  by  the  person  to 
whom  it  was  addressed.  The  debt  was  a 
heavy  one.  It  was  a  loan  for  a  limited 
period,  contracted  partly  on  mortgage  and 
portly  on  other  less  valid  securities.  The 
period  for  which  it  was  originally  con- 
tracted had  been  frequently  renewed  at 
increasing  rates  of  interest.  The  whole 
capital  would  shorilj  be  due  •,  and  renewal 


of  the  loan  (which  seems  to  have  been 
asked  for)   was  firmly   declined,   on   the 
ground  that  the  writer  of  the  letter  was 
now   winding  up  his  business  at  Boston 
preparatory  to  the  undertaking  of  an  en- 
tirely new  business  at  Charleston ;  whither 
it    was    his    intention    to    proceed    very 
shortly.      Such  was  the  general  purport 
of  this  letter.     The  tone  of  it  was  cour- 
teous, but  peremptory.     The  name  of  the 
gentleman  who  received  it  we  shall  sup- 
pose to  have  been  Cartwright,  and  that  of 
the  gentleman  who  wrote  it  to  have  been 
Ackland.     Mr.  Cartwright  was  the  owner 
of  an  estate,  not  a  very  large  one  (which, 
with  the  reader's  permission,  we  will  call 
Glenoak),    on    the  banks   of   the  James 
River.     The  Cartwrights  were  an  old  Vir- 
ginian family,  much  esteemed  for  their  an- 
tiquity.    Three  generations  of  male  Cart- 
wright babies  had  been  christened  Stuart  i 
(because,  sir,  the  Cartwrights  iiad  always 
fought  for  the   Stuarts,   sir,    in   the  old 
country),  and  in  Virginia  a  very  mode- 
rate amount  of  fisimily  antiquity  has  always 
commanded  for  the  representative  of  it  as 
much  consideration  as  is  accorded  in  Eng- 
land to  the  lineage  of  a  Beaufort  or  a 
Howard.     The  personal  reputation  of  this 
present  Phihp  Stuart  Cartwright,  however, 
was  not  altogether  satisfactory.     It  was 
regretted  that  a  man  of  his  parts  and  pro-  ' 
perty  should  have  contributed  nothing  to 
the  strength  and  dignity  of  the  territorial 
aristocracy  of  old  Virginia  in  the  legis- 
lature of  his  state — a  legislature  of  which 
the  Virginians  were  justly  proud.    The 
estate  of  Glenoak,  if  well  managed,  would 
have    doubtless    yielded    more    than  the 
income  which  was  spent,  not  very  reputably, 
by  the  owner  of  it,  whenever  he  had  a 
run  of  luck  at  faro.     But  the  estate  was 
not  well  managed,  and,  between  occasional 
but  extravagant  hospitalities  on  this  estate, 
and  equally  extravagant  indulgence  in  the 
stimulant  of  high  stakes  and  strong  Uqaors 
at  the  hells  and  bars  about  Richmond,  Mr. 
Philip  Cartwright  passed  his  time  unprofit- 
ably  enough ;  for  pulling  the  devil  by  the 
tail  is  a  fatiguing  exercise,  even  to  a  strong 
man.     Mr.  Cartwright  was  a  strong  man, 
however,  and  a  handsome  man,  and  a  tall 
*'  Quite  a  fine  man,  sir,"  said  his  friends.  | 
"  You  may  have  seen  Philip  S.  Cartwright 
as  drunk  as  a  hag,  sir,  but  you  will  have 
always  found  him  quite  the  cavalier."  And, 
in  truth,  he  had  grand  manners,  and  plea^ 
sant  manners,  too,  this  hard-living,  devil- 
may-care    gentleman,    which    cmDellished 
the  impression  of  his  vices.    And  he  wu  a 


U-- 


& 


ChwiesDicken..]    THE  DISAPPEAEANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND..  [Sept  imsgs.]  381 


bold  rider  and  a  crack  shot;  accomplish- 
ments which,  in  all  Anglo-Saxon  commu- 
nities, ensnre  easy  popnlarity  to  their  pos- 
sessor. Then,  too,  he  had  been  left,  early 
in  life,  a  widower ;  and  if,  since  then,  he 
had  lived  too  hard,  or  lived  too  loose,  this 
was  an  extennating  circnmstance.  More- 
over, he  had  bnt  one  child,  a  pretty  little 
girl ;  and  to  her  he  had  ever  been  a  careful, 
tender,  and  devoted  father.  That  was 
another  extennating  circnmstance.  He  was 
donbtless  no  man's  enemy  bnt  his  own ; 
and  the  worst  ever  said  of  him  was,  that 
"  Philip  S.,  sir,  is  a  smart  man,  smart  and 
spry;  bnt  wants  ballast." 

Mr.  Gartwright  lost  no  time  in  answer- 
ing Mr.  Ackland's  letter.     He  answered  it 
with  the  warmest  expressions  of  gratitnde 
ibr  the  consideration  and  forbearance  which 
he  had  hitherto  received  from  the  writer 
in  the  matter  of  this  large,   and   all  too 
long  ontstanding  debt.     He  confessed  that 
only  a  month  ago  he  had  been  greatly  em- 
hamssed  how  to  meet  the  obligations  now 
falling  due;  bnt  he  was  all  the  more  re- 
joicea,  for  that  reason,  to  be  now  enabled 
to  assnre  his  correspondent,  that  in  conse- 
qnence  partly  of  the  nnnsnal  excellence  of 
tiie  present  lice  harvest,  and  partly  owing 
to  other  recent  and  nnexpected  receipts  to 
a  considerable  amonnt,  the  capital  and  in- 
terest of  the  debt  wonld  be  dnly  paid  off 
at  the  proper  time.  -As,  however,  Mr.  Ack- 
land,  in  his  letter,  had  expressed  the  in- 
tention of  going  to  Charleston  abont  that 
time,  he   (Mr.  Gartwright)  begged  to  re- 
mind him  that  he  conld  not  reach  Gharles- 
ton  without  passing  through  Richmond  on 
his  way  thither.     Ho  trusted,   therefore, 
that  Mr.  A.  would  afford  him  that  oppor- 
tunity of  offering  to  his  New  England  friend 
a  sample  of  the  hospitality  for  which  old 
Virginia  was  justly    celebrated.     He  was 
naturally  anxious  to  be  the  first  southern 
gentleman  to  entertain   his   distinguished 
correspondent    on     Virginian    soil.      He, 
therefore,  trusted  that  his  esteemed  Mend 
would  honour  him  by  being  his  guest  at 
Olenoak  for  a  few  days ;  the  more  so,  as 
he  was  desirous  not  only  of  introducing 
Mr.  A.  to  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
men   of  Virginia,   but  also  of  famishing 
him  with  letters  to  many  influential  friends 
of  his  in  South  Garolina,  whose  acquaint- 
ance Mr.  A.  would  probeibly  find  useful  in 
the  course  of  his  business  at  Gharleston. 
It,  therefore,  Mr.  A.  could  manage  to  be  at 

Bichmond  on  the proximo,  he  (Mr.  G.) 

would  have  the  honour  of  meeting  him 
there,  and   conductimg  him  to    Glenoak, 


where  all  would  be  in  readiness  for  the 
immediate  and  satisfactory  settlement  of 
their  accounts. 

When  Mr.  Ackland  received  this  letter, 
he  was  sitting  in  his  office  at  Boston,  and 
C(mversing  with  his  cousin,  Tom  Ackland. 
Tom  Ackland  was  a  rising  young  lawyer, 
and  the  only  living  relative  of  our  Mr. 
Jolm  Ackland,  of  the  firm  of  Ackland 
Brothers.  Ackland's  other  brother,  who 
was  also  Ackland  senior,  had  died  some 
years  ago,  and  Ackland  junior  had  since 
then  been  carrying  on  the  bu.sines8  of  the 
firm,  not  very  wilhngly,  and  not  very  suc- 
cessfully. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Tom  ?" 
said  Mr.  John  Ackland,  tossing  over  the 
letter  to  his  cousin. 

"WeU,"  said  Tom,  after  reading  it 
through,  hastily  enough,  *'  I  think  you 
had  better  accept  the  invitation,  for  I  sus- 
pect it  is  about  the  only  thing  you  will 
ever  get  out  of  Philip  Gartwright.  As  to 
his  paying  up,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
what  he  says  on  that  score." 

"  I  don't  much  beheve  in  it  neither," 
said  Mr.  John,  **  and  I'm  sadly  afraid  the 
debt  is  a  bad  one.  But  I  can't  afford  to 
lose  it :  and  'twill  be  a  great  bore  to  have 
to  foreclose.  Even  then,  too,  I  shan't 
recover  half  of  the  capital.  Wbat  do  you 
think,  Tom  ?" 

Mr.  Ackland  spoke  with  a  weary  tone  of 
voice  and  an  undecided  manner,  like  a  man 
who  is  tired  of  some  load  which  he  is  either 
too  weak  or  too  lazy  to  shake  off. 

"  Well,  you  must  pass  through  Bich- 
mond, Jack,  and  Glenoak  will  be  as  plea- 
sant a  halt  as  you  can  have.  Drink  as 
much  of  Cartwright*s  wine,  and  smoke  as 
many  of  his  cigars  as  you  can  ;  for  I  doubt 
if  you'll  get  back  any  of  your  money  except 
in  that  land.  However,  you  can  afford  to 
lose  it,  so  don't  be  so  downhearted,  man. 
And  as  for  this  Gharleston  business " 

"  Oh  !"  said  John  Ackland,  impatiently, 
'*  the  best  of  the  Gharleston  business  is  that 
it  is  not  Boston  business.  I  am  longing, 
Tom,  to  bo  away  from  here,  and  the  sooner 
I  can  start  the  better.  BEave  you  heard  (I 
did  yesterday  at  the  Albion)  that  Mary, 
I  mean  Mrs.  Mordent,  and  her  husband, 
are  expected  back  in  Boston  next  month  ?" 

"  Ah,  Jack,  Jack!"  exclaimed  Tom,  "you 
Yrill  get  over  this  sooner  than  you  think, 
man,  and  come  back  to  us  one  of  these 
days  with  a  boilncing,  black-eyed  Garolinian 
beauty,  and  half-a-dozen  little  Ackland 
brothers  and  sisters  too." 

"  I  have  got  over  it,  Tom^     At  tc:^  \kDD5i 


^ 


j 


3R2       [September  18,  ISfiflJ 


ALL  TIIE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CoBdnetcd  by 


/ 


of  life  I  dou't  think  there  is  mucli  to  got 
^_  ft 


over. 


**  Your  time  of  life,  Jack  !     What  non- 


sense. 


» J 


*'  Well,  I  am  not  a  patiiarcli,  certainly," 
said  Mr.  John  Ackland.  "But  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  patriarch,  Tom  :  and  I  don't 
think  I  ever  shall  be  a  patriarch.  The 
best  part  of  my  life  was  short  enough, 
Heaven  knows,  and  I  hope  (now  that  is 
over)  tliat  the  worst  part  of  it  won't  be 
very  long.  I  don't  think  it  tvUI  bo  very 
long,  Tom.  Anyhow,  I  have  no  mind  to 
meet  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mordent  again  just 
now,  so  I  shall  accept  Cartwriglit's  invita- 
tion, and  now,  for  mercy's  sake,  no  more 
about  business  for  to-day,  Tom." 

He  did  accept  the  invitation:  and,  at 
the  date  proposed,  John  Ackland  arrived 
at  Richmond  late  in  the  evening  of  a  hot 
June  day.  Ho  was  much  fatigued  by  his 
long  journey  and  the  heat  of  the  weather; 
and  not  at  all  sorry  to  accept  an  invitation 
(which  ho  received  through  Cartwright, 
who  met  him  on  his  arrival)  from  Mr.  D., 
the  accomplished  editor  of  the  Richmond 
Courier,  to  sup  and  sleep  at  that  gentle- 
man's house  before  going  on  to  Glenoak. 
Mr.  D.  having  heard  from  Cartwright  of 
Mr.  Ackland's  intended  visit  to  the  south, 
and  knowing  that  ho  could  not  arrive  in 
Richmond  till  late  in  the  evening,  had, 
with  true  Virginian  hospitality,  insisted  on 
the  two  gentlemen  passing  the  night  at 
liis  house  in  town;  and  it  had  been  ar- 
I'anged  that  Cartwright  should  drive  Mr. 
D.  and  Mr.  Ackland  over  to  Glenoak  on 
the  following  day.  Mr.  Ackland  was  very 
cordially  received  by  his  Richmond  host, 
an  agreeable  and  cultivated  man.  The 
fatigue  of  his  long  journey  secured  him  a 
good  night's  rest ;  and,  being  an  early  riser, 
he  had  indulged  his  curiosity  by  a  solitary 
stroll  through  the-  town,  before  the  throe 
gentlemen  met  at  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing. After  breakfast,  he  was  conducted 
by  his  two  friends  to  sco  the  lions  of  the 
place.  When  they  had  visited  the  court- 
house and  the  senate-house, 

"  Now,  Mr.  Editor,"  said  Cartwright, 
"  I  shall  ask  permission  to  leave  my  friend 
here  under  your  good  care  for  an  hour  or 
so.  I  am  going  to  fetch  my  little  girl 
from  school.  You  know  sho  is  at  Miss 
Grindley's  finishing  establishment  for  young 
ladies ;  and  though  she  is  only  ten  years 
old.  Miss  G.  assures  me  *that  Virginia 
CarhfV'right  is  her  most  forward  pupil.  We 
will  take  this  little  puss  with  us,  if  you 
please.     What  o'clock  is  it  now  ?" 


Cartwright  looked  at  his  watch,  and  Mr. 
D.  looked  at  his  watch.  Yawning  and 
looking  at  your  watch  are  infectious  ges- 
tures. John  Ackland  also  put  his  hand  to 
his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  then  suddenly 
remembering  tliat  his  watch  was  not  there, 
he  felt  awkward,  and  blushed.  John  Ack- 
land was  a  shy  man,  and  a  lasy  man  in 
everything  but  the  exercise  <^  self-torment 
He  was  in  the  habit  of  interpreting  every 
trifle  to  his  own  disadvantage.  This  un- 
fortunate way  of  regarding  all  external 
phenomena  was  constantly  disturbing  his 
otherwise  habitual  languor  with  an  internal 
sensation  of  extreme  awkwardness.  And 
whenever  John  Ackland  felt  awkward  he 
blushed. 

''  Twenty  minutes  to  one,"  said  Mr.  D. 

''  Good ;  Ihen,"  said  Cartwright,  "  in  one 
hour,  as  near  as  may  be,  I  and  my  Httfe 
girl  will  be  at  your  door  with  the  waggon, 
and  phaeton.   Can  you  be  ready  by  thou  P" 

"  All  right,"  answered  the  editor,  "we 
shall  just  have  time  for  a  light  luncheon." 

"  Will  it  be  out  of  your  way,  Mr.  D.," 
said  Ackland,  afler  Cartwright  had  \eA 
them,  ''to  pass  by  D'Oiley's,  the  watcli- 
maker's,  in street?" 

*'  Not  at  all.  How  do  you  happen  to 
know  the  name  of  that  store,  though  ?" 

''  I  noticed  it,  whilst  strolling  throngk 
the  town  this  morning.  My  chronometer 
has  been  losing  time  since  I  came  soniii; 
and  I  asked  Mr.  D'Oiley  to  look  at  it) 
saying  I  would  call  or  send  for  it  before 
leaving  town  this  afternoon." 

When  the  watchmaker  handed  back  the 
chronometer  to  Mr.  Ackland,  "  That  watch 
was  never  made  in  the  States,  I  reckoo* 
sir  ?"  said  he. 

"  No.     It  is  English." 

"  Geneva  works,  though.  I'U  wamnt 
your  chronometer,  sir,  to  go  right  for  six 
years  now.  Splendid  piece  of  workman- 
ship, sir." 

Mr.  Ackland  was  much  pleased  witii  his 
pretty  little  new  acquaintance,  Virginsi 
Cartwright.  She  was  a  dark-eyed  lively 
child,  who  promised  to  become  a  veiy 
beautiful  woman,  and  was  singularly  grace- 
ful  for  that  awkward  age  in  the  life  of  » 
young  lady  which  closes  her  first  decade. 
Her  father  seemed  to  be  immensely  proud 
of,  as  well  as  tenderly  attached  to,  the  litde 
girL  Every  little  incident  on  their  way  to 
Glenoak  suggested  to  him  some  anecdote 
of  her  childhood  which  he  related  to  \aB 
guest  in  terms,  no  doubt  iuadequatdy  ex- 
pressive of  her  extraordinary  merits.  Once 
he  said,  ''Good  God,  siri  whea  I  think 


' 


:fc. 


Obtfies  Dickmii.]  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND.    [Sept.  is,  i869.]    883 


what  would  becomo  of  tjiat  child  if  any- 
thing were  to  happen "  But  he  finished 

the  sentence  only   by  whipping    on  the 
horeeB. 

A  large  assembly  of  Virginia  notables 
had  been  invited  to  Glenoak  to  meet  Mr. 
Cartwright's  New  England  guest.  *'  I  am 
going  to  bo  shown  ofif,"  thought  John  Ack- 
land  to  himself;  and  he  entered  the  house, 
hot  and  blushing,  like  the  sun  rising  through 
a  £jg.  Among  these  notables  was  Judge 
Grifiin,  "Our  greatest  legal  authority,  sir," 
whispered  Cartwright,  as  he  pushed  his 
guest  forward,  and  presented  him  to  the 
judge  with  expressions  of  overflowing 
eulogy  and  friendship. 

Mr.  Ackland,  of  Boston  city,  was  a 
i^^csentatiye  man,  he  said,  "  a  splendid 
specimen,  sir,  of  our  great  merchant 
princes  of  the  North,  whom  he  was  proud 
to  receive  under  his  roof.  More  than  that, 
he  himself  was  under  deep  obligations 
(why  should  he  be  ashamed  to  avow  it  P), 
the  very  deepest  obligations  to  his  worthy 
friend  and  honoured  guest,  John  K.  Ack- 
knd!''  Here  Mr.  Cartwright,  apparently 
under  the  impression  that  he  had  been  pro- 
posing a  toast,  paused,  and  prepared  to 
\i&  his  glass  to  his  Hps,  but  finding  ihaJt  he 
had,  just  then,  no  glass  to  lift,  he  informed 
Uie  judge  and  his  other  guests  that  dinner 
would  soon  be  served,  and  expressed  a  hope 
that  in  the  meanwhile  Mr.  Ackland  woxdd 
&vour  him  with  a  few  moments  of  his 
private  attention  for  the  settlement  of 
a  matter  of  business  to  which,  indeed,  he 
partly  owed  the  honour  of  that  gentleman's 
visit.  The  tvro  gentlemen  were  then 
closeted  together  for  nearly  an  hour.  When 
they  rejoined  the  rest  of  the  company  at 
dinner,  Mr.  Cartwright  appeared  to  have 
made  (during  their  recent  interview)  a 
most  ^vourable  impression  on  his  New 
England  guest.  Host  and  guest  were  al- 
ready on  terms  of  the  most  oordinl  intimacy 
with  each  other,  and  Cartwright  himself 
was  in  the  highest  possible  spirits.  One  of 
the  company  present  on  that  occasion,  a 
very  young  gentleman,  who  had  had 
some  betting  transactions  with  the  owner 
of  Glenoak — ^transactions  from  which  he 
had  derived  a  very  high  appreciation  of 
the  remarkable  *cutencss  of  that  gentleman 
— ^^ressed  to  his  neighbour  at  ^ble  a  de- 
cided opinion  that  his  friend  Philip  S.  must 
certainly  have  succeeded,  before  dinner, 
in  getting  a  pot  o'  money  out  of  the  Yankee, 
who  looked  as  well  pleased  as  people 
nsnally  do  when  they  have  done  something 
foolish.      Afker  dinner,  when  the  gentle- 


men lit  their  cigars,  and  strolled  into  the 
garden,  Cfirtwrighth'iiking  one  arm  in  that 
of  Judge  Griffin,  and  the  other  in  that  of 
John  Ackland,  exclaimed, 

"  I  'vvish,  judge,  tliat  you,  whose  powers 
of  persuasion  are  irresistible,  would  induce 
my  friend  here  to  hsten  to  reason.  No, 
no !''  he  continued,  as  John  Ackland  made 
some  gesture  of  impatience,  **  no,  my 
esteemed  friend,  why  should  I  conceal  the 
truth  ?  The  fact  is,  judge,  that  Mr.  Ack- 
land and  myself  have  had  some  pecuniary 
transactions  with  each  other,  in  which  he 
has  been  creditor,  let  me  add,  the  most  for- 
bearing and  considerate  creditor  that  ever 
man  had,  and  I,  of  course,  debtor " 

"  A  highly  honourable  one,"  put  in  John 
Ackland. 

**  My  dear  sir,  that  is  the  very  point  in 
question.  Allow  me  to  deserve  the  flatter- 
ing epithet.  Judge  Griffin  shall  decide  the 
casa  You  must  know,  judge,  that  the  un- 
fortunate force  of  circumstances  (why 
should  I  be  ashamed  to  own  it  ?)  has  com- 
pelled me  to  keep  this  gentleman  waiting 
an  unconscionably  long  time  for  the  repay- 
ment of  a  considerable  sum  of  money  which 
he  has  been  good  enough  to  advance  to  me, 
partly  on  my  personal  security.  Under 
these  circumstances,  I  was  naturally  anxious 
that  Ce  should  not,  finally,  be  a  loser  by  the 
generosity  of  his  patience.  It  is,  therefore, 
needless  to  say  that  the  rate  of  interest 
ofiered  by  myself  for  the  renewed  postpone- 
ment of  the  liquidation  of  this  loan  was,  in 
the  last  instance,  a  high  one.  I  am  happy 
to  say  that  I  have,  this  afternoon,  had  the 
pleasure  of  refunding  to  my  friend  the 
entire  capital  of  the  debt.  On  that  capital, 
however,  a  year's  interest  was  still  owing. 
Of  course  I  added  the  amount  of  it  to  that 
of  the  capital.  But  he  (wonderful  man  !) 
refuses — absolutely  refuses — to  receive  it. 
Tell  him,  judge  (you  know  me),  that  he  is 
depriving  me  of  a  luxury  which  I  have  too 
seldom  enjoyed — the  luxury  of  paying  my 
debts — and  that  the  capital ** 

"  Was  a  very  large  one,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Ackland,  who  had  been  listening  with 
growing  impatience  to  this  speech.  " Pardon 
me  if  1  confess  that  I  had  not  counted  on 
the  entire  recovery  of  it — especially  so 
soon.  The  interest  to  which  Mr.  Cart- 
wright has  referred  was  fixed  in  accordance 
with  tliat  erroneous  impression.  For  which 
— ahem — my  excuse  must  be,  sir,  that — 
well,  that  I  am  not — never  was — a  man  of 
sanguine  temperament.  Sir,  Mr.  Cart- 
wnght  has  gi'eatly  embarrassed  me.  Under 
present   circumstances,  I   really — ^L  cinrc^iiL 


384 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[September  18. 1669.1 


not — ^ahem — tax  my  friend  here  so  heavily 
on  a  debt  of — of — well,  yes  —  of  that 
amount,  which  has  been  so  unexpectedly — 
aliem.  I  really — I — am  not  a  usurer,  sir, 
though  I  am  a  merchant." 

Mr.  Ackland  said  all  this  with  the  dif- 
ficult hesitation  of  an  exceedingly  shy  man, 
which  he  was,  and  blushing  up  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair.  As  soon  as  ho  had  struggled 
through  the  effort  of  saying  it,  and  thereby 
worked  himself  into  a  state  of  feeling  so 
defensive  as  to  be  almost  offensive,  he 
extricated  his  arm  from  the  embrace  of  his 
host,  and,  with  an  awkward  bow,  hastened 
to  join  the  ladies  in  the  arbour. 

**  Odd  man,  that,"  said  Judge  Griffin. 

"  Shy  and  proud,"  said  Cartwright,  "  but 
as  fine  a  fellow  as  ever  lived." 

John  Ackland  wrote  from  Glenoak  to  his 
Cousin  Tom,  expressing  much  pleasure  in 
his  visit  there.  The  change  of  scene  and 
air  had  agreed  with  him,  notwithstanding 
the  great  heat  of  the  season,  and  he  already 
felt  m  better  health  and  spirits  than  when 
he  left  Boston.  He  related  the  result  of 
the  interview  which  had  taken  place  be- 
tween himself  and  his  host  on  the  day  of 
his  arrival  at  Glenoak.  He  had  the  cash 
now  with  him  in  notes.  But  the  amount 
was  so  large  that  he  should  of  coun^  ex- 
change them  at  the  Richmond  Bank  for  a 
credit  on  their  correspondents  at  Charles- 
ton. It  was  a  strange  notion  of  Cart- 
wright's  to  insist  on  paying  the  money  in 
notes. 

**  He  seems  to  have  been  under  the  im- 
pression that  I  should  not  have  been  equally 
well  satisfied  with  his  signature.  Which 
made  me  feel  very  awkward,  my  dear 
Tom." 

Ho  had  felt  still  more  awkward  in  con- 
senting to  take  the  last  year's  interest  on 
that  loan  at  the  rate  originally  stipulated. 
Tom  knew  that  he  would  not  have  raised 
it  so  high  if  he  had  ever  had  any  hope  of  re- 
covering the  entire  capital  at  the  expiration 
of  the  term.  However,  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  Cartwright  would  have  it.  Cart- 
wright  had  behaved  exceedingly  well.  Very 
much  like  a  gentleman.  He  had  really  con- 
ceived a  great  regard  for  his  present  host.  In 
despite  of  some  obvious  faults  of  character, 
and  he  feared  also  of  conduct,  there  was 
so  much  good  in  the  man.  C.  was  a 
most  pleasant  companion,  and  had  shown 
the  greatest  delicacy  in  this  matter.     The 


man's  affection  for  his  daughter,  too,  was 
quit«  touching ;  and  the  child  herself  was 
ciiai*ming.     John  Ackland  then  described 
iiis  impressions  of  a  slave  plantation  at 
some  length      His  abhorrence  of  the  whole 
system  was  even  more  intense  than  before. 
Not  because  he  had    noticed   any  great 
cruelty  in  the  treatment  of  the  slaves  on 
this  plantation,  but  because  the  system  was 
one  which  rendered  even  kindness  itself  an 
instrument  of  degradation ;  and  these  un- 
fortunate blacks  appeared  to  him  to  be  in  a 
mental  and  moral  condition  which,  without 
justifying  it,  gave  a  hideous  plausibility  to 
the  cool  assertion   of   their  owners  that 
coloured  humanity  is  not  humanity  at  alL 
He  avoided  all  discussion  on  this  subject, 
however,   for,   as   Tom  knew,   there  was 
nothing  he  hated  so  much  as  controversy. 
At  first  he  had  felt  "  a  little  awkward  "  at 
being    the    only  Northerner  amongst  so 
many  slave  proprietors.     But  now  he  felt 
quite  at  his  ease  with  them  all.    Espedally 
with  Cartwright.     'Twas  a  pity  that  man 
had  been  bom  South.  He  had  been  brought 
up  there  to  idleness  and  arrogance,  but  his 
natural   disposition  fitted  hmi  for  better 
things.  Glenoak  was  a  very  pleasant  place. 
So  pleasant,  that  he  was  reluctant  to  leave 
it.     And,  in  fact,  there  was  no  real  neces- 
sity for  going  to  Charleston  so  soon.    The 
weather  was  horribly  hot.    He  had  not  yet 
been  up  to  the  exertion  even  of  going  to 
Richmond  to  deposit  the  notes  he  had  re- 
ceived ^m  Cartwright.     He  thought  he 
should  probably  remain  some  days  longer 
— perhaps  a  fortnight  longer — at  Glenoak. 
On  the  evening  of  the  day  he  wrote  this 
letter,  however,  an  incident  occurred  which 
changed  Mr.  Ackland's  disposition  to  pro- 
long his  stay  at  Glenoak. 

Now  Beady,  price  5fl.  6d.j  bound  in  green  doth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

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MR.  CHARLES  DICKEN8S  FINAL  READINGS. 

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PabUabed  ftl  th«  Ofloa,  No.M,  W^tttngMnBlnil.  Bu«a4.   TttaavtA^^s^  Q.^vnaA,VMilM\ 


ra:'ST0J^-QE-OURclreES-JH9H-y5Ai^;3Dlt£A] 


illwIikTDttrttar  \» 


CONDUCT ED-BY 
With  WHICH  IS  IfJCofyoiifT'n  - 

43.  New  Series.!     SATtTRDAY,  SEPTEMBER  25,  l&G', 


VERONICA. 

In  Five  Books. 
BOOK   I. 

CHAPTEB  IV.      LiDT  TAiLia. 

It  was  not  until  Mr.  Levinconrt  had 
been  seated  fur  some  time  in  the  railway 
carriage,  that  he  remembered  that  he  waa 
ignorant  of  Lady  TaUis'fl  addreaa.  Yoniig 
IJMkwood  had  said  that  tihe  was  in  London, 
bat  where  the  vicar  knew  not. 

"Maud!"  said  he,  auddenlj,  "how  are 
we  to  find  your  aunt  ?" 

Maud  was  leaniog  her  weary  head 
igainst  the  cushions,  and  her  oyos  were 
closed.  She  had  not  been  sleeping,  how- 
■,  for  she  immediately  opened  her  eyes, 
&ad  repeated  the  vicar's  words, 

"  How  are  we  to  find  my  aunt  ?" 

"Yes,  how?  In  the  whirl,  and  confn- 
Bion,  and  misery  of  this  drcadfal  departure 
it  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  do  not  know 
Lady  TaUia's  address  !  Her  last  letter  was 
dated  from  the  country." 

"  Mr. — Mrs.  Lockwood  knows  where 
Aant  Hilda  is,"  answered  Maud,  atler  a 
moment's  reflection. 

Tes,  yes,  yes,"  said  the  vicar,  with 
peevish  irritability,  "  Mrs.  Lockwood 
fawws !  But  where  can  these  people  be 
fonnd  ?  Menufnl  Heavens,  it  is  enough  to 
nodden  one !    It  is  all  confusion  and  bope- 

M  misery !" 

"Dear  Uncle  Charles,  in  this  I  think  I 
Oin  help  you.  I  remember  the  Lockwoods' 
iiddresa.     They    live    in    a    street    called 

jwer-street.     Do  you  know  it  ?" 

"  Gower-atroct  ?  Arc  you  sure  ?  How 
do  yon  know  ?" 

M/.     Lockwood    mentioned     that     his 


mother  had  a  house  there.  Her  husband 
bequeathed  it  to  her,  and  she  lives  there." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  must  drive  there 
tlie  first  thing.     I  know  of  no  other  way,'' 

After  tbat  the  vicar  closed  his  eyes  also. 
But  for  a  long  time  his  brain  was  tor- . 
mented  by  whirling  thoughts.  Occasion- 
ally a  gleam  of  something  hke  hope  darted 
into  liis  mind.  Might  it  not  be  possible 
that  all  would  yet  go  well  with  Veronica  ? 
Some  fathers  would  have  deemed  that  by 
no  possibility  could  it  be  altogether  well 
with  her.  It  could  not  ho  well  to  bo  the 
wife  of  u  man  who  had  induced  her  to  leave 
her  home  clandestinely,  to  deceivo  and  in- 
flict torturing  anxiety  on  her  father ;  a 
man  who  liad.  at  the  least,  caused  a  tem- 
porary slur  to  be  cast  on  her  reputation, 
and  .who  had  risked  tarnishing  her  good 
name  for  ever.  But  in  hia  present  wretch- 
edness it  seemed  to  the  vicar  that  to  know 
Veronica  Sir  John  Gale's  wife,  would  in 
itself  be  happiness  and  peace  of  mind. 
And  it  must  be  remembered  that  Charles 
Levineourt  was  at  heart  a  worldly  man  ; 
that  the  somewhat  lax  tone  of  morals  and 
want  of  high  principle  which  he  had  ob- 
served in  Sir  John  Gale's  conversation 
would  by  no  means  have  induced  biin  to 
refuse  the  baronet  his  danght«r'B  hand,  < 
had  ho  asked  for  it  openly.  Bat  he  was 
keenly  ahve  to  the  disgrace  of  his  daugh- 
ter's elopement ;  and  not  the  least  sharp 
pang  ho  felt  was  caused  by  the  reflection 
that  Veronica    had    thoroughly    deceived 

At  length  he  fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep, 
through  which  ho  was  dimly  conscious  of 
mental  pain,  and  of  a  dread  of  waking.  ', 
From  this  slumber  he  was  aroused  by 
Maud's  hand  on  his  aUouA'iiOT  suii^'oai.Si 
voice  in  \iia  etvc,  feMcrm^  «q.^  'Ona.'v. 
believed  Ihej  mnafe  \ia.^c  TearioeS.\.K.^*aT^ 


<^ 


& 


3SCi      [SepW^ubur  2A,  USD.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OowliMCedby 


They  were  iu  London.  The  r.iihvay 
station  looked  inexpressibly  dreaTv,  wiln 
its  long  vistas  ending  in  bhick  sliadow,  ils 
sickly  lamps  blinking  like  eyes  that  have 
vratchcd  all  night  and  are  weary,  and  its 
vast  glazed  1*00^  through  which  the  grey 
dawn  was  beginning  to  glimmer. 

It  was  yet  too  early  to  attempt  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Lockwood's  houae.  They  must  wait 
at  least  a  couple  of  lioui*s.  The  vicar 
looked  so  worn,  aged,  and  ill,  that  Mand 
tried  to  persuade  him  to  seek  some  rest  at 
tlic  hotel  close  to  the  station,  promisiug 
that  heshoidd  be  roused  in  duo  time.  But 
he  refused  to  do  so. 

"  Sit  here,"  lie  said,  leading  Maud  into 
a  waiting-room,  whei'e  there  was  a  dull 
coke  fire  smouldering  slowly,  and  where  a 
solitary  gas-light  shed  a  yellow  glare  over 
a  huge,  bare,  shining  centre  table,  leaving 
the  rest  of  the  apartment  in  almost 
darkness.  "You  will  be  safe  and  unmo- 
lested here.  I  must  go  and  make  some 
inquiries — try  to  find  some  trace .  Re- 
main here  till  I  return." 

Maud  thought  she  had  never  seen  a 
i^oom  so  utterly  soul-depressing.  No  place 
would  have  appeared  cheei-ful  to  her  at  that 
moment ;  but  this  railway  wai  t  in g-room  Ava  s 
truly  a  dreary  and  forh>m  apartment.  She 
sat  there  cowering  over  the  dull  red  fire,  sick, 
and  chilly,  and  sad ;  listening  neiwously  to 
every  echoing  footfall  on  tlic  long  platfonn 
without;  to  ihe  whistle  of  some  distant 
engine,  screaming  as  though  it  had  lost  its 
way  in  the  labyrinthine  network  of  lines 
that  converged  just  outside  the  great 
tenninus,  and  wei-e  wildly  crying  for  help 
and  guidance;  listening  to  the  frequent 
clang  of  a  heavy  swing-door,  the  occa- 
sional sound  of  voices  (once  a  man  laughed 
aloud,  and  she  involuntarily  ]>ut  her  hands 
up  to  her  startled  ears  to  shut  out  the 
sound  that  janvd  on  every  quivering  nerve 
with  agom'sijig  discord),  and  to  tli(?  loud, 
deliberate  ticking  of  a  clock  above  the 
waiting- i-oom  docw*. 

At  length — how  long  the  time  had 
seemed  ! — Mv.  Levincoui-t  returned. 

Maud  started  up,  and  tried  to  read  in 
his  fiice  if  he  had  any  tidings  of  Vei-onioa, 
but  she  did  not  venture  to  speak,  lie 
answered  her  appealing'  lo()k  : 

**  T  have  seen  the  station-master,"  he 
said.  *'Thev  have  not  Ixx^n  here.  I  believe 
that  miieli  is  certain.  The  man  was  civil, 
aud  caused  ijuiuiries  to  be  made  among 
tht:  people — oh,  my  Ood,  that  I  should 
hiivo  to  endure  this  degnidation  I — but 
there  was  no  trace  of  such  peopVc  aa  1 


I 


described.  This  man  made  a  suggestion. 
Thej  might  have  left  the  main  line  at 
Dibley,  and  eitker  come  to  London  by  the 
other  line,  thus  aniving  at  a  station  at 
the  opposite  end  of  the  town;  or — as  I 
think  more  probable — have  leached  the 
junction  that  communicates  with  the  ci>ast 
itdlways,  aud  so  got  down  to  the  sea  with- 
out touching  London  at  all." 

"O,  Uncle  Oharks!*; 

"  Come,  my  poor  child,  let  me  at  least 
put  you  into  a  shelter  where  you  will  be 
safe  from  the  contamination  of  our  dis- 
grace. You  look  half  dead,  my  poor 
Maudie !  Come,  there  is  a  cab  waiting 
here  outside." 

As  Maud  moved  towards  the  door  to 
obey  his  summons,  the  light  of  the  gas- 
lamp  fell  full  on  her  pale  face,  and  he 
almost  exclaimed  aloud  at  her  starthnir 
resemblance  to  her  mother. 

It  seemed  to  the  vicar  that  the  i^jmeni- 
brance  of  his  old  love,  thus  called  up  at 
this  moment,  filled  his  heart  with  bitter- 
ness even  to  overflowing. 

'*  0  me  !"  he  groaned  ;  "  I  wish  it  were 
all  over !    I  am  weary  of  my  life." 

The  cab  rattled  over  the  stones  through 
the  still  nearly  empty  streets. 

Maud*s  remembrance  of  any  part  of 
London  was  very  vague.  She  had  never 
even  seen  the  neighbourhoods  through 
which  she  was  now  being  jolted.  It  all 
looked  squahd,  mean,  griaiy^  and  unin- 
viting under  the  moriung  light.  At  last 
they  came  into  a  long  street,  of  which  the 
further  end  was  veiled  and  concealed  by  a 
dense  foggy  vapour. 

"  What  numlK>r,  miss  ?"  asked  the  cab- 
man, turning  round  on  Ids  seat. 

"What  do  you  say?"  asked  MauJ, 
faintly. 

"Wliat  number,  miss?  This  'ere  is 
Gowor-street." 

*'0!"  cried  Maud,  despairingly.  "I 
don't  remember  the  number  I" 

The  ciibman  had  pulled  up  his  horse, 
and  was  now  cxamuiing  the  lash  of  his 
whip  with  an  air  of  philosOphic:d  iuJif- 
ference,  like  a  man  who  is  weighoii  upon  bj 
no  sense  of  ivsponsibility.  After  a  minute  or 
so,  he  obst>rved,  with  great  calmness,  "That's 
oekkard  ;  Gower-street  is  raythur  a  long 
.street^  and  it  '11  take  some  time  to  knock  at 
all  the  doors  both  sides  o'  the  WTiy."  Then 
he  resumed  the  examination  of  his  whip 
lash. 

"  0,    Unele   Charles,    I   am   so  sorry ! 
murmured  Maud.     '"  What  sliall  we  dor" 

^Lv.  Lcviucourt  jumped  out  of  the  cal^ 


:& 


Charles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[September  25, 18C9.]      387 


and  ran  to  a  door  where  there  was  a  young 
woman  washing  the  steps. 

"Do  you  liappen  to  know,"  he  asked, 
**  whereabouts  in  this  street  a  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood  lives  ?'* 

"  Mrs.  Lockwood !"  echoed  the  girl,  dry- 
ing her  steaming  anns  on  her  apron,  "  this 
is  Mrs.  Lock  wood's." 

The  vicar  beckoned  to  the  cabman,  who 
bad  also  alighted  by  this  time,  and  who 
now  led  his  raw-boned  horse  up  to  the 
door  at  a  funereal  pace. 

"My  good  girl,"  said  the  \'icar,  "will 
you  take  a  message  to  your  mistress  at 
mice?    It  is  of  the  greatest  importance." 

"  Missis  ain't  up  yet,"  rejoined  the  ser- 
vant, staring  first  at  him,  then  at  Maud, 
aad  lastly  at  the  cabman,  from  whom  she 
received  a  confidential  wink,  which  seemed 
to  claim  a  common  vantage-ground  of 
Cockneyhood  between  himself  and  her, 
and  to  separate  them  both  from  the  vicar 
and  his  ward. 

"  I  will  send  up  this  card  to  her,"  said 
Mr.  Levincourt.  He  took  out  a  card  and 
pencil,  and  wrote  some  words  hastily. 
Then  he  gave  the  girl  the  card  together 
with  a  shilling,  and  begged  her  to  lose  no 
time  in  delivering  the  former  to  her  mis- 
tress, whilst  she  was  to  keep  the  latter  for 
herself. 

The  administration  of  the  bribe  appeared 
to  raise  the  vicar  in  the  cabman's  estima- 
tion. The  latter  oflBciously  pulled  down  the 
window-glass  on  the  side  next  the  house, 
so  that  Maud  could  put  her  head  out,  and 
then  stood  with  the  handle  of  the  cab  door 
in  his  hand,  ready  for  any  emergency. 

The  progress  of  the  servant  to  licr  mis- 
tress's bedroom  was  retarded  by  her  efforts 
to  decipher  what  was  written  on  the  card, 
an  attempt  in  which  she  only  partially  suc- 
ceeded. In  about  five  minutes  she  came 
down  again,  and  said  to  the  vicar : 

**  Missus's  best  compliments,  and  the 
lady  as  you're  a  looking  for  is  lodging  in 
the  'ouse.  She's  on  the  first-floor,  and 
win  you  please  walk  into  the  drawing- 
room?" 

The  vicai'  and  Maud  followed  the  girl 
ap-stairs  into  a  front  room,  furnished  as  a 
sittiog-room.  It  communicated  by  folding 
doors,  which  were  now  closed,  \vith  another 
apartment. 

The  servant  drew  up  the  yellow  window- 
blinds,  desired  the  visitors  to  be  seated,  and 
asked  as  she  prepared  to  leave  the  room : 

"  Who  shall  I  say,  please  ?" 

**  Mr.  Levincourt,  and Stay  !     You 

bad  better  take  my  card  in  to  her  ladyship, 


and  say  that  her  niece  is  here  with  me,  and 
would  be  glad  if  she  might  see  her." 

The  servant  departed  into  the  adjoining 
chamber,  as  it  appeared,  for  the  sound  of 
voices  very  slightly  muffled  by  the  folding- 
doors  was  heard  immediately.  In  a  very 
few  minutes  the  girl  returned,  \>eQ^Mg 
Maud  to  follow  her. 

"  She  ain't  up  yet,  but  she'd  like  to  see 
you,  miss  ;  and  she'll  come  out  to  you,  sir, 
as  soon  as  possible." 

Maud  obeyed  her  aunt's  summons,  and 
the  vicar  was  left  alone,  standing  at  the 
window,  and  looking  at  the  monotonous 
line  of  the  opposite  houses.  He  was,  in  a 
measure,  relieved  by  the  fact  that  the  first 
surprise  and  shock  to  Lady  Tallis  of  his 
presence  and  his  errand  in  London  would 
be  over  before  he  saw  her.  He  felt  a  strong 
persuasion  that  tact  and  self-possession 
were  by  no  means  poor  Hilda's  distuiguish- 
ing  characteristics,  and  he  had  nervously 
dreaded  the  first  meeting  with  her.  Al- 
though he  had  placed  himself  as  far  as  pos- 
sible from  the  folding- doors,  ho  could  hear 
the  voices  rising  and  falling  in  the  adjoining 
room,  and  occasionally  could  distinguish 
her  ladyship's  tones  in  a  shrill  exclama- 
tion. 

He  tapped  his  fingers  with  irritable  im- 
patience on  the  window.  Why  did  not  Maud 
urge  her  aunt  to  hasteft  ?  She  knew  that 
every  minute  was  of  importance  to  him. 
He  would  wait  no  longer.  Ho  would  go 
away,  and  return  later. 

As  he  so  thought,  the  door  opened,  and 
there  appeared  the  woman  whom  he  had 
last  seen  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth  more 
than  a  score  of  years  ago.  The  remem- 
brance of  the  beautiful  Hilda  Delaney  was 
very  distinct  in  liis  mind.  At  the  sound 
of  the  opening  door,  he  turned  round  and 
beheld  a  figure  startlingly  at  variance  with 
that  remembrance  :  a  small,  lean,  pale  old 
woman,  huddled  in  a  dark-coloured  wrapper, 
and  with  a  quantity  of  soft  grey  hair  un- 
tidily thrust  into  a  bro\vii-silk  net. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  she,  taking  both 
the  vicar's  hands — "  my  poor  dear  friend  !" 

Her  voice  had  an  odd,  cracked  sound, 
like  the  tone  of  a  broken  musical  instru- 
ment which  has  once  given  forth  sweet 
notes  ;  and  she  spoke  with  as  unmistakable 
a  brogue  as  though  she  had  never  passed  a 
day  out  of  the  County  Cork. 

"  Ah  !  yo  wouldn't  have  known  me,  now, 
would  ye  ?"  she  continued,  looking  up  into 
the  vicar's  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered^  m^^^clt  ^\i  \si'&X5i»^^ 
glance — "Yea,  1  a\io^]\ciL\\sv.N^  V\iov^wi 


a: 


388      [September  35, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUOT). 


[Oondncted  by 


I 


And  indeed  as  he  looked,  her  face  became 
familiar  to  his  eyes.  She  retained  the 
exquisite  delicacy  of  skin  which  had  been 
one  of  her  chief  beanties,  but  it  was  now 
blanched  and  wan,  and  marked  with  three 
or  fonr  deep  lines  round  the  mouth,  though 
on  the  forehead  it  remained  smooth.  There 
was  still  the  regular  clear-cut  outline,  but 
exaggerated  into  sharpness.  There  were 
still  the  large,  finely-shiaped,  lustrous  hazel 
eyes,  but  with  a  glitter  in  them  that  seemed 
too  bright  for  health,  and  with  traces  of 
much  wailing  and  weeping  in  their  heavy 
lids.  She  was  a  kindly,  foolish,  garrulous, 
utterly  undignified  woman. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  the  vicar,  "  to  ask 
you  to  give  shelter  and  protection  to  this 
dear  child.  My  house  is  no  home  for  her 
now,  and  Heaven  knows  when  I  shall 
return  to  it  myself.  I  suppose  Maud  has 
—has  told  you  ?" 

"Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Levincourt,  where 
would  the  child  find  shelter  and  protection 
if  not  with  her  poor  dear  mother's  only 
sister?  And  hasn't  it  been  the  wish  of 
my  heart  to  have  her  with  me  all  these 
years?  And  indeed  when  Clara  died  I 
would  have  adopted  her  outright,  if  I'd 
been  let.  But  not  having  any  daughter  of 
my  own — though  to  be  sure  a  boy  would 
have  t>een  best,  because  of  the  baronetcy, 
and  lie  never  forgave  me,  I  believe,  for  not 
giving  him  a  son — of  course  I But  in- 
deed I  am  truly  distressed  at  your  misfor- 
tune, and  I  hope  that  things  may  not  be  so 
bad  as  ye  fear.  A  runaway  mar'ge  is  ob- 
jictionable,  there's  no  doubt  of  that  in  the 
world.  Still,  yc  know,  my  dear  Mr.  Le- 
vincourt, it  won't  bo  the  first,  and  I'd 
wager  not  the  last.  And  upon  my  honour 
T  can't  see  but  that  the  runaway  mar'ges 
may  turn  out  as  well  sometimes  as  those 
that  are  arranged  in  the  regular  way; 
though  goodness  knows  that  is  not  saying 
much,  after  all." 

Here  the  poor  lady  paused  to  heave  a 
deep  sigh,  and  then,  seating  herself  close  to 
Maud,  she  took  her  niece's  hand  and 
pressed  it  affectionately. 

The  vicar  perceived  that  Lady  Tallis 
had  but  a  very  imperfect  conception  of  the 
real  state  of  the  case.  The  truth  was,  that 
she  had  not  permitted  Maud  to  explain  it 
to  her,  being  too  much  absorbed  in  the  joy 
and  surprise  of  seeing  her  niece  to  give 
heed  or  sympathy  to  the  fate  of  the  vicar's 
daughter.  Her  life  had  been  so  utterly 
joyless  and  empty  of  affection  for  so  many 
jears,  that  the  lonely  woman  not  unna- 
tarally  clutched  at  this  chance  of  happiness 


with  the  selfish  eagerness  of  a  starving 
creature  who  snatches  at  food. 

"  It  is  very,  very  dreadful,  Aunt  Hilda," 
Maud  had  said,  lowering  her  voice,  lest  it 
should  reach  the  ears  of  the  vicar  in  the 
next  room.  "  Mr.  Levincourt  will  be 
heartbroken  if  he  does  not  find  her.  And 
I  love  her  so  dearly.  My  poor  Veronica ! 
Oh,  why,  why  did  she  leave  us  ?" 

But  her  aunt  could  not  help  dwelling  on 
the  hope  that  out  of  this  trouble  might 
come  a  gleam  of  comfort  to  her  own  deso- 
late life. 

She  had  soothed  and  kissed  the  sobbing 
girl,  and  had  poured  out  a  stream  of  inco- 
herent talk,  as  she  hastily  huddled  some 
clothes  about  her. 

•*  Hush,  dear  child  !     Don't  be  fretting* 
my  poor  pet !     You  will  stay  here  with 
me,   safe,   now !      Sure  they'll    find   her 
beyond  a  doubt.     Of  course  the  man  will 
marry  her.     And  as  to  running  away,  why, 
my  darling  child,  though  I'd  be  loath  to 
inculcate  the  practice,  or  to  recommend  it 
to  any  well-brought-up  girl,  stiD  ye  know 
very  well  that  it's  a  thing  that  happens 
every  day.     There  was  Miss  Grogan,  of  the 
Queen's  County,  one  of  the  most  dashing  ! 
girls  that  ye  ever   saw  in  all  your  days,  , 
eloped  with  a  subaltern   in   a  marching  I 
regiment.      But   she    had   fifty  thousand 
pounds  of  her  own,  the  very  moment  she  i 
came  of  age ;  so  of  course  tiiey  were  very  I 
comfortable  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  and  m 
the  whole  county  visited  tiiem  just  as  much  , 
as  if  they  had  had  banns  published  in  the 
parish  church  every  day  for  a  year.    And 
yet,  at  first,  her  family  were  in  the  greatest 
distress — the  very  greatest  distress — ^thongfa 
he  was  a  second  cousin  of  Lord  Clontarf,  and 
an  extremely  elegant  young  fellow.    But 
of  course  I  understand  Mr.    Levinoomi's 
feelings,  and  I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  him 
— I  am  indeed." 

So,  in  speaking  to  the  vicar,  her  tone, 
although  not  unsympathising,  was  vciy 
different  from  what  it  would  have  been  had 
she  at  all  realised  the  terrible  apprehensioiis 
which  racked  his  mind. 

"  Ye'll  stay  and  have  a  mouthful  of 
breakfast  with  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Levin- 
court ?"  she  said,  seeing  him  about  to 
depart.  "  I  will  have  it  got  ready  imme- 
diately.    And  indeed  you   must  both  be 

fainting,  after  travelling  all  night,  too 

What's  the  matter?" 

The  question  was  caused  by  a  ghastly 
change  which  had  come  over  the  vicars 
face.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  directaon 
on  an  envelope  which  lay  on  the  taUe.  Ho 


3: 


o 


Cluirlos  DickeiUL] 


VEROOTCA. 


[September  25,  IMS.]       389 


pointed  to  it,  silently.  Ladj  Tallis  stared 
in  alarm  and  bewilderment;  bnt  Mand, 
springing  to  the  vicar's  side,  looked  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  writing. 

"  Oh,  Annt  Hilda !"  she  gasped.  "  What 
does  this  mean  ?" 

"  What,  child  ?  What  in  the  world  is 
the  matter?  That?  Snre  that's  a  bill, 
sent  in  by  my  shoemaker !" 

"  But  the  name  ?"  said  the  vicar,  with  a 
sudden,  startling  fierceness. 

"  The  name  ?  Well,  it's  my  name ;  whose 
else  should  it  be  ?  Oh,  to  be  sure — I  see 
now  !  Ah !  ye  didn't  know  that  ho  took 
another  name  about  two  years  ago.  Did 
ye  never  hear  of  his  uncle,  the  rich  alder- 
man ?  The  alderman  left  him  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds,  on  condition  that  he  should 
tack  his  name  on  to  his  old  one,  and  give 
him  the  honour  and  glory  of  sending  down 
hia  own  plebeian  appellation  with  the 
baronetcy.  So  of  course  when  he  changed 
his  name,  I  changed  mine ;  for  I  am  his 
wife,  though  I  make  no  doubt  that  he 
would  be  glad  enough  to  deny,  it  if  he 
could.  Only  that,  being  his  wife,  he  has 
more  power  to  tyrannise  over  me  than  he 
has  over  anybody  else.     But  then " 

'^  But  what  is  he  called  now.  Aunt 
Hilda  ?"  interrupted  Maud,  seeing  that 
her  guardian  was  in  an  agony  of  speech- 
less suspense.  "  What  names  does — does 
your  husband  go  by  ?" 

"  Indeed,  my  pet,  thafe  more  than  I  can 
say ;  bnt  his  lightfdl  style  and  title  is  Sir 
John  Tallis  Gh.le,  Baronet,  and  I  suppose 
you  knew  that  much  before  !" 

"  O  my  Gt)d  !"  groaned  the  vicar,  sink- 
ing into  a  chair,  and  letting  his  head  drop 
on  his  hands. 

"  Uncle  Charles !"  screamed  Maud,  throw- 
ing her  arms  around  him.  "  0  Uncle 
Charles !     It  will  kill  him !" 

But  the  vicar  was  not  dying.  He  wa^ 
living  to  a  rush  of  horrible  sensations ; 
grief,  astonishment,  shame,  and  anger.  The 
indelibility  of  the  disgrace  inflicted  on  liim ; 
the  hopelessness  of  any  remedy;  the  in- 
hsuj  that  must  attend  his  child's  future 
life,  were  all  present  to  his  mind  with 
instant  and  torturing  vividness.  But  of 
these  mingled  emotions,  auger  was  the 
predominant  one,  and  it  grow  fiercer  with 
every  second  that  passed.  His  love  for 
his  daughter  had  ever  been  marked  more 
hy  pride  than  by  depth  or  tenderness. 
This  pride  was  now  trampled  in  the  dust, 
and  a  feeling  of  implacable  resentment 
arose  in  his  mind  against  her  who  had  in- 
flicted the  anguish  of  such  a  humiliation. 


He  raised  his  face  distorted  by  passion. 

"  From  this  hour  forth  I  disown  and 
abandon  her,"  he  said  in  quivering  tones. 
"No  one  is  my  friend  who  speaks  her 
name  to  me.  In  the  infamy  she  has 
chosen,  let  her  live  and  die.  And  may 
Grod  so  punish  her  for  the  misery  she  has 
caused " 

Maud  fell  down  on  her  knees  before 
him  and  seized  his  hands.  *'  Oh  hush,  oh 
pray,  pray  hush,  dear  Uncle  Charles  !" 
she  sobbed  out.  "  Think  how  sorry  you 
would  be  if  you  said  the  words  !  How  you 
would  repent  and  be  sorry  all  your  life 
long!" 

"  For  mercy's  sake !"  exclaimed  Lady 
Tallis,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  '^what  is  it 
all  about?  My  dearest  child,  you  posi- 
tively must  not  sob  in  that  heartbreak- 
ing manner!  Sure  you'll  make  yourself 
iU." 

"  And  for  one  who  is  not  worth  a  tear  !" 

added  the  vicar.     "  For  one  who But 

I  will  never  mention  her  name  again.  It 
is  over.  She  is  lost  and  gone  irrevocably. 
Lady  Tallis,  I  would  have  spared  you  this, 
if  I  could  have  guessed  the  extent  of  the 
degradation  that  has  fallen  upon  me.  My 
presence  in  your  house  at  this  moment  is 
almost  an  outrage." 

The  poor  lady  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and 
pressing  her  hands  to  her  forehead,  began 
to  whimper.  "  I'd  be  unspeakably  obliged 
to  ye,  Mr,  Levincourt,"  she  said,  "if  you 
would  do  me  the  favour  to  explain.  My 
poor  head  is  in  a  whirl  of  confusion.  I 
really  and  truly  am  not  strong  enough  to 
support  this  kind  of  thing !" 

"  We  liave  each  of  us  a  horrible  burden 
to  support,"  rejoined  the  vicar,  almost 
sternly.  "And  God  knows  that  mine  is 
not  the  least  heavy.  You  have  been  en- 
tirely separated  from  your  husband  for 
some  years  ?" 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  have !  That  is  to  say, 
there  never  has  been  a  legal  separation, 
but " 

The  vicar  interrupted  her.  "  He  has 
assumed  another  name  and  has  been  living 
abroad  ?" 

"  As  to  the  name,  I  am  sure  of  that,  be- 
cause I  learnt  it  from  his  agent,  to  whom  I 
am  sometimes  compelled  to  have  recourse 
for  money.  But  for  where  he  has  been 
living,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Levin- 
court " 

"  The  villain  who  has  carried  away  my 
daughter — stolen  her  from  a  home  in  which 
he  had  received  every  kindness  and  hos- 
pitable care  that  my  iucoliv^  ^^ToaXXfc^  ^b^^  *y2> 


tfi: 


^ 


390      [Scptcmliori»J,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Cundnctedby 


lavish  Oil  liim — that  black-hearted,  thank- 
less, infaiuoua  scoundrel,  Lady  TalUs,  is — 
Sir  Jolni  Gale.'' 

Tilt:  EN1»  OF  TJIK  FlKsr  BOOK. 


WHY  DOES  A  POIXTEU  POINT? 


1  r  is  iin  accompHshnicnt  wliich  has  intro- 
duce<i  him  to  polity  society,  and  wc  can  undcr- 
stnud  why  he  ijjoes  on  doing  it ;  bnt  what  made 
him  begin?  1  asked  the  qnestion  the  other 
day  when  my  liver-and-white  puppy,  Don, 
first  ■*  snuffed  the  tainted  gale."  1  tried  1dm  in 
a  bean  stubble  one  evening  in  August,  after  a 
shower.  Tliis  field  and  the  next  barley  stubble 
are  alive  with  birds  calling  in  all  directions. 
Tlie  ground  is  hot  and  damp,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  about  the  scent.  1  enter  by  the 
gap  next  the  four-acre  jwnd,  and  let  him  draw 
up  the  wind.  He  begins  to  be  affected  strangely ; 
his  large,  mild,  puppy  face  is  turned  towards 
the  game.  The  rigidity  of  the  tail  becomes 
general.  No  more  eapei*8,  no  more  gambols 
for  Don  at  present !  He  is  pai-alysed  by  his 
sensations  :  not  a  muscle  moves  except  those  of 
his  sensitive  nose.  I  mutt<>r  warningly,  '*  To-o, 
Ho,  Don  !''  but  there  is  no  need  :  the  breed  is 
too  true  ;  he  does  not  stir.  I  pause  a  few 
minutei^.  Now  I'll  move  him.  '*  Hold  up,  Don ! 
hold  uj),  gotMl  dug  1"  I5uL  his  emotions  are  too 
strong  for  action  ;  he  only  opeiis  his  mouth  and 
slobbers,  and  bends  a  vi'ry  stiff  neck  very  slightly 
towartls  me.  I  enconraLre  him  to  move,  and  at 
last  he  lifts  one  leg  very  slowly,  and  after  that 
another;  and  so  by  <lint  of  great  encourage- 
ment, 1  i»artly  break  the  f^puU  and  we  advance 
towaixls  tlie  ;^ame — at  the  rate,  say.  of  a  mile  in 
two  or  tln-ee  days. 

Some  ancestor  of  Don's,  undoubtedly  set  out 
with  i)ointing  a  httle.  No  matter  why ;  the 
motives  of  men  and  do;?s  are  vei  v  various.  All 
must  admit  that  somebody  took  it  into  his  head 
to  invent  a  Chinese  puzzle ;  in  the  nature  of 
things  why  might  not  some  dog  take  it  into  his 
head  to  point?  The  birds  rose  close  to  his 
nose  perhaps :  his  master  was  near ;  he  wa,s  a 
tun  id  dog  (pointers  are  veiy  timid  to  this  <lay), 
and  an  ol>edient  <log.  "  Steady,  Don  the  first !" 
He  stops  tlie  pursuit,  he  glance.s  round  at  his 
master,  then  he  crouches  to  the  ground  look- 
ing towards  tlu'  binls.  As  his  nose  is  stretched 
out  in  one  ilirection,  his  tail,  by  the  law  of  con- 
traries, will  natuniliy  be  extendetl  in  the  other. 
Grant  the  first  faint  indication  of  a  point,  and 
all  the  resi  of  his  curious  peiiormance  follows 
in  time  by  the  simple  law  of  '*  develojHuent.'' 

T'he  breeder's  art  can  both  eliminate  qualities 
and  produce  thom.  jVs  yaiii  qualities  of  the 
dog's  mind  so  with  peculiarities  of  the  body  in 
other  creatun's.  Sir  John  Sebright  declared 
that  ''he  would  produce  any  given  feather  (in 
his  banlanis)  in  thret^  years,  but  it  would  take 
him  six  yeai-s  to  obtain  hea<l  and  beak.*'  Those 
who  have  seen  the  parti-coluured  little  herds  of 
thf  Channel  Islands,  seldom  exceeding  three  or 
four  in  nnmbcT,   would    be   sui-prised  at  the 


novelty  of  a  herd  of  fifty  stdf -coloured  **  Alder- 
neys,"  (so  called)  obtained  in  Buckinghamshire 
by  about  thirty  years'  selection.  In  this,  as  in 
ail  similar  ca^^^s  of  long  selection,  persistence  of 
type  was  strongly  marked.  Colour  is  the  least 
important,  and  the  least  permanent  mark  of 
breed ;  but  so  great  was  the  effect  of  selection 
an«l  purity  of  blood,  that  the  self-coloured  and 
lion -ski  lined  bulls,  in  this  unrivalled  herd,  were 
invariably  the  sires  of  self-coloured  calves,  even 
wiuMi  the  mother  was  spotted ;  such  is  the 
j)otency  of  pure  blood,  which  overcomes  the 
less  persistent  (qualities  of  inferior  animals. 

The  terra,  "pure  blood,"  is  a  very  prcgnaiit 
one.     It  does  not  refer  to  chemical  composi- 
tion.   The  '"  base  puddle"  of  a  common  hack 
dot^s   not    differ    in  form,    colour,    and  che- 
mical comi>osition  of  its  coipuscles,  from  the 
'*  noble  blood"   that  runs  in  the  veins  of  a 
"descendant  of   many  sires;"   but   in-and-in 
breeding    endows   the    blood    ynXh    qualities 
which  are  hereditaiy.      **  High-bred  "   is  an 
arbitniry  term,  signifying  that  certain  qualities 
have  been  acciuuulated  by  ancestral  belectiou. 
AVhen  applied  to  a  bantam  or  a  pigeon,  it 
means  that  he  and  his  family  are  and  have  been 
true  to  feather,  &c.     A  high-bred  sheep  is  a 
south-down,  for  example,  which  hands  down 
its  peculiar  qualities  of  form,  and  colour,  and 
disposition  ^-ith  great  persistence,  I>ecau8e  it  is 
an  old  breed,  which  has  been  ** selected"  by 
nature   and  art  until   the   tyi>e   is  almost  as 
uniform  as  if  the  animals  had  been  cast  like 
bidiets,  in  one  mould.     Habits  and  qualitit«, 
however  they  may  be  first  acquired,  become  I 
hereditary.     And  this  holds  gooil  with  plant*  | 
as  with    animals.     The    ornamental    shrubs, 
called  by  nurseiymen,  iVmericans,  have  bwn  j 
accustomed  at  home  to  the  soft    light    suil,  , 
frifc  from  chalk  or  clay,  which  prevails  there; 
and  here  they  requij*e  peat,  soft  loam,  Icaf- 
niould,  &c.      The   cause  can  in   this  case  be 
traced  to  the  delicate  structiu-e  of  the  root. 
The  pinea])ple  ripens  better  in  our  hot-hou?es 
in  the  spring  than  in  the  summer,  because  it 
cannot  bear  the  luight  light  of  our  atmospherv. 
In  its  home  in  the  tropics,  the  heat  is  accom- 
panied by  vapour,  and  the  sun's  rays  do  not 
burn,  however  high  the  temperature.    The  fig, 
the  vine,   and    the    orange-tree,   love  brigbt 
skies ;  but  tropical  plants  arc  soon  exhausted 
with  us,  if  we  give  them  the  heat  which  makes 
them  live  fast,  and  do  not  protect  them  from 
the  strong  light  which  exhausts  them. 

In  the  gi-eat  consen^atory  at  Kew,  newly 
Imilt  for  Dr.  Hooker's  Sikkim  rhododendrons, 
we  read  many  similar  lessons.  The  lofty  moun- 
tains that  spring  from  the  plains  of  Bengal, 
ai*e  swathed  in  fog  and  mist,  particularly  at 
their  base.  When  ascending  the  Himalayas. 
Dr.  Hooker  collected  the  seeds  of  pines  and 
rhododendrons  in  the  three  zones  of  vegetatiim 
through  which  he  pa.ssed :  from  the  tropics  at 
the  base,  to  the  Arctic  region  where  the  little 
rhododench'on  nivale  spreads  its  tiny  blossoms 
in  the  snow.  The  seedlings  were  found  in 
this  country  to  possess  different  constitutional 
powers  of  resisting  cold ;  and  those  from  tbe 


■^ 


Oharlofl  Dickons.] 


WHY  DOES  A  POINTER  POINT  ?       rseptcmbcr  35,  im.]     391 


laud  of  fog,  exhibited  their  hcreditm-y  habits, 
in  a  dislike  to  a  dry  air  an<l  bright  lights 

Tho  broad  tlistiiictions  of  habit  limit  the 
cnltivation  of  the  cereals  to  cliniatcB  Buit-c<l  to 
them.  Darl(>y  and  oats,  for  example,  tliough 
destroyed  by  severe  frosts,  ripi'ii  in  Lapland 
and  m  Ilussia  :  while  wheat,  tlioii^rh  it  stands 
severe  winters,  is  hardly  capable  of  ripening 
north  of  St.  Pet^^rebiirg.  Rye  and  buckwheat 
l>ot}i  grow  on  soils  too  i)Oor  for  the  cultivation 
of  any  variety  of  wheat  except  that  coarse  sort 
called  Spelt.  Maize  yields  its  eiionnous  crops 
on  the  rich  soils  in  the  plains  of  the  Ohio,  and 
wherever  the  summer  lieat  is  a  little  greater 
than  in  England.  Cobbett's  attempt  to  intro- 
duce the  cultivation  of  maize  in  lOn gland,  and 
his  determination  to  exalt  *•  Cobbett's  com  " 
over  the  potato  was  an  unsuccessful  fight 
against  the  habit  of  a  plant,  llie  maize  has, 
however,  advanced  northward,  while  the  vine 
ban  retreated  southward. 

Tho  distinguishing  characters  of  plants  mani- 
fest themselves  in  minute  peciUiaritios  that 
seem  almost  to  resemble  the  personal  prefe- 
rences and  freaks  of  the  nobler  animals,  mrley 
requires  a  friable  soil ;  M'lieat  should  be  sown 
on  strong  land.  j^Ielons  grow  best  in  hard 
ehyey  earth,  and  cucumlKM-s  in  soft  soil  full  of 
manure.  Strawberries  and  many  otlier  fruits, 
when  potted,  should  have  tlie  earth  i-ammed 
hard  into  the  pots.  The  habit  and  successful 
cultivation  of  plants  can  only  be  learned  by 
practice  and  experience.  A  theorist  without 
practice  and  with  only  an  abstrat'^t  knowledge 
of  the  advantage  of  light,  air,  '*  penneation  of 
moisture,*'  and  a  deep  seed-bed,  would  lose  his 
cron  while  he  applie<l  his  knowledge. 

The  successful  cultivation  of  farm  crops  is 
an  art  which  requires  considerable  skill,  and  in 
horticultui-e  many  ''dithcult"  plants  require 
extraordinaiy  nicety  of  management.  Habit 
cannot  be  easily  cast  off;  when  once  acquired,  it 
becomes  persistent  and  follows  the  plant,  even 
when  removed  to  new  soils  and  climates.  The 
little  moon- wort  fern  that  grows  on  the  Surrey 
(k)wn8,  sickens  if  removotl  to  a  sheltered  spot. 
In  the  sub-tropical  climate  of  Alabama,  native 
plants  do  not  awakon  in  spring,  after  their 
brief  winter  rest,  so  soon  as  thase  introduced 
from  colder  climates.  Our  white  clover  is  al- 
ways tlie  most  advanced  of  the  ])Ji8ture  grasses, 
and  mucli  earlier  than  the  liermudii  grass 
which  was  brought  from  tlu?  valley  of  the 
Ganges,  where  it  flourishes  in  the  full  blaze  of 
the  sun. 

In  the  states  of  New  York,  Minnesota, 
Michigan,  and  in  the  northern  states  generally, 
"fall  wheat"  is  sown  early  in  September; 
spring  wheat  is  so^'n  in  May,  and  even  as  lato 
as  June,  llie  latter  acquires  an  annual ;  the 
former  a  biennial,  character.  If  the  autumn 
wheat  be  sown  hi  spriug,  it  yields  no  seed ;  it 
is  unable  to  cliango  its  habit  and  to  yield  seed, 
like  a  short-lived  annual,  two  or  three  months 
after  sowing.  Acclimatising  is  one  of  the 
moditic-atious  of  habit  which  occur  in  the 
course  of  time,  but  it  is  found  by  experience 
that  this  is  a  change  which  takes  place  slowly ; 


the  habit  of  plants  in  this  respect  is  peculiarly 
inelastic.  Sir  Joseph  Banks  supposed  that 
wheat  did  not  bring  its  seed  to  i>erfeetion  in 
our  climate  till  hardened  to  it  by  repeate<l 
sowings.  Spring  wheat  from  Guzer.1l,  sown 
in  England  with  barley  in  spring,  eared  and 
blossoiiu'd ;  but  few  of  the  ears  brouiilit  nioit; 
than  three  or  four  grains  to  perfection ;  some 
were  wholly  without  corn.  Probably  in  this 
and  in  otlxn*  ciises  of  acclimatisation,  the 
plant,  thoujxh  brought  direct  from  a  tropical 
region,  was^  in  fact  a  native  of  a  coldcT  climate, 
and  soon  resumed  its  original  habit.  It  is  the 
hal.iit  of  some  plants  to  blossom  at  the  low 
tenipei-ature  of  our  winter  months,  andtcj  ripen 
their  seeds  in  March.  ITie  ivy -leaved  speed- 
well, which  blossoms  and  seeds  during  spring 
and  early  summer,  had  seeds  full -sized  and 
fast  maturing,  on  March  6th,  1S69.  Theperioil 
of  flowering,  the  temperature  at  which  seeds 
and  finits  ripen,  the  amount  of  moisture  and 
heat  reqiured  to  mak(^  seeds  vegetate,  and  the 
time  of  rest— all  arc  determined  by  hereditary 
habit. 

The  peculiarities  of  plants  in  affecting  diffe- 
rent soils  and  climates  have  been  the  means  of 
clothing  the  surface  of  the  earth  with  the  varied 
forms  of  vegetable  life.  Plants,  like  animals, 
differ  much  in  the  flexibility  of  their  constitu- 
tional powers,  and  habits  of  life.  Mr.  Darwin 
p<)inta  out'  that  *'  an  innat-e  wide  flexibility  of 
constitution  is  common  to  most  animals.'^  Man 
is  the  principal  witness  to  this  fact.  The  rat  and 
mouse  have  also  a  wide  range,  living  under  the 
cold  climate  of  the  Faroe  and  Falkland  islands, 
anrl  on  many  islands  in  the  torrid  zone.  Tho 
elephant  antl  rhinoceros,  which  are  now  tropical 
or  sub-tropical  in  their  habits,  were  once 
capable  of  enduring  a  glacial  climate,  llie 
goose  has  the  most  inflexible  of  organisations  ; 
he  cackles  upon  the  common,  and  hisses  at  tho 
traveller's  heels,  generation  after  generation, 
changing  only  fiT>m  white  to  black  and  white, 
and  altering  a  little  in  size  according  to  the 
quantity  of  oats  and  barley -meal  he  receives 
with  his  grass  and  water.    The  pigeon,  that 

{)retty  fancy  bird,  is  extremely  flexible,  and 
las  been  the  object  of  high  art.  Plants  are 
less  flexible  than  animals,  as  a  rule  ;  but  there 
are  excei)tionH.  The  English  crab,  and  that  of 
Siberia,  are  a  single  species,  brt»eding  readily 
together,  though  so  dift'erent  in  appearance  and 
in  time  of  coming  into  leaf  and  blossom  ;  the 
great  variation  in  their  appearance  has  been 
the  effect  of  climate  on  successive  generations. 
The  aloe  is  an  example  of  an  inflexible  plant. 
It  is  a  native  of  a  sub-tropical  country  and 
impatient  of  frost,  and  it  is  unable  to  stand 
forcing.  It  requires  a  gi'eenhouse,  but  dies  in 
a  hothouse.  Geraniums,  too,  when  forced 
by  artificial  means  in  spring,  in  order  to  pro- 
duce shoots  for  cuttings,  will  only  bear  a 
very  gentle  heat.  Yet  the  maidenhair  fern,  a 
native  of  Britain,  rejoices  in  the  heat  and 
moisture  of  a  stove,  where  it  grows  rapidly  to 
a  great  size.  Adaptation  to  any  special  climate 
is  a  quality  readily  grafted  on  tho  constitution 
of  an  animal^  but  not  aiitV\«X  cA  ^'s^^^^iX*^^- 


5= 


C&: 


^ 


392      [September  35, 1869.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


COoDdoeted  bj 


'JTicre  ia  ono  plant  which  seldom  wanders  far 
from  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  Its 
special  habitat  is  on  the  southern  slopes  of 
the  Atlas,  called  by  the  Arabs  *'  the  land  of 
dates."  It  is  found  in  the  Syrian  desert  and 
eastward  to  the  bank  of  the  Piuphrates  and 
'Hgris.     Byron  notices  its  habit,  thus  : 

Morot  blest  each  palm  that  ehadcB  those  plains 

Than  Israel's  scatter'd  race, 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  solitary  grace: 
It  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birth, 
It  will  not  live  in  other  earth. 

These  qualities  in  plants  and  the  arti- 
ficial bending  of  them  in  the  required  di- 
rection, have  been  the  means  by  which  the 
horticulturist  has  adorned  our  gardens,  and  by 
which  the  chief  modifications  in  plants  and 
fruits,  in  shape,  colour,  and  flavour,  have  been 
produced.  The  crab  has  been  changed  into 
the  golden  pippin,  the  almond  into  the  peach 
and  nectanne,  the  sloe  into  the  greengage 
plum.  Andrew  Knight,  author  of  Knight's 
marrowfat  peas,  was  a  horticultural  magician 
who  practised  this  interesting  art  with  great 
success.  We  will  conclude  by  stating  how 
he  went  to  work  to  improve  the  red  currant 
and  strawberry.  He  planted  slips  of  the  first 
in  very  rich  mould,  trained  the  plants  to  a 
South  wall,  crossed  red  and  white  together, 
sowed  the  seeds  in  a  forcing-house  to  expedite 
matters,  and  so  got  a  great  variety  of  plants 
bearing  fruit  which  proved  to  be  mild,  sweet, 
and  large.  He  tried  endless  experiments  on 
strawberries,  planting  strawberries  in  rich  soil, 
oroBsing  togetJier  the  pine,  the  Chili,  the  scarlet 
and  the  wild  strawberry  of  Canada.  At  one  time 
his  garden  contained  four  himdred  varieties. 
By  the  most  careful,  elaborate,  and  extensive 
experiments  on  fruits  and  vegetables  of  all 
kinds,  and  especially  on  the  apple,  this  true 
philosopher  and  English  gentleman,  became  the 
greatest  of  improvers  in  the  department  of 
horticulture  and  the  garden.  His  example 
has  been  followed  by  many  breeders  of  plants 
and  animals  whose  patient  labours  are  often 
unrequited  and  imknown,  but  are  certainly  not 
unfelt  by  the  community. 


THE  INDIAN  RIVER. 


// 


From  the  mountains  covered  with  eternal 
snow  to  the  ocean  basking  in  the  rays  of  the 
tropical  sun  flows  Gunga,  the  river.  By  Ma- 
hommedan  mosque  and  palace ;  by  Hindoo 
temple  and  serai ;  by  European  factory  and 
Knglish  guardhouse ;  while  ail  around  is  ever 
shifting;  while  men  and  manners  come  and 
go ;  while  those  that  to-day  cool  their  parched 
throats,  or  lave  their  weary  limbs,  or  sport  in 
idleness  in  its  cool  and  Hmpid  stream,  to- 
morrow float  helpless  on  its  bosom,  hewn 
down  by  the  sword  of  the  invading  warrior, 
or  victims  of  a  cruel  superstition ;  unchanged 
since  history  began,  the  river  flows  on  unchang- 
ing still.  Now  bearing  the  rich  goods  of  nature's 
Eastern  stoiehouae ;  now  made  Bubservient  to 


the  machinery  of  Western  dvilisation ;  stained 
with  the  dye  of  indigo,  or  red  with  the  blood  of 
the  slaughtered ;  laughing  with  tiny  ripple  in 
the  warm  sunshine,  or  rough  and  tempest- tossed 
by  the  wild  cyclone  ;  now  creeping  gently  in  the 
middle  of  its'  bed  far  away  from  the  banks  its 
course  has  worn  away  in  the  lapse  of  centuries  ; 
now  roaring  and  rushing  on,  like  a  second 
deluge,  and  covering  all  around  at  the  same 
time  with  fertility  and  desolation ;  now  gleam- 
ing with  the  rude  weapons,  theg^udy  trappings 
of  some  proud  Mahommedan  prince ;  now  giv- 
ing passage  to  a  conquering  band  of  fair-haired, 
white-skinned  warriors ;  slave  of  many  masters, 
bestowing  its  inestimable  favours  on  all ;  thus 
flows  Gunga,  pre-eminently  The  River. 

The  Ganges,  as  it  is  commonly  called,  takes 
its  rise  in  the  Himalaya  mountains,  issuing 
from  a  low  cavern,  beneath  a  huge  mass  of  ice, 
that,  somewhat  resembling  in  shape  the  head 
of  a  cow,  is  by  some  supposed  to  nave  given 
rise  to  the  veneration  in  which  that  animal  is 
held  by  the  Hindoos.  That  the  basin  which 
the  water  has  formed  at  this  point  is  not  the 
real  source  of  the  river,  is  a  matter  upon  which 
most  persons  are  agreed ;  but  it  has  yet  to  be 
determined  what  stream  or  streams  may  in 
justice  lay  claim  to  the  parentage  of  the  sacred 
river.  The  honour  is  aspired  to  by  two  that 
rise  on  the  north  side  of  the  mountains,  in  the 
neighbouring  coimtry  of  Thibet,  as  also  by 
several  others  that  have  their  sources  within  the 
mountains  themselves;  but  whatever  or  whjBr- 
ever  its  real  fountain-head,  the  spot  in  (question 
has  for  so  many  ages  borne  the  distmction, 
that  a  village  has  sprung  up  in  its  unmediale 
neighbourhood  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
pilgrims,  who  flock  yearly,  though  in  steadily 
diminishing  numbers,  from  allparts  of  India 
to  bathe  in  the  holy  fount  This  village,  hy 
name  Gangoutri,  is  a  small  place,  inhabited 
only  by  those  who  gain  a  livelmood  by  the  sale 
of  the  holy  water,  by  providing  lodging  and 
refreshment  for  the  pilgrims,  or  by  presiding 
over  the  performance  of  their  solemn  rites. 

Leaving  Gangoutri,  the  river  winds  its  way 
by  many  devious  paths  southward  through  the 
district  of  Gurhwal,  overshadowed  by  snow- 
capped, inhospitable  moimtains,  home  of  the 
eagle  and  wild  goat.  This  tract  is  wild  and 
beautiful,  but  desolate,  abounding  in  striking 
and  majestic  scenery,  but  neither  populous  nor 
much  traversed.  At  length  the  Ganges  pierces 
its  rocky  barriers,  and  through  a  narrow  open- 
ing forces  its  way  into  the  plains.  On  this  spot 
stands  Hurdwar,  the  scene  of  the  celebrated  fair 
or  melah,  and,  with  its  domes  and  bathing 
places,  its  gay  flags  and  varied  architecture, 
and,  above  all,  with  the  beauty  of  the  limjad 
stream  that  flows  through  its  very^  streets, 
forms  an  object  of  romantic  loveliness  that 
favours  not  a  little  its  claims  to  peculiar  holi- 
ness. The  river  at  this  point  is  of  no  great  width, 
and  the  confined  nature  of  the  locality,  with  its 
jutting  rocks  and  intercepting  hills,  has  on  more 
than  one  occasion  caused  the  death  of  several  of 
the  enthusiastic  votaries,  who,  at  the  moment 
indicated  by  the  astronomers,  press  forward  to 


^ 


Chvles  Diekaiu.] 


THE  INDIAN  RIVER. 


[September  2£,  1869.]     393 


plnnge  into  the  sacred  stream.  No  other  festival 
IB  so  numerously  attended  as  is  this  fair.  The 
crowds  which  resort  to  Allahabad  or  Benares 
are  far  outnumbered  by  those  which  twice  a 
year  flock  to  Hurdwar.  Many  days  before 
the  festival,  the  roads  leading  to  the  spot  are 
thronged  with  crowds  of  people.  Lon^  lines 
of  hackeries  and  native  waggons  filled  with 
muslins,  gauzes,  silks,  and  woollen  stuffs ;  of 
camels,  groaning  under  the  weight  of  huge  bags 
filled  with  apples,  peaches,  plums,  grapes,  and 
figs ;  of  cows  and  bullocks,  tottering  beneath 
great  sacks  of  grain  ;  women  chattering  and 
squabbling,  labouring  under  the  burdens  their 
husbands  disdain  to  bear,  or  squatted  on  the 
tops  of  the  packs  of  merchandise,  keeping  watch 
and  ward  over  the  household  utensils  that  adorn 
the  pile ;  children,  naked  to  the  skin,  toddling 
by  their  sides,  or  resting  on  the  waggons ;  men, 
holding  arguments  in  stentorian  tones,  or 
screaming  imrilly  at  some  unfortunate  yoke  of 
oxen  that  has  managed  for  the  hundredth  time 
to  fix  the  wheel  of  the  ghari  in  the  tenacious 
mud  of  the  road ;  all,  amid  a  perfect  Babel  of 
sounds,  groan,  pant,  and  toil  onwards,  in  their 
endeavours  to  arrive  first.  The  beggar  by  the 
roadside  thinks  the  golden  age  is  come  again, 
buxheesh  and  food  are  so  plentiful.  The  sick 
and  the  dying  are  ahnost  envied,  so  blessed  are 
thev  account^  in  being  near  to  the  great  watery 
highway  that  is  to  lead  them  direct  to  heaven. 
Those  who,  after  selling  all  they  had,  have  toiled 
on  foot  many  hundreds  of  miles  to  render  their 
homage  at  Gunga's  shrine,  are  treated  with 
peculiar  veneration.  ITiose  who  are  about  to 
take  a  leading  part  in  the  approaching  cere- 
monies, or  on  whom  devolves  the  duty  of 
ordering  and  arranging  the  vast  assembly, 
pass  among  the  crowd,  encircled  with  a  halo  of 
reverence  and  awe.  So,  when  the  long  ex- 
pected day  comes  round,  the  favoured  spot  and 
its  whole  neighbourhood  are  brilliant  and 
bright  with  the  busy  throng.  The  temples  are 
filled  with  anxious  devotees,  eager  to  render 
themselves  fitted  to  receive  the  fullest  extent  of 
sanctity  which  the  river  is  capable  of  according ; 
the  streets  are  almost  impassable  with  hurrying 
crowds.  The  meadows  round  the  town,  and 
every  open  space,  are  bright  with  garments  and 
tn^ings  of  many  brilliant  colours.  Ijong  lines 
of  low  tents  stretch  away  on  all  sides,  each  canvas 
oovering  sheltering  from  the  rays  of  the  burning 
son  an  excited  merchant,  clamouring  to  the 
passers-by  to  purchase  his  wares.  Hindoos  and 
Mahommedans  of  eveiy  class  jostle  one  another 
with  a  magnanimous  disregard  of  the  ordinary 
differences  of  nationality  and  caste ;  Cashme- 
rians  with  long  black  hair,  their  bodies  enve- 
loped in  numerous  dirty  rags ;  men  from  Thibet, 
and  half-savaffes  from  Gurhwal;  representatives 
of  every  neighbouring  hill  tribe,  scarcely  dis- 
tinguishable one  from  another  by  any  fasliion 
save  that  of  their  hair ;  all  are  for  once  in  their 
lives  jumbled  together  without  any  respect  to 
social  standing.  Here  tumblers  and  jugglers 
are  practising  their  tricks ;  fakeers  seated  on 
their  mats  under  the  shade  of  a  tree  are  pro- 
claiming their  virtaes  aloud,  and  receiving  very 


substantial  tokens  of  the  approval  of  their  audi- 
ences ;  bargains  are  being  struck  with  as  much 
greediness  and  zeal  as  if  the  whole  end  and 
business  of  the  meeting  were  buying  and  selling ; 
horses  and  tats  are  being  ridden  or  led  up  and 
down  for  the  satisfaction  of  cautious  bidders  ; 
business  in  all  shapes  rages  throughout  the 
place.  AVhen  the  sun  enters  Aries,  and  the 
waters  of  the  sacred  river  attain  their  greatest 
sanctity,  all  mimdane  affairs  are  carefully  put 
aside  for  the  time,  and  all  present  hasten  to  the 
river.  So  by  degrees  the  professed  object  of  the 
melah,  immersion  in  the  river,  is,  with  its  at- 
tendant feasting,  accomplished.  Business  re- 
gains the  upper  hand,  and,  with  consciences  set 
at  rest,  the  crowds  plunge  with  greater  eager- 
ness than  before  into  the  din  and  bewild^ment 
of  traffic. 

The  Ganges  now  flows  onward  through  a  plain 
on  which  it  sheds  countless  fruits  and  flowers. 
For  twelve  hundred  miles  it  winds  down  the  slow 
descent,  until,  at  a  distance  from  Hurdwar,  equal 
to  little  more  than  half  its  navigable  length,  it 
discharges  its  swollen  waters  through  a  hun- 
dred mouths  into  the  Bay  of  Bengal.  Except 
where  its  progress,  half  way  to  the  sea,  is  ar- 
rested by  the  concluding  links  of  the  chain  of 
the  Vindhya  Mountains,  it  flows  through  an 
unbroken  champagne  country,  gentle  undula- 
tions here  and  there  alone  breaking  the  mo- 
notony of  the  dull  and  boundless  flat.  Any 
one  travelling  from  Calcutta  to  Lahore  cannot 
fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  conviction  that 
the  land  has  once  reposed  beneath  some  mighty 
ocean,  whose  waters  have  retired,  and  left 
behind  a  rich  alluvial  deposit  to  fertilise  the 
new-sprung  waste.  But  in  truth  the  Ganges 
is  the  unknown  sea,  and  the  alluvial  deposit 
the  product  of  her  agency ;  for  when  the. 
snows  have  begun  to  melt,  and  the  rains  to 
fall,  the  river  for  three  months  pours  itself  out 
over  the  land.  In  Bengal  proper,  or  rather  in 
Lower  Bengal,  when  the  Brahmapootra,  flowing 
in  a  nearly  parallel  course,  and  swollen  in  a 
similar  manner  by  the  rain  and  snow,  sends  out 
its  floods  to  meet  those  of  the  sacred  Ganges, 
the  water  extends  across  the  country  for  more 
than  a  hundred  miles.  Along  its  whole  course 
the  river  is  lined  for  miles  around  with  the 
richest  and  most  luxuriant  vegetation.  In 
the  more  northern  districts,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Himalayas,  are  forests  of  beautiful  and 
valuable  woods ;  and  along  the  northern  banks 
fields  of  wheat  wave  incessantly,  and  wilder- 
nesses of  tall  sugar-cane  are  met  with  every- 
where. Further  south,  wheat  and  barley  give 
way  to  cotton,  to  the  red  and  white  poppy,  to 
indigo,  and,  above  all,  to  the  much-prized 
paddy.  Harvests  fall  before  the  sickle  of  the 
reaper  twice  a  year,  in  some  parts  three  times. 
Plantains  or  bananas,  dates,  cocoanuts,  and 
mangoes,  grow  all  along  the  stream ;  and 
animals  of  every  kind,  from  the  royal  tiger  to 
the  timid  hare,  drink  of  its  wave.  The  deer  and 
the  wild  boar  are  found  in  certain  parts,  and  the 
lion  has  recently  been  hunted  near  its  stream. 
Bears,  jackals,  pantiiers,  leoi^tda^  V^^  <5»^s»^ 
hyenas,  monkeys,  mi^  \miX)oq»x3&^  «c^  ^kswsbssi^- 


cfl=- 


^ 


394      [September  S-»,  lfW9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


// 


Partridgi's  aud  snipes,  herons  and  storks,  swaiiii 
on  iU  banks :  j>eact)cks.  ^Toon  parrot*,  jays, 
ininorri.  and  every  vari«jty  of  beautiful  and  richly- 
colouivd  birtl  infest  its  jnujrleg.  Crocodiles  may 
still  be  found  in  its  lower  brandies,  on  the  low- 
lyini;  lands  of  the  DelUi,  whose  marshy  surface 
teems  with  venomous  and  destruotivu  reptile 
ami  animal  life. 

Let  us  glance  cursorily  at  the  i»rincipal  towns 
and  places  of  interest  which  lie  on  the  banks  of 
the  ( ianges.  cont<*nt  to  notice  and  remember 
only  the  mort^  salient  features  of  those  monu- 
ments of  India's  native  jjreatness. 

Futtyjrhur,  the  tirst  that  calls  for  remark, 
is  a  small  autl  ordinary-lookin;^  place,  little 
calculated  by  its  outward  apf>earance  to  attract 
our  attention,  but  neve^thele^ls  both  memorable 
and  Worthy  of  notice,  for  having  on  two  oc- 
casions done  pood  service  to  the  English  crown. 
'J'he  foi-t,  which  stands  on  the  west  bank  of 
the  river,  has  twice  sheltvred  a  small  band  of 
British  subjects  fi-om  the  fury  of  the  turbulent 
natives;  tii'stly,  in  the  year  1805,  when  the 
English  power  was  but  newly  founded  in 
Upper  India  ;  and  secondly,  in  the  mutiny  of 
1S57.  On  the  first  occasion,  Ilolkar,  with  a 
miglity  army  of  Mahmtta  chiefs,  was  ravaging 
the  ri)j)er  ProWnces,  and  threatening  exter- 
mination to  the  white-skinned  intruders.  Lord 
Lake  had  taken  the  field  against  him.  Ilolkar. 
profiting  by  experience,  would  not  be  brought 
to  bay.  No  sooner  did  Ijake  steal  down  ui)on 
Ids  camj),  than  the  sleei>er  was  up  and  away, 
scouring  off  with  liis  light-footed  wari'iors  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  Lake's  troops.  Ilolkar 
laid  siege  to  Delhi,  with  the  object  of  getting 
^>ossession  of  the  person  of  the  ( Jreat  Mogul,  and 
of  so  being  able  to  dictate  his  own  terms  to  the 
foivigners  whom  he  could  not  prevent  sharing 
in  the  booty.  Colonels  Ouchterlony  and  Hum 
gallantly  defended  the  fort,  and  Holkar,  catch- 
ing sight  of  the  indomitable  lAke  creeping 
down  upon  his  rear  over  the  hills  that  surround 
the  city,  raised  the  siege,  broke  up  his  camp, 
and  marched,  leaving  the  MogiU  and  the  city 
both  in  the  hands  of  the  English.  Ho  next 
determined  to  lay  wast^»  the  rich  towns  and 
country  of  the  Dooab,  but  I^ke  ta,rrie<l  not  a 
moment  in  hastening  after  him.  Holkar,  how- 
ever, outstripped  the  English,  and  the  latter  had 
the  satisfaction  of  coming  up  with  nothing  but 
burnt  and  pliuidenid  towns.  At  length  Holkar 
halted  near  Furruckabad,  thinking  that  he  had 

{)ut  a  Buflicient  distance  l.>etween  himself  aud 
lis  pursuers  to  justify  his  resting  for  a  while. 
But  he  reckoncil  without  his  host.  Ijake  heard 
of  his  halting,  and,  though  weary  with  a  long 
march,  detennined  not  to  stay  a  moment  to 
refresh  his  troops,  but  to  push  over  the  int<.T- 
vening  space  of  thirty  miles,  swoop  down 
U|)ou  him  in  the  night,  aud  bring  the  campaign 
to  a  summary  termination.  Like  did  so,  sur- 
prised Ills  camp,  and  totallv  routed  his  whole 
force.  The  victory  acoomplLshed,  Lake  ])U8hed 
on  to  Puttyghur,  distant  about  three  miles, 
and  was  just  in  time  to  save  the  English  resi- 
tlvnts  at  that  stAtion  from  the  natives,  who, 
conHdent  of  the  saccess  of  their  countTym&xi, 


had  set  iire  to  the  bungalows,  and  forced  the 
Europeans,  together  with  a  company  of  sepoys, 
to  seek  shelter  in  the  fort. 

On  the  second  occasion  of  the  fort's  doing  duty 
as  a  place  of  slielter  and  defence  to  the  FInglisli, 
it  resisted  for  three  days  the  efforts  of  a  large 
force  of  mutineers,  who,  encam]>ed  around  its 
walls,  were  endeavouring  to  reduce   to  sub- 
mission  the    heroic    little    band    of    English 
withui.     C-ut  off  frt)m  their  friends,  unable  to 
hold  comnmnication  with  any  one  outside,  ill- 
provided  with  food,  shelter,  or  accommodation, 
scarce   able  to  work  the  few  guns  they  pos- 
sessed, or  to  keep  up  a  ]>roper  show  of  strength 
and  numbers  to  deceive  and  intimidate  the 
besiegers,  the  little  garrison  held  out  for  that 
time.    But  where  the  foo  could  not  enter,  death 
and  sickness  stole  in;  hmiger  prevailed,  and  the 
.alternative  of  starvation  or  capitulation  began  to 
stare  them  in  the  face.    So  they  left  the  fort  on 
the  third  night,  gained  the  river  unobserved, 
and  embarking  in  boat«,  made  their  way  safely 
to  Cawni)ure.     This  redoubtable  little  fort  is  a 
simple  construction,  not   even  so  dignified  in 
appi'arance  as  the  generality  of  fortifications, 
which   surround    almost  eveiy  village   in  the 
Upper   Provinces.     The    latter   are    built   of 
bnck,  whereas  the  fort  of  Futtyghur  is  built 
of  nothing  better  than  baked  clay.      It  now 
fonns  the  residence  of  an  agent  of  the  English 
(rovemment,  who  su]>erin tends  the  gun-foundir 
which  has  been  erect^^l  within  it,  as  also  the 
making  of  tents,  for  the  manufacture  of  which 
Futtyghur  is  very  celebnitcd. 

Cawnporc  stands  a  little  way  below  Futty- 
ghiur  on  the  same  (the  west)  bank  of  the  river. 
The  story  of  this  town  is  but  too-well  known. 
No  likeness  of  the  spot,  which  lias  become  so 
cruelly  memorable,  remains  now  to  cmable  ns 
to  trace  the  details  of  that  awful  night.  The 
huts,  from  which  the  oil  lamps  shed  a  lurid 
and  fitful  glare  on  the  dying  as  they  were 
dragged  past  to  their  loathsome  tomb;  the 
roads,  whose  dust  was  stained  vdth  English 
blood,  have  disappeared  entirely;  and  the  very 
well  itsc^lf,  from  which  many  a  thirsty  tra- 
veller and  many  a  thrifty  housewife  drew  the 
grateful  water  in  days  gone  by,  but  whose 
spring  on  that  dreadful  night  ran  red  with 
blood,  is  no  longer  recognisable.  A  space 
of  several  acres  round  the  well  haA  been  en- 
closed by  an  iron  railing,  planted  with  leafy 
trees,  and  adorned  with  beds  of  flowers.  Thu 
enclosure  is  neatly  kept ;  and,  screened  by  ita 
thick  hedge,  imj)erviou8  to  the  curions  and  in* 
quisitive  gaze,  forms  a  pleasant  and  retii«d 
spot.  Dark  cypress  trees  are  planted  in  all 
directions  over  its  verdant  turf,  making  even 
natui-e  appear  to  mourn  over  the  jvast.  Over 
the  well  has  been  raised  a  gently -sloping 
hillock,  surmounted  by  on  octagonal  canrco 
stone  screen  about  sixteen  feet  high,  passing 
through  which  by  a  trcllised  gate  of  iron 
we  find  ourselves  standing  on  the  top  of  a 
flight  of  shallow  stone-steps,  which,  running 
round  the  inside  of  the  screen,  lead  down  to 
the  monument  over  tlic  well,  llie  month, 
\  a\>o\iX>  1\N^  ioet  in  diameter,  haa  been  doted  in, 


=<f 


OhATlaa  Dlokena.] 


THE  INDIAN  RTVER. 


rSeptember  26, 1869.]       395 


and  a  pedestal,  about  three  feet  high,  placed 
over  it,  on  the  top  of  which  stands  the  figure 
of  an  angel  bound  to  a  tree,  llie  remains  of 
those  discovered  in  the  well,  after  the  re- 
capture of  the  town  by  our  troops,  are  buried 
in  a  small  plot  of  consecrated  ground,  railed  off 
within  the  garden,  not  twenty  yards  distant 
from  the  well  itself. 

So  we  glide  along  by  the  eastern  shore  of 
the  Dooab,  the  rich  land  lying  between  the 
Jumna  and  the  Ganges,  and  at  length  reach  its 
southernmost  extremity ;  where,  on  a  narrow 
tongue  of  land,  formed  by  the  junction  of  the 
two  rivers,  the  fort  of  Allahabad  raises  its 
battlementcd  walls.  This  fort  is  a  triangular  con- 
struction, one  side  guarding  the  Jumna,  another 
the  Ganges,  and  the  third  looking  northward 
over  the  plains  of  the  Dooab.  It  is  a  hand- 
some and  commanding  building,  its  walls  of 
rich  red  freestone  forming  a  pleasing  contrast 
to  the  verdure  of  the  surrounding  country,  and 
to  the  bright  waters  of  the  rivers  that  flow 
beneath.  It  was  a  favoiuite  residence  of 
Acber's,  but  its  interior  presents  no  striking 
memorials  of  oriental  magnificence  or  luxury, 
no  beautiful  palaces  or  remarkable  rooms. 
Prom  the  point  of  confluence  of  the  two  rivers, 
the  vast  tubular  bridge  of  the  East  Indian  Rail, 
way  may  be  seen  spanning  the  stream.  Tlie 
greatness  of  this  work,  the  enterprise  of  those 
who  projected  and  carried  it  out,  the  enormous 
difficulties  to  be  overcome  in  the  shifting  bed 
of  the  river,  render  this  bridge  one  of  the  most 
noticeable  objects  in  the  neighbomrhood.  Al- 
lahabad is  a  spot  much  visited  by  pilgrims, 
being  one  of  the  most  celebrated  prayagas,  or 
confluences  of  rivers,  in  India.  It  is  said  that 
here  the  Ganges,  the  Jumna,  and  the  Sereswati 
unite  their  waters:  an  assertion  which  the 
devout  Hindoo  supports,  by  explaining  that 
the  latter  river,  which  is  entirely  mvisible,  and 
of  which  no  traces  can  be  discovered  either  in 
the  neighbourhood  or  in  the  pages  of  history, 
flows  underneath  the  ground,  and  rises  at  the 
point  where  the  other  two  meet. 

The  river,  which  has  hitherto  been  running 
in  a  south-easterly  direction,  now  meets  the 
Vindhya  Mountains,  and,  turning  due  east, 
forms  between  this  point  and  Bhangulpore  a 
magniiicent  reach,  studded  with  most  impor- 
tant and  flourishing  towns,  and  adorned  with 
the  most  valued  crops  that  grow  upon  its  banks. 
Here  it  is  that  the  indigo  plant  and  the  poppy 
deck  tlie  fields  with  their  dark  green  leaves, 
and  their  white  and  scarlet  flowers.  Here,  too, 
in  some  favoured  spots,  gardens  of  roses  load 
the  air  with  their  sweet  perfume.  About  sixty 
miles  from  Allahabad  the  river  makes  a  bend, 
and  on  the  northern  or  outer  side  of  the  circle 
the  ancient  town  of  Benares  looks  down.  The 
appearance  of  this  town,  as  seen  from  the  river, 
is  most  striking.  Mosques,  with  delicate  mina- 
rets towering  to  the  sky ;  temples,  with  domes 
surmounting  walls  of  varied  hues  and  quaint 
architecture  ;  street  rising  above  street  on  the 
sloping  bank  of  the  river,  whose  waters  lave  the 
stone-built  houses,  picturesquely  covered  with 
luxuriant  creepers ;  ghats,  with  flights  of  broad 


and  shallow  steps  ;  boats,  heavily  laden,  pass- 
ing and  repassing  on  the  stream ;  natives,  with 
their  various  and  richly  coloured  garments, 
flitting  iji  and  out  among  the  buildings ;  the 
whole  scene  tempered  by  the  dark  green  foliage 
that,  sprinkled  here  and  there  throughout  the 
town,  betokens  the  residences  of  the  wealthier 
inhabitants;  all  these  things,  seen  under  the  rich 
light  of  a  tropical  sun,  form  a  scene  of  great  in- 
terest and  beauty.    Benares  is  a  place  of  con- 
siderable sanctity,  and  is  visited  by  inmiense 
numbers  of  pilgrims.     The  numerous  attend- 
ance of  these  persons,  all  bent  on  acquiinng 
by  acts  of  charity' and  almsgiving  the  favour 
of  their  gods  and  ministers,  fills  the  town  with 
beggars,   who,  squatted  at  the  sides  of   the 
narrow  streets,  utter  a  perpetiial  wail  of  la- 
mentation, and  weary  the  traveller  with  im- 
portunate cries  for  alms.     But  Benares  may 
claim  pre-eminence  over  the  other  cities  of  the 
Gauges  in  another  point.     AVith  the  exception 
of  Calcutta,  it  is  the  most  advanced  seat  of 
learning  in  Bengal,  boasting  no  less  than  six 
native  colleges,  the  largest  of  which  numbers 
more  than   six  hundred  scholars.      Patna  is 
another  of  the  large  towns  lining  the  banks 
of  the  river  in  this  part  of  its  course.     It  is  the 
chief  town  of  the  fertile  district  of  Bahar,  the 
centre  of  the  indigo,  cotton,  and  opium  trades, 
and  the  great  mart  for  the  collection  and  sale 
of  those  valuable  conunodities.  It  is  a  nourish- 
ing and  busy  place,   and,   with  its  outlying 
suburbs,  stretching  for  nine  miles  along  the 
river,  presents  an  imposing  front.     Mirzapoor 
and  Ghazeepoor,  on  either  side  of  Benares,  are 
two  other  large  and  flourishing  towns.     The 
former  is  a  great  cotton  mart,  and  at  the  latter 
is  a  branch  of  the  government  stud.     It  was  at 
Ghazeepoor  that  the  Marquis  Comwallis  died, 
when  on  his  way  from  Calcutta  to  the  Upper 
Provinces,  only  three  months  after  his  arrival 
in  Bengal.     His  I'emains  are  interred  in  a  large 
mausoleum,  built  of  stone  dug  from  the  adjacent 
quarries  of  Chunar.    This  portion  of  the  river 
formed  the  chief  scene  of  the  movements  of 
the  British  forces  in  1763,  wh(?n  Meer  Co.ssim 
Ali,  in  the  absence  from  India  of  Lord  Clive, 
who  had  set  him  on  his  throne,  and  during 
the  maladministration  of  affairs  by  those  who 
had  been  left  at  their  head  in  Calcutta,  at- 
tempted to  throw  off  his  allegiance  to  his  Eng- 
lish patrons.     It  was  in  that  year  that  the  ad- 
venturer Summers,    German,    Dutchman,    or 
devil,  who  was  known  by  the  natives  as  Somro, 
and  who  was  the  right-hand  man  of  the  rebel 
nabob,  superintended  the  massacre  of  one  hun- 
dred and    fifty  English    in  Patna  f    thereby 
giving  to  that  town  a  terrible  notoriety,  which 
has  in  later  years  been  rivalled  by  the  story 
of  ''the  little  house  of  Arrah,"  a  town  in  the 
immediate  vicinity.     The  country  to  the  south, 
that  here  interrupts  the  river  in  its  direct  pro- 
gress to  the  sea  for  the  space  of  four  hundred 
miles,  is   hilly  rather  than  mountainous,   its 
height   nowhere   exceeding  six  hundred  feet. 
It  is  inhabited  by  mountaineers,   or  hillmen^ 
who,  of  hardy  and  wocliW^i  VvaJoVw*^  ^^xA  \\\svcs?^. 
iuacces^ble  m  tWVc  tw^"^  ^\:twv^^^^  "^s^*^^ 


f^ 


896      [September  2A,  1869J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


(Conducted  by 


+ 


// 


been  a  continual  source  of  annoyance,  not  only 
to  the  English  Government,  but  also  to  the 
people  of  the  country.  It  was  not  until  twenty 
years  ago  that  they  were  effectually  put  down 
by  our  troops,  and  forced  into  acquiescence  in 
the  laws  that  were  introduced  among  them. 
Even  now  their  territory  is  but  little  visited, 
and  the  Sothalees,  as  they  call  themselves, 
are  mightily  astonished  at  the  intrusion  into 
their  wild  fastnesses  of  a  white-faced  English- 
man. In  some  parts  this  highland  juts  out  upon 
the  river,  lookmg  down  upon  it  from  a  dizzr 
height,  and  forming  posts  easy  to  be  defended 
Among  these  natural  strongholds,  the  fortress 
of  Chunar  must  be  mentioned  as  the  most  re- 
markable. Of  all  the  fortified  places  that  com- 
mand the  navigation  of  the  Ganges,  it  mav 
justly  be  said  to  be  second  in  point  of  strength 
only  to  Allahabad  and  the  modem  fortification 
of  Fort  William.  It  stands  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Benares,  on  the  summit  of  a  large 
rock,  which  rises  for  several  hundred  feet 
ahnost  perpendicularly  out  of  the  stream.  The 
renowned  Warren  Hastings  once  found  shelter 
within  its  walls,  having  been  obliged  to  fiee  from 
Benares,  in  fear  of  the  fanaticism  and  hostility 
of  the  natives.  Buxar,  a  little  lower  down  the 
stream,  is  another  natural  fortification,  stand- 
ing on  the  brow  of  a  hill  overlooking  the  river. 
Monghir,  too,  another  hill  fort,  on  the  other 
side  of  Patna,  is  a  place  which  by  the  natural 
eligibility  of  its  position  tempted  Meer  Cossim 
to  choose  it  as  his  rallying  point  in  1763. 
Passing  the  large  civil  station  of  Bhaugul- 

Eore,  and  stealing  round  the  base  of  the  Vind- 
ya  Mountains,  the  Ganges,  now  swollen  by 
the  waters  of  four  large  rivers — the  Goomtee, 
the  Gogra,  the  Soane,  and  the  Gunduck — turns 
once  more  to  the  south-east,  and  at  the  end 
of  another  hundred  and  fifty  miles  reaches 
Moorshcdabad.  This  city  was  once  the  capital 
of  Hindostan,  and  remained  the  seat  of  the 
nabob  when  the  English  town  of  Calcutta 
had  usurped  its  imperial  pre-eminence.  It  is 
a  place  of  no  great  magnificence,  its  site  having 
been  chosen  rather  for  the  command  it  pos- 
sessed over  the  traffic  on  the  river,  than  for 
its  beauty  or  natural  healthiness.  The  palace 
is  an  insignificant  building,  a  mere  mud  nut  in 
comparison  with  the  gorgeous  creations  of  tlie 
Mogul  emperors  in  the  cities  of  Upper  India. 
Its  walls,  however,  have  witnessed  many  an 
exciting  scene,  momentous  in  the  history  of 
the  country.  Here  it  was  that  the  boy-tyrant, 
Suraj-u-Dowlah,  the  perpetrator  of  the  tragedy 
of  the  black  hole,  was  murdered  by  the  hand 
or  by  the  inunediate  order  of  Meeran,  the  son 
of  Meer  Jafficr,  whom  Clive  had  set  upon  the 
throne  after  the  battle  of  Plassey ;  and  here 
the  tragic  end  of  the  deception  of  the  wealthy 
Hindu,  Omichund,  took  place. 

At  this  point  the  Ganges  divides  itself  into 
two  branches,  wliich  form,  between  themselves 
and  the  sea,  that  part  of  Bengal  which,  from  its 
shape,  is  denominated  the  Delta.  Another 
branch,  narrow  and  of  no  great  length,  but  yet 
important^  leaves  the  main  river  a  little  to  the 
north  of  Moorahed&had^  and  jdns  the  lYe&t&iii- 


most  of  these  two  branches  below  that  town. 
This  branch  is  called  the  Bhagirathi,  and  is  held 
in  much  veneration  by  the  natives.  On  its  banks 
stand  several  small  but  important  towns,  the 
most  considerable  of  which  is  Berhampoor,  a 
large  civil  station  situated  on  the  island  of  Moor- 
sh^abad,  and  adjoining  the  town  of  that  name. 
Cossimbazar,  a  famous  mart  and  emporium  for 
the  silk  produced  in  this  neighbourhood,  often 
lends  its  name  to  distinguish  this  portion  of  the 
river.  Close  by  was  f  ou^t  the  battle  of  Plassey, 
where    Clive  determined  the  destiny  of  the 
country.     On  the  night  before  the  battle  he 
obtained  a  large  quantity  of  rice,  sufficient  to 
supply  his  whole  native  army,  from  the  neigh- 
bouring town  of  Cutwa,  that,  with  another  of 
the  name  of  Culna,  a  little  lower  down  the 
stream,  forms  the  great  river  port  of  the  fertile 
district  of  Burdwan. 

Of  the  two  branches  that  remain  to  be  de- 
scribed, the  eastern  branch,  which  retains  the 
general  designation  of  the  river,  passes  by  no 
place  that  csdls  for  any  notice.  But,  on  one  of 
the  streams  which,  jutting  out  from  it,  join  the 
sea  still  further  to  the  east,  stands  the  town  of 
Dacca,  celebrated  both  in  ancient  and  modem 
times.  The  stream  on  which  it  is  built  goes 
under  the  denomination  of  Booree  Gunga— 
that  is  to  say,  old  Ganges— and  centunes  ago, 
before  certain  changes  took  place  in  its  course 
— for  the  Ganges,  with  its  shifting  banks  of 
sand,  is  continually  forming  for  itself  new  chan- 
nels and  filling  up  old  ones — ^was  doubtless  the 
principal  and  mam  outlet  of  the  river.  At  the 
latter  end  of  the  seventeenth,  and  perhaps  even 
so  late  as  the  beginning  of  the  last  centxuy, 
Dacca  was  a  place  of  great  splendour  and 
importance.  The  ruins  which  surround  the 
modem  town  testify  to  its  former  extent  and 
magnificence,  and  prove  that  it  must  have  vied 
in  appearance  and  in  riches  with  most  other 
Indian  cities.  The  mighty  Brahmapootra,  rival- 
ling in  all  but  its  length  the  greatness  of  its 
sister  and  close  neighbour  the  Ganges,  enters 
the  sea  also  at  this  point ;  and  there  is  thus 
great  reason  to  suppose  that  a  spot  which  com- 
manded, as  Dacca  would  have  done,  the 
mouths  of  such  sources  of  inland  trade  and 
communication,  should  have  been  the  site  of  a 
great  and  flourishing  town.  At  the  present 
day  Dacca  is  noted  for  the  excellenoe  of  its 
cotton  fabrics,  the  beauty  of  its  muslins  sur-  I 
passing  that  of  those  manufactured  in  any 
other  part  of  the  world. 

The  western  branch,  or  Hooghly,  after  pass- 
ing its  point  of  junction  with  the  Bhagiratbl, 
and  until  it  reaches  the  southern  extremity  (^ 
Calcutta,  presents  an  animated  and  lively  pic- 
ture, full  of  all  the  action  and  the  thousand 
sights  and  sounds  that  surround  the  seat  of 
government.  Its  banks  are  lined  with  thriving 
towns,  busy  with  trade  or  luxurious  with 
wealthy  inhabitants ;  its  overshadowing  woods 
are  interspersed  with  country  seats  of  rich  mer- 
chants, whose  offices  are  in  Calcutta.  The 
towns  of  Hooghly,  Chinsurah,  Chandemagore, 
Serampoor,  and  Barrackpoor,  are  quickly  passed, 
.one  aiter  another,  on  oppoaite  eidea  of  the 


=h 


Giiarias  Diekeos.] 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR. 


[September  25, 186SL]      397 


stream.     The  first   is   a  large  civil  station, 
fashionable  and  select ;  at  Chinsurah  the  Dutch 
East  India  Company  built  their  first  factory  in 
1656  ;  Chandemagore  is  a  French  town,  form- 
ing a  little  colony  in  itself,  amenable  to  dif- 
ferent  laws  from  those  of  the  surrounding 
country,  and  affording,  imder  its  tricolour  flag, 
a  place  of  refuge  to  the  runaway  debtors  and 
scamps  of  Calcutta ;  Serampoor  was  the  spot 
chosen  as  the  site  of  his  mission  by  Dr.  Carey, 
the  pioneer  of  British  missionary   efforts  in 
Ben^ ;  and  Barrackpoor,  with  its  pretty  park 
and  menagerie,  is  a  favourite  place  of  resort  to 
holiday  makers.    The  houses  of  the  latter  town 
are  contiguous  to  the  outskirts  of  Calcutta,  and 
from  thence  the  sights  that  crowd  upon  our  view 
are  various  and  interesting.    But  we  cannot  at 
present  do  more  than  enumerate  them,  and  so 
we  pass  steadily  on.    On,  past  private  houses, 
factories,  and  native  huts ;  past  honible  burn- 
ing-ghats, where  the  smoke  and  stench  rise  con- 
tinually from  fimeral  pyres ;  past  crowded  and 
dirty  wharves,  where  piles  of  goods  await  re- 
moval to  the  ship,  the  train,  or  the  warehouse ; 
past  lines  of  crowded  shipping,  with  labouring 
crews  and  shouting  coolies :  past  the  ghat  of 
the  East   Indian    Railway  Company,   whose 
busy  little  steamer  puffs  backwards  and  for- 
wanis  continually,  conveying  passengers  be- 
tween  Calcutta   and   the   train.     On  again, 
past  English  counting-houses  and  merchants' 
offices  ;     on,    past    the    Esplanade,    with    its 
public  gardens  and  promenades,  and  its  pretty 
Ime  of  East  Indiamen  that  might  well  be  mis- 
taken for  men  of  war,  moored  close  to  the 
bank ;  on,  past  Fort  William,  past  the  Maidan, 
uidCalcutta's  Rotten -row,  the  Strand.  On,  past 
lines  of  shipping  again ;  past  Kidderpore  Docks; 
past  Allcypore,  with  its  villa  houses  peacefully 
reposing  in  beautiful  grounds;    past  Garden 
Reach,  fallen  from  its  suburban  celebrity,  con- 
taminated by  the  presence  of  the  ex- King  of 
Oude  ;  past  the  Botanical  gardens  and  Bishop^s 
College;    on,  past  Calcutta,  native,  mercan- 
tile, civil,  and  military ;   on,  past  all  signs  of 
kuman  habitation,  once  more  alone  with  the 
•wiftly-flowing  stream.  Then,  the  river  widen- 
ing, and  retiring  with  its  mud  and  jungle- 
covered  banks  to  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  no 
other  objects  meet  our  gaze  but  lighthouses 
and  telegraphic  stations,  until  at  length  the 
lightship  at  the  Sandheads  rises  into  view,  and 
we  remember  that  the  Ganges  is  no  longer  with 
us,  but  is  merged  in  the  boundless  sea. 

ORPHANHOOD. 

Thb  shadow  of  the  forest  trees : 

My  childhood  withered  'neath  their  spell. 

In  the  old  home  remembered  well, 

Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  foresi  trees, 
Between  me  and  the  clear  sky  spread, 
As  I  lay  waking  on  my  bed, 

Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees : 
I  wept  and  strug^gled  for  the  light, 
Bat  ail  around  was  black  as  night. 

Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 


The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees 
Fell  on  my  heart  and  on  the  stream. 
Which  murmured  by  without  a  gleam, 
Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  fbrest  trees 
Bobbed  us  of  Life's  enchanting  niajs ; 
Both  heart  and  stream  were  darlc  always. 
Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees : 
We  heard  of  lore  and  of  the  son ; 
But  in  our  gloomy  world  were  none. 

Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees : 
One  mom  they  quivered  in  the  blast. 
Wild  moan'd  the  storm,  and  broke,  at  last. 
The  shadow  of  the  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees : 

'Mid  tossine  branches  struggling  through, 

I  hailed  a  sky  of  happy  blue, 

Unshadowed  by  the  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees 

No  longer  hushed  the  streamlet's  song ; 

In  glad  sweet  mirth  it  flowed  along, 

Unshadowed  by  the  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees 
Clouded  no  more  the  hearen  above ; 
My  heart  awoke  to  happy  love, 

Unshaaowcd  by  the  trees. 

Alas,  alas !  the  forest  trees ! 

Once  more  the  time  ctow  dark  and  still, 

Murmured  no  more  tne  poor  lone  rill. 

Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

Alas,  alas !  the  forest  trees  ! 
Again  they  closed  around  my  head. 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  joy  were  dead. 
Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

Alas,  alas  !  the  forest  trees  ! 
The  stream  is  hushed,  the  gleam  is  past ; 
This  heart,  wild  beating,  breaks  at  last, 
Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 

The  shadow  of  the  forest  trees : 
Alas !  for  heart,  alas  !  for  stream ; 
But  both  have  had  one  blessed  gleam. 

Unshadowed  by  the  trees. 

Despite  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

The  heart  has  lored,  the  stream  has  sung ; 

Now  let  their  mournful  knell  be  rang. 

Shadowed  by  forest  trees. 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR. 


"  Undee  the  law  of  nature  and  of  Moses 
there  were  no  lawyers "  (avocats),  says 
Boucher  d*Argis,  in  his  Short  History  of 
the  Ordeir— or,  as  he  goes  on  to  explain, 
**  no  class  of  persons  professionally  ap- 
pointed to  defend  the  interests  of  others." 
Under  the  Mosaic  dispensation,  men  pleaded 
their  own  cause  in  primitive  fashion  before 
the  tribunals ;  and  such,  for  many  ages, 
was  the  simple  rule  of  advocacy.  Recent 
events  have  seemed  to  favour  the  supposi- 
tion, that  the  primitive  system  is  reviving 
amongst  us,  the  appearance  of  Miss  Shedden 
before  the  House  of  Lords,  with  her  father 
"  to  follow  on  the  same  side,"  having  some- 
thing Mosaic  in  its  nature.  We  know  thofe^ 
in  those  old  da^^^  a  tqaoi  TDA.^\»\scvxi%  ^-^ira. 


cs 


398       [September  -25, 18«9.) 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


Cpoofdaottd  hf 


/ 


his  relations  and  friends  to  back  his  cause 
in  court ;  and  it  is  our  consolation  to  feel 
that  there  would  have  been  nothing  in  that 
system  to  prevent  the  lady's  undo  and 
cousins,  had  they  been  so  minded,  from 
claiming  a  hearing  after  herself  and  her 
father,  and  so  extending  the  twenty-live 
days  of  that  memorable  hearing  to  an  in- 
appreciable length.  The  case  of  Dr.  Thom, 
too,  threatened  at  one  time,  to  the  eternal 
scandal  of  our  law,  to  afford  another  in- 
stance of  the  same  kind.  Most  thankful 
may  we  be  that  the  danger  Lis  been 
averted,  and  that  one  of  the  gravest  and 
most  momentous  inquiries  of  modem  times 
is  not  to  be  converted  into  an  encounter  of 
wits  between  an  unaccustomed  layman  and 
a  strong  bar  of  trained  and  skilful  advo- 
cates. The  public  attention  thus  directed 
to  these  cases,  however,  it  may  not  be 
without  some  interest  to  trace,  as  briefly  as 
may  be,  something  of  the  rise  and  history 
of  the  professional  advocate,  evolving  him, 
as  we  shall,*  chiefly  from  the  interesting 
and  scholar-like  pages  of  Mr.  Forsyth's 
Hortcnsius,  a  book  in  which  much  quaint 
and  various  learning  on  mattera  connected 
with  the  history  of  the  bar  is  pleasantly 
collected. 

An  advocate  and  a  lawyer,  though  in  ac- 
cordance with  common  usage  we  have  given 
the  latter  sense  to  D'Argis's  "  avocat,"  are 
two  very  different  people,  and  legal  know- 
ledge may  bo  said,  even  now,  to  be  more 
an  accident  than  the  foundation  of  an  ad- 
vocate's training.  It  belongs  to  him,  as  a 
smattering  of  all  knowledge  belongs  to 
him,  as  matter  for  the  exercise  of  his 
powers  of  talk.  All  that  Cato  required  of 
the  advocate  was,  that  he  should  be  "a 
good  man  skilled  in  talking;"  and,  the 
element  of  goodness  more  or  less  modifled 
by  circumstances,  such  the  eminent  nisi- 
prius  barrister  very  much  remains.  In 
Athens  and  at  Rome,  until  some  period 
difiicult  to  fix,  advocacy  and  law  were 
things  apart.  Athens,  indeed,  had  no 
lawyers  properly  so  called,  unless  we  seek 
them  in  the  "logographers,"  who  wrote 
and  composed  the  speeches  that  were  to  be 
delivered  in  court  by  others ;  and,  at  Rome, 
the  jurisconsults,  and  the  "prudentes,"  the 
"  procumtores,"  and  the  "  cognitoros," 
ohambe]>lawyers  as  we  should  call  them 
now,  were  not  given  to  practise  in  the 
forum — ^the  first  recorded  instance  of  the 
appearance  of  one  of  them  in  that  capacity 
having  resulted  in  disastrous  failure.     One 

^  It  IB  MS  well  nowadAjB,  to  add,  with  the  sanction 
msd  kind  •wwtance  ot  the  ftntlior. 


Scaavola,  the  wisest  jurist  of  his  time,  took 
on  himself  to  arg^e  a  will  case,  as,  with 
some  confidence,  he  might,  seeing  that  it 
turned  entirely  on  a  point  of  law,  against 
his  learned  mend  Crassus,  who  boasted  of 
much  eloquence,  but  no  law.     And  Crassus 
won,  probably  because  he  was  put  up  to 
his  i>oints  by  some  one  as  good  as  Scsevola, 
or  that  he  knew  more  than  he  allowed,  while 
in  the  matter  of  speaking  he  had  it  all  bis 
own  way.     Cicero  was  wont  to  assert  that 
he  knew  no  law,  but  that  in  three  days  he 
could  make  himself  as  good  as  any  juris- 
consult of  them  all ;  but  in  comment  on 
the  silly  boast,   we  may  read  Niebuhr's 
acute  criticism,  that^  though  he  may  have 
had  no  scientific  view  of  the  law,  he  had 
probably  very  sufficient  practical  know- 
ledge of  it.     In  the  difference  between  the 
practical  and  the  scientific  knowledge  lies 
the  distinction  between  the  advocate  and 
the  lawyer. 

But  if  it  is  right  that  we,  for  our  present 
purpose,  should  not  confound  the  lawyer 
and  the  advocate,  to  the  world,  wluch 
much  affects  generalities,  especially  when 
abusive,  a  lawyer  is  a  lawyer,  and  there  i« 
an  end  of  him.  And  a  pleasant  time  the 
lawyers  have  had  of  it  £rom  the  laity,  since 
Lucian  first  began  to  gird  at  the  ''  clever 
fellows  ready  to  burst  themselves  for  a 
three-obol  fee,''  and  Juvenal  let  loose  tbe 
flood-gates  of  his  magnificent  abuse  upon 
the  hapless  head  of  the  barrister. 

Men  of  your  lai^  profcasion,  who  could  ipeak 
To  every  cauM,  ana  thin^  mere  contraries. 

Till  they  were  hoarao  asain,  yet  all  be  law. 

•  •  •  • 

So  wise,  80  j^TO,  of  ao  perplexed  a  (oogiiAi 
And  loud  withal,  that  could  not  wag,  nor  acarce 
Lie  Btill,  without  a  fee. 

So  writes  rare  Ben  Jonson  of  the  profes- 
sion that  Gulliver  farther  describes  9B 
"  bred  up  in  the  art  of  proving,  by  words 
multiplied  for  tho  purpose,  that  white  is 
black  and  black  is  white,  according  as  thej 
are  paid ;  but  in  all  points  out  of  their  ovn 
trade  usually  the  most  stupid  and  ignorant 
generation  among  us."  i 

"  Pray  tell  me,"  says  a  brilliant  French 
writer,  **  where  I  am  to  find  an  advocate 
with  principles ;"  and  Racine,  in  Les  Plai- 
deurs,  has  the  pleasant  passage : 

Vou8  en  fcroz,  je  crois,  d*excellenta  avocats: 
11b  8ont  fort  i^orants. 

Perhaps  on  these  lines  may  have  been  based 
a  certain  eminent  barrister's  reported  esti- 
mate of  his  own  qualifications,  when  attri- 
buting his  success  to  '*  unbounded  assurance, 
popular  manners,  and  total  ignorance  of 
\a.w." 


^ 


h 


OharleB  Dlekant.j 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR. 


CSeptomber  3ff,  isea]      399 


Sir  Thomas  More  would  have  no  lawyers 
in  his  Utopia,  as  a  "  sort  of  people  whose 
profession  it  is  to  disf^iiso  matters  as  well 
as  wrest  laws  ;'*  but  the  plan  of  dispensing 
with  them  was  not  infallible,  for  we  may 
learn  from  Milton's  account  of  the  Russians 
of  his  time,  who  "had  no  lawyers,"  that 
they  found,  nevertheless,  that  *' justice  by 
corruption  of  inferiors  was  much  per- 
verted." 

The  lawyers  have  had  their  fiiends, 
though  chiefly  among  their  own  numbers. 
Cicero  knew  nothing  in  the  world  "  so 
royal,  liberal,  and  generous"  as  the  advo- 
cate's art.  And  "  what,"  says  a  quaint  old 
Englishman,  Davys,  **is  the  matter  and 
subject  of  our  profession  but  justice,  the 
lady  and  queen  of  all  moral  virtues  ?"  But 
readers  who  want  lofty  estimates  of  the  work 
and  mission  of  the  bar,  may  turn  to  the 
lawyers  of  France,  where  the  "  noblesse  de 
la  robe"  ever  claimed  and  held  conspicuous 
rank.  Let  us  content  ourselves  with  the 
definition  of  D'Aguesseau,  who  calls  his 
brethren  "  an  order  as  old  as  the  magis- 
tracy, as  noble  as  virtue,  as  necessary  as 
justice ;"  and  with  this  simple  and  effective 
parry  of  M.  Jules  le  Berquier,  in  his  re- 
cently published  book,  Le  Barreau  Modeme, 
from  which  we  shall  beg  leave  to  quote 
more  freely  presently;  ^*  From  the  stage," 
he  says,  "  the  world  has  long  cast  its  harm- 
less darts  at  the  bar,  which  has  laughed  at 
them  and  not  suffered."  It  amuses,  the 
world  and  does  not  hurt  the  bar. 

When  and  where  was  the  origin  of  the 
advocate,  it  is  impossible  with  preciseness 
to  say.  D'Argis  is  right  in  saying  that  "  his 
function  is  older  than  his  name."  For  the 
name,  in  its  present  application,  dates  back 
no  earlier  than  Imperial  Rome.  Originally, 
the  "advocatus"  was  the  friend  who  at- 
tended to  give  an  accused  man  the  support 
of  his  presence  on  his  trial,  a  sort  of  witness 
to  character :  the  advocate  of  old  Rome  had 
no  name  but  "  orator."  When  he  became 
a  profession  he  got  many  names;  his  most 
complimentary  title  being  of  the  middle 
ages,  when  he  was  in  some  countries  called 
"  clamator,"  which  D'Argis  civilly  refers  to 
a  Celtic  root,  "clain,"  signifying  "suit;" 
but  for  which  malevolence  ydli  suggest  a 
more  obvious  meaning.  As  for  the  func- 
tion, a  writer  from  whom  Le  Berquier 
quotes  calls  it  "  contemporary  with  the  first 
law- suit  and  the  first  court,"  but  not  with 
strict  correctness.  There  never  was  a 
country  without  law-suits :  there  have  been 
and  are  countries  without  advocates.  In 
Turkey,  for  instance,  there  are  none  now. 


Advocacy  is,  in  fact,  says  M.  le  Berquier, 
the  growth  of  liberty ;  and  the  bar,  a  body 
of  men  springing  up  in  a  free  country, 
self-born  and  self-governed,  called  into  gra- 
dual existence  by  the  gradually  increasing 
complication  of  social  relations,  till  out  of 
the  rude  speakers  who  pleaded  their  own 
cause  before  the  Mosaic  tribunals,  grew  the 
bannisters  of  the  present  day.  Where  there 
has  been  freedom,  thei'e  have  been  advo- 
cates, even  in  the  forests  of  old  Germany : 
without  it  there  are  none.  The  orators  of 
Greece,  according  to  Cicero,  were  to  be 
sought  in  Athens  onlv.  Athens  alone,  adds 
M.  le  Berquier,  had  free  institutions.  Ad- 
vocacy, according  to  the  theory  of  this  in- 
genious writer,  is  the  result  and  the  corol- 
lary of  what  he  calls  the  "  right  of  defence," 
and  grows  and  flourishes  only  whei-e,  and 
in  proportion  as,  that  natural  and  indefea- 
sible right  is  acknowledged.  In  Rome,  in 
the  republican  days,  "the  bar"  had,  per- 
haps, no  distinct  and  recognised  existence ; 
but  advocacy  and  eloquence  flourished  in 
the  highest  degree.  Under  the  empire,  the 
bar  was  a  body  at  once  supported  and  re- 
strained by  a  long  line  of  imperial  ordi- 
nances, but  the  eloquence  of  advocacy  was 
a  thing  of  the  past.  Such  is  a  brief  outline 
of  M.  le  Berquier*s  philosophy ;  but  as  our 
touch  of  the  subject  must  of  necessity  be 
light,  we  must  refer  those  who  are  tempted 
to  study  it  at  length  to  the  author's  pages, 
which  will  well  repay  a  careful  perusal. 

"Whatever  the  true  philosophy  of  the 
matter  may  be,  to  Athens  we  must  look  for 
the  earliest  records  of  the  advocate's  elo- 
quence, speaking,  not  in  his  own  cause,  but 
in  that  of  others.  Of  the  excessive  fond- 
ness of  the  Athenians  for  judicial  proceed- 
ings, and  the  attraction  that  the  seats  of  the 
dicasts  (jury-box  and  bench  in  one)  had  for 
that  excitable  people,  Aristophanes  has  left 
us  an  undying  record  in  his  comedy  of  the 
Wasps,  fi*om  which  Racine  "adapted"  his 
far  less  amusing  Plaideurs.  But,  elaborate 
as  their  system  was,  we  are  at  a  loss  for 
any  certain  clue  to  the  principles  on  which 
the  advocacy  of  causes,  all  important  as  it 
was  in  a  country  where  Hyperides  could 
get  a  verdict  and  a  judgment  in  the  pretty 
Phryne's  favour  by  the  simple  but  peculiar 
method  recorded  in  Gerome's  picture,  was 
conducted  in  the  courts  of  the  Areopagus. 
That  the  right  of  addressing  the  judges 
was  not  confined  to  the  immediate  parties 
to  the  suit,  is  clear ;  but  it  is  equally  cleai* 
that  an  orator  could  not  obtain  a  hearing 
when  he  was  a  stranger  to  the  client  and 
the  cause.     Bomi^  "^oit^oTi&X  Ss^iSEftfi^  \a.  q^& 


c^ 


400      tSsptsmber  S5, 18M.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[Ckmdaetedtay 


t 


or  tho  other  would  seem  to  have  been  the 
necessary  qualification.  An  instance  of  the 
first  was  the  appearance  of  Tisagras  in  be- 
half of  his  brother  Miltiades,  who,  being 
himself  too  ill  to  speak,  was  carried  into 
court  on  a  litter ;  of  the  last,  the  famous 
speech  of  Demosthenes,  "  De  Coronfi^"  in 
defence  of  Ctesiphon,  who  was  accused  of 
having  illegally  proposed  to  present  the 
orator  with  a  golden  crown.  One  other 
class  of  cases  there  was,  in  which,  to  judge 
from  Lucian,  litigants  were  allowed  pro- 
fessional assistance — when  they  were  too 
drunk  to  speak  for  themselves. 

A  peculiar  class  at  Athens  were  the  logo- 
graphers — men  who  devoted  themselves  to 
composing  speeches  which  were  afterwards 
delivered  in  court  by  others,  after  the 
fiushion  of  our  courts-martial.  In  this  way 
Demosthenes  himself  was  at  first  employed. 
He  wrote  one  for  Phormio,  which  all  his 
relations  came  to  court  in  a  body  to  deliver. 
It  began  with  an  apology  for  Phormio's 
notorious  incompetency  to  make  a  speech 
for  himself  In  this  case  Demosthenes 
further  signalised  himself  by  writing  the 
speech  for  the  other  side  also:  a  feat 
which  recals  the  ingenious  essayist,  who, 
on  a  reward  being  offered  to  the  writer 
who  should  upset  certain  argpiments  in  a 
startling  con6x)versial  pamphlet  of  his 
which  had  just  appeared,  wrote  another 
and  answered  them  himself  One  of  tho 
most  celebrated  of  logographers  was  Anti- 
phon,  who  deserves  an  immortality  for 
good  or  evil  for  having  been  the  first 
lawyer  who  took  money  for  his  work. 
Among  its  great  discoverers,  the  world 
should  not  forget  the  inventor  of  fees.  The 
practice  of  fee-taking  extended  i-apidly,  as 
was  not  unnatural,  among  tho  speakers  of 
speeches  as  well  as  the  writers;  and  once 
treated  as  the  legitimate  means  of  turning 
an  honest  obol,  advocacy  may  be  fairly 
said  to  have  entered  upon  a  recognised 
professional  existence. 

If  this  discovery  of  Antiphon's  was  an 
epoch  in  advocacy,  the  leading  case  of 
Phryne,  already  cited,  marked  another. 
After  her  trial  it  appears  to  have  occurred 
with  some  force  to  tho  authorities  that 
there  might  have  been  a  miscarriage  of 
justice,  and  that  it  seemed  scarcely  reason- 
able or  judicial  to  acquit  a  young  lady  of  a 
charge  of  impiety  because  she  looked  so 
well  with  nothing  on.  Her  case,  therefore, 
led  to  the  passing  of  the  first  recorded  law 
that  limited  the  discretion  and  regulated 
II  tho  conduct  of  advocates,  who  in  later 
II  times,  especially  in  Borne  under  the  em- 


pire, and  afterwards  in  France,  were  fre- 
quently subjected,  both  as  to  their  duties 
and  their  privileges,   to  legislative   inter- 
ference of  this  kind.     In  England,  as  is 
well  known,  the  bar  is  governed  by  its  own 
rules  only,  being  a  body  as  irresponsible  as 
it  was  in  its  origin  indefinite :  a  very  dig- 
nified position,  no  doubt,  and  one  which 
squares  well  with  M.  le  Berquier's  theory. 
But  the  curious  in  the  secrets  of  the  prison- 
house  might  find  in  some  of  the  mischievous 
and  puerile  regulations  of  the  code  that  the 
lawyers  have  constructed  for  themselves, 
on  the  simple  principle  of  mutual  mistrust, 
reason  to  doubt  whether  they  are  a  class 
whom  it  is  advisable  to  leave  altogether  to 
themselves.     This  is  not  the  place,  how- 
ever, to  discuss  the  ethics  of  legal  trades- 
unionism.     The  law  which   grew   out  of 
Phryne's  case  was  simple  and  effective. 
All  oratorical  tricks,   calculated  to  move 
pity  or  indignation,  were  forbidden;  and 
the  judges    were  enjoined    not    to    look 
at  the  accused  during    a    criminal   trial 
if  anything  of  the  kind  were  attempted. 
"  This  rule,"   says  D'Argis,    "  did  much 
chill  the    eloquence    of   the    Grreek   ora- 
tors.'*     Speakers   were    also   ordered  to 
confine    themselves    within     the    bounds 
of.   modesty ;    not    to    attempt    to    gain 
the  private  ear  of  the  judges ;  not  to  raise 
ihe    same   paint    twice;    to    refrain    from 
abusive  language,  and  from  stamping  of 
the  feet ;  not  to  speak  to  the  judges  when 
considering  their  judgment ;    and  not  to 
make  a  noise  on  leaving  the  court,  or  col- 
lect a  crowd  round  them.     Fifty  drachmas 
was  the  lowest  penalty  for  disobedience  to  I 
any  of  these  rules,  some  of  which,  in  their 
pnmitive    simplicity,    might    have   been 
framed  for  a  pack  of  xmruly  schoolbojs, 
while  others  would  be  invaluable  even  at 
the  present  day.     We  may  compare  with 
them,  in  more  modem  times,  a  series  of 
rules  prescribed  for  the  guidance  of  the 
*'  advocates  of  parliament "    in   the  time 
of  Philip   the   Fair.     They  were  warned 
not  to  undertake  just  and  unjust  causes 
without  distindtion,  or  support  their  argu- 
ments by  fallacies  or  misquotations;   not 
to  abuse  the  opposite  party  or  his  counsel ; 
not  to  he  absent  from  court  when  their  axus^ 
was  called  on  (mark  that,  ye  Q.G.*s) ;  not 
to  be  disrespectful  to  the  court,  or  greedy 
of  fees.     Finally,  they  were  not  to  lead  im- 
moral lives,   or   (those  wero  the  days  of 
chivalry)  refuse  their  services  to  the  poor 
and  oppressed.     From  an  old  book  called 
the  Stylus  Parliamcnti  the  advocate  may 
get  yet  more  valuable  hints;  for  he  will 


=4 


■ 


h 


Oh&rles  DIokena.] 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR.  [September  m,  isea.]     401 


there  learn  that  he  must  have  an  imposing 
presence,  a  graceful  figure,  and  a  Biniling 
face;  that  he  must  be  modest  in  manner 
and  respectful  in  attitude,  in  dress  neither 
a  dandy  nor  a  sloven;  that  he  must  not 
bite  his  lips  while  he  is  speaking,  must  use 
appropriate  action,  and  not  talk  too  loud 
or  too  low. 

To  recur  to  the  advocates  of  Athens: 
another  important  restriction  imposed  on 
them  at  the  same  period  was  that  which 
limited  the  time  for  which  the  "  good  man 
skilled  in  talking"  was  allowed  to  occupj 
the  court.  This  was  the  famous  clepsydra, 
or  water-clock  (or  rather  water-glass), 
which  ran  its  course  in  three  hours,  at  the 
close  whereof  unless  the  speaker  had  ob- 
tained a  part  of  the  water  of  another 
pleader  engaged  in  the  cause  (a  permitted 
practice),  he  was  forced  te  conclude  his 
address,  whether  he  had  sufficiently  pero- 
rated or  no. 

Bearing  in  mind  that  all  speeches  in 
those  days  were  carefully  prepared  before- 
hand, we  may  imag^e  with  what  anxiety 
the  orator  would  rehearse  his  speech  in 
his  study  at  home,  and  "  cut"  it  (to  borrow 
the  language  of  the  stage)  to  the  prescribed 
length  by  the  aid  of  a  private  water-glass. 
That  the  limitation  was  rather  trying 
sometimes,  wo  know  from  Demosthenes, 
who  in  one  of  his  speeches  complains  of 
the  impossibility  of  going  through  the 
whole  of  a  heavy  case  "in  the  same  water." 
But  it  was  found  so  useful,  that  the  water- 
clock  was  introduced  at  Rome  so  late  as 
the  second  consulship  of  Pompey:  with 
this  improvement,  however,  tliat  the  amount 
of  time  allotted  to  each  speaker  varied  in 
each  case  in  proportion  to  ite  nature,  and 
was  fixed  beforehand  by  the  judge.  In 
France,  in  1413,  an  ordinance  of  Charles 
the  Sixth  charged  counsel  on  their  oaths 
and  allegiance  "  to  be  brief  in  their  state- 
mente,"  but  we  never  find  any  special 
limit  assigned.  The  clergy  here  in  England 
at  one  time  always  took  an  hour-glass  into 
their  pulpits — a  very  fair  allowance,  all 
things  considered — ^but  the  bar  have  never 
hampered  their  eloquence  with  any  salutary 
restrictions  of  time.  How  often,  at  West- 
minster or  Guildhall,  when  a  persistent 
advocate  tw7Z,  to  borrow  a  suggestive  phrase 
we  have  heard,  "  keep  on  keep-on-ing,"  for 
hours  in  a  case  on  which  judge  and  jury  and 
everybody  in  court  have  made  up  their 
minds  long  ago — partly  because  his  own 
voice  is  sweeter  to  him  than  that  of  others, 
and  partly,  maybe,  because  of  a  mysterious 
tradition  which  prevails  that  "  the  attorneys 


like  it" — does  he  who  is  to  open  the  next 
case  look  wearily  at  the  clock,  and  wish 
that  it  were  of  water.  How  fondly,  worried 
as  he  was  almost  out  of  his  usual  courteous 
urbanity,  must  the  Lord  Chancellor  have 
thought  of  the  "  clepsydra"  on  the  morning 
of  Miss  Shedden's  twenty-fifth  day ! 

Professional  advocacy  in  ancient  Rome 
had  its  beginnings  in  the  perplexing  rela- 
tion between  the  patron  and  the  client, 
which,  as  it  puzzled  Niebuhr  himself,  no 
one  else  can  be  fairly  expected  to  under- 
stand. Such,  at  least,  is  the  popular  theory, 
though  M.  le  Berquier  combats  it  on  the 
ground  that  the  patron  was  a  feudal  insti- 
tution, that  the  bar  was  free  in  its  essence, 
and  that  nothing  feudal  ever  produced 
freedom  in  any  form.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
one  of  the  duties  of  the  patron  certainly 
was  to  "  appear  for  his  clients  in  court,  and 
to  expound  the  law  to  them,  civil  and  pon- 
tifical;" and  we  may  easily  imagine  that 
as  the  law  became  more  complicated,  the 
latter  duty  was  somewhat  difficult  for  men 
who  only  took  advocacy  in  the  Forum 
afi  one  of  the  accidente  of  a  public  life. 
Hence  arose  the  class  of  "  jurisconsulti," 
who  made  a  profession  of  the  delivery 
of  legal  opinions,  like  the  Pundits  of  India, 
and  a  class  yet  more  scientific  than  they, 
the  "Prudentes,"  whose  opinions  had  in 
themselves  the  force  of  law.  The  ad- 
vocate, as  in  the  pre-Antiphonic  period 
at  Athens,  received  at  first  no  money  for 
his  labours ;  he  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  being  paid  for  a  speech  in  the  Forum 
as  an  M.P.  would  think  of  being  paid 
(directly)  for  a  speech  in  the  House.  Nor 
was  he  therein  a  loser,  for  a  brilliant  speech 
in  the  Forum  opened  at  once  to  a  young 
orator  all  the  distinctions  of  the  Senate 
and  of  public  life,  the  legitimate  objects  of 
his  ambition.  But  as  clients  became  richer 
and  patrons  more  busy,  presents  from  the 
former  to  the  latter,  in  o^er  to  give  them 
an  interest  in  their  cases,  became  the 
fashion,  and  so  the  fee  grew,  as  at  Athens, 
into  a  recognised  institution.  It  was  at 
first  regarded  as  an  abuse,  and  produced 
the  first  legislative  interference  with  the 
Roman  bar  in  the  shape  of  the  Cincian  law, 
which  forbade  the  taking  of  money  for 
advocacy,  but  with  very  little  purpose. 
More  and  more,  as  the  intricacies  of  law 
grew  and  multiplied,  did  the  arguing  of 
cases,  and  the  acquisition  of  the  necessary 
knowledge,  so  absorb  the  advocate's  time, 
that  under  the  empire  we  find  "  the  bar" 
an  established  profession,  and  the  advocate 
an  individual  fact,  though,  it  is  to  be  fescc^^^ 


t5 


(I& 


402       [September  25,  lSj:i).] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condacted  by 


a  somewhat  sorry  one.  With  tho  unat- 
tached gueriUa  character  of  the  early 
Roman  bar,  disappears  tho  glory  which 
surrounded  it.  The  history  of  advocacy 
under  the  republic  is  a  brilliant  record  (»f 
great  names  and  great  speeches,  and  tho 
gi'owth  of  a  society  unti-ammelled  by  any 
rules  save  its  own.  Under  the  empire  it  is 
a  perpetual  succession  of  petty  ordinances, 
at  first  to  protect  and  then  to  restrain. 
Juvenal  di^aws  a  lively  picture  of  the 
young  barrister  of  his  day,  and  of  the 
luxury  and  show  by  which  he  was  forced 
to  rmn  liimself,  in  order  to  keep  up  ap- 
pearances and  catch  clients,  and  recom- 
mends him  to  leave  Rome  and  practise  in 
Gaul  or  AMca  ;  much  as  his  poor  and  am- 
bitious successor  of  the  present  day  is  ad- 
vised to  try  India  or  the  colonies  rather 
than  waste  his  substance  in  enforced  idle- 
ness, and  the  expenses  entailed  by  circuit 
and  chambers.  As  in  London  so  in  Rome, 
the  best  way  to  nmko  money  at  the  bar 
would  seem  to  have  been — to  leave  it ! 

"  There  is  now  no  doubt.,"  writes  M.  le 
Berquier,  "  that  the  Roman  bar  had  a  con- 
stitution of  its  own,  for  a  long  time  subject 
to  no  law.  Long  before  the  seventh  cen- 
tury of  tlio  Roman  ci-a,  tho  bar,  as  a  body, 
were  imder  the  direction  of  those  common 
mlcs  and  statutes  of  which  Cioero  speaks, 
but  these  did  not  emanate  from  any  supe- 
rior power.  It  is  not  probable  that  these 
rules  were  written,  or  that  the  Ixir  was  an 
organised  body  like  the  College  of  Augurs. 
Tradition  was  long  the  only  law  appealed 
to  and  recognised,  and  unity  resulted 
leather  from  esprit  do  corps  than  from  the 
legal  existence  of  the  lx)dy  itself.  It  was 
established  by  the  fitness  of  things,  and 
maintained  by  usage." 

Under  the  empire,  as  we  have  said,  the 
Roman  bar  loses  much  of  its  interest, 
though  we  have  ample  proof  that  it  wais 
hold  in  high  esteem  by  the  emperors. 

The  code  of  Justinian  declared  that  "  ad- 
vocacy should  be  remunerated  by  the 
highest  rewards,"  and  advocates  were  ac- 
cordingly exempted  from  many  of  tho  bur- 
dens of  the  ordinary  citizen.  Their  honours 
were  plentiful:  emperors  themselves  are 
said  to  have  argued  cases  at  the  bar.  They 
were  treated  a^  on  the  same  footing  with 
tho  military  pi-ofession.  Anastasius  be- 
stowed on  retii'ed  advocates  the  title  of 
**  clarLssimi,"  and  Justinian  entitled  them 
an  "  order."  But  they  were,  like  Tai-peia, 
crushed  under  the  golden  ornaments,  and 
side  by  side  with  these  privileges,  and  soon 
to  supersede  them,  grew  up  restrictive  laws. 


which  M.  le  Berquier  deduces  as  a  natural 
consequence  from  the  growtb  of  despotism, 
and  the  losing  sight  of  the  "  right  of  de- 
fence."    It  is  not  worth  while,  had  we  the 
space,  to  give  any  detailed  account  of  this 
petty  legislation.  Among  the  various  edicts, 
it  is  amusing  to  find  one  forbidding  women 
to  argue  any  case  but  their  own,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  troublesome  behaviour  of  "a 
most   wicked   virgin,"    one   Afrania,   who  i 
wearied  the  court  with  her  importunities.  | 
That  women  in  the  old  days  were  not  ex- 
cluded from  the  Roman  bar  we  know  fi\>m    I 
the  fame  of  Hoi*tensia,  the  daughter  of  the  J 
gi'oat  advocate  Hoi'tensius,  who  argued  so  .1 
effectively   against   a   "tax   on   matrons," 
when  the   orator's  of  the  day  declined  to 
undertake  their  cause,  that  she  procured  its 
remission,    in  a  speech   which   won   high 
praise    from    Quintilian.      Another  noble 
Roman   lady,  from  the  spirit  and  success 
with  which  she  defended  herself  in  a  suit  1 
brought  against  her,  got  the  name  of  "  An-  [ 
drogyne." 

Besides  women,  blind  men  were  forbiddeai 
to  practise  as  advocates,  on  account  of  the 
ridicule  caused  bv  one  Publius,  who,  being  | 
blind,  went  on  addressing  the  court  for  some  'j 
time  after  it  had  risen.     Justinian  prohi"  ,| 
bited  the  clergy  from  practising,  and  re-   | 
strictions  on  account  of  religion  were  nu-   1 
merous.    But  it  is  needless  to  dwell  farther 
on  this,  the  most  uninteresting  period  of  ■! 
the  liistoiy  of  the  bar.     In  another  paper  I 
wo  propose  to  say  something  of  the  funo   | 
tions  and  doings  of  the  advocates  of  modern  ,. 
times. 


I 


THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN     ' 

ACKLAND.  I 

A  Teue  Stoet. 

IX  THIKTEEN  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  It  I 

A^iON'G   Mr.  Cart  Wright's  guests  was  a   ■ 
young  lady  who  had,  or  was  supposed  to   j 
have,  an  exti-aordinary  fiaculty  for  descri-  ij 
bing    people's    characters    oi*    sensations:  Ij 
not  by  looking  at  their  handwriting,  but 
by    holding    it    in    her    hand,    and   tJins 
placing  herself  (it  was  averred)  in  mag- 
netic rapport  with  the  writers.     She  was  a 
merry,   good-natured    girl,    who    did   her 
spiriting  gently,  without  professing  much 
belief  in  it  herself,  and  always   ready  to  =| 
laugli  heartily  with   others  at  the  result   1 
whenever  (as  sometimes  happened)  it  was 
an  unmitigated  failure.     Tliis  evening  th^ 
experiment  had  been  tried  several  tixnfs 
with  more  than  usual  success ;  and  sundij 
hypercritical  spectators  averred  that  Miss 

i 


=&) 


GhariMDUikeiu.]  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OP  JOHN  ACKLAND.    [Sept  a*,  ism.)    408 


^ 


Simpson  had  made  a  great  many  lucky 
guesses. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Cartwright,  "that  is 
not  fair  on  I^Iiss  Simpson.  Here  is  the 
■writing  of  a  person  whom  nobody  present 
— not  even  myself — ^has  ever  seen.  Miss 
Simpson  shall  try  again  with  it,  and  I  will 
bet  you  all  that  she  guesses  right.*' 

He  drew  a  letter  from  liis  pocket,  and 
the  young  lady,  after  crumpling  it  for  a 
moment  in  her  hand,  said,  hesitatingly, 

"  This  is  a  woman's  writing." 

"  Right !"  said  Cartwright. 

"A  married  woman,"  said  Miss  Simpson, 
more  boldly. 

"  Right  again.     Any  childi'on  ?'' 

"No." 

"  Quite  right.     Married  long,  eh  ?" 

"  About  three  months,  I  think." 

"  Wonderful !"  exclaimed  Cartwright. 
**  It  is  just  three  months  and  nine  days." 

Mr.  Ackland  looked  up,  and  looked  red, 
and  fidgeted  in  his  chair. 

"  Oh,  Cartwright,"  cried  Judge  Griffin, 
"that  won't  do.  You  put  her  leading 
questions." 

"  WeU,  let  her  go  on  by  herself,"  said 
Ciirtw  right. 

He  had  noticed  John  Ackland's  move- 
ments and  was  looking  hai'd  at  his  New 
England  guest.  Mr.  Ackland  blushed 
again,  and  turned  away  his  face. 

"  But  she  is  not  happy — no,  not  at  all 
happy,"  said  Miss  Simpson,  musingly. 

"The  devil  she's  not!"  cried  Cart- 
wright; "but  'twas  a  love  raatcli,  wasn't 
it?" 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Miss  Simpson, 
after  a  pause,  and  doubtfully. 

"  My  withers  are  un wrung,"  said  Cart- 
wright, looking  round.  "  I  swear  I  never 
saw  the  lady  in  my  hfe." 

"  Does  she  care  more  for  somebody  else 
already,  ma'am,  than  for  her  husbajid?" 
asked  the  judge. 

"  More,  yes,"  replied  Miss  Simpson, 
"much,  no.  She  must  be  a  sti*ango  cha- 
luotcr.  Not  much  feeling  for  any  one,  I 
should  say,  except  for  herself.  She  jilted 
him." 

"Whom?"  demanded  all  the  listeners 
together. 

"  I  don't  know.  But  now  I  fancy  she 
half  regrets  him.  There  is  a  sti*ange  feeling 
about  this  letter." 

"  Pleasant  for  poor  Mordent !"  mut- 
tered Cartwright. 

John  Ackland  sprang  to  his  feet.  He 
was  not  red  this  time,  but  frightfully  pale, 
and  trembling  violently. 


"  The  letter!  the  letter  !"  he  cried,  and 
seized  the  hand  of  Miss  Simpson.  The 
young  lady  started  at  his  touch. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ackland,"  she  cried,  "why 
did  nobody  stop  me  ?  I  never  dreamed 
that  it  was  you-.''  But  already  John  Ack- 
land had  left  the  room. 

The  next  day  Cartwright  sought  out  his 
guest  (Mr.  Ackland  had  not  reappeared  in 
the  drawing-room  during  the  rest  of  that 
evening),  and  expressed  his  regret  for  the 
painful  incident  of  the  preceding  night. 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  were  even  ac- 
quainted with  Mrs.  Mordent,"  he  said. 

"  But  how  do  you  happen  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  her  ?"  asked  John  Ackland. 

"  Strictly  speaking,"  he  said,  "I  am 
not  acquainted  with  her.  Mordent  and 
I  were  schoolfellows  at  West  Point. 
He  wrote  to  me  soma  time  ago  informing 
me  of  his  engagement  to  Miss  Stevens; 
and,  as  I  anticipated  being  absent  from 
Vii^ginia  about  tiiat  time,  1  wanted  him 
and  his  bride  to  pass  their  honeymoon  at 
Glenoak.  I  also  asked  him  to  send  me  a 
portrait  of  the  future  Mrs.  M.  I  have  por- 
traits of  all  my  friends'  wives.  A  fiwicy 
of  mine.  He  declined  the  invitation,  but 
sent  me  the  portrait,  accompanied  by  a 
pretty  little  line  from  the  lady  herself. 
That  is  what  I  placed  in  Miss  Simpson's 
hands  last  night ;  and  I  assure  you  that  is 
all  I  know  of  Mrs.  Mordent." 

John  Ackland's  impatience  to  leave 
Glenoak  was  now,  however,  excessive. 
"  Every  time,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  I 
must  face  again  the  people  in  tliis  house  is 
intolerable  pain  to  me." 

Cartwiight  suggested  to  him  that  if  re- 
solved on  so  hasty  a  departure,  he  need 
not  return  to  Richmond.  "  By  going 
across  country,"  he  said,  "  you  will  save 
a  long  day's  journey,  and  catch  the 
Charleston  coach  at  a  poiwt  wliicli  is  nearer 
liei*e  than  Riclimond.  I  can  send  jimr  lucf- 
giij^o  on  by  tlie  cart,  this  niorninu;,  and  lond 
you  a  horse  to  ride  tlioro  this  nfumioon. 
We  will  dine  early,  and  if  you  stiirt  fmm 
here  on  horseback  at  four  o'clock,  you  will 
be  at  your  destination  before  nightfall,  antl 
a  good  hour  before  the  coaoh  is  duo  theiv. 
I  will  be  your  guide  across  the  plantation, 
and  put  you  on  your  road,  which  you  cannot 
possibly  miss.  I  would  gladly  accompany 
you  the  whole  way  thither,  if  I  had  not 
some  business  with  my  overseer  which  must 
be  settled  to-night.  You  can  leave  the  horse 
at  your  destination  with  the  ostlor  there. 
I  know  him,  and  can  trust  him  to  bring  it 
back  safely  to  G-lenoak.    WVy^X.  ^ic^  ^ws^X'*'' 


<^- 


404      [September  25, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


COottdoeted  bj 


"  That  would  certainly  be  my  best  and 
pleasantest  plan,"  said  Mr.  Ackland,  "  and 
really  I  am.  much  obliged  to  you  for  pro- 
posing it.  But  1  suppose  I  ought  to  go  to 
Richmond  about  those  notes." 

"  No  necessity  for  that,  I  think,"  an- 
swered Cartwright.  "  At  least  if  you  are 
in  a  hurry.  At  the  next  stage  after  you  join 
the  coach,  you  will  be  obliged  to  stop  the 
greater  part  of  the  morning.  I  know  a  very 
respectable  banker  whoso  ofl&ce  is  close  to 
the  hotel  where  you  change  horses  and  dine. 
I  will  give  you  a  line  to  him  if  you  like, 
and  you  can  change  the  notes  there." 

"  You  are  most  kind,  my  dear  friend, 
and  I  cannot  sufficiently  thank  you.  But 
do  you  think  it  would  be  safe  to  carry 
such  a  large  sum  in  notes  so  far  ?" 

"  If  you  carry  them  about  your  per- 
son, yes.  Luggage  sometimes  gets  mis- 
laid ;  but  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  robbers. 
Our  roads  are  not  so  unsafe  as  all  that, 
Mr.  Ackland,  sir.  I  have  travelled  all 
across  this  country,  sir,  on  horseback  with- 
out ever  having  any  misadventure,  and 
once  you  are  out  of  the  plantation  you 
have  only  a  few  miles  between  you  and  the 
coach.  By  the  way,  let  me  lend  you  my 
travelling  belt." 

"  Then,  indeed,"  said  John  Ackland,  "  if 
it  does  not  seriously  inconvenience  you, 
I  shall  gladly  accept  your  kind  offer.  For 
I  confess  that  even  your  hospitality " 

"Yes,  yes  !"  said  Cartwright,  "I  under- 
stand. And  greatly  as  I  regret  this  de- 
parture, I  cannot  press  you  to  stay.  There 
will  be  no  inconvenience  at  aU,  and  I  will 
at  once  give  orders  about  your  luggage." 

After  dinner,  when  John  Ackland  and 
his  host  were  mounting  their  horses,  "  We 
shall  have  a  cool  ride,  I  think,"  said  Cart- 
wright,  "and  there's  plenty  of  time,  so 
that  we  can  take  it  easy.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  we  put  up  some  game  as  we  go 
along.  We  had  better  take  our  guns  with 
ns." 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  sportsman,  I'm 
afraid,"  said  John  Ackland,  with  his  cus- 
tomary blush. 

"  Oh,"  laughed  the  other,  "  I  dare  say 
you  are  a  better  shot  than  I.  You  North- 
erners are  such  modest  gentlemen.  Any 
how,  there's  no  harm  in  having  out  the 
guns.  You  see  they  are  in  nobody's  way. 
That's  how  we  sling  'em  in  our  country, 
rough  but  handy.     Now  then." 

"  Good-bye  to  Glenoak,"  said  John  Ack- 
land, rather  sadly,  looking  up  at  the  house 
and  waving  his  hand.  His  melancholy  had 
been  excessive  during  the  whole  day. 


"  Not  good-bye  altogether,  I  hope,"  said 
Cartwright. 

And  off  they  started. 

CHAPTER  III. 

It  was  not  yet  dark  when  Cartwright 
returned  alone  to  Glenoak.  He  found 
Judge  Griffin,  assisted  by  the  betting  young 
gentleman,  working  his  way  through  a 
bottle  of  brandy  and  a  box  of  cigars  in  the 
arbour. 

"Well,  Cartwright,"  said  the  judge)  "I  | 
suppose  your  friend's  off,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes.  Poor  old  Ackland !  Good  fellow 
as  ever  lived.     I  shall  quite  miss  him." 

"  Very  amiable  man,"  said  the  judge. 

"  Bet  you  a  pony,  Cartwright,"  said  the 
betting  young  gentleman. 

"What  on?  Here,  you  black  block- 
head, bring  another  bottle  of  brandy,  ice, 
and  soda-water.  And  look  alive,  do  yon 
hear?  'Gad,  sir,  I've  swallowed  a  bushel 
of  dust,  and  am  as  dry  as  mud  in  a  brick- 
kiln." 

"  Bet  you,"  resumed  the  betting  young 
^ntleman,  "  that  the  Yankee  don't  reach 
Qie  coach  to-night.  Bet  you,  anyhow,  he'll 
come  to  grief." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Cartwright, 
sbarply. 

"Well,  sir,"  responded  that  promising 
youth,  "I  reckon  you  should  never  have 
set  him  on  that  black  mare  of  yours." 

"Pooh,"  said  Cartwright,  "the  mare's 
as  quiet  as  a  mouse." 

"  If  you  know  how  to  ride  her ;  but  he 
don't.  Very  queer  seat,  that  Yankee.  N<wr 
she  has  him  to  herself,  if  she  puts  her  head 
down  he'll  have  no  more  chance  with  her,  I 
reckon,  than  a  cat  in  hell  without  claws," 
said  tho  betting  young  gentleman,  appa- 
rently mucli  pleased  with  the  originality 
and  elegance  of  that  striking  figure  of 
speech. 

"  I  tell  you  the  mare's  as  quiet  as  ft 
mouse,"  growled  Cartwright.  "  Pray  do 
you  suppose,  my  young  friend,  that  your 
remarkable  facility  for  falling  head-foremoBi  : 
off  the  back  of  any  four-legged  animal  can 
be  acquired  without  very  pe-cu-liar  prac- 
tice ?  You've  been  practismg  it  yourself  a 
good  long  time,  you  know.'* 

The  betting  young  gentleman,  not  find-  ii 
ing  any  sufficiently  expressive  retort  in  the 
ready-made  idiom  of  his  native  tongue,  was 
carefully  preparing  one,  when  the  judge  in- 
terposed with, 

"  Find  any  game,  Cartwright  ?" 

"No,"  said  Cartwright,  "  not  to  speak  of. 
I  had  only  one  shot,  and  Ackland  none." 


4 


-Sb> 


GhwieflDickeiuu]    THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND.    [Sept  jw.  im]  405 


*'  Guessed  I  heard  a  gun  about  an  hour 
ago,"  said  the  betting  young  gentleman. 

"Lord  bless  yon  and  me,  judge,"  said 
Cartwright,  "  if  this  child  here  ain't  going 
to  die,  I  do  believe,  of  a  determination  of 
intelligence  to  the  brain.  The  peculiar 
acuteness  of  his  youthful  facxdties  is  some- 
thing quite  astonishing." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  wasn't  bom  yesterday," 
responded  the  disconcerted  subject  of  this 
sarcastic  compliment,  "  and  when  you  were 
as  young  as  I  am " 

"  I  never  was  as  young  as  you  are,  sir," 
said  Gartvmght. 

"  Well,  never  mind  that.  What  did  you 
bag,  old  boy  ?" 

"  Nothing,  young  reverend." 

"Never  knew  you  miss  before,  Cart- 
wright." 

"  Well,  I  don't  often  miss,  when  the  game 
is  as  easy — as  easy  as  I  mostly  find  it 
whenever  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  crack 
with  you,  my  young  friend." 

In  this  sprightly  conversation  Mr.  Philip 
Cartwright  was  still  exercising  his  wit  and 
humour,  when  that  "  black  blockhead,"  as 
his  master  called  him,  entered  the  arbour, 
looking  as  white  as  a  black  man  can  look, 
and  whispered  something  to  him. 

"Returned?  impossible!"  cried  Cart- 
wright, springing  up. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  the  two 
other  gentlemen ;  "  Ackland  back  again  ?" 

"  No,  but  the  mare's  back  again,  rider- 
less, covered  with  foam,  and  the  saddle 
turned.     The  marc  I  lent  him." 

"  Told  you  he'd  come  to  grief  with  her. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  she's  broke  his  neck," 
exclaimed  the  betting  young  gentleman, 
with  joyful  exultation. 

"  Tell  Sam  to  saddle  my  horse  instantly," 
cried  Cartwright.  "  Not  the  one  I  had  out 
to-day,  a  fresh  one." 

"Why,  where  are  you  going,  Cart- 
wright ?"  asked  the  judge,  not  very  well 
pleased  at  the  prospect  of  interrupted  pota- 
tions and  a  dull  evening. 

"l^o  look  for  poor  Ackland.  And  at 
once." 

"  But  it's  a  good  twelve  miles'  ride." 

"  Can't  help  that,  judge.  If  anything  has 
happened  to  my  poor  friend,  if  the  mare  has 
thrown  him,  he  may  be  in  want  of  assist- 
ance. I  saw  him  safe  through  the  planta- 
tion. If  anything  has  happened  to  him,  it 
cannot  have  been  long  after  I  left  him,  or  the 
niare  would  hardly  have  got  home  by  now, 
even  at  a  gallop.  Stay,  I'd  better  take  the 
waggon,  I  think.  K  he's  hurt  we  shall  want 
it.     Who  will  come  with  me  ?" 


1= 


"  Not  I,"  said  the  judge.  "  I'm  too  old. 
But  I  tell  you  what,  Cartwright,  if  you'll 
order  another  bottle  I'll  sit  up  for  you." 

"  I'll  come,"  said  the  betting  young  gen- 
tleman. 

"  Pooh,"  cried  Cartwright,  with  ineffable 
contempt.  "  You're  no  use.  I  must  be 
off."     And  off  he  went. 

When  he  returned  to  Glenoak  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  judge 
had  kept  his  word,  and  was  sitting  up  for 
him,  having  nearly  finished  his  second 
bottle.  Cartwright  dropped  into  a  chair 
haggard  and  exhausted.  He  had  been  to 
the  Coach's  point  and  back,  but  had  disco- 
vered nothing,  except,  indeed,  that  neither 
horse  nor  rider  had  arrived  that  evening 
from  Glenoak  at  the  inn  at  that  town,  and 
that  the  Charleston  coach  had  taken  in  no 
passengers  there. 

"  The  whole  thing  is  a  mystery,"  he  said. 
"  It  fairly  beats  me." 

"And  beat  you  look,"  said  the  judge; 
"  you'd  best  take  a  cocktail  and  go  to  bed. 
Found  no  trace  of  him  on  the  road  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"  Nor  heard  anything  of  him  ?" 

"  Nothing ;  absolutely  nothing." 

The  next  morning  aU  the  slaves  on  Mr. 
Cartvmght's  estate  were  assembled  and 
interrogated  about  the  missing  gentleman. 
Judge  Griffin  himself  conducted  the  in- 
quiry, and  very  severely  he  did  it.  Of 
course,  they  all  contradicted  each  other 
and  themselves,  and  floundered  about  in  a 
fathomless  slough  of  unintelligibility ;  for, 
whatever  natural  intelligence  they  pos- 
sessed was  extinguished  by  the  terror  of 
the  great  judge,  or  lost  in  the  labyrinths  of 
cross-examination.  One  old  negro  in  par- 
ticular, "whose  name  was  Uncle  Ned," 
revealed  such  a  profundity  of  stupidity, 
that  the  judge  said,  "  Cartwright,  that 
nigger  of  yours  is  the  stupidest  nigger  in 
all  niggerdom." 

"  He  is,"  said  Cartwnglit,  "  and  if  the 
black  beast  don't  mind  wliat  he's  about  I'll 
sell  him — whip  him  first,  and  sell  him 
afterwards." 

"  He  won't  fetch  much,  I  reckon,"  said 
the  judge. 

"  I'll  skin  him  alive  and  make  squash 
pie  of  him,  and  cat  him  with  pepper,  and 
salt,  and  vinegar,"  said  Cartwright,  show- 
ing all  the  teeth  in  his  handsome  mouth, 
and  looking  very  much  like  a  hungry  ogre. 
"I  have  my  eye  on  him,"  he  added,  "and 
he  knows  it." 

Poor  Uncle  Ned  did  indeed  appear  to 
have  a  very  lively  sense  of  the  \i3asa\£^tfss^«- 


<B= 


:j^ 


40G       [S?ptcmbor  25.  1S69.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


able  lionoTir  of  having  Mr.  Cartwriglit's 
eyo  on  him.  For  ho  ti-cmhled  violently, 
and  looked  like  an  old  black  nmbrella  with 
all  its  whalebones  working  in  a  high  wind. 

One  thing,  however,  resulted  from  this 
investij^ation.  None  of  Mr.  Cartwriffht's 
negroes  had  seen  anything,  none  of  them 
had  heard  anything,  none  of  them  knew 
anything,  that  could  shed  the  smallest  light 
on  the  fate  of  John  Ackland. 

All  Mr.  Cartwright's  guests  were  greatly 
excited  about  the  events  of  the  previous 
evening,  especially  the  ladies. 

'*  We  have  done  all  that  can  be  done  for 
the  present,  iny  dear  ladies,"  said  Judge 
Griffin,  ''but  I  regret  to  say  that  as  yet 
we  have  no  clue  to  this  mystery.  By  the 
way,  Cartwright,  suppose  we  try  ]Miss 
Simpson  ?" 

"Oh,  pray,  no  !"  said  that  young  lady; 
"you  know,  I  have  already  been  so  very 
unlucky  about  poor  Mr.  Ackland." 

"But  you  can*t  hurt  his  feelings  now, 
my  dear,  as,  unfortunately,  he  is  not  here  ; 
Jind  really  it  is  just  possible  that  you  may 
be  able  to  suggest  soniething." 

"  Psha  !*'  cried  Cartwright,  impatiently; 
"  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  seriously 
believe  in  that  nonsense,  judge  ?" 

"Nonsense  or  not,  there  is  no  harm  in 
trying,"  said  the  judge,  "and  you  have, 
doubtless,  some  letter  of  Ackland's  that 
will  do." 

"But,"  said  Miss  Simpson,  "it  ought  to 
be,  please,  sometliing  written  very  recently, 
if  possible." 

"  Stay !"  exclaimed  Cartwright,  "  I  have 
the  Yery  thing.  I  believe  it  was  the  last 
thing  John  Ackland  wrote  in  this  house. 
Anyhow,  the  writing  is  not  a  week  old." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  the  judge. 

"Why,  his  receipt,  to  be  sure,  for  the 
money  I  paid  him  the  other  day." 

Mr.  Cartwright  appeai'ed  to  regard  this 
document  as  one  of  peculiar  interest.  He 
insisted  on  handing  it  round,  and  showing 
it  to  eveiy  one :  remarking  at  the  same 
time  that  "  Ackland  wrote  a  bolder  hand 
than  any  one  could  have  supposed  from  the 
look  of  the  man."  The  only  person  to 
whose  hands  ho  did  not  seem  particularly 
willing  to  entrust  it,  was  Miss  Simpson. 
All  the  party,  however,  wei*o  eager  for  the 
experiment  to  begin,  and  that  young  lady 
was  much  urged  to  tiy  her  magnetic 
powers  on  the  document. 

"Don't  crumple  it!"  cried  Cartwright, 
nervously,  as  she  took  up  the  paper  some- 
what reluctantly. 
Hardly  had  she  touched  it,    however, 


before  Miss  Simpson's  whole  frame  seemed 
to  be  convulsed  by  a  sharp  spasm. 

"  Take  it  away !"  she  cried — "  take  it 
away  !  You  have  put  me  in  rapport  with 
a ." 

The  rest  of  this  exclamation  was  in- 
audible. But  Miss  Simpson  had  fainted.  It 
was  a  long  time  before  she  was  restored  to 
consciousness ;  and  then  she  declared  that 
she  had  no  recollection  of  anything  which 
had  passed. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Philip  Cart- 
wright to  Judge  Griffin  that  evening, 
"  this  is  a  very  serious  business ;  and  we 
ought  not  to  be  losing  time  about  it.  You 
must  come  with  me,  judge,  to  Richmond 
to-morrow." 

"  Do  you  suspect  violence  or  foul  play  ?" 
said  the  judge. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Cartwright, 
"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  it.  I  believe  that 
John  Ackland  when  he  left  Glenoak  had  a 
large  sum  of  money  with  him.  For  I  had 
some  talk  with  him  about  the  possibility  of 
changing  it  at  the  first  stage  to  Charleston. 
We  ought  to  lose  no  time,  I  think,  in 
setting  the  police  to  work." 

Cartwright,  accompanied  by  Judge  Grif- 
fin, went  to  Richmond  the  next  day.  And 
they  did  set  the  poHce  to  work.  And  the 
police  worked  hard  for  a  fortnight,  and 
made  a  great  many  inquiries,  and  sug- 
gested a  great  many  ingenious  hypotheses, 
but  discovered  absolutely  nothing. 

"  All  we  can  do  now,"  said  the  judges 
"  is  to  send  or  write  to  Charleston.  But, 
meanwhile,  don't  you  think  we  ought  to 
communicate  with  Mr.  Ackland's  friends  in 
the  north,  or  relatives,  if  he  lias  any  ?  Do 
you  know  any  of  them  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Cartwright^  "  I  had  thought 
of  that  before.  But  the  painful  ex- 
citement of  our  inquiries  here  during 
the  last  few  days  had  put  it  out  of  my 
mind.  I  am  not  personally  acquainted 
Avith  any  relations  of  poor  Ackland.  Bnt 
I  believe  he  has  a  cousin  at  Boston — a  Mr. 
Tom  Ackland — a  lawyer,  I  think — and  I'll 
^vrite  to  him  at  once.  I  don't  think  I  can 
do  any  more  good  here,  judge." 

"  Cfertahily  not,"  said  the  judge ;  "you've 
done  all  that  man  can  do,  and  more  than 
any  man  could  have  done  without  the  wits 
and  energy  of  Philip  Cartwright." 

"  But  I'm  quite  knocked  up,"  said  Cart- 
wright, "  and  I  shall  return  to  Glenoak  to- 
morrow." 

]^Ir.  Philip  Cartwright,  however,  did  not 
return  to  Glenoak  quito  so  soon  as  he  said 
For  on  the  evening  of  that  morrow  he  was 


! 


=^ 


:& 


Chtfics  Dickens.]  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OP  JOHN  ACKLAND    [Scpt.  25.  iscsj     407 


still  at  Richmond,  and  engaged  in  the 
transaction  of  a  very  important  little  piece 
of  bu^ness. 

CHAPTEE  IV. 

In  the  city  of  Richmond,  Virginia,  United 
States,  and  in  a  back  street  of  a  certain 
quarter  of  that  town  which  was  not  very 
well  reputed,  tliere  existed  a  certain  gam- 
bling-honse  which  was  very  ill  reputed.  As 
it  is  fortunately  possible  for  the  reader  of 
this  veracious  history  to  enter  that  house 
without  losing  either  his  character  or  his 
purse,  he  is  hereby  invited  to  do  so,  and 
to  grope  his  way,  as  best  he  can,  up  a 
dark  and  greasy  staircase  till  ho  reaches 
the  third  landing,  where,  in  a  small  room 
to  which  "stitingers  are  not  admitted," 
he  will  find  Mr.  Pliilip  S.  Cartwright 
in  close  conversation  with  a  Mexican 
gentleman  lately  anived  in  Richmond. 
This  Mexican  gentleman  is  of  such  modest 
and  retinng  habits,  that  although  he  has 
been  resident  about  three  weeks  in  the 
capital  of  Virginia,  and  is  a  gentleman 
of  st.riking  appearance  and  varied  accom- 
plishments, he  is  as  yet  unknown  to  any  of 
the  inhabitants  of  that  city,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  two  or  three  entei'prising  spirits 
who  are  interested  in  the  fortunes  of  the 
establishment  which  he  has  honoured  by 
selecting  as  his  temporary  place  of  abode. 
Perhaps,  also,  the  name  of  this  interesting 
foreigner  (which  figures  on  his  visiting- 
cards  as  Don  Ramon  Cabrera  y  Castro) 
may  be  not  altogether  unknown  to  some 
professional  students  of  character  whose  re- 
searches are  recorded  in  the  secret  archives 
I  of  the  Richmond  Police.  But,  if  this  bo  so, 
neither  he  nor  they  have  as  yet  taken  any 
steps  towards  increasing  theu'  acquaintance 
with  each  other.  To  the  select  few  who 
have  been  privileged  to  hold  unrestricted 
personal  intercourse  with  Don  Ramon 
during  his  short  residence  at  Richmond,  he 
is  familiarly  known  as  the  Don.  He  is  a 
gentleman  of  polished  mamiers  and  polished 
nails  ;  an  epicurean  philosopher,  who  takes 
the  evil  with  the  good  of  life  cheerfully  and 
calmly.  By  the  side  of  the  don,  even  the 
descendant  of  the  cavaliers  looks  coarse 
and  underbred. 

"I  t«,ll  you,"  said  Cart^\Tight,  "it  was 
all  no  use.  You  must  get  up  early  if  you 
want  t<»  catch  a  Yankee  napping.  He  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Said  it  wasn't 
in  his  line  of  business.  Trrcf,  that  cock 
wouldn't  fight,  sir." 

"Just  so,"  said  the  don,  without  looking 
up  from  the  occupation  in  which  he  was 
then  absorbed,  for  ho  was  paring  his  nails. 


They  were  very  polished,  very  pink,  and 
very  spiky  naUs.  "You  failed,  in  short, 
my  dear  fiiend." 

"  Not  my  fault,"  replied  Cartwright :  "  I 
did  what  I  could." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  don ;  "  and  Don 
Filippo  can't  do  more  than  a  man  can 
do.  You  did  what  you  could,  but  you 
couldn't  dispose  of  the  notes.  Just  so. 
Where  are  they  ?" 

"  Here,"  said  Cartwright,  "  and  you'll 
find  them  all  right."  Ho  pushed  a  httlo 
black  box  across  the  table,  which  seemed  to 
be  common  property  of  the  two  gentlemen, 
for  the  don  took  a  small  key  from  his  own 
pocket,  opened  the  box,  and  taking  from  it 
a  bundle  of  bank-notes,  held  up  one  of  them 
against  the  candle  (making  a  transparency 
of  it),  and  contemplated  it  with  a  tender, 
musing,  and  melancholy  eye. 

"They  are  beautifully  made,"  he  mur- 
mured, softly;  "just  look  at  the  water- 
mark, mi  querido  Don  Filippo.  A  master- 
piece of  art !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Cartwright,  "  they  couldn't 
beat  that  in  New  York." 

"  Not  in  all  the  world — not  in  heaven 
itself!"  sighed  the  don,  with  that  subdued 
voice  expressive  of  sensuous  oppression 
which  is  inspired  by  the  contemplation  of 
any  perfectly  beautiful  object. 

"But  I  reckon  you'd  better  not  drop  'em 
about  Richmond,"  said  Cartwright. 

"  You  think  so  ?"  responded  the  don, 
musingly ;  "you  really  think  so ?" 

"  Our  people  are  too  shai'p  now.  They 
were  caught  once,  but  I  take  it  they  won't 
be  caught  twice." 

"  Caught  once  ?'* 

"Out  and  out.  Two  years  ago.  By 
a  Quaker  chap  travelling  down  South  for 
the  propagation  of  Christian  knowledge, 
and  various  little  manufactured  articles  of 
your  sort." 

"  Then  it's  no  use  my  staying  here  ?"  said 
the  don. 

"  Don't  think  it  is,"  said  Cartwright. 

"  And  I  think  you'd  better  pay  my  bill 
before  1  le.'ive,  my  dear  fiiend." 

*'  I'll  do  what  I  promised,"  said  Cart- 
wriijht. 

"  You  really  think,  then,"  said  the  don, 
"  that  there  is  no  opening  for  investment 
at  Richmond  ?" 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  Cartwright. 

"  But  you  forget."  resumed  his  com- 
panion, "  that  if  I  did  invest  any  portion  of 
this  little  capital  for  the  benefit  of  your 
city,  sir,  and  if  tliat  benevolent  sijec^vi^v 
unhappily  failed,!  tn^X^asX*  ^QT3W>a^ 


rR: 


jb 


408 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[September  S^  18ft9.] 


tlio  pain  of  contemplating  the  failure,  since 
I  should  no  longer  be  in  the  States." 

"  It  would  fail/*  said  Cartwright,  "  before 
you  could  get  clear  of  the  States,  and  the 
Union  has  extradition  treaties." 

"Not  with  all  the  world,'*  replied  the 
don;  "not  with  all  America  even.  Not 
with  Texas,  for  instance.** 

"  Well,  why  not  try  Texas  at  once  ? 
Capital  place.  Just  over  the  frontier,  and 
just  beyond  the  law.'* 

"  I  am  thinking  of  it,*'  said  the  don. 
"  But  there  are  drawbacks.  Judge  Lynch, 
for  instance,  bowie-knives,  and  tar-barrels,  if 
a  man  has  the  misfortune  to  lose  popu- 
larity. Besides,  *tis  a  devil  of  a  distance ; 
and  though,  of  course,  you  will  pay  tra- 
velling expenses " 

"  That's  not  in  the  bargain,**  exclaimed 
Cartwright,  thrusting  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  not  very  unlike  a  Bengal  tiger  in  a 
small  cage.    "  I  never  agreed  to  that,  don.** 

"But  you  will  agree  to  it,  of  course. 
Friends  must  help  each  other,  specially  such 
intimate  firiends  as  you  and  1.  And  just 
now,  you  know,  you  are  so  rich — at  least, 
so  much  richer  than  I.** 

"I  ain*t  rich,*'  said  Cartwright;  "and 
you  know  it.     But  I  have  an  idea,  don.*' 

"  Fclicita  !"  cried  the  don,  bowing. 
"  Ideas  are  valuable  properties.  Yours 
especially,  my  dear  friend.  Virginia  mines ; 
you  don't  work  'em  half  enough.  I  suppose 
you  want  a  partner.    What  are  the  terms  ?* * 

"  I  want  you  to  go  down  to  Charleston.'* 

"  It  is  out  of  my  way.** 

"  Expenses  paid.'* 

"  And  from  there  to  Texas  ?*' 

"  And  from  there  to  Texas.** 

"Business  at  Charleston  likely  to  last 
long?** 

"  A  month  at  longest.     Possibly  less.'* 

"  Say  a  month,  then.  Charleston*8  a  dear 
city.  Month's  board,  lodging,  carriage  hire, 
small  pleasures ** 

"  Paid.** 

"  For  a  foreign  gentleman  of  distinction. 
Living  twice  as  dear  for  foreigners  as  for 
natives.  Risk  paid,  too.  Risk's  every- 
thing in  the  calculation,  you  know.  May 
be  heavy.     Haven't  heard  what  it  is  yet." 

"  None  in  the  world.  But  I  must  think 
the  matter  over.  Meet  me  here  to-morrow 
night  at  the  same  hour.  If  we  agree  as  to 
terms,  can  you  start  at  once  ?** 


"  The  sooner  the  better,  my  dear  friend." 

"  Then  to  morrow  night." 

"  I  shall  await  you  here." 

"And  now,"  said  Cartwright,  "to  get 
out  of  this  cursed  den  without  being  seen. 
Don't  forget  to-morrow  night." 

So  the  two  gentlemen  parted  for  thai 
evening. 

They  met  again  on  the  following  niglii 
accord[ing  to  appointment.      On  each  oo» 
casion  the  conversation  between  them  was 
carried  on  in  Spanish,  the  only  langoaffe 
which  Don  Ramon  spoke  fluently.     In  toe 
interval  between    their  first  and  second 
interview,  Cartwright  was  busily  engaged 
all  day  and  a  great  part  of  the  ni^ht,  too, 
in  his  own  room  at  the  hoteL     Probably  in 
some  occupation  of  a  literary  nature ;  for 
before  he  began  it  he  purchased  a  great 
quantity  of  writing  materials,  various  kinds 
of  inks,  various  kinds  of  pens,  various  kinds 
of  paper,  and  when  he  had  finished  it,  lie  left 
behind  him,  as  he  unlocked  the  door  and 
went  out  to  keep  his  appointment  with  Don 
Ramon,  not  even  a  pen  or  a  scrap  of  paper. 
The  work  on  which  he  had  been  so  assidu- 
ously employed  must   have  absorbed  all 
these  materials,  and  perhaps  spoiled  many 
of  them ;  for  in  the  room,  as  he  left  it,  there 
was  a  strong  smell  of  burnt  pens  and  burnt 
paper. 

On  the  morrow  of  that  night  Don  Ramon 
left  Richmond,  not  by  the  ordinary  con- 
veyance, but  by  a  horse  and  buggy,  which 
he  had  purchased  for  the  purpose,  since,  he 
said,  ho  was  travelling  for  his  pleasure. 
And  to  a  gentleman  who  could  afford  to 
pay  for  his  pleasure,  nothing  was  less  plea- 
sant than  to  be  booked  from  place  to  place 
like  a  parcel.  The  same  day  Philip  Cait- 
wriglit  returned  to  Glenoak. 

Kow  Beady,  price  5s.  6d.,  bound  in  green  olotb, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OT  THE  New  Sebibs  of 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

TobehadofallBookeellers.  

MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 


MESSES.  CHAPPELLandCO.  hare  great  pi 
in  announcing  that  Ms.  Ghaeles  Dickses  wUirewa* 
and  conclude  his  interrupted  scries  of  FARSWELL 
READINGS  at  St.  James's  Hall,  London,  eaiijin 
the  New  Year. 

The  Readings  will  be  Twelve  in  Nvmbbb,  and  none 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

All   communications    to    be  addressed  to 
CiiAPPELL  and  Co.,  50,  New  Bond-atroet,  W. 


// 


The  Right  of  Tramlaiing  Jrticles/rom  All  tu£  Yeab  Hound  it  reserved  by  ike  Juihen, 


PttbUabed  at  tlie  Office,  Ko.W,  WaUtogion  litjcwv  B^raaflL   YttoX«A\(i  ^."^^BStiWKifcewa«*.'*s«Bfc;i 


^- 


VEROSICA. 


In  FrvE  Books- 


chapter  I.    AUNT  ASH  NIECE. 

Ib  the  first  ahock  of  amazement  at  the 
calamity  wbioh  had  overtaken  the  family 
at  the  vicarage,  none  of  those  who  par- 
ticipated in  it  had  had  room  in  their  minds 
for  the  entertainment  of  uny  minor  sensa- 
tion of  Bnrprise. 

Bnt  it  waa  not  very  long — not  many 
dayB,  that  is  to  say — before  Lady  TalHs, 
or  as  her  proper  title  now  ran,  Lady  Tailis 
Gale,  began  to  wonder  how  Mr.  Levin- 
court  had  discovered  her  whereabouts,  and 
to  qnostion  Mand  on  the  sabject. 

The  latter  had  been  very  ill  dnring'  the 
first  days  of  her  stay  in  London.  Grief 
and  anxiety  alone  wonld  not  have  pros- 
trated the  yonthfnl  vigonr  of  her  body. 
Bat  BO  many  harrowing  emotionB  preceding 
a  long  nigntr-joamey,  and  so  overwhelm- 
ing a  shock  awaiting  at  the  close  of  the 
jonmey  a  frame  in  great  need  of  food  and 
ivst,  had  stricken  down  the  young  girl, 
and  laid  her  on  a  bed  of  sickness. 

Her  aunt  forgot  her  own  delicacy  of 
tsalth  and  inert  habits  to  tend  Mand-  She 
foold  Bcarcely  allow  a  servant  to  come 
n*ar  the  steering  girl,  but  waited  on  her 
^T  and  night  with  untiring  care. 

In  Epite  of  the  terrible  circumatanccs 
wtich  had  brought  Maud  to  London,  in 
ipite  of  the  draidftil  discovery  that  the 
laa  who  had  been  guilty  of  the  abduction 
of  Veronica  Levincourt  was  the  huHband 
who  had  wronged,  outraged,  and  finally 
ahandoned  herself,  it  would  not  be  too 
nraoh  to  say  that  Hilda  Tailis  enjoyed  the 


TWOFENCK. 


first  momenta  of  happiness  she  had  known 
during  many  weary  years,  by  the  bedside 
of  her  sister's  child. 

It  was  sweet  to  feel  that  there  was  some 
one  bound  by  the  ties  of  blood  to  feel 
kindly  toward  her.  It  was  still  sweeter 
to  find  a  being  who — at  least  for  a  time — 
depended  njion  her  for  love  and  care  and 
tendance. 

The  poor  lonely  wife,  in  the  first  days  of 
the  discoveiy  that  her  husband  had  ceased 
to  feel  for  her,  even  such  love  as  can  be 
inspired  by  a  fair  fece^  had  longed  with  all 
her  heart  for  a  child. 

The  conduct  of  Sir  John  Tailis,  which 
had  gone  on  deepening  through  epery 
shade,  from  grey  indifference  down  to  ab- 
solutely black  brutality,  had  effectually 
quenched  whatever  germ  of  regard  for  him 
poor  Hilda  might  once  have  cherished, 
Bnt  fiw  some  time  she  clung  to  the  idea 
that  ho  would  bo  kinder  to  her  if  there 
were  any  prospect  of  her  bringing  him  an 
heir.  She  was  the  kind  of  woman  who 
would  probably  have  loved  her  children 
better  than  her  husband,  even  had  that 
husband  been  good  and  affectionate. 

She  would  have  enjoyed  superintending 
the  government  of  a  nursery,  and  have 
craved  for  no  other  companionship  than 
that  of  her  prattling  babies. 

The  dependency  of  sickness  made  Maud 
appear  almost  liko  a  child  in  her  aunt's 
eyes.  Lady  Tailis  nursed  her  with  more 
than  needful  devotion.  She  was  jealous  of 
any  person  save  herself  approaching  her 
oieco  to  render  any  service.  The  sound  of 
Maud's  voice  calling  on  her  for  the  least 
tendance  was  music  in  her  ears.  She 
would  even  have  liked  the  sick  girl  to  be 
exacting  in  her  demands.  And  hod 
Maud  been  the  most  tteX.ti  Kcii.  Sm'^^rs.craa 
of  invalids,  vQ&te«A  o?  ^i«vii%,  *a  ^^i  •s'aa. 


di 


4]0      [Octobar  2, 18W.1 


ALL  THK  YEAR  ROUND. 


CQowlnelBdbf 


il 


thoponp^hly  patient  and  self-  controlled. 
Lady  Tallis  would  bavo  joyfully  indulged 
her  in  every  wliim. 

In  a  tew  days,  lioweror,  tiia  illiiess 
passed  away,  and  J^Iaud  insisted  on  rising, 
altlioQgh  Lady  Talliti  declared  that  she 
ought  not  to  leave  her  bed  for  at  least 
another  week  to  come. 

The  vicar  remained  in  London  until 
Maud's  health  was  re-establiahed.  He 
lingered  about  the  house  in  Gower-street 
fitfully,  and  would  seldom  consent  to  enter 
Lady  Tallis' s  apartments ;  but  he  informed 
himself  daily  of  his  ward's  condition. 

At  length,  after  rather  more  than  a 
fortnight's  sojourn  in  London,  he  returned 
to  Shipley. 

"  It  is  a  horrible  trial  to  go  back,"  said 
ho,  in  his  farewell  interview  with  Maud. 

"  Must  you  go,  Uncle  Charles  ?"  she 
asked,  her  eyes  brimming  with  tears, 
which  she  kept  from  falling  by  a  strong 
effort  of  will. 

**Must  I?  Yes:  I  cannot  give  up  the 
vicarage.  I  cannot  exist  without  it.  I 
cannot  afford  to  pay  another  man  to  do  my 
duty  there,  and  retain  enough  to  live  upon. 
I  might  put  off  the  evil  day  a  while  longer. 
But  to  what  purpose?  The  sight  of  the 
place — the  very  name  of  the  place — ^is 
loathsome  to  me.     But  what  oan  I  do  P" 

"  I  ^^dsh  I  could  help  you  !" 

"  Yon  cannot  help  me,  Maudie.  No  one 
can  help  me." 

Then  Maud  asked  a  timid  faltering  ques- 
tion, holding  his  hand  and  turning  away 
her  head  as  she  spoke.  Had  he  heard  any 
tidings  of — of — the  fugitives  ? 

She  could  not  soe  his  face,  but  his  voice 
wae  very  stem  and  deep  as  he  answered 
her.  They  had  gone  abroad  together,  ho 
had  learned.  Qone  to  Italy.  It  mattered 
nothing  to  what  place.  She  was  dead  to 
him  henceforward.  Maud  must  mention 
her  name  no  more.  He  had  answered  her 
question;  but  she  must  promise  never  to 
speak  to  him  of  his  lost  daughter  more. 

"  I  cannot  promise  it,  dear  Uncle  Charles," 
said  Maud,  no  longer  able  to  restrain  her 
tears. 

"  Maud  !  Do  not  you  separate  yourself 
from  me,  too !" 

"  No,  no  !  I  shall  always  love  you,  and 
be  grateful  to  you.  But  I — I  cannot  make 
that  pix^niise.  Some  day  you  might  be 
glad  yourself  that  I  did  not  make  it." 

Mr.  Levincourt  rose.  "  Good- by,  Maud," 
he  said,  abruptly.  "  The  time  is  drawing 
near  for  my  departure.  I  have  but  a  couple 
of  hoars  before  leaving  London.^ 


»> 


He  went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

8he  hettrd  his  footsteps  descending  i^ 
staks  slowly  and  heavily.  He  paused,  cane 
back,  and  re-entering  the  room  when 
MiMid  was  silently  weeping,  took  her  in  hii 
arms  and  kissed  her  forehead.  She  c1ud|^ 
to  him,  sobbing.  ^'  O  thank  yovi,"  she  mu^ 
mured — "  thank  you  for  coming  back.  Yen 
arc  not  angry  with  me,  dear  Uncle  Charles  F" 

"No,  no;  not  ancTT — ^never  angry  wi& 
thee,  my  sweet  childie.  God  bless  ihee^ 
Maud !    God  for  ever  bless  thee !" 

"  You  will  write  to  me^  Unde  Chaxtei 
will  you  not  ?" 

"  I — ^perhaps — ^weD,  weD,  I  will  write  to 
you." 

"And  I  may  come  and  stay  with  you 
again  some  day  ?  J£  even  it  ia  but  for  a 
time,  I  may  come?  You wiU  be  so  lonely!'' 
she  added,  with  a  passionate  burst  of  tears. 

"  Heaven  knows,  my  child !  It  may  be 
that  some  day  Good-by,  Maud.   God 

Almighty  bless  and  guard  you  for  ever !" 

Then  he  went  away. 

Lady  Tallis's  intentions  in  her  behaviour 
to  her  niece  were  all  kindness,  but  it  often 
happened  that  she  inflicted  pain  from  want 
of  judgment.  But  on  the  evening  of  tlie 
day  on  which  the  above  interview  took 
place,  Lady  Tallis^s  garroliiy  was  graiefnl 
to  MjsAid's  feelings.  So  long  as  her  aunt 
would  talk  on  indifferent  subjectSi  and  hk 
her  listen  in  silence,  or  at  most  with  the 
occasional  contribution  of  a  monosyllable, 
tho  young  girl  was  able  to  retain  a  calm- 
ness and  quietude  that  were  soothing  to 
mind  and  body. 

Lady  Tallis's  conversation  lamUed  on 
discursively  from  topic  to  topic  She  talked 
of  scenes  familiar  to  her  own  childhood, 
and  of  persons  who  died  before  Hand  was 
bom,  as  though  the  latter  must  naturally 
be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  what  «jfe 
knew  so  welL 

All  at  once  she  laid  down  her  work,  and 
exclaimed :  "  Oh,  by-the-by,  now !  There's 
something  1  partumUurly  wanted  to  say  to 
yc,  and  I  have  never  said  it  yet !" 

Maud  was  beginning  to  nnderstaiid  ihat 
her  aunt's  emphasis  was  by  no  means 
always  proportioned  to  the  importanoe  of 
that  which  she  had  to  say :  at  least  as  &r 
as  she  (Maud)  could  judge  of  the  relative 
amount  of  importance  that  could  fiurly  be 
attributed  to  Lady  Tallis's  speeches.  Sbe 
was  therc&re  less  startled  than  she  miffht 
have  been  a  fortnight  earlier,  by  ia 
aunt's  impressive  announcement. 

'^What  is  it  that  you  wanted  to  say, 
Aunt  Hilda?" 


■Si. 


Gharles  DIokens.] 


VERONICA. 


[Odober  2, 18C9.]      411 


"  Why,  my  goodness,  my  darling  child, 
I  wonder  how  in  the  world  I  never  asked 
the  question  before !  It  has  been  in  my 
mind  hundreds  of  times  !" 

Maud  waited  patiently  with  on  attentive 
£aK9e. 

**How  in  the  world,  did  you  and  Mr. 
Levinoourt  find  out  that  I  was  living  here  ? 
D'ye  know,  my  dear  pet,  I  am  perfectly 
astonished  to  remember  that  I  was  not 
more  astonished  at  the  time  1  Can  ye  un- 
derstand that  state  of  mindp  It  was  all 
Budi  a  whirl,  such  a  sudden,  unexpected 
kind  of  thing  altogether,  that  I  suppose  a 
little  wonder  more  or  less  didn't  make  much 
difference !" 

"  Our  coming  straight  to  the  place  where 
yog  lived,  was  a  mere  chance,  Aunt  Hilda. 
We  came  here  with  merely  a  hope,  and 
not  a  Tery  strong  one,  that  we  might  get 
your  address  from  Mrs.  Lockwood.  And 
even  then,  we  should  not  have  found  you, 
had  not  Uncle  Charles's  card  been  carried 
up  to  Mrs.  Lockwood  with  an  inquiry  for 
mdy  Tallis  written  on  it.  Otherwise,  as 
you  are  now  Lady  €ble,  we  should  have 
missed  you,  though  you  were  so  close  to 
IS.  But  Mrs.  Lockwood  knew  at  once  that 
yoa  were  the  person  we  were  asking  for." 

^And  did  ye  know  Mrs.  Lockwood? 
Why  now,  just  imagine  her  never  mention- 
iag  in  the  most  distant  manner,  that  she 
bSi  the  smallest  acquaintance  with  any  of 
the  &mily !  I  declare  it's  most  extraordi- 
Bsry !  And  the  times  I  have  spoken  to  her 
ef  my  niece !  For,  my  darling,  I  needn't 
say  that  if  we  have  been  separated  all 
wmm  years,  it  has  not  been  m>m  any  in- 
diffinreDce  on  my  part !" 

Maud  quietly  explained  that  she  had 
oever  seen  or  known  Mrs.  Lockwood,  but 
that  die  had  met  her  son  at  a  country 
house ;  and  that  he  had  spoken  of  Lady 
TiUis,  and  of  the  manner  in  which  he  and 
his  mother  had  made  her  ladyship's  ao- 
qnaintanoe. 

**  It's  all  perfectly  true,  my  dear,  every 
lyllable  of  it !"  said  Lady  Tallis,  with  as 
mnoh  solemnity  of  corroboration  as  though 
Maud  had  expressed  the  gravest  doubts  of 
Mr.  Hugh  Lockwood's  veracity. 

"  Yes,  aunt :  I  did  not  feel  any  doubt  of 
that,"  she  answered. 

"No,  ye  need  not,  child.  An  exceed- 
iaglj  amiable  and  gentleman-like  young 
man  he  is.  And  his  mother  is  a  delight- 
fid  person.  I  called  on  her  according  to 
promise,  when  I  came  to  London.  I  was 
staying  in  a  boarding-house;  and  that's 
what  I  would  never  advise  any  one  I  oared 


for  to  do,  the  longest  day  they  had  to 
live  !  Oh,  upon  my  honour  and  word,  the 
dreariness  and  misery  of  the  boardiog- 
houses  I  have  been  in,  exceed  description. 
I  thought  I  would  find  something  like 
society,  but,  oh  dear  me !  the  people  you 
have  to  put  up  with,  are  something  un- 
speakable !  However,  that  wasn't  what  I 
was  going  to  tell  ye.  Well,  I  asked  Mrs. 
Lockwood,  did  she  happen  to  know  of 
any  respectable  lodging  in  her  neighbour- 
hood For  I  was  resolved  to  get  quit  of 
boarding-houses  altogether.  And  I  wished 
to  be  witliin  hail  of  some  human  being 
that  would  say  a  kind  word  to  me  once  a 
month,  or  so :  for,  indeed,  child,  I  was  very 
lonely." 

"  Poor  Aunt  Hilda !"  whispered  Maud, 
stroking  Lady  Tallis's  thin  hand. 

"Oh  indeed  ye  may  say  *rioh  Aunt 
Hilda,'  now  I  liave  you,  Maudie.  Here, 
let  me  put  this  footstool  under  your  feet. 
Nonsense,  child,  about  ^  troubling  myself.' 
You're  not  half  as  strong  yet  as  you  fancy 
yourself.  There  !  Well,  so  just  fancy  my 
delight  when  she  said  that  she  would  bo 
ycrj  glad  to  let  the  first  floor  of  her  own 
house  to  a  person  that  she  knew !  My 
dear,  1  jumped  at  it.  And  here  I  am,  and 
extremely  comfortable  it  is.  And  cheap. 
For  you  know,  my  dear  child,  that  he 
keeps  me  shamefully  short  of  money. 
Sometimes  I  have  much  ado  to  get  any  at 
aJL  Well,  there,  then,  we  won't  say  anv 
more  on  that  score  jxut  now.  But  ye'Il 
like  Mrs.  Lockwood— -oh  indeed  ye  will !" 

"  Is  she — I  mean  is  her  son  at  all  like 
her  P" 

"Not  the  very  least  bit  in  the  world," 
rejoined  Lady  Tallis,  with  a  sort  of  almost 
triumphant  emphasis.  "Not  one  atom. 
I  never,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  days, 
saw  a  mother  and  son  more  etUirely  unlike 
each  other." 

"  Oh !" 

"Entirely  unlike  each  other.  Why, 
now,  the  young  man — Hugh — ^is  a  strap- 
ping handsouLe  young  fellow  as  you'd  be 
likely  to  meet  in  a  long  summer's  day. 
Isn't  he?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Oh,  yes !  Upon  my  honour,  you  don't 
seem  more  than  half  to  agree  with  me. 
But  I  can  tell  you  that  if  you  don't  think 
Hugh  Lockwood  a  remarkably  fine  young 
man,  you  are  more  fastidious  than  the 
girls  used  to  be  in  my  time.  It  may  be 
true  that  he  hasn't  quite  the  grand  air« 
And  if  you  are  as  mnsk  oi  ^^^aa^e^ 
your  poosT  giendi^aiagss  1^^  ^""^^1  ^JojpRfe  ^ 


<r& 


:& 


412      [October  2, 1369.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conflicted  by 


that.  Hugh  certainly  is  tant  soit  pen 
bourgeois." 

"Oil,  I  thought,  Aunt  Hilda— we  all 
thought  at  Lowater  House  —  that  Mr. 
Lock  wood  was  thoroughly  a  gentleman/' 

"Well,  I'm  dehghted  to  hear  it.  I 
fancied  you  were  turning  up  your  nose  at 
him  a  little.  How  flushed  you  are,  child  ! 
Let  me  feel  your  forehead.  No;  there's 
no  appearance  of  fever.  And  now  the 
colour  is  fading  away  again.  I  shall  send 
you  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock — not  a  moment 
later." 

"  Very  well,  Aunt  Hilda.  But  you  were 
saying — that— that  Mrs.  Lockwood " 

"  Oh,   to  be  sure !     Yes  ;   let  me  sec. 

Mrs.  Lockwood Oh,  now  I  have  it )     I 

was  saying  that  she  is  so  unlike  her  son, 
wasn't  I  ?  Well,  she  is.  He  is,  as  I  said, 
a  strajDping  robust-looking  creature.  I 
suppose  ho  inherits  his  burliness  from  his 
peasant  ancestors.     His  father's  fother,  you 

know,  was Ah  !  you  do  know  all  about 

it  ?  Yes — quite  rustics.  And  Hugh  is 
not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  his  grand- 
father." 

'  *  Ashamed !  Why  should  he  be  ashamed  ?  * ' 

"  Well,  my  dear,  if  you  come  to  that, 
why  should  we  bo  proud  of  our  ancestors  ? 
Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know.  Still,  there 
is  a  kind  of  feeling.  However,  Hugh  is 
too  manly  and  upright  for  any  mean  pre- 
tensions, and  I  quite  respect  him  for  it. 
But  as  to  his  mother,  she  is  the  tiniest  fairy 
of  a  woman  you  ever  saw  in  all  your  days. 
She  really  is  more  like  one  of  the  '  good 
people'  that  our  old  nurse  at  Delaney  used 
to  tell  us  about,  than  anything  else — in 
size,  I  mean — ^for  there  is  nothing  fantastic 
about  her." 

"  I  am  sure  to  like  her  for  her  kindness 
to  you,  Aunt  Hilda." 

"Lideed,  she  is  very  kind.  And  so 
thoughtful !  and  has  such  good  mannei*s ! 
She  came  every  day  while  you  were  in 
bed,  and  inquired  about  you.  But  she 
never  intrudes.  But  I  thought  of  asking 
her  to  take  tea  with  us  quietly  some  even- 
ing, if  you  don't  mind.  For  now  her  son 
is  not  at  home,  she  is  lonely  too.  And 
before  I  had  you,  Maudie,  I  was  very  glad 
of  Mrs.  Lock  wood's  company." 

Maud,  of  course,  begged  that  her  aunt 
would  invite  Mrs.  Lockwood  as  often  as 
she  chose.  But  in  truth  she  shrank  from 
the  sight  of  a  stranger.  There  was  no  hour 
of  tlio  day  when  Yeronica  was  absent  from 
her  thoughts.     There  had  been  no  prepa- 


ration  for  the  temfio  blow  that  had  fallen.  ^       -    * 
She  bad  bade  Yeroxiica  farewell  that  mght  \     sot  ^\hfi»d  T^aaous^  and  firom  the  know- 


at  Lowater  House,  with  no  faintest  fore- 
shadowing of  what  was  to  come.  She  tor- 
mented herself  sometimes  with  the  idea 
that  if  sho  (Maud)  had  returned  to  the 
vicarage  and  remained  with  Veronica,  the 
evil  would  not  have  happened.  There  were 
moments  when  she  longed,  with  a  painfully 
intense  longing,  to  set  forth  to  follow  the 
unhappy  girl,  to  find  her,  and  bring  her 
back,  and  soothe  and  dicrish  her,  and 
shelter  her  among  them  again.  She  could 
not  understand  tiiat  her  guardian  should 
abandon  his  daughter  without  an  effort. 
Then  the  doubt  arose  whether  Veronica 
herself  would  consent  to  return. 

"  If  I  could  go  to  her,  see  her,  and  per- 
suade her,  she  would  come  back ;  she 
would  leave  that  dreadful  man.  She  can- 
not care  for  him '* 

So  ran  her  thoughts.  And  then  the 
remembrance  would  startle  her  like  a  sud- 
den blow,  that  the  man  was  the  hnsband 
of  her  mother's  sister ;  and  she  would  hide 
her  face  in  her  trembling  hands  and  shud- 
der with  a  confused  sensation  of  teiror. 

Sho  was  spared  the  spectacle  of  any 
acute  suffering  on  the  part  of  her  annt. 

Lady  Tallis  made  no  pretensions  to  out- 
raged wifely  affection.  All  such  sentiment 
had  been  killed  in  her  long  years  ago.  Bnt 
there  was  a  curious  phase  of  feeling — 
the  last  &iint  protest  of  her  trampled  self- 
respect — ^the  one  di'op  of  gall  in  her  sub- 
missive nature — ^which  imide  her  regard 
Veronica  with  something  as  near  nuiooiir 
as  could  be  entertained  by  a  character  so 
flavourless,  meek,  and  weaJc. 

Maud  shrank  with  instinctiye  delicacy 
from  any  mention  of  Veroniisa  to  the  wife 
of  Sir  John  Grale.  But  her  annt  had  volun- 
tarily spoken  of  the  vicar's  danghter  on 
one  or  two  occasions ;  and  had  mentioned 
her  in  terms  that  caused  Maud  themoBt 
exquisite  pain.  The  relations  of  the  latter 
to  all  concerned  in  this  misery  and  shasu^ 
were  peculiarly  complicated  and  delicate. 
And  the  sorrowing  girl  strove  to  hide 
her  grief.  Maud's  was  still  the  same 
naturo  which  had  caused  Mrs.  Levinootui 
to  characterise  her  as  "stolid"  and  "un- 
feeling," when  she  had  suppressed  her 
childish  tears  at  sight  of  the  strange  &ces 
in  her  new  home.  Mrs.  Levinoonrt  never 
knew  that  the  pillow  in  the  little  crib  bad 
been  wetted  that  first  night  with  bittef) 
but  silent  tears.  Mand  could  bear  the 
pain  of  her  wound,  but  she  could  not  bear 
that  it  should  be  approached  bj  a  coane  or 
unsympathising  touch. 


p. 


:S3 


Charles  Dickeoa.] 


VERONICA. 


[October  2,  186t>.]       413 


ledge,  speedily  acquired,  that  her  airnt  was 
too  entirely  devoid  of  dignity  to  be  reticent 
upon  any  subject  which  it  entered  her  head 
to  discuss,  Maud  looked  forward  with 
nervous  dread  to  the  introduction  of  Mrs. 
Lockwood    into    Lady    Tallis's    drawing- 


room. 


CHAPTER  II.      THE   lOCKWOODS. 


ZiLLAH  Lockwood  was  a  very  remarkable- 
looking  woman.  It  was  not  merely  the 
smallness  of  her  stature  that  made  her  so. 
She  was,  as  Lady  Tallis  had  said,  extremely 
fragile  ^d  faii^-like,  with  vei^y  dehcate, 
well-formed  hands  and  feet,  and  an  upright 
straight  figure.  But  this  small  frail  creature 
conveyed  an  almost  startling  impression  of 
power  and  resolution :  power  of  an  unde- 
monstratiTe,  steady,  suppressed  kind. 

**  How  enchantingly  pretty  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood  must  have  been  !"  was  the  exclama- 
tion of  nine  people  out  of  ten  after  seeing 
her  for  the  firist  time. 

Those  who  remembered  Zillah  Lockwood 
in  her  youth,  declared  that  she  had  been 
enchantingly  pretty.  But  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  ^e  had  ever  been  so,  in  the  strict 
sense  of  the  word.  There  could  be  no 
doubt,  however,  that  hers  must  always 
have  been  a  singularly  attractive  face. 
And  it  was  perhaps  even  more  generally 
attractive  at  fifty  years  of  ago  than  it  had 
been  at  twenty.  She  had  an  abundance  of 
grey  hair,  soft,  fine^  and  carefully  dressed. 
Her  forehead  was  low  and  broad ;  her  eyes 
were  black  and  sparkling,  but  their  lids  were 
discoloured,  and  there  was  a  faded,  weary 
look  about  the  whole  setting  and  surroxmd- 
iog  of  her  eyes  that  contrasted  with  the 
fresh  delicate  paleness  of  the  rest  of  her 
complexion. 

"Crying  spoils  the  eyes.  Years  ago  I 
cried,  almost  incessantly,  for  six  weeks," 
she  once  said,  quietly,  to  one  who  remarked 
this  peculiarity  of  her  face.  **  At  last  they 
tpld^TS'l  was  risking  total  loss  o^f 
sight.  So  then  I  got  frightened,  and  left 
off  weeping — with  my  eyes." 

Her  jaw  was  slightly  what  is  called 
imder-hung,  and  when  the  lips  met  and 
dosed  firmly  (as  they  habitually  did  when 
her  fiu5e  was  in  repose),  this  peculiarity 
gave  an  expression  of  singular  resolution 
to  her  moutn.  It  looked  as  though  it  were 
forcibly  compressed  by  a  special  effort  of 
her  will.  The  upper  lip  was  thin  and 
straight.  When  she  spoke,  she  showed 
two  perfect  ranges  of  small  sharp  teeth. 

Her  whole  person  was  pervaded  by  an 
air  of  scrupulous  and  dainty  neatness.   She 


always  wore  black,  and  her  head  was 
adorned,  not  covered,  by  a  white  muslin 
cap,  whose  crisply-frilled  border  of  delicate 
lace  was  a  marvel  of  freshness.  The  collar 
at  her  throat  and  the  cuffs  at  her  wrists 
were  of  plain  linen  in  the  morning,  of  lace 
in  the  evening,  and  in  either  case  were 
guiltless  of  soil  or  stain. 

"  How  she  does  it  in  this  smoky  London 
is  more  than  I  can  conceive !"  would  poor 
Lady  Tallis  exclaim,  casting  a  pathetic 
glance  on  her  own  dingy  and  crumpled 
garments.  But  her  ladyship  was  one  of 
those  unfortunate  persons  for  whose  clothes 
dust  and  smoke  and  stains  seem  to  have  a 
mysterious  attraction.  "Smuts"  flew  to 
her  collar,  and  settled  there  fondly.  Dust 
eddied  round  her  in  suffocating  clouds 
whenever  she  ventured  into  the  streets,  or 
else  she  found  herself  wading  ankle- deep 
in  mud.  Gravy  splashed  itself  over  her 
sleeves  at  dinner ;  ink  pervaded  her  attire 
when  she  wrote  a  letter ;  and  the  grease 
from  lamp  or  candle  dropped  on  her  silk 
gown  with  a  frequency  which  almost 
seemed  to  argue  conscious  malice. 

The  first  impression  which  Maud  Des- 
mond derived  from  Mrs.  Lockwood's  ap- 
pearance and  maimer  was  a  sense  of  relief. 

She  had  half  expected  a  vulgar,  bustling, 
good-natured,  noisy  woman.  Maud  had 
gained  sufficient  knowledge  of  Lady  Tallis 
to  be  aware  that  her  perceptions  were  not 
acute,  nor  her  taste  refined.  Indeed  Maud,  in 
pondering  upon  her  aunt*s  character,  was 
frequently  brought  fece  to  face  with  pro- 
blems, the  pursuit  of  which  would  have  led 
her  into  deeper  speculations  than  she  con- 
templated attempting.  Why  was  this  wo- 
man, gently  bom  and  bred,  endowed  Aritli 
blunter  sensibilities,  duller  brains,  coarser 
— ^yes,  truly  coarser — ^manners  than  the 
poor  widow  of  a  humble  artist,  who  sprang 
from  mean  obscurity  and  eked  out  her 
living  as  a  letter  of  lodgings  ?  Why,  of 
the  two  sisters,  Hilda  and  Clara  Delaney, 
had  one  been  a  refined,  graceful,  elegant 
gentlewoman,  and  the  other — such  a  woman 
as  Lady  Tallis  ?  Maud  remembered  her 
mother,  and  contrasted  her  bearing  and 
manners  with  Lady  Tallis's.  Had  Clara 
Desmond  pronounced  any  woman  to  be 
kind,  thoughtful,  and  well-mannered,  those 
persons  who  knew  the  speaker  would  have 
expected  the  object  of  her  praise  to  be  one 
whose  society  might  bo  pleasant  to  the 
most  fastidious,  ^ut  when  Hilda  Tallis 
used  the  same  phrases,  Maud  perfectly  un- 
derstood that  they  must  be  accepted  with 
due  reservations. 


I 
V 


^ 


^ 


414      [October  2,  IMO.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Ck)ndnctedl)j 


Her  first  sensation  on  meeting  Mrs. 
Lockwood  was  therefore,  as  has  been 
stated,  a  sensation  of  relief.  It  was  soon 
evident  that  there  was  no  fear  of  Mrs. 
Lockwood's  failing  in  discrimination  or 
tact. 

"You  met  my  son  at  Lowater  Honse, 
Miss  Desmond?**  said-  Mrs.  Lockwood, 
stitching  away  with  nimble  fingers  at  the 
hem  of  a  handkerchief.  She  had  been 
drinking  tea  with  Lady  Tallis,  and  had 
seen  Maud  for  the  first  time  that  evening. 

"  Yes.  Mr.  Lockwood  was  staying  there 
at  the  same  time  with  myself." 

"Captain  Shoardown  has  always  been 
very  kmd  to  Hugh.  His  father,  Admiral 
Sheardown,  was  my  husband's  earliest 
fiiend  and  patron.  The  admiral  had  a 
great  taste  for  art." 

"So  had  poor  papa!"  exclaimed  Lady 
Tallis.  "I  remember  Clara — ^your  dear 
mother,  my  pet — ^had  a  very  pretty  taste 
for  flower-pamting.  And  papa  had  a  master 
from  Dublin  to  stay  in  the  house  nearly  the 
whole  of  one  summer  on  Clara's  account. 
My  brother  James  and  I  couldn't  enjwre 
him !  Sure  he  was  the  snufficst  old  wretch 
ye  can  imagine.  We  would  plague  his 
life  out  by  hiding  his  snuff-box.' 

"  I  expect  Hugh  home  next  week,"  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Lockwood,  calmly. 

"  And,  indeed,  I  will  be  delighted  to  see 
him  again,"  said  her  ladyship.  "  He  is  a 
pearl  of  yoimg  men." 

"  I  don't  know  about  being  a  pearl," 
said  Mrs.  Lockwood ;  "  but  Hugh  is  a  good 
son.  I  think  he  is  on  the  whole  a  good 
man." 

"  Of  course  he  is  !  Why  wouldn't  he 
be  ?     Hugh  is  an  excellent  creature." 

"  It  is  a  bold  assertion  to  make.  In  all 
my  life  I  have  only  met  with  two  good 
men." 

"  Well  now,  on  my  honour,  I  do  believe 
there  are  a  great  many  good  men  in  the 
world — if  one  only  knew  where  to  find 
them  !"  said  Lady  TaUis.  Then  she  added, 
"  As  for  you,  you  ought  to  go  down  on 
your  knees,  and  thank  Heaven  for  such  a 
son  as  Hugh.  Oh,  if  I  had  only  had  a  boy 
Kkfe  that  I'd  have  doted  on  him !" 

The  faintest  possible  smile  flitted  over 
Mrs.  Lockwood's  face.  She  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  on  her  work,  as  she  answered,  "  I 
have  a  sneaking  kindness  for  Hugh, 
myself.     But  he  has  his  faults." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  has  a  fault  in  the 
world !"  protested  Lady  Tallis,  energeti- 
cally. 

"  I  can  assure  you  that  he  has,  though ! 


Amongst  others — obstinacy.  Hugh  is  very 
obstinate.  Ask  Miss  Desmond  if  she  did 
not  get  the  impression  that  my  son  has  a 
strong  will  of  his  own." 

Maud  had  been  listening  silently  to  the 
talk  of  the  two  elder  women,  and  had 
been  watching  Mrs.  Lockwood's  face  with 
an  intentness  that  would  have  been  ill- 
mannered  had  it  not  been  for  the  fi^ict  that 
the  latter  kept  her  eyes  cast  down  on  her 
work,  and  so  was  unconscious  of  the  young 
girl's  close  observation.  Maud  was  a  little 
disconcerted  when  the  heavy  dark  lids 
were  suddenly  raised,  and  the  l»ight  eyes 
beneath  them  were  fixed  upon  her  owil. 

"  Oh,  I— I  don't  know,'^  she  said.  *•  I 
suppose  a  man  ought  to  have  a  strong 
will." 

"  And  a  woman ?" 

"  Oh,  a  woman,"  interrupted  Lady 
Tallis,  "  must  just  make  up  her  mind  to 
have  no  will  at  all !  You  may  fight  and 
struggle,  but  a  man  is  always  the  strongest, 
au  bout  du  compte !  And  as  he  has  i^  the 
power,  I  don't  see  what  use  her  wiU  can  be 
to  a  woman !" 

"  Is  that  your  philosophy.  Miss  Des- 
mond ?" 

"  Oh,  I  ?  I  don't  think  I  have  any 
philosophy,"  answered  Maud,  simply. 

"  At  aU  events,  rightly  or  wrongly,  my 
son  is  obstinate,  and  he  wishes  to  ^ke  a 
step  that  I  think  ought  to  be  deferred  yet 
awhile.  He  is  dying  to  set  up  on  his  own 
account,  as  the  phrase  goes.  Digby  and 
West,  to  whom  he  was  articled,  have 
offered  to  keep  him  in  their  office  on  ad- 
vantageous terms,  for  a  couple  of  years. 
I  say,  hold  fast  your  one  bird  in  tiie  hand ! 
Hugh  hankers  after  the  two  in  the  busk 
We  shall  sec.  I  am  afraid  Captain  Shears 
down's  councils  have  confirmed  Hugh  in  his 
desire.  My  son  writes  me  that  several  of 
his  father's  old  friends. in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Shipley  and  Danecester  have  been 
encouraging  lum  to  make  the  attempt; 
and  have  been  promising  him.  all  sorts  id 
things.  Hugh  is  only  twenty-four  years 
old ;  and  he  believes  most  of  what  is  said 
to  him." 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  said  Maud,  with 
some  warmth,  "that  Captain  Sheardown 
would  say  notliing  that  he  did  not  mean.** 

"  Doubtless.  But  promises  impossible 
of  fulfilment  are  made  with  the  most  per* 
feet  sincerity  every  day." 

After  a  little  more  desultoiy  chat^  Mrs. 
Lockwood  folded  up  her  wotk,  and  went 
away,  saying,  that  she  would  leave  Miss  Des- 
mond to  go  to  rest :  and  that  she  would  pre- 


& 


Oharles  Dlckana.] 


VERONICA. 


[October  3, 16C9.]       415 


pare  with  her  own  hand  a  basin  of  arrow- 
root for  the  supper  of  Lady  Tallis,  who 
was  not  looking  strong,  she  said.  "  My 
arrowroot  is  excellent,  I  assure  yon,"  said 
Mrs.  Lockwood  to  Maud.  '*  Her  ladyship 
will  give  me  a  certificate.  I  am  a  yeiy 
fair  oook,  am  I  not,  my  lady  ?" 

''  Indeed,  then,  I  don*t  know  the  thing 
you  can  not  do,  if  you  try!"  said  Lady 
TalliB,  enthusiastically.  And,  when  Mrs. 
Lockwood  was  gone,  sho  descanted  to 
Maud  on  their  landlady's  talents  and  good 
qualities  in  a  strain  of  unmixed  eulogy. 

'*  Now,  are  ye  not  enohanted  with  her  p" 
she  asked  of  her  niece. 

"  I — ^yes ;  I  like  her  very  mudi.  She  is 
very  clever,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  clover's  no  word  &)r  it.  She  is  an 
extraordinarf  Httle  creature;  quite  extra- 
ordinary. You  don't  know  aU  that's  in 
that  head  of  hers  yet,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  I  should  imagine  that  she  has  known 
much  Barrow  and  trouble,"  said  Maud, 
musinglT.  **  I  wonder  what  her  history 
is!" 

'*  Oh,  BB  to  that,"  rejoined  her  ladyship, 
to  whom  tiie  suggestion  appeared  to  be  a 
new  one,  ^  1  don't  suppose  she  has  much 
of  a  history  at  alL  How  would  she  P 
She  and  her  husband  were  quite  humble 
people." 

''  But,  aunt,  sho  has  evidently  received 
a  good  education,  and  she  has  the  manners 
of  a  lady,  moreover.  Did  you  notice,  too, 
in  reading  the  title  of  that  French  book 
that  lay  on  the  table,  how  admirably  she 
pronounced  it  P" 

"  My  dear  chfld,  for  that  matter,  we  had 
a  dancing-mistress  once,  who  spoke  French 
beautifully !  And  she  was  quite  an  igno- 
rant person.  Her  father  was  a  Parisian 
barber,  we  were  told ;  but  she  called  her- 
adf  MiademoiBelle  de  Something  or  other. 
I  target  the  name  now.  Any  way,  Mrs. 
Lockwood  is  vastly  superior  to  her  r 

The  incoherence  of  these  remarks,  and 
the  impossibility  of  conjecturing  what  it  was 
tfaev  were  intended  to  prove,  silenced  Maud. 

Presemyy  Lady  TaUis  exclauned,  in  a 
niddan,  pounoing  way,  which  her  physical 
driicacy  alone  prevented  from  being  abso- 
htteh'  violent:  "And  ye  haven't  told  me 
yet  how  you  like  my  little  Queen  of  the 

"  Yes,  aunt,  I  said  that  I  liked  Mrs. 
Lockwood  very  much :  only " 

"  Only  what  P" 

**  Well,  it  seems  rather  a  pity  that  she 
should  take  such  a  gloomy  view  of  things, 
doMitnotr 


"  Gloomy !  Now  upon  my  word  and 
honour  a  cheerfuller  little  creature  I  never 
saw  or  heard  of  I  That  is  my  notion,  my 
dear  girl." 

"  Grloomy  is  not  the  right  word,  either." 

"  Very  much  the  wrong  word,  I  should 
say. 

"  Yes ;    but    what   I    mean  is,   that — 

that .     It  is  rather  difficult  to  explain. 

Mrs.  Lockwood  is  cheerful,  but  it  is  not 
because  she  finds  things  to  be  good,  Aunt 
Hilda." 

"  Well,  then,  all  the  more  credit  to  her 
for  being  cheerful." 

*'  I  think  she  would  be  more  likely  to 
be  credulous  of  an  evil  report  than  a  good 
report;  not  because  she  is  illnatured,  but 
because  she  expects  evil  to  happen,  and 
thinks  it  likely.  I  am  sure  that  she  must 
have  had  some  great  trouble  in  her  life." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  following  week 
Hugh  Lockwood  returned  home. 

Ho  had,  of  course,  alrecdy  learned  from 
his  mother  the  fact  that  Lady  Tallis  and 
her  niece  were  inmates  of  the  house  in 
Gkrwor- street. 

He  was  able  to  inform  his  mother  of 
many  particulars  of  the  blow  which  had 
fallen  on  the  family  at  the  vicarage.  The 
whole  country  was  ringing  with  the  story. 
Hugh  had  heard  it  discussed  in  all  sorts  of 
tones,  by  all  sorts  of  people.  A  great 
number  were  inclined  to  blame  Mr.  Levin- 
court  severely,  for  having  been  culpably 
negligent  in  regard  to  his  daughter's  asso- 
ciation with  a  man  like  Sir  John  Gale. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  persons  (espe- 
cially matrons  of  Mrs.  Begbie's  stamp)  de- 
clared that  bolts  and  bars  would  not  have 
sufi^d  to  keep  Veronica  Levincourt  in 
respectable  obscurity;  that  they  had  al- 
ways known,  always  seen,  always  prophe- 
sied, how  it  would  end;  that  the  g^l's 
vanity  and  coquetry  had  long  made  them 
cautious  of  permitting  her  to  associate  with 
their  daughters ;  and  that  it  was  all  very 
well  to  blame  the  man-*of  course  he  was  a 
wretch  !  no  doubt  of  it ! — but  he  must 
have  been  regularly  hunted  down,  you 
know,  by  that  artful,  abandoned,  dreadful, 
dreadful  girl  1 

'^  There's  nothing  so  cruel  as  the  cruelty 
of  one  woman  to  another !"  said  Hugh, 
afber  recounting  some  of  these  sayings  to 
his  mother. 

"  Is  there  not  P"  said  Mrs.  Lockwood, 
composedly.  "  And  Mrs.  Sheardown,"  she 
pursued  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  is  she 
too  among  the  number  of  the  cruel  P" 

"  No ;    Mrs.    Sheardown.  co^d.  TiSi\»  \» 


c§. 


& 


416      [October  2, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


cmcl !  No,  she  is  not  cruel.  But  she  is — 
even  sJie  is — a  little  hard  on  the  girl/* 

"  H*m  !  Is  this  Miss  Levincoiurt  so  very- 
handsome  as  they  say  ?  You  have  seen 
her  ?'' 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  her  at  Lowater.  She  is 
strikingly  beautiful.  I  do  not  know  that 
I  ever  saw  such  eyes  and  such  colouring." 

"  And  not  vain  or  coquettish,  as  these 
*  cruel'  women  say  ?'* 

"  I — well,  yes,  I  think  she  is  fond  of 
admiration.  But  her  manner,  was  very 
charming." 

"  That  is  charming,  Hugh ;  that  love  of 
admiration.  Masculine  vanity  is  always 
tickled  by  the  implied  flattery  of  a  pretty 
woman's  airs  and  graces." 

"  Flattery !" 

"  To  be  sure.  Haughty  or  espiegle, 
stately  or  languid,  what  a  coquette  wants, 
is  your  attention:  and  that  flatters  you. 
How  many  men,  do  yon  suppose,  would 
think  Venus  herself  beautiful,  if  she  ho- 
nestly did  not  care  two  straws  whether 
they  looked  at  her  or  not  ?" 

"  Well,  mother,  despite  my  *  masculine 
vanity,*  I  can  truly  say  that  I  never  in  all 
my  life  saw  a  girl  whom  I  should  have 
been  less  likely  to  fall  in  love  with,  than 
Veronica  Levincourt." 

"  That  was  fortunate  for  you !" 

"  Gk)od,  kind  Mrs.  Sheardown  thought 
me  in  some    danger,   I  believe,  for  she 

dropped  a  word  or  two  of  warning . 

That  man  must  be  as  black  a  scoundrel  as 
ever  existed !"  cried  Hugh,  suddenly  break- 
ing off. 

"  Is  the  identity  of  Sir  John  Qsle  with 
Sir  John  Tallis  known  in  Shipley  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  had  learned  it  from  your  letters. 
But  except  to  the  Sheardowns,  I  said  no 
word  of  the  matter.  But  an  old  woman 
who  was  staying  at  Dr.  Begbie's — ^a  certain 


Betsy  Boyce — ^wrote  up  to  some  gossip- 
mongering  crony  in  London  for  informa- 
tion about  Sir  John  Grale.  And  in  that 
way,  the  whole  story  became  known." 

"  Of  course  you  did  not  see  Mr.  Levin- 
court  again  ?" 

**  No  one  has  seen  him  except  his  own 
servants  and  little  Plew,  the  surgeon,  since 
his  daughter's  flight." 

"  Not  even  in  church  ?" 

"  Oh  in  church,  of  course,  ho  has  been 
seen.  The  Sheardowns  purposely  stayed 
away  from  St.  Gildas  the  first  Sunday 
after  the  vicar's  return.  But  I  was  told 
that  the  rustics,  who  compose  the  majority 
of  the  congregation,  behaved  with  more 
delicacy  than  might  have  been   expected 


from  them.  They  kept  out  of  the  vicar's 
way  on  leaving  ohurch ;  and  those  who  did 
see  him,  contented  themselves  with  silently 
touching  their  hats,  and  passing  on.  By 
the  way,  the  person  who  told  me  all  this, 
is  horribly  cut  up  by  this  dreadfril  afiair. 
It  is  a  certain  Mr.  Plew,  a  surgeon,  and  a 
really  good  little  fellow.  The  village 
gossips  say  that  he  was  a  bond-slave  of 
Miss  Levincourt.  I  never  saw  a  man  look 
more  miserable.  He  fought  her  battles 
tooth  and  nail,  until  it  became  known  that 
Sir  John  Grale  had  a  wife  already.  Then 
of  course  there  was  no  more  to  oe  said  of 
the  girl's  bein^  married  to  him.  But  al- 
though Plew  IS  the  mildest  looking  little 
fellow  you  ever  saw,  I  should  not  csare  to 
be  in  the  shoes  of  any  man  who  spoke  an 
ill  word  of  Miss  Levincourt  in  his  presence. 
And  the  Shipley  folks  understana  this  so 
well,  that  if  a  group  of  them  are  discussing 
the  vicar's  daughter,  they  break  off  at 
Plow's  approach  as  though  he  were  her 
brother.  He  is  a  loyal  little  fellow,  and  I 
am  sorry  for  him  witih  all  my  heart" 

^*  He  must  be  a  very  uncommon  sort  of 
man,"  observed  Mrs.  Lockwood,  dryly. 

"  Ah,  mother,  mother !"  exclaimed  Hugh, 
kissing  her  foi^ehead,  and  looking  at  her 
half  fondly,  half  sadly,  *'  our  old  quarrel ! 
I  cannot  understand  how  it  is  that  sudi  a 
good  woman  as  you  are  shoxdd  find  it  so 
hard  to  believe  in  goodness !" 


WHICH  IS  WHICH? 

Most  readers  will  be  familiar  with  an  amus- 
ing paper  in  Washington  Inring's  Sketch- 
Book,  Bugcested  by  a  visit  to  the  Beading 
Koom  of  uie  Britisli  Museum,  in  which  the 
authors  of  a  bygone  age  are  repreaented  u 
stepping  down  bodily  from  the  canvases  on 
which  they  are  depicted,  and  rescmng,  fi  et 
armis,  the  vestures  which  modem  artincen  of 
books  are  purloining  from  them.  It  would  be 
idle  to  deny  the  justice  of  the  satire,  yetsboold  j 
one,  in  some  dyspeptic  mood,  seek  to  retlise 
the  scene  thus  suggested,  he  would  not  loog 
have  his  attention  confined  to  the  conffiet  ^ 
ancient  versus  modern,  dead  vennia  liriog 
writers.  There  would  be  many  a  aore  tfflite 
among  the  animated  canvases  themaelvea.  One 
can  readily  imagine  a  fierce  duel  oocuningo^ 
some  trope  or  metaphor  between  two  of  tlte 
resusdtatcd  claimants.  In  some  casea  tb<s* 
would  be  a  complete  mel^,  and  the  h*n^ 
idea  would  stand  bewildered,  wondering  ^ao 
was  its  own  true-begotten  father. 

The  flower  she  trod  on  dipt  and  rote^ 
And  tum'd  to  look  at  lier, 

is  the  graceful  manner  in  which  the  La™'?'^ 
tells  us  that  a  certain  yoimg  woman,  big** 


^^ 


=& 


n  uiebtD*.] 


WHICH  IS  WHICH? 


1   0)iti&,  uaerts  her  superiorit7  to  the  ori^innry 

\  Inn  of  matter.     The  plcaaiag  hyperbole  will 

It  pwa  nnchalleuKed.    "Mine,     Bays  he  of 

\  ibbotaford,  "  tho'  I  irill  confess  you  have  clad 

■intj  Uaa  in  a.  beconuBg  giirb.    It  woa  I 


n  Bit  s  big  burly  man,  -with  scorbutic  Tiwtgc  and 
I  ilorcnly  dresa,  and  sweariog  the  legihlest  of 
I  tuj  man  chmteit'd,  takea  the  tremhUng  idea 
I  imder  his  cloak :  "  ArcadeBomboI  Thewcuch 
se !  Did  ye  never  rend,  then,  my  Sad 
I  Shtyherdeas,  wherein  I  tang  : 


Ya.  and  in  my  Vision  of  Delight,  stands  it 
Dot  fairly  writ : 

"...  IbBSce  did  Venui  Ivura  to  lend 
The  IdaUui  buidt,  and  ao  to  trrad 
A*  if  tbc  irisd,  not  ihe.  did  walk, 
JTor  prat  ■  flower,  nor  baw'd  a,  ittlV"  t 
<  omaltaQeoDBly  with  Ben's  ckim,  comes 
the  BJlver  roice  of  him   who  sang  tho  fa*  of 
man  and  the  conflict  of  the  warrior  angels,  with 
Sabriiui'a  song : 

Thui  I  Mt  mj  pnntleai  feet 
O'er  Iha  eowilip'i  rclvet  head, 
That  bendi  not  u  1  tread. 

"  By  the  mass,  then,"  eiclaima  another,  one 
Dabridgeconrt  Belchier,  "ye  ate  all  wrong! 
In  my  comedy  of  H&na  Beer-pot,  acted  in  the 
Low  Countries  by  an  honest  company  of  health- 
drinkers,  I  wrote : 

■'  With  that  ihe  roM  liko  nimlile  roe, 
The  lender  gtau  icam  bendiag." 

The  clamour  thickens,  but  a  musical 
breaka  in  on  the  controveny,  and  a  bland  face 
Boilea  npon  the  wordy  storm.  '>  Mine,  I  think, 
my  masters,"  laya  the  Bard  of  Avon.  ''  Ere 
my  mnae  was  in  her  teens,  in  the  first  heir  of 
my  inrentioa,  I  wrot« ; 

"  The  giau  itocipe  not,  iha  Inoda  oq  it  M  ligb 

There  is  a  momenlary  lull,  bnt  again  tho 

mnr  awcUs,  frcah  clainiantB  springing  up  like 
the  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth. 

It  would  bo  unfair  to  characterise  these  co- 
fnddcnces  as  plagiarisms.  As  ~ 
the  instance  just  cited,  many  thoughts  have 
pused  into  the  stock -in-ti«de  of  versifiers, 
and  can  as  little  claim  an  only  parent  as  the 
immemorial  rhymes  of  /or?  and  dovf.  Often- 
timei,  too,  the  same  idea  must  have  occurred 
independently  to  different  writers :  and  it 


r«ther  matter  of  wonder,  seeing  how  many 
minds  have  beca  bent  to  illnatrate  man's  inner 
life — tbe  passions  by  which  his  soul  is  swayed, 
his  feata,  his  longings,  his  tmrest,  his  joys  and 
MiTTOws — that  thoughtB  and  images  are  so 
seldom  repeated.  In  many  cobcb,  however, 
where  sucn  coincidences  occur,   i     '         '    '  ' 


[October  1, 1  Ha.]      417 


the  mind  seiiea  upon  it.  stores  it 
for  further  reflection ;  it  is  for  the  time  for- 
gotten, and  when  next  it  forces  itself  upon  the 
thoughts  of  the  recipient  is  welcomed  ns  the 
indigenous  growth  of  his  own  mind,  and  is  un- 
hedtatingty  employed,  with  as  little  recollec- 
tion of  its  origin  as  desire  to  appropriate  an- 
other's due. 

Some  of  these  minor  coincidenccaare  curious. 
Here  are  a  few,  culled  almost  at  random : 

Few  quotations  are  more  hackneyed  than  a 
line  from  Milton's  Lycidas  :  a  poem  which,  it 
will  be  remembered,  was  written  in  1G37 ! 
Fame  ii  the  mur  tbal  (he  clear  apirit  dotb  raiso 
(That  loit  intirmit;  of  nablo  mind.) 

Three  years  earlier,  when  Milton  was  a  young 
man  of  aii-and -twenty,  and  had  probably  not 
merged  his  lovo  for  the  "well-trod  stage"  in 
the  fierce  earnestness  of  the  great  strugglo 
that  was  then  impending,  there  was  licensed  a 
comedy  by  Philip  Maasmgor,  called  A  Very 
Woman,  where  (Act  "V.,  Scene  4— Paulo,  loq.) 
occurs  the  noticeable  parallelism,  of  which  it 
Beems  not  improbable  that  Milton's  line  might 
have  been  the  echo : 


Another  line,  which,  with  myriads  from  the 
same  exhauatlesH  store  of  wit  and  wisdom,  ban 
passed  into  a  current  household  word,  has  a 
close  parallel  in  Lord  Bacon's  Essays,  Polo- 
niiis,  m  the  precepts  which  he  lays  down  for 
the  guidance  of  Laertes  on  the  occasion  of  his 
return  tfl  France,  emphaaises  the  crowning  in- 

...  to  Ibine  own  «e!f  bo  true ; 
And  it  mait  fallow,  aa  tbe  nigbt  tha  day, 
Thou  canst  Dot  tbou  ba  fatw  to  any  mac 
Bacon's  Essays,  which,  as  he  himself  tells  us, 
come  home  to  men's  business  and  bosoms,  were 
published  six  years  earlier  than  tho  first  sketch 
of  Hamlet    Shakespeare  can  aearcely  be  sup- 
posed not  to  have  read  there  (Esaay  xxiii.), 
"  Be  so  true  to  thyself  that  thou  be  not  false 
to  others."     To  this  sentence,  surely.  Bacon's 
remark  on  the  Essays  generally,  inll  apply : 
"  Tho'  the  piece  bo  small,  the  silver  is  good." 

In  the  case  of  a  man  like  Gray,  who  wroto 
so  little,  and  who  polished  with  such  elaborate 
care  the  Uttle  that  he  did  produce,  wc  should 
not  be  disposed  to  seek  for  snch  a  repetition  of 
fainjliar  images  as  more  prolific  writers  would 
with  difficulty  avoid.  The  tiny  volume,  never- 
theless, which  comprises  the  poetical  works  of 
the  author  of  the  Elegy,  will  supply  more  than 
one  eiample.  In  The  Bard,  for  instance, 
occurs  the  line. 

Dost  as  the  ruddj  dropj  wbinb  waim  mj  bsart : 

which  is  scarcely  altered  from  Julius  Csasar  -. 

Ton  are  my  tme  and  honourable  wife, 
Aa  dear  to  mo  ■■  are  the  rudd;  drops 
That  viiit  ray  aoJ  heart. 
The  source  from  which  Gray's  line  was  de- 
rived, if,  indeed,  it  were  denred  at  ali,  pre- 
cludes tbe  notion  of  an  intentional  appropria- 
It  has  long  been  tiiterably  sate  it  ^urluvn. 


o 


418       [October  2, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OondnelMlby 


4 


I 


from  Cowley,  or  Drayton,  or  Donne,  or  the 
less  familiar  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists; 
but  for  a  conscious  plagiarist  to  adopt  the 
words  of  Shakespeare,  were  to  court  detection. 
Hence  we  cannot  but  believe  that  Professor 
Aytoun  in  penning  the  quatrain,  in  his  fioth- 
well: 

I  tboueht  of  her  as  of  a  star 
Wi&in  the  heavens  aboTe, 

That  such  as  I  might  gase  upon 
But  never  dare  to  love — 

had  forgotten  that  Helena,  in  All's  Well  that 
Ends  Well,  employs  the  same  figure  in  speak- 
ing of  Bertram : 

It  were  all  one 
That  I  should  lore  a  bright  particular  star 
And  think  to  win  it :  he  is  so  above  me. 

Lord  Byron,  probably,  wrote  the  line  in  his 
Bride  of  Abydos,  for  which  he  has  been  cen- 
sured by  critics, 

The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  &ce, 

in  forgetfulness  of  Lovelace's  well-known 
lines: 

O  oonld  you  view  the  melody 
Of  every  grace, 
And  music  of  her  fiioe, 
^  You'd  drop  a  tear. 
Seeing  more  hurmony 
In  her  bright  eye 

Than  now  you  hear. 

A  similar  expression  has  been  nsed  by  Lord 
Lytton  in  his  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine. 

If  ever  poet  lived,  whose  fertile  imagination 
and  wealth  of  lovely  words  and  images  render 
the  idea  of  pla^ansm  ridiculous,  it  is  surely 
our  Laureate,  i  et  there  seems  to  be  an  echo 
of  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 

The  April's  in  her  eyes, 

in  a  beautiful  and  frequently  quoted  line  of 
in  Memonaai: 

Make  April  of  her  tendtr  eyes. 

And  in  a  passage  of  the  Gardener's  Daughter 
tiiere  is  a  reproduction  of  a  fine  thought  in 
Serjeant  Talf ourd^s  Massacre  of  Glencoe  : 

...  is  joy  so  hearted 
That  it  oaa  find  no  colour  in  the  range 
Of  gladness  to  express  it :  so  accepts 
A  solemn  hue  from  grief. 

The  eorresponding  passage  in  Texmyson  is : 

fifighs 
Which  petfeot  Joy,  perplcx'd  for  ntteriBoe 
Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow. 

Every  one  will  recollect  a  passage  in  the  Prin- 
cess, when,  issuing  from  the  schools  of  that 
fair  she-world  where  the  violet-hooded  doctors 
had  led  their  gentle  pupils  to  all  springs  of 
knowledge,  the  three  intruders  discuss  the 
scenes  through  which  they  have  just  past. 
"  Why,  sirs,"  exclaims  the  prince : 

"  they  do  all  this  as  well  as  we  !** 
**  They  hunt  old  trails,"  said  Cyril,  "  yerr  well, 
But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent  ? 

A  similar  passage  in  Archbishop  Whately  is 
less  familiar :  ^^  It  does  seem  that  women  have 
little  of  inventive  power.  They  learn  readily ; 
but  very  rarely  invent  anythinp;  of  importance. 
I  have  Long  aooght  for  some  mstances  of  in- 


vention or  discovery  by  a  woman,  and  the 
best  I  have  been  able  to  fix^  is  Thwaites'  soda- 
water." 

Li  this  same  poem,  the  Prinoess,  there  occus 
apassajg^e  which  is  very  suggestive  of  Otway. 
The  prmce  making  sudi  excuses  as  he  might 
for  having  ventiured  within  the  prescribed 
limits,  UTffes  the  resistless  force  of  the  psasion 
that  impelled  him : 

Who  desire  you  more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ;  dving  lips, 
With  many  wousand  matien  left  to  do, 
The  breath  of  life;  O  moc«  than  poor  bmb  wealtiu  Ar> 

Similarly  Polydore,  in  urging  his  suit  to  Mo- 
nimia,  exclaims, 

If  to  desire  you  mate  than  miaen  wealth 
Or  dying  men  an  hour  of  added  life. 

Li  the  Idylls,  Guinevere's  passion  after  the 
angry  interview  in  which  she  made  such  short 
work  of  the  great  knight's  "  nine-years'-fought- 
for  diamonds,''  is  thus  descaribed : 

Sea  was  her  wrath  yet  working  after  storm, 

which  closely  resembles  a  line  Ib  that  trsgedy 
which  Dryden,  with  some  self-eomplaceDcy, 
described  as  *'  the  most  correct  of  nis,"  bst 
which  has  long  ceased  to  fijnd  readers : 

Sorrow  in  its  waning^  Form : 

A  working  Sea remamingfrom  a  Siorm. 

Amunre-ZxBB.    Act.  IT.,  So.  1. 

An  idea  which  occurs  twice  in  Maud,  Ins 
done  duty,  with  vanations,  for  oanturies : 

Her  feet  hare  tondi'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy— 

a  magical  property  which  developB  itself  in  a 
manner,  even  more  remarkable,  somewbtt 
later.  The  passaffe  m  the  most  exqva(«l7 
lyrical  and  probamy  the  best  known  in  tbe 
poem: 

He  sets  the  jewel  print  of  your  feet 

b  violets  blue  as  yo«r  •yn. 

Monimia,  in  the  Orphan,  ascribes  a 
virtse  to  the  fooMspa  of  Gastalio : 

flofwon  spang  whesa'sr  h*  tnadi. 

In  Drayton's  Quest  of  OTnthlft,  the  toiAof  11 

the  lady's  foot,  thourii  it  ^  not  ea«e  fi»^  ™ 

to   spring,   imparted   to    liwm  beastlT  ^ 

vitafity : 

The  flowers  which  it  had  pretl 

Appeared  to  my  yHtm 
More  frwh  aad  ]0f«ly  titaa  ths  leit 

That  in  the  meadows  giev. 

And  Btmilarhr,  in  his  Epistte  to  Fair  Bo*" 
mond,  King  Henry  is  mads  to  say: 

...  if  thy  foot  touch  hemlock  as  it  goei^ 
That  hemlock's  made  fer  sweeter  than  the  iM^ 

This  is,  surely,  better  than  deepeaiiig  ^ 
crimson  fringes  of  the  little  fl»w«c  €3iiM0i^ 
loved  so  welL  The  same  idea  is  to  hs  iffO^ 
in  that  exquisite  fragment,  the  Sad  Shepbei^ 
doubly  precious  to  us,  because  it  shofni  to* 
the  rare  genius  who  conceived  it,  aaud  vv 
gloom  which  surrounded  his  lator  ysaOi  P 
kept  his  heart  hale  and  his  imagination  grem* 


C& 


&t 


CbftrlM  Dkkans.] 


AN  OLD  BALLAD  RE-WRITTEN. 


[October  S,  1669.]     419 


4 


Here  wai  ehe  wont  to  go  I  and  here,  and  here ! 
Just  where  these  daisies,  pinks,  and  riolets  grow, 
The  world  may  find  the  spring  hj  following  her. 

Where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root. 
As  she  had  low'd  them  inth  her  odorous  foot 

When  Herrick  wrote : 

Her  prettj  feet  like  snails  did  creep 
AUMbout, 

he  was  prob»bl j  oonactously  stealing  from  Sir 
John  Suckling's  Ballad  upon  a  Wedding.  In 
doing  BOy  he  has  afforded  an  illustration  of 
Samuel  Butler's  remark,  that  a  plagiarist  is 
like  an  Italian  thief,  who  never  robs  but  he 
murders  too,  in  order  to  prevent  discovery. 
The  corresponding  passage  in  the  earlier  poet  is 
far  more  delicate  and  graceful : 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
lake  little  mioe  stole  m  and  out. 
As  if  they  fear'd  the  light. 

Since  Milton^s  obligations  to  the  Sad  Shej)- 
herdess  are  evident  throughout  his  Comus,  it 
will  scarcely  be  doubted  that  in  his  II  Fenseroso 
he  designemy  made  use  of  the  song  in  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcker's  Nice  Valour.  The  re- 
lemblaace  k  too  striking  to  be  attributable  to 
mere  chance,  or  to  an  ^*  unconscious  echo.*' 
MiHon't  lines  are  too  familiar  to  need  quotation ; 
the  prototype  runs  thus : 

Heaee  all  you  vaiA  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly. 
11isire*s  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see% 

But  only  melancholy. 

Kor  can  we  readily  believe  that  Pope  was  igno- 
rant of  the  source  of  the  line,  almost  a  proverb 
among  us — 

He  can*t  he  wrong  whose  life  is  in  the  right : 

which  is  to  be  found  in  Cowley's  poem  on  Cra- 
ehaw: 

His  feith  perhaps  in  some  nice  tenets  might 
Be  wrong :  his  life,  Fm  sure,  was  in  the  right : 

It  would  not  be  dSfflcult  to  extend  almost  inde- 
finitelj  such  a  list  as  this,  were  it  desirable  to 
do  so.  But  it  is,  after  all,  a  very  trivial  matter, 
and  few  readers  would  care  to  pursue  the  sub- 
jsfit  to  the  end  of  a  paper  comprising  the  results 
of  only  a  very  mocbarate  amount  of  diligence. 
Lest  any  one  who  should  have  accompanied  me 
thus  far  should  ftTclaim,  with  Browning's  visitor 
to  Uie  Conventicle : 

.  .  .  like  Sve,  when  she  plucked  the  apple, 
I  wanted  a  taste,  snd  now  therr  s  enough  of  it, 

I  will  append  only  one  more  instance.  The 
paiaagoi  are  from  Shakespeare  and  Mas- 
singer  : 

What  sftould  be  in  «hat  Oasar  P 
Whj  should  thai  BaBM  be  sounded  move  than  yours  ? 
Wnte  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name ; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
OoBJMM  wiUt  ♦■i|— ^,  Sn* 

Julius  Casab. 
What  is  he? 
At  Ids  best  but  a  patrician  of  Rome— 
His  name»  Titus  Flanunius ;  and  speak  mine, 
Beteeiitthni^  arch>flamen  to  Qybele; 
It  makes  as  great  a  sound. 

Belixvb  as  You  List. 

The  poets  from  whom  these  instances  have 


been  selected,  all  stand  too  high  for  their  fame 
to  be  in  any  way  affected  by  them,  even  were 
they  much  more  numerous  and  their  connexion 
much  more  evident.  We  owe  too  much  to 
these  men,  each  and  all,  to  carp  at  minute 
blemishes,  even  were  we  disposed  to  consider 
such  coincidences  as  defects.  It  is  not  that  we 
regard  them  lightly  that  we  dwell  upon  points 
so  microscopic  ;  but,  holding  their  words  dear, 
and  cherisning  them  as  a  friend's  voice,  the 
thinnest,  faintest  echo  strikes  upon  an  ear, 
which,  were  its  sense  not  sharpened  by  affec- 
tion, would  be  deaf  to  louder  noises. 

AN  OLD  BALLAD  EE-WEITTEN. 

▲VViUr  WATBB. 

"  AvTJOr  water's  roaring  deep. 

But  my  lore  Annie's  wondrous  bonny ; 
Fm  loath  that  she  should  wet  her  fee^ 
For,  oh !  I  love  her  best  of  ony. 

"  Go  saddle  me  the  bonny  black, 

Go  saddle,  quick,  and  make  him  ready; 
For  I  will  down  the  Gkttehope  Slack 
And  see  my  winsome  little  lady. 

"  And  saddle  me  the  bonny  ney, 

ril  lead  her  till  the  bla^  is  weary; 
And  fill  me  up  a  cup  of  wine. 
For,  ^ !  the  storm  is  loud  and  dreary. 

**  I  vowed  to  dance  with  her  to-night, 
I  swote  it  on  the  lips  of  Annie; 
I  swore  it  with  her  hand  in  mine, 
And  not  by  one  oath,  but  by  many. 


(C 


Though  Annan  water  ran  with  (j^ld. 
Ana  I  could  scoop  it  out  at  leisure, 

rd  give  it  all  to  have  to-night 
Two  honey  kisses  firom  my  treasure." 

He's  leaped  upon  his  bonny  black. 
From  ttther  spur  the  blood  was  flying ; 

But  ere  he  won  the  Gktehope  Slack, 
The  horse  was  not  an  hour  fi<om  dying. 

And  louder  grew  the  angry  Clyde, 
From  bank  to  brae  the  waters  pouring; 

The^  hungered  for  a  drowning  man ; 
'Iwas  for  more  food  that  iiaej  were  roaring. 

He's  leaped  upon  the  bonnv  jg^rey. 
He  rode  as  straiffht  and  nur  as  taxj ; 

And  he  would  neitner  halt  nor  stay. 
For  he  was  seeking  bonny  Annie. 

He's  ridden  fast  o'er  field  and  fell. 

Through  moss  and  moor,  and  pool  and  mire ; 
ffis  spurs  with  red  were  dripping  fast. 

And  from  her  steel  hooft  flashed  the  fire. 

**  Now,  benny  grey,  now  play  your  part, 
If  ye're  Uie  steed  to  win  my  deary. 
On  com  and  hay  ye'll  Uto  for  aye. 
And  nerer  spur  shall  make  you  weary." 

Hie  grey  she  was  of  right  good  blood, 
But  when  she  reached  the  nearest  fi>fd. 

She  couldn't  hate  cone  a  furlong  more 
Though  you  haasmote  her  with  a  sword. 

"  O,  boatman*  boatman,  bring  your  boat ! 
I'll  give  yon  man  good  |[olaen  money 
T6  put  me  o'er  the  daritcnmg  stream. 
For  I  must  cross  to  see  my  hooey. 

"  Ifwore  an  oath  to  her  last  night, 
And  not  one  oath  alone,  but  manv, 
That  though  it  rained  a  stream  of  fire, 
rd  cross  and  see  my  winsome  Annie." 

The  rides  are  steep,  the  flood  is  deep. 

From  brae  to  bank  the  falls  are  pouringv 
The  bonnie  grey  mare  sweats  Cos  €mx« 

To  hear  \^  yT  a.V«c  "SLfiVg^  tmxisi^. 


<c^ 


& 


420      [October  2, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condocted  bj 


He's  thrown  away  Lis  velvet  coat, 
Ilia  silver  buckle,  hat  and  feather. 

He  burst  the  waistcoat  from  his  breast. 
He  threw  away  his  broad  belt  leather. 

He*8  ta'en  the  ford,  now  help  him  Lord ! 

I  wot  he  swam  both  strong  and  steadv ; 
But  the  tide  was  broad,  his  strength  it  failed. 

He  never  saw  his  bonny  lady. 

"  O,  woe  betide  the  willow  wand. 
And  woe  betide  the  brittle  brier ! 
They  broke  when  grasped  by  my  love*s  hand, 
When  his  strong  limbs  began  to  tire. 

"  Now  woe  betide  ye,  Annan  stream ! 
This  night  ve  are  a  mournful  river; 
Over  thy  floods  Til  build  a  bridge. 
That  ye  no  more  true  love  may  sever." 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR. 


// 


We  close  tliis  subject  in  the  present 
paper. 

Between  the  ancient  and  the  modem  ad- 
vocate lies  the  broad  dark  gnlf  of  the  middle 
ages ;  in  whose  waters,  by  the  side  of  art 
and  science,  of  literature  and  of  civilisa- 
tion, justice  and  M.  le  Berquier's  "  right 
of  defence  *'  lay  buried.  And  advocacy 
never  revived  in  its  old  splendour.  For  the 
masterpieces  of  ancient  oratory  we  look  to 
the  speeches  of  Demosthenes  or  Cicero 
at  the  bar  of  Athens  or  of  Rome;  for 
those  of  modem,  to  the  records  of  par- 
liamentary eloquence.  But  it  may  console 
the  barrister  of  the  present  day  to  reflect 
on  the  many  advantages,  denied  to  him, 
which  his  protoiype  possessed  The  advo- 
cate of  old,  for  example,  was  his  own 
reporter.  No  short-hand  writer  of  the 
Athenian  "  Chronoi,"  or  the  Roman 
"  Vexillum,"  sat  by  to  take  down  his 
every  word  for  the  next  morning's  issue, 
to  appear  with  such  omissions  or  improve- 
ments only  as  the  reporter's  defective 
knowledge  or  exuberant  fancy  might  sug- 
gest. The  speaker  went  quietly  home  and 
touched  up  his  speech,  which,  to  begin 
with,  he  had  carefully  prepared  before- 
hand, gathering  together  the  scattered 
threads,  and  omitting  the  interruptions  of 
some  obstinate  dicast  on  the  bench,  or  the 
"  objections  "  (we  may  be  sure  there  were 
plenty)  of  his  "  learned  Mend  on  the  other 
side."  What  he  didn't  like  he  re-wrote ; 
and  more  than  once,  if  his  oration,  on  re- 
flection, struck  him  as  feeble,  or  if  it  had 
failed  of  success,  or  if,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pened, he  had  delivered  none  at  all,  he  quietly 
wrote  another,  as  he  could,  might,  or 
should  have  *'  orated  "  it,  and  published  it 
at  leisure  some  months  afterwards,  when 
the  publio  had  entirely  forgotten  what  he 
Iiad  really  said,  and  how  he  had  said  it.  In 


this  fashion  we  may  imagine  Cicero  com- 
posing his  magnificent  "  pro  Milone,"  and 
working  himself  into  a  state  of  admiration 
at  the  beauty  of  his  own  periods,  while 
his  unfortunate  client^  in  whose  behalf  he 
had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  broken  down 
through  nervousness,  was  thriving,  as  best 
he  might,  under  sentence  of  transportation. 
Mile's  remark,  when  he  read  what  might 
have  been  said  for  him,  but  wasn't^  is 
pathetic  in  its  simplicity :  "  K  Cicero  i^ 
talked  like  this,  I  should  not  have  been 
eating  figs  at  Marseilles." 

The  advocate  of  ancient  times,  again,  had 
a  far  wider  scope  for  the  exercise  of  tricks 
of  the  trade.     It  is  strange  enough  to  us, 
with  our  ideas,  to  reflect  on  the  sort  of  argu- 
ment which  he  was  wont  to  address  to  the 
judges,  and  often  with   success;    and  of 
which  the  most  historical  instance  was  one 
we  quoted  in  our  first  paper— the  defence 
of  Phryne.     In  the  same  way  did  Antony, 
defending  the  old  soldier,  Aquilins,  unclose 
his  robe  and  show  the  scars  of  battle  on 
his  breast.     Less  seductive,  perhaps,  than 
in  the  case  of  Phiyne,  the  argument  proved 
no  less  successful.     If  an  accused  had  a 
relation  in  distress,  it  was  the  custom  to 
introduce  him ;    though   some   judgment 
was  required  of  the  advocate  in  this  respect 
It  happened  once  that  one  Spiiidion,  ask- 
ing a  little  boy,  whom  he  had  called  into 
court  as  the  son  of  a  client  whom  he  was 
defending,  why  he  wept,  was  answered, 
**  Because  my  master  has  just  flogged  me." 
He    had    got    hold    of  the    wrong   hoy. 
Appeals  to  the  passions  were  the  recognised 
metJiod  of  the  orator,  and  their  want  of 
logic  was  no  bar  to  their  effect.     Speaking 
in  the  open  Forum,  before  judges  who  haa 
the  right,  not  to  acquit  only,  but  to  pardon, 
amongst  an  excited  audienoe  of  qmck  sus- 
ceptibilities   and    theatrical  imaginations, 
the  advocate   of  that  day  had  great  f^' 
vantages  over  his  successor.     The  ismB 
tliat  they  were  able  to  secure  for  previous 
preparation,  was  another  advantage  for  the 
advocates  of  Greece  and  Borne.     *'  If  D^ 
mosthenes  and  Cicero  had  had  to  plead  as 
often  as  we  have,"    says  Dupin,   "they 
would  have  been  neither  Cicero  nor  Demoa- 
thenes."      By  these  reflections  we  must 
account,   and  console  ourselveSy  for,  the 
decline  of  forensic  eloquence;   ^ememl)e^ 
ing  at  the  same  time  how  our  own  Erskine 
was  able  to  move  his  publio — so  much  that 
the  people  not  only  took  the  horses  out  rf 
his  carriage  after  one  of  his  greatest  dis- 
plays, but  even  forgot  in  their  enthusiasm  to 
return  them  afterwards.    Our  age,  to<^  h»B 


Sb> 


Charles  Dickens  ] 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR. 


[October  2, 1669.]      421 


grown  too  prosaic  to  tolerate  mnch  declama- 
tion :  without  which  the  eloquence  of  oratory 
can  scarcely  exist  in  its  fulness.  "  Continuous 
eloquence,**  says  Pascal,  "  is  a  bore." 

While  on  the  subject  of  contrasts  of 
style,  it  may  be  amusing  to  note  the  dif- 
ference between  the  advocacy  of  the  pre- 
sent day  and  that  which  waa  in  favour 
during  me  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  cen- 
turies. The  speakers  of  that  day,  notably 
in  France,  delighted  in  pressing  all  the 
authors  of  antiquiiy  into  the  service  of  the 
most  everyday  cause.  Let  us  listen  to 
Pousset  de  Montauban  pleading  for  a  client 
who  denied  the  patermty  of  a  child.  "  If 
formerlv,"  he  says,  **  husbands  have  been 
believed  when  they  have  denied  children  at- 
tributed to  them ;  if  Demeratus,  as  Hero- 
dotus tells  us,  was  driven  from  his  kingdom, 
only  because  Ariston,  his  putative  father, 
cried,  *  He  is  not  my  son !'  if  the  Lacedesmo- 
nians  preferred  Agesilaus  to  Leoiychides,  in 
the  succession,  because  Agis  had  often  said 
that  the  latter  was  the  child  of  Alcibiades, 
and  not  his ;  shall  not,  then,  my  client  be 
believed  when  he  says  that  this  is  not  his 
son?"  In  the  same  speech  are  cited  as 
further  authorities,  Horace,  the  Bible,  St. 
Augustin,  Plato,  Tertullian,  Seneca,  and 
the  Jews.  It  is  this  style  of  advoca<5y  that 
Racine  severely  satirises  in  the  Plaideurs : 

Quand  je  Tois  les  C^mis,  quand  je  yois  leur  fortune : 
Quand  ^e  toib  le  aoleil,  et  quand  je  voia  la  lunc : 
Qnand  16  rois  les  ^tata  dea  Babiloniena 
Tianafnr^  dea  aerpena  auz  MaoMoniena,  fte.  &o. 

Out  of  such  strange  vicissitudes  of  style 
grew  the  modem  barrister.  Now-a-days, 
if  he  meddle  with  the  classics,  he  is  not 
always  so  much  at  home.  De  Montauban 
would  scarcely  have  talked  as  we  have 
heard  a  queen's  counsel  talking  of  the 
optma  spolia  of  an  adversary. 

During  the  early  middle  ages,  as  far  as 
we  can  pierce  their  darkness,  the  pro- 
fessional advocate  rarely  existed.  We  find 
traces  of  him  among  the  Lombards  and  the 
German  tribes ;  but  "  it  is  natural  to 
suppose,"  as  a  French  writer  has  said, 
**  that  at  a  time  when  justice  itself  had  no 
existence,  the  work  of  the  advocate  was 
almost  a  nullity."  To  those  ingenious 
days  we  must  refer  the  origin  of  the 
stupidest  and  most  monstrous  of  systems, 
the  "  trial  by  battle,"  which  was  not 
abolished  in  France  till  1566,  while,  in  this 
wonderful  country  of  ours,  the  "  wager  of 
battle"  had  a  legal  existence  some  fifty 
years  ago.  Mr.  Forsyth  has  extracted 
this  account  from  an  old  French  author  of 
the  manner  of  the  proceiedings  in  a  battle 


trial  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury :  "  The  counsel  for  the  appellant, 
having  par  les  plus  belles  paroles  et  mieux 
ordonnees  qu'il  peuvoit,  stated  the  case  of 
his  client,  called  upon  his  opponent  to 
confess  or  deny  the  charge  against  him, 
saying,  that  if  it  was  denied,  his  client  was 
ready  to  prove  it  by  witnesses  or  other- 
wise. Ho  then  added,  *  but  he  will  prove 
it  in  his  own  person,  or  by  his  champion, 
in  the  lists  like  a  gentleman,  on  horse- 
back, with  arms  and  all  other  things  suitable, 
in  wager  of  battle,  and  in  such  case  in 
manner  conformable  to  his  rank,  and  here 
he  ofiers  his  gage.'  At  these  words,  like  a 
fearless  cavcuier,  he  threw  a  glove  down 
upon  the  floor.  Upon  this  the  counsel  on 
the  other  side  rose,  and  after  having 
argued  vigorously  against  the  motion  for 
a  duel,  he  concluded  by  stoutly  declaring 
that  if  the  court  should  decide  in  favour  of 
a  single  combat,  *  my  client  denies  what  is 
alleged  against  him,  and  says,  on  the  con- 
trary, tlmt  he  who  has  authorised  the 
charge  to  be  brought  forward  lies  ;  and 
this  he  is  ready  to  maintain  either  in 
person  or  by  champion,  and  thereto  he 
pledges  his  gage.'  The  appellee  then 
stepped  forward  himself;  after  a  short 
address  to  the  court,  in  which  he  said  that 
the  plaintiff  lied  like  a  villain,  *  sauf  I'hon- 
neur  de  la  cour,'  and  that  ho  himself 
adopted  all  that  his  advocate  had  stated 
in  bis  behalf,  and  was  ready  to  fight  if  the 
court  should  so  determine,  ho  threw  down 
his  glove  also  beside  the  other." 

One  would  think  that  the  advocate  had 
little  to  do  on  these  occasions  but  look  on ; 
but  his  berth  was  not  altogether  pleasant. 
If  he  were  not  careful  of  his  language,  but 
identified  himself  too  warmly  with  his  client, 
he  might  be  called  upon  to  fight  himself, 
as  happened  to  one  De  Fabrefort,  in  the 
fourteenth  century.  Having  demanded 
battle,  without  saying  in  express  words 
that  he  demanded  it  for  his  client,  he  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  escaping  personal 
encounter ;  whereat  the  people  in  the  couxt 
laughed  consui^edly. 

It  is  amusing  to  think  of  our  sergeants- 
at-law,  in  England,  "  giving  a  knee"  to 
their  clients  in  a  trial  by  battle.  But  such 
was  the  arrangement  in  the  old  days ;  and 
we  may  find  in  Blackstone  and  other  old 
authorities,  accounts  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  combat  was  waged,  after  the  same 
fashion  as  in  France.  Whether  or  no  a 
case  should  be  settled  by  fighting,  was 
a  preliminary  point  for  argument  \  asjksL  ^^ 
is  an  absolute  feucV.  \]ba.\»  ^Txii^iaKo^^^R^A  ^B:^«a. 


^ 


& 


422       [October  2, 18C9J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


[Coiulactad  by 


// 


for  wager  by  battle  in  tlie  Court  of  Queen's 
Bench,  in  the  year  1818. 

Though  trial  by  battle  is  now  a  thing  of  the 
past,  the  simplicity  of  mediffival  advocacy 
still  survives  in  some  parts  of  the  world 
For  instance,  M.  le  Berquier  is  our  au- 
thority for  saying  that,  in  Persia,  things  are 
still  unchanged  since  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  when  a  French  traveller 
in  that  part  of  the  world,  the  Chevalier 
Chardin,  was  much  astonished  by  the  local 
methods  of  procedure.  The  parties  to  a 
suit  pleaded  their  own  cause :  standing  if 
they  were  of  the  common  people ;  sitting 
if  they  were  of  rank ;  and  made  such  a 
noise  about  it,  that  the  judge  would  oflen 
put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  cry  "  Gau- 
gaumicouri "  (you  chew  dung) :  where- 
upon if  they  refused  to  be  quiet,  the  judge 
ordered  an  usher  of  the  court  to  hit  each 

Earty  over  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  the 
ack.  In  contrast  with  this  primitive 
method  we  may  take  the  Austrian  system, 
as  it  existed  imtil  the  reconstruction  of  the 
bar  of  that  country  last  year  only,  which 
narrowed  and  confined  Uie  office  of  the 
advocate  by  rules  of  the  most  absurd  for- 
mality.  Twenty  conditions  wer*  reouired 
for  a  "  complete  proofj"  which  might  be 
accomplished  by  a  znathematical  arrange- 
ment of  "  half-proofs,"  and  "  second  half- 
proofe."  "  Five  combinations  of  methods 
of  proof,"  wrote  one  of  their  professors 
"  constitute  a  half-proof  of  the  first  degree ; 
to  make  a  second  half-proof,  there  is  the 
supplementaiT  oath,  a  doubtful  witness,  or 
a  damaged  witness.  Lower  than  the  half- 
proof  is  the  *  presumption,'  which  has  no 
foundation  in  law."  Touchstone,  one  would 
think,  must  have  studied  for  the  Austrian 
bar.  M.  le  Berquier,  who  in  the  book  we 
have  so  often  cited  gives  a  brief  summary 
of  his  observation  of  the  foreign  systems 
of  advocacy,  represents  the  Germans  gene- 
rally in  a  most  un&.vourable  light  in  that 
respect,  and  quotes  a  Bavarian  magistrate's 
account  of  his  own  country.  "  Scarcely 
have  the  advocates  come  into  court,"  he  says, 
"  than  all  their  good  feelings  leave  them ; 
love  of  truth,  conscience,  reason,  honesty, 
good  faith,  all  disappear.  Li  following 
their  profession,  they  hold  themselves  ab- 
solutely free  of  all  obligation  to  honesty, 
and  lie  without  the  slightest  embarrassment, 
or  the  smallest  scruple,  on  the  strength 
of  old  custom  and  usage. "  But  professional 
advocacy  has  never  flourished  in  Germany ; 
in  Russia  it  had  no  existence  till  1866, 
until  which  date  all  proceedings,  civil  and 
criminal,  were  conducted  and  decided  in 
the  strictest  secrecy. 


The  first  signs  of  the  revival  of  advocacy 
as  a  profession  during  the  middle  a^s  are 
to  be  sought  in  the  records  of  the  lamons 
•*  Assises  de  Jerusalem,"  when  Godfrey  de 
Bouillon  ascended  the  throne  of  Jerusalem 
at  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century,  and 
founded  on  existing  custom  and  usage  a 
complete  code  of  laws.  By  that  code  the 
advocate  became  once  more  an  institution. 
Two  courts  of  justice,  the  High.  Court  and 
the  Court  of  the  Commons,  were  established 
by  Gk)dfrey's  code;  and  for  the  ftmctions 
and  management  of  each — the  one  consti- 
tuted for  tne  nobles,  and  the  other  for  the 
people— various  rules  were  laid  down.  In 
the  High  Court,  a  litigant  might  appear  in 
person  or  by  counsel.  If  he  preferred  the 
latter,  he  applied  to  the  president  to  assign 
to  him  the  Dest  pleader  attached  to  the 
court;  and  even  if  he  were  himself  an 
advocate,  might  ask  for  another  to  help 
him.  The  king,  it  seems,  had  special  ad- 
vocates of  his  own ;  but,  those  excepted, 
any  counsellor  demanded  was  assignea.  In 
the  Court  of  Commons,  the  parties  were  not 
only  allowed,  but  coxxstrainjed,  to  appear  by 
counsel.  For  the  guidance  of  the  advocate 
many  directions  were  given;  he  was  en- 
joined to  plead  *'  wisely,  legally,  and  cour- 
teously,^ he  was  to  be  a  man  of  sense,  and 
to  keep  his  wits  about  him;  he  was  not  to 
be  shy,  or  careless,  or  inattentive ;  neither 
for  fear  of  ahama  or  loes,  bo4  ior  pit  or 
promise,  was  he  to  refrain  from  givBig  tlie 
best  advice  he  ooold  to  the  dieat  to  wham 
he  was  assigned  And  finally  he  was 
blandly  assured  that  "  the  more  he  knew 
the  better  advocate  he  would  be."  It  is 
further  worthy  of  note,  that  special  in- 
structions were  given  to  such  counsel  as 
should  appear  in  a  trial  for  murder,  oa 
behalf  of  the  "  next  friend"  of  the  murdered 
person.  The  advocate's  fee  was  to  be 
**  according  to  the  conveniences  which  be 
had  done  to  the  party;"  of  the  ext^tof 
which  it  does  not  appear,  however,  whether 
the  advocate  or  the  party  was  to  be  the 


'""t. 


e  have  more  than  onoe  alluded  to 
France  as  the  countiy  where^  though  &r 
more  fettered  by  rules  and  ordinances  Qnui 
in  England,  the  bar  has  been  held  in  the 
highest  honour  and  achieved  in  jnedem 
times  the  greatest  fame. 


Galli*  causiilioM 


fiMnada  BritnAOfr 


And  it  is  no  matter  of  wonder  that 
should.  That  sparkling  language  —  the 
despair  of  the  lUptmt^  dpSpmni  of  all  otba 
races  who  court  literary,  social,  or  oii- 
\tOT\C8\   ^tmction    in    less    flexible   and 


c5: 


=& 


CluurlM  DickooB.] 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR. 


[October  2,  ISGft.]      423 


heavier  tongues,  and  take  their  one  re- 
▼enge  in  poetry — ehonld  inspire,  one  would 
think,  the  most  tremulous  of  juniors  with 
fluency  and  boldness.  Greatest  of  all 
qualificatirmfl  of  the  advocate — rather  may 
we  say,  summary  of  the  advocate's  art — 
who  over  rivalled  a  Frenchman  in  the  '*  gift 
of  the  gab  P"  So  it  was  that  the  possessor 
of  thi^  mighty  gift  in  France  won,  in  yery 
early  days,  a  position  and  an  importance  that 
the  professional  advocate  has  never  had 
elsewhere.  They  did  everything,  these 
French  barristers.  There  was  one  who 
became  a  pope,  under  the  style  of  Clement 
the  Fourth,  and  another  who  was  made 
(the  very  last  dignity  one  might  expect  an 
advocate  to  achieve)  a  saint,  canonised,  we 
may  be  sure,  with  a  flawless  patent  of 
sanctity.  D'Aguesseau,  Pasquier,  Berryer, 
are  at  different  times  among  the  foremost 
names  of  the  French  *'tabl0a.u,"  or  roll  of 
the  bar ;  and  if  we  look  further  for  quaint 
distinction,  we  shall  find  in  France  the 
yery  youngest  barrister  on  record,  in  the 
shape  of  one  Corbin,  who  appeared  in  court 
and  conducted  a  cause  with  much  skill  and 
eloquence  at  the  mature  age  of  fourteen. 
Thu  was  an.  ezceptioB,  no  doubt ;  but  life 
began  earlier  in  those  days.  D'Aguesseau 
made  his  bow  as  an  advocato-ffeneral  at 
twenty-three ;  and  FlEisquier  neany  left  the 
bar  in  disgust  because  he  had  to  wait  for 
two  months  in  a  state  of  brieflessness.  The 
present  day,  which  regards  a  barrister  of 
forty-five  as  little  better  than  a  babe  in  the 
law,  has  less  sympathy  with  the  latter  part 
of  Fuller's  maxim,  tliat  '^Physicians,  like 
beer,  are  best  when  they  are  old;  and 
lawyers,  Hke  bread,  when  they  are  young 
and  new." 

The  first  French  advocates  were  the 
clergy — ''nullus  causidicus  nisi  clericus," 
was  &e  motto  of  the  day — ^who  character- 
istically distingniBhed  themselves  by  making 
what  we  may  call  their  first  corporate  ap- 
pearance as  defenders  of  the  royal  preroga- 
tive against  the  encroachments  of  the  Holy 
See.  It  is  somewhat  startling  to  read  of 
a  young  lawyer,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fourteenth  centuxy,  drawing  up  a  short 
address  to  Pope  Boniface  the  Eighth,  in 
answer  to  a  claim  of  ecclesiastical  patronage 
in  France,  with  this  brief  opening,  ''  Sciat 
tua  maxima  fatuitas,"  i,  0.,  '^  Let  your 
honourable  idiotcy  be  informed."  Whilst 
the  parliaments  of  France  continued  to  move 
from  place  to  place,  the  advocates  moved 
with  them,  on  a  sort  of  circuit ;  the  plead- 
ing of  causes  being  part  of  the  business  of 
the  parliament. 

We  must  think  of  the  adyooate  of  those 


days  as  employed  on  the  civil  side  only : 
his  employment  in  criminal  cases  is  a  very 
modem  institution  in  France ;  a£,  to  our 
shame  be  it  spoken,  in  grave  cases  is  true 
in  England  also.  It  was  in  the  reign  of 
Philip  the  Fair,  that  the  parliament,  and 
with  it  the  bar  of  France,  was  fixed  in  Paris; 
and  the  advocate's  office  grew  rapidly  in 
honour  and  importance.  At  first  attached 
to  the  parliament  as  a  sort  of  "amicus 
cuiie"  to  explain  the  law  to  the  fighting 
gentlemen  wno  formed  the  court,  he  was 
soon  found  too  useful  to  be  excluded  from 
a  personal  share  in  the  deliberations ;  and 
the  next  step  was  to  raise  the  lawyer  to 
the  soldier's  level  by  making  of  him  a 
"  chevalier  es  lois."  Philip  the  Fair  was  the 
first  to  knight  his  foremost  barristers ;  and 
to  bestow  upon  them  the  honours  of  no- 
bility. And  it  is  an  amusing  comment  on 
the  characteristics  of  the  profession,  ever 
masters  in  the  art  of  making  ells  out 
of  inches,  to  find  that  by  the  middle  of 
the  jGDurteenth  century  they  had  succeeded 
in  establishing  their  right  as  a  body  to 
the  privileges  of  the  "noblesse^"  to  which 
they  had  strictly  no  sort  of  claim.  By 
this  time  they  had  dubbed  themselves 
an  "order,"  and  vindicated  their  Kteral 
title  to  the  proud  designation  of  "  no- 
blesse de  la  robe,"  while  at  about  the 
same  date  the  bar,  by  gradual  divorce- 
ment had  separated  herself  from  the 
church.  The  glories  of  the  French  bar 
culminated  in  the  age  of  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth, when  the  honours  of  advocacy  were 
transmitted  from  &ther  to  son,  and  regarded 
as  a  great  source  of  legitimate  pride. 

Amongrst  its  many  vicissitudea  the 
greatest  that  befel  the  bar  of  France  was 
in  the  stormy  times  of  the  Revolution; 
fi}r,  by  a  decree  of  the  second  of  September, 
1790,  the  National  Assembly  simply  abo- 
lished it  altogether,  duties,  rights,  dfess, 
name,  honours,  and  all,  and  substituted  a 
class  of  procureurs,  under  the  name  of 
"official  defenders."  To  do  the  National 
Assembly  justice,  it  is  dear  from  the  re- 
port of  the  select  committee  on  which  they 
acted,  that  they  believed  that  they  were  lay 
this  mieasure  advancing  the  ends  of  justice ; 
and  it  speaks  highly  fi)r  the  French  bar  at 
that  period  that  they  accepted  their  own 
annihilation  gladly,  in  preference  to  the 
degradatiDn  which  they  anticipated  for 
their  ancient  order  under  the  new  regime. 
One  yoice  was  heard  in  the  Assembly, 
almost  alone,  pleading  in  impassioned  lan- 
guage for  the  maintenance  of  the  adyo-  yv 
Gate's  office.  "  Whose  ia  "tiba  tv-^^es^  V«k  ^»r-  ^ 
fend  ooae  ca&»aB^    'I^MBMe  vv.-«^ 


•»= 


cP. 


:&. 


424      [October  3, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactedby 


in  whom  they  trust.  This  right  is  based 
on  the  first  principles  of  reason  and  of 
justice,  the  essential  and  indefeasible  right 
of  natural  defence.  If  you  prevent  my 
defending  my  honour,  liberty,  and  life,  by 
my  own  voice,  when  I  will  and  when  I 
can,  and,  when  that  fails  me,  ly  his  whom 
I  believe  to  be  the  most  enlightened,  vir- 
tuous, upright,  and  the  most  careftd  of  my 
interests,  then  you  are  violating  at  once  this 
holy  law  of  nature  and  of  justice,  and  all 
the  principles  of  social  order."  The  man 
who  so  spoke  was  called  Maximilian  Robes- 
pierre! 

Li  1804,  much  against  his  will  (for  be 
had  no  love  for  lawyers),  Napoleon  decreed 
the  restoration  of  the  order,  though  he 
altogether  declined  to  trust  such  pestilent 
fellows  with  free  liberty  of  speech ;  making 
rules  for  them  as  strict  as  any  that  had 
been  laid  down  hy  St.  Louis,  and  much  of 
the  same  kind.  We  will  cite  part  of  one 
of  these  rules,  now  in  force,  before  parting 
with  the  French  advocate:  "We  forbid 
the  advocates  to  be  insolently  or  offen- 
sively personal  to  the  opposite  party  or  his 
counsel,  and  to  make  any  grave  charge 
against  their  honour  and  reputation,  unless 
the  necessity  of  the  case  requires  it ;  and 
they  are  expressly  instructed  in  writing  to 
make  such  charge,  by  their  clients,  or  their 
dients'attomeys."  One  other  quotation  may 
be  appended,  from  an  ordinance  of  1822 : 
"  Any  attack  an  advocate  may  be  induced 
to  niake  in  his  pleading,  or  in  writing, 
upon  religion,  the  principles  of  the  mo- 
narchy, the  charter,  the  laws  of  the  king- 
dom, or  upon  established  authorities,  sh^ 
be  immediatelv  suppressed  by  the  court." 

The  right  of  being  represented  by  counsel 
in  criminal  cases,  declared  illegal  by  Chan- 
cellor Poyet,  about  the  middle  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  at  which  date  entire  secrecy 
of  procedure  was  introduced  into  the  French 
criminal  code — a  system  confirmed  a  hun- 
dred-and-fifty  years  later,  on  a  general  re- 
vision of  the  law — is,  as  we  have  said,  of 
recent  origin  in  France ;  but  in  spite  of  the 
law,  the  judges  as  a  rule  seem  always  to 
have  permitted,  where  they  could,  some 
communication  between  a  prisoner  and  an 
advocate,  though  the  latter  might  not 
appear  in  behalf  of  the  accused.  Our 
English  system,  notwithstanding,  M.  le 
Berquier's  theories  of  the  right  of  defence, 
which  in  this  fr^e  country  ought  accord- 
ing to  him  to  have  been  universally  recog- 
nised, offers  a  close  parallel  to  this.  It  is 
all  very  well  for  a  Fi^ch  writer,  extolling 
tlie  land,  of  liberty  at  the  expense  of  his 
own,  to  be  eathiusiaatac  over  the  autonomy  \ 


of  the  English  bar,  and  its  glorious  re- 
sults ;  but  until  the  revolution  of  1688, 
our  system  of  criminal  law,  if  system  it  can 
be  called  (and  it  is  in  criminal  trials  that 
justice  claims  the  fullest  deUberation,  and 
advocacy  has  its  widest  field),  was  a  horror 
to  think  upon.  It  is  bad  enough  now; 
divorced  in  most  of  its  principles  from 
common  sense  and  reason,  but  then !  ''It 
would  be  difficult  to  name  a  trial,"  writes 
Phillips  in  his  pre&oe  to  the  State  Trials, 
'*  not  marked  by  some  violation  of  the  first 
principles  of  criminal  justice."  Until  1695, 
no  counsel  was  allowed  to  any  man  accused 
of  "treason,"  or  "felony,"  in  any  shape, 
but  in  cases  of  "misdemeanour"  alone, 
"  unless  some  points  of  law  arose  proper  to 
be  debated."  Even  Je£&eys  felt  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  system.  "  I  think  it  is  a  hard 
case,"  he  said,  "that  a  man  should  have 
counsel  to  defend  himself  for  a  twopenny 
trespass,  and  his  witnesses  examined  upon 
oath ;  but  if  he  steal,  commit  murder,  or 
felony,  nay,  high  treason,  where  life,  estate, 
honour,  and  all  are  concerned,  he  shall 
neither  have  counsel  nor  his  witnesses  ex- 
amined upon  oath." 

In  1695,  the  first  reform  was  effected, 
and  the  assistance  of  counsel  was  allowed 
in  cases  of  high  treason  of  what  we  may 
call  the  first  cmss.   And  the  act  being  ap- 
pointed to  take  effect  from  the  25th  of 
March  in  the  ensuing  year,    Sir  William 
Parkyn  was  tried  befiDre  Chief  Justice  Holt 
on  tne  24th  of  the    same    month,  and 
refused  the  aid  of  counsel  by  that  upright 
judge  on  the  ground  that  he  must  proceed 
"  according  to  what  the  law  is,  and  not 
what  it  will  be ;"  a  postponement  of  the 
case  for  a  day  being  prayed  in  vain.    Fifty 
years  passed  before  the  provisions  of  tho 
statute  of  1695  were  extended  to  aU  cases 
of  treason ;  while  for  charges  of  ordinary 
felony  prisoners  were  refrused  professional 
aid  until,  in  legal  phraseology,  the  "  sixth 
and  seventh"   of  William    the    Fourth; 
when,  on  the  ground  that  "  it  is  just  and 
reasonable  that  persons  accused  of  offences 
against    t)ie    law    should  be    enabled  to 
make  their  full  answer    and  defence  to 
all  that  is  alleged  against  them,"  the  last) 
let  us  hope  not  the  final,  reform  in  the 
direction  of   common    sense    was    made. 
Shall  we  live,  any  of  us — will  any  English- 
man ever  live — to  see  the  full  recognition 
in  this  country  of  the  startling  theory,  that 
the  main  object  of  trying  a  man  for  acrimo 
is  to  find  out  whether  he  committed  it  or 
not  ?    And  that  the  best  way  to  find  it  out 
would  be  to  ask  the  prisoner  himi^lf  a  fev 
queeidona  on    the    subject^  within  limits 


^ 


&) 


Oharies  Dickens.] 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  BAR. 


[October  2, 1M9.]       425 


which  wonld  not  be  very  difficnlt  to  fix  ? 
If  he  were  innocent,  he  would  wish  to  bo 
qnestioned ;  if  gnilty,  he  wonld  not ;  but 
tnat  is  argument  enough,  apparently,  for 
letting  ill  alone.  For  a  crafty  murderer 
might  be  convicted  out  of  his  own  mouth, 
and  his  crime  brought  home  to  him 
without  any  difficulty  or  complication 
whatever.  And  what  a  very  dreadful 
thing  that  would  be.  We  have  often  been 
amused,  half  in  sadness,  by  watching  the 
eagerness  with  which  our  judges  (to  whose 
unvarying  and  patient  human  kindness, 
in  criminal  trials,  no  testimony  too  strong 
can  be  borne)  avail  themselves  of  the  loop- 
hole granted  them  sometimes  whereby  to 
creep  out  of  this  monstrous  anomaly.  An 
undefended  prisoner,  without  a  friend  to 
speak  for  hun,  addresses  the  jury  in  his 
own  defence.  By  rule,  he  should  confine 
himself  to  comments  on  the  evidence ;  for 
his  story  should  be  worth  nothing  unless 
he  can  call  witnesses  to  prove  it.  But  he 
doesn't  know  that,  and  delivers  his  round, 
unvarnished  tale.  The  judge  should  stop 
him,  but  does  not ;  and  more  than  once  we 
have  seen  a  prisoner  acquitted,  with  the 
full  approval  of  all  in  court,  on  the  strength 
of  this  most  improper  description  of  de- 
fence, so  completely  has  the  manner  of  it 
conveyed  conviction  of  its  truth. 

The  narrow  limits  by  which  advocacy 
was  so  long  confined  in  England  go  far 
to  account  for  the  fact  that  we  noted  at 
the  beginning  of  our  last  paper,  that  for- 
ensic eloquence  has  been  comparatively  rare 
among  us — ^tiU  the  end  of  last  century 
almost  unknown.  Criminal  defences  are 
the  advocate's  great  opportunity ;  and 
here  again,  to  recur  to  our  opening  obser- 
vations, the  Roman  and  the  Greek  had  the 
better  of  us.  All  their  great  displays  were 
in  that  line.  Cicero  would  not  have  made 
so  much  of  an  action  for  trespass,  or  De- 
mosthenes of  a  case  of  ejectment,  as  they 
did  of  their  Milos  and  Ctesiphons ;  though 
they  would  probably  have  shown  great 
ingenuity  in  following  such  instructions  as 
are  said  to  have  been  given  to  counsel  by 
a  defendant  who  aclmowledged  that  he 
had  no  case :  "  Abuse  plaintiff's  attorney." 
The  famous  State  Trials  (from  which 
Mr.  Forsyth  has  made  some  most  inte- 
resting selections)  contain  many  speeches 
good,  bad,  and  indifierent;  but  for  any- 
thing like  a  high  order  of  oratory  we  look 
in  vain.  Plenty  of  sound  sense,  of  iuffe- 
nions  argmnent,  of  subtle  pleading,  and  of 
good  old  English;  and  many  an  appeal 
touching  in  its  straightforward  and  manly 
simplicity,  from  prisoners  denied  any  help 


but  their  own,  is  recorded  there ;  but  little 
besides,  though  even  in  their  limited  range, 
and  in  the  most  truckling  times,  there  were 
not  wanting  advocates  to  win  themselves  a 
name  for  courageous  zeal  in  the  interests 
of  the  clients  for  whom  they  were  only 
allowed  to  speak  on  such  *' points  of  law 
as  might  arise  proper  to  be  debated." 
"  I  am  pleading,"  said  Hale,  when  threat- 
ened by  the  law  officer  of  the  crown  for 
speaking  against  the  government,  on  the 
trial  of  Lord  Craven,  "  in  defence  of  laws 
which  you  are  bound  to  maintain.  I  am 
doing  justice  to  my  client,  and  am  not  to 
be  intimidated." 

The  advocate,  such  as  he  was  in  his 
"  civil  side  "  capacity,  was  an  old  institu- 
tion in  this  country ;  and  we  find  him  dis- 
tinguishing   himself  by  his  "  quirks  and 
quillets  "  in  the  days  of  William  Rufns. 
Li  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Third,   John 
Hansel  gained  such    influence    over   the 
councils  of  the  king,  that  he  *^  stopped  the 
mouths  of  all  the  judges  and  pl^ulers," 
much  to  the  discomfort  of  the  monks  of 
St.  Albans  amongst  other  people.    As  in 
France,  the  advocates  of  those  days  were 
the    clergy.     And    it   is   worth   remark, 
that  to  uiat  fact  some  have  traced  the 
origin  of  that  time-honoured  monstrosity, 
the  lawyer's  wig.     It  was  at  the  beginning 
of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Third,  tiiat  the 
clergy  were   first  inhibited  from  practice 
as  advocates,  except  in  their  own  behalf  or 
that  of  destitute  people,  gratuitous  caxusea 
in  short,  and  to  evade  this  rule  and  con- 
ceal the  fact  of  their  profession,  it  is  said 
they  invented  the  wig  as  a  covering  for  the 
bald  tonsure :    ingenious  as  ever  in  such 
plausible  devices.    And  it  happened  once 
that  an  advocate,  charged  with  malprac- 
tices in  his  profession,  had  the  audaciW  to 
claim  the  benefit  of  clergy,  pulling  off  his 
wig  in  open  court  to  show  his  shaven 
crown.     Perhaps  he  had  broken  the  pro- 
visions of  a  statute  passed  about  that  time 
(1275)  which  condemned  to  be  imprisoned 
for  a  year  and  a  day,  and  to  be  afterwards 
"  disbarred,"  as  we  should  now  call  it,  any 
"  Serjeant,  counter  (i.e.  pleader)  or  others," 
who  should  "  do  any  manner  of  deceit  or 
collusion  in  the  kill's  court,  or  consent 
imto  it,  in  deceit  of  the  court,  or  to  beguUe 
the  court."  This  statute  is  almost  a  solitary 
instance  of  interference  with  the  autonomv 
of  the  English  bar ;  though  in  an  old  book 
called  the  Miroir  des  Justices,  there  are 
various  rules,  on  what  authority  based  does 
not  appear,  for  the  guidance  of  the  ad- 
vocate.    The  pleader  was  charged  not  to 
maintain  anything  ha  Vlii«^  \/i ' 


* 


•tau    [■'>:. 


'■».! 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


to  give  no  false  evidence  or  fivliie  pleas,  to 
coDBCut  to  no  tiicka  or  corruption.  Among 
tlieae  and  otlier  thinpfl  we  find  that  he  was 
to  be  Buspynded  if  he  took  fi>e8  on  both 
sides.  It  IB  astonishing  how  similar  in  all 
coontrieB  and  ages,  are  the  tempi  ationa 
that  seem  to  beset  the  advocate.  This  was 
Demosthenes  in  re  Phormio  repeated. 

We  have  left  ourselves  no  space  to  do 
luoro  than  bow  in  parting,  to  the  worthy 
brotherhood  of  serjeants-at-law,  the  most 
ancient  and  honoiu^d  of  leading  English 
advocates,  before  the  now  greater  Queen's 
connsel  was  known.  Thej  seem  to  have 
boon  tlie  most  favonrcd  class  of  men  in  the 
kingdom  at  one  time,  and  though  the  old 
recOT^  do  not  tell  na  mnch  of  »11  that 
they  said,  they  are  eloquent  of  all  that 
they  ate.  The  newly-in«talled  seijeant 
was  first  called  upon  to  feast  on  spiced 
bread,  comfits,  and  hippocras,  "  with  other 
goodly  conceits,"  after  which,  having 
"  counted  upon  his  wita,"  he  proceeded  to 
feed  agun  for  the  space  of  a  week :  and  on 
one  occasion  Haary  the  Eighth  and  one  of 
Ikis  queens  (probably  not  she  who  survived 
him)  dined  with  the  new  seije&nts.  They 
stayod  for  one  day,  but  the  scrjeauta  kept 
it  up  for  four  more. 

llms  did  tlie  eerjeiuits  of  old  "  eat  their 
terms,"  and  on  such  iiiro  did  the  profes- 
sional advocate  grow  up  in  England.  We 
cannot  part  with  him  on  pleaaanter  terms, 
or  find  matter  for  more  oomplaoent  thought 
than  hia  brave  conservatism.  The  times 
are  changed,  but  he  is  changed  in  them  aa 
little  as  may  be.  Let  other  men,  in  ■pro- 
fessions  where  special  acqniremente  seem 
to  the  superficial  to  be  less  an  object,  be 
competitively  exattiinod  on  all  hands ;  the 
barrister  preserves,  "  while  creeds  and 
civilisations  rise  and  fall,"  his  proud  auto- 
nomy. Hippocras  and  comfits  are  things  of 
the  post,  and  the  conceite  of  the  Temple 
kitchens  may  not  be  aJways  goodly ;  but, 
now  as  in  the  olden  days,  the  young  Hor- 
tonsina  of  England,  making  his  way  to  the 
bar,  is  chiefly  called  upon — to  Eat. 


WAIFS. 

If  I  ^ck  up  a  sovereign  in  the  BtT«et,  an  old 
relic  behind  a  sliding  panel,  or  a  purse  lying 
unclaimed  on  the  counter  or  floor  of  a  shop  ; 
if  1  buy  an  old  Bible  with  a  concealed  bank- 
note in  the  cover,  or  dig  up  a  parcel  of  old 
coins  in  a  field,  or  discover  a  bag  withont  an 
owuer  in  a  railway  carriage ;  if  I  strike  a  vein 
of  precious  metal  in  a  quartz  rock,  or  descry 
glittering  particles  of  pure  gold  in  alluvial 
nnnda,  or  take  home  with  me  a  poor  dog  who 
Ami  lout  hia  mnatet ;  am  I,  iu  these  coacfi,  or 


any  of  them,  to  claim  the  property  as  my  own  ? 
Anil  if  in  any,  in  which  V 
I  Aa  to  the  metallic  treasures  which  lie  un- 
derground, simply  because  they  have  never 
been  dug  up,  they  come  under  the  opera- 
tion of  laws  relating  to  mining ;  but  treasures 
"  fnund,"  under  all  the  various  meaniugs  of 
this  word,  are  subject  to  very  curious  cont«n- 
tions  as  to  ownership.  Because  I  find  some- 
thing, it  does  not  Deccesarlly  follow  that  the 
something  belongs  to  me.  In  some  oountries 
a  custom  has  been  adopted  of  awarding  such 
treasiuvs  to  the  sovereign ;  in  others,  of  di- 
viding them  between  the  finder  of  the  article 
and  the  owner  of  the  land  whereou  f  omtd ;  while 
in  Denmark,  where  aotiqaarian  relies  are 
numerous  and  valuable,  in  affording  illuitra' 
tions  of  Scandinavian  hiotc^  and  nsages,  a 
recent  law  compels  the  finder  of  soch  voperty 
to  give  it  up  to  the  crown,  on  oooditiui  id 
receiving  an  equivalent  in  money.  In  old 
times,  the  monarchs  of  England  claimed  owner- 
ship of  ai^  relics  or  treasures  found  in  the 
ruins  of  despoiled  and  deserted  abbeys  snd 
monasteries.  James  the  FiiM,  for  instance, 
granted  a  patent  under  the  great  seal,  *'  To 
allow  to  Mary  Middlemore,  one  of  the  ma^de* 
of  honour  to  our  decreet  consert  Queen  AJtae, 
and  her  deputies,  power  and  authority  to  enter  i 
into  the  Abbeys  of  St.  Albans,  Canterbury,  St.  I 
Edmondsbury,  and  Bomsey,  and  into  all  lands,  ' 
baronies,  and  houses  within  a  mile  belonging  ! 
such  abbeys  :  there  to  dig  and  search  after 


treasure,  supposed  to  be  hidden  in  such  places. "  j 
A  pretty  mode  of  rewarding  a  court  lady ! 
Many  of  ihe  facta  illustrating  this  subject 


very  curious.  Stone  years  ago,  a  bidder  at  I 
an  auction  bought  an  old  bureau  or  chest  d 
drawers.  On  examining  it  afterwards,  he  dis- 
covered a  secret  drawer  which  contained  gold 
coin  and  bank-notes.  He  unwisely  tuked 
about  his  good  fortune  ;  the  affiur  came  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  seller,  who  claimed  restitU' 
tion  of  the  money.  The  curious  point  here, 
was,  that  neither  the  buyer  northe  ■ellerkDew 
previoualv  of  the  existence  of  the  prtmcrty.  ll 
was  decided  by  a  court  of  law  that  the  bureau 
onlj  was  bought  and  sold,  and  that  the  finder 
must  give  up  the  money  to  the  former  ownerof 
the  bureau.  Who  had  thus  hidden  the  mouPTi 
and  when,  conld  not  be  ascertained,  A  Bible 
bought  at  an  old  book-stall  has  been  known  to 
ctHktainbauk-notesconccaledin  the  cover;  if  the 
buyer  were  to  noise  the  fact  abroad,  it  would 
depend  on  many  nioetics  of  evidence  whetha 
he  could  legally  keep  the  money  or  not. 

In  truth,  it  has  become  a  very  complex 
affair  of  time,  place,  and  circumstance,  to  uiow 
whether  we  may  keep  what  we  find.  How  did 
the  article  become  placed  where  we  found  itf 
And  was  it  on  the  Queen's  highway?  If  ■ 
man  voluntarily  throw  away  property,  it  it 
no  louger  his ;  but  if  he  only  Hie  it,  or 
if  he  accidentally  loas  it,  he  certainly  doM 
not  intend  to  alujidon  all  claim  to  it  Sop- 
posiug,  however,  that  all  chance  of  finding  tnc 
former  owner  must  be  given  up,  there  are  often 
many  tough  contests  to  be  mamtained  eoncein- 
ing  the  rights  of  the  finder. 


9: 


53 


Chftrlct  Dlckeaa.J 


WAIFS. 


[OcUjbor  2,  l'!i09.]      427 


For  infltance :  the  Queen  has  a  claim  to  all 
gold,  silver,  money,  and  plate,  fonnd  under 
circumstances  which  baflie  inquiry  as  to  the 
real  owner.  Sometimes  the  golden  luck  is 
disposed  of  before  the  Queen  has  any  official 
notice  of  the  matter.  On  one  occasion,  the 
foundations  of  certain  old  hoases  at  Exeter 
having  been  laid  bare  during  builders'  altera- 
tions, a  large  collection  of  silver  coins  came  to 
light.  The  workmen  announced  their  good 
fortune  with  great  jubilation.  This  induced 
the  owner  of  the  premises  to  make  further 
search,  which  was  rewarded  by  the  discovery 
of  a  second  heap  of  treasure — mostly  coins,  sup- 
posed to  have  been  buried  by  some  Devonshire 
nadly  during  the  troubles  of  the  Gommon- 
wealUi.  In  um  instanee,  as  Hie  erown  did  not 
put  in  a  claim,  the  teders  were  ^e  keepers. 

Sometiinea  the  melting  down  <rf  gold  aad  silver 
oniaments,  found  in  odd  nooks  and  comers, 
harasses  the  claim  of  tke  erown,  Uiough  without 
vitiating  it.  There  was  a  celebrated  mstance  of 
this  in  1863,  when  a  labourer  found  a  yellowish 
chain  about  half  a  yard  long ;  it  was  just  under 
the  surface  of  a  field  nearMountfield,  in  Sussex. 
BeHeving  it  to  be  brass,  he  sold  the  diain  for 
three  riiillings.  A  brother-in-law  of  the  pur- 
chaser, having  been  a  gold-digger  in  California, 
pronounced  the  chain  to  be  of  gold  instead  of 
brass ;  and  he  was  right.  The  two  men  ooncealed 
this  fact  from  the  original  finder;  but  it  shortly 
became  evident  that  they  were  unusually  well 
supplied  with  money.  The  suspected  character 
of  tiie  men  led  to  their  being  taken  into  custody 
and  examined  for  having  in  their  possession 
money  for  which  they  ocmld  not  account.  It 
was  ascertained  on  inquiry,  that  the  finder  <rf  the 
(supposed  brass)  chain  had  sold  it  to  them ;  and 
that  a  refiner  in  London  had  given  them  five 
hundred  and  twentyniine  pounds  for  a  chain 
of  solid  gold  weighing  a  hundred  and  fifty- 
three  ounces.  The  chain  was  gone,  melted 
down ;  but  there  is  an  almost  absolute  certainty 
that  it  was  the  self-same  chain  which  had  been 
found  in  the  field.  The  loss  was  a  cause  of 
great  regret  to  archaeologists,  who  had  reason 
to  believe  that  the  chain  was  a  Celtic  relic  of 
pieat  rarity  and  interest.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  this  case  that  the  treasure  ought  to  have 
reverted  to  the  crown;  but  it  had  found  it«  way 
into  the  melting-pot  instead. 

There  is  a  law  m  operation  on  this  point,  in 
virtue  of  which  the  Crown  gives  an  account  to 
the  House  of  Commons,  of  the  property  annu- 
ally obtained  in  this  way.  The  money  value 
amoimts  to  a  mere  bagatelle;  but  still  it 
is  considered  well  to  maintain  the  claim,  be- 
cause some  of  the  articles  found  have  consi- 
derable antiquarian  or  artistic  value,  and  are 
well  fitted  for  deposit  in  the  British  Museum 
or  some  such  collection.  Silver  coins,  heaped 
up  together,  constitute  the  chief  items  in  these 
treasures;  they  were  most  probably  hoarded 
by  the  early  owners,  and  then  forgotten.  Some- 
times, however,  they  comprise  gold  coins, 
coins  of  commoner  metal  valuable  for  their 
antiquity,  ingots  or  bare,  chains  of  gold  or 
silver,  and  jewels.  In  one  case  the  "find" 
was  valued  only  as  old  silver,  and  the  erown 


gave  it  back  to  the  finder ;  in  some,  the  finders 
were  paid  the  current  value,  and  the  coins  were 
deposited  in  the  British  Museum ;  a  gold  cross 
and  chain,  found  in  an  old  castle  ruin,  were 
allotted  to  the  queen  as  Duchess  of  Lancaster ; 
while  some  very  ancient  silver  pennies  came  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales  as  Duke  of  Cornwall.  In 
one  instance,  where  a  large  old  silver  coin  was 
found 'at  St.  Peter's,  in  the  Isle  of  Thanet,  the 
crown  had  some  difficulty  in  establishing  a 
claim,  seeing  that  the  coin  was  found  lying  on 
the  ground,  and  not  buried  or  hidden. 

But  the  crown  is  not  the  only  claimant. 
Many  old  grants,  charters,  and,  customs  give  a 
right  to  the  lord  of  the  manor :  especially  in 
cases  where  there  is   a  doubt   whether  the 
finding  were  opi  the  surface  or  untfer  the  surface 
of  the  ground.    There  are  cases,  also,  in  which 
a  claim  may  be  put  in   by  the   clergyman 
of  the  pariah,  when  the  treasure  is  found  on 
or  in  glebe  land.    In  1863,   when  a  debate 
arose  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  this  sub- 
ject of  treasure  trove,  it  was  stated  that  the 
prime  minister  himself,  Lord  Palmers  ton,  had 
exercised  his  privilege  as  a  landowner  in  this 
way.    The  veteran    statesman  said :    "  It  is 
quite  true  that  about  two  years    ago  some 
workmen,  when  digging  a  drain  in  a  m«tdow  on 
one  of  the  farms  I  had  bought  a  few  years 
previously,  found  a  torque,  an  ancient  British 
necklace  or  bracelet.    I  got  it  back  from  the 
person  who  had  purchased  it  from  the  finder, 
the  value  being  about  eig^t  pounds.    I  caused 
an  investigation  to  be  made  of  the  original 
grant  of  the  farm  several  years  ago,  and  ascer- 
tained that  it  conferred  on  the  grantee  all  the 
treasure  trove  on  the  property.     I,  therefore, 
feel  authorised  to  keep  the  relic  in  question." 
No  doubt :  if  the  sovereign  give  up  the  royal 
claim  in  a  particular  spot,  tne  receiver  has  a 
right  to  enjoy  what  is  given.  But  where  there  is 
a  doubt  on  the  matter,  the  lawyers  become  some- 
times engaged  in  legal  battle.   A  few  years  ago 
a  ploughman  working  in  a  field  near  Homdean, 
in  Hants,  found  a  hundred  and  forty  old  silver 
ooins  in  an  earthen  pot  or  jar,  under  the  surface 
of  the  ground.    He  took  tiiem  to  the  lord  of  the 
manor,  Sir  J.  C.  Jervoise,  who,  valuing  them 
for  their  antiquarian  interest,  gave  the  finder 
their  value  in  present  coin.     But  the  solicitor 
to  the  Treasury  appeared,  requiring  the  lord  of 
the  manor  to  place  the  coins  at  the  disposal  of 
the  crown.    Ine  baronet  not  being  inclined  to 
comply,   litigation  commenced,   which    lasted 
several  montlis,  and  absorbed  much  more  money 
than  the  coins  were  intrinsically  worth. 

In  one  remarkable  instance,  the  lord  of 
the  manor  was  baulked  of  his  claim  by  the 
sudden  appearance  of  the  veritable  owner  of 
the  property.  A  party  of  labourers,  while 
grubbing  up  some  trees  near  Highgate,  came 
upon  two  jars  containing  nearly  four  hundred 
sovereigns  in  gold.  They  divided  the  treasure 
among  them,  and  were  then  surprised  to  hear 
that  the  lord  of  the  manor  of  lufnell  claimed 
the  whole  as  treasure  trove.  Before  this  claim 
could  bo  enforced,  however,  the  real  owner 
came  forward.  He  had  an  odd  story  to  ^^  ^\ 
He  was  a  ttaide«roA.Ti  Vx^  CVetYssaw^.  '^\^^  ^\^ 


a5: 


:£. 


428      lOctober2,1860.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


// 


under  the  influence  of  temporary  delusion  a 
few  months  previously,  he  one  night  went  out 
and  buried  the  money  in  a  field  which  seemed 
to  him  secure  from  intrusion.     Forgetting  the 
locality  when  he  recovered  his  senses,  it  was 
suggested  to  him  by  a  rumour  relating  to  the  dis- 
covery at  Tuf  nell  manor.  He  being  able  to  prove 
these  facte,  and  that  he  had  hidden  and  not 
abandoned  the  treasure,  it  was  restored  to  him. 
Instances  have  occurred,  in  which  the  crown, 
the  lord  of  the  manor,  and  the  clergyman,  have 
fought  a  kind  of  triangular  duel  for  the  posses- 
sion of  foimd  treasures.     Some  years  ago,  the 
large  sum  of  four  thousand  pounds  was  found 
just  beneath  the  surface  of  a  field,  near  Stan- 
more.    The  money  being  mostly  in  foreign  gold 
coins  of  the  early  part  of  the  present  century — 
such  as  French  Louis  d'ors  and  Napoleons,  and 
Spanish  doubloons, — speculation  arose  touch- 
ing the  question  how  such  a  treasure  could  have 
got  into  such  a  spot.    The  rector's  gardener 
found  the  money  ;  the  gardener's  wife  told  the 
rector's  wife  ;  the  rector's  wife  told  the  rector ; 
and  the  rector  instituted  an  inquiry.     Some 
of  the  older  inhabitants  recollected  that,  about 
the  year  1815,  when  the  continent  was  in  a 
troubled  state,  a  foreigner  had  come  to  live  at 
Stanmore.     No  one  knew  anything  of  him  or 
from  whence  he  came ;  the  chief  fact  observed 
relating  to  his  sojourn  in  the  village  was  that 
he  used  often  to  he  seen  walking  about  in  one 
of  the  fields.    After  some  time,   he  left  the 
place.    Two  years  later,  another  stranger  made 
his  appearance,  and  announced  that  Ins  prede- 
cessor had  buried  a  considerable  sum  of  money 
in  a  field  near  Stanmore:  at  the  same  time 
sketching  a  ground-plan  showing  the  exact 
locaUty  where  the  treasure  was  buried;  that 
he  had  afterwards  died;  and  that  his  repre- 
sentative (the  new    visitor)  now  wished    to 
obtain  possession  of  it.    As  it  used  to  be  a 
frequent  custom,  in  many  countries,  and  es- 
pecially in  troubled  times,   to  hide  treasure 
undergroimd,  there  seemed  nothing  absolutely 
incredible  in  this  stor^.    The  stranger  and  the 
villagers,  however,  failed  in  their  search ;  and 
the  transaction  was  forgotten  until  the  real  find- 
ing brought  it  once  more  under  notice.    It  was 
supposed  that  some  alteration  made  in  the 
field,  by  the  removal  of  certain  trees,  had 
thrown  the  searchers  on  a  wrong  scent.    Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  treasure  came  to  light  in 
the  fulness  of  time ;  and  then  various  claimants 
appeared.  The  finders  Tf  or  a  second  hoard  had 
been  hit  upon,  after  tne  gardener's  first  dis- 
covery) said,  '*  It  is  our's,  for  we  found  it." 
The  rector  said,  "  It  is  mine  ;  for  it  was  foimd 
on  my  glebe."    The  lord  of  the  manor  said, 
*^  It  is  mine,  for  it  was  foimd  on  my  manor." 
The  sovereign  said,  ^^  It  is  mine  ;  for  the  found 
treasure  is  of  precious  metal."    Without  de- 
tailing the  course  of  the  inquiry,  and  the  opera- 
tion of  the  law,  suffice  it  to  say  that  the  claim 
of  the  crown  was  substantiated.    If  the  next 
of  kin,   or  the  legal  heir  of   the  mysterious 
stranger,   had  come  forward  and  proved  his 
identity,   the   crown  would  have  waived   its 
claim :    because   the  property  hati    evidently 
been  secretly  deposited,  not  abandoned. 


Newspaper  readers  find  matters  of  this  kind 
frequently  recurring.  In  February  of  the  present 
year,  two  labouring  men  found  three  golden 
braceletfl— heavy,  supposed  to  be  of  ancient 
British  manufacture,  and  highly  interesting  to 
the  antiquary— under  the  surface  of  the  ground 
near  Chart,  in  Kent.    The  jnen  sold  the  chains, 
and  were  afterwards  tried  and  punished  when 
the  facts  became  known.   On  another  occasion, 
a  poor  man  found  a  rare  collection  of  old  Irish 
silver  bracelets,  and  sold  them  to  a  silversmith ; 
all  attempts  to  recover  them  were  rendered 
nucatory  by  the  haste  with  which  the  buyer 
had  melted  them  down—else  the  antiquaiies 
would  have  willingly  given  much  more  than 
the  bullion   value  for  them.       On  a  recent 
occasion,  a  strong-room  was  being  built  for 
one  of  the  insurance  oompaniea  in  Cannon- 
street,  and  a  labourer  found  among  the  bmlding 
rubbish  twenty-nine  old  guineas  and  twenty 
old  shillings  of  the  reign  of  the  Stuarts  and 
the  first  t^ee  Georges.     He  got  himself  into 
trouble  for  retabiing  treasure  which  the  crown 
promjjtly  claimed.    A  year  or  two  ago,  a  per- 
son picked  up  some  bank-notes  on  the  floor 
outside  the  counter  in  another  person's  shop ; 
the  finder  claimed  them,  and  tne  shopkeeper 
claimed  them;  no  other  claimant  appeared ;  and 
under  the  particular  circumstances  of  this  case 
the  law  decided  for  the  finder.    Then  there  was 
the  celebrated  diamond-ring  case.    A  woman 
named  Donovan,  while  sorting  rags  for  a  ^fr. 
Cohen,  a  rag-merchant,  found  a  (fliBimond-ring 
among  the  frowsy  stu£f.    Out  of  this,  arose  a 
most  knotty  series  of  complications.    Mrs.  (or 
Miss)  Donovan  claimed  the  diamond -ring,  be- 
cause she  found  it ;  Mr.  Cohen  claimed  it,  be- 
cause it  was  found  among  his  rags ;  a  pawn- 
broker claimed  it,  because  he  had  advanced 
money  on  it,   and  because  he    doubted  the 
finder's  claim ;  a  clothier  in  Houndsditch  claimed 
it,  because  a  youth  in  his  employ  had  robbed 
Mm,  and  had  purchased  the  ring  with  the 
stolen  money ;  and  a  woman,  or  '•^  young  lady" 
claimed  it,  oecause  the  youth  had  given  it  to 
her.    There  was  much  bewilderment  as  to  the 
order  in  which  these  several  claims  occurred ; 
there  was  a  little  doubt  whether  the  diamond* 
ring  produced  before  the  magistrate  was  the 
veritable  one  which  had  been  found  in  the  rags ; 
and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  a  doubtful  kind 
in  the  reputation  of  some  of  the  persons  con- 
cerned.   After  lopping  ofif  the  claimants  one  bj 
one,  a  police  magistrate  decided  for  the  finder. 
Mrs.  (or  Miss)  Donovan  triumphed. 


THE  DISAPPEABANCE  OF  JOHN 

ACKLAND. 

A  Teue  Story. 

IN  THIETEEN  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  V. 

Mr.  Cartwbight  had  not  forgotten, 
before  returning  to  Glenoek,  to  write  to 
Mr.  Ackland's  consin  at  Boston,  as  be 
had  promised  Judge  Griffin.  That  letter 
informed  Tom  Aekland  of  his  cousin  ^ 
suddem  impatience  to  leave  Glenoak,  ia 


=8b 


cb«i«Diok«ii.]  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND       [Oci2.i869.]     429 


s= 


consequence  of  an  unfortunate  incident 
liaving  reference  to  the  name  of  a  ladj  at 
Boston,  with  whom  the  writer  believed 
that  Mr.  John  Ackland  had  been  acquainted 
previous  to  her  marriage.  It  narrated  the 
drcumstanoes  abeadj  known  to  the  reader, 
of  the  departure  from  Glenoak,  the  mys- 
terious return  of  the  horse,  and  the  &.ilure 
of  Mr.  Cartwright,  assisted  by  his  friend, 
Judge  Gbiffin,  and  by  the  Richmond  police, 
to  discover  any  tidings  of  his  late  guest. 

On  the  evening  of  his  return  to  Grlenoak, 
Mr.  Cartwright  was  in  excellent  spirits. 
He  kissed  his  little  daughter  with  more 
than  usual  paternal  unction,  when  she  bade 
him  good-night  that  evening. 

He  was  pleasantly  awakened  next  morn- 
ing, by  a  despatch  from  the  inn  at  the 
coach's  baltinfi^  town,  informing  him  that 
Mr.  Ackland  had  just  sent  to  fetch  away 
his  luggage  which  had  been  lying  there, 
in  charge  of  the  landlord,  ever  since  the 
day  on  which  John  Ackland  left  Glenoak. 
The  landlord  had  delivered  the  luggage  to 
Mr.  Ackland's  messenger,  on  receipt  of  an 
order  from  Mr.  Acldimd  which  the  mes- 
senger had  produced,  authorising  him  to 
receive  it  on  Mr.  Ackland's  behalf.  This 
order  the  landlord  now  forwarded  to  Mr. 
Cartwright,  in  consequence  of  the  inquiries 
which  diat  gentleman  had  been  making 
with  reference  to  Mr.  Ackland.  The  mes- 
senger who  called  for  the  luggage  had  in- 
formed the  landlord  that  he  had  come  from 
Petersburg,  where  Mr.  Ackland  had  been 
laid  up  bv  the  effects  of  a  bad  accident ; 
from  which,  however,  he  was  now  so  &r 
recovered  that  he  intended  to  leave  Peters- 
burg early  next  morning,  accompanied  by 
a  gentleman  with  whom  he  had  been  stay- 
ing there,  and  by  whom,  at  Mr.  Ackland's 
request,  this  messenger  had  been  sent  for 
the  luggage. 

Mr.  Cartwright  lost  no  time  in  commu- 
nicating this  good  news,  both  to  his  friends 
at  Biclunond,  and  to  Mr.  Ackland's  cousin 
at  Boston.  In  doing  so,  he  observed  that 
he  feared  Mr.  Ackland  could  not  have 
completely  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
his  accident — ^whatever  it  was — ^when  he 
signed  the  order  forwarded  to  Glenoak; 
for  he  had  noticed  that  in  the  signature  to 
this  order,  the  usually  bold  and  firm  cha- 
lucter  of  John  Ackland's  handwritiag  had 
become  shaky  and  sprawling,  as  though  he 
had  written  from  a  sick  bed. 

Now  Tom  Ackland  was  rendered  so 
anxious,  that  he  resolved  to  leave  Boston 
in  search  of  his  cousin ;  and  he  certainly 
Would  have  done  so  if  he  had  not  received 
on  the  following  daj^  this  letter,  written  in 


a  strange  hand,  and  dated  from  Peters- 
burg. 

"  My   dear    Tom.      You   will    be    sur- 
prised to  receive  from  me,  so  soon  after 
my  last,  a  letter  in  a  strange  hand.     And, 
indeed,  I  have  a  long  story  to  tell  you  in 
explanation  of  this  fact ;  but,  for  the  sake 
of  my  kind  amanuensis,  as  well  as  for  my 
own  sake  (for  I  am  still  too  weak  to  dic- 
tate   a    long   letter),   the   story  must  bo 
told  briefly."     The   letter   then  went  on 
to  mention  that  Mr.  John  Ackland  had 
left    Glenoak    sooner    than    he    had    in- 
tended at  the  date  of  his  last  letter  to  his 
cousin,  availing  himself  of  Mr.  Gartwright's 
loan  of  a  horse  to  catch  the  Charleston 
coach.     How  Cartwright  had  accompanied 
him  through  the  plantation,  and  had  in- 
sisted on  taking  a  couple  of  guns   with 
them,  "  though  I  assured  him  that  I  am 
no  sportsman,   my  dear  Tom;"   how,   in 
consequence  of  a  shot  fired  suddenly  by 
Cartwright  firom  his  saddle,  at  a  hare  which 
he  missed,  the  mare  on  which  John  Ack- 
land was  riding  had  become  rather  restive, 
'*  making  me  feel  very  uncomfortable,  my 
dear  Tom  ;**  how,  aftOT  parting  with  Cart- 
wright, and  probably  a  little  more  than  half 
way  to  his  destination,  at  a  place  where 
there  were  cross-roads,  Mr.  Ackland  had 
encountered  a  buggy  with  two  persons  in 
it  (an  English  gentleman  and  his  servant, 
as  it  afterwards  turned  out),  and  how  this 
buggy,  crossing  the  road  at  frdl  speed  close 
in  front  of  his  horse,  had  caused  the  horse 
to  rear  and  throw  him.      He  had  imme- 
diately  lost   consciousness.      Fortunately, 
the  persons  in  the  buggy  saw  the  accident', 
and  hastened  to  his  assistance ;  the  mare,  in 
the  mean  while,  having  taken  to  her  heels. 
Finding  him   insensible  and  severely  in- 
jured, they  had  conveyed  him  with  great 
care    to    Petersburg,  whither    they  were 
going  when  he  met  them.      There  they 
obtamed  for  him  medical  assistance.     He 
believed  he  had  been  delirious  for  many 
days.      He  could  not  yet   use   his  right 
arm,  and  he  still  felt  a  great  deal  of  pain 
about  the  head.     He  was,  however,  suffi- 
ciently recovered  to  feel    able    to    leave 
Petersburg,  travelling  easily  and  by  slow 
stages.     His  kind  Mend,  Mr.  Forbes,  the 
English  gentleman  who   had   taken  such 
care  of  hun,  was  going  to  meet  his  yacht 
at  Cape  Hattcras,  intending  to  sail  to  the 
Havannah,  and  had  kindly  offered  to  take 
him  in   the  yacht  as  far  as   Charleston. 
John  Ackland  hoped  the  sea  voyage  would 
do  hiTn  good.     They  intended  to  start  im-    ^ 
mediat^ — that  evemxi^  «t   «k^   T^jssi^   n^^ 
morning.     Tom  Ymm^l  \»\X«t  ^^^»»   ^^  /^ 


^: 


& 


430       [October  2.  1869.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetod  by 


letters  for  the  present  to  the   post-ofl&ce, 
Charleston. 

A  few  lines  were  added  by  Mr.  Forbes, 
to  whom  this  letter  had  been  dictated. 
They  described  Mr.  Ackland's  injuries  as 
seiious,  but  not  at  all  dangerous.  A  bad 
compound  fracture  of  the  right  arm,  broken 
in  two  places.  The  surgeon  had  at  first 
feared  thia.t  amputation  might  bo  necessary; 
but  Mr.  Forbes  was  happy  to  say  that  the 
arm  had  been  set,  and  he  trusted  Mr.  Aok« 
land  would  eventually  recover  the  use  of 
it.  There  Irnd  been  a  severe  concussion  of 
the  brain,  but  fortunately  no  fracture  of 
tixe  skulL  Mr.  Ackland  had  made  good 
progress  during  the  last  week.  Mr.  Forbes 
was  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Ackland  was 
Buffering  in  ^neral  health  and  spirits  from 
the  shock  of  the  fall  he  had  had,  rather 
than  from  any  organic  injury. 

On  receipt  of  this  letter,  Tom  Ackland 
wrote  to  his  cousin,  addressing  his  letter  to 
the  post-office  at  Charleston,  and  enclosing 
a  line  expressive  of  his  thanks,  dbo.  for  Mr. 
Forbes,  to  whom  he  hoped  John  Ackland 
would  be  able  to  forward  it.  He  also  wrote 
to  Mr.  Cartwright,  thanking  that  gentle- 
man for  his  kmd  interest  sjid  exertions, 
and  communicating  to  him  what  he  had 
heard  of  his  cousin  from  Mr.  Forbes. 
When  Cartwright  mentioned  the  contents 
of  this  letter  to  Judge  Griffin :  ^*  I  always 
thought,"  said  the  judge,  "  that  the  man 
would  turn  up  some  how  or  other.  We 
need  not  have  taken  such  a  deal  of  trouble 
about  him."  All  further  proceedings  with 
a  view  to  obtaining  information  about  John 
Ackland  were  immediately  stayed:  and 
Mr.  Cartwright  made  a  handsome  present 
to  the  police  of  Richmond  for  their  ''  valu- 
able assistance." 

CHAPTEE  VI. 

It  was  some  time  before  Tom  Ackland 
heard  again  from  his  cousin.  When  he 
did  hear,  Jolm  Ackland's  letter  was  written 
by  himself,  but  was  almost  illegible.  He 
apologised  for  this,  dwelling  on  the  pain 
and  difficulty  with  which  he  wrote,  even 
with  his  left  hand.  He  thought  his  broken 
arm  must  have  been  very  ill  set.  As  for 
business,  he  had  not  yet  been  able  to  at- 
tend to  any.  He  would  send  Tom's  letter 
to  Mr.  Forbes.  But  he  really  didn't  know 
whether  it  would  ever  find  him.  He  be- 
lieved that  gentleman  must  have  left  the 
Havannah.  As  for  himself,  he  had  found 
the  journey  by  sea  to  Charleston  very 
&tiguing,  and  it  had  done  him  no  good. 
The  whole  letter  breathed  a  spirit  of  pro- 


found dejection.  It  complained  much  of 
frequent  pain  and  constemt  oppression  in 
the  head.  Life  had  become  an  intolerable 
burden.  He,  John  Ackland,  had  never 
wished  for  a  long  hfe,  and  now  desired  it 
less  than  ever.  He  was  so  constantly 
changing  hia  quarters  (not  having  yit 
found  any  situation  which  did  not  hor- 
ribly disagree  with  him),  that  Tom  had 
better  continue  to  direct  hi«  letters  to  the 
post-office. 

Some  expresaionB  in  the  letter  made  Tom 
Ackland  aJxnoet  fear  that  John's  mind  had 
become  affected.  He  wrote  at  once  im- 
ploring his  cousin  to  retam  to  Boston  if 
well  enough  to  travel,  and  offering,  if  lie 
were  not^  to  start  for  Oharleston  at  once, 
in  order  to  be  with  him. 

John  Addand,  in  his  r^y,  assured  liis 
ooQsin  that  he  felt  quite  unable  to  under- 
take the  fatigue  of  event  a  mnoth  shorter 
journey  than  the  joumegf  from  Charieston 
to  Boston.  B^  begged  that  Tom  wonld 
not  think  of  joining  him  at  Gharleeton. 
He  could  not  at  pr^ait  bear  to  see  anj 
one.  Even  half  aa  hour's  ooiiTersaiaon, 
especially  with  any  one  he  knew,  excited 
him  almost  beyond  endurance.  He  avoided 
the  sight  of  human  finoes  aa  much  as  he 
oould.  His  only  fm£&kj  was  in  oomplete 
seclusion.  Every  one  was  in  a  conMfoncj 
to  distress  and  ii\jux«  him.  He  mi|^t 
tell  Tom,  in  strict  oonfidenoe,  ibat  aU  the 
people  in  Charleston  were  so  afiradd  of  his 
setting  up  business  in  that  town,  that  tiiey 
were  determined  to  ruin,  and  even  i> 
murder  him  if  they  ooold.  There  were 
persons  (he  had  seen  them)  who  followed 
him  about,  wherever  he  wait,  in  order  to 
poison  the  air  when  he  was  a^Loep »  ^^  ^^ 
had  been  too  sharp  for  them  The  lettier 
concluded  with  some  qootationa  from 
Rousseau  on  the  subject  of  snioide.  It 
bore  such  evident  traoes  of  mental  dersnge- 
ment,  that  Tom  Ackland  resolved  to  loie 
no  time  in  going  to  Charleston.  A  state- 
ment which  attracted  his  attention  in  the 
next  morning's  newspapers,  confirmed  his 
worst  fears,  and  greatly  increased  his 
anxiety  to  arrive  there. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

At  this  time,  some  political  fiienda  d  \ 
Mr.  Dobbins,  whose  opinions  had  been 
advocated  with  great  ability  in  the  Bioh- 
mond  Courier  on  a  subject  of  a  question  so 
hotly  debated  between  North  and  South 
that  it  had  threatened  to  break  rtJ^  the 
Union,  invited  that  gentleman  to  a  pnhhc 
banquet  at  one  of  tibe  principal  hotidi  0 


I 


:23 


cii*r!e8Dick6iu.]    THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND.       [Oct.  2,  mo.]  431 


I  Biclimond.  Mr.  Cartwriglit  was  present 
at  this,  dinner;  so  was  Judge  GriMn;  so 
was  Dr.  Simpson,  the  brother  of  the  mag- 
netic yonng  hidj ;  so  were  other  of  John 
Ackland's  fellow-gnests  at  Glenoak. 

The  dinner  was  a  Union  dinner,  the 
speeches  were  Union  speeches,  the  event 
celebrated  was  the  triumph  of  Union  senti- 
ment in  harmony  with  Southern  supremacy. 
After  the  great  political  guns  had  fired 
themselves  off,  the  ladies  were  *'  admitted 
from  behind  the  screen,"  toasts  of  gallantry 
and  personal  compliment  were  proposed, 
mnd  ike  minor  orators  obtained  a  hearing. 
None  of  these  was  more  voluble  than  Mr. 
Cartwright.  ELe  rose  to  propose  a  toast. 
The  toast  was  a  Union  toaist,  for  it  united 
the  absent  with  the  present.  He  would 
invite  the  companv  to  drink  to  the  health 
of  **  Our  absent  friends." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Cartwright  was 
disagreeably  interrupted  by  a  bustle  and 
buzz  of  voices  among  the  sable  attendants 
at  the  door.  "  Order  !  order !"  cried  Judge 
Grifi&n,  indignantly  looking  round. 

"Please,  Massa  Judge,"  cried  one  burly 
nigger,  bolder  than  his  fellows,  "Massa 
Ackland  he  be  in  de  next  room,  and  want 
io  speak  bery  'tic'lar  with  Massa  Cart- 
wrigut." 

"By  Jove,  Cartwright!  do  you  hear 
that?^'  exclaimed  the  judge.  "What, 
Aokland?    John  Ackland  P" 

"  Yessir.  Maasa  John  A.ckland  he  be  in 
%  bofitin'  big  hurry,  and  waitin'  to  see 
Ifaaaa  Cartwright  bery  'tic'lar." 

"  Why  not  (»J1  him  in  P"  suggested  the 
judge.  "  Evorv  one  will  be  happy  to  see 
lum,  after  all  tae  trouble  he  has  cost  some 
^vs." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Cartwright,  much  over- 
come by  the  surprise.  "  Grentlemen,  I  wiU 
not  detain  you  longer.  To  our  absent 
friends  !  And  now,"  he  added,  emptying 
his  bumper  with  an  unsteady  hand,  "  I  am 
sure  you  will  all  excuse  me,  since  it  seems 
that  one  of  my  absent  Mends  is  waiting  to 
aeeme." 

CHAFTEB  Vin. 

Mr.  Cabtwbight  hurried  to  the  door,  and 
next  moment  fi)und  himself  face  to  £Bhce : 
isot  with  Mr.  John,  but  with  Mr.  John's 
consin  Tom,  Ackland. 

Mr.  Tom  Ackland  introduced  himself: 
"My  excuse,"  said  he,  "is,  that  I  am 
only  at  Richmond  for  a  few  hours,  on  my 
'Way  to  Charleston,  and  that,  accidentally 
hearing  from  one  of  the  helps  here  that 
you  happened  to  be  in  the  hotel,  I  was 
ftnzbus  to  ask  you  whether  you  had  lately 


heard   from   my  cousin,  or    received  any 
news  of  him  from  Charleston  ?■* 

"None,"  said  Cartwright.  ''I  trust 
there  is  nothing  the  matter  ?" 

"  You  have  not  even  seen  his  name  men- 
tioned in  the  newspapers  P" 

"No." 

"  Yet  I  presume  a  paragraph  I  have  here 
from  a  Boston  paper,  must  also  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Richmond  journals.  Pray 
be  so  good  as  to  look  at  it." 

The  paragraph  ran  thus  : 

"The  following  has  appeared  in  the 
Charleston  Messenger  of  October  IStb. 
On  the  16th  instant,  about  two  hours  after 
sundown,  a  Spanish  gentleman,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  walking  towards  Charleston 
along  the  right  bank  of  Cooper  River, 
was  startled  by  what  he  believed  to  be 
the  sound  of  a  human  voice  speaking 
in  loud  tones.  The  voice  apparently  pro- 
ceeded trom  the  same  side  of  the  river  as 
that  along  which  he  was  walking,  and  not 
many  yards  in  advance  of  him.  As  the 
night  was  already  dark,  he  was  unable  to 
distinguiah  any  object  not  immediately 
before  him,  an<(  as  he  was  but  imperfectly 
acquainted  with  the  English  tongue,  he 
was  also  unable  to  understand  what  the 
voice  wa«  saying.  He  was,  however,  so 
strongly  under  the  impression  that  the 
voice  waa  that  of  a  person  addressing  a 
large  audience  in  animated  tones,  that  he 
fully  believed  himself  to  be  in  the  imme- 
diate vicinity  of  a  camp  meetmg,  or  other 
similar  assemblage,  and  waa  somewhat  sms 
prised  to  perceive  no  lights  along  that  part 
of  the  bulk  from  which  the  voice  appa- 
rently prooeeded.  Whilst  he  was  yet 
listening  to  it,  the  voice  suddenly  ceased, 
and  was  succeeded  by  the  sound  of  a  loud 
splash,  aa  of  some  heavy  body  idling  into 
the  water.  On  hastening  to  the  spot  from 
which  he  supposed  these  sounds  to  have 
arisen,  he  was  still  more  surprised  to  find 
it  deserted.  On  examining  the  ground, 
however,  aa  well  as  he  could  by  the 
hght  of  a  few  matches  which  he  hap- 
pened to  have  with  him,  he  discovered  two 
pieces  of  property,  a  hat  and  a  book,  but 
nothing  which  indicated  the  owner  of  them, 
and  no  trace  of  any  struggle  which  could 
lead  him  to  suppose  that  their  unknown 
owner  had  been  deprived  of  them  by  vio- 
lence. After  shouting  in  every  direction, 
without  obtaining  any  answer,  this  gentle- 
man then  took  possession  of  the  hat  and 
book,  and,  on  returning  to  Charleston,  do- 
posited  them,  with  the  fore«3\xi:^  ^T::^\jM2iaj- 
tion  of  the  masmer  \n.  '??\sai5DL  \\ft  >Da^  ^^^s^ 


\ 


.5= 


^ 


432 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[October  3, 1M9J 


covered  tlieni,  at  the  F.-street  police-sta- 
tion. From  the  examination  of  these  ob- 
jects by  the  police,  it  appears  that  both  the 
book  and  the  hat  are  inscribed  with  the 
name  John  K.  Ackland.  The  book,  as  we 
are  informed,  is  the  second  vohime  of  a 
small  pocket  edition  of  the  Nonvelle  Heloise, 
and  the  page  is  turned  down  and  marked 
at  the  following  passage:  *Chercher  son 
bien,  et  fair  son  mal,  en  ce  qni  n'offense 
point  antmi,  c*est  le  droit  de  la  nature. 
Quand  notre  vie  est  tin  mal  pour  nous,  et 
n'est  un  bien  pour  personne,  il  est  done 
permis  de  s*en  delivrer.  S'il  y  a  dans  le 
monde  une  maxime  ^dente  et  certaine,  je 
pense  que  c'est  celle-lli ;  et  si  Ton  venait  k 
bout  de  la  renverser,  il  n'y  a  point  d*action 
humaine  dont  on  ne  pi^t  &ire  un  crime.' 
On  the  margin  opposite  this  passage  some- 
thing is  written,  but  in  characters  which 
are  quite  illegible.  The  volume  apparently 
belongs  to  a  Boston  edition.  Inspector 
Jenks,  of  the  Fifth  Ward  Police  Division, 
has  lost  no  time  in  investigating  tliis  mys- 
terious occurrence.  Wo  understand  that 
the  river  has  been  dragged,  but  without 
the  discovery  of  any  human  body.  It  is  to 
be  observed  that  if  a  body,  falling  into  the 
river  at  the  spot  indicated  by  the  gentle- 
man by  whom  the  above-mentioned  pro- 
perty was  deposited  at  the  F.-street  station, 
had  floated  within  an  hour  after  its  im- 
znersion,  it  is  quite  within  possibiliiy  that 
it  might  have  been  carried  out  to  sea  before 
the  following  morning,  that  is  to  say,  sup- 
posing it  to  have  fallen  into  the  river  at 
that  point,  where  the  current  is  extremely 
strong,  not  later  than  10.30  p.m.  It  is,  how- 
ever, extremely  improbable  that  a  human 
body  could  have  been  floated  out  to  sea 
in  this  manner  without  being  observed.  It 
is  equally  improbable  that  any  person  could 
have  perished  within  the  neighbourhood  of 
Charleston,  whether  by  accident  or  vio- 
lence, on  the  night  of  the  16th  without  the 
disappearance  of  that  person  having  ex- 
cited attention  in  some  quarter  up  to  the 
present  moment.  Our  own  impression  is 
that  the  whole  affair  has  been  an  ingenious 
hoax.  This  impression  is,  at  least,  borne  out 
by  the  fact  that  the  name  of  Ackland  (which 
certainly  is  not  a  Charleston  name)  is  not 
known  at,  and  does  not  appear  on  the  books 
of,  any  hotel  in  this  city,  that  the  advertise- 
ments of  the  police  have,  up  to  the  present 
moment,  elicited  no  claimant  for  the  hat 


»» 


and  book  now  on  view  in  F.-street,  and 
that,  from  the  inquiries  hitherto  made,  it 
appears  that  no  person  in  or  about  Charles- 
ton has  been  missing  since  the  night  of  the 
16th  instant.  With  a  view,  however,  to  tiie 
posfdbility  of  this  mysterious  Mr.  J.  K.  Ack- 
land ever  having  existed,  except  in  the  ima- 
gination of  some  mischievous  wag,  Union 
journals  are  requested  to  copy,  in  order  that 
the  Mends  and  relations  of  the  mJRmng  gen- 
tleman (if  there  be  any)  may  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  foregoing  information." 

"  WeU  ?"  said  Tom  Acldand,  when  Cart- 
wright  had  finished  his  perusal  of  this 
statement. 

"  Well,"  answered  Cartwright^  "  I  also 
incline  to  think  it  a  hoax." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so  too,"  said  Mr. 
Tom;  "but  I  have  many  sad  reasons  to 
think  more  seriously  of  it.  ' 

"  When  do  you  go  on  to  Charleston?" 
asked  Mr.  Cartwright. 

"  Before  daybre^  to-morrow.' 

"  Ever  been  there  before  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  Then  yon  must  let  me  oome  with  yon. 
I  know  something  of  that  city,  have  friends 
there,  and  may  be  of  use." 

"  Really,  my  dear  sir,  I  could  not  possibly 
think  of  allowing  you  to  sacrifioe " 

"  No  sacrifice,  sir.  Nothing  I  would  not 
do  for  the  sake  of  your  cousin,  Mr.  Ack- 
land. He  was  once  very  usefbl  to  me,  sir; 
very  useful  and  very  kmd.  And  no  man 
shall  say  that  Phil  (Wtwright  ever  forgot 
a  kindness  done  him.  I  can  pack  up  in  s& 
hour,  and  the  sooner  we  start  the  better." 

So  Mr.  Cartwright  accompanied  Mr.  Tom 
Ackland  to  Charleston.  And  Mr.  Tom 
Ackland  was  inexpressibly  touched  by  that 
proof  of  friendship  for  his  cousin. 

Now  Bead  J,  price  5s.  6d.,  bound  in  green  doih, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OV  THB  NbW  SK&IBS  OV 

ALL  THB  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  bad  of  all  Booksellen.  _ 

MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 

MESSRS.  CHAPPELLavdCO.  hare  gfiMtple«ni« 
in  announcing  tbat  Mr.  Chablxs  Dzcxsn  will  ictoni 
and  conclude  his  interrupted  eeries  of  FABEWEItL 
READINGS  at  St.  James's  UaU,  London,  early  in 
the  New  Year. 

The  Readings  will  be  Twblyb  in  KvMBMR,  aad  noM 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

All  communications  to  be  addressed  to  ICNffi* 
Chappell  and  Co.,  60,  New  Bond-street,  W, 


I 


Tke  Eight  o/ Translaiing  Articks/rom  All  the  Yeak  £x)UND  is  reserved  by  the  Authen. 


PubUmbed  at  the  Offlee,  No.2«,  l^eUlngtou 8tw«V Htwad.   PtVnxaiQiVsi^  ^,NRu\Ta^k,^B«wdwvl^<)n«fc,1 


■ST0igC-aE-OUtVi'^^E5-JRSM-'V£,SR;TOY£^J 


CoNoOCTED-By 

"'S  Ml 

WiTH  WHICH  IS  ),NCOI\POI^tl=D 

SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  it,  186S. 


VERONICA. 

In  Five  Books. 
BOOK  n. 

CHAPTEH  ni.      IN  MR.  FROST'b  SANCTDM. 

Messes.  Frost  asd  Loteorote,  solici- 
tors, had  their  offices  in  a  largo  old  house 
Bedford-square.  The  whole  of  tha 
groand-tloor  was  used  for  offices.  In  the 
upper  pftrt  of  the  houao  lived  the  family 
« the  junior  partner. 

The  chief  reason  for  selecting  the  locality 
of  the  offices — which  did  not  Bonnd,  Mr. 
LovegrovB  said,  an  altogether  "  profcs- 
rionfll"  addresB — was  that  he  might  enjoy 
the  advantage  of  residing  at  his  place  of 
bnrincss ;  of  being,  as  he  wa^  fond  of 
Oentioning,  "  on  the  spot," 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  don't  want," 
said  Mr.  Frost.  Ajid  accordingly  ho  inha- 
bited a  house  at  Bayswater. 

Bat  the  Lovegroves,  especially  the  female 
Lovogrovea,  declared  in  famUy  conclave 
that  jlr.  Frost  lived  at  Bayawater  rather 
thoa  at  Bedford- Hqnaro,  because  Mrs.  Frost 
deemed  Bedford- square  vulgar.  She  was 
'^rted  to  have  asked  where  it  was,  with 
}  Tagae  air  of  wonder,  as  of  an  inquirer 
into  Qie  geography  of  Central  Africa.  And 
Aognstns Lovogi-ove,  junior,  the  onlyson  of 
Me  family,  gave  an  imitation  of  Mrs.  Frost 
Wtting  out  to  visit  her  husband's  office,  fur- 
"Jshed  with  a  sandwich-case  and  a  flask  of 
y,  as  though  for  a  long  journey;  and 
JJiiniiofced  tho  tone  of  fashioaablo  boredom 
in  which  she  asked  the  coachman  where  one 
changedhoraes  logo  to  Bedford-square.  But 
'«*t,aaid  his  sisters,  was  only  Gas's  fun. 

In  fact,  there  was  a  snppressed,  but  not 
the  less  deadly,  feud  between  the  houses  of 
Frost  and  Lovegrove  on  all  social  points. 


In  their  business  relations  the  two  partners 
seldom  jarred. 

Mv,  Frost  was  a  much  cleverer  man 
than  Mr.  Lovegrove.  He  was  also  the 
better  educated  of  the  two,  and  nature  had 
gifted  him  with  a  commanding  person  and 
an  impressive  address. 

Mr.  Lovegrove  was  a  common-place  in- 
dividual. He  said  of  himself  that  he  had 
a  great  power  of  sticking  to  business  :  and 
he  said  truly.  Mr.  Frost  entirely  appre- 
ciated Ids  partner's  solid  and  unobtrusive 
merits.  He  declared  Lovegrove  to  bo  "a 
thoroughly  safe  dependable  fellow."  And  the 
flavour  ef  patronage  in  bis  approbation  was 
in  no  degree  distastefnl  to  Mr.  Lovegrove. 

In  tho  office,  their  respective  qaalitiea 
and  acquirements  were  the  complement  of 
each  other;  and  thoy  agreed  admirably. 
Ont  of  the  office,  their  views  were  so  dis- 
aimilar  as  to  be  antagonistic. 

Mr.  Lovegrove  woa  a  very  devout  high 
churchman,  and  shook  his  head  gravely 
over  Mr.  Frost's  want  of  orthodoxy.  Indeed, 
to  desciibe  Mr.  Frost's  opinions  as  unoi*- 
thodox  was  to  characterise  them  with 
nndne  mildness,  Mr.  Frost  was  a  con- 
firmed sceptic,  and  his  scepticism  was 
nearly  allied  to  cyuiuism. 

There  is  a  homely  illustration  immor- 
talised by  the  pen  of  a  great  modem  writer, 
which  may,  perhaps,  convey  an  idea  of  the 
state  of  Mr.  Frost's  miad. 

In  one  of  that  great  writer's  well-known 
pages,  political  reformers  are  warned  when 
they  empty  the  dirty  wat«r  out  of  the  tub, 
not  to  send  the  baby  whose  ablutions  have 
boen  made  in  it  floating  down  the  kennel 
likewise.  Get  rid  of  the  dirty  water  by  all 
means  ;  bat — save  the  baby  1 

Now  Mr.  Frost,  it  was  to  bo  feared,  had 
not  saved  the  baby.  ^ 

Then  tte  womft^i  ot  &e  'wni  ^uv-KiCft  S-A- 


eg: 


^ 


4i34i     [OeU)lwrO,iaMJ 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND, 


rOaikUKlMdbf 


/ 


not  stand  in  amicable  relations  towards 
oaoh  other.  Mrs.  Loregrove  was  cnrions 
of  Mrs.  Frost,  and  Mrs.  Frost  was  dis- 
dainfol  of  Mrs.  LoregroTc. 

The  two  husbands  would  occasionally 
remocMrate,  each  with  the  wife  of  his 
bosom,  respecting  this  inconvenient,  not 
to  say  reprehensible,  state  of  things ;  and 
would  openly,  in  marital  £Mhiont  wonder 
why  thfi  deuce  the  womfin  were  so  spitefal 
and  so  silly ! 

"  I  vrish,  Greorgy,"  Mr.  Frost  would  say, 
'*  that  you  would  behave  ^Yith  decent  civi- 
lity to  Lovegrove's  wif(^  when  you  meet 
her.  She  does  not  come  in  your  way 
ofben.  I  think  it  venr  selfish  that  you  will 
not  make  the  least  effort  to  oblige  me,  when 
I  have  told  you  so  often  how  serious  an  in- 
convenience it  would  be  to  me  to  have  any 
coolness  with  Lovegrove.'* 

"  Why  can't  you  get  on  with  Mrs.  Frost, 
Sarah  P**  Mr.  Lovegrove  would  ask, 
gravely.  "  I  and  Frost  never  have  a 
word  together;  and  two  more  different 
men  you  would  scarcely  find." 

But  none  the  less  did  a  feeling  of  ani- 
mosity smoulder  in  the  breasts  of  the  two 
ladies.  And  perhaps  the  chief  circumstance 
that  prevented  the  feeling  from  breaking 
out  into  a  blaze,  was  the  wide  distance 
which  separates  Bayswater  from  Bedford- 
square. 

At  the  latter  place,  Mr.  Frost  had  a  little 
private  room,  the  last  and  smallest  of  a 
suite  of  three,  opening  one  within  the  other, 
which  looked  on  to  a  smoke-blackened 
yard,  some  five  feet  square.  Mr.  Frost  had 
shut  out  the  view  of  the  opposite  wall  by 
the  expedient  of  having  his  window  frame 
filled  with  panes  of  coloured  glass.  This 
diminished  the  already  scanty  quaiitity  of 
daylight  that  was  admitted  into  the  room. 
But  Mr.  Frost  neither  came  to  his  office 
very  early,  nor  remained  there  very  late, 
so  that  his  work  there  was  done  during 
those  hours  of  the  day  in  which,  when  the 
sun  shone  at  all,  he  sent  his  beams  in 
through  the  red  and  purple  panes  of  the 
window. 

It  was  understood  in  the  office  that  when 
Mr.  Frost  closed  the  outer  one  of  the  green- 
baize  double  doors  which  shut  in  his  private 
room,  he  was  not  to  be  disturbed  save  on 
the  most  pressing  and  important  business. 
So  long  as  only  the  inner  door  remained 
dosed,  Mr.  Frost  was  accessible  to  siz-and- 
eightpence-yielding  mortals.  But  when 
once  the  weight  which  usually  kept  the 
outer  door  open  was  removed,  and  the  dark 
£^een  portal  h&d  swung  to,  with  a  swift  [ 


■oiaeless  passage  of  the  cords  over  ihar 
pulleys,  tiisii  no  derk  in  the  employ  of  ihe 
firm,  scaroelT  «fen  Mr.  Lovegrove  himself 
willingly  undertook  the  task  of  diitorbing 
the  privacy  of  the  senior  partner. 

And  yet  one  morning,  soon  allber  Hugh 
Lockwood's  return  to  London,  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood  walked  into  the  offices  at  Bedford^ 
square,  and  reauired  that  Mr.  Frost  should 
be  informed  or  bar  presence ;  despite  the 
fact,  carefully  pointed  out  to  her  notioe,  that 
Mr.  Frost's  room  was  shut  by  ihe  outer 
door ;  and  that,  conse<|neiUly,  Mr,  Froet  was 
understood  to  be  partumlarlj  engaged. 

"  I  feel  sure  tnat  Ur.  Frost  would  see 
me,  if  you  would  be  good  enough  to  take 
in  my  name,"  said  the  Httle  woman,  looking 
into  the  face  of  the  derk  who  had  spoken 
to  her. 

There  was  something  almost  irresistible 
in  the  composed  certainty  of  her  manner. 
Neither  were  the  ladylike  neatness  of  her 
dress,  and  the  soft^  sweet,  refined  tone  of 
her  voice,  without  their  influence  on  the 
young  man. 

*'  Have  you  an  appointment  P"  he  asked, 
hesitating. 

"  Not  precisely  an  appointment  for  this 
special  morning,  ^utlhavefirequentlybeen 
admitted  at  this  hour  by  Mr.  Frost.  If 
you  will  kindly  take  in  my  luune  to  him,  I 
am  quite  willing  to  assume  the  responfii- 
bility  of  disturlnng  him." 

"Well,  you  see,  ma'am,  that's  jnA 
what  you  canH  do.  The  Fespansibilitf 
must  be  on  my  shoulders,  whether  it  tumi 
out  that  I  am  doing  right  or  wrong.  How- 
ever, since  you  say  that  Mr.  Frost  has  seen 

you  at  this  time,  before .    Perhaps  yon 

can  give  me  a  card  to  take  in  to  him." 

Mrs.  Lockwood  took  a  little  note-bo(^ 
out  of  her  pocket,  tore  off  a  blank  psge, 
and  wrote  on  it  with  the  neatest  of  tiny 
pencils,  the  initials  Z.  L. 

"I  have  no  card,"  she  said,  smiling, 
"but  if  you  will  show  Mr.  Frost  thji 
paper,  I  think  you  will  find  that  he  will 
admit  me." 

The  derk  disappeared,  and  returned  in 
a  few  moments,  begging  the  lady  to  step 
that  way. 

The  lady  did  step  that  way,  and  the 
green-baize  door  closed  silently  behind  her 
short,  trim,  black  figrare. 

Mr.  Frost  was  seated  at  a  table  covered 
with  papers.  On  one  side,  and  within  reach 
of  his  hanii,  stood  a  small  cabinet  full  of 
drawers.  It  was  a  handsome  antique  piece 
of  furniture,  of  inlaid  wood ;  and  would 
have    seemed    more    suited    to   a   lad/i 


& 


Oharles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[October  9, 1869.]      435 


boudoir  than  to  a  lawyer's  office.  But 
there  was  in  truth  very  little  of  what  Mr. 
Lovegrove  called  "the  shop'*  about  the 
furniture  or  fittings  of  this  tiny  sanctum. 
The  pui*ple  carpet  was  soft  and  rich,  the 
walls  were  stained  of  a  warm  stone-colour, 
and  the  two  easy  chairs — the  only  seats 
which  the  small  size  of  the  room  gave 
epace  for — were  covered  with  morocco 
leather  of  the  same  hue  as  the  carpet. 
Over  the  chimney-piece  hung  a  landscape ; 
one  of  the  blackest  and  shiniest  that 
Wardour- street  could  turn  out.  Mr.  Frost 
called  it  (and  thought  it)  a  Salvator  Rosa. 

The  only  technical  belongings  visible  in 
the  room,  were  a  few  careftdly  selected  law 
books,  on  a  spare  shelf  near  the  window. 

•*  Lovegrove  does  all  the  pounce  and 
parchment  business,"  Mr.  Frost  was  wont 
to  say,  jocosely.     "  He  likes  it." 

But  no  client  who  had  ever  sat  in  the 
pmrple  morocco  easy-chair  opposite  to  Mr. 
Frost,  failed  to  coscover  tlmt,  however 
much  that  gentleman  might  profess  to 
despise  those  outward  and  visible  symbols 
of  nis  profession  which  ^e  characterised 
generi(»lly  as  pounce  and  parchment,  yet 
he  was  none  the  less  a  keen,  acute,  prac- 
tical, hard-headed  lawyer. 

Mr.  Frost  looked  up  from  his  papers  as 
Mrs.  Lockwood  quietly  entered  the  room. 

His  face  wore  a  look  of  care,  and  almost 
of  premature  age;  for  his  pertly  upright 
figure,  perfectly  dark  hair,  and  vigour  of 
movement,  betokened  a  man  still  in  the 
prime  of  his  strength.  But  his  face  was 
Uyid  and  haggard,  and  his  eyebrows  were 
■onnoimted  by  a  complex  series  of  wrinkles, 
which  drew  together  in  a  knot,  that  gave 
him  the  expression  of  one  continually  and 
punfdlly  at  work  in  the  solution  of  some 
weighty  problem. 

He  rose  and  shook  hands  with  Mrs. 
Lockwood,  and  then  waved  her  to  the 
iAmr  opposite  to  his  own. 

"  Tell  me  at  once,"  he  said,  folding  his 
hands  before  him  on  the  table  and  slightly 
bending  forward  as  he  addressed  the  widow, 
"if  your  business  is  really  pressing.  I 
loaroely  think  there  is  another  person  in 
London  whom  I  would  have  admitted  at 
this  moment." 

'^My  business  is  pressing.  And  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood,  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"  You  think,  with  your  usual  incredulity, 
that  I  had  no  real  occupation  when  your 
▼iait  interrupted  me.     Sometimes,  I  grant 

yon,  I  shut  myself  in  here  for  a  little 

Hah!  I  was  going  to  say  jpecLce! — ^for  a 


little  quiet,  for  leisure  to  think  for  myself, 
instead  of  hiring  out  my  thinking  faculties 
to  other  people.  But  to-day  it  was  not  so. 
Look  hero ! 

He  pointed  to  the  mass  of  papers  under 
his  hand  (on  the  announcement  of  Mrs. 
Lockwood*s  approach  he  had  thrown  a 
large  sheet  of  blotting-paper  over  them), 
and  fluttered  them  rapidly  with  his  fingers. 
"  I  have  been  going  through  these,  and  was 
only  half-way  when  you  came." 

**  Bills  P"  said  Mrs.  Lockwood. 

"  Some  bills,  and  some Yes ;  chiefly 

bills.     But  they  all  need  looking  at." 

As  he  spoke  he  thrust  them  aside  with  a 
careless  gesture,  which  half  hid  them  once 
more  under  the  blotting-paper. 

Mrs.  Lockwood's  observant  eyes  had 
perceived  that  one  of  them  bore  the  heading 
of  a  fashionable  milliner's  establishment. 

"  I  am  sonr,"  she  said,  "  to  interrupt  the 
calculation  or  your  wife's  bonnet  bills ;  but 
I  really  must  intrude  my  prosaic  business 
on  your  notice." 

"What  a  bitter  little  weed  you  are, 
Zillah !"  rejoined  Mr.  Frost,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair  and  regarding  her  thoughtfully. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  so. 

"The  best  right;  for  I  know  yon.  I 
don't  complain " 

"  Oh !  you  don't  complain  !"  she  echoed, 
with  a  short  soft  laugh. 

"  No,"  he  proceeded ;  "  I  do  not  complain 
that  your  tongue  is  steeped  in  wormwood 
sometimes ;  for  I  know  that  you  have  not 
found  life  ftiU  of  honey.  Neither  have  I, 
ZUlah.     If  you  knew  my  anxieties,   my 

sleepless  nights,  mv But  you  would  not 

believe  me,  even  if  I  had  time  and  inclina- 
tion to  talk  about  myself.  What  is  it  that 
you  want  with  me  this  morning  ?" 

"  I  want  my  money." 

"  Have  you  come  here  to  say  that  P" 

"  That's  the  gist  of  what  I  have  come  to 
say.  I  put  it  crudely,  because  shortly. 
But  you  and  I  know  very  well  that  that  is 
always  the  burden  of  the  tale." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  take  out  a  pocket- 
book  full  of  bank-notes,  and  hand  them  to 
on  across  the  table,  like  a  man  in  a  play  ? 
ut,"  he  added,  after  a  momentary  strug- 
gle -with  his  own  temper,  "  it  is  worse  than 
useless  for  us  to  jangle.  You  are  too  sen- 
sible a  woman  to  have  come  here  merely 
for  the  pleasure  of  dunning  me.  Tell  me 
what  has  induced  you  to  take  this  step  ?" 

"  I  desired  to  speak  with  you.  To  the 
first  note  I  sent  you,  asking  you  to  call  in 
Grower-street,  I  got  no  answer ^" 


§ 


<d3: 


:& 


436      [October  9, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactedby 


// 


time.  I  meant  to  come  to  yon  as  soon  as 
I  had  an  hour's  leisure.'* 

"  To  the  second  note  you  replied  that  you 
were  going  out  of  town  for  three  days." 

"It  was  quite  true.  I  only  got  back 
last  night." 

"  And  therefore  I  came  here  this  mom- 
mg. 

"  Has  anything  new  happened  ?" 

"Something  new  is  always  happening. 
Hugh  is  bent  on  setting  up  for  himself. 
His  father's  friends  in  the  country  have 
urged  him  to  do  so." 

**  It  would  be  folly  on  his  part  to  leave 
Digby  and  West  for  the  next  year  or  so.  I 
give  this  opinion  just  as  I  should  if  I  were 
asked  for  advice  by  a  perfect  stranger. 
You  doubtless  think  that  I  am  actuated  by 
some  underhand  motive." 

"  No ;  I  do  not  think  so.  And,  moreover, 
I  should  agree  with  you  in  your  opinion,  if 
I  did  not  know  that  Hugh  is  entitled  to  a 
sum  of  money  which  would  suffice  to  make 
the  experiment  he  contemplates  a  judicious 
instead  of  a  rash  one." 

**  I  do  not  see  that." 

"  Hugh,  at  all  events,  has  the  right  to 
judge  for  himself." 

"And  you  have  the  right  to  influence 
his  judgment." 

"  Sometimes  I  am  tempted — ^nay,  often, 
very  often,  I  am  tempted — ^to  tell  Hugh 
everything,  and  let  hun  fight  his  own  fight. 
I  am  so  tired  of  it !" 

"  Tell  him  then !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Frost, 
impatiently.  "I,  too,  am  weary,  God 
knows !" 

"  You  have  the  power  to  put  an  end  to 
your  weariness  and  to  my  importunities. 
Do  me  justice.  Aft^r  all,  I  am  but  claim- 
ing what  is  my  own." 

"  It  is  your  own.  I  know  it.  I  have 
never  sought  to  deny  it.  You  cannot  say 
that  I  have." 

He  rose  with  a  quick,  irritable  move- 
ment from  his  choir,  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  mantel-piece,  with  his  back  to 
the  empty  grate. 

"  Then  why  not  restore  it  at  once,  and 
end  this  weary  business  ?" 

"  Surely  you  must  understand  that  such 
a  sum  is  not  to  be  had  at  a  moment's  notice !" 

"  A  moment's  notice  !  How  many  years 
is  it  since  you  promised  me  that  it  should  bo 
restored  as  soon  as  Hugh  came  of  age  ?" 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But,  during  this  last 
year  or  two  there  have  been  embarrass- 
ments, and — and — difficulties." 

Mrs.  Lockwood  leaned  her  head  on  her 
band,  and  looked  up  at  him*    "Do  you 


know,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  what  I  begin  to 
be  afraid  of?  That  you  have  been  telling 
me  the  truth  lately,  and  that  you  really  are 
in  pecuniary  difficulties !" 

The  blood  rushed  darkly  over  the 
lawyer's  face,  but  he  met  her  look  with 
a  smile  and  an  ironical  raising  of  the  eye- 
brows, 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "  you  are 
civil — and  ingenious !  You  begin  to  be 
*  afraid  that  I  have  been  telling  you  the 
truth !'  I  presume  you  have  hitherto  sup- 
posed that  I  kept  your  cash  in  hard,  round, 
yellow  sovereigns,  locked  up  in  a  box,  and 
that  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  take  them 
out  whenever  I  chose,  and  hand  them  over 
to  you  !  I  am  sony  that  I  cannot  altogether 
dissipate  your  apprehensions.  I  have  been 
telling  you  the  truth,  but,  nevertheless, 
your  money  is  safe  !" 

The  air  of  superiority  in  the  man,  his 
voice  and  bearing,  were  not  withoTtheir 
effect  on  Mrs.  Lockwood.  She  fieJtered  a 
moment.  Then  she  said,  "You  can  at 
least  name  some  time  for  a  settlement,  can 
you  not  ?  Give  me  some  fixed  date  to  look 
forward  to.     I  have  been  very  patient." 

"  Look  here,  Zillah,  I  have  a  very  ad- 
vantageous thing  in  view.  It  will  be 
highly  lucrative,  if  it  comes  off  as  I  anti- 
cipate. It  has  been  proposed  to  me  to  go 
abroad  in  the  character  of  legal  adviser  to 
a  very  wealthy  and  powerful  English  com- 
pany, and " 

"  To  go  abroad !" 

"  Temporarily,  For  a  few  montiis 
merely.  It  is  a  question  of  obtaining  a 
concession  for  some  important  works  firom 
the  Italian  government.  If  the  affair  sno 
ceeds,  I  shaJl  bo  in  a  position  not  only  to 
pay  you  back  your  own — that,^*  ho  added, 
watching  her  face,  "  is  a  matter  of  conne 
in  any  case — ^but  to  advance  Hugh's  pro- 
spects very  materially.  Will  you  have  a 
little  more  patience,  and  a  little  more  £utb, 
and  wait  until  the  winter  ?" 

"Six  months?"  said  Mrs.  Lockwood, 
wearily. 

"Yes;    six  months.     Say  six  months  J 

And  meanwhile as  for  Hugh,  since  he 

knows  nothing,  he  will  bo  suffering  no  sus- 
pense." 

"Hugh?  No,  thank  God!  If  it  had 
been  a  question  of  subjecting  my  son  in- 
stead of  myself  to  the  grinding  of  hope 
deferred,  the  matter  uiould  have  been 
settled  in  one  way  or  the  other  years  ago!" 

Mr.  Frost  looked  at  the  small,  firoil  figore 

before  him;  at  the  pale,  delicate-featured 

^&fie,  framed  in  its  soft  grey  curls ;  and  he 


Ad 


Charles  Dickens.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[October  9, 1869.]       437 


I 


wondered  at  the  strength  of  resolution  to 
endure  that  was  expressed  in  every  curve 
of  her  mouth,  in  the  firmness  of  her  atti- 
tude, as  she  stood  with  her  little  nervous 
hands  clasped  in  front  of  her,  in  the  stea- 
diness of  the  dark  eyes  whoso  setting  was 
so  worn  and  tear-stained. 

"  Good-by,  Zillah,"  he  said,  taking  her 

hand ;  "  I  will  come  to  Gowcr-street,  soon.*' 

"  Yes ;    you   had    better    come.     Hugh 

misses   you.     He   wants    to    talk   to  you 

about  his  plans,  ho  says." 

"  I  shall  give  him  the  advice  I  told  you 
— to  stay  with  Digby  and  West  for  at  least 
another  year,  on  the  terms  they  offer. 
Bless  my  life,  it  is  no  such  hardship  !  What 
hurry  is  there  for  him  to  undertake  the 
responsibilities  and  cares  of  a  professional 
man  who  has,  or  thinks  he  has,'*  added  Mr. 
Frost,  hastily  correcting  himself,  "  nothing 
in  the  world  to  depend  upon  but  his  own 
exertions  ?" 

Mrs.  Lockwood  made  as  though  she  were 
about  to  speak,  and  then  checked  herself 
with  a  little,  quick  sigh. 

"  Zillah  !*'  said  Mr.  Frost,  taking  again 
the  hand  he  had  relinquished,  and  bending 
down  to  look  into  her  face,  "there  is 
something  new!  You  have  not  told  me 
all  that  is  in  your  mind." 

"Because  what  is  in  my  mind  on  this 
subject  is  all  vague  aud  uncertain.  But  I 
fancy — I  think — that  Hugh  has  fallen  in 
love." 

**  Ah,  you  are  like  the  rest  of  the  women, 
and  put  your  real  meaning  into  the  post- 
script.    I  knew  there  was  something  you 
had  to  say." 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  say  it  at  all.     It  is 

only  a  surmise " 

*'  I  have  considerable  faith  in  the  accuracy 
of  your  surmises.  And  it  furnishes  a  likely 
enough  motive  for  Hugh's  hot  haste  to 
make  himself  a  place  in  the  world.  Can 
you  guess  at  the  woman  ?" 

"  I  know  her.  She  is  a  girl  of  barely 
eighteen.     She  lives  in  my  house." 

"  What !  that  Lady— Lady " 

"Lady  Tallis  Gale's  niece,  Miss  Des- 
mond." 

"  Stay  !  Where  did  I  hear  of  her  ?  Oh, 
I  have  it !  Lovegi'ove  is  trustee  under  her 
mother's  'vvill.  She  has  a  mere  pittance 
secured  to  her  out  of  the  wreck  of  her 
Other's  fortune.  Besides,  those  kind  of 
people,  though  they  may  be  almost  beg- 
gars, would,  ten  to  one,  look  down  on  your 
son  from  the  height  of  their  family  gran- 
deur. This  girl's  fiither  was  one  of  the 
Power  -  Desmonds,   a    beggarly,    scatter- 


brained, spendthrift,  Irish  —  gentleman  ! 
I  dare  say  the  young  lady  has  been  taught 
to  be  proud  of  her  (probably  hypothetical) 
descent  from  a  savage  inferior  to  a  Zulu 
Kaffir." 

"Very  likely.  But  your  eloquence  is 
wasted  on  me.  You  should  talk  to  Hugh. 
I'm  afraid  he  has  set  his  heart  on  this." 

"  Set  his  heart !  Hugh  is — ^how  old  ? 
Three-and- twenty  ?" 

"  Hugh  will  be  twenty-five  in  August." 

"  Ah !  Think  of  a  woman  of  your  ex- 
perience talking  of  a  young  fellow  of  that 
age  having  *  set  his  heart'  on  anything ! 
No  doubt  he  has  *  sot  his  heart.'  And  how 
many  times  will  it  be  set  and  xmset  again 
before  he  is  thirty  ?" 

"  Gt)d  forbid  that  Hugh  should  be  such 
a  man  as  some  whom  my  experience  has 
taught  me  to  know !" 

*'  Humph  !  Just  now  this  lovo  on  which 
Hugh  has  *  set  his  heart,'  was  a  mere  sur- 
mise on  your  part.  Now  you  declare  it  to 
be  a  serious  and  established  fact,  and  '  God 
forbid'  it  should  not  be  !" 

"When  will  you  come?"  asked  Mrs. 
Lockwood,  disregarding  the  sneer. 

"I  will  come  to-morrow  evening,  if  I 
can.  You  know  that  my  time  is  not  mine 
to  dispose  of." 

"True.  But  it  is  sometimes  easier  to 
dispose  of  that  which  belongs  to  other 
people  than  of  one's  own  rightful  property, 
is  it  not  ?" 

With  this  Parthian  dart,  Mrs.  Lockwood 
disappeared,  gliding  noiselessly  out  of  the 
small  room,  through  the  next  chamber,  and 
acknowledging  by  a  modest,  quiet,  little 
bend  of  the  head  the  respectful  alacrity  of 
the  clerk  who  had  first  admitted  her,  in 
rising  to  open  the  door  for  her  eidt. 

AS  THE  CROAV  FLIES. 

DUE  SOUTH.      WINCHESTER  TO  LYMINGTON. 

The  crow  looks  down  on  the  White  City 
optically,  not  intellectually.  He  sees  many 
houses  in  a  cluster,  the  shape  of  a  wooh)ack, 
nipped  in  the  centre  by  the  girdle  of  the 
High  -  street.  The  old  city  of  the  lioniau 
weavers'  and  huntsmen,  and  of  the  West  Saxon 
kings,  lies  healthily  and  pleasantly  in  a  snug 
valley  between  two  sheltering  steep  chalk 
hills,  the  river  Itchen  running  on  its  border. 
This  is  the  city  where  Edward  the  Third  esta- 
blished the  wool  staple,  where  Richard  the 
First  was  recrowned  on  his  return  from  his 
Austrian  prison,  the  city  which  Simon  de 
Montford  sacked,  the  city  where  Richard  the 
Second  held  a  parliament — tlio  city  twice  be- 
sieged and  taken  during  the  Civil  Wara. 

The  houses  of  \V^YCis£fe%\.^T  ^\*i  TveiV^ft^-t^^axs.^ 


\ 


c& 


St> 


438       [October  0, 1«69.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


// 


the  cathedral,  like  so  many  pawns  round  a  king 
at  chess.  This  buildinp  is  a  small  history  of 
England  in  itself.  It  dates  hack  to  some  early 
British  king,  and  was  subsequently  turned  into 
a  Pagan  temple.  St.  Swithin,  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester (852-863),  was  the  patron  saint  whose 
reUcs  were  here  honoured  for  many  centuries. 
The  worthy  man  had  originally  snug  lying  in 
the  churchyard,  but  his  successor,  Bishop 
Athelwold,  removed  the  honoured  bones  from 
a  chapel  outside  the  north  door  of  the  nave, 
and  placed  them  in  a  glistening  golden  shrine 
behind  the  cathedral  altar.  The  removal  of 
the  relics  was  at  first  frustrated  by  forty  days' 
miraculous  rain,  and  it  hence  became  a  popular 
belief,  first  in  Hampshire,  then  all  over  Eng- 
land, that  if  there  were  rain  on  St.  Swithin'a 
Day  (July  15),  it  would  rain  for  forty  days 
after,  according  to  the  old  rhyme  : 

St.  Swithin's  day  if  thou  doth  rain, 
For  for^  days  it  will  remain ; 
St.  Swithin'a  day  if  thou  be  fair, 
For  forty  days  'twill  rain  na  mair. 

But  the  crow  must  for  a  moment  be  bio- 
graphical. In  a  recent  number  he  gave  a 
sketch  of  the  career  of  an  old  soldier  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  the  Fifth ;  he  will  now  give  an 
outline  of  the  life  of  a  prelate  in  the  reiffn  of 
Edward  the  Third.  The  old  cathedral  was  rebuilt 
by  Bishop  Wakelin,  1079,  with  Isle  of  Wight 
limestone  and  Hempage  oak.  Bishop  De  Lucy 
carried  the  work  further,  and  Bishop  Eding- 
ton  began  the  nave  that  AVilliam  of  Wykoham 
continued  ;  and  that  great  statesman  lies  in 
effigy  still  in  his  beautiful  chantry,  arrayed  in 
cope  and  mitre,  his  pillow  supported  by  angels, 
and  three  stone  monks  praying  at  his  feet. 

William  of  Wykeham,  bom  in  1344,  and  the 
son  of  poor  parents,  was  educated  by  Nicolas 
Uvedale,  governor  of  Winchester.  While 
still  young  he  became  architect  to  Edward  the 
Third,  and  rebuilt  part  of  AVindsor  Castle. 
He  then  took  holy  orders,  and  was  made 
curate  of  Pulham,  in  Norfolk.  Step  by  step 
Wykeham  rose  to  the  highest  dignities  :  being 
first,  secretary  to  the  kincr,  lastly,  Chancellor  of 
England  and  Bishop  of  AVinchester.  Compelled 
to  resign  office  by  a  cabal  to  prevent  all  priest* 
holding  civQ  employments,  the  bishop  applied 
himself  to  building  and  endowing  New  College, 
Oxford,  and  a  college  at  AVinchester,  originally 
the  enlargement  of  a  small  grammar  school, 
to  which  the  founder  himself  had  been  sent 
as  a  child  by  his  kind  patron,  Sir  Nicolas  Uve- 
dale. AVhcu  Edward  the  Third  retired  to 
Eltham  to  mourn  over  the  loss  of  the  Black 
Prince,  the  Duke  of  I^ancaster  (John  of  Gaunt), 
the  real  sovereign  for  the  time,  persecuted 
AVykeham,  drove  him  from  parliament,  and 
seized  all  his  temporalities.  Richard  the 
Second,  however,  i*chabilitated  him.  The 
minister  resigned  when  he  found  the  young 
king  recklessly  rushing  to  ruin,  henceforward 
devoted  himself  to  good  works,  and  died  in 
1404.  AA'inchester  owes  much  to  this  great 
prelate,  for  he  procured  the  charter  for  the 
city  as  a  wool  staple,  and  he  restored  that  ad- 
mirable  charity,  the  Hospital  of  St.  Cross,  just 


out«ide  the  town,  originally  founded  by  Bishop 
de  Blois,  in  1136,  for  thirteen  poor  men. 
Shakespeare's  Cardinal  Beaufort  increased  it 
and  added  the  distinct  establishment  of  **  The 
Almshouse  of  Noble  Poverty,"  for  thirty-five 
brethren  and  three  attendant  nuns.  This 
great  cardinal  lies  in  the  cathedral  in  a  chantry 
of  liis  own,  opposite  Bishop  Waynflete.  It 
was  mutilated  by  the  Puritan  soldiers  when 
they  stabled  their  horses  in  AVincheiter  choir. 
In  spite  of  the  Bard  and  Sir  Joshua,  Beaufort 
never  murdered  his  rival  Gloucester,  nor  did  he 
die  in  a  torture  of  remorse,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
as  an  eye-witness  tells  us,  he  made  a  goodly 
ending  of  it.  **  Unscrupulous  in  the  choice  of 
his  instruments"  the  cardinal  may  have  been, 
but  he  was  undoubtedly  a  great  statesman, 
firm,  far-seeing,  and  fertile  in  resources. 

A  plain  marble  slab  in  Prior  Silkstede^s 
Chapel  marks  the  tomb  of  an  illustrious 
angler,  honest  Fleet-street  tradesman,  and 
excellent  writer,  Isaac  Walton,  who  died  in 
1683,  at  the  house  of  his  son-in-law,  Dr.  Haw- 
kins, a  prebendary  of  AVinchester.  His  epitaph, 
probably  written  by  Bishop  Ken  (the  autW 
of  the  Evening  Hymn),  his  brother-in-law,  is 
well  worthy  the  excellent  man  it  records : 

Alas !  he's  gone  before^ 
(xono  to  return  no  more. 
Our  panting  breasts  aspire 
After  their  aged  sire. 
Whose  well-spent  life  did  last 
Full  ninety  years  and  past ; 
But  now  he  hath  begun 
That  which  will  ne'er  be  done ; 
Crown'd  with  eternal  bliss. 
We  wish  our  souls  with  his. 

Every  stone  of  this  old  cathedral,  has  its 
legend.  At  the  altar  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor was  crowned,  and  in  the  nave  his  mother, 
Emma,  falsely  accused  of  incontinence,  passed 
safely,  blindfold,  over  the  ordeal  of  nine  red- 
hot  ploughshares.  In  this  building  lies  a  son 
of  King  Alfred ;  here,  at  the  high  altar,  Canute, 
after  his  rebuke  on  the  Southampton  shore  to 
his  courtiers,  hung  up  his  golden  crown,  and 
here  he  was  afterwards  interred. 

Rufus,  the  successor  of  the  Conqueror,  de- 
lighted in  AVinchester  because  it  was  so  near  the 
I  laiupshire  forests.  Indeed  the  rapacious  rascal 
had  i-cason  to  like  it,  since  on  the  death  of  his 
father  he  had  scooped  out  of  the  Winchester 
treasury  sixty  thousand  pounds  of  silver  be- 
sides gold  and  precious  stones.  Rufus  died 
detested  by  his  subjects,  and  the  monks  he  had 
plundered,  but  he  left  two  things  to  be  re- 
membered —  the  AVhite  Tower  that  be  com- 
pleted, and  the  Great  Hall  at  A\''estmin8ter,  that 
he  put  together.  The  plain  tomb  of  the  tyrant, 
whom  no  one  lamented,  is  still  existang—a 
stumbling-block  nearly  in  the  centre  of  the 
choir  at  AVinchester  Cathedral. 

AA'^inchester  has  twice  been  glorified  by  the 
splendour  of  royal  marriages — a  happy  and  an 
unhappy  alliance.  The  first  was  in  rebmaiy, 
1403,  when  Henry  the  Fourth  married  Joanna 
of  Navarre.  This  sensible  and  amiable  woman 
was  the  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bad  and  the 
widow  of  John  the  valiant  Duke  of  Brttagna; 


&) 


Ch«rlea  Dlckcna.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[October  9, 180SL]      439 


Henry  was  a  widower,  his  first  wife  haying 
been  Mary  de  Bohon,  with  whom  early  in  hfe 
he  had  eloped  from  the  old  castle  the  crow  has 
already  yisited  at  Fleshy.  Joanna  started  from 
Camaret,  a  small  port  near  Brest,  and  arriycd 
at  Falmouth  storm-driven,  attended  by  her  two 
infant  daughters,  Blanche  and  Marguerite, 
their  nurses,  and  a  gay  crowd  of  Breton  and 
Nayarese  attendants.  Tne  fair  widow  of  France 
was  a  beautiful  woman,  with  small  regular  fea- 
tures and  a  broad  forehead.  Her  handsome 
husband-elect  received  her  at  "Winchester,  at- 
tended by  many  lords  and  knights.  The  mar- 
riage took  place  with  great  pomp  in  the  ancient 
royal  city  at  the  church  of  St.  Swithin.  The 
bridal  feast  was  thought  very  costly,  and  was 
remarkable  for  two  courses  of  fish  and  the 
introduction  of  crowned  eagles  and  crowned 
panthers  in  confectionery  during  intervals  of 
the  meal. 

After  her  husband's  death  Joanna  got  on 
but  badly,  for  her  step-son,  Henry  the  Fifth, 
plundered  her  of  half  her  dowry,  and  accused 
her  of  witchcraft.  She  had  also  to  mourn 
when  the  nation  that  had  adopted  her  was 
rejoicing,  for  her  son  Arthur,  attacking  our 
outposts  at  Agincourt  with  a  whirlwind  of 
French  cavalry,  was  desperately  wounded, 
struck  down,  and  taken  prisoner.  Her  son-in- 
law  the  Duke  dAlen^on,  who  had  cloven 
Henry's  jewelled  helmet,  was  also  slain  in  the 
same  battle,  and  her  brother,  the  Constable  of 
France,  died  of  his  woimds  the  following  day. 
Joanna  ended  her  troubled  life  at  Havering- 
atte-Bower,  in  1437)  and  her  ghost  is  supposed 
still  to  haunt  the  ruins  of  me  palace  there. 
Joanna's  arms,  an  ermine  collared  and  chained, 
were  formerly  conspicuous  in  the  windows  of 
Chridtchurch,  near  Newgate. 

The  next  royal  wedding  at  Winchester  was 
the  ill-omened  and  fruitless  union  of  Mary 
and  Philip.  The  gloomy  Spanish  king,  wim 
the  projecting  jaw  and  the  liard  cruel  eyes, 
landed  at  Southampton,  with  the  Duke  of 
Alva  and  other  memorable  Spanish  nobles. 
He  was  dressed  in  plain  black  velvet,  a 
black  cap  hung  with  gold  chains,  and  a  red 
felt  cloak.  Gardiner,  the  notorious  Bishop  of 
Winchester,  escorted  him  to  that  venerable 
city  with  a  train  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  gen- 
tlemen, dressed  in  black  velvet  and  black 
cloth,  and  with  rich  gold  chains  round  their 
necks.  The  cavalcade  rode  slowly  over  the 
heavy  roads  to  Winchester,  in  a  cruel  and 

Sitiless  rain.  On  the  next  day,  the  25th  of 
uly,  St.  James's  day,  took  place  the  nuptials. 
The  gloomy  bridegroom  wore  white  satin  trunk- 
hose  and  a  robe  of  rich  brocade,  bordered  with 
pearls  and  diamonds.  The  ill-favoured  bride 
was  attired  in  a  white  satin  gown  and  coif, 
scarlet  shoes,  and  a  black  velvet  scarf.  The 
chair  on  which  she  sat,  a  present  from  the 
Pope,  who  had  insufficiently  blessed  it,  is  still 
ihown  at  the  cathedral.  Gardiner  and  Bonner 
were  both  present,  rejoicing  at  tlie  match,  and 
four  other  oishops,  stately  with  their  crosiers. 
Sixty  Spanish  ^^randees  attended  Philip.  The 
hall  of  the  episcopal  palace  where  the  bridal 


banquet  took  place  was  hung  with  silk  and 
gold  striped  arras,  the  plate  was  solid  gold. 
The  Winchester  boys  recited  Latin  epithala- 
miums,  and  were  rewarded  by  the  queen.  A 
year  after  that  time,  Philip  left  Mary  and 
England  for  ever. 

One  of  the  interesting  historical  events  that 
have  dignified  Winchester,  was  the  defiance 
hurled  at  Henry  the  Fifth,  just  about  to  embark 
at  Southampton  for  his  invasion  of  Normandy, 
by  the  gallant  French  ambassador,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Bruges.  On  Henry  saying,  through 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  that  he  woiSd 
not  rest  satisfied  with  anything  short  of  all  the 
territories  formerly  possessed  by  England,  the 
French  prelate  replied  that  Henry  would  cer- 
tainly be  driven  back  to  the  sea,  and  lose  cither 
his  liberty  or  his  life.  He  then  exclaimed,  '^  I 
have  done  with  England,  and  I  demand  my  pass* 
port.^*  Our  chivalrous  young  king  had  never 
forgiven  the  Frenchmen's  insolent  present  of  a 
cask  of  tennis  balls,  in  scorn  of  tne  wild  ex- 
cesses which  had  disgraced  his  youth. 

"  When  I  use  them,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "  I 
will  strike  them  back  with  such  a  racket  as 
shall  force  open  Paris  gates!'' 

After  his  house  at  Newmarket  was  burnt 
down,  Charles  the  Second  squandered  nearly 
twenty  thousand  pounds,  according  to  Evelyn, 
in  building  a  palace  on  the  site  of  the  old 
castle.  It  was  to  have  cost  thirty-five  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  to  have  been  a  hunting 
scat.  The  first  stone  was  laid  by  the  swarthy 
king  in  person,  March  23,  1683.  James 
stopped  the  building,  but  Queen  Anne  came 
to  see,  and  wished  to  have  completed  it  for 
her  dully  respectable  husband,  Prince  George 
of  Denmark.  In  the  French  war  of  1756,  five 
thousand  prisoners  cooked  their  soup  and 
cursed  the  English  within  its  walls;  in  1792 
some  poor  famished  French  cures  occupied  it ; 
and  in  1796  it  became  what  it  has  since  been  ; 
a  common  barrack.  Wren's  design  included  a 
large  cupola,  sixty  feet  above  uie  roof,  that 
was  to  have  been  a  sea  mark,  and  a  handsome 
street  leading  in  a  direct  line  from  the  cathedral 
to  the  palace. 

It  was  at  Winchester,  in  August,  1685,  that 
the  detestable  Judge  Jeffreys  began  the 
butchery  that  King  James  so  much  desired, 
with  the  trial  of  dame  Alicia  Lisle,  a  venerable 
and  respected  woman  of  more  than  seventy,  the 
widow  of  one  of  Cromwell's  lords  (one  of  King 
Charles's  judges,  some  say)  who  had  been 
assassinated  at  Lausanne  by  the  Royalists. 
She  was  accused  of  harbouring  John  Hickes,  a 
Nonconformist  divine,  and  Richard  Nelthorpe, 
a  fugitive  lawyer,  who  had  dabbled  in  the  Rye 
House  Plot.  The  chief  witness,  a  man  named 
Dunne,  living  at  Warminster,  deposed  that 
some  days  5ter  the  battle  of  Sedgemoor 
(which  was  in  July),  a  short,  swarthy,  dark- 
haired  man  sent  him  to  Lady  Lisle  at  ^loyles 
Court,  near  Fordingbridge,  to  know  if  she 
could  give  Hickes  shelter.  Lady  Lisle  desired 
them  to  come  on  the  following  Tuesday,  and 
on  the  evening  of  tl»at  day  he  escorted  two 
horsemen,  ^^  a  full,  fat,  black  man,  and  a  thin 


^ 


^ 


440      [October  9, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactedby 


black  man."  A  Wiltshire  man,  whom  they 
paid  to  show  them  the  way  over  the  plain, 
betrayed  them  to  Colonel  Penruddock,  who 
early  the  next  morning  discovered  Ilickes 
hidden  in  the  malthouse,  and  Nelthorpe  in  a 
hole  in  a  chimney.  Lady  Lislc's  defence  was 
that  she  knew  Hickes  to  be  a  Nonconformist 
minister  against  whom  a  warrant  was  issued, 
but  she  did  not  know  he  had  been  with  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth.  As  for  Nelthorpe,  she 
did  not  even  know  his  name ;  she  had  denied 
him  to  the  soldiers,  only  from  fear,  as  they 
were  rude  and  insolent,  and  were  with  diffi- 
culty restndned  from  plundering  the  house. 
Lady  Lisle  then  avowed  that  she  abhorred  the 
Monmouth  plot,  and  that  the  day  on  which 
King  Charles  was  beheaded  she  had  not  gone 
out  of  her  chamber,  and  had  shed  more  tears 
for  him  than  any  woman  then  living,  as  the  late 
Countess  of  Monmouth,  my  Lady  Marlborough, 
my  Lord  Chancellor  Hyde,  and  twenty  persons 
of  the  most  eminent  quality  could  bear  witness. 
Moreover,  she  said,  her  son  had  been  sent  by 
her  to  bear  arms  on  the  king^s  side,  and  it  was 
fihe  who  had  bred  him  up  to  fight  for  the  king. 
Jeffreys,  eager  to  spill  olood  at  the  first  case 
of  treason  on  the  circuit,  and  seeing  the  jury 
waver,  roared  and  bellowed  bla^hemy  at 
Dunne,  who  became  too  frightened  to  speak. 

**  I  hope,"  cried  this  model  judge,  *'  I 
hope,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  take  notice 
of  the  strange  and  horrible  carriage  of  this 
fellow,  and  withal  you  cannot  but  observe 
the  spirit  of  this  sort  of  people,  what  a 
Tillanous  and  devilish  one  it  is.  A  Turk  is  a 
fiaint  to  such  a  fellow  as  this ;  many  a  Pagan 
would  be  ashamed  to  have  no  more  truth  in 
him.  Blessed  Jesus,  what  a  generation  of 
vipers !  Dost  thou  believe  that  there  is  a 
God  ?  Dost  thou  believe  thou  hast  a  precious 
and  immortal  soul  ?    Dost- 


71 


**  I  cannot  tell  what  to  say,  my  lord,"  stam- 
mered poor  tormented  Dunne. 

Jeffreys :  **  Good  God,  was  there  ever  such 
an  impudent  rascal !  Hold  the  candle  up  that 
wo  may  see  his  brazen  face." 

Dunne  :  "  My  lord,  I  am  so  baulked  I  do  not 
know  what  I  say.  Tell  me  what  you  would 
have  mo  say,  for  I  am  shattered  out  of  my 
senses." 

Placid  Judge :  **  Why,  prithee,  man,  there  is 
nobody  baulks  thee  but  thy  own  self.  Thou  art 
asked  questions  as  plain  as  anything  in  the 
world  can  be;  it  is  only  thy  own  haughty 
depraved  heart  that  baulks  both  thy  honesty 
and  understanding,  if  thou  hast  any ;  it  is  thy 
studying  how  to  prevaricate  that  puzzles  and 
confounds  thy  intellect ;  but  I  see  all  the  pains 
in  the  world,  and  all  compassion  and  charity  is 
lost  upon  thee,  and  therefore  will  say  no  more 
to  thee." 

The  jury  were  long  in  discussion,  and  three 
times  brought  in  Alicia  Lisle  not  guilty,  but  they 
succumbed  at  last  to  the  judge's  threats  and 
denunciations.  The  poor  charitable  woman 
was  condemned  to  be  burnt  to  death  on  the  next 
day.  The  clergy  of  Winchester  Cathedral  re- 
moBBtrated  a^^ainst  the  cruel  haste,  and  Jeffreys, 


not  wishing  to  destroy  the  sociability  of  his  visit, 
postponed  the  execution  for  five  days.  In  the 
mean  time  there  was  great  intercession  made. 
The  only  mercy  James  had  the  heart  to  show  was 
to  commute  the  sentence  from  burning  to  be- 
heading. On  the  afternoon  of  September  the 
2nd  she  suffered  death  on  a  scaffold  in  the 
market-place,  and  underwent  her  fate  with 
serene  courage  and  Christian  resolution.  Her 
last  words  were  forgiveness  to  all  who  had 
done  her  wrong.  In  the  first  year  of  William 
and  Mary  the  attainder  was  reversed,  and  Lady 
lisle's  two  daughters,  Triphena  and  Bridget, 
were  restored  to  all  their  former  rights. 

Winchester  Castle  was  destroyed  by  Crom- 
well. The  hall  (formerly  called  the  chapel) 
now  only  remains.  The  famous  Round  Table, 
framed  by  Merlin,  still  hangs  on  the  east  end. 
Henry  the  Eighth  and  Charles  the  Fifth  came 
to  see  this  reUc,  whose  date  is  uncertain.  There 
are  bullet  marks  on  it,  said  to  be  the  work  of 
Cromwell's  relic-despising  musketeers. 

The  crow  skims  to  Southampton,  and  alights 
on  the  Bar-gate,  just  above  the  sullen  figures  of 
Sir  Bevis  and  Ascapart.  This  Ascapart  was 
a  loathly  giant  whom  Sir  Bevis  subdued  with 
sword  and  spear,  and  coerced  into  more  or  less 
patient  bondage.  Only  half  tamed,  however, 
this  Caliban  mutinied  on  one  occasion  in  the 
absence  of  his  master,  and  carried  off  Josyan 
the  Bright,  wife  of  Sir  Bevis,  whose  knights  soon 
tracked  out  and  slew  the  foul  felon.  Sir  Bevis 
lived  on  the  mount  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
above  the  Bar.  This  noble  paladin,  after  much 
fighting,  died  on  the  same  day  with  his  loving 
wife,  Josyan,  and  his  horse  ArundeL  The 
Venice  galleys  that  in  the  middle  ages  brought 
to  the  Hampshire  coast  Indian  spices,  Damascus 
carpets,  Murano  glass,  and  Levant  wine,  no 
doubt  took  back  with  them  English  cloth  and 
English  legends.  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown  teUs  us 
that  to  this  day  the  "  History  of  Sir  Bevis  of 
Hampton,"  is  a  stock  piece  at  the  Venetian 
puppet-show  theatres. 

The  crow  must  not  forget  that  it  was  on  the 
shore  near  Southampton  (not  at  Bosham  as 
Sussex  antiquaries  insist  on  having  it)  that 
Canute,  to  rebuke  his  Danish  courtiers,  who 
beheld  in  him  a  monarch  feared  by  the  Eng- 
lish, Scotch,  Welsh,  Danish,  Swedes,  and 
Norwegians,  conmianded  the  tide  to  recede,  and 
respect  its  sovereign.  Indeed  a  daring  South- 
ampton man  has  satisfactorily  settled  the  site 
of  the  story  by  erecting  a  public-house  near 
the  Docks  called  "The  Canute  Castle." 

Our  bird  rejoices  in  Southampton,  not  be- 
cause it  was  once  a  dep6t  for  Cornish  tin; 
because  Charles  the  Fifth  embarked  from 
here ;  because  Richard  the  First  here  assembled 
his  fleet  for  the  crusades,  and  took  on  boaid 
eight  hundred  protesting  Hampshire  ho^ 
and  ten  thousand  horse-shoes ;  or  because  our 
army  for  Crecy  embarked  here,  but  because 
it  is  eminently  a  Shakesperean  place,  ^^ 
many  others  he  has  visited.  Here,  as  the 
depot  for  Cordovan  leather,  Alexandrian  sugar, 
and  for  Bordeaux  and  Rochelle  wine,  the 
favourite  place  of  embarcation  indeed  for  Nor- 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


tOotobar  >,  lUK]     4& 


thered  together  iu  1450  hui  one  thousand 
handled  B&It,  his  six  thonund  Tnen-at-arniB,  hie 
twenty-fonr  thonBand  archers,  and  Nym,  Bar- 
dolph,  and  Pistol.    Shakespeare  has  given  a 
■plendid  panorama  of  the  scene  : 

Suppoie  thit  you  htTg  ann 
The  w«n.appom[ed  king  at  Hunpton  pier 
Bmbark  bu  rojiltj ;  ud  Ui  hnte  Sect 
Witli  rilkm  •treamen  the  joiuig  Fhiebai  fuiDiiig. 

0,  do  but  think, 
Tod  itand  upon  tlie  riiage,  ind  behold 
A  cil;  on  the  ineonaUut  biUowa  dancing ; 
For  10  ippBut  (hit  fleet  nujeatie*]. 
Hiding  due  eoune  to  Hufleur. 
It  was  juet  at  starting  that  the  discovery  took 
place  of  the  conspiracy  which  Shakespeare  hat< 
aleo  dramatised.  The  king's  consin  Richard, 
Earl  of  Cambridge,  had  conspired  with  Henir's 
favourite  coundllors  and  companions,  Sir 
Thomas  Grey  and  Lord  Scrope  of  Masham,  to 
ride  to  the  frontiers  of  WalcH,  and  there  pro- 
claim the  Earl  of  March  the  rightful  lieir 
to  the  crown  of  Richard  the  Second,  if  that 
monarch  were  really  dead,  which  some  still 
doubted.  The  three  conspirators  were  all  exe. 
ented,  and  their  bones  lie  m  the  chapel  of  the 
DomusDei,  an  ancient  hospital  in  Winkle-street. 
Bevis  Mount,  joBt  outaide  Souliampton,  was 
the  residence  of  Lord  Peterborough,  the  general 
who  drove  the  French  out  of  Spain  in  the  War 
of  the  Succession,  and  the  steady  friend,  first 
of  Dryden,  then  of  Pope,  Swift,  and  all  their  set, 
He  spent  the  latter  part  of  his  stirring  life  a( 
his  "wild  romantic  cottage"  with  his  second 
wife,  Anastasia  Robinson,  a  celebrated  sineer, 
whom  for  a  long  time  his  pride  forbade  him 
t«  publicly  acknowledge.  Pope  often  visited 
him  here,  particularly  in  the  autumn  of  1735, 
jnBt  before  the  earl  started  for  Lisbon,  in  which 
voyage  he  died.  Pope  pays  the  veteran  several 
compliments,  talks  of  his  gardening,  and  his 


The  poet  also  describes  the  Spanish  flags  and 
trophy  gnns  which  the  eccentric  old  general 
had  arranged  over  his  garden-gate. 

Peterborough  travelled  so  furiously  faat,  that 
tlie  wits  said  of  him  that  he  had  talked  to  more 
kings  and  more  postilions  than  any  man  in 
£niope ;  and  Queen  Anne'a  ministers  used  to 
lay  that  they  always  wrote  al  Mm,  not  to  him. 
Swift  has  sketched  him  with  kindly  sarcasm  : 

Hordannt  gallop*  on  alone ; 

The  rouja  are  with  hii  followen  itrewn ; 

Thij  brealu  a  girth,  and  tbat  a  bone. 

Hii  body,  actiie  u  hii  mind, 

Betuming  Kmnd  in  limb  and  wind, 

JBicept  Kline  leather  laat  behind. 

A  ikeleton  in  outward  figure, 

Hia  meagre  eorpae,  though  full  ofyigour,  i 

TToold  halt  behind  him,  were  it  bigger.  I 

8o  *onderfu]  bia  expedition, 

When  you  have  not  the  Ueat  auipiciou, 

Ili'a  Tilh  you  like  an  apparilion. 

That  excellent  little  man.  Dr.  Isaac  Watts,  is  | 


also  one  of  the  prides  of  Southampton,  having 
been  bom  at  a  small  red-brick  house  (21, 
French-street),  in  1674.  His  father,  a  humble 
schoolmaster,  had  suffered  much  for  his  noncon- 
formity ;  and  once,  when  her  husband  wai 
prison,  the  wife  was  seen  sitting  on  a  stone 
ontade  the  door,  suckling  little  Iraac. 

From  Southampton  to  the  New  Forest's 
sixty-four  thoosand  acres,  is  a  mere  flap  of  the 
wing  to  the  crow  at  his  best  speed.  The  beech 
glades,  alive  witli  countless  squirrels,  the 
ridings  echoing  with  the  swift  hoofs  of  half- 
wild  ponies,  the  great  arcades  of  oak-treea  lis 
before  him.  It  was  long  supposed  that  this  wild 
district  was  first  turned  into  hunting  ground 
by  William  the  Conqnemr.  According  to  one 
old  chronicler  the  savage  Norman,  "  who  loved 
the  tall  deer  as  if  he  were  their  father,"  oaA 
made  it  a  hanging  matter  to  kill  a  stag,  de< 
stroyed  fifty-two  mother  churches  and  Saced 
countless  villages,  in  a  space  thirty  miles  long : 
but  this  is  untrue.  It  is  true  that  thirty 
manors  around  LyndhuTst,  in  the  green  heart 
of  the  forest,  ceased  to  be  cultivated ;  but  the 
Gnrths  and  Wambas,  the  serfs,  and  thi^k, 
and  villains  were  not  driven  away.  The  only 
two  churches  mentioned  in  Domesday  Book — 
Milford  and  Brockenhuist— stilt  exist;  and, 
indeed,  immediately  after  the  afforestation,  a 
church  was  built  at  Boldre,  and  another  at 
Hordle.  The  real  grievance,  therefore,  with 
the  Hampshire  Saxons,  thirteen  years  after  the 
Conquest,  was  the  placing  a  larger  district 
than  before  under  the  cruel  Normau  forest  law. 
The  deaths  in  the  forest  by  chance  arrow 
wounds  of  Ruf  ns,  the  Conqueror's  youngest  son 
Richard,  and  also  of  an  illegitimate  son  of 
Duke  Robert,  were  looked  upon  by  the  Saxon 
peasants  as  the  resnlt  of  divine  vengeance. 
There  are  no  red  deer  now  in  the  forest,  as 
when  Mr.  Howitt  wrote  his  delightful  sketches 
of  the  scenery,  and  saw,  "  awaking  as  from  a 
dream,  one  deep  shadow,  one  thick  and 
continuous  roof  of  boughs,  and  thousands  of 
hoary  boles,  standing  clothed,  as  it  were,  with 
the  very  spirit  of  silence."  The  stirrup 
of  Ruf  us  still  hangs  in  the  Queen's  House  at 
Lyndhurst.  The  moat  of  Malwood  Keep, 
where  Rufus  slept  the  night  before  his  death, 
can  still  be  traced  near  Stony  Cross,  on  the 
Minstead  road.  The  cottage  of  Purkiss,  the 
charcoal-bnmer  who  found  his  body,  is  still 
shown  to  those  who  care  to  beUeve  in  it. 
Through  Boldre  wood,  Kufus  and  the  hunters 
rode  on  the  day  when  Tyrrell's  arrow  flew 
awry.  Away  above  Sopley,  on  the  main  rood 
from  ChristcUurch  to  Kingwood,  is  Tyrrelsford, 
where  the  frightened  French  knight  forded 
the  Avon  on  hia  way  to  Poole,  to  embark  for 
N'ormandy ;  and  close  by  the  ford  stands  the 
forge  of  the  blacksmith  who  shoed  Tyrrel'a 
horse.  The  fugitive  is  said  to  have  slain  this 
blacksmith  to  prevent  his  prating  of  such  a 
horseman's  huvmg  passed  tbat  way. 

At  Lymington — close  to  which  is  Boddesley, 
where,  in  the  last  century,  a  groaning  elm  for 
X  year  and  a  half  caused  much  superstitious     I 
excitement— the    crow,   i«tt«^«A.  Sfs  ».  "Xi^a 


^^ 


^ 


442      [October  9, 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOXJITD. 


[OoBdaf6t0d1if 


/ 


glimpse  of  the  lele  of  Wight,  turns  smart  for 
London  and  his  old  perch  on  St.  Paurs,  to 
rest  a  moment  before  he  strikes  due  north. 


FASTING  GIRLS. 

The  public  journals  have  lately  told  a  strange 
story  of  the  fasting  girl  of  Wales ;  but  it  Beems 
to  be  little  known  how  frequent  the  instances 
of  a  similar  kind  have  been,  in  past  years. 

Of  course  the  fasting  whicti  is  connected 
with  religious  ordinances  is  a  diiferent  matter 
altogether.  Voluntary  abstinence  being  a  kind 
of  self  -  mortification,  it«  inclusion  amongst 
moral  or  religious  duties  is  easily  accounted 
for.  llie  climate  of  the  country  and  the  habits 
of  the  people  modify  the  custom  in  different 
regions ;  but  if  this  were  the  proper  place  for 
such  a  topic,  it  might  be  concluBiycly  shown 
that  voluntary  fasting,  as  a  religious  duty,  has  at 
one  time  or  other  held  sway  throughout  almost 
every  part  of  the  world.  Total  abstinence  for  a 
certain  length  of  time ;  a  limitation  to  certain 
kinds  of  fooil ;  a  limitation  to  one  meal  a  day, 
with  any  choice  of  food;  one  meal  a  day, 
and  of  one  kind  of  food  only ;  these  are  among 
the  various  forms  which  the  custom  has  pre- 
sented. 

Exceptional  instances,  however,  unconnected 
with  religion,  and  mostly  arising  (there  is  good 
reason  to  believe)  out  of  a  fraudulent  in- 
tention to  deceive,  require  to  be  well  looked 
into  by  physicians.  In  rare  examples  it  is  a 
fasting  man  who  appeals  to  our  love  of  the 
marvellous.  In  1531,  one  John  Scott  acquired 
much  notoriety  in  this  way.  Being  in  a 
self-reproving  spiiit  for  some  crime  which  he 
had  committed,  he  took  sanctuary  in  Holy- 
rood  Abbey,  and  abstained  from  food  for 
thirty  or  forty  days.  This  fact  coming  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  king  (James  the  Fifth), 
Scott  was  shut  up  in  a  room  in  Edinburgh 
Castle  with  a  little  bread  and  water,  which 
were  found  untouched  at  the  end  of  thirty-two 
days.  Afterwards  the  man  visited  many  parts 
of  Europe,  proclaiming  his  power  of  abstain- 
ing from  fcK)d  for  very  long  periods  of  time 
together ;  but  there  is  no  clear  evidence  whether 
his  alleged  achievements  were  ever  investigated 
by  })erBons  competent  to  ferret  out  the  truth. 
In  1760,  a  gentleman  in  London  was  reported 
to  have  lived  ever  since  1735  without  meat, 
and  with  only  water  to  drink ;  but  this  may 
not  be  inconsistent  with  what  is  now  known 
by  the  name  of  vegetarianism.  About  the 
same  time  a  French  boy  at  Chateauroux  was 
foodless  (so  far  as  was  known^  for  a  whole 
year ;  but  his  appetite  retumea  when  a  iwir- 
ticular  malady  left  him,  not  however  imtil  he 
had  become  terribly  emaciated.  The  journals 
of  1771  told  of  a  Stamford  man  who,  for  the 
sake  of  a  wager  of  ten  pounds,  kept  himself 
for  fifty-one  days  ivithont  any  kind  of  solid 
food  or  milk ;  but  here  it  would  have  been  well 
to  state  what  limitation  of  meaning  was  given  to 
^e  word  **  solid."  Dr.  Willan  records  a  case 
(dated  1786),  of  a  young  man  who,  under  the 


combined  influence  of  bodily  malady  and  mor- 
bid mental  depression,  resolved  to  retire  from 
his  friends  and  also  to  abstain  from  food. 
During  fifty-one  days  he  took  no  exercise, 
slept  very  Uttle,  wrote  a  great  deal,  ate  no 
fo(^,  but  moistened  hLi  mouth  from  time  to 
time  with  a  little  water  flavoured  with  orange 
juice,  the  quantity  of  drink  thus  taken  beiug 
about  half  a  pint  a  day.  Ten  daya  more 
passed  in  the  same  way,  by  the  end  of  which 
time  his  bodily  emaciation  had  become  terrible 
to  witness.  His  friends  then  found  out  the 
place  of  his  retreat,  and  brought  a  physician 
to  visit  him ;  but  ill-judged  treatment  failed 
to  restore  him— the  hapless  young  man  sank 
into  the  grave  on  the  eleventh  day,  or  the 
seventy-second  day  after  the  commencement 
of  his  voluntary  fasting.  Dr.  Currie,  of  Liver- 
pool, placed  upon  record  a  case,  in  which  an 
elderly  gentleman  was  literally  starved  to  death 
through  inability  to  swallow,  on  account  of 
the  f onnation  of  an  in'cmovablo  tumour  at  the 
very  bottom  of  the  passage  to  the  stomach. 
For  twelve  months  he  had  a  difficulty  in  swal- 
lowing food ;  then  solid  food  refused  com- 
pletely to  pass;  then  for  thirteen  days  he 
could  onlv  take  a  few  spoonfuls  of  liquid  in  the 
course  of  a  day ;  and  then,  when  all  passage 
to  the  stomacn  was  effectually  and  finally 
closed,  he  was  kept  alive  for  thirty-ux  days 
longer  by  batlis  of  warm  milk-and-water,  com- 
bined with  special  medical  treatment  in  other 
ways.  The  unfortimat«  gentleman,  who  had 
been  both  tall  and  stout,  lessened  in  weight 
from  two  hundred  and  forty  pounds  to  one 
hundred  and  thirty-eight  pounds  during  thiB 

Process  of  slow  starvation ;  at  the  time  of  his 
eath  his  mental  powers  were  much  less  af- 
fected than  hia  friends  and  his  physician  ex- 
pected they  would  be. 

As  we  have  said,  fasting  women  and  girls 
have  made  more  noise  in  the  world  than  fast- 
ing  men,  and  there  haa  been  more  suspicion  of 
trickery  in  the  cases  recorded.     Considering 
the  stories  which  the  chroniclers  of  old  days 
w^ere  wont  to  record,  we  need   not  wonfe 
much  at  some  of  the  narratives  of  fasting  told 
by  them.     But,  before  noticing  them,  a  word 
or  two  may  be  said  concerning  certain  colliery 
accidents  which  have  entailed  great  privation 
of  food.    Several  years  ago,  at  the  Edmonstoo 
colliery,  in  Scotland,  some  of  the  brickwork  of 
the  shaft  fell  in,  and  closed  up  the  month  of 
the    working    level ;    thirteen    persons   were 
boxed  up  in  darkness  below   for  more  than 
two  days  without  food,  and  were  then  liberated 
by  the  exertions  of  the  persons  above  grouii<L 
In  1813,  at  Wolverhampton,  the  sides  of  a 
coal  mine  fell  in  through  a  similar  cause,  and 
enclosed  eight  men  and  a  boy  in  one  of  the 
workings,  without  light,   without  food,   and 
with  no  other  water  than  the  drippings  irom 
the  roof,  which  they  caught  in  an  iron  pot    It 
was  six  days  and  a  half  before  these  pitmen 
were  rescued — exhausted,  but  easily  restored 
by  careful   treatment.    Then   there  was  the 
remarkable  case  at  Brierly  Hill,   last  March, 
when  a  coal-pit  was  flooded  by  a  sudden  innish 


1 


b. 


CkartM  Diekens.] 


FASTING  GIRLS. 


[Oetober  9,  IseSL]      448 


of  water,  compelling  thirteen  men  and  boys  to 
take  refuge  in  such  of  the  workings  as  still 
remained  drj.  From  Tuesday,  the  sixteenth, 
to  Monday,  the  twenty-second,  they  had  no 
food;  and  yet  all  save  one  were  brought  up 
idive,  and  fully  recorered. 

But  now  for  a  few  female  examples.  Cecilia 
de  Rygeway,  haying  been  imprisoned  in  Not- 
tingham jflol  for  the  murder  of  her  husband, 
during  the  reign  of  £>lward  the  Third  (the 
year  1357))  remained  **  mute  and  abstinent^*  for 
forty  days,  neither  eating  nor  drinking  during 
this  time.  It  was  considered  so  much  in  the 
nature  of  a  religious  sign  or  miracle  that  Dame 
Rygeway  was  pardoned  by  the  king. 

Coming  down  to  later  times,  we  find  the 
case  recorded  by  Plot,  in  his  History  of  Staf- 
fordshire, of  one  Mary  Waughton,  who,  during 
the  whole  of  her  life,  was  accustomed  to  live 
npon  an  incredibly  small  quantity  of  food  and 
drink.  A  piece  of  bread-and-butter  about  the 
fiiie  of  half-a-crown,  or  a  piece  of  meat  not 
larger  than  a  pigeon^s  egg,  was  her  daily 
ration;  while  for  beverage  she  took  only  a 
spoonful  or  two  of  milk-and-water.  We  are 
told  that  she  was  a  fresh-complexioned  and 
healthy  maiden ;  and  Dr.  Plot  complacently 
demands  credence  for  the  story  on  the  ground 
that  she  was  **  of  the  Church  of  England,  and 
therefore  the  less  likely  to  put  a  trick  upon  the 
world." 

The  eighteenth  century  produced  many  in- 
stances with  which  journalists  were  busy.  One 
was  the  case  of  Christina  Michelot,  a  young 
French  girl,  who,  in  1751,  took  to  a  sudden  fit 
of  fasting  after  a  serious  attack  of  fever.  It  is 
not  very  clear  whether  she  was  actually  imable 
or  only  unwilling  to  eat ;  but,  according  to  the 
narrative,  she  took  nothing  but  water  from 
November,  1751,  to  July,  1755,  a  period  of 
more  than  three  years  and  a  half,  without  any 
solid  food  whatever.  During  this  time  she 
advanced  from  her  eleventh  to  her  fifteenth 
year,  after  which  she  resumed  the  usual  habits 
of  eating  and  drinking.  This  case  attracted 
much  attention  among  French  physicians  at 
the  time ;  as  did  likewise  that  of  Maria^'Matche- 
teria  among  German  physicians  in  1774.  This 
was  a  woman  approaching  middle  age,  who, 
after  an  attack  of  fever  and  nervous  malady, 
became  an  involuntary  faster.  For  two  years, 
we  are  told,  she  took  nothing  but  curds-and- 
whey  and  water,  and  for  another  year  nothing 
whatever  of  food  or  drink.  The  fact  was  com- 
mented upon,  however,  that  she  swallowed  a 
bit  of  the  consecrated  wafer  once  a  week  at  the 
Eucharist^  and  from  this  it  was  inferred  that 
she  could  swallow  if  she  chose.  How  far  dis- 
inclmation,  or  dissimulation,  or  both,  were 
mixed  up  in  the  case,  it  is  impossible  now  to 
prove ;  but  it  may  be  very  easily  and  sensibly 
guessed  at. 

Our  own  country,  in  the  same  century,  pre- 
sented many  instances  more  or  less  resembling 
those  of  the  French  girl  and  the  Swabian  woman. 
Of  these,  two  will  suffice  as  illustrations.  Jn 
1762,  Ann  Walsh,  a  girl  of  twelve  years  old 
living  at  Harrogate,  suddenly  lost  her  appetite, 


through  causes  not  at  all  apparent.  She  left 
off  sotid  food  entirely,  living  upon  one-third  of 
a  pint  of  wine-and-water  diuly ;  this  continued 
for  eighteen  months,  after  which  she  recovered 
her  normal  state  of  appetite.  Ten  years  later, 
in  1772,  was  presented  that  case  which  Pennant 
records  in  his  Tour  in  Scotland.  Katherine 
M^Leod  of  Ross-shire,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five, 
was  attacked  with  a  fever  which  brought  on 
almost  total  blindness,  and  also  an  iniquity  to 
swallow  food.  It  is  averred  that,  for  a  year 
and  three  quarters,  there  was  no  evidence  that 
food  or  drink  passed  down  her  throat,  although 
a  little  was  frequently  put  into  her  mouth. 
Pennant  saw  her  in  a  nuserable  state  of  ema- 
ciation ;  but  we  have  no  record  of  her  subse- 
quent career. 

Perhaps  the  most  noted  instance  of  all  was 
that  of  the  *- Fasting  Woman  of  Tutbury," 
not  only  for  its  marvels,  but  for  its  audacious 
fraud.  During  the  early  years  of  the  present 
century  she  was  the  talk  of  the  county,  and 
of  many  other  parts  of  England.  In  Novem- 
ber, 180S,  a  surgeon  resolv^  to  visit  her,  and 
to  ascertain  as  much  of  the  truth  as  possible. 
She  told  him  that  her  name  was  Ann  Moore, 
that  she  was  fifty-eight  years  of  age,  and  that 
she  had  gone  twenty  months  without  food. 
According  to  her  account,  she  had  had  a  severe 
attack  of  illness  in  the  year  1804,  which  lasted 
thirteen  weeks.  Her  recovery  was  not  com- 
plete, for  she  was  troubled  during  many  months 
afterwards  with  violent  fits  and  spasms  at  fre- 
quent and  regular  intervals.  Another  inflam- 
matory attack  came  on  in  1S05,  and  lasted 
eleven  weeks.  When  she  recovered  from  this, 
her  fits  and  spasms  were  gone,  but  were 
followed  by  loss  of  appetite  and  difficulty  of 
digestion.  Her  attendance  in  1806,  on  a  sick 
boy  afflicted  with  a  repulsive  disease,  decreased 
her  power  of  assimilating  food.  From  October 
in  that  year  to  February,  1807i  slie  ate  only  a 
penny  loaf  in  a  fortnight,  and  drank  a  little 
tea  without  milk  or  sugar.  From  that  time 
she  lived  (according  to  her  own  story^  till  No- 
vember, 1808,  without  any  solid  food,  taking 
only  water  and  tea.  The  surgeon  (who,  by 
the  way,  was  only  V.S.,  not  M.R.C.S.)  could 
not  detect  any  flaw  in  her  story.  When  it  was 
published  in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  early  in 
1809,  it  made  a  prodigious  sensation  ;  and  on 
this  sensation  the  woman  lived  four  years.  At 
last,  in  1813,  a  few  scientific  men  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood determined  to  sift  the  matter  to  the 
bottom ;  for  Ann  Moore  still  continued  to 
declare  to  the  world  that  she  took  no  solid  food 
whatever,  and  only  just  liquid  enough  to 
moisten  her  tongue  and  lips.  They  got  her  to 
consent,  as  the  only  true  test  of  her  sincerity, 
to  let  them  guard  and  watch  her  room,  as  a 
means  of  assuring  that  no  food  of  any  kind 
should  be  brought  in.  The  woman  was  pro- 
bably rendered  very  anxious  by  this  ordeal, 
but  could  not  positively  refuse  it  iivithout  causing 
a  suspicion  of  deception.  The  watch -and- 
ward  began,  and  lasted  nine  days.  The  wretehed 
creature  bore  the  test  thus  far,  and  then, 
gave  in — ^terribly  emsAioA/^^  «sA  i:^;«i^  ^^^bsism^* 


4 


444     [October  9, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[GoBdaetedbj 


Btaryed  to  death.  She  asked  for  food,  reco- 
vered her  strength,  and  signed  her  name  (or 
made  her  mark)  to  the  following  confession : 
**  I,  Ann  Moore,  of  Tutbury,  hmnbly  asking 
pardon  of  all  persons  whom  I  have  attempted 
to  decciye  ana  impose  upon,  and,  above  all, 
with  the  most  imfeigncd  sorrow  and  contrition 
imploring  the  Divine  mercy  and  forgiveness  of 
tliat  God  whom  I  have  so  greatly  offended, 
do  most  solemnly  declare  that  I  have  occa- 
sionally taken  sustenance  during  the  last  six 
years." 

The  narrative  which  has  recently  attracted 
public  attention  has  this  feature :  it  is  written 
bv  a  physician  who  gives  the  guarantee  of 
his  own  name  to  the  words  he  writes,  and 
takes  responsibility  for  any  scepticism  he  may 
express  concerning  what  was  told  him,  or  what 
he  seemed  to  see ;  for  in  matters  of  this  kind  it 
is  not  always  safe  to  conclude  that  *^  seeing  is 
believing."  He  is  a  district  medical  officer  of 
one  of  the  London  unions.  Being  on  an 
autumnal  visit  in  the  coimties  of  Carmgan  and 
Carmarthen,  in  the  recent  month  of  August, 
he  heard  a  great  deal  about  a  certain  fasting 
girl  in  the  last-named  shire,  and  resolved  to 
investigate  the  matter  by  such  tests  as  a  phy- 
sician might  be  able  to  apply.  That  she  is  a 
girl  of  thirteen  years  old,  named  Sarah  Jacob, 
is  as  expressible  in  English  as  in  Welsh  ;  but 
when  we  are  told  that  her  father,  a  small  tenant- 
farmer,  lives  at  the  village  of  Llethcmoyad- 
ducclia,  in  the  parish  of  Llanfihangelararth, 
we  feel  how  great  a  gift  it  must  be  to  be  able 
to  pronomice  Welsh.  The  positive  averment 
of  tnc  girl's  parents  was  that,  save  a  fortnightly 
moistening  of  her  lips  with  cold  water,  she  had 
taken  neither  food  nor  drink  for  twenty-three 
montiis;  that  she  had  had  good  health  imtil 
about  two  years  ago,  when  an  attack  of  illness 
brought  on  vomiting  of  blood;  that  she  had 
never  since  left  her  bed  except  to  be  lifted 
out;  that  the  incapability  of  swallowing  has 
remained  unaltered  throughout ;  and  that  the 
very  sight  of  food  is  sufficient  to  bring  on  one 
of  the  fits  to  which  she  is  subject. 

Now,  this  was  the  story  which  was  told  to 
the  physician  by  the  parents  of  the  girl.  She 
herself  spoke  very  little  English — using  Welsh 
in  conversing  with  the  parents.  The  very 
first  thing  which  attracted  his  notice  was  that 
Sarah  was  evidently  regarded  as  a  thaw  girl,  an 
exhibition  for  curiosity-hunting  visitors.  "  The 
child  was  lying  in  her  bed  decorated  as  a  bride, 
having  round  her  head  a  wreath  of  flowers, 
from  which  was  suspended  a  smart  riband, 
the  ends  of  which  were  joined  by  a  small  bunch 
of  flowers  after  the  present  fashion  of  ladies' 
bonnet-strings.  Before  her,  at  proper  reading 
distance,  was  an  open  Welsh  book,  supported 
by  two  other  books  on  her  body.  Across  the 
fireplace,  which  was  nearly  opposite  the  foot 
of  ner  bed,  was  an  arrangement  of  shelves 
well  stocked  with  English  and  Welsh  books, 
the  gifts  of  various  visitors  to  the  house." 
All  this  pretentious  display  aroused  his  suspi- 
cions, and  determined  him  to  note  the  accessory 
£icis  cloaely,    Hia  account  is  too  long  to  bo 


given  here  in  full;  but  the  chief  items  may 
usefully  be  presented  in  a  condensed  form. 

1.  The  gaVs  face  was  plump,   her  cheeks 
and  lips  of  a  rosy  colour,  her  eyes  bright  and 
sparkhng,  and  her  muscular  development  very 
inconsistent  with  such  (alleged)  wonderful  ab- 
stinence from  food.     2.  There  was  a  restleas 
movement  and  frequent  looking  out  of  the 
corners  of  the  eyes,  known  to  physicians  as  a 
concomitant  of  simulative  disease.  3.  The  pulse 
was  perfectly  natural ;  the  stethoscope  told  of 
soimd  lungs  and  heart,  and  of  a  stomach  cer- 
tainly not  empty  of  liquid.    4.  He  was  pre- 
vented, by  excuses  and  expostulations  on  the 
gart  of  the  parents,  from  examining  the  girFs 
ack — a  test  which  would  have  told  somethiog 
to  him  as  a  medical  man  concerning  the  pre* 
sence  or  absence  of  gastronomic  action.     5.  He 
was  led  to  the  conviction   that  the  parents 
honestly  believed  what  they  said,  but  that  they 
were  deceived  by  the  girl  herself ;  for  *'  the  con- 
struction of  the  bed  and  the  surrounding  old 
Welsh  cupboards  and  drawers  in  the  room  were 
all  favourable  to  the  concealment  of  food."    6. 
He  was  told  that  when  watchers  were,  with  per- 
mission, placed  in  the  house,  they  were  de- 
barred from  touching  the  bed — an  inhibition 
which  reduced  the  watching  to  an  absurdity. 
The  sum  total  was,  that  the  physician  arrived 
at  these  conclusions :  that  there  was  no  physical 
cause  to  prevent  this  so-called  bed-ridden  fast- 
ing girl  from  rising  from  her  bed  and  using 
her  locomotive  powers;    that  the  power  was 
there,  but  that  the  will  was  mon)idly  per- 
verted ;  that  the  whole  case  was  one  of  simula- 
tive hysteria  in  a  young  girl  having  the  pro- 
pensity to  deceive  very  strongly  developed; 
and  that  this  tendency  was  further  aided  by  j 
a   power  of  prolonged  fasting,    though  not 
approaching  in  duration  to  that  which  was 
pretended.     He  acquits  the  parents  of  deceit  ' 
(on  what  grounds  is  not  very  clear  to  us),  but  j 
cannot  shut  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that  they  made 
their  patient  a  complete  show-child,  receiriog 
money  and  presents  from  hundreds  of  visitors 
to  the  farm.  Finally,  he  remarks,  *^  Being  made 
an  object  of  curiosity,  sympathy,  and  profit,  is 
not  only  antagonistic  to  the  girl's  recovery,  bnt 
also  renders  it  extremely  difficult  for  a  medical 
man  to  determine  how  much  of  the  symptoms 
is  the  result  of  a  morbid  perversion  of  will, 
and  how  much  is  the  product  of  intentional 
deceit." 


RIDING  FOR  HEALTH. 


My  horse  is  the  direct  consequence  of  my 
having  enough  to  eat.  Blest  with  a  good 
appetite,  and  devoted  to  a  sedentary  pn> 
suit,  I  became  conscious  of  a  liver  directly 
I  began  to  be  successful.  Bevealing  this 
discoveiy  to  my  doctor,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain pride,  as  becomes  a  man  whose  stock  of 
information  is  increased,  I  was  rewarded  by 
the  terms  of  opprobrium — "  Torpid !"  and 


'i 


& 


ObAilM  Didkm.] 


RIDING  FOR  HEALTH. 


{Oetober9,18<9L]      445 


*^  Sluggish ;"  and  was  ordered  to  follow  a 
oonrse  of  regimen  fitter  for  some  sonr  an- 
chorite than  for  a  modem  man  of  the  world. 
Forewarned  as  to  what  part  of  my  firiend's 
prescription  was  likely  to  be,  I  had  taken 
the  bml  by  the  horns,  and  said  stontly 
that  I  did  not  take  much  exercise,  and 
that  circmnstances  made  it  impossible  for 
me  to  have  more.  Thereupon  it  was  in- 
sisted I  should  become  Gomaro  and  Mr. 
Banting  figuratively  rolled  into  one.  My 
food  was  to  be  served  with  rigid  plain- 
ness, my  times  of  eating  were  fixed  at 
impossible  hours;  my  solids  were  to  be 
taken  by  the  oxmce,  and  my  liquids  in  the 
way  I  like  them  least.  With  all  this,  I  was 
to  devote  an  amount  of  time  to  my  diges- 
tion and  its  needs,  utterly  incompatible 
with  the  business  of  life.  Dining  at  two, 
P.M.,  I  was  to  eat  slowly  and  rest  quietly 
after  dinner ;  to  chat  during  that  meal,  on 
light  and  agreeable  topics  only;  and  to 
shun  all  mention  or  thought  of  work,  as 
poison.  My  evening  repast  was  to  be  tea 
taken  at  seven  o'clock  to  the  minute,  with 
perhaps  an  egg  or  a  rasher  of  bacon  as  a 
relish ;  and  I  was  to  retire  to  rest  in  country 
air  punctually  at  ten.  By  following  this 
advice  for  a  considerable  time,  my  pestilent 
liver  might  become  more  active;  but  I 
must  abide  by  it  rigidly,  unless,  as  the  doc- 
tor assured  me  pleasantly,  I  wished  to  be  a 
valetudinarian  for  life. 

He  might  as  well  have  told  me  to  climb 
a  greased  pole,  or  to  speak  the  language  of 
the  Cherokees  off-hand.  I  was  living  chiefly 
at  dubs,  I  dined  out  a  good  deal,  I  followed 
a  calling  especially  inimical  to  regular  hours. 
I  compromised  matters  by  dimng  at  two 
o'clock,  and  at  my  usual  hour  of  seven  as 
well.  I  dined  twice  a  day  and  got  worse. 
Meanwhile,  I  became  learned  in  the  physio- 
logy of  the  human  frame.  The  gastric 
juices  became  my  well-known  enemies.  The 
alimentary  canal,  carbo-hydrates,  the  tis- 
sues, chyle,  deglutition,  and  mastication, 
were  all  marshalled  against  me.  The  effect 
of  acid  in  the  system,  and  of  want  of  tone, 
the  connexion  between  physical  ailments 
and  mental  depression,  the  precise  symp- 
toms heralding  gout,  the  varieties  of 
dyspepsia,  sleepless  nights,  aches  in  the 
head,  loads  on  the  chest,  weariness  of  the 
limbs,  dulness  of  eye,  and  heaviness  of 
spirit,  were  all  mine. 

Meanwhile,  I  reverted  bitterly  to  the 
&r-off  days  when  the  first  thought  was, 
not  what  one  would  eat,  but  whether  one 
would  eat  at  all;  of  long  fasts  made  for 
economy ;  of  resolute  abstinence  from  lun- 


cheons; of  cheap  banquets  of  chops  and 
porter,  and  of  perfect  health.  Malt  liquors 
did  no  harm  then,  and  nothing  eatable  dis- 
agreed. When  you  dined  out,  I  said  to 
myself,  regretfully,  you  took  the  goods  the 
gods  provided,  and  were  never  the  worse 
for  them  next  day.  Pastry?  Why  you 
would  go  into  the  nearest  confectioner's, 
and  buying  penny  puffs,  would  carry  them 
off  to  your  chop-house,  there  to  make  of 
them  a  second  course!  Cheese,  butter, 
crude  vegetables  ?  You  took  them  all  in 
turns,  and  only  did  not  eat  them  toge- 
ther because  they  were  called  extras,  and 
charged  for  separately  in  the  bill.  Sit  after 
dinner,  chat  pleasantly  during  the  meal! 
How  was  it  with  you  at  the  cheap  slap- 
bang,  or  when  you  stood  at  the  counter  of 
the  hot  boiled-beef  shop,  and  dined  capitally 
for  eightpence,  including  carrots  and  pota- 
toes, elbowed  all  the  time  by  clamorous 
customers  with  basins  and  plates,  and  de-> 
vouring  swiftly  and  in  nervous  dread  lest 
some  passing  acquaintance  should  see  you 
through  the  window?  You  wiped  your 
mouth  furtively  before  you  left,  and  assumed 
a  lounging  air  as  you  turned  into  the 
street,  keeping  your  hand  in  your  pocket, 
to  look  as  if  you'd  been  asking  for  change, 
and  prepared  with  a  jocular  answer  if  any 
fiiendly  busybody  suddenly  demanded  what 
you  were  doing  there !  oalt  beef  is  one  of 
the  things  you  are  warned  against  now, 
even  with  the  accompaniment  of  light  and 
pleasing  talk ;  though  you  could  eat  it  with 
impunity  when  ragged  boys  and  frowsy 
slatterns  from  adjacent  garrets,  grumbling 
to  the  man  behind  the  counter  at  what  they 
called  short  weight,  furnished  the  only  con- 
versation you  heard.  Fried  fish  is  bad,  is 
it — I  went  on  sardonically — and  pickles  un- 
wholesome ?  Yet  there  used  to  be  a  shilling 
mid-day  ordinary  at  a  tavern  in  the  Strand 
where  the  edge  of  your  appetite  was  always 
dulled  by  skate  and  salt  butter,  and  where 
you  brought  it  round  in  time  for  the  sodden 
joint  by  furtively  administering  to  yourself 
walnuts  and  strong  vinegar.  Your  high- 
ness is  not  to  fast  more  than  a  certain 
number  of  hours !  Yet  when  you  had  to 
choose  between  dinner  and  lunch,  and  were 
not  able  to  afford  both,  you  contrived  to 
fast  without  serious  inconvenience.  Your 
appetite  never  out- stayed  itself  then.  Your 
envious  hunger  at  mid-day,  when  some  of 
your  wealthier  fellow-students  had  cutlets 
or  steaks  sent  in  from  a  tavern  near,  and 
when  the  savoury  steam  brought  tears  of 
longing  into  your  eyes;  this  hunger  only 
increased  by  night,  or  if  ^qtql  ^-^^  h*'«^1 


*= 


(^ 


& 


44^       [Oetober9,18<9J 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROOTTO. 


fCondiieled  by 


and  satisfied  it  by  imitating  the  fortunate 
others,  the  pangs  came  on  again  at  five  or 
six  o'clock,  and  jon  struggled  with  them 
through  the  evening,  and  then  went  famished 
to  bed.  Given  a  healthy  appetite,  limited 
means,  a  position  necessitating  clean  linen 
and  a  whole  coat^  together  with  a  thirst  for 
pleasure,  and  a  dread  of  debt,  and  what  are 
the  results  upon  the  life  of  a  youth  who  is 
launched  upon  the  world  of  London  with- 
out a  friend?  I  know  what  they  were 
with  me :  I  starved. 

The  evening's  amusement  often  made  the 
morning's  reflection  take  the  shape  of  a 
resolve  to  skip  dinner  that  day;  and  I 
have  known  a  visit  to  the  theatre  and  a 
modest  supper  afterwards  make  me  dinner- 
less  for  a  week.  For  pride  was  at  stake, 
and  it  was  sometimes  necessary  to  eat, 
and,  what  was  worse,  to  pay  for  food  one 
could  have  done  without,  for  the  sake  of 
instructive  or  amusing  society ;  and  in  so 
doing  sacrifice  the  genuine  meal  at  a  re- 
gular hour.  Yet  no  one  could  be  better  or 
stronger  than  I  was  then ;  why,  therefore, 
should  I  be  condemned  to  this  absurd 
punctiliousness,  this  fidgetting  regularity 
now? 

Thus  I  mused,  savagely  and  unreason- 
ably enough.  **  You  want  to  do  as  I  do  ? 
Would  be  quite  satisfied  if  you  might  make 
such  a  meal  as  you  saw  me  eat  at  the 
Bopers  ?"  repeated  my  doctor,  at  my  next 
visit,  with  an  irritatiugly  healthy  smile  (I 
had  suggested  that  aspiration,  he  being  a 
tremendous  diner)  ;  '*  my  dear  sir,  J  allow 
nothing  to  interfere  with  my  exercise.  Two 
hours  every  day  on  horseback,  one  hundred 
and  twenty  minutes  good  jolting  on  my  cob, 
be  my  inclination,  or  my  engagements,  or 
the  weather  what  they  will,  keeps  me  right." 
Horse-exercise,  in  brief,  was  the  only  thing 
for  me. 

Horse-exercise,  quotha !  How  was  I  to 
do  it  ?  When  was  I  to  begin  ?  To  ride  for 
health,  to  undergo  a  prescribed  number 
of  jogs  and  shakes  in  pubUc  for  the  sake 
of  my  private  weal,  to  mount  outside  a 
prancing  beast  three  or  four  days  a  week 
with  a  profound  uncertainty  as  to  the  time 
and  manner  of  my  coming  off  ag^in — the 
mere  notion  took  my  breath  away !  I 
determined  to  make  cautious  inquiries 
among  men  who  rode.  They  were  not  all 
bom  to  the  purple,  I  said  to  myself,  encou- 
ragingly. Some  must  have  taken  to  eques- 
trian display  comparatively  late  in  life ; 
who  knows  but  they  were  ordered  it  as  I 
have  been,  and  have  suffered  and  sur- 
mounted  the  qualms  which  make  me  dizzy  ? 


A  flood  of  light  followed,  for  I  was  taken 
in  hand  by  fnends  who  Imew  exactly  what 
was  good  for  me,  who  had  been  through 
the  same  thing  themselves,  and  who  gene- 
rously permitted  me  to  profit  by  their  ex- 
perience.    They  all  had  horses  to  sell  or  to 
reconmiend.      Kot    common   steoda,   look 
you,  but  quadrupeds  of  peculiar  action  and 
special  powers,  created  by  Providence  and 
trained  by  man  for  the  one  end  of  stimu- 
lating their  rider's  liver.     They  were  high- 
bred, but  not  too  high.     They  combined 
the  symmetry  of  the  racer  with  the  blood 
and  bone  of  the  massive  animals  shown  at 
country  fairs  adorned  with  plaited  ribbons 
and  led  by  a  stout  rope.    A  "  bishop's 
cob"  was  the  thing  for  my  weight,  *'  broad 
in  the  back,  stout  in  the  pins,  but  wi& 
plenty  of '  go*  in  him  across  country,"  and 
he  might  be  had  (as  a  &vour)  for  ninety 
pounds.     Then  there  were  useful  roadster^ 
stout  geldings,  quiet  hacks,  strong  mares, 
ponies,  all  full  of  promise,  as  well  as  vene- 
rable scarecrows  which  had   done  great 
service  in  their  time,  and  for  whom  a  kind 
master  (and  a  hospital)   were  the  chief 
things  wanted.     I  was  expected  to  bu/ 
them  all,  and  seriously  offended  more  than 
one  friend  by  not  jumping  with  avidity  at 
what  he   proposed.     I  had  changed  mj 
mind,  I  pl^ded.    I  must  have  riding-lessons 
before  I  fixed  upon  a  steed ;  I  must  con- 
vince myself  that  I  had  what  they  called 
"  a  seat'*  before  I  bought  anything  alire  to 
sit  upon. 

Corporal  Bump  of  the  Knightsbridge 
barracks  received  me  with  open  anna 
Terms,  one  guinea  for  six  lessons,  honei 
found,  and  tbe  time  and  attention  of  the 
corporal,  or  of  one  of  his  most  trusted 
subordinates  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
pupils.  How  long  did  a  lesson  last  ?  Well, 
half  an  hour  was  about  as  long  as  a  gentle- 
man (slowly  and  critically)  ''who  wasn't 
used  to  riding  at  all  (depreciatory  glances  at 
my  legs,  figure,  and  girth,  implying  plainlj 
that  the  conmion  run  of  the  corporal's 
pupils  were  so  many  Franconis,  who  only 
came  to  the  barracks  for  a  subtle  finish  to 
their  style) — as  long  as  such  a  gentleman 
could  stand  without  bein'  what  you  mig^ 
call  stiff."  Were  the  horses  quiet?  Ai 
lambs.  Should  I  be  able  to  go  out  alone 
after  six  lessons  ?  Well,  that  depended  a 
good  deal  upon  how  I  got  on ;  but  it  was 
the  oorporars  conviction,  from  what  be  saw 
of  me  (a  steady  gaze  all  over  and  ronnd 
my  figure  again,  but  with  signs  of  ap- 
proval this  time,  as  if  first  impressions 
were  rejected  as  hasty) — from,  what  he  saw 


^ 


OhAriMlMokaiiB.] 


BIDING  FOR  HEALTH. 


[October  91, 1M9.]      447 


of  me,  ^'  that  a  matter  of  twelve  visits 
would  make  me  caper  up  and  down  the 
Bow  with  the  best  on  *em." 

I  am  naturally  gratified  at  this  splendid 
vision,  and  begin  the  labour  which  is  to 
realise  it,  there  and  then.     We  are  in  a 
bam-like  structure  opposite  that  portion 
of  the   Hyde   Park  drive  to  which  Mr. 
Layard  granted  a  supplementary  road  for 
riding  this  summer.  I  am  taught  to  mounts 
a  mild  and  worn-looking  animal,  grey,  as 
if  from  extreme  age,   being  brought  into 
the  centre  of  the  bam  for  that  purpose. 
^'Left  foot  first,    sir,   please,  and  always 
see  as  your  horse's  bead  is  to  your  leffc-— 
it  prevents  conftision  as  to  the  side  you 
get  up  on.      Now  then,   left    foot  being 
in  the  stirrup,   a  heasy  swaying  of   the 
body,  first  putting  the  bridle  through  the 
fingers  of  the  left  hand,  and  a  grasping  the 
hanimal's  mane  with  the  right,  then  a  heasy 
swaying  upwards,  bringing  the  right  leg 
quickly  round  as  you  come  hup,  and  you  fall 
naterallyinto  vour  seat.     Object  of  having 
your  bridle  nxed  in  lefb  hand  is  that  if 
horse  moves  you  have  him  in  check ;  object 
of  right  hand  fast  in  his  mane  is  that  it 
gives  you  purchase  and  assists  you  in  get- 
ting up.     Now  then,  let's  see  you  without 
sterrups — sterrups,  mind  you,  ain't  nateral 
things  with  orses,  and  every  one  should  be 
able  to    do  without  them.     Now,   then" 
(in   a   voice   of  thunder  to   the    horse), 
"Walk  !"     I  am  on  my  way  round  before 
I  know  it,  and  it  reminds  me  of  the  camel- 
ride  I  once  had  for  twopence  when  visiting 
the  travelling   menagerie  from  school.     I 
hear  "  Trot !"  on  other  days,  and  "  Canter !" 
later,  the  stentorian  tones  in  which  both  are 
said  being  obeyed  with  embarrassing  quick- 
ness by  tile  dnlled  steed ;  but  though  both 
are  temfying,  the  first  walk  round  remains 
fizedon  my  memory.  I  hope  meekly  that  my 
Hver  will  be  frightened,  and  give  up  its  tor- 
menting habits  l^  the  horror  this  vralk  in- 
spires.   I  am  on  all  sides  of  the  borse  at  once, 
my  knees  come  up,  my  head  is  on  his  bead, 
my  arms  are  round  his  neck,  my  body 
wriggles  as  if  I  were  an  uneasy-conscicnced 
snake.   The  sawdust  floor  bobs  up  and  down 
as  if  it  were  at  sea,  and  the  rough  walls 
seem  to  close  in  as  if  we  were  in  the  terrible 
compressible  prison-house   and  tomb  de- 
scribed by  Edgar  Poe.     But  I  persevere 
sod  have  more  lessons.  "  I  must  have  them 
stomachs  in  !"  was  one  gallant  tutor's  fa- 
vourite  mode   of   protesting   against    the 
attitude  assumed  on  horseback  by  another 
stout  pupil  and  myself;  and  the  position  of 
elbows  (I  always  seemed  trying  to  scratch 


my  head  with  the  back  of  mine),  the  grip 
of  knees,  the  pointing  of  toes — "drop  a 
bullet  from  a  rider's  hear,  and  it  ought  to 
catch  the  hend  of  his  boot,  phimb!" — ^the 
holding  of  bridles,  the  [mounting  and  dis- 
mounting, the  stopping  of  runaways,  were 
all  drummed  into  me  by  degrees.  I  took 
the  deepest  interest  in  the  last  accom- 
plishment, for  I  foresaw  being  run  away 
with  whenever  I  was  alone,  and  devoted 
two  lessons  to  acquiring  the  art  of  "  giving 
him  his  head  at  first,  and  then  pulling  the 
bit  backards  and  forards  like  a  saw;" 
and 'parted  with  my  friend  the  corporal 
oertincated  as  "  only  wanting  a  little  prac- 
tice to  ride  fiTBt-rate !" 

My  horse  bought,  and  a  livery-stable 
chosen,  I  became  a  Frankenstein  in  the 
possession  of  a  monster.  Nominally  his 
owner,  I  was  actually  his  slave.  He  was 
the  destined  avenger  of  my  sins.  He 
haunted  me  at  unseasonable  hours.  He 
was  brought  to  the  door  with  relentless 
punctuality  whenever  my  work  made  his 
presence  an  intrusion  and  a  reproach ;  and 
ho  was  tired  or  ill  when  I  could  have  used 
him  profitably.  He  was  always  taking 
balls,  or  developing  strains,  or  requiring 
embrocations.  His  pasterns,  his  fetlocks, 
or  what  the  groom  called  horribly  his 
"whirlbones"  and  "  ooflSn- joints,"  were 
out  of  order  on  an  average  three  days  a 
week. 

The  riding  trousers,  cut  so  tight  to 
the  leg,  that  I  looked  like  a  drab  acrobat 
from  the  waist  downward,  and  which,  on 
the  advice  of  another  friend,  I  had  been 
measured  for  at  the  famous  Gammon's— *an 
artist  wbo  constructs  nothing  else,  and  the 
walls  of  whose  studio  are  adorned  with 
sheaves  of  brown-paper  trophies,  showing 
the  shape  of  a  great  variety  of  royal  and 
noble  legs,  and  each  labelled  '^  Tudor,"  or 
**  Plantagenet,"  or  "  Montmorency,"  in 
black  characters,  and  with  the  thick  up- 
stroke Lord  Palmerston  desiderated  for 
the  Civil  Service,  and  showing,  mind  you, 
how  essential  Gammon's  cut  in  riding- 
trousers  is  to  people  of  blue  blood — ^these 
nether  garments  became  tortures  by  rea- 
son of  my  own  engagements  and  my 
horse's  capricious  health.  Wbonever  I  put 
them  on,  something  happened,  requiring 
me  to  appear  anomalously  in  the  haunts  of 


men. 


This  painful  state  of  things  could  not  last. 
So  far  from  my  liver  succumbing,  it  be- 
came worse,  and  my  spirits  went  down  to 
zero.  At  last  I  plucked  up  courage,  and 
sold  my  fatal  steed  for  a  fousibL  ^1  \^ 


^ 


■M* 


:i 


448      [October  9, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[Ccmdnetedby 


/ 


cost,  and  felt  as  much  lightened  as  Chris- 
tian in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  when  his 
burden  left  him.  After  this  I  hired. 
Horse-exercise  was  still  said  to  be  essential, 
and  I  hired.  It  cost  me  money,  and  it 
gaye  me  pain.  I  suppose  no  man  eyer  ac- 
quired such  a  curious  experience  of  equine 
eccentricity  in  a  short  time.  Brutes,  which 
carried  every  one  else  "  as  if  they  were  in 
their  cradles,"  according  to  the  job-master, 
always  jibbed,  or  reared,  or  shiea,  or  bolted, 
or  kicked,  when  I  was  on  their  backs.  I 
have  been  knelt  down  with  in  Oxford- 
street;  I  have  ambled  sideways  up  the 
Strand;  I  have  been  the  xmwilling  terror 
of  the  Park;  I  was  the  scorn  of  cab- 
men, and  the  delight  of  roughs — and  still 
I  rode.  I  was  the  wild  huntsman  of  the 
German  story,  only,  instead  of  being 
chased  by  a  spectre,  I  was  hunted  down 
by  a  liver.  Now  and  again  I  had  gleams 
of  enjoyment,  sweet  but  transient,  when  I 
was  taken  charge  of  by  equestrian  friends, 
who  gave  me  a  quiet  mount,  and  took  me 
with  them;  but  the  rule  was  solitary 
wretchedness  and  abject  terror. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  saying  with  the 
Northern  farmer,  "  Gin  oi  mun  doy,  oi 
mun  doy ;"  but  this  state  of  horror  must 
not,  shall  not,  last,  for  I'll  give  up  the 
horse- torture  at  all  risks — ^when  the  bicycle 
came  to  be  talked  of  in  England.  Desperate 
men  seek  desperate  remedies.  I  made  in- 
quiries as  to  the  power  of  this  fantastic 
machine :  not  as  to  how  much  could  be  got 
out  of  it — that  every  dealer  and  every  ex- 
pert were  forward  enough  in  telling  me 
— ^but  how  much  it  would  take  out  of 
me.  Would  it  work  my  muscles,  open 
my  pores,  stimulate  my  digestion,  and 
defeat  my  liver  ?  Might  I,  if  I  devoted 
myself  to  practice,  hope  at  the  end  of  a 
given  tetm  to  substitute  it  for  the  dreadful 
horse  ? 

There  were  not  many  velocipede  schools 
open  in  London  when  these  hopes  and 
doubts  possessed  me.  I  made  my  way  to 
one  I  had  read  of  in  Old-street,  St.  Luke*s ; 
feeling  that  I  was  adventurous,  if  not  im- 
prudent. For  I  had  determined  to  try  a 
mount,  come  what  would.  Anything  is 
better  than  the  hideous  equine  bondage  I 
am  groaning  under,  I  soliloquised;  and 
as  what  man  has  done  man  may  do,  why 
should  not  perseverance  and  assiduity 
enable  me  to  take  my  exercise  on  two 
wheels,  like  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, or  the  men  in  the  Champs  Elysees 
whom  I  saw  last  Easter  ?  I  purposely  ig- 
nored my  Bgurc  and  my  years,  and  asked 


the  director  of  the  riding-school  quite 
jauntily  how  soon  he  would  undertake  to 
turn  me  out  proficient?  He  was  a  very 
different  man  to  my  other  riding-master, 
Corporal  Bump.  A  bicycle  student  him- 
self, he  explained  the  extr&aie  simplicity  of 
the  accomplishment,  and  showed  me  how 
easily  it  could  be  acquired,  in  a  way  which 
carried  conviction :  for  he  pointed  to  him- 
self and  to  the  gentlemen  at  work  all  round 
us,  in  constant  corroboration  of  what  he 
said. 

There  were  men  who  were  having  their 
first  lesson,  and  who  were  being  held  on 
by  stout  attendants,  who  puffed  and  blew  in 
the  intervals  of  giving  instructions ;  there 
were  others  who  careered  gallantly  round 
the  arena,  darting  in  and  out  among  the 
learners,  like  swallows  skimming  the  surface 
of  a  pond ;  others,  again,  who,  there's  no 
denying,  had  many  tumbles,  and  ran  fre- 
quently against  walls.  Altogether,  there  were 
eleven  pupils  at  their  studies,  and  I  speedily 
made  a  twelfth.     I  had  arranged  to  have 
"  the  rough  edge  taken  off  me"  by  one  of 
the  attendants;   after  which  the  athletic 
proprietor  would  himself  take  me  in  hand, 
promising  to  turn  me  out  fit  to  ride  into 
the  country  on  a  bicycle  in  three  weeks 
from  that  time.    It  seemed  too  good  to  be 
true,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  my  attendant 
out  of  earshot  of  his  master,  I  asked  liiin 
his  opinion  too,  and  if  by   extra  care  I 
could  avoid  the  bangs  and  bumps  there 
and   then   being  undergone   by  the  men 
who  fell  ?     That  a  month  would  do  it  at 
the  outside,  and  that  those  gentlemen  only 
tumbled   about   because  they  liked  it,  or 
were    obstinate,    he    didn't    know   which 
it   was,    was    my    rudimentary    teacher's 
cheering  reply.     "  Thought  themselves  so  i 
clever  that  they  would  try  to  do  without  a 
man  long  before  they  were  fit  for  it,  and 
that's  the  cause  of  all  the  acxndents  IVe 
heard  of;  but  as  for  you,  sir,  if  you  only 
won't  be  in  too  much  of  a  hurry,  you'll 
learn  it  without  a  single  fall." 

His  word  was  kept.     I  went  for  half  an 
hour  three  days  a  week  for  three  weeks,  i 
was  supported  round  the  school  by  the  | 
stout  arm  of  my  teacher,   moved  iowly 
round  alone,  learnt  to  use  ike  brake,  and  U> 
move  swiftly,  before  I  made  my  first  attempt  | 
out  of  doors.     There  were  a  few  aches  and 
a  httle  stiffness,  some  groundless  firight  as 
to  internal  injury  after    fatigue,  but  no 
tumbles  and  no  misadventure  of  any  kind. 
At  my  seventh   lesson    I   was   fortunate 
enough  to  enlist  the  attention  of  a  dis- 
interested Mend,  who  made  the  rest  of 


A. 


Ohftrles  Dickens.] 


RIDING  FOR  HEALTH. 


[October  9, 1869]       449 


my  learning  easy,  who  put  finish  to  mj 
style,  and  has  been  my  companion  on  many 
a  pleasant  country  ride  since  my  obstinate 
liver  yielded  at  discretion.  It  is  only  a  few 
montlis  since  I  sat  npon  a  bicycle  for  the 
first  time,  and  I  already  manage  it  with 
tolerable  ease  and  quickness,  and  I  enjoy 
it  keenly.  And  now,  for  the  sake  of  other 
middle-aged  men  who  are  troubled  with  a 
liver,  I  shall  mention  eicacfcly  what  I  can 
and  cannot  do.  I  don*t,  for  obvious  reasons, 
vault  upon  the  machine,  run  it  in  races,  or 
attempt  giant  feats.  But  my  iron  steed 
renders  me  the  greatest  service  without 
these  extravagances,  and  indeed  does  for 
me  all  that  my  doctor  exacts.  I  can  run  a 
mile  on  a  level  country  road  in  a  few 
seconds  under  six  minutes;  I  can  travel 
twenty  miles  on  a  moderately  hilly  turnpike 
road  —  say  the  highway  to  Dorking  —  in 
about  three  hours;  and!  can  always  ensure 
myself  a  healthy  glow  or  a  free  perspira- 
tion on  the  shortest  notice  and  in  the  plea- 
santest  way.  My  iron  horse  is  never  ill, 
is  satisfied  with  a  little  oil  occasionally  in 
place  of  the  multitudinous  balls  and  washes, 
and  does  not  eat.  It  is  always  ready  for 
its  work,  and  never  obtrudes  itself  unneces- 
sarily. If  I  let  it  alone  for  a  few  days  or 
weeks,  I  am  not  haunted  by  fears  of  its 
being  too  fresh  the'  next  time  I  go  out  on 
it;  and  I  am  never  worried  into  riding 
against  my  will  out  of  consideration  for  ite 
imaginary  claims.  It  is  docile,  spirited, 
agile,  and  strong.  In  other  hands  than 
mine  it  can,  I  believe,  be  backed  for  money 
to  beat  any  flesh-and-blood  horse  for  a  day*s 
journey ;  and  it  has  never  failed  yet  to  meet 
every  demand  I  have  been  able  to  prefer 
to  it. 

"  But,"  I  hear  some  horse-loving  reader 
remark,  **  surely  you  don't  compare  an  in- 
animate compound  of  wood  and  iron  with 
the  intelligent  friend  of  man,  or  the  act  of 
mechanically  propelling  yourself  on  the  one 
with  the  glorious  inspiration  to  be  derived 
from  the  other?  The  joyous  animal  ex- 
citement in  which  man  and  beast  share, 
until  they  seem  to  have  but  one  being  be- 
tween them,  where  the  faithful  creature 
xmderstands  his  rider's  lightest  word,  and 
where  the  rider  so  sympathises  with  and 
loves  the  trusty  friend  below  him  as  to 
spare  his  necessities  and  anticipate  his 
wants — surely  this  is  not  to  be  gained  from 
a  bicycle,  let  you  be  ever  so  deft  and 
strong  ?" 

Not  so  fast,  kind,  courteous  sir,  or  gentle 
madam.  Is  it  quite  certain  that  the  feel- 
ings you   describe  so  beautifully  are  en- 


joyed by  all  who  get  upon  horseback? 
May  there  not  be  a  few  who,  like  your 
servant,  only  ride  upon  compulsion,  and  in 
a  state  of  misery  which  is  very  real  ?  Are 
there  not  more  valetudinarians  than  I? 
Besides,  if  you  will  have  it,  is  there  not  a 
romantic  side  even  to  the  iron  horse  ?  It  is 
no  magnified  go-cart,  remember,  which  will 
stand  alone,  or  can  be  propelled  without 
skill.  It  is  worse  than  useless  until  ani- 
mated by  the  guiding  intelligence  of  which 
it  becomes  the  servant  and  a  part.  With- 
out its  rider  it  consists  merely  of  a  couple 
of  wheels  and  a  crank  or  two,  and  looks 
like  a  section  of  broken  cab  as  it  lies  help- 
lessly on  the  ground.  But  it  increases  your 
sense  of  personal  volition  the  instant  you 
are  on  its  back.  It  is  not  so  much  an 
instrument  you  use,  as  an  auxiliary  you 
employ.  It  becomes  part  of  yourself,  and 
though  men  of  my  bulk — ^let  me  be  on  the 
safe  side,  and  say  all  men  weighing  more 
than  fourteen  stone — should  have  a  spring 
of  double  strength,  and  should  learn  to 
mount  and  start  off  without  vaulting  and 
without  assistance — an  easy  matter — none 
requiring  exercise  need  fear  that  they  are 
too  old  or  too  awkward  for  the  bicycle. 
The  four  hundred  miles  ridden  consecu- 
tively,  the  hundred  miles  agamst  time,  the 
jaunts  from  London  to  Brighton,  the  madcap 
flights  down  the  cone  of  the  Schneekoppe, 
the  sitting  in  fantastic  attitudes,  the  stand- 
ing upright  on  the  little  saddle  while  the 
velocipede  is  at  frill  speed,  are  feats  which 
may  be  fairly  left  to  gymnasts,  professional 
or  amateur.  They  are  not  for  us,  friends 
Rotundus,  Greybeard,  and  Sedentarius.  I 
don't  know  that  we  could  acquire  the 
power  of  performing  them  even  if  we  were 
to  try,  and  I  am  quite  sure  we  shall  not 
try,  for  our  purpose  is  answered  when 
our  livers  are  taught  their  duty.  The 
pleasures  incidental  to .  bicycle  practice  are 
so  much  clear  gain,  and  the  primary  object, 
health,  being  secured,  it  is  intensely  grati- 
fying to  reflect  how  much  one  has  learnt 
and  enjoyed  in  the  process.  You  know 
every  village,  every  hamlet,  every  hill, 
every  level  highway,  every  pretty  lane, 
around  you  for  miles.  You  could  re- edit 
Paterson's  Roads.  Moreover,  you  are  the 
cause  of  wit  in  others. 

"I  "vvish  to  Blank  he'd  smash  hissel^ 
blank  him !"  was  the  pious  and  audible 
prayer  of  a  gentleman  of  the  brickmaking 
persuasion  only  yesterday,  as  I  ghded  in- 
offensively past  the  Merton  tavern,  whose 
open  doorway  he  adorned.  **  Very  like  an 
elephant  on  castors !"  was,   I  learnt,  the 


<& 


I 


450      [October  9, 1M9.)  ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND.  [Condncted  by 

doscriptioii  applied  to  mo  by  a  dear  and  in-  ^I-  Thomas,  ]M.  Gounod,  M.  Felicien  David, 

timato  friend  on  my  takint' the  trouble  to  M.  Offenbach,  Ilerr  Waper. 

display  my  dexterity  befcrc  him  and  his  ,  It  ib  only  fair  to  add  that  the  ^  half  cen- 

/    ;       ^  i.    1  -n       A      •      T  tury  has,   m  Germany,    produced   a    ffoocUy 

yolunUH.^  company  at  dnll.     Again,  I  am  ^J^^^^  J^  second-clasS  compow^is,  who  might 

to     Mmd  that  ere  pony  does  not  run  away  justifiably  be  matched  against  those   of  the 

with   me !"    while   the  statements   that    I  second-rate  writers  of  the  last  century.     But 

have  "given  that  boss  of  mine  too  much  in  France  there   has  been  little    or  nothing 

com;**  that  I  shall  "bust  up  like  fireworks  analogous— save  the  appearance  of  M.  Mct- 

if  I  don't  mind!**  are  flashes  of  humour,  metet,  the  author  and  composer  of  thc^iJrea^y 
giving   thei 
which  I  hear 

time  I  go  out.     Hewho  can  confer  these  ^'^  Ite'opheliT,   Mad^TseUe    Nll^^nTand 

smiple  pleasures  on  his  fellow-man  is  a  pin-  i,y  ^  can>enter  s  device  in  the  last  act      In 

lanthropist;  and  it  is  astonishing  how  your  Italy,  the  brothers  Ricci  seem  to  be  already 

benevolence  increases  as  your  digestion  im-  for^rotten.     So  that,  so  lon^  as  M.    Gounod 

proves.  You  laugh  at  worries  which  once  continues  silent,  or,  if  spei&ing,  shall  prove 

seemed  crushing,  and  you  become  tolerant,  unable    to    put   forward    another    Faust   ot 

patient,   and   amiable.      You  have   safely  MireiUc,   the   composers    who  may   be  Mid, 

«,wi  o««^i^  ««,««^;««*.wi  ^«««««if  A.««,  *i,l  »or  better  for  worse,   to  excite  the  greatest 

and  surely  emancipated  yourself  from  the  ^^^^.     ^^  ^^^  Continent  at  the  time  being, 

penal  regimen  you  dreaded,  and  can  hve  „^  ^^^  Offenbach  and  Herr  Wagner:  the  first, 

like  other  people  and  prosecute  your  work  offering  a  signal  example  of  suscess  won  hy 

with   impunity.     Let    others   speak  of  the  licentious  frivolity ;  the  second,  overawing  the 

utility  of  the  bicycle  as  a  means  of  locomo-  ignorant,  the  thoughtless,  the  jaded,  and  the 

tion,  of  the  enormous  distances  to  be  tra-  rebellious,  by  the  arrogance  and  obscurity  of  his 

versed  on  it,  of  the  vast  speed  to  be  attained  bombast     The  phenomenon  would  be  a  sad 

by  it.     My  recommendations  arc  based  on  one    had  not  the  alternate  ebb  ^<i  flow  of 

«„   -i.        _.     J       1  IT        •  i.  •     -J.  creation  m  music  amounted  to  one  of  the  most 

sanitary  grounds  alone,  and  I  maintain  it  ^^^k^y^  ^^  epecial   peculiarities  of   the 

to  bo  mnmtely  easier  than  a  strict  regimen,  ^^ 

and  incomparably   more   rcstomtivo   than        jj,  Offenbach  made  himself  originally  known 
tonic,  potion,  or  pilL  in  London  as  in  Paris,  some  forty  years  ago, 
as  a  graceful  but  not  vigorous  violoncello- 
player,  who  wrote  pleasant  music,  not  merelj 
DEPTHS  AND  HEIGHTS  OF  MODERN  *or  his  instrument,  but  for  the  voice.    NothiDe 

OPERA.  much  more  meek,  nothing  much  Ices  marked 

than  his  playinc  and  his  music,  is  in  the  writer's 
CU.UTER  I.  IN  THE  MIRE.  recollection.  His  was  the  appearance  of  t 
'*  Mt  dear  sir,'*  said  Horace  Walpole  to  slender  talent — if  there  was  ever  such  a  thing 
Hogarth,  when  the  latter  began  to  hold  forth  — a  talent  which  for  many  after  seasons  could 
about  his  system  in  painting,  '^  you  grow  too  make  but  a  languid  assertion  of  its  existence 
wild ; — I  must  take  leave  of  you."  Those  in  the  concert-rooms  and  theatres  of  Europe, 
who  venture  to  speak  of  periods  in  music,  The  composer's  life  was  advancing ;  and  such 
may  as  well  make  up  their  minds,  without  success  as  artists  love  appeared  as  far  distant 
self  -  compassion,  or  needless  irritation,  to  as  ever,  when  some  demon  whispered  in  the 
be  pilloned  as  pedants  by  the  flippant  and  musician's  car  that  there  was  a  field  yet  to  be 
thoughtless.  Yet  if  the  past  history  and  trodden,  because  heretofore  disdained  by  an  J 
present  state  of  the  art  (especially  as  regards  artist  of  repute.  There  had  been  coone  comic 
the  stage)  come  to  be  considered,  unless  singers  without  voices  at  the  caf^,  there  had 
we  have  some  such  references  by  way  of  land-  been  comic  actors  of  no  less  value  tlian  Verner 
marks,  we  shall  only  drift  about  and  not  arrive  and  Odry,  who  could  condescend  to  such 
at  any  understanding  of  our  pleasure,  beyond  coarse  travesties  as  Madame  Gibou  and  Madame 
that  which  is  involved  in  idle  and  aimless  sen-  Pochet ;  but  for  an  artist  of  any  pretension  to 
satiou.  turn  their  unmanly  and  unwomanly  vnlgaritieft 
Ix^t  us  see  what  three  musical  periods  of  the  to  account  by  setting  questionable  ttoriei  to 
past  centuiy  have  comprised ;  in  regard  to  music  which  could  be  eked  out  by  their 
such  opera  composers  of  France,  ItiSy,  and  ir^questionable  pranks,  was  left  to  the  gently 
Germany,  as  have  enjoyed  a  European  repu-  insipid  writer  under  notice,  who  had  been 
tat  ion.  just,  and  only  just,  able  to  keep  his  name  be- 
First  pcrioil.  Beethoven,  C'herubini,  Spon-  fore  the  public.  To-day  the  namo  commands  ; 
tini,  Weber,  Simone  MaytT,  Zingarelli,  Paer,  Europe,  and  commands,  too,  such  gains  as  in  \ 
Rossini,  BoieUlieu,  M.  Auber.  his  prime  the  composer  of  H  Barbiere,  D  Tttrco,  , 

Second  period.     Marschner,  Meyerbeer,  M.  Corradino,  La  Cenerentola,  Otello,  Le  Comte 

Auber,     Halevy,     llert^ld,     Adolphe    Adam,  Ory,  ^Moine,  Gnillaume  Tell,  and  many  another  \ 

RoHSLiii,  Bellini,  Mercadante,  Donizetti.  serious  and  sentimental  opera,  never  dreamed  of. 

Third   period.     Signor  Verdi,    M.    Auber,  The  iron  age  has  come  ;  the  exchange  of  mirth 


& 


Charles  Dickena.]     DEPTHS  AND  HEIGHTS  OF  MODERN  OPERA.     [Oct.  9, 1869.]    451 


for  the  base  excitement  of  prurient  allusion  and 
appeal. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  have  to  insist  that  M. 
0£fenbach  has  amassed  a  large  fortune  and  an 
universal  reputation  by  his  late  recourse  to  the 
bad  device  of  double  entendre  in  the  stories 
selected  by  him,  and  in  the  execution  of  his 
favourite  interpreters.  His  music,  in  itself 
trite  and  colourless,  as  compared  (to  rise  no 
higher)  with  the  comic  music  of  Adam,  though 
ingeniously  put  together,  and  neatly  instru- 
mented, would  die  out  because  of  its  no- 
thingness, were  not  the  action  it  accompanies 
spiced  with  indelicacy  by  women  and  men  of 
the  most  meagre  musical  pretensions.  His 
Grande  Duchesse,  Mademoiselle  Schneider, 
salaried  as  Sontag  never  was  in  her  best  days, 
a  pretty  actress,  content,  some  ten  years 
ago,  to  display  her  less  matured  charms  and 
more  timid  impertinences  in  that  **  dirty  4ittle 
temple  of  ungodliness"  (as  Mrs.  Gore  called  it) 
the  Palais  Itoyal  Theatre,  would  never  have 
passed  muster  in  opera  had  it  not  been  for 
certain  airs  and  graces  which,  till  the  oppor- 
tunities afforded  for  their  display  in  the  prurient 
stories  which  M.  Offenbach  nas  set  to  colour- 
less music,  were  confined  to  such  singing 
and  smoking  houses  as  the  Paris  Alcazar; 
to  the  sigmiicant  gestures  of  Mademoiselle 
Theresa,  or  her  shabby  imitators  in  the 
open  -  air  shrines  of  the  Champs  Elysees. 
nlien  the  great  Lady  of  G^rolsteiu  leers  at 
the  brutal  giant  of  a  soldier  whom  she 
affects,  and  taps  him  temptingly  on  the  arm 
with  her  riding- whip,  who  can  resist  such  an 
exquisitely  refined  piquancy  ? 

Mademoiselle  Schneider's  real  value  as  a 
picaroon  actress  and  singer  cannot  be  better 
appraised  than  by  comparing  her  with  a 
predecessor  made  for  something  higher  than 
questionable  comedy  and  vaudeville — the  lively, 
evergreen.  Mademoiselle  Dcjazet.  Though  that 
lady  8  choice  of  occupation  was  auythiug  but 
unimpeachable,  the  neatness,  vivacity,  and 
variety  of  her  impersonations,  and  the  skill 
with  which  she  managed  a  defective  and  wiry 
voice,  made  her  the  complctest  artist  of  a 
certain  disorderly  order  who  has  appeared  on 
the  stage  in  our  experience.  When  her  Lisette 
(B^ranger's  Lisette),  her  Grande  Mere,  her 
young  Richelieu,  and  a  score  besides  of  dis- 
tinct and  perfectly  finished  creations,  are 
remembered,  it  becomes  difficult  to  endure 
without  impatience  triumphs  so  utterly  worth- 
less, so  disproportionately  repaid,  as  those  of 
M.  Offenbach^s  overrated  heroine. 

There  is  one  comfort,  however,  to  be  drawn 
from  the  present  state  of  affairs,  discouraging 
as  it  appears  to  be.  Lower  in  the  setting  of 
burlesque  and  in  offence  to  delicacy,  stage 
music  can  hardly  sink.  One  step  more,  a  step 
necessary  to  retain  the  attention  of  a  jaded 
public  wnich  will  no  longer  be  contented  with 
the  present  amount  of  indelicate  excitement, 
and  all  honest,  decorous,  refined  lovers  of 
opera,  will  protest  against  further  outrage; 
while  it  must  prove  increasingly  hard  to  pro- 
pitiate the  Persons  of  Quality,  who  delight  to 


see  the  devices  and  delights  of  low  places  of 
entertainment  figuring  in  the  temple  of  the 
most  graceful  of  the  arts,  llie  last  and  not 
the  least  "broad"  of  M.  Offenbach's  perpe- 
trations, **  Ija  Princesse  de  Trebizonde,  com- 
missioned for  Baden-Baden,  and  produced 
there  the  other  evening,  failed  to  satisfy  either 
the  lovers  of  respectable  opera,  or  those  who 
patronise  covert,  or  overt  impropriety.  There 
is  a  point  at  which  that  which  is  diseased, 
ceases  to  produce  the  old  effect,  be  the 
stimulus  ever  so  largely  heightened,  and 
perishes  of  its  own  poison ;  neglected  in  its 
death  even  by  the  thoughtless  people  whose 
vacant  sympathy  had  encouraged  its  wretched 
life. 

CHAPTEE  II.      IN  TIIE  MIST. 

Hypbbsolx  toan  too  high,  or  sinks  too  low, 
Exceeds  the  truth  things  wonderful  to  show, 

says  the  old  schoolboy's  rhyme.  We  have  made 
an  attempt  to  sketch  modem  comic  opera, 
as  dragged  in  the  mire,  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  many  refined  and  noble  personages. 
We  may  now  look  at  the  condition  of  the 
musical  drama  when  it  is  forced  upwards  into 
the  mist,  beyond  any  powers  of  common-sense 
or  legitimate  admiration  to  follow  it  or  bear  it 
company.  The  one  extreme  could,  perhaps,  not 
have  been  reached  without  its  bcnig  counter- 
balanced by  another  one,  of  its  kind,  no  less 
strange.  Slang  is,  after  all,  only  a  familiarised 
and  vulgar  form  of  bombast. 

Among  the  strangest  appearances  ever  seen  in 
the  world  of  Music,  are  the  existence  of  Herr 
Richard  Wagner  and  his  acceptance  by  a  band 
of  enthusiasts,  many  of  whom  are  infinitely  su- 
perior in  gifts  to  himself.  These  bow  down 
to  worship  him  as  a  prophet,  whose  genius  has 
opened  a  new  and  precious  vein  in  a  mine  already 
wrought  out.  llie  wonder  is  as  complete  a  one 
as  any  already  enrolled  in  that  sad  but  fascina- 
ting book — the  Annals  of  Charlatanry. 

Uow,  subsequent  to  the  partial  success  of 
his  heavy  but  not  altogether  irrational  liienzi, 
Herr  Wagner  bethought  himself  of  entering 
the  domain  of  supernatural  and  transcendental 
eccentricity,  has  been  shown  in  the  successive 
production  of  his  Tannhioiuser,  Fliegende  Hol- 
lander (which  contains  an  excellent  spinning 
song  and  chorus),  and  his  best  opera,  Lo- 
hengrin. The  first  and  the  third  of  these  have 
gained  what  may  be  called  a  contested  position 
in  some  of  the  opera  houses  of  Germany  ;  but 
in  those  of  no  other  country.  This  is  a  notice- 
able fact ;  seeing  that  the  taste  for  and  under- 
standing of  music,  becomes  year  by  year  less 
exclusive,  and  more  and  more  cosmopolitan 
in  England,  France,  and  even  Italy.  The 
names  of  Mozart,  Weber,  and  Beethoven,  are 
now  so  many  household  words  in  every  land 
where  music  is  known.  The  silly  folks  who 
pretend  that  the  hmitation  of  Herr  Wag- 
ner's success  is  the  inevitable  consequence  of 
the  nationality  of  the  subjects  treated  by 
Herr  Wagner,  forget,  that,  in  their  stories, 
neither  Tannhauser  nor  Lohengrin  have  more 
local   colour    than  Weber's   Der   Freiach^-L^ 


^^ 


452      [October  9, 1SC9.J 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


[Condactcd  by 


Kuryantlie,  Oberon,  or  Meyerbeer's  Robert. 
JUit  any  paradox  Ls  easier  to  fanatical  believers 
than  to  a(bnit  the  fact,  that  if  llerr  Wagner's 
opei-as  deserve  the  name  of  music,  those  by 
the  masters  referred  to,  do  not ;  than  to  con- 
fess that  the  c^se  is  one  not  of  principles  in  art 
carried  out,  but  of  the  same  utterly  annuUcd : 
not  of  progress,  but  of  destruction. 

The  progress  of  destruction  has  rarely,  if 
ever,  been  more  signally  exemplified  than  in 
the  history  of  Das  Itheingold,  the  last  work  by 
llerr  Wagner  prepared  at  Mmiich,  not  pro- 
duced in  a  hurry,  or  a  fit  of  desperation,  but 
deli])erately  as  an  experiment,  to  be  followed 
])y  other  similar  freaks.  For  festival  purposes, 
to  delight  a  monarch  willing  to  believe  in  and 
to  uphold  a  favourite  who  has  only  thriven  by 
favour  of  court  notice,  Herr  Wagner  has  de- 
vised a  trilogy  of  operas  based  on  the  Nibe- 
lungen  Lied.  To  these  Das  Rheingold  is  a 
preface,  and  the  four  operas,  or  instalments, 
are  intended  to  be  performed  on  four  successive 
evenings.  It  is  not  too  much  to  assert  that  a 
year  of  preparation,  were  the  entire  resources 
of  a  court  theatre  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the 
composer,  would  be  entirely  insufficient  to  in- 
sure the  result  of  which  Herr  Wagner  dreamed: 
even  sup[>osing  the  same  to  be  worth  insuring. 
Eight  months  or  more  have  been  habitually 
devoted  at  the  Grand  Opera  of  Paris  to  the 
production  of  Meyerbeer's  operas,  yet  these 
are  child's  play  compared  with  Herr  Wagner's 
visions. 

His  choice  of  subject,  it  must  bo  owned, 
was  a  singularly  perilous  one  for  even  a  German 
among  (iermans.  It  may  be  boldly  asserte<i 
that  a  large  portion  of  opera-goers  have  never 
read  the  ^ibelungen  Lied,  and  that  the  dim 
beliefs  and  superstitions  of  Eld,  shadowed 
forth  in  that  legend,  with  a  rude  yet  poetic 
grandeur,  appeid  but  chstantly  to  the  sym- 
pathies of  the  most  open-minded.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  the  frescoes  of  Schnorr  and 
Cornelius,  by  which  the  poem  was  illustrated 
in  the  new  palace  at  Munich,  at  the  instance 
of  the  late  King  of  Bavaria,  have  yet  come 
home  to  the  people  as  works  of  art  should, 
though  almost  half  a  century  has  elapsed  since 
they  were  painted ;  and  though  everything 
that  the  encouragement  and  instruction  of 
comment  could  do,  has  been  done,  to  make 
them  understood,  if  not  enjoyed.  It  is,  further, 
hardly  needful  to  point  out  that  a  picture  on  a 
wall,  and  a  jucture  on  the  stage,  run  chances 
of  acceptance  entirely  different,  the  one  from 
the  other.  Audiences  will  not  willingly  fre- 
quent representations  which  are  mystical,  in- 
distinct, and  wanting  in  beauty.  It  is  true 
that  the  absurdity  of  the  stories  of  Idomeneo 
and  Die  Zaubertlote  have  not  prevented  those 
operas  from  holding  the  stage  ;  but  the  magic 
was  Mozart's,  who  lavished  over  every  tale  he 
touched  melodies  so  exquisite  in  fascination 
and  fancy,  that  the  will  and  the  power  to  find 
fault  with  the  librettist,  must  sm-render  them- 
selves to  the  charm  of  the  musician.  Nothing 
analogous  is  to  bo  found  in  Ilcrr  Wagner's 
productiona.    The  music  is  to  be  subser>'ient 


to  the  story  and  the  scenery :  the  three  com- 
bining to  i)roduce  a  whole.  And  this  will  be 
felt  at  every  attempt  which  could  be  made  to 
separate  his  music  from  the  stage  business  and 
the  scenery.  Whereas  Mozart's  opera  music  has 
been  the  delight  of  every  concert-goer,  since 
the  day  when  it  was  written — and  this  irre- 
spective of  the  scenes  to  which  it  belongs,  Herr 
Wagner's  vocal  phrases,  detached  from  the 
pictures  they  illustrate,  can  only  strike  the  ear 
as  so  much  cacophonous  jargon,  in  wliich  every 
principle  of  nature  and  grace  has  been  out- 
raged, partly  owing  to  poverty  of  invention, 
and  absence  of  all  feeling  for  the  beautiful, 
partly  owing  to  the  arrogant  tyranny  of  a  false 
and  forced  theory. 

Nor  are  the  dramatic  and  scenic  portions  of 
Das  Rheingold,  if  considered  apart  from  the 
music,  in  any  way  successful.  Tne  giants  and 
water  nymphs,  and  *Hhe  hiiman  mortals,*'  whose 
weal  and  woe  they  influence,  are  manoeuvred 
with  a  reckless  clumsiness  and  disdain  of  contrast 
and  stage  eflFect  which  are  wearifully  dreary, 
save  in  a  few  places  where  their  sublime  say- 
ings and  doings  are  perilously  ridiculous.  The 
stage  is  more  than  once  peopled  by  mute 
persons  without  any  intelligible  purpose.  The 
author  -  musician  has  not  allowed  himself, 
throughout  a  work  which  lasts  a  couple  of 
hours,  a  single  piece  of  concerted  music ;  the 
trio  of  the  swimming  Rhine  nymphs  excepted. 
There  is  no  chorus.  The  words  at  least  corre- 
spond to  the  story  in  their  inflated  eccentricity. 
Euphuistic  alliteration  and  neologisms  have  of 
necessity  neither  "  state  nor  ancientry,"  and 
could  be  only  defended  were  the  writer's  object 
to  raise  stumbling-blocks  or  dig  pitfalls  in  the 
way  of  the  sayers  and  singers  who  nave  to  unfold 
his  wondrous  tale.  The  result  of  the  combina- 
tion may  be  conceived  by  all  who,  not  haTing 
^^  eaten  nightshade,"  are  still  in  ])088ession  of 
their  sane  senses.  Even  the  most  credulous  of 
llerr  Wagner's  partisans  become  tepid,  vague, 
apologetic,  and  scarcely  intelligible,  if  they  aw 
called  on  to  defend  or  explain  llerr  Wagner's 
text. 

The  above  remarks  and  characteristics,  not 
put  forward  without  the  best  consideration  in 
the  power  of  their  writer,  are  less  tedious  than 
would  be  the  narration,  scene  by  scene,  of  the 
dull  absurdities  of  Das  Rheingold.  The  scenery 
they  accompany  (for  the  success  of  the  wore 
is  held  by  the  congregation  of  the  faithful  to 
depend  on  its  scenery)  has  necessary  pecnliari- 
ties  no  less  remarkable.  The  **  mystery'' 
opens  in  a  scene  beneath  the  Rhine,  where  the 
nymphs  who  guard  the  treasure  swim  and 
sing ;  and,  inasmuch  as  they  must  have  resting 
places  while  they  do  their  spiriting,  are  pro- 
vided with  huge  substantial  peaks  of  rock, 
while  the  stage,  almost  up  to  the  **  sky  border." 
is  filled  ^ith  what  is  meant  to  represent  the 
swiftly-flowing  river.  There  is  a  final  grand 
effect  of  a  rainbow,  not  greatly  larger  than  t 
canal  bridge,  which  keeps  close  to  the  earth 
for  the  convenience  of  the  dramatis  persowe, 
who  are  intended  to  mount  upwards  on  it  to 
"  the  empyreal  halls  of  celestial  glory,"  as  the 


h 


ch«i6.Dick«ii.]  DEPTHS  AND  HEIGHTS  OF  MODERN  OPERA,    [Oct  9.  ises.]    453 


maker  of  a  pantomime  bill  might  phrase  it. 
The  absurdity  of  such  an  invention  was 
lessened  at  the  rehearsal  by  the  recusancy 
of  the  actors  and  actresses  to  take  the  re- 
quired responsibility.  Add  to  these  wonders 
mists  that  come  and  go  on  the  open  land- 
scape without  any  apparent  rhyme  or 
reason,  clouds,  darkness,  sunbursts,  all  so 
many  hackneyed  effects  dear  to  our  children 
and  ^*  groundlings^*  at  Christmas  time ;  and  some 
idea  may  be  formed  of  the  shows  to  exhibit 
which  the  music  has  been  bent  and  broken. 
The  congregation  declare  that  the  utter  want 
of  success  which  attended  the  rehearsal  was 
owing  to  the  stupidity  of  the  Munich  ma- 
chinists and  painters.  Yet  these  till  now  have 
borne  a  deserredly  high  character  through- 
out Germany;  and  the  stage  of  the  Bayarian 
capital  is  one  notoriously  convenient  for  any 
purposes  of  change  or  effects  of  space.  After 
all,  Herr  Wagner^s  devices  and  designs  to  carry 
cS  a  dreary  story  and  more  dreary  music,  are 
neither  stupendous  nor  new,  howbeit  difficult 
to  realise. 

In  the  early  days  of  opera,  a  great  sensa- 
tion was  made  by  crowds,  and  chariots, 
and  horses,  and  descending  and  dissolving 
globes,  from  which  came  forth  singing  and 
dancing  angels,  in  the  Costanza  e  Fortezza 
of  Fux.  It  was  not  later  than  the  early 
part  of  the  present  century,  that  Spontini, 
m  his  '* pride  of  place"  at  Berlin,  laid  him- 
sdf  open  to  the  bitter  sarcasms  of  German 
composers  and  critics,  stung  into  a  slan- 
derous jealousy  of  the  court-favour  lavished 
on  an  Italian,  by  introducing  on  the  stage 
in  one  opera,  anvils,  in  another,  elephants. 
Meyerbeer  is  to  this  day  by  some  —  and 
these  even  the  defenders  of  Herr  Wagner's 
proceedings  —  stigmatised  as  an  empiric,  be- 
cause he  connived  at  the  resuscitation  of  the 
dead  nuns  in  Robert;  contrived  the  ballet 
of  bathing  ladies  at  Chenonceau,  in  Les  Hu- 
guenots, and  combined  the  three  marches 
in  Le  Camp  de  Silesie.  Herr  Wagner  has 
denounced  such  appeals  to  the  eye,  with  the 
sharpness  of  an  unscrupulous  pen  dipped  in 
verjuice.  Those  who  venture  to  possess  me- 
mories, and  bring  them  into  the  service  of 
critical  and  historical  comparison,  must  pre- 
pare to  be  abused  for  the  blindness  of  their 
antiquated  prejudices.  That  which  used  to 
be  called  a  murder,  is  to-day  too  often  de- 
scribed as  a  vagary  of  misdirected  insanity  or 
enthusiasm,  arising  from  weariness  of  life 
and  its  burdens,  and  hatred  of  convention- 
ahsms. 

Last  of  aU^in  accordance  with  the  natural 
order  of  precedence,  it  should  have  been 
first — a  few  words  remain  to  be  said  of 
'*  the  sound  and  fury,"  which  signify  little  or 
nothing  as  music,  though  they  ml  its  place  in 
this  strange  piece  of  work.  The  absence  of 
melody  is,  of  course,  in  accordance  with  Herr 
Wagner^s  avowed  contempt  for  everything  that 
■haU  please  the  ear.  This  being  the  condition 
of  matters,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  a  common 
four-bar  phrase  of   upward  progression,  re- 


peated some  thirty  times  or  more  in  the  pre- 
lude, should  please,  and  (to  be  just)  its  effect 
at  representing  the  ceaseless  flow  of  water,  is 
picturesque  and  happy.  The  river  nymphs 
are  next  announced  by  a  phrase  borrowed 
from  Mendelssohn's  overture  to  Melusine. 
There  is  a  pompous  entry  for  the  principal 
bass  voice,  there  is  an  effect  of  mne-eight 
rhythm,  borrowed  from  Meyerbeer's  scene  in 
the  cloisters  of  Saint  Rosalie  (Robert) ;  and 
these  are  all  the  phrases  that  can  be  retained 
by  those  who  do  not  believe  in  what  has  been 
described  by  the  transcendentalists,  as  "  con- 
cealed melody."  The  recitative  in  which  the 
scenes  are  conducted  is  throughout  dry,  un- 
vocal,  and  uncouth.  One  Gluck  might  never 
have  written  to  show  how  truth  in  declamation 
may  be  combined  with  beauty  of  form,  variety 
of  instrumental  support,  and  advantageous 
presentment  of  the  actors  who  have  to  teU  the 
story.  Then,  Herr  Wagner's  orchestral  por- 
tion of  the  work  is  monotonous  and  without 
variety.  H  his  score  be  compared  with  those 
by  Weber,  Meyerbeer,  Berlioz,  and  M.  Gounod 
(whose  ghost  scene,  in  La  Nonne  Sanglante, 
and  procession  of  river-spirits  in  Mireille,  come 
as  freshly  back  to  the  ear  as  if  they  had  been 
only  heard  yesterday)  it  will  be  found  as  in- 
effective as  it  is  overladen. 

It  may  be  said  that  such  a  judgment  as  the 
above  is  one  too  sweeping  in  its  condemnation, 
after  a  single  hearing,  to  be  just.  But  with  some 
persons  first  impressions  of  music,  especially  be 
that  music  theatrical,  are  last  ones.  Of  course 
curiosities  of  detail  are  not  to  be  apprehended 
and  retained,  under  such  circumstances ;  but 
if  not  the  slightest  desire  to  return,  on  t^e  con- 
trary a  positive  aversion,  be  engendered,  in 
persons  not  unused  to  listen,  not  devoid  of 
memory,  the  fault  may  not  altogether  lie  in 
their  arrogance  or  prejudice.  The  beauties  of 
Beethoven's  latest  compositions — say  his  Ninth 
Symphony,  and  latest  quartetts — seize  the  ear 
in  the  first  moment  of  acquaintance  ;  though  no 
time  or  familiarity  may  clear  up  the  ugly  and 
obscure  crudities  which,  also,  they  unhappily 
contain.  It  will  not  avail  to  plead  that  it  is 
ungcDcrous  or  unjust  to  judge  from  a  rehearsal ; 
when,  as  in  the  case  of  Das  Kheingold,  such  re- 
hearsal was  tantamount  in  correctness  and  spirit 
to  any  first  perforpoance  ever  attended  by 
European  critic.  Guests,  and  some  at  no 
small  sacrifice,  came  to  Munich  from  places 
as  far  distant  as  London,  Paris,  Florence, 
to  ascertain  what  the  newest  production  of 
the  newest  Apostle  and  Iconoclast  of  his 
day  might  prove.  The  majority  of  these 
would  hardly  have  spent  time,  money,  and 
fatigue,  without  expectation  of  pleasure;  the 
more  so,  as  it  had  been  largely  circulated 
that  this  Nibelungen  Prologue  was  to  mark 
a  complete  change  in  Herr  Wagner's  manner, 
being  clear,  simple,  and  melodious.  The 
majority  returned  to  the  places  whence  they 
came,  rather  relieved  than  otherwise,  by  the 
fact  that  Das  Rheingold  was  withdrawn  indefi- 
nitely for  further  rehearsal  (not  alteration*^ 
such,  indeed,  being  iml^^e»\As^^^  %sA*Cs^3^'^^^ 


^ 


& 


4 


0'%       [OitobcrO,  1SC9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


fCoiuliiet^  hf 


mi^rlit  jro  on  tlieir  ways,  homewanls,  spared 
another  ilidmul  evenin^j:,  to  be  spent  in  wonder- 
at  tlie  mouse  brought  forth  by  the  mountain, 
at  the  pigmy  proiluctiou  of  the  self-styled 
Musician  of  the  Future. 


THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN 

ACKLAND. 

A  True   Story. 

IN  TIHRTEEN  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  IX. 

On  inquiry  at  the  polico  station  in 
Charleston,  S.C.,  Mr.  Tom  Ackland,  ac- 
companied by  Mr.  Cartwright,  was  shown 
the  liat  and  book  mentioned  by  the  Charles- 
ton Messenger.  Mr.  Tom  Ackland  rather 
thought  tliat  he  had  once  seen  the  book  in 
the  possession  of  his  Cousin  John.  But  of 
this  he  could  not  feel  sure.  The  name, 
both  in  the  book  and  in  the  hat,  was  printed. 
The  handwiiting  on  the  margin  of  the  page 
opposite  the  marked  passage  in  the  book 
proved  to  be  quite  illegible,  but  bore  a 
strong  resemblance  to  the  sprawling  and 
unsteady  characters  of  the  last  two  lett'Crs 
received  by  Mr.  Tom  Ackland  from  his 
cousin.  Liside  the  hat  they  found  the 
mark  of  a  Georgetown  maker,  partly  effaced. 
The  police,  after  their  iirst  inquiries  in 
Charleston,  having  jumped  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  they  were  being  hoaxed,  had 
treated  the  whole  affair  so  carelessly  that 
they  liad  not  even  attempted  to  follow  up 
this  indication.  Cartwright  was  the  first 
to  point  it  out.  In  consequence  of  this  dis- 
covery, Mr.  Tom  Ackland  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  Georgetown,  and  had  no  difficulty 
in  finding  there,  the  hatter  whose  name  and 
address  Cartwright  had  detected  inside  the 
hat.  On  examining  the  hat,  and  referring 
to  his  books,  the  hatter  identified  it  as 
liaving  been  sold  on  the  29th  of  last  Sep- 
tember. To  whom  ?  Ho  could  not  say.  Bo 
many  diiierent  hats  were  sold  in  the  course 
of  a  day,  to  so  many  different  people.  He 
would  ask  his  young  men.  One  of  his 
young  men  thought  he  had  sold  a  hat  of 
that  description  some  time  ago,  but  could 
not  positively  say  it  was  on  the  29th  of 
September,  to  a  gentleman  who  had  one 
arm  in  a  sling.  Bight  arm  ?  Could  not 
remember,  but  thought  it  was  the  right 
arm.  Hat  was  paid  for  in  ready  money. 
Was  the  gentleman  on  foot,  or  in  a  car- 
riage ?  Thought  he  was  on  foot,  but  could 
not  remember  distinctly. 

This  was  all  the  information  Tom  Ack- 
land could  obtain  at  Georgetown.  He 
inguireil  at  all  the  hotels  there,  but  could 
not  £nd  tho  name  of  Ackland  inaoribed  in 


any  of  their  books.  On  his  return  to 
Charleston,  Cartwright  told  him  that  his 
own  inquiries  at  the  hotels  and  boarding- 
houses  in  that  city  had  been  equally  in- 
fructuous. 

On  inquiring  at  the  post-office,  they  werp 
informed  that  letters  had  certainly  been  re- 
ceived there  for  John  K.  Ackland,  Esq., 
and  regularly  delivered  to  a  gentleman  so 
calling  himself,  who  applied  for  them  daily. 
>Vhat  sort  of  looking  gentleman  ?  Very 
invaUd-looking  gentleman,  always  muffled 
up  to  the  chin  in  a  long  cloak,  and  seemed 
to  suffer  from  cold  even  when  the  weather 
was  oppressively  hot. 

"  Was  he  at  all  like  this  gentleman  ?** 
asked  Cartwright,  pointing  to  Tom  Aek- 
land. 

Really  couldn't  recal  any  roaemUanca 

Noticed  anything  else  partioiilar  about 
him? 

Yes.  He  carried  one  aim  in  a  sling,  and 
limped  slightly. 

Anything  else  ? 

Yes.     Spoke  with  rather  an  odd  acceni 

Yankee  accent  P 

Well,  hardly.     Couldn't  well  say  what  it 
was  like.     But  the  gentleman  rarely  spoke  J 
at  all,  and  seemed  rather  deaf. 

Had  been  for  his  letters  lately  ? 

Not  since  the  15th  of  October.  There 
was  one  letter  still  lying  there  to  his  ad- 
dress. Explanations  having  been  given  hj 
tho  two  gentlemen,  this  letter  was  ereDr 
tually ,  with  the  sanction  of  the  police  officer 
who  accompanied  them,  banded  over  to 
Mr.  Tom  Ackland,  that  gentleman  having 
claimed  it  on  behalf  of  his  cousin.  It 
proved  to  be  his  own  reply  to  John  Ack- 
land's  last  letter  to  himfldf. 

Had  the  gentleman  never  cammunicated 
to  the  post-office  his  address  in  Charke- 
ton? 

Never. 

Tom  groaned  in  the  spirit.  He  could  no 
longer  entertain  the  l^ist  doubt  that  liii 
worst  fears  had  been  but  too  well  foonded. 
The  absolute  and  universal  ignorance  whidi 
appeared  to  prevail  at  Charleston  of  the  ex« 
istence  of  any  such  person  as  John  Ackland 
would  have  been  altogether  inezplioabk  if 
John  Aokland's  own  ktters  to  Tom,  aUnd* 
ing  to  the  profound  seclusion  in  whidi  he 
had  been  Uving  ever  since  bis  amvalin 
that  city,  did  not  partly  explain  it  So 
such  person  having  ever  been  seen  or  beard 
of  on  'Change,  or  at  any  of  the  hanks  in  j 
Charleston,  how  had  John  Anlrland  bacD 
living  ?  Cartwright  suggested  that  it  wai 
possSde  that  he  might  nave  been  liriog 


& 


cii«i6«i>tok6nfc]  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND       [Oct. 9. isco]     455 


all  this  while  on  the  money  which  ho  him- 
self had  paid  over  to  him  in  notes  at  Glcn- 
oak. 

"  That  is  trne,"  thought  Tom  Ackland ; 
for  he  remembered  that  his  cousin,  in  his 
last  letter  from  Glcnoak,  had  stated  that 
the  notes  were  still  in  his  possession.  But 
nothing  short  of  insanity  could  account 
for  his  not  having  deposited  them,  since 
then,  at  any  bank.  Unhappily  such  an 
hypothesis  was  hy  no  means  improbable. 
Who  was  that  Spanish  gentleman  who 
professed  to  have  discovered  the  hat  and 
book  of  John  Ackland's  on  the  bank  of 
the  river  ?  Could  he  have  been  John 
Ackland's  assassin  ?  But  if  so,  why 
should  he  have  spontaneously  attracted  at- 
tention to  the  disiappearancc  of  his  victim, 
and  promoted  investigation  into  the  cir- 
cumstances of  it  ?  His  story,  as  reported 
by  the  Charleston  Messenger,  was  mdeed 
80  extravf^nt  as  to  justify  the  opinion  ex- 
pressed by  that  jounial.  But  Tom  Ack- 
land had  in  his  possession  letters  from  his 
cousin  which  made  the  story  appear  far 
lees  improbable  to  him  than  it  might  rea- 
sonably appear  to  any  one  not  acquainted 
with  the  state  of  John  Ackland's  mind 
dimng  the  last  month.  It  was  very  un- 
lucky that  there  was  now  no  possibihty  of 
seeing  and  speaking  with  that  Spanish 
gentleman.  For  the  gentleman  in  ques- 
Ooiif  after  having  postponed  his  departure 
in  order  to  aid  the  inquiries  of  the  police, 
had  left  Charleston  about  two  days  before 
Tom  Ackland's  arrival  there,  on  being  as- 
sured by  the  authorities  that  his  presence 
was  not  required.  And  he  had  left  behind 
him  no  indication  of  his  present  where- 
abouts. 

This  was  the  position  of  affairs  with  Mr. 
Tom  Ackland,  and  his  inquiries  appeared 
to  have  come  to  a  hopeless  dead  lock,  when, 
late  one  night,  Mr.  Cartwright  (who  had 
been  absent  during  the  whole  of  the  day) 
burst  into  his  room  with  the  announcement 
that  he  had  obtained  important  information 
about  John  Ackland. 

It  had  occurred  to  him,  he  said,  that 
John  Ackland  must,  from  all  accounts, 
have  been  a  confirmed  invalid  for  the  last 
few  months.  If  so,  he  woul  d  probably  have 
sought  some  country  lodging  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Charleston,  where  the  situation 
was  healthiest,  without  being  inconveniently 
fiur  from  town,  in  case  he  should  require 
medical  assistuice.  Acting  at  once  on  this 
supposition  (which,  in  order  not  to  excite 
fiJse  hopes,  in  case  it  should  lead  to  no- 
thing, he  had  refrained  from  communicat- 


ing to  Tom),  ho  had  determined  to  visit  all 
the  environs  of  Charleston.  Ho  had  that 
morning  selected  for  his  first  voyage  of  dis- 
covery a  locality  only  a  few  miles  distant 
from  Charleston,  which  he  knew  to  be  apar- 
ticularly  healthy  situation.  His  inquiries 
there  were  not  successful,  and  he  was  on 
the  point  of  returning  to  Charleston,  when 
he  fortunately  recollected  that  he  had  not 
yet  visited  a  little  lodging-house  where 
ne  remembered  having  once  taken  rooms 
himself,  many  years  ago,  when  he  was  at 
Charleston  with  his  poor  wife,  then  in  very 
weak  health.  He  was  not  aware  whether 
that  house  still  existed,  but  he  thought 
he  would  try ;  and  he  had  been  rewarded 
for  his  pains  by  learning  from  its  land- 
lady that  some  time  ago  a  gentleman, 
who  said  his  name  was  Ackland,  called 
there,  saw  the  house,  and  took  it  for  six 
months.  He  paid  the  rent  in  advance, 
and  had  placed  his  effects  in  the  house. 
But,  to  the  best  of  the  landlady's  belief, 
he  had  not  once  slept  at  home  since  he 
became  her  tenant.  He  frequently  came 
there,  indeed,  during  the  day,  and  had 
sometimes  taken  his  meals  there.  But 
on  all  such  occasions  it  was  his  habit  to 
lock  the  door  of  his  room  as  long  as  he  was 
in  it.  Nothing  would  induce  him  to  touch 
food  in  the  presence  of  any  one.  She  had 
served  him  his  dinner  often,  but  had  never 
seen  him  eat  it.  Sometimes  he  carried 
part  of  it  away  with  him ;  and  once  he  told 
her  that  he  did  this  in  order  to  have  the 
food  analysed.  He  appeared  to  be  under  a 
constant  impression  that  his  food  was 
poisoned ;  and  the  landlady  was  of  opinion 
that  her  lodger  was  a  deciacd  monomaniac, 
but  that  he  was  perfectly  harmless.  She 
said  he  was  a  very  eccentric  gentleman, 
but  an  excellent  tenant.  He  had  been 
at  the  house  on  the  morning  of  the  16th 
(she  remembered  the  date  because  of  a 
washing  bill  which  he  told  her  to  pay  for 
him  on  that  day,  and  for  which  she  has 
not  yet  been  reimbursed).  He  remained 
at  home  during  the  whole  of  the  day,  but 
locked  up  his  room  as  usuaL  About  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening  he  went  out,  locking 
the  doors  of  all  the  sitting-rooms  and  bed- 
rooms, and  taking  the  key  with  him.  Be- 
fore leaving  the  house,  he  told  her  that 
he  was  likely  to  bo  absent  for  some  time, 
as  he  was  pursued  by  enemies,  and  that 
there  would  probably  be  inquiries  about 
him,  but  she  was  not  to  notice  them,  and 
on  no  account  to  mention  his  name  to  any 
one.  "  She  has  never  seen  him  amcoi,  "drois*  ^ 
her  deacription  oiYom^T^c^aOej  \aJ^«^^'«S5^  ^^ 


456 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROOKD. 


[Oclobn  S,  U»  j 


that  which  was  given  ds  at  the  poat^ofEce. 
Sho  is  a,  very  old  -woman,  mfher  blind, 
rather  deaf,  and  very  stnpid.  I  don't  think 
she  can  eithor  read  or  write.  Moet  of  this 
information  1  obtained  &oni  the  nigger  gal 
who  does  all  tlie  work  of  the  honse.  She 
eventnolly  promised  to  have  the  locks 
opened  in  oar  presence  to-morrow ;  and  I 
have  settled  that,  if  agreeable  to  von,  we 
will  drive  over  there  after  breakfcfit. '  Thna 
Cartwright  fo  Tom  Ackland. 

Poor  Tom  Ackland  was  profoundly 
affected  by  this  fresh  evidence  t^  zeal  and 
sympathy  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Cartwright. 
But  Cartwright  himself  made  light  of  his 
own  efforts.  "Pooh,  pooh,  my  dear  sir!" 
he  said,  in  reply  to  Tom's  repeated  ex- 
pressions of  gratitade ;  "  if  he  waa  yonr 
coDsin,  was  he  not  also  my  friend  ?" 

When  Tom  Ackland  entered  tlie  first 
room,  from  which  the  lock  was  removed, 
in  the  house  to  which  Cartwright  con- 
ducted him  on  the  following  day,  one 
glance  round  it  told  him  all,  and,  with  a 
low  moan  of  pain,  he  fell  upon  the  bed 
and  sobbed.  There,  on  that  bed,  was  the 
drcsdng-gown  which  poor  John  Ack- 
land had  worn  the  last  evening  on  wldch 
he  and  Tom  had  sat  together  i 
John's  plans  for  the  fatnre.  There, 
wardrobe,  were  John  Ackland's  clothes; 
there,  on  the  shelf,  wcro  John  Ackland's 
books ;  there,  on  the  table,  were  John  Ack- 
land's papers.  And  among  those  papers 
Tom  afterwards  found  au  onfiniahed  letter 
addressed  to  himself.  It  was  written 
in  those  sprawliog  shaky  charactera  which 
Tom  had  lately  been  learning,  sadly, 
to  decipher,  and  which  were  so  all 
unlike  the  once  firm  and  well- formed 
handwriting  of  his    cousin.     "  God  blc?as 

C],  dear  Tom!"  (the  letter  said).  "M^ 
t  thought  is  of  yon.  I  have  bomo  it 
long.  1  cannot  bear  it  longer.  Nobody 
will  miss  me  bnt  yon.  And  you,  if  yon 
could  see  me  as  I  am  now,  if  you  coald 
know  all  that  I  have  boon  sufiering,  even 
yon,  would  surely  wish  for  me  that  relief 
from  misery  which  only  death  can  give. 
Thoy  are  after  me  day  and  night,  Tom. 
They  have  left  me  no  peace.  Mary  Mor- 
dent is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.     She  hides 


herself.  But  I  know  it.  I  have  no  heart 
to  post  this  letter,  Tom.  I  have  no  strei^Ui 
to  finish  it.  Ciood-bye,  Tom.  Don't  fret 
Dear,  dear  Tom,  good-bye." 

Tom  Ackland  returned  to  Boston  witii 
two  convictions.  One,  that  his  nnfortnnate 
cousin  had  perished  by  suicide  on  the  night 
of  the  16th  of  October;  the  other,  that 
Philip  Cartwright  was  a  most  nnaelfiah, 
warm-hearted  fellow.  The  whole  story  of 
John  Ackland's  mysterious  disappeArance 
and  lamentable  death  had  excited  too  roncli 
cnrioeity,  and  been  too  hotly  discnsBed,  both 
at  Richmond  and  Boston,  to  be  soon  for- 
gotten in  cither  of  those  localities.  Serious 
quarrels  had  arisen  (in  Richmond  at  least), 
uid  old  acquaintances  had  become  estranged 
in  consequence  of  the  vehemence  with 
which  diverse  theories  were  maintained  by 
their  respective  partdsans  on  the  subject  of 
JohnAcklnnd's&te.  Bnt  time  wont  on,  and, 
as  time  wenton,  the  story  became  an  old  stoiy 
which  no  one  cared  to  refer  to,  for  fear  lU 
boiDg  rot«d  a  bore.  There  were  not  want- 
ing at  Richmond,  however,  some  few  per- 
sons by  whose  suspicious  iancies  Philq) 
Cartwright,  against  all  evidenoe  to  tlu 
contrary,  remained  uncharitably  connected 
mysterious  disappearance  and 
suicide  of  the  Boston  mer- 
chant, in  a  manner  much,  less  Satteiing 
to  that  gentleman's  character  than  Mr. 
Tom  Acl^nd'a  grateful  recollection  of  oii 
friendly  exertions  at  Charleston. 


1    the 


Now  IU»d7,  price  St.  6iL,  bound  in  fi«ui  dotk, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OP  TBI  Nnr  Ssun  oi 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUin). 

Ta  be  hod  of  all 


MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINCS. 

MES3BS.  CHAPPELLiidCO.  Iutc  giwt  pliMn« 
in  announcing  that  Ma.  Cbableb  Dickzib  will  aroe 
and  concluds  hij  interraptcd  Mriei  of  FABEWSLL 
11EAIIIN09  at  St.  Jamn'i  Hall,  l4)ndon,  mAj  JM 
the  New  Yeai. 

The  Reading*  will  be  Twiltx  in  ITcmBBk,  ul  no* 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

All  nnntmuiicationg  to  be  tMitmai  lo  SMB. 
CniprELL  and  Co.,  &0,  Sew  Bond-atrett,  V. 


Ti«  Right  of  Truiulaliiig  AriieUt/rom  All  THE  Yeae  ItouMS  it  reierted  iji  fit 


PabUMbtd at th> omo*.  a«.  WalUngton B»    StnnA.    PAnMlMlC-'* 


^E'STOH^'QE-  DyI^^l^?ES■Ji^pM  Y|aR;TO  Vt/.] 


mmzs  MdTOs 

With  which  is  lncoRPoi\AxeD 

SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  IC,  1860. 


PitrcE  Twopence. 


VERONICA. 


In  FrvE  Books. 


BTOET. 

thought 


BOOK  II. 

CHiPTEB   IT.      ZILLAG 

The  widow's  reHections 
;OTer  her  interview  with  Mr.    Frost 
Vritter  enough. 

Her  eitnation  mas  that  of  one  who,  in 
endoavonring  to  reach  a  wished-for  goal, 
has  chosen  the  specionsly  green  path  over  a 
imirass,  rather  than  tho  tedious  stony  way, 
which,  although  painiiil,  wonld  have  been 
safe.  Now,  the  treaoherouB  bog;  quaked 
beneath  her  faltering  fisjt.  But  it  was  vain 
to  look  hack.  She  must  proceed.  To  go 
forward  with  a  step  at  once  firm  and  light 
was,  aho  felt,  her  only  chance  of  safety. 
And  it  was  bnt  a  chance. 

Tears  ago,  when  ZiUali  Lockwood  waH  a 
young  woman  and  a  newly-married  wife, 
Sidney  Frost  had — throngh  the  knowledge 
)f  certain  passages  in  her  lifowhich  he  had 
gained  accidentally — come  to  have  a  Kecret 
power  and  influence  over  her. 

He  had  nscd  hiB  knowledge  at  first  to 
protect  her  against  the  persecutions  of  a 
raf&an,  and  in  so  doing  he  had  acted  disin- 
terestedly. 

Afterwards  he  waa  tempted  by  circum- 
sinnces,  to  avail  himself  of  the  power  he 
held  over  Zillah  Lockwood,  in  order  to  help 
himself  forward  in  tho  world. 

The  caaa  stood  thus; 

Robert  Lockwood  and  Sidney  Frost  were 

I  early  and  intimate  friends.  When  the  former 
inarricd  Misa  Zillah  Pentou — rt  governess 
in  the  family  of  a  rich  merchant,  named 
Blythe,  who  liked  pictures,  and  sought  the 
Society  of  the  painters  of  pictures — Frost 


had  still  been  cordially  welcomed  at  his 
friend's  house. 

Sliss  Fenton  was  an  orphan,  without  a 
relation  in  the  world.  Her  early  Ufe  had 
been  passed  in  Paris ;  and  Mrs.  Blythe 
said  she  had  reason  to  beheve  that  her 
father,  Captain  Fenton,  had  been  a  needy 
adventurer  of  disreputable  character.  But 
against  tho  young  lady,  no  one  had  a  word 

At  first  the  young  couple  were  entirely 
happy.  To  the  day  of  hia  death,  Robert 
Lockwood  adored  his  wife.  He  believed 
in  her  with  the  most  absolute  trust.  He 
admired  her  talenta.  He  was  guided  by 
her  advice. 

Bub  when,  within  a  few  months  of  their 
marriage,  Zillah  became  melancholy,  nor- 
vona,  and  silent,  Robert  was  painfully 
puzzled  to  accnunt  for  the  change  in  her. 

She  declared  herself  to  be  quite  well ; 
but  her  liusband  insisted  on  her  seeing 
doctor  after  doctor,  iu  tho  hopo  of  disco- 
vering some  cure  for  tho  nnacconu table 
depression  of  spirits  under  which  eho  was 
suffering. 

It  was  all  in  vain,  however.  Robert  was  in 
despair;  and  seriously  contemplated  sacri- 
flcing  his  connexion  and  daily-rising  repu- 
tation as  an  artist,  in  order  to  take  his  wife 
abroad,  for  total  change  of  air  and  scone. 

A  mere  chance,  connected  with  his  pro- 
fessional biisiness,  gave  Sidney  Frost  a  clue 
to  the  cause  of  the  mysterious  malady  under 
which  bifi  friend's  wife  waa  pining.  The  cine 
was  furnished  by  a  few  words  dropped  by 
a  man  of  very  vile  character,  a  professional 
blackleg,  who  had  como  to  London  for  a 
time  to  escape  the  too  vigilant  attention 
of  tho  Parisian  police,  and  from  whose 
clutches  Mr.  Frost  was  endeavouring  to 
extricate  a  foolish  youn(^  BCa.-^e^pft»a6,  'Soa 
son  of  one  o?  tia  cWctAa. 


d3: 


4'jS      [Oi;t^*vrir,lS<K).] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CcttJlartcd  liy 


Hifl  professional  r.ud  natural  acutoncss 
enabled  Sidney  to  niako  a  shrewd  guess  at 
the  real  state  of  the  case.  He  surprised 
Zillah  one  day,  "when  lier  husband  was 
absent  at  his  studio,  into  a  eonfession  that 
she  knew  this  man.  And  after  a  little 
gentle  cross-examinntiou,  the  trembling 
woman  burst  into  tears  and  revealed  the 
whole  story. 

Zillah*s  motherless  yonih  had  been  passed 
in  Paris,  in  the  homo  of  a  father  for  whom 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  feel  either 
affection  or  respect.  His  associates  were 
either  men  of  his  own  character,  or  young 
scions  of  rich  or  noble  houses,  who  fre- 
quented Fenton's  shabby,  tawdry  little 
salon  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  the  ex- 
citement of  high  play. 

Amidst  such  surroundings  Zillah  grew 
to  be  sixteen :  little  more  than  a  cliild  in 
years,  but  a  woman  in  ono  sad  and  sordid 
phase  of  world's  lore.  Her  notions  of 
right  and  \sTong  were  solely  derived  from 
her  own  untutored  instincts.  These  were, 
in  the  main,  good  and  pure.  But  she  was 
ignoittnt,  uncared-for,  motherless — and  she 
fell. 

Coarse  appeals  to  vanity  or  gitjcd  would 
have  been  powerless  on  Zillah.  But  the 
poor  child  was  unable  to  resist  the  im- 
pulses of  an  undisciplined  heart.  She 
scarcely,  even,  conceived  that  it  behoved 
her  to  resist  them. 

She  believed  the  passionate  protestations 
of  love — protestations  not  wholly  insincere 
when  uttered — of  a  noble  gentleman  whom 
she  looked  up  to  as  the  id^  of  everything 
splendid  and  heroic. 

The  story  was  trite.  Its  denouement 
was  trite  also,  save  in  one  particular. 
This  one  exceptional  particular  was  the 
unexpected  and  absurdly  unreasonable  de- 
spair of  Zillah,  when  she  perceived  that 
her  god  was  an  idol  of  clay ;  that  he  had 
ceased  to  love  her :  and  when  he  informed 
her,  iWth  a  good  deal  of  well-bred  dexterity, 
that  he  was  about  to  make  a  manage  de 
convenancc  at  the  urgent  solicitation  of  his 
noble  family,  he  was  quite  amazed  at  the 
girl's  violence.  He  was  willing  to  behave 
handsomely.  But  when  Zillah  started  away 
in  horror  from  his  offers  of  money,  like  one 
who  suddenly  sees  the  flat  cruel  head  of 
a  snake  rear  itself  from  a  flower  ho  has 
been  caressing,  M.  le  Vicomte  was  really 
shocked.  In  what  Fool's  Pai-adise  had  the 
girl  been  living,  to  give  herself  such  mock- 
heroic  airs?  The  daughter  of  lo  vieux 
Fonton  !  Que  diable  1  His  lordship  began 
to  look  on  himsGiJL  aa  a  victim,  and  to  pity 


himself  a  good  deal;  which  state  of  mind 
bad  the  desirable  effect  f»f  quenching  the 
pity  for  her,  which  the  girl's  pale  passionate 
face  and  streaming  eyes  had  aroused  to  a 
quite  UR comfortable  degree. 

Then  came  a  second  blow.  Captain 
Fenton  was  willing  to  receive  bis  daughter 
back  again,  but  on  conditions  against 
which  the  gii'l's  w^hole  nature  rose  up 
in  roYolt.  He  had  discovered  that  his 
daughter  was  attractive.  Why  should  she 
not  assist  him  in  that  DcviVs  Tecruiting 
service,  which  he  still  carried  on  sealously, 
but  with  very  fluctuating  success  ? 

In  brief,  to  return  to  her  father's  home, 
would  be  to  plunge  into  a  black  ^ulf  oi 
shame.  Zillah  told  herself  that  she  was 
desperate ;  that  she  cared  not  what  became 
of  her ;  but  fnom  her  fatlier  and  her  father's 
associates  she  shrank  w4th  a  shuddering, 
invincible  repulsion. 

Then  the  extraordinary  reser\^e  force  of 
courage  and  endurance  with  which  nature 
had  endowed  the  girl,  made  itself  felt.  She 
was  eighteen  years  old,  alone  in  Paris,  and 
almost  penniless.  But  she  struggled  like 
a  strong  swimmer  buffeting  the  waves. 
She  thought  that  she  wished  to  die ;  that 
the  waters  should  close  over  her  wretched 
head,  and  let  her  be  at  rest.  But  her 
youtliful  vigorous  limbs  struck  out,  as  it 
were,  involuntarily. 

Then,  one  watching  on  the  shore,  stretched 
out — ^not  a  hand,  not  a  warm,  comforting 
human  clasp,  but — a  staff,  to  her  aid.  A  diy 
hard  stick  was  held  to  her,  and  she  clasped 
it.  It  was  something  to  cling  to.  A  wo- 
man who  knew  her  history,  engaged  Zilluh 
to  attend  on  her  children,  and  to  tcaeli 
them  English. 

For  five  years  the  poor  girl  was  a  dmdgc 
whose  physical  fatigues  and  piiva^ns  were 
the  lightest  and  least  regarded  part  of  her 
sufferings.  But  she  pursued  her  sohtaiT 
way  inflexibly.  In  teaching  she  learned. 
She  worked  with  amazing  indushy,  to 
qualify  herself  for  a  better  position :  and 
she  succeeded.  Her  blameless  life  and  on- 
wearying  activity  had  softened  even  her 
mistress's  dry  heart  towards  her ;  and  when 
Mccs8  F&}vton  left  her  employment,  this  wo- 
man gave  her  such  recommendations  as 
procured  for  her  a  situation  in  England. 

From  that  time,  her  worldly  prospects 
seemed  clear  and  tranquil. 

After  a  year  or  two,  she  had  known 
Robert  Lockwood,  and  the  world  was 
changed  for  her. 

''  I  loved  him  so!"  said  Zillah,  sobbing, 
to  Sidney  Frost.     "  I  had  thongbt  I  should 


\v 


^ 


Charles  Dickcns.J 


VERONICA. 


[October  16, 1S69.]      459 


never  love  any  human  being  more,  and  that 
men  were  all  false,  sensnal,  and  selfish.  But 
he  came  tome  like  God's  sunshine  after  the 
long  black  winter.  I  felt  young  again,  I  who 
had  deemed  myself  old  at  five-and-twenty. 
I  ought  to  have  told  him  all  my  miserable 
story.  I  had  many  a  struggle  with  my 
conscience  about  it.  But — but — Robert 
honoured  me  so  highly.  He  had  such  an 
exalted  ideal  of  what  a  woman  ought  to 
be.  I  was  a  coward.  I  dared  not  risk 
losing  him.  I  had  been  so  unhappy, 
so  unhappy!  I  think  none  but 'a  woman 
can  understand  what  I  had  suffered.  And 
here  was  a  glimpse  of  Paradise.  Was  I  to 
speak  the  word  which  might  bar  me  out  for 
ever,  back  into  the  desolate  cold  to  die  ?  I 
tmdd  not  do  it.  I  thought  '  when  we  are 
married,  when  he  has  learned  to  believe  in 
my  great  love  for  liim,  and  to  trust  me  as 
his  faithful  wife,  I  will  kneel  down,  and 
hide  my  face  on  his  knees,  and  tell  him.' 
But  as  I  learned  to  know  him  better,  I 
found  what  a  fatal  mistake  I  had  made, 
in  delaying  my  confession.  You  know 
Bobert.  He  says  that  he  could  never 
again  trust  any  one  who  had  once  deceived 
Imn.  The  firat  time  he  said  so,  a  knife 
went  into  my  heart.  Oh,  if  I  had  but  told 
him  at  first,  he  might  have  pitied,  and  for- 
given, and  loved  me !  For,  God  knows,  I 
was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  I 
was  but  sixteen.  Think  of  it!  Sixteen 
years  old!  Well,  this  concealment  bore 
bitter  fruit.  My  father  has  been  dead 
three  years,  but  recently  one  of  his  old 
associates,  the  man  you  have  been  speak- 
ing of,  came  to  London,  found  mo  out, 
and  came  to  me  for  assistance ;  being  al- 
ways, as  all  his  kind  are,  either  flush  of 
money  or  a  beggar.  My  horror  at  sight 
of  him ;  my  dri»ad  lest  Robert,  "who  was  at 
the  studio,  should  return  and  find  him, 
showed  him,  I  suppose,  what  hold  he  had 
upon  me.  From  soliciting  alms,  he  came 
to  demanding  money  like  a  highwayman. 
I  gave  him  what  I  could.  Since  then  he. 
has  persecuted  me,  until  life  is  almost  un- 
endurable. I  see  Robert's  anxiety,  I  am 
tormented  for  him.  But  I  dare  not  tell 
the  truth.  This  wretch  threatens  me,  if  I 
do  not  comply  with  his  demands,  that  he 
will  tell  mj  proud  English  husband  all  the 
history  of  my  youth.  You,  who  know  some- 
thing of  the  man,  can  conjecture  in  what  a 
hideous  light  he  would  put  the  facts  he 
has  to  relate.  If  Robert  were  to  spurn 
me  and  despise  me,  I  should  die.  Oh,  I 
am  afraid  !  It  is  so  horrible  to  be  afraid  !" 
Sidney  listened  sympatheticaUy.   He  was 


(as  is  not  uncommon)  better  than  his  creed, 
which  was  already  a  somewhat  cynical  one. 
He  soothed  and  encouraged  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood  ;  promised  to  rid  her  of  the  scoundrel 
for  ever ;  and  adroitly  said  a  word  or  two 
to  the  effect  that  she  had  better  not  trouble 
her  husband  with  so  annoying  and  con- 
temptible a  matter. 

"  I  know  Robert  very  well,"  said  he, 
"  and  I  am  sure  he  would  not  rest  until  he 
had  thrashed  our  French  friend  soundly. 
Now  a  kicking  more  or  less  in  his  life 
would  not  matter  to  him  at  all.  It  would 
put  Robert  in  the  wrong,  too,  and  distress 
you.  I  undertake  to  punish  the  miscreant 
much  more  effectually.'* 

How  he  managed  to  get  rid  of  her  tor- 
mentor, Zillah  never  certainly  knew ;  but 
the  man  dropped  out  of  her  life  never  to 
reappear  in  it. 

Sidney  Frost  was  actuated  chiefly  by 
motives  of  kindness  towards  the  Lock- 
woods.  Wliatever  this  woman's  past 
might  have  been,  she  made  his  friend  a 
good  wife.  Robert  idolised  her.  He  was 
happy  in  his  unfaltering  faith  in  her.  But 
he  would  not  have  been  able  to  be  happy, 
had  his  faith  once  been  shaken.  That  was 
the  nature  of  the  man.  Frost  would  servo 
both  husband  and  wife,  and  would  keep 
his  own  counsel. 

Added  to  all  these  considerations,  there 
was  another  incentive  influencing  his  con- 
duct :  the  professional  zest,  namely,  with 
which  he  contemplated  baulking  a  rascal's 
schemes^ — ^a  zest  quite  as  far  removed  firom 
any  consideration  of  abstract  right  and 
wrong,  as  the  eagerness  of  a  fox-hunter  is 
removed  from  moral  indignation  against 
the  thievish  propensities  of  the  fox. 

The  two  years  that  ensued  were  the 
happiest  Zillah  had  ever  known,  or  was 
fated  to  know.  She  was  the  joyfiil  mother 
of  a  son.  Her  husband's  fame  and  fortune 
rose  day  by  day.  Sidney  Frost  never  re* 
minded  her  of  the  secret  they  shared  be- 
tween them,  by  word  or  look.  And  she 
had  grown  almost  to  regard  the  days  of  her 
misery  and  degradation  as  something  unreal, 
like  the  remembrance  of  a  bad  dream. 

But  a  change  was  at  hand. 

Robert  Lockwood  fell  ill.  His  was  not 
a  rapid  alarming  disorder,  but  a  slow 
wasting  away,  as  it  seemed.  A  short  time 
before  his  health  began  to  fail,  he  had 
yielded  to  the  urgent  solicitation  of  his 
fiiend  Sidney  Frost,  and  had  confided  to 
the  latter  a  largo  sum  of  money — the 
savings  of  his  life — ^to  be  invested  in  certain 
speculations  which.  SidTk^*^  ^^x^ciJiftfi^  ^R> 


^ 


p 

1X3 


4G0      [October  16, 18C0.J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoctcdby 


/ 


be  highly  flourishing.  And  as  has  been  pre- 
viously stated,  Sidney  in  accepting  the 
trust,  honestly  meant  to  fulfil  it  with  a 
single-minded  view  to  his  friend's  advan- 
tage. 

Then  came  temptation  :  a  combination 
of  temptations.  He  needed  a  large  sum 
to  complete  the  amount  necessary  for  the 
purchase  of  a  share  in  a  flourishing  legal 
business.  On  his  obtaining  tlie  share,  de- 
pended his  marriage  with  a  woman  whom 
he  passionately  loved.  He  used  the  greater 
portion  of  Lockwood's  money  for  tliis  pur- 
pose. He  described  the  transaction  to  liim- 
self  thus:  "Robert  shall  find  this  a  better  in- 
vestment than  any  I  proposed  to  him.  The 
business  is  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  England. 
With  an  infiision  of  skill  and  energy  such 
as  I  can  bring  to  it,  wealth,  great  wealth, 
is  absolutely  certain.  I  harrow  Robert's 
money  at  hsmdsomer  interest  than  he  could 
easily  obtain  in  any  other  way  !'* 

AU  the  while  he  was  desperately  ashamed 
and  troubled  in  his  inmost  heart. 

Zillah  had  been  told  by  her  husband  of 
his  having  confided  his  money  to  Frost. 
She  had  almost  as  undoubting  faith  in 
their  friend  as  Robert  had.  But  she  asked, 
"  You  have  a  formal  acknowledgment  for 
the  money,  of  course  ?" 

"  He  wrote  me  some  kind  of  receipt,  or 
I  O  U.  I  don't  think  it  is  what  you  call 
a  'formal  acknowledgment,*  Uttle  wife. 
But  from  Sidney  it  is  sufficient." 

"  You  will  keep  it  carefully,  dear 
Robert?'* 

"  Oh,  yes ;  of  course." 

"  Because,  you  know,  if  Mr.  Frost  were 
to— to  die !" 

Zillah's  quick  intelligence  discovered  that 
something  was  wrong  with  Sidney  after  he 
had  undertaken  her  husband's  trust.  He 
kept  away  from  their  house  more  than  had 
been  his  wont.  He  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. He  had  obtained  his  long-coveted 
partnership.  A  suspicion  of  the  truth 
darted  into  her  mind.  She  endeavoured 
to  take  him  off"  his  guard  by  adroit  ques- 
tions. But  her  woman's  cunning  was  no 
match  for  Sidney  Frost. 

He  confronted  the  matter  boldly  and  with 
outward  coolness,  although  he  inwardly 
writhed  with  mortification  to  be  abased 
before  this  woman  who  had  been  so  humbly 
grateful  at  liis  feet.  He  told  Zillah  how 
he  had  applied  her  husband's  money. 

"  It  is  not  exactly  the  investment  I  had 

proposed,  but  it  will  be,  in  the  end,  a  far 

better  one  than  any  other,  for  you  all.     I 

have  not  mentionea  my  change  of  plan  to 


Robert.  He  is  not  well  enough  to  le 
bothered  about  business.  He  is  the  best- 
heartod,  dearest  fellow  in  the  world;  but 
you  l-now  that  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to 
hoodwink  him  for  his  own  good." 

At  the  word,  the  hot  blood  rushed  to 
Zillah's  face,  and  her  temples  throbbed 
painfully.  She  understood  perfectly  the 
kind  of  bargain  that  was  being  made.  She 
reflected  that  her  first  deception  was  now 
bearing  its  legitimate  fruit. 

She  was  helpless.  She  carefully  locked 
Mr.  Frost's  informal  receipt  into  her 
writing-desk,  and  submitted  in  silence. 

"  When  Robert  gets  better,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  I  will  sxmimon  resolution  to  tell 
him  everything.     I  will." 

But  Robert  never  got  better ;  and  within 
a  few  months  he  was  laid  in  his  grave. 

CHAPTER  V.   A  MORIONG  CALL. 

Mb.  Frost  drove  home  to  Bayswater 
after  business  hours,  on  the  day  on  which 
Mrs.  Lockwood  had  visited  him,  very  weary 
in  body  and  sick  at  heart. 

Mrs.  Frost  had  the  most  stylish  of  tii^ 
broughams,  drawn  by  a  pawing  steeo, 
whose  action  gave  one  the  idea  that  it  had 
been  taught  to  dance  on  hot  iron,  like  a  bear. 

Mr.  Frost  used  a  street  cab  when  lie 
drove  at  all.  Very  oft^en  he  retained  ham 
on  foot.  On  this  special  aftiemoon,  he  was 
thoroughly  tired.  He  had  been  into  the 
City,  into  offices  wherein  his  partner  would 
have  been  much  amazed  to  see  him,  and  <Bi 
business  of  which  that  partner  had  not  the 
faintest  suspicion. 

As  the  cab  jingled  and  rattled  along  &e 
busy  streets  towards  BayswatCT,  Mr.  Frost 
leaned  his  head  back  against  the  frowsjr 
cushion  and  closed  his  eyes.  But  he  oonld 
not  deaden  his  hot  brain.  That  was  alive, 
and  feverishly  active.  He  ground  his  teeth 
when  he  thought  of  Zillah  Lockwood.  And 
yet  he  pitied  her. 

"  If  I  could  coin  my  blood  into  guineas 
she  should  have  her  own,"  said  he,  men- 
tally. 

But  if  Mr.  Frost  could  have  ocnned  his 
blood  into  guineas — ^in  one  sense  he  did 
coin  flesh,  and  blood,  and  health,  and  life 
into  lucre — ^it  is  probable  that  still  Mrs. 
Lockwood  would  not  have  had  her  own. 
For,  Mrs.  Frost  had  an  insatiable  Vjfg^ 
tite  for  guineas,  and  would  have  received 
any  amount  of  them  with  the  greedy  imino- 
bilitv  of  a  gaping-mouthed  Lddian  idol 

She  was  an  idol  that  had  cost  her  hus- 
band dear,  and  yet  he  still  worshipped  her: 
worshipped  her  and  did  not  reqMBOft  her! 


?= 


^ 


ChATles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[October  16, 1869.]       461 


Like  the  poor  savage  of  the  south,  who 
alternately  rails  at,  and  grovels  before,  his 
tawdry  Madonna. 

Georgina  Frost  was  a  magnificently 
beautifal  woman.  Her  face  and  figure 
were  noble  and  majestic.  She  was  grace- 
fdl,  eloquent,  dignified. 

"Mrs.  Frost  looks  every  inch  a  duchess," 
some  one  said,  admiringly.  But  Mi-s.  Frost 
had  once  stood  for  ten  minutes  side  by  side 
with  a  real  duchess  at  a  picture  show,  and 
after  that  she  told  her  husband,  with  a 
superb,  languid  smile,  that  she  should 
decline  to  be  likened  to  a  duchess  any 
more. 

"  A  little,  skinny,  painted,  flaxen-haired 
creature  in  a  short  gown,  and  with  the 
most  atrocious  bonnet  that  ever  was  perched 
on  a  human  head,"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  dis- 
dainfully. "  I  am  not  at  all  like  a  duchess, 
if  she  is  a  feir  specimen  of  the  genus !" 

But  nevertheless  Mrs.  Frost  was  pleased 
to  be  likened  to  a  duchess. 

Mr.  Frost  did  not  reach  his  home  until  a 
few  minutes  before  seven.  Seven  o'clock 
was  his  dinner  hour. 

"  Dinner  ready  ?"  he  asked  of  the  man 
who  opened  the  door  to  him. 

"  Whenever  you  please,  sir.  Shall  I  tell 
the  cook  to  send  it  up  at  once  ?" 

"Where  is  your  mistress  ?" 

"  My  mistress  is  dressing,  sir.  She  had 
an  early  dinner  at  three  o'clock." 

Mr.  Frost  walked  into  the  dining-room, 
bidding  the  man  send  up  his  dinner  directly. 
He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  sat  still, 
with  a  gloomy  face.  The  complex  lines  in 
his  forehead  were  twisted  and  knotted 
tightly  together. 

He  had  got  half  way  through  his  solitary 
repast,  eating  little,  but  drinking  a  good 
deal,  in.  a  feverish  way,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  his  wife  came  into  the  room. 

She  was  in  full  evening  costume.  A 
rich  silk  dress,  of  the  brownish-golden  hue 
of  ripe  wheat,  enhanced  the  clear  paleness 
of  her  skin.  The  dress  was  simple  and 
ample,  as  became  the  majestic  figure  of  its 
wearer.  Its  only  ornament  was  a  trimming 
of  white  lace  round  the  sleeves  and  bosom ; 
bat  this  lace  was  antique,  and  of  the  costliest. 
In  her  dark  wavy  hair  she  had  placed  a 
branch  of  crimson  pomegranate  flowers, 
and  on  one  marble- white  arm  she  wore  a 
broad  thick  band  of  gold  with  a  magnificent 
opal  set  in  the  midst  of  it. 

"  Ah,  you  are  there,  Sidney !"  she  said, 
not  looking  at  him  though,  but  walking 
straight  towards  a  largo  mirror  over  the 
mantelpiece.     She  stood  there,  with  her 


back  to  her  husband,  contemplating  her 
own  image  very  calmly. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  stealthily  looked 
at  her  in  the  glass. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked, 
surlily.  "You  told  me  nothing  about 
going  out  this  evening." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  did ;  but  I  might  as  well 
have  omitted  it.  You  never  remember.  I 
am  going  to  the  opera.  Patti  sings  the 
Sonnambula,  and  the  Maxwells  made  me 
promise  not  to  fail  them." 

Mr.  Frost  sat  looking  at  his  beautiful 
wife  with  a  strange  expression  of  mingled 
discontent  and  admiration. 

Suddenly  his  face  changed.  "Turn 
round,"  he  said,  sharply.  She  obeyed 
leisurely. 

"  Let  me  look.  Is  it  possible  ?  Yes ; 
you  have — ^you  have — taken  that  bracelet, 
despite  all  I  said  to  you  !" 

"  I  told  you  when  the  man  showed  it  to 
me  that  I  must  have  it.  It  is  the  finest 
single  opal  I  ever  saw." 

Mr.  Frost  dashed  his  hand  down  on  the 
table  with  an  oath.  "  By  Heaven  it  is  too 
bad !"  he  cried.  "  It  is  incredible !  Geor- 
gina, I  wonder,  upon  my  soul  I  do,  that  you 
can  have  the  heart  to  go  on  in  this  way!" 

Mrs.  Frost  looked  down  at  him  with  a 
slow  Juno-like  turn  of  the  throat. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Sidney.  What  is  the 
use  of  your  getting  into  passions  ?  No- 
thing would  go,  either  with  this  dress  or 
my  black  velvet,  but  opals.  And  this 
matches  the  earrings  so  well." 

"  And  how,  pray,  do  you  imagine  I  am 
to  pay  for  this  jewel  ?" 

Mrs.  Frost  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  How  you  are 
to  pay  for  it,  is  your  business,  not  mine ! 
When  you  married  me,  I  suppose  you 
were  aware  of  the  responsibilities  you  were 
undertaking !  Oh,  is  the  carriage  there  ? 
Tell  him  to  drive  first  to  Lady  Maxwell's, 
Edward.  And — ask  my  maid  for  the  er- 
mine cloak  to  put  into  the  carriage  in  case  I 
should  want  it  coming  home." 

He  walked  angrily  up  and  down  the 
room  after  she  was  gone ;  breaking  out  now 
and  again  into  half-uttered  sentences  and 
ejaculations. 

"  I  will  not  stand  it :  I  will  not  Heavens 
and  earth  !  To  think  of  her  coolly  taking 
that  opal  whose  fellow  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  in  London,  as  though  it  were  a  glass 
bead !  She  cares  no  more  for  me,  than  for 
the  stone  pavement  she  sets  her  dainty  foot 
on !  I  am  a  money-machine.  That's  all  \ 
But  it  shall  com©  to  \L\ie\i^^i,  \  c»iocaa\*\i;:^^^»- 


di 


:fe 


462       [October  10,1860.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoctedby 


/ 


I  will  not.  Why  should  I  griud  ray  very  soul 
out  for  a  womiin  "with  no  vestige  of  heart 
or  feeling?  I'll  send  her  to  Jivo  in  the 
country.  I'll  sell  her  wainirobo  by  unction. 
Millions  wouldn't  suffice  for  her  extrava- 
gance. I  have  told  her  that  I  don't  know 
which  way  to  turn  for  money — and  people 
think  mc  a  rich  man  !  Well  they  may  when 
they  see  my  wife  decked  out  in  linery  wortli 
a  king's  ransom.  Qood  Heavens,  that 
opal !  To-morrow  I  will  make  the  jeweller 
take  it  back.  She  shall  not  keep  it.  It  is 
too  monstrous." 

The  next  day,  Mrs.  Frost,  who  occasionally 
made  small  concessions  that  cost  her  nothing, 
when  it  became  apparent  that  she  had 
roused  her  husband's  indignation  too  far, 
offered  to  drive  with  him  to  Bedford- square 
and  call  on  Mrs.  Lovegrove. 

As  they  drove  along  eastward — ^Mrs. 
Frost  looking  very  lovely  in  a  morning  toilet, 
for  the  perfection  of  whose  freslmess  and 
simplicity  she  had  paid  more  to  a  fasliiun- 
able  milliner  than  Mrs.  Lovegrove  had  ever 
expended  on  her  finest  gown — Mr.  Frost 
lectured  his  wife  as  to  the  necessity  of 
comporting  herself  with  civility  towards 
the  Lovegroves. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  to  conciliate 
Mrs.  Lovegi^ove,"  said  the  fair  Georgina. 
"  Unless,  perhaps,  by  rigging  myself  out 
fi'om  top  to  too  in  Tottenham-court-road, 
and  arriving  at  her  door  in  the  dirtiest 
hackney  cab  to  be  found  !  I  really  would 
have  borrowed  Davis's  bonnet  and  shawl  to 
come  in,  if  I  had  thought  of  it :  only,  to  bo 
sure,  Davis  is  always  tliree  montlis  nearer 
the  fashion  than  the  Lovegrove  women !" 

Davis  was  Mrs.  Frost's  cook. 

Mr.  Frost  went  into  his  office,  saying 
that  he  would  open  his  letters  and  go  up 
to  pay  his  respects  to  Mi's.  Lovegrove  by- 
and-bye.  His  wife  was  ushered  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  waited  while  her  card 
was  caiTied  to  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Lovegrove's  drawing-room  was  hot. 
The  sun  shone  full  in  through  the  windows, 
and  there  was  a  largo  lire  in  the  grate. 
There  was  a  stuffy  fragrance  in  the  i*oom 
from  two  enormous  jars  of  pot- pour li 
which  stood  one  on  each  side  of  a  gilt 
cabinet.  On  the  cabinet  were  ranged  what 
lilrs.  Lovegi'ove  called  her  knick-knacks : 
namely,  a  huge  dish  of  wax  fruit  under  a 
glaiss  cover;  some  Dresden  figures;  a 
Chinese  puzzle;  a  Swiss  ch&let  in  card- 
board; two  or  three  cups  of  egg-shell 
porcelain;  a  statuette  in  the  so-called  Parian 
"ware,  representing  a  Spanish  lady  clothed 
entirely  in  loco  fionnces,  and  witla  u  toot 


about  the  same  length  as  her  nose ;  and  a 
blue  satin  box  worked  with  white  l>eads. 

The  furnitnr(i  was  drab,  with  red  satin 
stripes  in  it.  The  curtains  were  the  same. 
The  carpet  was  also  drab  with  splotchy 
cabbage  -  roses  strewn  over  it.  On  the 
mantelpiece,  stood  a  French  clock,  flanked 
on  either  side  by  a  cnt-glass  lustre,  whose 
pendent  prisms  jingled  and  shook  when- 
ever a  foot  crossed  the  floor.  There  was 
a  grand  piano  in  the  room,  dark  and 
shining.  There  was  also  a  harp,  muffled 
up  in  brown  holland.  On  the  round  centre 
table,  covered  by  a  red  velvet  cloth,  were 
disposcil  with  geometrical  accuracy  several 
books.  The  middle  of  the  table  was  occupied 
by  a  silver  card-basket  fuU  of  visiting  cards, 
on  the  top  of  which  was  conspicuously 
displayed  a  large  ticket,  setting  forth  that 
Genend  Sir  Thomas  Dobbs  and  Lady 
Dobbs  requested  the  honour  of  Mrs.  and 
the  Misses  Lovegrove's  company  at  a  ball, 
bearing  date  two  months  back. 

]!kL:s.  Frost  waite  1.  The  house  was  veiy 
still.  She  peeped  into  one  book  after  the 
other.  Two  were  photograph  albums. 
A  third  was  a  httle  volume  of  poetry  con- 
taining verses  in  celebration  of  the  month 
of  May,  which  the  Puseyite  writer  looked  on 
exclusively  from  an  ecclesiastical  point  of 
view,  and  stvled  the  "Month  of  Mary." 
There  was  Ukewise  a  Peerage,  bound  in  iw 
and  gold. 

Mrs.  Frost  waited.     She  had  ensconced 
herself  in  a  comfortable  comer  of  the  coudL  i 
It  was  hot,  and  the  end  of  it  was  that  Mrs. 
Frost  fell  into  a  doze,  and  woke  with  a 
sensation  of  being  looked  at. 

Mrs.  Lovegrove  stood  opposite  to  her. 

Mrs.  Lovegrove  had  a  pale  smooth  face, 
with  a  pale,  smootli,  and  veiy  high  forehead. 
Her  features  were  not  uncomely.  Htf 
eyes  must  liave  been  pretty  in  youth ;  well- 
shaped  and  of  a  soft  dove-grt^y.  Her  teeth 
were  still  sound  and  whit<?.  They  projected 
a  little,  and  her  upper  lip  was  too  long  &r 
beauty.  It  gave  one  the  idea,  when  her 
moutli  was  closed,  of  being  stretched  too 
tightly,  in  the  eflbrt  to  cover  the  long  pro- 
minent teeth. 

!Mrs.  Lovegrove  was  lean  and  flat-ohested. 
She  woi'e  a  lead-coloured  merino  go^ 
and  a  small  cap  with  lead-coloured  satin 
libbons.  She  affected  drabs,  and  brawi* 
and  leaden,  or  iron,  greys  in  her  own  attire. 
She  said  they  were  **  so  chaste." 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Frost  ?  I  am  » 
shocked  to  have  kept  you  waiting.  Yotir 
visits  are  such  unexpected  and  rare  fiivours, 
that  if  I  could  have  oome  instantly,  I  wonlo- 


^ 


& 


^ 


CbM,rleB  Dickeno] 


VERONICA. 


[October  li>,  1S60.]       463 


Mrs.  Lovcgrove  spoke  in  a  very  low 
voice,  and  with  pedantic  distinctness. 

"I  almost  fell  asleep,  I  think,"  said  Mrs. 
Frost,  with  much  nonchalance. 

"You  were — excuse  me — snorinij,"  re- 
plied Mi*s.  Lovegrove,  in  her  gentlest  and 
most  distinct  accents. 

Mrs.  Frost  did  not  at  all  like  to  bo  told 
that  she  had  been  snoring.  But  as  this  is 
an  accusation  against  which  we  are  all  help- 
less, seeing  that  in  the  nature  of  things  we 
cannot  be  conscious  whether  we  have  snored 
or  not,  she  did  not  attempt  to  rebut  it. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  keep  your  room 
rather — stuffy?"  slio  said,  wrinkling  up 
her  handsome  nose. 

"  Stuffy  ?  If  I  apprehend  your  meaning, 
I  think  7iot.  You  see,  you  live  in  one  of 
those  new  lath-and-plaster  houses  that 
really  are  barely  weather-proof.  No  doubt 
you  find  some  compensating  advantage  in 
doing  so.  But  I  confess  that  for  myself, 
I  prefer  a  solid,  well-built,  old-fiishioned 
mansion.     How  is  Mr.  l?Vost?" 

"  Quite  well,  I  believe.  He  said  he  was 
coming  to  wait  upon  you  by-and-bye." 

"  J«  he  quite  well  ?  Now  is  her  1  am 
rejoiced  to  hear  it.  !Mi\  Lovegrove  has 
been  thinking  him  looking  leather  fagged  of 
late.  We  live  in  high- pressure  times.  The 
friction  on  a  railway,  for  instance,  is  so 
much  more  tremendous  than  the  friction  on 
an  old  mail-coach  road.  And  yet  it  may 
be  doubted Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"  No  :  I — I — only  want  to  sneeze.  How 
very  pungent  the  stuff*  in  those  jars  is ! 
You  don't  put  snuff*  in  it,  do  you  ?" 

"  Snuff!     My  deai-  Mrs.  Frost 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  had  some  grains  of 
snuff  up  my  nose." 

"My  pot-pourri  is  prepared  after  a 
recipe  that  was  always  used  down  at  our 
family  place." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mrs.  Frost,  languidly.  "  I 
dare  say  it  is  veiy  nice  when  one  gets  a 
little— seasoned  to  it.*' 

Then  Mrs.  Lovegrove  led  the  convci'sa- 
tion  into  her  own  ground.  She  discoursed 
of  ritualism,  of  stoles,  tapers,  and  censers. 
After  these  subjects  came  the  British 
aristocracy,  collectively  and  individually. 
Thence,  she  sUd  easily  to  the  immense 
number  of  invitations  her  girls  had  received 
this  season.  Finally,  reserving  her  bonne 
bouche  to  the  last,  she  spoke  of  their  dear 
young  friend,  Miss  Desmond,  Lady  Tallis- 
Galo's  niece,  and  herself  connected  with 
8ome  of  our  most  ancient  fiimQies. 

"  I  am  no  leveller,"  said  Mrs.  Lovegrove, 
in  a  kind  of  self-denying  way  (as   who 


.!'» 


should  say,  "  If  I  did  but  choose  it,  I  could 
lay  existinp^  institutions  as  flat  as  a  bowl- 
ing-gi*een !").  ''  No.  I  appixjvo  and  re- 
verence the  distinctions  of  rank  and  birth. 
You  may  tell  me  that  these  are  inborn  2>re- 
judices " 

"  Not  at  all,"  drawled  Mrs.  Frost,  check- 
ing, but  not  concealing,  a  yawn. 

"  Well,  I  will  not  deny  that  there  may 
be  some  tinge  of  early  prejudice.  But 
when  we  lived  at  our  family  place,  papa 
always  impressed  on  us  to  pay  the  same 
respect  to  those  few  persons  who  were 
above  us  in  rank  as  we  exacted  from  our 
inferiors.  Papa  was  a  staunch  Tory  of  the 
old  school.     But  he  had  no  arrogant  pride 

of  birth.     He  used  to  say Ah,  here  is 

Mr.  Frost.  IIow  do  you  do,  Mr.  Frost? 
We  were  speaking — or,  at  least,  I  was 
speaking,  for  I  do  not  think  your  wife 
knows  her — of  our  dear  Miss  Desmond. 
You  cannot  think  how  the  gu'ls  have  taken 
to  her.  She  is  not  hero  half  as  much  as 
wo  could  wish  though.  For  her  attend- 
ance on  Lady  Tallis  is  most  unremitting. 
But  we  feel  towards   her  as  a  daughter. 

As  to  my  son  Augustus !  Well,  do  you 

know,  I  scarcely  know  how  to  describe  die 
impression  the  sweet  gii*l  has  made  on 
Augustus !" 

Mr.  Frost  smiled  very  graciously,  and 
seemed  much  interested. 

"  We  are  going  to  have,  I  won't  call  it 
a  painty,  a  little  social  gathering,  to  which 
we  have  persuaded  Miss  Desmond  to  come, 
on  the  Feast  of  Saint  Wcrewulf — that  is," 
added  Mrs.  Lovegrove,  with  a  melancholy 
smile,  "  next  Saturday.  I  dare  say  you  are 
not  familiar  with  the  saints'  days  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anytliing  about  Saint 
Wcrewulf,"  said  Mrs.  Frost. 

"  We  shall  have  music,  and  endeavour  to 
be  imiocently  gay ;  none  the  less  gay  for 
ha^ang  attended  a  matin  service  in  honour 
of  the  saint.  Our  rehgion  is  not  gloomy 
and  mii*th-forbidding.  If  you  and  Mrs. 
Frost  would  join  us  we  should  be  un- 
affectedly glad." 

IVIrs.  Frost  had  opened  her  mouth  to  de- 
cline the  invitation,  but  her  husband  inter- 
posed. 

"You  are  extremely  good,  Mrs.  Love- 
p^'ove,"  he  said.  "  We  will  come  with 
2)leasure." 

"  Why  in  the  world  did  you  say  yes  to 
that  oppressive  woman's  invitation,  Sid- 
ney?" asked  his  wife,  as  he  was  handing 
her  into  her  carnage.  "  I  shan't  go.  She 
really  is  too  much.  If  you  had  heard  the 
stuff'  she  was   talking    wV^vyo^^*  \\sst   *^^\£^ 


C9: 


=Sb 


4G-i       [October  ie.lS«9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condacted  by 


place !  And  she  devoured  me  with  her 
fishy  eyes.  If  I  had  not  had  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  thoroughly  well  dressed  she 
would  have  given  me  a  nervous  fever." 

"  Well,  that  consciousness  must  support 
you  on  Saturday  next.  For  we  must  go. 
And — ^Hsten,  Georgy — make  yourself  plea- 
sant to  Miss  Desmond." 


SPANISH  BURGLARS. 


// 


If  the  period  that  immediately  follows  a 
great  revolution  is  not  unfrequeutly  marked 
with  crimes  of  unusual  magnitude  and  daring, 
it  is  not  to  be  inferred  either  that  the  law  has 
been  suffered  to  fall  asleep,  or  that  those  in- 
trusted with  the  public  safety  relax  in  vigi- 
lance and  zeal.  It  may  happen,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  the  professed  marauder  finds  him- 
self pursuing  his  vocation  under  augmented 
difficulties.  The  organised  bodies  called  into 
existence  for  political  ends,  often  form  excel- 
lent auxiUaries  to  the  ordinary  police,  while, 
lacking  something  of  the  coolness  which  fami- 
liarity with  scenes  of  crime  ,  and  violence 
impiffts,  they  are  apt  to  save  the  state  consi- 
derable time  and  cost  in  dealing  with  the  de- 
tected ill-doer. 

In  the  case  of  which  we  speak,  the  ranks  of 
crime  are  swelled  by  several  classes  of  recruits 
— the  ruined,  the  dismissed,  the  proscribed, 
the  suspected,  the  liable  to  be  suspected — no 
less  than  by  determined  spirits,  resolved  at  all 
hazards  to  evade  the  operation  of  some  new, 
and  to  them  oppressive,  law.  Add  to  these,  the 
individuals  wno,  already  at  odds  with  justice, 
usually  prefer  the  seclusion  of  mountain  and 
forest ;  but,  in  troublous  times,  draw  nearer  to 
the  centres  of  humanity,  as  kites  hover  round 
the  scene  of  a  possible  battle. 

The  city  from  which  we  write  (Barcelona) 
has,  within  the  last  few  months,  witnessed  more 
than  one  strange  exploit  indicating  the  presence 
of  an  element  superior  to  that  of  your  common 
robber.  That  two  hundred  persons,  chiefly 
members  of  a  harmless-looking  club,  near  one 
of  the  principal  hotels,  should  make  arrange- 
ments for  the  pillage  of  the  bank,  guarded  day 
and  night,  and  within  a  hundred  yards  of  a 
barrack  containing  a  thousand  men,  displays 
both  courage  and  mutual  confidence. 

That  another  band  should  rent  a  small  man- 
sion some  distance  from  the  shop  of  a  rich 
jeweller,  and  construct  a  tunnel  conducting  to 
the  very  counter  of  the  latter,  which,  when 
discovered,  extorted  the  admiration  of  a  pro- 
fessed engineer,  evinced  both  patience  and 
skill.  This  attempt  succeeded.  Plate  (gold 
alone)  and  jewels,  to  the  value  of  five  thou- 
sand pounds,  vanished  through  the  tunnel; 
the  **  est^ra  "  (straw  matting)  was  even  drawn 
back  neatly  over  the  opening.  It  was  a  poor 
consolation  to  the  proprietor  to  remember  the 
kind  but  impatient  sefior  who  had  made  so 
inanjr  unimportant  purchases  at  his  shop,  and 
who  was  alwajB  tapping  with  his  caae  upoti 


the  floor,  exactly  at  the  spot  where  the  tunnel 
was  subsequently  to  open  ! 

These,  however,  are  trifling  incidents  com- 
pared with  that  which,  on  the  ninth  of  Sep- 
tember last,  created  an  extraordinary  sensation 
here. 

Close  beside  the  Paseode  Gracia,  the  Rotten- 
row  of  Barcelona,  stands,  within  ite  garden, 
strongly  railed  and  protected  by  a  porter's 
lodge,  the  beautiful  mansion  of  the  Conde  de 
Penalver.  Very  wealthy  is  the  count,  and, 
without  reckoning  that  (according  to  pubUc 
rumour)  his  voluntary  yeariy  tribute  to  the 
papal  coffers  touches  eight  thousand  pounds, 
and  his  charities  to  the  poor  of  this  large  city 
nearly  half  that  simi,  he  expends  a  vast  amount 
in  objects  of  art.  Sculptures  and  pictures, 
antique  vases,  porcelain,  tapestry,  cunning  work 
of  every  description  abound ;  and,  as  if  in  very 
plethora  of  wealth,  the  plate,  vessels,  &c.,  in 
ordinary  use  in  the  house,  are  of  massive  gold 
and  silver. 

For  the  service  of  such  a  household  trusty 
attendants  above  temptation  are  a  necessity ; 
above  all,  a  steward,  or  major-domo,  upon 
whose  supervision  of  the  rest  the  master,  in  his 
frequent  absences,  could  rely. 

Such  a  man  the  conde  imagined  he  had  found 
in  Diaz  Perez,  who,  for  some  years,  fulfilled 
the  functions  aforesaid  with  apparent  in- 
tegrity. What  precise  causes  led  to  his  dis- 
missal is  not  known;  but  that  the  conde^s 
trust  was  not  rudely  shaken  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  he  was  soon  afterwards  reinstated. 
There  was,  subsequently,  a  second  dismissal, 
and  a  second  return  to  office,  imtil  a  third  mis- 
understanding induced  the  conde  finally  to 
eliminate  Diaz  Perez  from  his  household. 

A  few  days  later  the  ex-steward  called  upon 
his  master,  and  urged  him  once  more  to  recal 
his  dismissal.  The  conde  unhesitatingly  re- 
fused. Finding  him  inexorable,  Perez  sul- 
lenly quitted  the  room,  muttering,  as  he  did  so, 
that  within  a  week  the  other  would  have  cause 
to  repent  his  determination. 

Fortunately  for  Peflalver  the  words  were 
sufficiently  audible.  Quietly,  but  without  loss 
of  time,  he  applied  to  the  police  authorities  for 
assistance  to  protect  his  house. 

Here  there  arose  a  difficulty,  which  threat- 
ened to  become  a  public  quarrel,  and  thus  to 
betray  the  precautions  about  to  be  taken.  The 
alcalde  declared  the  business  his^  the  conmuuider 
of  the  **  seguridad  pubhca,"  whose  aid  was  re- 
quired, insisted  that  it  was  his.  Precedence 
having  been  given  to  the  police,  seven  picked 
men,  cool  and  resolute  fellows,  were  detailed 
for  the  service,  and  lodged,  every  night,  in  the 
threatened  mansion.  The  conde  sent  his  family 
into  the  country,*  and,  at  the  earnest  instance 
of  his  friends,  followed  himself.  There  were, 
it  seems,  strong  grounds  for  believing  that  to 
take  the  conde's  life,  or,  at  best,  to  seize  his 
person,  with  a  view  to  ransom,  was  no  le«  an 
object  with  the  expected  assailants,  thfta  tlie 
plunder  of  the  house. 

It  was  on  the  third  night  of  the  watch,  at 
-nm^  in  the  evening,  when  the  Rambla,  the 


(Cx: 


:&. 


Charles  Diekem.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[October  10, 18G0.]       405 


great  promenade  (of  which  the  Paseo  de 
Gracia  is  but  a  prolongation),  was  at  the 
fullest,  while  a  few  late  equestrians  were  yet 
caracoling  past  the  conde's  house,  while  the 
audience  in  the  little  theatre.  Las  Novedades, 
near  at  hand,  were  absorbed  in  a  thrilling 
representation  of  "murder  in  jest,"  and  the 
overflow  of  the  latter  was  being  industriously 
caught  up  by  a  show-caravan,  that  a  band 
of  ten  desperate  fellows,  each  in  a  different 
style  of  dress,  and  approaching  from  a  different 
quarter,  but  armed  with  similar  weapons — re- 
volver and  poniard— and  animated  with  one 
criminal  design,  approached  the  conde's  man- 
sion. Swinging  himself  over  the  railings,  the 
steward,  Diaz  Perez,  opened  the  back-court 
gate,  and  admitted  the  gang.  Stationing  three 
in  the  covered  porch,  to  avert  interruption 
from  without,  he  opened  the  house-door  with 
a  forged  key  (he  had  provided  one  for  every 
important  door  and  lock  in  the  house),  and 
the  seven,  gliding  in,  proceeded  straight  to  an 
apartment  on  the  first-floor,  in  which  were 
kept  the  objects  of  greatest  value.  It  was 
their  plan  first  to  secure  these,  then  to  seize 
the  conde  in  the  more  retired  apartment  in 
which  it  was  usual  with  him  to  pass  this 
portion  of  the  evening. 

Hardly  had  they  crossed  the  threshold,  when 
Diaz  found  himself  confronted  by  an  officer. 

"Alto!  alto,  ahi!"  (Stand— stand,  there!) 
was  the  unexpected  command. 

Diaz  drew  his  revolver,  and  either  fired,  or 
was  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  when  the  officer 
anticipated  him,  by  shooting  the  unfortunato 
wretch  dead  on  the  spot.  The  rest  ran  down- 
stairs, only  to  encounter  the  levelled  barrels  of 
two  more  carbines. 

Their  comrades,  without,  had  taken  the 
alarm,  and  strove  to  force  the  door. 

**  Open— open !"  they  shouted,  eagerly,  for 
the  shot  had  already  attracted  a  group  of 
carious  listeners. 

"  We  cannot.    The  *  polizontes !' " 

"  The  window,  then  !" 

They  dashed  up-stairs,  regardless  of  three 
officers,  who  now  appeared,  to  bar  the  way. 
Two  more  fell  dead  under  the  shots  directed 
at  them,  the  rest  made  their  way  to  the  first- 
floor  window,  and  leaped  into  the  front  court. 
One  of  these  was  overtaken,  but  made  a  most 
desperate  resistance.  It  was  necessary  to  fell 
him  with  the  butt-end  of  a  carabine,  and  so 
effectually  was  this  done,  that  a  fourth  victim 
was  added  to  the  list  of  slain.  A  ball  passed 
through  the  hand  of  another;  but,  nevertheless, 
he  managed  to  escape,  leaving  a  portion  of  his 
shattered  thumb  upon  the  railings.  Another 
was  wounded  and  taken.  This  last  was  recog- 
nised as  a  noted  robber,  called  **  La  Licbre," 
(the  hare)  from  his  many  escapes  from  the 
hounds  of  justice. 

The  blood-stained  corpses  of  the  four  un- 
happy men,  laid  out  upon  the  steps  of  the  hos- 
pital to  be  identified,  presented  as  melancholy 
a  spectacle  as  can  w^ell  be  conceived.  About 
the  slain  in  battle  there  is  a  kind  of  grandeur 
that  deprives  the  defaced  and  squalid  image  of 


what  so  late  was  man  of  its  more  repulsive 
aspect ;  but  with  these  poor  wretches,  sent  to 
their  account  in  the  very  act  of  crime,  the  case 
was  different ;  and  eyes  that  had  gazed  on  the 
slaughter  of  Solferino  turned  with  disgust  and 
horror  from  the  view. 

All  four  were  strong,  well-made  men,  and 
wore  good  clothes.  Two  had  handsome  boots, 
one  a  pair  of  embroidered  slippers,  the  fourth 
*' alpargatas,"  or  Catalan  sandals,  generally 
worn  by  the  peasantry,  and  in  long  marches 
by  the  soldiery.  The  face  of  the  steward, 
Diaz  Perez,  though  much  mutilated  by  the 
death  shot,  was  that  of  a  bold,  determined  man. 
The  next  had  been  identified  as  one  Estartus,  a 
youth  known  to  the  police.  The  third  was 
recognised  as  '*  Lo  Xocolatox"  (no  one  could 
explain  this  term),  an  ex-brigand.  About  the 
fourth  there  hung  a  mystery.  His  dress  was 
of  fine  texture,  his  arms  were  choice  and  richly 
ornamented.  He  wore  fine  linen  and  polished 
boots.  His  liands  were  small  and  white.  If  a 
professed  robber,  he  belonged  more  to  the 
type  of  the  gentlemanly  highwayman  —  the 
Claude  Duval — than  to  the  low  and  lurking 
burglar  of  our  day. 

It  was  whispered  that  he  was  the  graceless 
son  (or  brother)  of  a  gentleman  so  highly 
esteemed  in  Barcelona,  that  it  was  easy  to  un- 
derstand a  wish,  that  seemed  generally  to  pre- 
vail, that  the  secret  of  his  name  and  parentage 
should  not  transpire.  It  was  he  who,  by  his 
desperate  defence  in  the  court-yard,  had  at  least 
displayed  the  courage  of  gentle  blood. 

TTiis  good  city,  though  by  no  means  unfa- 
miliar with  scenes  of  violence,  will,  for  some 
time,  bear  in  remembrance  the  tragic  raid 
against  the  house  of  the  Conde  de  Penal ver. 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  KORTH.       ST.   ALBANS  TO  BEDFORD  AND 

KDIBOLTON. 

Striking  up  the  old  north  road,  the  crow 
alights  first  at  St.  Albans,  the  most  interesting 
spot  in  all  Hertfordshire.  This  old  city  of  the 
British  kings  boasts  for  its  special  glory  that 
it  was  the  birth-place  of  St.  Albanus,  the  first 
Christian  martyr  in  Britain,  and  this  is  its  great 
and  special  legend : 

Albanus,  during  the  fierce  Diocletian  perse- 
cution, sheltered  in  his  house  a  fugitive  Welsh 
preacher,  named  Amphibalus,  who  converted 
him  to  the  new  faiUi.  The  Roman  prefect 
liearing  of  this,  summoned  both  Albanus  and 
Amphibalus  to  assist  in  a  public  sacrifice  to  the 
gods  of  Olympus.  Albanus,  instantly  chang- 
ing clothes  with  his  guest,  assisted  in  his 
escape.  Soon  aftor,  the  house  of  Albanus 
being  surrounded  by  the  legionaries,  he  was 
taken  before  the  prefect,  and  urged  to  join 
in  the  sacrifices.  Firmly  refusing,  he  was 
ordered  to  execution  on  Holmeliurst  Hill. 
On  his  way  to  death,  loaded  with  chains,  and 
pelted  and  derided  by  the  pagan  populace, 
Albanus  performed  several  miracles.  A  river 
obstructing  the  passage  of  the  proccssiorL 
dried  up  instantly  on.  «ii  y"^!^"^  ^'^  *^^  VOci 


^ 


«5: 


46G       [October  IC,  18C9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condaetadby 


I 


man  ;  aud  the  multitude  complaining  of  thirst, 
a  fountain  sj)rung  out  of  the  earth  at  his  wish. 
No  wonder  that  Heaven,  to  aven|;i:e  the  death 
of  such  a  man,  cauBe<l  the  eyes  of  the  execu- 
tioner U)  drop  out  bodily  the  moment  he  struck 
off  the  saint's  head  !  'J'he  corpse  of  the  martyr 
lay  undiscovered  for  three  liundred  aud  forty- 
four  years,  wlien  Offa,  kinj;  of  Mercia.  wishing 
to  found  a  monastery  in  remorses  for  a  son-in- 
law  he  harl  munlered,  a  lijrht  from  Heaven 
revealed  the  holy  giave.  U'he  king  placed  a 
crown  of  gold  round  the  skeleton's  sacred 
skull,  and  enriched  the  chapel  over  it  witli 
plates  of  gold  and  silver,  and  tapestry,  llie 
history  of  the  relics  in  St.  Albans  Abbey  is  an 
eventful  one.  In  the  reign  of  Athelstan  (930) 
the  Danes,  who  ha<l  an  appetite  for  all  plunder, 
sacred  or  profane,  tlmt  was  not  too  hot  or  too 
heavy  to  n^move,  carried  off  the  sacred  bones, 
which  wen.%  however,  recovered  by  a  daring 
monk  of  St.  Albans,  who,  after  long  service 
as  sacristan  at  the  Scandinavian  monastery  to 
which  they  had  been  conveye<l,  bored  a  hole 
beneath  the  shrine,  recovered  the  treasures, 
and  sent  them  back  to  Hertfordshire.  In  the 
reign  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  when  the  Danes 
reappeared  in  Enghind,  the  monks,  afraid  of 
such  rough  visitors,  hid  away  the  holy  bones 
in  a  wall  beneath  the  altar  of  St.  Nicholas. 
To  cover  their  pious  fraud  the  crafty  eccle- 
siastics sent  some  spurious  relies  to  Ely,  aud 
with  them  **a  rough  shabby  old  coat,"  sup- 
posed to  be  the  disguise  that  St.  jVlbanus  lent 
Amphibalus  for  his  escape.  The  invasion  over, 
the  rascally  monks  of  Ely,  with  chanuing  good 
faith,  refused  to  restore  the  spurious  relics. 

The  dispute  between  the  rival  houses  went 
on  with  true  monastic  bitterness  till  1256,  when 
the  saint's  coffin  was  conveniently  discovered 
under  the  abbey  pavement,  and  the  Pope  pro- 
nounced it  authentic.  The  controvei'sy,  how- 
ever, always  left  the  St.  Albans  relics  doubtful. 
It  wa.s  said  that  lung  Canute  had  given  away 
a  shoulder-blade  of  the  saint.  A  church  in 
Germany  swore  by  a  leg-bone,  and  even  now 
a  church  at  Cologne  claims  possession  of  a 
gopd  share  of  the  skeleton  suppo8e<l  to  have 
been  brought  from  St.  Albans  by  Germanus 
and  Lupus,  two  French  bishops  who  came  over 
to  England  in  1100.  The  miracles,  indeed, 
wrought  by  the  saint^s  bones  become  even 
more  miraculous  when  we  learn  that  after 
hwle's  time  the  site  of  the  saint's  grave  was 
entirely  forgotten,  and  never  ascertained 
again,  till  the  monks  found  it  convenient  to 
find,  or  invent,  a  saint's  body  for  King  Offa. 
The  lights,  the  copes,  the  golden  crosses,  the 
gol<l  and  silver  figures,  the  votive  jewels,  are 
all  gone,  but  still  in  the  Saint's  Chapel,  }>ehind 
the  high  altar,  six  small  holes  in  the  centre  of 
the  blank  area  mark  where  the  columns  stood 
that  8ii]>ported  the  canopy  over  the  shrine. 
There  is  scarcely  in  all  England  a  quaint  nook 
80  characteristic  of  mediajval  life  as  the  loft  in 
the  eastern  arch  erected  for  the  monk  who 
watched  the  golden  shrine.  At  one  end  of  thi.s 
]oft  t}wrc  is  a  small  staircase  leading  to  a 
vaiTow  vestibule  and  a  room  wbicl^  commaudB 


a  view  of  the  whole  side  of  the  church.  At 
the  east  side  of  the  abbey  there  used  to  be  two 
gratings,  now  walled  up.  througli  which  peasants 
were  allowed  to  view  the  shrine. 

In  digguig  a  vault  for  one  Alderman  Gape, 
in  1703,  close  to  the  site  of  the  saint's  shrine, 
the  lucky  sexton  discovered  the  mummy  of 
Humphrey  Plantagenet,  Duko  of  GlouceBter. 
the  fourth  son  of  Henry  the  FourtJi.  The 
duke's  shrine,  built  by  his  friend  Abl)ot 
Whcathamst^ad,  still  exista,  adorned  with 
seventeen  sliields,  aud  seventeen  canopied 
niches,  filled  with  little  squat  figures  of  the 
kings  of  Mercia.  This  is  the  duke  whose  wife. 
Dame  Eleanor,  Sliakespeare  has  shown  us  as 
walking  in  penance  through  London  streets 
for  having  consi^iretl,  by  witchcraft,  against  the 
life  of  Henry  the  Sixth.  Proud  Margaret  of 
Anjou  treate<l  the  duke  as  a  conspirator,  and 
had  him  arrested  wliile  attending  a  parliameut 
at  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  Such  birds  seldom  live- 
long in  a  cage,  and  seventeen  days  later  the 
duke  was  found  dead  in  Ids  IkhI — auoplexy, 
avowed  some ;  others  whispered  murder ;  hut 
the  wise  said  a  broken  heart. 

TTie  crow  cannot  leave  the  abbey's  old  brick 
tower  without  gratefully  remembering  that 
that  excellent  early  historian,  ^Matthew  of 
Paris  (so  called  from  his  Frcncli  education), 
was  a  monk  of  St.  Albans.  Tliis  honest  au«l 
candid  opposer  of  Papal  usurpations,  high  in  the 
favour  of  Henry  the  First,  was  a  mathematician, 
poet,  orator,  theologian,  painter,  and  architect. 
He  died  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the  First, 
having  completed  the  history  of  twenty-thrte 
abbots  of  St.  Albans,  and  what,  perhaps,  he 
thought  of  less  importance,  the  history  of  eigiit 
English  kings. 

I'he  savage  Wars  of  the  Roses  twice  de- 
luged St.  Albans  with  blood.  HoUinshead  tells 
the  story  of  both  conflicts  w^ith  rough  pic- 
turesquencsB.  In  the  first,  in  1455,  the  Duke 
of  York,  with  the  king-maker  Warwick,  the 
Earl  of  Salisbury,  and  Lord  Cobham,  dis- 
contented with  the  Duke  of  SomerBet.  the 
royal  favourite,  assembled  an  anny  of  WeUh 
horsemen,  and  marching  towards  London  to- 
countered  the  weak  and  half-erased  kinjr. 
with  his  two  thousand  men.  One  May  moni- 
ing  at  St.  Albans  the  royal  standard  wis 
raised  in  St.  Peter's-street ;  Lord  Clifford  de- 
fended the  town  banici*s.  The  Duke  of  YoA's 
men  were  drawn  up  in  Key  Field,  south-etft 
of  the  town.  To  the  king's  envoy  the  Yorkist^ 
replied,  *'  We  ai*e  the  king's  true  liegemen: 
we  intend  hun  no  harm ;  deliver  us  that  hvl 
man,  tluit  traitor  who  lost  Normandy,  neg- 
lected the  defence  of  Gascony,  and  brought 
the  kingdom  to  this  stato,  and  wo  will  instantly 
return  to  our  allegiance." 

T'he  king  sounding  tnunpets  and  offering  no 
quarter,  the  Earl  of  Warwick  drove  hack 
the  Lancastrians  and  entered  the  town  throngh 
a  garden  wall  between  the  Key  and  the  Cheqoer. 
at  the  lower  part  of  Iloly^vell-street.  The 
fight  was  **  right  sharp  and  cruel,"  till  the 
Duke  of  Somerset  fell  at  the  Castle  Inn  (» 
prophecy  had  bid  him  beware  of  cafdei),  •>» 


=* 


& 


Chsries  tMckcna.] 


AS  THE  CROW  PLIES. 


[October  16, 1W9.]      4^ 


near  him  the  Earl  of  Northumberland  and 
Lord  Clifford.  The  Lancastrians,  flying  through 
the  gardens,  left  their  king  almost  alone  under 
his  standard.  The  arrows  driying  roimd  him 
^  ^  as  thick  as  snow/'  he  was  wounded,  and  had  to 
t«ke  refuge  in  a  baker^s  shop,  where  the  Duke 
of  York  came  on  his  knees  to  beg  forgiyeness, 
assuring  him  that  now  Somerset  was  dead 
all  would  be  well.  **  For  God's  sake  stop  the 
slaughter  of  my  subjects  !^'  said  the  humbled 
king.  York,  with  feigned  deference,  led  the 
king  by  the  hand,  first,  to  the  shrine  of  St. 
Albans,  then  to  his  apartments  in  the  abbey. 
*'  Many  a  tall  man  was  that  day  slain,''  says 
Grafton  the  chronicler.  Historians  differ  (they 
often  do  differ)  about  the  number.  Hall  says 
eight  thousand ;  Stowe  Ave  thousand;  Crane, 
in  a  letter  to  one  of  the  Pastons,  six  score ; 
William  Stonor,  steward  of  the  abbey,  the  best 
authority,  deposes  only  to  the  burial  of  forty- 
eight. 

King  Henry,  who  had  early  in  his  reign 
visited  St.  Albans,  and  granted  a  charter  of 
privilege  to  the  abbey,  visited  Hertfordshire 
again  in  the  Easter  of  1458.  At  his  departure 
the  careless  king  ordered  his  best  robe  to  be 
given  to  the  prior.  The  royal  treasurer,  how- 
ever, knowing  the  king's  poverty,  redeemed 
the  robe  for  fifty  marks.  The  king  unwillingly 
yielded  to  this  prudent  arrangement,  but 
charged  the  prior  to  follow  him  to  London  for 
the  money,  which  he  insisted  on  personally 
seeing  paid. 

In  1461,  the  storm  of  war  again  broke  on  St. 
Albans.  This  time,  the  death  of  York  had 
roused  both  sides  to  the  utmost  ferocity.  Leav- 
ing over  York-gate  the  head  of  York  crowned 
with  paper,  the  savage  queen  had  marched 
to  London  to  release  her  husband  from  the 
grip  of  Warwick,  who  was  acting  as  regent  in 
the  abeenoe  of  the  young  Duke  of  York  (after- 
wards Edward  the  Fourth^,  in  Wales.  ITie 
queen  encamped  north  of  the  town.  The 
king-maker  posted  his  sturdy  archers  thick 
round  the  great  cross  in  the  market  place. 
The  Lancastrians  came  swarming  on  through 
a  lane  into  St.  Peter's-street ;  and  Warwick's 
men,  being  unsupported,  were  forced  back  to 
Bamet-heath,  wnere  the  vanguard  was  en- 
camped. The  Yorkist  Londoners  soon  fell 
back  before  the  strong  northern  men  from 
the  Cmnberland  mountains  and  the  Yorkshire 
fells.  Lovelace  and  the  City  bands  remained 
neutral.  At  the  approach  of  night  the  Yorkists 
fled,  leaving  the  almost  imbecile  king  cowering 
in  his  tent  with  only  two  or  three  attendants. 
A  faithful  servant  ran  to  tell  Lord  Clifford,  and 
presently  the  queen  flew  into  her  husband's 
inns.  Proudly  showing  her  son,  the  young 
prince,  who  had  been  by  her  side  through  all 
the  battle,  Margaret  requested  Henry  to  at 
once  knight  him,  and  fifty  more  of  the  bfravest 
of  his  adherents.  Tliis  done,  the  king,  queen, 
and  all  the  northern  nobles  wont  in  procession 
to  the  abbey,  tattered  and  bloodstained  as  they 
were,  to  return  thanks  to  God  for  the  king's 
deliverance.  The  abbot  and  monks  receiver  I 
them  with  hymns  of  triumph  and  wafts  of  in- 


cense at  the  church  door.  Two  or  three  thou- 
sand men  fell  in  this  battle,  and  the  queen, 
brutalised  and  driven  mad  by  her  persecutors, 
ordered  Lord  Bonville  and  Sir  Thomas  Kyriel, 
two  Yorkists,  in  defiance  of  the  king's  pro- 
mises, to  be  beheaded,  in  the  presence  of  her- 
self and  child.  After  this  second  battle  of  St. 
Albans,  Queen  Margaret's  troops  plundered 
the  town.  When  Edward  the  Fourth  ascended 
the  throne,  the  royal  displeasure  fell  on  St. 
Albans  as  a  Lancastrian  foundation  ;  the  wise 
abbot  Wheathamstead,  however,  averted  the 
wrath  of  the  new  king,  and  obtained  the  con- 
finnation  of  his  charter. 

To  Gorhambury-park,  in  June,  1621,  retired 
the  owner  of  the  stately  house,  now  a  ruin,  the 
disgraced  Lord  Chancellor  Bacon.  He  had 
pleaded  guilty  to  twenty-three  charges  of 
bribery.  In  one  case  he  had  received  from  a 
suitor  gold  buttons  worth  fifty  pounds;  in 
another  case,  a  rich  cabinet,  valued  at  eight 
hundred  pounds ;  in  a  third,  a  diamond  ring, 
costing  five  or  six  hundred  pounds ;  in  a  fourth, 
a  suit  of  hangings,  worth  one  hundred  and  sixty 
pounds.  From  some  London  apothecaries  ho 
accepted  ambergris  and  a  gold  taster,  and  ho 
took  from  certain  French  merchants  one  thou- 
sand pounds.  The  defence  set  up  for  these  acts 
is  this :  it  was  the  custom  at  that  time  all  over 
Europe  to  make  such  presents  to  judges.  In 
nearly  all  the  cases  the  presents  were  made 
after  the  suits  were  decided,  and  in  many  cases 
the  presents  were  received  by  Bacon's  servants 
without  his  knowledge.  The  Chancellor  him- 
self always  adhered  to  this  line  of  defence.  He 
wrote,  on  his  fall,  to  his  royal  master :  **  This 
is  my  last  suit  that  I  shall  make  to  your  majesty 
in  this  business,  prostrating  myself  at  yoiu: 
mercy-seat  after  fifteen  years  service,  wherein 
I  have  served  your  majesty  in  my  poor  endea- 
vours with  an  entire  heart,  and,  as  Ipresume  to 
say  unto  your  majesty,  am  still  a  virgin  in 
matters  that  concern  your  person  or  crown,  and 
now  craving  that,  after  eight  steps  of  honour,  I 
be  not  precipitatied  altogether. 

And  Bacon  says  again  in  another  letter : 

"  For  the  briberies  and  gifts,  wherewith  I 
am  charged,  when  the  book  of  hearts  shall  be 
opened,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  found  to  have 
the  troubled  fountain  of  a  corrupt  heart  in  a 
depraved  habit  by  taking  rewards  to  pervert 
justice,  howsoever  I  may  bo  frail  and  partake 
of  the  abuses  of  the  times." 

And  he  wrote  to  Buckingham,  with  all  the 
boldness  of  innocence  :  **  However  I  have  ac- 
knowledged that  the  sentence  is  just,  and  for 
reformation  sake  fit,  I  have  been  a  trusty,  and 
honest,  and  Christ-loving  friend  of  your  lord- 
ship, and  the  just  est  chancellor  that  hath  been 
in  the  five  changes  suice  my  father's  time." 

Fined  forty  thousand  jwunds,  sent  to  the 
Tower,  though  but  for  a  short  time,  and  de- 
prived of  the  Great  Seal,  Bacon  exiled  at 
Gorhanibiiry,  has  left  a  record  of  his  own  feel- 
ings in  that  solitude.  He  calls  himself,  touch- 
ing! y,  *•  old,  weak,  ruined,  in  want,  and  a  very 
subject  of  pity.''  lie  longs  for  York  Ilouac  vv^ 
the  Strand  or  Gtwj'a  Vftxx^  "^V^t^  V^  Tssi^gc*. 


^ 


«b?: 


9 


468      [October  16, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


[Condactedby 


have  company,  physicians,  conference  with  his 
creditors  and  friends  about  his  dehts  and  the 
necessities  of  his  estate,  and  helps  for  his 
studies  and  writings.  At  St.  Albans  he  says 
he  lived  *'  upon  the  sword-point  of  a  sharp 
air,  endangered  if  I  go  abroad — dull  if  I  stay 
within — solitary  and  comfortless,  without  com- 
pany, banished  from  all  opportunities  to  treat 
with  any  to  do  myself  good,  and  to  help  out 
any  wrecks,  and  that  which  is  one  of  my 
greatest  griefs,  my  wife,  that  hath  been  no 
partaker  of  my  oif ending,  must  be  partaker  of 
the  misery  of  my  restraint. '^  But  time  gra- 
dually made  Cxorhambury  less  of  a  prison,  and 
Bacon  expressed  his  resolve  to  study  ''not  to 
become  an  abbey  lubber,  as  the  old  proverb 
was,  but  to  yield  some  fruit  of  my  private  life." 
In  those  green  shades  he  studied  and  meditated 
with  his  chaplain,  Dr.  Romley,  his  faithful 
secretaiy  Meautys,  his  wise  amanuensis  Hobbs, 
and  his  loving  friend  George  Herbert.  In  Oc- 
tober, 1625,  the  autumn  before  he  died,  he 
wrote  to  a  friend : 

*'  Good  Mr.  Palmer,  I  thank  God  by  means 
of  the  sweet  air  of  the  country  I  have  obtained 
some  degree  of  health,  and  I  would  be  glad  in 
this  solitary  time  and  place  to  hear  a  little  from 
you  how  the  world  goeth." 

In  his  will  he  desired  to  be  buried  in  St. 
Michael's  church,  near  St.  Albans,  for,  says  the 
great  philosopher,  **  There  was  my  mother 
buried,  it  is  the  parish  church  of  my  man- 
sion house  of  Gorhambury,  and  it  is  the 
only  Christian  church  within  the  walls  of  old 
Verulam."  In  a  niche  formed  by  a  bricked-up 
window  on  the  north  side  of  the  church  which 
is  built  of  Roman  tiles,  is  a  marble  statue  of 
Lord  Bacon,  which  was  erected  by  his  faithful 
secretary.  Sir  Thomas  ^leautys,  who  lies  him- 
self beneath  an  almost  plain  stone  at  the  feet 
of  his  great  Gamaliel.  The  statue,  which  re- 
presents Bacon  seated  in  "deep  yet  tranquil 
thought,"  was  the  work  of  an  Italian  artist,  and 
below  it  is  an  inscription  from  the  pen  of  Sir 
Henry  Wot  ton,  the  diplomatist,  wit,  and  poet. 
"  Sic  sededat,  so  he  sat,"  says  the  epitaph. 
Bacon  is  leaning  back  in  a  square-backed  elbow- 
chair,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand.  He  wears 
a  long,  stately,  furred  robe  and  voluminous 
trunk-hose,  a  laced  ruff,  sash  garters,  and  shoes 
adorned  with  large  ribbon  roses.  His  capacious 
brow  is  partly  hidden  by  a  low-crowned  broad- 
brimmed  hat.    So  sat  the  mighty  Verulam  ! 

At  Bedford  on  the  Ouse,  the  crow  alights  to 
look  for  relics  of  honest  John  Buuyaii,  who 
was  bom  at  Elstow,  close  by,  who  preached 
^in  a  bam  on  the  site  of  the  chapel  now  existing, 
and  who  pined  in  the  darkness  of  the  old  gate- 
house prison  on  the  bridge  for  twelve  years, 
during  which  he  wrot«  his  wonderful  and  im- 
perishable allegoiy.  His  rude  chair  is  still  pre- 
served in  the  chapel  vestry,  and  tlic  county 
subscription  library  possesses  his  favourite 
book.  Fox's  Book  of  Martyi's,  two  volumes 
folio,  black  letter,  which  contain  his  autograph 
and  some  uncouth  quatrains  written  by  him 
under  the  rude  woodcuts. 

Another  good  man,  Howard,  the  philan- 
thropisty   23  associated  with  Bedford,   having 


lived  at  Cardington,  close  by,  where  he 
bought  an  estate.  Howard  was  the  son  of 
a  rich  Smithfield  carpet-seUer,  and  on  his 
way  to  Lisbon  to  observe  the  effect  of  the 
great  earthquake  that  had  swallowed  half  that 
city,  Howard  was  taken  prisoner  by  a  French 
privateer.  His  sufferings  in  France  led  his 
mind  to  the  question  of  the  condition  of  prisouei, 
and  the  rest  of  his  life  was  devoted  to  their 
improvement.  In  1774  he  offered  himself  as 
a  candidate  for  Bedford,  but  was  not  returned, 
in  spite  of  his  popularity  among  the  Dissenters 
of  that  town. 

Fast  northwards    from    Bedfordshire    into 
Huntingdonshire,  where  the  crow  selects,  amid 
the  pleasant  hills  and  valleys  brimmed  with 
golden   corn  and  dark  green  woodland,  the 
Duke  of    Manchester's    square    and  massive 
castle  of  Kimbolton.    The  Montagues,  from 
Montacutus    in    Normandy,    flourished    here 
from  the  time  of  the  Conquest.     Sir  Edward 
Montague,  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  Common 
Pleas,  was  a  member  of  the  Privy  Council  of 
Henry  the  Eighth,  and  one  of  that  bluff  tyrant's 
sixteen  executors.    The  castle  was  the  scene  of 
that  last  touching  episode  in  the  history  of 
Katharine  of  AiTagon,  which  Shakespeare  has 
so  exquisitely  dramatised.     The    ill-used,  in- 
sulted, deserted  woman,  had  objected  to  Fother- 
ingay  as  unwholesome,  and  Kimbolton,  which 
she  equally  disliked,  was  then  chosen  for  her. 
A  bill  had   just  been  published  against  the 
king  in  Flanders,  and  he  was  raging  mad  at 
the  Pope  and  at  all  his  adherents  who  would  nut 
legalise  the  divorce.    The  queen's  confessors 
he  had  thrown  into  Newgate.     Her  nominal 
income  of   five  thousand  a  year,    as  Prince 
Arthur's  widow,  was  paid  her  only  in  driblet*. 
The  brutal  king  even  refused  to  let  her  see 
her  child.      The  queen's  castellans   regarded 
with  suspicion  even  her  last  interview  with 
her  nephew  Charles  the  Fifths  ambassador. 
Henry  shed   tears   over    his  wife's  last  re- 
proachful letter,  but  instantly  sent  a  lawyer  to 
seize  the  property  of  the  dead  woman.    The 
queen,  in  her  will,  desired  five  hundred  masfies 
to  be  said  for  her  soul,  and  a  pilgrimage  to 
Walsingham  to  be  made  on  her  behalf,  and  also 
begged  that  all  her  gowns  might  be  made  into 
church  ornaments.      She  had  wished  to  be 
buried  in  a  convent  of  Obsenrant  Frian,  but 
the  king  had  her  interred  near  the  great  altar 
at  Peterborough,  an  abbey  which  he  spared 
for  her  sake.     Old  Scarlett,  the  sexton,  who 
buried  her,  lived  also  to  bury  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots,  in  the  same  cathedral. 

At  the  obsequies  performed  at  Greenwid^ 
the  king  and  the  court  appeared  in  black,  but 
Anne  Bolevn  dressed  herself  in  yellow,  and 
lamented  the  good  end  which  her  rival  had 
made.  A  chamber  hung  with  tapestry  is  still 
shown  at  Kimbolton  as  that  in  which  Queen 
Katharine  expired.  The  hangings  conceal 
the  door  to  a  small  ant^-room.  The  duke 
also  presoiTCS  a  travelling  trunk,  which  is 
covered  with  scarlet  velvet,  and  bean  upoo 
its  lid  the  queen's  initials  and  a  regal  crown. 
As  the  latest  historian  of  this  unhappy  woinan 
has    well    observed,  among  many  eulogists, 


agists,    I 


»eX: 


^ 


Clufflfts  IMckens.] 


MY  NEIGHBOURS. 


[October  16, 1869.]     469 


*'  one  mighty  genius  who  was  nearly  her  con- 
temporary has  done  her  the  noblest  justice/' 
In  fact,  Shakespeare  alone  has  properly  appre- 
ciated and  vividly  portrayed  the  great  talents 
as  well  as  the  mond  worth  of  the  right  royal 
Katharine  of  Arragon. 

Edward,  the  second  Earl  of  Manchester, 
became  a  great  parliamentary  general,  and 
helped  to  defeat  Rupert  on  Marston  Moor. 
Cromwell,  who  hated  all  half-and-half  mea- 
sures, accused  the  earl  of  refusing  to  complete 
the  rout  and  final  destruction  of  the  lunges 
army ;  and  the  earl,  in  return,  accused  Crom- 
well of  urging  him  to  conspire  against  the  par- 
liament. Cromwell  finally  was  too  much  for 
the  earl,  and  the  parliament  deprived  the  luke- 
warm earl  of  all  his  employments ;  a  severity 
he  returned  by  helping  to  bring  back  Charles 
the  Second. 


IN  THE  TROPICS. 

Thb  blue  wares  beat  upon  the  coral  reef, 
The  palm-trees  bow  their  coronals  of  men, 
Kissed  by  the  soft  south-west  wind.    Myriads 
Of  gold  and  purple-plumaged  orioles, 
Of  searlet-cresteo,  snowy- wingM  birds, 
Dash,  dazzling  meteors  of  living  fire. 
Across  the  fox^  track. 

The  ti^r  sleeps. 
Crafty  and  cruel-brooding,  in  his  lair, 
Waitmg  the  veil  of  night,  as  Evil  hides. 
Shunning  the  bright  rays  of  the  glorious  sun, 
And  battening  on  darkness.    Crimson  flowers 
Hang  from  the  creepers,  where  the  boa  lurks. 
Coiling  her  deadly  folds,  with  renomed  eye 
Fixed  on  the  path  beneath.    The  leopards  crouch, 
Half  wakeful  m  the  jungle ;  scene  so  fair, 
At  every  onward  footstep,  threatens — Death ! 
Low,  the  red  sun  declines ;  within  the  brako 
The  stealthy  jaguar  begins  to  stir. 
The  jackal  sounds  the  prelude  of  attack. 
To  warn  our  lingering  footsteps.    Safety  now 
No  longer  waits  upon  the  traveller ; 
But  diMord,  rapine,  and  a  thousand  foes, 
Gaunt-eyedC  and  crimson-robed,  and  ravenous, 
into  being  'neath  the  mask  of  Night. 


MY  NEIGHBOURS. 

Like  a  sick  man's  dreams, 

Varies  all  shapes,  and  mixes  all  extremes. — Fbi-HCIS.  - 

In  a  convalescent  state,  after  a  serions 
illness  that  had  rendered  mo  wholly  in- 
capable of  mental  exertion,  I  sat  in  my 
arm-chair  by  the  fire,  while  on  the  table 
near  me  lay  a  volnme  of  Eugene  Sne's 
Wandering  Jew,  and  another  containing  a 
portion  of  the  history  of  tlio  renowned 
Pantagmel.  I  had  been  dreamily  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  both,  and  had  been  much 
impressed  by  a  chapter  in  the  one  last 
named,  that  described  how  Alcofribas  (as 
Rabelais  called  himself)  ascended  the 
giant's  outstretched  tongue,  and  thus  enter- 
ing his  mouth,  discovered  therein  a  new 
world,  the  inhabitants  of  which  had  the 
vaguest  notions  of  everything  that  passed 
beyond  their  own  sphere. 

''  Is  not  every  one  in  London,"  I  asked 


myself,  "  much  in  the  condition  of  the  man 
who  planted  cabbages  within  the  precincts 
of  Pantagruers  jaws,  and  only  had  the 
faintest  Imowledge  that  there  was  another 
world  illumined  by  a  sun  and  moon  ?  I 
have  lived  at  least  six  years  in  this  house, 
and  what  do  I  know  of  a  certain  Miss 
Thugleigh,  who  lives  next  door,  and  of 
whose  ugly  name  I  should  never  have 
heard,  had  not  a  letter,  directed  to  her,  been 
brought  to  me  accidentally  by  the  post- 
man ?  She  has  never  left  home  at  any 
time  when  I  have  been  looking  out  of 
window;  she  is  neVer  in  her  garden, 
which,  by  the  way,  is  in  a  most  neglected 
state.  I  am  only  reminded  of  her  existence 
by  an  occasional  noise.  In  London  and 
its  suburbs,  save  by  some  rare  accident, 
is  not  every  one  in  pretty  nearly  the  same 
position  as  I  am  with  respect  to  Miss  Thug- 
leigh ?  I  know  rather  more  of  tho  man 
who  is  her  next-door  neighbour  on  the 
other  side,  and  whose  name  seems  to  be 
Bubblesworth,  for  the  artist  who  comes  to 
shave  me  tells  me  that  he  has  his  hair 
curled  every  morning,  evidently  intending 
to  hold  up  a  good  example  before  my  eyes. 
But  knowledge  like  this  is  the  very  reverse 
of  exhaustive." 

The  pursuit  of  this  foolish  train  of  thought 
had  caused  me  to  rise  from  my  chair,  and  I 
was  staring  vacantly  into  the  glass  on 
my  mantelpiece,  when  my  attention  was 
suddenly  arrested  by  a  remarkable  pheno- 
menon. The  movements  of  the  reflected 
figure  did  not  correspond  to  my  own.  If  I 
stirred  it  remained  still,  or  moved  in  a  dif- 
ferent manner.  The  eyes  alone,  which  were 
fixed  on  mine,  obeyed  the  ordinary  laws  of 
reflection.  Presently  my  own  arms  being 
folded,  the  figure  extended  one  of  its  hands. 
I  extended  a  hand  too,  and  the  figure, 
slightly  inclining  forward,  grasped  it  finnly. 
Instinctively  I  endeavoured  to  extricate  my- 
self, but  BO  far  was  I  from  succeeding,  that 
I  felt  myself  pulled  towards  the  glass.  Tho 
figure,  then,  was  a  reality,,  and  a  very  mus- 
cular reality  too,  for  I  could  not  resist  it. 
Whither  was  I  going  ?  It  was  soon  evident 
that  there  was  no  glass  at  all,  but  an  aper- 
ture in  tho  wall  surrounded  by  a  gilt  frame, 
behind  which  was  a  room  precisely  corre- 
sponding to  my  own.  The  position  was 
alarming. 

On — on  I  was  pulled,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  found  myself  enveloped  in  dark- 
ness. I  seemed  conscious  of  nothing  but 
vacuity,  when  suddenly  the  grasp  ceased, 
and  I  was  once  more  in  the  light,  seated  at 
a  table,  opposite  to  a  venerable  old  lady, 
whoso  white  hair,  neatly  -^^v^^  ^csta.  ^Om^ 


4^ 


& 


470       [October  It,  18«9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  EOmn). 


[CooiIbbImI  by 


// 


middle  of  the  forehead,  was  surmounted 
by  the  most  respectable  of  caps.  She  was 
absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  a  large  book, 
which  lay  open  before  her.  Not  knowing 
how  I  should  be  received,  I  refrained  from 
interrupting  her  studies,  and  took  a  leisurely 
survey  of  the  room. 

In  shape  it  was  a  prism.  The  ceiling 
and  floor  were  equilateral  triangles,  and 
the  walls  were,  consequently,  three  in 
number.  The  table,  too,  was  triangular, 
so  were  the  seats  of  the  chairs,  each  of 
which  had  three  legs,  and  a  huge  bird- 
cage, containing  a  vulture,  was  in  keeping 
with  the  furniture.  Door,  window,  or 
fireplace,  there  was  none ;  the  only  admis- 
sion to  fr^sh  air  being  afforded  by  a  trian- 
gular ventilator,  immediately  under  the 
ceiling.  On  the  few  shelves,  which  broke 
the  monotony  of  the  walls,  were  placed 
some  old  books,  two  or  three  bottles,  and 
several  knives  or  daggers  of  Oriental 
fashion.  But  the  most  singular  object  was 
a  hideous  Indian  idol,  Hke  those  tha^  repre- 
sent the  horrible  wife  of  Siva,  which  stood 
in  a  comer,  and  before  which  was  a  pris- 
matic stone,  exactly  similar  in  its  propor- 
tions to  the  room. 

"Well,  George,"  said  the  old  lady, 
suddenly  raising  her  eyes  frt)m  her  book, 
and  looking  at  me  fuU  in  the  £&ce,  ''  so 
you  have  condescended  to  visit  me  at 
last." 

Though  my  name  is  not  George,  I  felt 
that  I  was  the  person  addressed,  so  I  began 
politely  to  deny  the  condescension. 

**  Pooh-pooh !  never  mind  compliments. 
You  are  here,  and  that  is  the  great  matter. 
I  see  you  are  rather  astonished  at  the 
appearance  of  mv  room.  It  is  somewhat 
close ;  but  then  it*s  very  snug,  and  quite 
good  enough  for  a  simple  body  like  me." 

"  Unique  in  its  structure,  at  any  rate," 
I  said,  endeavouring  to  admire.  *'  I  am 
rather  curious  to  know  how  one  enters  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  wonder  at  that,  when  you 
yourself  found  your  way  so  readily,"  she 
replied,  with  a  slight  laugh. 

I  felt  uneasy,  for  I  did  not  care  to 
describe  my  passage  through  the  glass,  but 
the  old  lady  did  not  seem  anxious  for  an 
explanation,  since  she  immediately  added, 
"  It  would  not  do  to  have  a  room  too  easy 
of  access,  when  things  of  this  sort  are 
flying  about." 

With  these  words,  she  opened  a  drawer 
in  her  table  and  took  out  a  printed  hand- 
bill, with  the  formidable  heading,  "  One 
Hundred  Pounds  Reward."  Tliis  she 
placed  in  my  hands,  and  I  learned  from 
jt3  contenta  ih&t  a  butcher-boy  had  been 


missed  by  his  employers,  under  circum- 
stances that  led  to  the  suspicion  of  murder, 
and  that  the  reward  was  offered  for  the 
apprehension  of  the  supposed  assawrins. 

"  Luckily  he  did  not  live  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. But  on  the  whole  it  is  better 
not  to  venture  beyond  beggars  and  tioket- 
of-leave  men." 

"  Venture  wiiat  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Immolation !"  was  the  reply. 

«  Immo "  I  faltered.     "  Then  it  is 

your  opinion  that  the  unhappy  boy  was 
really  murdered  ?" 

"  Ileally  immolated  ?  Of  course  I  do. 
It  would  be  very  absurd  if  I  thought  other- 
wise, when  I  performed  the  sacrifioe  with 
my  own  hands." 

"  Atrocious  wretch ! "  I  began. 

"  Hoity-toity !"  interposed  the  old  lady. 
"  Don't  let  us  lose  our  tempers." 

And  really  when  I  looked  at  her  calm 
face,  I  felt  that  wrath  was  impossible.  She 
was  some  harmless  lunatic,  who  owned  to 
crimes  she  had  never  committed. 

"  I  bore  the  boy  no  ill-will ;"  she  pro- 
ceeded, "  he  was  as  well-behaved  a  lad  as  one 
would  wish  to  see.  I  would  gladly  have 
giv€fn  the  preference  to  a  mischievous  little 
vagabond,  who  rings  my  bell  regularly 
every  Saturday  afternoon,  in  cdebration, 
I  suppose,  of  his  half-holiday;  but  the 
butcher-boy  came  handy,  and  whan  one 
can't  have  what  one  wants,  one  must  take 
what  one  can  g^t." 

*^  But  why  mur — ^tliat  is,  immolate  any- 
body?" I  inquired,  intending  to  humour 
her  delusion. 

*'That  I  can  easily  explain,'*  ahe  re- 
plied. "You  have  doubtless  heard  that 
there  is  in  India  a  secret  sect  of  devotees, 
who  term  themselves  Thugs." 

"  I  have  read  of  that  detestable  fraternity 
in  the  Wandering  Jew  of  Eugene  Sue^"  I 
responded. 

"Your  strong  expreesion,  at  whioh  I 
take  no  offence,  shows  that  you  an  not 
unacquainted  with  our  princijues.  I  am  a 
Thug,  and  veil  the  fiict  by  assuming  the 
name  of  Thugleigh." 

It  struck  me  that  a  thicker  veil  might 
have  been  afforded  by  the  name  of  Smith 
or  Brown,  but  I  did  not  interrupt. 

"  I  therefore,  on  principle,"  she  pJO- 
ceeded,  "  offer  at  least  once  a  month  a 
human  sacrifice  to  the  Goddess  Bowanee^ 
whose  efl5gy  you  see  in  that  comer." 

"  I  would  rather  not  have  known  this 
circumstance,"  said  I.  "  Indeed,  as  yoo^ 
society  is,  as  you  say,  secret,  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  break  your,  rules  by  inikiiig 
me  your  confidant." 


<& 


^ 


ChATlet  Dfdeani.] 


MY  NEIGHBOURS. 


[October  16, 186a]      471 


I 


"**- 


''Not  at  ail/'  she  remarked,  smilmg. 
"  I  am  convinced  that  my  secret  will  not 
go  any  further." 

"  Yon  have  a  high  opinion  of  my  discre- 
tion," I  rejoined,  endeavonring  to  look 
flattered. 

"  I  have  no  opinion  whatever  on  the 
subject,"  she  calmly  remarked.  "  For  all 
I  know  to  the  contrary,  yon  may  bo  tho 
veriest  chatterbox  in  the  universe.  But  of 
this  I  am  sure,  that  dead  men  tell  no  talcs, 
and  I  have  selected  you  for  the  next 
victim.  Now,  don't  be  alarmed.  If  you 
do  not  like  it,  you  shall  not  suffer  any 
pain."  (Whilo  talking  thus  she  advanced 
towards  a  shelf)  "  It  would,  indeed,  bo 
more  regular  to  strangle  you  with  a  white 
scarf,  or  to  slay  you  with  one  of  these 
knives ;  but  as  yon  are  a  victim  of  a  supe- 
rior order,  I  can  afford  to  dispense  with 
extreme  formalities,  and  allow  you  to 
swallow  the  contents  of  tho  little  vial  I 
now  place  in  your  hands." 

"  Poison  ?"  I  inquired,  with  horror. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  and  of  so  eflBca- 
cions  a  kind  that  it  will  extinguish  life  in  a 
moment,  without  tho  slightest  pain  or 
inconvenience.  When  you  have  expired, 
your  body  will  be  conveyed  through  this 
aperture,  through  which  many — ah,  how 
many  ! — ^have  passed  before." 

With  this  she  touched  a  spring,  where- 
npon  the  idol  sunk  behind  the  stone,  and 
exhibited  a  liideous  face,  painted  on  the 
wall,  with  a  wide  mouth  o|)cning  on  dark- 
ness. 

Horror  gave  place  to  indignation. 

"  This  is  aU  very  well,  madam,"  said  I ; 
'*  but  if  you  are  a  lunatic,  I  am  not  bound 
on  that  account  to  swallow  poison,  and  to  be 
put  out  of  sight  like  a  posted  letter." 

"Resistance  is  useless,"  she  said,  draw- 
ing forth  a  revolver  and  pointing  it  full  in 
my  face.  "  This  might  hurt  you,  whereas 
the  vial  causes  no  suflFering  whatever.  You 
had  better  choose  the  latter." 

I  had  never  realised  till  that  momeui} 
the  feelings  of  Fair  Bosamond. 

"And  when,"  she  proceeded,  "the  god- 
dess grows  impatient,  the  jaws  of  her  pro- 
vider are  more  extended." 

This  was  tlie  fact,  and  I  was  inspired 
with  a  sudden  resolution.  One  road  of 
cscapo  was  obvious,  and,  in  a  fit  of  despe- 
ration, I  leaped  into  the  open  mouth,  head- 
foremost, like  a  harlequin. 

Again  a  few  moments  of  darkness,  during 
which  I  heard  a  shriek  of  female  rage,  and 
when  this  had  passed,  I  found  myself  in  a 
neat  little  study,  looking  at  a  slim  gentle- 


man, trimly  dressed,  and  especially  re- 
markable for  the  perfect  arrangement  of 
his  hair.     He  seemed  to  be  rather  startled. 

"  Well,  James,"  he  said,  "  you  need  not 
have  taken  me  unawares  like  this.  I  did 
not  so  much  as  hear  you  knock." 

My  name  is  not  jTames ;  but  rejoiced  as 
I  was  to  find  myself  in  a  room  where  the 
image  of  Boyranee  was  not  part  of  the  fur- 
niture, I  did  not  deem  it  expedient  to  cor- 
rect the  error.  Indeed  I  was  beginning  to 
stammer  out  an  apology,  when  he  fortu- 
nately prevented  me  by  saying,  quickly : 

"  No  matter — ^no  matter.  I  am  only  too 
happy  to  show  you  the  successful  result  of 
my  httle  experiments." 

I  expressed,  in  turn,  my  happiness  at  the 
proposed  instruction ;  ho  proceeded  thus : 

"  The  greatest  discoveries  in  practical 
science  often,  as  you  are  aware,  have  a 
comparatively  diildish  beginning.  The 
steam-engine  itself  was,  in  its  earliest  form, 
a  toy ;  and  it  was  by  means  of  a  boy's  kito 
that  Franklin  drew  the  electric  spark  from 
the  clouds.  I  have  devoted  myself  to  bub- 
bles. You  smile,"  I  had  done  nothing  of 
the  soi-t,  "  I  do  not  refer  to  those  hollow 
commercial  enterprises  which  are  stigma- 
tised  by  that  name,  but  to  bon&  fide  bub- 
bles such  as  urchins  are  in  the  habit  of 
blowing  from  an  ordinary  tobacco-pipe. 
Just  watch  me  now." 

So  saying,  he  dipped  the  bowl  of  an 
ordinary  pipe  into  a  small  basin  of  fluid, 
and,  with  evident  exertion,  ]>low  a  fair 
round  bubble,  which,  when  detached,  rested 
upon  the  table. 

"  Just  touch  that,"  he  said. 

I  did  so :  tho  bubble  did  not  burst,  but 
was  as  firm  as  if  it  had  been  made  of  glass. 

"  Now  you  see  the  nature  of  my  inven- 
tion," he  continued,  smiling  with  evident 
satisfaction.  "  I  add  to  the  saponaceous 
fluid,  vulgarly  termed  soap-and- water,  an 
ingredient  the  nature  of  which  I  shall  not 
reveal,  and  which  has  the  efiect  of  ren- 
dering the  bubble  permanent.  You  may 
dash  that  bubble  against  the  ground,  or 
strike  it  with  a  hanmier — still  it  will  not 
break.  All  you  have  to  avoid  is  a  contact 
with  fire.     Observe!" 

He  lighted  a  lucifer-match,  and  applied 
it  to  the  bubble,  which,  with  a  report  like 
that  of  a  small  cannon,  exploded  so  in- 
stantly, tliat  he  was  thrown  to  tho  ground 
as  if  stricken  by  a  thunderbolt.  However, 
he  rose  smiling,  and,  nibbing  the  part  that 
had  been  most  inconvenienced  by  the  fall, 
qijictly  said : 

"  There  is  no  occasion  to  repeat  the 
experiment?" 


ex 


472      [October  16, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


// 


"  Decidedly  not,"  was  my  remark. 
"  There  is  one  point,  however,  on  which  I 
am  cnrions.  I  cannot  sufficiently  admire  the 
singularity  of  yonr  discovery,  but  I  am  at 
a  loss  to  perceive  its  use." 

"  Oh,  that  I  can  easily  explain,"  was  his 
reply.  "Not  only  have  I  discovered  the 
ingredient  which  hardens  the  saponaceous 
fluid,  but  I  have  invented  a  method  of 
blowing  which  enables  me  to  enclose  what- 
ever object  I  please  within  the  precincts  of 
a  bubble.     Look  here  !" 

He  opened  a  cabinet,  and  showed  me 
a  collection  of  humming-birds,  butterflies, 
statuettes,  and  other  objects  that  are 
commonly  put  under  glass  cases,  each  en- 
closed in  a  hardened  bubble.  I  acknow- 
ledged that  the  invention  was  admirable. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  think  it  is ;  and  it 
will  soon  go  forth  to  the  world  as  Bubbles- 
worth's  patent.  But  I  have  not  come  to 
that  yet.  Just  sit  for  a  few  minutes  in 
that  chair,  while  I  prepare  to  astonish  you 
witli  an  application  of  my  principle." 

I  complied  with  his  request,  and  he 
slipped  behind  the  chair.  Presently  I  was 
aware  that  there  was  something  like  a 
medium  between  me  and  the  surrounding 
objects,  and,  throwing  my  head  back,  per- 
ceived that  Mr.  Bubblesworth  had  actually 
enclosed  me  in  an  enormous  transparent 
sphere,  streaked  with  brilliant  colours, 
which  resisted  my  touch  as  though  it  had 
been  of  iron.  I  was  manifestly  a  pri- 
soner, but  the  spherical  wall  of  my  prison 
gradually  receded  till  it  was  beyond  the 
reach  of  my  outstretched  hands.  Soon 
the  gay  prismatic  colours  that  played  in 
streams  around  me  began  to  assume  definite 
shapes;  some  of  which  apparently  were 
distant  from  me  several  miles,  while  others 
were  in  my  immediate  vicinity. 

I  was  standing  near  a  neat  whitewashed 
cottage,  in  front  of  which,  seated  by  a 
table,  on  which  stood  a  foaming  jug,  was  a 
jolly  old  gentleman,  of  the  conventional 
type,  which  we  often  find  repeated  in 
engravings  of  the  last  century  as  the 
embodiment  of  rural  felicity  in  advanced 
years.  To  sit  alone  smoking  and  drinking 
all  through  a  whole  summer  evening,  with  a 
fat  face  that  smiled  benignantly  upon 
nothing,  was  long  the  summit  of  human 
bliss  in  the  eyes  of  many  well-meaning 
artists  who  wished  to  contrast  the  innocent 
pleasures  of  the  country  with  the  riot  and 
dissipation  of  the  town. 

"  This  is  an  uncommonly  pretty  country, 
sir,"  I  observed  to  the  ideal  farmer. 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  he  replied,  "  though  it 


is  so  far  from  the  station ;  and  perhaps  for 
that  very  reason.  Ah,  there  were  no  rail- 
roads when  I  was  a  boy  !" 

"  You  came  here  young  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Came  here  ?  I  was  bom  here,  in  this 
very  house,  and  this  very  day  is  my 
eightieth  birthday." 

I  instinctively  glanced  upwards  towards 
the  sky,  as  if  to  catch  the  face  of  Mr.  Bub- 
blesworth, to  whom  I  would  willingly  have 
referred  the  doubts  that  arose  in  my  mind. 
But  nothing  was  above  me  save  the  pure 
azure.  I  could  address  no  one  but  the  old 
gentleman  himself. 

"  My  question  may  appear  very  igno- 
rant, sir,"  I  said,  "  but  what  county  is 
this  ?" 

"  This,"  he  answered,  "is  Soapshire,  on 
the  borders  of  Bubblesex." 

I  discovered  at  once  the  etymological 
origin  of  these  strange  names;  but  still 
I  scarcely  durst  trust  my  ears.  "  I  have 
heard,"  I  said,  "of  Shropshire  and  Mid- 
dlesex." 

"  Have  you  ?"  interrupted  the  old  gen- 
tleman ;  "  that's  more  than  I  have.  Maybe 
you  have  travelled  in  foreign  parts.  How- 
ever, this  is  Soapshire,  and  if  yon  cross  the 
river  you  see  yonder,  you'll  find  yourself  in 
Thughamp  tonshire. '  * 

Soapshire — Bubblesex — Thnghampton- 
shire — odd  names !  Not  only  was  I  still 
somehow  in  the  old  world,  but  there  was 
a  sHght  connecting  link  between  me  and 
my  immediate  neighbours. 

"Did  you  ever  go  to  any  church  in 
Thughamptonshire  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  very  often ;  but  I  have  done  such 
a  thing,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Ha  !  and  in  the  course  of  his  sermon, 
did  the  minister  make  any  mention  of — of 
Bowanee  ?" 

"  No ;  I  can't  say  as  he  did — ^leastways, 
while  I  was  awake.  But  I  tell  you  what. 
In  the  churchyard  of  Thugton,  which  is 
the  chief  market-town,  there  is  a  little  hill 
or  mound  like,  which  they  call  Bony- 
Barrow;  and  the  story  goes  that  a  great 
many  butcher-boys  are  buried  there  who 
were  sacrificed  by  the  Druids,  as  they 
call  them,  in  the  days  of  the  ancient 
Britons." 

"  Ha !"  I  exclaimed,  with  intense  in- 
terest. 

"A  very  curious  thing  that  barrow. 
Some  men  who  were  digging  there  some 
twenty  years  ago  foxmd  a  stone  figure  of  a 
woman  with  a  lot  of  hands,  and  you  may 
see  it  now  in  Thugton  Museum.  But  it  is 
getting  dusk.  I  think  I  may  as  well  send 
up  my  fire-balloon." 


=f 


^ 


53» 


Oharlei  Dlokens.] 


LIGHT.SHIPS. 


[October  in.  1903.]       473 


"  Fire-balloon  ?'' 

*'  Yes ;  my  great-grandson,  who  goes  to 
the  grammar-school  of  Thugton-cum-Sue, 
sent  me  one  as  a  present  for  mv  eightieth 
birthday.  You  most  know  that  I  was  bom 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  so  it  was 
the  boy's  fancy  that  I  should  send  it  up 
exactly  at  that  time,  that  ho  might  be  re- 
minded of  the  old  man  at  a  distance.  It  is 
a  sing^ular  thing  that  a  man  who  was  bom 
at  eight  o'clock  should  live  to  be  eighty." 

I  might  have  told  him  that,  inasmuch  as 
I  had  encountered  many  things  much  more 
singular,  this  last  marvel  was  somewhat 
ineflTective ;  but  as  tho  effect  of  the  lucifer- 
inatch  when  applied  to  the  surface  of  tho 
bubble  was  present  to  my  mind,  I  did  not 
care  to  dispute  about  trifles. 

"  I  think  that  fire-balloon  might  be  dan- 
gerous," I  remarked. 

"Not  at  all — ^not  at  all,"  replied  the  old 
gentleman;  "  and  if  it  does  set  alight  a  hay- 
stack or  so,  I  don't  mind  on  an  occasion  like 
this.  I  may  never  live  to  see  any  other 
birthday." 

"  That  I  think  exceedingly  probable,"  I 
remarked,  "if  you  persist  in  sending  up 
this  balloon." 

"Why,  what  has  that  to  do  with  it? 
You  don't  suppose  I  shall  set  the  sky  on 
fire!"  (That  was  the  very  thing  I  did 
suppose.)  "  I  have  heard  of  folks  setting 
the  River  Semaht  on  fire,  but  as  for  the 
sky— ho!  ho!  ho!". 

I  shall  not  describe  tho  preparations 
made  for  the  ascent  of  the  fire-balloon. 
The  old  gentleman  unfolded  it,  lighted  the 
tow  in  me  little  basket  that  hung  from  it 
as  a  car,  and,  as  it  slowly  arose,  watched  it 
with  delight  and  admiration.  Up — up — it 
went ;  and  down — down — went  my  heart. 
In  the  distance  it  appeared  little  more  tlian 
a  spark.  Bang !  Cottage — old  man — trees 
— all  were  gone. 

I  was  sitting  in  my  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  and  a  coal,  which  had  just  popped  out 
of  the  grate  lay  smoking  on  the  hearth. 


LIGHT-SHIPS. 

**  A  LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave,  a  home  on  the 
rolling  deep,"  may  be  jolly  enough  under  cer- 
tain circumstances  :  only  to  be  really  pleasant 
and  comfortable  the  ocean  wave  should  not  be 
much  more  than  a  ripplct,  and  the  deep  should 
roll  very  gently  indeed. 

And  though  most  people  would  enjoy  a  short 
experience  of  smooth  waters  and  beautiful 
weather,  few,  if  any,  would  care  to  live  en- 
tirely on  the  ocean  wave,  or  to  have  a  home 
altogether  on  the  rolling  deep. 


These  reflections  occurred  to  us  as  we  were 
passing  the  Nore  light-ship  a  short  time  since. 
We  wondered  wlmt  kind  of  life  was  theirs 
to  whom  that  vessel  was,  to  a  great  extent,  a 
home.  We  wondered  and  passed  on  ;  we,  bound 
for  the  French  coast,  running  as  hard  as  a  fair 
wind  and  ebb-tide  could  take  us ;  she,  solitary, 
moored  at  her  station,  riding  quietly,  with  one 
object  only:  to  stay  where  she  was.  Our 
wonder  eventually  assumed  the  form  of  in- 
quiry, and  we  gathered  a  nimiber  of  facts  con- 
cerning light-ships  and  their  crews  which  may 
not  be  uninteresting  to  our  readers. 

At  night  by  the  seaside  the  lights  from  these 
vessels  may  be  seen,  green,  red,  or  white,  re- 
volving or  fixed,  shining  out  bright  and  clear 
far  away  to  sea.  Be  the  weather  fair  or  foul 
still  tho  lights  gleam  out,  brilliant  and  steadfast 
if  tho  night  be  calm  and  fine,  but  occasionally 
lost  sight  of  in  rough  weather  as  the  light-ship 
goes  down  into  the  hollow  between  the  waves. 

These  vessels  are  placed  where  light-houses 
could  not  be  built,  and  are  made  to  serve 
two  very  useful  purposes,  viz.,  to  tell  sailors 
where  they  are,  or  to  warn  them  of  adjacent 
shoals.  It  is  very  easy  for  a  sailor  to  lose 
himself  at  sea,  notwithstanding  the  progress 
of  science  in  aiding  navigation.  Sailors  are, 
after  all,  only  fallible  mortals,  and  one  slight 
mistake  of  theirs,  an  imperfection  in  the 
compass,  or  a  strong  current,  may  put  them 
out  of  their  reckoning  in  a  very  short  time. 
And  with  a  dark,  angry-looking  sky  above,  and 
nothing  but  sea  all  round,  how  are  they  to  dis- 
cover their  error?  But  if  across  the  waters 
they  discern  the  light  from  one  of  those  out- 
posts of  civilisation,  they  soon  discover  their 
exact  whereabouts  by  the  distinctive  cha- 
racter of  the  light,  and  by  consulting  the 
chart,  and  are  then  able  to  go  on  their  right 
way  rejoicing. 

Kound  the  English  coast  alone  there  are  be- 
tween forty  and  fifty  light-ships ;  great,  ugly- 
looking  vessels,  always  painted  red,  with  their 
names  in  large  white  letters  on  both  sides. 
Day  after  day,  month  after  month,  in  fact,  for 
seven  years  each  vessel  has  to  ride  at  its  ap- 
pointed station.  After  those  seven  years  it  is 
taken  in  for  a  short  time ;  the  barnacles  and 
weeds  are  cleared  off  the  bottom  of  the  vessel, 
she  undergoes  a  thorough  overhaul  and  repair, 
and  is  then  sent  out  again  to  begin  another 
seven  years  of  pitching  and  tossmg.  Spare 
light-ships  arc  always  ready  to  take  the  place 
of  any  that  are  brought  in  for  the  regular  sep- 
tennial overhauling,  or  to  repair  damages. 

It  is  a  matter  for  wonder  that  the  vessels  ride 
so  long  at  their  allotted  stations  without  break- 
ing loose,  and  herein  lies  the  art  of  light-ship 
management.  It  tells  of  careful  supervision 
and  etticient  service,  that  only  about  once  in 
every  ten  yeara  is  a  light-ship  known  to  break 
away  from  her  moorings.  She  is  usually  moored 
with  a  single  mushroom  anchor,  weighing  be- 
tween thirty  and  forty  hundredweight,  which 
sinks  into  the  ooze  or  sand  at  the  bottom  of  the 
scjf,  becoming  completely  embedded ;  the  cable 
which  holds  it  would  scarcely  do  toY  \s.>«ts.\*Sol- 


chain,  each  link  \ievTv^  la-oAa  oil  ^tia  «sA  ^\Nsiw\  ^ 


o5 


^ 


474      [October  ici,  18C9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condncted  by 


inch  iron,  and  being  about  seven  inches  in  length. 
These  cubles  have  to  undergo  «a  very  severe 
process  of  testing,  each  Hnk,  before  it  is  made 
use  of  for  mooring  purposes,  having  to  bear  a 
strain  equal  to  a  weight  of  thirty  tons.  Each 
vessel  is  supplied  with  about  two  hundred  and 
tea  fathoms,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so,  of  this 
cable.  Those  which  are  moorcnl  in  very  deep 
water  have  as  much  more  as  the  depth  of  water 
renders  necessary.  It  is  by  the  skilfid  manage- 
ment of  the  cable  that  a  liglit-ship  is  enabled  to 
ride  out  the  liercest  storm  in  safety.  In  smooth 
weather  they  have  only  a  short  cable  out,  but 
when  it  is  rough  and  the  billows  run  high,  they 
let  out  sufficient  chain  to  enable  her  to  mount 
up  to  the  very  top  of  the  great  waves.  She 
is  never  allowed  to  go  to  the  extreme  length 
of  her  tether ;  as  she  rises  she  takes  as  much 
chain  as  she  wants,  still  leaving  a  quantity  on 
the  ground,  whereby  she  seldom  jerks  at  the 
anchor,  or  has  a  tight  strain  on  the  cable.  TTic 
constant  rise  and  fall  of  the  cable,  and  the 
swinging  of  the  vessel  round  with  the  tide,  often 
occasion  strange  combinations,  and  the  great 
chains  have  been  known  to  tic  themselves  in 
knots,  or  to  do  themselves  up  in  such  tangled 
bunches,  that  it  was  with  great  difficulty  they 
were  disentangled,  the  latter  operation  having 
to  be  generally  performed  by  means  of  sledge- 
hammers and  anvils. 

Some  readers  perhaps  wonder  how  the  lights 
are  maintained  bright  and  clear  on  very  stonuy 
nights,  and  why  the  rolling  and  plunging  of 
the  vessel  does  not  upset  all  the  lighting  ar- 
rangements. It  is  managed  in  this  way.  The 
lantern  is  made  to  surround  the  mast  so  as  to 
show  light  all  round ;  it  is  hoistxjd  up  at  night, 
but  is  lowered  on  to  the  deck  in  the  daytime. 
Inside  the  lantern  is  a  circular  framework,  on 
to  which  are  fitted  a  number  of  argand  lamps 
with  reflectors  behiufl;  each  lamp  and  each 
reflector  swings  by  means  of  gimbal  work,  so 
that  however  much  the  ship  may  lurch  or  roll 
the  lamps  and  reflectors  are  kept  perpendicular 
by  their  own  weight  This  apx)ai'atus  i*equires 
a  good  deal  of  attention  to  keep  it  always  in 
easy  working  condition,  more  esj)ccially  when 
the  vessel  has  revolving  lights  with  clockwork 
machinery  to  turn  them. 

It  is  the  business  of  the  crew  to  keep  good 
lights  burning ;  to  work  (ynih  a  windlass)  the 
civble  in  and  out  as  occasion  may  require ;  to 
lire  warning  signals  if  they,  sec  a  vessel  stand- 
ing into  danger,  and  distress  signals  if  assist- 
ance is  wanted  from  shore ;  in  fact  to  make 
themselves  as  serviceable  as  they  can  to  pass- 
ing ships.  Tlie  whole  crew  is  composed  of 
eleven  men ;  a  master,  a  mate,  three  lamp- 
lighters, and  six  seamen  ;  but  of  these,  four 
are  always  on  shore  in  turn,  so  that  seven  men 
only  are  on  board  at  one  time ;  the  master  and 
mate  have  alternate  months  afloat  and  ashore, 
the  rest  of  the  crew  have  two  months  afloat 
and  one  mouth  ashore.  At  the  beginning  of 
each  mouth  the  Trinity  steamers  co  out  with 
nunihers  of  unhappy-looking  men  who  are  going 
tv  he  loft  at  sea  for  two  months,  and  retum  mt^ 
much  merrier  crews  ivho  axe  about  to  liav^ 
their  month  ashore.    These  latter  olten  com<^ 


back  laden  with  toys,  boots,  &c.,  which  they 
have  made  in  their  spare  time  on  board  the 
light-ship,  which  articles  they  sell  on  shore. 

It  is  no  joke  being  on  boai"d  a  light -ship  in 
rough  weather.    Here  is  a  melancholy  incident 
which  occuiTed  a  few  years  since.  Two  seamen 
of  the  light -vessel  in  Morecambe  Bay  bad  the 
watch  one  terrific  night ;  one  had  gone  below 
for  a  moment  or  two,  and  while  there  he  felt  a 
tremendous  sea  strike  the  ship ;  he  made  his 
way  uf)  again,  but  his  comrade  was  not  to  be 
seen  :  heliad  no  doubt  been  caught  up  by  the 
furious  sea  and  carried  overboard.     Another 
huge  wave  presently  broke  over  the  ship,  and 
this  time  seized  and  carried  off  the  remaining 
seaman.    The  officer  in  charge,  in  pursuance 
of  the  regulation  requiring  hun  to  go  up  fre- 
quently on  deck*  in  rough  weather  to  see  that 
all  was  right,  went  on  deck  and  missed  the  two 
men  who  had  the  watch.    He  saw  the  state  of 
the  weather  and  feared  something  dreadful  had 
happened,  and  then  he  took  the  watch  upon 
himself,  bravely  lashing  himself  with  a  rope  to 
the  mast.    The  great  waves  dashed  over  the 
vessel,  but  still  he  remained  faithfol  to  hifldaty. 
Meanwhile  the  light  burned  bright  and  clear, 
and  in  spite  of  the  fury  of  the  stoi-m  flashed 
across  the  troubled  waters,  faithfully  fulfiUiog 
its  beneficent  purpose. 

Some  stations  are  more  comfortable  than  I 
others ;  several  of  those  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Thames  are  what  the  sailors  would  call  tole- 
rably snug  berths ;  the  Nore,  for  instance,  is 
very  much  to  be  preferred  to  the  Galloper, 
which  is  twenty-two  miles  off  the  Essex  coast, 
or  the  Outer  Dowsing  off  the  Lincolnsliire 
coast,  which'  is  still  further  out  to  sea.  At 
every  station  with  bad  weather  they  have 
l)lenty  of  tossing  about,  but  at  the  Galloper 
the  sea  always  appears  to  bo  *' lumpy:'  * 
quick  succession  of  nasty  sliort  waves  keep  the 
vessel  iu  a  continual  state  of  jumping.  At  the 
Outer  Dowsing  they  get  the  full  benefit  of  the 
North  Sea,  and  are  very  seldom  quiet.  Thon 
there  is  the  Seven  Stones  light-ship  mooitjd 
in  forty  fathoms  water  off  the  Scilfy  Islands. 
Here  they  experience  unusually  heavy  seas; 
the  vessel  has  to  ride  over  great  rollers  from 
the  Atlantic,  which  in  rough  weather  runalmofit 
mountains  high.  1'he  special  dangers  of  this 
station  have  made  it  necessary  that  a  crew  of 
eighteen  men  should  be  attached  to  her,  elevfn 
of  whom  are  always  on  board.  She  is  also  pro- 
vided with  an  extra  allowance  of  chain  cablf. 
and  has  been  known  to  have  out  as  muchiv* 
three  hundred  fathoms  so  that  she  might  ride 
safely  over  the  gigantic  waves. 

The  crews  of  the  light-ships  are  occasionallT 
honoured  by  visitors.  The  Trinity  yacht,  vith 
some  of  the  members  of  the  Trinity  Boari 
sometimes  unexpectedly  appears,  aiii  an  ^' 
spection  is  made  of  the  condition  of  the  vesaeL 
Woe  to  the  officer  iu  chaige  if  any  sign  oi 
neglect  shows  itself :  the  severe  displeasure  of 
the  board  will  be  visited  on  him.  But,  credit- 
able alike  to  the  vigilance  of  the  members  of 
\\\^  \iOMd  a,\id  to  tic  esprit  de  coipa  of  the 
"mftti  m  \\vft  viWvsfc  *Oa!wsi  S&  «^dom  occaaon 


z^ 


CIlUlf*I>l0k«M.J 


THE  DISAPPEARiNCE  OP  JOHN  ACKLATTO.    [Ocl  le,  m».]    i?5 


to  entertain  shipwreckwl  crewa,  taking  them 
in  fiDiI  friving  them  board  and  lodging  until 
an  opportunity  ocdirs  for  sending  them  ashore. 
There  is  amoujKt  our  voyaging  Railora  a  kindly 
STOipathy  tor  the  lightsweii,  and  a  juBt  appre- 
ciation of  the  valuo  of  the  light-shipe  to  nari- 
gation,  an<l  in  coiiscquvnce  captains  of  passing 
vessels  will  often  go  close  to  the  liglit-ahip, 
the  Bailors  will  shout  out  a  friendly  satutalJOD 
and  fling  out  a  bun<lle  of  newspapers  or  some 
other  equally  acceptable  offering  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Itghtsmen.  But  the  most  remarkable 
Tisitora  come  on  very  dark  and  cloudy  nights. 
It  is  then  that  belated  birds  who  have  Hown 
oot  to  sea  and  are  unable  to  find  their  way 
back  in  tho  dark,  arc  attracted  by  the  ship's 
lights,  and  settle  in  hundreds  on  the  riggiug 
and  about  the  ship.  Some  of  the  more  thought- 
less and  rash,  in  their  eager  haste  to  reach  the 
light,  fly  towards  it  with  all  their  strength,  and 
before  they  know  where  they  ore,  come  with 
great  force  against  the  lantern  glass  and  fall 
stunned  and  often  killed  on  the  deck.  Many 
people  would  be  astonished  to  hear  of  the  wood- 
cocks, partridges,  blackbirds,  thrushes,  &c.. 
that  are  Bometuues  caught  by  the  seamen  of 
the  l^t-vessels. 

It  is  somewhat  suiprising  that  men  can  be 
leadily  found  to  man  these  ships.  To  be 
cooped  lip  in  a  vessel  of  one  hundred  ajid  fiJty 
tons,  which  is  chained  to  one  position  in  >i 
dreary  waste  of  waters ;  to  be  sabjected  to  all 
the  perils  of  storms  and  tempests ;  to  be  con- 
tinually pitched  and  Ilung  about — all  this 
vould  seem  to  make  life  s  burden  and  a 
misery.  But  there  are  men  who  like  to  tumble 
throngh  life,  who  deliyht  in  being  tempest- 
tossed  and  storm-beaten,  and  who  are  quite 
■willing  to  undergo  the  perils  and  hardships  of 
life  in  a  light-ship,  provided  they  can  earn  a 
livelihood  by  it.  Moreover,  as  a  rule,  these 
tnen  are  by  no  means  intelligent,  and  therefore 
do  not  want  any  intellectual  food  ;  they  are 
^nerally  to  bo  found  in  that  state  of  mental 
vacuity  which  seems  to  be  a  not  uncommon 
condition  of  mind  at  sea.  But  they  are  re- 
inarkable  for  the  dogrjed  bravery  with  which 
they  will  discharge  their  important  duties,  in 
Spite  of  the  wildest  raging  of  the  sea,  or  the 
Kuoet  blnstering  fury  of  tlie  wind. 


THE  DISAPPEAKAKCE  OF  JOHN 

AUKLAND. 

A  Tedb  Stobt. 


il.vrTEKB.      CniPTEB'  X. 

Mb.  D'Oilet,  tho  watchmaker,  was  a 
strange  mixture  of  practical  shrcwdnesa  and 
Hn  inveterate  appetite  fur  the  miraculona. 
Spiritualism  had  not  then  been  invented. 
Otherwise  Mr.  D'Oiley  would  snrely  hove 
l^een  ono  of  its  most  enthusiastic  disciples. 
Jiat  on  the  snbjcct  of  animal  magnetism, 
electro- biology,  presentiments,  clairvoyance, 
tad  second  sigot,  Mr.  D'Oiley  was  great 
and  terrible.  The  whole  atoiy  of  John  Ack- 


lond,  in  all  its  details,  had  been  discussed 
'  in  every  circln  of  Kiclimond  society,  high 

and   low.      M.'.  D'Oiley  wns  well  up  in  it ; 

and  he  had  formed  very  decided  opinions 
'  about  it.     Ho  confided  them  to  tho  wife  of 

I  "  Just  look  at  the  case  withont  prc- 
I  jndice,"  saJd  Mr.  D'Oiley,  in  the  conBdenoo 
'  of  the  nuptial  coudi.  "  How  docs  it  stand, 
ma'am?  It  iawell  known  that  Cartwright 
I  owed  Ackland  a  large  Bom  of  money.  It 
'  is  equally  well  known,  ma'am,  tbat  Catt- 
wrig-ht  never  had  a  large  sum  of  money — 
of  his  own.  How,  then,  did  he  get  the 
!  money  with  which  he  says  he  paid  off  his 
debt  to  Ackland  ?  There  are  only  two  ways, 
tny  dear,  in  which  that  man  could  have  got 
that  money.  Either  by  a  loan  from  some 
other  person,  to  bo  repaid  at  the  shortoat 
possible  date,  or  by  a  foi^ry.  Tho  first 
is  not  probable.  The  second  is.  In  cither 
I  case  it  would  liavo  been  a  matter  of 
vital  importance  to  Cartwright  to  regain 
^  possession  of  the  money  ho  paid  to  Ack- 
I  land.  In  the  one  case,  in  order  to  liqni- 
I  date  the  second  loan  on  which  he  most 
have  raised  it;  in  tho  other  case,  to  re- 
I  cover  the  forged  draft  before  it  fell  due. 
The  moment  he  had  succeeded  in  secnring 
Ackland's  receipt  for  the  money,  ho  had 
nothing  more  to  fear  from  Ackland.  Why 
did  Cartwright  talk  so  much  about  his 
transactions  with  Ackland  ?  Why  did  ho 
show  about  Ackland's  receipt  for  the  money, 
if  it  were  not  to  avert  suspicion  from  himself 
after  Ackland'a  disappearance,  by  making 
every  one  say,  '  Cartwright  could  Lave  had 
no  motive  to  murder  Ackland,  for  he  owed 
him  nothing'  ?  Mark  my  words,  Mrs.  D. 
Time  will  show  that  John  Ackland  never 
left  Virginia  alive,  and  that  he  full  by  the 
hand  of  Philip  Cartwright." 

"  But  in  that  case,"  objected  Mrs.  D., 
"  why  has  tho  body  never  been  found  ?" 

"  Time  will  show,"  replied  Mr.  D'Oiley, 
oracularly.  "  But  yon  don't  suppose  that 
dead  bodies  are  in  the  habit  of  walking 
about  with  their  heads  in  their  hands  tfnd 
showing  themselves  off,  like  waxworks  ? 
Eh?" 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  D:  believed  even  more  in  Miss  Simp- 
eon's  magnetic  gift  than  did  Miss  Simp- 
son herself.  That  young  Lady,  whenever 
the  subject  of  John  Ackland  was  referred 
to,  assured  her  friends  that  she  did  not 
donbt  she  had  talked  a  great  deal  of  non- 
sense about  Mr.  Ackland,  but  she  had 
not  the  least  recollection  of  anything  she 
might  have  said.  This  Eabjcct  was  in- 
expressibly distasteful  to  her,  and  she  re- 


^ 


Sh 


476       [October  IG.  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bjr 


quested  that    it   might  not   be   discussed 
in  her  presence.      What  was  very  extra- 
ordinary, and  very  much    remarked,  was 
the    invincible     repugnance    which,    ever 
since  that  day  at  Glenoak,  Miss  Simpson 
appeared  to  entertain  towards  Mr.   Cart- 
wright.     She  studiously  avoided  him,  and 
if  ever  she  happened,  unavoidably,  to  find 
herself  in  the  same  room  with  him,  or  even 
to  meet  him  in  the  street,  it  was  noticed 
that  she  became  visibly  agitated,  and  turned 
away  lier  eyes  from  him  with  an  expression 
of  horror.     She  either  could  not,  or  would 
not,  give  any  explanation  of  this  conduct, 
but  gradually  and  imperceptibly  Miss  Simp- 
son's studious  avoidance  of  Mr.  Cartwright 
affected  the  relations  and  intimate  fiiends 
of  this  young  lady,  with  an  uncomfortable 
and  unfavourable  impression  in  regard  to 
that  gentleman.  Nor  did  time,  as  it  went  by, 
improve  either  the  fortunes,  the  character, 
or  the  reputation  of  Philip  Cartwright.     He 
neglected  his  property  more  than  ever,  and 
was  constantly  absent  fix)m  Glenoak,  haunt- 
ing the  hells,  bars,  and  bowling-alleys  of 
Richmond  and  all  the  neighbouring  towns, 
apparently  with  no  other  purpose  than  to 
get  rid  of  time  disreputably.      He  drank 
fiercely,    and   the    effects    of  habitual  in- 
toxication began  to  render  his  character  so 
savage  and  sullen  that  in  the  course  of  a 
few  years  he  entirely  lost  that  personal 
popularity  which  he  had  formerly  enjoyed. 
Foor  Virginia  Cartwright  had  a  sad  and 
soHtary  life  of  it  at  Glenoak.     Her  father's 
affection  for  her  was  undiminished ;  nay,  it 
seemed  stronger  than  ever,  but  there  was  a 
fierceness  and  wildness  about  it  which  was 
rather  terrible  than  soothing.  And  he  him- 
self had  yet  the  grace  to  feel  that  he  was 
no  fit   companion  for  his  daughter.      He 
was  rarely  with  her,  and,  though  numerous 
fiiends  at  Richmond  and  in  the  neighbour- 
hood never   ceased   to   urge  her  to  visit 
them,  and  always  received  her  with  a  sort 
of  compassionate    tenderness   of  manner, 
yet  their  kindness  only  wounded  and  em- 
barrassed  her.      For  Virginia  Cartwright 
was  sensitively  proud,  and  proud  even  of 
her  disreputable  parent.  So  the  poor  young 
lady  lived  in  great  seclusion  at  Glenoak,  of 
which  she  was  undisputed  mistress;  and 
where,  by  her  care  and  good   sense,  she 
contrived   to   prevent  the   property   fi:om 
altogether  going  to  the  dogs. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

One  afierDoon  in  January  (a  bright  clear 
frosty  afternoon,  when  the  ice  was  wlaite 


ordered  her  pony  carriage  and  drove  her- 
self over  to   Richmond.     It  was  just  six 
years   since  the  date   of  John  Ackland's 
visit  to  Glenoak,  and  Miss  Cartwright  was 
just  sixteen  years  of  age.     Any  one  who 
saw  her  as  she  drove  into  Richmond  that 
afternoon,   with    the    glow    in    her  dark 
Southern  cheek  heightened  by  the  healthy 
cold,  would  have  admitted  that  Virginia 
Cartwright  had  nobly  fulfilled  John  Ack- 
land*8   prophecies    of    her  future  beauty. 
People  turned  in  the  street  to  admire  her 
as  she  passed.  After  visiting  various  stores 
where  Miss  Cartwright  made  various  httle 
purchases,  the  pony  carriage  stopped  at  the 
door  of  Mr.  D*Oiley,  the  watchmaker,  and 
Miss  Cartwright  fiJighting,  left  her  watch 
with  one  of  the  shopmen  to  be  cleaned  and 
repaired,  and  returned  to  her  by  the  post- 
man, as  soon  as  possible.     Just  as  she  was 
leaving  the   shop  Mr.  D'Oiley  entered  it 
fi*om  his  back  parlour. 

*'  That  is  a  very  valuable  chronometer  of 
yours,  miss,'*  said  Mr.  D'Oiley,  taking  np 
the  watch  and  examining  it.  "  Not  Ame- 
rican make.  No.  I  never  saw  but  one 
watch  like  this  in  my  life.  May  I  ask, 
miss,  where  you  purchased  it  ?" 

"  I  did  not  purchase  it,"  said  Virginia, 
"  It  was  a  gift,  and  I  value  it  highly.  Pray 
be  careful  of  it,  and  return  it  to  me  as  soon 
as  you  can."  So  saying,  she  left  the 
shop. 

Mr.  D*Oiley  screwed  his  microscope  into 
his  eye,  opened  Miss  Cartwright's  chrono- 
meter, anci  probed  and  examined  it.  Sud- 
denly a  gleam  of  triumphant  intelligence 
illumined  Mr.  D'Oiley 's  features.  Tak- 
ing the  watch  with  him  he  withdrew  into 
the  back  parlour,  and,  careftdly  closing 
the  door,  took  down  fi'om  the  shelf  several 
volumes  of  old  ledgers,  which  ho  examined 
carefully.  At  last  Mr.  D'Oiley  found  what 
he  was  looking  for.  *  *  The  Lord, ' '  exclaimed 
Mr.  D'Oiley,  "  the  Lord  has  delivered  Philip 
Cartwright  into  mine  hand  ! " 

After  nearly  an  hour's  secret  consultation 
with  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  Mr.  D'Oiley  then 
repaired  to  the  house  of  Dr.  Simpson,  where 
he  sought  and  obtained  an  interview  with 
that  gentleman. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Dr.  Simpson.  "  What 
is  the  matter  Mr.  D'Oiley?  You  seem 
quite  excited." 

"  I  am  excited,   sir.     This  is  a  nughty 
serious  matter.  Dr.  Simpson.    And  truly  th®  \ 
ways  of  Providence  are  wonderful.    Now, 
look  at  this  watch.     Did  you  ever  see  a 


^^K^ouj   axi^ruuuu,   wnen  ine  ice  was  wn\x.e  \  ^a,\cB.  uk»  wi  vseioY^  r 
on   the    James    River),   Miss   CartYrrigbt^     ^^^o\.V)ti3a)t\Viio^  ^^IJ'  ^sj^VkA^o^ 


& 


=& 


ChMriwDickeiiB.]  THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND     lOct,  ic,  iscaj     477 


"  I  never  did,  sir,  and  I  suppose  I've 
seen  as  mimj  watches  as  any  man  in  these 
United  States.  Now,  yon  follow  me.  Dr. 
Simpson.  And  keep  your  eyes,  sir,  on  this 
re-markable  watch  that  you  see  here  in  my 
hand.  Six  years  ago  that  Mr.  Ackland, 
who  was  your  fellow-guest  at  Glenoak, 
called  at  my  store,  and  asked  me  to  clean 
this  remarkable  watch,  and  set  it.  I  took 
particular  notice  of  this  remarkable  watch, 
because  it  is  a  most  re-markable  watch,  sir. 
And  I  took  down  the  number  of  it  in  my 
books.  I  said  to  Mr.  Ackland,  when  1 
handed  his  watch  back  to  him,  *  This  is  a 
very  remarkable  watch,  sir.'  *  Well,  sir,* 
says  he,  '  it  t9  a  remarkable  watch,  but  it 
loses  time,  sir.'  *  It  won't  lose  time  now, 
sir,'  says  I ;  '  I'll  warrant  that  watch  of 
yours  to  go  right  for  six  years  now  that 
I've  fixed  it  up,'  said  I.  Well,  sir,  and  the 
watch  has  gone  right  for  six  years.  It's 
just  six  years  and  six  months,  Dr.  Simpson, 
sir,  since  Mr.  Ackland  got  this  watch  fixed 
up  by  me,  and  took  it  with  him  to  Glenoak. 
And  it's  not  six  hours  since  Miss  Cart- 
wright  called  at  my  store,  and  brought  me 
this  very  re-markable  watch  to  fix  up 
again." 

"  Qt5d  bless  my  soul !"  cried  Dr.  Simp- 
son." 

"  You  may  well  say  that.  Dr.  Simpson, 
sir,"  responded  Mr.  D'Oiley.  "  I  said  to 
Miss  Cartwright,  *May  I  make  so  bold, 
miss,  as  to  ask  where  you  happened  to 
purchase  this  watch  of  yours  ?'  *  Didn't 
purchase  it,'  says  she,  *  it  was  a  gift,'  and 
off  she  goes." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say " 

"  1  do  mean  to  say  it,  sir.  I  mean  to  say 
that  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Ackland  would 
have  given  this  very  valuable  chronometer 
to  Virginia  Cartwright  who  was  a  mere 
chit,  when  Mr.  A.  was  at  Glenoak.  I  mean 
to  say,  sir,  that  I  do  believe,  and  always 
have  believed,  and  always  toiU  believe,  that 
Mr.  Ackland  was  foully  murdered." 

"Hush!  hush!"  exclaimed  the  doctor: 
**  you  have  no  right  to  say  that,  Mr. 
D'Oiley." 

"  But  I  do  say  it,  sir,"  continued  the 
watchmaker,  energetically,  "  I  do  say  it — 
to  you  at  least,  Dr.  Simpson,  sir.  For  I 
know  that  if  you  don't  say  it  too,  sir,  you 
ihink  it.  And  I  know  that  Miss  Simpson 
thinks  it.  And  I  say  more,  sir.  I  say 
that  the  man  who  gave  this  watch  to  Vir- 
ginia Cartwright  was  a  robber,  as  well  as  a 
murderer.     That's  what  I  say,  sir." 

"  But  you  mustn't  say  it,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  not  unless  you  are  prepared  to " 


"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  D'Oiley,  "  I  am  pre- 
pared to  place  this  watch  in  the  hands  of 
justice." 

"But  you  have  no  right  to  do  anything  of 
the  kind.  Justice  will  of  course  restore  it 
to  its  present  legal  owner.  Miss  Cartwright. 
And  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  D'Oiley,  that  this 
is  a  very  delicate  matter,  in  which  any  im- 
prudence may  easily  bring  you  to  trouble. 
Will  you  leave  the  watch — ^at  least  for  a 
few  days — ^in  my  hands  ?  Miss  Cartwright 
will  doubtless  be  able  to  explain  satis- 
factorily her  possession  of  it.  I  will  promise 
to  see  her  immediately,  and,  if  necessary, 
her  father  also.     What  do  you  say  ?" 

Mr.  D'Oiley  would  not  consent  to  re- 
linquish possession  of  the  watch,  which,  as 
he  again  declared,  "  the  Lord  had  delivered 
into  his  hands,"  but  he  reluctantly  agreed 
to  take  no  further  steps  in  the  matter  until 
Dr.  Simpson  had  seen  Miss  Cartwright. 
The  doctor  went  to  Glenoak  next  day  and 
did  see  Miss  Cartwright:  from  whom  he 
learned  that  she  had  received  the  watch 
from  her  &rther  as  a  birthday  gifb,  on  the 
occasion  of  her  last  birthday  a  year  ago. 

Where  was  her  fether?  In  Maysville, 
she  believed.  But  it  was  nearly  a  month 
since  she  had  heard  from  him.  To  Mays- 
ville went  the  doctor,  and  the  first  man  he 
met  at  the  bar  of  the  Maysville  hotel  was 
Philip  Cartwright.  Cartwright  was  furious 
when  he  learned  the  object  of  the  doctor's 
visit.  "Of  course,"  he  said,  "the  watch 
had  belonged  to  his  poor  friend  John  Ack- 
land, who  had  given  it  to  him  as  a  paHing 
gift,  the  very  day  on  which  he  left  Glen- 
oak. And  tell  that  scoundrel,  D'Oiley," 
he  added,  "  that  if  he  don't  immediately 
restore  it  to  my  daughter,  I'll  arrest  him 
for  a  thief." 

That  gentleman,  however,  was  neither 
disconcerted  nor  despondent. 

"  It  is  my  conviction,  sir,"  said  he,  "  it 
has  long  been  my  conviction,  sir,  that 
I  shall  be  guided  by  the  finger  of  Provi- 
dence to  unravel  this  great  mystery,  and 
bring  detection  home  to  as  black  a  criminal 
as  ever  burdened  God's  earth,  sir.  And  since 
you  tell  me.  Dr.  Simpson,  sir,  that  I  have  no 
help  for  it  but  to  restore  this  watch  to  its 
unrightful  owner,  I  shall  take  it  back  to 
Glenoak,  and  place  it  in  Miss  Cartwright's 
hands,  myself." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Miss   Cartwright  thanked  the  watck-   ^^ 
maker  for   takm^  ^ici  tcltslOol  Q»x<b  <2?l  V^  n^ 
watch,  and  \>Ym^ii^  Vc»  \iiw^  "<»  ^^^-^  -^nSs^ ^ 


// 


^: 


:)i 


478       [October  16, 18n9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


Lis  own  hands.  She  begged  that  he  would 
take  some  refreshment  before  leaving  Glen- 
oak,  and  remain  there  as  long  as  he  pleased. 
The  weather  w^as  not  veiy  in^^ting ;  but  if 
he  liked  to  ride  or  walk  in  the  plantation, 
Mr.  Spinks,  the  overseer,  would  show  liim 
over  it. 

Mr.  D'Oiley  tlianked  Miss  Cartwright 
for  her  kind  condescension  to  "  a  poor  over- 
worked son  of  the  busy  city,  miss.*'  He 
was  not  much  of  an  equestrian,  and  l^Ir. 
Cartwright's  steeds  had  the  reputation 
of  being  dangerous  to  bad  riders,  like 
himself.  But  there  was  nothing  he  liked 
so  much  as  a  good  country  walk  on  a  fine 
frosty  day;  and,  with  Miss  Cartwright's 
kind  permission,  he  would  gladly  take  a 
stroll  about  these  beautiful  premises  before 
returning  to  town. 

The  first  thing  that  roused  Mr.  D'Oiley's 
curiosity,  when  he  conmienoed  his  stroll 
about  the  beautiful  premises,  was  the  shriek- 
ing of  a  miserable  old  negro  who  was  wail- 
ing under  the  lash. 

"  What  is  the  man's  fault  ?'*  he  in- 
quired of  the  overseer  who  was  standing 
by,  to  see  that  punishment  was  thoroiighly 
inflicted. 

"  Man,  you  call  him,  do  you  ?"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Spinks,  "  I  call  him,  sir,  a 
d^umed  pig-headed  brute.  We  can't,  none 
of  us,  get  him  to  take  that  load  of  ioe  into 
the  ice-house,  and  it's  spoiling." 

"Well,  but,"  said  Mr.  D'Oiky,  "the 
load  seems  a  heavy  one,  and  be  don't  look 
good  for  much." 

"  Grood  for  much  ?  He  ain't  good  for 
anything." 

"  Why  won't  you  take  the  ice,  Sambo  ?" 
asked  the  watchmaker. 

"  I  ain'£  Sambo,"  said  the  negro,  sul- 
lenly and  cowering,  "  I'm  Ned,  old  Uncle 
Ned." 

"  Well,  why  won't  you  do  as  you're  told. 
Uncle  Ned  ?" 

"  'Cause  poor  old  Ned  he  no  dare,  massa. 
Old  Ned  he  no  like  Bogie  in  dc  ice-house. 
Bogie,  he  worse  nor  massa  by  night,  and 
massa  he  worse  nor  Bogie  by  day.  Poor 
Uncle  Ned,  he  berry  bad  time  of  it." 

Mr.  D*Oiley  had  another  illumination. 

"  Well  now,  you  look  here,  Mr.  Spinks. 
Reckon  I'd  Hke  to  buy  that  nigger  o'  you, 
sir.     Ho  ain't  worth  much,  you  know." 

"  Well,  sir,  he  ain't  bright.  That's  a 
fact.  But  there's  a  deal  o'  field  work  in 
him  yet.  And  he  was  raised  on  the  plan- 
tation^  jou  see,  and  knows  it  well." 

"  Ab,  indeed  /"  said  the  watchmaker,  as 
though  very  much  surprised  to  lieax  it. 


*'  Knows  it  well,  docs  he  ?     Say  a  hundred 
dolbirs  for  him,  !Mr.  Spinks  ?" 

"  Not  two  liundiTd,  sir." 

"  Name  your  figure,  sir." 

"  Not  less  than  a  thousand,  Mr.  D'Oilev. 
I  assure  you,  sir,  Mr.  Cartwright  wouldn't 
hear  of  it.  He's  uncommon  fond  of  this 
nigger.  He's  quite  a  partiality  for  this 
nigger,  has  Mr.  Cartwright,  sir." 

"  Did  you  say  a  thousand,  Mr.  Spinks  P" 

"  I  did,  sir." 

"  Split  the  difierence,  Mr.  Spinks.  Make 
it  five  hundred,  sir." 

"  Done,  sir." 

"  Done  with  you,  sir,"  returned  the 
watchmaker ;  "  and  if  you'll  take  my  cheque 
for  it,  I'll  carry  him  back  in  my  buggy. 
Notliing  like  settling  things  at  once." 

"  Take  your  note  of  hand  for  a  million, 
sir,"  responded  the  overseer,  delighted  to 
have  sold  a  broken-down  nigger  so  ad- 
vantageously, at  double  the  market  price. 

That  very  night  the  owner  of  Glenoak 
returned  unexpectedly  to  his  ancestral 
mansion.  His  first  act  was  to  send  for  Mr. 
Spinks.  "  I  want  to  see  Unde  Ned,  Mr. 
Spinks.     Send  the  brute  up  inunediatelj." 

"Uncle  Ned?  Why,  Mr.  Cartwright, 
I've  just  sold  him,  and  very  advantageoaslj. 
He's  not  been  worth  his  keep  for  the  last 
three  years." 

Words  cannot  describe  the  frantic  pa- 
roxysm of  wrath  into  which  Mr.  Cart- 
wright was  thrown  by  this  announcement. 

"  But,  indeed,  Mr.  Cartwright,"  expostu- 
lated the  overseer,  "  I  thought  that,  in 
your  interest,  when  I  found  Mr.  D'Oiley 
willing  to  give  five  hundred " 

"  You  sold  him  to  D'Oiley  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  this  afternoon." 

"  You  villain  !"  howled  Cartwrij^? 
springing  at  the  throat  of  the  overseer. 
But  his  humour  suddenly  changed.  "  Never 
mind,  now,"  he  growled,  flinging  the 
overseer  against  the  wall,  "  the  mischiefs 
done  now.  Order  round  the  waggtm 
and  team  this  moment,  and  bring  me  all 
the  money  you  have  in  the  house,  and  then 
get  out  of  my  sight." 

Mr.  Cartwright  strode  up-stairs,  and  en- 
tered his  daughter's  room.  "  Virgy,"  be 
said,  with  a  dim  eye  and  a  husky  voice, 
"  I'm  going  away —  I'm  going  at  once,  and 
I'm  going  far,  fiur,  far.  I£  you  stay  at 
Glenoak,  Virgy,  may-be  we  shan't  meet 
again ;  anyhow  not  for  a  long,  long  wlui^ 
K  you'll  come  with  me  wc'U  never  pwtj 
my  girl ;  but  the  way's  a  long  one,  and  the 
future's  dark  as  night,  and  there's  dsager 
\  \>e^xxdL  \XB.   ^YiaJt  -wll  you  do,  Virgy  ?" 


==k 


=&) 


Char :«8 Dickens.]     THE  DTSAPPPIARANCE  OF  JOHN  ACKLAND.     [Oct.  ic,  ijwg.]  479 


"  O  father,  father!"  cried  the  frightened 
girl,  "  Ijow  can  yon  ask  ?  I  will  never 
leave  yon!'* 

That  night,  Philip  Cartwright  and  his 
daughter  left  Glenoak,  never  to  return. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  was  abont  a  fortnight  after  Glenoak 
had  been  deserted  by  its  owners  that  the 
mnch-injorcd  Mr.  Spinks,  whilst  debating 
with  himself  the  knotty  question  whether 
it  were  best  to  retain  his  situation,  in  the 
hope  of  further  plunder,  or  to  throw  it  up 
in  vindication  of  his  outraged  dignity,  was 
nnpleasantly  surprised  by  a  second  visit 
from  Mp.  D*Oiley,  accompanied  by  Dr. 
Simpson,  Judge  Gri&i,  Mr.  Inspector 
Tanin,  and  half  a  dozen  conatablcs. 

"  Now,    Mr.    Spinks,"    said    Inspector 
Tanin,   "you'll  be    good    enough,    if  you 
please,  sir,  to  set  all  hands  on,  to  remove 
the  ice  out  of   that    there    ice-house   of 
yours.      I  have  a  search-warrant,  sir,  to 
search  these  premises.     And  do  you  know 
what  this  is,  Mr.  Spinks  ?     If  s  a  warrant 
£cH*  the  arrest  of  Philip  S.  Cartwright,  when- 
soever and  wheresoever  he  can  be  found  in 
the  territory  of  the  United  States." 
"  On  what  charge  ?"  asked  Mr.  Spinks. 
"  Murder,"  replied  the  inspector,  laconi- 
cally. 

^fr.  Spinks  was  persuaded.  Mr.  Cart- 
wright's  slaves  were  ordered  to  open  'Mr. 
Cartwright's  ice-house  and  remove  the  ice. 
Be  it  known  to  the  reader  that  every 
country-house  in  America  is  provided  with 
an  excellent  ice-house  of  the  simplest  and 
most  practical  kind.  It  consists  of  a  deep 
excavation  in  the  earth,  roofed  over  with  a 
pointed  thatch.  These  ice  -  houses  ai*e 
always  well  filled  in  the  winter,  and 
rarely,  if  ever,  quite  emptied  during  the 
summer.  It  was  long  past  dark  before 
the  men  at  work  in  the  ice-house  at 
Olcnoak  had  removed  all  the  loose  ice 
Grom  the  pit.  The  lower  layers  were 
frozen  as  haj-d  as  granite,  and  could  only 
be  broken  up  by  the  pickaxe :  so  that  the 
^ork  went  on  slowly,  by  torch-light.  At 
last  Mr.  Inspector,  who  had  descended 
into  the  pit  to  superintend  this  final  opera- 
kion,  called  to  those  above  for  a  stout  rope. 
Xhe  ropo  was  not  immediately  forth- 
cx>ming ;  and  when  tho  submissive  Spinks 
(who  had  been  despatched  to  get  one 
Rrom  the  cart-house)  returned  with  it  in 
biis  hand  the  excitement  of  tho  spectators 
^as  intense.  Uncle  Ned,  at  his  most 
Urgent  request,  had  been  exempted  from 
\»he  ordeal  of  this  expedition  to  Glenoak. 


"  Now  pull !"  cried  Mr.  Inspector  from 
the  bottom  of  tho  pits  "and  pull  gently." 

Tho  ropo  Ciime  up  heavily.  No  wonder. 
There  was  a  dead  body  fastened  to  tiie  end 
of  it.  That  dead  body  was  tho  body  of 
John  Ackland.  All  present  who  had  ever 
seen  John  Ackland  recognised  it  at  once, 
in  despite  of  the  lacerated  skull  and  par- 
tially mangled  features.  For  the  ice  had 
so  wonderfully  preserved  the  hideous  secret 
confided  to  its  frozen  clasp,  that  tho  mur- 
dered man  looked  as  freshly  dead  as  if  he 
had  perished  only  an  hour  ago. 

In  the  subsequent  search  of  Glenoak  a 
copy  of  John  Ackland's  letter  to  his  cousin 
was  found  in  Mr.  Cartwright's  desk.  Ho 
had  not  taken  the  precaution  of  destroying 
it.  Doubtless  he  had  felt  that  if  once  the 
body  of  John  Ackland  were  discovered  at 
Glenoak,  it  Httlo  mattered  what  else  was 
discovered  there.  And  when  he  learned 
from  his  overseer  that  Uncle  Ned  had  been 
sold  to  D'Oiley,  he  knew  that  he  was  a 
ruined  man,  and  that  his  paramount  concern 
was  to  place  himself  as  quickly  as  possible 
beyond  the  roach  of  the  law. 

Mr.  D'Oiley's  triumph  was  great.  He 
had  worked  hard  for  it.  Never  had  he 
exercised  so  much  ingenuity  and  patience 
as  in  the  moral  manipulation  whereby  ho 
had  finally  elicited  &om  Unde  Ned  the  re- 
velations which  had  led  to  the  discovery. 

This  was  the  substance  of  them :  Philip 
Cartwright,  whilst  riding  with  his  unfor- 
tunate guest  through  his  own  plantation, 
had  slackened  pace,  aiM  fi&lling  a  little  to 
the  rear  of  his  companion's  horse,  delibe- 
rately shot  John  Ackland  through  the 
back  of  the  head.  The  wonnded  gentle- 
man immediately  fell  from  his  saddle. 
Cartwright  quietly  alighted,  and  finding 
that  there  was  still  a  faint  flutter  of  lifo 
left  in  his  victim,  beat  him  about  the  head 
till  ho  beat  the  life  out  of  him  with  the 
butt-end  of  his  gun.  Ho  then  carefully 
examined  the  mare  which  Mr.  Ackland 
had  been  riding,  wiped  every  trace  of 
blood  from  the  saddle,  turned  it,  and  witli  a 
sharp  cut  of  his  whip  started  tlie  beast  into 
a  gallop,  in  a  direction  away  from  the 
house.  Thus  left  alone  with  the  dead 
body,  his  next  care  was  to  dispose  of  it. 
All  this  happened  in  broad  dayhght,  a 
good  hour  before  sundown.  Mr.  Cart- 
wright's  own  slaves  were  still  at  work  in  the 
surrounding  fields.  They  must  have  heard 
the  report  of  the  firearm;  thev  might 
possibly  have  witnessed  the  fSall  of  the 
victim.  But  what  of  that  ?  They  were 
slaves.     Philip  Cartwright  well  knew  that 


c5= 


iC5 


4S0 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[October  IS,  1869.] 


ill  no  American  court  of  justice  could 
a  white  man  be  convicted  of  crime  on 
the  evidence  of  a  man  of  colour.  He 
knew  that  none  of  bis  slaves  could  give 
evidence  against  bim,  even  if  thej  had 
witnessed  every  particular  of  bis  crime. 
He  tied  bis  OAvn  horse  to  a  tree,  and  walked 
leisurely  to  the  gate  of  the  field.  Leaning 
over  it  he  perceived  some  of  his  own  negroes 
at  work  in  tlio  adjoining  ground ;  amongst 
them  an  old  negro,  whom  he  knew  by  ex- 
perience that  be  could  intimidate  and  cow, 
more  easily  even  than  the  others.  He 
beckoned  this  slave  to  bim,  and  said  coolly, 
as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  announce- 
ment in  the  world,  "  I  have  just  shot  a  man 
down ;  you  must  come  along.  Uncle  Ned, 
and  help  me  to  carry  the  body  into  the  ice- 
bouse."  It  was  late  in  the  summer  season 
and  the  ice-bouse  at  Glenoak  was  nearly 
empty.  Quita  empty  it  never  was.  With 
some  difficulty  Cartwrigbt  and  the  slave 
removed  the  upper  layer  of  ice,  and  buried 
the  body  underneath  it.  "  And  now  look  ye 
here,"  said  Cartwrigbt,  "  if  ever  you  utter 
to  a  human  being  about  what's  in  that  ice- 
house, or  what  IVe  told  you,  or  what  you've 
just  been  doing,  I'll  flay  you  alive  and  roast 
you  afterwards.  All  the  same  I  won't 
nave  any  talking,  or  hinting,  or  winking. 
Do  you  understand  P  If  you  don't  teach 
your  eyes  to  forget  what  they've  seen,  I'll 
gouge  'em  out.  If  you  don't  teach  your 
ears  to*  forget  what  they've  beard  I'll  cut 
'em  off*.  If  you  don't  teach  your  tongue 
to  be  silent,  I'll  tear  it  out  by  the  roots. 
So  now  you  know  what  I  mean.  Get 
along  with  you."  Before  burying  John 
Ackland's  body,  however,  the  murderer 
bad  rifled  the  dead  man,  and  re-pos- 
sessed himself  of  the  forged  notes  which 
John  Ackland  (as  Cartwrigbt  well  knew) 
carried  in  the  belt  lent  to  him  by  Cart- 
wright  expressly  for  that  purpose.  Un- 
luckily for  Mr.  Cartwrigbt,  while  he  was 
engaged  in  this  operation  his  eye  was 
tempted  by  what  Mr.  D*Oiley  had  called 
"  that  very  re-markable  watch,  sir,"  and 
be  hastily  thrust  John  Ackland's  chrono- 
meter into  his  own  pocket.  But  for  this 
superfluous  felony,  in  all  human  probability 
Philip    Cartwrigbt    would    have    carried 


safely  with  him   to    his  own  grave  the 
secret  of  his  great  crime. 

The  first  question  askeil  by  the  present 
Avriter  of  the  Virginian  gentleman  from 
whom  be  received  the  detaQs  of  this 
strange  story  was,  "  How  did  Philip  Cart- 
wright  die  ?" 

"  Well,  you  see  the  law  couldn't  reach 
him  in  Texas,  which  wasn't  then  annexed. 
But  John  Ackland's  cousin,  and  some  of 
his  friends  in  the  North,  and  some  down 
here  in  Virginia,  constituted  themselyeB  a 
committee  of  vengeance.   They  were  sworn 
to  have  Philip   Cartwrigbt's  life,  but  to 
have  it  according  to  law.     They  found  him 
in  Texas,  not  far  over  the  border,  where 
he  bad  set  np  a  faro  bank ;  and  tbey  dis- 
guised themselves,  and  they  frequented  the 
bank,  and  they  played  against  bim,  and 
betted  with  bim,  till  one  nigbt  tbey  suc- 
ceeded in  tempting  bim  over  the  border,  on 
the  chance  of  plucking  a  fat  pigeon  there; 
but  the  officers  of  justice  were  waiting  for 
him  there ;    and  by  gad,  sir,  we  arrested 
him,  and  tried  bim  all  square,  and  banged 
liim  hard." 

"  And  his  daughter  ?" 

"  Poor  girl,  she  didn't  long  survive  her 
journey  to  Texas,  and  the  rough  life  she 
had  of  it  there.  It  was  better  for  her. 
She  was  spared  the  knowledge  of  her 
father's  guilt,  and  the  humiliation  of  his 
death,  and  she  loved  the  blackguard  to  the 
last." 

Now  Bcadj,  price  58.  6d.,  bound  in  green  cloth, 

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Ik  Fite  Books. 

BOOK  U. 

OHAPTEB  TI.   CORRESPONDENCK. 

Three  letters  from  abroad  had  come  to 
the  vicarage.  Mr.  Levincourt  bnrut  them 
aS,  and  said  no  word  of  them  to  any  one. 

One  evening,  when  Mr.  Plew  returned 
tnm  a  round  of  professional  Tisits,  his 
mother  put  into  his  hand  a.  large  letter 
covered  with  foreign  postmarks. 

"  Of  conrse,  Nathaniel,"  said  the  poor 
old  -woman,  tremblingly  watching  his  face, 
"I  gnecH  who  it's  from.  But  yon  wonld 
have  nothing  to  say  to  her  now,  my  deary, 
wonld  yon  ?" 

"Mother!"  gasped  the  little  surgeon, 
olotcliing  at  the  letter. 

"  There,  there,  Nathaniel,  don't  be  angry 
with  me,  love.  I  have  never  said  a  wry 
word  about  the  girl  at  homo  nor  abroad ; 
nor  I  don't  want  to.  But — of  course  1 
know  yoa  are  a  grown  man"  (Mr.  Plew 
■was    tliree- and -forty)    "and  can  act  for 

Knrself;  but  you  know,  Nathaniel,  love, 
Q  the  mother  that  bore  you,  and  in  some 
'  ways  you'll  always  be  a  child  to  me — aye, 
if  you  were  a  hundred  !  And  it  goes  to 
my  heart  to  sec  you  badly  treated  by  them 
that  ain't  worthy  to There,  my  deary, 

Mr.  Plew  shut  himfielf  np  in  his  little 
bed-room,  and  opened  his  letter. 

Hia  fece,  eager,  anxious,  all  aglow  with 
eicitemtnt,  fell,  and  the  liglit  faded  out 
of  it.  The  bulky  packet  contained  a  sealed 
letter  addressed  to  "  Miss  Mand  Desmond." 
Within  the  outer  envelope  were  written 
theso  words  : 

''Ircfyon  joa  to  convey  the  enclosed 


Mr.  Plew  opened  his  shabby  little  wril^ 
ing-desk,  took  out  a  sheet  of  paper,  wrapped 
the  letter  in  it,  sealed  it,  and  directed  it  to 
Miss  Desmond,  No.  367,  Gower-street, 
London. 

Then  he  pressed  the  outer  envelope  to 
his  Ups,  flushing  a  hot,  painful  crimson  as 
he  did  so,  and,  linally,  he  sat  down  beside 
the  bed,  hid  bis  face  on  the  pillow,  and 
cried. 

The  next  day  Maud  received  her  letter. 
It  ran  as  follows : 

"  I  will  begin  with  a  warning,  I  warn 
yon  not  to  waste  compassion  and  wailinga 
and  lamentations  upon  me.  I  desire,  and 
need,  no  pity.  I  have  chosen  my  fate,  and 
the  day  may  como,  tciU  come,  when  yon 
will  all  acknowledge  that  I  have  chosen 
wisely.  I  have  written  to  yon  once  before, 
and  twice  to  papa.  Having  received  no 
answer,  tlje  idea  occurred  to  me  that  papa 
had  suppressed  mine  to  you.  I  know  the 
kind  of  twaddler-contamination,  evil  com- 
munications— must  hold  no  parley  with — I 
will  not  write  the  trash.  It  cajmot  apply 
to  mf.     Believe  that. 

"  It  may  be,  on  the  other  hand,  that  you 
have  received  my  letter,  and  have  chosen  to 
make  no  sign.  If  it  be  so,  so  be  it.  Bat  I 
give  yon  this  chance,  by  directing  the  pre- 
sent letter  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Plew.  1  be- 
lieve him  to  be  a  faithfal  creature,  and  I 
hope  that  Sir  John  aud  myself  may  one  day 
have  it  in  our  power  to  show  him  that  we 
think  BO." 

The  words  "  Sir  John  and  myself"  made 
Maud  recoil,  when  she  read  them,  as  thongh 
she  had  received  a  physical  blow.  The 
letter  proceeAd  ■.  > ,, 

"Yonwffl,  ot  avaTf«,\>e'«Ka^'t^»'CKc^;«- > 
uU  evil  o£  JOB.     I'kao's  ■CIi«■?«i^n^^'^''■^  ^ 


^ 


482      [Oetob«r2S,18ia] 


ALL  THE  TEAK  ROUND. 


by 


malioo  of  a  place  like  Shipley.  How  I 
loathe  the  name  of  k  I  And  it  is,  no  dmbl, 
trae  that  I  caused  ptlfNi  Bonio  tflmponry 
anxiety.  I  ftmi  it  was  hnef.  I  left  tire 
letter  on  aiy  toilette- table,  and  I  conjec- 
tured that  it  conJd  not  long  remain  nnseen. 
The  letter,  when  once  read,  ought  to  have 
reassured  liim.  Sir  John  gave  me  weighty 
reasons  for  not  wLshing  to  make  our  mar- 
riage} public  at  once  I  wa«  bouncl  ta  re- 
spect bis  secret.  From  the  fuct  of  papa 
having  preserved  an  obstinate  silence,  1  am 
led  to  guess  that  he  is  nourishing  resent- 
ment aoainst  me.  I  shall  be  sorry  if  this 
be  so,  but  can  stoop  to  no  more  entreaties. 

"  The  knowledge  of  the  position  I  shall 
one  day  hold  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world 
sustains  mc  against  the  idea  of  passing 
misconstruction. 

"  Sir  John  is  all  kindness  and  con.<ddera- 
tion  to  me.  I  am  surrounded  by  all  the 
elegant  luxuries  that  wealth  can  purchase, 
or  watchful  affection  suggest.  I  am 
travelling  through  exquisite  scenery,  and 
dra>ving  near  to  my  mother's  native  sunny 
land.  I  hate  affectation  of  sentimentality, 
but,  in  truth,  my  heart  beats  fiister  as  I 
look  at  the  snowy  peaks  and  think '  beyond 
there  lies  Italy!'  Direct  to  me,  Foste 
Restanto,  Arena,  Lago  Maggiore.  Witldn 
a  fortnight  we  shall  bo  there.  Yoiir  letter 
mvst  be  addressed  to  Lady  Ocde. 

"  Your  affectionate  (if  yon  will  let  it  be 
so)  Veronica. 

"  Maudie,  Mandie,  tell  me  how  papa  is, 
how  you  are.     Love  me,  Maudie. 

"  V." 

The  last  few  words  were  apparently 
added  hurriedly.  They  were  blurred  and 
almost  illegible.  But  Maud  dwelt  on 
them  rather  than  on  tho  rest  of  the  letter. 
They  showed  that  Veronica's  heart  was  not 
dead,  although  her  haughty  spirit  disdained 
sympathy  or  compassion. 

Twice,  thrice,  four  times,  did  Maud  read 
tho  letter  through  her  blinding  tears,  be- 
fore she  laid  it  down  on  her  lap,  and  fiurly 
thought  over  its  contents. 

One  conviction  stood  out  clear  in  her 
mind — either  Vei^onica  was  deceived  or 
deceiving. 

That  she  could  have  no  right  to  the  title 
of  *'Lady  Gale"  they  in  England  know 
but  too  well.  But  was  it  equally  certain 
that  Veronica  knew  it  ?  Was  it  not  much 
more  probable  that  Sir  John  was  continu- 
ing  to  deceive  her?  Might  ho  not  even 
have  goDo  thi-oiigh  a  false  ceremony  o^ 
marruige  ?     Such  things  had  been  I 


Mittd  pondered  and  pondered.  SmU 
denlv  she  took  a  resolution.  Come  what 
migit  sho  wovUl  answer  Veronica^s  letter. 
It  could  not  bo  right  to  leave  her  in 
ignorance  of  the  real  facts  of  tho  case.  Sho 
would  write  to  Veronica,  and  wovld  then 
enclose  Veronica's  letter  to  Mr.  Levmconrt^ 
and  tell  liim  what  she  had  done.  He 
might  be  angry  at  iirst,  but  in  his  heart  fas 
wcndd  tiianli  her.  He  could  not  really  d^ 
sire  to  abandon  his  only  child  to  sliaoie 
and  misery.  If  Veronica  oonld  o»ly  know 
the  truth  sho  would  leave  that  wk^cd  man 
— ssho  miisi ! 

Maud  peeped  into  the  drawing-room  he- 
fore  sitting  down  to  her  little  desk  in  her 
own  room. 

Lady  Tallis  was  asleep  on  the  sofa.  She 
always  slept  iwnlarly  after  her  earlj 
dinner,  and  with  equal  regularity  was 
always  very  much,  surprised  when  sbe 
awoke  to  find  that  she  had  "  dropped  off," 
as  she  plirased  it. 

Without  allowing  herself  time  to  hesi- 
tate, Mand  wrote  a  letter  earnestly  and  I 
affectionately  conjuring  the  nnfortuatte  '' 
gii'l  to  return  to  them,  telling  her,  vitli 
simple  directness,  tliat  Sir  John  Tallis 
Gale  had  a  wife  living,  and  who  that  wife  j 
was ;  imploring  her  to  disbelieve  an/ 
specious  tale  he  might  tell  her,  and  to 
wrench  herself  away  from  him  at  any  coet. 
"  If  you  will  only  believe  in  the  true  love 
of  your  fiionds,  dear  Veronica,"  she  wrote, 
*'  and  come  back  to  us,  yon  shall  never  ro^ 
pent  it." 

Who  tho  friends  were  whoso  love 
Veronica  was  conjured  to  bch'eve  in  wns 
not  so  clear.  Maud  secretly  feared  thnt 
Mr.  Levincourt  would  be  obdurate  for  a 
time.  But  he  could  not  harden  his  heart 
against  a  repentant  cliild  for  ever.  Then 
she  thought  of  the  Sheardowns,  and  be- 
lieved that  they  would  bo  kind  and 
charitable.  They  might  assist  Mr.  Levin' 
court  to  leave  Sliipley,  and  to  go  elsewhere 
— to  somo  place  in  which  his  daugJitcrs 
story  was  not  known.  Fifty  plans  passed 
tlux>ugh  !Maud*s  brain,  as  her  pen  ran 
swiftly,  eagerly  over  tbo  paper.  She 
wrote  with  all  the  elo<iuenco  she  could 

Would  Veronica  bo  willing  to  rctnni 
even  when  sho  knew  the  truth  ?  Did  she 
assuredly  not  know  it  already  ?  On  these 
questions  Maud  would  not  dwell,  althong^ 
they  kept  presenting  themselves  impor- 
tunately to  her  mind.  Her  one  plain* 
obvious  duty  was  to  tell  Veronica  the 
\  truth..  TIow  might  not  the  lost  girl  ope 
\  (itiy  TC^Tos\.Oi\  '<i\v^TQ.  \s3^  M  they  left  her  in 


^ 


OhuflOT  Diekena.] 


VERONICA. 


[October  23, 1S69.]      483 


ignorance — ^if  they  did  not  stretch  ont  a 
band  to  rescue  and  reclaim  her ! 

"I  do  love  yon,  Veronica,"  sho  wrote  at 
the  end  of  her  letter.  "  And  so  does  Undo 
Charles.  You  would  not  think  him  hard 
if  you  had  seen  him  as  I  saw  him  on  that 
dr^dful  day  when  we  lost  you.  Oh,  come 
hack,  come  back  to  us !  If  you  want 
means,  or  help,  or  protection,  you  shall 
h^ve  (hem,  I  swear  that  you  shall !  Write 
to  me  here.  I  am  with  my  Aunt  Hilda. 
She  knows  nothing  of  this  letter,  nor  of 
yours  to  me.  Do  not  let  false  shame  or 
false  pride  keep  you  apart  from  us.  Be 
strong.  Oh  look  forward  a  little,  dearest 
Veronica !     Is  not  anything   better  than 

^but  I  know  your  heart  is  good ;  you 

will  not  lot  your  fether  die  without  the 
consolation  of  knowing  that  you  are  safe, 
and  that  you  liave  given  up  that  wicked 
tempter  so  soon  as  you  knew  his  real 
character.  There  is  no  disgrace  in  being 
deceived,  and  I  know,  I  am  sure,  he  has 
deceived  you.  Write  to  me,  Veronica^ 
toon,  soon !" 

The  letter  was  sealed,  directed  (not 
without  a  pang  of  conscienoe  at  the 
written  lie)  to  "Lady  Gale,"  and  de- 
spatched to  the  post  office,  at  the  same 
time  with  a  few  lines  to  Mr.  Levincourt, 
enclosing  Veronica's  letter,  be^spng  him  to 
read  it,  and  telling  him  what  she  (Maud) 
had  done. 

To  this  latter  epistle  came  an  answer 
within  a  few  days. 

"  I  cannot  be  angry  with  you,  my  sweet 
child,"  wrote  the  vicar,  "  but  I  am  grieved 
that  you  should  have  followed  tliis  impulse 
without  consulting  me.  It  is  my  duty, 
Maud,  to  guard  you  from  contact  with 
such  as  that  wretched  girl  has  made  her- 
self.  The  hardened  audacity  of  her  letter 
astounds  me.  If  such  things  could  be,  I 
ahould  believe  tliat  that  fiend  had  cast  a 
spell  upon  her.  May  Gk>d  Almighty  for- 
give her.  I  struggle  with  myself,  but  I 
am  a  broken  man.  I  cannot  hold  up  my 
head  here.  Blessed  are  the  peace-makers, 
Uaudie.  You  plead  for  her  with  sweet 
charity.  But  sho  has  not  injured  you — 
she  has  injured  no  one  as  she  has  injured 
me*  Still,  I  will  not  shut  my  mind  against 
any  ray  of  hope.  It  rtvay  be,  as  you  say, 
that  she  has  been  deceived.  K  this  be  so, 
and  she  returns  humbled  and  repentant — 
repentant  for  all  the  evil  her  treachery  and 
d^3eit  have  heaped  on  me,  we  must  crawl 
into  some  obscure  comer  and  hide  our 
shame  together.  At  the  best,  she  is  branded 
I    and  disgraced    for    life.     But,   my  pure- 

I 


hearted  Maud,  I  warn  you  not  to  bo 
sanguine.  Do  not  make  sure  that  she  will 
abandon  her  wicked  luxuries,  and  pomps, 
and  wealth,  to  live  in  decent,  dull  poverty 
with  me.  I  can  send  no  message  to  your 
aunt.  My  name  must  be  loathsome  in 
her  ears.  It  were  better  for  her  and  you 
to  forget  us  altogether." 

The  tone  of  this  letter  was  softer  than 
Maud  had  dared  to  hope.  Here,  at  least, 
he  showed  no  stubborn  wrath.  It  now 
remained  to  see  what  answer  her  letter  to 
Arona  would  bring  forth. 

She  waited  eagerly,  anxiously,  fearfully, 
despondingly ;  but  no  answer  ever  came. 

Her  poor  letter  had  been  forwarded  from 
Arona  to  Milan  in  accordance  with  the 
written  instructions  of  Sir  John  Gble  (he 
having  changed  his  plans,  and  gone  on  to 
Milan  sooner  than  had  been  arranged),  had 
been  opened  by  him,  read  by  him,  and 
burnt  by  him  in  the  flame  of  a  taper  in  his 
bedroom,  until  it  was  browner  and  more 
shrivelled  than  an  autumn  leaf. 

CHAPTEE  VII.      A   PEW  FRIENDS. 

Before  the  receipt  of  the  letter  from  Italy 
Maud  had  promised  to  go  to  Mrs.  Love- 
g^ove*s  party. 

She  wished,  after  she  had  got  the  letter, 
to  withdraw  her  promise.  She  was  anxious, 
agitated,  ill  at  ease.  She  dreaded  meeting 
strangers.  And  although  the  women  of 
Mr.  Lovcgrovo*s  family  had  been  kind  and 
civil  to  her,  they  were  not  people  whose 
society  was  at  all  congenial  to  her. 

She  had  hitherto  had  no  experience  of 
town  vulgarity.  The  poor  peasants  at 
Shipley  were  rough  and  ignorant.  But 
that  was  different  from  the  Cockney 
gentihty  which  some  of  the  Lovegroves 
assumed.  The  young  man,  Augustus,  was 
peculiarly  distasteful  to  her,  from  an  in- 
stinctive knowledge  sho  had  that  he  ad- 
mired herself,  and  would  upon  the  slight4?st 
encouragement,  or,  she  much  feared,  with- 
out any  encouragement  at  all,  avow  as 
much  in  plain  terms.  She  had  yielded  to 
her  aunt's  urgings,  and  had  consented  to 
go  to  Mrs.  Lovegrove*s  party,  however. 
But  now  she  much  desired  to  avoid 
doing  so. 

"  My  darling  pet !"  cried  Lady  Tallis, 
when  Maud  hinted  this  to  her.  "  Now  how 
can  ye  think  of  disappointing  the  poor 
woman?  'T would  be  unkind,  dear.  And 
I  have  had  that  pophn  turned,  it  looks 
beautiful  by  candle-light — ^but  sure  I 
wouldn't  think  of  going  without  you, 
Maud  dear." 


4-- 


a 


484      [October  23, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OoaAoettd  by 


"  O  yes,  Annt  Hilda !     Why  not  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,  child.  I  wouldn't  dream 
of  it.  If  yon  are  not  feeling  well,  or  any- 
thing, we'll  jnst  stay  at  homo  the  two  of  us. 
And  I'll  send  a  little  note  to  Dr.  Talbot." 

"  Dear  aunt,  I  am  quite  well.  I  do  not 
need  any  doctors." 

"  Then  why  in  the  world  now  wouldn't 
ye  go  to  Mrs.  Lovegrove's  ?  I  don't  like 
to  see  you  moping,  a  young  creature  like 
you.  You  want  rousing  a  bit.  And  if  you 
stick  at  home  like  an  old  woman,  I  shall  be 
quite  unhappy." 

After  this,  Maud  could  no  longer  resist. 
She  could  not  make  her  aunt  understand 
that  the  party  at  Mrs.  Lovegrove's  could 
not  by  any  possibility  conduce  to  the  rais- 
ing of  her  spirits.  "  But  if  I  am  not  feeling 
gay  myself,  thought  Maud,  "  I  will  not  be 
60  selfish  as  to  cast  a  damp  on  poor  Aunt 
Hilda,  when  she  is  inclined  to  be  cheerful. 
It  would  be  cruel  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
any  of  her  few  enjoyments." 

So  the  turned  poplin  was  put  on;  and 
Lady  Tallis  yielded  with  some  reluctance 
to  the  modest  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood,  who  was  invited  to  superintend  her 
ladyship's  toilet,  that  a  bow  of  tartan 
ribbon  at  the  throat,  scarcely  harmonised 
with  the  pink  ribbons  in  the  cap. 

"That  soft  rose-colour  goes  admirably 
with  the  grey  poplin.  Lady  Tallis,"  said 
Zillah,  quietly.  "  But,  do  you  know,  I  am 
a&aid  the  tartan  bow  will  be  a  little — ^a 
little  too  conspicuous." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?'^  said  my  lady,  taking 
it  off  with  much  docility,  but  with  evident 
disappointment.  "  Well,  to  be  sure,  you 
have  excellent  taste.  But  when  I  was  a 
girl  I  always  used  to  bo  told  that  tartan 
went  with  anything.  I  remember  dancing 
in  a  Caledonian  quadrille  at  Delaney  once, 
the  time  poor  James  came  of  age,  and  wo 
had — myself  and  three  other  girls — ^white 
silk  dresses,  trimmed  with  the  Royal  Stuart 
tartan,  and  everybody  said  they  looked 
lovely." 

It  took  some  time  to  get  Lady  Tallis 
dressed ;  for  tho  ill  fortune  that  attended 
,  her  outer  attire  pursued  all  her  garments. 
Buttons  and  strings  dropped  from  her 
clothing  like  ripe  apples  from  the  tree. 
She  would  have  riddled  her  clothes  with 
pins,  had  not  Mrs.  Lockwood,  neat  and 
dexterous,  stood  by  with  a  needle  and 
thread  ready  to  repair  any  damage. 

"  I  think  a  few  stitches  are  better  than 
pins,*'  observed  Zillah.  "Don't  you,  my 
ladjr  ?" 

O  indeGd  I  do !  much  better.    "Bui  my 


tf 


dear  soul  I  am  shocked  to  give  ye  this 
trouble.  When  I  think  that  I  had,  and 
ought  to  have  at  this  moment,  attendants 
of  my  own  to  wait  on  me  properly,  and 
that  I  am  now  obliged  to  trespass  on  the 
kindness  of  my  friends,  I  assure  you  I  am 
ready  to  shed  tears.  But  I  won't  give  way, 
and  spoil  my  dear  Maud's  pleasure.  Don't 
ye  think  I  am  right  in  making  her  go  out 
and  enjoy  herself?" 

Despite  the  truth  of  Mand's  assertions 
that  she  was  ill  at  ease  in  spirit,  and  disin- 
clined to  go  into  the  society  of  strangers, 
her  curiosity  and  attention  were  aroused 
by  the  novelty  of  all  she  saw  and  heard  at 
Mrs.  Lovegrove's. 

This  was  not  like  a  Shipley  tca-drinkiiig 
with  old  Mrs.  Plew,  or  a  dinner-party  si, 
Mrs.  Sheardown's  or  Lady  Alicia  Renwick's. 

She  desired  and  wished  to  sit  still  and 
unnoticed  in  a  comer,  and  watch  the  com- 
pany. But  to  her  dismay,  she  found  it  to 
be  Mrs.  Lovegrove's  intention  to  draw  her 
into  notice. 

That  lady,  clad  in  a  stiff  metallic  grey 
silk  gown,  drew  Maud's  arm  through  ha 
own  and  walked  with  her,  about  the  draw- 
ing-room, into  the  small  room  behind  it; 
and  even  into  the  third  room,  a  tiny  obset 
above  Mr.  Frost's  private  office,  where 
three  old  gentlemen  and  one  old  lady  were 
playing  whist  at  a  green  table,  and  glared 
at  the  intruders  fiercely. 

"  I  wish  to  make  you  known  to  the 
Dobbses,  dearest  Miss  Desmond,"  said  Mrsi 
Lovegrove.  "  Those  are  the  Misses  Dobbs, 
in  apple-green.  I  am  so  grieved  that  the 
General  and  Lady  Dobbs  cannot  be  here 
to-night.  They  are  charming  people.  I 
know  you  would  be  delighted  with  uiem!" 

Maud  felt  inwardly  thankful  that  the 
charming  Dobbses  were  not  present.  She 
had  no  desire  to  form  new  acquaintances, 
and  after  a  time  she  complained  of  feeKng 
rather  tired,  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  go 
and  sit  beside  her  aunt. 

But  when  she  reached  Lady  Tallis^  she 
found  Mr.  Augustus  Lovegrove,  junior, 
seated  close  to  her  ladyship,  and  talking  to 
her  with  much  vivacity. 

Mr.  Augustus  Lovegrove  was  verytal 
and  was  awkward  in  his  gait ;  and  canied 
his  head  hanging  backward,  so  that  when 
he  wore  a  hat,  the  hinder  part  of  the  brim 
rested  on  the  collar  of  his  coat ;  and  some- 
times sang  comic  songs  to  his  own  accom* 
paniment  on  the  pianoforte ;  and  his  friends 
considered  him  little  inferior  to  3fr,  Join 
"PchTTj.  They  allowed,  indeed,  that  he  had 
iio\i  ''''  c^Xfe  "^^Tt^^^  Vjo^vsJdl  ^tl  the  pjM* 


ii 


\ 


\ 


^ 


OkftrlM  Dlekeni.] 


VERONICA. 


[October  28, 1869.]       4.85 


Bnt  that  was  only  a  knack,  you  know." 
His  mother  called  him  an  excellent  son, 
and  the  Pnseyite  clergyman  of  the  chnrch 
he  attended,  pronounced  him  a  model  to  all 
young  men.  His  little  bedroom  at  the  top 
of  the  house  was  stuck  over  with  paltiy 
coloured  lithographs  of  saints,  and  illumi- 
nated texts  in  Latin.  It  was  rumoured 
among  his  sisters  that  he  possessed  a 
rosary  which  had  been  blessed  by  the  Pope. 
He  was  being  brought  up  to  his  father's 
calling,  and  Mr.  Lovegrove,  who  knew 
what  he  was  talking  about,  pronounced 
that  Gussy  had  a  very  fair  head  for 
bnsiness  ;  and  that  he  understood  that  two 
and  two  make  four,  quite  as  well  as  most 
people. 

"  Here  she  is !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Augustus, 
as  Maud  approached.  "  We  were  just  talk- 
ing about  you.  Miss  Desmond,  my  lady 
and  I." 

The  intimation  was  not  altogether  pleas- 
ing to  Maud.  She  bowed  with  rather  stiff 
politeness  and  sat  down  next  to  her  aunt. 

"  I  was  just  saying  to  my  lady,"  pro- 
ceeded the  gallant  Augustus,  "  that  their 
painted  hair  has  no  chance  beside  yours. 
Th^  can't  get  the  shine,  you  know."  And 
he  ^ghtly  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  Misses  Dobbs'  apple- green  skirts, 
which  were  disappearing  into  tlie  second 
drawing-room. 

Maud  felt  disgusted,  and  made  no  reply. 

Lady  Tallis,  however,  raised  her  eye- 
brows and  inquired  with  much  interest, 
"Do  you,  now  do  you  think  that  those 
joung  ladies  dyo  their  hair  ?" 

"  Not  the  least  doubt  of  it,  ma'am.  I've 
known  Polly  Dobbs  ever  since  I  was  a 
small  boy.  And  when  she  was  fifteen,  her 
hair  was  as  brown  as  a  berry.  They  both 
eame  back  from  the  Continent  last  year 
with  orange-coloured  locks.  Their  mother 
Bays  it's  climate  that  did  it.  It*s  the 
kind  of  'climate'  they  sell  in  the  Burlington 
Arcade  at  seven-and-six  per  bottle !" 

"Really!  You  don't  say  so?"  cried 
Lady  Tallis,  not  more  tlian  half  under- 
standing him.  "Well,  I  know  that  you 
can  get  the  waters — almost  any  foreign  spa- 
Waters — ^in  stone  bottles,  imported.  But  of 
covrse  when  you  talk  of  climate  in  bottles, 
you're  joking." 

At  tnis  moment,  greatly  to  IVIaud's  relief, 
fop  she  began  to  find  young  Lovegrove 
intolerable,  a  duet  for  harp  and  piano 
was  commenced :  and  there  was  enforced 
silence  among  tho  company. 

The  players  were  Miss  Lovegrove  and 
Lucy  Lovegrove.    Miss  Phcebe  Love- 


grove turned  over  the  music  for  her  sister 
at  the  harp ;  and  Miss  Dora  Lovegrove 
did  the  same  for  the  pianist.  Tho  piece 
was  very  long  and  not  particularly  well 
executed.  But  Maud  was  soriy  when  it 
came  to  a  close,  for  whilst  it  continued  she 
could  remain  quiet  and  look  about  her 
unmolested. 

Her  eyes  were  attracted  in  spite  of  herself 
to  a  magnificently  beautiful  woman  sitting 
in  a  nonchalantly  graceful  posture  on  a 
sofa,  on  tho  opposite  side  of  the  room. 
She  looked  so  different  from  all  the  other 
persons  present,  and  seemed  to  regard  them 
with  such  calm  contempt,  that  Maud 
found  herself  wondering  who  «he  could  be ; 
how  she  came  there;  and  above  all,  why 
having  come,  she  should  be  uncivil  enough 
to  allow  her  face  to  express  boredom  so 
undisguisedly. 

No  sooner  had  the  duet  come  to  a  close, 
than  this  beautiful  lady  rose,  took  the  arm 
of  a  gentleman,  and  came  across  tho 
drawing-room  to  where  Lady  Tallis  and 
Maud  were  sitting. 

The  lady  and  gentleman  were  Mrs.  and 
Mr.  Frost.  Tho  latter  bowed  profoundly 
to  Lady  Tallis,  and  begged  permission  to 
present  liis  wife  to  her. 

"  Most  happy  ! — dehghted !"  said  Lady 
Tallis,  holding  out  her  hand.  She  had  seen 
Mr.  Frost  in  Qower-street  very  often. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  making  my 
lady's  acquaintance.  She  began  to  chat 
directly,  with  as  much  familiarity  as  though 
the  Frosts  had  been  known  to  her  all  her 
life. 

Mrs.  Frost  appraised  her  ladyship's 
attire  with  a  glance,  of  whose  meaning  Lady 
TaUis  was  happily  unconscious. 

Mr.  Frost  furtively  watched  Maud,  and 
at  length,  during  one  of  the  rare  pauses  in 
Lady  Tallis's  flow  of  talk,  said  hesitatingly, 
— "  xour  niece,  is  is  not  ?" 

"  Indeed  and  in  truth  she  is  my  niece, 
Mr.  Frost,  and  a  great  blessing  and  comfort 
it  is  to  have  her  with  me !  Maud,  my 
darling,  this  is  Mrs.  Frost.  Mr.  Frost,  Miss 
Desmond." 

Mr.  Frost  sat  down  beside  tho  young 
lady  and  began  to  talk  to  her.  He  perceived 
at  once  that  she  was  very  different  in  every 
respect  from  her  aunt.  It  was  quite  im- 
possible to  jump  into  terms  of  familiarity 
with  Maud  Desmond. 

"  You  have  been  ill,  I  was  sorry  to  learn," 
said  Mr.  Frost. 

"  I  was  a  little  ill :  very  slightly.  I  am 
quite  well  now,  thank  you." 

"Perhaps  London  docs  not  altogether 


4= 


T 


4= 


A> 


480       [October  23, 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


(Condnctttdbf 


agree  with  you.     You  liave  been  used  to  a 
country  life,  have  you  not  ?"' 

"  I  have  lived  nearly  always  in  the 
country.  But  I  am  very  well  in  London 
now." 

"  You  are  living  in  the  house  of  a  very 
old  friend  of  mine,  Mrs.  Lock  wood." 

The  change  in  Maud's  face  from  apathy 
to  interest,  when  he  uttered  the  name,  was 
not  lost  upon  Mr.  Frost. 

"  You  are  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood's  ?"  repeated  Mand,  smiling. 

"  A  very  old  friend.  I  knew  her  husband 
before  he  was  married.  I  have  known 
Hugh  ever  since  he  was  bom.  He  is  a 
right  good  fellow." 

"Oh  yes." 

"  But  his  mother  is  a  little  disturbed 
about  him  at  present.  He  has  taken  an 
obstinate  fit  into  his  head,  and  wants  to  set 
up  as  an  architect  on  his  own  account, 
instead  of  remaining  longer  in  Digby  and 
West's  offices.     Perhaps  you  have  heard  ?" 

"Yes;  I  heard  something  of  it  from 
Mrs.  Lockwood;  and  fr^m  my  friends 
Captain  and  Mrs.  Sheardown." 

"  Ah,  exactlv." 

"  Captain  Sheardown  seemed  to  think 
that  Mr.  Lockwood  was  justified  in  his 
plan." 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  Captain  Shear- 
down  is  an  excellent  gentleman." 

"  Ho  is  very  good  and  very  sensible." 

"Ko  doubt.  Still  on  this  point  his 
opinion  is  scarcely  the  most  valuable  that 
could  be  had-     I  am  going  to  Italy  myself 

in  a  very  short  time .     You  are  looking 

pale.     Is  the  heat  of  the  room  too  much 
for  you  ?" 

"  Ko,  thank  you.  Yes — ^I  am  rather 
oppressed  by  it.     You  were  saying " 

"  That  I  am  going  to  Italy  on  business 
wliicli,  if  canied  out  successfally,  would 
enable  me  to  tlirow  anj  excellent  thing  in 
Hugh  Lockwood's  ys^-  It  might  keep 
him  abroad  for  a  year  <Sftwo,  but  tliat  would 
be  no  disadvantage — Qn  the  contrary.  If 
we  can  only  persuade  Hugh  not  to  be  in 
a  hurry  to  assume  responsibihties  on  his 
OAvn  account." 

"  The  carriage  mitsi  bo  here  by  this  time, 
Sidney,"  said  Mrs.  Frost  rising  and  touch- 
ing her  husband's  shoulder.    "  Do  inquire ! ' ' 

"Not  going  joty  surely!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Lovcgrove  ^vith  stern  distinctness. 
"  Not  going  before  partaking  of  our  humble 
refreshments  ?" 

"O   tiumk  yon   very  much,"   returned 
Mrs.  Frosty   "  bnt  I  really  couldn't  eat  any- 
thing.     We  rashed  awaj  from  dinner  in. 


order  to  get  here  before  it  was  all  over. 
Your  hours  are  so  virtuously  early !" 

It  wiis  perhaps  strange  that  Mrs.  Love- 
grove  should  feel  offended  at  being  told 
that  she  kept  virtuously  early  hours.  Bat 
the  fact  was  that  she  did  so  feel. 

" I  saw,"  said  the  hostess,  "that  you  had 
scraped  acquaintance  with  my  friend  Ladj 
Tallis  Grale.  I  would  have  presented  you 
to  her,  but  the  fact  is,  she  does  not 
particularly  care  for  making  acquaintance 
out  of  her  own  set." 

"  Oh,  that  talkative  elderly  lady  in  the 
turned  gown  ?  Yes ;  Sidney  presented  me 
to  her.     What  an  odd  person  !" 

"  In  her  peculiar  and  painful  poeitioii," 
pursued  Mrs.  Lovegrove,  loftily,  "  Mr. 
Lovegrove  does  not  feel  justified  in  intrud- 
ing strangers  on  her  acquaintance." 

"  ^Vhat's  the  matter  with  her  ?  Is  die 
not  quite  right  in  her  head  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Frost,  slightly  touching  her  own  forehead 
as  she  spoke. 

This  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Lovcgrore. 
She  had  felt  that  she  was  getting  the  worst 
of  it  throughout ;  for  she  was  piqued,  and 
Mrs.  Frost  was  genuinely  cool  and  unoon- 
cemed. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Mrs.  Frost,*' 
said  Mrs.  Lovegrove,  "nor  can  I  conjecture 
why  you  should  wish  to — to — insult  mj 
friends." 

"  0  dear  me,  I  assure  you  I  hadn't  the 
least  idea  of  insulting  the  poor  woman,'* 
rejoined  Mrs.  Frost,  imperturbablj'.  *'It 
wt)uld  be  her  misfortune,  not  her  fiiult, 
you  know,  aftrr  all !  But  you  said  some- 
thing, yourself,  about  her  peculiar  and 
painful  position." 

Mrs.  Lovegrove  faced  round  solenmlj. 
"I  did  so,  :Mrs.  Frost,"  she  said.  "And 
poor  dear  Lady  Tallis's  position  is  indeed  » 
sad  one.  Her  husband — a  man  of  eno^ 
mous  wealth,  bnt  of  so  profligate  » 
character  that  I  shudder  to  breathe  liis 
name  in  the  same  atmosphere  where  my 
daughters  are — her  husband,"  continned 
Mrs.  Lovegrove,  reiujhing  a  climax  of  im- 
pressiveness,  and  lowering  her  voice  almost 
to  a  whisper,  "  Ims  gone  off  and  cUaerUa 
herr 

"ReaUy?  Very  shocking  !  But,"  added 
]\Irs.  Frost,  "  do  you  know,  I  think  tuV,  <^ 
the  whole,  very  surprising !" 

That  night,   in   the   seclusion   of  tlieir 
chamber,    Mrs.    Lovegrove    informed  b^f  .' 
husband  that,  come  what  might,  she  would 
never,  on  any  consideration,  invite  '*tlia* 
vfOTSv^u^" — ^o  ^\\<i  designated  Mrs.  Frod-^ 


^ 


ChariM  Diekene.] 


VEEONICA. 


[October  23, 1869.]       487 


"Pooh,  Sarah!"  Baid  Mr.  Lovegrove, 
**  why  not  ?" 

"  Why  not,  Augustus  ?  I  wonder  that 
you  can  ask !  Her  insolence  and  airs  ai'e 
beyond  bearing.  And  did  you  sec  her 
gown  ?" 

"  A  black  gown,  wasn't  it  ?  Ifc  looked 
very  neat,  I  thouglit." 

"  Very  neat !  If  throe  guineas  a  yard 
paid  for  that  lace  it  was  trimmed  with,  I 
will  undertake  to  eat  it.  That  is  all, 
Augustus  V* 

But  yet  that  proved  to  be  not  quite  alL 
And  Mr.  Lovcgrove  had  to  listen  to  a  long 
catalogue  of  Mrs.  Frost's  misdemeanours 
until  he  fell  asleep. 

Mrs.  Frost,  on  her  side,  declared  that 
she  had  been  bored  to  death ;  that  she  had 
never  seen  anything  like  the  collection  of 
creatures  Mi's.  Lovegrove  had  gathered  to- 

f  ether ;  that  they  had  stared  at  her  (Mrs. 
'rest)  as  though  she  were  a  savage ;  and, 
finally,  she  asked  her  husband  wliat  good 
had  boen  done  by  her  going  thei^e  at  all, 
seemg  that  that  absurd  woman,  Mrs.  Love- 
^ve,  had  chosen  to  take  offence,  and  walk 
away  from  her  in  a  huff ! 

"I?'o  good  at  all,  Greorgina,  certainly, 
unless  you  had  chosen  to  beliave  with 
dvility,  when  you  knew  how  I  had  begged 
you  to  do  so." 

"Really,  I  was  perfectly  civil.  But  Mrs. 
Lovegrove  tiied  to  quarrel  >vith  mo  because 
I  was  not  overwhelmed  by  the  honour  and 
glory  of  being  introduced  to  that  ridiculous 
old  Irishwoman.*' 

"Lady  Tullis's  niece  is,  at  all  events,  a 
Teiy  cliai'ming  creatui'e." 

"  The  golden-haired  girl  in  white  ?  Well 
— y — jes,  perhaps ;  I  did  not  speak  to  her. 
Certainly  she  did  look  different  fix)m  the 
rest  of  the  menagerie.  Those  apple-green 
creatures !  Ugh!  They  set  one  s  tcoth  on 
edge!" 

"You  must  call  on  Lady  Tallis,  Georgina. 
I  want  you  to  invite  tlie  girl,  and  take  her 
into  society  a  little." 

"  I  ?  Thanks  !  I  really  cannot  under- 
take to  chaperon  all  your  clients'  daughters 
and  nieces  and  cousins,  and  Heaven  knows 
who  besides." 

"  Lady  TaJlis  Gale  is  no  client  of  mine." 

"  Wliy  do  you  trouble  yourself  about 
her,  then  ?" 

"  G€X)rgy,  listen :  this  is  a  case  in  which 
your  woman's  tact  might  help  me,  if  you 
Would  employ  it  on  my  behalf.  There  is 
Some  foolish  love-making  going  on  between 
Hugh  Lockwood  and  this  Miss  Desmond. 
The  girl  is  very  diSbrcut  from  what  I  ex- 


pected. She  is  veiy  attractive.  Now,  it 
is  veiy  undesirable  that  young  Lockwood 
should  entangle  himself  in  an  engagement 
just  now." 

"Very  undesii^able  for  whom?"  asked 
Mrs.  Frost,  yawning  behind  her  fan. 

"  For — for  Ids  mother." 

"  Really?  Well,  I  should  suppose  that 
very  trenchant  little  person  with  the 
prominent  jaw,  was  able  to  manage  her 
own  business.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  get  up 
any  vital  interest  in  tbe  case.  But  you 
know  Mrs.  Lockwood  is  not  a  dear  old 
fnend  of  mine  /" 

Mrs.  Frost  had  for  a  brief  time  been 
really  a  little  jealous  of  Zillah.  And  she 
still  affected  to  be  so  whenever  it  suited 
her,  altliough  she  £elt  tolerably  certain  that 
whatever  were  tlio  strong  tie  of  intimacy 
between  her  husband  and  Mrs.  Lockwood, 
there  was  no  echo  in  it  of  an  old  love  story. 

"  Suppose  I  tell  you,  Georgina,"  said 
Mr.  Frost,  suppressing  the  hot  words  of 
anger  which  rose  to  his  lips,  "  that  it  would 
bo  undesirable  for  me  tliat  Hugh  Lockwood 
should  engage  himself  at  present," 

"What  in  tlie  world  can  it  matter  to 
you,  Sidney?" 

"  There  ai'o  business  complications  in  the 
affair,"  said  Mr.  Frost,  slowly.  "  But  so 
long  as  these  young  folks  are  living  in  the 
same  house  and  meeting  daily,  and  so  long 
as  tlie  young  lady  is  mewed  up  there  with- 
out any  other  society,  it  is  in  the  course  of 
nature  that  she  should  be  disposed  to  fancy 
herself  in  love  with  Hugh.  As  to  him,  I 
am  not  surprised.  The  girl  is  full  of  sense 
and  sweetness,  and  is  a  thorough  gentle- 
womim.  But  Hugh  ought  to  mairy  some 
one  with  a  few  thousands  of  her  own.  Miss 
Desmond  is  very  poor.  Now,  if  you  would 
give  her  some  pleasant  society,  and  let  her 
see  somctliiiig  of  the  world,  there  would  be 
less  fear  of  Hugh  and  her  making  fools  of 
themselves." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  all  that  to  Lady 
Wliat's-her-name  ?"  asked  !Mrs.  Frost,  lean- 
ing back  in  the  candage  with  closed  eyes. 
"  She  is  the  proper  person  to  look  after  lier 
niece." 

"  I  tell  it  to  you  because  I  choose  that  you 
shall  obey  me  !"  thundered  Mr.  Frost,  furi- 
ously. "  It  is  not  enough  that  you  drive  me 
half  wild  by  your  extravagance ;  that  you 
have  neither  common  gratitude  nor  common 
consideration  for  youi*  husband;  but  you 
thwait  me  at  every  turn.  You  deliberately 
put  yourself  in  opposition  to  every  plan  ot 
wish  of  mine.  You  (ici^^\x\^  ^s^  ^Ck^rc  jmtc^ 
gance  t\xc  pcoijJV©  ^v\lOTXi  \\*  S&  tc^i  «^^<sss^  ^sx- 


[OcloborII.I(iM.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  HOUND. 


terest  to  be  on  good  terms  with  ;  and  you 
seek  the  company  of  fashionable  foola  who 
teach  yon  to  sqoander  my  money  and  de- 
spise my  friends.  Take  care,  Georgiaa !  I 
warn  you  to  take  care  !  There  are  limits 
even  to  my  indnlgcnce." 

Mr.  Frost  had  uttered  the  last  words  in 
his  heat,  after  tho  carringo  had  drawn  up  at 
his  own  door.  And  tho  words  had  been 
heard  by  tho  servant  who  opened  it. 

Mrs.  Frost  was  mortified.  Sho  even  shed 
a  few  tears.  Bat  her  husband's  wraith 
was  flaming  too  high  to  be  extinguished 
by  a  few  tears  at  that  moment. 

"That  ia  all  I  get,"  said  Mrs.  Frost  to 
herself,  as  her  maid  was  brushing  out  her 
hair,  "  ibr  consenting  to  go  near  that 
odious  Bedford- square  set  at  all !  I  was 
a  tool  to  consent.  I  don't  beliere  a  word 
about  its  being  important  to  Sidney  whether 
Hugh  Lockwood  marries  a  princess  or  a 
pauper.  It  is  merely  to  carry  out  some 
scheme  of  that  t^tful  httle  creature  Mrs. 
Lockwood.  But  she  shall  find  that  what- 
eror  her  infinence  over  my  husband  may  be, 
she  cannot  make  vie  an  accomplice  in  her 


SEA-SIDE  STEREOSCOPES. 

A  CHEERT  hopeful  horn,  a  reatleas  and  merry 
Tiolin,  a  deep-voiced  mdlow  bass  Tiol,  and  a 
flute  that  whistles  lilce  a  joll;  blackbird  welcome 
me  to  Scarcliff,  the  night  of  my  arrival  at  Low- 
ther's.  I  look  oat  from  my  lofty  window  at 
Scarcliff  Bar,  which  shiace  like  fluid  silver  in 
the  moonhglit,  while  half  a  dozen  hcning-boats, 
each  with  a  speck  of  light  hung  like  a  talisman 
somewhere  abont  it,  ride  at  anchor  Blecpily  on 
ihe  bright  placid  wave.  The  open  ring  of  iMnpa 
on  the  esplanade  circles  the  southern  cliEF  like 
an  outspread  necklace  of  gold,  while  the  double 
rows  of  hghtB  on  the  SpaTerrace  form  a  sort  of 
centre  pendant. 

Ilark  !  'twas  the  Indian  dram !  What  means 
that  noise,  as  of  showmen  perpetually  going 
to  begin?  Am  I  in  Benares?  Ib  this  Jub- 
belpore  or  Sulipatam,  and  arc  the  festivals 
commencing  in  the  Hindoo  temples,  byordcr 
of  Kehama  the  accursed  ?  O  dear  uo  I  That  ia 
only  Mouther's  private-hotel  gong  calling  tiie 
Mouther  world  to  tea,  and  tbiit  brazen  bray 
that  rcphea  to  it  defiantlv  is  Crowther's,  lower 
down,  resolved  to  also  advertise  her  meals  and 
the  crowded  state  of  her  apartments,  which, 
full  or  not,  are  equally  kept  lit  up  at  night,  on 
the  principle  that  fires  are  kept  burning  in 
a  camp  the  night   it  is  deacrted.     Cionther's 

Eeople  despise    Mouther's    because  "  Private 
otcl  and  boarding -house"  ia  painted  in  vulgar, 
staring,  large  gilt  letters  over  Mouther's  £st- 
£oor  windows  ;  and  Mouther's  people  do  not 
tbjak  much  ot  Crowther's,  because  tbey  bafe 
no  aeatg  of  their  own  in  the  teitace  ^iden, 


iind,  what  is 
l,Tound,  Moreover,  ifadre  Jlouther  is  musical, 
-ind  so  are  the  Klisa  Mouthers,  cspeciallj  I.ouisa, 
the  blonde,  the  second,  who  wears  a  blue  anood 
iLud  a  blue  ^'suivcz-moi,  jeunes  hommes,"  that 
llatters  in  the  evening  breeze  as,  at  the  juano, 
by  the  open  window,  she  nightly  aings,  sni- 
rounded  by  admirers,  till  the  Crowthcr  set, 
n'ho  only  venture  oa  Tommy  Dodd  and  soch 
low  comic  tunes,  almost  burst  with  envy. 

Out  on  the  north  cliff  to  look  at  the  grey  pile 
'if  castle  ruin  rising  on  the  hill,  old  and  shattered, 
butatillinvincibleanddefiant.  Themoonisjuat 
now  hidden  by  a  cloud,  and  one  star  only  shmei 
above.  Look  below,  at  the  very  edge  of  the 
wet  sand,  just  where  the  foam  ia  receding 
there  stands  a  white  lady,  a  pale  phaot4M 
ilgure,  like  a  ghoat  on  the  shore,  waiting 
lizcdly  for  some  phantom  sMp.  No,  it  is  only 
the  reBection  of  that  tone  star  on  the  vet 
EOnd.  Well,  we  have  seen  many  worse  ghats 
than  that.  Lo !  a  bicycle ;  a  tall-le^ed  persoo 
ia  standing  over  it  on  tiptoe — misguided  uu. 
The  moment  he  puts  his  feet  on  the  wheel 
supports  away  he  is  borne — a  self-tonnented 
Mazeppa.  On  he  rollsandover  he  topples  time 
iJter  tmie,  until  at  last  two  friends  hold  him 
iguominioualy  on,  one  on  each  aide,  a  volun- 
teer pushes  liiTn  contemptuously  behind,  sod 
he  is  conveyed  home,  for  this  time,  withoni 
the  broken  leg  he  seems  so  ardently  to  covet. 
Those  two  lovers,  on  the  seat  looking  aeawiid, 
with  their  faces  bo  near  together,  do  not 
turn  to  see  his  ignommious  retreat,  and  pre- 
bably  would  not  look  round  if  h^  Scardiff 
were  to  suddenly  blaze  up  like  a  reauvian. 

Awake  early  I  thrnst  my  head  out  of  tlu 
open  window  at  Lowther's,  to  see  if  the  eottt 
is  where  it  was.  Queen  Ocean  has  three  deep 
lace  flounces  of  foam  to  her  gown.  The  raioea 
castle  is  veiled  in  a  simny  mist.  One  sail  'a  > 
I'eddish  yellow  in  the  sunshine ;  beyond  Bcsttcr 
other  aaila,  growing  to  mere  specks,  grej^ 
:'md  spcckier  as  they  recede  more  and  more 
toward  Flomborough  Head.  What  are  tkoM 
dark  spots  like  black  corks,  washing  abont  don 
there  m  the  spray  ?  Those  are  the  ^rdy  bsthni 
of  Scarcliff.  All  the  amnscmcnta  are  abeidf 
mustered  on  the  parade  ;  tho  Hindoo  vitk 
tracts ;  the  blind  beggar,  whose  nn^mpathiEinf 
dog  holds  inhismonlha  tin  for  pence  ;  thebliM- 
1,-oaled,  tow-haired,  frowsy  German  band;  (ke 
boy  with  fusees  and  the  Scarcliff  Gaxette  doU 
ap  in  pink  wrappers  ;  the  gnmilou*  old  Ittliiit 
with  a  big  nose  that  quiver.'i  when  he  walki, 
^ind  the  monkey  in  a  plaid  tunic  that  fiajt  ^ 
tambourine.  I  get  up  and  tind  Crowthei'i 
rtet  are  watching  with  dignity  the  little  cari- 
cature of  man  gnawing  at  an  apple,  while  Mon- 
ther's  people,  in  their  noisy,  Tulgarway,  arewe- 
paring  a  handful  of  nuts  to  throw  him  nm 
he  comes  to  their  steps.  The  proprietor  of  tin 
performing  birds  is  making  slowly  towards  ns, 
and  I  hear  the  pop  ot  the  little  gun  that  w- 
uounces  the  execution  of  that  old  offender  tte 
I  acaertct .  \lo^i\i  \jtiow  in  the  foam  a  fat  m« 
\  '\a  ouV  w«£^%'^ntw0.'^'^  m  «^  ^wn  wita 


:< 


=&» 


OhAiies  DIolranB.] 


SEA-SIDE  STEREOSCOPES. 


[October  23, 1869.]       489 


like  a  Polyphemus  pursuing  Acis,  while  along 
the  shore  the  bathing-machine  proprietor  dashes 
to  and  fro  on  his  pony  as  if  perpetually  rushing 
off  for  the  lifeboat.  A  large  concourse  on  the 
pier  head  watch  with  interest  the  fat  struggler 
with  the  elements,  while  a  resolute  angler  is 
fishing  stolidly  for  haddock,  as  if  he  was  never 
to  have  a  meal  unless  he  drew  it  from  the 
sea* 

There  is  one  quiet  amusement  always  in 
fashion  at  Scarcliff.  In  fact,  it  is  not  so  much 
the  custom  as  the  religion  of  this  and  other 
sea -side  places.  You  sit  doym  facing  the 
sea,  and  look  steadily  seaward  till  you  get 
giddy  and  sleepy ;  you  then  walk  long  enough 
to  clear  yourself  from  this  feeling,  and  then 
sit  down  and  stare  vacantly  again.  Red-faced 
farmers,  bilious  business  men,  pink  school-girls, 
yellow  old  coimtry- women  in  poke  bonnets, 
and  young  dandies— every  one  does  it.  Most 
of  these  contemplators  must  exhaust  the  sea 
(mentally  I  mean)  in  three  minutes.  They 
observe  it  is  blue,  level,  with  sunny  gleams  upon 
it  here  and  there,  while  some  white-winged 

fulls  flicker  over  it  like  large  white  butter- 
ies ;  they  know  that  it  has  illimitable  power 
of  getting  angry,  and  in  its  wrath  of  devouring 
men,  and  there  they  end,  but  still  magnetised 
by  its  irresistible  fascination,  they  sit  there 
day  after  day  as  if  they  were  trying  to  write 
something  to  cut  out  Byron's  Address  to  the 
Ocean.  The  custom  may  tend  slightly  to 
idiotcy,  but  in  other  respects  it  is  a  rational 
and  healthy  custom  enough. 

As  I  walk  round  by  the  castle  cliff,  where 
the  big  gun   from  Sebastopol  is,   I  find   an 
old  lame  fisherman  leaning  there  and  gazing 
wistfully  seaward.      I  ask  him  if  that  is  a 
collier  out  yonder.    He  says  yes,  with  an  air 
of  surprise  at  any  landsman  knowing  a  collier 
80  far  off.     I  explain  to  him  I  mean  the  vessel 
out  there  by  the  pier  (five  miles  nearer  than 
irhere  he  means).     He  shifts  his  quid  grimly 
and  scornfully,  at  this.     He  meant  that  speck 
out  ever  so  far.    I  try,  but  I  can't  sec  it  at  all, 
and  go  down  to  zero  at  once  in  my  own  esti- 
mation.   I  ask  my  mariner  (to  carry  the  thing 
off),  if  it  is  a   good  day  for  fishing.    Never 
"waa  a  better,  he  says :  would  I  like  his  boat  ? 
He's  got  plenty  of  bait  ready.    The  day  was 
fine,  with  a  little  white  feather  on  the  sea, 
"the  breakers  were  crashing  along  the  shore. 
Xt  miffht  be  a  good  day  for  a  strong  constitu- 
"tion,  out  not  For  me.     Since  that  1  have  had 
treason  to  suspect  it  was  not  so  good  a  day,  for 
"the  day  after  I  asked  the  same  question.     The 
'^nd.was  then  furious,  raging,   demoniacally 
^piteful    in  the  matter  of  chimney-pot   hats, 
r  was  then  also  informed  it  was  a  lirst-rate 
clay,  and  safe  for  mackerel.     A  third  day  it 
i^ned  violently.    Even  that  day,  too,  was  pro- 
Xiounced  perfect.    Now,  as  they  could  not  all 
l^e  perfect,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  not  one 
^f  them  was,  and  that  if  Youth  had  been  at 
tihe  prow,  Nausea  would  certainly  have  been  at 
the  helm.     Look!    There  are  Mouther's  set 
^oing  out  now,  all  in  yachting  dress ;  it's  a  show 
off  Urowther's  people  say,  and  they  always 


b= 


come  back  ill.  Do  you  hear  that  crash  ?  That 
is  thunder.  The  Mouthers  will  just  have  got 
comfortably  out  at  sea.  Serve  them  right, 
growls  Crowther,  who  is  what  his  friends  call 
a  plain  sort  of  man  ;  but  though  I  esteem  him, 
I  must  confess  that,  for  my  own  part,  I  set 
him  down  as  decidedly  ugly. 

Bathing!  There  again,  those  Mouther  people, 
who  break  every  law  human  and  divine,  troop  off 
smirking  and  philandering  almost  directly  after 
breakfast,  when  everybody  knows  it  is  as  much 
as  one's  life  is  worth  to  bathe  "within  two  hours 
of  a  meal.  Every  one  at  Crowther's  expects 
that  some  day  the  whole  Mouther  lot  will  go  off 
in  simultaneous  apoplexy.  They  dabble  and 
shiver  about,  but  I'll  just  give  you  an  idea  of 
how  they  suffer.  The  other  day  I  went  to  bathe 
and  had  to  wait  till  an  invisible  gentleman  in 
No.  32  had  done  dressing.  I  waited  for  an 
endless  time;  at  last  the  bathing  man  says, 
**  I  think  I'd  knock,  sir,"  so  I  did,  and  a  feeble, 
wavering  voice  answered,  *'  In  a  moment.*' 
Presently  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  a  blue 
shivering  jelly  of  a  woe-begone  man,  looking 
the  image  of  alarm  and  nervousness,  stammer- 
ingly  articulated,  **  Would  you  be  kind  enough 
to  button  my  braces,  sir  ;  my  hands  are  so  be- 
numbed, I've  been  half  an  hour  trying  to  do 
them."  I  saw  that  man  afterwards  on  the 
Terrace  slinking  home  to  Mouther's.  He  was 
never  his  own  man  again,  and  after  all  he 
went  off  (jitst  like  Mouther's  people)  without 
paying  for  his  last  six  bathing  tickets.  Now 
improper  bathing  may  benumb  a  man,  but  it 
doesn't,  you  know,  make  a  man  forget  to  pay 
for  his  bathing  tickets. 

The  Crowther  set  are  jolly,  hearty,  honest, 
rather  vulgar  people.  Ihey  dress  any  how, 
and  disput-e  a  good  deal  about  cloth  and 
iron,  praise  Hoodersfield  and  Braaaardford, 
and  hate  fuss,  sham,  and  pretension.  Their 
wives  are  generally  rather  full-faced,  hard, 
sturdy  women,  who  speak  their  minds ;  and 
their  daughters  are  hearty,  pretty,  strong, 
good-natured  girls,  who  laugh  loud  and  sing 
loud,  and  walk  fast  and  far,  and  delight  in 
boating,  and  do  not  try  to  conceal  their  likes 
and  dislikes,  lliey  are  not  afraid  to  show  they 
enjoy  themselves,  they  are  fresh  and  natural, 
and  have  no  affectation.  The  Crowther  men 
arc  very  hearty  and  sociable,  and  are,  as  a  rule, 
generally  meeting  friends  from  "Hool,"  wher- 
ever you  go  with  them. 

What  a  stupendous  fool  I  am !  Here  I  have 
been  afraid  to  bathe  for  a  whole  week  because 
of  the  cold,  and  I  declare  if  the  water  isn't  de- 
lightfully fresh,  and  without  a  sting. 

**  Always  is  warm,  sir,  after  the  night's  been 
rough,"  says  the  machine  proprietor. 

I  long  to  know  the  scientific  reason  for 
this  phenomenon,  but  like  a  fool  again  I  am 
ashamed  to  ask,  so  I  say,  •*  I  suppose  so,"  which 
veils  my  ignorance.  I  presume  the  sea  beats 
itself  warm  just  as  a  cabman  warms  his  hands 
by  striking  himself  on  the  chest,  and  yet  tliat 
hardly  seems  to  bring  one  much  nearer  to  an 
adequate  explanation. 


ii 


0:5 


^ 


490      [October  M.  18(59.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactcd  by 


On  cominiif  out  1  try  to  educe  from  the  bath- 
ing-machine  man  principles  to  guide  me  in 
bathing.  His  rule  is  simple  and  comprehen- 
Bive. 

**  "What  I  always  say,  sir,  is,  in  and  out 
again/^ 

This  principle,  thought  I,  has  at  least  one 
good  point  about  it,  it  makes  a  bathing-ma- 
chine useful  to  as  many  people  as  possible 
in  a  morning.  As  I  jump  down  the  steps 
of   the   bathing-machine   and   dance   on   the 

I .  shore  for  sheer  joy  and  redundancy  of  animal 
life,  the  sand  is  blowing  over  the  beach  like  a 

!      flowing  river,  and  the  sand-hills  below  the 

I  cliffs  are  all  a  smoke  with  eddies  of  restless 
atoms.      Great  broad  dark -brown  ribbons  of 

I     glue-coloured  sea-weed  are  washing  to  land, 
a  pallid  little  crab   is  vainly  trying  to  work 

j ,  home  to  his  parish  to  secure  a  settlement,  and 
a  flabby  star-Ash,  stranded  half  an  hour  ago, 
moves  one  of  his  rays  in  feeble  appeal  to  me, 

I     as  I  pass  recklessly  by,  denouncing  aloud  tlie 
blatant  humbug  of  Mouther's  gong  that   is 

!      thundering  out  from  the  cliff -top  the  summons 

I ;    to  an  indifferent  and  pietentious  dinner. 


An  evening  stereoscope.  A  Scarcliff  even- 
ing is  full  of  pleasant  contrasts.  The  bay 
glows  like  silver,  and  the  headlands  are  steeped 
in  a  blue  moonlit  mist  that  bathes  also  the 
whole  bluff  shoulder  of  the  Castle  Hill.  The 
moon  a  moment  ago  had  a  great  black-winged 
cloud  stretching  right  athwart  it  like  a  dusky 
eagle.  Then  the  eagle  faded  and  the  cloud 
thinned  and  thinned  till  it  turned  a  mother-of- 
pearl  colour,  amber  in  parts.  Presently  all 
these  hues  dissolve,  and  the  great,  full,  bright 
moon  launches  out  into  an  ocean  of  cloudless 
blue.  The  lamps  on  the  North  Pier  are  lighting, 
two  by  two,  and  casting  golden  hues  and  dark 
shadows  on  the  sands  below.  Waft^s  of  music 
arise  from  the  southern  bay,  for  there  is  to  be  a 
fete  to-night,  and  the  Spa  Terrace  gleams  al- 
ready in  golden  lines  like  a  miniatui'c  Naples. 
There  are  crowds  of  tremendously  dressed  per- 
sons at  the  door  of  the  Domdauiel  Hotel  on  the 
south  side ;  they  are  all  going  to  the  fete.  Ila ! 
now  they  begin  :  there  streams  up  a  rocket  high 
over  the  dark  green  woods  that  slope  back 
from  the  sea.  It  bursts  over  the  sea  in  clusters 
of  crimson  and  emerald  fire,  as  if  in  mockery 
of  the  moon,  that  is  looking  down  Tidth  such 
clear  and  steadfast  eye,  all  the  cold  pride  of 
Diana  in  her  gaze  at  our  transient  follies,  and 
little,  fantastic  pleasures.  The  gay  crowd 
cliatters  and  paces ;  presently  a  fltfiS  explosion 
breaks  out  everywhere:  it  is  the  set  piece. 
"  Good-night''  appears  in  a  thousand  colours, 
the  band  crashes  out  God  save  the  Queen,  and 
the  gala  is  over. 

The  lights  on  tlie  pier  go  out  one  by  one, 

the  waves  race  underneath  and  foam  against 

the  iron  stilt-like  legs  of  the  pier,  as  much  as 

to  say.  **  Some  day  or  another  when  we  are 

really  hungry,  we'll  just  make  a  mouthful  of 

jou   young   fellows.      The  windows  in  the 

crescent  fade  out  fast.     The  sharp  gaa-Wv^Ma 

look  lonely  now.     The  Bca  plungea  axid  xoan 

ual go  to  Blee]^,  further  and  furtKer  novr,\^ 


a  whisper— to  nothing— for  I  have  descended 
far  from  it  into  Dreamland. 

A  morning  stereoscope  at  ScarclifF.  The 
clifF  is  all  alive — children  everywhere — rosy, 
plump,  merry  children,  equipped  with  wooden 
spades,  and  jjails,  and  landmg  nets.  People  are 
descending  in  great  numbers  the  rude  stairs 
that  lead  doi\Ti  to  the  sands.  The  green-roofed 
batliing  macliines  arc  wading  in  the  sea,  and 
several  young  ladies  dressed  aa  Banshees,  aud 
with  cascades  of  golden  hair,  are  splasliing 
each  other  and  laughing ;  those  pink  spots  out 
there  are  men  swimming.  There  is  a  pretty 
sight:  a  stalwart  father,  with  the  chest  A 
Hercides,  has  got  his  little  curly-headed  hoy 
on  his  shoulders,  and  they  both  are  laughing 
and  shouting  in  boisterous  enjoyment  of  the 
fun.  Now  the  father  is  resting  him  on  that 
great,  wallowing,  green  buoy,  and  the  urchin  ij 
screaming,  half  in  fun,  half  in  real  alarm.  That 
little  blue-striped  hut  on  the  cliff  is  doing  a 
brisk  business  m  pails,  but  no  one  bnys  the  old 
tattered  copies  otthe  Whole  Duty  of  ]Man  aud 
Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs,  or  those  comoliaua 
that  are  kept  in  pudoing  basins  like  so  many 
plums. 

Sec  the  herring  boats  coming  in,  a  pleasant 
and  lively  sight,  for  the  sky  to  seaward,  seen 
from  this  great  breakwater  of  Cyclopi^an 
stones,  is  alwajrs  full  of  breezy  Vanderveldo 
effects,  and  is  delicious  in  its  fine  sunny  at- 
mosphere and  its  great  grey  clouds,  shifting 
to  ail  colours,  from  white  to  rose  and  from 
purple  to  amber.  It  has  been  a  rough  night, 
and  the  decks  of  the  herring  boats  are  soddou- 
salt  with  spray  and  speckled  with  silvery  scales. 
The  rugged-bearded  men  have  their  shiny- 
yellow  sou'-westers  pulled  down  over  their 
brows,  and  their  yellow  waterproofs  come 
down  as  far  as  their  great  greasy  boots,  90 
that  the  Deluge  itself  would  be  a  mere  tridc 
to  them.  Kough  lails  thrust  their  heads 
up  the  hatchways,  and  lift  out  brimming 
]>askets  of  fish.  Yes,  they  did  pull  them  in 
last  night  pretty  tidy.  The  quay  is  covered  jl 
with  herrings,  and  men  are  measuring  them  off 
in  baskets,  and  mixing  them  with  coarse  salt 
as  they  measure  them.  The  great,  dark  sails  are 
lowering  as  every  moment  boats  come  round 
the  lighthouse  corner  witli  shouting  crevs. 
In  an  hour  cart-loads  of  red-brown  nets  will  be 
stretching  to  dry  in  the  green  fields  outsiile 
Scarcliff;  nothing  about  the  busy  scene  do 
I  more  like  than  to  see  the  little  fishermen's 
boys — sou'westcrs,  jersey,  boots,  the  very 
miniature  of  their  fathers— pulling  at  tow  ropes, 
or,  with  great  self-importance,  carrying' nets 
ashore.  In  them  the  baby  and  the  hero  are 
combined ;  the  urchin,  only  just  released  from 
Ids  mother  s  arms,  has  learned  already  to 
look  death  smilingly  in  the  face,  to  despise 
storms,  to  laugh  at  reefs,  and  to  treat  the  waves 
as  if  they  were  mere  flocks  of  patient  sheep. 
Look  at  that  youngster  now,  kneeling  on  the 
stern  of  a  boat  that  is  rocking  in  the  suif,  while 
\^  \itoVi\ev,  ^-^^issii  'younger,  stands  up  to  his 


=a 


ClmrlM  Dlckraa.] 


SEA-SIDE  STEREOSCOPES. 


[October  28, 1869.]     401 


old  block,  and  you  should  sec  how   neat  and 
handy  they  are  in  a  gale  of  wind. 

"What  hiftve  we  dune?     A  curso  of  lady- 
birds   is    upon    us.     Everythinj^   is    studded 
I    with    the     little    flying    tortoise    with    the 
'    orange    shell    and    the   black    spots.     Thoy 
,    crawl  about  the  scorched  white  wild  barley  on 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  they  nestle  in  the 
thistle-down.     They   survey  the   fences    and 
emboss  the  walls.     Where  do  they  hail  from  ? 
What  is  their  little  game  at  Scarcliff  ?     Where 
were  they  before  they  came  here?    I  just  now 
met  four  coming  up  to  our  front  door  at  Low- 
ther  8  as  if   they  were  going  to  leave  their 
cards,  and  I  see  that  little  brute  of  a  pge 
hoy  in  plum  colour  at  Mouther's  scrunch  hun- 
dreds a  day  as  he  runs  his  erramls. 

WTiat  a  morning !  The  sea  looks  as  if  it  could 
not  drown  a  baby.  The  only  sound  is  the  sleepy 
simmering  of  the  surf  on  the  shore  as  the  ebbing 
wat4:r  leayes  its  thread  of  foam  upon  the  sand. 
The  waves  are  frothing  against  the  black 
boulders  at  the  Castle  foot,  and  miles  away 
yonder  I  see  the  waves  leaping  up  like  a  pack 
of  restless  white  deer-hounds  round  Filey 
Brigg.  A  distant  lamp  on  the  Terrace  sparkles 
like  a  diamond,  and  the  board  with  the  touch- 
ing appeal,  "Don't  leave  Scarcliff  without 
seeing  the  camera !"  flaps  protestingly  against 
the  rails  to  which  it  is  tied.  Tlie  whole  long 
line  of  sea-side  houses  Ls  all  in  shadow,  except 
one  house  that  catches  the  eastern  sun  from  a 
*ido  street. 

^-KOOM!~a  shock  of  thunder   makes  all 
Scarcliff  stagger  again,  and  long,  deep  echoes 
roll  away  seaward.    That  is  a  cannon  :  the  ar- 
tillerymen on  the  castle  are  practising  at  a  float- 
ing mark.  Number  One,  sponge ;  Nnmber  Two, 
load — and  so  on.    Ba-room !  bellows  the  gun 
«gain,  with  very  tolerable  activity.     One  would 
tldnk  the  old  line  of  walls — so  often  invested 
in  old  times — ^was  once  more  beleagured ;  but 
those  shattered  towers  are  helpless  now,  and 
laaghuig  at  his  work,  Time,  in  likeness  of  a 
Yorkshire   lurchin,    sits  on  the  broken    bat- 
"tlements  and  watches  the  gun  practice.  1  go  in 
^t  a  gate  leading  to  the  castle  which  is  hung 
^ith    toy  boats,  and  is  guarded  by  a  lame 
bailor ;  a  red  flag  waves  above  from  the  edge 
of    the   northward    cliff.     Young   fellows  in 
scarlet  tunics,  by  twos  and  threes,  come  strid- 
ing up  to  the  castle-hill  with  rifles  on  their 
Bhoulaers ;  they  arc  Scarcliff  riflemen  going  to 
%hoot  for  prizes.    I  And  two  batches  of  alert 
Scarlet  men  drawn  up  outside  a  tent  in  the  broad 
xiieatlow   above  the  castle.       There  are  two 
"targets  between  liigh  turf  walls.    Two  of  the 
imeii  are  out  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  behind  the 
"tent  firing  down  at  a  bit  of  floating  wreck. 
iTio  volunteers  are  fine  stalwart,  grave,  resolute 
f  f  Hows,  intent  on  the  prizes.     A  jolly  fellow, 
"Vrith  big  sandy  beard,  and  in  plain  dress,  is 
4&tiated  in  a  chair  with  a  telescope  before  him  to 
W'atch  the  targets.    A  bugle  sounds.    Ilythe 
"position  at  three  hundred  yards,  every  bullet 
on,  and  blue  and  red-and- white  flags  up  every 
moment.      ITie   bull's-eyes    sound    full    and 
\    clear ;  the  outside  shots  give  a  slighter  tang. 
U    The  prize  is  all  with  a  quiet  browu-looking 


fellow,  who  fires  carefully  and  without  hurry, 
waiting  for  lulls  of  the  wind.  Some  young 
sisters  of  volunteers,  sent  to  bring  their  din- 
ners, look  on  with  wonder  and  delight,  as 
David  did  when  he  was  wmt  to  the  Israelitish 
camp  and  culled  the  pebbles  by  the  way.  A 
red  and  white  flag— a  bull's-eye.  Hurrali !  the 
steady  brown  man  has  won  the  cup  with  a  good 
score  of  fifty-nine. 

The  tradesmen  at  Scarcliff  are  not  smooth- 
tongULHl ;  they  are  too  rich  for  that.  Xo,  they 
are  blunt,  sturdy  Yorkshire  people,  who  quietly 
let  you  know  they  don't  care  whether  you  deal 
with  them  or  not.  Yet  for  all  that  they  do 
not  despise  the  small  arts  of  trade,  and  your 
second  jwund  of  tea,  and  your  second  joint, 
and  your  second  couple  of  fowls,  are  not,  as  a 
rule,  by  any  means  so  good  as  the  first.  They 
remind  me  of  the  people  on  a  wild  hill  outside 
Monmouth,  who  in  summer  when  you  ask 
where  they  come  from,  say  boldly  and  rather 
defiantly,  *»  Why,  from  Penallt,"  with  a  devil- 
may-care  air  sure  enough ;  but  in  winter  and 
snow -time  if  you  ask  them,  they  reply  with  a 
deprecating  shudder,  "Oh,  from  Penallt,  God 
bless  us!"  A  month  or  two  more,  and  you 
might  fire  a  seventy  -  four  -  pounder  up  and 
down  Scarcliff  without  hitting  a  visitor.  The 
Scarcliff  shopocracy  will  l)o  Inunble  enough 
then,  I  warrant,  and  they'd  send  you  a  pound 
of  sugar  twenty  miles,  I  very  strongly  con- 
jecture. 

Sunday  is  a  characteristic  day  at  Scarcliff. 
Go,  just  as  the  churches  "come  out,"  and  see 
how  in  the  Iligh-streot  the  cross-currents  of 
Kitualistfl,  Congregationalists,  Wesleyans,  Pri- 
mitive Christians,  Koman  Catholics,  &c.,  ebb 
and  flow  through  the  little  gate  they  call  the 
Bar.  And  through  the  midst  of  the  gaily- 
dressed  people,  the  rich  manufacturers,  the 
simple  country  people  in  for  the  day,  and 
the  chattering  servants,  stride  to  and  fro  (as 
if  for  ever  condenmed  to  pace  a  real  or 
imaginary  quarter-deck),  the  fishermen,  broad- 
chest  eil  rugged  fellows,  in  the  eternal  blue 
guernsey — the  Norseman's  shirt  of  mail  soft- 
ened and  civilised  at  last  into  harmless  woollen, 
but  still  covering  bold,  brave  hearts.  Like 
X)irates  on  shore,  they  seem  to  walk  defiantly, 
eyeing  the  degenerate  tojirists  around  them,  and 
i-eady  at  a  shrill  boatswain's  whistle  to  sack 
the  whole  town,  and  sail  away  with  the  Sabine 
women  to  the  "  golden  South  Amerikies." 

It  is  difficult,  when  the  calm  waves  are  break- 
ing in  music  on  the  shore,  to  reflect  on  Scar- 
cliff having  any  dangers;  but  it  has.  liow 
many  a  Scarcliff  boat  Death  in  lus  black  coffin- 
bark  has  hailed  I  One  out  of  every  three  poor 
women  you  meet  would  tell  you  she  had  lost  a 
brother  or  a  son  or  a  husband  by  '.Irowniiig. 
Some  years  ago  a  party  were  caught  by  the 
tide  on  the  sands  near  Filey,  and  nearly  all 
drowned.  Those  cliffs,  too,  that  look  so 
calm  in  the  sun,  have  had  their  countless  vic- 
tims. Only  last  week,  two  boys,  out  for  a 
scramble  over  the  Holmes  under  the  castle 
before  breakfast,  scaled  the  cliff  to  get  home 
the  sooner.  One  boy  got  up  safely,  and  hear- 
ing  a  cry  looked  back.    His  Mend  hung  half- 


<£: 


492      [October  SS,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[COBdl 


way  up,  unable  to  moye,  clinging  at  some  grass, 
and  beniunbed  with.  fear.  The  iirst  lad  ran  to 
the  artillerymen's  barracks  for  a  rope.  When 
he  came  back  the  youuger  boy  was  gone.  They 
searched  and  found  his  crushed  body  between 
some  rocks  on  the  shore. 

The  Scarcliff  fishermen  are  fine  fellows,  but 
I  fear  they  are  given  to  fiction.  I  heard  one 
the  other  day  talking  to  two  of  Mouther's 
young  gentlemen  about  gunnery.  They  were 
leaning  against  the  big  Kussian  gun  on  the 
north  cliff.  The  manner  was  discoursing  on 
a  certain  revolving  cannon  lately  invented, 
and  he  ended  by  assuring  his  young  friends 
that  the  longest  distance  he  had  ever  known  a 
shell  thrown  tcaafive-and'thirfi/  tnile-^,  but  then  thai 
was  a  peculiar  case.  The  other  day  I  fell  into 
conversation  with  a  long-limbed  old  pilot  who 
was  on  the  watch  on  the  cliff  for  a  certain 
schooner  loaded  with  slates,  that  he  and  his 
mate  had  heard  of  the  night  before  when  they 
were  laying  their  lobster-pots  out  there  yonder 
beyond  that  second  point  where  the  sea  was 
running  so  high.  No,  there  was  no  waiting  for 
turns  with  the  pilots  at  Scarcliff,  if  he  could  only 
just  set  eyes  on  the  schooner  he'd  be  off  with  his 
boat  in  a  jiffy.  He'd  been  out  till  two  o'clock 
with  the  lobster-pots  and  only  got  two  lobsters. 
It  was  owing,  he  thought,  to  the  Northern 
Lights,  and  heavy  they  was  all  night,  dancing 
and  capering,  and  the  sky  all  in  a  flame  wi'em, 
wonderful  for  them  as  had  never  seen  it.  Those 
lights  didn't  bode  no  good  just  about  the  Equi- 
nox. Yesterday  the  sun  crossed  the  line,  about 
meridian,  and  the  Northern  Lights,  coming 
after,  boded  bad  weatl«er.  Did  J  see  that 
Whitby  steamer  down  there  trying  to  get  to  the 
pier  for  passengers  ?  She'd  better  take  care  what 
she  was  after  or  she'd  get  aground.  It  was  a 
burning  shame  she  wasn't  obliged  to  take  a 
pilot.  Yes,  she'd  lost  her  way  in  the  fog  near 
Whitby  several  times,  and  she'd  do  ii  once  too 
often.  You  better  get  off,  my  gentleman.  That 
pier  was  not  well  built  and  would  go  some 
winter.  It  was  caulked,  there  was  no  ventila- 
tion in  it,  wind  and  water  must  have  vent, 
and  when  a  heavy  sea  came  under  it,  it  would 
lift  off  all  the  planking  and  play  old  Harry 
with  it.  No,  he  had  never  been  in  the  Baltic, 
but  he  had  been  off  Cape  Horn  three  weeks 
trying  to  get  round  by  Tatagonia  and  Terra- 
fuegar.  That  was  with  Captain  Bell  of  Whitby, 
and  then  he  proposed  to  try  the  Straits  of 
Magellan,  as  ain't  barely  navigable.  Three  hun- 
dred miles  long  they  was,  anda  ugly  shop  to  be 
in,  sure  enough.  Shore  at  the  Horn  was  rocks 
tremendous  high.  What  vessel  was  that?  only 
a  light  collier.  What  cargo  was  the  most 
dangerous?  Well,  copper  ore;  linseed  was 
bad  too,  it  shifted  so  ;  coals  was  good,  a 
vessel  was  always  lively  with  coals,  and  timber 
wasn't  bad  ;  but  it  was  all  screw  colliers  now, 
they  went  homo  with  water  for  ballast,  and  got 
it  pumped  out  ^vith  a  donkey  engine  directly 
thev  arrived  at  Shields.  I  hadn't  got  the  price 
of  half  an  ounce  of  'baccy  about  me,  had  i  ? 
I  am  almost  afraid  the  fellow  was  a  Vv\xmV>\ig, 
and  that  the  schooner  for  which  he  waa  VooWvng 
out  was  the  FJying  Dutchman  or  fiomc  fi;vicVic»ha- 


dowy  craft ;  for  the  next  day  I  met 
had  forgotten  me,  and  began  talking  i 
**  track"  that  a  parson  had  just  given  hii 
pretty  reading  it  was,  and  uncommon 
weather  it  was  to  be  sure.  He  was  n 
municative  about  the  schooner,  but  thoi 
must  have  **  blown  away"  in  the  nigk 
luck,  for  he  hadn't  the  price  of  a  w 
'baccy  in  his  pocket. 

The  outdoor  sights  at  Scarcliff  are  soi 
especially  characteristic.  The  other  d 
side  street  I  came  upon  a  truck  di-awn  I 
sailors.  An  artful-looking  man  in  a 
nought  was  the  spokesman,  and  his  a 
was  a  little,  fair,  podgy  man  in  a  blue 
who  held  in  his  hand  a  cigar  box  with 
the  lid  ready  for  contributions.  On  th 
lay  a  huge  blubbery  fish,  about  ten  fee 
with  a  small  head  and  a  vacant  eye.  A  c 
nursemaids,  children  in  buff  shoes,  and  i 
ing  excursionists  surrounded  the  dead  n 

**  But  what  is  it?"  said  some  one 
pinching  the  ambiguous  fish  all  over. 

**  Well,  if  we  was  to  say  it  was  a 
said  the  podgy  exhibitor,  **  we  should 
ing  the  thing  that  wasn't  right,  but 
whale  specie.    It's  a  G rumpus." 

**  Yes,  that's  what  it  is,"  said  the  artf 
pointing  to  a  red  woimd  in  the  creature 
**  here  we  struck  him,  and  this  'ere  is  tl 
where  he  throws  up  the  water." 

*^  Ah  !  putting  like  a  grampus,  that  a 
for  it,"  said  I. 

**  'Xactly  so,"  said  the  podgy  man. 
is  a  grumpus ;  we  don't  charge  anything 
but  any  coppers  as  gemmen  likes  to  gii 
in  this  'ere  box.    Thank  you,  sir." 

ITie  swallows  are  collecting  on  the  ro* 
is  time  to  migrate.  The  wind  gets  daily 
and  colder.  Every  one  is  leaving  Scare" 
the  hotel  doors  the  railway  buses  are 
with  tin  boxes  and  perambulators.  A 
now  passed  with  two  sponge-baths  spra'n 
the  roof.  Children  are  leaving  by  whc 
full.  The  fantastic  set  at  Mouther's  an 
bottled  into  flies.  A  few  weeks  more  an 
cliff  will  be  a  howling  wilderness.  Th 
ing-house  keepers  will  have  to  let  lodgi 
each  other ;  the  shop-keepers  to  sell  \ 
other.  1  hope  they  will  like  it.  11k 
fed  on  us  long  enough.  The  Mouthe 
grin  at  the  windows,  but  the  Crowthers 
their  lodgers  to  the  station,  and,  lik 
homely  people  as  they  are,  shake  them 
hands,  and  **  tuck  them  up,"  to  use  a  i 
phrase,  in  their  respective  carriages. 

THE  GEEY  MONK'S  MISEREBE. 

The  grey  monk  patters  a  midnight  prayer 

"  Miserere  Domine  !'* 
Alon^  the  corridor,  down  the  stair 

A  light  toot  crecpeth  stealthily. 
Pausing,  he  crosses  himself  in  dread 

(Never  a  footstep  there  should  be) 
As  near  his  cell  comes  that  stealthy  tread 

At  the  midnight  hour  so  warily. 

The  ^cy  monk  murmurs  in  gasping  prayer 
'Vl\iwv  \Jwi  %\*^  \Xx«A.  ^wnvct  %^<cs^(^^^  ttoir 


ip 


Chaitot  Dtekena.] 


"NO  BRIBERY." 


[October  28. 1809.]      498 


Hii  rigid  face  is  ^j  u  his  gown 

(A  ruddy  face  it  ia  wont  to  be), 
From  his  trembling  hands  the  beads  drop  down 

As  the  door  flies  open  readily. 

The  grey  monk  shudders,  but  not  with  oold 

(He  has  bethought  what  this  may  be), 
As  wrapped  in  many  a  muffling  fold 

A  figure  enters  solemnly. 
His  torrificd  heart  emits  the  groan 

"  Miserere  Domine !" 
For  closer  yet  without  sign  or  tone 

The  shape  approaches  steadily. 

The  grey  monk's  brain  has  began  to  swim 

Flooded  o'er  by  memory ; 
The  guilt  of  his  fife  comes  home  to  him 

In  one  fell  swoop  portentously. 
Well  he  remembers  the  muffled  form 

Veiled  and  voiceless  though  it  be ; 
Erewhile  a  woman  young  and  warm : 

Now,  a  spectral  mystery. 

The  grey  monk  shrinks,  as  an  icy  hand, 

Pmseless  as  a  Polar  sea, 
Laid  on  his  wrist  in  stem  command. 

Draws  him  from  his  bended  knee : 
Draws  him  slowly  from  out  his  cell 

Powerless  to  resist  or  fleej 
Whilst  overhead  the  midnight  bell 

Breaks  the  silence  eerily. 

The  grey  monk  follows  through  doiittred  gloom 

(Miserere  Domine  I) 
Palsied  as  by  a  sense  of  doom 

And  perpetual  misery : 
Follows  the  phantom  through  secret  waya 

Never  planned  by  piety, 
But  trodaen  oft  in  amorous  days, 

Trodden  one  time  murderously. 

The  dark  trees  shudder  as  on  they  pass; 

The  tearful  dew  drops  dolefully ; 
A  low  moan  oomes  from  the  conscious  giMS ; 

The  gusty  wind  sobs  humanly. 
The  plumtom  stops  at  an  eerie  nook 

Black  and  gruesome  as  can  be, 
Where  even  tne  moonbeams  fear  to  look 

On  the  grey  monk  crouching  pitcously. 

Down  close  by  the  deep  pool's  oozy  edge, 

(Pool  as  still  as  deatn  must  be). 
The  grey  monk  kneels  amid  weed  and  sedgo, 

A  wretch  in  mortal  agony. 
The  spectral  finger  points  to  the  pool — 

Be  it  £act  or  phantasy, 
He  sees  a  sight  of  dolour  and  dool. 

Glares,  and  shrieks  despairingly ! 

An  upturned  face  lo6k»  out  frY)m  the  slime 

Fair  as  face  of  maid  might  be, 
A  silent  witness  of  secret  crime, 

Double  sin,  and  treachery. 
Looks  as  the  drormbd  dead  can  look 

In  his  eyes  reproachingly ; 
The  murderer  reads  as  from  written  book 

The  awful  doom  he  yet  must  dree. 

A  jgracious  year  for  remorse  hath  gone 

To  the  past's  immutability, 
Since  on  the  Eve  of  the  good  St.  John 

A  soul  wont  to  eternity : 
Sent  all  unahriven  to  God's  white  throne. 

Full  of  sin  as  soul  may  be ; 
No  single  moment  spared  to  atone — 

So  she  went,  accusingly. 

Over  the  fate  of  the  missing  maid 

Hung  a  pall  of  mystery ; 
But  the  grey  monk  lelt  no  whit  afruid. 

Still  secure  in  sanctity. 
He  never  confessed  the  hideous  spot 

Tainting  his  soul  like  leprosy, 
"Forgot  hJ£  guilt — but  the  Judge  did  not. 
JJ^m  cornea  sure  if  silently. 


Never  again  will  he  patter  the  prayer 

"  Miserere  Domine  I" 
He  wails  it  out  to  the  midnight  air. 

And  echoes  mock  his  misery. 
For  when  oomes  round  each  £ve  of  St.  John 

Phantom  led,  in  agony, 
That  face  in  the  pool  he  must  gaze  upon, 

Till  Time  becomes  Eternity. 

"  NO  BRIBERY." 


I  DO  not  want  to  name  any  names,  or 
to  hnrt  anybody's  feelings.  But  facts  are 
facts,  and  there  seems  to  me  something 
remarkable  enongh  to  deserve  record  in  the 
way  Mary  and  I  became  man  and  wife.  It 
was  done  by  an  election;  and  it  came 
abont  in  this  wise.  I  was  a  young  minister 
among  the  Dissenters;  and  it  was  bnt  a 
short  time  since  I  had  left  my  college, 
which  wo,  the  students,  considered  as  the 
pivot  of  the  universe,  and  the  cradle  of  the 
truth.  We  could  not,  any  one  of  us,  have 
been  wooed  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge  by  the 
choicest  distinctions.  To  a  man  we  were 
Radicals,  and  it  had  been  our  favourite 
recreation  to  harangue  one  another  upon 
the  most  ultra  points  of  religious  and 
political  doctrines.  I  left  college  with  the 
conviction  that  I  was  one  of  the  men  for 
whom  the  age  was  clamouring;  and  I 
found  myself  called  to  the  charge  of  a 
small  church  in  Little  Coalmoor. 

The  name  describes  the  place.  It  was 
neither  town,  village,  nor  hamlet ;  but  a 
mimber  of  scattered  nouses  dotted  about  a 
wide  moor  of  coalpit  banks.  Here  and 
there  were  a  row  of  dwellings,  which  might 
almost  be  called  a  street;  and  there  was 
every  variety  of  places  of  worship.  My 
own  chapel,  the  chapel  of  which  I  had  had 
ambitious  and  golden  dreams  while  at 
college,  was  the  newest  erection  in  the 
neighbourhood;  a  stiff,  ugly,  square,  red 
brick  building,  with  a  cinder  heap  behind 
it,  and  at  the  side  a  row  of  sickly  poplars, 
which  seemed  in  the  last  stage  of  a  con- 
sumption. Very  nearly  opposite  was  a 
handsome  district  church — ^not  the  parish 
church,  that  was  at  Much  Coalmoor,  a 
thriving  town  two  miles  off,  which  sent  up 
two  members  to  parliament.  The  curate, 
a  dainty  gnd  naturally  despicable  Anglican, 
used  frequently  to  meet  me,  as  we  wended 
our  way  to  our  respective  fanes ;  but  we 
never  saw  one  another,  except  through  the 
remotest  comer  of  the  eye. 

If  my  chapel  was  ugly,  my  flock  was 
not  much  better.     It  consisted  principally 
of   ill-favoured,    elderly    men^  awd  ^^axi- 
featured,  ViomeVj  vjoxxieTi^  ^tl^^-^^^^^I  ^s«\xx'e!fc^ 
my  Mary,  vdt\i  Yf\vom  \  l^mX'^r?^  ^^\.  ^^c^^ 
1  sight,  mtVi  a  ^Tom^\.Vta^^  cxeeC^^si^^  ^»  ^"^ 


cfi: 


:& 


494      [October  23, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[Oolidiicted  by 


/ 


collegiate  training.  She  waa  the  eldest 
danghter  of  onr  chief  member — ^I  don't 
mean  a  member  of  parliament :  bnt  a 
member  of  the  chnrch — a  well-to-do  man, 
owning  several  coal-pits,  who  at  first  looked 
coldly  upon  my  suit,  but  at  length  was 
brought  to  the  point  of  promising  his  con- 
sent, and  a  thousand  pounds,  as  soon  as 
the  debt  should  bo  cleared  off  the  chapel. 
This  debt  became  the  burden  of  my  ex- 
istence. It  amounted  to  four  hundred 
pounds,  for  which  ho  held  a  mortgage  at 
five  per  cent,  which  deducted  twenty 
pounds  a  year  from  the  salary  the  church 
would  other>vise  have  given  me.  With 
the  exception  of  tho  mortgagee  himself, 
there  was  not  a  man  in  the  congregation 
who  could  raise  his  yearly  contribution  by 
a  single  sovereign.  I  had  no  influence 
elsewhere,  and  the  benevolent  strangers  of 
our  sect  to  whom  I  applied  considered  the 
liability  small,  and  knew  a  hundred  chapels 
worse  off.  I  began  to  be  haunted  by  a 
vision  of  "  four  hundred  pounds  in  debt," 
staring  at  me  in  large  characters  upon  the 
red  brick  front  of  my  chapel.  It  was  as 
much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  it  out  of  my 
extempore  prayers  and  sermons.  As  for 
my  thoughts  by  day,  and  my  dreams  by 
night,  I  could  not  by  any  effort  banish  it 
from  them,  until  the  canvassing  for  a  forth- 
coming election  began. 

It  was  tho  first  time  the  Liberals  had 
started  a  candidate  for  Much  Coalmoor; 
and  I  spent  my  whole  time  and  energy 
for  some  weeks  beforehand  in  welding 
my  church  members  into  a  solid  body 
of  electors,  who  would  no  more  vote  for  a 
Conservative  than  for  the  devil.  They  were 
a  set  of  honest,  sturdy  men,  a  little  stub- 
bom  and  thick-headed  perhaps ;  not  quite 
able  to  discern  the  central  truth  of  a  ques- 
tion, but  very  wide-awake  as  to  the  swing 
of  the  outer  grievance  wliich  caught  them. 
Incorruptible  voters  they  all  swore  to  be ; 
and  tho  other  side  tempted  them  in  vain. 
Like  Wordsworth's  cattle,  they  would  be 
"  forty  voting  like  one ;"  and  I  awaited  with 
peaceful  confidence  the  day  for  polling. 

The  canvass  was  veiy  close,  and  there 
were  some  flagrant  cases  of  bribery  and 
corruption  on  the  part  of  tho  Conservatives. 
Of  course  our  hands  were  clean,  were  snow 
white;  but  I  found  it  necessary  to  wink 
pretty  hard  at  some  of  the  proceedings  of 
our  agents.  I  knew  all  that  went  on  among 
my  people,  and  I  could  swear  that  they 
were,  one  and  all,  incorruptible. 
Nomination  day  passed,  and  the  cauvaas- 
ing,  hot  before,  grew  to  a  white  heat  now. 


Nobody  could  predict  how  the  election 
would  end;  but  it  made  one  shudder  to 
hear  the  confident  assertions  of  success 
made  by  the  other  side.  I  liad  not  thought 
of  the  debt,  and  scarcely  of  Mary,  for  several 
days.  I  was  going  busily  about  among  mj 
flook,  solidifying  them.  In  a  few  days 
they  were  to  march  in  a  formidable  phabnx 
to  the  polling  booth,  and  there  register 
their  votes  for  our  Liberal  candidate. 

I  had  returned  home  very  weary,  and 
was  setting  to  at  my  Sunday  sermons  in 
my  study,  which  was  a  small,  upper  room 
in  the  roof,  with  shelving  ceilings  and  a 
dormer  window,  when  the  door  was  flung 
open,  and  my  landlady's  daughter  an- 
nounced, in  tremulous  tones,  "  Gentlemen 
as  wants  to  see  you."  I  looked  up,  and, 
to  my  utter  amazement,  recognised  the  slim, 
dainty,  foppish  Anglican  curate  who  had  so 
often  glanced  at  me  from  tho  comer  of  Lis 
eye.  Behind  him  entered  a  gentleman, 
aristocratic  and  somewhat  haughty  in 
aspect.  Behind  him,  again,  an  individual 
whom  I  knew  as  one  of  the  Conservative 
agents.  At  sight  of  them  I  felt  considerable 
sti&ess  in  my  neck  and  back ;  but  the  curate 
advanced  with  an  outstretehed  hand,  wliich 
I  could  not  well  refuse. 

"  Mr.  Romilly,  my  fellow-labourer,  I  be- 
lieve ?"  said  he,  smiling  all  over  his  face. 

"  I  am  Samuel  Romilly,"  I  replied. 

"  A  relative  of  the  great  Sir  Samuel  Ro- 
milly ? "  he  remarked. 

I  wasn't,  but  I  did  not  say  bo,  and  I  felt 
my  joints  relax  a  little.  I  invited  my 
guests  to  be  seated,  and  sat  down  myself 
in  an  easy  attitude  on  the  comer  of  mj 
table,  as  there  were  only  three  chairs  in  the 
room. 


r 


\ 


"  You  have  no  vote,  I  think,  Mr. Romilly: 
said  the  Conservative  agent,  very  blandly. 

**  I  have  not,"  I  answered. 

''  But  you  have  influence^"  he  continued. 

"I  have  influence." 

"  Which  is  exercised  upon  the  Liberal 
side,"  said  ho. 

"  On  the  Liberal  side,  solely,"  I  repeated, 
emphatically. 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  full  minute, 
during  which  I  was  conscious  of  being 
closely  scanned  by  my  three  visitors,  with 
a  desire  to  find  out  what  sort  of  stuff  I  was 
made  of.  I  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  in- 
vite them  to  walk  out,  but  I  kept  myself 
still,  until  one  of  them  broke  the  silence. 

"Mr.  Romilly,"  said  the  curate,  in  a 
conciliatory  tone,  which  was  also  a  tone  of 
suggestion,   '*  there  is  a  debt  upon  your 


&> 


okons.] 


"NO  BRIBERY." 


[Oelol)0r2«,1869L]       495 


«  is  a  debt  npon  my  chapel,"  I 

gloomily,  and  the  load  which  had 

•m  me  seemed  the  heavier  now  it 

the  curate,  who  recalled  it  to  my 

•ance. 

3bt  of  four  hundred  ponnds,"  he 

d  not  repeat  the  monmfal  words 
I,  ao  I  mutely  bowed  my  head, 
nst  be  a  serious  obstacle  to  your 
js,"  he  remarked,  meditatively. 
,"  I  cried;  "it  is  a  blight  both 
usefulness  and  happiness." 
was  a  second  pause,  with  a  fine 
n  it  for  us  all. 

t  would  you  say  to  a  Mend," 
one  of  the  three  voices,  I  scarcely 
lich,  "  a  Conservative  friend,  who 
ly  off  the  debt  upon  the  chapel  ?" 
art  gave  a  great  bound,  but  sank 
e  lead. 

lid  not  be,  gentlemen,"  I  answered, 
i  never  be.  We  are  all  Liberals 
ekbone;  and  incorruptible  voters." 

•  many  votes  did  you  tell  me?" 
D  stranger. 

Y-T  answered  the  agent;  "foriy 
d  four  hundred  pounds  debt;  a 
nd  beautiful  arithmetical  proper- 

k  about  it;  think  about  it,  my 
nd,"  said  the  curate,  shaking  my 
rmly,  "  don't  give  us  your  answer 
t  any  rate  consult  your  elders,  or 
or  leaders.  The  question  is  fairly 
ot  yours.  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry, 
ing  before  the  polling  day  will  do 
decision." 

hed  them  going  away  as  if  in  a 
jid  then  I  turned  to  my  sermon 
it  it  was  impossible  to  get  on.  On 
i  were  arrayed  all  my  cherished 
principles ;  on  the  other  the  chapel 
I,  and  my  Mary,  with  her  fortune 
liousand  pounds,  my  wife.  But  I 
jsolved  to  sacrifice  everything  to 
nplcs;  and  as  the  first  step  to- 
►ing  so  I  took  my  hat,  and  walked 
ckly  as  I  could  to  tell  Mary  what 
lened. 
I  her  in  the  roomy,  pleasant  kitchen 

well-plenished  house,   where  the 
;e  of  everything  used  to  bring  to 

the  line  of  a  hymn,  "  Enough  for 
jh  for   each."     Mary  was  making 

•  tea,  and  her  hands  were  covered 
p ;  but  that  did  not  materially  in- 
ith  our  greeting.     Resuming  with 

my  air  of  gloomy  resolve,  I  told 
:ory  in  hrie£  words. 


'*  Oh  Sam  !"  she  exclaimed,  clapping  hep 
hands,  and  thereby  producing  a  fine  white 
cloud  in  which  she  partially  disappeared, 
"  how  nice,  how  very  good  of  them !" 

"  But,  my  dear  love,"  I  remonstrated, 
"  it  will  do  us  no  good.  I  could  not  possi- 
bly consent.  It  is  a  vile  case  of  bribery 
and  corruption ;  and  wo  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  corruption." 

"  That's  a  very  disagreeable,  unpleasant 
word,"  said  Mary,  pouting ;  "and  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  refused  such  a  noble 
offer!" 

"  What  else  could  I  do,  with  my  prin- 
ciples ?"  I  asked. 

"  Then  now  I  am  positive  you  don't  love 


me. 


she  cried,  bursting  into  sobs  and 
tears ;  "  I  thought  you  were  changed  before, 
and  didn't  care  any  longer  about  the  debt ; 
and  now  I  am  sure  of  it.  Perhaps  you 
never  did  love  me !" 

"  Don't  I  love  you,  my  darling  ?  don't 
1  ?"  I  said,  employing  every  art  of  soothing 
at  my  command,  and  when  she  was  again 
calm,  I  told  her  more  in  detail  the  narrative 
of  my  visitors'  interview  with  me. 

"  Then,  after  all,  it  does  not  rest  with 
you,"  she  said ;  "  you  have  only  to  tell  it 
to  the  church,  Sam ;  and  you  can  call  a 
meeting  after  service  to-night." 

We  took  tea  together  with  the  family, 
and  afterwards  walked  down  to  the  chapel« 
Upon  the  gate-posts  were  pasted  some  flam- 
ing Liberal  placards,  winch  seem  to  stab 
me.  I  did  not  know  how  it  was  all  to  end. 
Mary's  hand  was  pressing  my  arm  affec- 
tionately :  but  was  it  possible  that  I  could 
ever  be  brought  to  use  my  influence  in  the 
cause  of  Conservatism  ?  I  might  have 
been  preaching  on  my  head,  lor  all  I  knew; 
but  I  suppose  I  conducted  myself  as  usual, 
for  those  who  were  accustomed  to  go  to 
sleep  went  to  sleep,  and  the  rest  listened 
with  a  painstaking  air.  I  announced  a 
church  meeting  at  the  dose  of  the  sei^ice, 
especially  requesting  the  male  members  to 
remain,  and  I  observed  that  not  one  of  the 
female  ones  quitted  the  chape]. 

I  came  down  from  the  pulpit  and  seated 
myself  at  the  end  of  a  bench,  asking  Mary's 
father  to  take  the  chair,  as  the  business  of 
the  meeting  was  purely  secular.  I  then 
laid  the  matter  before  them  simply,  as 
voters  for  the  borough  of  Much  Coalmoor ; 
and  such  a  buzz  of  comment  and  discussion 
arose  as  I  had  never  heard  within  those 
four  ugly  walls. 

"  This  here  is  a  weighty  question^"  aijdkA  VK 
up  Brother  PvTic\icr,  ^Vo  Ys?^\.  v^  ^x^kc^  ^^ 
provision  &\iop,  ^JXiOL^wa  coT^^sst'^i^  ^'^^  ^^  ^ 


^ 


:&> 


496      [October  28. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted^ 


onr  *cntest  men.  He  had  a  sharp,  half 
crazy  look  in  his  eyes,  oddly  added  to  by  a 
small  ronnd  pateh  of  white  hair  upon  his 
crowE,  which,  amidst  his  short  stubby  shag, 
had  something  of  the  e£fect  of  a  third  eye 
set  in  that  spot. 

*'  I  don't  see  no  call  to  make  any  question 
on  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Pincher,  a  small  wiry 
woman  with  an  irrepressible  spirit  and  a 
shrill  voice.  "  There's  no  question  of  there 
being  a  debt  on  the  chapel.  For  my  part, 
I  can't  see  as  it's  of  much  consequence 
who's  in,  Whigs  or  Tories ;  they're  all 
pretty  much  of  a  muchness.  But  it  is  a 
matter  of  consequence  whether  our  debt's 
paid." 

"Ay,  ay!"  assented  Pincher;  "a  debt 
on  a  chapel's  a  maggot  as  soon  eats  up  the 
zeal  of  the  house." 

Brother  Pincher  believed  he  had  quoted 
Scripture,  and  paused  solemnly  for  the 
slow  low  hum  of  approval,  which  was 
ready  to  follow  any  apt  quotation  from 
that  source. 

"But  there's  our  principles,"  said  the 
chairman,  after  some  further  discussion. 

"  And  there's  our  debt,"  murmured  half 
a  dozen  of  the  female  members. 

"And  there's  poor  Mr.  Romilly,"  cried 
out  Mrs.  Pincher,  more  shrilly  than  before, 
"  as  would  come  into  twenty  pound  a  year 
extry,  and  could  get  married,  and  live  re- 
spectable. It  'ud  be  a  sin  and  shame  if 
such  a  offer  was  throwed  away,  I  say." 

The  question  oscillated  to  and  fro,  with 
good  long  swings  at  first,  but  gradually  it 
began  to  settle  down  towards  accepting 
the  offer,  which  appeared  too  good  to  be 
refused.  Yet  there  was  a  soreness  in  our 
spirits  at  the  thought  of  casting  our  votes 
into  the  Conservative  scale.  It  was  more 
than  probable  that  it  would  make  the 
Liberals  kick  the  beam.  Once  or  twice  I 
was  on  the  verge  of  rising  to  my  feet  and 
throwing  all  my  influence  upon  the  losing 
side ;  but  a  look  from  Mary,  half  threaten- 
ing, half  beseeching,  arrested  me.  It  was 
too  much  for  mortal  man.  I  sat  still,  until 
it  was  unanimously  voted  that  i^e  debt 
must  be  paid. 

"But,  gentlemen,"  I  said ;  then,  correct- 
ing myself,  I  hastened  to  add,  "  My 
brethren,  does  it  not  occur  to  you  that  we 
ought,  in  fairness,  to  lay  this  matter  before 
the  committee  of  our  friends  ?  They  know 
that  not  a  man  among  you  would  dirty  Jiis 
fingers  with  a   bribe ;    but  it   is  another 

/question    when    four    hundred   pounds   is 
offered  for  the  cause.     The  committee  \«n\i 


onerea  tor  the  cause.     The  committee  mil  \  cviw^^v  oi  i 
be  still   Bitting,    though   it  is  neax  Tmi©\T^o\m^%.^^ 


o'clock.      Let  a  deputation   of  yon  wait 
upon  them  at  once." 

My  motion  was  accepted  with  aoclama* 
tion.  Mary's  father,  Mr.  Pincher,  without 
his  wife,  three  or  four  others,  and  myself 
were  deputed  to  wait  immediately  upon  the 
Liberal  committee.  I  tried  to  get  offl  on 
the  plea  of  not  being  a  voter;  but  they 
made  a  point  of  my  assistance  at  the  com- 
ing interview.  We  trudged  off  through 
the  dark  two  miles  of  road  which  led  to 
Much  Coalmoor.  Talk  of  oonflicts,  I  never 
passed  through  such  another  conflict.  I 
was  almost,  if  not  altogether,  a  Radical; 
and  here  was  I  on  the  point  of  proving 
myself  a  renegade  and  a  traitor.  I  panted  to 
meet  with  some  accident  which  could  deUver 
me  from  facing  that  committee,  every  one 
of  whom  had  complimented  me  upon  my 
zeal  and  energy.  But  we  gained  the  town, 
the  street,  and  the  hotel,  without  any  inter- 
position of  Providenoe  in  my  behalf. 

It  was  late,  only  a  few  of  the  committee 
were  at  their  posts.  They  weloomed  us 
with  a  painful  cordiality.  My  fellow- 
deputies  waited  for  me  to  be  their  epokea- 
man ;  but  I  stammered  so  badly  that 
Brother  Pincher  pushed  me  on  one  side, 
and  I  saw  the  white  spot  on  the  crown  of 
his  head  gleaming  spectrally. 

"  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  gentle- 
men," he  said,  with  great  energy,  "  aa  them 
Conservatives,  who  we  hate  as  we  hate 
poison,  have  made  us  an  uncommon  good 
offer ;  and  we  can't  make  up  our  min^  to 
cut  off  our  noses  and  spite  ourselves  by 
saying  *  No*  to  it.  As  our  young  preadier 
here  says,  there  isn't  a  man  among  us  as 
would  dirty  his  own  t-en  fingers  with  a 
bnbe ;  but  four  hundred  pounds  for  the 
cause  isn't  to  be  sneezed  at.  Politics  is 
politics,  but  religion's  religion ;  and  if  one 
must  knock  under,  it's  politics  I  say.  I'm 
here  ready  to  answer  any  questions,  spiritnal 
or  temporal ;  and  politics  is  spiritual,  and 
religion's  temporal — no,  religion's  temporal, 
and  politics  is  spiritual;  which  I  hope  is 
quite  clear  to  us  all." 

It  did  not  seem  quite  clear  to  the  gentle* 
men  on  the  committee,  who  had  listened 
with  that  bland  attention  characteristic  of 
such  personages.  Mary's  father  nudged 
me  sternly  with  his  elbow.  It  was  the 
prick  of  the  bayonet  to  a  laggard  captire, 
which  goaded  me  on  to  the  front. 

"  Let  mo  explain  it  to  you,  gentlemen,'* 
I  said,  in  nervous  tones.  "  The  other  side 
has  made  overtures  to  us  to  dear  our 
c\i«^^\  o€  Q»  standing  debt  of  four  hundred 


\ 


5: 


^ 


ChArlM  Diokens.] 


AN  UNSUBJECTED  WOMAN. 


rOctober  38, 1869.]       497 


"  Oh  V*  observed  one  of  the  committee, 
with  a  blank  look,  not  altogether  reassuring. 
"  We  are  a  poor  church,  and  it  is  a  heavy 
liability,"  I  continued ;  "  but  we  are  heart 
and  soul  T^dth  you,  and  I  hope  you  will  do 
us  the  justice  to  believe  that  we  arc  in- 
corruptible voters.  For  ourselves  we  would 
not  take  a  farthing"  ["Not  a  brass  farden !" 
interposed  Pincher]  ;  "  but  for  the  church 
we  are  bound  to  judge  and  act  differently." 
I  stopped,  fSaJteringly,  though  Mary's 
father  said  "  Go  on,"  and  Pincher  cried 
** Hear,  hear!" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  committee  fully 
comprehended  our  position  and  their  own. 
They  retired  to  the  further  end  of  the  room, 
'where  stood  a  table,  on  which  lay  a  number 
of  papers ;  and  then  they  entered  into  an 
animated  and  protracted  debate.     I  won- 
dered how  it  was  going  to  end;  but  the 
li.elin  was  out  of  my  hand  altogether,  and 
'We  were  drifting  I  Imew  not  whither.  Was 
xti  posfdble  that  I  could  endure  the  anguish 
of  seeing  my  own  people  go  up  like  re- 
iTictant  marWrs  to  the  Conservative  booth, 
'CLnd  there  ofi^  up  their  dearest  principles 
Cks   a  sacrifice  to  the  cause  ?     For  it  was 
3pTetty  certain  now  that  the  chapel   debt 
•^voTild  be  paid  off  as  the  price  of  our  votes 

^bnt  by  whom  ?     If  our  own  side  would 

1>iit  buy  us  in ;  I  thought,  with  growing 
antipathy,  of  t^e  prim  curate,  and  the 
glances  he  had  cast  at  my  Mary  when  we 
liad  met  hrm  once  or  twice  in  the  lane. 
"Was  his  star  or  mine  in  the  ascendant  ? 

At  this  instant  one  of  the  committee 
T^alked  along  the  room,  with  loud  and 
creaking  boots  which  set  my  excited  nerves 
all  ajar.  Hih  countenance  was  sombre; 
fais  mien,  I  thought,  rejective. 

"Do  all  your  votes  go  together?"  he 
asked,  gloomily. 

"To  a  man,"  answered  Mary's  father, 
with  emphasis. 

"  For^  Totes  ?"  he  added. 
**  Forty  votes,"  repeated  Mary's  feither. 
I  think  I  was  very  near  dying  of  anxiety 
at  that  moment. 

"They  must  be  ours,"  said  the  agent ; 
*•  four  hundred  pounds,  you  say,  will  pay 
off  your  chapel  debt.  It  shall  be  done. 
Ton  must  give  your  votes  to  us." 

I  do  not  know  how  I  got  back  to  Little 
Coalmoor.  The  change  wrought  in  my 
ftiture  prospects  during  the  last  six  hours 
had  been  wrought  too  rapidly.  But  I  have 
a  distinct  recollection  of  Mary  meeting  me 
at  her  fiither's  door,  and  testifying  her 
pleasure  in  a  manner  perfectly  satis- 
&ctory  to  myself.     The  next  day  I  had  the 


gratification  of  conveying  to  the  Conserva- 
tives a  dignified  refusal  of  their  offer ;  and 
a  few  days  aflcr  of  seeing  my  people  go  up 
like  the  honest  and  sturdy  Britons  they 
were,  to  register  their  votes  in  accordance 
with  their  own  independent  and  incor- 
ruptible principles.  The  Liberals  won  by 
a  majori^  of  nineteen  only. 

Mary  and  I  were  married  soon  after; 
and  the  chapel  is  called  Election  Chapel  to 
this  day. 


AN  UNSUBJECTED  WOMAN. 


Mrs.  Elizabeth  Carter  died  an  unmarried 
lady,  aeed  eighty-nine,  in  the  year  1806.  She 
was  eldest  (Eiughter  of  the  Rev.  Nicholas 
Carter,  D.D.,  perpetual  curate  of  the  chapel 
at  Deal,  afterwards  rector  of  Woodchurch  and 
of  Ham,  and  one  of  the  six  preachers  in  Can- 
terbury Cathedral.  Dr.  Carter  was  the  son  of 
a  rich  grazier  in  the  vale  of  Aylesbury,  and  in 
his  boyhood  had  looked  forward  to  a  milky- 
way  of  life ;  but  was  sent  rather  late  to  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  became  hopelessly  addicted  to 
Gredt,  Latin,  and  Hebrew.  He  therefore  took 
orders  in  the  church,  and  produced,  instead  of 
tubs  of  butter,  tracts  on  controversial  theology, 
klizabeth  was  his  first  child  by  his  first  wife  ; 
but  he  married  twice,  and  had  a  variety  of  sons 
and  daughters,  who  were  all  reared  on  a  diet 
of  Greek,  Latin,  and  Hebrew. 

little  Betsey,  in  her  nursery  days,  did  not 
take  kindly  to  her  father's  way  of  dieting  his 
children  on  dead  languages.  She  suffered  so 
much  intellectual  congestion  from  them  that 
she  became,  as  a  girl,  afflicted  with  frequent 
and  severe  headaches,  which  were  the  plague 
of  all  her  after  life.  When  a  young  lady,  she 
took  to  snuff  to  keep  herself  awake  over  her 
studies,  and  relieve  her  head.  For  the  rest  of 
her  life  she  was  a  snufftaker.  Mrs.  Carter 
was  not  one  of  the  true  blue-stockings,  for 
the  characteristic  of  their  coterie  was  not  the 
possession,  bufc  the  affectation  of,  much  learn- 
ing. Her  early  training  bent  her  life  in  a  par- 
ticular direction,  but  in  that  direction  she  grew 
vigorously. 

Elizabeth  Carter  in  her  youth  learnt  French 
by  being  sent  to  board  for  a  year  in  the  house 
of  a  French  refugee  minister,  she  gave  all  the 
time  required  of  our  grandmothers  to  "  the 
various  branches  of  needlework,"  and  with 
much  pains  learnt  to  spoil  music  with  the  spinet 
and  the  German  flute.  She  had  been  most 
assiduously  trained  in  Greek,  Latin,  and  He- 
brew ;  in  these  studies  she  succeeded  best,  and 
especially  die  took  to  Greek,  which  became  a 
Uving  tongue  to  her,  and  which  she  conquered 
without  help  of  such  Greek  grammars  as  were 
then  in  use.  Dr.  Johnson  said  in  compliment 
of  a  celebrated  scholar,  that  he  understood 
Greek  better  than  any  one  he  had  ever  known 
except  Elizabeth  Carter.  Like  other  young 
ladies,  Betsey  Carter  wrote  verse,  and  at  the 


=^ 


i 


ctB 


498      [October  S8,18fi9j 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Gondooted  by 


ape  of  twenty-one  she  published  a  very  small 
collection  of  iXK*ms,  with  a  Greek  motto  from 
Euripides,  signifyinfj  that  they  were  nothing. 
She  liked  the  morality  of  Mi-s.  Rowe's  letters, 
■which  are  still  to  be  found  lying  neglectcsl  on 
old  bookstalls,  and  >\Totc  on  the  occasion  of 
her  death,  that  it  would  be  her  own  justest 

pride, 

Hy  best  attempt  for  fame. 
That  joina  my  own  to  Philomela's  name, 

Philomela  being  Mrs.  Rowe.  She  admired  also 
the  poetry  of  Stephen  Duck,  the  thresher,  pa- 
tronised and  pensioned  by  the  t^ueen  of  George 
the  Second,  and  addressed  liim  in  lines  which 
begin 

Accept,  O  Duck,  the  Muse*8  grateful  lay. 

"When  about  twenty  years  old  there  was 
some  prospect  of  a  place  at  Court  for  her  if 
slie  imderstoo<l  the  German  of  the  reigning 
family.  She  learnt  German  on  this  hint,  but 
did  not  go  to  Court,  and  for  many  years  saw 
Ijondou  life  only  when  visiting  among  her 
reflations.  Afterwards  she  learnt  Spanish  and 
Italian,  some  Portuguese,  and  even  Arabic, 
makuig  for  herself  an  Arabic  Dictionary.  She 
had  a  taste  also  for  geography,  ancient  of  course, 
knowing  a  great  deal  more  of  the  geography  of 
Gi-eece  B.C.  1184,  tluin  of  Middlesex  in  her 
own  time.  But  with  all  her  work  she  had 
passi^d  a  youth  not  without  playfulness,  and 
she  was  throughout  life  heartily  and  cheerfully 
religious,  with  a  wholesome  disrelish  of  con- 
troversy, wherein  she  was  wiser  than  her 
father. 

Surely  the  doctor^s  influence  would  have 
suthced  to  keep  her  zeal  for  study  within 
wholesome  bounds.  She  was  throughout  life 
an  early  riser,  consideiing  herself  to  be  up 
late  if  she  was  only  up  by  seven.  Her  com- 
mon time  of  rising  was  between  four  and  five. 
Early  to  rise  comes  well  enougli  after  early  to 
bed;  but  we  have  Dr.  Carter  praising  his 
daughter  in  her  girlhood  for  a  virtuous  resolu- 
tion not  to  study  beyond  midnight.*  The  only 
stand  he  made  was  against  her  use  of  snufF  to 
keep  herself  awake  and  abate  headache.  AVhen 
she  was  the  worse  for  the  want  of  it,  he  let 
her  have  it ;  his  protest  failed  against  the 
snuff,  and  was  not  made  against  the  over- 
work that  made  snuff  necessary  :  and  not  snuff 
only.  Poor  little  Betsey  Carter  used  also  to 
keep  herself  awake  for  niglit  study  by  bind- 
ing a  wet  towel  round  her  head,  putting  a  wet 
cloth  to  the  pit  of  her  stomach,  and  chewing 
green  tea  ami  coffee.  Be  it  observed,  never- 
theless, that  she  did  not  kill  herself.  She  lived 
to  the  age  of  eighty-nine.  But  her  head- 
aches were  the  penalty  inflicted  on  her  for 
abridging  hours  of  sleep. 

Now,  it  is  not  just  to  the  body  to  overcome 
its  fatigues  habitually  with  snufl  in  the  nose, 
green  tea-leaves  in  the  mouth,  a  wet  towel 
round  the  head,  and  a  wet  cloth  at  the  pit  of 
tlw  Btomach,  ]5ut  against  all  that,  was  here  to 
be  sot  a  placidly  cheerful  temper  and  a  mltvd 


enjoyment,  and  walk  to  it  three  miles  and  back 
in  a  gale  of  wind.     She  studied  astronomy,  but 
had  not  a  soul  above  shirt-buttons,  and  made 
her  brother's  shirts.     It  was  suspected  that  her 
love  of  study  had  produced  a  secret  resolution 
against  mamage.     She  said,  indeed,  at  eighty- 
six.    *' Nobody  knows  what  may  happen.    I 
never  said  I  would  not  marry;''  ana  among 
offers  refused    in    her    youth  was   one  that 
t-emptod  her  enough  to  umke  her  hesitate  while 
her  friends  urged  acceptance.     If  he  had  not 
furnished  evidence  against  himself  by  itubhr^b- 
ing  a  few  rather  licentious  verses,  Elizabeth 
would  probably  have   taken   to   this  suitoKn 
shirt -buttons,  and  had  a  livelier  firstborn  than 
her  translation  of  Epictetus.     When  she  was 
sixty-five  years  old,  Hayley  dedicated  his  Essay 
on  Old  Plaids  to    Mrs.  Elizabeth  Carter,  as 
''Poet,  Philosopher,  and  Old  Maid,''  an  attou- 
tion  which  she  did  not  gratefully  appreciate, 
because  she  disliked  the  temper  of  nis  e&say. 
Perhai)s  she  was  too  fastidious.     Punch  himself 
was  in  awe  of  her.    She  was  not  above  going 
to  a  puppet-show,  but  when  she  went  to  one  at 
Deal,  **  Why,  Punch,"  said  the  showman,  "  what 
makes  you  so  stupid  V"^     *^  I  can't  talk  my  own 
talk,"  said  Punch.     ^'  The  famous  Mrs.  Carter 
is  hert\" 

And    how  had  the  lady  become  famous? 
Thus  :  Edward  Cave,  of  the  Gentleman's  Ma- 
gazine, being  an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  ad- 
mitted into  his  magazine    occasional  bits  of 
verse  from  her,  signed  Eliza.    The  first  ap- 
peared before  she  was  quite  aevcnteen  years 
old.    Through  Cave  she  made  the  acquaintance 
of  young  Samuel  Johnson  upon  his  fii^  ocamng 
to  London.    Two  or  three  months  after  hw 
lii-st  contribution  to  Cave's  magazine  had  ap-   , 
peared — it  was  a  Latin  alcaic  oile — ^Dr.  Carter 
replied  from  the  country  to  his  daughters  letter  | 
from  town,  "You  mention  Johnson;  but  this  is  ; 
a  name  with  which  I  am  utterly  i]nacquaint<Nl 
Neither  his   scholastic,    critical,    or   poetical    j 
character  ever  reachtKi  my  ears."    Johnson  va*   ( 
then  aged  nine-and-twenty  and  ^liss  Carter   i 
twenty -one.    It  was  in  Cave's  shop,  as  fellow-   i 
contributor  to  the  Crentleman's  Magazine,  before  , 
either  of  them  had  tasted  fame,  that  the  ac- 
quaintanccsliip  began  to  which  Elizabeth  Carter  , 
owes    much  of    her  fame.      Writing  to  her  |,' 
(eighteen  or  twenty  years  after  the  beginning  i' 
of  their  cordial  but  ceremonious  friendship,  | 
Johnson  said,  "'Jo  every  joy  is  appended  a  | 
sorrow.     I'he  name  of  Miss  Carter  introduce* 
the  memory  of  Cave.    Poor  dear  Cave  I  I 
owed  liim  much  ;  for  to  him  I  owe  that  I  h$yi 
known  you ;"  and  he  subscribed  himself  kr 
most  obedient  and  most  humble  servant,  *'  witi 
respect,  which  I  neither  owe  nor  pay  to  ant 
other."    At  the  age  of  twenty-two  Miss  Carter 
had  translated  out  of  French  the  criticieDi  of 
De  Crousaz  upon  Pope*B  Essay  on  Alan,  ^^ 
hnmediately  am'rwards  translated  also  forCa^^ 
from  the  Italian  of  Algarotti,  six  dialogues  i^- 
the  use  of  ladies  upon  Newton's  philosopbj  of 
light  and  colour.     Samuel  Johnson,  ttcai  ^ 


well  occupied,    Elizabeth  Carter,  iTi\\eryout\\A  tsotV  iox  Cavnvj,  ^wt\i<ited  the  proofis  for  the 


could  get  through  nine  bourB^  dancing  'w\\\i\'^o\MR\i,  ^aA^^  o!^  ^Xvoia.  \iQ«k  \HQ(nMl  Doelor 


AN 


Charlca  Dickens.] 


AN  UNSU13JKCTED  WOMAX. 


[OcUilH?r23, 18C9.]         400 


TTioiuas  lUroli  thou  made  a  uuto,  wliicli  showed 
■t  liat  glie  already  si'omc'd  to  be  upon  the  way  to 
£smio.  •'  Tliis  Ijwly,"  eai<l  Dr.  Kirch,  iu  iiotinjr 
licr  bit  of  traiishition.  '*  is  a  very  extraordiiiaiT 
j.»hi.»iiomeiion  in  the  rc]>uMic  of  U'ttcrs,  and 
j  tistly  to  l)e  ranked  with  tlie  Sulpitias  of  the 
£LTicit;ntB  and  the  Scliurnianns  and  the  I)aci<'rs 
oi  the  moderns.  l'\ir  to  an  uncommon  vivacity 
fLiul  delica^'y  of  po!iius,  and  an  accuracy  of 
j  udjffment  worthy  the  mnturest  years,  slic  has 
fi ^ided  the  knov,ied^'e  of  the  ancient  and  miKlern 
laiLjJTua^es  at  an  a^e  when  an  equal  skill  in  .any 
oiut  of  ihem  would  be  a  distinction  in  a  person 
of  the  other  s».'X." 

A  learned  woman  was  a  marvel  in  those 
ciays,  and  her  jilace  iu  creation  yet  unsettled. 
I  Already  theix?  croj.»j)cd  up  iu  connexion  M^ith 
I  !^!ids  Carter,  when  she  was  little  more  than  a 
jrirl,  the  siihlime  idea,  not  merely  that  she  was 
lit  to  be  an  elector  of  M.P.s,  but  that  she  was 
coiiifHitent  to  be  one.  *'  Here's  all  Deal,'' 
Avrute  one  of  her  sisters  to  her.  '^isin  anuize- 
iiieut  that  you  want  to  be  a  !Mend>er  of  the 
l^arliameut  House ;  luul  Mrs.  liUmk.  was  told 
it,  but  so  strongly  allirmed  that  it  was  no  such 
tliiuj^,  that  she  came  to  our  house  quite  eager 
to  ask,  and  was  quite  amazed  t(»  hear  'twas  so. 
l-iGt  nie  know  in  your  next  whether  'tis  a  jest, 
or  that  you  really  want  t^  go." 

Her  scholarship  and  knowledge  of  modern 
languages  must  iiave  attrncted  a  good  deal  of 
K«neral  attention,  for  Mi>s  Carter  was  hailed 
as  a  sist<^r  prtnligy  by  the  marvellous  youth 
«lohii  Philip  liaratier.  who  was  about  four  j'cars 
younger  than  herself.  Oi  IJaratier  it  is  siiid 
that,  when  four  years  old,  he  talked  with  his 
liiotbcr  in  French,  with  his  father  in  l^Uin,  and 
vitJi  the  servants  in  Cierman.  He  read  (ireek 
lit  the  age  of  six,  Hebrew  at  eight,  and  trans- 
latcl  lienjamin  of  Tudela's  travels  out  of 
IlebreM"  into  French  when  a  boy  of  eleven. 
AVhon  he  was  but  fourteen  vcans  old,  the  Uni- 
vorsity  of  Halle  conferi-ed  on  him  the  degree  of 
Master  of  Arts,  and  he  astonished  crowded 
auflienccs  by  his  disputations  upon  fourteen 
theses.  He  dietl  of  consumption  l»efore  ho  had 
attained  the  age  of  twenty,  and  it  was  in  th(^ 
last  year  or  twi>  of  his  hfe  tliat  he  heani  of  the 
learned  English  damsel  ElizalK'th  Carter.  He 
theu  opened  a  coiTCspondence,  in  which  he 
J»raised  her  as  one  whose  Latin  verae  the 
ivouiaus  of  the  Augustan  ago  would  have  taken 
for  that  of  the  swan  of  2^1antua,  or  of  a  l^atin 
feJapipbo. 

While   corresponding    with   Baratier,   ^liss 
Carter  formed  a  more  abiding  fnendship  with 
Ali.<?s    Catherine    'Jalbot,    a    bishop's    graud- 
jJaugbti^r,  who  lived  with  her  widowed  mother 
in   the  family  of  Dr.  Seeker,  then  IJishop  of 
Oxfoixl,  afterwanls  Archbishop  of  Canterl.>ury ; 
-L)r.    Seeker  gnilefidly  rememl)ering    that    he 
^'a»  indebted  to  her  family  for  his  first  bt«'ps  of 
promotion  iu  the  chiurh.     Through  her  friend 
^'atherim?  Talbot,    Miss   Carter  obtained  the 
*f*ieiidship  of  Dr.  Seeker,  which  was  so  empha- 
tically shown,  that  when  the  archbishop  be- 
patiue  a  widower  the  London  world  assigneil  to 
uiui  Elizabeth  Carter  for  a  second  wife.    But 


some  there  were  who  gjive  her  to  Dr.  Hayter, 
liishop  of  London.  *' JJrother  JIayter,"  the 
archbishop  said  one  day,  '"the  world  has  it 
that  one  of  us  two  is  to  many  Madam  Carter; 
now  I  have  no  such  intention,  and  therefore 
resign  her  to  You.''  "  T  will  not  ]>av  vour 
grace  the  Siime  compliment,'*  replii'd  the 
bisho]).  **The  world  does  me  much  hont)iu* 
by  the  report."  So  as  Deal  had  held  that  Eliza- 
beth Carter  was  the  woman  to  have  a  seat  in 
I  the  House  of  Commons,  London  believetl  her 
place  to  be  among  the  bi.-fhops.  Or  aniong  the 
playei-s.  For  when  Edward  Moore's  ]»lay  of 
the  (iamester  came  out,  it  was  held  to  be  so 
highly  judicious  and  moral,  that  it  was  at  iirst 
attribute<l  t^  All's.  Carter.  MtK>re  wroti'  also 
Fables  for  the  Female  Sex,  which  were  not 
less  worthy  of  one  who  might  be  assigned  as 
bride  to  an  archbishf»p.  IJut  among  he-writers 
of  that  day  the  true  primate  of  the  female 
world  was  Samuel  l^icluirdson  ;  and  Kichaidson 
emlwilmed  a  characteristic  piece  of  Elizabeth 
(!ai'ter's  verse,  her  (Me  to  Wis<lom,  in  his 
Clarissa.  He  had  not  l.»een  able  to  find  out 
the  author  of  the  ode,  and  had,  therefoiv,  re- 
j)ubhshKl  it  in  his  novel  (in  the  first  e(Ution 
]iart  of  it  only)  without  consent ;  for  which, 
though  he  had  dune  honour  thereto  by  en- 
graving it  and  giWng  it  with  music,  he  was 
called  to  order  by  the  lady.  He  replied  with 
extreme  coui-tesy,  as  one  who  '*  would  sooner 
be  thought  unjust  or  ungenerous  by  any  lady 
in  the  world  than  by  the  author  of  the  Ode 
to  Wisdom.'* 

When  at  home  with  her  father  in  the  par- 
sonage at  Deal,  Miss  C-arter  had  a  bell  at  the 
head  of  her  bed,  pulled  by  a  string  which  went 
through  a  chink  iu  her  window,  down  into  the 
sexton's  garden.  The  Bextf)n,  who  got  up 
between  four  aud  five,  made  it  his  first  duty 
to  toll  this  bell  lustily.  '*  Some  evil-minded 
peo]>le  of  my  acquaintance,''  she  wrote  to  a 
friend,  **  have  most  wickedly  threatened  to  cut 
my  bell-roi)e,  which  would  be  the  utter  un- 
doing of  me,  for  1  should  infallibly  sleep  out 
the  whole  summer."  Up  thus  l>etimes,  she 
went  to  work  as  a  school l>oy  to  his  lessons, 
and  thence  to  the  ramble  before  breakfast  over 
sumiy  commons,  or  through  dewy  cornfields, 
or  the  brambh'S  of  the  narrow  lane,  pulling 
Si>metinies  a  friend  out  of  beil  to  be  coujpanitm 
of  the  walk,  and  res[>ectfully  noted  by  the 
country  folks  as  *•  Farson  ('arter's  daughter.'* 
Then  home,  and  *'  when  1  have  made  myself  lit 
to  ap]X'ar  among  human  creatuivs  we  go  to 
breakfast,  and  are  extremely  chatty  ;  and  this 
and  tea  in  the  afternoon  are  the  most  soeiable 
and  delightful  jiarts  of  the  day.  We  have  a 
great  varii'ty  of  topics  in  which  everybody 
l.u.ars  a  i)art,  till  we  get  insi'n!>ibly  ujion  books; 
and  when<'Ver  we  go  beyond  Latin  and  French, 
my  sister  and  the  rest  walk  ofT.  and  leave  my 
father  and  m<.'  to  finish  the  discourse  and  the 
teakettle  bv  ourselves,  which  we  should  in- 
fallibly  do,  if  it  held  as  much  as  Solomrm's 
molten  hca."  Her  work  in  later  life  was  mainly 
to  kee])  fresh  the  fruits  of  early  study.  Her 
headaches  had  to  be  considered,  aud  her  book- 


c^ 


p 

t 


600      [October  23, 18C0.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[CoBdnetadtay 


work  was  done  with  rests  every  half -hour,  and 
rambles  off  to  water  her  pinks  and  roses,  or  to 
gossip  a  few  minutes  with  any  friend  or  rela- 
tion who  was  in  the  house.  But  she  read  every 
day  before  breakfast  two  chapters  of  the  Bible, 
ami  a  sermon,  besides  some  Hebrew,  (ireek, 
and  Latin  ;  and  after  breakfast,  or  at  some 
other  time  of  the  day,  a  little  of  every  modem 
language  she  had  learnt,  in  order  to  keep  her 
knowledge  of  it  from  rusting. 

When  she  began  her  translation  of  Epict<?tus, 
at  the  wish,  of  her  friends  Dr.  Seeker  and 
Catherine  Talbot,  Elizabeth  Carter  was  help- 
ing her  father  by  taking  the  sole  charge  of  the 
education  of  her  youngest  brother,  whom  she 
sent  up  to  Cambridge  so  well  prepared  that  he 
astonished  much  the  examiners,  who  asked  <at 
what  school  he  had  been  educated,  with  the 
reply  that  his  only  teacher  was  his  eldest 
Bister.  Miss  Carter's  translation  of  Epict^^tiw 
was  not  begim  with  a  view  to  publication,  but 
when  it  was  done,  and  revised  by  Dr.  Seeker, 
there  was  publication  in  view,  and  she  was  told 
that  a  life  of  Epictetus  must  be  written. 
Her  reply  to  Miss  Talbot  will  astonish  those 
who  connect  learning  in  women  "with  want  of 
shirt-buttons  among  men.  She  said,  "AVho- 
ever  that  somebody  or  other  is  who  is  to  writ« 
the  life  of  Epictetus,  seeing  I  have  a  dozen 
shirts  to  make,  I  do  opine,  dear  Miss  Talbot,  that 
it  cannot  be  I."  It  was  urged  on  her  also  that 
she  must  add  notes  to  christianise  the  book  of 
the  heathen  philosopher,  and  prevent  *'  danger 
to  superficial  readers."  She  did  all  that  was 
urged  on  her,  at  the  same  time  that  she  was 
finishing  the  preparation  of  her  brother's  back 
and  brains  for  college. 

The  book  appeared  in  seventeen  'fifty-eight, 
and  there  were  more  than  a  thousand  sub- 
scribers for  it.  By  way  of  compliment,  more 
copies  were  subscribed  for  than  were  claimed, 
and  the  lady  earned  by  this  labour  a  thousand 
pounds.  The  book,  also,  when  published,  was 
maintained  in  good  repute.  Some  years  after- 
wards her  friend  Dr.  Seeker  brought  her  a 
bookseller's  catalogue,  and  said,  •*  Here, 
Madam  Carter,  see  how  ill  I  am  used  by  the 
world.  Here  are  my  Sermons  selling  at  half 
price,  while  your  Epictetus  is  not  to  be  had 
under  eighteen  shillings,  only  three  shillings 
less  than  the  original  subscription."  Such  a  work 
from  a  woman  was  a  thing  to  be  talked  of  in 
Europe,  as  the  world  then  went.  An  account 
of  the  learned  lady  was  published  even  in 
Russia,  where,  as  Miss  Carter  said,  they  were 
just  learning  to  walk  on  their  hind  legs. 

Four  years  later  appeared    Miss    Carter's 

poems,  in  a  little  volume  dedicated  to  the  Earl 

of  Bath ;  and  she  was  now  able  to  have  a 

lodging  of  her  own  in  London — a  room  on  a 

first  floor  in  Clarges-street — whence  she  was 

always  fetched  out  to  dinner  by  the  chairs  or 

carriages  of  her  many  friends.     Her  brothers 

and  sisters  had  grown  up  and  been  put  out  in 

the  world ;  bcr  father's  second  wife  was  dead, 

and  he  was  moving  about  at  Deal  irom  owe 

hired  house  to  another.   Elizabeth  then  bo\ii;;\vt 

herself  a  house  by  the  Deal  Bhore,  took.  W 


father  for  its  tenant,  and  lived  there  with  him 
until  his  death,  he  working  in  his  library,  and 
she  in  hers,  with  the  annual  treat  of  a  visit  to 
London.      The  nautical  world  of  Deal,   im- 
pressed by  her  erudition,  held  that  she  had 
done  something  in  mathematics  which  had  puz- 
zled all  the  naval  officers.     She  had  foretold  a 
storm,  and  some  were  not  at  all  sure  that  she 
could  not  raise  one.    A  young  man  remarked 
to  a  verger  s  wife  in  Canterbury  Cathedral  that 
it  was  very  cold.     **  Yes,"  she  said,  *'and  it 
will  be  a  dreadful  winter,  and  a  great  scarcity 
of  corn ;  for  the  famous  Aliss  Carter  has  fore- 
told it."    "While  her  house  at  Deal  was  being 
settled  (she  had  bought  two  small  houses  and 
was  turning  them  into  one),  Madam  Carter 
took  a  tour  upon  the  Continent  in  company 
with  the  Queen  of  the  Blue  Stockings,  Alra. 
Montagu,  and  the  Earl  of  Bath,  who  died  in  the 
next  year  rather  suddenly,  and  did  not,  as  her 
friends  had  thought  he  would,  bequeath  ha 
an  annuity.    The  bulk  of  his  property  went 
to  his  only  surviving  brother,  who  died  three 
years  later,  and  the  next  heir  then,  delicately 
professing  that  it  was  to  fulfil  Lord  Bath's  in- 
tentions, secured  to  Miss  Carter  an  annuity  of 
a  hundred  pounds  during  her  life,  which,  to- 
wards the  dose  of  her  life,  was  increased  to  a 
hundred  and  fifty.    The  annuity  came  to  Mi* 
Carter  in  seventeen  'sixty-seven,  and  a  confle 
of  years  earlier  she  had  received  a  like  annuity 
from  Mrs.  Montagu,  who  then,  by  her  hus- 
band's death,  obtained  the  whole  disposal  of 
his  fortune.    An  uncle  of  Miss  Carter's,  who 
was  a  silk-mercer,  had  also  died  and  left  four- 
teen thousand  pounds  to  Dr.  Carter  and  his 
children,  of  which  Elizabeth's  share  was  fifteen 
himdred  in  her  father's  lifetime.    In  later  ycare 
an  annuity  of  forty  pounds  came  to  'SUbs  Carter 
from  another  friend^    She  was  rich,  therefore, 
beyond  her  needs ;  for  she  lived  inexpensively, 
and  had  money  to  spare  for  struggling  rela- 
tions, and  for  those  of  the  poor  whose  griefs  she 
saw.    AVhen  left  alone  ia  the  Deal  house,  she 
kept  up  a  healthy  hospitality  with  tea  and  rub- 
bers of  whist  for  threepenny  points  ;  was  a  neat  ; 
cheerful  old  woman,  simply  dressed  and  scru-  ■ 
pulously  clean,  before  her  time  in  knowledge  of  j 
the  value  of  a  free  use  of  cold  water,  fond  of 
her  tea  and  her  snuff,  and  never  worrying  her 
country  friends  with  ostentation  of  her  learning. 
The  headaches  at  last  almost  put  an  end  to 
study.  Mrs.  Carter  read  Fanny  Bumey's  n6FeIs 
with  enjoyment,  delighted  in  ^Irs.  llailcliffe's, 
objected  to  the  morality  of  Charlotte  Smith's, 
and  thought  there  was  more  of  Shakespeare 
in  Joanna  Baillie  than  in  any  writer  since  his 
time.    That  was  because  she  had  a  strong  yje- 
judice  on  behalf  of  female  writers  at  a  time 
when  women  were  only  beginning  to  find  their 
way  into  the  broad  space  they  now  occupy  in 
English  literature.     She  thought  much  lew  of 
Burns  than  of  Joanna  Baillie,  because  Mis* 
Baillie  was  always  proper,  and  Burns  "Was  in  scMne 
places  anything  but  ladylike.     ITiough  living 
a,\.  \>c«\,  ^Vv^i  Infused  to  buy  there  any  article 
w\ivc\i,\yj  \\a  0£i^«^\i^«^Qt  ci»\>aRr«\sft^  ane  could  ■ 


\ 


P: 


g 


ChwlOB  Dickens.]  GREEN  TEA.  [October  23. 1869.]      501 


for  this 
roiis  one 


) 


is,  given  to  Mrs.  Montagu,  was  a  gene-  trifle  cost  me  the  loss  of  two  fingers,  ampu- 

)ne :  "I  cannot  help  pitying  these  poor  tatcd  promptly,  and  the  more  painful  loss 

ignorant  people,  brought  up  from  their  infancy  ^f  ^^  health,  for  I  have  never  been  quite 

to  this  wretcTied  trade,  and  taiidit  by  the  ex-  ^^^  ^         ^^^  ^^^^  ^^1^^^  ^^^  ^^^1^^ 

ample  of  their  superiors  to  thmk  there  can  be  xi.    i.       xi.      •    xi,                ^ 

no^eat  harm  'm  it,  when  they  every  day  see  ^^"^^^  togetherm  the  same  place, 

the  famiUes  of  both  hereditary  and  delegated  I^  ^7  wanderings  1  became  acquamted 

legislators  loading  their  coaches  with  contra-  with  Dr.  Martin  Hesselius,  a  wanderer  like 

band  goods.     Surely  in  people  whom  Heaven  myself,  like  me  a  physician,  and  like  me  an 

has  blessed  with  honours  and  fortune  and  lu-  enthusiast  in  his  profession.     Unlike  me 

crative  employments  of  government,  the  fault  in  this,  that  his  wanderings  were  voluntary, 

is  much  greater  than  that  of  the  poor  creatures  ^nd  he  a  man,  if  not  of  fortune,  as  we  esti- 

whom  they  thus  encourage?  '    Sfie  wasakindly  ^^^  ^^^^  i^  England,  at  least  in  what 

old  woman,  whose  gentle  courteous  manner  x*      r  xi.               j    x     x          « 

won  the  he^  of  servants  in  the  houses  that  otit   forefathers  Med  to  term  "easy  cir- 

she  visited.     One  lady  ascribed  some  of  the  cnmstances. 

excellence  of  her  own  servants  to  Mrs.  Carter's  In   Dr.  Martin   Hesselius  I   found  my 

influence  upon  them ;  for  she  was  often  mind-  master.      His  knowledge  was  immense,  biB 

f  ul  of  the  hearts  and  heads  and  open  ears  of  grasp  of  a  case  was  an  intuition.     He  was 

servants  behind  the  chairs  at  dinner,  in  a  way  the  very  man  to  inspire  a  young  enthusiast, 

that  made  her  direct  conversation  into  a  form  y;^^  ^^  ^^h  awe  and  delight.     My  admi- 

tlmt  would  ensure  then:  canymg  away  some  ^^^^  ^      ^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^f  ^^  ^^^  ^^ 

wholesome  thoughts  from  their  attendance.  •     j  . t_               j«         /•  j     xi_      t 

Now  this,  faithful   in  small  things,  was  a  V^^^  the  separation  of  death.     I  am  sure 

good  womanly  life,  although  the  life  of  a  lady  ^^  was  weU-fonnded. 

given  to  Greek,  Latin,  and  Hebrew,  and  much  For  nearly  twenty  years  I  acted  as  his 
other  erudition,  a  lady  high  in  honour  at  the  medical  secretary.  His  immense  coUec- 
original  blue-stocking  assemblies,  and  one  who  tion  of  papers  he  has  left  in  my  care,  to  be 
could  be  truly  described  as  a  snuffy  old  maid,  arranged,  indexed,  and  bound.  His  treat- 
That  d^ription  of  her  would  be  true,  but  not  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  of  these  cases  is  curious.    He 

5^?^  nf^'fhlt^^nifr.^^^^  writes  in  two  distinct  characters.     He  de- 

devoid  01  thcologic  spite ;   a  woman  b  social  •!,         i_  .   i                  j  i.       j 

vivacity  of  speech,  with  a  disrelish  of  unchari-  scn^^s  what  he  saw  and  heard  as  an  m- 

table  comment  and  flippant  bitterness  which  telhgent  layman  might,  and  when  in  this 

went  far  to  suppress  that  form  of  conversation  style  of  narrative  he  has  seen  the  patient 

in  her  presence.    She  cheered  her  family  and  either  through  his  own  hall-door,  to  the 

eased  her  father's  labour  and  cost  in  the  rear-  light  of  day,  or  through  the  gates  of  dark- 

ing  of  his  younger  children.     She  blended  the  ^©88  to  the  caverns  of  the  dead,  he  returns 

writing  of  an  essay  upon  Epictetus  with  the  ^j.^  narrative,  and  in  the  terms  of  his 

SS§  g1niL,tyindutrTwiti\f^^^^^  ^^.-^  -^hall  the  forceand  originality  of 

ledge  and  a  cahn  adherence  to  her  sense  of  gf^^^s,  proceeds  to  the  work  of  analysis, 

right,  she  passed  mto  an  old  age  honoured  diagnosis,  and  illustration, 

with  affectionate  respect  from  people  of  all  Here  and  there  a  case  strikes  me  as  of  a 

ranks  of    life  and  all    degrees    of   intellect,  kind  to   amuse    or    horrify  a   lay  reader 

Looking  back  at  her  out  of  our  century  into  with  an  interest  quite  difierent  from  the 

hers,  we  may  find  that  many  of  her  ways  and  peculiar  one  which  it  may  possess  for  an 

notions  were  old  fashioned;  but  in  the  good  ^^    ^      ^i^j^  gj.  j,^  modifications,  chiefly 

fashion  that  never  grows  old,  she  was  a  woman  c  ^                       a     e                      \!            c 

unspoUt  by  her  lelrning;  and  the  less  likely  ^^  langnage,    and  of  course  a   change  of 

to  be  spoilt  because  it  was  true  learning,  the  names,    I   copy  the   following.     Ihe   nar- 

result  of  steady  work.  rator  is  Dr.  Martin  Hesselius.     I   find  it 

. among  the  voluminous  notes  of  cases  which 

TRFFN"  TFA  ^®  made  during  a  tour  in  England  about 

fifty-four  years  agfo. 

A  CASE  REPORTED  BY  MARTIN  HESSELIUS,  THE  f^  ^  related  in  a  series  of  letters  to  his 

GERMAN  PHYSICIAN.  f^end  Professor  Van  Loo  of  Leyden.     The 

In  Ten  Chapters.     Preface.  professor    was    not    a    physician,    but   a 

Though  carefully  educated  in  medicine  chemist,  and  a  man  who  read  history  and 

and  surgery,  I  have  never  practised  either,  metaphysics  and  medicine,  and  had,  in  his 

The  study  of  each  continues,  nevertheless,  day,  written  a  play. 

to  interest  me  profoundly.     Neither  idle-  The  narrative  is  therefore,  if  somewhat 

ness  nor  caprice  caused  my  secession  from  less  valuable  as  a  medical  record,  neces- 

the  honourable  profession  which  I  had  just  sarily  written  in  a  manner  more  UkaV^  \si 

entered.      The  cause  was   a  very  trifling  intercRt  an.TmVearive^Tea.^'et. 

scratch  inflicted  hya  disaecting-knife,  Thia  These  lettere^  feoixi  ^n  Tafir£isyKija.^^Qss^  ^jS^ 


dj 


^ 


502       [October  23.  I860.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CondnctcMl  by 


tiiclied,  appear  to  have  been  returned  on 
the  death  of  the  professor,  in  1819,  to  Dr. 
Hessolius.  They  arc  written,  some  in 
English,  some  in  French,  but  the  greater 
part  in  Grerman.  I  am  a  faithful,  thonpfh 
I  am  conscious,  by  no  means  a  graceful, 
ti*anslntor,  and  although,  here  and  there,  I 
omit  some  passages,  and  shorten  others,  and 
disguise  names,  I  have  interpolated  nothing. 

CILVrTr.ll  I.       DR.  HESSELIUS  DELATES  HOW 
UK  MET  TJIK  KEV.  MR.  JENNINGS. 

The  Ecv.  Mr.  Jennings  is  tall  and  thin. 
He  is  middle-aged,  and  dresses  with  a 
natty,  old-fashioned,  high-church  precision. 
He  is  naturally  a  little  stately,  but  not  at 
all  stiff.  His  features,  without  being  hand- 
some, are  well  formed,  and  their  exprea- 
aion  extremely  kind,  but  also  shy. 

I  met  him  one  evening  at  Lady  Mary 
Heyduko's.  The  modesty  and  benevolence 
of  liis  countenance  are  extremely  pro- 
possessing. 

We  were  but  a  small  party,  and  he 
joined  agreeably  enough  in  the  conversa- 
tion. He  seems  to  enjoy  listening  very 
much  more  than  contributing  to  the  talk ; 
but  what  he  says  is  always  to  the  purpose 
and  well  said.  He  is  a  great  favourite  of 
Lady  Mary's,  who,  it  seems,  consults  him 
upon  maTiy  things,  and  thinks  him  the 
most  happy  and  blessed  person  on  earth. 
Little  knows  she  about  liim. 

Tlie  Rev.  Mr.  Jennings  is  a  bachelor, 
and  has,  they  say,  sixty  thousand  pounds 
in  the  funds.  He  is  a  charitable  man. 
He  is  most  anxious  to  be  actively  employed 
in  his  sacred  profession,  and  yet,  though 
always  tolerably  well  elsewhere^  when  he 
goes  down  to  his  vicarage  in  Warwickshire, 
to  engage  in  the  active  duties  of  his  sacred 
calling,  his  health  soon  fails  him,  and  in  a 
very  strange  way.     So  says  Lady  !Mary. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Jennings's 
health  docs  break  down  in,  generally,  a 
sudden  and  mysterious  way,  sometimes  in 
the  very  act  of  officiating  in  his  old  and 
pretty  church  at  KenHs.  It  may  be  liis 
heart,  it  may  bo  his  brain.  But  so  it 
has  liappened  three  or  four  times,  or 
oftener,  that  after  proceeding  a  certain 
way  in  the  service,  he  has  on  a  sudden 
stopped  short.,  and  after  a  silence,  ap- 
parently  quite  unable  to  resume,  he  has 
fallen  into  solitary,  inaudible  prayer,  his 
hands  and  eyes  uplifted,  and  then  pale  as 
death,  and  in  the  agitation  of  a  strange 
ehamo  and  liorror,  descended  trembling, 
g^ot  into  tlio  vostry-room,  and  loft  Ins  con- 
grcgatioUf  without  oxplanataon,  to  tioLem- 


selves.  This  occurred  when  bis  cnrat€  was 
absent.  When  he  goes  down  to  Kenhs, 
now,  he  always  takes  care  to  provide  a 
clergyman  to  share  his  duty,  and  to  supply 
his  place  on  the  instant,  should  he  become 
thus  suddenly  incapacitated. 

When  Mr.  Jennings  breaks  down  quite, 
and  beats  a  retreat  from  the  vicarage,  and 
returns  to  London,  where,  in  a  dark  street 
off  Piccadilly,  he  inhabits  a  very  narrow 
house.  Lady  Mary  says  that  be  is  always 
perfectly  well.  1  have  my  own  opinion 
about  that.  There  are  degrees  of  course. 
We  shall  see. 

Mr.  Jennings  is  a  perfectly  gentleman- 
like man.  People,  however,  remark  some- 
thing odd.  There  is  an  impression  a  httio 
ambiguous.  One  thing  which  certainly  con- 
tributes to  it,  people,  I  think,  don't  remem- 
ber— ^perhaps,  distinctly  remark.  But  I  did, 
almost  immediately.  Mr.  Jennings  has  a 
way  of  looking  sidelong  upon  the  carpet, 
as  if  his  eye  followed  the  movements  of 
something  there.  This,  of  course,  is  not 
always.  It  occurs  only  now  and  then.  But 
often  enough  to  give  a  ocrtain  oddity  as  I 
have  said  to  his  manner,  and  in  this  glance 
travelling  along  the  floor,  there  is  some- 
thing both  shy  and  anxious. 

A  medical  philosopher,  as  you  are  good 
enough  to  call  me,  elaborating  theories  by 
the  aid  of  cases  sought  out  by  himself,  and 
by  him  watched  and  scrutinised  with  more 
tune  at  command,  and  consequently  in- 
finitely more  minuteness  than  the  ordinaiy 
practitioner  can  afford,  falls  insensibly  into 
habits  of  observation  which  accompany 
him  everywhere,  and  are  exorcised,  as  some 
people  would  say,  impertinently,  upon  I 
every  subject  that  presents  itself  with  the  !| 
least  likelihood  of  rewarding  inquiry. 

There  was  a  promise  of  this  kind  in  this 
slight,  timid,  kindly,  but  reserved  gentle- 
man, whom  I  met  for  the  first  time  at  this 
agreeable  little  evening  gathering.  I  ob- 
served, of  course,  more  than  I  here  set 
down ;  but  I  reserve  all  that  borders  on 
tho  technical  for  a  strictly  scientific  paper. 

I  may  remark,  that  when  I  here  speak 
of  medical  science,  I  do  so  aa  I  hope  som» 
day  to  see  it  more  generally  understood, 
in  a  much  more  comprehensive  sense  than 
its  generally  material  treatment  woula 
warrant.  I  believe  that  the  entire  natural 
world  is  but  the  ultimate  expression  of  that 
spiritual  world  from  which,  and  in  which 
alone,  it  has  its  life.    I  believe  that  the  es- 

•    •      • 

sential  man  is  a  spirit,  that  the  spint  tf 
&T1  Qt^wised  substance,  but  as  different  is 


\' 


:Si 


:& 


Chftrles  Dtekani.] 


GRKEN  TEA. 


[October  23, 1869L]       503 


understand  by  matto,  as  lii^ht  or  electricity 
is;  that  the  material  body  is,  in  tlie  most 
literal  sense,  a  vesture,  and  deatli  conse- 
quently no  interruption  of  the  living  man's 
existence,  but  simply  his  extncatiun  from 
th'o  natural  body — a  proc€»ss  which  com- 
mences  at  the  moment  of  what  we  term 
death,  and  the  completion  of  which,  at 
fiirthest,  a  few  days  later,  is  the  resurrection 
*'  in  power." 

The  person  who  weighs  the  consequences 
of  these  positions  will  probably  see  their 
practical  l>earing  upon  medical  scic^nce. 
This  is,  however,  by  no  means  the  proper 
place  for  displaying  the  proofs  and  dis- 
cussing  the  consequences  of  this  too  gene- 
rally unrecognised  state  of  facts. 

In  pursuance  of  my  habit,  I  wafl  covertly 
observing  Mr.  Jeimings,  with  all  my  cau- 
tion— I  think  lio  perceived  it — and  I  saw 
plainly  that  he  was  as  cautiously  observing 
me.  Lady  Mary  happening  to  address  me  by 
my  name,  as  Dr.  Hesselius,  I  saw  that  ho 
glanced  at  mo  more  sliari)ly,  and  then  be- 
came thoughtful  for  a  few  minutes. 

After  this,  as  I  conversed  with  a  gentle- 
man at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  I  saw 
him  look  at  me  more  steadily,  and  with 
an  interest  which  I  thought  I  understood. 
I  then  saw  him  take  an  opportunity  of 
•chatting  with  Lady  Mary,  and  was,  as  one 
always  is,  perfectly  aware  of  being  the 
subject  of  a  distant  inquiry  and  answer. 

This  tall  clergyman  approached  mo  by- 
and-by:  and  in  a  little  time  we  had  got 
into  conversation.  When  two  people,  who 
like  reading,  and  know  books  and  plaees, 
having  travelled,  wish  to  converse,  it  is  very 
atrango  if  they  can't  find  topics.  It  was  not 
accident  that  brought  him  near  mo,  and  led 
him  into  conversation.  Ho  knew  German, 
and  had  read  my  Essays  on  Metaphysical 
Medicine,  which  suggest  moro  than  they 
actually  say. 

This  courteous  man,  gentle,  shy,  plainly 
a  man  of  thought  and  reading,  who  moving 
and  talking  among  us,  was  not  altogether 
of  us,  and  whom  I  already  suspected  of 
leading  a  life  whoso  transactions  and  alarms 
"Were  carefully  concealed,  with  an  impene- 
trable reserve  from,  not  only  the  world, 
hut  his  best  beloved  friends — was  cautiously 
Weighing  in  liis  own  mind  the  idea  of  taking 
tt  certain  step  with  regard  to  me. 

I  penetrated  his  thoughts  without  his 
ocing  aware  of  it,  and  was  cjireful  to  say 
nothing  which  could  betray  to  his  sensitive 
^gilance  my  suspicions  respecting  his  po- 
sition, or  my  surmises  about  his  plans 
^spectin^f  mjsdf. 


We  chatted  upon  indifferent  subjects  for 
a  time ;  but  at  last  he  said  : 

"  I  wiis  veiy  much  interested  by  some 
papers  of  yours.  Dr.  Hesselius,  tipon  what 
you  term  M(.'ta.physical  Medicine — I  read 
them  in  German,  ten  or  twelve  years  ago — 
have  thev  been  translated  ?" 

*'  No,  I'm  sure  they  have  not — I  should 
have  heard.  They  would  have  asked  my 
leave,  I  think." 

**  I  asked  the  publishers  here,  a  few 
months  ago,  to  get  the  book  for  mo  in  the 
original  Geraian  ;  but  they  tell  me  it  is  out 
of  print." 

'•  So  it  is,  and  has  been  for  some  years ; 
but  it  tiattere  me  as  an  author  to  find  that 
you  have  not  forgotten  my  little  book, 
although,"  I  added,  laughing,  "  ten  or 
twelve  years  is  a  considerable  time  to  have 
managed  without  it ;  but  I  suppose  you 
have  been  turning  tho  subject  over  again 
in  your  mind,  or  something  Ims  happened 
lately  to  revive  your  interest  in  it." 

At  this  remark,  accompanied  by  a  glance 
of  inquiry,  a  sudden  embarrassment  dis- 
turbed Mr.  Jennings,  analogous  to  that 
which  makes  a  young  lady  blush  and  look 
foolish.  He  dropj)ed  his  eyes,  and  folded 
his  hands  tt^gether  uneasily,  and  looked 
oddly,  and  you  would  have  said,  guilty  for 
a  moment. 

I  helped  him  out  of  his  awkwardness  in 
the  best  way,  by  appearing  not  to  observe 
it,  and  going  straight  on,  I  said  :  *'  Those 
revivals  of  interest  in  a  subject  happen  to 
me  often ;  one  book  suggests  another,  and 
oft^en  sends  me  back  a  wild-goose  chase  over 
an  interval  of  twenty  years.  But  if  you  still 
care  to  possess  a  copy,  I  shall  be  only  too 
happy  to  provide  you ;  I  have  still  got  two 
or  three  by  me — ^and  if  you  allow  me  to  pre- 
sent one  I  shall  be  very  much  honoured." 

**You  are  very  good  indeed,"  he  said, 
quite  at  his  ease  again,  in  a  moment :  "  I 
almost  despaired — I  don't  know  how  to 
thank  you." 

'*  Pray  don't  say  a  word ;  the  thing  is 
really  so  little  worth  that  I  am  only  ashamed 
(jf  haA-ing  offered  it,  and  if  y<;u  thank  me  any 
more  I  sliall  tlirow  it  into  the  fire  in  a  fit  of 
modesty." 

Mr.  Jennings  laughed.  Ho  inquired 
where  I  was  staying  in  London,  and 
aftcT  a  little  more  conversation  on  a  variety 
of  subjects,  he  took  his  dejxirture. 

CHAPTEi:  II.     THE  DOCTOR  QUESTION'S  LADY 

MAKY,  AND  SHE  ANSWEliS.  ^ 

"  I  i.iKv:  yv)\3LY  Vvear  ?»o  imw^^Vw^^^^^v^V     n^ 
said  1,  BO  sooiit^a'\i^N«;vj&  ^oTkSi.    '•'•?K^^i\^s^s.  ^ 


^ 


'^ 


504 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[October  S8,18C9J 


read,  travelled,  and  thought,  and  having 
also  suffered,  he  ought  to  be  an  acoom- 
plished  companion." 

*'  So  he  is,  and,  better  still,  he  is  a  really 
good  man,"  said  she.  "  His  advice  is  in- 
valuable about  my  schools,  and  all  my 
little  undertakings  at  Dawlbridge,  and  he's 
so  painstaking,  he  takes  so  much  trouble — 
you  have  no  idea — wherever  he  thinks  he 
can  be  of  use :  he's  so  good-natured  and  so 
sensible." 

"It  is  pleasant  to  hear  so  good  an  ac- 
count of  Ins  neighbourly  virtues.  I  can  only 
testily  to  his  being  an  agreeable  and  gentle 
companion,  and  in  addition  to  what  you 
have  told  me,  I  think  I  can  tell  you  two  or 
three  things  about  him/'  said  I. 

"Really!" 

"  Yes,  to  begin  with,  he's  unmarried." 

"  Yes,  that's  right, — go  on." 

"  He  has  been  writing,  that  is  he  io£», 
but  for  two  or  three  years,  perhaps,  he  has 
not  gone  on  with  his  work,  and  the  book 
was  upon  some  rather  abstract  subject 
— ^perhaps  theology." 

"  Well,  he  was  writing  a  book,  as  you 
say ;  I'm  not  quite  sure  what  it  was  about, 
but  only  that  it  was  nothing  that  I  cared  for, 
very  likely  you  are  right,  and  he  certainly 
did  stop — yes." 

"And  sJthough  he  only  drank  a  little 
coffee  here  to-night,  he  Hkes  tea,  at  least, 
did  like  it,  extravagantly." 

"  Yes ;  that's  quite  true." 

"  He  drank  green  tea,  a  good  deal,  didn't 
he  ?"  I  pursued. 

"  Well,  that's  very  odd !  Green  tea  was  a 
subject  on  which  we  used  almost  to  quarrel." 

"  But  he  has  quite  given  that  up,"  I 
continued. 

"  So  he  has." 

"  And,  now,  one  more  fact.  His  mother, 
or  his  fii^ther,  did  you  know  them  ?" 

"  Yes,  both ;  his  fathor  is  only  ten  years 
dead,  and  their  place  is  near  Dawlbridge. 
We  know  them  very  well,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,  either  his  mother  or  his  father — 
I  should  rather  think  his  father — saw  a 
ghost,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  you  really  are  a  conjurer.  Doctor 
Hesselius." 

"  Conjurer  or  no,  haven't  I  said  right  ?" 
I  answered,  merrily. 

"You  certainly  have,  and  it  was  his 
father:  ho  was  a  silent,  whimsical  man, 
and  he  used  to  bore  my  father  about  his 


dreams,  and  at  last  he  told  him  a  story 
about  a  ghost  he  had  seen  and  talked  with, 
and  a  very  odd  story  it  was.  I  remember  it 
particularly  because  I  was  so  afiraiid  of 
him.  This  story  was  long  before  ha  died — 
when  I  was  quite  a  chUd — and  hit  ways 
were  so  silent  and  moping,  and  he  used  to 
drop  in,  sometimes,  in  the  dusk,  when  I 
was  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and  I  used 
to  fancy  there  were  ghosts  about  him." 

I  smiled  and  nodded. 

"And  now  having  established  my  cluk 
racter  as  a  conjurer  I  think  I  must  say 
good-night,"  said  I. 

"  But  how  did  you  find  it  out  ?" 

"  By  the  planets  of  oourse,  as  the  gipsies 
do,"  I  answered,  and  so,  gaily,  we  said 
good-night. 

Next  morning  I  sent  the  little  book  he 
had  been  inquiring  after,  and  a  note  to 
Mr.  Jennings,  and  on  returning  late  that 
evening,  I  found  that  he  had  called  and 
lefl  his  card.  He  asked  whether  I  was  at 
home,  and  asked  at  what  hour  he  would  be 
most  likely  to  find  me. 

Does  he  intend  opening  his  case,  and  con- 
sulting me  "professionally,"  as  they  say?  I 
hope  so.  I  have  already  conceived  a  theoiy 
about  him.  It  is  supported  by  Lady  Maiy's 
answers  to  my  parting  questions.  I  should 
like  much  to  ascertain  from  his  own  lips. 
But  what  can  I  do  consistently  with  good 
breeding  to  invite  a  confession  ?  Nothing.  I 
rather  think  he  meditates  one.  At  all  events, 
my  dear  Van  L.,  I  shan't  make  myself  diffi- 
cult of  access ;  I  mean  to  return  his  visit  to- 
morrow. It  will  be  only  civil  in  return  for 
his  politeness,  to  ask  to  see  him.  Perhaps 
something  may  come  of  it.  Whether  mucli, 
little,  or  nothing,  my  dear  Van  L.,  you 
shall  hear. 

Now  Heady,  price  5g.  6d.,  bound  in  green  eloth, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OF  THB  New  Sbbisb  ov 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  had  of  all  BookseUen. 

MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  PINAL  READINGS 

MESSRS.  CHAPPELLaitdCO.  hare  great  pleame 
in  announcing  that  Mb.  Charles  Dickens  will  retuot 
and  conclude  his  interrupted  series  of  FAEEWEU* 
READINGS  at  St.  James's  Ball,  London,  early  ia 
the  New  Year. 

The  Readings  will  be  Tweltb  in  Nukbxe,  and  noo* 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

All  communications  to  be  addressed  to  M«f8n> 
Chappell  and  Co.,  60,  Now  Bond-street,  W. 


Tjia  Right  of  Translating  Artieksfrom  M;LTYL^\^kS.^'^^'»ii  «  reserved  Oy  the  Authors. 


\ 


I'toWfaliwf  SI  to«  Offloe,  26,  WeUington  St    Biraad.    Ptm*sdi\>3  C.>NBVt»^li*««Aatv>^ox»«,\yak*>^,\A»^^ 


IIE-STORJ-QE-C!JIV.l''^S-JHpM-Y^M^TO\£Al 


WITH  WHICH  IS  IrjcoiyoHiAT'n 


SATUBDAT,  OCTOBEE  30,  1869. 


VERONICA. 


In  Five  Books. 

BOOK  IL 
Tin.      HCQH  WILL  KOT  I 

About  the  middle  of  June,  Mr.  Frost 
departed  for  Italy.  He  was  only  to  bo  away 
a  fortnight  at  first.  He  would  then  retnm 
to  London :  and  if  all  went  well,  wonld 
go  back  to  Naples  ia  the  antnmn. 

fie  bad  been  to  Qowcr-etreet  §everEil 
tjinee  before  leaving  England.  He  bad 
spoken  ti)  Hngb  about  his  proepccts,  and 
had  Baid  that  if  RLattcrs  sacceeded  with 
the  company  who  were  employing  him, 
he  etoald  bo  able  to  offer  Hagh  a  aplendid 
ctiance  of  distinguishing  himself. 

"But,"  said  Hugh,  "this great  company 
will  have  a  great  architect  of  their  own. 
There  will  be  subordinates,  of  course,  to 
do  tho  dnidgcry,  and  the  big  man  will  get 
the  cre<lit :  I  do  not  say  that  that  is  unfair. 
Big'  men  have  to  earn  their  bigness — 
mostly — and  I  am  the  last  fellow  in  the 
world  to  grudge  them  what  they've  earned. 
Besides,  I  do  not  want  to  ho  wandering 
abottt  the  Continent.  I  have  served  my 
appreaticeship,  and  ieamt  my  trade,  and 
now  I  want  to  try  to  m.ake  a  home  for 
myself,  and  a  place  in  the  world.  I  am 
not  ambitious " 

"A  man  ought  to  be  ambitions,"  said 
Mr.  Prost. 

"  There  might  be  a  good  deal  to  bo  said 
"1  that  Bobject.  But  at  all  events,  a  man 
'''^ht  not  to  say  he  is  ambitious,  if  he 
isn't !" 

His  mother  and  Mi-.  Frost  succeeded, 
nowfcvcr,  in  persuading  Uagb  to  remain 
""ine  months  longer  in  his  present  position. 
He  was  engaged   by  Digby  anil  West  at  a 


weekly  salary,  and  no  permanent 

ment  had  yet  been  come  to.     He  would  let 

things  go  on  aj*  they  were  for  a  while. 

Ziliah  had  gained  a  reprieve,  but  her 
anxieties  remained  active.  At  the  best,  she 
had  trouble  before  her.  If  all  went  well, 
and  her  money — Hugh's  money — were  re- 
stored by  the  end  of  tbo  year,  it  wonld  still 
devolve  on  her  to  give  her  sou  some  ex- 
planation as  to  this  accession  of  fortune. 

Her  son's  love  and  respect  were  very 
precious  to  her  :  even  as  her  busband'a  had 
been.  She  knew  that  Hugh  inherited  his 
father's  stern  hatred  of  deception.  What 
would  he  say  when  he  knew  that  hia  mother 
had  concealed  so  important  a  matter— and 
one  which  ho  surely  had  a  right  to  be  made 
acquainted  with — all  these  years  ?  And  if 
he  asked  her,  "  Mother,  loh'j  have  yon  done 
this  ?''  how  should  she  answer  liim  ? 

She  was  a  woman  of  acute  and  ohservaDt 
intelligence  in  most  cases.  In  all  that  con- 
cerned her  only  son,  she  was,  of  course, 
pecuharly  quick  to  see  and  to  understand. 
She  knew  that  Hugh  had  fallen  in  love, 
and  that  his  lovo  was  not  the  hght,  boyish 
fancy  that  Mr.  Frost  had  tried  to  persuade 
her  it  would  prove  to  be.  Hugh  had  said 
no  word  to  her  on  the  subject,  but  there 
needed  no  word  to  convince  her  that  she 
was  right.  And  she  hked  Maud.  She  did 
not  love  her.  She  was  not  cbngingly  af- 
fectionate by  ualure,  and  all  the  love  in 
her  heart  was  absorbed  by  her  son.  But 
she  had  a  kindly  regard  for  the  girl.  She 
admired  and  approved  her.  She  was  not 
grudging  or  unjust  because  this  stranger 
with  the  deep  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair 
had  become  paramount  in  Hugh's  thoughts, 
"'le  knew  him  to  be  steadfast  and  true : 

id  she  was  well  assured  that 
nor  wife  wouVi  ^tt^\  Vcre^M 
place  inker  aoa'sio'e'VTiite.'a^wA. 


C5: 


& 


50G      [October  30, 1989.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


COowluetgdby 


bUo  watehcd  Hugh's  growing  love  for  Maud, 
the  thought  of  faUiug  from  her  o\m.  high 
honourable  place  in  his  regai-d  become  more 
and  more  painftiL  and  intolerable  to  her. 
Hugh  had  implicit?  fkith  in  his  mother*8 
purity  and'  goodiics.s.  She  was  his  high 
modeii  of  womanhood ;  and  he  had  often 
said  to  her,  "  I  only  hope  my  wife  may  be 
as  good  as  my  mother  !  I  can'^  wish  for 
anything  better.''  But  oould  he  still'  say 
BO  when  ho  knew ? 

There  was  a  Uttle  human  jealousy  within 
her  breast  which  made  her  feel  that-  to 
humble  herself  now  before  Hugh,  and  say 
to  him,  "  !^^y  son,  I  have  sinned.  Porgivo 
me  r*  would  be  to  yield  to  that  other  woman 
whom  he  loved,  a  too  absolute  supremacy : 
to  abdicate  in  her  favour  the  sole  pride  and 
glory  of  her  life.  She  did  not  hato  Maud 
for  stealing  Hugh's  heart.  The  wife  would 
be  nearest  and  dearest ;  that,  she  was  re- 
signed, if  not  content,  to  bear.  She  would 
still  be  his  honoured  mother.  But  she 
thought  she  should  come  to  hate  Maud  if 
Hugh  ever  wore  to  diminish,  by  one  iota, 
his  tribut.e  of  filial  i*everence.  And  all  this 
timo  Maud  knew  no  more  of  the  position 
she  occupied  in  the  thoughts  of  the  mother 
and  son  than  we  any  of  us  know  of  the 
place  we  hold  in  each  other's  minds. 

After  the  party  at  Mr.  Lovegrove's,  Maud 
had  seriously  begged  her  aunt  not  to  take 
her  out  to  any  similar  gathering  again. 

"  I  would  not  say  this,  dear  Aunt  Hilda," 
said  Maud,  '*  if  I  thought  that  you  derived 
any  gratification  from  the  society  of  those 
people.  But  I  wat<;hed  you  tho  other  night, 
and  I  saw — I  fancied — ^that  you  looked 
voiy  weary  and  uninterested." 

"  Not  uninterested  as  long  as  my  pet  was 
there.     I  like  to  see  ye  admired,  Maud." 

"  Admired !     Dear  Aunt  ffilda " 

"  Well  I  know,  I  grant  ye,  that  the  folks 
there  were  not  of  the  class  you  ought  to 
associate  with.  And  if  I  were  but  in  my 
rightful  and  proper  position,  what  a 
dehght  it  would  be  for  me  to  present  ye  to 
the  world  you  were  bom  to  live  in  !  But 
as  to  presenting,  my  dear  child,  sure  how 
would  I  go  to  court  in  a  street  cab  ?  and 
living  in  Gower-street !  I  don't  say  any- 
thing against  it,  and  some  of  the  old  family 
manfiions  are  in  drearier  places,  but,  after 
all,  you  know,  there  would  be  a  degree  of 
incongruity  about  attempting  to  entertain, 
or  anything  of  that  sort-,  in  a  lodging  of 
this  kind ;  and  ye  know,  Maud,  he  barely 
allows  mo  enough  for  the  necessaries  of 
Jifo  as  it  IB.  Some  women  would  run  him 
into  debt.     But  I  cooldu't  bring  myaeXi  to 


do  that — ^barring  absolute  neoessity:  not 
ito-  mention  that?  Pd  have  to  bear  all  tlie 
bullying  and  annorance,  seeing  that  he*s 
safe  and  oomfbitable  away  beyond  seas !" 

Mikad  endeavoured  to  persuade  her  aunt 
that  it  was  no  fecHng  of  pride  whiohnmdered 
her  unwillirig  to  go  to  the  Lovegioves.  She 
disclaimed  such  a  sentiment  with-  much 
warmth.  No ;  it  was  simply  that  the  people 
she  met  tliere  w«re  uncongenial  to  her. 
That  might  be  partly  her  own  &ult,  bni 
the  fJBict  remained  so. 

Maud  did  not  say  thats  ih»  saamafy  of 
suspense  a]x>ut  Yeronioa  madB  it  irksome 
to  her  to  see  strangem.  It  was  a  subject 
that  could  not  be  mentioned  between  hw 
aunt  and  herself.  But  as  the  weeks  wore 
on,  and  no  answer  came  to  her  letter,  her 
heart  sank.  She  had  scarcely  been  aware 
how  strong  a  hope  had  sprung  up  within 
her  on  the  receipt  of  Veronica's  letter, 
until  she  began  to  measure  the  depth  of 
her  disappointment  as  the  time  rolled  by 
and  brought  no  further  communication. 

In  the  old  days  at  Shipley,  Maud  would 
have  enjoyed  the  oddity  and  newness  of 
the  society  she  had  met  at.  the  Lovegioves'. 
But  now  such  enjoyment  was  impossible 
to  her.  She  was  conscious  of  nervously 
shrinking  from  a  new  face,  of  nervously 
dreading  a  chance  word  wliich  might  touch 
on  the  still  recent  shame  and  sorrow  thai 
had  befallen  them  all,  as  a  wonnded  person 
starts  away  from  the  approach  of  even  the 
gentlest  hand  lest  it  should  lay  itself  un- 
awares upon  his  hurt. 

Mr.  Frost's  sudden  mention  of  his  pro- 
posed journey  to  Italy  had  disturbed  her 
for  this  reason:  though  she  told  heradf 
how  absurd  and  weak  it  was  to  be  so  dis- 
turbed. Hundreds  of  people  went  to  Italy 
of  course;  many  even  of  the  few  people 
she  knew,  were  likely  enough  to  do  so. 
But  in  the  frequent  silent  direction  of  her 
thoughts  towanls  Yeronica,  she  had  grown 
to  associate  her  entirely  with  the  word 
'Italy*,  as  tliough  tliat  country  held  Imt 
one  figure  for  all  men's  observation  1 

The  question  persistently  presented  itself 
to  her  mind :  Did  Mr.  Frost  know  the  story 
of  Veronica  ?  Was  he  aware  who  the  man 
was  with  whom  she  had  fled  ? 

Something  a  little  forced  and  unnatural 
in  Mr.  Frost's  manner  of  introducing  the 
subject  of  his  approaching  journey,  had 
struck  her.  Why  should  he  nave  selected 
her  to  speak  to  respecting  Hugh  Lockwood's 
prospects  ?  Had  he  had  any  purpose  in  bis 
t  uiind  of  sounding  her  respecting  her  feel- 
\\n!g  Vm^T^  N^sEQ-Q^a.^  and  had  he  chosen 


^ 


OhMTlM  Diokene.] 


VERONICA. 


[October  80, 1869.J 


507 


this  excuse  for  giving  her  the  information 
that  he  "was  bonnd  for  It-aly  ? 

The  impossibility  of  discnssing  this  mat- 
tor  with  her  aunt,  and  the  necessity  she 
was  nnder  of  shutting  herself  np  from  the 
consolation  of  sympathy  or  companionship 
regarding  it,  made  her  morbidly  sensitive. 
She  1)rooded  and  tormented  herself 

At  last  she  took  a  resolution: — she 
would  speak  to  Mrs.  Lockwood.  That  the 
latter  had  learned  the  whole  story  from 
her  Aunt  Hilda,  she  was  well  convinced. 
But  even  were  that  not  so,  Mrs.  Lockwood 
would  have  heard  it  all  from  Hugh.  Mr. 
Frost  was  the  Lockwoods*  old  and  intimate 
friend.  Maud  resolved  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Lockwood.  One  afternoon  after  their  early 
dinner  she  stole  down- stairs,  leaving  Lady 
Tallis  asleep  acoordingto  custom.  Her  tap 
at  the  parlour  door  was  answered  by  Mrs. 
Lookwood's  soft  voice  saying,  **  Come  in ;" 
and  she  entered. 

Mrs.  Lockwood  sat  at  the  table,  with 
an  aooount-book  before  her.  She  looked, 
Maud  thought,  old  and  harassed. 

"Do  I  disturb  y^ou,  Mrs.  Lockwood? 
Please  say  so,  if  I  do;  and  I  will  take 
another  opportunity " 

"  You  don't  disturb  me  in  the  least,  my 
dear  Miss  Desmond.  I  have  just  finished 
my  accounts  for  the  month.  Do  sit  down 
and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  fbr  you.  There 
is  nothing  the  matter  with  my  lady  ?"  she 
added,  hastily,  looking  at  Maud's  face. 

^Nothing,  nothing.  Do  not  let  me 
startle  you.  I  wanted  to  take  the  liberty 
of  speaking  to  you  in  confidence — may  I  ?" 

Mrs.  Lockwood  took  off  the  spectacles 
she  was  wearing,  passed  her  hands  over 
her  forehead  and  eyes,  and  answered 
quietiy,  "  Pray  speak." 

Hbt  manner  was  not  tender  nor  encour- 
aging, nor  even  very  cordial ;  but  it  nerved 
Maud  better  than  a  too  great  show  of  feel- 
ing would  have  done.  In  a  few  words  she 
told  Mrs.  Lockwood  what  Mr.  Frost  had 
said  to  her  at  the  Lovegroves*  about  his 
journey  to  Italy,  and  so  forth. 

"  Now  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you  was 
this,"  said  Maud  :  "  You  know  Mr.  Frost 
well,  and  I  do  not :  do  you  suppose  he  had 
any  special  motive  in  saying  all  this  to  me, 
a  total  stranger?" 

"Any  special  motive?"  repeated  Mrs. 
Lockwood,  reddening,  and  looking,  for  her, 
singularly  embarrassed. 

"  I  mean — ^what  I  mean  is  this,  Mrs. 
Lockwood :  the  story  of  the  great  sorrow 
and  affliction  that  has  befidlcn  the  home 
that  was  my  home  from,  tho  time  I  was  a 


little  child  until  tho  other  day,  is  known  to 
you.  I  am  afraid — ^that  is,  no  doubt  it  is 
known  to  many,  many  other  people.  Is 
Mr.  Frost  one  of  those  who  know  it  ?  And 
did  he  mean  to  learn  anything  or  tell  any- 
thing about  Veronica  when  ho  spoke  to  me 
of  going  to  Italy  ?" 

"  Oh !"  said  Mrs.  Lockwood,  drawing  a 
long  breath  and  then  covering  her  mouth 
with  one  white,  delicate  hand.  "  You  were 
not  thinking  of  yourself,  then.  Miss  Des- 
mond ?" 

*'0f  myself?  What  could  Mr.  Frost's 
plans  be  to  me,  or  why  should  he  care  that 
I  should  know  them  ?" 

"It  was  of  Hugh  he  spoke,  I  thought." 

"  Ah  yes ;  but  incidentally  almost.  He 
spoke  to  me  as  of  something  that  it  con- 
cerned me  to  know  !  I  think  of  Veronica 
so  constantly,  and  I  am  obliged  to  lock  my 
thoughts  up  from  Aunt  Hilda  so  jealously, 
that  perhaps  1  grow  morbid.  But  I  thought 
you  would  forgive  my  speaking  to  you." 

"  As  to  Mr.  Frost,  I  can  answer  you  in 
two  words.  He  knows  from  the  Love- 
groves  that  you  have  left  Mr.  Lovincourt's 
house  because  his  daughter  ran  away  under 
particularly  painftil  circumstances.  But  if 
your  aunt  has  been  discreet"  (it  was  a 
large  "  if,"  and  Zillah  plainly  showed  that 
she  knew  it  was  so),  "  neither  the  Love- 
groves  nor  Mr.  Frost  know  the  name  of 
the  man  she  ran  away  with.  It  has  been 
a  subject  of  gossip,  truly,  but  not  in  the 
circles  of  society  where  the  Lovegroves 
move.  Sir  John  Cktie  has  lived  so  long 
out  of  England,  that  he  is  almost  for- 
gotten." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Lockwood,"  said 
Maud,  absently. 

"  I  infer  from  what  you  say  that  you 
have  some  reason  to  Delieve  that  your 
guardian's  daughter  is  at  present  in 
Italy  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot  that  you  did  not 
know,     i-— I  had  a  letter  from  her." 

Mrs.  Lockwood  raised  her  eyebrows,  and 
looked  at  Maud  attentively. 

"  I  know  I  can  trust  you  not  to  mention 
this  to  my  aunt.  You  understand  how  im- 
possible it  is  for  me  to  speak  of  Veronica  to 
her.  Aunt  Hilda  is  kind  and  gentle,  and 
yet,  on  that  subject,  she  speaks  with  a 
harshness  that  is  very  painfal  to  me." 

"  Lady  Tallis  has  been  infamously 
ti-eatcd." 

"You  must  understand,  if  you  please, 
Mrs.   Lockwood,    that  I  liave    told    Mr» 
Lcvincourt  of  ia3  \^VX»t.    \\»   \&  ^""s^    ^ 
secret  from.  A-uu^  IBSi^r 


«5 


^ 


508      [October  30, 1S63.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetedby 


"You  were  very  fond  of  this  yonng 
lady  ?"  said  Zillah,  with  her  eyes  observ- 
antly fixed  on  Maud's  changing  face. 

"  Yes ;"  answered  Maud.  Then  the  tears 
gathered  to  her  eyes,  and  for  the  moment 
she  could  say  no  more. 

"  Your  fondness  has  not  been  destroyed 
by  this  miserable  business  ?'*  pursued 
Zillah. 

Maud  silently  shook  her  head,  and  the 
tears  fell  faster. 

"  Would  you  see  her  and  speak  to  her 
again  if  you  could  ?  Would  you  hold  out 
your  hand  to  her  ?'* 

Mrs.  Lockwood,  as  she  spoke,  kept  her 
mouth  concealed  beneath  her  hand,  and 
her  eyes  on  Maud's  feu^e. 

Maud  was  aware  of  a  certain  constraint 
in  the  elder  woman's  tone.  She  thought 
it  sounded  disapproving,  almost  stem. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Irockwood,"  she  cried,  in 
much  agitation,  **do  not  judge  her  too 
hardly  !  You  have  such  a  lofty  standard 
of  duty;  your  son  has  told  me  how  excellent 
your  life  has  been ;  he  is  so  proud  of  you  I 
But  do  not  be  too  hard  on  her.  K  the 
good  have  no  pity  for  her,  what  will  be- 
come of  her  ?  I  do  not  defend  her.  She 
fieuled  in  her  duty  towards  her  father ;  but 
she  has  been  most  basely  and  cruelly  de- 
ceived, I  am  sure  of  it !" 

"Deceived  by  her  great  love  and  faith 
in  this  man  ?"  said  Zillah,  unwaveringly 
preserving  the  same  look  and  attituda 

Maud  grew  very  pale,  and  drooped  her 
head.  "  She — she— trusted  him,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

Zillah  removed  her  hand  from  her  month, 
and,  clasping  both  hands,  rested  them  on 
the  table  before  her.  When  her  mouth 
was  no  longer  concealed,  she  cast  her  eyes 
down,  and  ceased  to  look  at  Maud  while 
she  spoke. 

"  See  now.  Miss  Desmond,**  said  she,  in 
her  soft  voice,  "how  unequally  justice  is 
meted  out  in  this  world !  Once  I  knew 
a  girl — ^little  more  than  a  child  in  years 
—  very  ignorant,  very  xmprotected,  and 
very  confiding.  She  was  not  a  handsome 
haughty  young  lady,  living  in  a  respectable 
home.  This  girl's  associates  were  all  low, 
vile  people.  She  was  not  by  nature  vicious 
or  wicked,  but  she  loved  with  her  whole 
childish  inexperienced  heart,  and  she  fell. 
Shs  was  *mo8t  basely  and  cruelly  de- 
ceived'— I  quote  your  words.  It  was 
neither  vanity  nor  vainglory  that  led  her 
astray:  nothing  but  simple,  blind,  mis- 
plBced  affection.  Well,  nobody  pitied  liet, 
nobody  cared  for  her,  nobody  lielped  ber. 


If  you,  or  any  delicately  nurtured  young 
lady  like  you,  had  met  her  in  the  street, 
you  would  have  drawn  your  garments 
away  from  the  contamination  of  her  touch." 

"  No,  no,  no !  Indeed  you  wrong  me ! 
If  I  had  known  her  story  I  should  have 
pitied  her  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

Zillah  proceeded  without  heeding  the 
interruption.  "  And  all  her  sufferings — ^they 
were  acute — I  knew  her  very  well — could 
not  atone.  Her  fisiult  (I  use  the  word  for 
want  of  a  better.  Where  /omU  lay,  God 
knows — perhaps  He  cares !) " 

"  Oh  Mrs.  Lookwood !" 

"Do  I  shock  you?  Thai  girrs  fault 
pursued  her  through  life — stOl  pursues 
her " 

"  Is  she  aliv«  ?" 

"  Alive  ?  No :  I  think  she  is  dead,  ^nai 
girl.  Her  ghost  wbIIcb  sometimes.  But 
another  woman,  in  some  respeots  a  very 
different  woman,  inherits  her  legacy  of 
trouble  and  shame  and  sorrow.  That  seems 
hard.  But  if  you  tell  me  thai  all  life  is 
hard;  that  we  are  blind  to  whai  is  our 
bane  or  what  our  good ;  or  utter  any  other 
&talist  doctrine,  I  can  understand  ihe  reason 
and  sequence  of  it.  But  when  you  preach 
to  me  that  'Conduct  makes  Fate;'  that 
as  we  reap  we  sow ;  and  so  forih ;  I  point 
to  these  two  oases.  The  one  an  innocent — 
yes ;  an  innocent — child :  the  other  a  well- 
educated,  proud,  beautiful,  beloved,  young 
woman.  The  loving-hearted  child  is  crashed 
and  tortured  and  forsaken.  The—Hforgive 
me,  but  I  speak  what  you  know  to  be  true — 
the  selfish,  vain,  arrogant,  asnbitioas  lady, 
commits  ^e  same  sin  against  the  world, 
and  is  rich,  petted,  and  punpered.  The 
rough  places  are  made  smooth  for  her  feet. 
People  cry  *  How  sad  I  A  lady !  The 
daughter  of  a  clergyman !'  Her  fHends 
hold  out  their  han<u  to  take  her  back. 
Even  you — a  pure,  fresh,  young  creature 
like  you — are  ready  to  mourn  over  her,  and 
to  forgive  her  and  caress  her  with  angelic 
sweetness  and  pity." 

Maud  could  not  help  perceiving,  that  Mrs. 
Lockwood  was  mentally  visiting  on  Veronica 
the  hard  usage  of  the  poor  be&ayed  young 
girl  she  had  spoken  of.  It  seemed  as  though 
in  proportion  to  the  pity  that  she  felt  for 
that  young  girl,  she  grudged  every  pity- 
ing word  that  was  bestowed  on  Veronica. 
Maud  felt  it  very  strange  that  it  should 
be  so :  and  she  had  almost  a  sense  of  guSii 
herself,  for  having  become  aware  of  it. 
But  her  intellect  was  too  clear  for  self- 
I  dobieion,  and,  albeit  most  unwillingly,  she 
\  Qo\]i)L<^  ii.Q\i  'Wc  ^oaAtscf^ud.    the   spirit  of 


h 


OhArles  Dickens.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[October  W,  1869.]       609 


Mrs.  Lookwood*s  words,  and  be  repulsed 
by  it. 

"  I  think — **  said  Maud,  gently,  and  turn- 
ing her  pale  &oe  full  on  Mrs.  Lockwood: 
"  I  am  young  and  inexperienced  I  know, 
but  I  do  think  that  haying  loyed  one  sufier- 
ing  person  very  much  should  make  ua  tender 
to  other  sufferers." 

"Sufferers!"  repeated  Mrs.  Lodcwood, 
with  a  cold  contempt,  and  closed  her  mouth 
rigidly  when  she  had  spoken. 

"Xea,"  answered  Maud,  firmly.  The 
colour  rose  very  faintly  in  her  cheek  and  her 
blue  eyes  shone.  "  My  unhappy  friend  is 
a  sufferer.  Not  the  less  a  sufferer  because 
there  is  truth  in  some  of  the  words  you 
have  applied  to  her.  Pride  and  ambition 
do  not  soften  sucb  a  fall  as  hers." 

Again  Maud  could  not  help  perceiving 
that  Mrs.  Lockwood  was  balancing  Ye- 
ronica's  fate  against  the  fate  of  the  betrayed 
young  girl :  and  that  she  derived  a  stnucige 
satiafaction  from  the  sugg^tion  that  Ye* 
ronica's  haughty  spnit  could  be  tortured 
hj  humiliation. 

^  There  would  be  a  grain  of  something 
like  justioe  in  that,"  said  Zillah,  under  her 
breath. 

liCaud  withdraw  with  a  pained  feeling. 
Her  mind  had  at  first  been  relieved  by  the 
mere  fact  of  uttering  the  name  of  one 
who  dwelt  so  constantly  in  her  thoughts. 
But  Mrs.  Lockwood's  manner  had  so 
repulsed  her  that  she  inwardly  resolved 
never  again  to  approach  the  subject  of 
Ycronica's  fate  in  speaking  to  her.  But 
to  her  surprise,  the  topic  seemed  to  have 
a  mysterious  attraction  for  Mrs.  Lock- 
wood.  Whenever  she  found  herself  alone 
with  Maud,  she  was  sure,  sooner  or  later 
to  come  round  to  itw 

Once  she  said,  after  a  long  pause  of 
silence  during  which  her  fingers  were 
busied  with  needlework  and  her  eyes  cast 
down  on  it,  "If  that  poor  young  girl — she 
is  dead  now,  you  know — could  have  had 
a  friend  like  you.  Miss  Desmond,  years 
and  years  ago,  it  might  have  gone  diffe- 
rently with  her.  It  would  have  given  her 
courage  to  know  that  such  a  pure-hearted 
woman  pitied  rather  than  blamed  her." 

"  I  should  think  all  honest  hearts  must 
be  filled  with  compassion  at  her  story," 
answered  Maud,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Do  you  think  a  man's  heart  would  bo  ? 
Do  you  think  that,  for  instance,  my — 
my  son's  would  be  ?" 

"  Surely  !     Can  you  doubt  it  ?" 

"Poor  girl!  She  was  so  ignorant  of 
the  world!     She  knew  there  was  a  groat 


gulf  between  her  and  such  as  you  are. 
She  had  never  lived  with  good  people. 
They  were  as  distant  from  her  as  the  in- 
habitants of  the  moon  might  be.  Kshe 
had  had  a  friend  like  you,  Miss  Desmond, 
that  poor  girl  who  is  dead,  it  would  have 
given  her  courage,  and  it  might  have  gono 
differently  with  her." 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  NOBTH.  PETERBOBOUQH  AND  FOTHEBINGAY. 

The  crow,  leaviiig  a  sluggish  express 
train  behind  him  (a  mere  tortoise  in  the 
race)  with  one  contemptuous  flap  of  his 
jet  black  wings,  alights  on  one  of  the 
massy  grey  western  towers  of  Peterborough 
Cathedral.  Erom  above  those  three  great 
cavernous  porches  that  give  shadow  to  the 
old  west  front,  he  looks  over  a  sea  of  green 
pasture  and  the  cane-coloured  stubble  and 
rich  chocolate- brown  arable  over  which 
William  and  his  mailed  conquerors,  chant- 
ing of  Bdand  and  Boncesvalles,  of  proud 
Paynim  and  Christian  champions  "militant 
here  on  earth,"  and  fresh  from  scorched 
and  bleeding  Yorkshire  and  Durham,  bore 
down  on  Ely,  whose  fens  and  morasses 
the  Saxons  still  held  against  the  savage 
Norman.  Hereward,  the  son  of  the  Saxon 
lord  of  Baum,  in  Lincolnshire,  had  built  a 
stockade  in  the  Island  of  Ely,  where  he 
erected  his  standard  and  defied  iiie  Norman 
bowmen.  An  exile  in  Flanders,  banished 
in  youth  for  treasonable  turbulence  by  Ed- 
ward the  Confessor,  Hereward,  on  learning 
that  his  father  was  dead,  and  that  a  Norman 
robber  had  expelled  his  mother  from  the 
fair  lands  of  Baum,  returned  to  England, 
rallied  his  warlike  tenantry,  drove  out  the 
intruder,  and  organised  a  small  guerilla 
army — ^like  the  stout-hearted  Saxon  Gari- 
baldi that  he  was.  His  uncle  Brand,  abbot 
of  Peterborough,  knighted  the  brave  chief- 
tain. At  Brand's  death  in  1069,  Wil- 
liam gave  the  abbey  (as  dangerous  a  gift 
as  a  cask  of  gunpowder)  to  Turold,  a 
foreign  monk,  who  rode  into  Northampton- 
shire in  the  centre  of  one  hundred  and  sixty 
spearmen.  It  was  an  ill-omened  moment, 
for  a  red  light  rose  in  the  northern  sky 
at  the  new  abbot's  approach.  That  fire 
arose  from  the  flaming  town  of  Peter- 
borough. The  Danes  had  poured  down  from 
the  Humber  to  the  west,  and  Sbem  their 
chief  had  joined  Hereward,  who  was  sweep- 
ing now  like  a  resistless  deluge  over  the 
marsh  country.  The  abbey  was  burnt,  ^ 
the  golden  chalices  a»nd  ^^\«iiak  Ta^^i^R^  ^»^  ^^^ 


^ 


&> 


510       [October  80,  I860.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[CoBdoeted  by 


over  the  still  hot  ashes  of  his  new  domain, 
just  as  proud  Horeward  retired  to  the  fort 
at  Ely,  and  the  Dane's  black  sails  were  fast 
Ruling  away  towards  the  Baltic. 

Poor  Turold,  he  had  a  wolf  to  trap,  and 
he  went  out  as  if  he  were  looking  for  a 
rabbit.  What  did  he  do,  good  man,  but 
go  to  Tailbois,  a  neighbour  of  his,  the  new 
Norman  lord  of  Hoyland,  who  brought  him 
cavalry  to  surprise  Hereward  and  his 
Saxon  outlaws.  One  day,  while  Tailbois 
and  his  vanguard  were  riding  gallantly 
along  a  dangerous  part  of  the  fen  land, 
close  to  the  side  of  a  forest,  dark  and  im- 
penetrable by  cavalry,  Hereward  and  his 
woodmen  sprang  out  on  the  rear,  where 
Turold  ambled,  singing  his  Ave  Marias, 
and  bore  him  off  to  a  damp  comer  of  the 
wooden  fort,  from  which  he  emerged  after 
many  days,  rheumatic,  soured,  and  poorer 
by  two  thousand  pounds.  William,  at 
this,  roused  like  a  lion  from  sleep,  for 
many  Scotch  exiles  had  now  joined  Here- 
ward, who  grew  daily  more  confident-, 
and  more  dangerous.  He  slowly  closed 
in  on  Hereward,  Norman  ships  barricaded 
the  outlets  fr*om  the  west,  spearmen  ga- 
thered closer  and  closer  upon  the  fortress  of 
the  fens.  William  built  solid  roads  across  the 
fens,  and  bridged  the  rushing  channels,  all 
the  while  harassed  and  tormented  by  Here- 
ward's  swooping  forays.  Heavy  fell  the 
Saxon  axes,  time  after  time,  on  the  Nor- 
man hewers  and  delvers.  "  Satan  helps 
the  Saxon  boors !"  cried  the  wounded 
diggers ;  so  William,  to  please  them,  had  a 
wooden  tower  built,  in  which  a  Norman 
sorceress  was  placed  to  exorcise  Hereward 
and  his  guerillas ;  but  one  day,  when  the 
wind  blew  right,  tiie  Saxons  set  fire  to  half 
a  mile  of  reeds,  and  tower,  witch,  and  Nor- 
man workmen  passed  away  in  a  gust  of 
flame.  But  neither  steel  nor  fire  could 
turn  the  Conqueror.  Faster  grow  the  solid 
roads,  faster  sprang  the  arches  of  fresh 
bridges,  till  nearly  all  Ely  was  his.  Then 
Hereward,  refusing  to  surrender,  escaped 
over  the  marshes  into  the  forest,  and  from 
there  renewed  his  forays ;  but  the  rest  lost 
heart,  and  laid  down  their  arms  before  the 
Normans.  Morcar  and  the  Bishop  of  Dur- 
ham were  thrown  into  prison  for  life,  and 
other  leaders  lost  eyes,  hands,  or  feet,  ac- 
cording to  William's  cruel  caprices  over 
his  wine;  but  the  brave  man  fared  after  all 
better  than  the  colder-hearted,  for  William 
respected  his  courage,  and  restored  him  the 
lands  of  Baum,  on  his  taking  an  oath  of 
allegiance,  Hereward  was  the  last  Saxon 
to  sheath  the  sword  against  tlio  Kormaix. 


Great  monasteries  arose  of  old  time 
among  the  fens  and  marshes  of  this  am- 
phibious part  of  England.  The  old  rhym- 
mg  proverb  sums  them  up  graphically : 

BoQuej,  the  rich  of  gold  and  fee, 
Thorney,  the  flower  of  many  &ir  tree, 
Crowland,  the  eourteoua  of  their  meat  and  diink, 
Spalding,  the  gluttona  aa  all  men  do  think, 

P£TBBBOROraH  THB  PBOUD. 

Santrej,  by  the  waj,  that  old  abbey 
Gave  more  alma  in  one  day  than  all  they. 

Peterborough  has  had  to  bear  its  rubs 
and  was  burnt  by  tho  howling  Danes  in 
870,  when  all  tho  monks  were  butchered 
in  the  flames ;  again  in  1069,  according  to 
a  prophecy  of  Egelric,  a  Bishop  of  Durham, 
who  had  turned  hermit ;  again  in  1116,  for 
the  sins  of  Abbot  de  Lees  and  his  brother, 
who  had  invoked  the  devil  of  fire ;  lastly  it 
was  in  danger  in  1264,  when  the  Abbot  of 
Peterborough,  having  joined  tho  rebellions 
barons,  down  tho  abbey  would  have  gone, 
broken  like  a  china  jar,  had  not  the  abbot 
turned  a^vay  the  wrath  of  King  Henry  the 
Third  by  a  heavy  ransom. 

Gromwell*s  Ironsides  laid  their  hands 
very  heavily  on  Peterborough,  whose  old 
ill-luck  broke  out  again  with  great  severity 
during  the  civil  wars.  The  Calviniste, 
with  musket  and  sword,  and  pick  and  axe, 
destroyed  the  reredos,  tiie  chapter  house, 
cloisters,  and  palace,  shattering  the  em- 
blazoned glass,  *'red  with  the  blood  of 
martyrs  and  of  saints "  with  cruel  care- 
fulness. They  stripped  off  all  the  lead  of 
tho  roofs  and  sent  it  for  sale  to  Holland, 
but  a  storm  waited  for  the  sacrilegious  bark 
and  sunk  it.  They  finally  pulled  down  the 
Lady  Chapel  to  save  the  expense  of  repairs, 
and  turned  the  old  house  of  God  into  a  work- 
shop. 

Some  great  people  lie  under  Peterborough 
pavement.  Poor  Queen  Elatherine  came 
here  &om  Kimbolton,  as  our  readers  know ; 
and  in  the  nave  lies  old  Scarlet  (ninety-eight 
years  old),  the  sexton,  who  buried  Katherine 
and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  too,  and,  for  ihe 
matter  of  that,  all  the  population  of  Peter- 
borough  twice  over.  '  *  A  king  of  spades, '  *  in- 
deed, as  his  last  chronicler  pithily  observes. 
Queen  Katherine  lies  on  the  north  side  of 
the  choir,  and  under  a  doorway  out  of  the 
choir  on  the  south  side  once  reposed  Mary. 
It  brings  a  moisture  into  most  eyes  to 
think  of  the  last  hour  of  the  unhappy 
Queen  of  Scots.  We  seem  to  see  her 
now,  as  she  rises  from  the  altar  in  her 
oratory,  and,  taking  down  tho  ivory  cru- 
cifix, passes  into  the  ante*chamber  where 
.the  four  hard-faced  earls  await  her.  She 
\  ^esocu  Qb  ^-N^Ti  c&  \^bi^\l  csajdn^  with  a  loug 


i 


&> 


Charles  Dickena.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[October  80, 1869.]       51 1 


veil  of  white  linen  &stcned  to  lier  liaii*,  and 
her  chaplet  of  beads  is  by  her  side.  Then 
comes  a  very  touching  little  episode  in  the 
last  scene  of  all.  Suddenly  an  old  servant 
of  hers,  Sir  Robert  Melvillo,  her  house- 
steward,  &Jls  on  his  knees  weeping  pas- 
sionatcly,  being  heart-broken  at  haying  to 
bear  such  sorrowful  news  to  Scotland. 

"  Grood  Melville,"  said  the  queen,  with 
placid  dignity  and  gentleness,  "  cease 
to  lament,  but  rather  rejoice,  for  thou 
shalt  now  see  a  final  period  to  Mary 
Stuart's  troubles.  The  world,  my  servant, 
is  all  but  vamty,  and  subject  to  more 
sorrow  than  an  ocean  of  tears  can  wash 
away.  But  I  pray  thee  take  this  message 
when  thou  goest : '  that  I  die  true  to  my  re- 
ligion, to  Scotland,  and  to  France.  Gtoa  for- 
give them  that  have  thirsted  for  my  blood 
as  the  hart  longeth  for  tho  water  brooks  I 
Commend  me  to  my  son,  and  tell  him  I 
have  done  nothing  to  prejudice  the  king- 
dom of  Scotland." 

Melville  sobbed,  and  could  not  utter  a 
word.  Mary  stooped,  turned  to  the  &ithful 
old  servitor,  and  weeping,  also,  herself,  said : 

"  Once  more  farewell,  good  Melville : 
pray  for  thy  mistress  and  queen.'' 

She  then  requested  the  four  earls  to  treat 
her  servants  with  kindness,  and  to  allow 
them  to  stand  by  her  at  her  death.  The 
Earl  of  Kent,  hard  and  icily  fanatical,  ob- 
jected, however,  saying  it  would  be  trouble- 
some to  her  majesty  and  unpleasant  to  the 
company ;  besides,  as  Papists,  tho  servants 
would  be  sure  to  put  in  practice  some 
superstitious  trumpery,  such  as  dipping 
luuidkerchiefs  in  her  grace's  blood. 

"  My  lords,"  said  Mary,  "  I  will  give  you 
my  word  they  shall  deserve  no  bhune,  nor 
do  such  thing  as  you  mention ;  but,  poor 
souls,  it  would  do  them  good  to  see  tho  last 
of  their  mistress ;  and  I  hope  your  mis- 
tress, as  a  maiden  queen,  would  not  deny 
me  in  regard  of  womanhood,  to  have 
some  of  my  women  about  me  at  my  death. 
Surely  you  might  grant  a  greater  favoui* 
than  this,  though  I  were  a  woman  of  less 
rank  than  the  Queen  of  Scots." 

The  lords  reluctantly  consented,  and 
poor  old  Sir  Robert  Melville  the  steward, 
tho  apothecary,  tho  surgeon,  and  Ken- 
nedy and  Curie,  two  of  her  maids,  fol- 
lowed Mary  to  tho  scaffold,  the  sheriff 
and  his  officers  leading,  Sir  Amyas  Pau- 
let  and  Sir  Drew  Drury  following,  and  after 
them  coming  the  Earls  of  Shrewsbury  and 
Kent.  The  scaffold,  which  stood  in  the 
hall,  was  a  railed- in  platform,  three  feet 
high,  and  covered  with  black  doth.     On 


it  stood  a  low  stool,  a  cushion,  and  the 
block,  all  covered  witli  black.  By  tho 
horrible  block,  axe  in  hand,  stood  the 
headsman  from  the  Tower,  dressed  in  sablo 
velvet,  and  his  assistant.  Mary,  with  no 
change  of  fisice,  and  no  tremor,  sat  down 
cheerfdlly,  while  Beale,  the  clerk  of  the 
council,  read  the  death  -  warrant  aloud ; 
as  he  concluded,  the  spectators  cried  out, 
*'  God  save  Queen  Elizabeth !"  Mary  said 
but  little,  only  asserting  that  she  was  a 
princess  not  subject  to  the  laws  of  Eng- 
land, declaring  that  she  had  never  sought 
the  life  of  Elizabeth,  and  that  from  her 
heart  she  pardoned  all  her  enemies.  The 
Dean  .of  Peterborough  then  atood  up  and 
preached  to  her  the  necessity  of  conversion, 

for  the  wel&re  of  her  souL  Mary  rephed 
firmly  and  scornfully : 

"  Mr.  J)ean,  trouble  not  yourself;  I  am 
fixed  in  the  ancient  religion,  and  by  God's 
grace  I  will  shed  my  blood  for  it."  So 
saying,  she  turned  away,  but  the  dean  went 
on  again,  till  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  set 
him  to  begin  a  prayer:  all  this  time  Mary  re- 
peated with  fervour  the  Penitential  psalms 
in  Latin,  and  then,  when  the  dean  became 
silent,  she  prayed  aloud  in  English  for 
the  Church,  her  unworthy  son,  and  Queen 
Elizabeth.  She  then  kissed  the  crucifix  she 
held,  and  exclaimed : 

"  As  thy  arms,  O  Jesus,  were  stretched 
upon  the  cross,  so  receive  me,  O  God,  into 
the  arms  of  mercy." 

'*  Madam,"  said  the  fanatical  Earl  of 
Kent,  reproachfully,  "  you  had  better  put 
such  Popish  trumpery  out  of  your  hand 
and  carry  Christ  in  your  heart." 

Mary  replied:  ^^Ican  hardly  bear  this 
emblem  in  my  hand  without  at  the  same 
time  bearing  Him  in  my  heart." 

Tho  two  executioners  then  came  forward 
and  kneeling  before  the  queen,  prayed  her 
forgiveness.  Her  women  began  to  disrobe 
her,  but  the  executioners,  nervously  hurry- 
ing, stepped  forward  to  pull  off  her  veil 
and  ruff,  and  Mary  said  to  the  earls,  as  if 
apologetically  at  the  delay : 

"  I  am  not  used  to  be  undressed  by  such 
attendants,  or  to  put  off  my  clothes  before 
such  a  company." 

At  this  Httle  playfulness  the  servants 
burst  into  loud  sobs  and  into  tears;  but 
Mary  calmly  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  to 
hush  them,  kissed  them  all  again,  and  bade 
them  pray  for  her.  The  maid  Kennedy 
then  took  a  handkerchief  edged  with  gold 
and  bound  her  eyes.  The  tvto  ^gcvE^  Tasso. 
in  blauck  t\xeTi  \^^  \^t  \*i  ^'e^  >^tfi!^.»  v^s^^ 


"  y» « 


& 


512       [October  30,  1860.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoctedby 


// 


Mary  knelt  on  the  black  cushion,  and  resting 
her  head  calmly  on  the  block,  exclaimed : 

'^  Into  thy  hands,  0  Lord,  I  commend 
my  spirit." 

The  servants  burst  forth  again  with 
groans  and  sobs,  and  the  axe  fell.  Faintly 
and  tremblingly,  however,  the  ruflian  struck, 
for  ho  had  to  give  three  blows  before  ho 
cut  through  the  thin,  white  neck.  Then 
when  the  fair  head  fell  on  the  sounding 
planks,  the  man  raised  it,  and  holding  it  at 
arm's  length,  exclaimed : 

"  God  save  Queen  Elizabeth !" 

The  Earl  of  Kent,  stepping  to  the  head- 
less body  said,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  So  perish 
all  the  enemies  of  the  queen's  gospel .'" 

But  no  one  said  Amen,  to  that  cruel 
wish.  When  the  executioner  raised  the 
body  the  queen's  Httle  pet  dog  was  found 
nestling  under  the  black  gown,  and  after 
being  once  forced  away,  more  flaithfdl  than 
many  a  courtier,  it  went  and  lay  down  sor- 
rowmlly  between  the  head  and  the  body. 
Thus  perished  Mary  after  forty- five  years* 
sorrow  in  this  troublesome  world. 

King  James,  driven  by  mere  filial  de- 
cency, removed  the  body  of  his  mother  from 
Peterborough  choir,  but  not  till  nine  years 
after  his  accession.  The  prophetical  North- 
amptonshire saying  at  the  time  was : 

*^  Stuart  shall  not  prosper,  since  the  dead 
have  been  moved  in  their  grave." 

Mary  now  rests  under  a  rich  canopied 
tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey,  where  her 
fair  cousin,  "  a  little  more  than  Mn,  and 
less  than  kind,"  also  lies.  If  an  impartial 
person  from  this  side  of  the  Tweed,  looks 
at  the  two  faces,  he  will,  the  crow  surmises, 
pronounce  Elizabeth's  the  handsomer,  in 
spite  of  all  the  romance  that  has  accumu- 
lated over  the  grave  of  this  fair  but  false 
Queen  Mary. 

Peterborough  is  proud  of  that  honest, 
staunch  old  divine,  Paloy,  who  was  bom 
there  in  1743,  his  father  being  a  minor  canon 
that  summer  in  residence.  In  person  the 
prebend  of  Carlisle  was  a  shoi*t  podgy  man, 
with  clever  bushy  brows,  a  snub  nose,  and 
projecting  teeth.  He  always  wore  a  white 
wig  and  a  court  coat,  detesting  cassocks, 
which  he  used  to  say  were  just  like  the 
black  aprons  the  master  tailors  wore  at 
Durham.  His  gait  was  awkward,  his 
action  ungraceful,  his  dialect  coarsely  pro- 
vincial ;  but  Ills  arch  smile  was  delightful 
and  redeemed  all.  He  seems  to  have  been 
a  warm-hearted,  kind,  sensible  man,  with 
a  horror  of  professional  humbug  and,  in- 
deed,  of  all  hypocrisy  and  false  pretence. 
Some  of  bia  hearty  common-seiise  Bayin^B 


were  very  happy.  Once,  at  the  Hyson 
Club,  a  Liberal  association,  at  Cambridge, 
ho  had  to  give  his  reasons  for  advocating 
"  braiberv  and  corrooption."  "  Why,"  said 
he,  laugning,  ^*no  one  is  so  mad  as  to 
wish  to  be  governed  by  force,  and  no 
one  is  such  a  fool  as  to  expect  to  be 
governed  by  virtae;  so,  what  remains, 
tell  me,  but  '  braibery  and  coirooption'  ?" 
He  was  on  principle  slow  to  pay  debts. 
"  Never  paay  mooney,"  he  used  to  say, 
'^  till  you  can't  help  it ;  soomethmg  maaij 
happen."  On  the  other  hand,  being  really 
frugal  and  thrifty,  he  always  made  his  wife 
and  dau^ters  pay  ready  money  at  Carlisle. 
"  It's  of  no  use,"  he  used  to  say,  with  a 
pati^at  shrug,  **to  desire  the  women  to 
buy  only  what  they  want;  they  will  al- 
ways imagine  they  want  what  they  wish  to 
buy ;  but  that  paying  ready  nuxmey  is  such 
a  check  upon  their  imagination."  This 
worthy  north- country  divine  used  to  give 
admirable  sketches  of  his  early  life,  when 
he  was  a  poor,  hop^ess,  second  usher  at  a 
Gbeenwioh  school  "  I  flattered  my  imz^ 
gination  when  I  first  went  to  town,"  he 
used  to  say,  *'  with  the  pleasure  of  ^  teach- 
ing the  young  idea  how  to  shoot.'  I  en- 
tered a  very  offensive  room,  and  a  little 
boy  came  up  as  soon  as  I  was  seated,  and 
began:  *B-a-b,  bab,  b-l-e,  ble,  babble.' 
Wanting  a  waistcoat,  I  went  into  a  se- 
cond-hand clothes  shop,  and  it  so  chanced 
I  bought  the  very  identical  garment  Lord 
CUvo  wore  when  he  made  his  triumphal 
entry  into  Calcutta.  I  then  went  to  a 
play,  and  on  coming  out  found  six  simulta- 
neous hands  all  trying  to' pick  my  pockets. 
Whether  they  were  rival  or  conspiring 
hands  I  cannot  say.  They  took  from  me 
a  handkerchief  not  worth  twopence.  I 
felt  qxdte  sorry  for  the  disappointment  of 
the  poor  scoundrels."  Paley  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  angling,  and  made  Bomney 
paint  him  with  a  rod  in  his  hand.  Althou^ 
always  riding  about  his  parishes  in  a  good 
Vicar- of- Wakefield  sort  of  way,  Paley  was 
always  a  slovenly  and  clumsy  rider. 
"  When  I  followed  my  father  on  a  pony, 
on  my  first  journey  to  Cambridge,  he  used 
to  say,  humorously,  *  I  fell  off*  seven  times.' 
Every  time  my  father  heard  a  thump,  he 
would  turn  round,  and  calmly  say,  with  his 
head  half  aside,  '  Take  care  of  tiiy  money, 
lad.'  I  am  so  bad  a  horseman,  indeed," 
he  continued,  "that  if  any  person  at  all 
comes  near  me  when  I  am  riding  I  cer- 
tainly have  a  falL  Company  takes  off  my 
attention,  and  I  have  need  of  all  I  can 
\  QOTSiimaixvii  to  manage  my  horse,  though  it 


4 


ObirlM  DlokBU,] 


AMELIE-LES-BAINS. 


tOetolMrMl.lBef.)       513 


is  the  qnieteet  oMatnre  that  ever  lived ;  »nd 
at  Caruale  nsed  to  ba  often  covered  with 
chUdrec  from  the  ears  to  the  tail."  The 
north- country  clergy  were  in  Paley's  time, 
like  Parson  Adama,  very  poor,  frequently 
being  formers,  sometimcB  being  pablicsins, 
and  very  often  being  Einners.  "I  know  a 
gnnt  many  pariahes,"  Palsy  onoe  said,  "to 
which  I  ooald  talcs  yon,  and  if  the  whole 
popnlation  were  to  pass  in  review  before  yon, 
yon  wonld  not  be  able  to  tell  which  was  the 
parson.  I  know  him  by  certain  signs  that 
I  have  learned  by  long  practice:  ho  ha« 
nsnaUy  a  black  silk  handksi-chief  ronnd  his 
neck,  and  he  is  always  the  greasiest  man  in 
the  parish  except  the  batcher."  Paley  was 
fond  of  good  eating,  and  once  when  asked 
what  he  would  eat,  replied,  "  Eat^  mmlHTn  P 
— eat  everything,  from  the  top  of  the  table 
to  the  bottom."  Another  time  he  declared 
he  should  eat  of  every  coarse,  bat  he  stack 
at  some  irrelevaat  pork  steaks.  "  I  had  in- 
tended," he  KBJd,  regretfully,  "  to  have 
proceeded  regularly  and  systematically 
through  the  ^aa  and  fowl,  to  the  beef,  but 
those  pork  staakes  sta^ered  my  system." 


AM^LIE-LES-BAINS. 

Oke  of  the  latest  claimants  to  be  especially 
selected  as  a  winter  residence  for  invalids  is  a 
village  in  the  Oriental  Pyrenees,  now  a  small 
town,  called  Amilie-leH^Bains.  Dr.  G^uieys, 
the  government  medical  inspector  there,  re- 
ctmuneads  Fan  for  saugitine  nervous  patients, 
predisposed  to  active  fluxions;  Uentone  and 
Villefranche  (Villafranca,  close  to  Nice),  to 
patients  who  require  to  breathe  a  warm  and 
saline  atmocphore  ;  Nice,  Cannes,  Ily^ee,  and 
Montpellier,  to  patients  who  are  able  to  sapport 
without  duiger,  a  sharp  aod  tonic  reaction: 
Am^Ue-les-Bains  to  lymphatic  and  weakened 
patients,  who  want  to  acquire  t4>no  without  ex- 
dtemeut — an  opinion  winch,  if  not  over-intelli- 
gible to  the  laity,  is  at  least  official. 

Of  the  south  of  Europe  an  erroneons  idea  is 
popularly  entertained.  The  absence  or  Ivief  du- 
ration of  frost  andanow  do  not  suffice  to  consti- 


_  are  of  the  north.     Where  rain 

does  not  fall  in  summer,  for  three,  four,  even 
five,  months  to^tiiet,  intolerable  dust  is  the 
result.  Some  tune  in  autimm  there  are  very 
heavy  r^a,  which  last  a  fortnight  or  three 
weeks.  In  winter,  though  the  sky  be  blue  and 
cloudless,  and  the  midday  sunshine  warm  and 
bright,  the  mornings  and  evenings  are  cold  and 
treacherodo.  A  particular  danger  against  which 
strangers  are  urgently  warned,  is  the  cbjil 
which  immediately  foUowa  the  setting  of  the 
nm,  or  his  sudden  eclipse  behind  a  mountain. 
It  is  an  enormous  mistake  to  suppose  that  in 
the  south  of  France  it  is  always  warm. 


Too  hopeful  travellers  should  be  apprised  of 
what  they  have  to  expect.  Even  enthusiastie 
advocates  of  Amilie  a<hnit  that,  in  winter,  there 
is  always  a  fortnight  that  is  hard  to  bear,  in 
consequence  of  fickle,  sharp,  or  rainy  weather. 
This  trying  period  occurs  sometimes  in  Januaiv, 
sometimes  m  February,  sometimes  in  Marui, 
and  even  in  April ;  the  only  thing  certain 
about  it  is,  that  there  is  no  escapingit.  Other- 
wise, the  winter  advantages  offered  ue,  a 
drier  atmosphere,  clear  of  fogs  and  mists, 
fLfteen  or  twenty  degrees  of  Fahrenheit  wanner 
than  in  the  north.  Also  the  possibility  of 
gettiag  out  several  hours  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  five  times  a  week,  when  invahds  at  home 
wonJd  be  obliged  to  keep  indoors  for  weeks 
together, 

rhe  spring  is  less  agreeable  than  the  winter, 
being  subject  to  winds  which,  here,  are  only 
disagreeable  ;  whereas  elsewhere,  asat  Avi^on 
and  throughout  almost  all  Danphiny  and  Pro- 
vence, they  are  marrow-piercing,  insufferable, 
irredatible.  Remember,  too,  that  not  only  is 
firing  dear,  but,  where  English  colonies  have 
not  been  for  some  time  established,  fire-plsces 
are  scanty  and  ineffectual :  the  use  of  fire  neing 
supposed  to  be  to  oock  food,  not  to  warm 
apartments.  There  are  real  grounds  for  the 
knowing  advice  to  apend  summer  in  a  warm, 
and  winter  in  a  cold  climate  ;  because  in  the 
one  you  will  find  old-established  precautions 
against  heat,  and  in  the  other  appliances  to 
keep  out  cold. 

Although  snugly  ensconced  among  the 
hills,  the  summer's  heat  at  Amjlie  ia  only 
oppressive  from  eight  in  the  morning  untU 
noon.  A  sea-breeze  then  seta  in,  coolmg  the 
whole  valley  of  the  Tech  npward,  from  tha 
point  where  it  falls  into  the  Mediterranean, 
which  is  only  nineteen  miles  distant,  as  the  crow 
fliea.  By  climbing  the  heights  at  the  back  of 
the  town,  the  Fort-les-Bains,  or  almost  any 
of  the  neighbouring  mountains,  yon  catch  sight 
of  the  sea  in  the  far  horizon.  Until  the  reign 
of  Louis  PhiUppe  the  place  waa  known  as  Bains- 
sur-Tech.  Whether  for  precision,  or  out  of 
compliment  to  Louis  Philippe's  queen,  it  took, 
and  retains,  the  title  of  Amehe-les-Bains,  or 
sirnple  Am61ie  for  short. 

But  its  great  attraction  and  its  increasing 
prosperity  have  arisen  from  its  being  at  once 
a  wint«F  refuge  and  a  Pyreneean  thermal 
station.  It  is  the  lowest  of  all  those  stations 
in  point  of  altitude,  being  no  more  than  some 
seven  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea  ; 
whereas  its  only  rival  for  a  winter  treatment 
by  the  waters,  Le  Vemet,  stands  at  an  eleva- 
tion of  nearly  two  thousand,  and  amidst  a 
mass  of  mountains  which  must  greatly  lower 
ita  average  temperatnre,  bv  attracting  mists, 
rains,  and  gnsts  of  wind.  Vernet-les-Baina  is 
then^ore  tig  summer  resort  in  the  Oriental 


Pyrenees  for  invahds  and  for  the  multitude 
of  bard-workers  who  need  rest  and  change, 
while  Am£1ie  is  their  nook  for  hybernation. 

Still,  people  can,  and  do,  go  to  I^e  Vemi^ 
in  winter.     A  patrioVvii  AoiAjot,  "Vii^croajvi.  -A 


•4 


& 


514      [<:)ctober  30, 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnctedbj 


very  bad  cold  which  he  had  caught  in  the  Le- 
l>aiion.  The  cure  was  effectual,  and  the  fame  of 
Le  Yomet  eBtabliahed — for  a  time  It  lias  now 
dropped  probably  to  its  just  estimation,  as  a 
very  interesting  (to  tlie  botanist,  geologist, 
and  hill-climber),  pleasant,  and  health-giving 
summer  sojourn.  Other  places  of  outbreak  of 
thermal  springs  are  closed  in  winter,  either 
by  the  invasion  of  snow,  or  the  desertion  of 
fashion.  Bareges,  to  whose  watijrs  great  virtue 
is  attribute<l,  possesses  a  detestable,  almost 
Siberian,  climate.  Even  in  the  height  of  sum- 
mer, the  variations  of  temperature  are  enor- 
mous ;  in  winter,  the  place  is  utterly  deserted, 
and  a  x>art  of  its  only  street  consista  of  wooden 
booths,  taken  down  every  autumn  to  let  the 
avalanches  have  their  owii  wav.  That  Ijit  of 
the  village  was  once  protected  by  a  wood, 
since  cut  down  for  firing.  Iron  stakes  have 
been  planterl  instead  ;  but  they  only  led  to  the 
discovery  that  poles  of  iron  are  not  fir-trees. 

The  writers  ^-isited  Am<51ie  in  Juno,  all  of  us 
requiring  climato  rather  than  waters,  and  know- 
ing that,  if  we  found  it  too  hot  there,  we  could 
easily  shift  to  Lo  Vemet,  or  elsewhere.  But  it 
was  only  pleasantly  warm ;  so  we  made  a  stay. 
(llememlxT  that,  in  the  course  of  last  June, 
a  damp  and  chilly  spell  came,  like  a  wet 
blanket,  over  the  whole  of  Great  Britain, 
France,  and  probably  over  other  parts  of 
Europe.)  From  a  summer  visit  I  infer  its 
winter  climate  on  these  grounds :  The  hedges 
are  gay  with  scarlet  pomegraiuite  blossoms, 
interspersed  here  and  there  with  tufts  of 
American  aloes.  The  rocks,  wherever  water 
trickles  over  them,  are  luxuriantly  festooned 
with  tme  maidens'  hair  fern,  Adiantum  capil- 
lus  Veneris,  and  in  certain  chinks  we  And 
the  foimtain  spleenwort.  That  handsome 
and  curious-tempered  plant,  the  tree  mallow 
(which  follows  the  line  of  coast  from  the 
north  of  Scotland  to  the  south  of  England, 
but  refuses  to  thrive  in  midland  situations), 
puts  forth  here  its  small-leaved  flowering 
branches  (before  flowering,  the  leaves  are 
large),  and  ripens  seed  by  pecksful.  In  the 
garrlens  are  tall  castor-oil  plants,  which  must 
have  passed  the  winter  somewhere ;  and  the 
town,  I  believe,  no  more  possesses  a  green- 
house, than  it  does  (known  to  civilians)  a  map 
of  Europe.  The  eucalyptus,  and  sevend  Aus- 
tralian acacias,  are  trees.  The  small -leaved 
rose,  E.  microphylla,  blooms  abundantly,  as 
do  the  evergreen  Japan  spindle  trees,  euony- 
mufl,  both  plain-leaveil  and  variegated.  The 
olive  climbs  the  sunny  slopes  to  a  considerable 
height  above  the  town  ;  the  vine  (which,  how- 
ever, is  no  test  of  y^inter  climate)  produces 
■^^-ine  a  good  deal  higher.  The  orange-tree, 
not  cultivated  either  for  flowers  to  flavour 
perfumes  and  confectionery,  or  for  fruit  to  con- 
tract your  mouth  like  alum,  still  grows,  as  an 
ornamental  shrub,  in  shelteriwi  nooks,  and  bears 
golden  balls  which  are  real  oranges.  Where 
such  things  are,  the  winter  can  be  neither  very 
severe  nor  very  damp ;  some  of  those  plants 
would  be  frozen,  while  others  would  not.  Yot 
the  rest,  thej  are  not  spoiled  by  oyeT-gaTdemug 


A 


What  will  grow  of  itself,  without  mnch  care,  is 
stuck  in  the  ground,  and  that  is  all.  There  ii  not 
even  a  gardener  in  the  place  who  sells  plimts,  or 
rears  and  propagates  plants  for  sale.  Never- 
theless, there  are  frequent  waterings,  prin- 
cipally by  irrigation,  as  rain  falls  rarely,  and 
then  not  abundantly ;  the  field  crops,  too,  are 
hoed ;  and  the  stony  soil,  in  which  the  vines 
grow,  is  kept  clear  of  weeds. 

Besides  the  many  pretty  shmbs  which,  with 
us,  have  to  pass  the  winter  in  greenhouses, 
the  gardens  display,  grouped  with  arbutuses, 
lH>th  single  and  double-flowered  oleanders.  A 
variety  of  the  latter,  with  single  white  flowers, 
produces  a  charming  effect  in  contrast  with 
the  nink.  The  mountain-sides  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, not  blessed  with  aspects  suitable 
for  vines  and  olives — ^Ireland  is  the  only 
country  in  which  you  can  have  a  garden  witii  a 
soutli  wall  all  the  way  round  it-— ore  principally 
covered  with  chesnut-copses,  which,  when  in 
bloom,  diffuse  a  sickening  odonr.  Every  six 
years  or  so,  they  are  cut  down  to  the  ground 
for  making  the  hoops  which  hold  wine-casks 
together.  Higher  up,  betwixt  boulders,  and 
in  uncultivable  spots,  grows  the  tall  Medi- 
terranean heath,  whose  stumpy  roots  are 
grubbed  up,  to  be  carved  into  pipes  now  in 
fashion.  While  we  poked  along  the  mnls-paths 
for  unaccustomed  plants  and  flowers,  there 
came  upon  us,  noiselessly,  three  men  with  san- 
dalled feet,  naked  legs,  crimson-sashed  waists, 
and  red  cloth  caps  hanging  over  on  one  side, 
surmounted  each  with  a  sackful  of  heath- 
roots,  for  the  use  of  native  ariista  or  for  ex- 
portation. After  an  interral,  followed  three 
Catalan  mules,  Indlin^  their  hind  feet  down 
the  steep  descent,  beanng  tknr  burden-- char- 
coal, burnt  aloft,  for  the  use  of  oooks  and 
blacksmiths. 

But  besides  t^e  climate,  and  the  pnfomed 
strawberries,  and  the  little  St.  John's  apricote, 
and  the  early  French  beans,  we  also  came  in 
quest  of  the  waters,  to  coax  back,  to  one  of 
us,  a  missing  voice,  and  to  frighten  away  from 
another  happily-absent  rheumatism  and  gout ; 
for  we  had  already  found  FVre&eean  springs 
not  only  a  remedy  but  a  propoylactie.  Now  I 
have  a  theory  of  my  own  about  l^eae  thenntl 
waters,  which  the  reader  may  deride  and  de- 
molish, if  he  wilL 

Not  long  ago,  heat  was  calorie,  a  sbnple 
fluid,  and  nothing  more.  A  ray  of  smisfaiDe, 
too,  was  a  ray  of  sunshine,  and  nothing  mote, 
until  Newton  dissected  it.  Since  then,  we  have 
discovered  that  there  are  invisible  rays  beyond 
those  which  his  prismatio  spectrum  shows  us. 
Moreover,  we  find  that  the  dissected  rays  m 
his  spectrum  are  endowed  with  different  quali- 
ties; there  are  rays  which  induce  chemieal 
action,  rays  which  convey  heat,  rays  which  ex- 
cite seeds  and  plants  to  germinate  and  sprout. 
It  would  be  great  presumption  in  any  one  to 
say  that  we  are  at  present  cognisant  of  all  the 
qualities  of  all  the  rays,  seen  and  imseen,  which 
radiate  from  the  sun.  They  doubtless  exert  in- 
fLw^xkces  which  we  are  as  yet,  and  may  perhaps 
T(^Tc^\ii^  \ai<ei^:^<(^  \.q  \;nfi.^.    The  same  of  heat, 


4 


:^ 


&. 


Charles  DIckena.] 


AMELIE-LES-BAINS. 


[October  80, 1809.]     515 


now  that  we  can  scarcely  doubt  that  heat, 
instead  of  being  a  fluid,  is  a  motion  ;  now  that 
we  leam,  from  the  monogenesis  and  converti- 
bility of  physical  forces — excuse  the  hard  words, 
but  I  know  of  none  clearer — that  heat  may 
become  light,  magnetism,  and  the  rest;  and 
vice  Ter8&,  that  each  is  convertible  into  the 
other ;  it  may  be  assumed  that  the  heat  of  or- 
dinary life,  with  which  we  are  familiar,  is  also 
possessed  of  unknown  influences. 

Those  influences,  however,  both  known  and 
unknown,  are  limited ;  they  have  the  qualities 
which  naturally  belong  to  them,  and  no  more. 
But  the  heat  which  we  meet  with,  in  the  course 
of  our  daily  life,  is  all  derived,  directly  or  in- 
directly, from  the  sun.  A  coal  Are  is  the  sun's 
rays  stored  in  fossil  vegetables ;  a  peat,  wood, 
or  charcoal  fire,  is  the  same  fixed  by  plants  of 
more  recent  date.  They  are  all  the  products 
of  the  sun ;  and  what  that  great  luminary  has 
not  shot  into  them,  they  cannot  give  out. 

Now,  assuming  the  theory  at  the  central 
heat,  and  that  the  earth  on  which  we  walk  is 
only  a  sort  of  egg-shell,  enclosing  a  mass  of 
molten,  semi-liquid,  and  liquid  materials ;  as- 
suming La  Place's  theory  of  the  nebular  origin 
of  the  Solar  system :  that  the  planets,  includ- 
ing the  earth,  result  from  zones  successively 
thrown  off,  condensing  first  into  little  suns, 
and  then  cooling  into  planets,  while  the  great 
big  central  lump  of  the  sun,  after  gathering 
himself  together,  remains  what  he  is :  assum- 
ing this,  we  may  farther  speculate  that  the 
outer  zones  of  the  nebula  aid  not  consist  of 
exactly  the  same  materials  as  the  central  mass. 
There  are  diversities  in  the  constitution  of  the 
fixed  stars,  diversities  in  the  constitution  of  the 
planets  of  our  system,  and  doubtless  diversities 
m  the  oonstitulion  of  the  earth  and  the  sun. 
Consequently,  earth-heat  is  probably  endowed 
with  different  properties  from  sun-heat. 

The  properties  of  earth-heat,  genuine  and 
unadulterated,  as  it  was  when  originally  de- 
tached from  the  grand  solar  nebula,  are  most 
easily  obtainable  by  the  use  of  thermal  waters, 
i.e.,  the  mineral  waters  which  have  issued  Aot 
from  the  earth,  from  time  immemorial.  No 
region  of  the  civilised  world  is  richer  in  these 
than  the  Pyreneean  chain.  There  are  mineral 
waters  which  are  not  thermal,  and  are  there- 
fore not  gifted  with  the  mysterious,  unspecified, 
and,  if  you  will,  supposed,  properties  of  earth- 
heat.  Sea- water  is  true  mineral  water :  especially 
that  of  the  Mediterranean  and  other  nighly- 
aalted  and  extra-bitter  seas.  Heat  those  waters, 
and  you  get  hot  mineral  waters ;  but,  I  hold, 
that  you  do  not  get  true  thermal  waters ;  be- 
cause they  are  heated  by  fire,  which  is  the  same 
as  sun-heat,  instead  of  by  true  unsophisticated 
earth-heat.  Note  that  there  is  a  minor  sort  of 
earth-heat,  known  to  horticulturists  as  geo- 
thermal  heat,  which  preserves  plunged  plants 
and  sunk  greenhouses  from  suffering  from 
severe  cold  in  winter.  This,  if  partly  derived 
from  true  earth-heat,  is  probably  mainly  de- 
rived from  an  equilibrium  in  the  distribution 
of  the  heat  conveyed  to  the  earth's  surface 
by  the  rays  of  the  sun. 


"When  you  have  destroyed  my  notions  about 
the  difference  in  the  qualities  of  true  earth - 
heat  and  of  sun-heat,  there  remain  the  facts, 
that  thermal  waters  are  very  curious  things  to 
have  dealings  with  ;  that  they  are  dangerous 
to  tamper  with,  and  that  it  is  practical  folly  to 
play  witli  them.  It  may  be  said  that  medical 
men  insist  on  this  from  motives  of  interest, 
and  so  frighten  patients  into  payment  of  fees. 
It  may  be  so,  in  certain  instances.  But  me- 
dical men  of  the  highest  honour  give  the  very 
same  warning,  which  is  supported  by  the  ge- 
neral tradition  and  belief  of  tne  country.  £a.d 
be  it  remembered  that  the  Pyreneean  chain  is 
not  a  mere  spot,  nor  inhabited  by  a  single  race 
of  men. 

Visitors  to  the  Pyrenees  have  often  remarked 
that,  while  among  them,  they  experience  a 
sort  of  electrical  influence,  especially  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  thermal  springs.  I  have 
felt  this  myself.  It  is  like  the  presentiment 
of  a  thunderstorm :  which,  however,  does  not 
come.  Here,  hot  water  breaks  forth  at  many 
points.  It  is  people's  own  fault  if  they  are 
not  dean.  A  fountain  in  the  street,  hard  by, 
has  two  jets,  one  hot,  the  other  cold.  When 
we  want  warm  water  to  wash  with,  we  have  it 
fetched,  not  from  the  kitchen,  but  from  a 
spring  steaming  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
These  springs,  running  incessantly  and  abun- 
dantly, cannot  be  without  effect. 

Amdlie  -  les  -  Bains  has  become  what  it  is 
entirely  through  the  exertions  of  one  Dr. 
Pujade,  now  eighty-five  years  of  age,  and  in 
good  health.  Tlie  earth  gave  him  the  springs 
and  the  situation  ;  he  did  the  rest.  Once,  when 
an  inhabitant  of  Bains-sur-Tech  caught  a  five- 
fianc  piece,  he  crossed  himself,  knowing  it 
would  be  long  before  he  saw  another.  Now, 
thanks  to  the  doctor's  Thermes—a  boarding- 
house  and  thermal  establishment  combined — 
strangers  have  made  money  more  plentiful. 
Houses,  chalets,  and  ch&teaux,  are  building  in 
all  directions;  for  ourselves,  we  have  only 
to  breathe,  bathe,  and  bask.  There  are 
plenty  of  lodgings  to  let;  but  we  favoured 
the  venerable  doctor  with  our  patronage,  not 
to  mention  the  convenience  (thermal  sources 
being  under  the  same  roof)  of  going  to  our 
bath  or  douche  in  our  dressing-gown  and 
slippers.  There  is  also  a  pulverisation  of  the 
water  by  a  curious  mechanical  process,  for 
inhalation  by  weak  larynxes,  and  a  *'  piscine," 
or  hot  swimming-bath,  partly  hollowed  out  in 
the  native  rook,  which  can  be  emptied  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  refilled  in  a  couple  of  hours. 
The  temperature  of  this,  and  the  vapours  from 
it,  make  it  a  perfect  sudatorium  or  perspir- 
ing hall.  The  establishment  is  perched  at 
the  mouth  of  a  gorge,  opening  into  a  sort 
of  Happy  Valley  on  a  largish  scale,  and 
with  the  possibility  of  escaping  from  it.  On 
the  heights  overhead  hang  mighty  lumps  of 
stone.  liomantic  walks  among  the  rocks  are 
traced  around  it,  greatly  exciting  the  hopes 
of  fern-hunters.  There  are  pleat^  <aS.  ^^- 
turesquc  «\\ady  «X\.cy^\  wcA.  cs>xt  'Oc^^  ^cv»^^  ^^ 


\ 


«5: 


516      [October  30, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condaeted  by 


liuninous,  chequered  shade,  which  Milton 
thought  the  fit  dancing-place  for  ^'  many  a 
maid" — ^the  shade  of  plane  and  pomegranate 
trees,  of  althaeas,  and  ilexes.  The  first  morn- 
ing, on  stepping  out  of  doors  before  breakfast, 
-we  laid  hands  on  the  black  spleen-wort  and 
other  old  friends,  in  quantity,  some,  as  the 
vulgar  polypody,  a  little  shrivelled  with  the 
drought  and  the  heat ;  but  we  fear  that,  for 
greater  varieties,  we  shall  have  to  climb.  So 
be  it.    If  we  must,  we  must. 

For  six  francs  (say  five  shillings)  per  head, 
per  day,  we  have  comfortably  furnished  bed- 
rooms, commanding  a  charming  view,  and  two 
meals :  a  knife-and-fork  breakfast  at  half -past 
ten,  and  dinner  at  half-past  five — of  course  at 
the  table  d'hote. 

We  leafl  a  sort  of  French  country-house  life, 
without  the  trouble  of  housekeeping:  every 
one  doing  much  as  he  lists ;  the  main  duty 
is  punctuality  at  meal  times,  the  infringement 
of  which  brings  with  it  itfi  own  punishment. 
Meals,  however,  are  obligingly  served  at  other 
than  meal  times,  when  occasion  really  calls  for 
them.  Thermal  appliances  are  entirely  left  to 
private  discretion  or  medical  advice.  For  those 
who  inhabit  the  actual  building  in  which  the 
baths,  &c.,  are  situated,  we  are  told  that  the  at- 
mosphere is  so  highly  charged  with  emanations 
from  the  springs,  that  a  mere  residence  therein 
is  often  remedml  -without  absorbing  the  waters 
themselves  in  any  shape.  In  all  cases,  as  we 
have  stated,  it  is  wise  to  employ  them  with 
great  caution  when  not  under  medical  super- 
vision, and  even  with  it.  Some  complain  of 
the  number  of  invalids  met  in  their  daily  walks 
and  f requentations.  The  sight,  if  painful,  is  a 
wholesome  reminder  which  ought  to  convey  its 
lessons  of  moderation  and  charity.  Besides, 
has  nobody  a  right  to  be  ill  besides  ourselves 
and  oursP  The  same  spectacle,  on  a  larger 
scale,  is  to  be  seen  at  all  resorts  of  sickly  con- 
stitutions— at  Hyeres,  Cannes,  Nice,  and  Men- 
tone.  The  same  markets  attract  the  same  cus- 
tomers. No  lunch  or  supper  are  given,  nor  are 
they  needed  for  the  strong ;  the  weak  can  ask 
for  ante-prandial  sustenance,  interpreted  to 
mean  cups  of  broth  or  consommd.  The  ge- 
neral beverage,  the  wine  grown  on  the  hills 
around,  is  wholesome  but  heady.  Beer  is  to 
be  had  at  the  caf^s,  where  wine  is  "  low;"  the 
strong  sweet  wines  of  Koussillon  are  procurable 
at  the  wine  shops,  principally  frequented  by 
working  people  and  private  soldiers.  Bowls  of 
morning  milk,  wines  in  bottle,  liqueurs,  bottled 
mineral  waters  from  distant  springs,  baths, 
douches,  pulverisations,  &c.,  are  extras  at  the 
establishment. 

On  our  way  to  Am61ie  the  imposing  mass  of 
the  famous  Canigou  rose  before  us.    There 
were  still  patches  of  snow  clinging  to  its  sum- 
mit, which  was  capped  by  a  substantial  bonnet 
of  clouds.     (The  hne  of  persistent  snow,  please 
recollect,  is  considerably  higher  at  the  Pyrenees 
than  amongst  the  Alps.)    We  are  told  that  its 
ascent  is  not  diificult,  being  frequently  accom- 
plished  by  ladies,  who  can  ride  on  mulca  to 
within  tiirec-quarters  of  an  hour  oi  tYic  top. 


Perhaps  we  shall  one  day  make  the  attempt, 
after  looking  at  it  twice.  Oh,  if  I  only  had  my 
legs  of  thirty,  nay,  twenty  years  ago!  But 
courage ;  they  still  are  serviceable.  And  per- 
haps, here,  the  Waters  of  Youth  will  do  what 
they  have  never  done  before— arrest  the  course 
of  time,  and  annihilate  the  effecta  of  wear  and 
tear.  And  tlius  it  is ;  elderlies  strive  not  to  grow 
older,  while  young  people  cannot  conceive  that 
they  shall  ever  be  old.  Age  and  infirmity  seem 
wrongs  inflicted  upon  us ;  when  they  come,  we 
look  upon  ourselves  as  injured  males  and 
females ;  it  is  shameful  treatment  on  the  part 
of  nature.  Paralytic  patients  indignantly  quit 
Am^lie-les-Bains,  because  they  are  not  com- 
pletely cured  in  a  fortnight.  Fortonately  for 
those  tormented  by  vain  regrets,  in  consequence 
of  the  Thermes  being  situated  in  a  hollow,  the 
Canigou  is  not  visible  f  rran  their  windows,  to 
tease  them  by  whispering,  **  Mount  me,  if  you 
can."  But  a  little  easy  climbing  allows  us  to 
catch  sight  of  its  majestic  mass  in  one  direction, 
and  in  the  other  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Once  upon  a  time  people  would  cut  their 
hair  and  nails  only  on  Incl^  days.  I  fell  upon 
an  unlucky  day  for  getting  mine  cot  at  Am^. 
Perceiving  a  coiffewr's  imop,  up  to  the  Paris 
mark,  if  not  superior,  I  lifted  the  curtain 
which  served  for  door,  and  humbly  asked, 
"  Can  I  have  my  hair  cut?" 

**  No,"  said  the  operating  gar^n :  a  mature 
and  frizzled  artist,  hard  at  wo»  on  a  aolid  bust, 
classicaUy  draped  with  a  coiow-white  toga. 

*'  In  a  minute,"  said  the  master,  apologeti- 
cally ;  **  that  is,  in  several  minutes." 

No  other  hair-profeisor^s  sanctuary  being  in 
view,  and  not  knowing  where  to  find  another, 
I  took  several  turns  of  inspection  about  the 
spot— like  a  stage  singer  during  the  prelude  to 
his  song — and  again  lifted  the  curtain  of  con- 
cealment. The  garpon,  still  absorbed  in  his 
task,  took  no  notice  of  the  additional  light 
jtdmitted.  The  master,  es^resaing  by  a  look, 
^^  What  would  you  have  ?  Phidias  dUdn't  make 
a  statue  in  an  hour,"  again  said  aloud, «'  In  a 
minute ;  in  several  minutes." 

So  I  betook  myself  to  the  admirable  foot- 
bridge which  spans  the  torrent  of  the  Mondony, 
conducting  you  to  the  Military  Efitablishment; 
for  hither  France  sends  her  ailing  aoMiers  and 
sailors,  officers  and  men,  to  be  Inzuriously 
tended  at  the  expense  of  the  state,  allowing 
them  a  season  of  two  months  each.  It  is  the 
largest  andpleasantest  place  of  the  kind  in  the 
country.  Thence  I  saw  the  white  nightcaps 
peeping  out  of  infirmary  windows ;  I  gaied  at 
the  oleanders  flowering  in  the  hollow  beneath 
me,  the  pomegranates  idem,  and  the  beds  of 
plants  which  by-and-by  will  produce  purple 
aubergines.  1  wondered  when  the  little  green 
figs,  clustering  on  the  branches,  would  be 
ripe ;  how  much  per  bushel  grapes  fetched  in 
the  season ;  and  how  the  nightingales  hereabouts 
managed  to  escape  the  vol-au-vent  and  the 
spit.  I  patted  the  cheek  of  the  pretty  little 
girl  with  naked  feet,  and  head  and  shoulders 
.  wsvothered  in  wraps,  and  I  wouldn't  give  any- 
\  \]i[mi^  \A  \}ti<^  \ito^\i-i%j;:fid  beggar-man  in  em- 


Chide. weiMiu-i  A  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS  CONVENTION.         [0<;io>«rM.iae9.i     517 


broidcred  Ukndala  and  acarlct  bonnet.  At  the 
end  of  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  I  returned  to 
the  cnrtAin.  In  a  clear-obscure .  eat  the  portly 
bust,  Btill  unfioished ;  m  yet  it  bod  trndergone 
only  preliminftriee,  for  the  artist  non  produced 
his  cnriing-ironB.  This  drove  me  to  deapera. 
tion.  In  Miother  hftlf-honr  the  breakf&st  bell 
ironld  Bonnd. 

Bushing  down  the  street,  I  perceiTed,  haug- 
ng  OTer  a  door,  a  miniature  brass  imitation 
of  the  traditionat  barbers'  basin.  I  entered. 
There  sat  within,  patiently  reading  a  newa- 
p«per,  a  gentleman  "  of  oraers  grey,"  with  a 
three  days'  beard.  No  ahaTer  was  TiaibU ;  but 
a  female  orereeer,  in  a  psssage,  was  seated 
a  money-taking  chair  of  inspection. 

"  Moniieur  IS  wuting  his  turn?"  lasked. 

"  YeH,"  replied  the  three-days'  beard,  in  . 
tone  which  implied  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
giving  op  his  turn. 

"  Tontal'heure;  before  long,"  said  the  in- 
spectress.  But  as  "  tont  a  rhenre"  might  com- 
promise breakfast  and  bring  down  cold  victuAla 
on  my  head,  I  left  the  gentleman  in  grey  to 
enjoy  his  journal  alone. 

On,  on ;  still  down  the  street,  casting  right 
and  left  looks  of  wild  inquiry.  At  the  comer 
of  a  house,  another  brass  basiu.  A  port  of 
refuge  most  be  near.  Verily,  hard  by  were 
fly  -  spotted  window  -  panes,  guarding  dusty 
bottles  of  antiquated  p^fumes. 

The  master  of  the  magazine  was  alone  and 
languid;  but  he  said  he  ooold,  and  would,  re- 
lieve me  of  my  snpcrabundaat  loclcs.  After 
seating  me  In  front  of  a  grey-freckled  looking- 
glass,  he  confined  me  in  a  long-sleeved  cotton 
straight- jacket.  A  pin  stuck  in  at  the  throat  with 
clammy  Ungen  put  me  entirely  at  his  mercy. 

"  Sune  style  ?"  he  inquired,  in  feeble  ac- 

"  Yea ;  only  shorter." 

"  Afraid  of  the  heat.  Been  long  at  Am£lie? 
Yon  enntue  yourself  here  ?" 

"  No ;  I  eant  exactly  say  that  I  do." 

"  /  do.  This  is  only  the  petit«  saison,  the 
dull  months,  the  tnnie  when  there's  nobody, 
except  a  few  consomptire  and  scrofulous  bour- 
gecis  uid  people  who  can  only  get  away  from 
their  shops  for  a  fortnight.  Winter  is  the  time 
for  folks  comme  i1  faut.  Fleaty  of  soirees,  which 
give  me  a  good  many  coups  de  peigne,  comb- 
strokes.  I  have  more  ladies  than  I  can  attend 
to ;  they  Wiut  for  me.  My  garqon,  just  now,  is 
ill  at  Le  Temei  I  shall  go  there  to-night,  to 
fetch  him,  or  another,  u  I  don't  find  one,  I 
shall  shut  up  the  bouse,  and  retire  for  the  pre- 
sent to  my  property  at  BanynU.  You  will 
have  your  head  cleared  with  extract  of  rum?" 
(announced  amongst  the  fly  spots  on  the  glass 
oppooitti  as  twenty  centimes  additional). 

"  No,  thank  you;  the  bath  clears  it  quite 
enough." 

"  As  yon  will.  You  did  well  to  come  to-day. 
To-morrow  I  shall  he  absent  at  my  pro- 
perty." 

Aft«r  breakfaat,  on  a  map  of  the  Pyrfnces 
Orientales,  I  found  it  written:  "The  inbabi- 
tantfl  are  at  once  sober  and  prodigal,  indolent 


and  impetuous,   irascible  and  frank,  lore   in- 
dependence, and  have  a  high  opinion  of  them- 


IN  THE  FALL. 

Ttrs  old  aulumml  slillneia  hoHi  the  wood, 

Tbin  milt  of  nutuma  makei  the  inj  a  dream ; 
And  eoiintrj  80uod»  fall  faint,  half  underttood 

And  half^anhwdcd,  aa  to  lick  meo  •cem 
^0  Toicoa  of  their  frienda  when  daath  ia  near, 

And  faith  growl  nguei  to  this  tired  ear. 
At  *an  erer  dainu  and  aoftar  tneniog  enda 

Tha  Jr  is  echolaa  and  diill  with  dewi; 
And  loBTci  hang  Itmse,  and  whoaocvar  wind) 

And  alien  tinta ;  and  oft  with  hollon  Mund 

Tha  ohaanut  buak  falla  rattling  to  the  grouod, 
Nov  comea  the  faint  warm  anult  of  freah-built  rid 

And  emptr  Gelda  look  up  at  emptv  akici, 
And  imokfl  noata  lidelong  from  the  burning  quick 

And  low  acrou  the  atunted  atubble  fliei 
The  whirring  cowy,  till  iti  wingi  have  grown 

A  murmur — then,  a  memory  lions. 
Now,  haply  on  loaB  lualeu  aftrmoou 

When  brooding  windi  arc  whiip'ring  to  the  leat 
Shrill  twitter'd  half-notM  fill  the  air,  and  soon 


Aad  itiugbt  fly  louth,  by  ui 
A  Mifaio  aadnoai  daimi  theie  autumn  dayi — 

A  ladnon  iwaeter  to  tbe  poet'i  heart 
Thaa  all  tbe  full-fed  joji  and  IsTiah  raja 

Of  riper  luni :  old  woutidi,  old  -Koct,  depart ; 
Ufe  calli  a  trace,  and  nature  leemi  to  keep 

Henelf  a  hnih  to  watch  the  worid  aeletp. 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS  CONTENTION. 

I  wAa  BOJonrBing,  not  very  long  ago,  at 
OQe  of  those  flnnny,  sparkling  smnincr 
resorts,  of  wLich  there  aro  so  many  on  the 
New  England  coast.  Politics  and  the 
rightB  and  wrongs  in  the  world  were  quite 
forgotten  in  ibis  enchanting  gea-side  nook ; 
all  was  Arcadian  in  its  indolence  and  plea- 
sure. Bat  one  morning  a  strange  rumonr 
circnlated  throngli  the  great  hotel,  and 
spread  among  the  fashionable,  amuBemont- 
Boeking  colony :  and  the  mmour  soon  re- 
ceived confirmation  in  print.  Placards 
appeared  at  the  street  comers :  a  large- 
typed  advertisement  glared  from  the  front 
page  of  the  little  paper  which  the  guesta 
enjoyed  every  morning  with  their  hot  rolls 
and  cofTee.  There  was  a  new  sen^tion. 
The  sojonmers  at  Highport  were  informed 
that "  a  Convention  to  consider  the  Political 
and  Social  Rights  of  Woman,  and  to  adopt 
measures  to  eecnre  for  the  Downtrodden 
Sei  the  Right  of  Snfi'rage,  vrould  assemble 
at  Pilgrim  Hall,  on  Tharsday,  tbo  20th 
instant.  Distinguished  speakers  would  ad- 
dress tho  Convention,  among  tlicra  Reve- 
rend Selina  Sharpe,  Professor  Maria  Stock- 
TTcll,  Isaac  Oddy  tho  PKUobo-^'cot-,  w^i.  \\ 
Mark  Antonj 'Biftse,  *0t«>  fe-tMsiia  ^i^usss'A-  N^ 


<^: 


518       [October  30, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAH  ROUND. 


[Condoeted  by 


Orator.  All  were  invited  to  attend — es- 
pecially the  fashionable  ladies." 

The  "  fasliionable  ladies  " — whicli  was, 
indeed,  a  shrewd  way  of  pntting  it,  for 
what  lady  in  Highport  did  not  imagine 
herself  included  ?  —  were,  perhaps,  not 
loath  to  have  a  little  change ;  for  flirting, 
sea-bathing,  and  the  pleasure  of  making 
one's  toilet  fonr  times  a  day,  do  get  a 
little  monotonous  after  a  while.  Curiosity 
was  a- tiptoe  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  some 
"  real  strong-minded  women." 

It  is  withm  a  day  or  two  of  the  assem- 
bling of  the  **  Convention,"  and  the  signs 
of  the  approaching  invasion  begin  to  mul- 
tiply. The  landlord  of  the  Beach  House 
has  orders  to  retain  some  thirty  rooms  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  **  leaders"  of  the 
movement.  The  feshionable  ladies  have 
been  deluged  with  sundry  neat  little  tracts 
full  of  capital  letters  and  italics,  urging 
them  to  rouse  themselves  from  the  torpor 
of  their  servitude,  to  come  to  the  conven- 
tion, and  to  declare  their  independence 
of  the  tyrant  man  for  now  and  always. 
Certain  hirsute,  shabby,  slouoh-hatted  in- 
dividuals suddenly  appear  in  the  streets, 
keen-eyed,  observant  of  everything  about 
them,  and  with  long  note-books,  in  which 
they  make  a  jotting  now  and  then ;  gen- 
tlemen of  the  press  these,  from  New  York 
and  Boston,  promptly  arrived  to  detail  the 
events  of  the  convention  from  beginning  to 
end.  The  gay  visitors  are  fain  to  keep  a 
close  watch  on  the  steamboats  as  they 
arrive,  morning  and  evening,  curious  to 
catch  sight  of  one  of  those  wonderful 
beings,  a  woman's  rights  woman.  At  last 
the  public  anxiety  is  satisfied;  for,  the 
evening  before  the  appointed  day,  as  the 
crowd  of  richly- dressed  visitors  is  chirping 
and  buzzing  on  the  pretty  pier,  out  steps, 
from  the  just  -  harboured  steamboat,  a 
ponderous  lady  of  confident  countenance, 
with  a  halo  of  silver-grey  curls  popping  up 
and  down  around  her  ruddy,  determined 
face,  as  if  they  were  so  many  wire  springs, 
and  marches  up  to  a  cab  with  all  the 
dignity  of  matronly  middle  age  and  her 
mission  resting  on  h^.  A  thin,  solemn- 
looking  man  in  black  broadcloth  and 
gloves;  and  a  very  sprucely-dressed  co- 
loured gentleman  whose  face  wears  a  con- 
tinual expression  of  protest  that  he  should 
be  regarded  as  a  curiosity,  attend  her  on 
either  side.  It  is  the  famous  president  of  the 
Woman's  Rights  Society,  Reverend  Selina 
Sharpe,  pastor  of  the  Independent  Church 
at  Cranberry  Centre;  the  solemn-looking 
man  is  known,  not  as  Mr.  Sharpe,  "but  aa 
Reverend    Mrs.    Sharpens  liuaband  — Idlot 


lesser  half;  the  coloured  gentleman,  it  is 
whispered,  is  Mark  Antony  Higgs,  who 
refused  the  embassy  to  San  Domingo,  and 
is  a  redoubtable  ohampion  of  woman's 
rights.  At  the  hotel,  the  reverend  ladv 
and  her  companions  are  gaxed.  at  with 
curiosity  and  much  whispering,  as  she 
enters  the  dining-room,  or  is  seen  ascend- 
ing and  descending  the  broad  staircase. 
Hor  arrival  heralds  that  of  the  various 
multitude  of  her  disciples.  Ladies  in  spec- 
tacles ;  long-haired  radicalfl  with  very  wide 
collars  and  very  slouchy  coats  and  trou- 
bright  little    richly-dressed  women 


sers 


with  snapping  eyes  and  short  ringlets; 
Arab-like  philosophers  with  big  for^ieads 
and  long  flowing  oriental  beuds;  smart 
young  miracles  of  editors  with  a  very 
mdepondent  look  and  gait,  who  are  going 
to  say  very  startling  tlnkigs  in  a  oool 
way  when  they  get  upon  tiie  stagpe  to- 
morrow— these  b^;in  to  promeamde  the 
streets  and  beach,  oddly  mingHng^  with 
the  fashionable  folk,  and  intent  upon  the 
business  for  which  they  have  arrived  at 
Highport.  There  are,  indeed,  many  human 
oddities  and  ecoentncitiefl  among  them, 
male  and  female;  there  are  cunons  &ceA 
and  curious  dresses;  but  do  not  imagine 
that  all  the  woman's  rights  people  are  to  be 
laughed  or  sneered  at.  Among  them  yon 
will  not  fail  to  notice  many  vivacious, 
fashionably  -  attired,  conscioualy  -  pretty 
yoimg  ladies,  who,  with  all  their  "  strong- 
mindedness,"  are  not  indifferent  to  the 
admiring  glances  of  the  sea-side  beaux,  nor 
painfully  oblivious  of  their  toilet  and  the 
disposition  of  theirtresses.  Among  them, 
too,  are  many  fine-looking  men,  with  no 
marked  oddnesa  of  dress  or  demeajiour; 
men  well  known  in  the  nation  for  their 
talents  and  eameatneBS,  who  redeem  the 
cause  frnm  that  snspkum  of  fimfitioism  and 
crasiness  which  its-  moTB  eccsontrio  adro- 
cates  oast  upon  it. 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  on 
which  the  convention  is  annoimced  to 
meet,  the  little  town  is  all  astir  with  the 
zealous  actors  in  the  scene  about  to  ensue, 
and  the  gaily  -  dressed,  audience  to-be 
is  a-tiptoe  with  expectation.  The  neat^ 
graceful  little  hall,  which  has  served  these 
many  weeks  for  &shionable  concerts,  pic- 
turesque lecturers  and  deft  conjurors,  is 
open,  and  free  to  all  to  enter.  Soon  the  hall 
is  well  filled:  the  audience  begins  to  manifest 
its  impatience  at  the  sight  of  the  vacant  stage 
by  a  well-bred  clapping  of  hands ;  whereon 
two  cadaverous  reporters  emerge  timidly 
^TQ.  \)^ldTid  the   scenes,  and   surrey  the 


^ 


:& 


Clur]«BDiek«nB.] 


A  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS  CONVENTION.       [October  sMsea.]     519 


pears  a  sober,  melancholy  man,  coat  but- 
toned up  to  the  chin,  who  walks  sadly 
across  the  stage,  sits  down  suddenly  with 
his  hat  between  his  knees,  and  ^azes  in- 
tently on  the  ceiling.  A  jovial  chnckling 
man  follows  him,  plnmps  down  near  him, 
and  chnckles  on  with  his  nmbrella  in  one 
hand  and  his  whiskers  in  the  other.  Then 
comes  the  principal  piece  of  metaphorical 
pyrotechnics  of  the  occasion :  for  in  sweeps 
Beverend  Selina  Sharpe,  stately  and  spec- 
tacled, in  black  silk  with  lace  fixings, 
followed  by  a  dazzling  bevy  of  disciples, 
the  majority  of  whom  are  surprisingly 
young,  sparkling,  and  pretty.  Here  is  a 
bright^  vivacious  blonde,  with  gi*eat  blue 
eyes,  an  irresistible  advocate,  what  with 
her  smiles  and  glances  ;  there  a  noted 
sculptress,  tall  and  gp:*aceful,  artistic  in 
movement  as  in  genius  ;  there  again  a 
gentle,  slender,  spirituelle  lady,  with  soft 
curls  and  kindly  brown  eyes,  a  poetess  just 
getting  to  be  talked  about ;  stiU  again,  a 
Grecian  head,  a  young  face  festooned  with 
silvery  white  hair,  a  quiet,  earnest  woman's 
rights  woman  of  the  most  genial  and  per- 
suasive sort.  A  most  dangerous  galaxy,  the 
keen-eyed  man  of  society  thinks;  and 
Mater&milia^  despite  her  sneering,  is  wy 
prone  to  faar  so  too.  It  was  all  well  enough, 
thought  our  &shionable  friends,  to  go  and 
laugh,  as  we  did,  at  the  Bloomers  and  the 
straight- waisted  old  maids,  the  venerable 
women  in  spectacles,  and  the  sharp-featured 
myen  with  long  hair  and  broad  oollaxs ;  but 
it  was  really  too  bad  to  see  ladies,  pretty 
ones  too,  decked  in  the  latest  fashions, 
and  with  quite  the  manners  of  the  haut 
monde,  lending  their  countenance  to  this 
ridiculous  movement  I  The  impatienoe  of  the 
andienoe  soon  produces  its  eueat ;  and  now 
the  ailenoe  which  is  the  premonition  of 
what  is  about  to  begin,  the  silence  as  the 
theatre  curtain  rises,  fiJls  upon  the  assembly 
as  a  starch  lady  advances  and  moves  that 
'*  the  Reverend  belina  Sharpe  be  invited  to 
take  the  chair."  The  solemn  man  imme- 
diately pops  up,  solemnly  offers  the  g^tle 
chairwoman  his  hand,  and  with  a  &yoe  whose 
solemnity  seemed  stereotyped,  conducted 
her  to  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  plat- 
form. 

Breathless  interest,  both  in  the  disciples 
on  the  platform,  and  the  scoffers  in  the 
audience,  hangs  upon  tho  lips  of  the  re- 
verend la^  as,  with  a  cool  and  dehbcrate 
survey  of  the  assemblage,  she  clears  her 
throat  to  speak.  She  plunges  in  medias  res 
without  ado.  She  sends  a  thrill  through 
Uie  hearts  of  her  followers  by  declaring  at 
once  that  woman  suffrage  ia  the  greatest 


question  of  tiie  age.  "  We  are  about  to 
te.ke,"  said  she,  involuntarily  glancing  at 
the  space  between  her  and  the  footlights, 
as  if  about  to  suit  action  to  the  word,  "  the 
greatest  step  in  civilisation.  Women  are 
everywhere  waking  up,'*  she  continued, 
looking  round  the  stage  as  if  to  see  if  any 
disciple  were  prone  to  sleep,  "  are  waking 
up  to  the  idea  that  they  have  rights.  We 
have  come  here  to  Highport,"  with  an 
eagle  ^Umce  at  the  fEi>shioiiable  groups  near 
the  door,  ''to  call  upon  the  fashionable 
women  to  help  us  in  iJie  cause.  Anybody 
who  wishes  to  say  anything,"  with  a  sud- 
den descent  to  the  practical,  "  is  invited  to 
come  upon  the  platform  and  say  it." 

Two  ladies  and  a  male  disciple  started 
to  their  feet  and  came  forward. 

"  Stop !"  said  the  president^  waving  her 
fan.  ''  We  must  have  a  business  committee. 
How  shall  it  be  appointed  ?" 

I  move,  Mr. — a — a — ^Mrs.  President, 


said  a  timid  man  in  a  Ireble  voice,  *'  that  it 
be  elected  by  the  meeting." 

"  Mr.  Simpkins,  you  are  not  in  order," 
said  the  president,  sharply,  frowning  upon 
him.  ''  You  forget,  sir,  at  the  very  outseti 
the  rights  of  women.  How,"  she  oon« 
tinned,  turning  to  another  elderly  lady  in 
white  curls  at  her  side,  ''shall  the  com- 
mittee be  appointed  P" 

"  By  the  chair,"  came  from  the  elderly 
lady,  in  a  hard,  dry  voice,  her  muscles  im- 
movable. The  committee  duly  appointed, 
a  little  sharp-featured  woman  came  for- 
ward, and  proceeded  to  read  a  letter  from 
her  maiden  aunt.  The  writer  expressed 
her  hope  that  the  woman's  rights  women 
would  not  neglect  family  and  household 
duties,  and  trusted  that  a  resolution  would 
be  passed,  "quoting  the  New  Testament 
text  that  man  was  the  head  of  the  woman." 

This  heresy  was  received  by  a  great 
rustling  of  dresses,  a  loud  groan  from  the 
jovial  men,  and  a  protest  from  the  presi- 
dent ;  and  the  rest  of  the  letter  was  unani- 
mously dispensed  with. 

Another  heretic,  in  the  shape  of  a  plump 
woman  with  an  intensely  purple  bonnet, 
then  took  the  floor,  and  hoped  that  women 
would  really  not  adopt  the  masculine  cos- 
tume. She  was  sure  that  Mrs«  Sharpe 
would  never  do  such  a  thing. 

A  male  voice :  "  Why  not  ?" 

Here  several  ladiea  began  to  talk  at  the 
same  time,  and  there  were  shrill  cries  of 
"  Order !"  The  orator,  when  the  commotion 
subsided,  continued  by  saying  that  it  was 
not  necessary  to  the  protection  of  \ft^«^  '^ 
who  walked  m  >utL©  %tt««^  «i^  T^^gc^*  \fi\i»:^^/\ 
male  attire  •,  ^\ie>  \\2A  ^^xrwEsiA  ^V^  ^sKcf^s^  ^ 


^ 


520      [October  80, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condocted  by 


a  little  pistol  in  her  pocket  which  she  knew 
how  to  nse.  This  belligerent  little  lady 
having  presently  subsided  amid  tbfe  storm 
raised  by  this  annonncement,  the  presi- 
dent invited  the  startling  editor  with  the 
cool  manner  and  classic  features  to  address 
the  meeting.  This  was  objected  to  by 
several  ladies,  who  wanted  to  speak,  and 
thought  their  rights  once  more  invaded 
by  the  tyrant  man.  The  startling  editor, 
however,  advanced,  pushed  back  his  luxuri- 
ant locks,  pulled  his  coat-sleeves  up  a  trifle 
so  as  to  betray  his  cuffs,  and  ran  his  keen 
eye  over  the  audience.  "Li  the  world's 
growth,"  said  he,  suddenly,  as  if  it  had  just 
occurred  to  him,  "  man  has  been  a  tortoise ; 
but  woman  has  been  a  snail.  Now,  I  don't 
mean  to  deify  the  women :  I've  known  and 
loved  many  women." 

(Hear,  hear,  from  the  younger  ladies, 
frowns  from  the  elders.) 

"  But  there  isn't  an  angel  among  'em." 

This  caused  a  marked  sensation.  The 
president  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker; 
**  Oh,  oh,"  came  from  several  gallant 
gentlemen  in  a  comer;  the  speaker  was 
regarded  with  looks  of  disapproval  by  all 
the  female  eyes.  He  hastened  to  recover 
his  position. 

"  However,  women  are  better  than  men." 
(At  this  amende  honorable  there  was  a 
txmiult  of  shrill  applause,  accompanied  by 

?arasol  thumps  and  fan  rattling.)     "And 
hope  to  see  the  day  when  the  women 
will  vote." 

"  Will  the  speaker  permit  me  ?"  said  a 
thin  irascible-looking  man  on  the  platform. 
"  I  wish  to  put  him  one  question.'* 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"  Do  you  want  women  to  step  down  into 
the  dirty  pool  of  politics  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  want  them  to  go  down  like  an 
angel  into  the  troubled  waters."  (Com- 
motion.) 

"  And  you  would  like  to  see  them  go  to 
the  polls  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I'd  rather  see  a  woman  in  the 
street  with  a  ballot  ia  her  hand  than  the 
Grecian  bend  in  her  back." 

This  sally  delighted  the  straight-laced 
and  elderly  apostles,  who  applauded  ener- 
getically :  the  younger  and  fashionable  ele- 
ment blushed  and  frowned.  The  latter 
had  more  than  once  excited  the  president's 
ire.  Now  she  had  her  revenge.  Glancing 
disdainfully  at  her  brilliantly-dressed  and 
somewhat  refractory  disciples,  she  knocked 
on  the  table,  and  said,  in  a  most  cutting 
manner : 
"  We  mast  really  have  order,    li  you 


applaud  so  vigorously,  you'll  shake  down 
somebody's  back  hair." 

Here,  a  little  variety  was  given  to  the 
entertainment  by  the  appearance  of  the 
noted  ballad  singers,  the  "  Hopkinson 
family,"  on  the  stage.  These  started  off 
in  a  blithe  ditty,  which  celebrated  the 
downfall  of  the  tyrant  man  from  his  pe- 
destal, and  the  entrance  of  women  into 
congressional  halls  and  cabinet  councils. 

The  warblers  having  ceased  their  war- 
bling, the  president  rose,  evidently  primed 
with  a  subject  of  importance. 

*'  The  hat,"  said  she,  looking  straight  at 
the  door,  "  will  now  be  passed  round.  I 
beg  that  part  of  the  audience  near  the 
door,  not  to  run  away  befixre  the  hat 
reaches  them.  It  is  grateful  to  get  dollars 
of  sympathy  as  well  as  words  of  sym- 
pathy." The  fashionables  at  the  door, 
shamed  by  this  stratagem  into  staying, 
were  forced  to  contribute;  and  the  pre> 
sident  peered  with  satis&ction  into  the  hat^ 
when  it  had  gone  its  rounds,  and  came 
back  heavy  with  the  "  siaews  of  war." 

The  discussion  was  then  resumed  by  a 
recent  convert,  a  young  man  with  very 
long  whiskers,  who  seemed  to  be  still  in 
doubt  on  several  points.  He  wanted  to 
know  whether  making  bread,  bringing  up 
children,  and  keeping  secrets,  were  com- 
patible with  the  cause  ? 

Half  a  dozen  ladies  hastened  to  answer, 
but  the  negro  apostle  secured  the  floor. 
He  assumed  a  lofty  and  indignant  air 
toward  his  white  brother;  said  that  Re- 
verend Selina  Sharpe  made  *'  de  bess 
bread  he  ever  ate;"  that  the  great  Mrs. 
Boldstone  had  fourteen  ci  **  de  bess 
behaved  children  in  the  countiy;"  and 
that  Mrs.  Lucretia  Stubbins  ^  presided 
over  her  household  like  a  queen."  All  of 
which  seemed  thoroughly  to  convince  the 
convert,  who  was  seen  and  heard  no  more. 

The  president,  looking  at  her  watch,  now 
admonished  the  meeting  that  the  ^dnner 
hour  had  arrived,  and  begged  to  make  just 
two  final  remarks.  "  We  are  asked,"  she 
said,  taking  up  an  oratorical  pose,  "if, 
having  the  suffrage,  we  will  fight.  I  an- 
swer, we  are  even  ready  for  that ;  but  we 
hope  to  introdace,  with  our  ballots,  the 
reign  of  universal  peace.  Brothers  and 
sisters,  it  is  our  mission,  for  the  present^  to 
keep  the  world  in  hot  water !" 

A  little  fiery  lady  took  the  floor  by  stono. 
She  was  indignant,  she  said  in  a  high  voice, 
when  the  president  declared  that  this  meet- 
ing was  only  a  means  of  agitation — indig- 
\iiaTi^,  ^^^<t  \ivd'iqna/Tt<^  that  it  should  be  used 


P^= 


% 


Chariei  Dickeni.J  TWENTY-ONE  MONTHS   OP   SILENCE.      [October  so.  1869.]        521 


to  give  one  person  (here  a  killing  glance  at 
the  president)  notoriety ! 

The  president,  angrily  cool,  remarked 
that  what  was  said  about  her  didn't  hurt 
her.  She  had  never  &iled  in  what  she 
undertook,  and  didn't  mean  to. 

The  Kttle  fiery  lady  called  upon  the 
meeting  to  mark  the  tone  of  arrogance  and 
tyranny  the  president  adopted. 

Cries  of  Order  !  Shame  !  Adjourn  !  Ad- 
journ ! 

The  little  fiery  lady  continued  to  speak 
and  gesticulate;  confusion  became  anarchy; 
the  president  stood  firm  as  a  rock  amid  the 
storm ;  and,  in  a  momentary  lull,  declared 
the  meeting  adjourned. 

The  fashionables  stared  at  the  speakers 
with  mouths  agape  as  they  filed  out  of  the 
hall,  and  proceeded  to  the  hotel,  discuss- 
ing the  disturbance  warmly  as  they  went. 
They  were  the  lions — or  rather  lionesses — 
at  the  hotel  that  erening,  where  there  was 
an  impromptu  ball,  the  younger  disciples 
actually  mixing  in  the  dance,  while  the 
elders  looked  on,  half  disapproving. 

OWENTY-ONE  MONTHS  OF  SHiENCE. 

It  happened  on  a  summer  evening,  now 
something  more  than  two  years  ago,  that  the 
surgeon  of  a  certain  regiment  of  high  standing 
then  quartered  at  Chatham,  was  engaged  in 
his  surgery  in  making  some  experiments  of  a 
chemicid  sort,  when  one  of  the  men  belonging 
to  the  regiment  came  to  the  door  and  desired  to 
have  Sjpeech  with  him.  This  man  was  a  private, 
John  Strong  by  name,  lately  enlisted,  and  not 
remarkable  hitherto  as  having  in  any  way 
shown  himself  to  be  different  from  the  rest  of 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  corps.  He  had  come 
to  the  doctor,  he  said,  to  complain  of  the  state 
of  his  health.  He  felt  so  "queer"  all  over, 
as  he  described  it ;  eould  not  settle  down  to  any 
occupation ;  was  cold  and  hot  by  turns ;  had 
pains  all  over  his  body  and  limbs,  and  was  alto- 
gether YQTj  much  "  out  of  sorts."  After  hear- 
ing all  this,  and  after  having  recourse  to  the 
usual  pulse  -  feeling,  and  tongue  -  inspecting 
formula,  the  doctor  wrote  the  man  an  order  for 
admission  to  the  infirmary,  and,  telling  him  to 
go  to  bed  immediately,  promised  to  visit  him 
when  he  made  his  usual  rounds  the  first  thing 
next  morning. 

True  to  his  promise,  at  an  early  hour  on  the 
following  day  the  regimental  surgeon,  whom 
we  will  call  Dr.  Curzon,  went  to  the  infirmary, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  bedside  of  the  new 
patient,  expecting  to  find  him  suffering  from 
some  slight  feverish  attack,  or  some  other 
trifiing  ailment,  which  a  day  or  two^s  quiet, 
and  a  dose  of  medicine,  would  quickly  set 
light.  The  aspect  of  the  invahd  as  the  sur- 
geon approached  the  bed,  was  even  more 
encouragmg  than  he  had  expected,  and  Dr. 


Curzon  was  on  the  point  of  giving  him  his 
views  on  the  subject  of  false  alarms  when,  hap- 
pening to  look  more  attentively  at  the  patient 
than  he  had  done  before,  he  observed  that 
Private  Strong  was  gesticulating  in  a  very 
extraordinary  manner,  and  especially  twisting 
his  mouth  and  jaws  into  a  variety  of  strange 
and  unearthly  contortions,  as  if  in  an  inef- 
fectual attempt  to  utter  some  articulate  sounds, 
which  would  not  come  forth.  On  examining 
him  yet  more  attentively,  the  doctor  observed 
that  a  sheet  of  paper  was  lying  on  his  breast,  on 
which  was  written  the  following  inscription :  "I 

HAVE  HAD  A  FIT  IN  THE  NIGHT,  AND  HAVE  LOST  THE 
POWER  OF  SPEAKING." 

Dr.  Curzon  had  been  an  army-surgeon  for 
many  a  long  year,  and  had  come  in  contact  with 
numberless  instances  of  deceit  and  shamming, 
practised  by  soldiers  with  the  view  of  obtaining 
a  discharge.  He  remembered  how  some  of 
them  had,  to  his  own  certain  knowledge,  as- 
sumed to  be  mad  or  idiotic ;  how  others  had 
scratched  raw  places  on  their  limbs,  and  bound 
over  them  penny-pieces  (in  the  days  of  the  old 
copper  coinage)  or  even  rubbed  them  with 
phosphorus  got  from  lucifer  matches,  in  order 
to  make  such  abrasions  resemble  sores  of  a 
dangerous  and  incurable  sort.  Then,  besides, 
there  are  books  written  on  this  subject  full  of 
the  most  wonderful  examples  of  feigning  in  the 
matter  of  disease,  such  simulation  being  some- 
times engaged  in  with  a  view  to  some  special 
object,  and  sometimes  (but  this  almost  in- 
variably by  women)  with  the  desire  of  attract- 
ing attention  and  winning  a  kind  of  renown. 
Among  men  this  simula&g  of  disease— ma- 
lingering it  is  called  in  military  phrase — is  re- 
sorted to  with  a  specific  intention.  "  The  suf- 
ferings imposed  by  malingerers  on  themselves," 
says  Gavin  on  Feigned  Diseases,  ^^  are  infinitely 
greater  than  any  punishment  a  commanding 
officer  would  dare  to  inflict ;  thus  a  soldier  for 
a  period  of  eighteen  months  walked  with  his 
body  bent  forward  so  that  his  arms  reached 
wthin  two  inches  of  the  ground."  In  another  a 
discharge  **  was  so  eagerly  coveted  that  a  man 
had  his  arm  shot  through  to  obtain  it ;"  while 
in  another  place,  when  treating  of  the  extreme 
difficulty  of  getting  hold  of  any  evidence  by 
means  of  which  the  malingerer  may  be  crimi- 
nated, he  expresses  shrewdly  enough  his  opinion 
that  *^  there  is  a  kind  of  Freemasonry  among 
soldiers  which  is  perhaps  conducive  to  the 
harmony  of  the  barrack-room,  but  which  by 
preventing  the  exemplary  from  exposing  the 
worthless,  and  by  holding  up  the  informer  as 
an  object  of  universal  abhorrence,  renders  it 
extremely  difficult  to  obtain  an  accurate  know- 
ledge of  the  various  means  of  simulating 
disease."  Another  medical  authority  proclaims 
that  he  has  **no  doubt  that  methods  have 
been  systematised  for  simulating  disease,  and 
that  these  are  preserved  in  many  regiments 
and  handed  over  for  the  benefit  of  those  who 
may  be  inclined  to  make  a  trial  of  them." 

Dr.  Curzon  questioned  the  othat  ^yac3«:5^%S!\s^^ 
the  infirmary ,  %si^  ^^"^^^sj^-^  NiXi^^Rk  ^V^  ^«^\.*vo. 


dfi: 


h 


522       [OctolMjr  30,  ISfiO.J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condueted  by 


4 


I 


occupied  by  Private  Strong,  as  to  whether  they 
had  Bcen  or  heard  anything  of  tliis  seizure  or 
fit,  by  which  the  dumb  uian  professed  to  have 
been  attacked  in  the  night.  Not  one  of  them 
knew  anything  about  it,  and  it  was  evident 
that  if  the  man  had  ever  really  been  the  victim 
of  such  a  seizure,  he  had  taken  it  very  quietly, 
and  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  disturb  his 
companions  ;  which,  even  supposing  dumbness 
to  have  been  one  of  the  first  symptoms  of  his 
attack,  he  might  easily^ave  done,  the  very  fact 
of  his  having  inscribed  the  particulars  of  his  case 
upon  the  paper  which  the  doctor  found  l^ing  on 
his  breast  proving  that  he  was  certainly  in  pos- 
session of  all  his  other  faculties. 

Dr.  Curzon  proceeded  next  to  Bubjeot  the 
patient  himself  to  a  very  searching  examina- 
tion, lie  addressed  several  questions  to  him 
—  for  the  man  did  not  profess  to  be  deaf 
as  well  as  dumb-— and  bade  him  try  at  least 
to  utter  some  kind  of  sound,  more  or  less 
articulate,  in  answer ;  but  beyond  several  ex- 
travagant distortions  of  the  features  generally, 
and  much  ineffectual  opening  and  shutting  of 
the  mouth  particularly,  no  response  whatever 
was  to  be  obtained.  Next  the  doctor  set  himself 
to  ascertain  whether  there  was — as  might  cer- 
tainly have  been  expected — any  loss  of  power 
in  connexion  with  any  other  of  the  faculties. 
No  such  thing.  The  man  w^as  in  all  other 
respects  perfectly  healtlif ul  and  vigorous,  and 
not  only  was  so,  but  looked  so.  Lastly,  Dr. 
Curzon  proceeded  to  engage  in  a  prolonged 
scrutiny  of  the  man's  vocal  chords,  using  an 
instrument  made  expressly  for  the  purpose  of 
such  examinations,  by  means  of  which  the  in- 
terior of  the  throat  is  exposed  to  the  view  of 
the  investigator.  This  proceeding,  however, 
was  productive  of  as  little  result  as  the  rest. 
Mr.  Strong's  vocal  chords  were,  as  far  as 
external  appearance  wTnt,  in  much  the  same 
condition  as  those  of  other  people.  The  ex- 
amination over.  Dr.  Curzon  left  his  patient  for 
a  time,  entertaining  a  pretty  firm  conviction 
that  this  was  simply  a  bad  case  of  shamming, 
and  leaving  directions  with  all  those  who  were 
likely  to  come  in  contact  with  the  dumb  man 
to  keep  a  sharp  look  out. 

Days  succeeded  days,  and  the  lips  of  John 
Strong  remained — as  far  as  the  utterance  of  any 
articulate  soimd  went  —  hermetically  sealed. 
Not  one  of  those  about  him  could  betray  him 
into  speech,  nor  was  he  ever  heard  to  mutter 
any  word,  or  intelligible  sound  in  his  sleep. 
Experiments  of  all  kinds,  in  which  the  bodv 
and  the  mind  were  alike  addressed  were  tried. 
The  doctor— a  man  of  great  resource  and  much 
ingenuity — would,  for  instance,  wake  the  man 
suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  make 
him  get  out  of  bed  to  attend  patients  who  needed 
assistance :  addressing  him,  at  that  moment  of 
sudden  waking  up,  with  some  words  which 
required  an  answer.  Islr,  Strong  was,  however, 
proof  against  these  sudden  surprises,  and  was 
quite  himself  even  when  thus  abruptly  roused 
in  the  middle  of  the  night.  Not  a  word  was 
to  be  got  out  of  him.  Plenty  of  gesticuktion, 
abundant  evidence  of  attention,  and  of  a  clear 


comprehension  of  what  was  required  of  him ; 
but  no  speech.  It  was  pro]>able,  the  doctor 
thought,  that  if  the  man  could  for  a  time  be 
deprived  of  consciousness,  he  would  in  that 
condition  be  brought  to  say  something  more  or 
less  intelligible.  He  determined  to  get  the 
dumb  man  under  the  influence  of  chloroform, 
and  try  w^hat  could  be  done  with  him  tlien. 
The  chloroform  was  applied  accordingly ;  bat 
the  man  by  resisting,  first,  ita  application  at  all, 
and  then  its  influence  when  they  did  succeed  in 
applying  it,  managed  to  defeat  the  doctor's 
efforts  in  this  line :  Uie  doctor  hesitating  to  incur 
the  risk  of  administering  by  main  force  a  dose 
strong  enough  to  render  his  patient  incapable 
of  all  resistance.  An  attempt  was  then  made  to 
intoxicate  him,  and,  as  he  refused  to  take  a 
suflicient  amount  of  spirit  to  bring  about  the 
desired  end,  a  considerable  dose  of  alcohol  was 
cimningly  introduced  into  the  medicine  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  taking ;  but  he  steadily  refused, 
come  what  might,  to  swallow  a  single  drop  of 
the  medicine  so  craftily  qualified. 

The  doctor^s  wife  had  at  this  time  in  her  em- 
ployment a  young  woman,  serving  in  the  capa- 
city of  housemaid,  who  besides  being  gifted 
with  considerable  personal  attractions,  was  also 
endowed  with  a  large  share  of  that  capacity  for 
mischief,  the  possession  of  which  persons  of  a 
misanthropic  turn  of  mind  are  fona  of  ascribing 
to  all  members  of  the  sex  which  doubles  our 
joys  and  divides  our  sorrows.  Having  confided 
to  this  yoimg  person  the  particulars  of  Mr. 
Strone*s  case,  the  astute  doctor,  a  little  more 
than  hinting  that  he  looked  upon  the  whole 
thing  in  the  light  of  a  *^  do,^'  requested  her  as 
a  last  resource  to  come  to  the  rescue.  On  a 
certain  fine  hot  afternoon  in  July,  the  patient 
was  sent  up  to  Dr.  Curzon's  house,  ostensibly 
to  do  some  work  in  the  doctors  garden,  but 
really  to  encounter  the  fascinations  of  the 
doctor's  housemaid.  During  the  whole  of  that 
afternoon  the  full  force  of  those  fascinatioDS 
was  freely  exercised  upon  him,  whatever  he 
did,  and  wherever  he  went.  Did  he  set  him- 
self to  tlie  accomplishment  of  his  allotted  task 
in  the  garden,  there  was  tliis  dau^rous  young 
person  ready  to  help  hun  with  his  work,  and 
even  to  do  that  work  for  him.  Did  he,  on  the 
other  hand,  sit  down  to  rest  himself  in  the 
sliade,  there  she  was,  sitting  beside  him  and  con- 
versationally  disposed.  She  plied  him  with 
draughts  of  beer  when  he  was  thirsty,  and 
later  in  the  evening  made  him  comfortable 
with  tea  and  buttered  toast.  Strong  drank  the 
beer  and  ate  the  toast,  nay,  he  smiled  upon  her 
gratofidly,  and  expreseed  his  contentment  \(f 
the  gesticulations  which  had  by  this  time 
become  familiar  to  him.  All  these  things  be 
did,  but  speak,  or  utter  sound,  he  did  not. 

Yet  there  was  no  sort  of  colloquial  snare 
whidi  she  did  not  lay  for  her  companion; 
sometimes  appealing  to  him  for  directions  when 
they  were  at  work  together,  and  liiis  in  the 
most  artless  manner,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  the 
existence  of  that  infirmity  of  his ;  at  other  times 
adopting  a  different  line,  and  maldng  open  allu- 
sion to  it,  frankly  telling  liim  thatuie  did  not 


4^ 


^: 


&D 


Charioa  Dickens.]         TWENTY-ONE  MONTHS  OF  SILENCE.       [October  so,  iseo.j     523 


believe  in  its  genuiDeness,  and  urging  him  to 
admit  to  her  in  confidence  that  it  was  all  a 
sham.  Then  she  would  be  angry  with  him  for 
his  obstinacy,  and  rate  him  soundly,  or  perhaps 
have  recourse  to  ridicule,  aud  laugh  at  him  m 
the  most  aggravating  manner  possible.  But 
Private  Strong  was  proof  against  it  all.  He 
was  deaf  to  her  entreaties,  he  smiled  at  her 
irritation,  he  joined  in  the  laugh  against  him- 
self when  she  was  sarcastic.  Finally  he  retired 
triumphant  from  the  encounter,  having  passed 
a  very  pleasant  afternoon,  having  eaten  and 
drunk  many  good  things,  and  leaving  the 
question  of  the  real  or  fictitious  nature  of  his 
infirmity  exactly  where  it  had  been  when  he 
set  out  in  the  morning  to  spend  the  day  in  Dr. 
Curzon^s  flower-garden. 

The  dumb  man's  statement  now  began  to  be 
believed  by  many  who  had  before  treated  it 
with  contempt.  But  the  handmaiden  main- 
tained stoutly  her  conviction  that  Private 
Strong  was  certainly  shamming,  and  was  no 
more  dumb  than  she  was. 

It  was  soon  after  the  failure  of  this  experiment, 
and  about  four  months  subsequent  to  the  time 
of  Strong's  fiirst  attack,  that  the  writer  of  this 
brief  abstract,  happening  to  be  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Chatham,  hrst  heard  the  outline 
of  the  dumb  man's  story.  It  was  soon  arranged 
that  on  a  particular  day,  which  suited  the  con- 
venience of  all  concerned,  he  should  go  over  to 
the  depot,  and  pay  a  visit  to  this  singular 
person,  in  company  with  a  certain  military 
ofiicer  and  the  regimental  surgeon,  Dr.  Curzon. 

This  last-named  gentleman,  as  we  walked 
along  in  the  direction  of  the  place  where  the 
speechless  soldier  was  at  work,  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  relating  some  circumstances  worthy 
of  recapitulation  here.  It  appeared  that  in  the 
very  regiment  in  which  Dr.  Curzon  held  his 
appointment  there  had  lately  occurred  a  case 
indicating  such  power  of  sustaining  a  decep- 
tion possessed  by  one  of  the  ordinary  rank  and 
file,  as  might  well  serve  to  make  any  regimental 
surgeon  suspicious  of  the  men  under  his  charge. 
In  this  instance  the  assumed  disease  had  been  a 
combination  of  rheumatism  and  paralysis  affect- 
ing the  head  and  one  of  the  arms.  The  head  was 
completely  forced  out  of  its  natural  position,  and 
bowed  over  to  one  side ;  the  shoulder  on  the  same 
side  being  raised  to  the  ear,  and  the  arm  fixed 
in  a  bent  position  against  the  body.  Of  course 
such  an  afOiction  was  fatal  to  everything  in 
the  shape  of  drill,  and  to  the  performance  of 
any  military  duty;  accordingly  all  sorts  of 
remedies  were  applied  with  a  view  of  curing 
this  unfortunate  recruit  of  his  distortion,  ana 
getting  his  head  and  arm  back  into  their  na- 
tural condition.  Some  of  these  remedies  were 
Bufiiciently  painful.  Experiments  were  made 
with  red-hot  irons,  and  others  in  which  cer- 
tain forms  of  acupuncture  were  resorted  to. 
The  unfortunate  cripple  endured  all  without 
flinching,  but  not  one  of  them  seemed  to  make 
the  slightest  impression  on  his  malady.  The 
obstinacy  and  peculiarity  of  the  case  had  awa- 
kened some  suspicion  m  the  medical  autho- 
zitieay  and  he  hiad  been  watched  by  night  as 


well  as  by  day.  Not  to  the  slightest  purpose, 
the  man  retaining  in  his  sleep,  as  in  his  waking 
hours,  that  same  distorted  position,  with  the 
head  forced  over  on  one  side  and  the  arm  fixed 
tightly  against  the  body. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  fact — which 
if  to  be  accounted  for  at  all  can  only  be  ex- 
plained by  supposing  some  power  of  exer- 
cising the  will  to  be  retainable  by  some  men 
even  in  their  sleep — had  its  influence  in  dis- 
arming the  suspicion  of  those  with  whom  the 
power  of  granting  discharges  rested.  At  all 
events,  a  mcdiccd  board  meeting  w^as  held, 
evidence  was  adduced  to  show  that  night  and 
day  this  unfortunate  cripple  was  never  seen  in 
any  other  position  than  in  this  distorted  one, 
that  all  remedial  applications  were  inefficacious, 
and  that  the  recruit  being  utterly  useless  and 
unfit  for  service,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  dischar^  him.  Discharged  he  was  accord- 
ingly. A  fortnight  afterwaras.  Dr.  Curzon  met 
him  in  the  street  walking  along  with  his  head 
erect  and  his  arms  swinging  at  his  sides  like 
other  people.  Indeed,  Sie  man  actually  had 
the  audacity  to  address  the  doctor,  and  to 
congratulate  him  on  the  success  of  his  medical 
treatment  of  the  case :  remarking  that  he  was 
perfectly  cured  now,  and  very  much  obliged  to 
the  authorities  for  his  discharge,  as  it  had  en- 
abled him  to  take  a  very  goc^  situation  in  the 
town. 

The  doctor  added,  in  reference  to  the  present 
case,  that  he  had  resolved  to  utilise  the  man  as 
he  best  could,  and  had  accordingly  sent  him  to 
the  tailors'  shop,  where  his  dumbness  would 
not  stand  in  his  way,  and  where  his  previous 
habits — for  he  had  been  bred  a  tailor — would 
be  favourable  to  his  making  himself  useful.  By 
means  of  this  arrangement,  the  necessity  of 
taking  immediate  action  in  the  difficult  matter 
was  obviated,  and  time  gained  in  which  to  test 
him  further.  As  the  doctor  concluded,  we  ar- 
rived at  the  door  of  the  building  appropriated 
to  the  regimental  tailoring  department,  and 
went  in. 

Half  a  dozen  soldiers  were  sitting  on  a  raised 
tailors'  board  in  the  well-known  professional 
attitude.  They  all  raised  their  heads  when  we 
entered,  except  one :  who,  seated  nearly  with 
his  back  to  the  door,  just  turned  his  head  and 
his  eyes  for  a  moment  slightly,  in  our  direc- 
tion, and  then  went  on  with  his  sewing.  A 
moment  afterwards,  on  the  name  of  *^  Strong" 
being  called  out  by  the  doctor,  this  same 
person  sprang  off  the  board  with  quit€  a  cu- 
rious display  of  activity,  and  stood  confront- 
ing us,  with  his  hands  close  down  by  his  sides, 
his  stockinged  feet  so  close  together  that  the 
great  toes  touched  each  other,  and  his  eyes 
staring  very  intently  straight  before  him  at 
the  doctor.  This  gentleman  then  proceeded 
to  ask  him  some  questions,  as,  indeed,  we  all 
did  —  how  he  felt,  whether  there  was  any 
change  in  his  condition,  what  was  the  state  of 
his  general  health,  and  the  like.  He  answered 
by  gesticulation,  always  of  a  very  energetic 
kind,  and  sometimes  by  means  of  the  deaf  and 
dumb  alphabet  on  his  fingers.    He  told  ua  ixL 


a& 


=fe 


624      [October  80, 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetedby 


this  way,  I  remember,  among  other  things, 
that  he  came  from  Wales,  and  that  he  was  the 
first  of  his  family  who  had  ever  been  afflicted 
in  this  extraordinary  manner.  **  Come,"  said 
the  doctor  at  last,  "let  us  see  you  make  an 
effort  to  speak.  Try  to  say,  '  How  d'ye  do  ? ' " 
The  man  certainly  seemed  to  respond  to  this 
appeal,  and  nothing  could  be  more  energetic 
than  the  violent  chopping  action  of  the  jaws 
with  which  he  did  so ;  but  no  word,  nor,  in- 
deed, any  sound  whatever,  was  uttered.  After 
this,  we  all  stood  staring  rather  helplessly, 
and  in  a  state  of  mystification  at  each  other. 
The  soldiers  sitting  on  the  board  with  their  legs 
doubled  imder  them,  stared  too. 

The  scene  was  brought  to  a  close  by  the 
doctor.  **  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  are  very  com- 
fortable here  and  usefully  employed.  You 
know  we  couldn't  possibly  send  you  out  and 
throw  you  upon  your  own  resources,  in  the 
state  in  which  you  are  at  present,  so  you  ought 
to  think  yourself  very  lucky."  This  was  said, 
as  the  doctor  told  me  afterwards,  to  show 
the  man  that  he  had  nothing  to  hope  in  the 
way  of  getting  his  discharge.  He  appeared 
well-pleased  with  what  he  heard,  nodded  and 
smiled  briskly,  and  jumped  up  on  his  board 
again. 

"He  is  so  extraordinarily  sharp  and  quick 
of  hearing,"  whispered  the  doctor,  as  we  left 
the  builfing,  "  that  I  must  ask  you  not  to 
speak  about  him  till  we  are  well  out  of  ear- 
shot." I  had  little  to  say,  however.  My  im- 
pression was  simply  of  a  good-looking  young 
fellow  of  a  light  and  active  build,  with  ex- 
ceedingly bright  eyes,  having  perhaps  some- 
thing a  little  mad  about  them.  There  was 
nothing  stupid  or  brutal  in  his  appearance ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  looked  brisk  ana  Uvcly,  as  well 
as  exceedingly  cunning.  He  certainly  gave  one 
the  idea  of  a  man  possessed  of  much  dogged  de- 
termination, and  quite  capable  of  carrying  out 
any  scheme  of  an  underhand  nature  which  he 
might  set  before  himself  as  a  thing  to  be  accom- 
pli^ed. 

What  Private  John  Strong  did  set  before 
himself  as  a  thing  to  be  accompUshed,  he 
did  in  this  case  most  distinctly  and  com- 
pletely succeed  in  doing.  He  earned  his  point. 
He  was  too  much  for  the  authorities.  His 
powers  were  concentrated;  theirs  were  dif- 
fused. He  had  but  one  thing  to  think  of; 
they  had  many.  For  such  work  as  mount- 
ing guard  with  its  necessary  interchange  of 
sign  and  countersign,  as  well  as  for  all  other 
forms  of  military  duty  of  which  speech  is 
an  essential  part,  this  man  was  unfitted,  as 
well  as  for  the  transmission  of  verbal  messages, 
or  spoken  instructions ;  and  so  it  came  about 
at  last  that  on  a  certain  day  Private  John 
Strong  was  brought  before  the  medical  board, 
and  after  passing  through  another  examina- 
tion, and  being  subjected  to  a  variety  of  final 
tests,  was  declared  to  be  unfit  for  service,  and 
was,  then  and  there,  formally  discharged. 

iSooii  afterwards,  I  found  myself  once  more 
in  the 
which 


Now  that  the  curtain  had  fallen,  I  felt  a  strong 
desire  to  hear  something  of  the  principal  per- 
former, and  to  learn  what  had  become  of  nim 
after  his  retirement  from  the  stage.    In  ac- 
cordance witli    ^s  wish  I  lost  no  time  in 
making  my  way  to  the  barracks  at  which  my 
speechless  friend's  regiment    vraa    quartered, 
bent  on  picking  up  all  the  information  I  could. 
Fortune  was  propitious  to  me.    Almost  imme- 
diately on  my  entering  the  barrack-square  I 
had  the  good  luck  to  run  against  a  certain 
sergeant-major  belonging  to  the  regiment,  who 
had  had  the  subject  of  my  inquiries  cspedally 
under  his  charge.    From  this  officer  I  learnt 
that  Dr.  Curzon  had  been  removed  to  another 
station,  and  that  so  the  case  had  passed  from 
under    his    superintendenee ;    and    that    the 
doctor  who  succeeded  to  the  care  of  the  man 
had,  after  very    careful  investigation  of  the 
whole  affair,  become  sufficiency  convinced  of 
the  genuineness  of  the  case  to  bring  it  be- 
fore the  medical  board  with  the  result  men- 
tioned.    **  A  few  days  afterwards,"  said  the 
sergeant,  concluding  his  account :  "  I  met  the 
man  walking   along  the  street,  in  company 
with  a  young  woman.    *  Good-evening,  Strong,' 
I  said  on  speculation,  with  a  sort  of  notion 
in  my  head  that  he'd  answer  me.     And  so  he 
did.  *  Grood-evening,  sergeant,  he  says,  speak- 
ing as  glib  as  possible  and  with  as  knowing  a 
grin  as  ever  you  saw."  The  sergeant  conduded 
his  narrative  by  informing  me  that  the  young 
man  had  got  married,  and  was  at  work  at  a 
sewing-machine  factory  in  the  town. 

It  was  a  difficult  place  to  find,  this  factory; 
but  I  managed  after  going  to  aU  sorts  of  wrong 
places,  and  making  inquiry  everywhere  but 
where  I  ought,  for  "a  young  man  named 
Strong,"  to  unearth  my  gentleman  in  a  large 
bare-looking  building  which  quivered  all  over 
with  the  vibration  of  the  machinery  in  moti<m 
in  its  upper  story. 

He  was  a  little  thinner  and  more  haggard 
lookmg,  perhaps,  than  when  I  had  last  seen 
Mm,  and  was  of  course  dressed  in  the  costume 
of  a  civilian  instead  of    the  uniform  <rf  the 


regiment  to  which  he  had  once  belonged,  but 
in  all  other  respects  he  was  unchanged.  He 
presented  the  same  sharp  watchful  appearance 
which  I  had  remarked  before,  and  had  the  same 
keen  restless  glance  darting  suspiciously  hither 
and  thither.  He  did  not  speak  on  first  coming 
forward  to  meet  me,  but  merely  made  a  move- 
ment with  his  head.  I  think  it  probable  that 
for  a  single  instant  he  was  confused,  seeing 
a  stranger  before  him,  whether  he  was  to  be 
dumb  or  not.  Of  course  he  soon  remembered 
tiiat  all  that,  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  In  answer 
to  my  remark  that  I  was  curious  to  know  how 
he  had  recovered  the  use  of  speech,  of  which 
when  I  had  seen  him,  nearly  a  couple  of  years 
ago,  he  had  been  deprived,  he  proceeded  to 
tell  a  story  which  he  seemed  to  have  on  the  tip 
of  his  tongue  ready  for  any  such  emergency. 
He  stated  that  shortly  after  his  disimarge,  he 

, ^ accidentally  met  a  young  man  with  whom  he 

neighbourhood  of  the  great  gaTTi«,oiv  rnX'^^ja^L^c^^M^KiiXfed^^kivd  whose  function  it  was  to 
this  curious  drama  bad  "been  en3uG\ftd,\  com-^xwA^^TXi^^^^aR!^^^ 


^ 


hi 


OhulM  Diekeoi.] 


GREEN  TEA. 


[October  SO,  ISGd.]      525 


military  hospital  which  he  mentioned  by  name. 
The  "  compounder,"  wiser  than  any  of  the  con- 
stituted authorities,  told  him  that  ne  knew  of  a 
medicine  which  would  certainly  give  him  back 
the  use  of  his  tongue,  if  he  only  chose  to  take 
the  trouble  to  go  up  to  the  hospital  and  fetch 
it.  Naturally  enough,  ex-private  Strong  did 
agree  to  take  that  trouble,  and,  taking  the 
medicine  too,  observed  that  after  the  very 
first  dose  his  whole  interior  arrangements  were 
suffused  with  a  glow  of  warmth  ;  on  finishing 
the  bottle,  commenced  under  such  happy  aus- 
pices, he  was  able  to  speak,  but  in  a  low  voice  : 
*' just  like  a  little  child." 

Such  was  ex-private  Strong's  ingenuous 
story.  From  speaking  "like  a  child,"  Mr. 
Strong,  after  another  bottle  or  two  of  the 
wonderful  medicine,  had  got  to  speak  like  a 
grown-up  person. 

Once  and  only  once  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation  did  my  ex-military  acquaintance 
approach  the  border-land  of  danger.  I  had 
asked  him  how  it  happened  that  he  enlisted 
in  the  first  instance,  and  he  had  replied  that 
he  hardly  knew  —  that  **  he  had  done  it  in  a 
kind  of  freak ;"  upon  which  it  occurred  to  me 
to  add,  speaking  in  as  careless  a  tone  as  I  could 
command: 

«<  And  directly  afterwards  you  were  sorry 
for  it?" 

**  Yes,"  was  his  answer,  corrected  immedi- 
ately afterwards,  and  negatived  in  a  very 
roundabout  fashion.  Very  soon  afterwards  he 
announced  that  it  was  tea-time  at  the  factory, 
and  beat  a  rapid  retreat. 

What  qualitieB  are  displayed  here !  What 
concentration  of  purpose,  what  self-denial, 
what  huge  development  of  that  which,  in 
sporting  phrase,  is  called  the  **  staying  "  power ; 
the  power  of  holding  on  and  sticking  to  a 
thing  with  a  fixed  intention,  day  after  day, 
week  after  week,  month  after  month,  for  a 

3»ace  of  nearly  two  years !  It  seems  pretty 
ear  "Uiat  it  is  not  the  mere  possession  of  these 
facoltieB  which  is  respectable,  but  only  tiie 
application  of  them  to  a  good  and  worthy 
purpose. 


GREEN  TEA. 

a  case  bepobted  bt  habtin  hesselius,  the 
oebman  physicun. 

In  Ten  Chaptebs. 

chapteb  in.  db.  hesselius  picks  up  some- 
thiko  in  latin  books. 

Well,  I  have  called  at  Blank-street. 

On  inqnirine  at  the  door,  the  servant  told 
me  that  Mr.  Jennings  was  engaged  very 
particularly  witb  a  gentleman,  a  clergy- 
man from  Kenlis,  his  parish  in  the  conntiy. 
Intending  to  reserve  mv  privilege  and 
to  call  again,  I  merely  mtunated  that  I 
shonld  ti^  another  time,  and  had  turned 
to  go,  when  the  servant  begged  my  pardon, 
and  asked  me,  looking  at  me  a  little  more 


attentively  than  well-bred  persons  of  his 
order  usually  do,  whether  I  was  Dr.  Hes- 
selius,  and,  on  learning  that  I  was,  he  said, 
"  Perhaps  then,  sir,  yon  would  aUow  me 
to  mention  it  to  Mr.  Jennings,  for  I  am 
sure  he  wishes  to  see  yon." 

The  servant  returned  in  a  moment,  with 
a  message  from  Mr.  Jennings,  asking  me  to 
go  into  his  study,  which  was  in  effect  his 
back  drawing-room,  promising  to  be  with 
me  in  a  very  few  minutes. 

This  was  really  a  study — almost  a 
library.  The  room  was  lofty,  with  two 
tall  slender  windows,  and  rich  dark  cur- 
tains. It  was  much  larger  than  I  had  ex- 
pected, and  stored  with  books  on  every 
side,  f^om  the  floor  to  the  ceiling.  The 
upper  carpet — for  to  my  tread  it  felt  that 
there  were  two  or  three — ^was  a  Turkey 
carpet  My  steps  fell  noiselessly.  The 
book-cases  standmg  out,  placed  iiie  win- 
dows, particularly  narrow  ones,  in  deep 
recesses.  The  effect  of  the  room  was, 
although  extremelv  comfortable,  and  even 
luznrions,  decidedly  gloomy,  and  aided  by 
the  silence,  almost  oppressive.  Perhaps, 
however,  I  ought  to  have  allowed  some- 
thing for  association.  My  mind  had  con- 
nected peculiar  ideas  with  Mr.  Jennings. 
I  stepped  into  this  perfectly  silent  room,  of 
a  very  silent  house,  with  a  peculiar  fore- 
boding ;  and  its  darkness,  and  solemn  cloth- 
ing of  books,  for  except  where  two  nar- 
row looking-glasses  were  set  in  the  wall, 
they  were  everywhere,  helped  this  sombre 
feeling. 

While  awaiting  Mr.  Jennings's  arrival,  I 
amused  myself  by  looking  into  some  of  the 
books  with  which  his  shelves  were  laden. 
Not  among  these,  but  immediately  under 
them,  with  their  backs  upward,  on  the 
floor,  I  lighted  upon  a  complete  set  of 
Swedenborg's  Arcana  Caslestia,  in  the  ori- 
g^inal  Latin,  a  very  ^o  folio  set,  bound 
in  the  natty  livery  which  theology  affects, 
pure  vellum,  namely,  gold  letters,  and  car- 
mine edges.  There  were  paper  markers  in 
several  of  these  volumes.  I  raised  and 
placed  them,  ono  after  the  other,  upon  the 
table,  and  opening  where  these  papers  were 
placed,  I  read  in  the  solemn  Latin  phrase- 
ology, a  series  of  sentences  indicated  by  a 
pencilled  line  at  the  margin.  Of  these  I 
copy  here  a  few,  translating  them  into 
English. 

"  When  man's  interior  sight  is  opened, 
which  is  that  of  his  spirit,  then  there  ap- 
pear  the   things   of  another    life,    which, 
cannot  possibly  \i^   ix^^'^  nSjk^^  ^»  *^^ 
bodily  sight  J 


%  •  •  % 


^: 


=h 


52G       [October  30,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnctod  fay 


"  liy  the  internal  sight  it  has  been 
granted  me  to  see  the  tilings  that  are  in 
the  other  life,  more  clearly  tliau  I  see 
those  that  are  in  the  world.  From  these 
consideiiitions,  it  is  evident  tliat  external 
yision  exists  from  interior  yision,  and 
this  from  a  vision  still  more  interior,  and 
BO  on."  .... 

**  There  are  with  every  man  at  least 
tvvo  evil  spirits."  .... 

"  With  wicked  genii  there  is  also  a 
fluent  speech,  but  harsh  and  grating. 
There  is  also  among  them,  a  speech  which 
is  not  fluent,  wherein  the  dissent  of  the 
thoughts  is  perceived  as  something  secretly 
creeping  along  within  it."  .... 

"  The  evil  spirits  associated  with  man 
arc,  indeed,  from  the  hells,  but  when  with 
man  they  are  not  then  in  hell,  but  are  taken 
out  thence.  The  place  where  they  then 
are  is  in  the  midst  between  heaven  and 
hell,  and  is  called  the  world  of  spirits — 
when  the  evil  spirits  who  are  wiwi  man, 
are  in  that  world,  they  are  not  in  any 
infernal  torment,  but  in  every  thought  and 
afiection  of  the  man,  and  so,  in  all  that  the 
man  himself  enjoys.  But  when  they  are 
remitted  into  their  hell,  they  return  to  their 
former  state."  .... 

"  If  evil  spirits  could  perceive  that  they 
wore  associated  with  man,  and  yet  that 
they  were  spirits  separate  from  him,  and 
if  they  could  flow  in  into  the  things  of  his 
body,  they  would  attempt  by  a  thousand 
means  to  destroy  him ;  for  they  hate  man 
with  a  deadly  hatred."  .... 

"  Knowing,  therefore,  that  I  was  a  man 
in  the  body,  they  were  continually  striving 
to  destroy  me,  not  as  to  the  body  only,  but 
especially  as  to  the  soul;  for  to  destroy 
any  man  or  spirit  is  the  very  dehght  of 
the  life  of  all  who  are  in  hell ;  but  I  have 
been  continually  protected  by  the  Lord. 
Hence  it  appeal's  how  dangerous  it  is  for 
man  to  be  in  a  living  consort  with  spirits, 
unless  he  be  in  the  good  of  faith."  .... 

"  Nothing  is  more  carefully  guarded  from 
the  knowledge  of  associate  spirits  than  their 
being  thus  conjoint  with  a  man,  for  if  they 
knew  it  they  would  speak  to  him,  with  the 
intention  to  destroy  him."  .... 

"  The  delight  of  hell  is  to  do  evil  to  man, 
and  to  hasten  his  eternal  imiu." 

A  long  note,  written  with  a  very  sharp 
and  fine  pencil,  in  Mr.  Jennings's  neat  hand, 
at  tlie  foot  of  the  page,  caught  my  eye. 
Expecting  his  criticism  upon  the  text^  I 
read  a  word  or  two,  and  stopped,  for 
it  was  something  quite  diflerent,  and 
began    with    these   words,   Dena  miaere- 


atur  mei — "  May  God  compassionate  me." 
Thus  warned  of  its  private  nature,  I 
averted  my  eyes,  and  shut  the  book,  re- 
placing all  the  volumes  as  I  had  found 
them,  except  one  which  interested  me,  and 
in  which,  as  men  studious  and  solitary  id 
their  habits  will  do,  I  grew  so  absorbed  as 
to  take  no  cognisance  of  the  outer  world, 
nor  to  remember  where  I  was. 

I  was  reading  some  pages  which  refer  to 
"  representatives"  and  "  correspondents," 
in  the  technical  language  of  Swedcnborg, 
and  had  arrived  at  a  passage,  the  substance 
of  which  is,  that  evil  spirits,  when  seen 
by  other  eyes  than  those  of  their  infernal 
associates,  present  themselves,  by  **  cor- 
respondence," in  the  shape  of  i^e  beast 
(fera)  which  represents  their  particular 
lust  and  life  in  aspect  direful  and  atro- 
cious. This  is  a  long  passage,  and  parti- 
cularises a  number  of  those  bestial  forms. 

CHArrEE  IV.      FOUR  EYES  WERE  BEADI50  THl 

PABSAQE. 

I  WAS  running  the  head  of  xnj  pencil- 
case  along  the  line  as  I  read  it,  and  some- 
thing caused  me  to  raise  my  eyes. 

Directly  before  mo  was  one  of  the  mir- 
rors I  have  mentioned,  in  which  I  saw 
reflected  the  tall  shape  of  my  friend  Mr. 
Jennings  leaning  over  my  fihoulder,  and 
reading  the  page  at  which  I  was  busy, 
and  with  a  flsiGO  so  dark  and  wild  that  I 
should  hardly  have  known  him. 

I  turned  aiid  rose.  He  stood  erect  also, 
and  with  an  effort  laughed  a  HttlCy  saying : 

"  I  came  in  and  aaked  you  how  you  did, 
but  without  succeeding  in  awaking  you 
from  your  book;  so  I  oould  not  restrain 
my  curiosity,  and  vezy  impertinently,  I'm 
aflraid,  peeped  over  your  shoulder.  This  is 
not  your  first  time  of  looking  into  those 
pages.  You  have  looked  into  Swedenborg, 
no  doubt,  long  ago  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  yes !  I  owe  Swedenborg  a 
great  deal ;  you  will  discover  traces  of 
him  in  the  little  book  on  Metaphysical 
Medicine,  which  you  were  so  good  as  to 
remember." 

Although  my  Mend  affected  a  gaiety  of 
manner,  there  was  a  slight  flush  in  his 
face,  and  I  could  perceive  that  he  was  in« 
wai*dly  much  perturbed. 

"  I'm  scarcely  yet  qualified,  I  know  so 
little  of  Swedenborg.  I've  only  had  th^oi 
a  fortnight^"  ho  answered,  "  and  I  think 
they  are  rather  likely  to  make  a  solitary 
man  nervous — ^that  is,  judging  firom  the 
very  Httle  I  have  read — ^I  don't  say  that 
\\hss^  have  made  me  so,"  he  landed;  ''and 


==^ 


:^ 


Charles  Dickens.] 


GREEN  TEA. 


[October  30, 1S69.]        527 


Fin  so  very  much  obliged  for  the  book.    I 
hope  you  got  my  note  W* 

I  made  all  proper  acknowledgments  and 
modest  disclaimers. 

**I  never  read  a  book  that  I  go  with 
80  entirely  as  that  of  yours,'*  he  continued. 
**  I  saw  at  once  there  is  more  in  it  than  is 
quite  unfolded.  Do  you  know  Dr.  Harley  ?" 
he  asked,  rather  abruptly. 

In  passing,  the  editor  remarks  that  the 
physician  here  named  was  one  of  the  most 
eminent  who  over  practised  in  England. 

I  did,  having  had  letters  to  him,  and 
had  experienced  from  him  great  courtesy 
and  considerable  assistance  during  my  visit 
to  England. 

"I  think  that  man  one  of  the  veory 
gpreatest  fools  I  ever  met  in  my  life,'' 
flaid  Mr.  Jennings. 

This  waa  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard 
him  say  a  sharp  thing  of  anybody,  and 
mch  a  term  apjOied  to  so  high  a  name  a 
little  startled  me. 

"  Really  !  and  in  what  way  ?"  I  asked. 

^'  In  his  profession,"  he  answered. 

I  smiled. 

'*  I  mean  this,"  he  said :  ^^  he  seems  to 
me,  one  half,  blind — ^I  mean  one  half  of  all 
he  looks  at  is  dark — ^pretematurally  bright 
and  vivid  all  the  rest ;  and  the  worst  of  it 
is,  it  seems  wilful.  I  can't  get  him — ^I 
mean  he  won't — I've  had  some  experi- 
ence of  him  as  a  physician,  but  I  look  on 
him  as,  in  that  sense,  no  better  than  a 
paralytio  mind,  an  intellect  half  dead. 
I'll  tell  you — ^I  know  I  shall  some  time- 
all  about  it,"  he  said,  with  a  little  agita- 
tion. *' You.  stay  some  months  longer  in 
England.  If  I  should  be  out  of  town- 
dnzing  your  stay  for  a  little  time,  would 
you  allow  me  to-  trouble  you  with  a 
letter?" 

"  I  should  be  only  too  happy,"  I  assured 
him. 

"  Vo^  good  of  you.  I  am  so  utterly 
dissatisfied  with  Harley." 

''A  little  leaning  to  the  materialistic 
school,"  I  said. 

"  A  7ne7'e  materialist,"  he  corrected  me ; 
**yau  can't  think  how  that  sort  of  thing 
worries  one  who  knows  better.  You  won't 
toll  any  one — any  of  my  Mends  you  know 
^that  I  am  hippish;  now,  for  instance, 
no  one  knows — not  even  Lady  Mary — that 
J  I  have  seen  Dr.  Harley,  or  any  other  doctor. 
I  So  pray  don't  mention  it ;  and,  if  I  should 
have  any  threatening  of  an  attack,  you'll 
kindly  let  me  write,  or,  should  I  be  in 
town,  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

I  was  full  of    conjecture,   and  uncon- 


sciously I  found  I  liad  fixed  my  eyes 
gravely  on  him,  for  he  lowered  Ids  for  a 
moment,  and  he  said : 

''I  see  you  think  I  might  as  well  tell 
you  now,  or  else  you  are  forming  a  con- 
jecture; but  you  may  as  well  give  it  up. 
If  you  were  guessing  all  the  rest  of  your 
life,  you  will  never  hit  on  it." 

He  shook  his  head  smiling,  and  over 
that  wintry  sunshine  a  black  cloud  sud- 
denly came  down,  and  he  drew  his  breath 
in,  through  his  teeth,  as  men  do  in  pain. 

"  Sorry,  of  course,  to  learn  tluit  you 
apprehend  occasion  to  consult  any  of  us ; 
but^  command  me  when  and  how  you  like, 
and  I  need  not  assure  you  that  your  con- 
fidence is  sacred." 

He  then  talked  of  quite  other  things, 
and  in  a  comparatively  cheerful  way ;  and, 
after  a  little  time,  I  took  my  leave. 

CHAPTER  V.      DOCTOR  HESSELIUS  IS  SUMMONED 

TO  RICHMOND. 

We  parted  cheerfully,  but  he  was  not 
cheerful,  nor  was  I.  There  are  certain  ex- 
pressions of  that  powerful  organ  of  spirit 
— ^the  human  face — which,  iJthough  I  have 
seen  them  often,  and  possess  a  doctor's 
nerve,  yet  disturb  me  profoundly.  One 
look  of  Mr.  Jennings  haunted  me.  It  had 
seused  my  imagination  wii^  so  dismal  a 
power  tlutt  I  changed  my  plans  for  the 
evening,  and  went  to  the  operay  feeling 
that  I  wanted  a  change  of  ideas. 

I  heard  nothing  of  or  from  him  for  two 
or  three  days,  when  a  note  in  his  hand 
reached  me.  It  was  cheerful,  and  full  of 
hope.  He  said  that  he  had  been  for  some 
little  time  so  much  better — quite  well,  in 
fact — ^that  he  was  going  to  make  a  little 
experiment,  and  run  down  for  a  month  or 
so  to  his  pansh,  to  try  whether  a  little 
work  might  not  quite  set  him  up!  There 
was  in  it  a  fervent  rehgious  expression  of 
gratitude  for  his  restoration,  as  he  now 
almost  hoped  he  might  call  it. 

A  day  or  two  later  I  saw  Lady  Mary, 
who  repeated  what  his  note  had  announced, 
and  told  me  that  he  was  actually  in  War- 
wickshire, having  resumed  his  clerioal 
duties  at  Kenlis  ;  and  she  added,  **  I  begin 
to  think  that  he  is  really  perfectly  well, 
and  that  there  never  was  anything  the 
matter,  more  tlian  nerves  and  fancy;  wo 
are  all  nervous,  but  I  fancy  there  is  no- 
thing like  a  little  hard  work  for  that  kind- 
of  weakness,  and  ho  has  made  up  his  mind 
to  try  it.  I  should  not  bo  surprised  if  he 
did  not  come  back  for  a  year." 

NotwithRtfibuding  bMI  VlSoaa  dcyoSA^^^^fci 


<^ 


to 


528 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[October  so,  IMtJ 


two  days  later  I  had  this  note,  dated  from 
his  house  off  Piccadilly : 

**  Dear  sir.  I  have  returned  disap- 
pointed. K  I  should  feel  at  all  able  to 
see  you,  I  shall  write  to  ask  you  kindly  to 
call.  At  present  I  am  too  low,  and,  in 
fact,  simply  unable  to  say  all  I  wish  to  say. 
Pray  don*t  mention  my  name  to  my  friends. 
I  can  see  no  one.  By-and-by,  please  God, 
yon  shall  hear  from  me.  I  mean  to  take  a 
run  into  Shropshire,  where  some  of  my 
people  are.  Gfod  bless  you  !  May  we,  on 
my  return,  meet  more  happily  than  I  can 
now  write." 

About  a  week  after  this  I  saw  Lady 
Mary  at  her  own  house,  the  last  person, 
she  said,  left  in  town,  and  just  on  the  wing 
for  Brighton,  for  the  London  season  was 
quite  over.  She  told  me  that  she  had  heard 
from  Mr.  Jennings's  niece,  Martha,  in 
Shropshire.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
gathered  from  her  letter,  more  than  that 
he  was  low  and  nervous.  In  those  words, 
of  which  healthy  people  think  so  lightly, 
what  a  world  of  suffering  is  sometimes 
hidden ! 

Nearly  five  weeks  passed  without  any 
further  news  of  Mr.  Jennings.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  I  received  a  note  from  him. 
He  wrote: 

"  I  have  been  in  the  country,  and  have 
had  change  of  air,  change  of  scene,  change 
of  faces,  change  of  everything  and  in  every- 
thing— but  myself,  I  have  made  up  my 
mind,  so  far  as  the  most  irresolute  creature 
on  earth  can  do  it,  to  tell  my  ca«e  fully  to 
you.  If  your  engagements  will  permit, 
pray  come  to  me  to-day,  to-morrow,  or 
the  next  day;  but,  pray  defer  as  little 
as  possible.  You  know  not  how  much  I 
need  help.  I  have  a  quiet  house  at  Rich- 
mond, where  I  now  am.  Perhaps  you  can 
manage  to  come  to  dinner,  or  to  luncheon, 
or  even  to  tea.  You  shall  have  no  trouble 
in  finding  me  out.  The  servant  at  Blank- 
street,  who  takes  this  note,  will  have  a 
carriage  at  your  door  at  any  hour  you 
please ;  and  I  am  always  to  be  found.  You 
will  say  that  I  ought  not  to  be  alone.  I 
have  tried  everything.     Come  and  see." 

I  called  up  the  servant,  and  decided  on 
going  out  the  same  evening,  which  accord- 
mgly  I  did. 

He  would  have  been  much  better  in  a 
lodging-house,  or  a  hotel,  I  thought,  as  I 


drove  up  through  a  short  double  row  of 
sombre  elms  to  a  very  old-fiushioned  brick 
house,  darkened  by  the  foliage  of  these 
trees,  which  over-topped,  «nd  nearly  sur- 
rounded it  It  was  a  pervene  bhoice,  fi)r 
nothing  could  be  imagined  more  triste  and 
silent.  The  house,  I  found,  belong^  to  him. 
He  had  stayed  for  a  day  or  two  in  town, 
and,  finding  it  for  some  cause  insupportable 
had  come  out  here,  probably  because  being 
furnished  and  his  own,  he  was  relieved  of 
the  thought  and  delay  of  selectian,  by  oom^ 
ing  here. 

The  sun  had  already  set,  and  the  red 
reflected  light  of  the  western  sky  illumi- 
nated the  scene  with  the  peculiar  effect 
with  which  we  are  all  feTniliar.  The  hall 
seemed  very  dark,  but,  getting  to  the  back 
drawing-room,  whose  windows  command 
the  west^  I  was  again  in  the  same  dusky 
light.  I  sat  down,  looking  out  upon  the 
richly-wooded  landscape  that  glowed  in  the 
grand  and  melancholy  light  which  was 
every  moment  fading.  The  comers  of  the 
room  were  already  dark ;  all  was  growing 
dim,  and  the  gloom  was  insensibly  toning 
my  mind,  already  prepared  for  what  was 
sinister.  I  was  waiting  alone  for  his  ar- 
rival, which  soon  took  place.  The  door 
communicating  with  the  front  room  opened, 
and  the  tall  figure  of  Mr.  Jennings,  faintly 
seen  in  the  ruddy  twiHght,  came,  wi^  quiet 
stealthy  steps,  into  the  room. 

We  shook  hands,  and,  taking  a  chair  to 
the  window,  where  there  was  still  light 
enough  to  enable  us  to  see  each  other's 
faces,  he  sat  down  beside  me,  and,  ptacbig 
his  hand  upon  my  arm,  wiih.  scarcely  a 
word  of  preface,  bq^n  his  narrativa 

Now  Beady,  price  58.  6d.,  bound  in  gretn.  dotli, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

OV  THl  JSfXW  SXEIBS  09 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  bad  of  all  BookMllen. 

MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 

MESSBS.  CHAPPELLavd  CO.  bare  great  pleaimt 
in  announcing  that  Mk.  Chaelkb  Dicksss  wJUrettnna 
and  conclude  bit  interrupted  series  of  FAREWELL 
BEATINGS  at  St.  James'a  Hall,  London,  eariy  ia 
the  New  Year. 

The  Readings  will  be  Twxlyb  in  Numbsb,  and  none 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

All   communications   to    be   addressed  to  Messrs 
Chappxll  and  Co.,  60,  New  Bond-street,  W. 


TAd  Eiffki  of  Trantlating  AriieUtftim  KLLiiii^Xx^^^fij;^^^^!^  u  xu/sfwd  by  ike  Autkon. 


Ptablla|iadattlM01!loa,M,  WeUlngkmSt   Strand.    PT^n%ftA^O,^aBlB«^^•w^«^'^«■^'0l'al•>ifc-^^i«*^%' 


^^ 


jTE-ST0Rj:-0F-01JIVlreES.JItpM-Y^^R;T0-Y£^R^^ 


co;ioljCTtD-BY 

mmMs  mams 

WITH  WKICU  IS   IrJtOR^POfffTtD 

:URDAT,  NOVEMBER  G, 


VERONICA. 


BOOK  HL 

HE  BOiD  THAT  LED  NOWHITHER. 

Vert  near  to  Florence  is  the  valley  of 
the  Ema. 

The  Ema  is  a  email  stream  ivliicli  strik- 
ingly contradicts  the  proverb,  "  As 
make  your  bed,  bo  yon  mast  He  on 
the  bed  the  Ema  haa  formed  for  itself 
being  a  valley  a  mile  or  so  broad  in  som« 
places,  reckoning  from  hill  to  hill ;  and 
the  little  river  trickling  through  it  now-a- 
days,  in  a  disproportionately  small  channel, 
which  may  be  (and  w  in  more  than  one 
part  of  its  conrse)  Kpanned  by  a  bridge  of 
a  aingle  Bimtll  arch.  The  ridge  of  hills 
dividing  the  valley  of  the  Ema  from  that 
of  the  Arno  is  well  known  by  sight  to  most 
of  the  many  strangers  who  go  to  FJorence. 
Few  casual  visitors,  however,  cross  tjie 
ridge.  The  landscape  seen  from  its  snm- 
mit  is  peculiarly  Tuscan,  and  to  the  un- 
accustomed eye  there  is  something  drear 
and  melancholy  mingling  with  its  beauty. 
After  a  time  that  impression  is  much 
softened.  The  peculiar  delicacy  of  coloor- 
ing;  the  long  VLsta.^  of  hills  that  fold  like 
clouds  one  over  the  other,  and  present 
nearly  as  much  variety  of  outline  as  the 
clouds  themselves ;  the  countless  towers, 
villas,  and  churches  that  He  scattered  over 
the  scene,  and  peep  forth  from  amid  the 
hoary  olive-trees ;  combine   to  charm  the 

We  como  to  ham  the  loveliness  as  wo 
learn  the  expression  of  a  face  whose 
stranger  aspect  was  bo  diiferent  from  its 
known  and  familiar  one,  that  the  recollec- 
tion of  onr  first  impreasioa  startles  OS. 
ggg»^g^-— ^''      JCaiSsaSB      I  II    lib. 

rata 


The  great  enchantment  of  this  Tuscan 
landscape  lies  in  the  atmosphere  through 
which  it  is  viewed.  The  wonderful  Hghts 
and  shades,  the  exquisite  tints,  the  limpid 
clearness  of  the  skies,  are  inestimable  in 
their  effect  upon  the  scenery.  In  a  winter 
afternoon  at  sunset,  the  bare,  distant  Ap- 
penines  ore  touched  with  such  ethereal 
hues — snch  Hlacs,  silvery  greys,  blues,  and 
rose-colours — that  they  look  like  mother- 
of-pearl  mountains  in  some  fairy  story. 
Not  Hope  herself  can  more  delusively 
beautify  the  barren  distaaco  than  does  this 
southern  air. 

Then,  as  the  snn  goes  down,  and  the 
brief  twilight  deepens,  there  grows  a  solemn 
pnrplo  on  the  hills :  a  colour  that  seems,  in 
its  intense  bloomy  depth,  to  fold  around 
them  like  a  cloud-garment.  It  is  not  that 
the  hills  grow  purple,  but  that  the  great 
pttrple  descends  and  wraps  itself  about  the 
liills.  Or,  in  the  early  summer  days,  what 
a  fathomless  ocean  of  dazzHng  blue  is  it  that 
the  swallows  sail  across !  Bright,  rapid, 
gladsome  little  skiffs  npou  that  silent  sea  ! 
Every  projecting  atone  in  the  cottages  is 
precious,  casting  as  it  does  an  island  of 
black  shadow  on  the  glare  of  wall  or  road. 
Tlie  springing  wheat  is  almost  too  emerald- 
bright  to  be  gased  upon.  Beside  the  ■ 
burnt  brown  tower  on  the  bill,  stand  the 
strong  cypresses,  writing  dark  characters 
against  the  shimmering  sky— hieroglyphics 
which  different  eyes  so  differently  inter- 
pret, and  which  to  some  rcmaiu  dumb  and 
unread  for  ever. 

is  June.  Through  the  vale  of  Ema 
ripples  the  shrunken  river  among  the 
parched,  thirsty  sand.  Here  and  there  comes 
a  stretch  that  seems  to  have  absorbed  the 
ittle  stream.  Ton  can  cross  it  drj-^hfli- 
But,  lo '.  aoms  Sni\or.igi  (iS,  i.\.  -§«fts.  ■am^i-N 
garg\ea  once  moTe  mm4  'OQa  tccia.   "i'^^ 


* 


^ 


530      [November  6, 1889.] 


ALL  THE  YEAH  ROUND. 


tCondueCed  by 


frogs  keep  tip  an  incessant  cry,  tremulous 
and  guttural ;  and  now  and  then  one  of 
them  plashes  luxuriousljr  into  idie  oool 
water  beneath  the  «hadow  of  the  bank. 
The  dcala,  in  his  bronze  coat  of  mail, 
8ends&r6li.a  shrill  sound,  like  the  spring- 
ing ctf  an  infinitelj  tiny  rattle  made  of  tlie 
finest  eteel.  It  seems  to  be  to  the  ear  what 
.the  hot  quivering  of  the  air  is  to  the  eye, 
and  to  be  equally  suggestive  of  sunshine. 
Swarms  of  coloured  butterflies  flutter 
brightly  around.  Orange,  crimson,  blue, 
white,  puiyle,  yellow — if  a  rainbow  could 
fall  from  the  b1^,  and  be  scattered  into  a 
thousand  'fragments  as  it  fell,  it  could 
shower  down  no  bright  tint  these  winged 
flowers  would  fail  to  match. 

On  the  dry,  dusty,  crumbling  paths  that 
climb  the  hills  bounding  the  valleys,  the 
light  beats  fiercely.  The  grass  is  parched 
and  sparsely  grown,  and  dry.  Here  and 
there  gUtters  a  bunch  of  glaring  yellow 
weeds,  made  bold  and  flaunting  by  the 
munificent  sun,  like  a  coarse  favourite  of 
fortune.  Little  cold  bright-eyed  lizards  ghde 
in  and  out  of  the  chinks  in  the  rough  stone 
walls  that  flank  the  main  roads.  Some  of 
the  Hzards  are  as  green  as  emeralds.  Others, 
again,  are  of  the  same  hue  as  the  brownest 
of  the  blocks  of  stone.  Sometimes  they  will 
remain  as  motionless  as  the  stone  itself, 
gazing  with  their  round,  unwinking,  black 
diamonds  of  eyes,  until  the  passer-by  might 
think  that  they  were  hardened  and  baked 
stiff"  and  stony  by  the  heat.  But  suddenly, 
at  some  sound  or  sight  which  startles  it — 
or,  it  may  be,  from  pure  caprice — the  little 
reptile  flits  away  as  swifl  and  noiseless  as  a 
flash  of  Hght,  and  is  gone. 

Over  the  top  of  the  wall  tumbles  a  laden 
branch  of  roses,  or  the  starry  clematis. 
The  wheat  is  high,  and  the  green  vines, 
full  of  leaf,  liang  richly  on  the  pollard 
mulberry-stems.  The  grey  ohve  stands  up 
to  his  middle  in  a  sea  of  grain.  The  corn 
and  wine  and  oil  all  grow  together  on  the 
same  fertile  field.  Everytliing  is  steeped  in 
sunhght.  Only  the  ohve's  silvery  foliage 
conveys  a  thought  of  coolness.  It  is  always 
a  momiligld  tree.  In  the  sultriest  summer 
noontide,  its  soft  grey  tint,  and  the  fantastic 
weirdness  of  its  shadowy  form  (especially 
in  the  older  trees,  which  have  been  scooped 
and  cut  untU  nothing  but  a  seemingly 
unsubstantial  shell  of  trunk  remains  to 
them),  and  the  trembling,  feathery  plume 
of  branches,  recal  the  cold  bright  pallor  of 
the  moon,  that  makes  the  shuddering 
lowers  BO  wan  and  bloomlcss  when  the 
njffht  breeze  ruSLea  their  dewy  breaata. 


Brought  and  a  sultry  silence,  which  ihe 
cicala's  aiy  seems  but  to  emphasise,  not 
break,  prevail  along  the  dusty  road,  as  we 
wander  sSLang  the  £ma's  course,  farther  and 
still  further  away  from  the  fair  city  of  Flo- 
rence, going  eastward.  Presentl^^^'srith  many 
a  labouring  creak  and  jar,  comes  lumbering 
by,  a  clumsy  country  cart,  drawn  by  two 
of  the  colossal,  dove-coloured  Tuscan  oxen. 
The  driver — or  he  who  should  be  driving, 
rather — lies  asleep  under  a  shady  awn- 
ing of  matting  at  the  bottom,  of  lois  rude 
vehicle.  The  cart  is  one  'idiidh  might  have 
beecQ  copied  inch  for  inc^  £ram  a  !Roman 
bas-reliof,  and  has  ffeen  copied  through  a 
long  series  of  models  from  the  cart  that  bore 
home  the  produce  of  the  teeming  Italian  soil 
in  Horace's  day.  The  docile  heavy  beasts 
that  draw  it,  turn  their  grand  dark  eyes 
askance  upon  the  passenger  as  they  meet 
him,  and  blow  a  fragrant  breath  from  moist^ 
ample  nostrils. 

Following  the  windings  of  the  road, 
which  now  runs  for  a  short  space  on  the 
level,  close  to  the  Ema,  we  come  to  a 
steep  ascent  on  the  right,  leading  up  to 
the  sunmiit  of  one  of  tho  highest  emi- 
nences overlooking  the  valley.  Instead 
of  sloping  gently  down  towards  the  river, 
as  most  of  the  neighbouring  hills  do,  this 
one  terminates  on  the  side  of  the  Ema 
in  an  abrupt  precipice.  The  steep  ascent 
before  mentioned  leaves  the  main  highway 
to  climb  this  height.  The  road  is  narrow, 
strewn  thickly  with  great  smooth  pebbles, 
like  the  bed  of  a  torrent,  and  only  kept 
from  crumbling  bodily  down  into  the  vallej 
in  summer,  or  being  washed  away  by  the 
rain  in  winter,  by  horizontal  lines  of  rough 
stone  paving,  placed  like  the  rungs  of  a 
ladder,  which  succeed  each  other  at  wide 
intervals,  and  afford  a  foothold  to  any  laden 
mule  that  may  be  driven  up  or  down. 
To  wheels,  the  road  is  quite  inaccessible. 
Arrived  on  the  summit,  it  turns  abruptly 
to  the  left  between  high  stone  walls,  within 
which  the  soil  is  so  much  higher  than  the 
road — a  common  circumstance  in  Tuscan 
farms — that  the  com  and  wild  flowers 
peep  over  tho  top  of  the  wall,  and  the  olives 
and  fruit-trees  rear  nearly  their  whole 
height  above  it  The  walls  and  the  foliage 
shut  out  all  glimpse  of  the  view  to  right  or 
left;  but  presently  we  come  to  an  open 
space,  a  little  piazzetta,  and  the  wide  land- 
scape bursts  upon  us.  It  is  so  bright  and 
airy  and  unexpected,  that  we  feel  as  though 
we  had  come  out  of  a  dark  room  into  the 
daylight.  Wo  are  on  the  topmost  ridge  of 
\  \x.  \m&  ol  \d\la  that  slope  down  on  either 


I 


=^ 


ft> 


Oharlcs  Dickons.] 


VERONICA. 


[November  6, 1860.J      531 


hand — tliis  way  toward  the  Ema,  that  way 
toward  the  Arno. 

Close,  here  in  the  foregronnd,  is  a  tiny 
church  with  a  low  campanile,  or  bell- tower, 
on  its  roof.  It  is  the  church  of  Saint  John 
in  Jerusalem.  But  the  neighbouring  pea- 
sants know  it  by  no  other  name  than  San 
Gersole,  that  being  the  popular  contraction 
of  the  ten  syllables  necessary  to  the  pro- 
nunciation of  San  Giovanni  in  Gerusa- 
Icmme.  In  front  of  the  church  lies  the 
little  piazzetta,  bounded  on  the  side  opposite 
to  the  church-door  by  a  low  parapet  wall, 
and  entirely  surrounded  by  huge  cypresses. 
Beyond  this  parapet  what  a  dream  of 
purple  hills,  veiled  slightly  here  and  there 
hy  a  silveiT  gauze  of  hot  mist !  What  a 
widening  plain,  ever  widening  toward  the 
sea,  that  is  green  near  at  hand,  and  then 
in  the  distance  bluisli-grey,  and  holds  Arno, 
sleepily  flowing  on  his  course,  brightening 
it  with  rare  gleams  reflected  from  the  sky ! 
What  a  vision  of  a  city,  whose  house-roofs 
seem  to  press  and  throng  like  a  holiday 
crowd,  and  of  an  awful  dome,  and  soaring 
towers  and  spires,  and  churches  and  pa- 
laces, and  old  arched  gateways,  showing 
burnt  and  brown  as  colossal  fragments  of 
Etruscan  pottery !  What  a  dazzling  speck 
of  whiteness  on  the  far  horizon,  that  looks 
like  a  wandering  cloud,  but  is  the  jagged 
line  of  the  Carrara  marble  mountains  many 
a  mile  away !  What  a  strange  melancholy 
charm  as  the  eye  explores  the  naked  Appe- 
nine^  discrowned  long  ages  of  his  rich  regal 
wreath  of  woods,  rearing  parched  and 
crumbling  heights  to  the  relentless  sun, 
and  with  black  gashes  of  shadow  where  a 
deep  ravine  winds  its  mysterious  way  into 
the  central  stronghold  of  the  hills  !  What 
a  waveless  sea  of  azure  air,  into  whose 
limpid  depths  the  very  soul  seems  to  plunge 
and  float  as  we  gaze  !  And  subtly  steeping 
all  this  in  a  flood  of  glory,  what  a  divinely 
terrible,  divinely  beneficent,  dazzling,  flam- 
ing, white-hot  sunsliinc  ! 

Drought,  and  a  sultry  silence,  shaking  to 
the  shrill  song  of  the  cicala,  as  we  stand 
and  gaze. 

Suddenly  a  jangling  bell  breaks  forth 
discordantly,  tip  in  the  square  campanile 
of  San  Gersol^  it  is  swinging  in  uneasy 
jerks — ting- tang,  ting- tang,  jingle-jangle 
jingle — without  any  rhythm. 

Out  of  the  dark  little  church  comes  a 
procession.  Two  priests  ;  boys  in  white 
surplices  swinging  censers ;  men  carrying 
a  lofty  crimson  banner  bearing  the  painted 
miracle  of  some  saint ;  and  some  dozen  or  so 
of  peasant   men    and  women   (the  latter 


largely  predominating)  in  holiday  attire, 
carrying  missals,  and  shouting  foi^th  a 
Latin  hymn  in  a  quaint,  monotonous  chant. 
Bound  the  little  piazza  they  march  so- 
lemnly, sending  up  curling  clouds  of  in- 
cense into  the  leafy  darkness  of  the  cy- 
presses, and  jealously  edging  on  to  every 
inch  of  shade  as  they  walk  slowly,  bare- 
headed, under  the  summer  sky.  Once, 
twice,  three  times,  they  make  the  circuit  of 
the  piazza.  Then  the  dark  church  door 
swallows  them  again.  The  bell  ceases  to 
jangle,  and  the  last  whifi*  of  incense  floats 
away  into  the  air. 

Standing  with  San  Gersole  on  the  left, 
and  the  parapet  wall  on  the  right,  and 
looking  straight  before  us,  whither  does  the 
road  lead  ? 

"  Nowhither,"  answers  an  old  contadino, 
who  has  been  tending  his  cows  in  a  shed 
close  at  hand.  Cows  know  no  difference 
between  work  days  and  feast  days;  but 
need  their  fodder  and  litter  all  the  same, 
though  it  he  the  festa  of  the  saint  whose 
legend  is  commemorated  on  the  crimson 
b^ner.  Therefore  the  old  contadino  has 
been  tending  them,  with  a  large  apron 
made  of  coarse  blue  linen  tied  over  his 
hohday  clothes.  And  if  you  ask  him  again 
whither  the  road  leads,  he  will  still  answer 
"  nowhither."  You  do  not  "  come  out,"  he 
says;  the  road  leads  nowhithor,  save — as 
if  you  press  him  hard  with  questions  he 
will  be  driven  to  tell  you — ^to  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  precipice  that  overhangs  the 
valley  of  the  Ema. 

But  is  there  nothing,  then,  between  San 
Gersole  and  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  save 
a  strip  of  road  leading  nowhither?  Ah, 
truly,  yes :  there  is  a  garden ;  a  large 
garden.  And  there  is  a  house;  a  large 
house ;  the  Villa  Chiari.  Oh,  yes,  as  to 
that ;  yes,  yes.  But  the  road — ^what  would 
you  ? — leads  nowhitJier. 

Proceeding  along  it,  nevertheless,  we 
reach  a  forlorn-looking,  grass-grown  space. 
The  grass  is  burnt  straw-colour,  and  a  foot- 
path is  worn  across  it.  The  footpath  shows 
the  bare  brown  earth  beaten  and  baked 
quite  hard.  Across  it  streams  an  endless 
procession  of  big  black  ants — ^as  zealously 
busy  a  crowd  pressing  importantly  along 
the  road  tliat  "  loads  nowhither,"  as  you 
shall  ever  have  seen  even  in  Fleet-street, 
London  City.  No  other  living  thing  is  to 
be  beheld,  not  even  a  butterfly;  but  the 
cicala  still  springs  his  tiny  steel  rattle  in 
the  sultry  silence.  n\ 

Before  us  is  a  Vv\^  -^k-oJ^^  ^V'a^^  ^^'^^'^  ^^ 
is  crum\Amg  i^iA  ^^\vTii^  ^"^^    '^V^^^  «x^    \ 


^. 


&! 


53 


o 


[November  6,  1&69] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CondacteU  hj 


massive  iron  gates,  worked  by  some  cuti- 
ning  ai'tizan  of  tlie  old  Florentine  time, 
rusty  and  bent,  and  partly  off  their  hinges. 
One-half  of  the  gate  stands  open.  It  must 
have  stood  open  this  many  a  long  day — 
many  a  long  year,  perhaps — for  the  grass 
has  grown  around  it  thickly,  and  one  side 
of  it  is  partly  buried  in  the  soil,  and  a 
colony  of  wild-flowers  has  sprung  up  in 
the  shelter  of  its  crooked  shadow.  On 
either  side  of  the  gate  hangs  down  a 
tangled  mass  of  leaves  and  branches  cloth- 
ing the  unsightly  wall,  and  nearly  hiding 
a  marble  tablet  —  moss-grown  and  dis- 
coloured— whereon  are  graven  the  words 
"  Villa  Chiari,"  surmounted  by  an  elaborate 
coat  of  arms.  The  ivy,  dog-rose,  and 
honeysuckle,  are  all  matted  together,  so  as 
to  form  a  thick  screen  over  the  tablet.  But 
it  matters  the  less,  in  that  this  is  not  the 
grand  entrance  to  the  house.  No  one 
enters  by  this  old  gate,  save  the  contadini 
belonging  to  the  adjacent  farm.  On  the 
other  side  is  a  good  road,  well  engineered, 
and  mounting  by  duo  zigzags  to  a  green 
painted  gateway,  and  a  gravelled  sweep 
before  the  portico. 

But  that  is  a  long  way  off,  and  there  are 
some  acres  of  garden  ground  between  the 
road  that  "  leads  no  whither "  and  that 
which  officially  conducts  to  Villa  Chiari. 

In  the  old  times  many  a  lady*s  palfrey, 
and  many  a  churchman's  ambling  mule, 
and  many  a  rich  litter  borne  by  lackeys, 
and  holding  a  luxurious  Medicean  noble, 
may  have  passed  along  the  old  steep  way. 
Then,  the  fine  scroll-work  of  the  iron  gates 
cast  the  black  tracery  of  its  shadow  on  fair 
faces  and  bright  hair  glistening  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  made  them  fairer  and  more 
bright  by  contrast.  And  they,  too,  have 
gone  their  way  along  the  road  that  "  leads 
nowhither,"  and  the  sculptured  marble  is 
white  above  their  tombs,  and  the  wild 
flowers  twine  fearlessly  around  the  un- 
hinged gate. 

We  pass  the  gateway  and  find  ourselves 
in  a  neglected  garden — neglected  in  this 
part  of  it,  that  is ;  for  near  the  house  the 
walks  are  rolled  and  weeded,  and  the  flower- 
beds are  as  trim  and  bright  as  patterns  in  a 
kaleidoscope.  But  here  are  paths  all  over- 
grown with  greenery ;  tangled  thickets  of 
laurestinum,  lilac,  rose,  and  oleander.  There 
is  a  pergola,  or  trellis,  covered  with  vines. 
And  the  eglantine  and  clematis  and  cling- 
ing honeysuckle  have  usurped  its  support, 
and  pushed  their  fragrant  faces  peeringly 
j'n  hero  and  there  amid  the  leaves  and  the 
grape  blossoms.    From  the  bosky  gloom  oi 


a  grove  of  acacia  and   ilex-trees,  thickly 
undergrown   with  laurel  and  lilac;  comes 
the   mellow  fluting  trill  of  a  nightingale, 
like  the  perfume  out  of  the  heart  of  a  rose. 
Now  and  again   is  heard   the   flutter   of 
wings,  as  some  little  brooding  bird  stirs  in 
his  noonday  dream,  and  then  is  still  again. 
Onward  we  wander  beneath  the  freshness 
of  the  pergola ;  then  out  again  into  the  fiery 
air.      Still  onward,  past  a  broken  marble 
basin,  once  a  fountain,  where  a  tiny  stream 
of  water  drips  out  of  a  crevice  and  makes  a 
green  track  in  the  parched  herbage ;  and 
where  a  harmless  snake  is  sunning  himself 
asleep.     And  we  come  to  a  deep  blot  of 
shadow  that  shows  against  the  glare  of  the 
ground,  like  a  black  mountain  tarn  amid 
snow.  The  shadow  is  thrown  fix)m  an  ancient 
cypress  that  stands,   lonely  as  a  sentinel, 
upon  the  brink  of  the  precipice,  at  the  end 
of  the  road  that  "  leads  nowhither."    And 
in  the  shadow  sits  a  lady,  young  and  bean- 
tifui,  looking  out  at  the  far-away  Appenine, 
and  quite  alone. 


CHAPTER  II.   VILLA  CHURI. 

The  lady  sitting  in  tho  shadow  was 
Veronica.  She  wore  a  Tuscan  hat  with  a 
wide  flapping  brim,  such  as  the  peasant 
women  wear.  And  beneath  it,  her  eyes 
gleamed  and  her  checks  glowed  brighter 
than  ever.  She  had  wrapped  a  white 
burnous  as  fine  as  gossamer  around  her 
shoulders,  and  sat  huddled  together  under 
the  cypress  with  her  elbows  resting  on 
her  knees,  and  her  cheeks  resting  on  her 
hands.  It  was  shady  beneath  the  cy- 
press, but  it  was  not  cool.  No  spot  to 
which  tho  hot  sun-impregnated  air  had  free 
access  could  bo  cool.  Still,  Vcsronica  sat 
there  looking  out  at  the  far-away  barren 
Appeniue,  with  her  elbows  resting  on  her 
knees,  and  her  cheeks  resting  on  her  hands. 

A  man  came  through  the  garden  towards 
her;  a  short,  thick-set,  grey-haired  mas, 
staid  and  respectful,  who  bared  his  head  in 
the  sunshine  as  he  addressed  her. 

"  Signora !"  said  the  grey-haired  man; 
and  then  stood  still  and  waited. 

Veronica  neither  turned  her  head  nor 
her  eyes  towards  him.  But  her  colour  rose 
a  very  little,  and  through  her  parted  lips 
the  breath  came  quicker. 

"Miladi!"  said  the  grey-haired  man. 
No  shade  of  difference  could  be  discovered 
in  his  tone.  It  was  the  same  to  him, 
whether  he  used  the  one  title  or  the  other. 
K  this  lady  preferred  the  English  one,  why 
\&\vo\\\dL  ^\i^\vot  have  it?   He  had  learned 


^ 


& 


C3i&rles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[Norember  6, 1869.]       533 


that  she  liked  it  best ;  but  lie  was  very  far 
indeed  from  understanding  why. 

"What  is  it,  Paul?" 

"  Pardon,  miladi,  but  Sir  John,  on  awak- 
ing fix>m  his  siesta,  demanded  to  know 
where  you  were ;  and  when  I  told  him  that 
I  supposed  you  were  beneath  the  accustomed 
cypress,  sent  me  to  pray  you  to  come  in." 

Paul  spoke  in  Italian — which  was  nearly 
as  much  a  foreign  language  as  English  to 
his  Piedmontese  tongue — and  addressed  her 
with  perfect  respect,  but  with  an  indefin- 
able air  of  taking  it  for  granted  that  she 
would  comply  with  any  expressed  wish  of 
Sir  John's,  which  grated  on  the  sensitive 
soreness  of  her  haughty  spirit. 

"  I  am  very  well  here,  and  shall  remain," 
said  Veronica,  briefly.  Then  she  turned 
her  eyes  away  (she  had  never  relinquished 
her  careless  attitude)  and  seemed  to  dis- 
miss liim  from,  her  thoughts. 

"It  is  bad  to  stay  here  in  the  heat, 
miladi,"  •returned  Paul.  He  spoke  with 
the  same  calm,  imperturbable  air  of  know- 
ing his  duty  and  doing  it,  which  he  had 
assumed  towards  Sir  John  Gale  in  the 
most  irritable  moments  of  his  illness. 

"I  am  in  the  shade,"  said  Veronica. 
And  when  she  had  said  it,  she  bit  her  lip 
at  having  been  betrayed  into  what  seemed 
like  an  excuse  or  apology. 

Paul  gravely  unfurled  a  huge  yellow 
sunshade  lined  with  purple,  which  he  had 
brought  with  him.  It  was  characteristic 
of  the  man,  and  of  the  perfect  sense  he  had 
of  his  own  position,  that,  albeit  his  bare 
head  was  scorching  in  the  glare,  ho  had 
never  thought  of  unfurling  the  sunshade  for 
his  own  use. 

It  came  into  the  month's  wages  to  endure 
personal  inconvenience  of  some  sort.  A 
little  roasting,  a  little  freezing,  a  little  wet- 
ing — what  mattered?  There  was  that 
village  up  in  the  Alps,  and  there  were  the 
two  Doys  waiting  to  be  educated  to  a  point 
that  would  make  them  independent  of  such 
disagreeq,ble  exertions  and  sacrifices. 

Paul  put  up  the  yellow  umbrella,  and 
held  it  over  V  eronica's  head ;  he  seemed 
so  absolutely  certain  that  she  would  get  up 
off  the  ground  and  come  with  him  into  the 
house,  that  she  rose  as  though  some  spell 
were  moving  her  limbs.  Suddenly  the 
wilful,  spoiled-child  mood  came  upon  her, 
and  she  threw  herself  down  again  beneath 
the  tree,  saying,  "Go  and  get  me  some 
cushions  and  a  shawl.  I  shall  stay  here. 
I  am  enjoying  the  view." 

"  In  the  evening,  signora — miladi — ^it  is 
very  fine  here.   Now,  the  sun  will  bum  your 


skin,  and  spoil  your  eyes.  It  is  not  like  in 
England,  miladi;  at  this  hour  in  the  summer, 
even  up  on  a  height  like  tliis,  it  is  not  good 
to  be  out  in  the  sunshine.  It  makes  the  wo- 
men look  old  soon.     See  our  coutadine  !" 

"With  this  masterly  stroke,  Paul  gravely 
bent  down,  hat  in  hand,  and  held  his  arm 
out  for  Veronica  to  lean  on  when  she  should 
rise — and  she  did  rise. 

Paul  walked  a  pace  behind  her  holding 
the  umbrella,  and  they  proceeded  towards 
the  house.  Instead  of  passing  beneath  the 
pergola,  they  turned  on  reaching  the  old 
fountain — where  their  footsteps  disturbed 
the  snake,  that  slid  away  at  their  approach 
into'  the  dry  grass — to  the  hjft,  and  en- 
tered a  patli  leading  through  a  shrubbery. 
Hero  the  walks  were  neat,  the  grass 
clipped,  and  the  flowers  duly  tended.  The 
grounds  had  not  the  fresh  perfection  of  an 
English  garden.  There  was  a  want  of 
finish  about  all  the  details — ^the  fiboish  that 
comes  from  doing  thoroughly  whatever  is 
done — ^but  nature  had  filled  the  place  with 
light,  and  colour,  and  perfrime,  and  it  was 
very  lovely.  At  a  turn  in  the  path  the 
house  came  in  view.  Villa  Chiari  was  an 
old  and  vast  building,  solid,  heavy,  and 
with  few  windows  in  proportion  to  the 
great  extent  of  wall-space.  This  circum- 
stance, which  would  make  a  house  gloomy 
in  a  northern  climate,  is  suggestive  only  of 
grateful  shade  and  coolness,  to  a  dweller 
beneath  Italian  skies.  Wealth  had.  been 
unsparingly  employed  wUhin  the  Villa  to 
make  it  a  comfortable  and  luxurious  resi- 
deuce,  in  accordance  with  modem  English 
ideas  of  what  is  comfortable  and  luxurious : 
but  withoiU,  Villa  Chiari  remained  much 
as  it  had  been  any  time  these  three  hun- 
dred years.  It  was  covered  with  yellowish 
plaster.  Situated  as  the  house  was,  on  a 
height,  and  fronting  to  the  north,  it  had 
become  much  stained  by  wind  and  weather. 
The  plaster  was  discoloured,  cracked,  and, 
in  some  places,,  had  peeled  off  altogether, 
revealing  a  rough  solid  wall  constructed  of 
mingled  brick  and  stone,  after  the  Tuscan 
fashion.  To  each  window  were  double 
wooden  sliuttcrs  or  jalousies,  painted  gi^een. 
These  were  open  on  the  side  of  the  house 
that  was  in  sliadow,and  were  carefully  closed 
whenever  the  sun's  rays  beat  against  them 
like  a  flight  of  burning  arrows.  All  the 
windows  on  the  basement  story  were  pro- 
tected against  more  earthly  assailants,  by 
massive  wrought-iron  bars. 

Immediately  beneath  each  of  the  lovi^t  ^ 
windows  waa  a  ^toaa  \icviOsv^  *Cw^  ^a.^^  ^^  ^ 
colour  o£  YfYv\x^^%&  ^^enc^s^&kVi^VjXsrL'^So^ 


/ 


<tfi 


s^ 


5^      [NoTember  C,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[C<mdaete4  hj 


lichens.  A  large  archway,  closed  by  double 
doors,  in  the  centre  of  the  facade,  gave 
access  to  a  paved  courtyard  open  to  the 
sky.  Around  tlio  conrtyard  ran  an  open 
arcade — called  here  a  loggia — and  from  it 
opened  various  doors  leading  to  the  interior 
of  the  dwelling.  The  roof  was  covered 
with  ancient  tiles,  mellowed  into  a  rich 
sombre  brown  by  time  and  sunshine.  And 
from  it,  at  one  end  of  the  building,  rose  a 
square  tower,  also  tiled,  and  with  over- 
hanging penthouse  eaves. 

There  was  something  melancholy  and 
forlorn  in  the  exterior  aspect  of  the  house. 
The  crumbling  plaster,  the  shut  jalousies, 
the  moss-grown  uneven  pavement  before  the 
door,  the  brooding  stillness  that  hung  over 
the  whole  place — a  stiUncsa  that  seemed  of 
death  rather  than  sleep — were  all  depress- 
ing. 

Paul  held  open  a  low  door,  beneath  the 
loggia^  for  Veronica  to  pass. 

Sho  entered  a  sliady  corridor,  whoso 
marble  pavement  seemed  icy  cold  to  one 
coming  from  witliout.  A  moment  ago  she 
had  longed  for  shade  and  coolness.  Now, 
the  air  of  tho  house  struck  chill,  and  sho 
shuddered,  drawing  the  cloak  around  her. 

At  tho  end  of  the  con*idor  was  a  large 
saloon.  The  floor  was  still  covered  with  a 
rich  and  very  thick  carpet,  contrary  to 
Italian  usage,  which  requires  that  all 
carpets  bo  removed  from  the  marble  or 
painted  brick  floors,  in  summer.  There 
were  luxurious  chairs,  and  sofas,  and  otto- 
mans ;  cabinets  of  rare  workmanship  and 
costly  materials;  silken  hangings  and  gold- 
framed  mirrors  in  the  saloon.  It  had  a 
lofty,  vaulted  ceiling  adorned  with  colossal 
stucco  garlands,  white  on  a  blue  ground. 
The  air  was  faint  with  the  rich  perfume  of 
flowers,  disposed  in  massive  groups  about 
tlie  room ;  and  only  a  dim  sea-green  twi- 
light filtered  in  through  the  closed  jalousies. 

Sir  John  Gale  was  lying  on  a  couch 
when  Veronica  entered.  He  rose  when  she 
appeared,  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  to  a 
chair.  He  was  more  high-shouldered  than 
ever,  and  lean ;  and  in  the  greenish  light 
his  face  looked  ghastly.  Paul  had  followed 
Veronica  to  his  master's  presence,  and  had 
waited  an  instant ;  but  at  a  wave  of  Sir 
John's  hand  ho  had  withdrawn,  closing  the 
door  noiselessly  after  him. 

Veronica  tossed  her  broad-brimmed  hat 
on  to  an  ottoman  near  her,  and  throw  her- 
self back  in  her  chair  with  on  air  of  con- 
snmmate  languor. 
Sir  John  ^8  eyes  were  accustomed  to  tl[io 
dimness.     He  could  see  her  better  than  sKe 


could  see  him,  and  he  watched  her  with  a 
half-admiring,  half-savage  glance. 

"  You  have  been  out,"  he  said,  after  a 
silence  of  some  minutes. 

She  slightly  bent  her  head. 

"  I  thought  that  you  had  been  taking  a 
siesta,  in  your  own  apartments." 

She  made  a  negative  sign  without 
speaking. 

"Am  I  not  deemed  worthy  of  the  honour 
of  a  word?"  asked  Sir  John  ;  and  though 
his  mouth  smiled  as  he  said  it,  his  eyebrows 
frowned. 

"  Too  hot  to  talk !"  murmured  Veronica* 

"  If  you  had  remained  indoors,  as  I  have 
so  frequently  advised,  at  this  hour,  you 
would  not  now  have  been  overcome  by  the 
heat,  which  is,  of  course,  my  first  consider- 
ation ;  and  I  should  have  enjoyed  the  plea- 
sure of  your  conversation." 

Veronica  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
smiled  disdainfully. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,  said  Sir 
John,  answering  the  smile  with  a  sneer 
Mephistopheles  might  have  owned.  "  Per- 
haps you  would  not  have  made  yourself 
agreeable  if  you  had  stayed  in.  But  at  all 
events  you  would  have  done  more  wisely 
for  yourself.  You  positively  run  the  risk 
of  getting  a  coup  de  soleil  by  running  out 
in  this  incautious  manner  !" 

Veronica  sighed  a  little  impatient  sigh,, 
and  pulling  down  a  rich  plait  of  her  hair,, 
drew  its  glossy  length  languidly  across  and 
across  her  lips. 

"Magnificent!"  said  Sir  John,  softly,, 
after  contemplating  her  for  some  time. 

She  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  Magnificent  hair  !  Quantify,  quality, 
and  hue,  all  superb !  I  never  knew  but  one 
other  woman  with  such  an  abundance  of 
hair  as  you  have.  And  hers  was  blonde^ 
which  I  don't  admire." 

Tho  expression  of  his  admiration  had  not 
lost  its  power  to  charm  her.  Indeed  it 
may  be  said  that  to  hear  her  beauty  praised 
by  any  hps,  however  felso  and  coarse, 
was  now  the  one  delight  of  her  life.  That 
tho  flattery  was  poisoned,  she  knew,  as  the 
drunkard  knows  what  bane  he  swallows  in 
each  fiery  draught.  But  sho  turned  from 
it  no  more  than  he  refrains  from  the  fifital 
^vine-cup.  Her  face  brightened,  and  sho 
coquettishly  released  all  the  coils  of  her 
hair  with  a  sudden  turn  of  her  hand.  It 
fell  in  plaits,  or  loose  rippling  tresses,  all 
around  her.  Sir  John  looked  on  compla- 
cently with  a  sense  of  ownership. 
\     "Will  you  drive  this  evening?"  asked 


:&. 


ChwiM  Dkkong.] 


VERONICA, 


[NoTemlier  C,  18C9.]     535 


'*  Drive  ?  I  don't  know.  Where  ?  There 
are  no  drives !" 

"  I  want  to  go  to  Florence." 

"  To  Florence !" 

**Yon  know  yon  said  I  shonld  do  so, 
some  day.  I  have  never  seen  it.  When 
we  passed  through  from  the  railway  station, 
it  was  dark.  It  is  so  dnll  here.  Besides," 
she  added,  as  if  angry  with  herself  for 
having  assumed  a  pleading  tone,  ^'  I  want 
to  go." 

"There  can  be  no  necessity,  Veronica. 
The  servants  will  procure  you  anything 
you  want." 

"  But  I  wish  to  see  the  city  !  Why  should 
you  not  come  ?" 

"  What  is  the  use  of  making  me  rccapitu- 
late  my  reasons  ?  I  am  known  there.  You 
would  be  exposed  to — ^to — disagreeable  ren- 
contres—  in  short,  it  is  better  not  to  go 
into  Florence  at  present." 

He  spoke  in  an  imperious  tone  of  maeter- 
hood,  and  then  sank  back  on  his  couch  as 
though  the  discussion  wore  closed.  Ve- 
ronica sat  quite  still  for  a  minute  or  so. 
The  minute  seemed  very  long  to  her.  She 
was  trying  to  school  herself  to  be  politic, 
and  to  answer  calmly.  But  self-control  is 
not  to  be  acquired  in  an  instant 

Her  own  impulse  of  the  moment,  her 
own  likes  and  dislikes,  caprices,  and 
whimSy  had  been  paramount  with  Ve- 
ronioa  all  her  life.  Now,  after  telling 
herself  sternly,  that  it  would  not  do  to 
be  hasty,  and  that  everything  depended 
on  her  power  of  self-command,  she  broke 
out  on  a  sudden  with  childish  vehemence ; 
declaring  that  she  was  moped  to  death; 
that  she  was  duU,  wrctehod,  bored,  all  day 
long;  that  if  there  were  any  reason  for 
Sir  John's  Rhrinking  &om  being  seen  in 
Florence,  it  rested  with  himself  to  remove 
that  reason ;  that  she  was  sick  and  weary 
of  the  delays  and  disappointments ;  finally 
that  she  would  go  to  the  city  that  evening. 

At  first  Sir  John  listened  to  her  petulant 
broken  speech  with  the  detestable  enjoy- 
ment of  a  cruel  school-boy,  who  watches 
his  newly-caged  bird  fluttering  in  terror 
and  impotent  anger  against  the  wires.  But 
some  word  she  said,  touched  on  a  theme 
which  threatened  to  give  him  trouble. 

That  prospect  was  not  amusing.  Be- 
sides, Veronica  looked  very  handsome  so 
long  as  she  was  merely  passionate  and 
angry.  But  afler  the  first  outburst,  symp- 
toms of  rising  tears  became  apparent,  and 
that  prospect  also  was  not  amusing. 

"  Gt)od  Heavens,  Veronica !"  exclaimed 
Sir  John.     "  How  can  jon  be  such  a  baby  ? 


Go,  go,  if  you  like.  If  you  care  about  it  so 
much,  order  the  carriage  at  any  hour  you 
please.  Only  let  me  suggest  that  it  be  not 
before  the  sun  has  begun  to  lose  some  of 
his  power.  It  will  be  hot  enough  in  any 
case  in  those  narrow  stufiy  streets.     Ouf !" 

"And  you?"  said  Veronica,  standing 
looking  at  him  irresolutely. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  not  go.  You  can  take 
your  maid,  and  Paul  will  attend  you." 

"  I  don't  want  Paul,"  muttered  Ve- 
ronica, but  in  so  low  and  indistinct  a  tone 
that  Sir  John  might  plausibly  affect  not  to 
hear  it  if  he  chose.     And  he  did  choose. 

"  Of  courso  Paul  will  attend  you,"  he 
repeated,  quietly.  "You  will  find  Paul 
indispensable.  That  lout  of  a  Tuscan  coach- 
man would  get  you  into  some  scrape  to  a 
certainty." 

All  Sir  John  Grale's  servants,  with  the 
exception  of  Paul  and  the  cook,  were 
Tuscans:  not  town-bred  Florentines,  but 
country  people.  Their  service  was  clumsily 
rendered,  but  Sir  John  had  known  what 
he  was  about  when  he  charged  Paul  to  see 
that  no  servant  accustomed  to  wait  on 
foreigners,  and  to  flit  from  house  to  house 
gossip-laden,  was  engaged  among  his  do- 
mestics. 

When  the  carriage  was  announced,  there 
stood  Paul,  bare-headed,  to  hand  "  miladi" 
in.  Her  maid  placed  herself  on  the  back 
seat,  and  Paul  climbed  up  to  the  box  beside 
the  coachman. 

"  Where  to,  miladi  ?"  asked  Paul,  lean- 
ing down,  hat  in  hand. 

"To  Florence.  Anywhere.  I  don't 
know.  Stay;  I  want  to  buy  a — a  fan. 
Drive  first  to  a  place  where  they  sell  fiins." 

The  carriage  had  not  gone  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  down  the  steep  incline  that  led  from 
Villa  Chiari — it  was  down  hill  thenco  in 
every  direction — ^when  she  called  to  Paul, 
and  bade  him  make  Uie  coachman  stop. 

"  I  think,"  said  she,  with  a  not  quite 
successful  assumption  of  being  an  indepen- 
dent agent,  "  I  tliink  I  will  take  a  drive  in 
the  park — the  Cascino  they  call  it,  don't 
they  ?     Go  there  first." 

Paul  bent  down  lower  into  the  car- 
riage, and  said,  in  English,  "  At  the  hour 
when  wo  should  arrive  there,  miladi,  the 
Casciue  would  bo  terribly  unwholesome. 
Sunset  is  a  bad  time,  or  even  the  hour  be- 
fore sunset.  There  is  a  mist.  It  is  damp. 
You  get  colds— oh,  very  dangerous  colds. 
Does  miladi  care  which  £&n-6hop  she  goes 

Veronica  drew  fcoin.\i«t  -^Ots^  ^  ^<3^^:»i«^  ^\ 
gold  iva*«\x    encroa^ift^  ^«=vN3b.  '^rw'S^  ^^^  ^ 


^ 


:& 


5^j(5      [November  6, 1S69.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  bf 


looked  at  it  with  a  mcditativo  air,  while 
Paul  wa.s  speaking. 

"  It  is  later  th»in  I  thonsfht,"  sho  said, 
slowlj.  "  Tell  the  coachTnan  to  drire 
straight  into  to\vn.  I  mnst  bay  my  fiin  by 
daylight.  Never  mind  the  Cascine.  Go 
on. 

She  looked  very  imperial  and  grand, 
leaning  back  in  the  handsome  carriage, 
and  folded  in  a  soft  cloni  of  black  lace. 
Peasant  women  passed  and  stared  at  her. 
Peasant  children  shouted.  Working  men, 
returning  from  their  daily  labour,  shaded 
their  eyes  to  look  at  her,  dashing  by. 

Paul  sat,  square-shouldered  and  steady, 
beside  the  coachman.  And  the  pleasure  of 
her  weak,  selfish  vanity,  and  the  petty  de- 
light of  being  admired  and  envied  by  poor 
ignorant  passers,  was  dashed  with  a  bitter 
drop — the  consciousness  that  that  man  was 
invested  with  power  to  control  her  move- 
ments, and  that,  brave  it  out  as  she  might, 
she  was  a  slave,  and  Paul  her  keeper. 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  NORTH.      LINCOLN  TO  SOMEBSBT. 

Ip  old  Harry  really  is  in  the  habit  of 
"looking  over  Lincoln,"  as  the  proverb 
says,  then  the  crow  looks  over  old  Harry, 
for  he  is  now  perched  with  a  fine  view  of 
wolds,  heaths,  and  fens,  high  above  the 
valley  of  the  Witham,  on  the  topmost  grey 
pinnacle  of  one  of  the  grand  central  towers 
of  Lincoln  cathedral.  Upon  six  counties 
looks  down  the  favoured  bird ;  at  his  feet 
lies  the  damp  amphibious  Holland  of  Eng- 
land, the  land  of  the  grebe  and  tern,  para- 
dise of  the  wild  duck,  the  city  of  refuge  of 
the  lapwing  and  water-hen;  below  him, 
indeed,  lies  more  than  this,  there  lies  a 
region  won  fix)m  the  sea  by  the  hands  and 
brains  of  men,  a  great  conquest  of  man's 
mind  over  the  brute  forces  that  war  against 
the  progress  of  our  race. 

That  original,  but  rather  crotchetty  Lin- 
colnshire antiquary.  Dr.  Stukeley,  whom  his 
friend  Warburton  called  "a  mixture  of 
simplicity,  drollery,  absurdity,  ingenuity, 
superstition,  and  antiquarianism,**  has 
some  remarkable  and  ingenious  theories 
about  the  origin  of  Lincolnshire,  in  which 
he  takes  us,  as  it  were,  into  the  very 
workshop  of  creation.  He  first  notices  that 
in  England  the  eastern  shore  is  generally 
flat  and  low,  while  the  western  is  steep 
and  rocky.     In  the  same  way  mountains. 


east,  while  plains,  as  a  rule,  always  de- 
scend eastward.  The  reason  for  this,  says 
Stukeley,  is,  that  when  the  half-solid  earth 
bc^gan  first  its  diurnal  motion,  the  moun- 
tain part,  stfll  soft,  flew  westward,  as  the 
dirt,  by  its  vis  inortiro,  will  fly  from  a  wheel 
in  a  contrary  way  to  its  motion.  "  Thus," 
says  the  amiable  philosopher,  with  entire 
self-complacency,  "  it  is  that  we  have 
so  largo  a  quantity  of  this  marsh  land 
in  the  middle  of  the  eastern  shore  of 
England,  seeming  as  if  made  by  the  wash- 
ing and  sluices  of  the  many  rivers  that  fell 
that  way,  such  as  the  Welland,  the  Witham, 
the  Nene,  the  Ouse,  great  and  little,  together 
with  many  other  streams  of  inferior  note. 
These  all  empty  themselves  into  the  great 
bay  formed  between  the  Lincolnshire  wolds 
and  the  cliffs  of  Norfolk,  called  by  Ptolemy 
(reign  of  Hadrian)  Metaris  -ZEstnarium." 

In  October,  1571,  a  great  tempest  and  in- 
undation swept  the  wide,  flat,  green  country 
over  which  the  crow  now  casts  his  eye. 
Three  score  vessels  were  lost  on  tlie  coasts 
of  Boston  and  Grimsby.  Three  arches  of 
Wansford-bridge  were  carried  away  by 
the  sudden  and  devastating  torrent.  Poor 
"  Master  Pellam,"  of  Mumbv  Chappell  lost 
one  thousand  one  hundred  sneep ;  but  then 
how  could  ho  stop  to  lament  when  all 
Mumby  Chappell  itself,  but  three  houses 
and  the  church  steeple,  were  destroyed  ?  A 
strange  thing,  too,  happened  in  this  same 
Mumby,  for  a  ship  driving  upon  a  house, 
the  frightened  sailors  took  it  for  a  rock, 
and  leaping  out  of  the  foundering  bark  and 
clambering  on  the  roof  were  saved.  They 
also  rescued  the  poor  woman  in  the  house 
who  climbed  up  to  them,  when  her  husband 
and  child  were  both  drowned.  Between 
Hummerston  and  Grimsby,  one  Mr.  Specers 
lost  a  great  number  of  sheep.  The  shepherd 
about  noon  came  to  his  mistress  and  asked 
for  his  dinner ;  to  which  she  replied,  crossly, 
he  should  have  none  of  her.  Just  at  that 
moment  the  sharp-tongued  shrew  hap- 
pened to  look  towards  the  marshes  where 
her  husband's  sheep  were,  and  saw  the 
water  break  in  with  a  fierce  and  irresistible 
rush.  She  said,  chidingly,  "  He  is  not  a 
good  shepherd  that  would  not  venture  his 
life  for  his  sheep."  Upon  which  the  man 
ran  to  drive  home  the  sheep ;  but  he  and 
thev  were  all  drowned,  and  when  the  in- 
undation subsided  the  faithful  fellow  was 
found  dead  standing  upright  in  a  ditch, 
into  which  he  must  have  fallon  unawares. 
Four  gentlemen    of   Kelsey   and    Maple- 


not  only  in  Britain,  but  all  over  tko  world, 

are  uanally  steep  and  abrupt  to  t\ie  weat,\\i\ioT^^,  Vi«»^  \»^<fe\?aftT  ^.bout  twenty  thou- 
And  descend  to  gentle  declivitiea  oii  tiafi\«WDA\isaAoica.\^^ 


X 


=& 


Charles  Dickens.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[November  6, 1869.]       537 


till  the  water  reached  half  np  the  church. 
Steeking  was  wholly  carried  away,  and  a 
loaded  waggon  at  that  place  was  torn  in 
two  by  the  raging  water. 

The  history  of  the  drainage  of  the 
conntry  now  surveyed  by  onr  winged  com- 
missioner is  a  romance  in  itself.  In  James 
the  First's  time,  a  local  jnry  decided  against 
further  draining;  but  in  1626  the  king 
granted  leave  to  Cornelius  Vermuyden,  a 
Zealandcr,  who  offered  for  a  third  part  of  all 
he  could  reclaim  to  retrieve  seventy  thou- 
sand acres  in  Axliolm  alone.  The  Van 
Peenens,  Valkcnburghs  and  Veenattis,  rich 
merchants  of  Dort  and  Amsterdam,  en- 
couraged the  adventure  of  their  country- 
man, and  his  skilled  Dutch  and  Flemish 
workmen  soon  got  near  the  end  of  their 
work.  The  fen  men  became  furious  at  the 
improvements.  They  complained  of  uniust 
distribution  of  the  new  lands,  and  of  wilful 
injury  done  to  the  old.  Openly  counte- 
nanced by  Portington,  a  turbulent  justice 
of  the  peace,  they  frequently  fell  on  the 
foreigners,  broke  down  their  new  embank- 
ments, and  burnt  their  obnoxious  imple- 
ments. The  resolute  Dutchman,  who  had 
checked  the  Thames  at  Daffcnham,  and 
had  drained  Windsor  and  Scagemoor,  was 
not,  however,  to  be  bafiSed  by  the  stilt 
walkers  of  the  fens.  Vermuyden  collected 
round  him  French  Protestants  fix)m  Pic- 
ardy  and  Walloons  from  Flanders,  re- 
fugees whose  fathers  had  fled  from  the 
Duke  of  Alva,  and  settled  in  eastern  Eng- 
land, along  the  edge  of  the  fens,  especially 
at  Wisbeach,  Wkittlesea,  Thomey,  and 
Spalding.  Slowly  he  carried  the  waters  of 
the  Sole  into  new  deep  channels  for  ever  to 
be  tributary  to  the  T^nt.  The  waters  of 
the  capricious  Don  were  also  forced  hence- 
forward to  flow  directly  into  the  Ouse,  near 
Goole.  Farmers  had  no  longer  need  to 
ferry  from  Axholm  to  Sandtoft,  not  again 
would  a  boat  with  coffin  and  mourners 
be  lost  when  rowing  from  Thomey  to 
Hatfleld.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  would 
future  time  ever  see  the  glorious  sight  that 
Prince  Henry  beheld,  when  five  hundred 
deer  were  driven  before  his  one  hundred 
boats,  from  Hatfield  to  Thomey  Mere.  Un- 
fortunately for  the  industrious  Dutchman, 
one  single  error  in  his  first  plan  rendered  his 
whole  life  miserable.  Vermuyden  forced  the 
Don  at  first  through  its  northern  channel 
alone  into  the  river  Aire.  This  cutting 
proved  insufficient,  and  fresh  lands  were 
flooded.  The  people  of  the  northern  Don 
henceforward  became  the  chief  enemies  of 
the  improvement,  and  on  some  of  Vermuy- 


den's  men  killing  one  of  the  rioters,  it  led 
to  fifty  successive  attacks  on  the  works,  till 
at  last  a  royal  proclamation  read  in  Ax- 
holm by  the  sheriff,  escorted  by  fifty  horse- 
men, mingled  with  threats  of  fire  and  ven- 
geance, led  to  some  transient  quietude. 
Vermuyden,  though  proud,  resolute,  and 
sometimes  driven  to  retaliations  by  the 
stupid  boors  who  did  not  know  their  own 
good,  succeeded  at  last ;  in  1629,  he  was 
knighted  by  Charles  the  First,  and  took  a 
grant  from  the  crown  of  Hatfield  Chase  for 
ihe  sum  of  sixteen  thousand  and  eiglity 
pounds,  and  an  aimual  rent  of  one  hundred 
and  ninety-five  pounds  three  shillings  and 
fivepence-nalipenny,  and  one  red  rose. 

The  Dutch  and  German  settlers  were  now 
allowed  to  build  chapels  in  their  villages. 
Still  the  conservative  fen  men  remained 
turbulent  and  complaining.  Their  houses 
and  farms  were  flooded,  they  said,  their 
com  was  washed  away,  their  cattle  were 
drowned,  and  the  old  rights  of  common 
cancelled.  Unfortunately  for  Vermuy- 
den, he  had  now  either  lost  his  temper  or 
grown  too  arrogant  and  despotic.  He 
threatened  petitioners  against  him  with  the 
gallows,  which  indeed  many  of  them  richly 
deserved.  He  threw  many  offenders  against 
his  Dutchmen  into  York  gaol.  He  ruth- 
lessly stopped  the  old  freeholders'  privi- 
leges of  cutting  moor  turf,  till  he  had  at 
last  to  restore  many  old  rights,  owing  to 
the  interference  of  Lord  Wentworth,  pre- 
sident of  the  North.  Eventually  Vermuy- 
den washed  his  hands  of  ungrateful  Lin- 
colnshire altogether,  and  sold  all  his  pro- 
perty there.  In  1642,  when  the  BoyaHsts 
were  threatening  the  fens,  CromwelFs 
party  broke  the  dykes,  pulled  up  the  flood- 
gates, and  again  laid  Hatfield  under  water. 
The  tide  had  turned,  and  henceforward  all 
(except  during  short  gleams  of  success) 
went  ill  with  Sir  Cornelius.  He  became 
involved  in  a  spider's  web  of  law-suits  and 
found  his  way  into  prison.  The  Dutch 
speculators  who  had  lost  by  the  "  Dutch 
Canal,"  also  took  legal  proceedings  against 
him.  But  indomitable  as  ever,  in  1629  he 
commenced  the  great  Bedford  Level  for 
the  Earl  of  Bedford.  The  clamour  against 
the  brave,  resolute,  industrious  Dutdiman 
then  grew  louder  than  ever.  The  street 
ballads  sung  against  the  drainers  contained 
such  verses  as  the  following  : 

Behold  the  great  desigD,  which  thej  do  now  determine. 
Will  make  our  bodies  pinc»  a  prej  to  crows  and  Termine ; 
For  thej  do  meane  all  fens  to  drain  and  waters  oyer- 

master, 
All  will  be  dry,  and  we  miiat  dis^,  'cwaaft  "S«a«s.  ^^«^ 

want  "pailuxe. 


^ 


^ 


538       [NoTenibcr«,1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[Conducted  by 


Wherefore  let  us  entreat  our  antient  wat^r^nurseB 

To  show  their  power,  to  grant  us  t*  help  to  drain  their 

purses; 
And  send  us  good  old  Captain  Flood  to  load  us  out  to 

battle, 
The  two-penny  pack,  with  Scales  on's  back  will  drive 

out  all  the  cattle. 

This  noble  captain  yet  was  norcr  known  to  fail  us. 

But  did  the  conquest  get  of  all  that  did  assail  us : 

His  fiinouB   rage    none  could   assuage,    but  to  the 

world's  great  wonder. 
He  tears  down  banks,  and  breaks  their  cranks  and 

whirligigs  astinder. 

Still  the  Dntchmen  plied  tlieir  spadcB,  and 
Charles  the  First  urged  forward  the  work, 
which  was  liowever  stopped  by  the  agita- 
tion aroused  by  Oliver  Cromwell,  "  Lord  of 
the  Fens,"  as  he  was  called,  who  urged 
the  gross  exactions  of  the  royal  commission 
and  the  incvitablo  plunder  that  would  fall 
on  the  helpless  smaller  proprietors  at 
the  great  man's  voice.  The  work  stopped, 
and  the  Earl  of  Bedford  died  poor.  In 
1G49,  the  now  earl  and  Vermuyden  again 
set  to  work,  afterwards  aided  by  Crom- 
weirs  Scotch  and  Blake's  Dutch  prisoners, 
and  by  1663  forty  thousand  acres  of  land 
were  reclaimed.  There  are  now  in  Lincoln- 
shire and  tlie  Great  Bedford  Level  sixty- 
one  thousand  acres  of  reclaimed  land,  worili 
on  on  average  four  pounds  an  acre.  Ely  is 
now  healthier  than  Pau,  sheep  feed  where 
fish  once  floated,  the  fen  men  ore  no  longer 
savages,  more  irreclaimable  tlian  their 
fever-haunted  marshes.  The  fate  of  poor 
Vermuyden  was  sod  indeed.  During 
the  civil  wars  he  liad  sold  aJl  his  lands 
in  Dagenham,  Hatfield,  Sedgemoor,  Mal- 
vern, and  the  Bedford  Level,  to  pay  his 
Dutch  workmen.  The  ungrateful  company 
then  preferred  heavy  pecuniary  claims 
against  him.  He  could  not  meet  them, 
and  in  165G  appeared  before  parHoment, 
four  years  after  the  completion  of  his  great 
work,  as  a  suppliant  for  redress.  It  is  sup- 
posed that  he  soon  after  went  abi-oad  and 
died,  a  poor,  heart-broken  old  man.  Yet 
Vermuyden  did  a  brave  work  and  he  left 
large-brained  descendants.  Through  the 
Babingtons  (the  mother's  side)  the  late 
Mr.  Macaulay  was  descended  from  this 
patient,  £eir-seeing  Dutchman. 

From  High  Bumam,  in  the  isle  of  Ax- 
holm,  the  furthest  object  is  the  blight 
heaven-pointing  spire  of  Laugh  ton-en- Ic- 
Morthen,  tliat  Norman  hill  village  which 
the  Sheffield  people,  who  see  the  spire  shine 
in  the  daybreak,  call  prettily  "  Lighten  in 
the  Morning ;"  but  from  the  Rood  Tower 
of  .Lincoln  the  crow  sees  not  only  Hatfield 
Chase,    which  Vermuyden  won  irom  ^c^Vmc^aJb^  «a  Bacon  did,  and  he,  no  doubt, 


the  other  side  of  tlic  Humber,  and  the  hills 
about  Aldborough  and  Burton;  indeed, 
much  of  Yorksliire  and  all  that  amphibious 
country,  which  old  Fuller  quaintly  com- 
pares in  shape  "  to  a  l)ondcd  bow,  of  which 
the  sea  makes  the  back,  the  rivers  Welland 
and  Humber  the  two  horns,  and  the  river 
Trent  the  string." 

Lincoln  Cathedral,  once  the  throne  of  a 
vast  see,  that  embraced  Ely,  Oxford,  and 
Peterborough,  is  in  itself  a  history  of 
Grothic  art,  from  early  Saxon  to  late  point^L 
Begun  by  Bishop  Remigius,  to  resemble 
Bouen,  in  1075,  it  was  partly  rebuilt  by 
Bishop  Alexander,  after  a  fire  in  1123-47. 
St.  Hugh  built  the  east  transept,  chapels, 
choir,  chapter  -  house,  and  east  front  of 
tlie  western  transept ;  Hugh  of  Wells,  in 
1200-35,  completed  the  nave,  the  late  geo- 
metrical decorated  cloisters,  and  the  rood 
screen,  begun  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the 
First.  It  wafi  just  after  tliis  Hugh  of 
Wells  had  put  by  his  hods  and  trowels  (in 
1237),  that  as  one  of  the  canons  vfvs 
preaching  on  the  unseemly  feuds  then 
raging  between  the  chapter  of  Lincoln  and 
the  bishop,  liaving  taken  the  very  appro- 
priate text,  "Were  we  silent  the  very 
stones  would  cry  out,"  the  central  tower, 
perhaps  too  hastily  built  by  Bemigius,  fell 
with  the  crash  of  an  earthquake,  shewing 
the  very  foundation  of  the  building.  Many 
thought  the  end  of  the  world  had  come^ 
but  the  strong-nerved  canon,  quite  un- 
moved, continued  to  thunder  forth  his  8e^ 
mon  against  the  enemies  of  the  peace- 
makers. This  tower  Bishop  Grostesle 
(1237-54)  rebuilt,  and  also  the  east  tower. 
D'Alverly  added  the  wooden  spire,  Lexiug- 
ton  and  OUvcr  Sutton  the  beautiful  angtsl 
choir,  Alnwick  the  great  west  window. 
Wren  the  pagan  Doric  cloister,  and  the 
James  the  First  clergy  the  big  bell  of  the 
central  tower. 

Grostestc,  the  prelate  who  partly  rebuilt 
the  central  tower,  was  almost  as  great  ft 
man  as  Boger  Bacon,  of  whom  ho  was  ft 
contemporary.  He  seems  to  have  been 
at  once  a  reformer,  a  logician,  a  theo- 
logian, a  linguist,  a  poet^  and  a  philo- 
sopher. One  of  the  firat  English  scholars 
to  study  Aristotle  in  the  original  Greek, 
he  was  also  one  of  the  pioneers  in  He^ 
brew  learning.  He  did  not  reach  such 
a  pitch  of  learning  as  Boger  Bacon,  who 
seems  to  have  had  more  than  foreahadow- 
ings  both  of  steam  and  gunpowder,  but  he 
baiieved  in  the  poasibihty  of  tTansmutiiig 


water,   hut  the  blue  Yorkabiro  wolda  oii\\B26Qraixe^  ^)&s^  «& '^^ncsa  Wm:^^  at  the 


\' 


=^ 


=iwL 


Quirlea  Diokana.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[November  «,  1869.]      539 


discovery  of  znacliinery.  Tho  mediieTal 
l^end,  indeed,  ran  that,  like  tho  *'  Doctor 
Mirabilis,"  Grotesto  coustmcted  a  metal 
head  that  would  aiLSwcr  questions.  Richard 
de  Bardney,  indeed,  boldly  asserts  that  the 
fragments  of  Grostestc's  talking  bronze 
head,  of  which  Gower  sings,  are  still  hidden 
somewhere  in  the  vaults  of  Lincoln. 

There  is  also  a  legend  of  St.  Hugh,  bishop 
in  part  of  the  same  reign.  At  the  death 
of  tliis  holy  man  the  unseen  world  trembled 
with  such  sympathy  that 

A*  the  bellf  o*  merric  Lineoln 
Without  men's  Landa  wero  rung ; 

And  a'  the  books  o'  mcrrio  Lincoln 
Were  read  Trithont  men's  ton^o ; 

And  ne'er  was  such  a  burial 
Sin*  Adam's  dajs  begun. 

There  is  a  legend  at  Oantei-bury  not  un- 
like this,  for  the  bells  there  rang  they  sny  of 
their  own  accord  when  Beckct  fell  befoix) 
the  altar,  and  Mr.  Walcott  observes  that 
at  CcEur  de  Lion's  coronation  the  bells  at 
Westminster,  as  the  monks  report,  rang  by 
angel  hands  at  Compline.  This  same  St. 
Hugh  has  a  chantry  chapel  all  to  himself 
in  tho  south-west  comer  of  the  east  aisle  of 
the  choir  transept  at  Lincoln.  In  1280  he 
was  translated  to  the  presbytery,  where 
John  the  Baptist's  altar  stood,  and  where 
the  angel  choir  strike  for  ever  their  golden 
harps.  Tho  king,  the  queen,  the  arch- 
bishop, seven  prelates,  and  six  abbots,  led 
the  procession  at  this  translation. 

But  the  crow's  readers  must  not  con- 
found this  honoured  man  with  the  other  hero 
of  Lincoln  cathedral  legends,  nan[iely.  Sir 
Hugh,  that  little  harmless  boy,  who,  it 
was  firmly  believed,  some  ^vicked  Jews  tre- 
panned as  he  was  playing,  and  crucified  in 
secret  in  ridicule  of  the  great  mystery  of 
our  Christian  faitli.  There  is  no  basis  for 
the  legend ;  but  in  the  times  of  persecution 
the  Jews  were  suspected  of  endless  iniqui- 
ties, and  anything  was  believed  against  the 
poor  sufTerers  of  the  "  wandering  foot  and 
weary  eye."  Time,  or  not  true,  however, 
Sir  Hugh  gave  rise  to  one  of  Chaucer's 
most  beautiful  tales,  and  to  that  old  Percy 
ballad : 

The  bonny  boys  of  merric  England 

Were  plajing  at  the  ba', 
And  wi'  them  stood  the  sweet  Sir  Hugh, 

The  sweetest  of  them  a*. 

Perliaps  the  most  wonderful  relic  at 
Lincoln  of  past  time  is  that  conundrum  in 
stone,  the  Centenarian  Beam,  an  instance  of 
the  almost  supcmatm*al  ingenuity  and  dar- 
ing originality  of  the  old  Grothic  architects, 
only  equalled  by  the  triangular  bridge  at 
Crowlaud.    Tho  beam  is  formed  of  twenty- 


three  blocks  of  stone  adjoining  the  two 
towers.  The  stones  (of  unequal  size),  are 
eleven  inches  in  depth.  The  beam  is  twenty- 
nine  and  a  quarter  feet  long,  twenty-one 
inches  broad.  This  strange  vibrating  bow 
of  elastic  stone,  cemented  solely  by  lateral 
pressure,  was  designed  to  exactly  and  for 
ever  gauge  the  settlement  of  the  towers. 
It  seems  the  work  of  a  magician.  Surely 
good  Bishop  Qrostestc's  brwize  head  must 
have  disclosed  it  to  the  wise  and  pious 
builder. 

The  lives  of  the  Bishops  of  Lincoln  form 
a  History  of  England  in  tliem solves.  The 
crow  takes  them  in  rude  sequence.  Eemi- 
gius,  the  fii'st  Noi-man  prelate,  was  the  priest 
who  urged  William  the  Conqueror  to  record 
his  gratitude  for  the  crowning  victory  of 
Hastings  by  erecting  Battle  Abbey.  He 
built  a  hospital  for  lepers  at  Lincoln,  and 
is  said  to  have  fed  daily  for  three  months 
in  every  year  one  thousand  poor  persons. 
Robert  Blovet,  the  second  Norman  bishop, 
fell  dead  at  Woodstock  as  he  was  riding 
with  Henry  the  First.  The  successor  of 
Blovct,  a  chief  justice  of  England,  roused 
Stephen's  jealousy  by  building  three  castles, 
and  pleased  the  monks  by  rearing  four 
monasteries.  St.  Hugh,  who  came  four 
prelacies  afterwards,  was  borne  to  his  grave 
by  King  John  of  England  and  King  Wil- 
liam of  Scotland,  who  happened  to  be  both 
at  Lincoln  when  the  sainted  body  arrived. 
Ascetic  Hugh  might  have  been,  but  ho 
certainly  was  fanatic,  for  he  dug  up  tho 
body  of  poor  Fair  Rosamond,  and  cast  it 
out  of  Godstow  nunnerv,  to  which  she  had 
been  a  benefactress.  Presently  appeared 
Grosteste,  who  is  said  to  have  written 
two  hundred  works  (many  still  in  manu- 
script, no  entcrpnsing  publisher  as  yet 
looming  in  the  distance).  His  hatred  of 
interloping  Italian  priests  led  to  his  ex- 
communication by  the  Pope.  Grosteste's 
apparition,  according  to  the  leaT*ncd  Bale, 
appeared  to  Pope  Innocent  at  Naples,  but 
why,  or  with  what  result,  has  not  reached 
us.  There  is  a  ghost  story,  too,  about 
Bishop  Burwash  (Edward  the  Second),  for 
plundering  oxen  and  stealing  poor  men's 
land ;  his  repentant  ghost  used  subsequently 
to  haunt  Tiughurst  Common,  not  mitred, 
but  in  the  outward  semblance  of  a  green 
clad  verderer,  till  the  Lincoln  canons  made 
restitution,  and  laid  the  perturbed  and  rest- 
less spirit.  But  we  have  forgotten  Robert 
do  Cliisney,  that  prodigal  young  Norman 
(died  1167),  who  in  compensation  for 
having  impaired  the  revenues  of  tlift  ^^si- 


e£: 


:itl 


540      [HoTembar  «,  ISSt.) 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


and  also  the  episcopal  houso  at  Lincoln 's- 
inn.  Then  there  arose  Fleming,  fonnder 
of  Lincoln  College,  Oxford,  who  throw 
"WyclifFe's  ashes  into  the  Swift  to  be 
carried  ronnd  the  world ;  Chadeston,  who 
preached  a  sermon  against  marriage  at 
Cambridge,  in  which  he  compared  a  good 
wife  to  an  eel  hid  in  a  barrel  of  snakes  ; 
Barlow,  whom  the  Puritans  called  "the 
barley  loaf;"  Sanderson  (Charles  the  First), 
the  last  bishop  who  wore  a  monstache; 
Barlow  the  second,  nicknamed  Bishop  of 
Bnckden,  because  he  never  once  visited 
his  cathedral ;  and,  last  of  all  to  deserve 
record.  Bishop  Thomas,  who  married  five 
times. 

And  now  a  word  for  poor  cracked  Grreat 
Tom,  the  third  largest  bell  in  England. 
Tho  verger  may  well  call  it,  in  punning 
slang,  "a  stunner,**  for  it  weighs  four  tons 
fourteen  hundredweight,  and  holds  four 
hundred  and  twenty-four  gallons  ale  mea- 
sure :  a  tall  man  might  stand  upright  in  it. 
The  ^*  mighty  Tom*'  of  Oxford,  overweighs 
Lincoln  by  three  tons,  the  Exeter  Goliath  by 
two  tons,  and  "  Tom  Growler,**  tho  giant  of 
St.  PauVs,  by  one  ton.  Canterbury,  Glou- 
cester, and  Beverley,  rank  after  these  four 
mammoths.  Lincoln  Tom  was  always 
dangerously  big  for  the  tower ;  but  it  used 
to  boom  out  over  tho  fens  when  the  judges 
entered  the  city.  It  only  dates  back  to  tho 
eighth  year  of  James  the  First,  and  it  was 
cast  in  tho  minster  yard,  so  it  has  never 
travelled  far. 

And  now,  though  faithfolly  believing 
that  the  cathedral  was  made  expressly  for 
his  perch,  the  crow  strikes  eastward  to- 
wards Homcastle.  Here  are  "  the  glooming 
flats,**  "  the  lonely  poplars  trembling  in  the 
dusk,'*  and  here  in  the  dark  fen  the  oxen 
low  as  once  round  Mariana's  moated  grange. 
A  lane  at  Winceby,  up  in  the  rounded 
wolds,  five  miles  cast  of  Homcastle,  is  still 
called  "  Slash  Lane,'*  a  record  of  a  *' short, 
sharp  fight,'*  as  Mr.  Walter  Wliite  tersely 
calls  it,  during  tho  civil  w^ars.  It  was 
hero  Sir  Ingram  Hopton's  cavalry  met 
Cromwell.  It  indeed  went  hard  with  Oliver, 
whose  charger  was  shot  under  him  as  he 
led  tho  van  of  the  Ironsides.  He  had 
scarcely  struggled  from  his  dying  horse 
w^hcn  a  Cavalier  (probaV>ly  Sir  Ingram) 
felled  him  again ;  but  Cromwell  shook 
himself  sullenly,  mounted  another  horse, 
and  routed  the  Cavaliei's.  It  was  all  over 
in  half  an  hour.  Charles's  men  were 
slashed  down  the  lane,  and  shot  and  cut 
down  at  every  hedge  and  gate,  ^lon-y 
were  drowned  in  the  ditcliea  and  c\ua^- 


mires,  and  bravo  Sir  Ingram  was  slain  with 
the  rest.  Ho  now  lies  in  Homcastle 
church,  and  is  described  in  his  epitaph  as 
having  fallen  "in  the  attempt  of  seizing 
the  arch-rebel  in  the  bloody  sldrmish.  near 
Winceby.**  This  storm  cleared  the  air,  for 
immediately  after  the  rough  melee  in  Slash 
Lane,  Bolingbroke  Castle  surrendered  to 
the  Parliamentarians,  and  Lincobishiro 
was  freed  from  the  king's  freebooters. 

Past  Spilsby,  whero  the  father  of  Sir 
John  Franklin  was  a  small  draper,  the 
crow  comes  to  Somcrsby,  where  our  great 
modem  poet,  Tennyson,  was  bom.  The 
scenery  is  de8cril>ed  as  a  warm  wooded 
vale,  a  streamlet  meandering  by  a  mill,  a 
curving  i*oad  overshadowed  by  elms;  a 
deep  lane  beset  w"ith  grand  trees,  and  a 
clear  spring  reflecting  the  ferns  that  edge 
its  brink,  border  the  hill  on  which  tie 
vicarage  of  the  poet's  father  stands.  It  is 
a  comfortable,  plain,  but  not  picturesque 
liouse,  screened  from  the  road  by  large 
chesnut-trees.  There  arc  still  the  poplars 
behind  the  house,  and  the  brook  of  which 
the  laureate  sings  with  such  tenderness  in 
his  Ode  to  Memory. 


DONALD  MACLEOD. 

Donald  MacLsod  !    Woulds't  hear  his  story  told) 

No  stormy  lef^nd  of  the  days  of  old. 

Of  war  and  toamament  and  high,  cmprizo. 

Or  knifrhtly  feuds  beneath  fair  ladies  eyes ; 

But  a  true  stor^  of  our  modem  time, 

Such  as  bcfcl,  m  cold  Canadian  clime 

A  dozen  win^ra  past.    Donald  MacLeod, 

A  poor  man — ono  of  millions — in  the  crowd. 

A  stalwart  wight  he  was,  whom  but  to  seo 
Were  to  wish  friend  rather  than  enemy ; 
A  smith  by  trade,  a  bluff,  hard-working  man. 
Proud  of  his  sires,  his  race,  his  name,  his  clan. 
His  strong  ri(;ht  arm  coidd  hurl  a  focman  down 
Liko  ball  a  skittle ;  his  broad  brow  was  brown 
With  honest  toil,  and  in  his  dear  bloe  eve     * 
Lurked  strength  to  conauer  fortune  or  oefy. 
Few  were  his  words,  ana  those  but  rough  at  best, 
But  truthful  dver  as  his  own  true  breast ; 
Of  homely  nature,  not  of  winnine  ways, 
Or  given  to  tears,  or  orermuch  of  pralso ; 
But  with  a  heart  as  guileless  as  a  child's 
Of  seven  years  old  that  firolies  in  the  wilds. 


Ere  Donald  Icfl  his  shieling  in  the  glen. 

By  the  bum-side  that  tumbles  down  the  Ben 

On  grey  Lochaber's  melancholy  shore, 

And  wffhed.  liko  others,  "  I  return  no  more," 

'i'o  try  nis  fortune  in  the  fight  of  life 

In  a  new  world,  with  fairer  field  for  strife 

i'hnn  Scotland  offers,  ovcrillled  with  brains. 

Yet  scant  of  acres  to  rewarcl  their  pains. 

He  woo'd  with  simple  speech  a  Highland  mud. 

Sweet  as  the  opening  flow'rct  in  the  shade. 

And  asked  her,  "  Would  she  quit  her  native  land, 

Jler  mother's  love,  her  father's  guiding  hand. 

And  make  another  sunshine  far  away. 

For  him  alouo  ?"     She  blessed  the  happy  day 

TYvtiX.  a.  y;rwy\.-sMcti,%Q\M3ae«rt.  and  so  brave, 


\'. 


,1 


\' 


& 


durtosDioken.,]  WITCHCRAFT  m  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  inot.«.i8(»».i   541 


To  see  the  pair*  the  man  so  maaaive  strong. 

The  maid  so  fiail,  yet  winsome  as  a  sonff 

You  might  have  thought  the  oak  had  chosen  for  bride 

The  gowan  glinting  on  the  green  hill-side. 

And  Jeonie  Cameron !  happy  wife  was  she, 
Sailinff  with  Donald  o*er  the  summer  sea, 
And  (Seaming,  as  the  good  ship  cleft  the  foam. 
Of  ind^>endenab  and  a  happy  home 
On  that  abundant  and  rejoicing  soil 
That  asks  but  hands  to  recompense  their  toil. 
And  Fortune  favoured  them,  as  Fortune  will 
All  who  add  strength  and  virtue  to  good  will. 
And  Donald's  hands  found  always  work  to  do, 
"Work  well  repaid,  which,  growing,  ever  grew ; 
Work  and  its  fair  reword  but  seldom  known 
In  the  old  land,  whence  hopeful  he  hod  flown ; 
Work  all  sufficient  for  the  passing  day, 
With  something  left  to  hoard  and  put  away. 
Content  and  Donald  never  dwelt  apart, 
And  Love  and  Joanie  nestled  at  his  heart. 

In  summer  eves,  his  face  towards  the  sun. 

He  loved  to  sit,  his  long  day's  labour  done. 

And  smoke  his  pipe  beneath  the  sycamore. 

That  cast  cool  snadow  at  his  cottage  door. 

And  hear  his  bonnic  Jean,  like  morning  lark. 

Or  nightingale  preluding  to  the  dork, 

Sing  the  old  Gaelic  melancholy  songs 

Of  Scotland's  ^lory,  Scotland's  rights  and  wrongs 

Of  true-love  ditties  of  the  olden  time, 

Breathing  of  Highland  glena  and  moorland  thyme. 

Thus  years  wore  on.    Their  sky  seemed  sunny  blue 
Without  a  cloud  to  shade  the  distant  view 
Of  happiness  to  come.    A  child  was  born, 
Fresh  to  the  father's  heart  as  light  of  mom. 
Sweet  to  the  mother's  as  a  dream  of  Heaven, 
A  blessing  asked,  but  scarcely  hoped  when  given. 
3£ost  dearly  prized !    Aks !  for  human  joy. 
That  Fortune  never  builds  but  to  destroy  I 
The  child  was  purchased  by  the  mother's  health ! 
And  Donald's  heart  grew  heavy,  as  by  stealth 
He  gazed  and  saw  the  sadness  in  her  smile 
That  lit,  yet  half  extinguished  it  the  while ; 
For,  ah !  poor  Jeanie  was  too  ftiir  and  frail 
To  bear  unscathed  Canadia's  wintry  gale ; 
And  hectic  roses  flourished  on  her  check, 
Filling  his  heart  with  grief  too  great  to  speak. 

Long,  long,  he  watched  her,  and  essayed  to  find 
Comfort  and  hope.    At  last  upon  his  mind 
Burst  suddenly  the  thought  that  he'd  forego 
All  he  hod  earned  in  that  New  World  of  woe. 
And  bear  her  back,  ere  utterly  forlorn, 
To  the  moist  mountain  clime  where  she  was  bom. 
To  dear  Lochaber  and  the  Highland  hills. 
And  wave-invaded  glens  and  wimpltng  rills, 
Where  first  he  found  her !    Late,  alas !  too  lato ! 

"  Donald,"  she  said,  "  I  feel  approaching  fate. 

And  may  not  travel  o'er  the  stormy  sea, 

To  die  on  shipboard  and  be  torn  from  thoe ; 

Here  let  me  linger  till  I  go  to  rest ! 

Time  may  be  short  or  long,  God  knowcth  best. 

But  as  the  tree  that's  planted  in  the  ground, 

And  sho<ls  its  blossoms  and  its  leaves  around* 

Dies  wh'.TO  it  lives,  so  let  me  live  and  dio 

Where  thou  hast  brought  me,  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky. 

I'd  not  be  buried  in  tlr  Atlantic  wave, 

But  in  brown  earth  with  daisies  on  my  grave ; 

Fresh  blooming  gowans  from  Lochaber's  braes. 

With  Scottish  earth  enough,  the  mound  to  raise 

Above  my  head.    Donald !  let  this  bo  dono 

When  your  poor  Jcanio's  mortul  race  is  run  !'* 

The  strong  man  wept.    "  Jeanie !"  was  all  ho  said. 
*'  Oh,  Jeanie  !  Jeanie  1"  and  ho  bowed  his  head. 
And  hid  Lis  face  behind  his  honest  hands, 
The  saddest  man  in  all  those  happy  lands. 
"  Jeanie  1"  he  said,  "ye  maunna,  maunna  dee. 
And  }0are  the  world  to  miaerj  and  mo  I** 


**  Donald !"  she  answered,  ''woeful  is  the  strife 
That  my  warm  heart  is  fighting  for  its  life. 
And  much  as  I  desire  for  thy  dear  sake. 
And  the  wee  bairn's,  to  live  till  age  o'er  take, 
I  feel  it  cannot  be.    God's  will  is  all, 
Let  us  accept  it  whatsoe'er  befall !" 

And  Jeanie  died.    She  had  not  lain  i'  the  moots* 
Three  days  ere  Donald  laid  aside  his  tools. 
And  closed  his  forge,  and  took  his  passage  home  . 
To  Glasgow,  for  Lochaber  o'er  the  foam. 
Alone  with  Sorrow  and  alone  with  Love, 
The  two  but  one  to  lead  his  heart  above ; 
And  long  ere  forty  days  had  ran  their  round, 
Donald  was  back  upon  Canadian  ground ; 
Donald,  the  tender  neart,  the  rough,  the  brave, 
With  earth  and  gowans  for  Ins  true  love's  grave. 


WITCHCRAFT  IN  THE  NINETEENTH 

CENTURY. 


1 


A  RECENT  trial  for  witchcraft— or,  at 
least,  fraudnlent  fortune-telling — snggests 
the  unpleasant  reflection  thafc  tibe  belief  in 
Tdtches  still  exists  to  a  Tery  considerable 
extent  in  England.  We  do  not,  it  is  true, 
hoar  of  it  much  in  the  bnsy  towns ;  because 
there  is  not  so  much  gossiping  rumour  in 
them  as  in  country  places,  and  because  the 
people,  with  all  their  shortcomings,  are  a 
little  less  ignorant.  Nevertheless,  tho  ig- 
norance still  displayed  in  the  nineteenth 
century  may  well  occasion  surprise,  and  sug- 
gest inquiries  concerning  that  said  school- 
master who  is  declared  to  be  "  abroad. '  *  In 
London,  the  creduHfcy  is  chiefly  among  ser- 
vant girls,  who  give  their  sixpences  to  for- 
tune-tellers for  information  on  certain  im- 
portant questions  about  "  dark  men,"  "  fair 
men,"  and  the  like.  Tho  line  of  division 
between  fortune- telling  and  witchcraft  being 
a  very  slight  one,  wo  need  not  bo  sur- 
prised that  tho  credulous  often  step  over 
this  boundary,  and  commit  themselves  to 
the  most  gross  and  absurd  impositions. 

In  a  case  tried  at  Stafford  in  1823,  one 
Sarah  Roxborough  was  charged  with  the 
following  piece  of  roguery.  She  announced 
to  a  tradesman's  wife  at  Hanley,  that  she 
could  "rule  tho  planets,  restore  stolon 
goods,  and  get  in  bad  debts."  On  one 
particular  day,  the  wise  woman  appeared  at 
the  tradesman's  house,  and  began  her  profes- 
sional incantations.  Slio  desired  the  wife 
to  have  a  fire  kindled  in  an  upper  room ;  to 
obtain  from  her  husband  twenty-five  one- 
poxmd  notes,  or  five  five-pound  notes ;  to 
])lace  the  notes  in  her  bosom ;  and  to  let 
them  remain  there  till  nine  o'clock  in  tbo 
evening.  The  credulous  wife  did  as  she  was 
direct^'d.  The  woman  Roxborough  camo 
again  later  in  tho  day,  went  up- stairs^  axv^  v\ 
sent  tlio  ^v\^vi  do^Ttv  ^ot  wsrni^  Y^\^a>  "gccA.  ^^-tcsr>  n^ 


ffX 


&, 


542       [Novomber  6.  18M.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


of  her  husband's  Lair.  She  then  asked  for 
the  notes,  saying  she  could  not  get  on 
without  them.  The  wife  hesitated  a  little, 
but  at  length  gave  them.  Sarah,  after 
putting  a  little  of  the  husbimd's  hair  into 
each  note,  and  folding  them  up,  made  a 
small  bundle  of  them,  which  she  put  on 
a  chair.  The  wife,  having  some  misgiv- 
ings, wanted  the  notes  returned;  but  the 
deceiver  declared  that  the  charm  would  fail 
unless  the  notes  remained  a  few  minutes 
in  the  chair.  Sarah  then  told  her  silly  dupe 
to  stand  in  the  middlo  of  the  room,  throw 
pins  into  the  fire,  and  watch  till  they  were 
consumed.  While  this  was  doing,  the 
knavish  woman  'watched  for  an  opportunity 
to  take  up  the  roll  of  notes,  and  deposit  in 
its  place  a  small  paper  parcel  of  similar  size 
and  appearance.  This,  however,  was  not 
so  adroitly  done  as  to  escape  the  notice  of 
the  wife ;  suspicion  was  aroused,  the  hus- 
band was  called  up- stairs,  the  impostor  was 
searched,  given  into  custody,  tried,  and  im- 
piisoned.  The  cheat  was  of  the  most 
vulgar  kind,  but  it  sufficed  to  show  the 
intense  credulity  of  the  person  duped. 

No  longer  ago  than  1857,  a  trial  at  the 
StiifTord  Assizes  exhibited  a  farmer  and  his 
wife  in  such  a  light  as  would  appear  almost 
incredible,  were  it  not  tliat  the  narrative 
came  from  their  own  lips.  The  farmer, 
Thomas  Charlesworth,  lived  at  Rugby.  Ho 
married  in  185G,  against  his  mother's  wish ; 
she  quitted  his  roof,  and  gave  him  a  mys- 
terious caution  not  to  make  cheese,  as  it 
would  bo  sure  to  crumble  to  pieces.  This 
warning  seemed  to  imply  that  the  young 
wife  would  bewitch  the  dairy;  but  the 
farmer's  evidence  did  not  tend  to  show 
what  ho  himself  believed  in  this  matter. 
Very  sliortly,  everything  seemed  to  go 
wrong;  the  cheese  would  not  turn  out 
properly;  the  farmer,  his  wife,  and  the 
dau-ymaid,  all  became  unwell.  In  this 
predicament  he  sought  the  advice  of  a 
neighbouring  toll-gate  keeper,  who  sug- 
gested that  ho  should  apply  to  a  "  wise 
man,"  named  James  Tunnicliff.  The 
farmer  and  his  wife  started  off,  visited  the 
wise  man,  told  their  story,  and  obtained  a 
promise  tliat  he  would  come  to  the  farm 
on  the  following  day.  He  did  come.  His 
report  startled  t)ie  poor  ijirmer.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Charlesworth,  the  maid,  all  the  horses, 
all  the  cows,  the  farm,  and  the  cheese  vat, 
were  pronounced  to  be  bewitched.  A 
regular  tarill'  was  named  for  the  disenchant- 
ment— five  shilhngs  for  each  human  being, 
fivu  ahiUinga   for    each    horse,  tViroe-aivd- 


paid  as  much  as  seven  pounds.  No  good 
result  followed ;  the  cheese  was  no  better 
than  before ;  and  the  inmates  of  the  farm 
were  (or  fancied  themselves  to  be)  very 
much  out  of  condition.  They  believc>d  they 
heai'd  at  night  strange  noises,  the  bellowing 
of  cattle  and  tlio  howling  of  dogs.  Tunni- 
cliff now  asserted  that  the  whole  eonimotion 
was  due  to  the  influence  of  Charlesworth's 
mother  over  certain  wizards  living  at  Long- 
ton,  Burton- on- Trent,  and  Derby  ;  and  that 
to  counteract  this  baneful  influence  a  large 
outlay  of  money  would  be  needed.  The 
farmer  gave  him  an  additional  snm  of  thirty 
pounds.  Still,  there  was  no  improvement 
And  now  occurred  the  strangest  proof  of 
deception  on  the  one  hand,  and  cre- 
dulity on  the  other.  The  farmer  took 
the  knave  Tunnicliff  into  his  house,  and 
allowed  him  to  live  there,  eleven  months! 
Tlie  rogue  lived  an  easy  life,  and  fed  on 
the  best  that  the  farm  aflbrded.  Somfr- 
times  he  would  make  crosses  on  all  the 
doors  with  witch  hazel ;  and  Boonetimes  he 
would  burn  blue  lights,  to  overcome  the 
powers  of  the  evil  one.  The  farmer  deposed 
in  evidence,  that  one  niglit  he  was  taken  ill; 
that  he  heard  a  sound  like  that  of  a  ca^ 
riage  in  the  yard,  and  another  like  a  rush 
of  wind  through  a  passage ;  that  the  house* 
dog  entered  the  room,  followed  by  '*the 
shape  of  another  dog  all  on  fire ;"  that  af^ 
the  farmer  had  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  tiw 
fiery  dog  disappeared,  but  the  house-dog 
stayed,  with  his  tongue  hanging  out  and 
his  paws  hanging  down.  The  mistress  and 
the  maid  had  both  of  them  something  to  say 
concerning  this  fiery  dog.  After  this  extra- 
ordinary hallucination  had  continued  near^ 
a  year,  even  the  obtuse  mind  of  the  farmer 
began  to  open  to  the  possibility  that  the 
wise  man  had  been  makmg  a  dupe  of  him. 
He  consulted  a  lawyer,  and  the  lawyer  col- 
lected evidence  sufficient  to  bring  upon 
Tunnichff  a  sentence  of  twelve  months' 
imprisonment  with  hard  labour,  "for  ob- 
taining money  under  false  pretences."  But 
the  evidence  was  not  sufficient  to  show 
how  far,  or  in  what  way,  he  had  produced 
the  appearances  and  the  noises  which  had 
so  much  assisted  to  keep  up  the  cheat. 

The  obstinate  milk  of  a  cow  wa«  the 
primary  ca,use  of  this  absurd  exhibition  of 
ignorance ;  and  such  an  event  has  not  un- 
frequcntly  led  to  applications  to  fortune- 
tellers and  wise  men.  Early  in  the  present 
centmy  there  was  a  case  in  point,  ludicrous 
in  its  commencement  but  trngrical  at  its 
clo?>e.     A  cow  belonging  to  a  tailor  ceased  to 


ftixpcnce  each  cow,  five  BhiWings  ior  t\i^\y\e\^TDfl^,wi'^V}ti^\»a^art'%^Hrifo^ 
chccso  vat,  &c. — ^until  the  -poor  dupe  Wd\\\i^«i.TiMas^N.^^\s«^  ^ci^  ^sasn^jsi 


■h 


Charles  wckeM.]  WITCHCRAFT  IN  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  [Nov.  e,  isw.)  548 


twelve  women  at  licr  house  and  got  them 
all  to  solemnl J  bless  the  cow ;  bnt  still  no 
milk  come.  She  then  applied  to  one  Maiy 
Batters,  a  fortune-teller.  This  woman  ad- 
vised that  the  tailor  and  another  man 
should  go  to  the  cow-house,  turn  their 
waistcoats  inside  out,  and  stand  by  the 
head  of  the  cow  till  the  milk  came.  The 
two  simpletons  did  as  they  were  directed, 
and  remained  in  the  cow-house  many  hours ; 
bnt  BE  the  cow  continued  as  dry  as  ever 
thoy  returned  to  the  house.  Fin£ng  doors 
and  windows  closed,  and  observing  a  strange 
silence  everywhere,  they  forced  an  entrance, 
and  saw  within  the  house  the  tailor's  wife, 
her  son,  and  an  old  woman,  all  lying  dead, 
together  with  Mary  Butters  in  a  veiy  ex- 
hausted state.  In  this  case  thci*e  is  reason 
to  believe  that  the  witch,  or  fortuneteller, 
was  to  a  certain  degree  sincere  in  her 
wit<*hery ;  she  had  sliut  herself  up  in  the 
house  with  the  three  other  persons,  had 
closed  every  crevice,  and  put  a  pot  on  the 
fire  containing  pins,  needles,  crooked  naUs, 
a  little  milk,  and  (it  is  supposed)  a  little 
sulphur.  The  fumes  liad  sufiTocated  her 
wretched  companions,  and  had  nearly  made 
an  end  of  herself  too. 

An  inquiry  that  came  before  the  Bethnal- 
green  Police  Court,  in  1856,  exhibited  the 
metropolis  in  nearly  as  un£abvourable  a  light 
as  the  country  districts.  The  wife  of  a 
<x>ppersmith.  Buffering  under  illness  and 
anxiety,  was  told  by  some  of  her  neighbours 
that  she  had  a  **  spell "  upon  her,  and  was 
reoommended  to  go  to  a  ''wise  woman" 
named  Sarah  M'Donald;  seeing  that  a 
medical  man  had  failed  to  cure  her.  The 
wise  woman  told  her  that "  some  person  was 
doing  her  an  injury,"  and  that  the  remedy 
would  be  the  burning  of  ten  powders.  The 
dupe  purchased  the  powders,  at  sixpence 
each,  of  M'Donald,  who  threw  them  into  the 
fire,  where  they ''  cracked,  and  burned,  and 
blazed,  and  bounced."  The  wise  woman 
muttered  some  words,  which  wore  supposed 
to  be  part  of  a  charm  or  incantation.  The 
silly  wife  repeated  these  visits  seven  or 
eight  times,  always  unknown  to  her  hus- 
band. It  came  out  in  the  course  of  the  in- 
vestigation that  the  magic  powder  was  only 
common  salt ;  but,  even  then,  the  dupes  (for 
the  woman's  daughter  had  also  fallen  into 
the  snare)  believed  that  the  wise  woman 
could  "remove  the  spell"  if  she  chose :  in- 
deed, the  complaint  before  the  magistrate 
was,  not  that  she  had  done  wrong,  but  that 
she  would  not  do  what  she  could.  The  cre- 
dulity was  rendered  the  more  strange  by 
the  fact  that  the  tradesman's  wife  belonged 
to  a  ^ood  family,  moving  in   a  circle  of 


society  where   the    witch    theory   is   not 
usually  countenanced. 

In  1825  a  curious  proof  was  afforded  of 
the  popular  belief  in  a  "  sink-or-swim  " 
method  of  detecting  a  wizard.  At  Wick- 
ham  Keith,  in  Suffolk,  there  dwelt  one 
Isaac  Stebbing,  a  small,  spare,  elderly  man; 
he  was  a  huckster,  or  deaJer  in  small  cheap 
wares.  Near  him  dwelt  a  thatcher,  whose 
wife  became  more  and  more  silly  as  she 
advanced  in  years ;  while  another  neigh- 
bour, a  farmer,  also  showed  signs  of  mental 
weakness.  The  gossips  of  the  village  deem- 
ing it  strange  that  there  should  bo  two 
siUy  persons  among  them,  took  refuge  in 
the  theory  of  witchcraft  or  necromancy, 
and  sought  about  for  some  one  who  had 
done  the  mischief.  The  poor  huckster 
was  fixed  upon.  One  cottager  asserted 
that,  while  using  the  fiying-pan  one 
evening,  Isaac  Stebbing  was  seen  to 
dance  up  to  the  door.  This,  it  seems,  is 
one  of  the  tests  of  wizard  tactics;  but 
Stebbing  stoutly  denied  having  done  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  Thereupon  rose  a 
charge  that  he  had  once  called  upon  a 
neighbour  with  mackerel  for  sale,  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  before  the  family 
were  up— another  proof  of  black  magic  ; 
he  admitted  having  called  at  the  hour 
named,  but  only  as  a  dealer,  and  denied  all 
complicity  with  wizards.  Not  yet  satisfied, 
the  villagers  ascertained  from  a  cobbler 
that  one  day  his  wax  would  neither  melt 
nor  work  properly,  and  that  Isaac  Steb- 
bing passed  his  door  at  the  very  instant 
when  this  occurred,  a  sure  proof  (in  the 
cobbler's  estimation)  that  the  huckster 
had  bewitched  the  wax.  The  villagers, 
having  their  minds  preoccupied  with  the 
belief  that  Stebbing  was  a  wizard,  did  not 
like  to  be  bafiled,  and  proposed  that  the 
sink-or-swim  test  should  be  applied.  The 
poor  fellow  consented.  There  was  a  large 
pond  called  the  Grunner,  on  Wickham- 
green,  and  around  this  pond,  on  a  certain 
day,  a  strong  muster  of  villagors  assembled. 
Four  men  were  appointed  to  walk  into  the 
water  with  Isaac,  and  the  parish  constable 
attended  to  keep  the  peace.  Stebbing, 
wearing  only  his  coat  and  breeches,  walked 
into  the  pond,  attended  by  the  four  men ; 
and  when  they  had  waded  about  breast 
high,  they  lifbed  him  up  and  laid  him  flat 
on  his  back  on  the  surface  of  the  water. 
Now  it  is  known  to  bathers  that  when  the 
lungs  are  moderately  inflated,  the  human 
body  weighs  a  little  less  than  an  equal  ^ 
bulk  of  water ;  and  t3asi\»  ^  ^^t«kpcl  <5»sv  ^a^  ^^ 
such.  a.  timo  ^o«Jc  oil  \Xv&  wsa'tfwift,^^^'^^^  ^ 
la©   keep*   ^«^e^^   %HSSL     ^^^>asivi^^   "^^    ^^ 


^ 


:5b 


544     [November  6, 18«9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


rOondaeled  by 


'^ 


huckster  was  aware  of  this,  is  not  recorded; 
but  he  did  float — rather  to  the  disappoint- 
ment of  the  wizard  hnnters.  They  called 
ont,  *'  Give  him  another !"  and  again  did 
ho  remain  so  quiet  as  to  float  when  placed 
on  the  surface  of  the  water.  Not  yet 
satisfied,  they  cried  out,  "  Try  him  again : 
dip  him  under  the  water !"  and  under  he 
went,  head  down  and  heels  up  ;  but 
speedily  recovering  himself,  he  floated  as 
before.  The  old  man  was  more  dead  than 
alive  when  he  had  borne  these  repeated 
duckings  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  and 
ho  hoped  that  his  neighbours  would  be 
satisfied  with  the  result.  But  they  were 
not ;  they  wished  their  wizard  theory  to  be 
justified,  even  if  the  poor  fellow's  life  had 
been  sacrificed  as  a  consequence.  It  was 
gravely  proposed  that  "  another  man  of  his 
age  and  size  ought  to  be  made  to  swim 
with  him."  What  this  meant,  we  are  not 
told ;  but  they  had  probably  begun  to 
suspect  the  nature  of  his  floating  power. 
One  Tom  Wilden,  of  Hacton  parish,  was 
selected  as  the  second  man;  and  on  the 
next  following  Saturday,  nearly  all  the  in- 
habitants of  both  villages  assembled  around 
the  pond.  By  this  time,  however,  the 
clergyman  and  churchwardens  had  heard 
of  the  affair,  and  forbade  the  further  prose- 
cution of  the  monstrous  ordeal. 

Do  the  last  two  or  three  years  afford  any 
indication  that  these  degi^ading  displays  of 
ignorance  have  vanished  from  among  us  ? 
At  Stratford-on-Avon,  in  October,  18G7,  a 
whole  family  were  smitten  with  a  belief 
(so  astonishing  as  to  bo  itself  almost  un- 
believable) that  hideous  headless  men  and 
women  were  in  the  habit  of  coming  down 
the  chimneys  during  the  night,  jpinching 
the  inmates  of  the  house,  making  horrible 
noises,  and  even  turning  the  people  out  of 
their  beds.  A  theory  sprang  up  in  the 
family  that  they  were  all  bewitched  by  a 
neighbour,  Jane  Ward,  and  that  the  shed- 
ding of  some  of  Jane's  blood  would  be 
necessary  to  the  removal  of  the  spell.  The 
father  foi*thwith  gave  poor  Jane  a  gash  in  the 
check  with  a  knife,  whereupon  the  family 
obtained,  as  they  declared,  peaceful  nights. 
But  a  trial  at  the  Warwick  Assizes  taught 
the  deluded  man  that  his  peculiar  mode  of 
getting  rid  of  witches  was  not  exactly  in 
accordance  ^^^th  the  laws  of  England. 

Again.  At  Newbury,  in  Berks,  in  Febru- 
ary, 18G8 — List  year — one  Isaac  Rivers 
having  lost  his  watch,  applied  to  a  "cunning 
iromau,"  named  Mana  Giles,  to  help  him  in 
his  troubles.  She  received  ba\£-ti-CTOwiv  ;is 
payment  for  allowing  him.  to  look  m\^o  tv. 
glass  something  like  those  "ascd  in  \)\Td. 


cages,  in  which  he  was  to  see  the  face  of 
the  man  who  had  possession  of  the  watch. 
The  noodle  fancied  ho  "  saw  whiskers," 
but  1.0  face.  A  few  days  afterwards  he 
gave  her  nine  shillings  and  sixpence,  where- 
with to  buy  some  "  doctors*  stuff",' *  which 
was  to  assist  in  the  search.  A  second 
time  did  he  give  her  a  similar  sum  of  nine 
shillings  and  sixpence,  for  a  similar  pur- 
pose ;  but  he  saw  neither  doctors*  stuflP  nor 
watch.  On  a  fourth  occasion  the  simple- 
ton gave  her  twenty-five  shillings  (unless 
the  watch  were  a  gold  one,  he  must  luiTe 
about  paid  its  full  value  by  this  time),  and 
he  was  bidden  to  remain  indoors  until,  at 
midnight,  Maria  should  bring  him  the  man 
who  possessed  the  watch.  The  simplidtj 
with  which  he  afterwards  assured  a  magis- 
trate that  ho  did  wait  indoors,  and  that  the 
people  did  not  come  with  the  watch,  was 
something  to  marvel  at. 

At  Cuckfield,  in  October,  1868,  a  married 
woman,  being  ill,  applied  to  a  *' cunning 
man"  to  ascertain  whether  she  was  be- 
witched. A  midnight  meeting,  a  book  of 
necromancy,  a  pair  of  tongs,  some  new  pins, 
and  a  great  deal  of  ceremonial  ejaculation 
and  jargon  somehow  failed  either  to  bring 
the  witch  to  light  or  to  cure  the  illness. 

In  November,  1868,  at  Tunbridge  Wells, 
a  woman,  jealous  of  her  husband,  apphedto 
a  fortune-teller  to  reveal  whether  there  were 
grounds  for  her  jealousy.  A  bargain  was 
made,  that,  for  one  shilling  to  buy  doctors' 
stuffs,  the  fortune-teller  should  bewitch  a 
certain  other  woman  who  was  supposed  to 
have  led  the  husband  astray,  and  should 
give  her  "excruciating  pain."  Somehow 
or  other,  tho  wife  herself  was  in  great  pain 
that  same  night,  and  then  indicted  the  for- 
time-teller  for  having  bewitched  the  wrong  i 
person.  At  Maidstone  Assizes  the  chaige 
settled  down  into  the  more  definite  one  of 
obtaining  a  shilling  under  false  pretences     i 

Enough.  Newspaper  readers  may  re- 
member still  more  recent  instances  of  tie 
same  kind. 


IN  GREAT  GOLPmaTON. 


"  Can  you  play,  my  lad  ?*'  said  I  to  the 
Caddie  who  was  carrying  my  clubs  for  me 
at  tho  noble  (I  beg  pardon  ot  all  true 
golfers,  the  royal)  gome  of  golf;  which  I 
was  practising,  or  rather,  learning,  on  the 
breezy  links  of  tho  old  city  of  Great  Golf- 
ington. 

*'  Go,  aye,"  he  replied  in  broad  Fifeshire 
^col^,  '''''W.  tlq  q^^  -HveeL     I'm  just  a 


^ 


&. 


Ch&rles  Diokens.] 


IN  GREAT  GOLFINGTON. 


[KoTember«,1869.]      545 


Whon  this  little  conversation  occurred, 
I  was  out  amid  the  "benty  kuowes,"  the 
"  whin  bushes,"  and  the  "  bunkers"  of  the 
most  ianious  goliing  ground  in  the  world, 
in  the  company  of  au  accomplished  golfer 
who  was  endeavouring  to  initiate  me  into 
the  mysteries.  Before  proceeding  further 
it  will  be  well  to  explain  the  words  *'  caddie" 
and  "  golf."  "  Caddie"  in  Scottish  par- 
lance originally  meant  a  lad  or  youth, 
from  the  t'rench  cadet.  The  word  now  sig- 
nifies (and  signiiied  in  Humphrey  Clinker's 
time)  a  man  or  boy  employed  to  run  er- 
rands, or  do  light  jobs  of  porters'  work. 
A  *'  caddie"  must  not  be  confounded  with  a 
cad,  for  cad  implies  snobbishness  and  vul- 
garity, and  a  caddie  may  be  a  voiy  honest 
fellow.  Indeed,  caddies,  as  a  rule,  are 
hard-working  respectable  people,  and  as 
such  superior  to  a  cad,  even  if  the  cad  should 
happen  to  be  called  "your  lordship." 

"  Golf,"  pronounced  goff,  is  the  game 
par  excellence  of  Scotsmen,  and  flourishes 
in  every  part  of  the  world  to  which  Scots- 
men resort  and  where  the  climate  is  not  too 
tropical  to  admit  of  vigorous  exercise  in 
the  open  air.  Wherever  any  considerable 
number  of  Scots,  at  home  or  abroad,  reside 
in  a  town  or  city,  contiguous  to  a  moor,  a 
heath,  a  common,  or  a  strip  of  land  by  the 
seashore,  large  enough  for  the  sport,  they 
are  sure  to  be  seen  in  the  summer  and 
autumnal  afternoons,  or  the  half  hohdays 
snatched  from  their  businesses  (in  which,  as 
most  people  know,  they  generally  manage 
to  do  pretty  well),  attired  in  red  coats, 
that  they  may  know  each  other  in  the 
distance,  their  caddies  following  with  a  due 
supply  of  clubs  of  all  weights  and  cahbres. 
These  hearty  Soots  are  engaged  in  the  to 
them  dehghtful  task  of  sending  a  hard 
gutta-percha  ball  flying  through  the  air, 
towards  a  hole  at  a  mile's  or  half  a  nule's 
distance,  and  gradually  diminishing  the 
vigour  of  their  blows,  as  they  approach 
neai'cr  tho  hole  of  their  ambition.  Most 
Londoners  who  have  visited  Greenwich, 
must  at  some  time  or  other  have  observed 
the  cheery  gentlemen  who  enjoy  this  sport 
at  Blackheath.  The  place  is  somewhat 
too  crowded,  however,  by  nursery  maids 
and  donkeys  to  allow  fair  scope  for  the 
game — but  better  a  crowded  heath  than 
no  heath  at  all,  to  tho  inveterate  golfer. 
Those,  too,  whose  travels  in  Scotland  have 
led  them  beyond  tho  show- places  and  the 
beaten  tracks  of  the  sunmier  tourists,  or 
who  have  resided  in  Edinburgh  or  its 
neighbourhood,  must  have  made  acquaint- 
anco  with  the  golfers,  cither  at  tho  links 
of    BmntsScId,    Lcitby    Musselburgh,    or 


Innerleven.  If,  as  King  James  in  the 
Fortunes  of  Nigel  advised  young  Lord 
Glenvarloch  to  do,  they  have  "  turned  their 
nebs  northwai-ds  and  settled  for  awhile  at 
St.  Andi'ews,"  they  will  have  seen  golf  in 
all  its  glory,  and  if  they  read  these  pages 
will  not  consider  inappropriate  the  new 
name  which  I  have  taken  the  hberty  to 
bestow  upon  the  venerable  city. 

Nobody  knows  when  the  Scotch  first 
took  to  this  sport ;  but  tho  word,  derived 
from  the  Saxon  Kolb,  and  the  Danish 
Kolv,  a  club  or  mace,  points  to  tho  game 
as  an  introduction  from  the  European  con- 
tinent at  that  early  period  of  Scottish 
history  when  the  Scandinavians  eflected  a 
settlement  upon  tho  eastern  coasts  of  tho 
island.  It  is  only  on  the  eastern  coasts 
that  golf  flourishes,  for  the  western  High- 
landers are  unacquainted  with  it,  and  the 
configuration  of  their  country  does  not  lend 
itself  to  a  game  in  which  level  ground  is 
necessary.  Almost,  if  not  the  earliest 
mention  of  golf  occurs  in  a  royal  edict  of 
the  year  1457,  when  Scotland  was  an  inde- 
pendent nation,  and  nourished  such  bitter 
grudges  against  England,  in  the  matter  of 
William  Wallace  and  other  grievances,  as  to 
make  war  between  the  two  countries  a  con- 
tingency to  bo  always  provided  for  by  the 
Scottish  kings.  At  that  time  the  passion 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  Scandinavian,  and 
Lowland  Scotch  for  the  game  was  con- 
sidered to  be  so  excessive  as  to  interfere 
with  the  practice  of  archeiy,  which  King 
James  the  Second  desired  to  encourage. 
And  well  he  might.  Neither  he  nor  any 
other  Scotsman  had  ceased  to  boast  of  tho 
glorious  victory  of  Bannockburn,  which  the 
Scottish  archers  had  won,  against  the  best 
bowmen  of  England ;  and  the  times  were 
perilous.  England  was  not  only  a  mighty 
neighbour  to  Scotland,  but  a  troublesome 
one,  as  the  fatal  field  of  Elodden  proved  but 
too  surely  at  a  later  pciiod.  James  issued  a 
royal  edict,  prohibiting  both  golf  and  foot- 
ball under  heavjpenalties.  But  he  attempted 
a  feat  beyond  his  power  to  accomplish. 
And  he  was  somewhat  illogical  and  incon- 
sequential besides,  for  there  was  nothing 
to  prevent  a  good  golfer  from  being  a 
good  archer.  Anyhow,  the  Scottish  people 
would  not  be  legislated  out  of  their  amuse- 
ment in  days  of  peace,  though  quite  ready 
to  fight  for  their  king  and  country  in  days 
of  war.  So  they  played  golf  as  usual  upon 
tho  breezy  moorlands  and  Huks  of  their 
towns  and  cities,  and  tho  king  found  none 
to  make  a  Hving  law  oxxi  ^^  V\\5?»  ^<5iss>Sv.  vi^ci^, 

\  before  ¥\oddeTi— ^\icrcL  >j\i^  ^toJOcs^'^^^^^^'^ 


<r&: 


oUj       [Novoml»er  6,  18C9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


tCoadacted  lay 


had  more  than  enough  to  do  to  hold  their 
own  afifainst  the  superior  liosts  of  Eng- 
land— James  the  Fourth  i*o\TLved  tlie  etlict 
against  g<3lf.  The  Scoteh  are  a  '*dour" 
and  stubborn  people,  even  in  their  sports. 
What  they  do  they  do  with  all  their 
strength.  Whether  they  light,  or  make 
lovo,  or  drink,  or  make  money,  or  amuse 
themselves,  they  do  it  '*with  a  will." 
It  wa«  their  will  to  play  golf,  and  they 
played  it.  As  might  have  been  fon^seen  by 
a  wiser  king  than  James,  the  fuhninating 
etlict  became,  for  the  second  time,  a  dead 
letter.  James  the  Fiftli,  the  next  king,  was 
a  liearty  good  fellow,  loved  to  enjoy  him- 
self, afl  may  be  surmised  from  his  ballad  of 
We'll  gang  nae  mair  a  Roving,  and  his 
poems  of  Christ's  Kirk  on  the  Green,  and 
Peblis  to  the  Play.  Besides,  he  was  not 
involved  with  England.  Under  his  meiTy 
rule,  golf  took  fresh  root  in  popular 
fe,vour  throughout  tho  whole  of  Eastern 
and  Middle  Scotland.  James  the  Sixth 
— who  wrote  tho  Book  of  Sports  (after- 
wards  ordered  to  bo  burned  by  the  hands 
of  the  common  hangman),  and  was  anxious 
that  labouring  men,  condemned  to  a  life  of 
toil  during  six  days  of  the  week,  should, 
after  going  to  church  on  tho  Sunday  fore- 
noon, take  a  bout  at  some  atliletic  sport 
on  the  Sunday  afternoon — was  a  friend  of 
golf,  football,  and  cricket,  and  established 
the  Golf  Club  that  still  carries  on  the  sport 
at  Blackhcath.  His  son,  Charles  the  First, 
played  golf  on  tho  links  of  Leith,  and  his 
grandson,  the  Duke  of  York,  aftei'wards 
James  the  Second  of  England  and  Seventh 
of  Scotland,  wishing,  in  one  of  his  visits  to 
Edinburgh,  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the 
Scottish  people,  thought  no  means  more 
efficient  than  to  play  golf  publicly  among 
them.  A  dispute  having  arisen  among  somo 
of  tho  English  nobles  who  accompanied  him, 
whether  golf  were  not  tho  same  game  as  the 
Englisli  hockey,  the  result  was  a  challenge 
between  two  of  tho  Englishmen  to  the  Duke 
of  York  and  any  Scotsman  he  might  select, 
to  play  a  match  upon  tho  links  of  Leith. 
Tradition  has  failed  to  record  tho  amount  of 
the  stake,  but  it  appears  to  have  been  consi- 
derable. Golf  is  a  democratic  game,  as  all 
games  of  skill  and  strength  must  be,  and, 
there  being  no  great  nobleman  or  gentleman 
of  rank  to  be  found  on  tho  Scottish  side  to 
contend  against  the  southerners  for  the 
honour  of  Scotland,  one  John  Patcrsone,  a 
shoemaker,  of  Edinbui'gh,  a  noted  golfer 
himself f  and  descended  of  a  family  in  which 
proficiency  in  golf  was  hereditary,  was  -^tc- 


duko's  partner.  Tho  duke  and  John 
Pat-ersono  won  the  match  triumphantly. 
It  was  the  duke*s  first  victory,  and  he  was 
proud  of  it,  but  it  was  Johu  Patcrsoue's 
ninth,  and  he  was  prouder  still.  With  one 
half  of  tho  stakes  the  dou^ty  shoemaker 
built  himself  a  fine  new  house  in  the  Canon- 
gate  of  Edinburgh,  and  placed  over  the 
door  the  anagrammatic  motto,  "  I  hato  no 
persone,"  derived  from  the  transposition  of 
the  letters  of  his  name.  The  duke,  equally 
pleased,  caused  a  tablet  to  be  inserted  in  the 
wall,  bearing  the  arms  of  the  Patersone 
family,  together  with  the  motto  of  tlie 
golfers,  **  Far  and  Sure." 

*'  Far  and  sure"  is  not  alone  the  motto, 
but  tho  rule  of  golf.  Strike  tho  ball  thatii 
may  fiy  far;  strike  it  also  so  that  it  may  fly 
suro  towards  the  hole,  which  is  its  ultimate 
destination ;  such  is  tho  whole  theoiy  and 
practice  of  the  sport.  At  St.  Andrews 
people  seem  only  to  eat  and  drink  that  they 
may  play  golf  They  sleep  at  night  that 
they  may  rise  refreshed  for  golf  in  the 
morning.  They  make  money  that  they 
may  have  leisure  to  play  golf  in  their  holi- 
days, and  in  the  afternoons  of  their  busy 
lives.  No  position  is  too  high  in  life  to 
prevent  its  occupant  from  playing  golt 
none  is  too  low  to  debar  him  from  the 
privilege.  All  ages,  ranks,  and  classes, 
and  both  sexes,  give  way  to  the  fiiscinatioa 
of  the  game. 

If  it  Traroa  lawful, 

Lawjen  wadna  allow  it. 
If  it  waa  na  holy. 

Ministers  vraonn  do  it. 
If  it  was  na  modest, 

Maidens  wadna  tok  it. 
If  it  was  na  plenty, 

Puir  folk  wodna  got  it ! 

Nothing  stops  golf  in  St.  Andrews  ex- 
cept snow  and  darkness,  and  these  only 
because  the  one  fills  up  the  holes,  and  the 
other  renders  them  invisible.  Wind,  rain, 
and  sleet  have  no  cifcct,  unless  the  wind 
blows  such  a  hurricane  as  to  interfere 
with  the  course  of  the  ball. 

The  Golf  Club  at  St.  Andrews,  over- 
looking the  links,  consists  of  about  six 
hundred  members,  of  whom  not  above  a 
third,  if  so  many,  are  permanent  residents 
of  the  city  and  neighbourhood.  Society  in 
Great  Golfingtou  is  not  an  "upper  ten 
thousand,"  but  a  small  and  very  select- 
body  of  two  or  three  hundred,  including 
the  professors  of  tho  university,  the 
lawyera,  the  doctors,  tho  bankers,  and  the 
country  gentlemen  of  tho  district^  with 
iVvcYT  wives    and   families.       These,  it  is 


//rLf/icic'iicy  111  gou  was  neTeaiuVTy,  w\xs  yvvi- \  vucYT    amycs    unu    iitiuiiiuB.        xutaw,    n»    « 

vailed  upon,  after  some  diiJiculty,  to  "bfe  t\iG  \  eVv^eiiV.^  ^Q  Tio\»  ^w^  ^  \Rifeilic  sufficiently 


&) 


Charles  Diekens-J 


IN-  GREAT  aOLFINGTON. 


[November  6,  I860.] 


547 


immerons  for  a  clnb  of  such  magnittide. 
The  members,  however,  if  not  residents, 
arc  annual  visitors,  and  come  from  all  parts 
of  the  world — from  San  Francisco,  Chicago, 
and  Now  York,  on  one  side,  and  from  Can- 
ton,  Calcutta,  Hong  Kong,  on  the  other, 
even  from  Sydney  and  Melbourne,  to  indulge 
in  the  game,  and  prevent  the  old  city  from 
becoming  musty  and  stagnant.  The  laws  of 
golf,  as  interpreted  by  the  St.  Andrew's 
Golfing  Club,  are  the  laws  of  the  game  all 
over  the  Scottish  world. 

Let  mo  describe  these  famous  links  as 
well  as  I  can,  by  the  aid,  not  only  of  a  per- 
somil  survey,  but  of  a  large  and  elaborate 
map  of  the  golfing  ground,  which  is  to  bo 
seen  in  most  of  the  fashionable  private 
houses  of  the  city.  The  links  extend  along 
the  margin  of  the  sea  shore,  from  the  city 
towards  the  embouchure  of  the  river  Eden, 
-where  it  falls  into  the  Bay  of  St.  Andrews. 
The  ground  is  about  four  miles  and  a  half 
in  length,  and  half  or  three  quarters  of  a 
mile  in  width.  The  course  taken  at  a  match 
is  up  one  side  of  the  links  and  down  again  on 
the  other,  making  a  distance  of  upwards  of 
nine  miles.  On  the  course,  out  and  in,  there 
are  nine  holes,  about  a  mile  apart,  respec- 
tively called  the  Bridge  Hole,  the  Cartgato 
Hole,  the  Third  Hole,  the  Gringer  Beer 
Hole,  the  Hell  Hole,  the  Heather  Hole,  the 
Eden  Hole,  the  Short  Hole,  and  the  End 
Hole.  One  part  of  the  link,  that  presents  a 
smooth  green  sward,  and  offers  no  difficulties 
to  the  golfer,  in  the  shape  of"  bunkers,"  that 
is,  pits  or  deep  hollows  in  the  soil,  or  **whin 
bushes,"  in  which  the  ball  may  get  em- 
bedded and  concealed,  is  called  the  Elysian 
Fields,  and  another,  where  these  combined 
difficulties  are  many,  and  extend  over  the 
best  part  of  a  mile,  is  called  Pandemonium 
by  the  ladies.  The  gentlemen  are  less 
mealy-mouthed,  and  give  it  the  shorter, 
and  more  emphatic  designation  of  "  Hell." 
Ho  who,  in  the  words  of  the  Golfiad,  a 
poem  by  an  anonymous  writer,  can  send 
bis  ball 

Smack  over  HolI  at  one  immortal  go, 

is  generally  rewarded  for  his  pith  of  arm 
and  his  success  with  a  ringing  cheer,  alike 
fi*om  Ids  partisans  and  opponents.  A  golfer 
and  a  poet — and  poets  of  tbc  tldrd  and 
fourth  order  are  almost  as  common  in  Scot- 
land as  blackbenues  in  England — says  of 
the  fifth,  or  Hell-hole  : 

What  (lajrinc  f^enius  first  jclept  tUco  IJclI ; 
"What  hi{»n  poetic,  awe- struck,  grand  old  golfer, 
Much  moro  of  a  mytholo^rist  than  scoffer ! 

Whno'er  ho  was,  the  name  beiiti  thee  woU ! 

"  All  hopo  abandon,  yo  who  on  tor  here," 
Is  wTittcn  AW  fid  o'er  ttj  gloomy  jaws ! 


The  clubs  used  at  the  game  are  of  various 
degrees  of  strength,  weight,  and  elasticity 
— some  for  hitting  a  hard  blow  on  level 
ground,  some  more  adapted  for  the  hilly 
ground,  strewn  with  pits  and  bunkers, 
some  for  extricating  the  ball  from  the  whin 
and  furze  bushes,  and  some  for  the  gentle 
tinal  stroke  that  is  to  land  the  ball  safely  in 
the  hole,  from  which  at  the  final  consumma- 
tion it  may  not  be  a  yard,  or  even  an  inch 
distant. 

There  is  a  minimum  supply  of  clubs  to 
be  carried  by  the  caddie,  from  which  the 
player  can  select  his  weapon,  according  to 
his  fancy  or  his  requirements:  the  play 
club,  the  long  spoon,  the  middle  spoon,  the 
short  spoon,  the  click,  the  heavy  iron,  and 
the  light  iron.  Some  players,  however, 
are  fastidious,  and  load  their  caddies  with 
twenty  or  thirty  clubs,  that  they  may  have 
a  plethora  of  choice,  when  the  lay  of  the 
ball  and  the  distance  from  the  hole  present 
any  real  or  seeming  difficulty  to  be  sur- 
mounted. The  side  that  lands  its  baU  in 
the  ninth  hole,  after  the  smallest  number  of 
strokes  during  the  whole  course,  is  the 
winner.  It  is  no  wonder  to  any  one  who 
has  ever  tried  his  hand  at  golf,  es- 
pecially on  these  breezy  links,  that  the 
game  should  be  a  fascinating  one.  The 
beautifdl  stretch  of  open  land,  the  blue 
expanse  of  sea,  the  joyous  "  caller  air*' 
that  comes  surging  and  waving  over  the 
deep,  la<^len  with  health  to  the  smoke- 
dried  lungs  of  men  who  have  long  been 
pent  in  cities ;  the  exhilaration  of  the 
steady  march  after  the  flying  ball ;  all  these 
auxiliaries  make  up  a  sport  that  has  for  its 
votaries  to  the  fall  as  much  dehght  as  fox- 
hunting or  deer-stalking.  And  all  the  more 
delightful  for  being  unalloyed,  like  these 
sports,  with  cruelty  or  wrong  to  the  hum- 
blest living  thing  that  God  has  created.  As 
the  Grolfer*s  Garland,  an  old  song  of  174:3, 
says: 

At  golf  we  contend  without  rancour  or  pplecn, 
And  bloodless  the  laurels  we  reap  on  the  green : 
From  healthful  exertion  our  plcaaurot  arise, 
And  to  crown  our  delight  no  poor  fugitivo  dies. 

Blue  devils,  diseases,  dull  sorrow,  and  care, 
Are  chased  by  our  balls  as  thcj  ily  through  the  air, 
And  small  wero  the  monsters  that  Hercules  slew. 
Compared  with  the  iicnds  that  our  clubs  can  subdue  ! 

Every  one  has  heard  of  the  passion  of 
some  folks  for  whist,  of  others  for  angling, 
and  of  others  again  for  skating,  a  pastime 
that  our  climate  but  too  seldom  affords ;  but 
few  out  of  Scotland  know  the  intensity  ck^ 
the  paRRioiv  ^VXy  ^\\v?cv  ^^  \^^n:c<¥^  ^^^^ 
votaries,  an^  ^\ia!C?xi  «l^  ^^^^  ^^scc^-ST-^^^^ 


«i5^ 


548       November  6, 18C0.J 


ALL  TIIE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


/ 


are  powerless  to  subdue.  When  tlie  golfer's 
legs  fail  liiin,  and  he  can  no  longer  tnimp 
eicrhi  or  ton  miles  after  his  hall,  ho  be- 
takes  himself  to  his  donkey  or  his  pony, 
dismounts  to  stiike  the  blow,  and  remounts 
in  the  pursuit,  with  as  much  zest  as  in 
his  youth.  Golfers  of  eighty  years  of  ago 
arc  by  no  means  rarities  on  the  Scottish 
links.  And  one  sturdy  veteitin  of  eighty- 
three,  still  "  to  the  fore,"  never  fails  to  ap- 
pear on  the  links  upon  ^Mondays,  because  ho 
is  of  opinion  that  the  Sunday's  rest  gives 
now  vigour  to  his  Monday  arm.  "  I  wadna' 
lose  my  !Monday,"  he  says,  "  for  a'  tlio  days 
in  the  week." 

The  game  of  golf  may  be  compared  to 
the  battle  of  life.  All  the  qualities  of  mind 
and  body  requisite  for  success  in  the  world, 
and  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  gonial  and  re- 
spcctiible  old  age,  arc  brought  into  requisi- 
tion by  it.  You  must  strike  bard,  but  not 
too  hard,  lest  your  ball  fly  beyond  the  point 
arrived  at,  plump  into  the  river  or  the  sexi. 
You  must  have  a  quick  eyo  for  difficulties, 
a  prompt  hand  to  surmount  them,  a  keen 
appreciation,  when  within  sight  of  the  goal 
or  hole  which  it  is  your  object  to  attain,  of 
the  slightest  inequalities  of  ground  wliich  in 
the  final  and  gentle  push,  may,  if  great  care 
be  not  taken,  deflect  the  ball  in  its  course. 
You  must  sometimes  urge  your  ball  in  a 
circle  to  win,  rather  than  aim  straight  at 
the  mark.  You  must  go  round  about,  like 
a  poHtician  and  a  strategist.  When  you  are 
in  a  difliculty  you  must  extricate  youi'self 
bravely,  and  with  the  least  possible  loss  of 
chances.  You  must  be  bold,  you  must  bo 
strong,  you  must  be  patient,  you  must  be 
alert,  and  take  all  nature  into  your  com- 
panionship. You  must  know  the  defects  of 
your  friends,  and  you  must  not  underrate 
their  virtues,  or  over-estimate  the  virtues 
or  the  defects  of  your  opponents.  Above 
all,  you  must  stand  firm  when  you  strike, 
and  continue  vigorously  to  the  end,  ever 
doing  the  best  you  can  ;  and  if  you  bo  not 
rewarded  with  the  good  fortune  for  which 
you  have  striven,  you  will  be  rewarded  with 
the  approval  of  your  o\vn  conscience ;  and 
when  the  struggle  is  ended,  bo  able  to  say, 
with  a  clear  conscience,  "  I  liave  done  my 
best." 

In  short,  golf  is  the  most  varied  and  ex- 
hilarating of  all  the  games  which  are  played 
with  a  ball :  better  than  hand- ball,  fives, 
foot- ball,  tennis,  racket,  or  cricket  itself: 
the  only  one  of  tlie  list  that  may  claim  to 
compote  with  it  in  healthfulncss.  It  re- 
quires youth  for  cricket,  but  both  youth 
and  ago  can  play  at  golf — ^and  enjoy  it! 


And  if  tliLs  be  not  a  feather  in  the  cap  of 
the  i*oyal  game,  it  is  of  no  fui-ther  use  to 
argue  the  question. 

GREEN  TEA. 

A  CASH    KrrOUTKD   BY  MAKTIX   HESSELIUS,  THI 
GERMAN  rilYSICLVX. 

In   Ten   CuArxEiis. 
cnAriEU  VI.  uow  mb.  jenkings  met  his 

COMrANIOX. 

The  faint  glow  of  the  west,  the  pomp  of 
the  then  lonelv  woods  of  Richmond,  irero 
before  us,  behind  and  about  us  the  darken- 
ing room,  and  on  tho  stony  face  of  the 
sufferer — for  the  character  of  his  face, 
though  still  gentle  and  secret,  "was  changed 
— rested  that  dim,  odd  glow  which  seems 
to  descend  and  produce,  where  it  touches, 
lights,  sudden  tliough  faint,  which  are  lost, 
almost  without  gradation,  in  darkness.  The 
silence,  too,  was  utter ;  not  a  distant  whed, 
or  bark,  or  wliistlo  from  without;  and 
witliin  the  depressing  stillness  of  an  invalid 
bachelor's  house. 

I  guessed  well  the  natore,  though  not 
even  vaguely  the  particulars,  of  the  revela- 
tions I  was  about  to  receive,  from  that  fixed 
face  of  suffering  that,  so  oddly  flushed, 
stood  out,  like  a  portrait  of  Schal ken's,  be- 
fore its  background  of  darkness. 

"It  began,"  he  said,  "on  the  15th  of 
October,  three  years  and  eleven  weeks  ago, 
and  two  days — I  keep  very  accurate  count, 
for  every  day  is  torment.  If  I  leave  any- 
where a  chasm  in  my  narrative  tell  me. 

"  About  four  years  ago  I  began  a  wort 
which  had  cost  me  very  much  thought  and 
reading.  It  was  upon  the  religious  meta- 
physics of  the  ancients." 

"  I  know,"  said  I ;  "  the  actual  religion 
of  educated  and  thinking  paganism,  quite 
apart  from  symbolic  worship?  A  wide 
and  very  interesting  field." 

"  Yes ;  but  not  good  for  the  mind — the 
Chiistian  mind,  I  mean.  Paganism  is  all 
bound  together  in  essential  unity,  and,  with 
evil  sympathy,  their  religion  involves  their 
art,  and  both  their  manners,  and  the  subjcci 
is  a  degrading  fascination  and  the  nemesis 
sure.     God  forgive  mc  I 

"  I  wrote  a  groat  deal ;  I  wrote  late  at 
night.  I  was  always  thinking  on  the  sub- 
ject, walking  about,  wherever  I  was,  cverr- 
where.  It  thoroughly  infected  me.  Yon 
are  to  I'cmember  that  all  the  material  ideas 
connected  with  it  were  more  or  less  of  the 
beautiful,  tho  subject  itself  dchghtfolly  in- 
teresting, and  I,  then,  without  a  care." 

He  sighed  heavily. 


=e 


Charles  Dickens.] 


GREEN  TEA. 


[November  6,  ISCO.]      549 


"  I  believe  that  every  one  who  sets  ahout 
writing  in  earnest  does  his  work,  as  a  fnend 
of  mine  phrased  it,  on  sometliing — ^tea,  or 
coflfee,  or  tobacco.  I  snppose  there  is  a 
material  waste  that  mnst  be  honrly  snpplied 
in  snch  occnpations,  or  that  we  should 
grow  too  abstracted,  and  the  mind,  as  it 
were,  pass  ont  of  the  body,  nnlcss  it  were 
reminded  often  of  the  connexion  by  actnal 
sensation.  At  all  events,  I  felt  the  want, 
and  I  snpplied  it.  Tea  was  my  companion 
— at  first  the  ordinary  black  tea,  made  in 
the  usual  way,  not  too  strong;  bnb  T 
drank  a  great  deal,  and  increased  its 
strength  as  I  went  on.  I  never  experienced 
an  nncomfortable  symptom  from  it.  I 
began  to  take  a  little  green  tea.  I  fonnd 
the  effect  pleasanter,  it  cleared  and  in- 
tensified the  power  of  thought  so.  I  had 
come  to  take  it  fi-equently,  but  not  stronger 
than  one  might  take  it  for  pleasure.  I  wrote 
a  great  deal  out  here,  it  was  so  quiet,  and 
in  this  room.  I  used  to  sit  up  very  late, 
and  it  became  a  habit  with  mo  to  sip  my 
tea — green  tea — every  now  and  then  as  my 
work  proceeded.  I  had  a  little  kettle  on 
my  table,  that  swung  over  a  lamp,  and 
made  tea  two  or  three  times  between  eleven 
o'clock  and  two  or  three  in  the  morning, 
my  hours  of  going  to  bed.  I  used  to  go 
into  town  every  day.  I  was  not  a  monk, 
and,  although  I  often  spent  an  hour  or  two 
in  a  library,  hunting  up  authorities  and 
looking  out  lights  upon  my  theme,  I  was 
in  no  morbid  state,  so  far  as  I  can  judge. 
I  met  my  friends  pretty  much  as  usual,  and 
enjoyed  their  society,  and,  on  the  whole, 
existence  had  never  been,  I  think,  so  plea- 
sant before. 

"  I  had  met  with  a  man  who  had  some  odd 
old  books,  German  editions  in  mediosval 
Latin,  and  I  was  only  too  happy  to  bo 
permitted  access  to  them.  This  oblig- 
ing person'^  books  were  in  the  City,  a  very 
out-of-the-way  part  of  it.  I  had  rather 
out-stayed  my  intended  hour,  and,  on  com- 
ing out,  seeing  no  cab  near,  I  was  tempted 
to  get  into  the  omnibus  which  used  to  drive 
past  this  house.  It  was  darker  than  this 
by  the  time  the  'bus  had  reached  an  old 
house,  you  may  have  remarked,  with  four 
poplars  at  each  side  of  the  door,  and  there 
the  last  passenger  but  myself  got  out.  "We 
drove  along  rather  faster.  It  was  twilight 
now.  I  leaned  back  in  my  comer  next  the 
door  ruminating  pleasantly. 

"  The  interior  of  the  omnibus  was  nearly 
dark.  I  had  observed  in  tlie  comer  opposite 
to  me  at  the  other  side,  and  at  the  end  next 
the  horses,  two  small  circular  reflections,  as 


it  seemed  to  me,  of  a  reddish  light.  They 
were  about  two  inches  apart,  and  about  the 
size  of  those  small  brass  buttons  that  yacht- 
ing men  used  to  put  upon  their  jackets.  I 
began  to  speculate,  as  listless  men  will,  upon 
this  ivi^c,  as  it  seemed.  From  what  centre 
did  that  faint  but  deep  red  light  come,  and 
from  what — glass  beads,  buttons,  toy  de- 
corations— was  it  reflected?  Wc  were 
lumbering  along  gently,  having  nearly  a 
mile  still  to  go.  I  had  not  solved  the 
puzzle,  and  it  became  in  another  minute 
moro  odd,  for  these  two  luminous  points, 
with  a  sudden  jerk,  descended  nearer  the 
floor,  keeping  still  their  relative  distance 
and  horizontal  position,  and  then,  as  sud- 
denly, they  rose  to  the  level  of  the  scat  on 
which  I  was  sitting,  and  I  saw  them  no 
more. 

*'  My  curiosity  was  now  really  excited, 
and,  before  I  had  time  to  think,  I  saw  again 
these  two  dull  lamps,  again  together  near 
the  floor;  again  they  disappeared,  and 
again  in  their  old  comer  I  saw  them. 

**  So,  keeping  my  eyes  upon  them,  I  edged 
quietly  up  my  own  side,  towards  the  end 
at  which  I  still  saw  these  tiny  discs  of  red. 

"  There  was  very  little  light  in  the  'bus. 
It  was  nearly  dark.  I  leaned  forward  to  aid 
my  endeavour  to  discover  what  these  little 
circles  really  were.  They  shifted  their 
position  a  little  as  I  did  so.  I  began  now 
to  perceive  an  outline  of  something  black, 
and  I  soon  saw  with  tolerable  distinctness 
the  outline  of  a  small  black  monkey,  push- 
ing its  face  forward  in  mimicry  to  meet 
mine ;  those  were  its  eyes,  and  I  now  dimly 
saw  its  teeth  grinning  at  me. 

**  I  drew  back,  not  knowing  whether  it 
might  not  meditate  a  spring.  I  fancied  that 
one  of  the  passengers  had  forgot  this  ugly 
pet,  and  wishing  to  ascertain  something 
of  its  temper,  though  not  caring  to  trust 
my  fingers  to  it,  I  poked  my  umbrella  softly 
towards  it.  It  remained  immovable — up  to 
it — through  it !  For  through  it,  and  bnck 
and  forward,  it  passed,  without  the  slightest 
resistance. 

"  I  can't,  in  the  least,  convey  to  you  the 
kind  of  horror  that  I  felt.  When  I  had 
ascertained  that  the  thing  was  an  illusion, 
as  I  then  supposed,  there  came  a  misgiving 
about  myself  and  a  terror  that  fascinated 
me  in  impotence  to  remove  my  gaze  from 
the  eyes  of  the  brute  for  some  moments. 
As  I  looked,  it  made  a  little  skip  back,  quite 
into  the  comer,  and  I,  in  a  panic,  found 
myself  at  the  door,  having  put  my  head 
out,  drawing  deep  breaths  of  the  outer  air, 
and  staring  at  the  lights  and  trees  we  were 


V 


{ 


d^- 


& 


t55()       [NoTombor  C,  16C0.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Oondoctedlij 


passing,   too  glad   to   reassure   myself   of 
ivality. 

*•  J  stopped  the  'bus,  and  got  out.  I  per- 
ceived the  man  look  oddly  at  me  as  I  paid 
liini.  I  dare  say  there  was  sometliing  un- 
usual in  my  looks  and  manner,  for  1  Lad 
never  felt  so  strangely  before.'* 

CnAPTTU  VII.   THE  JOUIIXEY  :    FIRST  STAGE. 

"  WuBN  the  omnibus  drove  on,  and  I  was 
alone  upon  the  i-oad,  I  looked  cai*efully 
round  to  ascertain  whether  the  monkey 
Lad  followed  me.  To  my  indescribable  relief 
I  saw  it  nowhere.  I  can't  descnbo  easily 
what  a  shock  I  had  received,  and  my  sense 
of  genuine  gratitude  on  finding  myself,  as 
I  supposed,  quite  rid  of  it. 

"I  had  got  out  a  little  before  we  reached 
this  house,  two  or  three  hundred  steps 
away.  A  brick  wall  runs  along  the  foot- 
path, and  inside  the  wall  is  a  Ledge  of  yew 
or  some  dark  evergreen  of  that  kind,  and 
witliin  that  again  the  row  of  fine  trees  wliich 
you  may  have  remarked  as  you  came. 

"  This  biick  wall  is  about  as  high  as  my 
shoulder,  and  happening  to  raise  my  eyes 
I  saw  the  monkey,  with  tluit  stooping  gait, 
on  all  fours,  walking  or  creeping,  close 
beside  me  on  top  of  tlie  wall.  I  stopped 
looking  at  it  with  a  feeling  of  loatldng 
and  horror.  As  I  stopped  so  did  it.  It  sat 
up  on  the  wall  with  its  long  hands  ou  its 
knees  looking  at  me.  There  was  not  light 
enough  to  see  it  much  more  than  in  outline, 
nor  was  it  dark  enough  to  biing  the  peculiar 
light  of  its  eyes  into  strong  relief.  I  still 
saw,  however,  tlmt  red  foggy  Lght  plainly 
enough.  It  did  not  show  its  teeth,  nor 
exhibit  any  sign  of  iiTitation,  but  seemed 
jaded  and  sulky,  and  was  observing  me 
steadily. 

"  I  drew  back  into  the  middle  of  the  road. 
It  was  an  unconscious  recoil,  and  there  I 
stood,  still  looking  at  it.    It  did  not  move. 

"  With  an  instinctive  determination  to 
try  something — anything,  I  turned  about 
and  walked  briskly  towards  town  with  a 
scauncc  look,  all  the  time  watching  the 
movements  of  the  beast.  It  crept  swiftly 
along  iho  wall,  at  exactly  my  pace. 

*'  Whore  the  wall  ends,  near  the  turn 
of  the  road,  it  came  down  and  with  a  wiiy 
spring  or  two  brought  itself  close  to  my 
feet,  and  continued  to  keep  up  to  me,  as  I 
quickened  my  pace.  It  was  at  my  left 
side,  so  close  to  my  leg  that  I  felt  every 
moment  as  if  I  should  tread  upon  it. 

"  The  road  was  quite  deseHed  and  silent, 
and  it  was  darker  every  moment.  I  stopped 


dismayed  and  bewildered,  turning  aa  I 
did  so,  the  other  way — I  mean,  towards 
this  Louse,  away  from  wLicL  I  Lad  been 
walking,  WLen  I  stood  still,  the  moiiki^v 
drew  back  to  a  distanoe  of,  I  snppoae, 
about  five  or  six  yai*ds,  and  remained 
stationaiy,  watcLing  me. 

*^  I  Lad  been  more  agitated  than  I  Lave 
said.  I  Lad  read,  of  course,  as  every  out' 
Las,  sometlung  about  *  spectral  illusions,' 
as  you  pliysicians  term  tLo  phenomena  of 
sucL  cases,  I  considered  my  situation  and 
looked  my  misfortune  in  tLc  face. 

''  TLcse  affections,  I  Lad  read,  are  some- 
times transitory  and  sometimes  obstiuatc. 
I  Lad  read  of  cases  in  wLicL  tLe  appear- 
ance, at  first  Larmless,  Lad,  step  by  step, 
degenerated  into  sometLing  direful  and 
iiLsupportable,  and  ended  by  wearing:  its 
victim  out.  Still  as  I  stood  there,  but  for 
my  bestial  companion,  quite  alone,  I  tried 
to  comfort  myself  by  repeating  again  and 
again  tLe  assurance,  *  tLe  thing  is  purely  dis- 
ease, a  well-known  physical  afiection,  as  dis- 
tinctly as  smaU-pox  or  neuralgia.  Doctois 
are  all  agreed  on  that,  pLilpsopLy  demon- 
strates it.  I  must  not  be  a  fooL  I've  bcec 
sitting  up  too  late,  and  I  dare  say  my 
digestion  is  quite  wrong,  and  witL  God's 
Lelp,  I  sLall  bo  all  rigLt,  and  tliis  is  but  a 
symptom  of  nervous  dyspepsia.'  Did  I  bo- 
Leve  all  tLis  ?  Not  one  word  of  it,  no 
more  tLan  any  otLer  miserable  being  ever 
did  wLo  is  once  seized  and  rireted  in  this 
Satanic  captivity.  Against  my  convio- 
tions,  I  migLt  say  my  knowledge,  I  vai 
simply  bullying  myself  into  a  false  courage. 

''  I  now  walked  Lome  ward.  I  Lad  onlj 
a  few  Lundred  yards  to  go.  I  Lad  forced 
myself  into  a  sort  of  resignation,  but  I  bad 
not  got  over  tLc  sickening  sLock  and  the 
fiurry  of  tLc  first  certainty  of  my  misfor- 
tune. 

''  I  made  up  my  mind  to  pass  tLe  ni^ht 
at  Lome.  The  brute  moved  close  beside 
me,  and  I  fancied  there  was  tLe  sort  of 
anxious  drawing  toward  tLc  Louse,  which 
one  sees  in  tii'cd  Lorscs  or  dogs,  sometimes 
as  tLey  come  toward  Lome. 

**  I  was  ttfi'aid  to  go  into  town — ^I  waa 
afi*aid  of  any  one's  seeing  and  ree-ognising 
me.  I  was  conscious  of  an  irrepressiUe 
agitation  iu  my  manner.  Also,  I  vas 
afniid  of  any  violent  cLango  in  luy  Lahiu, 
such  as  goiiLg  to  a  place  of  amusement,  or 
walking  from  home  in  order  to  fatigue  my- 
self. At  the  hall- door  it  waited  till  I 
mounted  the  steps,  and  wLen  tLo  door  was 
opened  entered  witL  me. 

'*  I  diank   no   tea  that   nigLt.      I  goi 


:&> 


Charles  DiokenaJ 


GREEN  TEA. 


[NoTcmber  6, 1869.]       551 


cigars  and  some  brandy-and-water.  My 
idi'a  was  that  I  should  act  upon  my  ma- 
terial system,  and  by  living  for  a  while  in 
sensation  apart  from  thought,  send  my- 
self forcibly,  as  it  were,  into  a  new  groove. 
I  came  up  here  to  this  drawing-room.  I 
sat  just  here.  The  monkey  got  upon  a 
small  table  that  then  stood  there.  It  looked 
dazed  and  languid.  An  irrepressible  un- 
easiness as  to  its  movements  kept  mj  eyes 
always  upon  it.  Its  eyes  were  half- closed, 
but  I  could  see  them  glow.  It  was  look- 
ing steadily  at  me.  In  all  situations,  at  all 
hours,  it  is  awake  and  looking  at  me. 
That  never  changes. 

**  I  shall  not  continue  in  detail  my  nar- 
rative of  this  particular  night.  I  shall 
describe,  rather,  tiie  phenomena  of  the 
first  year,  which  never  varied,  collectively. 
I  shnll  describe  the  monkey  as  it  appeared 
in  daylight.  In  the  dark,  as  you  shall  pre- 
sently hear,  there  are  peculiaritieB.  It  is 
a  small  monkey,  perfectly  black.  It  had 
only  one  peculiarity — a  character  of  ma- 
lignity—unfathomable maUgnity.  During 
the  first  year  it  looked  sullen  and  sick. 
But  this  character  of  intense  malice  and 
vigilance  was  always  underlying  that  surly 
languor.  During  all  that  time  it  acted  as 
if  on  a  plan  of  giving  me  as  little  trouble 
as  was  consistent  with  watching  me.  Its 
eyes  wei-e  never  off  me.  I  have  never  lost 
sight  of  it,  except  in  my  sleep,  light  or 
dark,  day  or  night,  since  it  came  here,  ex- 
cepting when  it  withdraws  for  some  weeks 
at  a  time,  unaccountably. 

'^  In  total  dark  it  is  vifdble  as  in  day- 
light. I  do  not  mean  merely  its  eyes.  It 
is  all  visible  distinctly  in  a  halo  that  re- 
sembles a  glow  of  red  embers,  and  which 
accompanies  it  in  all  its  movements. 

"  When  it  leaves  me  for  a  time,  it  is 
always  at  night,  in  the  dark,  and  in  the 
same  way.  It  grows  at  first  uneasy,  and 
then  furious,  and  then  advances  towards  me, 
giinniTig  and  shaking  its  paws  clenched, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  there  comes  the 
appearance  of  fire  in  the  grate.  I  never 
liavc  any  fii'C.  I  can't  sleep  in  the  room 
where  there  is  any,  and  it  draws  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  cliimney,  quivering,  it 
seems,  with  rage,  and  when  its  fury  rises  to 
the  highest  pitch,  it  springs  into  the  grate, 
and  up  the  chimney,  and  1  see  it  no  more. 

*'  When  first  this  happened  I  thought  I 
was  released.  I  was  a  new  man.  A  day 
passed — a  night — and  no  return,  and  a 
blessed  week — a  week — another  week.  I 
was  always  on  mv  knees,  Dr.  Hesselius. 
always,    thanking   Grod  and  praying.      A 


whole  month  passed  of  liberty,  but  on  a 
sudden,  it  was  with  me  again." 

CHAPTER  VIII.      THE  SECOND  STAGE. 

"  It  was  witli  me,  and  the  malice  which 
before  was  torpid  under  a  sullen  exterior, 
was  now  active.  It  was  perfectly  unchanged 
in  eveiy  other  respect.  This  new  energy 
was  apparent  in  its  activity  and  its  looks, 
and  soon  in  other  ways. 

"  For  a  time,  you  will  understand,  the 
change  was  shown  only  in  an  increased 
vivacity,  and  an  air  of  menace,  as  if  it 
was  always  brooding  over  some  atrocious 
plan.  Its  eyes,  as  before,  were  never  off 
me." 


"  Is  it  here  now?"  I  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  it  has  been  absent 
exactly  a  fortnight  and  a  day — fifteen  days. 
It  has  BometimeB  been  away  so  long  as 
nearly  two  months,  once  for  three.  Its 
absence  always  exceeds  a  fortnight,  although 
it  may  be  but  by  a  single  day.  Fifteen 
days  having  past  since  I  saw  it  last,  it  may 
return  now  at  any  moment." 

"  Is  its  return,"  I  asked,  "accompanied 
by  any  peculiar  manifestation  p" 

"Nothing — ^no,"  he  said.  "It  is  simply 
with  me  again.  On  lifting  my  eyes  from  a 
book,  or  turning  my  head,  I  see  it,  as  usual, 
looking  at  me,  and  then  it  remains,  as 
before,  for  its  appointed  time.  I  have 
never  told  so  much  and  so  minutely  before 
to  any  one." 

I  perceived  that  ho  was  agitated,  and 
looking  like  death,  and  ho  repeatedly  ap- 

?lied  his  handkerchief  to  his  forehead,  and 
suggested  that  he  might  be  tired,  and 
told  him  that  I  would  call,  with  pleasure,  in 
the  morning,  but  he  said  : 

"  No,  if  you  don't  mind  hearing  it  all 
now.  I  have  got  so  far,  and  I  should  prefer 
making  one  effort  of  it.  When  I  spoke  to 
Dr.  Harley,  I  had  nothing  like  so  much  to 
tell.  You  are  a  philosophic  physician.  You 
give  spirit  its  proper  rank.  11'  this  thing  is 
real " 

He  paused,  looking  at  me  with  agitated 
inquiiy. 

"  Wo  can  discuss  it  by-aud-by,  and  very 
fully.  I  will  give  you  all  I  think,"  I  an- 
swered, after  an  interval. 

"  Well — very  well.  If  it  is  anything 
real,  I  say,  it  is  prevailing,  little  by  little, 
and  drawing  me  more  interiorly  into  hell. 
Optic  nerves,  he  talked  of.  Ah !  well — 
there  are  other  nerves  of  communication. 
May  God  Almighty  help  me !  You  shall 
hear. 

"  Its  power  of  action,  I  tell  you,  had 


^:: 


OUmH 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[NoTemTw  «, !«».] 


increased.  Its  nuilice  lx?cnmo,  in  a  way, 
ajLTL^rossivc.  About  two  years  ago,  some 
([uestioiis  that  were  pending  betweeii  me 
and  the.  bishop,  having  been  Kettl(»d,  I 
went  down  to  my  parish  in  War>vickshire, 
anxious  to  find  occupaticui  in  my  profes- 
sion. I  was  not  prepared  for  wliat  hap- 
pened, although  I  have  since  tliouj:ht  I 
might  have  apprehended  something  like  it. 
Tlie  reason  of  my  saying  so,  is  this " 

He  was  beginning  to  speak  iWtli  a  great 
deal  more  elfoi-t  and  I'eluctanco,  and  sighed 
often,  and  seemed  at  times  nearly  overcome. 
But  at  this  timo  his  manner  was  not  agi- 
tated. It  was  more  like  tliat  of  a  sinking 
patients,  who  has  given  himself  up. 

**  Yes,  but  I  will  first  tell  you  about 
Kenlis,  my  parish. 

"  It  was  with  me  when  I  left,  this  for 
Dawlbridge.  It  was  my  silent  travelling 
companion,  and  it  remained  with  me  at 
the  vicarge.  When  I  entered  on  the  dis- 
charge of  my  duties,  anotlier  change  took 
place.  The  thing  exhibited  an  atrocious 
determination  to  thwart  me.  It  was  with 
me  in  the  church — ^in  the  reading-desk 
— in  the  pulpit — within  the  communion- 
rails.  At  last,  it  reached  this  extremity, 
that  while  I  was  reading  to  the  congreg^i- 
tion,  it  would  spring  upon  the  open  book 
and  squat  there,  so  that  I  was  unable  to  see 
the  page.     This  happened  more  tlian  once. 

"  I  left  Dawlbridge  for  a  time.  I  placed 
myself  in  Dr.  Hai-ley's  hands.  1  did 
everything  he  told  me.  He  gave  my  case 
a  grciit  deal  of  thought.  It  interested  him, 
I  tliink.  He  seemed  successful.  For  nearly 
thi-ee  months  I  was  perfectly  free  fivm  a 
return.  I  begfan  to  think  I  was  safe.  With 
his  full  assent  I  returned  to  Dawlbridge. 

"  I  travelled  in  a  chaise.  I  was  in  g<3od 
spirits.  I  was  more  —  I  was  happy  and 
gi-ateful.  I  was  returning,  as  I  thought, 
delivered  from  a  dreadful  hallucination,  to 
the  scene  of  duties  wliich  I  longred  to  enter 
upon.  It  was  a  bejiutiful  sunny  evening, 
evoiy thing  looked  serene  and  cheerful,  and  I 
was  delighted.  I  I'emember  looking  out  of 
the  window  to  see  the  spire  of  my  church 
at  Kenlis  among  the  trees,  at  the  point 
where  ono  has  the  eai'Hest  view  of  it.  It 
is  exiictly  where  the  little  stream  that 
bounds  the  parish,  passes  under  the  road 
by  a  culvert,  and  where  it  emerges  at  the 
road-side,  a  stone  with  an  old  inscription 
is  placed.  As  we  passed  this  point,  I  drew 
my  head  in  and  sat  down,  and  in  the  corner 
of  the  chaise  was  the  monkev. 


"  For  a  moment  I  felt  faint,  and  then  quite 
wild  with  despair  and  horror.  I  called  to 
the  driver,  and  got  out,  and  sat  down  it 
the  road-side,  and  prayetl  to  Grod  silently 
for  mercy.  A  despairing  resignati«:»n  super- 
vened. My  companion  was  with  me  as  I 
re-entered  the  vicarage.  The  same  perse- 
cution followed.  After  a  short.  Ktmggle  I 
submitted,  and  soon  I  left,  the  place. 

"  I  told  you,"  he  said  "  that  the  heast  has 
before  this  become  in  certain  ways  aggre^ 
sive.  I  will  explain  a  little.  It  seemed  to  be 
actuated  by  intense  and  increasing  fair, 
whenever  I  said  my  prayers,  or  even  mes 
ditated  prayer.  It  amounted  at  last  to  a 
dreadful  inteiTuption.  Yoti  will  ask,  how 
could  a  silent  inunaterial  phant^im  effect 
that  ?  It  was  thus,  whenever  I  meditated 
praying;  it  was  always  before  me,  and 
nearer  and  nearer. 

"  It  used  to  spring  on  a  table,  on  the  back 
of  a  chair,  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  slowly 
to  swing  itself  from  side  to  side,  lookisg 
at  me  all  the  time.  There  is  in  its  motion 
an  indefinable  power  to  dissipate  thonght, 
and  to  contract  one's  attention  to  that  mo- 
notony, till  the  ideas  shrink,  as  it  were,  to 
a  point,  and  at  last  to  nothing — and  unless 
I  had  started  up,  and  shook  oft'  the  catalepsy 
I  have  felt  as  if  my  mind  were  on  the  point 
of  losing  itself.  There  are  other  ways," 
he  sighed  heavily;  "  thus,  for  instance,  while 
I  pray  "with  my  eyes  closed,  it  comes  closer 
and  closer,  and  I  see  it.  I  Icnow  it  is  not  to 
be  accounted  for  physically,  but  I  do  ac- 
tually see  it,  though  my  lids  are  closed, 
and  so  it  rocks  my  mind,  as  it  were,  and 
overpowers  me,  and  I  am  obliged  to  rise 
from  my  knees.  If  you  had  ever  yourself 
known  this,  you  would  be  acquainted  with 
despei'ation." 

Now  Kcadv,  price  5s.  Cd.,  bound  in  green  clotli, 

TIIE  FIRST  VOLUME 

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ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

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C0N3UCTEDBY 

With  WHICH  IS  lricoiV»o^TrD 

JiATUHlMY,  NOVKMUER  IS, 


VERONICA. 


In  Five  Bookb. 
BOOK  IIL 

CHAITER  III.   A  COUSJH. 

The  carriage  bearing  Veroniea  rolled 
alonp  smoothly  down  a  long  avenne.  It 
w.ia  the  road  leading  from  an  erst  grand- 
dncal  villa  wiiioli  stands  on  the  top  of  an 
eminence  —  scarcely  higli  enoQgh  to  bo 
termed  a  hill,  in  a  country  of  Alps  and 
Appcnines,  bnt  which  is  of  very  respect- 
able altitude  Deverthelese,  and  ia  called  the 
Poggio  Imperiale.  The  avenne  ia  flanked  by 
cypreaa  and  ilex-trees,  of  ancient  growth, 

Veronica  had  heard  her  mother  speak  so 
mttcb,  and  ao  often,  of  Florence  that  ehe 
thooght  Bho  knew  it.  But  coming  to  view- 
city  and  enbnrb  with  her  hodily  eyes,  she 
found  everything  strange,  foreign,  and,  on 
the  score  of  beanty,  disappointing.  Later, 
she  understood  the  amazing  picturesqueneBS 
of  that  storied  town,  and,  with  every  glance 
its  attractions  grew  on  her.  But  there  are 
some  places — as  there  is  some  music,  and 
that  among  the  noblest — which  do  not 
take  at  once  the  senses  by  storm,  but  need 
time  and  fumiliarity  to  develop  their  wealth 
of  beauty  and  resource. 

What  Veronica  saw  with  her  nnaccns- 
tomed  eyes,  wus,  first,  the  long,  dosty, 
squalid  Homan  road,  into  which  the  car- 
riage turned  at  the  foot  of  the  avenue :  then 
the  Porta  Romann,  with  its  huge,  yawning 
archway,  throngh  which  carta  of  all  kinds 
were  strnggling  ;  those  coming  in  having 
to  stop  to  be  examined  by  tho  officers  of 
the  town  cnstom  dues,  and  those  going  out 
pushing  boldly  through  the  gate  and  graz- 
ing wheels  against  the  stationary  vehicles. 

Everybody  was  talking  very  loudly.    The 


few  who  really  could  by 

geiinity  find  any  more  articnlata  words  to 

Bay,solaced  themselves  by  half-nttered  oaths 

and  long-drawn  lagubrions  howls  addressed 

to  the  patient,  lean  beaats  that  drew  tho 

carte. 

In  odd  contrast  with  this  nimble  energy 
of  tongne,  were  the  slow  and  languid 
movements  of  all  concerned.  Tho  octroi 
men  lounged  against  the  walla  on  high  four- 
legged  stook  Bet  out  before  a  queer  little 
office,  very  dim  and  dirty,  with  glazed 
windows.  They  had  within  reach  long 
iron  rods,  with  which  they  probed  trusses 
of  liay  or  atraw,  or  which  they  thrust  in 
among  bnndlee  of  linen,  or  piles  of  Btrnw- 
oolonred  flasks,  or  poked  down  amidst  the 
legs  of  people  sitting  in  country  chaises,  or 
under  the  bos-seat  of  hackney  coachmen. 
And  when  they  had  thus  Batiafied  them- 
selves that  there  na«  no  attempt  being  made 
to  delraad  the  municipality  of  Florence  of 
the  tax  on  food  and  wiue,  and  whatso- 
ever other  articles  are  subject  to  duty, 
they — always  with  inefiable  languor — put 
their  hands  into  their  pocketa  again  and 
bade  the  driver  proceed.  One  man  es- 
pecially, with  melancholy  dark  eyes  and  a 
sallow  face,  uttered  the  permiaBion  to  pass 
on,  "  Avanti  !"  in  a  tone  of  such  profound  ■ 
and  hopeiesB  dejection,  that  one  might  have 
&ncied  him  a  guardian  of  that  awfol  portal  , 
his  great  townsman  WTot«  of,  rather  than  a 
mortal  custom-house  officer  at  tho  d^  gate, 
and  that  he  waa  warning  the  doomed 
victims :  "  Abandon  hope,  all  ye  who  enter  ' 

Sir  John  Gale's  carriage  only  paused  for 
an  instant  in  passing  throngh  the  Porta  . 
Komana.  The  spirited  horses  chafed  at 
the  momentary  check,  and  dashed  on  again 
rapidly  over  the  resounding  pavement.  ; 

A  succession  of  objects  seemed  to  ft^i. ' 


^ 


h 


554      (November  13. 1189.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoctcdby 


// 


// 


past  Veronica's  eyes  like  the  swift  clmngcs 
in  a  dream. 

Thoi-e  was  a  long  street  paved  with  flat 
sionG8,  fitted  into  each  other  anf^^lo  for  aiig^le 
and  point  fop  point,  like  the  pieces  in  a 
child  B  pnzxle.  Tlierc  was  in  this  street  no 
side  pavement  for  f(Vit  passencfers,  and — the 
street  being  very  full — the  coachman  kept 
uttering  a  warning  orj  at  intertill*,  like  a 
minnte-gun.  indeed,  as  they  approached 
the  busier  parts  of  the  town,  their  pace  was 
slackened  i}erfiirce.  No  vehicle  short  of 
the  car  of  Jaggemaut  coidd  have  mth- 
losslj  kept  up  a  steady  progress  i^rough 
such  a  crowd. 

There  were  houses  of  various  styles  and 
dimensions  on  either  side  of  the  long  street, 
nearly  all  plastered ;  one  or  two,  however, 
with  a  heavy  cut  stone  front  to  the  base- 
ment stoiy.  Every  window  had  the  in- 
evitable green  jalousies,  and  nearly  evorj' 
window  had  a  group  of  heads  framed  in  it, 
for  it  was  a  summer  evening,  and  there 
wore  people  taking  the  aii^ — they  called  it 
pigliaro  il  fresco,  albeit  it  was  yet  hot 
enough,  and  stifling  in  the  narrow  ways  of 
the  city ;  and  there  were  bright  bonnets  to 
be  criticised,  and  acquaintances  to  be  vc- 
cognised,  and  familiar  conversations  touch- 
ing the  privatest  family  affairs  to  be  held  in 
brassy  voices,  between  ladies  and  gentlemen 
standing  in  the  street,  and  other  ladies  and 
geiitlemcn  leaning  on  their  elbows  out  of 
third-floor  windows.  And  the  talkers  in 
the  street  planted  themselves  in  any  spot 
that  came  convenient,  and  remained  tliei-o 
immovable,  as  regardless  of  the  pressing 
throng  of  passers-by,  as  a  stubborn  broad- 
based  stone  in  a  sti^am  is  regardless  of 
the  rushing  current.  And  the  passers-by 
yielded  as  the  water  yields,  and  skirted 
round  these  obstructive  groups,  or — if  the 
subject  of  their  discourse  struck  them  as 
peculiarly  interesting — lingered  awhile  to 
listen  to  their  talk  with  a  grave  placidity, 
which  might  be  chai^acterised  as  good- 
humoured,  only  tliat  that  word  suggests 
somewhat  of  meriiment  to  an  English  ear, 
and  these  people  wore  few  smiles  on  theii* 
brown  faces. 

Then   came  a  vision  of  an  open  space 

with  houses  on  the  left  hand,  and  on  the 

right  a  steep  incline  covered  with  gravel, 

on  the  summit  of  which  stood  a  vast  palace 

(its   faeado   seeming   at   the   first    glance 

somewhat  low  tor  its  width),  flanked  by 

open  arcades  that  advanced  from  the  mnin 

bodjr  of  the  building  and  embraced  two 

sides  of  the  gravelled  .space.    These  arcado^ 

^vo2^c  based  on  titanic  blocks  of  rough,  stone. 


and  under  the  shade  of  the  arches  a  military 
baud  was  making  lively  mnsic,  and  a  dense 
masf  of  citisena  with  their  wives  and  families 
was  hstening  to  it,  still  with  the  aame  noD- 
chalont  placidity. 

Onward  through  a  very  narrow  street 
of  gl(x>my,  frowning,  ii-on-barred  stone 
palaces ;  across  a  quaint  bridge  witli  shops 
and  houses  on  it,  wlu?rc  the  gems  and  gold 
in  the  jewellers*  windows  flashed  brightly 
beneath  the  beetle-bro^xd  penthouse  abut- 
ters; past  an  open  arch  making  a  gap 
in  the  line  of  buildings  on  the  bridge, 
through  which  was  seen  a  glimpse  of  gold 
and  purple  liills  swimming  in  a  liase  of 
evening  sunshine ;  along  a  stone  quay  with 
tall  handsome  houses  on  one  band,  and 
on  the  other  a  deep  wide  trench  more  than 
half  full  of  browTiish  sand,  and  with  pools 
of  w*ater  here  and  there,  and  a  shrunk 
middle  sti'eam  sluggishly  ci-awlLng  towards 
the  sea,  which  stream  waa  the  classic  Amo, 
nothing  less! — jmst  the  end  <^f  another 
bridge  wide  and  handsome,  at  whose  foot  a 
dense  crowd  was  assembled  iu  a  smidl 
piazzetta :  some  standing,  some  sitting  on 
stone  benolies,  some  perched  on  the  parapet 
overhanging  the  river,  all  >vatching  the 
passers-by  on  foot  or  in  vehicles ;  down 
another  street  which  widened  out  into  a 
considerable  space,  and  then  contracted 
again,  and  where  a  tall  column  stood,  and 
hackney  coaches  were  ranged  hainl  by,  and 
a  vast  old  mediaeval  palace — ^more  like  a 
fortress  than  a  palace — ^lieaved  its  bulk 
above  the  narrow  ways  behind  and  about 
it,  like  a  giant  raising  his  head  and 
shoulders  out  of  a  pressing  throng  to 
breathe ;  and  where  a  few  elegantly  dr^sed  : 
gentlemen  (rather  attenuated  about  the 
legs,  and  unwholesome  about  the  skin,  and 
with  a  general  vague  air  pervading  them 
— though  some  were  handsome  dark-eyed 
youngsters,  too — of  having  not  quite  enough 
to  eat,  and  considerablv  too  much  to 
smoke)  were  lounging  at  the  dot>r  of  ft 
club-house,  utterly  unlike  any  club-honse 
known  to  dwellers  beyond  the  Straits  o{ 
Dover,  or  perhaps  nearer  than  that:  and 
at  last  the  cjiniage  di'ew  up  suddenlvwith 
a  mighty  clatter  at  the  door  of  a  smart 
shop,  all  French  mirrors  and  gilding,  w^hew 
fans  were  displayed  for  sale,  and  Paul  de- 
scended nimbly  but  decorously  fiv)m  the 
box  to  hand  **miLidi"  out. 

All  the  sights  that  she  had  seen  in  her 
rapid  drive,  wei^e  vividly  impressed  on  Ve- 
ronie-ii's  eyes,  but  she  had  not  had  time  to 
^NVi\\%Tre^\t!  an  account  of  them  :  to  digert 
l\\fcTQ-,  «kA  Vt "?« viTi^d^mV^K  \staa5u    She  felt  at 


i 


I 


& 


C1i»rle8  Dickons.] 


VERONICA. 


[Novomber  18, 1869.]     555 


mcst  giddy  as  she  alighted,  and  entered  the 
shop.  But  one  circnmstanco  had  not  escaped 
either  her  observation  or  her  comprehen- 
sion :,the  fact,  namely,  that  her  beauty  and 
elegance  had  attracted  much  attention  from 
the  loungers  at  the  club  dour.  One  man 
especicdly  had  gazed  at  her,  like  one  en- 
chanted, as  her  carriage  whii'led  past. 

She  was  looking  at  a  bright  glittering 
heap  of  fiins  on  the  counter,  tuiTiiug  them 
over  with  a  disdainful  air,  and  pushing 
them  away  one  by  one  with  the  tips  of  her 
gloves,  when  she  became  aware  of  a  face 
looking  furtively  in  tlirough  the  spacious 
pane  of  the  siiop  window.  The  face  dis- 
appeared, and  its  owner  walked  away.  Pre- 
sently he  i*epasscd,  glanced  in  again  (when 
he  did  so,  Veronica's  quick  eye  recognised 
him  as  the  man  w^ho  had  stared  at  hur  bo 
admiringly  in  the  street),  and  finally  stop|>ed 
and  addressed  Paul,  who  was  standing  in 
sentinel  fashion  at  the  shop  door. 

To  Veronica's  surprise,  Patd  answered 
liim  at  once,  touching  his  hat  respectfully. 
She  hastily  chose  a  couple  of  ians,  baxle 
her  maid  pay  for  them  and  bring  them  to 
the  carriage,  and  went  to  the  door,  where 
Paid  was  still  so  busily  conversing  with 
the  stranger  that  he  was  not  aware  of  her 
approach  until  she  spoke  to  liim. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  turned 
hastily  and  the  stranger  took  ofi*  his  hat 
^nd  bowed  profoundly. 

Ho  was  a  well-looking,  slender  man,  of 
about  thirty.  Ho  had  fine  teeth,  and 
bright  dark  eyes,  which  latter,  however, 
seemed  to  elude  yours  like  a  picture  badly 
hung,  on  which  you  cannot  got  a  good 
light,  shift  and  strive  as  you  will.  It  was 
not  that  he  turned  liis  glance  aside  cither, 
for  he  seemed  to  look  boldly  enough  at 
whoever  addressed  him,  but  the  glittering 
eye  could  not  be  fiithomcd.  Ho  was  pre- 
maturely bald  about  the  forehead,  but  the 
back  and  sides  of  his  head  were  sufiiciently 
well  covered  with  dark  waving  locks,  and 
he  wore  a  shoi*t  beard  and  moustaches  of 
glossy  black.  His  dress  was  of  the  latest 
fasliion,  and,  although  perliaps  slightly 
brighter  in  colour  than  an  insular  eye 
would  deem  fitting  for  masculine  attire, 
was  well  chosen  and  perfectly  made.  He 
wore  a  glass  in  his  eye,  attached  to  a  short 
black  riljbon.  And  when  he  bowed,  the 
glass  fell  and  dangled  across  his  waistcoat. 

'*A  thousand  pardons,  madamc,*'  he 
said,  speaking  in  French  but  with  a  strong 
ItaHan  accent ;  *'  I  formerly  had  the  honour 
of  knowing  Monsieur  le  Baron  Gale,  and 
just  recognised  his  servant." 


Veronica  bowed,  with  an  easy  hauteur, 
which  yet  was  not  calculated  to  repulse 
the  speaker.  So  at  least  ho  thought,  for 
he  ventured  to  press  forward  and  ofier  the 
support  of  his  arm  to  assist  Veronica  into 
her  carriage.  She  touched  it  with  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  as  she  got  in.  Paul  stood 
holding  the  door  open  with  a  grave  face. 

*'I  was  charmed  to  find  that  my  good 
friend  Gralo  had  returned  to  Italy,''  said 
the  gentleman,  still  standing  bareheaded  by 
the  side  of  the  carriage  after  Veronica  was 
seated.  "And,"  ho  added,  "under  sudi 
delightful  circumstances.  Paul  tells  me 
that  he  is  in  the  Villa  Chiari.  I  shall  do 
myself  the  honour — if  I  may  hope  for  your 
amiable  permission — of  paying  my  respects 
to  my  good  Gale,  my  homage  to  madamc." 

Veronica  bowed,  smiled  very  slightly, 
murmured  some  iaarticulate  word,  and 
gave  the  signal  to  drive  on,  leaving  the 
stranger,  hat  in  hand,  on  the  pavement. 
When  she  had  driven  somo  distance,  she 
asked  Paul  in  English  who  that  person  was  ? 

He  w^as  the  Signer  Cesare  Barletti,  dei 
Principi  Barletti;  not  the  head  of  the 
house ;  a  younger  brother.  The  Barletti 
wero  a  NeapoHtan  family.  The  Princo 
Cesare  had  known  Sir  John  at  Naples ; 
Oh  yes ;  that  was  quite  true.  And  Sir 
John  had  liked  him  to  come  and  play 
picquet  or  6carte  with  him  when  ho  was 
laid  up  at  his  hotel,  and  could  not  go  out. 
Ho  (Paul)  certainly  thought  tliat  Sir  John 
would  like  the  prince  to  call  and  see  him ; 
otherwise  Paul  would  have  taken  good 
care  not  to  mention  Sir  John's  present 
address.  The  Principe  Cesare  de'  Barletti, 
was  not  a  Florentine ;  miladi  understood — 
did  she  not  ? — ^that  it  was  the  renewal  of 
old  Florentine  "  relations"  which  Sir  John 
objected  to  at  present. 

"Miladi"  leaned  back  with  on  assump- 
tion of  indifiercnce  and  inattention  whilo 
Paul  spoke.  But  no  syllable  of  what  he 
said  was  lost  upon  hei\ 

Barletti !  Cesare  dc'  Barletti  !  This  man, 
then,  w^as  a  cousin  of  her  own !  Hor 
mother's  father  had  been  dei  Principi,  of 
the  Princes  Barletti. 

Sir  John  knew  and  cared  nothing  about 
Veronica's  mother.  He  in  all  probabihty 
had  never  heard  Mrs.  Levincourt's  maiden 
name.  But  Veronica  knew  it  well,  and  had 
nourished  a  secret  piide  in  her  Neapolitan 
ancestry. 

That  tlie  man  who  had  accosted  her 
was  her  cousin,  did  not  much  matter.  But 
Ids  intention  of  paying  a  visit  to  Villa 
Chiari  mattered  a  great  deal.     It  offered 


^ 


Br 


'^ 


^ 


556       [NoTember  13, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROHNTD. 


[Conducted  bj 


a  hope  of  change  and  society.  She  had 
been  a  little  surprised  that  Panl  should 
have  given  him  the  address.  But  Paul 
had  himself  explained  that.  It  was  old 
Florentine  acquaintances  whom  Sir  John 
wished  to  shun.  This  man  being  a  stranger 
in  Tuscany  might  have  the  entree  to  Villa 
Chiari.  Doubtless  Paul  knew  what  he 
was  about.  If  Sir  John  knew  that  Barletti 
was  Veronica's  cousin  would  it  make  any 
difference  in  his  reception  of  him?  She 
mused  upon  the  question  until  she  reached 
the  villa.  It  was  quite  evening.  The  sun 
had  set  behind  the  hills  ;  but  there  was  still 
a  brightness  in  the  sky.  "  Miladi**  hastened 
to  her  own  room  to  dress  for  dinner.  She 
made  a  gorgeous  toilet  every  day ;  finding 
a  great  deal  of  real  pleasure  in  her  fine 
clothes.  The  suspicion  that  this  was  a 
pleasure  which  some  other  person  in  her 
presence  genuinely  disdained,  would  have 
much  embittered  her  delight  in  the  rich 
silks  and  gay  jewels  and  fine  lace.  But 
such  a  mortification  never  befel  her  in  Sir 
John  Grale's  company. 

At  dinner  they  talked  of  Cesaro  de'  Bar- 
letti. 

"  Paul  has  told  you,  of  course,"  said  Ve- 
ronica, "  abont  the  man  who  spoke  to  him, 
and  afterwards  to  me  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — ^Barletti.  Ah — ^yes  :  I  knew 
him  at  Naples.  Wonder  what  brings  him 
here !" 

"  He  said  he  would  call." 

*'  Not  a  doubt  of  it !  He  likes  a  good 
dinner  and  good  wine ;  and  he  never  gets 
either  at  his  own  expense." 

"I  should  suppose  that  the  Principe 
de'  Barletti  does  not  need  to  come  to  his 
acquaintances  for  food  !"  said  Veronica. 

Sir  John  burst  into  a  grating  laugh. 
"Bih!"  he  cried,  "you  are  impayable 
with  your  Principe  de'  Barletti !  The  real 
prince  and  head  of  the  family  is  poor 
enough.  He  lives  nine  months  of  every 
year  in  the  third  floor  of  a  mangy  palazzo 
at  Torre  del  Greco,  in  order  to  scrape 
together  enough  to  spend  the  other  three 
months  in  Paris.  But  this  fellow  is  only 
del  principi — a  younger  son  of  a  younger 
son.  He  has  twopence  a  year,  which  he 
spends  on  shiny  boots  (I  dare  say  he  blacks 
tnem  himself)  and  cheap  gloves.  But  he 
plays  a  good  game  of  picquet ;  and  I  found 
it  worth  while  to  let  him  come  nearly  every 
evening  when  I  was  once  laid  by  the  heels 
—or  tno  toe,  rather,  for  I  got  a  con- 
founded  Bt  of  the  gout — in  a  beastly  hotel 
at  Naples.  Of  course  he  was  very  g\a.^. 
It  paid  hivi  capitally  l" 


Veronica's  temper  was  chafed  by  this 
slighting  mention  of  a  Barletti.  It  vexed 
her.  She  knew  that  Sir  John's  coarse 
insolence  was  directed  against  this  man 
in  utter  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
in  any  degree  connected  with  herself.  Still 
it  vexed  her.  But  she  had  no  intention 
of  incurring  the  risk  of  ridicule  for  the 
sake  of  championing  her  newly-fonnd  re- 
lation. She  had  been  considerably  elated 
by  the  thought  of  being  cousin  to  a  prince : 
and  proportionally  depressed  by  the  dis- 
covery that  to  be  dei  Principi  Barletti  was 
no  guarantee  of  important  position. 

"Then  you  mean  this  man  to  come 
here  ?"  asked  Veronica. 

"  Mean  him  to  come  ?  Yes  ;  if  he  makes 
himself  amusing.  If  not,  I  shall  give  him 
his  cong6." 

"  If  you  feel  that  you  want  amusement 
why  do  you  not  go  into  Florence  some- 
times ?" 

"La  bella  idea!  Go  to  Florence  for 
amusement  in  June !  There's  nobody  there; 
and  if  there  were,  it's  much  too  hot  to  do 
anything.  Besides — ^no,  no ;  we  mnst  get 
through  the  summer  here  as  best  we  can. 
The  dry  heat  suits  me  rather:  especially 
on  this  hill  where  one  gets  plenty  of  air, 
even  if  it  be  hot  air.  In  the  antnmn  and 
winter  we  will  move  south.  Meanwhile  if 
Barletti  drops  in  our  way,  so  bo  it." 

"Nobody  in  Florence?"  replied  Ve- 
ronica, whose  mind  had  been  dwelling  on 
those  words.  "  It  seemed  to  me  that  there 
were  a  great  many  carriages " 

"  You  did  not  go  to  the  Cascine  ?"  in- 
terrupted Sir  John,  quickly. 

"No:  I  was  too  late.  But  I  saw  the 
people  driving  along  the  Lung'  Amo." 

She  perfectly  understood  from  Sir  John's 
manner  that  he  had  given  orders  to  Paul 
not  to  take  her  to  the  Cascine,  and  that  he 
had  felt  a  momentary  suspicion  that  his 
orders  had  been  disobeyed.  The  question 
presented  itself  to  her  mind,  what  would 
have  been  the  result  if  Paul  had  yielded  to 
her  desire  ?  But  when  she  retired  to  her 
own  apartment — which  she  did  early — she 
lay  awake  for  some  time,  occupying  hersdf 
exclusively  with  another  and  very  different 
problem :  namely,  which  of  her  dresses  she 
should  put  on  to-morrow  evening  when  i 
Cesare  de'  Barletti  might  be  expected  to 
make  his  appearance  at  Villa  ChiarL 

CHAPTER  IV.      IN  THE  GARDEN. 

I      "  I  WAS  so  delightfulk"  astonished  I" 
\     ""^  k\.  ^^^\xv^  P^xsl  ?   He  does  not  nsuaHj 
Vigro^^Q^    ^©eXaa^   \si  ^iioa  >a^<2>ViftT,     But 


CP: 


& 


OhATles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[November  13,  1869l  j       557 


*tutti  i   gusti    son    gusti,*    all   tastes*  are 
tastes,  as  they  say  here." 

**  Pardon  !  no  :  not  at  the  sight  of  Paul 
for  Panrs  sake,  but " 

"But  for  mine?'' 

"For  yours,  caro  mio.  I  had  never 
heard  that  you  were  married  ;  never." 

"  I  wonder  if  he  had,**  thought  Sii*  John. 
"  He  says  it  so  emphatically,  that  it  is  pro- 
bably a  lie.** 

"And  the  si^ht  of  miladi  positively 
dazzled  me  !  What  eyes !  What  a  grace  ! 
How  beautiful  !** 

"  Take  another  cup  of  coffee,*'  said  Sir 
John,  dryly,  interrupting  the  raptures  of  his 
companion.  And  yet  the  raptures  did  not 
altogether  displease  him. 

Sir  John  Gale  and  the  Principe  Cesare 
de'Barletti  were  sitting  together  beneath 
the  loggia  on  the  western  side  of  the  Villa 
Chiari.  The  setting  sun  was  flushing  all 
the  sky  before  them.  They  looked  out  on 
the  garden,  where,  among  the  laurels  and 
acacias,  a  white  figure  passed  and  repassed 
alowly. 

The  cracked  scagliola  pavement  of  the 
loggia  was  covered,  where  the  two  men  sat^ 
by  a  thick  carpet.  Footstools  and  cushions 
were  there  too,  in  abundance.  Between 
Sir  John  and  his  guest  stood  a  little  marble- 
topped  table,  bearing  coffee  and  wine.  Sir 
Jonn  was  half  reclining  in  an  easy  chair, 
with  his  legs  stretched  out  before  him 
supported  by  cushions.  Barlotti  sat  in  a 
rocking-cliair,  on  which  he  swung  slowly 
backwards  and  forwards.  Both  men  were 
smoking. 

"The  coffee  is  not  bad,  eh?"  said  Sir  John. 

"  It  is  very  strong.** 

"  Better  than  the  stuff  they  give  you  at 
your  caff^,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Ma,  si !  Better  no  doubt.  But  very 
strong.  I  should  like  a  little  cold  water, 
if  I  may  have  it." 

Sir  John  rang  a  bell  that  stood  on  the 
table. 

Before  a  servant  could  answer  the  sum- 
mons, Veronica  approached.  She  had 
been  strolling  up  and  down  the  garden, 
and  had  just  reached  the  spot  in  front  of 
the  loggia,  when  the  bell  soimdcd. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  Principe  would  like  some  cold 
water.  He  finds  the  coffee  stronger  tlian 
he  is  accustomed  to." 

There  was  an  indefinable  sneer  in  the 
tone  in  which  Sir  John  pronounced  these 
words.  The  words  were  innocent  enough. 
But  Veronica  understood  the  tone,  and  it 
offended  her. 


"  I  dare  say  he  does,"  she  retorted.  "  It 
is  made  to  suit  our  English  taste,  which 
likes  strong  flavours — some  i^eoplo  would 
say,  coarse  flavours." 

"  Oh  no  !"  protest<?d  Barlctti,  not  hav- 
ing in  the  least  understood  cither  the  sneer 
or  tlie  retort ;  "  the  flavour  is  Yerj  good 
indeed.** 

"  There  is  some  deliciously  cold  water 
always  in  the  marble  basin  of  the  broken 
fountain  yonder,"  said  Veronica,  impul- 
sively. "  Let  us  go  and  get  some !  It 
will  bo  better  than  any  the  servants  will 
bring." 

The  words  were  addressed  to  Cesare  do' 
Barletti,  who  threw  away  his  cigarette — 
with  secret  reluctance,  by  the  way — and 
rose  to  follow  *  miladi.' 

She  had  taken  up  a  goblet  from  the 
table  and  was  running  towards  the  foun- 
tain. 

She  had  resolved  to  impress  this  stranger 
— already  appreciative  enough  of  her 
beauty — with  her  dignity,  liauteur,  and 
airs  de  grande  dame.  And  on  a  sudden 
behold  her  skipping  through  the  garden 
like  a  school-girl ! 

The  first  plan  was  too  slow,  and  required 
too  much  phlegm  and  patience  to  carry  out. 
Barletti  took  her  queenly  mood  very  much 
as  a  matter  of  course,  ohe  could  not  bear 
to  be  ten  minutes  in  the  society  of  a  stranger 
without  producing  an  effect.  And  more- 
over she  required  to  see  an  immediate 
result.  She  was  vain  and  arrogant^  but 
not  proud,  and  not  stupid;  so  that  she 
could  neither  disregard  the  opinion  of-  the 
most  contemptible  persons,  nor  delude 
herself  in  the  teeth  of  evidence  with  the 
dull,  comfortable  faith  that  she  was  being 
admired,  when  she  was  not.  And  then 
came  the  irresistible  craving  to  make  a 
coup — ^to  shine — to  dazzle. 

Sir  John  looked  after  her  in  surprised 
vexation.  He  remembered  her  having 
done  similar  tilings  for  his  behoof;  that 
had  been  very  natural  and  laudable.  But 
for  a  beggarly  NeapoUtan  principino !  Sir 
John  felt  himself  dejfrauded.  Had  a  pet 
animal  approached  him  at  the  moment,  he 
would  certainly  have  kicked  it.  As  it  was, 
aU  he  could  do  to  relieve  his  feelings  was 
to  swear  at  the  frightened  servant  who 
answered  the  bell,  for  not  coming  sooner. 

Cesare  de*  Barletti  wondered  much  with- 
in himself  that  any  human  being  should 
move  more,  or  moro  quickly,  than  was 
absolutely  necessaiy,  on  a  hot  Juue  o.^^-Ck.- 
ing.      Ho   at    ^t^\,  ^\Xx^W!u5i^  ^vst^s^^'e^^ 


<c^ 


h 


5  58       [KovcmLer  13,  156I>.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Con  'ucted  by 


// 


tiblo  and  incomprehensible  cause,  Britisli 
eccentricity. 

But  when  he  rojoinecl  her  at  tlie  edge  of 
the  broken  fountain,  another  solntion  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  mind.  She  had  per- 
haps seized  this  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
hiui  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  her  hus- 
band. Why  not  ?  It  was  impossible  that 
she  could  care  a  straw  for  that  elderly 
roue.  Very  natural  to  liave  married  him ; 
he  was  so  rich.  Very  natural  also  to 
admire  the  Principe  Cesare  de'  Barletti, 
who  was  not  eligible  as  a  husband — as  he 
very  well  knew,  and  very  candidly  acknow- 
ledged— but  who  was  decidedly  well-looking 
and  well-bom,  and  would  make  a  very 
jewel  of  cavalieri  serventi  I  There  was  but 
one  circumstance  which  caused  Cesare  to 
hesitate  before  accepting  this  solution  as 
final.  Veronica  was  an  Englishwoman  !  And 
really  there  was  no  judging  Englishwomen 
by  the  rules  that  hold  good  in  estimating 
the  motives  of  the  rest  of  the  sex !  And  who- 
soever should  suppose  that  this  xieflection 
imphed  in  the  Italian's  mind  any  special 
respect  or  admiration  for  Englishwomen, 
would  have  been  very  much  mistaken. 

Veronica  filled  the  goblet  at  the  fountain. 
The  filling  was  a  slow  process,  inasmuch 
as  the  water  dripped  sparely  through  the 
crevice  before  mentioned.  Whilst  the 
drops  of  bright  water  were  falling  one  by 
one  into  the  glass,  Veronica  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  latter,  and  her  attention  was 
apparently  absorbed  in  watching  it. 

**  I  pray  you  not  to  give  yourself  the 
trouble  to  do  that  for  me,  signora,"  said 
Barletti,  bending  forward,  and  offeiing  to 
take  the  goblet. 

She  waved  him  back  with  her  hand,  and 
said,  "  I  am  watching  to  sec  how  long  it 
takes  to  fill  the  glass.  Tlie  drops  fall  so 
regulai-ly.     Drip,  drip,  drip  !" 

He  stood  and  looked  at  her.  Now,  at 
all  events,  he  was  not  taking  her  behaviour 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

As  soon  as  the  water  touched  the  brim 
of  the  glass,  she  relinquished  it  into  Bar- 
letti's  hands  and  walked  away  slowly,  as 
though  she  had  lost  all  interest  in  his 
further  proceedings.  The  prince  drank  a 
long  draught.  He  had  no  idea  of  not  en- 
joying its  delicious  coolness  because  he  was 
puzzled  by  **  miladi."  Wlien  he  had  done, 
be  walked  after  her,  and  overtook  her. 

"  That  wa«  very  fresh  and  pleasant,"  he 
said.     "  A  thousand  thanks." 

"  37io   water  was    so    good.     A    t\ioT\- 
sand " 


"  Oh !" 

"  Decidedly,"  thought  Barletti,  glancing 
at  the  beautiful  face  beside  him,  *'  she  is 
English,  thoroughly  English  !  ^Vho  is  to 
make  out  such  people  r'" 

They  found,  on  returning  to  the  house, 
that  Sir  John  had  gone  in.  He  was  in  the 
little  salon,  the  servants  said.  Would  il 
Sip^or  Principe  join  him  there  ? 

II  Signer  Principe  complied  with  the  re- 
quest. 

Veronica  lingered  in  the  loggia  and  looked 
out  over  the  landscape.  The  sun  had  gone 
down.  The  brief  twih'ght  was  nearly  over. 
The  trees  stood  out  dark  against  the  back- 
ground of  pure  sky,  pale  green  near  the 
horizon,  and  deepening  towards  the  zenith 
to  an  intense  dark  blue.  Not  a  leaf  stirred 
in  the  breathless  calm.  There  was  no  moon, 
but  the  heavens  seemed  to  grow  full  of  stars 
as  the  daylight  faded.  They  quivered  and 
shook  with  a  liquid  silvery  lustre.  And 
below  on  the  earih  sparkled  and  danced  to 
and  fro  a  thousand  golden  gleaming  specks, 
threading  a  mazy  pattern  just  above  the 
crests  of  the  ripening  wheat.  They  were 
fire-flies.  ^Vhen  one  of  the  bright  insects 
chanced  to  come  near  Veronica,  she  saw  him 
glow  and  pale  with  a  palpitating  intermit- 
tent flame.  And  sometimes  the  whole  field 
full  of  them  appeared  to  shine  and  fade 
simultaneously,  like  the  successive  showers 
of  sparks  from  a  smithy  fire  that  respond 
to  the  deep  breath  of  the  labouring  bellows. 

It  was  all  as  different  as  possible  from 
Daneshire.  And  yet  Veronica  began  to 
think  of  a  certain  summer  night  in  Shipley 
long  ago,  when  she  and  Maud  wore  children 
together,  and  her  mother  had  sat  by  an 
open  window  telling  them  stories  of  her 
Italian  life.  She  remembered  the  black 
old  yew-tree,  only  a  little  blacker  than  the 
cloudy,  sultry,  starless  sky.  She  remem- 
bered the  sound  of  her  mother's  voice,  and 
Claud's  dimly- seen  little  white  face,  and 
the  touch  of  Maud's  soft,  warm,  little  hand, 
stroking  her  (Veronica's)  hair  in  a  sort  uf 
rhythmic  accompaniment  to  Mrs.  Levin- 
court's  narrative.  She  did  not  think  slic 
had  been  very  happy  in  those  days.  She 
pitied  herself  as  she  recalled  some  of  them. 
Nevertheless  their  remembrance'  caused  a 
vague  yearning  in  her  heart,  and  filled  her 
eyes  with  tears.  A  conviction,  which  she 
tried  to  ignore,  was  in  her  mind.  She  did 
not  fight  against  it  by  self-deluding  argu- 
ments ;  she  simply  tried  to  avoid  acknoir- 
ledging  its  existence,  as  we  turn  away  oar 
\  e'je^  ^Toxaa  disagreeable  object  that  we  tnow  | 
\  lo  \i^  ^'^'^^^^  \\i^'V5Jv\i W  xi^s.  <^\3L^^th  whereby  ' 


14 


Ohar'eB  DicbenH.] 


VEROISICA. 


[November  13, 1869.]      559 


&) 


we  must  pas8.  But  it  was  there  ;  she  knew 
it  was  there.  And  this  conviction  was, 
that  she  had  given  all  and  gained  nothing 
— that  she  had  been  daped  and  defrauded. 

She  did  not  believe  that  what  she  aimed 
at  would,  if  obtained,  liavo  turned  to  dust 
and  ashes.  And  she  knew  she  had  not  got 
what  she  aimed  at.  The  horrible  sense  of 
the  irrm-ocablcness  of  the  past  came  over 
her.  The  tears  brimmed  over  and  ran  down 
her  checks,  and  they  brought  no  solace. 
They  only  humiliated,  and  nmde  her  angry. 

A  maid,  going  into  one  of  the  upper 
rooms  to  close  the  shutters  for  the  night, 
looked  out  and  saw  "  miladi,"  leaning,  with 
folded  ai*ms,  against  a  column  at  the  end  of 
the  loggia,  and  apparently  absorbed  in 
watching  the  fire-flies. 

It  was  an  odd  idea  to  stand  there  alone, 
when  she  might  chat,  and  lounge  on  a 
sofa,  and  drink  iced  lemonade  in  the  sa- 
lon !  But  gentlefolks  wero  odd :  especially 
foreign  gentlefolks.  And  Beppina  went 
down  to  the  servants'  quarters,  not  ill 
contented  with  her  own  lot,  and  prepared 
to  discuss  her  master  and  mistress,  and  to 
thank  her  stars — with  a  side  glance  at 
Ansano,  the  footman — that  she  was  not  tied 
to  that  "  veccbio  brontolone,"  that  grum- 
bling old  fellow,  as  she  irreverently  styled 
Sir  tf ohn  Gale. 

Meanwhile  Veronica,  who  never  yielded 
herself,  long,  to  any  painful  mental  impres- 
sion, returned  to  the  house,  and  entered 
the  saloon  where  Sir  John  and  the  prince 
were  engaged  over  their  game  at  piecjuet. 

The  room  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and 
dazzled  her,  coming  from  with(mt.  She 
felt  more  angry  with  her  tears  than  ever, 
on  becoming  suddenly  aware,  as  she  en- 
tered the  saloon,  that  her  eyelids  were 
swollen,  and  her  eyes  weak,  and  that  they 
must  1)0  red  and  ugly. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  stopping  short,  and 
clasping  her  hands  before  her  face,  "  What 
a  glare  !  It  bhnds  me  !** 

Sir  John  was  too  intent  on  his  game  to 
regard  her.  Cesare  de'  Barletti  looked  up, 
and  fell  instantly  into  a  trance  of  admu-a- 
tion — for  a  costly  diamond  that  glittered 
on  Veronica's  slender  finger.  He  played  a 
wrong  card  (as  he  afterwards  confessed,  an 
imhecUe  card  I)  and  was  vanqtiished. 

Sir  John  was  pleased.  So  was  Veronica. 
The  former  attributed  the  victory  to  his 
own  skill,  on  wliich — as  he  played  very 
ill — he  valued  himself.  The  latter  had 
no  doubt  that  her  presence  had  agitated 
de'  Barletti  into  forgetting  his  game.  Bar- 
letti himself  was  well  satisfied  to  have  put 


his  host  into  good  humour.  The  stakes, 
for  which  they  played,  were  very  trifling, 
and  he  thought  the  small  sum  he  had  lost 
not  ill  invested. 

"  Will  you  have  your  revenge,  prince  ?'* 
asked  Sir  John,  throwing  himself  back  in 
his  chair  with  a  complacent  smile. 

Barletti  shook  his  head  donbtfally. 

"  Aha !  You  show  the  white  leather  ? 
Positively  I  did  not  think  I  should  be  able 
to  tell  one  card  from  another.  It  is  so 
long  since  I  have  played.  You  ought  to 
have  beaten  me,  you  really  ought.  Ha, 
ha,  ha !'' 

Veronica  seated  herself  on  a  couch  near 
the  window.  Her  white  dress  was  soft 
and  flowing,  and  her  black  hair  shone  in 
its  rich  ripples  as  she  leaned  her  head  against 
the  dark  velvet  couch.  Diamonds  glittered 
on  her  neck  and  arms  and  hands:  and 
trembled  in  her  ears.  There  was  no  speck 
of  colour  about  her  dress,  and  its  pure 
whiteness  enhanced  the  rich  glow  of  her 
brunette  complexion.  She  still  shaded  her 
eyes  with  one  hand,  complaining  of  the 
light. 

Sir  John,  having  finished  his  game,  was 
full  of  solicitude  for  her.  Should  he  have 
tlie  candles  removed  to  another  part  of 
the  room?  Wonld  she  like  a  screen? 
Had  she  caught  cold,  or  what  was  it  ?  Her 
eyes  were  usually  so  strong !  Being  now 
the  central  object  of  attraction,  her  spirits 
rose  buoyantly.  She  coquetted  and  com- 
manded, and  made  Sir  John  move  and  re- 
move the  wax  tapers  a  dozen  times  before 
their  position  was  satisfactory  to  her.  At 
last  he  got  tired,  and  rang  for  Paul  to  carry 
them  away  and  bring  a  shaded  lamp  instead. 
Barletti  looked  on  admiringly,  and  when,  on 
the  lamp  being  carried  in,  there  appeared 
in  its  wake  a  tray  with  galantine,  and 
chicken,  and  wine,  and  sweets  (these  Eng- 
lish are  such  eaters !)  his  spirits  rose  too, 
and  they  wero  all  three  quite  brilliant  over 
the  little  impromptu  supper.  The  con- 
versation was  canded  on  in  French,  Sir 
John  not  being  able  to  speak  Italian 
fluently.  But  suddenly  Veronica  addressed 
Barletti  in  Italian,  and  intensely  enjoyed 
his  admiring  surprise  at  the  purity  of  her 
accent. 

"  Uow  admirably  miladi  speaks  Italian  !" 
he  exclaimed,  with  enthusiasm. 

"  My  mother  was  an  Italian,"  said 
Veronica. 

"  Was  she  ?"  asked  Sir  John,  carelessly. 
"  Tiens  !  I  never  knew  that.  Or — stay — oh 
yes  to  be  sure  !  I  think  I  TQ;Taa\s2jQfc-^V«Ktvc.% 
it  mentioned  J* 


A 


h 


560      [November  13,  1869.] 


AliL  THE  TEAR  KOUND. 


fOondoetedby 


"How  distrait  yon  are  to-night!"  said 
Veronica,  with  an  assumption  of  tolerant 
good  hnmonr. 

Cesare  Barletti  took  away  in  his  brain 
three  themes  on  which  his  thoughts,  pas- 
sions, and  prejudices,  made  endless  varia- 
tions, as  he  drove  down  the  Avenue  of  the 
Poggio  Imperiale.  The  first  was: — It  is 
odd  that  a  man  should  not  know  or  re- 
member who  his  wife's  mother  was !  The 
second  was : — miladi  wanted  to  make  it 
appear  that  Qule  was  speaking  in  preoccu- 
pation or  absence  of  mind;  now  Gale  is 
never  "  distrait,"  it  is  not  in  his  character. 
The  third  was : — That  handsome  creature 
is  not  an  Englishwoman,  puro  sangue  !  The 
fact  of  her  having  had  an  Italian  mother 
brings  her  more  into  the  category  of  hu- 
man beings  whoso  manners  and  develop- 
ment I  understand.  I  wonder  whether  she 
was  offended  with  me  because  I  did  not 
fall  at  her  feet  when  we  were  in  the  garden 
together,  or,  at  least,  make  some  prepara- 
tions for  a  future  prostration  of  myself  at 
her  shrine ! 

On  tliis  last  theme  the  variations  were 
brilliant  and  inexhaustible. 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  KORTH.   LEEDS  TO  YORK. 

From  the  baldest  and  highest  point  of 
Mickle  Fell,  the  crown  of  Yorkshire,  the 
crow  surveys  the  great  county,  half  as  large 
as  Holland,  which  he  is  about  to  traverse 
on  his  swift  way  to  his  final  roosting  place 
on  the  tower  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed.  The 
bird  sees  beneath  him,  small  as  toy  houses, 
those  great  monastic  ruins  of  Kiovaulx, 
Fountains,  Kirkstall,  Bolton,  and  Jorc- 
vaulx ;  while  the  castles  of  Knaresborougli 
and  Pontefract,  Skipton  and  York,  Rich- 
mond and  Scarborough,  wake  up  the 
old  bird's  memory  of  the  days  of  the 
Cliffords  and  Mowbrays,  the  Lacys  and 
the  Scropes,  names  that  still  make  the 
heart  of  a  true  Yorkshircman  beat  with  a 
warmer  and  a  fuller  pulse.  The  eastern 
cliff- ramparts  washed  by  the  German  Ocean, 
the  bracing  moors  and  fells,  the  green  and 
laughing  vales,  the  great  manufacturing 
cities,  smoking  like  witches*  caldrons,  and 
lai'ded  with  spikes  of  fiictory  chimneys,  lie 
before  the  crow,  and  threaten  to  tempt  him 
from  the  even  tenor  of  his  flight  over  those 
fair  rivers,  the  Humbcr,  the  Wharfe,  the 
Nid,  and  the  Derwent,  that  stretch  far  be- 
neath his  airy  road  their  silver  clues  to  the 
Jabrrmtb  he  has  to  traverse. 
First  descending  througb.  clouds  of  smoka 


and  steam,  he  alights  on  the  black  shore  of 
the  Aire.  He  is  in  Leeds,  paradiBe  of 
clothiers,  murky  Eden  of  woollen  manu- 
facturers. The  street  and  market  talk  is 
of  swansdowns  and  kerseymeres,  and  of 
shoddy  also.  Half  the  wool  of  the  West 
Riding  passes  through  the  many  thousand 
busy  and  sinewy  Yorkshire  hands  that  force 
wool  into  new  and  higher  forms  in  the  good 
town  of  Leeds. 

During  the  civil  wars,  when  the  Scropes 
and  the  Fair&xes  were  shouting  their  rival 
battle  cries,  Leeds  was  nearly  always  Par- 
liamentarian. There  had  not  been  much 
fighting  on  the  banks  of  ilie  Aire  since,  in 
655,  Penda,  the  hoary  Pagan  tyrant,  who 
in  his  time  had  slain  three  East  An^ian 
and  two  Northumbrian  kings  (such  as 
they  were),  at  last  fell  in  a  great  rout  of 
his  Mercians  on  the  shores  of  the  overflow- 
ing Aire,  twenty  of  his  vassal  chieftains 
perishing  with  him  on  the  field  or  in  the 
flood.  After  many  centuries  the  war  fever 
seethed  up  hotly  once  more  in  the  veins  of 
the  staunch  men  of  the  West  Riding.  In 
January,  1643,  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  of 
Denton,  marched  on  the  clothiers'  town, 
with  six  troops  of  horse,  three  companies  of 
dragoons,  one  thousand  musketeers,  and 
two  thousand  club  men  from  Bradford.  Sir 
William  Saville,  the  Royalist  commandant, 
returning  a  haughty  answer  to  the  summons 
to  surrender,  Sir  Thomas  drove  straight 
at  the  town  with  colours  flying,  beating  the 
garrison  from  their  outworks  and  killing 
their  cannoniers.  The  storm  lasted  two 
hours,  at  the  end  of  wliich  time  Fairfax, 
followed  by  Sir  Henry  FowUs  and  Captain 
Forbes,  hewed  his  way  into  the  town, 
taking  five  hundred  Cavalier  prisoners  and 
two  brass  cannons,  with  good  store  of  am- 
munition. Sir  WUliam  Saville  fled,  and  got 
safely  across  the  Aire,  but  his  sergeant- 
major,  Beaumont,  was  drowned  in  tryii^  to 
follow  his  leader.  The  Puritans  only  lost 
twenty  or  thirty  men  in  the  short  but  hot 
assault. 

Briggate  and  Kirkgate  both  remaiDed 

tolerably  quiet  till  1647,  when  the  Scotch 

army  having  generously  surrendered  King 

Charles,  the   rueful   kuig  passed  through 

Leeds  a  prisoner.    It  was  on  that  ocoasicm, 

when  Charles  was  lodged  at  Red  HaU,  that 

John  Harrison,  the  great  Leeds  merchant, 

nobly  came 

True  aa  the  dial  to  the  sun, 
Although  it  be  not  shono  upon, 

and  coaxing  and  forcing  his  way  through 

the  sullen  and  morose  musketeers,  kn(^t, 

\  a:Q.^"m^u!D.\»^^V^5ad^ presented  his  majesty 


"4 


& 


Oluurles  OfckeBi.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[November  18, 1869.]       561 


with  what  he  Bmilingly  called,  "  a  tankard 
of  right  home-brewed  excellent  ale."  The 
goards  sympathising  with  the  gift,  and  see- 
ing its  apparent  harmlessness,  withdrew, 
bnt  when  the  king  lifted  the  lid  of  the 
great  silver  flagon,  lo !  and  behold,  it  was 
brimming  with  yellow  gold  pieces,  which 
ihe  royal  gentleman  in  trouble,  with  his 
nsnal  craft,  took  caro  to  instantly  stow 
away  in  his  big  pockets,  dismissing  the 
kindly  giyor  with  a  gracions  smile.  The 
husband  of  a  female  servant,  who  offered 
to  help  the  king  that  night  to  escape,  was, 
after  the  Restoration,  appointed,  by  a  not 
too  gi'ateful  monarch,  the  king's  chief  bailiff 
in  Yorkshire;  and  growing  rich,  he  built 
for  his  dispoi't  Crosby  House,  in  Upperhead 
Row.  Thoresby  has  another  version  of  this 
story.  Ho  says,  Charles  at  the  time  was 
in  the  land  of  the  Scots,  and  on  his  way 
from  Newark  to  Newcastle,  and  so  far  the 
worthy  old  gentleman  errs  exceedingly. 
While  the  king  was  at  Red  Hall,  a  zealous 
maid- servant  of  Alderman  Met  calf's  en- 
treated the  king  to  change  clothes  with  her 
and  so  escape :  she  promised,  if  he  did,  to 
lead  him  in  the  dark  out  of  the  garden 
door  into  a  back  alley,  called  Land's  Lane, 
and  thence  to  a  friend's  house,  who  would 
forward  him  safely  to  France.  The  obstinate 
king,  however,  declined  the  offer  of  the 
generous  woman  with  thanks,  and  gave  her 
a  token  (the  legend  says  the  Garter,  which 
is  unlikely),  saying  that  if  it  were  never 
in  his  own  power,  on  sight  of  that  token 
his  son  would  hereafter  reward  her. 

Before  the  crow  dismisses  good  Mr. 
Thoresby,  let  the  bird  cull  one  or  two 
choice  notes  of  that  worthy's  Leeds  memo- 
rabilia, and  first,  a  note  on  Leeds  strength 
(1058—1725).  Thoresby  mentions  Ralph 
Dimsdale,  a  cloth- worker,  who,  vexed  at  a 
carrier  complaining  that  a  certain  pack 
of  cloth  would  break  his  horse's  back, 
lifted  up  the  bale  and  carried  it  easily 
as  a  Hercules,  from  Alderman  Ibbot- 
Bon's  house  to  the  churchyard.  Ho  also 
records  the  strength  of  Mr.  Thomas  Small- 
wood,  a  chaplain  in  the  Parliamentary 
army,  who,  to  outbrave  the  soldiers,  would 
sometimes  lift  at  arm's  length  three  pikes 
(fourteen  feet  long  each)  tied  together.  A 
note  of  memoir,  too:  one  Miss  Dorothy 
Dixon,  of  Hunslct  Lane,  when  a  child,  was 
able  to  remember  nearly  a  whole  sermon, 
*'  letter  perfect,"  as  actors  say.  Of  swift- 
ness :  Edmund  Preston,  the  Leeds  butcher, 
could  run  twice  round  Chapeltown  Moor 
(a  four-mile  course)  in  fourteen  minutes. 
It    was    roughly    calculated    that    three 


thousand  pounds  had  been  won  by  this 
man's  heels.  This  Hare-foot  died  in  1700, 
of  a  wound  received  from  a  stake  as 
he  was  skipping  over  a  hedge  after  some 
stray  sheep.  Of  strange  sympathies :  a 
note  of  one  Mr.  Thomas  Sharp,  who  died 
at  Leeds  in  1693.  At  the  very  hour 
of  his  dissolution  a  distant  friend  and 
townsman  of  his  fell  into  a  bitter  agony  of 
tears  and  vehement  passion  of  apprehen- 
sion, so  that  he  could  not  continue  dressing 
himself,  but  stood  naked  till  he  could  send 
a  messenger  to  inquire  for  the  sick  man. 
Impatient  of  the  messenger's  return,  the 
master  hastened  after  him,  and  found  Mr. 
Sharp  just  dead,  and  the  shroud  not  yet 
wrapped  round  him.  A  note  of  longevity : 
one  Mr.  Thomas  Bernard,  of  Leeds,  fifty 
years  old  when  he  married,  had  eighteen 
children,  rode  biiskly  to  hunting  when  he 
was  above  a  hundred,  and  could  then  read 
\vithout  spectacles. 

But  we  may  have  too  much  even  of  old 
Thoresby,  so  the  crow,  launching  from 
the  top  of  the  domed  tower  of  ihe  Town 
Hall,  which  only  wants  "just  a  some- 
thing" to  rival  the  great  Hotels  de  Ville  of 
Flanders,  pushes  on  over  moor  and  valley 
for  the  city  of  York,  stately  crowned  by  its 
triple  tiara  of  minster  towers,  above  the 
Ouse,  and  nearly  midway  between  London 
and  Edinburgh ;  and  from  that  tower  tlie 
crow  looks  down  grectingly  on  Severus's 
Hills  and  many  a  fertile  square  of  pasture. 
The  warlike  Scots,  with  then  a  strong 
tendency  southward,  besieged  this  city, 
aided  by  the  Britons,  in  the  reign  of 
Severus  (207)  ;  they  were  under  a  Scythian 
leader.  (Heaven  only  knows  how  a  llus- 
sian  or  Tartar  general  ever  got  promoted 
to  such  a  post  in  those  days.)  The  Em- 
peror Severus,  though  old  and  gouty,  drove 
the  Scotch  wasps  off  with  his  cohorts,  who 
then  marched  into  the  Lowlands,  cutting 
down  forests,  making  roads,  and  draining 
marshes  as  they  moved.  The  march,  how- 
ever, is  said  to  have  cost  him  fifty  thou- 
sand men,  for  the  Scotch  even  then  never 
gave  any  one  more  than  two  shillings  for 
half-a-ci'own,  and  were  grim,  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  canny,  hard  to  beat  kind  of 
bodies.  Sevems  then  turned  the  eighty 
miles  of  earth  rampart  that  the  Emperor 
Hadrian  had  made  (he  also  had  lived  at 
York)  into  stone,  from  the  Sol  way  Firth 
to  Wallsend,  where  coals  were  then  scarcely 
sufficiently  appreciated.  On  a  second  revolt 
of  the  Scots,  the  old  emperor,  Hke  Edwards  >^ 
the  First,  vowed  llvevc  cw>lvc^  ^-s^KrvxoaiSjvi-  ^ 
tioii,  but  deaXk  ^\«^^viiiL  \xi'e»  Taax^^  ^a^-  *^^ 


4 


cfi: 


^ 


562       [N'ovembor  13. 1S6».] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Condocied  ly 


very  tlireshold  of  the  Palace  of  Eboracum 
(York).  Feeling  his  blood  cliilling  at  the 
source,  and  worn  by  long  Syiian  and  Cale- 
donian campaigns,  he  called  to  his  bedside 
his  two  evil  sons,  Geta  the  dog,  and  Gara- 
calla  the  wolf.  "I  leave  you,  my  sons," 
he  said,  "  a  firm  government.  I  found  the 
republic  torn. and  disturbed;  •herish  the 
legions."  Tlien  to  his  attendants,  the 
Cajsar  said :  ''  I  have  been  all,  and  yet  am 
no  better  for  it  now."  It  was  Solomon's  bitter 
sigh  of  "  vanity  of  vanities"  over  again. 
He  next  asked  for  the  golden  urn  in  wliich 
liis  ashes  were  to  bo  conveyed  to  Rome, 
and  earnestly  looking  at  it,  said,  **  Thou 
shalt  soon  hold  what  the  whole  world  could 
scarcely  contain."  Soon  after  ho  calmly 
departed,  meeting  King  Death  as  a  king 
should  meet  a  king.  The  body  of  this 
Roman  emperor  was  burnt  (m  a  great  pile 
of  wood  on  one  of  those  three  liills  near 
Holclgatc,  on  wliich  the  crow  has  already 
fixed  his  keen  eye.  After  this  old  man's 
death  there  was  hideous  work  at  the  city 
on  the  Ouse,  for  discord  sowed  envy  and 
hatred  in  the  lioarts  of  the  brothers,  and 
CaracaJla,  the  stronger  and  more  evil  spirit 
of  the  two,  fearing  Geta  w^ith  the  army, 
first  massacred  twenty  thousand  of  his  ad- 
herents in  the  mnks,  then  led  by  the  devil 
from  bad  to  worse,  ended  by  stabbing  Geta 
in  his  mother's  arms. 

Now  the  crow,  taking  a  bold  flight  over 
centuries,  alights  on  a  later  scene  of  tragic 
horror,  whicli  Shakespeare  has  painted  in 
Rembi*andt*8  finest  maimer.  Those  blood- 
thirsty Wars  of  the  Roses  culminated  in 
that  terrible  day  of  retalLation  at  York  in 
14G0.  The  pretender  to  the  crown  unwisely 
allowed  himself,  in  all  the  reckless  arrogance 
of  his  nature,  to  be  shut  up  in  his  castle  of 
Sendal  with  only  six  thousand  men  at 
arms,  wliile  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  a  king's 
man,  beleaguered  him  with  eighteen  thou- 
sand. York's  faithful  old  counsellor.  Sir 
David  Hale,  entreated  his  master  not  to 
venture  forth  into  the  open  till  joined  by 
his  son  (afterwards  Edward  the  Fourth) 
with  reinforcements,  but  Queen  Margaret's 
insults  and  sneers,  that  it  was  disgraceful 
to  a  man  who  aspired  to  a  crown  to  be 
shut  up  in  a  castle,  and  by  a  woman,  too, 
were  not  to  be  borne  by  a  proud,  self-willed 
general 

"  Hast  thou  loved  me  so  long,"  he  said, 
"and  wouldst    thou    have   me   now   dis- 
honoured?    Thou  never  sa^west  mo  keep 
fortress  when  I  w^as  regent  in  Normandy. 
No;   like  a   man   I  always  issued  forth 
and  fought  mine   enemies,   ever  to  t\ie\i 


loss  and  my  own  honour.    I  will  fight  them 
now,  Davy,  though  I  fight  them  alone." 

The  Duke  of  York  then  marched  out,  and 
drew  up  his  small  army  on  Wakefield  Grreen. 
The  Duke  of  Somerset  came  to  meet  liim 
in  three  divisions,  himself  in  the  centre, 
Lord  Clifford  on  the  left,  and  the  Earl  of 
Worcester  on  the  n'ght.  The  Duke  of 
York  began  by  a  bull-like  rush  straight  at 
the  heart  of  his  enemies,  but  they  outflanked 
him,  and  slowly  lapped  him  in  with  a  flood 
of  swords,  lances,  and  axes.  The  fight  was 
hand  to  hand — the  hatred  embittered  by 
past  mutual  cruelties.  A  priest,  tho  tutor 
to  Rutland,  York's  second  son,  escaped 
from  the  melee,  and  hurried  with  liis 
charge  into  Wakefield,  but  cruel  Cliflbrd, 
observing  the  lad's  rich  dress,  spurred  after 
him,  and,  on  the  bridge,  overtook  him  and 
the  priest. 

"Save  him  !"  cried  the  good  monk,  "he 
is  the  son  of  a  piince,  and  may  do  you 
good  hereafter." 

"  Son  of  York !"  shouted  the  savage 
Lancastnan,  whose  own  child  had  been 
slain  at  the  Imttle  of  St.  Albans:  and 
seizing  the  boy  by  the  hair,  he  said,  "  thy 
father  slew  mine  child,  and  so  will  I  thee 
and  all  thy  kin,"  and  stabbed  him  to  the 
heart.  The  Duke  of  York,  too,  was 
dragged  to  a  mound  and  placed  on  it  in 
mockery  as  on  a  tlirone.  The  soldiers 
twisted  a  crown  of  grass,  and  paying  him 
derisive  homage,  shouted, 

"  Hail,  Iving  without  a  kingdom  !  Hail, 
prince  ^vithout  a  people  !" 

Then  they  forced  him  on  his  knees  and 
struck  ofl*  his  head.  This  gory  and  hideous 
trophy  Cliflbrd  stuck  on  a  lance,  and  with 
his  own  hands  presented  to  the  she-wolf 
Margaret,  saying,  with  a  bitter  laugh, 

"  Madame,  your  war  is  done,  here  is  the 
ransom  of  your  king." 

Tho  pale  head  was  then  decked  with  a 
paper  crown,  and  by  order  of  Margaret  of 
Anjou,  and  amid  the  ruthless  laughter  of  her 
courtiei's,  placed  over  the  inside  of  Mickle- 
gate  Bar,  with  the  blind  heedless  face 
turned  towards  the  city.  The  Earl  of 
Salisbury  and  other  noblemen  were  sent 
to  Pomfret  and  beheaded,  and  their  heads 
also  placed  over  the  gates  of  York.  About 
three  thousand  Yorkists  fell  in  this  bloody 
and  cruel  battle. 

But  nearly  all  tliat  York  has  seen  or  done 

historically,  happened  in  the  Minster,  and 

the  crow,  on  the  highest  tower,  now  sits,  as 

it  were,  in   inquest   over    the    eoronatiou 

«  place  of  many  happy  and  unhappy  kings. 

\  A.  <^xsi^\\a&  ^\«wL  -vhfire  the  fair  Minster 


^ 


«5: 


^ 


Gharles  DickeoB.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES, 


[Xovember  13, 18«90      563 


now  rises,  ever  since  the  Easter  of  627,  when 
Panlinns  baptised  the  newly  converted 
Edwin,  King  of  Northumberland,  in  a 
little  wooden  oratory  hastily  built  for  the 
occasion ;  the  woodwork  was  soon  replaced 
by  stone.  The  Minster  was  partly  de- 
stroyed by  fire,  once  in  1137,  then  in  1829, 
and,  lastly,  in  1840  by  the  carelessness  of 
plumbers.  The  fire  of  1829  was  tJie  work 
of  a  mad  sailor,  named  Mai*tin,  who  believed 
Heaven  had  sent  visions  to  tell  him  to  burn 
the  Minster,  where  the  prayers  and  sermons 
vexed  him  as  being  mere  forms,  and  not 
prayers  of  the  heart.  This  fanatic  lodged 
with  a  York  shoemaker,  whose  house  he 
left  some  days  before  the  tire,  saying  he 
was  going  to  reside  at  Leeds.  The  fire 
was  on  Monday  morning;  on  the  Saturday 
previous  Martin  suddenly  returned  to  his 
old  lodgings,  to  his  landlord's  surprise. 
Martin,  however,  told  the  shoemaker  that, 
having  twenty  of  his  books  to  sell  in  Tad- 
caster,  he  had  settled  to  come  on  to  York. 
He  left  on  Monday  early,  and  did  not  re- 
turn. He  took  with  him  from  the  old 
shoemaker's  a  pair  of  pincers,  afterwards 
found  on  a  stool  near  the  last  window  of 
the  north  transept,  from  which  a  knotted 
rope  was  hanging. 

About  a  week  after  the  fire  Martin  was 
taken  at  Hexham,  in  Northumberland.  He 
told  everything  with  fanatical  exultation 
and  triumph.  At  evening  service  he  had 
**laid  down  beside  the  Bishop" — that  is, 
hidden  himself  behind  the  tomb  of  Arch- 
bishop Greenfield.  Having  heard  the  man 
come  down  from  the  belfry  after  ring- 
ing the  bell  for  evening  service,  he  soon 
w^ent  up  there,  struck  a  light  ydth  a  flint 
and  razor,  then  cut  about  a  hundred 
feet  of  rope,  and,  being  a  sailor,  mx>n  con- 
structed a  scaling  ladder,  and  went  up, 
hand  over  hand,  over  the  gates  into  the 
choir,  where  there  was  most  woodwork  for 
his  purpose.  He  had  taken  care  to  bring 
a  wax  candle,  tinder,  and  some  biimstone 
matches.  When  ho  got  down  into  the 
choir  the  madman  fell  on  his  knees  and 
thanked  Grod,  but  felt  a  voice  say  he  would 
be  caught,  do  what  he  would-  The  fiinge 
and  tassels  from  the  pulpit  and  bishop's 
throne  he  carried  off  to  prove  the  fire  was 
his  work,  and  also  to  adorn  a  hairy  jacket 
he  liad  at  Lincoln.  When  lie  liad  torn  up 
the  prayer  books  and  music  books  in  heaps 
ready  to  light,  "Glory  to  God,"  he  told  the 
York  magistrates,  "  I  never  felt  so  happy, 
but  I  had  a  hard  night's  work  of  it,  par- 
ticularly with  a  hungered  belly."  He  re- 
gretted he  could  not  save  the  big  Bible,  but 


he  could  not  get  it  over  the  choir  gates. 
What  the  Lord  had  given  him  for  his  hire 
he  tied  up  in  his  handkerchief;  and  while 
he  was  so  doing  he  kept  shouting,  "  Glory 
to  God"  so  often  and  so  loud  that  he  only 
wondered  it  was  not  heard  outside.  The 
mad  sailor,  who  was  confined  as  a  lunatic, 
died  in  1858.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  up 
to  the  time  of  his  death,  although  ex- 
pr€\ssly  forbidden  to  draw  the  Minster  or 
to  ^vr'\tQ  about  it,  he  was  always  (with  a 
madman's  craft)  drawing  portions  of  it 
from  memory  under  pretence  of  making 
drawings  of  Kenil worth  and  other  ruins. 
To  the  last  he  believed  that  in  a  dream  he 
had  seen  a  cloud  reaching  from  the  Min- 
ster to  the  shoemaker's  shop  where  he 
lodged,  and  that  he  had  seen  an  angel 
slioot  an  arrow  through  the  Minster  door. 
The  great  organ  burst  ^vith  a  tremendous 
noise  during  this  lamentable  fire.  All  the 
choir  carving  was  destroyed,  the  tombs  of 
Archbishops  Sterne  and  Sharp  were  in- 
jured. The  rood  loft  was  burnt,  with  all 
the  oak  tabernacle  work,  and  the  cele- 
brated screen  between  the  choir  and  Lady 
Chapel  had  to  be  rebuilt.  A  curious  old 
altar  chair  and  the  great  brass  eagle  were 
saved  in  spite  of  the  torrents  of  molten  lead 
and  the  falling  rafters. 

One  of  the  greatest  curiosities  in  the 
Minster  is  the  horn  of  Ulphus,  which  is  of 
ivory  mounted  in  brass.  It  is  preserved 
in  a  chapel  on  the  south  side  of  the  choir, 
which  is  used  as  a  vestry,  museum,  and 
register  room.  This  Ulphus,  the  son  of 
Toraldus,  was  a  Danish  chieftain,  who 
ruled  tlie  west  pai*t  of  Deira.  A  diflerencc 
arising  between  liis  eldest  and  youngest 
sons  about  the  succession  after  his  death, 
he  adopted  a  plan  to  make  their  shares 
equal.  He  rode  to  York  with  his  largest 
drinking  horn,  and,  filling  it  with  wine, 
went  on  his  knees  before  the  altar,  and 
bestowed  upon  God  and  the  blessed  Saint 
Peter  all  his  lands,  tenements,  and  per- 
sonal wealth.  There  is  property  to  the 
east  of  York  which  still  bears  his  name. 
This  horn  was  stolen  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  but  restored  to  the  church  by 
one  of  the  Fairfaxes,  shorn  of  its  pre- 
cious settings.  It  was  remounted  by  the 
Dean  and  Chapter  in  1675  (Charles  the 
Second).  There  is  in  tliis  chapel  also  a 
curious  pastoral  staff  of  silver  given  by 
Queen  Catherine  to  her  confessor  when 
he  was  nominated  Catholic  Archbishop  of 
York  by  James  the  Second.  It  is  said 
that  when  marcliing  insolently  in  i^rocftsis^"^ 
to  the  Mmst^iT,  Vk-e^  '^LaA  oS.  \i'5isrci^'^  ^^"^- 


-\ 


■r 


c£: 


^ 


564       [November  13, 1M9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  hj 


fronted  him,  and  wresting  the  new  sceptre 
from  the  Pretender's  hand  gave  it  to  the 
Dean  and  Chapter. 


DAME  MAETHA'S  WELL. 

Damb  AfABTHiL  bode  in  Sonderland, 

A  good  and  gentle  dame ; 
Wlion  tbo  winter  was  long  and  the  rich  man  hard, 

To  her  the  poor  folk  came. 

The  hungry  ate  out  of  her  hand, 

Tlie  siokfj  took  her  bed, 
And  to  the  sinful  wrongdoer 

Sweet  words  of  peace  she  said. 

She  was  not  rich  in  gold  nor  gear, 

But  all  might  share  her  best : 
Silver  nor  gold  she  could  not  give. 

But  the  crust  she  gave  was  blest 

There  came  fierce  foemen  from  afar. 

Over  the  salt  sea  tide  : 
With  fire  and  sword  they  laid  full  low 

The  hamlets  far  and  wide. 

From  east  to  west  in  Sonderland 

A  fire  ran  bloody  red  : 
Dame  Martha's  house  was  burnt  full  low> 

And  ita  gentle  lady  fled. 

She  fled  unto  a  lonely  tower, 

To  the  sad  kirkyard  nigh. 
Only  the  owl  from  his  dark  lair 

Iiooked  down  with  round  bright  rye. 

Hungry  and  thirsty  she  abode 

Tnst'cn,  apart  from  men ; 
Not  a  drop  of  nil  that  she  had  given 

Was  given  to  her  sgain. 

But  when  the  dark  and  bloody  band 

Again  forsook  that  shore, 
Dame  Martha  found  her  ruined  house. 

And  built  it  up  once  more. 

The  hungry  ate  out  of  her  hand. 

The  sickly  took  her  bed, 
And  to  the  sinful  wrongdoer 

Sweet  words  of  peace  she  said. 

For  many  a  day  unto  her  door 

They  came  from  far  and  wide ; 
But  many  a  human  wanderer  wrpt 

The  day  Dame  Martha  died. 

The  kirk  bell  sonnded  sad  and  low, 

Man,  child,  and  woman,  wept ; 
Wearily  to  the  sad  kirkyard 

They  bare  her  as  she  slept. 

And  when  thej  passed  the  lonely  tower 

Where  she  m  need  had  fled. 
The  bearers  sat  the  black  bier  down. 

And  prayed,  and  blessed  the  dead. 

And  OS  they  prayed  with  tearful  eyes. 

There  sprang  beneath  the  bier. 
Out  of  the  ground,  a  little  well 

Of  water,  crystal  clear. 

And  still  in  rocky  Sonderland 

The  village  gossips  tell, 
The  sick  may  drink  and  straight  be  healed 

Out  of  Dame  Martha's  wellT 

God's  blessing  on  the  gentle  soul, 

Not  rich  in  gold  anagear, 
Tbtit  in  the  midst  of  evil  days 


liike  crystal  clear,  the  gentle  eoiil 
Doth* from  the  cold  ground  burst. 

God  bless  the  little  wayside  well 
Befreshing  all  that  Uunt ! 


A  DEADLY  MIST. 


OlcamM  up  like  water  clear. 


Sunday  morning  by  the  sea.  The  early 
chnrcli  bells  going.  A  close  sea-mist  bang- 
ing heavily  over  the  sands,  and  a  baffled 
8nn  trying  to  make  light  of  it,  and  £uling. 
My  window  wide  open,  though  sere  Oc- 
tober is  growing  old,  and  one  long  melan- 
choly ripple  of  smooth  sea  wailing  slowly 
along  the  shore.  I  have  had  a  good  break- 
fast, a  fine  romp  with  my  children,  and  my 
wife  is  dressing  for  church.  Everything 
witli  me  is  very  calm  and  very  hfl^py; 
but  only  an  hour  ago  I  was  in  mortal  peril 
of  my  life,  and,  instead  of  being  in  this 
pleasant  room,  with  the  voices  of  my  little 
children  outside  breaking  on  my  ear,  and 
with  the  wash  of  the  wave  on  the  beach 
below  my  window  setting  a  bass  to  their 
sweet  treble,  I  might  have  been  at  this 
moment  floating  white  and  stiff  on  the  still 
sea,  with  the  thick  mist  hanging  around 
me,  and  this  world's  loves  and  cares  over 
with  me  for  ever. 

It  was  such  a  simple  affair,  such  an 
easy  way  in  which  to  meet  one*s  death, 
that  it  is  only  the  thought  of  what  might 
have  been,  that  gives  warmth  and  colour  to 
the  contrast  with  what  is  :  and  I  am  filled 
with  that  feeling — which  all  men  must 
have  felt  when  tiiey  have  learned  how  to 
feel — of  respite,  and  escape,  and  of  a  longer 
trial  allowed,  anotlier  chance  permitted. 
I  am  sure  no  one  who  has  ever  been  con- 
sciously and  calmly  face  to  face  with  death 
will  fail  to  imderstand  what  I  mean. 

One  hour  ago,  only  an  hour,  1  went  out, 
as  usual,  to  bathe.  The  sands  run  up  to 
my  very  windows,  and  the  high  tides 
sometimes  touch  the  little  wall  that  stands 
in  front,  so  that  I  can  often  walk  from  my 
own  hall-door  into  the  water  at  a  few 
yards'  distance.  But  this  morning  the 
tide  was  dead  out,  and  a  heavy  sea-fog 
was  lying  all  over  the  sands,  so  that  I 
could  not  see  where  the  water  and  the 
land  joined.  I  had  not  gone  twenty  yards 
until,  looking  back,  I  saw  my  bouse  loom- 
ing through  the  fog,  quite  altered  in 
appearance,  and,  though  much  larger,  still 
much  more  distant  than  usual.  Jji  a  few 
more  steps  I  lost  it  altogether.  I  soon 
came  to  the  water's  edge,  took  off  my 
overall,  and  laid  it  on  a  flat  stone:  the  only 
\  ^\ATi^  1  could  see,  for  there  are  no  rocks. 


4 


& 


=h 


OhMies  Dlckenti] 


A  DEADLY  WLST. 


[November  18, 1899.]        565 


The  sea  was  dead  calm,  and  I  had  to 
wade  a  long  way  out  before  I  got  deep 
enough  for  a  plnnge,  afber  which  I  began 
to  swim.  The  water  was  not  too  cold, 
there  was  not  even  a  languid  heave  on  its 
snrface,  and  I  struck  out,  enjoying  the  free 
motion,  until  I  began  to  feel  tired.  I  am  a 
bad  swimmer,  and  had  never  knowingly 
gone  out  of  my  depth.  Dropping  my  feet 
I  found  myself  up  to  the  neck,  and  I  then 
suddenly  perceived  that  I  was  closely  en- 
circled by  a  dense  mist,  and  was  utterly  at 
a  loss  to  know  which  way  the  shore  lay. 
The  tide,  I  knew,  was  rising  fast.  I  could 
not  trust  myself  to  swim,  lest  I  should  be 
swimming  out  to  sea,  instead  of  towards  the 
land.  I  made  a  step  or  two  in  one  direction, 
then  in  another,  but  always  seemed  to  be 
getting  deeper.  Then,  like  a  sudden  blow, 
came  upon  me  the  full  sense  of  my  situation. 
Here  I  was,  opposite  my  own  door,  where 
my  wife  and  little  children  were  waiting  for 
me,  within  perhaps  two  hundred  yards  of 
dry  land,  daiigerously  deep  in  the  water, 
and  helplessly  unable  to  find  my  way  out. 

The  peril  was  imminent.  I  must  have 
been,  I  now  think,  on  the  top  of  a 
low  bank  of  sand,  and,  though  shallow 
water  and  safety  must  have  been  within 
twenty  yards  of  me,  I  could  not,  to  save 
my  life,  tell  which  way  to  turn.  It 
flashed  on  me  that  I  should  be  drowned  : 
drowned  quietly  and  surely,  within  gun- 
shot of  my  home ;  and  that  the  flow- 
ing tide,  there  being  no  current  and  no 
wind,  would  float  my  dead  body  up,  and 
leave  it  on  the  sands  before  my  door.  The 
danger  was  terrible:  yet  there  was  no 
hurry.  The  tide  was  rising  fast,  but  I 
could  not  be  drowned  for  at  least  ten 
minutes,  and  I  had  that  time  before  me  to 
do  what  I  could  with.  It  would  never  do 
to  die  like  this,  without  an  effort  to  save 
my  life,  but  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  say 
in  what  direction  that  effort  should  be  made. 
The  fog  seemed  to  settle  down  closer  and 
closer  around  me,  and  the  water  was  rising 
steadily,  but  very  slowly,  tho  surface  of 
the  sea  being  like  oil. 

Something  had  to  be  done,  and  quickly. 
I  stood  quite  still,  and  looked  to  see  if  there 
were  any  ripple  of  current  against  my  neck 
that  would  show  the  inflow  of  tho  tide. 
There  was  none.  I  held  up  my  wet  arm 
to  feel  for  a  wind.  There  was  not  a  breath. 
I  strained  my  ears  to  hear  any  noise-— the 
barking  of  a  dog,  voices  on  the  land,  the 
crowing  of  cocks,  anything  that  would 
answer  the,  to  me,  tremendous  question, 
"Where  is  the  shore  ? 


Not  a  sound.  The  stillness  was  awful 
and  horrible.  To  shout  for  help  was  the 
last  resort;  but  I  would  not  spend  my 
strength  in  that,  until  I  had  tried  every- 
thing else ;  and  I  knew,  besides,  that  being 
a  Sunday  morning,  and  the  sands  deserted, 
there  would  be  neither  boat  nor  boatman 
on  the  shore.  I  remembered,  too,  that 
voices  in  a  fog  almost  always  seem  to 
change  their  direction,  and  that  they  mislead 
those  who  come  in  search.  Steadily  and 
without  noise  the  tide  rose  up,  until  the 
water  reached  my  chin.  I  was  perfectly 
collected,  and  endeavoured  to  recal  all  1 
had  read  of  similar  emergencies,  tried  back 
in  my  memory  to  find,  if  I  could,  some 
chance  for  life  that  some  one  else  in  deadly 
peril  had  risked  and  won.  Holding  my 
breath,  and  laying  my  ear  close  to  tho 
water,  I  strained  every  nerve  of  hearing  in 
vain ;  but  where  the  one  sense  on  which  I 
was  depending  failed  me,  another  came  to 
my  rescue.  Between  the  dense  mist  and 
the  water,  there  seemed  to  be  about  an  inch 
of  interval,  and  through  this  chink,  as  it 
were,  I  saw  the  dusky  base  of  a  stone  beacon 
which  I  knew  stood  out  in  the  sea,  nearly 
opposite  mj  house.  Here  was  a  chance, 
and  with  an  instant  thrill  of  joy  at  having 
gained  at  last  some  idea  of  the  direction 
in  which  an  effort  for  life  might  be  made, 
I  struck  out  and  swam  to  the  beacon,  where 
I  laid  hold  of  an  iron  bar  which  served  to 
stav  it  to  the  rock  below. 

When  the  momentary  exultation  was 
over,  I  found  I  was  not  much  better  off 
than  before.  I  had  the  beacon  to  hold  to,  and 
could  even  climb  to  the  top,  which  was  still 
a  foot  above  the  surface  of  the  sea ;  but  I 
knew  it  would  be  covered  deep  at  half  tide. 
Still  here  was  more  time  gained ;  and  the 
fear  of  death,  or  I  should  rather  say,  tho 
settled  assurance  without  fear,  passed  from 
me.  Climbing  to  the  top  of  the  beacon,  I 
tried  if  I  could  look  out  over  the  mist^  but 
it  was  thicker  than  ever.  Now  came  a 
curious  illustration  of  the  extraordinary 
closeness  together  of  what  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  consider  as  our  most  opposed 
mental  and  moral  emotions.  I  had  just  been 
in  deadly  peiil  of  my  life,  and  what  I  had 
gained  was,  perhaps,  but  a  short  respite.  The 
danger  was  less  imminent,  still  it  was  not 
past.  I  had  been  as  near  my  death  as 
ever  I  sliall  be  until  the  end  does  come ; 
yet  I  was  so  suddenly  struck  with  the 
absurdity  of  my  appearance — a  naked  man 
perched  like  a  crane  on  a  stone  beacon  in 
a  white  fog — that  I  burst  into  a  r«ax  ^^ 
laughter. 


^ 


^ 


5GG      [NoTezn})cr  13.  ISCO.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condactedby 


Liko  nn  arrow  tlirougli  tlie  mist  cajno 
the  qnick  bark  of  a  ternor,  followed  by  a  cry 
of  ''  Papa  !'*  It  was  my  little  daughter's 
voice.  She  and  Snap  had  gone  down  to  the 
beach  to  look  for  me,  had  found  my  oveniU, 
and  were  quietly  waiting  beside  it.  T\w 
sound  of  her  voice  was  like  that  of  an  angel 
calling  through  the  dark.  With  a  glad  lieart 
I  dropped  ott*  the  beacon,  and,  after  swim- 
ming a  few  strokes,  found  my  feet  on  iirm 
land  once  again. 

A  very  commonplace  incident;  but  it 
has  given  me  something  to  think  about 
this  Sunchiy  morning;  and  I  am  rather 
afraid  that  I  may  be  but  an  inattentive 
auditor  of  oui'  good  i)ar.son's  sennon  on 
the  perils  of  dissent,  which  I  am  to  hear  in 
the  chui'ch  by- and- bye. 


LECTUKKS  FOR  L.V1)IES. 


AVe  don't  concern  ourselves  with  the  Inf,'h 
Y)liilos()pliical  question,  Avhetlier  v.onionhave  or 
have  not  a  right  to  be  fiehi-niaiphals  and  nieni- 
hors  of  parliament,  or  to  receive  delicate  atten- 
tions from  the  Man  in  the  Moon  at  election 
time.  It  is  not  yet  a  heresy  to  think  that  iliey 
have  their  own  jjai'ticnlai*  part,  and  that  a 
noble  one,  assigned  to  them  in  the  great  drama 
of  life,  and  that  althoujrh  they  may  roar  gently 
as  a  sucking  dove,  they  will  hardly  find  it  worth 
while  to  play  lion  too.  (juiie  apart  from  the 
contest  for  a  new  settlement  of  woman's  rights, 
is  the  ground  taken  by  those  who  have  of  late 
been  acting  on  tlie  geneml  opinion  that  igno- 
mnce  is  not  one  of  tlie  gifts  and  graces  of  life, 
aiul  that  women,  being  as  quickwitted  as  men, 
were  not  born  to  be  dunces. 

The  character  of  l.ioys"  schools  has  been 
raised  by  ojien  examinations  for  certificates  or 
degrees  from  the  univci-sities,  and  by  the  esta- 
blishment in  other  ways  of  a  standard  of  good 
(education,  which  must  be  attained  in  eveiy 
school  that  hopes  to  stand  well  with  the  public. 
I5ut  there  never  has  been  any  test  of  the 
elliciency  of  girls'  schools.  The  mfister  of  a 
boys'  school  usually  has  gone  through  a  course 
of  training  which  has  enabled  him  to  sliow 
distinct  credentials,  in  evidence  that  he  has 
liimsclf  leamt  what  he  undertakes  to  teach. 
The  most  accomplished  lady  who  should  nn- 
<lertake  to  teach  girls  has  been,  in  this  respect, 
pretty  much  on  a  level  with  the  veriest  little 
gtMJse,  who  shows  her  ignorance  in  nothing  so 
niuch  as  in  the  iKtlief  that  slie  is  qualified  to 
keep  a  sch(X>l.  The  liighly -educated  woman 
cuuld  produce  no  evidence  of  thorough  train- 
ing, and,  indeed,  coidd  have  obtained  such 
training  only  by  quiet  persistence  in  almost 
miaided  exertion :  while  the  higher  education 
of  men  is  assisted  lavishly  by  money  and  en- 
dowments,  by  the  encrgi(*8  of  pieked  instruc- 
toj's,  by  social  infinence,  the  prompting  of  am- 
nion, and  the   whole  strength   oi   a  public 


oi^inion  whicli  at  one  time  was  even  lialf  dis- 
posed to  find  bliss  in  the  ignorance  of  women. 
Dr.  Parr  said  in  his  DiMoorse  on  Education, 
little  more  than  eighty  years  ago,  that  "  as  to 
the  acquisitions  of  reading  and  writing,  they 
are  eminently  serviceable  to  boys ;  but  iu 
regard  to  females  I  do  not  conceive  them  to 
be  of  equal  use,  unless  they  be  aecom^tamcd 
by  other  attainments  of  a  more  domestic 
nature."  And  although  the  foimder  of  Christ's 
Hospital  designed  that  institution  for  both 
boys  and  girls,  the  strength  of  the  old  pre- 
ju('lice  has  resulted  in  the  establishment  of  finst- 
class  educational  training  for  more  than  a 
thousand  boys,  and  i)rovisiou  for  alx>ut  two 
dozen  girls  of  the  instruction  suitable  for  a 
maid-servant.  The  tune  is  gone  by,  that  bn?il 
men  to  speak  and  act  in  this  fasliiou,  and  the 
natural  demands  of  society  liave  produced  in 
many  quarters  sensible  improvement  of  the 
character  of  girls'  schools,  ^huiy  a  girl  who  can 
sketch,  and  sing,  and  not  only  read,  but  speak 
easily  and  well,  one  or  two  modern  languages, 
is  better  educ^ited  tlian  her  brother,  who  has 
murdei-ed  Latin  verse  at  Eton  :  at  Eton  as  it 
U8«*d  to  be  ;  for  tradition  there  also  has  yielded 
of  late  to  tlie  vigorous  hfe  of  the  time,  and 
modem  languages  have  taken  their  i>lace  as  an 
essential  part  of  the  training. 

hui  in  the  best  girls'  schools,  main  reliance 
has  usually  to  be  placed  on  *' masters."  To 
men  who  have  given  pubUc  evidence  of  their 
knowledge  of  a  subject,  or  who  have  passed 
honourably  through  their  university  career. 
schoolmistresses  entrust  the  main  part  of 
the  higher  education  of  girls.  About  sixteeu 
years  ago,  ladies'  colleges  were  established, 
which  still  flourish  in  Ilarley-strect  and  Bed- 
ford-square, lx)ndon.  Their  aim  was  to  do 
for  girls  what  is  done  for  boys  when  they 
have  gone  through  their  schocd  course.  In 
these  institutions,  ladies  are  active  in  giving 
subordinate  or  additional  instruction,  but  they 
take  no  part  in  the  main  business  of  teaching:, 
if  we  may  judge  from  the  last  list,  now  before 
US,  of  "  Subjects  and  Teachers,"  at  Qneeu's 
College,  llarley-street,  in  which  every  teacher 
is  a  Mr.,  and  there  is  not  one  Mrs.  or  Miu. 
(liven  a  man  and  a  woman  equally  well  ae- 
quainted  with  some  subject,  the  man  is  likely 
to  be  found,  for  pupils  of  either  sex,  the  more 
efficient  teacher.  1  he  more  retiiing  character 
and  tlie  more  sensitive  nature,  while  they 
quicken  home  delight,  unfit,  to  some  extent, 
for  the  work  of  public  teaclung.  I'he  man 
with  bolder  front  and  blunter  sensibihtieii  can 
bear  the  fret  and  fatigue  of  teaching,  with  less 
strain  upon  his  patience,  and  can  get  from  his 
work  all  the  intellectual  enjoyment  it  brings. 
while  he  goes  through  it  patiently,  cahidy.  W'axi 
and  rain  are  not  the  only  sort  of  elements  with 
which  his  hardier  natm*e  has  made  him  more 
tit  than  a  woman  to  contend.  Women  lav  the 
foundations  of  all  teacliing,  in  girl  and  boy 
They  teach  men  daily  by  their  infinence :  in 
the  highest  sense,  no  doubt,  they  are  the  best 
teachers  in  the  world.  But  they  are,  to  aoaaf^ 
^  de^ec^  through  quahtlea  allied*to  all  that  ii 


:g> 


Charles  Dickens.] 


LECTURES  FOR  LADIES. 


[NoTember  18,  IMS.]      567 


best  in  their  character,  less  fit  than  men  for 
professional  school  teaching  or  public  speak- 
ing, otherwise  than  by  the  pen. 

One  object  of  the  founders  of  the  Ladies' 
Colleges  in  Ilarley -street  and  Bedford-square 
was  to  supply  the  want  of  some  standard  of 
knowledge  to  which  ladies,  by  obtaining  their 
certificates,  could  show  they  had  attained.  A 
like  help  lias  been  since  extended  to  others  by 
the  "Working  Women's  College  in  Queen- 
square.  And  still  ladies  who  wish  to  prove 
thiat  they  are  qualified  teachers,  often  finish 
their  education  m  France,  for  the  sake  of  the 
certificate  of  fitness  to  teach  obtainable  under 
the  French  system. 

But  this  object  lias  now  been  attained  for 
Englishwomen  more  effectually,  by  the  liberal 
action  of  the  Universities  of  Cambridge  and 
London.  A  committee  interested  in  advance- 
ment of  education  among  girls,  obtained  leave 
from  the  Cambridge  Syndicate  to  place,  at  a 
private  examination,  before  pupils  from  various 
girls'  schools,  the  papers  given  to  the  candidates 
sent  up  from  boys'  schools  to  the  Cambridge 
local  examinations  of  the  year  eighteen  'sixty- 
three.  At  six  weeks'  notice,  ninety-one  girls 
were  collected  as  competitors  in  tliis  private 
examination ;  fifty-seven  of  them  failed,  and 
of  those  who  failed  ninety  per  cent  were  re- 
jected for  arithmetic  alone.  In  the  year  'sixty- 
five,  local  examinations  for  girls  were  officially 
recognised  as  part  of  the  Cambridge  system. 
The  teachers  of  the  girls  had  learnt  the  sharp 
lesson  taught  by  their  first  failure,  and,  at 
the  next  trial,  of  the  girls  who  were  rejected, 
only  three  failed  in  aritlmfietic.  One  could 
not  desire  better  proof  of  the  efficacy  of  a 
system  of  strict  and  impartial  test,  applied 
from  without,  in  raising  the  standard  of  pre- 
liminary education.  No  doubt  the  finest  and 
best  minds  are  not  necessarily  those  w^hich 
come  out  best  from  the  rough  test  of  a  compe- 
titive examination.  To  some  senior  students, 
the  work  for  examination,  and  to  some  teachers 
the  training  for  examination,  must  be  abso- 
lutely a  clog  on  the  best  use  of  theii*  minds. 
But  the  wholesome  effect  upon  the  great 
average  mass  of  the  teachers  and  taught, 
is  shown  too  clearly  to  be  doubtful ;  wnile 
the  mind  apt  for  original  and  independent 
work  can  bear  easily  a  short  period  of  con- 
straint, and  may  be  only  the  more  apt  after- 
wards for  its  appointed  uses.  The  Cambridge 
local  examinations  have,  since  'sixty-five,  been 
applied  every  year  as  tests  of  the  school 
training  of  both  girls  and  boys.  The  girls 
have  shpped  back  in  their  arithmetic,  and  the 
last  report  says  that,  in  this  subject,  **  more 
efficient  teaching  is  urgently  required."  The 
boys  beat  the  girls  in  algebra,  but  in  one  year 
a  girl  greatly  distinguished  herself  in  applied 
mathematics.  In  French,  boys  and  girls  are 
about  equal ;  but  the  girls  know  the  grammar 
best;  the  boys  trusting  too  much  to  analo- 
gies drawn  from  their  imperfect  knowledge  of 
Latin.  In  German,  the  girls  always  do  best, 
and  they  write  better  answers  to  history  ques- 
tions,   **  more    straightforward   and    to    the 


point,"  and  with  **  fewer  attempts  at  fine 
writing."  They  beat  the  boys  also  in  their 
studies  of  Shakespeare;  surpass  them,  says 
one  examiner,  ''in  analysis  of  character  and 
choice  of  language."  In  languages,  also,  they 
translate  generally  with  greater  spirit,  and 
show  a  livelier  interest  in  the  subject  matter ; 
''  express  themselves  more  idiomatically,  wTite 
and  si)ell  better,  and  are  far  less  frequently 
guilty  of  putting  down  manifest  absurdities." 

This  vivacity  of  mind  rightly  employed,  be- 
comes, no  doubt,  rather  alarming  to  the  stolid 
young  man  who  was  a  booby  at  school,  and 
counts  for  a  booby  in  the  world  among  hiB 
male  acquaintances,  but  whose  consolation 
is  that  he  may  hope  not  to  be  known  for  a 
booby  in  his  home.  Let  him  take  heart.  On 
this  side  Millennium,  it  will  never  be  impos- 
sible for  that  young  man  to  find  a  wife  more 
stupid  than  himself ;  or  he  may  even  find  a 
Titania  content  to  take  him,  Bottom,  for  better 
for  worse,  and  worship  him  as  long  as  he  will 
love  her.  The  true  woman  is  only  more  a 
woman  for  the  quickening  of  her  whole  nature 
that  cidture  brings  with  it.  Instead  of  con- 
founding the  difference  of  mind  between 
women  and  men,  true  education  gives  intensity 
to  the  real  characters  of  each,  points  all  the 
more  strongly  their  differences,  quickens  tluir 
natural  action  and  reaction  on  each  other, 
doubles  at  once  the  delight  and  usefulness  of 
their  companionship.  The  woman  so  prepared 
is.  all  the  mother  to  her  children,  keen  to 
appreciate  their  efforts,  prompt  and  wise  in 
sympathy,  and  by  the  subtle  powers  of  her 
love  and  knowledge  arms  their  souls  for  con- 
quest in  the  strife  to  come.  Starvation  or  in- 
sufficiency of  diet  acts  on  the  mind  as  on  the 
body.  It  may  die  into  lunacy  by  a  too  com- 
plete want  of  substantial  food  for  thought,  or, 
ill-fed,  may  fall  away  into  mere  sickly  feeble- 
ness. The  shape  and  fiishion  of  the  plough  does 
not  so  much  concern  the  farmer,  as  tne  fact  that 
thei*e  should  be  ploughing  and  sowing  if  the 
earth  is  to  yield  food  for  man.  The  best  tilled 
ground  must  have  its  seasons  of  fallow,  and 
the  best  trained  mind  needs  times  of  hohday ; 
but  steady  culture  of  some  kind  is  essential,  if 
the  mind  of  man  or  woman  is  not  to  become  a 
wilderness  of  weed  and  thistle.  Women,  with 
active  intelligence  that  is,  if  anything,  even 
more  restless  than  the  wit  of  men,  must  suffer 
in  their  minds  if  they  are  debarred  from  intel- 
lectual employments.  No  doubt  most  women 
are  more  apt  than  men  for  some  studies  and 
less  apt  for  others.  But  experience  has  now 
shown  clearly  that  in  average  ability  and 
in  capacity  for  steady  work,  there  is  no 
natural  difference  between  boys  and  girls, 
and  that  if  there  be  any  between  men  and 
women,  it  is  simply  due  to  the  fact  that  men 
hitherto  have  received  better  training  in  their 
youth.  The  University  of  Cambndge  has 
added  to  its  local  examinations  an  '^  Examina- 
tion for  Women  "  who  are  beyond  the  age  of 
eighteen  years  and  six  months.  According  to 
this  plan,  estabhshed  in  the  preaent  'S^A2t>  ^^^^ 
obtamiug  oi  &  ccrtVSLCoXfc  (^k^xsl^  \3e^\3L>aD>sy«" 


^ 


568     [yorembor  IS,  1S69.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUOT). 


EPondoeledbr 


Icdgo  of  arithmetic,  of  the  English  language, 
literature  and  history  (with  religious  Know- 
ledge, if  not  specially  objected  to),  and  of  two 
languages,  or  else  two  sciences,  or  else  mathe- 
matics, or  else  political  economy  and  logic. 

In  the  present  year,  also,  the  University  of 
I^>nd«:)n  has  held  the  &r8t  of  the  examinations 
authoi-ised  by  a  supplemental  charter  obtained 
two  years  ago— in  August  'sixty-seven — to 
enable  it  to  hold  special  examinations  of  women 
who  wish  for  certificates  of  proficiency.  The 
candidates  for  these  certificates  must  be  above 
the  age  of  seventeen.  Having  succeeded  in  this 
first  examination,  they  may  proceed  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  to  an  examination  for  certificates 
of  higher  value.  The  first  test  or  **  general 
examination,"  corresponds  in  severity  to  that 
of  the  matriculation  examination  for  young 
men.  A  proposal  to  lower  the  standanl  a 
little,  in  consideration  of  the  weaker  character 
of  tlio  preliminary  teaching  in  girls'  schools, 
was  wisely  resisted.  Without  any  speoial 
mercy  to  their  sex  (which  would  only  have 
been  special  slight  to  their  endeavours)  the 
ladies  who  came  up  for  examination  were 
tested  in  Latin,  mcluding  Roman  history  and 
geography  ;  and  in  two  other  languages,  which 
migiit  be  (ireek,  French,  German,  or  Italian ; 
in  the  English  language,  history  and  geography, 
in  mathematics,  in  natural  philosoj)hy,  and  m 
chemistiy  or  botany.  The  successful  candi- 
dates were  to  be  arranged  in  an  honours  di^^- 
sion,  and  in  a  first  and  second  division  without 
honours.  Nine  came  up,  of  whom  six  passed ; 
and  they  were  all  six  in  the  honours  division. 
Of  coui-se,  the  few  who  were  first  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  tliis  opportunity  were  from  the 
number  of  those  most  alive  to  its  value,  and 
this  fact,  as  well  as  the  small  number  oflFered 
for  comparison  with  the  large  number  of  young 
men  who  come  up  to  matriculate,  make  it 
unfair  to  lay  any  stress  on  the  fact  that  the 
greater  per-centage  of  success  was  on  the  side  of 
female  candidates.  Still  there  was  the  success ; 
and  there  is  reason  to  expect  that  the  be- 
ginning has  been  made  of  a  system  of  suc- 
cessive examinations  by  which  highly-educated 
women,  who  desire  to  obtain  confidence  as 
teachers,  or  for  other  reasons  find  it  valuable 
to  have  the  degree  of  their  attainments  t<?sted, 
will  be  enabled  to  show  university  certificates 
of  value  corresponding  to  the  recognised  de- 
grees earned  by  young  men.  The  last  act  of  this 
kind  is  the  establishment  of  a  college  near  Cam- 
bridge for  girl  students,  wliich  is  now  just 
o])ened.  At  present  it  occupies  a  house  at 
Hit  chin,  in  Hertfordshire,  and  it  is  "  designed 
to  hold,  in  relation  to  girls'  schools,  a  position 
analogous  to  that  occupied  by  the  universities 
towards  the  public  schools  for  boys."  The 
desii-c  of  its  council  is  to  connect  this  with  the 
other  Cambridge  colleges,  by  obtaining  from 
the  University  of  Cambridge  permission  for  its 
girl  students  to  compete  in  the  examination  for 
degrees. 

Obviously  there  is  not  the  smallest  necessary 
connexion  between  all  this  recent  movem^wt 
for  improving  the  education  o£  w()mcw  av\c\. 


\ 


questions  of  political  rights.  A  few  other  | 
social  rights  are,  at  the  same  time,  winning  i 
wider  recognition — a  woman^s  right  to  her  own  'i 
earnings,  for  example  ;  but  her  social  right  to  n 
opportimities  of  healthy  cultivation  cKf  the 
mind  may  now  surely  be  taken  as  past 
question. 

How  wholesomely  the  recent  movement  has 
grown  out  of  the  daily  life  of  women  in  our 
day,  and  the  steady,  quiet  endeavour  of  women 
themselves  to  escape  from  the  stagnation  of 
thought  to   which   many  of  them   had  long 
been  doomed,  is  shown  by  the  rapid  rise  of  a 
new  system  of  lectures  to  ladies.    In  town  aftor 
town,  during  the  last    two   years,   wherevfT 
there  is  a  university  or  staff  of  college  teachcn. 
these  lectures  have  been  springing  up,  and  the 
want  they  meet  is  so  real  that  ^ey  will  became 
one  of  the  established  customs  of  the  couitrv. 
The  honour  of  their  first  establishment  is  dae, 
we  beheve,  to  Edinburgh:    though   the  sog- 
gestiou  is  said  to  have  been  first  made  in  tiie 
north  of  England.     Six  ladies  of  Edinburgh, 
about  two  years  ago,  succeeded  in  establiafaiDg 
the  Edinburgh  Ladies'   Educational  Abbocu- 
tion,    founded,   supported,    and  managed,  by 
ladies  only.     They  looked  to  professors  of  the 
University  of  Edinburgh  for  the  fulfilment  of 
their  object.    Ladies  who  had  passed  througfa 
the  stages  of  school  training,  and  needed  iw 
the  stem  uses  of  life  higher  education  ;  or  who 
sought  the  healthy  occupation  of  some  form  of 
culture  of  the  mind,  while  they  fulfiilled  the  home 
duties  for  which  quickened  intelligence  would 
only  make  them  the  more  apt,  or  took  their 
places  in  society ;  might  attend  many  stnj 
lectures  on  popular  science,  or  on  literary  sub- 
jects likely  to  amuse.    But  something  more  was 
asked  on  their  behalf,  and  this  was,  that  pro- 
fessors and  teachers  who  are  entrusted  by  oor 
universities  and  colleges  with  particular  parts 
of  the  higher  education  of  men  should  also  do 
something  to  meet  the  earnest  wish  of  women 
who  desired  like  help.     Ladies,    entirely  by 
action  of  their  own,  formed  themselves  into 
classes,  and  asked  to  be  taught  as  men  are 
taught  when  they  seek  thoroughness  of  know- 
ledge :  not  in  lectures  planned  to  ent<7taiD 
them,  but  in  lectures  that  would  show  them 
how  to  work.    The  begimiing  was  made  in  the 
session  'sixty-seven-eight,  at  Edinburgh,  by  the 
professor  of  English  literature  in  the  univer^ 
sity.      Two    hundred    and     sixty-five    ladies 
attended    his  course.    Many    of   these  came 
only  to  give  support  to  the  new  movement,  but 
at  least  ninety-four  came  to  do  steady  work.  Id 
the  following  year,  the  number  of  com'ses  was 
advanced  from  one  to  three ;  and  courses  of 
lectures  were  given  in  English  Hterature-,  expe- 
rimental physics,  and  logic  with  mental  phiU>- 
sophy,  each  by  the  professor  of  its  subject  in 
the  university.    The  number  of   ladies  wbo 
attended  was,  for  tlie  Engli&li  literature  class* 
one  hundred  and  thirty ;  for  the  physics,  one 
hundred  and  forty ;    for  the   logic,  seventy. 
Nearly  simultaneous  with  this  action  at  Edin- 
burgh was  the  establishment  of  a  *^  North  of 
Ya\v;\w.wvV  C<3V3iwvr\  lot  \>TQmoting  the  Higher 


^ 


^ 


^ 


Charlofi  Dickens.] 


THE  FISHERS  OF  LOCH  BOISDALE.     [NoTember  is,  i869.]     569 


Education  of  Women."  It  has  procured  coiurses 
of  lectures,  chiefly  from  Cambridge  professors, 
at  Manchester,  Leeds,  Newcastle,  and  other 
towns.  In  the  West  of  England  the  example 
has  been  followed  in  several  towns.  In  Glasgow 
the  example  of  Edinburgh  was  at  once  fol- 
lowed. The  professor  of  natural  liistory  first 
gave  a  short  course  of  geology  to  a  class  of 
seventy  ladies,  and  this  was  followed  last 
session  by  two  courses,  one  on  English  litera- 
ture, and  the  other  on  physical  geography,  to 
ladies'  classes,  numbering  respectively  three 
hundred  and  thirty-six  and  a  hundred  and 
forty. 

At  the  beginning  of  this  year,  the  example 
of  the  Edinburgh  Ladies'  Educational  Asso- 
ciation led  to  the  formation  of  a  London  I^adies' 
Educational  Association,  with  like  objects, 
which  looked  for  co-operation  to  the  professors 
of  University  College,  London.  With  wise 
promptitude  it  was  resolved  to  be  doing  at 
once,  and  risk  the  chance  of  a  poor  start  rather 
than  spend  a  whole  year  in  preparation.  At 
very  short  notice,  and  with  not  much  public 
announcement,  two  courses  of  lectures  to 
ladies  were  begun  at  the  Beethoven  Kooms,  in 
Harley-street :  one  by  the  professor  of  physics, 
and  one  by  the  professor  of  English  literature 
at  University  College.  Fifty-seven  ladies  en- 
tered to  the  class  of  physics,  and  a  hundred 
and  two  to  the  class  of  literature.  They 
attended  steadily  to  the  end  of  courses  each  of 
two  dozen  lectures  ;  a  considerable  proportion 
of  them  wrote  essays  and  exercises,  and  worked 
problems  out.  llie  work  done,  was  as  good  as 
that  done  in  an  ordinary  college  class,  and  the 
success,  as  proved  by  the  serious  working 
attention  given  to  both  courses,  emboldened 
the  ladies'  committee  to  attempt  for  their  next 
session— beginning  on  the  ninth  of  November 
this  year — a  greater  extension  of  the  system  of 
lectures  to  ladies  than  has  hitherto  been  ven- 
tured on  elsewhere.  Instead  of  two  or  three 
courses,  six  courses  are  now  to  be  given ;  and 
the  number  of  lectures  in  a  course  is  raised, 
without  increase  of  fee,  from  two  dozen  to 
three  dozen:  the  subjects  being,  physics  and 
English  literature  again  (different  sections  of 
these  subjects  being  taken),  with  the  addition 
of  French  literature,  Latin,  geometry,  and 
chemi.stry :  each  course  btnng  given  by  the 
professor  of  its  subject  iu  University  College, 
Ijondon.  Moreover,  the  scientific  courses  are 
now  to  be  given  (for  more  full  use  of  the 
appliances  necessary  to  such  teaching),  in  the 
lecture  rooms  appropriated  to  them  witliin  the 
college  walls :  the  ladies  having  not  only  an 
hour  to  themselves,  but  also  separate  entrances 
provided  for  them.  Of  course  it  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  so  quick  an  advance  towards  a 
full  scheme  of  aid  to  the  higher  education  of 
Knglishwomcn,  will  bo  met  iu  London  by  a 
sulticiently  general  desire  for  such  education. 
The  ladies  who  attend  these  classes,  which 
admit  none  under  seventeen,  are  chiefly  of 
af^es  varying  between  seventeen  and  four-and- 
thirty.  I'here  are  also  older  ladies  who  come 
iu   the  faith  that  a  right  human   desire  for 


knowledge  ends  only  with  life — never,  if  death 
be  not  the  end  of  life — or  who  come  that  they 
may  take  an  active  helpful  interest  in  the  studies 
of  their  daughters.  The  movement  has  ori- 
ginated chiefly  among  ladies  whose  associations 
in  life  are  with  the  more  intellectual  half,  of 
the  upper  middle  class,  and  from  such  it  has 
had  Its  chief  support;  but  high  fees  and 
fashionable  accessories  have  been  studiously 
avoided  ;  and  wherever  these  lectures  have  been 
established,  there  is  absolute  exclusion  of  all 
petty  sense  of  clique  and  caste.  The  striving 
governess  sits  by  the  fashionable  lady ;  as  in 
the  college  class  room  the  poor  student  who 
will  hereafter  battle  hard  for  bread,  sits  on 
equal  terms  by  the  inheritor  of  thousands.  Our 
English  ladies— honour  to  them  for  it ! — have, 
in  fact,  without  effort,  brought  into  the  lec- 
ture rooms  of  their  establishing,  with  other 
requisites,  that  fine  catholic  spirit  which  should 
be  inseparable  from  a  place  of  study. 

THE  FISHEHS  OF  LOCH  BOISDALE. 


The  Tem*s*  first  anchorage  in  the  Long 
Island  was  at  Loch  Boisdale,  and  it  was 
there  that  the  dreary  landscape  of  the  Uist 
began  to  exercise  its  deep  fascination  over 
the  Wanderer's  mind.  Wo  lay  at  the  usual 
place,  close  to  the  pier  and  inn,  in  the 
full  enjoyment  of  the  ancient  and  fish-like 
smell  wafted  to  ns  from  the  curing  places 
ashore.  The  herring-fishers  had  nearly  all 
departed,  save  one  or  two  native  crews  who 
were  still  labouring  leisurely;  but  they  had 
left  their  debris  everywhere — skeletons  of 
huts,  piles  of  peat,  fish-bones,  scraps  of 
rotten  nets,  even  broken  pots  and  dishes. 
One  or  two  huts,  some  entirely  of  wood, 
stood  empty,  awaiting  the  return  of  their 
owners  in  the  following  spring.  The  whole 
place  was  deserted,  its  harvest  time  was  over. 
When  wo  rowed  ashore  in  the  punt,  the 
population,  consisting  of  two  old  men  and 
some  dirty  little  boys,  received  us  in  grim 
amazement  and  silence,  until  the  advent  of 
the  innkeeper,  who,  repressing  all  outward 
symptoms  of  wonder,  bade  us  a  shy  welcome 
and  showed  us  the  way  to  his  establish- 
ment.  The  ob\dous  impression  was  that 
wo  were  insane ;  the  tiny  crafb  we  had 
come  over  in,  our  wild  and  haggard  ap- 
pearance, and,  above  all,  the  fact  that  we 
had  actually  come  to  Loch  Boisdale  for 
pleasure  (a  fact  unprecedented  in  the  mind 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant)  all  contributed  to 
show  our  quality.  The  landlord  was  free 
and  inquLsitive,  humouring  us  cunningly 
as  the  keepers  do  mad  people,  receiving  all 
our  statements  calmly  without  contradic- 

*  Sco  All  the  X^aJB.  "Blox:^!) 
p.  197. 


0^ 


h 


570      [Novomljor  13, 18fi9.J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  ^  j 


tion,  answering  all  our  questions  in  the 
easy  manner  fonnd  useful  in  dealing  with 
idiots  and  infants,  and  never  tliinkiug  it 
worth  while  to  con*ect  us  when  we  were 
wvong.  As  he  sat  chatting  with  us  over  a 
glass  of  whisky  in  a  mildewy  room  of  the 
inn,  the  inhabitants  dropped  in  one  by  one ; 
first  the  two  old  men,  then  a  little  boy, 
tlien  a  tipsy  fisherman,  and  so  on  till 
the  room  was  full  of  spectators,  all  with 
their  mouths  wide  open,  and  all  with- 
out any  sign  of  ordering  or  driulving 
anything,  staring  at  the  strangers.  This 
volley  of  eyes  became  at  last  so  un- 
bearable, that  it  was  thought  advisable  to 
diivct  it  elsewhere  by  ordeiing  "glasses 
round ;"  a  movem^ent  which,  however  p^rate- 
ful  to  the  feelings,  was  received  without  en- 
thusiasm, only  the  mouths  and  eyes  opened 
still  wider  in  amaze.  The  advent  of  the 
whisky,  however,  acted  like  a  charm,  and 
the  company  burst  into  a  torrt^ut  of 
Gaelic,  in  which  the  words  "  Got  taven*' 
and  "  Sassenach"  were  easily  distinguish- 
able at  intervals. 

The  result  of  a  long  conversation  with 
the  popuLoce,  which  in.  number  and  appear- 
ance bore  about  the  same  relation  to  a  re- 
spectable community  that  a  stage  "mob" 
in  Julius  CfPsar  would  bear  to  the  real 
article,  was  not  particularly  edifying.  The 
populace  was  cynical  on  the  ments  of 
Loch  Boisdalc;  its  piincipal  beauties,  in 
tlieir  opinion,  being  ague,  starvation,  and 
weariness.  For  any  persou  to  remain 
there,  ever  so  short  a  time,  who  could  by 
any  possibility  get  out  of  it,  was  a  thing 
not  to  bo  credited  by  common- sense.  The 
innkeeper,  however,  tried  to  convey  to  us 
his  comprehension  that  we  had  come  there, 
not  for  pleasure,  but  "  on  a  discovering 
manner,'*  by  which  mystical  Celticism  he 
meant  to  say  that  we  were  visitors  come  to 
make  inquiries,  possibly  with  a  view  to 
commerce  or  statistics.  lie  shook  his  head 
over  both  country  and  people,  and  seemed 
to  think  our  inquiry  was  a  waste  of  time. 

For  three  days  after  that,  it  rained 
as  it  can  rain  only  in  the  Long  Island ; 
and  when  at  last,  tired  out  of  patience,  we 
rushed  ashore,  our  fiiend  the  imikeepcir 
received  us  with  a  deprecating  smile. 
With  keen  sarcasm,  we  demanded  if  it  were 
always  "that  sort  of  weather"  in  Loch 
Boisdale,  but  he  replied  quite  calmly,  "  Aye, 
much  aboot."  But  when  we  sat  down  ovei* 
usquebaugh,  and  the  rain  still  plashing 
darkly  without, 

vith  its  dull  twofold  aouwd, 
The  clash  hard  by,  and  tho  muixxivix  aU  To\uid\ 


showed  that  the  weather  was  little  likely  to 
abato  that  day,  the  landlord  seemed  to 
think  his  credit  at  stake,  and  that  even 
Loch  Boisdale  was  appearing  at  a  disad- 
vantage. To  console  him,  we  told  him  that 
story  of  tho  innkeeper  at  Arrocbar,  which 
poor  Hugh  Macdonald  used  to  retail  with 
su<;h  unction  over  the  toddy.  An  English 
traveller  stayed  for  some  days  at  Arroohar, 
and  there  had  been  nothing  but  rain  from 
mom  to  night.  The  landlord  tried  to  keep 
up  his  guest's  spiiits  by  repeated  prophecieis 
that  tlio  weather  was  "about  to  break 
up;"  but  at  last,  on  the  fifth  day,  the 
stranger  could  endure  it  no  longer.  "  I  say, 
landlord;  have  you  ever — now  on  your 
honour — have  you  ever,  any  other  sort 
of  weather  in  this  confounded  place  ?" 
The  landlord  replied,  humbly  yet  bitterly: 
"  Speak  nae  mair,  bir,  speak  nae  mair — I  m 
just  perfectly  ashamed  of  the  way  in  which 
our  weather's  behaving!"  But  the  Loch 
Boisdale  landlord  seemed  to  think  the 
tale  too  serious  for  laugliter. 

As  we  have  noted  above,  the  herring 
harvest  was  over.  Twice  in  tLc  year  tliere 
is  good  fishing ;  in  the  spring  and  in  tlie 
autumn;  but  the  autumn  fishing  is  h-fl 
quite  in  the  hands  of  a  few  native  boats. 
The  moment  tlie  spring  fishing  ends,  Locii 
Boisdale  subsides  into  t<irpor.  All  is  deso- 
late and  still ;  only  the  fishy  smell  remains, 
to  remind  the  yawning  native  of  the  gIoi7 
that  is  departed. 

A  busy  sight  indeed  is  Locli  Boisdale 
in  the  herring  season.  Smacks,  open  b>ats, 
skiffs,  whemes,  make  the  narrow  wat4?r5 
shady;  not  a  creek,  however  small,  but 
holds  some  boat  in  shelter.  A  fleet,  indeed ! 
The  Lochleven  boat  fi-om  the  east  coast, 
with  its  three  masts  and  three  huge  lag- 
sails ;  the  Newhavcn  boat  with  its  two  lug- 
sails  ;  the  Isle  of  Man  "jigger ;"  the  beauti- 
ful Guernsey  runner,  handsome  as  a  racing 
yacht  and  powerful  as  a  revenue-cutttjr ; 
besides  all  the  numberless  fry  of  less  notice- 
able vessels,  from  the  fat  v^est-countrr 
smack  with  its  comfortable  fittings  down  to 
the  miserable  An'an  wherry.*  Swarms  of 
seagulls  float  everywhere,  and  the  loch  is 


*  The  -Vrran  wherry,  now  nearly  extinct,  isa  wirtAwl* 
lookinjif  thins:  without  a  bowsprit,  but  with  two  ftrow 
masts.  AcTOM  the  foremast  is  a  small  bulkhead*  sna 
there  is  a  small  locker  for  blankets  and  bread.  In  W 
open  spiice  between  bulkhead  and  locker  birch  topi  «w 
thickly  strewn  for  a  bed,  and  for  covering  there  is  • 
huge  woollen  waterproof  blanket  ready  to  be  stretdW 
out  on  spnrs.  Close  to  the  mnst  lies  a  huge  stone,  as^ 
thereon  a  stove.  The  cableisof  AeafAw  rope^  thesnder 
wooden,  and  the  stock  a  stone.  Rndo  and  ill-found 
OS  those  boats  are,  they  face  weather  before  wlutk  soj 


\ 


&> 


Charles  DiuUeus.] 


THE  FISHERS  OF  LOCH  BOISDALE.       [Xovembcr  13,  isss.]     571 


BO  oily  with  the  fishy  deposit  that  it  re- 
qnires  a  strong  wind  to  rulHe  its  surface. 
Everywhere  on  the  shorts  and  hill  sides, 
and  on  the  nnmlx^rless  islands,  rises  the 
smoke  of  camps.  Busy  swarms  surround 
the  curing-houses  and  the  inn,  wliile  the 
beach  is  strewn  with  fishermen  stretched  at 
length,  and  dreaming  till  night  time.  In 
the  aftonioon,  the  Hoot  slowly  begins  to  dis- 
appear, melting  away  out  into  the  ocean, 
not  to  reappear  till  long  after  the  grey  of 
the  next  dawn. 

Did  you  ever  go  out  for  a  night  with  the 
herring  fishers  ?  If  you  can  stand  cold  and 
wet,  you  would  enjoy  the  thing  hugely,  espe- 
cially if  you  have  a  boating  mind.  Imagine 
yourself  on  board  a  west-country  smack, 
running  out  of  Boisdalo  harbour  with  the 
rest  of  the  fleet.  It  is  afternoon,  and  there 
is  a  nice  fresh  breeze  from  the  south-west. 
You  crouch  in  the  stem  by  the  side  of  the 
helmsman,  and  survey  all  around  you  with 
the  interest  of  a  novice.  Six  splendid 
fellows,  in  various  picturesque  attitudes, 
lounge  about  the  great,  broad,  open  hold,  and 
another  is  down  in  the  forecastle  boiling 
coftee.  If  you  were  not  there,  lialf  of  these 
would  be  taking  their  sleep  down  below.  It 
seems  a  lazy  business,  so  far;  but  wait!  By 
sunset  the  smack  has  run  fifteen  miles  up 
tho  coast,  and  is  going  seven  or  eight  miles 
east  of  Ru  Haraish  lighthouse;  many  of 
the  fleet  still  keep  her  company,  steering 
thick  as  shadows  in  the  summer  twilight. 
How  thick  the  galls  gather  yonder !  That 
dull  plash  ahead  of  the  boat  ^vas  the  plunge 
of  a  solan  goose.  That  the  herrings  are  here- 
about, and  in  no  small  numlx'rs,  you  might 
be  sure,  even  without  that  bright  phospho- 
rescent light  which  travels  in  patches  in  the 
water  to  leeward.  Now  is  the  time  to  see 
the  lounging  crew  dart  into  sudden  activity. 
The  boat's  head  is  brought  up  to  the  wind, 
and  the  sails  are  lowered  in  an  instant.*  One 
man  grips  the  helm,  another  lugs  out  the 
back  rope  of  the  net,  a  third  the  "  skunk," 
or  body,  a  fourth  is  placed  to  see  the  buoys 
dear  and  heave  them  out,  the  rest  attend 
forward,  keeping  a  sharp  look-out  for  other 
nets,  ready,  in  case  the  boat  should  run  too 
fast,  to  steady  her  by  dropping  the  anchor 
a  few  fathoms  into  tho  sea.  When  all  the 
nets  are  out,  the  boat  is  brought  bow  on  to 
the  net,  the  "  swing"  (as  they  call  the  rope 
attached  to  tho  net)  secured  to  the  smack's 
"  bits,"  and  all  hands  then  lower  tho  mast 

*  Thero  is  fa^ion  everywhere.  An  east-country  boat 
alvajd  shouts  across  tho  wind,  of  course  carrying  some 
sail,  while  a  west-countrj  boot  shoots  before  tho  wind 
with  bare  poles. 


as  quickly  as  possible.  The  ma«t  lowered, 
secured,  and  made  all  clear  for  hoisting  at 
a  moment's  notice,  and  tho  candle  lantern 
set  up  in  tho  iron  stand  made  for  the  pur- 
pose of  holding  it,  the  crew  leave  one  look- 
out on  deck,  with  instructions  to  call  them 
up  at  a  fixed  hour,  and  turn  in  below  for  a 
nap  in  their  clothes  :  unless  it  so  happens 
that  your  brilliant  conv^sation,  seasoned 
with  a  few  bottles  of  whisky,  should  tempt 
them  to  steal  a  few  more  hours  from  the 
summer  night.  Day  breaks,  and  every 
man  is  on  deck.  All  hands  are  busy  at 
work,  taking  the  net  in  over  the  bow,  two 
supporting  the  body,  the  rest  hauling  tho 
back  rope,  save  one,  who  takes  tho  net 
into  the  hold,  and  another  who  arranges  it 
from  side  to  side  in  the  hold  to  keep  the 
vessel  even.  Tweet !  tweet !  that  thin 
cheeping  sound,  not  unlike  the  razor-like 
call  of  the  bat,  is  made  by  the  dying  herrings 
at  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  The  sea  to  lee- 
ward, the  smack's  hold,  the  hands  and  arms 
of  the  men,  are  gleaming  like  silver.  As 
many  of  the  fish  as  possible  arc  shaken 
loose  during  the  process  of  hauling  in,  but 
the  rest  are  left  in  the  net  until  the  smack 
gets  to  shore.  Three  or  four  hours  pass 
away  in  this  wet  and  tiresome  work.  At 
last,  however,  the  nets  are  all  drawn  in,  tho 
mast  is  hoisted,  the  sail  set,  and  while  tho 
cook  (there  being  always  one  man  having 
this  branch  of  work  in  his  department^ 
plunges  below  to  make  breakfast,  the  boat 
makes  for  Loch  Boisdale.  Everywhere  on 
the  water,  see  the  fishiug-lx)ats  making  for 
the  same  bourne,  blessing  their  luck  or 
cursing  their  misfoi*tune,  just  as  the  for- 
tune of  the  night  may  have  been.  All  sail 
is  set  if  possible,  and  it  is  a  wild  race  to 
the  market.  Even  when  the  anchorage  is 
reached,  the  work  is  not  quite  finished  ;  for 
the  fish  has  to  be  measured  out  in  "  cran" 
baskets,*  and  delivered  at  the  curing  station. 
By  the  time  that  the  crew  have  got  their 
morning  dram,  havo  arranged  the  nets 
snugly  in  the  stem,  and  have  had  some 
herrings  for  dinner,  it  is  time  to  be  off 
again  to  the  harvest  field.  Half  the  crew 
turn  in  for  sleep,  while  the  other  half  hoist 
sail  and  conduct  the  vessel  out  to  sea. 

Huge,  indeed,  are  the  swarms  that  in- 
habit Boisdale,  afloat  or  ashore,  during 
this  harvest ;  but,  partly  because  each  man 
has  business  on  hand,  and  partly  because 
there  is  plenty  of  sea  r(K>m,  there  are  few 
breaches  of  the  peace.     On  Saturday  night 

*  A  cran  holds  rather  more  tlian.  a  Vvwxvw^  \wx\^, 
and  the  avetaigc  "v«\mci  ol  Ow  qxmi  TSifttsaKvxs^  ^^Vvswvas^^^ 
about  ono  pound  «VetYva\^. 


a 


572       [Noveni])cr  13, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


{CondxtetBd  bj 


the  public-house  is  crowded,  and  now  and 
then  the  dull  roar  ceases  for  a  moment 
as  some  obstreperous  member  is  shut  out 
summarily  into  the  dark.  Besides  the 
regular  fisliermen  and  people  employed  at 
the  curing  stations,  there  are  the  hen-ing 
gutters — women  of  all  ages,  many  of  whom 
follow  singly  the  fortunes  of  the  fisliers 
from  place  to  place.  Their  business  is  to 
gut  and  salt  tlie  fish,  which  they  do  with 
wonderful  swiftness  and  skill.  Hideous, 
indeed,  looks  a  gi*oup  of  these  women, 
defiled  from  head  to  foot  with  heiring 
garbage,  and  laughing  and  talking  volubly, 
wliile  gulls  innumerable  float  above  tliem, 
and  iill  the  air  with  their  discordant 
screams.  But  look  at  them  when  their 
work  is  over,  and  they  are  changed  indeed. 
Always  cleanly,  and  generally  smartly 
dressed,  they  parade  the  roads  and  wharf. 
Many  of  them  are  old  and  ill-favoured,  but 
you  will  see  among  them  many  a  blooming 
cheek  and  beautiful  eye.  Their  occupation 
is  a  profitable  one,  especially  if  they  be 
skilful ;  for  they  are  paid  according  to  the 
amount  of  work  they  do. 

It  is  the  custom  of  most  of  the  east- 
country  fishers  to  bring  over  their  own 
women — one  to  every  boat^  sleeping  among 
the  men,  and  generally  related  to  one  or 
more  of  the  crew.  Wo  have  met  many  of 
these  girls,  some  of  them  very  pretty,  and 
could  vouch  for  their  perfect  purity.  Be- 
sides their  value  as  cooks,  tliey  ean  gut 
herrings  and  mend  nets;  but  their  ciiief 
recommendation  in  the  eyes  of  the  canny 
fishermen  is  that  they  are  kitli  and  kin, 
while  the  natives  are  strangers  **  no'  t^  be 
trusted."  The  east- country  fisherman,  on 
liis  an'ival,  invariably  encamps  on  shore, 
and  the  girl  or  woman  ''  keeps  the  house'* 
for  the  whole  crew. 

For,  the  east-countiy  fisherman  likes  to 
be  comfortable.  He  is  at  once  the  most 
dai'iiig  and  the  most  careful.  He  will  fiico 
such  dangers  on  the  sea  as  would  make 
most  men  die  of  fright,*  while  at  the  same 
time  he  is  as  ciiutious  as  a  woman  in 
providing  Jigaiiist  cold  and  ague.  How  lie 
manages  to  move  in  his  clothes,  is  matter 
for  marvel,  for  he  is  packed  like  a  patient 
after  the  cold  water  process.  Only  try  to 
clothe  yourself  in  all  the  following  articles 
of  attii-e;  pair  of  socks,  pair  of  stockings  over 
them  half  up  the  leg,  to  be  covered  by  the 
long  fishing  boots ;  cm  the  trunk,  a  tliick 
flannel,  covered  with  an  oiLskin  vest; 
after  that,  a  common  jacket  and  vest ;  on 
the  top  of  tlioso,  an  oilskin  coat  *,  "n^xt,  w 
juitrhiy  muffler  to  win 


care. 


>» 


"  All  lights  are  the  same  to  me,"  lie  said: 

"  except  when  I  read  or  write,  I  care  not  if 

night  were  perpetual.     I  am  going  to  tell 

uiianaLL  viuifcu ,  ivva^v:,  <v  \  you  what  happened  about  a  year  ago.   Tto 

d  round  t\ic  iveek  um\\  \.\v\i\^\>vi'i5a.\v  ^vi  'i^vseJsL  \si  me." 


bury  the  chin  and  mouth ;  and  last  of  all, 
the  sou'-wester  !  This  is  tho  usual  costume  > 
of  an  east- country  fisliermau,  and  he  not 
only  breathes  and  lives  in  it,  but  manages  \ 
his  boat  better  tlian  any  of  his  rivals  on  , 
the  sea.  He  drags  himself  along  on  land  ' 
awkwardly  enough ;  and  on  board,  insteud 
of  rising  to  walk,  he  rolls,  as  it  were,  from 
one  part  of  the  boat  to  the  other.  He  is 
altogether  a  more  calculating  dog  than  tlie 
west- country  man,  more  eager  for  gain, 
colder  and  more  reticent  in  aJI  his  deaSngs 
with  human  kind. 


GREEN  TEA. 

a  case  he  ported  by  martin  hesselius,  the 

german  phtsician. 

In   Ten   Chapters, 
cuapter  el     the  third  stage. 

"I  SEE,  Dr.  Hesselius,  that  you  don'i 
lose  one  word  of  my  statement.  I  need 
not  ask  you  to  hsten  specially  to  what  I  am 
now  going  to  tell  you.  They  talk  of  the  optic 
nerves,  and  of  spectral  illusions,  as  if  the 
organ  of  sight  was  the  only  point  assailable 
by  the  influences  that  have  fastened  upon 
mie — I  know  better.  For  two  years  in  my 
direful  case  that  limitation  prevailed.  Boc 
as  food  is  taken  in  sofUy  at  the  lips,  and 
then  brought  under  the  teetli,  as  the  tip  of 
the  little  tinger  caught  in  a  mill-crank  will 
draw  in  tlie  hand,  and  tlie  arm,  and  the 
whole  body,  so  the  misei'able  moi-tal  who 
has  been  once  caught  firmly  by  the  end  of 
the  finest  fibre  of  his  nerve,  is  dra^m  in 
and  ill,  by  the  enormous  machinery  of  hell, 
until  he  is  as  I  am.  Yes,  doctor,  as  Jam, 
for  while  I  talk  to  you,  and  implore  relief, 
I  fuel  that  my  prayer  is  for  tlio  impossible^ 
and  niy  pleading  with  the  inexorable." 

I  endeavoured  to  calm  his  visibly  iu- 
creasing  agit-ation,  and  told  him  that  he 
must  not  despair. 

While  we  talked  the  night  had  over- 
taken US.  The  filmy  moonlight  was  wide 
over  the  scene  which  tho  window  com- 
manded, and  I  said : 

"Perhaps  yon  would  prefer  haviug 
candles.  This  light,  you  know,  is  odd.  1 
should  wish  yon,  as  much  as  possible,  under 
yourusuiil  conditions  wliile  1  makemy  diag^ 
nosis,   shall   I  call   it — oUierwiso   I  don't 


^" 


=;k 


s 


OhartM  DickenB.] 


GREEN  TEA. 


[NoTombor  13, 1869.] 


673 


"  Speak !  How  do  yon  mean — speak  as 
a  man  does,  do  yon  mean  ?" 

"  Yes ;  speak  in  words  and  consecntive 
sentences,  with  perfect  coherence  and  arti- 
culation ;  bat  there  is  a  pecnliarity.  It  is 
not  like  the  tone  of  a  hnman  voice.  It  is 
not  by  my  ears  it  reaches  me — it  comes 
like  a  singing  through  my  head. 

"  This  faculty,  the  power  of  speaking  to 
me,  will  be  my  undoing.  It  won't  let  me 
pray,  it  interrupts  me  with  dreadful  blas- 
phemies. I  dare  not  go  on,  I  could  not. 
Oh  !  doctor,  can  the  skill,  and  thought,  and 
prayers  of  man  avail  me  nothing  !** 

"  You  must  promise  me,  my  dear  sir, 
not  to  trouble  yourself  with  unneces- 
sarily exciting  thoughts;  confine  your- 
self strictly  to  the  narrative  of  facts; 
and  recollect,  above  all,  that  even  if  the 
thing  that  infests  you  be  as  you  seem  to 
suppose,  a  reality  with  an  actual  inde- 
pendent life  and  will,  yet  it  can  have  no 
power  to  hurt  you,  unless  it  be  given  from 
above:  its  access  to  your  senses  depends 
mainly  upon  your  physical  condition — this 
is,  under  Gtjd,  your  comfort  and  reliance : 
we  are  all  alike  environed.  It  is  only  that 
in  your  case,  the  'paries,*  the  veil  of  the 
flesh,  the  screen,  is  a  little  out  of  repair, 
and  sights  and  sounds  are  transmitted.  We 
must  enter  on  a  new  course,  sir — be  en- 
couraged. I'll  give  to-night  to  the  careful 
consideration  of  the  whole  case." 

**  You  are  very  good,  sir ;  you  think  it 
worth  trying,  you  don't  give  me  quite  up  ; 
but,  sir,  you  don't  know,  it  is  gaining  such 
an  influence  over  me :  it  orders  me  about,  it 
is  such  a  tyrant,  and  I'm  growing  so  help- 
less.    May  God  deliver  me !" 

"It  orders  you  about — of  course  you 
mean  by  speech  P" 

"Yes,  yes;  it  is  always  urging  me  to 
crimes,  to  injure  others,  or  myself.  You 
see,  doctor,  the  situation  is  m-gent,  it  is 
indeed.  When  I  was  in  Shropshire,  a  few 
weeks  ago"  (Mr.  Jennings  was  speaking 
rapidly  and  trembling  now,  holding  my 
arm  ^v'ith  one  hand,  and  looking  in  my 
face),  "  I  went  out  one  day  with  a  party  of 
Mends  for  a  walk :  my  persecutor,  I  tell 
you,  was  with  me  at  the  time.  I  lagged 
behind  the  rest :  the  country  near  the  Dee, 
you  know,  is  beautiful.  Our  path  happened 
to  lie  near  a  coal  mine,  and  at  the  verge  of 
the  wood  is  a  perpendicular  shaft,  they  say, 
a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  deep.  My  niece 
had  remained  behind  with  mo — she  knows, 
of  course,  nothing  of  the  nature  of  my 
suflerings.  She  knew,  however,  that  I  had 
been  ill,  and  was  low,  and  she  remained  to 


prevent  my  being  quite  alone.  As  we 
loitered  slowly  on  together  the  brute  that 
accompanied  me  -  was  urging  me  to  throw 
myself  down  the  shaft.  I  tell  you  now — 
oh,  sir,  think  of  it ! — the 'one  consideration 
that  saved  me  from  that  hideous  death 
was  the  fear  lest  the  shock  of  witnessing 
the  occurrence  should  be  too  much  for  the 
poor  girl.  I  asked  her  to  ^o  on  and  take 
her  walk  with  her  friends,  saying  that  I 
could  go  no  farther.  She  made  excuses, 
and  the  more  I  urged  her  the  firmer  slie  be- 
came. She  looked  doubtful  and  frightened. 
I  suppose  there  was  something  in  my  looks 
or  manner  that  alarmed  her ;  but  she  would 
not  go,  and  that  literally  saved  me.  You 
had  no  idea,  sir,  that  a  living  man  could 
be  made  so  abject  a  slave  of  Satan,"  he 
said,  with  a  ghastly  groan  and  a  shudder. 

There  was  a  pause  here,  and  I  said,  "  You 
were  preserved  nevertheless.  It  was  the 
act  of  God.  You  are  in  his  hands  and  in 
the  power  of  no  other  being :  be  therefore 
confident  for  the  future." 

CHAPTER  X.      HOME. 

I  MADE  him  have  candles  lighted,  and 
saw  the  room  looking  cheery  and  inha- 
bited before  I  left  him.  I  told  him  that  he 
must  regard  his  illness  strictly  as  one 
dependent  on  physical,  though  svhtle  phy- 
sical, causes.  I  told  him  that  he  had  evi- 
dence of  Gt>d's  care  and  love  in  the  deli- 
verance which  he  had  just  described,  and 
that  I  had  perceived  with  pain  that  he 
seemed  to  regard  its  peculiar  features  as 
indicating  that  ho  had  been  delivered  over 
to  spiritual  reprobation.  Than  such  a 
conclusion  nothing  could  be,  I  insisted, 
less  warranted;  and  not  only  so,  but 
more  contrary  to  facts,  as  disclosed  in 
his  mysterious  deliverance  from  tliat  mur- 
derous influence  during  his  Shropshire 
excursion.  First,  his  niece  had  been  re- 
tained by  his  side  without  his  intending  to 
keep  her  near  him ;  and,  secondly,  there 
had  been  infused  into  his  mind  an  ir- 
resistible repugnance  to  execute  the  dread- 
ful suggestion  in  her  presence. 

As  I  reasoned  this  point  with  him,  Mr. 
Jennings  wept.  He  seemed  comforted. 
One  promise  I  exacted,  which  was  that 
should  the  monkey  at  any  time  return,  I 
should  be  sent  for  immediately;  and,  re- 
peating my  assurance  that  I  would  give 
neither  time  nor  thought  to  any  other 
subject  until  I  had  thoroughly  investi- 
gated his  case,  and  that  to-morrow  he 
should  hear  the  result^  1  Xgc^Vltb^  V?^^'^. 
\      Before  ge\.^xv^  m\.o  >i)tvft  essmsajsigi  ^  ^*^^ 


^: 


:X3 


571!       [N'ovembM  13, 18C0.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OondnPtBdby 


the  BCTvant  tliat  his  master  was  far  Irom 
well,  and  tliut>  ho  should  make  u  poiut  of 
frequently  looking  into  his  room. 

Mj  own  arranjremeuts  I  made  M'ith  a 
view  to  lx»ing  quite  secure  fi\jm  inter- 
ruption. 

1  merely  called  at  my  lod^ngs,  and, 
with  a  travel  ling- desk  and  cai'pet-lxig,  set 
off  in  a  hackuey-carriatre  for  an  iim  about 
two  miles  out  of  town,  called  The  Horns, 
a  very  quiet  and  comfortable  house,  with 
good  thick  walls.  And  there  I  resolved, 
without  the  possibility  of  intrusion  or  dis- 
traction, to  devote  some  hours  of  the  uight^ 
in  my  comfortable  sitting-room,  to  Mr. 
Jennings's  case,  and  so  much  of  the  morn- 
ing as  it  might  require. 

(Th(jro  occurs  here  a  careful  note  of  Dr. 
Hessclius's  opinion  upon  the  case,  and  of 
the  habits,  cUetiiry,  and  medicines  which 
he  prescribed.  It  is  cuiious — some  people 
would  say  mystical.  But  on  the  whole  I 
doubt  whether  it  would  sufRciontly  inte- 
rcut a  reader  of  the  kind  1  am  likely  to 
meet  with  to  warrant  its  being  here  re- 
printed. This  whole  letter  was  plainly 
written  at  the  inu  in  which  lio  liad  hid 
himself  for  the  occasion.  The  next  letter 
is  dated  from  his  town  lodgings.) 

I  left  town  for  the  inn  wheitj  I  slept 
last  night  at  half-past  nine,  and  did  not 
arrive  at  my  room,  in  town  until  one  o'clock 
this  afternoon.  I  found  a  letter  in  Mr. 
Jennings's  hand  upon  my  table.  It  had 
not  come  by  post,  and  on  inquiry,  I  learned 
that  Mr.  Jennings's  servant  had  brought 
it,  and  on  learning  that  I  was  not  to  return 
until  to-day,  and  tlmt  no  one  could  tell 
him  my  address,  ho  seemed  very  uncom- 
fortable, and  said  that  his  orders  from  his 
master  were  that  he  was  not  to  return 
without  an  answer. 

I  opened  the  letter,  and  read : 

"  Dear  Dr.  Hesselius.  It  is  here.  You 
had  not  been  an  hour  gone  when  it  re- 
turned. It  is  speaking.  It  knows  all  that 
lias  happened,  it  knows  eveiything — it 
knows  you,  and  is  frantic  and  atrocious. 
It  reviles.  I  send  you  this.  It  knows 
every  word  I  liave  wiitten — I  write.  This 
I  promised,  and  I  therefore  write,  but  I 
fear  very  confused,  very  incoherently.  I 
am  so  interrupted,  disturbed. 

"  Ever  yours,  sincerely  yours, 

"  llOBEKT  LYNl^Eli  JeXNIXGS." 

"  l^licn  did  this  come  ?"  I  asked. 
"About  eleven  last  iiig\\t  *,  t\ie  man.  ^ti^ 


to-dav.     The  last  time  is  about  au  hour 
since.'* 

Til  us  answered,  and  ^itli  the  notes  1 
had  made  upon  liis  case  in  my  pocket,  I 
was,  in  a  few  minutes,  driving  out  to  Rich- 
mond, to  see  Mr.  Jennings. 

I  by  no  means,  as  you  perceive,  despaired 
of  Mr.  Jennings's  case.  He  had  himself 
remembered  and  applied,  though  quite  iji  a 
mistaken  way,  tlie  principle  which  I  hj 
down  in  my  Metaphysical  Medicine,  acJ 
which  govcTns  all  such  cases.  X  was  about 
to  apply  it  in  earnest.  I  was  pruibuudlj 
interested,  and  very  anxious  to  see  and 
exiimine  him  while  the  ^' emauj'*  was 
actually  pi-esent. 

I  drove  up  to  the  somhre  house,  and 
ran  up  the  steps,  and  knocked.  The  door, 
in  a  little  time,  was  opened  by  a  toll  woman 
in  black  silk.  She  looked  ill,  aud  as  if  she 
had  been  crying.  She  cortsojed^  and  heard 
my  question,  but  she  did  not  auswer.  She 
turned  her  face  away,  extending  her  hand 
hurriedly  towards  two  men  who  were 
coming  dowupstairs;  aud  thus  ha\'ing,  u 
it  wei*e,  tacitly  made  mo  over  to  them,  she 
passed  through  a  side-door  hastily  and 
shut  it. 

The  man  who  was  nearest  the  hall,  I 
at  once  accosted,  but  being  now  close  to 
him,  I  was  shocked  to  see  that  both  his 
hands  were  covered  with  blood. 

I  drew  back  a  httle,  and  the  man  pass- 
ing down-stairs  meitfly  said  in  a  low  toue.  i 
"  ilerc's  the  servant,  sir." 

The  servant  had  stopped  en  the  stairs, 
confounded  and  dumb  at  seeing  me.  Ht; 
was  rubbing  his  hands  in  a  handkerchief 
and  it  was  steeped  in  blood. 

*'  Jones,  what  is  it,  wliat  has  hnp- 
pened  r*'  I  asked,  while  a  sickening  noir 
pieion  overpowered  me. 

The  man  asked  me  to  conie  up  to  the  i 
lobby.  I  ^vas  beside  him  in  a  moment,  and  > 
fi-owniug  and  pallid,  with  contracted  eje^ 
he  told  me  the  horror  which  I  already  ht.i 
guessed. 

J  lis  master  had  made  away  with  himseL'. 

I  went  up-staii's  with  hini  to  the  nx>m— 
what  I  saw  there  I  won't  tell  you.  He  liad 
cut  iiis  thix)at  with  his  razor.  It  wa«  > 
frightful  gush.  The  two  men  had  laid  liim 
upon  the  bed  and  composed  his  hmbs.  h 
had  liappened,  ns  the  immense  pool  of  hlooJ 
on  the  tloor  declaimed,  at  some  distance  bi- 
tween  the  bed  and  the  w^iiidow.  Thew  ww 
carpet  i*ound  his  boil,  aud  a  carpet  ondi? 
his  dressing- Uiblc,  but  itone  on  the  ixitd^ 
Ikv^  door^  for  the  man  said  he  did  not  like 


Aooiic  eJeven  uisc  nignt  *,  iiie  man  viii'a  \\*i3LVi  uoor^  lor  luo  inau  suiu  iie  oia  not  u** 
horo  again,  and  has  been  liew  t\\Teo  \ime&\cwT^V.  ow  \\va  Vsfc^sQwoi.     In  this  somhre. 


^> 


&. 


Charles  Dlokena.] 


GREEN  TEA. 


[November  13,  lS(Jr>.] 


575 


and  now  terrible  room,  one  of  the  great 
elms  that  darkened  the  house  was  slowly 
moving  the  sliadow  of  one  of  its  great 
bonj2;hs  upon  this  dreadful  floor. 

I  beckoned  to  the  servant  and  we  went 
do>vn-stairs  together.  I  turned,  off  the  hall, 
into  an  old-&shioned  panelled  room,  and 
thei'o  standing,  I  heard  all  the  servant  had 
to  tell.     It  was  not  a  great  deal. 

"  I  concluded,  sir,  from  your  words,  and 
looks,  sir,  as  you  left  last  night,  that  you 
thought  my  master  seriously  ill.  I  thought 
it  might  be  that  you  wore  afraid  of  a  fit, 
or  something.  So  I  attended  very  close  to 
your  directions.  He  sat  up  late,  till  past 
three  o'clock.  He  was  not  writing  or  read- 
ing. He  was  talking  a  great  deal  to  him- 
self, but  that  was  nothing  unusual.  At 
about  that  hour  I  assisted  liim  to  undress, 
and  left  him  in  his  slippers  and  dressing- 
gown.  I  went  back  softly  in  about  half  an 
Lour.  He  was  in  his  bed,  quite  undressed, 
and  a  pair  of  candles  lighted  on  the  table 
beside  his  bed.  He  was  leaning  on  his 
elbow  and  looking  out  at  the  other  side  of 
the  bed  when  I  came  in.  I  asked  him  if 
he  wanted  anything,  and  he  said  no. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  what  you 
said  to  me,  sir,  or  something  a  little  un- 
usual about  him,  but  I  was  uneasy,  uncom- 
mon uneasy,  about  him  last  night. 

"  In  another  half  hour,  or  it  might  bo  a 
little  more,  I  went  up  again.  I  did  not  hear 
him  talking  as  before.  I  opened  the  door  a 
little.  The  candles  were  both  out,  which  was 
not  usual.  I  had  a  bedroom  candle,  and  I 
let  tlie  light  in,  a  little  bit,  looking  softly 
round.  I  saw  him  sitting  in  that  chair  beside 
the  dressing-table  with  his  clothes  on  again. 
He  turned  round  and  looked  at  me.  I 
thought  it  strange  he  should  get  up  and 
dress,  and  put  out  the  candles  to  sit  in  the 
dark,  that  way.  But  I  only  asked  liim 
again  if  I  could  do  anything  for  him.  He 
said,  no,  rather  sharp,  I  thought.  I  asked  if 
I  might  light  the  candles,  and  he  said,  'Do  as 
you  hke,  Jones.'  So  I  lighted  them,  and 
I  lingered  a  little  about  the  room,  and 
he  said, '  Tell  me  truth,  Jones,  why  did  you 
come  again — ^you  did  not  hear  any  one  curs- 
ing ?*  '  No,  sir,*  I  said,  wondering  what  he 
could  mean. 

"  *  No,'  said  he,  after  mo,  *  of  course,  no ;' 
and  I  said  to  him, '  Wouldn't  it  be  well,  sir, 
you  went  to  bed  ?  It's  just  five  o'clock ;' 
and  he  said  nothing  but, '  Very  likely :  good- 
night, Jones.*  So  I  went,  sir,  but  in  less 
than  an  hour  I  came  again.  The  door  was 
fast,  and  he  heard  me,  and  called  as  I 
thought  from  the  bed  to  know  what  I 


wanted,  and  he  desired  me  not  to  disturb 
him  again.  I  lay  down  and  slept  for  a  little. 
It  must  have  been  between  six  and  seven 
when  I  went  up  again.  The  door  was  still 
fast,  and  he  made  no  answer,  so  I  did  not  like 
to  disturb  him,  and  thinking  he  wafi  asleep, 
I  left  him  till  nine.  It  was  his  custom  to 
ring  when  he  wished  me  to  come,  and  I  had 
no  particular  hour  for  calling  him,  I  tapped 
very  gently,  and  getting  no  answer,  I  stayed 
away  a  good  while,  supposing  he  was  getting 
some  rest  then.  It  was  not  till  eleven 
o'clock  I  grew  really  uncomfortable  about 
him — for  at  the  latest  he  was  never,  that  I 
could  remember,  later  than  half-past  ten.  I 
got  no  answer.  I  knocked  and  called,  and 
still  no  answer.  So  not  being  able  to  force 
the  door,  I  called  Thomas  from  the  stables, 
and  together  we  forced  it,  and  found  hiia 
in  the  shocking  way  you  saw." 

Jones  liad  no  more  to  tell.  Poor  Mr. 
Jennings  was  very  gentle,  and  very  kind. 
All  his  people  were  fond  of  him.  I  could 
see  that  the  servant  was  very  much 
moved. 

So,  dejected  and  agitated,  I  passed  from 
that  terrible  house,  and  its  dark  canopy  of 
elms,  and  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  it  more. 
While  I  write  to  you  I  feel  like  a  man  who 
has  but  half  waked  from  a  frightful  and 
monotonous  dream.  My  memoir  rejects 
the  picture  with  incredulity  and  horror. 
Yet  I  know  it  is  true.  It  is  the  story  of 
the  process  of  a  poison,  a  poison  which 
excites  the  reciprocal  action  of  spirit  and 
nerve,  and  paralyses  the  tissue  that  sepa- 
rates those  cognate  functions  of  the  senses, 
the  external  and  the  interior.  Thus  we 
find  strange  bed-fellows,  and  the  mortal 
and  immortal  prematurely  make  acquaint- 
ance. 

CONCLUSION.  A  WORD  FOE  THOSE  WHO  SUFFER. 

My  dear  Van  L.,  you  have  suffered  from 
an  affection  similar  to  that  which  I  have 
just  descnbed.  You  t^^^ce  complained  of  a 
return  of  it. 

"VVho,  under  God,  cured  you?  Yom* 
humble  servant,  Martin  Hes«ehus.  Let 
mo  i-ather  adopt  the  more  empliaaised  piety 
of  a  certain  good  old  French  surgeon  of 
three  hundred  years  ago :  "I  treated,  and 
God  cured  you." 

Come,  my  friend,  you  are  not  to  be 
hippish.     Let  me  tell  you  a  fact. 

I  have  met  with,  and  treated,  as  mjr  book 
shows,  fifty- seven  cases  of  this  kind  of 
vision,  which  I  term  indifferently  "subli- 
mated," *'  precociou^^"  ^tA*'''  Sa^Sjcr^cstr 


^ 


:& 


576 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Norembcr  13, 1869, 


are  tmly  termed — though  commonly  con- 
founded with  those  which  I  describe — 
Rpectral  illusions.  These  latter  I  look  upon 
as  being  no  less  simply  cui-able  than  a  cold 
in  the  head  or  a  trifUng"  dyspepsia. 

It  is  those  which  rank  in  the  first  cate- 
gory that  test  our  promptitude  of  thought. 
Fifty-seven  such  cases  have  I  encountered, 
neither  more  nor  less.  And  in  how  many 
of  these  have  I  fulvd  ?  In  no  one  single 
instance. 

There  is  no  one  affliction  of  mortality 
more  easily  and  certainly  reducible,  with  a 
little  patience,  and  a  rational  confidence  in 
the  physician.  With  these  simple  condi- 
tions, I  look  upon  the  cure  as  absolutely 
certain. 

You  are  to  remember  that  I  had  not 
even  commenced  to  treat  Mr.  Jennings's 
case.  I  have  not  any  doubt  that  I  should 
have  cured  him  perfectly  in  eighteen 
months,  or  possibly  it  might  have  extended 
to  two  years.  Some  cases  are  very  rapidly 
curable,  others  extremely  tedious.  Every 
intelligent  physician  who  will  give  thought 
and  diligence  to  the  task,  will  cfifect  a 
cure. 

You  know  my  tract  on  The  Cardinal 
Functions  of  the  Brain.  I  there,  by  the 
evidence  of  innumerable  facts,  prove,  as  I 
think,  the  high  probability  of  a  circulation 
arterial  and  venous  in  its  mechanism, 
through  the  nerves.  Of  this  system,  thus 
considered,  the  brain  is  the  heart.  The  fluid, 
which  is  propagated  hence  through  one 
class  of  nerves,  returns  in  an  altered  state 
through  another,  and  the  nature  of  that 
fluid  is  spiritual,  though  not  immaterial, 
any  more  than,  as  I  before  remarked,  light 
or  electricity  are  so. 

By  various  abuses,  among  which  the 
habitual  use  of  such  agents  as  green  tea  is 
one,  this  fluid  may  be  affected  as  to  its 
quality,  but  it  is  more  frequently  disturbed 
as  to  equilibrium.  This  fluid  being  tliat 
which  we  have  in  common  with  spirits,  a 
congestion  found  upon  the  masses  of  brain 
or  nerve,  connected  with  the  interior  sense, 
forms  a  surface  unduly  exposed,  on  which 
disembodied  spirits  may  operate  :  commu- 
nication is  tlius  more  or  less  effectually 
established.  Between  this  brain  cii'culation 
and  the  heart  circulation  there  is  an  inti- 
mate sympathy.  The  seat,  or  rather  the 
instrument  of  exterior  vision,  is  the  eye. 
The  seat  of  interior  vision  is  the  nervous 


tissue  and  brain',  immediately  about  and 
above  the  eyebrow.  You  remember  bow 
effectually  I  dissipated  your  piotures  by  tlie 
simple  application  of  iced  ean-de-cologna 
Few  cases,  however,  can  be  ti^ated  exactly 
ahkc  with  anything  like  rapid  succesi. 
Cold  acts  powerfully  as  a  repellant  of  the 
nervous  fluid.  Long  enough  oontinxied  it 
will  even  produce  that  permanent  insexui* 
bility  which  we  call  numbness,  and  a  littb 
longer,  muscular  as  well  as  sensatioxial 
paralysis. 

I  have  not,  I  repeat,  the  slightest  doubt 
that  I  should  have  first  dimmed  and  ulti- 
mately sealed  that  inner  eye  which  Mr. 
Jennings  had  inadvertently  opened.  The 
same  senses  are  opened  in  delirium  tremenfl^ 
and  entirely  shut  up  again  when  the  over* 
action  of  the  corebral  heart,  and  the  pro- 
digious nervous  congestions  that  attend  it^ 
are  terminated  by  a  decided  change  in  iht 
state  of  the  body.  It  is  by  acting  steadily 
upon  the  body,  by  a  simple  process,  that 
this  result  is  produced — and  inevitably  pro- 
duced— I  have  never  yet  &iled. 

Poor  "Mr,  Jennings  made  away  with  him- 
self. But  that  catastrophe  was  the  resnlt 
of  a  totally  different  mialady,  which,  as  it 
were,  projected  itself  upon  that  disease 
which  was  established.  Hia  case  was  in 
the  distinctive  manner  a  complication,  and 
the  complaint  under  which  he  really  suc- 
cumbed, was  hereditary  suicidal  mania. 
Poor  Mr.  Jennings  I  cannot  call  a  patient 
of  mine,  for  I  Imd  not  even  begun  to  treat 
his  case,  and  he  had  not  yet  given  me,  I 
am  convinced,  his  full  and  unreserved  con- 
fidence. If  the  patient  do  not  array  him- 
self on  the  side  of  the  disease,  his  core  is 
certain. 

Now  licodj,  price  5s.  6d.,  bound  in  ^cen  clotii, 

THE  FIRST  VOLUME 

09  Tm  Nxw  SBBin  ot 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  be  had  of  all  Booluellen. 

MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 

MESSRS.  CITAPPELL  and  CO.  haro  gnti  plearan 
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and  (^01lcludc  his  interrupted  series  of  FAKEWEUi 
KEADINGiB  at  St.  James's  UaU,  London,  early  ia 
the  New  Tear. 

The  Readings  will  be  Twelve  in  Numbss,  and  noB* 
will  take  place  out  of  London. 

All    ct^mmunications    to    be  addressed  to 
Chappell  and  Co.,  60,  New  Bond-street,  W. 


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V 


nE-5ioio?aE-oiJrv.iiwS'/EfJK^Y^A^;Toi£A: 


COfJDUCTED-By 


MCSSIS 


WITH  WHICH  IS  IlMCo»y>oftA7in 
^  '^oJgEflOLP'WQHpS^ 

No.  51.  NEwSErresJI    SATURDAY,  NOVEilBER  20,  mv. 


VERONICA, 


soos:  UL 

CHAPTER  V.     A  SHADOW  ACE0S3  THE  SUXSHOE. 

Tfte  BummoT  mased  nway  monotonously 
at  Villa  Chiari.  Thehentincrensed  steadily, 
reached  a  climax,  and  then  begun  as  st-eadily 
bate.  All  through  tbe  blazinp  months 
Sir  John  remained  at  the  villa.  Tho  house 
basked  in  the  glare  of  the  long  day  with 
dosed  blinds,  like  a  living  thing  aelecp  in 
the  Bunsliine.  Then,  towards  evening, 
doors  and  ■windows  were  thrown  open,  and 
fignrea  were  seen  seated  beneath  tholng^gia, 
or  pacing  the  shadiest  garden  wnlks,  and 
the  sonnd  of  footsteps  echoed  on  the  flng'gcd 

knrtyard. 

As  the  days  and  weeks  and  months  went 
by,  and  brought  no  tidings  irom  Maad  or 
the  vicar,  Verontea  grew  restlessly  discon- 
tented. For  some  time  nnger  supported 
her  spirits.  Bnt  hy  degrees  she  became 
tormented  by  apprehonsionB  for  her  father's 
health.  The  apprehension  a  were  only  mo- 
mentary, but  they  retnrned  ottencr  and 
oftoner.  She  debated  tho  possibility  that 
none  of  her  letters  had  been  received,  and 
twisted  the  matter  this  way  and  that  way 

Once  she  spoko  to  Sir  John  on  the  snl>- 
jcet. 

was  after  a  fit   nf    depression  and 
i,  and  she  was   nnabio  to   snfTer  alone. 
She   felt   impelled  to  m^iko  him  share  her 

"I  do  wonder  how  papa  is!"  she  said, 
nneipectcdly,  as  they  were  sitting  alone 
together  in  tho  hTilight. 

Sir  John  made  no  answer,  bat  tamed 
nnpasily  in  his  ehair. 


"  1  do  wonder.     I  went  to  know.     I  n 

"  What  ia  tho  moaning  of  this  sadden 
anriety  P" 

"  It  is  not  sadden.  Because  I  have  kept 
it  to  myself  so  long,  yon  cannot  naderatand 
that  I  have  been  snfl'ering  all  this  time !' 

Veronica  really  thought  for  tho  moment 
that  sho  had  been  generously  sparing  him. 
Sho  knew  bcrscif  to  have  been  nnhappy  at 
intervals,  and  omitted  to  observe  that  the 
first  moment  she  had  felt  the  desire  to  speak 
of  her  nahftppinees  to  Sir  John,  she  ; 
yielded  to  it  without  a  thought  of  restraiu- 
ing  herself  for  his  sake. 

•'  Well,  what  can  I  do  ?  Can  I  help  it 
if  they  take  no  notice  of  you  ?  Besides, 
what  is  there  to  be  anxious  about  ? 
news  is  good  news." 

"  I  wrote  to  Aland.      I  did  think 
would  have  answered  me  !" 

"  Bah  !  You  are  infatuated  with  that 
girl.  I  wonder  that  a  person  of  your  ii 
tellect  should  be  so  taken  in  by  her  missish 

"  You  know  nothing  about  Maud,"  cried 
Veronica,  quickly.  "  Yon  cannot  under- 
stand her  one  bit." 

"  Neither,  it  seems,  can  you."  retorted 
Sir  John.  Praise  of  Maud  always  dis- 
pleased iiim.  Veronica's  reverence  and  ad- 
miration for  her,  irritated  hira  peculiarly. 

Veronica  started  np  with  a  little  childish 
exclamation  of  impatience,  and  walked  to 
the  window. 

"  I  inusl  know  how  papa  ia !"  sho  said. 
Her  voice  was  changed  now.     There  were 
certain  deep  tunes  in  it  which  the  mention  t 
of  Maud  alone  called  forth. 

Her  pettishness  disturbed  Sir  Jolinmueh 
less  thui  licr  earnestness. 

"  Amor  mio,"  ho  said,  soothingly,  "  rest 
assured  that  if  any  evil  had  happened  to 


p 


^ 


O 78      [November 2>,  ISC9.] 


ALL  THE  TP]AR  ROUND. 


[OoB<hielBd  by 


I 

your  fntlicr,  or  il*  iniy  evil  lln-eiitiMiid  liiiii  | 
oven,  vou  Avoiikl  not  fail  to  lictir  of  it. 
Tlioro  are  plenty  uf  kind,  ])it»ns  iXKjple  in 
tliat  -Vrrarlian  villatre  who  would  ehocrfnlly 
take  on  tliemselven  the  iltity  of  imparling 
anything  tlisaprocablt!/' 

She  was  willinp^  to  he  put  on  piod  toiTns 
"with  herself  at  aiiylMnlv's  exi)LMisi? — save 
Miiud'd— and  slic  smiled  contcauptuously  at 
tlie  recollection  of  the  Shipley  people. 

"Can't  you  faney  thedr  ploatini*  over 
sneh  II  clian(;e  of  punirihing  you  for  hiivin«jf 
had  the  courage  to  escape  from  among 
them  p" 

"  11  Principe  Cosare  do'  Barlofti,'*  an- 
nounced  a  servant  at  this  moment,  and  the 
tete-ii-tete  interview  was  at  an  end. 

The  prince  was  a  constant,  and  nearly 
the  only,  visitor  at  Villa  Chiari  throughout 
the  summer.  One  or  two  other  men  cnme 
occjiBionally ;  a  stray  attach^,  left  behind  iii 
Solitary  i-espimsibility  during  the  absence  of 
his  chief,  and  bewailing  his  fate;  a  belated 
Prussiau  grandee,  passing  through  on  his 
way  from  tho  sea-baths  at  Leghorn  to  the 
northern  side  of  tho  Alps.  No  ]Onglisli 
came,  and  no  ladic^s. 

l<]ju'ly  in  September  people  began  to  re- 
turn to  Florence.  Veronica  made  various 
indirect  attempts  to  see  and  to  bo  seen  by 
such  of  tho  fashionable  world  as  weit) 
already  to  bo  found  driving  in  the  Cascine 
towards  the  sunset  hour,  and  inhaling  the 
evening  miasma  lieroically.  But  Sir  John 
opposed  her  desire  in  this  particular.  And 
had  it  not  becTi  for  a  hope  which  n(?vei' 
al)nii(loned  her  altogether  (though  it  llick- 
ered  low  at  timers),  and  for  Prince  Cesare  de* 
liurletti,  she  would,  she  told  hei-self,  have 
found  the  ennui  of  her  secluded  life  in- 
tolerable. 

Sir  Jolm  encouraged  Barletti  to  come. 
If  Ik;  lia<l  not  desired  Barletti*s  presence 
at  the  villa,  Sir  Jolm  would  unquestionably 
have  been  restrained  by  no  delicacy  fi^om 
makiiiGf  his  sentiments  manifest. 

There  were  several  causes  which  made 
Sir  John  wiUing  to  receive  Barletti.     Tlie 
first.  wa.<^,  tiiat  the  Neajwlitan  amused  him, 
played   picquet   fairly  well    (in  truth,    he 
could  play  mnch  Ix^tter  than  his  host,  but 
had  met  and  temper  enough  never  to  hint 
;    at  the  fact),  and  brought  uj)  fi-om  the  city 
little  gossiping  stories  which  Sir  John  re- 
lished.   The  second  wa^,  that  Veronica  was 
either  pleasantly  gay  and  gr)od-t4'mpcred 
under  the  excitement  of  the  stranger's  pi-e- 
scucc,  or,  if  she  were  otlierwisc,  vented  the 
hiiuprlity  .scif-asscrting  bninour  of  1\yc\\otlt 
on  JiiirJctti,  whom  sbc  treated  at  times  ViVXv 


al)9olute  insolence.  Both  these  moods  of 
hers  were  agnu'^ble  to  Sir  Jolm :  the  latter 
Chpecially  so.  Then  there  was  tlie  t-irenm- 
stance  that  Barletti.  with  all  bis  poverty 
and  pliancy,  was  luidoubtedly  the  scion  of 
an  illustrious  race.  Now,  Sir  John  was 
not  the  scion  of  an  illustrious  race.  He 
would  not.  hav(^  opcmly  ailmitted  the  fact, 
but  ho  knew  it.  And  it;  was  ineffably 
soothing  to  any  irritating  doubts  which  he 
might  occasionally  entertain  as  to  his  own 
importjinee  in  the  Avorld,  and  9»  to  the  su- 
premacy of  wealth,  to  oontempliite  »  pcn- 
nili'ss  prince  flattering  lum  for  a  dinner. 

As  we  are  all  apt  to  believe  what  wc 
wish.  Sir  John  rather  ovep-estimated  the 
attniotions  of  his  dinnei-s,  and  tho  impi-es- 
sion  that  his  riches  made  on  Barletti. 

Karly  in  October  Sir  John  announced 
his  in  ten  ti  cm  of  going  to  Naples  for  the 
winter.  Veronica  was  gentiinely  delighted 
at  the  news.  But,  with  a  petty  perversity 
which  she  sometimes  indulged  in  towanls 
Sir  John,  slie  i*eoeived  it  rery  coldly.  He 
had  made  her  summer  pass  in  inexpressible 
boredom  ;  and  she  was  resolved  not  to  gra- 
tify him  liy  any  too  great  readiness  to  lx> 
amused,  tho  moment  it  snitod  him  to 
amuse  her. 

'•  We  shall  be  able  to  have  a  little  gaiety 
and  society  in  Naples,"  said  Sir  Jolm. 
'*  Yon  deserve  some  compensation,  poverinn, 
for  the  dulness  of  the  summer." 

This  provoked  Veronica,  and  slie  au- 
sweixxl  without  deigning  to  turn  her  eyes 
towards  him :  **  1  doubt  the  power  of 
Naples  to  give  me  compensation.*' 

Sir  John  haj)pened  to  be  in  n  »»OiHi 
temi)er.  His  dinner  had  been  varij-d, 
savonry,  and  digestible — ^throe  conditions 
not  oft<»n  combined — and  he  hnmouretl  htr 
with  an  exasperating  ostentation  of  for- 
bearance*. 

*'Mecliantc  !  Did  yon  in  truth  find  the 
summer  spent  alone  with  me  so  dull  ?" 

*^Very!" 

"  Ha !  I  wonder,  then,  that  toti  do  not 
show  more  pleasure  at  the  pri.»spect  of  a 
chancre." 

"  1  see  no  prospect  of  a  change."' 

The  words  were  barely  nttci-ed  bcfure 
she  repented  them.  Sir  John's  good  temprr. 
too  roughly  strained,  had  snapped.  It  was 
at  all  times  brittle  and  untrustwortliT. 

He  growled  out  an  inarticulate  oafii.  Ii 
was  not  tho  first  she  had  heard  from  lus 
lips  addressed  to  herself. 

**  What  a  f(X)l^ I  am!"  she  thought;  *'I 
i\o\viY  vv\kc  ^\\x?LTitaige  of  his  g^ood  moods. 


ef= 


pCB 


Cbartcs  nickoTis.] 


^^:RONICA. 


[Novcmbftr  20, 1  SflP.]      5  70 


The  truth  was  that  his  **  g(.K>d  moods  " 
were  almost  the  only  momciits  in  which 
she  was  not  afraid  of  him.  And  the 
moments  in  wliich  she  was  not  afraid  of 
liim  tempted  her  to  revenge  herself  for  her 
subjection  at  most  other  times.  There 
were  other  moments  when,  beiiifi^  roused  to 
passionate  augt^r,  she  h>st  fear  and  prudence. 
But  such  moments  were  still  i-are  in  her 
intercourse  with  the  man  whom  she  had 
made  the  master  of  her  fate. 

She  came  and  knelt  beside  him,  resting 
her  hand  on  his  as  it  hung  over  the 
cushioned  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  What  will  you  do  for  me  at  Naples  ?" 
she  asked,  coaxingly. 

Ho  was  about  to  answer:  not,  as  it 
seemed  by  his  frowning  brow  and  sneering 
smile,  very  graciously:  when  his  face 
changed,  ho  made  a  strange  inaHiculate 
sound,  and  leaned  back  gasping  in  his  chair. 

Veronica  flew  to  the  l>ell  to  summon  as- 
sistance, then  she  bathed  his  forehead  with 
some  poi'fame  from  a  bottle  that  stood  near 
at  hand,  and  fanned  him  with  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter?" 
she  kept  asking  wildly.  She  reiterated  her 
questions  Avhen  Paul  came  into  the  room. 

Paul  wasted  no  time  in  reassuring  her. 
With  a  6>vift.ness  very  surprising  and  un- 
oxpcjcted  in  one  whose  movements  were 
habitually  so  deliberate,  he  loosened  his 
master's  cravat*  Then  he  ran  to  Sir  John's 
bedroom  and  returned  wnth  a  travelling 
flask,  from  which  lie  poured  a  few  drops  of 
brandy  down  his  master's  throat. 

When  lie  had  done  so,  he  answered  Ve- 
ronica as  calndy  as  tliongh  she  had  that 
instant  put  some  ordinary  question  to  him. 

"  A  faintness,  miladi.  He  will  bo  better 
now.     It  is  passing. *' 

Veronica  stood  by,  scared  and  trembling. 
Paul  fetched  some  cold  water,  and  threw 
it  sharply  on  his  master's  cheeks  and  fore- 
head. 

"  Shall  I  not  call  some  of  the  other  ser- 
vants ?"  said  Veronica,  clasping  and  un- 
clasping her  hands  ncr\'ously.  '*  Some  one 
must  be  sent  for  a  doctor." 

*' Better  not,  just  yet.  We  shall  hear 
what  ho  says.     He  is  coming  to  himself." 

Sir  John  did  revive.  Some  semblance 
of  life  returned  to  his  face,  which  had 
grown  strangely  livid. 

His  eyes  fell  on  Veronica,  and  he  turned 
them  away  with  a  look  of  impatience. 

*'W^hat  is  it?"  she  cried,  bending  over 
him.     '*  Can  you  not  speak  to  me  r" 

Sir  John  feebly  tried  to  raise  his  hand- 


kerchief to  his  mouth,  and  failed.  He 
looked  appoalingly  at  Paul,  who  immedi- 
ately wiped  the  "water  from  his  master's 
face,  in  a  steady  matter-of-course  way. 
Still  Sir  John  did  not  speak. 

Paul  watched  liim  intently ;  and  at  last 
said  to  Veronica :  "  You  had  better  go 
away,  miladi.  I  shall  call  Ansano  by-and- 
byo,  and  lielp  Sir  John  to  his  room.  He 
Avill  lie  down  and  repose  for  an  hour  or  so. 
And  then  he  will  be  quite  well  again.  The 
heat  made  him  faint." 

During  tliis  speech  Paul  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  master's  face,  and  seemed  to 
read  in  it  approval  and  confirmation  of  liis 
words:  for  he  added  almost  instantly: 
''  Yes,  yes ;  that  is  it.  The  heat  made  him 
faint.  It  is  nothing ;  and  you  had  better 
go  away,  mila<:li." 

Veronica  obeyed  in  bewilderment.  She 
was  glad  to  escape  from  the  room ;  and  yet 
slie  somewhat  resented  being  sent  away.  • 

She  was  walking  quickly  along  the  cor- 
ridor that  led  to  her  own  room,  when  she 
heard  a  voice  close  behind  her :  "Miladi !" 

Her  heart  leapt  at  the  suddenness  of  the 
sound,  and  she  turned  round  in  terror.  It 
was  Paul. 

"  Pardon,  miladi.  I  fear  I  startled  you. 
The  matting  is  so  soft,  it  deadens  footsteps. 
I  only  wanted  to  say  that  Sir  John  much 
wishes  that  the  other  domestics  should  not 
be  told  of  his  little  indisposition.  He  dis- 
likes a  fuss,  lie  says,  miladi." 

'*  Oh  he  has  spoken  to  you,  then  !  How 
is  he  ?" 

"  Sir  John  is  much  better,  miladi.  The 
heat  made  him  faint.     It  is  nothing." 

Veronica  sat  down  in  her  boudoir,  and 
tried  to  think  steadily  of  what  had  just 
happened.  She  did  not  believe  that  it  had 
been  a  mere  fainting  fit.  There  had  been  a 
sti'ange  look  in  Sir  John's  face,  unlike 
anything  she  had  ever  seen  before.  Was  he 
venj  iU  ?    Was  he  going  to  die  ? 

She  rose  and  moved  restlessly  alwut  the 
room.  I'hen  she  stopped  suddenly,  and 
reflected  that  Paul  hatl  shown  no  apprehen- 
sion. Paul  had  even  recommended  that 
no  doctor  should  be  sent  for.  Paul  knew 
Sir  John  well.  He  mn^i^  know  whether 
there  were  danger  or  not ! 

If — oh,  if  Sh*  John  were  going  to  die  ! 

Her  knees  shook  under  lier,  and  she 
threw  herstrlf  on  to  a  sofa.  She  lay  there, 
stretched  at  full  length,  with  her  face 
buried  in  the  cushions;  her  hair  pushed 
aside,  and  her  hands  covering  her  ears,  as 
though  to  shut  out  some  terrible  sound,  for 
a  long  tiiae. 


«5: 


&■ 


580      [XoTemboraO,  18G9.] 


AIjJj  the  tear  llOUND. 


[CoodiNted  by 


Onco  the  shutting  of  a  heavy  door  echoed 
through  tho  house,  and  lor  many  minutes 
after  tho  hutt  reverberation  had  died  away, 
her  heart  beat  with  dreadful  rapidity,  and 
Bhe  waited  in  tho  tremor  of  susponRO  and 
fear,  expecting  to  be  summoned  by  Paul's 
voice.  Kg  ono  came.  Tho  afternoon  was 
waning,  and  at  last  she  heard  one  of  the 
women- servants  singing  a  Tuscan  love- 
song,  as  she  moved  about  the  house  at  her 
work.  That  was  a  reassuring  sound.  Ve- 
ronica sat  up  feeling  dizzy  and  half-blind  as 
she  faced  the  light.  There  were  no  tears  on 
her  face,  but  it  was  deadly  pale,  except  one 
crimson  streak,  where  she  had  pressed  her 
cheek  against  tho  cushion.  Her  first  act 
was  to  lock  the  door  which  communicated 
with  the  corridor.  There  was  another  door 
in  the  boudoir  leading  to  her  bedchamber,  to 
which  there  was  no  other  access.  Then  she 
went  to  tlie  looking-glass  and  contemplated 
herself. 

"  What  a  ghost  I  look !"  she  thought, 
"  and  how  I  have  been  tormenting  myself ! 
And  perhaps  for  nothing,  after  all !" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  but  finally  took 
a  book  from  the  table,  unlocked  the  door 
of  the  boudoir,  rang  the  bell,  and  returned 
to  the  sofa. 

^'Miladi  rang?"  said  her  maid,  coming 
to  tho  door.  Veronica  had  taught  all  the 
servants  to  give  her  that  title. 

"  Yes.  Wha,t  o'clock  is  it  ?  I  sliall  not 
drcas  for  dinner.  I  fell  asleep  over  my 
book,  and  have  made  my  head  ache.  Get 
me  some  eau- de-cologne.  Put  on  my 
peignoir,  and  shut  out  that  glare.  How 
red  the  sunset  is!  You  must  brush  my 
liair  in  the  dark  as  well  as  you  can.  I  can- 
not bear  the  light." 

It  was  not  dark  when  the  maid  had 
closed  the  persiennes,  but  it  was  dim.  Vo- 
ronica's  white  wrapper  gleamed  in  the  twi- 
light. The  maid  stood  patiently  brushing 
out  her  misti*0S8*s  tliick  tresses  in  silence. 

"Did  you  ever  fuint^  BeppinaP*  asked 
her  mistress. 

"  Faint  ?     Xo,  miladi." 

*^  You  have  seen  people  in  fainting  fits 
perhaps  ?" 

''  Yes ;  I  saw  a  girl  once,  who  was  in  a 
dead  swoon.'* 

"  There  is  no  danger  in  them,  of  course  ?" 

"  Who  knows  !"  answered  Beppina,  with 
an  expressive  shi-ug. 

"  What  made  tho  girl  you  saw  faint  ?" 

"  Hunger,  miladi." 
.  "Hanger r' 
"Yes.      Her  damo*  had  "been.  ?i.  Gati- 


*  bweotheaxt. 


baldino,  and  he  got  wounded  iu  the  wars ;  and 
wlien  ho  came  back  to  Florence,  weak  and 
hickly,  he  could  get  no  work,  and  his  people 
wore  too  poor  to  help  him,  so  Gigria — she  was 
a  dressmaker's  apprentice — ^kept  him,  and 
gave  him  nearly  all  her  food.  And  one  day, 
when  sho  was  going  to  her  work,  she  turned 
giddy,  and  fell  down  in  the  street,  and  ihey 
took  her  to  a  hospital,  and  the  doctor  said 
she  had  not  had  enough  to  eat ;  and  that  tb«t 
was  all  that  was  the  matter  with  her." 

"  How  dread&l !  It  must  be  awful  to 
be  so  poor !" 

"Eh,  che  vuole?  She  couldn't  havB 
loved  him  more  if  she  had  been  ridi !  And 
she  saved  his  life,  and  that  was  a  consola- 
zione  di  Dio." 

"  Sir  John's  love,  miladi,  and  will  jcm 
excuse  him  from  coming  into  the  dinxngn- 
room  ?  Ho  will  have  the  honour  of  joining 
you  in  the  evening  afterwards." 

Paul  said  these  words  from  the  boudoir,, 
holding  the  door  that  communicated  witii , 
the  bed-room  in  his  hand. 

"Hx)w  is  Sir  John  ?"  asked  Veronica  m 
English. 

"  Sir  John  has  reposed,  miladi,  and  is 
quite  well,  only  a  little  fiitigaed  with  the 
heat.'' 

"  I  shall  not  come  down  to  dinner.  TeD 
them  to  serve  it  in  the  little  blue  room  next 
my  boudoir." 

"  Yes,  mikdL  Then  I  shall  tell  the 
signer  principe  that  miladi  does  not  re- 
ceive tins  evening  ?" 

Veronica  was  emboldened  by  the  fact 
that^  while  Paul's  &co  could  be  seen  illu- 
mined by  the  setting  sun,  whose  light 
streamed  into  the  boudoir,  her  own  &c& 
was  in  shadoWi  She  had  sometimes  beea 
vexed  with  herself  for  being  in  a  kind  of 
aw^e  under  Paul's  grave  glance,  and  for 
having  allowed  more  than  one  caprice  and 
manifestation  of  wilfulness  to  be  checked 
by  its  silent  infiuence.  Now  she  xeaolved 
to  consult  her  own  will  and  pleasure,  and 
she  threw  a  little  superfluous  asperity  into 
the  voice  in  w^hiph  she  answered: 

'^  No ;  certainly  not  I  I  have  given  yo« 
no  such  directions." 

'^  Miladi  wislics  to  have  the  dinner  served 
for  iico  in  the  blue  room  ?" 

"  Yes, — No !  I  will  dine  in  the  dining- 
saloon,  and — ^is  the  prince  here  ?" 

"  The  signer  principo  is  under  the  wesi 
logg;ia,  smoking  a  cigar." 

''  Have  you  mentioned  to  him  thai  Sir 
John  was — ^was  not  well  ?" 

^*'^\£  Jv^hn.  does  not  choose  me  to  saj 


I 


I 


\ 


\ 


?: 


& 


Gharies  Dieke  ns.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


fNoTcmber  JO,  1869.]       581 


"  That  will  do.  Yon  will  have  a  cover 
laid  for  the  prince.  I  shall  tiy  to  persuade 
him  to  stay  to  amnse  and  cheer  Sir  John  a 
littlo  this  evening.'* 

Afler  all  she  had  not  snccecded  in  simply 
issuing  her  commands  without  apology  or 
explanation  to  Paul. 

The  latter  bowed  and  withdrew. 

Veronica  waited  until  his  footsteps  had 
<iicd  away  in  the  corridor ;  then  she  said, 
putting  her  hand  to  her  forehead  with  the 
gesture  of  one  struck  with  a  sudden  re- 
membrance :  "  Oh,  I  forgot  to  give  Paul  a 
message  for  Sir  John  !" 

^  ShaJl  I  go,  nuladi  ?"  asked  Beppina. 

"IJ'o,  never  mind.  I  will  go  myself. 
Give  me  a  lace  scarf,  or  something  to  wrap 
over  my  head.  That  will  do.  Lay  out  a 
dinner  dress — anything  light  and  cool.  I 
shall  return  in  a  few  minutes." 

Veronica  passed  through  her  boudoir 
and  descended  the  staircase  leading  to 
Sir  John's  apartments,  which  were  on  the 
ground  floor.  Arrived  at  the  bosoment 
story,  however,  she  entered  one  of  the  long 
suite  of  reception-rooms  which  occupied 
the  whole  west  side  of  the  villa ;  opened  a 
glass  door ;  and  stepped  out  into  the  loggia. 
Cesaro  dc'  Barletti  was  smoking  in  the 
loggia,  as  Paul  had  said.  As  soon  as  he 
.  perceived  Veronica,  lie  threw  away  his  cigar 
And  advanced  towards  her,  hat  in  hand. 

AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 

DUE  NORTH.     SC^RBOKOUGU  A:XD  WHITBT. 

The  crow,  with  a  clear  look-out  over  the 
Gorman  Ocean,  and  with  the  Dogger  Bank 
and  the  coast  of  Jutland  out  there  yonder, 
although  invisible  even  to  his  keen,  black, 
restless  eyes,  turns  from  the  sea  to  look  down 
with  placid  approbation  on  pleasant,  breezy, 
briny,  wave- washed  Scarborough.  It  was 
A  small  and  humble  cluster  of  the  huts  of 
Yorkshire  fishermen  in  the  old  times  beUbrc 
one  of  Stephen's  barons,  William  le  Gros, 
Earl  of  Albemarle  and  Holderness,  built  the 
grand  castle,  whoso  shattered  tower  still 
challenges  old  Time  from  its  stately  clill". 
Yet  it  was  not  so  humble  but  that  it  had  its 
stormy  days  in  the  Danish  wars,  and  moi*c 
especially  when  tliat  tierce  rebel  Tosti,  the 
son  of  the  great  Earl  Goodwin,  and  a  brother 
of  Harold  (urged  on  by  William  of  Nor- 
mandy, who  had  already  a  slirewd  cjyc  on 
our  white  cliffs,  and  by  Baldwin,  Earl  of 
Flanders),  landed  in  Yorksliire  a  second 
time  (after  being  once  driven  back  to  his 
6hips  by  the  watchful  Earls  of  Northumber- 
land and  Chester),  and,  burning,  robbing, 


and  slaying,  came  reeking  with  blood  to 
httlo  Scarborough.  The  legend  is  that  the 
Norwegians,  greedy  for  slaughter,  piled 
great  masses  of  timber  on  the  hill  where 
the  ruins  of  the  castle  now  stand,  and, 
having  set  the  beams  in  one  great  crimson 
drift  of  raging  flame,  stuck  pitchforks  into 
the  burning  wood  and  hurled  it  down  upon 
the  i-oofs  and  into  the  narrow  streets  of  the 
town,  which  was  soon  wrapped  in  fire.  But 
a  littlo  later  Scarborough  had  its  revenge, 
for  Harold  and  sixty  thousand  Saxons  met 
truculent  Tosti  and  the  Norwegians  at 
Stamford  Bridge,  and,  after  ten  hours' 
fighting  Harold  slew  his  robelfious  brother 
and  the  rash  Norwegian  king,  and  twenty 
shattered  ships  sufficed  to  carry  back  the 
remnants  of  the  army  that  five  hundred 
ships  had  brought. 

In  Edward  the  Second's  reign,  Scar- 
borough had  again  its  hour  of  romance. 
The  foolish,  wild  young  king  had  been  revel- 
ling at  York  with  his  Gascon  favourite, 
Gaveston,  who  daily  grew  more  insolent 
and  rapacious.  The  indignant  barons,  who 
hated  the  insolent  foreigner,  headed  by 
Henry  the  Third's  grandson,  the  Earl 
of  Lancaster,  Lincoln,  Leicester,  Salis- 
bury, and  Derby,  besieged  Gaveston  in 
Scarborough,  where  the  king  had  placed 
him  for  safety,  making  him  governor  of 
that  eagle's  nest  of  a  castle.  Gaveston  re- 
pulsed bravely  several  attacks,  but  the  pro- 
visions in  the  town  falling  short,  and  his 
oommunication  with  the  king  at  York  being 
intercepted,  he  surrendered  to  the  "  Black 
Dog,"  as  the  Earl  of  Lancaster  was  called 
by  his  enemies,  on  conditions,  if  negotiations 
failed,  that  ho  should  be  restored  safe  to 
Scarborough.  But  from  Doddington  Castle, 
near  Bunbury,  ho  was  hurried  to  Warwick, 
and  from  there  taken  to  Blacklow  Hill  (on 
Guvcrsley  Heath)  and  there  beheaded.  The 
king,  inconsolable  at  the  death  of  his 
favourite,  had  the  body  interred  at  a  now 
church  at  Langley,  and  Avith  his  own  hands 
spread  two  cloth-of-gold  palls  upon  his 
tomb.  This  execution  of  the  young  French 
vaurien  took  placo  just  two  years  before 
the  battle  of  Bannockbum. 

Scarborough  also  had  its  adventures 
during  the  Wyatt  i*ebellion,  when  the  ap- 
proaching Spanish  marriage  of  Queen  Mary 
yyns  fevering  the  brains  of  all  aggressive 
Protestants.  Mr.  Thomas  Stafford,  second 
of  Lord    Stafford,  and  a  hot-headed 


son 


adherent  of  Wyatt,  collected  some  Eng- 
lish fugitives  in  France  and  returned  with 
them  to  Scarborough.  On  a  market-day 
he,  and  thirty  of  his  men  dressed  as  carters 


«= 


di 


ih> 


o82       [N'ovemUr  20,  lS6y.] 


ALL  THP]  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Contlu'-teiiby 


and  conntrvmen,  and  secretly  armed, 
strolled  up  the  lull  into  Scarborough  Castle, 
and  began  staring  about,  as  excursionists 
do,  at  the  different  towers  and  gates.  At 
a  given  signal  rushing  on  the  sentinels, 
they  secured  them,  and  admitted  their  ex- 
pectant companions.  Poor  gallant  lad! 
The  success  was  useless.  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt 
had  been  already  defeated  at  Hyde  Park 
Comer,  and  at  Temple  Bar  had  tlirown 
away  his  sword.  After  holding  Scarborough 
Castle  for  three  days  of  triumph  only,  Staf- 
ford surrendered  it  to  the  Earl  of  Westmore- 
land. The  young  nobleman,  Captain  Saun- 
ders, and  three  of  their  associates,  Shelley, 
Bradford,  and  Proctor,  were  sent  to  the 
Tower.  Stafford  was  beheaded,  the  rest 
hanged  and  quartered,  and  this  was  the 
origin  of  the  old  saying,  "  A  Scarborough 
warning — a  word  and  a  blow,  and  the  blow 
fii'st." 

It  was  in  April,  1G42,  that  from  the  bat- 
tlements of  the  Beverley  Gate  at  Hull, 
Sir  John  HothaTu  refused  the  king  admit- 
tance, and  bv  that  refusal  commenced  the 
civil  wars.  It  was  not  till  February,  l()4i, 
that  the  stomi  fell  upon  Scarborougli.  The 
watchful  Parliament  sent  Sir  John  !Mel- 
diTim  to  succeed  a  general  wliom  Pjiirfax 
liad  appointed,  and  the  steel  head- pieces 
musteiing  to  tho  chanting  of  a  sullen 
psalm,  tho  men  in  grey  and  buff  stormed 
tho  town  at  a  rush,  and  carried  St.  Mary's 
Church  on  the  liill  by  assault,  driving  Sir 
Hugh  Cholmley,  the  Cavalier  g(jvernor,  into 
the  castle.  It  was  a  great  victory  lor  the 
men  of  the  sword  and  the  Bible,  for  they 
took  in  tlie  town  and  the  fortress-chm'ch 
thirty-two  pieces  of  cannon,  with  a  gi'eat 
quantity  of  arms  and  ammunition,  and  in 
the  harboui*  one  hundred  and  twenty  ships 
laden  with  wheat  and  timber  sui'ivndered 
to  their  blue  ling.  Sir  John  Mcldnim  then 
regularly  invested  the  castle,  which  still 
tormented  the  sea,  sands,  town,  and  har- 
bour with  its  plunging  fire,  and  fixing  ^uns 
in  the  east  window  of  St.  Mary's,  opi»ued  a 
battery  on  the  stubborn  fortress.  Tiie  gar- 
rison replied  quite  as  hot  and  fast,  and  the 
Cavaliers'  incessant  and  close  fire  soon 
demolished  the  choii*  of  St.  Mary's,  the  grey 
old  niins  of  which  still  mark  the  site.  It 
"was  a  tedious  siege,  and  on  the  17th  of 
May,  1G40,  tho  Pm-itans,  weary  at  the 
delay,  made  a  general  assault  of  iho  cliiet' 
gate,  but  they  were  repulsed,  many  of  their 
best  officers  killed,  and  their  commander,  Sir 
John  Mckh'um  himself,  mortally  wounded. 
Sir  Mathcw  Boynton,  the  new  geuewvX, 
brought   i-cinfoi'ccments  and    pressed  t\v<* 


siege  with  great  vigour ;  still  it  was  not 
till  July,  ltJ45,  that  brave  Sir  Hugh  Cholm- 
ley  suiTcndered.  Twelve  months*  battering 
had  made  the  imier  towers,  the  barbican, 
even  the  square  Norman  keep  itst»lf  bc^n 
to  flake  and  crumble ;  the  stores  were  all 
but  gone ;  fatigue,  sickness,  and  above  all, 
scurvy,  had  worn  out  the  garrison.  The 
pale  and  mi«;crable  survivors  had  to  be 
canned  out  in  sheets,  and  nearly  all  required 
support.  During  this  staunch  siege  tbe 
Cavaliers  struck  square  silver  crowns  and 
half-crowns,  some  of  wliich  still  exist.  In 
old  times  there  were  only  four  churches  in 
Scarborough  ;  St.  Nicholas  on  the  cliff;  St. 
Sepulchre's ;  St.  Thomas  in  Newborough, 
which  was  destroyed  by  the  fire  of  the 
castle-guns ;  and  St.  Mary's,  the  central 
tower  of  which  (sludcen  during  the  siege) 
fell  in  l<3oa 

The  Spa  at  Scarborough  has  a  legend  or 
two  of  its  own.  It  was  discovered  in  the 
reign  of  James  the  First  by  Mrs.  Farrow, 
a  sensible  and  quick-sighted  observer.  She 
had  observed  that  the  waters  of  a  spring 
at  tho  foot  of  the  south  cliff  turned  the 
stones,  over  which  they  trickled,  a  rusty 
red.  Tasting  the  watera  and  finding  them 
peculiar,  and  discovering  also  that  they 
became  tinged  with  purple  when  mixed 
with  gall,  she  began  to  make  fui'ther  ex- 
periments to  ascL-rtoin  if  they  pos.se<sed 
metlical  properties.  The  Spa's  value  s^x^n 
became  acknowkilged  by  the  citizens  of 
York  and  the  gentry  of  the  three  Ridinsfs. 
In  1(»1>8  a  cistern  was  first  made  to  collect 
the  Spa  waters.  In  December,  1737,  a 
slight  earthquake  (as  it  was  supposed  by 
the  curious)  caused  a  very  extraordinaiy 
change  in  the  Spa  spring.  The  "  strait h," 
a  stone  breakwater  bound  with  timber,  to 
protect  the  Spa  House  from  the  waves, 
suddenly  gave  way,  and  a  mass  of  the  cliil^ 
containing  nearly  an  acixj  of  pasture  laud 
and  with  cattle  grazing  upon  it  at  the  very 
time,  sank  per]>endicularly  several  yards. 
At  the  same  time,  tho  saiLd  under  the  cUff 
\or  a  hundred  yai-ds  long  rose  six  or  seven 
feet. 

Many  old  historiciil  legends  of  piratical 
forays  and  daring  revenges  still  hang  about 
Scarborough.  Tlie  crow  has  his  little  eye  on 
one  legend  of  the  early  part  of  the  luckless 
reign  of  Richaixl  the  Second.  A  Scottish  sea 
chief,  nnmed  Andrew  Mercer,  being  taken 
by  northern  ships,  was  clapped  in  prison 
in  windy  Scarborough  Castle.  The  son  of 
Mercer,  furious  at  this,  Siiiled  angrilv  into 
t\\<i  Xotkv>Vvvco  harbour  with  a  little  bond  of 
^eo\.\AS^A^1^T^v\^v  \i\\<i '^^wxaj^  \iUii^,  and 


I 


^ 


^ 


Oharies  Dickeaa.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[XOTcmber  20, 1869.]       583 


I 


carried  off  several  vessels.  Eager  for  re- 
venge, and  naturally  solicitous  for  tlie 
safety  of  our  seas,  Alderman  Pliilpot,  a 
i-ieli  London  merchant,  at  once  patrioticidlj 
equipped  an  armed  fleet  at  his  own  expense, 
darted  out  after  !Mercer,  overtook  him,  re- 
took the  Scarborough  sliips,  and,  in  addi- 
tion, fifteen  richly- laden  Spanish  vessels ; 
so  virtue  was  not  merely  its  own  reward 
in  Philpot's  case.  Yorkshire  ballads,  which 
seem  to  oentro  round  that  brave  and  gene- 
rous chief,  Robin  Hood,  have  apparently 
mixed  up  some  story  of  him  with  this  ex- 
ploit of  this  sturdy  aldeiman.  The  old 
ballad  has  it,  that  on  a  certain  occasion 
(a  long  run  of  rheumatic  wet  weather,  per- 
liaps  ?),  the  outlaw  of  merry  Sherwood, 
growing  tii'ed  of  the  green- wood,  resolved 
to  go  to  Scarborough  and  turn  fisherman. 
But  Robin,  quite  out  of  his  element  at  sea, 
and  lialf  his  time  squeamish  and  uncertain 
about  the  legs  as  a  Margate^  yachting  man, 
caught  no  fish.  Suddenly,  however,  a 
French  ship  of  war  bears  down  on  the  little 
Betsy  Jano;  the  master  is  in  sore  fear; 
but  Robiu*B  eye  kindles,  and  his  chest  ex- 
pands. 

"  Master,  tie  mo  to  the  mast/'  saith  ho, 
"  That  at  my  mark  I  may  stand  fair ; 
And  give  mo  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand. 
And  ncTer  a  Frenchman  will  1  spare." 

And  so  fast  flew  his  grcy-wiiiged  shafts, 
that  the  Frenchman's  deck  wiis  soon  strewn 
with  dead  men  and  the  scuppers  running 
blood.  Then  Robin  and  his  meri-y  men 
l)oardcd  the  helpless  vessel,  and  found  in 
her,  to  their  infinite  delight. 

Twelve  thousand  pound  of  money  bright. 

Many  legends  of  Robin  indeed  prevail  in 
this  pait  of  Yorksliire,  for,  not  fai*  oft',  near 
Whitby,  is  the  bay  still  named  after  him, 
where  tradition  says,  when  hard  pressed, 
he  used  to  fly  to  the  fishing  vessels  he  kept 
there,  and,  putting  to  sea,  escaped  the  fangs 
of  the  angry  law.  On  the  wild  moors  beyond 
Stoupe  Brow,  are  some  Biitish  or  Saxon- 
Danisii  tumuli,  where  Robin  and  Little  John 
are  said  to  have  practised  their  feats  of 
archery.  From  the  tower  of  Whitby  Abbey 
it  was  that  Robin  and  hiti  tall  lieutenniit, 
after  they  had  been  entei'tained  by  Saint 
Hilda's  monks,  gave,  at  the  request  of  their 
hosts,  a  proof  of  their  skill  with  the 
*'  crooked  stick  and  the  gi'ey  goose  wing." 
Their  arrows  (no  doubt  alxiut  it)  fell  nearly 
thi-ee  miles  off  in  the  village  of  Hawsker, 
where  (and  this  entirely  clenches  it)  two  up- 
right stones  still  indicate  whei-e  the  shafts 
fell.  When  you  liavo  passed  the  din  of  the 
great,  smoky  hovnuoor  ironworks,  and  lett 


Whitfield  behind,  you  reach,  a  few  miles 
fui-ther  up  the  green  vallc-y  of  the  Calder, 
Kirklces,  where  all  true  Yorkshiremen  de- 
clare the  great  outlaw,  when  sore  "  dLstt^ni- 
pered  with  cold  and  age,"  was  treacherously 
bled  to  death  by  his  ruthless  nunt,  an  old 
prioress,  who  hated  her  brave  nephew  for  the 
foul  scorn  he  had  always  shown  to  priests. 
A  small  closet  in  the  priory  gate-house  is  still 
shown  as  the  place  where,  when  bleeding 
to  death  in  the  bolted  den,  the  dying  nuin 
bethought  him  of  his  bugle  horn,  and, 
staggering  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and 

—blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 
Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him* 
Ab  ho  sat  under  the  tree, 
"  I  fear  my  master  is  near  dead. 
He  blows  so  wearily." 

Then  faithful  Little  John  tightened  his 
belt,  flew  to  Kirklees,  and  breajdng  locks, 
l)olts,  &c.,  reached  his  master,  and  saw  that 
he  was  dying.  Rut  Robin,  gentle  even 
under  foul  wrong,  would  not  hear  of  Little 
John  burning  down  Kirklees  Hall  and  the 
treacherous  nimnery.  "No,"  said  he,  nobly, 

"  I  never  hurt  lair  maid  in  all  my  time, 

Xor  at  my  end  shall  it  bo; 
But  give  me  my  bent  bdw  in  my  hand, 

And  a  broad  arrow  I'll  let  flee, 
And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up, 

There  shall  my  grave  digg'd  be.'* 

And  so  it  was  done,  and  on  a  spot  of  high 
table  land,  commanding  a  fine  view  of  the 
sunny  glades  of  Kirklees,  there  lies  the  bold 
outlaw.  An  iron  railing  among  thick  trees, 
encloses  a  block  of  stone,  on  which  is  en- 
graved a  sham  antique  inscnption,  dated 
1247.  It  records  the  death  of  Robert  Earl  of 
Huntingdon, and  concludes  with  these  lines: 

Such  outlaws  as  he  and  his  men 
\Vill  England  never  see  a^ain. 

In  that  genuine  old  classic  ballad  Robin 
Hood's  Garland,  a  final  verso  runs : 

Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head^ 

And  another  at  my  feet, 
And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side, 

Which  was  my  music  sweet, 
And  make  my  grave  of  jfrarel  ami  green, 

AVhich  is  moat  right  and  meet. 

Let  me  have  length  and  breadth  enough, 

With  a  green  sod  under  my  head, 
That  they  may  say  when  I  am  dead, 

Hero  lies  bold  Kobin  Hood. 

Yorksliire  and  the  neighbouring  counties 
are,  indeed,  full  of  relies  and  records  of 
Robin.  At  Fountains  Abbey  they  still  show 
the  well  beside  which  he  fought  the  sturdy 
Curtal  friar.  His  chair,  slijiper,  and  cap 
used  to  be  shown  at  St.  Ann's  Well,  near 
Nottingham ;  there  is  a  Robin  Hood's  Well 
at  Skf  Ibrook,  near  Doncaster ;  theix)  is  a  va 
Robin  Hood' A  H\IV  \\\yo.^^  \\\Mi  ^-^^^i  'cJv  ^';^-    nv 


«c5. 


:»C3 


584      [Xovembor  20, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condacted  fay 


among  the  solitary  rocks  of  Staunton  Moor, 
in  Derbyshire. 

Tlic  antiquaries  have  fought  hard  over 
Little  John's  grave.  One  says  ho  died  in 
Scotland,  another  that  he  was  Irang  near 
Dublin,  while  'Mr.  Hicklin,  the  last  speaker, 
loudly  asserts  that  he  was  buried  at  the 
picturesque  village  of  Hathersage,  in  Dct- 
byshire,  where  he  was  bom,  and  where  his 
cottage  is  still  shown.  His  green  cap  used 
to  be  hung  up  in  Hathersage  chui'ch,  but  it 
is  now  removed  to  Carron  Hill.  There  has 
lx?en  equal  fighting  as  to  where  Robin 
Hood's  birth  took  place.  The  oldest  records 
say  Lockesly  Chase,  near  Sheffield  (hence 
the  name  Sir  "Walter  has  given  brave  Robin 
in  Ivanhoe).  Others  say  the  real  Loxly  was 
in  Staffordshire  or  Warwicksliire.  Leland 
(Henry  the  Eighth)  calls  Robin  a  noble, 
and  others  boldly  make  him  Robert  Fitz- 
Odo,  an  Earl  of  Huntingdon  outlawed  in  the 
twelfth  century.  Mr.  Plancho  inclines  to 
the  opinion  that  he  was  a  claimant  at  least 
of  the  earldom.  After  much  controversy, 
it  is  almost  certain  tliat  if  Robin  ever 
lived,  he  lived  between  1160  and  1247, 
that  is  through  the  reigns  of  Henrjr  the 
Second,  Richard  the  First,  John,  and  paH 
of  Henry  the  Third.  Thierry,  the  French 
historian,  has  shown  with  much  discrimi- 
nation that  in  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion's 
time  Sherwood  Forest  stretched  from  Not- 
tingham to  the  very  centre  of  Yorkshire, 
and  in  these  wilds  bands  of  Saxon  outlaws 
lived,  who  long  defied  and  tormented  the 
Norman. 


RAIN  AND  RAIN-DOCTORS. 


An  English  newspaper  published  in  the 
East  has  just  told  us  that  the  Burmese 
pull  a  rope  when  they  want  rain.  A  capital 
idea :  seeing  that  the  pulling  of  a  rope  is 
within  the  competency  of  most  of  us.  It  is 
managed  in  Burmah  thus  :  Two  parties — 
those  who  wish  for  rain,  and  those  who  don't 
— lay  hold  of  opposite  ends  of  the  rope ; 
whichever  pull  hardest,  win  the  day.  It  is 
said,  however  (as  is  the  case  in  relation  to 
many  controversies  and  contests  going  on 
around  us  here  at  home),  that  the  affair  is 
prearranged ;  it  is  agreed  beforehand  that 
the  rain-pullers  shall  be  permitted  to  pull 
with  more  vigour  than  their  competitors. 
Whether  the  rain  comes  whon  the  rope  has 
been  pulled,  our  informant  unfortunately 
has  omitted  to  state. 

Tlicre  arc  rain-doctors  in  all  countries  : 
some  furtlier  removed   than   others  from 


science,  but  doctors  still.  The  looking  out 
for  omens  (a  habit  more  general  than  we 
are  in  the  habit  of  supposing)  is  a  residuum 
of  a  belief  that  was  almost  universal  in  old 
days.  The  signs  or  symptoms  connected 
with  the  movements  of  animals  may,  in 
many  instances,  be  worthy  of  attention ;  but 
they  are  mixed  up  with  the  strangest  ab- 
surdities. Of  the  rain  prognostics  accepted 
two  or  three  centuries  ago,  there  was  a 
pretty  extensive  variety.  If  ducks  and 
drakes  flutter  their  -vvings  unusually  whon 
they  rise ;  if  young  horses  rub  their  backs 
against  the  ground ;  if  sheep  begin  to  bleat 
and  skip  about ;  if  swine  are  seen  to  carry 
hay  and  straw  to  hiding-places;  if  oxen 
lick  themselves  the  \\Tong  way  of  the 
hair ;  if  a  lamp  or  candle  spnttcr ;  if  a 
great  deal  of  soot  falls  down  the  chimney ; 
if  frogs  cronk  more  than  usual ;  if  swallows 
fly  low ;  if  hogs  run  home  loudly  granting 
and  squeaking ;  if  cattle  and  donkeys  prick 
up  their  cars;  if  ants  come  out  of  their 
hills,  and  moles  and  worms  out  of  the 
ground;  if  crows  assemble  in  crowds,  and 
ravens  croak ;  if  water-fowl  come  to  land ; 
if  (as  an  old  writer  describes  it)  "  beast cs 
move  hero  and  there,  makynge  a  noyse,  and 
brethynge  up  the  ayrc  with  open  noKtrels ;" 
if  the  down  fly  off  from  the  dandelion  and 
the  thistle  when  there  is  no  wind;  if 
church-bells  be  heard  further  than  usual ; 
in  all  such  cases,  we  arc  told  to  expect 
rain.  Gay,  in  his  Pastorals,  tells  ns  that 
when  a  heifer  sticks  her  tail  bolt  upright, 
or  when  our  corns  prick,  it  is  an  omen 
of  approaching  rain  ;  whereas  fine  weather 
is  foreshown  by  the  high  flying  of  swal- 
lows. In  another  of  his  works,  Trivia,  Gray 
says  (in  relation  to  the  signboards  which 
the  streets  of  London  so  abundantly  dis- 
played in  his  day)  : 

Whon  the  swin^g  ngoM  your  ean  offend 
With  croaking  noiso,  tucn  rainj  floods  impend ; 
Soon  ihall  tlie  kennels  swell  with  rapid  streams. 

Poor  Robin's  Almanack,  about  a  century 
and  a  half  ago,  annoimced  that  when  a 
hedgehog  builds  a  nest  with  the  opening 
in  one  tfircction,  the  next  rain  and  wind 
will  come  from  the  opposite  direction.  An- 
other writer  asked : 

Why  doth  a  cow,  about  half  an  hour 
Before  there  comes  a  hasty  shower, 
Clap  her  tail  against  a  hedge  ? 

The  question  is,  does  she  ?  And  the  next 
question  would  be,  is  it  one  peculiarly-con- 
stituted cow  who  does  so,  or  do  cows  gene- 
rally so  conduct  themselves  ? 

Rain-doctors  and  rain-prophets  arc  two 
different  classes.     The  latter  wish  to  knoTf 


4 


4 


=>0 


Cluurles  Dlckeni.] 


RAm  AND  RAIN-DOCTORS. 


[November  20, 1860.]      585 


whence  and  when  rain  is  coming,  bnt  witii 
&ir  good  seosc  lay  aside  any  claim  to  the 
power  of  producing  it.  Not  so  the  medi- 
cine-men of  North  America,  who  (if  the 
exceedingly  troublesome  Red  Man  still  re- 
tain his  ancient  characteristics)  are  looked 
to  as  potent  influences  in  times  of  un- 
wonted dry  weather.  Arabia  can  say  some- 
thing of  the  same  kind.  When  Carsten 
Niebuhr  was  in  that  country,  he  stopped 
some  time  in  the  province  of  Ncdjeram, 
which  was  under  the  rule  of  a  sheikh 
named  Mccrami.  Of  this  sheikh,  Niebuhr 
said :  "  He  honours  Mahomet  as  the  prophet 
of  God,  but  looks  with  little  respect  upon  his 
successors  and  commentators.  Some  of  the 
more  sensible  Arabs  say  that  the  sheikh  has 
found  means  to  avail  himself  of  heaven  even 
in  this  life ;  for  (to  use  their  expression)  he 
sells  Paradise  by  the  yard,  and  assigns  more 
or  less  favourable  places  in  that  mansion 
according  to  the  sums  paid  him.  Simple 
superstitious  persons  actually  purchase  as- 
signments upon  heaven  from  him  and  his 
procurators,  and  hope  to  profit  thereby.  A 
Persian  of  the  province  of  Kcrman,  too, 
has  lately  begun  to  issue  similar  bills  upon 
heaven,  and  has  gained  considerably  by  the 
traffic."  Niebuhr  dryly  remarks  upon 
this :  "  The  people  of  the  East  appear  to 
approach,  daily,  nearer  to  the  ingenious  in- 
ventions of  Europeans  in  these  matters/' 
He  then  proceeds:  "The  knowledge  of 
many  secrets,  and  among  others  of  one  for 
obtaining  rain  when  he  pleases,  is  likewise 
ascribed  to  the  sheikh.  When  the  countiy 
suffers  from  di*ought,  ho  appoints  a  fast, 
and  afler  it  a  publio  procession,  in  which 
all  must  assist,  with  an  air  of  humility, 
without  their  turbans,  and  in  a  garb  suil^ 
ably  mean.  Some  Arabs  of  distinction  as- 
sured me  that  this  never  fails  to  procure 
an  immediate  fall  of  rain." 

We  may,  in  imagination,  leap  over  Egypt 
and  sundry  other  hot  regions,  and  pass  from 
Arabia  to  Morocco,  where  Lempriere  tells 
us  of  doings  somewhat  similar.  (Not  Lem- 
priere the  dictionary  maker,  but  William 
Lempriere,  an  army-surgeon  attached  to  the 
British  garrison  at  Gibraltar.)  The  Em- 
peror of  Morocco,  during  the  illness  of  his 
son  and  heir,  applied  through  the  English 
consul  for  the  services  of  this  gentleman ; 
and  Lempriere  had  opportunities  thus  af- 
forded him  of  penetrating  fui-thcr  into  the 
recesses  of  domestic  life  than  is  often  per- 
mitted in  Mohammedan  countries.  Speak- 
ing of  the  harem  at  Morocco  in  1790,  he 
said :  "  In  one  of  my  visits  I  observed  a 
procession,  which  upon  inquiry  I  found  was 


intended  as  an  invocation  to  God  and  Ma- 
homet for  rain,  of  which  there  had  been  a 
scarcity  for  several  preceding  months.  The 
procession  was  commenced  by  the  youngest 
children  in  the  harem,  who  were  bcLrely  able 
to  walk,  two  abreast ;  and  these  were  fol- 
lowed by  the  next  in  ag^,  till  at  length  a 
great  part  of  the  women  fell  into  the  group, 
making  altogether  upwards  of  a  hundred 
persons.  They  carried  on  their  heads  their 
prayers  written  on  paper,  pasted  on  a  square 
board,  and  proceeded  through  all  the  courts 
singing  hymns,  the  purport  of  which  was 
adapted  to  the  solemn  occasion.  I  was  in- 
formed that  they  continued  this  ceremony 
every  day  during  the  whole  of  the  dry  wea- 
ther, and  were  to  repeat  it  till  their  prayers 
were  attended  with  success." — A  safe  pro- 
ceeding, at  all  events :  seeing  that  the  de- 
sired rain  was  sure  to  come  sooner  or 
later. 

Whether  any  other  people  in  the  East 
besides  the  Burmese  perform  the  rope-pull* 
ing  moda  of  producing  rain,  we  do  not 
know ;  but  the  women  in  some  parts  of 
India  adopt  a  peculiar  naethod  of  their  own. 
The  Bengal  Hurkam,  anewspaper  published 
in  Calcutta,  had  the  following  paragraph  less 
than  five  years  ago,  in  relation  to  a  drought 
which  affected  a  large  portion  of  India: 
"  The  pundits  and  moulvies  were  called  into 
the  service,  and  muntras  and  beits  (prayers) 
were  read  with  intense  but  unavailing  fer- 
vour. Finding  the  efforts  of  the  priests 
fail  them,  the  ryots  (peasants)  next  had 
recourse  to  an  ancient  and  somewhat  sin- 
gular custom.  At  night  all  the  women  of 
many  of  the  villages  walked  naked  to 
some  neighbouring  tank  or  stream,  and 
there,  with  songs  and  invocations,  sought 
to  propitiate  the  offended  heavens,  and 
to  induce  the  gods  to  send  them  rain. 
This  device  was  also  without  immediate 
effect." 

But,  while  the  medicine-men  and  weather 
doctors  ore  tzying  to  bring  rain  where  there 
is  none,  what  are  we  to  say  of  a  semi,  or 
demi-scmi,  scientific  man  who  attempts  to 
drive  away  rain  when  he  doesn't  want  it, 
and  make  it  fall  somewhere  else  ?  One 
M.  Otto,  of  Leipzic,  has  not  only  broached 
this  problem,  but  has  actually  had  his 
scheme  brought  before  the  Aosulomio  des 
Sciences  at  Paris.  He  proposes  a  machine 
called  a  pluvifuge,  or  rain-cxpeller,  to  be 
hoisted  on  a  very  elevated  platform.  The 
machine  is  to  consist  of  an  enormous  pair 
of  bellows  worked  by  steam  power ;  and 
its  purpose  is  to  blow  away  any  rainy 
clouds  'which  may  be  accumulating.     If 


^ 


^ 


586       [XovoTnborSO.  I«fl0.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condnetecl  by 


// 


many  of  thpso  worn  placed  at  equal  inter^-ftls 
in  a  large  city,  they  nnrrht  perclianco  in- 
flure  a  continnancc  of  fair  wcathtT.  What 
the  learned  Acadoniio  thought  of  this  is 
not  recorded;  perhaps  they  preserved  a 
polite  silence ;  hut  a  very  knotty  question 
presents  itself.  If  (an  enonnons  mouthful 
to  swallow,  in  all  conscience)  the  pluvifngc 
could  really  do  this  work,  how  about  other 
localities  ?  As  dirty  little  boys  when  driven 
away  by  a  policeman  from  one  place,  will 
certainly  reassemble  in  another,  so  would 
the  rain,  driven  away  by  the  pluinfupe  from 
one  locality,  make  its  presence  sensibly  felt 
in  another.  And  suppose  that  other  lo- 
cality does  not  want  it  V  It  has  been  very 
cogently  asked :  "  "Would  not  an  action  for 
damap^es  lie  against  the  workers  of  the 
machine  in  town  A,  in  case  of  towus  B  and 
C  sufTei-ing  from  the  nndue  quantity  of  rain 
which  would  be  liable  to  fall  to  their  share, 
if  town  A  succeeded  in  puffing  it  all  away 
from  itself  ?  For  the  vapour  blo\m  from 
some  place  must  needs  be  blown  to  some 
other  place.  Or  say  that  towns  B  and  C, 
and  even  D  and  B,  were  as  sharp-witted  as 
town  A,  and  were  to  set  up  equally  (effica- 
cious machines,  there  surely  ought  to  be 
some  redress  for  to^vn  P,  in  case  of  its  being 
altogether  submerged,  as  might  very  pos- 
sibly happen  under  such  circumstances." 
A  case  is  supposed  of  an  open-air  fete  at 
Smithville,  to  celebrate  the  coming  of  ago 
of  the  heir  of  the  Smiths.  At  Brownsville 
a  pluvifuge  happens  unluckily  t/>  be  at 
work,  and  blows  tho  ruin  to  the  very 
lawn  at  which  the  fiJte  champetro  is  bring 
held.  If  a  ca^e,  Smith  v.  Brown,  were  in- 
stituted, would  not  the  plaintiff  be  entitled 
to  damages  for  the  injury  done  by  tlie  rain 
to  the  ladies'  dresses,  and  for  doctors'  bills 
arising  out  of  colds  and  catarrhs  caught  on 
tho  occasion  ? 

Few  of  our  modem  weather-prophets 
know  the  real  legend  which  gave  birth  to 
the  belief  in  St.  Swithin's  Uay,  as  a  weathcr- 
wiso  day.  As  Bishop  of  Winchester,  just 
about  a  thousand  years  ago,  Swithin  was  a 
man  noted  for  his  worth  and  liis  humility. 
The  latt<?r  was  displayed  in  a  request  that, 
when  dead,  he  should  be  buried  not  within 
tho  church  but  in  the  churchyard,  where 
pttsscrs-by  might  tr(»ad  u]>on  his  grave, 
and  where  roof-eaves  might  drip  water 
upon  it.  His  wish  was  complied  with. 
But  about  a  century  afterwards,  w^lien 
Switbin  liad  been  canonised  into  St. 
S within,  the  clergy,  in  a  fit  of  renewed 
zeal,  thinking  that  the  body  of  so  great  a 
saint  ought  not  to  lie  in  such  a  place,  de- 


tern  lineil  to  remove  it  into  the  cathedral ; 
but  rain  poured  down  so  continuously  for 
forty  days  that  they  could  not  find  a  suit- 
able opportunity  for  tlie  grand  ceremonial 
which  had  been  planned.  Accc-pting  this 
as  a  judgment  on  them  for  <lisobeying  the 
saint's  wishes,  they  gave  up  their  project, 
and  Iruilt  a  chapel  over  the  humble  grave 
instead.  An  accompliijhed  Anglo- Saxon 
scholar  has  recently  played  havocs  with  this 
old  legend ;  but  it  would  take  many  such 
scholars  to  boat  out  of  the  heads  of  unedu- 
cated people  their  faith  in  tlie  loth  of  July. 
The  Astronomer  Royal  at  Greenwich  stau-s 
that  he  finds,  on  an  average  of  a  large 
number  of  years,  quite  as  much  rain,  after 
a  fine  St.  Swithin's  day  as  afler  one  that  is 
wet ;  but  no  matter,  tho  old  quatrain  is 
quoted  triumphantly  against  him : 

St.  Swithin's  day,  if  Uiou  dost  nun. 
For  fort  V  days  it  will  rctnaTn : 
St.  Sw-itiiin's  dny,  if  thou  be  fiair. 
For  forty  days  'twill  rain  nao  mair. 

There  are,  sometimes,  real  showers  of  very 
unreal  rain.  It  is  stated  by  an  old  writer 
that  in  Lapland  and  Finmark  about  a 
century  ago,  mice  of  a  particular  kind  were 
known  to  fall  from  the  sky ;  and  that  such 
an  event  was  sure  to  be  followed  by  a  ginxl 
year  for  foxes.  A  shower  of  frogs  fell  near 
Toulouse  in  1804.  A  prodigious  number 
of  black  insects,  about  an  inch  in  length, 
descended  in  a  snow-storm  at  Pakroff,  m 
Russia,  in  1827.  On  one  occasion,  in 
Nor^vay,  the  peasants  were  astonished  at 
finding  a  shower  of  rats  pelting  down  on 
their  heads.  Showers  of  fishes  have  been 
numerous.  At  Stanstead,  in  Kent,  in 
lt566,  a  pasture  field  was  found  one  morn- 
ing covered  plentifully  witli  fish,  although 
there  "is  neitner  sea  nor  river,  lake  nor 
fish-pond  near.  At  Allahabad,  in  1839, 
an  English  officer  saw  a  good  smart  down- 
pour of  fish ;  and  soon  afterwards  thou- 
sands of  small  dead  fish  were  found  upon 
the  ground.  Scotland  has  had  many  cf 
these  showers  of  fish  ;  as  in  Ross-shire,  in 
1828,  when  quantities  of  herring- fry  covered 
the  pjound  ;  at  Islay,  in  1830,  when  a  lai^' 
number  of  herrings  wein?  found  strewed 
over  a  field  after  a  heavy  gusty  rain ;  at 
Wick,  much  more  recently,  when  herrings 
were  found  in  large  quantities  in  a  field 
half  a  mile  from  the  beach.  In  all  these, 
and  numerous  other  cases,  when  a  liberal 
allowance  has  been  made  for  exaggeration, 
the  remainder  can  bo  explained  by  well- 
undeiTsti^od  causes.  Stray  wind  blowing 
from  a  sea  or  river ;  a  water-spout  lickinff 
up  tho  fish  out  of  the  water ;  a  whirlwind 


«• 


^ 


CbArles  Diclcen5<.] 


A  SIGHT  IN  THE  BUSH. 


[NoTember  20, 1S69.]        587 


Bending  them  hither  and  thither ;  all  iheso 
are  intelligible.  Tho  rat-sliower  in  Nor- 
way was  an  extraordinary  one ;  thonsands 
of  rats  were  taking  their  annual  excnrsion 
ti"om  a  hilly  region  to  the  lowlands,  when 
a  wliii'lwind  overtook  them,  wliisked  them 
up,  and  deposited  them  in  a  field  at  some 
distance :  donhtlesB  much  to  the  astoidsh- 
meut  of  Buch  of  the  rats  as  came  down 
alive. 

Tlie  so-called  showers  of  blood  have  had 
their  day  of  terror  and  marvel,  and  have 
disappeai'ed.  Not  tliat  any  one  ever  saw 
such  a  shower  actually  &11 ;  but  red  spots 
have  occasionally  been  seen  on  walls  and 
stones,  much  to  the  populaY*  dismay.  Swam- 
merdam,  the  naturahst,  told  the  people  of 
the  Hague,  two  centuries  ago,  that  these 
red  spots  were  connected  with  some  phe- 
n<5mena  of  insect  life ;  but  they  would  not 
believe  him,  and  insisted  that  the  spots 
were  real  blood,  and  were  portents  of  evil 
times  to  come.  Other  naturahsts  have  since 
coniii'med  tho  scientific  opinion. 

I  --  —     -  ---  -  ■» —  ■  -      

A  SIGHT  IN  THE  BUSH. 


It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  greater 
contrast  than  there  is  between,  the  winter 
and'  the  summer  months  in  South  Aus- 
traha.  Picture  to  yourself  the  most  beau- 
tiful May  day  at  home — and  you  have  the 
former ;  picture  to  yourself  clouds  of  dust, 
a  glaring  sun,  the  thermometer  at  one 
hundred  and  fifteen  in  tho  shade — and  yon 
have  the  latter. 

Tho  hfe  the  working  man  leads  in  the 
Bush  is  quite  as  peculiar  as  the  climate. 
He  comes,  generally  walking,  carrying  his 
bedding  and  all  his  other  worldly  posses- 
sions on  his  back,  looking  for  a  job.  When 
he  obtains  one  he  stops ;  when  it  is  done, 
he  gets  a  cheque  for  his  work,  which  ho 
epends  generally  at  the  nearest  public- 
house.  As  soon  as  he  is  penniless  (wliich 
is  very  soon),  he  starts  again  from  station 
to  station,  as  before.  "VVlio  can  imagine 
anything  much  more  miserable  than  a  man 
without  a  friend  or  relation  in  the  world  (as 
thousands  of  these  men  are),  thus  wander- 
ing about,  destitute  of  ambition,  destitute 
of  spirit,  destitute  of  everything  that  man 
should  be  possessed  of?  These  wTctched 
fellows  havo  but  one  desire,  one  hope,  one 
aim  in  this  world,  and  that  is  to  '*make 
a  cheque,"  so  as  to  bo  able  to  go  and  have 
a  beastly  carouse,  in  which  they  appear 
more  like  fiends  than  men.  They  will 
take  forty    or    fifty  pounds   to    a    Bush 


public-house,  and  in  less  than  a  week 
will  leave  it  absolutely  penniless,  and 
will  become  dependent  upon  the  scattered 
stations  for  food.  Of  course  you  meet 
with  good  and  respectable  men  among 
these  wanderers,  but,  as  a  whole,  the 
working  hands  of  the  Bush  are  infamous 
and  degraded. 

I  saw  a  startling  sight  once  in  the  Bush. 
I  was  riding  through  a  thick  scrub,  where 
there  was  no  road  or  track  of  any  kind, 
when  suddenly  I  came  upon  a  man,  the  like 
of  whom  1  liad  never  seen  before,  and  hope 
never  to  see  again.  This  happened  in  the 
middle  of  summer,  and  there  was  no  water 
within  twenty  miles.  The  man  was  about 
forty  years  of  age,  of  middle  height,  with 
a  long  ragged  beard  and  whiskers.  As 
I  came  upon  him,  ho  was  walking  bare- 
foot :  with  his  eyes,  whioli  protruded  from 
his  head,  staring  fixedly  before  liim,  as  if 
he  saw  something  which  irresistibly  at- 
tracted him.  He  had  not  even  a  "  billy"  to 
carry  water  in,  neither  had  ho  a  bag  or 
bundle  of  any  kind ;  but  in  his  hand  he 
carried  a  lump  of  uncooked  fiit.  His  shirt 
and  trousers  hung  in  shreds  about  him,  and 
his  head  was  bare.  There  was  something 
most  terrible  in  thaf  stare  of  his,  so  gliastly 
and  hopeless  was  it  in  its  intensity.  He 
seemed  totally  unconscious  of  my  presence, 
and,  even  after  I  called  out  to  him,  paid 
no  attention  whatever  to  me.  For  some 
seconds  after  he  had  gone  by,  I  sat  in 
my  saddle,  hardly  knowing  what  to  do. 
At  last  I  determined  to  follow  him,  and 
cantering  up,  brought  my  wliip  down 
sharply  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned  and 
confronted  me,  but  for  some  time  seemed 
not  in  tho  least  to  suspect  that  I  was  a 
reality. 

I  asked  him  who  he  was,  and  where  ho 
was  going?  But  to  all  my  questions,  I 
could  only  get  an  indistinct  muttering  for 
an  answer,  whUo  ius  arms  worked  inces- 
santly backward  and  forward  in  the  air, 
and  his  body  shook  from  head  to  foot. 
At  length,  ho  made  a  sort  of  mute  appeal 
for  water,  which  I  gave  him;  then,  he 
started  away  as  before,  walking  at  a  tre- 
mendous pace,  with  his  eyes  always  fixed 
on  one  spot  in  advance  of  him.  I  learned 
afterwards  that  he  wandered  about  for  some 
months  in  the  most  impenetrable  parts  of 
the  Bush,-  destitute  of  everything,  and  that 
his  sole  food  was  uncooked  fiit,  which  he 
picked  up  outside  shepherds'  huts.  He  was 
quite  insane,  and,  after  wandering  about  in 
this  way  for  a  long  time,  perished  in  the 
Bush.  '  It  is  not  wonderful  that  ho  died 


c& 


h 


588      [November  20. 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND* 


[Comlactcdby 


there;  but  it  is  very  wonderful  that  he  lived 
tliere  so  long,  under  such  fearful  cu'cum- 
stances. 


THE  TONTLA  WOOD. 


You  may  perform,  that  operation,  which 
is  commonly  called  a  day's  march,  many 
times  before  you  will  find  a  popular  tale, 
more  prettily  fanciful  in  its  leading  idea, 
and  mote  peculiar  in  its  details,  tlian  one 
which  is  told  by  some  of  the  inhabitants  of 
Revel,  with  respect  to  the  Tontla  Wood : 
a  forest  which,  according  to  tradition,  once 
stood  in  a  distnct  to  the  north  of  the  Lake 
Peipus  or  Tschudskoi,  but  of  which  no 
traces  are  now  to  be  found. 

This  Tontla  Wood,  if  we  are  to  trust  the 
story,  was  an  object  of  curiosity  and  ten-or 
to  all  who  lived  in  its  neighbourhood,  and, 
so  greatly  did  the  latter  feeling  prevail,  that 
it  was  a  complete  obstacle  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  the  former.  A  few  who  had  ven- 
tured just  to  step  within  its  products  re- 
peated that  they  had  seen  through  the 
trees  something  like  a  ruined  house,  sur- 
rounded by  a  swarm  of  human  beings, 
among  whom  old  wemen  and  half-clad 
cliildren  formed  tlie  majoiity.  One  bolder 
than  the  rest,  who  penetrated  furtlier  than 
his  more  timid  predecessors,  was  rewarded 
for  his  trouble  by  the  discovery  of  tilings 
stiU  more  marvellous ;  which  is,  indeed,  not 
saj-ing  much,  since  old  hags  and  ragged 
urchins  are  everywhere  conmion.  This 
courageous  adventurer  saw  a  large  fire, 
round  which  women  and  childi'en  were 
gathered — some  squatted  on  the  ground, 
others  dancing.  Paiiicularly  conspicuous 
was  a  withered  beldam,  who,  with  a  broad 
iron  ladle,  scattered  burning  ashes  on  the 
turf,  whereupon  the  children  went  scream- 
ing into  the  air,  and  fluttered  about  the 
smoke  like  so  many  owls,  until,  apparently 
weary  of  their  pastime,  they  settled  down 
again.  Presently  an  old  man  made  his 
appearance  with  a  sack  on  his  shoulders 
larger  than  himself,  and  at  once  became  an 
object  of  general  persecution,  for  the  women 
and  cliildren  danced  round  him  trying  to 
steal  away  his  load,  while  he  contrived  to 
evade  them.  With  a  black  cat,  nearly  as 
big  as  a  foal,  whicli,  with  glaring  eyes,  had 
been  sitting  at  the  door  of  a  neighbouring 
hut,  he  was  less  fortuiiate,  for  this  sprang 
upon  the  sack,  and  then  vanished  into  the 
hnt. 


At  this  junctoro  the  bold  invcRtigatoT'^XV 
cj-cs  became  dazzled  and  bis  headbegaw  U>\\X3Viux^  'tet,  ^w^^^'e.  iv:Skss^vid  by  a  littk 


swim.  Consequently  the  narrative  of  Ids 
adventure,  which  he  detailed  to  a  circle  of 
admiring  listeners  was,  much  to  their  disap- 
pointment, cut  short  However,  his  scanty 
information  served  to  confirm  the  ill-repute 
in  which  the  forest  was  held,  and  duiing 
the  time  of  the  Sw^edish  domination  in  the 
province,  one  of  the  kings  ordered  it  to  be 
felled,  hoping  thus  to  get  lid  of  a  nuisance. 
His  good  intention  was,  however,  not 
carried  out :  for  no  sooner  were  a  few  trees 
struck  with  an  axe,  than  there  was  a  re- 
sult similar  to  that  which  ensned  whou 
.^neas  attempted  to  clear  the  wood  tiiat 
grew  from  the  remains  of  the  murdei'ed 
rolydore ;  that  is  to  say,  gioans  were  heard, 
and  blood  issued  from  the  woimded  tiimka. 
After  this  failure  a  wood-ontter  was  not 
to  bo  obtained  for  love  or  money,  and 
people  were  content  to  see  smoke  rising 
above  the  trees,  and  indicating  that  the 
forest  was  inhabited  by  somebody,  with- 
out increasing  their  stock  of  information  as 
to  who  that  somebody  might  bo. 

At  some  distance  from  the  Tontla  Wood 
was  a  large  cottage,  numbering  among  its 
inhabitants  a  peasant,  who  having  lost  his 
first  wife  took  unto  himself  a  second.  This 
lady,  according  to  the  normal  habits  re- 
coimted  in  popular  tales,  proved  a  very 
termagant  to  her  husband's  daughter  Elsie, 
a  sharp  little  girl  about  seven  ycai-s  old. 
The  child*s  father,  leaning  to  the  stronger 
side,  furthered  the  oppression  of  her  step- 
mother, till  she  found  life  altogether  iu- 
tolei'ablc.  One  day,  when  the  Spartan 
discipline  had  histed  for  about  two  years^ 
Elsie  went  out  with  some  yonn^  com* 
panions  to  gather  berries,  and  straying  un<* 
wittingly  to  the  edge  of  the  Tontla  Wood, 
found  such  an  abundance  of  fine  straw- 
berries, that  tlie  surfiice  of  the  gronnd  was 
completely  red.  The  sudden  discovery  of 
a  big  lubberly  boy  that  they  liad  actually 
entered  the  dreaded  forest,  and  the  shout 
by  which  he  made  his  discovery  known, 
caused  all  the  children  to  take  to  their 
heels  with  the  exception  of  Elsie,  in  whose 
bosom  an  intense  love  of  strawberries  was 
an  antidote  to  fear.  Moreover,  she  plausibly 
argued  within  herself,  that  bad  as  the 
Tontla  folks  might  be,  they  could  scarcely 
be  worse  than  her  stepmother  was,  and  that, 
therefore,  it  was  expedient  to  stop  where 
she  was,  nUher  than  hurry  back,  and  pos- 
sibly faro  worse.  That  she  liad  acted  ju- 
diciously was  proved  by  the  appearance  of  a 
little  dog,  who,  with  a  bell  suspended  from 
\x\&  n^ck^  came  barking  in  a  kindly  manner 


I 


=A 


^ 


Ch&rleB  Dickens.] 


THE  TONTLA  WOOD. 


[November  20, 1869.]      589 


girl,  magnificently  clad,  "vvho,  warning  him 
to  silence,  BjK>ke  thus : 

"  You  are  very  right  in  not  running  away 
like  the  other  stupid  children.  I  will  ask 
mamma  to  let  me  have  you  for  a  play- 
mate, and  I  know  she  won't  refuse  me, 
and  then  we'll  pass  all  our  time  in  play- 
ing games  and  eating  strawberries." 

This  was  indeed  a  pleasant  prospect,  and 
no  ono  could  be  happier  than  Elsie,  when 
her  bright  little  friend  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  into  the  wood,  while  the 
dog  barked  with  delight  and  gambolled 
around  her,  as  if  she  were  an  old  acquaint- 
ance. 

Then,  after  a  short  time,  what  a  fine 
sight  met  her  eyes !  There  was  a  garden 
full  of  fruit-trees,  on  the  branches  of  which 
sat  birds  with  feathers  of  gold  and  silver : 
so  tame  that  they  allowed  any  ono  to  play 
with  them ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  garden 
stood  a  house  composed  of  glass  and  pre- 
cious stones,  that  glittered  like  the  sun. 
And  more  striking  than  all,  before  the  door 
of  the  house,  on  a  luxurious  couch,  lay  a 
lady,  superbly  clad,  who  no  sooner  saw  the 
two  cliildren  approach,  than  she  said : 

"  How  d'ye  do,  my  dear  ?  Who's  our 
little  fncnd  ?" 

"  Oh,  mamma  !"  was  the  answer,  "  I 
found  tliis  little  girl  alone  in  the  wood. 
You'll  let  her  stay  here,  won't  you  ?" 

'*  We'll  see  about  it,  my  dear,"  said  the 
lady,  languidly ;  and  fixing  her  large  eyes 
upon  Elsie,  she  seemed,  as  people  have  it, 
to  look  her  through.  "Very  good,"  she 
proceeded,  when  the  examination  was  over. 
*'  Come  a  little  nearer,  child.  Very  good 
indeed,"  she  added,  patting  her  cheek. 
"  Do  you  live  anywhere  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, my  pretty  child  ?  I  suppose  you  have 
parents  of  some  sort  or  other ;  a  lather  or 
mother,  an  uncle  or  aunt,  or  something — 
people  generally  have." 

**  Well,  my  lady,"  replied  Elsie,  "  I  have 
a  father,  but  he  is  not  very  kind,  and  I 
have  a  stepmother,  who  is  always  beating 
me. 

"  She  must  be  an  exceedingly  vulgar 
person,"  remarked  the  lady. 

"  Ah,  my  lady,"  continued  Elsie,  *'  you 
can't  guess  how  she'll  beat  me  when  I 
return  home  alone,  so  long  after  the 
others !" 

"  Let  her  stay  hero ;  let  her  stay  here  !" 
cried  the  bright  little  girl. 

**  Oh !  do  let  me  stay  here, "implored  poor 
Elsie.  "  Give  me  any  sort  of  work,  only 
don't  send  me  away.  I'll  tend  the  flocks  if 
there  are  any,  and  I  won't  pick  the  berries 


if  you  don't  like  it.     You  won't  send  me 
away,  will  you  ?" 

"  We'll  see  about  it,"  answered  the  lady 
with  a  smile,  and  rising  from  her  couch, 
she  sailed  majestically  into  the  house. 

"Why  didn't  she  say  'Yes'?"  asked 
Elsie,  with  a  dismal  face. 

"  Ah,  it's  all  right,"  said  her  little  friend, 
laughing.  "  When  mamma  smiles  like  that, 
and  says  she'll  see  about  things,  we  always 
know  what  it  means.  However,  you  stop 
here  a  minute  or  two,  and  I'll  speak  to  her 
again.** 

Elsie,  left  alone,  felt  very  anxious  about 
the  result  of  her  friend's  renewed  applica- 
tion, and  her  heart  beat  high  when  the 
bright  Kttle  girl  returned  from  the  house 
with  a  small  basket  in  her  hand. 

"Mamma  says  that  she  has  not  made 
up  her  mind  yet,  but  that  at  all  events  you 
are  to  spend  the  day  with  me,  and  we  are 
to  amuse  ourselves  as  w^ell  as  we  can» 
Suppose  we  play  at '  Going  to  sea'  ?" 

"'Going  to  sea'?"  echoed  Elsie.  "I 
never  heard  of  that  game." 

"You'll  soon  learn  it,  it's  very  easy,** 
said  her  little  friend;  and  she  gently 
opened  the  basket,  and  took  from  it  a 
small  flower-leaf,  a  shell,  and  two  fish- 
bones. On  the  leaf,  two  drops  of  water 
were  glistening,  which  the  child  shook 
upon  the  ground,  and  which,  at  once 
spreading  in  every  direction,  covered  the 
garden  and  all  the  flowers :  thus  becoming 
a  broad  sea,  bounded  by  the  sky,  and  only 
leaving  dry  the  little  spot  of  ground  on 
which  the  playmates  stoodl  Elsie  was 
much  frightened,  but  her  smart  companion, 
far  from  giving  any  sign  of  alarm,  gently 
placed  the  shell  upon  the  water,  and  took 
a  fish-bone  in  each  hand.  The  shell  at  once 
expanded,  gradually  changing  into  a  pretty 
boat  that  would  have  afforded  room  for  a 
dozen  children  hke  Elsie  and  hei'  friend. 
Li  this  the  young  playmates  seated  them- 
selves, Elsie  trembling  a  little,  and  not 
knowing  what  to  make  of  it,  and  the  other 
laughing  heartily  as  the  bones  she  held 
were  turned  into  a  pair  of  oars.  Over  the 
rippling  waves  they  went,  gently  rocked 
in  their  boat,  and  other  boats  came  near 
them,  all  carrying  children,  who  meirily 
sang  as  they  rowed.  Elsie's  friend  ob- 
served that  the  song  of  the  others  ought  in 
courtesy  to  be  answered;  and  as  Elsie 
could  not  sing  herself,  she  made  up  for  the 
deficiency  by  the  exquisite  beauty  of  her 
own  warbling.  Never  had  poor  Elsie  felt  so 
happy  in  her  life ;  everything  was  so  won- 
derful and  so  pretty.     The  words  of  the 


«& 


:)0 


590      [NoTomber  iM,  1669.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUKD. 


CCondneted^ 


songs  thafc  vo^a  Ihjiii  tlu^  oilier  IxxUs  wt-re 
in  a  strange  language,  wliicli  she  could 
not  understand;  and  noticing  tlio  IretjUi'nt 
recnri'ence  ot*  tlio  word  '*  Kysika,"  she 
asked  her  friend  what  it  meant. 

*•  That  is  my  name/*  she  said;   **and  all 
their  songs   are  in  lionoar  of  my  appear- 


ance. 

Presently  n  voice  was  hoard,  crying, 
"  Come  liome,  childnm,  it  is  growing  late.'* 

Elsie  was  again  somewhat  teiiilitHl,  but 
Kysiksi  told  her  there  was  no  cause  foi' 
alarm,  and  taking  the  llower-k-af  from  the 
little  basket,  dipj)ed  it  into  the  water, 
wliich  at  once  conti-acteil  into  two  small 
drops,  leavuig  them  in  the  middle  of 
the  garden,  standing  mnir  the  palace  as 
Wore.  The  boat  was  again  a  shell,  and 
the  oars  were  iish-lxmes ;  and  when  these 
liad  been  put  into  tlie  biisket^  the  children 
walked  gently  home. 

It  was  already  supper-time,  and  round  a 
splendidly  funiLshed  tiible  in  a  spacious 
hall  wei*e  seateil  foup-and- twenty  latlies  all 
gorgeously  dressed:  the  mistivss  of  the 
feast  being  Kysika' s  mamma,  who  grandly 
occu])ied  a  Lirge  golden  chair.  The  dishes 
served,  thirteen  in  number,  were  of  gold 
and  silver,  and  Elsio  remarked  that  wlule 
the  contents  of  the  othei's  were  freely 
consumed,  one  particular  dish  was  left 
covered,  and  was  eventually  taken  away 
just  as  it  had  been  bnmght  in.  IJut,  though 
u  daughter  of  Eve,  she  did  not  allow  cu- 
riosity to  spoil  her  appetite,  and  she  feasted 
on  the  dainties  wliieh  were  more  delicious 
than  anything  she  had  ever  tasted  in  liei' 
life.  Of  what  did  they  consist  ?  Were 
they  fish,  llesh,  fowl,  pastry,  confectionery  ? 
Elsie  did  not  know  or  caiHi ;  although 
humbly  born,  she  had  a  reiined  taste,  and 
was  not  like  those  vulgar  wretches,  who 
spoil  your  iliniuT  at  the  l-*alais  Royal 
by  bawling  out  tlmt  they  like  to  know 
what  things  are  miule  of.  All  the  dishes 
were  adminible,  yet  all  different  fnmi  each 
other;  and  so  thoroughly  was  her  ptilate 
gi*atified,  that  she  would  not  even  venture 
to  surmise  that  the  uncovei'ed  dish  might 
possibly  bo  nicer  than  the  rest. 

The  ladies  talked  to  each  other  in  a  very 
low  voictt,  and  even  if  they  liad  spoken 
louder,  Elsie  would  not  have  been  edified ; 
for,  like  the  little  boatmen,  they  used  an  un- 
known language.  Before  the  supper  was 
removed,  the  mistress  whispered  a  few 
Words  to  a  servant,  who  stood  behind  her 
chair,  and  wlio,  at  once  running  out,  brought 
back  a  little  old  man,  whose  beard,  Wx^^ev 


gi'ouiid.  This  venerable  jicrson  was  evi- 
dently inferior  in  niuk  lo  the  others:  for 
ho  nnido  a  very  humble  1k»w,  and  entered 
no  farther  than  the  thi'eshold  of  the  door. 

"Just  look  at  that  ehikl,'*  sftid  ibc  lady 
of  the  house,  pointing  to  Elsie;  "she  is 
only  a  peasant's  dangiiter,  but  it's  n\y  in- 
tention to  adopt  her.  You'll  have  the  good- 
ness to  make  an  exact  copy  at  once^  so  tliat 
we  may  send  it  to  tiie  vilkge  in  her  stead 
early  to-mon*ow  niornhig." 

The  old  nuiu  surveyed  Elsie  fi\>m  head 
to  fi>ot  with  eyes  so  sliai-ptliat  they  seemed 
to  pierce  her  through ;  and  when  he  had 
thus  taken  her  mwisure,  he  made  another 
low  bow  to  the  lady,  and  left  the  room. 
iVfter  the  sup])er  things  had  been  rejnoved. 
the  stately  lady  called  Eh>ie  to  her  and 
said : 

**!My  dear,  I  have  now  made  up  my 
mind.  You  shall  i*emain  as  a  companion 
to  Kysika,  instead  of  returniug  home ;  that 
is,  if  you  like  if 

'*  Like  it^  my  lady !"  cxchiiined  Elsie 
*'  O,  I  do  thank  you  so  very  much!" 

Falling  on  her  knees,  she  kissed  the 
hands  and  feet  of  her  benefactress,  to  ex- 
press gratitude  for  her  dehveraiice  from 
domestic  miseiy;  but  the  kind  lady  soou 
rjiised  her  from  the  gi-ound,  patted  her 
head  and  her  iiiddy  wet  cheeks,  and  told 
her  that  if  she  were  a  good  gii'l  she  should 
be  properly  taken  care  of,  and  educated  till 
she  Iiad  become  a  tall  woman,  and  able  to 
take  care  of  herself.  Kysika^s  lady  teachers 
were  to  be  her  teachers  likewise,  and  she 
was  to  learn  every  sort  of  accomplishment^ 
the  finest  of  fine  needlework  included. 

After  a  while  the  old  man  returned,  car- 
rying on  his  shoulders  a  tray  illled  ivitb 
loam,  and  holding  in  bis  left  hand  a  small 
covere<:l  basket.  Setting  those  articles  on 
the  ground,  ho  went  briskly  to  work,  and 
made  a  small  image  of  human  form,  in  the 
hollow  stomach  of  which  ho  placed  tluw 
pickled  anchovies,  and  a  piece  of  bread. 
Then  be  made  a  hole  in  the  breast  of  tho 
figure,  and  this  served  as  a  door  for  thi* 
admission  of  a  black  worm,  at  least  a  yard 
long,  which  he  took  out  of  tho  basket^  and 
which  by  its  "wrigghng  and  struggbiig 
showed  that  it  antici^mted  its  future  abode 
with  anything  but  dehght.  Wriggling 
and  struggling  wore,  however,  useless;  tlu* 
worm  was  obliged  to  follow  the  prescribed 
direction,  and  the  apci-ttirc  being  dulr 
clos(3d,  tlie  image  was  carefully  inspected 
by  tho  lady. 


il 


\     '"''  MV'^'vi  viQ.ut  now,  is  a  drop  of  our  young 
th&n  he  waa  tall,  more  than  ^eafthtid\k©\lncll^^a^A.oQ^  «Kv^\Jtia  ^^^tssswu    Ajid,a:» 


I 


:ft 


Chsrloi  UlckenB.] 


THP]  to:n'tla  wood. 


[Xovemhcr  20, 18«0.]         591 


according  to  Estlioniau  notions,  tho  use  of 
blood  commonly  implies  a  compact;  with 
the  Evil  One,  Elsie  «hiiddcrwl  not  a  little. 
However,  the  lady  soon  persuiulod  her  that 
the  blo<xl  ^\^tll  whiclj  she  parted  wt)ukl  only 
be  used  for  her  own  good,  and  concluded 
her  discussion  by  puncturing  the  girl's 
arm  with  a  golden  needle,  wliich  she  handed 
to  the  old  man,  who  at  once  thrust  it  into 
the  left  side  of  the  image.  He  then  put 
the  figure  into  his  basket,  in  order,  as  ho 
said,  that  it  might  grow,  and  he  promised 
tJie  lady  tliat  he  would  show  her  on  the 
following  morning  what  a  fine  work  of  art 
he  had  executed.  The  extraordinary  duties 
of  the  day  having  been  thus  satisfactorily 
discharged,  every  lady  retired  to  rest,  and 
ELsie  was  conducted  by  the  smartest  of 
chambermaids  into  a  room  where  a  nice 
bed  had  been  prepared  for  her. 

Nothing  could  exceed  her  amazement  and 
delight  when  she  rose  in  the  morning,  and 
found  everything  so  wonderfully  bright  and 
comfortable.  The  bed  on  which  she  lay 
was  of  silk ;  the  niglitgown  that  she  wore, 
was  of  the  finest  quality ;  and  on  a  chair 
by  the  wall  lay  the  splendid  dress  which 
she  was  to  wear.  She  was  only  too  glad 
when  the  smart  chambermaid  i-cappeared 
and  told  her  that  it  was  time  to  get 
wa.shcd  and  combed,  for  now  she  could 
adorn  herself  with  all  her  new  fineiy.  But 
what  charmed  her  most  was  the  dainty 
little  pair  of  shoes  destined  for  her  feet. 
Hitherto  she  had  been  accustomed  to  walk 
barefoot ;  and  to  her  eyes  a  pair  of  shoen, 
even  badly  cobbled,  was  a  marvellous 
luxury.  What  words,  then,  could  express 
her  admiration  at  the  shoes  which  lay 
before  her?  The  clothes  she  had  worn 
yesterday  were  not  to  be  seen,  nor  did  she 
make  ftny  curious  inquiries  concerning  them. 
But  when  she  had  left  the  room,  and  jouicd 
the  company  in  the  great  hall,  she  found 
that  even  her  humble  garments  had  been 
put  to  good  use. 

The  image,  fashioned  on  the  previous 
evening,  had  been  a  thriving  image,  for  it 
had  become  quite  as  big  as  Elsie,  and, 
dressed  in  her  old  clothes,  looked  exactly 
like  her. 

''That  imago  is  the  very  image  of  me !" 
exclaimed  Elsie;  but,  whon  the  figure 
began  to  walk  about,  and  made  two  or 
throe  diabolical  faces,  she  could  not  conceal 
her  terror. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  child,''  said  the 
kind  lady.  "  Nothing  can  Imrm  you  here. 
We  intend  this  interesting  object  as  a  pre- 
sent to  your  stepmother.    We  may  say  of  it,  | 


as  people  will  sny  of  the  photogmphic  por- 
tnvits  that  will  l)e  iu vented  after  several  cen- 
turies shall  have  passed,  that,  as  a  likeness, 
it  is  not  fliittei-ing,  but  nevertheless  it  mil 
sufficiently  answer  its  puri)ose.  Your  stej)- 
mother  wants  something  to  beat,  and  this 
lubberly  form  of  clay  can  stand  any  amount 
of  beating,  without  wince  or  flinch.  But  it 
lias  a  temper  of  it-s  own,  embodied  in  the 
black  w^orm,  and  if  your  stepmother  does 
not  mend  her  nmnnersshe  may  in  time  find 
that  she  has  met  her  match." 

Elsie  was  not  hypocritical  enough  to  ex- 
press any  anxiety  about  tho  trouble  which 
her  counterpart  might  occa.sion  to  her  step- 
mother, and  as  soon  as  tho  "sham"  was 
out  of  her  sight  she  dismissed  it  from  hcT 
thoughts,  resolved  to  devote  all  hci'  energies 
to  the  important  duty  of  enjoying  herself, 
for  tho  performance  of  which  she  liad  such 
ample  opportunity.  The  regularity  with 
which  tho  afiairs  of  the  household  wore 
conducted  was  in  itself  admirnble,  and  the 
means  that  were  used  to  promote  this  re- 
gularity were  more  admirable  still.  The 
talents  of  tlie  old  gentleman  who  had 
fashioned  her  counterpart  were  by  no  moans 
confined  to  modelling.  He  could,  and  did, 
make  Iximself  generally  useful.  Regularly 
every  day,  when  the  hour  of  dinner  had  ar- 
rived, he  went  to  a  huge  block  of  granite 
that  stood  some  twenty  paces  or  so  from 
the  palace,  took  a  sliort  ralver  staff  out  of 
his  bosom,  and  struck  the  rock  three  times, 
making  it  sound  like  the  most  mnsicsil  of 
bells.  The  answer  to  this  gentle  summons 
was  the  appearance  of  a  golden  cock,  who, 
springing  from  the  block,  perched  upon  its 
summit,  crowing  and  flapping  his  wings 
with  all  his  might  and  main.  Nor  was 
this  a  mere  expression  of  idle  j oy.  At  every 
crow  and  flap,  something  serviceable  issued 
^m  the  granite.  Crow  and  flap  the  first 
produced  a  long  table,  furnished  with  as 
many  plates  as  were  required  for  the  com- 
pemy,  which  glided  into  tho  dining-hall  of 
it«  own  accord.  Crow  and  flap  the  second 
were  followed  by  a  sally  of  chairs,  which  set 
themselves  in  their  proper  places  round 
the  table,  and  then  came  a  succession  of 
well-laden  dishes,  which,  flying  through 
the  air,  arranged  themselves  in  due  order. 
(That  tho  dinner  was  not  served  k  la  Russo 
may  be  explainetl  by  the  fact  that  in  those 
days  Revel  was  not  a  Russian  province.) 
Flasks  of  mead,  which  was  the  beverage  of 
the  repast,  and  fruits  of  the  choicest  quality, 
came  whizzing  along  from  the  same  source, 
and,  wlien  every  one  had  eaten  enough,  tlie 
clever  old  gentleman  again  tapped  the  block 


^ 


^ 


^ 


592      [NoTember  20. 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condoctedbj 


with  his  wand,  again  the  cock  crowed,  and 
all  the  things,  with  one  exception,  returned 
to  their  granite  home,  the  tahle  bringing  up 
the  rear.  The  exception  was  the  thirteenth 
dish,  wliich  was  always  left  untasted,  and 
which  was  chased  by  a  black  cat  to  the 
summit  of  the  rock,  where  the  pursuer  and 
pursued  both  remained  quietly  by  the  side 
of  Chanticleer,  until  all  three  were  fetched 
by  the  old  gentleman,  who,  taking  the  disli 
in  his  hand,  the  cat  under  his  arm,  and  the 
cock  on  his  shoulder,  vanished  with  his 
strange  burden  into  the  granite.  Indeed, 
this  same  block  of  granite  was  at  once  the 
store-room,  the  lumber-room,  the  larder, 
the  cellar,  and  the  wardrobe,  of  the  esta- 
blishment: the  practically  -  crowing  cock 
calling  forth  not  only  eatables  and  drink- 
ables, with  instruments  for  their  consump- 
tion, but  every  kind  of  wearing  apparel,  and 
jewellery  of  every  sort. 

After  a  few  years,  Elsie  had  become 
mistress  of  the  strange  language  talked  by 
the  lady  and  her  party :  a  language  not  to 
be  taught  in  six  lessons,  like  French  and 
German  in  the  nineteenth  century.  One 
thing,  however,  she  did  not  learn,  and  that 
was  the  meaning  of  the  thirteenth  dish 
which  regularly  appeared  on  the  table  every 
day,  was  regularly  left  untasted,  and  was 
regularly  chased  by  the  black  cat.  She 
ventured  to  put  a  question  on  this  subject 
to  her  friend  Kysika,  but  that  genei-ally 
amiable  young  lady  suddenly  became  rather 
glum,  and  said  tliat  she  could  give  no  in- 
formation, with  an  air  which  showed  that 
the  difficulty  lay  less  in  the  ability  than  in 
the  will.  Shortly  afterwards,  Elsie  was 
sunmioned  before  the  lady  of  the  house, 
who,  looking  somewhat  less  pleasant  than 
usual,  treated  Elsie  tea  little  wholesome 
lecture. 

"Elsie,  dear,"  she  said,  "bad  habits 
should  be  nipped  in  the  bud,  since  other- 
wise they  are  not  only  confirmed,  but  grow 
worse.  I  understand  that  you  have  been 
asking  questions  about  the  thirteenth  dish. 
Don't  do  so  again.  Such  inquiries  indi- 
cate, not  merely  idle  curiosity,  but  some- 
thing like  greediness.  Were  our  repast 
scanty  they  would  be  but  natural.  By  my 
prophetic  gift  I  can  foresee  tliat,  centuries 
hence,  a  boy  named  Oliver,  being  scantily 
fed,  will  ask  for  more;  but  Ohver's  case 
is  not  yours.  Twelve  dishes  are  surely 
sufficient  for  any  reasonable  dinner.  How- 
ever, thus  much  I  will  tell  you.  The 
covered  dish,  does  not  contain  the  delicious 


used  a  French  menu,  we  should  set  it  down 
as  *  Bienfait  cache.'  Let  me  add  that  if 
once  the  cover  were  removed  fix)m  the  dish, 
all  our  happiness  would  be  destroyed  fur 
ever." 

Thoroughly  convinced  that  a  banquet 
consisting  of  twelve  eatable  dishes  wis 
not  to  be  surpassed,  Elsie  (who,  thixing^ 
circumstances  of  time  and  place  had  never 
dined  at  Grreenwich)  asked  no  more  ques- 
tions, and  the  little  lecture  was  the  only 
ripple  that  disturbed  her  peaceful  happinefis 
during  her  residence  in  the  Tonila  Wood. 
As  time  went  on,  she  became  an  excellent 
scholar :  the  teacher  who  gave  daily  lessons 
to  Kysika  instructing  her  also.  And, 
strange  to  say,  her  progress  was  far  greater 
than  tliat  of  her  little  friend.  While  Elsie's 
mind  expanded,  Kysika  seemed  always  to 
remain  a  child,  and  was  never  better  pleased 
than  when  she  could  put  aside  her  books 
and  work,  and  play  at  'Agoing  to  sea." 
There  was  a  growing  discrepancy  between 
the  playmates,  and  Kysika^  looking  at 
Elsie  with  teaif ul  eyes,  would  often  say : 

"  How  sorry  1  am  you  are  grown  so  tall !  , 
You'll  soon  be  too  big  to  play  with  me." 

When  nine  years  had  passed  in  uninter- 
rupted felicity,  poor  Elsie  received  a  heavy 
blow.  One  evening,  to  her  great  surprise, 
she  was  told  that  the  lady  wished  to  see 
her  in  her  bedchamber ;  never  before  bad 
she  been  summoned  at  that  hour,  and  ber 
beating  heart  seemed  to  tell  her  that  some 
misfortune  was  at  hand.  She  had  no  sooner 
crossed  the  threshold  than  she  perceived 
that  the  lady's  cheeks  were  very  red,  and 
that  her  eyes  had  been  batlied  ^vith  tears, 
wliich  she  was  wiping  away,  as  if  to  con- 
ceal them  from  Elsie. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  began,  after  a  pause, 
"  the  time  has  come  when  we  must  part'' 

"Part!"  cried  Elsie.  "No,  no,  dear 
lady,  we  will  never  part  until  wc  are  sepa- 
rated by  death.  You  have  always  been  so 
kind,  so  very  kind,  to  me.  Do  not  thrust 
me  from  you  now." 

*'  Be  calm,  child,  be  calm,*'  said  the  lady, 
with  an  effort.  "  You  do  not  know  what 
happiness  is  in  store  for  yon." 

**  I  want  no  happiness  apart  from  yon," 
replied  the  girl.  "  All  the  happiness  I 
have  ever  found,  has  been  your  gift.  Ok 
do  not,  do  not-,  thrust  me  from  you.  Let 
me  be  your  servant^  your  slave,  but  do  not 
thrust  me  fortli  into  the  wide,  dreary  world. 
Better  to  have  left  me  in  wretdbednes 
with  my  wicked  stepmother,  than  to  have 


II  covered  dish  does  not  contain  the  delicious  with  my  wicked  stepmother,  than  to  have 
11  article,  which,  centuries  hence,  vniY  \)<i\T0As^^TD5i\o^\^sia.ven  of  joy,  and  then  to 
7   caZied   a  Nesselrode  pudding,  and  \i  iN©\^Vm^Ta^\»s^\^TSMer5^^ 


&> 


Charles  Diekoni.] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DUNBIiANE. 


[November  20, 1 869  J      593 


'*  My  poor  child,''  said  tlio  lady,  wipinpf 
her  oyos,  **  I  am  jnst  as  sorry  to  part  -with 
yon  as  yon  are  to  part  \nth  mo^  but  tlicitB 
are  certain  mialtorable  laws  that  wo  must 
all  obey.  Yon  are  a  luero  mortal,  and  in 
the  course  of  a  few  years  must  ])erish  and 
puss  away.  We,  though  onr  form  is  liunian, 
are  beings  of  a  liic^her  nature,  to  whom 
death  is  altogether  IbiviOTi.  In  childhood — 
which  sees  before  it,  not  deatli,  but  life — 
there  is  something  akin  to  immortality,  and 
while  you  were  a  child  you  could  i^emain 
with  us ;  but  your  childhood  is  at  an  end 
now.     Good- night !" 

Elsie  went  sadly  to  bed,  feeling  that  all 
her  happiness  was  gone,  and  that  a  blank 
lay  before  her.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing she  again  saw  the  lady,  who  put  a 
golden  ring  on  her  finger,  hung  a  golden 
locket  about  lier  neck,  and,  taking  an 
affectionate  Iwivc  of  her,  consigned  her  to 
the  care  of  the  old  man.  No  sooner  was 
she  alone,  than  the  old  man  tapped  her 
head  with  his  wand,  and  at  once  she  felt 
that  she  was  changed  into  a  bird.  With 
the  instinct  of  a  bird  she  shot  up  into  the 
air,  and  flew  for  sevei'al  days  in  a  southern 
direction,  feeling  rather  tired,  but  by  no 
means  hungry,  and  not  in  the  least  missing 
the  twelve  dishes  of  the  Tontla  Wood 
dinner.  Her  flight  was,  however,  suddenly 
and  painfully  stopped  by  a  Bhar|>  aiTOw, 
which  brought  her  to  the  ground,  where 
for  some  time  she  lay  senseless.  When 
she  I'ccovered,  she  found  herself  restored  to 
human  form,  lying  under  a  hedge,  and  was 
soon  agreeably  surprised  by  the  appearance 
of  a  fine  prince,  who,  leaping  from  his 
horse,  assured  her  that  for  half  a  year  he 
had  seen  her  nightly  in  a  dream,  and  that 
on  the  day  before  he  had  shot  an  eagle, 
which  must  have  dropped  on  the  very 
spot  on  which  he  now  stood.  Nothing  re- 
mained for  Elsie  but  to  go  home  with  her 
adorer  to  the  court  of  the  king,  his  father, 
where  she  was  received  with  great  mag- 
nificence. Tliis  part  of  the  talc  is  so 
utterly  clumsy,  poor,  and  common-place, 
that  we  get  over  it  with  all  possible  speed. 

Luckily,  the  facts  relating  to  the  future 
of  Elsie's  countc^rpart  save  our  story  from 
a  lame  and  impotent  conclusion.  No 
sooner  had  the  figure  fashioned  by  the 
ingenious  old  gentleman  reached  l^]lsie*s 
village,  than  it  was  seized  l)y  its  supposed 
stepmother,  and  tlmished  with  ill-bestowed 
vigour.  This  process  was  repeated  every 
daj'  till,  on  one  occasion,  the  fiery  dame 
bring  moil)  irate  than  usual,  threatened 
to  kill  the  thing  of  loam,  and,  accordingly, 


pressed  its  throat  with  both  hands  so 
tightly,  that  at  last  a  black  worm  flew  out 
of  its  mouth,  and  bit  her  too  active  tongue, 
and  caused  immediate  death.  The  horror 
instinctively  felt  by  Elsie's  father,  when, 
on  i-etuming  home,  he  saw  the  body  of  liLs 
wife  stretched  upon  the  floor,  soon  gave 
place  to  unmitigated  joy,  when  he  reflected 
that  lie  had  got  rid  of  a  very  ])ad  bargain. 
So,  regaling  himself  with  three  anchovies 
and  a  piece  of  bread  which  he  found  on  the 
table,  he  retired  to  rest.  Next  morning 
ho  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  and  was 
shortly  afterwards  buried  in  the  same  grave 
with  his  w^ife.  Elsie's  counterpart  had  va- 
nished altogetlier,  and  of  the  events  we  have 
just  narrated  nothing  was  heard  by  Elsie  : 
who  lived  a  happy  princess,  and  on  the 
death  of  the  old  king  became  a  happy 
queen,  delighting  to  recount  the  history 
of  her  life  in  the  Tontla  Wood,  omitting 
all  antecedents.  Strange  to  say,  the  wood 
itself  was  never  seen  after  it  had  been 
quitted  by  Elsie. 

Readers,  have  you  not,  every  one,  at 
some  period  of  your  lives,  lived  in  a  Tontla 
Wood,  which  seemed  a  world  in  itself, 
never  destined  to  perish ;  and  which,  when 
it  had  passed  away,  you  felt  could  never  be 
recalled  ? 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DUNBLANE. 

IN'  TWO  CHAPTERS.      CHAl'TEE  I. 

"It  was  in  the  year  1793,"  said  my 
uncle,  "that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
William  Dunbhine,  aftei-wards  Lord  Dun- 
blane, at  the  University  of  St,  Andrews. 
His  bachelor  uncle,  the  then  lord,  was  not 
a  very  rich  man,  and  he  was  a  stingy  one. 
William's  father,  too,  was  still  alive,  so  that 
the  young  man  was  somewhat  straitened 
as  to  money.  Wo  were  just  of  an  age,  and 
my  father  was  very  liberal  to  me.  Our 
relative  positions,  therefore,  were  more  cqtLal 
at  that  time  than  they  afterwards  became ; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  great  diflcrence  of  rank, 
Dunblane  singled  me  out  to  be  his  favourite 
companion.  I  caimot  say  why  this  was, 
unless  it  may  have  been  that  I  was  a  more 
patient  listener  than  many  other  young 
fellows,  to  his  long  stories  about  his  ancestry, 
and  that  while  I  always  endeavoured  to  tell 
him  the  truth,  I  was  more  indulgent  to  this 
weakness  of  family  pride  than  the  rest  were. 
They  used  to  laugh  at  him,  at  first ;  but 
tliat,  ho  soon  showed  them,  he  would  never  vv 
stand.  He  was  very  €>tvvyw^.,  \w\^^  Nv:^?r5  ^'»s<n  ^^ 
sionatc-,   ?XTvd  \\\^  ^acvi  vA:  'e.xi.Ovx  tsxvsvcl^^vKs.  ^ 


d^ 


594       [Novumber  20,  iaO.K} 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Coni:uc:oil  by 


bceamo   as  that  of  one  possessed   with  a 
devil." 

It  was  in  these  words  that  my  uncle,  Mr. 
Carthews,  senior  pirtner  in  the  firm  of 
Carthews  and  Bontor,  of  Aberdeen  and  Cal- 
cutta, used  generally  to  begin  the  following 
strange  nai'i-ativc.  Like  many  Scot(?hmen 
of  his  day,  he  hsul  a  somewliat  inordinate 
reverence  for  I'ank  ;  but  it  was  bidaueed,  in 
his  case,  by  a  bnsinejss-like  appivciation  of 
the  \'aluo  of  monev.  Wiiat  is  of  more  im- 
port,  however,  <o  tlie  matter  in  hiiud,  was 
his  strict  and  fearless  adherence  to  truth, 
joined  to  an  extremely  kind  nature.  Tiiese 
characteristics  were  coiispieu(5us  iu  every 
transaction  of  a  long  life.  He  was  a  shrewd, 
upright  man,  universally  respected  iji  the 
city  where  he  passed  the  best  pai't  of  his 
life  :  "stiif  in  opinions,"  occasi<mally  prolix, 
but  of  a  sound,  clear  judgment,  and  unim- 
peached  honesty.  In  the  narrative,  there- 
fore, which  I  shall  try  to  give,  as  far  as 
possible,  in  my  uncle's  own  words,  there  is, 
I  am  eontident,  no  wilful  mLsrepreseutation, 
no  jot  <»r  tittle  added  to  the  facts,  as  he  be- 
lieved them  to  be.  And  his  opinictn  of  those 
facts,  I  take  it,  was  formed  veiy  delil)erat<ily. 
I  heard  him  tell  tlie  stor}'  rc^peatedly,  yet  it 
never  varied  in  tlie  smallest  particular ;  and 
I  know  it  invariably  impressetl  his  lu^arers 
witli  a  sense  of  horrible  reality.  Imagine 
that  tlie  hidies  have  left  tlie  room  ;  tliiveor 
four  men  are  seated  round  the  ])olished 
nuihogany ;  my  uncle,  a  white-haired,  keen- 
eyed  man  of  seventy,  bids  us  draw  our 
cliairs  nearer  the  fire,  imd,  passing  round  a 
magnum  of  his  fine  old  port,  he  thus  con- 
tinues the  story,  of  whieh  I  have  given  the 
opening  words,  with  that  ineLsive  Scotch 
accent,  and  in  that  measured  phrase,  which 
seems  to  weigh  each  word  in  the  balance, 
and  ixject  it  if  found  wanting. 

Dunblane  was  an  unpopular  man.  Men 
could  not  make  him  out.  His  manner  was 
often  disagreeable,  and  he  was  subject  to 
moody  fits,  when  he  would  speak  to  no  one. 
He  was  capable  of  kind  and  generous  acts, 
but  implacable  in  liis  dislikes  ;  and  he  never 
forgot  an  injury.  I  coidd  manage  him 
better  than  any  one,  and  he  would  genenxlly 
stauil  the  tmtli  from  me ;  but  liLs  rage  was 
a  terrible  tiling  to  witness.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  like  it.  Men  used  to  say, 
"  Keep  clear  of  DunbLme  when  tlie  fit  is  on 
him ;  he  will  stick  at  nothing." 

The  French  Revolution  was  then  at  its 
height.  Dunblane  was  a  hot  royalist,  and 
used  to  l)o  thrown  into  fresh  trausyvovt*  of 


of  the  king's  aulliority.  One  night  a  man, 
in  my  i*oom,  who  professed  Republican  sen- 
timents, defended  the  conduct  of  the  Assem- 
bly in  impnsi)ning  the  royal  family.  Dun- 
blane got  up  and  fiung  a  bottle  at  his  head. 
There  was  a  fine  row,  and  it  was  arranged 
that  the  two  men  must  fight  the  next 
morning.  I  secretly  gave  notice  to  the 
authorities,  however,  who  interfered,  and 
some  sort  of  j)eace  was  patched  up;  bnt 
Duid)Line  never  spoke  to  his  antagonise 
ngiiiii  as  long  as  he  was  in  the  university. 
I  mention  this,  as  I  happen  to  recrd  the 
circnnistiinco,  just  to  give  you  an  idea  of 
the  man's  violence,  and  of  the  depth  of  his 
resentment. 

I  can  ivmember,  too,  a  conversaticm  we 
had  ont^  day  about  man-iagc.  Ho  bad  bren 
complaining  of  his  poverty,  but  said  that, 
nevertheless,  he  meant  to  marry  early. 

'*  You  see,  it  is  necessary  ihat  I  should 
have  an  heir,  lest  the  direct  line  l)Ccome 
extinct.     There  is  no  one,  aftor  me." 

**Do  nothing  iu  a  hurry,"  I  rcpUed. 
'*  It  would  be  a  great  misfortune,  no  di^ubt, 
that  the  title  and  estates  should  pass  away 
to  another  branch  of  the  family,  but  it  wonld 
be  a  still  grcjater  one  to  liavc  your  whole  life 
embittered  by  an  unhappy  marriage.  You 
are  young ;  you  have  life  lx*fore  you.  Be 
quite  sure  it  is  for  your  happiness,  ere  yon 
take  such  a  step  as  this." 

His  reply  was  very  characteristic. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it  is  all  very  well  for 
you  to  talk,  who  have  plenty  of  money,  and 
have  no  great  name  as  an  inheritance.  Wo 
trace  back  our  descent  for  six  hundrtd 
years ;  it  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  the  country 
to  keep  up  the  family.  If  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  bo  in  your  position,  I  should 
please  myself  But,  as  it  is,  everything 
else  is  of  secondary  importance.  My  loid 
is  always  telhng  me  so,  and  I  suppose  he  is 
right.  I  must  many  a  woman  w^til  money, 
and  I  must  have  an  heir.  You  don't  know/* 
he  added,  with  the  black  look  gathering  on 
his  brow,  "7/0/"  essential  tliis  is." 

I  assured  him  that  I  fully  recognised  the 
obligations  wliich  a  great  name  and  title 
entail,  but  that  I  could  not  think  that  to 
contnict  a  hasty,  ill-considered  marriage 
could  ever  answer  in  the  long  ran. 

"  Ah  !"  he  said.  "  Then  yon  have  nercr 
heard  the  old  prophecy  in  the  fiunily : 


VThen  five  Punbluncfl  havo  bad  no  iob, 
Then  ahall  tho  lino  direct  be  mo. 

My  uncle  is  the/(>«r//i  lord  who  has  had  no 
son.     If  ho  should  survive  my  fatlier,  and 


fury  with  the  news  of  every  act  »u\)vemvc\vWV*\^\vii\sX^wiR«,^ied  him,  I  shall  be  the 


i: 


&> 


Charles  Dickons.] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DUNBLAKE.       [Xotembcr  20,  iseft]     595 


ffth.     Yon  sec  now  liow  necessary  it  is  I 
shonld  marry  early." 

'*  On  account  of  a  foolish  distich !"  I  re- 
plied. His  superstition  almost  amounted 
to  an  insanity;  and  I  never  would  give 
in  to  it,  though  I  confess  that  I  havo  known 
more  curious  cases  of  such  prophecies  being 
fulfilled  than  any  sceptical  Englishman 
would  believe.  However,  that  ha.s  nothing 
to  say  to  the  matter  in  hand.  Dunblane 
rcpeiitedly  referred  to  this  prediction,  which 
had  evidently  taken  a  hold  upon  his  mind, 
not  to  be  shaken  by  any  words  of  mine. 
He  would  brood  for  hours  over  this  and 
similar  subjects.  And  among  them,  I  have 
little  doubt  was  one  to  which  he  never  re- 
ferred at  that  time,  seeing  that  I  treated 
his  superstitions  with  unbecoming  levity — 
a  subject  of  which  I  had  no  knowledge  for 
many  years  after^vards,  but  which  was  des- 
tined to  have  a  fatal  influence  on  his  hfo. 

In  '96  I  left  college,  and  was  sent  out  to 
our  bmnch  house  in  Calcutta.     I  heard  the 
following  year  of  Dunblane's  marriage  to  a 
Miss  Cameron,  an  orpluin  of  good  family, 
though    not   noble,  said    to  possess  both 
wealth  and  beauty ;  and  I  heard  no  more. 
He  never  wrote  to  me,  nor  did  I  expect  it. 
Our  lines  of  life  were  now  quite  dilierent, 
and  though  I  knew  that  he  would  always 
retain  a  friendly  recollection  of  me,  con*e- 
spondenco  was  another  matter.      I  was  a 
man  of  business,  and  engrossed  in  affairs 
in  which  he  could  take  no  interest ;  while 
I,  on  the  other  hand,  knew  nothing  of  tho 
persons  and  the  circumstances  by  which 
he  ^vas  surrounded.     I  shall  always  regret 
that  ho  did  not  writo  to  mo  during  tlioso 
years ;  though  probiibly  no  written  words 
of  mine  could  have  been  of  any  avail  in 
arresting   him :    but   I   have   occasionally 
found,  in  life,  that  the  trutb,  though  dis- 
carded at  the  time,  will  come  back  at  some 
nnexpectod  moment  and  give  tho  devil  the 
lie.     Now  the  devil  had  it  all  his  own  way 
with  Dunblane  for  years.     His  fatlier,  to 
whom  I  think  ho  was  really  attached,  was 
dead;    his   uncle,  whom   he   disliked   and 
feared,  would  not  die.     The  uncle,  I  am 
told,  proposed  tlus  marriage  to  him,  and 
though  Dunblane  was  indifibrent — or  more 
than  indifferent — to  the  lady,  ho  consented 
to  many  her.     This   was   tho  fatal  cn-or 
wluch  nothing  could  retrieve.     It  was  the 
first  step  down-liill,  after  which  the  descent 
became  more  and  more  rapid  every  year. 

In  1803  Lord  Dunblane  did,  at  last,  die, 
and,  a  few  months  lat€r,  my  own  father's 
death  recidled  mo  to  Aberdeen,  where  I 
took  his  place  a^  head  of  tho  house.     One 


day,  about  a  year  after  my  return,  George 
Pilson  (you  remember  Pilson  and  Pilson, 
tho  attorneys  ?  very  respectable  firm)  was 
in  my  office,  and  chanced  to  speak  of  Dun- 
blane Castle,  where  he  had  latoly  been. 
His  father,  I  found  out,  was  Lord  Dun- 
blane's man  of  business ;  and  I  questioned 
George  as  to  his  lordship's  present  condi- 
tion and  mode  of  life.  His  answer  was  far 
fix)m  satisfactory. 

"  His  lordship's  sti^angencss,  and  his 
violent  ebullitions  of  temper  have  increased 
very  much  upon  him  of  late,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  supposed  that  this  is  greatlv  owing  to 
the  fact  that  after  nearly  eignt  years  of 
marriage  there  is  no  heir  to  the  title.  Then 
his  wife  is  a  person  singularly  unsuited  to 
him  in  all  ways.  Her  ladyship  is  handsome, 
but  wanting  in  common-sense,  gairuloua 
in  tho  extreme,  laughing  immoderately  in 
and  out  of  season,  and,  if  I  may  be  allowed 
to  express  an  opinion  on  such  a  point,  de- 
ficient in  tho  dignity  befitting  her  station. 
These  things  are  perpetual  blisters,  I  fancy, 
to  his  lordship.  Her  ladyship,  in  a  word, 
is  what  may  bo  called  a  *  provoking  woman,' 
and  as  liis  lordship  is  not  tho  most  patient 
of  men  you  may  guess  tho  consequences." 

I  replied  that  I  was  more  sorry  than  sur- 
prised :  from  what  I  knew  of  Lord  Dun- 
blane I  never  expected  that  such  a  marriage 
— one  purely  of  interest— could  turn  out 
well.  "And  yet,"  I  added,  "if  he  had 
fiillen  into  other  hands,  I  think  he  might 
havo  become  a  very  different  man.  Theit) 
were  germs  of  good  in  him." 

At  this  George  Pilson  remained  silent 
for  a  few  moments,  a  silence  which  I  thought 
most  eloquent.  He  then  proceeded  to 
speak  of  tlie  castle,  which  he  described  as 
one  of  the  finest  monuments  of  tho  fifteenth 
century  remaining  in  the  country. 

"  His  lordship  is  very  justly  proud  of  it," 
he  said,  "  though  with  his  pride  is  mingled 
a  certain  superstitious  awe,  as,  no  doubt, 
you  know  ?  I  dare  say  he  has  often  spoken 
to  you  of  the  secret  room  in  tlie  castle  ?" 

"Xo,"  I  rephed,  "I  do  not  remember 
that  he  ever  did.  ^VTiat  is  there  special 
about  this  room  'r" 

He  replied,  "No  one  knows  exactly 
where  it  is  except  tho  owner,  the  heir,  and 
one  other  person ;  who  happens,  at  pre- 
sent, to  be  my  father.  The  family  supersti- 
tion concerning  this  room  is  very  strong, 
and  I  behevc  they  slirink  from  speaking 
of  it." 

"  But  wliat  does  it  arise  from  ?"  I  ia- 
quired. 

He  Ba\d,  "  T\i.i  \e^\A  T\ms»  K^osai^  >&cfca» 


«s 


59G      [S'<m)m1)erS0,1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


tOoadnetedtj 


^ 


11 


former  Lord  of  Dunblane  sold  himself  to 
the  devil  in  this  rot)m ;  the  ])lain  English 
of  which  is,  I  imagine,  tluit  he  committed 
some  foul  crime  there.  At  all  events,  this 
room  has  remained  shut  up  for  centuries ; 
and  it  was  predicted  by  one  of  those  sibyls, 
who  were  given  to  such  utteitinces,  that,  if 
ever  the  secret  were  made  known  the  ruin 
of  the  house  would  follow." 

''  VVliy,"  I  exclaimed,  "  this  is  the  se- 
cond prophecy  that  lias  been  mtule  alxjut 
the  Dunblanos  !  One  pays  dearly  for  bo- 
longing  to  these  groat  families  if  one  is  to 
be  subject  to  all  these  superstitions.  Do 
you  know  if  the  room  is  ever  opened  ?" 

''  Yes,  I  believe  so,  once  a  year ;  when,  if 
possible,  the  three  who  arc  in  possession  of 
the  secret  meet  here.  My  father  never 
speaks  on  the  subject,  of  course,  nor  does 
Lord  Dunblane." 

1  asked  who  the  heir-at-law  was.  He 
told  me  they  liad  liad  difficulty  in  finding 
him  out.  He  was  in  some  office  in  Lon- 
don, aTid  in  very  poor  circumstances,  being 
descended  from  a  younger  branch  of  the 
Dunblanes,  who  had  gone  to  settle  in  Eng« 
land  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century. 

After  some  further  conversation,  Pilson 
took  Ids  leave,  and  I  thought  very  little 
more  about  Lord  Dunblane  and  his  affairs, 
having  concerns  of  my  own  which  fully 
occupied  my  thoughts  at  that  time. 

Some  weeks  later  I  received,  to  my  sur- 
prise, a  letter  from  Lord  Dunblane,  sa^nng 
that  he  had  just  heard  from  liis  man  of 
business,  ^ir.  Pilson,  that  I  was  returned 
from  India,  and  living  in  Aberdeen ;  and 
that  it  would  give  Idm  great  pleasure  to 
see  mo  again,  if  I  would  pny  him  a  visit  at 
Dunblane  Castle.  He  named  a  day  when 
he  was  expecting  a  party ;  but  added  that 
if  tliis  time  was  not  convenient  to  me,  I 
could  write  myself,  and  propose  some  later 
date.  It  would  have  been  ungi^acious  to 
have  refused  such  an  invitation.  Indeed,  I 
was  fully  sensible  of  the  honom*,  though  I 
anticipated  but  little  pleasure  from  this 
visit,  under  tlie  prcjsent  circumstances.  A 
press  of  business  retained  mo  in  Aberdeen 
just  then,  but  I  promised  to  WTitc,  and  I 
did  write,  some  weeks  later,  to  his  lord- 
ship, proposing  io  accompany  Mr.  Pilson, 
who  informed  me  tliat  ho  -was  going  to 
Dunblane  Castle :  for  I  reflected  that  as  the 
stage  would  take  me  no  further  than  Nairn, 
we  could  share  a  post-chaiso  together, 
which  would  lighten  tlie  cost  of  a  journey, 
in  which  business  had  no  part.  His  lord- 
ship  replied,  in  a  few  lines,  to  Kiy  1  s\\o\ild. 


by  the  stage,  which  started  at  six  A.H.,  and 
reached  Dunblane  Castle  late  that  afier- 
mx)ii.  It  was  getting  dusk  as  we  drove  up 
to  this  magnificent  remnant  of  the  feudal 
ago — a  pile  which  impressed  one  with  a 
senso  of  the  power  which  must  haTO  be- 
longed to  the  Dunblanes  in  past  ages,  and 
heightened  their  claim  to  consideratioiu  in 
my  eyes  at  least,  more  than  the  finest 
modem  palace  could  have  done.  It  was  the 
grandest  specimen  of  this  style  of  archi- 
tecture I  ever  saw,  of  vast  extent,  its  sky- 
outline  bristling  with  pointed  turrets,  its 
gvej  wvdls  crowning  a  steep  lieiglit  covered 
\vith  veneniblo  Scotch  fii"s,  a  dry  moat  sur- 
rounding it,  and  a  gateway  leading  into  a 
courtyard,  which  occupied  nearly  an  acre, 
and  round  which  the  castle  was  built. 

Lord  Dunblane  mot  us  in  tho  ball.  The 
nine  years  which  had  elapsed  sinoe  we  had 
parted  had  wrought  changes  in  us  both,  no 
doubt ;  but  in  the  man  I  saw  before  me  I 
should  scarcely  have  recognised  my  fellow- 
student  had  I  mot  him  in  the  streets  of 
Aberdeen.  He  was  grown  very  large,  and 
on  his  face,  which  was  lined  far  beyond  his 
years,  the  hard,  wild  look  wbidi  bad  been 
transient  formerly,  had  settled  down,  appa- 
rently, into  its  habitual  expression.  He  re- 
ceived me  kindly,  but  there  was  no  smile, 
as  he  shook  my  hand.  The  light  bad  died 
out  of  the  face,  never  to  be  rekindled. 
He  told  me  I  should  have  but  a  dull  visit, 
he  feai'ed.  '*  Had  you  come  six  weeks  ago 
when  I  wanted  you,  you  would  have  met  a 
country  gathering :  not  that  J  like  thai 
sort  of  thing :  I  hate  it ;  but  you  and  I 
were  always  very  different^  Cartheirs. 
Now  you  will  find  no  one ;  and  I  have  a 
good  deal  of  business  with  Mr.  Pilson,  so 
that  I  must  leave  Lady  Dunblane  to  enter- 
tain you."  I  assured  him  that  I  should  be 
perfectly  happy,  exploring  tho  beauties  of 
the  park  and  adjoiidng  forest,  and  begged 
him  not  to  consider  me  for  a  moment. 
After  that  he  led  me  up- stairs  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  Lady  Dunblane  was  seated 
alone. 

The  first  impression  produced  on  every 
one  by  her  ladyship's  beauty  could  not  but 
be  fiivourablo.  She  was  a  brunette ;  tall 
Avith  lively  eyes  and  brilliant  teeth,  which 
she  showed  a  great  deal  when  she  laughed, 
and  dark  brown  hair,  cut  short  and  di- 
shevelled in  loose  waves  over  her  head. 
Upon  this  occasion,  however,  I  saw  uothing 
but  a  curl  or  two ;  for  she  wore  a  spedts 
of  helmet,  much  affectod,  as  I  afterwards 
\cajnit,  V)r^  \7ouLen  of  condition,  in  that  day. 


be  welcome ;  and  accordingly,  on  t\\c  teul\v\  \A\o^vi  \v\jl!^owdA"^  wsnasiscKv^Qi^  T^ments  of 
of  April,  1804,  Pilson  and  I  loft  Aberdeen  X-jeomsKot^^^vA  ^^  \jfiit^TyQx^^^aai&,  \»css!|, 


&> 


Ohariei  Dickens.] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DUNBLANE. 


[November  iO,  1869.]      59  7 


the  first  head-gear  of  the  kind  which  I  had 
Kcen,  its  singularity  struck  me;  but  her 
ladyship  carried  this  curious  erection  of 
buckram,  fur,  and  tinsel,  with  a  grace 
which  forbade  a  thought  of  ridicule.  Her 
beautiful  figure  was  set  off  by  a  spenser  of 
scarlet  cloth,  and  a  tight-fitting  skirt  of 
some  white  material  which  appeared  to 
have  been  damped,  it  clung  so  close  to  her 
person.  It  was  evident  that  her  ladyship 
^ras  not  neglectful  of  her  appearance,  nor 
unmindful  of  the  impression  she  made  upon 
even  a  humble  individual  like  myself.  She 
came  forward  and  greeted  mo  with  infinite 
suavity,  saying : 

"  It  is  amiable  of  you,  Mr.  Corthews,  to 
come  and  take  pity  on  our  solitude.  We 
see  no  one  from  one  week's  end  to  another 
in  this  castle  of  Otranto  (you  have  read 
Mr.  Walpole's  romance  ?),  where  all  is  so 
gloomy  and  mysterious  that,  as  I  teU  my 
lord,  I  am  really  alarmed  sometimes  at  the 
sound  of  my  own  voice  !" 

"I  wish  that  occurred  rather  ofbener," 
muttered  his  lordship.  She  continued, 
laughing,  **  Our  only  society  are  the  ghosts. 
You  don't  mind  them,  I  hope  ?  They  are 
all  of  the  oldest  families,  for  we  are  mighty 
select  hero,  you  must  know.  If  they  visit 
you,  you  must  esteem  it  a  great  honoxir, 
Mr.  Carthews." 

I  replied  in  the  same  strain,  that  I  felt 
myself  to  be  wholly  unworthy  of  that 
honour;  but  that,  if  they  came,  I  would 
try  and  receive  them  with  becoming 
courtesy. 

"Like  my  parrot,"  cried  her  ladyship, 
laughing.  "  Ho  and  my  spaniel  sleep  in  my 
room ;  and  sometimes,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
he  calls  out,  *Pray,  come  in,  and  take  a 
chair !'  which  startles  mo  from  my  sleep, 
and  frightens  me  out  of  my  senses  !" 

His  lordship  said  something  about  her 
having  no  senses  to  be  frightened  out  of, 
I  believe,  and  something  about  "  brutes." 
She  caught  up  the  word,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Brutes  ?  Oh,  yes ;  one  gets  ac- 
customed to  the  society  of  brutes  of  any 
sort,  when  one  has  nothing  else  all  day." 

Such  amenities  passed  between  the  two 
were  of  constant  occurrence,  I  suppose,  for 
they  produced  little  effect  beyond  deepen- 
ing the  scowl  on  his  lordship's  face.  As  to 
me,  I  felt  very  uncomfortable,  and  the 
charm  of  Lady  Dunblane's  beauty  had 
already  melted  awny.  Though  not  a  stupid 
woman,  I  saw  she  was  a  very  foolish  one. 
How  she  dared  to  aggravate  a  man  of  such 
a  temperament  as  her  husband's  amazed 
mie.  It  was  just  like  a  child  handling  fire. 
'   She  rattJod  away  and  l&uehed  all  that  even- 


ing with  little  intermission.  Lord  Dun- 
blane scarcely  opened  his  lips.  Over  the 
wine  Pilson  and  I  talked ;  but  his  lordship 
stared  moodily  at  the  fire,  and  said  nothing. 
I  began  to  think  I  had  made  a  mistake  in 
coming  all  the  way  ftt)m  Aberdeen  for  this. 
To  play  the  part  of  chorus  to  a  matrimonial 
duet  of  the  most  discordant  character  was 
not  pleasant ;  and  if  my  former  friend  was 
so  self-absorbed  as  to  bo  unable  to  speak  to 
me,  the  sooner  I  left  him  the  better.  I 
suppose  something  of  this  sort  struck 
him,  for  he  said,  as  he  wished  me  good 
night,  "You  must  not  mind  my  silence 
and  absence  of  mind,  Garthews.  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  here ;  but  my  present  posi- 
tion gives  mo  many  anxieties.  I  am  irri- 
tated and  worried  until,  by  Heaven !  I  feel 
at  times  as  if  I  should  go  mad." 

Well,  I  went  to  bed,  and  slept  soundly. 
I  never  was  an  imaginative  man,  you  see, 
or  the  room  I  was  in  might  have  conjured 
up   some  of  those  spiritual  visitants  her 
laidysliip  had  joked  about,  evidently  to  her 
lord's   annoyance.     Not  that  it  was  any 
worse  than  the  other  rooms  in  the  castle. 
I  take  it  they  were  all  oak-panelled,  with 
hideous    family  portraits    grinning    from 
the  wall  upon  the  occupants  of  the  vast 
draperied  beds,   in  one   of  which  I  slept 
without  waking,  until  the  servant  brought 
in  my  hot  water  for  shaving.     It  was  a 
bright  morning,  and  at  breakfast  I   found 
my  host    in  bettor  spirits   than   he   had 
seemed  the  previous  evening.     I  could  not 
help  speculating  whether  this  could  be  in 
consequence  of  Lady  Dunblane's  absence. 
She  never  came  down  to  breakfast,  I  found. 
Her  maid,  a  most  formidable-looking  fe- 
male, ^vith  red  hair,  and  the  muscles  of  a 
gillie,    came  in,   I  remember,  with  a  tray, 
and  took  her  ladyship's   chocolate   up  to 
her.     This  person,  I  was  afterwards  told, 
had   been  bom   on   the   estate,    and  was 
devoted   to   Dunblane.      She  had  been  ill 
spoken  of  as  a  girl ;  but  Dunblane's  mother 
had  befriended  and  made  this  Elspie  her 
body  servant,  and  Dunblano  had  insisted, 
when  he  married,  on  her  filling  the  same 
office  to  his  wife,  nmch  to  that  lady's  an- 
noyance, who  wished  for  a  modish  waiting- 
woman   from   Edinburgh  or  London.     So 
much  for  this  ill-favoured  specimen  of  her 
sex,  to  whom  I  never  spoke  in   my  life, 
but  who  impressed  me  very  unfavourably 
whenever   I  saw  her.     A'fber  breakfast  his 
lordship  took  me  over  the  castle,  and  gave 
me  all  the  historical  associations  connectAidw 
'with  it,  shoY^in^Tttfe, '^\\^cv^Na^^'^^^^*^^ 
bed  m  w\\\c\i  Q.u'ecul^.'Krj  \issA  ^«^\»^^  T^"^ 
tree,  said  to  "Viovo  >oecii\  ^^^ssak^^^s^ 


^®jc3tsR^ 


d3: 


^ 
» 


598       [Novftmbcr  1»0, 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conducted  by 


BnicM?,  ami  tlie  suit  of  armour  buriR'  l)v 

Diiiil)bin(;    of  Duublaiio   at   the   battle   of 

Hauiiockbura.     He   diluted  on  the  glories 

of  his  houiie  with  more  animation  than  I 

liad  yet  obser\'ed :  then  suddenly  the  cloud 

came  over  him.     "  And  to  think,"  he  said, 

*'  that  all  this  must  pass  into  another  line — 

into  hands  that  have  been  debased  by  trade" 

(which  was  not  polite  to  me ;  but  he  entirely 

forgot  my  presence  for  the  moment,  I  am 

sure);    "to   tliink   that   people  who   have 

hardly  a  drop  of  old  blood  in  their  veins, 

who  have  intermarried  for  generations  -^Nitli 

Smiths  and  Browns,  and  plebeian  names 

of  that  kind,  should  come  to  inherit  ihii?, 

which  they  have  no  feeling  for,  no  pride 

in — by  G-— d,  it  is  enough  to  wring  one's 

heart!'' 

And  tills  yras  the  way  ho  went  on,  from 

time  to  time,  bursting  out  in  imprecations 

on  Ids  fate  in  having  no  heir,  and  upon  the 

evil  star  wliich  had  risen  over  his  house. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  pointed  out  that  he 

was  young  still,  and  in  good  health,  and 

must  not  abandon  hope.     He  shook  his 

head  gloomily.     "  Tlie  prophecy  is  against 

me :  it  is  no  use. 

Wlien  fire  Dunblimes  have  had  nosoOf 
Then  shall  the  line  direct  bo  run. 

It  is  clear  enough,  is  it  not  ?  I  am  doomed. 
I  should  have  known  it.  "When  did  such  a 
prophecy  ever  come  wrong  ?  What  a  cui'sed 
fool  I  was  to  marry !" 

So  I  thought ;  to  marry,  that  is  to  say, 
as  he  had  done ;  but  I  abstained  fi-om  say- 
ing so.  By-and-by  his  lordship  took  Mr. 
Pilson  to  his  study,  where  they  were  en- 
gaged for  some  hours  over  business ;  and  I 
was  left  alone  to  ramble  about  the  castle, 
inside  and  out,  as  I  woiUd. 

Remembering  the  story  I  had  heard  of  a 
secret  room,  I  counted  all  the  T\indows  out- 
side, and  then,  returning  to  the  castle,  ti*a- 
versed  every  passage,  mounted  every  tur- 
ret, and  opened  every  door  I  could,  to  see 
if  the  number  of  windows  corresponded. 
With  the  help  of  the  sei-ving  man  whom  I 
met  on  the  stairs,  and  who  know  all  the 
rooms  in  the  castle,  ho  said,  I  accounted 
for  each  window  satisfactorily.  And  after 
two  hours'  diligent  endeavour  to  solve 
this  mystery,  I  ari'ived  at  the  conclusion 
that  there  could  be  no  room — it  was  all 
humbug.  I  was  at  a  time  of  life,  you  see, 
when  over-confidence  in  one's  own  powers 
is  apt  to  lead  ono  to  very  false  conclusions. 

At  luncheon  Lady  Dunblane  appeared, 

and  an  incident,  which  left  a  painful  im- 

pression  on  mj  mind,  took  place  on  that 


<.'i'dcrs  were  given  that  he  was  to  be  con- 
tin  ed  to  her  ladyshii^'s  own  fciuite  of  rooms, 
and  on  no  account  to  bo  allowed  beyond 
them.     But  some  door  had  iiiadvertenUv 

• 

been  left  open,  and,  while  we  were  at 
luncheon,  the  spaniel  ran  barking  into  the 
room,  round  and  round  the  table,  and 
finally  straight  between  his  lords! lip's  leg:*, 
who  was  at  that  moment  smarting  undrr 
one  of  his  wife's  sallies.  He  roared  om 
in  a  voice  of  thunder : 

"  How  often  have  I  told  yon,  ma'am,  to 
keep  that  infernal  little  beast  in  your  o^-a 
room  ?''  and  he  kicked  out  so  viciouslv, 
that  he  sent  the  poor  animal  spinning  along 
the  oak  floor  to  the  further  end  of  the 
room,  wlicn^  he  lay  howling.  His  mistress 
ran  up,  and  seized  him  in  her  arms;  tbo 
creature's  leg  was  broken.  Her  ladyship 
shrieked,  and  stamped,  and  mj  lord  swort", 
and,  thoroughly  sickened  with  tlie  whole 
scene,  I  rose  and  left  the  room.  Pikon 
joined  me  in  the  hall. 

''  Wliat  is  to  be  the  end  of  all  tins  ?"  I 
said  to  him. 

His  answer  was,  "  I  am  afraid  to  thluL" 

"Lord  Dunblane,"  I  said,  "seems  to  me 
to  be  losing  all  self-restraint.  If  he  goes 
on  thus,  what  will  become  of  liim  ?*' 

Pilson  looked  round  him,  then  leaned 
forward  and  whisixired,  "  Ho  will  end  his 
days  in  a  madhouse."  Dunblane  shut  him- 
self  into  his  room  for  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon. By-and-by  her  ladyship  drove  out 
in  her  coach  and  four,  and  can*icd  her  dog  in 
her  anns  to  a  veterinary  surgeon  some  nulcs 
ofiT.  At  diimer  she  appeared  in  as  brilliant 
spirits  as  ever.  How  much  of  this  wa-" 
real  I  cannot  say;  nor,  supposing  her 
Iiilarity  to  be  assumed,  whether  it  was 
done  for  the  pm'pose  of  agfirravating  her 
lord.  It  certainly  succeeded,  if  so.  His  mo- 
roseness  was  enlivened  by  several  ferocious 
salHes.  The  conversation  turned  upon 
Finance,  I  remember,  and  on  the  probabili- 
ties of  the  Fh'st  Consul's  being  made  em- 
peror, a  subject  that  engrossed  all  minds 
just  then. 

"  How  I  admire  that  little  man !"  ex- 
claimed her  ladyship.  "  How  much  greater 
to  found  a  dynasty,  aa  he  is  doing,  Uian  to 
inherit  all  the  crowns  in  Europe  !  I  begin 
to  wish  I  was  a  Frenchwoman ! 

"  I  begin  to  wish  you  were !"  cried  my 
lord.  "  There  is  not  another  British  peerc?s 
who  would  disgrace  herself  by  uttering 
such  a  sentiment." 

She  laughed  aloud,  and  replied,  "  Oh ! 
because  they  are   less   frank  than  I  am- 


occasion.      Dunblane  had  a  pecuWat  aver- \.M\.NROTxi^u^ij^sxiaxtlja  Petit  Caporalin  tlit'ir 
sioB    to    her    ladyship's    spamcV.      Sliic\.\\iesLT\»,    ^^^^^W^»^^al\\.  V^>afc  •^^i!^  canes 


:&. 


Char?**  Dickens,] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DUNBLANE. 


[Novcnjbcr  20, 1SG9.]       599 


over  here,  and  conquers  us !  It  -will  be  much 
nicer  bcinp^  the  subjects  of  a  gi'cat  hero, 
instead  of  the  subjects  of  a  mad  old  king 
who " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  ma'am!"  shouted 
Dunblane,  bringing  liis  fist  down  upon  the 
table  with  a  force  whicli  made  the  glasses 
clatter :  "or,  if  you  will  talk  your  low 
treasonous  mbbish,  go  and  talk  it  in  the 
kitchen.     You  shall  not  talk  it  here  !" 

Slie  only  laughed  in  reply.  She  certainly 
seemed  to  take  a  doHght  in  provoking  him ; 
and,  as  she  knew  his  sensitive  points,  this 
was  not  difficult.  I  found  an  opportunity, 
over  a  game  of  cribbage,  later  in  the  even- 
ing, of  asking  her  why  she  acted  tlms. 
No  doubt  this  was  somewhat  of  a  liberty, 
considering  our  short  acquaintance  ;  but  I 
felt  I  could  not  remain  longer  in  the  house 
without  trying  to  amend  matters. 

"Oh!''  she  said,  "anything  for  a  Httlo 
excitement  in  this  horridly  m.onotonous 
life.  I  sliould  die  of  ennui  if  it  wasn't  for 
the  tiffs  with  my  lord." 

1  told  her  she  did  not  know  what  harm 
she  was  doing ;  and  I  asked  if  she  never 
felt  afmid  of  irritating  a  man  so  passionate 
as  his  lordship. 

"  Bless  you,  no,"  was  her  reply.  "  It  is 
he  who  is  afiuid,  realhj,  of  me  —  of  my 
tongue,  you  see.  Ha,  ha!  No  one  ever 
answered  him  before;  his  mother,  his  ser- 
vants, his  friends,  why,  —  you  yourself,  I 
daresay,  you  never  contradicted  him  ?  Now, 
I  ahuaifs  do,  and  I  always  say  just  what  I 
like.  He  hates  me,  of  course,  but  he  is 
afraid  of  me,  Mr.  Carthews.     Ha,  ha,  ha  1" 

Good  heavens  !  I  thought  to  myself,  and 
these  two  people  are  tied  to  each  other  for 
life.  Both  have  a  fair  chance  of  living 
for  the  next  forty  years.  What  a  prospect ! 
Even  before  we  separated  for  the  night  she 
had  stung  him  with  another  of  her  irritating 
speeches.  There  had  been  some  talk  of  the 
steward's  boy,  who  had  tumbled  from  a 
tree,  and  had  broken  his  leg.  ..."  Chil- 
dren are  a  horrid  bore,"  said  Lady  Dun- 
blane. "  Thank  Heaven,  I  have  no  brat  to 
be  tumbling  from  trees,  and  worrying  one's 
life  out." 

Fdare  say  she  did  not  mean  it.  It  is 
hardly  possible  tliat,  under  the  circum- 
stances, she  should  not  have  "washed  for  a 
child.  The  devil  was  in  the  woman,  con- 
stantly prompting  something  to  aggravate 
her  husband.  His  back  was  towards  me, 
on  this  occasion,  and  he  said  nothing,  so  I 
could  only  judge  of  the  effect  produced  upon 
him  by  his  instantly  lighting  a  chamber 
candlestick  and  leaving  tte  room.  We  saw 
him  no  more  that  night 


The  next  day  and  the  day  following  only 
further  developed  the  hopeless  condition  of 
affairs  between  Lord  and  Lady  Dunblane. 
I  tried  once  to  speak  to  him  on  the  subject, 
but  I  found  it  was  in  vain.  An  ineradi- 
cable hatred  of  his  wife  had  grown  up  in 
him,  which  he  did  not  attempt  to  conceal. 
When  alone  with  him,  he  would  occasionally 
converse ;  in  her  presence  he  seemed  to  be 
perpetually  on  the  look-out  for  wliat  might 
drop  from  her-  irrepressible  tongue.  The 
fourth  day  of  my  stay  at  the  castle — ^tho  day 
before  I  was  obliged  to  return  to  Aberdeen 
— arrived,  and  with  it  came  a  guest,  who, 
although  expected,  was  evidently  anything 
but  welcome.  This  was  Mr.  James  Dun- 
blane, the  heir-at-law,  who  had  only  lately 
l>een  traced,  and  between  whom  and  Lord 
Dunblane  certain  communications  had 
passed  by  letter.  This  was  his  first  visit 
to  the  castle — a  visit  which,  as  I  afterwards 
learnt,  was  a  matter  almost  of  necessity. 
He  seemed  to  feel  the  awkwardness  of  his 
position.  I  do  not  remember  much  about 
the  young  man,  except  that  he  was  plain 
in  person,  and  very  quiet.  Lord  Dunblane 
received  him  coldly,  but  politely.  Lady 
Dunblane,  after  the  usual  fSashion,  plunged 
at  once  into  the  subject  of  aU  others  his 
lordship  shrunk  from  aay  notice  of. 

"  So  you  are  come,  as  heir-at-law,  to  bo 
let  into  the  secret  of  this  famous  room,  are 
you  ?  Why,  it  is  as  bad  as  being  made  a 
freemason  I  .  .  .  .  Can  you  keep  a  secret, 
Mr.  Dunblane  ?  because,  if  not,  untold  mis- 
fortunes are  to  befall  us."  And  the  laugh 
with  which  she  concluded  sounded  to  mo 
like  the  screech  of  an  owl  forboding  evil. 
Lord  Dunblane  looked  as  if  he  could  have 
stabbed  her,  but  he  only  muttered  an  oath 
under  his  breath,  and  clenched  his  fist — a 
movement  which  no  one  saw  but  myself. 
Every  incident  of  that  evening  is  fresh  in  my 
recollection.  I  remember  how  she  returned 
again  and  again  to  that  subject,  as  though 
it  had  a  fatal  fascination  for  her,  but  more 
likely,  I  fear,  because  she  saw  tliat  her 
husband  writhed  under  it.  She  ridiculed 
the  prophecy,  and  laughed  at  all  those 
superstitions,  which  his  lordship  cherished 
as  his  religion.  It  was  distressing  to  watch 
him  the  while.  He  was  far  quieter  than 
usual,  scarcely  spoke,  but  sat^  his  arms 
crossed,  staring  at  the  fire,  ^Wth  eyes  which 
burnt,  themselves,  like  coals,  and  when  ho 
swore,  which  he  did  once  or  twice,  it  was  in 
a  suppressed  voice,  contrasting  sti^angcly 
with  his  usual  violence.  But  there  was  a 
vibration  in  the  toTX^  v?\vv3t^  ^<2r^^^\\ss^ 

I  btc  in.  t\ie  cveiiMi^,  ^^  ^^  ^^^  ^>.^\xxv^ 


<& 


PI 


COO 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


iNovemtrT  20.  1SC9,; 


ronnd  her  ladysliip's  toa- table,   wlieii    she 
committed   her  crowning   act  of  folly   by 
offering  to  lay  a  wager  with  any  one  that 
she  would  find  out  tiio  secret  room  herself. 
I  need   hardly  say    no   one   accept (?d   the 
chaliongc.      But   she  was   not   to  be  dis- 
couraged.     She   had    s(?en    her   husband's 
face  go  white,  and  the  l<K)k  whieh  he  had 
shot  at  her  gave  a  zest  tt)  her  audacious 
scheme.     She  rejieat^d  her  declaration  that 
she  would  penetrate  this  wonderful  mysterj-. 
Sucli  things  were  well  enough  to  frighten 
old  women  with  in  the  middle  ages,  but 
how  any  one  could  ])elieYe  in  predictions  and 
other  rubbish  of  this  kind  in  the  present 
day   passed  her  comprehension.     For   her 
part  she  had  no  faith  in  anything  of  the 
kind,  and  to  prove  what  folly  it  was,  she 
should  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  discover 
this   room  about   which   such  a  fuss  was 
made :  after  which  the  secret,  she  declared, 
should  remain  one  no  longer.     I  tried  to 
stop  her ;  Pilson  tried  to  stop  her :  it  was 
all  no  use.     She  had  got  the  bit  between 
her  teeth,  so  to  speak,  and  away  she  went, 
partly  to  show  off,  and  partly  out  of  spite, 
regardless  what  she  said,  provided  it  pro- 
duced an  effect  and  inflamed  my  lord  yet 
more.     She  pictured,  laughingly,  the  cob- 
webbed  condition  of  the  room,  and  how  she 
would  turn  in  tho  housemaid  with  broom 
and  duster ;  after  which  she  would  give  an 
evening  painty   there,    and   invito   all  tho 
ghosts  to  come,  if  they  chose — ''  indeed  the 
black    gentleman    himself!"  ....  Poor 
woman,  she  littlo  knew  what  she  was  in- 
voking.    No  Olio  laughed.     Even  the  heir, 
who,   being  shy,  always  smiled   when  re- 
quired, looked  too  stupefied  to  comply  with 
tho  demand  on  this  occasion.     To  glance  at 
Lord  Dunblane's  face  was  enough  to  check 
any  inclination  to  hilarity.     I  have  never 
forgr)tten  its  expression.     I  had  witnessed 
his  ungovemabkj  pas«{ion  scores  of  times, 
pi-ompting  him  to  sudden  acts  of  violence. 
But  now,  there  was  a  certain  admixture  of 
fiar  (she  had  divin(?(l  rightly,  I  saw,  when 
she  said  he  was  afi-aid  of  her)  with  the  niGfo 
which  trembled  through  his  whole  frame, 
the  like  of  which  I  have  never  beheld  but 
once  since  in  my  life.     I  saw  a  beast-tamer 
enter  the  hyenas'  deuat  the  show  last  year. 
The  aspect  of  their  malignant  fury  cowed 
by  teiTor,  but  watching  for  its  opjwrtunity 
to  burst  forth,  thosavaj^e  hissing  wherewith 
they   received  tho  lash  and  showed  their 
fangs,  recalled  to  mo  Dunblane's  demean- 
our as  he  listened  to  his  wife At 


hist,  1  eon  1(1  stand  it  no  longer,  and  made 
up  my  mind  to  tell  a  lie. 

"  Ijady  Dunblane/'  I  said,  "like  most 
Scotchmen,  1  am  a  ti*ifle  superstitionj?.  This 
is  my  last  night  under  your  hospitable  roof, 
and  I  am  sure  you  would  not  willingly  dis- 
turb its  rest.  You  are  so  happfly  constituted 
as  to  be  above  fear  of  aui/  khiJ.  Others  are 
weaker.  Let  me  earnestly  advise  yon  to 
leave  all  the  superstitions  connected  with 
Dunblane  Castle  alone.  Believe  mc,  *  there 
are  more  thinprs  in  heaven  and  earth  than 
are  dreamt  of  in  your  ladvsfaip's  pliilo- 
sopby.'"  .       P      f 

She  burst  out  .a-laughing,  as  usual. 
*'  Oh,  Mr.  Carthcws,  I'm  ashaineii  of  yon. 
But  I  see  w^hat  it  is.  You  are  afraid,  not 
of  the  ghosts  and  the  predictions,  but  of 
my  lord.  Well,  I  shall  see  you  in  May, 
when  I  pass  through  Aberdeen  on  my  way 
south,  and  I  sliall  tell  you  all  about  it  then ; 
for,  depend  upon  it,  I  shall  have  found  out 
the  secret  by  that  time." 

And  so,  in  the  insolence  of  youth  an«l 
high  spirits  and  an  indomitable  will,  she  bade 
me  good-night,  poor  woman,  and  I  never 
saw  her  again. 

Dunblane  had  left  the  room.  Whether  it 
was  pre-arranged  that  Pilson  and  the  young 
heir  were  to  join  him  in  his  study,  and  that 
later  in  tho  night  tho  door  of  the  secret  room 
should  be  unclosed,  I  know  not.  I  am  in- 
clined, from  one  or  two  circumstuncee,  to 
think  that  it  was  so  ;  but,  again,  there  are 
other  things  which  have  made  me  doubt  ir. 
At  all  events,  when  we  three  bade  each  other 
.Er<K>d-night>  neithei*  Pils(m  nor  young  Dun- 
blane dropped  anything  which  sh<»uld  lead 
me  to  suppose  they  were  not  going  straight 
to  their  OAvn  rooms.  They  were  not  to 
leave  the  castle  till  the  day  after  me.  It 
was  quite  jK>ssible,  therefoi-c,  that  the  cham- 
ber was  to  be  unlocked  after  my  departure. 


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VEHOI^ICA. 


Is  Five  Books. 

BOOK  IIL 
CHAPTER  TI.      LONELY. 

The  prince  was  a  little  near-sighted,  and 
not  deeming  it  good  manncTB  to  use  the 
glass  that  dangled  by  the  bls«k  ribbin 
OTer  his  Avaiatcoat,  when  he  fonnd  himself 
face  to  face  with  "miladi,"  he  had  ap- 
proached to  within  a  short  diatonco  of  her 
befiin:  he  became  awaro  of  the  agitated  ex- 
jreaaion  of  her  face,  and  the  nnnsnal  carc- 
essness  of  her  toilet. 

The  instinct  of  coqnctty  wonld  have  pre- 
vented Veronica  from  presenting  herself 
"iro  Bftrietti  in  any  unbecoming  attire. 
But  if  she  had  giren  the  matter  her  most 
serions  consideration,  she  could  have  found 
10  bettor  calculated  to  set  off  her  striking 
mty  than  that  which  she  now  wore.  A 
long  white  wrapper  fell  to  her  feet.  She 
had  covered  her  head  with  the  volnminoue 
folds  of  a  white  laoe  shawl,  one  end  of 
which  was  thrown  across  her  breast  and 
II  over  her  shonlder :  and  beneath  the 
ilicato  snowy  lace  her  long  black  hair 
Btreamcd  rippling  to  her  waist. 

"  Oh,  prince,  there  yon  are  !"  said  Ve- 
■onica.  "  Paul  told  mo  yon  wore  in  the 
west  loggia,  and  I  ra,n  down  to  catcU  yon 
'>cforo  I  dressed  for  dinner." 

The  words  were  flattering,  inasmnch  as 
they  implied  great  eagerness  on  the  lady's 
part  to  see  him.  But  he  must  have  been  a 
tatuonajy  vain  man  wbo  could  have  looked 
n  Veronica's  dee  as  she  spoke  and  have 
.apposed  her  to  be  thinkiug  of  paying  liim 
;ompiiments. 

Barlctti  bowed,  and  stood  awaiting  what 
nnre  she  had  to  say. 


"  Have  yon  seen  Pan!  ?" 

"Yes,  signora.  I  saw  him  as  I  came  in, 
bnt  1  did  not  speak  to  him." 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  that  Sir  iTohn 
has  been,  and  stilJ  is,  ill  ?" 

"  Dio  huono  !  Ill  P  No.  I  know  no- 
thing. What  is  the  matter  with  co  boa 
Gale  ?" 

"  I  hope  it  is  nothing  serious :  but  I 
cannot  tell.  I  am  nncasyabont  him ;  very 
nneasy." 

Barletti  did  not  believe  that  miladi  conld 
be  sofiering  any  acuta  anxiety  on  the  score 
of  her  lord's  health.  And  he  wonld  have 
considered  it  a  priori  very  nnhkely  that  sho 
should  so  suffer.  Bat  ho  thought  it  highly 
proper  and  becoming  that  she  should  as- 
enmo  anxiety.  A  &auk  show  of  indiffer- 
ence would  have  disgnsted  him. 

"  Oh  you  must  not  alarm  yourself,  cara 
signora,"  ho  said,  soothingly.  "  What  are 
the  symptoms  P  How  long  has  he  been 
ill  P     I  wonder  that  Paul  said  nothing  to 

Veronica  hnrriedly  described  the  singular 
swoon  or  trance  into  which  Sir  John  had 
fidlen.  "  He  says  the  beat  made  him  faint," 

she  added,  "  but "     And  she  shook  her 

bead  doubtfully. 

"  Really  it  is  not  unlikely,"  said  Barletti. 
"  It  may  have  been  a  giramento  di  capo — 
a  more  swimming  of  the  head.  Such 
things  are  not  uncommon,  and  il  nostro 
caro  Gale  is  not  very  strong.  Pray  tell 
mo  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you  in 
Florence.  I  shall,  of  course,  go  back  at 
once.  I  could  not  think  of  intruding  on 
yon  under  the  circnmstancos." 

"No,  no,  no!  That  is  just  the  very 
thing  X  hastened  down  to  say.  You  must 
remain  and  dine  here,  and  stay  all  the  even- 
ing nntll  Sir  John  retires." 

"  Btit-— ■^'''^'^  l"^ '"'''  prefer "  began 


C2: 


■P 


C02       [Xoveml;er27,1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  HOUND. 


[OoDdueted  by 


I 


Barletli  in  some  astonishment.  Ycrouica 
inter  nipt  cd  liim,  speaking  very  fast,  and  fn 
a  low  tone,  and  glancing  round  nervonblj 
to  SCO  that  they  were  not  observed. 

"  Yes ;  no  doubt  he  "would  prefer  that 
yon  should  go  away.  But  I  prefer  that  you 
should  stay.  I  beg  you  to  stay.  He  has 
a  whim  to  dis^ruise  that  he  is  ill.  He  will 
not  have  a  doctor.  He  has  given  Paul 
orders  to  keep  it  secret  fixDm  the  servants. 
It  may  be  nothing,  but  I  am  so  inexpe- 
rienced in  illness,  I  cannot  judge.  I  am 
alone  here.  I  am  afraid  of — ^of — of  the 
responsibility.  Yon  must  remai  n  and  wat  eh 
him,  and  let  me  know  what  yon  think. 
And — ^listen — do  not  allow  it  to  be  seen 
that  I  have  urged  you  to  stay!  Do  not 
admit  that  I  have  said  a  word  to  yon 
about  his  illness.  I  rely  on  you,  re- 
member !  And,  above  all,  say  no  syllable 
to  Paul.'* 

She  turned  away,  re-entered  ihe  saloon 
by  the  glass  door,  and  ran  swiftly  and 
Boftly  up  the  stairs,  leaving  Barletti  in  a 
con(htion  of  considerable  perplexity. 

Ho  remained  in  the  garden  wandering 
up  and  down  until  the  dinner-bell  sounded. 
Then,  as  he  was  going  into  the  house  across 
the  paved  courtyard,  a  servant  who  had 
been  sent  to  seek  him,  met  him,  and  pre- 
ceded him  into  the  dining  saloon.  It  was 
a  vast  vaulted  hall,  whose  dreariness  was 
on  too  great  a  scale  to  be  much  mitigated 
by  such  French  upholstery  as  had  been 
hastily  employed  to  decorate  it  for  Sir  John 
Gale's  use. 

Tlie  table  was  as  big  as  the  deck  of  a 
small  yacht.  The  wax  lights  abundantly 
set  forth  on  a  huge  black  walnut-wood 
sideboard,  and  on  the  tall  marble  mantel- 
piece, and  on  the  table  itself,  seemed  to 
glunmer  with  hopeless  feebleness,  as  though 
they  were  conscious  of  their  inability  to 
illuminate  the  vague  dimness  of  the  space. 
There  was  a  little  island  of  light  in  the 
centre  of  the  table  -  cloth,  but  it  seemed 
only  to  enhance  the  sun*ounding  gloom. 

Veronica  was  already  in  the  dining-hall 
when  Barletti  entered  it.  Paul,  too,  Tv-as 
there,  olliciating  as  butler  at  the  sideboard. 

Barletti  bowed  profoundly,  and  saluted 
Veronica  as  though  he  then  saw  her  for  the 
first  time  that  evening. 

"  Good  evening,  piince,"  said  she,  with 
a  careless,  haughty  bend  of  the  head. 

In  her  lich  evening  dress,  and  with  her 

composed  disdainful  grace,  she  seemed  a 

very  diiFei'ent  woman  from  her  who  had 

spoken  to  him  in  the  loggia  half  an.  Yiour  ^^. 

A  cover  was  laid  for  Sir  John  in  \na  «to- 


customed  place.  Barletti  observied  it,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  after  Veronica  waa 
seiifced,  as  though  waiting  for  some  one. 
"  And  Gale  ?"  he  said,  interrogatively. 

'*  Oh,  Sir  John  will  not  dine  with  ua. 
Ho  felt  a  little  tired  with  the  heat  this 
afternoon.  We  shall  find  him  after  dinner 
in  the  salottino.     Sit  down,  prince." 

"  You  permit  ?     I  am  not  de  trop  ?" 

**  No,  no.  I  am  glad  of  the  sight  of  a 
human  face.  This  hall  is  the  gloomiest, 
dreariest  place !  I  have  never  quite  pot 
over  an  idea  that  it  is  haunted,  and  I  fmd 
myself  sometimes  making  out  mysterious 
shapes  in  the  dark  comers.  One  evening 
in  the  summer,  when  the  windows  were 
wide  open,  a  great  bat  flew  in,  and  almost 
brushed  my  face !     Ugh  !" 

They  ate  their  dinner  under  PauVs  gT:ive 
impassible  eyes,  and  with  Sir  John's  empty 
chair  between  them. 

"Thy  master  is  not  really  indisposed, 
friend,  eh  ?"  asked  the  prince  of  Paul,  as 
the  latter  was  serving  him  with  wine. 

"  Sir  John  missed  his  usual  siesta,  and 
was  tired.  He  is  quite  well  now,  Signer 
Principe." 

'•  Ah,  bravo  !  It  has  been  a  devil  of  a 
summer.  And  the  heat  seems  as  if  it 
would  never  leave  off  any  more." 

The  dinner  seemed  to  be  spun  out  to  an 
intolerable  length.  Barletti  had  a  very 
excellent  appetite,  and  ate  on  steadily. 
Veronica  ate  but  little ;  but  she  drank  off 
three  glasses  of  champagne,  whereat  Bar- 
letti, accustomed  to  the  almost  ascetic  tem- 
perance of  his  own  countrywomen  in  the 
matter  of  wine,  marvelled  considerably. 
He  could  not  help  observing,  also,  that  she 
did  appear  to  be  really  thoughtful  and 
anxious,  falling  every  now  and  then  into 
fits  of  musing.  And  at  this,  attributing 
her  careful  brow  to  uneasiness  regarding 
her  husband,  he  marvelled  still  more  ! 

When  the  dessert  was  put  on  the  table, 
Paul  prepared  to  withdraw.  Veronica  de- 
sired him  to  remain:  speaking  in  EnghsL 
of  which  language  Barletti  understood  veiy 
little  when  hie  saw  it,  and  almost  nothing 
when  he  heard  it. 

"  I  must  return  to  Sir  John,  miladi." 

"  Then  tell  Ansano  to  remain,  and  as 
soon  as  Sir  John  is  in  the  salottino,  let  me 
know." 

The  other  servants  went  away,  leaving 
Ansano  to  hand  round  the  dishes  of  fmit, 
which,  in  his  zeal,  and  the  elation  of  bang 
left  to  his  ovra  devices  free  firom  Paulas  sn- 
"^OTvvtiAon,  W  did  with   feverish    energy; 


I 


:if 


F= 


& 


Charles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[November  27,  ISCO.]      603 


by  desiriug  liim  to  go  and  stand  still  at  the 
fiideboai'd. 

Tliu  dining-liall,  like  all  tho  suite  of 
rooms  ou  the  Avost  side  of  the  house,  had  a 
door  communicating  with  tlie  loggia  out- 
.  side.  Veronica  bade  Barlctti  liiush  liis 
wino  at  his  leiisure,  and  rose  from  her  chair 
raying  that  she  would  go  and  walk  in  the 
loggiji  until  Sir  John  should  be  ready  to 
receive  thenju 

A  rccjuest  to  be  permitted  to  accompany 
her  was  ou  BarleLti's  lips,  but  she  checked 
him  by  a  look,  and  went  out  alone,  pacing 
slowly  and  regularly  up  and  down  under 
the  stone  arcades.  Tho  night  was  dark, 
and  since  sunset  tho  air  had  grown  cool. 
Veronica  lifted  the  gauze  upper  tunic  of  lier 
dress,  and  wrapped  her  shoulders  and  ai*ms 
in  it.  Ah  slie  walked  solitarily,  a  feeling  of 
intense  loneliness  came  upon  her,  such  as 
she  had  never  expenenced  in  her  life. 

Outside  in  the  dai'kness  she  looked  in  at 
the  ligiit^'d  hall  each  time  she  passed  the 
glass  door.  She  saw  the  brightness  of  the 
t;iblo,  glittering  with  glass  and  silver,  and 
adorned  with  flowers.  She  saw  Barletti 
seated  there.  His  face  was  towards  the 
Avuxdow..  Tho  light  fell  on  his  bald  fore- 
head and  dark  eyes,  and  mellowed  the  tint 
of  his  pale  skin.  He  looked  like  a  porti'ait 
by  Vandyke.  She  regarded  all  this  with 
an  inexi^ressible  sensation  o£ strangeness.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  looking  on  the 
room,  and  on  the  man,  for  the  first  time.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  no  part  in  any- 
thing within  those  walls.  No  one  could  see 
her  out  there  in  the  darkness.  And  to  look 
on  even  the  most  familiar  fiice,  being  oneself 
unseen,  gives  it  an  unfamiliar  aspect. 

Tho  fact  of  being  shut  out  there  alone  in 
the  darkness  and  of  looking  in  upon  the 
lighted  rooms  produced  in  her  a  sense  of 
complete  isolation:  isolation  of  spirit  as 
well  as  of  body.  What  did  her  existence 
matter  to  any  one  ?  If  she  could  at  that 
moment  transport  herself  to  Shipley-in-thc 
Wold,  and  peep  in  at  the  vicarage  windows, 
she  would  see  no  void  that  her  absence 
had  made.  It  would  all  be  going  on  much 
as  usual.  Her  father  would  be  reading  by 
the  fire — they  must  have  lires  now  in  tho 
evening — and  ]Maud  would  be  reading  too, 
or  perhaps  playing  softly  on  the  old  piano. 
Or,  it  might  be  that  Mr.  Plow  was  there, 
prosing  on  in  Ids  mild,  monotonous  voice. 
And  outside,  the  wide  flats  would  be  loom- 
ing dreary  and  vague;  and  near  Sack's 
farm  the  sheep  and  the  white  cattle  would 
ghmmer  dotted  about  the  pastures  fast 
asleep.  She  could  iancy  it  all  I  So,  thougbt 


she,  a  ghest  must  feel  revisiting  unpcrceived 
the  haunts  of  the  body. 

The  idea  of  death  thus  conjured  up,  made 
her  shiver,  and  nervously  walk  faster.  IIuw 
lonely  she  felt !     How  lonely,  how  lonely  ! 

Veronica  had  never  in  her  life  comprc- 
liended  what  was  meant  by  a  "  pleasing 
melancholy."  Sadness  of  any  kind  was 
utterly  distasteful  to  her;  and  ai'ouscd 
either  a  species  of  impatient  resentment, 
or  a  headlong  abandonment  of  herself  to 
despair,  which  had  some  auger  in  it  too. 

All  at  once  the  windows  of  the  saloitino 
threw  out  rays  of  biightness  into  the  night. 
Sir  John  must  be  there.  The  rays  came 
through  the  interstices  of  tho  wooden 
Venetian  blinds.  She  could  not  look  into 
the  salottino  as  she  could  into  the  dining- 
hall,  where  the  shutters  were  left  open. 
She  felt  a  sudden  yearning  for  light,  and 
shelter,  and  companionship.  It  was  too  in- 
tolerable being  out  there  alone  with  her 
own  thoughts  in  the  darkness. 

She  went  into  the  house  through  the 
dining-room  where  Barletti  was  still  sitting 
at  the  table.  He  had  di'unk  scarcely  any 
wine  since  Veronica  left  him ;  but  to  kill 
the  time  he  had  eaten  nearly  the  whole 
contents  of  a  large  glass  dish  of  sweetmeats, 
and  was  beginning  to  find  tliat  occupation 
pall  on  him  when  she  reappeared. 

Ansano  stood  sentinel  in  the  background. 
He  had  not  found  the  half  hour  a  pleasant 
one,  either.  If  he  miglit  have  been  per- 
mitted to  distinguish  liimself  by  handing 
to  the  signer  principe  eveiy  dish  on  the 
table  in  regular  sequence,  he  would  have 
been  content.  For  Ansano,  like  the  rest 
of  the  servants,  was  little  more  than  a  mere 
rustic,  and  tho  delighted  pride  he  felt  in 
such  professional  promotion  as  was  implied 
in  being  trusted  to  do  any  service  un- 
watched  by  Paul,  wore  still  the  gloss  of 
novelty.  But  to  stand  there,  at  the  side- 
board, still  and  silent,  while  the  other 
servants  were  supping  socially  together, 
was  a  severe  tiiaL 

Veronica  walked  at  onco  through  tlie 
dining-liall  to  the  salottino,  and  Barletti 
followed  her.  Sir  John  was  lying  on  a  sofa. 
A  lamp  stood  on  a  small  table  neai'  his  head, 
but  it  was  so  shaded  as  to  throw  no  light 
on  his  face,  altliough  it  illuminated  the  gay 
flowered  dressing-goAvn  ho  wore,  and  his 
white  wrinkled  hands. 

"  Here  is   Prince  Ccsare   de'  Barletti," 
said  Veronica,   seating  herself  on  a  low 
chair  near  the  sofa.     "He  wanted  to  qf\ 
away  when  bo  b^^a^  Ni\\^  "^vsw.  ^o^^  'v^'^*^ 
vreli.    But.  1  iDsA<b  \iiTs^  ^i^i  ^^ 


/ 


f 


=& 


604      [N'ovomher  27, 18CP.] 


ALL  THE  YEAH  ROUND. 


[Condvetedby 


*'  Oh  !"  said  Sir  John,  in  a  kind  of  grunt. 

The  greeting  vrm^  so  exceptionally  nn- 
courteous  even  for  Sir  John,  that  Barletti 
rose  up  as  though  lie  were  moved  by  a 
Bpnng  over  which  liLs  will  had  no  control, 
and  said,  "  I  regret  my  intrusion.  If  I  had 
supposed  for  a  moment  tliat  monsieur  le 
bai'on  was  senously  ill " 

"  Wlio  says  so  ?  I  am  not  senously  ill !" 
snarled  Sii*  John. 

**  Of  course  not !"  interposed  Veronica, 
quickly.  "  I  said  so.  If  Sir  John  had  been 
seiiously  ill,  it  would  be  another  matter. 
But  his  indisposition  was  of  the  very 
slightest,  and  it  is  now  quite  gone." 

Either,  she  thought,  he  must  confess  to 
being  so  indisposed  that  the  presence  of  a 
stranger  irked  him,  or  he  must  ask  Barletti 
to  remain.  But  Sir  John  did  neither. 
Wliichever  one  of  several  given  courses  of 
action  was  most  pleasing  to  Sir  John's  state 
of  temper  at  the  moment,  he  habitually 
adopted.  Such  cobwebs  as  duty  towards, 
or  considei'ation  for,  others,  were  entirely 
powcTless  to  restrain  the  passions  or  caprices 
of  Jiia  monstrous  egotism. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  speaking,  as  he  had 
spoken  throughout,  in  a  muffled  strange 
voice,  and  articulating  indistinctly  :  "  I  am 
quite  well,  but  I  don't  feel  energetic  by 
any  means.  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  stay 
to-night,  prince;  it  would  only  bore  you." 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  resist  this 
hint,  but  Barletti  caught  a  glance  from 
Veronica  which  so  plainly  begged  him  to 
remain,  that  he  answered  :  "  Now,  my  good 
Gale,  I  won't  hear  that.  Bore  me !  Not 
at  all ;  I  shall  stay  and  chat  until  your 
bed-time.  Or,  if  you  prefer  it,  we'll  nave 
our  partic  of  picquet.  Which  shall  it 
be?" 

Sir  John  was  surprised  at  this  unwonted 
insistance.  The  man  had  had  his  dinner ; 
why  did  he  wish  to  stay  ?  That  ho  e\'i- 
dently  did  wish  it,  was  however  no  induce- 
ment to  his  host  to  yield. 

"  Frankly,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Sir  John, 
making  an  odd  gi-imace,  as  though  he  had 
tried  to  smile  and  failed  :  "I  will  to-night 
have  neither  chat  nor  cards.  I  decline  your 
company  !  That  is  the  chann  of  having  an 
intimate  friend ;  I  know  you  won't  be  angry 
if  I  heg  you  to  leave  me  to  myself,  or,"  he 
added,  slowly  turning  his  eyes  on  Veronica, 
"to  miladi.  That  is  myself;  it's  quite  the 
same  thing." 

But  in  looking  at  Veronica,  he  surprised 
a  glance  of  intelligence  passing  from  her 
ejres  tfj    Barletd.      Sir    John    coxxVd   liot 
change    the    direction   of  his    o^im  geLie\\si\jeii\AOTL  ^l  TvNJarok!^  itcsn^.  \ksa  baronet's 


quickly  enough  to  catch  the  answering 
look  on  the  prince's  fece :  his  facial  muscles 
appeared  not  to  bo  under  full  command ; 
but  he  saw  an  expression  of  irresolution 
and  conflict  in  Barletti's  whole  bearing. 

The  prince  rose,  and  then  seated  himself 
again,  and  then  again  rose  with  more  deter- 
mination and  advanced  to  the  side  of  the 
sofa  holding  out  his  hand  to  Sir  John, 
and  saying:  "  Good-night,  then,  caro  GraJe. 
Angry?  No,  of  course  I  shall  not  be 
angiy !"  Then  he  bowed  low  to  '*  miladi," 
and  said  in  a  low  tone  and  with  intention, 
"  I  regret  to  be  banished  from  onr  good 
Gkile,  miladi:  but  I  am  sure  he  will  be 
quite  himself  to-morrow.  Yon  need  not — 
none  of  us  need  bo  uneasy  ahout  him." 

"  Uneasy ! "  echoed  Sir  John.  "  Que  diable, 
Barletti — ^who  is  likely  to  be  uneasy  r" 

And  as  ho  spoke,  he  looked  not  at  the 
prince  but  at  Veronica. 

"  Wlio  indeed  ?"  said  Veronica,  return- 
ing Barletti's  parting  salutation  with  the 
stateliest  of  bows.  She  was  rea.ssured  at 
heart.  For  she  argued  thus :  "  If  Barletti 
thought  there  were  anything  serious  the 
matter,  he  would  not  have  been  restrained 
by  any  fear  of  Sir  John  from  giving  me  a 
hint  of  it  by  word  or  look.'* 

And  the  first  faint  dawn  of  a  project  rose 
dimly  in  her  mind — a  project  of  attaching 
and  binding  this  man  to  her,  so  as  to  secure 
his  assistance  and  protection  if — if  anythinsr 
should  happen  to  Sir  John.  And  already 
in  the  dawn  of  her  project  the  prospect 
of  that  dread  "something  which  might 
happen"  showed  a  little  less  dreadful. 

Meanwhile  Sir  John  lay  on  the  sofa 
watching  her  from  under  the  shadow  that 
covered  his  fkce,  and  thinking  of  the  look 
he  had  surprised  her  giving  Bai'letti.  The 
look  had  put  a  new  idea  into  his  mind,  & 
very  unpleasant  idea,  not  unpleasant  merely 
because,  if  correct,  it  would  argue  some  of 
the  ideas  he  had  hitherto  entertained  to  have 
been  w^ong  (though  that  contingency  alone 
was  disagreeable  enough),  but  because,  also, 
it  would  have  the  effect  of  making  him  un- 
easy in  the  future. 

CHAPTEB  VII.   WHAT  THEY  SAID  AT  THE  CLUE. 

Paul  had  such  a  terrible  time  of  it  that 
night,  in  undressing  Sir  John  And  getting 
him  to  bed,  that  when  ho  was  alone  in  his 
own  little  room — ^within  easy  reach  of  his 
master's,  and  oommxmicating  with  it  bj  i 
means  of  a  large  bell  hanging  at  the  head  , 
of  his  bed — he  began  to  go  over  some  cal- 
cvi\»X\oTv^  m  his  mind,  witli  the  half-formed 


\ 


\ 


:&. 


CU.vrieB  DicUcnr.] 


VERONICA. 


[Novembor  27, 1869.]      605 


service  with  a  thousand  or  bo  fewer  francs 
than  the  sum  lie  liad  detcnnined  on  as  the 
limit  of  his  savings. 

Sleep  brought  counsel  to  Paul,  however, 
and  he  arose  in  the  morning  prepared  to 
go  through  the  tei*m  of  service  he  had  set 
himself.  But  Avhether  sleep  had  brought 
counsel  to  Sir  John  or  not,  it  is  certain  that 
he  woke  in  a  humour  worse,  if  possible,  than 
tliat  in  which  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

Ho  did  not  feel  so  much  recovered  from 
the  indisposition  of  yesterday  as  he  had 
expected  to  feel.  He  was  extremely  feeble, 
except  in  temper ;  there,  ho  was  as  vigorous 
and  ferocious  as  a  healthy  tiger  with  a  fine 
appetite  and  nothing  to  eat. 

Paul  attended  on  him  silent  and  watchful. 

At  len;^h  he  said,  with  grave  delibera- 
tion :  *'  You  must  have  a  physician,  Sir 
John.*' 

The  reply  was  a  volley  of  oaths,  so 
fieiccly  uttered  that  they  left  the  baronet 
paiitiDg  and  glaring  breathlessly  from  his 
pillow. 

"Excuse  the  liberty.  Sir  John,"  said 
Paul,  with  a  shade  more  gravity,  but  other- 
wise quite  unmoved,  "  but  you  must  have 
a  physician,  i'ou  ore  a  little  fevensh.  It 
is  nothing.  A  little  draught  will  make  you 
quiio  strong  soon  for  your  journey." 

*'  A  lit- tie  draught,"  muttered  Sir  John, 
tryiii^Tf  to  mimic  Paul's  accent.  "  A  little 
deviri" 

"  In  this  country  fevers  go  quick.  Ex- 
cuse the  liberty,  Sir  John.  If  you  allow,  I 
will  go  for  a  physician  myself." 

The  man's  steady  persistence  had  some 
effect  on  his  master.  Sir  John  moved  his 
head  restlessly,  and  said,  "  Go  ?  Where 
will  you  go  ?  You  don't  know  any  of  the 
doctors  here,  curse  them !" 

**  There  is  a  good  and  esteemed  English 
physician,  Sir  Jolin,  lives  in " 

''  Danm  the  EngHsh  physician !  You 
infLiiial  idiot,  do  you  think  i  will  have  any 
of  //io>/},  jabbering  and  boasting,  and  telling 
in  the  place  that  they  have  boen  attending 
Sii'  John  Gale  ?  Do  you  think  I  want  a 
pack  of  British  fools  rushing  up  here  to 
stare  at  me  ?" 

**  Bene,  bene,"  said  Paul.  In  his  secret 
mind  he  liad  but  a  poor  opinion  of  the  Eng- 
hsh  faculty,  whose  views,  on  the  subject  of 
bleeding  especially,  appeared  to  him  to  be 
terribly  limited.  "  Benissimo !  Better  so. 
Sir  John.  I  will  fetch  a  most  excellent 
medico.  One  who  will  cure  you  immedi- 
ately— Dr.  Maffei.  He  is  well  known.  Sir 
John." 

"  Well  known,  you  fool  ?" 


"  Well  known  among  the  Itahans,  Sir 
John,"  added  Paul,  astutely.  *'  The  signori 
Inglesi  mostly  employ  their  own  physi- 
ciiins." 

"  Whatever  ho  may  say,  I  shall  start  for 
Naples  on  the  nineteenth :  remember  that!" 

In  this  way  Sir  John  gave  a  tacit  consent 
to  the  visit  of  the  Italian  doctor. 

When  that  gentleman  arrived  at  Villa 
Chiari  he  declared  that  there  was  no  fever 
about  Sir  John.  Paul  had  been  mistaken 
thera  But  he  let  shp  another  ugly  word, 
which  Paul,  who  was  present  during  the 
whole  inter\'iew  (acting  as  interpreter  oc- 
casionally, for  Sir  John's  Italian  and  the 
doctor's  French  sometimes  came  to  a  cul 
de  sac,  out  of  which  Paul  had  to  extricate 
them),  smothered  up  as  well  as  he  could,  in 
the  hope  that  it  might  not  reach  Sir  John's 
ears. 

*'  I  got  a  fall  from  my  horse  last  year, 
and  was  badly  hurt,  and  had  a  long  illness 
in  consequence,"  said  Sir  Jolm,  feehng  that 
the  phenomenon  of  so  wealthy  and  impor- 
tant a  personage  as  himself  being  reduced 
to  a  condition  of  great  weakness  needed 
some  explanation :  ^*  I  think  it  shook  mo 
more  than  they  thought  at  the  time.  That's 
the  only  way  I  can  account  for  being  in 
such  a  devil  of  a  state." 

"  Ah,  yes.  And  then,  you  sec,  you  are 
getting  old,  and  you  have  probably  been 
rather  intemperate  in  your  youth,"  answered 
Dr.  Maffei,  with  disconcerting  sincerity. 

Sir  John  began  to  think  he  had  been 
wrong  in  not  having  an  English  physician, 
if  ho  must  have  any  at  all. 

Dr.  Mafiei  prescribed  some  medicine,  and 
a  plain,  but  nourishing  diet. 

^'I  am  going  to  Naples  on  the  nine- 
teenth," said  Sir  John,  brusquely. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  think  I  should 
advise  your  making  a  journey  so  soon." 

"  I  shall  not  trouble  you,  sir,  for  your 
opinion  on  that  point.  I  am  going  on  that 
day.     Good-moraing." 

The  wild-beast  temper  had  leaped  out 
and  shown  its  fangs  so  suddenly  that  the 
doctor's  brown  smooth-shaven  face  re- 
mained for  a  few  seconds  absolutely  blank 
with  amazement.  Then  ho  bowed  silently ; 
and,  with  a  certain  dignity,  despite  his 
short,  stubby  figure  and  ungraceful  gait, 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

An  amazement  of  a  livelier  and  more 
agreeable  nature  overspread  his  counte- 
nance when,  driving  down  tho  hill  in  his 
fiacre,  he  inspected  the  bank-note  which 
Paul  had  handed  to  him  in  an  envelope. 
Its  amoTUit  was  more  than  ten  times  what 


<^ 


G06       fXovdmbcr  27,  13C9,] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Conilactod  by 


II 


// 


ho  won  Id  have  considered  a  sufficient  foe 
from  any  of  his  compatriots — it  was,  indeed, 
ostentatiously  excessive.  Sir  John  h;ul  some 
vaguely  vindictive  notion  in  his  head  that 
the  beggarly  Itahan  would  repent  not  hav- 
ing been  more  civil  to  a  man  who  could 
afibrd  to  pay  such  a  fee.  But  he  was  wi*ong. 
The  doctor  was  pondering  upon  the  exti*a- 
ordinary  and  absurd  constitution  of  an  uni- 
verse in  which  so  anomalous  a  nation  as  the 
English  was  permitted  to  exist. 

It  would  bo  difficult  to  decide  whether  or 
not  the  medicines  sent  by  Dr.  Mallei  did 
the  patient  any  good ;  but  the  fact  was, 
that  Sir  John  did  not  get  worse,  and  was 
ablo  to  keep  his  resolution  of  going  to 
Naples  on  the  nineteenth  of  October. 

Between  the  day  of  his  tete-a-tete  dinner 
with  Veronica,  and  that  date,  Cesare  de' 
Barletti  had  to  undergo  many  buflet tings 
of  fortune.  Ho  was  tossed  bacJcward  and 
forward  from  sunsliine  to  shade,  by  the 
selfisli  caprice  of  a  little  white  hand — and 
these  little  wliite  hands  can  strike  hard 
sometimes.  A  man  Avho  has  nothing  to  do 
from  morning  to  night  is  glad  of  a  habit 
which  saves  him  the  fatigue  of  deciding  liow 
ho  shall  bestx)w  himself  at  a  given  hour.  He 
likes  to  say,  "  I  micst  be  Avith  So-and-so  this 
evening."  It  has  a  cheap  air  of  duty. 
Thus  mero  habit  had  caused  the  Neapolitan 
princeling  to  bo  a  regular  visitor  to  the 
English  baronet  in  the  old  days  at  Naples, 
when  the  latter  was  bound  to  his  room  by 
a  fit  of  the  gout. 

The  visits  had  been  begun  at  the  prompt- 
ings of  good- nature,  combined  Avith  a 
natural  tasto  for  a  superior  cuisine.  Sir 
Jolm,  at  that  time,  employed  a  very  ac- 
complished cook. 

Then  in  Florence  it  must  be  admitted 
that  curiosity  had  been  the  chief  spur  which 
at  first  induced  the  prince  to  undergo  the 
fatigue  of  sitting  behind  a  cab-horse,  and 
seeing  him  struggle  up  the  steep  road  to 
Villa  Chiari.  He  wanted  to  see  the  in- 
terior of  the  menage,  whose  master  and 
mistress  seemed  so  ill-assorted.  But  very 
soon  it  began  to  appear  to  him  a  ne- 
cessity of  existence  that  ho  should  pay 
his  evening  visit  to  the  villa.  He  even 
found  some  satisfaction  in  his  game  of 
picquet.  An  Italmn  is  usually  amazingly 
patient  of  Ixn'cdoni :  or,  it  may  be,  is  un- 
conscious of  it,  which  is  plcasanter  for  him- 
self. Barletti  admired  Veronica  extremely. 
And  her  presence  was  a  strong  attiTiction 
to  him.  By-and-bye  it  began  to  occur  to 
him  that  it  might  be  worth  his  while  to 
pajr  his  court  to  this  beautitiil  woman,  after 
a  more  serious  fashion  than  he  had  at  ^v^t 


contemplated.  Sir  John  was  failing.  He 
might  die  and  leave  a  rich  widow,  who 
would  become  a  prey  to  needy  foi'tune- 
hunters  :  to  fortune-hunters  who  would  not 
have  the  same  advantages  to  offer  in  ex- 
change for  wealth,  as  could  be  found  in  an 
alliance  with  Cesare  dei  Principi  Barletti !  \ 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  see  her  sacrificed  ! 
to  such  men  as  he  had  seen  and  known 
engaged  in  the  chase  aftfir  a  wife  with 
money.  Ho  made  no  definite  plan,  but 
sulTered  himself  to  drift  on  lazily,  with  just 
so  much  intention  as  sufficed  to  modify  his 
behaviour  in  many  subtle,  nameless  ways. 
But  after  the  incident  of  Sir  John's  in- 
disposition, there  arose  a  different  feeUng 
in  his  breast  towards  her. 

Barletti  really  had  a  fund  of  kindliness 
in  him.     He  was  becoming  fond — with  a   j 
foncbiess  truer  and  more  tender  than  ihni 
inspired  by  the  fine  contrast  of  diamonds  ! 
on  a  satin  skin — of  this  girl,  so   young,  so    ' 
beautiful,  and  so  lonely  !  From  tUo  moment 
when  she  had  appealed   to  him  in  some 
sort  for   advice   and   support,    a   fibre   of 
manhood  was  stirred  in  him  on  her  behalf. 
He  would  have  even  made  some  kind  of 
active   sacrifice   for   her.     So,  despite  Sir 
John's  irritability  and  insolence,   Barletti   i 
continued  to  endure  seeing  his  cab-horse 
toil    up  the    hill    overhanging   the   Ema, 
evening  after  evening. 

And  Sir  John  Gale  did  not  scruple  to 
make  use  of  Barletti.  He  would  give  him 
little  commissions  to  execute  in  the  ciry, 
and  expected  him  to  rciid  up  the  news  of 
the  day  and  retail  the  gossip  of  the  hour  for 
his  annisement. 

One  afternoon,  in  search  of  this  latter 
commodity,  Barletti  was  standing  at  the 
door  of  the  club  \vith  a  knot  of  others. 

"I  rememlx'r  him  at  Rome,'*  said  a 
portly  man  with  dyed  whiskers,  continuiuij 
a  desultory  conversation  with  Barletti.  *'  A 
red-haired  man  who  hunted.  Quite  the 
type  of  an  Enghshman." 

"  That's  a  mistake  you  all  make,"  ob- 
served a  langidd,  spindle-legged  youn-jj 
nobleman  with  a  retreating  chin.  "  I  be- 
lieve there  are  as  many  red-lmircd  people  in  : 
Italy  as  in  England." 

Tho  spindle-legged  yotmg  nobleman  had 
married  an  English  wife,  and  had  been  in 
England,  and  spoke  with  authority. 

"No,  no,  it's  the   Irish  that  have  red  ^ 
hair !"  exclaimed  a  third.    "Or  the  Scotch. 
I  forget  which." 

*'  Ziito !''    whispered    the    fir.st    portly 
speaker,  as  a  tall  old  man  appeared  at  the 
club   door,   "the   captain  won't  hear  you 
\  v\\i&viYt.  that  the  Irish  have  red  hair !" 


:&. 


Charles  Dickens.] 


VERONICA. 


[November  27, 16G9,]        607 


The  captain  was  a  Imlf-pny  officer  who 
played  an  una)mnionly  good  gamo  at 
billiards.  He  was  understood  to  live  chiefly 
by  his  wits,  but  he  had  the  entree  to  several 
distinguished  families  who  clung — theoreti- 
cally, fur  a  more  practical  clinging  would 
have  involved  an  amount  of  inconvenience 
which  it  would  have  been  mere  Quixotism 
to  cncoimter — ^to  the  old  regime;  he  was  a 
zealous  Koman  Catholic,  and,  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  add,  was  descended  from  one 
of  the  ancient  kings  of  Ireland  ! 

"Who  hafl  red  hair?"  asked  the  captain,  in 
Italian  flavoured  ^vith  a  rich  Kerry  brogue. 

"  Wo  were  talking  about  a  man  I  know 
here,un  liccone,  an  immensely  rich  fellow," 
said  Barletti. 

**  Indeed  !  Who  is  he  ?'*  said  the  captain, 
affably.  He  had  no  constitutional  prejudice 
against  rich  fellows. 

"  Baron  Gale." 

"  Baron  iclftit  ?    I  never  heard  the  title." 

"He  is  an  English  baron — Sir  John 
Gale — I  knew  him  in  Naples." 

"  O,  a  baronet !  Per  Bacco  !"  exclaimed 
the  captiiin,  pronouncing  the  name  of  tho 
heathen  deity  precisely  like  the  last  syl- 
M»lo  of  "tobacco,"  with  a  very  sharp  a, 
"  It  isn't  Tallis  G-ale,  is  it  ?" 

"  No,  no  ;  John  :  Sir  John  Gale." 

"  Aye,  aye,  that  is  tho  baptismal  name. 
But  he  took  tho  name  of  Galo  when  he  came 
into  a  fortune,  being  richer  than  enough 
already,  that's  always  the  way.  He's  a  thin, 
high -shouldered  man,  TN-ith  sandy  hair  and 
black  oyos  ?" 

"Gia." 

"  And  has  a  handsome  wife  ?" 

"Bellissima!" 

"  TJiafs  tho  man !"  cried  the  captain, 
rolling  the  end  of  Ids  cigar  between  his  Hps 
relishiiicrlv.  *»I  knew  him  in  Ireland  in 
the  your  'forly-niue.  IMy  lady  is  a  great 
beauty — ?r^.v,  that  is,  fur  she  miLst  be  quite 
passi'c  l>y  this  time — and  married  him  for 
hid  nunuy." 

"  Passeo  !"  echoed  Barletti,  on  whom  that 
word  alone,  of  all  that  tho  captain  had 
utUTOcl,  had  made  an  impression.  "Dia- 
mine !  What  do  you  call  *passee'  ?  She 
is  as  fresh  as  a  Hebe,  and  young  enough  to 
be  his  daughter  !" 

"  Pooh,  j)ooh,  my  dear  friend !  There's 
some  mistake.  Lady  Tallis  Gale  must  be 
iil^y  if  she's  a  day  !" 

Tho  bystanders  bui*st  into  a  derisive  laugh. 
Barletti  had  allowed  himsolftolxiast  a  little 
of  his  intimacy  at  Yilla  Chiari,  and  had  ex- 
alted "miladi's"  beauty  to  the  skies.  It  is 
naturally  agnxable  to  find  that  one's  friend 
has  been  exaggerating   tho   charms  of  a 


society  from  which  one  is  oneself  excluded. 
Barletti  had  to  undergo  a  great  deal  of 
banter :  and  many  pleasanti'ies  were  uttered 
on  the  humorous  topic  of  Lady  Gale's  sup- 
posed age  and  infirmities :  which  pleasantries 
being  (hke  some  other  things  which  arc 
gratefal  to  the  truly  genteel  palate,  as 
caviare  and  old  Stilton)  of  a  somewhat 
high  flavour,  we  may  be  dispensed  from 
laying  before  the  reader. 

Bjirlctti  fumed  and  protested  and  gesticu- 
lat<?d,  in  vain.  The  joke  at  his  expense  was 
too  good  to  bo  lost. 

"  That's  why  sho  never  showed,  then,  in 
the  Ca seine  or  anywhere,"  said  ho  of  the 
spindle  legs,  reflectively.  That  young  noble- 
man was  not,  strictly  speaking,  imaginative, 
and  had  taken  little  part  in  the  shower  of 
jests  which  had  been  flung  at  Barletti.  "  I 
thotigJd  it  was  queer,  if  she  was  so  hand- 
some as  all  that !" 

The  conception  of  a  strikingly  handsome 
young  woman  who  did  not  want  to  show 
herself  in  the  Cascine,  was  entirely  beyond 
this  young  gentleman's  powers  of  mind. 
He  was  as  incredulous  as  an  African  to 
whom  one  should  describe  a  snow-storm. 

That  evening  Barletti,  seated  at  the  pic- 
quet- table  opjwsite  to  Sir  John  Gule,  caused 
tho  latter  to  dash  his  cards  down  with  an 
oath,  by  asking  him  a  simple  question : 
"  Have  you  been  married  twice,  caro  Gale  r  " 

"AVliat  the  devil's  that  to  you,  sir?" 
demanded  the  baronet  when  he  had  i-e^ 
covered  breath  enough  to  speak. 

Barletti  drew  himself  up  a  little.  "Par- 
don, monsieur  le  baron,"  said  he,  "but  I  do 
not  quito  understand  that  mode  of  address." 

At  another  moment  he  might  have  passed 
over  tho  brutal  rudeness  of  his  host's  words, 
but  his  amour  propro  was  still  smarting 
from  tho  jeering  he  had  received  in  tho 
morning.  Ho  was  therefore  ready  to  resent 
a  small  offence  from  one  from  whom  ho  liad 
endured  greater  offences  with  equanimity. 
That  was  not  just.  But  man  often  deals  as 
blindly  with  his  fellows  as  fortune  deals 
with  him :  and  it  is  the  first  comer  who 
receives  the  good  or  evil  ho  may  chance  to 
hold  in  his  hand,  quito  iiTcsiiective  of  tho 
claims  of  abstract  justice. 

Sir  John  was  not  in  a  mood  to  take  any 
notice  of  Barletti 's  sudden  access  of  dicrnity. 

"  What  put  that  into  your  heail,  pray  V" 
asked  Sir  John,  fiercely. 

"  No  matter,  monsieur  le  l)aron ;  if  I 
could  have  conjectnrcMl  that  the  topic  was  a 
painful  one,  I  should  not  have  adverted  to  it. 
Let  us  say  no  more." 

"Trash,  sir!  I  insist  upon  knowing 
what  you  mean." 


\ 


.c9. 


^ 


606      [XoTeinber27,  1869.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


(Condnctodby 


/ 


Barlctti  had  resolved  not  to  be  bnllicd 
farther,  and  had  raised  his  head  confronting 
Sir  John  with  a  proud  air,  when  he  oanght 
a  glimpse  through  tho  glass  door,  of  a 
graceful  figure  with  long  sweeping  skirts, 
passing  slowly  along  tho  loggia.  It  was 
yet  early.  They  had  not  dined.  Al- 
though the  card-table  was  illumined  by  a 
lamp,  the  daylight  was  not  excluded,  and 
the  loggia  with  part  of  tho  garden  were  dis- 
tinctly visible  from  tho  interior  of  the  room. 
Veronica  was  pacing  along  with  her  head 
bent  down  in  a  pensive  attdtudo.  As  she 
eame  opposite  to  die  window,  she  raised  her 
head  for  a  moment  and  looked  in. 

Sir  John  had  his  back  to  the  window ; 
but  Barlotti  could  see  her.  She  looked  full 
at  him,  and  ho  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  some- 
thing plaintively  appealing  in  her  eyes.  It 
all  passed  so  quickly  that  there  appeared  to 
be  scarcely  any  pause  between  Sir  John's 
last  words  and  Barletti's  reply,  uttered 
coldly,  but  not  angrily. 

**  *  Insist,'  caro  Gale,  is  an  absurd  word 
to  use.  But  if  you  really  vrish  it,  I  have 
no  objection  to  tell  you  what  made  me  ask 
if  you  had  been  twice  married.  It  is  no 
secret.  Your  name  was  mentioned  at  the 
club  to-day,  and  a  man  declared  that  he 
had  known  miladi  years  ago,  and  that  she 
was — ^was  not  quite  young  now.  I  thought 
it  miglit  have  been  a  former  wife  of  whom 
he  spoke.  He  said,  by-the-bye,  that  ^m  had 
another  name  besides  Gale — Salli — Talli — 
I  forget  it  now." 

Sir  John  laughed  a  little  grating  laugh. 
**  Well,"  said  he,  taking  up  his  cards  again 
and  arranging  them  in  his  hand :  *'  I  suppose 
you  can  judge  for  yourself  about  the  cor- 
rectness of  your  friend's  information  on 
one  point  at  least.  Miladi  would  be  much 
obliged  to  him  if  she  could  know  that  he 
said  she  was '  not  quite  young.'  Ha,  ha !  I 
suppose  the  fellow  'was  trying  to  hoax  you. 
By-the-byo,  I  would  advise  you,  if  you 
ivant  to  be  in  miladi's  good  books,  not  to 
tell  her  that  you  have  been  discussing  her 
At  the  club.  She's  so  devilish  proud  that 
she'd  never  forgive  you.  Allons,  let  us 
finish  our  game." 

Barletti  understood  very  well  that  he  had 
got  no  answer  to  liis  question.  But  he  was 
too  glad  to  have  avoided  a  quarrel  with  Sir 
John  to  care  about  that.  And  he  was  more 
glad  than  ever  that  ho  had  commanded 
himselt^  when  Veronica  entered  and  sat  a 
little  behind  Sir  John's  chair,  talking  little 
and  smiliug  less,  but  gentle,  amiable,  and 
looking  exquisitely  beautiful. 

All  througli  dinner  her  tiiiwon.tcd  so^- 
neaa  of  mood  continued.     Ske  \isud  \a\A\y 


as  has  been  hinted,  displaved  a  good  deal 
of  caprice  and  hauteur  in  her  behavioui'  to 
Barletti:  so  that  her  mildness  was  made 
precious  by  contrast.  It  was  the  last  evening 
he  was  to  spend  at  Villa  Chiari.  On  tho 
following  day  Sir  John  had  decided  to  start 
for  Naples. 

"Good-bye,  prince,"  said  Veronica, 
giving  him  her  hand.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  done  so ;  and  Barletti's  he^rt 
beat  suddenly  fsaster,  as  he  clasj>ed  her 
fingers  for  a  moment  in  his  own. 

"  We  shall  see  you  in  the  winter  ?"  added 
Veronica. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  bo  able  to  get  away.  I 
came  here,  thinking  I  should  stay  perhaps 
a  fortnight,  on  some  business  for  Alberto" 
(Alberto  was  his  elder  brother,  and  tho 
head  of  the  family),  "  and  these  tiresome 
lawyers  have  kept  me  broiling  in  Florence 
throughout  the  whole  summer.  Pazienza ! 
I  do  not  regret  my  detention,"  lie  added,  a 
little  awkvwirdly,  as  he  bowed  once  more  to 
"  miladi." 

Then  he  went  away  through  tbe  garden, 
past  the  broken  fountain,  and  out  at  the 
wide  gates.  There  his  fiacre  was  awaiting 
him.  But  ho  told  the  man  to  diive  on  slowly, 
and  stay  for  him  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  And 
after  standing  for  a  fewminutes  gazing  at  the 
old  house,  white  in  the  moonlight,  black  in 
the  shadow,  he  absolutely  walked  more  than 
three  -  quarters  of  a  mile  down  the  hill, 
under  the  autumn  sky  spangled  with  stars : 
walked  through  the  thick,  soft  dust  whicli 
speedily  covered  his  well-vamisbed  boots 
with  a  drab- coloured  coating.  And  even 
when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  descent,  he 
liad  not  yet  exhausted  the  excitement,  wliich 
made  it  ii'ksome  for  him  to  sit  still  in  a 
carriage.  He  paid  the  coachman  and  dis- 
missed him,  and  tramped  homo  through  the 
streets  on  foot. 

All  which  might  have  proved  to  a  dis- 
cerning eye,  that  Cesare  dei  Priiicipi  Bnr- 
letti  was  feeling  powerful  and  unwonted 
emotion. 

AS  THE  CROW  PLIES. 

HARROGATE  TO  BEB\nCK.      FIXAL  BOOST. 

The  crow  bears  on  fi*om  Whitby  to 
Harrogate,  in  the  last  century  the  northern 
rival  of  Bath,  and  a  depot  of  gay  invahds 
and  the  testy  fathers  of  old  comedy. 
This  bare  common,  once  part  of  Knarc?- 
borough  Forest,  was  in  Elizabcth*s  time 
stripped  of  most  of  its  timber  by  the  iron 
smelters.  The  first  chalybeate  spring  (the 
COTA!iSi^\Tv^'a^^^^\5Bj5»^Qredin  England),  was 
Mi3\5^Kiil\yj  'S>YC  N^'SSmwcl  "^^Ty^^^  xsi.\a96. 


s 


^ 


:Sb> 


Oharles  Dickeni.] 


AS  THE  CROW  FLIES. 


[NOTomber  27, 1M9.J       i](j(f 


Even  before  the  Restoration  the  Harro- 
gate waters  had  become  famous  for  curing 
sick  people.  The  company  began  to  gather 
there  and  lodging-honses  sprang  np,  but 
it  was  not  till  1687  that  the  first  public- 
house,  on  the  site  of  the  present  "Queen," 
was  built.  Smollet  came  to  Harrogate; 
he  was  indeed  fond  of  Yorkshire,  and, 
as  the  crow  would  remind  his  readers,  has 
fixed  on  Scarborough  as  the  place  where 
Humphrey  Clinker  dragged  out  by  the 
ear  his  choleric  naaster  whom  he  fancied  to 
be  drowning.  Smellfangus,  as  Sterne  calls 
Smollet,  who  travelled  "  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
sheba,**  and  declared  all  to  be  barren, 
described  the  fashionable  resort  of  York- 
shire as  "  a  wild  common,  bare  and  bleak, 
without  tree  or  shrub,  or  the  slightest 
signs  of  cultivation."  Worthy  but  testy 
Matthew  Bramble  (a  type  of  Smollet  him- 
self), sketches  the  frugal  and  simple-hearted 
life  then  prevailing  at  the  paradise  of 
invalids.  The  company  mostly  lodged  at 
four  separate  inns  Fcattered  over  the  bleak 
common,  and  went  every  morning  to  the 
well  in  their  own  carriages.  From  eight 
o'clock  till  eleven  there  was  a  tablo- d'hote 
brc^akfast  at  each  of  the  inns.  The  company 
drank  tea  in  the  afternoon,  and  played  cards 
or  danced  in  the  evening.  One  custom 
Smollet  much  condemned.  The  ladies  were 
obliged  to  treat  the  guests  with  tea  alter- 
nately, and  even  girls  of  sixteen  wci'e  not 
exempted  from  this  shameful  imposition. 
There  was  a  public  subscription  ball  every 
night  at  one  or  other  of  the  inns,  and  the 
company  from  the  other  houses  were  ad- 
mitted by  tickets. 

And  now  the  crow  darts  forward  to  the 
northern  frontier  of  Yorkshire,  and  singles 
out  Rokeby — Scott's  Rokeby — for  his  prey. 
Scott  visited  his  friend  Morritt  there  in 
1800.  Writing  to  EUis,  the  poet  expatiates 
on  the  beautiful  scenery,  especially  at  the 
junction  of  those  swift  and  beautiful  rivers, 
the  Greta  and  the  Tees,  in  a  glen  not  unlike 
Roslin.  "  Rokeby  is,"  he  writes,  "  one  of  t lie 
most  enviable  places  I  have  ever  seen,  as  it 
unites  the  richness  and  luxuriance  of  Eng- 
lish vegetation  viith.  the  romantic  variety 
of  glen,  torrent-,  and  copse  which  dignify 
our  northern  scenery."  The  poem  was 
written  in  1812,  during  all  the  conftision  of 
Scott's  "flitting"  from  Ashestiel  to  Abbots- 
ford.  The  descriptions  are  singularly 
faithful,  and  form  an  eternal  guide-book  to 
the  place.  The  poet  has  sketched  the  Tees 
near  Eggleston  Abbey,  where  it  flows  over 
broad  smooth  beds  of  grey  marble,  and 
Mortham  Tower,  which  is  haunted  by  the 
ghost  of  a  headless  lady.     The  jxmction  of 


«^ 


the  Tees  and  Greta  has  been  both  drawn  by 
Turner  and  described  by  Scott. 

The  scene  of  Bertram's  interview  with 
Guy  Denzil  is  the  glen  called  "  Brignall' 
Banks,"  below  Scargill;  the  robbers'  cave, 
hard  by,  is  still  shown,  quarried  in  the  flag- 
stone, and  Mr.  Monitt  tells  us  that  he 
observed  Scott  noting  with  extreme  care 
the  plants  (the  tliroatwort,  thyme,  &c.)  that 
grew  it)und  the  spot.  The  woods  and 
scaurs  of  Rokeby  are  the  scene  of  the  old 
mock-romance  (fifteenth  century)  of  "  the 
Hunting  of  the  Felon  So  we  of  Rokeby,"  by 
the  blundering  and  not  too-brave  friars  of 
Richmond : 

She  wai  more  tlian  other  three 

The  grisliest  beast  that  ere  might  bo — 

Her  head  was  sreat  and  grej. 
Bhe  was  bred  in  Kokebv  Wood ; 
There  were  few  that  thither  goed 

That  camo  aliyc  away. 

And  now  far  into  Northumberland  the 
crow  strikes,  where  from  Brislce  Tower 
he  sees  beyond  the  vale  of  Whittinglianf 
the  blue  cones  of  the  Cheviots  (twenty 
miles  distant),  and  through  their  blue  ra- 
vines glimpses  of  the  Teviots.  Then  tiio 
crow  swoops  down  on  Alnwick,  which  stands 
square  and  defiant,  like  a  thing  of  yesterday, 
on  the  gentle  slope  shelving  to  the  Alne, 
Pure  and  smooth  looks  tho  moor-stone  in  its 
battlements,  and  yet  the  castle  has  stood 
tho  buflbts  of  centuries,  and  has  been 
battered  by  Scotch  cannon  and  crimsoned 
with  Scotch  blood  ;  rebel  powder  has  ofton 
blackened  it-,  and  military  engines  have 
stormed  at  it.  It  was  built  by  Eustace 
Fitzjohn,  a  friend  of  Henry  the  First,  and 
an  adlierent  of  the  Empress  Maud,  who 
surrendered  his  new-built  fortress  to  tho 
Scotch  king  to  hold  against  Stephen. 
This  same  staunch  partisan,  Eustace,  was 
eventually  shot  through  by  an  arrow  at  the 
siege  of  Barnard  Castle.  Alnwick  was 
through  all  the  centuries  a  resting-plaoo 
for  kings.  John  camo  here,  and  angered 
tho  northern  barons  by  his  licentious  in- 
solence; and,  in  their  turns,  Edward  tho 
Third,  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  Queen  Mar- 
garet, and  Edward  the  Fourth.  Several 
of  these  monarchs,  indeed,  earned  their 
lodging  by  first  capturing  the  castle, 
which  lias  a  special  Shakespearean  interest 
from  its  connexion  with  tho  chivalrous 
Hotspur.  A  part  of  tho  castle  between  tho 
tower,  called  "  Hotspur's  Chair,"  and  that 
called  the  Record  Tower,  goes  by  the  namo 
of  the  Bloody  Gkp,  from  a  breach  through 
which  the  savage  Scots  once  hotly  entered, 
and  y{^^  ^  hotly  driven  back.  A  mero 
rec(\^  o£  the  Earls  of  Northumberland  is 


E^ 


610      [November  27, 1S69.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Condncted  bj 


t 


an  epitome  of  English  history.  The  first 
lord  of  Alnwick  was  a  knight  of  gi'cat 
prowess  in  Gascony  and  Scotland ;  his  son 
Henry  fought  bravely  at  Halidon  Hill  and 
Sluys,  and  captured  King  David  of  Scot- 
huid.  The  fourth  Lord  Marshal  of  England 
was  a  favourer  of  Wickliff,  and,  banished 
by  Richard  the  Second,  returned  to  die  on 
Bromham  Moor.  Hotspur  fell  in  Hately 
Field,  liis  father  died  in  the  battle  of 
Taunton,  and  his  son  was  slain  at  St. 
Albans.  The  fourth  carl  was  murdered  by 
a  mob.  The  seventh  earl  aided  the  great 
rising  in  the  north,  and  was  executed.  The 
eighth  earl,  the  lover  of  JMary  Queen  of 
Scots,  was  beheaded  in  the  Tower. 

Some  curious  feudal  customs  still  prevail 
under  the  shadow  of  the  duke's  castle.  At 
the  July  fair,  fom*  men  fix)m  different  town- 
ships form  a  watch,  and  patrol  from  dusk 
till  midnight.  This  service,  exempting  the 
townships  from  toll,  preserves  the  remem- 
brance of  the  annual  Scottish  inroad  made 
at  fair  time  in  old  days.  On  the  evening  of 
St.  Mark*s  day  freemen  are  admitted.  The 
candidates,  armed  with  swords,  ride  on  horse- 
back (it  was  quite  necessary  to  go  armed  at 
Alnwick  in  the  moss-trooper  days),  and  at 
the  market-place  the  cavalcade  is  joined  by 
the  chamberlains  and  duke's  bailiffs.  A 
band  then  heads  the  procession  to  the 
Freemen's  Hill  (four  miles  distant),  where 
the  candidates,  dismounting,  and  putting  on 
white  dresses  and  white  caps  trimmed  with 
ribbons,  struggle  ignominiously  through  a 
dirty,  stagnant  pool,  twenty  yards  long. 
Holly-trees  are  then  planted  at  the  doors 
of  the  new  freemen,  as  a  signal  for  their 
friends  to  assemble  and  offer  them  con- 
gratulations at  a  bean  feast. 

From  Alnwick  the  crow  darts  to  Ber- 
wick, his  last  roosting  -  place,  before  he 
turns  to  his  final  roost  on  the  old  black 
dome  that  the  golden  gallery  coronets  so 
proudly.  He  alights  on  the  old  wall  of 
Berwick  (the  town  of  the  Bemicians),  which 
has  stood  as  much  shot  fi-om  both  English 
and  Scotch  cannon  as  any  town  on  the 
blood-stained  Border.  This  town  beside  the 
debatable  river  was  always  being  burnt 
or  pillaged.  When  the  Yorkshire  barons 
went  to  Melrose  and  did  fealty  to  King 
Alexander  of  Scotland  (a  boy  of  fifteen), 
as  the  NorthumberLand  barons  had  done 
previously  at  Felton,  King  John,  in  rage 
and  fury,  stomied  and  burnt  Berwick, 
setting  fire  with  his  own  hand  to  the 
very  hoiiae  wliere  he  had  lodged.  He  and 
his  foreign  mercenaries,  Frcnc\\mcii  uiid 
Brahan^ons,  tortured  many  of  t\\e  inka\>v 


:-\' 


tants,  hanging  them  up  by  their  hands  and 
feet  till  tJ^ey  groaningly  disclosed  where 
they  had  hidden  their  money.  Then  the 
Scots  snatched  it  again  till  Edward  the 
First,  after  coming  here  to  discuss  the  claims 
of  BiTLce  and  Baliol,  took  it  by  storm  some 
years  after.  The  king  on  this  occasion 
encamped  on  the  declivity  at  the  foot  of  the 
east  end  of  Halidon  Hill,  in  full  view  of  the 
castle  and  town.  His  own  quarters  were 
fixed  at  the  nunnery.  His  fleet  venturing  a 
rash  attack,  three  ships  ran  aground  and 
were  burnt  by  the  enemy.  Edward,  enraged 
at  this,  attacked  the  town,  and,  forcing  the 
rude  barricades  of  boards,  took  the  place 
by  the  first  coup  de  main.  Thirty  Flemish 
merchants  held  the  Red  Hill  Tower  till  the 
evening,  but  were  then  destroyed  by  fire. 
Edward's  soldiers,  it  is  said,  slew  seven 
thousand  Scotchmen  in  this  attack,  and, 
as  Boetliius  says,  the  mills  were  turned  with 
blood  instead  of  water.  The  women  and 
the  garrison  of  two  hundred  men  were  sent 
back  into  Scotland,  and  Douglas  remained 
a  prisoner  till  the  end  of  the  war.  King 
Edward  stopped  at  Berwick  fifteen  days, 
and,  to  protect  the  place  against  the  warl^e 
Scotch,  ordered  a  vast  ditch,  eighty  feet 
broad  and  forty  deep,  to  be  dug  through  the 
neck  of  land  between  the  sea  and  the  Tweed. 
But  the  Scotch  soon  swarmed  back  ag^ain  to 
Berwick ;  and  when  Wallace  had  slain  the 
hated  Cressingham,  flayed  him  and  cut  his 
skin  into  stimip-leathers,  he  took  Berwick, 
the  stone  wall  not  being  yet  fijiished.  But 
the  English  found  it  deserted  on  their  ad- 
vance. Robert  Bruce  next  took  it  by 
escalade,  being  aided  by  a  burgess  of  the 
town:  Bandolph  and  Douglas  were  the 
first  to  climb  over  the  ramparts  at  a  part 
near  Cowgate. 

A  few  years  later  brave  WaUace  was 
executed  at  Smithfield,  and  half  his  body 
sent  to  Berwick  to  be  hung  upon  the 
bridge ;  while  the  wretched  Countess  of 
Buclian,  w^ho  had  crowned  Robert  Bruce  at 
Scone,  was  shut  up  in  a  wooden  cage,  and 
hung  like  a  blackbird  outside  one  of  Ber- 
Avick  Castle  towers ;  after  Edward  had  as- 
sembled here  his  Bannockbum  army,  Bruce, 
however,  took  the  place  again,  which  Ed- 
ward the  Second  soon  attacked  in  force. 
The  English  fastened  boats  full  of  men  io 
the  masts  of  their  vessels,  hoping  to  throw 
bridges  on  to  the  ramparts,  but  the  assailants 
were  driven  off.  They  then  tided  a  sow  (a 
covered  battciing  ram),  but  the  Scotch  spht 
the  roof  with  stones  from  their  military 
cii^Tvfe^,  vmvl  \vith  cranes  let  down  burning 
\ianV>Qic^  u'^OTi  \\)  «:):A  ^ccksi^  d»&troyed  it 


I 


=5= 


& 


Charles  DIoJboib  ] 


PRETENDERS* 


[Norember  27,1869.]      Gil 


When  the  English  archers  scuttled  fix)m 
the  shattered  sow,  the  Scotch  cried,  scoff- 
ingly,  **  The  sow  has  littered."  The  siege 
w^as  raised  at  the  end  of  about  fourteen 
days. 

Edward  Baliol  eyentually  coded  Berwick 
to  England  in  1334;  but  in  1377,  one  of 
the  most  daring  forays  ever  made  into 
England  led  to  the  capture  of  the  town 
by  eight  brave  Scotch  borderers,  who 
killed  the  constable,  Sir  Robert  Boynton, 
and  only  allowed  his  wife  and  family  to 
depart,  after  exacting  a  ransom  of  two  thou- 
sand marks  sterling,  to  be  paid  within  three 
weeks. 

Eventually,  besieged  by  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland,  forty -eight  Scotchmen 
held  Berwick  for  eight  days  against  seven 
tliousand  English  archers,  three  tliousand 
horse,  two  earls,  and  three  lords.  On  the 
niTith  day  the  place  was  taken,  and  all  but 
the  Scotch  leader,  the  brave  Sir  John 
Cxordon,  were  slain  in  the  assault,  in  whicli 
Shakespeare's  Hotspur  displayed  great 
courage.  After  Edward  the  Fourth  took 
tlio  place,  however,  it  ever  afterwards  re- 
mained English,  and  on  the  accession  of 
James  the  First  the  garrison  was  finally 
reduced. 

From  the  highest  stone  of  the  Berwick 
Bell  Tower,  where  *  blazing  beacons  have 
been  so  often  lit  to  warn  Northumberland 
tliiit  the  blue  bonnets  were  over  the  border, 
the  crow  now,  with  swiftest  flaps  of  liis 
sable  wings,  darts  straight  as  an  arrow 
back  to  his  airy  home  on  the  groat  black 
dome  that,  rising  gigantic  above  the  wreath- 
in<i:  smoke  of  London,  resembles  a  huge 
wiloli's  caldron  seething  with  wizards'  spells 
both  of  good  and  evil  influence. 


NATTBE'S  FIVE  LESSONS. 

LESSOlf  r. 

Tvro  years  to  build  a  house  ?    Tho  mushroom's  roof 

In  one  ni^ht  rises, 

And  surprises 
The  shepherd  lout  ere  crushed  beneath  his  hoof. 

LESSON  II. 

Ten  years  to  work  one  r«)om  of  tapestry  ? 

Tho  rose's  shoot 

lias  gTovm  a  foot 
Since  last  night's  rain.    U  Nature's  majesty ! 

1M505  III. 

Three  years  to  fix  on  cnnyas  a  dead  saint  ? 

Careless  to-day. 

Thro'  earth  made  way 
Tliat  snowdrop ;  dullanl,  learn  from  it  to  subtly  paint, 

LESSON  IT. 

l*oor  pr(Hli<jral !  you  toss  your  gold  in  showers  away  ? 

The  Autumn  tree, 

As  n'oklessly, 
I'lings  all  its  leaTM,  but  ihcy  return  in  3iaj. 


LESSON  T. 

Kind  Natare  keeps  for  all  of  us  a  gentle  school. 

Even  the  wise, 

Through  it  may  riso 
Still  wiser.    Sonow  and  Death  alone  can  teodi  the  fooL 


PRETENDERS. 


The  world  is  full  of  pretenders.     We 
are  all  pretenders,  more  or  less.     Bnt  it  is 
not  of  such  pretenders  as  these  that  I  write 
— ^nor  of  real  pretenders  to  thrones,  which 
thej  or  their  ancestors  have  rightfully  or 
wrongfully  forfeited  ;  hut  of  the  sham  pre- 
tenders to  great  historical  names,  that  in 
all  ages,   and   in   all  countries,    start  up, 
whenever  a  great  heritage  is  mysteriously 
vacant,  or   an  ancient   family  has  no  ac- 
credited representative.      Do    these    pre- 
tenders in  any  case  believe  in  their  own 
claims?      Or  are   they   all   swindlers  and 
adventurers?     For  instance,   did    all    or 
any   of  tho    half   dozen    people,    French, 
German,     Amei'ican,    and    English,    Avho 
within  the  last  sixty  or  seventy  years  have 
pretended   to   he  Louis   the  Sfjventeenlh, 
the    poor  child   who   pcnshed   in   prison 
under  the  brutal  treatment  of  the  cobbler 
who  had  charge  of  him,  really  believe  him- 
self to  be  what  he  asserted  ?     Were  they 
all  impostors — ^Augustus  Moves  in  Eng- 
bind,    the    Reverend    Eleazar  Wright  in 
America,   and  all   the  rest  of  them — im- 
postors knowing  themselves  to  be  such  ? 
Or  did  one  or  more  act  upon  the  honest 
conviction  that  he  really  was  the  person 
he  represented   himself  to   be  ?      Did   all 
the  handsome  young  fellows  in  Higliland 
garb,  assuming  to  be  lineal  and  legitimate 
descendants  of  King  James  tho  Second  of 
England  and  Seventh  of  Scotland,  believe 
in  their  royal  pedigree ;  or  did  they   play 
the    part  to  get    money  out    of  it    and 
gain  consideration  by  it ;  or  out  of  the  love 
of  hoaxing;  or  because  in  life  they  really 
knew  no  other  pai*t  they  could  play  so  well  ? 
Without  ventuiing  to  assert  that  not  one  of 
the  many  claimants  to  be  the  real  Louis  the 
Seventeenth,  or  the  legitimate  representa- 
tive of  Pnnce  Charles  Edward  Stuart,  may 
have  been  a  true  man,   it  may  Avithout 
want  of  kindly  charity  be  admitted,  that 
those  among  them  who  were  not  rogues 
must  have  been  more  or  less  fools :  in  other 
words  crazy.     Perliaps  this  is  the  simple 
explanation   of  the   lact  tliat  so  many  of 
such  chai'actci'S  have  appeared.     Madness 
often  takes  this  form. 

It    happened    that    ^\<i    eye    >£\3^   ^virscr^ 
ago,  1    made  \avo  \jL^ia^'\iAa.A\s:si  q*1  ^  ^^ 


^ 


■h 


612      tNoTeml)er  27, 18C9.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


tCondttOted  by 


markable  old  gentleman,  or  rather,  the 
remarkable  old  gentleman  made  my  ac- 
quaintance, and  confided  to  me  the  secret 
of  his  birth,  parentage,  education,  and  very 
modest  pretensions.  He  was  a  very  high 
personage,  according  to  his  story ;  but  did 
not  aim  at  high  fortune,  or  at  anything,  in 
fact,  except  to  bo  let  alone.  I  was  at  the 
time  temporarily  resident  in  a  great  and 
populous  city  of  the  New  World,  which  its 
mhabitants  call  Gotham,  and  which  I  shall 
call  Gotham  here.  What  took  mo  to 
Gotham  I  need  not  tell.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  I  was  very  well  known  in  the  city, 
and  had  the  annoyance,  perhaps  if  all  the 
truth  were  known,  it  was  the  honour,  of 
being  often  and  very  unjustly  attacked  in 
the  columns  of  more  than  one  of  the 
Gothamite  journals.  In  short  I  was  for 
the  time  being  the  best  abused  Englishman 
in  Gotham ;  and  my  name  and  business 
wore  familiar  to  thousands  of  people  of 
whom  I  knew  nothing,  nor  cared  to  know 
anytliing.  It  was  a  hot,  a  very  hot,  day  in 
July,  when  there  walked  into  my  office, 
entirely  unannounced,  a  venerable  gentle- 
man with  long  white  hair,  and  a  coun- 
tenance so  full  of  dignity  and  nobility  of 
expression,  that  it  would  have  excited 
attention  anywhere.  He  was  very  careful 
to  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  seeing  a 
young  man  in  the  room  with  me,  ho  asked 
(looking  very  suspiciously  around  him) 
whether  he  could  speak  to  me  in  privato  ? 
It  was  a  timo  when  men's  political  passions 
were  violently  excited,  and  it  especially 
behoved  me  to  bo  on  my  guard,  lest  tho 
Gothamito  journals  in  their  attacks  on  me 
with  pen  and  ink,  should  inspire  some 
lunatic,  or  some  ruffian,  with  the  happy 
idea  of  attacking  me  with  a  revolver.  But 
this  man  was  so  old  and  so  pleasant  look- 
ing, that  I  had  no  other  fear  of  him  than  that 
he  had  come  to  wheedle  some  dollars  fipom 
my  pocket.  So  I  led  him  into  my  inner 
sanctupi,  and  asked  him  to  sit  down,  and 
tell  me  his  name  and  business.  He  sat  down, 
but  not  before  making  sure  that  the  door 
was  closed.  I  could  not  help  gazing  at  him 
rather  more  earnestly  than  vms  quite  con- 
sistent with  good  manners,  by  reason  of 
his  stnking  resemblance  to  tho  statue  of 
Charles  the  Second  in  Edinburgh,  which 
had  long  been  familiar  to  my  memory,  and 
of  the  very  picturesque  character  of  his 
noble  head  and  forehead.  He  was  clad  in 
a  Kuit  of  home- spun  blue ;  wore  very  thick- 
soled  slioes,  that  did  not  appear  to  have 
been  blackened  for  many  a  day ;  and  had 
economically  turned  up   the  ends  of  his 


trousers,  to  prevent  their  contact  with  the 
mud.  He  carried  a  serviceable  blackthorn 
stick  in  his  hard  right  hand :  a  hand  that 
boro  tho  undoubted  marks  of  TnftTmal 
drudgery ;  he  had  a  gold  chain  of  antique 
fashion,  hanging  from  the  antique  fob,  now 
so  seldom  seen  :  and  had  altogether  the  air 
of  a  well-to-do  farmer  in  a  rough  country, 
where  people  are  accustomed  to  hard  work, 
and  are  not  particularly  nice,  either  in  dress 
or  manners. 

"  My  name,"  he  said,  "  is  of  no  conse- 
quence. My  real  name  I  do  not  care  to 
call  myself  by — ^there's  danger  in  it ;  but  I 

am  known  to  my  neighbours  as  Mr. "' 

(let  us  say  Blank). 

"Well,  Mr.  Blank,  is  there  anything  I 
can  do  for  you  ?'* 

"  Much,"  he  replied ;  "  but  I  must  warn 
you,  that  to  do  me  a  service  is  to  incur 
danger,  very  great  danger ;  and  you  shall 
not  incur  it,  until  you  know  who  I  am. 
ShaU  I  tell  you  ?     Or  ai-e  you  afraid  ?" 

"  You  may  tell  me;  and  I  am  not 
afraid,"  I  replied,  beginning  to  feel  addi- 
tional interest  in  my  mysterions  visitor. 

"  I  will  go  right  into  the  matter  at  once," 
he  said.  "  Look  at  me.  I  am  the  son  of 
Charles  Edward  Stuart,  who  was  lawful 
King  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Irelanil, 
and  was  commonly  and  unjustly  called  the 
Pretender :  a  man  who  never  pretended  to 
be  what  he  was  not,  or  to  tho  possessioD 
of  anything  but  his  own." 

I  certainly  did  start  when  Mr.  Blank 
uttered  these  words ;  even  if  I  did  not  rub 
my  eyes  to  be  quite  certain  that  I  was  not 
asleep  and  dreaming.  Being  quite  certain 
that  I  was  awake,  I  looked  incredulous, 
and  replied : 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Blank,  you  cannot  be  tlie 
son  of  a  man  who  died  nearly  eighty  years 
ago?" 

"Why  not?"  ho  inquired.  "Besides 
it  is  not  nearly  so  long  ago  that  my  father 
died !" 

"  Ho  died,"  I  rejoined,  "  somewhere 
about  the  year  1788,  being  then,  if  nij 
memory  does  not  deceive  me,  about  sixty- 
eight  years  of  age.  He  was  bom,  I  think, 
in  1720  ?" 

"  He  was,"  replied  Mr.  Blank ;  "  you  are 
quite  right  as  to  his  birth  :  quite  wrong  as 
to  his  death.  The  truth  is,  he  was  the 
object  of  such  persistent  and  cold-blooded 
peraecution  on  the  part  of  the  British  go- 
vernment, that  a  felse  story  of  his  death 
was  circulated  in  1788 ;  and  he  emigrated 
to  the  New  World,  in  order  to  pass  in 
peace  tho  remainder  (Mr.  Blank,  being  an 


4 


c9. 

I 


&> 


OhArles  Dlokens.] 


PRETENDERS. 


[Korember  27, 1869.]      613 


I 


American,  said,  *  the  hcdance*)  of  such  days 
as  it  miglit  please  Heaven  to  allot  to  him. 
He  settled  in  the  mde  and  thinly-peopled 
region  of  Western  New  York,  on  the  slope 
of  the  Adirondack  Mountains,  and  pur- 
chased a  farm  wliich  I  now  occupy.  Shall 
I  go  on  with  my  story  ?" 
"  By  aU  means !" 

*^  Ho  was  a  hale  and  hearty  man  at  that 
time,  and  remained  hale  and  hearty  for 
many  years  afterwards ;  so  hale  and  hearty, 
that  in  the  year  1708,  being  then  turned 
seventy-eight,  and  having  lived  in  America 
ten  years,  he  married  a  young  woman  of 
Scottish  extraction  j  not  very  young  (she 
was  two-and-thirty  at  the  time),  and  very 
beautiful.  That  marriage  was  a  happy  one. 
Three  children,  of  whom  I  am  the  sole  sur- 
vivor, were  bom  to  my  father  before  ho  died. 
He  kept  his  secret.  Even  his  wife  did  not 
know  who  he  was,  except  that  his  real  name 
was  Stuart." 

"  And  how  did  you  come  to  know  it,  Mr. 
Stuart" — correcting  myself,  I  said,  "Mr. 
Blank  ?" 

"  By  my  father's  will,  bequeathing  to  me 
certain  documents,  in  which  I  found  all  the 
proofs  of  the  story  I  have  told  you." 
"  A  very  extraordinary  story,"  said  I. 
"  But  not  so  extraordinary  as    true," 
added  he,  very  sharply  and  peremptorily, 
"  Do  the  documents  exist  ?" 
"  They  do." 

"  Will  you  show  them  to  me  ?" 
"  Upon  conditions,"  said  he,  very  slowly ; 
^*  if  your  courage  does  not  fail  you  when 
you  know  what  the  conditions  are." 

"  Before  we  go  further,"  said  I,  "  will 
you  tell  me  for  what  reason  you  have 
chosen  me  to  be  your  confidant  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  persecuted  by  the  British 
government,  as  my  father  was  before  me. 
Because  I  have  no  joy  in  my  life.  Because 
I  am  beset  by  spies.  Because  I  go  in 
danger  of  poison,  or  a  shot  from  a  revolver. 
Because  I  think  that  you  have  the  means 
of  causing  all  this  persecution  to  cease." 

"  I  ?  RcaUy,  Mr.  Stuart^  you  overrate 
my  importance.  Supposing  this  persecu- 
tion to  bo  real,  and  not  imaginary,  I  have 
no  more  power  to  help  you  than  the  man 
in  the  moon  has.  You  say  you  have  docu- 
ments to  prove  your  case.  If  so,  I  can 
only  express  my  firm  belief  that  if  your 
documents  be  genuine,  you  have  only  to 
bring  them  under  the  notice  of  the  British 
government,  and  that  government,  if  per- 
suaded that  you  aro  what  you  represent 
yourself  to  be,  and  as  your  documents, 
you,  say,  will  prove^  will  not  only  cease  to 


persecute  you — if  ever  they  did  persecute 
you — but^  in  consideration  of  your  being 
the  heir  and  representative  of  Charles 
Edward  Stuart,  wiU  settle  on  you  a  very 
handsome  pension." 

The  old  gentleman  shook  his  head.  "  I 
don't  want  a  pension ;  I  have  a  farm  of  my 
own,  and  am  quite  independent  of  any 
man's  favour,  or  the  favour  of  any  govern- 
ment. I  want  nothing  but  to  be  let  alone. 
Let  me  drink  and  eat  without  fear  of  poison. 
Let  me  turn  a  comer  without  risk  of  a  pistol 
or  a  bludgeon.  Let  me  sink  down  into  the 
common  herd  of  common  men,  and  be  at 
peace.  That  is  all  I  ask.  I  want  no  pension, 
no  money,  no  recognition,  no  anything  from 
anybody.  Peace,  and  peace  alone.  That 
is  all.  And  to  you,  sir,"  he  added,  sud- 
denly, "  I  owe  an  apology  for  having  in- 
truded upon  you.  It  will  be  known  in  a 
week  to  the  court  and  government  of  Queen 
Victoria  that  you  have  received  and  spoken 
to  me.  You  will  be  a  marked  man,  sir, 
depend  upon  it,  unless  you  go  forthwith 
and  denounce  me.  You  may  denounce  me 
if  you  like.  I  give  you  full  and  free  per- 
mission." 

"That  would  be  gross  treachery,  Mr. 
Stuart,"  replied  I,  "  and  I  shall  not  de- 
nounce you.  But  if  you  have  in  your  pos- 
session the  documents  you  speak  of,  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  them." 

"  You  shall  see  them  this  day  week,"  he 
said,  "  and  without  fail.  !Mjnd,  I  want 
nothing  but  to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  what 
I  say  I  am ;  and  that  when  convinced  of 
the  fact,  you  will  exercise  your  influence 
with  the  British  government  to  have  me  left 
in  peace.  You  are  about  to  say  that  you 
have  no  influence  ?  I  have  my  own  opinions 
on  that  subject  You  can  say  for  me  what 
I  cannot  say  for  myself: — that  I  am  no 
traitor,  no  intriguer,  nothing  but  a  poor, 
forlorn,  last  remnant  of  a  once  royal  and 
powerful  race,  who  afiks  nothing  but  a  grave; 
and  a  quiet  journey  towards  it." 

Mr.  Blank,  true  to  his  appointment^ 
brought  me  the  documents  on  the  day  he  had 
fixed.  The  principal  one  was  a  certificate  of 
marriage — it  appeared  to  me  duly  signed 
and  in  all  respects  authentic — between  Mr. 
Charles  Edward  Stuart  of  the  state  of  New 
York,  and  a  certain  lady  of  the  same  state, 
dated  in  October,  1798.  Next  to  this  was 
the  certificate  of  baptism  of  Charles  Edward 
Stuart,  dated  November,  1799;  a  third 
document  purported  to  be  a  licence  from  the 
state  of  New  York,  to  Mr.  Stuart,  granting 
him,  on  payment  of  certain  fees,  the  permis- 
sion to  be  thenceforward  known  as  Mr. 


\ 


'^ 


ttfi 


& 


614      [November  27, 18G0J] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Conduotedby 


Blank.  There  was  nothing  fui-ther  of  any 
consequence. 

I  suppose  I  looked  dissatlsiied.  At  all 
events,  1  said  to  Mr.  Stuart,  that  I  liad  no 
doubt  his  father  was  married  at  the  time 
specified,  and  that  his  name  was  Charles 
Edward  Stuart. 

"  Well  ?"  he  inquired,  somewhat  tri- 
umphantly. 

'*Well,"  I  replied,  not  at  all  tiiumph- 
antly,  "  but  what  of  that  ?  I  myself  have 
kno\vn  two  people  named  Charles  Edward 
Stuart,  and  neither  of  them  claimed  descent 
fivm  the  royal  fiimily  on  that  account." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Mr.  Blank,  *'  they 
would  have  been  impostors  if  they  had, 
b(?causo  they  would  have  usurped  a  position 
that  belongs  to  me  only.  There  may  be 
a  thousand  Charles  Edward  Stuai'ts  in  the 
world,  for  that  matter;  but  there  is  only 
one  of  them  the  descendant  of  kings,  and 
that  is  the  man  who  stiinds  before  you." 

"But  Mr.  Stuai-t,  or  Mr.  Blank,"  I  re- 
plied, "  tlieru  is  one  link  wanting  in  your 
golden  chain,  and  that  in  a  very  important 
one.  The  link  wldch  proves  your  father 
to  bo  the  son  of  James  the  Second,  so 
called;  the  man  who  fought  and  lost  the 
battle  of  Culloden." 

"  Incredulous  as  St.  Thomas !"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  and  then  folding  up  his  papers 
suddenly,  and  putting  them  carefully  into 
an  old  and  well  -  worn  pocket  -  book,  he 
added :  "  I  have  lost  my  time,  and  you 
have  lost  yours  !  I  beg  pardon  for  having 
intruded  myself  upon  you.  You  are  well 
quit  of  me.  Had  you  believed  my  claim, 
and  had  you  taken  any  steps  in  my  behalf 
with  the  usurping  government  of  tho  de- 
scendants of  tho  *  wee,  wee  German  lairdio  ' 
that  came  from  Hanover  to  sit  in  the  seat 
of  Ixjtter  men  than  himself,  you  might  have 
been  a  ruined,  and  you  certainly  would  have 
been  a  marked,  man.  You  have  had  a 
narrow  escape.     Good-momiug !" 

He  was  gone  before  1  could  say  a  word 
to  dotnin  liim.  AVlien  I  -vvent  to  the  door 
to  make  an  effort  to  bring  him  back  and 
put  him  in  a  better  humour,  I  heard  his 
heavy  step  on  the  stairs,  and  the  clump  of 
his  thick  cudgel  as  he  descended.  I  never 
saw  or  heard  of  him  more. 

I  have  often  wondered  what  put  the 
notion  into  this  old  gentleman's  head : 
whether  he  were  crazed  on  that  score,  and 
on  no  other :  and  whether  his  undoubted 
resemblanco  to  the  published  portraits  of 
Charles  tho  Second,  and  tho   remarkable 


was  to  colour  the  whole  course  of  his  life, 
and  infuse  the  little  drop  of  poisonous  gall 
into  a  cup  of  experience,  tliat  might  other- 
wise have  been  sweet.  I  think  he  beheved 
his  own  story.  And  it  is  just  possible  that 
as  much  may  be  said  for  a  great  many 
other  pretenders  of  past  and  present  times, 
who  have  gone  through  life  burdened  with 
a  heavy  delusion,  and  meaning  no  harm. 

SMOKING  IN  FRANCE. 


It  was  Sir  Walter  Kaleigh  who  first  intro- 
duced tobacco  into  England;  it  was  Jean  Xicot, 
ambassador  of  Charles  the  Ninth  at  the  court 
of  Lisbou,  who  conferred  tho  like  benefit  upon 
France. 

What  would  have  been  the  feelings  of  the 
Cardinal  of  Lorraine,  at  that  time  Prime 
^Minister,  had  this  same  Nicot  appeareil  with 
the  wondrous  plant  in  his  hand,  and  spoken  to 
his  Eminence  as  follows  : 

^^  My  lord,  the  finances  of  this  realm  are  no 
doubt,  as  usual,  in  a  right  meagre  condition. 
I  have  come  to  propose  to  your  Eminence  the 
creation  of  a  new  tax,  which,  withc'Ut  any  sort 
of  oppression,  witliout  arousing  the  least  com- 
plaint, "will  in  due  time  pour  into  the  kin^r's 
coffers  something  like  a  hundred  and  fifty 
million  francs  a  year.  The  tax  will  be  quite 
voluntary ;  no  one  will  be  compelled  to  pay  it, 
and  yet  nine  men  out  of  ten  at  least  'will  con- 
tribute to  it  cheerfully.'" 

*'  l^et  us  hear  your  proposal."" 

**  Here  it  is,  my  lord.  1  would  suggest  that 
the  Crown  should  reserve  to  itself  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  soiling  a  certain  herb  wliicu  hi? 
Majesty's  subjects  might  reduce  to  powder  and 
stun  into  their  nostrils.  Those  who  preferred  it 
might  cut  up  the  plant  into  leaves  and  chew  it, 
or  better  stUl,  bum  it  and  inhale  the  smoke.' 

If  the  prelate  had  listened  thus  far,  it  is  pro- 
bable ho  would  have  exclaimed  : 

''  Yoiu:  herb  is  then  a  perfume  more  fraj^rant 
than  amber,  than  rose,  or  than  musk  ^ 

"  On  the  contrary,  your  Eminence,*'  would 
have  answered  Nicot,  **it  smells  rather  ill.'- 

''•  And  how  many  idiots  and  imbeciles  do  yon 
conceive  there  will  be,  then,  to  poke  tins  lid- 
smelling  herb  up  their  noses  ?" 

'*  There  will  be,  some  day,  more  than  twouty 
millions  in  this  realm  alone,  my  lord." 

If  there  be  not  yet  in  France  quite  so  many 
as  twenty  million  men  who  smoke  or  take 
snuff,  the  number  does  not  fall  far  short  of  it. 
Tho  imperial  manufactories  sold,  within  the 
year  18(57,  no  less  than  two  himdred  and  forty- 
eight  million  six  hundred  and  fifty-two  thou- 
sand francs'  (nine  million  fifty-three  thou«md 
nine  hundred  and  twenty  pounds)  worth  of 
tobacco  under  varioiu  forms.  And  the  net 
profit  which  accrued  to  the  revenue  from  this 
colossal  sale  was  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
seven    million   seven    himdred    and  fiftv-two 


n  i  r    I      ^^"^'^'^^  P^^^*^'^  "^^  ^  ^^^  ^^^^^A\\vo>x^TCc..\lox>iWxvdred  and  thirty-five  fitiics- 
n<uicci  to  tho  strange  coincidence  aftoTde^\\\v^\,\^,?,^^^Tvm^vi\3LQ\itfe\^ 

by  his  name,  first  gave  him  tho  idea,  w\\\c\\\  «v\i^  ^xv^  \i\si^iVl-^N^\i.'^<jws:L^^^v^^  \ 


5. 


& 


CharlcB  Dickons.] 


SMOKING  IN  FRANCE. 


[November  27, 1869.]        615 


In  these  days,  every  man  who  has  not  a  few 
thousand  acres  of  his  own  is  more  or  less  an 
adv(H?at^  of  free  trade,  an<l,  consequently, 
ninety-nino  men  ont  of  a  hnndn^d  are  strongly 
opposed  to  monopolies.  Still,  without  beiri'r  a 
it'nejrade  to  the  just  principles  of  commercial 
freedom,  one  may  be  allowed  to  profeas  that 
there  is  no  rule,  however  good,  but  sliould  be 
suffered  to  have  exceptions.  Postal  monopoly 
and  telegraph  monopoly  arc  arbnitted  to  be 
necessities.  A  government  monopoly  of  to- 
bacco, if  not  defensible  on  the  same  ground  as 
jiostal  and  telegraph  monopoly,  has,  neverthe- 
K'.ss,  led  in  France  to  the  good  result  that 
France  is  the  only  country  in  the  world  where, 
for  a  moderate  j>rice,  an  ordinary  man  can  be 
sure  of  a  pipe  of  good  tobacco  or  an  unadulter- 
atini  cigar. 

Tobacco,  like  every  other  human  institu- 
tion, has  its  detractors ;  and  a  French  statis- 
tician of  more  ingeniousness  than  good  sense 
has  endeavoun^d  to  i>rovo  by  the  help  of 
figures  that  the  increase  in  the  number  of 
lunatics  in  France  keeps  exact  pace  with  the 
increase  in  the  number  of  smokers.  **In 
IS 3 8,"  he  says,  *•  the  profit  made  by  the  State 
upon  the  sale  of  tobacco  was  thirty  millions  of 
francs,  and  there  were  ten  thousand  madmen 
in  the  land ;  in  1S42  the  profits  had  risen  to 
eighty  millions  of  francs,  and  tlie  number  of 
madmen  to  fifteen  thousand ;  ten  years  later, 
we  find  one  hundred  and  twenty  millions  of 
profit  and  twenty-two  thousand  madmen;  while 
in  1  s02  there  were  no  less  than  forty-four  thou- 
sand madmen,  to  set  oflf  against  a  profit  of  one 
hundivd  and  eighty  millions  of  francs. 

A  few  wonls  will  refute  this  mode  of  draw- 
ing conclusions.  From  the  forty-four  thou- 
sand insane  miLSt  be  deducted  the  Avomcn,  who 
form  forty-seven  per  cent  (almost  half)  of 
the  total ;  moreover,  within  the  la.st  thirty 
years  the  liideous  plague  of  drunkenness,  from 
which  the  Freucli  had  formerly  been  almost 
exempt,  has  made  rapid  strides  in  Franco. 
The  excitable  people  of  the  South,  liWng  in  an 
anient  climate,  quite  unfit  for  the  abuse  of 
ST)iriUi()us  li<piors,  have  of  late  years  discarded 
the  light  i*ed  wines  of  Bordeaux  and  Burgundy, 
and  taken  to  brantly,  gin,  beer,  and,  worst  of 
all,  to  absinthe.  Here  lies  the  real  secret  of 
the  rise  in  the  number  of  madmen.  Four- 
iifths  of  the  lunatics  of  France  arc  natives  of 
(4arfcony,  Languedoc,  Auvcrgne,  the  Dauphiuc3, 
and  (luienne  ;  of  the  rest,  those  whose  Imiacy 
is  not  congenital  have  almost  all  gone  mad 
under  the  distracting  effects  of  the  whirlwind 
life  of  gambling,  drinking,  and  enervating  de- 
bauchery, of  which  Paris  kis  become  the  hot- 
bed. 

It  is  useless  to  dwell  ui)on  the  other  argu- 
ment of  a nti- tobacconists,  that  there  is  enough 
nicotine  in  every  pure  cigar  to  kill  a  man  out- 
right. By  the  same  process  of  reasoning  wc 
might  say  that  in  half  a  pound  of  almonds 
there  is  sufficient  pnissic  acid  to  destroy  a  troop 
of  soldiers;  and  that  with  the  saffron  that 
could  be  extracte<l  from  six  bath  buns,  a  whole 
nursery  full  of  children  might  be  sent  to  their 
graves.     It  is  one  thing  to  swallow  the  dis- 


tille«l  quintessence  of  a  substance  containing 
a  small  quantity  of  poison  :  and  it  is  another 
to  take  that  poison  mixed  up  with  certain 
matters  which  counteract  its  effects  and  absorb 
its  noxious  properties.  The  modei-ate  use  of 
good  tobacco  involves  no  (Linger.  On  the  con- 
trary, in  cases  of  nervous  excitement,  it  is  ex- 
cellent as  a  sedative  ;  it  is  excellent,  also,  as  a 
remedy  for  sleeplessness ;  and  its  soothing 
qualities  render  it  an  invaluable  solace  for  men 
who,  like  authors  and  juiinters,  live  in  a  state 
of  constant  mental  exritement. 

'^The  Sultan,  Amurath  the  Fourth,  who  con- 
demned snuff-takers  to  death  ;  the  Shtili  of 
Persia,  Abbas,  who  cut  off  their  noses ;  Inno- 
cent the  Eighth,  who  doomed  them  to  hell- 
fire;  and  James  the  First,  who  wTote  an 
absurd  book  against  them ;  were  all  equally  in 
the  wrong.  The  remarks  that  apply  to  smokers 
apply  to  those  who  take  snuff.  Our  grand- 
fathers took  snuff  every  day  of  their  lives 
from  twenty  to  ninety,  without  being  the 
worse  for  it.  All  the  great  men  of  the  last 
century  indulged  in  this  harmless — though, 
it  must  be  owned,  dirty — habit.  Napoleon 
the  First,  not  to  have  the  trouble  of  opening  a 
snuff-box  every  five  minutes,  used,  when  out 
cam])aigning,  to  keep  both  waistcoat  pockets 
continually  fillcfl  with  a  pet  mixture  of  hia 
own.  To  those  who  still  maintain,  in  the  face 
of  such  facts,  that  tobacco  is  hurtful,  we  have 
only  to  answer,  as  Voltaire  answered,  when  after 
taking  coffee  vil  hia  life,  he  was  told  at  seventy 
that  the  beverage  was  a  poison  :  '*  Perliaps,"  he 
said  ;  *•  but  in  that  ca.se  a  very  slow  one." 

But  the  shie  qua  non  condition  in  the  use  of 
tobacco  is  that  the  tobacco  must  be  good; 
here  we  come  back  to  the  point  whence  we 
started  —  the  unmense  benefit  the  French 
enjoy  in  smoking  no  worse  tobacco  tlian  such 
as  is  prepared  in  the  government  manufac- 
tories under  special  supervision,  and  is  offered 
for  sale  with  the  Stat^  mark. 

It  was  in  the  year  1811,  under  the  reign  of 
Napoleon,  that  the  French  goA'emmeiit  first 
tooK.  the  monopoly  of  tobacco.  Previous  to 
that  date,  the  !•  rench  smokers  possessing  but 
moderate  means  had  farc<I  as  ill  as  those  of 
England  and  the  United  States  do  to  this  day. 
But  one  night,  at  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries,  the 
Emperor  noticed  a  lady  who  was  covered  with 
diamonds.  He  asked  his  chamberlain  who  sho 
was.  On  being  told  that  her  husband  was  a 
tobacco  merchant  who  had  made  a  colossal  for- 
tune within  a  few  years,  he  at  once  suspected 
that  a  fortune  built  up  so  rapidly  could  have 
no  very  honest  foundation.  Ten  months  after- 
wards he  signed,  in  his  usual  arbitrary  way,  a 
decree  which  secured  to  the  State  the  exclusive 
right  of  fabriciiting  and  selling  tobacco.  The 
monopoly  has  been  renewed  since,  every  ten 
years,  by  successive  legislative  bodies.  The 
present  monopoly  docs  not  expire  until  the  1st 
of  January,  1873,  before  which  time,  however, 
it  will  doubtless  be  renewed.  From  the  Ist  of 
July,  ISll.  to  the  31st  of  Decembir,  1SG7,  the 
gross  receipts  of  the  *'  Uegie,"  or  (Government 
Tobacco  Establishment,  were  nearly  two  liun- 
dreil  jiud  fifty-six  million  pounds  English  ;  the 


«5= 


to 


616      [November  27, 1869.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


[Oondnctedby 


expenses  were  about  eighty  million ;  the  net 
profits  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  million. 

"llie  Government  has  every  interest  to  see 
that  what  it  sells  should  be  of  good  quality,  in 
order,  firstly,  that  the  demand  for  the  thing  sold 
should  be  general ;  and,  secondly,  that  there 
should  arise  no  suspicion  of  trickery  or  adultera- 
tion in  the  public  mind.  To  this  end,  the 
supervision  exercised  over  the  tobacco  manu- 
facture is  exceedingly  strict.  A  director- 
general,  responsible  to  the  minister  of  finance, 
is  placed  at  the  head  of  the  administration, 
and  all  the  inferior  posts  of  superintendence 
are  filled  by  officers  selected  from  the  Ecole 
Polytechnique :  which  means  that  they  are 
men  of  honour  and  imquestionable  capacity. 

The  number  of  the  imperial  manufactories  is 
seventeen.  Five  hundred  and  twenty-four 
officers  are  entrusted  with  the  management  of 
the  plantations,  and  the  surveillance  of  the 
manufactories.  There  are  thii*ty-one  store- 
houses ;  three  hundred  and  fifty-seven  whole- 
sale warehouses ;  and  thirty-eight  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  thirty-one  retail  establish- 
ments. 

The  tobacconist  in  France  is  an  official.  The 
post  is  in  the  direct  gift  of  the  government,  and 
is  tenable  only  during  good  beliaviour.  He  or 
she  (for  a  great  many  of  the  holders  are  women) 
generally  owes  the  appointment  to  the  recom- 
mendation of  the  receiver-general  of  the  dis- 
trict :  the  applicant  is  obliged  to  go  through 
tiie  form  of  drawing  up  a  petition,  which  is 
submitted  to  the  minister  of  finance,  and 
signed  by  liim  on  ratification.  It  is  needless  to 
say  that  the  number  of  candidates  to  fill  each 
vacant  place  is  very  large.  Owing  to  the 
limited  number  of  tobacconists^  shops,  the  busi- 
ness is  very  lucrative.  The  net  profits  of  some 
of  tlie  shops  on  the  boulevards,  range  from 
twenty-five  thousand  francs  to  sixty  thousand 
francs  a  year.  The  famous  Civette,  opposite 
the  Palais  lioyal,  is  said  to  yield  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  thousand  francs  (five  thousand 
pounds^  a-year,  but  in  the  case  of  these  well- 
situatea  establishments,  it  is  not  unusual  for 
the  business  to  be  let  and  sub-let  half  a  dozen 
times,  the  titular  owner  being  often  a  person 
of  high  position :  the  widow  of  a  general  officer, 
who  has  died  poor:  or  often  an  old  retired 
officer  himself,  who  has  rendered  iecrei  services^ 
and  must  be  recompensed  otherwise  than  by 
promotion  or  the  Legion  of  Honour. 

Every  year  introduces  some  new  improve- 
ment into  the  system  of  preparation.  Some 
scores  of  scientific  men  are  continually  em- 
ployed— they  are  paid  to  do  it  and  to  do  no- 
thing else — in  studying  new  methods  of  ame- 
liorating the  culture  of  tobacco,  improving  the 
flavour  of  the  leaves,  and  so  blending  the 
different  varieties  as  to  form  finer,  and  more 
wholesome  cigars.  But  it  is  in  the  making  of 
snuff  that  the  French  have  attained  i*are  per- 
fection. The  time  requii'ed  to  tiu:n  a  le^  of 
tobacco  into  snuff,  according  to  the  method  of 
the  *'  llcgie,"  is  four  years  and  two  months — a 
fact  wliich  speaks  volumes  for  the  care  and 
pains  bestowed  upon  the  fabrication. 


The  **R^gie"  sells  three  kinds  of  tobacco 
for  pipe-smokers.  The  best  goes  by  the  name 
of  **  Maryland."  It  is  retailed  in  yellow  packets, 
and  costs  /ive  shillings  a  pound  English  money. 
The  second  quality  has  been  baptised  *•  Capo- 
ral."  It  is  that  most  used,  and  costs  four 
shillings  the  poimd.    The  third  quality  is  pre- 

Eared  for  the  use  of  soldiers  solely;  it  costs 
ut  half  the  piece  of  Caporal ;  but  it  can  only 
be  obtained  on  presentation  of  a  species  of  go- 
vernment voucher,  to  one  of  which  the  8ol(Eer 
is  entitled  every  ten  days.  Tobacconists  are 
forbidden  under  heavy  penalties  to  sell  this 
tobacco  to  civilians. 

The  **  Regie"  manufactures  six  or  seven 
kinds  of  cigars.  The  best  cost  from  fifty  cen- 
times to  a  franc  each.  The  large  majoiity  of 
Frenchmen  know  but  five  kinds  of  cigars :  the 
Londres,  Trabucos,  Millares,  Decimos,  and 
Sontellas.  Of  these  five  kinds,  the  Londres  is 
best ;  it  costs  twenty-five  centimes  (twopence 
halfpenny),  and,  if  carefully  selected,  is  fully 
equal  to  the  Regalias  which  cost  sixpence  iu 
London.  The  Trabucos  cost  twenty  centimes, 
the  Millares  fifteen  centimes,  the  Decimos  ten 
centimes.  They  are  none  of  them  bad,  and  are 
all  far  superior  to  anything  that  can  be  had 
elsewhere  for  the  money. 

The  two  principal  manufactories  are  in  Paris: 
at  the  Gros-Caillon,  where  snuff  and  pipe- 
tobacco  are  made ;  and  at  Reuilly,  where  the 
higher  class  of  cigars  are  manufactured.  The 
task  is  entrusted  in  the  latter  establishment 
entirely  to  women :  of  whom  there  arc  as  many 
as  two  hundred  and  fifty  employed.  A  skilful 
workwoman  can  make  from  ninety  to  one 
hundred  and  fifty  Londres  in  ten  hours,  and 
three  hundred  Sontellas  within  the  same  time. 
Not  the  least  curious  circumstance  which 
strikes  a  visitor  at  the  manufactory  of  Reuilly 
is  the  total  silence  observed  by  the  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  workers.  A  whisper  is  punished 
by  a  fine,  and  work  is  paid  for  **  by  the  piece." 

Of  course  the  tobacco  monopoly  enjoyed  by 
the  French  government  has  often  been  made 
the  subject  of  attack ;  and  reformers  are  not 
wanting  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel  who 
would  Polish  the  privilege  and  open  the  market 
Still,  as  these  innovators  are  fain  to  own  that 
the  tobacco  sold  by  the  R^gic  is  excellent,  and 
that  they  could  not  hope  to  get  better  anywhere 
else  for  the  same  price,  it  is  probable  that  the&e 
clamours  will  avail  but  little,  and  will,  meta- 
phorically and  literally,  end  in— smoke. 


THE  LEGEND  OP  DUNBLANE. 

IN  TWO  CHAPTERS.     CHAPTER  II. 

I  SLEPT  soundly  during  the  first  part  of 
the  night.  But  about  three  o'clock  1  woke 
suddenly — ^I  might  almost  say,  I  startod 
from  my  sleep.  I  bad  not  been  dreaming; 
I  was  not  conscious  of  having  heard  any 
noise ;  but  my  sleep,  somehow  or  other,  was 
broken  suddenly,  and  I  sat  up  in  my  bed 
with  a  sense  of  undefinycd  alarm,  I  listoniHi: 


^ 


Charles  Dickens.] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DUNBLANE.  [November  27. 18«0.]      617 


all  was  still :  the  soughing  of  the  wind 
among  the  Scotch  firs  below  the  rampart- 
wall  was  the  only  thing  I  heard.  Bnty  feeling 
restless,  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  went  to  the 
^vindow  and  opened  it*  There  was  no 
moon,  but  it  was  a  light  night.  I  conld  dis- 
tinguish the  ivy  on  the  wall  beneath;  the 
little  door  in  the  angle  of  the  turret  opposite, 
and  the  dusky  forms  of  the  owls  that  flew 
past  the  window.  Almost  immediately  be- 
neath it  was  a  curious  old  well  said  to  be  of 
wonderful  depth,  but  long  since  unused.  If 
one  dropped  a  stone  in  there  an  interval 
which  seemed  like  half  a  minute  elapsed 
before  a  faint  splash  told  that  it  had  reached 
the  bottom. 

I  had  been  at  the  window  a  few  minutes 
when  the  door  in  the  turret  opposite 
opened,  with  a  slight  grating  sound  which 
attracted  my  attention.  A  figure  glided 
forth,  and  ran  swiftly  towards  the  well.  I 
distinguished  that  it  was  a  woman  by  the 
long  drapery,  and  as  she  came  under  the 
window  I  could  just  make  out  that  she 
carried  some  sort  of  vessel^  in  her  hand. 
Whatever  it  was  she  threw  it  in,  and  waited, 
leaning  over  the  side,  until  she  caught  the 
distant  thud  of  the  object  as  it  met  the  water. 
Then  she  returned  rather  more  leisurely 
than  she  had  come,  the  door  was  shut,  and, 
though  I  waited  at  the  window  a  full  hour, 
I  saw  and  heard  no  more. 

I  do  not  know  that  at  any  other  place, 
at  any  other  time,  this  circumstance  would 
have  aroused  my  curiosity.  As  it  was,  I 
could  not  get  to  sleep  again  for  thinking  of 
it,  and  speculating  what  could  have  been 
the  motive  that  induced  any  female  of  the 
establishment  to  rise  in  the  dead  of  night 
in  order  to  cast  something  into  the  well. 

I  had  to  be  stirring  very  early,  and  I  was 
at  my  solitary  breakfast  when  Lord  Dun- 
blane entered.  Ho  looked  ghastly,  so  much 
so,  that  I  could  not  help  asking  if  he  was 
ill.  He  turned  fiercely  round  upon  me, 
demanding  why  I  asked. 

"Because  you  look  as  if  you  had  not 
slept,"  I  said. 

"  And  you  ?  Pray  how  did  you  sleep  ?" 
he  inquired,  knitting  his  brows.  **  You  were 
not  disturbed  ?  xou  had  no  nightmare 
after  Lady  Dunblane's  conversation  last 
ni^ht  ?" 

I  had  resolved  to  say  nothing  of  what  I 
had  seen,  and  replied  that  I  had  rested 
pretty  well.  I  was  then  proceeding  to  ex- 
press my  thanks  to  him  for  his  hospitality, 
when  he  interrupted  me.  "  If  you  wish  to 
show  yourself  a  Mend,  say  as  little  as  pos- 
sible about  your  visit  here  to  any  one.     I  am 


going  abroad  at  once.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  that  Lady  Dunblane  can  Hve  here  no 
longer.  You  have  heard  enough  to  know 
how  she  hates  the  place — and  it  disagrees 
with  her,  moreover.  She  has  had  several 
epileptic  attacks — a  severe  one  this  very 
night ;  it  is  evident  that  the  climate  does  not 
suit  her,  and  I  am  recommended  to  take  her 
to  Italy.  My  lady  and  I  can  never  agree 
here.  She  does  all  she  can  to  goad  me  to 
madness — and  perhaps  she  has  succeeded : 
who  can  say  ?  People  will  gossip,  Carthews, 
when  we  are  gone.  Prove  yourself  a  friend, 
and  say  nothing  about  our  quarrels  while 
you  have  been  here.'* 

I  was  a  good  deal  surprised  at  the  tenor 
of  this  speech,  but  thought  it  reasonable 
upon  the  whole.  There  was  something  in 
his  eye,  nevertheless,  which  disquieted  me. 
Coupling  it  with  Pilson's  words,  two  days 
previously,  and  with  my  own  observations, 
1  could  not  avoid  the  conviction  that  the 
fate  to  which  he  himself  had  just  now  al- 
luded was  imminent.  It  might  be  warded 
off,  perhaps,  by  change  of  scene,  and  the 
removal  of  the  causes  of  irritation ;  but  it 
was  impossible  to  look  at  him  steadily, 
and  to  doubt  that  incipient  insanity  was 
there.  I  begged  him  to  act  upon  lus  de- 
termination of  going  abroad  without  loss 
of  time;  and  then,  shaking  his  hand,  I 
stepped  into  the  chaise,  and  drove  off. 

Well,  I  returned  to  Aberdeen ;  and  some 
days  after  this  Pilson  called  on  me.  I 
asked  what  news  he  brought  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Dunblane. 

**  They  are  gone  abroad.  I  suppose  it  is 
the  best  thing  he  could  do.  Her  ladyship 
had  a  succession  of  such  severe  fits  that 
she  was  unable  to  leave  her  room,  or  to  see 
any  one  but  her  maid  after  you  left.  I  did 
see  her  once  at  the  window,  and  her  look 
quite  alarmed  me.  His  lordship  was  much 
calmer,  but  he  scarcely  spoke.  His  wife's 
sudden  prostration,  after  all  their  violent 
bickerings,  affected  him  a  good  deal.  He 
is  in  a  bad  way,  I  think,  Carthews.  I 
mean  that  I  am  very  much  afraid" — and  he 
pointed  significantly  to  his  head. 

I  told  him  that  1  fully  shared  his  appre- 
hensions, and  then  asked  him  more  parti- 
cularly to  describe  the  change  in  Lady 
Dunblane's  appearance. 

"The  morning  I  left  I  was  walking 
round  the  rampart  when  I  heard  one  of  the 
windows  rattle.  I  looked  up,  and  tliere 
was  Lady  Dunblane,  her  head  pressed 
against  the  panes,  and  with  such  a  terrible 
expression  of  agony  in  her  face  as  I  shall 
never   forget.     She    kept    opening    hec 


\ 


CB: 


& 


C18      [November  27,  1S69.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


[Condactcd  by 


mouth,  and  making  the  most  hideous 
grimaces  at  me,  so  that  it  was  clear  that 
she  was  not  quite  in  her  right  senses  at  the 
moment.     She  disappeared  suddenly." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  any  indication  of  a 
tendency  to  such  a  malady  in  her  lady- 
ship ?"  I  asked. 

"  No.  I  cannot  say  I  ever  did,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Was  no  doctor  sent  for  ?" 

"  Yes,    the    country    apothecary    came 


once. 


// 


**  And  what  did  he  say  ?  Did  you  speak 
to  him  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  saw  him  in  the  hall  as  he  was 
stepping  into  his  buggy.  I  asked  how  he 
found  her  ladyship.  He  said  she  was 
much  prostrated  by  the  violence  of  the 
attack,  but  ho  seemed  a  puzzle-headed 
fellow.  No  doubt  he  was  awed  by  the 
honour  of  being  sent  for  to  the  castle ;  for 
I  could  not  get  much  out  of  him.  He 
seemed  di)<zed;  but  muttered  something 
about  change  being  good  for  her  lady- 
ship." 

"And  who  attended  her  during  these 
attacks  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  No  one  but  his  lordship  and  the  maid 
Elspio.  My  lord  told  me  that  his  wife  was 
very  violent ;  but  he  would  not  suffer  any 
of  the  men  to  be  sent  for,  to  hold  her.  He 
and  Elspie,  who  is  a  very  powerful  woman, 
managed  her  between  them.  He  said  that 
he  had  found  it  necessary  to  tie  her  hands. 
I  do  not  envy  him  his  journey.  They  left 
in  the  family  coach  an  hour  after  our  de- 
parture, and  were  to  travel  night  and  day 
to  Leith,  where  they  took  ship  for  Hol- 
land.'' 

He  then  went  on  to  say  that  the  young 
heir-at-law  had  returned  to  London  much 
depressed  with  liis  visit,  and  that  the  neces- 
sary formalities  having  now  been  gone 
through  (which  I  understand  to  mean  that 
the  secret  of  the  haunted  room  had  been 
duly  communicated  to  him),  Mr.  Dunblane 
would  in  all  probabiUty  never  sec  the  castle 
^ain  during  my  lord's  lifetime. 

I  seldom  saw  Pilson  for  some  time  after 
this  conversation  ;  when  I  did,  he  told  me 
what  little  he  knew  of  the  Dunblanes  ;  but 
months  often  elapsed  without  his  having 
any  direct  communication  with  my  lord, 
and  even  then  the  letters  he  received  were 
mere  bald  statements  and  inquiries,  exclu- 
sively upon  matters  of  business.  These, 
however,  were  sufficient  to  show  that  his 
mind  had  not  given  way  ;  they  were  lucid 
and  perspicuous  in  every  detail.  There 
was  never  any  mention  oi  her  ladyship,  for 


the  obvious  reason,  as  it  transpired  after  a 
wliile,  that  she  and  my  lord  were  separated. 
He  was  travelling  now  in  Italy,  now  in 
Hungary,  now  in  the  East,  while  she  re- 
mained— no  one  knew  exactly  where — in 
Switzerland.  At  the  end  of  the  third  year 
he  returned  to  Dunblane,  and  shut  himself 
up  there,  refusing  to  see  any  of  the  neigh- 
bours who  called.  In  reply  to  every  in- 
quiry for  her  ladyship  (more  especially 
those  which  a  distant  cousin,  her  only  rela- 
tion, made  about  this  time),  he  stated  that 
her  ladyship's  health  obliged  her  to  remain 
on  the  Continent ;  her  mind  had  been 
much  weakened  by  continued  epileptic 
attacks,  and  she  was  unequal  to  correspon- 
dence. He  stated,  further,  that  she  was 
under  excellent  medical  care,  and  that 
though,  by  reason  of  the  excitement  under 
which  she  sometimes  laboured,  it  was  not 
deemed  advisable  that  he  should  visit  her 
often,  he  made  a  point  of  doing  so  once  a 
year.  This  statement  seems  to  have  been 
considered  satisfactoiy.  Lady  Dunblane's 
friends — and  she  had  very  few — were  not 
suspicious,  and  the  world  at  large  troubled 
itself  but  little  with  the  domestic  concerns 
of  a  couple  who  had  Hved  in  isolated  gran- 
deur, with  rare  exceptions,  since  his  lord- 
ship's accession  to  the  title.  Pilson  went 
twice  to  the  castle,  during  that  year,  and, 
as  far  as  I  know,  he  was  the  only  guest. 
He  gave  a  gloomy  picture  of  the  solitary 
man  shut  up  in  mat  big  place.  We  both 
avoided  all  mention  of  her  ladyship's  name ; 
but  I  now  know  that  he  was  no  easier  than 
I  was  on  that  head. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  1808  that  he 
called  on  me  one  morning,  at  an  unusually 
early  hour.  His  face,  his  whole  manner, 
betokened  that  my  grave,  quiet  friend  was 
unusually  perturbed.  Ho  looked  round 
the  room — this  very  room  where  we  are 
sitting — drew  his  chair  close  to  mine,  and 
said  in  a  whisper : 

**  Carthews,  I  have  come  to  yon  in  a  very 
distressing  emergency.  I  hardly  know 
whether  I  am  justifiea  in  taking  this  step, 
but  I  d,o  know  that  I  can  depend  on  yon, 
and  you  may  materially  help  me  in  a  most 
painml  and  difficult  situation." 

Without  more  ado,  he  then  proceeded  to 
say  that  a  young  Frenchmen,  who  gave  his 
name  as  Jean  Marcel,  had  called  upon  him 
the  previous  night,  stating  that  he  had 
lately  come  fiom  Geneva,  where  he  was  in 
a  wine  merchant's  office,  and  bad  been  sent 
on  business  to  Aberdeen.  Ho  was  the 
bearer  of  a  snmll  crumpled  note,  addressed 
in  nearly  illegible  characters,  to  M.  Pilson, 


=f 


^ 


:fi3 


Charles  Dickens.] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DUNBLANE.         [November  27,  isca.]     619 


Attorney,  Aberdeen.     He  stated  that  he  had 
come  by  it  thus.     Shortly  before   leaving 
Geneva,  it  had  been  his  duty  to  inspect  the 
"  recolte"  of  variotis  vineyards :  among  them 
one  belonging  to  tlie  Chateau  d*Osman  some 
mUes  distant.  The  honso  itself  was  tenanted 
by  an  English  lady,  who  was  said  to  be  mad 
or  imbecile.     At  all  events  she  was  never 
heard  to  speak,  and  was  closely  watched  by 
her  attendants  night  and  day.     She  walked 
on  a  terrace  overlooking  the  vineyard,  but  it 
was  never  ont  of  sight  of  a  gaunt  woxnan, 
who  was,  no  doubt,  her  keeper.     The  inton- 
dant  of  the  est^ite,  who  told  Jean  Marcd 
these  particulars,  walked  through  the  vine- 
yard with  him,  when  they  saw  the  unhappy 
lady  on  the  terrace  above.     Her  appearance 
had  much  interested  Marcel.     He  described 
her  as  a  handsome  woman,  but  with  a  fixed, 
woe-begone  expression  of  face,  and  wearing 
a  black  cloak,  which  entirely  concealed  her 
person.     In  the  course  of  Marcel's  inspec- 
tion, they  stood  for  some  time  just  under 
the  terrace  wall,  and  ho  spoke  to  the  inten- 
dant  of  his  approaching  voyage  to  Aberdeen. 
There  was  no  doubt  but  that  he  was  over- 
heard by  the  lady  on  the  terrace.     She  dis- 
appeared, but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later, 
while  they  were  still  near  the  wall,  the  two 
men  heard  the  sound  of  a  running  footstep 
ujx)n  the  terrace,  followed  by  a  plaintive 
moaning,  Hke  that  of  a  wounded  bird.  They 
looked  up,  and  there  she  stood,  glancing 
round  with  an  expression  of  terror  to  see  2" 
she  was  followed,  and  of  earnest  supplica- 
tion towards  the  two  men  beneath.     She 
opened  her  mouth  wide — ^a  clear  proof,  the 
intendant   seemed   to  think,   of  the   poor 
creature's  imbeciHty — ^then  raised  both  arms 
up  high,  when,  to  his  horror,  he  perceived 
that  she  had  lost  her  right  hand.     With  her 
left,  she  then  suddenly  dropped  over  the 
wall  a  paper  with  a  stone  inside,  and  had 
scarcely  done  this,  when  her  gaunt  atten- 
dant appeared  upon  the  terrace.     The  poor 
lady's  whole  demeanour  changed ;  the  old 
fixed  look  returned,  and  she  began  once 
more,  with  slow  uncertain  steps,  to  pace  the 
terrace.     To  gratify  her.  Marcel  picked  up 
the  paper,  and  pocketed  it,  as  he  walked 
away.     As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  he 
examined  it. 

Outside  was  scrawled,  "  Pour  I'amour  de 
Dieu  remettez  cette  lettre  h  son  adresse." 
Within  was  the  note  addressed  to  Pilson. 
The  intendant  laughed  at  the  affair,  and 
tried  to  persuade  Marcel  to  tear  up  the 
note.  "  All  mad  people  imagine  themselves 
to  be  sane,  and  this  one  no  doubt  wants  to 
persuade  her  iricnds  that  she  is  unjustly 


confined ;  but  you  need  only  look  at  her  to 
see  that  she  is  a  lunatic." 

Marcel  admitted  the  probability  of  this, 
but  he  could  not  bring  liimself  to  destroy 
the  paper^  Whether  she  was  mad  or  not, 
the  condition  of  this  maimed  unhappy 
creature  had  aroused  his  compassion  so 
deeply,  that  he  declared  the  first  thing  ho 
would  do  on  arriving  at  Aberdeen  would  be 
to  find  out  the  person  to  whom  this  note 
was  addressed.     And  he  had  done  so. 

When  he  had  finished  this  strange  nar- 
rative, Pilson  laid  before  mo  a  scrap  of  paper 
— evidently  the  blank  page  torn  out  of  the 
end  of  a  book— on  which  was  scrawled : 

*^Help!  for  God*  a  sake,  help!  before  they 
kill  vie.  Oh,  save  me,  Mr.  Pilsoti,  save  me,  as 
you  Jwpe  to  be  saved  hereafter,  E.  Dl'NBLANE." 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  some  minutes 
without  speaking.     At  last  Pilson  said : 

"  If  I  consulted  my  own  interest,  I  should 
remain  silent,  or  simply  enclose  these  lines 
to  his  lordship.  Her  ladyship's  condition, 
no  doubt,  justifies  any  steps  that  have  been 
taken.  I  cannot  suspect  my  lord ;  and  if 
he  discovers  that  I  have  interfered  in  his 
domestic  concerns,  he  will  certainly  take 
the  management  of  his  affairs  out  of  my 
hands.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  does  not 
humanity  call  for  some  investigation  into 
this  ?  I  could  not  die  at  peace,  remember- 
ing that  I  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  such  a 
cry;  but  I  am  puzzled  what  to  do,  Mr. 
Carthews.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  you 
may  have  business  connexions  with  Geneva, 
and  might,  perhaps,  make  inquiries  which 
would  not  compromise  you  as  they  would 
me. 

In  other  words,  Pilson  was  anxious  to 
ease  his  conscience  at  as  little  risk  to  him- 
self as  might  be.  I  did  not  blame  him ; 
my  interest  was  too  deeply  stirred  for  me 
not  to  follow  up  the  inquiry  with  the 
keenest  avidity.  But  then,  as  Pilson  had 
hinted,  it  is  true  that  I  had  nothing  to  lose. 
I  promised  him  that  I  would  write  that 
very  day  to  a  correspondent  at  Geneva^  and 
desire  him  to  leave  no  stono  unturned  to- 
wards discovering  the  truth. 

I  had  to  wait  some  weeks  for  the  answer. 
The  conmiission  was  one  the  execution  of 
which  was  beset  with  difficulties.  The 
village  pasteur,  the  doctor,  the  intendant  of 
the  vineyards,  and  all  the  neighbours  were 
applied  to,  but  little  additional  information 
could  be  gathered.  At  last  the  maire  of 
the  district  was  induced  to  investigate  the  I 
case,  upon  representations  being  made  to   (^ 


f 


C20 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


[Xmnnbn  87 


iscyj 


him  that  thero  ezisted  Buspicions  as  tn  the 
trratmeut  which  the  incarcerated  ladj- — 
whether  insane  or  only  imbecile — met  with. 
After  a  Tigorons  resistance  they  forced  an 
entry  into  the  ohit<^alI.  The  siRlit  that 
met  them  wftB  heart-rending.  The  poor 
creature  lay  dying  npon  her  bed,  and  bnt 
for  tliiB  intervention  woold  have  been  de- 
nied the  last  consolations  of  religion.  When 
the  pastcnr  knelt  down,  however,  and  ques- 
tioned her,  she  only  shook  her  head  and 
moaned.  Then,  with  an  effort,  she  opened 
her  month  wide,  and,  to  their  horror,  they 
perceived  that  slie  had  no  toiigiK. 

They  implored  ber  to  write  down  the 
name  of  the  perpetrator  of  this  barbarous 
crime.  Bnt  either  she  had  no  strengih,  or 
else  she  was  praying,  poor  soul,  for  grace 
to  forgive  her  persecutors,  rather  than  for 
retribution.  She  listened  devontly  to  the 
good  paateur's  prayers,  and  a  glorious  smile 
ught«d  up  her  tear-worn  eyes  as  the  death- 
film  gathered  over  them.  So  the  unhappy 
lady  passed  away.  The  woman  Elspic  was, 
of  oonrse,  seized,  and  sulnucted  to  a  rigor- 
ous cross-examination.  She  declared  that 
the  lady  who  waa  just  deod  had  been  thus 
mutilated  by  her  husband  one  night  when 
goaded  into  a  staf«  of  insane  rage  by  his 
wife's  discovery  of  a  secret,  to  which  ho 
attached  a  anperstitioua  importance,  and 
which  she  threatened  to  procmim  to  all  the 
world.  Id  tbo  stm^lo  to  defend  herself, 
her  right  wrist  was  also  severed.  The 
woman  maintained  that  her  mistress  had 
ever  since  been  subject  to  violent  fits  of 
delirium,  necessitating  restraint.  This  I 
do  not  believe ;  there  is  no  proof  of  it 
whatever.  How  fer  the  rest  of  her  story 
was  true,  it  was  impossible  to  say,  and  will 
never  now  be  known.  There  were  proba- 
bilities in  ftivonr  of  it ;  bnt,  on  the  other 
hand,  might  not  this  wrct<di  herself  have 
been  the  instrument  P  I  did  not  forget 
that  I  had  seen  her  (as  I  have  now  no  sort 
of  doubt)  on  that  fiital  night  stealing  oat 
to  throw  lomelkiitg  into  the  well.  Of  her 
complicity,  at  all  events,  there  was  ample 
proof,  since  from  the  first  she  was  the  at> 
tendant  upon  her  ill-fated  mistress.  Bnt 
the  hand  of  justice,  for  all  that,  was  stayed. 

The  very  same  day  that  I  received  the 
letter  containing  the  foregoing  particulars, 
and  while  Pilson  and  I  were  deliberating 
what  steps  must  now  be  taken,  the  news 
of  an  appalling  catastrophe,    which    had 


happened  thirty  -  six  hoars  previously, 
rca<^ied  us.  Lord  Dunblane  bad  been 
bnmtin  his  bed,  and  the  greater  port  uftlie 
Kiatlc  destroyed.  How  the  fire  originated 
was  never  known,  but  it  broke  out  from 
his  lordship's  room  in  the  dead  of  night, 
and  three  sides  of  the  quadrangle  were 
burnt  to  the  ground  before  the  flames 
could  bo  got  under.  The  lovers  of  coinci- 
dences tried  afterwards  to  make  out  that 
Lord  Dunblane  and  bis  wife  died  the  same 
night;  the  superstitions  even  fabricattd  a 
theoiT  that,  strack  with  remorse,  upou 
learmng,  by  second  sight,  of  Lis  wife's 
death,  he  had  himself  fired  the  castle,  and 
resolutely  perished  in  the  flames.  But 
all  this  is  purely  imaginary.  It  is  suffi- 
ciently remarkable  that  these  deaths  should 
have  been  so  near  one  another ;  bnt  Lady 
Dnnblnne  died  at  least  five  days  before  her 
husband ;  and  as  to  the  supposition  of  his 
lordship's  self-destruction,  the  only  ground 
for  it  was  his  strange  mental  condition,  i 
which  wasno  worsetl^ithad  beonfortbe  i 
last  fonr  years.  jj 

The  woman  Elspie  was  set  at  lar^  by  M 
the  authorities  at  Geneva,  no  one  coming  |' 
forward  as  her  accnser.  Mr,  Pilson  , 
thought,  and  I  believe  he  was  right,  that  ^ 
now  both  Lord  and  Lady  Dunblane  were  I' 
dead  it  was  better  this  terrible  story  shoalJ  ' 
not  bo  made  public.  It  ooied  out,  in  the 
course  of  time,  as  almost  all  snch  KKindals  p 
do,  but  not  through  me.  It  was  only  when  ii 
I  found  that  all  sorts  of  false  or  garbleil  L 
versions  of  the  circumstances  were  current  |i 
in  society  that  I  ever  mentioned  what  I 
knew,  and  that  was  years  afterwanis,  wIicp,  | 
in  default  of  heirs,  the  title  of  Dnnblaut  j 
had  become  extinct. 


How  Hesdy,  price  B«.  Bd.,  bauad  id  RTCcn  ilolb, 

THE  SECOND  VOLUME 

o»  t»«  Nhtt  Sbrieb  0» 

ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 

To  t»  bad  of  kU  Bookvllere. 


MR.  CHARLES  DICKEHS'S  FINAL  READINGS. 


iclurifl  hii  interrupttd  •cr™  of  FAKEWELl  I 

KEADIUGS  mt  BL  Jusn'i  Hall,   I«adoii,   eariT  in 

the  New  Year,  | 

Tbe  Htading*  will  b«  Ttklti  in  Kuhbbx,  and  cmip  I 

will  lake  place  out  of  London.  ,| 

Atl    cnmmanicattOD*    to    bo   addressed   to  3Ie«<n.  h 

Cairrma,  ud  Co.,  (O,  Saw  Baai-Htntt,  W.  || 


ESD  OF  THE    BECO!ID  VOLUIfE. 


Ti«  Jliffit  of  Trantlating  Artidnfrim  Itu. 5Ri'^«»."&Kti»ii t 


■v K,  Welllnstim S(  StnM     rrtnuA^CV 


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